The little garrison kept by the Mauprats, made up of adventurers of the
lowest type, had met the same fate as their masters. As I have already
said, the garrison had long been reduced to a few individuals. Two
or three of these were killed, others took to flight; one only was
captured. This man was tried and made to suffer for all. A serious
question arose as to whether judgment should not also be given against
John and Antony de Mauprat by default. There was apparently no doubt
that they had fled; the pond in which Walter's body was found floating
had been drained, yet no traces of the bodies had been discovered. The
chevalier, however, for the sake of the name he bore, strove to prevent
the disgrace of an ignominious sentence; as if such a sentence could
have added aught to the horror of the name of Mauprat. He brought to
bear all M. de la Marche's influence and his own (which was very real
in the province, especially on account of his high moral character),
to hush up the affair, and he succeeded. As for myself, though I had
certainly had a hand in more than one of my uncles' robberies, there was
no thought of discussing me even at the bar of public opinion. In
the storm of anger that my uncles had aroused people were pleased to
consider me simply as a young captive, a victim of their cruelty, and
thoroughly well disposed towards everybody. Certainly, in his generous
good nature and desire to rehabilitate the family, the chevalier greatly
exaggerated my merits, and spread a report everywhere that I was an
angel of sweetness and intelligence.

On the day that M. Hubert became purchaser of the estate he entered
my room early in the morning accompanied by his daughter and the
abbe. Showing me the documents which bore witness to his sacrifice
(Roche-Mauprat was valued at about two hundred thousand francs), he
declared that I was forthwith going to be put in possession not only
of my share in the inheritance, which was by no means considerable, but
also of half the revenue of the property. At the same time, he said, the
whole estate, lands and produce, should be secured to me by his will
on one condition, namely, that I would consent to receive an education
suitable to my position.

The chevalier had made all these arrangements in the kindness of his
heart and without ostentation, partly out of gratitude for the service
he knew I had rendered Edmee, and partly from family pride; but he
had not expected that I should prove so stubborn on the question
of education. I cannot tell you the irritation I felt at this word
"condition"; especially as I thought I detected in it signs of some plan
that Edmee had formed to free herself from her promise to me.

"Uncle," I answered, after listening to all his magnificent offers in
absolute silence, "I thank you for all you wish to do for me; but it is
not right that I should avail myself of your kindness. I have no need of
a fortune. A man like myself wants nothing but a little bread, a gun, a
hound, and the first inn he comes to on the edge of the wood. Since you
are good enough to act as my guardian pay me the income on my eighth of
the fief and do not ask me to learn that Latin bosh. A man of birth is
sufficiently well educated when he knows how to bring down a snipe and
sign his name. I have no desire to be seigneur of Roche-Mauprat; it is
enough to have been a slave there. You are most kind, and on my honour I
love you; but I have very little love for conditions. I have never done
anything from interested motives. I would rather remain an ignoramus
than develop a pretty wit for another's dole. Moreover, I could never
consent to make such a hole in my cousin's fortune; though I know
perfectly well that she would willingly sacrifice a part of her dowry to
obtain release from . . ."

Edmee, who until now had remained very pale and apparently heedless of
my words, all at once cast a lightning glance at me and said with an air
of unconcern:

"To obtain a release from what, may I ask, Bernard?"

I saw that, in spite of this show of courage, she was very much
perturbed; for she broke her fan while shutting it. I answered her
with a look in which the artless malice of the rustic must have been
apparent:

"To obtain release, cousin, from a certain promise you made me at
Roche-Mauprat."

She grew paler than ever, and on her face I could see an expression of
terror, but ill-disguised by a smile of contempt.

"What was the promise you made him, Edmee?" asked the chevalier, turning
towards her ingenuously.

At the same time the abbe pressed my arm furtively, and I understood
that my cousin's confessor was in possession of the secret.

I shrugged my shoulders; their fears did me an injustice, though they
roused my pity.

"She promised me," I replied, with a smile, "that she would always look
upon me as a brother and a friend. Were not those your words, Edmee, and
do you think it is possible to make them good by mere money?"

She rose as if filled with new life, and, holding out her hand to me,
said in a voice full of emotion:

"You are right, Bernard; yours is a noble heart, and I should never
forgive myself if I doubted it for a moment."

