IX

At last, one morning after breakfast, Mr. Hubert took me to see his

daughter. When the door of her room was opened I felt almost suffocated

by the warm-scented air which met me. The room itself was charming

in its simplicity; the curtains and coverings of chintz, with a white

ground. Large china vases filled with flowers exhaled a delicate

perfume. African birds were sporting in a gilded cage, and singing their

sweet little love songs. The carpet was softer to the feet than is

the moss of the woods in the month of March. I was in such a state of

agitation that my eyes grew more and more dim every moment. My feet

caught in one another most awkwardly, and I kept stumbling against the

furniture without being able to advance. Edmee was lying on a long white

chair, carelessly fingering a mother-of-pearl fan. She seemed to me

even more beautiful than before, yet so changed that a feeling of

apprehension chilled me in the middle of my ecstasy. She held out her

hand to me; I did not like to kiss it in the presence of her father. I

could not hear what she was saying to me--I believe her words were full

of affection. Then, as if overcome with fatigue, she let her head fall

back on the pillow and closed her eyes.

“I have some work to do,” said the chevalier to me. “Stay here with her;

but do not make her talk too much, for she is still very weak.”

This recommendation really seemed a sarcasm. Edmee was pretending to be

sleepy, perhaps to conceal some of the embarrassment that weighed on her

heart; and, as for myself, I felt so incapable of overcoming her reserve

that it was in reality a kindness to counsel silence.

The chevalier opened a door at one end of the room and closed it after

him; but, as I could hear him cough from time to time, I gathered

that his study was separated from his daughter’s room only by a wooden

partition. Still, it was bliss to be alone with her for a few moments,

as long as she appeared to be asleep. She did not see me, and I could

gaze on her at will. So pale was she that she seemed as white as her

muslin dressing-gown, or as her satin slippers with their trimming of

swan’s down. Her delicate, transparent hand was to my eyes like some

unknown jewel. Never before had I realized what a woman was; beauty for

me had hitherto meant youth and health, together with a sort of manly

hardihood. Edmee, in her riding-habit, as I first beheld her, had in

a measure displayed such beauty, and I had understood her better then.

Now, as I studied her afresh, my very ideas, which were beginning to

get a little light from without, all helped to make this second

_tete-a-tete_ very different from the first.

But the strange, uneasy pleasure I experienced in gazing on her was

disturbed by the arrival of a duenna, a certain Mademoiselle Leblanc,

who performed the duties of lady’s maid in Edmee’s private apartments,

and filled the post of companion in the drawing-room. Perhaps she had

received orders from her mistress not to leave us. Certain it is that

she took her place by the side of the invalid’s chair in such a way as

to present to my disappointed gaze her own long, meagre back, instead of

Edmee’s beautiful face. Then she took some work out of her pocket, and

quietly began to knit. Meanwhile the birds continued to warble, the

chevalier to cough, Edmee to sleep or to pretend to sleep, while I

remained at the other end of the room with my head bent over the prints

in a book that I was holding upside down.

After some time I became aware that Edmee was not asleep, and that she

was talking to her attendant in a low voice. I fancied I noticed the

latter glancing at me from time to time out of the corner of her eye in

a somewhat stealthy manner. To escape the ordeal of such an examination,

and also from an impulse of cunning, which was by no means foreign to my

nature, I let my head fall on the book, and the book on the pier-table,

and in this posture I remained as if buried in sleep or thought. Then,

little by little, their voices grew louder, until I could hear what they

were saying about me.

“It’s all the same; you have certainly have chosen a funny sort of page,

mademoiselle.”

“A page, Leblanc! Why do you talk such nonsense? As if one had pages

nowadays! You are always imagining we are still in my grandmother’s

time. I tell you he is my father’s adopted son.”

“M. le Chevalier is undoubtedly quite right to adopt a son; but where on

earth did he fish up such a creature as that?”

I gave a side glance at them and saw that Edmee was laughing behind her

fan. She was enjoying the chatter of this old maid, who was supposed to

be a wag and allowed perfect freedom of speech. I was very much hurt to

see my cousin was making fun of me.

“He looks like a bear, a badger, a wolf, a kite, anything rather than

a man,” continued Leblanc. “What hands! what legs! And now he has been

cleaned up a little, he is nothing to what he was! You ought to have

seen him the day he arrived with his smock and his leather gaiters; it

was enough to take away one’s breath.”

“Do you think so?” answered Edmee. “For my part, I preferred him in his

poacher’s garb. It suited his face and figure better.”

“He looked like a bandit. You could not have looked at him properly,

mademoiselle.”

“Oh! yes, I did.”

The tone in which she pronounced these words, “Yes, I did,” made me

shudder; and somehow I again felt upon my lips the impress of the kiss

she had given me at Roche-Mauprat.

“It would not be so bad if his hair were dressed properly,” continued

the duenna; “but, so far, no one had been able to persuade him to have

it powdered. Saint-Jean told me that just as he was about to put the

powder puff to his head he got up in a rage and said, ‘Anything you like

except that confounded flour. I want to be able to move my head about

without coughing and sneezing.’ Heavens, what a savage!”

“Yet, in reality, he is quite right. If fashion did not sanction

the absurdity, everybody would perceive that it is both ugly and

inconvenient. Look and see if it is not more becoming to have long black

hair like his?”

“Long hair like that? What a mane. It is enough to frighten one.”

“Besides, boys do not have their hair powdered, and he is still a boy.”

“A boy? My stars! what a brat Boys? Why he would eat them for his

breakfast; he’s a regular ogre. But where does the hulking dog spring

from? I suppose M. le Chevalier brought him here from behind some

plough. What is his name again? . . . You did tell me his name, didn’t

you?”

“Yes, inquisitive; I told you he is called Bernard.”

“Bernard! And nothing else?”

“Nothing, for the present. What are you looking at?”

“He is sleeping like a dormouse. Look at the booby. I was wondering

whether he resembled M. le Chevalier. Perhaps it was a momentary

error--a fit of forgetfulness with some milk-maid.”

“Come, come, Leblanc; you are going too far . . .”

“Goodness gracious, mademoiselle, has not M. le Chevalier been young

like any other man? And that does not prevent virtue coming on with

years, does it?”

“Doubtless your own experience has shown you that this is possible. But

listen: don’t take upon yourself to make fun of this young man. It is

possible that you have guessed right; but my father requires him to be

treated as one of the family.”

“Well, well; that must be pleasant for you, mademoiselle. As for myself,

what does it matter to me? I have nothing to do with the gentleman.”

“Ah, if you were thirty years younger.”

“But did your father consult you, mademoiselle, before planting yon

great brigand in your room?”

“Why ask such a question? Is there anywhere in the world a better father

than mine?”

“But you are very good also. . . . There are many young ladies who would

have been by no means pleased.”

“And why, I should like to know? There is nothing disagreeable about the

fellow. When he has been polished a little . . .”

“He will always be perfectly ugly.”

“My dear Leblanc, he is far from ugly. You are too old; you are no

longer a judge of young men.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the chevalier, who came in to look

for a book.

“Mademoiselle Leblanc is here, is she?” he said in a very quiet tone.

“I thought you were alone with my son. Well, Edmee, have you had a talk

with him? Did you tell him that you would be his sister? Are you pleased

with her, Bernard?”

Such answers as I gave could compromise no one. As a rule, they

consisted of four or five incoherent words crippled by shame. M. de

Mauprat returned to his study, and I had sat down again, hoping that

my cousin was going to send away her duenna and talk to me. But they

exchanged a few words in a whisper; the duenna remained, and two mortal

hours passed without my daring to stir from my chair. I believe Edmee

really was asleep this time. When the bell rang for dinner her father

came in again to fetch me, and before leaving her room he said to her

again:

“Well, have you had a chat?”

