The Widow Lerouge

E >> Emile Gaboriau >> The Widow Lerouge


She received Daburon as a messenger direct from Providence. In a little
more than half an hour, she told her story, interlarded with numerous
interjections and imprecations.

"Do you comprehend this judge?" cried she. "He must be some frantic
Jacobin,--some son of the furies, who washed their hands in the blood of
their king. Ah! my friend, I read stupor and indignation in your glance.
He listened to the complaint of that impudent scoundrel whom I enabled
to live by employing him! And when I addressed some severe remonstrances
to this judge, as it was my duty to do, he had me turned out! Do you
hear? turned out!"

At this painful recollection, she made a menacing gesture with her arm.
In her sudden movement, she struck a handsome scent bottle that her maid
held in her hand. The force of the blow sent it to the other end of the
room, where it broke into pieces.

"Stupid, awkward fool!" cried the marchioness, venting her anger upon
the frightened girl.

M. Daburon, bewildered at first, now endeavored to calm her
exasperation. She did not allow him to pronounce three words.

"Happily you are here," she continued; "you are always willing to serve
me, I know. I count upon you! you will exercise your influence, your
powerful friends, your credit, to have this pitiful painter and this
miscreant of a judge flung into some deep ditch, to teach them the
respect due to a woman of my rank."

The magistrate did not permit himself even to smile at this imperative
demand. He had heard many speeches as absurd issue from her lips without
ever making fun of them. Was she not Claire's grandmother? for that
alone he loved and venerated her. He blessed her for her granddaughter,
as an admirer of nature blesses heaven for the wild flower that delights
him with its perfume.

The fury of the old lady was terrible; nor was it of short duration. At
the end of an hour, however, she was, or appeared to be, pacified. They
replaced her head-dress, repaired the disorder of her toilette, and
picked up the fragments of broken glass and china. Vanquished by her
own violence, the reaction was immediate and complete. She fell back
helpless and exhausted into an arm-chair.

This magnificent result was due to the magistrate. To accomplish it, he
had had to use all his ability, to exercise the most angelic patience,
the greatest tact. His triumph was the more meritorious, because he
came completely unprepared for this adventure, which interfered with his
intended proposal. The first time that he had felt sufficient courage
to speak, fortune seemed to declare against him, for this untoward event
had quite upset his plans.

Arming himself, however, with his professional eloquence, he talked the
old lady into calmness. He was not so foolish as to contradict her. On
the contrary, he caressed her hobby. He was humorous and pathetic by
turns. He attacked the authors of the revolution, cursed its errors,
deplored its crimes, and almost wept over its disastrous results.
Commencing with the infamous Marat he eventually reached the rascal of a
judge who had offended her. He abused his scandalous conduct in good set
terms, and was exceedingly severe upon the dishonest scamp of a painter.
However, he thought it best to let them off the punishment they so
richly deserved; and ended by suggesting that it would perhaps be
prudent, wise, noble even to pay.

The unfortunate word "pay" brought Madame d'Arlange to her feet in the
fiercest attitude.

"Pay!" she screamed. "In order that these scoundrels may persist in
their obduracy! Encourage them by a culpable weakness! Never! Besides to
pay one must have money! and I have none!"

"Why!" said M. Daburon, "it amounts to but eighty-seven francs!"

"And is that nothing?" asked the marchioness; "you talk very foolishly,
my dear sir. It is easy to see that you have money; your ancestors were
people of no rank; and the revolution passed a hundred feet above their
heads. Who can tell whether they may not have been the gainers by it? It
took all from the d'Arlanges. What will they do to me, if I do not pay?"

"Well, madame, they can do many things; almost ruin you, in costs. They
may seize your furniture."

"Alas!" cried the old lady, "the revolution is not ended yet. We shall
all be swallowed up by it, my poor Daburon! Ah! you are happy, you who
belong to the people! I see plainly that I must pay this man without
delay, and it is frightfully sad for me, for I have nothing, and am
forced to make such sacrifices for the sake of my grandchild!"

This statement surprised the magistrate so strongly that involuntarily
he repeated half-aloud, "Sacrifices?"

"Certainly!" resumed Madame d'Arlange. "Without her, would I have to
live as I am doing, refusing myself everything to make both ends meet?
Not a bit of it! I would invest my fortune in a life annuity. But I
know, thank heaven, the duties of a mother; and I economise all I can
for my little Claire."

