Had a cannon-ball struck the two lovers in the midst of their ecstasy it would have been less cruel than the sensation caused by this horrible noise. Clemence trembled and fell back in her chair, frozen with horror. Gerfaut rose, almost as frightened as she; Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, aroused from her sleep, sat up in her chair as suddenly as a Jack-in-a-box that jumps in one’s face when a spring is touched. As to Constance, she darted under her mistress’s chair, uttering the most piteous howls.
One of the folding-doors opposite the window opened; the bell of a hunting-horn appeared in the opening, blown at full blast and waking the echoes in the drawing-room. The curtain of the drama had risen upon a parody, a second incident had changed the pantomime and sentiments of the performers. The old lady fell back in her chair and stopped up her ears with her fingers, as she stamped upon the floor; but it was in vain for her to try to speak, her words were drowned by the racket made by this terrible instrument. Clemence also stopped her ears. After running in her terror, under every chair in the room, Constance, half wild, darted, in a fit of despair, through the partly opened door. Gerfaut finally began to laugh heartily as if he thought it all great fun, for M. de Bergenheim’s purple face took the place of the trumpet and his hearty laugh rang out almost as noisily.
“Ah! ha! you did not expect that kind of accompaniment,” said the Baron, when his gayety had calmed a little; “this is the article that you were obliged to write for the Revue de Paris, is it? Do you think that I am going to leave you to sing Italian duets with Madame while I am scouring the woods? You must take me for a very careless husband, Vicomte. Now, then, right about face! March! Do me the kindness to take a gun. We are going to shoot a few hares in the Corne woods before supper.”
“Monsieur de Bergenheim,” exclaimed the old lady, when her emotion would allow her to speak, “this is indecorous—vulgar—the conduct of a common soldier—of a cannibal! My head is split open; I am sure to have an awful neuralgia in a quarter of an hour. It is the conduct of a herdsman.”
“Do not think of your neuralgia, my dear aunt,” replied Christian, whose good-humor seemed aroused by the day’s sport; “you are as fresh as a rosebud—and Constance shall have some hares’ heads roasted for her supper.”
At this moment a second uproar was heard in the courtyard; a horn was evidently being played by an amateur, accompanied by the confused yelps and barks of a numerous pack of hounds; the whole was mingled with shouts of laughter, the cracking of whips, and clamors of all kinds. In the midst of this racket, a cry, more piercing than the others, rang out, a cry of agony and despair.
“Constance!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, in a falsetto voice full of terror; she rushed to one of the windows and all followed her.
The spectacle in the courtyard was as noisy as it was picturesque. Marillac, seated upon a bench, was blowing upon a trumpet, trying to play the waltz from Robert-le-Diable in a true infernal manner. At his feet were seven or eight hunters and as many servants encouraging him by their shouts. The Baron’s pack of hounds, of great renown in the country, was composed of about forty dogs, all branded upon their right thighs with the Bergenheim coat-of-arms. From time immemorial, the chateau’s dogs had been branded thus with their master’s crest, and Christian, who was a great stickler for old customs, had taken care not to drop this one. This feudal sign had probably acted upon the morals of the pack, for it was impossible to find, within twenty leagues, a collection of more snarly terriers, dissolute hounds, ugly bloodhounds, or more quarrelsome greyhounds. They were perfect hunters, but it seemed as if, on account of their being dogs of quality, all vices were permitted them.
In the midst of this horde, without respect for law or order, the unfortunate Constance had found herself after crossing the ante-chamber, vestibule, and outside steps, still pursued by the sounds from Christian’s huge horn. An honest merchant surprised at the turn of the road by a band of robbers would not have been greeted any better than the poodle was at the moment she darted into the yard. It may have been that the quarrel between the Bergenheims and Corandeuils had reached the canine species; it may have been at the instigation of the footmen, who all cordially detested the beast—the sad fact remains that she was pounced upon in a moment as if she were a deer, snatched, turned topsy-turvy, rolled, kicked about, and bitten by the forty four-legged brigands, who each seemed determined to carry away as a trophy some portion of her cafe-au-lait colored blanket.
