We had travelled about a league through the woods. Wherever other paths
had crossed our own, we had stopped to call aloud; for Edmee, convinced
that her father would not return home without finding her, had implored
her companions to help her to rejoin him. To this shouting the gendarmes
had been very averse, as they were afraid of being discovered and
attacked by bodies of the fugitives from Roche-Mauprat. On our way they
informed us that this den had been captured at the third assault. Until
then the assailants had husbanded their forces. The officer in command
of the gendarmes was anxious to get possession of the keep without
destroying it; and, above all, to take the defenders alive. This,
however, was impossible on account of the desperate resistance they
made. The besiegers suffered so severely in their second attempt that
they found themselves compelled to adopt extreme measures or to retreat.
They therefore set the outer buildings on fire, and in the ensuing
assault put forth all their strength. Two Mauprats were killed while
fighting on the ruins of their bastion; the other five disappeared. Six
men were dispatched in pursuit of them in one direction, six in another.
Traces of the fugitives had been discovered immediately, and the men who
gave us these details had followed Laurence and Leonard so closely that
several of their shots had hit the former only a short distance from
Gazeau Tower. They had heard him cry that he was done for; and, as far
as they could see, Leonard had carried him to the sorcerer’s door. This
Leonard was the only one of my uncles who deserved any pity, for he was
the only one who might, perhaps, have been encouraged to a better kind
of life. At times there was a touch of chivalry in his brigandage,
and his savage heart was capable of affection. I was deeply moved,
therefore, by his tragic death, and let myself be carried along
mechanically, plunged in gloomy thoughts, and determined to end my days
in the same manner should I ever be condemned to the disgrace he had
scorned to endure.
All at once the sound of horns and the baying of hounds announced the
approach of a party of huntsmen. While we, on our side, were answering
with shouts, Patience ran to meet them. Edmee, longing to see her father
again, and forgetting all the horrors of this bloody night, whipped
up her horse and reached the hunters first. As soon as we came up with
them, I saw Edmee in the arms of a tall man with a venerable face. He
was richly dressed; his hunting-coat, with gold lace over all the seams,
and the magnificent Norman horse, which a groom was holding behind him,
so struck me that I thought I was in the presence of a prince. The signs
of love which he was showing his daughter were so new to me that I was
inclined to deem them exaggerated and unworthy of the dignity of a man.
At the same time they filled me with a sort of brute jealousy; for it
did not occur to my mind that a man so splendidly dressed could be
my uncle. Edmee was speaking to him in a low voice, but with great
animation. Their conversation lasted a few moments. At the end of it the
old man came and embraced me cordially. Everything about these manners
seemed so new to me, that I responded neither by word nor gesture to the
protestations and caresses of which I was the object. A tall young man,
with a handsome face, as elegantly dressed as M. Hubert, also came and
shook my hand and proffered thanks; why, I could not understand. He next
entered into a discussion with the gendarmes, and I gathered that he was
the lieutenant-general of the province, and that he was ordering them
to set me at liberty for the present, that I might accompany my uncle to
his chateau, where he undertook to be responsible for me. The gendarmes
then left us, for the chevalier and the lieutenant-general were
sufficiently well escorted by their own men not to fear attack from
any one. A fresh cause of astonishment for me was to see the chevalier
bestowing marks of warm friendship on Patience and Marcasse. As for the
cure, he was upon a footing of equality with these seigneurs. For some
months he had been chaplain at the chateau of Saint-Severe, having
previously been compelled to give up his living by the persecutions of
the diocesan clergy.
All this tenderness of which Edmee was the object, this family affection
so completely new to me, the genuinely cordial relations existing
between respectful plebeians and kindly patricians--everything that I
now saw and heard seemed like a dream. I looked on with a sensation that
it was all unintelligible to me. However, soon after our caravan started
my brain began to work; for I then saw the lieutenant-general (M. de
la Marche) thrust his horse between Edmee’s and my own, as if he had a
right to be next to her. I remembered her telling me at Roche-Mauprat
that he was her betrothed. Hatred and anger at once surged up within me,
and I know not what absurdity I should have committed, had not Edmee,
apparently divining the workings of my unruly soul, told him that she
wanted to speak to me, and thus restored me to my place by her side.
