One morning, having managed to make me take a little nourishment, and
noticing that with my strength my melancholy and anxiety were returning,
Marcasse announced, with a simple, genuine delight, that Edmee was not
dead, and that they did not despair of saving her. These words fell upon
me like a thunderbolt; for I was still under the impression that this
frightful adventure was a delusion of my delirium. I began to shout and
to brandish my arms in a terrible manner. Marcasse fell on his knees by
my bed and implored me to be calm, and a score of times he repeated the
following words, which to me were like the meaningless words one hears
in dreams:

"You did not do it on purpose; I know well enough. No, you did not do it
on purpose. It was an accident; a gun going off in your hand by chance."

"Come, now, what do you mean?" I exclaimed impatiently. "What gun? What
accident? What have I to do with it?"

"Don't you know, then, sir, how she was hit?"

I passed my hands over my brow as if to bring back to my mind the energy
of life, and as I had no clear recollection of the mysterious event
which had unhinged it, I thought that I was mad, and remained silent and
dismayed, fearful lest any word should escape to betray the loss of my
faculties.

At last, little by little, I collected my thoughts. I asked for some
wine, as I felt weak; and no sooner had I drunk a few drops than all the
scenes of the fatal day unrolled themselves before me as if by magic.
I even remembered the words that I had heard Patience utter immediately
after the event. It was as if they had been graven in that part of the
memory which preserves the sound of words, even when the other part
which treasures up their sense is asleep. For one more moment I was
uncertain; I wondered if my gun could have gone off in my hands just
as I was leaving Edmee. I distinctly remembered firing it at a pewit
an hour before, for Edmee had wanted to examine the bird's plumage.
Further, when I heard the shot which had hit her, my gun was in my
hands, and I had not thrown it down until a few seconds later, so it
could not have been this weapon which had gone off on falling. Besides,
even granting a fatality which was incredible, I was much too far from
Edmee at that moment to have shot her. Finally, I had not a single
bullet on me throughout the day; and it was impossible for my gun to
have been loaded, unknown to myself, since I had not unslung it after
killing the pewit.

Quite convinced, therefore, that I was not the cause of the hideous
accident, it remained to me to find an explanation of this crushing
catastrophe. To me it was perfectly simple; some booby with a gun, I
thought, must have caught sight of Edmee's horse through the branches
and mistaken it for a wild beast; and I did not dream of accusing any
one of a deliberate attempt at murder. I discovered, however, that I was
accused myself. I drew the truth from Marcasse. He informed me that the
chevalier and all the people who took part in the hunt had attributed
the misfortune to a pure accident, their opinion being that, to my great
sorrow, my gun had gone off when my horse threw me, for it was believed
that I had been thrown. This was practically the view they all took. In
the few words that Edmee had been able to utter she seemed to confirm
the supposition. Only one person accused me, and that was Patience; but
he had accused me before none but his two friends, Marcasse and the Abbe
Aubert, and then only after pledging them to secrecy.

"There is no need," added Marcasse, "for me to tell you that the abbe
maintains an absolute silence, and refuses to believe that you are
guilty. As for myself, I swear to you that I shall never--"

"Stop! stop!" I said. "Do not tell me even that; it would imply
that some one in the world might actually believe it. But Edmee said
something extraordinary to Patience just as she was dying; for she is
dead; it is useless for you to try to deceive me. She is dead, and I
shall never see her again."

"She is not dead!" cried Marcasse.

And his solemn oaths convinced me, for I knew that he would have tried
in vain to lie; his simple soul would have risen in revolt against
his charitable intentions. As for Edmee's words, he frankly refused
to repeat them; from which I gathered that their testimony seemed
overwhelming. Thereupon I dragged myself out of bed, and stubbornly
resisted all Marcasse's efforts to keep me back; I had the farmer's
horse saddled and started off at a gallop. I staggered into the
drawing-room without meeting any one except Saint-Jean, who uttered
a cry of terror on seeing me, and rushed off without answering my
questions.

The drawing-room was empty. Edmee's embroidery frame, buried under the
green cloth, which her hand, perchance, would never lift again, seemed
to me like a bier under its pall. My uncle's big arm-chair was no
longer in the chimney-corner. My portrait, which I had had painted in
Philadelphia and had sent over during the American war, had been taken
down from the wall. These were signs of death and malediction.

I left this room with all haste and went upstairs with the courage of
innocence, but with despair in my soul. I waled straight to Edmee's
room, knocked, and entered at once. Mademoiselle Leblanc was coming
towards the door; she gave a loud scream and ran away, hiding her face
in her hands as if she had seen a wild beast. Who, then, could have been
spreading hideous reports about me? Had the abbe been disloyal enough
to do so? I learnt later that Edmee, though generous and unshaken in her
lucid moments, had openly accused me in her delirium.

I approached her bed and, half delirious myself, forgetting that my
sudden appearance might be a deathblow to her, I pulled the curtains
aside with an eager hand and gazed on her. Never have I seen more
marvellous beauty. Her big dark eyes had grown half as large again;
they were shining with an extraordinary brilliancy, though without any
expression, like diamonds. Her drawn, colourless cheeks, and her lips,
as white as her cheeks, gave her the appearance of a beautiful marble
head. She looked at me fixedly, with as little emotion as if she had
been looking at a picture or a piece of furniture; then, turning her
face slightly towards the wall, she said, with a mysterious smile:

"This is the flower they call _Edmea sylvestris_."

