"That is all that happened," she added. "Of all people I am least
able to explain this occurrence. In my soul and conscience I can only
attribute it to the carelessness of one of the hunting party, who is
afraid to confess. Laws are so severe. And it is so difficult to prove
the truth."

"So, mademoiselle, you do not think that your cousin was the author of
this attempt?"

"No, sir, certainly not! I am no longer delirious, and I should not have
let myself be brought before you if I had felt that my mind was at all
weak."

"Apparently, then, you consider that a state of mental aberration was
responsible for the revelations you made to Patience, to Mademoiselle
Leblanc, your companion, and also, perhaps, to Abbe Aubert."

"I made no revelations," she replied emphatically, "either to the worthy
Patience, the venerable abbe, or my servant Leblanc. If the meaningless
words we utter in a state of delirium are to be called 'revelations,'
all the people who frighten us in our dreams would have to be condemned
to death. How could I have revealed facts of which I never had any
knowledge?"

"But at the time you received the wound, and fell from your horse, you
said: 'Bernard, Bernard! I should never have thought that you would kill
me!'"

"I do not remember having said so; and, even if I did, I cannot conceive
that any one would attach much importance to the impressions of a
person who had suddenly been struck to the ground, and whose mind was
annihilated, as it were. All that I know is that Bernard de Mauprat
would lay down his life for my father or myself; which does not make it
very probable that he wanted to murder me. Great God! what would be his
object?"

In order to embarrass Edmee, the president now utilized all the
arguments which could be drawn from Mademoiselle Leblanc's evidence. As
a fact, they were calculated to cause her not a little confusion.
Edmee, who was at first somewhat astonished to find that the law was in
possession of so many details which she believed were unknown to others,
regained her courage and pride, however, when they suggested, in those
brutally chaste terms which are used by the law in such a case, that she
had been a victim of my violence at Roche-Mauprat. Her spirit thoroughly
roused, she proceeded to defend my character and her own honour, and
declared that, considering how I had been brought up, I had behaved
much more honourably than might have been expected. But she still had
to explain all her life from this point onward, the breaking off of her
engagement with M. de la Marche, her frequent quarrels with myself, my
sudden departure for America, her refusal of all offers of marriage.

"All these questions are abominable," she said, rising suddenly, her
physical strength having returned with the exercise of her mental
powers. "You ask me to give an account of my inmost feelings; you would
sound the mysteries of my soul; you put my modesty on the rack; you
would take to yourself rights that belong only to God. I declare to you
that, if my own life were now at stake and not another's, you should not
extract a word more from me. However, to save the life of the meanest of
men I would overcome my repugnance; much more, therefore, will I do for
him who is now at the bar. Know then--since you force me to a confession
which is painful to the pride and reserve of my sex--that everything
which to you seems inexplicable in my conduct, everything which you
attribute to Bernard's persecutions and my own resentment, to his
threats and my terror, finds its justification in one word: I love him!"

On uttering this word, the red blood in her cheeks, and in the ringing
tone of the proudest and most passionate soul that ever existed, Edmee
sat down again and buried her face in her hands. At this moment I was so
transported that I could not help crying out:

"Let them take me to the scaffold now; I am king of all the earth!"

"To the scaffold! You!" said Edmee, rising again. "Let them rather take
me. Is it your fault, poor boy, if for seven years I have hidden from
you the secret of my affections; if I did not wish you to know it until
you were the first of men in wisdom and intelligence as you are already
the first in greatness of heart? You are paying dearly for my ambition,
since it has been interpreted as scorn and hatred. You have good reason
to hate me, since my pride has brought you to the felon's dock. But I
will wash away your shame by a signal reparation; though they send you
to the scaffold, you shall go there with the title of my husband."

"Your generosity is carrying you too far, Edmee de Mauprat," said the
president. "It would seem that, in order to save your relative, you are
accusing yourself of coquetry and unkindness; for, how otherwise do
you explain the fact that you exasperated this young man's passion by
refusing him for seven years?"

