Uncle Silas by J. Sheridan Le Fanu (ebook voice reader TXT) 📕

“But has he really compose no will?”

“I really don’t know, Madame.”

“Ah, little rogue! you will not tell⁠—but you are not such fool as you feign yourself. No, no; you know everything. Come, tell me all about⁠—it is for your advantage, you know. What is in his will, and when he wrote?”

“But, Madame, I really know nothing of it. I can’t say whether there is a will or not. Let us talk of something else.”

“But, cheaile, it will not kill Monsieur Ruthyn to make his will; he will not come to lie here a day sooner by cause of that; but if he make no will, you may lose a great deal of the property. Would not that be pity?”

“I really don’t know anything of his will. If papa has made one, he has never spoken of it to me. I know he loves me⁠—that is enough.”

“Ah! you are not such little goose⁠—you do know everything, of course. Come tell me, little obstinate, otherwise I will break your little finger. Tell me everything.”

“I know nothing of papa’s will. You don’t know, Madame, how you hurt me. Let us speak of something else.”

“You do know, and you must tell, petite dure-tête, or I will break a your little finger.”

With which words she seized that joint, and laughing spitefully, she twisted it suddenly back. I screamed while she continued to laugh.

“Will you tell?”

“Yes, yes! let me go,” I shrieked.

She did not release it immediately however, but continued her torture and discordant laughter. At last she finally released my finger.

“So she is going to be good cheaile, and tell everything to her affectionate gouvernante. What do you cry for, little fool?”

“You’ve hurt me very much⁠—you have broken my finger,” I sobbed.

“Rub it and blow it and give it a kiss, little fool! What cross girl! I will never play with you again⁠—never. Let us go home.”

Madame was silent and morose all the way home. She would not answer my questions, and affected to be very lofty and offended.

This did not last very long, however, and she soon resumed her wonted ways. And she returned to the question of the will, but not so directly, and with more art.

Why should this dreadful woman’s thoughts be running so continually upon my father’s will? How could it concern her?

I think all the females of our household, except Mrs. Rusk, who was at open feud with her and had only room for the fiercer emotions, were more or less afraid of this inauspicious foreigner.

Mrs. Rusk would say in her confidences in my room⁠—

“Where does she come from?⁠—is she a French or a Swiss one, or is she a Canada woman? I remember one of them when I was a girl, and a nice limb she was, too! And who did she live with? Where was her last family? Not one of us knows nothing about her, no more than a child; except, of course, the Master⁠—I do suppose he made enquiry. She’s always at hugger-mugger with Anne Wixted. I’ll pack that one about her business, if she doesn’t mind. Tattling and whispering eternally. It’s not about her own business she’s a-talking. Madame de la Rougepot, I call her. She does know how to paint up to the ninety-nines⁠—she does, the old cat. I beg your pardon, Miss, but that she is⁠—a devil, and no mistake. I found her out first by her thieving the Master’s gin, that the doctor ordered him, and filling the decanter up with water⁠—the old villain; but she’ll be found out yet, she will; and all the maids is afraid on her. She’s not right, they think⁠—a witch or a ghost⁠—I should not wonder. Catherine Jones found her in her bed asleep in the morning after she sulked with you, you know, Miss, with all her clothes on, whatever was the meaning; and I think she has frightened you, Miss and has you as nervous as anythink⁠—I do,” and so forth.

It was true. I was nervous, and growing rather more so; and I think this cynical woman perceived and intended it, and was pleased. I was always afraid of her concealing herself in my room, and emerging at night to scare me. She began sometimes to mingle in my dreams, too⁠—always awfully; and this nourished, of course, the kind of ambiguous fear in which, in waking hours, I held her.

I dreamed one night that she led me, all the time whispering something so very fast that I could not understand her, into the library, holding a candle in her other hand above her head. We walked on tiptoe, like criminals at the dead of night, and stopped before that old oak cabinet which my father had indicated in so odd a way to me. I felt that we were about some contraband practice. There was a key in the door, which I experienced a guilty horror at turning, she whispering in the same unintelligible way, all the time, at my ear. I did turn it; the door opened quite softly, and within stood my father, his face white and malignant, and glaring close in mine. He cried in a terrible voice, “Death!” Out went Madame’s candle, and at the same moment, with a scream, I waked in the dark⁠—still fancying myself in the library; and for an hour after I continued in a hysterical state.

Every little incident about Madame furnished a topic of eager discussion among the maids. More or less covertly, they nearly all hated and feared her. They fancied that she was making good her footing with “the Master;” and that she would then oust Mrs. Rusk⁠—perhaps usurp her place⁠—and so make a clean sweep of them all. I fancy the honest little housekeeper did not discourage that suspicion.

About this time I recollect a pedlar⁠—an odd, gipsified-looking man⁠—called in at Knowl. I and Catherine Jones were in the court when he came, and set down his pack