“Yes, father, dear,” she replied, with an assurance that astounded me.

My cousin’s behaviour seemed to me to prove beyond doubt that she

had merely been trifling with me, and that she was not afraid of my

reproaches. And yet hope sprang up again when I remembered the strain in

which she had spoken of me to Mademoiselle Leblanc. I even succeeded in

persuading myself that she feared arousing her father’s suspicions, and

that she was now feigning complete indifference only to draw me the more

surely to her arms as soon as the favourable moment had arrived. As it

was impossible to ascertain the truth, I resigned myself to waiting. But

days and nights passed without any explanation being sent, or any secret

message bidding me be patient. She used to come down to the drawing-room

for an hour in the morning; in the evening she was present at dinner,

and then would play piquet or chess with her father. During all this

time she was so well watched that I could not exchange a glance with

her. For the rest of the day she remained in her own room--inaccessible.

Noticing that I was chafing at the species of captivity in which I was

compelled to live, the chevalier frequently said to me:

“Go and have a chat with Edmee. You can go to her room and tell her that

I sent you.”

But it was in vain that I knocked. No doubt they had heard me coming and

had recognised me by my heavy shuffling step. The door was never opened

to me. I grew desperate, furious.

Here I must interrupt the account of my personal impressions to tell you

what was happening at this time in the luckless Mauprat family. John and

Antony had really managed to escape, and though a very close search

had been made for them, they had not as yet been captured. All their

property was seized, and an order issued by the courts for the sale of

the Roche-Mauprat fief. As it proved, however, a sale was unnecessary.

M. Hubert de Mauprat put an end to the proceedings by coming forward

as purchaser. The creditors were paid off, and the title-deeds of

Roche-Mauprat passed into his hands.

The little garrison kept by the Mauprats, made up of adventurers of the

lowest type, had met the same fate as their masters. As I have already

said, the garrison had long been reduced to a few individuals. Two

or three of these were killed, others took to flight; one only was

captured. This man was tried and made to suffer for all. A serious

question arose as to whether judgment should not also be given against

John and Antony de Mauprat by default. There was apparently no doubt

that they had fled; the pond in which Walter’s body was found floating

had been drained, yet no traces of the bodies had been discovered. The

chevalier, however, for the sake of the name he bore, strove to prevent

the disgrace of an ignominious sentence; as if such a sentence could

have added aught to the horror of the name of Mauprat. He brought to

bear all M. de la Marche’s influence and his own (which was very real

in the province, especially on account of his high moral character),

to hush up the affair, and he succeeded. As for myself, though I had

certainly had a hand in more than one of my uncles’ robberies, there was

no thought of discussing me even at the bar of public opinion. In

the storm of anger that my uncles had aroused people were pleased to

consider me simply as a young captive, a victim of their cruelty, and

thoroughly well disposed towards everybody. Certainly, in his generous

good nature and desire to rehabilitate the family, the chevalier greatly

exaggerated my merits, and spread a report everywhere that I was an

angel of sweetness and intelligence.

On the day that M. Hubert became purchaser of the estate he entered

my room early in the morning accompanied by his daughter and the

abbe. Showing me the documents which bore witness to his sacrifice

(Roche-Mauprat was valued at about two hundred thousand francs), he

declared that I was forthwith going to be put in possession not only

of my share in the inheritance, which was by no means considerable, but

also of half the revenue of the property. At the same time, he said, the

whole estate, lands and produce, should be secured to me by his will

on one condition, namely, that I would consent to receive an education

suitable to my position.

The chevalier had made all these arrangements in the kindness of his

heart and without ostentation, partly out of gratitude for the service

he knew I had rendered Edmee, and partly from family pride; but he

had not expected that I should prove so stubborn on the question

of education. I cannot tell you the irritation I felt at this word

“condition”; especially as I thought I detected in it signs of some plan

that Edmee had formed to free herself from her promise to me.

“Uncle,” I answered, after listening to all his magnificent offers in

absolute silence, “I thank you for all you wish to do for me; but it is

not right that I should avail myself of your kindness. I have no need of

a fortune. A man like myself wants nothing but a little bread, a gun, a

hound, and the first inn he comes to on the edge of the wood. Since you

are good enough to act as my guardian pay me the income on my eighth of

the fief and do not ask me to learn that Latin bosh. A man of birth is

sufficiently well educated when he knows how to bring down a snipe and

sign his name. I have no desire to be seigneur of Roche-Mauprat; it is

enough to have been a slave there. You are most kind, and on my honour I

love you; but I have very little love for conditions. I have never done

anything from interested motives. I would rather remain an ignoramus

than develop a pretty wit for another’s dole. Moreover, I could never

consent to make such a hole in my cousin’s fortune; though I know

perfectly well that she would willingly sacrifice a part of her dowry to

obtain release from . . .”

Edmee, who until now had remained very pale and apparently heedless of

my words, all at once cast a lightning glance at me and said with an air

of unconcern:

“To obtain a release from what, may I ask, Bernard?”

I saw that, in spite of this show of courage, she was very much

perturbed; for she broke her fan while shutting it. I answered her

with a look in which the artless malice of the rustic must have been

apparent:

“To obtain release, cousin, from a certain promise you made me at

Roche-Mauprat.”

She grew paler than ever, and on her face I could see an expression of

terror, but ill-disguised by a smile of contempt.

“What was the promise you made him, Edmee?” asked the chevalier, turning

towards her ingenuously.

At the same time the abbe pressed my arm furtively, and I understood

that my cousin’s confessor was in possession of the secret.

I shrugged my shoulders; their fears did me an injustice, though they

roused my pity.

“She promised me,” I replied, with a smile, “that she would always look

upon me as a brother and a friend. Were not those your words, Edmee, and

do you think it is possible to make them good by mere money?”

She rose as if filled with new life, and, holding out her hand to me,

said in a voice full of emotion:

“You are right, Bernard; yours is a noble heart, and I should never

forgive myself if I doubted it for a moment.”

I caught sight of a tear on the edge of her eye-lid, and I pressed her

hand somewhat too roughly, no doubt, for she could not restrain a little

cry, followed, however, by a charming smile. The chevalier clasped me

to his breast, and the abbe rocked about in his chair and exclaimed

repeatedly:

“How beautiful! How noble! How very beautiful! Ah,” he added, “that is

something that cannot be learnt from books,” turning to the chevalier.

“God writes his words and breathes forth his spirit upon the hearts of

the young.”

“You will see,” said the chevalier, deeply moved, “that this Mauprat

will yet build up the honour of the family again. And now, my dear

Bernard, I will say no more about business. I know how I ought to act,

and you cannot prevent me from taking such steps as I shall think fit

to insure the rehabilitation of my name by yourself. The only true

rehabilitation is guaranteed by your noble sentiments; but there is

still another which I know you will not refuse to attempt--the way

to this lies through your talents and intelligence. You will make the

effort out of love for us, I hope. However, we need not talk of this

at present. I respect your proud spirit, and I gladly renew my offers

without conditions. And now, abbe, I shall be glad if you will accompany

me to the town to see my lawyer. The carriage is waiting. As for you,

children, you can have lunch together. Come, Bernard, offer your arm to

your cousin, or rather, to your sister. You must acquire some courtesy

of manner, since in her case it will be but the expression of your

heart.”

“That is true, uncle,” I answered, taking hold of Edmee’s arm somewhat

roughly to lead her downstairs.

