* UN1VER 
 
 3 1822 00108 8038 
 
 
 y; 
 
 '/ / 
 
 / S^JU _„/_/? X 
 
 
 
 W J ' 
 
 fp/ionse</c waiem/mmi • 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 THE un:v:p/ 
 •DIVERSITY OF C * » EG0 
 
 LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
 
 
 3 1822 00108 8038 
 
 111 
 
 U^l
 
 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 ALPHONSE DE CHATEAUBRIANT
 
 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 (Monsieur des Lourdines) 
 
 by 
 ALPHONSE DE CHATEAUBRIANT 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 LADY THEODORA DAVIDSON 
 
 
 HODDER & STOUGHTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1912, 
 By George H. Doran Company
 
 PREFACE 
 
 IT has been a privilege to translate a work 
 so daintily, so poetically written, as the 
 volume which started on its French ca- 
 reer as "Monsieur des Lourdines" and is now 
 presented to English readers as "The Key- 
 note." 
 
 That it won the grand prize of the Aca- 
 demie Goncourt is a tribute not only to its own 
 inherent qualities but also to the perception 
 of those who exercise the right of selection. 
 Its merit lies, not in liveliness of plot, wealth 
 of incident, or pandering to the elemental pas- 
 sions, but in the extraordinary delicacy of its 
 appeal to the best and purest side of human 
 nature. It touches that sense of poetry and 
 mystery which, often jealously concealed if 
 secretly acknowledged, lurks in the back- 
 ground of the majority of cultivated minds. 
 
 The title chosen for the English version 
 may seem at first sight to have little connec- 
 tion with the story, but it is hoped that it will 
 quickly vindicate itself. It is indicated in 
 
 v
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 these lines by Romain Rolland : "Tout se que 
 louche I'amour, est sauve de la mort." 
 
 Love is the Keynote of the Book. 
 
 The author has demonstrated the complete 
 victory, by simple force of love, of an insig- 
 nificant-looking, unfashionable father, over 
 the smart, selfish, superficial character of his 
 son. Love of nature, love paternal, love 
 patriarchal for property and dependants, love 
 of music, a spirit without guile or rancour, 
 transform a shy, ill-dressed, half-educated 
 country squire, into a Bayard "sans peur et 
 sans reproche." With barely a word spoken 
 on either side, the conflict between two almost 
 irreconcilable natures wages; deft touches 
 allow the reader to delve beneath the surface, 
 and watch the progress of affairs. The scene 
 where the final subjugation of the son's hard 
 egoism is accomplished, quite unconsciously, 
 by the modest hero of the book, is one of sheer 
 poetry. The contrast between the beauty of 
 his mind and the homeliness of his exterior, is 
 a masterpiece of imagination. 
 
 As is well known on both sides of the Chan- 
 nel, the late Edmond de Goncourt bequeathed 
 a considerable sum of money, to found an 
 Academy for the encouragement of young
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 writers. Its members are paid, and in them is 
 vested the power to award each year a prize of 
 two hundred pounds, to the best work of 
 fiction. 
 
 The name of Alphonse de Chateaubriant is 
 comparatively new in the modern world of 
 Letters. With one stride, this youthful author 
 has stepped into the front rank. Thanks to 
 the Academie Goncourt, he has been accorded 
 instant recognition; and those who, but a 
 short while ago, knew nothing of his talent, 
 now acclaim him as the most gifted of con- 
 temporary prose-writers. 
 
 "The Keynote" is offered with full confi- 
 dence in its intrinsic excellence, but with an 
 appeal for the indulgence of cultured readers, 
 in view of the many difficulties that beset the 
 path of the translator of a work, the merit of 
 Which lie9 so largely in grace of diction and 
 distinction of style. 
 
 Theodora Davidson.
 
 PARTI
 
 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FOR two long hours four men had been 
 working inside a trench dug round the 
 foot of a gigantic young elm. They 
 were hacking great gashes into its sides. Prac- 
 tically every root was severed, yet the tree 
 stood firm. The fresh white wood quivered 
 under their blows. The men strained and 
 gasped as they swung the axes rhythmically 
 round their heads. The proprietor stood 
 watching, a few paces away. At each stroke 
 his features contracted painfully, and every 
 now and then he cast a glance, half sad, half 
 angry, at a window of the chateau, just above 
 his head. 
 
 "What a pity! What a shame!" he mut- 
 tered regretfully. 
 
 "These healthy roots need double the 
 amount of work and strength I" grunted one of 
 the fellows, as he rose to take breath. 
 
 3
 
 4 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 It was mid-November. Rain had fallen 
 steadily for over a week; moisture clung to the 
 leaves; a silvery radiance, half mist, half 
 rime, clothed the woods; vapour hovered in 
 clouds above the earth in the surrounding pas- 
 turage. 
 
 At length one of the gang, a sturdy grey- 
 beard in a short blouse belted round the waist, 
 threw down his axe and the others quickly fol- 
 lowed suit. He pushed tentatively at the 
 trunk and gazed up into the branches. 
 
 "Well, Celestin?" queried his master, "is it 
 time for the rope, do you think?" 
 
 "I reckon so," drawled Celestin, proceeding 
 leisurely to fasten the end of a cord which lay 
 ready coiled on the ground, around his 
 middle. 
 
 Meanwhile the others had emerged from the 
 trench, scarlet in the face and mopping the 
 sweat from their brows, for the morning was 
 close and the atmosphere saturated with 
 humidity. 
 
 Celestin was adjusting the ladder against 
 the elm when his master hurriedly inter- 
 posed: 
 
 "Hold on, Celestin! wait a moment! 
 Come now, frankly I don't care to see you
 
 THE KEYNOTE 5 
 
 doing that at your age. Can't you leave it to 
 one of the others?" 
 
 "One of the others, Master 1 Yes, very 
 likely! The sort of thing I would do, eh?" 
 and Celestin toiled heavily up the ladder, 
 the top-most rung of which just reached the 
 point where the trunk tapered away suffi- 
 ciently to allow of climbing. 
 
 "We dursn't interfere," grinned one of the 
 yokels ; "he be a rare old squirrel !" 
 
 Celestin clung for a moment, the rope un- 
 coiling beneath him. He had thrown his 
 arms round the tree, bending his ear to its side, 
 as if listening to the heart-beats of the victim. 
 Presently he began to raise himself inch by 
 inch. His loins worked with lizard-like 
 suppleness; the bark crackled in the grip 
 of his bare toes; finally his horny heels dis- 
 appeared among the green branches, and 
 his movements could only be measured by 
 the slow unfurling of the rope along the 
 trunk. 
 
 "Hello!" shouted one of the men, shielding 
 his mouth with his hands to make his voice 
 carry, "Celestin! Hi! are you all right?" 
 
 They listened; the sound of a song floated 
 down in reply. The soughing of the breeze
 
 G THE KEYNOTE 
 
 in the leaves veiled both words and tune, but 
 they recognised the local chanty: 
 
 "II etait un bounhomme, 
 Qui gardait dos agnias, 
 Qui gardait dos agnias." 
 
 "Sings like a nightingale, does old Celestin," 
 they chaffed. 
 
 The bit of ground where they stood was a 
 grassy open space, much defaced by the tread 
 of cattle, and bordered by ancient trees under 
 whose shelter nestled some farm-buildings. 
 It was an insignificant corner of the property 
 and was practically deserted. The chief por- 
 tion of the traffic centred round the court- 
 yard on the opposite side, where stood the offi- 
 ces, cow-sheds, stables, and out-houses. At 
 the further end of an avenue of the splendid 
 chestnuts so universally found in the thickly 
 wooded land of Poitou began the open coun- 
 try. 
 
 Beyond the trees the ground fell away, black 
 and peaty, intersected by treacherous, moss- 
 grown marshes. The woods covered ap- 
 proximately two hundred and fifty acres, start- 
 ing from the two wings of the chateau. The 
 latter was an old dwelling-house in Louis
 
 THE KEYNOTE 7 
 
 XIII. style, bearing in its aspect a certain 
 dignity which proclaimed its right to rank 
 as a "maison de noblesse." 
 
 Its long single storey was surmounted by a 
 saddle-backed roof, the slates of which, thickly 
 overgrown with moss and yellow lichen, 
 sloped steeply forward over diamond-paned 
 casements. The walls had faded to a uniform 
 warm buff. To the right, a disused chapel 
 reared its slender cross above a vigorous fig- 
 tree. 
 
 It was, in very truth, a kingdom of silence, 
 tenderly sheltered from the bustle of the 
 world beyond. The chance traveller, 
 journeying thirty miles from Poitiers along 
 the high-road would pause when the mouldy 
 retreat broke upon his astonished gaze, and 
 to his wondering questions would receive an- 
 swer: "Oh, don't you know? That chateau 
 belongs to Monsieur Timothee, our Monsieur 
 des Lourdines — that is Petit- Fougeray!" 
 
 Celestin had fastened the line round the 
 top of the elm. He now came slithering 
 down as if the trunk were a greasy pole. On 
 reaching the ground he shook himself like a 
 terrier and rubbed his eyes vigorously to rid 
 them of the dust they had collected among
 
 8 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 the ants' nests above. His comrades who had 
 returned to the trench, teased him: 
 
 "What price climbing? It's your slender 
 figure does the trick!" 
 
 "That's all right," answered Celestin. "I 
 carry my fat inside, like the goats." 
 
 "Why don't you get married, old chap? 
 With a voice and a pair of legs like yours, 
 there ought to be no difficulty." 
 
 "Thank you for nothing, boys ; I'm not out 
 for that." 
 
 Then they fell to work again, making the 
 chips fly with their hatchets, and chanting the 
 while: 
 
 "II etait un bounhomme, 
 Qui gardait dos agnias, 
 Qui gardait dos agnias, 
 II n'en gardait point guere 
 II n'en gardait que trois." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines peered upwards 
 to see whether the tree was beginning to move ; 
 he shook his head regretfully, like a man about 
 to suffer a severe loss. 
 
 "What a pity!" he faltered again. "He 
 was such a beauty!" 
 
 He was a small man of about sixty; the ordi- 
 nary type of a country gentleman but with- 
 out the rather aggressive assurance and stolid
 
 THE KEYNOTE 9 
 
 self-possession which usually distinguish the 
 loutish squires of sporting districts. He was 
 narrow-shouldered but his slenderness was 
 suggestive of nervous strength. His well-knit 
 figure was alert and wiry. His thin, sensitive 
 features and prominent cheek-bones were 
 domed by the broad brow of the dreamer. A 
 pair of intensely blue eyes looked out from 
 beneath their long, heavy lids, with the trust- 
 ful candour of a child. Into the patient face, 
 deeply scored by lines of sorrow, there came 
 at times a gleam of some great inward con- 
 tent, rippling over it like sunshine breaking 
 through clouds. He wore a weather-stained 
 old corduroy coat, a battered felt hat, and a 
 pair of strong sabots which kept his feet snug 
 and dry. 
 
 It would have been hard to pick out a man 
 more completely in accord with his surround- 
 ings than was this little country squire in his 
 ancient chateau. Both belonged to the soil; 
 both had, as it were, faded together. This 
 might possibly be explained by the fact that 
 for centuries the des Lourdines had lived and 
 died at Petit- Fougeray; they had always en- 
 joyed some measure of consideration, were 
 well-connected, and possessed comfortable 
 means.
 
 10 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Unfortunately, under the rule of the pres- 
 ent holder the family was beginning to lose 
 position. Monsieur des Lourdines was an in- 
 vincible recluse, and though he did not so 
 much object to seeing people himself, he did 
 very particularly object to being seen, so that 
 his neighbours had at last given him up as 
 hopeless and suffered him to shut himself up 
 in his Fougeray, like a pigeon in the cote. He 
 was perfectly content. One of his delights 
 was the improvement of his property, not for 
 the sake of gain, but for sheer love of the land. 
 When people reproached him for never go- 
 ing to town, he listened quietly and said: 
 "True, true, I suppose I shall die without 
 having lived." 
 
 He spoke seldom; still less could he be in- 
 duced to hold conversation with his equals; 
 but the local postman, or the village constable 
 knew that when they met "no? Monsieur" on 
 their rounds, they would be button-holed, led 
 into a certain arbour under the lime-trees, 
 given a glass of white wine and questioned as 
 to their movements and doings in kindly tones 
 which betokened, not curiosity, but genuine 
 interest in themselves. 
 
 In the same way, on Sundays after Mass, 
 the labourers were expected at the bowling-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 11 
 
 green the squire had made for the purpose, to 
 "play bowls with Master" or "Monsieur 
 Timothee." No girl on the estate would have 
 dreamt of marrying without consulting him. 
 In short, little though he realized it himself, 
 he had become the arbiter of the destiny of 
 the whole country-side. 
 
 He was a slave to habit. The bare sug- 
 gestion of change filled him with discomfort. 
 Thus day after day passed in unbroken 
 monotony. He rose early and went down to 
 the courtyard to take a look round the stables 
 and cow-houses; he loved strolling through 
 the comfortable sheds, fragrant with the sug- 
 gestion of animal life and warm milk, before 
 encountering the fresh morning air. He then 
 made the round of the kitchen-gardens, 
 marked the amount of dew, pinched the pears 
 on the walls, pulled up a weed or admitted 
 air to a garden-frame, and invariably wound 
 up operations by a crack with Celestin, his 
 bailiff, odd-man, factotum, crony. The two 
 were never at a loss for a subject. One day 
 it would be an improvement in drainage; an- 
 other, widening a forest-ride or planting out 
 an empty space in the grounds. 
 
 These early morning talks were a never- 
 failing satisfaction to both master and man.
 
 12 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Later, he would retire to his business-room in 
 readiness to receive any of the farmers who 
 might wish to discuss for the hundredth time 
 the advisability of planting beets in the Grelet 
 field, or sowing colza in the reserve du Sourd. 
 He farmed on the co-operative system. Per- 
 haps he would indite some such letter as the 
 following: "My dear Magui, don't forget 
 that the fair at Thouarsais is coming on soon, 
 etc., etc." 
 
 These and kindred avocations passed the 
 time until dejeuner. As a rule he ate his 
 meals alone, on account of his wife's invalid 
 habits; but at stated intervals Madame des 
 Lourdines made a gallant effort to join him, 
 in deference both to his wish and to her doc- 
 tor's orders. Her journey downstairs was 
 quite a little event, and was a work of time 
 and difficulty. The staircase being narrow 
 and Madame des Lourdines stout, she oc- 
 cupied the whole width of the steps ; Monsieur 
 des Lourdines therefore followed, laden with 
 shawls, pillows, and a footstool, beguiling the 
 tedium of the way and diverting the suffer- 
 er's attention with jokes and little stories. The 
 return to her rooms was a still more serious 
 affair. She had to be coaxed up each step 
 like a child, with little encouraging words:
 
 THE KEYNOTE 13 
 
 "Now then! Once again! One for the cat! 
 two for the parson!" One name only was 
 carefully avoided. No one said, "One for 
 Monsieur Anthime!" 
 
 She was a woman of great determination, 
 the daughter of a leading magistrate of the 
 Court of Poitiers. She exacted implicit 
 obedience to her orders. It was by her wish 
 that the elm had been sacrificed. Her un- 
 fortunate husband had made use of every pos- 
 sible subterfuge. He had even tried the ef- 
 fect of a blunt refusal, but she remained 
 adamant, and finally gave way to temper. As 
 the effects of anger were dangerous in her 
 state of health he was forced to consent at 
 last, but it nearly broke his heart. 
 
 The first half of Monsieur des Lourdines' 
 day practically resembled that of the majority 
 of country gentlemen ; it was in the later part 
 that he broke loose from tradition. 
 
 Regularly every afternoon, after spending 
 a few moments with his wife, he took his spud, 
 called his dog, and left Petit- Fougeray to en- 
 gulph himself in the forest or stride across 
 country as if the devil were at his heels. The 
 neighbouring land consisted of wooded 
 groves, gloomy lanes, with here and there a 
 blue vista of distant uplands across smiling
 
 14 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 valleys whose scent of sweet grasses and wild- 
 flowers rose aromatically to the tiled roofs of 
 crumbling hamlets perched above on the hill- 
 side. 
 
 It would have been difficult to catch the 
 Squire when he was fairly off on one of his 
 wild rambles, vaulting hurdles and stiles, 
 passing from one field to another, up-rooting 
 thistles, destroying mole-hills, killing adders. 
 Yet, a very little thing would suffice to arrest 
 his attention and start him off on one of his 
 long day-dreams: the reflection of a bit of 
 blue sky in a puddle, a bird fluttering in a 
 bush, the creaking of a plough. He never 
 tired. He would walk on and on till dark- 
 ness fell, watching, listening, hearing voices 
 in the air, reading signs in the clouds over- 
 head; solitary, and at peace. 
 
 As the men neared the completion of their 
 task they threw more and more vigour into 
 their blows. The two principal roots had 
 shared the lot of the others and the tangle 
 of severed ends combined to form a stump like 
 some gigantic clubhead, steeped in the 
 blackish water which had oozed from the 
 sides of the trench. The axes struck down-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 15 
 
 ward with the hollow reverberation of voices 
 in an empty house. Stray birds perching for 
 a second to pipe a note or two, flew off af- 
 frighted at the sound. 
 
 "God, what a murder! What a crime !" 
 ejaculated Monsieur des Lourdines at inter- 
 vals. 
 
 He was profoundly moved by this wanton 
 act of destruction. It caused him positive 
 torture to fell a tree in full health and vigour. 
 
 "It is moving!" cried Celestin. 
 
 The men threw down their tools and seized 
 the rope. 
 
 "We must look out for ourselves 1" 
 
 "All right, all right! It must fall that 
 side!" 
 
 "Pull this way! round here!" shouted 
 Monsieur des Lourdines, running up. He 
 was afraid one of the boughs might damage 
 the roof of the chateau. 
 
 The men had harnessed themselves one be- 
 hind the other, and were straining vigorously, 
 digging their heels into the turf and giving 
 steady pulls in unison. 
 
 "Now then! all together! One! Two! 
 now again!" 
 
 The eight brawny arms lay along the rope 
 like a knotted brown thong.
 
 16 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Gradually a slow quiver passed through the 
 limbs of the forest giant; the trunk swayed 
 slowly; a crackling sound like flames licking 
 dry wood started at the roots, spread, multi- 
 plied, burst forth into a rending, tearing, 
 splintering, thundering crash, and the great 
 tree started on its last journey. 
 
 The men hurried, helter-skelter, into safety. 
 
 With a dull thud that shook the earth, the 
 whole space around was instantaneously cov- 
 ered with a hurtle of smashing boughs and 
 fluttering leaves, strewn as if by some furious 
 storm. For an instant more the monster was 
 convulsed throughout its length, and then, 
 gently, passed to its long rest. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines had turned and 
 was moving quickly away. 
 
 Then someone appeared at one of the win- 
 dows: a woman; her large face was wreathed 
 in grey curls, her broad figure clothed in a 
 white dressing-gown with frills at the neck 
 and wrists. She waved her arms expressively, 
 as if exclaiming — 
 
 "I saw it all! I was watching! I saw 
 the tree fall! Good indeed! Now one sees 
 daylight at last!"
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THAT afternoon the master started on 
 his usual tramp. At the end of the 
 avenue, Celestin overtook him, stand- 
 ing upright in a farm-cart in company with 
 a calf, three sheep and a litter of sucking pigs 
 he was conveying to market. A big fair was 
 to take place the following day at Poitiers. 
 Celestin was to buy a cow. 
 
 "Choose one with a healthy-looking udder," 
 the Squire called after him, "and mind it's 
 a roan. The mistress is particular about that, 
 and it's safer to get what she likes." 
 
 Celestin waved his whip in answer, and 
 rumbled off up the hill towards Creneraie, 
 while his master turned downwards in the 
 opposite direction. 
 
 His appearance was proof sufficient that 
 he had no intention of going among people: 
 he wore loose waggoner's top-boots and a 
 faded bottle-green coat, and carried a game- 
 bag slung over his shoulder and a spud un- 
 der his arm. His dog "Lirot" trotted at his 
 
 17
 
 18 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 heels. He was a big mongrel, with a pointed 
 muzzle and a wiry black coat. Every now 
 and then a glance of comradeship passed from 
 the blue eyes of the man to the yellow ones 
 of the animal. 
 
 The sky was steel-grey, dotted here and 
 there with rain-clouds. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines loved walking. 
 The regular measure of his footfalls fed his 
 brain with a rhythmical flood of thoughts 
 and dreams. Autumn, too, was his favourite 
 season; he felt nearer akin to Nature, more 
 closely in touch with her moods, through the 
 soft caress of its humidity on his cheek; he 
 revelled in its murky scent, its veiled at- 
 mosphere. 
 
 "Well, Lirot boy, are we going to have a 
 good day?" 
 
 His eyes rested absently on the distant hills 
 and the red-tiled roofs which showed faintly 
 through the yellowing leaves of the trees; he 
 smiled to himself at the prospect of entering 
 the forest and remaining there until night- 
 fall. 
 
 A singular motive had led him of late to 
 take his walks in another direction. He had 
 deliberately denied himself, in order to en-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 19 
 
 hance the full rapture of his first sight of the 
 fulfilled glory of autumn. 
 
 As he neared the long-anticipated treat, 
 his spirits rose; he forgot the elm and wanted 
 to sing. When it broke upon his view, glow- 
 ing golden on the hillside, his heart throbbed, 
 and he hastened his steps. Softly, noise- 
 lessly he trod, like one entering a sanctuary. 
 
 "Ah!" he breathed happily. "How good! 
 How beautiful!" 
 
 He stood with upraised head, motionless, 
 watching, listening. 
 
 There had been no lifting of the slightly 
 thickened atmosphere. A brooding fog 
 bathed the bracken, the blackened tree-trunks, 
 and the arm-like boughs with their wreath- 
 ing branches. One of these had snapped, and 
 hung, ready to fall. The tapering stems of 
 young firs detached themselves faintly from 
 the encircling mist; and amidst this trans- 
 formation from woodland tangle into a lofty 
 illumined nave, beneath this dome of leaf- 
 age parched by treacherous winds, there lay 
 a lower realm; a damp litter of buck-thorn 
 and elder, harmonizing with the purple of 
 hazels and the safTron of maples. Moisture 
 trickled from the twigs, clung to the spider's
 
 20 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 webs, and soaked into the slimy bark; leaves 
 detached themselves and fell, saturated, one 
 by one, on to the quiet earth beneath. One 
 felt that this languid drip, drip, and the ab- 
 solute calm, spread away into immeasurable 
 distance; for the forest of Vouvantes is im- 
 mense and gloomy, and full of wild glades 
 and gorges, a relic of ancient Gaul. Barely 
 forty years before, the last remnants of the 
 Vendean insurgents had been mown down 
 among the undergrowth. Two military roads, 
 cut through its depths, still afforded evidence 
 of the foresight of Napoleon; but they were 
 now only disturbed by the passing of the 
 diligence from Poitiers to Nantes, or by oc- 
 casional carriers' carts. 
 
 Lirot had rushed deliriously into the 
 brushwood. Monsieur des Lourdines fol- 
 lowed. He advanced cautiously, parting the 
 tight embrace of the stems, forcing a passage 
 for his feet amongst the mass of sodden 
 leaves. Low branches snapped together be- 
 hind him, and with bent back and eyes fixed 
 intently upon the ground at his feet he moved 
 slowly forward through bracken and bram- 
 bles. 
 
 Lirot barked a signal to his master, but the
 
 THE KEYNOTE 21 
 
 latter took no notice. In the thickest of the 
 tangle he had again stopped short, watching 
 . . . listening. . . . 
 
 The spaciousness and silence never failed 
 at first to give him a queer feeling of insig- 
 nificance; then by degrees a consciousness of 
 some mysterious affinity with the tree-world 
 would grow upon him. No longer was he 
 Timothee des Lourdines, a man of middle 
 age; the sap of chestnuts and beech trees filled 
 his veins; his spirit, detached from his body, 
 floated away into space, mingling with the 
 shapes and sounds of the forest. 
 
 How well he had learned to understand 
 the trees in the course of the thirty-eight 
 years he had spent among them! His first 
 realization of the joy it was theirs to bestow 
 dated back to the time when he had at last 
 escaped from the thrall of the gloomy college 
 at Poitiers where his father, a soured, eccen- 
 tric emigre, had placed him. He had re- 
 mained within its hated walls until the 
 death of his father had set him free. He re- 
 turned to Petit-Fougeray a shy, unsociable 
 youth of twenty. His early training was 
 probably responsible for his faults of man- 
 ner. He had never been able to acquire 
 polish or ease in society. He dreaded and
 
 22 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 hated meeting his fellow-creatures. Thus 
 having reduced his relations with humanity 
 to their narrowest limits, he was thrown back 
 upon Nature for companionship. Divine 
 hours he had spent among the trees! The 
 tender, harmonious impressions he gathered 
 from them were so infinitely superior to the 
 vain cackle of drawing-rooms. Here there 
 might be an occasional report from a broken 
 branch, the barking of a dog, the creaking 
 of a cart in the distance . . . nothing more! 
 No voices of men broke the beneficent silence. 
 Amongst his present surroundings, the 
 recollection of human countenances took on 
 the unreality of the embryonic forms one sees 
 in the clouds, and by a curious trick of fancy 
 they appeared to him faded and brown, like 
 old wood! ... Of the faces he had met in 
 life, few were unconnected in his memory 
 with experiences of boredom or constraint. 
 For this reason he genuinely preferred the 
 solitude and simplicity of the forest, so elo- 
 quent of Nature's bounteous mother-love, so 
 free from the trivialities and meannesses of 
 human intercourse. 
 
 Suddenly Lirot barked again, sharply, 
 urgently.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 23 
 
 "All right! All right! I'm coming!" 
 cried Monsieur des Lourdines, rousing him- 
 self from his dream. 
 
 When his master reached him, Lirot, who 
 was pointing, stopped barking, and his eyes 
 narrowed to two slits. Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines bent down and picked a great round fat 
 mushroom from between the dog's paws. 
 
 "That's right, old boy; now find me an- 
 other," he said, patting him on the head. 
 
 He turned the mushroom over and over, 
 examined it minutely, cut the stalk off neatly 
 with his knife, breathed away the earth ad- 
 hering to the skin as gently as if he had been 
 blowing a fly from the cheek of a child, and 
 slipped it into his game-bag. 
 
 Then he began searching on his own ac- 
 count. 
 
 Mushrooms were to him the very essence 
 of the forest; their taste was reminiscent of 
 both earth and tree. There were plenty 
 about to-day; a week of rain will produce a 
 fine crop. 
 
 In the midst of his search he remembered 
 that he must be about a mile and a quarter 
 from where a breech-tree had been badly 
 barked a few days before by a cart-wheel. 
 He wished to inspect the amount of the dam-
 
 24 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 age again, so, after gathering a goodly store 
 from amongst the dead leaves, he bent his 
 steps in the required direction. 
 
 As he walked he searched the under- 
 growth, and when Lirot barked he went to 
 him. It must be admitted that his training 
 of the dog as a mushroom hunter was not an 
 unqualified success: Lirot could only recog- 
 nize three varieties, and his bark usually an- 
 nounced which of the three he had found, a 
 genuine mushroom, a pompion, or one of 
 those little whitish auricles that smell so 
 strongly of flour. Sometimes it turned out 
 that the good little fellow's find was large and 
 brilliantly coloured, one of those flaunting 
 purple and gold parasols which seem made 
 for the use of some Lilliputian fairy; but 
 when this happened, he got a good scolding. 
 
 The road, all churned up by farm-wag- 
 gons, wound its way through the woodland. 
 A wood-pigeon flew out from a tree, birds 
 twittered their autumn lilt, occasionally dart- 
 ing away with a strip of alder left over by 
 the basket makers, in their tiny beaks. 
 
 Passing through a glade where stacks of 
 withies ready peeled lay ranged in rows, he 
 found two wood-cutters sitting by a brush fire.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 25 
 
 One of them was fanning the flames with his 
 hat. 
 
 "Hullo, hullo! Good morning, my lads!" 
 cried Monsieur des Lourdines. "Be careful, 
 won't you, or you'll be setting fire to the for- 
 est." 
 
 "That's all right, Master," replied the 
 elder of the two, a gaunt, sallow-faced, red- 
 headed fellow, "we'll take care. A fire clears 
 away the shavings and warms up the soup too. 
 Now then, Theophile, put it on." 
 
 "What soup have you got, my lads? Cab- 
 bage soup?" 
 
 Theophile grinned and glanced at his mate. 
 The latter answered nothing, but picked up 
 the wallet which lay among the fagots and 
 pulled out of it a fine fat bird, ready plucked. 
 
 "There you are!" he said, flashing a quick 
 look at the tops of the trees. 
 
 "Oh! a rook!" 
 
 "Yes. It's a fine meaty thing, a rook. 
 But, Master," added Theophile, with a sly 
 wink, "I see you have your game-bag with 
 you. Have you had good sport? I know 
 there is a hare in that bottom over there, near 
 Chezines." 
 
 "Now then, now then, Theophile," pro- 
 tested Monsieur des Lourdines good-humour-
 
 26 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 edly, "you must have your joke. You know 
 I don't destroy hares, and that I do more 
 mushroom-gathering than shooting. I have 
 found a few this morning. Would you like 
 some?" 
 
 "Why, bless me, it isn't a bad idea, sir — 
 eh, Barbechat? 'Twould give the soup some 
 kind of a flavour." 
 
 "Rather!" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines opened his bag 
 and dropped mushrooms one by one into the 
 blouse Barbechat held out to him. 
 
 A low wind soughed through the trees; 
 tomtits warbled near by, the fragrant wood 
 smoke rose under the rhythmical flapping of 
 Theophile's hat, and little spurts of flame be- 
 gan to crackle with a homely sound. 
 
 *&. &. &. &. 
 
 y[z yf? 7p ^ 
 
 "Goodness! how they have damaged the 
 poor thing!" growled Monsieur des Lourd- 
 ines indignantly as he examined the beech-tree. 
 "The cart must have dashed into it corner- 
 wise. There was heaps of room, too." 
 
 His gaze travelled over the tree, resting 
 pitifully on the gaping rent in its side, where 
 insects were already at work. Then, from 
 the bag at his side he took a tin box, dipped a
 
 THE KEYNOTE 27 
 
 slender brush into some liquid bees' wax and 
 gently dabbed the wound. 
 
 "Down, Lirot! Leave it alone!" he 
 called chidingly to the dog who had run up to 
 investigate, and was sniffing at the sweet, 
 sticky streaks. "It's not for you, I tell you. 
 Down ! There my poor old boy . . . just an- 
 other touch in this corner . . . and one here 
 . . . there then, perhaps you'll last your time, 
 after all, poor old chap." 
 
 Meanwhile the fog had lifted. The sun 
 glowed crimson through the trees. The rooks 
 had not returned from the valley. Though 
 the afternoon was not yet spent, the indefin- 
 able hush of approaching evening could al- 
 ready be discerned by the loving eye of 
 Monsieur des Lourdines. He knew the mo- 
 ment when the robin red-breast lowers his 
 song and retires into the thicket, when the 
 breeze whispers a good-night among the 
 leaves, and the light grows faint and melan- 
 choly. 
 
 The game-bag was full, and judging by its 
 weight, might have contained two hares at 
 least; no sportsman returning home after a 
 successful day's shooting could have felt
 
 28 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 prouder or cheerier than did Monsieur des 
 Lourdines. 
 