This devotion appeared so admirable to M. Daburon, that he could not
utter a word.

"Ah! I am terribly anxious about this dear child," continued the
marchioness. "I confess M. Daburon, it makes me giddy when I wonder how
I am to marry her."

The magistrate reddened with pleasure. At last his opportunity had
arrived; he must take advantage of it at once.

"It seems to me," stammered he, "that to find Mademoiselle Claire a
husband ought not to be difficult."

"Unfortunately, it is. She is pretty enough, I admit, although rather
thin, but, now-a-days, beauty goes for nothing. Men are so mercenary
they think only of money. I do not know of one who has the manhood to
take a d'Arlange with her bright eyes for a dowry."

"I believe that you exaggerate," remarked M. Daburon, timidly.

"By no means. Trust to my experience which is far greater than yours.
Besides, when I find a son-in-law, he will cause me a thousand troubles.
Of this, I am assured by my lawyer. I shall be compelled, it seems, to
render an account of Claire's patrimony. As if ever I kept accounts!
It is shameful! Ah! if Claire had any sense of filial duty, she would
quietly take the veil in some convent. I would use every effort to pay
the necessary dower; but she has no affection for me."

M. Daburon felt that now was the time to speak. He collected his
courage, as a good horseman pulls his horse together when going to leap
a hedge, and in a voice, which he tried to render firm, he said: "Well!
Madame, I believe I know a party who would suit Mademoiselle Claire,--an
honest man, who loves her, and who will do everything in the world to
make her happy."

"That," said Madame d'Arlange, "is always understood."

"The man of whom I speak," continued the magistrate, "is still young,
and is rich. He will be only too happy to receive Mademoiselle Claire
without a dowry. Not only will he decline an examination of your
accounts of guardianship, but he will beg you to invest your fortune as
you think fit."

"Really! Daburon, my friend, you are by no means a fool!" exclaimed the
old lady.

"If you prefer not to invest your fortune in a life-annuity, your
son-in-law will allow you sufficient to make up what you now find
wanting."

"Ah! really I am stifling," interrupted the marchioness. "What! you know
such a man, and have never yet mentioned him to me! You ought to have
introduced him long ago."

"I did not dare, madame, I was afraid--"

"Quick! tell me who is this admirable son-in-law, this white blackbird?
where does he nestle?"

The magistrate felt a strange fluttering of the heart; he was going
to stake his happiness on a word. At length he stammered, "It is I,
madame!"

His voice, his look, his gesture were beseeching. He was surprised at
his own audacity, frightened at having vanquished his timidity, and was
on the point of falling at the old lady's feet. She, however, laughed
until the tears came into her eyes, then shrugging her shoulders, she
said: "Really, dear Daburon is too ridiculous, he will make me die of
laughing! He is so amusing!" After which she burst out laughing again.
But suddenly she stopped, in the very height of her merriment, and
assumed her most dignified air. "Are you perfectly serious in all you
have told me, M. Daburon?" she asked.

"I have stated the truth," murmured the magistrate.

"You are then very rich?"

"I inherited, madame, from my mother, about twenty thousand francs a
year. One of my uncles, who died last year, bequeathed me over a hundred
thousand crowns. My father is worth about a million. Were I to ask him
for the half to-morrow, he would give it to me; he would give me all
his fortune, if it were necessary to my happiness, and be but too well
contented, should I leave him the administration of it."

Madame d'Arlange signed to him to be silent; and, for five good minutes
at least, she remained plunged in reflection, her forehead resting in
her hands. At length she raised her head.

"Listen," said she. "Had you been so bold as to make this proposal to
Claire's father, he would have called his servants to show you the door.
For the sake of our name I ought to do the same; but I cannot do so. I
am old and desolate; I am poor; my grandchild's prospects disquiet me;
that is my excuse. I cannot, however, consent to speak to Claire of this
horrible misalliance. What I can promise you, and that is too much,
is that I will not be against you. Take your own measures; pay your
addresses to Mademoiselle d'Arlange, and try to persuade her. If she
says 'yes,' of her own free will, I shall not say 'no.'"

M. Daburon, transported with happiness, could almost have embraced the
old lady. He thought her the best, the most excellent of women, not
noticing the facility with which this proud spirit had been brought to
yield. He was delirious, almost mad.

