"We must hasten, we must hasten!" said Peyraque, at the close of another
half-hour, as he saw the snow deepening. "Here is something worse than
fog. When this begins to fall it soon piles up in the road higher than
your head."
This imprudent admission set Caroline in open rebellion; she wanted to
jump from the carriage, fully determined to walk back to the place where
she had met M. de Villemer.
Peyraque dissuaded her from this; but finally had to yield and return,
in spite of the ever-increasing danger and the difficulties of a still
slower progress over the half-league they had so painfully traversed
since losing sight of the Marquis.
It was in vain for them to search by simply looking for him. In one hour
the snow in large, spreading flakes had buried up the ground and its
ruggedness. It was impossible for them to tell whether they had not
passed by the place they wanted to explore. Caroline uttered groans,
inaudible to herself, finding no words at her command but the faint
outcry, "My God, my God!" Peyraque no longer strove to quiet her, and
only encouraged her by telling her to look carefully.
Suddenly the horse stopped. "It must be we have found the road again
here," said Peyraque. "Mignon remembers."
"Then we have come too far," replied Caroline.
"But we have met no one," returned Peyraque. "This gentleman, seeing the
storm coming on, has gone back to Laussonne, and we, who are nearer
Estables, are running a great risk in staying here, unless it stops
snowing. I give you warning."
"Go on, go on, Peyraque!" cried Caroline, leaping into the snow. "For my
part, I shall stay here till I find him."
Peyraque made no reply. He alighted and began searching, but without the
least hope. There was already half a foot of snow, and the wind,
drifting it into every hollow, would soon bury up a corpse.
Caroline walked on at random, gliding forward like a spirit, so great
was her excitement. She was already at some little distance from the
carriage when she heard the horse snort loudly as he put down his head.
She thought he was dying, and, watching him with real distress, saw him
scenting out something in front of him in a strange way. It was a
revelation; she darted forward and perceived a gloved hand, apparently
belonging to one dead, which the breath of the horse, melting the snow
over it, had brought to light. The body extended beneath was the
obstacle which the animal had refused to tread under foot. Peyraque came
running at Caroline's call, and, extricating M. de Villemer, put him in
the carriage, where Mlle de Saint-Geneix held him up and tried to warm
him in her arms.
Peyraque took the bridle and walked on again in the direction of
Mézenc. He knew perfectly there was not a moment to lose, but went on
without knowing where to set foot; and he soon disappeared in a ravine
which he was unable to clear. The horse stopped of his own accord;
Peyraque got up again, but, on trying to make him back, found the wheels
caught in some unseen obstacle. Besides, the horse was at the end of his
strength. Peyraque treated him harshly, but all to no purpose; he struck
his pony for the first time in his life; he pulled on the bridle till
the creature's mouth bled. The poor animal turned upon him with a glance
of almost human intelligence, as if to say, "I have done all I could; I
can do nothing more to save you."
"Must we then perish here?" said Peyraque, disheartened, as he watched
the snow falling in inexorable whirls. The plateau had become a Siberian
waste, beyond which Mézenc alone showed his livid head between the
gusts of wind. Not a tree, not a roof, not a rock for shelter. Peyraque
knew there was nothing to be done.
"Let us hope," said he, which, in these Southern forms of speech, simply
means, "Let us wait."
It soon occurred to him, however, that he would gain the next fifteen
minutes, even if they should be the last of life. He took a small board
from his little carriage, and fought with the drifting snow, which
threatened to bury up both horse and vehicle. Incessantly for ten
minutes he worked like a wrestler at this task of clearing away, saying
to himself that perhaps it was all useless, but that he would defend
himself and Caroline to the last breath.
At the expiration of the ten minutes he thanked God the snow grew
lighter; the wind abated; the fog, which was far less dangerous, strove
to reappear. He slackened his work without giving it over. At last he
saw something like a pale streak of light breaking through the depths of
the sky; it was a promise of fair weather.
So far he had not spoken a word or uttered an oath. If Caroline had been
fated to perish there, she would not have suspected it till the last
moment. Yet he looked at her and found her so pale and her glance so
wild that he was alarmed.
"Well, well!" said he, "what is the trouble? There is no more danger;
this will be nothing."
