"If that is your idea," I replied, completely drawn away from my wild
passion by the new turn she was giving to my thoughts, "my position is
very different; but, to tell you the truth, I must reflect on this; I
had not realized that this was your meaning."

"And how should I have meant otherwise?" she answered. "Is not a woman
dishonoured by giving herself to a man who is not her husband? I do not
wish to dishonour myself; and, since you love me, you would not wish
it either. You would not do me an irreparable wrong. If such were your
intention you would be my deadliest enemy."

"Stay, Edmee, stay!" I answered. "I can tell you nothing about my
intentions in regard to you, for I have never had any very definite.
I have felt nothing but wild desires, nor have I ever thought of you
without going mad. You wish me to marry you? But why--why?"

"Because a girl who respects herself cannot be any man's except with the
thought, with the intention, with the certainty of being his forever. Do
you not know that?"

"There are so many things I do not know or have never thought of."

"Education will teach you, Bernard, what you ought to think about the
things which must concern you--about your position, your duties, your
feelings. At present you see but dimly into your heart and conscience.
And I, who am accustomed to question myself on all subjects and to
discipline my life, how can I take for master a man governed by instinct
and guided by chance?"

"For master! For husband! Yes, I understand that you cannot surrender
your whole life to an animal such as myself . . . but that is what I
have never asked of you. No, I tremble to think of it."

"And yet, Bernard, you must think of it. Think of it frequently, and
when you have done so you will realize the necessity of following my
advice, and of bringing your mind into harmony with the new life upon
which you have entered since quitting Roche-Mauprat. When you have
perceived this necessity you must tell me, and then we will make several
necessary resolutions."

She withdrew her hand from mine quickly, and I fancy she bade me
good-night; but this I did not hear. I stood buried in my thoughts, and
when I raised my head to speak to her she was no longer there. I went
into the chapel, but she had returned to her room by an upper gallery
which communicated with her apartments.

I went back into the garden, walked far into the park, and remained
there all night. This conversation with Edmee had opened a new world
to me. Hitherto I had not ceased to be the Roche-Mauprat man, nor had I
ever contemplated that it was possible or desirable to cease to be so.
Except for some habits which had changed with circumstances, I had never
moved out of the narrow circle of my old thoughts. I felt annoyed that
these new surroundings of mine should have any real power over me, and
I secretly braced my will so that I should not be humbled. Such was my
perseverance and strength of character that I believed nothing would
ever have driven me from my intrenchment of obstinacy, had not Edmee's
influence been brought to bear upon me. The vulgar comforts of life, the
satisfactions of luxury, had no attraction for me beyond their novelty.
Bodily repose was a burden to me, and the calm that reigned in this
house, so full of order and silence, would have been unbearable, had
not Edmee's presence and the tumult of my own desires communicated to it
some of my disorder, and peopled it with some of my visions. Never for
a single moment had I desired to become the head of this house, the
possessor of this property; and it was with genuine pleasure that I
had just heard Edmee do justice to my disinterestedness. The thought of
coupling two ends so entirely distinct as my passion and my interests
was still more repugnant to me. I roamed about the park a prey to a
thousand doubts, and then wandered into the open country unconsciously.
It was a glorious night. The full moon was pouring down floods of soft
light upon the ploughed lands, all parched by the heat of the sun.
Thirsty plants were straightening their bowed stems--each leaf seemed
to be drinking in through all its pores all the dewy freshness of the
night. I, too, began to feel a soothing influence at work. My heart was
still beating violently, but regularly. I was filled with a vague hope;
the image of Edmee floated before me on the paths through the meadows,
and no longer stirred the wild agonies and frenzied desires which had
been devouring me since the night I first beheld her.

I was crossing a spot where the green stretches of pasture were here and
there broken by clumps of young trees. Huge oxen with almost white skins
were lying in the short grass, motionless, as if plunged in peaceful
thought. Hills sloped gently up to the horizon, and their velvety
contours seemed to ripple in the bright rays of the moon. For the first
time in my life I realized something of the voluptuous beauty and divine
effluence of the night. I felt the magic touch of some unknown bliss.
It seemed that for the first time in my life I was looking on moon and
meadows and hills. I remembered hearing Edmee say that nothing our eyes
can behold is more lovely than Nature; and I was astonished that I had
never felt this before. Now and them I was on the point of throwing
myself on my knees and praying to God: but I feared that I should not
know how to speak to Him, and that I might offend Him by praying badly.
Shall I confess to you a singular fancy that came upon me, a childish
revelation, as it were, of poetic love from out of the chaos of my
ignorance? The moon was lighting up everything so plainly that I could
distinguish the tiniest flowers in the grass. A little meadow daisy
seemed to me so beautiful with its golden calyx full of diamonds of
dew and its white collaret fringed with purple, that I plucked it, and
covered it with kisses, and cried in a sort of delirious intoxication:

"It is you, Edmee! Yes, it is you! Ah, you no longer shun me!"

But what was my confusion when, on rising, I found there had been a
witness of my folly. Patience was standing before me.

I was so angry at having been surprised in such a fit of extravagance
that, from a remnant of the Hamstringer instinct, I immediately felt
for a knife in my belt; but neither belt nor knife was there. My silk
waistcoat with its pocket reminded me that I was doomed to cut no more
throats. Patience smiled.

