“In that case, . . .” I said, trying to carry her off in my arms.
“In that case,” she answered, giving me a little tap on the cheek, “I
see that you are jealous; but his must be a particular jealousy who at
ten o’clock yearns for his mistress, only to hand her over at midnight
to eight drunken men who will return her to him on the morrow as foul as
the mud on the roads.”
“Ah, you are right!” I exclaimed. “Go, then; go. I would defend you to
the last drop of my blood; but I should be vanquished by numbers, and I
should die with the knowledge that you were left to them. How horrible!
I shudder to think of it. Come--you must go.”
“Yes! yes, my angel!” she cried, kissing me passionately on the cheek.
These caresses, the first a woman had given me since my childhood,
recalled, I know not how or why, my mother’s last kiss, and, instead of
pleasure, caused me profound sadness. I felt my eyes filling with tears.
Noticing this, she kissed my tears, repeating the while:
“Save me! Save me!”
“And your marriage?” I asked. “Oh! listen. Swear that you will not marry
before I die. You will not have to wait long; for my uncles administer
sound justice and swift, as they say.”
“You are not going to follow me, then?” she asked.
“Follow you? No; it is as well to be hanged here for helping you to
escape as to be hanged yonder for being a bandit. Here, at least, I
avoid a twofold shame: I shall not be accounted an informer, and shall
not be hanged in a public place.”
“I will not leave you here,” she cried, “though I die myself. Fly with
me. You run no risk, believe me. Before God, I declare you are safe.
Kill me, if I lie. But let us start--quickly. O God! I hear them
singing. They are coming this way. Ah, if you will not defend me, kill
me at once!”
She threw herself into my arms. Love and jealousy were gradually
overpowering me. Indeed, I even thought seriously of killing her; and I
kept my hand on my hunting-knife as long as I heard any noise or voices
near the hall. They were exulting in their victory. I cursed Heaven for
not giving it to our foes. I clasped Edmee to my breast, and we remained
motionless in each other’s arms, until a fresh report announced that the
fight was beginning again. Then I pressed her passionately to my heart.
“You remind me,” I said, “of a poor little dove which one day flew into
my jacket to escape from a kite, and tried to hide itself in my bosom.”
“And you did not give it up to the kite, did you?” asked Edmee.
“No, by all the devils! not any more than I shall give you up, you, the
prettiest of all the birds in the woods, to these vile night-birds that
are threatening you.”
“But how shall we escape?” she cried, terror-stricken by the volleys
they were firing.
“Easily,” I said. “Follow me.”
I seized a torch, and lifting a trap-door, I made her descend with me to
the cellar. Thence we passed into a subterranean passage hollowed out
of the rock. This, in bygone days had enabled the garrison, then more
numerous, to venture upon an important move in case of an attack; some
of the besieged would emerge into the open country on the side opposite
the portcullis and fall on the rear of the besiegers, who were thus
caught between two fires. But many years had passed since the garrison
of Roche-Mauprat was large enough to be divided into two bodies; and
besides, during the night it would have been folly to venture beyond the
walls. We arrived, therefore, at the exit of the passage without meeting
with any obstacle. But at the last moment I was seized with a fit of
madness. I threw down my torch, and leaned against the door.
“You shall not go out from here,” I said to the trembling Edmee,
“without promising to be mine.”
We were in darkness; the noise of the fight no longer reached us. Before
any one could surprise us here we had ample time to escape. Everything
was in my favour. Edmee was now at the mercy of my caprice. When she saw
that the seductions of her beauty could no longer rouse me to ecstasy,
she ceased to implore, and drew backward a few steps.
“Open the door,” she said, “and go out first, or I will kill myself.
See, I have your hunting-knife. You left it by the side of the
trap-door. To return to your uncles you will have to walk through my
blood.”
Her resolute manner frightened me.
“Give me that knife,” I said, “or, be the consequences what they may, I
will take it from you by force.”
“Do you think I am afraid to die?” she said calmly. “If this knife had
only been in my hand yonder in the chateau, I should not have humbled
myself before you.”
“Confound it!” I cried, “you have deceived me. Your love is a sham.
Begone! I despise you. I will not follow such as you.”
At the same time I opened the door.
“I would not go without you,” she cried; “and you--you would not have me
go without dishonour. Which of us is the more generous?”
“You are mad,” I said. “You have lied to me; and you do not know what to
do to make a fool of me. However, you shall not go out from here without
swearing that your marriage with the lieutenant-general or any other man
shall not take place before you have been my mistress.”
“Your mistress!” she said. “Are you dreaming? Could you not at least
soften the insult by saying your wife?”
“That is what any one of my uncles would say in my place; because they
would care only about your dowry. But I--I yearn for nothing but your
beauty. Swear, then, that you will be mine first; afterwards you shall
be free, on my honour. And if my jealousy prove so fierce that it may
not be borne, well, since a man may not go from his word, I will blow my
brains out.”
