This obstacle was not insurmountable; but in order to cross it, one

must have a sure foot and steady head, for the least false step would

precipitate the unlucky one into the river, which was rapid as well as

deep. From the rock, one could reach the top of the cliff by means of

some natural stone steps, and then, descending on the other side, could

resume the path by the river, which had been momentarily interrupted.

In this case, one would reach, in about sixty steps, a place where

the river grew broader and the banks projected, forming here and there

little islands of sand covered with bushes. Here was a ford well known

to shepherds and to all persons who wished to avoid going as far as the

castle bridge.

Near the mossy rock of which we have spoken as being close to the

sycamore walk, at the foot of a wall against which it flowed, forming

a rather deep excavation, the current had found a vein of soft, brittle

stone which, by its incessant force, it had ended in wearing away. It

was a natural grotto formed by water, but which earth, in its turn,

had undertaken to embellish. An enormous willow had taken root in a few

inches of soil in a fissure of the rock, and its drooping branches fell

into the stream, which drifted them along without being able to detach

them.

Madame de Bergenheim was seated at the front of this grotto, upon a

seat formed by the base of the rock. She was tracing in the sand, with

a stick which she had picked up on the way, strange figures which she

carefully erased with her foot. Doubtless these hieroglyphics had some

meaning to her, and perhaps she feared lest the slightest marks might

be carelessly forgotten, as they would betray the secret they concealed.

Clemence was plunged into one of those ecstatic reveries which abolish

time and distance. The fibres of her heart, whose exquisite vibrating

had been so suddenly paralyzed by Christian’s arrival, had resumed their

passionate thrills. She lived over again in her mind the tete-a-tete in

the drawing-room; she could hear the entrancing waltz again; she felt

her lover’s breath in her hair; her hand trembled again under the

pressure of his kiss. When she awoke from this dream it was a reality;

for Octave was seated by her side without her having seen him arrive,

and he had taken up the scene at the piano just where it had been

interrupted.

She was not afraid. Her mind had reached that state of exaltation which

renders imperceptible the transition from dreaming to reality. It seemed

to her that Octave had always been there, that it was his place, and

for a moment she no longer thought, but remained motionless in the arms

which embraced her. But soon her reason came back to her. She arose

trembling, and drew away a few steps, standing before her lover with

lowered head and face suffused with blushes.

“Why are you afraid of me? Do you not think me worthy of your love?” he

asked, in an altered voice, and, without trying to retain or approach

her, he fell upon his knees with a movement of sweet, sad grace.

He had analyzed Madame de Bergenheim’s character well enough to perceive

the least variation in her capricious nature. By the young woman’s

frightened attitude, her burning cheeks and the flashes which he saw

from her eyes through her long, drooping lashes, he saw that a reaction

had taken place, and he feared the next outburst; for he knew that

women, when overcome with remorse, always smite their lover by way of

expiation for themselves.

“If I let this recovered virtue have the mastery, I am a lost man for a

fortnight at least,” he thought.

He quickly abandoned the dangerous ground upon which he had taken

position, and passed, by an adroit transition, from the most passionate

frenzy to the most submissive bearing. When Clemence raised her large

eyes, in which was a threatening gleam, she saw, instead of an audacious

man to be punished, an imploring slave.

There was something so flattering in this attitude of humility that she

was completely disarmed. She approached Octave, and took him by the

hand to raise him, seated herself again and allowed him to resume his

position beside her. She softly pressed his hand, of which she had

not let go, and, looking her lover in the eyes, said in that deep,

penetrating voice that women sometimes have:

“My friend!”

“Friend!” he thought; “yes, certainly. I will raise no dispute as to

the word, provided the fact is recognized. What matters the color of

the flag? Only fools trouble themselves about that. ‘Friend’ is not the

throne I aspire to, but it is the road that leads to it. So then, let

it be ‘friend,’ while waiting for better. This word is very pleasant to

hear when spoken in these siren’s accents, and when at the same time the

eyes say ‘lover!’”

“Will you always love me thus?” Octave asked, whose face beamed with

virtuous pledges.

“Always!” sighed Clemence, without lowering eyes under the burning

glance which met hers.

“You will be the soul of my soul; the angel of my heaven?”

“Your sister,” she said, with a sweet smile, as she caressed her lover’s

cheek with her hand.

He felt the blood mount to his face at this caress, and turned his eyes

away with a dreamy air.

“I probably am one of the greatest fools that has ever existed since the

days of Joseph and Hippolytus,” thought he.

He remained silent and apparently indifferent for several moments.

“Of what are you thinking?” asked Madame de Bergenheim, surprised by

Octave’s silence and rather listless air.

He gave a start of surprise at this question.

“May I die if I tell her!” he thought; “she must think me ridiculous

enough as it is.”

“Tell me, I wish you to speak out,” she continued, in that despotic tone

which a woman assumes when sure of her empire.

Instead of replying, as she demanded, he gave her a long, questioning

glance, and it would have been impossible at that moment for her to keep

a single secret from her lover. Madame de Bergenheim felt the magnetic

influence of his penetrating glance so deeply that it seemed to her

these sharp eyes were fathoming her very heart. She felt intensely

disturbed to be gazed at in that way, and, in order to free herself from

this mute questioning, she leaned her head upon Octave’s shoulder, as

she said softly:

“Do not look at me like that or I shall not love your eyes any more.”

Her straw hat, whose ribbons were not tied, slipped and fell, dragging

with it the comb which confined her beautiful hair, and it fell in

disorder over her shoulders. Gerfaut passed his hand behind the charming

head which rested upon his breast, in order to carry this silky,

perfumed fleece to his lips. At the same time, he gently pressed the

supple form which, as it bent toward him, seemed to ask for this caress.

Clemence made a sudden effort and arose, fastening her hair at the back

of her head with an almost shamed haste.

“Will you refuse me one lock of your hair as a souvenir of this hour?”

said Octave, stopping her gently as she was about to replace her comb.

“Do you need any souvenir?” she replied, giving him a glance which was

neither a reproach nor a refusal.

“The souvenir is in my heart, the hair will never leave my bosom! We

live in an unworthy age. I can not boast of wearing your colors in

everybody’s eyes, and yet I should like to wear a sign of my bondage.”

She let her hair fall down her back again, but seemed embarrassed as to

how to execute his wish.

“I can not cut my hair with my teeth,” she said, with a smile which

betrayed a double row of pearls.

Octave took a stiletto from his pocket.

“Why do you always carry this stiletto?” asked the young woman, in a

changed voice; “it frightens me to see you armed thus.”

“Fear nothing,” said Gerfaut, who did not reply to her question, “I will

respect the hair which serves you as a crown. I know where I must cut

it, and, if my ambition is great, my hand shall be discreet.”

Madame de Bergenheim had no confidence in his moderation, and, fearing

to leave her beautiful hair to her lover’s mercy, she took the stiletto

and cut off a little lock which she drew through her fingers and then

offered to him, with a loving gesture that doubled the value of the

gift. At this moment, hunting-horns resounded in the distance.

“I must leave you now!” exclaimed Clemence, “I must. My dear love, let

me go now; say good-by to me.”

She leaned toward him and presented her forehead to receive this adieu.

It was her lips which met Octave’s, but this kiss was rapid and fleeting

as a flash of light. Withdrawing from the arms which would yet retain

her, she darted out of the grotto, and in a moment had disappeared in

one of the shady paths.

For some time, plunged in deep reflection, Gerfaut stood on the same

spot; but at last arousing himself from this dreamy languor, he climbed

the rock so as to reach the top of the cliff. After taking a few steps

he stopped with a frightened look, as if he had espied some venomous

reptile in his path. He could see, through the bushes which bordered

the crest of the plateau at the top of the ladder cut in the rock,

Bergenheim, motionless, and in the attitude of a man who is trying to

conceal himself in order that he may watch somebody. The Baron’s eyes

not being turned in Gerfaut’s direction, he could not tell whether he

was the object of this espionage, or whether the lay of the land allowed

him to see Madame de Bergenheim, who must be under the sycamores by this

time. Uncertain as to what he should do, he remained motionless, half

crouched down upon the rock, behind the ledge of which, thanks to his

position, he could hide from the Baron.

CHAPTER XIX. THE REVELATION

A few moments before the castle clock struck four, a man leaped across

the ditch which served as enclosure to the park. Lambernier, for it was

he who showed himself so prompt at keeping his promise, directed his

steps through the thickets toward the corner of the Corne woods which

he had designated to Marillac; but, after walking for some time, he

was forced to slacken his steps. The hunting-party were coming in his

direction, and Lambernier knew that to continue in the path he had first

chosen would take him directly among the hunters; and, in spite of his

insolence, he feared the Baron too much to wish to expose himself to the

danger of another chastisement. He therefore retraced his steps and took

a roundabout way through the thickets, whose paths were all familiar to

him; he descended to the banks of the river ready to ascend to the place

appointed for the rendezvous as soon as the hunting party had passed.

He had hardly reached the plateau covered with trees, which extended

above the rocks, when, as he entered a clearing which had been recently

made, he saw two men coming toward him who were walking very fast, and

whom to meet in this place caused him a very disagreeable sensation. The

first man was Mademoiselle de Corandeuil’s coachman, as large a fellow

as ever crushed the seats of landau or brougham with his rotundity.

