Kabanata Kabanata 30 · THE RETURNING CARRIAGE

. THE RETURNING CARRIAGE

M. de Kercadiou wrote a letter.

“Godson,” he began, without any softening adjective, “I have learnt

with pain and indignation that you have dishonoured yourself again by

breaking the pledge you gave me to abstain from politics. With still

greater pain and indignation do I learn that your name has become in a

few short days a byword, that you have discarded the weapon of false,

insidious arguments against my class--the class to which you owe

everything--for the sword of the assassin. It has come to my knowledge

that you have an assignation to-morrow with my good friend M. de La Tour

d’Azyr. A gentleman of his station is under certain obligations imposed

upon him by his birth, which do not permit him to draw back from an

engagement. But you labour under no such disadvantages. For a man of

your class to refuse an engagement of honour, or to neglect it when

made, entails no sacrifice. Your peers will probably be of the opinion

that you display a commendable prudence. Therefore I beg you, indeed,

did I think that I still exercise over you any such authority as the

favours you have received from me should entitle me to exercise, I would

command you, to allow this matter to go no farther, and to refrain from

rendering yourself to your assignation to-morrow morning. Having no such

authority, as your past conduct now makes clear, having no reason to

hope that a proper sentiment of gratitude to me will induce to give heed

to this my most earnest request, I am compelled to add that should you

survive to-morrow’s encounter, I can in no circumstances ever again

permit myself to be conscious of your existence. If any spark survives

of the affection that once you expressed for me, or if you set any value

upon the affection, which, in spite of all that you have done to forfeit

it, is the chief prompter of this letter, you will not refuse to do as I

am asking.”

It was not a tactful letter. M. de Kercadiou was not a tactful man. Read

it as he would, Andre-Louis--when it was delivered to him on that Sunday

afternoon by the groom dispatched with it into Paris--could read into it

only concern for M. La Tour d’Azyr, M. de Kercadiou’s good friend, as he

called him, and prospective nephew-in-law.

He kept the groom waiting a full hour while composing his answer.

Brief though it was, it cost him very considerable effort and several

unsuccessful attempts. In the end this is what he wrote:

Monsieur my godfather--You make refusal singularly hard for me when you

appeal to me upon the ground of affection. It is a thing of which all my

life I shall hail the opportunity to give you proofs, and I am therefore

desolated beyond anything I could hope to express that I cannot give you

the proof you ask to-day. There is too much between M. de La Tour d’Azyr

and me. Also you do me and my class--whatever it may be--less than justice

when you say that obligations of honour are not binding upon us. So

binding do I count them, that, if I would, I could not now draw back.

If hereafter you should persist in the harsh intention you express, I

must suffer it. That I shall suffer be assured.

Your affectionate and grateful godson

Andre-Louis

He dispatched that letter by M. de Kercadiou’s groom, and conceived this

to be the end of the matter. It cut him keenly; but he bore the wound

with that outward stoicism he affected.

Next morning, at a quarter past eight, as with Le Chapelier--who had come

to break his fast with him--he was rising from table to set out for

the Bois, his housekeeper startled him by announcing Mademoiselle de

Kercadiou.

He looked at his watch. Although his cabriolet was already at the door,

he had a few minutes to spare. He excused himself from Le Chapelier, and

went briskly out to the anteroom.

She advanced to meet him, her manner eager, almost feverish.

“I will not affect ignorance of why you have come,” he said quickly, to

make short work. “But time presses, and I warn you that only the most

solid of reasons can be worth stating.”

It surprised her. It amounted to a rebuff at the very outset, before she

had uttered a word; and that was the last thing she had expected from

Andre-Louis. Moreover, there was about him an air of aloofness that was

unusual where she was concerned, and his voice had been singularly cold

and formal.

