"Whatever happens," she said, "I will not leave you; but I will try to
find some one to help you."

"Yet, no," I said, "I will not let you knock at that door alone. That
light, in the middle of the night, in a house situated in the heart of
the woods, may be a lure."

I dragged myself as far as the door. It felt cold, as if of metal. The
walls were covered with ivy.

"Who is there?" cried some one within, before we had knocked.

"We are saved!" cried Edmee; "it is Patience's voice."

"We are lost!" I said; "he and I are mortal enemies.

"Fear nothing," she said; "follow me. It was God that led us here."

"Yes, it was God that led you here, daughter of Heaven, morning star!"
said Patience, opening the door; "and whoever is with you is welcome too
at Gazeau Tower."

We entered under a surbased vault, in the middle of which hung an iron
lamp. By the light of this dismal luminary and of a handful of brushwood
which was blazing on the hearth we saw, not without surprise, that
Gazeau Tower was exceptionally honoured with visitors. On one side the
light fell upon the pale and serious face of a man in clerical garb. On
the other, a broad-brimmed hat overshadowed a sort of olive-green cone
terminating in a scanty beard; and on the wall could be seen the shadow
of a nose so distinctly tapered that nothing in the world might compare
with it except, perhaps, a long rapier lying across the knees of the
personage in question, and a little dog's face which, from its pointed
shape, might have been mistaken for that of a gigantic rat. In fact, it
seemed as if a mysterious harmony reigned between these three salient
points--the nose of Don Marcasse, his dog's snout, and the blade of his
sword. He got up slowly and raised his hand to his hat. The Jansenist
cure did the same. The dog thrust its head forward between its master's
legs, and, silent like him, showed its teeth and put back its ears
without barking.

"Quiet, Blaireau!" said Marcasse to it.




VII

No sooner had the cure recognised Edmee than he started back with an
exclamation of surprise. But this was nothing to the stupefaction of
Patience when he had examined my features by the light of the burning
brand that served him as torch.

"The lamb in the company of the wolf!" he cried. "What has happened,
then?"

"My friend," replied Edmee, putting, to my infinite astonishment, her
little white hand into the sorcerer's big rough palm, "welcome him as
you welcome me. I was a prisoner at Roche-Mauprat, and it was he who
rescued me."

"May the sins of his fathers be forgiven him for this act!" said the
cure.

Patience took me by the arm, without saying anything, and led me nearer
the fire. They seated me on the only chair in the house, and the cure
took upon himself the task of attending to my leg, while Edmee gave an
account, up to a certain point, of our adventure. Then she asked for
information about the hunt and about her father. Patience, however,
could give her no news. He had heard the horn in the woods, and the
firing at the wolves had disturbed his tranquility several times during
the day. But since the storm broke over them the noise of the wind had
drowned all other sounds, and he knew nothing of what was taking place
in Varenne. Marcasse, meanwhile, had very nimbly climbed a ladder which
served as an approach to the upper stories of the house, now that the
staircase was broken. His dog followed him with marvellous skill.
Soon they came down again, and we learned that a red light could be
distinguished on the horizon in the direction of Roche-Mauprat. In spite
of the loathing I had for this place and its owners, I could not repress
a feeling very much like consternation on hearing that the hereditary
manor which bore my own name had apparently been taken and set on fire.
It meant disgrace, defeat; and this fire was as a seal of vassalage
affixed to my arms by those I called clodhoppers and serfs. I sprang up
from my chair, and had I not been held back by the violent pain in my
foot, I believe I should have rushed out.

"What is the matter?" said Edmee, who was by my side at the time.

"The matter is," I answered abruptly, "that I must return yonder; for
it is my duty to get killed rather than let my uncles parley with the
rabble."

"The rabble!" cried Patience, addressing me for the first time since I
arrived. "Who dares to talk of rabble here? I myself am of the rabble.
It is my title, and I shall know how to make it respected."

"By Jove! Not by me," I said, pushing away the cure, who had made me sit
down again.

"And yet it would not be for the first time," replied Patience, with a
contemptuous smile.

"You remind me," I answered, "that we two have some old accounts to
settle."

And heedless of the frightful agony caused by my sprain, I rose again,
and with a backhander I sent Don Marcasse, who was endeavouring the play
the cure's part of peacemaker, head over heels into the middle of the
ashes. I did not mean him any harm, but my movements were somewhat
rough, and the poor man was so frail that to my hand he was but as a
weasel would have been to his own. Patience was standing before me with
his arms crossed, in the attitude of a stoic philosopher, but the fire
was flashing in his eyes. Conscious of his position as my host, he was
evidently waiting until I struck the first blow before attempting
to crush me. I should not have kept him waiting long, had not Edmee,
scorning the danger of interfering with a madman, seized my arm and
said, in an authoritative tone:

"Sit down again, and be quiet; I command you."

So much boldness and confidence surprised and pleased me at the same
time. The rights which she arrogated to herself over me were, in some
measure, a sanction of those I claimed to have over her.

"You are right," I answered, sitting down.

And I added, with a glance at Patience:

"Some other time."

"Amen," he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Marcasse had picked himself up with much composure, and shaking off the
ashes with which he was covered, instead of finding fault with me, he
tried, after his fashion to lecture Patience. This was in reality by no
means easy to do; yet nothing could have been less irritating than that
monosyllabic censure throwing out its little note in the thick of a
quarrel like an echo in a storm.

