"It is you, then, prior, who from sheer goodness of heart are
undertaking to alter this fatal resolution? I admire your zeal, and I
thank you for it; but I do not think there will be any need of all these
negotiations. M. Jean de Mauprat claims his share of the inheritance;
nothing can be more just. Even should the law refuse all civil rights
to a man who owed his safety only to flight (a point which I will pass
over), my relative may rest assured that there would never be the least
dispute between us on this ground, if I were the absolute possessor
of any fortune whatever. But you are doubtless aware that I owe the
enjoyment of this fortune only to the kindness of my great-uncle, the
Chevalier Hubert de Mauprat; that he had enough to do to pay the debts
of the family, which amounted to more than the total value of the
estate; that I can alienate nothing without his permission, and that,
in reality, I am merely the depositary of a fortune which I have not yet
accepted."

The prior stared at me in astonishment, as if dazed by an unexpected
blow. Then he smiled with a crafty expression, and said:

"Very good! It appears that I have been mistaken, and that I must apply
to M. Hubert de Mauprat. I will do so; for I make no doubt that he will
be very grateful to me for saving his family from a scandal which may
have very good results for one of his relatives in the next world, but
which, for a certainty, will have very bad ones for another relation in
the present world."

"I understand, sir," I replied. "This is a threat. I will answer in the
same strain: If M. Jean de Mauprat ventures to importune my uncle and
cousin, it is with me that he will have to deal; and it will not be
before the courts that I shall summon him to answer for certain outrages
which I have by no means forgotten. Tell him that I shall grant no
pardon to the Trappist penitent unless he remains faithful to the role
he has adopted. If M. Jean de Mauprat is without resources, and he asks
my help, I may, out of the income I receive, furnish him with the means
of living humbly and decently, according to the spirit of the vows he
has taken; but if ecclesiastical ambition has taken possession of his
mind, and he thinks, by stupid, childish threats, to intimidate my
uncle to such an extent that he will be able to extort from him the
wherewithal to satisfy his new tastes, let him undeceive himself--tell
him so from me. The old man's peace of mind and his daughter's future
have only myself as guardian, and I shall manage to guard them, though
it be at the risk of my life and my honour."

"And yet honour and life are of some importance at your age," replied
the abbe, visibly irritated, but feigning a suaver manner than ever.
"Who knows into what folly religious fervour may lead the Trappist?
For, between ourselves be it said, my child--you see, I am a man of
moderation--I knew the world in my youth, and I do not approve of these
violent resolves, which are more often dictated by pride than piety.
For instance, I have consented to temper the austerity of our rules; my
friars look well-fed, and they wear shirts. Rest assured, my good sir, I
am far from approving of your uncle's design, and I shall do all that
is possible to hinder it. Yet, if he still persists, how will my efforts
profit you? He has obtained his superior's permission, and may, after
all, yield to his fatal inspiration. You may be seriously compromised by
an affair of this kind; for, although reports say that you are a worthy
young gentleman, though you have abjured the errors of the past, and
though, perhaps, your soul has always hated iniquity, you have certainly
been involved in many misdeeds which human laws condemn and punish. Who
can tell into what involuntary revelations Brother Nepomucene may
find himself drawn if he sets in motion the machinery of criminal
proceedings? Can he set it in motion against himself without at the same
time setting it in motion against you? Believe me, I wish for peace--I
am a kindly man."

"Yes, a very kindly man, father," I answered, in a tone of irony. "I see
that perfectly. But do not let this matter cause you needless anxiety;
for there is one very clear argument which must reassure both of us. If
a veritable religious impulse urges Brother John the Trappist to make a
public reparation, it will be easy to make him understand that he ought
to hesitate before he drags another than himself into the abyss; the
spirit of Christ forbids him to do this. But, if the truth is, as I
presume, that M. Jean de Mauprat has not the least wish to hand himself
over to justice, his threats are but little calculated to terrify me,
and I shall take steps to prevent them from making more stir than is
desirable."

"So that is the only answer I am to give him?" asked the prior, darting
a vindictive glance at me.

"Yes, sir," I replied; "unless he would prefer to come here and receive
the answer from my own mouth. I came with a determination to conquer
the disgust which his presence arouses in me; and I am astonished that,
after expressing so much eagerness to see me, he should remain in the
background when I arrive."

"Sir," answered the prior, with ridiculous majesty, "my duty is to see
that the peace of our Lord reigns in this holy place. I must,
therefore, set myself against any interview which might lead to violent
explanations . . ."

"You are much too easily frightened, sir," I replied. "There is nothing
to arouse passion in this matter. However, as it was not I who called
for these explanations, and as I came here out of pure compliance, I
most willingly refrain from pushing them further, and I thank you for
having been good enough to act as intermediary."

With that, I made a profound bow and retired.




XX

I gave an account of this interview to the abbe, who was waiting for
me at Patience's. He was entirely of my own opinion; he thought, like
myself, that the prior, so far from endeavouring to turn the Trappist
from his pretended designs, was trying with all his power to frighten
me, in the hope that I should be brought to make considerable sacrifices
of money. In his eyes it was clear that this old man, faithful to the
monkish spirit, wished to put into the hands of a clerical Mauprat the
fruit of the labours and thrift of a lay Mauprat.

