CHAPTER XLVI. THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS.
We will explain presently what became of the letter, which Spoil-sportheld between his teeth, and why he left his master, when the latter ranto meet Agricola. Dagobert had not seen his son for some days. Embracinghim cordially, he led him into one of the rooms on the ground floor,which he usually occupied. "And how is your wife?" said the soldier tohis son.
"She is well, father, thank you."
Perceiving a great change in Agricola's countenance, Dagobert resumed:"You look sad. Has anything gone wrong since I saw you last?"
"All is over, father. We have lost him," said the smith, in a tone ofdespair.
"Lost whom?"
"M. Hardy."
"M. Hardy!--why, three days ago, you told me you were going to see him."
"Yes, father, I have seen him--and my dear brother Gabriel saw himand spoke to him--how he speaks! with a voice that comes from theheart!--and he had so revived and encouraged him, that M. Hardyconsented to return amongst us. Then I, wild with joy, ran to tell thegood news to some of my mates, who were waiting to hear the result ofnay interview with M. Hardy. I brought them all with me to thank andbless him. We were within a hundred yards of the house belonging to theblack-gowns--"
"Ali, the black-gowns!" said Dagobert, with a gloomy air. "Then somemischief will happen. I know them."
"You are not mistaken, father," answered Agricola, with a sigh. "I wasrunning on with my comrades, when I saw a carriage coming towards us.Some presentiment told me that they were taking away M. Hardy."
"By force!" said Dagobert, hastily.
"No," answered Agricola, bitterly; "no--the priests are too cunning forthat. They know how to make you an accomplice in the evil they do you.Shall I not always remember how they managed with my good mother?"
"Yes, the worthy woman! there was a poor fly caught in the spider's web.But this carriage, of which you speak?"
"On seeing it start from the house of the black-gowns," repliedAgricola, "my heart sank within me; and, by an impulse stronger thanmyself, I rushed to the horses' heads, calling on my comrades to helpme. But the postilion knocked me down and stunned me with a blow fromhis whip. When I recovered my senses, the carriage was already faraway."
"You were not hurt?" cried Dagobert, anxiously, as he examined his sonfrom top to toe.
"No, father; a mere scratch."
"What did you next, my boy?"
"I hastened to our good angel, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and told her all.'You must follow M. Hardy on the instant,' said she to me. 'Take mycarriage and post-horses. Dupont will accompany you; follow M. Hardyfrom stage to stage; should you succeed in overtaking him your presenceand your prayers may perhaps conquer the fatal influence that thesepriests have acquired over him.'"
"It was the best advice she could give you. That excellent young lady isalways right."
"An hour after, we were upon our way, for we learned by the returnedpostilions, that M. Hardy had taken the Orleans road. We followed him asfar as Etampes. There we heard that he had taken a cross-road, to reacha solitary house in a valley about four leagues from the highway. Theytold us that this house called the Val-de-St. Herem, belonged to certainpriests, and that, as the night was so dark, and the road so bad, wehad better sleep at the inn, and start early in the morning. We followedthis advice, and set out at dawn. In a quarter of an hour, we quittedthe high-road for a mountainous and desert track. We saw nothing butbrown rocks, and a few birch trees. As we advanced, the scene becamewilder and wilder. We might have fancied ourselves a hundred leaguesfrom Paris. At last we stopped in front of a large, old, black-lookinghouse with only a few small windows in it, and built at the foot of ahigh, rocky mountain. In my whole life I have never seen anything sodeserted and sad. We got out of the carriage, and I rang the bell. Aman opened the door. 'Did not the Abbe d'Aigrigny arrive here last nightwith a gentleman?' said I to this man, with a confidential air. 'Informthe gentleman directly, that I come on business of importance, and thatI must see him forthwith.'--The man, believing me an accomplice, showedus in immediately; a moment after, the Abbe d'Aigrigny opened the door,saw me, and drew back; yet, in five minutes more, I was in presence ofM. Hardy."
"Well!" said Dagobert, with interest.
Agricola shook his head sorrowfully, and replied: "I knew by the verycountenance of M. Hardy, that all was over. Addressing me in a mild butfirm voice, he said to me: 'I understand, I can even excuse, the motivesthat bring you hither. But I am quite determined to live henceforthin solitude and prayer. I take this resolution freely and voluntarily,because I would fain provide for the salvation of my soul. Tell yourfellows that my arrangements will be such as to leave them a goodremembrance of me.'--And as I was about to speak, M. Hardy interruptedme, saying: 'It is useless, my friend. My determination is unalterable.Do not write to me, for your letters would remain unanswered. Prayerwill henceforth be my only occupation. Excuse me for leaving you, but Iam fatigued from my journey!'--He spoke the truth for he was as pale asa spectre, with a kind of wildness about the eyes, and so changed sincethe day before, as to be hardly the same man. His hand, when he offeredit on parting from me, was dry and burning. The Abbe d'Aigrigny sooncame in. 'Father,' said M. Hardy to him, 'have the goodness to see M.Baudoin to the door.'--So saying, he waved his hand to me in token offarewell, and retired to the next chamber. All was over; he is lost tous forever."
