If Anthony Mauprat had been a man of mettle he might have done me a
bad turn by declaring that he had been a witness of my attempt to
assassinate Edmee. As he had reasons for hiding himself before this last
crime, he could have explained why he had kept out of sight, and why he
had been silent about the occurrences at Gazeau Tower. I had nothing in
my favour except Patience’s evidence. Would this have been sufficient
to procure my acquittal? The evidence of so many others was against
me, even that given by my friends, and by Edmee, who could not deny my
violent temper and the possibility of such a crime.
But Antony, in words the most insolent of all the “Hamstringers,” was
the most cowardly in deeds. He no sooner found himself in the hands
of justice than he confessed everything, even before knowing that his
brother had thrown him over.
At his trial there were some scandalous scenes, in which the two
brothers accused each other in a loathsome way. The Trappist, whose rage
was kept in check by his hypocrisy, coldly abandoned the ruffian to his
fate, and denied that he had ever advised him to commit the crime. The
other, driven to desperation, accused him of the most horrible deeds,
including the poisoning of my mother, and Edmee’s mother, who had both
died of violent inflammation of the intestines within a short time of
each other. John Mauprat, he declared, used to be very skilful in the
art of preparing poisons and would introduce himself into houses under
various disguises to mix them with the food. He affirmed that, on
the day that Edmee had been brought to Roche-Mauprat, John had called
together all his brothers to discuss plans for making away with this
heiress to a considerable fortune, a fortune which he had striven
to obtain by crime, since he had tried to destroy the effects of the
Chevalier Hubert’s marriage. My mother’s life, too, had been the
price paid for the latter’s wish to adopt his brother’s child. All
the Mauprats had been in favour of making away with Edmee and myself
simultaneously, and John was actually preparing the poison when the
police happened to turn aside their hideous designs by attacking the
castle. John denied the charges with pretended horror, saying humbly
that he had committed quite enough mortal sins of debauchery and
irreligion without having these added to his list. As it was difficult
to take Antony’s word for them without further investigation; as this
investigation was almost impossible, and as the clergy were too powerful
and too much interested in preventing a scandal to allow it, John
Mauprat was acquitted on the charge of complicity and merely sent back
to the Trappist monastery; the archbishop forbade him ever to set foot
in the diocese again, and, moreover, sent a request to his superiors
that they would never allow him to leave the convent. He died there a
few years later in all the terrors of a fanatic penitence very much akin
to insanity.
It is probable that, as a result of feigning remorse in order to find
favour among his fellows, he had at last, after the failure of his
plans, and under the terrible asceticism of his order, actually
experienced the horrors and agonies of a bad conscience and tardy
repentance. The fear of hell is the only creed of vile souls.
No sooner was I acquitted and set at liberty, with my character
completely cleared, than I hastened to Edmee. I arrived in time to
witness my great-uncle’s last moments. Towards the end, though his mind
remained a blank as to past events, the memory of his heart returned. He
recognised me, clasped me to his breast, blessed me at the same time as
Edmee, and put my hand into his daughter’s. After we had paid the last
tribute of affection to our excellent and noble kinsman, whom we were as
grieved to lose as if we had not long foreseen and expected his death,
we left the province for some time, so as not to witness the execution
of Antony, who was condemned to be broken on the wheel. The two false
witnesses who had accused me were flogged, branded, and expelled from
the jurisdiction of the court. Mademoiselle Leblanc, who could not
exactly be accused of giving false evidence, since hers had consisted of
mere inferences from facts, avoided the public displeasure by going to
another province. Here she lived in sufficient luxury to make us suspect
that she had been paid considerable sums to bring about my ruin.
Edmee and I would not consent to be separated, even temporarily, from
our good friends, my sole defenders, Marcasse, Patience, Arthur, and the
Abbe Aubert. We all travelled in the same carriage; the first two, being
accustomed to the open air, were only too glad to sit outside; but we
treated them on a footing of perfect equality. From that day forth they
never sat at any table but our own. Some persons had the bad taste to
express astonishment at this; we let them talk. There are circumstances
that obliterate all distinctions, real or imaginary, of rank and
education.
We paid a visit to Switzerland. Arthur considered this was essential
to the complete restoration of Edmee’s health. The delicate, thoughtful
attentions of this devoted friend, and the loving efforts we made to
minister to her happiness, combined into the beautiful spectacle of the
mountains to drive away her melancholy and efface the recollection of
the troublous times through which we had just passed. On Patience’s
poetic nature Switzerland had quite a magic effect. He would frequently
fall into such a state of ecstasy that we were entranced and terrified
at the same time. He felt strongly tempted to build himself a chalet
in the heart of some valley and spend the rest of his life there in
contemplation of Nature; but his affection for us made him abandon this
project. As for Marcasse, he declared subsequently that, despite all the
pleasure he had derived from our society, he looked upon this visit
as the most unlucky event of his life. At the inn at Martigny, on our
return journey, Blaireau, whose digestion had been impaired by age,
fell a victim to the excess of hospitality shown him in the kitchen. The
sergeant said not a word, but gazed on him awhile with heavy eye, and
then went and buried him under the most beautiful rose-tree in the
garden; nor did he speak of his loss until more than a year later.
During our journey Edmee was for me a veritable angel of kindness and
tender thought; abandoning herself henceforth to all the inspirations of
her heart, and no longer feeling any distrust of me, or perhaps thinking
that I deserved some compensation for all my sufferings, she repeatedly
confirmed the celestial assurances of love which she had given in
public, when she lifted up her voice to proclaim my innocence. A few
reservations that had struck me in her evidence, and a recollection of
the damning words that had fallen from her lips when Patience found her
shot, continued, I must confess, to cause me pain for some time longer.