"Well, well! What is the matter?" said the anchorite, in a calm and
kindly tone. "Do you imagine that I don't know perfectly well how things
stand? I am not so simple but that I can reason; I am not so old but
that I can see. Who is it that makes the branches of my yew shake
whenever the holy maiden is sitting at my door? Who is it that follows
us like a young wolf with measured steps through the copse when I take
the lovely child to her father? And what harm is there in it? You are
both young; you are both handsome; you are of the same family; and, if
you chose, you might become a noble and honest man as she is a noble and
honest girl."

All my wrath had vanished as I listened to Patience speaking of Edmee.
I had such a vast longing to talk about her that I would even have
been willing to have heard evil spoken of her, for the sole pleasure
of hearing her name pronounced. I continued my walk by the side of
Patience. The old man was tramping through the dew with bare feet. It
should be mentioned, however, that his feet had long been unacquainted
with any covering and had attained a degree of callosity that rendered
them proof against anything. His only garments were a pair of blue
canvas breeches which, in the absence of braces, hung loosely from his
hips, and a coarse shirt. He could not endure any constraint in his
clothes; and his skin, hardened by exposure, was sensitive to neither
heat nor cold. Even when over eighty he was accustomed to go bareheaded
in the broiling sun and with half-open shirt in the winter blasts.
Since Edmee had seen to his wants he had attained a certain cleanliness.
Nevertheless, in the disorder of his toilet and his hatred of everything
that passed the bounds of the strictest necessity (though he could not
have been charged with immodesty, which had always been odious to him),
the cynic of the old days was still apparent. His beard was shining like
silver. His bald skull was so polished that the moon was reflected in
it as in water. He walked slowly, with his hands behind his back and his
head raised, like a man who is surveying his empire. But most frequently
his glances were thrown skywards, and he interrupted his conversation to
point to the starry vault and exclaim:

"Look at that; look how beautiful it is!"

He is the only peasant I have ever known to admire the sky; or, at
least, he is the only one I have ever seen who was conscious of his
admiration.

"Why, Master Patience," I said to him, "do you think I might be an
honest man if I chose? Do you think that I am not one already?"

"Oh, do not be angry," he answered. "Patience is privileged to say
anything. Is he not the fool of the chateau?"

"On the contrary, Edmee maintains that you are its sage."

"Does the holy child of God say that? Well, if she believes so, I will
try to act as a wise man, and give you some good advice, Master Bernard
Mauprat. Will you accept it?"

"It seems to me that in this place every one takes upon himself to give
advice. Never mind, I am listening."

"You are in love with your cousin, are you not?"

"You are very bold to ask such a question."

"It is not a question, it is a fact. Well, my advice is this: make your
cousin love you, and become her husband."

"And why do you take this interest in me, Master Patience?"

"Because I know you deserve it."

"Who told you so? The abbe?"

"No."

"Edmee?"

"Partly. And yet she is certainly not very much in love with you. But it
is your own fault."

"How so, Patience?"

"Because she wants you to become clever; and you--you would rather not.
Oh, if I were only your age; yes, I, poor Patience; and if I were able,
without feeling stifled, to shut myself up in a room for only two hours
a day; and if all those I met were anxious to teach me; if they said to
me, 'Patience, this is what was done yesterday; Patience, this is what
will be done to-morrow.' But, enough! I have to find out everything
myself, and there is so much that I shall die of old age before finding
out a tenth part of what I should like to know. But, listen: I have yet
another reason for wishing you to marry Edmee."

"What is that, good Monsieur Patience?"

"This La Marche is not the right man for her. I have told her so--yes,
I have; and himself too, and the abbe, and everybody. He is not a man,
that thing. He smells as sweet as a whole flower-garden; but I prefer
the tiniest sprig of wild thyme."

"Faith! I have but little love for him myself. But if my cousin likes
him, what then, Patience?"

"Your cousin does not like him. She thinks he is a good man; she thinks
him genuine. She is mistaken; he deceives her, as he deceives everybody.
Yes, I know: he is a man who has not any of this (and Patience put his
hand to his heart). He is a man who is always proclaiming: 'In me behold
the champion of virtue, the champion of the unfortunate, the champion
of all the wise men and friends of the human race, etc., etc.' While
I--Patience--I know that he lets poor folk die of hunger at the gates
of his chateau. I know that if any one said to him, 'Give up your castle
and eat black bread, give up your lands and become a soldier, and then
there will be no more misery in the world, the human race--as you call
it--will be saved,' his real self would answer, 'Thanks, I am lord of
my lands, and I am not yet tired of my castle.' Oh! I know them so well,
these sham paragons. How different with Edmee! You do not know that. You
love her because she is as beautiful as the daisy in the meadows, while
I--I love her because she is good as the moon that sheds light on all.
She is a girl who gives away everything that she has; who would not wear
a jewel, because with the gold in a ring a man could be kept alive for a
year. And if she finds a foot-sore child by the road-side, she takes off
her shoes and gives them to him, and goes on her way bare-footed. Then,
look you, hers is a heart that never swerves. If to-morrow the village
of Saint-Severe were to go to her in a body and say: 'Young lady, you
have lived long enough in the lap of wealth, give us what you have, and
take your turn at work'--'That is but fair, my good friends,' she would
reply, and with a glad heart she would go and tend the flocks in the
fields. Her mother was the same. I knew her mother when she was quite
young, young as yourself; and I knew yours too. Oh, yes. She was a lady
with a noble mind, charitable and just to all. And you take after her,
they say."

