Suddenly, as I cast my eyes round the room, old memories seemed to
awaken in me. The fire, after making the green wood hiss, sent a flame
up the chimney, and the whole room was illumined with a bright
though unsteady light, which gave all the objects a weird, ambiguous
appearance. Blaireau rose, turned his back to the fire and sat down
between my legs, as if he thought that something strange and unexpected
was going to happen.

I then realized that this place was none other than my grandfather
Tristan's bed-room, afterward occupied for several years by his eldest
son, the detestable John, my cruelest oppressor, the most crafty and
cowardly of the Hamstringers. I was filled with a sense of terror and
disgust on recognising the furniture, even the very bed with twisted
posts on which my grandfather had given up his blackened soul to God,
amid all the torments of a lingering death agony. The arm-chair which I
was sitting in was the one in which John the Crooked (as he was pleased
to call himself in his facetious days) used to sit and think out his
villainies or issue his odious orders. At this moment I thought I saw
the ghosts of all the Mauprats passing before me, with their bloody
hands and their eyes dulled with wine. I got up and was about to yield
to the horror I felt by taking to flight, when suddenly I saw a figure
rise up in front of me, so distinct, so recognisable, so different in
its vivid reality from the chimeras that had just besieged me, that I
fell back in my chair, all bathed in a cold sweat. Standing by the
bed was John Mauprat. He had just got out, for he was holding the
half-opened curtain in his hand. He seemed to me the same as formerly,
only he was still thinner, and paler and more hideous. His head was
shaved, and his body wrapped in a dark winding-sheet. He gave me a
hellish glance; a smile full of hate and contempt played on his thin,
shrivelled lips. He stood motionless with his gleaming eyes fixed on me,
and seemed as if about to speak. In that instant I was convinced that
what I was looking on was a living being, a man of flesh and blood; it
seems incredible, therefore, that I should have felt paralyzed by such
childish fear. But it would be idle for me to deny it, nor have I ever
yet been able to find an explanation; I was riveted to the ground with
fear. The man's glance petrified me; I could not utter a sound. Blaireau
rushed at him; then he waved the folds of his funeral garment, like a
shroud all foul with the dampness of the tomb, and I fainted.

When I recovered consciousness Marcasse was by my side, anxiously
endeavouring to lift me. I was lying on the ground rigid as a corpse. It
was with a great difficulty that I collected my thoughts; but, as soon
as I could stand upright, I seized Marcasse and hurriedly dragged him
out of the accursed room. I had several narrow escapes of falling as
I hastened down the winding stairs, and it was only on breathing the
evening air in the courtyard, and smelling the healthy odour of the
stables, that I recovered the use of my reason.

I did not hesitate to look upon what had just happened as an
hallucination. I had given proof of my courage in war in the presence of
my worthy sergeant; I did not blush, therefore, to confess the truth
to him. I answered his questions frankly, and I described my horrible
vision with such minute details that he, too, was impressed with the
reality of it, and, as he walked about with me in the courtyard, kept
repeating with a thoughtful air:

"Singular, singular! Astonishing!"

"No, it is not astonishing," I said, when I felt that I had quite
recovered. "I experienced a most painful sensation on my way here;
for several days I had struggled to overcome my aversion to seeing
Roche-Mauprat again. Last night I had a nightmare, and I felt so
exhausted and depressed this morning that, if I had not been afraid of
offending my uncle, I should have postponed this disagreeable visit. As
we entered the place, I felt a chill come over me; there seemed to be a
weight on my chest, and I could not breathe. Probably, too, the pungent
smoke that filled the room disturbed my brain. Again, after all the
hardships and dangers of our terrible voyage, from which we have hardly
recovered, either of us, is it astonishing that my nerves gave way at
the first painful emotion?"

"Tell me," replied Marcasse, who was still pondering the matter, "did
you notice Blaireau at the moment? What did Blaireau do?"

"I thought I saw Blaireau rush at the phantom at the moment when it
disappeared; but I suppose I dreamt that like the rest."

"Hum!" said the sergeant. "When I entered, Blaireau was wildly excited.
He kept coming to you, sniffing, whining in his way, running to the
bed, scratching the wall, coming to me, running to you. Strange, that!
Astonishing, captain, astonishing, that!"

After a silence of a few moments:

"Devil don't return!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Dead never
return; besides, why dead, John? Not dead! Still two Mauprats! Who
knows? Where the devil? Dead don't return; and my master--mad? Never.
Ill? No."

After this colloquy the sergeant went and fetched a light, drew his
faithful sword from the scabbard, whistled Blaireau, and bravely seized
the rope which served as a balustrade for the staircase, requesting me
to remain below. Great as was my repugnance to entering the room again,
I did not hesitate to follow Marcasse, in spite of his recommendation.
Our first care was to examine the bed; but while we had been talking in
the courtyard the servant had brought clean sheets, had made the bed,
and was now smoothing the blankets.

"Who has been sleeping there?" asked Marcasse, with his usual caution.

"Nobody," she replied, "except M. le Chevalier or M. l'Abbe Aubert, in
the days when they used to come."

"But yesterday, or to-day, I mean?" said Marcasse.

"Oh! yesterday and to-day, nobody, sir; for it is quite two years since
M. le Chevalier came here; and as for M. l'Abbe, he never sleeps here,
now that he comes alone. He arrives in the morning, has lunch with us,
and goes back in the evening."

