"I will explain all that, my dear general," answered Marcasse, who was
apparently dazzled by my captain's uniform. "If you will allow me to
accompany you I will tell you many things--many things!"

On hearing Marcasse repeat his words in a low voice, as if furnishing an
echo for himself, a habit which only a minute before I was in the act of
imitating, Arthur burst out laughing again. Marcasse turned toward
him and after surveying him intently bowed with imperturbable gravity.
Arthur, suddenly recovering his serious mood, rose and, with comic
dignity, bowed in return almost to the ground.

We returned to the camp together. On the way Marcasse told me his story
in that brief style of his, which, as it forced his hearer to ask a
thousand wearisome questions, far from simplifying his narrative, made
it extraordinarily complicated. It afforded Arthur great amusement; but
as you would not derive the same pleasure from listening to an exact
reproduction of this interminable dialogue, I will limit myself to
telling you how Marcasse had come to leave his country and his friends,
in order to give the American cause the help of his sword.

M. de la Marche happened to be setting out for America at the very time
when Marcasse came to his castle in Berry for a week, to make his
annual round among the beams and joists in the barns. The inmates of
the chateau, in their excitement at the count's departure, indulged
in wonderful commentaries on that far country, so full of dangers and
marvels, from which, according to the village wiseacres, no man ever
returned without a vast fortune, and so many gold and silver ingots that
he needed ten ships to carry them all. Now, under his icy exterior,
Don Marcasse, like some hyperborean volcano, concealed a glowing
imagination, a passionate love of the marvellous. Accustomed to live in
a state of equilibrium on narrow beams in evidently loftier regions than
other men, and not insensible to the glory of astounding the bystanders
every day by the calm daring of his acrobatic movements, he let himself
be fired by these pictures of Eldorado; and his dreams were the more
extravagant because, as usual, he unbosomed himself to no one. M. de
la Marche, therefore, was very much surprised when, on the eve of his
departure, Marcasse presented himself, and proposed to accompany him to
America as his valet. In vain did M. de la Marche remind him that he was
very old to abandon his calling and run the risks of a new kind of life.
Marcasse displayed so much firmness that in the end he gained his point.
Various reasons led M. de la Marche to consent to the strange request.
He had resolved to take with him a servant older still than the
weasel-hunter, a man who was accompanying him only with great
reluctance. But this man enjoyed his entire confidence, a favour which
M. de la Marche was very slow to grant, since he was only able to
keep up the outward show of a man of quality, and wished to be served
faithfully, and with economy and prudence. He knew, however, that
Marcasse was scrupulously honest, and even singularly unselfish; for
there was something of Don Quixote in the man's soul as well as in his
appearance. He had found in some ruins a sort of treasure-trove, that is
to say, an earthenware jar containing a sum of about ten thousand francs
in old gold and silver coins; and not only had he handed it over to the
owner of the ruins, whom he might easily have deceived, but further
he had refused to accept any reward, declaring emphatically in his
abbreviated jargon, "honesty would die selling itself."

Marcasse's economy, his discretion, his punctuality, seemed likely to
make him a valuable man, if he could be trained to put these qualities
at the service of others. The one thing to be feared was that he might
not be able to accustom himself to his loss of independence. However,
M. de la Marche thought that, before M. de Ternay's squadron sailed, he
would have time to test his new squire sufficiently.

On his side, Marcasse felt many regrets at taking leave of his friends
and home; for if he had "friends everywhere and everywhere a native
place," as he said, in allusion to his wandering life, he still had a
very marked preference for Varenne; and of all his castles (for he was
accustomed to call every place he stopped at "his"), the chateau of
Sainte-Severe was the only one which he arrived at with pleasure and
left with regret. One day, when he had missed his footing on the roof
and had rather a serious fall, Edmee, then still a child, had won his
heart by the tears she had shed over this accident, and the artless
attentions she had shown him. And ever since Patience had come to dwell
on the edge of the park, Marcasse had felt still more attracted toward
Sainte-Severe; for in Patience Marcasse had found his Orestes. Marcasse
did not always understand Patience; but Patience was the only man who
thoroughly understood Marcasse, and who knew how much chivalrous honesty
and noble courage lay hidden beneath that odd exterior. Humbly bowing
to the hermit's intellectual superiority, the weasel-hunter would stop
respectfully whenever the poetic frenzy took possession of Patience and
made his words unintelligible. At such a time Marcasse would refrain
from questions and ill-timed remarks with touching gentleness; would
lower his eyes, and nodding his head from time to time as if he
understood and approved, would, at least, afford his friend the innocent
pleasure of being listened to without contradiction.

Marcasse, however, had understood enough to make him embrace republican
ideas and share in those romantic hopes of universal levelling and a
return to the golden age, which had been so ardently fostered by old
Patience. Having frequently heard his friend say that these doctrines
were to be cultivated with prudence (a precept, however, to which
Patience gave but little heed himself), the hidalgo, inclined to
reticence both by habit and inclination, never spoke of his philosophy;
but he proved himself a more efficacious propagandist by carrying about
from castle to cottage, and from house to farm, those little cheap
editions of _La Science du Bonhomme Richard_, and other small treatises
on popular patriotism, which, according to the Jesuits, a secret society
of Voltairian philosophers, devoted to the diabolical practice of
freemasonry, circulated gratis among the lower classes.

