Mauprat

It was while George Sand was pleading for a separation from

her husband, on the ground of incompatibility of temperament,

that "Mauprat" was written, and the powerful story, full of

storm, sentiment, and passion, bears the marks of its

tumultuous birth.

_I.--Bernard Mauprat's Childhood_

In the district of Varenne, within a gloomy ravine, stands the ruined

castle of Roche-Mauprat. It is a place I never pass at night without

some feeling of uneasiness; and now I have just learnt its history from

Bernard Mauprat, the last of the line.

Bernard Mauprat is eighty-four and no man is more represented in the

province. Passing his house with a friend who knew the old man, we

ventured to call, and were received with stately welcome. Later Mauprat

told us his story in the following words:

There were formerly two branches of the Mauprat family and I belonged to

the elder. My grandfather was that Tristan de Mauprat whose crimes are

still remembered. My father was his eldest son, and on his death, which

occurred at a shooting party, the only living member of the younger

branch, the chevalier, Hubert de Mauprat, a widower with an infant

daughter, begged that he might be allowed to adopt me, promising to make

me his heir. My grandfather refused the offer, and when I was seven

years old and my mother died--poisoned some said by my grandfather--I

was carried off by that terrible man to his house at Roche-Mauprat. I

only knew afterwards that my father was the only son of Tristan's who

had married and that consequently I was the heir to the property.

It was a terrible journey I made with my grandfather but more terrible

still was the life led at Roche-Mauprat by Tristan and his eight sons.

Beset by creditors, the Mauprats with a dozen peasants and poachers

defied the civil laws as they had already broken all moral laws. They

formed themselves into a body of adventurers, levying blackmail on the

small farms of the neighbourhood, intimidating the tax-collectors and at

times not hesitating from petty thefts at fairs. Masters and servants

were united in bonds of infamy. Debauchery, extortion, fraud, and

cruelty were the precept and example of my youth. All notions of justice

were scoffed at, and the civilisation, the light of education, and the

philosophy of social equality, then spreading in France and preparing

the way for the convulsion of the Revolution, found no entrance at

Roche-Mauprat.

The eight sons, the pride and strength of old Mauprat, all resembled him

in physical vigour, brutality of manners, and in a cunning ill-nature.

They gave themselves the airs of knights of the twelfth century. What

elsewhere was called assassination and robbery I was taught to call

battle and conquest. The frightful tortures heaped upon prisoners by my

uncles gave me a horrible uneasiness, but what kept me from admiring the

savagery that surrounded me was the ill-usage I received myself. I grew

up without conceiving any liking for vice, but a tendency to hatred was

fostered. Of virtue or simple human affection I knew nothing, and a

blind and brutal anger was nourished in my breast.

As the years went by Roche-Mauprat became more and more isolated. People

left the neighbourhood to escape our violent depredations, and in

consequence we had to go farther afield for plunder. I joined in the

robberies as a soldier serves in a campaign, but on more than one

occasion I helped some unfortunate man who had been knocked down to get

up and escape.

My grandfather died when I was fifteen. A year later and so threatened

were we by crown officers, private creditors and infuriated peasants,

that it was a question of either fleeing the country or bracing

ourselves for a decisive struggle, and if needs be finding a grave under

the ruins of the castle.

_II.--Meet my Cousin Edmée_

One night, when wind and rain beat fiercely against the old walls of the

castle and I sat at supper with my uncles, a horn was heard at the

portcullis. I had been drinking heavily, and boasting that I would make

a conquest of the first woman brought to Roche-Mauprat--for I had been

rallied on my modesty--when a second blast of the horn announced that it

was my Uncle Lawrence bringing in a prize.

"If it is a woman," cried my Uncle Antony, as he went out to the

portcullis, "I swear by the soul of my father that she shall be yours,

and we'll see if your courage is equal to your conceit."

When the door opened again a woman entered, and one of the Mauprats

whispered to me that the young lady had lost her way at a wolf hunt and

that Lawrence, meeting her in the forest, had promised to escort her to

Rochemaure where she had friends. Never having seen the face of one of

my uncles, and little dreaming she was near their haunt, for she had

never had a glimpse of Roche-Mauprat, she was led into the castle

without having the least suspicion of the trap into which she had

fallen. When I beheld this woman, so young and so beautiful, with her

expression of calm sincerity and goodness, it seemed to me I was

dreaming.