"Alas, no," I answered, deeply touched by these words of Patience. "I
know neither charity nor justice."

"You have not been able to practise them yet, but they are written in
your heart. I can read them there. People call me a sorcerer, and so I
am in a measure. I know a man directly I see him. Do you remember what
you said to me one day on the heath at Valide? You were with Sylvain
and I with Marcasse. You told me that an honest man avenges his wrongs
himself. And, by-the-bye, Monsieur Mauprat, if you are not satisfied
with the apologies I made you at Gazeau Tower, you may say so. See,
there is no one near; and, old as I am, I have still a fist as good as
yours. We can exchange a few healthy blows--that is Nature's way. And,
though I do not approve of it, I never refuse satisfaction to any
one who demands it. There are some men, I know, who would die of
mortification if they did not have their revenge: and it has taken
me--yes, the man you see before you--more than fifty years to forget an
insult I once received . . . and even now, whenever I think of it, my
hatred of the nobles springs up again, and I hold it as a crime to have
let my heart forgive some of them."

"I am fully satisfied, Master Patience; and in truth I now feel nothing
but affection for you."

"Ah, that comes of my scratching your back. Youth is ever generous.
Come, Mauprat, take courage. Follow the abbe's advice; he is a good
man. Try to please your cousin; she is a star in the firmament. Find out
truth; love the people; hate those who hate them; be ready to sacrifice
yourself for them. . . . Yes, one word more--listen. I know what I am
saying--become the people's friend."

"Is the people, then, better than the nobility, Patience? Come now,
honestly, since you are a wise man, tell me the truth."

"Ay, we are worth more than the nobles, because they trample us under
foot, and we let them. But we shall not always bear this, perhaps. No;
you will have to know it sooner or later, and I may as well tell you
now. You see yonder stars? They will never change. Ten thousand years
hence they will be in the same place and be giving forth as much light
as to-day; but within the next hundred years, maybe within less, there
will be many a change on this earth. Take the word of a man who has an
eye for the truth of things, and does not let himself be led astray by
the fine airs of the great. The poor have suffered enough; they will
turn upon the rich, and their castles will fail and their lands be
carved up. I shall not see it; but you will. There will be ten cottages
in the place of this park, and ten families will live on its revenue.
There will no longer be servants or masters, or villein or lord. Some
nobles will cry aloud and yield only to force, as your uncles would do
if they were alive, and as M. de la Marche will do in spite of all his
fine talk. Others will sacrifice themselves generously, like Edmee, and
like yourself, if you listen to wisdom. And in that hour it will be well
for Edmee that her husband is a man and not a mere fop. It will be well
for Bernard Mauprat that he knows how to drive a plough or kill the game
which the good God has sent to feed his family; for old Patience will
then be lying under the grass in the churchyard, unable to return the
services which Edmee has done him. Do not laugh at what I say, young
man; it is the voice of God that is speaking. Look at the heavens. The
stars live in peace, and nothing disturbs their eternal order. The
great do not devour the small, and none fling themselves upon their
neighbours. Now, a day will come when the same order will reign among
men. The wicked will be swept away by the breath of the Lord. Strengthen
your legs, Seigneur Mauprat, that you may stand firm to support Edmee.
It is Patience that warns you; Patience who wishes you naught but good.
But there will come others who wish you ill, and the good must make
themselves strong."

We had reached Patience's cottage. He had stopped at the gate of his
little inclosure, resting one hand on the cross-bar and waving the other
as he spoke. His voice was full of passion, his eyes flashed fire, and
his brow was bathed in sweat. There seemed to be some weird power in
his words as in those of the prophets of old. The more than plebeian
simplicity of his dress still further increased the pride of his
gestures and the impressiveness of his voice. The French Revolution
has shown since that in the ranks of the people there was no lack of
eloquence or of pitiless logic; but what I saw at that moment was so
novel, and made such an impression on me, that my unruly and unbridled
imagination was carried away by the superstitious terrors of childhood.
He held out his hand, and I responded with more of terror than
affection. The sorcerer of Gazeau Tower hanging the bleeding owl above
my head had just risen before my eyes again.




XI

When I awoke on the morrow in a state of exhaustion, all the incidents
of the previous night appeared to me as a dream. I began to think that
Edmee's suggestion of becoming my wife had been a perfidious trick to
put off my hopes indefinitely; and, as to the sorcerer's words, I could
not recall them without a feeling of profound humiliation. Still, they
had produced their effect. My emotions had left traces which could never
be effaced. I was no longer the man of the day before, and never again
was I to be quite the man of Roche-Mauprat.

It was late, for not until morning had I attempted to make good my
sleepless night. I was still in bed when I heard the hoofs of M. de la
Marche's horse on the stones of the courtyard. Every day he used to come
at this hour; every day he used to see Edmee at the same time as myself;
and now, on this very day, this day when she had tried to persuade me to
reckon on her hand, he was going to see her before me, and to give his
soulless kiss to this hand that had been promised to myself. The
thought of it stirred up all my doubts again. How could Edmee endure his
attentions if she really meant to marry another man? Perhaps she dared
not send him away; perhaps it was my duty to do so. I was ignorant of
the ways of the world into which I was entering. Instinct counselled me
to yield to my hasty impulses; and instinct spoke loudly.

