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It was silent inside the room. Outside in the court I could hear a dog barking, and somewhere a servant called to another at the back. But inside the room, I heard no sound except the ticking of the carved ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, and my own subsiding sobs. Then Father Desmoulins was standing beside me, his face dismayed.
“My dear child!” he exclaimed, “you must not cry! Come,” he added, taking a seat near to me, “quiet yourself, or someone may hear what you have said. Come, come, control yourself,” he repeated with a trace of sternness, and I slowly mastered myself.
Already I was beginning to repent and be afraid at my own outburst. In one moment I had thrown to the winds the careful work of many weeks. And yet—had I had any alternative?
Then, tardily, one of the things he had said came back to me and I blinked and raised my eyes to him. “You—knew?”
“My dear child, I—what is your name?”
“Laura, Father. Laura Monteith.”
“You are very like Monique, it is true—”
“Her mother and mine were sisters, and as little girls we were often thought to be twins.”
“That would explain it, of course. Well, my dear Mademoiselle Laura, I have been Monique de Montigny’s confessor since she was a girl of seventeen. I may say that I know her as well as anyone alive, except possibly her own husband. She was married in my church, and I visited her when her child was born, and she made her weekly confessions to me. On the first evening I met you, I went home with a vague suspicion that something was wrong: the woman I knew would not have faced me, her own parish priest, as you did. I put it down to a sense of guilt, and I reflected that I must after all have been a poor judge of character—for I would have sworn that the Monique I knew could never have left her home with a lover. Without entering into details, I think I may say that Monique was a faithful wife and mother, and a pious woman who could never have taken such a step without giving me at least some hint of the drastic conflict she was facing. And so, when I came to think it over, I was convinced that I was confronted with a clever impostor. But could you have deceived Monsieur de Montigny? And what would be the purpose of doing so? I came again mostly to confirm my belief, and now you have done so for me. But now—” he tapped lightly upon the chair arm, and spoke sternly—“you ask me to help you, so you must tell me everything.”
“Father—you will not reveal what I say—”
“I cannot promise to keep what you tell me as in the seal of confession,” he said gravely, “and indeed, even if you were a Catholic and making confession to me, as your priest I would have the solemn duty to admonish you that in perpetrating this fraud, you are gravely imperiling yourself.”
“Father, I have committed no crime. At the very worst I am afraid I may have hidden the evidence of one. I loved Monique; I came here as much to discover the truth about her, as for any other reason! But I promised Étienne—Monsieur de Montigny—not to tell—”
I vacillated. The priest said quietly, “I have told you; I cannot give you the seal of confession, or help to suppress evidence of a crime. But if you wish to talk to me as a friend, my child, then I promise you that except for evidence of crime I will keep whatever you say as secret as if it were indeed in the confessional. First of all, are you living with Étienne de Montigny as his wife?”
My face burning, I shook my head. “No. But I—I am his wife. We were married in Paris some weeks ago.”
He looked shocked. “To a Protestant, a non-believer? What priest married you?”
“It was a civil ceremony before a magistrate, Father.”
His brow furrowed lightly. “Then your marriage is not valid before the church, but even so—where is Monique herself?”
I swallowed. “Dead. Or so Étienne told me.”
He crossed himself and whispered, “How?”
I told him what Étienne had told me of Monique’s suicide; he looked inexpressibly shocked for a moment, and murmured something in Latin which I took to be a prayer. Then he frowned. “But Étienne de Montigny told you he did not see or identify his wife’s, your cousin’s body?”
“No. They assumed that the body had washed out to sea.”
He said vehemently, “I cannot believe that it was suicide! I tell you, I cannot and do not believe it, my child! Listen, I knew Monique de Montigny. I would swear at the throne of God that she was a good and pious woman. She might be tempted, she might even fall a victim to passion—although I never would have guessed that she was prone to such a fall—but suicide? No, never! There is forgiveness and absolution for sin, but the Catholic who throws away the life given by God sins without hope of forgiveness! Monique might have been capable of sin, but of suicide, never, never!” His brow was set, his mind apparently quite made up. “No, the poor young thing may have met death by accident or by misadventure, but she never took her own life!”