I fell upon my knees; I took her hand; I covered it with kisses; I
broke into sobs. But she gave no heed; her hand remained in mine icy and
still, like a piece of alabaster.




XXIII

The abbe came in and greeted me in a cold and sombre manner. Then he
made a sign to me, and drawing me away from the bed, said:

"You must be mad! Return at once; and if you are wise, you will remain
away. It is the only thing left for you to do."

"And since when," I cried, flying into a passion, "have you had the
right to drive me out of the bosom of my family?"

"Alas! you have no longer a family," he answered, with an accent of
sorrow that somewhat disarmed me. "What were once father and daughter
are now naught but two phantoms, whose souls are already dead and whose
bodies soon will be. Show some respect for the last days of those who
loved you."

"And how can I show my respect and grief by quitting them?" I replied,
quite crushed.

"On this point," said the abbe, "I neither wish nor ought to say
anything; for you know that your presence here is an act of rashness and
a profanation. Go away. When they are no more (and the day cannot be far
distant), if you have any claims to this house, you may return, and
you will certainly not find me here to contest them or affirm them.
Meanwhile, as I have no knowledge of these claims, I believe I may take
upon myself to see that some respect is paid to the last hours of these
two holy people."

"Wretched man!" I said, "I do not know what prevents me from tearing you
to pieces! What abominable impulse urges you to be everlastingly turning
the dagger in my breast? Are you afraid that I may survive this blow?
Cannot you see that three coffins will be taken out together from this
house? do you imagine that I have come here for aught but a farewell
look and a farewell blessing?"

"You might say a farewell pardon," replied the abbe, in a bitter tone,
and with a gesture of merciless condemnation.

"What I say is that you are mad!" I cried, "and that if you were not a
priest, this hand of mine should crush the life out of you for daring to
speak to me in this way."

"I have but little fear of you, sir," he rejoined. "To take my life
would be doing me a great service; but I am sorry that your threats and
anger should lend weight to the charges under which you lie. If I
saw that you were moved to penitence, I would weep with you; but your
assurance fills me with loathing. Hitherto, I had seen in you nothing
worse than a raging lunatic; to-day I seem to see a scoundrel. Begone,
sir!"

I fell into an arm-chair, choking with rage and anguish. For a moment I
hoped that I was about to die. Edmee was dying by my side, and before me
was a judge so firmly convinced of my guilt that his usual gentle, timid
nature had become harsh and pitiless. The imminent loss of her I loved
was hurrying me into a longing for death. Yet the horrible charge
hanging over me began to rouse my energies. I did not believe that such
an accusation could stand for a single instant against the voice of
truth. I imagined that one word from me, one look, would be sufficient
to make it fall to the ground; but I felt so dazed, so deeply wounded,
that this means of defence was denied me. The more grievously the
disgrace of such a suspicion weighed upon my mind, the more clearly
I realized that it is almost impossible for a man to defend himself
successfully when his only weapon is the pride of slandered innocence.

I sat there overwhelmed, unable to utter a word. It seemed as if a
dome of lead were weighing on my skull. Suddenly the door opened and
Mademoiselle Leblanc approached me stiffly; in a tone full of hatred
she informed me that some one outside wished to speak to me. I went out
mechanically, and found Patience waiting with his arms folded, in his
most dignified attitude, and with an expression on his face which would
have compelled both respect and fear if I had been guilty.

"Monsieur de Mauprat," he said, "I must request you to grant me a
private interview. Will you kindly follow me to my cottage?"

"Yes, I will," I replied. "I am ready to endure any humiliation, if only
I can learn what is wanted of me and why you are all pleased to insult
the most unfortunate of men. Lead the way, Patience, and go quickly; I
am eager to return here."

Patience walked in front of me with an impassive air. When we arrived
at his little dwelling, we found my poor sergeant, who had just arrived
likewise. Not finding any horse on which he could follow me, and not
wishing to quit me, he had come on foot, and so quickly that he was
bathed in perspiration. Nevertheless, the moment he saw us he sprang
up full of life from the bench on which he had thrown himself under the
bower of vine-branches, and came to meet us.

"Patience!" he cried, in a dramatic style which would have made me smile
had it been possible for me to display a glimmer of mirth at such a
moment. "Old fool! . . . Slanderer at your age? . . . Fie, sir! . . .
Ruined by good fortune . . . you are . . . yes."

Patience, impassive as ever, shrugged his shoulders and said to his
friend:

"Marcasse, you do not know what you are saying. Go and rest awhile at
the bottom of the orchard. This matter does not concern you. I want to
speak to your master alone. I wish you to go," he added, taking him by
the arm; and there was a touch of authority in his manner to which the
sergeant, in spite of his ticklish prided, yielded from instinct and
habit.

As soon as we were alone Patience proceeded to the point; he began by a
series of questions to which I resolved to submit, so that I might the
more quickly obtain some light on the state of affairs around me.

"Will you kindly inform me, monsieur," he said, "what you purpose doing
now?"