He was advancing with hands in the pockets of his green jacket and

his broad shoulders thrown back, as if he had taken it upon himself to

replace Atlas. His cap, placed in military fashion upon his head, his

scowling brows, and his bombastic air, announced that he was upon the

point of accomplishing some important deed which greatly interested him.

Leonard Rousselet, walking by his side, moved his spider legs with equal

activity, carefully holding up the skirts of his long coat as if they

were petticoats.

Lambernier, at sight of them, turned to enter the woods again, but he

was stopped in his retreat by a threatening shout.

“Stop, you vagabond!” exclaimed the coachman; “halt! If you take a trot,

I shall take a gallop.”

“What do you want? I have no business with you,” replied the workman, in

a surly tone.

“But I have business with you,” replied the big domestic, placing

himself in front of him and balancing himself first on his toes then on

his heels, with a motion like the wooden rocking-horses children play

with. “Come here, Rousselet; are you wheezy or foundered?”

“I have not as good legs as your horses,” replied the old man, who

reached them at last, breathless, and took off his hat to wipe his

forehead.

“What does this mean, jumping out upon one from a corner in the woods

like two assassins?” asked Lambernier, foreseeing that this beginning

might lead to some scene in which he was threatened to be forced to play

a not very agreeable role.

“It means,” said the coachman: “first, that Rousselet has nothing to do

with it; I do not need anybody’s help to punish an insignificant fellow

like you; second, that you are going to receive your quietus in a

trice.”

At these words he pushed his cap down over his ears and rolled up his

sleeves, in order to give freer action to his large, broad hands.

The three men were standing upon a plot of ground where charcoal had

been burned the year before. The ground was black and slippery, but

being rather level, it was a very favorable place for a duel with

fists or any other weapons. When Lambernier saw the lackey’s warlike

preparations, he placed his cap and coat upon an old stump and stationed

himself in front of his adversary. But, before the hostilities had

begun, Rousselet advanced, stretching his long arms out between them,

and said, in a voice whose solemnity seemed to be increased by the

gravity of the occasion:

“I do not suppose that you both wish to kill each other; only uneducated

people conduct themselves in this vulgar manner; you ought to have

a friendly explanation, and see if the matter is not susceptible of

arrangement. That was the way such things were done when I was in the

twenty-fifth demi-brigade.”

“The explanation is,” said the coachman, in his gruff voice, “that here

is a low fellow who takes every opportunity to undervalue me and my

horses, and I have sworn to give him a good drubbing the first time I

could lay my hands upon him. So, Pere Rousselet, step aside. He will see

if I am a pickle; he will find out that the pickle is peppery!”

“If you made use of such a vulgar expression as that,” observed

Rousselet, turning to Lambernier, “you were at fault, and should beg his

pardon as is the custom among educated people.”

“It is false!” exclaimed Lambernier; “and besides, everybody calls the

Corandeuils that, on account of the color of their livery.”

“Did you not say Sunday, at the ‘Femme-sans-Tete’, and in the presence

of Thiedot, that all the servants of the chateau were idlers and

good-for-nothings, and that if you met one of them who tried to annoy

you, you would level him with your plane?”

“If you used the word ‘level,’ it was very uncivil,” observed Rousselet.

“Thiedot had better keep in his own house,” growled the carpenter,

clenching his fists.

“It looks well for a tramp like you to insult gentlemen like us,”

continued the lackey, in an imposing tone. “And did you not say that

when I took Mademoiselle to mass I looked like a green toad upon the

box,... thus trying to dishonor my physique and my clothes? Did you not

say that?”

“Only a joke about the color of your livery. They call the others

measles and lobsters.”

“Lobsters are lobsters,” replied the coachman, in an imperative tone;

“if that vexes them, they can take care of themselves. But I will not

allow any one to attack my honor or that of my beasts by calling them

screws--and that is what you did, you vagabond! And did you not say that

I sent bags of oats to Remiremont to be sold, and that, for a month,

my team had steadily been getting thin? Did you ever hear anything so

scandalous, Pere Rousselet? to dare to say that I endanger the lives of

my horses? Did you not say that, you rascal? And did you not say that

Mademoiselle Marianne and I had little private feasts in her room, and

that was why I could not eat more at the table? Here is Rousselet, who

has been a doctor and knows that I am on a diet on account of my weak

stomach.” At these words, the servant, carried away by his anger, gave

his stomach a blow with his fist.

“Lambernier,” said Rousselet, turning up his lips with a look of

contempt, “I must admit that, for a man well brought up, you have made

most disgusting remarks.”

“To say that I eat the horses’ oats!” roared the coachman.

“I ought to have said that you drank them,” replied Lambernier, with his

usual sneer.

“Rousselet, out of the way!” exclaimed the burly lackey at this new

insult; the old peasant not moving as quickly as he desired, he seized

him by the arm and sent him whirling ten steps away.

At this moment, a new person completed the scene, joining in it, if

not as actor at least as interested spectator. If the two champions had

suspected his presence they would have probably postponed their fight

until a more opportune moment, for this spectator was no other than the

Baron himself. As he saw from a distance the trio gesticulating in

a very animated manner, he judged that a disorderly scene was in

preparation, and as he had wished for a long time to put an end to the

quarrelsome ways of the chateau servants, he was not sorry to catch them

in the very act, so as to make an example of them. At first, he

stooped and concealed himself in the thickets, ready to appear for the

denouement.

As Lambernier saw the giant’s fist coming down upon him, he darted to

one side and the blow only struck the air, making the coachman stumble

from the force of his impetuosity. Lambernier profited by this position

to gather all his strength, and threw himself upon his adversary, whom

he seized by the flank and gave such a severe blow as to bring him down

upon his knees. He then gave him a dozen more blows upon the head, and

succeeded in overthrowing him completely.

If the coachman had not had a cranium as hard as iron, he probably

could not have received such a storm of fisticuffs without giving up the

ghost. Fortunately for him, he had one of those excellent Breton heads

that break the sticks which beat them. Save for a certain giddiness, he

came out of the scramble safe and sound. Far from losing his presence

of mind by the disadvantageous position in which he found himself, he

supported himself upon the ground with his left hand, and, passing his

other arm behind him, he wound it around the workman’s legs, who thus

found himself reaped down, so to speak, and a moment later was lying on

his back in front of his adversary. The latter, holding him fast with

his strong hands, placed a knee, as large as a plate, upon his chest and

then pulled off the cap that his enemy had pushed down over his eyes,

and proceeded to administer full justice to him.

“Ah! you thought you’d attack me treacherously, did you?” said he, with

a derisive chuckle as if to slacken the speed of his horses. “You know

short reckonings make good friends. Oh! what a fine thrashing you are

going to receive, my friend! Take care! if you try to bite my hand, I’ll

choke you with my two fingers, do you hear! Now, then, take this for the

green toad; this, for my horses’ sake; this, for Mademoiselle Marianne!”

He followed each “this” with a heavy blow from his fist. At the third

blow the blood poured out of the mouth of the carpenter, who writhed

under the pressure of his adversary’s knee like a buffalo stifled by

a boa-constrictor; he succeeded at last in freeing one hand, which he

thrust into his trousers’ pocket.

“Ah! you rascal! I am killed!” howled the coachman, giving a bound

backward. Lambernier, profiting by his freedom, jumped upon his feet,

and, without troubling himself as to his adversary, who had fallen on

his knees and was pressing his hand to his left thigh; he picked up his

cap and vest and started off through the clearing. Rousselet, who until

then had prudently kept aside, tried to stop the workman, at a cry from

his companion, but the scoundrel brandished his iron compass before his

eyes with such an ugly look that the peasant promptly left the way open

for him.

At this tragic and unexpected denouement, Bergenheim, who was getting

ready to make his appearance from behind the trees and to interpose his

authority, started in full pursuit of the would-be murderer. From the

direction he took, he judged that he would try to reach the river by

passing over the rock. He walked in this direction, with his gun over

his shoulder, until he reached the foot of the steps which descended

into the grotto. Christian crouched behind some bushes to wait for

Lambernier, who must pass this way, and it was at this moment that

Gerfaut, who was forty feet below him, saw him without suspecting the

reason for his attitude.

Bergenheim soon found out that he had calculated correctly when he

heard a sound like that made by a wild boar when he rushes through the

thickets and breaks the small branches in his path, as if they were no

more than blades of grass. Soon Lambernier appeared with a haggard, wild

look and a face bleeding from the blows he had received. He stopped for

a moment to catch his breath and to wipe off his compass with a handful

of grass; he then staunched the blood streaming from his nose and mouth,

and after putting on his coat started rapidly in the direction of the

river.

“Halt!” exclaimed the Baron, suddenly, rising before him and barring his

passage.

The workman jumped back in terror; then he drew out his compass a second

time and made a movement as if to throw himself upon this new adversary,

out of sheer desperation. Christian, at this threatening pantomime,

raised his gun to his cheek with as much coolness and precision as he

would have shown at firing into a body of soldiers.

“Down with your weapon!” he exclaimed, in his commanding voice, “or I

will shoot you down like a rabbit.”

The carpenter uttered a hoarse cry as he saw the muzzle of the gun

within an inch of his head, ready to blow his brains out. Feeling

assured that there was no escape for him, he closed his compass and

threw it with an angry gesture at the Baron’s feet.

“Now,” said the latter, “you will walk straight ahead of me as far as

the chateau, and if you turn one step to the right or left, I will send

the contents of my gun into you. So right about march!”