This confirmed what I had always believed. “I couldn’t believe it ever,” I said, “and lately—” I hesitated, my breath not sure, for this was the first time I had dared to voice this suspicion, “I have begun to wonder—if she is even dead!”
“You think there is a doubt?”
“Her body was not found.”
Priest-like, he fastened at once on one point I had overlooked. “But—in God’s sight, my child, that would mean that Étienne de Montigny is a bigamist!”
“You yourself pointed out that the marriage was not legal,” I said shrewdly. “Perhaps he deliberately contracted a marriage he knew to be invalid, just so that no such charge could be sustained against him.”
The priest shook his head. “It is hard to believe him capable of such double dealing. I had believed him a man embittered justly by his wife’s misbehavior and disgrace, but he also was once a good and a pious man, and I had hopes of seeing him eventually reconciled, when his bitterness had subsided, to the Church.”
Étienne’s spiritual state meant nothing to me at present. I felt again the wild seesaw and sway of conflicting emotions, on the one hand, the impulse to defend Étienne against accusations, on the other my new fear of him and my hideous suspicion that in a moment of justifiable rage or madness, he himself had turned on Monique.
“Tell me all about this,” the priest commanded, and I realized that having gone so far, I might as well continue.
I began in Paris, with the story of Étienne’s visit to me, and his determination to control Monique’s estate for the sake of his son. When I spoke of his fears that little Étienne, if left to Monique’s relatives, might not long survive his mother, the priest interrupted me with a cry of horror; then, silencing himself and pressing his lips together, bade me go on.
“Why did you not reveal, then, to your cousin’s husband, that you were Monique’s cousin, and make a common cause with him?”
“I don’t know,” I said, hesitating, not willing even now to speak of my sudden spasms of distrust for Étienne.
“I suppose I was angry that he had accused Monique of such a shocking thing, and I wanted to—to see if I could find out why she had disgraced herself that way. I knew there must have been some reason.” My throat closed. “Monique was a good girl,” I said, hoarsely, “and when I knew Étienne—when I had begun to know Étienne better—” I stopped and sat silent, head bent.
The priest’s eyes seemed to burn through the top of my head, but all he said was, “Go on.”
I decided to tell him everything, and quietly, without further emotion, related everything that had happened since coming here. I spoke of my guilt at concealing my identity from the Dowager Countess, of Philippe’s kiss, and my response, and my own dismay at it. I spoke of my dislike and fear of Uncle Gaston, and of the blow that had struck me down just after I found Monique’s Bible in the deserted wing of the house. I finished with this morning’s terror over little Étienne, and the priest shook his head with deep concern.
“The child must be guarded,” he said decisively. “Of course nothing can be proven; children are often ill, and even if he had taken poison, he is a high-spirited and curious little lad and may have been meddling with something unwholesome. Nevertheless—he is not alone at present?” he demanded, and when I explained the precautions I had taken, he looked relieved.
“Good, good. I know the good Françoise; she is most trustworthy, and I know very well she is entirely devoted to her little charge. But be sure that she does not let him out of her sight by night or day until you are certain of what has happened.”
“I don’t really believe that Étienne could have done it!” I burst out.
He looked at me gravely and said, “My child, you are very much in love with Monsieur Étienne, are you not?”
My mouth dropped open. I began to deny it, and stopped, stammering. I could not go on.
The priest had said what I had not dared to admit even to myself. I loved Étienne. I had grown to love him in the weeks of our journey, and now my original distrust had turned to horror. Yet I loved him. Originally, if I had suspected Étienne of conspiracy at best and murder at worst, I should have been overjoyed to expose him and clear Monique’s name. But now the suspicion was a horror unspeakable. And I—what was I, to love a man whom I thought capable of murder? My eyes filled with tears but I did not speak.
The priest shook his head sadly. “I thought so. No, you need not be ashamed, child. I have seen enough of human nature not to be surprised at the strange paths into which love can lead the unwary. And I judge, at least, that you are innocent of anything more than a young girl’s fancy—unless the wretch has dared to seduce you?” he demanded, his face suddenly darkening. I felt myself burning with shame, but faced him clearly and truthfully.