I caught sight of a tear on the edge of her eye-lid, and I pressed her
hand somewhat too roughly, no doubt, for she could not restrain a little
cry, followed, however, by a charming smile. The chevalier clasped me
to his breast, and the abbe rocked about in his chair and exclaimed
repeatedly:

"How beautiful! How noble! How very beautiful! Ah," he added, "that is
something that cannot be learnt from books," turning to the chevalier.
"God writes his words and breathes forth his spirit upon the hearts of
the young."

"You will see," said the chevalier, deeply moved, "that this Mauprat
will yet build up the honour of the family again. And now, my dear
Bernard, I will say no more about business. I know how I ought to act,
and you cannot prevent me from taking such steps as I shall think fit
to insure the rehabilitation of my name by yourself. The only true
rehabilitation is guaranteed by your noble sentiments; but there is
still another which I know you will not refuse to attempt--the way
to this lies through your talents and intelligence. You will make the
effort out of love for us, I hope. However, we need not talk of this
at present. I respect your proud spirit, and I gladly renew my offers
without conditions. And now, abbe, I shall be glad if you will accompany
me to the town to see my lawyer. The carriage is waiting. As for you,
children, you can have lunch together. Come, Bernard, offer your arm to
your cousin, or rather, to your sister. You must acquire some courtesy
of manner, since in her case it will be but the expression of your
heart."

"That is true, uncle," I answered, taking hold of Edmee's arm somewhat
roughly to lead her downstairs.

I could feel her trembling; but the pink had returned to her cheeks, and
a smile of affection was playing about her lips.

As soon as we were seated opposite each other at table our happy harmony
was chilled in a very few moments. We both returned to our former
state of embarrassment. Had we been alone I should have got out of the
difficulty by one of those abrupt sallies which I knew how to force from
myself when I grew too much ashamed of my bashfulness; but the presence
of Saint-Jean, who was waiting upon us, condemned me to silence on the
subject next to my heart. I decided, therefore, to talk about Patience.
I asked her how it came to pass that she was on such good terms with
him, and in what light I ought to look upon the pretended sorcerer. She
gave me the main points in the history of the rustic philosopher, and
explained that it was the Abbe Aubert who had taken her to Gazeau Tower.
She had been much struck by the intelligence and wisdom of the stoic
hermit, and used to derive great pleasure from conversation with him. On
his side, Patience had conceived such a friendship for her that for some
time he had relaxed his strict habits, and would frequently pay her a
visit when he came to see the abbe.

As you may imagine, she had no little difficulty in making these
explanations intelligible to me. I was very much surprised at the
praise she bestowed on Patience, and at the sympathy she showed for
his revolutionary ideas. This was the first time I had heard a peasant
spoken of as a man. Besides, I had hitherto looked upon the sorcerer of
Gazeau Tower as very much below the ordinary peasant, and here was Edmee
praising him above most of the men she knew, and even siding with him
against the nobles. From this I drew the comfortable conclusion that
education was not so essential as the chevalier and the abbe would have
me believe.

"I can scarcely read any better than Patience," I added, "and I only
wish you found as much pleasure in my society as in his; but it hardly
appears so, cousin, for since I came here . . ."

We were then leaving the table, and I was rejoicing at the prospect of
being alone with her at last, so that I might talk more freely, when on
going into the drawing-room we found M. de la Marche there. He had just
arrived, and was in the act of entering by the opposite door. In my
heart I wished him at the devil.