"At your age," he said to his host; "not patient at all. Wholly to
blame--yes--wrong--you!"

"How naughty you are!" Edmee said to me, putting her hand on my
shoulder; "do not begin again, or I shall go away and leave you."

I willingly let myself be scolded by her; nor did I realize that during
the last minutes we had exchanged parts. The moment we crossed the
threshold of Gazeau Tower she had given evidence of that superiority
over me which was really hers. This wild place, too, these strange
witnesses, this fierce host, had already furnished a taste of the
society into which I had entered, and whose fetters I was soon to feel.

"Come," she said, turning to Patience, "we do not understand each other
here; and, for my part, I am devoured by anxiety about my poor father,
who is no doubt searching for me, and wringing his hands at this very
moment. My good Patience, do find me some means of rejoining him with
this unfortunate boy, whom I dare not leave to your care, since you have
not sufficient love for me to be patient and compassionate with him."

"What do you say?" said Patience, putting his hand to his brow as if
waking from a dream. "Yes, you are right; I am an old brute, an old
fool. Daughter of God, tell this boy, this nobleman, that I ask his
pardon for the past, and that, for the present, my poor cell is at his
disposal. Is that well said?"

"Yes, Patience," answered the cure. "Besides, everything may be managed.
My horse is quiet and steady, and Mademoiselle de Mauprat can ride it,
while you and Marcasse lead it by the bridle. For myself, I will remain
here with our invalid. I promise to take good care of him and not to
annoy him in any way. That will do, won't it, Monsieur Bernard? You
don't bear me any ill-will, and you may be very sure that I am not your
enemy."

"I know nothing about it," I answered; "it is as you please. Look after
my cousin; take her home safely. For my own part, I need nothing and
care for no one. A bundle of straw and a glass of wine, that is all I
should like, if it were possible to have them."

"You shall have both," said Marcasse, handing me his flask, "but first
of all here is something to cheer you up. I am going to the stable to
get the horse ready."

"No, I will go myself," said Patience; "you see to the wants of this
young man."

And he passed into another lower hall, which served as a stable for
the cure's horse during the visits which the good priest paid him. They
brought the animal through the room where we were; and Patience, after
arranging the cure's cloak on the saddle, with fatherly care helped
Edmee to mount.

"One moment," she said, before letting them lead her out. "Monsieur le
Cure, will you promise me on the salvation of your soul not to leave my
cousin before I return with my father to fetch him?"

"I promise solemnly," replied the cure.

"And you, Bernard," said Edmee, "will you give me your word of honour to
wait for me here?"

"I can't say," I answered; "that will depend on the length of your
absence and on my patience; but you know quite well, cousin, that we
shall meet again, even if it be in hell; and for my part, the sooner the
better."

By the light of the brand which Patience was holding to examine the
horse's harness, I saw her beautiful face flush and then turn pale. Then
she raised her eyes which had been lowered in sorrow, and looked at me
fixedly with a strange expression.

"Are we ready to start?" said Marcasse, opening the door.

"Yes, forward," said Patience, taking the bridle. "Edmee, my child, take
care to bend down while passing under the door."

"What is the matter, Blaireau?" said Marcasse, stopping on the threshold
and thrusting out the point of his sword, gloriously rusted by the blood
of the rodent tribe.

Blaireau did not stir, and if he had not been born dumb, as his master
said, he would have barked. But he gave warning as usual by a sort of
dry cough. This was his most emphatic sign of anger and uneasiness.

"There must be something down there," said Marcasse; and he boldly
advanced into the darkness, after making a sign to the rider not to
follow. The report of firearms made us all start. Edmee jumped down
lightly from her horse, and I did not fail to notice that some impulse
at once prompted her to come and stand behind my chair. Patience rushed
out of the tower. The cure ran to the frightened horse, which was
rearing and backing toward us. Blaireau managed to bark. I forgot my
sprain, and in a single bound I was outside.

A man covered with wounds, and with the blood streaming from him, was
lying across the doorway. It was my Uncle Laurence. He had been mortally
wounded at the siege of Roche-Mauprat, and had come to die under our
eyes. With him was his brother Leonard, who had just fired his last
pistol shot at random, luckily without hitting any one. Patience's
first impulse was to prepare to defend himself. On recognising Marcasse,
however, the fugitives, far from showing themselves hostile, asked for
shelter and help. As their situation was so desperate no one thought
that assistance should be refused. The police were pursuing them.
Roche-Mauprat was in flames; Louis and Peter had died fighting; Antony,
John, and Walter had fled in another direction, and, perhaps, were
already prisoners. No words would paint the horror of Laurence's last
moments. His agony was brief but terrible. His blasphemy made the cure
turn pale. Scarce had the door been shut and the dying man laid on the
floor than the horrible death-rattle was heard. Leonard, who knew of no
remedy but brandy, snatched Marcasse's flask out of my hand (not without
swearing and scornfully reproaching me for my flight), forced open his
brother's clinched teeth with the blade of his hunting-knife, and,
in spite of our warning, poured half the flask down his throat. The
wretched man bounded into the air, brandished his arms in desperate
convulsions, drew himself up to his full height, and fell back stone
dead upon the blood-stained floor. There was no time to offer up a
prayer over the body, for the door resounded under the furious blows of
our assailants.

