spot, the calm and resignation necessary to enable him to withstand the
first shock. He intended to avoid Châteaubrun; but he found himself
near the ruin, unconscious how he had come thither. He rode by without
turning his head, ascended the rough road where, in the howling storm,
he had first seen the château by the light of the lightning flashes. He
recognized the rocks behind which he had found shelter with Jean
Jappeloup, and he could not realize that more than two months had passed
since that night when he was so light-hearted, so self-controlled, so
different from what he had since become.
He rode on toward Eguzon, in order to see once more the whole of the
road he had then passed over, as he had not visited it since. But when
he reached the first houses, the sight of the villagers scrutinizing him
caused the same thrill of horror and misanthropy which Monsieur de
Boisguilbault would have been likely to feel at such a time. He turned
sharply into a dark, wooded road at his left and rode into the country,
without any definite goal.
This rough but fascinating road, passing now over broad, flat rocks, now
over the fresh green sward, now over fine sand, and bordered by
venerable chestnuts with furrowed trunks and enormous roots, conducted
him to vast moors, where he rode slowly along, content to be alone at
last in a desolate region. The road stretched before him, sometimes in
zigzag fashion, sometimes straight up and down, through fields covered
with broom and furze, and over sandy hillocks intersected by brooks that
had no well-defined bed and no fixed course.
From time to time a partridge skimmed along the grass at his feet, or a
kingfisher flew like an arrow across a swamp, a flash of blue and fiery
red.
After an hour's ride, being still absorbed in his thoughts, he saw that
the path became narrower, plunged into the bushes, and finally
disappeared under his feet. He raised his eyes and saw before him,
beyond steep precipices and deep ravines, the ruins of Crozant rising
like a sharp arrow over curiously jagged peaks of such extent that one
could hardly embrace the whole at a single glance.
Emile had already visited that interesting fortress, but by a more
direct road, and as his preoccupation had prevented him from taking his
bearings, he was uncertain for a moment where he was. Nothing could be
more consonant with his frame of mind than that wild locality and those
desolate ruins. He left his horse at a hut and descended on foot the
narrow path that led down to the bed of the torrent by a series of steps
cut in the rock. Then he ascended by similar means and buried himself in
the ruins, where he remained for several hours, a prey to an intensity
of suffering which the aspect of a spot that was so horrifying and so
sublime exalted at times almost to delirium.
Few fortresses so advantageously situated as that of Crozant were
erected in the first centuries of feudalism. The mountain on which it
stands descends perpendicularly on all sides, to two mountain streams,
the Creuse and the Sédelle, which unite tumultuously at the end of the
peninsula and keep up a constant roaring as they leap over huge
fragments of stone. The sides of the mountain are very peculiar,
bristling everywhere with long, grayish rocks, which rise from the abyss
like giants or hang like stalactites over the torrent.
The ruins of the château have taken on so completely the color and
shape of the surrounding rocks that in many places one can hardly
distinguish them at a little distance.
It is hard to say which was the bolder and the more tragically inspired
in that spot, nature or man, and one cannot imagine, upon such a stage,
other than scenes of implacable fury and unending despair.
A drawbridge, several dark posterns and a double encircling wall,
flanked by towers and bastions, the remains of which can still be seen,
made this fortress impregnable before the invention of cannon. And yet
almost nothing is known of the history of a place that was of such
importance in the wars of the Middle Ages.
A vague tradition attributes its construction to certain Saracen chiefs
who are said to have defended themselves there for a long while. The
frost, which is severe and of long duration in that region, accelerates
each year the destruction of those fortifications which cannon-balls
have shattered and years have reduced to dust. The great square donjon,
however, which has the aspect of a Saracen structure, still stands in
the centre, and, being undermined, threatens to fall at any moment, like
all the rest. Several towers, of which a single side only is standing,
planted upon cone-shaped points of rock, present the appearance of sharp
rocky peaks around which clouds of birds of prey scream incessantly.
The circuit of the fortress cannot be made without danger. In many
places there is no trace of a path, and the foot trembles on the brink
of precipices over which the water plunges headlong.
