No sooner had the cure recognised Edmee than he started back with an
exclamation of surprise. But this was nothing to the stupefaction of
Patience when he had examined my features by the light of the burning
brand that served him as torch.
“The lamb in the company of the wolf!” he cried. “What has happened,
then?”
“My friend,” replied Edmee, putting, to my infinite astonishment, her
little white hand into the sorcerer’s big rough palm, “welcome him as
you welcome me. I was a prisoner at Roche-Mauprat, and it was he who
rescued me.”
“May the sins of his fathers be forgiven him for this act!” said the
cure.
Patience took me by the arm, without saying anything, and led me nearer
the fire. They seated me on the only chair in the house, and the cure
took upon himself the task of attending to my leg, while Edmee gave an
account, up to a certain point, of our adventure. Then she asked for
information about the hunt and about her father. Patience, however,
could give her no news. He had heard the horn in the woods, and the
firing at the wolves had disturbed his tranquility several times during
the day. But since the storm broke over them the noise of the wind had
drowned all other sounds, and he knew nothing of what was taking place
in Varenne. Marcasse, meanwhile, had very nimbly climbed a ladder which
served as an approach to the upper stories of the house, now that the
staircase was broken. His dog followed him with marvellous skill.
Soon they came down again, and we learned that a red light could be
distinguished on the horizon in the direction of Roche-Mauprat. In spite
of the loathing I had for this place and its owners, I could not repress
a feeling very much like consternation on hearing that the hereditary
manor which bore my own name had apparently been taken and set on fire.
It meant disgrace, defeat; and this fire was as a seal of vassalage
affixed to my arms by those I called clodhoppers and serfs. I sprang up
from my chair, and had I not been held back by the violent pain in my
foot, I believe I should have rushed out.
“What is the matter?” said Edmee, who was by my side at the time.
“The matter is,” I answered abruptly, “that I must return yonder; for
it is my duty to get killed rather than let my uncles parley with the
rabble.”
“The rabble!” cried Patience, addressing me for the first time since I
arrived. “Who dares to talk of rabble here? I myself am of the rabble.
It is my title, and I shall know how to make it respected.”
“By Jove! Not by me,” I said, pushing away the cure, who had made me sit
down again.
“And yet it would not be for the first time,” replied Patience, with a
contemptuous smile.
“You remind me,” I answered, “that we two have some old accounts to
settle.”
And heedless of the frightful agony caused by my sprain, I rose again,
and with a backhander I sent Don Marcasse, who was endeavouring the play
the cure’s part of peacemaker, head over heels into the middle of the
ashes. I did not mean him any harm, but my movements were somewhat
rough, and the poor man was so frail that to my hand he was but as a
weasel would have been to his own. Patience was standing before me with
his arms crossed, in the attitude of a stoic philosopher, but the fire
was flashing in his eyes. Conscious of his position as my host, he was
evidently waiting until I struck the first blow before attempting
to crush me. I should not have kept him waiting long, had not Edmee,
scorning the danger of interfering with a madman, seized my arm and
said, in an authoritative tone:
“Sit down again, and be quiet; I command you.”
So much boldness and confidence surprised and pleased me at the same
time. The rights which she arrogated to herself over me were, in some
measure, a sanction of those I claimed to have over her.
“You are right,” I answered, sitting down.
And I added, with a glance at Patience:
“Some other time.”
“Amen,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Marcasse had picked himself up with much composure, and shaking off the
ashes with which he was covered, instead of finding fault with me, he
tried, after his fashion to lecture Patience. This was in reality by no
means easy to do; yet nothing could have been less irritating than that
monosyllabic censure throwing out its little note in the thick of a
quarrel like an echo in a storm.
“At your age,” he said to his host; “not patient at all. Wholly to
blame--yes--wrong--you!”
“How naughty you are!” Edmee said to me, putting her hand on my
shoulder; “do not begin again, or I shall go away and leave you.”
I willingly let myself be scolded by her; nor did I realize that during
the last minutes we had exchanged parts. The moment we crossed the
threshold of Gazeau Tower she had given evidence of that superiority
over me which was really hers. This wild place, too, these strange
witnesses, this fierce host, had already furnished a taste of the
society into which I had entered, and whose fetters I was soon to feel.
