While Marcasse was devoting himself to serious investigations, I was
spending days of delight and agony in Edmee’s presence. Her behaviour,
so constant and devoted, and yet in many respects so reserved, threw me
into continual alternations of joy and grief. One day while I was taking
a walk the chevalier had a long conversation with her. I happened to
return when their discussion had reached its most animated stage. As
soon as I appeared, my uncle said to me:
“Here, Bernard; come and tell Edmee that you love her; that you will
make her happy; that you have got rid of your old faults. Do something
to get yourself accepted; for things cannot go on as they are. Our
position with our neighbours is unbearable; and before I go down to the
grave I should like to see my daughter’s honour cleared from stain, and
to feel sure that some stupid caprice of hers will not cast her into a
convent, when she ought to be filling that position in society to which
she is entitled, and which I have worked all my life to win for her.
Come, Bernard, at her feet, lad! Have the wit to say something that will
persuade her! Otherwise I shall think--God forgive me!--that it is you
that do not love her and do not honestly wish to marry her.”
“I! Great heavens!” I exclaimed. “Not wish to marry her--when for seven
years I have had no other thought; when that is the one wish of my
heart, and the only happiness my mind can conceive!”
Then I poured forth all the thoughts that the sincerest passion could
suggest. She listened to me in silence, and without withdrawing her
hands, which I covered with kisses. But there was a serious expression
in her eyes, and the tone of her voice made me tremble when, after
reflecting a few moments, she said:
“Father, you should not doubt my word; I have promised to marry Bernard;
I promised him, and I promised you; it is certain, therefore, that I
shall marry him.”
Then she added, after a fresh pause, and in a still severe tone:
“But if, father, you believe that you are on the brink of the grave,
what sort of heart do you suppose I can have, that you bid me think only
of myself, and put on my wedding-dress in the hour of mourning for you?
If, on the contrary, you are, as I believe, still full of vigour, in
spite of your sufferings, and destined to enjoy the love of your family
for many a long year yet, why do you urge me so imperiously to cut
short the time I have requested? Is not the question important enough
to demand my most serious reflection? A contract which is to bind me for
the rest of my life, and on which depends, I do not say my happiness,
for that I would gladly sacrifice to your least wish, but the peace
of my conscience and the dignity of my conduct (since no woman can
be sufficiently sure of herself to answer for a future which has been
fettered against her will), does not such a contract bid me weigh all
its risks and all its advantages for several years at least?”
“Good God!” said the chevalier. “Have you not been weighing all this for
the last seven years? You ought to have arrived at some conclusion about
your cousin by now. If you are willing to marry him, marry him; but if
not, for God’s sake say so, and let another man come forward.”
“Father,” replied Edmee, somewhat coldly, “I shall marry none but him.”
“‘None but him’ is all very well,” said the chevalier, tapping the logs
with the tongs; “but that does not necessarily mean that you will marry
him.”
“Yes, I will marry him, father,” answered Edmee. “I could have wished
to be free a few months more; but since you are displeased at all these
delays, I am ready to obey your orders, as you know.”
“Parbleu! that is a pretty way of consenting,” exclaimed my uncle, “and
no doubt most gratifying to your cousin! By Jove! Bernard, I have lived
many years in this world, but I must own that I can’t understand these
women yet, and it is very probable that I shall die without ever having
understood them.”
“Uncle,” I said, “I can quite understand my cousin’s aversion for me; it
is only what I deserve. I have done all I could to atone for my errors.
But, is it altogether in her power to forget a past which has doubtless
caused her too much pain? However, if she does not forgive me, I will
imitate her severity: I will not forgive myself. Abandoning all hope in
this world, I will tear myself away from her and you, and chasten myself
with a punishment worse than death.”
“That’s it! Go on! There’s an end of everything!” said the chevalier,
throwing the tongs into the fire. “That is just what you have been
aiming at, I suppose, Edmee?”
I had moved a few steps towards the door; I was suffering intensely.