"Perhaps, sir," replied Edmee archly, "the court is not competent to
judge this matter. Many women think it no great crime to show a little
coquetry with the man they love. Perhaps we have a right to this when
we have sacrificed all other men to him. After all, it is a very natural
and very innocent ambition to make the man of one's choice feel that
one is a soul of some price, that one is worth wooing, and worth a long
effort. True, if this coquetry resulted in the condemnation of one's
lover to death, one would speedily correct one's self of it. But,
naturally, gentlemen, you would not think of atoning for my cruelty by
offering the poor young man such a consolation as this."

After saying these words in an animated, ironical tone, Edmee burst
into tears. This nervous sensibility which brought to the front all the
qualities of her soul and mind, tenderness, courage, delicacy, pride,
modesty, gave her face at the same time an expression so varied, so
winning in all its moods, that the grave, sombre assembly of judges let
fall the brazen cuirass of impassive integrity and the leaden cope of
hypocritical virtue. If Edmee had not triumphantly defended me by her
confession, she had at least roused the greatest interest in my favour.
A man who is loved by a beautiful woman carries with him a talisman that
makes him invulnerable; all feel that his life is of greater value than
other lives.

Edmee still had to submit to many questions; she set in their proper
light the facts which had been misrepresented by Mademoiselle Leblanc.
True, she spared me considerably; but with admirable skill she managed
to elude certain questions, and so escaped the necessity of either lying
or condemning me. She generously took upon herself the blame for all
my offences, and pretended that, if we had had various quarrels, it
was because she herself took a secret pleasure in them; because they
revealed the depth of my love; that she had let me go to America to put
my virtue to the proof, thinking that the campaign would not last more
than a year, as was then supposed; that afterwards she had considered me
in honour bound to submit to the indefinite prolongation, but that
she had suffered more than myself from my absence; finally, she quite
remembered the letter which had been found upon her, and, taking it up,
she gave the mutilated passages with astonishing accuracy, and at the
same time called the clerk to follow as she deciphered the words which
were half obliterated.

"This letter was so far from being a threatening letter," she said, "and
the impression it left on me was so far from filling me with fear or
aversion, that it was found on my heart, where I had been carrying it
for a week, though I had not even let Bernard know that I had received
it."

"But you have not yet explained," said the president, "how it was that
seven years ago, when your cousin first came to live in your house,
you armed yourself with a knife which you used to put under your pillow
every night, after having it sharpened as if to defend yourself in case
of need."

"In my family," she answered with a blush, "we have a somewhat romantic
temperament and a very proud spirit. It is true that I frequently
thought of killing myself, because I felt an unconquerable affection
for my cousin springing up in me. Believing myself bound by indissoluble
ties to M. de la Marche. I would have died rather than break my word, or
marry any other than Bernard. Subsequently M. de la Marche freed me from
my promise with much delicacy and loyalty, and I no longer thought of
dying."

Edmee now withdrew, followed by all eyes and by a murmur of approbation.
No sooner had she passed out of the hall than she fainted again; but
this attack was without any grave consequences, and left no traces after
a few days.

I was so bewildered, so intoxicated by what she had just said, that
henceforth I could scarcely see what was taking place around me. Wholly
wrapped up in thoughts of my love, I nevertheless could not cast aside
all doubts; for, if Edmee had been silent about some of my actions, it
was also possible that she had exaggerated her affection for me in the
hope of extenuating my faults. I could not bring myself to think that
she had loved me before my departure for America, and, above all, from
the very beginning of my stay at Sainte-Severe. This was the one thought
that filled my mind; I did not even remember anything further about the
case or the object of my trial. It seemed to me that the sole question
at issue in this chill Areopagus was this: Is he loved, or is he not?
For me, victory or defeat, life or death, hung on that, and that alone.

I was roused from these reveries by the voice of Abbe Aubert. He was
thin and wasted, but seemed perfectly calm; he had been kept in solitary
confinement and had suffered all the hardships of prison life with the
resignation of a martyr. In spite, however, of all precautions, the
clever Marcasse, who could work his way anywhere like a ferret, had
managed to convey to him a letter from Arthur, to which Edmee had added
a few words. Authorized by this letter to say everything, he made a
statement similar to that made by Patience, and owned that Edmee's first
words after the occurrence had made him believe me guilty; but that
subsequently, seeing the patient's mental condition, and remembering my
irreproachable behaviour for more than six years, and obtaining a little
new light from the preceding trial and the public rumours about the
possible existence of Antony Mauprat, he had felt too convinced of my
innocence to be willing to give evidence which might injure me. If
he gave his evidence now, it was because he thought that further
investigations might have enlightened the court, and that his words
would not have the serious consequences they might have had a month
before.

