Pichon & Sons, of the Croix Rousse Page #5

"Pichon & Sons, of the Croix Rousse" is a novel by Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu that delves into themes of family dynamics, betrayal, and the complexities of human relationships. Set against the backdrop of the Croix Rousse district in Lyon, France, the story follows the Pichon family, who run a successful business but grapple with internal strife and external pressures. Le Fanu's narrative explores the moral dilemmas faced by the characters, illuminating their struggles and aspirations while weaving a tale rich in psychological depth and social commentary. The book highlights the intricate interplay of personal and professional lives, ultimately revealing the fragility of trust and the enduring impact of choices made.

• Horror

								

without difficulty, the small but heavy leather valise, had disappeared
in the distance, and Berthe was on her knees before the prie-dieu of
the ci-devant Marquise, her face turned toward the "Holy Hill" of
Fourvières.

Pichon, mâitre, and his sons, garçons-maçons, were well-to-do
people, rather morose, exceedingly avaricious, and of taciturn
dispositions; but they were not ill spoken of by their neighbors. They
had amassed a good deal of money in their time, and were just then
engaged on a very lucrative job. This was the construction of several of
the steep descents, by means of stairs, straight and winding, cut in the
face of the côteaux, by which pedestrians are enabled to descend into
the town. Pichon père was a propriétaire as well; his property was
that which is now in the possession of Giraudier, pharmacien, première
classe, and which was destined to attain a sinister celebrity during
his proprietorship. One of the straightest and steepest of the stairways
had been cut close to the terre which the mason owned, and a massive
wall, destined to bound the high-road at the foot of the declivity, was
in course of construction.

When Prosper Alix and Paul de Sénanges reached the abode of Pichon, the
master-mason, with his sons and workmen, had just completed their day's
work, and were preparing to eat the supper served by the wife and
mother, a tall, gaunt woman, who looked as if a more liberal scale of
housekeeping would have done her good, but on whose features the stamp
of that devouring and degrading avarice which is the commonest vice of
the French peasantry, was set as plainly as on the hard faces of her
husband and her sons. The avocat explained his business and introduced
his companion briefly, and awaited the reply of Pichon père without
any appearance of inquietude.

"You don't run any risk," he said; "at least, you don't run any risk
which I cannot make it worth your while to incur. It is not the first
time you have received a temporary guest on my recommendation. You know
nothing about the citizen Glaire, except that he is recommended to you
by me. I am responsible; you can, on occasion, make me so. The citizen
may remain with you a short time; can hardly remain long. Say, citizen,
is it agreed? I have no time to spare."

It was agreed, and Prosper Alix departed, leaving M. Paul de Sénanges,
convinced that the right, indeed the only, thing had been done, and yet
much troubled and depressed.

Pichon père was a short, squat, powerfully built man, verging on
sixty, whose thick, dark grizzled hair, sturdy limbs, and hard hands, on
which the muscles showed like cords, spoke of endurance and strength; he
was, indeed, noted in the neighborhood for those qualities. His sons
resembled him slightly, and each other closely, as was natural, for they
were twins. They were heavy, lumpish fellows, and they made but an
ungracious return to the attempted civilities of the stranger, to whom
the offer of their mother to show him his room was a decided relief. As
he rose to follow the woman, Paul de Sénanges lifted his small valise
with difficulty from the floor, on which he had placed it on entering
the house, and carried it out of the room in both his arms. The
brothers followed these movements with curiosity, and, when the door
closed behind their mother and the stranger, their eyes met.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twenty-four hours had passed away, and nothing new had occurred at the
Maison Alix. The servants had not expressed any curiosity respecting the
departure of the citizen Glaire, no domiciliary visit had taken place,
and Berthe and her father were discussing the propriety of Prosper's
venturing, on the pretext of an excursion in another direction, a visit
to the isolated and quiet dwelling of the master-mason. No signal had
yet arrived. It was agreed that after the lapse of another day, if their
tranquillity remained undisturbed, Prosper Alix should visit Paul de
Sénanges. Berthe, who was silent and preoccupied, retired to her own
room early, and her father, who was uneasy and apprehensive, desperately
anxious for the promised communication from the Marquis, was relieved by
her absence.

The moon was high in the dark sky, and her beams were flung across the
polished oak floor of Berthe's bedroom, through the great window with
the stone balcony, when the girl, who had gone to sleep with her lover's
name upon her lips in prayer, awoke with a sudden start, and sat up in
her bed. An unbearable dread was upon her; and yet she was unable to
utter a cry, she was unable to make another movement. Had she heard a
voice? No, no one had spoken, nor did she fancy that she heard any
sound. But within her, somewhere inside her heaving bosom, something
said, "Berthe!"

And she listened, and knew what it was. And it spoke, and said:

"I promised you that, living or dead, I would come to you again. And I
have come to you; but not living."

She was quite awake. Even in the agony of her fear she looked around,
and tried to move her hands, to feel her dress and the bedclothes, and
to fix her eyes on some familiar object, that she might satisfy herself,
before this racing and beating, this whirling and yet icy chilliness of
her blood should kill her outright, that she was really awake.

"I have come to you; but not living."

What an awful thing that voice speaking within her was! She tried to
raise her head and to look toward the place where the moonbeams marked
bright lines upon the polished floor, which lost themselves at the foot
of the Japanese screen. She forced herself to this effort, and lifted
her eyes, wild and haggard with fear, and there, the moonbeams at his
feet, the tall black screen behind him, she saw Paul de Sénanges. She
saw him; she looked at him quite steadily; she rose, slowly, with a
mechanical movement, and stood upright beside her bed, clasping her
forehead with her hands, and gazing at him. He stood motionless, in the
dress he had worn when he took leave of her, the light-colored
riding-coat of the period, with a short cape, and a large white cravat
tucked into the double breast. The white muslin was flecked, and the
front of the riding-coat was deeply stained, with blood. He looked at
her, and she took a step forward--another--then, with a desperate
effort, she dashed open the railing and flung herself on her knees
before him, with her arms stretched out as if to clasp him. But he was
no longer there; the moonbeams fell clear and cold upon the polished
floor, and lost themselves where Berthe lay, at the foot of the screen,
her head upon the ground, and every sign of life gone from her.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Where is the citizen Glaire?" asked Prosper Alix of the citoyenne
Pichon, entering the house of the master-mason abruptly, and with a
stern and threatening countenance. "I have a message for him; I must see
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