WHAT PIERRE KNEW.

The Place Notre Dame at Fribourg was crowded with citizens and soldiers. The citizens wore troubled, and talked together in low voices, while the soldiers were noisy and abusive against France.

The colossal spire of the Cathedral threw its shadow over this scene.

Sovereigns and diplomats, ready for an invasion of France, had left Frankfort for Fribourg, there to complete their plans of vengeance and hate.

Blucher, with Sachen and Laugeron, had concentrated their troops between Mayence and Coblentz. The Prince de Schwartzemberg was marching toward Bale. The Swiss were irritated, believing that their neutrality would be violated.

In the Chamber of Commerce the Emperor Alexander, with Metternich and Lord Castlereagh, were studying maps, eager for the fray and the dismemberment of France. Count Pozzo de Borga was on his way to England.

On the Place de Ministre a tall mansion faces the Cathedral. Steps, with wrought iron railings, lead to the oaken door, well barred with steel. On the second floor, in a large, gloomy room, several persons are assembled. The last rays of the setting sun are coming from the high windows through the heavy panes of glass set in lead.

Standing near a window is a lady in black, looking out on the Square; her hand caresses a child who clings to her skirts. The two corners of the chimney in which are burning resinous logs of wood are occupied. On one side sits an old man, on the other a lady wrapped in a cloak that covers her entirely.

The Marquis de Fongereues is only sixty, but his white hair, his wrinkles, and the sad senility of his countenance gave him the appearance of an octogenarian. He sits motionless, his hands crossed on his knees. The lady opposite, whose head rests on the high oak back of her chair, is not yet forty. Her face is hard, and her eyes, fixed upon the Marquis, seem eager to read his thoughts. She is Pauline de Maillezais Marquise de Fongereues and the lady at the window is Magdalena, Vicomtesse de Talizac. Her husband, Jean de Talizac, is the son of the Marquis de Fongereues. Suddenly the old man said:

“Where is Jean?”

Magdalena started, as if this voice, breaking the silence of the room, had startled her.

“He has been away since morning,” she replied, in a voice that she endeavored to render careless.

“Ah!” said the Marquis, relapsing into silence. Presently he inquired what time it was.

“Let me see I wish to tell him,” cried the child, leaving his mother’s side and running across the room to a console table, on which stood an elaborate clock.

Frederic, the son of the Vicomte de Talizac, is deformed. One shoulder is higher than the other, and he limps, but he seems alert.

“It is seven o’clock,” he said, in a sharp voice.

The door was thrown open at this moment, and a German officer appeared. Madame Fongereues rose hastily.

“And what is the decision, Monsieur de Karlstein?” she asked.

The officer bowed low to each of the three persons in the room, and then said, quietly:

“To-morrow the allied armies will cross the French frontier.”

“At last!” exclaimed Madame de Fongereues, and Madame de Talizac uttered a cry of joy. The Marquis was unmoved.

“The details give us the details!” said the young Marquise.

“We shall reach France through Switzerland,” said the German, “and penetrate the heart of the empire. Lord Castlereagh approves of this plan and the Emperor Alexander gives it favorable consideration.”

“And in a month the king will be at the Tuileries!” said Madame de Talizac.

The German did not notice this remark.

“And now, ladies, will you kindly permit me to retire? In two hours I leave with my company.”

Madame de Fongereues extended her hand to him.

“Go, sir,” she said. “Go aid in this sacred work! Insolent France must learn that the most sacred rights cannot be trodden under foot with impunity. Let the chastisement be as terrible as has been the crime!”

Monsieur de Karlstein bowed low and went out.

“At last!” repeated the Marquise. “These French have insulted and despised us too long! Twenty-five years of exile! It is twenty-five years since my father the Comte de Maillezais took me in his arms and, pointing toward Paris, said, ’Child! remember that the day will come when these men will kill their king, as they have forced your father to fly for his life.’ Monsieur Fongereues, do you hear? Are you not glad to return as master among these men who drove you away, and with you all that there was great and noble in France?”

The old man turned his head.

“God protect France!” he said, solemnly.

A shout of laughter rang through the room. It was the son of Vicomte Jean, who was laughing at his grandfather.

Madame de Talizac shrugged her shoulders impatiently. Madame de Fongereues made her a sign.

“Come,” she said, “the Marquis is sinking into his second childhood, and his follies irritate me.”

The child took his mother’s hand.

“We shall be the masters now, mamma, shall we not?”

The Vicomtesse murmured, as she left the room,

“Why has not Jean come? Can it be that he has not succeeded!”

Hardly had they disappeared than a door, concealed behind a hanging, slowly opened.

Pierre Labarre appeared and noiselessly approaching his master, knelt at his feet.

“Master,” he said, respectfully, “I have returned.”

The Marquis started. “You have come!” he exclaimed, then dropping his voice, he added, “Quick! Simon?”

“Hush! not so loud!” said Pierre; then whispering in the old man’s ear, “He is living!” he said.

The Marquis half closed his eyes, and his lips moved in prayer, while large tears slowly ran down his withered cheeks.

The Marquis belonged to one of the oldest families of Languedoc. His ancestors had served France faithfully and had held positions of trust near the persons of the kings. The present Marquis had committed a fault not easily forgiven by the ancien regime. He had married the daughter of a farmer, when he was twenty, in spite of the threats of his family. This union was of short duration, for his wife died in giving birth to a son. This blow was so sudden that the young man abandoned himself to despair. He shut himself up from the world on an estate he had among the Vosges mountains, and lived only for his child.

The beloved dead, though of peasant blood, had been an extraordinary woman. She, young as she was, had thought much, and felt deeply the sufferings of her class. She pointed out to the Marquis how the people were weighed down by taxes, and how little their hard toil availed them.

“Friend,” said Simonne, “thou art wealthy, thou belongest to the privileged class, give and speak. Open thy hand, and raise thy voice!”

She endeavored to awaken in his heart a noble ambition. He was twenty and he loved. Had she lived, Armand would, undoubtedly, have been one of the greatest actors in the crisis then preparing, but now that she was gone, he forgot the glorious legacy she had bequeathed to him. He detested the court, however, and determined that his son should grow up far away from its influences. Simon, therefore, passed his childhood among the mountains drinking in the delicious air, and growing as freely as a young tree.

But Armand was weak. His friends and family, who had fallen away from him at the time of his marriage, now sought to bring him back. He resisted for a time, but at last went to Versailles. The king received him proudly and said, “Monsieur de Fongereues, it is not well in you to abandon us thus. The throne needs its faithful supporters.”

A few days later he was presented to Mademoiselle de Maillezais her beauty was of that quality that dazzles rather than pleases. She made herself very attractive on this occasion, anxious to take back to the king this nobleman who had so nearly been lost.

In 1779, Armand married this lady. Simon, the peasant’s son, was then five years of age. When his father spoke of him to his wife some little time after their marriage, she replied:

“You will, of course, do as you choose, but I should say that any change would be likely to injure his health.”

The Marquis was glad to seize any excuse for keeping Simonne’s son away from that society which his mother had so strongly condemned. It was with the feeling, therefore, that he was obeying the wishes of his beloved dead, that he left Simon among the mountains.

It was at this time that the war begun by the enemies of Nechar against his innovations reached its height. The nobles and the clergy, feeling their privileges attacked, organized against the Genoese banker a campaign in which he was to fall. The Maillezais family were Nechar’s pitiless adversaries, and in spite of himself the Marquis was carried along with them. His wife had acquired a supremacy over him that daily increased. His weak nature was ever ready to be influenced by others, and his natural enthusiasm originally aroused by Simonne for another cause, was perverted to the profit of the ancien regime, and finally he was one of the first to applaud the words of Louis XVI., when he signed his name to an edict which inflicted on the country a new debt of four hundred and twenty million.

“It is legal because I wish it.”

Nevertheless, the Marquis often thought of Simonne when he was alone. He recalled her beautiful, energetic face, her pathetic, eloquent words. Then he longed to see her son, whom his present wife hated. She herself had become a mother; the Vicomte Jean Talizac had been held at the baptismal font by the Queen Marie Antoinette.

The Marquise determined to oust Simon from his place in his father’s heart. She but half succeeded in this, and was too wise to attack the memory of the dead.

The Marquis wrote in secret to his son, and occasionally went to see him among the Vosges, and embraced the lad, who inherited all his mother’s intelligence and goodness.

Then the Vicomte returned like a truant schoolboy to Versailles, and the Marquise brought in her boy with an expression that seemed to say, “This is your boy! He is the one in whose veins runs only noble blood!”

In 1787 the Marquis was dangerously ill. His wife was devoted to him, and one day when he was in a critical condition she said, gently:

“Shall I send for the peasant’s child?”

He closed his eyes and did not reply. When, after long weeks of illness, he was restored to health, he belonged to the Marquise. He never spoke of his eldest child, and adored Jean.

Then came the emigration. Monsieur de Fongereues, friend of Conde and of Polignac, yielded to his wife’s entreaties and joined the Prince de Conde at Worms, where he was making an appeal to foreign powers against France. Although yielding to the wishes of the Marquise, De Fongereues was fully aware that it was a base act to desert his country, and excite against her the hatred of her most violent enemies. Young Simon, the son of the peasant, could not join in this parricidal act, although the Marquis sent Pierre Labarre, who was even then in his service, to his son, then fifteen years of age, to sound his views. If the youth would enter the army of Conde, the Marquis assured him a brilliant future. If he remained in France, however, he could no longer rely on his father, who, however, sent him a large sum of money. The youth refused the money, and replied:

“Say to my father that I love him, and that if ever he requires a devoted heart and a courageous arm that he may summon me to his side; but now, if I am to choose between poverty in my own country and wealth in a foreign land, I remain here!”

“It was Simonne’s soul that spoke through his lips!” murmured the Marquis, when Pierre repeated the message sent by the young man.

The father and son did not meet after 1790. We will now return to Fribourg, to that room where Pierre Labarre had just told the Marquis that Simon was living.

Twenty-five years had elapsed twenty-five years of anguish and sorrow for the Marquis. He had seen France fighting with heroic energy against all Europe. He had heard the enthusiastic shouts of 1792, and then the dull groans of the people crushed under the heel of the conqueror. And while his country bled and fought, the Marquis blushed with shame in London, Berlin and Vienna when his French ears heard the malédictions of the conquered.

As soon as his son, the Vicomte Jean, reached the age of twenty, he had become one of the most active agents of the coalition, and, as if to indicate his hatred of France, married a German.

From that time the Marquis heard nothing but abuse of France, nothing but exultation when her sons fell in Spain or in Russia. The old man’s heart was sore within him, but it was then too late for him to make a stand, and he was obliged to live on amid this hatred.

Once only did Jean go to France to lend his aid to Cadondal’s conspiracy, but he was obliged to flee precipitately, and with difficulty succeeded in gaining the frontier. On his return he was in a state of sullen rage. Was it despair at his lack of success, or did the Vicomte feel any remorse? His father watched him with troubled eyes and many fears, but did not dare ask a question.

What had become of Simon? The Marquis had read in a newspaper that a Simon Fougere carried the orders of the day at the battle of Hohenlinden. He leaped at once at the truth. Simonne’s son was fighting for his country, while his other son, the Vicomte de Talizac, was fighting against it.

Suddenly the Marquis beheld the fall of the Imperial idol. The allied armies were in France. Vengeance was near at hand!

Three times the Marquis sent Pierre to France, but the faithful servant could learn nothing of Simon, but this last time he discovered that Simon was living. Pierre had been in the service of the Marquis for forty years. He had known Simonne, and felt for his master the deepest affection. He was of the people, and only this affection had induced him to leave France. By degrees he had become the confidant of his master, and read his half-broken heart like an open book, and realized that it was full of regrets, almost of remorse. Then he swore to himself that he would aid the Marquis to repair the injustice done to Simon. It is needless to say that Pierre’s honest nature felt no sympathy for the Marquise. She, on the contrary, was the object of his deepest aversion, for he well knew that she had done her best to have him dismissed from the service of the Marquis.

The Vicomte de Talizac, the Vicomtesse, and their son, detested Pierre and watched him closely, with what aim they alone knew.

“I went to the Vosges, master,” said Pierre. “I learned that the soldier known by the name of Simon Fougere had gone to Lorraine. I could learn nothing more. I went about everywhere to Épinal, Nancy, Saint Die and I had begun to despair, when one evening I reached the foot of a mountain and saw a little cluster of houses. I asked a peasant who was passing if I could procure accommodations there for the night.

“Of course,” he answered. “Go straight ahead and you will come to friend Simon’s inn.”

The Marquis listened breathlessly. Pierre continued:

“The name was a common one in that part of the country, as I had good reason to know, but this time my heart began to beat. I thanked the peasant and I hurried on. And when I think that a Comte de Fongereues ”

“It was he, then!” cried the Marquis, snatching his servant’s hands. “And you saw him? Tell me everything!”

“He is happy,” answered Pierre. “But, master, let me tell my story in my own way, for then I shall forget nothing. I went into a little inn, which was as clean as possible and bore the sign, ‘France!’ A fire of vine branches was sparkling in the big chimney. A boy of about ten came to meet me. ‘My friend,’ I said, ‘is this the inn of Monsieur Simon?’”

“‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, looking at me with soft, dark eyes. I felt as if I had seen him before.”

“What! do you mean ” cried the Marquis.

“Wait, master, wait. I told him that I wanted supper and a bed. The boy ran toward a little door and called: ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ A woman appeared in peasant dress, with dark hair and eyes. She carried a little girl on one arm. The mother looked about thirty, and the girl was some six years of age.

“‘Take a chair, sir,’ said the mistress of the house. ’We will do the best we can for you.’ Then she told the boy to take the horse to the stable and call his father. I took my seat by the fire and reflected that Simon would not be likely to know me, if it were he, as he had not seen me for thirty years. You had bidden me take care not to betray myself, but I knew that Time had done his work.

“‘The country about here looks very dreary,’ I said to Madame Simon. She turned in surprise from her work. She was laying the table for my supper.

“‘Ah! you are a stranger here!’ she answered with a smile. ’No, it is not dreary; it is much pleasanter here than in the cities.’

“‘But in winter?’ I persisted.

“‘Oh! the mountains are magnificent then.’

“‘Have you been living here long, Madame?’

“‘Ten years,’ she replied.

“‘And these beautiful children are yours?’

“She hesitated a moment, or I thought so, but she said in a moment:

“’Yes, they are mine, and you will see their father presently, the best man in this place!’ She brought in a bowl of steaming soup. ’Excuse the simplicity of the service, sir.’ The door opened, and, master, if it had been in Africa, or thousands of miles from France, I should have known Simonne’s son. He had his great deep eyes, but, master ”

Pierre stopped short.

“Go on; you frighten me!” cried the Marquis.

“Oh! master, Monsieur Simon has lost a leg. I saw it at once, and the tears came to my eyes. He lost it at Elchingen, in 1805 it was shot off by a cannon ball.”

The Marquis started.

“And his brother was there, too!” he murmured. “Go on, Pierre.”

“I knew him at once, as I was saying. He is tall, he is strong; his hair is turning gray, and he wears a heavy moustache, and was dressed in peasant costume. He came to me, and said in a voice that was so like his mother’s: ‘You are welcome!’ I extended my hand, he did not seem to be astonished, and received it cordially. I went to the table, and while I ate my soup I watched him closely. He took the little girl up in his arms, and began to talk to her in a low voice, and the child listened intently. I could not hear what was said, but presently the child came running to me.

“‘Monsieur,’ she cried, ‘will you do me a favor?’

“‘Certainly,’ I replied.

“‘Will you drink with papa to the French army?’

“‘Most gladly!’ I answered, wondering at the same time if Simon took me for a spy. The mere idea made me feel ill, and I wanted to tell him who I was, when he came to the table with a couple of glasses.

“‘To the success of our arms shall be our toast, sir!’ he said. I answered, as I raised my glass to my lips: ‘To France!’ His eyes flashed with joy. These words had evidently conquered his distrust.

