lightning is not heavy. But there was no need. The towering threat and the flaming eye and the swift rush buffeted the caitiff away: he recoiled. She followed him as he went, strong, FOR A MOMENT OR TWO, as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as Michael driving Satan. He dared not, or could not stand before her: he writhed and cowered and recoiled all down the room, while she marched upon him. But the driven serpent hissed horribly as it wriggled away.
“You shall both be turned out of Beaurepaire by me, and forever; I swear it, parole de Perrin.”
He had not been gone a minute when Josephine’s courage oozed away, and she ran, or rather tottered, into the Pleasaunce, and clung like a drowning thing to Rose, and, when Edouard took her hand, she clung to him. They had to gather what had happened how they could: the account was constantly interrupted with her sobs and self-reproaches. She said she had ruined all she loved: ruined her sister, ruined her mother, ruined the house of Beaurepaire. Why was she ever born? Why had she not died three years ago? (Query, what was the date at which Camille’s letters suddenly stopped?) “That coward,” said she, “has the heart of a fiend. He told us he never forgave an affront; and he holds our fate in his hands. He will drive our mother from her home, and she will die: murdered by her own daughter. After all, why did I refuse him? What should I have sacrificed by marrying him? Rose, write to him, and say—say—I was taken by surprise, I—I”—a violent flood of tears interrupted the sentence.
Rose flung her arms round her neck. “My beautiful Josephine marry that creature? Let house and lands go a thousand times sooner. I love my sister a thousand times better than the walls of this or any other house.”
“Come, come,” cried Edouard, “you are forgetting ME all this time. Do you really think I am the sort of man to stand by with my hands in my pockets, and let her marry that cur, or you be driven out of Beaurepaire? Neither, while I live.”
“Alas! dear boy,” sighed Josephine, “what can you do?”
“I’ll soon show you. From this hour forth it is a duel between that Perrin and me. Now, Josephine—Rose—don’t you cry and fret like that: but just look quietly on, and enjoy the fight, both of you.”
Josephine shook her head with a sad smile: but Rose delivered herself thus, after a sob, “La, yes; I forgot: we have got a gentleman now; that’s one comfort.”
Edouard rose to the situation: he saw that Perrin would lose no time; and that every day, or even hour, might be precious. He told them that the first thing he must do for them was to leave the company he loved best on earth, and run down to the town to consult Picard the rival notary: he would be back by supper-time, when he hoped they would do him the honor, in a matter of such importance, to admit him to a family council.
Josephine assented with perfect simplicity; Rose with a deep blush, for she was too quick not to see all the consequences of admitting so brisk a wooer into a family council.
It was a wet evening, and a sad and silent party sat round a wood fire in the great dining-hall. The baroness was almost prostrated by the scene with Perrin; and a sombre melancholy and foreboding weighed on all their spirits, when presently Edouard Riviere entered briskly, and saluted them all profoundly, and opened the proceedings with a little favorite pomposity. “Madame the baroness, and you Monsieur Aubertin, who honor me with your esteem, and you Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire, whom I adore, and you Mademoiselle Rose, whom I hoped to be permitted—you have this day done me the honor to admit me as your adviser. I am here to lay my plans before you. I believe, madame, I have already convinced you that your farms are under-let, and your property lowered in value by general mismanagement; this was doubtless known to Perrin, and set him scheming. Well, I rely on the same circumstance to defeat him. I have consulted Picard and shown him the rent-roll and balance-sheet I had already shown you. He has confessed that the estate is worth more than its debts, so capitalists can safely advance the money. To-morrow morning, then, I ride to Commandant Raynal for a week’s leave of absence; then, armed with Picard’s certificate, shall proceed to my uncle and ask him to lend the money. His estate is very small compared with Beaurepaire, but he has always farmed it himself. ‘I’ll have no go-between,’ says he, ‘to impoverish both self and soil.’ He is also a bit of a misanthrope, and has made me one. I have a very poor opinion of my fellow-creatures, very.”
“Well, but,” said Rose, “if he is all that, he will not sympathize with us, who have so mismanaged Beaurepaire. Will he not despise us?”
Edouard was a little staggered, but Aubertin came to his aid.
“Permit me, Josephine,” said he. “Natural history steps in here, and teaches by me, its mouth-piece. A misanthrope hates all mankind, but is kind to every individual, generally too kind. A philanthrope loves the whole human race, but dislikes his wife, his mother, his brother, and his friends and acquaintances. Misanthrope is the potato: rough and repulsive outside, but good to the core. Philanthrope is a peach: his manner all velvet and bloom, his words sweet juice, his heart of hearts a stone. Let me read Philanthrope’s book, and fall into the hands of Misanthrope.”
Edouard admitted the shrewdness of this remark.
“And so,” said he, “my misanthrope will say plenty of biting words—which, by-the-by, will not hurt you, who will not hear them, only me—and then he’ll lend us the money, and Beaurepaire will be free, and I shall have had a hand in it. Hurrah!”
Then came a delicious hour to Edouard Riviere. Young and old poured out their glowing thanks and praises upon him till his checks burned like fire.
The baroness was especially grateful, and expressed a gentle regret that she could see no way of showing her gratitude except in words. “What can we do for this little angel?” said she, turning to Josephine.
“Leave that to me, mamma,” replied Josephine, turning her lovely eyes full on Edouard, with a look the baroness misunderstood directly.
She sat and watched Josephine and Edouard with comical severity all the rest of the time she was there; and, when she retired, she kissed Rose affectionately, but whispered her eldest daughter, “I hope you are not serious. A mere boy compared with you.”
“But such a sweet one,” suggested Josephine, apologetically.
“What will the world come to?” said the baroness out loud, and retreated with a sour glance at all of them—except Rose.
She had not been gone five minutes when a letter came by messenger to Edouard. It was from Picard. He read it out.
“Perrin has been with me, to raise money. He wants it in forty-eight hours. Promises good legal security. I have agreed to try and arrange the matter for him.”
They were all astonished at this.
“The double-faced traitor!” cried Edouard. “Stay; wait a minute. Let us read it to an end.”
“This promise is, of course, merely to prevent his going elsewhere. At the end of the forty-eight hours I shall begin to make difficulties. Meantime, as Perrin is no fool, you had better profit to the full by this temporary delay.”
“Well done, Picard!” shouted Edouard. “Notary cut notary. I won’t lose an hour. I’ll start at five; Commandant Raynal is an early riser himself.”
Accordingly, at five he was on the road; Raynal’s quarters lay in the direct line to his uncle’s place. He found the commandant at home, and was well received. Raynal had observed his zeal, and liked his manners. He gave him the week’s leave, and kept him to