I could feel her trembling; but the pink had returned to her cheeks, and

a smile of affection was playing about her lips.

As soon as we were seated opposite each other at table our happy harmony

was chilled in a very few moments. We both returned to our former

state of embarrassment. Had we been alone I should have got out of the

difficulty by one of those abrupt sallies which I knew how to force from

myself when I grew too much ashamed of my bashfulness; but the presence

of Saint-Jean, who was waiting upon us, condemned me to silence on the

subject next to my heart. I decided, therefore, to talk about Patience.

I asked her how it came to pass that she was on such good terms with

him, and in what light I ought to look upon the pretended sorcerer. She

gave me the main points in the history of the rustic philosopher, and

explained that it was the Abbe Aubert who had taken her to Gazeau Tower.

She had been much struck by the intelligence and wisdom of the stoic

hermit, and used to derive great pleasure from conversation with him. On

his side, Patience had conceived such a friendship for her that for some

time he had relaxed his strict habits, and would frequently pay her a

visit when he came to see the abbe.

As you may imagine, she had no little difficulty in making these

explanations intelligible to me. I was very much surprised at the

praise she bestowed on Patience, and at the sympathy she showed for

his revolutionary ideas. This was the first time I had heard a peasant

spoken of as a man. Besides, I had hitherto looked upon the sorcerer of

Gazeau Tower as very much below the ordinary peasant, and here was Edmee

praising him above most of the men she knew, and even siding with him

against the nobles. From this I drew the comfortable conclusion that

education was not so essential as the chevalier and the abbe would have

me believe.

“I can scarcely read any better than Patience,” I added, “and I only

wish you found as much pleasure in my society as in his; but it hardly

appears so, cousin, for since I came here . . .”

We were then leaving the table, and I was rejoicing at the prospect of

being alone with her at last, so that I might talk more freely, when on

going into the drawing-room we found M. de la Marche there. He had just

arrived, and was in the act of entering by the opposite door. In my

heart I wished him at the devil.

M. de la Marche was one of the fashionable young nobles of the day.

Smitten with the new philosophy, devoted to Voltaire, a great admirer of

Franklin, more well-meaning than intelligent, understanding the oracles

less than he desired or pretended to understand them; a pretty poor

logician, since he found his ideas much less excellent and his political

hopes much less sweet on the day that the French nation took it into its

head to realize them; for the rest, full of fine sentiments, believing

himself much more sanguine and romantic than he was in reality; rather

more faithful to the prejudices of caste and considerably more sensitive

to the opinion of the world than he flattered and prided himself on

being--such was the man. His face was certainly handsome, but I found it

excessively dull; for I had conceived the most ridiculous animosity for

him. His polished manners seemed to me abjectly servile with Edmee. I

should have blushed to imitate them, and yet my sole aim was to surpass

him in the little services he rendered her. We went out into the park.

This was very large, and through it ran the Indre, here merely a pretty

stream. During our walk he made himself agreeable in a thousand ways;

not a violet did he see but he must pluck it to offer to my cousin.

But, when we arrived at the banks of the stream, we found that the plank

which usually enabled one to cross at this particular spot had been

broken and washed away by the storms of a few days before. Without

asking permission, I immediately took Edmee in my arms, and quietly

walked through the stream. The water came up to my waist, but I carried

my cousin at arm’s length so securely and skilfully that she did not wet

a single ribbon. M. de la Marche, unwilling to appear more delicate than

myself, did not hesitate to wet his fine clothes and follow me, though

with some rather poor efforts the while to force a laugh. However,

though he had not any burden to carry, he several times stumbled over

the stones which covered the bed of the river, and rejoined us only with

great difficulty. Edmee was far from laughing. I believe that this proof

of my strength and daring, forced on her in spite of herself, terrified

her as an evidence of the love she had stirred in me. She even appeared

to be annoyed; and, as I set her down gently on the bank, said:

“Bernard, I must request you never to play such a prank again.”

“That is all very well,” I said; “you would not be angry if it were the

other fellow.”

“He would not think of doing such a thing,” she replied.

“I quite believe it,” I answered; “he would take very good care of that.

Just look at the chap. . . . And I--I did not ruffle a hair of your

head. He is very good at picking violets; but, take my word for it, in a

case of danger, don’t make him your first choice.”

M. de la Marche paid me great compliments on this exploit. I had hoped

that he would be jealous; he did not even appear to dream of it, but

rather made merry over the pitiable state of his toilet. The day was

excessively hot, and we were quite dry before the end of the walk.

Edmee, however, remained sad and pensive. It seemed to me that she was

making an effort to show me as much friendship as at luncheon. This

affected me considerably; for I was not only enamoured of her--I loved

her. I could not make the distinction then, but both feelings were in

me--passion and tenderness.

The chevalier and the abbe returned in time for dinner. They conversed

in a low voice with M. de la Marche about the settlement of my affairs,

and, from the few words which I could not help overhearing, I gathered

that they had just secured my future on the bright lines they had laid

before me in the morning. I was too shy and proud to express my simple

thanks. This generosity perplexed me; I could not understand it, and I

almost suspected that it was a trap they were preparing to separate me

from my cousin. I did not realize the advantage of a fortune. Mine were

not the wants of a civilized being; and the prejudices of rank were with

me a point of honour, and by no means a social vanity. Seeing that they

did not speak to me openly, I played the somewhat ungracious part of

feigning complete ignorance.

Edmee grew more and more melancholy. I noticed that her eyes rested now

on M. de la Marche, now on her father, with a vague uneasiness. Whenever

I spoke to her, or even raised my voice in addressing others, she would

start and then knit her brows slightly, as if my voice had caused her

physical pain. She retired immediately after dinner. Her father followed

her with evident anxiety.

“Have you not noticed,” said the abbe, turning to M. de la Marche, as

soon as they had left the room, “that Mademoiselle de Mauprat has very

much changed of late?”

“She has grown thinner,” answered the lieutenant-general; “but in my

opinion she is only the more beautiful for that.”

“Yes; but I fear she may be more seriously ill than she owns,” replied

the abbe. “Her temperament seems no less changed than her face; she has

grown quite sad.”

“Sad? Why, I don’t think I ever saw her so gay as she was this morning;

don’t you agree with me, Monsieur Bernard? It was only after our walk

that she complained of a slight headache.”

“I assure you that she is really sad,” rejoined the abbe. “Nowadays,

when she is gay, her gaiety is excessive; at such a time there seems to

be something strange and forced about her which is quite foreign to

her usual manner. Then the next minute she relapses into a state of

melancholy, which I never noticed before the famous night in the forest.

You may be certain that night was a terrible experience.”

“True, she was obliged to witness a frightful scene at Gazeau Tower,”

said M. de la Marche; “and then she must have been very much exhausted

and frightened when her horse bolted from the field and galloped right

through the forest. Yet her pluck is so remarkable that . . . What do

you think, my dear Monsieur Bernard? When you met her in the forest, did

she seem very frightened?”

“In the forest?” I said. “I did not meet her in the forest at all.”

“No; it was in Varenne that you met her, wasn’t it?”

The abbe hastened to intervene. . . . “By-the-bye, Monsieur Bernard, can

you spare me a minute to talk over a little matter connected with your

property at . . .”

Hereupon he drew me out of the drawing-room, and said in a low voice:

“There is no question of business; I only want to beg of you not to let

a single soul, not even M. de la Marche, suspect that Mademoiselle de

Mauprat was at Roche-Mauprat for the fraction of a second.”

“And why?” I asked. “Was she not under my protection there? Did she

not leave it pure, thanks to me? Must it not be well known to the

neighbourhood that she passed two hours there?”

