So saying, she put down on the table a sheet of paper half burnt
and half covered with blood, which sent a shudder through the
spectators--genuine with some of them, mere affectation with many
others.

Before this letter was read, she finished her deposition, and ended it
with some assertions which perplexed me considerably; for I could no
longer distinguish the boundary between truth and perfidy.

"Ever since her accident," she said, "mademoiselle has been hovering
between life and death. She will certainly never recover, whatever the
doctors may declare. I venture to say that these gentlemen, who only see
the patient at certain hours, do not understand her illness as well as
I, who have never left her for a single night. They pretend that her
wounds are going on well and that her head is deranged; whereas I say
that her wounds are going on badly, and that her head is better than
they say. Mademoiselle very rarely talks irrationally, and if by chance
she does, it is in the presence of these gentlemen, who confuse and
frighten her. She then makes such efforts not to appear mad that she
actually becomes so; but as soon as they leave her alone with me or
Saint-Jean or Monsieur l'Abbe, who could quite well have told you how
things are, if he had wished, she becomes calm again, and sweet and
sensible as usual. She says that she could almost die of pain, although
to the doctors she pretends that she is scarcely suffering at all.
And then she speaks of her murderer with the generosity that becomes a
Christian; a hundred times a day she will say:

"'May God pardon him in the next life as I pardon him in this! After
all, a man must be very fond of a woman to kill her! I was wrong not to
marry him; perhaps he would have made me happy. I drove him to despair
and he has avenged himself on me. Dear Leblanc, take care never to
betray the secret I have told you. A single indiscreet word might send
him to the scaffold, and that would be the death of my father.'

"The poor young lady is far from imagining that things have come to this
pass; that I have been summoned by the law and my religion to make known
what I would rather conceal; and that, instead of going out to get an
apparatus for her shower-baths, I have come here to confess the truth.
The only thing that consoles me is that it will be easy to hide all this
from M. le Chevalier, who has no more sense now than a babe just born.
For myself, I have done my duty; may God be my judge!"

After speaking thus with perfect self-possession and great volubility,
Mademoiselle Leblanc sat down again amid a murmur of approbation, and
they proceeded to read the letter which had been found on Edmee.

It was, indeed, the one I had written to her only a few days before the
fatal day. They handed it to me; I could not help pressing my lips to
the stains of Edmee's blood. Then, after glancing at the writing, I
returned the letter, and declared quite calmly that it was written by
me.

The reading of this letter was my _coup de grace_. Fate, who seems
ingenious in injuring her victims, had obtained (and perhaps some famous
hand had contributed to the mutilation) that the passages expressing my
obedience and respect should be destroyed. Certain poetic touches which
might have furnished an explanation of, and an excuse for, my wild
ramblings, were illegible. What showed plain to every eye, and carried
conviction to every mind, were the lines that remained intact, the lines
that bore witness to the violence of my passion and the vehemence of my
frenzy. They were such phrases as these: "Sometimes I feel inclined to
rise in the middle of the night and go and kill you! I should have done
this a hundred times, if I had been sure that I should love you no
more after your death. Be considerate; for there are two men in me, and
sometimes the brigand of old lords it over the new man, etc." A smile of
triumph played about my enemies' mouths. My supporters were demoralized,
and even my poor sergeant looked at me in despair. The public had
already condemned me.

This incident afforded the King's advocate a fine chance of thundering
forth a pompous address, in which he described me as an incurable
blackguard, as an accursed branch of an accursed stock, as an example of
the fatality of evil instincts. Then, after exerting himself to hold
me up as an object of horror and fear, he endeavoured, in order to give
himself an air of impartiality and generosity, to arouse the compassion
of the judges in my favour; he proceeded to show that I was not
responsible for my actions; that my mind had been perverted in early
childhood by foul sights and vile principles, and was not sound, nor
ever could have been, whatever the origin and growth of my passions. At
last, after going through a course of philosophy and rhetoric, to the
great delight of the audience, he demanded that I should be condemned to
privation of civil rights and imprisonment for life.

Though my counsel was a man of spirit and intelligence, the letter
had so taken him by surprise, the people in court were so unfavourably
disposed towards me, and the judges, as they listened to him, so
frequently showed signs of incredulity and impatience (an unseemly habit
which appears to be the heritage of the magisterial benches of this
country), that his defence was tame. All that he seemed justified in
demanding with any vigour was a further inquiry. He complained that all
the formalities had not been fulfilled; that sufficient light had not
been thrown on certain points in the case; that it would be showing
too much haste to give a verdict when several circumstances were still
wrapped in mystery. He demanded that the doctors should be called to
express an opinion as to the possibility of taking Mademoiselle de
Mauprat's evidence. He pointed out that the most important, in fact the
only important, testimony was that of Patience, and that Patience might
appear any day and prove me innocent. Finally, he demanded that
they should order a search to be made for the mendicant friar whose
resemblance to the Mauprats had not yet been explained, and had been
sworn to by trustworthy witnesses. In his opinion it was essential
to discover what had become of Antony Mauprat, and to call upon the
Trappist for information on this point. He complained bitterly that they
had deprived him of all means of defence by refusing any delay; and he
had the courage to assert that some evil passions must be responsible
for such blind haste as had marked the conduct of this trial. On this
the president called him to order. Then the King's advocate replied
triumphantly that all formalities had been fulfilled; that the court was
sufficiently enlightened; that a search for the mendicant friar would
be a piece of folly and in bad taste, since John Mauprat had proved his
last brother's death, which had taken place several years before. The
court retired to deliberate; at the end of half an hour they came back
with a verdict condemning me to death.




