Part 21 (1/2)
The irate Marquis rose from his chair and paced the room.
”Villain! The thought of him drives me beyond myself.”
De Lery said little, but noted every word of his uncle's statement, and it slowly took shape in his mind in a steel-cold deadly contempt for Lecour.
The true Repentigny alone, his nature long purified of pride, felt no malice nor indignation against this usurper of his name.
CHAPTER XXII
THE SECRET OUT
Louis Rene Chaussegros de Lery, that model of blue-blooded elegance, was not the person to encourage any plebeian in basking in the smiles of aristocratic society. There was an inflexible honour in him, as well as pride, which was desperately shocked by the contrivings of Lecour. He therefore detailed the story, without any heat but without any mercy, to the mess-table of the company of Villeroy.
Two or three mornings later, Dominique came into Germain's sitting chamber at Troyes and taking up his Master's service sword looked closely at it as if to examine the polish on the goldwork. Such was his custom when he had something special to say. Dominique's pieces of information were invariably valuable. Germain therefore looked up from the comedy he was reading and gave attention. Dominique related briefly the rumour just come from Chalons: A Guardsman of the Noailles had related it to a comrade in the presence of his servant, and the servant had hurried to communicate it, with many questions, to Dominique.
Germain paled, yet only for an instant. He laughed at the Auvergnat, who snorted apologetically--
”As if Monsieur _looked_ like a pedlar!”
”This is a righteous punishment for being born far away, Dominique,” he exclaimed; ”all colonials must be either mulattoes or cheats; the next time I am born it shall be in Chalons.”
There was no parade that day on account of a _fete_.
He dressed himself in exactly as leisurely fas.h.i.+on as he had previously intended and ordered a hack-horse to take him to Versailles. So far he was acting; the world and Dominique his imaginary audience.
Only when he got out of Troyes and, having left the beautiful old Gothic-cathedralled town some distance behind, was speeding along the high-road, did he, for the first time, feel himself sufficiently alone to face his thoughts. With a great rush of vision he seemed to see the whole world of mankind rising against him--in its centre the form and face of a scornful courtier--_the_ Repentigny, withering his pretensions by one contemptuous glance, to the applause of the Oeil de Boeuf. He saw the look of Madame l'Etiquette, the ribaldry of acquaintances at Versailles, the studious oblivion of the Princess de Poix, d'Estaing, Bellecour, and even Grancey; the mess-table derisive over the career of the pseudo-n.o.ble; Major Collinot striking his name from the list of the company; his arrest by Guardsmen disgusted at having to touch him; the stony visages of the court-martial; the Bastille; the oar and chain of the galleys. Truly they made no pleasant fate. Behind these, a white figure, veiled in a mist of tears, at whose face he dared not look--deceived by her knight, contaminated by his disgrace, her vision of honour shattered, heart-broken, desolate, forbidden to him for ever by the law which changeth not, of outraged caste.
”Alas! that it all should lead to such an end,” he murmured.
By evening he was in Paris, and mechanically went to his old lodgings where he tried to compose himself. A supper was brought which he left unnoticed on the table. From time to time he would rise and walk about the room, feverishly revolving events and fears.
”And these people,” he exclaimed, ”will dare to say that I am of a lower nature than they. In what am I not n.o.ble? in what not their equal? Have they not, for an entire year, approved of me, deferred to me, imitated me? What is this miserable _n.o.blesse_? Have I not seen that it is the greatest boors that have the most claim to it. If it consists in antiquity, where are the ancient gentry?--a remnant of pauper ploughmen rotting on their driblets of land. If it lies in t.i.tle, what is so divine in the rewarded panderers to some unclean King? If it is genealogy and parchments, with what mutual truth do they not sneer away, and tell their tales upon, each other's lying pedigrees? In what sense am I less well-made, less brave, nay, less truthful, than that cringing rout at Versailles? Yes, all of you! the unbreakable word of my old father encloses more real n.o.bility than the entirety of your asinine struts and proclamations? We shall see, too, whether _n.o.blesse_ is necessary to courage, for here and now I defy you all and all your powers!”
A knock interrupted. It was the _concierge_, who handed him a card.
Without looking at it, Lecour replied--
”Tell him I am ill and cannot be seen.”
The words upon the card might well have produced his answer. When the door was shut he glanced at it, started, and held it in his hands, fascinated by apprehension. It read--
”Le Marquis de Chartier de Lotbiniere.”
In the name he recognised that of his father's patron.
”It is clear I must leave this place,” thought he; and then it flashed upon him that de Lotbiniere must have intended to call on _the other Repentigny_.