When the door opened again I saw a woman in a strange costume entering
with a confident step. It required an effort to keep my mind from
wandering, and to grasp what one of the Mauprats came and whispered to
me. In the middle of a wolf-hunt, at which several of the nobles in the
neighbourhood had been present with their wives, this young lady’s horse
had taken fright and bolted away from the rest of the field. When it had
pulled up after a gallop of about a league, she had tried to find her
way back; but, not knowing the Varenne district, where all the landmarks
are so much alike, she had gone farther and farther astray. The
storm and the advent of night had completed her perplexity. Laurence,
happening to meet her, had offered to escort her to the chateau of
Rochemaure, which, as a fact, was more than six leagues distant; but
he had declared that it was quite near, and had pretended to be the
gamekeeper there. She did not actually know the lady of Rochemaure, but
being a distant connection of hers, she counted upon a welcome. Never
having seen the face of a single Mauprat, and little dreaming that she
was so near their haunt, she had followed her guide confidingly; and as
she had never in her life caught a glimpse of Roche-Mauprat, whether in
the distance or close at hand, she was led upon the scene of our orgies
without having the least suspicion of the trap into which she had
fallen.
When I rubbed my heavy eyes and beheld this woman, so young and so
beautiful, with her expression of calm sincerity and of goodness, the
like of which I had never seen on the brow of any other (for all
those who had passed the portcullis of our abode were either insolent
prostitutes or stupid victims), I could not but think I was dreaming.
Remembering how prominently fairies figured in my legends of chivalry,
I almost fancied that Morgana or Urganda had come among us to administer
justice; and, for the moment, I felt an inclination to throw myself on
my knees and protest against any judgment which should confound me
with my uncles. Antony, to whom Laurence had quickly given the cue,
approached her with as much politeness as he had in his composition, and
begged her to excuse his hunting costume, likewise that of his friends.
They were all nephews or cousins of the lady of Rochemaure, whom they
were now awaiting before sitting down to table. Being very religious,
she was at present in the chapel, in pious conference with the chaplain.
The air of simple confidence with which the stranger listened to these
absurd lies went to my heart, but I had not a very clear idea of what I
felt.
“Please,” she said to my Uncle John, who was dancing attendance on her
with the leer of a satyr, “please do not let me disturb this lady. I am
so troubled about the anxiety I must be causing my father and my friends
at the present moment, that I could not really stop here. All I ask is
that she will be kind enough to lend me a fresh horse and a guide, so
that I may return to the place where I presume my people may have gone
to wait for me.”
“Madame,” replied John, with assurance, “it is impossible for you to
start again in such weather as this; besides, if you did, that would
only serve to delay the hour of rejoining those who are looking for you.
Ten of our men, well mounted and provided with torches, shall set out
this very moment in ten different directions and scour every corner of
Varenne. Thus, in two hours at the most, your relatives will be certain
to have news of you, and you will soon see them arriving here, where we
will entertain them as best we can. Please, then, set your mind at rest,
and take some cordial to restore you; for you must be wet through and
quite exhausted.”
“Were it not for the anxiety I feel,” she answered with a smile,
“I should be famished. I will try to eat something; but do not put
yourselves to any inconvenience on my account. You have been far too
good already.”
Approaching the table, where I was still resting on my elbows, she took
some fruit that was by my side without noticing me. I turned and stared
at her insolently with a besotted expression. She returned my gaze
haughtily--at least, so it appeared to me then. I have since learned
that she did not even see me; for, while making a great effort to
appear calm and to reply with an air of confidence to the offers of
hospitality, she was at heart very much disturbed by the unexpected
presence of so many strange men with their forbidding mien and rough
garb. However, she did not suspect anything. I overheard one of the
Mauprats near me saying to John:
“Good! It’s all right; she is falling into the trap. Let us make her
drink; then she will begin to talk.”
“One moment,” replied John; “watch her carefully; this is a serious
matter; there is something better to be had out of this than a little
passing pleasure. I am going to talk it over with the others; you will
be sent for to give your opinion. Meanwhile keep an eye on Bernard.”
“What is the matter?” I said abruptly, as I faced him. “Does not
this girl belong to me? Did not Antony swear it by the soul of my
grandfather?”