“What have you to say to me?” I asked with more eagerness than
politeness.
“Nothing,” she answered in an undertone. “I shall have much to say
later. Until then will you do everything I ask of you?”
“And why the devil should I do everything you ask of me, cousin?”
For a moment she hesitated to reply; then, making an effort, she said:
“Because it is thus that a man proves to a woman that he loves her.”
“Do you believe that I don’t love you?” I replied abruptly.
“How should I know?” she said.
This doubt astonished me very much, and I tried to combat it after my
fashion.
“Are you not beautiful?” I said; “and am not I a young man? Perhaps you
think I am too much of a boy to notice a woman’s beauty; but now that my
head is calm, and I am sad and quite serious, I can assure you that I am
even more deeply in love with you than I thought. The more I look at you
the more beautiful you seem. I did not think that a woman could be so
lovely. I tell you I shall not sleep till . . .”
“Hold your tongue,” she said sharply.
“Oh, I suppose you are afraid that man will hear me,” I answered,
pointing to M. de la Marche. “Have no fear; I know how to keep my word;
and, as you are the daughter of a noble house, I hope you know how to
keep yours.”
She did not reply. We had reached a part of the road where it was
only possible for two to walk abreast. The darkness was profound, and
although the chevalier and the lieutenant-general were at our heels, I
was going to make bold to put my arm round her waist, when she said to
me, in a sad and weary voice:
“Cousin, forgive me for not talking to you. I’m afraid I did not quite
understand what you said. I am so exhausted that I feel as if I were
going to die. Luckily, we have reached home now. Promise me that you
will love my father, that you will yield to all his wishes, that you
will decide nothing without consulting me. Promise me this if you would
have me believe in your friendship.”
“Oh, my friendship? you are welcome not to believe in that,” I answered;
“but you must believe in my love. I promise everything you wish. And
you, will you not promise me anything? Do, now, with a good grace.”
“What can I promise that is not yours?” she said in a serious tone. “You
saved my honour; my life belongs to you.”
The first glimmerings of dawn were now beginning to light the horizon.
We had reached the village of Saint-Severe, and soon afterward we
entered the courtyard of the chateau. On dismounting from her horse
Edmee fell into her father’s arms; she was as pale as death. M. de la
Marche uttered a cry, and helped to carry her away. She had fainted.
The cure took charge of me. I was very uneasy about my fate. The natural
distrust of the brigand sprang up again as soon as I ceased to be under
the spell of her who had managed to lure me from my den. I was like a
wounded wolf; I cast sullen glances about me, ready to rush at the first
being who should stir my suspicions by a doubtful word or deed. I was
taken into a splendid room, and a meal, prepared with a luxury far
beyond anything I could have conceived, was immediately served. The
cure displayed the kindest interest in me; and, having succeeded in
reassuring me a little, he went to attend to his friend Patience. The
disturbed state of my mind and my remnant of uneasiness were not
proof against the generous appetite of youth. Had it not been for the
respectful assiduity of a valet much better dressed than myself, who
stood behind my chair, and whose politeness I could not help returning
whenever he hastened to anticipate my wants, I should have made
a terrific breakfast; as it was, the green coat and silk breeches
embarrassed me considerably. It was much worse when, going down on his
knees, he set about taking off my boots preparatory to putting me to
bed. For the moment I thought he was playing a trick upon me, and came
very near giving him a good blow on the head; but his manner was so
serious as he went through this task that I sat and stared at him in
amazement.