"O, nothing, is it?" she replied, with a bitter smile, pointing to
Urbain, stretched out on the seat of the little vehicle, his face livid
with the cold, his large eyes wide open and glazed, like those of a
corpse.
Peyraque looked around him again. It was hopeless to expect human aid.
He sprang into the carriage, seized M. de Villemer firmly in his arms,
rubbed him vigorously, bruised him in his iron hands, trying to impart
to him the warmth of his own old blood reanimated by exercise and a
strong will; but it was all in vain. With the effects of the cold were
united those of a nervous crisis peculiar to the organization of the
Marquis.
"He is not dead, though," said Peyraque. "I feel that; I am sure of it.
If I only had something to make a fire with! But I can't make one of
stones."
"We might burn the carriage, at all events," cried Caroline.
"That is an idea,--yes, but after that?"
"After that perhaps the Lord will send help. Don't you see the first
thing is to prevent death from laying hold of us here?"
Peyraque saw Caroline so pale and the blue lines so defined under her
eyes that he began to think she felt herself dying also. He hesitated no
longer, but risked all to save all. He unharnessed the pony, which, like
the horses of the Cossacks, at once rolled in the snow to rest himself.
Taking the awning from his carriage and placing it on the ground,
Peyraque carried M. de Villemer, still frozen and motionless, to it;
then, drawing from his boxes a few handfuls of hay, some old papers, and
fragments of matting, he put the whole under the vehicle and struck fire
with the flint and steel with which he was accustomed to light his pipe.
Breaking up with his farrier's tools the boards and planks of his poor
little carriage, he succeeded in a few moments in kindling them into a
blaze and into brands. He demolished and broke in pieces as fast as the
fire burned. The snow no longer fell, and M. de Villemer, lying within a
semicircle of blazing wreck, began to gaze in a stupor at the strange
scene, which he took for a dream.
"He is saved, saved! Do you hear, Peyraque?" cried Caroline, who saw the
Marquis making an attempt to rise. "A hundred blessings on your head!
You have saved him!"
The Marquis heard Caroline's voice close by him, but, still thinking it
some hallucination, made no effort to look at her. He did not comprehend
what was taking place till he felt on his hands the distracted pressure
of Caroline's lips. Then he thought he must be dying, as she no longer
avoided him, and, trying to smile, he bade her adieu in a faint voice.
"No, no; not adieu!" she replied, covering his forehead with kisses;
"you must live. I will have it so! I love you!"
A slight flush came over the livid face, but no words could express his
joy. The Marquis still feared it might be all a dream; yet he was
plainly reviving. The warmth had concentrated under the carriage-top
which served him as a shelter. He was as comfortable as he could
possibly be made there, lying on the cloaks of Caroline and Peyraque.
"But we must go on, nevertheless," thought the latter, and his unquiet
eyes questioned the brightening horizon. The cold was severe, the fire
was going out for want of fuel, and the invalid surely could not walk to
Estables. And was Caroline herself equal to such an attempt? To mount
them both on the horse was the only expedient; but would the exhausted
animal have strength to carry them? No matter, it would have to be
tried; and, first of all, they must give the horse some oats. Peyraque
looked, but found none; the fire had consumed the little bag as well as
the box in which it was stored.
An exclamation from Caroline revived his hopes. She showed him a light
vapor on the rising ground which sheltered them. He ran in that
direction, and saw below him an ox-cart, painfully approaching, the
driver smoking in order to keep warm.
"You see now," said Caroline, when the cart had nearly reached them,
"the Lord has helped us!"
M. de Villemer was still so weak that he had to be lifted into the cart,
which, fortunately, was loaded with straw; and in this Peyraque buried
him up, after a fashion. Caroline placed herself near him. Peyraque
bestrode his pony, leaving the wreck of his poor carriage behind, and in
an hour they had finally reached the village of Estables.