“Yes, confound it, that’s true,” said Antony, approaching our group,
whilst the other Mauprats surrounded the lady. “Listen, Bernard; I will
keep my word on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“It is quite simple: that you won’t within the next ten minutes tell
this wench that she is not at old Rochemaure’s.”
“What do you take me for?” I answered, pulling my hat over my eyes. “Do
you think that I am an idiot? Wait a minute; would you like me to go
and get my grandmother’s dress which is upstairs and pass myself off for
this same lady of Rochemaure?”
“A splendid idea!” replied Laurence.
“But before anything is done,” said John, “I want to speak to you all.”
And making signs to the others, he drew them out of the hall. Just as
they were going out I thought I noticed that John was trying to persuade
Antony to keep watch over me. But Antony, with a firmness which I could
not understand, insisted on following the rest. I was left alone with
the stranger.
For a moment I remained bewildered, almost stupefied, and more
embarrassed than pleased at the _tete-a-tete_. Then I endeavoured to
think of some explanation of these mysterious things that were happening
around me, and succeeded, as far as the fumes of the wine would allow
me, in imagining something fairly probable, though, indeed, remote
enough from the actual truth.
I thought I could account for everything I had just seen and heard by
supposing, first, that the lady, quiet and richly dressed though she
was, was one of those daughters of Bohemia that I had sometimes seen
at fairs; secondly, that Laurence, having met her in the country, had
brought her here to amuse the company; and, thirdly, that they had told
her of my condition of swaggering drunkenness, and had prevailed on her
to put my gallantry to the proof, whilst they were to watch me through
the keyhole. My first movement, as soon as these ideas had taken
possession of me, was to rise and go straight to the door. This I locked
with a double turn and then bolted. When I had done this I returned to
the lady, determined that I would not, at all events, give her cause to
laugh at my bashfulness.
She was sitting close to the fire, and as she was occupied in drying
her wet garments, leaning forward over the hearth, she had not taken
any notice of what I was doing; but when I approached her the strange
expression on my face caused her to start. I had made up my mind to kiss
her, as a beginning; but, I know not by what miracle, as soon as she
raised her eyes to mine, this familiarity became impossible. I only had
sufficient courage to say:
“Upon my word, mademoiselle, you are a charming creature, and I love
you--as true as my name is Bernard Mauprat.”
“Bernard Mauprat!” she cried, springing up; “you are Bernard Mauprat,
you? In that case, change your manner and learn to whom you are talking.
Have they not told you?”
“No one has told me, but I can guess,” I replied with a grin, while
trying hard to trample down the feeling of respect with which her sudden
pallor and imperious attitude inspired me.
“If you can guess,” she said, “how is it possible that you allow
yourself to speak to me in this way? But they were right when they said
you were ill-mannered; and yet I always had a wish to meet you.”
“Really!” I said, with the same hideous grin. “You! A princess of the
king’s highway, who have known so many men in your life? But let my
lips meet your own, my sweet, and you shall see if I am not as nicely
mannered as those uncles of mine whom you were listening to so willingly
just now.”
“Your uncles!” she cried, suddenly seizing her chair and placing it
between us as if from some instinct of self-defence. “Oh, mon Dieu! mon
Dieu! Then I am not at Madame de Rochemaure’s?”
“Our name certainly begins in the same way, and we come of as good a
rock as anybody.”
“Roche-Mauprat!” she muttered, trembling from head to foot, like a hind
when it hears the howl of wolves.
And her lips grew quite white. Her agony was manifest in every gesture.
From an involuntary feeling of sympathy I shuddered myself, and I was on
the point of changing my manner and language forthwith.
“What can there be in this to astound her so?” I asked myself. “Is she
not merely acting a part? And even if the Mauprats are not hidden behind
some wainscot listening to us, is she not sure to give them an account
of everything that takes place? And yet she is trembling like an aspen
leaf. But what if she is acting? I once saw an actress play Genevieve de
Brabant, and she wept so that one might have been deceived.”
I was in a state of great perplexity, and I cast harassed glances now at
her, now at the doors, which I fancied every moment would be thrown wide
open amid roars of laughter from my uncles.
This woman was beautiful as the day. I do not believe there has ever
lived a woman as lovely as she. It is not I alone who say so; she has
left a reputation for beauty which has not yet died out in her province.