I hastily dressed myself. I entered the drawing-room pale and agitated.
Edmee was pale too. It was a cold, rainy morning. A fire was burning in
the great fire-place. Lying back in an easy chair, she was warming
her little feet and dozing. It was the same listless, almost lifeless,
attitude of the days of her illness. M. de la Marche was reading the
paper at the other end of the room. On seeing that Edmee was more
affected than myself by the emotions of the previous night, I felt my
anger cool, and, approaching her noiselessly, I sat down and gazed on
her tenderly.

"Is that you, Bernard?" she asked without moving a limb, and with eyes
still closed.

Her elbows were resting on the arms of her chair and her hands were
gracefully crossed under her chin. At that period it was the fashion
for women to have their arms half bare at all times. On one of Edmee's I
noticed a little strip of court-plaster that made my heart beat. It was
the slight scratch I had caused against the bars of the chapel window. I
gently lifted the lace which fell over her elbow, and, emboldened by her
drowsiness, pressed my lips to the darling wound. M. de la Marche could
see me, and, in fact, did see me, as I intended he should. I was
burning to have a quarrel with him. Edmee started and turned red; but
immediately assuming an air of indolent playfulness, she said:

"Really, Bernard, you are as gallant this morning as a court abbe. Do
you happen to have been composing a madrigal last night?"

I was peculiarly mortified at this jesting. However, paying her back in
her own coin, I answered:

"Yes; I composed one yesterday evening at the chapel window; and if it
is a poor thing, cousin, it is your fault."

"Say, rather, that it is the fault of your education," she replied,
kindling.

And she was never more beautiful than when her natural pride and spirit
were roused.

"My own opinion is that I am being very much over-educated," I answered;
"and that if I gave more heed to my natural good sense you would not
jeer at me so much."

"Really, it seems to me that you are indulging in a veritable war of
wits with Bernard," said M. de la Marche, folding his paper carelessly
and approaching us.

"I cry quits with her," I answered, annoyed at this impertinence. "Let
her keep her wit for such as you."

I had risen to insult him, but he did not seem to notice it; and
standing with his back to the fire he bent down towards Edmee and said,
in a gentle and almost affectionate voice:

"What is the matter with him?" as if he were inquiring after the health
of her little dog.

"How should I know?" she replied, in the same tone.

Then she rose and added:

"My head aches too much to remain here. Give me your arm and take me up
to my room."

She went out, leaning upon his arm. I was left there stupefied.

I remained in the drawing-room, resolved to insult him as soon as he
should return. But the abbe now entered, and soon afterward my Uncle
Hubert. They began to talk on subjects which were quite strange to me
(the subjects of their conversation were nearly always so). I did not
know what to do to obtain revenge. I dared not betray myself in my
uncle's presence. I was sensible to the respect I owed to him and to his
hospitality. Never had I done such violence to myself at Roche-Mauprat.
Yet, in spite of all efforts, my anger showed itself. I almost died at
being obliged to wait for revenge. Several times the chevalier noticed
the change in my features and asked in a kind tone if I were ill. M.
de la Marche seemed neither to observe nor to guess anything. The abbe
alone examined me attentively. More than once I caught his blue eyes
anxiously fixed on me, those eyes in which natural penetration was
always veiled by habitual shyness. The abbe did not like me. I could
easily see that his kindly, cheerful manners grew cold in spite of
himself as soon as he spoke to me; and I noticed, too, that his face
would invariably assume a sad expression at my approach.

The constraint that I was enduring was so alien to my habits and so
beyond my strength that I came nigh to fainting. To obtain relief I went
and threw myself on the grass in the park. This was a refuge to me in
all my troubles. These mighty oaks, this moss which had clung to their
branches through the centuries, these pale, sweet-scented wild flowers,
emblems of secret sorrow, these were the friends of my childhood, and
these alone I had found the same in social as in savage life. I buried
my face in my hands; and I never remember having suffered more in any of
the calamities of my life, though some that I had to bear afterward
were very real. On the whole I ought to have accounted myself lucky, on
giving up the rough and perilous trade of a cut-throat, to find so many
unexpected blessings--affection, devotion, riches, liberty, education,
good precepts and good examples. But it is certain that, in order to
pass from a given state to its opposite, though it be from evil to
good, from grief to joy, from fatigue to repose, the soul of a man must
suffer; in this hour of birth of a new destiny all the springs of his
being are strained almost to breaking--even as at the approach of summer
the sky is covered with dark clouds, and the earth, all a-tremble, seems
about to be annihilated by the tempest.

At this moment my only thought was to devise some means of appeasing my
hatred of M. de la Marche without betraying and without even arousing
a suspicion of the mysterious bond which held Edmee in my power. Though
nothing was less respected at Roche-Mauprat than the sanctity of an
oath, yet the little reading I had had there--those ballads of chivalry
of which I have already spoken--had filled me with an almost romantic
love of good faith; and this was about the only virtue I had acquired
there. My promise of secrecy to Edmee was therefore inviolable in my
eyes.

"However," I said to myself, "I dare say I shall find some plausible
pretext for throwing myself upon my enemy and strangling him."