"Wait!" said the old lady; "your cause is not yet gained. Your mother,
it is true, was a Cottevise, and I must excuse her for marrying so
wretchedly; but your father is simple M. Daburon. This name, my dear
friend, is simply ridiculous. Do you think it will be easy to make a
Daburon of a young girl who for nearly eighteen years has been called
d'Arlange?"

This objection did not seem to trouble the magistrate.

"After all," continued the old lady, "your father gained a Cottevise,
so you may win a d'Arlange. On the strength of marrying into noble
families, the Daburons may perhaps end by ennobling themselves. One last
piece of advice; you believe Claire to be just as she looks,--timid,
sweet, obedient. Undeceive yourself, my friend. Despite her innocent
air, she is hardy, fierce, and obstinate as the marquis her father, who
was worse than an Auvergne mule. Now you are warned. Our conditions are
agreed to, are they not? Let us say no more on the subject. I almost
wish you to succeed."

This scene was so present to the magistrate's mind, that as he sat at
home in his arm-chair, though many months had passed since these events,
he still seemed to hear the old lady's voice, and the word "success"
still sounded in his ears.

He departed in triumph from the d'Arlange abode, which he had entered
with a heart swelling with anxiety. He walked with his head erect, his
chest dilated, and breathing the fresh air with the full strength of his
lungs. He was so happy! The sky appeared to him more blue, the sun
more brilliant. This grave magistrate felt a mad desire to stop the
passers-by, to press them in his arms, to cry to them,--"Have you heard?
The marchioness consents!"

He walked, and the earth seemed to him to give way beneath his
footsteps; it was either too small to carry so much happiness, or else
he had become so light that he was going to fly away towards the stars.

What castles in the air he built upon what Madame d'Arlange had said to
him! He would tender his resignation. He would build on the banks of the
Loire, not far from Tours, an enchanting little villa. He already saw
it, with its facade to the rising sun, nestling in the midst of flowers,
and shaded with wide-spreading trees. He furnished this dwelling in the
most luxuriant style. He wished to provide a marvellous casket, worthy
the pearl he was about to possess. For he had not a doubt; not a cloud
obscured the horizon made radiant by his hopes, no voice at the bottom
of his heart raised itself to cry, "Beware!"

From that day, his visits to the marchioness became more frequent.
He might almost be said to live at her house. While he preserved his
respectful and reserved demeanour towards Claire, he strove assiduously
to be something in her life. True love is ingenious. He learnt to
overcome his timidity, to speak to the well-beloved of his soul, to
encourage her to converse with him, to interest her. He went in quest
of all the news, to amuse her. He read all the new books, and brought to
her all that were fit for her to read.

Little by little he succeeded, thanks to the most delicate persistence,
in taming this shy young girl. He began to perceive that her fear of him
had almost disappeared, that she no longer received him with the cold
and haughty air which had previously kept him at a distance. He felt
that he was insensibly gaining her confidence. She still blushed when
she spoke to him; but she no longer hesitated to address the first word.
She even ventured at times to ask him a question. If she had heard a
play well spoken of and wished to know the subject, M. Daburon would at
once go to see it, and commit a complete account of it to writing, which
he would send her through the post. At times she intrusted him with
trifling commissions, the execution of which he would not have exchanged
for the Russian embassy.

Once he ventured to send her a magnificent bouquet. She accepted it with
an air of uneasy surprise, but begged him not to repeat the offering.

The tears came to his eyes; he left her presence broken-hearted, and the
unhappiest of men. "She does not love me," thought he, "she will never
love me." But, three days after, as he looked very sad, she begged him
to procure her certain flowers, then very much in fashion, which she
wished to place on her flower-stand. He sent enough to fill the house
from the garret to the cellar. "She will love me," he whispered to
himself in his joy.

These events, so trifling but yet so great, had not interrupted the
games of piquet; only the young girl now appeared to interest herself
in the play, nearly always taking the magistrate's side against the
marchioness. She did not understand the game very well; but, when
the old gambler cheated too openly, she would notice it, and say,
laughingly,--"She is robbing you, M. Daburon,--she is robbing you!" He
would willingly have been robbed of his entire fortune, to hear that
sweet voice raised on his behalf.

It was summer time. Often in the evening she accepted his arm, and,
while the marchioness remained at the window, seated in her arm-chair,
they walked around the lawn, treading lightly upon the paths spread with
gravel sifted so fine that the trailing of her light dress effaced the
traces of their footsteps. She chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved
brother, while he was obliged to do violence to his feelings, to refrain
from imprinting a kiss upon the little blonde head, from which the light
breeze lifted the curls and scattered them like fleecy clouds. At such
moments, he seemed to tread an enchanted path strewn with flowers, at
the end of which appeared happiness.