XXVI

Although the haste with which the trial had been conducted and the
severity of the sentence were iniquitous, and filled those who were
most bitter against me with amazement, I received the blow with supreme
indifference; I no longer felt an interest in anything on earth. I
commended my soul and the vindication of my memory to God. I said to
myself that if Edmee died I should find her again in a better world;
that if she survived me and recovered her reason, she would one day
succeed in discovering the truth, and that then I should live in
her heart as a dear and tender memory. Irritable as I am, and always
inclined to violence in the case of anything that is an obstacle or an
offence to me, I am astonished at the philosophical resignation and the
proud calm I have shown on the momentous occasions of life, and above
all on this one.

It was two o'clock in the morning. The case had lasted for fourteen
hours. A silence as of death reigned over the court, which was as full
and as attentive as at the beginning, so fond are mortals of anything in
the nature of a show. That offered by the criminal court at this moment
was somewhat dismal. Those men in red robes, as pale and stern and
implacable as the Council of Ten at Venice; those ghosts of women decked
with flowers, who, by the dim light of the tapers, looked like mere
reflections of life hovering in the galleries above the priests of
death; the muskets of the guard glittering in the gloom in the back of
the court; the heart-broken attitude of my poor sergeant, who had fallen
at my feet; the silent but vast delight of the Trappist, still standing
unwearied near the bar; the mournful note of some convent bell in the
neighbourhood beginning to ring for matins amid the silence of the
assembly--was not all this enough to touch the nerves of the wives of
the farmers-general and to send a thrill through the brawny breasts of
the tanners in the body of the court?

Suddenly, just as the court was about to disperse, a figure like that of
the traditional peasant of the Danube--squat, rugged, barefooted, with
a long beard, dishevelled hair, a broad, grave brow, and a stern,
commanding glance--rose in the midst of the flickering reflections by
which the hall was half lighted, and standing erect before the bar, said
in a deep, striking voice:

"I, Jean le Houx, known as Patience, oppose this judgment as iniquitous
in substance and illegal in form. I demand that it be revised, so that
I may give my evidence, which is necessary, may be of sovereign
importance, and should have been waited for."

"If you had anything to say," cried the King's advocate, in a passion,
"why did you not present yourself when you were summoned. You are
imposing on the court by pretending that you have important evidence to
give."

"And you," answered Patience, more slowly and in an even deeper tone
than before, "you are imposing on the public by pretending that I have
not. You know well enough that I must have."

"Remember where you are, witness, and to whom you are speaking."

"I know too well, and I shall not say too much. I hereby declare that I
have some important things to say, and that I should have said them at
the right time, if you had not done violence to the time. I wish to say
them, and I shall; and, believe me, it is better that I should make them
known while it is still possible to revise these proceedings. It is even
better for the judges than the prisoner; for the one comes to life again
in honour, as soon as the others die in infamy."

"Witness," said the irritated magistrate, "the virulence and
impertinence of your language will be prejudicial rather than
advantageous to the prisoner."

"And who says that I am favourable to the prisoner?" said Patience in a
voice of thunder. "What do you know about me? What if it pleases me
to change an illegal and worthless verdict into one which is legal and
irrevocable?"

"But how can you reconcile this desire to see the laws respected," said
the magistrate, genuinely moved by Patience's powerful personality,
"with your own breach of them in not appearing when summoned by the
public prosecutor?"

"I did not wish to appear."

"Severe penalties may be inflicted on those whose wishes are not in
harmony with the laws of the land."

"Possibly."

"Have you come here to-day with the intention of submitting to them?"

"I have come to see that you respect them."

"I warn you that, if you do not change your tone, I shall have you taken
off to prison."

"And I warn you that, if you love justice and serve God, you will listen
to me and suspend the execution of this sentence. It is not for him who
brings truth to humble himself before those who should be seeking it.
But you who are listening to me now, you men of the people, whom I will
not accuse the great of wishing to dupe, you whose voice is called 'the
voice of God,' side with me; embrace the cause of truth, that truth
which is in danger of being stifled under false outward shows, or else
is about to triumph by unfair means. Go down on your knees, you men
of the people, my brothers, my children; pray, implore, require that
justice be done and anger repressed. It is your duty, it is your right,
and to your own interest; for it is you who are insulted and threatened
when laws are violated."

Patience spoke with so much warmth, and his sincerity was so strikingly
manifest, that a thrill of sympathy ran through the whole audience. At
that time, philosophy was too fashionable with the young men of quality
for these not to be among the first to respond to an appeal, though
addressed to others than themselves. They rose with chivalrous
enthusiasm and turned round to the people, who, carried away by their
noble example, rose likewise. There was a wild uproar, and one and all,
conscious of their dignity and power, cast away personal prejudices in
order to combine for their common rights. Thus, a noble impetuosity and
a true word are sometimes sufficient to bring back the masses who have
long been led astray by sophism.