"Open in the King's name!" cried several voices; "open to the police!"

"Help! help!" cried Leonard, seizing his knife and rushing towards the
door. "Peasants, prove yourselves nobles! And you, Bernard, atone for
your fault; wash out your shame; do not let a Mauprat fall into the
hands of the gendarmes alive!"

Urged on by native courage and by pride, I was about to follow his
example, when Patience rushed at him, and exerting his herculean
strength, threw him to the ground. Putting one knee on his chest, he
called to Marcasse to open the door. This was done before I could take
my uncle's part against his terrible assailant. Six gendarmes at once
rushed into the tower and, with their guns pointed, bade us move at our
peril.

"Stay, gentlemen," said Patience, "don't harm any one. This is your
prisoner. Had I been alone with him, I should either have defended him
or helped him to escape; but there are honest people here who ought not
to suffer for a knave; and I did not wish to expose them to a fight.
Here is the Mauprat. Your duty, as you know, is to deliver him safe and
sound into the hands of justice. This other is dead."

"Monsieur, surrender!" said the sergeant of the gendarmes, laying his
hand on Leonard.

"Never shall a Mauprat drag his name into the dock of a police court,"
replied Leonard, with a sullen expression. "I surrender, but you will
get nothing but my skin."

And he allowed himself to be placed in a chair without making any
resistance.

But while they were preparing to bind him he said to the cure:

"Do me one last kindness, Father. Give me what is left in the flask; I
am dying of thirst and exhaustion."

The good cure handed him the flask, which he emptied at a draught. His
distorted face took on an expression of awful calm. He seemed absorbed,
stunned, incapable of resistance. But as soon as they were engaged
in binding his feet, he snatched a pistol from the belt of one of the
gendarmes and blew his brains out.

This frightful spectacle completely unnerved me. Sunk in a dull stupor,
no longer conscious of what was happening around me, I stood there as if
turned to stone, and it was only after some minutes that I realized
that I was the subject of a serious discussion between the police and
my hosts. One of the gendarmes declared that he recognised me as a
Hamstringer Mauprat. Patience declared that I was nothing but M. Hubert
de Mauprat's gamekeeper, in charge of his daughter. Annoyed at the
discussion, I was about to make myself known when I saw a ghost rise
by my side. It was Edmee. She had taken refuge between the wall and the
cure's poor frightened horse, which, with outstretched legs and eyes
of fire, made her a sort of rampart with its body. She was as pale as
death, and her lips were so compressed with horror that at first, in
spite of desperate efforts to speak, she was unable to express herself
otherwise than by signs. The sergeant, moved by her youth and her
painful situation, waited with deference until she could manage to make
herself understood. At last she persuaded them not to treat me as a
prisoner, but to take me with her to her father's chateau, where she
gave her word of honour that satisfactory explanations and guarantees
would be furnished on my account. The cure and the other witnesses,
having pledged their words to this, we set out all together, Edmee
on the sergeant's horse, he on an animal belonging to one of his men,
myself on the cure's, Patience and the cure afoot between us, the police
on either side, and Marcasse in front, still impassive amid the general
terror and consternation. Two of the gendarmes remained behind to guard
the bodies and prepare a report.




VIII

We had travelled about a league through the woods. Wherever other paths
had crossed our own, we had stopped to call aloud; for Edmee, convinced
that her father would not return home without finding her, had implored
her companions to help her to rejoin him. To this shouting the gendarmes
had been very averse, as they were afraid of being discovered and
attacked by bodies of the fugitives from Roche-Mauprat. On our way they
informed us that this den had been captured at the third assault. Until
then the assailants had husbanded their forces. The officer in command
of the gendarmes was anxious to get possession of the keep without
destroying it; and, above all, to take the defenders alive. This,
however, was impossible on account of the desperate resistance they
made. The besiegers suffered so severely in their second attempt that
they found themselves compelled to adopt extreme measures or to retreat.
They therefore set the outer buildings on fire, and in the ensuing
assault put forth all their strength. Two Mauprats were killed while
fighting on the ruins of their bastion; the other five disappeared. Six
men were dispatched in pursuit of them in one direction, six in another.
Traces of the fugitives had been discovered immediately, and the men who
gave us these details had followed Laurence and Leonard so closely that
several of their shots had hit the former only a short distance from
Gazeau Tower. They had heard him cry that he was done for; and, as far
as they could see, Leonard had carried him to the sorcerer's door. This
Leonard was the only one of my uncles who deserved any pity, for he was
the only one who might, perhaps, have been encouraged to a better kind
of life. At times there was a touch of chivalry in his brigandage,
and his savage heart was capable of affection. I was deeply moved,
therefore, by his tragic death, and let myself be carried along
mechanically, plunged in gloomy thoughts, and determined to end my days
in the same manner should I ever be condemned to the disgrace he had
scorned to endure.