Edmee ran after me, took me by the arm, and brought me back towards her
father.
“It is cruel and most ungrateful of you to say that,” she said. “Does
it show a modest spirit and generous heart, to forget a friendship, a
devotion, I may even venture to say, a fidelity of seven years, because
I ask to prove you for a few months more? And even if my affection for
you should never be as deep as yours for me, is what I have hitherto
shown you of so little account that you despise it and reject it,
because you are vexed at not inspiring me with precisely as much as you
think you are entitled to? You know at this rate a woman would have no
right to feel affection. However, tell me, is it your wish to punish
me for having been a mother to you by leaving me altogether, or to make
some return only on condition that I become your slave?”
“No, Edmee, no,” I replied, with my heart breaking and my eyes full of
tears, as I raised her hand to my lips; “I feel that you have done far
more for me than I deserved; I feel that it would be idle to think of
tearing myself from your presence; but can you account it a crime in me
to suffer by your side? In any case it is so involuntary, so inevitable
a crime, that it must needs escape all your reproaches and all my own
remorse. But let us talk of this no more. It is all I can do. Grant me
your friendship still; I shall hope to show myself always worthy of you
in the future.”
“Come, kiss each other,” said the chevalier, much affected, “and never
separate. Bernard, however capricious Edmee may seem, never abandon
her, if you would deserve the blessing of your foster-father. Though you
should never be her husband, always be a brother to her. Remember, my
lad, that she will soon be alone in the world, and that I shall die
in sorrow if I do not carry with me to the grave a conviction that a
support and a defender still remains to her. Remember, too, that it is
on your account, on account of a vow, which her inclination, perhaps,
would reject, but which her conscience respects, that she is thus
forsaken and slandered . . .”
The chevalier burst into tears, and in a moment all the sorrows of the
unfortunate family were revealed to me.
“Enough, enough!” I cried, falling at their feet. “All this is too
cruel. I should be the meanest wretch on earth if I had need to be
reminded of my misdeeds and my duties. Let me weep at your knees; let
me atone for the wrong I have done you by eternal grief, by eternal
renunciation. Why not have driven me away when I did the wrong? Why not,
uncle, have blown out my brains with your pistol, as if I had been a
wild beast? What have I done to be spared, I who repaid your kindness
with the ruin of your honour? No, no; I can see that Edmee ought not to
marry me; that would be accepting the shame of the insult I have drawn
upon her. All I ask is to be allowed to remain here; I will never see
her face, if she makes this a condition; but I will lie at her door like
a faithful dog and tear to pieces the first man who dares to present
himself otherwise than on his knees; and if some day an honest man,
more fortunate than myself, shows himself worthy of her love, far
from opposing him, I will intrust to him the dear and sacred task of
protecting and vindicating her. I will be but a friend, a brother to
her, and when I see that they are happy together, I will go far away
from them and die in peace.”
My sobs choked me; the chevalier pressed his daughter and myself to his
heart, and we mingled our tears, swearing to him that we would never
leave each other, either during his life or after his death.
“Still, do not give up all hope of marrying her,” whispered the
chevalier to me a few moments later, when we were somewhat calmer. “She
has strange whims; but nothing will persuade me to believe that she does
not love you. She does not want to explain matters yet. Woman’s will is
God’s will.”
“And Edmee’s will is my will,” I replied.
A few days after this scene, which brought the calmness of death into
my soul in place of the tumult of life, I was strolling in the park with
the abbe.
“I must tell you,” he said, “of an adventure which befell me yesterday.