A respite was granted, and I was led back to my prison amid the applause
of the people. Marcasse followed me. Patience disappeared without giving
me a chance to thank him.

The revision of the sentence could not be made without an order from the
high court. For my own part, before the verdict was given I had resolved
to make no appeal to this court of cassation of the old jurisprudence.
But Patience's bearing and words had had as much effect on my mind as on
the minds of the spectators. The spirit of resistance and the sense
of human dignity, dulled in me and paralyzed, as it were, by grief,
suddenly awoke again, and in this hour I realized that man is not made
for that selfish concentration of despair which is known as resignation
or stoicism. No man can cease to have a regard for his own honour
without at the same time ceasing to feel the respect due to the
principle of honour. If it is grand to sacrifice personal glory and life
to the mysterious decrees of conscience, it is cowardly to abandon both
to the fury of an unjust persecution. I felt that I had risen in my own
estimation, and I passed the rest of this momentous night in devising
means of vindicating myself, with as much persistence as I had
previously displayed in abandoning myself to fate. With this feeling of
energy I could feel hope springing up anew. Edmee, perhaps, was neither
mad nor mortally wounded. She might acquit me; she might recover.

"Who knows?" I said to myself. "Perhaps she has already done me justice.
Perhaps it was she who sent Patience to my rescue. Undoubtedly I shall
best please her by taking courage again, and not letting myself be
crushed by a set of knaves."

But how was I to obtain this order from the high court? It needed a
special mandate from the King; who would procure this? Who would cut
short those odious delays which the law can introduce at will into the
very cases that it has previously hurried on with blind precipitation?
Who would prevent my enemies from injuring me and paralyzing all my
efforts? In a word, who would fight for me? The abbe alone could have
taken up my cause; but he was already in prison on my account. His
generous behaviour in the trial had proved that he was still my friend,
but his zeal was now fettered. And what could Marcasse do, hampered
by his humble birth and enigmatical language? Evening came, and I fell
asleep in the hope that help would be sent from on high; for I had
prayed to God with my whole soul. A few hours of sleep refreshed me; I
was aroused by the noise of bolts being drawn at the other side of
my door. O God of goodness! what was my delight on seeing Arthur, my
brother in arms, my other self, the man from whom I had had no secret
for six long years! I wept like a child on receiving this mark of love
from Providence. Arthur did not believe me guilty! Scientific matters
connected with the library at Philadelphia had taken him to Paris, where
he had heard of this sad affair in which I was implicated. He had broken
a lance with all who attacked me, and had not lost a moment in coming to
offer help or consolation.

In a transport of joy I poured out my soul to him, and then explained
how he could assist me. He wanted to take the coach for Paris that very
evening; but I implored him to go to Sainte-Severe first of all to get
news of Edmee. Four mortal days had passed since I had received any;
and, moreover, Marcasse had never given me such exact details as I could
have wished.

"Ease your mind," said Arthur. "I will undertake to bring you the truth.
I am a pretty good surgeon; and I have a practised eye. I shall be
able to give you some idea of what you have to hope or fear. From
Sainte-Severe I shall go straight to Paris."

Two days later I received a long letter from him giving full details
about Edmee.

Her condition was extraordinary. She did not speak, nor did she appear
to be in pain as long as nothing happened to excite her nerves; but on
the first word which stirred up recollections of her troubles she would
be seized with convulsions. Her moral isolation formed the greatest
obstacle to recovery. Physically she wanted for nothing; she had two
good doctors and a most devoted nurse. Mademoiselle Leblanc likewise was
very zealous in her attentions, though this dangerous woman often gave
her pain by untimely remarks and indiscreet questions. Furthermore,
Arthur assured me that, if ever Edmee had thought me guilty and had
expressed an opinion on this point, it must have been in some previous
phase of her illness; for, during the last fortnight at least, she
had been in a state of complete torpor. She would frequently doze, but
without quite falling asleep; she could take liquid food and jellies,
nor did she ever complain. When her doctors questioned her about her
sufferings she answered by careless signs and always negatively; and she
would never give any indication that she remembered the affections which
had filled her life. Her love for her father, however, that feeling
which had always been so deep and powerful in her, was not extinct; she
would often shed copious tears; but at such a time she seemed to be deaf
to all sounds; in vain would they try to make her understand that her
father was not dead, as she appeared to believe. With a gesture of
entreaty she would beg them to stop, not the noise (for that did not
seem to strike her ear), but the bustle that was going on around her;
then, hiding her face in her hands, lying back in her arm-chair and
bringing her knees up almost to her breast, she would apparently give
way to inconsolable despair. This silent grief, which could no longer
control itself and no longer wished to be controlled; this powerful
will, which had once been able to quell the most violent storms, and now
going adrift on a dead sea and in an unruffled calm--this, said Arthur,
was the most painful spectacle he had ever beheld. Edmee seemed to wish
to have done with life. Mademoiselle Leblanc, in order to test her and
arouse her, had brutally taken upon herself to announce that her father
was dead; she had replied by a sign that she knew. A few hours later
the doctors had tried to make her understand that he was alive; she had
replied by another sign that she did not believe them. They had wheeled
the chevalier's arm-chair into her room; they had brought father and
daughter face to face and the two had not recognised each other. Only,
after a few moments, Edmee, taking her father for a ghost, had uttered
piercing cries, and had been seized with convulsions that had opened one
of her wounds again, and made the doctors tremble for her life. Since
then, they had taken care to keep the two apart, and never to breathe a
word about the chevalier in Edmee's presence. She had taken Arthur for
one of the doctors of the district and had received him with the same
sweetness and the same indifference as the others. He had not dared
to speak to her about me; but he extorted me not to despair. There was
nothing in Edmee's condition that time and rest could not triumph over;
there was but little fever left; none of her vital organs were really
affected; her wounds were almost healed; and it did not seem as if her
brain were in such an excited condition that it would be permanently
deranged. The weak state of her mind, and the prostration of all the
other organs could not, according to Arthur, long withstand the vitality
of youth and the recuperative power of an admirable constitution.
Finally, he advised me to think of myself; I might help towards her
recovery, and I might again find happiness in her affection and esteem.