"But the bed was disarranged," said Marcasse, looking at her
attentively.

"Oh, well! that may be, sir," she replied. "I do not know how they left
it the last time some one slept here; I did not pay any attention to
that as I put on the sheets; all I know is that M. Bernard's cloak was
lying on the top."

"My cloak?" I exclaimed. "It was left in the stable."

"And mine, too," said Marcasse. "I have just folded both together and
put them on the corn-bin."

"You must have had two, then," replied the servant; "for I am sure I
took one off the bed. It was a black cloak, not new."

Mine, as a fact, was lined with red and trimmed with gold lace.
Marcasse's was light gray. It could not, therefore, have been one of
our cloaks brought up for a moment by the man and then taken back to the
stable.

"But, what did you do with it?" said the sergeant.

"My word, sir," replied the fat girl, "I put it there, over the
arm-chair. You must have taken it while I went to get a candle. I can't
see it now."

We searched the room thoroughly; the cloak was not to be found. We
pretended that we needed it, not denying that it was ours. The servant
unmade the bed in our presence, and then went and asked the man what
he had done with it. Nothing could be found either in the bed or in the
room; the man had not been upstairs. All the farm-folk were in a state
of excitement, fearing that some one might be accused of theft. We
inquired if a stranger had not come to Roche-Mauprat, and if he was
not still there. When we ascertained that these good people had neither
housed or seen any one, we reassured them about the lost cloak by saying
that Marcasse had accidentally folded it with the two others. Then we
shut ourselves in the room, in order to explore it at our ease; for it
was now almost evident that what I had seen was by no means a ghost, but
John Mauprat himself, or a man very like him, whom I had mistaken for
John.

Marcasse having aroused Blaireau by voice and gesture, watched all his
movements.

"Set your mind at rest," he said with pride; "the old dog has not
forgotten his old trade. If there is a hole, a hole as big as your hand,
have no fear. Now, old dog! Have no fear."

Blaireau, indeed, after sniffing everywhere, persisted in scratching the
wall where I had seen the apparition; he would start back every time his
pointed nose came to a certain spot in the wainscotting; then, wagging
his bushy tail with a satisfied air, he would return to his master as if
to tell him to concentrate his attention on this spot. The sergeant then
began to examine the wall and the woodwork; he tried to insinuate his
sword into some crack; there was no sign of an opening. Still, a door
might have been there, for the flowers carved on the woodwork would hide
a skilfully constructed sliding panel. The essential thing was to find
the spring that made this panel work; but that was impossible in spite
of all the efforts we made for two long hours. In vain did we try to
shake the panel; it gave forth the same sound as the others. They were
all sonorous, showing that the wainscot was not in immediate contact
with the masonry. Still, there might be a gap of only a few inches
between them. At last Marcasse, perspiring profusely, stopped, and said
to me:

"This is very stupid; if we searched all night we should not find a
spring if there is none; and however hard we hammered, we could not
break in the door if there happened to be big iron bars behind it, as I
have sometimes seen in other old country-houses."

"The axe might help us to find a passage," I said, "if there is one; but
why, simply because your dog scratches the wall, persist in believing
that John Mauprat, or the man who resembles him, could not have come in
and gone out by the door?"

"Come in, if you like," replied Marcasse, "but gone out--no, on my
honour! For, as the servant came down I was on the staircase brushing my
boots. As soon as I heard something fall here, I rushed up quickly three
stairs at a time, and found that it was you--like a corpse, stretched
out on the floor, very ill; no one inside nor outside, on my honour!

"In that case, then, I must have dreamt of my fiend of an uncle, and the
servant must have dreamt of the black cloak; for it is pretty certain
that there is no secret door here; and even if there were one, and all
the Mauprats, living and dead, knew the secret of it, what were that to
us? Do we belong to the police that we should hunt out these wretched
creatures? And if by chance we found them hidden somewhere, should we
not help them to escape, rather than hand them over to justice? We are
armed; we need not be afraid that they will assassinate us to-night; and
if they amuse themselves by frightening us, my word, woe betide them!
I have no eye for either relatives or friends when I am startled in my
sleep. So come, let us attack the omelette that these good people my
tenants are preparing for us; for if we continue knocking and scratching
the walls they will think we are mad."

Marcasse yielded from a sense of duty rather than from conviction. He
seemed to attach great importance to the discovery of this mystery, and
to be far from easy in his mind. He was unwilling to let me remain alone
in the haunted room, and pretended that I might fall ill again and have
a fit.

"Oh, this time," I said, "I shall not play the coward. The cloak has
cured me of my fear of ghosts; and I should not advise any one to meddle
with me."

The hildago was obliged to leave me alone. I loaded my pistols and put
them on the table within reach of my hand; but these precautions were a
pure waste of time; nothing disturbed the silence of the room, and
the heavy red silk curtains, with their coat of arms at the corners in
tarnished silver, were not stirred by the slightest breath. Marcasse
returned and, delighted at finding me as cheerful as he had left me,
began preparing our supper with as much care as if we had come to
Roche-Mauprat for the sole purpose of making a good meal. He made jokes
about the capon which was still singing on the spit, and about the wine
which was so like a brush in the throat. His good humour increased when
the tenant appeared, bringing a few bottles of excellent Madeira, which
had been left with him by the chevalier, who liked to drink a glass or
two before setting foot in the stirrup. In return we invited the worthy
man to sup with us, as the least tedious way of discussing business
matters.