 He scraped the soles of his boots with his 
 spud, to clear them of the lumps of earth and 
 leaves and chestnut-peel adhering to them. 
 
 His thoughts wandered back to the wood- 
 men. "Lucky fellows!" he ruminated. 
 "That's real happiness!" This was one of 
 his favourite remarks. He would make it at 
 sight of a weaver working cosily at his hand- 
 loom by the fire-side, or of a chair-mender in 
 his thatched cottage; always: "Lucky chap! 
 that's what I call happiness!" 
 
 A skurry of rain passed over the forest; the 
 birches quivered in the sudden breeze; a rosy 
 glow outlined the gauntness of a dead oak 
 tree. He stood watching it all and enjoying 
 the touch of the moist wind on his brow and 
 of the damp earth at his feet. 
 
 "Death . . . death ..." he reflected. 
 "When trees die they remain standing. Per- 
 haps they even retain some consciousness of 
 outside influences; but we poor devils! We 
 never see or hear again. Well, well, I sup- 
 pose I'm good for another twenty years. I 
 wonder! Am I good for another twenty 
 years?" 
 
 He sauntered along a stony path, his iron-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 29 
 
 shod boots ringing on the rocky surface, their 
 tops brushed by the wet broom and bracken. 
 A weazel darted across ; Lirot was after it in 
 a second. 
 
 "To heel, Lirot!" he shouted. "Your 
 business is to hunt mushrooms. Don't you 
 forget it!" 
 
 He held the barking dog tight by the collar 
 till the little fugitive disappeared into a hole 
 in the bank. Then he moved on again, for 
 dusk was now falling fast; the humid gold of 
 the evening was turning dank and dim. 
 
 In a deep hollow of the forest stood an old 
 thatched house, whence floated a thin streak 
 of bluish smoke. Monsieur des Lourdines 
 never passed along the slope above without 
 gazing thoughtfully down at this "Charvin- 
 iere," a small farm which had belonged to 
 Petit-Fougeray for four generations. His 
 parents had left him there as an infant when 
 they emigrated, and he had remained in the 
 care of the farmer and his wife until he went 
 to college. 
 
 His recollections of those sunny days when 
 his speech had been as that of his little peas- 
 ant play-fellows, were among the most ex- 
 quisite of his life. A host of trivial scrapes
 
 30 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 and childish naughtinesses rose unbidden to his 
 mind and brought a smile to his lips; but the 
 picture that dwelt most constantly in his mem- 
 ory was of great wide fields of rape-seed 
 stretching yellow, oh, so yellow, as far as the 
 eye could reach. He could see himself stand- 
 ing, a tiny boy in a blouse, gazing delighted, 
 dazzled, motionless. The bliss of the sight 
 was printed deep on his brain and the re- 
 membrance of Charviniere was inextricably 
 mixed with that of wide fields of rape-seed 
 shining yellow as gold away into the far dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Unfortunately these happy memories had 
 been clouded by sorrow in the last few years. 
 This evening, as his gaze fell upon the peace- 
 ful thread of smoke floating blue above the 
 woods, he stood dreaming of his son . . . the 
 son who had deserted the home of his fathers 
 to live in Paris, and who so seldom wrote or 
 gave any sign of life. 
 
 It was a sad story. 
 
 The sight of Charviniere never failed to 
 revive the full bitterness of it. Yet he could 
 not keep away! The child had come after 
 two years of marriage. Oh the joy, the love, 
 it had brought in its little hands! How
 
 THE KEYNOTE 31 
 
 proud its parents had been! The mother 
 even more so than the father . . . she was 
 dazed with the glory of having brought a 
 man-child into the world! Unreasoning 
 tenderness, foolish indulgence, were lavished 
 upon the little heir; nothing seemed too deli- 
 cate for his pampered appetite, too precious 
 for his lordly acceptance; to cross him in the 
 mildest way would have been the blackest of 
 crimes. 
 
 One day, for instance, there was asparagus 
 for dinner. 
 
 "Me want 'paragus," clamoured Anthime. 
 
 "^jparagus," corrected his mother. "You 
 must say asparagus, or you can't have any." 
 
 "Me want 'paragus." 
 
 "Listen, sonny. When everybody else has 
 been helped, you shall have some, if you pro- 
 nounce the word properly. Well, little 
 man?" 
 
 "Me want 'paragus," giggled Anthime, 
 naughtily. 
 
 His mother laughed and gave him a large 
 helping. 
 
 College was considered too rough for such 
 a tender plant, so a mild young priest was in- 
 stalled as his tutor. 
 
 Anthime was spoilt and over-dressed; at
 
 32 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 ten years old he had silken under-clothing 
 and the smartest of manly suits — his every 
 whim was indulged, his fancies consulted; he 
 had not even the opportunity of developing 
 a temper. It must be admitted that he was 
 a charming boy, merry, good-humoured, 
 generous to a fault; but the deferential meek- 
 ness of his tutor and the foolish encourage- 
 ment of his mother fostered his natural self- 
 indulgence and love of pleasure to an 
 alarming extent. No one noticed his faults. 
 His position as the heir and only child made 
 every indulgence seem lawful. Nothing he 
 asked for was refused ; money flowed like wa- 
 ter through his fingers. 
 
 At fifteen he was given a horse and buggy; 
 many and narrow were his escapes from 
 breaking his neck and other people's. One 
 day he was giving a lift to the parish priest; 
 he drove so rashly that he upset the poor man 
 into a ditch and broke three of his fingers for 
 him. He made amends by sending a five- 
 pound note for the poor, as soon as he got 
 home. At twenty he begged for a thorough- 
 bred, and was at once given "Comte Caradec," 
 by "Prince Caradec," a celebrated English 
 race-horse, at a cost of two thousand pounds. 
 
 Anthime rode him, and won a great many
 
 THE KEYNOTE 33 
 
 races. This was his initiation into gay life. 
 With the friends he made on the turf he en- 
 tered on a career of dissipation. One day 
 he came back from Poitiers with his pockets 
 full of gold won at the gaming tables. He 
 walked about among the servants and peas- 
 ants, saying, "Help yourselves, boys, there's 
 plenty more where that came from." 
 
 Five years later, his father was called upon 
 to pay eight thousand pounds' worth of debts. 
 
 There was a frightful scene. It was the 
 first time Monsieur des Lourdines had ever 
 been seen in a rage. Madame des Lourdines 
 was so terrified that she shut herself up in a 
 cupboard. 
 
 Shortly afterwards Anthime, who posed as 
 the injured party and pretended his feelings 
 had been lacerated by his father's straight 
 speaking, shook the dust of Petit-Fougeray 
 from his feet, and settled in Paris on an allow- 
 ance of five hundred pounds a year. 
 
 Madame des Lourdines broke down com- 
 pletely under these trials; a stroke of paral- 
 ysis laid her low; her body grew to an 
 enormous size, and she never regained the full 
 use of her limbs. 
 
 Both parents suffered inexpressibly. The 
 dreary days passed by in gloomy silence.
 
 34 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 The shadow of the absent one stood ever be- 
 tween them. His name was never mentioned. 
 Legitimate pride had been betrayed, tender 
 love deceived, the hopes of years dragged in 
 the dust. The wounds thus inflicted would 
 not bear discussion. 
 
 Yet the mother did not lose hope; she had 
 never brought herself to believe in her son's 
 conscious guilt. Her blind devotion was so 
 ingenious in finding excuses for his conduct 
 that little by little her husband, dreading the 
 effect of contradiction on one whose health 
 was so precarious, almost grew to acquiesce in 
 her view. Both were at one in their ardent 
 desire to see Anthime come home, marry, and 
 take up the position open to him by right of 
 birth and fortune; but though Monsieur des 
 Lourdines allowed his thoughts to dwell on 
 this happy termination of the family trouble 
 he had but little faith in its probability. 
 
 On the evening in question he stood once 
 more gazing sadly at the smoke of Charviniere 
 where, from pure sentiment, he had insisted 
 on sending Anthime to nurse. He watched 
 the yellowing poplars which bordered the 
 lane, and saw, rather than heard, the rustling 
 of their leaves: a well-rope creaked, a white 
 cap moved in the direction of the cattle-shed.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 35 
 
 He dreamed that the clock had moved back 
 thirty years, and that he would presently hear 
 a laughing treble voice pierce the evening 
 air with its shrill sweetness. 
 
 But nothing of the sort rewarded his ex- 
 pectant ear. Instead, he became aware of the 
 sound of hoofs clattering on the gravel below; 
 slowly and gravely an old white horse came 
 into view, trudging alone, under a load of 
 sacks of flour. 
 
 The sight of him relieved the tension of 
 Monsieur des Lourdines' mind; he moved 
 downward with alacrity, and fell to patting 
 the animal. 
 
 The old white nag from the mill of La 
 Bigne made the round of the villages thus 
 every Monday, either collecting sacks of 
 wheat or delivering loads of freshly ground 
 flour. He ambled sedately ahead of his mas- 
 ter, knowing full well the sequence of the 
 round. If the miller, beguiled by some bit 
 of gossip, forgot to give him the signal to 
 stop, the horse went quietly on and the miller 
 would presently be met panting in pursuit, 
 waving his whip and calling. 
 
 Thus it happened on this occasion. A 
 loud cracking of the whip sounded from
 
 36 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 among the chestnuts, and Suire ran up, face 
 and blouse white with flour, the regulation 
 miller's cap with its hanging tassel on his head 
 and a toothless grin on his flat countenance. 
 
 "Good morning, Master." 
 
 "Good morning, Suire. Where are you 
 from now?" 
 
 The miller clapped his heavy hand on one 
 of the sacks, raising a cloud of dust from the 
 wheat, and replied: 
 
 "From La Taupinaie, where I got this fine 
 bag of grain; that one comes from Purdeau 
 and the others from Fouchaut, all farms of 
 yours, Master." 
 
 "Oh, you've been to Fouchaut? The 
 wheat is fine there this year, eh?" 
 
 "By Jove! it does weigh, sir!" 
 
 "Well, as you are on your way back to the 
 mill," continued Monsieur des Lourdines, 
 casting a farewell glance at Charviniere, "we 
 may as well go along together. It's all on my 
 way to Fougeray." 
 
 Suire slung his whip round his neck, and 
 the two moved away, skirting the edge of the 
 forest and talking as they walked. On their 
 left lay the ploughed land, dotted here and 
 there with scarecrows, their rags fluttering in 
 the light evening breeze; and in front of them
 
 THE KEYNOTE 37 
 
 the little white horse jogged soberly on, be- 
 neath the shadows of the overhanging 
 branches, his hoofs beating a rhythmic tune 
 on the stones of the lane, his head, tail, and 
 sacks swinging to his ambling gait. 
 
 "What do you say to a drop of comfort, 
 sir?" suggested Suire, as they approached his 
 house. 
 
 The mill was placed on a height among the 
 trees, and dominated the whole forest; its 
 sails, silenced now for the night, stood out 
 against their background of sky like the arms 
 of a huge cross. 
 
 "It's a long time since you have been un- 
 der our roof, Master," continued Suire, point- 
 ing out recent improvements, hen-roosts, 
 pigeon-houses, cartsheds, nestling below the 
 mill. "What do you think of that? I built 
 it all with my own hands." 
 
 "What, the walls too?" 
 
 "Rather! All those walls. It was just a 
 question of material, nothing more. Look 
 at these flints; there is a quarry close by. I 
 bought it for eight pounds. I paid two 
 pounds on account. I get stone from it every 
 day — you can reckon it out for yourself; a 
 penny per square yard. I have worked forty 
 already."
 
 38 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 While they talked, Suire's wife had un- 
 harnessed the horse. She now stood, in her 
 black peasant's hood, holding the horse's 
 forelock, watching them with strange, vacant 
 eyes, and laughing uncannily without sound. 
 Presently she caught Monsieur des Lourdines' 
 eye, touched her forehead with her fore- 
 finger, and, with a nod in the direction of 
 her husband, winked, as who should say: 
 "You mustn't listen to him ... if you 
 do . . ." 
 
 "But," proceeded Suire, "after the pur- 
 chase was concluded, old Gaffer Pagis came 
 to me and pretended that he held a mortgage 
 on half the property. He insisted the sale 
 was void and that he would have the law of 
 me. 'Go on,' I said, 'you old joker. There 
 isn't a mortgage or anything else — I know 
 what you're after!' So to-morrow, as it's 
 fair-day at Poitiers, we shall both go before 
 the magistrate, and I shall say: 'Now then, 
 I've bought the piece of ground and paid for 
 it — that's the law, isn't it?' I shall tell him 
 that, 'I've paid, I've paid, I've paid' I" 
 
 Suire mumbled the words with increasing 
 vehemence. 
 
 "Now, Master, come to the store-room. 
 I've got some nice sweet wine of this year's
 
 THE KEYNOTE 39 
 
 making. Look there, look at my little wild 
 friend!" 
 
 "What wild friend?" 
 
 "Why, there, under the wire netting. I 
 bagged him in a furrow when he was a young- 
 ster." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines looked, and in a 
 wired enclosure saw a little wild rabbit 
 bounding about like an indiarubber ball. 
 Monsieur des Lourdines had to call Lirot off. 
 
 They drank in the store-room and then 
 went to the garden to inspect the flower-beds, 
 the hedges Suire had made, the apple-tree 
 which had produced apples enough to fill five 
 hogsheads. 
 
 "He's a conscientious old beggar, that tree." 
 Then he lowered his voice and pointed with 
 his finger: "D'you see those brambles? a 
 hare comes out of a hole there every morn- 
 ing, makes hay of my flower-beds and goes 
 off by way of the wattle-hedge." The miller 
 threw himself on his stomach with his face 
 to the earth. "It's too dark for you to see 
 now, otherwise I should have shown you his 
 trail. But that's the way he comes and goes, 
 sure enough. Do you see the hole?" 
 
 He put his hand gently into it. 
 
 "Ha! What did I tell you, Master?"
 
 40 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 He withdrew it, holding a little bit of fluff 
 in his fat fingers and blew it away. 
 
 "All right, my fine gentleman! When I've 
 had my say with the magistrate to-morrow, 
 I shall come back and settle your hash for you ! 
 But I see you have your game-bag with you, 
 Master. Had any sport?" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines opened the bag 
 and the miller peeped in. 
 
 "My word, they're a little bit of all 
 right!" 
 
 "Hold out your blouse!" 
 
 While Suire expressed his thanks, Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines was saying to himself: 
 "Lucky chap, Suire! That's a happy man!" 
 
 But it was time to start homeward. He 
 held out his hand and Suire grasped and 
 swung it ponderously to and fro. 
 
 "Good night, Suire." 
 
 The good wife stood under the porch and 
 watched him pass, still laughing dumbly and 
 tapping her forehead with her finger: 
 
 "Don't you listen to him, sir . . . because 
 if you do . . ." 
 
 The twilight was nearly over. There re- 
 mained of it only a violet tinge, spread over 
 the face of the heavens. A few rain-clouds
 
 THE KEYNOTE 41 
 
 floated, darkly blue, and in the mist beyond 
 them lay Charviniere. Further off still, the 
 forest reared its black crest. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines tramped steadily 
 through the woods in darkness so opaque that 
 boughs could no longer be distinguished from 
 leaves. The dawdle at the miller's had 
 chilled him and stiffened his muscles; his 
 limbs felt heavy. But his thoughts, cheered 
 by a day in the open, returned to the mill at 
 Bigne. The leaves whispered metallically. 
 He hurried, and Lirot bounded like a wolf 
 among the trunks.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HE entered the avenue between the 
 two tumble-down lodges which 
 marked the approach to the chateau. 
 
 The moon floated pale and serene above 
 clouds like wool bordered with flame. The 
 sky was dappled white, fading into the soft 
 blue of old brocade. Presently the sloping 
 roof of the chateau, silvered by the argent 
 light of the moon, emerged from the sur- 
 rounding obscurity. 
 
 Madame des Lourdines' room was brightly 
 illuminated, as usual; the flame shone mellow 
 through the diamond panes. 
 
 The master of the house could never rid 
 himself of a certain anxiety as to what might 
 have happened, when he returned after an ab- 
 sence of any length; he feared to be met by 
 old Perrine on the door-step with the news 
 of another seizure. Sometimes he even went 
 so far as to remain at home all day, but this 
 was a bootless privation; it did no good either 
 to the invalid or to himself. 
 
 42
 
 THE KEYNOTE 43 
 
 But to-night Petit-Fougeray lay in the 
 slumberous lethargy of its own aged brown 
 bricks. The house was deceptive. It was 
 not impressive from outside, but its interior 
 revealed vast proportions. It was far too big 
 for its few inhabitants, consisting of the 
 master, mistress, and four servants. There- 
 fore, only the left wing was inhabited. The 
 right was entirely deserted. A long, narrow 
 corridor gave access to a suite of spacious 
 apartments, pannelled throughout with beauti- 
 ful wood carvings, but empty of furniture. 
 None of these rooms were put to their 
 legitimate use. One was stacked with hay; 
 Celestin kept the grain for the fowls in an- 
 other; but in the third, which at some former 
 period had probably served as a billiard-room, 
 there was only an old sieve on a heap of 
 barley; both had probably lain there, forgot- 
 ten, for years. Dust had accumulated every- 
 where. The atmosphere of the rooms was 
 icy and charged with the musty odour of 
 mouldy hay and dry-rot; the cocoons of in- 
 sects hung fluttering from the ceilings, and 
 spiders had spun webs enough to furnish all 
 the brides of the country-side with wedding 
 veils. 
 
 The chapel was in ruins. Every year's
 
 44 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 passage was marked by some additional dam- 
 age ; die steps had crumbled, one by one ; there 
 was a breach in the outer wall near the 
 tribune, and another in the roof, whence frag- 
 ments of lath and rotten slate dropped and 
 piled themselves on the pavement below. A 
 bough of the fig-tree outside had elbowed its 
 way through one of the Gothic windows and 
 flaunted its greenery amidst the general de- 
 cay. The altar had fallen slantingly across 
 a heap of planks and worm-eaten orange- 
 boxes, and its gilded tabernacle lay propped 
 between two peeling angels, whose stiff 
 fingers still maintained a prayerful attitude 
 beneath their scaly chins. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines went straight to 
 the kitchen, whence proceeded the sound of 
 blows from Perrine's meat-chopper. 
 
 "How is Madame?" 
 
 "God is still merciful, Master." 
 
 Estelle, Madame des Lourdines' little 
 maid, sat in the light of the lamp, working 
 at some fine sewing which covered her lap 
 and fell to the floor. Between the two 
 women, on a bench against the wall, sat a 
 young fellow from a neighbouring village, a 
 hand-loom worker by trade, who came in
 
 THE KEYNOTE 45 
 
 regularly to spend the evening with them. 
 Later, he would return home and could be 
 heard singing, far into the night, while he 
 sorted his bobbins. 
 
 "Here are the mushrooms; what have you 
 cooked for Madame to-night?" 
 
 "A pasty of partridges, Master." 
 
 Madame des Lourdines was particular 
 about her meals; she insisted upon being fed 
 with tasty dishes and rich sauces. 
 
 Some underlinen was airing before the 
 fire; the stock-pot simmered amidst the 
 flames. Monsieur des Lourdines drew 
 nearer to the warmth, took off his muddy 
 boots, put on a pair of slippers, and stood lean- 
 ing against the chimney-piece watching 
 Perrine prepare his nightly repast of cabbage 
 soup and new-laid eggs. 
 
 He was fond of dawdling in the kitchen, 
 and never failed to spend a few moments there 
 on his return from a country walk. He liked 
 the scent of smoke and baking bread and boil- 
 ing milk. The soft glow of the lamps 
 lighted up the yellow-washed walls and shin- 
 ing coppers; stacks of wood from his own 
 farms were spread to dry at the chimney- 
 corner. His gaze rested affectionately on the 
 ancient clock in the corner, with its grotesque
 
 46 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 paintings and swinging pendulum, on the 
 old copper candle-sticks, all battered and bent, 
 the three guns hanging from the wall; they 
 were full of associations, and held in his esti- 
 mation a definite place in the order of things 
 . . . they were almost sentient beings and had 
 grown old in his service. 
 
 Another object of interest to him was a 
 smoke-blackened print above the hearth. It 
 represented an episode in the crossing of the 
 Beresina: an attack on some voltigeurs by a 
 company of Cossacks. The features of the 
 youthful officer in command bore some like- 
 ness to those of Anthime! 
 
 He lingered somewhat longer than usual 
 on this evening, among the faggots and the 
 clock and the old landmarks, for he dreaded 
 his wife's conversation. He knew she would 
 talk to him about the elm, and point out how 
 right she had been to insist on its removal, 
 and what an improvement its absence had ef- 
 fected in the lighting of her apartments. He 
 felt sore on the subject and did not want it 
 re-opened. 
 
 At length, when his meal was concluded, 
 he went upstairs, stepping lightly and holding 
 the rickety banister gingerly. 
 
 On the threshold his nostrils were assailed
 
 THE KEYNOTE 47 
 
 by the familiar odour of spices and eau-de- 
 Cologne. The decorations of the room were 
 carried out in red and gold; the thousand 
 and one silver and china knick-knacks with 
 which it was crammed were reflected in vari- 
 ous mirrors. Madame des Lourdines had a 
 passion for crimson; even her candles were 
 crimson. She was busy with Frederic at the 
 moment, giving him instructions for the mor- 
 row's purchases at Poitiers. The journey 
 was made once a fortnight on the market-day, 
 but as the distance was ninety miles there and 
 back, the coachman put up the horse and 
 buggy at an inn and spent the night in the 
 town, returning the following day. 
 
 "You are sure you understand, Frederic?" 
 
 "Yes, Madame." 
 
 A handful of gold pieces glittered in her 
 fat, manicured hands. Little heaps of coins 
 were arranged in a row on the marqueterie 
 table in front of her. 
 
 She always sat in the same corner of the 
 room, close to the window, under the shadow 
 of a plush curtain. 
 
 She nodded in a preoccupied manner in an- 
 swer to her husband's greeting; he crept si- 
 lently over to the casement and sat down be- 
 side it.
 
 48 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Madame des Lourdines was a powerfully 
 built woman; she had never been handsome. 
 Her hair waved back from the temples and 
 was covered with a black lace fichu. Her 
 long narrow face, though finely modelled, was 
 disfigured by the violet hue of the flesh, 
 which showed through its thick coating of 
 powder; the chin and neck fell in flaccid 
 folds. She addressed the coachman in jerky 
 tones, and a thickened utterance, and her 
 beady black eyes seemed to pierce through 
 him while she impressed upon him the de- 
 tails of the errands he was to perform. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines listened in silence 
 and bent upon Frederic much the same gaze 
 as that with which he favoured the old furni- 
 ture in the kitchen. 
 
 Frederic was no longer young, but he still 
 carried himself upright and his portly figure 
 made a goodly appearance on the box-seat of 
 his carriage. There were girls in the village 
 who ogled him in vain, and would have been 
 proud to own such a personable husband; but 
 he, fearing that marriage would separate him 
 from his master and his horses, passed them 
 by and ignored their advances with the im- 
 passability of a church steeple among the 
 swallows.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 49 
 
 "Here's the list, Frederic. Don't lose it; 
 and four pounds for the commissions." She 
 leant forward with infinite difficulty to hand 
 him the money. "Don't fail to pay Dr. Lan- 
 der's bill; twenty pounds; here is the cheque. 
 Now pay attention! You are to ask him to 
 come . . . no, wait . . ." She paused for a 
 moment. "No, say nothing about that. I 
 will write." 
 
 She stared hard at the man, in the effort 
 to collect her thoughts; for she prided her- 
 self on having preserved the clearness of her 
 brain throughout her physical decline; it 
 would have been a bitter mortification to her 
 to be convicted of forgetfulness. 
 
 "Ha!" she exclaimed suddenly. 
 
 She pressed her hands on the arms of her 
 chair and raised herself laboriously, pushing 
 the table from her with a curious wriggle of 
 one hip. She walked forward. The floor- 
 ing creaked under the weight of her swaying 
 bulk. She moved painfully, with nervous 
 contractions of the soft fat fingers she could 
 no longer clench. From a cupboard in the 
 wall she drew a black silk bodice. 
 
 "There! You must go to Mademoiselle 
 Godeau and return this bodice to her. It 
 does not fit at all. She is to let it out at the
 
 50 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 arm-holes or else make me another. I don't 
 care which, but she must send me something 
 that doesn't pin my arms to my sides! I can't 
 move in this one." 
 
 Frederic put out his hand. 
 
 "Wait! Are your hands clean? I had 
 better pack it up. Is there an old newspaper 
 anywhere about? Look, there is one on the 
 chimney-piece. No, no, that is your Consti- 
 tutionnel, Timothee. It has just come." 
 
 "You can have it if you like, Emilie." 
 
 "Really? Then give it to me, Frederic. 
 Oh, by the way, Timothee," she continued, un- 
 folding the paper, "a letter came for you at 
 the same time. It is there, on the chimney- 
 piece." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines fetched the letter. 
 It was addressed to Monsieur Le Comte des 
 Lourdines. He made a wry face, for he dis- 
 liked being addressed by a title he did not 
 possess; besides, letters in an unfamiliar hand- 
 writing inspired him with more mistrust than 
 curiosity. He was in no hurry to read them. 
 He very often thrust them unopened into his 
 pocket, one after the other, until some fine 
 day he nerved himself to break the seals and 
 wade through the accumulation. 
 
 This one was treated in the same fashion.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 51 
 
 "Timothee," asked Madame des Lourdines, 
 "are you wanting anything from Poi- 
 tiers?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Emilie — no — I can't think 
 of anything." 
 
 She gave a sign of dismissal to Frederic, 
 who pulled his forelock in acknowledgement 
 before swinging round, presenting to view his 
 red bull-neck and the grizzled locks curling 
 low over it. 
 
 She made her slow, painful way back to 
 her chair and sank into it panting and closing 
 her eyes. It was no joke to direct a whole 
 household from her invalid chair. 
 
 "You attempt too much, you poor dear." 
 
 "No, no, Timothee, don't you worry. 
 Thank Heaven I have a good head. But 
 have you remembered to give Celestin in- 
 structions about the cow he is to buy?" 
 
 "Yes. I said to him: You are to choose 
 a roan cow. Madame particularly wishes 
 it.' " 
 
 "That's right." She glanced towards the 
 window. "The men worked at the tree un- 
 til nightfall. They have chopped off all the 
 branches. That is a good job done! Now 
 I shall not have to strain my eyes, working 
 in the dark, every afternoon."
 
 52 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines broke in hur- 
 riedly — 
 
 "All right, all right, fimilie! I'm glad 
 you're pleased," and he scratched his hand 
 nervously. 
 
 She was silent; her mouth broadened into 
 a smile. 
 
 "I had a letter to-day, Timothee, from 
 Madame Espic." 
 
 "Madame Espic?" he repeated. 
 
 "Yes; she talks a great deal about her 
 daughter — " 
 
 "Her daughter?" he questioned again. 
 
 "Yes, I tell you, her daughter. Now 
 listen, Timothee, the more I think about it — 
 mind you, the girl will have a great deal of 
 money — the more convinced I feel that we 
 ought to try and manage something for An- 
 thime in that quarter!" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines had already had 
 experience of his wife's efforts at matchmak- 
 ing on her son's behalf. Although he was 
 not personally familiar with Paris life, he 
 had sufficient imagination to guess that it 
 would not be exactly easy to detach a young 
 man from its fascinations for the sake of a 
 marriage with an unknown bride in the coun-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 53 
 
 try. He did not therefore feel very sanguine 
 of her success. 
 
 "What do you think of doing, Emilie?" 
 he questioned rather wearily. 
 
 She replied: "You let me manage by my- 
 self. You are not clever at that sort of thing. 
 First of all, you don't understand your own 
 son, Timothee, you never did. Now in 
 these matters one has to be very tactful; one 
 must know how to make people do just what 
 one wants without their being aware of it; 
 it is a science in itself. You could never do 
 anything of the kind." 
 
 "I dare say not. But what about you, my 
 dear? How are you going to set about it?" 
 
 "That's simple enough: I shall do a little 
 manoeuvring." 
 
 "Manoeuvring! Now, I think it's best to 
 go straight ahead and say what one means." 
 
 "May be, Timothee, may be; but just leave 
 it all to me." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines said no more. 
 He sat ruminating, his eyes fixed on the floor 
 at his feet, yet seeing nothing. 
 
 A few minutes later he retired to his room. 
 It was a Spartan apartment of four bare
 
 54 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 walls; its sole furniture an iron bedstead, a 
 chair, a table, and a cupboard. 
 
 He threw off his coat and put on a shabby 
 old brown dressing-gown, passed his hand 
 dreamily over his forehead, pushing back the 
 heavy lock of grey hair which hung over his 
 tanned forehead, then opened the cupboard, 
 climbing on to a chair and lifted from its 
 resting-place among a pile of old books on 
 the top shelf, a violin case. 
 
 He opened it softly and carefully lifted out 
 the instrument. It was a beautiful old violin. 
 He swept his thumb over the strings, and pro- 
 ceeded to tune it; then polished it with a silk 
 handkerchief till the ruddy wood shone; af- 
 terwards the bow received attention. He 
 worked with loving care, a slight smile re- 
 laxing his features.
 
 CHAPTER IVi 
 
 ONE of the recollections most often 
 present in Monsieur des Lourdines' 
 mind was that of Monsieur Crouille- 
 bois, the old violin-master, whose custom it 
 had been in those remote school-days to 
 await his pupil twice a week after luncheon 
 in the courtyard outside the refectory. He 
 could still see accurately with the eyes of 
 memory the tall figure in the worn buff great- 
 coat, from the pocket of which a yellow ban- 
 danna handkerchief invariably protruded. 
 They would go to a certain class-room, bare 
 and shabby and dirty, but with "the least bad 
 acoustic properties," as the old master used 
 to declare laughingly. 
 
 "Now, Monsieur des Lourdines, let us be- 
 gin. How are your honoured parents? 
 What, you have not heard from them? 
 Dear! Dear! Well, we will go over that 
 last exercise, if you please." 
 
 His parents, or rather his mother, had once 
 written to the Principal, on some impulse, 
 
 55
 
 5Q THE KEYNOTE 
 
 and said that young Timothee might as well 
 take violin lessons — and as no counter order 
 ever followed, young des Lourdines remained 
 Monsieur Crouillebois' pupil during the 
 whole of his school days. 
 
 Those lessons were practically the only ad- 
 vantage he ever reaped from his College 
 course. At its termination, he took the violin 
 home with him, beloved companion of the 
 only happy hours of his boyhood. 
 
 He had been fifteen years away; his fa- 
 ther and mother were dead. He returned to 
 the old deserted homestead; explored afresh 
 the scenes of his childhood, the meadows 
 within whose thick hedges, the young bulls 
 grazed, the lanes, plunged in the everlasting 
 obscurity of their overhanging trees, the 
 Charviniere farm with its fields of colza 
 shining yellow as far as eye could reach. It 
 was a happy, happy time; his violin sang 
 hymns of praise. 
 
 It sang in the evenings, after long days of 
 tramping the country, or drowsy summer af- 
 ternoons idled away among the hay and the 
 grasshoppers. The music played by the ex- 
 pupil of Monsieur Crouillebois was by no 
 means limited to the pieces learnt with that 
 estimable master. It consisted of his own
 
 THE KEYNOTE 57 
 
 thoughts and dreams, of peasant laments, the 
 song of the birds, the note of village chimes, 
 the ringing of the blacksmith's anvil, the sigh 
 of the wind, of all the sounds that penetrated 
 to the inner hearing of this passionately lov- 
 ing son of Nature. 
 