All at once the sound of horns and the baying of hounds announced the
approach of a party of huntsmen. While we, on our side, were answering
with shouts, Patience ran to meet them. Edmee, longing to see her father
again, and forgetting all the horrors of this bloody night, whipped
up her horse and reached the hunters first. As soon as we came up with
them, I saw Edmee in the arms of a tall man with a venerable face. He
was richly dressed; his hunting-coat, with gold lace over all the seams,
and the magnificent Norman horse, which a groom was holding behind him,
so struck me that I thought I was in the presence of a prince. The signs
of love which he was showing his daughter were so new to me that I was
inclined to deem them exaggerated and unworthy of the dignity of a man.
At the same time they filled me with a sort of brute jealousy; for it
did not occur to my mind that a man so splendidly dressed could be
my uncle. Edmee was speaking to him in a low voice, but with great
animation. Their conversation lasted a few moments. At the end of it the
old man came and embraced me cordially. Everything about these manners
seemed so new to me, that I responded neither by word nor gesture to the
protestations and caresses of which I was the object. A tall young man,
with a handsome face, as elegantly dressed as M. Hubert, also came and
shook my hand and proffered thanks; why, I could not understand. He next
entered into a discussion with the gendarmes, and I gathered that he was
the lieutenant-general of the province, and that he was ordering them
to set me at liberty for the present, that I might accompany my uncle to
his chateau, where he undertook to be responsible for me. The gendarmes
then left us, for the chevalier and the lieutenant-general were
sufficiently well escorted by their own men not to fear attack from
any one. A fresh cause of astonishment for me was to see the chevalier
bestowing marks of warm friendship on Patience and Marcasse. As for the
cure, he was upon a footing of equality with these seigneurs. For some
months he had been chaplain at the chateau of Saint-Severe, having
previously been compelled to give up his living by the persecutions of
the diocesan clergy.

All this tenderness of which Edmee was the object, this family affection
so completely new to me, the genuinely cordial relations existing
between respectful plebeians and kindly patricians--everything that I
now saw and heard seemed like a dream. I looked on with a sensation that
it was all unintelligible to me. However, soon after our caravan started
my brain began to work; for I then saw the lieutenant-general (M. de
la Marche) thrust his horse between Edmee's and my own, as if he had a
right to be next to her. I remembered her telling me at Roche-Mauprat
that he was her betrothed. Hatred and anger at once surged up within me,
and I know not what absurdity I should have committed, had not Edmee,
apparently divining the workings of my unruly soul, told him that she
wanted to speak to me, and thus restored me to my place by her side.

"What have you to say to me?" I asked with more eagerness than
politeness.

"Nothing," she answered in an undertone. "I shall have much to say
later. Until then will you do everything I ask of you?"

"And why the devil should I do everything you ask of me, cousin?"

For a moment she hesitated to reply; then, making an effort, she said:

"Because it is thus that a man proves to a woman that he loves her."

"Do you believe that I don't love you?" I replied abruptly.

"How should I know?" she said.

This doubt astonished me very much, and I tried to combat it after my
fashion.

"Are you not beautiful?" I said; "and am not I a young man? Perhaps you
think I am too much of a boy to notice a woman's beauty; but now that my
head is calm, and I am sad and quite serious, I can assure you that I am
even more deeply in love with you than I thought. The more I look at you
the more beautiful you seem. I did not think that a woman could be so
lovely. I tell you I shall not sleep till . . ."

"Hold your tongue," she said sharply.

"Oh, I suppose you are afraid that man will hear me," I answered,
pointing to M. de la Marche. "Have no fear; I know how to keep my word;
and, as you are the daughter of a noble house, I hope you know how to
keep yours."

She did not reply. We had reached a part of the road where it was
only possible for two to walk abreast. The darkness was profound, and
although the chevalier and the lieutenant-general were at our heels, I
was going to make bold to put my arm round her waist, when she said to
me, in a sad and weary voice:

"Cousin, forgive me for not talking to you. I'm afraid I did not quite
understand what you said. I am so exhausted that I feel as if I were
going to die. Luckily, we have reached home now. Promise me that you
will love my father, that you will yield to all his wishes, that you
will decide nothing without consulting me. Promise me this if you would
have me believe in your friendship."

"Oh, my friendship? you are welcome not to believe in that," I answered;
"but you must believe in my love. I promise everything you wish. And
you, will you not promise me anything? Do, now, with a good grace."

"What can I promise that is not yours?" she said in a serious tone. "You
saved my honour; my life belongs to you."

The first glimmerings of dawn were now beginning to light the horizon.
We had reached the village of Saint-Severe, and soon afterward we
entered the courtyard of the chateau. On dismounting from her horse
Edmee fell into her father's arms; she was as pale as death. M. de la
Marche uttered a cry, and helped to carry her away. She had fainted.
The cure took charge of me. I was very uneasy about my fate. The natural
distrust of the brigand sprang up again as soon as I ceased to be under
the spell of her who had managed to lure me from my den. I was like a
wounded wolf; I cast sullen glances about me, ready to rush at the first
being who should stir my suspicions by a doubtful word or deed. I was
taken into a splendid room, and a meal, prepared with a luxury far
beyond anything I could have conceived, was immediately served. The
cure displayed the kindest interest in me; and, having succeeded in
reassuring me a little, he went to attend to his friend Patience. The
disturbed state of my mind and my remnant of uneasiness were not
proof against the generous appetite of youth. Had it not been for the
respectful assiduity of a valet much better dressed than myself, who
stood behind my chair, and whose politeness I could not help returning
whenever he hastened to anticipate my wants, I should have made
a terrific breakfast; as it was, the green coat and silk breeches
embarrassed me considerably. It was much worse when, going down on his
knees, he set about taking off my boots preparatory to putting me to
bed. For the moment I thought he was playing a trick upon me, and came
very near giving him a good blow on the head; but his manner was so
serious as he went through this task that I sat and stared at him in
amazement.

