Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 716
“‘However that may be, we are sure our readers will peruse with interest a description of the costume this famous corsair always wears on shipboard; in fact, it is even said that he attaches a superstitious importance to the wearing of this garb, which consists of a long black jacket and waistcoat trimmed with small silver buttons, a broad orange sash into which his weapons are thrust, wide white linen trousers similar to the morphs worn by the fishermen of Holland and the pilots of the island of Batz, high leggings, and a low, broad-brimmed felt hat.’”
After having read this extract the housekeeper remarked: “You see, Segoffin, that this corsair wears a costume which is identical in every respect with that worn by M. Cloarek on the night of madame’s deplorable death.”
“Yes; it makes me shudder to think of it,” exclaimed Segoffin, interrupting her, “and on reading it, I suppose Mlle. Cloarek fancied she saw in this corsair the mysterious personage who was the cause of her mother’s death.”
“Alas! yes, Segoffin, and she said to monsieur, in a sort of frenzy: ‘Father, my mother’s murderer still lives. Will you not avenge her?’ You can imagine M. Cloarek’s feelings. To undeceive his daughter he would have to accuse himself.”
“Mademoiselle must have read the papers after M. Yvon’s return, then, I suppose.”
“Yes, monsieur came in about eleven o’clock. He looked radiant; my nephew, who was with him, also seemed to be in the best of spirits. ‘Is my daughter in her room?’ asked monsieur, gaily. ‘I have some good news for her.’ Though I am no talebearer, there was nothing for me to do but tell him about the altercation you and the worthy merchant had had in the garden, and how much it had terrified mademoiselle.”
“Of course, but go on.”
“Monsieur ran up to his daughter’s room and found that she had almost entirely recovered from her attack. Soon afterward, Thérèse brought up the paper as usual, and I, unfortunately, thinking it would divert mademoiselle, gave it to her to read. When she came to the passage in which the privateer’s peculiar costume was described, she uttered a terrible cry — But hush! here comes monsieur,” exclaimed Suzanne, hastily.
Cloarek, with an expression of the gloomiest despair imprinted on his features, and as pale as death, had just come out of his daughter’s room.
“Go to her, Suzanne, she is asking for you,” he said, hoarsely. “Come with me, Segoffin.”
Segoffin silently followed his employer into his bedroom, where Cloarek, throwing himself into an armchair, buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud.
On beholding this poignant grief, Segoffin felt his own eyes grow moist as he stood silent and motionless beside his master.
“I can not understand how the recollection of that terrible night impressed itself so deeply on that unfortunate child’s memory,” exclaimed Cloarek, at last. “I shudder still as I think with what an expression of horror she exclaimed, ‘Father, father, my mother’s murderer still lives.’ And as I gazed at her in a sort of stupor without replying, she added, with all the energy of intense hatred, ‘Father, I tell you that the man who killed my mother, the man who killed your wife, still lives. Her murder cries for vengeance, and this man still lives.’ And for the first time I saw an expression of hatred on my daughter’s gentle face, and I was the object of that hatred. This terrible scene has reopened the wound again and revived my remorse, and yet you know how much I have suffered, and how bitterly I have expiated that momentary madness.”
“But the worst thing, after all, is this scheme of Verduron’s, M. Yvon,” responded Segoffin, after a moment’s silence.
“Yes, it is enough to drive one mad, for if I remain with my daughter the crew is sure to come here.”
“That is absolutely certain. You know our men.”
“Yes, and Sabine will then learn that her father, Captain l’Endurci, and her mother’s murderer are all one and the same person, and this child, upon whom I have concentrated all my affection for years, — this child who is my only hope and joy and consolation in life, — will feel for me henceforth only aversion and loathing.”
Then, after a few moments of gloomy reflection, he murmured, his eyes wild, his lips contracted in a sardonic smile:
“But nonsense! she is rich; she loves an honourable man, who loves her in return. She will still have Suzanne and Segoffin. Instead of loathing me, she shall mourn for me, and, so far as she is concerned, my death shall be enshrouded in the same mystery as my life.”
As he spoke Cloarek stepped toward a table on which a pair of pistols were lying; but Segoffin, who had not once taken his eyes off his employer, sprang forward and, seizing the pistols before the captain could reach them, removed the charge and coolly replaced the weapons.
“Wretch!” exclaimed Cloarek, seizing Segoffin by the collar, and shaking him violently, “you shall pay dearly for your audacity.”
“Time presses, M. Yvon, and you have more important business on hand than shaking poor old Segoffin. Your time is too precious for that!”
The head gunner’s coolness restored Cloarek to himself, and sinking despondently into a chair, he said, gloomily:
“You are right, I am a fool. What shall I do? My brain seems to be on fire.”
“Do you really want to know what I think you had better do?”
“Yes.”
“I think you had better go to Havre immediately.”
“Leave Sabine in this condition? Increase her alarm by a hasty departure and an incomprehensible absence after all my promises to her? Abandon her when she needs my care and affection more than ever before, — at the time she is about to marry, in short?”
“Mlle. Sabine?”
