XXII.
It had just struck eleven o'clock, when the jailer, Blangin, enteredJacques's cell in great excitement, and said,--
"Sir, your father is down stairs."
The prisoner jumped up, thunderstruck.
The night before he had received a note from M. de Chandore, informinghim of the marquis's arrival; and his whole time had since been spent inpreparing himself for the interview. How would it be? He had nothing bywhich to judge. He had therefore determined to be quite reserved. And,whilst he was following Blangin along the dismal passage and down theinterminable steps, he was busily composing respectful phrases, andtrying to look self-possessed.
But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father's arms.He felt himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,--
"Jacques, my dear son, my unfortunate child!"
In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had notbeen tried so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows,and leaning back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how hecould ever have doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standingthere himself. He recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frankbut rather haughty expression, his own clear, bright eye.
Then, suddenly noticing details, he was shocked to see Jacques so muchreduced. He found him looking painfully pale, and he actually discoveredat the temples more than one silvery hair amid his thick black curls.
"Poor child!" he said. "How you must have suffered!"
"I thought I should lose my senses," replied Jacques simply.
And with a tremor in his voice, he asked,--
"But, dear father, why did you give me no sign of life? Why did you stayaway so long?"
The marquis was not unprepared for such a question. But how could heanswer it? Could he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation?Turning his eyes aside, he answered,--
"I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris."But his embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.
"You did not doubt your own child, father?" he asked sadly.
"Never!" cried the marquis, "I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother,and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which keptme from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, Isaid 'It is absurd!'"
Jacques shook his head, and said,--
"The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to."
Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of theold gentleman.
"You blame me, Jacques," he said. "You blame your father."
There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and notfeel his heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formedvanished in an instant. Pressing his father's hand in his own, hesaid,--
"No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tellyou how much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I wasabandoned, disowned."
For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found aheart to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in hisown heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him toshow despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidenceimpossible; and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was,after all, a perfect stranger.
But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friendthat a man can ever have,--his father: now he had nothing to fear.
"Is there a human being in this world," he said, "whose misfortunesequal mine? To be innocent, and not to be able to prove it! To know theguilty one, and not to dare mention the name. Ah! at first I did nottake in the whole horror of my situation. I was frightened, to be sure;but I had recovered, thinking that surely justice would not be slow indiscovering the truth. Justice! It was my friend Galpin who representedit, and he cared little enough for truth: his only aim was to prove thatthe man whom he accused was the guilty man. Read the papers, father,and you will see how I have been victimized by the most unheard-ofcombination of circumstances. Every thing is against me. Never has thatmysterious, blind, and absurd power manifested itself so clearly,--thatawful power which we call fate.
"First I was kept by a sense of honor from mentioning the name of theCountess Claudieuse, and then by prudence. The first time I mentionedit to M. Magloire, he told me I lied. Then I thought every thing lost. Isaw no other end but the court, and, after the trial, the galleys or thescaffold. I wanted to kill myself. My friends made me understand that Idid not belong to myself, and that, as long as I had a spark of energyand a ray of intelligence left me, I had no right to dispose of mylife."
"Poor, poor child!" said the marquis. "No, you have no such right."
"Yesterday," continued Jacques, "Dionysia came to see me. Do youknow what brought her here? She offered to flee with me. Father, thattemptation was terrible. Once free, and Dionysia by my side, what caredI for the world? She insisted, like the matchless girl that she is; andlook there, there, on the spot where you now stand, she threw herself atmy feet, imploring me to flee. I doubt whether I can save my life; but Iremain here."
He felt deeply moved, and sank upon the rough bench, hiding his face inhis hands, perhaps to conceal his tears.
Suddenly, however, he was seized with one of those attacks of ragewhich had come to him but too often during his imprisonment, and heexclaimed,--
"But what have I done to deserve such fearful punishment?"
The brow of the marquis suddenly darkened; and he replied solemnly,--
"You have coveted your neighbor's wife, my son."
Jacques shrugged his shoulders. He said,--
"I loved the Countess Claudieuse, and she loved me."
"Adultery is a crime, Jacques."
"A crime? Magloire said the same thing. But, father, do you really thinkso? Then it is a crime which has nothing appalling about it, to whichevery thing invites and encourages, of which everybody boasts, and atwhich the world smiles. The law, it is true, gives the husband the rightof life and death; but, if you appeal to the law, it gives the guiltyman six months' imprisonment, or makes him pay a few thousand francs."
Ah, if he had known, the unfortunate man!
"Jacques," said the marquis, "the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say,that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?"
"That may be so."
The Marquis de Boiscoran shuddered. Then he exclaimed bitterly,--
"That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did younever think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learnthe truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehendthat such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, toruin the life of that girl? Have you never told yourself that such adoubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yetsuffered?"
He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret.Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,--
"But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you,that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, ifyou must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seatby your side."
In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoidseeing his father's unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. Fora second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before thesuspicion could assume any shape, it had vanished before this promisewhich his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliationof a judgment in court,--a promise full of divine self-abnegation andpaternal love. His gratitude burst forth in the words,--
"Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted yourheart for a moment."
M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At lasthe said in an earnest voice,--
"Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of ahero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court."
"Has any thing new been discovered?"
"M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes,although, as yet, no real success has been achieved."
Jacques looked rather discouraged.