At first, at finding myself in bed without arms, and with people
entering and leaving my room always on tip-toe, I again began to feel
suspicious. I took advantage of a moment when I was alone to get out of
bed and take from the table, which was only half cleared, the longest
knife I could find. Feeling easier in my mind, I returned to bed and
fell into a sound sleep, with the knife firmly clasped in my hand.

When I awoke again the rays of the setting sun, softened by my red
damask curtains, were falling on my beautifully fine sheets and lighting
up the golden pomegranates that adorned the corners of the bed. This bed
was so handsome and soft that I felt inclined to make it my apologies
for having slept in it. As I was about to get up I saw a kindly,
venerable face looking through the half-drawn curtains and smiling. It
was the Chevalier Hubert de Mauprat. He inquired anxiously about
the state of my health. I endeavoured to be polite and to express my
gratitude; but the language I used seemed so different from his that
I was disconcerted and pained at my awkwardness without being able to
realize why. To crown my misery, a movement that I made caused the
knife which I had taken as bedfellow to fall at M. de Mauprat's feet. He
picked it up, looked at it, and then at myself with extreme surprise. I
turned as red as fire and stammered out I know not what. I expected he
would reprove me for this insult to his hospitality. However, he was too
polite to insist upon a more complete explanation. He quietly placed the
knife on the mantel-piece and, returning to me, spoke as follows:

"Bernard, I now know that I owe to you the life that I hold dearest in
the world. All my own life shall be devoted to giving you proofs of my
gratitude and esteem. My daughter also is sacredly indebted to you. You
need, then, have no anxiety about your future. I know what persecution
and vengeance you exposed yourself to in coming to us; but I know, too,
from what a frightful existence my friendship and devotion will be able
to deliver you. You are an orphan, and I have no son. Will you have me
for your father?"

I stared at the chevalier with wild eyes. I could not believe my ears.
All feeling within me seemed paralyzed by astonishment and timidity. I
was unable to answer a word. The chevalier himself evidently felt
some astonishment; he had not expected to find a nature so brutishly
ill-conditioned.

"Come," he said; "I hope that you will grow accustomed to us. At all
events, shake hands, to show that you trust me. I will send up your
servant; give him your orders; he is at your disposal. I have only one
promise to exact from you, and that is that you will not go beyond the
walls of the park until I have taken steps to make you safe from the
pursuit of justice. At present it is possible that the charges which
have been hanging over your uncles' heads might be made to fall on your
own."

"My uncles!" I exclaimed, putting my hand to my brow. "Is this all a
hideous dream? Where are they? What has become of Roche-Mauprat?"

"Roche-Mauprat," he answered, "has been saved from the flames. Only
a few of the outer buildings have been destroyed; but I undertake to
repair the house and to redeem your fief from the creditors who claim
it. As to your uncles . . . you are probably the sole heir of a name
that it behoves you to rehabilitate."

"The sole heir?" I cried. "Four Mauprats fell last night; but the other
three . . ."

"The fifth, Walter, perished in his attempt to escape. His body was
discovered this morning in the pond of Les Froids. Neither John nor
Antony has been caught, but the horse belonging to one and a cloak of
the other's, found near the spot where Walter's body was lying, seem to
hint darkly that their fate was as his. Even if one of them manages to
escape, he will never dare make himself known again, for there would
be no hope for him. And since they have drawn down upon their heads
the inevitable storm, it is best, both for themselves and for us, who
unfortunately bear the same name, that they should have come to this
tragic end--better to have fallen weapon in hand, than to have suffered
an infamous death upon the gallows. Let us bow to what God has ordained
for them. It is a stern judgment; seven men in the pride of youth and
strength summoned in a single night to their terrible reckoning! . . .
We must pray for them, Bernard, and by dint of good works try to make
good the evil they have done, and remove the stains they have left on
our escutcheon."

These concluding words summed up the chevalier's whole character. He was
pious, just, and full of charity; but, with him, as with most nobles,
the precepts of Christian humility were wont to fall before the pride
of rank. He would gladly have had a poor man at his table, and on Good
Friday, indeed, he used to wash the feet of twelve beggars; but he was
none the less attached to all the prejudices of our caste. In trampling
under foot the dignity of man, my cousins, he considered, had,
as noblemen, been much more culpable than they would have been as
plebeians. On the latter hypothesis, according to him, their crimes
would not have been half so grave. For a long time I shared the
conviction myself; it was in my blood, if I may use the expression. I
lost it only in the stern lessons of my destiny.

He then confirmed what his daughter had told me. From my birth he had
earnestly desired to undertake my education. But his brother Tristan
had always stubbornly opposed this desire. There the chevalier's brow
darkened.

"You do not know," he said, "how baneful have been the consequences of
that simple wish of mine--baneful for me, and for you too. But that must
remain wrapped in mystery--a hideous mystery, the blood of the
Atridae. . . ."