There is a touch of romance in it. I had been for a walk in the woods of
Briantes, and had made my way down to the spring of Fougeres. It was
as warm, you remember, as in the middle of summer; and our beautiful
plants, in their autumn red, seemed more beautiful than ever as they
stretched their delicate tracery over the stream. The trees have very
little foliage left; but the carpet of dried leaves one walks upon gives
forth a sound which to me is full of charm. The satiny trunks of the
birches and young oaks are covered with moss and creepers of all shades
of brown, and tender green, and red and fawn, which spread out into
delicate stars and rosettes, and maps of all countries, wherein the
imagination can behold new worlds in miniature. I kept gazing lovingly
on these marvels of grace and delicacy, these arabesques in which
infinite variety is combined with unfailing regularity, and as I
remembered with pleasure that you are not, like the vulgar, blind to
these adorable coquetries of nature, I gathered a few with the greatest
care, even bringing away the bark of the tree on which they had taken
root, in order not to destroy the perfection of their designs. I made
a little collection, which I left at Patience’s as I passed; we will
go and see them, if you like. But, on our way, I must tell you what
happened to me as I approached the spring. I was walking upon the wet
stones with my head down, guided by the slight noise of the clear little
jet of water which bursts from the heart of the mossy rock. I was about
to sit down on the stone which forms a natural seat at the side of it,
when I saw that the place was already occupied by a good friar whose
pale, haggard face was half-hidden by his cowl of coarse cloth. He
seemed much frightened at my arrival; I did my best to reassure him by
declaring that my intention was not to disturb him, but merely to put my
lips to the little bark channel which the woodcutters have fixed to the
rock to enable one to drink more easily.
“‘Oh, holy priest,’ he said to me in the humblest tone, ‘why are you
not the prophet whose rod could smite the founts of grace? and why
cannot my soul, like this rock, give forth a stream of tears?’
“Struck by the manner in which this monk expressed himself, by his sad
air, by his thoughtful attitude in this poetic spot, which has often
made me dream of the meeting of the Saviour and the woman of Samaria, I
allowed myself to be drawn into a more intimate conversation. I
learnt from the monk that he was a Trappist, and that he was making a
penitential tour.
“‘Ask neither my name nor whence I come,’ he said. ‘I belong to an
illustrious family who would blush to know that I am still alive.
Besides, on entering the Trappist order, we abjure all pride in the
past; we make ourselves like new-born children; we become dead to the
world that we may live again in Jesus Christ. But of this be sure: you
behold in me one of the most striking examples of the miraculous power
of grace; and if I could make known to you the tale of my religious
life, of my terrors, my remorse, and my expiations, you would certainly
be touched by it. But of what avail the indulgence and compassion of
man, if the pity of God will not deign to absolve me?’
“You know,” continued the abbe, “that I do not like monks, that I
distrust their humility and abhor their lives of inaction. But this man
spoke in so sad and kindly a manner; he was so filled with a sense
of his duty; he seemed so ill, so emaciated by asceticism, so truly
penitent, that he won my heart. In his looks and in his talk were bright
flashes which betrayed a powerful intellect, indefatigable energy, and
indomitable perseverance. We spent two whole hours together, and I was
so moved by what he said that on leaving him I expressed a wish to see
him again before he left this neighbourhood. He had found a lodging for
the night at the Goulets farm, and I tried in vain to persuade him to
accompany me to the chateau. He told me that he had a companion he could
not leave.
“‘But, since you are so sympathetic,’ he said, ‘I shall esteem it a
pleasure to meet you here to-morrow towards sunset; perhaps I may
even venture to ask a favour of you; you can be of service to me in an
important matter which I have to arrange in this neighbourhood; more
than this I cannot tell you at the present moment.’
“I assured him that he could reckon on me, and that I should only be too
happy to oblige a man such as himself.”
“And the result is, I suppose, that you are waiting impatiently for the
hour of your appointment?” I said to the abbe.
“I am,” he replied; “and my new acquaintance has so many attractions for
me that, if I were not afraid of abusing the confidence he has placed in
me, I should take Edmee to the spring of Fougeres.”
“I fancy,” I replied, “that Edmee has something better to do than to
listen to the declamations of your monk, who perhaps, after all, is only
a knave, like so many others to whom you have given money blindly. You
will forgive me, I know, abbe; but you are not a good physiognomist, and
you are rather apt to form a good or bad opinion of people for no reason
except that your own romantic nature happens to feel kindly or timidly
disposed towards them.”