"That is the indelible mark of the Catholic clergy," he said. "They
cannot live without waging war on the families around them, and being
ever on the watch for opportunities to spoil them. They look upon this
wealth as their property, and upon all ways of recovering it as lawful.
It is not as easy as you think to protect one's self against this
smooth-faced brigandage. Monks have stubborn appetites and ingenious
minds. Act with caution and be prepared for anything. You can never
induce a Trappist to show fight. Under the shelter of his hood, with
head bowed and hands crossed, he will accept the cruelest outrages; and,
knowing quite well that you will not assassinate him, he will hardly
fear you. Again, you do not know what justice can become in man's
hands, and how a criminal trial is conducted and decided when one of
the parties will not stick at any kind of bribery and intimidation.
The Church is powerful, the law grandiloquent. The words 'honesty' and
'integrity' have for centuries been ringing against the hardened walls
of courts of justice; but that has not prevented judges from being
false or verdicts from being iniquitous. Have a care; have a care! The
Trappist may start the cowled pack on his own track and throw them off
by disappearing at the right point and leading them on yours. Remember
that you have wounded many an _amour propre_ by disappointing the
pretensions of the dowry-hunters. One of the most incensed of them,
and at the same time one of the most malicious, is a near relative of a
magistrate who is all-powerful in the province. De la Marche has given
up the gown for the sword; but among his old colleagues he may have left
some one who would like to do you an ill-turn. I am sorry you were not
able to join him in America, and get on good terms with him. Do not
shrug your shoulders; you may kill a dozen of them, and things will
go from bad to worse. They will avenge themselves; not on your life,
perhaps, for they know that you hold that cheap, but on your honour; and
your great-uncle will die of grief. In short--"

"My dear abbe," I said, interrupting him, "you have a habit of seeing
everything black at the first glance, when you do not happen to see the
sun in the middle of the night. Now let me tell you some things which
ought to drive out these gloomy presentiments. I know John Mauprat of
old; he is a signal impostor, and, moreover, the rankest of cowards. He
will sink into the earth at the sight of me, and as soon as I speak I
will make him confess that he is neither Trappist, nor monk, nor saint.
All this is a mere sharper's trick. In the old days I have heard him
making plans which prevent me from being astonished at his impudence
now; so I have but little fear of him."

"There you are wrong," replied the abbe. "You should always fear a
coward, because he strikes from behind while you are expecting him in
front. If John Mauprat were not a Trappist, if the papers he showed me
were lies, the prior of the Carmelites is too shrewd and cautious to
have let himself be deceived. Never would he have espoused the cause of
a layman, and never would he mistake a layman for one of his own cloth.
However, we must make inquiries; I will write to the superior of the
Trappist monastery at once, but I am certain he will confirm what I know
already. It is even possible that John Mauprat is a genuine devotee.
Nothing becomes such a character better than certain shades of the
Catholic spirit. The inquisition is the soul of the Church, and the
inquisition should smile on John Mauprat. I firmly believe that he
would give himself up to the sword of justice solely for the pleasure
of compassing your ruin with his own, and that the desire to found a
monastery with your money is a sudden inspiration, the honour of which
belongs entirely to the prior of the Carmelites . . ."

"That is hardly probable, my dear abbe," I said. "Besides, where can
these discussions lead us? Let us act. Let us keep the chevalier in
sight, so that the unclean beast may not come and poison the calm of his
last days. Write to the Trappist superior; I will offer the creature
a pension, and when he comes, let us carefully watch his slightest
movements. My sergeant, Marcasse, is an admirable bloodhound. Let us put
him on the track, and if he can manage to tell us in vulgar speech what
he has seen and heard, we shall soon know everything that is happening
in the province."

Chatting thus, we arrived at the chateau towards the close of day. As
I entered the silent building, I was seized with a fond, childish
uneasiness, such as may come upon a mother when she leaves her babe a
moment. The eternal security which nothing had ever disturbed within the
bounds of the old sacred walls, the decrepitude of the servants, the way
in which the doors always stood open, so that beggars would sometimes
enter the drawing-room without meeting any one and without giving
umbrage--the whole atmosphere of peace and trust and isolation--formed
a strange contrast to the thoughts of strife, and the cares with which
John's return and the prior's threats had filled my mind for some
hours. I quickened my pace, and, seized with an involuntary trembling, I
crossed the billiard-room. At that moment I thought I saw a dark shadow
pass under the windows of the ground floor, glide through the jasmines,
and disappear in the twilight. I threw open the door of the drawing-room
and stood still. There was not a sound, not a movement. I was going
to look for Edmee in her father's room, when I thought I saw something
white moving near the chimney-corner where the chevalier always sat.

"Edmee! Is that you?" I exclaimed.

No one answered. My brow was covered with a cold sweat and my knees
were trembling. Ashamed of this strange weakness, I rushed towards the
hearth, repeating Edmee's name in agonized tones.

"Have you come at last, Bernard?" she replied, in a trembling voice.

I seized her in my arms. She was kneeling beside her father's arm-chair
and pressing to her lips the old man's icy hands.

"Great God!" I cried, when by the dim light in the room I could
distinguish the chevalier's livid face. "Is our father dead?"

"Perhaps," she said, in a stifled voice; "perhaps he has only fainted,
please God! But, a light, for Heaven's sake! Ring the bell! He has only
been in this state for a moment."