"I purpose remaining with my family," I answered, "as long as I have
a family; and when this family is no more, what I shall do concerns no
one."

"But, sir," replied Patience, "if you were told that you could not
remain under the same roof with them without causing the death of one or
the other, would you persist in staying?"

"If I were convinced that this was so," I rejoined, "I would not appear
in their presence. I would remain at their door and await the last
day of their life, or the first day of their renewed health, and again
implore a love I have not yet ceased to deserve."

"Ah, we have come to this!" said Patience, with a smile of contempt. "I
should not have believed it. However, I am very glad; it makes matters
clearer."

"What do you mean?" I cried. "Speak, you wretch! Explain yourself!"

"You are the only wretch here," he answered coldly, at the same time
sitting down on the one stool in the cottage, while I remained standing
before him.

I wanted to draw an explanation from him, at all costs. I restrained my
feelings; I even humbled myself so far as to say that I should be ready
to accept advice, if he would consent to tell me the words that Edmee
had uttered immediately after the event, and those which she had
repeated in her hours of delirium.

"That I will not," replied Patience sternly; "you are not worthy to hear
any words from that mouth, and I shall certainly never repeat them to
you. Why do you want to know them? Do you hope to hide anything from men
hereafter? God saw you; for Him there are no secrets. Leave this place;
stay at Roche-Mauprat; keep quiet there; and when your uncle is dead and
your affairs are settled, leave this part of the country. If you take my
advice, you will leave it this very day. I do not want to put the law on
your track, unless your actions force me. But others besides myself,
if they are not certain of the truth, have at least a suspicion of
it. Before two days have passed a chance word said in public, the
indiscretion of some servant, may awaken the attention of justice, and
from that point to the scaffold, when a man is guilty, is but a single
step. I used not to hate you; I even had a liking for you; take this
advice, then, which you say you are ready to follow. Go away at once, or
remain in hiding and ready for flight. I do not desire your ruin; Edmee
would not desire it either--so--do you understand?"

"You must be insane to think that I could listen to such advice. I, hide
myself! or flee like a murderer! You can't dream of that! Come on!
come on! I defy the whole of you! I know not what fury and hatred are
fretting you and uniting you all against me; I know not why you want to
keep me from seeing my uncle and cousin; but I despise your follies.
My place is here; I shall not quit it except by order of my cousin or
uncle; and this order, too, I must take from their own lips; I cannot
allow sentence to be brought me by any outsider. So, thanks for your
wisdom, Monsieur Patience; in this case my own will suffice. I am your
humble servant, sir."

I was preparing to leave the cottage when he rushed in front of me, and
for a moment I saw that he was ready to use force to detain me. In spite
of his advanced age, in spite of my height and strength, he might still
have been a match, perhaps more than a match, for me in a struggle of
this kind. Short, bent, broad-shouldered, he was a Hercules.

He stopped, however, just as he was about to lay hands on me, and,
seized with one of those fits of deep tenderness to which he was subject
in his moments of greatest passion, he gazed at me with eyes of pity,
and said, in a gentle tone:

"My poor boy! you whom I loved as a son (for I looked upon you as
Edmee's brother), do not hasten to your ruin. I beseech you in the
name of her whom you have murdered, and whom you still love--I can see
it--but whom you may never behold again. Believe me, but yesterday your
family was a proud vessel, whose helm was in your hands; to-day it is
a drifting wreck, without either sail or pilot--left to be handled
by cabinboys, as friend Marcasse says. Well, my poor mariner, do not
persist in drowning yourself; I am throwing you a rope; take it--a day
more, and it may be too late. Remember that if the law gets hold of you,
the man who is trying to save you to-day, to-morrow will be obliged to
appear against you and condemn you. Do not compel me to do a thing the
very thought of which brings tears to my eyes. Bernard, you have been
loved, my lad; even to-day you may live on the past."

I burst into tears, and the sergeant, who returned at this moment, began
to weep also; he implored me to go back to Roche-Mauprat; but I soon
recovered and, thrusting them both away, said:

"I know that both of you are excellent men, and both most generous; you
must have some love for me too, since, though you believe me blackened
with a hideous crime, you can still think of saving my life. But have no
fears on my account, good friends; I am innocent of this crime, and my
one wish is that the matter may be fully investigated, so that I may be
acquitted--yes, this is inevitable, I owe it to my family to live until
my honour has been freed from stain. Then, if I am condemned to see my
cousin die, as I have no one in the world to love but her, I will blow
my brains out. Why, then, should I be downcast? I set little store by
my life. May God make the last hours of her whom I shall certainly not
survive painless and peaceful--that is all I ask of Him."

Patience shook his head with a gloomy, dissatisfied expression. He was
so convinced of my crime that all my denials only served to alienate his
pity. Marcasse still loved me, though he thought I was guilty. I had no
one in the world to answer for my innocence, except myself.

"If you persist on returning to the chateau," exclaimed Patience, "you
must swear before you leave that you will not enter your cousin's room,
or your uncle's, without the abbe's permission."

"What I swear is that I am innocent," I replied, "and that I will
allow no man to saddle me with a crime. Back, both of you! Let me pass!
Patience, if you consider it your duty to denounce me, go and do so. All
that I ask is that I may not be condemned without a hearing; I prefer
the bar of justice to that of mere opinion."

