Chapter One.

Monsieur Raoul.

Monsieur Raoul, in his carriage, was making the round of the estates. To a certain extent, this was a frequent custom, but there were times when it was attended by a more deliberate ceremony and purpose, and such was the case this morning. The carriage went slowly, as if on a tour of inspection. When it passed men, they gave a ready “Good-day.” Where the white-capped women were not at work, they came smiling to their doorways on hearing the familiar noise of wheels, sometimes holding up their children that they, too, might look at M. Raoul. Evidently he was a great personage, although you might not have guessed it.

As for the estate, to the eye it was all that could be desired. The land, it was true, was flat, but so rich and so highly cultivated that, except the meadows, not a foot but appeared to grow crops. Vineyards caught the hot sun on ripening grapes; apple orchards surrounded cottages; the beauty was glowing, tranquil, a little substantial. Through the heart of the country flowed a broad river, offering excellent fishing, and in places bordered with orderly poplars; on one side was a high bank; the only hill was insignificant, and rose behind the château. It was possible to conceive an ugly air of desolation abroad in winter, but in autumn, and autumn as yet untouched by decay, there was a delightful fresh gaiety in the bounty of the land. At one spot where the carriage arrived in sight of the river, M. Raoul craned his neck forward, but made no remark.

The tour of the cottages accomplished, the carriage turned homeward. When it reached a point where a narrow path broke away, M. Raoul waved his hand in that direction.

“There!” he said, determinedly.

The carriage came to a stand-still. The driver turned doubtfully and scratched his head.

“But, monsieur—” he remonstrated.

M. Raoul interrupted him in a still more peremptory tone.

“There!”

“But monsieur remembers that Madame de Beaudrillart especially said—”

For the third time the one word shot out:

“There!”

Jean scratched his head again, looked round helplessly, and then stared at the sky. Finding no suggestion for extricating himself from the dilemma, he ended by submitting to M. Raoul’s order, and, with a sigh of perplexity, turned in the direction indicated. He had lived long enough at Poissy to have learned that it was often difficult to reconcile opposing wills, and that, as they were strong, there was always the risk of being crushed by them. Moreover, he was not without hope. The way they had taken was scarcely wide enough for the carriage—branches whipped their faces, and they were bumped relentlessly over the rough ground. Jean groaned loudly, and glanced back at his master to see how he liked it. But M. Raoul showed no sign of discomfiture; he sat erect, smiling, and now and then flourishing something which he held tightly grasped in his hand. Presently they reached a grassy opening enclosed with trees. The carriage halted, and Jean advanced towards it, reins in hand.

“Monsieur sees for himself that we can go no farther.”

M. Raoul did not give him time to reach him. Before Jean could realise what he was doing, he had slipped out of the carriage on the opposite side, and plunged into an undergrowth of bushes which clothed a steep bank, and crept down to the river. Jean made an ineffectual effort to follow and stop him, but the small pony, excited by M. Raoul’s triumphant cry, began to back and kick and show signs of bolting, so that his driver was forced, to return to his head. Jean was a person slow to make up his mind, and with a strong objection to responsibilities. He had remarked that they generally brought one into trouble. If Mme. de Beaudrillart, or either of the young ladies, madame’s daughters, happened to be walking in the grounds, as was too likely, and met the carriage and pony without a driver, it was impossible to say what might not happen; and as it was out of the question to keep both the carriage and M. Raoul in view, and he had unbounded confidence in M. Raoul’s capabilities, Jean resolved to stick to the carriage. But though occasionally stupid, he was not a fool, and he recognised the need of letting some one know of M. Raoul’s vagaries. He therefore pushed the pony as quickly as possible through the tangled path, and when he found himself again in a wider road, set off at a fast trot towards the château, hoping quickly to meet his father or another of the gardeners. Unfortunately, however, the first person he encountered was the last to whom he would have desired to tell his story.

Mlle. Claire de Beaudrillart was the younger of the two sisters who lived with their mother, her son and his wife, at the château. Both sisters were some years older than their brother, and Mlle. Claire would never again see her thirty-seventh birthday. Not so handsome as her mother, she was still a striking-looking woman, tall, thin, and carrying herself well. Like all the Beaudrillarts, she was dark; like them, too, her chin was strongly moulded, her nose straight. Once when there were tableaux at Poissy, and old dresses had been drawn from a great armoire, it might have been supposed that the very Claire of two centuries back had stepped out of her frame in the picture-gallery. She was invariably exquisitely neat even in the house, and if her temper was quick, it seldom placed her at a disadvantage. Yet, when Jean caught sight of her, he looked from side to side with helpless longing to escape, and finding it impossible, an ugly, sullen expression gathered in his face, which up to this point had only displayed embarrassment. Mlle. Claire detected the look in a moment, and stopped, him by a sign.

“Where have you been, Jean?”

She used the “you” contemptuously.

“Round the estate, mademoiselle.”

“Alone?”

He brought out M. Raoul’s name.

“You should have said so at once. And where is Monsieur Raoul?”

This was exactly the question which Jean would have been glad to answer to himself; but his face only became more stolid as he replied:

“Mademoiselle must know that he has gone down to the river.”

“To the river! With Monsieur de Beaudrillart?”

He hung his head.

“With Madame Léon! No! With whom, then?” As he remained silent, she added, quickly, “You do not tell me that he is alone?”

Jean burst out with “Mademoiselle—” and stopped helplessly.

“Well?”

“Mademoiselle will comprehend that when monsieur says he will go—”

She looked at him from head to foot, and said in a low voice, perfectly modulated, yet which cut like a whip:

“I have always maintained that you, Jean Charpentier, were untrustworthy, and now I am absolutely convinced of it. It was your duty not to let Monsieur Raoul out of your sight, and you have suffered him to go alone to the river—to the river! It is a case of gross neglect, and I shall consult with Monsieur de Beaudrillart about your dismissal.”

The boy stood staring at her, open-mouthed, water beginning to gather in his round eyes. He,