In a fortnight Arthur returned from Paris with an order from the King
for the revision of my sentence. Fresh witnesses were heard. Patience
did not appear; but I received a note from him containing these words
in a shapeless hand, "You are not guilty, so don't despair." The doctors
declared that Mademoiselle de Mauprat might be examined without danger,
but that her answers would have no meaning. She was now in better
health. She had recognised her father, and at present would never leave
him; but she could understand nothing that was not connected with him.
She seemed to derive great pleasure from tending him like a child, and,
on his side, the chevalier would now and then recognise his beloved
daughter; but his vital powers were visibly decaying. They questioned
him in one of his lucid moments. He replied that his daughter had,
indeed, fallen from her horse while hunting, and that she had torn her
breast on the stump of a tree, but that not a soul had fired at her,
even by mistake, and that only a madman could possibly believe her
cousin capable of such a crime. This was all the information they could
draw from him. When they asked him what he thought of his nephew's
absence, he answered that his nephew was still in the house, and that
he saw him every day. Was it that, in his devotion to the good name of
a family--alas! so compromised--he thought to defeat the aims of justice
by childish lies? This is a point I was never able to ascertain. As for
Edmee, it was impossible to examine her. At the first question that was
asked her, she shrugged her shoulders and made a sign that she did not
wish to be bothered. As the public prosecutor insisted and became
more explicit, she stared at him and seemed to be making an effort to
understand. He pronounced my name, she gave a loud cry and fainted. He
had to abandon all thoughts of taking her evidence. However, Arthur did
not despair. On the contrary, the account of this scene made him think
that Edmee's mental faculties might be about to take a favourable turn.
He immediately returned to Sainte-Severe, where he remained several days
without writing to me, which caused me great anxiety.

When the abbe was questioned again, he persisted in his calm, laconic
refusal to give evidence.

My judges, seeing that the information promised by Patience was not
forthcoming, hurried on the revision of the trial, and, by another
exhibition of haste, gave another proof of their animosity. The
appointed day arrived. I was devoured by anxiety. Arthur had written me
to keep up my courage, in as laconic a style as Patience. My counsel
had been unable to obtain any fresh evidence in my favour. I could see
clearly that he was beginning to believe me guilty. All he hoped for was
to obtain a further delay.




XXVII

There were even more people present than at the first trial. The guard
were forced back to the doors of the court, and the crowd occupied every
available space, even to the windows of the mansion of Jacques Coeur,
the town-hall of the present day. I was much agitated this time,
though I had strength and pride enough not to let it be seen. I was now
interested in the success of my case, and, as it seemed as if my hopes
were not to be realized, I experienced an indescribable feeling of
uneasiness, a sort of suppressed rage, a bitter hatred of these men who
would not open their eyes to my innocence, and even of God who seemed to
have deserted me.

In this state of agitation I had to make such violent efforts to appear
calm that I scarcely noticed what was happening around me. I recovered
sufficient presence of mind when my fresh examination took place to
answer in the same terms as at the first trial. Then a black veil seemed
to fall over my head, an iron ring gripped my brow; the sockets of my
eyes went icily cold; I could see nothing but myself, hear nothing but
vague, unintelligible sounds. I do not know what actually took place; I
do not know if any one announced the apparition which suddenly appeared
before me. I only remember that a door opened behind the judges, and
that Arthur came forward leading a veiled woman, that he took off her
veil after making her sit down in a big arm-chair which the ushers
eagerly wheeled toward her, and that a cry of admiration rang through
the hall when Edmee's pale, sublime beauty was revealed.

At this moment I forgot the crowd, and the judges, and my cause, and the
whole universe. I believe that no human power could have withstood my
wild rush. I dashed like a thunderbolt into the middle of the inclosure
and, falling at Edmee's feet, I showered kisses on her knees. I have
been told that this act won over the public, and that nearly all the
ladies burst into tears. The young dandies did not venture to laugh; the
judges were affected; and for a moment truth was completely triumphant.