It wounded her. She was not to guess the conclusion to which he had

leapt. He made with regard to her--as was but natural, after all--the

same mistake that he had made with regard to yesterday’s letter from his

godfather. He conceived that the mainspring of action here was solely

concern for M. de La Tour d’Azyr. That it might be concern for himself

never entered his mind. So absolute was his own conviction of what must

be the inevitable issue of that meeting that he could not conceive of

any one entertaining a fear on his behalf.

What he assumed to be anxiety on the score of the predestined victim

had irritated him in M. de Kercadiou; in Aline it filled him with a cold

anger; he argued from it that she had hardly been frank with him; that

ambition was urging her to consider with favour the suit of M. de La

Tour d’Azyr. And than this there was no spur that could have driven more

relentlessly in his purpose, since to save her was in his eyes almost as

momentous as to avenge the past.

She conned him searchingly, and the complete calm of him at such a time

amazed her. She could not repress the mention of it.

“How calm you are, Andre!”

“I am not easily disturbed. It is a vanity of mine.”

“But... Oh, Andre, this meeting must not take place!” She came close

up to him, to set her hands upon his shoulders, and stood so, her face

within a foot of his own.

“You know, of course, of some good reason why it should not?” said he.

“You may be killed,” she answered him, and her eyes dilated as she

spoke.

It was so far from anything that he had expected that for a moment he

could only stare at her. Then he thought he had understood. He laughed

as he removed her hands from his shoulders, and stepped back. This was a

shallow device, childish and unworthy in her.

“Can you really think to prevail by attempting to frighten me?” he

asked, and almost sneered.

“Oh, you are surely mad! M. de La Tour d’Azyr is reputed the most

dangerous sword in France.”

“Have you never noticed that most reputations are undeserved?

Chabrillane was a dangerous swordsman, and Chabrillane is underground.

La Motte-Royau was an even more dangerous swordsman, and he is in

a surgeon’s hands. So are the other spadassinicides who dreamt of

skewering a poor sheep of a provincial lawyer. And here to-day comes

the chief, the fine flower of these bully-swordsmen. He comes, for

wages long overdue. Be sure of that. So if you have no other reason to

urge...”

It was the sarcasm of him that mystified her. Could he possibly be

sincere in his assurance that he must prevail against M. de La Tour

d’Azyr? To her in her limited knowledge, her mind filled with her

uncle’s contrary conviction, it seemed that Andre-Louis was only acting;

he would act a part to the very end.

Be that as it might, she shifted her ground to answer him.

“You had my uncle’s letter?”

“And I answered it.”

“I know. But what he said, he will fulfil. Do not dream that he will

relent if you carry out this horrible purpose.”

“Come, now, that is a better reason than the other,” said he. “If there

is a reason in the world that could move me it would be that. But there

is too much between La Tour d’Azyr and me. There is an oath I swore on

the dead hand of Philippe de Vilmorin. I could never have hoped that God

would afford me so great an opportunity of keeping it.”

“You have not kept it yet,” she warned him.

He smiled at her. “True!” he said. “But nine o’clock will soon be here.

Tell me,” he asked her suddenly, “why did you not carry this request of

yours to M. de La Tour d’Azyr?”

“I did,” she answered him, and flushed as she remembered her yesterday’s

rejection. He interpreted the flush quite otherwise.

“And he?” he asked.

“M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s obligations...” she was beginning: then she

broke off to answer shortly: “Oh, he refused.”

“So, so. He must, of course, whatever it may have cost him. Yet in his

place I should have counted the cost as nothing. But men are different,

you see.” He sighed. “Also in your place, had that been so, I think I

should have left the matter there. But then...”

“I don’t understand you, Andre.”

“I am not so very obscure. Not nearly so obscure as I can be. Turn it

over in your mind. It may help to comfort you presently.” He consulted

his watch again. “Pray use this house as your own. I must be going.”

Le Chapelier put his head in at the door.

“Forgive the intrusion. But we shall be late, Andre, unless you...”

“Coming,” Andre answered him. “If you will await my return, Aline, you

will oblige me deeply. Particularly in view of your uncle’s resolve.”

