About two leagues from Tarascon, on the left bank of the Rhone, not far from the wonderful gardens of M. Audibert, stood the chateau of Clameran, a weather-stained, neglected, but massive structure.
Here lived, in 1841, the old Marquis de Clameran and his two sons, Gaston and Louis.
The marquis was an eccentric old man. He belonged to the race of nobles, now almost extinct, whose watches stopped in 1789, and who kept time with the past century.
More attached to his illusions than to his life, the old marquis insisted upon considering all the stirring events which had happened since the first revolution as a series of deplorable practical jokes.
Emigrating with the Count d’Artois, he did not return to France until 1815, with the allies.
He should have been thankful to Heaven for the recovery of a portion of his immense family estates; a comparatively small portion, to be sure, but full enough to support him comfortably: he said, however, that he did not think the few paltry acres were worth thanking God for.
At first, he tried every means to obtain an appointment at court; but seeing all his efforts fail, he resolved to retire to his chateau, which he did, after cursing and pitying his king, whom he had worshipped.
He soon became accustomed to the free and indolent life of a country gentleman.
Possessing fifteen thousand francs a year, he spent twenty-five or thirty thousand, borrowing from every source, saying that a genuine restoration would soon take place, and that then he would regain possession of all his properties.
Following his example, his younger son lived extravagantly. Louis was always in pursuit of adventure, and idled away his time in drinking and gambling. The elder son, Gaston, anxious to participate in the stirring events of the time, prepared himself for action by quietly working, studying, and reading certain papers and pamphlets surreptitiously received, the very mention of which was considered a hanging matter by his father.
Altogether the old marquis was the happiest of mortals, living well, drinking high, hunting much, tolerated by the peasants, and execrated by the gentlemen of the neighborhood, who regarded him with contempt and raillery.
Time never hung heavy on his hands, except in mid-summer, when the valley of the Rhone was intensely hot; and even then he had infallible means of amusement, always new, though ever the same.
He detested, above all, his neighbor the Countess de la Verberie.
The Countess de la Verberie, the “bete noire” of the marquis, as he ungallantly termed her, was a tall, dry woman, angular in appearance and character, cold and arrogant toward her equals, and domineering over her inferiors.
Like her noble neighbor, she too had emigrated; and her husband was afterward killed at Lutzen, but unfortunately not in the French ranks.
In 1815, the countess came back to France. But while the Marquis de Clameran returned to comparative ease, she could obtain nothing from royal munificence, but the small estate and chateau of La Verberie.
It is true that the chateau of La Verberie would have contented most people; but the countess never ceased to complain of her unmerited poverty, as she called it.
The pretty chateau was more modest in appearance than the manor of the Clamerans; but it was equally comfortable, and much better regulated by its proud mistress.
It was built in the middle of a beautiful park, one of the wonders of that part of the country. It reached from the Beaucaire road to the river-bank, a marvel of beauty, with its superb old oaks, yoke-elms, and lovely groves, its meadow, and clear stream of water winding in among the trees.
The countess had but one child--a lovely girl of eighteen, named Valentine; fair, slender, and graceful, with large, soft eyes, beautiful enough to make the stone saints of the village church thrill in their niches, when she knelt piously at their feet.
The renown of her great beauty, carried on the rapid waters of the Rhone, was spread far and wide.
Often the bargemen and the robust wagoners, driving their powerful horses along the road, would stop to gaze with admiration upon Valentine seated under some grand old tree on the banks of the river, absorbed in her book.
At a distance her white dress and flowing tresses made her seem a mysterious spirit from another world, these honest people said; they thought it a good omen when they caught a glimpse of her as they passed up the river. All along between Arles and Valence she was spoken of as the “lovely fairy” of La Verberie.
If M. de Clameran detested the countess, Mme. de la Verberie execrated the marquis. If he nicknamed her “the witch,” she never called him anything but “the old gander.”
And yet they should have agreed, for at heart they cherished the same opinions, with different ways of viewing them.
He considered himself a philosopher, scoffed at everything, and had an excellent digestion. She nursed her rancor, and grew yellow and thin from rage and envy.
Nevertheless, they might have spent many pleasant evenings together, for, after all, they were neighbors. From Clameran could be seen Valentine’s greyhound running about the park of La Verberie; from La Verberie glimpses were had of the lights in the dining-room windows of Clameran.