Thus in Marcasse's sudden resolution there was as much revolutionary
enthusiasm as love of adventure. For a long time the dormouse and
polecat had seemed to him overfeeble enemies for his restless valour,
even as the granary floor seemed to afford too narrow a field. Every
day he read the papers of the previous day in the servants' hall of
the houses he visited; and it appeared to him that this war in America,
which was hailed as the awakening of the spirit of justice and liberty
in the New World, ought to produce a revolution in France. It is true
he had a very literal notion of the way in which ideas were to cross the
seas and take possession of the minds of our continent. In his dreams he
used to see an army of victorious Americans disembarking from numberless
ships, and bringing the olive branch of peace and the horn of plenty to
the French nation. In these same dreams he beheld himself at the head
of a legion of heroes returning to Varenne as a warrior, a legislator, a
rival of Washington, suppressing abuses, cutting down enormous fortunes,
assigning to each proletarian a suitable share, and, in the midst of his
far-reaching and vigorous measures, protecting the good and fair-dealing
nobles, and assuring an honourable existence to them. Needless to say,
the distress inseparable from all great political crises never entered
into Marcasse's mind, and not a single drop of blood sullied the
romantic picture which Patience had unrolled before his eyes.

From these sublime hopes to the role of valet to M. de la Marche was a
far cry; but Marcasse could reach his goal by no other way. The ranks
of the army corps destined for America had long been filled, and it was
only in the character of a passenger attached to the expedition that
he could take his place on one of the merchant ships that followed the
expedition. He had questioned the abbe on these points without revealing
his plans. His departure quite staggered all the inhabitants of Varenne.

No sooner had he set foot on the shores of the States than he felt an
irresistible inclination to take his big hat and his big sword and go
off all alone through the woods, as he had been accustomed to do in his
own country. His conscience, however, prevented him from quitting his
master after having pledged himself to serve him. He had calculated that
fortune would help him, and fortune did. The war proved much more bloody
and vigorous than had been expected, and M. de la Marche feared, though
wrongly, that he might be impeded by the poor health of his gaunt
squire. Having a suspicion, too, of the man's desire for liberty, he
offered him a sum of money and some letters of recommendation, to enable
him to join the American troops as a volunteer. Marcasse, knowing the
state of his master's fortune, refused the money, and only accepted the
letters; and then set off with as light a step as the nimblest weasels
that he had ever killed.

His intention was to make for Philadelphia; but, through a chance
occurrence which I need not relate, he learnt that I was in the South,
and, rightly calculating that he would obtain both advice and help from
me, he had set out to find me, alone, on foot, through unknown countries
almost uninhabited and often full of danger of all kinds. His clothes
alone had suffered; his yellow face had not changed its tint, and he was
no more surprised at his latest exploit than if he had merely covered
the distance from Sainte-Severe to Gazeau Tower.

The only fresh habit that I noticed in him, was that he would turn round
from time to time, and look behind him, as if he had felt inclined to
call some one; then immediately after he would smile and sigh almost at
the same instant. I could not resist a desire to ask him the cause of
his uneasiness.

"Alas!" he replied, "habit can't get rid of; a poor dog! good dog!
Always saying, 'Here Blaireau! Blaireau, here!'"

"I understand," I said, "Blaireau is dead, and you cannot accustom
yourself to the idea that you will never see him at your heels again."

"Dead!" he exclaimed, with an expression of horror. "No, thank God!
Friend Patience, great friend! Blaireau quite well off, but sad like his
master; his master alone!"

"If Blaireau is with Patience," said Arthur, "he is well off, as you
say; for Patience wants nothing. Patience will love him because he loves
his master, and you are certain to see your good friend and faithful dog
again."

Marcasse turned his eyes upon the individual who seemed to be so well
acquainted with his life; but, feeling sure that he had never seen him
before, he acted as he was wont to do when he did not understand; he
raised his hat and bowed respectfully.

On my immediate recommendation Marcasse was enrolled in my company
and, a little while afterward, was made a sergeant. The worthy man went
through the whole campaign with me, and went through it bravely; and in
1782, when I rejoined Rochambeau's army to fight under the French flag,
he followed me, as he was anxious to share my lot until the end. In the
early days I looked upon him rather as an amusement than a companion;
but his excellent conduct and calm fearlessness soon won for him the
esteem of all, and I had reason to be proud of my _protege_. Arthur also
conceived a great friendship for him; and, when off duty, he accompanied
us in all our walks, carrying the naturalist's box and running the
snakes through with his sword.

But when I tried to make him speak of my cousin, he by no means
satisfied me. Whether he did not understand how eager I felt to learn
all the details of the life she was leading far away from me, or
whether in this matter he was obeying one of those inviolable laws
which governed his conscience, I could never obtain from him any clear
solution of the doubts which harassed me. Quite early he told me that
there was no question of her marriage with any one; but, accustomed
though I was to his vague manner of expressing himself, I imagined he
seemed embarrassed in making this assertion and had the air of a man
who had sworn to keep a secret. Honour forbade me to insist to such an
extent as to let him see my hopes, and so there always remained between
us a painful point which I tried to avoid touching upon, but to which,
in spite of myself, I was continually returning. As long as Arthur was
near me, I retained my reason, and interpreted Edmee's letters in the
most loyal way; but when I was unfortunate enough to be separated from
him, my sufferings revived, and my stay in America became more irksome
to me every day.