“At present no one knows,” he answered. “At the very moment she left it,

Roche-Mauprat fell before the attack of the police, and not one of its

inmates will return from the grave or from exile to proclaim the fact.

When you know the world better, you will understand how important it

is for the reputation of a young lady that none should have reason

to suppose that even a shadow of danger has fallen upon her honour.

Meanwhile, I implore you, in the name of her father, in the name of

the affection for her which you expressed this morning in so noble and

touching a manner . . .”

“You are very clever, Monsieur l’Abbe,” I said, interrupting him. “All

your words have a hidden meaning which I can grasp perfectly well,

clown as I am. Tell my cousin that she may set her mind at ease. I have

nothing to say against her virtue, that is very certain; and I trust

I am not capable of spoiling the marriage she desires. Tell her that I

claim but one thing of her, the fulfilment of that promise of friendship

which she made me at Roche-Mauprat.”

“In your eyes, then, that promise has a peculiar solemnity?” said the

abbe. “If so, what grounds for distrusting it have you?”

I looked at him fixedly, and as he appeared very much agitated, I took

a pleasure in keeping him on the rack, hoping that he would repeat my

words to Edmee.

“None,” I answered. “Only I observe that you are afraid that M. de

la Marche may break off the marriage, if he happens to hear of the

adventure at Roche-Mauprat. If the gentleman is capable of suspecting

Edmee, and of grossly insulting her on the eve of his wedding, it seems

to me that there is one very simple means of mending matters.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Why, to challenge him and kill him.”

“I trust you will do all you can to spare the venerable M. Hubert the

necessity of facing such a hideous danger.”

“I will spare him this and many others by taking upon myself to avenge

my cousin. In truth, this is my right, Monsieur l’Abbe. I know the

duties of a gentleman quite as well as if I had learnt Latin. You may

tell her this from me. Let her sleep in peace. I will keep silence, and

if that is useless I will fight.”

“But, Bernard,” replied the abbe in a gentle, insinuating tone, “have

you thought of your cousin’s affection for M. de la Marche?”

“All the more reason that I should fight him,” I cried, in a fit of

anger.

And I turned my back on him abruptly.

The abbe retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The

part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the

seal of confession he had been intrusted with a secret to which in his

conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring

me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only

honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as

this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding.

X

A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmee said she was unwell, and

rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day,

his chateau being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew

stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me.

I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in philosophy, and I

opposed all his opinions with the grossest prejudices and expressions at

my command. What consoled me in a measure for my secret sufferings was

to see that he was no more admitted than myself to Edmee’s rooms.

For a week the sole event of note was that Patience took up his abode

in a hut near the chateau. Ever since the Abbe Aubert had found a refuge

from ecclesiastical persecution under the chevalier’s roof, he had no

longer been obliged to arrange secret meetings with the hermit. He had,

therefore, strongly urged him to give up his dwelling in the forest

and to come nearer to himself. Patience had needed a great deal of

persuasion. Long years of solitude had so attached him to his Gazeau

Tower that he hesitated to desert it for the society of his friend.

Besides, he declared that the abbe would assuredly be corrupted with

commerce with the great; that soon, unknown to himself, he would come

under the influence of the old ideas, and that his zeal for the sacred

cause would grow cold. It is true that Edmee had won Patience’s heart,

and that, in offering him a little cottage belonging to her father

situated in a picturesque ravine near the park gate, she had gone to

work with such grace and delicacy that not even his techy pride could

feel wounded. In fact, it was to conclude these important negotiations

that the abbe had betaken himself to Gazeau Tower with Marcasse on that

very evening when Edmee and myself sought shelter there. The terrible

scene which followed our arrival put an end to any irresolution still

left in Patience. Inclined to the Pythagorean doctrines, he had a horror

of all bloodshed. The death of a deer drew tears from him, as from

Shakespeare’s Jacques; still less could he bear to contemplate the

murder of a human being, and the instant that Gazeau Tower had served

as the scene of two tragic deaths, it stood defiled in his eyes, and

nothing could have induced him to pass another night there. He followed

us to Sainte-Severe, and soon allowed his philosophical scruples to be

overcome by Edmee’s persuasive powers. The little cottage which he was

prevailed on to accept was humble enough not to make him blush with

shame at a too palpable compromise with civilization; and, though the

solitude he found there was less perfect than at Gazeau Tower, the

frequent visits of the abbe and of Edmee could hardly have given him a

right to complain.

Here the narrator interrupted his story again to expatiate on the

development of Mademoiselle de Mauprat’s character.

Edmee, hidden away in her modest obscurity, was--and, believe me, I

do not speak from bias--one of the most perfect women to be found in

France. Had she desired or been compelled to make herself known to the

world, she would assuredly have been famous and extolled beyond all her

sex. But she found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest

simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. She was ignorant

of her worth, as I myself was at that time, when, brutelike, I saw only

with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her only because she was

beautiful. It should be said, too, that her _fiance_, M. de la Marche,

understood her but little better. He had developed the weakly mind with

which he was endowed in the frigid school of Voltaire and Helvetius.

Edmee had fired her vast intellect with the burning declamations of Jean

Jacques. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M. de la

Marche could have understood her would never have come.

Edmee, deprived of her mother from the very cradle, and left to her

young devices by a father full of confidence and careless good nature,

had shaped her character almost alone. The Abbe Aubert, who had

confirmed her, had by no means forbidden her to read the philosophers by

whom he himself had been lured from the paths of orthodoxy. Finding no

one to oppose her ideas or even to discuss them--for her father, who

idolized her, allowed himself to be led wherever she wished--Edmee

had drawn support from two sources apparently very antagonistic:

the philosophy which was preparing the downfall of Christianity, and

Christianity which was proscribing the spirit of inquiry. To account

for this contradiction, you must recall what I told you about the

effect produced on the Abbe Aubert by the _Profession de Foi du Vicaire

Savoyard_. Moreover, you must be aware that, in poetic souls, mysticism

and doubt often reign side by side. Jean Jacques himself furnishes a

striking example of this, and you know what sympathies he stirred among

priests and nobles, even when he was chastising them so unmercifully.

What miracles may not conviction work when helped by sublime eloquence!

Edmee had drunk of this living fount with all the eagerness of an ardent

soul. In her rare visits to Paris she had sought for spirits in sympathy

with her own. There, however, she had found so many shades of opinion,

so little harmony, and--despite the prevailing fashion--so many

ineradicable prejudices, that she had returned with a yet deeper love to

her solitude and her poetic reveries under the old oaks in the park. She

would even then speak of her illusions, and--with a good sense beyond

her years, perhaps, too, beyond her sex--she refused all opportunities

of direct intercourse with the philosophers whose writings made up her

intellectual life.

“I am somewhat of a Sybarite,” she would say with a smile. “I would

rather have a bouquet of roses arranged for me in a vase in the early

morning, than go and gather them myself from out their thorns in the

heat of the sun.”

As a fact, this remark about her sybaritism was only a jest. Brought up

in the country, she was strong, active, brave, and full of life. To

all her charms of delicate beauty she united the energy of physical and

moral health. She was the proud-spirited and fearless girl, no less than

the sweet and affable mistress of the house. I often found her haughty

and disdainful. Patience and the poor of the district never found her

anything but modest and good-natured.

Edmee loved the poets almost as much as the transcendental philosophers.

