At about ten o'clock Gilbert began to make preparations for his
expedition. He had no fear of being surprised; his evenings were
his own--that was a point agreed upon between the Count and
himself. He had also just heard the great door of the corridor
roll upon its hinges. On the side of the terrace the thick
branches of the trees concealed him from the watchdogs which, had
they suspected the adventure, could have given the alarm. There
was nothing to fear from the hillock below the precipice; it was
frequented only by the young girl who tended the goats and who was
not in the habit of allowing them to roam so late among the rocks.
Besides, the night, serene and without a moon, was propitious; no
other light than the discreet glistening of the stars which would
help to guide him, without being bright enough to betray or disturb
him; the air was calm, a scarcely perceptible breeze stirred at
intervals the leaves of the trees without agitating the branches.
Thanks to this combination of favorable circumstances, Gilbert's
enterprise was not desperate; but he did not dream of deceiving
himself in regard to its dangers.
The castle clock had just struck ten when he extinguished his lamp
and opened the window. There he remained a long time leaning upon
his elbows: his eyes at last familiarized themselves with the
darkness, and favored by the glimmering of the stars, he began to
recognize with but little effort the actual shape of the
surrounding objects. The window was divided in two equal parts by
a stone mullion, and had in front a wide shelf of basalt,
surrounded by a balustrade. Gilbert fastened one of two knotted
ropes with which he had supplied himself securely to the mullion;
then he crept upon the ledge of basalt and stood there for a few
moments contemplating the precipice in silence. In the gloomy and
vaporous gulf which his eyes explored, he distinguished a wall of
whitish rocks, which seemed to draw him towards them, and to
provoke him to an aerial voyage. He took care not to abandon
himself to this fatal attraction, and the uneasiness which it
caused him disappearing gradually, he stretched out his head and
was able to hang over the abyss with impunity. Proud at having
subdued the monster, he gave himself up for a moment to the
pleasure of gazing at a feeble light which appeared at a distance
of sixty paces, and some thirty feet beneath him. This light came
from Stephane's room; he had opened his window and closed the white
curtains in such a way that his lamp, placed behind this
transparent screen, could serve as a beacon to Gilbert without
danger of dazzling him.
"I am expected," said Gilbert to himself.
And immediately, bestriding the balustrade, he descended the
swaying rope as readily as if he had never done anything else in
his life.
He was now upon the roof. There he met with more difficulty.
Partly covered with zinc and partly with slate, this roof--the
whole length of which he must traverse--was so steep and slippery
that no one could stand erect on it. Gilbert seated himself and
remained motionless for a moment to recover himself, and the better
to decide upon his course. A few steps from this point, a huge
dormer window rose, with triangular panes of glass, and reached to
within two feet of the spout. Gilbert resolved to make his way by
this narrow pass, and from tile to tile he pushed himself in that
direction. It will readily be believed that he advanced but
slowly, much more so on account of his left arm, which, as it still
pained him, required to be carefully managed; but by dint of
patience and perseverance he passed beyond the dormer window, and
at length arrived safely at the extremity of the roof, just in
front of Stephane's window.
"God be praised, the most difficult part is over," he said to
himself, breathing freely.
But he was far from correct in his supposition. It is true he had
now only to descend upon the little roof, cross it, and climb to
the window, which was but breast-high; but before descending it was
necessary to find some support--stone, wood or iron, to which he
could fasten the second rope, which he had brought wound about his
neck, shoulders, and waist. Unfortunately he discovered nothing.
At last, in leaning over, he perceived at the outer angle of the
wall a large iron corbel, which seemed to sustain the projecting
roof; but to his great chagrin, he ascertained at the same time,
that the great roof passed three feet beyond the line of the small
one, and that if even he should succeed in attaching his second
rope to the corbel, the other end of it would float in empty space.
This reflection made him shudder; and turning his eyes from the
precipice, he examined the ridge-pole, where he thought he saw a
piece of iron projecting. He was not mistaken: it was a kind of
ornamental molding, which formed the pediment of the ridge. It was
not without great effort that he raised himself even there, and
when he found himself seated astride the beam, he rested a few
moments to breathe, and to study the strange spectacle before him.
His view embraced an immense extent of abrupt, irregular roofing,
from every part of which rose turrets of every kind, in the shape
of extinguishers, pointed gables, corners, retreating or salient
angles, bell-towers, open to the daylight, profound depths where
the gloom thickened, grinning chimneys, heavy weathercocks cutting
the milky way with their iron rods and feathered arrows; from the
top of the chapel steeple a great cross of stone, seeming to
stretch out its arms; here and there the whitish zinc, cutting the
dark blue of the slates; in spots an indistinct glittering and
flashes of pale light enveloped in opaque shadows, and then the
tops of three or four large trees which extended beyond the eaves,
as if prying into the secrets of the attic. By the glittering
light of the stars, the slightest peculiarity in the architecture
assumed singular contours, fantastic figures were profiled upon the
horizon like Chinese shadows; everywhere an air of mystery, of
curiosity, of wild surprise. All these shadows leaned towards
Gilbert, examined him, and interrogated him by their looks.
When he had recovered breath, Gilbert approached the projecting
ornament from which he proposed to suspend his rope; he had been
greatly deceived; he found that this ovolo of sheet iron, for a
long time roughly used by the elements, held only by a wretched
nail, and that it would inevitably yield to the least strain.
"It is decided," said he. "I must go by the iron corbel!" And
although it cost him an effort, his mind was soon resolutely fixed.
Impatient at the loss of so many steps and at the waste of so much
precious time in vain efforts, he redescended the roof much more
actively than he had mounted it. Arriving below, and by the power
of his will conquering a new attack of vertigo with which he felt
himself threatened, he lay down upon his face parallel with the
spout, and advancing his head and arm beyond the roof he succeeded,
not without much trouble, in tying the cord firmly to the iron
corbel. This done, without loitering to see it float, he swung
himself slowly round, and let himself glide over the edge of the
roof as far as his armpits, resting suspended by the elbows.
Critical moment! If but a lath, but a nail should break--He had no
time to make this alarming reflection; he was too much occupied in
drawing towards him with his feet the rope, and when at length he
succeeded, detaching his left arm from the roof, he seized the
corbel firmly, and soon after, his right hand removing itself in
its turn, firmly grasped the rope.
"That's not bad for a beginner," thought he.
He then began to descend, giving careful attention to every
movement. But at the moment when his feet had reached the level of
the small roof, having had the imprudence to look down into the
space beneath him, he was suddenly seized with a dizziness a
thousand times more terrible than he had yet experienced. The
whole valley began to be agitated, and rolled and pitched terribly.
By turns it seemed to rise to the sky or sink into the bowels of
the earth. Presently the motion was accelerated, trees and stones,
mountains and plains were all confounded in one black whirlwind,
which struggled with increasing fury, and from which came forth
flashes of lightning and balls of fire. Restored to himself after
a few minutes, to dispel the emotion which his frightful nightmare
caused him, he had recourse to old Homer, and recited in one breath
that passage of the Iliad where the divine bard describes the joy
of a herdsman contemplating the stars from a craggy height.
Gilbert never, in after life, read these verses without recalling
the sweet but terrible moment when he recited them suspended in
mid-air; above his head the infinite smile of starry fields, and
under his feet the horrors of a precipice. As soon as he felt more
calm, he commenced the task of effecting his descent upon the small
roof, less steep than the other, and covered with hollow tiles
which left deep grooves between them. To crown his good fortune,
the spout was surmounted from place to place by iron ornaments
imbedded in the wall and rolled up in the form of scrolls. Gilbert
imparted an oscillating motion to the rope, and when it had become
strong enough to make this improvised swing graze the gutter,
choosing his time well, he disengaged his right foot and planted it
firmly in one of the grooves, loosening at the same time his right
hand and quickly seizing one of the scrolls. Midnight sounded, and
Gilbert was astonished to find that he had spent two hours upon his
adventurous excursion. To mount the roof halfway, cross it, and
climb into the window was but a slight affair, after which, turning
the curtains aside with his hand, he called in a soft voice: "Am I
expected?" and leaped with a bound into the room.
With his chin upon his knees and his head buried in his hands,
Stephane was crouching at the feet of the holy images. Hearing and
perceiving Gilbert, he started, raised himself quickly and remained
motionless, his hands crossed above his head, his neck extended,
his lips quivering and opening with a smile, lightnings and tears
in his eyes. How paint the strangeness of his countenance? A
thousand diverse emotions betrayed themselves there. Surprise,
gratitude, shame, anxiety, long expectation at last satisfied; a
remnant of haughtiness which felt its defeat certain; an obstinate
incredulity forced to surrender; the disorder of an imagination,
enchanted, rapt, distracted, the delights of hope and the
bitterness of memory; all these appeared upon his face, and formed
a melange so confused that to see him thus laughing and crying at
once, it seemed as if it was his joy which wept and his sadness
which smiled. His first agitation dispelled, the predominating
expression of his face was a dreamy and startled sweetness. He
moved backwards from Gilbert and fell upon a chair at the end of
the room.
"Do I intrude? Must I go away?" asked Gilbert, still standing.
Stephane made no answer.
"Evidently my face does not please you," continued Gilbert, half
turning towards the window.
Stephane contracted his brows.
"Do not trifle, I beg of you," said he, in a hollow voice. "We
have serious matters between us to discuss."
"The seriousness which I prefer is that of joy."
Stephane passed his thin and taper hands nervously through his
hair.
"Joy?" said he. "It will come, perhaps, in its time, through
speaking to me about it, who knows? Now I seem to be dreaming.
The disorder of my thoughts frightens me. Ask me no questions, for
I should not know how to answer you. And then the sound of my
voice mortifies me, irritates me. It is like a discord in music.
Let me be silent and look at you."
And approaching a long table which stood in the middle of the room,
he signalled to Gilbert to place himself at one side of it and
seated himself at the other.
After a long silence, he began to express his thoughts audibly, as
if he had become reconciled to the sound of his voice:
"This bold, resolute air, so much pride in the look, so much
goodness in the smile. It is another man. Ah! into what contempt
have I fallen. I have seen nothing, divined nothing. I despised
him, I hated him,--this one whom God has sent to save me from
despair. See what was concealed under this simple unaffected air;
this serene face, whose calmness irritated me; this gentleness
which seemed servile; this wisdom which I thought pedantry; this
pliancy of disposition which I took for the meanness of a crouching
dog. All this I can it really be the same man!" He was silent for
a moment and then continued in a more assured voice:
"How did you manage to reach here? Ah! my God! that great roof is
so steep! Only to think of it makes me shudder and sets my head to
whirling. While waiting I prayed to the saints for you. Did you
feel their aid? I should like to know whether they stood by me in
this. They have so often broken faith."
Silence again, during which Stephane looked at Gilbert with a
steadiness sufficient to disconcert him.
"So you have risked your life for me!" continued the young man;
"but are you quite sure that I am worth the trouble? Come now, be
frank. Has anyone spoken to you of me? Or have you, by studying
my character, made some interesting discovery? Answer, and be
careful not to lie. My eyes are upon you, they will readily
discover if you are sincere."
"Really, you astonish me," answered Gilbert tranquilly; "and what
have I to conceal from you? All I know resolves itself into two
points. In the first place, I know that you belong to the race, to
the brotherhood of noble souls; I know, besides, that you are
unhappy.--Pardon me, I know another thing still. I know beyond a
doubt that I have conceived a lively and tender friendship for you,
and that I should be very unhappy, too, if I could not expect any
return from you."
"You feel friendship for me? How can that be?"
"Ah! a strange question! Who has ever been able to answer it? It
is the mystery of mysteries. I love you, because I love you: I
know of no other explanation. You have certainly never made any
very flattering advances to me. I think I have sometimes even had
cause to complain of you.
"Ah, well! in spite of your scorn, of your haughtiness, of your
injustice, I loved you. Ask the secret of this anomaly of Him who
created man, and who planted in his heart that mysterious power
which is called sympathy."
"Why," said Stephane, "was not this sympathy reciprocal? As for
me, from the first day I saw you I hated you. I do not know with
what eyes I looked at you, but I thought that I recognized an
enemy. Alas! suspicion and distrust invaded my heart long ago.
And mark, even at this moment I still doubt, I fear I may be the
dupe of some illusion: I believe and I do not believe, and I am
tempted to exclaim with one of the Holy Evangelists, 'My patron, my
brother, my friend, I believe, help thou mine unbelief!'"
"Your incredulity will cure itself, and be sure, a day will come
when you will say with confidence: there is in this world a soul,
sister of my own, into which I can fearlessly pour all my cares,
all my thoughts, all my sorrows and all my hopes. There is one who
occupies himself unceasingly about me, to whom my happiness is of
great moment, of supreme interest, a being to whom I can say all,
confess all; a being who loves me because he knows me, and who
knows me because he loves me; a being who sees with me, who sees in
me, and who would not hesitate, if necessary, to sacrifice
everything, even his life, upon the holy altar of friendship. And
then could you not cry out in the joy of your heart: 'God he
praised! I possess a friend! By the blessing of God I have learned
what it is to love and to be loved."
Stephane began to weep:
"To be loved!" said he. "It is a great word and I hardly dare to
pronounce it. To be loved! I have never been. I believe, though,
that my mother loved me,--what do I say? I am sure of it, but it
was a long time ago. My mother,--it is like a legend to me. It
seems to me I was not born when I knew her. I remember that she
often took me upon her knees and covered me with kisses. Such joys
are not of this world; I must have tasted them in some distant
star, where hearts are less hard than here, and where I lived some
time, a sojourn of peace and innocence. But one day my mother
dropped me from her arms, and I was thrown upon this earth where
hatred expected me and received me in her bosom. Oh, hatred! I
know her! This second mother cradled me in her arms, nourished me
with her milk, lavished upon me her careful lessons and watched
over me night and day. Ah! hatred is a marvelous providence. It
sees everything, thinks of everything, notices everything, is
omnipresent, always on the alert, unconscious of fatigue, ennui, or
sleep. Hatred! she is the mistress of this castle, she governs it;
these great corridors are full of her. I cannot take a step
without meeting her; even here in this solitary room I see her
image floating upon the paneling, upon the tapestry, about the
curtains of this bed, and often at night in my sleep, she comes and
sits upon my breast and peoples my dreams with specters and
terrors. To be hated without knowing wherefore,--what torment!
And remember, too, that in my early infancy, this father who hates
me was then a father to me. He rarely caressed me and I feared
him; he was imperious and severe; but he was a father after all,
and occasionally he took the trouble to tell us so. Often in our
presence his gravity relaxed, and I recollect that he sometimes
smiled upon me. But one day, a cursed day,--I was then ten years
old; my mother had been dead a month.--He was shut up in his room
while a week passed, during which I did not see him. I said to my
governess: 'I want to see my father.' I knocked at his door,
entered, and ran to him. He repelled me with such violence that I
fell and struck my head against the leg of a chair. I got up
bleeding, and he looked at me with scorn, laughed, and left the
room. My mind wandered, all my ideas were thrown into confusion; I
thought the sun had gone out and that the world had come to an end.
A father who could laugh at the sight of the blood gushing from his
child! And what a laugh! He has made me hear it often since, but
I have not been able to accustom myself to it yet. A fever
attacked me, and I became delirious. They put me to bed, and I
cried to those who took care of me: 'I am cold, I am cold, make me
warm.' And in that icy body I felt a heart that seemed on fire,
which consumed itself. I could have sworn that a red-hot iron had
been passed into it."
Stephane dried his tears with a curl of his hair, and then, leaning
with his elbows upon the table, he resumed in a feeble voice: "I do
not want you to be deceived. You entertain friendship for me and
you ask a return; that is very simple, friendship lives by
exchange. If I had nothing to give you, you would soon cease to
love me. Listen to me then. Yesterday, for the first time in my
life, I went into myself,--a singular fancy, which you alone have
been able to inspire in me; for the first time I examined myself
seriously, I laid hold of my heart with both hands, and examined it
as a physician does his patient; I carried my researches even to
the very bottom, and I recognized there a strange barrenness and
blight, which frightened me. It has been suffering a long time,--
this poor heart; but within a year a fearful crisis has passed
within me, which has killed it. And now there is nothing in this
breast but a handful of ashes, good for nothing but to be thrown
out of the window and scattered in the air.
"What! you are orthodox," said Gilbert, in a tone of authority;
"you believe in the saints after your own fashion, and nevertheless
you have yet to learn that death is but a word, or better, a
respite, a pause in life, a fallow time followed by fresh harvests.
You are ignorant of the fact, or you forget, that there are no
ashes so cold but that when the wind of the spirit breathes upon
them, they will be seen to start, rise up, and walk. You have left
to me the care of teaching you that your soul is capable of
rejuvenescence, of unexpected regeneration; that upon the sole
condition that you wish and desire it, you will feel unknown powers
awakened in your breast, and that without changing your nature, but
by transforming yourself from day to day, you will become to
yourself an eternal novelty!
Stephane looked at him, smiling.
"So you have crossed the roofs to come and preach conversion to me,
like Father Alexis!"
"Conversion! I don't know. I don't undertake to work miracles; but
the metamorphosis--"
"You speak to me much about my soul; but my life, my destiny, will
you also find the secret of transforming them?"
"That secret we will seek together. I have already some light upon
it. Only let us not press it. Before undertaking that great work,
it is essential that your heart should recover its health and
strength."
"Ingrate that I am!" cried Stephane. "My destiny! It has changed
from to-day. Yes, from this moment I am no longer alone in the
world. Frightful void in which I consumed myself, despair who with
your frightful wings made it night for an abandoned child, it is
all over now, I am delivered from you; the instrument of torture is
broken. Henceforth, I believe, I hope, I breathe! But think of
it, my friend, for me to live will be to see you, to hear you, to
speak to you. Could you come here often?"
"As often as prudence will permit,--two or three times a week. We
will choose our days well; we will consult the sky, the wind, the
stars. On other days, at propitious hours, we will place ourselves
at our windows, and communicate by signs which we will agree upon,
for it seems that you, like me, are long-sighted. And besides, I
know the sign language. I will teach it to you, and if you ever
send me such a message as this upon your fingers: 'I am sad, I am
sick, come this evening at any risk'--Well, whatever the winds and
stars may say--"
"To expose your life foolishly!" interrupted Stephane, "I would
rather die. Curses upon me if ever by a caprice-- But away with
such a thought! And how long, if you please, will this happiness,
which you promise me, last? Some day, alas! retaking your liberty--"
"I have two, perhaps three years to pass here; it will even depend
upon me whether I stay longer or not. Whatever happens, be
assured, that before I leave this house, your destiny will have
changed. I have told you to believe in the seen; believe also in
the unforseen."
"The unforeseen!" exclaimed Stephane, "I believe in it, since I
have seen it enter here by the window."
And suddenly carrying his hand to his heart, he closed his eyes,
became pale, and uttered a piteous moan. Gilbert sprang towards
him, but repulsing him gently:
"Fear nothing," said he; "joy has come, I feel it there, it burns
me. Let me enjoy a suffering so new and so sweet." He remained
some minutes with his eyes closed; then reopening them, and shaking
his beautiful head with its long curls, he said sportively:
"Sit down there quick, and teach me the deaf mute language."
"Impossible," replied Gilbert; "the hour for going has already
struck."
Stephane impatiently stamped his foot.
"Teach me at least the first two letters; if I don't know a and b,
I shall not be able to close my eyes to-night."
Gilbert, taking him by the arm, led him to the window, where,
drawing aside the curtain, he pointed out to him the stars already
paling and a vague whiteness which appeared at the horizon. Then
suddenly changing his tone, but still carried away by his impetuous
nature, which stamped upon all the movements of his mind the
character of passion, Stephane became much excited at the idea of
the dangers which his friend was about to brave.
"I will go with you," said he, "I want to know what risks you run
in coming here. To descend from the large roof to the small one,
you must have had a ladder. I want to see this ladder, I want to
assure myself that it is strong."
"Do not be afraid, I have attended to that."
"When I tell you that I wish to see it! I will believe only my own
eyes and hands. Where is this ladder? I positively must see it."
"And I forbid you to climb this window. Take my word, my rope
ladder is entirely new and very strong."
"Ah!" exclaimed Stephane, struck with a sudden idea. "I will bet
that you have fastened it to that great iron corbel, which
stretches its frightful beak up there at the angle of the wall.
And just now you were suspended in space on this treacherous
floating cord. Monstrous fool that I was not to understand it."
And to Gilbert's great astonishment, he added:
"You do not yet love me enough to have the right to run such
risks."
"Do be a little calmer," said Gilbert. "You displayed just now a
gentleness and wisdom which enchanted me. Take care; Ivan might
wake and come up."
"These walls are deafened, the flagging is thick; between this room
and the staircase there is an alcove, a vestibule, and two large
closed doors; and between the rail of this staircase and the cage
of my jailer, there is a long corridor. Besides, he is capable of
everything but rambling at night round my apartment; but what
matters it?--Let him come to surprise us, this hateful Ivan! I
will resign myself to everything rather than see you put your feet
upon that horrible ladder again. And take my word for it, if you
violate my injunction,--at that very moment before your eyes, I
will throw myself headlong down the precipice."
"You are extremely unreasonable," replied Gilbert, in a severe
tone; "I must leave here at any cost. Since my ladder displeases
you, instead of uttering a thousand follies, try rather to
discover--"
Stephen struck his forehead.
"Here is my discovery," interrupted he; "opposite this window, on
the other side of the roof, there is another, which, if you can
only open it, will certainly let you into some empty lofts. Where
these lofts will take you I don't exactly know, for Ivan told me
once when he wanted to store some broken furniture there, that he
had not been able to find the entrance; but you will no doubt
discover some window near, by which you can get out upon the great
roof, half-way from your turret, and so you will be spared a great
deal of trouble and danger. Ah! if this proves so, how proud I
shall be of finding it out."
"Now you are as I like to see you," said Gilbert; "instead of
prancing like a badly-bitted horse, you are calm, and you reason."
"So to reward me you will permit me to accompany you."
"God forbid! and if you presume to go without my permission, I
swear to you that I will never come here again."
And as Stephane resisted and chafed, Gilbert took his head between
his hands, and drawing him to his breast, pressed a paternal kiss
on his forehead, just at the roots of his hair. This kiss produced
an extraordinary effect, which alarmed him; Stephane shuddered from
head to foot, and a cry escaped him.
"Awkward fellow that I am," said Gilbert in an uneasy tone; "I have
wounded you without intending it."
"No," murmured he, "it is of no consequence; but that was the place
where my mother used to kiss me. May the saints be with you. I
love you. Good-bye!"
And thus speaking he covered his face which was on fire, with both
hands.
Ah! if Gilbert had understood! But he divined nothing; he
descended to the roof, crossed it, and discovered as he groped
about, a window, all the panes of which were broken; which saved
him the trouble of opening it. When he found himself in the lofts,
he lighted the candle which he had taken the precaution to bring in
his pocket. The place which he had just entered was a wretched
garret, three or four feet wide. In front of him he noticed four
or five steps, ascended them, and opened an old door without any
fastening. This let him into a vast corridor, which had no visible
place of exit at the other end; it was infested by spiders and
rats, and encumbered with dilapidated old furniture. Gilbert
discovered, on raising his eyes, that he was in the mansard,
lighted by the great dormer window. The bolt which held the
shutter was so high up that he could not reach it with his hand.
An old rickety table stood in the corner, buried under a triple
coating of dust. Having reached the window by its aid, Gilbert
drew the bolt; he mounted upon the roof and, supporting himself by
one of the projecting timbers of the pediment, restored the shutter
to its embrasure and fastened it as well as he could; after which
he made his way once more towards the small roof; for, before
returning to his lodging, it was necessary at any cost to detach
and draw up the rope, an unimpeachable witness which would have
testified against him. While Gilbert was extended at length, fully
occupied in this delicate operation, Stephane, standing at his
window and trembling like a leaf, was tearing his handkerchief with
his beautiful teeth. The ladder withdrawn, Gilbert cried out to
him:
"Your lofts are admirable. Hereafter, coming to see you will only
be a pleasure trip."
When he found himself again upon his balcony, dawn began to break,
and a screech owl, returning from his hunt after field mice, passed
before him and regained his hole. Gilbert waved his hand to this
nocturnal adventurer whose confrere he felt himself, and leaping
lightly into his room, was sleeping profoundly in five minutes. At
the same moment Stephane, raising his eyes to the holy images to
which he had given such terrible blows, exclaimed with a passionate
gesture: "Oh! St. George, St. Sergius, help me to keep my secret."