Our separation took place when I left the American army to fight
under the command of the French general. Arthur was an American; and,
moreover, he was only waiting for the end of the war to retire from the
service, and settle in Boston with Dr. Cooper, who loved him as his son,
and who had undertaken to get him appointed principal librarian to the
library of the Philadelphia Society. This was all the reward Arthur
desired for his labours.

The events which filled my last years in America belong to history.
It was with a truly personal delight that I hailed the peace which
proclaimed the United States a free nation. I had begun to chafe at my
long absence from France; my passion had been growing ever greater, and
left no room for the intoxication of military glory. Before my departure
I went to take leave of Arthur. Then I sailed with the worthy Marcasse,
divided between sorrow at parting from my only friend, and joy at the
prospect of once more seeing my only love. The squadron to which my ship
belonged experienced many vicissitudes during the passage, and several
times I gave up all hope of ever kneeling before Edmee under the great
oaks of Sainte-Severe. At last, after a final storm off the coast of
France, I set foot on the shores of Brittany, and fell into the arms
of my poor sergeant, who had borne our common misfortunes, if not with
greater physical courage, at least with a calmer spirit, and we mingled
our tears.




XVI

We set out from Brest without sending any letter to announce our coming.

When we arrived near Varenne we alighted from the post-chaise and,
ordering the driver to proceed by the longest road to Saint-Severe, took
a short cut through the woods. As soon as I saw the trees in the park
raising their venerable heads above the copses like a solemn phalanx of
druids in the middle of a prostrate multitude, my heart began to beat so
violently that I was forced to stop.

"Well," said Marcasse, turning round with an almost stern expression, as
if he would have reproached me for my weakness.

But a moment later I saw that his own face, too, was betraying
unexpected emotion. A plaintive whining and a bushy tail brushing
against his legs had made him start. He uttered a loud cry on seeing
Blaireau. The poor animal had scented his master from afar, and had
rushed forward with all the speed of his first youth to roll at his
feet. For a moment we thought he was going to die there, for he remained
motionless and convulsed, as it were, under Marcasse's caressing hand;
then suddenly he sprang up, as if struck with an idea worthy of a man,
and set off with the speed of lightning in the direction of Patience's
hut.

"Yes, go and tell my friend, good dog!" exclaimed Marcasse; "a better
friend than you would be more than man."

He turned towards me, and I saw two big tears trickling down the cheeks
of the impassive hidalgo.

We hastened our steps till we reached the hut. It had undergone striking
improvements; a pretty rustic garden, inclosed by a quickset hedge with
a bank of stones behind, extended round the little house. The approach
to this was no longer a rough little path, but a handsome walk, on
either side of which splendid vegetables stretched out in regular rows,
like an army in marching order. The van was composed of a battalion of
cabbages; carrots and lettuces formed the main body; and along the hedge
some modest sorrel brought up the rear. Beautiful apple-trees, already
well grown, spread their verdant shade above these plants; while
pear-trees, alternately standards and espaliers, with borders of thyme
and sage kissing the feet of sunflowers and gilliflowers, convicted
Patience of a strange return to ideas of social order, and even to a
taste for luxuries.

The change was so remarkable that I thought I should no longer find
Patience in the cottage. A strange feeling of uneasiness began to come
over me; my fear almost turned into certainty when I saw two young men
from the village occupied in trimming the espaliers. Our passage had
lasted more than four months, and it must have been quite six months
since we had had any news of the hermit. Marcasse, however, seemed to
feel no fear; Blaireau had told him plainly that Patience was alive,
and the footmarks of the little dog, freshly printed in the sand of the
walk, showed the direction in which he had gone. Notwithstanding, I was
so afraid of seeing a cloud come over the joy of this day, that I did
not dare to question the gardeners about Patience. Silently I followed
the hidalgo, whose eyes grew full of tears as they gazed upon this
new Eden, and whose prudent mouth let no sound escape save the word
"change," which he repeated several times.

At last I grew impatient; the walk seemed interminable, though very
short in reality, and I began to run, my heart beating wildly.

"Perhaps Edmee," I said to myself, "is here!"

However, she was not there, and I could only hear the voice of the
hermit saying:

"Now, then! What is the matter? Has the poor dog gone mad? Down,
Blaireau! You would never have worried your master in this way. This is
what comes of being too kind!"

"Blaireau is not mad!" I exclaimed, as I entered. "Have you grown deaf
to the approach of a friend, Master Patience?"

Patience, who was in the act of counting a pile of money, let it fall
on the table and came towards me with the old cordiality. I embraced him
heartily; he was surprised and touched at my joy. Then he examined
me from head to foot, and seemed to be wondering at the change in my
appearance, when Marcasse arrived at the door.