As he said these words, he stooped, without losing sight of the workman,

and picked up the compass, which he put in his pocket.

“Monsieur le Baron, it was the coachman who attacked me first; I had to

defend myself,” stammered Lambernier.

“All right, we will see about that later. March on!”

“You will deliver me up to the police--I am a ruined man!”

“That will make one rascal the less,” exclaimed Christian, repelling

with disgust the workman, who had thrown himself on his knees before

him.

“I have three children, Monsieur, three children,” he repeated, in a

supplicating tone.

“Will you march!” replied Bergenheim imperiously, as he made a gesture

with his gun as if to shoot him.

Lambernier arose suddenly, and the expression of terror upon his

countenance gave place to one of resolution mingled with hatred and

scorn.

“Very well,” he exclaimed, “let us go on! but remember what I tell you;

if you have me arrested, you will be the first to repent of it, Baron

though you are. If I appear before a judge, I will tell something that

you would pay a good price for.”

Bergenheim looked fixedly at Lambernier.

“What do you mean by such insolence?” said he.

“I will tell you what I mean, if you will promise to let me go; if you

give me into the hands of the police, I repeat it, you will repent not

having listened to me to-day.”

“This is some idle yarn, made to gain time; no matter, speak; I will

listen.”

The workman darted a defiant glance at Christian.

“Give me your word of honor to let me go afterward.”

“If I do not do so, are you not at liberty to repeat your story?”

replied the Baron, who, in spite of his curiosity, would not give his

word to a scoundrel whose only aim probably was to escape justice.

This observation impressed Lambernier, who, after a moment’s reflection,

assumed a strange attitude of cool assurance, considering the position

in which he found himself. Not a sound was to be heard; even the barking

of the dogs in the distance had ceased. The deepest silence surrounded

them; even Gerfaut, in the place where he was concealed, could no longer

see them, now that Bergenheim had left the edge of the cliff; from

time to time their voices reached him, but he could not distinguish the

meaning of their words.

Leaning with one hand upon his gun, Christian waited for the carpenter

to begin his story, gazing at him with his clear, piercing eyes.

Lambernier bore this glance without flinching, returning it in his

insolent way.

“You know, Monsieur, that when the alterations were made in Madame’s

apartment, I had charge of the carving for her chamber. When I took

away the old woodwork, I saw that the wall between the windows was

constructed out of square, and I asked Madame if she wished that the

panel should be fastened like the other or if she preferred it to open

so that it would make a closet. She said to have it open by means of a

secret spring. So I made the panel with concealed hinges and a little

button hidden in the lower part of the woodwork; it only needs to be

pressed, after turning it to the right, and the woodwork will open like

a door.”

Christian had now become extremely attentive.

“Monsieur will remember that he was in Nancy at the time, and that

Madame’s chamber was completed during his absence. As I was the only one

who worked in this room, the other workmen not being capable of carving

the wood as Madame wished, I was the only person who knew that the panel

was not nailed down the length of the wall.”

“Well?” asked the Baron, impatiently.

“Well,” Lambernier replied, in a careless tone, “if, on account of the

blow which I gave the coachman, it is necessary for me to appear in

court, I shall be obliged to tell, in order to revenge myself, what I

saw in that closet not more than a month ago.”

“Finish your story,” exclaimed Bergenheim, as he clenched the handle of

his gun.

“Mademoiselle Justine took me into this room in order to hang some

curtains; as I needed some nails, she went out to get them. While I was

examining the woodwork, which I had not seen since it had been put in

place, I saw that the oak had warped in one place because it was not dry

enough when it was used. I wished to see if the same thing had happened

between the windows, and if the panel could open. I pressed the spring,

and when the door opened I saw a small package of letters upon the

little shelf; it seemed very singular to me that Madame should choose

this place to keep her letters, and the thought came to me that she

wished to conceal them from Monsieur.”

Bergenheim gave the workman a withering glance, and made a sign for him

to continue.

“They were already talking about discharging me from the chateau’s

employ; I do not know how it happened, but the thought entered my head

that perhaps one of these letters would be of use to me, and I took

the first one in the package; I had only time to close the panel when

Mademoiselle Justine returned.”

“Very well! what is there in common between these letters and the

criminal court that awaits you?” asked Christian, in an altered voice,

although he tried to appear indifferent.

“Oh! nothing at all,” replied the carpenter, with an air of

indifference; “but I thought that you would not like people to know that

Madame had a lover.”

Bergenheim shivered as if he were taken with a chill, and his gun

dropped from his hand to the ground.

As quick as thought Lambernier stooped over to seize the gun, but he

did not have time to carry out his intention, for he was seized by the

throat and half choked by an iron hand.

“That letter! that letter!” said Christian to him, in a low, trembling

voice, and he put his face down close to the carpenter’s, as if he

feared that a breath of wind might carry away his words and repeat them.

“Let me alone first, I can not breathe--” stammered the workman, whose

face, was becoming purple and his eyes starting out of his head, as if

his adversary’s fingers had been a rope.

The latter granted the prayer by loosening his hold of the carpenter’s

neck and seizing him by his vest in such a way as to take away all

chance of escape while leaving him free to speak.

“This letter!” he repeated.

Frightened by the shaking he had just received, and not in a condition

to reflect with his usual prudence, Lambernier mechanically obeyed

this order; he hunted in his pockets for some time, and at last took a

carefully folded paper from his vest-pocket, saying with a stunned air:

“Here it is. It is worth ten louis.”

Christian seized the paper and opened it with his teeth, for he could

not use his hands without releasing his prisoner. It was, like all notes

of this kind, without address, seal, or signature. It did not differ

from most of its kind save in the natural beauty of its style and its

simple eloquence. Ardent protestations, sweet and loving complaints,

those precious words that one bestows only upon the woman he loves and

which betray a love that has yet much to desire but as much to hope.

The handwriting was entirely unknown to Bergenheim, but Clemence’s name,

which was repeated several times, did not permit him to doubt for a

moment that this note was written to his wife. When he had finished

reading, he put it in his pocket with apparent serenity, and then looked

at Lambernier, who, during this time, had remained motionless under the

hand that detained him.

“You are mistaken, Lambernier,” said he to him; “it is one of my letters

before my marriage.” And he tried to force himself to smile; but the

muscles of his lips refused to act this falsehood, and drops of cold

perspiration stood upon his forehead and at the roots of his hair.

The carpenter had watched the change in the Baron’s countenance as

he read the letter. He was persuaded that he could turn the capital

importance of his revelations into profit for himself; he believed

that the time had come when he might gain advantage by showing that he

understood perfectly well the value of the secret he had just imparted.

So he replied with a glance of intelligence:

“Monsieur’s handwriting must have changed greatly, then; I have some

of his orders which do not resemble this any more than a glass of water

does a glass of wine.”

Christian tried to find a response but failed. His eyebrows contracted

in a manner that betokened a coming storm, but Lambernier was not

disturbed by this symptom; he continued in a more and more assured

voice:

“When I said that this letter was worth ten louis, I meant that it was

worth that much to a mere stranger, and I am very sure I should not have

to go very far to find one; but Monsieur le Baron is too sensible not to

know the value of this secret. I do not wish to set a price upon it, but

since I am obliged to go away on account of this coachman, and have no

money--”

He did not have time to finish; Bergenheim seized him in the middle of

the body and made him describe a horizontal half-circle without touching

the ground, then threw him upon his knees on the edge of the path

which descended almost perpendicularly alongside the rocks. Lambernier

suddenly saw his haggard face reflected in the river fifty feet below.

At this sight, and feeling a powerful knee between his shoulders which

bent him over the abyss, as if to make him appreciate its dangers, the

workman uttered a terrified cry; his hands clutched wildly at the tufts

of grass and roots of plants which grew here and there on the sides of

the rocks, and he struggled with all his might to throw himself back

upon the ground. But it was in vain for him to struggle against the

superior strength of his adversary, and his attempts only aggravated the

danger of his position. After two or three powerless attempts, he found

himself lying upon his stomach with half his body hanging over

the precipice, having nothing to prevent him from falling over but

Bergenheim’s hand, which held him by the collar and at the same time

hindered him from rising.

“Have you ever said one word about this?” asked the Baron, as he took

hold of the trunk of a tree to steady himself upon this dangerous ground

that he had chosen as the field of discussion.

“To nobody!--ah!--how my head swims!” replied the carpenter, closing his

eyes in terror, for the blood rushing to his brain made him dizzy, and

it seemed to him that the river was slowly reaching him.

“You see that if I make one gesture, you are a dead man,” replied the

Baron, leaning upon him harder yet.

“Give me up to the police; I will say nothing about the letters; as sure

as there is a God, I will say nothing. But do not let me fall--hold me

tight--do not let go of me--I am slipping--oh! holy mother of God!”

Christian taking hold of the tree near him, leaned over and raised

Lambernier up, for he really was incapable of doing so himself; fright

and the sight of the water had given him vertigo. When he was upon his

legs again, he reeled like a drunken man and his feet nearly gave way

beneath him. The Baron looked at him a moment in silence, but at last he

said:

“Go away, leave the country at once; you have time to fly before there

will be any pursuit. But remember that if I ever hear one word of what

has passed between us from your lips, I shall know how to find you and

you will die by my hand.”