She did not answer him. She was numbed. He took her silence for assent,

and, bowing, left her. Standing there she heard his steps going down the

stairs together with Le Chapelier’s. He was speaking to his friend, and

his voice was calm and normal.

Oh, he was mad--blinded by self-confidence and vanity. As his carriage

rattled away, she sat down limply, with a sense of exhaustion and

nausea. She was sick and faint with horror. Andre-Louis was going to his

death. Conviction of it--an unreasoning conviction, the result, perhaps,

of all M. de Kercadiou’s rantings--entered her soul. Awhile she sat thus,

paralyzed by hopelessness. Then she sprang up again, wringing her hands.

She must do something to avert this horror. But what could she do? To

follow him to the Bois and intervene there would be to make a scandal

for no purpose. The conventions of conduct were all against her,

offering a barrier that was not to be overstepped. Was there no one

could help her?

Standing there, half-frenzied by her helplessness, she caught again

a sound of vehicles and hooves on the cobbles of the street below.

A carriage was approaching. It drew up with a clatter before the

fencing-academy. Could it be Andre-Louis returning? Passionately she

snatched at that straw of hope. Knocking, loud and urgent, fell upon the

door. She heard Andre-Louis’ housekeeper, her wooden shoes clanking upon

the stairs, hurrying down to open.

She sped to the door of the anteroom, and pulling it wide stood

breathlessly to listen. But the voice that floated up to her was not the

voice she so desperately hoped to hear. It was a woman’s voice asking in

urgent tones for M. Andre-Louis--a voice at first vaguely familiar, then

clearly recognized, the voice of Mme. de Plougastel.

Excited, she ran to the head of the narrow staircase in time to hear

Mme. de Plougastel exclaim in agitation:

“He has gone already! Oh, but how long since? Which way did he take?”

It was enough to inform Aline that Mme. de Plougastel’s errand must be

akin to her own. At the moment, in the general distress and confusion

of her mind, her mental vision focussed entirely on the one vital

point, she found in this no matter for astonishment. The singular regard

conceived by Mme. de Plougastel for Andre-Louis seemed to her then a

sufficient explanation.

Without pausing to consider, she ran down that steep staircase, calling:

“Madame! Madame!”

The portly, comely housekeeper drew aside, and the two ladies faced each

other on that threshold. Mme. de Plougastel looked white and haggard, a

nameless dread staring from her eyes.

“Aline! You here!” she exclaimed. And then in the urgency sweeping aside

all minor considerations, “Were you also too late?” she asked.

“No, madame. I saw him. I implored him. But he would not listen.”

“Oh, this is horrible!” Mme. de Plougastel shuddered as she spoke. “I

heard of it only half an hour ago, and I came at once, to prevent it at

all costs.”

The two women looked blankly, despairingly, at each other. In the

sunshine-flooded street one or two shabby idlers were pausing to eye

the handsome equipage with its magnificent bay horses, and the two great

ladies on the doorstep of the fencing-academy. From across the way came

the raucous voice of an itinerant bellows-mender raised in the cry of

his trade:

“A raccommoder les vieux soufflets!”

Madame swung to the housekeeper.

“How long is it since monsieur left?”

“Ten minutes, maybe; hardly more.” Conceiving these great ladies to

be friends of her invincible master’s latest victim, the good woman

preserved a decently stolid exterior.

Madame wrung her hands. “Ten minutes! Oh!” It was almost a moan. “Which

way did he go?”

“The assignation is for nine o’clock in the Bois de Boulogne,” Aline

informed her. “Could we follow? Could we prevail if we did?”

“Ah, my God! The question is should we come in time? At nine o’clock!

And it wants but little more than a quarter of an hour. Mon Dieu! Mon

Dieu!” Madame clasped and unclasped her hands in anguish. “Do you know,

at least, where in the Bois they are to meet?”

“No--only that it is in the Bois.”