Then a sublime expression came over Patience's face, and lifting his
strong arms to heaven, he exclaimed:

"The words of the canticle! Now let me depart in peace; for mine eyes
have seen him I yearned for."

The hidalgo said nothing; he raised his hat as usual; then sitting down
he turned pale and shut his eyes. His dog jumped up on his knees and
displayed his affection by attempts at little cries which changed into
a series of sneezes (you remember that he was born dumb). Trembling with
old age and delight, he stretched out his pointed nose towards the long
nose of his master; but his master did not respond with the customary
"Down, Blaireau!"

Marcasse had fainted.

This loving soul, no more able than Blaireau to express itself in words,
had sunk beneath the weight of his own happiness. Patience ran
and fetched him a large mug of wine of the district, in its second
year--that is to say, the oldest and best possible. He made him swallow
a few drops; its strength revived him. The hidalgo excused his weakness
on the score of fatigue and the heat. He would not or could not assign
it to its real sense. There are souls who die out, after burning with
unsurpassable moral beauty and grandeur, without ever having found a
way, and even without ever having felt the need, of revealing themselves
to others.

When Patience, who was as demonstrative as his friend was the contrary,
had recovered from his first transports, he turned to me and said:

"Now, my young officer, I see that you have no wish to remain here long.
Let us make haste, then, to the place you are burning to reach. There is
some one who will be much surprised and much delighted, you may take my
word."

We entered the park, and while crossing it, Patience explained the
change which had come over his habitation and his life.

"For myself," he said to me, "you see that I have not changed. The same
appearance, the same ways; and if I offered you some wine just now, that
does not prevent me from drinking water myself. But I have money, and
land, and workmen--yes, I have. Well, all this is in spite of myself,
as you will see. Some three years ago Mademoiselle Edmee spoke of the
difficulty she had in bestowing alms so as to do real good. The abbe was
as unskilful as herself. People would impose on them every day and use
their money for bad ends; whereas proud and hard-working day-labourers
might be in a state of real distress without any one being able to
discover the fact. She was afraid that if she inquired into their wants
they might take it as an insult; and when worthless fellows appealed to
her she preferred being their dupe to erring against charity. In this
manner she used to give away a great deal of money and do very little
good. I then made her understand how money was the thing that was the
least necessary to the necessitous. I explained that men were really
unfortunate, not when they were unable to dress better than their
fellows, or go to the tavern on Sundays, or display at high-mass a
spotlessly white stocking with a red garter above the knee, or talk
about 'My mare, my cow, my vine, my barn, etc.,' but rather when they
were afflicted with poor health and a bad season, when they could not
protect themselves against the cold, and heat and sickness, against
the pangs of hunger and thirst. I told her, then, not to judge of the
strength and health of peasants by myself, but to go in person and
inquire into their illnesses and their wants.

"These folk are not philosophers," I said; "they have their little
vanities, they are fond of finery, spend the little they earn on cutting
a figure, and have not foresight enough to deprive themselves of a
passing pleasure in order to lay by something against a day of real
need. In short, they do not know how to use their money; they tell you
they are in debt, and, though that may be true, it is not true that
they will use the money you give them to pay what they owe. They take no
thought of the morrow; they will agree to as high a rate of interest as
may be asked, and with your money they will buy a hemp-field or a set
of furniture so as to astonish their neighbours and make them jealous.
Meanwhile their debts go on increasing year by year, and in the end they
have to sell their hemp-field and their furniture, because the creditor,
who is always one of themselves, calls for repayment or for more
interest than they can furnish. Everything goes; the principal takes all
their capital, just as the interest has taken all their income. Then you
grow old and can work no longer; your children abandon you, because you
have brought them up badly, and because they have the same passions and
the same vanities as yourself. All you can do is to take a wallet and go
from door to door to beg your bread, because you are used to bread and
would die if you had to live on roots like the sorcerer Patience, that
outcast of Nature, whom everybody hates and despises because he has not
become a beggar.

"The beggar, moreover, is hardly worse off than the day-labourer;
probably he is better off. He is no longer troubled with pride, whether
estimable or foolish; he has no longer to suffer. The folks in his part
of the country are good to him; there is not a beggar that wants for a
bed or supper as he goes his round. The peasants load him with bits of
bread, to such an extent that he has enough to feed both poultry and
pigs in the little hovel where he has left a child and an old mother to
look after his animals. Every week he returns there and spends two or
three days, doing nothing except counting the pennies that have been
given him. These poor coins often serve to satisfy the superfluous wants
which idleness breeds. A peasant rarely takes snuff; many beggars cannot
do without it; they ask for it more eagerly than for bread. So the
beggar is no more to be pitied than the labourer; but he is corrupt and
debauched, when he is not a scoundrel and a brute, which, in truth, is
seldom enough.

"'This, then, is what ought to be done,' I said to Edmee; 'and the abbe
tells me that this is also the idea of your philosophers. You who are
always ready to help the unfortunate, should give without consulting
the special fancies of the man who asks, but only after ascertaining his
real wants.'

"Edmee objected that it would be impossible for her to obtain the
necessary information; that she would have to give her whole time to
it, and neglect the chevalier, who is growing old and can no longer read
anything without his daughter's eyes and head. The abbe was too fond
of improving his mind from the writings of the wise to have time for
anything else.