“I swear by the Holy Virgin and by all the saints--” stammered

Lambernier, who had suddenly become a very fervent Catholic.

Christian pointed with his finger to the stone steps beneath them.

“There is your road; pass over the rock, through the woods, and reach

Alsace. If you conduct yourself well, I will assure your living. But

remember; one single indiscreet word, and you are a dead man.”

At these words he pushed him into the path with one of those quick

movements which very powerful men can not always calculate the effect

of. Lambernier, whose strength was almost exhausted by the struggles

he had undergone, had not vigor enough left to stand, and he lost his

balance at this violent as well as unexpected push. He stumbled over

the first step, reeled as he tried to regain his footing, and fell head

first down the almost vertical declivity. A ledge of the cliff, against

which he first struck, threw him upon the loose rocks. He slowly glided

downward, uttering lamentable cries; he clutched, for a moment, a little

bush which had grown in a crevice of the rocks but he did not have

strength enough to hold on to it, his arm having been broken in three

places by his fall. He let go of it suddenly, and dropped farther and

farther down uttering a last terrible shriek of despair; he rolled over

twice again-and then fell into the torrent below, that swallowed him up

like a mass already deprived of life.

BOOK 4.

CHAPTER XX. MARILLAC TELLS A STORY

Guests were seated that evening around the oval table in the dining-room

of the castle of Bergenheim. According to custom, the ladies were not

present at this repast. This was a custom which had been adopted by the

Baroness for the suppers which were given by her husband at the close

of his hunting parties; she dispensed with appearing at table on those

days; perhaps she was too fastidious to preside at these lengthy seances

of which the ruses of the hare, the death of the stag, and the feats of

the hounds, formed the principal topics of conversation. It is probable

that this conduct was duly appreciated by those who participated in

those rather boisterous repasts, and that they felt a certain gratitude,

in spite of the regrets they manifested on account of Madame’s absence.

Among the guests was Marillac, whose sparkling eye, and cheeks even more

rosy than usual, made him conspicuous. Seated between a fat notary and

another boon companion, who were almost as drunk as he Marillac emptied

glass after glass, red wine after the white, the white after the red,

with noisy laughter, and jests of all kinds by way of accompaniment. His

head became every moment more and more excited by the libations destined

to refresh his throat, and his neighbors, without his perceiving the

conspiracy, thought it would be good fun to put a Parisian dandy under

the table. However, he was not the only one who was gliding over the

slippery precipice that leads to the attractive abyss of drunkenness.

The majority of the guests shared his imprudent abandon and progressive

exaltation. A bacchic emulation reigned, which threatened to end in

scenes bordering upon a debauch.

Among these highly colored cheeks, under which the wine seemed to

circulate with the blood, these eyes shining with a dull, fictitious

light, all this disorderly pantomime so contrary to the quiet habit

of the gesticulators, two faces contrasted strangely with the careless

mirth of the others. The Baron fulfilled his duties as master of the

house with a sort of nervous excitement which might pass for genuine

merriment in the eyes of those of his guests who were in no condition

to study his countenance; but a quiet observer would soon have discerned

that these violent efforts at good-humor and bantering concealed some

terrible suffering. From time to time, in the midst of a sentence or a

laugh, he would suddenly stop, the muscles of his face would twitch as

if the spring which set them in motion had broken; his expression became

sombre and savage; he sank back in his chair motionless, a stranger to

all that surrounded him, and gave himself up to some mysterious thought

against which resistance seemed powerless. Suddenly he appeared to

wake from some perplexing dream, and by another powerful effort aroused

himself and joined in the conversation with sharp, cutting speeches; he

encouraged the noisy humor of his guests, inciting them to drunkenness

by setting the example himself; then the same mysterious thought would

cross his face anew, and he would fall back into the tortures of a

revery which must have been horrible, to judge by the expression of his

face.

Among his guests, one only, who was seated almost opposite Bergenheim,

seemed to be in the secret of his thoughts and to study the symptoms

with deep attention. Gerfaut, for it was he, showed an interest in this

examination which reacted on his own countenance, for he was paler than

ever.

“When I saw that the hare was reaching the upper road,” said one of the

guests, a handsome old man about sixty years of age, with gray hair and

rosy cheeks, “I ran toward the new clearing to wait for its return. I

felt perfectly sure, notary, that he would pass through your hands safe

and sound.”

“Now, notary,” said Marillac, from the other end of the table, “defend

yourself; one, two, three, ready!”

“Monsieur de Camier,” replied the hunter whose skill had been

questioned, “I do not pretend to have your skill. I never have shot as

large game as you did at your last hunt.”

This reply was an allusion to a little misadventure which had happened

to the first speaker, who, on account of nearsightedness, had shot a

cow, taking it for a buck. The laugh, which had been at the notary’s

expense first, now turned against his adversary.

“How many pairs of boots did you get out of your game?” asked one.

“Gentlemen, let us return to our conversation,” said a young man, whose

precise face aspired to an austere and imposing air. “Up to this time,

we can form only very vague conjectures as to the road that Lambernier

took to escape. This, allow me to say, is more important than the

notary’s hare or Monsieur de Carrier’s cow.”

At these words, Bergenheim, who had taken no part in the conversation,

straightened up in his chair.

“A glass of Sauterne,” said he, suddenly, to one of his neighbors.

Gerfaut looked at him stealthily for a moment, and then lowered his

eyes, as if he feared his glance might be noticed.

“The public prosecutor scents a culprit, and there is no fear he will

drop the trail,” said the notary.

“The case will doubtless come up at the next session of the Assizes.”

M. de Carrier put his glass, which was half filled, upon the table,

angrily exclaiming:

“The devil take the jury! I am called to the next session, and I will

wager my head that I shall be drawn. How agreeable that will be! To

leave my home and business in the middle of winter and spend a fortnight

with a lot of fellows whom I do not know from Adam! That is one of the

agreeable things supplied by constitutional government. The French have

to be judged by their peers! Of what use is it to pay for judges if we,

land-owners, are obliged to do their work. The old parliaments, against

which so much has been said, were a thousand times better than all this

bedlam let loose in a court of assizes.”

Marillac, who during this speech was amusing himself with singing his

low “G” while peeling an apple, interrupted his song, to the great

relief of a hound who lay at his feet, and whose nerves seemed to be

singularly affected by the strain.

“Monsieur de Carrier,” said he, “you are a large landowner, an eligible

citizen and a Carlist; you fast on Fridays, go to mass in your parish,

and occasionally kill cows for bucks; I esteem and respect you;

but allow me to say that you have just uttered an old, antediluvian

platitude.”

“Gentlemen,” said the public prosecutor, punctuating each word with

his first finger, “I have the greatest respect for the old parliaments,

those worthy models of our modern magistracy, those incorruptible

defenders of national freedom, but my veneration is none the less

great for the institutions emanating from our wise constitution, and

it prevents me from adopting an exclusive opinion. However, without

pretending to proclaim in too absolute a manner the superiority of

the old system over the new, I am in a certain sense of Monsieur de

Carrier’s opinion. In my position, I am better able than any other

person to study the advantages and disadvantages of a jury, and I am

forced to admit that if the advantages are real, the disadvantages are

none the less indisputable. One of the great vices of juries consists

in the habit that a great number of its members have of calling for

material proofs in order to form their opinions. They must almost see

the wounds of the victim before agreeing on a verdict. As to Lambernier,

I hope that they will not contest the existence of the main evidence:

the victim’s still bleeding thigh.”

“Tra-de-ri-di-ra,” exclaimed the artist, striking alternately with his

knife a glass and a bottle, as if he were playing a triangle. “I must

say that you choose madly gay subjects for conversation. We are truly a

joyous crowd; look at Bergenheim opposite us; he looks like Macbeth in

the presence of Banquo’s ghost; here is my friend Gerfaut drinking water

with a profoundly solemn air. Good gracious, gentlemen! enough of this

foolish talk! Let them cut this Lambernier’s throat and put an end to

the subject! The theatre for dramatic music, the church for sacred!

Le vin, le jeu; les belles,

Voila mes seuls amours.”

A general protestation rose from the whole table at this verse, which

was roared out in a lugubrious voice. Noisy shouts, rapping of knives

upon tumblers and bottles, and exclamations of all kinds called the

orator to order.

“Monsieur Marillac,” exclaimed the public prosecutor, in a joking tone,

“it seems to me that you have wandered from the subject.”

The artist looked at him with an astonished air.

“Had I anything in particular to say to you?” he asked; “if so, I will

sustain my point. Only do me the kindness to tell me what it was about.”

“It was on the subject of this man Lambernier,” whispered the notary to

him, as he poured out a glass of wine. “Courage! you improvise better

than Berryer! If you exert yourself, the public prosecutor will be

beaten in no time.”

Marillac thanked his neighbor with a smile and a nod of the head, which

signified: “Trust me.” He then emptied his glass with the recklessness

that had characterized his drinking for some time, but, strangely

enough, the libation, instead of putting the finishing stroke to his

drunkenness, gave his mind, for the time being, a sort of lucidity.