I rang in all haste. The abbe now came in, and fortunately we succeeded
in bringing my uncle back to life.

But when he opened his eyes, his mind seemed to be struggling against
the impressions of a fearful dream.

"Has he gone? Has the vile phantom gone?" he repeated several times.
"Ho, there, Saint-Jean! My pistols! Now, my men! Throw the fellow out of
the window!"

I began to suspect the truth.

"What has happened?" I said the Edmee, in a low tone. "Who has been here
in my absence?"

"If I told you," answered Edmee, "you would hardly believe it. You
would think my father and I were mad. But I will tell you everything
presently; let us attend to him."

With her soft words and loving attentions she succeeded in calming the
old man. We carried him to his room, and he fell into a quiet sleep.
When Edmee had gently withdrawn her hand from his and lowered the wadded
curtain over his head, she joined the abbe and myself, and told us that
a quarter of an hour before we returned a mendicant friar had entered
the drawing-room, where, as usual, she was embroidering near her
father, who had fallen asleep. Feeling no surprise at an incident
which frequently happened, she had risen to get her purse from the
mantel-piece, at the same time addressing a few words to the monk. But
just as she was turning round to offer him an alms the chevalier had
awakened with a start, and eyeing the monk from head to foot, had cried
in a tone half of anger and half of fear:

"What the devil are you doing here in that garb?"

Thereupon Edmee had looked at the monk's face and had recognised . . .

"A man you would never dream of," she said; "the frightful John Mauprat.
I had only seen him a single hour in my life, but that repulsive face
has never left my memory, and I have never had the slightest attack of
fever without seeing it again. I could not repress a cry.

"'Do not be afraid,' he said, with a hideous smile. 'I come here not as
an enemy, but as a supplicant.'

"And he went down on his knees so near my father, that, not knowing
what he might do, I rushed between them, and hastily pushed back the
arm-chair to the wall. Then the monk, speaking in a mournful tone, which
was rendered still more terrifying by the approach of night, began to
pour out some lamentable rigmarole of a confession, and ended by asking
pardon for his crimes, and declaring that he was already covered by the
black veil which parricides wear when they go to the scaffold.

"'This wretched creature has gone mad,' said my father, pulling the
bell-rope.

"But Saint-Jean is deaf, and he did not come. So we had to sit in
unspeakable agony and listen to the strange talk of the man who calls
himself a Trappist and declares that he had come to give himself up to
justice in expiation of his transgressions. Before doing so, he wished
to implore my father's forgiveness and his last blessing. While saying
this he was moving forward on his knees, and speaking with an intense
passion. In the sound of this voice, uttering words of extravagant
humility, there seemed to be insult and a menace. As he continued moving
nearer to my father, and as the idea of the foul caresses which he
apparently wished to lavish on him filled me with disgust, I ordered
him in a somewhat imperious tone to rise and speak becomingly. My father
angrily ordered him to say no more and depart; and as at this moment
he cried, 'No, you must let me clasp your knees!' I pushed him back to
prevent him from touching my father. I shudder to think that my glove
has touched that unclean gown. He turned towards me, and, though he
still feigned penitence and humility, I could see rage gleaming in his
eyes. My father made a violent effort to get up, and in fact he got up,
as if by a miracle; but the next instant he fell back fainting in his
chair. Then steps were heard in the billiard-room, and the monk rushed
out by the glass door with the speed of lightning. It was then that you
found me half-dead and frozen with terror at the feet of my prostate
father."

"The abominable coward has lost no time, you see, abbe," I cried. "His
aim was to frighten the chevalier and Edmee, and he has succeeded; but
he reckoned without me, and I swear that--though he should have to be
treated in the Roche-Mauprat fashion--if he ever dares to come here
again----"

"That is enough, Bernard," said Edmee. "You make me shudder. Speak
seriously, and tell me what all this means."

When I had informed her of what had happened to the abbe and myself, she
blamed us for not warning her.

"Had I known," she said, "what to expect I should not have been
frightened, and I could have taken care never to be left alone in the
house with my father, and Saint-Jean, who is hardly more active. Now,
however, I am no longer afraid; I shall be on my guard. But the best
thing, Bernard dear, is to avoid all contact with this loathsome man,
and to make him as liberal an allowance as possible to get rid of him.
The abbe is right; he may prove formidable. He knows that our kinship
with him must always prevent us from summoning the law to protect us
against his persecutions; and though he cannot injure us as seriously
as he flatters himself, he can at least cause us a thousand annoyances,
which I am reluctant to face. Throw him gold and let him take himself
off. But do not leave me again, Bernard; you see you have become
absolutely necessary to me; brood no more over the wrong you pretend to
have done me."

I pressed her hand in mine, and vowed never to leave her, though she
herself should order me, until this Trappist had freed the country from
his presence.

The abbe undertook the negotiations with the monastery. He went into
the town the following day, carrying from me a special message to the
Trappist that I would throw him out of the window if he ever took it
into his head to appear at Sainte-Severe again. At the same time I
proposed to supply him with money, even liberally, on condition that
he would immediately withdraw to his convent or to any other secular
or religious retreat he might choose, and that he would never again set
foot in Berry.