The approach of the enemy could be detected only from the top of the
towers of observation; for on a level with the lower portions of the
buildings and the summit of the mountain, the view was restricted by
other barren mountains. But to-day there are gaps in their rocky sides,
patches of fertile soil where noble trees grow freely, often uprooted by
the rising of the waters when they have reached a considerable height.
A few goats, less wild than the wretched children who guard them, cling
to the ruins and climb fearlessly over the precipitous cliffs.
The whole spot is so magnificently desolate and so rich in contrasts
that the painter knows not where to stop. The imagination of the artist
would find a superfluity of material in that gorgeous panorama of terror
and menace.
Emile passed several hours there, plunged in the chaos of his
uncertainty and his projects. As he had left home at daybreak, he was
consumed by hunger, but paid no heed to the physical discomfort which
aggravated his mental distress. Stretched out upon a rock, he was
watching the vultures hovering overhead and thinking of the tortures of
Prometheus, when the distant sound of a man's voice, which seemed not
unfamiliar to him, sent a thrill through his whole being. He rose and
ran to the edge of the precipice and saw three persons descending the
path on the opposite side of the ravine.
A man in a blouse and broad-brimmed gray hat rode ahead, turning from
time to time to warn those who came behind to be careful; next to him
came a peasant leading a donkey by the bridle, and on the donkey was a
woman in a faded lilac dress and a simple straw hat.
Emile darted to meet them, without asking himself if Janille had spoken,
if they were on their guard against him, if they were likely to greet
him coldly. He ran and leaped like a stone thrown down the steep side of
the ravine. He ran as the crow flies, crossing the stream, which bounded
with empty threats over the slippery stones, and reached the other slope
to receive a hearty welcome from honest Antoine, and to take from the
hands of Sylvain Charasson the bridle of the modest steed who bore
Gilberte and her sweet smile and her blushing cheek and the joyous air
which she tried in vain to restrain. Janille was not there. Janille had
not spoken!
How much sweeter joy seems after sorrow, and how quickly love makes up
for the time wasted in suffering! Emile no longer remembered the day
before and thought no more of the morrow.
When he was among the ruins of Crozant once more, leading his beloved in
triumph, he broke off all the branches he could reach and threw them
under the donkey's feet, as the Hebrews of old strewed pearls along the
track of the divine Master's humble beast.
Then he took Gilberte in his arms to put her down upon the loveliest bit
of greensward he could find, although she needed no such assistance to
alight from so small and placid a creature. Emile was no longer timid,
for he was mad; and if Antoine had not been the least clear-sighted of
mankind, he would have realized that it was of no more use to think of
holding in check that exalted passion, than of preventing the Creuse or
the Sédelle from flowing and roaring.
"Well, I am dying of hunger," said Monsieur Antoine, "and before I
inquire how it happens that we meet so opportunely, I should like to
hear something about luncheon. One guest more does not alarm us, for
Janille has stuffed us with provender. Open your game-bag, you young
rascal," he said to Sylvain, "while I go and cut a hole in the bag that
my daughter has _en croupe_. Then Emile will run to the house yonder and
obtain a supply of brown bread. Let us stay by the stream, it is pure
water from the rock and is excellent when taken in small quantities with
a generous quantity of wine."
The repast was soon spread on the grass, Gilberte took a huge lotus leaf
for a plate, and her father carved with a sort of sabre which he called
a clasp-knife. In addition to the bread, Emile brought milk for Gilberte
and wild cherries which were voted delicious, their bitter taste having
at all events the merit of stimulating the appetite. Sylvain, perched
like a monkey on an overhanging bough, had as generous a share as the
others and ate with the more enjoyment, he said, because Mademoiselle
Janille's eyes were not there to count his mouthfuls with an air of
reproof. Emile was satisfied in a moment. Laugh as you will at the
heroes in novels who never eat, it is very certain that lovers have
little appetite, and that therein novels are as true as life itself.
What bliss for Emile, after believing that when he saw Gilberte again,
she would be stern and distrustful of him, to find her as he had left
her the day before, entirely without constraint and overflowing with
dignified trustfulness! And how he loved Antoine for being incapable of
a suspicion and for displaying the same open-hearted gayety.