In her walks she always carried a book in her hand. One day when she had

taken Tasso with her she met Patience, who, as was his wont, inquired

minutely into both author and subject. Edmee thereupon had to give him

an account of the Crusades. This was not the most difficult part of her

task. Thanks to the stores of information derived from the abbe and to

his prodigious memory for facts, Patience had a passable knowledge of

the outlines of universal history. But what he had great trouble in

grasping was the connection and difference between epic poetry and

history. At first he was indignant at the inventions of the poets, and

declared that such impostures ought never to have been allowed. Then,

when he had realized that epic poetry, far from leading generations

into error, only raised heroic deeds to vaster proportions and a more

enduring glory, he asked how it was that all important events had not

been sung by the bards, and why the history of man had not been embodied

in a popular form capable of impressing itself on every mind without

the help of letters. He begged Edmee to explain to him a stanza of

_Jerusalem Delivered_. As he took a fancy to it, she read him a canto

in French. A few days later she read him another, and soon Patience knew

the whole poem. He rejoiced to hear that the heroic tale was popular in

Italy; and, bringing together his recollections of it, endeavoured

to give them an abridged form in rude prose, but he had no memory for

words. Roused by his vivid impressions, he would call up a thousand

mighty images before his eyes. He would give utterance to them in

improvisations wherein his genius triumphed over the uncouthness of his

language, but he could never repeat what he had once said. One would

have had to take it down from his dictation, and even that would have

been of no use to him; for, supposing he had managed to read it, his

memory, accustomed to occupy itself solely with thoughts, had never been

able to retain any fragment whatever in its precise words. And yet he

was fond of quoting, and at times his language was almost biblical.

Beyond, however, certain expressions that he loved, and a number of

short sentences that he found means to make his own, he remembered

nothing of the pages which had been read to him so often, and he always

listened to them again with the same emotion as at first. It was a

veritable pleasure to watch the effect of beautiful poetry on this

powerful intellect. Little by little the abbe, Edmee, and subsequently

I myself, managed to familiarize him with Homer and Dante. He was so

struck by the various incidents in the _Divine Comedy_ that he could

give an analysis of the poem from beginning to end, without forgetting

or misplacing the slightest detail in the journey, the encounters, and

the emotions of the poet. There, however, his power ended. If he essayed

to repeat some of the phrases which had so charmed him when they were

read, he flung forth a mass of metaphors and images which savoured of

delirium. This initiation into the wonders of poetry marked an epoch

in the life of Patience. In the realm of fancy it supplied the action

wanting to his real life. In his magic mirror he beheld gigantic combats

between heroes ten cubits high; he understood love, which he himself had

never known; he fought, he loved, he conquered; he enlightened nations,

gave peace to the world, redressed the wrongs of mankind, and raised

up temples to the mighty spirit of the universe. He saw in the starry

firmament all the gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity. In

the constellations he read the story of the golden age, and of the ages

of brass; in the winter wind he heard the songs of Morven, and in the

storm-clouds he bowed to the ghosts of Fingal and Comala.

“Before I knew the poets,” he said towards the end of his life, “I was

a man lacking in one of the senses. I could see plainly that this

sense was necessary, since there were so many things calling for its

operation. In my solitary walks at night I used to feel a strange

uneasiness; I used to wonder why I could not sleep; why I should find

such pleasure in gazing upon the stars that I could not tear myself from

their presence; why my heart should suddenly beat with joy on seeing

certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds.

At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the

indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that

I was mad. But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such

madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured

of it. Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all

times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how

they are useful to man. I find joy in the thought that there is not a

flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the

minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name

sacred among all peoples. Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man,

without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by

his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and

when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart

and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams. I say to myself that,

since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day

they will also be united in their love of one another. I imagine that

education grows more and more perfect from father to son. It may be that

I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse

was given him from without. It may be, too, that many others before

myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains

and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle.” “Ah, we poor

folk,” added Patience, “we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in

wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds. There are

some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor,

in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work

beyond their strength. There are taverns and other places more dangerous

still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit;

and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what

we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us.

Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where

they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the

shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and

ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day

for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of

our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon.”

Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words

into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace,

all their fire, and all their vigour. But who could repeat the exact

words of Patience? His was a language used by none but himself; it was a

mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and

of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often

make bolder still. To this mixed idiom his sympathetic mind gave order

and logic. An incredible wealth of thought made up for the brevity of

the phrases that clothed it. You should have seen how desperately his

will and convictions strove to overcome the impotence of his language;

any other than he would have failed to come out of the struggle with

honour. And I assure you that any one capable of something more serious

than laughing at his solecisms and audacities of phrase, would have

found in this man material for the most important studies on the

development of the human mind, and an incentive to the most tender

admiration for primitive moral beauty.

When, subsequently, I came to understand Patience thoroughly, I found a

bond of sympathy with him in my own exceptional destiny. Like him, I

had been without education; like him, I had sought outside myself for

an explanation of my being--just as one seeks the answer to a riddle.

Thanks to the accidents of my birth and fortune, I had arrived at

complete development, while Patience, to the hour of his death, remained

groping in the darkness of an ignorance from which he neither would nor

could emerge. To me, however, this was only an additional reason for

recognising the superiority of that powerful nature which held its

course more boldly by the feeble light of instinct, than I myself by all

the brilliant lights of knowledge; and which, moreover, had not had a

single evil inclination to subdue, while I had had all that a man may

have.

At the time, however, at which I must take up my story, Patience was

still, in my eyes, merely a grotesque character, an object of amusement

for Edmee, and of kindly compassion for the Abbe Aubert. When they spoke

to me about him in a serious tone, I no longer understood them, and I

imagined they took this subject as a sort of text whereon to build a

parable proving to me the advantages of education, the necessity of

devoting myself to study early in life, and the futility of regrets in

after years.

Yet this did not prevent me from prowling about the copses about his new

abode, for I had seen Edmee crossing the park in that direction, and I

hoped that if I took her by surprise as she was returning, I should get

a conversation with her. But she was always accompanied by the abbe,

and sometimes even by her father, and if she remained alone with the

old peasant, he would escort her to the chateau afterwards. Frequently

I have concealed myself in the foliage of a giant yew-tree, which spread

out its monstrous shoots and drooping branches to within a few yards of

the cottage, and have seen Edmee sitting at the door with a book in her

hand while Patience was listening with his arms folded and his head sunk

on his breast, as though he were overwhelmed by the effort of attention.

At that time I imagined that Edmee was trying to teach him to read, and

thought her mad to persist in attempting an impossible education. But

how beautiful she seemed in the light of the setting sun, beneath the

yellowing vine leaves that overhung the cottage door! I used to gaze on

her and tell myself that she belonged to me, and vow never to yield to

any force or persuasion which should endeavour to make me renounce my

claim.

For some days my agony of mind had been intense. My only method of

escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be

almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she

would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her

hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, “Good-night,

Bernard,” in a tone which seemed to say, “To-day has ended like

yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day.”

In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that

she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this

was all I ever got from her. I would not put out my hand to beg her

own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily

believe I should have crushed it in my anger.

Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in

besotting myself, silently and sadly. I then used to sink into my

favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes

of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and

sinister plans in the park.

None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine. They showed me such

kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express

disapproval, however much I deserved it. Nevertheless, they were well

aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of

it. One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and

with a strange expression. I stared at her in return, hoping that

she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an

exchange of malevolent glances. On leaving the table she whispered to me

very quickly, and in an imperious tone:

“Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has

to say to you.”

This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope,

seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment. I

waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out

a little before her, took up my position on the stairs.

“Do you think,” I said to her when she appeared, “that I am the dupe of

your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have

been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely

fooling me, as if I were a booby? You lied to me and now you despise me

because I was honest enough to believe your word.”

