“What has happened?” I said the Edmee, in a low tone. “Who has been here
in my absence?”
“If I told you,” answered Edmee, “you would hardly believe it. You
would think my father and I were mad. But I will tell you everything
presently; let us attend to him.”
With her soft words and loving attentions she succeeded in calming the
old man. We carried him to his room, and he fell into a quiet sleep.
When Edmee had gently withdrawn her hand from his and lowered the wadded
curtain over his head, she joined the abbe and myself, and told us that
a quarter of an hour before we returned a mendicant friar had entered
the drawing-room, where, as usual, she was embroidering near her
father, who had fallen asleep. Feeling no surprise at an incident
which frequently happened, she had risen to get her purse from the
mantel-piece, at the same time addressing a few words to the monk. But
just as she was turning round to offer him an alms the chevalier had
awakened with a start, and eyeing the monk from head to foot, had cried
in a tone half of anger and half of fear:
“What the devil are you doing here in that garb?”
Thereupon Edmee had looked at the monk’s face and had recognised . . .
“A man you would never dream of,” she said; “the frightful John Mauprat.
I had only seen him a single hour in my life, but that repulsive face
has never left my memory, and I have never had the slightest attack of
fever without seeing it again. I could not repress a cry.
“‘Do not be afraid,’ he said, with a hideous smile. ‘I come here not as
an enemy, but as a supplicant.’
“And he went down on his knees so near my father, that, not knowing
what he might do, I rushed between them, and hastily pushed back the
arm-chair to the wall. Then the monk, speaking in a mournful tone, which
was rendered still more terrifying by the approach of night, began to
pour out some lamentable rigmarole of a confession, and ended by asking
pardon for his crimes, and declaring that he was already covered by the
black veil which parricides wear when they go to the scaffold.
“‘This wretched creature has gone mad,’ said my father, pulling the
bell-rope.
“But Saint-Jean is deaf, and he did not come. So we had to sit in
unspeakable agony and listen to the strange talk of the man who calls
himself a Trappist and declares that he had come to give himself up to
justice in expiation of his transgressions. Before doing so, he wished
to implore my father’s forgiveness and his last blessing. While saying
this he was moving forward on his knees, and speaking with an intense
passion. In the sound of this voice, uttering words of extravagant
humility, there seemed to be insult and a menace. As he continued moving
nearer to my father, and as the idea of the foul caresses which he
apparently wished to lavish on him filled me with disgust, I ordered
him in a somewhat imperious tone to rise and speak becomingly. My father
angrily ordered him to say no more and depart; and as at this moment
he cried, ‘No, you must let me clasp your knees!’ I pushed him back to
prevent him from touching my father. I shudder to think that my glove
has touched that unclean gown. He turned towards me, and, though he
still feigned penitence and humility, I could see rage gleaming in his
eyes. My father made a violent effort to get up, and in fact he got up,
as if by a miracle; but the next instant he fell back fainting in his
chair. Then steps were heard in the billiard-room, and the monk rushed
out by the glass door with the speed of lightning. It was then that you
found me half-dead and frozen with terror at the feet of my prostate
father.”
“The abominable coward has lost no time, you see, abbe,” I cried. “His
aim was to frighten the chevalier and Edmee, and he has succeeded; but
he reckoned without me, and I swear that--though he should have to be
treated in the Roche-Mauprat fashion--if he ever dares to come here
again----”
“That is enough, Bernard,” said Edmee. “You make me shudder. Speak
seriously, and tell me what all this means.”
When I had informed her of what had happened to the abbe and myself, she
blamed us for not warning her.
“Had I known,” she said, “what to expect I should not have been
frightened, and I could have taken care never to be left alone in the
house with my father, and Saint-Jean, who is hardly more active. Now,
however, I am no longer afraid; I shall be on my guard. But the best
thing, Bernard dear, is to avoid all contact with this loathsome man,
and to make him as liberal an allowance as possible to get rid of him.
The abbe is right; he may prove formidable. He knows that our kinship
with him must always prevent us from summoning the law to protect us
against his persecutions; and though he cannot injure us as seriously
as he flatters himself, he can at least cause us a thousand annoyances,
which I am reluctant to face. Throw him gold and let him take himself
off. But do not leave me again, Bernard; you see you have become
absolutely necessary to me; brood no more over the wrong you pretend to
have done me.”
I pressed her hand in mine, and vowed never to leave her, though she
herself should order me, until this Trappist had freed the country from
his presence.
The abbe undertook the negotiations with the monastery. He went into
the town the following day, carrying from me a special message to the
Trappist that I would throw him out of the window if he ever took it
into his head to appear at Sainte-Severe again. At the same time I
proposed to supply him with money, even liberally, on condition that
he would immediately withdraw to his convent or to any other secular
or religious retreat he might choose, and that he would never again set
foot in Berry.
The prior received the abbe with all the signs of profound contempt and
holy aversion for his state of heresy. Far from attempting to wheedle
him like myself, he told him that he wished to have nothing to do with
this business, that he washed his hands of it, and that he would confine
himself to conveying the decisions on both sides, and affording a refuge
to Brother Nepomucene, partly out of Christian charity, and partly to
edify his monks by the example of a truly devout man. According to him,
Brother Nepomucene would be the second of that name placed in the front
rank of the heavenly host by virtue of the canons of the Church.
The next day the abbe was summoned to the convent by a special
messenger, and had an interview with the Trappist. To his great
surprise, he found that the enemy had changed his tactics. He
indignantly refused help of any sort, declaring that his vow of poverty
and humility would not allow it; and he strongly blamed his dear host,
the prior, for daring to suggest, without his consent, an exchange
of things eternal for things temporal. On other matters he refused to
explain his views, and took refuge in ambiguous and bombastic replies.
God would inspire him, he said, and at the approaching festival of the
Virgin, at the august and sublime hour of holy communion, he expected to
hear the voice of Jesus speaking to his heart and announcing the line of
conduct he ought to follow. The abbe was afraid of betraying uneasiness,
if he insisted on probing this “Christian mystery,” so he returned with
this answer, which was least of all calculated to reassure me. He did
not appear again either at the castle or in the neighbourhood, and kept
himself so closely shut up in the convent that few people ever saw his
face. However, it soon became known, and the prior was most active in
spreading the news, that John Mauprat had been converted to the most
zealous and exemplary piety, and was now staying at the Carmelite
convent for a term, as a penitent from La Trappe. Every day they
reported some fresh virtuous trait, some new act of austerity of this
holy personage. Devotees, with a thirst for the marvellous, came to see
him, and brought him a thousand little presents, which he obstinately
refused. At times he would hide so well that people said he had returned
to his monastery; but just as we were congratulating ourselves on
getting rid of him, we would hear that he had recently inflicted some
terrible mortifications on himself in sackcloth and ashes; or else that
he had gone barefooted on a pilgrimage into some of the wildest and most
desolate parts of Varenne. People went so far as to say that he could
work miracles. If the prior had not been cured of his gout, that was
because, in a spirit of true penitence, he did not wish to be cured.
This state of uncertainty lasted almost two months.