When he attempted to speak of his hopes to the marchioness, she would
say: "You know what we agreed upon. Not a word. Already does the
voice of conscience reproach me for lending my countenance to such an
abomination. To think that I may one day have a granddaughter calling
herself Madame Daburon! You must petition the king, my friend, to change
your name."

If instead of intoxicating himself with dreams of happiness, this acute
observer had studied the character of his idol, the effect might have
been to put him upon his guard. In the meanwhile, he noticed singular
alterations in her humour. On certain days, she was gay and careless
as a child. Then, for a week, she would remain melancholy and dejected.
Seeing her in this state the day following a ball, to which her
grandmother had made a point of taking her, he dared to ask her the
reason of her sadness.

"Oh! that," answered she, heaving a deep sigh, "is my secret,--a secret
of which even my grandmother knows nothing."

M. Daburon looked at her. He thought he saw a tear between her long
eyelashes.

"One day," continued she, "I may confide in you: it will perhaps be
necessary."

The magistrate was blind and deaf. "I also," answered he, "have a
secret, which I wish to confide to you in return."

When he retired towards midnight, he said to himself, "To-morrow I will
confess everything to her." Then passed a little more than fifty days,
during which he kept repeating to himself,--"To-morrow!"

It happened at last one evening in the month of August; the heat all
day had been overpowering; towards dusk a breeze had risen, the leaves
rustled; there were signs of a storm in the atmosphere.

They were seated together at the bottom of the garden, under the arbour,
adorned with exotic plants, and, through the branches, they perceived
the fluttering gown of the marchioness, who was taking a turn after her
dinner. They had remained a long time without speaking, enjoying the
perfume of the flowers, the calm beauty of the evening.

M. Daburon ventured to take the young girl's hand. It was the first
time, and the touch of her fine skin thrilled through every fibre of his
frame, and drove the blood surging to his brain.

"Mademoiselle," stammered he, "Claire--"

She turned towards him her beautiful eyes, filled with astonishment.

"Forgive me," continued he, "forgive me. I have spoken to your
grandmother, before daring to raise my eyes to you. Do you not
understand me? A word from your lips will decide my future happiness or
misery. Claire, mademoiselle, do not spurn me: I love you!"

While the magistrate was speaking, Mademoiselle d'Arlange looked at him
as though doubtful of the evidence of her senses; but at the words, "I
love you!" pronounced with the trembling accents of the most devoted
passion, she disengaged her hand sharply, and uttered a stifled cry.

"You," murmured she, "is this really you?"

M. Daburon, at this the most critical moment of his life was powerless
to utter a word. The presentiment of an immense misfortune oppressed his
heart. What were then his feelings, when he saw Claire burst into tears.
She hid her face in her hands, and kept repeating,--

"I am very unhappy, very unhappy!"

"You unhappy?" exclaimed the magistrate at length, "and through me?
Claire, you are cruel! In heaven's name, what have I done? What is the
matter? Speak! Anything rather then this anxiety which is killing me."

He knelt before her on the gravelled walk, and again made an attempt to
take her hand. She repulsed him with an imploring gesture.

"Let me weep," said she: "I suffer so much, you are going to hate me,
I feel it. Who knows! you will, perhaps, despise me, and yet I swear
before heaven that I never expected what you have just said to me, that
I had not even a suspicion of it!"

M. Daburon remained upon his knees, awaiting his doom.

"Yes," continued Claire, "you will think you have been the victim of a
detestable coquetry. I see it now! I comprehend everything! It is not
possible, that, without a profound love, a man can be all that you
have been to me. Alas! I was but a child. I gave myself up to the great
happiness of having a friend! Am I not alone in the world, and as if
lost in a desert? Silly and imprudent, I thoughtlessly confided in you,
as in the best, the most indulgent of fathers."

These words revealed to the unfortunate magistrate the extent of
his error. The same as a heavy hammer, they smashed into a thousand
fragments the fragile edifice of his hopes. He raised himself slowly,
and, in a tone of involuntary reproach, he repeated,--"Your father!"

Mademoiselle d'Arlange felt how deeply she had wounded this man whose
intense love she dare not even fathom. "Yes," she resumed, "I love you
as a father! Seeing you, usually so grave and austere, become for me
so good, so indulgent, I thanked heaven for sending me a protector to
replace those who are dead."