“No! As God is my judge, Father—no!”
“I thought not,” he said, smiling briefly at me, before he looked stern again. “How long will Étienne be away?”
“I think he is to return in three days, Father.” The word came naturally to my lips now.
He pondered that, lips pouting slightly, his round face troubled. “I suppose there is nothing to be done, until he returns.”
“You will not give me away, Father?” I had suddenly realized that he was an old friend of the château, and that he might consider it his duty immediately to expose an impostor’s fraud.
His response was immediate. “Indeed not, my child! Did I not tell you that, while I could not suppress evidence of a crime, I would keep anything else under a promise of secrecy as firm as that of the confessional? And indeed, I cannot see that you, yourself, have committed any crime. You are not attempting to seize Monique’s estate for yourself, or to benefit from this imposture”—he waved aside my protest—“you are, if your story is true, actually trying to safeguard her estate for her child. And even if Étienne’s fears are groundless and little Étienne is in no danger, it is at worst a pious fraud, and a most praise worthy desire to avoid casting a scandal on her memory. So that if the Count made you a liberal present on behalf of your cousin, you would have earned it.” He considered a moment. “Nevertheless, the matter is less clear than I thought. Have you seen a village girl named Lucie Gouart?”
I nodded and told how I had met the strange child.
“She is one of God’s innocents; she is epileptic, and also suffers from that strange affliction known as claustrophobia, which means that in any closed room she will scream out that she is stifling; but she is honest as a usual thing. She came to see me soon after Monique had run away and told me some long and confused tale about seeing her dead and in the quarry pit. I thought the child was having hallucinations, although she had never had them before, and I was troubled because I feared she would grow worse and have to be taken to the asylum. And, poor child, that would only make her madness worse. But now”—he frowned and shook his head—“I simply do not know. What you tell me about the secret room here—and all the rest—” Again the silent shake of the head.
Finally he said, “When the Count returns, I must talk with him.”
“Oh, no! He will know I have betrayed him—”
“You did right,” the priest maintained stubbornly. “I am also responsible for the soul of Étienne de Montigny, my child. I said that you committed no crime, but I am by no means so certain about Monsieur Étienne. At the very least, he has contracted a fraudulent marriage, outside of the discipline of his church! And,” he added, more gently, “if he has cause to suspect that his son’s life is or may be in danger, then the evidence should be made known and the culprits exposed.”
He did not go on, but I could complete it for myself: And if Étienne himself is guilty—
He rose to go, saying, “Let me counsel you, my child. Remain silent about everything you have said here. The moment that Étienne returns, send me word. I will come and talk to him, and find out what he is about. He should have confided in me; he knows I was his wife’s spiritual counselor and friend, and that I have always been his friend. I will still be his friend, and if he is guilty only of hasty and misguided action, I shall do everything in my power to help him.”
I rose, too. I felt confused, but peaceful, as if I had laid my burden on stronger shoulders. At the door, he laid his hand kindly on my shoulder.
“Take heart, my child. God bless you. And—may I suggest that you, too, should pray? Pray for your cousin, or for the repose of her soul if she is dead, and for her child’s safety. And”—he smiled and shook his head—“pray for that misguided young man Étienne—that God may save you both from trouble or sin!”
He raised his hand and blessed me in Latin, and went away. I sank down at Monique’s prie-dieu, and buried my face in my hands. I had been brought up to pray, but now no prayers would come, only a confused and helpless sense of pleading. And when at last I could pray, I found that none of my prayers were for any of the things Father Desmoulins had recommended.
I was praying for the man I loved, and pouring myself out in helpless entreaty that Étienne must not be guilty, that he could not be guilty....
I do not know how long I knelt there, my face buried in my hands, silently trying to pray. After a long time I was aware that Annette had come into the room; I tried to wipe my eyes, unseen, and asked in a muffled voice what she wanted.
