The Missal
That evening the Princess de Montfort did not have the hand of her usual cavalier to help her down from her carriage. For the first time, the Marquis had left his mother in the lurch.
The Princess was a strong-minded woman, as we have observed, and the opinion of all strong minds is that the doors should be thrown wide open once youth has reached its end. But among women, especially strong-minded women, there is a world of difference between theory and practice. One paltry ghost story had brought the Princess’s entire body out in gooseflesh, even though she did not believe in ghosts. Youth must come to an end, but the Princess was decidedly heartsick when she took the hand of Doctor Récamier as she mounted the steps of her townhouse.
“You have a touch of fever, my lady,” the Doctor said to her, “and I’m not surprised, after everything that has happened. Take my advice: have a nice warm bath tomorrow morning, with a simple affusion of cold water.”
“When I think, Doctor,” the Princess sighed, “that I took that demoiselle d’Arnheim for... oh, the shameless villains! Leonie felt a hairy hand... she’s a little mad, poor thing... but look at Gaston, with the bit between his teeth! Oh, I hope he’s done the right thing, leaving the seminary! She’s pretty, at least. There’s nothing to be said. And poor Emerance has a slight squint... but not unbecoming, eh? What a party! It was too terrible, Doctor!”
The Doctor took his leave, saying: “In a nice warm bath, my lady, a simple affusion.”
If anyone had asked the Princess where her son was at that moment, she would have replied without hesitation and with perfect confidence: “My son Gaston is prowling around Mademoiselle d’Arnheim.” She might perhaps have added, in her capacity as a strong-minded woman: “At least the Duc never chases after angels!”
In spite of her long experience and ample powers of deduction, the Princess would have been in error in this case. Gaston was not prowling around Mademoiselle d’Arnheim; Gaston was all alone, making his way on foot across the three leagues that separated the Château de Conflans from the Rue de l’Université.
Gaston had indeed escorted Monsieur d’Arnheim and his daughter as far as the humble carriage that awaited them at the gate of the château, but there he had left them, saying to the old man: “Whatever time it may be when I call on you tonight, you must see me; you will understand the reasons for my actions then.” He had then gone back towards the château, but instead of going in to find his mother, who would have pestered him for news, he had circled the building and then gone back into the park.
The moon was hidden; the sky was still full of huge, heavy and slow-moving clouds, through which its light occasionally showed for brief intervals. Gaston retraced the route that he had followed during the soirée; he seemed very agitated. When he reached the patch of woodland the darkness was so deep that he hesitated, unsure of his path.
The mysterious noises that he had heard earlier within the park and its environs had ceased now. All was silent save for the distant murmur of the great city, whose presence also revealed itself by the red tint reflected from the low clouds that lay over it.
Such fears are childish! thought the Marquis de Lorgères. Even so, I have heard it said that the whole world is vulnerable to such effects, including the King... I am no exception.
He had passed into an elmwood, whose undergrowth was composed of thorn-bushes and privet, entwined with serpentine honeysuckle. It was here that he had come during the soirée; he remembered it well–but the elm-grove extended for more than an acre. How could he locate one particular spot in the midst of that profound obscurity?
He took advantage of one shaft of moonlight to move out of the wood, then he set himself to follow the edge of the stand, looking for the little footpath that he had already missed once. A second glimmer of light showed him a dozen petty paths winding into the undergrowth, all very similar. At the same time, he heard the sound of carriage-wheels on the driveway; the guests were going home and the doors would soon be closed. He had to make haste.
Gaston picked one of the footpaths at random and followed it for a hundred paces; it led him straight to an enormous stump surrounded by heaps of dead wood. He retraced his steps at a run and took another route, then another: they both took him deeper into the wood. The lights were being extinguished in the château. It would no longer be possible to leave by the gate.
An entire hour went by while he searched in vain, and Gaston had quite lost heart, when a shaft of moonlight lit a spark at his feet. Something flat and metallic glittered in the brushwood. He bent down, picked up the object that he had previously hidden there, buttoned his coat over his precious find, and made for the wall that enclosed the park.
A stone wall is a small obstacle to a twenty-year-old in good health. He climbed over it easily, without injury to anything but the knees of his trousers and the cuffs of his black coat. I dare say that His Grace’s guard-dogs howled a little, but Gaston was already on his way along the highway.
There was an official on duty at the toll-gate, sleeping in that extraordinary fashion which does not prevent officials from seeing confusedly and moving slowly. There are barriers on every road into Paris, whose presence is vital to the taxation of wines and spirits. The somnambulist, seeing a bare-headed man whose trousers were ripped at the knees and whose coat was torn at the cuffs, leapt to the conclusion that he must be a smuggler intent on the fraudulent introduction of a vast quantity of wine, and sounded the alarm in order to rouse his five companions from the same magical sleep. The six functionaries, moved by the best of intentions, demanded that Gaston should either show them his import license or pay his duty.
When Gaston demanded to be allowed through, he was seized and searched, but released again because the officials had found nothing on him but a little missal bound in velvet and enclosed in polished steel, at the end of a length of chain, also made of steel. Gaston, when he saw the missal in the hands of these good men, fell into a chair and almost lost consciousness–but the unanimous opinion of the officials was that even if the object were hollow and full of proof spirit, its capacity was too small for any tax to be payable.
Gaston accepted the return of the missal as if he were taking possession of a treasure and hurried on his way, without bidding farewell to the men in green who had persecuted him while they were lost in a dream.
The missal was, as we have already established, bound in velvet and hermetically encased in steel, sealed by an antique lock; its solidity seemed proven. A large number of ecclesiastics possess breviaries of that sort, but we have no intention of laying a trap for the perspicacity of the reader. The little book was most certainly the one which had formerly hung, attached to a steel chain, around the neck of Monsignor Benedict. Gaston had found it on the ground and picked it up when the Archbishop’s guests had left the lawn after the story-telling. But why had he not returned it to Monsignor Benedict? Why, instead, had he hidden it as if he were concealing a treasure? The young and handsome Marquis de Lorgères certainly did not look like a thief.
To tell the truth, it could hardly have been an object of very great importance, since Monsignor Benedict had not even noticed that it was missing during the three hours that the concert had lasted.
Or could it?
It was about two o’clock in the morning when the Marquis arrived at the end of the Rue de l’Université, in front of his mother’s townhouse. The de Montfort residence was situated not far from the Bourbon Palace, close to the corner of the Rue de Courty. Gaston did not pause at the impressive gateway; he turned the corner of the Rue de Courty, still running, and rang the doorbell of a modest house which backed on to the rear garden of the mansion.
This simple topographical detail will perhaps explain to the reader the innocent and mute mystery of the sentiments of Gaston and Lenore. Lenore’s bedroom window looked out upon the vast garden where Gaston had–for an entire month–been taking endless walks.
The door opened. Gaston went up to the second floor and was introduced by Monsieur d’Arnheim himself into a rather squalid apartment. The little spaniel, Mina, came to welcome her friend.
The silent and somber Monsieur d’Arnheim opened the door of his study and closed it behind them.
The clock on the Bourbon palace was sounding five o’clock when Monsieur d’Arnheim’s study-door opened again to let Gaston out. Some agreement must have been reached between them, because they shook hands before parting.