The prior received the abbe with all the signs of profound contempt and
holy aversion for his state of heresy. Far from attempting to wheedle
him like myself, he told him that he wished to have nothing to do with
this business, that he washed his hands of it, and that he would confine
himself to conveying the decisions on both sides, and affording a refuge
to Brother Nepomucene, partly out of Christian charity, and partly to
edify his monks by the example of a truly devout man. According to him,
Brother Nepomucene would be the second of that name placed in the front
rank of the heavenly host by virtue of the canons of the Church.

The next day the abbe was summoned to the convent by a special
messenger, and had an interview with the Trappist. To his great
surprise, he found that the enemy had changed his tactics. He
indignantly refused help of any sort, declaring that his vow of poverty
and humility would not allow it; and he strongly blamed his dear host,
the prior, for daring to suggest, without his consent, an exchange
of things eternal for things temporal. On other matters he refused to
explain his views, and took refuge in ambiguous and bombastic replies.
God would inspire him, he said, and at the approaching festival of the
Virgin, at the august and sublime hour of holy communion, he expected to
hear the voice of Jesus speaking to his heart and announcing the line of
conduct he ought to follow. The abbe was afraid of betraying uneasiness,
if he insisted on probing this "Christian mystery," so he returned with
this answer, which was least of all calculated to reassure me. He did
not appear again either at the castle or in the neighbourhood, and kept
himself so closely shut up in the convent that few people ever saw his
face. However, it soon became known, and the prior was most active in
spreading the news, that John Mauprat had been converted to the most
zealous and exemplary piety, and was now staying at the Carmelite
convent for a term, as a penitent from La Trappe. Every day they
reported some fresh virtuous trait, some new act of austerity of this
holy personage. Devotees, with a thirst for the marvellous, came to see
him, and brought him a thousand little presents, which he obstinately
refused. At times he would hide so well that people said he had returned
to his monastery; but just as we were congratulating ourselves on
getting rid of him, we would hear that he had recently inflicted some
terrible mortifications on himself in sackcloth and ashes; or else that
he had gone barefooted on a pilgrimage into some of the wildest and most
desolate parts of Varenne. People went so far as to say that he could
work miracles. If the prior had not been cured of his gout, that was
because, in a spirit of true penitence, he did not wish to be cured.

This state of uncertainty lasted almost two months.




XXI

These days, passed in Edmee's presence, were for me days of delight, yet
of suffering. To see her at all hours, without fear of being indiscreet,
since she herself would summon me to her side, to read to her, talk with
her on all subjects, share the loving attentions she bestowed on her
father, enter into half her life exactly as if we had been brother
and sister--this was great happiness, no doubt, but it was a dangerous
happiness, and again the volcano kindled in my breast. A few confused
words, a few troubled glances betrayed me. Edmee was by no means blind,
but she was impenetrable; her dark and searching eyes, fixed on me as
on her father, with the solicitude of an absorbing affection, would at
times suddenly grow cold, just as the violence of my passion was ready
to break out. Her countenance would then express nothing but patient
curiosity and an unswerving resolve to read to the bottom of my soul
without letting me see even the surface of her own.

My sufferings, though acute, were dear to me at first; it pleased me to
think that I was secretly offering them to Edmee as an expiation of my
past faults. I hoped that she would perceive this and be satisfied with
me. She saw it, and said nothing. My agony grew more intense; but still
some days passed before I lost all power to hide it. I say days, because
whoever has loved a woman, and has been much alone with her, yet always
kept in check by her severity, must have found days like centuries. How
full life seemed and yet how consuming! What languor and unrest! What
tenderness and rage! It was as though the hours were years; and at this
very day, if I did not bring in dates to rectify the error of my memory,
I could easily persuade myself that these two months filled half my
life.

Perhaps, too, I should like to persuade myself of this, in order to find
some excuse for the foolish and culpable conduct into which I fell in
spite of all the good resolutions which I had but lately formed. The
relapse was so sudden and complete that I should still blush at the
thought, if I had not cruelly atoned for it, as you will soon see.

After a night of agony, I wrote her an insane letter which came nigh to
producing terrible consequences for me; it was somewhat as follows:

