CHAPTER X
The Duc de Sairmeuse had slept little and poorly on the night followinghis return, or his restoration, as he styled it.
Inaccessible, as he pretended to be, to the emotions which agitate thecommon herd, the scenes of the day had greatly excited him.
He could not help reviewing them, although he made it the rule of hislife never to reflect.
While exposed to the scrutiny of the peasants and of his acquaintancesat the Chateau de Courtornieu, he felt that his honor required himto appear cold and indifferent, but as soon as he had retired to theprivacy 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 hadrendered him in restoring Sairmeuse.
This poor man to whom he had displayed the blackest ingratitude, thisman, 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 notprobable, but very possible calamity which he had dreaded for some time.
If his secret anxiety had been made known, it would have created muchmerriment.
"Nonsense!" people would have exclaimed, "everyone knows that theSairmeuse possesses property to the amount of at least eight or tenmillions, in England."
This was true. Only these millions, which had accrued from the estate ofthe duchess and of Lord Holland, had not been bequeathed to the duke.
He enjoyed absolute control of this enormous fortune; he disposed ofthe capital and of the immense revenues to please himself; but it allbelonged 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 tosuspect that he had any intention of removing his property from hisfather's control; but he might possibly utter this word.
Had he not good reason to believe that sooner or later this fatal wordwould 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 hewould be obliged to regulate his expenditures.
He would be obliged to calculate that two ends might meet--he, who hadbeen accustomed to inexhaustible coffers.
"And this will necessarily happen sooner or later," he thought. "IfMartial should marry, or if he should become ambitious, or meet withevil counsellors, that will be the end of my reign."
He watched and studied his son as a jealous woman studies and watchesthe lover she mistrusts. He thought he read in his eyes many thoughtswhich were not there; and according as he saw him, gay or sad, carelessor preoccupied, he was reassured or still more alarmed.
Sometimes he imagined the worst. "If I should quarrel with Martial," hethought, "he would take possession of his entire fortune, and I shouldbe left without bread."
These torturing apprehensions were, to a man who judged the sentimentsof others by his own, a terrible chastisement.
Ah! no one would have wished his existence at the price he paid forit--not even the poor wretches who envied his lot and his apparenthappiness, 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 thehands of a child. My son owns me. If I displease him, he casts me aside.Yes, he can dismiss me as he would a lackey. If I enjoy his fortune,it is only because he is willing that I should do so. I owe my veryexistence, as well as my luxuries, to his charity. But a moment ofanger, even a caprice, may deprive me of everything."
With such ideas in his brain, the duke could not love his son.
He hated him.
He passionately envied him all the advantages he possessed--his youth,his millions, his physical beauty, and his talents, which were really ofa superior order.
We meet every day mothers who are jealous of their daughters, and somefathers!
This was one of those cases.
The duke, however, showed no sign of mental disquietude; and if Martialhad possessed less penetration, he would have believed that his fatheradored him. But if he had detected the duke's secret, he did not allowhim to discover it, nor did he abuse his power.
Their manner toward each other was perfect. The duke was kind even toweakness; Martial full of deference. But their relations were not thoseof father and son. One was in constant fear of displeasing the other;the other was a little too sure of his power. They lived on a footing ofperfect equality, like two companions of the same age.
From this trying situation, Lacheneur had rescued the duke.
The owner of Sairmeuse, an estate worth more than a million, the dukewas free from his son's tyranny; he had recovered his liberty.
What brilliant projects flitted through his brain that night!
He beheld himself the richest landowner in that locality; he was thechosen friend of the King; had he not a right to aspire to anything?
Such a prospect enchanted him. He felt twenty years younger--the twentyyears that had been passed in exile.
So, rising before nine o'clock, he went to awaken Martial.
On returning from dining with the Marquis de Courtornieu, theevening before, the duke had gone through the chateau; but this hastyexamination by candle-light had not satisfied his curiosity. He wishedto see it in detail by daylight.
Followed by his son, he explored one after another of the rooms of theprincely abode; and, with every step, the recollections of his infancycrowded upon him.
Lacheneur had respected everything. The duke found articles as old ashimself, religiously preserved, occupying the old familiar places fromwhich they had never been removed.
When his inspection was concluded:
"Decidedly, Marquis," he exclaimed, "this Lacheneur was not such arascal as I supposed. I am disposed to forgive him a great deal, onaccount of the care which he has taken of our house in our absence."
Martial seemed engrossed in thought.
"I think, Monsieur," he said, at last, "that we should testify ourgratitude to this man by paying him a large indemnity."
This word excited the duke's anger.
"An indemnity!" he exclaimed. "Are you mad, Marquis? Think of the incomethat he has received from my estate. Have you forgotten the calculationmade for us last evening by the Chevalier de la Livandiere?"
"The chevalier is a fool!" declared Martial promptly. "He forgot thatLacheneur has trebled the value of Sairmeuse. I think that our familyhonor requires us to bestow upon this man an indemnity of at leastone hundred thousand francs. This would, moreover, be a good stroke ofpolicy in the present state of public sentiment, and His Majesty would,I am sure, be much pleased."
"Stroke of policy"--"public sentiment"--"His Majesty." One might haveobtained almost anything from M. de Sairmeuse by these arguments.
"Heavenly powers!" he exclaimed; "a hundred thousand francs! how youtalk! It is all very well for you, with your fortune! Still, if youreally think so----"
"Ah! my dear sir, is not my fortune yours? Yes, such is really myopinion. So much so, indeed, that if you will allow me to do so, I willsee Lacheneur myself, and arrange the matter in such a way that hispride will not be wounded. His is a devotion which it would be well toretain."
The duke opened his eyes to their widest extent.
"Lacheneur's pride!" he murmured. "Devotion which it would be well toretain! Why do you sing in this strain? Whence comes this extraordinaryinterest?"
He paused, enlightened by a sudden recollection.
"I understand!" he exclaimed; "I understand. He has a pretty daughter."
Martial smiled without replying.
"Yes, pretty as a rose," continued the duke; "but one hundred
thousandfrancs! Zounds! That is a round sum to pay for such a whim. But, if youinsist upon it----"
Armed with this authorization, Martial, two hours later, started on hismission.
The first peasant he met told him the way to the cottage which M.Lacheneur now occupied.
"Follow the river," said the man, "and when you see a pine-grove uponyour left, cross it."
Martial was crossing it, when he heard the sound of voices. Heapproached, recognized Marie-Anne and Maurice d'Escorval, and obeying anangry impulse, he paused.