"'That is what comes of all this study of virtue!' I said to her; 'it
makes a man forget to be virtuous.'

"'You are quite right,' answered Edmee; 'but what is to be done?'

"I promised to think it over; and this is how I went to work. Instead of
taking my walks as usual in the direction of the woods, I paid a visit
every day to the small holdings. It cost me a great effort; I like to be
alone; and everywhere I had shunned my fellow-men for so many years that
I had lost touch with them. However, this was a duty and I did it. I
went to various houses, and by way of conversation, first of all over
hedges, and then inside the houses themselves, I made inquiries as to
those points which I wanted to learn. At first they gave me a welcome
such as they would give to a lost dog in time of drought; and with a
vexation I could scarce conceal I noticed the hatred and distrust on all
their faces. Though I had not cared to live among other men, I still
had an affection for them; I knew that they were unfortunate rather than
vicious; I had spent all my time in lamenting their woes and railing
against those that caused them; and when for the first time I saw a
possibility of doing something for some of them, these very men shut
their doors the very moment they caught sight of me in the distance, and
their children (those pretty children that I love so much!) would hide
themselves in ditches so as to escape the fever which, it was said, I
could give with a glance. However, as Edmee's friendship for me was
well known, they did not dare to repulse me openly, and I succeeded in
getting the information we wanted. Whenever I told her of any distress
she at once supplied a remedy. One house was full of cracks; and while
the daughter was wearing an apron of cotton-cloth at four francs an ell,
the rain was falling on the grandmother's bed and the little children's
cradles. The roof and walls were repaired; we supplied the materials and
paid the workmen; but no more money for gaudy aprons. In another case,
an old woman had been reduced to beggary because she had listened too
well to her heart, and given all she had to her children, who had turned
her out of doors, or made her life so unbearable that she preferred to
be a tramp. We took up the old woman's cause, and threatened that we
would bring the matter before the courts at our own expense. Thus
we obtained for her a pension, to which we added when it was not
sufficient. We induced several old persons who were in a similar
position to combine and live together under the same roof. We chose one
as head, and gave him a little capital, and as he was an industrious and
methodical man, he turned it to such profit that his children came
and made their peace with him, and asked to be allowed to help in his
establishment.

"We did many other things besides; I need not give you details, as you
will see them yourself. I say 'we,' because, though I did not wish to
be concerned in anything beyond what I had already done, I was gradually
drawn on and obliged to do more and more, to concern myself with many
things, and finally with everything. In short, it is I who make the
investigations, superintend the works, and conduct all negotiations.
Mademoiselle Edmee wished me to keep a sum of money by me, so that I
might dispose of it without consulting her first. This I have never
allowed myself to do; and, moreover, she has never once opposed any of
my ideas. But all this, you know, has meant much work and many worries.
Ever since the people realized that I was a little Turgot they have
grovelled before me, and that has pained me not a little. And so I have
various friends that I don't care for, and various enemies that I could
well do without. The sham poor owe me a grudge because I do not let
myself be duped by them; and there are perverse and worthless people
who think one is always doing too much for others, and never enough for
them. With all this bustle and all these bickerings, I can no longer
take my walk during the night, and my sleep during the day. I am now
Monsieur Patience, and no longer the sorcerer of Gazeau Tower; but alas!
I am a hermit no more; and, believe me, I would wish with all my heart
that I could have been born selfish, so that I might throw off my
harness, and return to my savage life and my liberty."

When Patience had given us this account of his work we complimented
him on it; but we ventured to express a doubt about his pretended
self-sacrifice; this magnificent garden seemed to indicate a compromise
with "those superfluous necessities," the use of which by others he had
always deplored.

"That?" he said, waving his arm in the direction of his inclosure. "That
does not concern me; they made it against my wishes; but, as they were
worthy folk and my refusal would have grieved them, I was obliged to
allow it. You must know that, if I have stirred ingratitude in many
hearts, I have also made a few happy ones grateful. So, two or three
families to whom I had done some service, tried all possible means to
give me pleasure in return; and, as I refused everything, they thought
they would give me a surprise. Once I had to pay a visit to Berthenoux
for several days, on some confidential business which had been entrusted
to me; for people have come to imagine me a very clever man, so easy
is it to pass from one extreme to another. On my return I found this
garden, marked out, planted and inclosed as you see it. In vain did I
get angry, and explain that I did not want to work, that I was too old,
and that the pleasure of eating a little more fruit was not worth the
trouble that this garden was going to cost me; they finished it without
heeding what I said, and declared that I need not trouble in the least,
because they would undertake to cultivate it for me. And, indeed, for
the last two years the good folk have not failed to come, now one and
now another, and give such time in each season as was necessary to keep
it in perfect order. Besides, though I have altered nothing in my own
ways of living, the produce of this garden has been very useful; during
the winter I was able to feed several poor people with my vegetables;
while my fruit has served to win the affection of the little children,
who no longer cry out 'wolf' when they see me, but have grown bold
enough to come and kiss the sorcerer. Other people have forced me to
accept presents of wine, and now and then of white bread, and cheeses
of cow's milk. All these things, however, only enable me to be polite to
the village elders when they come and report the deserving cases of the
place, so that I may make them known at the castle. These honours have
not turned my head, as you see; nay, more, I may say that when I have
done about all that I have to do, I shall leave the cares of greatness
behind me, and return to my philosopher's life, perhaps to Gazeau
Tower--who knows?"