"Good," he said; "it will be like old times when the peasants used to
eat at the table of the seigneurs of Roche-Mauprat. You are doing the
same, Monsieur Bernard, you are quite right."

"Yes, sir," I replied very coldly; "only I behave thus with those who
owe me money, not those to whom I owe it."

This reply, and the word "sir," frightened him so much that he was at
great pains to excuse himself from sitting down to table. However, I
insisted, as I wished to give him the measure of my character at once. I
treated him as a man I was raising to my own level, not as one to whom I
wished to descend. I forced him to be cleanly in his jokes, but allowed
him to be free and facetious within the limits of decent mirth. He was
a frank, jovial man. I questioned him minutely to discover if he was
not in league with the phantom who was in the habit of leaving his cloak
upon the bed. This, however, seemed far from probable; the man evidently
had such an aversion for the Hamstringers, that, had not a regard for
my relationship held him back, he would have been only too glad to have
given them such a dressing in my presence as they deserved. But I could
not allow him any license on this point; so I requested him to give me
an account of my property, which he did with intelligence, accuracy, and
honesty.

As he withdrew I noticed that the Madeira had had considerable effect on
him; he seemed to have no control over his legs, which kept catching
in the furniture; and yet he had been in sufficient possession of his
faculties to reason correctly. I have always observed that wine acts
much more powerfully on the muscles of peasants than on their nerves;
that they rarely lose their heads, and that, on the contrary, stimulants
produce in them a bliss unknown to us; the pleasure they derive from
drunkenness is quite different from ours and very superior to our
febrile exaltation.

When Marcasse and I found ourselves alone, though we were not drunk, we
realized that the wine had filled us with gaiety and light-heartedness
which we should not have felt at Roche-Mauprat, even without the
adventure of the ghost. Accustomed as we were to speak our thoughts
freely, we confessed mutually, and agreed that we were much better
prepared than before supper to receive all the bogies of Varenne.

This word "bogey" reminded me of the adventure which had brought me into
far from friendly contact with Patience at the age of thirteen. Marcasse
knew about it already, but he knew very little of my character at that
time, and I amused myself by telling him of my wild rush across the
fields after being thrashed by the sorcerer.

"This makes me think," I concluded by saying, "that I have an
imagination which easily gets overexcited, and that I am not above fear
of the supernatural. Thus the apparition just now . . ."

"No matter, no matter," said Marcasse, looking at the priming of my
pistols, and putting them on the table by my bed. "Do not forget that
all the Hamstringers are not dead; that, if John is in this world, he
will do harm until he is under the ground, and trebly locked in hell."

The wine was loosening the hidalgo's tongue; on those rare occasions
when he allowed himself to depart from his usual sobriety, he was not
wanting in wit. He was unwilling to leave me, and made a bed for himself
by the side of mine. My nerves were excited by the incidents of the day,
and I allowed myself, therefore, to speak of Edmee, not in such a way as
to deserve the shadow of a reproach from her if she had heard my words,
but more freely than I might have spoken with a man who was as yet my
inferior and not my friend, as he became later. I could not say exactly
how much I confessed to him of my sorrows and hopes and anxieties; but
those confidences had a disastrous effect, as you will soon see.

We fell asleep while we were talking, with Blaireau at his master's
feet, the hidalgo's sword across his knees near the dog, the light
between us, my pistols ready to hand, my hunting-knife under my pillow,
and the bolts shot. Nothing disturbed our repose. When the sun awakened
us the cocks were crowing merrily in the courtyard, and the labourers
were cracking their rustic jokes as they yoked the oxen under our
windows.

"All the same there is something at the bottom of it."

Such was Marcasse's first remark as he opened his eyes, and took up the
conversation where he had dropped it the night before.

"Did you see or hear anything during the night?" I asked.

"Nothing at all," he replied. "All the same, Blaireau has been disturbed
in his sleep; for my sword has fallen down; and then, we found no
explanation of what happened here."

"Let who will explain it," I answered. "I shall certainly not trouble
myself."

"Wrong, wrong; you are wrong!"

"That may be, my good sergeant; but I do not like this room at all, and
it seems to me so ugly by daylight, that I feel that I must get far away
from it, and breathe some pure air."

"Well, I will go with you; but I shall return. I do not want to leave
this to chance. I know what John Mauprat is capable of; you don't."

"I do not wish to know; and if there is any danger here for myself or my
friends, I do not wish you to return."

Marcasse shook his head and said nothing. We went round the farm once
more before departing. Marcasse was very much struck with a certain
incident to which I should have paid but little attention. The farmer
wished to introduce me to his wife, but she could not be persuaded to
see me, and went and hid herself in the hemp-field. I attributed this to
the shyness of youth.

"Fine youth, my word!" said Marcasse; "youth like mine fifty years old
and more! There is something beneath it, something beneath, I tell you."

"What the devil can there be?"

"Hum! She was very friendly with John Mauprat in her day. She found
his crooked legs to her liking. I know about it; yes, I know many other
things, too; many things--you may take my word!"

"You shall tell me them the next time we come; and that will not be so
soon; for my affairs are going on much better than if I interfered with
them; and I should not like to get into the habit of drinking Madeira
to prevent myself from being frightened at my own shadow. And now,
Marcasse, I must ask you as a favour not to tell any one what has
happened. Everybody has not your respect for your captain."

