“Yes, this calm frightened me more than a storm would have done. To
win Dionysia’s love was too great happiness. I expected a catastrophe,
something terrible. I expected it with such absolute certainty, that I
had actually made up my mind to confess every thing to M. de Chandore.
You know him, Magloire. The old gentleman is the purest and brightest
type of honor itself. I could intrust my secrets to him with as perfect
safety as I formerly intrusted Genevieve’s name to the night winds.
“Alas! why did I hesitate? why did I delay?
“One word might have saved me; and I should not be here, charged with
an atrocious crime, innocent, and yet condemned to see how you doubt the
truth of my words.
“But fate was against me.
“After having for a week postponed my confession every day to the next,
one evening, after Dionysia and I had been talking of presentiments, I
said to myself, ‘To-morrow it shall be done.’
“The next morning, I went to Boiscoran much earlier than usual, and on
foot, because I wanted to give some orders to a dozen workmen whom I
employed in my vineyards. I took a short cut through the fields. Alas!
not a single detail has escaped from my memory. When I had given my
orders, I returned to the high road, and there met the priest from
Brechy, who is a friend of mine.
“‘You must,’ he said, ‘keep me company for a little distance. As you
are on your way to Sauveterre, it will not delay you much to take the
cross-road which passes by Valpinson and the forest of Rochepommier.’
“On what trifles our fate depends!
“I accompanied the priest, and only left him at the point where the
high-road and the cross-road intersect. As soon as I was alone, I
hastened on; and I was almost through the wood, when, all of a sudden,
some twenty yards before me, I saw the Countess Claudieuse coming
towards me. In spite of my emotion, I kept on my way, determined to bow
to her, but to pass her without speaking. I did so, and had gone on a
little distance, when I heard her call me,--
“‘Jacques!’
“I stopped; or, rather, I was nailed to the spot by that voice which for
a long time had held such entire control over my heart. She came up to
me, looking even more excited than I was. Her lips trembled, and her
eyes wandered to and fro.
“‘Well,’ she said, ‘it is no longer a fancy: this time you marry Miss
Chandore.’
“The time for half-measures had passed.
“‘Yes,’ I replied.
“‘Then it is really true,’ she said again. ‘It is all over now. I
suppose it would be in vain to remind you of those vows of eternal love
which you used to repeat over and over again. Look down there under that
old oak. They are the same trees, this is the same landscape, and I am
still the same woman; but your heart has changed.’
“I made no reply.
“‘You love her very much, do you?’ she asked me.
“I kept obstinately silent.
“‘I understand,’ she said, ‘I understand you but too well. And
Dionysia? She loves you so much she cannot keep it to herself. She stops
her friends to tell them all about her marriage, and to assure them
of her happiness. Oh, yes, indeed, very happy! That love which was my
disgrace is her honor. I was forced to conceal it like a crime: she can
display it as a virtue. Social forms are, after all, very absurd and
unjust; but a fool is he who tries to defy them.’
“Tears, the very first tears I had ever seen her shed, glittered in her
long silky eyelashes.
“‘And to be nothing more to you,--nothing at all! Ah, I was too
cautious! Do you recollect the morning after your uncle’s death, when
you, now a rich man, proposed that we should flee? I refused; I clung to
my reputation. I wanted to be respected. I thought it possible to divide
life into two parts,--one to be devoted to pleasure; the other, to the
hypocrisy of duty. Poor fool that I was! And still I discovered long ago
that you were weary of me. I knew you so well! Your heart was like an
open book to me, in which I read your most secret thoughts. Then I might
have retained you. I ought to have been humble, obliging, submissive.
Instead of that, I tried to command.
“‘And you,’ she said after a short pause,--‘are you happy?’
“‘I cannot be completely happy as long as I know that you are unhappy.
But there is no sorrow which time does not heal. You will forget’--
“‘Never!’ she cried.
“And, lowering her voice, she added,--
“‘Can I forget you? Alas! my crime is fearful; but the punishment is
still more so.’
