I gave an account of this interview to the abbe, who was waiting for
me at Patience’s. He was entirely of my own opinion; he thought, like
myself, that the prior, so far from endeavouring to turn the Trappist
from his pretended designs, was trying with all his power to frighten
me, in the hope that I should be brought to make considerable sacrifices
of money. In his eyes it was clear that this old man, faithful to the
monkish spirit, wished to put into the hands of a clerical Mauprat the
fruit of the labours and thrift of a lay Mauprat.
“That is the indelible mark of the Catholic clergy,” he said. “They
cannot live without waging war on the families around them, and being
ever on the watch for opportunities to spoil them. They look upon this
wealth as their property, and upon all ways of recovering it as lawful.
It is not as easy as you think to protect one’s self against this
smooth-faced brigandage. Monks have stubborn appetites and ingenious
minds. Act with caution and be prepared for anything. You can never
induce a Trappist to show fight. Under the shelter of his hood, with
head bowed and hands crossed, he will accept the cruelest outrages; and,
knowing quite well that you will not assassinate him, he will hardly
fear you. Again, you do not know what justice can become in man’s
hands, and how a criminal trial is conducted and decided when one of
the parties will not stick at any kind of bribery and intimidation.
The Church is powerful, the law grandiloquent. The words ‘honesty’ and
‘integrity’ have for centuries been ringing against the hardened walls
of courts of justice; but that has not prevented judges from being
false or verdicts from being iniquitous. Have a care; have a care! The
Trappist may start the cowled pack on his own track and throw them off
by disappearing at the right point and leading them on yours. Remember
that you have wounded many an _amour propre_ by disappointing the
pretensions of the dowry-hunters. One of the most incensed of them,
and at the same time one of the most malicious, is a near relative of a
magistrate who is all-powerful in the province. De la Marche has given
up the gown for the sword; but among his old colleagues he may have left
some one who would like to do you an ill-turn. I am sorry you were not
able to join him in America, and get on good terms with him. Do not
shrug your shoulders; you may kill a dozen of them, and things will
go from bad to worse. They will avenge themselves; not on your life,
perhaps, for they know that you hold that cheap, but on your honour; and
your great-uncle will die of grief. In short--”
“My dear abbe,” I said, interrupting him, “you have a habit of seeing
everything black at the first glance, when you do not happen to see the
sun in the middle of the night. Now let me tell you some things which
ought to drive out these gloomy presentiments. I know John Mauprat of
old; he is a signal impostor, and, moreover, the rankest of cowards. He
will sink into the earth at the sight of me, and as soon as I speak I
will make him confess that he is neither Trappist, nor monk, nor saint.
All this is a mere sharper’s trick. In the old days I have heard him
making plans which prevent me from being astonished at his impudence
now; so I have but little fear of him.”
“There you are wrong,” replied the abbe. “You should always fear a
coward, because he strikes from behind while you are expecting him in
front. If John Mauprat were not a Trappist, if the papers he showed me
were lies, the prior of the Carmelites is too shrewd and cautious to
have let himself be deceived. Never would he have espoused the cause of
a layman, and never would he mistake a layman for one of his own cloth.
However, we must make inquiries; I will write to the superior of the
Trappist monastery at once, but I am certain he will confirm what I know
already. It is even possible that John Mauprat is a genuine devotee.
Nothing becomes such a character better than certain shades of the
Catholic spirit. The inquisition is the soul of the Church, and the
inquisition should smile on John Mauprat. I firmly believe that he
would give himself up to the sword of justice solely for the pleasure
of compassing your ruin with his own, and that the desire to found a
monastery with your money is a sudden inspiration, the honour of which
belongs entirely to the prior of the Carmelites . . .”
“That is hardly probable, my dear abbe,” I said. “Besides, where can
these discussions lead us? Let us act. Let us keep the chevalier in
sight, so that the unclean beast may not come and poison the calm of his
last days. Write to the Trappist superior; I will offer the creature
a pension, and when he comes, let us carefully watch his slightest
movements. My sergeant, Marcasse, is an admirable bloodhound. Let us put
him on the track, and if he can manage to tell us in vulgar speech what
he has seen and heard, we shall soon know everything that is happening
in the province.”
Chatting thus, we arrived at the chateau towards the close of day. As
I entered the silent building, I was seized with a fond, childish
uneasiness, such as may come upon a mother when she leaves her babe a
moment. The eternal security which nothing had ever disturbed within the
bounds of the old sacred walls, the decrepitude of the servants, the way
in which the doors always stood open, so that beggars would sometimes
enter the drawing-room without meeting any one and without giving
umbrage--the whole atmosphere of peace and trust and isolation--formed
a strange contrast to the thoughts of strife, and the cares with which
John’s return and the prior’s threats had filled my mind for some
hours. I quickened my pace, and, seized with an involuntary trembling, I
crossed the billiard-room. At that moment I thought I saw a dark shadow
pass under the windows of the ground floor, glide through the jasmines,
and disappear in the twilight. I threw open the door of the drawing-room
and stood still. There was not a sound, not a movement. I was going
to look for Edmee in her father’s room, when I thought I saw something
white moving near the chimney-corner where the chevalier always sat.
“Edmee! Is that you?” I exclaimed.
No one answered. My brow was covered with a cold sweat and my knees
were trembling. Ashamed of this strange weakness, I rushed towards the
hearth, repeating Edmee’s name in agonized tones.
“Have you come at last, Bernard?” she replied, in a trembling voice.
I seized her in my arms. She was kneeling beside her father’s arm-chair
and pressing to her lips the old man’s icy hands.
“Great God!” I cried, when by the dim light in the room I could
distinguish the chevalier’s livid face. “Is our father dead?”
“Perhaps,” she said, in a stifled voice; “perhaps he has only fainted,
please God! But, a light, for Heaven’s sake! Ring the bell! He has only
been in this state for a moment.”
I rang in all haste. The abbe now came in, and fortunately we succeeded
in bringing my uncle back to life.
But when he opened his eyes, his mind seemed to be struggling against
the impressions of a fearful dream.
“Has he gone? Has the vile phantom gone?” he repeated several times.
“Ho, there, Saint-Jean! My pistols! Now, my men! Throw the fellow out of
the window!”