Buche went on to break the news of my return, but I could not wait, and ran after him.
I heard people saying, "There"s Joseph, Bertha," and in a moment I was in the house, and in Catherine"s arms. Then I embraced M. Goulden, and an hour later Aunt Gredel arrived.
Jean Buche would not stay and dine with us, but hurried home to Harberg.
I have often seen him since; and Zebede, too, who remained in the army.
Many insulting things were said about us by the Pinacles, but I had happiness in my family circle, especially when Catherine presented me with a little Joseph.
I am an old man now, but M. Goulden always said the principles of freedom and liberty would triumph, and I have lived long enough to see his words come true.
OCTAVE FEUILLET
Romance of a Poor Young Man
Octave Feuillet, born at Saint Lo, in France, on August 11, 1821, was the son of a Norman gentleman who regarded literature as an ign.o.ble profession. When Octave ran away to Paris in order to pursue a literary career, his father refused to help him, and for some years the young writer had a very hard struggle. But on taking to novel-writing, Feuillet quickly acquired fame and fortune. His "Romance of a Poor Young Man" ("Le Roman d"un Jeune Homme Pauvre"), which appeared in 1858, made him the most popular author of the day.
Standing midway between the novelists of the romantic school and the writers of the realistic movement, he combined a sense of the poetry of life with a gift for a.n.a.lysing the finer shades of feeling. The plot of the "Romance of a Poor Young Man" is certainly extraordinary; but in the present case some allowance must be made for the fact that the hero is induced to accept the humble position in which he finds himself by his old family lawyer, who secretly designs to marry him to the daughter of his new employers. A scheme of this sort would not Strike a French reader as improbable, for marriage in France is often more a business arrangement than a love affair.
Feuillet spent the latter part of his life in retirement, and died on December 29, 1890.
_I.--A n.o.bleman in Difficulties_
Here I am, then, in the situation that Lawyer Laubepin obtained for me.
I am alone at last, thank goodness, sitting in a gloomy room in this old Breton castle, in which the former steward to the Laroque family used to live. My position is certainly very strange, but as Laubepin was discreet, and did not tell his clients that he was sending them a new steward in the person of the young Marquis of Champcey, perhaps I shall not find my post very difficult. I was afraid that the Laroques were a family of the vulgarly rich sort, like the dreadful persons who have bought my father"s lands. Laroque is a picturesque figure in his old age, and though his widowed daughter-in-law is rather more commonplace, his grand-daughter, Marguerite Laroque, is a n.o.bly beautiful girl.
If it were not for my accursed pride, I should now feel happier than I have ever felt since that day of disaster, misery, and shame when Laubepin told me that my poor dead father had lost his fortune in speculations, and left nothing but his t.i.tle and his debts. Well, I have paid the debts, and if I can now only earn enough money to keep my little sister Helene at school, I shall not grumble at my lot. I feel the loss of my friends, it is true. There is not a soul I can confide in, and I must find some outlet for the thoughts and feelings that oppress me; so I will keep this diary.
It will be at least a silent confidant, and perhaps when I am older I shall be able to read with a certain pleasurable interest its record of my singular adventures. No other man in France, on May 1, 1857, can have been transformed so suddenly, as by the wand of a witch, from a powerful and wealthy young n.o.bleman of ancient lineage into a humble and despised domestic servant. Perhaps a good fairy will appear and restore me to my proper shape; but I wish she had appeared at dinner this evening. There were twenty guests, and it was the first time since the change of my fortunes that I took part in a society affair. n.o.body spoke to me, except the pretty little governess of the family, Mlle. Helouin; and we were placed at the end of the table. The position of honour was given to a young and brilliant n.o.bleman, M. de Bevallan, whose estate joined that of the Laroque family. I gathered from Mlle. Helouin that it was his ambition to unite the two estates by marrying Mlle. Marguerite Laroque.
I was, therefore, surprised when the lovely heiress led her grandfather into the room when everybody was seated, placed him in a chair by Bevallan, and came and sat by my side.
"She can"t," I thought to myself, "be much in love with her wooer," and I began to study her with a certain curiosity. Her fine, clear-cut features and large dark eyes attracted me; and by way of opening the conversation I spoke of the wildly beautiful scenery through which I had pa.s.sed on my way to the castle. It was a bad beginning.
"I see," she said, with a singular expression of irony, "that you are a poet. You must talk about the forests and moorlands with Mlle. Helouin, who also adores these things. For my part I do not love them."
"What is it, then, that you really love?" I said.
She gave me a supercilious look and said, in a hard voice, "Nothing, sir."
I must confess I was hurt. I could not see that I had done anything to lay myself open to so harsh an answer. No doubt I was only a servant.
But why had she come and sat beside me if she did not want to talk? I was glad when the dinner was over and we went into the drawing-room.
Madame Laroque, the widowed mother of Marguerite, began to ask M.
