The curé rushed away in search of the baron. He knew that he was to be found somewhere on the farm. When, after some search and inquiry he came upon him, he read him a lecture, and told him exactly what he knew and what he had done.
‘Mon ami, you have not treated your little wife rightly. Now you must act as I advise, and prevent a great catastrophe. On Tuesday you leave Nantes in the Petrel with your wife and child and two servants—the coachman and his wife.’
‘But why the coachman? My mother will want the carriage.’
‘Let her want it. It will do her good to feel what she loses by losing her daughter-in-law.’
‘But how long is this visit to England to last?’
‘Six months, nine months, a twelvemonth—I cannot tell, till your wife wants to return, and till madame your mother has learned how to treat her when she does return. Leave the dowager and your aunt to me. I know what medicine they require.’
‘The farm! This is a busy time. I cannot leave it.’
‘It must be left. Either the farm or your wife and child—which do you value most?’
So it was settled, and much to Jacquetta’s surprise and humiliation she found that she was taking the journey home in company with her husband, which she had meditated taking without him. He did not allow her to suppose that he had any suspicion of her intended flight. The scheme was his own, a planned surprise, only to be disclosed to her at the last moment. Had he not offered to take her home to her parents at Easter? Had not the arrival of the ‘petit bon komme’ interfered with this? Now what more right and reasonable than that the deferred visit should be made? True, Mr and Mrs Fairbrother had not been informed as yet, but there was time. They would get a letter before the Petrel arrived, and it would give them a great surprise and unbounded pleasure. Jacquetta was touched and humbled. She had doubted her husband’s affection. She knew that this expedition cost him something. It drew him away from his favourite pursuits.
‘My dear Alphonse, what about the farm?’
‘Ah, bah! farm! What is a farm to wife and child.’
‘But why do we go by sea from Nantes instead of by coach to St. Malo?’
‘It will be better for baby, and your cheeks are pale, the sea air will restore your health.’
‘I am afraid, Alphonse, you will miss your occupation on the estate and farm.’
‘But I shall have to cultivate my wife’s society, and that will be better.’
A day or two after the departure of her son and daughter-in-law and grandchild, the old baroness said to her sister sharply, ‘Mon Dieu, Celestine, how silent you are. Why do you not talk? We might be in a city of the dead, one hears no sound in the house.’
‘I do not know what to speak about now, Josephine.’
‘You are becoming insupportable. It is two days since they went away, and instead of enlivening me you make me more triste.’
‘I cannot help myself, sister, the air of the chateau is becoming triste.’
‘I wonder how the baby is?’
‘I have been unable to sleep. I have been in terror all night lest a storm should break. My faith! I wonder whether the baby will be sea-sick?’
‘All babies are sea-sick, everywhere, on the solid land. I think nothing of that.’
‘After all,’ said Mdlle. de Pleurans, ‘we are rid for a while of Jacquetta.’
‘Yes—but—we have lost the baby.’
‘I wish we had never seen Jacquetta.’
The baroness did not answer for a while; she was thinking. Presently she said, argumentatively, ‘That may be, but without her we should not have had Joseph Marie Celeste Victor.’
‘But—my sister! If Alphonse had taken someone else—it is conceivable—there might have still been a baby.’
‘It is possible,’ answered the baroness. She considered for a while and then said, ‘But not such a baby!’
‘Sainte Vierge! Why not?’
‘Why not?—Celestine, I blush for you. This is an incomparable baby.’
‘Yes, Josephine, I allow that. But why not an equally incomparable baby.
‘Another! Then this would be non-existent! Celestine, in mind you assassinate this pearl, this angel, this—Celestine, I look upon you with horror.’
’But why, my sister?’
‘Why?—another baby not only could not have surpassed this perfection, but—it is conceivable, might have been a girl.’
‘I had not thought of that, Josephine.’
‘Besides, the Montcontours are all of a delicate constitution, and they do not inherit robustness from our side. The little man had the constitution of a Jean Bull—though he has the soul of a Frenchman. Have you heard him roar? It is the roar of a lion. I never heard a little Montcontour, nor a de Pleurans, nor a Puygarreau, nor any babe of our ancient nobility roar like Joseph Marie. Veritably it shook the house; the foundations quaked. Those must be lungs which could roar like that! Lungs! they are forge bellows. We must give Jacquetta her due, she has given us a constitution in our baby, and she has considered my wishes in giving me a boy.’