Questioned as to Edmee's feelings for me, he completely destroyed all
Mademoiselle Leblanc's inventions, and declared that not only did Edmee
love me ardently, but that she had felt an affection for me from the
very first day we met. This he affirmed on oath, though emphasizing my
past misdeeds somewhat more than Edmee had done. He owned that at first
he had frequently feared that my cousin would be foolish enough to marry
me, but that he had never had any fear for her life, since he had always
seen her reduce me to submission by a single word or a mere look, even
in my most boorish days.

The continuation of the trial was postponed to await the results of the
warrants issued for the arrest of the assassin. People compared my trial
to that of Calas, and the comparison had no sooner become a general
topic of conversation than my judges, finding themselves exposed to a
thousand shafts, realized very vividly that hatred and prejudice are bad
counsellors and dangerous guides. The sheriff of the province declared
himself the champion of my cause and Edmee's knight, and he himself
escorted her back to her father. He set all the police agog. They acted
with vigour and arrested John Mauprat. When he found himself a prisoner
and threatened, he betrayed his brother, and declared that they might
find him any night at Roche-Mauprat, hiding in a secret chamber which
the tenant's wife helped him to reach, without her husband's knowledge.

They took the Trappist to Roche-Mauprat under a good escort, so that he
might show them this secret chamber, which, in spite of his genius
for exploring walls and timber-work, the old pole-cat hunter and
mole-catcher Marcasse had never managed to reach. They took me there,
likewise, so that I might help to find this room or passage leading
to it, in case the Trappist should repent of his present sincere
intentions. Once again, then, I revisited this abhorred manor with the
ancient chief of the brigands transformed into a Trappist. He showed
himself so humble and cringing in my presence, he made so light of his
brother's life, and expressed such abject submission that I was filled
with disgust, and after a few moments begged him not to speak to me any
more. Keeping in touch with the mounted police outside, we began our
search for the secret chamber. At first John had pretended that he
knew of its existence, without knowing its exact location now that
three-quarters of the keep had been destroyed. When he saw me, however,
he remembered that I had surprised him in my room, and that he had
disappeared through the wall. He resigned himself, therefore, to taking
us to it, and showing us the secret; this was very curious; but I will
not amuse myself by giving you an account of it. The secret chamber was
opened; no one was there. Yet the expedition had been made with despatch
and secrecy. It did not appear probable that John had had time to warn
his brother. The keep was surrounded by the police and all the doors
were well guarded. The night was dark, and our invasion had filled all
the inmates of the farm with terror. The tenant had no idea what we were
looking for, but his wife's agitation and anxiety seemed a sure sign
that Antony was still in the keep. She had not sufficient presence of
mind to assume a reassured air after we had explored the first room, and
that made Marcasse think that there must be a second. Did the Trappist
know of this, and was he pretending ignorance? He played his part so
well that we were all deceived. We set to work to explore all the nooks
and corners of the ruins again. There was one large tower standing apart
from the other buildings; it did not seem as if this could offer any
one a refuge. The staircase had completely fallen in at the time of the
fire, and there could not be found a ladder long enough to reach the
top story; even the farmer's ladders tied together with ropes were too
short. This top story seemed to be in a state of good preservation and
to contain a room lighted by two loopholes. Marcasse, after examining
the thickness of the wall, affirmed that there might be a staircase
inside, such as might be found in many an old tower. But where was the
exit? Perhaps it was connected with some subterranean passage. Would the
assassin dare to issue from his retreat as long as we were there? If, in
spite of the darkness of the night and the silence of our proceedings,
he had got wind of our presence, would he venture into the open as long
as we continued on the watch at all points?

"That is not probable," said Marcasse. "We must devise some speedy means
of getting up there; and I see one."