M. Daburon could not restrain a sob; his heart was breaking.

"One word," continued Claire,--"one single word, would have enlightened
me. Why did you not pronounce it! It was with such happiness that I
leant on you as a child on its mother; and with what inward joy I said
to myself, 'I am sure of one friend, of one heart into which runs the
overflow of mine!' Ah! why was not my confidence greater? Why did I
withhold my secret from you? I might have avoided this fearful calamity.
I ought to have told you long since. I no longer belong to myself freely
and with happiness, I have given my life to another."

To hover in the clouds, and suddenly to fall rudely to the earth, such
was M. Daburon's fate; his sufferings are not to be described.

"Far better to have spoken," answered he; "yet no. I owe to your
silence, Claire, six months of delicious illusions, six months of
enchanting dreams. This shall be my share of life's happiness."

The last beams of closing day still enabled the magistrate to see
Mademoiselle d'Arlange. Her beautiful face had the whiteness and the
immobility of marble. Heavy tears rolled silently down her cheeks. It
seemed to M. Daburon that he was beholding the frightful spectacle of a
weeping statue.

"You love another," said he at length, "another! And your grandmother
does not know it. Claire, you can only have chosen a man worthy of your
love. How is it the marchioness does not receive him?"

"There are certain obstacles," murmured Claire, "obstacles which perhaps
we may never be able to remove; but a girl like me can love but once.
She marries him she loves, or she belongs to heaven!"

"Certain obstacles!" said M. Daburon in a hollow voice. "You love a man,
he knows it, and he is stopped by obstacles?"

"I am poor," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlange, "and his family is
immensely rich. His father is cruel, inexorable."

"His father," cried the magistrate, with a bitterness he did not dream
of hiding, "his father, his family, and that withholds him! You are
poor, he is rich, and that stops him! And yet he knows you love him!
Ah! why am I not in his place? and why have I not the entire universe
against me? What sacrifice can compare with love? such as I understand
it. Nay, would it be a sacrifice? That which appears most so, is it not
really an immense joy? To suffer, to struggle, to wait, to hope always,
to devote oneself entirely to another; that is my idea of love."

"It is thus I love," said Claire with simplicity.

This answer crushed the magistrate. He could understand it. He knew that
for him there was no hope; but he felt a terrible enjoyment in torturing
himself, and proving his misfortune by intense suffering.

"But," insisted he, "how have you known him, spoken to him? Where? When?
Madame d'Arlange receives no one."

"I ought now to tell you everything, sir," answered Claire proudly.
"I have known him for a long time. It was at the house of one of my
grandmother's friends, who is a cousin of his,--old Mademoiselle Goello,
that I saw him for the first time. There we spoke to each other; there
we meet each other now."

"Ah!" exclaimed M. Daburon, whose eyes were suddenly opened, "I remember
now. A few days before your visit to Mademoiselle Goello, you are gayer
than usual; and, when you return, you are often sad."

"That is because I see how much he is pained by the obstacles he cannot
overcome."

"Is his family, then, so illustrious," asked the magistrate harshly,
"that it disdains alliance with yours?"

"I should have told you everything, without waiting to be questioned,
sir," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlange, "even his name. He is called
Albert de Commarin."

The marchioness at this moment, thinking she had walked enough,
was preparing to return to her rose-coloured boudoir. She therefore
approached the arbour, and exclaimed in her loud voice:--

"Worthy magistrate, piquet awaits you."

Mechanically the magistrate arose, stammering, "I am coming."

Claire held him back. "I have not asked you to keep my secret, sir,"
said she.

"O mademoiselle!" said M. Daburon, wounded by this appearance of doubt.

"I know," resumed Claire, "that I can count upon you; but, come what
will, my tranquillity is gone."

M. Daburon looked at her with an air of surprise; his eyes questioned
her.

"It is certain," continued she, "that what I, a young and inexperienced
girl, have failed to see, has not passed unnoticed by my grandmother.
That she has continued to receive you is a tacit encouragement of your
addresses; which I consider, permit me to say, as very honourable to
myself."

"I have already mentioned, mademoiselle," replied the magistrate, "that
the marchioness has deigned to authorise my hopes."

And briefly he related his interview with Madame d'Arlange, having the
delicacy, however, to omit absolutely the question of money, which had
so strongly influenced the old lady.