The Village Rector

“Keep the money for yourself, my poor girl,” said the lawyer. “The rich do not pay so generously for a lost cause.”

“Monsieur,” said Denise, “I cannot obey you.”

“Then the money is not yours?” said the lawyer.

“You are mistaken,” she replied, looking at Monsieur Bonnet as if to know whether God would be angry at the lie.

The rector kept his eyes lowered.

“Well, then,” said the lawyer, taking one note of five hundred francs and offering the other to the rector, “I will share it with the poor. Now, Denise, change this one, which is really mine,” he went on, giving her the note, “for your velvet ribbon and your gold cross. I will hang the cross above my mantel to remind me of the best and purest young girl’s heart I have ever known in my whole experience as a lawyer.”

“I will give it to you without selling it,” cried Denise, taking off her jeannette and offering it to him.

“Monsieur,” said the rector, “I accept the five hundred francs to pay for the exhumation of the poor lad’s body and its transportation to Montegnac. God has no doubt pardoned him, and Jean will rise with my flock on that last day when the righteous and the repentant will be called together to the right hand of the Father.”

“So be it,” replied the lawyer.

He took Denise by the hand and drew her toward him to kiss her forehead; but the action had another motive.

“My child,” he whispered, “no one in Montegnac has five-hundred-franc notes; they are rare even at Limoges, where they are only taken at a discount. This money has been given to you; you will not tell me by whom, and I don’t ask you; but listen to me: if you have anything more to do in this town relating to your poor brother, take care! You and Monsieur Bonnet and your brother Louis will be followed by police-spies. Your family is known to have left Montegnac, and as soon as you are seen here you will be watched and surrounded before you are aware of it.”

“Alas!” she said. “I have nothing more to do here.”

“She is cautious,” thought the lawyer, as he parted from her. “However, she is warned; and I hope she will get safely off.”

During this last week in September, when the weather was as warm as in summer, the bishop gave a dinner to the authorities of the place. Among the guests were the procureur-du-roi and the attorney-general. Some lively discussions prolonged the party till a late hour. The company played whist and backgammon, a favorite game with the clergy. Toward eleven o’clock the procureur-du-roi walked out upon the upper terrace. From the spot where he stood he saw a light on that island to which, on a certain evening, the attention of the bishop and the Abbe Gabriel had been drawn, – Veronique’s “Ile de France,” – and the gleam recalled to the procureur’s mind the unexplained mysteries of the Tascheron crime. Then, reflecting that there could be no legitimate reason for a fire on that lonely island in the river at that time of night, an idea, which had already struck the bishop and the secretary, darted into his mind with the suddenness and brilliancy of the flame itself which was shining in the distance.

“We have all been fools!” he cried; “but this will give us the accomplices.”

He returned to the salon, sought out Monsieur de Grandville, said a few words in his ear, after which they both took leave. But the Abbe de Rastignac accompanied them politely to the door; he watched them as they departed, saw them go to the terrace, noticed the fire on the island, and thought to himself, “She is lost!”

The emissaries of the law got there too late. Denise and Louis, whom Jean had taught to dive, were actually on the bank of the river at a spot named to them by Jean, but Louis Tascheron had already dived four times, bringing up each time a bundle containing twenty thousand francs’ worth of gold. The first sum was wrapped in a foulard handkerchief knotted by the four corners. This handkerchief, from which the water was instantly wrung, was thrown into a great fire of drift wood already lighted. Denise did not leave the fire until she saw every particle of the handkerchief consumed. The second sum was wrapped in a shawl, the third in a cambric handkerchief; these wrappings were instantly burned like the foulard.

Just as Denise was throwing the wrapping of the fourth and last package into the fire the gendarmes, accompanied by the commissary of police, seized that incriminating article, which Denise let them take without manifesting the least emotion. It was a handkerchief, on which, in spite of its soaking in the river, traces of blood could still be seen. When questioned as to what she was doing there, Denise said she was taking the stolen gold from the river according to her brother’s instructions. The commissary asked her why she was burning certain articles; she said she was obeying her brother’s last directions. When asked what those articles were she boldly answered, without attempting to deceive: “A foulard, a shawl, a cambric handkerchief, and the handkerchief now captured.” The latter had belonged to her brother.

This discovery and its attendant circumstances made a great stir in Limoges. The shawl, more especially, confirmed the belief that Tascheron had committed this crime in the interests of some love affair.

“He protects that woman after his death,” said one lady, hearing of these last discoveries, rendered harmless by the criminal’s precautions.