Edmee looked at me for some time. Her face was as expressionless as the
face of death. It did not seem as if she could ever recognise me. The
spectators were waiting in profound silence for her to show some sign of
hatred or affection for me. All at once she burst into tears, threw her
arms around my neck, and then lost consciousness. Arthur had her carried
out immediately; he had some trouble in making me return to my place. I
could not remember where I was or the issues that were at stake; I clung
to Edmee's dress, and only wanted to follow her. Arthur addressed the
court and requested that the doctors who had examined Edmee in the
morning might again pronounce upon the state of her health. He likewise
demanded that she should be recalled to give evidence, and to be
confronted with me as soon as she recovered from the attack.

"This attack is not serious," he said. "Mademoiselle de Mauprat has had
several of the same kind during the last few days and on her way here.
After each her mental faculties have taken a more and more favourable
turn."

"Go and attend to the invalid," said the president. "She shall be
recalled in two hours, if you think she will have recovered from her
swoon by then. Meanwhile the court will hear the witness on whose demand
the first sentence was not carried out."

Arthur withdrew and Patience was introduced. He was dressed quite
neatly; but, after saying a few words, he declared that it would be
impossible to continue unless they allowed him to take off his coat.
This borrowed finery so embarrassed him and seemed so heavy that he
was perspiring profusely. No sooner did the president make a sign of
consent, accompanied by a smile of scorn, than he threw to the ground
this badge of civilization. Then, after carefully pulling down his
shirt-sleeves over his sinewy arms, he spoke almost as follows:

"I will speak the truth, the whole truth. I take the oath for the second
time; for I have to speak of things that seem contradictory, things that
I cannot explain to myself. I swear before God and man that I will say
what I know, and as I know it, without being influenced for or against
any one."

He lifted his big hand and turned round towards the people with a simple
confidence, as if to say, "You can all see that I am taking an oath,
and you know that I am to be trusted." This confidence of his was not
ill-founded. Since the incident in the first trial the public mind had
been much occupied about this extraordinary man, who had spoken before
the court with so much daring, and harangued the people in presence
of the judges. His conduct had filled all the democrats and
_Philadelphians_ with great curiosity and sympathy. The works of
Beaumarchais were very fashionable among the upper classes, and this
will explain how it was that Patience, though opposed to all the
authorities in the province, yet found himself supported and applauded
by every man who prided himself on his intelligence. They all thought
they saw in him Figaro under a new form. The fame of his private virtues
had spread; for you remember that during my stay in America, Patience
had made himself known among the people of Varenne and had exchanged his
sorcerer's reputation for that of a public benefactor. They had given
him the title of the _great judge_, because he was always ready to
intervene in disputes, and would always settle to the satisfaction of
both sides with admirable good-nature and tact.

This time he spoke in a high, penetrating voice. It was a rich voice
of wide compass. His gestures were quiet or animated, according to the
circumstances, but always dignified and impressive; the expression on
his short, Socratic face was never anything but fine. He had all the
qualities of an orator; but there was no vanity in his display of them.
He spoke in the plain, concise style that he had been obliged to acquire
in his recent intercourse with men, in discussions about their practical
interests.

"When Mademoiselle de Mauprat was shot," he said, "I was not more than a
dozen paces from her; but the brushwood at that spot is so thick that I
could not see more than two paces in front of me. They had persuaded me
to take part in the hunt; but it gave me but little pleasure. Finding
myself near Gazeau Tower, where I lived for some twenty years, I felt an
inclination to see my old cell again, and I was bearing down upon it at
a great pace when I heard a shot. That did not frighten me in the least;
it seemed but natural that there should be some gun fired during a
battue. But when I got through the thicket, that is to day, some two
minutes later, I found Edmee--excuse me, I generally call her by this
name; I am, so to speak, a sort of foster-father to her--I found Edmee
on her knees upon the ground, wounded as you have been told, and still
holding the bridle of her horse, which was rearing. She did not know
whether she was seriously or slightly wounded, but she had her other
hand on her breast, and she was saying:

"'Bernard, this is hideous! I should never have thought that you would
kill me. Bernard, where are you? Come and see me die. This will kill
father!'

"As she said this she let go the horse's bridle and fell to the ground.
I rushed towards her.

"'Ah, you saw it, Patience?' she said. 'Do not speak about it; do not
tell my father . . .'

"She threw out her arms, and her body became rigid. I thought that she
was dead. She spoke no more until night, after they had extracted the
bullets from her breast."

"Did you then see Bernard de Mauprat?"