She was rather tall, slender, and remarkable for the easy grace of her
movements. Her complexion was very fair, while her eyes were dark and
her hair like ebony. Her glance and her smile showed a union of goodness
and acuteness which it was almost impossible to conceive; it was as
if Heaven had given her two souls, one wholly of intellect, the other
wholly of feeling. She was naturally cheerful and brave--an angel,
indeed, whom the sorrows of humanity had not yet dared to touch. She
knew not what it was to suffer; she knew not what it was to distrust
and dread. This, indeed, was the first trial of her life, and it was I,
brute that I was, who made her undergo it. I took her for a gipsy, and
she was an angel of purity.
She was my young cousin (or aunt, after the Breton fashion), Edmee de
Mauprat, the daughter of M. Hubert, my great-uncle (again in the Breton
fashion), known as the Chevalier--he who had sought release from the
Order of Malta that he might marry, though already somewhat advanced
in years. My cousin was the same age as myself; at least, there was
a difference of only a few months between us. Both of us were now
seventeen, and this was our first interview. She whom I ought to have
protected at the peril of my life against the world was now standing
before me trembling and terror-stricken, like a victim before the
executioner.
She made a great effort, and approaching me as I walked about the hall
deep in thought, she explained who she was, adding:
“It is impossible that you can be an infamous creature like all these
brigands whom I have just seen, and of whose hideous life I have often
heard. You are young; your mother was good and wise. My father wanted to
adopt you and bring you up as his son. Even to-day he is still full of
grief at not being able to draw you out of the abyss in which you lie.
Have you not often received messages from him? Bernard, you and I are of
the same family; think of the ties of blood; why would you insult me? Do
they intend to assassinate me here or torture me? Why did they deceive
me by saying that I was at Rochemaure? Why did they withdraw in this
mysterious way? What are they preparing? What is going to happen?”
Her words were cut short by the report of a gun outside. A shot from the
culverin replied to it, and the alarm trumpet shook the gloomy walls of
the keep with its dismal note. Mademoiselle de Mauprat fell back into
her chair. I remained where I was, wondering whether this was some
new scene in the comedy they were enjoying at my expense. However,
I resolved not to let the alarm cause me any uneasiness until I had
certain proof that it was not a trick.
“Come, now,” I said, going up to her again, “own that all this is a
joke. You are not Mademoiselle de Mauprat at all; and you merely want to
discover if I am an apprentice capable of making love.”
“I swear by Christ,” she answered, taking my hands in her own, which
were cold as death, “that I am Edmee, your cousin, your prisoner--yes,
and your friend; for I have always felt an interest in you; I have
always implored my father not to cease his efforts for you. But listen,
Bernard; they are fighting, and fighting with guns! It must be my father
who has come to look for me, and they are going to kill him. Ah!” she
cried, falling on her knees before me, “go and prevent that, Bernard!
Tell your uncles to respect my father, the best of men, if you but knew!
Tell them that, if they hate our family, if they must have blood, they
may kill me! Let them tear my heart out; but let them respect my father
. . .”
Some one outside called me in a violent voice.
“Where is the coward? Where is that wretched boy?” shouted my Uncle
Laurence.
Then he shook the door; but I had fastened it so securely that it
resisted all his furious blows.
“That miserable cur is amusing himself by making love while our throats
are being cut! Bernard, the mounted police are attacking us! Your Uncle
Louis had just been killed! Come and help us! For God’s sake, come,
Bernard!”
“May the devil take the lot of you,” I cried, “and may you be killed
yourself, if I believe a single word of all this. I am not such a fool
as you imagine; the only cowards here are those who lie. Didn’t I swear
that the woman should be mine? I’m not going to give her up until I
choose.”
“To hell with you!” replied Laurence; “you are pretending . . .”
The shots rang out faster. Frightful cries were heard. Laurence left the
door and ran in the direction of the noise. His eagerness proved him
so much in earnest that I could no longer refuse to believe him. The
thought that they would accuse me of cowardice overcame me. I advanced
towards the door.
