Savigny, but he had quitted Bordeaux, leaving an enormous amount of
debts behind him, and no one knew in what direction he had gone.
Everything that I learned about that young man convinced me that
Monsieur de Montfort had not slandered him and that he was, in fact, a
thorough rascal. And yet such a man had been able to make himself master
of Adèle’s heart; but it is only too common a thing to see women
misplace their love. However, I never mentioned his name before my wife;
that would have compelled her to blush, and she had only too much
remorse for her fault. It was enough for me to know her seducer’s name
to be certain that he would never appear in my presence with impunity.
"I had determined upon my plan of conduct. We passed another fortnight
with Monsieur de Montfort, and at the end of that time I announced that
we were going to take a trip to Italy. My father-in-law, realizing that
we were entitled to do only what we pleased, contented himself with
wishing us a pleasant journey, caring very little in which direction we
bent our steps. My wife and I started without a single servant, and
began a journey which was not to come to an end until Adèle had brought
into the world the child that she was bearing.
"We travelled through Italy, the Alps and Switzerland; more than six
months had passed since our marriage, and we were in Auvergne, when
Adèle felt that her time was at hand.
"Adèle’s health compelled us to stop in a small village, named, I think,
Saint-Sandoux, about two leagues from here; I had taken the name of
Gervais. There it was that she brought into the world a daughter, whom I
caused to be baptised under the name of Isaure Gervais."
"Isaure!" cried Edouard, interrupting the baron; "what! can it be,
monsieur, that Isaure is----"
"Adèle’s daughter, yes, Edouard; but, for heaven’s sake, let me finish
this painful story.--I had made my plans long before; that child could
not remain with her mother. I rode about the neighboring country, alone,
carrying concealed beneath my cloak the innocent creature whom I desired
to hate, and in whom, nevertheless, in spite of myself, I already felt
an affectionate interest. I arrived in this valley, I entered the
cottage then occupied by André Sarpiotte and his wife; she was nursing a
young baby, and I proposed to her to be the nurse of the little girl
whom I carried in my arms, inventing a story concerning Isaure’s birth
and parents.
"The worthy Auvergnats accepted my proposition, which I supported with a
purse filled with gold. They swore to me to take the greatest care of
the child whom I entrusted to them; and being then more at ease in my
mind, I returned to Adèle, to whom I announced that she could henceforth
be at ease concerning the fate of her daughter; but I did not tell her
where the child was.
"As soon as Adèle was restored to health we left Auvergne; but before
returning to Paris and laying aside the assumed name I had taken upon my
journey, I took pains to make several detours in order to avoid the
possibility of anyone discovering what my honor was so much interested
in concealing. At last we reached Paris, my dear Alfred! I had longed so
to be there, in order to see you and to embrace you once more. There I
introduced my new wife in society; and she, by her lovable qualities,
readily won general esteem. A single thought still disturbed my
tranquillity: I might meet in society my wife’s lover; but in that case
his blood would have washed out the outrage that he had perpetrated on
Adèle. However, my thirst for vengeance was constantly disappointed; I
never saw or heard of the Chevalier de Savigny.
"Adèle never dared to mention her daughter; but she poured out upon you,
my dear Alfred, the affection of a mother; caring nothing for society,
desiring nothing but you, and liberty to kiss you, to lavish caresses
upon you, how many times have I seen her, while covering you with
kisses, furtively wipe away the tears that she shed for the child who
was banished from her arms! And yet, never a complaint, never a word
escaped her upon that subject; attentive and submissive to me, it seemed
that in every action of her life she sought to show her gratitude to me.
What a woman! And how fervently I would have adored her forever! Ah!
even if she were guilty for one moment, how many others are there in
society who are guiltier than she and have nothing to offer us to redeem
their shortcomings!
"Five months after our arrival in Paris, I set out secretly for
Auvergne, and went to see little Isaure, under the name of Gervais as
before. The good people to whom I had entrusted her loved her as dearly
as their own child. André at that time wanted to sell this house, which
he had just built; it occurred to me that, if I should buy it, it would
be convenient for me in the trips which I expected to make into this
country. So I became, still under the name of Gervais, the owner of the
White House. I furnished it so that I might have everything that I
required when I came here; then, after making the peasants swear that
they would not say that the owner of the White House was the same man
who had placed Isaure in their charge, I returned to Paris, where I
afforded Adèle the most delicious pleasure by giving her most
satisfactory news of her daughter.
"Two years passed; every six months I came secretly to the White House.
As soon as they saw a light here, André or his wife never failed to come
and bring little Isaure to me. The child of those worthy peasants died
and they promised to adopt Isaure to replace him whom they had lost; for
I, on my part, had promised to leave the girl with them forever.
"Meanwhile, Adèle’s health was still poor; I believed her to be better
than she really was, and she concealed her sufferings from me and always
greeted me with a smile. Soon, however, it was impossible for me to
delude myself as to her condition. Presuming that her grief at being
separated from her daughter was the cause of the sorrow which was
secretly undermining her health, I swore to her that before long I would
devise some way to have the child brought to us, without running the
risk of disclosing the secret of her birth. Adèle thanked me
affectionately; but alas! it was too late; in a short time her disease
made alarming progress, and soon I was forced to see the woman whom I
adored fade away in my arms. She died, urging me never to abandon her
daughter, to forgive her for her mother’s sin, and imploring me to love
her Isaure a little.
"I will not attempt to describe my grief; I had never loved a woman so
passionately as I had loved Adèle. But I still had you, my son; I tried
to transfer all my affection to you. Meanwhile, faithful to the oath I
had sworn to Adèle, I went to see Isaure again. André also had died, and
his wife now had only her adopted daughter to console her; she trembled
lest I had come to take her away; but I reassured her. Why should I have
taken that girl away from these mountains? Could she not live here more
happily than in society, where her birth would have interposed an
obstacle to her marriage?
"After my Adèle’s death, life in Paris was painful to me; but for you,
my dear Alfred, I should have left the capital and settled down in this
solitary house. Amid these mountains, near little Isaure, who, by her
features and her childish charms, reminded me so forcibly of her mother,
I loved to come and dream of that unfortunate woman, who had known only
the sorrows of love, and in such a brief life had never felt those
pleasures, those delightful emotions, which seem the attributes of youth
and beauty.
"But you were growing, my dear Alfred; already the world attracted you
with its pleasant chimeras; it presented to your eyes only enjoyment,
pleasures, happiness; you were at that age when man enjoys life; I was
just leaving the circle which you were entering. So that it was easy for
me to come more frequently to Auvergne without your noticing my frequent
absences. I came here, and sometimes passed a whole fortnight here. But,
as I was still afraid that someone would recognize me and mention my
sojourn at the White House, I always arranged to arrive here at night,
and I never left the White House except after dark. Hence the reports
which the superstitious mountaineers spread about this house; but I
urged André’s widow not to try to correct the error of the peasants; the
fear which this place inspired in them seconded my wishes, by keeping
everybody away from this building.
"The more I saw Isaure, the more my affection for her increased; kindly,
sensitive, affectionate, she had her mother’s heart and mind. The
solitary life to which her birth condemned her was likely to keep her in
these mountains permanently. Doubtless, in order to avoid arousing
suspicion, and causing the little goatherd to be noticed, I should have
done well to allow her to remain as ignorant as the other peasants in
this vicinity. But I delighted, in spite of myself, when talking with
Isaure to enlighten her mind and to train her judgment; I thought that,
destined as she was to live away from the world, reading would be to her
a source of pleasure and of agreeable distraction. So I taught her to
read. Isaure listened to me with so much attention and docility that she
made rapid progress during the short time that I passed at the White
House. Thus did she little by little acquire knowledge and manners which
were not those of a peasant girl; but the pleasure that her progress
caused me made me forget the dictates of prudence; I did not reflect
that such a wealth of attractions, of charms, and of intelligence would
some day impress the stranger who should come to this valley.