"The man who does not respect my captain is an idiot," answered the
hidalgo, in a tone of authority; "but, if you order me, I will say
nothing."

He kept his word. I would not on any account have had Edmee's mind
disturbed by this stupid tale. However, I could not prevent Marcasse
from carrying out his design; early the following morning he
disappeared, and I learnt from Patience that he had returned to
Roche-Mauprat under the pretence of having forgotten something.




XVIII

While Marcasse was devoting himself to serious investigations, I was
spending days of delight and agony in Edmee's presence. Her behaviour,
so constant and devoted, and yet in many respects so reserved, threw me
into continual alternations of joy and grief. One day while I was taking
a walk the chevalier had a long conversation with her. I happened to
return when their discussion had reached its most animated stage. As
soon as I appeared, my uncle said to me:

"Here, Bernard; come and tell Edmee that you love her; that you will
make her happy; that you have got rid of your old faults. Do something
to get yourself accepted; for things cannot go on as they are. Our
position with our neighbours is unbearable; and before I go down to the
grave I should like to see my daughter's honour cleared from stain, and
to feel sure that some stupid caprice of hers will not cast her into a
convent, when she ought to be filling that position in society to which
she is entitled, and which I have worked all my life to win for her.
Come, Bernard, at her feet, lad! Have the wit to say something that will
persuade her! Otherwise I shall think--God forgive me!--that it is you
that do not love her and do not honestly wish to marry her."

"I! Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "Not wish to marry her--when for seven
years I have had no other thought; when that is the one wish of my
heart, and the only happiness my mind can conceive!"

Then I poured forth all the thoughts that the sincerest passion could
suggest. She listened to me in silence, and without withdrawing her
hands, which I covered with kisses. But there was a serious expression
in her eyes, and the tone of her voice made me tremble when, after
reflecting a few moments, she said:

"Father, you should not doubt my word; I have promised to marry Bernard;
I promised him, and I promised you; it is certain, therefore, that I
shall marry him."

Then she added, after a fresh pause, and in a still severe tone:

"But if, father, you believe that you are on the brink of the grave,
what sort of heart do you suppose I can have, that you bid me think only
of myself, and put on my wedding-dress in the hour of mourning for you?
If, on the contrary, you are, as I believe, still full of vigour, in
spite of your sufferings, and destined to enjoy the love of your family
for many a long year yet, why do you urge me so imperiously to cut
short the time I have requested? Is not the question important enough
to demand my most serious reflection? A contract which is to bind me for
the rest of my life, and on which depends, I do not say my happiness,
for that I would gladly sacrifice to your least wish, but the peace
of my conscience and the dignity of my conduct (since no woman can
be sufficiently sure of herself to answer for a future which has been
fettered against her will), does not such a contract bid me weigh all
its risks and all its advantages for several years at least?"

"Good God!" said the chevalier. "Have you not been weighing all this for
the last seven years? You ought to have arrived at some conclusion about
your cousin by now. If you are willing to marry him, marry him; but if
not, for God's sake say so, and let another man come forward."

"Father," replied Edmee, somewhat coldly, "I shall marry none but him."

"'None but him' is all very well," said the chevalier, tapping the logs
with the tongs; "but that does not necessarily mean that you will marry
him."

"Yes, I will marry him, father," answered Edmee. "I could have wished
to be free a few months more; but since you are displeased at all these
delays, I am ready to obey your orders, as you know."

"Parbleu! that is a pretty way of consenting," exclaimed my uncle, "and
no doubt most gratifying to your cousin! By Jove! Bernard, I have lived
many years in this world, but I must own that I can't understand these
women yet, and it is very probable that I shall die without ever having
understood them."

"Uncle," I said, "I can quite understand my cousin's aversion for me; it
is only what I deserve. I have done all I could to atone for my errors.
But, is it altogether in her power to forget a past which has doubtless
caused her too much pain? However, if she does not forgive me, I will
imitate her severity: I will not forgive myself. Abandoning all hope in
this world, I will tear myself away from her and you, and chasten myself
with a punishment worse than death."

"That's it! Go on! There's an end of everything!" said the chevalier,
throwing the tongs into the fire. "That is just what you have been
aiming at, I suppose, Edmee?"

I had moved a few steps towards the door; I was suffering intensely.
Edmee ran after me, took me by the arm, and brought me back towards her
father.

"It is cruel and most ungrateful of you to say that," she said. "Does
it show a modest spirit and generous heart, to forget a friendship, a
devotion, I may even venture to say, a fidelity of seven years, because
I ask to prove you for a few months more? And even if my affection for
you should never be as deep as yours for me, is what I have hitherto
shown you of so little account that you despise it and reject it,
because you are vexed at not inspiring me with precisely as much as you
think you are entitled to? You know at this rate a woman would have no
right to feel affection. However, tell me, is it your wish to punish
me for having been a mother to you by leaving me altogether, or to make
some return only on condition that I become your slave?"

"No, Edmee, no," I replied, with my heart breaking and my eyes full of
tears, as I raised her hand to my lips; "I feel that you have done far
more for me than I deserved; I feel that it would be idle to think of
tearing myself from your presence; but can you account it a crime in me
to suffer by your side? In any case it is so involuntary, so inevitable
a crime, that it must needs escape all your reproaches and all my own
remorse. But let us talk of this no more. It is all I can do. Grant me
your friendship still; I shall hope to show myself always worthy of you
in the future."