And, as regularly as these lights appeared, every evening, the countess would say, in a spiteful tone:
“Ah, now their orgies are about to commence!”
The two chateaux were only separated by the fast-flowing Rhone, which at this spot was rather narrow.
But between the two families existed a hatred deeper and more difficult to avert than the course of the Rhone.
What was the cause of this hatred?
The countess, no less than the marquis, would have found it difficult to tell.
It was said that under the reign of Henri IV. or Louis XIII. a La Verberie betrayed the affections of a fair daughter of the Clamerans.
This misdeed led to a duel and bloodshed.
This groundwork of facts had been highly embellished by fiction; handed down from generation to generation, it had now become a long tragic history of robbery, murder, and rapine, which precluded any intercourse between the two families.
The usual result followed, as it always does in real life, and often in romances, which, however exaggerated they may be, generally preserve a reflection of the truth which inspires them.
Gaston met Valentine at an entertainment; he fell in love with her at first sight.
Valentine saw Gaston, and from that moment his image filled her heart.
But so many obstacles separated them!
For over a year they both religiously guarded their secret, buried like a treasure in the inmost recesses of their hearts.
And this year of charming, dangerous reveries decided their fate. To the sweetness of the first impression succeeded a more tender sentiment; then came love, each having endowed the other with superhuman qualities and ideal perfections.
Deep, sincere passion can only expand in solitude; in the impure air of a city it fades and dies, like the hardy plants which lose their color and perfume when transplanted to hot-houses.
Gaston and Valentine had only seen each other once, but seeing was to love; and, as the time passed, their love grew stronger, until at last the fatality which had presided over their first meeting brought them once more together.
They both happened to be spending the day with the old Duchess d’Arlange, who had returned to the neighborhood to sell her property.
They spoke to each other, and like old friends, surprised to find that they both entertained the same thoughts and echoed the same memories.
Again they were separated for months. But soon, as if by accident, they happened to be at a certain hour on the banks of the Rhone, and would sit and gaze across at each other.
Finally, one mild May evening, when Mme. de la Verberie had gone to Beaucaire, Gaston ventured into the park, and appeared before Valentine.
She was not surprised or indignant. Genuine innocence displays none of the startled modesty assumed by conventional innocence. It never occurred to Valentine that she ought to bid Gaston to leave her.
She leaned upon his arm, and strolled up and down the grand old avenue of oaks. They did not say they loved each other, they felt it; but they did say that their love was hopeless. They well knew that the inveterate family feud could never be overcome, and that it would be folly to attempt it. They swore never, never to forget each other, and tearfully resolved never to meet again; never, not even once more!
Alas! Valentine was not without excuse. With a timid, loving heart, her expansive affection was repressed and chilled by a harsh mother. Never had there been one of those long private talks between the Countess de la Verberie and Valentine which enabled a good mother to read her daughter’s heart like an open book.
Mme. de la Verberie saw nothing but her daughter’s beauty. She was wont to rub her hands, and say:
“Next winter I will borrow enough money to take the child to Paris, and I am much mistaken if her beauty does not win her a rich husband who will release me from poverty.”
She called this loving her daughter!
The second meeting was not the last. Gaston dared not trust to a boatman, so he was obliged to walk a league in order to cross the bridge. Then he thought it would be shorter to swim the river; but he could not swim well, and to cross the Rhone where it ran so rapidly was rash for the most skilful swimmers.
One evening, however, Valentine was startled by seeing him rise out of the water at her feet.
She made him promise never to attempt this exploit again. He repeated the feat and the promise the next evening and every successive evening.
As Valentine always imagined he was being drowned in the furious current, they agreed upon a signal. At the moment of starting, Gaston would put a light in his window at Clameran, and in fifteen minutes he would be at his idol’s feet.
What were the projects and hopes of the lovers? Alas! they projected nothing, they hoped for nothing.
Blindly, thoughtlessly, almost fearlessly, they abandoned themselves to the dangerous happiness of a daily rendezvous; regardless of the storm that must erelong burst over their devoted heads, they revelled in their present bliss.
Is not every sincere passion thus? Passion subsists upon itself and in itself; and the very things which ought to extinguish it, absence and obstacles, only make it burn more fiercely. It is exclusive and undisturbed; reflects neither of the past nor of the future; excepting the present, it sees and cares for nothing.
Moreover, Valentine and Gaston believed everyone ignorant of their secret.