We were now at the end of our walk. As I set foot on the steps of the
chateau, I was suddenly filled with a feeling of devoutness; I
clasped my hands and called upon Heaven in a sort of terror. A vague,
indefinable fear arose in me; I imagined all manner of things that might
hinder my happiness. I hesitated to cross the threshold of the house;
then I rushed forward. A mist came over my eyes, a buzzing filled my
ears. I met Saint-Jean, who, not recognising me, gave a loud cry and
threw himself in my path to prevent me from entering without being
announced. I pushed him aside, and he sank down astounded on one of the
hall chairs while I hastened to the door of the drawing-room. But,
just as I was about to throw it open, I was seized with a new fear and
checked myself; then I opened it so timidly that Edmee, who was occupied
at some embroidery on a frame, did not raise her eyes, thinking that
in this slight noise she recognised the respectful Saint-Jean. The
chevalier was asleep and did not wake. This old man, tall and thin like
all the Mauprats, was sitting with his head sunk on his breast; and his
pale, wrinkled face, which seemed already wrapped in the torpor of the
grave, resembled one of those angular heads in carved oak which adorned
the back of his big arm-chair. His feet were stretched out in front of a
fire of dried vine-branches, although the sun was warm and a bright ray
was falling on his white head and making it shine like silver. And how
could I describe to you my feelings on beholding Edmee? She was bending
over her tapestry and glancing from time to time at her father to notice
his slightest movements. But what patience and resignation were revealed
in her whole attitude! Edmee was not fond of needlework; her mind was
too vigorous to attach much importance to the effect of one shade by the
side of another shade, and to the regularity of one stitch laid against
another stitch. Besides, the blood flowed swiftly in her veins, and when
her mind was not absorbed in intellectual work she needed exercise in
the open air. But ever since her father, a prey to the infirmities of
old age, had been almost unable to leave his arm-chair, she had refused
to leave him for a single moment; and, since she could not always be
reading and working her mind, she had felt the necessity of taking
up some of those feminine occupations which, as she said, "are the
amusements of captivity." She had conquered her nature then in truly
heroic fashion. In one of those secret struggles which often take place
under our eyes without our suspecting the issue involved, she had done
more than subdue her nature, she had even changed the circulation of
her blood. I found her thinner; and her complexion had lost that first
freshness of youth which, like the bloom that the breath of morning
spreads over fruit, disappears at the slightest shock from without,
although it may have been respected by the heat of the sun. Yet in this
premature paleness and in this somewhat unhealthy thinness there seemed
to be an indefinable charm; her eyes, more sunken, but inscrutable as
ever, showed less pride and more melancholy than of old; her mouth
had become more mobile, and her smile was more delicate and less
contemptuous. When she spoke to me, I seemed to behold two persons in
her, the old and the new; and I found that, so far from having lost her
beauty, she had attained ideal perfection. Still, I remember several
persons at that time used to declare that she had "changed very much,"
which with them meant that she had greatly deteriorated. Beauty,
however, is like a temple in which the profane see naught but the
external magnificence. The divine mystery of the artist's thought
reveals itself only to profound sympathy, and the inspiration in each
detail of the sublime work remains unseen by the eyes of the vulgar. One
of your modern authors, I fancy, has said this in other words and much
better. As for myself, at no moment in her life did I find Edmee less
beautiful than at any other. Even in the hours of suffering, when beauty
in its material sense seems obliterated, hers but assumed a divine
form in my eyes, and in her face I beheld the splendour of a new moral
beauty. However, I am but indifferently endowed with artistic feeling,
and had I been a painter, I could not have created more than a single
type, that which filled my whole soul; for in the course of my long life
only one woman has seemed to me really beautiful; and that woman was
Edmee.

For a few seconds I stood looking at her, so touchingly pale, sad yet
calm, a living image of filial piety, of power in thrall to affection.
Then I rushed forward and fell at her feet without being able to say a
word. She uttered no cry, no exclamation of surprise, but took my head
in her two arms and held it for some time pressed to her bosom. In this
strong pressure, in this silent joy I recognised the blood of my race,
I felt the touch of a sister. The good chevalier, who had waked with a
start, stared at us in astonishment, his body bent forward and his elbow
resting on his knee; then he said:

"Well, well! What is the meaning of this?"

He could not see my face, hidden as it was in Edmee's breast. She pushed
me towards him; and the old man clasped me in his feeble arms with a
burst of generous affection that gave him back for a moment the vigour
of youth.

I leave you to imagine the questions with which I was overwhelmed, and
the attentions that were lavished on me. Edmee was a veritable mother
to me. Her unaffected kindness and confidence savoured so much of heaven
that throughout the day I could not think of her otherwise than if I had
really been her son.