“’Would it be indiscreet to ask, sir, by what strange chance you are in this wild place?’

“I told him, for I had to lie, that I had lost my way. He looked at me a moment.

“‘You come from Germany, do you not?’

“‘Are you a sorcerer?’ I exclaimed.

“’No it is plain to see that by the cut and the material of your clothing. But is it true,’ he continued rapidly, ’that the allied armies are about to cross the frontier?’

“‘Alas! I fear so. But you do not know our last disaster, then?’

“‘Fortune has betrayed us, but patience patience!’

“‘Do you think that further resistance is possible?’ I asked.

“‘I am a soldier of France!’ was his proud reply. ’I believe in my banner and my country!’ He then asked me many questions, and finally one that made my heart leap to my throat.

“’Is it true that the French emigres have accepted positions in these foreign armies?’ I protested my ignorance. He passed his hand over his brow, as if to chase away unfortunate doubts, and I changed the conversation.

“‘These lovely children are yours?’ I asked.

“’Yes and this is my wife, Francoise Simon, the best of women, who has consoled me in many sorrows, and this is Jacques, my eldest, and you know Francinette. Perhaps you will give me your name now?’

“‘One moment you have not introduced yourself.’

“‘I am called Simon,’ he answered with a frown.

“‘Simon and nothing else?’

“’Nothing else. If I ever bore another name, I have forgotten it. I fought in 1791. I was wounded and compelled to leave the service.’ He spoke with some nervousness.

“‘Are your parents living?’ I asked. He looked at me intently, and pouring out a glass of wine, he carried it to his lips with a steady hand.

“‘I never knew them,’ he replied.

“We talked for some time, and he told me that after he recovered from his wound he entered the service of a rich farmer, and soon saved enough to lease a small farm for himself, where he carried on his small business as an inn and kept a school, ‘for,’ he said, ’I had received a good education, and wished to do something for the children about me.’

“It was midnight before I went to my room, and I arose as soon as I heard a movement below, but, early as it was, Simon had already gone out. I felt that I must return to you without waiting to see him again. I had formed a plan which I trust you will approve of. I went to the Mayor and obtained a copy of Simon’s papers. You know since the new code any one can get such papers, and I said something about a lawsuit.”

“And you have these papers?”

“Yes in a portfolio in my breast.”

He touched his breast as he spoke and uttered an exclamation of pain. “I had forgotten,” he said, and then told his master of the attack made on him in the Black Forest.

“That is very strange,” said the Marquis, thoughtfully.

“At all events, I wounded him,” Pierre replied.

At this moment there was a sound just outside the door. The Marquis threw it open quickly, but there was nothing to be seen.

“I was sure I heard ”

“This old, worm-eaten wood makes strange noises when the dampness gets into it,” said Pierre.

The Marquis read the papers carefully which Pierre now gave him.

“But there were two children at the time?” he said to Pierre. “Where is the certificate of the birth of Jacques?”

Pierre hesitated. “When Simon and Francoise were married,” he answered, reluctantly, “Jacques was already born.”

“And now,” said the Marquis, “I must make some change in my will. My poor boy, in these papers, does not give his real name, nor the place of his birth, but we will soon remedy that.”

“But why do you talk of your will! You must see your son, master, and then you can make all things right.”

“I have grown very old lately, and have little strength left, but I hope to embrace my son Simon before I die; but I am in the hands of God. I wish to incorporate these papers in my will and then there will be no difficulty in proving Simon’s relationship.”

“But what do you fear?” asked Pierre.

The Marquis looked at him.

“Why this question? You know as well as I.”

“Do you think that the Vicomte would have the audacity ”

The Marquis laid his hand on his servant’s breast.

“There is no peasant,” he said, slowly and emphatically, “no peasant in these parts who is capable of such a crime.”

Pierre bowed his head; he understood.

“And this is not all,” continued his master, “a will may be lost, may be stolen. I wish to provide for everything, and wish that Simon and his children shall be rich.”

The Marquis went on speaking in so low a voice that no one but the servant could possibly hear.