Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
Shakespeare.
As has been seen by the end of the preceding chapter, God, by one of those extraordinary combinations, which short-sighted man almost always attributes to chance, had summoned to his presence, and almost at the same moment, the souls of the noble Marquis d’Auray, and the poor low-born Achard. We have seen that the former, struck by the sight of Paul, the living portrait of his father, as if by a thunderbolt, fell at the feet of the young man, who was himself terrified at the effect his appearance had produced.
As to Achard, the circumstances which had hastened his death, although differing in their nature, and from very opposite feelings, had arisen from the same fatal causes, and had been brought about by the same individual. The sight of Paul had created direful emotions in the breasts both of the marquis and Achard. On the former from excess of terror, on the latter from excess of joy.
During the day which had preceded the intended signing of the contract, Achard had felt himself more feeble than usual. Notwithstanding this, he had not neglected in the evening to crawl to his master’s grave, there to put up his accustomed prayer. Thence he had observed with a devotion more profound than ever, that ever new and splendid spectacle, the sun sinking into the ocean. He had followed the decline of its enpurpled light, and as though the vast torch of the world had drawn3 his soul toward it, he had felt his strength extinguished with its last rays; so that when the servant from the castle came in the evening at the accustomed hour to receive his orders, not finding him in his house, had sought for him without the park, and as it was well known that he generally walked in that direction, found him lying extended at the foot of the great oak tree, upon the grave of his master, and deprived of consciousness. Thus did he remain constant to the last in that religious devotedness4 he had vowed5 to his master’s tomb, and which had been the exclusive feeling of the last years of his life.
The servant took him in his arms, and carried him into his house; and then, terrified at the unexpected accident, had hastened to the marchioness to inform her that Achard required the attendance of a physician and a priest, which message was delivered to her by the servant then in waiting, to which the marchioness refused to accede6, under the pretext7 that they were required as urgently by the marquis as the old servant, and that superiority of rank, powerful, even when at the point of death, gave her husband the right of first employing.
But the intelligence which had been announced to the marchioness at the moment of that dreadful agony, into which their varying interests and varying passions had thrown the actors in this family drama, of which we have become the historian, this intelligence, we say, was heard by Paul. Conceiving that the signature of the contract had now become impossible from the state of the marquis, he had only allowed himself time to whisper to Marguerite, that should she need his assistance, she would find him at Achard’s cottage, and then he rushed into the park, and winding8 his way amid its serpentine9 walks and thickets10, with the skill of a sear man, who reads his path in the starry11 firmament12, he soon reached the house, entered it panting from his rapid course, and found Achard just as he was recovering from his fainting fit, and clasped him in his arms. The delight of again seeing him renewed the strength of the old man, who now felt certain of having a friendly hand to close his eyes.
“Oh! it is you—it is you!” exclaimed the old man.
“I did not hope to see you again.”
“And could you possibly believe that I should have been apprized of the state in which you were, and that I would not instantly fly to your assistance?”
“But I knew not where to find you—where I could send to tell you that I wished once more to see you before I died.”
“I was at the castle, father, where I learned that you were dangerously ill, and I hastened hither.”
“And how was it that you were at the castle?” said the old man, with amazement13.
Paul related to him all that had occurred.
“Eternal Providence14!” cried the old man, when Paul had concluded his recital15, “how hidden and inevitable16 are thy decrees. Thou, who, after twenty years, hast conducted this youth to the cradle of his infancy17, and hast killed the assassin of the father, by the mere18 aspect of the son!”
“Yes, yes, thus it happens,” replied Paul, “and it is Providence, also, who conducts me to you, that I might save you. For I heard them refuse to send you the physician and the priest.”
“According to common justice,” rejoined Achard, “they might have made a fair division. The marquis, who fears death, might have retained the physician, while to me who am tired of life, they might have sent the priest.”
“I can go on horseback,” said Paul, “and in less than an hour—”
“In an hour it would be too late,” said the dying man, in an enfeebled voice, “a priest! a priest only—I ask but for a priest.”
“Father,” replied Paul, “in his sacred functions, I know I cannot supply his place; but we can speak of God, of his greatness and his goodness.”
“Yes, but let us first finish with the things of this earth, that we may then be able to turn our thoughts wholly to those of heaven. You say that, like myself, the marquis is dying.”
“I left him at the last agony.”
“You know, that immediately after his death, the papers which are deposited in that closet, and which prove your birth, are yours by right.”
“I know it.”
“If I die before the marquis, to whom can I confide19 them?” The old man sat up and pointed20 to a key hanging at the head of his bed. “You will take that key, you will open the closet—in it you will find a casket. You are a man of honor. Swear to me that you will not open that casket until the marquis shall be dead.”
“I swear it,” said Paul solemnly, and extending his hand towards the crucifix hanging at the head of the bed.
“‘Tis well,” replied Achard; “now I shall die in peace.”
“You may do so, for the son holds your hand in this world, and the father stretches out his towards you from heaven!”
“Do you believe, my child, that he will be satisfied with my fidelity21?”
“No king was ever so faithfully obeyed during life, as he has been since his death.”
“Yes,” murmured the old man, in a gloomy tone, “I was but too exact in following his orders. I ought not to have suffered the duel23 to have taken place; I ought to have refused attending it as a witness. Hear me, Paul; it is this that I wished to have said to a priest, for it is the only thing that weighs upon my conscience: listen: there have been moments of doubt, during which, I have regarded this solitary24 duel as an assassination25. In that case, Paul, oh! in that case, I have not only been a witness, but an accomplice26!”
“Oh! my second father,” replied Paul, “I know not whether the laws of earth are always in accordance with the laws of heaven, and whether honor as it is considered by man, would be a virtue27 in the eyes of the Lord; I know not whether our holy church, an enemy to bloodshed, permits that the injured should attempt with his own hands, to avenge28 the wrongs inflicted29 upon him by attacking his injurer, and if in that case, the judgment30 of heaven directs the pistol ball or the sword’s point. These are questions not to be
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