“O Bernard! O Monsieur de Mauprat!” cried Edmee, staggering after me;
“let me go with you. I will throw myself at your uncles’ feet; I will
make them stop the fight; I will give them all I possess, my life, if
they wish . . . if only they will spare my father.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, turning towards her; “I am by no means certain
that this is not a joke at my expense. I have a suspicion that my uncles
are there, behind that door, and that, while our whippers-in are firing
off guns in the courtyard, they are waiting with a blanket to toss me.
Now, either you are my cousin, or you are a . . . You must make me a
solemn promise, and I will make you one in return. If you are one of
these wandering charmers and I quit this room the dupe of your pretty
acting, you must swear to be my mistress, and to allow none other near
you until I have had my rights; otherwise, for my part, I swear that
you shall be chastised, even as my spotted dog Flora was chastised this
morning. If, on the other hand, you are Edmee, and I swear to intervene
between your father and those who would kill him, what promise will you
make me, what will you swear?”
“If you save my father,” she cried, “I swear to you that I will marry
you, I swear it.”
“Ho! ho! indeed!” I said, emboldened by her enthusiasm, the sublimity of
which I did not understand. “Give me a pledge, then, so that in any case
I do not go out from here like a fool.”
I took her in my arms and kissed her. She did not attempt to resist. Her
cheeks were like ice. Mechanically she began to follow me as I moved to
the door. I was obliged to push her back. I did so without roughness;
but she fell as one in a faint. I began to grasp the gravity of my
position; for there was nobody in the corridor and the tumult outside
was becoming more and more alarming. I was about to run and get my
weapons, when a last feeling of distrust, or it may have been another
sentiment, prompted me to go back and double-lock the door of the hall
where I was leaving Edmee. I put the key into my belt and hastened to
the ramparts, armed with a gun, which I loaded as I ran.
It was simply an attack made by the mounted police, and had nothing
whatever to do with Mademoiselle de Mauprat. A little while before our
creditors had obtained a writ of arrest against us. The law officers,
beaten and otherwise severely handled, had demanded of the King’s
advocate at the provincial court of Bourges another warrant of arrest.
This the armed police were now doing their best to execute. They had
hoped to effect an easy capture by means of a night surprise. But we
were in a better state of defence than they had anticipated. Our men
were brave and well armed; and then we were fighting for our very
existence; we had the courage of despair, and this was an immense
advantage. Our band amounted to twenty-four all told; theirs to more
than fifty soldiers, in addition to a score or more of peasants, who
were slinging stones from the flanks. These, however, did more harm to
their allies than they did to us.
For half an hour the fighting was most desperate. At the end of this
time the enemy had become so dismayed by our resistance that they fell
back, and hostilities were suspended. However, they soon returned to the
attack, and again were repulsed with loss. Hostilities were once more
suspended. They then, for the third time, called upon us to surrender,
promising that our lives should be spared. Antony Mauprat replied with
an obscene jest. They remained undecided, but did not withdraw.
I had fought bravely; I had done what I called my duty. There was a long
lull. It was impossible to judge the distance of the enemy, and we
dared not fire at random into the darkness, for our ammunition was too
precious. All my uncles remained riveted on the ramparts, in case of
fresh attack. My Uncle Louis was dangerously wounded. Thoughts of my
prisoner returned to my mind. At the beginning of the fight I had heard
John Mauprat saying, that if our defeat seemed imminent, we must offer
to hand her over to the enemy, on condition that they should raise the
seige; that if they refused, we must hang her before their eyes. I
had no longer any doubts about the truth of what she had told me.
When victory appeared to declare for us they forgot the captive. But I
noticed the crafty John quitting the culverin which he so loved to
fire, and creeping away like a cat into the darkness. A feeling of
ungovernable jealousy seized me. I threw down my gun and dashed after
him, knife in hand, resolved, I believe, to stab him if he attempted to
touch what I considered my booty. I saw him approach the door, try to
open it, peer attentively through the keyhole, to assure himself that
his prey had not escaped him. Suddenly shots were heard again. He sprang
to his maimed feet with that marvellous agility of his, and limped off
to the ramparts. For myself, hidden as I was by the darkness, I let him
pass and did not follow. A passion other than the love of slaughter had
just taken possession of me. A flash of jealousy had fired my senses.
