Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (good summer reads .TXT) 📖

She was thus leading a happy life, free from all care, and was just seventeen years old, when the great event of her life took place. M. de Chandore one morning met Jacques de Boiscoran, whose uncle had been a friend of his, and invited him to dinner. Jacques accepted the invitation, and came. Dionysia saw him, and loved him.

Now, for the first time in her life, she had a secret unknown to Grandpapa Chandore and to her aunts; and for two years the birds and the flowers were the only confidants of this love of hers, which grew up in her heart, sweet like a dream, idealized by absence, and fed by memory.

For Jacques’s eyes remained blind for two years.

But the day on which they were opened he felt that his fate was sealed. Nor did he hesitate a moment; and in less than a month after that, the Marquis de Boiscoran came down to Sauveterre, and in all form asked Dionysia’s hand for his son.

Ah! that was a heavy blow for Grandpapa Chandore.

He had, of course, often thought of the future marriage of his grandchild; he had even at times spoken of it, and told her that he was getting old, and should feel very much relieved when he should have found her a good husband. But he talked of it as a distant thing, very much as we speak of dying. M. de Boiscoran brought his true feelings out. He shuddered at the idea of giving up Dionysia, of seeing her prefer another man to himself, and of loving her children best of all. He was quite inclined to throw the ambassador out of the window.

Still he checked his feelings, and replied that he could give no reply till he had consulted his granddaughter.

Poor grandpapa! At the very first words he uttered, she exclaimed,—

“Oh, I am so happy! But I expected it.”

M. de Chandore bent his head to conceal a tear which burned in his eyes. Then he said very low,—

“Then the thing is settled.”

At once, rather comforted by the joy that was sparkling in his grandchild’s eyes, he began reproaching himself for his selfishness, and for being unhappy, when his Dionysia seemed to be so happy. Jacques had, of course, been allowed to visit the house as a lover; and the very day before the fire at Valpinson, after having long and carefully counted the days absolutely required for all the purchases of the trousseau, and all the formalities of the event, the wedding-day had been finally fixed.

Thus Dionysia was struck down in the very height of her happiness, when she heard, at the same time, of the terrible charges brought against M. de Boiscoran, and of his arrest.

At first, thunderstruck, she had lain nearly ten minutes unconscious in the arms of her aunts, who, like the grandfather, were themselves utterly overcome with terror. But, as soon as she came to, she exclaimed,—

“Am I mad to give way thus? Is it not evident that he is innocent?”

Then she had sent her telegram to the marquis, knowing well, that, before taking any measures, it was all important to come to an understanding with Jacques’s family. Then she had begged to be left alone; and she had spent the night in counting the minutes that must pass till the hour came when the train from Paris would bring her help.

At eight o’clock she had come down to give orders herself that a carriage should be sent to the station for the marchioness, adding that they must drive back as fast as they could. Then she had gone into the sitting-room to join her grandfather and her aunts. They talked to her; but her thoughts were elsewhere.

At last a carriage was heard coming up rapidly, and stopping before the house. She got up, rushed into the hall, and cried,—

“Here is Jacques’s mother!”

III.

We cannot do violence to our natural feelings without paying for it. The marchioness had nearly fainted when she could at last take refuge in the carriage: she was utterly overcome by the great effort she had made to present to the curious people of Sauveterre a smiling face and calm features.

“What a horrible comedy!” she murmured, as she sank back on the cushions.

“Admit, at least, madam,” said the lawyer, “that it was necessary. You have won over, perhaps, a hundred persons to your son’s side.”

She made no reply. Her tears stifled her. What would she not have given for a few moments’ solitude, to give way to all the grief of her heart, to all the anxiety of a mother! The time till she reached the house seemed to her an eternity; and, although the horse was driven at a furious rate, she felt as if they were making no progress. At last the carriage stopped.

The little servant had jumped down, and opened the door, saying,—

“Here we are.”

The marchioness got out with M. Folgat’s assistance; and her foot was hardly on the ground, when the house-door opened, and Dionysia threw herself into her arms, too deeply moved to speak. At last she broke forth,—

“Oh, my mother, my mother! what a terrible misfortune!”

In the passage M. de Chandore was coming forward. He had not been able to follow his granddaughter’s rapid steps.

“Let us go in,” he said to the two ladies: “don’t stand there!”

For at all the windows curious eyes were peeping through the blinds.

He drew them into the sitting-room. Poor M. Folgat was sorely embarrassed what to do with himself. No one seemed to be aware of his existence. He followed them, however. He entered the room, and standing by the door, sharing the general excitement, he was watching by turns, Dionysia, M. de Chandore, and the two spinsters.

Dionysia was then twenty years old. It could not be said that she was uncommonly beautiful; but no one could ever forget her again who had once seen her. Small in form, she was grace personified; and all her movements betrayed a rare and exquisite perfection. Her black hair fell in marvellous masses over her head, and contrasted strangely with her blue eyes and her fair complexion. Her skin was of dazzling whiteness. Every thing in her features spoke of excessive timidity. And yet, from certain movements of her lips and her eyebrows, one might have suspected no lack of energy.

Grandpapa Chandore looked unusually tall by her side. His massive frame was imposing. He did not show his seventy-two years, but was as straight as ever, and seemed to be able to defy all the storms of life. What struck strangers most, perhaps, was his dark-red complexion, which gave him the appearance of an Indian chieftain, while his white beard and hair brought the crimson color still more prominently out. In spite of his herculean frame and his strange complexion, his face bore the expression of almost child-like goodness. But the first glance at his eyes proved that the gentle smile on his lips was not to be taken