"Come, kiss each other," said the chevalier, much affected, "and never
separate. Bernard, however capricious Edmee may seem, never abandon
her, if you would deserve the blessing of your foster-father. Though you
should never be her husband, always be a brother to her. Remember, my
lad, that she will soon be alone in the world, and that I shall die
in sorrow if I do not carry with me to the grave a conviction that a
support and a defender still remains to her. Remember, too, that it is
on your account, on account of a vow, which her inclination, perhaps,
would reject, but which her conscience respects, that she is thus
forsaken and slandered . . ."

The chevalier burst into tears, and in a moment all the sorrows of the
unfortunate family were revealed to me.

"Enough, enough!" I cried, falling at their feet. "All this is too
cruel. I should be the meanest wretch on earth if I had need to be
reminded of my misdeeds and my duties. Let me weep at your knees; let
me atone for the wrong I have done you by eternal grief, by eternal
renunciation. Why not have driven me away when I did the wrong? Why not,
uncle, have blown out my brains with your pistol, as if I had been a
wild beast? What have I done to be spared, I who repaid your kindness
with the ruin of your honour? No, no; I can see that Edmee ought not to
marry me; that would be accepting the shame of the insult I have drawn
upon her. All I ask is to be allowed to remain here; I will never see
her face, if she makes this a condition; but I will lie at her door like
a faithful dog and tear to pieces the first man who dares to present
himself otherwise than on his knees; and if some day an honest man,
more fortunate than myself, shows himself worthy of her love, far
from opposing him, I will intrust to him the dear and sacred task of
protecting and vindicating her. I will be but a friend, a brother to
her, and when I see that they are happy together, I will go far away
from them and die in peace."

My sobs choked me; the chevalier pressed his daughter and myself to his
heart, and we mingled our tears, swearing to him that we would never
leave each other, either during his life or after his death.

"Still, do not give up all hope of marrying her," whispered the
chevalier to me a few moments later, when we were somewhat calmer. "She
has strange whims; but nothing will persuade me to believe that she does
not love you. She does not want to explain matters yet. Woman's will is
God's will."

"And Edmee's will is my will," I replied.

A few days after this scene, which brought the calmness of death into
my soul in place of the tumult of life, I was strolling in the park with
the abbe.

"I must tell you," he said, "of an adventure which befell me yesterday.
There is a touch of romance in it. I had been for a walk in the woods of
Briantes, and had made my way down to the spring of Fougeres. It was
as warm, you remember, as in the middle of summer; and our beautiful
plants, in their autumn red, seemed more beautiful than ever as they
stretched their delicate tracery over the stream. The trees have very
little foliage left; but the carpet of dried leaves one walks upon gives
forth a sound which to me is full of charm. The satiny trunks of the
birches and young oaks are covered with moss and creepers of all shades
of brown, and tender green, and red and fawn, which spread out into
delicate stars and rosettes, and maps of all countries, wherein the
imagination can behold new worlds in miniature. I kept gazing lovingly
on these marvels of grace and delicacy, these arabesques in which
infinite variety is combined with unfailing regularity, and as I
remembered with pleasure that you are not, like the vulgar, blind to
these adorable coquetries of nature, I gathered a few with the greatest
care, even bringing away the bark of the tree on which they had taken
root, in order not to destroy the perfection of their designs. I made
a little collection, which I left at Patience's as I passed; we will
go and see them, if you like. But, on our way, I must tell you what
happened to me as I approached the spring. I was walking upon the wet
stones with my head down, guided by the slight noise of the clear little
jet of water which bursts from the heart of the mossy rock. I was about
to sit down on the stone which forms a natural seat at the side of it,
when I saw that the place was already occupied by a good friar whose
pale, haggard face was half-hidden by his cowl of coarse cloth. He
seemed much frightened at my arrival; I did my best to reassure him by
declaring that my intention was not to disturb him, but merely to put my
lips to the little bark channel which the woodcutters have fixed to the
rock to enable one to drink more easily.

"'Oh, holy priest,' he said to me in the humblest tone, 'why are you
not the prophet whose rod could smite the founts of grace? and why
cannot my soul, like this rock, give forth a stream of tears?'

"Struck by the manner in which this monk expressed himself, by his sad
air, by his thoughtful attitude in this poetic spot, which has often
made me dream of the meeting of the Saviour and the woman of Samaria, I
allowed myself to be drawn into a more intimate conversation. I
learnt from the monk that he was a Trappist, and that he was making a
penitential tour.

"'Ask neither my name nor whence I come,' he said. 'I belong to an
illustrious family who would blush to know that I am still alive.
Besides, on entering the Trappist order, we abjure all pride in the
past; we make ourselves like new-born children; we become dead to the
world that we may live again in Jesus Christ. But of this be sure: you
behold in me one of the most striking examples of the miraculous power
of grace; and if I could make known to you the tale of my religious
life, of my terrors, my remorse, and my expiations, you would certainly
be touched by it. But of what avail the indulgence and compassion of
man, if the pity of God will not deign to absolve me?'

