Moscow: A Story of the French Invasion of 1812

"Not I!" cried Henri; "I will see her no more."

"But what if you suspect her unjustly?"

"Then why was I deceived and told that she was dead? She was 'dead to me,' that is the explanation. She is not dead to others—to you, for instance, her new lover—oh Lord, Michel, a pretty messenger thou hast been!"

"A worse than the Baron supposes," Michel laughed nervously, "for his message was never delivered."

"What! though you believed me dead? Then indeed, my friend, you have been little better than a traitor."

"It seems you are determined to quarrel with me, say what I will; if I delivered the message it was in order to found a courtship of my own upon it; if I did not I am a traitor. Nevertheless I will not quarrel, my friend. It was not I that deceived you, remember, but I that undeceived you. Was it not Monsieur Dupré who declared that his daughter was dead? Then why am I to be quarrelled with?"

"Because, my friend, I believe you to have been a party to the deception, for a certain end of your own which I have indicated."

"Then your wrath is expended upon wind, for I swear to you that though, I confess, this lady is more to me than any woman in the world–"

"Aha! listen to him!" Henri raved.

"And though I am well aware that she is not wholly indifferent to my virtues–"

"By Heaven, Michel, you are a bold man!" cried Henri, fingering his sword hilt; "finish your sentence; I will judge whether our rapiers shall settle this matter."

"Yet I would not marry the girl for all the wealth of India, nor she me. Moreover, I promise that Louise shall confirm my words. Henri, my friend, it is as her messenger I come this day. 'Bid him come to me'—that is her message."

"If it be so, Michel," began the Baron, his face instantly relaxing, "you shall bid me do penance for my suspicions; but if–"

"Nay, I weary of arguing, my friend; come to her quickly."

CHAPTER XXX

Henri d'Estreville lost no time in complying with the request conveyed in the message which Michel Prevost had brought him. He hastened to present himself at old Dupré's establishment, where he knocked—in his eagerness—with unnecessary vigour, rousing old Dupré from a nap as he lay in bed, still a victim to the stiffness of his joints, brought about by his practice with the foils in preparation for an imaginary duel.

Marie opened the door.

"Mon Dieu! it is Monsieur le Baron!" she exclaimed, flushing.

"Yes, it is I," replied Henri; "I have found that on my last visit, Madame, I was disgracefully deceived as to the pretended death of your sister; I have come to see Mademoiselle Louise, and also to receive an explanation of the deception to which I was made a victim."

"Monsieur, I will fetch Louise, let her explain," Marie murmured; "there are circumstances which Louise will explain better than I; Monsieur will understand and forgive."

"Good; I will see Louise—fetch her quickly."

Henri waited in the salon. He was strangely agitated. He did not half comprehend all that Michel had said; for Michel's connection with Louise seemed mysterious and incomprehensible; he professed to love Louise, yet, he had declared, he did not desire to marry her. "Either the fellow is mad," Henri reflected, "or he has discovered that Louise already loves me, in which case she might have chosen another messenger! Soon I shall know whether Louise indeed loves me. Mon Dieu, if she does not, after all this, I know not what shall happen." Henri strode up and down the room, scarcely able to contain his excitement, it was most inconsiderate of Louise to keep him waiting so long—what did it mean?

"She adorns herself; that is what it means!" Henri reflected; "it is only natural that she should desire to look her best; it is only what every woman would do."

In this conjecture Henri was not far wrong.

Upstairs in old Dupré's bedroom there had been scarcely less excitement than below in the salon.

"Well, who was it that knocked so loudly?" cried old Dupré, as Marie presently appeared after opening the front door to admit the visitor.

"Mon père, do not be agitated, it is the Baron d'Estreville," said Marie, hesitating.

"Ah—ah! I thought it! I knew it! and he has demanded satisfaction of me, and awaits me below, is it not so?" The old man struggled to get out of bed, but his daughters restrained him.

"Calm yourself, my father," said Marie; "he has not demanded satisfaction. He has, however, discovered that Louise is still alive and desires explanations of the deceit of which he was a victim."

"There! What said I? Was I not right? Let me rise—I will rise, I say, Marie; I am ready; the necessary explanations I shall give; he shall have them at the rapier's point. Out of my way—thanks be to the Seigneur that I shall yet fight another fight before I die!"