“Monsieur told me before he left that you were going upon a journey when he returned, Madame. Shall I begin packing Madame’s trunk, or will you not wish to leave with the little one so ill?”
I tried to collect myself. When Étienne returned we would get away from here. If he returned—could we get the child away? I said, “Perhaps Monsieur will think that the child will be the better for a long holiday—a—a change of climate—” but my voice shook. I was not capable of making decisions at that moment, and I knew it. Annette, fortunately, laid down my tears to fears for little Étienne; she came close and said kindly, “Come, come, Madame, you will make yourself ill with fretting; the little love is better, and after all, when Monsieur returns—” She broke off as someone knocked at the door, grumbling, “Now who can that be? I told them to let Madame alone—”
“Françoise?” If little Étienne was worse—I rose to fly to the door, but Annette, with a scandalized look, went properly to open it for me.
“Monsieur Philippe?” she said in surprise.
He brushed carelessly past her. I looked at him in a brief indignation, but he came forward, matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry for intruding, Monique; I can see that you’ve been crying. I saw Father Desmoulins leave. Did the old fellow lecture you lengthily on your sins?”
He looked quiet and subdued, and I chided myself that even in this moment I was very much aware of how handsome he was. Étienne had spoken of his good looks, I recalled, on that now incredibly distant day of our marriage—had it been less than a month ago?—“I didn’t say Philippe was handsome, I said Monique thought he was handsome.”
He gave me his hand to rise, saying lightly, “Or was it all under seal, and shouldn’t I ask? Just the same, he shouldn’t make you cry, my dear niece. Come, sit here. Annette, why don’t you be off? You can safely leave your mistress to me, you know,” he added, and turned a wicked smile at me, “we were boy and girl together. Shall I have her bring you a glass of wine, Monique, and a biscuit? Or shall we just sit here quietly as we used to do in the good old days before—no, I won’t say it, you have now become so pious and good that you resent my words about your husband. So I will just say, in the good old days when we were a boy and girl and there was nothing troublesome between us. Go on, Annette—get out!”
She glanced at me for permission, and I hesitated briefly. I had been rather forcibly reminded that my own Yankee standards were not a proper guide for behavior here; I was not a jeune fille but a married woman with a child, and Philippe was supposed to be a near relative I had known since girlhood. “Yes, leave us alone, Annette,” I said, and the woman withdrew.
“And so it is like old times.” Philippe sat down near me, his voice was gentle, making it easy for me to take up my role again.
But the last thing I wanted was a flood of reminiscences; if Monique and Philippe had been such friends, they would have a fund of joint memories, albeit childish ones, which I could not hope to counterfeit and about which Étienne could not possibly have warned me. I said, “I try never to look back at old times, Philippe.”
“No?” He smiled and reached for my hand; surprised, I let him take it. “You should have married me, as Gaston and Louis wished. It would have been so suitable. Uncle and niece are not within the forbidden degrees of affinity. We were friends, you and I; we would have agreed well together. It would have meant that the property would have stayed in the hands of a true Des Cars of the main line, and passed to our heirs after us.”
This was dangerous ground. I said, “It’s over; why talk about it?”
“But you know and I know! Étienne de Montigny is nothing but a fortune hunter who would lose no time in getting his hands on your money. If his wife were dead, do you suppose the precious Count de Montigny, with his title as threadbare as his breeches when he came here, could care a scrap about the old name of Des Cars?”
I said, rising with what dignity I could muster, to cut this short, “What gives you the right to talk that way about my husband?”
Philippe’s steady, slightly mocking smile did not falter. He took me by the wrist with a quick, catlike movement; I flinched, but he held my arm with a carefully gentle grip that was somehow more terrifying than the most violent brutality could possibly have been. His voice was suave, almost a whisper.
“What gives me the right? I’ll tell you what gives me the right to talk about your—” He paused a long moment, “husband, my girl. Look at me!” He barely applied pressure to my wrist, but as he spoke my face went slowly up to meet his.
“I don’t know what Étienne’s game is, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. Because whoever you are, wherever he picked you up, you’re not Monique—and I’d like to know who in the devil you really are, and what you’re doing here!”