I rushed out of the cottage and returned to the chateau. However, not
wishing to make a scandal before the servants, and knowing quite well
that they could not hide Edmee's real condition from me, I went and shut
myself up in the room I usually occupied.

But in the evening, just as I was leaving it to get news of the two
patients, Mademoiselle Leblanc again told me that some one wished to
speak with me outside. I noticed that her face betrayed a sense of joy
as well as fear. I concluded that they had come to arrest me, and I
suspected (rightly, as it transpired) that Mademoiselle Leblanc had
denounced me. I went to the window, and saw some of the mounted police
in the courtyard.

"Good," I said; "let my destiny take its course."

But, before quitting, perhaps forever, this house in which I was
leaving my soul, I wished to see Edmee again for the last time. I walked
straight to her room. Mademoiselle Leblanc tried to throw herself in
front of the door; I pushed her aside so roughly that she fell, and, I
believe, hurt herself slightly. She immediately filled the house with
her cries; and later, in the trial, made a great pother about what she
was pleased to call an attempt to murder her. I at once entered Edmee's
room; there I found the abbe and the doctor. I listened in silence to
what the latter was saying. I learnt that the wounds in themselves were
not mortal, that they would not even be very serious, had not a violent
disturbance in the brain complicated the evil and made him fear tetanus.
This frightful word fell upon me like a death sentence. In America I had
seen many men die of this terrible malady, the result of wounds received
in the war. I approached the bed. The abbe was so alarmed that he did
not think of preventing me. I took Edmee's hand, cold and lifeless, as
ever. I kissed it a last time, and, without saying a single word to the
others, went and gave myself up to the police.




XXIV

I was immediately thrown into prison at La Chatre. The public prosecutor
for the district of Issoudun took in hand this case of the attempted
murder of Mademoiselle de Mauprat, and obtained permission to have
a monitory published on the morrow. He went to the village of
Sainte-Severe, and then to the farms in the neighbourhood of the Curat
woods, where the event had happened, and took the depositions of more
than thirty witnesses. Then, eight days after I had been arrested, the
writ of arrest was issued. If my mind had been less distracted, or if
some one had interested himself in me, this breach of the law and
many others that occurred during the trial might have been adduced as
powerful arguments in my favour. They would at least have shown that the
proceedings were inspired by some secret hatred. In the whole course of
the affair an invisible hand directed everything with pitiless haste and
severity.

The first examination had produced but a single indictment against me;
this came from Mademoiselle Leblanc. The men who had taken part in the
hunt declared that they knew nothing, and had no reason to regard the
occurrence as a deliberate attempt at murder. Mademoiselle Leblanc,
however, who had an old grudge against me for certain jokes I had
ventured to make at her expense, and who, moreover, had been suborned,
as I learned afterward, declared that Edmee, on recovering from her
first swoon, at a time when she was quite calm and in full possession of
her reason, had confided to her, under a pledge of secrecy, that she had
been insulted, threatened, dragged from her horse, and finally shot by
me. This wicked old maid, putting together the various revelations
that Edmee had made in her delirium, had, cleverly enough, composed a
connected narrative, and added to it all the embellishments that hatred
could suggest. Distorting the incoherent words and vague impressions of
her mistress, she declared upon oath that Edmee had seen me point the
barrel of my carbine at her, with the words, "As I swore, you shall die
by my hand."

Saint-Jean, who was examined the same day, declared that he knew nothing
beyond what Mademoiselle Leblanc had told him that evening, and his
deposition was very similar to hers. He was honest enough, but dull and
narrow-minded. From love of exactness, he omitted no trifling detail
which might be interpreted against me. He asserted that I had always
been subject to pains in the head, during which I lost my senses; that
several times previously, when my nerves were disordered, I had spoken
of blood and murder to some individual whom I always fancied I could
see; and, finally, that my temper was so violent that I was "capable of
throwing the first thing that came to hand at any one's head, though
as a fact I had never, to his knowledge, committed any excess of this
kind." Such are the depositions that frequently decide life and death in
criminal cases.

Patience could not be found on the day of this inquiry. The abbe
declared that his ideas on the occurrence were so vague that he would
undergo all the penalties inflicted on recalcitrant witnesses rather
than express his opinion before fuller investigations had been made.
He requested the public prosecutor to give him time, promising on his
honour that he would not resist the demands of justice, and representing
that at the end of a few days, by inquiring into certain things, he
would probably arrive at a conviction of some sort; in this event he
undertook to speak plainly, either for or against me. This delay was
granted.

Marcasse simply said that if I had inflicted the wounds on Mademoiselle
de Mauprat, about which he was beginning to feel very doubtful, I had at
least inflicted them unintentionally; on this he was prepared to stake
his honour and his life.

Such was the result of the first inquiry. It was resumed at various
times during the following days, and several false witnesses swore
that they had seen me shoot Mademoiselle de Mauprat, after vainly
endeavouring to make her yield to my wishes.