“The accusation,” he continued, with the coolness of an old lawyer,

“rests upon two grounds: first, the presence without cause of the

accused upon the spot where the crime was committed; second, the nature

of the weapon used.--Two simple but peremptory replies will make the

scaffold which has been erected upon this double supposition fall to

the ground. First, Lambernier had a rendezvous at this place, and at

the exact hour when this crime with which he is accused took place; this

will be proved by a witness, and will be established by evidence in a

most indisputable manner. His presence will thus be explained without

its being interpreted in any way against him. Second, the public

prosecutor has admitted that the carrying of a weapon which Lambernier

may have been in the habit of using in his regular trade could not be

used as an argument against him, and for that same reason could not be

used as an argument in favor of premeditation; now, this is precisely

the case in question. This weapon was neither a sword, bayonet, nor

stiletto, nothing that the fertile imagination of the public prosecutor

could imagine; it was a simple tool used by the accused in his

profession, the presence of which in his pocket is as easily understood

as that of a snuff-box in the pocket of my neighbor, the notary, who

takes twenty pinches of snuff a minute. Gentlemen, this weapon was a

pair of carpenter’s compasses.”

“A compass!” exclaimed several voices at once.

“A compass!” exclaimed the Baron, gazing fixedly at the artist. Then he

carried his hand to his pocket, and suddenly withdrew it, as he felt the

workman’s compass there, where it had been ever since the scene upon the

rocks.

“An iron compass,” repeated the artist, “about ten inches long, more or

less, the legs of it being closed.”

“Will you explain yourself, Monsieur?” excitedly exclaimed the public

prosecutor, “for it really seems as if you had witnessed the crime. In

that case you will be called out as a witness for the defence. Justice

is impartial, gentlemen. Justice has not two pairs of scales.”

“To the devil with justice! You must have come from Timbuctoo to use

such old-fashioned metaphors.”

“Make your deposition, witness; I require you to make your deposition,”

said the magistrate, whose increasing drunkenness appeared as dignified

and solemn as the artist was noisy.

“I have nothing to state; I saw nothing.”

Here the Baron drew a long breath, as if these words were a relief.

“But I saw something!” said Gerfaut to himself, as he gazed at the

Baron’s face, upon which anxiety was depicted.

“I reason by hypothesis and supposition,” continued the artist. “I had a

little altercation with Lambernier a few days ago, and, but for my

good poniard, he would have put an end to me as he did to this fellow

to-day.”

He then related his meeting with Lambernier, but the consideration due

Mademoiselle Gobillot’s honor imposed numberless circumlocutions and

concealments which ended by making his story rather unintelligible to

his auditors, and in the midst of it his head became so muddled that he

was completely put out.

“Basta!” he exclaimed, in conclusion, as he dropped heavily into his

chair. “Not another word for the ‘whole empire. Give me something to

drink! Notary, you are the only man here who has any regard for me. One

thing is certain about this matter--I am in ten louis by this rascal’s

adventure.”

These words struck the Baron forcibly, as they brought to his mind what

the carpenter had said to him when he gave him the letter.

“Ten louis!” said he, suddenly, looking at Marillac as if he wished to

look into his very heart.

“Two hundred francs, if you like it better. A genuine bargain. But we

have talked enough, ‘mio caro’; you deceive yourselves if you think you

are going to make me blab. No, indeed! I am not the one to allow myself

to become entangled. I am now as mute and silent as the grave.”

Bergenheim insisted no longer, but, leaning against the back of his

chair, he let his head fall upon his breast. He remained for some time

buried in thought and vainly trying to connect the obscure words he had

just heard with Lambernier’s incomplete revelations. With the exception

of Gerfaut, who did not lose one of his host’s movements, the guests,

more or less absorbed by their own sensations, paid no attention to

the strange attitude of the master of the house, or, like Monsieur

de Camier, attributed it to the influence of wine. The conversation

continued its noisy course, interrupted every few moments by the

startling vagaries of some guest more animatedly excited than the rest,

for, at the end of a repast where sobriety has not reigned, each one is

disposed to impose upon others the despotism of his own intoxication,

and the idle talk of his peculiar hallucinations. Marillac bore away the

prize among the talking contingent, thanks to the vigor of his lungs and

the originality of his words, which sometimes forced the attention of

his adversaries. Finally he remained master of the field, and flashed

volleys of his drunken eloquence to the right and left.

“It is a pity,” he exclaimed, in the midst of his triumph, as he glanced

disdainfully up and down the table, “it really is a pity, gentlemen,

to listen to your conversation. One could imagine nothing more

commonplace-prosaic or bourgeois. Would it not please you to indulge in

a discussion of a little higher order?

“Let us join hands, and talk of poetry and art. I am thirsting for an

artistic conversation; I am thirsting for wit and intelligence.”

“You must drink if you are thirsty,” said the notary, filling his glass

to the brim.

The artist emptied it at one draught, and continued in a languishing

voice as he gazed with a loving look at his fat neighbor.

“I will begin our artistic conversation: ‘Knowest thou the land where

the orange-flower blooms?’”

“It is warmer than ours,” replied the notary, who was not familiar with

Mignon’s song; and, beginning to laugh maliciously, he gave a wink at

his neighbors as if to say:

“I have settled him now.”

Marillac leaned toward him with the meekness of a lamb that presents his

head to the butcher, and sympathetically pressed his hands.

“O poet!” he continued, “do you not feel, as I do at the twilight hour

and in the eventide, a vague desire for a sunny, perfumed, southern

life? Will you not bid adieu to this sterile country and sail away to

a land where the blue sky is reflected in the blue sea? Venice! the

Rialto, the Bridge of Sighs, Saint Mark! Rome! the Coliseum and Saint

Peter--But I know Italy by heart; let us go instead to Constantinople. I

am thirsting for sultanas and houris; I am thirsting--”

“Good gracious! why do you not drink if you are thirsty?”

“Gladly. I never say no to that. I scorn love in a nightcap; I adore

danger. Danger is life to me.

“I dote on silken ladders as long as Jacob’s, on citadels worth scaling;

on moonlight evenings, bearded husbands, and all that sort of thing--I

would love a bed composed of five hundred poniards; you understand me,

poet--”

“I beg of you, do not make him drink any more,” said Gerfaut to the

notary.

“You are right not to wish to drink any more, Octave, I was about to

advise you not to. You have already drunk to excess to-day, and I am

afraid that it will make you ill; your health is so weak--you are not a

strong man like me. Fancy, gentlemen, Monsieur le Vicomte de Gerfaut, a

native of Gascony, a roue by profession, a star of the first magnitude

in literature, is afflicted by nature with a stomach which has nothing

in common with that of an ostrich; he has need to use the greatest care.

So we have him drink seltzer-water principally, and feed him on the

white meat of the chicken. Besides, we keep this precious phenomenon

rolled up between two wool blankets and over a kettle of boiling water.

He is a great poet; I myself am a very great poet.”

“And I also, I hope,” said the notary.

“Gentlemen, formerly there were poets who wrote only in verse; nowadays

they revel in prose. There are some even who are neither prose nor

verse writers, who have never confided their secret to anybody, and who

selfishly keep their poetry to themselves. It is a very simple thing to

be a poet, provided you feel the indescribable intoxication of the soul,

and understand the inexpressible afflatus that bubbles over in your

large brain, and your noble heart throbs under your left breast--”

“He is as drunk as a fool,” said M. de Camier, loud enough for him to

hear.

“Old man,” said he, “you are the one who is drunk. Besides the word

drunk is not civil; if you had said intoxicated I should not have

objected.”

Loud shouts of laughter burst forth from the party. He threw a

threatening glance around him, as if he were seeking some one upon whom

to vent his anger, and, placing his hand upon his hip, assumed the pose

of a bully.

“Softly, my good fellows!” said he, “if any of you pretend that I am

drunk, I declare to him that he lies, and I call him a misanthrope, a

vagabond, an academician!” he concluded, with a loud burst of laughter;

for he thought that the jesters would be crushed by this last heavy

weapon.

“By Jove! your friend is hilariously drunk,” said the notary to Gerfaut;

“while here is Bergenheim, who has not taken very much wine, and yet

looks as if he were assisting at a funeral. I thought he was more

substantial than this.”

Marillac’s voice burst out more loudly than ever, and Octave’s reply was

not heard.

“It is simply astounding. They are all as drunk as fools, and yet they

pretend that it is I who am drunk. Very well! I defy you all; who among

you wishes to argue with me? Will you discuss art, literature, politics,

medicine, music, philosophy, archeology, jurisprudence, magnetism--”

“Jurisprudence!” exclaimed the thick voice of the public prosecutor,

who was aroused from his stupor by this magic word; “let us talk

jurisprudence.”

“Would you like,” said Marillac, without stopping at this interruption,

“that I should improvise a discourse upon the death penalty or upon

temperance? Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“A story, yes, a story!” they all exclaimed in unison.

“Speak out, then; order what story you like; it will cost you nothing,”

replied the artist, rubbing his hands with a radiant air. “Would you

like a tale from the Middle Ages? a fairy, an eastern, a comical, or a

private story? I warn you that the latter style is less old-fashioned

than the others.”

“Let us have it, then, by all means,” said all the drunken voices.

“Very well. Now would you like it to be laid in Spain, Arabia, or

France?”

“France!” exclaimed the prosecutor.

“I am French, you are French, he is French. You shall have a French

story.”

Marillac leaned his forehead upon his hands, and his elbows upon

the table, as if to gather his scattered ideas. After a few moments’

reflection, he raised his head and looked first at Gerfaut, then at

Bergenheim, with a peculiar smile.

“It would be very original,” said he, in a low voice as if replying to

his own thoughts.