My uncles withdrew, for Antony had pledged his word, and I was left

alone with the stranger. For a moment I felt more bewildered and

stupefied than pleased. With the fumes of wine in my head I could only

suppose this lady was some acquaintance of Lawrence's, and that she had

been told of my drunken boast and was willing to put my gallantry to the

proof. I got up and bolted and double-locked the door.

She was sitting close to the fire, drying her wet garments, without

noticing what I had done. I made up my mind to kiss her, but no sooner

had she raised her eyes to mine than this familiarity became impossible.

All I could say, was:

"Upon my word, mademoiselle, you are a charming creature, and I love

you--as true as my name is Bernard Mauprat."

"Bernard Mauprat!" she cried, springing up; "you are Bernard Mauprat,

you? In that case learn to whom you are speaking, and change your

manners."

"Really!" I said with a grin, "but let my lips meet yours, and you shall

see if I am not as nicely mannered as those uncles of mine."

Her lips grew white. Her agony was manifest in every gesture. I

shuddered myself, and was in a state of great perplexity.

This woman was beautiful as the day. I do not believe that there has

ever lived a woman as lovely as she. And this was the first trial of her

life.

She was my young cousin, Edmée de Mauprat, daughter of M. Hubert de

Mauprat, the chevalier. She was of my age, for we were both seventeen,

and I ought to have protected her against the world at the peril of my

life.

"I swear by Christ," she said, taking my hands in hers, "that I am

Edmée, your cousin, your prisoner--yes, and your friend, for I have

always felt an interest in you."

Her words were cut short by the report of a gun outside; more shots were

heard and the alarm trumpet sounded.

I heard my Uncle Lawrence shouting violently at the door. "Where is that

coward? Where is that wretched boy? Bernard, the mounted police are

attacking us, and you are amusing yourself by making love while our

throats are being cut. Come and help us, Bernard."

"May the devil take the lot of you," I cried, "if I believe a single

word of all this."

But the shots rang out louder and for half an hour the fighting was most

desperate. Our band amounted to twenty-four all told, and the enemy were

fifty soldiers in addition to a score of peasants.

As soon as I learnt that we were really being attacked, I had taken my

weapons and done what I called my duty, after leaving Edmée locked in

the room.

After three assaults had been repulsed there was a long lull, and I

returned to my captive. The fear lest my uncles should get possession of

Edmée made me mad. I kept on telling her I loved her and wanted her for

myself, and seeing what an animal it was she had to deal with, my cousin

made up her mind accordingly. She threw her arms round me, and let me

kiss her. "Do you love me?" she asked.

From this moment the victory was hers. The wolf in me was conquered, and

the man rose in its place.

"Yes, I love you! Yes, I love you!"

"Well, then," she said distractedly, "let us love each other and escape

together."

"Yes; let us escape," I answered. "I loathe this house, and I loathe my

uncles. I have long wanted to escape. And yet I shall only be hanged,

you know." For I knew I had as much to fear from the besiegers as from

the besieged.

"They won't hang you," she rejoined with a laugh; "my betrothed is a

lieutenant-general."

"Your betrothed!" I burst out in a fit of jealousy. "You are going to be

married?"

"And why not?"

"Swear that you will not marry before I die. Swear that you will be mine

sooner than this lieutenant-general's," I cried.

Edmée swore as I asked her, and she made me swear in return that her

promise should be a secret. Then I clasped her in my arms, and we

remained motionless until fresh shots announced that the fight had begun

again. Every moment of delay was dangerous now. I seized a torch, and

lifting a trap door made her descend with me to the cellar. Thence we

passed into a subterranean passage, and finally hurried forth into the

open, holding each other's hands as a sign of mutual trust. I found a

horse that had belonged to my grandfather in the forest, and this animal

carried us some miles from Roche-Mauprat, before it stumbled and threw

us. Edmée was unhurt but my ankle was badly sprained. Fortunately we

were near a lonely building called Gayeau Tower, the dwelling place of a

remarkable man called Patience, a peasant who was both a hermit and a

philosopher, and who, like Edmée, was filled with the new social gospel

of Rousseau. Between these two a warm friendship existed.

"The lamb in the company of the wolf," cried Patience when he saw us.

"My friend," replied Edmée, "welcome him as you welcome me. I was a

prisoner at Roche-Mauprat, and it was he who rescued me."