“Yes, the idea of this marriage was not at all pleasing to me at first, but now I feel confident that my daughter’s future will prove a happy one; still, I ought to guide these children and surround them with the tenderest paternal solicitude, and it is at a time like this that I must put to sea again, and again risk my life now that it has become more necessary than ever to Sabine. I have recovered my senses now, and realise how mad I was to think of killing myself just now. Thanks to you, my tried and faithful friend, I have been saved from that crime.”
“I wish I could save you from the visit of our ship’s crew as well, M. Yvon. You must not forget that danger. If you do not go to them, they will surely come to you.”
“Then I will go to them,” exclaimed Cloarek, as if a way out of the difficulty had suddenly presented itself to his mind. “Yes, I will go to Havre at once, and tell my men that I have abandoned the sea, and that it will be useless for them to attempt to coerce me. You know how determined I am, and how little likelihood there is that I shall yield to overpersuasion. You shall accompany me. You have considerable influence over them, and you must exert it in my behalf. It is the only means of averting the danger that threatens me. It is now two o’clock, by three we shall be in Havre, and back home again by five. My daughter is lying down, and will not even suspect my absence. To avert suspicion, we will take a carriage at the inn.”
Cloarek had already started toward the door, when the head gunner checked him by saying:
“You are making a great mistake in one respect, M. Yvon.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you go to Havre you will not return here until after the cruise is ended.”
“You are mad.”
“No, I am not mad.”
“You think my crew will carry me away by force, do you?”
“It is very probable. Besides, when you are with the sailors again, you will not have the strength to resist them.”
“I will not?”
“No.”
“Not after the reasons I have just stated to you? I shall be back here by five o’clock, I tell you, and before my daughter has even discovered my absence. Your fears are absurd. Come, I say.”
“You insist?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That which is to be, will be,” said Segoffin, shaking his head dubiously, but following his employer for all that.
After inquiring how Sabine was feeling, and learning that she had fallen asleep, Cloarek started for Havre in company with his head gunner.
CHAPTER XIX.
AFTER THE STORM.
THREE DAYS HAVE elapsed since Yvon Cloarek left his home without notifying his daughter of his intended departure, and this once pleasant and tranquil abode shows traces of recent devastation almost everywhere.
One of the out-buildings have been almost entirely destroyed by fire, and pieces of blackened rubbish and half-burned rafters cover a part of the garden.
The door and several windows on the ground floor, which have been shattered by an axe, have been replaced by boards; several large red stains disfigure the walls, and several of the sashes in the second story have been riddled with shot.
It is midnight.
By the light of a shaded lamp burning in one of the sleeping apartments, one can dimly discern the form of Onésime, and the sheets of the bed on which he is lying are stained with blood in several places.
Suzanne’s nephew seems to be asleep. His face is death-like in its pallor, and a melancholy smile is playing upon his parted lips.
An elderly woman in peasant garb is sitting by his bedside, watching him with evident solicitude.
The profound silence that pervades the room is broken by the cautious opening and shutting of the door, and Dame Roberts steals on tiptoe up to the bed, and, drawing one of the curtains a little aside, gazes in upon her nephew with great anxiety.
In three days Suzanne’s features have become almost unrecognisable, — sorrow, anxiety, and tears have wrought such ravages in them.
After gazing at Onésime in silence for several seconds, Suzanne stepped back, and, beckoning the attendant to come closer, said to her, in a whisper:
“How has he been since I went out?”
“He hasn’t seemed to suffer quite as much, I think.”
“Has he complained at all?”
“Very little. He has tried to question me several times, but I remembered your orders and would tell him nothing.”
“He has recovered consciousness, then?”
“Entirely, madame. It is very evident that he would be glad enough to talk, if he could get any one to answer his questions.”
“Has he asked for me?”
“Oh, yes, madame, he said to me several times: ‘My aunt will be in soon, won’t she?’ I told him that you came in almost every half-hour. He made a slight movement of the head to indicate that he thanked me, and then he fell asleep, but only to wake with a start a few minutes afterward.”
“He doesn’t seem to suffer much from his wound now, does he?”
“No, madame, only he has had considerable difficulty in breathing once or twice.”
“Heaven grant that his wound may not prove fatal!” exclaimed Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly, and raising her tearful eyes heavenward.
“The surgeon assured you to the contrary, you know, madame.”
“He told me that he had hopes of his recovery, that is all, alas!”
“I think he is waking, madame,” whispered the peasant woman, for Onésime had just made a slight movement and uttered a deep sigh.
Suzanne peeped in again, and, seeing that Onésime was not asleep, she said to the peasant:
“Go down and get your dinner. I will ring for you when I want you.”
The nurse left the room, and Suzanne seated herself in the chair the woman had just vacated.
On hearing his aunt’s voice, Onésime looked greatly relieved; and when he saw her seat herself near him, he exclaimed:
“So you have come at last! How glad I am!”
“I heard you sigh just now, my dear boy, so you must still be suffering just as much or more, I fear.”
“No; I feel much better.”