"I saw him on the spot where the deed was done, just as Edmee lost
consciousness and seemed to be giving up her soul; he seemed to be out
of his mind. I thought that he was overwhelmed with remorse. I spoke to
him sternly, and treated him as a murderer. He made no reply, but sat
down on the ground by his cousin's side. He remained there in a dazed
condition, even a long time after they had taken her away. No one
thought of accusing him. The people thought that he had had a fall,
because they saw his horse trotting by the side of the pond; they
believed that his carbine had gone off as he fell. The Abbe Aubert
was the only one who heard me accuse M. Bernard of having murdered his
cousin. During the days that followed, Edmee spoke occasionally, but
it was not always in my presence; besides, at this time she was nearly
always delirious. I maintain that she told nobody (and least of all
Mademoiselle Leblanc) what had passed between herself and M. de Mauprat
before the gun was fired. Nor did she confide this to me any more than
others. On the rare occasions when she was in possession of her senses
she would say in answer to our questions, that Bernard had certainly not
done it on purpose, and several times during the first three days
she even asked to see him. However, when she was delirious she would
sometimes cry, 'Bernard! Bernard! You have committed a great crime. You
have killed my father!'

"That was her idea; she used really to think that her father was dead;
and she thought so for a long time. Very little, therefore, of what she
said is to be taken seriously. The words that Mademoiselle Leblanc
has put into her mouth are false. After three days she ceased to talk
intelligibly, and at the end of a week she ceased to speak altogether.
When she recovered her reason, about a week ago, she sent away
Mademoiselle Leblanc, which would clearly show that she had some
ground for disliking her maid. That is what I have to say against M. de
Mauprat. It rested entirely with myself to keep silent; but having other
things to say yet, I wished to make known the whole truth."

Patience paused awhile; the public and the judges themselves, who were
beginning to take an interest in me and lose the bitterness of their
prejudices, were apparently thunderstruck at hearing evidence so
different from what they expected.

Patience continued as follows:

"For several weeks I remained convinced of Bernard's guilt. But I was
pondering over the matter the while; I frequently said to myself that
a man as good and clever as Bernard, a man for whom Edmee felt so much
esteem, and whom M. le Chevalier loved like a son, a man, in short, so
deeply imbued with the spirit of justice and truth, could not between
one day and the next turn into a scoundrel. Then the idea came into my
head that, after all, it might have been some other Mauprat who fired
the shot. I do not speak of the one who has become a Trappist," he
added, looking among the audience for Jean de Mauprat, who, however
was not there; "I speak of the man whose death has never been proved,
although the court thought fit to overlook this, and to accept M. Jean
de Mauprat's word."

"Witness," said the president, "I must remind you that you are not here
to serve as counsel for the prisoner, or to criticise the decisions of
this court. You must confine yourself to a statement of facts, and not
express your opinion on the question at issue."

"Very well," replied Patience. "I must, however, explain why I did not
wish to appear at the first trial, seeing that the only evidence I
had was against M. Bernard, and that I could not trust that evidence
myself."

"You are not asked to explain this at present. Please keep to your
evidence."

"One moment. I have my honour to defend; I have to explain my own
conduct, if you please."

"You are not the prisoner; you are not here to plead your own cause. If
the court thinks right to prosecute you for contempt you can see to your
own defence; but there is no question of that now."

"I beg your pardon. The question is for me to let the court see whether
I am an honest man or a false witness. It would seem that this has
something to do with the case; the prisoner's life depends on it; the
court cannot consider that a matter of indifference."

"Proceed," said the King's advocate, "and try to remember the respect
you owe to the court."

"I have no wish to offend the court," replied Patience. "I would merely
observe that a man may refuse to submit to the orders of the court from
conscientious motives which the court can legally condemn, but which
each judge, personally, can understand and excuse. I say, then, that I
could not persuade myself of Bernard de Mauprat's guilt; my ears alone
knew of it; this was not enough for me. Pardon me, gentlemen, I, too, am
a judge. Make inquiries about me; in my village they call me 'the great
judge.' When my fellow-villagers ask me to decide some tavern dispute or
the boundary of some field, I do not so much listen to their opinions
as my own. In judging a man one must take account of more than a single
little act. Many previous ones will help to show the truth or falsity
of the last that is imputed to him. Thus, being unable to believe that
Bernard was a murderer, and having heard more than a dozen people, whom
I consider incapable of giving false evidence, testify to the fact that
a monk 'bearing a resemblance to the Mauprats' had been prowling about
the country, and having myself seen this monk's back and habit as he
was passing through Pouligny on the morning of the event, I wished to
discover if he was in Varenne; and I learnt that he was still there;
that is to say, after leaving it, he had returned about the time of the
trial last month. And, what is more, I learnt that he was acquainted
with John Mauprat. Who can this monk be? I asked myself; why does the
very sight of him frighten all the people in the country? What is he
doing in Varenne? If he belongs to the Carmelite convent, why does he
not wear their habit? If he is of the same order as John, why is he
not staying with him at the Carmelites? If he is collecting money, why,
after making a collection in one place, does he not move on to another,
instead of returning and bothering people who have given him money only
the day before? If he is a Trappist and does not want to stay with the
Carmelites like the other, why does he not go back to his own convent?
What is this wandering monk? And how does John Mauprat, who has told
several people that he does not know him, know him so well that they
lunch together from time to time in a tavern at Crevant? I made up my
mind, then, to give evidence, though it might, in a measure, do harm
to M. Bernard, so as to be able to say what I am now saying, even if it
should be of no use. But as you never allow witnesses sufficient time
to try to verify what they have reason to believe, I started off
immediately for my woods, where I live like the foxes, with a
determination not to quit them until I had discovered what this monk was
doing in the country. So I put myself on his track and I have discovered
who he is; he is the murderer of Edmee de Mauprat; his name is Antony
Mauprat."