"Traces?" he asked.
"Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not beproduced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. Andalready they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M.Magloire."
"O God! Could I really be saved?"
"I shall leave to M. Folgat," continued the marquis, "the satisfactionof telling you the result of his efforts. He can explain their bearingbetter than I could. And you will not have long to wait; for last night,or rather this morning, when we separated, he and M. Magloire agreed tomeet here at the prison, before two o'clock."
A few minutes later a rapid step approached in the passage; and Trumenceappeared, the prisoner of whom Blangin had made an assistant, and whomMechinet had employed to carry Jacques's letters to Dionysia. He was atall well-made man of twenty-five or six years, whose large mouth andsmall eyes were perpetually laughing. A vagabond without hearth or home,Trumence had once been a land-owner. At the death of his parents, whenhe was only eighteen years old, Trumence had come into possession of ahouse surrounded by a yard, a garden, several acres of land, and a saltmeadow; all worth about fifteen thousand francs. Unfortunately the timefor the conscription was near. Like many young men of that district,Trumence believed in witchcraft, and had gone to buy a charm, which costhim fifty francs. It consisted of three tamarind-branches gathered onChristmas Eve, and tied together by a magic number of hairs drawn froma dead man's head. Having sewed this charm into his waistcoat, Trumencehad gone to town, and, plunging his hand boldly into the urn, had drawnnumber three. This was unexpected. But as he had a great horror ofmilitary service, and, well-made as he was, felt quite sure that hewould not be rejected, he determined to employ a chance much morecertain to succeed; namely, to borrow money in order to buy asubstitute.
As he was a land-owner, he found no difficulty in meeting with anobliging person, who consented to lend him for two years thirty-fivehundred francs, in return for a first mortgage on his property. When thepapers were signed, and Trumence had the money in his pocket, he set outfor Rochefort, where dealers in substitutes abounded; and for the sum oftwo thousand francs, exclusive of some smaller items, they furnished hima substitute of the best quality.
Delighted with the operation, Trumence was about to return home, whenhis evil star led him to sup at his inn with a countryman, a formerschoolmate, who was now a sailor on board a coal-barge. Of course,countrymen when they meet must drink. They did drink; and, as the sailorvery soon scented the twelve hundred francs which remained in Trumence'spockets, he swore that he was going to have a jolly time, and wouldnot return on board his barge as long as there remained a cent in hisfriend's pocket. So it happened, that, after a fortnight's carouse,the sailor was arrested and put in jail; and Trumence was compelled toborrow five francs from the stage-driver to enable him to get home.
This fortnight was decisive for his life. During these days he had lostall taste for work, and acquired a real passion for taverns where theyplayed with greasy cards. After his return he tried to continue thisjolly life; and, to do so, he made more debts. He sold, piece afterpiece, all he possessed that was salable, down to his mattress and histools. This was not the way to repay the thirty-five hundred francswhich he owed. When pay-day came, the creditor, seeing that his securitywas diminishing every day, lost no time. Before Trumence was well awareof what was going on, an execution was in the house; his lands weresold; and one fine day he found himself in the street, possessingliterally nothing in the world but the wretched clothes on his back.
He might easily have found employment; for he was a good workman, andpeople were fond of him in spite of all. But he was even more afraidof work than he was fond of drink. Whenever want pressed too hard, heworked a few days; but, as soon as he had earned ten francs, good-by!Off he went, lounging by the road-side, talking with the wagoners, orloafing about the villages, and watching for one of those kind topers,who, rather than drink alone, invite the first-comer. Trumenceboasted of being well known all along the coast, and even far into thedepartment. And what was most surprising was that people did not blamehim much for his idleness. Good housewives in the country would, it istrue, greet him with a "Well, what do you want here, good-for-nothing?"But they would rarely refuse him a bowl of soup or a glass of whitewine. His unchanging good-humor, and his obliging disposition, explainedthis forbearance. This man, who would refuse a well-paid job, was everready to lend a hand for nothing. And he was handy at every thing, byland and by water, he called it, so that the farmer whose business waspressing, and the fisherman in his boat who wanted help, appealed aliketo Trumence.
The mischief, however, is, that this life of rural beggary, if it hasits good days, also has its evil times. On certain days, Trumence couldnot find either kind-hearted topers or hospitable housewives. Hunger,however, was ever on hand; then he had to become a marauder; dig somepotatoes, and cook them in a corner of a wood, or pilfer the orchards.And if he found neither potatoes in the fields, nor apples in theorchards, what could he do but climb a fence, or scale a wall?
Relatively speaking, Trumence was an honest man, and incapable ofstealing a piece of money; but vegetables, fruits, chickens--
Thus it had come about that he had been arrested twice, and condemned toseveral days' imprisonment; and each time he had vowed solemnly that hewould never be caught at it again, and that he was going to work hard.And yet he had been caught again.
The poor fellow had told his misfortunes to Jacques; and Jacques,who owed it to him that he could, when still in close confinement,correspond with Dionysia, felt very kindly towards him. Hence, when hesaw him come up very respectful, and cap in hand, he asked,--
"What is it, Trumence?"
"Sir," replied the vagrant, "M. Blangin sends you word that the twoadvocates are coming up to your room."
Once more the marquis embraced his son, saying,--
"Do not keep them waiting, and keep up your courage."