TEMPTATION.
Bruno possessed an ardent poetic nature. In his boyhood he was a
day-dreamer. While his village comrades ravaged birds’ nests, played at
leap-frog, and in other ways distinguished themselves for mischief, he
was wandering alone by the river lost in revery. With his feet buried
in the cool ripples, he loved to watch the water and study the habits
of the finny tribes as they played about him.
He knew where the trout made a home under the rocks, and in the cool
summer evenings, with his legs bared to the thigh, he would surprise
them in their hiding-places and then a wild chase would follow. How
many times would his hand close over some little creature, only to find
the next moment that it had slipped from his fingers and escaped among
the pebbles.
As he grew into a tall, graceful boy of fifteen, however, he began to
think how he could best serve Mother Mathurine, and with a good will he
went to work. But most of his leisure time was devoted to trout-fishing
and he became an expert angler. Many a fine string of trout bore
witness to his skill, and the people of the village looked to him for a
supply when a present of that nature was to be made for a _fête_ or a
social party.
“Bruno’s trout always have the best flavor,” once remarked Andoche,
“and I do not understand how he coaxes them to bite.”
And now Bruno was grown to manhood.
One morning toward the end of November, after a successful expedition,
the result of which was a fine trout of enormous size, Bruno was
returning home by way of a secluded path through the woods, dreaming of
his love for Catherine, when he met the object of his thoughts face to
face.
The gamekeeper’s wife involuntarily stopped. Bruno’s face changed
color. At this moment Jacques Percier made his appearance. He quickly
passed by, but just as he was about to disappear behind a hedge of
walnut trees he turned and saw the gamekeeper’s wife still standing in
front of Bruno. Knowing Bruno’s mad infatuation for Catherine, Jacques
fancied he had stumbled upon a rendezvous, and the stupid fellow hid
himself behind the trees to watch proceedings.
Catherine approached closer to Bruno.
“You are a brave defender,” said she, referring to his action on the
day of Suzanne’s wedding.
“No, Madame--oh, no. It was nothing. Why do you say that?”
“You know perfectly well, Bruno,” she replied. “Ah, if you had only
told me your sentiments before my marriage.”
Bruno tremblingly whispered: “Do not speak like that, Catherine, for we
know not what may happen.”
“And why shouldn’t I say it? I express a regret. If I only had known
then what I know now.”
“Ah, then you know----”
“I know that you were exposed to death for my sake that day.”
“O Madame, surely you exaggerate.”
“At all events, I must admire your heroism. I know that at Suzanne’s
reception you tried to defend me against the man I have married. And
you do not wish me to reproach myself for not having guessed your
secret? Alas! the past cannot be changed, but if I were your wife----”
“I beg of you, be silent! I shall go mad.”
“Oh, I too am miserable. Still, that shall not prevent me from thanking
you.”
She extended her hand. Poor Bruno knew not what to do.
“It is not necessary to speak of the little I have done. It was but
selfishness on my part.”
Catherine, who was silent for a moment, decided to change the subject.
“You have there a fine fish,” she said, for want of a better theme.
“Will you not accept it, Madame?”
“Oh, no, my poor friend, no. What should I do with it? Should I not be
obliged to tell _him_ where I got it?”
Him! That word strangely impressed Bruno. For the second time she had
designated her husband without speaking his name, as though the sound
were odious to her.
“Never mind,” he said. “Take the trout, please. It will give me great
pleasure if you will.”
But Catherine refused. However, she did not pass on. From time to time
she made a motion as though about to speak. Her eyes were brighter
than usual, and a flush suffused her cheek. Bruno, supposing she had
something important to say, waited patiently. But soon her expression
changed. She looked at the young man long and earnestly. Then, as
though renouncing some idea as untimely or impracticable, she briefly
said: “Adieu, Bruno.”
“Adieu,” he returned, with a sigh.
They were about to separate, when, with an impulsive gesture, Catherine
turned resolutely and whispered in his ear: “Do you love me, Bruno?”
In answer, Bruno, seizing her hand, muttered a few unintelligible words.
“Tell me, Bruno,” persisted Catherine, wishing a coherent reply, “do
you love me?”
After all that she had said concerning her husband, and after all the
regret she had manifested, this question amounted to a confession.
Bruno took her passionately in his arms and rained kisses on her face.
“Then,” she continued, with a greater show of reserve, “what if I ask
of you something?”
“You have need of me!” cried Bruno in ecstasy. “Oh, speak, Madame; you
have only to command. I am eager to do your bidding.”
“Even wrong?”
“Even wrong--for your sake.”
“Yes, but you say that because you are excited, perhaps.”
“Ah, do not doubt me. Believe me, you have only to command, Madame
Catherine.”
“Well, then,” she began, but she stopped short, lost in thought.
“Bruno,” she went on finally, “go away from me. Leave me at once, for I
am utterly miserable.”
“No--not until I know what I can do for you.”
But Catherine was now unwilling to say another word. Remorse, or
shame, or both had subdued her first wild thought and she was silent.
Meanwhile Bruno was urging her to divulge what she desired him to do.