“There may be some husband in Limoges who will miss his foulard,” said the procureur-du-roi, with a laugh, “but he will not dare speak of it.”

“These matters of dress are really so compromising,” said old Madame Perret, “that I shall make a search through my wardrobe this very evening.”

“Whose pretty little footmarks could he have taken such pains to efface while he left his own?” said Monsieur de Grandville.

“Pooh! I dare say she was an ugly woman,” said the procureur-du-roi.

“She has paid dearly for her sin,” observed the Abbe de Grancour.

“Do you know what this affair shows?” cried Monsieur de Grandville. “It shows what women have lost by the Revolution, which has levelled all social ranks. Passions of this kind are no longer met with except in men who still feel an enormous distance between themselves and their mistresses.”

“You saddle love with many vanities,” remarked the Abbe Dutheil.

“What does Madame Graslin think?” asked the prefect.

“What do you expect her to think?” said Monsieur de Grandville. “Her child was born, as she predicted to me, on the morning of the execution; she has not seen any one since then, for she is dangerously ill.”

A scene took place in another salon in Limoges which was almost comical. The friends of the des Vanneaulx came to congratulate them on the recovery of their property.

“Yes, but they ought to have pardoned that poor man,” said Madame des Vanneaulx. “Love, and not greed, made him steal the money; he was neither vicious nor wicked.”

“He was full of consideration for us,” said Monsieur des Vanneaulx; “and if I knew where his family had gone I would do something for them. They are very worthy people, those Tascherons.”

X. THIRD PHASE OF VERONIQUE’S LIFE

When Madame Graslin recovered from the long illness that followed the birth of her child, which was not till the close of 1829, an illness which forced her to keep her bed and remain in absolute retirement, she heard her husband talking of an important piece of business he was anxious to concede. The ducal house of Navarreins had offered for sale the forest of Montegnac and the uncultivated lands around it.

Graslin had never yet executed the clause in his marriage contract with his wife which obliged him to invest his wife’s fortune in lands; up to this time he had preferred to employ the money in his bank, where he had fully doubled it. He now began to speak of this investment. Hearing him discuss it Veronique appeared to remember the name of Montegnac, and asked her husband to fulfil his engagement about her property by purchasing these lands. Monsieur Graslin then proposed to see the rector, Monsieur Bonnet, and inquire of him about the estate, which the Duc de Navarreins was desirous of selling because he foresaw the struggle which the Prince de Polignac was forcing on between liberalism and the house of Bourbon, and he augured ill of it; in fact, the duke was one of the boldest opposers of the coup-d’Etat.

The duke had sent his agent to Limoges to negotiate the matter; telling him to accept any good sum of money, for he remembered the Revolution of 1789 too well not to profit by the lessons it had taught the aristocracy. This agent had now been a month laying siege to Graslin, the shrewdest and wariest business head in the Limousin, – the only man, he was told by practical persons, who was able to purchase so large a property and pay for it on the spot. The Abbe Dutheil wrote a line to Monsieur Bonnet, who came to Limoges at once, and was taken to the hotel Graslin.

Veronique determined to ask the rector to dinner; but the banker would not let him go up to his wife’s apartment until he had talked to him in his office for over an hour and obtained such information as fully satisfied him, and made him resolve to buy the forest and domains of Montegnac at once for the sum of five hundred thousand francs. He acquiesced readily in his wife’s wish that this purchase and all others connected with it should be in fulfilment of the clause of the marriage contract relative to the investment of her dowry. Graslin was all the more ready to do so because this act of justice cost him nothing, he having doubled the original sum.

At this time, when Graslin was negotiating the purchase, the Navarreins domains comprised the forest of Montegnac which contained about thirty thousand acres of unused land, the ruins of the castle, the gardens, park, and about five thousand acres of uncultivated land on the plain beyond Montegnac. Graslin immediately bought other lands in order to make himself master of the first peak in the chain of the Correzan mountains on which the vast forest of Montegnac ended. Since the imposition of taxes the Duc de Navarreins had never received more than fifteen thousand francs per annum from this manor, once among the richest tenures of the kingdom, the lands of which had escaped the sale of “public domain” ordered by the Convention, on account probably of their barrenness and the known difficulty of reclaiming them.

When the rector went at last to Madame Graslin’s apartment, and saw the woman noted for her piety and for her intellect of whom he had heard speak, he could not restrain a gesture of amazement. Veronique had now reached the third phase of her life, that in which she was to rise into grandeur by the exercise of the highest virtues, – a phase in which she became another woman. To the Little Virgin of Titian, hidden at eleven years of age beneath a spotted mantle of small-pox, had succeeded a beautiful woman, noble and passionate; and from that woman, now wrung by inward sorrows, came forth a saint.