At first, at finding myself in bed without arms, and with people
entering and leaving my room always on tip-toe, I again began to feel
suspicious. I took advantage of a moment when I was alone to get out of
bed and take from the table, which was only half cleared, the longest
knife I could find. Feeling easier in my mind, I returned to bed and
fell into a sound sleep, with the knife firmly clasped in my hand.
When I awoke again the rays of the setting sun, softened by my red
damask curtains, were falling on my beautifully fine sheets and lighting
up the golden pomegranates that adorned the corners of the bed. This bed
was so handsome and soft that I felt inclined to make it my apologies
for having slept in it. As I was about to get up I saw a kindly,
venerable face looking through the half-drawn curtains and smiling. It
was the Chevalier Hubert de Mauprat. He inquired anxiously about
the state of my health. I endeavoured to be polite and to express my
gratitude; but the language I used seemed so different from his that
I was disconcerted and pained at my awkwardness without being able to
realize why. To crown my misery, a movement that I made caused the
knife which I had taken as bedfellow to fall at M. de Mauprat’s feet. He
picked it up, looked at it, and then at myself with extreme surprise. I
turned as red as fire and stammered out I know not what. I expected he
would reprove me for this insult to his hospitality. However, he was too
polite to insist upon a more complete explanation. He quietly placed the
knife on the mantel-piece and, returning to me, spoke as follows:
“Bernard, I now know that I owe to you the life that I hold dearest in
the world. All my own life shall be devoted to giving you proofs of my
gratitude and esteem. My daughter also is sacredly indebted to you. You
need, then, have no anxiety about your future. I know what persecution
and vengeance you exposed yourself to in coming to us; but I know, too,
from what a frightful existence my friendship and devotion will be able
to deliver you. You are an orphan, and I have no son. Will you have me
for your father?”
I stared at the chevalier with wild eyes. I could not believe my ears.
All feeling within me seemed paralyzed by astonishment and timidity. I
was unable to answer a word. The chevalier himself evidently felt
some astonishment; he had not expected to find a nature so brutishly
ill-conditioned.
“Come,” he said; “I hope that you will grow accustomed to us. At all
events, shake hands, to show that you trust me. I will send up your
servant; give him your orders; he is at your disposal. I have only one
promise to exact from you, and that is that you will not go beyond the
walls of the park until I have taken steps to make you safe from the
pursuit of justice. At present it is possible that the charges which
have been hanging over your uncles’ heads might be made to fall on your
own.”
“My uncles!” I exclaimed, putting my hand to my brow. “Is this all a
hideous dream? Where are they? What has become of Roche-Mauprat?”
“Roche-Mauprat,” he answered, “has been saved from the flames. Only
a few of the outer buildings have been destroyed; but I undertake to
repair the house and to redeem your fief from the creditors who claim
it. As to your uncles . . . you are probably the sole heir of a name
that it behoves you to rehabilitate.”
“The sole heir?” I cried. “Four Mauprats fell last night; but the other
three . . .”
“The fifth, Walter, perished in his attempt to escape. His body was
discovered this morning in the pond of Les Froids. Neither John nor
Antony has been caught, but the horse belonging to one and a cloak of
the other’s, found near the spot where Walter’s body was lying, seem to
hint darkly that their fate was as his. Even if one of them manages to
escape, he will never dare make himself known again, for there would
be no hope for him. And since they have drawn down upon their heads
the inevitable storm, it is best, both for themselves and for us, who
unfortunately bear the same name, that they should have come to this
tragic end--better to have fallen weapon in hand, than to have suffered
an infamous death upon the gallows. Let us bow to what God has ordained
for them. It is a stern judgment; seven men in the pride of youth and
strength summoned in a single night to their terrible reckoning! . . .
We must pray for them, Bernard, and by dint of good works try to make
good the evil they have done, and remove the stains they have left on
our escutcheon.”
