San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 87

Sans-Cravate ran to the young man, who had received the bullet in his side and was bleeding freely. He threw himself on his knees, weeping; but Albert held out his hand to him and tried to smile.

"You have done your duty--don't be cut up. If I die, you will see that I haven't forgotten your sister."

"Oh! you won't die, I hope. This wound may not be fatal----"

"Take me to the carriage, and tell them to take me back to my father."

Albert had no strength to say more; he lost consciousness. Sans-Cravate raised him from the ground, and two plasterers, attracted by the report of the pistol, helped him to carry the wounded man to the carriage.

Sans-Cravate tried to stop the flow of blood by tying his handkerchief over the wound. Joseph entered the carriage, and seated himself so that he could support his master. Sans-Cravate thought of going with them, but he felt that he lacked courage to take Albert back to his father, so he allowed the carriage to drive away without him.

Two hours had pa.s.sed since the duel, and Sans-Cravate was still wandering about the fields, uncertain what to do, and praying fervently that Albert would not die of his wound. At last, he decided to return to Paris. But when he reached the city, he dared not go to his sister; for he feared that when she saw him she would divine what had happened, and he did not wish to confess that he had fought with her seducer, until he had some definite information as to the wounded man's condition. To go to his usual stand and remain there quietly would have been impossible to him, so he wandered through the streets at random.

When it began to grow dark, Sans-Cravate could restrain his impatience no longer; he felt that he must know in what condition Albert was, so he bent his steps toward his house.

"The doctors must have given their opinions of his wound before now," he thought; "I'll ask someone, and I won't go back to my sister till I am satisfied about his condition."

Having determined upon this course, Sans-Cravate was soon in front of Monsieur Vermoncey's house on Rue Caumartin. The porte cochere was still open; he went in, and stopped at the concierge's lodge, but found n.o.body there; whereupon he decided to go upstairs and question the servants.

When he came to the door of Albert's apartment, it was not closed, and he saw several lights in the anteroom; but he saw no person, although the other doors were open; that solitude and confusion froze his heart, for in it all there was a something silent and depressing which seemed to denote the presence of death.

The messenger did not know what to do, but he realized that he must decide upon something. He entered the apartment, but walked very softly and carefully, as if he were afraid of waking someone. He pa.s.sed through the room adjoining the anteroom, and was about to enter another room, the door of which was open, when he heard a sound as of sobbing. He put his head forward and saw Monsieur Vermoncey sitting in a chair, with his face buried in his hands, and apparently in the throes of utter despair.

Sans-Cravate had no strength either to go forward or to retreat; his legs gave way under him, he sank on a couch, and sat there, completely overwhelmed; for he divined only too readily the cause of that wretched father's grief.

At that moment another door leading into the room where Monsieur Vermoncey was, on the opposite side from Sans-Cravate, was suddenly thrown open, and a woman appeared. The messenger recognized the figure and the hat that had attracted his attention just before the duel. The woman walked up to Monsieur Vermoncey, with a haughty air, threw aside her hat and veil, and asked:

"Do you recognize me, monsieur?"

Sans-Cravate was petrified when he saw that it was Madame Baldimer.

Monsieur Vermoncey raised his eyes, which were filled with tears, and seemed terror-stricken when they fell upon the person who stood before him.

"You are the woman, madame, who swore to accomplish my son's ruin, and you have come doubtless to gloat over my despair; for my poor Albert is dead! he breathed his last in my arms, only a moment after he was brought home. But what had that unhappy boy done to you that you should be so bent upon his destruction?"

"He, monsieur--he had done nothing. Indeed, I could have loved him well, if he had not been your son; but by depriving you of this last child, the remaining fruit of your marriage, I have avenged my sister--my poor Marie!"

"Marie!"

"Yes, monsieur; Marie Delbart, the young seamstress whom you seduced before your marriage. She had a sister, ten years younger than herself, whom a distant relative had taken with him to America."

"Yes--I think I remember."

"Marie must sometimes have spoken to you of that young sister, who loved her as a daughter loves her mother, and who wept bitterly when she was forced to leave her. Well, monsieur, before she died, Marie wrote me a letter in which she told me the story of her misfortunes, begging me, if I ever returned to France, to do my utmost to find her child and avenge her on her unworthy seducer. That letter was not delivered to me until I had attained my majority; that was in accordance with Marie's wish; but I was then married to a wealthy planter, Monsieur Baldimer, who was much older than I, but had raised me to a position I had never dared to hope for. I should have liked to return to France at once, to carry out my sister's wishes, but my husband was unwilling to take the journey, and I had to wait. About fifteen months ago, Monsieur Baldimer died; I turned all my property into cash and returned to France, my native land, having taken an oath to fulfil Marie's last wishes. But to find her child was almost impossible. She had remembered, however, the name of the midwife who attended her when she became a mother, and who must have aided you to carry out your shameful determination to send your son to the Foundling Hospital. By dint of careful searching, I succeeded some time ago in finding that woman, who is now very old."