He pointed to a beam at a frightful height, all blackened by the fire,
and running from the tower over a space of some twenty feet to the
garrets of the nearest building. At the end of this beam there was
a large gap in the wall of the tower caused by the falling-in of the
adjoining parts. In his explorations, indeed, Marcasse had fancied that
he could see the steps of a narrow staircase through this gap. The wall,
moreover, was quite thick enough to contain one. The mole-catcher had
never cared to risk his life on this beam; not that he was afraid of
its narrowness or its height; he was accustomed to these perilous
"crossings," as he called them; but the beam had been partly consumed
by the fire and was so thin in the middle that it was impossible to say
whether it would bear the weight of a man, even were he as slender
and diaphanous as the worthy sergeant. Up to the present nothing had
happened here of sufficient importance for him to risk his life in
the experiment. Now, however, the case was different. Marcasse did not
hesitate. I was not near him when he formed his plan; I should have
dissuaded him from it at all costs. I was not aware of it until he had
already reached the middle of the beam, the spot where the burnt wood
was perhaps nothing more than charcoal. How shall I describe to you
what I felt when I beheld my faithful friend in mid-air, gravely walking
toward his goal? Blaireau was trotting in front of him as calmly as in
the old days when it was a question of hunting through bundles of hay in
search of stoats and dormice. Day was breaking, and the hildalgo's slim
outline and his modest yet stately bearing could be clearly seen against
the gray sky. I put my hands to my face; I seemed to hear the fatal beam
cracking; I stifled a cry of terror lest I should unnerve him at this
solemn and critical moment. But I could not suppress this cry, or help
raising my head when I heard two shots fired from the tower. Marcasse's
hat fell at the first shot; the second grazed his shoulder. He stopped a
moment.

"Not touched!" he shouted at us.

And making a rush he was quickly across the aerial bridge. He got into
the tower through the gap and darted up the stairs, crying:

"Follow me, my lads! The beam will bear."

Immediately five other bold and active men who had accompanied him got
astride upon the beam, and with the help of their hands reached the
other end one by one. When the first of them arrived in the garret
whither Antony Mauprat had fled, he found him grappling with Marcasse,
who, quite carried away by his triumph and forgetting that it was not a
question of killing an enemy but of capturing him, set about lunging
at him with his long rapier as if he had been a weasel. But the sham
Trappist was a formidable enemy. He had snatched the sword from the
sergeant's hands, hurled him to the ground, and would have strangled
him had not a gendarme thrown himself on him from behind. With his
prodigious strength he held his own against the first three assailants;
but, with the help of the other two, they succeeded in overcoming him.
When he saw that he was caught he made no further resistance and let his
hands be bound together. They brought him down the stairs, which were
found to lead to the bottom of a dry well in the middle of the tower.
Antony was in the habit of leaving and entering by means of a ladder
which the farmer's wife held for him and immediately afterwards
withdrew. In a transport of delight I threw myself into my sergeant's
arms.

"A mere trifle," he said; "enjoyed it. I found that my foot was still
sure and my head cool. Ha! ha! old sergeant," he added, looking at his
leg, "old hidalgo, old mole-catcher, after this they won't make so many
jokes about your calves!"




XXIX

If Anthony Mauprat had been a man of mettle he might have done me a
bad turn by declaring that he had been a witness of my attempt to
assassinate Edmee. As he had reasons for hiding himself before this last
crime, he could have explained why he had kept out of sight, and why he
had been silent about the occurrences at Gazeau Tower. I had nothing in
my favour except Patience's evidence. Would this have been sufficient
to procure my acquittal? The evidence of so many others was against
me, even that given by my friends, and by Edmee, who could not deny my
violent temper and the possibility of such a crime.

But Antony, in words the most insolent of all the "Hamstringers," was
the most cowardly in deeds. He no sooner found himself in the hands
of justice than he confessed everything, even before knowing that his
brother had thrown him over.