To confess the truth, this was far from easy with a man who seemed bent
on being all politeness and kindness.

Distracted by these thoughts, I forgot the dinner hour; and when I saw
the sun sinking behind the turrets of the castle I realized too late
that my absence must have been noticed, and that I could not appear
without submitting to Edmee's searching questions, and to the abbe's
cold, piercing gaze, which, though it always seemed to avoid mine, I
would suddenly surprise in the act of sounding the very depths of my
conscience.

I resolved not to return to the house till nightfall, and I threw myself
upon the grass and tried to find rest for my aching head in sleep. I did
fall asleep in fact. When I awoke the moon was rising in the heavens,
which were still red with the glow of sunset. The noise which had
aroused me was very slight; but there are some sounds which strike the
heart before reaching the ear; and the subtlest emanations of love will
at times pierce through the coarsest organization. Edmee's voice had
just pronounced my name a short distance away, behind some foliage. At
first I thought I had been dreaming; I remained where I was, held my
breath and listened. It was she, on her way to the hermit's, in company
with the abbe. They had stopped in a covered walk five or six yards from
me, and they were talking in low voices, but in those clear tones which,
in an exchange of confidence, compels attention with peculiar solemnity.

"I fear," Edmee was saying, "that there will be trouble between him and
M. de la Marche; perhaps something very serious--who knows? You do not
understand Bernard."

"He must be got away from here, at all costs," answered the abbe. "You
cannot live in this way, continually exposed to the brutality of a
brigand."

"It cannot be called living. Since he set foot in the house I have not
had a moment's peace of mind. Imprisoned in my room, or forced to seek
the protection of my friends, I am almost afraid to move. It is as much
as I dare to do to creep downstairs, and I never cross the corridor
without sending Leblanc ahead as a scout. The poor woman, who has always
found me so brave, now thinks I am mad. The suspense is horrible. I
cannot sleep unless I first bolt the door. And look, abbe, I never walk
about without a dagger, like the heroine of a Spanish ballad, neither
more nor less."

"And if this wretch meets you and frightens you, you will plunge it
into your bosom? Oh! that must not be. Edmee, we must find some means
of changing a position which is no longer tenable. I take it that you do
not wish to deprive him of your father's friendship by confessing to the
latter the monstrous bargain you were forced to make with this bandit at
Roche-Mauprat. But whatever may happen--ah! my poor little Edmee, I am
not a bloodthirsty man, but twenty times a day I find myself deploring
that my character of priest prevents me from challenging this creature,
and ridding you of him forever."

This charitable regret, expressed so artlessly in my very ear, made me
itch to reveal myself to them at once, were it only to put the abbe's
warlike humour to the proof; but I was restrained by the hope that I
should at last discover Edmee's real feelings and real intentions in
regard to myself.

"Have no fear," she said, in a careless tone. "If he tries my patience
too much, I shall not have the slightest hesitation in planting this
blade in his cheek. I am quite sure that a little blood-letting will
cool his ardour."

Then they drew a few steps nearer.

"Listen to me, Edmee," said the abbe, stopping again. "We cannot discuss
this matter with Patience. Let us come to some decision before we put it
aside. Your relations with Bernard are now drawing to a crisis. It seems
to me, my child, that you are not doing all you ought to ward off the
evils that may strike us; for everything that is painful to you will be
painful to all of us, and will touch us to the bottom of our hearts."

"I am all attention, excellent friend," answered Edmee; "scold me,
advise me, as you will."

So saying she leant back against the tree at the foot of which I was
lying among the brushwood and long grass. I fancy she might have seen
me, for I could see her distinctly. However, she little thought that I
was gazing on her divine face, over which the night breeze was throwing,
now the shadows of the rustling leaves, and now the pale diamonds that
the moon showers down through the trees of the forest.

"My opinion, Edmee," answered the abbe, crossing his arms on his breast
and striking his brow at intervals, "is that you do not take the right
view of your situation. At times it distresses you to such an extent
that you lose all hope and long to die--yes, my dear child, to such
an extent that your health plainly suffers. At other times, and I must
speak candidly at the risk of offending you a little, you view your
perils with a levity and cheerfulness that astound me."