Peyraque went disdainfully by the inn of a certain giantess with bare
legs and a golden necklace, a veritable tardigrade of peculiar
repulsiveness. He knew the Marquis would find no zealous attention
there. He conducted him, to the house of a peasant whom he knew. The
people crowded around the invalid, overwhelming him with questions, and
friendly proffers which he did not understand. Peyraque, with an air of
authority, dismissed all who could be of no service, gave his orders,
and went to work himself. In a few minutes the fire was blazing, and hot
wine was foaming in the kettle. M. de Villemer, stretched on a thick bed
of straw and dry turf, saw Caroline on her knees beside him, busily
engaged in protecting his clothes from the fire and caring for him with
a mother's tenderness. She was uneasy about the terrible drink which
Peyraque was brewing for him with strong spices; but the Marquis had
confidence in the experience of the mountaineer. He made a sign that he
would obey him, and Caroline, with trembling hand, put the cup to his
lips. He was soon able to speak, thank his new hosts, and tell Peyraque,
pressing his hand warmly, that he would like to be alone with him and
Caroline.
It was no easy thing to induce the family to forsake their own roof for
several hours. Places of shelter are rare under this inclement sky, and
the flocks, the sole dependence of the Cévenois, are lodged in a way to
leave no room for the inhabitants. Those living here, in particular,
have a reputation for rudeness and lack of hospitality which dates from
the murder of the mathematician sent by Cassini to measure the height of
Mézenc, and who was taken for a sorcerer. They have greatly improved,
and now show themselves more civil; but their habits of life are those
of the lowest poverty, and yet they are given to trading, raise
magnificent cattle, and are as well provided as possible with
commodities for barter. Still, the severity of the climate and the
isolation of their rough dwelling-place have passed into their
dispositions as well as into their blood.
The room which, with the stable, comprised the whole interior of the
house, was given up at last to Peyraque and his friends. It was quite
small, and hardly richer than the Celtic grotto of the old woman at
Espaly. The smoke poured out partly through the chimney and partly,
also, through a gaping hole in the wall on one side. Two beds, shaped
like boxes, gave lodgings at night, in some incomprehensible way, to a
family of six persons. The bare rock formed the floor; and on one side
the cows, goats, sheep, and hens took their comfort.
Peyraque spread clean straw around everywhere, brought in a supply of
wood, rummaged in the cupboard, found some bread, and urged Caroline to
eat and rest. The Marquis, with a look, begged her to think of herself,
for she dared not leave him a minute, and still held his hands in hers.
He wanted to speak; he was able to speak now, and yet he was afraid to
say a word. He feared she would go away from him as soon as she saw he
knew himself beloved; and then Peyraque puzzled him cruelly. He did not
comprehend in the least the part played by this rustic Providence which,
in its watch over Caroline, had shown itself so obstinate and so
merciless toward him; but which was now beginning to regard him with
unbounded solicitude and devotion. At last Peyraque went out. He could
not forget his poor horse,--his faithful companion,--which he blamed
himself for having treated so brutally, and which, on his arrival, he
had been forced to intrust to the care of strangers.
"Caroline," said the Marquis, having seated himself on a stool, and
still leaning on her arm, "I had many things to tell you, but I have not
my reason,--no, really, I have n't the use of it, and I'm afraid to talk
in my delirium. Forgive me, I am so happy,--happy to see you, to feel
you near me, now I have come back again from the verge of death. But I
cannot trouble you any more. Heavens! what a burden I have been on your
life! It shall be so no longer; this is only an accident,--a foolish,
imprudent act on my part; but how could I consent to lose you again? You
do not know, you never will know,--no, you have no idea, you don't
comprehend what you are to me; and perhaps you don't care ever to
comprehend it! To-morrow, perhaps, you will shun me again. And why,
pray? Here, read!" he added, searching for and then handing her the
crumpled page of the letter begun at Lantriac that very morning; "it
maybe illegible now; the rain and the snow--"
"No," said Caroline, leaning toward the fire, "I can see, I read
perfectly, and--I understand. I knew before. I guessed; and I accept. It
was the wish of my heart,--the dream of my life. My heart and my life,
do they not both belong to you?"