“Bernard,” she said, in a cold tone, “this is neither the time nor the

place for an explanation.”

“Oh, I know well enough,” I replied, “that, according to you, it will

never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not

fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck

and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my

cheeks: ‘Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory

of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.’ I can see through it;

you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and

now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But

you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me

long.”

“I will never be yours,” she replied, with a coldness which was becoming

more and more icy, “if you do not make some change in your language,

and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear

you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to

you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease

to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners,

improve your mind, and we will see.”

“Very good,” I said, “that is a promise I can understand. I will act on

it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge.”

“Take your revenge as much as you please,” she said. “That will only

make me despise you.”

So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the

flame of her candle.

“What are you doing?” I exclaimed.

“I am burning a letter I had written to you,” she answered. “I wanted

to make you listen to reason, but it is quite useless; one cannot reason

with brutes.”

“Give me that letter at once,” I cried, rushing at her to seize the

burning paper.

But she withdrew it quickly and, fearlessly extinguishing it in her

hand, threw the candle at my feet and fled in the darkness. I ran after

her, but in vain. She was in her room before I could get there, and

had slammed the door and drawn the bolts. I could hear the voice of

Mademoiselle Leblanc asking her young mistress the cause of her fright.

“It is nothing,” replied Edmee’s trembling voice, “nothing but a joke.”

I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious

rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud

and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of

all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had

offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never

love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine

by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I

went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and,

burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy

breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I

longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my

handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The

weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who

was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I

had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions

surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head.

“Who is there?” asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in

the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising.

It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she

passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the

collar of my jacket, saying:

“Why are you crying, Bernard?”

I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my

weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by

it.

“What are you grieved at?” she continued. “What can draw such bitter

tears from you?”

“You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am

angry!”

“It is anger, then, that makes you weep?” she said, drawing back her

arm.

“Yes; anger or something else,” I replied.

“But what else?” she asked.

“I can’t say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here

is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and

live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer.”

“Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our

opportunity for an explanation.”

“Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid

of me now.”

“And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and

was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between

us?”

“I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means

of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they

were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must

love none of them.”

“And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle

Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?”

“You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that

I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the

truth.”

“Bernard, would you like me to tell you why they thought women false?”

“Yes, tell me.”

“Because they were brutes and tyrants to creatures weaker than

themselves. Whenever one makes one’s self feared one runs the risk of

being deceived. In your childhood, when John used to beat you, did you

never try to escape his brutal punishment by disguising your little

faults?”

“I did; that was my only resource.”

“You can understand, then, that deception is, if not the right, at least

the resource of the oppressed.”

“I understand that I love you, and in that at any rate there can be no

excuse for your deceiving me.”

“And who says that I have deceived you?”

“But you have; you said you loved me; you did not love me.”

“I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between

detestable principles and the impulses of a generous heart I saw that

you were inclining towards justice and honesty. And I love you now,

because I see that you are triumphing over these vile principles, and

that your evil inspirations are followed by tears of honest regret. This

I say before God, with my hand on my heart, at a time when I can see

your real self. There are other times when you appear to me so below

yourself that I no longer recognise you and I think I no longer love

you. It rests with you, Bernard, to free me from all doubts, either

about you or myself.”

“And what must I do?”

“You must amend your bad habits, open your ears to good counsel and

your heart to the precepts of morality. You are a savage, Bernard; and,

believe me, it is neither your awkwardness in making a bow, nor your

inability to turn a compliment that shocks me. On the contrary, this

roughness of manner would be a very great charm in my eyes, if only

there were some great ideas and noble feelings beneath it. But your

ideas and your feelings are like your manners, that is what I cannot

endure. I know it is not your fault, and if I only saw you resolute

to improve I should love you as much for your defects as for your

qualities. Compassion brings affection in its train. But I do not love

evil, I never loved it; and, if you cultivate it in yourself instead of

uprooting it, I can never love you. Do you understand me?”

“No.”

“What, no!”

“No, I say. I am not aware that there is any evil in me. If you are not

displeased at the lack of grace in my legs, or the lack of whiteness in

my hands, or the lack of elegance in my words, I fail to see what you

find to hate in me. From my childhood I have had to listen to evil

precepts, but I have not accepted them. I have never considered it

permissible to do a bad deed; or, at least, I have never found it

pleasurable. If I have done wrong, it is because I have been forced to

do it. I have always detested my uncles and their ways. I do not like to

see others suffer; I do not rob a fellow-creature; I despise money, of

which they made a god at Roche-Mauprat; I know how to keep sober, and,

though I am fond of wine, I would drink water all my life if, like my

uncles, I had to shed blood to get a good supper. Yet I fought for them;

yet I drank with them. How could I do otherwise? But now, when I am my

own master, what harm am I doing? Does your abbe, who is always prating

of virtue, take me for a murderer or a thief? Come, Edmee, confess now;

you know well enough that I am an honest man; you do not really think

me wicked; but I am displeasing to you because I am not clever, and you

like M. de la Marche because he has a knack of making unmeaning speeches

which I should blush to utter.”

“And if, to be pleasing to me,” she said with a smile, after listening

most attentively, and without withdrawing her hand which I had taken

through the bars, “if, in order to be preferred to M. de la Marche, it

were necessary to acquire more wit, as you say, would you not try?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, after hesitating a moment; “perhaps I should

be fool enough; for the power you have over me is more than I can

understand; but it would be a sorry piece of cowardice and a great

folly.”

“Why, Bernard?”

“Because a woman who could love a man, not for his honest heart, but for

his pretty wit, would be hardly worth the pains I should have to take;

at least so it seems to me.”

She remained silent in her turn, and then said to me as she pressed my

hand:

“You have much more sense and wit than one might think. And since you

force me to be quite frank with you, I will own that, as you now are and

even should you never change, I have an esteem and an affection for

you which will last as long as my life. Rest assured of that, Bernard,

whatever I may say in a moment of anger. You know I have a quick

temper--that runs in the family. The blood of the Mauprats will never

flow as smoothly as other people’s. Have a care for my pride, then, you

know so well what pride is, and do not ever presume upon rights you

have acquired. Affection cannot be commanded; it must be implored or

inspired. Act so that I may always love you; never tell me that I am

forced to love you.”

“That is reasonable enough,” I answered; “but why do you sometimes speak

to me as if I were forced to obey you? Why, for instance, this evening

did you _forbid_ me to drink and _order_ me to study?”

“Because if one cannot command affection which does not exist, one can

at least command affection which does exist; and it is because I am sure

yours exists that I commanded it.”

“Good!” I cried, in a transport of joy; “I have a right then to order

yours also, since you have told me that it certainly exists. . . .

Edmee, I order you to kiss me.”

“Let go, Bernard!” she cried; “you are breaking my arm. Look, you have

scraped it against the bars.”

“Why have you intrenched yourself against me?” I said, putting my lips

to the little scratch I had made on her arm. “Ah, woe is me! Confound

the bars! Edmee, if you would only bend your head down I should be able

to kiss you . . . kiss you as my sister. Edmee, what are you afraid of?”

“My good Bernard,” she replied, “in the world in which I live one does

not kiss even a sister, and nowhere does one kiss in secret. I will kiss

you every day before my father, if you like; but never here.”

“You will never kiss me!” I cried, relapsing into my usual passion.

“What of your promise? What of my rights?”

“If we marry,” she said, in an embarrassed tone, “when you have received

the education I implore you to receive, . . .”

“Death of my life! Is this a jest? Is there any question of marriage

between us? None at all. I don’t want your fortune, as I have told you.”