“People were coming down the road.
“‘Compose yourself,’ I said.
“She made an effort to control her emotion. The people passed us,
saluting politely. And after a moment she said again,--
“‘Well, and when is the wedding?’
“I trembled. She herself insisted upon an explanation.
“‘No day has as yet been fixed,’ I replied. ‘Had I not to see you
first? You uttered once grave threats.’
“‘And you were afraid?’
“‘No: I was sure I knew you too well to fear that you would punish me
for having loved you, as if that had been a crime. So many things have
happened since the day when you made those threats!’
“‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘many things indeed! My poor father is
incorrigible. Once more he has committed himself fearfully; and once
more my husband has been compelled to sacrifice a large sum to save him.
Ah, Count Claudieuse has a noble heart; and it is a great pity I should
be the only one towards whom he has failed to show generosity. Every
kindness which he shows me is a new grievance for me; but, having
accepted them all, I have forfeited the right to strike him, as I had
intended to do. You may marry Dionysia, Jacques; you have nothing to
fear from me.’
“Ah! I had not hoped for so much, Magloire. Overcome with joy, I seized
her hand, and raising it to my lips, I said,--
“‘You are the kindest of friends.’
“But promptly, as if my lips had burnt her hand, she drew it back, and
said, turning very pale,--
“‘No, don’t do that!’
“Then, overcoming her emotion to a certain degree, she added,--
“‘But we must meet once more. You have my letters, I dare say.’
“‘I have them all.’
“‘Well, you must bring them to me. But where? And how? I can hardly
absent myself at this time. My youngest daughter--our daughter,
Jacques--is very ill. Still, an end must be made. Let us see, on
Thursday--are you free then? Yes. Very well, then come on Thursday
evening, towards nine o’clock, to Valpinson. You will find me at the
edge of the wood, near the towers of the old castle, which my husband
has repaired.’
“‘Is that quite prudent?’ I asked.
“‘Have I ever left any thing to chance?’ she replied, ‘and would I
be apt, at this time, to be imprudent? Rely on me. Come, we must part,
Jacques. Thursday, and be punctual!’
“Was I really free? Was the chain really broken? And had I become once
more my own master?
“I thought so, and in my almost delirious joy I forgave the countess all
the anxieties of the last year. What do I say? I began to accuse myself
of injustice and cruelty. I admired her for sacrificing herself to my
happiness. I felt, in the fulness of my gratitude, like kneeling down,
and kissing the hem of her dress.
“It had become useless now to confide my secret to M. de Chandore. I
might have gone back to Boiscoran. But I was more than half-way; I kept
on; and, when I reached Sauveterre, my face bore such evident trances of
my relief, that Dionysia said to me,--
“‘Something very pleasant must have happened to you, Jacques.’
“Oh, yes, very pleasant! For the first time, I breathed freely as I sat
by her side. I could love her now, without fearing that my love might be
fatal to her.
“This security did not last long. As I considered the matter, I thought
it very singular that the countess should have chosen such a place for
our meeting.
“‘Can it be a trap?’ I asked, as the day drew nearer.
“All day long on Thursday I had the most painful presentiments. If I had
known how to let the countess know, I should certainly not have gone.
But I had no means to send her word; and I knew her well enough to be
sure that breaking my word would expose me to her full vengeance. I
dined at the usual hour; and, when I had finished, I went up to my room,
where I wrote to Dionysia not to expect me that evening, as I should be
detained by a matter of the utmost importance.
“I handed the note to Michael, the son of one of my tenants, and told
him to carry it to town without losing a minute. Then I tied up all of
the countess’s letters in a parcel, put it in my pocket, took my gun,
and went out. It might have been eight o’clock; but it was still broad
daylight.”
Whether M. Magloire accepted every thing that the prisoner said as
truth, or not, he was evidently deeply interested. He had drawn up his
chair, and at every statement he uttered half-loud exclamations.