This revelation caused a great stir on the bench and among the public.
Every one looked around for John Mauprat, whose face was nowhere to be
seen.

"What proof have you of this?" said the president.

"I am about to tell you," replied Patience. "Having learnt from
the landlady at Crevant, to whom I have occasionally been of some
assistance, that the two Trappists used to lunch at her tavern from time
to time, as I have said, I went and took up my abode about half a league
from here, in a hermitage known as Le Trou aux Fades, situated in the
middle of the woods and open to the first comer, furniture and all. It
is a cave in the rock, containing a seat in the shape of a big stone and
nothing else. I lived there for a couple of days on roots and bits of
bread that they occasionally brought me from the tavern. It is against
my principles to live in a tavern. On the third day the landlady's
little boy came and informed me that the two monks were about to sit
down to a meal. I hastened back, and hid myself in a cellar which
opens into the garden. The door of this cellar is quite close to the
apple-tree under which these gentlemen were taking luncheon in the open
air. John was sober; the other was eating like a Carmelite and drinking
like a Franciscan. I could hear and see everything at my ease.

"'There must be an end of this,' Antony was saying--I easily recognised
the man when I saw him drink and heard him swear--'I am tired of playing
this game for you. Hide me away with the Carmelites or I shall make a
row.'

"'And what row can you make that will not bring you to the gallows, you
clumsy fool!' answered John. 'It is very certain that you will not set
foot inside the monastery. I don't want to find myself mixed up in a
criminal trial; for they would discover what you are in an hour or two.'

"'And why, I should like to know? You make them all believe that you
are a saint!'

"'Because I know how to behave like a saint; whereas you--you behave
like a fool. Why, you can't stop swearing for an hour, and you would be
breaking all the mugs after dinner!'

"'I say, Nepomucene,' rejoined the other, 'do you fancy that you would
get off scot-free if I were caught and tried?'

"'Why not?' answered the Trappist. 'I had no hand in your folly, nor
did I advise anything of this kind.'

"'Ha! ha! my fine apostle!' cried Antony, throwing himself back in his
chair in a fit of laughter. 'You are glad enough about it, now that it
is done. You were always a coward; and had it not been for me you would
never have thought of anything better than getting yourself made a
Trappist, to ape devotion and afterward get absolution for the past,
so as to have a right to draw a little money from the "Headbreakers"
of Sainte-Severe. By Jove! a mighty fine ambition, to give up the ghost
under a monk's cowl after leading a pretty poor life and only tasting
half its sweets, let alone hiding like a mole! Come, now; when they have
hung my pretty Bernard, and the lovely Edmonde is dead, and when the
old neck-breaker has given back his big bones to the earth; when we have
inherited all that pretty fortune yonder; you will own that we have done
a capital stroke of business--three at a blow! It would cost me rather
too much to play the saint, seeing that convent ways are not quite my
ways, and that I don't know how to wear the habit; so I shall throw
the cowl to the winds, and content myself with building a chapel at
Roche-Mauprat and taking the sacrament four times a year.'

"'Everything you have done in this matter is stupid and infamous.'

"'Bless my soul! Don't talk of infamy, my sweet brother, or I shall
make you swallow this bottle whole.'

"'I say that it is a piece of folly, and if it succeeds you ought to
burn a fine candle to the Virgin. If it does not succeed, I wash my
hands of the whole business, do you hear? After I had been in hiding in
the secret passage in the keep, and had heard Bernard telling his
valet after supper that he was going out of his mind on account of the
beautiful Edmee, I happened to throw out a suggestion that there might
be a chance here of doing a good stroke of business; and like a fool you
took the matter seriously, and, without consulting me or waiting for a
favourable moment, you went and did a deed that should have been thought
over and properly planned.'

"'A favourable moment, chicken-heart that you are! How the deuce was
I to get one? "Opportunity makes the thief." I find myself surprised
by the hunt in the middle of the forest; I go and hide in that cursed
Gazeau Tower; I see my turtle-doves coming; I overhear a conversation
that might make one die of laughing, and see Bernard blubbering and the
girl playing the haughty beauty; Bernard goes off like an idiot without
showing himself a man; I find on me--God knows how--a rascally pistol
already loaded. Bang! . . .'

"'Hold your tongue, you wild brute!' said the other, quite frightened.
'Do you think a tavern is the proper place to talk of these things?
Keep that tongue quiet, you wretched creature, or I will never see you
again.'

"'And yet you will have to see me, sweet brother mine, when I go and
ring the bell at the gate of the Carmelite monastery.'

"'If you come I will denounce you.'

"'You will not denounce me, for I know too much about you.'

"'I am not afraid. I have given proofs of my repentance; I have
expiated my sins.'

"'Hypocrite!'

"'Come, now, hold your tongue, you madman!' said the other. 'I must
leave you. There is some money.'

"'That all?'

"'What do you expect from a monk? Do you imagine that I am rich?'

"'Your Carmelites are; and you can do what you like with them.'