‘The time passes heavily without him.’
‘Yes, Celestine. Now is the hour when he should be washed, and we are not there to assist!’ The tears came into the old lady’s eyes, and Mdlle. de Pleurans began to sniffle.
‘I hope they will write as soon as they arrive,’ said the aunt. ‘Perhaps they may send a letter back in mid-ocean by a passing vessel.’
‘If Alphonse writes, I know his letter will be full of inquiries concerning the farm, and the cows, and the crops—he will say baby is well, but there will be no details, and it is the details which are so fascinating.’
‘Yes,’ said Aunt Celestine, ‘it would be more interesting to us if Jacquetta wrote four pages crossed, and all about the baby, how he eats and sleeps and looks, and what the English nation think of him. When will he cut his first teeth?’
‘I do not know; that depends. It is two days since they left. Mon Dieu, it is an age.’
‘And we do not know when they return!’
‘It is terrible! Celestine, we will have the carriage and drive to the Puygarreaus and talk there of the baby. You are so dull.’
Orders were given for the carriage, and the old ladies went to their rooms to dress.
When they descended and came to the door, they simultaneously uttered a cry of dismay. Jean, the factotum, was on the box of the old family yellow carriage, in his old faded livery, with his brown hands ungloved, his leather hat on his head, holding the reins awkwardly. The carriage looked vastly worse than it had ever looked before, the sides dull, the varnish not only dead but cracked, the leather without a sign of gloss, and full of roughnesses at every crease. The old horse that ploughed was in the wretched harness, ready to dance along the road as of old, throwing out his legs sideways, as though performing on a tightrope. Now he stood pensive with his nose towards the gravel. The creamy white hair hung about his fetlocks unclipped, his hoofs were stained with stable manure, unwashed, the mane was very thick and tangled.
‘Jean! What is the meaning of this? Tell the coachman——’
‘But, madame, the coachman is gone to England with M. le Baron.’
‘Then, Jean, bring round the proper carriage and horses.’
‘Madame, the shoes have been taken off the English horses, and they have been turned out to grass.’
‘Very well, take this old carriage away, and bring the new one. Harness Coquillicot into it.’
‘Certainly, madame, but we have only this single harness. The other, the splendid, the silver, is double harness.’
‘Do not argue with me. Obey, Jean.’
Accordingly Jean drove into the backyard. The dowager was hot and fuming. ‘How unreasonable of Alphonse! How could he be so thoughtless? He might know we would require the carriage.’
Presently they heard the sound of wheels, and went again to the door. Coquillicot was harnessed into the victoria, and Jean sat on the box. Coquillicot was in his old dingy harness, mended in many places. The contrast was too grotesque between the stylish English carriage and the shabby driver and harness, and horse from the plough.
‘This will never do,’ said the baroness. ‘Every one will jeer as we pass through Nantes. I had no idea how mean Coquillicot was. He is unfit to be put in this victoria. I had no conception the harness was in such a condition. Drive back, Jean, and reharness Coquillicot into the old family coach. We will say, Celestine, that the new carriage has gone to be re-painted and re-varnished, and we are constrained to put up with this for a few weeks.’
For a third time Jean came round, this time as he had driven to the door at first.
‘Jean,’ said the baroness in a sulky tone, ‘where are your white gloves? ’
‘In my pocket, Mme. la Baronne. I will put them on as I drive through the town.’
‘Put them on at once, and do not take them off till you return.’
‘As you will, Mme. la Baronne; but—the economies?’
‘Never mind the economies. Do as you are bid.’
The ladies got into the carriage, and Coquillicot danced along the road with them.
‘The motion in this equipage,’ said the dowager, ‘strikes me as—as bouncing. I never remarked it before. I do not feel well. I think it will give me sea-sickness.’
‘Oh, Josephine, think of baby on the ocean, tossed on the waves. The feeling is alike in this conveyance and in the boat. Be it so. I also am unwell. We are—are like baby at this moment. It is very touching! It is poetical.’
‘Jean! Drive round by the presbytery. We will summon the curé to sup with us. We must have society. There is a stillness as of death in the house, which makes black thoughts and horrors come into the mind.’