"That last reproach is delicately put, dear friend," she replied; "but
allow me to justify myself. Your astonishment arises from the fact that
you do not know the Mauprat race. It is a tameless, incorrigible race,
from which naught but Headbreakers and Hamstringers may issue. Even
in those who have been most polished by education there remains many a
stubborn knot--a sovereign pride, a will of iron, a profound contempt
for life. Look at my father. In spite of his adorable goodness, you see
that he is sometimes so quick-tempered that he will smash his snuff-box
on the table, when you get the better of him in some political argument,
or when you win a game of chess. For myself, I am conscious that my
veins are as full-blooded as if I had been born in the noble ranks of
the people; and I do not believe that any Mauprat has ever shone at
court for the charm of his manners. Since I was born brave, how would
you have me set much store by life? And yet there are weak moments in
which I get discouraged more than enough, and bemoan my fate like the
true woman that I am. But, let some one offend me, or threaten me, and
the blood of the strong surges through me again; and then, as I cannot
crush my enemy, I fold my arms and smile with compassion at the idea
that he should ever have hoped to frighten me. And do not look upon this
as mere bombast, abbe. To-morrow, this evening perhaps, my words may
turn to deeds. This little pearl-handled knife does not look like deeds
of blood; still, it will be able to do its work, and ever since Don
Marcasse (who knows what he is about) sharpened it, I have had it by me
night and day, and my mind is made up. I have not a very strong fist,
but it will no doubt manage to give myself a good stab with this knife,
even as it manages to give my horse a cut with the whip. Well, that
being so, my honour is safe; it is only my life, which hangs by a
thread, which is at the mercy of a glass of wine, more or less, that
M. Bernard may happen to drink one of these evenings; of some change
meeting, or some exchange of looks between De la Marche and myself that
he may fancy he has detected; a breath of air perhaps! What is to be
done? Were I to grieve, would my tears wash away the past? We cannot
tear out a single page of our lives; but we can throw the book into
the fire. Though I should weep from night till morn, would that prevent
Destiny from having, in a fit of ill-humour, taken me out hunting, sent
me astray in the woods, and made me stumble across a Mauprat, who led me
to his den, where I escaped dishonour and perhaps death only by binding
my life forever to that of a savage who had none of my principles, and
who probably (and who undoubtedly, I should say) never will have them?
All this is a misfortune. I was in the full sunlight of a happy destiny;
I was the pride and joy of my old father; I was about to marry a man
I esteem and like; no sorrows, no fears had come near my path; I knew
neither days fraught with danger nor nights bereft of sleep. Well, God
did not wish such a beautiful life to continue; His will be done. There
are days when the ruin of all my hopes seems to me so inevitable that
I look upon myself as dead and my _fiance_ as a widower. If it were not
for my poor father, I should really laugh at it all; for I am so ill
built for vexation and fears that during the short time I have known
them they have already tired me of life."

"This courage is heroic, but it is also terrible," cried the abbe, in a
broken voice. "It is almost a resolve to commit suicide, Edmee."

"Oh, I shall fight for my life," she answered, with warmth; "but I shall
not stand haggling with it a moment if my honour does not come forth
safe and sound from all these risks. No; I am not pious enough ever to
accept a soiled life by way of penance for sins of which I never had a
thought. If God deals so harshly with me that I have to choose between
shame and death . . ."

"There can never be any shame for you, Edmee; a soul so chaste, so pure
in intention . . ."

"Oh, don't talk of that, dear abbe! Perhaps I am not as good as you
think; I am not very orthodox in religion--nor are you, abbe! I give
little heed to the world; I have no love for it. I neither fear nor
despise public opinion; it will never enter into my life. I am not very
sure what principle of virtue would be strong enough to prevent me from
falling, if the spirit of evil took me in hand. I have read _La Nouvelle
Heloise_, and I shed many tears over it. But, because I am a Mauprat and
have an unbending pride, I will never endure the tyranny of any man--the
violence of a lover no more than a husband's blow; only a servile soul
and a craven character may yield to force that which it refuses to
entreaty. Sainte Solange, the beautiful shepherdess, let her head be cut
off rather than submit to the seigneur's rights. And you know that from
mother to daughter the Mauprats have been consecrated in baptism to the
protection of the patron saint of Berry."

"Yes; I know that you are proud and resolute," said the abbe, "and
because I respect you more than any woman in the world I want you to
live, and be free, and make a marriage worthy of you, so that in the
human family you may fill the part which beautiful souls still know how
to make noble. Besides, you are necessary to your father; your death
would hurry him to his grave, hearty and robust as the Mauprat still is.
Put away these gloomy thoughts, then, and these violent resolutions. It
is impossible. This adventure of Roche-Mauprat must be looked upon only
as an evil dream. We both had a nightmare in those hours of horror; but
it is time for us to awake; we cannot remain paralyzed with fear like
children. You have only one course open to you, and that I have already
pointed out."

"But, abbe, it is the one which I hold the most impossible of all. I
have sworn by everything that is most sacred in the universe and the
human heart."

"An oath extorted by threats and violence is binding on none; even human
laws decree this. Divine laws, especially in a case of this nature,
absolve the human conscience beyond a doubt. If you were orthodox, I
would go to Rome--yes, I would go on foot--to get you absolved from so
rash a vow; but you are not a submissive child of the Pope, Edmee--nor
am I."

"You wish me, then, to perjure myself?"

"Your soul would not be perjured."

"My soul would! I took an oath with a full knowledge of what I was doing
and at a time when I might have killed myself on the spot; for in my
hand I had a knife three times as large as this. But I wanted to live;
above all, I wanted to see my father again and kiss him. To put an end
to the agony which my disappearance must have caused him, I would have
bartered more than my life, I would have bartered my immortal soul.
Since then, too, as I told you last night, I have renewed my vow, and
of my own free-will, moreover; for there was a wall between my amiable
_fiance_ and myself."

"How could you have been so imprudent, Edmee? Here again I fail to
understand you."

"That I can quite believe, for I do not understand myself," said Edmee,
with a peculiar expression.

"My dear child, you must open your hear to me freely. I am the only
person here who can advise you, since I am the only one to whom you can
tell everything under the seal of a friendship as sacred as the secrecy
of Catholic confession can be. Answer me, then. You do not really look
upon a marriage between yourself and Bernard Mauprat as possible?"

