Kitobni o'qish: «Avarice - Anger: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins», sahifa 21

CHAPTER XIX.
AFTER THE STORM

Three days have elapsed since Yvon Cloarek left his home without notifying his daughter of his intended departure, and this once pleasant and tranquil abode shows traces of recent devastation almost everywhere.

One of the out-buildings have been almost entirely destroyed by fire, and pieces of blackened rubbish and half-burned rafters cover a part of the garden.

The door and several windows on the ground floor, which have been shattered by an axe, have been replaced by boards; several large red stains disfigure the walls, and several of the sashes in the second story have been riddled with shot.

It is midnight.

By the light of a shaded lamp burning in one of the sleeping apartments, one can dimly discern the form of Onésime, and the sheets of the bed on which he is lying are stained with blood in several places.

Suzanne's nephew seems to be asleep. His face is death-like in its pallor, and a melancholy smile is playing upon his parted lips.

An elderly woman in peasant garb is sitting by his bedside, watching him with evident solicitude.

The profound silence that pervades the room is broken by the cautious opening and shutting of the door, and Dame Roberts steals on tiptoe up to the bed, and, drawing one of the curtains a little aside, gazes in upon her nephew with great anxiety.

In three days Suzanne's features have become almost unrecognisable, — sorrow, anxiety, and tears have wrought such ravages in them.

After gazing at Onésime in silence for several seconds, Suzanne stepped back, and, beckoning the attendant to come closer, said to her, in a whisper:

"How has he been since I went out?"

"He hasn't seemed to suffer quite as much, I think."

"Has he complained at all?"

"Very little. He has tried to question me several times, but I remembered your orders and would tell him nothing."

"He has recovered consciousness, then?"

"Entirely, madame. It is very evident that he would be glad enough to talk, if he could get any one to answer his questions."

"Has he asked for me?"

"Oh, yes, madame, he said to me several times: 'My aunt will be in soon, won't she?' I told him that you came in almost every half-hour. He made a slight movement of the head to indicate that he thanked me, and then he fell asleep, but only to wake with a start a few minutes afterward."

"He doesn't seem to suffer much from his wound now, does he?"

"No, madame, only he has had considerable difficulty in breathing once or twice."

"Heaven grant that his wound may not prove fatal!" exclaimed Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly, and raising her tearful eyes heavenward.

"The surgeon assured you to the contrary, you know, madame."

"He told me that he had hopes of his recovery, that is all, alas!"

"I think he is waking, madame," whispered the peasant woman, for Onésime had just made a slight movement and uttered a deep sigh.

Suzanne peeped in again, and, seeing that Onésime was not asleep, she said to the peasant:

"Go down and get your dinner. I will ring for you when I want you."

The nurse left the room, and Suzanne seated herself in the chair the woman had just vacated.

On hearing his aunt's voice, Onésime looked greatly relieved; and when he saw her seat herself near him, he exclaimed:

"So you have come at last! How glad I am!"

"I heard you sigh just now, my dear boy, so you must still be suffering just as much or more, I fear."

"No; I feel much better."

"You are not saying that merely to reassure me, I hope."

"Take hold of my hand. You know how hot it was awhile ago."

"Yes, it is much cooler now, I see. And your wound, does it still trouble you much?"

"I have a little difficulty in breathing, that is all. The wound itself doesn't amount to much."

"Good Heavens! so a wound in the breast from a dagger is nothing, is it?"

"My dear aunt — "

"What do you want?"

"How is Mlle. Sabine?"

"Everybody is well, very well, as I've told you before."

"And M. Cloarek?"

"There is no use in asking me so many questions. I sha'n't answer them. By and by, when you are really better, it will be different."

"Listen, aunt. You refuse to answer me for fear of agitating me too much, but I swear to you that the uncertainty I am in concerning Mlle. Sabine and M. Cloarek makes me miserable."

"Everybody is getting on very well, I tell you."

"No, aunt, no, that is impossible, after the terrible and still inexplicable occurrence that — "

"But, my dear nephew, I assure you — Come, come, don't be so impatient. Can't you be a little more reasonable? Calm yourself, Onésime, I beg of you!"