The abbe smiled and pretended that I said this because I bore him a
grudge; he again asserted his belief in the Trappist’s piety, and then
went back to botany. We passed some time at Patience’s, examining the
collection of plants; and as my one desire was to escape from my own
thoughts, I left the hut with the abbe and accompanied him as far as the
wood where he was to meet the monk. In proportion as we drew near to
the place the abbe seemed to lose more and more of his eagerness of the
previous evening, and even expressed a fear that he had gone too
far. This hesitation, following so quickly upon enthusiasm, was very
characteristic of the abbe’s mobile, loving, timid nature, with its
strange union of the most contrary impulses, and I again began to rally
him with all the freedom of friendship.
“Come, then,” he said, “I should like to be satisfied about this; you
must see him. You can study his face for a few minutes, and then leave
us together, since I have promised to listen to his secrets.”
As I had nothing better to do I followed the abbe; but as soon as we
reached a spot overlooking the shady rocks whence the water issues,
I stopped and examined the monk through the branches of a clump of
ash-trees. Seated immediately beneath us by the side of the spring, he
had his eyes turned inquiringly on the angle of the path by which he
expected the abbe to arrive; but he did not think of looking at the
place where we were, and we could examine him at our ease without being
seen by him.
No sooner had I caught sight of him than, with a bitter laugh, I took
the abbe by the arm, drew him back a short distance, and, not without
considerable agitation, said to him:
“My dear abbe, in bygone years did you never catch sight of the face of
my uncle, John de Mauprat?”
“Never, as far as I know,” replied the abbe, quite amazed. “But what are
you driving at?”
“Only this, my friend; you have made a pretty find here; this good
and venerable Trappist, in whom you see so much grace and candour, and
contrition, and intelligence, is none other than John de Mauprat, the
Hamstringer.”
“You must be mad!” cried the abbe, starting back. “John de Mauprat died
a long time ago.”
“John Mauprat is not dead, nor perhaps Antony Mauprat either; and my
surprise is less than yours only because I have already met one of these
two ghosts. That he has become a monk, and is repenting for his sins,
is very possible; but alas! it is by no means impossible that he has
disguised himself in order to carry out some evil design, and I advise
you to be on your guard.”
The abbe was so frightened that he no longer wanted to keep his
appointment. I suggested that it would be well to learn what the old
sinner was aiming at. But, as I knew the abbe’s weak character, and
feared that my Uncle John would manage to win his heart by his lying
confessions and wheedle him into some false step, I made up my mind to
hide in a thicket whence I could see and hear everything.
But things did not happen as I had expected. The Trappist, instead of
playing the politician, immediately made known his real name to the
abbe. He declared that he was full of contrition, and that, as his
conscience would not allow him to make the monk’s habit a refuge from
punishment (he had really been a Trappist for several years), he was
about to put himself into the hands of justice, that he might atone in
a striking way for the crimes with which he was polluted. This man,
endowed as he was with conspicuous abilities, had acquired a
mystic eloquence in the cloister. He spoke with so much grace and
persuasiveness that I was fascinated no less than the abbe. It was in
vain that the latter attempted to combat a resolution which appeared
to him insane; John Mauprat showed the most unflinching devotion to his
religious ideas. He declared that, having committed the crimes of the
old barbarous paganism, he could not ransom his soul save by a public
expiation worthy of the early Christians.
“It is possible,” he said, “to be a coward with God as well as with man,
and in the silence of my vigils I hear a terrible voice answering to my
tears: ‘Miserable craven, it is the fear of man that has thrown you upon
the bosom of God, and if you had not feared temporal death, you would
never have thought of life eternal!’
