CHAPTER IX. TORN PRIDE
M. de La Tour d'Azyr's engagement in the country on that Sunday was withM. de Kercadiou. To fulfil it he drove out early in the day to Meudon,taking with him in his pocket a copy of the last issue of "Les Actes desApotres," a journal whose merry sallies at the expense of the innovatorsgreatly diverted the Seigneur de Gavrillac. The venomous scorn itpoured upon those worthless rapscallions afforded him a certain solatiumagainst the discomforts of expatriation by which he was afflicted as aresult of their detestable energies.
Twice in the last month, had M. de La Tour d'Azyr gone to visit the Lordof Gavrillac at Meudon, and the sight of Aline, so sweet and fresh,so bright and of so lively a mind, had caused those embers smoulderingunder the ashes of the past, embers which until now he had believedutterly extinct, to kindle into flame once more. He desired her as wedesire Heaven. I believe that it was the purest passion of his life;that had it come to him earlier he might have been a vastly differentman. The cruelest wound that in all his selfish life he had taken waswhen she sent him word, quite definitely after the affair at the Feydau,that she could not again in any circumstances receive him. At oneblow--through that disgraceful riot--he had been robbed of a mistress heprized and of a wife who had become a necessity to the very soul of him.The sordid love of La Binet might have consoled him for the compulsoryrenunciation of his exalted love of Aline, just as to his exalted loveof Aline he had been ready to sacrifice his attachment to La Binet. Butthat ill-timed riot had robbed him at once of both. Faithful to his wordto Sautron he had definitely broken with La Binet, only to find thatAline had definitely broken with him. And by the time that he hadsufficiently recovered from his grief to think again of La Binet, thecomedienne had vanished beyond discovery.
For all this he blamed, and most bitterly blamed, Andre-Louis. Thatlow-born provincial lout pursued him like a Nemesis, was become indeedthe evil genius of his life. That was it--the evil genius of his life!And it was odds that on Monday... He did not like to think of Monday.He was not particularly afraid of death. He was as brave as his kind inthat respect, too brave in the ordinary way, and too confident of hisskill, to have considered even remotely such a possibility as thatof dying in a duel. It was only that it would seem like a properconsummation of all the evil that he had suffered directly or indirectlythrough this Andre-Louis Moreau that he should perish ignobly by hishand. Almost he could hear that insolent, pleasant voice making theflippant announcement to the Assembly on Monday morning.
He shook off the mood, angry with himself for entertaining it. It wasmaudlin. After all Chabrillane and La Motte-Royau were quite exceptionalswordsmen, but neither of them really approached his own formidablecalibre. Reaction began to flow, as he drove out through countrylanes flooded with pleasant September sunshine. His spirits rose. Apremonition of victory stirred within him. Far from fearing Monday'smeeting, as he had so unreasonably been doing, he began to look forwardto it. It should afford him the means of setting a definite term tothis persecution of which he had been the victim. He would crushthis insolent and persistent flea that had been stinging him at everyopportunity. Borne upward on that wave of optimism, he took presently amore hopeful view of his case with Aline.
At their first meeting a month ago he had used the utmost frankness withher. He had told her the whole truth of his motives in going that nightto the Feydau; he had made her realize that she had acted unjustlytowards him. True he had gone no farther.
But that was very far to have gone as a beginning. And in theirlast meeting, now a fortnight old, she had received him with frankfriendliness. True, she had been a little aloof. But that was to beexpected until he quite explicitly avowed that he had revived the hopeof winning her. He had been a fool not to have returned before to-day.
Thus in that mood of new-born confidence--a confidence risen from thevery ashes of despondency--came he on that Sunday morning to Meudon. Hewas gay and jovial with M. de Kercadiou what time he waited in the salonfor mademoiselle to show herself. He pronounced with confidence onthe country's future. There were signs already--he wore the rosiestspectacles that morning--of a change of opinion, of a more moderate note.The Nation began to perceive whither this lawyer rabble was leading it.He pulled out "The Acts of the Apostles" and read a stinging paragraph.Then, when mademoiselle at last made her appearance, he resigned thejournal into the hands of M. de Kercadiou.