 He felt that the melodies came to him 
 through some outside influence; they over- 
 whelmed him, made him dizzy with joy; he 
 sought not to capture or remember them, but 
 let them float unbidden through his brain; 
 for he knew that harmonies inexhaustible 
 live eternal in the trees, the flowers, the 
 breeze; and like those who follow in the foot- 
 steps of the Lord, "he was not afraid neither 
 was he dismayed." 
 
 When he first married, his wife enjoyed 
 his music, but she soon wearied of it and said 
 its wailing affected her nerves. So he be- 
 took himself further away. Almost every 
 evening he shut himself up in his room with 
 the instrument which had become the con- 
 fidant of his memories, his emotions, the joys 
 and woes and thoughts of his life. 
 
 The violin voiced his inarticulate feelings. 
 It understood and could speak — so plainly 
 indeed that the timid, reserved fellow to
 
 58 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 whom it would have been sheer torture to 
 open his heart to any human being, grew 
 afraid of the indiscretion of his friend. He 
 trembled lest those who heard should under- 
 stand. He imagined that listeners congre- 
 gated at his door to whisper and gossip over 
 his self-revelation; his room was not far 
 enough removed from the rest of the house. 
 He therefore adopted a different plan. He 
 waited until nine o'clock, the hour at which 
 the domestics retired, then, cautiously he 
 crept through the central hall and along the 
 corridor of the disused wing; in one of the 
 further rooms, shut in and alone, he gave him- 
 self up to his art and played by the light of 
 the moon or of a solitary candle, half the night 
 through. 
 
 For thirty years he had been doing this, 
 sharing the deserted rooms with the spiders, 
 the mice, and even the screech-owls ; the latter 
 are peculiarly sensitive to music and often 
 came from the neighbouring woods to perch 
 near the violin and listen. 
 
 In the course of those thirty years, the in- 
 strument had been the mouth-piece of the 
 musician's daily life: it had discoursed of sun- 
 rise on the hills, of flocks peacefully cropping
 
 THE KEYNOTE 59 
 
 the herbage, of young love, early disappoint- 
 ment, the joys and hopes of fatherhood fol- 
 lowed by renewed disappointment, and finally 
 of the rebellious son, and his departure — all 
 these experiences had been wailed, sung, 
 sobbed by the violin of worthy old Crouil- 
 lebois' pupil! 
 
 On this special evening, his soul was full 
 of music. The autumn perfume and whisper 
 of the forest had stirred him profoundly. 
 He felt as if its very essence had crept into 
 his innermost soul. 
 
 Nine o'clock struck. The muffled sound 
 came down the chimney from the clock on 
 the summit of the roof. 
 
 He seized his violin. 
 
 But first he wondered whether it would not 
 be desirable that he should free his mind of 
 all preoccupation. He hesitated. Should 
 he read the letter he had just received? He 
 decided to do so, and, putting down the in- 
 strument, turned up the wick of the lamp. 
 
 With a knife he slit the envelope, a habit 
 he had caught from his wife, who disliked 
 to see a letter opened untidily. 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte," he read.
 
 60 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 At first he could not grasp the meaning of 
 what he saw; then he turned white; his hand 
 shook and he dropped the missive: 
 
 "My God, what is this! Anthime! 
 Wretched boy! . . ." 
 
 He could not see to read; a mist floated 
 before his eyes and the words ran into each 
 other. 
 
 He flew to the door. 
 
 "Emilie!" 
 
 But he stopped short, remembering swiftly 
 that above all things his wife must be spared; 
 his limbs failed him and he dropped into a 
 chair, overcome by the violence of the blow. 
 
 He sat a long time, motionless, suffering 
 horribly. His son's face stood out vividly 
 before his mental sight. Hours passed; the 
 lamp flickered; it had almost burnt itself out. 
 
 At length, with a shiver he awoke from 
 his prostration, and the terrible words, six 
 hundred thousand francs, twenty-four thou- 
 sand pounds, danced viciously before his eyes: 
 twenty-four thousand pounds! 
 
 Terror gripped him. He realized with 
 anguish that all the farms must go. 
 
 No, he would not pay! He had done 
 enough for his son. He would not relieve
 
 THE KEYNOTE 61 
 
 him a second time of the penalty of his trans- 
 gression. 
 
 Then his mood changed. He grew weak. 
 His heart melted in self-pity. Was it within 
 reason that he, who had never yet harmed 
 mortal man, could be thus cruelly treated and 
 his fortune wrested from him by alien hands? 
 There must be some mistake. Surely the 
 whole world would rise up in his defence. 
 
 What was there to prove that this letter 
 from the money-lender Muller was not a 
 swindle, an attempt at blackmail? How on 
 earth could he find out? He was absolutely 
 ignorant in money-matters; he knew nothing 
 about them, but he was aware that vile ex- 
 tortions and cheating transactions could be 
 perpetrated by evil-disposed persons. 
 
 The lamp had gone out; the hour was far 
 advanced; he shivered with cold. 
 
 Motionless, his head bowed over his out- 
 stretched arms he pondered, irresolute, help- 
 less as a child caught in the whirl of a new 
 unknown world. He realized that he had 
 held too much aloof from his kind, that the 
 solitude he so prized had become a source of 
 distress. 
 
 He started up. A name, a personality, had
 
 
 62 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 suddenly occurred to him out of those for- 
 gotten days of the past. To this personality 
 so strangely brought to his memory he grasped 
 as a drowning man to a plank. 
 
 I'll go to him," he muttered feverishly, 
 I'll go to him at once." 
 
 Relief brought a lump into his throat; he 
 folded his hands as if in prayer, and raising 
 his eyes, dim with tears, he moaned: 
 
 "It's been a mistake . . . One cannot live 
 quite alone! A man must have friends!" 
 
 *r> tfl? "Tf: "yjf 
 
 He left his room softly, walking on tip- 
 toe through the entrance hall. The sudden 
 contact with the night air made him shiver. 
 The courtyard was damp and foggy. He 
 crossed it quickly. Lirot stirred in his ken- 
 nel, the "Comte Caradec" thrust his lean 
 head and neck out of the loose-box. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines entered one of the 
 buildings and felt his way up a narrow wind- 
 ing stair-case leading to a room above the 
 stable. He stopped at the top and knocked 
 at a white-washed door. 
 
 "Frederic!" he called, and waited an in- 
 stant.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 63 
 
 "Frederic!" he repeated, and knocked 
 again. 
 
 The bed creaked and bare feet padded 
 over the wooden floor. 
 
 "Frederic, it is I!" 
 
 The footsteps hastened and the heavy door 
 opened, creaking. 
 
 "Frederic!" panted his master. "You are 
 starting early for Poitiers ... I had forgot- 
 ten ... I must go too ... I will start with 
 you . . . What time is it?" 
 
 Frederic, only half awake, stood silent for 
 a moment wondering whether this was all 
 part of a dream . . . this holding the door 
 open in his night-shirt and hearing the agi- 
 tated voice of his master in the dark. Then 
 he decided to look for the matches. When 
 he had lit one, swearing a little under his 
 breath as the first two or three broke off, 
 sputtered, and went out, he lighted his lan- 
 tern and held it up to the big silver watch 
 which hung on a nail above his bed. 
 
 "Three o'clock," he replied, in a voice still 
 hoarse with sleep. 
 
 "Get up! Get up! We must be off by 
 four o'clock." 
 
 "Very good, Master. I'll go down at once 
 and give the mare her feed."
 
 64 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 In his surprise at the emotion manifest in 
 his master's voice he raised the lantern to 
 look at his face. 
 
 "Get on, get on!" urged Monsieur des 
 Lourdines, as he turned and hurried down the 
 stair. 
 
 3fc vjr ifc # 3fc 
 
 When he got back to his room he lit the 
 candle he had prepared for his vigil with the 
 violin, for the lamp had gone out. By its 
 wretched glimmer he changed his clothes 
 feverishly, noiselessly, almost holding his 
 breath. He hurried so that he muddled 
 things ; he had the utmost difficulty in getting 
 his feet into his town boots, the leather of 
 which had hardened and stiffened through 
 want of use. He luckily remembered telling 
 his wife he had no business to do in Poitiers, 
 so he sat down and wrote her a note explain- 
 ing that Suire, the miller, had a law suit com- 
 ing on and had begged him to give evidence 
 in his favour. He was sorry not to have 
 recollected this when he was talking to her 
 over-night. 
 
 He closed the letter without even noticing 
 that he who had hitherto never told a lie, 
 had just written one.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 65 
 
 He slipped the note under his wife's door 
 where she must see it on awaking; and softly, 
 feeling his way along the wall and avoiding 
 creaky boards, he crept away, without waking 
 a soul. 
 
 A blue haze heralded the dawn; the fresh, 
 brisk air of the early morning hours when 
 the earth seems to have regained youth and 
 vigour during the night, laid its cooling touch 
 on his heated brow. 
 
 Wrapping himself in his heavy driving 
 cloak he went to the stables and found Fred- 
 eric completing his preparations by the light 
 of a lantern. A few hens, roused from sleep, 
 cackled; the old white mare, ready harnessed, 
 crunched her oats with a grinding sound. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines waited in the 
 stable-yard, watching a friendly star, twink- 
 ling between two poplars. 
 
 He turned at the sound of the mare's foot- 
 falls on the cobblestones. She was being 
 backed towards the buggy. Frederic fetched 
 his whip, a brush for the journey, and his hat, 
 which he deposited on the horse-trough; 
 then he lifted the shafts to the mare and 
 fastened buckles and straps, casting curious 
 glances the while at his master. 
 
 "Quick, Frederic — quickl"
 
 66 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Frederic pulled on his great-coat, but re- 
 membered he had left his leather wallet in 
 the stable. He ran to fetch it — now the key 
 of the cashbox was forgotten. At last every- 
 thing was ready and Monsieur des Lourdines 
 got into the cart. But he passed by the box- 
 seat and threw himself into the other. The 
 coachman handed him the reins, but Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines shook his head. "No — 
 you drive — hurry up 1" 
 
 They were off. The clock on the Chateau 
 struck four as they rolled out of the gates. 
 
 Five long hours' drive lay before them, five 
 hours in which to listen dreamily to the 
 sound of the wheels on the road. They 
 crawled up the steep side of the Creneraie 
 hill. It was the dark moment before the 
 break of day. On either side the puddles in 
 the cart tracks shone under the flash of the 
 lamps ; far away in the distance a light showed 
 in some window; the panting breath of the 
 mare rose in a cloud of steam above her head. 
 White, gauzy vapours hovered low above the 
 meadows. The woods were mysteriously 
 outlined on the hills beyond. 
 
 "There's the forest," hazarded Frederic,
 
 THE KEYNOTE 67 
 
 pointing with his finger and hoping for a chat 
 to while away the time. 
 
 Receiving no answer, he cracked the whip 
 and put the mare into a trot.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THEY reached Poitiers at about nine 
 o'clock. The market was in full 
 swing and to Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines' annoyance the buggy was forced, by 
 the crowded condition of the thoroughfare, 
 to slow down to walking pace. The swarm 
 of pedestrians, vehicles, and animals increased 
 with every moment. There was not space in 
 the narrow street for the accumulation of 
 empty carts, stalls loaded with goods for sale, 
 pigs struggling among the farmers' legs, and 
 the huge umbrellas carried by every good- 
 wife. 
 
 The buggy could only crawl at last; but 
 the mare poked her nose into necks and 
 shoulders, pushed between haggling couples 
 and pressed steadily forward, indifferent to 
 all obstacles. 
 
 Frederic's numerous acquaintances shook 
 him by the hand as he passed, calling out 
 cheery greetings. Monsieur des Lourdines 
 evaded recognition by leaning well back un- 
 
 68
 
 THE KEYNOTE 69 
 
 der the hood; but notwithstanding this pre- 
 caution he heard his name passed from mouth 
 to mouth in the crowd. He cowered still 
 further back and pulled his hat over his eyes. 
 
 The "Plat d'etain," patronized by the 
 gentry and the more substantial merchants 
 was on the further side of the town. 
 
 Rows of carriages already filled the court- 
 yard when the Petit- Fougeray buggy drove in. 
 
 "Here we are at last!" murmured Frederic, 
 pulling up. 
 
 They threw off the rugs, and an ostler 
 hurried up to take the mare. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines got down and 
 stood, giddy and tired, trying to stamp the 
 stiffness out of his limbs. 
 
 To him bustled the host, exclaiming 
 jovially in stentorian tones: 
 
 "Monsieur des Lourdines! Never! Well, 
 upon my word! Monsieur des Lourdines in 
 Poitiers ! Dearie me, and how are you, Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines?" 
 
 Monsieur Bricart was stout and rosy, with 
 a thatch of wiry brown hair; he was an ex- 
 pert horse-coper and the friend of all gentle- 
 men in the country-side. 
 
 "How . . . how are you, Monsieur Bri-
 
 70 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 cart?" stammered Monsieur des Lourdines, 
 unwillingly. "Be good enough to give me 
 a room for to-night, will you?" 
 
 The weary traveller, lost in the folds of his 
 vast driving-cape, could barely muster a 
 smile. He would fain have fled, but the host 
 button-holed him and wrung his hand — such 
 familiarity was surely permissible with this 
 unassuming little gentleman. 
 
 "Certainly, certainly, Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines. Come, let us crack a bottle together, 
 eh?" fat Bricart proposed, pressing closer as 
 Monsieur des Lourdines attempted to escape. 
 
 "Thank you, no, Monsieur Bricart, not 
 just now." 
 
 "What, not a little glass just to pass the 
 time of day? To get the fog out of your 
 throat? Nothing like it for clearing the 
 brain before a bargain! Come, just one!" 
 
 "No, thank you. Really, Monsieur Bri- 
 cart, I cannot at present ... I ... I am not 
 . . . not quite well . . . d'you see . . . not 
 quite well . . . wine would upset me . . .;" 
 and Monsieur des Lourdines made a further 
 effort to evade the noisy attentions of worthy 
 Bricart. 
 
 "Not well? The devil! A good Poitevin 
 like you not well? Oh, come, come! Look
 
 THE KEYNOTE 71 
 
 here, sir, a word in your ear. When I saw 
 you come in just now, I said to myself: 
 'Monsieur des Lourdines has come to Poitiers 
 to buy a new horse in place of the white mare, 
 who is not growing any younger.' Luckily, 
 I have the very thing for you — a chance you 
 won't get twice in a lifetime. Thobiel" he 
 called to a stableboy polishing harness in a 
 shed, "Thobie, take the rugs off Bonbonne! 
 Make haste, my lad!" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines looked anxiously 
 about for a way to escape. 
 
 "No, really, Monsieur Bricart . . . pray 
 . . . I am not buying this morning, I assure 
 you ... I am in a hurry — I am sorry I can- 
 not wait. . . ." 
 
 "One minute, sir, I beg! There! What 
 do you say to that!" and the dealer pointed 
 proudly at a handsome black mare pawing 
 the ground and whinnying at the door of her 
 loose-box. 
 
 "Isn't she a beauty? Look at that shoul- 
 der! My word! And talk of trotting! 
 She'll make anything she wants to pass on the 
 road look silly! Monsieur Anthime wouldn't 
 have wasted a second, I can assure you! She 
 would be his by now! And I'll make the 
 price nice and easy. You shall have her
 
 72 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 for sixty pounds. Did you ever see such 
 feet!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, indeed. She is a beauty, she's 
 everything you say ..." Monsieur des 
 Lourdines threw over his shoulder, as he edged 
 away, a frown of helpless annoyance carving 
 a new furrow on his drawn face. 
 
 "Oho! I see! You want to go round the 
 market first and see a little of everything! 
 Well, you'll come back!" 
 
 But Monsieur des Lourdines had fled at 
 ast, striding over all obstacles and humping his 
 back obstinately. "You'll come back, Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines, you'll have to come back! 
 See if you don't!" mine host shouted after him ; 
 and as Frederic approached, he addressed him 
 inquisitively: 
 
 "Where is your master off to, Frederic? 
 He looks very queer." 
 
 "He hasn't said anything to me," replied 
 Frederic. "I only know that he woke me up 
 in the middle of the night and ordered me to 
 bring him here, and that he looked like a 
 ghost, poor gentleman. Perhaps he's come to 
 see a doctor!" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines had turned the cor- 
 ner He hurried to his goal as fast as he
 
 THE KEYNOTE 73 
 
 could, eager for the advice he had come so 
 far to seek. 
 
 Presently he left the crowd behind and en- 
 tered a quiet side-street called the Rue des 
 Carmelites. He could not remember the 
 number of the house he was in search of. He 
 asked a passer-by to tell him where Monsieur 
 Lamarzelliere lived, and was shown a little 
 house standing back from the street within a 
 pair of iron gates flanked on either side by two 
 mountain-ashes and some bent yucca-trees. 
 
 A servant opened the door and having taken 
 his card to her master, came back with orders 
 to show him in at once. He stepped hastily 
 over the threshold which he hoped would 
 bring him salvation. 
 
 Monsieur Lamarzelliere had been at school 
 with him, and was, besides, distantly related 
 to Madame des Lourdines. The formula he 
 invariably made use of in presenting himself 
 will be his best introduction to the reader: 
 "I am, Sir or Madame, Councillor to His 
 Majesty, at the Imperial Court of Poitiers." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines followed at the 
 heels of the maid, tripping over the door mat 
 in his haste. 
 
 The magistrate rose from his seat in a dark
 
 74 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 corner, offering his right hand in greeting, 
 while with his left he held his dressing-gown 
 close over his breast. 
 
 "Des Lourdines! This is a surprise!" 
 
 He was a tall man. Long silvery hair, 
 brushed well back, fell behind his ears, fram- 
 ing a gaunt sallow face. 
 
 "What good wind blows you here?" he ex- 
 claimed cheerfully; but long experience in 
 reading the human countenance in the execu- 
 tion of his profession, caused him to change his 
 tone directly: 
 
 "Sit down here, old man," he added gently. 
 
 "Lamarzelliere! Lamarzelliere!" cried 
 Monsieur des Lourdines, suddenly breaking 
 down and seizing the magistrate's hand. 
 "Save me ! Save me ! You are my last hope I 
 I have come ..." he choked — tears rose to 
 his eyes and threatened to overflow; the shad- 
 ows on his cheeks grew purple. "One can't 
 get on quite alone," he muttered through 
 clenched teeth; "one needs a friend some- 
 times." 
 
 The Councillor stared in astonishment. He 
 was a machine not a man; prim, narrow- 
 minded, caustic. 
 
 "Of course, of course," he murmured reas- 
 suringly. "One has need of others, naturally.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 75 
 
 But come, come, control yourself! What is 
 the matter, des Lourdines?" 
 
 And tapping his shoulder gently, he endeav- 
 oured to calm his old schoolfellow, whom he 
 had always looked down upon to a certain ex- 
 tent, as a good fellow, but something of a fool. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines pulled out his 
 pocket-book, extracted a letter from it and 
 handed it to his friend. 
 
 "Read that!" he said, throwing himself into 
 a chair, and holding his head in his hands, 
 while the Councillor walked to the window 
 and raised the missive to the light. 
 
 Monsieur Lamarzelliere read aloud: 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte . . /' 
 
 "Poor old boy, poor old boy!" he exclaimed, 
 when he had finished. He wrinkled his nose 
 in a manner betokening acute attention cou- 
 pled with some anxiety. 
 
 "I send the boy forty pounds a month," ex- 
 claimed Monsieur des Lourdines, angrily: 
 "forty pounds a month ! He might have done 
 on that, I should have thought! It's a good 
 allowance, even for Paris — and I would have 
 given more if he had asked for it. I received 
 that letter last night; my poor wife handed it 
 to me herself. She knew nothing about it, of 
 course; luckily, I didn't read it before her.
 
 76 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Thank God for that at least! I read it in 
 my room and she knows nothing as yet. I 
 thought at once of you, my old friend. The 
 situation is appalling. I must have some one 
 to help me through it; an adviser, an expert! 
 I said to myself; 'There must be a screw loose 
 somewhere; this letter may be out of order, 
 but how can I find out? How am I to get 
 out of the difficulty?' " 
 
 The Councillor sat thinking. A herd of 
 cows was moving down the street towards the 
 market place; their lowing and the shuffling 
 footsteps of the drovers could be heard through 
 the window. 
 
 "I sincerely hope," began Monsieur Lamar- 
 zelliere impressively, "that you do not intend 
 to hold yourself responsible for the debt." 
 
 He was well aware of the weakness of the 
 des Lourdines on any point of honour. 
 
 "To hold myself responsible!" repeated 
 Monsieur des Lourdines, startled. 
 
 The magistrate knew his man, or rather he 
 thought, in the superficial way men have of 
 judging each other, that he knew him. He 
 made up his mind immediately: his cue was 
 to speak authoritatively and stiffen up the 
 poor weakling who was so pitiably unable to 
 fight his own battle.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 77 
 
 He therefore sat down ponderously, in the 
 official seat, whence he felt best able to dom- 
 inate the situation. 
 
 "Calm yourself, des Lourdines, I repeat, and 
 let us review the situation dispassionately." 
 
 "Yes, yes, by all means, Lamarzelliere, 
 clearly and dispassionately." 
 
 "Listen!" continued the Councillor, in his 
 cold, judicial, slightly nasal tones; "I am a 
 childless bachelor. Were I the father of a 
 son, I should have brought him up in hand- 
 cuffs, metaphorically speaking; for I look 
 upon constraint as the primary principle of 
 rational education. I am aware that we differ 
 on that point. I will therefore not touch upon 
 the sentimental side of the question, nor will 
 I give my view as to the moral obligation of 
 your son with regard to the liabilities he has 
 incurred. But since you desire my legal opin- 
 ion, here it is:" (here he blew his nose im- 
 portantly). 
 
 "In this matter, three alternatives present 
 themselves for our consideration: either the 
 debt does not exist at all; or, it stands good in 
 its entirety; or it has been fraudulently in- 
 creased. We may, I think, dismiss the two 
 first as highly improbable, or at any rate quite 
 easy to deal with. Passing to the third: this
 
 78 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Miiller must be some back-street money-lender 
 who sees in your son's fine prospects a chance 
 of obtaining interest out of all proportion to 
 the sums lent, that is to say, interest usurious 
 to such a degree as not to be recoverable by 
 law." 
 
 "Exactly, exactly, that is what I thought!" 
 put in Monsieur des Lourdines, gazing plead- 
 ingly at the magistrate. 
 
 Monsieur Lamarzelliere continued: "We 
 may even find that this money-lender, this 
 usurer, has, on some previous occasion, 
 brought himself within reach of the law. 
 This is of course mere hypothesis, but it is 
 worth verifying, and such an inquiry can be 
 conducted with the greatest ease by any busi- 
 ness man, your solicitor for instance. Do you 
 follow me?" 
 
 "Perfectly!" replied Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines, his face clearing. 
 
 "Very well. When the inquiry is complete, 
 if the result should be as I imagine, there could 
 naturally be no question of payment in full. 
 But even then there would still remain a con- 
 siderable debt to be discharged. This brings 
 us back to the question I put to you first: do 
 you, or do you not, intend to pay?" 
 
 The relief which had momentarily illu-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 79 
 
 mined Monsieur des Lourdines' countenance 
 disappeared instantly; his eyes clouded, his 
 arms fell heavily to his sides. 
 
 "How can I tell!" he groaned. "What can 
 I say! You tell me there will in any case be 
 something considerable to pay. If I refuse, 
 where is Anthime to get the money? After 
 all he is my son — God in heaven, what am I 
 to do!" 
 
 Monsieur Lamarzelliere began to show 
 signs of impatience. He shrugged his shoul- 
 ders and moistened his lips. 
 
 "This is waste of time — pure nonsense," he 
 drawled. "Let me speak frankly as a lawyer, 
 and recall to you that a principle is involved 
 in this, besides the sentimental aspect of the 
 case. Listen! Let us admit that the original 
 debt has been incurred. If it can be proved 
 that the money-lender has imposed scandal- 
 ously usurious interest, you, by paying in full, 
 ipso facto condone his fraud, and I say you 
 have no right to do so." 
 
 "But . . . but . . ." stammered Monsieur 
 des Lourdines . . . "does not the question of 
 honour equally occur?" 
 
 "Honour, forsooth! my good fellow, that 
 much-misapplied term honour forbids you to 
 commit a quixotic action which becomes a
 
 80 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 precedent and threatens to involve other par- 
 ents in difficulties identical with your own! 
 Honour forbids you to pander to your parental 
 self-indulgence, by encouraging this odious 
 form of making capital out of the follies of 
 youth. Honour . . ." 
 
 "But, Lamarzelliere, there is such a thing as 
 prison ! Anthime shall not go to prison — I tell 
 you, rather than that should happen . . ." 
 speech failed the wretched man. He was si- 
 lent. The Councillor stared and his eyes said 
 more plainly than words : "What is one to do 
 with a fatuous idiot like this!" 
 
 "Prison!" he echoed. "Imprisonment for 
 debt does not involve disgrace. Moreover 
 the prison doors are not so readily opened as 
 you seem to think. Money-lenders know full 
 well that in dealing with parents the threat of 
 imprisonment produces excellent results. Be- 
 sides," he pulled a heavy volume out of the 
 book-case behind him and turned over its 
 leaves as he spoke, "there are laws. Here we 
 are, here is your boy's case: imprisonment for 
 debt can only be imposed where stel-li-o-nate 
 can be proved." He rolled the long word on 
 his tongue. 
 
 "Stellionate?" repeated Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines, looking scared out of his wits.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 81 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The Councillor looked up. 
 
 "The expression stellionate, my dear fellow, 
 is derived from a Latin word, stellio, a poison- 
 ous lizard thus named by the Romans on ac- 
 count of the star-shaped spots on its back. 
 Jurisconsults have bestowed upon fraudulent 
 — there, there ... a complete explanation 
 would carry us too far from the case in point. 
 Stellionate can be pleaded where, for instance, 
 the furniture of a house is sold or pledged by 
 one who is not its absolute proprietor. Now it 
 is to the last degree improbable that your son 
 should have so deceived a professional money- 
 lender as to induce him to accept a mortgage 
 on Petit-Fougeray!" 
 
 "I suppose so," sighed Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines. 
 
 "Now, in commercial law, on the other 
 hand," pursued the Magistrate, turning over 
 the leaves of the book rapidly, "Article I. of 
 the Code of 1832, enjoins imprisonment for 
 commercial debt. Your son is not a trader, 
 ergo . . . 
 
 "And now, old man, there is a further point 
 you do not seem to have considered as yet. 
 What would you have left to live upon, if you 
 paid away twenty-four thousand pounds?
 
 82 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 That has to be thought of. How could you 
 manage? It would surely spell ruin! Is 
 your wife in a fit state to bear such a calamity? 
 I personally do not think so. You would be 
 absolutely ruined, and she — well, she might 
 — you must face it, my boy — it might kill her, 
 eh? What?" 
 
 "It would kill her if Anthime went to 
 prison," Monsieur des Lourdines persisted 
 drearily. He seemed crushed under the 
 weight of his misfortune. 
 
 They argued for a long time. 
 
 At length Monsieur Lamarzelliere grew 
 weary. 
 
 "Look here!" he exclaimed in tones which 
 warned his hearer that he was making his ulti- 
 mate declaration: "If you utterly refuse, as 
 I strongly advise, to be responsible for your 
 son's debts, and if he has to go to prison in 
 consequence, it will no doubt be a great sor- 
 row to you, des Lourdines, and I sympathize 
 deeply with you; still, my conscience bids me 
 tell you that, since your son has chosen to sow 
 the wind, you should let him reap the whirl- 
 wind: therein alone lie justice and equity." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines rose slowly. His 
 friend's words seemed to have inflicted a 
 mortal wound.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 83 
 
 ''Justice! Equity!" he murmured in 
 trembling tones. "Oh, Lamarzelliere, you 
 have indeed opened my eyes! Anthime, poor 
 Anthime, is my son. Who can say that all 
 that has happened is not the fault of his train- 
 ing, of his parents?" 
 
 He bowed his head on his hands and his 
 lips quivered. 
 
 Monsieur Lamarzelliere made an involun- 
 tary gesture such as Pilate may have used 
 when he asked the great question which has 
 never yet received an answer; he ran his 
 fingers idly through the leaves of the law-book, 
 but made no sound. 
 
 A neighbouring Convent bell began to toll. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines walked towards 
 the door without raising his eyes. 
 
 "Won't you stay to lunch, my dear old boy? 
 Stay and have some food ; it will do you good." 
 
 "No thank you, I couldn't." 
 
 The Magistrate tried to persuade him, but 
 elicited only a jerky refusal, and this sentence 
 muttered in heart-broken tones: "I must be 
 alone!" 
 
 At the threshold, Lamarzelliere whispered, 
 "Courage!" with a kindly tap on the shoulder 
 of the stricken man. Des Lourdines looked 
 up but his stiffened lips could frame no word.
 
 84 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 He walked up the street and found him- 
 self again in the midst of the market. 
 
 He had gone to the Councillor with com- 
 plete faith in his ability to save the situation. 
 He had been confident that the man of law 
 would see his way through the tangle, and 
 prescribe some definite course of action; now 
 he felt lost, solitary, helpless. But at least his 
 mind was made up. Lamarzelliere's pom- 
 pous periods had contained a hint which sent 
 him flying to his solicitor, Maitre Paillaud. 
 
 His way lay across the central square of the 
 cattle fair. It was densely crowded and he 
 found it difficult to force a passage for him- 
 self. Presently his eye fell upon a familiar 
 figure; a wrinkled, sunburnt neck, angular 
 shoulders clad in a light blue blouse, legs all 
 bowed and twisted: Celestin! 
 
 Celestin was prodding the sides of a milch 
 cow; in his hand he held the scissors with 
 which he would presently cut a mark in the 
 animal's coat, if he concluded the deal. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines caught at his 
 blouse. 
 
 "Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Celestin, startled 
 at the sight of his master whom he supposed 
 to be some thirty miles away. 
 
 "Celestin, don't buy that cowl"
 
 THE KEYNOTE 85 
 
 "But, Master, why not?" questioned 
 Celestin, opening wide his dog-like eyes. "I 
 shall not find a grander milker anywhere; 
 there is nothing better in the market to-day!" 
 
 "I mean, don't buy that one or any other 
 — not to-day, anyhow. I've been thinking it 
 over. No, we won't buy!" 
 
 He moved away and was speedily swal- 
 lowed up in the crowd, leaving Celestin gaz- 
 ing after him open-mouthed. 
 
 There were a great many people in the so- 
 licitor's waiting-room, as was usual on market 
 days. Monsieur des Lourdines squeezed 
 himself into a little space on a bench between 
 two countrymen and awaited his turn. His 
 neighbours chewed tobacco and stared at the 
 strange little gentleman who muttered to him- 
 self and sighed. 
 
 A clerk, passing through, recognized him 
 and offered to hear his business at once, in a 
 private corner of the room; but Monsieur des 
 Lourdines preferred to consult kindly old 
 Maitre Paillaud, the family solicitor, in per- 
 son. He had been so suddenly roused from 
 his painful reverie that he stammered and re- 
 peated over and over again: "Monsieur le 
 Notaire „ . . Monsieur le Notaire . . ." in
 
 86 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 such strange tones that the young man looked 
 at him in astonishment. 
 