At that Patience took me by the arm and led me in. A few days later I

was carried to the chateau of the chevalier, M. Hubert de Mauprat, at

Sainte-Sévère, and there I learnt that Roche-Mauprat had been taken,

that five of my uncles were dead, and that two, John and Antony, had

disappeared.

"Bernard," added the chevalier, "I owe to you the life I hold dearest in

the world. All my own life shall be devoted to giving you proofs of my

gratitude and esteem. Bernard, we are both of us victims of a vicious

family. The wrong that has been done you shall be repaired. They have

deprived you of education, but your soul has remained pure. Bernard, you

will restore the honour of your family, promise me this."

_III.--I Go to America and Return_

For a long time I am sure my presence was a source of utter discomfort

to the kind and venerable chevalier, and to his daughter. I was boorish

and illiterate and Edmée was one of the most perfect women to be found

in France. She found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest

simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues. Brute like, at

that time I saw her only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved

her because she was beautiful. Her fiance, M. de la Marche, the

lieutenant-general, a shallow and frigid Voltairean, understood her but

little better. A day came when I could understand her--the day when M.

de la Marche could have understood her would never have come.

The first step was taken on my part when I realised that I was ignorant

and savage, and I applied to the Abbé Aubert, the chaplain, whose

offices I had hitherto despised, to instruct me. I learnt quickly, and

soon vanity at my rapid progress became the bane of my life.

With Edmée I was so passionately in love that jealousy would awaken the

old brutality that I thought dead, and I would gladly have killed de la

Marche in a duel. Then after an outburst remorse would overtake me.

My cousin at last told me plainly that while she would be true to her

word, and not marry anyone before me, she would not marry me, and that

on her father's death a convent should be her refuge. I knew my

boorishness was responsible for this, and resolved to leave her.

Lafayette was taking out volunteers to help the United States in their

war of independence. I told him I would go with him, and crossed hastily

into Spain, whence he was going to sail to America.

I left a note to my uncle, and wrote to Edmée that, as far as I was

concerned, she was free, and that, while I would not thwart a wish of

hers, it was impossible for me to witness a rival's triumph.

Before we sailed came the following reply from Edmée:

"You have done well, Bernard. Go where honour and love of truth call

you. Return when your mission is accomplished; you will find me neither

married nor in a convent."

I cannot describe the American war. I stayed till peace was declared,

and then chafing at my long absence from France, for I was away six

years--and more in love with Edmée than ever, at last set sail and in

due time landed at Brest.

I had not sent any letter to announce my coming, and when I reached the

Château of Sainte-Sévère I almost feared to cross the threshold. Then I

rushed forward and entered the drawing room. The chevalier was asleep

and did not wake. Edmée, bending over her tapestry, did not hear my

steps.

For a few seconds I stood looking at her, then I fell at her feet

without being able to say a word. She uttered no cry, no exclamation of

surprise, but took my head in her two arms, and held it for sometime

pressed to her bosom. The good chevalier, who had waked with a start,

stared at us in astonishment; then he said:

"Well, well! what is the meaning of this?"

He could not see my face, hidden as it was in Edmée's breast. She pushed

me towards him, and the old man clasped me in his feeble arms with a

burst of generous affection.

Never shall I forget the welcome they gave me. An immense change had

taken place in me during those years of the war. I had learnt to bring

my instincts and desires into harmony with my affections, my reason, and

I had greatly developed my power of acquiring learning.

Edmée was not surprised at my intellectual progress, but she rejoiced at

it. I had shown it in my letters, she said.

My good uncle, the chevalier, now took a real liking for me, and where

formerly natural generosity and family pride had made him adopt me, a

genuine sympathy made him give me his friendship. He did not disguise

from me that his great desire, before falling into the sleep that knows

no waking, was to see me married to Edmée; and when I told him this was

the one wish of my soul, the one thought of my life, he said:

"I know, I know. Everything depends on her, and I think she can no

longer have any reasons for hesitation.... At all events," he added, "I

cannot see any that she could allege at present."

From these words I concluded that he himself had long been favourable to

my suit, and that any obstacle which might exist lay with Edmée. But so

much did I stand in awe of Edmée's sensitive pride and her unspeakable

goodness that I dared not ask her point-blank to decide my fate. M. de

la Marche I knew had left France, and all thought of an engagement on

his part with Edmée was at an end. In a proud struggle to conceal the

poverty of his estate, all his fortune had gone, and he had not been

long in following me to America.

The chevalier insisted on my visiting my property of Roche-Mauprat.