Never had he felt so light-hearted himself; never had he seen a lovelier
day than that mild September day, never a more cheerful and enchanted
spot than that frowning fortress of Crozant! And Gilberte wore that day
her lilac dress, which he had not seen for a long while, and which
reminded him of the day and hour when he had fallen madly in love with
her!
He learned that they had set out to visit a relative at La Clavière
before going to Argenton for two days, and that, finding no one at that
château, they had determined to make a detour to Crozant and remain
there until evening; and it was only midday! Emile imagined that he had
all eternity before him. Monsieur Antoine lay down in the shade after
luncheon and slept soundly. The two lovers, followed by Charasson,
undertook to make the circuit of the fortress.
XXI
MONSIEUR ANTOINE'S NAP
The page of Châteaubrun amused the young couple for a few moments with
his ingenuous remarks; but he was speedily vanquished by the longing to
run, and started off in pursuit of the goats, narrowly escaped having
trouble with their keepers, and ended by making it up with them and
playing at quoits on the bank of the Creuse, while Emile and Gilberte
attempted to follow the course of the Sédelle on the other side of the
mountain.
As the torrent has eaten away the base of the cliff in many places, they
had sometimes to crawl, sometimes to retrace their steps, sometimes to
step on stones that were level with the water, and all of this not
without some difficulty and some danger. But youth is adventurous and
love is afraid of nothing.
A special providence protects both alike, and our lovers came bravely
forth from all the perils of their undertaking,--Emile trembling with an
emotion very different from fear when he lifted Gilberte or held her in
his arms; Gilberte laughing to conceal her confusion or to forget it.
Gilberte was strong, active and brave, like a true child of the
mountain; and yet, by dint of passing over a constant succession of
obstacles, she became breathless, sank on the moss beside the leaping
stream, and threw her hat on the grass, having to put up her hair which
had fallen over her shoulders.
"Do go and pick me that lovely digitalis over yonder," she said to
Emile, thinking that she would have time to rearrange her locks before
he returned. But he went and came again so quickly that he found her
still inundated by the golden flood which her little hands could hardly
gather up into a single braid.
Standing beside her, he gazed in admiration at those treasures which she
twisted up behind her head with more impatience than pride, and which
she would have cut off long before as being an annoying burden, if
Antoine and Janille had not strenuously objected.
At that moment, however, she was grateful to them for refusing to allow
it; for, although she was little inclined to coquetry, she saw that
Emile was lost in admiration, and she had done nothing to arouse it. If
there are some triumphs of beauty, which love cannot refuse to enjoy,
they are those above all which are unforeseen and involuntary. That
beautiful hair would have been a genuine compensation to an ugly woman,
and in Gilberte's case it was a lavish outlay of nature added to all her
other gifts.
It should be said that Gilberte, like her father, was industrious rather
than clever with her hands, and moreover, she had lost all her pins
while running and the heavy braid, hurriedly twisted, twice burst its
bonds and fell to her feet.
Emile's eyes were still fixed upon her; Gilberte did not see them, but
she felt them, as if the atmosphere were filled with the fire of that
passionate gaze. She soon became so confused that she forgot to be
merry, and finally, as ordinarily, made an effort to relieve, by a jest,
their mutual emotion.
"I wish this hair was _my own_," she said; "then I would cut it off and
throw it into the stream."
There was an opportunity for a well-turned compliment; but Emile was
careful not to take advantage of it. What could he say about that hair
which would express the love he bore it? He had never touched it and he
was dying with the longing to do so. He glanced furtively about. A
circle of rocks and shrubs isolated Gilberte and himself from the whole
world. There was no spot on the mountain from which they could be seen.
One would have said that she had selected that sheltered retreat to
tempt him, and yet the innocent maiden had not thought of it, nor did
she think that she was in any danger there.
Emile was no longer master of himself. Insomnia, alarm, grief and joy
had kindled fever in his blood. He knelt beside Gilberte and took a
handful of her rebellious hair in his trembling hand; then, as she
started, he dropped it again, saying:
"I thought it was a wasp, but it is only a bit of moss."
"You frightened me," said Gilberte, shaking her head; "I thought it was
a snake."
