The Champdoce Mystery | Page 6

This is all that I have
to say. To-morrow you will take twenty-five sacks of wheat to the
miller at Bevron."
Like all tyrannical despots, the Duke never contemplated for a moment
the possibility of any one disobeying his commands; yet at this very
moment Norbert was registering a solemn mental oath that he would

never carry out his father's wishes. His anger, which his fears had so
long restrained, now burst all bounds, and it was in the broad chestnut
tree avenue, behind the Chateau, far from any listening ear, that he gave
way to his despair. So long as he had only looked upon his father as a
mere miser, he had permitted himself to indulge in hope; but now he
understood him better, and saw that life-long plans, such as the Duke
had framed, were not to be easily overruled.
"My father is mad," said he; "yes; decidedly mad."
He had made up his mind that for the present he would yield to his
despotism, but afterwards, in the future, what was he to do?
It is an easy thing to find persons to give you bad advice, and the very
next day Norbert found one at Bevron in the shape of a certain man
called Daumon, a bitter enemy of the Duke.
CHAPTER II.
A DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCE.
Daumon was not a native of this part of the country, and no one knew
from whence he came. He said that he had been an attorney's clerk, and
had certainly resided for a long time in Paris. He was a little man of
fifty years of age, clean shaved, and with a sharp and cunning
expression of countenance. His long nose, sharp, restless eyes, and thin
lips, attracted attention at first sight. His whole aspect aroused a feeling
of distrust. He had come to Bevron, some fifteen years before, with all
his provisions in a cotton handkerchief slung over his shoulder. He was
willing to make money in any way, and he prospered and rose. He
owned fields, vineyards, and a cottage, which is at the juncture of the
highway to Poitiers and the cross road that leads to Bevron. His aim
and object were to be seen everywhere, to know everybody, and to
have a finger in every pie in the neighborhood around. If any of the
farmers or the laborers wanted small advances, they went to him, and
he granted them loans at exorbitant rates of interest. He gave most
disputants counsel, and had every point of law at his fingers' ends. He
could teach people how to sail as close to the wind as possible, and yet

to be beyond the reach of the law. He affected to be only too anxious to
ameliorate the lot of the peasant class, and yet he was drawing heavy
sums from them by way of interest. He endeavored by every means in
his power to rouse their feelings of animosity against both the
priesthood and the gentry. His artful way of talking, and the long black
coat which he wore, had given him the nickname of the "Counsellor" in
the district. The reason why he disliked the Duke was because the latter
had more than once shown himself hostile to him, and had taken him
before the court of justice, from which Daumon only escaped by means
of bribery of suborned witnesses. He vowed that he would be revenged
for this, and for five years had been watching his opportunity, and this
was the man whom Norbert met when he went to deliver his corn to the
miller. As he was coming back with his empty wagon, Daumon asked
for a lift back as far as the cross road that led to his cottage.
"I trust, sir," said he with the most servile courtesy, "that you will
excuse the liberty I take, but I am so utterly crippled with rheumatism
that I can hardly walk, Marquis."
Daumon had read somewhere that the eldest son of a Duke was entitled
to be styled Marquis, and it was the first time that Norbert had been
thus addressed. Before this he would have laughed at the appellation,
but now his wounded vanity, and his exasperation at the unhappy
condition in which he found himself, tempted him to accept the title
without remonstrance.
"All right, I can give you a lift," said he, and the Counsellor clambered
into the cart.
All the time that he was showering thanks upon Norbert for his
courtesy he was watching the young man's face carefully.
"Evidently," thought the Counsellor to himself, "something unusual has
taken place at the Chateau de Champdoce. Was not the opportunity for
revenge here?"
Long since he had decided that through the son he could strike the
father. But he must be cautious.

"You must