They had always been so cautious! they had kept such strict watch! They had flattered themselves that their conduct had been a masterpiece of dissimulation and prudence.
Valentine had fixed upon the hour when she was certain her mother would not miss her. Gaston had never confided to anyone, not even to his brother Louis. They never breathed each other’s name. They denied themselves a last sweet word, a last kiss, when they felt it would be more safe.
Poor blind lovers! As if anything could be concealed from the idle curiosity of country gossips; from the slanderous and ever-watchful enemies who are incessantly on the lookout for some new bit of tittle-tattle, good or bad, which they improve upon, and eagerly spread far and near.
They believed their secret well kept, whereas it had long since been made public; the story of their love, the particulars of their rendezvous, were topics of conversation throughout the neighborhood.
Sometimes, at dusk, they would see a bark gliding along the water, near the shore, and would say to each other:
“It is a belated fisherman, returning home.”
They were mistaken. The boat contained malicious spies, who delighted in having discovered them, and hastened to report, with a thousand false additions, the result of their expedition.
One dreary November evening, Gaston was awakened to the true state of affairs. The Rhone was so swollen by heavy rains that an inundation was daily expected. To attempt to swim across this impetuous torrent, would be tempting God. Therefore Gaston went to Tarascon, intending to cross the bridge there, and walk along the bank to the usual place of meeting at La Verberie. Valentine expected him at eleven o’clock.
Whenever Gaston went to Tarascon, he dined with a relative living there; but on this occasion a strange fatality led him to accompany a friend to the hotel of the “Three Emperors.”
After dinner, they went not the Cafe Simon, their usual resort, but to the little cafe in the market-place, where the fairs were held.
The small dining-hall was filled with young men. Gaston and his friend called for a bottle of beer, and began to play billiards.
After they had been playing a short time, Gaston’s attention was attracted by peals of laughter from a party at the other end of the room.
From this moment, preoccupied by this continued laughter, of which he was evidently the subject, he knocked the balls carelessly in every direction. His conduct surprised his friend, who said to him:
“What is the matter? You are missing the simplest shots.”
“It is nothing.”
The game went on a while longer, when Gaston suddenly turned as white as a sheet, and, throwing down his cue, strode toward the table which was occupied by five young men, playing dominoes and drinking wine.
He addressed the eldest of the group, a handsome man of twenty-six, with fierce-looking eyes, and a heavy black mustache, named Jules Lazet.
“Repeat, if you dare,” he said, in a voice trembling with passion, “the remark you just now made!”
“I certainly will repeat it,” said Lazet, calmly. “I said, and I say it again, that a nobleman’s daughter is no better than a mechanic’s daughter; that virtue does not always accompany a titled name.”
“You mentioned a particular name!”
Lazet rose from his chair as if he knew his answer would exasperate Gaston, and that from words they would come to blows.
“I did,” he said, with an insolent smile: “I mentioned the name of the pretty little fairy of La Verberie.”
All the coffee-drinkers, and even two travelling agents who were dining in the cafe, rose and surrounded the two young men.
The provoking looks, the murmurs, or rather shouts, which welcomed him as he walked up to Lazet, proved to Gaston that he was surrounded by enemies.
The wickedness and evil tongue of the old marquis were bearing their fruit. Rancor ferments quickly and fiercely among the people of Provence.
Gaston de Clameran was not a man to yield, even if his foes were a hundred, instead of fifteen or twenty.
“No one but a coward,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, which the pervading silence rendered almost startling, “no one but a contemptible coward would be infamous enough to calumniate a young girl who has neither father nor brother to defend her honor.”
“If she has no father or brother,” sneered Lazet, “she has her lovers, and that suffices.”
The insulting words, “her lovers,” enraged Gaston beyond control; he slapped Lazet violently in the face.
Everyone in the cafe simultaneously uttered a cry of terror. Lazet’s violence of character, his herculean strength and undaunted courage, were well known. He sprang across the table between them, and seized Gaston by the throat. Then arose a scene of excitement and confusion. Clameran’s friend, attempting to assist him, was knocked down with billiard-cues, and kicked under a table.
Equally strong and agile, Gaston and Lazet struggled for some minutes without either gaining an advantage.
Lazet, as loyal as he was courageous, would not accept assistance from his friends. He continually called out:
“Keep away; let me fight it out alone!”
But the others were too excited to remain inactive spectators of the scene.
“A quilt!” cried one of them, “a quilt to make the marquis jump!”