At his trial there were some scandalous scenes, in which the two
brothers accused each other in a loathsome way. The Trappist, whose rage
was kept in check by his hypocrisy, coldly abandoned the ruffian to his
fate, and denied that he had ever advised him to commit the crime. The
other, driven to desperation, accused him of the most horrible deeds,
including the poisoning of my mother, and Edmee's mother, who had both
died of violent inflammation of the intestines within a short time of
each other. John Mauprat, he declared, used to be very skilful in the
art of preparing poisons and would introduce himself into houses under
various disguises to mix them with the food. He affirmed that, on
the day that Edmee had been brought to Roche-Mauprat, John had called
together all his brothers to discuss plans for making away with this
heiress to a considerable fortune, a fortune which he had striven
to obtain by crime, since he had tried to destroy the effects of the
Chevalier Hubert's marriage. My mother's life, too, had been the
price paid for the latter's wish to adopt his brother's child. All
the Mauprats had been in favour of making away with Edmee and myself
simultaneously, and John was actually preparing the poison when the
police happened to turn aside their hideous designs by attacking the
castle. John denied the charges with pretended horror, saying humbly
that he had committed quite enough mortal sins of debauchery and
irreligion without having these added to his list. As it was difficult
to take Antony's word for them without further investigation; as this
investigation was almost impossible, and as the clergy were too powerful
and too much interested in preventing a scandal to allow it, John
Mauprat was acquitted on the charge of complicity and merely sent back
to the Trappist monastery; the archbishop forbade him ever to set foot
in the diocese again, and, moreover, sent a request to his superiors
that they would never allow him to leave the convent. He died there a
few years later in all the terrors of a fanatic penitence very much akin
to insanity.

It is probable that, as a result of feigning remorse in order to find
favour among his fellows, he had at last, after the failure of his
plans, and under the terrible asceticism of his order, actually
experienced the horrors and agonies of a bad conscience and tardy
repentance. The fear of hell is the only creed of vile souls.

No sooner was I acquitted and set at liberty, with my character
completely cleared, than I hastened to Edmee. I arrived in time to
witness my great-uncle's last moments. Towards the end, though his mind
remained a blank as to past events, the memory of his heart returned. He
recognised me, clasped me to his breast, blessed me at the same time as
Edmee, and put my hand into his daughter's. After we had paid the last
tribute of affection to our excellent and noble kinsman, whom we were as
grieved to lose as if we had not long foreseen and expected his death,
we left the province for some time, so as not to witness the execution
of Antony, who was condemned to be broken on the wheel. The two false
witnesses who had accused me were flogged, branded, and expelled from
the jurisdiction of the court. Mademoiselle Leblanc, who could not
exactly be accused of giving false evidence, since hers had consisted of
mere inferences from facts, avoided the public displeasure by going to
another province. Here she lived in sufficient luxury to make us suspect
that she had been paid considerable sums to bring about my ruin.

Edmee and I would not consent to be separated, even temporarily, from
our good friends, my sole defenders, Marcasse, Patience, Arthur, and the
Abbe Aubert. We all travelled in the same carriage; the first two, being
accustomed to the open air, were only too glad to sit outside; but we
treated them on a footing of perfect equality. From that day forth they
never sat at any table but our own. Some persons had the bad taste to
express astonishment at this; we let them talk. There are circumstances
that obliterate all distinctions, real or imaginary, of rank and
education.

We paid a visit to Switzerland. Arthur considered this was essential
to the complete restoration of Edmee's health. The delicate, thoughtful
attentions of this devoted friend, and the loving efforts we made to
minister to her happiness, combined into the beautiful spectacle of the
mountains to drive away her melancholy and efface the recollection of
the troublous times through which we had just passed. On Patience's
poetic nature Switzerland had quite a magic effect. He would frequently
fall into such a state of ecstasy that we were entranced and terrified
at the same time. He felt strongly tempted to build himself a chalet
in the heart of some valley and spend the rest of his life there in
contemplation of Nature; but his affection for us made him abandon this
project. As for Marcasse, he declared subsequently that, despite all the
pleasure he had derived from our society, he looked upon this visit
as the most unlucky event of his life. At the inn at Martigny, on our
return journey, Blaireau, whose digestion had been impaired by age,
fell a victim to the excess of hospitality shown him in the kitchen. The
sergeant said not a word, but gazed on him awhile with heavy eye, and
then went and buried him under the most beautiful rose-tree in the
garden; nor did he speak of his loss until more than a year later.

During our journey Edmee was for me a veritable angel of kindness and
tender thought; abandoning herself henceforth to all the inspirations of
her heart, and no longer feeling any distrust of me, or perhaps thinking
that I deserved some compensation for all my sufferings, she repeatedly
confirmed the celestial assurances of love which she had given in
public, when she lifted up her voice to proclaim my innocence. A few
reservations that had struck me in her evidence, and a recollection of
the damning words that had fallen from her lips when Patience found her
shot, continued, I must confess, to cause me pain for some time longer.
I thought, rightly perhaps, that Edmee had made a great effort to
believe in my innocence before Patience had given his evidence. But on
this point she always spoke most unwillingly and with a certain amount
of reserve. However, one day she quite healed my wound by saying with
her charming abruptness:

"And if I loved you enough to absolve you in my own heart, and defend
you in public at the cost of a lie, what would you say to that?"