M. de la March was one of the fashionable young nobles of the day.
Smitten with the new philosophy, devoted to Voltaire, a great admirer of
Franklin, more well-meaning than intelligent, understanding the oracles
less than he desired or pretended to understand them; a pretty poor
logician, since he found his ideas much less excellent and his political
hopes much less sweet on the day that the French nation took it into its
head to realize them; for the rest, full of fine sentiments, believing
himself much more sanguine and romantic than he was in reality; rather
more faithful to the prejudices of caste and considerably more sensitive
to the opinion of the world than he flattered and prided himself on
being--such was the man. His face was certainly handsome, but I found it
excessively dull; for I had conceived the most ridiculous animosity for
him. His polished manners seemed to me abjectly servile with Edmee. I
should have blushed to imitate them, and yet my sole aim was to surpass
him in the little services he rendered her. We went out into the park.
This was very large, and through it ran the Indre, here merely a pretty
stream. During our walk he made himself agreeable in a thousand ways;
not a violet did he see but he must pluck it to offer to my cousin.
But, when we arrived at the banks of the stream, we found that the plank
which usually enabled one to cross at this particular spot had been
broken and washed away by the storms of a few days before. Without
asking permission, I immediately took Edmee in my arms, and quietly
walked through the stream. The water came up to my waist, but I carried
my cousin at arm's length so securely and skilfully that she did not wet
a single ribbon. M. de la Marche, unwilling to appear more delicate than
myself, did not hesitate to wet his fine clothes and follow me, though
with some rather poor efforts the while to force a laugh. However,
though he had not any burden to carry, he several times stumbled over
the stones which covered the bed of the river, and rejoined us only with
great difficulty. Edmee was far from laughing. I believe that this proof
of my strength and daring, forced on her in spite of herself, terrified
her as an evidence of the love she had stirred in me. She even appeared
to be annoyed; and, as I set her down gently on the bank, said:

"Bernard, I must request you never to play such a prank again."

"That is all very well," I said; "you would not be angry if it were the
other fellow."

"He would not think of doing such a thing," she replied.

"I quite believe it," I answered; "he would take very good care of that.
Just look at the chap. . . . And I--I did not ruffle a hair of your
head. He is very good at picking violets; but, take my word for it, in a
case of danger, don't make him your first choice."

M. de la Marche paid me great compliments on this exploit. I had hoped
that he would be jealous; he did not even appear to dream of it, but
rather made merry over the pitiable state of his toilet. The day was
excessively hot, and we were quite dry before the end of the walk.
Edmee, however, remained sad and pensive. It seemed to me that she was
making an effort to show me as much friendship as at luncheon. This
affected me considerably; for I was not only enamoured of her--I loved
her. I could not make the distinction then, but both feelings were in
me--passion and tenderness.

The chevalier and the abbe returned in time for dinner. They conversed
in a low voice with M. de la Marche about the settlement of my affairs,
and, from the few words which I could not help overhearing, I gathered
that they had just secured my future on the bright lines they had laid
before me in the morning. I was too shy and proud to express my simple
thanks. This generosity perplexed me; I could not understand it, and I
almost suspected that it was a trap they were preparing to separate me
from my cousin. I did not realize the advantage of a fortune. Mine were
not the wants of a civilized being; and the prejudices of rank were with
me a point of honour, and by no means a social vanity. Seeing that they
did not speak to me openly, I played the somewhat ungracious part of
feigning complete ignorance.

Edmee grew more and more melancholy. I noticed that her eyes rested now
on M. de la Marche, now on her father, with a vague uneasiness. Whenever
I spoke to her, or even raised my voice in addressing others, she would
start and then knit her brows slightly, as if my voice had caused her
physical pain. She retired immediately after dinner. Her father followed
her with evident anxiety.

"Have you not noticed," said the abbe, turning to M. de la Marche, as
soon as they had left the room, "that Mademoiselle de Mauprat has very
much changed of late?"

"She has grown thinner," answered the lieutenant-general; "but in my
opinion she is only the more beautiful for that."

"Yes; but I fear she may be more seriously ill than she owns," replied
the abbe. "Her temperament seems no less changed than her face; she has
grown quite sad."

"Sad? Why, I don't think I ever saw her so gay as she was this morning;
don't you agree with me, Monsieur Bernard? It was only after our walk
that she complained of a slight headache."

"I assure you that she is really sad," rejoined the abbe. "Nowadays,
when she is gay, her gaiety is excessive; at such a time there seems to
be something strange and forced about her which is quite foreign to
her usual manner. Then the next minute she relapses into a state of
melancholy, which I never noticed before the famous night in the forest.
You may be certain that night was a terrible experience."

"True, she was obliged to witness a frightful scene at Gazeau Tower,"
said M. de la Marche; "and then she must have been very much exhausted
and frightened when her horse bolted from the field and galloped right
through the forest. Yet her pluck is so remarkable that . . . What do
you think, my dear Monsieur Bernard? When you met her in the forest, did
she seem very frightened?"

"In the forest?" I said. "I did not meet her in the forest at all."