Five or six young men now rushed upon Gaston, and separated him from Lazet. Some tried to throw him down, others to trip him up.
He defended himself with the energy of despair, exhibiting in his furious struggles a strength of which he himself had not been conscious. He struck right and left as he showered fierce epithets upon his adversaries for being twelve against one.
He was endeavoring to get around the billiard-table so as to be near the door, and had almost succeeded, when an exultant cry arose:
“Here is the quilt! the quilt!” they cried.
“Put him in the quilt, the pretty fairy’s lover!”
Gaston heard these cries. He saw himself overcome, and suffering an ignoble outrage at the hands of these enraged men.
By a dexterous movement he extricated himself from the grasp of the three who were holding him, and felled a fourth to the ground.
His arms were free; but all his enemies returned to the charge.
Then he seemed to lose his head, and, seizing a knife which lay on the table where the travelling agents had been dining, he plunged it into the breast of the first man who rushed upon him.
This unfortunate man was Jules Lazet. He dropped to the ground.
There was a second of silent stupor.
Then four or five of the young men rushed forward to raise Lazet. The landlady ran about wringing her hands, and screaming with fright. Some of the assailants rushed into the street shouting, “Murder! Murder!”
The others once more turned upon Gaston with cries of “Vengeance! kill him!”
He saw that he was lost. His enemies had seized the first objects they could lay their hands upon, and he received several wounds. He jumped upon the billiard-table, and, making a rapid spring, dashed through the large glass window of the cafe. He was fearfully cut by the broken glass and splinters, but he was free.
Gaston had escaped, but he was not yet saved. Astonished and disconcerted at his desperate feat, the crowd for a moment were stupefied; but, recovering their presence of mind, they started in pursuit of him.
The weather was bad, the ground wet and muddy, and heavy black clouds were rolling westward; but the night was not dark.
Gaston ran on from tree to tree, making frequent turnings, every moment on the point of being seized and surrounded, and asking himself what course he should take.
Finally he determined, if possible, to regain Clameran.
With incredible rapidity he darted diagonally across the fair-ground, in the direction of the levee which protected the valley of Tarascon from inundations.
Unfortunately, upon reaching this levee, planted with magnificent trees which made it one of the most charming walks of Provence, Gaston forgot that the entrance was closed by a gate with three steps, such as are always placed before walks intended for foot-passengers, and rushed against it with such violence that he was thrown back and badly bruised.
He quickly sprang up; but his pursuers were upon him.
This time he could expect no mercy. The infuriated men at his heels yelled that fearful cry which in the evil days of lawless bloodshed had often echoed in that valley: “In the Rhone with him! In the Rhone with the marquis!”
His reason had abandoned him; he no longer knew what he did. His forehead was cut, and the blood trickled from the wound into his eyes, and blinded him.
He must escape, or die in the attempt.
He had tightly clasped the bloody knife with which he had stabbed Lazet. He struck his nearest foe; the man fell to the ground with a heavy groan.
A second blow gained him a moment’s respite, which gave him time to open the gate and rush along the levee.
Two men were kneeling over their wounded companion, and five others resumed the pursuit.
But Gaston flew fast, for the horror of his situation tripled his energy; excitement deadened the pain of his wounds; with elbows held tight to his sides, and holding his breath, he went along at such a speed that he soon distanced his pursuers; the noise of their feet became gradually more indistinct, and finally ceased.
Gaston ran on for a mile, across fields and over hedges; fences and ditches were leaped without effort and when he knew he was safe from capture he sank down at the foot of a tree to rest.
This terrible scene had taken place with inconceivable rapidity. Only forty minutes had elapsed since Gaston and his friend entered the cafe.
But during this short time how much had happened! These forty minutes had given more cause for sorrow and remorse than the whole of his previous life put together.
Entering this tavern with head erect and a happy heart, enjoying present existence, and looking forward to a yet better future, he left it ruined; for he was a murderer! Henceforth he would be under a ban--an outcast!
He had killed a man, and still convulsively held the murderous instrument; he cast it from him with horror.
He tried to account for the dreadful circumstances which had just taken place; as if it were of any importance to a man lying at the bottom of an abyss to know which stone had slipped, and precipitated him from the summit.
Still, if he alone had been ruined! But Valentine was dragged down with him: she was disgraced yet more than himself; her reputation was gone. And it was his want of self-command which had cast to the winds this honor, confided to his keeping, and which he held far dearer than his own.