A point on which I felt no less concern was to know how far I might
believe in the love which she declared she had had for me from the very
beginning of our acquaintance. Here she betrayed a little confusion, as
if, in her invincible pride, she regretted having revealed a secret she
had so jealously guarded. It was the abbe who undertook to confess for
her. He assured me that at that time he had frequently scolded Edmee for
her affection for "the young savage." As an objection to this, I told
him of the conversation between Edmee and himself which I had overheard
one evening in the park. This I repeated with that great accuracy of
memory I possess. However, he replied:

"That very evening, if you had followed us a little further under the
trees, you might have overheard a dispute that would have completely
reassured you, and have explained how, from being repugnant (I may
almost say odious) to me, as you then were, you became at first
endurable, and gradually very dear."

"You must tell me," I exclaimed, "who worked the miracle."

"One word will explain it," he answered; "Edmee loved you. When she had
confessed this to me, she covered her face with her hands and remained
for a moment as if overwhelmed with shame and vexation; then suddenly
she raised her head and exclaimed:

"'Well, since you wish to know the absolute truth, I love him! Yes,
I love him! I am smitten with him, as you say. It is not my fault; why
should I blush at it? I cannot help it; it is the work of fate. I have
never loved M. de la Marche; I merely feel a friendship for him. For
Bernard I have a very different feeling--a feeling so strong, so varied,
so full of unrest, of hatred, of fear, of pity, of anger, of tenderness,
that I understand nothing about it, and no longer try to understand
anything.'"

"'Oh, woman, woman!' I exclaimed, clasping my hands in bewilderment,
'thou art a mystery, an abyss, and he who thinks to know thee is totally
mad!'

"'As many times as you like, abbe,' she answered, with a firmness in
which there were signs of annoyance and confusion, 'it is all the same
to me. On this point I have lectured myself more than you have lectured
all your flocks in your whole life. I know that Bernard is a bear,
a badger, as Mademoiselle Leblanc calls him, a savage, a boor, and
anything else you like. There is nothing more shaggy, more prickly, more
cunning, more malicious than Bernard. He is an animal who scarcely knows
how to sign his name; he is a coarse brute who thinks he can break me in
like one of the jades of Varenne. But he makes a great mistake; I will
die rather than ever be his, unless he becomes civilized enough to
marry me. But one might as well expect a miracle. I try to improve him,
without daring to hope. However, whether he forces me to kill myself or
to turn nun, whether he remains as he is or becomes worse, it will be
none the less true that I love him. My dear abbe, you know that it must
be costing me something to make this confession; and, when my affection
for you brings me as a penitent to your feet and to your bosom, you
should not humiliate me by your expressions of surprise and your
exorcisms! Consider the matter now; examine, discuss, decide! Consider
the matter now; examine, discuss, decide! The evil is--I love him. The
symptoms are--I think of none but him, I see none but him; and I could
eat no dinner this evening because he had not come back. I find him
handsomer than any man in the world. When he says that he loves me, I
can see, I can feel that it is true; I feel displeased, and at the same
time delighted. M. de la Marche seems insipid and prim since I have
known Bernard. Bernard alone seems as proud, as passionate, as bold as
myself--and as weak as myself; for he cries like a child when I vex him,
and here I am crying, too, as I think of him.'"

"Dear abbe," I said, throwing myself on his neck, "let me embrace you
till I have crushed your life out for remembering all this."

"The abbe is drawing the long bow," said Edmee archly.

"What!" I exclaimed, pressing her hands as if I would break them. "You
have made me suffer for seven years, and now you repent a few words that
console me . . ."

