The party were to return about nine o'clock by way of the meadows, the road through which, as lovely as an English or an Italian road, was the pride of its engineer. The abundance of small stones, laid aside when the plain was cleared, enabled him to keep it in good order; in fact, for the last five years it was, in a way, macadamized. Carriages were awaiting the company at the opening of the last valley toward the plain, almost at the base of the Roche-Vive. The horses, raised at Montegnac, were among the first that were ready for the market. The manager of the stud had selected a dozen for the stables of the chateau, and their present fine appearance was part of the programme of the fete. Madame Graslin's own carriage, a gift from Grossetete, was drawn by four of the finest animals, plainly harnessed.
After dinner the happy party went to take coffee in a little wooden kiosk, made like those on the Bosphorus, and placed on a point of the island from which the eye could reach to the farther lake beyond. From this spot Madame Graslin thought she saw her son Francis near the nursery-ground formerly planted by Farrabesche. She looked again, but did not see him; and Monsieur Ruffin pointed him out to her, playing on the bank with Grossetete's children. Veronique became alarmed lest he should meet with some accident. Not listening to remonstrance, she ran down from the kiosk, and jumping into a boat, began to row toward her son. This little incident caused a general departure. Monsieur Grossetete proposed that they should all follow her and walk on the beautiful shore of the lake, along the curves of the mountainous bluffs. On landing there Madame Graslin saw her son in the arms of a woman in deep mourning. Judging by the shape of her bonnet and the style of her clothes, the woman was a foreigner. Veronique was startled, and called to her son, who presently came toward her.
"Who is that woman?" she asked the children round about her; "and why did Francis leave you to go to her?"
"The lady called him by name," said a little girl.
At that instant Madame Sauviat and Gerard, who had outstripped the rest of the company, came up.
"Who is that woman, my dear child?" asked Madame Graslin as soon as Francis reached her.
"I don't know," he answered; "but she kissed me as you and grandmamma kissed me--she cried," whispered Francis in his mother's ear.
"Shall I go after her?" asked Gerard.
"No!" said Madame Graslin, with an abruptness that was not usual in her.
With a delicacy for which Veronique was grateful, Gerard led away the children and went back to detain the rest of the party, leaving Madame Sauviat, Madame Graslin, and Francis alone.
"What did she say to you?" asked Madame Sauviat of her grandson.
"I don't know; she did not speak French."
"Couldn't you understand anything she said?" asked Veronique.
"No; but she kept saying over and over,--and that's why I remember it, --/My dear brother/!"
Veronique took her mother's arm and led her son by the hand, but she had scarcely gone a dozen steps before her strength gave way.
"What is the matter? what has happened?" said the others, who now came up, to Madame Sauviat.
"Oh! my daughter is in danger!" said the old woman, in guttural tones.
It was necessary to carry Madame Graslin to her carriage. She signed to Aline to get into it with Francis, and also Gerard.
"You have been in England," she said to the latter as soon as she recovered herself, "and therefore no doubt you speak English; tell me the meaning of the words, /my dear brother/."
On being told, Veronique exchanged a look with Aline and her mother which made them shudder; but they restrained their feelings.
The shouts and joyous cries of those who were assisting in the departure of the carriages, the splendor of the setting sun as it lay upon the meadows, the perfect gait of the beautiful horses, the laughter of her friends as they followed her on horseback at a gallop, --none of these things roused Madame Graslin from her torpor. Her mother ordered the coachman to hasten his horses, and their carriage reached the chateau some time before the others. When the company were again assembled, they were told that Veronique had gone to her rooms and was unable to see any one.
"I fear," said Gerard to his friends, "that Madame Graslin has had some fatal shock."
"Where? how?" they asked.
"To her heart," he answered.
The following day Roubaud started for Paris. He had seen Madame Graslin, and found her so seriously ill that he wished for the assistance and advice of the ablest physician of the day. But Veronique had only received Roubaud to put a stop to her mother and Aline's entreaties that she would do something to benefit her; she herself knew that death had stricken her. She refused to see Monsieur Bonnet, sending word to him that the time had not yet come. Though all her friends who had come from Limoges to celebrate her birthday wished to be with her, she begged them to excuse her from fulfilling the duties of hospitality, saying that she desired to remain in the deepest solitude. After Roubaud's departure the other guests returned to Limoges, less disappointed than distressed; for all those whom Grossetete had brought with him adored Veronique. They were lost in conjecture as to what might have caused this mysterious disaster.
One evening, two days after the departure of the company, Aline brought Catherine to Madame Graslin's apartment. La Farrabesche stopped short, horrified at the change so suddenly wrought in her mistress, whose face seemed to her almost distorted.
"Good God, madame!" she cried, "what harm that girl has done! If we had only foreseen it, Farrabesche and I, we would never have taken her in. She has just heard that madame is ill, and sends me to tell Madame Sauviat she wants to speak to her."
"Here!" cried Veronique. "Where is she?"
"My husband took her to the chalet."
"Very good," said Madame Graslin; "tell Farrabesche to go elsewhere.
Inform that lady that my mother will go to her; tell her to expect the visit."