Her skin bore the yellow tinge which colors the austere faces of abbesses who have been famous for their macerations. The attenuated temples were almost golden. The lips had paled, the red of an opened pomegranate was no longer on them, their color had changed to the pale pink of a Bengal rose. At the corners of the eyes, close to the nose, sorrows had made two shining tracks like mother-of-pearl, where tears had flowed; tears which effaced the marks of small-pox and glazed the skin. Curiosity was invincibly attracted to that pearly spot, where the blue threads of the little veins throbbed precipitately, as though they were swelled by an influx of blood brought there, as it were, to feed the tears. The circle round the eyes was now a dark-brown that was almost black above the eyelids, which were horribly wrinkled. The cheeks were hollow; in their folds lay the sign of solemn thoughts. The chin, which in youth was full and round, the flesh covering the muscles, was now shrunken, to the injury of its expression, which told of an implacable religious severity exercised by this woman upon herself.

At twenty-nine years of age Veronique’s hair was scanty and already whitening. Her thinness was alarming. In spite of her doctor’s advice she insisted on suckling her son. The doctor triumphed in the result; and as he watched the changes he had foretold in Veronique’s appearance, he often said: —

“See the effects of childbirth on a woman! She adores that child; I have often noticed that mothers are fondest of the children who cost them most.”

Veronique’s faded eyes were all that retained even a memory of her youth. The dark blue of the iris still cast its passionate fires, to which the woman’s life seemed to have retreated, deserting the cold, impassible face, and glowing with an expression of devotion when the welfare of a fellow-being was concerned.

Thus the surprise, the dread of the rector ceased by degrees as he went on explaining to Madame Graslin all the good that a large owner of property could do at Montegnac provided he lived there. Veronique’s beauty came back to her for a moment as her eyes glowed with the light of an unhoped-for future.

“I will live there,” she said. “It shall be my work. I will ask Monsieur Graslin for money, and I will gladly share in your religious enterprise. Montegnac shall be fertilized; we will find some means to water those arid plains. Like Moses, you have struck a rock from which the waters will gush.”

The rector of Montegnac, when questioned by his friends in Limoges about Madame Graslin, spoke of her as a saint.

The day after the purchase was concluded Monsieur Graslin sent an architect to Montegnac. The banker intended to restore the chateau, gardens, terrace, and park, and also to connect the castle grounds with the forest by a plantation. He set himself to make these improvements with vainglorious activity.

A few months later Madame Graslin met with a great misfortune. In August, 1830, Graslin, overtaken by the commercial and banking disasters of that period, became involved by no fault of his own. He could not endure the thought of bankruptcy, nor that of losing a fortune of three millions acquired by forty years of incessant toil. The moral malady which resulted from this anguish of mind aggravated the inflammatory disease always ready to break forth in his blood. He took to his bed. Since her confinement Veronique’s regard for her husband had developed, and had overthrown all the hopes of her admirer, Monsieur de Grandville. She strove to save her husband’s life by unremitting care, with no result but that of prolonging for a few months the poor man’s tortures; but the respite was very useful to Grossetete, who, foreseeing the end of his former clerk and partner, obtained from him all the information necessary for the prompt liquidation of the assets.

Graslin died in April, 1831, and the widow’s grief yielded only to Christian resignation. Veronique’s first words, when the condition of Monsieur Graslin’s affairs were made known to her, were that she abandoned her own fortune to pay the creditors; but it was found that Graslin’s own property was more than sufficient. Two months later, the liquidation, of which Grossetete took charge, left to Madame Graslin the estate of Montegnac and six hundred thousand francs, her whole personal fortune. The son’s name remained untainted, for Graslin had injured no one’s property, not even that of his wife. Francis Graslin, the son, received about one hundred thousand francs.

Monsieur de Grandville, to whom Veronique’s grandeur of soul and noble qualities were well known, made her an offer of marriage; but, to the surprise of all Limoges, Madame Graslin declined, under pretext that the Church discouraged second marriages. Grossetete, a man of strong common-sense and sure grasp of a situation, advised Veronique to invest her property and what remained of Monsieur Graslin’s in the Funds; and he made the investment himself in one of the government securities which offered special advantages at that time, namely, the Three-per-cents, which were then quoted at fifty. The child Francis received, therefore, six thousand francs a year, and his mother forty thousand. Veronique’s fortune was still the largest in the department.