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THE NOTARY'S DAUGHTER."
CHAPTER I.
LA PINEDE.
ON the coast of the Mediterranean, between Marseilles and
Toulon, a small harbor lies snugly ensconced in the rocks and
protected from the wind by a stony projection shaped like a pier.
In stormy weather vessels sometimes seek the shelter of this lit-
tle haven, but at other times the only boats in it are those be-
longing to the fishermen of the town. The name of this little
port is La Ciotat. It had never been heard of until the Carlo
Alberto in 1831 landed the Duchesse de Berri on that point of
the real Paris, they knew its name, they talked of it, but never
dreamed of going there; nor is it quite certain that they all did
know of the existence of Paris in 1835. This is no exaggeration,
for at that time many a poor peasant used to take off his hat as he
passed before a picture of Louis Philippe, and called him the
good Sing Louis the Sixteenth. The storm which convulsed the
world from 1789 to 1794, and the glory which dazzled it from
1800 to 1815, had passed unperceived over the heads of these
good people.
Now all is changed. A dockyard for steamers has been established
at La Ciotat. The benefits and the evils of civilization
have reached that remote corner of the world. The traveler's
eye reads its name as he passes by one of the stations of the
railway, and catches a glimpse of the picturesque little town and
its busy port full of shipping.
At about a league and a half from La Ciotat, at the foot of a
hill covered with dwarf pines, ilexes, and holly, stands a rock
where the goatherds of the neighborhood are wont to congregate,
and which they call from its peculiar shape, " the Sugarloaf."
At the time in question, just opposite this rock two
roads diverged in different directions. The new highroad leading
to Marseilles made an angle and stretched its dusty length between
the olive plains on each side of it, and the other road,
or rather pathway, half choked up with furze and brambles and
supported by dilapidated stonework, ascended the hill.
On a sunny morning in March a man was sitting on a stone
ledge at the bottom of the Sugar-loaf rock. His dress and appearance
were those of a thriving bourgeois his figure short and
stumpy, his complexion brown and ruddy. He looked between
forty and fifty years of age There was in his countenance a
mixture not an uncommon one in France of good nature and
shrewdness: shrewdness of a commonplace sort, with more
sharpness in it than cleverness. There was a cunning look in
the fat little gentleman's eyes; but his laugh was frank, which
The following tale IB an imitation, and partly a translation, of "Un Marm2e
en Province," by Muduiuu Luonio Doaet, who haa mo*t kindly sanctioned
lu-s uduptuUon of her work.
indicated that the cunning was assumed and the frankness nat-
ural. A man's character is more easily read in his manner of
laughing than in any other way: what is false or affected in it is
too apparent to deceive. The name of this personage was M.
Toussaint Lescalle. He was a solicitor, one of the two royal notaries
established .at La Ciotat. At the moment when we find M.
Lescalle seated at the foot of the Sugar-loaf hill, he seemed to
be expecting somebody. Now and then, shading his eyes with
his hand, he glanced at the new road, as it was then called. The
white pebbles sparkled like diamonds, the ground glowed like
burnished gold, the olive trees glittered like quicksilver; but it
was not the peculiarities of the landscape which occupied M.
the French coast, and at the time when this story begins its existence
was as little known in France as if the quaint little city
had been situated in the neighborhood of Pernambuco or Batavia.
In geographical dictionaries it was said to contain four thousand
five hundred inhabitants, and the vintage of its hillocks was
highly commended.
At the time we are speaking of, a carriage road from Marseilles}
to La Ciotat was in course of construction. In spite of great
efforts, the work proceeded slowly. Great obstacles arose from
the nature of the soil. Engineers and miners found it difficult to
deal with the rocks and precipices in there way; but there was
no lack of zeal in overcoming nature's resistance, Lescalle. He beguiled his impatience by reading over a letter
which he drew out of a huge portfolio on his knees, and then by
looking every two or three minutes at his watch with manifest
for the new
road was to open communications with Marseilles and for the
inhabitants of La Ciotat, Marseilles was a sort of Paris. As to
round, and then he saw a man on horseback approaching at full
speed, upon which he retraced his steps.
"Upon my word, M. le Baron, I had given you up," ho exclaimed,
as the gentleman came up to him.
" No wonder, my good friend," was the
"
reply; but if I am
late I assure you I could not help it. I have been spending two
days with the Marquis de Previs, and did not arrive at Mar-
signs of impatience.
At last he got up, seized his portfolio and a bundle of keya
wnich had been lying in his hat, and began to ascend the path
up the hill. As he was slowly advancing, the sound of a horse's
trot reached his ears, which made him suddenly stop and turn
seilles till this morning."
"Will the Marquis lend a helping hand about the election?"
the solicitor inquired.
" We had some conversation on the subject," the Baron said,
in a way that showed he did not intend to disclose what had
passed between him and the Marquis. M. Lescalle took the
hint, and allowed the subject to drop.
Before the two men left the fooL of the Sugar-loaf hill, the
Baron dismounted and tied his horse to the trunk of an olive
tree. Glancing at the stony and steep pathway, he said, " I am
not going to run the risk of breaking my Silphide's legs up that
horrid road."
The lawyer repressed a smile, for although the old mare
might have once deserved that fanciful name, her actual aged
condition and broken knees were not in keeping with it. There
was a sort of resemblance between Silphide and her muster.
He too was old and thin and worn out; a small head, long limbs,
and an aquiline nose, gave him a combined likeness to a race-
horse and a greyhound. The Baron de Croixfonds had every
right to this aristocratic appearance, for he was descended so
he always said, at least from one of King Rene's brethren-inarms
during the wars between the houses of Anjou and Aragon.
His wealth was supposed to be greatly inferior to the antiquity of
his family, but he had an elder brother who was a peer of France
and very rich. His expectations, in consequence, were more
brilliant than his means.
As they slowly ascended the hill, M. Lescalle was the first to
speak. Assuming a somewhat consequential manner, he said,
"
I am rather afraid, M. le Baron, that this excursion- of yours
will prove a fruitless one."
"Why so?" the Baron asked.
"
I mean that you will not be able to carry out your plans."
"
Have they changed their minds about selling La Pinede? "
" Oh, dear, no; but there is another purchaser in the field."
" A bona fide one ? "
" Yes, a loiut fide one."