“Come,” she said, turning to Patience, “we do not understand each other
here; and, for my part, I am devoured by anxiety about my poor father,
who is no doubt searching for me, and wringing his hands at this very
moment. My good Patience, do find me some means of rejoining him with
this unfortunate boy, whom I dare not leave to your care, since you have
not sufficient love for me to be patient and compassionate with him.”
“What do you say?” said Patience, putting his hand to his brow as if
waking from a dream. “Yes, you are right; I am an old brute, an old
fool. Daughter of God, tell this boy, this nobleman, that I ask his
pardon for the past, and that, for the present, my poor cell is at his
disposal. Is that well said?”
“Yes, Patience,” answered the cure. “Besides, everything may be managed.
My horse is quiet and steady, and Mademoiselle de Mauprat can ride it,
while you and Marcasse lead it by the bridle. For myself, I will remain
here with our invalid. I promise to take good care of him and not to
annoy him in any way. That will do, won’t it, Monsieur Bernard? You
don’t bear me any ill-will, and you may be very sure that I am not your
enemy.”
“I know nothing about it,” I answered; “it is as you please. Look after
my cousin; take her home safely. For my own part, I need nothing and
care for no one. A bundle of straw and a glass of wine, that is all I
should like, if it were possible to have them.”
“You shall have both,” said Marcasse, handing me his flask, “but first
of all here is something to cheer you up. I am going to the stable to
get the horse ready.”
“No, I will go myself,” said Patience; “you see to the wants of this
young man.”
And he passed into another lower hall, which served as a stable for
the cure’s horse during the visits which the good priest paid him. They
brought the animal through the room where we were; and Patience, after
arranging the cure’s cloak on the saddle, with fatherly care helped
Edmee to mount.
“One moment,” she said, before letting them lead her out. “Monsieur le
Cure, will you promise me on the salvation of your soul not to leave my
cousin before I return with my father to fetch him?”
“I promise solemnly,” replied the cure.
“And you, Bernard,” said Edmee, “will you give me your word of honour to
wait for me here?”
“I can’t say,” I answered; “that will depend on the length of your
absence and on my patience; but you know quite well, cousin, that we
shall meet again, even if it be in hell; and for my part, the sooner the
better.”
By the light of the brand which Patience was holding to examine the
horse’s harness, I saw her beautiful face flush and then turn pale. Then
she raised her eyes which had been lowered in sorrow, and looked at me
fixedly with a strange expression.
“Are we ready to start?” said Marcasse, opening the door.
“Yes, forward,” said Patience, taking the bridle. “Edmee, my child, take
care to bend down while passing under the door.”
“What is the matter, Blaireau?” said Marcasse, stopping on the threshold
and thrusting out the point of his sword, gloriously rusted by the blood
of the rodent tribe.
Blaireau did not stir, and if he had not been born dumb, as his master
said, he would have barked. But he gave warning as usual by a sort of
dry cough. This was his most emphatic sign of anger and uneasiness.
“There must be something down there,” said Marcasse; and he boldly
advanced into the darkness, after making a sign to the rider not to
follow. The report of firearms made us all start. Edmee jumped down
lightly from her horse, and I did not fail to notice that some impulse
at once prompted her to come and stand behind my chair. Patience rushed
out of the tower. The cure ran to the frightened horse, which was
rearing and backing toward us. Blaireau managed to bark. I forgot my
sprain, and in a single bound I was outside.
A man covered with wounds, and with the blood streaming from him, was
lying across the doorway. It was my Uncle Laurence. He had been mortally
wounded at the siege of Roche-Mauprat, and had come to die under our
eyes. With him was his brother Leonard, who had just fired his last
pistol shot at random, luckily without hitting any one. Patience’s
first impulse was to prepare to defend himself. On recognising Marcasse,
however, the fugitives, far from showing themselves hostile, asked for
shelter and help. As their situation was so desperate no one thought
that assistance should be refused. The police were pursuing them.