The person who took the most delight in this deplorable spectacle was Pere Rousselet. He actually clapped his hands together behind his back, spread his legs apart in the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, while his coat-skirts almost touched the ground, giving him the look of a kangaroo resting his paws under his tail. From his large cockatoo mouth escaped provoking hisses, which encouraged the assassins in their crime as much as did Marillac’s racket.
“Constance!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil a second time, frozen with horror at the sight of her poodle lying upon its back among its enemies.
This call produced no effect upon the animal section of the actors in this scene, but it caused a sudden change among the servants and a few of the hunters; the shouts of encouragement ceased at once; several of the participants prudently tried to efface themselves; as to Rousselet, more politic than the others, he boldly darted into the melee and picked up the fainting puppy in his arms, carrying her as tenderly as a mother would an infant, without troubling himself whether or not he was leaving part of his coat-tails with the savage hounds.
When the old lady saw the object of her love placed at her feet covered with mud, sprinkled with blood, and uttering stifled groans, which she took for the death-rattle, she fell back in her chair speechless.
“Let us go,” said Bergenheim in a low voice, taking his guest by the arm. Gerfaut threw a glance around him and sought Clemence’s eyes, but he did not find them. Without troubling herself as to her aunt’s despair, Clemence had hurried to her room; for she felt the necessity of solitude in order to calm her emotions, or perhaps to live them over a second time. Octave resigned himself to following his companion. At the end of a few moments, the barking of the dogs, the joking of the hunters, even the wind in the trees and the rustling leaves, had bored Octave to such an extent that, in spite of himself, his face betrayed him.
“What a doleful face you have!” exclaimed his host, laughingly. “I am sorry that I took you away from Madame de Bergenheim; it seems that you decidedly prefer her society to ours.”
“Would you be very jealous if I were to admit the fact?” replied Octave, making an effort to assume the same laughing tone as the Baron.
“Jealous! No, upon my honor! However, you are well constituted to give umbrage to a poor husband.
“But jealousy is not one of my traits of character, nor among my principles.”
“You are philosophical!” said the lover, with a forced smile.
“My philosophy is very simple. I respect my wife too much to suspect her, and I love her too much to annoy her in advance with an imaginary trouble. If this trouble should come, and I were sure of it, it would be time enough to worry myself about it. Besides, it would be an affair soon settled.”
“What affair?” asked Marillac, slackening his pace in order to join in the conversation.
“A foolish affair, my friend, which does not concern you, Monsieur de Gerfaut, nor myself any longer, I hope; although I belong to the class exposed to danger. We were speaking of conjugal troubles.”
The artist threw a glance at his friend which signified: “What the deuce made you take it into your head to start up this hare?”
“There are many things to be said on this subject,” said he, in a sententious tone, thinking that his intervention might be useful in getting his friend out of the awkward position in which he found himself, “an infinite number of things may be said; books without number have been written upon this subject. Every one has his own system and plan of conduct as to the way of looking at and acting upon it.”
“And what would be yours, you consummate villain?” asked Christian; “would you be as cruel a husband as you are an immoral bachelor? That usually happens; the bolder a poacher one has been, the more intractable a gamekeeper one becomes. What would be your system?”
“Hum! hum! you are mistaken, Bergenheim; my boyish love adventures have disposed me to indulgence. ‘Debilis caro’, you know! Shakespeare has translated it, ‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’”
“I am a little rusty in my; Latin and I never knew a word of English. What does that mean?”
“Upon my word, it means, if I were married and my wife deceived me, I should resign myself to it like a gentleman, considering the fragility of this enchanting sex.”
“Mere boy’s talk, my friend! And you, Gerfaut?”
“I must admit,” replied the latter, a little embarrassed, “that I have never given the subject very much thought. However, I believe in the virtue of women.”
“That is all very well, but in case of misfortune what would you do?”
“I think I should say with Lanoue: ‘Sensation is for the fop, complaints for the fool, an honest man who is deceived goes away and says nothing.’”
“I partly agree with Lanoue; only I should make a little variation—instead of goes away should say avenges himself.”
Marillac threw at his friend a second glance full of meaning.
“Per Bacco!” said he, “are you a Venetian or a Castilian husband?”
“Eh!” replied Bergenheim, “I suppose that without being either, I should kill my wife, the other man, and then myself, without even crying, ‘Beware!’ Here! Brichou! pay attention; Tambeau is separated from the rest.”
As he said these words the Baron leaped over a broad ditch, which divided the road from the clearing which the hunters had already entered.
“What do you say to that?” murmured the artist, in a rather dramatic tone, in his friend’s ear.
Instead of replying, the lover made a gesture which signified, according to all appearance: “I do not care.”
The clearing they must cross in order to reach the woods formed a large, square field upon an inclined plane which sloped to the river side. Just as Marillac in his turn was jumping the ditch, his friend saw, at the extremity of the clearing, Madame de Bergenheim walking slowly in the avenue of sycamores. A moment later, she had disappeared behind a mass of trees without the other men noticing her.
“Take care that you do not slip,” said the artist, “the ground is wet.”
This warning brought misfortune to Gerfaut, who in jumping caught his foot in the root of a tree and fell.
“Are you hurt?” asked Bergenheim.
Octave arose and tried to walk, but was obliged to lean upon his gun.
“I think I have twisted my foot,” said he, and he carried his hand to it as if he felt a sharp pain there.
“The devil! it may be a sprain,” observed the Baron, coming toward them; “sit down. Do you think you will be able to walk?”
“Yes, but I fear hunting would be too much for me; I will return to the house.”
“Do you wish us to make a litter and carry you?”
“You are laughing at me; it’s not so bad as that. I will walk back slowly, and will take a foot-bath in my room.”
“Lean upon me, then, and I will help you,” said the artist, offering his arm.
“Thanks; I do not need you,” Octave replied; “go to the devil!” he continued, in an expressive aside.
“Capisco!” Marillac replied, in the same tone, giving his arm an expressive pressure. “Excuse me,” said he aloud, “I am not willing that you should go alone. I will be your Antigone—
Antigone me reste, Antigone est and fille.
“Bergenheim, I will take charge of him. Go on with your hunting, the gentlemen are waiting for you. We will meet again at supper; around the table; legs are articles of luxury and sprains a delusion, provided that the throat and stomach are properly treated.”
The Baron looked first at his guests, then at the group that had just reached the top of the clearing. For an instant Christian charity struggled against love of hunting, then the latter triumphed. As he saw that Octave, although limping slightly, was already in a condition to walk, especially with the aid of his friend’s arm, he said:
“Do not forget to put your foot in water, and send for Rousselet; he understands all about sprains.”
This advice having eased his conscience, he joined his companions, while the two friends slowly took the road back to the chateau, Octave resting one hand upon the artist’s arm and the other upon his gun.
“The bourgeois is outwitted!” said Marillac with a stifled laugh, as soon as he was sure that Bergenheim could not hear him. “Upon my word, these soldiers have a primitive, baptismal candor! It is not so with us artists; they could not bamboozle us in this way. Your strain is an old story; it is taken from the ‘Mariage de raison’, first act, second scene.”
“You will do me the favor to leave me as soon as we reach the woods,” said Gerfaut, as he continued to limp with a grace which would have made Lord Byron envious; “you may go straight ahead, or you may turn to the left, as you choose; the right is forbidden you.”
“Very well. Hearts are trumps, it seems, and, for the time being, you agree with Sganarelle, who places the heart on the right side.”
“Do not return to the chateau, as it is understood that we are together. If you rejoin the hunting-party, say to Bergenheim that you left me seated at the foot of a tree and that the pain in my foot had almost entirely gone. You would have done better not to accompany me, as I tried to make you understand.”
“I had reasons of my own for wishing to get out of Christian’s crowd. To-day is Monday, and I have an appointment at four o’clock which interests you more than me. Now, will you listen to a little advice?”
“Listen, yes; follow it, not so sure.”
“O race of lovers!” exclaimed the artist, in a sort of transport, “foolish, absurd, wicked, impious, and sacrilegious kind!”
“What of it?”
“What of it? I tell you this will all end with swords for two.”
“Bah!”
“Do you know that this rabid Bergenheim, with his round face and good-natured smile, killed three or four men while he was in the service, on account of a game of billiards or some such trivial matter?”
“Requiescat in pace.”
“Take care that he does not cause the ‘De Profundis’ to be sung for you. He was called the best swords man at Saint-Cyr: he has the devil of a lunge. As to pistol-shooting, I have seen him break nine plaster images at Lepage’s one after another.”
“Very well, if I have an engagement with him, we will fight it out with arsenic.”
“By Jove, joking is out of place. I tell you that he is sure to discover something, and then your business will soon be settled; he will kill you as if you were one of the hares he is hunting this moment.”
“You might find a less humiliating comparison for me,” replied Gerfaut, with an indifferent smile; “however, you exaggerate. I have always noticed that these bullies with mysterious threats of their own and these slaughterers of plaster images were not such very dangerous fellows to meet. This is not disputing Bergenheim’s bravery, for I believe it to be solid and genuine.”
“I tell you, he is a regular lion! After all, you will admit that it is sheer folly to come and attack him in his cage and pull his whiskers through the bars. And that is what you are doing. To be in love with his wife and pay court to her in Paris, when he is a hundred leagues from you, is all very well, but to install yourself in his house, within reach of his clutches! that is not love, it is sheer madness. This is nothing to laugh at. I am sure that this will end in some horrible tragedy. You heard him speak of killing his wife and her lover just now, as if it were a very slight matter. Very well; I know him; he will do as he says without flinching. These ruddy-faced people are very devils, if you meddle with their family affairs! He is capable of murdering you in some corner of his park, and of burying you at the foot of some tree and then of forcing Madame de Bergenheim to eat your heart fricasseed in champagne, as they say Raoul de Coucy did.”
“You will admit, at least, that it would be a very charming repast, and that there would be nothing bourgeois about it.”
“Certainly, I boast of detesting the bourgeois; I am celebrated for that; but I should much prefer to die in a worsted nightcap, flannel underwear, and cotton night-shirt, than to have Bergenheim assist me, too brusquely, in this little operation. He is such an out-and-out Goliath! Just look at him!”
And the artist forced his friend to turn about, and pointed at Christian, who stood with the other hunters upon the brow of the hill, a few steps from the spot where they had left him. The Baron was indeed a worthy representative of the feudal ages, when physical strength was the only incontestable superiority. In spite of the distance, they could hear his clear, ringing voice although they could not distinguish his words.
“He really has a look of the times of the Round Table,” said Gerfaut; “five or six hundred years ago it would not have been very agreeable to find one’s self face to face with him in a tournament; and if to-day, as in those times, feminine hearts were won by feats with double-edged swords, I admit that my chances would not be very good. Fortunately, we are emancipated from animal vigor; it is out, of fashion.”
“Out of fashion, if you like; meanwhile, he will kill you.”
“You do not understand the charms of danger nor the attractions that difficulties give to pleasure. I have studied Christian thoroughly since I have been here, and I know him as well as if I had passed my life with him. I am also sure that, at the very first revelation, he will kill me if he can, and I take a strange interest in knowing that I risk my life thus. Here we are in the woods,” said Gerfaut, as he dropped the artist’s arm and ceased limping; “they can no longer see us; the farce is played out. You know what I told you to say if you join them: you left me at the foot of a tree. You are forbidden to approach the sycamores, under penalty of receiving the shot from my gun in your moustache.”
At these words he threw the gun which had served him as crutch over his shoulder, and darted off in the direction of the river.
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