"You do not love me, Edmee; you will never love me. I know this; I
ask for nothing, I hope for nothing. I would only remain near you and
consecrate my life to your service and defence. To be useful to you
I will do all that my strength will allow; but I shall suffer, and,
however I try to hide it, you will see it; and perhaps you will
attribute to wrong causes the sadness I may not be able to suppress with
uniform heroism. You pained me deeply yesterday, when you advised me to
go out a little 'to distract my thoughts.' To distract my thoughts from
you, Edmee! What bitter mockery! Do not be cruel, sister; for then you
become my haughty betrothed of evil days again . . . and, in spite of
myself, I again become the brigand whom you used to hate. . . . Ah, if
you knew how unhappy I am! In me there are two men who are incessantly
waging a war to the death. It is to be hoped that the brigand will fall;
but he defends himself step by step, and he cries aloud because he feels
himself covered with wounds and mortally stricken. If you knew, Edmee,
if you only knew what struggles, what conflicts, rend my bosom; what
tears of blood my heart distils; and what passions often rage in that
part of my nature which the rebel angels rule! There are nights when I
suffer so much that in the delirium of my dreams I seem to be plunging
a dagger into your heart, and thus, by some sombre magic, to be forcing
you to love me as I love you. When I awake, in a cold sweat, bewildered,
beside myself, I feel tempted to go and kill you, so as to destroy the
cause of my anguish. If I refrain from this, it is because I fear that
I should love you dead with as much passion and tenacity as if you were
alive. I am afraid of being restrained, governed, swayed by your image
as I am by your person. Then, again, a man cannot destroy the being he
loves and fears; for when she has ceased to exist on earth she still
exists in himself. It is the lover's soul which serves as a coffin for
his mistress and which forever preserves her burning remains, that it
may feed on them without ever consuming them. But, great Heaven! what is
this tumult in my thoughts? You see, Edmee, to what an extent my mind is
sick; take pity on me, then. Bear with me, let me be sad, never doubt my
devotion. I am often mad, but I worship you always. A word, a look from
you, will always recall me to a sense of duty, and this duty will be
sweet when you deign to remind me of it. As I write to you, Edmee, the
sky is full of clouds that are darker and heavier than lead; the thunder
is rumbling, and doleful ghosts of purgatory seem to be floating in
the glare of the lightning. The weight of the storm lies on my soul; my
bewildered mind quivers like the flashes which leap from the firmament.
It seems as if my whole being were about to burst like the tempest. Ah,
could I but lift up to you a voice like unto its voice! Had I the power
to lay bare the agonies and passions which rend me within! Often, when a
storm has been sweeping over the great oaks above, you have told me
that you enjoy gazing upon the fury of the one and the resistance of the
other. This, you say, is a battle of mighty forces; and in the din in
the air you fancy you can detect the curses of the north wind and the
mournful cries of the venerable branches. Which suffers the more, Edmee,
the tree which resists, or the wind which exhausts itself in the attack?
Is it not always the wind that yields and falls? And then the sky,
grieved at the defeat of her noble son, sheds a flood of tears upon
the earth. You love these wild images, Edmee; and whenever you behold
strength vanquished by resistance you smile cruelly, and there is a look
in your inscrutable eyes that seems to insult my misery. Well, you have
cast me to the ground, and, though shattered, I still suffer; yes,
learn this, since you wish to know it, since you are merciless enough
to question me and to feign compassion. I suffer, and I no longer try
to remove the foot which the proud conqueror has placed on my broken
heart."

The rest of this letter, which was very long, very rambling and absurd
from beginning to end, was in the same strain. It was not the first time
that I had written to Edmee, though I lived under the same roof, and
never left her except during the hours of rest. My passion possessed me
to such a degree that I was irresistibly drawn to encroach upon my sleep
in order to write to her, I could never feel that I had talked enough
about her, that I had sufficiently renewed my promises of submission--a
submission in which I was constantly failing. The present letter,
however, was more daring and more passionate than any of the others.
Perhaps, in some mysterious way, it was written under the influence of
the storm which was rending the heavens while I, bent over my table,
with moist brow and dry, burning hand, drew this frenzied picture of my
sufferings. A great calm, akin to despair, seemed to come over me as
I threw myself upon my bed after going down to the drawing-room and
slipping my letter into Edmee's work-basket. Day was breaking, and the
horizon showed heavy with the dark wings of the storm, which was flying
to other regions. The trees, laden with rain, were tossing under the
breeze, which was still blowing freshly. Profoundly sad, but blindly
resigned to my suffering, I fell asleep with a sense of relief, as if I
had made a sacrifice of my life and hopes. Apparently Edmee did not find
my letter, for she gave me no answer. She generally replied verbally,
and these letters of mine were a means of drawing from her those
professions of sisterly friendship with which I had perforce to be
satisfied, and which, at least, poured soothing balm into my wound.
I ought to have known that this time my letter must either lead to a
decisive explanation, or be passed over in silence. I suspected the abbe
of having taken it and thrown it into the fire; I accused Edmee of scorn
and cruelty; nevertheless, I held my tongue.

The next day the weather was quite settled again. My uncle went for a
drive, and during the course of it told us that he should not like to
die without having had one last great fox-hunt. He was passionately
devoted to this sport, and his health had so far improved that he again
began to show a slight inclination for pleasure and exercise. Seated in
a very light, narrow _berline_, drawn by strong mules, so that he might
move rapidly over the sandy paths in our woods, he had already followed
one or two little hunts which we had arranged for his amusement. Since
the Trappist's visit, the chevalier had entered, as it were, upon a
fresh term of life. Endowed with strength and pertinacity, like all his
race, it seemed as if he had been decaying for want of excitement, for
the slightest demand on his energy immediately set his stagnant blood
in motion. As he was very much pleased with this idea of a hunt, Edmee
undertook to organize, with my help, a general battue and to join in the
sport herself. One of the greatest delights of the good old man was
to see her on horseback, as she boldly pranced around his carriage and
offered him all the flowering sprigs which she plucked from the bushes
she passed. It was arranged that I should ride with her, and that
the abbe should accompany the chevalier in the carriage. All the
gamekeepers, foresters, huntsmen, and even poachers of Varenne were
invited to this family function. A splendid meal was prepared with many
goose-pies and much local wine. Marcasse, whom I had made my manager
at Roche-Mauprat, and who had a considerable knowledge of the art of
fox-hunting, spent two whole days in stopping up the earths. A few young
farmers in the neighbourhood, interested in the battue and able to give
useful advice, graciously offered to join the party; and, last of all,
Patience, in spite of his aversion for the destruction of innocent
animals, consented to follow the hunt as a spectator. On the appointed
day, which opened warm and cloudless on our happy plans and my own
implacable destiny, some fifty individuals met with horns, horses, and
hounds. At the end we were to play havoc with the rabbits, of which
there were too many on the estate. It would be easy to destroy them
wholesale by falling back upon that part of the forest which had not
been beaten during the hunt. Each man therefore armed himself with a
carbine, and my uncle also took one, to shoot from his carriage, which
he could still do with much skill.