But he could not remain here bewailing his misfortune. The police must soon be on his track. They would certainly go to the chateau of Clameran to seek him; and before leaving home, perhaps forever, he wished to say good-by to his father, and once more press Valentine to his heart.
He started to walk, but with great pain, for the reaction had come, and his nerves and muscles, so violently strained, had now begun to relax; the intense heat caused by his struggling and fast running was replaced by a cold perspiration, aching limbs, and chattering teeth. His hip and shoulder pained him almost beyond endurance. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but the coagulated blood around his eyes blinded him.
After a painful walk he reached his door at ten o’clock.
The old valet who admitted him started back terrified.
“Good heavens, monsieur! what is the matter?”
“Silence!” said Gaston in the brief, compressed tone always inspired by imminent danger, “silence! where is my father?”
“M. the marquis is in his room with M. Louis. He has had a sudden attack of the gout, and cannot put his foot to the ground; but you, monsieur----”
Gaston did not stop to listen further. He hurried to his father’s room.
The old marquis, who was playing backgammon with Louis, dropped his dice-box with a cry of horror, when he looked up and saw his eldest son standing before him covered with blood.
“What is the matter? what have you been doing, Gaston?”
“I have come to embrace you for the last time, father, and to ask for assistance to escape abroad.”
“Do you wish to fly the country?”
“I must fly, father, and instantly; I am pursued, the police may be here at any moment. I have killed two men.”
The marquis was so shocked that he forgot the gout, and attempted to rise; a violent twinge made him drop back in his chair.
“Where? When?” he gasped.
“At Tarascon, in a cafe, an hour ago; fifteen men attacked me, and I seized a knife to defend myself.”
“The old tricks of ‘93,” said the marquis. “Did they insult you, Gaston? What was the cause of the attack?”
“They insulted in my presence the name of a noble young girl.”
“And you punished the rascals? Jarnibleu! You did well. Who ever heard of a gentleman allowing insolent puppies to speak disrespectfully of a lady of quality in his presence? But who was the lady you defended?”
“Mlle. Valentine de la Verberie.”
“What!” cried the marquis, “what! the daughter of that old witch! Those accursed de la Verberies have always brought misfortune upon us.”
He certainly abominated the countess; but his respect for her noble blood was greater than his resentment toward her individually, and he added:
“Nevertheless, Gaston, you did your duty.”
Meanwhile, the curiosity of St. Jean, the marquis’s old valet, made him venture to open the door, and ask:
“Did M. the marquis ring?”
“No, you rascal,” answered M. de Clameran: “you know very well I did not. But, now you are here, be useful. Quickly bring some clothes for M. Gaston, some fresh linen, and some warm water: hasten and dress his wounds.”
These orders were promptly executed, and Gaston found he was not so badly hurt as he had thought. With the exception of a deep stab in his left shoulder, his wounds were not serious.
After receiving all the attentions which his condition required, Gaston felt like a new man, ready to brave any peril. His eyes sparkled with renewed energy and excitement.
The marquis made a sign to the servants to leave the room.
“Do you still think you ought to leave France?” he asked Gaston.
“Yes, father.”
“My brother ought not to hesitate,” interposed Louis: “he will be arrested here, thrown into prison, vilified in court, and--who knows?”
“We all know well enough that he will be convicted,” grumbled the old marquis. “These are the benefits of the immortal revolution, as it is called. Ah, in my day we three would have taken our swords, jumped on our horses, and, dashing into Tarascon, would soon have--. But those good old days are passed. To-day we have to run away.”
“There is no time to lose,” observed Louis.
“True,” said the marquis, “but to fly, to go abroad, one must have money; and I have none by me to give him.”
“Father!”
“No, I have none. Ah, what a prodigal old fool I have been! If I only had a hundred louis!”
Then he told Louis to open the secretary, and hand him the money-box.
The box contained only nine hundred and twenty francs in gold.
“Nine hundred and twenty francs,” cried the marquis: “it will never do for the eldest son of our house to fly the country with this paltry sum.”
He sat lost in reflection. Suddenly his brow cleared, and he told Louis to open a secret drawer in the secretary, and bring him a small casket.
Then the marquis took from his neck a black ribbon, to which was suspended the key of the casket.
His sons observed with what deep emotion he unlocked it, and slowly took out a necklace, a large cross, several rings, and other pieces of jewelry.
