The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1887-04-02 00:00:00

ADRIENNE;

OR,
THE SHADOW OF THE PAST.

[ALL RIGHTS ÜBSERTIIID4

CHAPTER XVL
Ltoxis sunk so rapidly that there was barely time to
Perform the last rites of the church before life de-
parted. To the last she grasped the hand of Pauline,
and died with her failing eyes fixed upon her face.
Madame Crozet came in as soon as she heard of the
Imminent crisis in which the sick woman lay. She
seemed anxious and disappointed, and finally whis-
Pered to Desiree an inquiry as to what had been re-
vealed. Of course the black had nothing to tell, for
she had slept through the whole conversation, and
Pauline secretly exulted that for once she had baffled
her acute stepmother.
Narrow-minded, high-tempered, and unscrupulous,
Pauline would not think of the dangerous position in
Which the young stranger would be placed if she was
discovered to be the legal heir to his fortune while
she was yet entirely in the power of this lawless old
man. She thought only of her own interests, and
they would be best served by the removal of Made-
moiselle Durand from her path, and it really concerned
her very little by what means it was accomplished.
Pauline finally seized a pen, and wrote the follow-
ing lines:
MONSIEUR LECOIII4.—I address this to you without the
knowledge of any human being, to warn you that your worst
enemy is now harboured beneath your roof. The young girl
who has come to you as your grandchild is really the daughter
of your last wife by her first husband, M. Henri Durand, to
Whom she was clandestinely married while in France, twenty
years a go.
This information has first come to my knowledge through the
confession of a quadroon woman who died on Madame Crozat's
place about an hour ago. Leionie was once the personal atten-
dant of Mademoiselle Montreuil ; she accompanied her to
rrance, and was under the same roof during the year that she
lived with M. Durand as his wife; and was present when the
child of that marriage was transferred to Madame Julien
Durand to be reared as her own. That the young girl now with
you is that child is beyond a doubt.
After her separation from her young mistress, L6onie became
soy nurse, and Caine with me to Louisiana, after the death of
Toy mother, I was with her to the last, heard her confession of
These facts, and hasten to transmit them to you. Use them on
your own behalf, bat conceal from every one the source from
which they were derived.
I give you my name that you may attach credence to ray
in-
formation; but I trust to yonr honour to make no use of it
that can in any way compromise me with my stepmother and
her son, I am certain they are plotting to make this girl the
wife of M. Mendon, and thus at last secure the estate they have
So long coveted. PAULINE CROZAT.

HOW to send this epistle to its destination was the
next consideration. After a few moments' thought,
Pauline determined to take the eldest son of M.
Menden into her confidence, and make him its bearer.
This lad had an aversion to the idea of a stepmother,
which amounted almost to a mania; and she knew
that to give him a hint of his father's intentions with
respect to Adrienne would be to enlist him at once in
her own service.
She had scarcely finished the letter when Madame
Crazat came into her room. She looked surprised
when she saw the open desk, and suspiciously said—
" You do not usually write so late, mademoiselle.
May I enquire the nature of your correspondence ?"
" Certainly—it is only an order to the store for a
package of mine, which was not sent with the last
things that came from New Orleans. My shoes were
in it, and I need them. Eugene is going over to-
morrow morning, and I thought I would get him to
deliver it."

"I did not know that Eugene contemplated such
a trip," was the careless reply. "I think Father
Eustace permits him to leave his studies too frequently
of late, and I shall speak to Adolphe about it."
"Do as you please after to-morrow, madame; but
I do not wish you to prevent him from going this time,
for I am in need of my shoes."
s And there may be letters, too—another boat came
last night, I heard; so for this time Eugene can go, as
nil the men on the place are busy getting the ground
ready for the new crop.*
Thus spoke practical Madame Crozat, entirely un-
conscious that by this concession she put in jeopardy
not only the interests that were of vital importance to
M. Mendon, but also endangered the very existence Sf
the helpless girl whose hand she had hoped would
endow him with fortune. After a few moments'
silence, Madame Crozst said—
"I regret the death of Leonia at this particular
crisis, because she could have given me informa-
tion that would have been extremely useful to me.
Did anything that was rational escape her before her
death? Desiree assures me that she never awoke
from hr delirium, but she is evidently BO stupid from
Want of sleep that I can scarcely rely on her word."
Pauline steadily regarded her a few seconds, and
then asked—

"Do you really expect me to reveal to you what
L6onie said ?"
"Of course, or I should not have asked it. Your
asseition, that you would use such discoveries as you
might make for your own purposes, I regarded as mere
Idle words. If you wish success in any of your plans,
you had better confide in me, for alone you must
always fail.'

