The new terror
return to her because I was delighted with it, I wrote:
“Cordélia says in her letter that I ought to understand that a portrait
should represent something more than the mere lineaments of a person;
for instance, it should convey the expression of the soul and in so far
as the soul is not expressed in a portrait, it expresses nothing at
all!”
Well, I was quite at a loss. I did not understand how she could
materialize my soul which was a thing essentially unseen. Had she meant
by her words that it is indispensable to put life into a portrait, I
should agree with her, and all that is needed for the purpose is a
certain touch of animation in the expression of the eyes, but to depict
the soul!... I shall ask her to explain what she means.
I pass over various comments expressing surprise at the tone of other
letters from Cordélia which, moreover, were becoming very brief and few
and far between. I am eager to arrive at Havre....
And here I was at Havre again.
Alas! Cordélia was not waiting for me on the pier.
On the other hand an old man-servant of my uncle’s came to meet me on
the _Titan_, which was a small steam-tug engaged in the pilot and post
service, and I learnt that Cordélia and her father had set out two days
before on “an urgent journey abroad.”
Though I was physically hardened by my devotion to sport, I could
not restrain my tears, for the news was so unforeseen and coincided
so little with my expectations, that I felt a presentiment that some
irretrievable calamity had befallen me.
CHAPTER III
VASCOEUIL AND HENNEQUEVILLE
It was not that I entertained the slightest doubt of Cordélia’s love,
but I fancied that my uncle was no longer favorable to our union, and
had contrived the journey in order that I might understand for myself a
position which he would have found hard to explain by word of mouth.
“Have they gone away for any length of time?” I inquired in a trembling
voice.
Old Surdon, the man-servant, who was never a gossip, gave me to
understand by a gesture that he knew nothing.
“Where have they gone?”
Another gesture in like manner to the first completed my discomfiture.
Surdon, however, without undue haste drew a letter from the inside
pocket of his coat.
I snatched it from his hand, opened it, and read:
“+My dear Nephew+,
“We find ourselves suddenly compelled to leave for abroad. I have
to deal with a matter which, as you may readily imagine, is of the
utmost importance. We shall not remain away longer than we can
help, but I scarcely think that we shall be able to return for
a couple of months. We shall frequently write to you through an
indirect channel, because I am anxious that you alone should know
where we are. Be careful to keep the secret of our whereabouts to
yourself. Don’t worry about anything. Cordélia still loves you; and
you will be married before the end of the year. Look forward to
seeing us at Vascoeuil where I am sending my servants. Surdon will
be your servant.”
While this letter and the remark, “You will be married before the
end of the year,” reassured me as to my uncle’s purpose, it greatly
perplexed me as to Cordélia. “Cordélia still loves you.” What was the
necessity to add those words? Moreover, the letter filled me with
a vague misgiving for a number of reasons. What was the meaning of
this mysterious journey, and why should I receive tidings from him
through an indirect source? Most of all, why should I be packed off to
Vascoeuil?
My uncle and Cordélia were in the habit of spending the summer at
Hennequeville, where they owned “Clos Normand,” a splendid estate on
the main road to Honfleur. It was a huge, entirely new structure, by
which I mean that it was built some fifteen years before, and possessed
the most important thing in the world—modern comfort. Vascoeuil, on
the other hand, which we used to visit once during the year, at the
beginning of the hunting season, was a large country house not devoid
of a certain style and charm but antiquated and lacking in well-nigh
everything that makes life easy.
This manor house had always produced on me a peculiar impression, with
its high, colorless walls, its tower at one of the extremities casting
its reflection in the chill waters of the river, its great neglected
courtyard, its dilapidated out-houses, and its ill-kept grounds whose
moss-covered paths gave forth an odor of decay.
The rooms in the house with their paintings from which the freshness
had departed, and the faded mirrors, seemed to be haunted by shades
which our annual visit disturbed. I have never been a believer of
ghosts, but Vascoeuil invariably gave me an uncanny feeling.
Strange to say, Cordélia rather liked the place and found “poetry”
in it. When I began to analyze my feelings, the apprehension which
Vascoeuil caused me seemed to be explained by the fact that I was a
man of sound health and well-balanced mind, and everything round me
which failed to correspond with these solid realities was unendurable.
Vascoeuil was not a “healthy” place. That was enough to make me take a
dislike to it.
My dislike was still further increased when I found myself there with
old Surdon and Mathilde, his wife, but without Cordélia.
I have mentioned that Surdon was never a gossip, but Mathilde was in
the habit of giving free play to her tongue. She had known us from our
infancy and was very fond of us; and for years had spoken with delight
of our future marriage. I had no sooner arrived than, taking her on
one side, I asked her without beating about the bush to tell me the
meaning of the whole thing.
She heaved a sigh and turned on her heel. I ran after her and caught
her by the skirt. She began to cry:
“I swear, monsieur, that it’s nothing,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It
was the master’s idea to live here. He did not ask our advice you may
be sure.”