I was very much touched at the pleasure they took in preparing a big
surprise for the abbe; I saw in this a sure proof of the delight he
would feel at my return. They made me hide under Edmee's frame, and
covered me with the large green cloth that was generally thrown over her
work. The abbe sat down quite close to me, and I gave a shout and seized
him by the legs. This was a little practical joke that I used to play
on him in the old days. When, throwing aside the frame, and sending the
balls of wool rolling over the floor, I came out from my hiding-place,
the expression of terror and delight on his face was most quaint.

But I will spare you all these family scenes to which my memory goes
back too readily.




XVII

An immense change had taken place in me during the course of six years.
I had become a man very much like other men; my instincts had managed to
bring themselves into harmony with my affections, my intuitions with my
reason. This social education had been carried on quite naturally; all
I had to do was to accept the lessons of experience and the counsels of
friendship. I was far from being a learned man; but I had developed a
power of acquiring solid learning very rapidly. My notions of things in
general were as clear as could be obtained at that time. Since then I
know that real progress has been made in human knowledge; I have watched
it from afar and have never thought of denying it. And as I notice that
not all men of my age show themselves as reasonable, it pleases me to
think that I was put on a fairly right road early in life, since I have
never stopped in the blind alley of errors and prejudices.

The progress I had made intellectually seemed to satisfy Edmee.

"I am not astonished at it," she said. "I could see it in your letters;
but I rejoice at it with a mother's pride."

My good uncle was no longer strong enough to engage in the old stormy
discussions; and I really think that if he had retained his strength
he would have been somewhat grieved to find that I was no longer the
indefatigable opponent who had formerly irritated him so persistently.
He even made a few attempts at contradiction to test me; but at this
time I should have considered it a crime to have gratified him. He
showed a little temper at this, and seemed to think that I treated him
too much as an old man. To console him I turned the conversation to the
history of the past, to the years through which he himself had lived,
and questioned him on many points wherein his experience served him
better than my knowledge. In this way I obtained many healthy notions
for the guidance of my own conduct, and at the same time I fully
satisfied his legitimate _amour propre_. He now conceived a friendship
for me from genuine sympathy, just as formerly he had adopted me from
natural generosity and family pride. He did not disguise from me that
his great desire, before falling into the sleep that knows no waking,
was to see me married to Edmee; and when I told him that this was the
one thought of my life, the one wish of my soul, he said:

"I know, I know. Everything depends on her, and I think she can no
longer have any reasons for hesitation. . . . At all events," he added,
after a moment's silence and with a touch of peevishness, "I cannot see
any that she could allege at present."

From these words, the first he had ever uttered on the subject which
most interested me, I concluded that he himself had long been favourable
to my suit, and that the obstacle, if one still existed, lay with Edmee.
My uncle's last remark implied a doubt which I dared not try to clear
up, and which caused me great uneasiness. Edmee's sensitive pride
inspired me with such awe, her unspeakable goodness filled me with such
respect that I dared not ask her point-blank to decide my fate. I made
up my mind to act as if I entertained no other hope than that she would
always let me be her brother and friend.

An event which long remained inexplicable afforded some distraction
to my thoughts for a few days. At first I had refused to go and take
possession of Roche-Mauprat.

"You really must," my uncle had said, "go and see the improvements I
have made in your property, the lands which have been brought under
cultivation, the cattle that I have put on each of your metayer-farms.
Now is the time for you to see how your affairs stand, and show your
tenants that you take an interest in their work. Otherwise, on my death,
everything will go from bad to worse and you will be obliged to let it,
which may bring you in a larger income, perhaps, but will diminish the
value of the property. I am too old now to go and manage your estate.
For the last two years I have been unable to leave off this miserable
dressing-gown; the abbe does not understand anything about it; Edmee has
an excellent head; but she cannot bring herself to go to that place; she
says she would be too much afraid, which is mere childishness."

"I know that I ought to display more courage," I replied; "and yet,
uncle, what you are asking me to do is for me the most difficult thing
in the world. I have not set foot on that accursed soil since the day
I left it, bearing Edmee away from her captors. It is as if you were
driving me out of heaven to send me on a visit to hell."