"Alas! no, not yet; but if you would believe in me--"
"Don't tire yourself by talking, trying to convince me," said Caroline,
with something imperious in her warmth. "I believe in you, but not in my
own destiny. Well! I accept it, such as you make it for me. Good or ill,
it shall be dear to me, since I can accept no other. Now listen, listen
to me! Perhaps I have only an instant to tell you this in. I don't know
what events your conscience and mine will have to meet; I know your
mother to be inexorable. I have felt the chill of her contempt; and we
have nothing to hope from God if we break her heart. We must submit,
then, and that forever. You yourself have said that to form any scheme
of being happy upon the loss of a mother is placing the dream of
happiness among the most criminal of thoughts, and such happiness would
be under the ban of a hundred curses; we ourselves should curse it in
our hearts."
"Why do you remind me of all this?" asked the Marquis, sorrowfully; "do
you think I have forgotten? But you believe a change in my mother to be
impossible; and I see from this that you would not have me try to bring
it about, and that pity alone--"
"You see nothing at all," cried Caroline, putting her hand on his mouth;
"you see nothing, if you don't see that I love you."
"O Heaven!" said the Marquis, sinking to her feet; "say that again! It
seems like a dream. This is the first time you have said it. I have
thought I divined it, but I dare not believe it now. Tell me so
again,--tell me, and then let me die!"
"Yes; I love you more than my own life," she replied, pressing to her
heart the noble brow, seat of a soul so brave and true; "I love you more
than my pride, more than my pride of womanhood. I have denied it to
myself this long time; I have denied it in my prayers to God, and I lied
to God and to myself! At last I understood, and I fled through a
cowardly weakness. I felt all was lost, and so it is. Well, what matters
it, after all? It only involves myself. While I cherished the hope of
learning to forget, I could struggle; but you love me too well,--I see
that now,--and you will die, if I forsake you. I thought you were dead
a few hours ago, and then I saw clearly into our lives; I had killed
you! I might have saved you,--you, the noblest and best of beings,--but
I made you the victim of my vain self-respect. And what am I to let you
die so, when all that is not your regard is nothing to me? No, no! I
have resisted long enough. I have been proud enough, cruel enough, and
you have suffered too much from my wrong-doing. I love you, do you hear?
I will not become your wife, because that would be to plunge you into
bitter remorse, into a woe beyond remedy; but I will be your friend,
your servant, a mother to your child, your faithful companion. The
purity of our lives may be misunderstood; I shall be mistaken for
Didier's actual mother perhaps. Well, I consent even to that. I accept
the scorn I have dreaded; and it seems to me drinking of this cup,
poured out by you, will give me a new life."
"O noble heart! as pure as heaven!" cried the Marquis. "I accept, for my
part, this divine sacrifice. Pray do not scorn me for that! You make me
feel worthy of it, and I will soon put an end to it. Yes, yes! I shall
work miracles. I feel strong enough now. My mother will yield without a
regret. In my heart I feel now the faith and the power that shall
persuade her to it. But even if the whole world should rise up to
condemn you,--do you see?--you, my sister and my daughter, my
pure-minded companion, my dearest friend,--you will only stand the
higher in my regard. I shall only be more and more proud of you. What is
the world, what is public opinion, to a man who has penetrated the
social life of past ages and that of the present as well, fathoming the
mysteries of their selfishness and the nothingness of their deceit? Such
a man knows full well that, at all times, by the side of one poor truth
which floats safely, a thousand truths go under with the mark of infamy
upon them. He well knows that the best and most unselfish spirits have
walked in the footprints of their Lord, on a thorny path, where wounds
and insults fall like rain. Well, we will walk there, if need be; love
will keep us from feeling these base attacks. Yes, I can answer for
that, at least, and this is what I can swear in defiance of all threats
from that destiny the world would make for us: you shall be loved, and
you shall be happy! You knew me well, cruel one, shutting your eyes as
you ran away. You knew perfectly that my whole life, my whole soul is
love and nothing else. You knew perfectly that, if I have sometimes been
eager in pursuit of truth, it was from love of her alone; and not for
the vain glory of proclaiming her in person. I am not myself a scholar;
I am not an author. I am an unknown soldier, who, of my own free will,
avoid the noise and smoke of the conflict, fighting unsupported and in
the background, not through lack of courage, but that my mother and
brother may not be wounded in the struggle. I have accepted this obscure
position without a pang to my vanity. I felt that my heart stood in
need, not of praise, but of love. All the ambition of my fellows, all
their immoderate vanities, their thirst for power, their needs of
luxury, their continual hunger for notoriety,--what did all these matter
to me? I could not be amused with toys like these. I was myself only a
poor, single-hearted man, enamored of an ideal,--an ingenuous child, if
you will, seeking love and feeling it alive within him long before
meeting her who was to develop its power. I kept silence, knowing I
should have to bear raillery,--a thing indifferent, as far as I am
concerned personally, but one which would have pained me as an outrage
to my inmost, sacred religion. Once, only once in my life,--I should
like to tell you this, Caroline,--I have loved--"
"Don't tell me!" cried she, "I don't want to know."