M. de Kercadiou, with his niece's future to consider, went to read thepaper in the garden, taking up there a position whence he could keep thecouple within sight--as his obligations seemed to demand of him--whilstbeing discreetly out of earshot.
The Marquis made the most of an opportunity that might be brief. Hequite frankly declared himself, and begged, implored to be taken backinto Aline's good graces, to be admitted at least to the hope that oneday before very long she would bring herself to consider him in a nearerrelationship.
"Mademoiselle," he told her, his voice vibrating with a feeling thatadmitted of no doubt, "you cannot lack conviction of my utter sincerity.The very constancy of my devotion should afford you this. It is justthat I should have been banished from you, since I showed myself soutterly unworthy of the great honour to which I aspired. But thisbanishment has nowise diminished my devotion. If you could conceive whatI have suffered, you would agree that I have fully expiated my abjectfault."
She looked at him with a curious, gentle wistfulness on her lovely face.
"Monsieur, it is not you whom I doubt. It is myself."
"You mean your feelings towards me?"
"Yes."
"But that I can understand. After what has happened..."
"It was always so, monsieur," she interrupted quietly. "You speak of meas if lost to you by your own action. That is to say too much. Let me befrank with you. Monsieur, I was never yours to lose. I am conscious ofthe honour that you do me. I esteem you very deeply..."
"But, then," he cried, on a high note of confidence, "from such abeginning..."
"Who shall assure me that it is a beginning? May it not be the whole?Had I held you in affection, monsieur, I should have sent for youafter the affair of which you have spoken. I should at least not havecondemned you without hearing your explanation. As it was..." Sheshrugged, smiling gently, sadly. "You see..."
But his optimism far from being crushed was stimulated. "But it is togive me hope, mademoiselle. If already I possess so much, I may lookwith confidence to win more. I shall prove myself worthy. I swear todo that. Who that is permitted the privilege of being near you could doother than seek to render himself worthy?"
And then before she could add a word, M. de Kercadiou came blusteringthrough the window, his spectacles on his forehead, his face inflamed,waving in his hand "The Acts of the Apostles," and apparently reduced tospeechlessness.
Had the Marquis expressed himself aloud he would have been profane. Asit was he bit his lip in vexation at this most inopportune interruption.
Aline sprang up, alarmed by her uncle's agitation.
"What has happened?"
"Happened?" He found speech at last. "The scoundrel! The faithless dog!I consented to overlook the past on the clear condition that he shouldavoid revolutionary politics in future. That condition he accepted, andnow"--he smacked the news-sheet furiously--"he has played me false again.Not only has he gone into politics, once more, but he is actuallya member of the Assembly, and what is worse he has been usinghis assassin's skill as a fencing-master, turning himself into abully-swordsman. My God! Is there any law at all left in France?"
One doubt M. de La Tour d'Azyr had entertained, though only faintly, tomar the perfect serenity of his growing optimism. That doubt concernedthis man Moreau and his relations with M. de Kercadiou. He knew whatonce they had been, and how changed they subsequently were by theingratitude of Moreau's own behavior in turning against the classto which his benefactor belonged. What he did not know was that areconciliation had been effected. For in the past month--ever sincecircumstances had driven Andre-Louis to depa
rt from his undertakingto steer clear of politics--the young man had not ventured to approachMeudon, and as it happened his name had not been mentioned in La Tourd'Azyr's hearing on the occasion of either of his own previous visits.He learnt of that reconciliation now; but he learnt at the same timethat the breach was now renewed, and rendered wider and more impassablethan ever. Therefore he did not hesitate to avow his own position.
"There is a law," he answered. "The law that this rash young man himselfevokes. The law of the sword." He spoke very gravely, almost sadly.For he realized that after all the ground was tender. "You are not tosuppose that he is to continue indefinitely his career of evil andof murder. Sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge theothers. You have observed that my cousin Chabrillane is among the numberof this assassin's victims; that he was killed on Tuesday last."
