to the staircase, and seeing that she was staggering, compelled her to
lean on his arm. When they arrived in the courtyard, Isaure saw Vaillant
bathed in his blood; the faithful beast uttered a plaintive groan, and
tried to rise to defend his mistress. At that sight, Isaure lost
consciousness; she was falling to the ground when her guide caught her
in his arms; and, throwing her over his left shoulder, walked toward the
garden, preferring to go out that way rather than through the main
gateway. He opened the small gate leading into the fields and picked up
his sword which he had left there; then, notwithstanding the burden
which he carried, he walked with a firm and swift step toward the
mountains. It was a cold, rainy night, but the vagabond made rapid
progress, although he took the steepest paths and the rough, winding
roads by preference. From time to time he turned his head to glance at
her whom he was carrying. Isaure was still unconscious, her lovely face
had the pallor of death, and was wet with the rain which fell upon her
whole body. But, little touched by the girl’s state, her abductor, after
glancing at her, simply muttered:
"She will come out all right! This is not very serious!"
After walking a long while in this way, the stranger stopped on the top
of a hill; he gazed about for some time, as if trying to make out where
he was; then he placed the rain-soaked, unconscious girl on the ground,
saying:
"I must take breath; she is not heavy, but after awhile the weight makes
itself felt."
He gazed for some time at the body lying at his feet, which seemed
already to belong to death; a bitter smile played about his lips while
he gazed at Isaure, and he exclaimed:
"So here she is in my power, this girl whom the baron secretly comes to
these mountains to see, this peasant whose education he has provided
for, and whom he adores, no doubt! At last I am about to taste the
pleasures of revenge! I wanted Alfred to abduct this girl, I tried to
induce him to do all sorts of foolish things, and to fight with his
friend; but all that would not have distressed the baron so much as the
loss of this girl. Yes, I know what a man feels when another steals from
him the woman whom he adores; I too loved Adèle; Adèle was mine; I had
the right to look upon her as my wife; and yet he took her away from
me!"
Several moments passed, the vagabond seemed entirely absorbed by his
memories; but at last he looked at Isaure again and stooped over her,
saying:
"She doesn’t come to herself! She doesn’t move! Suppose she should die!
Oh! I do not want her to die! No, so long as she is with me, she may
live,--but with De Marcey, never!"
He took the child’s head, raised it, rested it on his knee, and tried to
warm Isaure’s icy hands in his. He felt in the bundle of clothes which
he had carried away, and with the first thing he found wiped the poor
child’s dripping face. At last, life seemed to return to her features,
which had been so long inanimate; the beating of her heart became more
rapid. Isaure opened her eyes, looked about her, and shuddered with
dismay, when she found herself lying on the summit of a cliff, in the
middle of the night, with her head resting against the breast of the man
who had kidnapped her from her home.
"Calm yourself, be yourself again, and fear nothing," said the stranger.
"Oh! mon Dieu! Then it is not a dream!" cried Isaure, rising to her
feet; "I am no longer in the home where I passed my childhood, in
André’s cottage; and it is you who have taken me away! it is you who
killed----"
"Yes," replied the vagabond coolly, "it was I who killed Vaillant, in
order not to be torn to pieces by him; I had to do it. I would have
sacrificed you too, if you had not consented to come with me."
"Unhappy creature that I am!"
"Come, come, don’t be afraid; you came with me, you are with me now, you
have nothing to fear any more, that is to say, unless you make more
fuss, unless you try to escape; but I fancy you will be reasonable, and
will submit to your fate. I can very well understand that you would have
preferred to live luxuriously in your cottage, where you had everything
in abundance, where your mysterious protector allowed you to lack
nothing; and, in short, where you were able to play the coquette with
the young men who came to see you. That life was more agreeable for a
young girl than the life you will lead with me--I agree to that. But you
must make the best of it, for my will is irrevocable; your tears, your
lamentations, your sighs, all will be thrown away on me. I have decided
that you are not to leave me any more; but do not think that it is love
which has led me to form this resolution. No! I am not in love with you,
I have no sort of idea of seducing you. In that respect you may be
perfectly tranquil. And yet you are pretty, very pretty indeed; but I
give you my word that that is a matter of indifference to me."