"My father, you cannot—you are stiff—it is impossible," Marie protested; but the irate old man shook her off and sprang out of bed. But the exertion gave him so agonising a twinge in all his muscles that he uttered a cry of pain and collapsed in a sitting position upon his bed.

"Morbleu!" he groaned, "it is anguish to move my limbs. What is to be done? He shall postpone the meeting until I can walk. One week will suffice. Go down—tell him so, Marie."

The old man almost wept for chagrin and disappointment.

"Nay, I dare not go," said Marie. "It is Louise that he would see, not me; I fear his anger if I should appear and not Louise."

"Alas, Marie, that I should be the parent of a coward," Dupré groaned. "Do you not see that it is inadvisable that Louise and this man should meet? Have you forgotten the foolishness that he uttered concerning your sister? Louise shall live to be a Marshal of France, yet this fool would persuade her, if he could, to waste the glory of a career in silly dreams of love—drag her down to the level of the sex from which, by her splendid achievement, she has emancipated herself! Speak, Louise—repudiate this folly—assert yourself!"

"Mon père, it may be that Louise, like myself, possesses the instincts of a woman," said Marie, fighting on her sister's behalf; "be not hard upon her; maybe–"

"Let me speak, Marie," said Louise. "Mon père, it is certain that this Baron d'Estreville must be very angry with us all, and wishes to fight. I have an idea. The Baron knows nothing of Michel Prevost, that he and I are one. He is determined, it seems, to see me. Send me with a message, that you will have no man but Prevost for a son-in-law, and that if the Baron would aspire to claim your daughter, he must fight this Michel Prevost for her. Now the Baron is but a poor fencer, and it is certain that I, as Michel, would soon better him in a set-to with our rapiers."

"Parbleu!" exclaimed old Dupré, "it is good—it is excellent! Sapristi, my daughter, you are a genius in diplomacy as well as in arms! Listen to her, Marie, and learn! And you would have set her down to become this wretched fellow's drudge. Mort de ma vie, Louise, I thank the Almighty that you are not as your sister would believe you to be! Yes, yes, go down, chérie, and arrange this matter—it is good! But stay, declare first that Marie has spoken nonsense—that you have forgotten your woman's instincts—that glory and the career come first in your estimation, that–"

"Father, at any rate I am not yet ready to be a woman; the time may come, soon or late, I will make no promises. At present let it be as I have said. The Baron is offended and would fight—volontiers! I am ready; he shall fight Michel for Louise!"

Louise laughed gaily and ran from the room. She hastened to her own chamber, where she quickly donned her own dress, the fencing costume of old days when she still acted as her father's assistant. All this occupied some time, and Henri's patience was almost exhausted when at last she opened the door and presented herself before him.

D'Estreville caught the girl in his arms and covered her face with kisses. Louise abandoned herself to his embraces, making no effort to resist, and conscious of no desire to do so. On the contrary, she felt in that precious moment that she wished for nothing better in this world, no greater happiness, no more perfect peace than to belong body and soul to this man. D'Estreville let her go presently.

"Thanks be to God, you love me then, after all," he murmured.

"Did you then doubt it?" she whispered.

"Louise, there have been doubts and mysteries; tell me, you are acquainted with one Michel Prevost?"

Louise flushed. "I know Michel very, very, very well," she replied, smiling.

"Come, explain—there is a mystery, but I think I have a clue! Confess, you have a brother or a near relation—now that I see you, I am impressed the more with the likeness between you and this good fellow! If I am wrong, then who—in Heaven's name—is this Prevost whom you know so well and who reminds me so strongly of you?"

"Not a brother—a relative, yes; he loves me, Henri—nay, do not speak—he loves you also, mon ami; he would not have us parted," Louise laughed hysterically. "Do not fear, he shall never be dearer to me than now, and that is not so dear as you, not by—oh, oh! so many miles!"

"I see—I see! Good; I am content. They told me you were dead, my beloved—imagine my despair. Why was I deceived?"

"My father will have no son-in-law but this Michel."

"Peste! So I must be deceived and sent into the fires of the nether regions!"