“In the Bois!” Madame was flung into a frenzy. “The Bois is nearly half

as large as Paris.” But she swept breathlessly on, “Come, Aline: get in,

get in!”

Then to her coachman. “To the Bois de Boulogne by way of the Cours la

Reine,” she commanded, “as fast as you can drive. There are ten pistoles

for you if we are in time. Whip up, man!”

She thrust Aline into the carriage, and sprang after her with the

energy of a girl. The heavy vehicle--too heavy by far for this race with

time--was moving before she had taken her seat. Rocking and lurching

it went, earning the maledictions of more than one pedestrian whom it

narrowly avoided crushing against a wall or trampling underfoot.

Madame sat back with closed eyes and trembling lips. Her face showed

very white and drawn. Aline watched her in silence. Almost it seemed to

her that Mme. de Plougastel was suffering as deeply as herself, enduring

an anguish of apprehension as great as her own.

Later Aline was to wonder at this. But at the moment all the thought of

which her half-numbed mind was capable was bestowed upon their desperate

errand.

The carriage rolled across the Place Louis XV and out on to the Cours

la Reine at last. Along that beautiful, tree-bordered avenue between the

Champs Elysees and the Seine, almost empty at this hour of the day, they

made better speed, leaving now a cloud of dust behind them.

But fast to danger-point as was the speed, to the women in that carriage

it was too slow. As they reached the barrier at the end of the Cours,

nine o’clock was striking in the city behind them, and every stroke of

it seemed to sound a note of doom.

Yet here at the barrier the regulations compelled a momentary halt.

Aline enquired of the sergeant-in-charge how long it was since a

cabriolet such as she described had gone that way. She was answered that

some twenty minutes ago a vehicle had passed the barrier containing the

deputy M. le Chapelier and the Paladin of the Third Estate, M. Moreau.

The sergeant was very well informed. He could make a shrewd guess, he

said, with a grin, of the business that took M. Moreau that way so early

in the day.

They left him, to speed on now through the open country, following the

road that continued to hug the river. They sat back mutely despairing,

staring hopelessly ahead, Aline’s hand clasped tight in madame’s. In the

distance, across the meadows on their right, they could see already the

long, dusky line of trees of the Bois, and presently the carriage swung

aside following a branch of the road that turned to the right, away from

the river and heading straight for the forest.

Mademoiselle broke at last the silence of hopelessness that had reigned

between them since they had passed the barrier.

“Oh, it is impossible that we should come in time! Impossible!”

“Don’t say it! Don’t say it!” madame cried out.

“But it is long past nine, madame! Andre would be punctual, and these...

affairs do not take long. It... it will be all over by now.”

Madame shivered, and closed her eyes. Presently, however, she opened

them again, and stirred. Then she put her head from the window. “A

carriage is approaching,” she announced, and her tone conveyed the thing

she feared.

“Not already! Oh, not already!” Thus Aline expressed the silently

communicated thought. She experienced a difficulty in breathing, felt

the sudden need of air. Something in her throat was throbbing as if it

would suffocate her; a mist came and went before her eyes.

In a cloud of dust an open caleche was speeding towards them, coming

from the Bois. They watched it, both pale, neither venturing to speak,

Aline, indeed, without breath to do so.

As it approached, it slowed down, perforce, as they did, to effect a

safe passage in that narrow road. Aline was at the window with Mme. de

Plougastel, and with fearful eyes both looked into this open carriage

that was drawing abreast of them.

“Which of them is it, madame? Oh, which of them?” gasped Aline, scarce

daring to look, her senses swimming.

On the near side sat a swarthy young gentleman unknown to either of the

ladies. He was smiling as he spoke to his companion. A moment later and

the man sitting beyond came into view. He was not smiling. His face was

white and set, and it was the face of the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.

For a long moment, in speechless horror, both women stared at him,

until, perceiving them, blankest surprise invaded his stern face.

In that moment, with a long shuddering sigh Aline sank swooning to the

carriage floor behind Mme. de Plougastel.