Edmee was mounted on a very spirited Limousin mare, which she amused
herself by exciting and quieting with a touching coquetry to please her
old father. For the first two hours she hardly left the carriage at all,
and the chevalier, now full of new life, gazed on her with smiles and
tears of love. Just as in the daily rotation of our globe, ere passing
into night, we take leave of the radiant orb which is going to reign
over another hemisphere, even so did the old man find some consolation
for his death in the thought that the youth and vigour and beauty of his
daughter were surviving him for another generation.

When the hunt was in full swing, Edmee, who certainly inherited some of
the martial spirit of the family, and the calmness of whose soul
could not always restrain the impetuosity of her blood, yielded to
her father's repeated signs--for his great desire now was to see her
gallop--and went after the field, which was already a little distance
ahead.

"Follow her! follow her!" cried the chevalier, who had no sooner seen
her galloping off than his fond paternal vanity had given place to
uneasiness.

I did not need to be told twice; and digging my spurs into my horse's
flanks, I rejoined Edmee in a cross-path which she had taken to come up
with the hunt. I shuddered as I saw her bending like a reed under the
branches, while her horse, which she was still urging on, carried her
between the trees with the rapidity of lightning.

"For God's sake, Edmee," I cried, "do not ride so fast! You will be
killed!"

"Let me have a gallop," she said gaily. "My father has allowed me. You
must not interfere; I shall rap you on the knuckles if you try to stop
my horse."

"At least let me follow you, then," I said, keeping close to her.
"Your father wished it; and I shall at least be there to kill myself if
anything happens to you."

Why I was filled with these gloomy forebodings I do not know, for I had
often seen Edmee galloping through the woods. I was in a peculiar
state; the heat of noon seemed mounting to my brain, and my nerves were
strangely excited. I had eaten no breakfast, as I had felt somewhat out
of sorts in the morning, and, to sustain myself, had swallowed several
cups of coffee mixed with rum. At first I experienced a horrible
sense of fear; then, after a few minutes, the fear gave way to an
inexpressible feeling of love and delight. The excitement of the gallop
became so intense that I imagined my only object was to pursue Edmee.
To see her flying before me, as light as her own black mare, whose feet
were speeding noiselessly over the moss, one might have taken her for a
fairy who had suddenly appeared in this lonely spot to disturb the mind
of man and lure him away to her treacherous haunts. I forgot the hunt
and everything else. I saw nothing but Edmee; then a mist fell upon
my eyes, and I could see her no more. Still, I galloped on; I was in a
state of silent frenzy, when she suddenly stopped.

"What are we doing?" she said. "I cannot hear the hunt any longer, and
here is the river in front. We have come too far to the left."

"No, no, Edmee," I answered, without knowing in the least what I was
saying. "Another gallop and we shall be there."

"How red you are!" she said. "But how shall we cross the river?"

"Since there is a road, there must be a ford," I replied. "Come on! come
on!"

I was filled with an insane desire to go on galloping, I believe my idea
was to plunge deeper and deeper into the forest with her; but this idea
was wrapped in a haze, and when I tried to pierce it, I was conscious of
nothing but a wild throbbing of my breast and temples.

Edmee made a gesture of impatience.

"These woods are accursed!" she said. "I am always losing my way in
them."

No doubt she was thinking of the fatal day when she had been carried far
from another hunt and brought to Roche-Mauprat. I thought of it too,
and the ideas that came into my mind produced a sort of dizziness. I
followed her mechanically towards the river. Suddenly I realized that
she was on the other bank. I was filled with rage on seeing that her
horse was cleverer and braver than my own. Before I could get the animal
to take the ford, which was rather a nasty one, Edmee was a long way
ahead of me again. I dug my spurs into its sides till the blood streamed
from them. At last, after being nearly thrown several times, I reached
the other bank, and, blind with rage, started in pursuit of Edmee. I
overtook her, and seizing the mare's bridle, I exclaimed:

"Stop, Edmee, I say! You shall not go any farther."

At the same time I shook the reins so violently that her horse reared.
She lost her balance, and, to avoid falling, jumped lightly to the
ground between our two animals, at the risk of being hurt. I was on
the ground almost as soon as herself. I at once pushed the horses away.
Edmee's, which was very quiet, stopped and began to browse. Mine bolted
out of sight. All this was the affair of an instant.

I had caught Edmee in my arms; she freed herself and said, in a sharp
tone:

"You are very brutal, Bernard; and I hate these ways of yours. What is
the matter with you?"

Perplexed and confused, I told her that I thought her mare was bolting,
and that I was afraid some accident might happen to her if she allowed
herself to be carried away by the excitement of the ride.

"And to save me," she replied, "you make me fall, at the risk of killing
me! Really, that was most considerate of you."