I thought, rightly perhaps, that Edmee had made a great effort to
believe in my innocence before Patience had given his evidence. But on
this point she always spoke most unwillingly and with a certain amount
of reserve. However, one day she quite healed my wound by saying with
her charming abruptness:
“And if I loved you enough to absolve you in my own heart, and defend
you in public at the cost of a lie, what would you say to that?”
A point on which I felt no less concern was to know how far I might
believe in the love which she declared she had had for me from the very
beginning of our acquaintance. Here she betrayed a little confusion, as
if, in her invincible pride, she regretted having revealed a secret she
had so jealously guarded. It was the abbe who undertook to confess for
her. He assured me that at that time he had frequently scolded Edmee for
her affection for “the young savage.” As an objection to this, I told
him of the conversation between Edmee and himself which I had overheard
one evening in the park. This I repeated with that great accuracy of
memory I possess. However, he replied:
“That very evening, if you had followed us a little further under the
trees, you might have overheard a dispute that would have completely
reassured you, and have explained how, from being repugnant (I may
almost say odious) to me, as you then were, you became at first
endurable, and gradually very dear.”
“You must tell me,” I exclaimed, “who worked the miracle.”
“One word will explain it,” he answered; “Edmee loved you. When she had
confessed this to me, she covered her face with her hands and remained
for a moment as if overwhelmed with shame and vexation; then suddenly
she raised her head and exclaimed:
“‘Well, since you wish to know the absolute truth, I love him! Yes,
I love him! I am smitten with him, as you say. It is not my fault; why
should I blush at it? I cannot help it; it is the work of fate. I have
never loved M. de la Marche; I merely feel a friendship for him. For
Bernard I have a very different feeling--a feeling so strong, so varied,
so full of unrest, of hatred, of fear, of pity, of anger, of tenderness,
that I understand nothing about it, and no longer try to understand
anything.’”
“‘Oh, woman, woman!’ I exclaimed, clasping my hands in bewilderment,
‘thou art a mystery, an abyss, and he who thinks to know thee is totally
mad!’
“‘As many times as you like, abbe,’ she answered, with a firmness in
which there were signs of annoyance and confusion, ‘it is all the same
to me. On this point I have lectured myself more than you have lectured
all your flocks in your whole life. I know that Bernard is a bear,
a badger, as Mademoiselle Leblanc calls him, a savage, a boor, and
anything else you like. There is nothing more shaggy, more prickly, more
cunning, more malicious than Bernard. He is an animal who scarcely knows
how to sign his name; he is a coarse brute who thinks he can break me in
like one of the jades of Varenne. But he makes a great mistake; I will
die rather than ever be his, unless he becomes civilized enough to
marry me. But one might as well expect a miracle. I try to improve him,
without daring to hope. However, whether he forces me to kill myself or
to turn nun, whether he remains as he is or becomes worse, it will be
none the less true that I love him. My dear abbe, you know that it must
be costing me something to make this confession; and, when my affection
for you brings me as a penitent to your feet and to your bosom, you
should not humiliate me by your expressions of surprise and your
exorcisms! Consider the matter now; examine, discuss, decide! Consider
the matter now; examine, discuss, decide! The evil is--I love him. The
symptoms are--I think of none but him, I see none but him; and I could
eat no dinner this evening because he had not come back. I find him
handsomer than any man in the world. When he says that he loves me, I
can see, I can feel that it is true; I feel displeased, and at the same
time delighted. M. de la Marche seems insipid and prim since I have
known Bernard. Bernard alone seems as proud, as passionate, as bold as
myself--and as weak as myself; for he cries like a child when I vex him,
and here I am crying, too, as I think of him.’”
“Dear abbe,” I said, throwing myself on his neck, “let me embrace you
till I have crushed your life out for remembering all this.”
“The abbe is drawing the long bow,” said Edmee archly.
“What!” I exclaimed, pressing her hands as if I would break them. “You
have made me suffer for seven years, and now you repent a few words that
console me . . .”
“In any case do not regret the past,” she said. “Ah, with you such as
you were in those days, we should have been ruined if I had not been
able to think and decide for both of us. Good God! what would have
become of us by now? You would have had far more to suffer from my
sternness and pride; for you would have offended me from the very first
day of our union, and I should have had to punish you by running away
or killing myself, or killing you--for we are given to killing in our
family; it is a natural habit. One thing is certain, and that is that
you would have been a detestable husband; you would have made me blush
for your ignorance; you would have wanted to rule me, and we should have
fallen foul of each other; that would have driven my father to despair,
and, as you know, my father had to be considered before everything. I
might, perhaps, have risked my own fate lightly enough, if I had been
alone in the world, for I have a strain of rashness in my nature; but
it was essential that my father should remain happy, and tranquil, and
respected. He had brought me up in happiness and independence, and I
should never have forgiven myself if I had deprived his old age of the
blessings he had lavished on my whole life. Do not think that I am full
of virtues and noble qualities, as the abbe pretends; I love, that is
all; but I love strongly, exclusively, steadfastly. I sacrificed you to
my father, my poor Bernard; and Heaven, who would have cursed us if I
had sacrificed my father, rewards us to-day by giving us to each other,
tried and not found wanting. As you grew greater in my eyes I felt
that I could wait, because I knew I had to love you long, and I was not
afraid of seeing my passion vanish before it was satisfied, as do the
passions of feeble souls. We were two exceptional characters; our loves
had to be heroic; the beaten track would have led both of us to ruin.”