Bevallan about the new opera in Paris; he was unable to reply, so, as I had seen the work in Italy before it was produced in France, I gave her a description of it. I am afraid I forgot myself with Madame Laroque--a fine-looking, cultivated woman of forty years of age. Flattered by the way in which she treated me entirely as her equal, I insensibly glided from theatrical topics to fashionable gossip, and just stopped in time in an anecdote about my tour in Russia. A few more words and she would have learnt that her humble steward, Maxime Odiot--as I am now called-- was a man with very aristocratic connections.
In order to hide my embarra.s.sment, I moved towards the table where some of the guests were playing whist. This led to my committing a blunder which, I fear, may make my position a difficult one. Among the whist- players was a Mlle. de Porhoet-Gael, eighty-eight years of age and full of strange crotchets. The last descendant of the n.o.blest of Breton families, she lived, so Madame Laroque told me, on an income of forty pounds a year, her fortune having been spent in vainly fighting for the succession to a great estate in Spain. She was talking about it to her partner when I came up.
"The estate belongs to me," she was saying. "My father told me so a hundred times, and the persons who are trying to take it from me have no more connection with my family than this handsome young gentleman has."
And she designated me with a look and a movement of her head. No doubt she did not mean to imply that because I was a steward I was of mean birth; but I was stung by her remark, and forgetting myself, I replied rather sharply, "You are mistaken, madam, in thinking that I am unrelated to your family."
"You will have to prove that to me, young man."
Confused and ashamed, I withdrew into the corner and tried to talk to Mlle. Helouin about poetry and art, but at last, upset and distracted, I arose and walked out of the room. Mlle. de Porhoet followed me.
"Monsieur Odiot," she said, "would you mind seeing me home? My servant has not arrived, and I am growing too feeble now to walk without help."
Naturally, I went with her.
"What did you mean," she said, as we walked on together, "by claiming to be a relation of mine?"
"I hope," I replied very humbly, "that you will pardon a jest that--"
"A jest!" she interrupted. "Is a matter touching my honour a jest? I see; a remark which would be an insult if addressed to a man becomes only a jest when it is levelled at an old, unprotected woman."
After that, nothing was left to me, as a man of honour, but to entrust her with my secret. There had been several marriages between our families, and after listening with great interest to the story of my troubles, she became wonderfully kind in her manner to me.
"You must come and see me to-morrow, cousin," she said, when we parted.
"My law-suit is going very badly and I should like you to go through all my papers, and see if you can discover any new doc.u.ments in support of my claim. Do not despair, my dear, over your own misfortunes. I think I shall be able to help you."
_II.--Love and Jealousy_
I am afraid I lack the industry necessary for keeping a diary. It is now two months since I wrote the last entry. If I had made every night a brief note of the events of the day, I should now have a better view of my position. Has Mlle. de Porhoet betrayed my secret? There has certainly been a curious change in my relations with the Laroques. I fancy it began on the day when Marguerite and I met at last on an equal footing at Mlle. de Porhoet"s house. The doc.u.ment which I had just then found may not be as important as we thought, but our common joy in what we considered was a discovery of tremendous value brought us closer together.
But I cannot understand Marguerite. Sometimes she still goes out of her way to be insulting towards me, and sometimes she treats me with a sweet frankness which has something sisterly in it. One day, for instance, she came to my window and asked me if I would go for a walk with her. "Bring your sketch-book, Monsieur Odiot," she called out gaily, "and I will take you to Merlin"s Tomb in the Enchanted Valley."
As a matter of fact, the woods around the castle of the Laroques were the remains of the famous forest of Broceliande, and I had always been promising myself a long ramble through this region of romance, but I had never found time to explore it. I was now glad I had waited, for Marguerite was a charming guide. Never had I seen her so light-hearted.
When we reached a great block of stone in the depth of the wood, under which the wizard Merlin is said to be imprisoned by Vivien, Marguerite made herself a garland of oak-leaves, and standing like a lovely priestess clad all in white against the Druidic monument, she asked me to make a sketch of her. With what joy did I paint the poetic vision before me! I think she was pleased with the drawing, but on our way back to the castle a foolish word of mine brought our friendship to an end.
We came to a picturesque little lake, at the end of which was a waterfall, overgrown with brambles. In order to show what a good swimmer her dog was, Marguerite threw something in the current and told him to fetch it, but he got carried over the waterfall and caught in the whirlpool below.
"Come away! He is drowning--come away! I can"t bear to see it!" cried Marguerite, seizing me by the arm. "No, do not attempt to save him. The pool is very dangerous."
I am a good swimmer, however, and with a little trouble I managed to rescue the dog.
"What madness!" she murmured. "You might have been drowned, and just for a dog!"
"It was yours," I answered in a low voice.
Her manner at once changed.
"You had better run home, Monsieur Odiot," she said very coldly, "or you will get a chill. Do not wait for me."