“The story!” exclaimed one of the party, more impatient than the rest.

“Here it is,” replied the artist. “You all know, gentlemen, how

difficult it always is to choose a title. In order not to make you wait,

I have chosen one which is already well known. My story is to be called

‘The husband, the wife, and the lover.’ We are not all single men here,

and a wise proverb says that one must never speak--”

In spite of his muddled brain, the artist did not finish his quotation.

A remnant of common-sense made him realize that he was treading upon

dangerous ground and was upon the point of committing an unpardonable

indiscretion. Fortunately, the Baron had paid no attention to his words;

but Gerfaut was frightened at his friend’s jabbering, and threw him a

glance of the most threatening advice to be prudent. Marillac vaguely

understood his mistake, and was half intimidated by this glance; he

leaned before the notary and said to him, in a voice which he tried to

make confidential, but which could be heard from one end of the table to

the other:

“Be calm, Octave, I will tell it in obscure words and in such a way that

he will not see anything in it. It is a scene for a drama that I have in

my mind.”

“You will make some grotesque blunder, if you go on drinking and

talking,” replied Gerfaut, in an anxious voice. “Hold your tongue, or

else come away from the table with me.”

“When I tell you that I will use obscure words,” replied the artist;

“what do you take me for? I swear to you that I will gloss it over in

such a way that nobody will suspect anything.”

“The story! the story!” exclaimed several, who were amused by the

incoherent chattering of the artist.

“Here it is,” said the latter, sitting upright in his char, and paying

no heed to his friend’s warnings. “The scene takes place in a little

court in Germany--Eh!” said he, looking at Gerfaut and maliciously

winking his eye--“do you not think that is glossed over?”

“Not in a German court, you said it was to be a French story,” said the

public prosecutor, disposed to play the critic toward the orator who had

reduced him to silence.

“Well, it is a French story, but the scene is laid in Germany,” he

replied, coolly. “Do you desire to teach me my profession? Understand

that nothing is more elastic than a German court; the story-teller can

introduce there whoever he likes; I may bring in the Shah of Persia and

the Emperor of China if I care to. However, if you prefer the court of

Italy, it is the same thing to me.”

This conciliating proposal remained without response. Marillac continued

raising his eyes in such a way that nothing but the whites could be

seen, and as if he were searching for his words in the ceiling.

“The Princess Borinski was walking slowly in the mysterious alley on the

borders of the foaming torrent--”

“Borinski! she is a Pole, then?” interrupted M. de Camier.

“Oh! go to the devil, old man! Do not interrupt me,” exclaimed the

artist, impatiently.

“That is right. Silence now.”

“You have the floor,” said several voices at once.

“--She was pale, and she heaved convulsive sighs and wrung her soft,

warm hands, and a white pearl rolled from her dark lashes, and--”

“Why do you begin all your phrases with ‘and?’” asked the public

prosecutor, with the captiousness of an inexorable critic.

“Because it is biblical and unaffected. Now let me alone,” replied

Marillac, with superb disdain. “You are a police-officer; I am an

artist; what is there in common between you and me? I will continue: And

he saw this pensive, weeping woman pass in the distance, and he said to

the Prince: ‘Borinski, a bit of root in which my foot caught has hurt

my limb, will you suffer me to return to the palace? And the Prince

Borinski said to him, ‘Shall my men carry you in a palanquin?’ and the

cunning Octave replied--”

“Your story has not even common-sense and you are a terrible bore,”

interrupted Gerfaut brusquely. “Gentlemen, are we going to sit at the

table all night?”

He arose, but nobody followed his example. Bergenheim, who for the

last few minutes had lent an attentive ear to the artist’s story, gazed

alternately at the two friends with an observing eye.

“Let him talk,” said the young magistrate, with an ironical smile.

“I like the palanquin in the court of Germany. That is probably what

novelists call local color. O Racine, poor, deserted Racine!”

Marillac was not intimidated this time by Gerfaut’s withering glance,

but, with the obstinacy of drunkenness, continued in a more or less

stammering voice:

“I swore that I would gloss it over; you annoy me. I committed an error,

gentlemen, in calling the lover in this story Octave. It is as clear

as day that his name is Boleslas, Boleslas Matalowski. There is no more

connection between him and my friend Octave than there is between my

other friend Bergenheim and the prince Kolinski--Woginski--what the

devil has become of my Prince’s name? A good reward to whoever will tell

me his name!”

“It is wrong to take advantage of his condition and make him talk any

more,” said Gerfaut. “I beg of you, Marillac, hold your tongue and come

with me,” said he, lowering his voice as he leaned toward the headstrong

story-teller and took him by the arm, trying to make him rise. This

attempt only irritated Marillac; he seized hold of the edge of the table

and clung to it with all his might, screaming:

“No! a thousand times no! I will finish my story. President, allow me

to speak. Ah! ha! you wish to prevent me from speaking because you know

that I tell a story better than you, and that I make an impression

upon my audience. You never have been able to catch my chic. Jealous!

Envious! I know you, serpent!”

“I beg of you, if you ever cared for me, listen!” replied Octave, who,

as he bent over his friend, noticed the Baron’s attentive look.

“No, I say no!” shouted the artist again, and he added to this word

one of the ugliest-sounding oaths in the French language. He arose, and

pushing Octave aside, leaned upon the table, bursting into a loud laugh.

“Poets all,” said he, “be reassured and rejoice. You shall have your

story, in spite of those envious serpents. But first give me something

to drink, for my throat is like a box of matches. No wine,” he added, as

he saw the notary armed with a bottle. “This devilish wine has made me

thirsty instead of refreshing me; besides, I am going to be as sober as

a judge.”

Gerfaut, with the desperation of a man who sees that he is about to be

ruined, seized him again by the arm and tried to fascinate him by his

steady gaze. But he obtained no response to this mute and threatening

supplication except a stupid smile and these stammering words:

“Give me something to drink, Boleslas--Marinski-Graboski--I believe that

Satan has lighted his heating apparatus within my stomach.”

The persons seated near the two friends heard an angry hiss from

Gerfaut’s lips. He suddenly leaned over, and taking, from among several

bottles, a little carafe he filled Marillac’s glass to the brim.

“Thanks,” said the latter, trying to stand erect upon his legs; “you are

an angel. Rest easy, your love affairs will run no risk. I will gloss it

all over--To your health, gentlemen!”

He emptied the glass and put it upon the table; he then smiled and

waved his hand at his auditors with true royal courtesy; but his mouth

remained half open as if his lips were petrified, his eyes grew large

and assumed a haggard expression; the hand he had stretched out fell to

his side; a second more, and he reeled and fell from his chair as if he

had had a stroke of apoplexy.

Gerfaut, whose eyes had not left him, watched these different symptoms

with unutterable anxiety; but in spite of his fright, he drew a sigh of

relief when he saw Marillac mute and speechless.

“It is singular,” observed the notary, as he aided in removing his

neighbor from the table, “that glass of water had more effect upon him

than four or five bottles of wine.”

“Georges,” said Gerfaut to one of the servants, in an agitated voice,

“open his bed and help me carry him to it; Monsieur de Bergenheim, I

suppose there is a chemist near here, if I should need any medicine.”

The greater part of the guests arose at this unexpected incident, and

some of them hastened to Marillac’s side, as he remained motionless in

his chair. The repeated bathing of his temples with cold water and

the holding of salts to his nose were not able to bring him to

consciousness.

Instead of going to his aid with the others, Bergenheim profited by the

general confusion to lean over the table. He plunged his finger into the

artist’s glass, in which a part of the water remained, and then touched

his tongue. Only the notary noticed this movement. Thinking this rather

strange, he seized the glass in his turn and swallowed the few drops

that it contained.

“Heavens!” he exclaimed, in a low voice, to Bergenheim, “I am not

surprised that the bumper asphyxiated him on the spot. Do you know,

Baron, if this Monsieur de Gerfaut had taken anything but water during

the evening, I should say that he was the drunker of the two; or that,

if they were not such good friends, he wished to poison him in order to

stop his talk. Did you notice that he did not seem pleased to hear this

story?”

“Ah! you, too!” exclaimed the Baron angrily, “everybody will know it.”

“To take a carafe of kirsch for clear water,” continued the notary,

without paying any attention to the Baron’s agitation. “The devil! the

safe thing to do is to give him an emetic at once; this poor fellow has

enough prussic acid in his stomach to poison a cow.”

“Who is talking of prussic acid and poisoning?” exclaimed the public

prosecutor, running with an unsteady step from one extremity of the

table to the other, “who has been poisoned? I am the public prosecutor,

I am the only one here who has any power to start an investigation. Have

they had an autopsy? Where did they find it? Buried in the fields or the

woods, or floating on the river?”

“You lie! there is no dead body in the river!” exclaimed Bergenheim,

in a thundering voice, as he seized the magistrate by the collar in a

bewildered way.

The magistrate was incapable of making the least resistance when held by

such a vigorous hand and he received two or three shakings. Suddenly the

Baron stopped, and struck his forehead with a gesture common to persons

who feel that their reason has given way under a paroxysm of rage.

“I am crazy,” said he, with much emotion. “Monsieur,” he added, “I am

very sorry. We really have all taken too much wine. I beg your pardon,

gentlemen. I will leave you a moment--I need some fresh air.”

He hurriedly left the room, almost running against the persons who were

carrying Marillac to his room. The public prosecutor, whose ideas

had been somewhat mixed before, was now completely muddled by this

unheard-of attack upon his dignity, and fell back exhausted in his

chair.

“All poor drinkers!” said the notary to Monsieur de Carrier who was left

alone with him, for the prosecutor, half suffocated with indignation and

intoxication, could no longer be counted as one of them. “Here they are,

all drunk, from just a few glasses of wine.”

The notary shook his head with a mysterious air.

“These things, though, are plain enough to me,” said he at last; “first,

this Monsieur Marillac has not a very strong head and tells pretty

tedious stories when drunk; then his friend has a way of taking kirsch

for water which I can understand only in extreme cases; but the Baron is

the one who astonished me most. Did you notice how he shook our friend

who has just fallen on the floor? As to the Baron pretending that he

was drunk and thus excusing himself, I do not believe one word of it; he

drank nothing but water. There were times this evening when he appeared

very strange indeed! There is some deviltry underneath all this;

Monsieur de Carrier, rest assured there is some deviltry underneath it

all.”

“I am the public prosecutor--they can not remove the body without me,”

stammered the weak voice of the magistrate, who, after trying in vain to

recover his equilibrium, lay flat upon the floor.

CHAPTER XXI. A STRATAGEM

Instead of joining the persons who were carrying Marillac away,

Christian went into the garden after leaving the dining-room, in quest

of the fresh air which he gave as an excuse for leaving his guests. In

fact, he felt oppressed almost to suffocation by the emotions he had

undergone during the last few hours. The dissimulation which prudence

made a necessity and honor a duty had aggravated the suffering by

protracted concealment.

For some time Christian walked rapidly among the paths and trees in the

park. Bathing his burning brow in the cool night air, he sought to calm

the secret agitation and the boiling blood that were raging within him,

in the midst of which his reason struggled and fought like a ship about

to be wrecked. He used all his strength to recover his self-possession,

so as to be able to master the perils and troubles which surrounded him

with a calm if not indifferent eye; in one word, to regain that control

over himself that he had lost several times during the supper. His

efforts were not in vain. He contemplated his situation without

weakness, exaggeration, or anger, as if it concerned another. Two facts

rose foremost before him, one accomplished, the other uncertain. On one

side, murder, on the other, adultery. No human power could remedy the

first or prevent its consequences; he accepted it, then, but turn his

mind away from it he must, in the presence of this greater disaster. So

far, only presumptions existed against Clemence--grave ones, to be sure,

if one added Lambernier’s revelations to Marillac’s strangely indiscreet

remarks. It was his first duty to himself, as well as to her, to know

the whole truth; if innocent, he would beg her forgiveness; if guilty,

he had a chastisement to inflict.

“It is an abyss,” thought he, “and I may find as much blood as mud at

the bottom of it. No matter, I will descend to its very depths.”

When he returned to the chateau, his face had resumed its usual calm

expression. The most observing person would hardly have noticed any

change in his looks. The dining-room had been abandoned at last. The

victorious and the vanquished had retired to their rooms. First of all,

he went up to the artist’s apartment, so that no singularity in his

conduct should attract attention, for, as master of the house, a visit

to one of his guests who had fallen dead, or nearly so, at his own table

was a positive duty. The attentions lavished upon Marillac by his friend

had removed the danger which might have resulted from his imprudent

excesses in drinking, and the sort of poisoning with which he had

crowned the whole. He lay upon his bed in the same position in which he

had first been placed, and was sleeping that heavy, painful sleep which

serves as an expiation for bacchic excesses. Gerfaut was seated a few

steps from him, at a table, writing; he seemed prepared to sit up all

night, and to fulfill, with the devotion of a friend, the duties of a

nurse.

Octave arose at sight of the Baron, his face having resumed its

habitual reserved expression. The two men greeted each other with equal

composure.

“Is he sleeping?” asked Christian.

“But a few minutes only,” replied the latter; “he is all right now, and

I hope,” Octave added, smilingly, “that this will serve as a lesson

to you, and that hereafter you will put some limits to your princely

hospitality. Your table is a regular ambush.”

“Do not throw stones at me, I pray,” replied the Baron, with an

appearance of equal good-humor. “If your friend wants to ask an

explanation of anybody it is of you, for you took some kirsch of 1765

for water.”

“I really believe that I was the drunker of the two,” interrupted

Octave, with a vivacity which concealed a certain embarrassment; “we

must have terribly scandalized Monsieur de Camier, who has but a poor

opinion of Parisian heads and stomachs.”

After looking for a moment at the sleeping artist, Christian approached

the table where Gerfaut was seated, and threw a glance over the latter’s

writing.

“You are still at work, I see?” said he, as his eyes rested upon the

paper.

“Just now I am following the modest trade of copyist. These are some

verses which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil asked me for--”

“Will you do me a favor? I am going to her room now; give me these

verses to hand to her. Since the misfortune that befell Constance, she

has been terribly angry with me, and I shall not be sorry to have some

reason for going to her room.”

Octave finished the two or three lines which remained to be copied, and

handed the sheet to Bergenheim. The latter looked at it attentively,

then carefully folded it and put it in his pocket.

“I thank you, Monsieur,” said he, “I will leave you to your friendly

duties.”

There was something so solemn in the calm accent of these words, and the

polite bow which accompanied them, that Gerfaut felt chilled, though not

alarmed, for he did not understand.

When he reached his room, Bergenheim opened the paper which Gerfaut

had just given him and compared it with the letter he had received from

Lambernier. The suspicions which a separate examination had aroused were

confirmed upon comparing the two letters; no doubt was possible; the

letter and the poetry were written by the same hand!

After a few moments’ reflection, Christian went to his wife’s room.

Clemence was seated in an armchair, near the fireplace, indulging in a

revery. Although her lover was not there, she was still under the charm

of this consuming as well as intellectual passion, which responded to

the yearnings of her heart, the delicacy of her tastes, and the activity

of her imagination. At this moment, she was happy to live; there was not

a sad thought that these words, “He loves me!” could not efface.

The noise of the opening door aroused her from her meditation. Madame de

Bergenheim turned her head with a look of vexation, but instead of

the servant whom she was ready to reprimand, she saw her husband. The

expression of impatience imprinted upon her face gave way to one of

fright. She arose with a movement she could not repress, as if she had

seen a stranger, and stood leaning against the mantel in a constrained

attitude. Nothing in Christian’s manner justified, however, the fear the

sight of him seemed to cause his wife. He advanced with a tranquil air,

and a smile that he had forced upon his lips.

With the presence of mind with which all women seem to be gifted,

Clemence fell back into her chair, and, assuming a languid, suffering

tone, mixed with an appearance of reproach, she said:

“I am glad to see you for a moment in order to scold you; you have not

shown your usual consideration to-night. Did you not think that the

noise from the dining-room might reach as far as here?”

“Has it troubled you?” asked Christian, looking at her attentively.

“Unless one had a head of cast-iron--It seems that these gentlemen have

abused the liberty permitted in the country. From what Justine tells me,

things have taken place which would have been more appropriate at the

Femme-sans-Tete.”

“Are you suffering very much?”

“A frightful neuralgia--I only wish I could sleep.”

“I was wrong not to have thought of this. You will forgive me, will you

not?”

Bergenheim leaned over the chair, passed his arm around the young

woman’s shoulders, and pressed his lips to her forehead. For the first

time in his life, he was playing a part upon the marital stage, and

he watched with the closest attention the slightest expression of his

wife’s face. He noticed that she shivered, and that her forehead which

he had lightly touched was as cold as marble.

He arose and took several turns about the room, avoiding even a glance

at her, for the aversion which she had just shown toward her husband

seemed to him positive proof of the very thing he dreaded, and he feared

he should not be able to contain himself.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked, as she noticed his agitation.

These words brought the Baron to his senses, and he returned to her

side, replying in a careless tone:

“I am annoyed for a very simple cause; it concerns your aunt.”

“I know. She is furious against you on account of the double misfortune

to her dog and coachman. You will admit that, as far as Constance is

concerned, you are guilty.”

“She is not content with being furious; she threatens a complete

rupture. Here, read this.”

He handed her a large letter, folded lengthwise and sealed with the

Corandeuil crest.

Madame de Bergenheim took the letter and read its contents aloud:

“After the unheard-of and unqualifiable events of this day, the

resolution which I have formed will doubtless not surprise you in

the least, Monsieur. You will understand that I can not and will

not remain longer in a house where the lives of my servants and

other creatures which are dear to me may be exposed to the most

deplorable, wilful injury. I have seen for some time, although I

have tried to close my eyes to the light of truth, the plots that

were hatched daily against all who wore the Corandeuil livery. I

supposed that I should not be obliged to put an end to this highly

unpleasant matter myself, but that you would undertake this charge.

It seems, however, that respect and regard for women do not form

part of a gentleman’s duties nowadays. I shall therefore be obliged

to make up myself for the absence of such attentions, and watch over

the safety of the persons and other creatures that belong to me. I

shall leave for Paris tomorrow. I hope that Constance’s condition

will permit her to endure the journey, but Baptiste’s wound is too

serious for me to dare to expose him. I am compelled, although with

deep regret, to leave him here until he is able to travel, trusting

him to the kind mercies of my niece.

“Receive, Monsieur, with my adieux, my thanks for your courteous

hospitality.

“YOLANDE DE CORANDEUIL.”