 "Very good, sir," he said at length, "I will 
 let him know at once that you are here." 
 
 A moment later, Maitre Paillaud put his 
 head in at the door, singled out Monsieur des 
 Lourdines, and said with a pleasant smile: 
 
 "Will you come this way please, Monsieur 
 des Lourdines." 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 Maitre Paillaud was a little, fat, bald man, 
 with snow-white skin. A velvet skull-cap 
 with a long tassel framed his knobby fore- 
 head, and his pince-nez, shielding a pair of 
 searching brown eyes, quivered like antennae 
 with each of his nervous gestures. 
 
 At the opening words of his client, his 
 mouth rounded itself into an astonished "Oh!" 
 Being hard of hearing he alternately bent his 
 ear towards his interlocutor, then turned 
 quickly to scrutinize his face and try to dis- 
 cover whether by any chance — could the poor 
 gentleman be — ? twenty-four thousand 
 pounds! His tongue refused its office. He 
 forgot to ask his client to be seated; he stood 
 aghast, twisting his quill pen round and round 
 in his fingers. The old story, alas! Why 
 must all the good old country-stock ruin it-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 87 
 
 self, and go under in this idiotic fashion? He 
 felt outraged at the thought of so much money 
 going out of the district! 
 
 Now at last Monsieur des Lourdines was 
 expressing himself firmly and lucidly. 
 Maitre Paillaud listened dumbly and made no 
 sign beyond occasionally wringing his hands. 
 
 After he had taken down the name and ad- 
 dress of the money-lender he broke out: 
 "Good Heavens! Is it possible! I can 
 hardly believe it! Who could have supposed 
 . . ." he snatched his cap from his head, as 
 if about to hurl it to the floor; his naked 
 cranium gleamed like a billiard-ball. 
 
 "I am absolutely astounded! astounded! 
 I am grieved from the bottom of my heart, 
 sir!" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines grasped his hand 
 convulsively. 
 
 "I will proceed with the inquiry immedi- 
 ately, and I sincerely hope we shall get off 
 with only a nasty fright! But, sir, in the de- 
 plorable event ... it might be, you know, 
 that . . . pray forgive me, dear sir, and be- 
 lieve that the question I ought to ask is dic- 
 tated by ... by the profound interest I feel 
 in your distinguished family ... an old serv- 
 ant, you know . . ."
 
 88 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 In strangled tones, Monsieur des Lourdines 
 replied slowly: 
 
 "I should pay, Maitre Paillaud!" 
 
 The solicitor gazed at him with a mingled 
 expression of respect, and pity. Timidly he 
 objected: 
 
 "But would you sell the farms? Sir, re- 
 flect! Pause, I beg of you! Remember 
 that . . ." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines shook his head 
 wearily and took up his hat. Maitre Paillaud 
 escorted him to the top of the stairs and stood, 
 cap in hand, watching him descend, and mur- 
 muring in broken accents: "My devotion 
 . . . Sir, let me assure you . . ." 
 
 At the "Plat d'etain" Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines sat in a retired corner and tried to eat, 
 but could only swallow a few mouthfuls; 
 Monsieur Bricart left him in peace but 
 watched him curiously from a distance. 
 
 When he had finished his meal he went up- 
 stairs and locked himself into his narrow lit- 
 tle room with its one window draped with 
 calico curtains. It was cold and damp. He 
 had been asked whether he would have a fire 
 lighted, but had declined. 
 
 When he found himself alone at last, for
 
 THE KEYNOTE 89 
 
 the first time since he had received the fate- 
 ful letter, a kind of panic seized him; he 
 looked apprehensively at the unfamiliar 
 white-washed walls, within which he must re- 
 main prisoned for the next few hours, un- 
 solaced by friendship, alone with his torment, 
 far from his beloved Fougeray. 
 
 He stood motionless, staring out of the win- 
 dow with glazed blue eyes : "Pity me, oh my 
 God! Pity me!" Thoughts wandered dis- 
 connectedly through his brain. He could 
 hear again the words of his advisers, words so 
 impotent alas, to help or instruct. 
 
 The distant buzz of the market-place, the 
 cackle of poultry, the pawing of horses stand- 
 ing in the courtyard below, rose muffled to 
 his ears through the closed window. He lis- 
 tened dully to the mixture of human and ani- 
 mal sounds. The poignant emotions he had 
 passed through in the last twenty hours, 
 coupled with a sleepless night and almost com- 
 plete abstention from food, had thoroughly 
 exhausted him. By degrees his limbs re- 
 laxed, and sitting in a large armchair he fell 
 into a heavy slumber. 
 
 7F "^ 3(? 7f» $fc 
 
 In his dream he saw a huge monster, golden 
 as the sun, reclining on a gigantic spider's
 
 90 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 web of gleaming ropes. Terror paralyzed 
 his limbs when Anthime appeared and walked 
 blindly forward, stumbling against the ob- 
 stacle. The monster stirred, unfolded hor- 
 rific, scaly tentacles from beneath its belly, 
 seized Anthime and climbing swiftly up the 
 luminous web, disappeared into darkness with 
 its prey. 
 
 He opened his eyes. 
 
 "Anthime 1" he groaned. "God! Where 
 am I!" 
 
 With beating heart he turned his thoughts 
 to the author of all this misery. Why was 
 he not present! He would have loosed the 
 vials of his wrath upon his offending head, 
 would have relieved his soul by reviling him 
 as an unnatural son, an infamous wastrel, a 
 heartless brute. Faintness came over him and 
 clouded his brain; he felt far away, forlorn; 
 everything faded from him, he could no 
 longer picture his son's features. This was 
 the end then! All was over! 
 
 "It must be our fault. Surely, surely we 
 are to blame as well!" 
 
 He was choking. He must get out of this 
 horrible room. 
 
 He ran downstairs, and rushing through 
 the mob outside, made his way by devious
 
 THE KEYNOTE 91 
 
 side-streets into the open country. The even- 
 ing air cooled his heated brain; a soft drizzle 
 moistened his cheek with a touch like a caress. 
 
 He tramped at a steady pace along the 
 muddy yellow road, where, as a boy, he had 
 trudged with his schoolfellows on Sundays. 
 He did not recognize the old landmarks; he 
 only felt that he must walk, walk, walk away 
 into the far distance, for ever and ever. 
 
 Gusts of wind swirled in the ample folds 
 of his driving cloak and whistled across the 
 vast spaces of red ploughland so like that of 
 his property at Fouchaut, which must now go 
 to the hammer. He forged on, hat in hand. 
 Not a soul was about. He was alone. Far 
 ahead a curtain of tall poplars lost itself in a 
 background of gloom and murk. He was 
 practically oblivious of his surroundings, of 
 time, of his own personality. He walked 
 mechanically, urged by the powerful West 
 wind, soaked through by fine falling rain . . .
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE buggy seemed to have been roll- 
 ing along the high-road for hours and 
 hours. The lamps were alight and 
 their glow shone yellow on the hedges and 
 puddles. 
 
 A very late start had been made, so that 
 instead of reaching Petit-Fougeray in the 
 morning, as usual, the travellers could not 
 arrive before nightfall. First of all Fred- 
 eric made several mistakes in his errands for 
 his mistress and was obliged to repair them; 
 then he found that the mare required shoe- 
 ing; later, he discovered the absence of his 
 master and wasted valuable time looking for 
 him while Monsieur des Lourdines was him- 
 self hunting high and low for Suire the miller. 
 He tried the Court-house, the clerk's office, 
 the public-houses, and every imaginable 
 place; for at the last moment a disquieting 
 thought had presented itself to his weary 
 brain: what could he possibly tell his wife 
 about the miller's law-suit? He had made it 
 
 92
 
 THE KEYNOTE 93 
 
 the excuse for his sudden journey to Poitiers, 
 and now he could neither run the man to 
 ground, nor find anyone to tell him how the 
 case had been decided! 
 
 Another point troubled him: how was he 
 to explain his prohibition to Celestin, the day 
 before, with regard to the cow? Would his 
 wife suspect something? It was a deplor- 
 able tangle and made it very difficult for him 
 to carry out his determination not to tell her 
 the truth about Anthime. His mind was, 
 however, made up on that point: until the re- 
 sult of the inquiry concerning the money- 
 lender should come to hand, he would take 
 every means to safeguard the few remaining 
 hours of peace it might be the lot of his poor 
 Emilie to enjoy. 
 
 He had been afraid Celestin might get back 
 before him and give his own account of what 
 had happened; but he had just passed him on 
 the road, jogging home in the empty cart. 
 
 Master and man drove in silence, as usual. 
 They had left the flat country behind and had 
 now reached their own district with its long 
 slow climbs up the hills, and the stilted trots 
 down. It still drizzled, as it had been doing 
 ever since the night before. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines lay back suffering
 
 94 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 dully ; he was tired out. The monotonous roll- 
 ing of the wheels might have lulled him to 
 blessed oblivion, but for the anguish of his 
 soul, the aching of his limbs, the smarting 
 of his eyelids from unwonted tears and loss of 
 sleep. 
 
 He roused himself slightly at sight of a 
 light in a distant building. The gloom un- 
 der the trees thickened; the break creaked; 
 they were descending the Creneraie hill. 
 They skirted the park pailings and turned to 
 the left up the avenue, bowling over the short 
 turf — the jolting of the springs was the only 
 sound to be heard. Lights shone in Madame 
 des Lourdines' sitting-room. 
 
 "Courage! Courage!" he muttered weakly 
 under his breath. The magistrate's last 
 words seemed to beat into his brain: "Cour- 
 age!" 
 
 He got out of the buggy and stood with 
 his back to the front door, stretching up to 
 Frederic for the parcels. He wanted to fill 
 his arms with them; they would distract 
 Emilie's attention. 
 
 The muddy wheels swayed as the mare 
 shook herself.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 95 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines did not speak for 
 a moment. He was dazzled by the light of 
 the lantern Perrine held before his face. 
 
 "How is Madame?" he queried at last. 
 
 "No change, Master, no change. She was 
 beginning to fret for your arrival! You are 
 very late, Master!" 
 
 "Pretty late, pretty late, Perrine. The 
 mare had to be shod, and one thing and an- 
 other, so we are a little late — just a little late." 
 
 He went up the staircase, sighing: "Late! 
 Yes, indeed, we are late!" 
 
 She had heard his voice and was awaiting 
 him at the threshold of her apartment lean- 
 ing against the door to steady herself. When 
 she saw him, she turned and preceded him, 
 swaying slowly into the room ; then she faced 
 him. 
 
 A wood fire diffused a pleasant warmth. 
 
 'Well, you haven't hurried yourself! 
 What on earth have you been doing?" 
 
 "Well, you see, Emilie . . . Ouf, I am out 
 of breath — I must have come upstairs too 
 quickly. You see — well, Frederic made some 
 stupid mistakes over your purchases; and, just 
 as we were starting, the mare cast a shoe.
 
 9G THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Never mind — we are home at last, and here 
 are your parcels: knitting-wool, I think; no, 
 this is the package from the chemist." 
 
 "I was getting quite anxious. Bring that 
 here, please," she sat down at the table. 
 "What is all this about a law-suit of Suire's? 
 You are too good to those people, Timothee; 
 you let them impose upon you. What is the 
 case about?" 
 
 He took off his driving cloak. 
 
 "It is hot in this roomP 
 
 He spread the cloak over a chair in front 
 of the fire to dry. 
 
 Then in a voice which would quiver 
 against his will, he told the story of the quarry 
 and the claim Pagis was making. He paced 
 backwards and forwards, horribly uneasy, 
 trying to avoid his wife's eye. 
 
 "A mortgage!" she exclaimed, pushing 
 aside the parcel she was unpacking. 
 
 "But where do you come in, Timothee? 
 What could you give evidence about?" 
 
 "Evidence?" stammered Monsieur des 
 Lourdines, flushing slightly — "well, dear, it 
 was not exactly my evidence he wanted; it 
 was more moral support. How can I ex- 
 plain . . . my attendance on his behalf was
 
 THE KEYNOTE 97 
 
 a sort of guarantee of his respectability, don't 
 you see? It is difficult to put these things 
 into words — can't you understand?" 
 
 "Of course I can. Did he win?" 
 
 "Did he win? That's just the point . . . 
 it is not very easy to say . . ." 
 
 When the momentous question was put by 
 his wife, her eye compelling his, every word 
 of his trumped-up explanation flew out of his 
 head. He gasped. He very nearly blurted 
 out the truth. He knew he looked absurd, 
 and that his voice and gestures were forced 
 and unconvincing. 
 
 "Well?" she asked again, looking at him 
 with a puzzled expression. 
 
 "Really, Emilie, I can't tell you. I did 
 not stay to hear the end. I just said what 
 was necessary and came away. You have no 
 idea how puzzling legal terms are. I can 
 make neither head nor tail of them." 
 
 She made no reply to this, and he began to 
 breathe more freely. 
 
 "What time did you start for Poitiers?" 
 
 "When? On Monday? At four in the 
 morning, Emilie." 
 
 "That was very early! But where did you 
 spend the first part of the night?"
 
 98 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Yes . . . where? You did not sleep in 
 your bed here; it had not been touched." 
 
 This was the last straw. He stammered, 
 blushed and looked embarrassed. She told 
 him he was behaving like a fool — then she 
 continued: 
 
 "But, Timothee, come nearer the lamp. 
 I thought I was not mistaken. For a mo- 
 ment I imagined it might be a trick of the 
 light, but it is not. What is the matter with 
 you? You look ill." 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, Emilie. On my hon- 
 our there is nothing the matter." 
 
 "But you are looking ghastly!" 
 
 "I am not ill, only just tired'. It is quite 
 a journey, you know." 
 
 "If you are really not ill, all right; but you 
 certainly do not look yourself." 
 
 She desisted, and her thoughts began to 
 stray, and her fingers to fidget. 
 
 "What a long time Frederic is. I want 
 him to go over his accounts with me — and 
 Celestin. Did you see anything of him, Timo- 
 thee, or was he back before you?" 
 
 "Oh, about Celestin!" exclaimed Monsieur 
 des Lourdines, shutting his eyes and riding 
 blindly at the fence: "I saw him at the cat-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 99 
 
 tie fair. I have thought over that matter of 
 the cow again and decided that we can carry 
 on a bit longer with Blondine and Rous- 
 seaude." 
 
 "What!" ejaculated Madame des Lour- 
 dines angrily, half rising from her chair. 
 
 He repeated his last sentence, though with 
 perceptibly diminished assurance. 
 
 "So Celestine has not bought a cow?" 
 
 "I may have been wrong, my dear, but — " 
 
 She pulled her book-rest violently towards 
 her. 
 
 "How dared you!" she thundered, glaring 
 at him. 
 
 "Last year we found two cows ample, you 
 know, Emilie," he ventured to reply. 
 
 "Indeed! So we may have, last year. But 
 now Rosseaude has her calf to suckle, and 
 we cannot take all her milk. The winter is 
 coming on and we shall have workmen and 
 day-labourers to feed. How am I to do it? 
 The whole thing had been settled. It is too 
 bad! You are perfectly impossible!" 
 
 The colour mounted to her cheeks. Her 
 eyes sparkled excitedly as she watched her 
 husband pace up and down the room. 
 
 "Quite true!" Monsieur des Lourdines be- 
 gan to waver and lose his head. "Still, I do
 
 100 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 think we might make two cows do. Per- 
 haps we could get rid of the calf. We might 
 sell it next market day." 
 
 "Timothee, you are crazy! Sell the calf! 
 What difference would that make — besides, 
 we agreed to rear it! This is really beyond 
 everything. For goodness' sake, Timothee, 
 pull yourself together. What on earth is the 
 matter with you?" 
 
 Frederic appeared at the half-open door, 
 an account book in hand. Madame des Lour- 
 dines turned her head gloomily and made him 
 a sign to enter. 
 
 "Timothee, you have hung your cloak to 
 dry in front of my fire. The smell is very 
 disagreeable." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines saw his oppor- 
 tunity when Frederic began to speak, seized 
 the garment and hastily made his escape. 
 
 Inexpressibly grateful to his frayed nerves 
 was the silence of his own room. He locked 
 the door, thankfully welcoming the promise 
 of the long solitary hours of the night. No 
 sound reached him but the soughing of the 
 wind in the trees. 
 
 His violin lay on the bed. The sight sur- 
 prised him. Why was it not on top of the 
 wardrobe as usual? He must have forgotten
 
 THE KEYNOTE 101 
 
 to put it away the other night. Everything 
 was hazy in his mind — the violin was his one 
 friend — year in and year out they had sung, 
 dreamt, wailed together, but that was in the 
 old, old days . . . the good days that were 
 over for him. A heavy curtain had fallen 
 and separated the happy years that would 
 come no more, from the wretchedness spread 
 before him in the future. Something seemed 
 to snap in his brain. He knelt at his bed- 
 side, laid his head on his violin, and fell to 
 helpless weeping. 
 
 h-U*-r.~. f*.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 FOR some days nothing transpired at 
 Petit-Fougeray. The secret was well 
 guarded, no suspicion was aroused. 
 Yet a curious silence brooded over the place; 
 the very cows seemed to low in hushed tones, 
 the dogs to bark more gently. The master 
 was out all day and only returned late at night, 
 taciturn, and covered with mud from head 
 to foot; he might almost have been lying on 
 the damp earth, or wallowing in the furrows 
 of the ploughed land. Shadows, which the 
 glow of the lamps availed not to lighten, lay 
 heavy upon his brow. 
 
 He was always on the watch at post time. 
 He seized the letters eagerly and tore open the 
 envelopes with trembling fingers. 
 
 Though no news had yet reached him from 
 Maitre Paillaud, he sat down daily and wrote 
 to Anthime. Each day he warned him that 
 the half-yearly allowance of two hundred and 
 fifty pounds he had paid into his account a 
 month ago would, in all probability, be the 
 
 102
 
 THE KEYNOTE 103 
 
 last he could afford to send him. He filled 
 pages and pages with cramped writing, 
 crossed and re-crossed and covered with blots, 
 and every night he threw them into the fire. 
 The next morning he would begin all over 
 . . . but always the letter was either too long 
 or too short or too stern or too gentle. He 
 wished to curse, but could not bring himself 
 to do so ; longed to forgive, yet hesitated ; his 
 sense of justice was outraged, but his heart 
 over-indulgent — hitherto the latter had won 
 the day, and the letter had been torn up in 
 disgust and flung into the fire. Thus the 
 days and nights succeeded each other. 
 
 He yearned for a friend to whom he might 
 confide his trouble, for the weight of it, borne 
 alone, was like to crush him. Sometimes he 
 cried his tale aloud, in the woods. But such 
 out-pourings brought no relief; he needed a 
 sympathetic ear, the pressure of a kindly arm 
 passed through his own. 
 
 One morning Celestin fetched him to in- 
 spect some damage on the property. A sluice 
 had given way in one of the irrigation canals 
 of a meadow. The day was hopelessly 
 gloomy, earth and sky alike were grey, inex- 
 orably sad. Quite suddenly his heart failed 
 him utterly — he felt he could bear no more.
 
 104 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 The honest countryman trudging along in 
 front of him was a trusty servant. An ir- 
 resistible impulse impelled him to appeal to 
 his devotion. He cried out: "Celestin!" and 
 stood still. 
 
 The man turned and saw his master gaz- 
 ing at him with anguished eyes. 
 
 "Oh, Celestin!" 
 
 That was all. But when the two men 
 moved on, the master's hand rested on the 
 faithful fellow's shoulder. 
 
 At last Maitre Paillaud's answer arrived. 
 
 It covered six large sheets of paper. The 
 debt of twenty-four thousand pounds was, he 
 regretted to say, secured by promissory notes 
 correctly drawn up and signed. As the only 
 interest mentioned in these was five per cent, 
 and the profit of the money-lender was evi- 
 dently merged in the net amount of the loan 
 there was no possibility of making out a case 
 to go before a Court of Law. 
 
 Moreover the lender had cunningly safe- 
 guarded himself by making Anthime borrow 
 in the guise of a trader; in order to obtain the 
 protection afforded by commercial legisla- 
 tion, Anthime had been induced to declare in 
 writing that he required the money for the 
 development of some racing stables, of which
 
 THE KEYNOTE 105 
 
 he admitted himself to be the owner. Maitre 
 Paillaud had duly made inquiries: the rac- 
 ing-stables did not exist, as such; but Anthime 
 had two horses in training, one of which was 
 a stallion, at an establishment in Seine-et- 
 Oise. It might yet be possible to contest the 
 legality of his claim to be in business. 
 
 The letter was a frightful blow to the un- 
 happy parent. The words of the magistrate 
 recurred to his memory: "There is a law 
 which prescribes in general terms, imprison- 
 ment for commercial debt." He was terri- 
 fied. His mind, unhinged by suspense and 
 solitude, pictured Anthime in convict dress, 
 sitting in a cell, eating bread and water. 
 Nothing milder occurred to him. Prison 
 was a place of shame and ignominy to which 
 no father could possibly allow his son to be 
 relegated until he had done everything in his 
 power to save him. His flesh crept on his 
 bones at the bare thought of a convict's uni- 
 form! 
 
 He flew to his desk and wrote hastily to 
 Maitre Paillaud: "Sell everything! Get 
 rid of all the farms!" He added words of 
 uncontrolled grief and poured into the letter 
 all the pain and misery to which he had so 
 long denied expression.
 
 106 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 At length he grew calmer. 
 
 "My property at Fouchaut," he added, "is 
 very valuable. It should sell well. Lor- 
 gerie, le Purdeau, la Contrie, la Bernegoue 
 are all in excellent condition and will also 
 attract purchasers. We should expect at 
 least, sixteen thousand pounds for them. 
 You may sell the Marais farms at a loss, if 
 necessary, but we must save Charviniere. I 
 cannot let that go." 
 
 Relief came to him after he had posted the 
 letter. He felt the importance of maintain- 
 ing self-control while such pressing duties re- 
 quired his attention; he must realize the 
 necessary capital with the least possible loss, 
 and above all he must use discretion and tact 
 in breaking the news to his unfortunate wife, 
 who was as yet in complete ignorance of the 
 blow about to fall. 
 
 He himself was already somewhat inured 
 to the idea. Trouble carries with it the 
 strength to endure. His soul should rise 
 above misfortune. He would accept loss and 
 disaster. No complaint should pass his lips 
 so long as he could enjoy the blessed light of 
 day, and the good gifts left over to him by a 
 merciful Providence. But she, poor lady, 
 petted and guarded as she had been, accus-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 107 
 
 tomed to countless small luxuries and allevia- 
 tions of her suffering condition, how should 
 she bear wholesale calamity! How should 
 she fail to be crushed, killed, ground down by 
 this cruel stroke of fortune! 
 
 For one foolish moment he dreamt of keep- 
 ing her in ignorance, of surrounding her with 
 plots and counterplots to prevent her ever 
 learning the truth. But such a plan was 
 manifestly absurd. How would it be pos- 
 sible to conceal from her such a change of 
 life as that involved by the loss of twenty- 
 four thousand pounds! 
 
 They would have to retrench in every way, 
 and lead a frugal, economical, modest exist- 
 ence. 
 
 The news must be broken gradually. She 
 must be brought imperceptibly to the point 
 when she would guess of her own accord. 
 
 The task was a difficult one to carry 
 through, and he was sadly conscious of his 
 own inadequacy. He therefore determined 
 to summon to his aid her Confessor and her 
 Doctor, both of whom must be accustomed 
 in the execution of their duties, to such deli- 
 cate functions. He wrote to both and begged 
 them to come to the chateau with the least 
 possible delay, on a matter concerning his
 
 108 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 wife, which he would prefer to explain to 
 them in person. 
 
 Frederic delivered the letters in the village 
 the same evening. 
 
 Madame des Lourdines had noticed that 
 something was amiss with her husband ever 
 since his journey to Poitiers. He was subtly 
 changed, and was visibly losing flesh. She 
 could discover no reason for this. She wor- 
 ried over the thought that some mortal dis- 
 ease might be beginning its insidious attack, 
 and that she would presently be left alone. 
 She imagined a thousand reasons, but never 
 the right one. For there was nothing to 
 point her suspicions towards financial loss. 
 Landed property was not subject to the 
 fluctuations which make city speculation so 
 precarious. She therefore pondered in secret, 
 conscious of vague fears, wondering uneasily 
 whence danger threatened. Her husband's 
 demeanour and depression perplexed her. 
 When he came in from his walks abroad he 
 declared he was fagged out, unequal to con- 
 versation; his clothes were invariably in the 
 most dreadful condition; he no longer took 
 the trouble to pull off his muddy boots before 
 entering her room; he simply threw himself
 
 THE KEYNOTE 109 
 
 down before the fire, with legs outstretched 
 and chest sunk in, and remained perfectly si- 
 lent; at intervals he would look sadly and ten- 
 derly at her. 
 
 All of a sudden she took fright on her own 
 account. She thought her condition might 
 have changed for the worse and that he was 
 afraid to tell her she was in danger of death. 
 Still, she dared not ask questions. 
 
 One thing reassured her. She noticed that 
 for some time past her husband had devoted 
 practically his whole attention to reducing 
 the household expenses. He was quite de- 
 termined on the matter. For instance when 
 the conversation turned again on a subsequent 
 occasion to the subject of a new cow, he repre- 
 sented gravely to her that twelve pounds was 
 a considerable sum which he could not dis- 
 burse without due consideration. She was 
 very angry and thought him frankly ridicu- 
 lous, but he would not give way. There were 
 daily arguments concerning the thousand and 
 one repairs needed at the beginning of the 
 winter to keep a great house like Petit-Fou- 
 geray habitable and in working order: there 
 were slates missing on the roof, the cow-shed 
 required plastering; he had been obliged to 
 transfer the cows to a wretched stable which
 
 110 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 had practically no ventilation. The flooring 
 of the hay-loft and the hen-house each 
 clamoured for a bare half-day's work, but he 
 would not give it; and the aggravating part 
 was that, though he was the first to mention 
 the need, he did so in such a way as to make 
 it quite clear that he did not intend to do any- 
 thing. She was exasperated. 
 
 The consideration that all these eccen- 
 tricities might be merely the indication of ad- 
 vancing age, satisfied her at last that he was 
 in no way troubled about her health, and 
 in her selfish relief, her spirit rose aggres- 
 sive. 
 
 "Timothee, what does all this mean? You 
 must really explain yourself. The netting 
 of the chicken-run is full of holes and you re- 
 fuse to repair it. It isn't common-sense I" 
 
 He smiled absently at her but made no an- 
 swer, for he was carrying out his idea of set- 
 ting her brain to work, and bringing her to 
 the point of guessing. 
 
 "You won't?" she repeated in tones almost 
 threatening, for her temper was rising at her 
 repeated failures to dominate where hitherto 
 her will had been law. She was helpless be- 
 fore this barrier of smiles and gentleness. 
 "Do you refuse?"
 
 THE KEYNOTE 111 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines nodded his head 
 and sighed. 
 
 "On account of the expense?" she insisted, 
 ironically. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She said no more, but looked intently at 
 him. An idea came to her — a horrifying idea 
 which seemed to offer a definite solution of 
 the problem: Timothee's mind must be af- 
 fected! 
 
 She turned very white; terror took posses- 
 sion of her, and with a sudden recollection 
 that insane people must be humoured, she re- 
 plied in quavering tones — 
 
 "I dare say you are right, Timothee. Per- 
 haps it is better so. Yes, you are right." 
 
 It was his turn to stare. He looked at her 
 in evident surprise. 
 
 That evening she sent for all the servants 
 in turn and proceeded to question them, in 
 mortal fright of hearing her suspicions con- 
 firmed. Perrine came first, and then Estelle. 
 She asked them whether they had noticed 
 anything odd about their master, anything un- 
 usual in his manner or speech. 
 
 "Tell me everything. Don't be afraid. 
 You understand, I am sure, the sort of thing
 
 112 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 I mean. I ask in his own interest, in fact in 
 the interest of us all T' 
 
 The maids had certainly observed that for 
 some time past their master had been unlike 
 himself, but they could give no definite in- 
 stance to support their impression except that 
 Estelle had overheard him talking to him- 
 self in his own room. 
 
 "What did he say? Of course you listened. 
 Quite right too! Come, let me hear! What 
 did he talk about?" 
 
 "Madame, he said ... he said ... I 
 don't know what he said . . ." 
 
 Frederic scratched his head and opined that 
 Monsieur must be very ill. He related in 
 full the scene when his master came to wake 
 him in the night looking perfectly ghastly, 
 and ordered him to harness the mare at 3 A. M. 
 "In the Russian campaign I saw men who 
 had lain out in the snow all night, but 
 Madame, I never saw one with such a deathly 
 countenance as Master's." 
 
 She wrung her hands desperately. 
 
 "Good Heavens! And did he speak dur- 
 ing the drive, Frederic?" 
 
 "Not a word, Madame. He generally 
 chats all the way, but that day I am sure he 
 must have been feeling very bad."
 
 THE KEYNOTE 113 
 
 "And on the way back?" 
 
 "Never a word." 
 
 Celestin said his master had come up to 
 him in the market-place "looking very queer," 
 and that quite lately when they were walk- 
 ing together in the meadow, he had called out 
 "Celestin!" and said nothing more, but looked 
 as if he was on the verge of tears. 
 
 She sent them all away. "God help us!" 
 she groaned, and decided to send for the doc- 
 tor. 
 
 The next day, about three o'clock, she was 
 finishing a note to Doctor Lancier, when she 
 heard the sound of wheels in the courtyard. 
 "Dear, dear, I do hope it is not a visitor," 
 she muttered. 
 
 Estelle ran up and announced that the doc- 
 tor was below. 
 
 "The doctor! Did you say the doctor? 
 Are you sure? This is providential. Run 
 quick and ask him to come up. Say I am 
 waiting. Go on, be quick, child . . ." 
 
 "But, Madame, he is talking to Monsieur 
 in the garden." 
 
 "Talking to Monsieur in the garden? 
 Well, better so, perhaps. The doctor is sure 
 to notice anything odd. How curious that I
 
 114 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 should have guessed. Good Heavens, what 
 a calamity! Estelle, beat up those cushions. 
 Draw the curtains further back — there, there, 
 that will do. You can go, but leave the door 
 open." 
 
 Her hypothesis of the insanity of her hus- 
 band had grown in the course of a few hours 
 to positive certainty. 
 
 She sat with clasped hands, feverishly alive 
 to every sound. The doctor was very long 
 in coming up. At last she heard his foot- 
 step on the stairs. He was alone. 
 
 The moment she caught sight of him ap- 
 proaching slowly, with bent head, rubbing his 
 hands absently, she said to herself: "He has 
 noticed something!" 
 
 The doctor paused a moment at the door, 
 ruffling up with his fingers the locks of hair 
 which the pressure of his hat had caused to 
 adhere too closely to his hot forehead. He 
 was a bright-complexioned, well-preserved 
 old man, looking in his long redingote as if 
 he had stepped out of a Moliere play. His 
 large gentle blue eyes habitually watered a 
 little behind his glasses. He was wiping 
 them now, as he stood in the doorway. 
 
 "May I come in, dear lady?"
 
 THE KEYNOTE 115 
 
 She nodded, trying to smile. "Yes, yes, 
 please do." 
 
 His glasses flashed in the light. 
 