"You know," continued the abbe, "that I do not like monks, that I
distrust their humility and abhor their lives of inaction. But this man
spoke in so sad and kindly a manner; he was so filled with a sense
of his duty; he seemed so ill, so emaciated by asceticism, so truly
penitent, that he won my heart. In his looks and in his talk were bright
flashes which betrayed a powerful intellect, indefatigable energy, and
indomitable perseverance. We spent two whole hours together, and I was
so moved by what he said that on leaving him I expressed a wish to see
him again before he left this neighbourhood. He had found a lodging for
the night at the Goulets farm, and I tried in vain to persuade him to
accompany me to the chateau. He told me that he had a companion he could
not leave.

"'But, since you are so sympathetic,' he said, 'I shall esteem it a
pleasure to meet you here to-morrow towards sunset; perhaps I may
even venture to ask a favour of you; you can be of service to me in an
important matter which I have to arrange in this neighbourhood; more
than this I cannot tell you at the present moment.'

"I assured him that he could reckon on me, and that I should only be too
happy to oblige a man such as himself."

"And the result is, I suppose, that you are waiting impatiently for the
hour of your appointment?" I said to the abbe.

"I am," he replied; "and my new acquaintance has so many attractions for
me that, if I were not afraid of abusing the confidence he has placed in
me, I should take Edmee to the spring of Fougeres."

"I fancy," I replied, "that Edmee has something better to do than to
listen to the declamations of your monk, who perhaps, after all, is only
a knave, like so many others to whom you have given money blindly. You
will forgive me, I know, abbe; but you are not a good physiognomist, and
you are rather apt to form a good or bad opinion of people for no reason
except that your own romantic nature happens to feel kindly or timidly
disposed towards them."

The abbe smiled and pretended that I said this because I bore him a
grudge; he again asserted his belief in the Trappist's piety, and then
went back to botany. We passed some time at Patience's, examining the
collection of plants; and as my one desire was to escape from my own
thoughts, I left the hut with the abbe and accompanied him as far as the
wood where he was to meet the monk. In proportion as we drew near to
the place the abbe seemed to lose more and more of his eagerness of the
previous evening, and even expressed a fear that he had gone too
far. This hesitation, following so quickly upon enthusiasm, was very
characteristic of the abbe's mobile, loving, timid nature, with its
strange union of the most contrary impulses, and I again began to rally
him with all the freedom of friendship.

"Come, then," he said, "I should like to be satisfied about this; you
must see him. You can study his face for a few minutes, and then leave
us together, since I have promised to listen to his secrets."

As I had nothing better to do I followed the abbe; but as soon as we
reached a spot overlooking the shady rocks whence the water issues,
I stopped and examined the monk through the branches of a clump of
ash-trees. Seated immediately beneath us by the side of the spring, he
had his eyes turned inquiringly on the angle of the path by which he
expected the abbe to arrive; but he did not think of looking at the
place where we were, and we could examine him at our ease without being
seen by him.

No sooner had I caught sight of him than, with a bitter laugh, I took
the abbe by the arm, drew him back a short distance, and, not without
considerable agitation, said to him:

"My dear abbe, in bygone years did you never catch sight of the face of
my uncle, John de Mauprat?"

"Never, as far as I know," replied the abbe, quite amazed. "But what are
you driving at?"

"Only this, my friend; you have made a pretty find here; this good
and venerable Trappist, in whom you see so much grace and candour, and
contrition, and intelligence, is none other than John de Mauprat, the
Hamstringer."

"You must be mad!" cried the abbe, starting back. "John de Mauprat died
a long time ago."

"John Mauprat is not dead, nor perhaps Antony Mauprat either; and my
surprise is less than yours only because I have already met one of these
two ghosts. That he has become a monk, and is repenting for his sins,
is very possible; but alas! it is by no means impossible that he has
disguised himself in order to carry out some evil design, and I advise
you to be on your guard."

The abbe was so frightened that he no longer wanted to keep his
appointment. I suggested that it would be well to learn what the old
sinner was aiming at. But, as I knew the abbe's weak character, and
feared that my Uncle John would manage to win his heart by his lying
confessions and wheedle him into some false step, I made up my mind to
hide in a thicket whence I could see and hear everything.

But things did not happen as I had expected. The Trappist, instead of
playing the politician, immediately made known his real name to the
abbe. He declared that he was full of contrition, and that, as his
conscience would not allow him to make the monk's habit a refuge from
punishment (he had really been a Trappist for several years), he was
about to put himself into the hands of justice, that he might atone in
a striking way for the crimes with which he was polluted. This man,
endowed as he was with conspicuous abilities, had acquired a
mystic eloquence in the cloister. He spoke with so much grace and
persuasiveness that I was fascinated no less than the abbe. It was in
vain that the latter attempted to combat a resolution which appeared
to him insane; John Mauprat showed the most unflinching devotion to his
religious ideas. He declared that, having committed the crimes of the
old barbarous paganism, he could not ransom his soul save by a public
expiation worthy of the early Christians.

"It is possible," he said, "to be a coward with God as well as with man,
and in the silence of my vigils I hear a terrible voice answering to my
tears: 'Miserable craven, it is the fear of man that has thrown you upon
the bosom of God, and if you had not feared temporal death, you would
never have thought of life eternal!'