"No; it was in Varenne that you met her, wasn't it?"

The abbe hastened to intervene. . . . "By-the-bye, Monsieur Bernard, can
you spare me a minute to talk over a little matter connected with your
property at . . ."

Hereupon he drew me out of the drawing-room, and said in a low voice:

"There is no question of business; I only want to beg of you not to let
a single soul, not even M. de la Marche, suspect that Mademoiselle de
Mauprat was at Roche-Mauprat for the fraction of a second."

"And why?" I asked. "Was she not under my protection there? Did she
not leave it pure, thanks to me? Must it not be well known to the
neighbourhood that she passed two hours there?"

"At present no one knows," he answered. "At the very moment she left it,
Roche-Mauprat fell before the attack of the police, and not one of its
inmates will return from the grave or from exile to proclaim the fact.
When you know the world better, you will understand how important it
is for the reputation of a young lady that none should have reason
to suppose that even a shadow of danger has fallen upon her honour.
Meanwhile, I implore you, in the name of her father, in the name of
the affection for her which you expressed this morning in so noble and
touching a manner . . ."

"You are very clever, Monsieur l'Abbe," I said, interrupting him. "All
your words have a hidden meaning which I can grasp perfectly well,
clown as I am. Tell my cousin that she may set her mind at ease. I have
nothing to say against her virtue, that is very certain; and I trust
I am not capable of spoiling the marriage she desires. Tell her that I
claim but one thing of her, the fulfilment of that promise of friendship
which she made me at Roche-Mauprat."

"In your eyes, then, that promise has a peculiar solemnity?" said the
abbe. "If so, what grounds for distrusting it have you?"

I looked at him fixedly, and as he appeared very much agitated, I took
a pleasure in keeping him on the rack, hoping that he would repeat my
words to Edmee.

"None," I answered. "Only I observe that you are afraid that M. de
la Marche may break off the marriage, if he happens to hear of the
adventure at Roche-Mauprat. If the gentleman is capable of suspecting
Edmee, and of grossly insulting her on the eve of his wedding, it seems
to me that there is one very simple means of mending matters."

"What would you suggest?"

"Why, to challenge him and kill him."

"I trust you will do all you can to spare the venerable M. Hubert the
necessity of facing such a hideous danger."

"I will spare him this and many others by taking upon myself to avenge
my cousin. In truth, this is my right, Monsieur l'Abbe. I know the
duties of a gentleman quite as well as if I had learnt Latin. You may
tell her this from me. Let her sleep in peace. I will keep silence, and
if that is useless I will fight."

"But, Bernard," replied the abbe in a gentle, insinuating tone, "have
you thought of your cousin's affection for M. de la Marche?"

"All the more reason that I should fight him," I cried, in a fit of
anger.

And I turned my back on him abruptly.

The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The
part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the
seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his
conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring
me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only
honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as
this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding.




X

A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and
rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day,
his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew
stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me.
I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I
opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at
my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was
to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee's rooms.

For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode
in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge
from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier's roof, he had no
longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had,
therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest
and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of
persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau
Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend.
Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with
commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come
under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred
cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience's heart,
and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father
situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to
work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could
feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations
that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that
very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible
scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still
left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror
of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from
Shakespeare's Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the
murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served
as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and
nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed
us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be
overcome by Edmee's persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was
prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with
shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the
solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the
frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a
right to complain.


Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the
development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat's character.


Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I
do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in
France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the
world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her
sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest
simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant
of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only
with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was
beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche,
understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with
which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius.
Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean
Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la
Marche could have understood her would never have come.

Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her
young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature,
had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had
confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by
whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no
one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who
idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee
had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic:
the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and
Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account
for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the
effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire
Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism
and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a
striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among
priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully.
What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence!
Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent
soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy
with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion,
so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many
ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to
her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She
would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond
her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities
of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her
intellectual life.

"I am somewhat of a Sybarite," she would say with a smile. "I would
rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early
morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the
heat of the sun."

As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up
in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To
all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and
moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than
the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty
and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her
anything but modest and good-natured.

Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers.
In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had
taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired
minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him
an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her
task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to
his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of
the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in
grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and
history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and
declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then,
when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations
into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more
enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not
been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied
in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without
the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of
_Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto
in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew
the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in
Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured
to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for
words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand
mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in
improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his
language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would
have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have
been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his
memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been
able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he
was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical.
Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of
short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered
nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always
listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a
veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this
powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently
I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so
struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could
give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting
or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and
the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed
to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were
read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of
delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch
in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action
wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats
between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had
never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations,
gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised
up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry
firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In
the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages
of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the
storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala.

"Before I knew the poets," he said towards the end of his life, "I was
a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this
sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its
operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange
uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find
such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from
their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing
certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds.
At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the
indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that
I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such
madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured
of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all
times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how
they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a
flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the
minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name
sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man,
without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by
his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and
when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart
and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that,
since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day
they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that
education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that
I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse
was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before
myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains
and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle." "Ah, we poor
folk," added Patience, "we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in
wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are
some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor,
in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work
beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous
still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit;
and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what
we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us.
Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where
they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the
shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and
ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day
for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of
our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon."

Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words
into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace,
all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact
words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a
mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and
of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often
make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order
and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of
the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his
will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language;
any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with
honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious
than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have
found in this man material for the most important studies on the
development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender
admiration for primitive moral beauty.

When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a
bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I
had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for
an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle.
Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at
complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained
groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor
could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for
recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its
course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all
the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a
single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may
have.

At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was
still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement
for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke
to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I
imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a
parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of
devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in
after years.

Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new
abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I
hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get
a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe,
and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the
old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently
I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread
out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of
the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her
hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk
on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention.
At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and
thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But
how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the
yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on
her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to
any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my
claim.

For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of
escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be
almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she
would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her
hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, "Good-night,
Bernard," in a tone which seemed to say, "To-day has ended like
yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day."

In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that
she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this
was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her
own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily
believe I should have crushed it in my anger.

Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in
besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my
favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes
of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and
sinister plans in the park.

None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such
kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express
disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well
aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of
it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and
with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that
she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an
exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me
very quickly, and in an imperious tone:

"Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has
to say to you."

This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope,
seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I
waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out
a little before her, took up my position on the stairs.

"Do you think," I said to her when she appeared, "that I am the dupe of
your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have
been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely
fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me
because I was honest enough to believe your word."

"Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the
place for an explanation."

"Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will
never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not
fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck
and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my
cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory
of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it;
you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and
now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But
you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me
long."

"I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming
more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language,
and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear
you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to
you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease
to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners,
improve your mind, and we will see."

"Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on
it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge."

"Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only
make me despise you."

So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the
flame of her candle.

"What are you doing?" I exclaimed.

"I am burning a letter I had written to you," she answered. "I wanted
to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason
with brutes."

"Give me that letter at once," I cried, rushing at her to seize the
burning paper.

But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her
hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after
her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and
had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of
Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright.

"It is nothing," replied Edmee's trembling voice, "nothing but a joke."

I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious
rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud
and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of
all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had
offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never
love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine
by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I
went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and,
burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy
breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I
longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my
handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The
weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who
was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I
had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions
surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head.

"Who is there?" asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in
the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising.

It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she
passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the
collar of my jacket, saying:

"Why are you crying, Bernard?"

I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my
weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by
it.

"What are you grieved at?" she continued. "What can draw such bitter
tears from you?"

"You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am
angry!"

"It is anger, then, that makes you weep?" she said, drawing back her
arm.

"Yes; anger or something else," I replied.

"But what else?" she asked.

"I can't say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here
is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and
live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer."

"Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our
opportunity for an explanation."

"Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid
of me now."

"And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and
was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between
us?"

"I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means
of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they
were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must
love none of them."

"And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle
Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?"

"You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that
I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the
truth."

"Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?"

"Yes, tell me."

"Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than
themselves. Whenever one makes one's self feared one runs the risk of
being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you
never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little
faults?"

"I did; that was my only resource."

"You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least
the resource of the oppressed."

"I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no
excuse for your deceiving me."

"And who says that I have deceived you?"

"But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me."

"I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between
detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that
you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now,
because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and
that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This
I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see
your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below
yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love
you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either
about you or myself."