He took my hand, and added, in a broken voice:

"Bernard, we are both of us victims of a vicious family. This is not
the moment to pile up charges against those who in this very hour are
standing before the terrible tribunal of God; but they have done me an
irreparable wrong--they have broken my heart. The wrong they have done
you shall be repaired--I swear it by the memory of your mother. They
have deprived you of education; they have made you a partner in their
brigandage; yet your soul has remained great and pure as was the soul of
the angel who gave you birth. You will correct the mistakes which others
made in your childhood; you will receive an education suitable to your
rank. And then, Bernard, you will restore the honour of your family. You
will, won't you? Promise me this, Bernard. It is the one thing I long
for. I will throw myself at your knees if so I may win your confidence;
and I shall win it, for Providence has destined you to be my son. Ah,
once it was my dream that you should be more completely mine. If, when
I made my second petition, they had granted you to my loving care, you
would have been brought up with my daughter and you would certainly have
become her husband. But God would not have it so. You have now to begin
your education, whereas hers is almost finished. She is of an age to
marry; and, besides, her choice is already made. She loves M. de la
Marche; in fact, their marriage is soon to take place. Probably she had
told you."

I stammered out a few confused words. The affection and generous ideas
of this noble man had moved me profoundly, and I was conscious of a new
nature, as it were, awakening within me. But when he pronounced the name
of his future son-in-law, all my savage instincts rose up again, and I
felt that no principle of social loyalty would make me renounce my claim
to her whom I regarded as my fairly won prize. I grew pale; I grew red;
I gasped for breath. Luckily, we were interrupted by the Abbe Aubert
(the Jansenist cure), who came to inquire how I was after my fall. Then
for the first time the chevalier heard of my accident; an incident that
had escaped him amid the press of so many more serious matters. He sent
for his doctor at once, and I was overwhelmed with kind attentions,
which seemed to me rather childish, but to which I submitted from a
sense of gratitude.

I had not dared to ask the chevalier for any news of his daughter. With
the abbe, however, I was bolder. He informed me that the length and
uneasiness of her sleep were causing some anxiety; and the doctor, when
he returned in the evening to dress my ankle, told me that she was very
feverish, and that he was afraid she was going to have some serious
illness.

For a few days, indeed, she was ill enough to cause anxiety. In the
terrible experience she had gone through she had displayed great energy;
but the reaction was correspondingly violent. For myself, I was also
kept to my bed. I could not take a step without feeling considerable
pain, and the doctor threatened that I should be laid up for several
months if I did not submit to inaction for a few days. As I was
otherwise in vigorous health, and had never been ill in my life, the
change from any active habits to this sluggish captivity caused me
indescribable _ennui_. Only those who have lived in the depths of woods,
and experienced all the hardships of a rough life, can understand the
kind of horror and despair I felt on finding myself shut up for more
than a week between four silk curtains. The luxuriousness of my room,
the gilding of my bed, the minute attentions of the lackeys, everything,
even to the excellence of the food--trifles which I had somewhat
appreciated the first day--became odious to me at the end of twenty-four
hours. The chevalier paid me affectionate but short visits; for he
was absorbed by the illness of his darling daughter. The abbe was all
kindness. To neither did I dare confess how wretched I felt; but when I
was alone I felt inclined to roar like a caged lion; and at night I had
dreams in which the moss in the woods, the curtain of forest trees, and
even the gloomy battlements of Roche-Mauprat, appeared to me like an
earthly paradise. At other times, the tragic scenes that had accompanied
and followed my escape were reproduced so vividly by my memory that,
even when awake, I was a prey to a sort of delirium.

A visit from M. de la Marche stirred my ideas to still wilder disorder.
He displayed the deepest interest in me, shook me by the hand again and
again, and implored my friendship, vowed a dozen times that he would lay
down his life for me, and made I don't know how many other protestations
which I scarcely heard, for his voice was like a raging torrent in my
ears, and if I had had my hunting-knife I believe I should have thrown
myself upon him. My rough manners and sullen looks astonished him very
much; but, the abbe having explained that my mind was disturbed by
the terrible events which had happened in my family, he renewed his
protestations, and took leave of me in the most affectionate and
courteous manner.

This politeness which I found common to everybody, from the master
of the house to the meanest of his servants, though it struck me with
admiration, yet made me feel strangely ill at ease; for, even if it had
not been inspired by good-will towards me, I could never have brought
myself to understand that it might be something very different from real
goodness. It bore so little resemblance to the facetious braggadocio of
the Mauprats, that it seemed to me like an entirely new language, which
I understood but could not speak.

However, I recovered the power of speech when the abbe announced that
he was to have charge of my education, and began questioning me about
my attainments. My ignorance was so far beyond anything he could have
imagined that I was getting ashamed to lay it all bare; and, my savage
pride getting the upper hand, I declared that I was a gentleman, and had
no desire to become a clerk. His only answer was a burst of laughter,
which offended me greatly. He tapped me quickly on the shoulder, with
a good-natured smile, saying that I should change my mind in time, but
that I was certainly a funny fellow. I was purple with rage when the
chevalier entered. The abbe told him of our conversation and of my
little speech. M. Hubert suppressed a smile.

"My boy," he said, in a kind tone, "I trust I may never do anything to
annoy you, even from affection. Let us talk no more about work to-day.
Before conceiving a taste for it you must first realize its necessity.
Since you have a noble heart you can not but have a sound mind; the
desire for knowledge will come to you of itself. And now to supper. I
expect you are hungry. Do you like wine?"

"Much better than Latin," I replied.