"If I have not expressed my condolence, Azyr, it is because myindignation stifles at the moment every other feeling. The scoundrel!You say that sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge theothers. I pray that it may be soon."
The Marquis answered him quietly, without anything but sorrow in hisvoice. "I think your prayer is likely to be heard. This wretched youngman has an engagement for to-morrow, when his account may be definitelysettled."
He spoke with such calm conviction that his words had all the sound ofa sentence of death. They suddenly stemmed the flow of M. de Kercadiou'sanger. The colour receded from his inflamed face; dread looked out ofhis pale eyes, to inform M. de La Tour d'Azyr, more clearly than anywords, that M. de Kercadiou's hot speech had been the expression ofunreflecting anger, that his prayer that retribution might soon overtakehis godson had been unconsciously insincere. Confronted now by the factthat this retribution was about to be visited upon that scoundrel, thefundamental gentleness and kindliness of his nature asserted itself; hisanger was suddenly whelmed in apprehension his affection for the ladbeat up to the surface, making Andre-Louis' sin, however hideous, athing of no account by comparison with the threatened punishment.
M. de Kercadiou moistened his lips.
"With whom is this engagement?" he asked in a voice that by an effort hecontrived to render steady.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr bowed his handsome head, his eyes upon the gleamingparquetry of the floor. "With myself," he answered quietly, consciousalready with a tightening of the heart that his answer must sow dismay.He caught the sound of a faint outcry from Aline; he saw the suddenrecoil of M. de Kercadiou. And then he plunged headlong into theexplanation that he deemed necessary.
"In view of his relations with you, M. de Kercadiou, and because of mydeep regard for you, I did my best to avoid this, even though as youwill understand the death of my dear friend and cousin Chabrillaneseemed to summon me to action, even though I knew that my circumspectionwas becoming matter for criticism among my friends. But yesterday thisunbridled young man made further restraint impossible to me. He provokedme deliberately and publicly. He put upon me the very grossest affront,and... to-morrow morning in the Bois... we meet."
He faltered a little at the end, fully conscious of the hostileatmosphere in which he suddenly found himself. Hostility from M. deKercadiou, the latter's earlier change of manner had already led himto expect; the hostility of mademoiselle came more in the nature of asurprise.
He began to understand what difficulties the course to which he wascommitted must raise up for him. A fresh obstacle was to be flung acrossthe path which he had just cleared, as he imagined. Yet his pride andhis sense of the justice due to be done admitted of no weakening.
In bitterness he realized now, as he looked from uncle to niece--hisglance, usually so direct and bold, now oddly furtive--that thoughto-morrow he might kill Andre-Louis, yet even by his death Andre-Louiswould take vengeance upon him. He had exaggerated nothing in reachingthe conclusion that this Andre-Louis Moreau was the evil genius of hislife. He saw now that do what he would, kill him even though hemight, he could never conquer him. The last word would always be withAndre-Louis Moreau. In bitterness, in rage, and in humiliation--a thingalmost unknown to him--did he realize it, and the realization steeled hispurpose for all that he perceived its futility.
Outwardly he showed himself calm and self-contained, properly suggestinga man regretfully accepting the inevitable. It would have been asimpossible to find fault with his bearing as to attempt to turn him fromthe matter to which he was committed. And so M. de Kercadiou perceived.
"My God!" was all that he said, scarcely above his breath, yet almost ina groan.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr did, as always, the thing that sensibility demandedof him. He took his leave. He understood that to linger where hisnews had produced such an effect would be impossible, indecent. So hedeparted, in a bitterness comparable only with his erstwhile optimism,the sweet fruit of hope turned to a thing of gall even as it touchedhis lips. Oh, yes; the last word, indeed, was with Andre-LouisMoreau--always!
Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there washorror in the eyes of both. Aline's pallor was deathly almost, andstanding there now she wrung her hands as if in pain.
"Why did you not ask him--beg him..." She broke off.
"To what end? He was in the right, and... and there are things onecannot ask; things it would be a useless humiliation to ask." He satdown, groaning. "Oh, the poor boy--the poor, misguided boy."