His countenance assumed a solemn expression.
“Gaston, my dear son,” he said, “at a time like this your life may depend upon bought assistance; money is power.”
“I am young, father, and have courage.”
“Listen to me. The jewels belonged to the marquise, your sainted mother, a noble, holy woman, who is now in heaven watching over us. These jewels have never left me. During my days of misery and want, when I was compelled to earn a livelihood by teaching music in London, I piously treasured them. I never thought of selling them; and to mortgage them, in the hour of direst need, would have seemed to be a sacrilege. But now you must take them, my son, and sell them for twenty thousand livres.”
“No, father no; I cannot take them!”
“You must, Gaston. If your mother were on earth, she would tell you to take them, as I do now. I command you to take and use them. The salvation, the honor, of the heir of the house of Clameran, must not be imperilled for want of a little gold.”
With tearful eyes, Gaston sank on his knees, and, carrying his father’s hand to his lips, said:
“Thanks, father, thanks! In my heedless, ungrateful presumption I have hitherto misjudged you. I did not know your noble character. Forgive me. I accept; yes, I accept these jewels worn by my dear mother; but I take them as a sacred deposit, confided to my honor, and for which I will some day account to you.”
In their emotion, the marquis and Gaston forgot the threatened danger. But Louis was not touched by the affecting scene.
“Time presses,” he said: “you had better hasten.”
“He is right,” cried the marquis: “go, Gaston, go, my son; and God protect the heir of the Clamerans!”
Gaston slowly got up and said, with an embarrassed air:
“Before leaving you, my father, I must fulfil a sacred duty. I have not told you everything. I love Valentine, the young girl whose honor I defended this evening.”
“Oh!” cried the marquis, thunderstruck, “oh, oh!”
“And I entreat you, father, to ask Mme. de la Verberie for the hand of her daughter. Valentine will gladly join me abroad, and share my exile.”
Gaston stopped, frightened at the effect of his words. The old marquis had become crimson, or rather purple, as if struck by apoplexy.
“Preposterous!” he gasped. “Impossible! Perfect folly!”
“I love her, father, and have promised her never to marry another.”
“Then always remain a bachelor.”
“I shall marry her!” cried Gaston, excitedly. “I shall marry her because I have sworn I would, and I will not be so base as to desert her.”
“Nonsense!”
“I tell you, Mlle. de la Verberie must and shall be my wife. It is too late for me to draw back. Even if I no longer loved her, I would still marry her, because she has given herself to me; because, can’t you understand--what was said at the cafe to-night was true: I have but one way of repairing the wrong I have done Valentine--by marrying her.”
Gaston’s confession, forced from him by circumstances, produced a very different impression from that which he had expected. The enraged marquis instantly became cool, and his mind seemed relieved of an immense weight. A wicked joy sparkled in his eyes, as he replied:
“Ah, ha! she yielded to your entreaties, did she? Jarnibleu! I am delighted. I congratulate you, Gaston: they say she is a pretty little fool.”
“Monsieur,” interrupted Gaston, indignantly; “I have told you that I love her, and have promised to marry her. You seem to forget.”
“Ta, ta ta!” cried the marquis, “your scruples are absurd. You know full well that her great-grandfather led our great-grandmother astray. Now we are quits! I am delighted at the retaliation, for the old witch’s sake.”
“I swear by the memory of my mother, that Valentine shall be my wife!”
“Do you dare assume that tone toward me?” cried the exasperated marquis. “Never, understand me clearly; never will I give my consent. You know how dear to me is the honor of our house. Well, I would rather see you tried for murder, and even chained to the galleys, than married to this worthless jade!”
This last word was too much for Gaston.
“Then your wish shall be gratified, monsieur. I will remain here, and be arrested. I care not what becomes of me! What is life to me without the hope of Valentine? Take back these jewels: they are useless now.”
A terrible scene would have taken place between the father and son, had they not been interrupted by a domestic who rushed into the room, and excitedly cried:
“The gendarmes! here are the gendarmes!”
At this news the old marquis started up, and seemed to forget his gout, which had yielded to more violent emotions.
“Gendarmes!” he cried, “in my house at Clameran! They shall pay dear for their insolence! You will help me, will you not, my men?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the servants. “Down with the gendarmes! down with them!”
Fortunately Louis, during all this excitement, preserved his presence of mind.