"Then I realize that what I most dread is not God's wrath, but the rope
and the hangman that await me among my fellows. Well, it is time to end
this sense of secret shame; not until the day when men crush me beneath
their abuse and punishment shall I fell absolved and restored in the
sight of Heaven; then only shall I account myself worthy to say to Jesus
my Saviour: 'Give ear to me, innocent victim, Thou who heardest the
penitent thief; give ear to a sullied but contrite victim, who has
shared in the glory of Thy martyrdom and been ransomed by Thy blood!'"

"If you persist in your enthusiastic design," said the abbe, after
unsuccessfully bringing forward all possible objections, "you must at
least let me know in what way you thought I could be of service to you."

"I cannot act in this matter," replied the Trappist, "without the
consent of a young man who will soon be the last of the Mauprats; for
the chevalier has not many days to wait before he will receive the
heavenly reward due to his virtues; and as for myself, I cannot avoid
the punishment I am about to seek, except by falling back into the
endless night of the cloister. I speak of Bernard Mauprat; I will not
call him my nephew, for if he heard me he would blush to think that he
bore this shameful title. I heard of his return from America, and this
news decided me to undertake the journey at the painful end of which you
now behold me."

It seemed to me that while he was saying this he kept casting
side-glances towards the clump of trees where I was, as if he had
guessed my presence there. Perhaps the movement of some branches had
betrayed me.

"May I ask," said the abbe, "what you now have in common with this young
man? Are you not afraid that, embittered by the harsh treatment formerly
lavished on him at Roche-Mauprat, he may refuse to see you?"

"I am certain that he will refuse; for I know the hatred that he still
has for me," said the Trappist, once more looking towards the spot where
I was. "But I hope that you will persuade him to grant me an interview;
for you are a good and generous man, Monsieur l'Abbe. You promised to
oblige me; and, besides, you are young Mauprat's friend, and you will
be able to make him understand that his interests are at stake and the
honour of his name."

"How so?" answered the abbe. "No doubt he will be far from pleased to
see you appear before the courts to answer for crimes which have since
been effaced in the gloom of the cloister. He will certainly wish you to
forego this public expiation. How can you hope that he will consent?"

"I have hope, because God is good and great; because His grace is
mighty; because it will touch the heart of him who shall deign to hear
the prayer of a soul which is truly penitent and deeply convinced;
because my eternal salvation is in the hands of this young man, and he
cannot wish to avenge himself on me beyond the grave. Moreover, I must
die at peace with those I have injured; I must fall at the feet of
Bernard Mauprat and obtain his forgiveness of my sins. My tears will
move him, or, if his unrelenting soul despises them, I shall at least
have fulfilled an imperious duty."

Seeing that he was speaking with a firm conviction that he was being
heard by me, I was filled with disgust; I thought I could detect the
deceit and cowardice that lay beneath this vile hypocrisy. I moved away
and waited for the abbe some distance off. He soon rejoined me; the
interview had ended by a mutual promise to meet again soon. The abbe had
undertaken to convey the Trappist's words to me, while the latter had
threatened in the most honeyed tone in the world to come and see me if I
refused his request. The abbe and I agreed to consult together, without
informing the chevalier or Edmee, that we might not disquiet them
unnecessarily. The Trappist had gone to stay at La Chatre, at the
Carmelite convent; this had thoroughly aroused the abbe's suspicions,
in spite of his first enthusiasm at the penitence of the sinner. The
Carmelites had persecuted him in his youth, and in the end the prior
had driven him to secularize himself. The prior was still alive, old
but implacable; infirm, and withdrawn from the world, but strong in his
hatred, and his passion for intrigue. The abbe could not hear his name
without shuddering, and he begged me to act prudently in this affair.

"Although John Mauprat," he said, "is under the bane of the law, and you
are at the summit of honour and prosperity, do not despise the weakness
of your enemy. Who knows what cunning and hatred may do? They can usurp
the place of the just and cast him out on the dung-heap; they can
fasten their crimes on others and sully the robe of innocence with their
vileness. Maybe you have not yet finished with the Mauprats."

The poor abbe did not know that there was so much truth in his words.




XIX

After thoroughly reflecting on the Trappist's probable intentions, I
decided that I ought to grant him the interview he had requested. In any
case, John Mauprat could not hope to impose upon me, and I wished to do
all in my power to prevent him from pestering my great-uncle's last days
with his intrigues. Accordingly, the very next day I betook myself
to the town, where I arrived towards the end of Vespers. I rang, not
without emotion, at the door of the Carmelites.

The retreat chosen by the Trappist was of those innumerable mendicant
societies which France supported at that time. Though its rules
were ostensibly most austere, this monastery was rich and devoted to
pleasure. In that age of scepticism the small number of the monks was
entirely out of proportion to the wealth of the establishment which
had been founded for them; and the friars who roamed about the vast
monasteries in the most remote parts of the provinces led the easiest
and idlest lives they had ever known, in the lap of luxury, and entirely
freed from the control of opinion, which always loses its power when man
isolates himself. But this isolation, the mother of the "amiable vices,"
as they used to phrase it, was dear only to the more ignorant. The
leaders were a prey to the painful dreams of an ambition which had been
nurtured in obscurity and embittered by inaction. To do something, even
in the most limited sphere and with the help of the feeblest machinery;
to do something at all costs--such was the one fixed idea of the priors
and abbes.