"Is it my fault? Why will you persist in keeping me in such a state of suspense?"

"Don't I keep telling you that everybody is well?"

"But I tell you that is impossible," exclaimed the young man, excitedly. "What! do you mean to tell me that Mlle. Sabine, who starts and trembles at the slightest sound, could see her home invaded by a furious band of armed men, without sustaining a terrible, perhaps fatal, shock?"

"But, Onésime, listen to me — "

"Who knows but she may be dead, dead, and you are concealing it from me? You think you are acting for the best, aunt, but you are mistaken. The truth, no matter how terrible it may be, will do me much less harm than this state of frightful uncertainty. Sleeping and waking, I am a prey to the most terrible fears. I would a hundred times rather be dead than live in this state of suspense."

"Listen, then, but promise to be reasonable and have courage."

"Courage? Ah, I knew that some terrible calamity had occurred."

"Dear me! I knew it would be just this way whatever I said or did!" cried poor Suzanne. "You see yourself that at the very first word I say to you — "

"Oh, my God! I had a presentiment of it. She is dead!"

"No, no, she is living, she is living. I swear it! She has suffered terribly, — she has been alarmingly ill, but her life is no longer in danger."

"It has been in danger, then?"

"Yes, for two days, but I have just seen her and talked with her, and there is no longer cause for the slightest anxiety."

"God be thanked!" exclaimed Onésime, fervently. "And how much I thank you, too, my dear aunt. Ah, if you knew how much good you have done me, and how relieved I feel. Is M. Cloarek here?"

"No."

"Where is he?"

"We do not know."

"But that fatal night — "

"He came home, and was slightly wounded in the fray, but no one has seen him since."

"And that strange attack upon the house, those frightful but incomprehensible words which were uttered by Mlle. Sabine, and which I seemed to hear as in a dream after I was hurt. These things puzzle me so. Explain them, I beg of you."

"In your present state of mind I can see that a refusal on my part might prove dangerous."

"Yes, very dangerous."

"But I repeat that you must have courage, for — "

"I will, aunt, I will."

"You remember, do you not, that on the afternoon of that memorable day, M. Cloarek, who had left for Havre without our knowing it, sent a message to his daughter from that city telling her that she must not be anxious about him, as some business matters might detain him until late that night? You recollect that, do you not?"

"Yes."

"You remember, too, the fright we had the very evening of M. Cloarek's arrival?"

"Yes, about those two men Thérèse thought she saw."

"The poor girl saw them only too plainly, as subsequent events have proved, for two men, as we afterward learned, did effect an entrance into the garden, not to break into the house, but to reconnoitre."

"The two men belonged to this armed band, then, I suppose."

"One of them was the leader of it."

Just then the nurse reëntered the room and motioned to Suzanne that she wished to speak to her.

"What is it?" inquired Suzanne, in a low tone.

"M. Segoffin has come."

"And M. Cloarek?"

"M. Segoffin is alone and wants to see Mlle. Sabine at once. Thérèse went up to tell her, and she sent word for him to come right up to her room."

"Tell mademoiselle that I will come at once if she needs me."

The nurse left the room again, and Suzanne returned to her nephew's bedside to continue her conversation with him.

CHAPTER XX.
THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK

"It was no bad news that they came to tell you just now, was it, aunt?" inquired Onésime, as Suzanne reseated herself near him.

"Oh, no; I will tell you what it was presently. Let me go on with my story. You recollect Thérèse running in to tell us that the stable was on fire, and that a band of armed men were attacking the house?"

"Yes, yes; what a terrible night it was!"

"I shall never forget the mingled terror and admiration I felt at the courage you displayed. I can hear you saying now: 'Flight is impossible; I cannot preserve you from danger, my infirmity, alas! prevents that, but I can at least make a rampart of my body for your protection;' and, arming yourself with an iron bar wrenched from one of the shutters, you rushed to the door, and alone and unaided guarded the entrance to the room with truly supernatural courage and strength."

"Don't speak of that, my dear aunt. Really, I — "

"What! not speak of it when the recollection of your bravery and devotion is the only consolation I have when I see you lying here. No, the most determined resistance I ever read of paled beside yours. Entrenched in the doorway, the iron bar became a formidable weapon in your hands, and though your defective vision prevented you from aiming your blows very accurately, those who came within reach of your arm fell at your feet, one by one."