"And what must I do?"

"You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and
your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and,
believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your
inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this
roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only
there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your
ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot
endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute
to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your
qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love
evil, I never loved it; and, if you cultivate it in yourself instead of
uprooting it, I can never love you. Do you understand me?"

"No."

"What, no!"

"No, I say. I am not aware that there is any evil in me. If you are not
displeased at the lack of grace in my legs, or the lack of whiteness in
my hands, or the lack of elegance in my words, I fail to see what you
find to hate in me. From my childhood I have had to listen to evil
precepts, but I have not accepted them. I have never considered it
permissible to do a bad deed; or, at least, I have never found it
pleasurable. If I have done wrong, it is because I have been forced to
do it. I have always detested my uncles and their ways. I do not like to
see others suffer; I do not rob a fellow-creature; I despise money, of
which they made a god at Roche-Mauprat; I know how to keep sober, and,
though I am fond of wine, I would drink water all my life if, like my
uncles, I had to shed blood to get a good supper. Yet I fought for them;
yet I drank with them. How could I do otherwise? But now, when I am my
own master, what harm am I doing? Does your abbe, who is always prating
of virtue, take me for a murderer or a thief? Come, Edmee, confess now;
you know well enough that I am an honest man; you do not really think
me wicked; but I am displeasing to you because I am not clever, and you
like M. de la Marche because he has a knack of making unmeaning speeches
which I should blush to utter."

"And if, to be pleasing to me," she said with a smile, after listening
most attentively, and without withdrawing her hand which I had taken
through the bars, "if, in order to be preferred to M. de la Marche, it
were necessary to acquire more wit, as you say, would you not try?"

"I don't know," I replied, after hesitating a moment; "perhaps I should
be fool enough; for the power you have over me is more than I can
understand; but it would be a sorry piece of cowardice and a great
folly."

"Why, Bernard?"

"Because a woman who could love a man, not for his honest heart, but for
his pretty wit, would be hardly worth the pains I should have to take;
at least so it seems to me."

She remained silent in her turn, and then said to me as she pressed my
hand:

"You have much more sense and wit than one might think. And since you
force me to be quite frank with you, I will own that, as you now are and
even should you never change, I have an esteem and an affection for
you which will last as long as my life. Rest assured of that, Bernard,
whatever I may say in a moment of anger. You know I have a quick
temper--that runs in the family. The blood of the Mauprats will never
flow as smoothly as other people's. Have a care for my pride, then, you
know so well what pride is, and do not ever presume upon rights you
have acquired. Affection cannot be commanded; it must be implored or
inspired. Act so that I may always love you; never tell me that I am
forced to love you."

"That is reasonable enough," I answered; "but why do you sometimes speak
to me as if I were forced to obey you? Why, for instance, this evening
did you _forbid_ me to drink and _order_ me to study?"

"Because if one cannot command affection which does not exist, one can
at least command affection which does exist; and it is because I am sure
yours exists that I commanded it."

"Good!" I cried, in a transport of joy; "I have a right then to order
yours also, since you have told me that it certainly exists. . . .
Edmee, I order you to kiss me."

"Let go, Bernard!" she cried; "you are breaking my arm. Look, you have
scraped it against the bars."

"Why have you intrenched yourself against me?" I said, putting my lips
to the little scratch I had made on her arm. "Ah, woe is me! Confound
the bars! Edmee, if you would only bend your head down I should be able
to kiss you . . . kiss you as my sister. Edmee, what are you afraid of?"

"My good Bernard," she replied, "in the world in which I live one does
not kiss even a sister, and nowhere does one kiss in secret. I will kiss
you every day before my father, if you like; but never here."

"You will never kiss me!" I cried, relapsing into my usual passion.
"What of your promise? What of my rights?"

"If we marry," she said, in an embarrassed tone, "when you have received
the education I implore you to receive, . . ."

"Death of my life! Is this a jest? Is there any question of marriage
between us? None at all. I don't want your fortune, as I have told you."

"My fortune and yours are one," she replied. "Bernard, between near
relations as we are, mine and thine are words without meaning. I should
never suspect you of being mercenary. I know that you love me, that you
will work to give me proof of this, and that a day will come when your
love will no longer make me fear, because I shall be able to accept it
in the face of heaven and earth."