So long and so earnestly did he entreat her to speak, that at last she
muttered a few words in his ear.
The poor fellow grew deathly white and withdrew a step in terror. His
eyes were fixed upon those of Catherine, which glittered like steel.
In a moment a cry escaped his lips. Letting the trout fall upon the
ground, he lifted his arms and ran across the fields--not knowing what
he did.
Quite as troubled as he, Catherine unconsciously extended her arms as
though to call him back. But he did not look behind him, and she too
soon disappeared in the opposite direction.
What horrible proposition had Catherine made to Bruno? Cannot the
reader imagine?
Since the wedding of Jacques Percier and Suzanne, life had been all but
unendurable in the pretty little cottage at the corner of the wood.
Savin, convinced that his wife no longer loved him, experienced the
countless pangs of ruined affection. Catherine had continued to pose as
a martyr and he had persecuted her until she was indeed to be pitied.
He had brutally resolved to give her cause to complain. He had exacted
that the house should be irreproachably neat and orderly, and that the
meals should be ready precisely on the hour. The breach had widened day
by day. Savin had become more rude and Catherine more irreconcilable.
They had addressed each other only in terms of hatred or anger. Nearly
every day there had been disagreeable scenes between the two.
“Do not force me to use violence,” said Barrau savagely one day, at
which remark Catherine was naturally indignant. Both were at love’s
antipodes. All peace was at an end, and the more Catherine reflected
the more she felt that nothing but her husband’s death could bring
relief. And having an overwhelming desire to confide in somebody, she
had thought of Bruno. But now she perceived how revolting it must have
been to his noble mind. The words she had spoken had stunned and driven
him away. However, she would not have told Bruno had he not urged, nay
begged, her to do so. He had presumed, of course, that she was going
to propose an elopement, and while that would have been a serious
undertaking, he felt able to brave all for her. Once far away from St.
Benoit, he had dreamed of working for Catherine and devoting himself to
her happiness.
But when he heard the young woman proposing to kill Savin he could
scarcely trust his ears, and we already have seen with what fear
he fled from her. Like most of the peasants, Bruno was a very good
marksman. He could handle a gun with considerable skill, and the
idea had occurred to Catherine to address him just as she would have
made the same proposition, under similar circumstances, to Firmin,
Fadard, or even to Andoche, if the latter ever had had a thought for
anything but the bottle. But Bruno was desperately in love with her
and professedly willing to die for her sake. But she did not know that
Bruno would sooner cut off his right hand or tear out his heart than
lie in wait for an honest man to kill him. Not even for love’s sake
could he resort to treachery and villainy.
Noticing how Bruno received her terrible suggestion, she had been moved
to contrition.
“He did right to leave me in dismay, the honest fellow,” she had said
as she entered the cottage. “I could embrace him for refusing. Who
knows but that he may save my life a second time? Brave Bruno!”
Then her proposition in all its hideous blackness recurred to her. Her
past life loomed up before her mind’s eye and mercilessly mocked and
shamed her, and as she meditated--for the first time--she admitted to
herself that she had been to blame from the day of the raspberry _fête_
up to the time of Suzanne’s marriage. The crime she had contemplated
now seemed _impish_ and terrible. She repented of her wicked thoughts
and thanked God that Bruno’s conduct had created in her this feeling,
otherwise she might never have taken a step toward reconciliation.
Savin was in the forest. She now awaited him with some impatience.
Courageously she made up her mind to tender the first advances and
bring back her husband’s smile. All bickering should cease. The abyss
on the verge of which Bruno’s flight had arrested her now seemed so
dark and horrible. She would a thousand times rather endure the jeers
of Rosalie and of the rest than ever again give way to such demon
thoughts.
“Ah, well, I will make amends for all the harm I have done,” she
mentally resolved as she busied herself about the supper.
Barrau had gone to _Pierre qui Vire_. A legend is associated with this
place respecting the old Balance Rock. This rock leans against another
in such a way as to form a perfect balance, and the story goes that
each day when the town-clock at Vaumarin, a little village perched
upon the opposite mountain, strikes twelve, the rock turns over three
times. But some very precise people affirm that there is no town-clock
at Vaumarin to strike the hour, and so the legend suffers. Others,
however, declare that at midnight the rock, possessed of the devil,
slowly turns three times. Many excursions are made to the place to
watch the mysterious rock, especially by those who are not in the least
afraid of goblins. A more lonely, dreary spot on earth could not be
found. The rock is situated some three miles from any human habitation,
in the midst of a dense and gloomy forest. All the paths leading to it
are lined with deep ravines, some of them of frightful depth and filled
with a mass of tangled roots and projecting bowlders. Just at the foot
of Balance Rock an avalanche of stones has fallen, and these from time
to time tumble headlong over the precipice with a thunderous crash.
In awful confusion lie the rocks, forming such weird shapes as in the
night are enough to fill with dread the bravest heart.
At the bottom of the gorge, in a rock-formed bed, rush the torrents of
the Trinquelin River--as though to shun the grewsome spot. But amid
these most solitary and desolate surroundings a convent stands on the
granite rocks. A misanthropic priest founded it some twenty-five years
ago, imposing on its members a code of rules so severe that several
died within the first twelve months, and finally the code was somewhat
modified. In winter there always is great suffering within its walls,
but in the summer-time it is comfortable as well as beautiful.
Savin, walking along the river bank in the thick underbrush, was a prey
to bitter reflections. The cold, cheerless day did not tend to lighten
his mood. He felt that his whole life was a failure.
“Happiness is but a chimera,” he said, “a myth to dream about, but not
to realize.”
Suddenly a gunshot echoed through the ravine from rock to rock. A ball
whizzed past his ear. He raised his rifle and garrisoned himself behind
a rock. But at that moment a cunning little doe, wounded and bleeding,
fell at his feet with a moan. There was a crackling of leaves. A
well-directioned jump landed a man near his victim, which after a spasm
or two was dead.
“So it is that rascal,” muttered Savin as he stood gazing at Firmin,
who stooped to pick up his game.
“You seem to own everything about this region,” Savin said ironically.
Firmin, surprised at the gamekeeper’s presence, made a backward leap.
“It’s no use. You may as well surrender,” added Savin sternly.
Firmin was about to make a break for the woods, when Savin raised his
rifle.
“If you take two more steps you are a dead man,” he coolly warned.
Firmin stopped.
“Perhaps you do not know,” continued Savin, “that it is a grave offence
to kill the females.”
“Well, make your complaint,” growled Firmin.
Savin took a step forward, grasped the poacher by the collar, and went
on: “To speak candidly, I have more to complain of than the mere loss
of a doe. For more than three months now, thanks to your impudence and
vanity, I have been deprived of contentment. You have been the cause of
my misfortune.”
“Who says so?”
“I do, and my word has never been doubted.”
“Well, what do you want?” asked Firmin, who, as we know, was not a lion
in the way of courage.
“We are alone, entirely alone,” pursued Barrau, with awful complacence,
“and we will settle this matter right here. You have been paying court
to my wife.”
“I?”
“You would deny it? You are afraid I will kill you, eh? Well, you have
reason to fear. Who will prevent me if I wish to do so? You have been
caught poaching--and I am a gamekeeper. There is the proof of your
guilt,” pointing to the doe. “And I should only have to accuse you of
having fired at me. Self-defence would be my plea. What judge would
hesitate to acquit me--to congratulate me?”
While speaking Savin held his rifle in readiness. Pale and trembling,
Firmin looked about as though invoking aid.
“But reassure yourself,” observed Savin, lowering his rifle. “I am not
an assassin. You have wounded and disgraced me, however, and I cannot
let it pass; so I have a proposition to make.”
Firmin breathed more freely. Since Barrau was not going to kill him
what had he to worry about? Raising his head proudly, he said: “Well,
what is it?”
“They say you have been a _valet de chambre_ in the city and know
something about the polite doings of society. If that is true, you must
know what a duel is. My rifle is loaded and you have ammunition. Load
your weapon and we will fight.”
The challenge did not seem to frighten Firmin. Surely, he thought,
Savin will not insist.
“How do you mean?” queried Firmin curiously.
“We will take position fifty paces apart, and then each may take ten
steps forward before firing.”
“But that is not a duel,” said Firmin solemnly.
“Then choose a better course; but be quick about it.”
“I do not wish to fight at all,” replied the poacher.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Barrau, with an effort to contain himself.
“No, I do not. You have mentioned your wife. Well, if she is indiscreet
you must take better care of her. I am not to blame, and why should I
expose myself to death when I have accumulated a neat little sum to
enjoy after working hard for eighteen months? No, indeed, I am not such
a fool.”
“You coward! Heavens! what a craven you are!”
Firmin’s head drooped and he blushed. Then he rallied.
“But,” said he, “it would be no duel without witnesses.”
“I expected you would find some excuse,” said Barrau impatiently.
“Perhaps you prefer a duel with swords. Schemer! You want to get away
and then mock me. But that will not work. You must fight.”
“I say no. If I wounded you or killed you, I should be branded as an
assassin. No, thanks.”
“Very well, then; I shall be obliged to kill you outright.”
Savin again raised his rifle, and Firmin was again terrified. Nightfall
was not far off, and to be murdered in this ghostly spot was a horrible
thought.
It was appallingly obvious to Firmin that he was in Barrau’s power.
Nothing would prevent the latter from proving his innocence should he
carry out his threat.
Approaching Firmin, Savin seized him by the collar and shook him
violently.
“Will you fight?”
Firmin began to cry for help. Savin, who intended only to give him
a thorough scare, now proceeded to administer a rather vigorous
chastisement. At length, when he concluded he had taught the lesson to
its completion he stopped. But anon he acted as though about to repeat
it, Firmin meanwhile fairly quaking with fear. Then, turning on his
heel, Savin walked away, leaving Firmin prostrate on the ground.
As soon as the gamekeeper was lost to sight in the woods Firmin, with a
muttered curse, seized the doe and went his way. Hatred burned in his
breast, and it was depicted on every lineament of his wicked face. His
thirst for vengeance was consuming him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]