Hamlet.—Dost thou know this water-fly?      Horatio.—No, my good lord.
     Hamlet.—Thy state is the more gracious; for ‘tis a vice¹ to know him.
     SHAKESPEARE.
 
     Here on my knees by heaven’s blest nower I swear,
     If you persist, I ne’er henceforth will see you;
     But rather wander through the world a beggar,
     And live on sordid² scraps³ at poor men’s doors.
     For, though to fortune lost, I’ll still inherit
     My mother’s virtues⁵ and my father’s honor.—Otway.
The day following that on which Paul had been made acquainted with the secret of his birth, the inhabitants of the castle of Auray awoke more than ever absorbed in the fears and hopes which their several interests had created, for that day must necessarily prove a decisive one to the whole of them. The marchioness, whom our readers have ere this discovered, was neither perverse⁶ or wicked, but a haughty⁷ and inflexible⁸ woman, saw in it the termination of those heart-rending apprehensions¹⁰, which for so many years, had been her daily companions; for it was above all, in the eyes of her children, that she wished to preserve that unsullied reputation, the usurpation¹¹ of which had been purchased at such cost. To her, Lectoure was not only a fitting son-in-law, being the bearer of a name as noble as her own, but more than this, a man, or rather a good genius, who at the same moment would bear away not only her daughter, whom he would take with him as his wife, but her son also, to whom the minister, thanks to this alliance, had promised to give a regiment¹². Both her children gone, her first-born might come, and the secret revealed to him, would find no echo. Moreover, there were a thousand methods by which to close his lips. The fortune of the marchioness was immense, and gold was one of those resources, which, in such a case, she deemed infallible. The more terrible her fears, the more ardently¹³ did she desire this union; so that she not only encouraged the anxiety of Lectoure, but she also excited that of Emanuel. As to the latter, tired of living unknown at Paris, or immured¹⁴ in Brittany, lost in the crowd of brilliant young men who formed the household of the King, or shut up in the antique castle of his ancestors, having their portraits as his sole companions, he knocked with impatient eagerness at the golden door which his intended brother-in-law was to open for him, at Versailles. The grief and tears of his sister had, certainly, for a time afflicted¹⁵ him; for he was ambitious, more from a dread¹⁶ of the ennui¹⁷, which would consume him if compelled to live on his estate, and from the desire of parading at the head of his regiment, captivating the hearts of all the ladies by the richness and good taste of his uniform, than from either pride or hardness of heart. Being himself incapable¹⁸ of forming any serious attachment¹⁹, and despite the fatal consequences of his sister’s love, he considered that love, merely as a childish fancy, which the tumult²⁰ and pleasure of the world would soon efface²¹ from her memory, and he really believed that before a year had elapsed, she would be the first to thank him for having thus done violence to her feelings.
 
As to Marguerite, poor victim, so irrevocably condemned²² to be immolated²³ to the fear of the one, and to the ambition of the other, the scene of the preceding day had made a profound impression on her mind. She could not at all account to herself for the extraordinary feelings which the young man who had transmitted to her the words of Lusignan, had awakened²⁴ in her heart; who had tranquillized her as to the fate of the unhappy exile, and had concluded by pressing her to his heart, and calling her his sister. A vague and instinctive²⁵ hope whispered to her heart, that this man, as he had told her, had received from heaven the mission to protect her. But as she was ignorant of the tie which bound him to her, of the secret which made him master of his mother’s will, of the influence he might exercise over her future life, she did not dare allow herself to dream of happiness, habituated as she had been for six months, to consider death as the only term to her misfortunes.
 
The marquis, alone, amid the various emotions which agitated²⁶ all around him, had remained coldly and impassibly indifferent; for to him the world had ceased to move since the dreadful day on which reason had abandoned him; continually absorbed by one fixed²⁷ idea, that of his mortal combat, without seconds. The only words he ever uttered, were those pronounced by the Count de Morlaix, when he forgave him his death. He was an old man, weak as an infant, and whom his wife could overawe by a gesture, and who received from her cold and continuous will, every impulsion, which, for twenty years, the vegetating²⁸ instinct had received, and which, on him, had usurped²⁹ the place of reason and free will. On this day, however, a great change had taken place in his monotonous³⁰ mode of life. A valet de chambre had entered his apartment, and had succeeded to the marchioness in the cares of his toilette; he had dressed him in his uniform of steward³¹ of the household, had decorated his breast with the several orders that had been conferred upon him; and then the marchioness, placing a pen in his hand, had ordered him to try to sign his name, and he had obeyed, passively and negligently³², without imagining that he was studying the part of an executioner.
 
About three in the afternoon, a postchaise, the sound of whose wheels had very differently impressed the hearts of the three persons who were expecting it, entered the court-yard of the castle. Emanuel had eagerly run down to the vestibule to receive his future brother-in-law, for it was he who had arrived. Lectoure sprang lightly from his carriage. He had halted for some time at the last post-house, to attire³³ himself in a presentable costume, so that he arrived in an elegant court dress of the latest fashion. Emanuel smiled at this evidence of his anxiety, for it was clearly to be perceived, that Lectoure was determined³⁴ not to lose the advantage of a first favorable impression, by presenting himself in a dusty travelling dress. His intercourse³⁵ with the fair sex had taught him, that they almost invariably judge from the first glance, and the effect which it produces upon their minds or hearts, let it be favorable or unfavorable, is with difficulty removed. Moreover, it is but rendering³⁶ justice to the baron³⁷ to acknowledge that his person was graceful³⁸ and elegant, and might have been dangerous to any woman whose heart was not already occupied by another.
 