The prior of the Carmelites whom I was about to see was the
personification of this restless impotence. Bound to his great arm-chair
by the gout, he offered a strange contrast to the venerable chevalier,
pale and unable to move like himself, but noble and patriarchal in his
affliction. The prior was short, stout, and very petulant. The upper
part of his body was all activity; he would turn his head rapidly from
side to side; he would brandish his arms while giving orders. He was
sparing of words, and his muffled voice seemed to lend a mysterious
meaning to the most trivial things. In short, one-half of his person
seemed to be incessantly striving to drag along the other, like the
bewitched man in the Arabian Nights, whose robe hid a body that was
marble up to the waist.

He received me with exaggerated attention, got angry because they did
not bring me a chair quickly enough, stretched out his fat, flabby hand
to draw this chair quite close to his own, and made a sign to a tall,
bearded satyr, whom he called the Brother Treasurer, to go out; then,
after overwhelming me with questions about my journey, and my return,
and my health, and my family, while his keen restless little eyes
were darting glances at me from under eyelids swollen and heavy from
intemperance, he came to the point.

"I know, my dear child," he said, "what brings you here; you wish to
pay your respects to your holy relative, to the Trappist, that model of
faith and holiness whom God has sent to us to serve as an example to the
world, and reveal to all the miraculous power of grace."

"Prior," I answered, "I am not a good enough Christian to judge of the
miracle you mention. Let devout souls give thanks to Heaven for it. For
myself, I have come here because M. Jean de Mauprat desires to inform
me, as he has said, of plans which concern myself, and to which I am
ready to listen. If you will allow me to go and see him----"

"I did not want him to see you before myself, young man," exclaimed the
prior, with an affectation of frankness, at the same time seizing my
hands in his, at the touch of which I could not repress a feeling of
disgust. "I have a favour to ask of you in the name of charity, in the
name of the blood which flows in your veins . . ."

I withdrew one of my hands, and the prior, noticing my expression of
displeasure, immediately changed his tone with admirable skill.

"You are a man of the world, I know. You have a grudge against him who
once was Jean de Mauprat, and who to-day is the humble Brother Jean
Nepomucene. But if the precepts of our divine Master, Jesus Christ,
cannot persuade you to pity, there are considerations of public
propriety and of family pride which must make you share my fears and
assist my efforts. You know the pious but rash resolution which Brother
John has formed; you ought to assist me in dissuading him from it, and
you will do so, I make no doubt."

"Possibly, sir," I replied very coldly; "but might I ask to what my
family is indebted for the interest you are good enough to take in its
affairs?"

"To that spirit of charity which animates all the followers of Christ,"
answered the monk, with very well assumed dignity.

Fortified with this pretext, on the strength of which the clergy have
always taken upon themselves to meddle in all family secrets, it was not
difficult for him to put an end to my questions; and, though he could
not destroy the suspicions which I felt at heart, he succeeded in
proving to my ears that I ought to be grateful to him for the care which
he had taken of the honour of my name. I wanted to find out what he was
driving at; it was as I had foreseen. My Uncle John claimed from me his
share in the fief of Roche-Mauprat; and the prior was deputed to make
me understand that I had to choose between paying a considerable sum of
money (for he spoke of the interest accruing through the seven years of
possession, besides a seventh part of the whole estate) and the insane
step he intended taking, the scandal of which could not fail to
hasten the chevalier's death and cause me, perhaps, "strange personal
embarrassments." All this was hinted with consummate skill under the
cover of the most Christian solicitude for my own welfare, the most
fervent admiration for the Trappist's zeal, and the most sincere anxiety
about the results of this "firm resolve." Finally, it was made evident
that John Mauprat was not coming to ask me for the means of existence,
but that I should have to humbly beseech him to accept the half of
my possessions, if I wished to prevent him from dragging my name and
probably my person to the felon's dock.

I tried a final objection.

"If," I said, "this resolve of Brother Nepomucene, as you call him, is
as fixed as you say; if the only one care he has in the world is for his
own salvation, will you explain to me how the attractions of temporal
wealth can possibly turn him from it? There seems to be a contradiction
in this which I fail to understand."

The prior was somewhat embarrassed by the piercing glance I turned
on him, but he immediately started on one of those exhibitions of
simplicity which are the supreme resource of rogues:

"Mon Dieu! my dear son," he exclaimed, "you do not know, then, the
immense consolation a pious soul can derive from the possession of
worldly wealth? Just as perishable riches must be despised when they
represent vain pleasures, even so must they be resolutely defended by
the upright man when they afford him the means of doing good. I will
not hide from you that if I were the holy Trappist I would not yield my
rights to any one; I would found a religious society for the propagation
of the faith and the distribution of alms with the wealth which, in the
hands of a brilliant young nobleman like yourself, is only squandered on
horses and dogs. The Church teaches us that by great sacrifices and
rich offerings we may cleanse our souls of the blackest sins. Brother
Nepomucene, a prey to holy fear, believes that a public expiation is
necessary for his salvation. Like a devout martyr, he wishes to satisfy
the implacable justice of men with blood. But how much sweeter for you
(and safer, at the same time) to see him raise some holy altar to the
glory of God, and hide in the blessed peace of the cloister the baleful
lustre of the name he has already abjured! He is so much swayed by the
spirit of his order, he has conceived such a love for self-denial, for
humility and poverty, that it will need all my efforts and much help
from on high to make him agree to this change of expiations."