These concluding words summed up the chevalier’s whole character. He was
pious, just, and full of charity; but, with him, as with most nobles,
the precepts of Christian humility were wont to fall before the pride
of rank. He would gladly have had a poor man at his table, and on Good
Friday, indeed, he used to wash the feet of twelve beggars; but he was
none the less attached to all the prejudices of our caste. In trampling
under foot the dignity of man, my cousins, he considered, had,
as noblemen, been much more culpable than they would have been as
plebeians. On the latter hypothesis, according to him, their crimes
would not have been half so grave. For a long time I shared the
conviction myself; it was in my blood, if I may use the expression. I
lost it only in the stern lessons of my destiny.
He then confirmed what his daughter had told me. From my birth he had
earnestly desired to undertake my education. But his brother Tristan
had always stubbornly opposed this desire. There the chevalier’s brow
darkened.
“You do not know,” he said, “how baneful have been the consequences of
that simple wish of mine--baneful for me, and for you too. But that must
remain wrapped in mystery--a hideous mystery, the blood of the
Atridae. . . .”
He took my hand, and added, in a broken voice:
“Bernard, we are both of us victims of a vicious family. This is not
the moment to pile up charges against those who in this very hour are
standing before the terrible tribunal of God; but they have done me an
irreparable wrong--they have broken my heart. The wrong they have done
you shall be repaired--I swear it by the memory of your mother. They
have deprived you of education; they have made you a partner in their
brigandage; yet your soul has remained great and pure as was the soul of
the angel who gave you birth. You will correct the mistakes which others
made in your childhood; you will receive an education suitable to your
rank. And then, Bernard, you will restore the honour of your family. You
will, won’t you? Promise me this, Bernard. It is the one thing I long
for. I will throw myself at your knees if so I may win your confidence;
and I shall win it, for Providence has destined you to be my son. Ah,
once it was my dream that you should be more completely mine. If, when
I made my second petition, they had granted you to my loving care, you
would have been brought up with my daughter and you would certainly have
become her husband. But God would not have it so. You have now to begin
your education, whereas hers is almost finished. She is of an age to
marry; and, besides, her choice is already made. She loves M. de la
Marche; in fact, their marriage is soon to take place. Probably she had
told you.”
I stammered out a few confused words. The affection and generous ideas
of this noble man had moved me profoundly, and I was conscious of a new
nature, as it were, awakening within me. But when he pronounced the name
of his future son-in-law, all my savage instincts rose up again, and I
felt that no principle of social loyalty would make me renounce my claim
to her whom I regarded as my fairly won prize. I grew pale; I grew red;
I gasped for breath. Luckily, we were interrupted by the Abbe Aubert
(the Jansenist cure), who came to inquire how I was after my fall. Then
for the first time the chevalier heard of my accident; an incident that
had escaped him amid the press of so many more serious matters. He sent
for his doctor at once, and I was overwhelmed with kind attentions,
which seemed to me rather childish, but to which I submitted from a
sense of gratitude.
I had not dared to ask the chevalier for any news of his daughter. With
the abbe, however, I was bolder. He informed me that the length and
uneasiness of her sleep were causing some anxiety; and the doctor, when
he returned in the evening to dress my ankle, told me that she was very
feverish, and that he was afraid she was going to have some serious
illness.
For a few days, indeed, she was ill enough to cause anxiety. In the
terrible experience she had gone through she had displayed great energy;
but the reaction was correspondingly violent. For myself, I was also
kept to my bed. I could not take a step without feeling considerable
pain, and the doctor threatened that I should be laid up for several
months if I did not submit to inaction for a few days. As I was
otherwise in vigorous health, and had never been ill in my life, the
change from any active habits to this sluggish captivity caused me
indescribable _ennui_. Only those who have lived in the depths of woods,
and experienced all the hardships of a rough life, can understand the
kind of horror and despair I felt on finding myself shut up for more
than a week between four silk curtains. The luxuriousness of my room,
the gilding of my bed, the minute attentions of the lackeys, everything,
even to the excellence of the food--trifles which I had somewhat
appreciated the first day--became odious to me at the end of twenty-four
hours. The chevalier paid me affectionate but short visits; for he
was absorbed by the illness of his darling daughter. The abbe was all
kindness. To neither did I dare confess how wretched I felt; but when I
was alone I felt inclined to roar like a caged lion; and at night I had
dreams in which the moss in the woods, the curtain of forest trees, and
even the gloomy battlements of Roche-Mauprat, appeared to me like an
earthly paradise. At other times, the tragic scenes that had accompanied
and followed my escape were reproduced so vividly by my memory that,
even when awake, I was a prey to a sort of delirium.