"How terrified Mlle. Sabine must have been! Timid as she is, she must have died a thousand deaths during that brief struggle."

"You are very much mistaken, my friend. The courage and strength of character she displayed in that trying hour amazed me. I can see her now standing there pale but resolute. Her first words were: 'Thank God, I shall die alone, my father is absent.' Then, pointing to you, she said, exultantly: 'Do you admit that he is brave now? He is confronting death unflinchingly for our sakes, but we shall at least perish with him.' And when, overpowered, by numbers, you were at last struck down, and four of the men, the leader with his arm in a sling, burst into the room, she showed even greater heroism. 'Onésime is dead!' she exclaimed. 'It is our turn now! Farewell, Suzanne,' she added, clasping me in her arms, and murmuring, softly, 'Farewell, dear father, farewell.'"

"Loving and courageous to the last!" exclaimed Onésime, with tears both in his voice and eyes.

"I felt much less resigned. I had just seen you fall bleeding across the threshold, and I threw myself at the feet of the leader, begging for mercy. With a gesture he commanded the men to pause, and then, turning to me, demanded, in a threatening voice: 'Where is Captain l'Endurci?'"

"Captain l'Endurci?" repeated Onésime, in great surprise. "Why did they come here to look for Captain l'Endurci? Besides, these men were Englishmen. I remember now."

"I will explain presently. When the leader of the party asked where Captain l'Endurci was, I replied: 'This house belongs to M. Cloarek. He is absent from home. This is his daughter. Have pity on her.'

"'His daughter!' exclaimed the man, with a ferocious laugh. 'So this is his daughter, is it? So much the better! And you, — are you his wife?'

"'No, I am only the housekeeper.'

"'So this is his daughter,' he repeated again, approaching poor mademoiselle, whose courage seemed to increase with the danger, for, with both hands crossed upon her breast, like a saint, she looked the leader of the bandits straight in the eye.

"'Where is your father?' he demanded.

"'A long way from here, thank God!' replied the poor child, bravely.

"'Your father arrived here yesterday. He can hardly have gone away again so soon. He must be somewhere about the house. Where is he? Where is he, I say?'

"And as Sabine remained silent, he continued, with a sardonic smile:

"'I have missed your father, it seems, but, by taking you, I shall get him sooner or later. You shall write to him from England, telling him where you are, and he will incur any risk to release you. I shall be waiting for him, and so capture him sooner or later. Come with me.'

"'Go with you? I would rather die,' exclaimed Sabine.

"'No one has any intention of killing you, but you have got to come, so you had better do so peaceably, and not compel us to resort to force.'

"'Never!' cried the poor girl.

"The scoundrel turned to his men, and said a few words to them, whereupon they sprung upon Sabine. I tried to defend her, but they dragged me away, and, in spite of her tears and cries, she was soon securely bound. They had scarcely done this before the report of fire-arms and loud shouts were heard outside. Two men came rushing in, and said a few words to their leader, who quickly followed them out of the room. All the men except those who were holding Sabine hurried out after him. Then, and not until then, was I able to approach you. I thought at first that you were dead, so, forgetting Sabine and everything else, I was sobbing over you, when, suddenly — " Suzanne paused for a moment overcome with emotion.

"Go on! Oh, go on, I beg of you!" exclaimed Onésime.

"Never shall I forget that scene. At the farther end of the room two of the wretches were trying to drag Sabine along, in spite of her despairing cries. The other two men, evidently frightened by the increasing uproar outside, darted to the door, but just as they reached it both were struck down in turn by a terrific blow from an axe. A moment afterward Sabine's captors shared the same fate."

"But who struck them down?"

"Who?" exclaimed Suzanne, with a shudder, and lowering her voice. "A man clad in a strange costume. He wore a long, black jacket and waistcoat, a broad-brimmed hat, and full, white trousers. Axe in hand, he had just burst into the room, followed by several sailors."

"It seems to me that I have heard Mlle. Sabine speak of some other man dressed in a similar manner who, she said, was her mother's murderer."