“Under any other circumstances,” said Jacques, “I should have taken one
of the two public roads in going to Valpinson. But troubled, as I was,
by vague suspicions, I thought only of concealing myself and cut across
the marshes. They were partly overflowed; but I counted upon my intimate
familiarity with the ground, and my agility. I thought, moreover, that
here I should certainly not be seen, and should meet no one. In this
I was mistaken. When I reached the Seille Canal, and was just about to
cross it, I found myself face to face with young Ribot, the son of a
farmer at Brechy. He looked so very much surprised at seeing me in such
a place, that I thought to give him some explanation; and, rendered
stupid by my troubles, I told him I had business at Brechy, and was
crossing the marshes to shoot some birds.
“‘If that is so,’ he replied, laughing, ‘we are not after the same kind
of game.’
“He went his way; but this accident annoyed me seriously. I continued on
my way, swearing, I fear, at young Ribot, and found that the path became
more and more dangerous. It was long past nine when I reached Valpinson
at last. But the night was clear, and I became more cautious than ever.
“The place which the countess had chosen for our meeting was about two
hundred yards from the house and the farm buildings, sheltered by other
buildings, and quite close to the wood. I approached it through this
wood.
“Hid among the trees, I was examining the ground, when I noticed the
countess standing near one of the old towers: she wore a simple costume
of light muslin, which could be seen at a distance. Finding every thing
quiet, I went up to her; and, as soon as she saw me, she said,--
“‘I have been waiting for you nearly an hour.’
“I explained to her the difficulties I had met with on my way there; and
then I asked her,--
“‘But where is your husband?’
“‘He is laid up with rheumatism,’ she replied.
“‘Will he not wonder at your absence?’
“‘No: he knows I am sitting up with my youngest daughter. I left the
house through the little door of the laundry.’
“And, without giving me time to reply, she asked,--
“‘Where are my letters?’
“‘Here they are,’ I said, handing them to her.
“She took them with feverish haste, saying in an undertone,--
“‘There ought to be twenty-four.’
“And, without thinking of the insult, she went to work counting them.
“‘They are all here,’ she said when she had finished.
“Then, drawing a little package from her bosom, she added,--
“‘And here are yours.’
“But she did not give them to me.
“‘We’ll burn them,’ she said.
“I started with surprise.
“‘You cannot think of it,’ I cried, ‘here, and at this hour. The fire
would certainly be seen.’
“‘What? Are you afraid? However, we can go into the wood. Come, give me
some matches.’
“I felt in my pockets; but I had none.
“‘I have no matches,’ I said.
“‘Oh, come!--you who smoke all day long,--you who, even in my presence,
could never give up your cigars.’
“‘I left my match-box, yesterday, at M. de Chandore’s.’
“She stamped her foot vehemently.
“‘Since that is so, I’ll go in and get some.’
“This would have delayed us, and thus would have been an additional
imprudence. I saw that I must do what she wanted, and so I said,--
“‘That is not necessary. Wait!’
“All sportsmen know that there is a way to replace matches. I employed
the usual means. I took a cartridge out of my gun, emptied it and its
shot, and put in, instead a piece of paper. Then, resting my gun on the
ground, so as to prevent a loud explosion, I made the powder flash up.
“We had fire, and put the letters to the flame.
“A few minutes later, and nothing was left of them but a few blackened
fragments, which I crumbled in my hands, and scattered to the winds.
Immovable, like a statue, the Countess Claudieuse had watched my
operations.
“‘And that is all,’ she said, ‘that remains of five years of our life,
of our love, and of your vows,--ashes.’
“I replied by a commonplace remark. I was in a hurry to be gone.
“She felt this, and cried with great vehemence,--
“‘Ah! I inspire you with horror.’
“‘We have just committed a marvellous imprudence,’ I said.
“‘Ah! what does it matter?’
“Then, in a hoarse voice, she added,--
“‘Happiness awaits you, and a new life full of intoxicating hopes: it
is quite natural that you should tremble. I, whose life is ended, and
who have nothing to look for,--I, in whom you have killed every hope,--I
am not afraid.’