A visit from M. de la Marche stirred my ideas to still wilder disorder.
He displayed the deepest interest in me, shook me by the hand again and
again, and implored my friendship, vowed a dozen times that he would lay
down his life for me, and made I don’t know how many other protestations
which I scarcely heard, for his voice was like a raging torrent in my
ears, and if I had had my hunting-knife I believe I should have thrown
myself upon him. My rough manners and sullen looks astonished him very
much; but, the abbe having explained that my mind was disturbed by
the terrible events which had happened in my family, he renewed his
protestations, and took leave of me in the most affectionate and
courteous manner.
This politeness which I found common to everybody, from the master
of the house to the meanest of his servants, though it struck me with
admiration, yet made me feel strangely ill at ease; for, even if it had
not been inspired by good-will towards me, I could never have brought
myself to understand that it might be something very different from real
goodness. It bore so little resemblance to the facetious braggadocio of
the Mauprats, that it seemed to me like an entirely new language, which
I understood but could not speak.
However, I recovered the power of speech when the abbe announced that
he was to have charge of my education, and began questioning me about
my attainments. My ignorance was so far beyond anything he could have
imagined that I was getting ashamed to lay it all bare; and, my savage
pride getting the upper hand, I declared that I was a gentleman, and had
no desire to become a clerk. His only answer was a burst of laughter,
which offended me greatly. He tapped me quickly on the shoulder, with
a good-natured smile, saying that I should change my mind in time, but
that I was certainly a funny fellow. I was purple with rage when the
chevalier entered. The abbe told him of our conversation and of my
little speech. M. Hubert suppressed a smile.
“My boy,” he said, in a kind tone, “I trust I may never do anything to
annoy you, even from affection. Let us talk no more about work to-day.
Before conceiving a taste for it you must first realize its necessity.
Since you have a noble heart you can not but have a sound mind; the
desire for knowledge will come to you of itself. And now to supper. I
expect you are hungry. Do you like wine?”
“Much better than Latin,” I replied.
“Come, abbe,” he continued laughingly, “as a punishment for having
played the pedant you must drink with us. Edmee is now quite out of
danger. The doctor has said that Bernard can get up and walk a few
steps. We will have supper served in this room.”
The supper and wine were so good, indeed, that I was not long in getting
tipsy, according to the Roche-Mauprat custom. I even saw they aided and
abetted, in order to make me talk, and show at once what species of boor
they had to deal with. My lack of education surpassed anything they had
anticipated; but I suppose they augured well from my native powers; for,
instead of giving me up, they laboured at the rough block with a zeal
which showed at least that they were not without hope. As soon as I was
able to leave my room I lost the feeling of _ennui_. The abbe was my
inseparable companion through the whole first day. The length of the
second was diminished by the hope they gave me of seeing Edmee on the
morrow, and by the kindness I experienced from every one. I began to
feel the charm of these gentle manners in proportion as I ceased to be
astonished at them. The never-failing goodness of the chevalier could
not but overcome my boorishness; nay, more, it rapidly won my heart.
This was the first affection of my life. It took up its abode in me side
by side with a violent love for his daughter, nor did I even dream of
pitting one of these feelings against the other. I was all yearning,
all instinct, all desire. I had the passions of a man in the soul of a
child.