Accordingly the curé was invited to supper. The baroness said on her return, ‘Go to the cook, Celestine, and tell her to give us something good. If we cannot have the baby, we must have to eat, and stifle our sorrow, and fill the void as we may. Fricandeau de veau aux truffles. It is the time of larks—anges à cheval.’
Presently Mdlle. de Pleurans came back in agitation. ‘My sister—the cook has gone. The baron dismissed her with a month’s wage, and old Germaine is back—and her cooking, as you remember, is detestable. What is to be done?’
‘What was Alphonse thinking of? One must eat. One cannot devour leather. If he had a good cuisine whilst his wife was here, why not now that his mother is in the place?’
‘Germaine tells me there is a letter addressed to you on Alphonse’s table.’
‘I have not been into his room since he left. I have only visited the spot where the cradle stood, and wept there. Run, Celestine, run and bring me the letter.’
Mdlle. de Pleurans returned turning the envelope about. It was addressed to the baroness. She tore it open and read—
‘My dearest Mother,—You know that I adore you—only second to my wife, who occupies the first place in my
heart. Always having your wishes and interests near my
heart, mamma, I believe that I have acted as you would
have desired. I know and deplore the fatal estrangement
that exists between you and my beloved, angelic Jacquetta.
But—it exists. You view her with an eye devoid of tenderness. Knowing this, and reading your inmost soul, I
have taken provision that everything shall be carried on in
the chateau during our absence, as if Jacquetta had never been. With your tender sense of honour you would shrink
from using anything that was supported out of her means.
I am therefore only saying what you say a thousand times
to your own self—Perish all the comforts, the luxuries,
rather than that I should be indebted to Jacquetta for
them! If you had spoken the words, mamma, I could not
have understood you better. I have therefore dismissed
all the servants who were engaged on my marriage and received wages out of Jacquetta’s purse, all but those we have
taken with u. You have Jean, who is a host in himself,
who is butler, gardener and coachman, and bailiff to the
estate. You have Germaine, who has been with you more
years than I have. You will order everything with the
greatest economy, as far as our means derived from the
Montcontour estate will go, not one sou of Jacquetta’s is
available for the purpose. I know that the money would
burn your fingers—those fingers which I kiss passionately,
and which I would spare the agony and the humiliation
of touching money which they would regard as dishonouring
to receive and to spend. Our residence in England may
be long. Jacquetta is desirous of her son being trained as
an English boy, and of his going to Eton, which is a famous
school frequented by the sons of the nobility.’
The baroness uttered a cry, and fainted.
When she came round she gasped: ‘I shall never see Joseph Marie Celeste Victor again! I shall die of ennui.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked the curé coming in.
‘Matter, monsieur! Read this letter.’
The curé read the epistle, then waved his arms, and paced the room. ‘It is just! He has echoed your thoughts. Ah, madarne, come! Away with all this splendid furniture. Let us tear down the damask curtains, and put up the shabby old green rags instead. Roll up the carpets. Call in Jean and Germaine and all hands available. We will remove everything—to the glass ball on the terrace. Down with these lustres, and mirrors, and paintings. Everything shall be transported to the attic, and stowed away till Mme. la Baronne returns to use them when the young baron is of age.’
‘But,’ M. le Curé,’ protested Aunt Celestine, ‘you do not mean this? Every room will look bare. The old furniture is worn out. The chairs are too high for comfort. There was not a fauteuil in the house that had not the springs out of order, and when you sat in one it was like sitting on a set of inverted pattens.’
‘I know it,’ said the priest. ‘But honour is above all. You will not wear out the furniture of the woman you despise and insult. You will not eat off the pretty porcelain given her as her wedding present by English friends. You will banish to the attic everything that she brought into the house, everything that reminds you of her. Hold! I will come here to-morrow. I will take off my cassock, and help, and by evening we shall have gutted the house, and—how elate you will be, Mme. la Baronne, and you also Mdlle. de Pleurans.’
‘Supper is served,’ announced Jean.
‘Bring the Médoc for M. le Curé, and the Burgundy for me and my sister. Burgundy is fortifying,’ added the baroness.
‘Madame,’ answered Jean, ‘I regret, but M. le Baron has taken away the keys of the cellar, and nothing is left but vin ordinaire, which was here before Mme. the young Baroness came.’
‘Mon Dieu! I want fortifying.’
‘Fortify yourself, madame,’ said the curé, ‘with the heroic thought that you are doing without your daughter-in-law.’