Monsieur Vermoncey gazed at Madame Baldimer with an anxious expression, and faltered:

"You have found her! Ah! I have sought her in vain! Well, madame--go on--that unfortunate child?----"

"She remembered all the details of the affair. My sister was then living at Saint-Cloud. When she carried the child away, ostensibly to a nurse, but really in accordance with your orders, to Paris, to be brought up with all those unhappy creatures who have no family, that woman, thinking that there ought to be some way of recognizing the child, if you should ever want to see him again, burned a little cross on his left forearm, and wrote on a slip of paper: 'His name is Paul de Saint-Cloud.'"

At those words, Sans-Cravate started in surprise and muttered:

"Great G.o.d! is it possible?"

But his movement and his exclamation were not heard, and Madame Baldimer continued:

"Armed with this information, I went to the asylum. After many inquiries, I found out that the child who bore that name had been taken away, ten years before, by a respectable tradesman, who had adopted him.

But the tradesman's name was half effaced, and it was impossible for me to learn anything more definite.--As for you, monsieur, it was easy enough for me to learn all about you. I learned that, after having a numerous family, you had lost your wife and three of your children, and that you had only one son left, on whom all your love was lavished; and I said to myself that divine justice, which had already taken away three of your children, ought not to leave you this last one, since you had cast off the one my poor sister gave you. You see, monsieur, I was justified in relying upon divine justice."

"Enough! enough, madame!" murmured Monsieur Vermoncey, covering his face with his hands. "Ah! I am severely punished for a fault of my youth. My Albert is no more. I am alone in the world, for I shall never succeed in finding the child that Marie gave me, whom I would be only too happy now to call my son! Ah! there is nothing left for me but to die, too."

Monsieur Vermoncey's voice grew fainter, and as he finished speaking he succ.u.mbed to his grief and swooned. Madame Baldimer pulled the bellrope and called for help; several servants hurried to the spot, and pa.s.sed Sans-Cravate on their way to their master.

The messenger took advantage of the confusion to leave the room where he was; and he went forth from the apartment and the house without attracting attention. He walked slowly homeward; but as he was about to enter his sister's presence, he stopped, for he realized that what he had to tell her would deal her a cruel blow. He knew that he could conceal the fact of Albert's death from her for some time, but sooner or later she must be told, and Sans-Cravate reflected that it was never well to postpone the news of a disaster; for then one always has before one the prospect of a distressing scene to come; whereas, when once the tears are shed, one can at least hope that time will dry them.

Adeline was anxious about her brother, whom she had not seen since the morning. When she heard him come in, she uttered a little cry of joy, and would have run into his arms; but when she saw his pale, distressed face, she paused and began to tremble, for she saw tears in his eyes as well.

"What has happened, in heaven's name?" she asked. "Have you seen Albert?

does he still refuse to see me?"

"Yes," murmured her brother, looking at the floor. "He cast you off, he spoke contemptuously of you--and I have punished him for it."

"O mon Dieu! what do you mean?"

"That you have no one but me to support you now; but I will never fail you."

Adeline was completely crushed; sobs choked her utterance; but at last the tears came in torrents.

"That is right," said her brother; "cry, my poor Liline, shed tears for the fate of that young man who had more courage than honorable feeling; and for me too, for I was compelled to punish him, and I shall always have that terrible sight before my eyes. But remember that you are a mother, and that you must live for your child."

Despite his profound sorrow over Albert's death, Sans-Cravate's mind constantly recurred to what he had learned concerning Paul, his former comrade.

"He's the man," he thought; "there's no doubt of it--he's Monsieur Vermoncey's son, and it rests with me to give him the name and rank and fortune that belong to him. But he deceived me shamefully; he took Bastringuette away from me--the woman I loved--yes, and love still! He's with her now, for I met him leaning on the faithless hussy's arm; and if I helped him to a fortune, he'd enjoy it with her! No, no! _sacredie!_ that shan't be. I ain't virtuous enough to return good for evil, and I'll keep my secret!"

XXIX

A REPUTATION

Monsieur Vermoncey, wholly absorbed by his grief, lived in strict retirement and saw no one; but, as he did not wish it known that his son had been killed by a messenger,--for the knowledge might have led to a disclosure of the duel, and would have reflected little credit on his son's memory,--Monsieur Vermoncey, knowing that Albert's servant was the only witness of that fatal event, had given Joseph a considerable sum and sent him back to his province, after causing him to spread the report through the neighborhood, and among his confreres, that his young master had fought with one of his friends, after a quarrel of which he did not know the subject. And no one had doubted the truth of the story, because it was much more probable than that Albert had fought a duel with a messenger.

Nearly a month had pa.s.sed since the events that resulted in Albert's death, when a short, stout young man, dressed with ostentatious elegance, alighted from a cabriolet one morning in front of Monsieur Vermoncey's residence, and, having inserted his monocle in his eye to make sure that he had made no mistake, entered the house and called out to the concierge:

"I am going up to see my friend Monsieur Albert Vermoncey; I believe he has returned from his trip to Normandie, and I have a thousand things to say to him."

The concierge ran after Tobie Pigeonnier,--for it was he, transformed into a showy and self-confident _lion_,--and stopped him at the foot of the stairs, saying: