THE STRANGE, DARK SECRET
Julien had once entertained the hope that Claudet's marriage with Reine
would act as a kind of heroic remedy for the cure of his unfortunate
passion, he very soon perceived that he had been wofully mistaken. As
soon as he had informed the grand chasserot of the success of his
undertaking, he became aware that his own burden was considerably
heavier. Certainly it had been easier for him to bear uncertainty than
the boisterous rapture evinced by his fortunate rival. His jealousy rose
against it, and that was all. Now that he had torn from Reine the avowal
of her love for Claudet, he was more than ever oppressed by his hopeless
passion, and plunged into a condition of complete moral and physical
disintegration. It mingled with his blood, his nerves, his thoughts, and
possessed him altogether, dwelling within him like an adored and
tyrannical mistress. Reine appeared constantly before him as he had
contemplated her on the outside steps of the farmhouse, in her never-to-
be-forgotten negligee of the short skirt and the half-open bodice. He
again beheld the silken treasure of her tresses, gliding playfully around
her shoulders, the clear, honest look of her limpid eyes, the expressive
smile of her enchanting lips, and with a sudden revulsion of feeling he
reflected that perhaps before a month was over, all these charms would
belong to Claudct. Then, almost at the same moment, like a swallow,
which, with one rapid turn of its wing, changes its course, his thoughts
went in the opposite direction, and he began to imagine what would have
happened if, instead of replying in the affirmative, Reine had objected
to marrying Claudet. He could picture himself kneeling before her as
before the Madonna, and in a low voice confessing his love. He would
have taken her hands so respectfully, and pleaded so eloquently, that she
would have allowed herself to be convinced. The little, hands would have
remained prisoners in his own; he would have lifted her tenderly,
devotedly, in his arms, and under the influence of this feverish dream,
he fancied he could feel the beating heart of the young girl against his
own bosom. Suddenly he would wake up out of his illusions, and bite his
lips with rage on finding himself in the dull reality of his own
dwelling.
One day he heard footsteps on the gravel; a sonorous and jovial voice met
his ear. It was Claudet, starting for La Thuiliere. Julien bent forward
to see him, and ground his teeth as he watched his joyous departure. The
sharp sting of jealousy entered his soul, and he rebelled against the
evident injustice of Fate. How had he deserved that life should present
so dismal and forbidding an aspect to him? He had had none of the joys
of infancy; his youth had been spent wearily under the peevish discipline
of a cloister; he had entered on his young manhood with all the
awkwardness and timidity of a night-bird that is made to fly in the day.
Up to the age of twenty-seven years, he had known neither love nor
friendship; his time had been given entirely to earning his daily bread,
and to the cultivation of religious exercises, which consoled him in some
measure for his apparently useless way of living. Latterly, it is true,
Fortune had seemed to smile upon him, by giving him a little more money
and liberty, but this smile was a mere mockery, and a snare more hurtful
than the pettinesses and privations of his past life. The fickle
goddess, continuing her part of mystifier, had opened to his enraptured
sight a magic window through which she had shown him a charming vision of
possible happiness; but while he was still gazing, she had closed it
abruptly in his face, laughing scornfully at his discomfiture. What
sense was there in this perversion of justice, this perpetual mockery of
Fate? At times the influence of his early education would resume its
sway, and he would ask himself whether all this apparent contradiction
were not a secret admonition from on high, warning him that he had not
been created to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of this world, and ought,
therefore, to turn his attention toward things eternal, and renounce the
perishable delights of the flesh?
"If so," thought he, irreverently, "the warning comes rather late, and it
would have answered the purpose better had I been allowed to continue in
the narrow way of obscure poverty!" Now that the enervating influence of
a more prosperous atmosphere had weakened his courage, and cooled the
ardor of his piety, his faith began to totter like an old wall. His
religious beliefs seemed to have been wrecked by the same storm which had
destroyed his passionate hopes of love, and left him stranded and forlorn
without either haven or pilot, blown hither and thither solely by the
violence of his passion.
By degrees he took an aversion to his home, and would spend entire days
in the woods. Their secluded haunts, already colored by the breath of
autumn, became more attractive to him as other refuge failed him. They
were his consolation; his doubts, weakness, and amorous regrets, found
sympathy and indulgence under their silent shelter. He felt less lonely,
less humiliated, less prosaic among these great forest depths, these
lofty ash-trees, raising their verdant branches to heaven. He found he
could more easily evoke the seductive image of Reine Vincart in these
calm solitudes, where the recollections of the previous springtime
mingled with the phantoms of his heated imagination and clothed
themselves with almost living forms. He seemed to see the young girl
rising from the mists of the distant valleys. The least fluttering of
the leaves heralded her fancied approach. At times the hallucination was
so complete that he could see, in the interlacing of the branches, the
undulations of her supple form, and the graceful outlines of her profile.
Then he would be seized by an insane desire to reach the fugitive and
speak to her once more, and would go tearing along the brushwood for that
purpose. Now and then, in the half light formed by the hanging boughs,
he would see rays of golden light, coming straight down to the ground,
and resting there lightly like diaphanous apparitions. Sometimes the
rustling of birds taking flight, would sound in his ears like the timid
frou-frou of a skirt, and Julien, fascinated by the mysterious charm of
these indefinite objects, and following the impulse of their mystical
suggestions, would fling himself impetuously into the jungle, repeating
to him self the words of the "Canticle of Canticles": "I hear the voice
of my beloved; behold! she cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping
upon the hills." He would continue to press forward in pursuit of the
intangible apparition, until he sank with exhaustion near some stream or
fountain. Under the influence of the fever, which was consuming his
brain, he would imagine the trickling water to be the song of a feminine
voice. He would wind his arms around the young saplings, he would tear
the berries from the bushes, pressing them against his thirsty lips, and
imagining their odoriferous sweetness to be a fond caress from the loved
one.
He would return from these expeditions exhausted but not appeased.
Sometimes he would come across Claudet, also returning home from paying
his court to Reine Vincart; and the unhappy Julien would scrutinize his
rival's countenance, seeking eagerly for some trace of the impressions he
had received during the loving interview. His curiosity was nearly
always baffled; for Claudet seemed to have left all his gayety and
conversational powers at La Thuiliere. During their tete-a-tete meals,
he hardly spoke at all, maintaining a reserved attitude and a taciturn
countenance. Julien, provoked at this unexpected sobriety, privately
accused his cousin of dissimulation, and of trying to conceal his
happiness. His jealousy so blinded him that he considered the silence of
Claudet as pure hypocrisy not recognizing that it was assumed for the
purpose of concealing some unpleasantness rather than satisfaction.
The fact was that Claudet, although rejoicing at the turn matters had
taken, was verifying the poet's saying: "Never is perfect happiness our
lot." When Julien brought him the good news, and he had flown so
joyfully to La Thuiliere, he had certainly been cordially received by
Reine, but, nevertheless, he had noticed with surprise an absent and
dreamy look in her eyes, which did not agree with his idea of a first
interview of lovers. When he wished to express his affection in the
vivacious and significant manner ordinarily employed among the peasantry,
that is to say, by vigorous embracing and resounding kisses, he met with
unexpected resistance.
"Keep quiet!" was the order, "and let us talk rationally!"
He obeyed, although not agreeing in her view of the reserve to be
maintained between lovers; but, he made up his mind to return to the
charge and triumph over her bashful scruples. In fact, he began again
the very next day, and his impetuous ardor encountered the same refusal
in the same firm, though affectionate manner. He ventured to complain,
telling Reine that she did not love him as she ought.
"If I did not feel friendly toward you," replied the young girl,
laconically, "should I have allowed you to talk to me of marriage?"
Then, seeing that he looked vexed and worried, and realizing that she was
perhaps treating him too roughly, she continued, more gently:
"Remember, Claudet, that I am living all alone at the farm. That obliges
me to have more reserve than a girl whose mother is with her. So you
must not be offended if I do not behave exactly as others might, and rest
assured that it will not prevent me from being a good wife to you, when
we are married."
"Well, now," thought Claudet, as he was returning despondently to Vivey:
"I can't help thinking that a little caress now and then wouldn't hurt
any one!"
Under these conditions it is not to be supposed he was in a mood to
relate any of the details of such meagre lovemaking. His self-love was
wounded by Reine's coldness. Having always been "cock-of-the-walk," he
could not understand why he had such poor success with the only one about
whom he was in earnest. He kept quiet, therefore, hiding his anxiety
under the mask of careless indifference. Moreover, a certain primitive
instinct of prudence made him circumspect. In his innermost soul, he
still entertained doubts of Julien's sincerity. Sometimes he doubted
whether his cousin's conduct had not been dictated by the bitterness of
rejected love, rather than a generous impulse of affection, and he did
not care to reveal Reine's repulse to one whom he vaguely suspected of
being a former lover. His simple, ardent nature could not put up with
opposition, and he thought only of hastening the day when Reine would
belong to him altogether. But, when he broached this subject, he had the
mortification to find that she was less impatient than himself.
"There is no hurry," she replied, "our affairs are not in order, our
harvests are not housed, and it would be better to wait till the dull
season."
In his first moments of joy and effervescence, Claudet had evinced the
desire to announce immediately the betrothal throughout the village.
This Reine had opposed; she thought they should avoid awakening public
curiosity so long beforehand, and she extracted from Claudet a promise to
say nothing until the date of the marriage should be settled. He had
unwillingly consented, and thus, during the last month, the matter had
been dragging on indefinitely:
With Julien de Buxieres, this interminable delay, these incessant comings
and goings from the chateau to the farm, as well as the mysterious
conduct of the bridegroom-elect, became a subject of serious irritation,
amounting almost to obsession. He would have wished the affair hurried
up, and the sacrifice consummated without hindrance. He believed that
when once the newly-married pair had taken up their quarters at La
Thuiliere, the very certainty that Reine belonged in future to another
would suffice to effect a radical cure in him, and chase away the
deceptive phantoms by which he was pursued.
One evening, as Claudet was returning home, more out of humor and silent
than usual, Julien asked him, abruptly:
"Well! how are you getting along? When is the wedding?"
"Nothing is decided yet," replied Claudet, "we have time enough!"
"You think so?" exclaimed de Buxieres, sarcastically; "you have
considerable patience for a lover!"
The remark and the tone provoked Claudet.
"The delay is not of my making," returned he.
"Ah!" replied the other, quickly, "then it comes from Mademoiselle
Vincart?" And a sudden gleam came into his eyes, as if Claudet's
assertion had kindled a spark of hope in his breast. The latter noticed
the momentary brightness in his cousin's usually stormy countenance, and
hastened to reply:
"Nay, nay; we both think it better to postpone the wedding until the
harvest is in."
"You are wrong. A wedding should not be postponed. Besides, this
prolonged love-making, these daily visits to the farm--all that is not
very proper. It is compromising for Mademoiselle Vincart!"
Julien shot out these remarks with a degree of fierceness and violence
that astonished Claudet.
"You think, then," said he, "that we ought to rush matters, and have the
wedding before winter?"
"Undoubtedly!"
The next day, at La Thuiliere, the grand chasserot, as he stood in the
orchard, watching Reine spread linen on the grass, entered bravely on the
subject.
"Reine," said he, coaxingly, "I think we shall have to decide upon a day
for our wedding."
She set down the watering-pot with which she was wetting the linen, and
looked anxiously at her betrothed.
"I thought we had agreed to wait until the later season. Why do you wish
to change that arrangement?"
"That is true; I promised not to hurry you, Reine, but it is beyond me to
wait--you must not be vexed with me if I find the time long. Besides,
they know nothing, around the village, of our intentions, and my coming
here every day might cause gossip and make it unpleasant for you. At any
rate, that is the opinion of Monsieur de Buxieres, with whom I was
conferring only yesterday evening."
At the name of Julien, Reine frowned and bit her lip.
"Aha!" said she, "it is he who has been advising you?"
"Yes; he says the sooner we are married, the better it will be."
"Why does he interfere in what does not concern him?" said she, angrily,
turning her head away. She stood a moment in thought, absently pushing
forward the roll of linen with her foot. Then, shrugging her shoulders
and raising her head, she said slowly, while still avoiding Claudet's
eyes:
"Perhaps you are right--both of you. Well, let it be so! I authorize
you to go to Monsieur le Cure and arrange the day with him."
"Oh, thanks, Reine!" exclaimed Claudet, rapturously; "you make me very
happy!"
He pressed her hands in his, but though absorbed in his own joyful
feelings, he could not help remarking that the young girl was trembling
in his grasp. He even fancied that there was a suspicious, tearful
glitter in her brilliant eyes.
He left her, however, and repaired at once to the cure's house, which
stood near the chateau, a little behind the church.
The servant showed him into a small garden separated by a low wall from
the cemetery. He found the Abbe Pernot seated on a stone bench,
sheltered by a trellised vine. He was occupied in cutting up pieces of
hazel-nuts to make traps for small birds.
"Good-evening, Claudet!" said the cure, without moving from his work;
"you find me busy preparing my nets; if you will permit me, I will
continue, for I should like to have my two hundred traps finished by this
evening. The season is advancing, you know! The birds will begin their
migrations, and I should be greatly provoked if I were not equipped in
time for the opportune moment. And how is Monsieur de Buxieres? I trust
he will not be less good-natured than his deceased cousin, and that he
will allow me to spread my snares on the border hedge of his woods.
But," added he, as he noticed the flurried, impatient countenance of his
visitor, "I forgot to ask you, my dear young fellow, to what happy chance
I owe your visit? Excuse my neglect!"
"Don't mention it, Monsieur le Cure. You have guessed rightly. It is a
very happy circumstance which brings me. I am about to marry."
"Aha!" laughed the Abbe, "I congratulate you, my dear young friend.
This is really delightful news. It is not good for man to be alone, and
I am glad to know you must give up the perilous life of a bachelor.
Well, tell me quickly the name of your betrothed. Do I know her?"
"Of course you do, Monsieur le Cure; there are few you know so well. It
is Mademoiselle Vincart."
"Reine?"
The Abbe flung away the pruning-knife and branch that he was cutting, and
gazed at Claudet with a stupefied air. At the same time, his jovial face
became shadowed, and his mouth assumed an expression of consternation.
"Yes, indeed, Reine Vincart," repeated Claudet, somewhat vexed at the
startled manner of his reverence; "are you surprised at my choice?"
"Excuse me-and-is it all settled?" stammered the Abbe, with
bewilderment, "and--and do you really love each other?"
"Certainly; we agree on that point; and I have come here to arrange with
you about having the banns published."
"What! already?" murmured the cure, buttoning and unbuttoning the top
of his coat in his agitation, "you seem to be in a great hurry to go to
work. The union of the man and the woman--ahem--is a serious matter,
which ought not to be undertaken without due consideration. That is the
reason why the Church has instituted the sacrament of marriage. Hast
thou well considered, my son?"
"Why, certainly, I have reflected," exclaimed Claudet with some
irritation, "and my mind is quite made up. Once more, I ask you,
Monsieur le Cure, are you displeased with my choice, or have you anything
to say against Mademoiselle Vincart?"
"I? no, absolutely nothing. Reine is an exceedingly good girl."
"Well, then?"
"Well, my friend, I will go over to-morrow and see your fiancee, and we
will talk matters over. I shall act for the best, in the interests of
both of you, be assured of that. In the meantime, you will both be
united this evening in my prayers; but, for to-day, we shall have to stop
where we are. Good-evening, Claudet! I will see you again."
With these enigmatic words, he dismissed the young lover, who returned to
the chateau, vexed and disturbed by his strange reception.
The moment the door of the presbytery had closed behind Claudet, the Abbe
Pernot, flinging to one side all his preparations, began to pace
nervously up and down the principal garden-walk. He appeared completely
unhinged. His features were drawn, through an unusual tension of ideas
forced upon him. He had hurriedly caught his skullcap from his head, as
if he feared the heat of his meditation might cause a rush of blood to
the head. He quickened his steps, then stopped suddenly, folded his arms
with great energy, then opened them again abruptly to thrust his hands
into the pockets of his gown, searching through them with feverish
anxiety, as if he expected to find something which might solve obscure
and embarrassing questions.
"Good Lord! Good Lord! What a dreadful piece of business; and right in
the bird season, too! But I can say nothing to Claudet. It is a secret
that does not belong to me. How can I get out of it? Tutt! tutt! tutt!"
These monosyllabic ejaculations broke forth like the vexed clucking of a
frightened blackbird; after which relief, the Abbe resumed his fitful
striding up and down the box-bordered alley. This lasted until the hour
of twilight, when Augustine, the servant, as soon as the Angelus had
sounded, went to inform her master that they were waiting prayers for him
in the church. He obeyed the summons, although in a somewhat absent
mood, and hurried over the services in a manner which did not contribute
to the edification of the assistants. As soon as he got home, he ate his
Supper without appetite, mumbled his prayers, and shut himself up in the
room he used as a study and workshop. He remained there until the night
was far advanced, searching through his scanty library to find two dusty
volumes treating of "cases of conscience," which he looked eagerly over
by the feeble light of his study lamp. During this laborious search he
emitted frequent sighs, and only left off reading occasionally in order
to dose himself plentifully with snuff. At last, as he felt that his
eyes were becoming inflamed, his ideas conflicting in his brain, and as
his lamp was getting low, he decided to go to bed. But he slept badly,
turned over at least twenty times, and was up with the first streak of
day to say his mass in the chapel. He officiated with more dignity and
piety than was his wont; and after reading the second gospel he remained
for a long while kneeling on one of the steps of the altar. After he had
returned to the sacristy, he divested himself quickly of his sacerdotal
robes, reached his room by a passage of communication, breakfasted
hurriedly, and putting on his three-cornered hat, and seizing his knotty,
cherry-wood cane, he shot out of doors as if he had been summoned to a
fire.
Augustine, amazed at his precipitate departure, went up to the attic,
and, from behind the shelter of the skylight, perceived her master
striding rapidly along the road to Planche-au-Vacher. There she lost
sight of him--the underwood was too thick. But, after a few minutes, the
gaze of the inquisitive woman was rewarded by the appearance of a dark
object emerging from the copse, and defining itself on the bright pasture
land beyond. "Monsieur le Cure is going to La Thuiliere," thought she,
and with this half-satisfaction she descended to her daily occupations.
It was true, the Abbe Pernot was walking, as fast as he could, to the
Vincart farm, as unmindful of the dew that tarnished his shoe-buckles as
of the thorns which attacked his calves. He had that within him which
spurred him on, and rendered him unconscious of the accidents on his
path. Never, during his twenty-five years of priestly office, had a more
difficult question embarrassed his conscience. The case was a grave one,
and moreover, so urgent that the Abbe was quite at a loss how to proceed.
How was it that he never had foreseen that such a combination of
circumstances might occur? A priest of a more fervent spirit, who had
the salvation of his flock more at heart, could not have been taken so
unprepared. Yes; that was surely the cause! The profane occupations in
which he had allowed himself to take so much enjoyment, had distracted
his watchfulness and obscured his perspicacity. Providence was now
punishing him for his lukewarmness, by interposing across his path this
stumbling-block, which was probably sent to him as a salutary warning,
but which he saw no way of getting over.
While he was thus meditating and reproaching himself, the thrushes were
calling to one another from the branches of their favorite trees; whole
flights of yellowhammers burst forth from the hedges red with haws; but
he took no heed of them and did not even give a single thought to his
neglected nests and snares.
He went straight on, stumbling over the juniper bushes, and wondering
what he should say when he reached the farm, and how he should begin.
Sometimes he addressed himself, thus: "Have I the right to speak? What a
revelation! And to a young girl! Oh, Lord, lead me in the straight way
of thy truth, and instruct me in the right path!"
As he continued piously repeating this verse of the Psalmist, in order to
gain spiritual strength, the gray roofs of La Thuiliere rose before him;
he could hear the crowing of the cocks and the lowing of the cows in the
stable. Five minutes after, he had pushed open the door of the kitchen
where La Guite was arranging the bowls for breakfast.
"Good-morning, Guitiote," said he, in a choking voice; "is Mademoiselle
Vincart up?"
"Holy Virgin! Monsieur le Cure! Why, certainly Mademoiselle is up.
She was on foot before any of us, and now she is trotting around the
orchard. I will go fetch her."
"No, do not stir. I know the way, and I will go and find her myself."
She was in the orchard, was she? The Abbe preferred it should be so; he
thought the interview would be less painful, and that the surrounding
trees would give him ideas. He walked across the kitchen, descended the
steps leading from the ground floor to the garden, and ascended the slope
in search of Reine, whom he soon perceived in the midst of a bower formed
by clustering filbert-trees.
At sight of the cure, Reine turned pale; he had doubtless come to tell
her the result of his interview with Claudet, and what day had been
definitely chosen for the nuptial celebration. She had been troubled all
night by the reflection that her fate would soon be irrevocably scaled;
she had wept, and her eyes betrayed it. Only the day before, she had
looked upon this project of marriage, which she had entertained in a
moment of anger and injured feeling, as a vague thing, a vaporous
eventuality of which the realization was doubtful; now, all was arranged,
settled, cruelly certain; there was no way of escaping from a promise
which Claudet, alas! was bound to consider a serious one. These
thoughts traversed her mind, while the cure was slowly approaching the
filbert-trees; she felt her heart throb, and her eyes again filled with
tears. Yet her pride would not allow that the Abbe should witness her
irresolution and weeping; she made an effort, overcame the momentary
weakness, and addressed the priest in an almost cheerful voice:
"Monsieur le Cure, I am sorry that they have made you come up this hill
to find me. Let us go back to the farm, and I will offer you a cup of
coffee."
"No, my child," replied the Abbe, motioning with his hand that she should
stay where she was, "no, thank you! I will not take anything. Remain
where you are.
"I wish to talk to you, and we shall be less liable to be disturbed here."
There were two rustic seats under the nut-trees; the cure took one and
asked Reine to take the other, opposite to him. There they were, under
the thick, verdant branches, hidden from indiscreet passers-by,
surrounded by silence, installed as in a confessional.
The morning quiet, the solitude, the half light, all invited meditation
and confidence; nevertheless the young girl and the priest sat
motionless; both agitated and embarrassed and watching each other without
uttering a sound. It was Reine who first broke the silence.
"You have seen Claudet, Monsieur le Cure?"
"Yes, yes!" replied the Abbe, sighing deeply.
"He--spoke to you of our-plans," continued the young girl, in a quavering
voice, "and you fixed the day?"
"No, my child, we settled nothing. I wanted to see you first, and
converse with you about something very important."
The Abbe hesitated, rubbed a spot of mud off his soutane, raised his
shoulders like a man lifting a heavy burden, then gave a deep cough.
"My dear child," continued he at length, prudently dropping his voice a
tone lower, "I will begin by repeating to you what I said yesterday to
Claudet Sejournant: the marriage, that is to say, the indissoluble union,
of man and woman before God, is one of the most solemn and serious acts
of life. The Church has constituted it a sacrament, which she
administers only on certain formal conditions. Before entering into this
bond, one ought, as we are taught by Holy Writ, to sound the heart,
subject the very inmost of the soul to searching examinations. I beg of
you, therefore, answer my questions freely, without false shame, just as
if you were at the tribunal of repentance. Do you love Claudet?"
Reine trembled. This appeal to her sincerity renewed all her
perplexities and scruples. She raised her full, glistening eyes to the
cure, and replied, after a slight hesitation:
"I have a sincere affection for Claudet-and-much esteem."
"I understand that," replied the priest, compressing his lips, "but--
excuse me if I press the matter--has the engagement you have made with
him been determined simply by considerations of affection and
suitableness, or by more interior and deeper feelings?"
"Pardon, Monsieur le Cure," returned Reine, coloring, "it seems to me
that a sentiment of friendship, joined to a firm determination to prove a
faithful and devoted wife, should be, in your eyes as they are in mine, a
sufficient assurance that--"
"Certainly, certainly, my dear child; and many husbands would be
contented with less. However, it is not only a question of Claudet's
happiness, but of yours also. Come now! let me ask you: is your
affection for young Sejournant so powerful that in the event of any
unforeseen circumstance happening, to break off the marriage, you would
be forever unhappy?"
"Ah!" replied Reine, more embarrassed than ever, "you ask too grave a
question, Monsieur le Cure! If it were broken off without my having to
reproach myself for it, it is probable that I should find consolation in
time."
"Very good! Consequently, you do not love Claudet, if I may take the
word love in the sense understood by people of the world. You only like,
you do not love him? Tell me. Answer frankly."
"Frankly, Monsieur le Cure, no!"
"Thanks be to God! We are saved!" exclaimed the Abbe, drawing a long
breath, while Reine, amazed, gazed at him with wondering eves.
"I do not understand you," faltered she; "what is it?"
"It is this: the marriage can not take place."
"Can not? why?"
"It is impossible, both in the eyes of the Church and in those of the
world."
The young girl looked at him with increasing amazement.
"You alarm me!" cried she. "What has happened? What reasons hinder me
from marrying Claudet?"
"Very powerful reasons, my dear child. I do not feel at liberty to
reveal them to you, but you must know that I am not speaking without
authority, and that you may rely on the statement I have made."
Reine remained thoughtful, her brows knit, her countenance troubled.
"I have every confidence in you, Monsieur le Cure, but--"
"But you hesitate about believing me," interrupted the Abbe, piqued at
not finding in one of his flock the blind obedience on which he had
reckoned. "You must know, nevertheless, that your pastor has no interest
in deceiving you, and that when he seeks to influence you, he has in view
only your well-being in this world and in the next."
"I do not doubt your good intentions," replied Reine, with firmness, "but
a promise can not be annulled without sufficient cause. I have given my
word to Claudet, and I am too loyal at heart to break faith with him
without letting him know the reason."
"You will find some pretext."
"And supposing that Claudet would be content with such a pretext, my own
conscience would not be," objected the young girl, raising her clear,
honest glance toward the priest; "your words have entered my soul, they
are troubling me now, and it will be worse when I begin to think this
matter over again. I can not bear uncertainty. I must see my way
clearly before me. I entreat you then, Monsieur le Cure, not to do
things by halves. You have thought it your duty to tell me I can not wed
with Claudet; now tell me why not?"
"Why not? why not?" repeated the Abbe, angrily. "I distress myself in
telling you that I am not authorized to satisfy your unwise curiosity!
You must humble your intelligence and believe without arguing."
"In matters of faith, that may be possible," urged Reine, obstinately,
"but my marriage has nothing to do with discussing the truths of our holy
religion. I therefore respectfully ask to be enlightened, Monsieur le
Cure; otherwise--"
"Otherwise?" repeated the Abby Pernot, inquiringly, rolling his eyes
uneasily.
"Otherwise, I shall keep my word respectably, and I shall marry Claudet."
"You will not do that?" said he, imploringly, joining his hands as if in
supplication; "after being openly warned by me, you dare not burden your
soul with such a terrible responsibility. Come, my child, does not the
possibility of committing a mortal sin alarm your conscience as a
Christian?"
"I can not sin if I am in ignorance, and as to my conscience, Monsieur le
Cure, do you think it is acting like a Christian to alarm without
enlightening?"
"Is that your last word?" inquired the Abbe, completely aghast.
"It is my last word," she replied, vehemently, moved both by a feeling of
self-respect, and a desire to force the hand of her interlocutor.
"You are a proud, obstinate girl!" exclaimed the Abbe, rising abruptly,
"you wish to compel me to reveal this secret! Well, have your way!
I will tell you. May the harm which may result from it fall lightly upon
you, and do not hereafter reproach me for the pain I am about to inflict
upon you."
He checked himself for a moment, again joined his hands, and raising his
eyes toward heaven ejaculated fervently, as if repeating his devotions in
the oratory: "O Lord, thou knowest I would have spared her this bitter
cup, but, between two evils, I have avoided the greater. If I forfeit my
solemn promise, consider, O Lord, I pray thee, that I do it to avoid
disgrace and exposure for her, and deign to forgive thy servant!"
He seated himself again, placed one of his hands before his eyes, and
began, in a hollow voice, Reine, all the while gazing nervously at him:
"My child, you are forcing me to violate a secret which has been solemnly
confided to me. It concerns a matter not usually talked about before
young girls, but you are, I believe, already a woman in heart and
understanding, and you will hear resignedly what I have to tell you,
however much the recital may trouble you. I have already informed you
that your marriage with Claudet is impossible. I now declare that it
would be criminal, for the reason that incest is an abomination."
"Incest!" repeated Reine, pale and trembling, "what do you mean?"
"I mean," sighed the cure, "that you are Claudet's sister, not having the
same mother, but the same father: Claude-Odouart de Buxieres."
"Oh! you are mistaken! that cannot be!"
"I am stating facts. It grieves me to the heart, my dear child, that in
speaking of your deceased mother, I should have to reveal an error over
which she lamented, like David, with tears of blood. She confessed her
sin, not to the priest, but to a friend, a few days before her death.
In justice to her memory, I ought to add that, like most of the
unfortunates seduced by this untamable de Buxieres, she succumbed to his
wily misrepresentations. She was a victim rather than an accomplice.
The man himself acknowledged as much in a note entrusted to my care,
which I have here."
And the Abbe' drew from his pocket an old, worn letter, the writing
yellow with age, and placed it before Reine. In this letter, written in
Claude de Buxieres's coarse, sprawling hand, doubtless in reply to a
reproachful appeal from his mistress, he endeavored to offer some kind of
honorable amends for the violence he had used, and to calm Madame
Vincart's remorse by promising, as was his custom, to watch over the
future of the child which should be born to her.
"That child was yourself, my poor girl," continued the Abbe, picking up
the letter which Reine had thrown down, after reading it, with a gesture
of sickened disgust.
She appeared not to hear him. She had buried her face in her hands, to
hide the flushing of her cheeks, and sat motionless, altogether crushed
beneath the shameful revelation; convulsive sobs and tremblings
occasionally agitating her frame.
"You can now understand," continued the priest, "how the announcement of
this projected marriage stunned and terrified me. I could not confide to
Claudet the reason for my stupefaction, and I should have been thankful
if you could have understood so that I could have spared you this cruel
mortification, but you would not take any intimation from me. And now,
forgive me for inflicting this cross upon you, and bear it with courage,
with Christian fortitude."
"You have acted as was your duty," murmured Reine, sadly, "and I thank
you, Monsieur le Cure!"
"And will you promise me to dismiss Claudet at once--today?"
"I promise you."
The Abbe Pernot advanced to take her hand, and administer some words of
consolation; but she evaded, with a stern gesture, the good man's pious
sympathy, and escaped toward the dwelling.
The spacious kitchen was empty when she entered. The shutters had been
closed against the sun, and it had become cool and pleasant. Here and
there, among the copper utensils, and wherever a chance ray made a gleam
of light, the magpie was hopping about, uttering short, piercing cries.
In the recess of the niche containing the colored prints, sat the old man
Vincart, dozing, in his usual supine attitude, his hands spread out, his
eyelids drooping, his mouth half open. At the sound of the door, his
eyes opened wide. He rather guessed at, than saw, the entrance of the
young girl, and his pallid lips began their accustomed refrain: "Reine!
Rei-eine!"
Reine flew impetuously toward the paralytic old man, threw herself on her
knees before him, sobbing bitterly, and covered his hands with kisses.
Her caresses were given in a more respectful, humble, contrite manner
than ever before.
"Oh! father--father!" faltered she; "I loved you always, I shall love
you now with all my heart and soul!"