Thanks to my uncle, great improvements had been accomplished in my

absence, and the land was being well cultivated by good tenants. I knew

that I ought not to neglect my duty, and though I had not set foot on

the accursed soil since the day I left it with Edmée, I set out and was

away two days.

I stayed in the gloomy old house and the only remarkable thing about the

visit was that I had a vision of my wicked uncle John Mauprat.

_IV.--My Trial and Happiness_

We had gone on a hunting party one day after my return, and Edmée and I

were separated from the rest. Somehow the old unbridled passions rose up

within me and I succeeded in affronting Edmée with my fierce speech.

Then I hastened away, ashamed and fearful.

I had not gone more than thirty paces when I heard the report of a gun

from the spot where I had left Edmée. I stopped, petrified with horror,

and then retraced my steps. Edmée was lying on the ground, rigid and

bathed in blood. Patience was standing by her side with his arms crossed

on his breast, and his face livid. For myself, I could not understand

what was taking place. I fancy that my brain, already bewildered by my

previous emotions, must have been paralyzed. I sat down on the ground by

Edmée's side. She had been shot in the breast in two places, and the

Abbé Aubert was endeavouring to staunch the blood with his handkerchief.

"Dead, dead," said Patience, "and there is the murderer! She said so as

she gave up her pure soul to God; and Patience will avenge her! It is

very hard but it must be so! It is God's will, since I alone was here to

learn the truth!"

"Horrible, horrible!" exclaimed the Abbé.

Edmée was carried away to the chateau, and I followed and for several

days remained in a state of prostration. When strength and consciousness

returned I learnt that she was not dead, but that everybody believed me

guilty of attempted murder. Patience himself told me the only thing for

me to do was to leave that part of the country. I swore I was innocent

and would not be saddled with the crime.

Then, one evening, I saw mounted police in the courtyard.

"Good!" I said, "let my destiny take its course." But before quitting

the house, perhaps forever, I wished to see Edmée again for the last

time. I walked straight to her room, and there I found the Abbé and the

doctor. I heard the latter declare that the wounds in themselves were

not mortal, and the only danger was from a violent disturbance in the

brain.

I approached the bed, and took Edmée's cold and lifeless hand. I kissed

it a last time, and, without saying a single word to the others, went

and gave myself up to the police.

I was immediately thrown into prison and in a few days my trial began at

the assizes. I was convicted, but through the efforts of certain friends

a revision of my sentence was granted, and I was allowed a new trial.

At this trial Patience appeared and declared that, while he had believed

from what Edmée had said that I was guilty, it had come into his head

that some other Mauprat might have fired the shot. It appeared that John

Mauprat was now living in the neighbourhood, as a penitent Trappist

monk, and he had been seen in company with another monk who was not to

be found since the attack on Edmée. "So I put myself on the track of

this wandering monk," Patience concluded, "and I have discovered who he

is. He is the would-be murderer of Edmée de Mauprat, and his name is

Antony Mauprat."

It then turned out that Antony's plot was to kill Edmée, get me hanged

for the murder, and then, when the chevalier was dead, claim the

estates. John Mauprat knew of his brother's intentions but denied all

complicity and was eventually sent back to his monastery. Antony was

subsequently convicted and broken on the wheel.

But before I was finally acquitted Edmée herself gave evidence for me.

She was still far from well but answered clearly all the irritating and

maddening questions that were put to her. When she said to the president

of the court, "Everything which to you seems inexplicable in my conduct

finds its justification in one word: I love him!" I could not help

crying out, "Let them take me to the scaffold now; I am king of all the

earth."

But as I have said, it was proved that Antony Mauprat was the criminal;

and no sooner was I acquitted and set at liberty, with my character

completely cleared, than I hastened to Edmée.

I arrived in time to witness my great-uncle's last moments. He

recognised me, clasped me to his breast, blessed me at the same time as

Edmée, and put my hand into his daughter's.

After we had paid the last tribute of affection to our noble and

excellent relative, we left the province for sometime and paid a visit

to Switzerland, Patience and the Abbé Aubert bearing us company.

At the end of Edmée's mourning we returned. This was the time that had

been fixed for our marriage, which was duly celebrated in the village

chapel.

The years of happiness with my wife beggar description. She was the only

woman I ever loved, and though she has now been dead ten years I feel

her loss as keenly as on the first day, and seek only to make myself

worthy of rejoining her in a better world after I have completed my

probation here.

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