"Come, abbe," he continued laughingly, "as a punishment for having
played the pedant you must drink with us. Edmee is now quite out of
danger. The doctor has said that Bernard can get up and walk a few
steps. We will have supper served in this room."

The supper and wine were so good, indeed, that I was not long in getting
tipsy, according to the Roche-Mauprat custom. I even saw they aided and
abetted, in order to make me talk, and show at once what species of boor
they had to deal with. My lack of education surpassed anything they had
anticipated; but I suppose they augured well from my native powers; for,
instead of giving me up, they laboured at the rough block with a zeal
which showed at least that they were not without hope. As soon as I was
able to leave my room I lost the feeling of _ennui_. The abbe was my
inseparable companion through the whole first day. The length of the
second was diminished by the hope they gave me of seeing Edmee on the
morrow, and by the kindness I experienced from every one. I began to
feel the charm of these gentle manners in proportion as I ceased to be
astonished at them. The never-failing goodness of the chevalier could
not but overcome my boorishness; nay, more, it rapidly won my heart.
This was the first affection of my life. It took up its abode in me side
by side with a violent love for his daughter, nor did I even dream of
pitting one of these feelings against the other. I was all yearning,
all instinct, all desire. I had the passions of a man in the soul of a
child.




IX

At last, one morning after breakfast, Mr. Hubert took me to see his
daughter. When the door of her room was opened I felt almost suffocated
by the warm-scented air which met me. The room itself was charming
in its simplicity; the curtains and coverings of chintz, with a white
ground. Large china vases filled with flowers exhaled a delicate
perfume. African birds were sporting in a gilded cage, and singing their
sweet little love songs. The carpet was softer to the feet than is
the moss of the woods in the month of March. I was in such a state of
agitation that my eyes grew more and more dim every moment. My feet
caught in one another most awkwardly, and I kept stumbling against the
furniture without being able to advance. Edmee was lying on a long white
chair, carelessly fingering a mother-of-pearl fan. She seemed to me
even more beautiful than before, yet so changed that a feeling of
apprehension chilled me in the middle of my ecstasy. She held out her
hand to me; I did not like to kiss it in the presence of her father. I
could not hear what she was saying to me--I believe her words were full
of affection. Then, as if overcome with fatigue, she let her head fall
back on the pillow and closed her eyes.

"I have some work to do," said the chevalier to me. "Stay here with her;
but do not make her talk too much, for she is still very weak."

This recommendation really seemed a sarcasm. Edmee was pretending to be
sleepy, perhaps to conceal some of the embarrassment that weighed on her
heart; and, as for myself, I felt so incapable of overcoming her reserve
that it was in reality a kindness to counsel silence.

The chevalier opened a door at one end of the room and closed it after
him; but, as I could hear him cough from time to time, I gathered
that his study was separated from his daughter's room only by a wooden
partition. Still, it was bliss to be alone with her for a few moments,
as long as she appeared to be asleep. She did not see me, and I could
gaze on her at will. So pale was she that she seemed as white as her
muslin dressing-gown, or as her satin slippers with their trimming of
swan's down. Her delicate, transparent hand was to my eyes like some
unknown jewel. Never before had I realized what a woman was; beauty for
me had hitherto meant youth and health, together with a sort of manly
hardihood. Edmee, in her riding-habit, as I first beheld her, had in
a measure displayed such beauty, and I had understood her better then.
Now, as I studied her afresh, my very ideas, which were beginning to
get a little light from without, all helped to make this second
_tete-a-tete_ very different from the first.

But the strange, uneasy pleasure I experienced in gazing on her was
disturbed by the arrival of a duenna, a certain Mademoiselle Leblanc,
who performed the duties of lady's maid in Edmee's private apartments,
and filled the post of companion in the drawing-room. Perhaps she had
received orders from her mistress not to leave us. Certain it is that
she took her place by the side of the invalid's chair in such a way as
to present to my disappointed gaze her own long, meagre back, instead of
Edmee's beautiful face. Then she took some work out of her pocket, and
quietly began to knit. Meanwhile the birds continued to warble, the
chevalier to cough, Edmee to sleep or to pretend to sleep, while I
remained at the other end of the room with my head bent over the prints
in a book that I was holding upside down.

After some time I became aware that Edmee was not asleep, and that she
was talking to her attendant in a low voice. I fancied I noticed the
latter glancing at me from time to time out of the corner of her eye in
a somewhat stealthy manner. To escape the ordeal of such an examination,
and also from an impulse of cunning, which was by no means foreign to my
nature, I let my head fall on the book, and the book on the pier-table,
and in this posture I remained as if buried in sleep or thought. Then,
little by little, their voices grew louder, until I could hear what they
were saying about me.

"It's all the same; you have certainly have chosen a funny sort of page,
mademoiselle."

"A page, Leblanc! Why do you talk such nonsense? As if one had pages
nowadays! You are always imagining we are still in my grandmother's
time. I tell you he is my father's adopted son."

"M. le Chevalier is undoubtedly quite right to adopt a son; but where on
earth did he fish up such a creature as that?"

I gave a side glance at them and saw that Edmee was laughing behind her
fan. She was enjoying the chatter of this old maid, who was supposed to
be a wag and allowed perfect freedom of speech. I was very much hurt to
see my cousin was making fun of me.