“Permit me, my dear baron,” said Emanuel, advancing toward him, “in the momentary³⁹ absence of the ladies, to do the honors of the mansion⁴⁰ of my ancestors. See,” continued he, when they had reached the top of the stone steps leading into the hall, and pointing to the turrets⁴¹ and the bastions, “these date from the time of Philip Augustus, as to architecture, and from Henry IV., in point of ornament⁴².”
 
“Upon my honor,” replied the baron, in the affected⁴³ tone which the young men of that day had adopted, “it is a most charming fortress⁴⁴, and throws around it, to a distance of at least three leagues, a baronial odour, which would perfume even an army contractor⁴⁵. If ever,” continued he, as they passed through the hall and entered a gallery ornamented⁴⁶ on each side with long lines of family portraits, “I should take a fancy to enter into a rebellion against his most Christian⁴⁷ Majesty⁴⁸, I shall entreat⁴⁹ you to lend me this jewel of a place; and,” added he, casting his eyes on the long rows of ancestors which offered themselves to his view, “the garrison⁵⁰ with it.”
 
“Thirty-three quarters—I will not say in flesh and blood,” replied Emanuel, “for they are long since turned to dust—but in painting, as you see. They begin with a certain Chevalier Hugues d’Auray, who accompanied King Louis VII. to the crusades; that one, it is pretended, is my aunt Deborah, whom you see decked out as Judith; and all this eventually ends in the male line, in the last member of this illustrious family, your very humble⁵¹ and very obedient servant, Emanuel d’Auray.”
 
“It is perfectly⁵² respectable, and nothing can be more authentic⁵³.”
 
“Yes; but as I do not feel that I have, as yet, become sufficiently⁵⁴ a patriarch,” rejoined Emanuel, passing before the baron to show him the way to the apartment which had been prepared for him, “to spend my days in such formidable society, I hope, baron, that you have thought of the means by which I can withdraw from it?”
 
“Undoubtedly, my dear count,” said Lectoure, following him. “I wished even to have been myself the bearer of your commission, as my wedding gift to you. I knew of a vacancy⁵⁵ in the queen’s dragoon’s, and called yesterday on M. de Maurepas to solicit⁵⁶ it for you, when I heard that it had been granted, at the request of I know not what mysterious admiral, a sort of corsair, pirate, or fantastic being, whom the queen has made the fashion by giving him her hand to kiss, and whom the king has taken a great affection to because he beat the English, I know not where—so that his majesty has conferred upon him the order of military merit, and presented him a sword with a gold hilt, just as he would have done to one of the nobility. In short, the game is lost on that side, but do not be alarmed, we will turn round to another.”
 
“Very well,” replied Emanuel, “I care not what regiment it may be in; what I desire is, that it should be a rank suitable to my name, and a position which would be becoming to our wealth.”
 
“Precisely—you shall have them.”
 
“But how,” said Emanuel, wishing to change the subject of conversation, “how did you manage to get rid of the thousand engagements you must have had on your hands.”
 
“Why,” said the baron, with that perfectly free and easy air, which belonged only to that distinguished⁵⁷ class, and stretching himself upon a couch, for they had at length reached the apartment destined⁵⁸ for him, “why, by frankly⁵⁹ stating the fact to them. I announced at the queen’s card table, I was going to be married.”
 
“Oh! good heaven! Why, this was perfect heroism⁶⁰! Above all, if you acknowledged you were about to seek a wife in the depths of Lower Brittany.”
 
“I did acknowledge it.”
 
“And then,” said Emanuel, smiling, “compassion stifled⁶¹ every angry feeling.”
 
“Gad! you will readily comprehend, my dear count,” said Lectoure, putting one knee over the other and, balancing his leg with a motion as regular as that of a pendulum⁶², “our women of the court believe that the sun rises at Paris, and sets at Versailles—all the rest of France, is, in their idea, a Lapland, Greenland, Nova Zembla! So that they expect, as you have hinted, my dear count, to see me bring back with me from my voyage to the pole some large hands, and formidable feet! Fortunately, they are mistaken,” he added, with an accent half timorous⁶³, half interrogatory; “is it not so, Emanuel? for you told me that your sister”——
 
“You will see her,” replied Emanuel.
 
“It will be a dreadful disappointment to that poor Madame de Chaulne—it cannot be helped—and she must console herself. What is it?”
 
This question was induced by the entrance of Emanuel’s valet-de-chambre; who had half opened the door, and remained upon the threshold, waiting, as was then the custom of all servants in great houses, till his master should address him.
 
“What is it? repeated Emanuel.
 
“Mademoiselle Marguerite d’ Auray requests that Monsieur, the Baron de Lectoure, will honor her with a private interview.”
 
“Me!” said Lectoure, rising from the sofa, “certainly, with the greatest pleasure.”
 
“But no! it is a mistake!” exclaimed Emanuel; “you must be mistaken, Celestin.”
 
“I have the honor to assure your lordship,” replied the valet de chambre, “that I have correctly and faithfully executed the order which was given to me.”
 
“Impossible!” said Emanuel, uneasy to the highest degree, at the step his sister had ventured to take: “Baron, if you will be advised by me, you will send the little simpleton about her business.”
 
“By no means! by no means,” replied Lectoure. “What does this bluebeard of a brother mean? Celestin! Did you not call this lad, Celestin?”
 
Emanuel impatiently bowed his head in the affirmative. “Well then, Celestin, tell my lovely betrothed⁶⁵ that I throw myself at her knees, at her feet, and that I await her orders either to go to her or to receive her here;—and there, take this for the charges of your embassy.”
 
He threw him his purse.
 
“And you, count,” rejoined Lectoure, “I trust that you have confidence enough in me, to permit this tête-à-tête?”
 
“But it is so perfectly absurd!”
 
“Not at all,” replied Lectoure; “on the contrary, it is perfectly befitting.............