The smell of powder, the sight of blood, the noise, the danger, and the
many bumpers of brandy we had passed round to keep up our strength had
strangely heated my brain. I took the key from my belt and opened the
door noisily. And now, as I stood before my captive again, I was no
longer the suspicious and clumsy novice she had so easily moved to pity:
I was the wild outlaw of Roche-Mauprat, a hundred times more dangerous
than at first. She rushed towards me eagerly. I opened my arms to
catch her; instead of being frightened she threw herself into them,
exclaiming:
“Well! and my father?”
“Your father,” I said, kissing her, “is not there. At the present moment
there is no question either of him or of you. We have brought down a
dozen gendarmes, that is all. Victory, as usual, is declaring for us.
So, don’t trouble yourself any more about your father; and I, I won’t
trouble myself further about the King’s men. Let us live in peace and
rejoice in love.”
With these words I raised to my lips a goblet of wine which had been
left on the table. But she took it out of my hands with an air of
authority that made me all the bolder.
“Don’t drink any more,” she said; “think seriously of what you are
saying. Is what you tell me true? Will you answer for it on your honour,
on the soul of your mother?”
“Every word is true; I swear it by your pretty rosy lips,” I replied,
trying to kiss her again.
But she drew back in terror.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, “he is drunk! Bernard! Bernard! remember
what you promised; do not break your word. You have not forgotten, have
you, that I am your kinswoman, your sister?”
“You are my mistress or my wife,” I answered, still pursuing her.
“You are a contemptible creature!” she rejoined, repulsing me with her
riding whip. “What have you done that I should be aught to you? Have you
helped my father?”
“I swore to help him; and I would have helped him if he had been there;
it is just the same, therefore, as if I really had. But, had he been
there, and had I tried to save him and failed, do you know that for
this treachery Roche-Mauprat could not have provided any instrument of
torture cruel enough and slow enough to drag the life out of me inch by
inch? For all I know, they may actually have heard my vow; I proclaimed
it loudly enough. But what do I care? I set little store by a couple of
days more or less of life. But I do set some store by your favour, my
beauty. I don’t want to be the languishing knight that every one laughs
at. Come, now, love me at once; or, my word, I will return to the fight,
and if I am killed, so much the worse for you. You will no longer have
a knight to help you, and you will still have seven Mauprats to keep at
bay. I’m afraid you are not strong enough for that rough work, my pretty
little love-bird.”
These words, which I threw out at random, merely to distract her
attention so that I might seize her hands or her waist, made a deep
impression on her. She fled to the other end of the hall, and tried
to force open the window; but her little hands could not even move the
heavy leaden sash in the rusty ironwork. Her efforts made me laugh. She
clasped her hands in terror, and remained motionless. Then all at once
the expression of her face changed. She seemed to have resolved how to
act, and came toward me smiling and with outstretched hand. So beautiful
was she thus that a mist came over my eyes and for a moment I saw her
not.
Ah, gentlemen, forgive my childishness. I must tell you how she was
dressed. After that weird night she never wore that costume again, and
yet I can remember it so exactly. It is a long, long time ago. But were
I to live as long as I have already lived again, I should not forget
a single detail, so much was I struck by it amid the tumult that
was raging within me and without; amid the din of shots striking
the ramparts, the lightning flashes ripping the sky, and the violent
palpitations which sent my blood surging from my heart to my brain, and
from my head to my breast.
Oh, how lovely she was! It seems as if her shade were even now
passing before my eyes. Yes; I fancy I see her in the same dress, the
riding-habit which used to be worn in those days. The skirt of it was of
cloth and very full; round the waist was a red sash, while a waistcoat
of pearl-gray satin, fastened with buttons, fitted closely to the
figure; over this was a hunting-jacket, trimmed with lace, short and
open in front; the hat, of gray felt, with a broad brim turned up in
front, was crowned with half a dozen red feathers. The hair, which was
not powdered, was drawn back from the face and fell down in two long
plaits, like those of the Bernese women. Edmee’s were so long that they
almost reached the ground.
Her garb, to me so strangely fascinating, her youth and beauty, and the
favour with which she now seemed to regard my pretensions, combined to
make me mad with love and joy. I could imagine nothing more beautiful
than a lovely woman yielding without coarse words, and without tears of
shame. My first impulse was to take her in my arms; but, as if overcome
by that irresistible longing to worship which characterizes a first
love, even with the grossest of beings, I fell down before her and
pressed her knees to my breast; and yet, on my own supposition, it was
to a shameless wanton that this homage was paid. I was none the less
nigh to swooning from bliss.