“My fortune and yours are one,” she replied. “Bernard, between near

relations as we are, mine and thine are words without meaning. I should

never suspect you of being mercenary. I know that you love me, that you

will work to give me proof of this, and that a day will come when your

love will no longer make me fear, because I shall be able to accept it

in the face of heaven and earth.”

“If that is your idea,” I replied, completely drawn away from my wild

passion by the new turn she was giving to my thoughts, “my position is

very different; but, to tell you the truth, I must reflect on this; I

had not realized that this was your meaning.”

“And how should I have meant otherwise?” she answered. “Is not a woman

dishonoured by giving herself to a man who is not her husband? I do not

wish to dishonour myself; and, since you love me, you would not wish

it either. You would not do me an irreparable wrong. If such were your

intention you would be my deadliest enemy.”

“Stay, Edmee, stay!” I answered. “I can tell you nothing about my

intentions in regard to you, for I have never had any very definite.

I have felt nothing but wild desires, nor have I ever thought of you

without going mad. You wish me to marry you? But why--why?”

“Because a girl who respects herself cannot be any man’s except with the

thought, with the intention, with the certainty of being his forever. Do

you not know that?”

“There are so many things I do not know or have never thought of.”

“Education will teach you, Bernard, what you ought to think about the

things which must concern you--about your position, your duties, your

feelings. At present you see but dimly into your heart and conscience.

And I, who am accustomed to question myself on all subjects and to

discipline my life, how can I take for master a man governed by instinct

and guided by chance?”

“For master! For husband! Yes, I understand that you cannot surrender

your whole life to an animal such as myself . . . but that is what I

have never asked of you. No, I tremble to think of it.”

“And yet, Bernard, you must think of it. Think of it frequently, and

when you have done so you will realize the necessity of following my

advice, and of bringing your mind into harmony with the new life upon

which you have entered since quitting Roche-Mauprat. When you have

perceived this necessity you must tell me, and then we will make several

necessary resolutions.”

She withdrew her hand from mine quickly, and I fancy she bade me

good-night; but this I did not hear. I stood buried in my thoughts, and

when I raised my head to speak to her she was no longer there. I went

into the chapel, but she had returned to her room by an upper gallery

which communicated with her apartments.

I went back into the garden, walked far into the park, and remained

there all night. This conversation with Edmee had opened a new world

to me. Hitherto I had not ceased to be the Roche-Mauprat man, nor had I

ever contemplated that it was possible or desirable to cease to be so.

Except for some habits which had changed with circumstances, I had never

moved out of the narrow circle of my old thoughts. I felt annoyed that

these new surroundings of mine should have any real power over me, and

I secretly braced my will so that I should not be humbled. Such was my

perseverance and strength of character that I believed nothing would

ever have driven me from my intrenchment of obstinacy, had not Edmee’s

influence been brought to bear upon me. The vulgar comforts of life, the

satisfactions of luxury, had no attraction for me beyond their novelty.

Bodily repose was a burden to me, and the calm that reigned in this

house, so full of order and silence, would have been unbearable, had

not Edmee’s presence and the tumult of my own desires communicated to it

some of my disorder, and peopled it with some of my visions. Never for

a single moment had I desired to become the head of this house, the

possessor of this property; and it was with genuine pleasure that I

had just heard Edmee do justice to my disinterestedness. The thought of

coupling two ends so entirely distinct as my passion and my interests

was still more repugnant to me. I roamed about the park a prey to a

thousand doubts, and then wandered into the open country unconsciously.

It was a glorious night. The full moon was pouring down floods of soft

light upon the ploughed lands, all parched by the heat of the sun.

Thirsty plants were straightening their bowed stems--each leaf seemed

to be drinking in through all its pores all the dewy freshness of the

night. I, too, began to feel a soothing influence at work. My heart was

still beating violently, but regularly. I was filled with a vague hope;

the image of Edmee floated before me on the paths through the meadows,

and no longer stirred the wild agonies and frenzied desires which had

been devouring me since the night I first beheld her.

I was crossing a spot where the green stretches of pasture were here and

there broken by clumps of young trees. Huge oxen with almost white skins

were lying in the short grass, motionless, as if plunged in peaceful

thought. Hills sloped gently up to the horizon, and their velvety

contours seemed to ripple in the bright rays of the moon. For the first

time in my life I realized something of the voluptuous beauty and divine

effluence of the night. I felt the magic touch of some unknown bliss.

It seemed that for the first time in my life I was looking on moon and

meadows and hills. I remembered hearing Edmee say that nothing our eyes

can behold is more lovely than Nature; and I was astonished that I had

never felt this before. Now and them I was on the point of throwing

myself on my knees and praying to God: but I feared that I should not

know how to speak to Him, and that I might offend Him by praying badly.

Shall I confess to you a singular fancy that came upon me, a childish

revelation, as it were, of poetic love from out of the chaos of my

ignorance? The moon was lighting up everything so plainly that I could

distinguish the tiniest flowers in the grass. A little meadow daisy

seemed to me so beautiful with its golden calyx full of diamonds of

dew and its white collaret fringed with purple, that I plucked it, and

covered it with kisses, and cried in a sort of delirious intoxication:

“It is you, Edmee! Yes, it is you! Ah, you no longer shun me!”

But what was my confusion when, on rising, I found there had been a

witness of my folly. Patience was standing before me.

I was so angry at having been surprised in such a fit of extravagance

that, from a remnant of the Hamstringer instinct, I immediately felt

for a knife in my belt; but neither belt nor knife was there. My silk

waistcoat with its pocket reminded me that I was doomed to cut no more

throats. Patience smiled.

“Well, well! What is the matter?” said the anchorite, in a calm and

kindly tone. “Do you imagine that I don’t know perfectly well how things

stand? I am not so simple but that I can reason; I am not so old but

that I can see. Who is it that makes the branches of my yew shake

whenever the holy maiden is sitting at my door? Who is it that follows

us like a young wolf with measured steps through the copse when I take

the lovely child to her father? And what harm is there in it? You are

both young; you are both handsome; you are of the same family; and, if

you chose, you might become a noble and honest man as she is a noble and

honest girl.”

All my wrath had vanished as I listened to Patience speaking of Edmee.

I had such a vast longing to talk about her that I would even have

been willing to have heard evil spoken of her, for the sole pleasure

of hearing her name pronounced. I continued my walk by the side of

Patience. The old man was tramping through the dew with bare feet. It

should be mentioned, however, that his feet had long been unacquainted

with any covering and had attained a degree of callosity that rendered

them proof against anything. His only garments were a pair of blue

canvas breeches which, in the absence of braces, hung loosely from his

hips, and a coarse shirt. He could not endure any constraint in his

clothes; and his skin, hardened by exposure, was sensitive to neither

heat nor cold. Even when over eighty he was accustomed to go bareheaded

in the broiling sun and with half-open shirt in the winter blasts.

Since Edmee had seen to his wants he had attained a certain cleanliness.

Nevertheless, in the disorder of his toilet and his hatred of everything

that passed the bounds of the strictest necessity (though he could not

have been charged with immodesty, which had always been odious to him),

the cynic of the old days was still apparent. His beard was shining like

silver. His bald skull was so polished that the moon was reflected in

it as in water. He walked slowly, with his hands behind his back and his

head raised, like a man who is surveying his empire. But most frequently

his glances were thrown skywards, and he interrupted his conversation to

point to the starry vault and exclaim:

“Look at that; look how beautiful it is!”

He is the only peasant I have ever known to admire the sky; or, at

least, he is the only one I have ever seen who was conscious of his

admiration.

