The Honor of the Name, Emile Gaboriau [books to read now .txt] 📗
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
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Marie-Anne shuddered as if a knife had entered her very heart; and yet there was more sorrow than anger in the glance she cast upon Maurice.
“Must I stoop so low as to defend myself from such an imputation?” she asked, sadly. “Must I declare that if even I suspect such an arrangement between Chanlouineau and my father, I have not been consulted? Must I tell you that there are some sacrifices which are beyond the strength of poor human nature? Understand this: I have found strength to renounce the man I love—I shall never be able to accept another in his place!”
Maurice hung his head, abashed by her earnest words, dazzled by the sublime expression of her face.
Reason returned; he realized the enormity of his suspicions, and was horrified with himself for having dared to give utterance to them.
“Oh! pardon!” he faltered, “pardon!”
What did the mysterious causes of all these events which had so rapidly succeeded each other, or M. Lacheneur’s secrets, or Marie-Anne’s reticence, matter to him now?
He was seeking some chance of salvation; he believed that he had found it.
“We must fly!” he exclaimed: “fly at once without pausing to look back. Before night we shall have passed the frontier.”
He sprang toward her with outstretched arms, as if to seize her and bear her away; but she checked him by a single look.
“Fly!” said she, reproachfully; “fly! and is it you, Maurice, who counsel me thus? What! while misfortune is crushing my poor father to the earth, shall I add despair and shame to his sorrows? His friends have deserted him; shall I, his daughter, also abandon him? Ah! if I did that, I should be the vilest, the most cowardly of creatures! If my father, yesterday, when I believed him the owner of Sairmeuse, had demanded the sacrifice to which I consented last evening, I might, perhaps, have resolved upon the extreme measure you have counselled. In broad daylight I might have left Sairmeuse on the arm of my lover. It is not the world that I fear! But if one might consent to fly from the chateau of a rich and happy father, one cannot consent to desert the poor abode of a despairing and penniless parent. Leave me, Maurice, where honor holds me. It will not be difficult for me, who am the daughter of generations of peasants, to become a peasant. Go! I cannot endure more! Go! and remember that one cannot be utterly wretched if one’s conscience is clean, and one’s duty fulfilled!”
Maurice was about to reply, when a crackling of dry branches made him turn his head.
Scarcely ten paces off, Martial de Sairmeuse was standing motionless, leaning upon his gun.
CHAPTER X
The Duc de Sairmeuse had slept little and poorly on the night following his return, or his restoration, as he styled it.
Inaccessible, as he pretended to be, to the emotions which agitate the common herd, the scenes of the day had greatly excited him.
He could not help reviewing them, although he made it the rule of his life never to reflect.
While exposed to the scrutiny of the peasants and of his acquaintances at the Chateau de Courtornieu, he felt that his honor required him to appear cold and indifferent, but as soon as he had retired to the privacy of his own chamber, he gave free vent to his excessive joy.
For his joy was intense, almost verging on delirium.
Now he was forced to admit to himself the immense service Lacheneur had rendered him in restoring Sairmeuse.
This poor man to whom he had displayed the blackest ingratitude, this man, honest to heroism, whom he had treated as an unfaithful servant, had just relieved him of an anxiety which had poisoned his life.
Lacheneur had just placed the Duc de Sairmeuse beyond the reach of a not probable, but very possible calamity which he had dreaded for some time.
If his secret anxiety had been made known, it would have created much merriment.
“Nonsense!” people would have exclaimed, “everyone knows that the Sairmeuse possesses property to the amount of at least eight or ten millions, in England.”
This was true. Only these millions, which had accrued from the estate of the duchess and of Lord Holland, had not been bequeathed to the duke.
He enjoyed absolute control of this enormous fortune; he disposed of the capital and of the immense revenues to please himself; but it all belonged to his son—to his only son.
The duke possessed nothing—a pitiful income of twelve hundred francs, perhaps; but, strictly speaking, not even the means of subsistence.
Martial, certainly, had never said a word which would lead him to suspect that he had any intention of removing his property from his father’s control; but he might possibly utter this word.
Had he not good reason to believe that sooner or later this fatal word would be uttered?
And even at the thought of such a contingency he shuddered with horror.
He saw himself reduced to a pension, a very handsome pension, undoubtedly, but still a fixed, immutable, regular pension, by which he would be obliged to regulate his expenditures.
He would be obliged to calculate that two ends might meet—he, who had been accustomed to inexhaustible coffers.
“And this will necessarily happen sooner or later,” he thought. “If Martial should marry, or if he should become ambitious, or meet with evil counsellors, that will be the end of my reign.”
He watched and studied his son as a jealous woman studies and watches the lover she mistrusts. He thought he read in his eyes many thoughts which were not there; and according as he saw him, gay or sad, careless or preoccupied, he was reassured or still more alarmed.
Sometimes he imagined the worst. “If I should quarrel with Martial,” he thought, “he would take possession of his entire fortune, and I should be left without bread.”
These torturing apprehensions were, to a man who judged the sentiments of others by his own, a terrible chastisement.
Ah! no one would have wished his existence at the price he paid for it—not even the poor wretches who envied his lot and his apparent happiness, as they saw him roll by in his magnificent carriage.
There were days when he almost went mad.
“What am I?” he exclaimed, foaming with rage. “A mere plaything in the hands of a child. My son owns me. If I displease him, he
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