She took my head between her two beautiful hands, and exclaimed:
“Ah, I was right! I knew quite well that you were not one of those
reprobates. You are going to save me, aren’t you? Thank God! How I
thank you, O God! Must we jump from the window? Oh, I am not afraid;
come--come!”
I seemed as if awakened from a dream, and, I confess, the awakening was
not a little painful.
“What does this mean?” I asked, as I rose to my feet. “Are you still
jesting with me? Do you not know where you are? Do you think that I am a
child?”
“I know that I am at Roche-Mauprat,” she replied, turning pale again,
“and that I shall be outraged and assassinated in a couple of hours, if
meanwhile I do not succeed in inspiring you with some pity. But I shall
succeed,” she cried, falling at my feet in her turn; “you are not one of
those men. You are too young to be a monster like them. I could see from
your eyes that you pitied me. You will help me to escape, won’t you,
won’t you, my dear heart?”
She took my hands and kissed them frenziedly, in the hope of moving me.
I listened and looked at her with a sullen stupidity scarcely calculated
to reassure her. My heart was naturally but little accessible to
feelings of generosity and compassion, and at this moment a passion
stronger than all the rest was keeping down the impulse she had striven
to arouse. I devoured her with my eyes, and made no effort to understand
her words. I only wished to discover whether I was pleasing to her, or
whether she was trying to make use of me to effect her escape.
“I see that you are afraid,” I said. “You are wrong to be afraid of
me. I shall certainly not do you any harm. You are too pretty for me to
think of anything but of caressing you.”
“Yes; but your uncles will kill me,” she cried; “you know they will.
Surely you would not have me killed? Since you love me, save me; I will
love you afterwards.”
“Oh, yes; afterwards, afterwards,” I answered, laughing with a silly,
unbelieving air; “after you have had me hanged by those gendarmes to
whom I have just given such a drubbing. Come, now; prove that you
love me at once; I will save you afterwards. You see, I can talk about
‘afterwards’ too.”
I pursued her round the room. Though she fled from me, she gave no signs
of anger, and still appealed to me with soft words. In me the poor girl
was husbanding her one hope, and was fearful of losing it. Ah, if I had
only been able to realize what such a woman as she was, and what my own
position meant! But I was unable then. I had but one fixed idea--the
idea which a wolf may have on a like occasion.
At last, as my only answer to all her entreaties was, “Do you love me,
or are you fooling me?” she saw what a brute she had to deal with, and,
making up her mind accordingly, she came towards me, threw her arms
round my neck, hid her face in my bosom, and let me kiss her hair. Then
she put me gently from her, saying:
“Ah, mon Dieu! don’t you see how I love you--how I could not help loving
you from the very first moment I saw you? But don’t you understand that
I hate your uncles, and that I would be yours alone?”
“Yes,” I replied, obstinately, “because you say to yourself: ‘This is a
booby whom I shall persuade to do anything I wish, by telling him that
I love him; he will believe it, and I will take him away to be hanged.’
Come; there is only one word which will serve if you love me.”
She looked at me with an agonized air. I sought to press my lips to hers
whenever her head was not turned away. I held her hands in mine. She was
powerless now to do more than delay the hour of her defeat. Suddenly
the colour rushed back to the pale face; she began to smile; and with an
expression of angelic coquetry, she asked:
“And you--do you love me?”
From this moment the victory was hers. I no longer had power to will
what I wished. The lynx in me was subdued; the man rose in its place;
and I believe that my voice had a human ring, as I cried for the first
time in my life:
“Yes, I love you! Yes, I love you!”
“Well, then,” she said, distractedly, and in a caressing tone, “let us
love each other and escape together.”
“Yes, let us escape,” I answered. “I loathe this house, and I loathe my
uncles. I have long wanted to escape. And yet I shall only be hanged,
you know.”
“They won’t hang you,” she rejoined with a laugh; “my betrothed is a
lieutenant-general.”
“Your betrothed!” I cried, in a fresh fit of jealousy more violent than
the first. “You are going to be married?”
“And why not?” she replied, watching me attentively.