“Then I realize that what I most dread is not God’s wrath, but the rope
and the hangman that await me among my fellows. Well, it is time to end
this sense of secret shame; not until the day when men crush me beneath
their abuse and punishment shall I fell absolved and restored in the
sight of Heaven; then only shall I account myself worthy to say to Jesus
my Saviour: ‘Give ear to me, innocent victim, Thou who heardest the
penitent thief; give ear to a sullied but contrite victim, who has
shared in the glory of Thy martyrdom and been ransomed by Thy blood!’”
“If you persist in your enthusiastic design,” said the abbe, after
unsuccessfully bringing forward all possible objections, “you must at
least let me know in what way you thought I could be of service to you.”
“I cannot act in this matter,” replied the Trappist, “without the
consent of a young man who will soon be the last of the Mauprats; for
the chevalier has not many days to wait before he will receive the
heavenly reward due to his virtues; and as for myself, I cannot avoid
the punishment I am about to seek, except by falling back into the
endless night of the cloister. I speak of Bernard Mauprat; I will not
call him my nephew, for if he heard me he would blush to think that he
bore this shameful title. I heard of his return from America, and this
news decided me to undertake the journey at the painful end of which you
now behold me.”
It seemed to me that while he was saying this he kept casting
side-glances towards the clump of trees where I was, as if he had
guessed my presence there. Perhaps the movement of some branches had
betrayed me.
“May I ask,” said the abbe, “what you now have in common with this young
man? Are you not afraid that, embittered by the harsh treatment formerly
lavished on him at Roche-Mauprat, he may refuse to see you?”
“I am certain that he will refuse; for I know the hatred that he still
has for me,” said the Trappist, once more looking towards the spot where
I was. “But I hope that you will persuade him to grant me an interview;
for you are a good and generous man, Monsieur l’Abbe. You promised to
oblige me; and, besides, you are young Mauprat’s friend, and you will
be able to make him understand that his interests are at stake and the
honour of his name.”
“How so?” answered the abbe. “No doubt he will be far from pleased to
see you appear before the courts to answer for crimes which have since
been effaced in the gloom of the cloister. He will certainly wish you to
forego this public expiation. How can you hope that he will consent?”
“I have hope, because God is good and great; because His grace is
mighty; because it will touch the heart of him who shall deign to hear
the prayer of a soul which is truly penitent and deeply convinced;
because my eternal salvation is in the hands of this young man, and he
cannot wish to avenge himself on me beyond the grave. Moreover, I must
die at peace with those I have injured; I must fall at the feet of
Bernard Mauprat and obtain his forgiveness of my sins. My tears will
move him, or, if his unrelenting soul despises them, I shall at least
have fulfilled an imperious duty.”
Seeing that he was speaking with a firm conviction that he was being
heard by me, I was filled with disgust; I thought I could detect the
deceit and cowardice that lay beneath this vile hypocrisy. I moved away
and waited for the abbe some distance off. He soon rejoined me; the
interview had ended by a mutual promise to meet again soon. The abbe had
undertaken to convey the Trappist’s words to me, while the latter had
threatened in the most honeyed tone in the world to come and see me if I
refused his request. The abbe and I agreed to consult together, without
informing the chevalier or Edmee, that we might not disquiet them
unnecessarily. The Trappist had gone to stay at La Chatre, at the
Carmelite convent; this had thoroughly aroused the abbe’s suspicions,
in spite of his first enthusiasm at the penitence of the sinner. The
Carmelites had persecuted him in his youth, and in the end the prior
had driven him to secularize himself. The prior was still alive, old
but implacable; infirm, and withdrawn from the world, but strong in his
hatred, and his passion for intrigue. The abbe could not hear his name
without shuddering, and he begged me to act prudently in this affair.
“Although John Mauprat,” he said, “is under the bane of the law, and you
are at the summit of honour and prosperity, do not despise the weakness
of your enemy. Who knows what cunning and hatred may do? They can usurp
the place of the just and cast him out on the dung-heap; they can
fasten their crimes on others and sully the robe of innocence with their
vileness. Maybe you have not yet finished with the Mauprats.”
The poor abbe did not know that there was so much truth in his words.