"Yes," said Dagobert, "those black-gowns have enchanted him, like somany others."
"In despair," resumed Agricola, "I returned hither with M. Dupont. This,then, is what the priests have made of M. Hardy--of that generous man,who supported nearly three hundred industrious workmen in order andhappiness, increasing their knowledge, improving their hearts, andearning the benediction of that little people, of which he was theprovidence. Instead of all this, M. Hardy is now forever reduced to agloomy and unavailing life of contemplation."
"Oh, the black-gowns!" said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to conceala vague sense of fear. "The longer I live, the more I am afraid of them.You have seen what those people did to your poor mother; you see whatthey have just done to M. Hardy; you know their plots against my twopoor orphans, and against that generous young lady. Oh, these people arevery powerful! I would rather face a battalion of Russian grenadiers,than a dozen of these cassocks. But don't let's talk of it. I havecauses enough beside for grief and fear."
Then seeing the astonished look of Agricola, the soldier, unable torestrain his emotion, threw himself into the arms of his son, exclaimingwith a choking voice: "I can hold out no longer. My heart is too full. Imust speak; and whom shall I trust if not you?"
"Father, you frighten me!" said Agricola, "What is the matter?"
"Why, you see, had it not been for you and the two poor girls, I shouldhave blown out my brains twenty times over rather than see what Isee--and dread what I do."
"What do you dread, father?"
"Since the last few days, I do not know what has come over themarshal--but he frightens me."
"Yet in his last interviews with Mdlle. de Cardoville--"
"Yes, he was a little better. By her kind words, this generous younglady poured balm into his wounds; the presence of the young Indiancheered him; he appeared to shake off his cares, and his poor littlegirls felt the benefit of the change. But for some days, I know not whatdemon has been loosed against his family. It is enough to turn one'shead. First of all, I am sure that the anonymous letters have begunagain."
"What letters, father?"
"The anonymous letters."
"But what are they about?"
"You know how the marshal hated that renegade, the Abbe d'Aigrigny. Whenhe found that the traitor was here, and that he had persecuted the twoorphans, even as he persecuted their mother to the death--but that nowhe had become a priest--I thought the marshal would have gone mad withindignation and fury. He wishes to go in search of the renegade. Withone word I calmed him. 'He is a priest,' I said; 'you may do what youwill, insult or strike him--he
will not fight. He began by servingagainst his country, he ends by becoming a bad priest. It is all incharacter. He is not worth spitting upon.'--'But surely I may punish thewrong done to my children, and avenge the death of my wife,' cried themarshal, much exasperated.--'They say, as you well know, that there arecourts of law to avenge your wrongs,' answered I; 'Mdlle. de Cardovillehas lodged a charge against the renegade, for having attempted toconfine your daughters in a convent. We must champ the bit and wait."'
"Yes," said Agricola, mournfully, "and unfortunately there lacks proofto bring it home to the Abbe d'Aigrigny. The other day, when I wasexamined by Mdlle. de Cardoville's lawyer, with regard to our attempton the convent, he told me that we should meet with obstacles at everystep, for want of legal evidence, and that the priests had taken theirprecautions with so much skill that the indictment would be quashed."
"That is just what the marshal thinks, my boy, and this increases hisirritation at such injustice."
"He should despise the wretches."
"But the anonymous letters!"
"Well, what of them, father?"
"You shall know all. A brave and honorable man like the marshal, whenhis first movement of indignation was over, felt that to insult therenegade disguised in the garb of a priest, would be like insultingan old man or a woman. He determined therefore to despise him, and toforget him as soon as possible. But then, almost every day, therecame by the post anonymous letters, in which all sorts of devices wereemployed, to revive and excite the anger of the marshal againstthe renegade by reminding him of all the evil contrived by the Abbed'Aigrigny against him and his family. The marshal was reproached withcowardice for not taking vengeance on this priest, the persecutor of hiswife and children, the insolent mocker at his misfortunes."
"And from whom do you suspect these letters to come, father?"
"I cannot tell--it is that which turns one's brain. They must come fromthe enemies of the marshal, and he has no enemies but the black-gowns."
"But, father, since these letters are to excite his anger against theAbbe d'Aigrigny, they can hardly have been written by priests."
"That is what I have said to myself."
"But what, then, can be their object?"