"I am already aware, madame, that you think I
have too little sense to manage my own affairs. Well,
I will be humble for once, and admit that you may be
right. L6onie did have an interval of sanity before
her death: she may not have been quite in her right
mind, for she told me a most singular story; but she
spoke in a collected manner, and I am inclined to
believe she understood wkat she was saying."
Madame Crozat betrayed the most vivid interest.
What was the nature of this revelation? Did she
refer to her residence in Paris? To the history of her
first mistress, Louise Montreuil?"
"She did, madame mere. She spoke only of her."
"And what did she reveal?' was the eager question
that followed.

"That which will dash all your plans to fragments,
if you believe that the young girl at Castle Dismal is
the child of Maiemoiselle Montreuil. The daughter of
Henri Durand and Louise was transferred to Estelle
Lecour, who was the wife of his brothel., to be reared
as her own child; but she died in her infancy, and
the young girl you had hoped would turn out to be
the heiress is only the granddaughter of old Lecour,
after all."
While Pauline uttered this invention she looked
Steadily at the disappointed face of her stepmother.
Madame Crozat seemed quite crestfallen. She
asked_.

"Are you sure that this is the truth, Pauline? Yet
how should you have known anything of these affairs
if L6onle hal not -revealed them to you? Repeat to
rne exactly what she said:
With the cunning inherent in mean natures, Pauline
need the narrative of Leonie in such a manner as to
lead the stepmother to believe she had actually heard
from the lips of the dying woman the story she
related to her. Facts already known to Madame
Cro7at were so cleverly mingled with fiction, that it
Was impossible for the listener to separate them, and
most unwillingly did she arrive at the conclusion that
Adrienne was really the descendant of M. Lecour. The
resemblance she bore to his deceased wife was most
remarkable ; but that must be accidental; and, with
a sigh, she beheld her magnificent chateau en Espagne
crumble into ruins. _ _

_
The question in her astute mind now was, would it
to.M. Mendon's interest to marry Adrienne, or to
await the issue of Pauline's law suit? for she was by '
no means,hopeless of success in it, although she had
Spoken so disparagingly of it to that young lady.
M. Lecour she know would never give his consent to
the union of his granddaughter with AdolpheMendon,
and without it she would be a beggar, for ha would
surely disinherit her. Perhaps, after all, Pauline, with
her chance to win a fortune of fifty thousand dollars
from an unsettled claim belonging to her father's
estate would be a better speculation for M. Mendon
than the other. It was true Pauline was silly and bad-
tempered, but his firmness might remedy her worst
faults, and besides, she was really bound to consider
theinterest of one so nearly connected with herself.
She. thought it best to change her tactics for the present
at least, and she conciliatingly said—
" You must forget what I have said to you this
morning, my daughter. You provoke me at times to
say harsh things, but I always regret them afterwards.
Now I comprehend your wishes, I hesitate to array my-
self ag iinst, them; if your suit goes right, it will perhaps
be best that you and Adolphe should marry. There
will then be no heart-burnings about the division of
my estate after I have passed from the scene. I
have always intended that it should belong equally to
you."
Pauline took her hand, and raised it to her lips with
theatrical emphasis.
"Thanks, madame mere; now I know you again as
my true mother. I began to doubt your love for me,
and it pained me inexpressibly. Yes, my suit will
give me wealth—l know it will, and Adolphe will give
me his hand in exchange for it. Thus we shall again
become vs united family."
Madame Crozat permitted this, nay, she confirmed
the hollow truce by lightly touching the brow of
Pauline with her lips. There was no warmth in the
caress, but the fair schemer received it for what it was
north, and exulted in the belief that for once her cun-
ning had proved more than a match for her clear

sigiitcd stepmother.
Madame Cr zat left the room, and Pauline prepared
to carry out her plan. She watched for Eugene as he
passed her door on his way to the catage which the
boys occupied with their tutor. n was alone, and
Pauline stood ready to intercept him. She spoke
aloud, and said—
" Come in a few minutes, Eugene; I have a com-
mission for you to attend to in the morning."
The lad obeyed her, looking rather glum, for he did
not like to be made of use even by his pretty cousin,
as he always called Pauline. He moodily asked—
" Whit is it now, coz? You're always wanting
something done, and Father Eustace is getting crusty
about the errands that so often take me from school.'
" Father Eustace is a cross old horror, and you are
trying to become exactly like him; but you will like
tins errand, Eugene, for it will take you to the land-
ing, where you will Lear the latest news from New
Orleans, and bring back letters for us all."
"Yea, I -ghat) like that well enough, but is that
all ?"