"He looks like a bear, a badger, a wolf, a kite, anything rather than
a man," continued Leblanc. "What hands! what legs! And now he has been
cleaned up a little, he is nothing to what he was! You ought to have
seen him the day he arrived with his smock and his leather gaiters; it
was enough to take away one's breath."

"Do you think so?" answered Edmee. "For my part, I preferred him in his
poacher's garb. It suited his face and figure better."

"He looked like a bandit. You could not have looked at him properly,
mademoiselle."

"Oh! yes, I did."

The tone in which she pronounced these words, "Yes, I did," made me
shudder; and somehow I again felt upon my lips the impress of the kiss
she had given me at Roche-Mauprat.

"It would not be so bad if his hair were dressed properly," continued
the duenna; "but, so far, no one had been able to persuade him to have
it powdered. Saint-Jean told me that just as he was about to put the
powder puff to his head he got up in a rage and said, 'Anything you like
except that confounded flour. I want to be able to move my head about
without coughing and sneezing.' Heavens, what a savage!"

"Yet, in reality, he is quite right. If fashion did not sanction
the absurdity, everybody would perceive that it is both ugly and
inconvenient. Look and see if it is not more becoming to have long black
hair like his?"

"Long hair like that? What a mane. It is enough to frighten one."

"Besides, boys do not have their hair powdered, and he is still a boy."

"A boy? My stars! what a brat Boys? Why he would eat them for his
breakfast; he's a regular ogre. But where does the hulking dog spring
from? I suppose M. le Chevalier brought him here from behind some
plough. What is his name again? . . . You did tell me his name, didn't
you?"

"Yes, inquisitive; I told you he is called Bernard."

"Bernard! And nothing else?"

"Nothing, for the present. What are you looking at?"

"He is sleeping like a dormouse. Look at the booby. I was wondering
whether he resembled M. le Chevalier. Perhaps it was a momentary
error--a fit of forgetfulness with some milk-maid."

"Come, come, Leblanc; you are going too far . . ."

"Goodness gracious, mademoiselle, has not M. le Chevalier been young
like any other man? And that does not prevent virtue coming on with
years, does it?"

"Doubtless your own experience has shown you that this is possible. But
listen: don't take upon yourself to make fun of this young man. It is
possible that you have guessed right; but my father requires him to be
treated as one of the family."

"Well, well; that must be pleasant for you, mademoiselle. As for myself,
what does it matter to me? I have nothing to do with the gentleman."

"Ah, if you were thirty years younger."

"But did your father consult you, mademoiselle, before planting yon
great brigand in your room?"

"Why ask such a question? Is there anywhere in the world a better father
than mine?"

"But you are very good also. . . . There are many young ladies who would
have been by no means pleased."

"And why, I should like to know? There is nothing disagreeable about the
fellow. When he has been polished a little . . ."

"He will always be perfectly ugly."

"My dear Leblanc, he is far from ugly. You are too old; you are no
longer a judge of young men."

Their conversation was interrupted by the chevalier, who came in to look
for a book.

"Mademoiselle Leblanc is here, is she?" he said in a very quiet tone.
"I thought you were alone with my son. Well, Edmee, have you had a talk
with him? Did you tell him that you would be his sister? Are you pleased
with her, Bernard?"

Such answers as I gave could compromise no one. As a rule, they
consisted of four or five incoherent words crippled by shame. M. de
Mauprat returned to his study, and I had sat down again, hoping that
my cousin was going to send away her duenna and talk to me. But they
exchanged a few words in a whisper; the duenna remained, and two mortal
hours passed without my daring to stir from my chair. I believe Edmee
really was asleep this time. When the bell rang for dinner her father
came in again to fetch me, and before leaving her room he said to her
again:

"Well, have you had a chat?"

"Yes, father, dear," she replied, with an assurance that astounded me.

My cousin's behaviour seemed to me to prove beyond doubt that she
had merely been trifling with me, and that she was not afraid of my
reproaches. And yet hope sprang up again when I remembered the strain in
which she had spoken of me to Mademoiselle Leblanc. I even succeeded in
persuading myself that she feared arousing her father's suspicions, and
that she was now feigning complete indifference only to draw me the more
surely to her arms as soon as the favourable moment had arrived. As it
was impossible to ascertain the truth, I resigned myself to waiting. But
days and nights passed without any explanation being sent, or any secret
message bidding me be patient. She used to come down to the drawing-room
for an hour in the morning; in the evening she was present at dinner,
and then would play piquet or chess with her father. During all this
time she was so well watched that I could not exchange a glance with
her. For the rest of the day she remained in her own room--inaccessible.
Noticing that I was chafing at the species of captivity in which I was
compelled to live, the chevalier frequently said to me:

"Go and have a chat with Edmee. You can go to her room and tell her that
I sent you."

But it was in vain that I knocked. No doubt they had heard me coming and
had recognised me by my heavy shuffling step. The door was never opened
to me. I grew desperate, furious.

Here I must interrupt the account of my personal impressions to tell you
what was happening at this time in the luckless Mauprat family. John and
Antony had really managed to escape, and though a very close search
had been made for them, they had not as yet been captured. All their
property was seized, and an order issued by the courts for the sale of
the Roche-Mauprat fief. As it proved, however, a sale was unnecessary.
M. Hubert de Mauprat put an end to the proceedings by coming forward
as purchaser. The creditors were paid off, and the title-deeds of
Roche-Mauprat passed into his hands.