In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must be theissue. The calm confidence in which La Tour d'Azyr had spoken compelleditself to be shared. He was no vainglorious boaster, and they knew ofwhat a force as a swordsman he was generally accounted.
"What does humiliation matter? A life is at issue--Andre's life."
"I know. My God, don't I know? And I would humiliate myself if byhumiliating myself I could hope to prevail. But Azyr is a hard,relentless man, and..."
Abruptly she left him.
She overtook the Marquis as he was in the act of stepping his carriage.He turned as she called, and bowed.
"Mademoiselle?"
At once he guessed her errand, tasted in anticipation the unparalleledbitterness of being compelled to refuse her. Yet at her invitation hestepped back into the cool of the hall.
In the middle of the floor of chequered marbles, black and white, stooda carved table of black oak. By this he halted, leaning lightly againstit whilst she sat enthroned in the great crimson chair beside it.
"Monsieur, I cannot allow you so to depart," she said. "You cannotrealize, monsieur, what a blow would be dealt my uncle if... if evil,irrevocable evil were to overtake his godson to-morrow. The expressionsthat he used at first..."
"Mademoiselle, I perceived their true value. Spare yourself. Believe meI am profoundly desolated by circumstances which I had not expected tofind. You must believe me when I say that. It is all that I can say."
"Must it really be all? Andre is very dear to his godfather."
The pleading tone cut him like a knife; and then suddenly it arousedanother emotion--an emotion which he realized to be utterly unworthy,an emotion which, in his overwhelming pride of race, seemed almostsullying, yet not to be repressed. He hesitated to give it utterance;hesitated even remotely to suggest so horrible a thing as that in a manof such lowly origin he might conceivably discover a rival. Yet thatsudden pang of jealousy was stronger than his monstrous pride.
"And to you, mademoiselle? What is this Andre-Louis Moreau to you? Youwill pardon the question. But I desire clearly to understand."
Watching her he beheld the scarlet stain that overspread her face.He read in it at first confusion, until the gleam of her blue eyesannounced its source to lie in anger. That comforted him; since he hadaffronted her, he was reassured. It did not occur to him that the angermight have another source.
"Andre and I have been playmates from infancy. He is very dear to me,too; almost I regard him as a brother. Were I in need of help, and weremy uncle not available, Andre would be the first man to whom I shouldturn. Are you sufficiently answered, monsieur? Or is
there more of meyou would desire revealed?"
He bit his lip. He was unnerved, he thought, this morning; otherwise thesilly suspicion with which he had offended could never have occurred tohim.
He bowed very low. "Mademoiselle, forgive that I should have troubledyou with such a question. You have answered more fully than I could havehoped or wished."
He said no more than that. He waited for her to resume. At a loss, shesat in silence awhile, a pucker on her white brow, her fingers nervouslydrumming on the table. At last she flung herself headlong against theimpassive, polished front that he presented.
"I have come, monsieur, to beg you to put off this meeting."
She saw the faint raising of his dark eyebrows, the faintly regretfulsmile that scarcely did more than tinge his fine lips, and she hurriedon. "What honour can await you in such an engagement, monsieur?"
It was a shrewd thrust at the pride of race that she accounted hisparamount sentiment, that had as often lured him into error as it hadurged him into good.
"I do not seek honour in it, mademoiselle, but--I must say it--justice.The engagement, as I have explained, is not of my seeking. It has beenthrust upon me, and in honour I cannot draw back."
"Why, what dishonour would there be in sparing him? Surely, monsieur,none would call your courage in question? None could misapprehend yourmotives."
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle. My motives would most certainly bemisapprehended. You forget that this young man has acquired in the pastweek a certain reputation that might well make a man hesitate to meethim."
She brushed that aside almost contemptuously, conceiving it the merestquibble.
"Some men, yes. But not you, M. le Marquis."
Her confidence in him on every count was most sweetly flattering. Butthere was a bitterness behind the sweet.