"How should that which is inevitable be impossible?" said Edmee. "There
is nothing more possible than throwing one's self into the river;
nothing more possible than surrendering one's self to misery and
despair; nothing more possible, consequently, than marrying Bernard
Mauprat."

"In any case I will not be the one to celebrate such an absurd and
deplorable union," cried the abbe. "You, the wife and the slave of this
Hamstringer! Edmee, you said just now that you would no more endure the
violence of a lover than a husband's blow."

"You think the he would beat me?"

"If he did not kill you."

"Oh, no," she replied, in a resolute tone, with a wave of the knife, "I
would kill him first. When Mauprat meets Mauprat . . .!"

"You can laugh, Edmee? O my God! you can laugh at the thought of such
a match! But, even if this man had some affection and esteem for you,
think how impossible it would be for you to have anything in common;
think of the coarseness of his ideas, the vulgarity of his speech. The
heart rises in disgust at the idea of such a union. Good God! In what
language would you speak to him?"

Once more I was on the point of rising and falling on my panegyrist; but
I overcame my rage. Edmee began to speak, and I was all ears again.

"I know very well that at the end of three or four days I should have
nothing better to do than cut my own throat; but since sooner or later
it must come to that, why should I not go forward to the inevitable
hour? I confess that I shall be sorry to leave life. Not all those
who have been to Roche-Mauprat have returned. I went there not to meet
death, but to betroth myself to it. Well, then, I will go on to my
wedding-day, and if Bernard is too odious, I will kill myself after the
ball."

"Edmee, your head seems full of romantic notions at present," said the
abbe, losing patience. "Thank God, your father will never consent to
the marriage. He has given his word to M. de la March, and you too have
given yours. This is the only promise that is valid."

"My father would consent--yes, with joy--to an arrangement which
perpetuated his name and line directly. As to M. de la March, he will
release me from any promise without my taking the trouble to ask him; as
soon as he hears that I passed two hours at Roche-Mauprat there will be
no need of any other explanation."

"He would be very unworthy of the esteem I feel for him, if he
considered your good name tarnished by an unfortunate adventure from
which you came out pure."

"Thanks to Bernard," said Edmee; "for after all I ought to be grateful
to him; in spite of his reservations and conditions, he performed a
great and inconceivable action, for a Hamstringer."

"God forbid that I should deny the good qualities which education may
have developed in this young man; and it may still be possible, by
approaching him on this better side of his, to make him listen to
reason."

"And make him consent to be taught? Never. Even if he should show
himself willing, he would no more be able than Patience. When the body
is made for an animal life, the spirit can no longer submit to the laws
of the intellect."

"I think so too; but that is not the point. I suggest that you should
have an explanation with him, and make him understand that he is bound
in honour to release you from your promise and resign himself to your
marriage with M. de la Marche. Either he is a brute unworthy of the
slightest esteem and consideration, or he will realize his crime and
folly and yield honestly and with a good grace. Free me from the vow of
secrecy to which I am bound; authorize me to deal plainly with him and I
will guarantee success."

"And I--I will guarantee the contrary," said Edmee. "Besides, I could
not consent to this. Whatever Bernard may be, I am anxious to come out
of our duel with honour; and if I acted as you suggest, he would have
cause to believe that up to the present I have been unworthily trifling
with him."

"Well, there is only one means left, and that is to trust to the honour
and discretion of M. de la Marche. Set before him the details of your
position, and then let him give the verdict. You have a perfect right to
intrust him with your secret, and you are quite sure of his honour. If
he is coward enough to desert you in such a position, your remaining
resource is to take shelter from Bernard's violence behind the iron bars
of a convent. You can remain there a few years; you can make a show of
taking the veil. The young man will forget you, and they will set you
free again."

"Indeed, that is the only reasonable course to take, and I had already
thought of it; but it is not yet time to make the move."

"Very true; you must first see the result of your confession to M. de la
Marche. If, as I make no doubt, he is a man of mettle, he will take
you under his protection, and then procure the removal of this Bernard,
whether by persuasion or authority."

"What authority, abbe, if you please?"

"The authority which our customs allow one gentleman to exercise over
his equal--honour and the sword."

"Oh, abbe! You too, then are a man with a thirst for blood. Well, that
is precisely what I have hitherto tried to avoid, and what I will avoid,
though it cost me my life and honour. I do not wish that there should be
any fight between these two men."

"I understand: one of the two is very rightly dear to you. But evidently
in this duel it is not M. de la Marche who would be in danger."

"Then it would be Bernard," cried Edmee. "Well, I should hate M. de la
Marche, if he insisted on a duel with this poor boy, who only knows how
to handle a stick or a sling. How can such ideas occur to you, abbe?
You must really loathe this unfortunate Bernard. And fancy me getting
my husband to cut his throat as a return for having saved my life at the
risk of his own. No, no; I will not suffer any one either to challenge
him, or humiliate him, or persecute him. He is my cousin; he is a
Mauprat; he is almost a brother. I will not let him be driven out of
this home. Rather I will go myself."

"These are very generous sentiments, Edmee," answered the abbe. "But
with what warmth you express them! I stand confounded; and, if I were
not afraid of offending you, I should confess that this solicitude for
young Mauprat suggests to me a strange thought."

"Well, what is it, then?" said Edmee, with a certain brusqueness.

"If you insist, of course I will tell you: you seem to take a deeper
interest in this young man than in M. de la Marche, and I could have
wished to think otherwise."

