“Good heavens!” exclaimed Moreau. “I don’t understand!”
Moreau felt his heart beat painfully when, after knocking two raps on his master’s door, he heard in reply:
“Is that you, Monsieur Moreau?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Come in.”
The Count was dressed in white trousers and thin boots, a white waistcoat, and a black coat on which glittered, on the right-hand side, the star of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor, and on the left, from a buttonhole, hung that of the Golden Fleece from a gold chain; the blue ribbon was conspicuous across his waistcoat. He had dressed his hair himself, and had no doubt got himself up to do the honors of Presles to Margueron, and, perhaps, to impress that worthy with the atmosphere of grandeur.
“Well, monsieur,” said the Count, who remained sitting, but allowed Moreau to stand, “so we cannot come to terms with Margueron?”
“At the present moment he wants too much for his farm.”
“But why should he not come over here to talk about it?” said the Count in an absentminded way.
“He is ill, monseigneur—”
“Are you sure?”
“I went over there—”
“Monsieur,” said the Count, assuming a stern expression that was terrible, “what would you do to a man whom you had allowed to see you dress a wound you wished to keep secret, and who went off to make game of it with a street trollop?”
“I should give him a sound thrashing.”
“And if, in addition to this, you discovered that he was cheating your confidence and robbing you?”
“I should try to catch him out and send him to the hulks.”
“Listen, Monsieur Moreau. You have, I suppose, discussed my health with Madame Clapart and made fun at her house of my devotion to my wife, for little Husson was giving to the passengers in a public conveyance a vast deal of information with reference to my cures, in my presence, this very morning, and in what words! God knows! He dared to slander my wife.
“Again, I heard from Farmer Léger’s own lips, as he returned from Paris in Pierrotin’s chaise, of the plan concocted by the notary of Beaumont with him, and with you, with reference to les Moulineaux. If you have been at all to see Margueron, it was to instruct him to sham illness; he is so little ill that I expect him to dinner, and he is coming.—Well, monsieur, as to your having made a fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand francs in seventeen years—I forgive you. I understand it. If you had but asked me for what you took from me, or what others offered you, I would have given it to you; you have a family to provide for. Even with your want of delicacy you have treated me better than another might have done, that I believe—
“But that you, who know all that I have done for my country, for France, you who have seen me sit up a hundred nights and more to work for the Emperor, or toiling eighteen hours a day for three months on end; that you, who know my worship of Madame de Sérizy, should have gossiped about it before a boy, have betrayed my secrets to the mockery of a Madame Husson—”
“Monseigneur!”
“It is unpardonable. To damage a man’s interest is nothing, but to strike at his heart!—Ah! you do not know what you have done!”
The Count covered his face with his hands and was silent for a moment.
“I leave you in possession of what you have,” he went on, “and I will forget you.—As a point of dignity, of honor, we will part without quarreling, for, at this moment, I can remember what your father did for mine.
“You must come to terms—good terms—with Monsieur de Reybert, your successor. Be calm, as I am. Do not make yourself a spectacle for fools. Above all, no bluster and no haggling. Though you have forfeited my confidence, try to preserve the decorum of wealth.—As to the little wretch who has half killed me, he is not to sleep at Presles. Send him to the inn; I cannot answer for what I might do if he crossed my path.”
“I do not deserve such leniency, monseigneur,” said Moreau, with tears in his eyes. “If I had been utterly dishonest I should have five hundred thousand francs; and indeed I will gladly account for every franc in detail!—But permit me to assure you, monseigneur, that when I spoke of you to Madame Clapart it was never in derision. On the contrary, it was to deplore your condition and to ask her whether she did not know of some remedy, unfamiliar to the medical profession, which the common people use.—I have spoken of you in the boy’s presence when he was asleep—but he heard me, it would seem!—and always in terms of the deepest affection and respect. Unfortunately, a blunder is sometimes punished as a crime. Still, while I bow to the decisions of your just anger, I would have you to know what really happened. Yes, it was heart to heart that I spoke of you to Madame Clapart. And only ask my wife; never have I mentioned these matters to her—”
“That will do,” said the Count, whose conviction was complete. “We are not children; the past is irrevocable. … Go and set your affairs and mine in order. You may remain in the lodge till the month of October. Monsieur and Madame de Reybert will live in the château. Above all, try to live with them as gentlemen should—hating each other, but keeping up appearances.”
The Count and Moreau went downstairs, Moreau as white as the Count’s hair, Monsieur de Sérizy calm and dignified.
While this scene was going forward, the Beaumont coach, leaving Paris at one o’clock, had stopped at the gate of Presles to set down Maître Crottat, who, in obedience to the Count’s orders, was shown into the drawing-room to wait for him; there he found his clerk excessively crestfallen, in company