“To resist would be folly,” he said. “Even if we repulsed the gendarmes to-night, they would return to-morrow with reinforcements.”
“Louis is right,” said the marquis, bitterly. “Might is right, as they said in ‘93. The gendarmes are all powerful. Do they not even have the impertinence to come up to me while I am hunting, and ask to see my shooting-license?--I, a Clameran, show a license!”
“Where are they?” asked Louis of the servants.
“At the outer gate,” answered La Verdure, one of the grooms. “Does not monsieur hear the noise they are making with their sabres?”
“Then Gaston must escape over the garden wall.”
“It is guarded, monsieur,” said La Verdure, “and the little gate in the park besides. There seems to be a regiment of them. They are even stationed along the park walls.”
This was only too true. The rumor of Lazet’s death had spread like wildfire throughout the town of Tarascon, and everybody was in a state of excitement. Not only mounted gendarmes, but a platoon of hussars from the garrison, had been sent in pursuit of the murderer.
At least twenty young men of Tarascon were volunteer guides to the armed force.
“Then,” said the marquis, “we are surrounded?”
“Not a single chance for escape,” groaned St. Jean.
“We shall see about that, Jarnibleu!” cried the marquis. “Ah, we are not the strongest, but we can be the most adroit. Attention! Louis, my son, you and La Verdure go down to the stable, and mount the fastest horses; then as quietly as possible station yourselves, you, Louis, at the park gate, and you, La Verdure, at the outer gate. Upon the signal I shall give you by firing a pistol, let every door be instantly opened, while Louis and Verdure dash through the gates, and make the gendarmes pursue them.”
“I will make them fly,” said La Verdure.
“Listen. During this time, Gaston, aided by St. Jean, will scale the park wall, and hasten along the river to the cabin of Pilorel, the fisherman. He is an old sailor of the republic, and devoted to our house. He will take Gaston in his boat; and, when they are once on the Rhone, there is nothing to be feared save the wrath of God. Now go, all of you: fly!”
Left alone with his son, the old man slipped the jewelry into a silk purse, and, handing them once more to Gaston, said, as he stretched out his arms toward him:
“Come here, my son, and let me embrace you, and bestow my blessing.”
Gaston hesitated.
“Come,” insisted the old man in broken tones, “I must embrace you for the last time: I may never see you again. Save yourself, save your name, Gaston, and then--you know how I love you, my son: take back the jewels. Come.”
For an instant the father and son clung to each other, overpowered by emotion.
But the continued noise at the gates now reaches their ears.
“We must part!” said M. de Clameran, “go!” And, taking from his desk a little pair of pistols, he handed them to his son, and added, with averted eyes, “You must not be captured alive, Gaston!”
Gaston did not immediately descend to the park.
He yearned to see Valentine, and give her one last kiss before leaving France, and determined to persuade Pilorel to stop the boat as they went by the park of La Verberie.
He hastened to his room, placed the signal in the window so that Valentine might know he was coming, and waited for an answering light.
“Come, M. Gaston,” entreated old St. Jean, who could not understand the strange conduct. “For God’s sake make haste! your life is at stake!”
At last he came running down the stairs, and had just reached the vestibule when a pistol-shot, the signal given by the marquis, was heard.
The loud swinging open of the large gate, the rattling of the sabres of the gendarmes, the furious galloping of many horses, and a chorus of loud shouts and angry oaths, were next heard.
Leaning against the window, his brow beaded with cold perspiration, the Marquis de Clameran breathlessly awaited the issue of this expedient, upon which depended the life of his eldest son.
His measures were excellent, and deserved success. As he had ordered, Louis and La Verdure dashed out through the gate, one to the right, the other to the left, each one pursued by a dozen mounted men. Their horses flew like arrows, and kept far ahead of the pursuers.
Gaston would have been saved, but for the interference of fate; but was it fate, or was it malice?
Suddenly Louis’s horse stumbled, and fell to the ground with his rider. The gendarmes rode up, and at once recognized the second son of M. de Clameran.
“This is not the assassin!” they cried. “Let us hurry back, else he will escape!”
They returned just in time to see, by the uncertain light of the moon peeping from behind a cloud, Gaston climbing the garden wall.
“There is our man!” exclaimed the corporal. “Keep your eyes open, and gallop after him!”
They spurred their horses, and hastened to the spot where Gaston had jumped from the wall.