“I swear,” said Edmee, “to be no man’s before being yours.”
“That is not it. Swear to be mine before being any other’s.”
“It is the same thing,” she answered. “Yes; I swear it.”
“On the gospel? On the name of Christ? By the salvation of your soul? By
the memory of your mother?”
“On the gospel; in the name of Christ; by the salvation of my soul; by
the memory of my mother.”
“Good.”
“One moment,” she rejoined; “I want you to swear that my promise and its
fulfilment shall remain a secret; that my father shall never know it, or
any person who might tell him.”
“No one in the world shall hear it from me. Why should I want others to
know, provided only that you keep your word?”
She made me repeat the formula of an oath. Then we hurried forth into
the open, holding each other’s hands as a sign of mutual trust.
But now our flight became dangerous. Edmee feared the besiegers almost
as much as the besieged. We were fortunate enough not to meet any.
Still, it was by no means easy to move quickly. The night was so dark
that we were continually running against trees, and the ground was so
slippery that we were unable to avoid falls. A sudden noise made
us start; but, from the rattle of the chain fixed on its foot,
I immediately recognised my grandfather’s horse, an animal of an
extraordinary age, but still strong and spirited. It was the very horse
that had brought me to Roche-Mauprat ten years before. At present the
only thing that would serve as a bridle was the rope round its neck. I
passed this through its mouth, and I threw my jacket over the crupper
and helped my companion to mount; I undid the chain, sprang on the
animal’s back, and urging it on desperately, made it set off at a
gallop, happen what might. Luckily for us, it knew the paths better
than I, and, as if by instinct, followed their windings without knocking
against any trees. However, it frequently slipped, and in recovering
itself, gave us such jolts that we should have lost our seats a thousand
times (equipped as we were) had we not been hanging between life and
death. In such a strait desperate ventures are best, and God protects
those whom man pursues. We were congratulating ourselves on being out of
danger, when all at once the horse struck against a stump, and catching
his hoof in a root on the ground, fell down. Before we were up he had
made off into the darkness, and I could hear him galloping farther and
farther away. As we fell I had caught Edmee in my arms. She was unhurt.
My own ankle, however, was sprained so severely that it was impossible
for me to move a step. Edmee thought that my leg had been broken. I was
inclined to think so myself, so great was the pain; but soon I thought
no further either of my agony or my anxiety. Edmee’s tender solicitude
made me forget everything. It was in vain that I urged her to continue
her flight without me. I pointed out that she could now escape alone;
that we were some distance from the chateau; that day would soon
be breaking; that she would be certain to find some house, and that
everywhere the people would protect her against the Mauprats.
“I will not leave you,” she persisted in answering. “You have devoted
yourself to me; I will show the same devotion to you. We will both
escape, or we will die together.”
“I am not mistaken,” I cried; “it is a light that I see between the
branches. Edmee, there is a house yonder; go and knock at the door. You
need not feel anxious about leaving me here; and you will find a guide
to take you home.”
“Whatever happens,” she said, “I will not leave you; but I will try to
find some one to help you.”
“Yet, no,” I said, “I will not let you knock at that door alone. That
light, in the middle of the night, in a house situated in the heart of
the woods, may be a lure.”
I dragged myself as far as the door. It felt cold, as if of metal. The
walls were covered with ivy.
“Who is there?” cried some one within, before we had knocked.
“We are saved!” cried Edmee; “it is Patience’s voice.”
“We are lost!” I said; “he and I are mortal enemies.
“Fear nothing,” she said; “follow me. It was God that led us here.”
“Yes, it was God that led you here, daughter of Heaven, morning star!”
said Patience, opening the door; “and whoever is with you is welcome too
at Gazeau Tower.”
We entered under a surbased vault, in the middle of which hung an iron
lamp. By the light of this dismal luminary and of a handful of brushwood
which was blazing on the hearth we saw, not without surprise, that
Gazeau Tower was exceptionally honoured with visitors. On one side the
light fell upon the pale and serious face of a man in clerical garb. On
the other, a broad-brimmed hat overshadowed a sort of olive-green cone
terminating in a scanty beard; and on the wall could be seen the shadow
of a nose so distinctly tapered that nothing in the world might compare
with it except, perhaps, a long rapier lying across the knees of the
personage in question, and a little dog’s face which, from its pointed
shape, might have been mistaken for that of a gigantic rat. In fact, it
seemed as if a mysterious harmony reigned between these three salient
points--the nose of Don Marcasse, his dog’s snout, and the blade of his
sword. He got up slowly and raised his hand to his hat. The Jansenist
cure did the same. The dog thrust its head forward between its master’s
legs, and, silent like him, showed its teeth and put back its ears
without barking.
“Quiet, Blaireau!” said Marcasse to it.