"Even I, mademoiselle, let me assure you. And there is more than that.This quarrel which M. Moreau has forced upon me is no new thing. It ismerely the culmination of a long-drawn persecution..."
"Which you invited," she cut in. "Be just, monsieur."
"I hope that it is not in my nature to be otherwise, mademoiselle."
"Consider, then, that you killed his friend."
"I find in that nothing with which to reproach myself. My justificationlay in the circumstances--the subsequent events in this distractedcountry surely confirm it."
"And..." She faltered a little, and looked away from him for the firsttime. "And that you... that you... And what of Mademoiselle Binet, whomhe was to have married?"
He stared at her for a moment in sheer surprise. "Was to have married?"he repeated incredulously, dismayed almost.
"You did not know that?"
"But how do you?"
"Did I not tell you that we are as brother and sister almost? I have hisconfidence. He told me, before... before you made it impossible."
He looked away, chin in hand, his glance thoughtful, disturbed, almostwistful.
"There is," he said slowly, musingly, "a singular fatality at workbetween that man and me, bringing us ever each by turns athwart theother's path..."
He sighed; then swung to face her again, speaking more briskly:"Mademoiselle, until this moment I had no knowledge--no suspicion ofthis thing. But..." He broke off, considered, and then shrugged. "IfI wronged him, I did so unconsciously. It would be unjust to blame me,surely. In all our actions it must be the intention alone that counts."
"But does it make no difference?"
"None that I can discern, mademoiselle. It gives me no justificationto withdraw from that to which I am irrevocably committed. Nojustification, indeed, could ever be greater than my concern for thepain it must occasion my good friend, your uncle, and perhaps yourself,mademoiselle."
She rose suddenly, squarely confronting him, desperate now, driven toplay the only card upon which she thought she might count.
"Monsieur," she said, "you did me the honour to-day to speak in certainterms; to... to allude to certain hopes with which you honour me."
He looked at her almost in fear. In silence, not daring to speak, hewaited for her to continue.
"I... I... Will you please to understand, monsieur, that if you persistin this matter, if... unless you can break this engagement of yoursto-morrow morning in the Bois, you are not to presume to mention thissubject to me again, or, indeed, ever again to approach me."
To put the matter in this negative way was as far as she could possiblygo. It was for him to make the positive proposal to which she had thusthrown wide the door.
"Mademoiselle, you cannot mean..."
"I do, monsieur... irrevocably, please to understand." He looked at herwith eyes of misery, his handsome, manly face as pale as she had everseen it. The hand he had been holding out in protest began to shake. Helowered it to his side again, lest she should perceive its tremor.Thus a brief second, while the battle was fought within him, the bitterengagement between his desires and what he conceived to be the demandsof his honour, never perceiving how far his honour was buttressed byimplacable vindictiveness. Retreat, he conceived, was impossible withoutshame; and shame was to him an agony unthinkable. She asked too much.She could not understand what she was asking, else she would never beso unreasonable, so unjust. But also he saw that it would be futile toattempt to make her understand.
It was the end. Though he kill Andre-Louis Moreau in the morning as hefiercely hoped he would, yet the victory even in death must lie withAndre-Louis Moreau.
He bowed profoundly, grave and sorrowful of face as he was grave andsorrowful of heart.
"Mademoiselle, my homage," he murmured, and turned to go.
"But you have not answered me!" she called after him in terror.
He checked on the threshold, and turned; and there from the coolgloom of the hall she saw him a black, graceful silhouette against thebrilliant sunshine beyond--a memory of him that was to cling as somethingsinister and menacing in the dread hours that were to follow.
"What would you, mademoiselle? I but spared myself and you the pain of arefusal."
He was gone leaving her crushed and raging. She sank down again into thegreat red chair, and sat there crumpled, her elbows on the table, herface in her hands--a face that was on fire with shame and passion. Shehad offered herself, and she had been refused! The inconceivable hadbefallen her. The humiliation of it seemed to her something that couldnever be effaced.
Startled, appalled, she stepped back, her hand pressed to her torturedbreast.