Meanwhile Emile's hand was clinging to her hair and could not let it go.
On the pretext of assisting Gilberte to collect the scattered locks of
which the breeze disputed possession with her, he touched it a hundred
times, and at last put his lips to it stealthily. Gilberte did not seem
to notice it, and hurriedly replacing her hat upon the ill-assured mass,
she rose and said with an air which she strove to render unconcerned:
"Let us go to see if my father has awakened."
But she was trembling; a sudden pallor had driven the brilliant color
from her cheeks; her heart was ready to burst; she staggered and leaned
against the rock to keep from falling. Emile was at her feet.
What did he say to her? He did not know himself, and the echoes of
Crozant did not retain his words. Gilberte did not hear them distinctly;
she had the roar of the torrent in her ears, increased a hundredfold by
the throbbing of the blood in her arteries, and it seemed to her that
the mountain, seized with convulsions, was swaying to and fro over her
head.
She had no legs with which to fly, indeed she did not think of it. In
vain does one fly from love; when it has found its way into the heart,
it takes root there and accompanies it everywhere. Gilberte did not know
that there was any other peril in love than that of allowing her heart
to be taken by surprise, and, in truth, there were no others for her
with Emile. That danger was great enough, Heaven knows, and the vertigo
it caused was full of irresistible delights.
All that Gilberte could say was to repeat with a sort of terror,
instinct with regret and pain:
"No, no! you must not love me!"
"That means that you hate me then!" rejoined Emile; and Gilberte turned
her face away, for she had not the courage to lie. "Very well," he
continued; "if you do not love me, what harm does it do for you to know
that I love you? Let me tell you so, since I can conceal it no longer.
It is a matter of indifference to you, and one does not fear what one
despises. Know that it is true then, and if I leave you, if I am to see
you no more, at all events understand why it is: it is because I am
dying for love of you, because I cannot sleep or work, because I am
losing my wits and shall soon find myself telling your father what I am
telling you now. I would rather be driven away by you than by the
others. So drive me away; but you shall hear me now, because my secret
is suffocating me; I love you, Gilberte, I love you so that it is
killing me!"--And Emile's heart was so full that it overflowed in sobs.
Gilberte attempted to leave him; but she sat down only a few feet away
and began to weep. There was more joy than bitterness behind those
tears. So that Emile soon went to her to comfort her and was soon
comforted in his turn; for there was naught but affection and regret in
the terror that she felt.
"I am a poor girl," she said, "you are rich and your father, they say,
thinks of nothing but increasing his fortune. You cannot marry me, and I
ought not to think of marrying in my position. It would be by mere
chance if I should fall in with a man as poor as myself, who had
received a little education; and I have never counted on that chance. I
said to myself long ago that I must make the best of my lot, in order to
accustom myself to a sense of true dignity, which consists in not
envying others and in forming oneself to simple tastes and honorable
employment. So I do not think of marriage at all, since it would
probably be necessary to change my way of thinking in order to find a
husband. I must tell you that Janille got an idea into her head several
days ago that troubles me a great deal. She wants my father to seek a
husband for me. Seek a husband! Isn't that shameful and humiliating? Can
you imagine anything more repulsive? And yet the dear old soul cannot
understand my objection, and as my father was going to Argenton to
receive the quarterly payment of his small pension, she suddenly decided
this morning that he must take me and introduce me to some of his
acquaintances. We can't resist Janille, so we started; but my father,
thank heaven! doesn't know how to find husbands, and I shall be so
cunning about helping him not to think of it, that this little excursion
will result in nothing. You see, Monsieur Emile, that you mustn't pay
your court to a girl who has no illusions and who has made up her mind,
without regret or shame, to remain unmarried. I supposed that you would
understand this, and that your friendly sentiments would prevent you
from seeking to ruffle my quiet life. So forget this folly which has
passed through your mind, and look upon me simply as a sister, who will
forget what you have said, if you promise to love her with a calm and
brotherly love. Why should we part? it would be a great sorrow to my
father and me!"