These last words allayed in some measure Isaure’s grief and alarm; and
fearing to irritate anew this man whose wrath seemed to her a terrible
thing, she replied, forcing back her sobs:
"Well, monsieur, I will obey you; I will do whatever you command."
"That is well, that is very well; you are a good girl," said the
vagabond, shaking Isaure’s hand; "in this way, we shall be good friends.
But it must be nearly midnight, and we must resume our journey. Do you
feel strong enough to walk? If you cannot, I will carry you; do not
hesitate to say so."
"Oh! I can walk, monsieur."
"In that case, take my arm, lean on me, and let us go."
Isaure obeyed without comment; she took the arm of her guide, who had
hung the bundle on the end of his sword, and carried it thus over his
shoulder. They went on again through the rocky paths; they went away
from Ayda, and reached the chain of hills which connects those of Cantal
and of Puy-de-Dôme; Isaure was forced to cling to her companion’s arm in
order to keep on her feet in the steep and slippery paths. They walked
in silence, but sometimes the vagabond asked Isaure:
"Are you tired? Would you like to rest awhile?"
"No, monsieur, I can go on," the girl would reply; and they would
continue their journey.
At last the dawn succeeded the dark and rainy night; Isaure’s guide, who
had always taken pains to avoid passing through villages or near
inhabited houses, stopped with the girl on the slope of a mountain,
looked about him and said:
"Let us rest here until we can see a little better; I do not think that
I can be mistaken; we must be near the end of our journey. An hour more
at most. But here is the daylight, and we must not go astray."
He sat down on the ground, and Isaure did the same, seating herself a
few steps away. Depressed and dejected, she dropped her head upon her
breast and did not utter a word. The vagabond looked at her a moment and
then turned his face in another direction, saying:
"She is not in the mood for talking; I can understand that."
After a quarter of an hour, they could see to recognize the different
roads. Isaure’s companion smiled and said:
"I was not mistaken. I know this country so well. I have travelled all
over it so many times in my youth and also within the last few
months--Come, my girl, forward; one league more, and you will be able to
rest as long as you please."
Isaure rose and took her guide’s arm once more. They descended the
mountain, then turned to the left, along the narrow, winding path cut in
the side of the cliff. Every moment their road became more difficult;
they were in an arid, uncultivated region, where man seemed never to
have trodden; only at rare intervals did they perceive a shepherd’s hut,
and the wild goats that sometimes passed near them fled at their
approach, as if unaccustomed to the presence of man. After walking a
long while through this deserted tract, they found themselves at the
entrance of a path running between two very high cliffs, which were so
near together at the top that the daylight hardly reached the narrow
path, which was more than eighty feet below their summits.
Along this dark and gloomy way, the vagabond guided Isaure’s steps; the
girl shuddered as she entered that defile which the cliffs seemed to
threaten to fill up.
"Oh! mon Dieu!--is this the way?" she said, trembling as she spoke.
"Yes, this is the way, and we have arrived," replied her companion,
stopping in front of a small wooden house on the left of the path, close
against the cliff, which overhung it; externally it resembled the
habitation of a quarryman.
Isaure gazed at the wretched structure, which she presumed was to be her
abode, but she said nothing; she allowed her tears to fall in silence
and made no further attempts to move by her prayers the man who had
brought her to that wild spot.
Judging from its outside, the house seemed to be of little extent; it
had one floor above the ground, with a window under the roof. Below,
there was a single window by the side of the door; and everything was in
such a dilapidated state that it seemed that one might overturn the
wretched hovel with a kick.
Isaure’s companion placed the sword and bundle on a wooden bench beside
the door; then he knocked and shouted in a voice which echoed loudly
along the path:
"Holà! Charlot! Are you still asleep, you sluggard? Get up; it is your
friend; it is the vagabond!"
For some time, not a sound was heard; at last they could distinguish
slow and heavy steps, which seemed to come from the back of the house.
They approached, however; the door opened and a little man of some sixty
years, lean and lank, of a livid pallor, and with red-rimmed eyes, whose
expression was lifeless and stupid, appeared on the threshold of the
wooden house, with his feet and part of his legs bare, but with the rest
of his body covered with goat-skins held in place by leather thongs,
while upon his head he wore the brimless crown of an old straw hat.
This man, whom Isaure’s companion had called Charlot, showed neither
surprise nor curiosity as he stared at the persons in front of his
abode, but he held out his hand to the vagabond, saying in a slow,
guttural voice:
"Ah! it is you? It is a long time since you came to see me."
"Yes, true, but this time I think I have come to see you for a long
time," replied Isaure’s guide; "I have brought you some company, as you
see."
As he spoke, he pointed to the girl, at whom Charlot glanced
indifferently, saying:
"Oh, yes! it’s a woman!"
"But let us go in, first of all; we shall have time enough to talk
then," said the vagabond, motioning to Isaure to enter the house. The
poor girl had difficulty in determining to comply; she cast a glance
backward; she was afraid that she was looking at the sky for the last
time; but her companion pushed her roughly, and she was soon in
Charlot’s disgusting abode, the door of which was instantly closed
behind her.
The interior of the house consisted of a room of considerable size, on
the lower floor, with several beams in the centre, supporting the upper
floor; on the left was a huge fireplace, in which a man could have stood
without stooping; on the right there was a staircase leading to the room
above. A few stools, several earthen vessels and some straw composed the
furniture.
Isaure could hardly see, her eyes were so full of tears; she seated
herself in the corner of the room, where the daylight hardly penetrated,
because the cliff hung far over the house. She supposed that she was to
be taken to the upper room, and waited silently till she should learn
her fate; but the vagabond made a sign to Charlot, who thereupon went to
the other end of the room, and, pushing aside one of the boards of the
partition, disclosed to view a passage much better lighted than the
interior of the house.
"Come this way," said Isaure’s guide, motioning to her to rise; she
obeyed; he led her through that narrow opening and she found herself at
one end of an excavation, where she was overjoyed to see the sky once
more. This excavation, which was thirty feet in circumference, was
surrounded on all sides by the earth; it resembled the bottom of a well,
except that it was much larger; but the light which came from above was
much stronger than it was inside of the house, because there was
nothing above to shut it out from that species of quarry. At one end of
this place, a second house had been built, also of wood, but it
consisted only of a ground floor. It was this retreat, undiscoverable to
the eye of travellers, that the young girl, who had always lived in a
fertile and lovely valley, was forced to enter.
"This is your lodging from this time," said the vagabond, as he led
Isaure into the house at the end of the excavation. "You see that it was
not without reason that I chose to bring you here; this retreat can be
found only by those who are familiar with it. People might search the
house in front, on the path, and never suspect that there was another
house behind. This place can be seen only by those who are up yonder on
the cliff, eighty feet above us. But as that cliff is frightfully steep
and is on the path to nowhere, no one ever thinks of climbing it, only
from time to time a wild goat. So I am perfectly easy in my mind, no one
will find you here. This is not so charming and cheerful a home as that
which you have occupied, I agree; but what would you have? I had no
choice. So make the best of it, and try to accustom yourself to your new
quarters. You will be entirely free to follow your own devices from
morning to night--except as to going out. Here is a room of good size,
where you can make yourself at home; there is a bed, a table, a
bench--it is the best furnished room in the house. If I can find a small
piece of looking-glass, I will bring it to you; I know that women think
a great deal of that. Try to calm yourself and to dry your tears; I tell
you again, your virtue is safer here than it is in the neighborhood of
the White House. This place seems horrible, ghastly to you now! But you
will become accustomed to it, because one gets used to everything!"
Having delivered this speech, the vagabond left Isaure alone in her
dismal abode, and returned with Charlot to the house on the path. There,
seating himself in front of his taciturn friend, he said to him:
"Charlot, I saved your life once, two months ago, when, as you were
chasing a goat, you were on the point of rolling over a precipice, and
I, running after you, succeeded in reaching you my stick and pulling you
away from the hole into which you were about to fall."
"I haven’t forgotten it," replied the old shepherd in a low voice.
"True," rejoined the vagabond, "since that time you have shown the most
absolute devotion to me; when I had no bread, I came here, and I was
sure that you would share with me all that you possessed. That is well,
Charlot; you are grateful, you have treated me better than many wealthy
gentlemen have done, and many women of the world; but that is not
enough; to-day you must allow me to make use of your house as I
choose.--Here is money for it--take all that you wish."
The vagabond spread out before the old shepherd’s eye the money that he
had taken from Isaure’s house; Charlot looked at it indifferently and
replied simply:
"If I haven’t any house, where shall I live?"
"You will live here as always,--indeed, that is necessary; the girl will
occupy the second house, and I shall sleep here, upstairs. But you must
swear to me on your life, that you will tell no one that you have
anybody living with you."
"Who should I tell? I never see anybody."
"But if by chance any travellers should come here, I shall retire at
once to the house behind, and you will never disclose the existence of
that secret dwelling."
"No, no!"
"Do you swear it?"
"Swear? I tell you no, that is enough."
"In truth, I place more faith in your promise than in other people’s
oaths; but you do not take this money?"
"What for? I don’t want it."
"Well, I will give you some when you go to buy provisions. You will have
to go a long distance, and buy at different places, in order not to
arouse the slightest suspicion. With this sum and your skill in killing
wild goats and in snaring birds, we have enough to live on for years.
Well, is it agreed? Do we live together?"
"Yes."
"And you will not mention us to anyone?"
"No."
"And you will never open your door to a traveller until I have gone to
the house behind?"
"Never."
These arrangements completed, the vagabond ascended to the upper room,
threw himself upon a heap of straw and went to sleep; the old shepherd,
who passed a large part of his time in slumber, did the same in the room
below. Isaure alone remained awake, on her knees in the vile hovel to
which she had been consigned; she held up her hands imploringly to
heaven, she raised her eyes, whence the tears flowed in streams, and in
her despair had not the strength to utter a single word.
XXXI
LIFE IN THE HOVEL.--A LAST HOPE DISPELLED
There is in extreme wretchedness a last burst of strength, of courage;
when one has reached the climax of misfortune and is compelled to
abandon all hope of a happier lot, then it seems that one feels a secret
consolation in being able to defy destiny to deal us any additional
blow.
Such was now Isaure’s plight--that gentle, timid maiden, forcibly
removed from the home she loved and had lived in since her infancy, from
her protector and from her lover, to dwell in a miserable hovel hidden
in the centre of the earth, with no other company than two men, one of
whom was the author of her trials and the other seemed entirely
insensible to them; and yet she had succeeded in surmounting her
despair. Her eyes no longer shed tears, at least in the presence of her
two companions; no complaint escaped from her lips; and when she spoke
to the man who had torn her from her home, it was with gentleness and
docility, instead of with eyes gleaming with wrath, and with tones that
expressed the horror with which he must have inspired her.
Several days had passed since the vagabond had concealed Isaure in the
old shepherd’s house, and the girl’s conduct seemed to surprise him. He
often sat and gazed at her in silence, for whole hours at a time. The
more he looked at her, the more his surprise seemed to increase. One
morning, when the old shepherd had gone out on the mountain, and the
vagabond, alone with Isaure in the excavation, in front of the door of
the rear house, had been gazing a long while at the girl as she worked
patiently, sewing goat-skins together, he was so amazed at her mild and
placid demeanor that he could not help exclaiming:
"You amaze me, girl; really I am beginning to think that I judged you
wrongly, and that you really deserve the good opinion that the two
friends had conceived of you. Your docility, your innocence--No, that
young Edouard was not wrong to love you, to desire to marry you.--But
that man whom you went secretly to see in the White House--what bond was
there between you and him? How long have you known him? Come,
speak,--answer me frankly."
A feeling which Isaure could not define, but which was not fear, led her
to always obey the stranger promptly; so she answered with a sigh:
"I have known Monsieur Gervais since my childhood."
"Monsieur Gervais! Ah! so he never told you that he was the Baron de
Marcey?"
"No, monsieur, I never have called him anything but Gervais, and it was
by that name that my adopted parents, André and his wife, knew him."
"Yes, I understand; he preferred to remain unknown. Either you are a
natural child of his, or, suspecting that you would become pretty some
day, he intended to make you his wife."
"His wife! ah! monsieur, my protector loves me as his daughter; but he
has often told me that my parents were dead."
"Was it he who placed you with the peasants?"
"Yes, monsieur. At first he came to see me very seldom, then he came
oftener. When I was very small he used to take me in his arms, and kiss
me and play with me. Then, when I grew up, he used to make me talk; then
he taught me to read and to write, and to speak differently. He said
that I learned quickly, and that it was a pity that I should be
ignorant, like the people of the mountains."