"Which has the greater need of this interest, you bad Christian?" said
Edmee with a smile. "Is it not the hardened sinner whose eyes have never
looked upon the light?"

"But, come, Edmee! You love M. de la Marche, do you not? For Heaven's
sake do not jest."

"If by love," she replied in a serious tone, "you mean a feeling of
trust and friendship, I love M. de la Marche; but if you mean a feeling
of compassion and solicitude, I love Bernard. It remains to be seen
which of these two affections is the deeper. That is your concern, abbe.
For my part, it troubles me but little; for I feel that there is only
one being whom I love with passion, and that is my father; and only one
thing that I love with enthusiasm, and that is my duty. Probably I shall
regret the attentions and devotion of the lieutenant-general, and I
shall share in the grief that I must soon cause him when I announce that
I can never be his wife. This necessity, however, will by no means drive
me to desperation, because I know that M. de la Marche will quickly
recover. . . . I am not joking, abbe; M. de la Marche is a man of no
depth, and somewhat cold."

"If your love for him is no greater than this, so much the better. It
makes one trial less among your many trials. Still, this indifference
robs me of my last hope of seeing you rescued from Bernard Mauprat."

"Do not let this grieve you. Either Bernard will yield to friendship and
loyalty and improve, or I shall escape him."

"But how?"

"By the gate of the convent--or of the graveyard."

As she uttered these words in a calm tone, Edmee shook back her long
black hair, which had fallen over her shoulders and partly over her pale
face.

"Come," she said, "God will help us. It is folly and impiety to doubt
him in the hour of danger. Are we atheists, that we let ourselves be
discouraged in this way? Let us go and see Patience. . . . He will bring
forth some wise saw to ease our minds; he is the old oracle who solves
all problems without understanding any."

They moved away, while I remained in a state of consternation.

Oh, how different was this night from the last! How vast a step I had
just taken in life, no longer on the path of flowers but on the arid
rocks! Now I understood all the odious reality of the part I had been
playing. In the bottom of Edmee's heart I had just read the fear and
disgust I inspired in her. Nothing could assuage my grief; for nothing
now could arouse my anger. She had no affection for M. de la Marche;
she was trifling neither with him nor with me; she had no affection for
either of us. How could I have believed that her generous sympathy for
me and her sublime devotion to her word were signs of love? How, in the
hours when this presumptuous fancy left me, could I have believed that
in order to resist my passion she must needs feel love for another? It
had come to pass, then, that I had no longer any object on which to vent
my rage; now it could result only in Edmee's flight or death? Her death!
At the mere thought of it the blood ran cold in my veins, a weight fell
on my heart, and I felt all the stings of remorse piercing it. This
night of agony was for me the clearest call of Providence. At last I
understood those laws of modesty and sacred liberty which my ignorance
had hitherto outraged and blasphemed. They astonished me more than ever;
but I could see them; their sanction was their own existence. Edmee's
strong, sincere soul appeared before me like the stone of Sinai on which
the finger of God has traced the immutable truth. Her virtue was not
feigned; her knife was sharpened, ready to cut out the stain of my love.
I was so terrified at having been in danger of seeing her die in my
arms; I was so horrified at the gross insult I had offered her while
seeking to overcome her resistance, that I began to devise all manner of
impossible plans for righting the wrongs I had done, and restoring her
peace of mind.

The only one which seemed beyond my powers was to tear myself away from
her; for while these feelings of esteem and respect were springing up in
me, my love was changing its nature, so to speak, and growing vaster and
taking possession of all my being. Edmee appeared to me in a new light.
She was no longer the lovely girl whose presence stirred a tumult in my
senses; she was a young man of my own age, beautiful as a seraph, proud,
courageous, inflexible in honour, generous, capable of that sublime
friendship which once bound together brothers in arms, but with no
passionate love except for Deity, like the paladins of old, who, braving
a thousand dangers, marched to the Holy Land under their golden armour.

From this hour I felt my love descending from the wild storms of the
brain into the healthy regions of the heart. Devotion seemed no longer
an enigma to me. I resolved that on the very next morning I would give
proof of my submission and affection. It was quite late when I returned
to the chateau, tired out, dying of hunger, and exhausted by the
emotions I had experienced. I entered the pantry, found a piece of
bread, and began eating it, all moist with my tears. I was leaning
against the stove in the dime light of a lamp that was almost out, when
I suddenly saw Edmee enter. She took a few cherries from a chest and
slowly approached the stove, pale and deep in thought. On seeing me she
uttered a cry and let the cherries fall.

"Edmee," I said, "I implore you never to be afraid of me again. That is
all I can say now; for I do not know how to explain myself; and yet I
had resolved to say many things."

"You must tell me them some other time, cousin," she answered, trying to
smile.

But she was unable to disguise the fear she felt at finding herself
alone with me.

I did not try to detain her. I felt deeply pained and humiliated at her
distrust of me, and I knew I had no right to complain. Yet never had any
man stood in greater need of a word of encouragement.

Just as she was going out of the room I broke down altogether, and burst
into tears, as on the previous night at the chapel window. Edmee stopped
on the threshold and hesitated a moment. Then, yielding to the kindly
impulses of her heart, she overcame her fears and returned towards me.
Pausing a few yards from my chair, she said: