LITMIR.BIZ

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Countess de la Verberie. Perhaps M. the marquis remembers her—a plump, bright-eyed brunette, named Mihonne.”

      Louis did not remember Mihonne.

      “When can we see this Fougeroux?” he inquired.

      “To-day; I will engage a boat to take us over.”

      “Well, let us go now. I have no time to lose.”

      An entire generation has passed away since Louis had last crossed the Rhone in old Pilorel’s boat.

      The faithful ferryman had been buried many years, and his duties were now performed by his son, who, possessing great respect for traditional opinions, was delighted at the honor of rowing the Marquis of Clameran in his boat, and soon had it ready for Louis and Joseph to take their seats.

      As soon as they were fairly started, Joseph began to warn the marquis against the wily Fougeroux.

      “He is a cunning fox,” said the farmer; “I have had a bad opinion of him ever since his marriage, which was a shameful affair altogether. Mihonne was over fifty years of age, and he was only twenty-four, when he married her; so you may know it was money, and not a wife, that he wanted. She, poor fool, believed that the young scamp really loved her, and gave herself and her money up to him. Women will be trusting fools to the end of time! And Fougeroux is not the man to let money lie idle. He speculated with Mihonne’s gold, and is now very rich. But she, poor thing, does not profit by his wealth; one can easily understand his not feeling any love for her, when she looks like his grandmother; but he deprives her of the necessaries of life, and beats her cruelly.”

      “He would like to plant her six feet under ground,” said the ferryman.

      “Well, it won’t be long before he has the satisfaction of burying her,” said Joseph; “the poor old woman has been in almost a dying condition ever since Fougeroux brought a worthless jade to take charge of the house, and makes his wife wait upon her like a servant.”

      When they reached the opposite shore, Joseph asked young Pilorel to await their return.

      Joseph knocked at the gate of the well-cultivated farm, and inquired for the master; the farm-boy said that “M. Fougeroux” was out in the field, but he would go and tell him.

      He soon appeared. He was an ill-looking little man, with a red beard and small, restless eyes.

      Although M. Fougeroux professed to despise the nobility and the clergy, the hope of driving a good bargain made him obsequious to Louis. He insisted upon ushering his visitor into “the parlor,” with may bows and repetitions of “M. the marquis.”

      Upon entering the room, he roughly ordered an old woman, who was crouching over some dying embers, to make haste and bring some wine for M. the marquis of Clameran.

      At this name, the old woman started as if she had received an electric shock. She opened her mouth to say something, but a look from her tyrant froze the words upon her lips. With a frightened air she hobbled out to obey his orders, and in a few minutes returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses.

      Then she resumed her seat by the fire, and kept her eyes fastened upon the marquis.

      Could this really be the merry, pretty Mihonne, who had been the confidant of the little fairy of Verberie?

      Valentine herself would never have recognized this poor, shrivelled, emaciated old woman.

      Only those who are familiar with country life know what hard work and worry can do to make a woman old.

      The bargain, meanwhile, was being discussed between Joseph and Fougeroux, who offered a ridiculously small sum for the chateau, saying that he would only buy it to tear down, and sell the materials. Joseph enumerated the beams, joists, ashlars, and the iron-work, and volubly praised the old domain.

      As for Mihonne, the presence of the marquis had a wonderful effect upon her.

      If the faithful servant had hitherto never breathed the secret confided to her probity, it was none the less heavy for her to bear.

      After marrying, and being so harshly treated that she daily prayed for death to come to her relief, she began to blame everybody but herself for her misfortunes.

      Weakly superstitious, she traced back the origin of her sorrows to the day when she took the oath on the holy gospel during mass.

      Her constant prayers that God would send her a child to soothe her wounded heart, being unanswered, she was convinced that she was cursed with barrenness for having assisted in the abandonment of an innocent, helpless babe.

      She often thought, that by revealing everything, she could appease the wrath of Heaven, and once more enjoy a happy home. Nothing but her love for Valentine gave her strength to resist a constant temptation to confess everything.

      But to-day the sight of Louis decided her to relieve her mind. She thought there could be no danger in confiding in Gaston’s brother. Alas for woman’s tongue!

      The sale was finally concluded. It was agreed that Fougeroux should give five thousand two hundred and eighty francs in cash for the chateau, and land attached; and Joseph was to have the old furniture.

      The marquis and the new owner of the chateau shook hands, and noisily called out the essential word:

      “Agreed!”

      Fougeroux went himself to get the “bargain bottle” of old wine.

      The occasion was favorable to Mihonne; she walked quickly over to where the marquis stood, and said in a nervous whisper:

      “M. the marquis, I must speak with you apart.”

      “What can you want to tell me, my good woman?”

      “It is a secret of life and death. This evening, at dusk, meet me in the walnut wood, and I will tell you everything.”

      Hearing her husband’s approaching step, she darted back to her corner by the fire.

      Fougeroux filled the glasses, and drank to the health of Clameran.

      As they returned to the boat, Louis tried to think what could be the object of this singular rendezvous.

      “Joseph, what the deuce can that old witch want with me?” he said musingly.

      “Who can tell? She used to be in the service of a lady who was very intimate with M. Gaston; so my father used to say. If I were in your place I would go and see what she wanted, monsieur. You can dine with me, and, after dinner, Pilorel will row you over.”

      Curiosity decided Louis to go, about seven o’clock, to the walnut wood, where he found Mihonne impatiently awaiting him.

      “Ah, here you are, at last, M. the marquis,” she said, in a tone of relief. “I was afraid you would disappoint me.”

      “Yes, here I am, my good woman, to listen to what you have to say.”

      “I have many things to say. But first tell me some news of your brother.”

      Louis regretted having come, supposing from this request that the old woman was childish, and might bother him for hours with her senseless gabble.

      “You know well enough that my poor brother was drowned in the Rhone.”

      “Good heavens!” cried Mihonne, “are you ignorant, then, of his escape? Yes, he did what has never been done before; he swam across the swollen Rhone. The next day Mlle. Valentine went to Clameran to tell the news; but St. Jean prevented her from seeing you. Afterward I carried a letter from her, but you had left the country.”

      Louis could not believe this strange revelation.

      “Are you not mixing up dreams with real events, my good woman?” he said banteringly.

      “No,” she replied, mournfully shaking her head. “If Pere Menoul were alive, he would tell you how he took charge of your brother until he embarked for Marseilles. But that is nothing compared to the rest. M. Gaston has a son.”

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