Roche-Mauprat was in flames; Louis and Peter had died fighting; Antony,
John, and Walter had fled in another direction, and, perhaps, were
already prisoners. No words would paint the horror of Laurence’s last
moments. His agony was brief but terrible. His blasphemy made the cure
turn pale. Scarce had the door been shut and the dying man laid on the
floor than the horrible death-rattle was heard. Leonard, who knew of no
remedy but brandy, snatched Marcasse’s flask out of my hand (not without
swearing and scornfully reproaching me for my flight), forced open his
brother’s clinched teeth with the blade of his hunting-knife, and,
in spite of our warning, poured half the flask down his throat. The
wretched man bounded into the air, brandished his arms in desperate
convulsions, drew himself up to his full height, and fell back stone
dead upon the blood-stained floor. There was no time to offer up a
prayer over the body, for the door resounded under the furious blows of
our assailants.
“Open in the King’s name!” cried several voices; “open to the police!”
“Help! help!” cried Leonard, seizing his knife and rushing towards the
door. “Peasants, prove yourselves nobles! And you, Bernard, atone for
your fault; wash out your shame; do not let a Mauprat fall into the
hands of the gendarmes alive!”
Urged on by native courage and by pride, I was about to follow his
example, when Patience rushed at him, and exerting his herculean
strength, threw him to the ground. Putting one knee on his chest, he
called to Marcasse to open the door. This was done before I could take
my uncle’s part against his terrible assailant. Six gendarmes at once
rushed into the tower and, with their guns pointed, bade us move at our
peril.
“Stay, gentlemen,” said Patience, “don’t harm any one. This is your
prisoner. Had I been alone with him, I should either have defended him
or helped him to escape; but there are honest people here who ought not
to suffer for a knave; and I did not wish to expose them to a fight.
Here is the Mauprat. Your duty, as you know, is to deliver him safe and
sound into the hands of justice. This other is dead.”
“Monsieur, surrender!” said the sergeant of the gendarmes, laying his
hand on Leonard.
“Never shall a Mauprat drag his name into the dock of a police court,”
replied Leonard, with a sullen expression. “I surrender, but you will
get nothing but my skin.”
And he allowed himself to be placed in a chair without making any
resistance.
But while they were preparing to bind him he said to the cure:
“Do me one last kindness, Father. Give me what is left in the flask; I
am dying of thirst and exhaustion.”
The good cure handed him the flask, which he emptied at a draught. His
distorted face took on an expression of awful calm. He seemed absorbed,
stunned, incapable of resistance. But as soon as they were engaged
in binding his feet, he snatched a pistol from the belt of one of the
gendarmes and blew his brains out.
This frightful spectacle completely unnerved me. Sunk in a dull stupor,
no longer conscious of what was happening around me, I stood there as if
turned to stone, and it was only after some minutes that I realized
that I was the subject of a serious discussion between the police and
my hosts. One of the gendarmes declared that he recognised me as a
Hamstringer Mauprat. Patience declared that I was nothing but M. Hubert
de Mauprat’s gamekeeper, in charge of his daughter. Annoyed at the
discussion, I was about to make myself known when I saw a ghost rise
by my side. It was Edmee. She had taken refuge between the wall and the
cure’s poor frightened horse, which, with outstretched legs and eyes
of fire, made her a sort of rampart with its body. She was as pale as
death, and her lips were so compressed with horror that at first, in
spite of desperate efforts to speak, she was unable to express herself
otherwise than by signs. The sergeant, moved by her youth and her
painful situation, waited with deference until she could manage to make
herself understood. At last she persuaded them not to treat me as a
prisoner, but to take me with her to her father’s chateau, where she
gave her word of honour that satisfactory explanations and guarantees
would be furnished on my account. The cure and the other witnesses,
having pledged their words to this, we set out all together, Edmee
on the sergeant’s horse, he on an animal belonging to one of his men,
myself on the cure’s, Patience and the cure afoot between us, the police
on either side, and Marcasse in front, still impassive amid the general
terror and consternation. Two of the gendarmes remained behind to guard
the bodies and prepare a report.