On a wooded piece of ground, even if it be hilly, an agile man, if he preserves his presence of mind, can escape a number of horsemen. The ground on this side of the park was favorable to Gaston. He found himself in an immense madder-field; and, as is well known, as this valuable root must remain in the ground three years, the furrows are necessarily ploughed very deep. Horses cannot even walk over its uneven surface; indeed, they can scarcely stand steadily upon it.
This circumstance brought the gendarmes to a dead halt.
Four rash hussars ventured in the field, but they and their beasts were soon rolling between hillocks.
Jumping from ridge to ridge, Gaston soon reached a large field, freshly ploughed, and planted with young chestnuts.
As his chances of escape increased, the excitement grew more intense. The pursuers urged each other on, and called out to head him off, every time they saw Gaston run from one clump of trees to another.
Being familiar with the country, young De Clameran was confident of eluding his pursuers. He knew that the next field was a thistle-field, and was separated from the chestnut by a long, deep ditch.
He resolved to jump into this ditch, run along the bottom, and climb out at the farther end, while they were looking for him among the trees.
But he had forgotten the swelling of the river. Upon reaching the ditch, he found it full of water.
Discouraged but not disconcerted, he was about to jump across, when three horsemen appeared on the opposite side.
They were gendarmes who had ridden around the madder-field and chestnut-trees, knowing they could easily catch him on the level ground of the thistle-field.
At the sight of these three men, Gaston stood perplexed.
He should certainly be captured if he attempted to run through the field, at the end of which he could see the cabin of Pilorel the ferryman.
To retrace his steps would be surrendering to the hussars.
At a little distance on his right was a forest, but he was separated from it by a road upon which he heard the sound of approaching horses. He would certainly be caught there.
Foes in front of him, foes behind him, foes on the right of him! What was on his left?
On his left was the surging, foaming river.
What hope was left? The circle of which he was the centre was fast narrowing.
Must he, then, fall back upon suicide? Here in an open field, tracked by police like a wild beast, must he blow his brains out? What a death for a De Clameran!
No! He would seize the one chance of salvation left him: a forlorn, desperate, perilous chance, but still a chance--the river.
Holding a pistol in either hand, he ran and leaped upon the edge of a little promontory, projecting three yards into the Rhone.
This cape of refuge was formed by the immense trunk of a fallen tree.
The tree swayed and cracked fearfully under Gaston’s weight, as he stood on the extreme end, and looked around upon his pursuers; there were fifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all uttering cries of joy.
“Do you surrender?” called out the corporal.
Gaston did not answer; he was weighing his chances. He was above the park of La Verberie; would he be able to swim there, granting that he was not swept away and drowned the instant he plunged into the angry torrent before him?
He pictured Valentine, at this very moment, watching, waiting, and praying for him on the other shore.
“For the last time I command you to surrender!” cried the corporal.
The unfortunate man did not hear; he was deafened by the waters which were roaring and rushing around him.
In a supreme moment like this, with his foot upon the threshold of another world, a man sees his past life rise before him, and seldom does he find cause for self-approval.
Although death stared him in the face, Gaston calmly considered which would be the best spot to plunge into, and commended his soul to God.
“He will stand there until we go after him,” said a gendarme: “so we might as well advance.”
Gaston had finished his prayer.
He flung his pistols in the direction of the gendarmes: he was ready.
He made the sign of the cross, then, with outstretched arms, dashed head foremost into the Rhone.
The violence of his spring detached the few remaining roots of the old tree; it oscillated a moment, whirled over, and then drifted away.
The spectators uttered a cry of horror and pity; anger seemed to have deserted them in their turn.
“That is an end of him,” muttered one of the gendarmes. “It is useless for one to fight against the Rhone; his body will be picked up at Arles to-morrow.”
The hussars seemed really remorseful at the tragic fate of the brave, handsome young man, whom a moment before they had pursued with so much bitter zeal. They admired his spirited resistance, his courage, and especially his resignation, his resolution to die.
True French soldiers, their sympathies were now all upon the side of the vanquished, and every man of them would have done all in his power to assist in saving the drowning man, and aiding his escape.
“An ugly piece of work!” grumbled the old quartermaster who had command of the hussars.
“Bast!” exclaimed the philosophic corporal, “the Rhone is no worse than the court of assizes: the result would be the same. Right about, men; march! The thing that troubles me is the idea of that poor old man waiting to hear his son’s fate. I would not be the one to tell him what has happened. March!”