"'I might give you more, but I would rather not. As soon as you got a
couple of louis you would be off for a debauch, and make enough row to
betray yourself.'

"'And if you want me to quit this part of the country for some time,
what do you suppose I am to travel with?'

"'Three times already I have given you enough to take you away, haven't
I? And each time you have come back, after drinking it all in the
first place of ill-fame on the frontier of the province! Your impudence
sickens me, after the evidence given against you, when the police are
on the watch, when Bernard is appealing for a fresh trial. You may be
caught at any moment!'

"'That is for you to see to, brother. You can lead the Carmelites by
the nose; and the Carmelites can lead the bishop, through some little
peccadillo, I suppose, done together on the quiet in the convent after
supper . . .'"

Here the president interrupted Patience.

"Witness," he said, "I call you to order. You are outraging a prelate's
virtue by daring to retail such a conversation."

"By no means," replied Patience. "I am merely reporting a drunkard's and
a murderer's invectives against the prelate. They do not concern me in
the least; and every one here knows what value to put upon them; but,
if you wish, I will say no more on this point. The discussion lasted
for some time longer. The real Trappist wanted to make the sham Trappist
leave the country, and the latter persisted in remaining, declaring
that, if he were not on the spot, his brother would have him arrested
immediately after Bernard's head had been cut off, so that he might have
the whole inheritance to himself. John, driven to extremities, seriously
threatened to denounce him and hand him over to justice.

"'Enough!' replied Antony. 'You will take good care not to do that, I
know; for, if Bernard is acquitted, good-bye to the inheritance!'

"Then they separated. The real Trappist went away looking very
anxious; the other fell asleep, with his elbows on the table. I left
my hiding-place to take steps for his arrest. It was just then that the
police, who had been on my track for some time to force me to come and
give evidence, collared me. In vain did I point to the monk as Edmee's
murderer; they would not believe me, and said they had no warrant
against him. I wanted to arouse the village, but they prevented me from
speaking. They brought me here, from station to station, as if I had
been a deserter, and for the last week I have been in the cells and no
one has deigned to heed my protests. They would not even let me see M.
Bernard's lawyer, or inform him that I was in prison; it was only just
now that the jailer came, and told me that I must put on my coat and
appear in court. I do not know whether all this is according to the
law; but one thing is certain, namely, that the murderer might have been
arrested and has not been; nor will he be, unless you secure the
person of John Mauprat to prevent him from warning, I do not say his
accomplice, but his _protege_. I state on oath that, from all I have
heard, John Mauprat is above any suspicion of complicity. As to the act
of allowing an innocent man to be handed over to the rigour of the law,
and of endeavouring to save a guilty man by going so far as to give
false evidence, and produce false documents to prove his death . . ."

Patience, noticing that the president was again about to interrupt him,
hastened to end his testimony by saying:

"As to that, gentlemen, it is for you, not for me, to judge him."




XXVIII

After this important evidence the trial was suspended for a few minutes.
When the judges returned Edmee was brought back into the court. Pale and
weak, scarcely able to drag herself to the arm-chair which was reserved
for her, she nevertheless displayed considerable mental vigour and
presence of mind.

"Do you think you can answer the questions which will be put to you
without unduly exciting yourself?" asked the president.

"I hope so, sir," she replied. "It is true that I have recently been
seriously ill, and that it is only within the last few days that I have
recovered my memory; but I believe I have completely recovered it, and
my mind feels quite clear."

"Your name?"

"Solange-Edmonde de Mauprat; _Edmea sylvestris_," she added in an
undertone.

I shuddered. As she said these unseasonable words her eyes had assumed
a strange expression. I feared that her mind was going to wander still
further. My counsel was also alarmed and looked at me inquiringly. No
one but myself had understood these two words which Edmee had been in
the habit of frequently repeating during the first and last days of
her illness. Happily this was the last sign of any disturbance in
her faculties. She shook her beautiful head, as if to drive out
any troublesome ideas; and, the president having asked her for an
explanation of these unintelligible words, she replied with sweetness
and dignity:

"It is nothing, sir. Please continue my examination."

"Your age, mademoiselle?"

"Twenty-four."

"Are you related to the prisoner?"

"He is my second cousin, and my father's grand-nephew."

"Do you swear to speak the truth, the whole truth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Raise your hand."

Edmee turned towards Arthur with a sad smile. He took off her glove, and
helped to raise her arm, which hung nerveless and powerless by her side.
I felt big tears rolling down my cheeks.

With delicacy and simplicity Edmee related how she and I had lost our
way in the woods; how I, under the impression that her horse had bolted,
had unseated her in my eager anxiety to stop the animal; how a slight
altercation had ensued, after which, with a little feminine temper,
foolish enough, she had wished to mount her mare again without help; how
she had even spoken unkindly to me, not meaning a word of what she said,
for she loved me like a brother; how, deeply hurt by her harshness, I
had moved away a few yards to obey her; and how, just as she was about
to follow me, grieved herself at our childish quarrel, she had felt a
violent shock in her breast, and had fallen almost without hearing any
report. It was impossible for her to say in which direction she was
looking, or from which side the shot had come.