The chevalier shrugged his shoulders; the abbe implored me to bring
myself to do as he wished, as the reluctance I showed was a veritable
disappointment to my uncle. I consented, and with a determination to
conquer myself, I took leave of Edmee for two days. The abbe wanted to
accompany me, to drive away the gloomy thoughts which would no doubt
besiege me; but I had scruples about taking him from Edmee even for this
short time; I knew how necessary he was to her. Tied as she was to the
chevalier's arm-chair, her life was so serious, so retired, that the
least change was acutely felt. Each year had increased her isolation,
and it had become almost complete since the chevalier's failing health
had driven from his table those happy children of wine, songs, and
witticisms. He had been a great sportsman; and Saint Hubert's Day,
which fell on his birthday, had formerly brought all the nobility of the
province to his house. Year after year the courtyards had resounded with
the howls of the pack; year after year the stables had held their two
long rows of spirited horses in their glistening stalls; year after year
the sound of the horn had echoed through the great woods around, or sent
out its blast under the windows of the big hall at each toast of the
brilliant company. But those glorious days had long disappeared; the
chevalier had given up hunting; and the hope of obtaining his daughter's
hand no longer brought round his arm-chair young men, who were bored by
his old age, his attacks of gout, and the stories which he would repeat
in the evening without remembering that he had already told them in the
morning. Edmee's obstinate refusals and the dismissal of M. de la Marche
had caused great astonishment, and given rise to many conjectures
among the curious. One young man who was in love with her, and had been
rejected like the rest, was impelled by a stupid and cowardly conceit to
avenge himself on the only woman of his own class who, according to him,
had dared to repulse him. Having discovered that Edmee had been carried
off by the Hamstringers, he spread a report that she had spent a night
of wild debauch at Roche-Mauprat. At best, he only deigned to concede
that she had yielded only to violence. Edmee commanded too much respect
and esteem to be accused of having shown complaisance to the brigands;
but she soon passed for having been a victim of their brutality. Marked
with an indelible stain, she was no longer sought in marriage by any
one. My absence only served to confirm this opinion. I had saved her
from death, it was said, but not from shame, and it was impossible for
me to make her my wife; I was in love with her, and had fled lest I
should yield to the temptation to marry her. All this seemed so probable
that it would have been difficult to make the public accept the true
version. They were the less ready to accept it from the fact that Edmee
had been unwilling to put an end to the evil reports by giving her
hand to a man she could not love. Such, then, were the causes of her
isolation; it was not until later that I fully understood them. But I
could see the austerity of the chevalier's home and Edmee's melancholy
calm, and I was afraid to drop even a dry leaf in the sleeping waters.
Thus I begged the abbe to remain with them until my return. I took no
one with me except my faithful sergeant Marcasse. Edmee had declared
that he must not leave me, and had arranged that henceforth he was to
share Patience's elegant hut and administrative life.

I arrived at Roche-Mauprat one foggy evening in the early days of
autumn; the sun was hidden, and all Nature was wrapped in silence and
mist. The plains were deserted; the air alone seemed alive with the
noise of great flocks of birds of passage; cranes were drawing their
gigantic triangles across the sky, and storks at an immeasurable
height were filling the clouds with mournful cries, which fell upon the
saddened country like the dirge of parting summer. For the first time in
the year I felt a chilliness in the air. I think that all men are filled
with an involuntary sadness at the approach of the inclement season.
In the first hoar-frosts there is something which bids man remember the
approaching dissolution of his own being.

My companion and I had traversed woods and heaths without saying a
single word; we had made a long _detour_ to avoid Gazeau Tower, which I
felt I could not bear to look upon again. The sun was sinking in shrouds
of gray when we passed the portcullis at Roche-Mauprat. This portcullis
was broken; the drawbridge was never raised, and the only things that
crossed it now were peaceful flocks and their careless shepherds. The
fosses were half-filled, and the bluish osiers were already spreading
out their flexible branches over the shallow waters; nettles were
growing at the foot of the crumbling towers, and the traces of the
fire seemed still fresh upon the walls. The farm buildings had all been
repaired; and the court, full of cattle and poultry and sheep-dogs and
agricultural implements, contrasted strangely with the gloomy inclosure
in which I still seemed to see the red flames of the besiegers shooting
up, and the black blood of the Mauprats flowing.

I was received with the quiet and somewhat chilly hospitality of the
peasants of Berry. They did not lay themselves out to please me, but
they let me want for nothing. Quarters were found for me in the only
one of the old wings which had not been damaged in the siege, or
subsequently abandoned to the ravages of time. The massive architecture
of the body of the building dated from the tenth century; the door was
smaller than the windows, and the windows themselves gave so little
light that we had to take candles to find our way, although the sun had
hardly set. The building had been restored provisionally to serve as an
occasional lodging for the new seigneur or his stewards. My Uncle Hubert
had often been there to see to my interests so long as his strength had
allowed him; and they showed me to the room which he had reserved for
himself, and which had therefore been known as the master's room. The
best things that had been saved from the old furniture had been placed
there; and, as it was cold and damp, in spite of all the trouble they
had taken to make it habitable, the tenant's servant preceded me with a
firebrand in one hand and a fagot in the other.

Blinded by the smoke which she scattered round me in clouds, and
deceived by the new entrance which they had made in another part of the
courtyard, and by certain corridors which they had walled up to save the
trouble of looking after them, I reached the room without recognising
anything; indeed, I could not have said in what part of the old
buildings I was, to such an extent had the new appearance of the
courtyard upset my recollections, and so little had my mind in its gloom
and agitation been impressed by surrounding objects.

While the servant was lighting the fire, I threw myself into a chair,
and, burying my head in my hands, fell into a melancholy train of
thought. My position, however, was not without a certain charm; for the
past naturally appears in an embellished or softened form to the minds
of young men, those presumptuous masters of the future. When, by dint of
blowing the brand, the servant had filled the room with dense smoke, she
went off to fetch some embers and left me alone. Marcasse had remained
in the stable to attend to our horses. Blaireau had followed me;
lying down by the hearth, he glanced at me from time to time with a
dissatisfied air, as if to ask me the reason of such wretched lodging
and such a poor fire.