" No-o —not exactly all. Tell me, Eugene, bow would
you like a bteprnother over you and your brother r
Be clenched his bands and looked savage.
"No other woman shall ever take my mother's
place with my consent. What are you striving at,
Fauline?"
"Come nearer to me. child. New listen to my

words, and believe them, for I speak of what I know
to be true. There is a girl at M. Lecour's who will
marry your father if he asks her to do so. I have
learned something which will force her grandfather to
send her away at once, and place her beyond M.
Mendon's reach. I have written to the old gentleman,
and you must place my letter in the hands of Pierre
He goes regularly to the office for letters, and you
will probably meet him here. If you do not, you must
go on to Castle Dismal yourself, and find means to com-
municate with Pierre or his wife!'
"But I do not understand, cousin. Who is this
young lady, and where did my father meet with
her 11"

"On the boat coming from New Orleans. Of one
thing you may rest assured: unless this note reaches
M. Lecour in safety, this Adrienne will be your
father's wife before another month is out."
This confident assertion was sufficient for the im-
pulsive and fiery-hearted boy. He took charge of the
epistle, and promised that it should be safely de-
livered.
When she left the apartment of her stepdaughter,
Madame Crozat st once sought M. Mendon, to reveal
to him the substance of what she had gathered from
Pauline. Together they canvassed the chances of
Adrienne to succeed to the Montreuil estate, and both
reluctantly came to the conclusion that they were
small indeed if she was really the descendant of M.
Lecour.

The conference ended by the lady saying—
" fauline's suit is not absolutely desperate, and she
may yet prove worth looking after. A moderate cer-
tainty is better than a brilliant promise, which may
bring nothing but disappointment. I fancy the blood
of old Lecaur will not be exactly the only inheritance
you would be willing to take with his granddaughter.
She is very fair and attractive, but if he gives her no
fortune, she is no match for you."
M. Mendon looked ill-pleased. He coldly said—
" Pauline is well enough as a step-sister, but this
young girl has really fascinated me. I would give
much to believe her the daugher of my deceased
sister-in-law, and so wonderful is the resemblance
between them that I felt almost assured of the fact."

"I also believed it, but Leonie knew the history of
her mistress well, and when dying she would scarcely
have misrepresented incidents she took a part in."
After musing several moments, M. &tendon abruptly
asked—

.. Will it not be well to take Father Eustace in our
confidence? From some things that have escaped
him. I believe that he has been sent hither as a spy on
M. Lecour. If he possesses any hold on him, he may
aid us in getting him in our power so completely that
we may be able to dictate our own terms to him."
After a moment's reflection, Madame Crozat re-
plied—
" Act as you may think for the best, my son. 'A
drowning man catches at straws,' and if there is any
chance to save this fine inheritance, and at the same
time win a beautiful bride, do not throw it away from
a few scruples of conscience. The priest may be of
use to you, if you pill offer him a sufficient reason."
"Oh, I understand that part of the negotiation very
well. Since his last visit to Bellair, Father Eustaco
has been shy and morose. He pretends to bave taken
offence at a proposal I made to him, and I can get
nothing that is satisfactory out of him. He has
absented himself the greater part of to-day, and I have
a suspicion that he went thither again; for what pur-
pose I know not, as M. Lecour would not receive him
so soon after his last visit; he must have seen Made-
moiselle Durand, and made an appointment to meet
her to-day, without the knowledge of her grandfather.
I would do much to enlist him heartily in my in-
terests."

He arose as he spoke, and prepared to go out to the
cottage occupied by the priest and the two lads. M.
Mendon found Father Bustace sitting over his lamp,
with a ponderous volume open before him, but he
was evidently not engaged in studying the learned
lore found upon its pages. His compressed lips, sternly
knit brows, and angry expression showed that he was
in a most excited and perturbed state of mind.

As M. Mendon entered he looked hurriedly around,
and spoke with marked hauteur.
d• I trust that you will excuse my absence to day,
monsieur, for I presume that is what has brought you
hither at this unusual hour. The journey I went on
was important to me, though it only ended in disap•
pointment; The lads had their studies assigned them
before I left them."
"Settle those matters with Madame Orozat," replied
M. Mention easily. "I do not trouble myself about
a few eztra holidays to the boys. No, father, I reek
you on a matter of much deeper significance to me.
You have evaded me for the last few days, but I have
sought you now to learn positively what chance there
is for obtaining your assistance in the matter we
spoke of."
A bitter smile passed over the face of the priest, an&
he sharply said—
" Yes, I will help you, but it must be on my own
terms. You must cast cult hope in that quarter to
the winds, unless you, in your turn, will aid me to
accomplish the task that brought we to this country."
"Only show me how I can help you, and I am ready
to pledge myself to do so."
Father Eustace regarded him in silence several
moments; he then impressively said—
"M. Mendon, my confidence involves a secret of
vital importance to many persons, and a binding oath
will bo demanded of you to maintain it at all hazards
to yourself."
"I shall not shrink from the responsibility."
"Will you swear by all that is most sacred to you,
that you will keep this revelation for ever untold?
Not even in the confessional, when death stands beside
your pillow, must you betray it. Do this, and I bind
myself to your interests."
"I am ready to take any oath you may dictate, and
abide by it, if Adrienne Durand and the Montreuil
estate are to be the reward of my fidelity; and now I
am ready for your secret."
" Y fo' t thr 10E6 That ust be