"Alas! this recollection was only too vivid in her mind," said Suzanne, sadly.

"But who was the man that came to Mlle. Sabine's assistance, clad in this way?"

"This man was the famous privateer, Captain l'Endurci, — this man was M. Cloarek!"

"M. Cloarek! Impossible!" exclaimed Onésime, raising himself up in bed, in spite of his weakness.

"Yes, he had an axe in his hand. His garments were covered with blood; his face, never, oh, never, have I beheld a face so terrible. When he came in, Sabine, not distinguishing his features at first, uttered a cry of horror, and exclaimed, 'The black man! The black man!' and when M. Cloarek ran to his daughter, she recoiled in terror, crying, 'Father, ah, father, then it was you who killed my mother!' and fell apparently lifeless upon the floor."

"Yes, yes, those words, 'Father, then it was you who killed my mother,' I heard them vaguely, as life seemed to be deserting me. Oh, this is frightful, frightful! What a horrible discovery! What misery it entails! Such a tender father and loving daughter to have such a gulf between them for ever! You were right, aunt, you were right! It does indeed require courage to bear such a revelation. And Mlle. Sabine, how has she been since that time?"

"The unfortunate child lay between life and death for two whole days, as I told you."

"And M. Cloarek?"

"Alas! we know nothing about him. On hearing his daughter reproach him for her mother's death, he uttered a loud cry, and rushed out of the room like one demented, and nothing has been seen of him since."

"How unfortunate! Great Heavens, how unfortunate! But how did M. Cloarek hear of this intended attack?"

"It seems this party had made two or three similar descents at different points along the coast; but this attack was unquestionably made in the hope of capturing M. Cloarek, who, under the name of Captain l'Endurci, had inflicted such injury upon the British navy."

The nurse, reëntering the room at that moment, said to Suzanne:

"Madame Roberts, M. Segoffin wishes to speak to you, as well as to M. Onésime, if he feels able to see him."

"Certainly," responded the young man, promptly.

Segoffin entered the room almost immediately. Dame Roberts did not receive him with ironical words and looks, as she had been wont to do, however. On the contrary, she advanced to meet him with affectionate eagerness.

"Well, my dear Segoffin, is your news good or bad?" she exclaimed.

"I hardly know, my dear Suzanne. It will all depend upon this," he sighed, drawing a bulky envelope from his pocket as he spoke.

"What is that?"

"A letter from M. Cloarek."

"He is alive, then, thank Heaven!"

"Yes, and his only remaining hope is in this letter, and I am to give the letter to you, M. Onésime."

"To me?"

"And I am to tell you what you are to do with it. But first let me ask if you feel able to get up?"

"Yes, oh, yes!" exclaimed the young man, making a quick movement.

"And I say you are not. It would be exceedingly imprudent in you, Onésime," cried his aunt.

"Excuse me, Suzanne," interposed Segoffin. "I am as much opposed to anything like imprudence as you can possibly be, but (I can confess it now, you see) as I have had considerable experience in injuries of this kind during the last twelve years, I am probably much better able to judge than you are, so I am going to feel your nephew's pulse and note his symptoms carefully, and if I find him able to go down to the parlour where Mlle. Sabine is, I — No, no, not so fast!" added Segoffin, laying a restraining hand on Onésime, who, upon hearing Sabine's name, had evinced an evident intention of springing out of bed. "I have not made my diagnosis yet. Do me the favour to keep quiet. If you don't, I will take the letter away, and lock you up here in your room."

Onésime sighed, but submitted with breathless impatience to Segoffin's careful examination, made with the aid of a lamp held by Suzanne, an examination which satisfied him that the young man could sit up an hour or two without the slightest danger.

"You are positive there is no danger, Segoffin?" asked Dame Roberts, anxiously.

"None whatever."

"But why not postpone this conference for awhile?"

"Because there is a person counting the hours, nay, the very minutes, until he hears from us."

"You mean M. Cloarek, do you not?"

"I tell you there is some one not far from here to whom this decision means life or death," said Segoffin, without answering the question.

"Life or death!" cried Suzanne.

"Or rather hope or despair," added Segoffin, gravely, "and that is why, Suzanne, I ask your nephew to make the effort to go down-stairs. Now, if you will go to mademoiselle, I will help M. Onésime dress."