 "I know I was not expected to-day, but I 
 thought I would just look in," he said pleas- 
 antly as he picked his way daintily across 
 the room. He pursed his lips and looked 
 anxiously at a spot on the back of his hand. 
 "I had a few visits to pay in the near neigh- 
 bourhood, so it occurred to me I might in- 
 quire after your health. Have I done wrong, 
 Madame?" 
 
 He sat down. 
 
 "On the contrary, Doctor, it is too kind of 
 you. I am delighted to see you ... in fact 
 . . . " She halted in her speech. He 
 looked as if something had happened, and 
 the very sound of his voice gave her a pre- 
 sentiment that he was about to broach the sub- 
 ject of her husband. 
 
 He proceeded first of all with his usual ex- 
 amination, pulled out his watch and felt her 
 pulse, listened to heart and chest. 
 
 "Quite satisfactory," he pronounced, put- 
 ting his stethoscope back into his hat. "As 
 regards your condition, everything is as I 
 should wish; still . . ." 
 
 As he sat facing her, his raised eyebrows
 
 116 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 made a straight black line across his fore- 
 head, and he gazed moodily into her counte- 
 nance, cracking his finger-joints the while. 
 
 "Still, the bad weather is coming on, dear 
 lady. You must neglect no precaution; more 
 especially, being of a somewhat nervous 
 temperament, you must guard against worry 
 or anticipation of trouble — of course we all 
 have our share of difficulties, and we manage 
 to win through somehow. Man, dearest lady, 
 is, so to speak, a battlefield upon which two 
 forces are incessantly at war: reason, and the 
 nerves! Allow reason to be the victor! To 
 come down to the personal application of my 
 little sermon, you are I believe in sufficiently 
 good health to withstand a mental shock — 
 even a severe one, eh?" 
 
 "Doctor!" she interrupted in a strangled 
 voice: she guessed that he was endeavouring 
 to prepare her for bad news. 
 
 He continued however without seeming to 
 notice her exclamation. 
 
 "Therefore self-confidence and serenity, 
 dear friend, are the supreme counsel of 
 wisdom and science. You quite under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "Doctor!" she cried again, fixing glitter- 
 ing eyes on the old man, "you saw my hus-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 117 
 
 band just now — you have been talking to 
 him!" 
 
 Her tones expressed such poignant distress 
 that the doctor was struck dumb for a mo- 
 ment. Then he continued impressively — 
 
 "That is so. I have been talking to Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines." 
 
 "What did he say to you?" 
 
 "Come, come, dear lady, many subjects 
 were touched upon. It is difficult to give an 
 accurate report. Monsieur des Lourdines did 
 me the honour of confiding certain business 
 matters to me." 
 
 "Did his manner strike you as peculiar in 
 any way? or his speech?" 
 
 "I don't quite understand you. I no- 
 ticed nothing in particular." 
 
 "You won't tell me! Yet I feel sure you 
 have seen it, but perhaps you are not quite 
 certain. Do, for God's sake, tell me the 
 truth I" 
 
 Both fell silent. Then, quite suddenly, she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 "Doctor, Doctor, I am so wretched! He 
 has frightened me so lately — " 
 
 She broke into an agitated narrative of all 
 the recent happenings: of his departure in 
 the middle of the night, his strange demean-
 
 118 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 our, his suddenly developed mania for 
 economy. 
 
 "And, since that unhappy market day," she 
 whimpered, "he stays much longer than usual 
 with me in the evenings — he sits in the 
 chimney corner and says never a word, and 
 looks ghastly. I wondered and wondered 
 what could be the matter — and then yester- 
 day ... all of a sudden ... I guessed! I 
 daren't put it into words, it is so awful! I be- 
 lieve his mind is affected — do you know what 
 I mean? I fear . . ." 
 
 She sobbed bitterly. 
 
 Dr. Lancier watched her silently. When 
 she raised her tear-stained eyes to his, he rose 
 and came towards her. "What in the world 
 am I to say?" he murmured under his breath. 
 
 He bent over her, resting his hands on the 
 table in a purposely confidential attitude pe- 
 culiarly impressive under the circumstances. 
 
 "Madame, I will stake my professional rep- 
 utation on the perfect stability of Monsieur des 
 Lourdines' mind," he pronounced firmly, 
 slowly, gravely. "Monsieur des Lourdines is 
 absolutely sane." 
 
 The verdict so solemnly given should have 
 reassured her, but a cold shiver ran down her 
 back. She stared dumbly into his face. For
 
 THE KEYNOTE 119 
 
 now another fear forced itself upon her; a 
 vague, unnamed terror of something, she knew 
 not what, something that showed itself in his 
 eyes : certainly he knew of some cause for un- 
 easiness or distress. 
 
 His final counsel reached her ears, but not 
 her understanding; she uttered a few feeble 
 words in response to his leave-taking and 
 watched him depart as if in a dream. 
 
 The next day another visitor was an- 
 nounced: Father Placide arrived in the after- 
 noon. The worthy priest had been her con- 
 fessor for ten years. He was a portly, jovial- 
 looking man, fond of an occasional glass of 
 sound wine, and not averse to a gossip with 
 Monsieur des Lourdines over the grapes and 
 walnuts. On this particular day, Monsieur 
 des Lourdines was watching for him, and they 
 had a lengthened conversation in the garden. 
 Madame des Lourdines saw them and de- 
 spatched Estelle on some trivial errand, to try 
 and overhear the subject of their talk. But 
 they saw her coming and moved away. 
 
 At last, Father Placide came up. He was 
 alone. 
 
 He was a Capuchin, with huge sandalled 
 feet and a heavy beard.
 
 120 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Madame des Lourdines invited him to sit 
 near her and asked the news of the parish. 
 He replied in a constrained manner, and she 
 noticed the worried expression of his face as 
 he tugged at his beard. 
 
 He made the same excuse as the doctor, for 
 visiting her without being summoned. He 
 had been walking in the vicinity. She offered 
 some refreshment, and he refused with a 
 marked air of self-denial. He talked to her 
 on sacred subjects, exhorted her to calmness, 
 patience, and resignation, in the terms he had 
 used so often before; he perceived that custom 
 had deprived them of their full effect, so he 
 brought in a few quotations from the Imita- 
 tion, reminding her that affliction is advan- 
 tageous to the soul, and that the affections 
 must not be centred on the things of this 
 world. 
 
 He spoke at some length, getting nearer and 
 nearer to his subject, and striving to arm her 
 for the shock he must presently administer. 
 
 "God has hitherto endowed you plentifully 
 with wealth, my dear Sister. He might pres- 
 ently see fit to deprive you of it; but the advan- 
 tages of this world are as nothing; when God 
 in His infinite wisdom takes them from us,
 
 THE KEYNOTE 121 
 
 He thereby delivers us from possible occasion 
 of sin." 
 
 His speech was punctuated by heavy sighs 
 which made his beard tremble. 
 
 At his words she began, like yesterday, to 
 apprehend some danger, to feel that some peril 
 was coming nearer, was tightening its grasp 
 upon her, seeking to crush her. 
 
 Again, she was seized with terror! 
 
 "Father, Father, I am afraid!" 
 
 The monk straightened his broad back. 
 He drew from his capacious pocket a little 
 medal and handed it to her. 
 
 "I have been thinking much of you, my 
 dear Sister," he said. "Take this, and when 
 you retire to-night, hang it around your neck. 
 Pray — pray — pray — much and often!" 
 
 The same evening at the usual hour, Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines came and sat himself down 
 near the fire. He seemed exhausted. He lay 
 hunched up in the big chair, his head resting 
 on the cushion, his legs, in their muddy top 
 boots, extended to the warmth. The lamps 
 had not been lighted. Husband and wife sat 
 wrapped in thought, neither suggesting that 
 the growing darkness should be dispelled.
 
 122 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 It was the dreamy hour of the dying day, 
 when the window glimmers blue against the 
 fading sky, when the only brilliant point in 
 the slumberous surroundings is some brass 
 handle, or candlestick, reflecting the firelight. 
 A belated bee buzzed, seeking honey in the 
 deceptive roses of the chintz curtain. Out- 
 side, the green of the grass and trees slowly 
 deepened to black; a blackbird piped in the 
 bushes below, as it shook the damp leaves 
 from its raven wings. 
 
 Madame des Lourdines sat motionless, in- 
 visible in her corner. 
 
 "Timothee," she ventured presently, 
 "Bourasseau, the timber merchant, came this 
 evening to tender for the elm we pulled down. 
 You were out. I did not accept his offer." 
 
 "That was a mistake, Emilie. ' 
 
 "But why? Winter is coming on, and we 
 have not a very large store of wood." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 "We are more in need of cash than fire- 
 wood." 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 "Of cash?" repeated Madame des Lour- 
 dines, presently, in faint tones. 
 
 "Yes, my dear." 
 
 Again they sat silent.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 123 
 
 "Timothee!" she burst out suddenly, "what 
 is the meaning of all this? There is some 
 mystery. You are concealing something from 
 me. I know, I feel, there is disaster in the 
 air! Is it a question of money? Timothee, 
 you must tell me!" 
 
 Her teeth chattered. 
 
 He could not reply, for his lips quivered 
 and he was not master of his voice. 
 
 "We must have had losses! Tell me! for 
 pity's sake let me know everything! Surely, 
 surely, things cannot be so bad as you seem to 
 think!" 
 
 Still he answered nothing. He longed to 
 speak, but could not find words. He left his 
 chair and moved nearer to her. 
 
 When she saw him coming, she threw out 
 her arms, as if to ward him off. "Not ruined, 
 Timothee? . . ." 
 
 "No; no dear!" he cried, seizing her icy 
 hands and striving to warm them in his breast; 
 "we are not ruined, but listen, listen, Emilie, 
 my dearest . . ." 
 
 "We are ruined! I know it! I feel it! 
 I will know! I can be brave," she persisted, 
 struggling to disengage herself from his grasp. 
 
 "No," he repeated; but his tone was not 
 convincing: it was gloomy and wretched.
 
 124 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 "What then?" she panted. 
 
 She had risen and they now stood face to 
 face, but the room was so dark that they could 
 not distinguish each other's features. 
 
 "For God's sake, let me speak, Emilie! be 
 calm!" 
 
 "Ah . . ." she moaned feebly, her momen- 
 tary strength suddenly deserting her; her 
 gaze travelled beyond him and appeared to 
 rest upon an object invisible to him: "An- 
 thime!" she breathed. 
 
 Des Lourdines remained silent, but his hold 
 upon her flaccid fingers tightened. 
 
 "Anthime!" she shrieked, heart-brokenly. 
 "It is Anthime! I know it! Oh, my God!" 
 
 And she fell heavily to the ground. 
 
 When the servants rushed in, scared by 
 the frantic pealing of the bell, they could but 
 loosen her clothing and carry her to bed.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE heat of the room was stifling. A 
 fire had been burning there night 
 and day for the last fortnight. In a 
 corner near the glimmering night-light, a 
 Sister of Charity sat with Perrine and Estelle, 
 reciting the Rosary. At short intervals the 
 nun rose and renewed the cooling compresses 
 on the brow of the sick woman. 
 
 Earlier in the afternoon the parish priest 
 had administered the Last Sacraments. There 
 was no further hope of recovery. The stroke, 
 on that fatal afternoon, had involved the 
 whole body and all the faculties in total paral- 
 ysis. As Perrine sobbingly declared, her poor 
 mistress was a living corpse lying as one cruci- 
 fied on the bed. 
 
 The hands of the clock indicated the hour 
 of nine. The striking part had been silenced. 
 
 Out of doors a gale shook the trees and rat- 
 tled the windows. Rain and hail dashed 
 against the window-panes and chased each 
 other down the glass ; the women listened fear- 
 
 125
 
 126 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 fully to the shriek of the wind in the chimney, 
 while their lips murmured : "Blessed art Thou 
 amongst women, and blessed . . ." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines could not be in- 
 duced to leave the bedside. The past weeks 
 had made an old man of him. Vainly the 
 doctor urged him to spare himself and take 
 rest; advice availed nothing. In the torment 
 and turmoil of his mind, he had become con- 
 vinced that he was guilty of his wife's death ; 
 remorse ravaged him and gnawed at the small 
 amount of vitality left within him. 
 
 He lay, crushed and broken, pressing his 
 brow into the pillow, beseeching Heaven for 
 mercy, gazing wretchedly at the human wreck- 
 age before him, staring at every sound. 
 
 His son had not yet arrived. 
 
 Anthime had been summoned immediately 
 after the seizure. Had he started at once, 
 he ought to have been home by now. His 
 moral responsibility for the present conditions 
 made it doubly monstrous that his place by his 
 mother's death-bed should remain untenanted. 
 She had forgiven him. Before the power of 
 speech left her she had asked for him several 
 times. 
 
 The unhappy husband could not bring him- 
 self to abandon hope. He watched and lis-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 127 
 
 tened, feeling that the appearance of a son 
 so idolized might even yet work the miracle of 
 a cure. But his features clouded over as each 
 fresh sound proved a disappointment; noth- 
 ing stirred but the wind in the trees, a falling 
 slate, or a creaking shutter. 
 
 Doctor Lancier entered, came to the side of 
 the dying woman, and felt her pulse without 
 raising her hand from the sheet. Monsieur 
 des Lourdines watched his every move- 
 ment intently. He saw him shrug his shoul- 
 ders slightly and turn to stir some medicine 
 with a spoon. 
 
 "Master! Master!" panted a voice at the 
 door, "there's a carriage in the avenue! It 
 is driving up to the door!" 
 
 "A carriage?" 
 
 "I saw the lights." 
 
 He rose, and turning giddy, steadied him- 
 self by the bed-post. 
 
 "Control yourself, I beg of you," inter- 
 posed the doctor in a low voice. "Would you 
 like me to go with you?" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines was too breath- 
 less to answer, but he shook his head. He 
 pulled himself together with a struggle and 
 moved slowly to the door. The effort was 
 severe. It looked miles away!
 
 128 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 In the passage he stopped again to gather 
 breath. At the foot of the staircase he found 
 the hall in complete darkness. He shivered 
 and dared not move. 
 
 The front door had already been thrown 
 open, and the wind and rain swirled in 
 through the entrance. He stood motionless, 
 trying to see what was happening. Outside, 
 Celestin's and Frederic's lanterns bobbed up 
 and down in the effort to throw light on the 
 scene. At length two powerful lamps shone 
 through the darkness; there was a jingle of 
 harness, steam rose in clouds from the heav- 
 ing flanks of a pair of horses, and a travelling 
 carriage drew up at the steps. 
 
 The door was opened hurriedly, a grey- 
 hound jumped out, followed more slowly by 
 the head and shoulders of a tall man, and 
 Anthime — Anthime stood before his father. 
 Monsieur des Lourdines stared stupidly; 
 everything swam before his eyes; he could 
 see the glistening of wet leather, the trem- 
 bling of tired horses' legs, but when he looked 
 upon his son's features he only realized that 
 they belonged to the man who had ruined his 
 father and killed his mother. He forgot that 
 he had summoned him imperatively to his
 
 THE KEYNOTE 129 
 
 side, he just gazed in exhausted silence, hear- 
 ing nothing but the beating of his own heart. 
 
 The greyhound trotted about the hall, in- 
 vestigating the unknown scene, his claws 
 clicking on the hard tiles. 
 
 "To heel, Michka!" ordered Anthime, 
 standing on the door-mat. "Frederic, take 
 my dog round to the stables! Where is my 
 father? Is he upstairs?" he added, lowering 
 his voice. 
 
 "Anthime!" was ejaculated weakly, close 
 by in the darkness. 
 
 "Father!" exclaimed Anthime, starting. 
 He put out his hands gropingly. They closed 
 on a pair of thin, bowed shoulders. 
 
 "How is she?" he asked. "What is the mat- 
 ter with her? Your letter gave no details." 
 
 At that moment Celestin passed through 
 the hall with the luggage on his back and a 
 lantern in his hand. By its rays Anthime saw 
 the terrible fixed look of misery in his father's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Father! Father! Speak! For God's 
 sake say something!" 
 
 He jumped to the conclusion that his 
 mother was dead. Monsieur des Lourdines 
 disengaged himself gently from his son's grasp,
 
 130 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 wrung his hands, and turned in the direction 
 of the sick-room. 
 
 The apartment was over-heated and smelt 
 strongly of ether. The unaccustomed odour 
 and the mysterious gloom about the curtained 
 bed startled Anthime; he paused for a mo- 
 ment. A log of wood crackled on the hearth 
 and shot up a long flame which lighted up 
 the inert form lying among the pillows. 
 
 "Mother!" he hurried forward and fell on 
 his knees at the bedside, pressing his lips to 
 the hand nearest to him. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines followed his son's 
 movements with vacant eyes. Anthime rose to 
 his feet and placed himself where the rays of 
 the lamp, which the nun held up, fell on his 
 face, in the hope of awakening the dying wom- 
 an's attention. 
 
 "Mother dearest!" 
 
 Her sunken lids remained half-closed over 
 the glazing eyes. 
 
 "Emilie!" urged Monsieur des Lourdines, 
 leaning over her, "Emilie ! Here is Anthime ! 
 Your own boy ! He has come back to us !" 
 
 She died a few hours later, just as the dawn 
 broke.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 131 
 
 Anthime sat alone in his own room, a large 
 chamber from the walls of which hung heads 
 of wild boar and roe-deer, and a huntsman's 
 horn. He was racked by the conviction that 
 his mother's death was the direct consequence 
 of the stroke his own misdeeds had originally 
 brought on; and the grown man, whose life 
 had hitherto been one long pursuit of pleas- 
 ure, who had never yet experienced the heavy 
 hand of sorrow, was weeping. Great, hot 
 tears coursed down his cheeks, like those 
 of a child who seeks its mother and finds her 
 not. His grief was sincere enough, but super- 
 ficial and unlikely to work any enduring 
 change in his character. 
 
 The sight of death had shaken him pro- 
 foundly. He had always dreaded to be 
 brought face to face with it. 
 
 He rested his forehead on his hand, and 
 while his right hand played absently with a 
 china saucer the tears flowed unchecked. He 
 had been present at his Aunt Desiree's death, 
 years ago, when he was a boy of ten. He had 
 thrown himself wildly on the bed in a 
 paroxysm of terror and grief, but when his 
 parents tried to send him out of the room, he 
 refused to leave; Frederic had touched him 
 on the shoulder and said: "Come and see the
 
 132 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 horses, Master Anthime," still he would not 
 go. Suddenly he saw his aunt's mouth fall 
 open and her cheeks turn grey. He screamed. 
 The exhausting night of emotion he had 
 just passed through merged itself into that 
 nightmare of days and nights spent on the 
 journey from Paris; it seemed to be the con- 
 clusion of it. Nevertheless, he was harassed 
 by remorse. On that evening a week ago, 
 when his servant had followed him to the Club 
 to hand him a letter from his father, marked 
 "Urgent," containing only two lines : "Come 
 home at once. Your mother is dangerously 
 ill," he had been playing baccarat with several 
 companions, notably his great friend, Prince 
 Stemof. He had not thrown down the cards 
 immediately, but had continued playing, be- 
 cause he was losing and did not care to lay 
 himself open to the suspicion that he was glad 
 of a pretext for saving the rest of the money in 
 his pockets. 
 
 But he hated to suffer, and never allowed 
 himself to do so if he could possibly help it; 
 therefore, true to his nature, he deliberately 
 turned his thoughts from their present channel. 
 He took off his coat and dipped his face in
 
 THE KEYNOTE 133 
 
 cold water. The women must have finished 
 their ghoulish work, and he wished to re- 
 turn to his mother's side. He hastily ran a 
 comb through his thick curly hair and put on 
 a dark coat which fitted tightly to his tall well- 
 knit figure. He dried his eyes carefully and 
 went down. 
 
 He found her stretched upon the bed, robed 
 in white satin, her hair veiled in the black 
 lace she had habitually worn when alive; 
 around the hands folded upon her breast were 
 twined the beads of a rosary. The features 
 were set and swollen ; they did not bear the im- 
 press of either peace or sleep. Even at this 
 supreme moment, when his knees shook at 
 the sight of his mother in death, he was struck 
 by his father's face. The broad light of day 
 falling directly upon it as he sat motionless 
 by the window, revealed fully the ravages in- 
 flicted by grief and anxiety. Anthime was 
 horribly shocked. 
 
 At that moment the servants entered, ac- 
 companied by some of the neighbours, among 
 whom was Joseph, the weaver, who had been 
 in the habit of spending his evenings with 
 Estelle and Perrine.
 
 134 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 The window was wide open, letting in a 
 current of air, cooled and sweetened by the 
 recent rain. 
 
 According to the custom of the country 
 the late lady of the chateau was to lie in state, 
 for the villagers to pay the last homage to 
 her mortal remains. But in order to facilitate 
 the passing of the crowd, she was to be re- 
 moved to a couch specially prepared in a large 
 chamber on the ground floor. 
 
 The moment had arrived. The nun ap- 
 proached the bed and raised the sides of the 
 sheet, wrapping them carefully round the 
 body; the spectators drew back, watching. 
 
 Jealous of their rights, Perrine and the do- 
 mestic ranking next to her in the household 
 went at once to the feet, and proceeded to 
 twist the sheet into a rope; Frederic also ad- 
 vanced. 
 
 "No!" broke in Monsieur des Lourdines 
 unexpectedly, pointing to the head of the bed. 
 "No! Let Anthime do his duty!'' 
 
 Anthime started and looked appealingly, 
 first at his father, then at the women stand- 
 ing ready at their post. 
 
 There was no response. He turned a grey- 
 ish white and moved to take up his burden. 
 
 He realized vaguely that it might be fitting
 
 THE KEYNOTE 135 
 
 he should share in the grisly duty of bearing 
 his mother's form to her lying-in-state; but 
 the impression produced upon him was fright- 
 ful. His limbs shook under him and all his 
 powers of self-control were called forth in 
 the effort to keep from falling. The people 
 followed close behind, reciting prayers. 
 
 The descent of the staircase was accom- 
 plished with great difficulty. 
 
 Anthime had to feel his way from step to 
 step, like a blind man. His heavy footfalls 
 gave out a muffled sound; he could only ad- 
 vance by leaning backward, straining to up- 
 hold the weight in his arms. The sweat broke 
 out on his brow and drenched his cheeks. 
 Every now and then, despite his strenuous ef- 
 forts, the shoulders of the mother who had 
 borne him, bumped with a hollow sound upon 
 a step. He strove not to look at that which 
 he carried, to turn his thoughts from the 
 ghastly reality, but it was no use. There was 
 a slight opening in the sheet above the head, 
 and through it a tuft of grey hair had strayed I 
 
 At one moment he turned deathly sick and 
 was forced to lean against the wall ; so over- 
 come was he that he neither saw nor heard 
 warm-hearted little Estelle, who hovered 
 about him deeply concerned, ready to assist
 
 136 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 if necessary, exclaiming at intervals: "Oh, 
 Monsieur Anthime! Shall you ever manage 
 it . . . Are you faint, Monsieur Anthime? 
 . . . You are so pale . . . Can you do it 
 
 . . .?" 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines walking behind, 
 grieved in all his tender heart at the torture 
 he had inflicted upon his son, but felt him- 
 self in some inexplicable manner the help- 
 less instrument of the Divine Wrath.
 
 PART II
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 DECEMBER had laid its dreary 
 grasp upon the country round. Since 
 the day of the funeral, two weeks 
 earlier, rain had poured down continuously. 
 The sluicing murmur of water was omnipres- 
 ent: water running underfoot, water falling 
 overhead, water dropping from trees and 
 eaves. No other sound, save that of the 
 roughly swirling wind, was to be heard in the 
 lonely land. 
 
 Petit-Fougeray had taken on its winter 
 cloak. Rivulets of damp trickled down the 
 brick walls, leaving black smudges in their 
 track; sodden brambles and creepers, detached 
 from their support by boisterous squalls, 
 trailed untidily on the muddy earth beneath. 
 The windows of the chateau remained shut. 
 Unbroken silence had reigned supreme and de- 
 pressing, since the moment when the funeral 
 procession wound its way through the avenue 
 to the mournful chanting of priests and 
 acolytes. Almost it seemed as if the guests 
 
 139
 
 140 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 had not yet returned from the ceremony, so 
 tense was the universal hush. This morning, 
 however, the strokes of an axe wielded by 
 Celestin in the task of stripping the elm of its 
 branches, gave some promise of life and 
 movement. 
 
 When Anthime awoke, another day of 
 gloom and greyness was forcing its way 
 through the open casement, seeking to dull 
 the cheerful roses on the flowered chintz cur- 
 tains. He choked back a yawn, and clasping 
 his hands under his head, lay watching 
 Michka, who at the first sign of notice from 
 his master had risen from his rug and now 
 laid his nose on the bed, wagging his tail. 
 
 "What are you thinking about, old boy?" 
 inquired Anthime, smiling lazily at the faith- 
 ful hound. 
 
 The greyhound whined plaintively, reply- 
 ing in dog-language: "I am thinking of your 
 English thoroughbred and your smart phae- 
 ton, beside which I love to stretch my limbs 
 in a good gallop — I am thinking of the good 
 food I get in Paris, and of many things be- 
 sides. Master dear, let us go! I don't like 
 this place, and the people here hate me!" 
 
 "Hullo, hullo! It's easy to see what's the
 
 THE KEYNOTE 141 
 
 matter with you, my boy," commented An- 
 thime, rolling cosily over on to his side, "but 
 you must wait awhile." He pulled the bed- 
 clothes well up round his neck, and snuggled 
 into the pillows, for he was a late riser. He 
 thought of his mother. He had loved her 
 indeed, but with the affection of a spoilt child, 
 or a favoured cat, more than the understand- 
 ing sympathy of a grown man. He had suf- 
 fered cruelly the first few days after her death, 
 but he reflected curiously that the very in- 
 tensity of the gloom her passing had produced, 
 and the utter absence of healthy pursuits 
 wherein one might find temporary alleviation, 
 were already blunting the sharpness of the 
 sting which had tormented him in the early 
 hours of his grief. 
 
 He only saw his father when he went to 
 his room in the morning, to ask how he had 
 slept. The unhappy man had completely 
 broken down in health and was confined to 
 his bed. He declined to see anybody and 
 would not even suffer the doctor to be sent for ; 
 he never spoke, and spent the entire day alone, 
 in the dark, for no one dared open the shut- 
 ters which had been closed by his orders on 
 the day of the funeral. 
 
 Anthime pitied him heartily and at the
 
 142 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 same time shrugged his shoulders in half con- 
 temptuous tolerance of eccentricities he failed 
 to understand: an attitude, it must be admit- 
 ted, learnt from his mother in earliest child- 
 hood. Though his conscience troubled him 
 for not having craved forgiveness after his 
 first misdemeanour seven years ago, he could 
 not but congratulate himself on having seized 
 so excellent an opportunity of escaping the 
 dulness of Petit-Fougeray, and resorting to 
 the gay life of Paris! He had never regretted 
 it. Whenever he cast a passing thought to 
 Petit-Fougeray from his luxurious flat on the 
 first floor of a princely house in the rue de 
 Varennes, he recalled the stuffy smell of a 
 dark outhouse full of rabbits and ferrets in 
 hutches, and a tiled vestibule round which 
 hung rows and rows of mouldy hats and old 
 coats. These things constituted for him the 
 atmosphere of "home." 
 
 He had forgotten the cheery boyhood 
 marked by innumerable scrapes and the ever- 
 indulgent affection of both his parents; he 
 was a dandy now, a man of fashion, a pillar 
 of that "jeunesse doree" which spends its even- 
 ings at the music-hall of the moment, sups 
 at Maxime's and stakes a fortune on the turn 
 of a card.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 143 
 
 On the dreary morning in question, lying 
 on a pillow smelling of a fusty linen-cup- 
 board, his thoughts strayed idly to Nelly de 
 Givernay, his mistress, and Prince Stemof, 
 his favourite boon-companion; then he began 
 to wonder about his mother's fortune. His 
 father had made no mention of it so far, there- 
 fore he had no means of knowing what his 
 share would amount to, but he expected some- 
 thing considerable. He rested his supposition 
 on outside gossip, and, from certain hints his 
 mother had occasionally given in his presence 
 he felt justified in believing that he would 
 come in for the lion's share of her possessions. 
 As for the bills of exchange, he could afford 
 to disregard the threats of that old usurer 
 Miiller; still if he inherited anything con- 
 siderable, he would pay the brute something 
 on account; and in the meanwhile, as soon as 
 he got back to Paris he would buy Count de 
 la Garnache's colt. He ought never to have 
 hesitated about it; its nostrils were certainly 
 rather contracted for a bloodhorse, but that 
 blemish was redeemed by qualities of the first 
 order. 
 
 Having thought the matter over in all its 
 bearings and made his decision he rang for 
 his fire and shaving water.
 
 144 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 When the temperature of the room was 
 warmed to his liking he threw off the bed- 
 clothes, stretched himself, and strolled to the 
 window. It had stopped raining, but the gen- 
 eral aspect was thoroughly depressing. 
 The walls were stained with damp, weeds 
 sprouted on the paths, and rivulets had forced 
 their way through the gravel. 
 
 He turned hurriedly from the unattractive 
 scene and began his ablutions. The scent of 
 bath-salts perfumed the chamber. He de- 
 bated whether he should change his trainer. 
 If he could only secure the services of Anson, 
 the Englishman, what an advantage it would 
 be! 
 
 He stood before the glass in his soft-fronted 
 shirt, curled his moustache, brushed his hair 
 till its ruddy ripples shone, and put on a white 
 collar and a black tie that showed up the 
 azure of his eyes and the delicacy of his com- 
 plexion. A well-fitting black serge suit com- 
 pleted his attire. He filled his cigar-case, 
 and stood ready to encounter another idle day. 
 Fashionable, dandified though he appeared, 
 there yet remained something in his appear- 
 ance that placed him a little apart from the 
 mere pleasure-surfeited Paris lounger. In 
 spite of the marks fast living had graven upon
 
 THE KEYNOTE 145 
 
 his countenance, the sportsman in him still sur- 
 vived. 
 
 He went straight to his father's room as 
 usual, and knocked. A muffled voice, from 
 under the bedclothes, bade him enter. The 
 shutters were closed, but the darkness could 
 not entirely conceal the disorder of the apart- 
 ment: clothes tossed here and there, a game- 
 bag on the table amongst papers, quill pens, 
 and sundry other litter. 
 
 The face on the pillow could only be dimly 
 discerned under the shadow of the blue bed- 
 hangings. 
 
 "Good morning, Father. How are you 
 feeling to-day?" 
 
 "Not well, boy, not well," was the answer, 
 in a feeble voice. 
 
 "Your room is cold. Shall I have the fire 
 lighted?" 
 
 "Oh no. It is not worth while." 
 
 The sound, weaker still and more muffled, 
 suggested that the speaker, tired out by the 
 effort, was disappearing altogether under the 
 bedclothes. 
 
 "Please make use of me if you want any- 
 thing." 
 
 "Thank you — you might — yes, send Celestin 
 to me, please."
 
 146 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Anthlme went out of the room. He de- 
 livered his father's message and strolled into 
 the courtyard with Michka at his heels. He 
 had nothing to do and was bored to death. 
 Impenetrable gloom brooded over everything. 
 Even the grey wintry sky weighed like a 
 leaden lid upon his shoulders. He stood 
 about, idly watching the hens picking up 
 worms; his eyes strayed to a paddock close by 
 where Estelle was pulling washed linen out 
 of a smoking cauldron and wringing it out. 
 Something in her attitude suggested that she 
 was weeping and he moved nearer to ascer- 
 tain. When she saw him coming she hastily 
 rubbed her eyes with an arm reddened by the 
 steaming water in which it had been dab- 
 bling. 
 
 "What is the matter, Estelle? Are you in 
 trouble?" 
 
 The little maid tried to speak, but sobs 
 gained the mastery and she hid her face in her 
 hands. 
 
 He watched her. She had unfastened her 
 short black boddice at the top, to give more 
 freedom to her movements, and the snowy 
 chemisette above, hanging loose, revealed the 
 soft lines of her full young bosom. He 
 looked with pleasure at the sheeny texture of
 
 THE KEYNOTE 147 
 
 the white skin: "But for her hands the child 
 would be pretty," he thought to himself. 
 
 "Come, little Estelle!" he said gently, yield- 
 ing to the temptation of putting his arm 
 round her: "Take away your hands and tell 
 me the reason of these tears." 
 
 But she only sobbed the more. 
 
 "Poor little thing!" he shrugged his shoul- 
 ders and sauntered on, to the kitchen garden. 
 He could hear the sound of a spade ringing 
 on pebbly soil, from behind a clump of ever- 
 greens. He walked down a sodden grass- 
 path, between rows of winter cabbages, whose 
 outer leaves hung yellow and decaying. 
 Pear trees stood in gaunt rows extending 
 skeleton arms; here, part of a gourd lay rot- 
 ting, there a startled cat darted away from 
 among some dead dahlias. The boundary 
 hedges stretched away on either side, russet 
 and silver, like the singed remains of a con- 
 flagration. At the foot of a wall he came 
 upon some old clothes of his own which had 
 evidently been used to make a scare-crow; 
 he kicked them aside. 
 
 He idled thus, absent-minded and unin- 
 terested until it was time for luncheon; ate his 
 meal alone, and lounged afterwards on the
 
 148 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 sofa in the drawing-room. He was utterly at 
 a loss for something to do. His mourning 
 prohibited shooting, the one amusement Petit- 
 Fougeray was capable of providing; there 
 were no young people in the neighbouring 
 houses. So he yawned and smoked away the 
 afternoon until four o'clock, when he thought 
 he might find Frederic in the stables, and 
 have a talk about horses. 
 
 This day was typical of the others. He 
 dawdled towards the stable-yard talking to 
 Michka and smacking his leg with an old 
 riding-whip he had found in a corner of the 
 coach-house. 
 
 Frederic saw him coming but continued his 
 task of tossing hay into the mangers of the 
 Pomeranians, two magnificent black horses 
 which had been kept for the sole use of 
 Madame des Lourdines, and of which she 
 had been inordinately proud. 
 
 Anthime hoisted himself on to the oat bin 
 and sat with rounded back and legs hanging 
 on either side of Michka, gazing at the pow- 
 erful necks stretched to reach their feed. 
 Presently Frederic's silence and the morose 
 air with which he moved about his work at- 
 tracted his attention.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 149 
 
 "What's the matter, old man? Worry- 
 ing about something?" 
 
 "Worrying, Monsieur Anthime?" repeated 
 Frederic, busily polishing a curb-chain. 
 
 Anthime looked inquiringly into the 
 troubled face of the old servant. 
 
 "What is it? Tell me." 
 
 "We're all miserable, Monsieur Anthime, 
 and that's the truth. The other day your fa- 
 ther told Estelle he should not require her 
 services any more, and — just fancy Monsieur 
 Anthime! no later than this morning he said 
 the same thing to Celestin! To Celestin!" 
 
 Anthime looked thoughtful and did not re- 
 ply for a moment. 
 
 "Poor old Frederic," he said at length, "I 
 don't wonder at your being unhappy! I am 
 frightfully sorry to hear that Estelle and 
 Celestin have got to go. But you know what 
 my father is, and the sort of life he likes to 
 lead. Now that he is alone, I suppose he 
 will not require so many people to wait upon 
 him. That must be it." 
 
 Frederic shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "Hum!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Nothing, Monsieur Anthime, nothing." 
 Then he added, scratching his head:
 
 150 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 "I should like to ask you something, Mon- 
 sieur Anthime. Of course I know it's 
 none of my business, but after all I've known 
 you since you were a little lad, so high, so per- 
 haps you'll forgive me — are you going to 
 leave us too? Are you going away from 
 Petit- Fougeray?" 
 
 Anthime replied without hesitation. 
 
 "Why think of it, Frederic! Of course I 
 am going to leave! How on earth could I 
 stay at Petit-Fougeray! What the devil 
 should I do here?" 
 
 The old coachman stopped polishing, and 
 slowly hung the curb-chains in their places 
 on the wall. 
 
 "Then it's all over! Estelle gone, Celestin 
 gone, you away, Monsieur Anthime! It's 
 the end of the world, as far as we are con- 
 cerned!" 
 
 Anthime did not relish the turn the con- 
 versation was taking. He began slashing the 
 air with his whip. 
 
 Frederic looked drily at him, picked up 
 his broom and pitch fork and walked off: "I 
 must go and see to Count Caradec." 
 
 Anthime followed. 
 
 Count Caradec, the erstwhile race-horse,
 
 THE KEYNOTE 151 
 
 was not tied by the head in a stall, but en- 
 joyed the modified freedom of a loose-box in 
 which he could stand, roll, or stretch himself 
 at will. 
 
 His master visited him regularly every aft- 
 ernoon at this hour. Anthime would stand 
 pensively watching the wreck of his former 
 treasure, going over in his mind the thrills 
 and triumphs he had experienced on his back. 
 The old horse was on his last legs. No one 
 even troubled to groom him now. His coat 
 stared in rough tufts, like a neglected lawn; 
 his slender neck still showed signs of breed- 
 ing, but his quarters drooped, and the project- 
 ing joints were connected with his flanks by 
 a sagging fold of worn hide; the pasterns had 
 not been trimmed for a couple of seasons; 
 there were horny excrescences on his hocks. 
 
 "Come up, old boy!" said Frederic, enter- 
 ing the loose-box. The old horse moved into 
 a corner and turned his beautiful limpid gaze 
 upon the two men. A nervous shiver ran 
 down his shoulder. 
 
 "The Chazy gardener came here last year to 
 try and buy him," commented Frederic, toss- 
 ing the litter on the ground and tidying it 
 with his pitch fork; "he would have set him 
 to carrying vegetables to market, so your fa-
 
 152 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 ther would not hear of it: no, no, he said, I 
 won't part with my son's horse!" 
 
 "He never got over the lameness that fol- 
 lowed that bout of fever in the feet." 
 
 "No, he will always walk a bit tender. I 
 have tried all sorts, blistering, compresses, 
 everything. He is an old crook. Old horses 
 are like old soldiers. The day comes when 
 they are only fit for the scavenger." 
 
 "Look here, I want to get on his back! I 
 must ride old Caradec once more!" 
 
 "Ride Caradec! Good Lord, sir!" Fred- 
 eric stared as if he thought his young master 
 had suddenly gone mad. 
 
 "Yes, really," repeated Anthime, laughing 
 at the expression on the coachman's face. 
 "Put a saddle on him. Of course I shan't 
 take him out of the park. I'll just go down 
 the avenue, as far as the meadow." 
 
 Count Caradec was accordingly got ready 
 and presently Anthime was in the saddle. 
 
 He had a pretty seat and looked well on 
 horseback, though he affected the arched back 
 and sunken chest of a jockey. He moved 
 away at a foot's pace, quite content to feel his 
 old friend between his legs. But the poor 
 animal's paces were a thing of the past. He 
 walked badly and dragged his feet.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 153 
 
 Anthime took him under the trees, his slight 
 figure swaying gently to the motion, a little 
 hunting tune on his lips. He selected a nar- 
 row pathway between some shrubberies 
 of evergreens leading to an ivy-covered wall 
 forming the boundary of the demesne. 
 Here the trees widened into a glade carpeted 
 with ferns and thistles. This had been the 
 daily walk of Madame des Lourdines, as long 
 as she had been able to get about on her feet. 
 She enjoyed the sharp scent of the box-trees 
 and bracken. Celestin had put up a little 
 arbour for her use just beyond the chestnuts, 
 on the bank of the river. Close by, there had 
 been a shrine; a rusty statue of St. Joseph 
 still lay against tbe wall, with one arm snapped 
 off. 
 
 Anthime sat leaning forward in the saddle, 
 his eyes travelling indifferently over the scene. 
 A deeper nature might have found many ten- 
 der associations in it. But his childhood had 
 been too thoughtlessly serene for sentiment. 
 He had not been trained to think, nor re- 
 member, nor care. He lived entirely in the 
 present, and just now the present, in its 
 gloomy exile from Paris, was a pretty 
 lugubrious affair! 
 
 On the further side of the wall, beyond the
 
 154 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 narrow river, stretched a dreary-looking 
 valley. The westering sun planed red-gold 
 among rain-clouds; from the darkening 
 heights above, a wet breeze was blowing, dis- 
 turbing the dead leaves and diffusing the 
 acrid odours of sodden bark, and pine-cones; 
 it also blew searchingly on the old horse's 
 long coat, disclosing little circlets of worn 
 skin. 
 
 "Ho! Ho! So Frederic hopes to see me 
 winter here!" laughed Anthime to himself. 
 He reflected that another couple of months 
 spent at his father's side would amply satisfy 
 the requirements of filial duty and decency. 
 He fixed his piercing eyes away into distance, 
 beyond hill and dale, as if he could see Paris. 
 He thought of Nelly de Givernay, the music- 
 hall singer whose lover he had been for the 
 past eighteen months. Before that, he had 
 hovered from flower to flower, too light- 
 hearted to fall under the thrall of an enduring 
 passion. But Nelly had changed all that. 
 From the first moment he had heard her on 
 the stage, he had fallen prone, bewitched, 
 crazed by her charm. It was not so much 
 her looks, which were but mediocre, as the 
 quality of her voice, that arrested and enslaved 
 him. Others failed to recognise its wonder-
 
 THE KEYNOTE 155 
 
 ful attraction, but it contained some peculiar 
 vibration which caused him shivers of delight 
 and hypnotised him like a bird under the gaze 
 of a serpent. There was the same tremulous 
 ring in her light laugh. Oftentimes he would 
 suddenly beg her to simulate merriment and 
 mimic her own laugh; and he would listen 
 ecstatically. There was no limit to the follies 
 he had already perpetrated under her in- 
 fluence. 
 
 Now, with the silent trees above his head 
 and the slumbering countryside spreading at 
 his feet, his heart travelled back to her; he 
 longed with a physical ache for the sound 
 of her voice and fluttering laugh. 
 
 A real laugh suddenly broke upon his re- 
 flections. He started, shook the reins and 
 urged his horse through some birch trees to the 
 edge of the common-land whence came the 
 voices. Two little girls had just crossed 
 the river. 
 
 a Good afternoon, sir," said the elder. 
 
 "Good afternoon, little one. What's the 
 joke? I heard you laughing." 
 
 "Oh sir, it's my little sister. You have no 
 idea how funny she is!" 
 
 Meanwhile the younger, a child of five or 
 six, was darting about, dipping her toes in the
 
 156 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 water, trying to climb the trees, and enjoying 
 herself to her heart's content. 
 
 "What have you got on your cheeks, you 
 imp!" exclaimed Anthime, as she ran up 
 panting, to exhibit her wet shoes and soiled 
 pinafore. 
 
 "Oh, you naughty baby!" cried the big 
 sister, giggling merrily. She flew at her and 
 rubbed her face vigorously with her own 
 pinafore, bringing a fine natural glow into 
 the downy cheeks. 
 
 "She has put on wheat-flour out of the bin 
 at home. That's the sort of trick she plays 
 all the time. The other day she smothered 
 her feet in it. You can't think how comic 
 it was. She keeps us all in fits of laughter" — 
 and the children went on their way. 
 
 The day was closing in. At the further end 
 of a long avenue Anthime could see a por- 
 tion of the buff-coloured face of his home, 
 with all the shutters shut. 
 
 The merry chatter of the children receded 
 in the distance. 
 
 Anthime tried to make Caradec execute a 
 "volte," but the old horse had forgotten his 
 training; he put him into a trot, but a sorry 
 limping lope was the result; so he pulled him 
 up, and his spirits sank still lower.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 157 
 
 He turned homewards. 
 
 Passing through the courtyard he was sur- 
 prised to see Maitre Paillaud getting into his 
 carriage with a big bundle of papers under 
 his arm. Anthime wondered whether he bad 
 come about his mother's will. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur Anthime, how did he go?" 
 asked Frederic, coming forward to take the 
 horse. 
 
 "He's finished, poor old Caradec!" returned 
 Anthime. Michka bounded out of the house 
 and overwhelmed his master with clumsy at- 
 tentions. 
 
 "Good dog! Good dog!" 
 
 Passing the open door of the kitchen he 
 overheard Perrine grumbling: "Did you 
 ever see such cheek! bringing that great dog 
 to his own mother's death-bed!" 
 
 "Meddlesome old fool!" he muttered 
 angrily. "Who cares what she thinks?"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 MAITRE PAILLAUD'S visit left 
 Monsieur des Lourdines in the con- 
 dition of complete mental and 
 physical prostration apt to be produced by the 
 extinction of hope and the actual falling of a 
 long-dreaded blow. 
 
 On the sheet lay a packet of papers. 
 "Seven hundred and fifty acres 1" he sighed. 
 He pictured oxen straining at the plough in 
 the November haze, chattering girls sowing 
 corn on the rich slopes, flocks of sheep pad- 
 ding back to the shelter of their pens at even- 
 tide. All this country realm, once his own, 
 was passing from his reluctant hands; he was 
 robbed of his personal share in the spring, 
 the autumn, the fruitful seasons which had 
 succeeded each other almost as his possession, 
 for so many years, on his own beautiful land 
 in Poitiers. "To see is almost to possess!" he 
 quoted wearily as he pushed under his pillow 
 the parcel of bank-notes the lawyer had just 
 delivered to him: they were the price of three 
 
 158
 
 THE KEYNOTE 159 
 
 properties, Fouchaut, la Bernegoue and one of 
 the big farms at Marais. 
 
 He absently ran his eye again over a letter 
 from a horse-dealer, promising to run over 
 shortly and see whether the Pomeranian 
 horses would suit his purpose. 
 
 He let it fall from his nerveless hand and 
 turned to look at a picture which had been 
 brought from downstairs and now hung on the 
 wall over his bed. It was a portrait of his 
 wife, painted in the days of her youth. It 
 showed her in evening dress, with bands of 
 black hair parted on the brow and gathered 
 in a bunch of Grecian ringlets on the top of 
 her head. He scrutinized the shining curls, 
 the laughing eyes with golden lights in their 
 brown velvet depths. His thoughts no longer 
 pictured her in the helplessness of her in- 
 firmity, for death is oftentimes kind, and trans- 
 lates truth into poetry, for the consolation of 
 the sorrowing survivors. 
 
 In life they had never been closely united. 
 His ideals were not hers and she had often 
 shown herself hostile to his views. But his 
 gentle mind declined to criticize; even now 
 after a companionship of thirty years he re- 
 fused to judge her; he recognised the right of 
 each soul to its own code of right and wrong,
 
 160 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 its own opinions and principles, its own re- 
 sponsibility. 
 
 The slightly mocking twist of the lips in 
 the picture reminded the bereaved husband 
 of the shriek she had given as she fell into 
 his arms. "Anthime!" The beloved son's 
 name had been practically her last utterance. 
 As her mind had remained clear for some 
 days after speech and movement had left her, 
 what mental torment she must have endured 
 before unconsciousness brought merciful re- 
 lief! He groaned: "fimilie! my poor one!" 
 and his heart melted in pity. 
 
 His reflections passed abruptly to his son: 
 What was he feeling? What was his atti- 
 tude of mind? For the thousandth time he 
 murmured : "What is to be the end of all this !" 
 
 He had originally intended to speak to him 
 after the funeral and acquaint him with the 
 situation, with all the severity of a righteously 
 offended parent. But when the time came 
 he found himself incapable of performing the 
 task. He was so exhausted by grief that he 
 could not have maintained the necessary 
 sternness; all he craved for was rest and 
 oblivion. He shuddered as he recalled the 
 scenes that marked Anthime's first rupture 
 with his parents and departure for Paris, and
 
 THE KEYNOTE 161 
 
 shrank from a repetition of them: "What is 
 the use?" he pondered. "The worst has al- 
 ready happened. Nothing can be done. 
 Why not wait a few days until I am 
 stronger?" So, as the only means of avoid- 
 ing a tete-a tete with his son he had retired to 
 bed and announced that he was too ill to sus- 
 tain conversation. Like a wounded animal 
 he sought the obscurity of his darkened room 
 and brooded over his sorrow, his indignation, 
 his apprehension of the future. The morn- 
 ing visits of Anthime were a daily torture. 
 Several times he was on the point of speak- 
 ing, but each time his courage failed and he 
 let him go, angered at his own weakness, yet 
 justifying himself with wise axioms, such as: 
 "Silence is strength. Delay gives time for re- 
 flection. The evil that has been wrought 
 cannot be annulled by reproaches." 
 
 But the real source of his hesitation was 
 that, in spite of everything, his love for his 
 son still reigned undismayed in his generous 
 heart. Selfishness and ingratitude failed to 
 destroy it. It survived triumphant as that 
 son's best defence. 
 
 With the passing of time his feelings grew 
 milder: "How could Anthime be expected 
 to read the mind of a man so rigidly reserved
 
 162 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 as I am?" he asked himself. "He does not 
 know me, and I understand him very little 
 better. It is my fault. I never studied his 
 character. I attempted to do so at first, but 
 my poor Emilie did not encourage it; in fact 
 she did all in her power to throw difficulties 
 in my way. I ought not to have given in! I 
 ought to have insisted, and done what I 
 thought right!" 
 
 He regretted not having made a companion 
 of the boy in early life, and instilled the love 
 of nature into him, instead of leaving him to 
 plunge into foolish dissipation. He should 
 have taught him to care for animals and trees, 
 and talked to him of the eternal truths which 
 sow the seed of life in the soul of youth: 
 "For he is not a bad boy. He is generous 
 and responsive. So much might have been 
 accomplished!" Whole days passed, oc- 
 cupied with such reflections. 
 
 Monsieur ides Lourdines was haunted by a 
 thought which grew to prodigious propor- 
 tions in his unhealthy solitude. It amounted 
 to an obsession and at last one evening action 
 became imperative. He spent a sleepless 
 night, walking about his room, looking at the 
 clock, longing feverishly for daylight. Once
 
 THE KEYNOTE 1G3 
 
 he cried aloud exultantly: "Evil is more pow- 
 erful than we are! It forces us to bite the 
 dust. Yet we rise again triumphant, laugh- 
 ing in the sunshine, singing among the 
 flowers !" 
 
 When Anthime entered his father's room a 
 few minutes before breakfast he found him 
 no longer prone among the pillows, but sit- 
 ting upright, his eyes smiling in the light ad- 
 mitted by the open shutters and wide-drawn 
 curtains. 
 
 "Good morning, Father. How — ?" 
 
 "Ever so much better, Anthime," he inter- 
 rupted. "I am sick of this room, do you know. 
 I should like to get up and go out. Will you 
 come with me? It would be a pleasure to 
 me to take a long walk with you." 
 
 "Of course I will," replied Anthime, look- 
 ing as surprised as he felt. "But is it wise? 
 You are surely not fully recovered, and it 
 might be imprudent." 
 
 "No, no. I must have light. I must 
 breathe the scent of the forest. And I shall 
 not be alone. You will be with me, will you 
 not? Ah, my boy, I need light 1" 
 
 As soon as his son left the room he rose 
 from his bed, put on a dressing-gown and 
 threw open the windows. The morning was
 
 164. THE KEYNOTE 
 
 bright and bracing, the air fragrant with the 
 perfumes of earth, milk, and hay. The few 
 remaining leaves on the trees rustled in the 
 soft breeze. Drops of moisture trickled down 
 the tiled roof. He gazed at the little bit of 
 forest which came within range of the window 
 where he was standing. 
 
 When he appeared in the courtyard after 
 luncheon, dressed in the old green coat, felt 
 hat and long boots, Anthime who was waiting 
 for him whistled to Michka. The dog 
 bounded out of the woodhouse and stood, 
 wagging his tail, and looking inquiringly at 
 his master. 
 
 "No, Anthime. Do not take your dog with 
 you." 
 
 "Why not? He will do no harm." 
 
 His father however repeated: "I prefer 
 that you should leave him behind." 
 
 "Very well. Go lie down! Good dog!" 
 called Anthime, following his father, but 
 looking back over his shoulder to see whether 
 he was obeyed. 
 
 Michka drooped his ears and tail and before 
 returning to the woodstack stood looking after 
 his master, evidently wondering mournfully 
 what had earned him this rebuff. Presently 
 he resigned himself, and yawning, trotted
 
 THE KEYNOTE 165 
 
 back, lazily swinging his high, narrow quar- 
 ters. 
 
 The two men strode briskly along the mid- 
 dle of the road, Monsieur des Lourdines set- 
 ting the pace. 
 
 "It is not going to rain," he observed. 
 
 "No, I suppose not," Anthime replied 
 vaguely. This country walk with no partic- 
 ular object, without even the solace of his dog 
 to whom he might occasionally have whistled, 
 did not promise much entertainment: of two 
 evils he would infinitely have preferred hang- 
 ing about the stables in the company of Fred- 
 eric and Count Caradec. 
 
 "What a funny old chap it is!" he mused; 
 his father was not looking at all well; his big 
 cloak and flapping felt hat emphasised the 
 spareness of his figure and the pallor of his 
 cheeks. Nevertheless he walked at a surpris- 
 ing pace, with his head thrown forward as if 
 eager to arrive at a given point. His long 
 staff prodding the ground at each step, and 
 the game bag hanging at his side, made him 
 look for all the world like a pedlar tramping 
 from village to village. 
 
 "I suppose the poor old boy is going to 
 talk to me about Mother's will — but I don't
 
 166 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 see that Michka would have been in the way." 
 He very nearly gave utterance in an airy way 
 to the thought, as his eyes idly roamed over 
 the land and took in the wintry aspect of the 
 scene: interminable hedges on either side of 
 the road, and beyond them fields and yet more 
 fields, yellow, marshy, enclosed within trees 
 and hedges of the same monotonous shape; to 
 right and left, at the end of long- by-roads, 
 rustic-looking farmhouses standing each in its 
 square of churned-up, muddy ground. The 
 horizon was dotted with gnarled trees ; the sky 
 heavy with slaty clouds illumined from be- 
 hind by a diffused light, white and woolly as 
 asbestos. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines trudged on 
 steadily. Anthime, lagging a pace or two 
 behind, observed him critically. 
 
 "He does look a yokel! He is just like one 
 of the peasants! No wonder, living year in 
 and year out at a place like Petit- Fougeray!" 
 
 This peculiarity of his father had never 
 struck him so vividly before. 
 
 "Isn't this the Placis des Corbeaux?" he 
 asked presently. "Do the boys still come here 
 to fight?" 
 
 "Every year !" answered Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines, halting at once.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 167 
 
 They were in an open glade, where from 
 time immemorial the youths of Douet and 
 Frelonnieres were in the habit of meeting on 
 St. Christopher's day, to wage war on each 
 other. Without rhyme or reason, beyond that 
 of ancient custom, they would fall to at a 
 given signal, and belabour each other with 
 might and main. 
 
 "And is not this the place also," continued 
 Anthime, "where the old Bishop of Lu$on, 
 Monseigneur Corlazeau, used to mistake those 
 pollard oaks bordering the road for men?" 
 
 "Ah, do you remember that?" cried Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines joyfully, looking into his 
 son's face with emotion. "It is quite true. 
 Monseigneur Corlazeau was very shortsighted, 
 and returning at night from his pastoral visi- 
 tations used to take those bent trees for peas- 
 ants, come out to welcome him, and would 
 give them his blessing. Fancy your remem- 
 bering that! And this oak — does it recall any 
 memories to you?" 
 
 "This oak?" repeated Anthime. "Why 
 surely it is the one we used to call the Magpie's 
 oak; I used to come and play under it with the 
 boys of the neighbourhood." 
 
 A light from within irradiated the counte- 
 nance of the delighted parent. One might
 
 168 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 almost have sworn that the clouds overcasting 
 the snowy sky had parted to allow a shaft of 
 sunshine to fall across his worn face. 
 
 He started off again, walking at an even 
 brisker pace than before. 
 
 They were now in the heart of the forest, 
 winding their way through narrow tracks and 
 brushwood tangle. They scrambled along be- 
 tween oaks, silver birches, and pines, at whose 
 feet slumbered dank heaps of ragged bark and 
 russet pine needles. They climbed up slopes 
 riddled with fox holes and furrowed by little 
 runnels of water caused by the recent rains. 
 They emerged occasionally into some lighter 
 spot which seemed to herald the limit of this 
 vast abode of darkness, but invariably the trees 
 closed in again and engulphed them into yet 
 deeper obscurity. Whenever they caught a 
 glimpse of the sky overhead, they saw the same 
 leaden clouds, planing low, sailing slowly in 
 their wake. 
 
 "Where on earth are you taking me, 
 Father?" asked Anthime at length, lumbering 
 uncomfortably at his parent's heels through a 
 particularly impassable swamp. 
 
 "Never mind, Anthime — come — you will 
 see presently." 
 
 "You certainly do know your way about
 
 THE KEYNOTE 109 
 
 your old forest! You know it better than I 
 do!" 
 
 "Yes. I know it better than you do." 
 
 Presently they came to a morass between 
 two low banks. Monsieur des Lourdines 
 floundered into the mud without hesitation, 
 and sank in over his ankles ; but Anthime pre- 
 ferred to pick his way along one of the banks, 
 which he did very slowly, leaving fragments 
 of his garments on projecting thorn bushes. 
 The greasy soil slid from under his feet; he 
 slithered on slimy moss and scratched his hands 
 in trying to save himself, while his father, dirty 
 and draggled from head to foot, stood on dry 
 ground and watched his progress. 
 
 "Anthime!" he called, and his voice rever- 
 berated as if in a tunnel: "Why don't you go 
 down into the middle? If you were only a 
 small boy I would come back and carry you!" 
 Anthime declared laughingly that he pre- 
 ferred thorns to mud, and proceeded on his 
 arduous way. 
 
 "Hullo!" he exclaimed as he joined his 
 father. "Why we've come right through on 
 to the opposite side!" 
 
 They had, in fact, stepped out into light 
 and space, and now stood under a vast misty 
 sky.
 
 170 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 High above them to the left, on the summit 
 of a bare hill covered with granite boulders 
 and golden bracken, stood a gigantic cross. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, Father?" 
 The old man had stopped short, as if his 
 breath had failed him. 
 
 "Nothing," he answered, laying his hand 
 gently on his son's arm; "come with me. I 
 want to take you up there." 
 
 After a steep climb, they found themselves 
 at last above the rocks standing on the highest 
 point of the district. It was called "Le Mont 
 de la Croix Verte." 
 
 It was connected in Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines' mind with his happiest hours of peace 
 and solitude. He had spent entire days there, 
 sitting among the soft fern, watching the 
 fleecy clouds above, the smiling country and 
 black expanse of forest below, searching deep 
 into the heart of things, coming gradually to 
 the comprehension of inward truths which in 
 the busy haunts of men must have eluded his 
 tentative grasp. 
 
 It was his Mount of Olives. 
 
 On a base of solid stone an ancient granite 
 cross reared its height, bare and uncompromis- 
 ing, dominating the country round for all time 
 with a stern serenity that defied the storming
 
 THE KEYNOTE 171 
 
 of the elements and the scorching of the un- 
 veiled sun's rays. 
 
 But the earth at its feet, the slimy blackened 
 earth, jealously sought to hinder its bold ascent 
 into pure ether by the clasp of a lush growth 
 of lichens. These parasites, mingled with 
 green mosses, and orange-coloured vegetable 
 rust, clung to its stony base and ventured up 
 its shaft, clothing it in a sheath of tawny 
 velvet. 
 
 To the south a limitless country spread its 
 breadth to meet sixty miles of horizon and 
 bare hills. 
 
 The ascent had been arduous. Monsieur 
 des Lourdines threw himself panting on to a 
 rock which raised its knobby surface above the 
 thistles. Wrapped thus in his cloak, his face 
 shaded by the broad brimmed peasant hat, 
 gazing silent and motionless into the far dis- 
 tance, he resembled a shepherd patiently 
 awaiting eventide. 
 
 Anthime, standing a little behind, could 
 just see his projecting cheek-bones and lean 
 chin. He noticed how heavily his father 
 drooped on the hard rock, and how completely 
 oblivious he appeared to be of his surround- 
 ings or the presence of his companion. 
 
 "He is exhausted," he pondered. "Why on
 
 172 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 earth need he have come so far! This view 
 is certainly worth seeing, and the air is splen- 
 didly bracing, but we have got to get back 
 again." 
 
 He supposed his father would now broach 
 the subject of the will. In the event of his 
 not doing so he cogitated how to lead the con- 
 versation up to it. But he dared not begin. 
 The silence and immobility of the old man, 
 the brooding expression of his eyes, and the 
 loose clasp of his shrivelled hands around his 
 knees impressed him. 
 
 "Perhaps he is praying," he thought, and 
 followed the direction of his father's gaze, 
 wondering whether he was looking at any- 
 thing in particular, or only seeing visions. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines rose slowly to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Look!" said he to his son. "Look at all 
 that!" 
 
 "I have never been up here before," faltered 
 Anthime uncomfortably, under the piercing 
 glance now suddenly concentrated upon him. 
 
 His father stared still harder into his face. 
 
 "Mine! Mine and yours!" he whispered, 
 with a wide gesture towards the distant hor- 
 izon. "Breathe this air! Fill your lungs 
 with it! It carries the scent of our own trees,
 
 THE KEYNOTE 173 
 
 the smoke of our peat fires! Watch its direc- 
 tion — it comes from Petit-Fougeray, our 
 home — listen to its song!" 
 
 A feverish excitement animated his voice 
 and eyes. 
 
 "Anthime, I will tell you why I have 
 brought you here. I want you to see with my 
 eyes," he continued, in strangled tones. "I 
 love this place — I came here first as a small 
 boy — I used to come when I was a man like 
 you are now, and again, up till the present 
 time. All this that you see before you is ours 
 — our inheritance from father to son. Look 
 as far as you can see! Ah, if only I could 
 make myself clear! Do you not feel, and see, 
 and hear, all around, the bond that unites us 
 to the land! Does it not envelop you like an 
 atmosphere, this sensation of possession, of 
 reciprocity! Do you not grasp the harmonies 
 in the wind?" 
 
 Anthime promptly thought of the harmonies 
 in the voice of Nelly, his enchantress, and had 
 therefore no answer ready for his father. 
 
 "Listen, my son! I shall never come here 
 again. This is my last visit. This place is 
 intimately connected with all my past life, its 
 joys and sorrows. After a long day spent here 
 in peaceful contemplation, I used to return to
 
 174 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 your mother's room — now that she is gone, I 
 could not bear the pain of it. It is all overl 
 I came to-day," he went on falteringly, with 
 half-closed eyes, "I forced myself to come, for 
 your sake! I knew you would not mind the 
 long tramp, and I wanted to show you the 
 Cross, the spot I love so well, where so many 
 of my dreams have taken birth. Oh, Anthime 
 — boy — if you could only understand ! If you 
 could know what divine music I have heard 
 here!" 
 
 "Really?" said Anthime. He could think 
 of nothing else to say. 
 
 "Yes, on stormy days — when the wind 
 rushed from the forest and swirled angrily 
 among the hills. I have said to myself: I 
 must bring the boy here. I must teach him to 
 hear the voice of Nature. His soul will ex- 
 pand within him, and he will understand." 
 
 Anthime was growing more and more un- 
 comfortable in presence of an enthusiasm he 
 was utterly incapable of grasping. 
 
 "In that case, Father — of course — well, 
 don't you see, you must come again! Eh? 
 Won't that be best?" 
 
 "No," was the answer, given in sombre 
 tones. "I could not bear it. Since your 
 mother's death, and just before, I have suffered
 
 THE KEYNOTE 175 
 
 too much. I cannot face these things now, as 
 I could when I was a younger man. I am 
 growing old, my boy." 
 
 "Oh no," responded Anthime, who thought 
 he saw his way to giving the conversation a 
 more cheerful turn. "You are by no means 
 old. Why, you should have seen yourself 
 striding along an hour ago! I simply could 
 not keep up with you." 
 
 "Nevertheless, Anthime, I am old. You do 
 not know what that means — and more than 
 that, you do not know what it means to grow 
 old in solitude. When I look forward to liv- 
 ing out my life alone here, without your 
 mother, without . . . you . . . without a soul 
 I know or care for, my heart sinks. I feel 
 overwhelmed — I am like a rat in a trap. I 
 have not the power to change my circum- 
 stances. The only thing I wonder is 
 whether . . ." 
 
 He stopped. His heart beat fast He 
 scanned his son's features eagerly. His face 
 had the rapt look of a believer awaiting the 
 miracle for which he has prayed. 
 
 Anthime patted the worm-holes with the 
 sole of his foot, and looked nervous. 
 
 "Poor Father!" he murmured. "I am 
 frightfully sorry for you. But — "
 
 17G THE KEYNOTE 
 
 "But what?" urged Monsieur des Lour dines 
 feverishly. "What . . . what were you go- 
 ing to say?" 
 
 Anthime had no idea. He had nothing to 
 say, but something was expected of him, so he 
 added lamely: 
 
 "You must not take all this so terribly to 
 heart." 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines turned away 
 abruptly. 
 
 In the far distance a single shaft of sunshine 
 still glowed above a hill. For an instant he 
 stared at it from beneath his frowning brows, 
 then raised his head and looked at the lower- 
 ing clouds. He had taken off his flapping hat 
 to cool the burning of his temples. 
 
 Slowly he turned and faced his son once 
 more. He scrutinised the tall, graceful 
 figure and handsome face already marked 
 with lines of dissipation; he recalled in 
 thought the active little figure in knicker- 
 bockers and gaiters which had once run 
 blithely by his side in long country rambles, 
 and suddenly, with pain unspeakable that 
 seemed to sear his very heart, he realized def- 
 initely that he had nothing to hope for in this 
 quarter: that there was no answering gleam
 
 THE KEYNOTE 177 
 
 in the hazel eyes that met his with a wonder- 
 ing stare. 
 
 His voice shook, as he repeated feebly: 
 "You cannot imagine what it is to grow old, 
 my son!" 
 
 "But, Father!" 
 
 "No, Anthime, you cannot. Moreover you 
 do not know what it is to love!" 
 
 "Father, why do you say that?" 
 
 "I suppose," he continued hoarsely, "you 
 anticipate returning to Paris?" 
 
 Anthime made no reply. There was that 
 in the look his father fixed upon him, that 
 dominated and restrained him. Without 
 warning, the blood rushed to Monsieur des 
 Lourdines' cheeks, his nostrils quivered and 
 turned white. 
 
 "Unnatural boy!" he stormed. 
 
 To his own complete surprise he was sud- 
 denly possessed by fury; he was no longer 
 master of himself. 
 
 "Heartless, wicked son!" 
 
 "What is it? Why do you speak like that?" 
 stammered Anthime. 
 
 "Why! Ah, why indeed! I raise my help- 
 less hands to you in pleading, and you refuse 
 to see them! You close your ears to my un-
 
 178 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 spoken prayer! Very well. I will no longer 
 be silent! I will not spare you the pain you 
 deserve! Muller has written to me — I would 
 have avoided speaking of it, if you had shown 
 one spark of love or sympathy for me in my 
 bereaved old age. That usurer, that scamp, 
 Muller, wrote and told me everything! No, 
 do not attempt to deny! I have made every 
 inquiry and I should not believe you. You 
 have again rolled up a mountain of debt — 
 twenty- four thousand pounds! Without a 
 thought of us, or a hope of repayment. It is 
 unspeakable! Unforgiveable! Still, I said 
 nothing to you, I tried to make excuses for you. 
 I told myself you had been thoughtless, led 
 away by others. That would have been bad 
 enough, but I hoped your better self still sur- 
 vived; I dreamed that the pangs of remorse 
 and filial affection would bring you to me with 
 outstretched hands to crave forgiveness and 
 offer the reparation of your devoted com- 
 panionship. Fool that I was! Idle dreamer! 
 I brought you here, to show you the posses- 
 sions of your forefathers, and appeal to your 
 hard, dry heart. I could still have forgiven 
 you, have made allowance for youth and in- 
 experience. Had you said to me just now, 
 of your own accord, when you still thought
 
 THE KEYNOTE 179 
 
 yourself possessed of the means of independ- 
 ence: 'Father, mother is dead, and you are 
 lonely! Let me stay with you and comfort 
 you in your desolation!' Oh, Anthime, the 
 joy your words would have given me, would 
 have compensated for the torture I have borne 
 in silence! I should have felt almost happy. 
 I should have replied: 'My boy! My child! 
 You have ruined me, you have ruined your- 
 self — our lives are blasted — but at least your 
 soul has emerged triumphant — at least I still 
 possess your love ! Come to my arms ! I for- 
 give and bless you!' " 
 
 His voice died away. Emotion choked 
 him. 
 
 Anthime had listened in stupefied silence. 
 His mind was torn with conflicting senti- 
 ments: astonishment at the strength of will 
 which had kept his father silent until this 
 moment; anger with Muller; profound dis- 
 comfiture at seeing the financial worries he 
 had borne so lightly, treated so seriously; 
 wonder as to what his father would decree. 
 
 "But Father, I assure you, you exaggerate 
 the situation. I have borrowed money 
 certainly. I found myself forced to do so, to 
 carry out a business enterprise — as a matter of 
 fact, a breeding stable. But for goodness'
 
 180 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 sake don't work yourself into such a state! 
 These things are done every day — I shall find 
 means of paying up." 
 
 "There is one more thing I wish to say," 
 continued Monsieur des Lourdines in low, ex- 
 hausted accents, passing over without comment 
 the lie he knew his son had just told, and feel- 
 ing that a whole world separated the two: 
 "I intend to save the honour of our name. 
 The money shall be paid in full. That is 
 understood. But in order to do so, and to 
 spare you the indignity of imprisonment I 
 have had to sell everything. The farms are 
 gone. Your inheritance is swallowed up — all 
 the family possessions have passed out of my 
 hands. We have only one hundred and 
 twenty pounds a year left between us to live 
 upon, and Petit-Fougeray and Charviniere. 
 Henceforward we must live like the peasants. 
 You must have thought my fortune was inex- 
 haustible, you young fool!" 
 
 Anthime had turned livid, as he listened to 
 his father's faltering words. He now leaned 
 heavily against the stone cross for support: 
 
 "Who told you I was so rich, eh?" 
 
 Anthime was dumb. His face was dis- 
 torted with horror.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 181 
 
 "One hundred and twenty pounds a year! 
 Surely you are only trying to frighten me!" 
 
 "Would to God I were!" his father 
 answered in accents so tortured that all doubt 
 was dispelled from Anthime's mind. 
 
 "You are punishing me, indeed!" 
 
 "Petit-Fougeray and Charviniere are all 
 that remain to us!" 
 
 "Father, you have never done this! For 
 God's sake, pause! Is there yet time?" 
 
 "My son, the affair is almost concluded." 
 
 "My God, it's impossible! It cannot, can- 
 not be true!" 
 
 The wind was freshening. The day drew 
 nigh to its close, in sober mood; instead of the 
 glowing crimson, harbinger of a fine morrow, 
 grey and green clouds hung sadly overhead, 
 resting heavily on the crest of the distant hills. 
 
 Anthime had forgotten his manhood. He 
 had thrown himself face downwards, and with 
 arms twined round the foot of the cross, and 
 head bowed over them, gave way under the 
 sudden shock and distress of the news abruptly 
 conveyed by his father's words. His heart- 
 broken sobbing brought balm and relief to the 
 old man. Never before had he seen a tear
 
 182 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 in his son's hard eyes. Melted was his sudden 
 rage, soothed his fretted nerves. He was glad 
 that he had yielded to the generous impulse 
 which stayed him in the midst of righteous 
 wrath from informing that son that his 
 mother's death lay at his door. 
 
 Presently Anthime raised his tear-stained 
 face : 
 
 "Father, can you ever forgive me!" 
 
 "My boy, my boy, I also am guilty! I 
 neglected you ! I ought to have talked more 
 to you when you were young. It is my fault 
 as much as yours, and we must bear the penalty 
 together." 
 
 He raised his eyes to the Cross which now 
 towered dark and threatening in the dusk, 
 above the prone figure of his son. A gust of 
 superstitious fear shook him. He seized him 
 by the arm: "Anthime, Anthime! Come! 
 Come away! Let us get away from this 
 place!" 
 
 Together they started hurriedly down-hill. 
 Anthime moved like a man under the influ- 
 ence of drink. He stumbled over rocks, 
 caught his feet in the gorse and brambles. 
 He drew insensibly nearer to his father, and 
 surrendered himself to his guidance. The 
 latter knew instinctively that had the young
 
 THE KEYNOTE 183 
 
 man been alone he would have fallen blindly 
 into every pitfall. They walked close to- 
 gether, in mournful silence. 
 
 In the forest Anthime plunged straight into 
 the slimy mud he had so carefully avoided an 
 hour earlier. Monsieur des Lourdines' spirits 
 rose at the sight. 
 
 The darkness under the trees was almost 
 impenetrable. The men struggled forward 
 in the eye of a gusty wind, which bellied out 
 the skirts of their cloaks and swung the 
 branches across their path. Slowly the moon 
 rose in the sky. 
 
 They arrived at Petit-Fougeray, very late, 
 very jaded. The servants who had been look- 
 ing out anxiously for them, met them with 
 lamps raised to look into their faces, wonder- 
 ing curiously what could have befallen them. 
 Anthime drew the collar of his cloak above his 
 quivering lips; Monsieur des Lourdines ex- 
 plained the reason of their delay in incoherent 
 terms. The warm scent of the cabbage soup 
 and the cosy light of the kitchen penetrated 
 gratefully to his chilled senses. 
 
 Anthime refused the offer of food. He 
 wanted nothing; but his father, half fainting 
 with fatigue, sat down to a great bowl of
 
 184 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 smoking broth and a hunch of home-made 
 bread. Anthime went straight to his room. 
 His throat was burning; he gulped down a 
 draught of cool water, and threw himself just 
 as he was on his bed. There he lay on his 
 back for hours, staring vacantly into the dark- 
 ness. He shed no more tears; he was too ut- 
 terly crushed for any active sensation. Life 
 was over; he was at the bottom of a yawning 
 abyss, the sides of which had crumbled in and 
 were stifling the breath in his lungs. Ruined! 
 Penniless! Everything finished, while youth 
 still ran in his veins! The thought was un- 
 speakably awful! Hitherto pleasure and ex- 
 citement had been his portion ; now, the future 
 held nothing more for him. It meant anni- 
 hilation! Great God! 
 
 Later, a kind of delirium took possession of 
 him. The words: "I have no more money 
 — I have no more money," formed themselves 
 on his lips and escaped him unconsciously, in 
 ceaseless repetition. He remembered friends 
 of his, the gayest of the gay, who had suddenly 
 gone under and disappeared from ken. He 
 had hardly given them a thought at the time, 
 had certainly not realised what they were go- 
 ing through. Was he to join their ranks? 
 Cheery little de Melliere, ruined, had blown
 
 THE KEYNOTE 185 
 
 out his brains. De Mierne, that good-looking 
 boy, ruined, had joined the Foreign Legion 
 as a private. De Flibure, ruined, was never 
 seen again. There were others, too. No one 
 mentioned their names; they had simply 
 passed into outer darkness, and the memory of 
 their bright personalities and gay pranks had 
 faded from men's minds. How on earth had 
 he managed to share their fate! 
 
 He hardly knew where the money had gone. 
 Cards? Yes, he had gambled certainly, reck- 
 lessly. Women? He had prided himself on 
 paying handsomely for his pleasures; his fav- 
 ourites had feathered their nests well. Still, 
 he could hardly account for that great, 
 vast, horrible sum of twenty-four thousand 
 pounds! 
 
 Now he must endure a living death at Petit- 
 Fougeray, alone with his father. His boon 
 companions would shrug their shoulders and 
 say one to the other: "Do you remember that 
 chap, des Lourdines? He went the pace. 
 He has gone under. Done for!" 
 
 Oh, impossible! Surely, surely, there must 
 be some way out! But no — as easily raise his 
 mother from her cold grave, as find twenty- 
 four thousand pounds for that damnable Jew, 
 Muller.
 
 186 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 His father, lying on the other side of the 
 wall, heard his heart-broken groans, and pitied 
 him with the kindly compassion of age for 
 youth. "Poor boy! He is taking it hard 1"
 
 T 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 (i^r I ^HIS is the end of all thingsl" 
 moaned Perrine, as she placed the 
 thick bowls of coffee on the table 
 at which her fellow servants had already 
 drawn up their chairs for the afternoon colla- 
 tion. 
 
 She cut big wedges of bread and butter, as 
 she spoke. 
 
 "The end of all things! Try and eat a 
 morsel, my poor Celestinl" 
 
 Their fate had been known to them for some 
 days; in fact, they knew far more than their 
 master suspected. The reason was not far 
 to seek. Lamarzelliere's housekeeper was not 
 likely to listen at the keyhole during business 
 hours for nothing! 
 
 "Can't be helped ! It would be worse to be 
 dead!" observed Frederic philosophically, be- 
 tween mouthfuls. He was not under notice 
 to go. 
 
 "Death is the one thing we've all got to face, 
 all the same!" answered Celestin gloomily. 
 
 187
 
 188 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 He was to leave Petit-Fougeray on the next 
 day but one. Forty-three years of his life had 
 been spent under its roof. He had come there 
 as a little shepherd boy of twelve, and he was 
 now a grizzled, prematurely aged man of 
 fifty-five. At the thought his throat tight- 
 ened; he pulled at his collar, his arms felt 
 heavy as lead. Jealousy tormented him too, 
 for Frederic could not be spared, on account 
 of the mare, which was absolutely necessary 
 for the service of the house. 
 
 "Don't talk of death," put in Perrine. "It's 
 bad enough to have to see the innocent pun- 
 ished. I've felt it coming this long while. 
 When Monsieur Anthime began deceiving 
 his mother years ago, I used to notice how 
 Master, who is a saint if ever there was one, 
 shut his eyes to it. I could say nothing, for 
 an outsider, however devoted, may not meddle 
 in such private matters; but I grieved, for I 
 felt that some day Master would have to 
 suffer. They were so proud of that boy that 
 they simply could not bear to thwart him — 
 so they never trained him at all, and now he's 
 only just missed being put into prison. Ah, 
 he'll never be anything like his father!" 
 
 "His father!" repeated Celestin, frowning
 
 THE KEYNOTE 189 
 
 heavily. "No, indeed! His father is a good 
 man, and a good master." 
 
 "It's all very well for you two to abuse 
 Monsieur Anthime like that," said Frederic, 
 joining in the conversation; "but I know him 
 quite as well as you do — perhaps a bit better. 
 There's no harm in the boy. He loved pleas- 
 ure, and he's ruined himself for it — but he's 
 warm-hearted and generous. He's one of 
 those who never ask for change out of a sover- 
 eign." 
 
 Perrine stopped for a moment in her task of 
 spreading bread-and-butter for the hungry 
 household. 
 
 "I think he has no consideration for other 
 people. Why, one Sunday, when I was on 
 my way to Vespers, I met him riding his big 
 chestnut mare — you remember the one, Fred- 
 eric. All of a sudden it stumbled and came 
 down, and Monsieur Anthime rolled in the 
 mud. I screamed, and ran up, and there he 
 was, sitting on the ground taking off his spurs, 
 and he calmly handed them to me and asked 
 me to take them home for him. I had to go 
 to church carrying a pair of spurs as long as 
 my arm. I couldn't hide them anywhere. 
 Everybody was laughing at me — Monsieur le 
 Cure, and all. I didn't know where to look.
 
 190 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 I tell you he thinks of nobody but himself. 
 And think of the scandals he has been mixed 
 up in I All those fast women he has taken up 
 with! Don't tell me! My poor Master has 
 enough trouble. It makes my heart bleed to 
 see him walk about with his head hanging, so 
 sad and so stern. And that great brute 
 there," she added angrily pointing at Michka, 
 who lay at his ease on the hearth, "look at him ! 
 Did you ever see such a great long ugly 
 snout!" 
 
 "I've told you a hundred times already," 
 said Frederic, "that Michka is a Russian grey- 
 hound. If he hadn't that peculiar nose he 
 wouldn't be a Russian greyhound. I've seen 
 plenty of them, and I know. It's easy to tell, 
 Perrine, that you've never been to Russia or 
 Moscow." 
 
 "Oh, bother your old Moscow! I think it 
 was the devil shaped this dog's nose, not 
 Moscow, nor Russia either. Get out, you 
 brute! Out of my kitchen! Off with you!" 
 
 She flapped a dish cloth at him. Michka 
 opened his eyes and raised himself on his fore- 
 paws. 
 
 "Let the poor beast warm himself," advised 
 Frederic comfortably. "He's done no harm." 
 
 But Perrine advanced threateningly.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 191 
 
 Michka rose and trotted slowly out, his claws 
 clicking on the brick floor. 
 
 "Brute of a dog!" 
 
 At the same moment Estelle hurried in, rosy 
 and excited. 
 
 "Well, what did he say?" questioned Per- 
 rine. 
 
 "Oh, he has been so kind!" answered Estelle, 
 in a quivering voice. "He said he thoroughly 
 approved of my marrying Joseph, and that 
 Joseph was a good lad, and that I must be a 
 good mother to the children that would come 
 to us, and train them up in the right way." 
 
 "He may well advise that, poor man!" 
 
 "But that's not all; he added: 'You're a 
 good girl, Estelle. You looked after Ma- 
 dame well, and now that you are going to be 
 married, I should like you to have something 
 to remember her by.' And then he took me 
 to her room and gave me these two dresses: 
 'There, my child,' he said, 'you can make your- 
 self some finery out of these.' And, do look, 
 Perrine," continued Estelle, looking radiant, 
 "they are absolutely pure silk!" 
 
 Perrine felt the stuff knowingly. 
 
 "My goodness, so they are! Pure silk! 
 You are in luck, child. I should not have 
 dared accept them."
 
 192 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 While the dresses were being passed from 
 hand to hand, a gig rolled past the windows 
 and stopped at the kitchen door. 
 
 "Good-day to you all!" exclaimed a loud, 
 hearty voice. "By Jove, you are cosy in here! 
 It is pretty cold outside. Is your master at 
 home?" 
 
 "I will send and ask," replied Perrine, look- 
 ing inquiringly at the big fat man whom she 
 could not remember to have seen before. He 
 stood before her in iron-shod boots and a huge, 
 circular leather cloak, a broad smile lighting 
 up his good-natured countenance. "Whom 
 shall I say?" 
 
 "He is expecting me. I am the horse- 
 dealer, and have come to look at his nags." 
 
 "Very well. Estelle will run up and tell 
 the master. Won't you sit down meanwhile, 
 and have something to eat and drink?" 
 
 "Thank you. I'll take a glass of cider with 
 great pleasure." 
 
 Estelle found Monsieur des Lourdines in his 
 room, gloomily endeavouring to coax a smoky 
 fire into flame. 
 
 After the scene with his son on the hill-top, 
 he had cherished a faint hope of seeing him 
 change his manner and throw himself into the
 
 THE KEYNOTE 193 
 
 new life with some degree of pluck and en- 
 ergy. But such hope was already dying out. 
 Anthime maintained an attitude of sulky re- 
 serve and kept away, loafing about idly by 
 himself. 
 
 Now the old dread was agitating the un- 
 happy father: he feared that the hot-headed, 
 reckless Anthime would leave home again. 
 
 "Where on earth would he find means to 
 provide for his livelihood?" 
 
 Yet that consideration alone would not be 
 sufficient to keep him at Petit- Fougeray, if he 
 were minded to transfer his penury elsewhere. 
 What would become of the unhappy boy, 
 without money, among strangers! As for 
 himself, the idea of remaining utterly alone in 
 the desolate fastness of his once happy home, 
 filled him with horror. The solitude he had 
 loved would be changed into a desert peopled 
 with ghosts; the very thought made him 
 shudder. 
 
 Sitting before the remains of his wretched 
 fire, he thought out plan after plan to attract 
 Anthime and keep him by his side. 
 
 "Surely we can find something to amuse 
 him! He can always shoot. And we might 
 play cards in the evenings. He loves cards. 
 I will learn, and he can have his game every
 
 194 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 night." He himself would go for cross-coun- 
 try tramps as in the old days, and would re- 
 sume his violin-playing. How he had missed 
 his violin! He had not touched it since the 
 awful night that inaugurated the sorrows of 
 the past few weeks. Yet it was the only rem- 
 nant of his fortune he had been able to pre- 
 serve intact. It alone had not changed; it 
 was still his friend, confidant, and servant, 
 ready ever, to provide consolation. 
 
 The consciousness of this power within him 
 to forget and enjoy almost reconciled him to 
 the prospect of a modest existence, buried at 
 Petit- Fougeray, with a converted Anthime for 
 sole companion. Their life would be calm 
 and uneventful ; each going his own way with- 
 out interfering with the other, but always 
 ready with sympathy or assistance. "Yes. I 
 could bear it — a roof, and food, and pleasant 
 companionship — but could Anthime?" 
 
 "All right, Estelle! Say I will be down in 
 an instant." 
 
 The splendid animals seemed to scent admi- 
 ration when the men entered their loose-boxes ; 
 they arched their proud necks, pawed the 
 ground, and threw up their handsome heads
 
 THE KEYNOTE 195 
 
 to stare at the intruders with velvety eyes over- 
 shadowed by heavy forelocks. 
 
 The dealer looked them carefully over in 
 silence; he was versed in the art of banishing 
 all expression from his countenance. He ex- 
 amined their teeth, ran his fingers down their 
 legs, and asked to see their paces. Monsieur 
 des Lourdines gnawed his nails and looked 
 from the man to the horses, and back again. 
 He could not bear to sell, yet feared to fail in 
 disposing of them. 
 
 "They are fine animals," he hazarded. 
 "My wife was proud of them. They have 
 done a certain amount of work, but — " 
 
 The dealer beat his arms on his chest, and 
 looked critically at the clouds. 
 
 "We shall have some snow before long," he 
 remarked, with a shiver. 
 
 Frederic led out one of the horses and en- 
 deavoured to make him trot, but he hung 
 back. The dealer went behind, clapped his 
 hands, raked the gravel with his boot, and 
 made hissing noises. The horse tossed his 
 head and trotted off, but at the turn, when he 
 no longer felt himself pursued, he relapsed 
 into a walk. The dealer grunted. 
 
 "Once more!" he ordered.
 
 196 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 This time he ran alongside, kicking up the 
 gravel, beating a devil's tattoo in his hat with 
 the handle of his whip, leaping and shouting 
 like a playful buffalo gone mad. 
 
 The performance was repeated with the sec- 
 ond animal: clapping of hands, raking of 
 gravel, waving of hat — but, like his comrade, 
 the Pomeranian walked soberly on the home- 
 ward turn. 
 
 Frederic, old and stiff, panted with the un- 
 wonted exertion. 
 
 Anthime, attracted by the noise, lounged 
 round a corner and stood watching, leaning 
 against a hen-house with his hands in his 
 pockets. Monsieur des Lourdines caught his 
 breath when he saw how pale and heavy-eyed 
 he looked. The dealer did not recognise him. 
 
 "Hi, sir! Hullo! Will you make a noise 
 behind that beast and get him to trot?" 
 
 "Anthime!" called out Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines, as if seconding the dealer's request; but 
 in reality the cry was wrung from him by the 
 sight of his son's gloom. 
 
 Anthime however disappeared hurriedly. 
 He walked round the outhouses, entered the 
 store-room by the back door, and, stumbling 
 over stray potatoes and onions on the brick
 
 THE KEYNOTE 107 
 
 floor, took up his position at a dormer-window, 
 whence he could survey the scene unobserved. 
 He felt as if he were in a dream. The horse 
 was trotting, bending his swan-like neck to- 
 wards Frederic, who held the rein and la- 
 boured at his side; the bushy black mane and 
 tail flew out behind. At the sound of the 
 dealer's "Whoa! Whoa, then!" the fiery ani- 
 mal stopped suddenly, dug his hoofs into the 
 gravel, snorted, arched his neck, and gazed in 
 the direction of his comfortable stable. 
 
 Anthime watched. He would have given 
 anything to interfere and prevent the sale, but 
 with the sensation of dreaming still upon him, 
 could neither move nor cry out. Now the 
 horses are being ranged side by side, their 
 backs and legs felt, eyes tested; then, leaning 
 his elbows upon their quarters, the dealer 
 speaks. Anthime sees his father's lips move, 
 Frederic's red neck sink sulkily between his 
 shoulders. The dealer grasps Monsieur des 
 Lourdines' unwilling hand, plaits straws into 
 the horses' tails, ties them one behind the other 
 to his gig, gets in, changes the position of the 
 seat, laughs at some joke of his own making, 
 pulls his comforter over his mouth, waves his 
 hat, and drives off, followed by the two Pom- 
 eranians, with their handsome heads done up
 
 198 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 in the serge bridles used by the peasants 
 locally, to lead horses to market. 
 
 All this Anthime saw, and when it was over, 
 he ran from the store-room and fled blindly, 
 he knew not where. He scrambled through 
 thickets and evergreens, and followed the path 
 down to the wall whence he had talked to the 
 little girls, from his seat on Count Caradec's 
 back. 
 
 He rested his hands upon the wall, and his 
 head upon them. 
 
 He could still hear in imagination the odi- 
 ous voice and fat laugh of the dealer who was 
 even now carrying off the last tangible evi- 
 dence of the state the des Lourdines family 
 had hitherto maintained in the countryside. 
 
 So far Anthime had been spared the actual 
 sight of the sacrifices entailed by his miscon- 
 duct; but now the awful reality was driven 
 home to his brain by the evidence of his own 
 senses. Haggard and wan of face he clung 
 convulsively to the dusty ivy on the coping of 
 the wall. Oh, were flight and oblivion only 
 possible! 
 
 From childhood he had been accustomed 
 to give full rein to every emotion, whether 
 pleasurable or otherwise. He had ignored 
 the meaning of self-control; had never tested
 
 THE KEYNOTE 199 
 
 his powers of resistance; thus he collapsed ut- 
 terly under the first onslaught of ill-fortune. 
 Of the brilliant man of fashion, there re- 
 mained but a poor unstrung image of woe. 
 His friends would hardly have known him; 
 his eyes were dull, his cheeks flabby, his lips 
 hung loose. He stood motionless among the 
 falling leaves, his feet in the damp grass. 
 The wind howled and the trees waved their 
 sodden boughs. Around him reigned death 
 and decay; in his heart, despair. 
 
 "My God!" he cried, raising his arms and 
 clenching his fists. "If I could only undo it 
 all!" 
 
 Alas, that futile cry of humanity: give me 
 my time again! 
 
 The sound of his own voice startled him, 
 and he moved away, following the line of the 
 wall. A dry crackling sound reached his ears 
 from the other side. He leant over. 
 
 He saw an aged crone bent double among 
 the cabbages, picking up sticks. Her wide 
 hips in their voluminous skirts were turned 
 towards him. As he looked, she raised her- 
 self as if to ease her aching back, and gave a 
 slight hopeless shrug of the shoulders — evi- 
 dently times were not good, from her point of 
 view, either.
 
 200 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 To Anthime came a queer fancy: he and 
 she had been brought to the same level by 
 the relentless force of fate; he, like her, was 
 a puppet, shoved hither and thither, with- 
 out power of resistance. Instinctively he 
 shrugged his shoulders, imitating her gesture 
 of dumb resignation.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ONE morning a couple of days later he 
 was lying on his bed ; it had become his 
 habitual place of refuge, and he only 
 left it for meals. The grounds inspired him 
 with insupportable repugnance; he felt he 
 could never walk in them again. 
 
 He lay with his head buried in the pillows 
 brooding as usual on the cruelty of fate, curs- 
 ing the wretchedness of his lot, anticipating 
 with craven fear the dreariness of the future 
 spread before him. The slightest noise of 
 disturbance in the house rasped his fretted 
 nerves. 
 
 Michka no longer lived in his room. The 
 sight of the greyhound exasperated him. 
 When he laid his paws on the bed, seeking a 
 caress, he brought back all too vividly the 
 careless luxurious days of the past, and his 
 master would push him away with an oath. 
 
 On the morning in question, he lay idly 
 looking at the roses on the wallpaper, trying 
 to trace among the bunches the figures of a 
 
 201
 
 202 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 man and a bull he used to imagine, weirdly 
 outlined, during the delirium of an attack of 
 measles, in early childhood. He used to 
 amuse himself by the hour, with the fictitious 
 adventures of the two. 
 
 He watched them now till he was tired and 
 then turned on his side with a yawn and a 
 stretch. At the same moment his attention was 
 arrested by a violent noise, apparently caused 
 by kicks from a sabot, on the outer gate of the 
 courtyard. As the gate was not opened in- 
 stantly, the kicking recommenced, and a tattoo 
 was kept up until with squeaks and groans the 
 great oaken portal turned on its hinges. 
 
 Anthime could survey the scene from his 
 bed. He looked on idly, and saw Frederic 
 arguing with a stout peasant-woman, whom he 
 presently admitted ; she led in an old-fashioned 
 hooded cart, drawn by a dapple-grey horse, 
 whose tattered blinkers flapped backwards and 
 forwards in the breeze like unfastened shut- 
 ters. 
 
 Anthime had already forgotten the episode 
 when he heard Frederic knock at his father's 
 door and inform him that Celestin's sister had 
 arrived. 
 
 He understood at once the signification of 
 her appearance, and a pang of regret shot
 
 THE KEYNOTE 203 
 
 through him. Celestin and Estelle were leav- 
 ing, and the woman had doubtless come to 
 fetch them away. He wondered how he 
 should bear to take leave of them, knowing 
 full well that he alone was responsible for the 
 parting. 
 
 How should he look? What should he say? 
 Could he let them go without expressing his 
 regret? He was fully conscious, though no 
 word had been uttered in his hearing, that the 
 servants were aware of his misdeeds, and were 
 not sparing of their comments thereon. 
 
 He flushed angrily at this reflection. 
 Shame bit into his being, but it was the wrong 
 sort of shame — it was less remorse at having 
 squandered a fortune, than humiliation at be- 
 ing reduced to poverty. He weighed the 
 chances of avoiding the farewell scene alto- 
 gether. He did not know what time had been 
 fixed for the departure. If it was at once, he 
 had but to remain in the seclusion of his cham- 
 ber; but as his father did not stir, there was 
 probably no hurry. It would certainly be 
 against all the traditions of the chateau that a 
 visitor should depart without the hospitality 
 of a meal, and a feed and rest for the horse. 
 