One of the most baneful instruments of ancient criminal procedure was
what was known as the monitory; this was a notice from the pulpit, given
out by the bishop and repeated by all vicars to their parishioners,
ordering them to make inquiries about the crime in question, and to
reveal all the facts which might come to their knowledge. This was
merely a modified form of the inquisitorial principle which reigned more
openly in other countries. In the majority of cases, the monitory, which
had, as a fact, been instituted in order to encourage informers in the
name of religion, was a marvel of ridiculous atrocity; it frequently set
forth the crime and all the imaginary circumstances the plaintiffs were
eager to prove; it was, in short, the publication of a ready-made case,
which gave the first knave that came a chance of earning some money
by making a lying deposition in favour of the highest bidder. The
inevitable effect of the monitory, when it was drawn up with a bias,
was to arouse public hatred against the accused. The devout especially,
receiving their opinions ready-made from the clergy, pursued the victim
without mercy. This is what happened in my own case; but here the clergy
of the province were playing a further secret part which almost decided
my fate.

The case was taken to the assizes at the court of Bourges, and
proceedings began in a very few days.

You can imagine the gloomy despair with which I was filled. Edmee's
condition was growing more and more serious; her mind was completely
unhinged. I felt no anxiety as to the result of the trial; I never
imagined it was possible to convict me of a crime I had not committed;
but what were honour and life to me, if Edmee were never to regain the
power of recognising my innocence? I looked upon her as already dead,
and as having cursed me dying! So I was inflexibly resolved to kill
myself immediately after receiving my sentence, whatever it might be.
Until then I felt that it was my duty to live, and to do what might be
necessary for the triumph of truth; but I was plunged in such a state
of stupor that I did not even think of ascertaining what was to be
done. Had it not been for the cleverness and zeal of my counsel, and the
sublime devotion of Marcasse, my listlessness would have left me to the
most terrible fate.

Marcasse spent all his time in expeditions on my behalf. In the evening
he would come and throw himself on a bundle of straw at the foot of my
trunkle bed, and, after giving me news of Edmee and the chevalier,
whom he went to see every day, he would tell me the results of his
proceedings. I used to grasp his hand affectionately; but I was
generally so absorbed by the news he had just given me of Edmee, that I
never heard anything further.

This prison of La Chatre had formerly been the stronghold of the
Elevains of Lombaud, the seigneurs of the province. Nothing was left of
it but a formidable square tower at the top of a ravine where the Indre
forms a narrow, winding valley, rich with the most beautiful vegetation.
The weather was magnificent. My room, situated at the top of the tower,
received the rays of the rising sun, which cast the long, thin shadows
of a triple row of poplars as far as the eye could see. Never did
landscape more smiling, fresh, and pastoral offer itself to the eyes
of a prisoner. But how could I find pleasure in it? Words of death and
contumely came to me in every breeze that blew through the wall-flowers
growing in the crannies. Every rustic sound, every tune on the pipe that
rose to my room, seemed to contain an insult or to proclaim profound
contempt for my sorrow. There was nothing, even to the bleating of
the flocks, which did not appear to me an expression of neglect or
indifference.

For some time Marcasse had had one fixed idea, namely, that Edmee had
been shot by John Mauprat. It was possible; but as there was no evidence
to support the conjecture, I at once ordered him not to make known his
suspicions. It was not for me to clear myself at the expense of others.
Although John Mauprat was capable of anything, it was possible that he
had never thought of committing this crime; and as I had not heard him
spoken of for more than six weeks, it seemed to me that it would have
been cowardly to accuse him. I clung to the belief that one of the men
in the battue had fired at Edmee by mistake, and that a feeling of fear
and shame prevented him from confessing his misadventure. Marcasse had
the courage to go and see all those who had taken part in the hunt, and,
with such eloquence as Heaven had granted him, implored them not to fear
the penalty for unintentional murder, and not to allow an innocent man
to be accused in their stead. All these efforts were fruitless; from
none of the huntsmen did my poor friend obtain a reply which left him
any nearer a solution of the mystery that surrounded us.

On being transferred to Bourges, I was thrown into the castle which had
belonged to the old dukes of Berry; this was henceforth to be my prison.
It was a great grief to me to be separated from my faithful sergeant. He
would have been allowed to follow me, but he had a presentiment that he
would soon be arrested at the suggestion of my enemies (for he persisted
in believing that I was the victim of a plot), and thus be unable
to serve me any more. He wished, therefore, to lose no time, and to
continue his investigations as long as they "should not have seized his
person."