"Their object? oh, it is too plain!" cried Dagobert. "The marshal ishasty, ardent; he has a thousand reasons to desire vengeance on therenegade. But he cannot do himself justice, and the other sort ofjustice fails him. Then what does he do? He endeavors to forget, heforgets. But every day there comes to him an insolent letter, to provokeand exasperate his legitimate hatred, by mockeries and insults. Deviltake me! my head is not the weakest--but, at such a game, I should gomad."
"Father, such a plot would be horrible, and only worthy of hell!"
"And that is not all."
"What more?"
"The marshal has received other letters; those he has not shown me--but,after he had read the first, he remained like a man struck motionless,and murmured to himself: 'They do not even respect that--oh! it is toomuch--too much!'--And, hiding his face in his hands he wept."
"The marshal wept!" cried the blacksmith, hardly able to believe what heheard.
"Yes," answered Dagobert, "he wept like a child."
"And what could these letters contain, father?"
"I did not venture to ask him, he appeared so miserable and dejected."
"But thus harassed and tormented incessantly, the marshal must lead awretched life."
"And his poor little girls too! he sees them grow sadder and sadder,without being able to guess the cause. And the death of his father,killed almost in his arms! Perhaps, you will think all this enough; but,no! I am sure there is something still more painful behind. Lately, youwould hardly know the marshal. He is irritable about nothing, and fallsinto such fits of passion, that--" After a moment's hesitation, thesoldier resumed: "I way tell this to you, my poor boy. I have just beenupstairs, to take the caps from his pistols."
"What, father!" cried Agricola; "you fear--"
"In the state of exasperation in which I saw him yesterday, there iseverything to fear."
"What then happened?"
"Since some time, he has often long secret interviews with a gentleman,who looks like an old soldier and a worthy man. I have remarked thatthe gloom and agitation of the marshal are always redoubled after one ofthese visits. Two or three times, I have spoken to him about it; but Isaw by his look, that I displeased him, and therefore I desisted.
"Well! yesterday, this gentleman came in the evening. He remained hereuntil eleven o'clock, and his wife came to fetch him, and waited for himin a coach. After his departure, I went up to see if the marshal wantedanything. He was very pale, but calm; he thanked me, and I came downagain. You know that my room is just under his. I could hear the marshalwalking about as if much agitated, and soon after he seemed to beknocking down the furniture. In alarm, I once more went upstairs. Heasked me, with an irritated air, what I wanted, and ordered me to leavethe room. Seeing him in that way, I remained; he grew more angry, stillI remained; perceiving a chair and table thrown down, I pointed to themwith so sad an air that he understood me. You know that he has the bestheart in the world, so, taking me by the hand, he said to me: 'Forgiveme for causing you this uneasiness, my good Dagobert; but just now, Ilost my senses, and gave way to a burst of absurd fury; I think I shouldhave thrown myself out of the window, had it been open. I only hope,that my poor dear girls have not heard me,' added he, as he went ontip-toe to open the door which communicates with his daughters' bedroom.When he had listened anxiously for a moment, he returned to me, andsaid: 'Luckily, they are asleep.'--Then I asked him what was the causeof his agitation, and if, in spite of my precautions, he had receivedany more anonymous letters. 'No,' replied he, with a gloomy air; 'butleave me, my friend. I am now better. It has done me good to see you.Good--night, old comrade! go downstairs to bed.'--I took care not tocontradict him; but, pretending to go down, I came up again, and seatedmyself on the top stair, listening. No doubt, to calm himself entirely,the marshal went to embrace his children, for I heard him open and shuttheir door. Then he returned to his room, and walked about for a longtime, but with a more quiet step. At last, I heard him throw himself onhis bed, and I came down about break of day. After that, all remainedtranquil."
"But whatever can be the matter with him, father?"
"I do not know. When I went up to him, I was astonished at the agitationof his countenance, and the brilliancy of his eyes. He would have lookedmuch the same, had he been delirious, or in a burning fever--so that,when I heard him say, he could have thrown himself out of the window,had it been open, I thought it more prudent to remove the caps from hispistols."
"I cannot understand it!" said Agricola. "So firm, intrepid, and cool aman as the marshal, a prey to such violence!"
"I tell you that something very extraordinary is passing within him.For two days, he has not been to see his children, which is always a badsign with him--to say nothing of the poor little angels themselves, whoare miserable at the notion that they have displeased their father. Theydisplease him! If you only knew the life they lead, dear creatures! awalk or ride with me and their companion, for I never let them goout alone, and, the rest of their time, at their studies, reading, orneedlework--always together--and then to bed. Yet their duenna, who is,I think, a worthy woman, tells me that sometimes at night, she has seenthem shed tears in their sleep. Poor children! they have hitherto knownbut little happiness," added the soldier, with a sigh.
At this moment, hearing some one walk hastily across the courtyard,Dagobert raised his eyes, and saw Marshal Simon, with pale face andbewildered air, holding in his two hands a letter, which he seemed toread with devouring anxiety.