"In any case do not regret the past," she said. "Ah, with you such as
you were in those days, we should have been ruined if I had not been
able to think and decide for both of us. Good God! what would have
become of us by now? You would have had far more to suffer from my
sternness and pride; for you would have offended me from the very first
day of our union, and I should have had to punish you by running away
or killing myself, or killing you--for we are given to killing in our
family; it is a natural habit. One thing is certain, and that is that
you would have been a detestable husband; you would have made me blush
for your ignorance; you would have wanted to rule me, and we should have
fallen foul of each other; that would have driven my father to despair,
and, as you know, my father had to be considered before everything. I
might, perhaps, have risked my own fate lightly enough, if I had been
alone in the world, for I have a strain of rashness in my nature; but
it was essential that my father should remain happy, and tranquil, and
respected. He had brought me up in happiness and independence, and I
should never have forgiven myself if I had deprived his old age of the
blessings he had lavished on my whole life. Do not think that I am full
of virtues and noble qualities, as the abbe pretends; I love, that is
all; but I love strongly, exclusively, steadfastly. I sacrificed you to
my father, my poor Bernard; and Heaven, who would have cursed us if I
had sacrificed my father, rewards us to-day by giving us to each other,
tried and not found wanting. As you grew greater in my eyes I felt
that I could wait, because I knew I had to love you long, and I was not
afraid of seeing my passion vanish before it was satisfied, as do the
passions of feeble souls. We were two exceptional characters; our loves
had to be heroic; the beaten track would have led both of us to ruin."




XXX

We returned to Sainte-Severe at the expiration of Edmee's period of
mourning. This was the time that had been fixed for our marriage. When
we had quitted the province where we had both experienced so many bitter
mortifications and such grievous trials, we had imagined that we
should never feel any inclination to return. Yet, so powerful are the
recollections of childhood and the ties of family life that, even in the
heart of an enchanted land which could not arouse painful memories, we
had quickly begun to regret our gloomy, wild Varenne, and sighed for the
old oaks in the park. We returned, then, with a sense of profound yet
solemn joy. Edmee's first care was to gather the beautiful flowers in
the garden and to kneel by her father's grave and arrange them on it. We
kissed the hallowed ground, and there made a vow to strive unceasingly
to leave a name as worthy of respect and veneration as his. He had
frequently carried this ambition to the verge of weakness, but it was a
noble weakness, a sacred vanity.

Our marriage was celebrated in the village chapel, and the festivities
were confined to the family; none but Arthur, the abbe, Marcasse, and
Patience sat down to our modest banquet. What need had we of the outside
world to behold our happiness? They might have believed, perhaps, that
they were doing us an honour by covering the blots on our escutcheon
with their august presence. We were enough to be happy and merry among
ourselves. Our hearts were filled with as much affection as they could
hold. We were too proud to ask more from any one, too pleased with one
another to yearn for greater pleasure. Patience returned to his sober,
retired life, resumed the duties of "great judge" and "treasurer" on
certain days of the week. Marcasse remained with me until his death,
which happened towards the end of the French Revolution. I trust I
did my best to repay his fidelity by an unreserved friendship and an
intimacy that nothing could disturb.

Arthur, who had sacrificed a year of his life to us, could not bring
himself to abjure the love of his country, and his desire to contribute
to its progress by offering it the fruits of his learning and the
results of his investigations; he returned to Philadelphia, where I paid
him a visit after I was left a widower.

I will not describe my years of happiness with my noble wife; such years
beggar description. One could not resign one's self to living after
losing them, if one did not make strenuous efforts to avoid recalling
them too often. She gave me six children; four of these are still alive,
and all honourably settled in life. I have lived for them, in obedience
to Edmee's dying command. You must forgive me for not speaking further
of this loss, which I suffered only ten years ago. I feel it now as
keenly as on the first day, and I do not seek to find consolation for
it, but to make myself worthy of rejoining the holy comrade of my life
in a better world after I have completed my period of probation in this.
She was the only woman I ever loved; never did any other win a glance
from me or know the pressure of my hand. Such is my nature; what I love
I love eternally, in the past, in the present, in the future.

The storms of the Revolution did not destroy our existence, nor did the
passions it aroused disturb the harmony of our private life. We gladly
gave up a large part of our property to the Republic, looking upon
it, indeed, as a just sacrifice. The abbe, terrified by the bloodshed,
occasionally abjured this political faith, when the necessities of the
hour were too much for the strength of his soul. He was the Girondin of
the family.