Two days after my removal to Bourges, Marcasse produced a document
which had been drawn up at his instance by two notaries of La Chatre. It
contained the depositions of ten witnesses to the effect that for some
days before the attempted assassination, a mendicant friar had been
prowling about Varenne; that he had appeared in different places very
close together; and, notably, that he had slept at Notre-Dame de Poligny
the night before the event. Marcasse maintained that this monk was John
Mauprat. Two women declared that they had thought they recognised him
either as John or Walter Mauprat, who closely resembled him. But Walter
had been found drowned the day after the capture of the keep; and the
whole town of La Chatre, on the day when Edmee was shot, had seen the
Trappist engaged with the Carmelite prior from morning till night in
conducting the procession and services for the pilgrimage of Vaudevant.
These depositions, therefore, so far from being favourable to me,
produced a very bad effect, and threw odium on my defence. The Trappist
conclusively proved his alibi, and the prior of the Carmelites helped
him to spread a report that I was a worthless villain. This was a time
of triumph for John Mauprat; he proclaimed aloud that he had come to
deliver himself up to his natural judges to suffer punishment for his
crimes in the past; but no one could think of prosecuting such a holy
man. The fanaticism that he inspired in our eminently devout province
was such that no magistrate would have dared to brave public opinion by
proceeding against him. In his own depositions, Marcasse gave an
account of the mysterious and inexplicable appearance of the Trappist
at Roche-Mauprat, the steps he had taken to obtain an interview with M.
Hubert and his daughter, his insolence in entering and terrifying them
in their drawing-room, and the efforts the Carmelite prior had made to
obtain considerable sums of money from me on behalf of this individual.
All these depositions were treated as fairy tales, for Marcasse admitted
that he had not seen the Trappist in any of the places mentioned, and
neither the chevalier nor his daughter was able to give evidence. It
is true that my answers to the various questions put to me confirmed
Marcasse's statements; but as I declared in all sincerity that for
some two months the Trappist had given me no cause for uneasiness or
displeasure, and as I refused to attribute the murder to him, it seemed
for some days as if he would be forever reinstated in public opinion. My
lack of animosity against him did not, however, diminish that which my
judges showed against me. They made use of the arbitrary powers which
magistrates had in bygone days, especially in remote parts of the
provinces, and they paralyzed all my lawyer's efforts by a fierce haste.
Several legal personages, whose names I will not menton, indulged,
even publicly, in a strain of invective against me which ought to have
excluded them from any court dealing with questions of human dignity and
morality. They intrigued to induce me to confess, and almost went so far
as to promise me a favourable verdict if I at least acknowledged that I
had wounded Mademoiselle de Mauprat accidently. The scorn with which
I met these overtures alienated them altogether. A stranger to all
intrigue, at a time when justice and truth could not triumph except by
intrigue, I was a victim of two redoubtable enemies, the Church and the
Law; the former I had offended in the person of the Carmelite prior; and
the latter hated me because, of the suitors whom Edmee had repulsed, the
most spiteful was a man closely related to the chief magistrate.

Nevertheless, a few honest men to whom I was almost unknown, took an
interest in my case on account of the efforts of others to make my name
odious. One of them, a Monsieur E----, who was not without influence,
for he was the brother of the sheriff of the province and acquainted
with all the deputies, rendered me a service by the excellent
suggestions he made for throwing light on this complicated affair.

Patience, convinced as he was of my guilt, might have served my enemies
without wishing to do so; but he would not. He had resumed his roaming
life in the woods, and, though he did not hide, could never be found.
Marcasse was very uneasy about his intentions and could not understand
his conduct at all. The police were furious to find that an old man was
making a fool of them, and that without going beyond a radius of a few
leagues. I fancy that the old fellow, with his habits and constitution,
could have lived for years in Varenne without falling into their hands,
and, moreover, without feeling that longing to surrender which a sense
of _ennui_ and the horror of solitude so frequently arouse, even in
great criminals.




XXV

The day of the public trial came. I went to face it quite calmly; but
the sight of the crowd filled me with a profound melancholy. No support,
no sympathy for me there! It seemed to me that on such an occasion
I might at least have looked for that show of respect to which the
unfortunate and friendless are entitled. Yet, on all the faces around
I saw nothing but a brutal and insolent curiosity. Girls of the lower
classes talked loudly of my looks and my youth. A large number of women
belonging to the nobility or moneyed classes displayed their brilliant
dresses in the galleries, as if they had come to some _fete_. A great
many monks showed their shaven crowns in the middle of the populace,
which they were inciting against me; from their crowded ranks I could
frequently catch the words "brigand," "ungodly," and "wild beast." The
men of fashion in the district were lolling on the seats of honour, and
discussing my passion in the language of the gutter. I saw and heard
everything with that tranquility which springs from a profound disgust
of life; even as a traveller who has come to the end of his journey, may
look with indifference and weariness on the eager bustle of those who
are setting off for a more distant goal.

The trial began with that emphatic solemnity which at all times has
been associated with the exercise of judicial power. My examination was
short, in spite of the innumerable questions that were asked me about
my whole life. My answers singularly disappointed the expectations
of public curiosity, and shortened the trial considerably. I confined
myself to three principal replies, the substance of which I never
changed. Firstly, to all questions concerning my childhood and
education, I replied that I had not come into the defendant's dock to
accuse others. Secondly, to those bearing on Edmee, the nature of my
feeling for her, and my relations with her, I replied that Mademoiselle
de Mauprat's worth and reputation could not permit even the simplest
question as to the nature of her relations with any man whatever; and
that, as to my feelings for her, I was accountable for them to no one.
Thirdly, to those which were designed to make me confess my pretended
crime, I replied that I was not even the unwilling author of the
accident. In brief answers I gave some details of the events immediately
preceding it; but, feeling that I owed it to Edmee as much as to myself
to be silent about the tumultuous impulses that had stirred me, I
explained the scene which had resulted in my quitting her, as being due
to a fall from my horse; and that I had been found some distance from
her body was, I said, because I had deemed it advisable to run after my
horse, so that I might again escort her. Unfortunately all this was not
very clear, and, naturally, could not be. My horse had gone off in the
direction opposite to that which I said; and the bewildered state
in which I had been found before I knew of the accident, was not
sufficiently explained by a fall from my horse. They questioned me
especially about the gallop I had had with my cousin through the wood,
instead of following the hunt as we had intended; they would not believe
that we had gone astray, guided altogether by chance. It was impossible,
they said, to look upon chance as a reasonable being, armed with a gun,
waiting for Edmee at Gazeau Tower at an appointed time, in order to
shoot her the moment I turned my back for five minutes. They pretended
that I must have taken her to this out-of-the-way spot either by craft
or force to outrage her; and that I had tried to kill her either from
rage at not succeeding, or from fear of being discovered and punished
for my crime.