“Well, if it pleases him, let him come here instead of running about
all over Europe and taking Cordélia away from me. As for myself, I
shall clear out.”
“Where to?”
“Hennequeville.”
As soon as I uttered the word Mathilde betrayed the utmost excitement.
“No, no. Your uncle wouldn’t be pleased if he heard you were at
Hennequeville. He has taken it into his head that you mustn’t go there.”
Mathilde was a native of Darnetal in the Rouen district. That meant
that she was artful and obstinate. I saw that I should get nothing out
of her. But I made up my mind to go to Hennequeville. I reached the
place next day. It was about six o’clock in the evening when I got
there.
Heavens! how pleased I was to see the country and how delightful the
grounds were! In truth, with the glossy and luxuriant verdure of the
meadows, and the sweet-scented hedgerows in full bloom, there was
nothing ghostly about Hennequeville. And yet when, at the turn of the
road, I came in sight of the empty house, my heart was filled with
anguish. Never before had it greeted me with such a vacant look. Its
shuttered windows and locked doors made a strange impression on me.
How remote it all seemed from Cordélia’s laughter and kisses and
the welcome I used to receive when formerly I crossed the beloved
threshold. There was no echo of the olden time. The house no longer
knew me. I lay my head heavily on the garden gate and thus I remained
for I know not how long, a prey to the gloomiest dejection.
Darkness had fallen by now, and when I looked up I was not a little
surprised to perceive a few steps away from me a dark form which I
might have taken for my own shadow, its posture so exactly resembled my
own. The shadow also heaved a sigh. I was struck dumb with fear.
But my amazement did but increase when I heard this shadow give
utterance aloud to feelings which I expressed to myself in a whisper.
In words whose exact form I am unable to set down, but which admirably
conveyed my thoughts, the dark form declared that it was impossible
for a mind endowed with any sensibility to pass this beautiful domain
without stopping long enough at least to regret that all that life of
elegance and enjoyment for which it had been built, seemed to have
departed from it forever.
Whereupon somewhat taken aback I made answer, lying to myself,—for I
say again that my prevision was the same as the shadow’s—that there was
no reason why this house which was closed for the time being, should
not be re-opened some day and be filled once more with joyous life and
activity. But the shadow sighed once more, shook its head, uttered the
one word “Never!” which sent a shudder through me, and gliding behind
the wall vanished from sight.
I left the place more cast down than when I arrived. My curious meeting
with a stranger who seemed to be stirred by an emotion singularly akin
to my own, unnerved me to a degree which at first I failed to realize;
but as I was descending the hill which led me back to the Tongues
valley, I thought I recognized in front of me the dark form of the
man whose voice I had heard near me, and I started to run in order to
overtake him.
I came up with him outside an inn from whose partly-opened door a faint
glimmer of light could be seen. It was sufficient, however, to enable
me to perceive some of his features, for he turned round as I drew
near. Apart from a certain handsomeness, I was at once struck with his
eyes, or rather their brightness. They seemed to burn in the darkness.
Only the eyes of certain albinos, or the eyes of cats who are able to
distinguish things in the dark, unseen by human eyes, have produced a
similar effect on me. The man emerged from the light and I saw his
burning eyes as he stood in the road.
I would have liked to speak to him but my courage failed me.
I remained standing there as though dazed while he walked away. The
fresh breeze from the sea fortunately swept my brow. Some one spoke to
me. It was the innkeeper. I made my way into the inn and asked him if
he knew the man who had just passed his door. He told me that he was a
celebrated English painter, and people in the country round said of him
that he was “a bit touched.”
CHAPTER IV
THE WEDDING
When I returned to Vascoeuil a letter lay waiting for me. It bore the
Paris postmark, and the address was written in a handwriting unknown
to me. On opening it I found a line from my uncle who had written a
hurried scrawl from the Tyrol.
The Tyrol! People do not go to the Tyrol for business purposes.
What was his object in wandering about the Tyrol with Cordélia while I
was kept waiting for them in this wretched house? He did not attempt to
explain. He gave me an address to which I was to write to him.
“Write as often as you can; write every day. In the meantime I will
suggest something which will occupy your time until we return. I
want you to redecorate Vascoeuil with ‘every modern comfort.’ I
leave the matter entirely to you. Furnish it to your own taste.
It belongs to you and Cordélia. I intend to give it to you as
a wedding present. You will be married at Vascoeuil. I am well
aware that the property has never greatly appealed to you. Have it
renovated in such a way that you will like it. But don’t have any
alterations made in the grounds. That will be Cordélia’s affair.
She has ideas on the subject. We both send you our love.”
Not a word came from Cordélia. Why did she not write to me? Did she no
longer love me? Ever since my return from Hennequeville I asked myself
the terrible question.
I wrote to my uncle and gave full expression to my misgivings.
I told him that it was impossible for me to apply myself to any task
whatsoever unless I knew how I stood with regard to Cordélia, and she