With no less sensibility, Edmee had greater courage; a woman and
compassionate, she sympathized profoundly with the sufferings of all
classes. She bewailed the misfortune of her age; but she never failed to
appreciate the greatness of its holy fanaticism. She remained faithful
to her ideas of absolute equality. At a time when the acts of the
Mountain were irritating the abbe, and driving him to despair, she
generously sacrificed her own patriotic enthusiasm; and her delicacy
would never let her mention in his presence certain names that made
him shudder, names for which she herself had a sort of passionate
veneration, the like of which I have never seen in any woman.

As for myself, I can truthfully say that it was she who educated me;
during the whole course of my life I had the profoundest respect for
her judgment and rectitude. When, in my enthusiasm, I was filled with
a longing to play a part as a leader of the people, she held me back by
showing how my name would destroy any influence I might have; since they
would distrust me, and imagine my aim was to use them as an instrument
for recovering my rank. When the enemy was at the gates of France, she
sent me to serve as a volunteer; when the Republic was overthrown, and
a military career came to be merely a means of gratifying ambition, she
recalled me, and said:

"You must never leave me again."

Patience played a great part in the Revolution. He was unanimously
chosen as judge of his district. His integrity, his impartiality between
castle and cottage, his firmness and wisdom will never be forgotten in
Varenne.

During the war I was instrumental in saving M. de la Marche's life, and
helping him to escape to a foreign country.

Such, I believe, said old Mauprat, are all the events of my life in
which Edmee played a part. The rest of it is not worth the telling.
If there is anything helpful in my story, try to profit by it, young
fellows. Hope to be blessed with a frank counsellor, a severe friend;
and love not the man who flatters, but the man who reproves. Do not
believe too much in phrenology; for I have the murderer's bump largely
developed, and, as Edmee used to say with grim humour, "killing comes
natural" to our family. Do not believe in fate, or, at least, never
advise any one to tamely submit to it. Such is the moral of my story.


After this old Bernard gave us a good supper, and continued conversing
with us for the rest of the evening without showing any signs of
discomposure or fatigue. As we begged him to develop what he called
the moral of his story a little further, he proceeded to a few general
considerations which impressed me with their soundness and good sense.

I spoke of phrenology, he said, not with the object of criticising a
system which has its good side, in so far as it tends to complete
the series of physiological observations that aim at increasing our
knowledge of man; I used the word phrenology because the only fatality
that we believe in nowadays is that created by our own instincts. I do
not believe that phrenology is more fatalistic than any other system of
this kind; and Lavater, who was also accused of fatalism in his time,
was the most Christian man the Gospel has ever formed.

Do not believe in any absolute and inevitable fate; and yet acknowledge,
in a measure, that we are moulded by instincts, our faculties,
the impressions of our infancy, the surroundings of our earliest
childhood--in short, by all that outside world which has presided over
the development of our soul. Admit that we are not always absolutely
free to choose between good and evil, if you would be indulgent towards
the guilty--that is to say, just even as Heaven is just; for there
is infinite mercy in God's judgments; otherwise His justice would be
imperfect.

What I am saying now is not very orthodox, but, take my word for it, it
is Christian, because it is true. Man is not born wicked; neither is he
born good, as is maintained by Jean Jacques Rousseau, my beloved Edmee's
old master. Man is born with more or less of passions, with more or less
power to satisfy them, with more or less capacity for turning them to a
good or bad account in society. But education can and must find a remedy
for everything; that is the great problem to be solved, to discover the
education best suited to each individual. If it seems necessary that
education should be general and in common, does it follow that it ought
to be the same for all? I quite believe that if I had been sent to
school when I was ten, I should have become a civilized being earlier;
but would any one have thought of correcting my violent passions, and
of teaching me how to conquer them as Edmee did? I doubt it. Every
man needs to be loved before he can be worth anything; but each in
a different way; one with never-failing indulgence, another with
unflinching severity. Meanwhile, until some one solves the problem of
making education common to all, and yet appropriate to each, try to
improve one another.

Do you ask me how? My answer will be brief: by loving one another truly.
It is in this way--for the manners of a people mould their laws--that
you will succeed in suppressing the most odious and impious of all laws,
the _lex talionis_, capital punishment, which is nothing else than the
consecration of the principle of fatality, seeing that it supposes the
culprit incorrigible and Heaven implacable.