Then all the witnesses for and against me were heard. It is true
that among the former Marcasse was the only one who could really be
considered as a witness for the defence. The rest merely affirmed that
a "monk bearing a resemblance to the Mauprats" had been roaming about
Varenne at the period in question, and that he had even appeared to hide
himself on the evening of the event. Since then he had not been seen.
These depositions, which I had not solicited, and which I declared had
not been taken at my request, caused me considerable astonishment; for
among the witnesses who made them I saw some of the most honest folk in
the country. However, they had no weight except in the eyes of Monsieur
E----, the magistrate, who was really interested in discovering the
truth. He interposed, and asked me how it was that M. Jean de Mauprat
had not been summoned to confront these witnesses, seeing that he
had taken the trouble to put in his affidavit to prove an alibi. This
objection was received with a murmur of indignation. There were not
a few people, however, who by no means looked upon John Mauprat as a
saint; but they took no interest in myself, and had merely come to the
trial as to a play.

The enthusiasm of the bigots reached a climax when the Trappist suddenly
stood up in the crowd. Throwing back his cowl in a theatrical manner,
he boldly approached the bar, declaring that he was a miserable sinner
worthy of all scorn, but on this occasion, when it was the duty of every
one to strive for truth, he considered it incumbent on him to set
an example of simple candour by voluntarily offering himself for any
examination which might shed light on the judges' minds. These
words were greeted with applause. The Trappist was admitted to the
witness-box, and confronted with the witnesses, who all declared,
without any hesitation, that the monk they had seen wore the same habit
as this man, and that there was a family likeness, a sort of distant
resemblance between the two; but that it was not the same person--on
this point they had not the least doubt.

The result of this incident was a fresh triumph for the Trappist. No one
seemed to notice that, as the witnesses had displayed so much candour,
it was difficult to believe that they had not really seen another
Trappist. At this moment I remembered that, at the time of the abbe's
first interview with John Mauprat at the spring at Fougeres, the
latter had let fall a few words about a friar of the same order who was
travelling with him, and had passed the night at the Goulets farm. I
thought it advisable to mention this fact to my counsel. He discussed it
in a low voice with the abbe, who was sitting among the witnesses. The
latter remembered the circumstance quite clearly, but was unable to add
any further details.

When it came to the abbe's turn to give evidence he looked at me with
an expression of agony; his eyes filled with tears, and he answered the
formal questions with difficulty, and in an almost inaudible voice. He
made a great effort to master himself, and finally he gave his evidence
in these words:

"I was driving in the woods when M. le Chevalier Hubert de Mauprat
requested me to alight, and see what had become of his daughter, Edmee,
who had been missing from the field long enough to cause him uneasiness.
I ran for some distance, and when I was about thirty yards from Gazeau
Tower I found M. Bernard de Mauprat in a state of great agitation. I
had just heard a gun fired. I noticed that he was no longer carrying his
carbine; he had thrown it down (discharged, as has been proved), a few
yards away. We both hastened to Mademoiselle de Mauprat, whom we found
lying on the ground with two bullets in her. Another man had reached her
before us and was standing near her at this moment. He alone can make
known the words he heard from her lips. She was unconscious when I saw
her."

"But you heard the exact words from this individual," said the
president; "for rumour has it that there is a close friendship between
yourself and the learned peasant known as Patience."

The abbe hesitated, and asked if the laws of conscience were not in
this case at variance with the laws of the land; and if the judges had
a right to ask a man to reveal a secret intrusted to his honour, and to
make him break his word.

"You have taken an oath here in the name of Christ to tell the truth,
the whole truth," was the reply. "It is for you to judge whether this
oath is not more solemn than any you may have made previously."

"But, if I had received this secret under the seal of the confessional,"
said the abbe, "you certainly would not urge me to reveal it."

"I believe, Monsieur l'Abbe," said the president, "that it is some time
since you confessed any one."

At this unbecoming remark I noticed an expression of mirth on John
Mauprat's face--a fiendish mirth, which brought back to me the man as I
knew him of old, convulsed with laughter at the sight of suffering and
tears.

The annoyance which the abbe felt at this personal attack gave him the
courage which might otherwise have been wanting. He remained for a few
moments with downcast eyes. They thought that he was humiliated; but,
as soon as he raised his head, they saw his eyes flashing with the
malicious obstinacy of the priest.