“You are not saying that merely to reassure me, I hope.”
“Take hold of my hand. You know how hot it was awhile ago.”
“Yes, it is much cooler now, I see. And your wound, does it still trouble you much?”
“I have a little difficulty in breathing, that is all. The wound itself doesn’t amount to much.”
“Good Heavens! so a wound in the breast from a dagger is nothing, is it?”
“My dear aunt—”
“What do you want?”
“How is Mlle. Sabine?”
“Everybody is well, very well, as I’ve told you before.”
“And M. Cloarek?”
“There is no use in asking me so many questions. I sha’n’t answer them. By and by, when you are really better, it will be different.”
“Listen, aunt. You refuse to answer me for fear of agitating me too much, but I swear to you that the uncertainty I am in concerning Mlle. Sabine and M. Cloarek makes me miserable.”
“Everybody is getting on very well, I tell you.”
“No, aunt, no, that is impossible, after the terrible and still inexplicable occurrence that—”
“But, my dear nephew, I assure you — Come, come, don’t be so impatient. Can’t you be a little more reasonable? Calm yourself, Onésime, I beg of you!”
“Is it my fault? Why will you persist in keeping me in such a state of suspense?”
“Don’t I keep telling you that everybody is well?”
“But I tell you that is impossible,” exclaimed the young man, excitedly. “What! do you mean to tell me that Mlle. Sabine, who starts and trembles at the slightest sound, could see her home invaded by a furious band of armed men, without sustaining a terrible, perhaps fatal, shock?”
“But, Onésime, listen to me—”
“Who knows but she may be dead, dead, and you are concealing it from me? You think you are acting for the best, aunt, but you are mistaken. The truth, no matter how terrible it may be, will do me much less harm than this state of frightful uncertainty. Sleeping and waking, I am a prey to the most terrible fears. I would a hundred times rather be dead than live in this state of suspense.”
“Listen, then, but promise to be reasonable and have courage.”
“Courage? Ah, I knew that some terrible calamity had occurred.”
“Dear me! I knew it would be just this way whatever I said or did!” cried poor Suzanne. “You see yourself that at the very first word I say to you—”
“Oh, my God! I had a presentiment of it. She is dead!”
“No, no, she is living, she is living. I swear it! She has suffered terribly, — she has been alarmingly ill, but her life is no longer in danger.”
“It has been in danger, then?”
“Yes, for two days, but I have just seen her and talked with her, and there is no longer cause for the slightest anxiety.”
“God be thanked!” exclaimed Onésime, fervently. “And how much I thank you, too, my dear aunt. Ah, if you knew how much good you have done me, and how relieved I feel. Is M. Cloarek here?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“We do not know.”
“But that fatal night—”
“He came home, and was slightly wounded in the fray, but no one has seen him since.”
“And that strange attack upon the house, those frightful but incomprehensible words which were uttered by Mlle. Sabine, and which I seemed to hear as in a dream after I was hurt. These things puzzle me so. Explain them, I beg of you.”
“In your present state of mind I can see that a refusal on my part might prove dangerous.”
“Yes, very dangerous.”
“But I repeat that you must have courage, for—”
“I will, aunt, I will.”
“You remember, do you not, that on the afternoon of that memorable day, M. Cloarek, who had left for Havre without our knowing it, sent a message to his daughter from that city telling her that she must not be anxious about him, as some business matters might detain him until late that night? You recollect that, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“You remember, too, the fright we had the very evening of M. Cloarek’s arrival?”
“Yes, about those two men Thérèse thought she saw.”
“The poor girl saw them only too plainly, as subsequent events have proved, for two men, as we afterward learned, did effect an entrance into the garden, not to break into the house, but to reconnoitre.”
“The two men belonged to this armed band, then, I suppose.”
“One of them was the leader of it.”
Just then the nurse reëntered the room and motioned to Suzanne that she wished to speak to her.
“What is it?” inquired Suzanne, in a low tone.
“M. Segoffin has come.”
“And M. Cloarek?”
“M. Segoffin is alone and wants to see Mlle. Sabine at once. Thérèse went up to tell her, and she sent word for him to come right up to her room.”
“Tell mademoiselle that I will come at once if she needs me.”
The nurse left the room again, and Suzanne returned to her nephew’s bedside to continue her conversation with him.
CHAPTER XX.
THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
“IT WAS NO bad news that they came to tell you just now, was it, aunt?” inquired Onésime, as Suzanne reseated herself near him.
“Oh, no; I will tell you what it was presently. Let me go on with my story. You recollect Thérèse running in to tell us that the stable was on fire, and that a band of armed men were attacking the house?”
“Yes, yes; what a terrible night it was!”
“I shall never forget the mingled terror and admiration I felt at the courage you displayed. I can hear you saying now: ‘Flight is impossible; I cannot preserve you from danger, my infirmity, alas! prevents that, but I can at least make a rampart of my body for your protection;’ and, arming yourself with an iron bar wrenched from one of the shutters, you rushed to the door, and alone and unaided guarded the entrance to the room with truly supernatural courage and strength.”