“I saw her anger rising within her, and said very quietly,--
“‘I hope you do not repent of your generosity, Genevieve.’
“‘Perhaps I do,’ she replied, in an accent which made me tremble. ‘How
you must laugh at me! What a wretched thing a woman is who is abandoned,
who resigns, and sheds tears!’
“Then she went on fiercely,--
“‘Confess that you have never loved me really!’
“‘Ah, you know very well the contrary!’
“‘Still you abandon me for another,--for that Dionysia!’
“‘You are married: you cannot be mine.’
“‘Then if I were free--if I had been a widow’--
“‘You would be my wife you know very well.’
“She raised her arms to heaven, like a drowning person; and, in a voice
which I thought they could hear at the house, she cried,--
“‘His wife! If I were a widow, I would be his wife! O God! Luckily,
that thought, that terrible thought, never occurred to me before.’”
All of a sudden, at these words, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre rose
from his chair, and, placing himself before Jacques de Boiscoran, he
asked, looking at him with one of those glances which seem to pierce our
innermost heart,--
“And then?”
Jacques had to summon all the energy that was left him to be able to
continue with a semblance of calmness, at least,--
“Then I tried every thing in the world to quiet the countess, to move
her, and bring her back to the generous feelings of former days. I was
so completely upset that I hardly knew what I was saying. I hated her
bitterly, and still I could not help pitying her. I am a man; and there
is no man living who would not feel deeply moved at seeing himself the
object of such bitter regrets and such terrible despair. Besides, my
happiness and Dionysia’s honor were at stake. How do I know what I said?
I am not a hero of romance. No doubt I was mean. I humbled myself, I
besought her, I told falsehoods, I vowed to her that it was my family,
mainly, who made me marry. I hoped I should be able, by great kindness
and caressing words, to soften the bitterness of the parting. She
listened to me, remaining as impassive as a block of ice; and, when I
paused, she said with a sinister laugh,--
“‘And you tell me all that! Your Dionysia! Ah! if I were a woman like
other women, I would say nothing to-day, and, before the year was over,
you would again be at my feet.’
“She must have been thinking of our meeting at the cross-roads. Or was
this the last outburst of passion at the moment when the last ties were
broken off? I was going to speak again; but she interrupted me bruskly,
saying,--
“‘Oh, that is enough! Spare me, at least, the insult of your pity! I’ll
see. I promise nothing. Good-by!’
“And she escaped toward the house, while I remained rooted to the spot,
almost stupefied, and asking myself if she was not, perhaps at that
moment, telling Count Claudieuse every thing. It was at that moment that
I drew from my gun, almost mechanically, the burnt cartridge and put in
a fresh one. Then, as nothing stirred, I went off with rapid strides.”
“What time was it?” asked M. Magloire.
“I could not tell you precisely. My state of mind was such, that I had
lost all idea of time. I went back through the forest of Rochepommier.”
“And you saw nothing?”
“No.”
“Heard nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Still, from your statement, you could not have been far from Valpinson
when the fire broke out.”
“That is true, and, in the open country, I should certainly have seen
the fire; but I was in a dense wood: the trees cut off all view.”
“And these same trees prevented the sound of the two shots fired at
Count Claudieuse from reaching your ear?”
“They might have helped to prevent it; but there was no need for that.
I was walking against the wind, which was very high; and it is an
established fact, that, under such circumstances, the sound of a gun is
not heard beyond fifty yards.”
M. Magloire once more could hardly restrain his impatience; and, utterly
unconscious that he was even harsher than the magistrate, he said,--
“And you think your statement explains every thing?”
“I believe that my statement, which is founded upon the most exact
truth, explains the charges brought against me by M. Galpin. It explains
how I tried to keep my visit to Valpinson secret; how I was met in going
and in coming back, and at hours which correspond with the time of the
fire. It explains, finally, how I came at first to deny. It explains
how one of my cartridge-cases was found near the ruins, and why I had to
wash my hands when I reached home.”