"All things considered," he said, in the most gentle tone, "I think that
my conscience bids me keep this secret; I shall keep it."

"Aubert," said the King's advocate, angrily, "you are apparently unaware
of the penalties which the law inflicts on witnesses who behave as you
are doing."

"I am aware of them," replied the abbe, in a still milder tone.

"Doubtless, then, you do not intend to defy them?"

"I will undergo them if necessary," rejoined the abbe, with an
imperceptible smile of pride, and such a dignified bearing that all the
women were touched.

Women are excellent judges of things that are delicately beautiful.

"Very good," replied the public prosecutor. "Do you intend to persist in
this course of silence?"

"Perhaps," replied the abbe.

"Will you tell us whether, during the days that followed this attempt to
murder Mademoiselle de Mauprat, you were in a position to hear the words
she uttered, either during her delirium or during her lucid intervals?"

"I can give you no information on that point," answered the abbe. "It
would be against my inclinations, and, moreover, in my eyes, an outrage
on propriety, to repeat words which, in the case of delirium, could
prove absolutely nothing, and, if uttered in a lucid moment, could only
have been the outpouring of a genuinely filial affection."

"Very good," said the King's advocate, rising. "We shall call upon the
Court to deliberate on your refusal of evidence, taking this incident in
connection with the main question."

"And I," said the president, "in virtue of my discretionary power, do
order that Aubert be meanwhile arrested and taken to prison."

The abbe allowed himself to be led away with unaffected calmness. The
spectators were filled with respect, and a profound silence reigned
in court, in spite of the bitter efforts of the monks and cures, who
continued to revile the heretic in an undertone.

When the various witnesses had been heard (and I must say that those
who had been suborned played their part very feebly in public), to crown
all, Mademoiselle Leblanc appeared. I was surprised to find the old maid
so bitter against me and able to turn her hatred to such account. In
truth, the weapons she could bring against me were only too powerful.
In virtue of the right which domestics claim to listen at doors and
overhear family secrets, this skilled misinterpreter and prolific liar
had learnt and shaped to her own purposes most of the facts in my
life which could be utilized for my ruin. She related how, seven years
before, I had arrived at the chateau of Sainte-Severe with Mademoiselle
de Mauprat, whom I had rescued from the roughness and wickedness of my
uncles.

"And let that be said," she added, turning toward John Mauprat with a
polite bow, "without any reference to the holy man in this court, who
was once a great sinner, and is now a great saint. But at what a price,"
she continued, facing the judges again, "had this miserable bandit saved
my dear mistress! He had dishonoured her, gentlemen; and, throughout the
days that followed, the poor young lady had abandoned herself to grief
and shame on account of the violence which had been done her, for which
nothing could bring consolation. Too proud to breath her misfortune to
a single soul, and too honest to deceive any man, she broke off her
engagement with M. de la Marche, whom she loved passionately, and who
returned her passion. She refused every offer of marriage that was
made her, and all from a sense of honour, for in reality she hated M.
Bernard. At first she wanted to kill herself; indeed, she had one of her
father's little hunting-knives sharpened and (M. Marcasse can tell you
the same, if he chooses to remember) she would certainly have killed
herself, if I had not thrown this knife into the well belonging to the
house. She had to think, too, of defending herself against the night
attacks of her persecutor; and, as long as she had this knife, she
always used to put it under her pillow; every night she would bolt the
door of her room; and frequently I have seen her rush back, pale and
ready to faint, quite out of breath, like a person who has just been
pursued and had a great fright. When this gentleman began to receive
some education, and learn good manners, mademoiselle, seeing that she
could never have any other husband, since he was always talking of
killing any man who dared to present himself, hoped he would get rid of
his fierceness, and was most kind and good to him. She even nursed him
during his illness; not that she liked and esteemed him as much as M.
Marcasse was pleased to say in his version; but she was always afraid
that in his delirium he might reveal, either to the servants or her
father, the secret of the injury he had done her. This her modesty and
pride made her most anxious to conceal, as all the ladies present will
readily understand. When the family went to Paris for the winter of '77,
M. Bernard became jealous and tyrannical and threatened so frequently
to kill M. de la Marche that mademoiselle was obliged to send the latter
away. After that she had some violent scenes with Bernard, and declared
that she did not and never would love him. In his rage and grief--for
it cannot be denied that he was enamoured of her in his tigerish
fashion--he went off to America, and during the six years he spent there
his letters seemed to show that he had much improved. By the time he
returned, mademoiselle had made up her mind to be an old maid, and had
become quite calm again. And M. Bernard, too, seemed to have grown into
a fairly good young gentleman. However, through seeing her every day
and everlastingly leaning over the back of her arm-chair, or winding
her skeins of wool and whispering to her while her father was asleep, he
fell so deeply in love again that he lost his head. I do not wish to be
too hard on him, poor creature! and I fancy his right place is in the
asylum rather than on the scaffold. He used to shout and groan all night
long; and the letters he wrote her were so stupid that she used to smile
as she read them and then put them in her pocket without answering them.
Here is one of these letters that I found upon her when I undressed her
after the horrible deed; a bullet has gone through it, and it is
stained with blood, but enough may still be read to show that monsieur
frequently intended to kill mademoiselle."