"Nevertheless, you ought to know all. She was good and gentle, and, in
recalling her, I can without an effort respect and bless her in her
tomb; but she could not love me. It was the fault of her destiny, and
not her own. There is not a reproach in my heart for her; there are many
for myself. I have hated myself bitterly, and done heavy penance for
having yielded to a passion which was never encouraged or really shared.
I was only reconciled to life when I saw life blooming into its fairest
and purest form in you. I then understood why I was born in tears, why I
had been fated to love, and condemned to love too early,--with sorrow,
and in sin,--because I sought the one dream and aim of my life too
eagerly. And now I feel restored forever and saved. I feel that my
character will regain its balance, my youth its hopes, my heart its
natural sustenance. Have faith in me,--you whom Heaven has sent me! You
know for a certainty that we are made for each other. You have felt a
thousand times, in spite of yourself that we had but one mind and one
thought; that we loved the same principles, the same art, the same
names, the same people, and the same things without influencing each
other, except to strengthen and develop what was already there,--to make
the germs of our deepest feelings bud and blossom. Do you remember,
Caroline, do you remember Séval? And our sunny hours in the valley? And
the hours of delicious coolness beneath the arches of the library,
where, with lovely vases of flowers, you paid festive honors to this
deep, mysterious union of our souls? Was it not an indissoluble marriage
which our hands consecrated every morning in their pure touch of
greeting! Did not our first glance every single day give us to each
other, and that for all time? And can all this be lost utterly, flown
forever? Did you yourself believe for one instant that this man could
live without you, deprived of air and sunlight,--that he would consent
to fall back into darkness again? No, no! you never believed it. He
would have followed you to the end of the earth; he would have gone
through fire and water and ice to rejoin you. And if you had left me to
die in the snow to-day, can't you feel that my spirit set free would
have still, like a desperate spectre, pursued you through the mountain
storm?"
"Listen to him, just listen!" said Caroline to Peyraque, who had come in
and was stupidly looking at the Marquis, now seemingly transfigured by
passion; "hear what he says, and do not wonder if I love him better than
myself. Do not be frightened, do not worry, do not go away, pitying us.
Stay with us and see how happy we are. The presence of a good old man
like you will not trouble us. Perhaps you will not understand us,--you
who would listen to nothing beyond a certain duty, which I understood
yesterday, but no longer admit to-day; yet, against your will even, you
will love me again and give me your blessing, for you will feel the
rightful authority of this man, who is more to me than all other men,
and to whom God has given only the words of truth. Yes, I love him.--I
love you, you whom I came near losing to-day, and I will never leave you
again. I will follow you everywhere; your child shall be mine, as your
country is my country, your faith my faith. There is no higher honor in
this world, there is no other virtue before God, than loving you,
serving you, and comforting you."
M. de Villemer stood there, radiant with a pure joy, which dazzled
Caroline, but did not frighten her. In this hour of enthusiasm there was
not even the memory of a trouble. He pressed her to his heart with that
sacred paternal feeling which belonged to his nature, and which arose
from an instinctive idea of protection,--the rightful authority of a
high intelligence over a noble heart, of a superior mind over another
mind raised by its love to the same level.
They did not ask themselves whether this lofty rapture would endure
always. It must be said, to their praise, that they felt the infinite
tenderness of friendship,--enthusiastic, it is true, but deep and
sincere,--rather than any other intoxication; and that the aim of their
future was, at this moment, defined and summed up in their minds in this
one resolution,--never to forsake each other.