"Isaure loved me as her protector and knew me only by the name of
Gervais. I had told her that her parents entrusted her to my care when
they died; that she had no one else in the world who took any interest
in her. It was useless to distress her heart by the story of her
mother’s misery. I gave her Adèle’s portrait, which that unhappy
creature had given to me for her daughter; but I made Isaure swear that
she would never show that portrait to anyone, and that she would never
mention me or my visits to the White House; and she has always kept her
word.
"It is nearly three years since André’s widow died, leaving her cottage
to Isaure, who enjoyed there all the comforts which I could provide
without arousing too much suspicion. At the death of the excellent
peasant woman, I gave the girl a faithful and vigilant guardian, and I
myself tried to come more often to see my Adèle’s daughter. Only when
the peaceful inhabitants of the mountains were sound asleep, would I
announce to Isaure, by a light placed in a window in this house, that I
had arrived. During the day, I amused myself by visiting on foot the
most beautiful parts of Limagne; and not until night did I return here.
Although alone amid the mountains, Isaure was happy none the less; she
laughed in secret at the terror of the peasants, who believed her to be
something of a sorceress because she had some knowledge in botany and
owned a book in which the manner of raising and taking care of animals
is treated; in fact, she often told me that she had no wish, no desire;
that her whole happiness consisted in living in her pretty cottage, and
in taking her flock to the mountains; but the sweet child did not know
love. You came to this valley, you caused Isaure to experience a new
sensation, more keen, more imperious, than all the others; henceforth
this cottage, these flocks, this landscape were no longer sufficient for
her happiness.
"Two days ago I came again to this spot; I saw Isaure; but she was no
longer the same. I had no need to question her concerning the state of
her heart; the sweet child candidly admitted that a young man named
Edouard had come to her cottage with a friend of his; that this Edouard
had come again day after day; that he had told her that he loved her,
and desired to make her his wife. My son had not told me in which
direction he was going with his two friends, and I was very far from
suspecting that you were the Edouard of whom Isaure talked to me. But at
the portrait which she drew of your refinement, of your manners, I
concluded that, being a fashionable young man, you could not intend to
marry a peasant girl; I saw in this lover whom she described as so
attentive and so tender, only another villain who was scheming to
deceive a defenceless girl. Such, Edouard, were the motives which led me
to forbid Isaure to listen to you any more. You can appreciate also all
the motives which led me not to allow the mystery which surrounded her
birth to be suspected. I have revealed this painful secret to you; I
have made to you this confession, which is so humiliating to my
self-esteem. Now, if heaven grants that we find Isaure, and you still
deem her worthy to be your wife, I shall no longer oppose that union,
since you now know the whole truth."
Edouard pressed the hand which the baron held out to him, and said:
"I shall love Isaure no less now, monsieur. I shall see in her only the
daughter of your Adèle. Her charms and her virtues atone sufficiently
for the blot upon her birth. May she soon be restored to us! And it will
be my greatest joy to call her my wife."
Alfred, after affectionately embracing his father, as if to make him
forget all the griefs which his narrative had revived, offered his hand
to Edouard, saying:
"Yes, Isaure must be restored to us. I love her as a brother now; but I
will assist you; I shall not enjoy a moment’s repose until I have
restored her to your arms."
"Poor Isaure!" said the baron. "Since she has been stolen from me, I
realize all the strength of my attachment to her. Who can the men be who
have taken her from her house? What motive can have inspired them?
Robbers would have pillaged the house but would not have taken Isaure.
Only a lover--but Isaure said that only you two came to this valley to
see her. As for this wretch, this vagabond, of whom Alfred has spoken,
what reason could he have had for stealing Isaure from us? And, indeed,
how could he have compelled her to go with him?"
The baron and the young men lost themselves in conjectures; but they
prepared to take the field once more. They went to Clermont-Ferrand to
buy horses; they caused poor Vaillant to be taken to the house of honest
peasants who promised to take the greatest care of him; they gave them
the goats and all that composed the girl’s fortunes. Alfred took with
him the sword which they had found in Isaure’s cottage; then all three
plunged at random into the mountains, determined to visit every corner,
even the hovel of the most destitute mountaineer, to search the least
travelled paths, to undertake everything, in short, to find the maiden.
XXX
THE ABDUCTION OF ISAURE
During the night when Alfred and Edouard went into the valley to spy
upon Isaure’s actions, a man had constantly followed the two young men,
keeping always in the shadow; that man, whom the reader will recognize
as he who seemed to have no other home than the mountains, did not lose
sight of the two friends; he seemed to take a great interest in having
them learn the secret actions of the young girl, and to await
impatiently the result of that discovery.
At the moment when Alfred recognized his father in the man who had left
Isaure, and named him to Edouard, the vagabond, who was hiding close at
hand, had made a sudden movement as if he would have rushed on the
baron. But instantly he had checked himself, muttering:
"I have no weapons!" then he had walked rapidly away in the direction of
the girl’s cottage.
Arrived in front of the cottage, he stopped, scrutinized it for a long
while, and seemed to be meditating some scheme of vengeance. Suddenly
his eyes lighted up, and a bitter smile played over his face as he
muttered:
"That will be better, much better! If I had killed the baron, that would
have been the end. Death is soon over; he would have suffered only a
moment; but I have been suffering eighteen years; I will try to repay
him what he has done to me. He must be very strongly attached to this
girl, to conceal her in this place and to employ so much mystery about
coming to see her. I must obtain possession of Isaure; to-morrow she
shall be in my power. But in order to carry out this plan, I, too, must
have weapons, and I have no money, absolutely none. The other night, but
for the arrival of that Alfred, I should have found what I was looking
for in the tower; but I still have time to go there again; yes, I have
no other means of procuring what I want."
Thereupon, striding hurriedly along the country, and as quickly, despite
the darkness, as if it were bright daylight, the vagabond took a cross
road which shortened the distance to the Château of La Roche-Noire,
where he arrived in a very short time. He soon stood before the small
gate of the garden, to which he had a key; he opened it, entered the
garden and walked toward the abandoned tower, where he arrived without
meeting anyone. He rapidly mounted the winding staircase and did not
stop until he reached the room where Alfred had found him two nights
before. The most profound darkness reigned about him; he hesitated a
moment, then drawing a flint and steel from his pocket, he decided to
strike a light, at the risk of alarming the château again.
He always carried about him a small dark lantern, which had often been
of great service to him at night in the mountains. It was soon lighted;
then he searched in every corner of the room, which was formerly the
arsenal of the château, for a weapon which was still in condition to be
used. After hunting on all sides, and angrily throwing aside broken
lances and rust-eaten sabres, he seized a sword which was still in
reasonably good condition, and was about to depart, when he spied
another, hanging on the wall in a recess. He walked to the spot, took it
down, examined it and cried:
"Here it is! This is the one I was looking for! It was this sword with
which I learned, in this room, to fight like a gentleman, to rid myself
loyally of an enemy. Poor Richard, you were so fond of giving me
lessons, and so proud of your young pupil’s talent! when you gave me
this sword, you repeated to me again and again the Spanish motto: ‘Never
draw it without reason; never sheathe it without honor!’"
The vagabond held the sword against his breast, and was about to throw
aside the one he had taken first, but he checked himself, saying:
"No, this one will serve me to get rid of Vaillant, so that I may carry
off the girl; at all events, the weapon of my youth will not be sullied
by that act."
Thereupon, extinguishing his lantern and bestowing the two swords
carefully under his enormous coat, the vagabond descended the winding
staircase and left the tower and the château by the same road by which
he had entered. Then, looking up at the sky, and reckoning how much of
the night remained and how long it would take him to return to the
cottage, he said in a low tone:
"It is too late to-night; I will do it to-morrow."
The next day, when night had spread its shadow over the country, the
vagabond was in the valley; he scrutinized everything, nothing escaped
his eye, nothing could mislead his prudence. He was certain that as yet
there was no one in the White House, and that Isaure was alone in her
cottage. He had anticipated everything, calculated all his chances; he
soon stood beside the wall which enclosed the garden of the cottage, and
placed on the ground, a few steps from the gate, one of his swords,
saying:
"I will take you again when I come out."
Then, with the other in his hand, he easily scaled the low garden wall.
He had not taken four steps when he heard Vaillant bark, and the dog
rushed fiercely at him; but the vagabond, expecting that attack, had
prepared to defend himself; advancing to meet the threatening beast, he
buried the sword in his body; despite that wound, the dog leaped upon
his foe and bit him savagely in the face and neck; but the loss of blood
weakened him, and three more sword thrusts completed his discomfiture;
poor Vaillant fell helpless at the vagabond’s feet, whereupon he threw
aside the weapon he had used, and hastened upstairs to Isaure’s bedroom.
The girl was seated sadly by her window; the memory of Edouard was her
sole comfort; she was not to see him again but she could continue to
love him, and she abandoned herself entirely to that sentiment. When our
wills and our desires are thwarted, we feel a secret satisfaction in
saying to ourselves that we can at all events dispose of our hearts as
we please; and women especially take refuge in that source of
consolation, because they are much less at liberty to follow their
wishes in their acts.
At the first yelp of her faithful guardian, Isaure started; she thought
that someone was prowling about the house; she listened, and then called
her dog:
"What is it, Vaillant? What has frightened you?"
"It is I," replied the vagabond, abruptly entering the girl’s room.
Isaure uttered a cry of alarm at sight of that man, whose face and neck
were covered with blood, and who glared at her with threatening eyes.
"Come! You must go with me, you must leave this house at once," said the
stranger, approaching the pale and trembling Isaure with a savage
expression. "Take some of your clothes, make a bundle of them, they will
be useful to me, and give me all the money you have here; you must have
plenty and we shall need it. Come! Do you hear me?"
Isaure had heard, but she could not believe her ears; she fell on her
knees and raised her hands imploringly to the man who stood before her,
crying:
"Monsieur, what are you going to do with me?"
"As I have told you, I am going to take you away, that is all."
"Take me away! Where are you going to take me?"
"Where I please! Ten thousand thunders! that doesn’t concern you."
"Oh! monsieur, see, my money is there in that drawer; it is all I have.
Take the money, take my clothes; take what you will--but I implore you,
do not take me away!"
The vagabond opened the drawer that the girl pointed out to him and
filled his pockets with the money he found there, muttering:
"Good! Here’s enough to live on for a century in these mountains."
Then he turned, and finding Isaure still on her knees, in the same spot,
he cried angrily:
"Well! didn’t you hear me? I told you to make a bundle of your clothes!
Make haste!"
"Oh! mon Dieu! Do you still mean to take me away?" said Isaure, in an
imploring voice.
"Do I mean to? Yes, that is why I forced my way into your house and
braved death. This blood flowing from my face should prove to you that
my resolution is not to be shaken, that I will allow neither your
prayers nor your tears to change my mind. As for your shrieks, they
would be thrown away, for no one can hear you; your protectors, your
friends, are not near you now; your faithful guardian is dead."
"Vaillant dead!" exclaimed Isaure, with a cry of horror which was soon
followed by a flood of tears.
"Yes, Vaillant is dead, or nearly so. Come! No words, no useless
prayers! I say again--you must follow me willingly, or----"
The stranger took the girl’s arm and pressed it so violently that the
pain nearly deprived her of strength; she could only falter:
"I will obey you, monsieur," whereupon the vagabond released her arm and
pushed her roughly toward the bureau.
Having no idea what she was doing, or what was going to become of her,
Isaure collected a few clothes at random, tied them in a handkerchief,
took the bundle in her hand, and leaned against the wall in order not to
fall.
"That is well," said the vagabond; "now give me your hand and come."