"Let me help you to mount again," I said.

And without waiting for her permission, I took her in my arms and lifted
her off the ground.

"You know very well that I do not mount in this way!" she exclaimed, now
quite irritated. "Leave me alone; I don't want your help."

But I was no longer in a state to obey her. I was losing my head;
my arms were tightening around her waist, and it was in vain that I
endeavoured to take them away. My lips touched her bosom in spite of
myself. She grew pale with anger.

"Oh, how unfortunate I am!" I said, with my eyes full of tears; "how
unfortunate I am to be always offending you, and to be hated more and
more in proportion as my love for you grows greater!"

Edmee was of an imperious and violent nature. Her character, hardened by
trials, had every year developed greater strength. She was no longer the
trembling girl making a parade of courage, but in reality more ingenuous
than bold, whom I had clasped in my arms at Roche-Mauprat. She was now a
proud, fearless woman, who would have let herself be killed rather than
give the slightest countenance to an audacious hope. Besides, she was
now the woman who knows that she is passionately loved and is conscious
of her power. She repulsed me, therefore, with scorn; and as I followed
her distractedly, she raised her whip and threatened to leave a mark of
ignominy on my face if I dared to touch even her stirrup.

I fell on my knees and begged her not to leave me thus without forgiving
me. She was already in her saddle, and, as she looked round for the way
back, she exclaimed:

"That was the one thing wanting--to behold this hateful spot again! Do
you see where we are?"

I looked in my turn, and saw that we were on the edge of the forest,
quite close to the shady little pond at Gazeau. A few yards from
us, through the trees which had grown denser since Patience left, I
perceived the door of the tower, opening like a big black mouth behind
the green foliage.

I was seized with a fresh dizziness. A terrible struggle was taking
place between two instincts. Who shall explain the mysterious workings
of man's brain when his soul is grappling with the senses, and one part
of his being is striving to strangle the other? In an organization like
mine, such a conflict, believe me, was bound to be terrible; and do not
imagine that the will makes but a feeble resistance in natures carried
away by passion; it is idiotic to say to a man who lies spent with such
struggles, "You ought to have conquered yourself."




XXII

How shall I describe to you what I felt at the unexpected sight of
Gazeau Tower? I had seen it but twice in my life; each time I had taken
part in a painfully stirring scene there. Yet these scenes were as
naught beside the one awaiting me on this third encounter; there must be
a curse on certain places.

I fancied I could still see the blood of the two Mauprats sprinkled on
the shattered door. Their life of crime and their tragic end made me
shudder at the violent instincts which I felt in myself. I was filled
with a horror of my own feelings, and I understood why Edmee did not
love me. But, as if yonder deplorable blood had power to stir a
fatal sympathy, I felt the wild strength of my passion increasing in
proportion as my will made greater efforts to subdue it. I had trampled
down all other passions; scarcely a trace of them remained in me. I was
sober; if not gentle and patient, I was at least capable of affection
and sympathy; I had a profound sense of the laws of honour, and the
highest respect for the dignity of others. Love, however, was still the
most formidable of my enemies; for it was inseparably connected with all
that I had acquired of morality and delicacy; it was the tie that
bound the old man to the new, an indissoluble tie, which made it almost
impossible for me to find the golden mean between reason and passion.

Standing before Edmee, who was about to leave me behind and on foot;
furious at seeing her escape me for the last time (since after the
insult I had just offered her she would doubtless never run the risk of
being alone with me again), I gazed on her with a terrible expression.
I was livid; my fists were clinched. I had but to resolve, and the
slightest exertion of my strength would have snatched her from her
horse, thrown her to the ground and left her at the mercy of my desires.
I had but to let my old savage instincts reign for a second and I could
have slaked, extinguished the fires which had been consuming me for
seven years. Never did Edmee know the danger her honour ran in that
minute of agony, and never have I ceased to feel remorse for it; but
God alone shall be my Judge, for I triumphed, and this was the last
evil thought of my life. In this thought, moreover, lay the whole of my
crime; the rest was the work of fate.

Filled with fear, I suddenly turned my back on her and, wringing
my hands in despair, hastened away by the path which had brought me
thither. I cared little where I went; I only knew that I had to tear
myself away from perilous temptations. It was a broiling day; the odour
of the woods seemed intoxicating; the mere sight of them was stirring
up the instincts of my old savage life; I had to flee or fall. With an
imperious gesture, Edmee ordered me to depart from her presence. The
idea that any danger could possibly threaten her except from myself
naturally did not come into my head or her own. I plunged into the
forest. I had not gone more than thirty paces when I heard the report
of a gun from the spot where I had left Edmee. I stopped, petrified with
horror; why, I know not; for in the middle of a battue the report of a
gun was by no means extraordinary; but my soul was so sorrowful that it
seemed ready to find fresh woe in everything. I was about to retrace my
steps and rejoin Edmee at the risk of offending her still more when I
thought I heard the moaning of a human being in the direction of Gazeau
Tower. I rushed forward, and then fell upon my knees, as if stunned by
emotion. It took me some minutes to recover; my brain seemed full
of doleful sights and sounds; I could no longer distinguish between
illusion and reality; though the sun was shining brightly I began to
grope my way among the trees. All of a sudden I found myself face to
face with the abbe; he was anxiously looking for Edmee. The chevalier
had driven to a certain spot to watch the field pass, and not seeing his
daughter, had been filled with apprehension. The abbe had plunged into
the forest at once, and, soon finding the tracks of our horses, had come
to see what had happened to us. He had heard the gun, but had thought
nothing of it. Seeing me pale and apparently dazed, with my hair
disarranged, and without either horse or gun (I had let mine fall on the
spot where I had half fainted, and had not thought of picking it up),
he was as terrified as myself; nor did he know any more than I for what
reason.