"And then?"
"That is all, monsieur."
"He did not tell you that some day he would take you into the world,
that he would provide you with pleasures innumerable?"
"No, he never told me that."
"And when you knew Edouard, and loved him, did you confess that to him?"
"Yes, monsieur; oh! I concealed nothing from him."
"What did he say to you then?"
"He scolded me, but very gently. He told me that I did wrong to love
Edouard; that I must forget him, give up all hope of him; that he would
never be my husband."
"I was sure of it! It was not for others that he brought you up in
secret, that he attended to your education. No! he was acting for
himself! Ah! he must love you dearly, to do as he has done. And I have
deprived him of your presence, your caresses; I have wrecked all his
plans of happiness for the future. So I am revenged at last!"
A ferocious smile lighted up the vagabond’s features. Isaure looked away
in terror. After a few moments he said to her:
"Do not think that it was for the sole purpose of doing evil that I took
you away from your home; I have had many failings, vices even, but to do
evil for the sole purpose of doing it never occurred to me; and although
I have many reasons for detesting men, I do them justice enough to
believe that they would rarely be wicked if they did not find some
advantage in it. Listen to me, my girl; I am going to tell you why I
stole you from your protector. I am aware that I owe you no account of
my acts, and that I am at perfect liberty to withhold this confidence
from you; but your mildness, your submission, arouse my interest. Yes,
the more I see you, the better I know you, the more you astonish me; I
am making you unhappy, I know; and yet I would like to see you happy.
What a strange effect is produced by beauty combined with kindness of
heart and virtue! I believed that those things could never touch my
heart again, but you prove to me that I was mistaken."
Isaure raised her eyes to the vagabond’s face; they wore an
indescribable expression as she said to him:
"Ah! monsieur, I, too, feel that I would be glad to like you, even
though you make me so unhappy; I cannot hate you as I should!"
"Nonsense! hush, my girl, and do not look at me like that," replied the
vagabond, turning his face away to conceal his emotions. "Yes, I am
pleased with your submission, but your fate will be the same,
nevertheless, because it cannot be otherwise; and notwithstanding the
interest you arouse in me, I would strike you dead if I saw the Baron de
Marcey on the point of rescuing you from my hands. Do not be so alarmed;
that can never be; you see that I have taken my precautions too well for
that. Let us return to what I was about to tell you,--my reasons for my
conduct; and since destiny has united us forever, learn to know the man
with whom you are to pass the rest of your life.
"I was not born in poverty, as you must have surmised. My youth was
passed in a château; my early days were lived in the lap of luxury,
surrounded by numerous servants whose only desire was to anticipate all
my wishes. What a change! and ought I to have expected to end in this
wretched plight? However, man ought to expect everything, when he is
unable to overcome his vices and to resist his passions. But I verily
believe that misfortune has taught me to indulge in moral reflections.
Of all the changes it has wrought in me, that is not the least
surprising!"
The vagabond was silent for some moments; he had taken out his pipe,
which he filled and lighted, then he resumed his discourse, interrupting
it only to take his pipe out of his mouth from time to time.
"The two young men who came to see you so often were staying at the
Château de la Roche-Noire, two leagues from your house; they probably
told you so?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, it was in that same château that I passed my youth; it then
belonged to one of my aunts, a most respectable old dowager, who allowed
me to do exactly as I chose from morning to night. I had lost my other
relations; I possessed a considerable fortune, to say nothing of that
which my aunt would probably leave me; now, she considered that a noble
and wealthy young man could never be his own master and misbehave
himself in the world too soon. The poor dear woman! she was terribly
mistaken! So I began very early to do foolish things! Women, cards, the
table, wine, offered attractions which I did not even try to resist; I
found it so natural to gratify my passions, my most trivial desires. I
had been so accustomed to follow only my own will, that I scattered gold
lavishly in order to remove all obstacles from my path. This mode of
life soon acquired for me a reputation in society at which I snapped my
fingers. I was the terror of fathers and brothers and husbands; for my
greatest happiness consisted in seducing some young beauty, in winning
her love, and then abandoning her to her regrets."
"Oh! mon Dieu!" said Isaure; "how can one take pleasure in deceiving
those who love one?"