on forget le oath, tiL ieur. m,
taken with a degree of solemnity hitherto unknown
you."
He took a Bible from the table, opened the leaves,
and reverently placed upon it a cross, and repeated a
farm of adjuration so solemn, so awful, that even the
world-hardened man who repeated it after him shivered
with superstitious terror at the mere thought of ever
violating his pledge.
When it was finished, Father Eustace said—

,
"Now, my son, you have taken such an oath as will
subject you to the anathema maranatha if it is ever
broken. You will now listen to the story I have to
narrate."

The secret to which all this preparation led was the
existence of Louis of France, and his residence under
M. Lecour's roof. As the reader is already aware of
his captivity at Beltaly, we pass over such details as
would be superfluous. When M. Mendon was in pos-
session of these facts, the speaker went on—

"I succeeded in opening a communication with
Mademoisel/e Durand, who, I was aware from the first,
is a young person in whose movements I am entitled
to take the deepest interest. When you first spoke of
her, I did not betray this fact to you, because 1 could
see no benefit to arise from so doing. I revealed to
Adrienne the existence of a prisoner of state kept
within those walls, to whom I must gain access. In
the name of the Church I commanded her to play the
part of the spy upon the old man, and I left her in
the belief that she was pledged to obey my com-
mands.
"To-day she was to have met me beside the foun-
tain on the lawn, and reveal to me such discoveries aa
she May have been able.to make. She dared to fail
me: in place of coming to the rendezvous herself, 1
found a letter piaced in a conspicuous spot where I
could not fail to see it. I will read it to you, that you
may see how she excuses herself."
Ile drev toith a folded paper, and read from it the
following words
FATHKR Erirrsde,—lf yon really stand toward me in the
relation you asserted when we last met, you cannot exact of ins
the sacriacc of my principles, and the risking of my life to obey
your commands. I dare not play a false part to the old ruan
who ha.a given me shelter, neither am I willin; to (to so. I
shrink from the thought of treachery to him while I remain an
initiate of Ii house Pardon me, father, but! will not become
a spy upon huts, nor will 1 be tempted to betray the secrets of
the house, if I should discover any.. AnntENzin DbuAND.

"What does she mean by the relation in which you
stand to her?" asked M. Mendon.
For an instant the priest seemed to hesitate as to
the course he should pursue. He then looked his com-
ps ion straight in the eye, and said—
" Perfect frankness will be tho best policy with you
now. We; are pledged to sustain each other, an I I
will not hes tate to trust you. I revealed to Adrienne
a fact I have hitherto kept secret from her. 1 am
Julien Durand, the husband of M. I,ecour's daughter,
and the father of her child. On the death of my wife,
I took the vows, and the little girl was received into
the nunnery of which I afterwares became the con-
fessor. 'I hus I was able to watch over her as she
grew to womanhood; and it was a great shock
when you revealed to me a few evenings ago that she
had taken advantage of my absence from France to
elope and abjure the calling to which I dedicated her
from ber infancy."
"Can Adrienne really be your daughter ?" M.
Mendon asked. "I bad believed—had hoped that she
would prove to be the child of—of your brother."
"Ah ! that old story is known to you, then. Louise
Montreuil WAS united to my only brother on the same
night that
gave my hand le, who thought a
to Estelle Lecour. We were
four romantic and silly young peop
el Andestine marriage the shortest road to happiness.
' It paved the way to death for one--woersarestiotfannadiseeartyh
to another; the third lived through y,
anv,l„
d Iconcealed my wrecked hopes beneath the monk's
co
Wilno 'at
existence
t was
then
?the,, fate of the child that certainly
c e
0 M. Montreuil refused to recognise its existence.
He induced his unhappy daughter to believe that she
had been the victim of a villainous deception, and the
Infant would be a burden and a shame to her. He
compe'led her to relinquish it to the care of my wife,
wLo undertook to nurse it with her own. But the
little girl never flouriehed after she was separated
from her mother ; she died before the close of her
second year, and my wife did not long survive her;
both lie buried in the same grave. I returned from
South America, where some complicated business
affairs Otained me until this time, only in season
-eV, bitty-tiler, and receiVe—tarvm daughter wider
my protection.
"I was disg&stedc wianik -*aid I placed the
child with the same lady superior who had educated
her mother, to be reared as one distined to take the
veil. I took the vows, as I told you, and remained
near her."
"And your brother: what of him through all