"Edmee!" he said to me, "where is Edmee?"

I made a rambling reply. He was so alarmed at seeing me in such a
state that he felt secretly convinced I had committed some crime, as he
subsequently confessed to me.

"Wretched boy!" he said, shaking me vigorously by the arm to bring me to
my senses. "Be calm; collect your thoughts, I implore you! . . ."

I did not understand a word, but I led him towards the fatal spot; and
there--a sight never to be forgotten--Edmee was lying on the ground
rigid and bathed in blood. Her mare was quietly grazing a few yards
away. Patience was standing by her side with his arms crossed on his
breast, his face livid, and his heart so full that he was unable to
answer a word to the abbe's cries and sobs. For myself, I could not
understand what was taking place. I fancy that my brain, already
bewildered by my previous emotions, must have been completely paralyzed.
I sat down on the ground by Edmee's side. She had been shot in the
breast in two places. I gazed on her lifeless eyes in a state of
absolute stupor.

"Take away that creature," said Patience to the abbe, casting a look of
contempt on me. "His perverse nature is what it always was."

"Edmee, Edmee!" cried the abbe, throwing himself upon the grass and
endeavouring to stanch the blood with his handkerchief.

"Dead, dead!" said Patience. "And there is the murderer! She said so as
she gave up her pure soul to God; and Patience will avenge her! It is
very hard; but it must be so! It is God's will, since I alone was here
to learn the truth."

"Horrible, horrible!" exclaimed the abbe.

I heard the sound of this last word, and with a smile I repeated it like
an echo.

Some huntsmen now appeared. Edmee was carried away. I believe that I
caught sight of her father walking without help. However, I should not
dare to affirm that this was not a mere extravagant vision (for I had no
definite consciousness of anything, and these awful moments have left
in my mind nothing but vague memories, as of a dream), had I not been
assured that the chevalier got out of the carriage without any help,
walked about, and acted with as much presence of mind as a young man.
On the following day he fell into a state of absolute dotage and
insensibility, and never rose from his arm-chair again.

But what happened to myself? I do not know. When I recovered my
reason, I found that I was in another part of the forest near a little
waterfall, to the murmur of which I was listening mechanically with a
sort of vague delight. Blaireau was asleep at my feet, while his master,
leaning against a tree, was watching me attentively. The setting sun
was sending shafts of ruddy gold between the slender stems of the young
ash-trees; the wild flowers seemed to be smiling at me; and birds were
warbling sweet melodies. It was one of the most beautiful days of the
year.

"What a gorgeous evening!" I said to Marcasse. "This spot is as
beautiful as an American forest. Well, old friend, what are you doing
there? You ought to have awakened me sooner. I have had such hideous
dreams."

Marcasse came and knelt down beside me; two streams of tears were
running down his withered, sallow cheeks. On his face, usually so
impassive, there was an ineffable expression of pity and sorrow and
affection.

"Poor master!" he said, "delirium, head bad, that's all. Great
misfortune! But fidelity not changed. Always with you; if need be, ready
to die with you."

His tears and words filled me with sadness; but this was owing to an
instinctive sympathy enhanced by the weak state of my nerves, for I
did not remember a thing. I threw myself into his arms and wept like
himself; he pressed me to his bosom, as a father might his son. I was
fully conscious that some frightful misfortune had overtaken me, but
I was afraid to learn what it was, and nothing in the world would have
induced me to ask him.

He took me by the arm and led me through the forest. I let myself be
taken like a child. Then a fresh sense of weariness came over me, and he
was obliged to let me sit down again for half an hour. At last he lifted
me up and succeeded in leading me to Roche-Mauprat, where we arrived
very late. I do not know what happened to me during the night. Marcasse
told me subsequently that I had been very delirious. He took upon
himself to send to the nearest village for a barber, who bled me early
in the morning, and a few minutes later I recovered my reason.

But what a frightful service they seemed to have done me. Dead! Dead!
Dead! This was the only word I could utter. I did nothing but groan and
toss about on my bed. I wanted to get up and run to Sainte-Severe. My
poor sergeant would throw himself at my feet, or plant himself in front
of the door to prevent me. To keep me back, he would tell me various
things which I did not in the least understand. However, his manifest
solicitude for me and my own feeling of exhaustion made me yield, though
I could not explain his conduct. In one of these struggles my vein
opened again, and I returned to bed before Marcasse noticed it.
Gradually I sank into a deep swoon, and I was almost dead when, seeing
my blue lips and purple cheeks, he took it into his head to lift up the
bed-clothes, and found me lying in a pool of blood.

However, this was the most fortunate thing that could have happened to
me. For several days I remained in a state of prostration in which there
was but little difference between my waking and sleeping hours. Thanks
to this, I understood nothing, and therefore did not suffer.