Ten minutes afterward Onésime, leaning on Segoffin's arm, entered the little parlour where Sabine was awaiting him.

CHAPTER XXI.
A LAST APPEAL

The poor girl was as pale as death, and so weak that she was obliged to half recline in a large easy-chair.

"Will you sit down, M. Onésime, and you too, my dear Suzanne and Segoffin," she said, with gentle dignity.

They all seated themselves in silence.

"Before beginning this conversation," said Sabine, with a melancholy smile, "I must tell you that I am greatly changed. The vague and often senseless fears which have haunted me from infancy seem to have vanished. The terrible reality seems to have dispelled these phantoms. I tell you this, my friends, so you may understand that it is no longer necessary to manifest so much caution and consideration in your treatment of me, and that you can tell me the entire truth with safety, no matter how terrible it may be. One word more: I adjure you, Suzanne, and you too, Segoffin, in the name of your devotion to me and to — other members of my family, to answer all my questions fully and truthfully. Will you promise to do this?"

"I promise," replied Suzanne.

"I promise," said Segoffin.

A brief silence followed.

All present, and more especially Onésime, were struck by the firm and resolute manner in which Sabine expressed herself, and felt that, whatever her decision might be, it would unquestionably prove unalterable.

"You saw me born, Suzanne," continued the young girl, after a moment, "and by your untiring care and faithful devotion you made yourself my mother's valued friend. It is in the name of this friendship that I adjure you to tell me if the memories of my infancy have deceived me, and if it was not my father who, twelve years ago, dressed as I saw him three days ago, caused — caused my mother's death."

"Alas! mademoiselle — "

"In the name of my sainted mother, I adjure you to tell me the truth, Suzanne."

"The truth is, mademoiselle," replied the housekeeper, in a trembling voice, "the truth is, that, after a stormy scene between your parents, madame died; but — "

"Enough, my dear Suzanne," said Sabine, interrupting her. Then, passing her hand across her burning brow, she relapsed into a gloomy silence that no one dared to break.

"Segoffin," she said, at last, "you were my grandfather's faithful servant and trusted friend. You watched over my father in childhood; at all times, and under all circumstances, you have been blindly devoted to him. Is it true that my father, instead of being engaged in business as he said, has been privateering under the name of Captain l'Endurci?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, it is true," Segoffin answered, smothering a sigh.

After another brief silence, Sabine said:

"M. Onésime, I owe it to myself and I owe it to you to inform you of my determination. In happier days there was some talk of a marriage between us, but after what has occurred, after what you know and have just heard, you will not be surprised, I think, to hear me say that this world is no longer any place for me."

"Good Heavens! what do you mean, mademoiselle?" cried Onésime, in dismay.

"I have decided to retire to a convent, where I intend to end my days."

Onésime did not utter a word, but sat with his head bowed upon his breast, while quick, heavy sobs shook his frame.

"No, mademoiselle, no! That is impossible," sobbed Suzanne. "No, surely you will not thus bury yourself alive."

"My mind is made up," answered Sabine, firmly; "but if such a sojourn does not seem too gloomy to you, my dear Suzanne, I should be glad to have you accompany me."

"I shall never leave you. You know that very well, mademoiselle, but you will not do this, you will not — "

"Suzanne, for two days I have been reflecting upon the course I ought to pursue. There is nothing else for me to do, so my resolution is irrevocable."

"And your father, mademoiselle," interposed Segoffin, "before you separate yourself from him for ever you will surely see him once more."

"No."

"Then, from this day on, you are dead to him and he is dead to you."

It was evidently with a violent effort at self-control that Sabine at last replied:

"It will be better for me not to see my father again until we are reunited with my mother."

"Ah, mademoiselle, how can you be so cruel?" murmured Segoffin, despairingly. "If you knew how wretched he is — "

"No, I am not cruel," replied the girl; "at least I do not mean to be. I can only repeat what I said to Suzanne just now. For two days I have been reflecting on the course I ought to pursue, and my decision is irrevocable."

A gloomy silence greeted this announcement. Segoffin was the first to speak.