“Why, Master Patience,” I said to him, “do you think I might be an

honest man if I chose? Do you think that I am not one already?”

“Oh, do not be angry,” he answered. “Patience is privileged to say

anything. Is he not the fool of the chateau?”

“On the contrary, Edmee maintains that you are its sage.”

“Does the holy child of God say that? Well, if she believes so, I will

try to act as a wise man, and give you some good advice, Master Bernard

Mauprat. Will you accept it?”

“It seems to me that in this place every one takes upon himself to give

advice. Never mind, I am listening.”

“You are in love with your cousin, are you not?”

“You are very bold to ask such a question.”

“It is not a question, it is a fact. Well, my advice is this: make your

cousin love you, and become her husband.”

“And why do you take this interest in me, Master Patience?”

“Because I know you deserve it.”

“Who told you so? The abbe?”

“No.”

“Edmee?”

“Partly. And yet she is certainly not very much in love with you. But it

is your own fault.”

“How so, Patience?”

“Because she wants you to become clever; and you--you would rather not.

Oh, if I were only your age; yes, I, poor Patience; and if I were able,

without feeling stifled, to shut myself up in a room for only two hours

a day; and if all those I met were anxious to teach me; if they said to

me, ‘Patience, this is what was done yesterday; Patience, this is what

will be done to-morrow.’ But, enough! I have to find out everything

myself, and there is so much that I shall die of old age before finding

out a tenth part of what I should like to know. But, listen: I have yet

another reason for wishing you to marry Edmee.”

“What is that, good Monsieur Patience?”

“This La Marche is not the right man for her. I have told her so--yes,

I have; and himself too, and the abbe, and everybody. He is not a man,

that thing. He smells as sweet as a whole flower-garden; but I prefer

the tiniest sprig of wild thyme.”

“Faith! I have but little love for him myself. But if my cousin likes

him, what then, Patience?”

“Your cousin does not like him. She thinks he is a good man; she thinks

him genuine. She is mistaken; he deceives her, as he deceives everybody.

Yes, I know: he is a man who has not any of this (and Patience put his

hand to his heart). He is a man who is always proclaiming: ‘In me behold

the champion of virtue, the champion of the unfortunate, the champion

of all the wise men and friends of the human race, etc., etc.’ While

I--Patience--I know that he lets poor folk die of hunger at the gates

of his chateau. I know that if any one said to him, ‘Give up your castle

and eat black bread, give up your lands and become a soldier, and then

there will be no more misery in the world, the human race--as you call

it--will be saved,’ his real self would answer, ‘Thanks, I am lord of

my lands, and I am not yet tired of my castle.’ Oh! I know them so well,

these sham paragons. How different with Edmee! You do not know that. You

love her because she is as beautiful as the daisy in the meadows, while

I--I love her because she is good as the moon that sheds light on all.

She is a girl who gives away everything that she has; who would not wear

a jewel, because with the gold in a ring a man could be kept alive for a

year. And if she finds a foot-sore child by the road-side, she takes off

her shoes and gives them to him, and goes on her way bare-footed. Then,

look you, hers is a heart that never swerves. If to-morrow the village

of Saint-Severe were to go to her in a body and say: ‘Young lady, you

have lived long enough in the lap of wealth, give us what you have, and

take your turn at work’--‘That is but fair, my good friends,’ she would

reply, and with a glad heart she would go and tend the flocks in the

fields. Her mother was the same. I knew her mother when she was quite

young, young as yourself; and I knew yours too. Oh, yes. She was a lady

with a noble mind, charitable and just to all. And you take after her,

they say.”

“Alas, no,” I answered, deeply touched by these words of Patience. “I

know neither charity nor justice.”

“You have not been able to practise them yet, but they are written in

your heart. I can read them there. People call me a sorcerer, and so I

am in a measure. I know a man directly I see him. Do you remember what

you said to me one day on the heath at Valide? You were with Sylvain

and I with Marcasse. You told me that an honest man avenges his wrongs

himself. And, by-the-bye, Monsieur Mauprat, if you are not satisfied

with the apologies I made you at Gazeau Tower, you may say so. See,

there is no one near; and, old as I am, I have still a fist as good as

yours. We can exchange a few healthy blows--that is Nature’s way. And,

though I do not approve of it, I never refuse satisfaction to any

one who demands it. There are some men, I know, who would die of

mortification if they did not have their revenge: and it has taken

me--yes, the man you see before you--more than fifty years to forget an

insult I once received . . . and even now, whenever I think of it, my

hatred of the nobles springs up again, and I hold it as a crime to have

let my heart forgive some of them.”

“I am fully satisfied, Master Patience; and in truth I now feel nothing

but affection for you.”

“Ah, that comes of my scratching your back. Youth is ever generous.

Come, Mauprat, take courage. Follow the abbe’s advice; he is a good

man. Try to please your cousin; she is a star in the firmament. Find out

truth; love the people; hate those who hate them; be ready to sacrifice

yourself for them. . . . Yes, one word more--listen. I know what I am

saying--become the people’s friend.”

“Is the people, then, better than the nobility, Patience? Come now,

honestly, since you are a wise man, tell me the truth.”

“Ay, we are worth more than the nobles, because they trample us under

foot, and we let them. But we shall not always bear this, perhaps. No;

you will have to know it sooner or later, and I may as well tell you

now. You see yonder stars? They will never change. Ten thousand years

hence they will be in the same place and be giving forth as much light

as to-day; but within the next hundred years, maybe within less, there

will be many a change on this earth. Take the word of a man who has an

eye for the truth of things, and does not let himself be led astray by

the fine airs of the great. The poor have suffered enough; they will

turn upon the rich, and their castles will fail and their lands be

carved up. I shall not see it; but you will. There will be ten cottages

in the place of this park, and ten families will live on its revenue.

There will no longer be servants or masters, or villein or lord. Some

nobles will cry aloud and yield only to force, as your uncles would do

if they were alive, and as M. de la Marche will do in spite of all his

fine talk. Others will sacrifice themselves generously, like Edmee, and

like yourself, if you listen to wisdom. And in that hour it will be well

for Edmee that her husband is a man and not a mere fop. It will be well

for Bernard Mauprat that he knows how to drive a plough or kill the game

which the good God has sent to feed his family; for old Patience will

then be lying under the grass in the churchyard, unable to return the

services which Edmee has done him. Do not laugh at what I say, young

man; it is the voice of God that is speaking. Look at the heavens. The

stars live in peace, and nothing disturbs their eternal order. The

great do not devour the small, and none fling themselves upon their

neighbours. Now, a day will come when the same order will reign among

men. The wicked will be swept away by the breath of the Lord. Strengthen

your legs, Seigneur Mauprat, that you may stand firm to support Edmee.

It is Patience that warns you; Patience who wishes you naught but good.

But there will come others who wish you ill, and the good must make

themselves strong.”

We had reached Patience’s cottage. He had stopped at the gate of his

little inclosure, resting one hand on the cross-bar and waving the other

as he spoke. His voice was full of passion, his eyes flashed fire, and

his brow was bathed in sweat. There seemed to be some weird power in

his words as in those of the prophets of old. The more than plebeian

simplicity of his dress still further increased the pride of his

gestures and the impressiveness of his voice. The French Revolution

has shown since that in the ranks of the people there was no lack of

eloquence or of pitiless logic; but what I saw at that moment was so

novel, and made such an impression on me, that my unruly and unbridled

imagination was carried away by the superstitious terrors of childhood.

He held out his hand, and I responded with more of terror than

affection. The sorcerer of Gazeau Tower hanging the bleeding owl above

my head had just risen before my eyes again.