 There was probably no escape for him. He 
 would have to face it.
 
 204 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 He rose with the heavy sigh of a man whose 
 burthen is greater than he can bear, and leant 
 out of the window. Yes, the horse was no- 
 where in sight, and the cart stood against the 
 wall with the shafts upraised. 
 
 The courtyard was deserted. A few flakes 
 of snow floated softly down. The cold was 
 piercing. Anthime shivered, closed the win- 
 dow, and got back into bed. 
 
 He and his father met at luncheon. Mon- 
 sieur des Lourdines was as dejected as his son. 
 His eyelids were reddened and swollen. A 
 comradeship of forty years was about to be 
 severed. For three-fourths of a lifetime, mas- 
 ter and man had laboured together for the im- 
 provement of the property; the master had 
 planned, discussed, and superintended, the 
 man had executed. It was Celestin who had 
 laid out the paths to the river, dug the trenches 
 for the draining of the meadows, erected the 
 hen-houses, and sheep-folds. His handiwork 
 could be traced all over the dwelling-house as 
 well; rafters repaired, locks mended, mouse- 
 holes stopped, doors rehung. Celestin could 
 do everything in the carpentering line, al- 
 though he had never been taught — he was, be- 
 sides, resourceful, good-tempered, kindly, and
 
 THE KEYNOTE 205 
 
 hard-working. His loss could never be re- 
 placed; a portion of Monsieur des Lourdines' 
 soul seemed to wither, with the exit of this 
 trusted friend and companion from the daily 
 life of Petit-Fougeray! He did not utter a 
 single word during the meal, but as he rose 
 from the table, he said: 
 
 "Estelle and Celestin are going away. You 
 must. ... I should like you to bid them 
 farewell, Anthime." 
 
 They left the dining-room, Anthime walk- 
 ing behind his father. He followed him to- 
 wards the kitchen, but stopped abruptly when 
 he saw him open the door. 
 
 A buzz of excited chatter, led by the shrill 
 voice of Perrine, ceased simultaneously; a hot 
 smell of food and humanity escaped into the 
 passage ; he heard the servants push back their 
 seats and rise. 
 
 His father entered, leaving the door ajar. 
 He was on the point of following, and would 
 doubtless have done so, had not the profound 
 silence been hesitatingly broken by a voice, the 
 voice of his father: "My very good friends," 
 it faltered. Horror of horrors! Perhaps he 
 also would have to address the household. 
 
 Furtively he turned away on tiptoe and 
 escaped into the courtyard. He mooned about
 
 206 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 with his hands in his pockets, but kept out of 
 sight of the kitchen windows. Even outside 
 he could smell the hot food. 
 
 Perrine had provided a feast for the last 
 meal Estelle and Celestin were to partake of 
 in the chateau. She had also completed the 
 party by inviting some little children who 
 occasionally gave their services in the fields, 
 herding the cows or pigs. She wished them 
 to see the last of the departing servants. 
 
 Anthime dawdled in the courtyard shiver- 
 ing. He longed to go away and hide, in spite 
 of the contempt such conduct would arouse. 
 But he lingered, thinking every moment would 
 be the last; he cast searching glances at the 
 windows, listened to the murmur of conver- 
 sation. His father was in the midst of it, a 
 friend among friends, whilst he waited outside 
 alone! By his own actions he had cut himself 
 off and would remain for ever, outcast and 
 lonely. Shame and solitude must henceforth 
 be his lot! 
 
 Snow began to fall faster. He felt the chill 
 of it on hands and face. 
 
 He saw Celestin go into the garden, and 
 turn towards the orchard: the old man moved 
 automatically, and stumbled as if his sight 
 failed him.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 207 
 
 Then Frederic crossed the courtyard on his 
 way to the stables. 
 
 The sound of voices increased in volume. 
 A skirt fluttered upon the threshold but with- 
 drew again, as though the person on the point 
 of coming out had thought better of it. 
 
 Now, a new impulse he did not seek to re- 
 sist, drove Anthime forward. His hair and 
 eyelashes were white with snowflakes. He 
 could hear Frederic soliloquizing while he 
 slipped the harness on to the old woman's 
 horse, and the dull thud of the latter's hoofs 
 moving about in the stall during the opera- 
 tion. 
 
 He looked in at the kitchen door and saw 
 people, piles of plates, the brass pendulum of 
 the grandfather's clock swinging relentlessly 
 to and fro; he heard some one say: 
 
 "It's coming on fast. You ought to be 
 moving." 
 
 "Must expect snow at this time of year. 
 Where are your traps, Estelle?" 
 
 The children, two boys and a girl, came out 
 and seeing him, made their quaint little bows, 
 smiling shyly into his face. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines made him a sign to 
 enter. Frederic, leading the horse to the cart, 
 cut off his retreat from behind. He was
 
 208 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 caught at last. A hush fell upon the little 
 company; all the tearful eyes and swollen 
 faces turned to him. He was greeted in re- 
 spectfully friendly fashion. He could detect 
 no shade of coldness, a fact which somewhat 
 restored his equanimity. Celestin's sister 
 alone managed to introduce into the manner 
 of her curtsey something of the contempt the 
 ordinary peasant feels towards a superior be- 
 reft of his supremacy of wealth and position. 
 A tingling flush rose to Anthime's cheeks. 
 
 " Won't you sit down, my son? " asked his 
 father. 
 
 "As the poor fellow has no wife," the woman 
 said, continuing the speech Anthime's entrance 
 had interrupted, "he will of course be welcome 
 to a place at our chimney corner and a crust 
 of bread. That is always something." 
 
 "Ready!" announced Frederic, scraping his 
 sabots at the door. "I have put the horse in 
 the cart." 
 
 "Have you?" answered the woman. "Then, 
 I suppose if everything . . ." 
 
 Estelle threw herself on to the settle and 
 burst into loud weeping. 
 
 "Couldn't you let her recover herself a lit- 
 tle, first?" suggested Monsieur des Lourdines, 
 looking uncomfortably from one to the other.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 209 
 
 "I would willingly, but the day is closing in, 
 and my old gee is not a flyer. One has to keep 
 whipping him all the time," and the woman 
 pinned her shawl resolutely across her ample 
 bosom. Estelle, her face buried in her hand- 
 kerchief, sobbed on unrestrainedly, with heav- 
 ing shoulders. 
 
 Anthime stood miserably by, staring at the 
 fire. Perrine signed to Monsieur des Lour- 
 dines that the scene had better not be pro- 
 longed and leant over the girl, speaking gently 
 and patting her arm. 
 
 "Come, come, my child — dry those eyes and 
 be brave! You'll often be here after your 
 marriage, won't you; and in the meantime, 
 your village is not far away. There will be 
 lots of opportunities for you to come over — 
 and," she whispered confidentially, "I am not 
 so young as I once was ; perhaps, who knows 
 — you are quite a good little cook! Come 
 then, put away your handkerchief and see after 
 your things. Is this your trunk? and what is 
 that? Your bandbox of course. Make haste, 
 child!" 
 
 Estelle rose. She was ashamed of Her 
 scarlet cheeks and tear-stained eyelids, and 
 sidled timidly away in the wake of Perrine. 
 The latter picked up the two packages and
 
 210 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 flip-flapped out of the kitchen in her list slip- 
 pers. 
 
 "She's just a baby, poor little thing," sighed 
 the peasant-woman; "her tears come as easily 
 as her smiles. But where can Celestin be? 
 Celestin!" she called in the raucous tones of 
 the field worker, accustomed to herding ani- 
 mals. 
 
 One of the small boys murmured some- 
 thing, shyly sucking at a twist of his pinafore. 
 
 "D'you know where he is?" 
 
 The little chap nodded. 
 
 "Then run and fetch him, there's a good 
 lad!" 
 
 The three children darted off simultane- 
 ously like arrows from a bow. 
 
 Snow was still falling in large scattered 
 flakes, which melted as soon as they touched 
 earth. 
 
 The children soon found Celestin, and came 
 back with him. 
 
 He walked with bent head like a man in a 
 dream. He was dressed in his best: an em- 
 broidered vest of black cloth, and a flapping 
 felt hat. 
 
 "Where on earth have you been hiding, my 
 man?" asked his sister. 
 
 He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly
 
 THE KEYNOTE 211 
 
 with his gnarled brown paw, shrugged one 
 shoulder in the direction of the kitchen gar- 
 den, and mumbled: "Over there!" staring 
 vacantly into space. 
 
 The woman climbed into the cart, pushed 
 the luggage further back, arranged the seats, 
 fussed hither and thither with little grunts and 
 exclamations. 
 
 "There we are!" she finally announced. 
 
 Everybody looked, but no one moved. 
 
 "Now!" said Monsieur des Lourdines at 
 last, with a visible effort. 
 
 "Now!" repeated Celestin, after a momen- 
 tary hesitation. He had taken off his big 
 felt hat and was crumpling up the brim. 
 
 "Master! Master!" he faltered. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines held out both his 
 hands, grasping those of the faithful servant 
 closely. "My poor old man ! my dear friend !" 
 
 Celestin broke down. He wept openly with 
 the absence of reserve of the lower classes; 
 every muscle of his face was knotted and dis- 
 torted, the tears chased each other down his 
 cheeks. He attempted to speak, but failed 
 utterly. He shook hands all round, seeing 
 nobody. Anthime murmured something. 
 Monsieur des Lourdines pushed him into the 
 cart.
 
 212 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 At last the two heart-broken retainers dis- 
 appeared under the tilt. The woman took up 
 the rope reins, the horse shook his head and 
 started stiffly; the springs creaked, one wheel 
 bumped roughly against the mounting-block, 
 the vehicle pitched heavily, settled down, and 
 rolled off. 
 
 When Anthime turned, he found himself 
 practically alone. His father was nowhere to 
 be seen; Perrine was just disappearing into 
 the kitchen; only the three children remained, 
 propped against the wall, silently staring at 
 him. 
 
 He moved towards the stables and finding 
 the door open, lurched through and threw 
 himself face downwards on a truss of hay. 
 
 "This is my doing! My doing! No! 
 No! it is not! I never dreamt of all this! It 
 is that devil Miiller! Damn him! Oh 
 Stemof, old boy; if I could only be with you 
 
 for five minutes!" 
 
 ***** 
 
 "Monsieur Anthime! Monsieur An- 
 thime!" ventured Frederic, in coaxing tones. 
 "Don't! Don't lie there! You'll make your- 
 self ill!" 
 
 "It's Miiller's fault!"
 
 THE KEYNOTE 213 
 
 "Monsieur Anthime!" 
 
 "Oh Frederic, I am so wretched!" 
 
 "I know Monsieur Anthime. It's a black 
 time for us all. But get up! Get up!" The 
 old coachman was deeply moved, and knew 
 not how to show his sympathy. 
 
 "Leave me alone. This is the best place 
 for me. You go, and leave me!" 
 
 Still the servant did not move. 
 
 "Go, I tell you! Leave me to myself." 
 
 Frederic hesitated, shook his head, turned 
 away, and went out shutting the stable door 
 behind him. 
 
 His sabots stumped about outside, a bucket 
 was cluttered on to the cobble stones, and 
 finally silence fell. Anthime remained alone.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ANTHIME passed through some ter- 
 rible hours. Celestin! Estellel His 
 own losses, the frightful change in 
 the whole aspect of life, regret for the vanished 
 past, dread of the future, all mingled in one 
 pain so unbearable as to be almost physical 
 as well as mental. 
 
 He wrung his hands, called upon his friend 
 and boon-companion, Prince Stemof, groaned, 
 and prayed for death. How could he ever 
 endure the only existence open to him? His 
 mind wandered back to the delights of the 
 past, dwelt again on the hateful interviews 
 with Muller the Jew, travelled to his enchant- 
 ress, Nelly de Givernay. Presently an aw- 
 ful thought occurred to him: why, when it 
 became necessary to carry the body of his 
 mother downstairs, had his father waved 
 Frederic aside and insisted upon his taking the 
 gruesome task upon himself? Why, unless 
 she had learnt his crime and died under the 
 shock? 
 
 214
 
 THE KEYNOTE 215 
 
 Was it a righteous punishment inflicted 
 upon him by his remaining parent? A fresh 
 spasm of misery shook him, and with a groan, 
 he buried his head yet deeper in the straw. 
 
 It was quite dark when the sound of the 
 dinner-bell recalled him to the exigencies of 
 daily life. Habit, not appetite, brought him 
 to his feet. He tottered across to the house. 
 A heavy snowfall had set in, spreading a white 
 pall over the earth, and entirely obscuring the 
 house. A feeble glimmer behind a glass 
 pane alone indicated the door. 
 
 He entered the dining-room. His father 
 was already seated at the table. A shaded 
 lamp concentrated its light on the white cloth, 
 while it left the rest of the room in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Anthime sat down and drearily counted the 
 drops of oil as they fell one by one into the 
 glass reservoir of the old-fashioned lamp. 
 
 Neither of the men spoke. The shuffling 
 of Frederic's flat feet, and the rattle of china 
 and silver on the sideboard alone broke the 
 silence. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines observed his son 
 covertly. He had never before seen him in 
 like condition: hair unbrushed, hands un-
 
 216 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 washed, dress disarranged, haggard and wan 
 of face! 
 
 "This cannot go on," he reflected anxiously. 
 "Something must happen! He will go and 
 leave me alone again." 
 
 When Frederic had finished waiting on 
 them and had withdrawn to the pantry, An- 
 thime cleared his throat: 
 
 "Father, I want to know. Did my mother 
 hear of my debts before she died? Did she 
 know the full extent of our losses?" 
 
 His breath came fast and his heart beat, 
 so that his words were uttered with difficulty. 
 His bloodshot eyes fixed themselves com- 
 pellingly on his father's face. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines flushed, looked 
 down, and fingered his plate unconsciously. 
 
 "No!" he blurted out. 
 
 But Anthime had noticed the momentary 
 pause. He did not speak again. He sat back 
 in his chair and took a long, deliberate look 
 at his father; noted the high forehead, dis- 
 proportionately lofty above the emaciated fea- 
 tures, the blue eyes still so childlike in their 
 expression of simplicity and benevolence, the 
 heavy pockets beneath them, the pale lips, and 
 thin, wrinkled neck. Then, rising from his
 
 THE KEYNOTE 217 
 
 seat, he did a thing he had not done since early 
 childhood. 
 
 He went slowly round to his father's place, 
 bent over him and kissed him. 
 
 A ray of joy and surprise lighted up the 
 old man's face. 
 
 He looked up kindly and said gently: 
 "Going to bed, my boy? That's right, sleep 
 well. Good-night, son 1"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 ANTHIME rushed to his room, seized 
 the lamp from the table, and holding 
 it high above him gazed with a scared 
 expression into the further corners of the large 
 apartment as if he saw ghosts lurking. He 
 listened a moment at the open door, and finally 
 put down the light and proceeded to walk up 
 and down in a state of extreme agitation. 
 Presently he sat upon the bed and gave him- 
 self up to reflection. 
 
 Should he return to Paris immediately and 
 endeavour to earn his living? He might do 
 well as a jockey. He had entertained the 
 idea, vaguely at the back of his mind, all these 
 days, but he was too depressed to face its 
 difficulties. Now the thought of suicide was 
 obsessing him. 
 
 It had burst upon him suddenly in the 
 stables, when he realized that he had killed his 
 mother. He began to consider it as a means 
 of escape. With it came a curious lull in his 
 suffering: the loss of his fortune, shame, re- 
 
 218
 
 THE KEYNOTE 219 
 
 morse, the horrors of the future, ceased to 
 trouble him. He drifted towards death and 
 annihilation, not timorously, but with the me- 
 chanical indifference of an atom driven by 
 overwhelming forces. In his present mood 
 Death held no physical terror; nay, it offered 
 release: for, he thought, to die by one's own 
 hand is not a submission to a relentless force; 
 it is rather the active snatching at an outlet 
 which seeks to evade one. 
 
 To this phase succeeded another, one more 
 natural. 
 
 The actual commission of the deed ap- 
 peared full of horror. Anthime's teeth 
 chattered, and a cold sweat bathed his face. 
 He clutched the bedclothes in a terrified grasp. 
 His wavering sight fixed itself on a boar's 
 head hanging on the wall. How well he re- 
 membered the day it had fallen to his gun, 
 and the jovial party which had celebrated his 
 success in champagne! 
 
 He heard his father go to his room. 
 
 He resolved to give him time to go to sleep. 
 Better still; he would not fulfil his purpose 
 here, so close to the living; he would go down 
 to the deserted wing, where nobody would 
 hear or know anything for hours. 
 
 The house was quite silent. He opened a
 
 220 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 cupboard, ransacked a drawer and took out a 
 case containing two pistols. They were large 
 horse-pistols, very fine antique specimens, 
 presented to his grandfather many years be- 
 fore by an old Royalist general. They were 
 loaded, as they had been ever since the time 
 the gift was made. An inscription was en- 
 graved upon them. It ran thus: "From a 
 White to a White." 
 
 He took out the old charge and reloaded 
 them with shaking hands, pausing often to lis- 
 ten, fearful of interruption. His door must 
 have been only half shut, for it suddenly burst 
 open under the pressure of a heavy body. 
 Anthime sprang to his feet and hid the pistols 
 behind him. It was only Michka! The dog 
 flew to his master, fawned upon him, and 
 rubbed his head against him with little plain- 
 tive whines and yelps of joy. 
 
 Anthime made no response. He still 
 grasped the pistols, and stared at the dog as 
 if he had never seen him before. Presently, 
 when Michka whined louder in his endeavour 
 to attract his master's attention, he pushed 
 him abruptly aside, and tried to say : "Down, 
 Michka! Quiet, old dog!" But his voice 
 stuck in his throat, and made no impression on 
 the animal. He seized him by the collar,
 
 THE KEYNOTE 221 
 
 and indifferent to his boisterous caresses 
 dragged him down to the hall, opened the front 
 door, and endeavoured to thrust him out. 
 "Be off! Be off!" 
 
 A flurry of snow and wind forced its way 
 into the house. The dog refused to go. He 
 lay down, and drooped his tail. Anthime 
 pushed vigorously, and finally despatched 
 him with a hearty kick and closed the door. 
 Michka barked violently for a moment or 
 two, and then trotted slowly away. 
 
 Anthime stood alone in the hall, in the dark- 
 ness. His father and the servants were prob- 
 ably asleep, participating in the nocturnal 
 silence of ninety miles of deserted country: he 
 could hear only the agitated beating of his 
 own heart. Superstitious fears assailed him. 
 He tried to get back to his room, moving 
 slowly, inhaling with every breath the musty 
 odour characteristic of Petit-Fougeray. A 
 distant sound from the long corridor leading 
 into the empty wing brought his heart into his 
 mouth: something was stirring! A reed- 
 pipe? A flute? No shepherds would be 
 moving their flocks at night, nor in a snow- 
 storm, neither would they be in the house. 
 He recalled some of the weird fantastic tales he
 
 222 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 used to hear from the peasants in the long 
 winter evenings of his childhood. He 
 shivered, and moved on a few steps. Now 
 the sound was nearer, broader, more powerful. 
 It was certainly neither a reed-pipe nor a flute. 
 It was a violin! He was sure of that. He 
 could tell by the peculiar sonorousness and 
 vibration of some of the notes. Terror gained 
 upon him. The experience was so unreal, so 
 ghostly. Who could be playing the violin? 
 Perhaps it was a phantom of his own brain. 
 Of course! It was a hallucination, created 
 by his mind, filling all his senses to the exclu- 
 sion of reality. He reeled, closed his eyes and 
 fell giddily against the wall. 
 
 With one shoulder propped, his whole 
 sentient force concentrated itself on the pistols. 
 He gripped them so tightly that he could 
 hardly feel them; the sweat poured from his 
 brow. He waited for the sound to cease, but 
 it increased in volume. It seemed to be pass- 
 ing away, yet to gain in intensity. As no 
 harm came to him his presence of mind 
 gradually returned. He grew calmer, raised 
 his head, and resolved to follow and identify 
 it. He felt his way to the entrance of the 
 corridor and slowly traversed its length. A 
 nervous shudder thrilled him as he realized
 
 THE KEYNOTE 223 
 
 that the tune came from the ruined chapel! 
 A faint light was discernible through a crack 
 of the door. With shaking hands he pushed 
 it open. A flood of music overwhelmed him ; 
 he started back in amazement. 
 
 His father was playing the violin! 
 
 He turned to go, but the wailing of the 
 strings drew him against his will. He ad- 
 vanced again, cautiously looked in, and stood 
 riveted, astounded at the sight that met his 
 eyes. 
 
 Monsieur des Lourdines' countenance wore 
 a look of inspiration. The embrace his son 
 had bestowed upon him earlier in the even- 
 ing, had relit the torch of hope in his loving 
 heart. There was no one with whom he 
 could share his joyous emotion. Some out- 
 let became an imperative necessity. He flew 
 to his room, fetched his neglected violin and 
 repaired to the chapel. Here at last he found 
 relief. As in former days, he poured out his 
 dumb soul in music. His fingers raced, the 
 bow flew — new harmonies weaved themselves 
 unconsciously, and as he played, his brow 
 cleared, and his eyes shone with ecstasy. 
 "Anthime! Anthime!" was his theme. The 
 violin shrieked, prayed, rejoiced, triumphed.
 
 224 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 He stood in the tribune; a candle placed on 
 a projecting beam, his only light. 
 
 Anthime gazed with astonishment; he 
 hardly recognised his plain little father, in 
 this radiant master with the glowing eyes and 
 flying fingers. He remembered to have heard 
 vaguely in his childhood that Monsieur des 
 Lourdines was something of a musician, but 
 an experience such as this was utterly un- 
 dreamt of. The music touched him strangely. 
 The high, piercing notes excited him, the low 
 wailing stirred and softened his heart. A 
 voluptuous languor took possession of him; 
 sitting on a step, his head buried in his hands, 
 his spirit soared above him in heavenly dreams. 
 Anthime remained as long as his father played. 
 The cessation of sound brought him abruptly 
 down to earth. He opened his eyes, and be- 
 came conscious of the intense cold of the at- 
 mosphere. A blast of wind came in through 
 the broken window, and caused the candle to 
 gutter and throw fantastic shadows on the 
 plaster of the roof. His father was still 
 standing, rapt in thought, holding the violin 
 under his arm. Anthime lingered, hoping 
 he would play again; but when he saw him 
 bend down to pick up the candle, he rose noise- 
 lessly and fled.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE snowstorm continued unabated all 
 that night and the next day. At 
 nightfall the stars shone out brightly 
 from the face of a sky black as ink in con- 
 trast to the white mantle overspreading the 
 earth. The snow was banked as high as the 
 window-sills of the ground-floor, with never a 
 scratch on its dazzling surface. Here and 
 there a few belated flakes still fell. Petit- 
 Fougeray lay peacefully buried under its pall. 
 
 The household was asleep. No smoke rose 
 from the chimneys. The lamps had long 
 been extinguished. 
 
 The moon rose beyond the woods ; it peeped 
 through the gaping window of the chapel 
 where Monsieur des Lourdines was again 
 playing; it planed resplendent above the 
 tribune. 
 
 Anthime wondered anxiously whether its 
 
 illumination would betray the secret of his 
 
 presence; but he had established himself in 
 
 a dark recess at the foot of the staircase lead- 
 
 225
 
 226 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 ing to the tribune, and was quite safe. He 
 had come early, to wait on the chance of 
 hearing his father play once more. He had 
 made up his mind to shoot himself afterwards. 
 The pistols lay on the floor at his side. 
 
 The day had dragged wearily. The emo- 
 tions of the previous night had reawakened 
 the memories of past pleasures, and in par- 
 ticular of Nelly de Givernay, whom he had 
 no prospect of seeing again in life. His long- 
 ing for her was agonising, yet it had changed 
 its character under the influence of his fa- 
 ther's music: it was more spiritual, gentler; 
 he was faintly conscious of the improvement. 
 His better nature craved a renewal of yester- 
 day's elevation into higher realms, before the 
 final fall of the curtain. 
 
 He was quite close to his father, and could 
 watch the expression of his face by the light 
 of the moon. He trembled with emotion, for 
 the cry of the violin had become extraordi- 
 narily poignant. The bow was as if pos- 
 sessed; it flew, bit into the strings, or lingered 
 softly over them, guided by a master-hand. 
 Its sonorousness was somewhat deadened by, 
 the low roof and confined space; yet the tone 
 was magnificent, sometimes clear as crystal, 
 then again round and full as a contralto voice.
 
 THE KEYNOTE 227 
 
 Anthime's heart grew lighter. His im- 
 pressions of the night before were not re- 
 peated. What he felt now was less violent, 
 less torturing; he forgot Nelly; a soft glow 
 pervaded his being, though the consciousness 
 of pain remained alive within him : "As soon 
 as he stops," he muttered to himself, "I shall 
 relapse into infernal torture. I shall know 
 again that life is insupportable!" He clung 
 to his emotions, putting off the evil moment. 
 Recollections of early childhood floated 
 through his brain. He remembered the 
 words of the old lullaby his nurse used to 
 croon over him at bedtime. How did it go? 
 It was all so long ago. Yes, something like 
 this: 
 
 Je me suis endormi 
 
 lerl 
 r A I'ombre sous un thym, 
 'Mais a mon eveillee 
 
 leree 
 Le thym etait fteuri. 
 
 It was at Charviniere. His old nurse I He 
 had not thought of her for twenty years, and 
 now when the end of all things was at hand, 
 scenes from his childhood sprang to his mind 
 as fresh as if he had seen them yesterday: the 
 valley and the old homestead, the hay-stacks
 
 228 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 gilded by the sunshine, the wide fields of colza 
 shining yellow as far as eye could reach! 
 Again the violin sang: 
 
 Je ineu fus en flutant 
 
 leran 
 Le long du grand chemin. 
 
 He was stirred through all his being by these 
 recollections. 
 
 The tune suggested others, and his mind 
 harked back to the old chanties and ditties that 
 had soothed and delighted the days of his inno- 
 cence; chanties never heard since, buried 
 hitherto in oblivion. 
 
 The old man played on, air succeeding air. 
 He appeared utterly unconscious of his sur- 
 roundings, rapt into another sphere. An- 
 thime watched him with amazement: could 
 this indeed be the shrinking, reserved little 
 man he had so carelessly taken for granted and 
 disregarded! The face he now saw as if for 
 the first time was radiant, glowing with pas- 
 sion; the movements of the body seemed con- 
 centrated into the swing of the bow; the cheek 
 caressed the ruddy frame of the instrument; 
 every now and then the dewy eyes raised their 
 ecstatic glance heavenward. Anthime saw
 
 THE KEYNOTE 229 
 
 that his spirit had soared far beyond the trou- 
 bles of this world. There was something al- 
 most saint-like in the transfigured brow. 
 
 Like a flash, the true explanation Anthime 
 had been groping for, came to him! His fa- 
 ther's inspiration came from within — from 
 his own beautiful, simple nature, and child- 
 like mind! It was the intrinsic goodness of 
 the man, that spoke through the violin. 
 The instrument was the articulate medium of 
 this dumb soul; by means of its thrilling song, 
 he expressed the emotions of his faithful 
 heart. 
 
 This discovery was a great shock to An- 
 thime. It removed his father to a sphere 
 away and above him and, completely revolu- 
 tionised his attitude towards him. 
 
 In the meanwhile the music turned to wail- 
 ing: Anthime understood that his father 
 was going through the mental torture he him- 
 self had lately experienced, and with a groan 
 he buried his head in his hands. 
 
 The direct rays of the moon had passed be- 
 yond the broken window. Deep gloom now 
 reigned in the chapel. The candle had 
 burned low, and gave forth smoke and a 
 greasy odour.
 
 230 THE KEYNOTE 
 
 Anthime still listened vaguely, but the eyes 
 of his mind were turned inwards, and in these 
 bitter moments he was learning the lesson of 
 life. For the first time, he saw things in 
 their true proportion. He saw what his fa- 
 ther's life had been; how high his standard, 
 how faithful his performance; then he looked 
 into his own soul, and recognized its mean- 
 ness. He remembered with a pang of agony 
 how he, he, had dared to mock and criticise 
 one, the latchet of whose shoe he was not 
 worthy to loose. He longed helplessly to re- 
 pair the evil he had done, to console where 
 he had tormented. He realized the sordid- 
 ness, sterility, triviality, of his life in Paris. 
 He suddenly understood why his father had 
 led him up to the foot of the Cross, and shown 
 him Nature in all its breadth and glory. He 
 remembered how his unhappy parent's voice 
 had quivered when he said: "I cannot ex- 
 plain myself, but surely, surely, my boy, you 
 understand!" 
 
 The song of the violin had indeed wrought 
 the great awakening. 
 
 A fresh sound broke upon his reflections 
 and caused him to look up in astonishment: 
 his father was singing. 
 
 The quavering accents placed the climax
 
 THE KEYNOTE 231 
 
 upon Anthime's emotion. They carried him 
 back to the Croix-Verte and the sight of his 
 father calling his attention to the land of his 
 fathers. He understood now that pathetic 
 plea : "You do not know what it is, to grow 
 old! You do not understand the meaning of 
 love!" He longed to hold out his arms in 
 answer and cry: "Yes! Yes! Father, for- 
 give me, for I know now ... I know!" 
 
 The candle guttered out. The violin ceased 
 from wailing. The old man's voice was 
 hushed.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE sun was sinking in the west 
 amidst a splendour of rose and gold. 
 Autumn, dank and hazy, held the 
 country in its grip. The land was all under 
 plough. Clouds hung lowering above the 
 hill-tops. 
 
 Suire, the miller, seated sideways between 
 two sacks of flour on the ample back of his 
 white horse, was travelling along one of the 
 grass-rides of the forest. 
 
 He was making his leisurely way towards 
 Charviniere. 
 
 He was in no hurry; he sat, idly swaying 
 to the ambling pace of the old nag, his lips 
 pursed in a soundless whistle. 
 
 The ride led through a dark glade under 
 the yellow leaves of ancient chestnut trees. 
 
 Presently he reached the edge of the forest. 
 Before his eyes, the open country spread. He 
 could see the red tiled roof of Charviniere, 
 and further away, the sails of the mills of 
 
 232
 
 THE KEYNOTE 233 
 
 Saint-Michel, Fouchaut, and Aiglonnieres, 
 turning almost in unison, showing white 
 against the blue of the horizon. Suire gave 
 them a quick glance, and then, skirting the 
 forest, kept a bright look out for wild-game. 
 Rooks rose in confusion, cawing their indigna- 
 tion at his intrusion. 
 
 Two dogs, a big mongrel and a grey- 
 hound, rushed out from under the trees, 
 tumbling over each other, romping roughly. 
 
 A few yards further, he raised his cap in 
 greeting to two men, but they did not notice 
 him. They walked slowly, side by side. 
 Had he not known them both intimately, he 
 could hardly have told which was the elder of 
 the two. 
 
 The old white horse moved on, carrying 
 Suire to Charviniere, while the father and 
 son pursued their ramble, becoming mere 
 specks in the distance, until a turn in the road 
 concealed them from view. 
 
 THE END 
 
 r-i 7-r-rv-.
 
 . 

 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 898 023 7 
 
 N9 ^596 
 
 AGO