"You surely will not refuse to hear a letter from M. Cloarek read, mademoiselle," he said, at last. "It is the only request he makes of you, for he foresaw the aversion you would feel for him."

"Aversion!" cried Sabine, like one in mortal agony. Then controlling herself, she added:

"There seems to have been a strange and cruel fatality about all this."

"Yes," answered the old servant, sighing; "but as M. Cloarek is never to see you again, will you not at least listen to the letter I brought to M. Onésime?"

"It is undoubtedly my duty to comply with my father's wishes, so I am ready to listen, M. Onésime."

The young man opened the envelope Segoffin handed him. The letter which Cloarek had written to his daughter was accompanied with the following brief note:

"I implore you to read the enclosed letter to Sabine, my dear Onésime. It is a last proof of esteem and affection I desire to give you.

"May this truthful account written by a despairing parent, and read by a beloved voice, reach his daughter's heart. Yours affectionately,

"Y. Cloarek."

After telling Sabine the contents of this note the young man read the following aloud:

"'To My Daughter: — Fate seems to decree that I am to be separated from you for ever, my child, for now I know you can no longer bear the sight of me.

"'A strange and unforeseen event has revealed a terrible and jealously guarded secret to you.

"'Yes, that man in the strange costume, whom you have always remembered as your mother's murderer, was I, your father.

"'The privateer whose deeds inspired you with such horror was I.

"'Your mother was enceinte. We had a quarrel, — the first in our whole married life, I swear it! I gave way to my temper, and my anger became so terrible that, in your mother's nervous condition, her fright killed her.

"'Mine was a double crime, for the terror that proved fatal to your mother also had a lasting effect upon you, for the unfortunate impression made upon you at that tender age had a most deplorable influence, not only upon your health, but upon your whole life.

"'You know my crime, now let me tell you how I have expiated it.

"'When I saw you motherless, I asked myself what would become of you.

"'The small fortune that your mother and I possessed had been almost entirely lost in consequence of the political agitations of the day and a ruinous lawsuit. I had lost my position as a magistrate in consequence of the scandal which my ebullitions of temper caused.

"'I sold the small amount of property I had left, and realised about six thousand francs from the sale. Suzanne, who had gained your poor mother's affectionate esteem by her virtues and her faithfulness, was devoted to you. I said to her:

"'"Here are five thousand francs; enough, with economy, to supply my daughter's wants and yours for five years. I entrust my child to your care. If you have seen or heard nothing from me at the expiration of these five years, you will send a letter which I will leave with you to the person to whom it is addressed."

"'The person to whom this letter was written was a man of noble lineage whose life I had saved during the revolution, and who had taken up his abode in Germany; and I felt sure that this man, who was still wealthy, would treat you as an adopted child; but I did not intend you to eat the bitter bread of dependence if I could help it.

"'These arrangements made, I kissed you while you were peacefully sleeping, and departed with one thousand francs as my only dependence. Segoffin, my tried and trusted friend, insisted upon sharing my fortunes, so he accompanied me.

"'I had devoted the days which immediately preceded my departure to sorrowful meditations upon the future and the past, during which I had questioned, studied, and judged myself with inexorable severity.

"'My misfortunes and my crime toward your mother were due to the impetuosity of my character. Anything that wounded my feelings, anything contradictory to my convictions, anything in the way of opposition to my wishes, made my blood boil and excited me almost to frenzy; and this exuberance and impetuosity vented themselves in fury and violence.

"'In short, my only capital was anger.

"'While thus studying myself I recollected the wonderful mental and physical power with which I seemed to be endowed when I yielded to these transports of rage.

"'Often when I had revolted against certain iniquitous facts or acts of cruel oppression, the very intensity of my anger had given me almost superhuman power to defend the weak and chastise the oppressor. For instance, one day when I found three ruffians attacking a poor defenceless woman, I nearly killed all three of them, though in my normal condition I could not have coped successfully with any one of them single-handed.

"'But alas! my child, on continuing this inexorable study of myself, I was also obliged to admit that I had not always had just cause for my anger, by any means, for not unfrequently the slightest contradiction infuriated me almost to madness. Your poor mother's death was a terrible example of this idiosyncrasy on my part.