"It would be a great sorrow to you, Gilberte?" said Emile; "why is it
that you weep when you say such cold words to me? Either I do not
understand you, or you are concealing something from me. And do you want
me to tell you what I think that I divine? that you have not enough
esteem for me to listen to me with confidence. You take me for a young
madman, who prates of love without religion or conscience, and you think
that you can treat me like a child to whom you would say: 'I forgive
you, don't do it again.' But, if you believe that a genuine, serious
passion can be allayed by a few cold words, you are a child yourself,
Gilberte, and you have no feeling at all for me in the depths of your
heart. O my God, can it be possible? and do those eyes that avoid mine,
that hand that spurns me, mean contempt or incredulity?"
"Haven't I said enough? Do you think that I can consent to love you,
with the certainty that you will belong to another sooner or later? It
seems to me that love means living together forever: that is why, when I
renounced the thought of marriage, I had to renounce the thought of
love."
"I understand it so, too, Gilberte: love means living together forever!
To my mind not even death can put an end to it; did I not say all that
to you when I told you that I loved you? Ah! cruel Gilberte, you failed
to understand me, or else you do not choose to understand me; but if you
loved me you would not doubt. You would not tell me that you are poor,
you would forget all about it as I do."
"O _mon Dieu_! I do not doubt you, Emile; I know that you are as
incapable as myself of being guided by self-interest. But I ask you
again, are we stronger than destiny, than your father's will, for
instance?"
"Yes, Gilberte, yes, stronger than the whole world, if--we love each
other."
It is quite useless to repeat the remainder of the interview. We might
describe certain interludes of dismay and discouragement, when Gilberte,
becoming reasonable, that is to say miserable, once more, pointed out
obstacles and manifested a pride which, while not strongly marked, was
sufficiently intense to lead her to prefer eternal solitude to the
humiliation of a struggle against arrogance and wealth. We might tell by
what honorable and manly arguments Emile sought to restore her
confidence. But the strongest arguments, those to which Gilberte found
no reply, are those which we cannot transcribe, for they were all
enthusiasm and ingenuous pantomime.
Lovers are not eloquent after the manner of rhetoricians, and their
words written down have never had much meaning for those to whom they
were not addressed. If we could remember in cooler moments the
insignificant remark that caused us to lose our wits, we should not
understand how it could be and should jeer at ourselves.
But the tone and the glance find magical resources in passion, and Emile
soon succeeded in persuading Gilberte of what he himself believed at
that moment: namely that nothing was simpler or easier than for them to
marry, consequently that nothing was more legitimate and necessary than
that they should love each other with all their strength.
The noble-hearted girl loved Emile too dearly to harbor the thought that
he was a rash and presumptuous youth. He said that he would overcome any
possible resistance on his father's part, and Gilberte knew nothing of
Monsieur Cardonnet except by vague rumors. Emile guaranteed his loving
mother's consent and that assurance set Gilberte's conscience at rest.
She soon shared all his illusions, and it was agreed that he should
speak to his father before applying to Monsieur Antoine.
A selfish or ambitious girl would have been more prudent. She would have
made the avowal of her feelings depend upon harsher conditions. She
would have refused to see her lover again until such time as he should
come prepared to go through with all the formalities, including the
request for her hand. But Gilberte's mind never entertained such
precautions.
She felt in her heart a something infinite, a faith in and respect for
her lover's word, which had no bounds. She was no longer disturbed save
by one thing; the thought that she might become a source of discord and
affliction in Emile's family on the day that he spoke to his father.
She could entertain no doubt of the victory which he was so certain of
winning; but the thought of the battle pained her and she would have
liked to postpone the awful moment.
"Listen," she said, with angelic naïveté, "there is no hurry; we are
happy as we are, and young enough to wait. I am afraid indeed that will
be your father's principal and strongest objection; you are only
twenty-one, and he may fear that you have not made your choice with
sufficient care, that you have not examined your fiancée's character
closely enough. If he talks to you about waiting, and asks for time to
reflect, submit to every test. Even if we should not be united for
several years, what does it matter, provided that we see each other,
since we cannot doubt each other's constancy?"
"Oh! you are a saint!" Emile replied, kissing the edge of her scarf,
"and I will be worthy of you."