“Your aunt abuses the privileges of being foolish,” said the Baron, when

his wife had finished reading the letter; “she deserts the battlefield

and leaves behind her wounded.”

“But I saw her, not two hours ago, and, although she was very angry, she

did not say one word of this departure.”

“Jean handed me this letter but a moment ago, clad in full livery, and

with the importance of an ambassador who demands his passports. You

must go and talk with her, dear, and use all your eloquence to make her

change her mind.”

“I will go at once,” said Clemence, rising.

“You know that your aunt is rather obstinate when she takes a notion

into her head. If she persists in this, tell her, in order to decide her

to remain, that I am obliged to go to Epinal with Monsieur de Carrier

tomorrow morning, on account of the sale of some wood-land, and that

I shall be absent three days at least. You understand that it will be

difficult for your aunt to leave you alone during my absence, on account

of these gentlemen.”

“Certainly, that could not be,” said she, quickly.

“I do not see, as far as I am concerned, anything improper about it,”

said the Baron, trying to smile; “but we must obey the proprieties.

You are too young and too pretty a mistress of the house to pass for a

chaperon, and Aline, instead of being a help, would be one inconvenience

the more. So your aunt must stay here until my return.”

“And by that time Constance and Baptiste will be both cured and her

anger will have passed away. You did not tell me about this trip to

Epinal nor the selling of the woodland.”

“Go to your aunt’s room before she retires to bed,” replied Bergenheim,

without paying any attention to this remark, and seating himself in the

armchair; “I will wait for you here. We leave to-morrow morning early,

and I wish to know tonight what to depend upon.”

As soon as Madame de Bergenheim had left the room, Christian arose

and ran, rather than walked, to the space between the two windows, and

sought the button in the woodwork of which Lambernier had told him. He

soon found it, and upon his first pressure the spring worked and the

panel flew open. The casket was upon the shelf; he took it and carefully

examined the letters which it contained. The greater part of them

resembled in form the one that he possessed; some of them were in

envelopes directed to Madame de Bergenheim and bore Gerfaut’s crest.

There was no doubt about the identity of the handwriting; if the Baron

had had any, these proofs were enough. After glancing rapidly over a few

of the notes, he replaced them in the casket and returned the latter

to the shelf where he had found it. He then carefully closed the little

door and reseated himself beside the fireplace.

When Clemence returned, her husband seemed absorbed in reading one

of the books which he had found upon her table, while he mechanically

played with a little bronze cup that his wife used to drop her rings in

when she removed them.

“I have won my case,” said the Baroness, in a gay tone; “my aunt saw

clearly the logic of the reasons which I gave her, and she defers her

departure until your return.”

Christian made no reply.

“That means that she will not go at all, for her anger will have time

to cool off in three days; at heart she is really kind!--How long is

it since you have known English?” she asked, as she noticed that her

husband’s attention seemed to be fixed upon a volume of Lord Byron’s

poems.

Bergenheim threw the book on the table, raised his head and gazed

calmly at his wife. In spite of all his efforts, his face had assumed

an expression which would have frightened her if she had noticed it, but

her eyes were fastened upon the cup which he was twisting in his hand as

if it were made of clay.

“Mon Dieu! Christian, what is the matter with you? What are you doing

to my poor cup?” she asked, with surprise mingled with a little of that

fright which is so prompt to be aroused if one feels not above reproach.

He arose and put the misshapen bronze upon the table.

“I do not know what ails me to-night,” said he, “my nerves are unstrung.

I will leave you, for I need rest myself. I shall start to-morrow

morning before you are up, and I shall return Wednesday.”

“Not any later, I hope,” she said, with that soft, sweet voice, from

which, in such circumstances, very few women have the loyalty to

abstain.

He went out without replying, for he feared he might be no longer master

of himself; he felt, when offered this hypocritical, almost criminal,

caress, as if he would like to end it all by killing her on the spot.

CHAPTER XXII. THE CRISIS

Twenty-four hours had passed. The Baron had departed early in the

morning, and so had all his guests, with the exception of Gerfaut and

the artist. The day passed slowly and tediously. Aline had been vexed,

somewhat estranged from her sister-in-law since their conversation in

the little parlor. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was entirely occupied in

restoring her poodle to health.

Marillac, who had been drinking tea ever since rising, dared not present

his face, which showed the effects of his debauch of the night before,

to the mistress of the house, whose exacting and aristocratic austerity

he very much feared. He pretended to be ill, in order to delay the

moment when he should be forced to make his appearance. Madame de

Bergenheim did not leave her aunt, and thus avoided being alone with

Octave--who, on account of these different complications, might have

spent a continual tete-a-tete with her had she been so inclined.

Christian’s absence, instead of being a signal of deliverance for the

lovers, seemed to have created a new misunderstanding, for Clemence

felt that it would be a mean action to abuse the liberty her husband’s

departure gave her. She was thus very reserved during the day, when she

felt that there were more facilities for yielding, but, in the evening,

when alone in her apartment, this fictitious prudery disappeared. She

spent the entire evening lying upon the divan in the little boudoir,

dreaming of Octave, talking to him as if he could reply, putting into

practice again that capitulation of conscience which permits our mind to

wander on the brink of guilt, provided actions are strictly correct.

After a while this exaltation fell by degrees. When struggling

earnestly, she had regarded Octave as an enemy; but, since she had gone

to him as one passes over to the enemy, and, in her heart, had taken

part with the lover against the husband, her courage failed her as she

thought of this, and she fell, weak, guilty, and vanquished before the

combat.

When she had played with her passion, she had given Christian little

thought; she had felt it childish to bring her husband into an amusement

that she believed perfectly harmless; then, when she wished to break her

plaything, and found it made of iron and turning more and more into a

tyrannical yoke, she called to her aid the conjugal divinities, but

in too faint a voice to be heard. Now the situation had changed again.

Christian was no longer the insignificant ally that the virtuous wife

had condemned, through self-conceit, to ignorant neutrality; he was the

husband, in the hostile and fearful acceptation of the word. This man

whom she had wronged would always have law on his side.

Religion sometimes takes pity on a wayward wife, but society is always

ready to condemn her. She was his own, fastened to him by indissoluble

bonds. He had marked her with his name like a thing of his own; he

held the threads of her life in his hands; he was the dispenser of her

fortune, the judge of her actions, and the master of their fireside. She

had no dignity except through him. If he should withdraw his support for

a single day, she would fall from her position without any human power

being able to rescue her. Society closes its doors to the outcast wife,

and adds to the husband’s sentence another penalty still more scathing.

Having now fallen from the sphere of illusion to that of reality,

Madame de Bergenheim was wounded at every step. A bitter feeling of

discouragement overwhelmed her, as she thought of the impossibility of

happiness to which a deplorable fatality condemned her. Marriage and

love struggled for existence, both powerless to conquer, and qualified

only to cause each other’s death. Marriage made love a crime; love made

marriage a torture. She could only choose between two abysses: shame in

her love, despair in her virtue.

The hours passed rapidly in these sad and gloomy meditations; the clock

marked the hour of midnight. Madame de Bergenheim thought it time to try

to sleep; but, instead of ringing for her maid, she decided to go to the

library herself and get a book, thinking that perhaps it might aid

her in going to sleep. As she opened the door leading into the closet

adjoining her parlor, she saw by the light of the candle which she held

in her hand something which shone like a precious stone lying upon the

floor. At first she thought it might be one of her rings, but as she

stooped to pick it up she saw her error. It was a ruby pin mounted

in enamelled gold. She recognized it, at the very first glance, as

belonging to M. de Gerfaut.

She picked up the pin and returned to the parlor. She exhausted in

imagination a thousand conjectures in order to explain the presence of

this object in such a place. Octave must have entered it or he could not

have left this sign of his presence; it meant that he could enter her

room at his will; what he had done once, he could certainly do again!

The terror which this thought gave her dissipated like a dash of cold

water all her former intoxicating thoughts; for, like the majority of

women, she had more courage in theory than in action. A moment before,

she had invoked Octave’s image and seated it lovingly by her side.

When she believed this realization possible, all she thought of was to

prevent it. She was sure that her lover never had entered the closet

through the parlor, as he never had been in this part of the house

farther than the little drawing-room. Suddenly a thought of the little

corridor door struck her; she remembered that this door was not usually

locked because the one from the library was always closed; she knew that

Octave had a key to the latter, and she readily understood how he had

reached her apartment. Mustering up all her courage through excessive

fear, she returned to the closet, hurried down the stairs, and pushed

the bolt. She then returned to the parlor and fell upon the divan,

completely exhausted by her expedition.

Little by little her emotion passed away. Her fright appeared childish

to her, as soon as she believed herself sheltered from danger; she

promised herself to give Octave a good scolding the next morning; then

she renounced this little pleasure, when she remembered that it would

force her to admit the discovery of the pin, and of course to return it

to him, for she had resolved to keep it. She had always had a particular

fancy for this pin, but she would never have dared to ask him for it,

and besides, it was the fact that Octave usually wore it that made it

of infinite value to her. The desire to appropriate it was irresistible,

since chance had thrown it into her hands. She tied a black satin

ribbon about her white neck, and pinned it with the precious ruby. After

kissing it as devotedly as if it were a relic, she ran to her mirror to

judge of the effect of the theft.

“How pretty, and how I love it!” said she; “but how can I wear it so

that he will not see it?”

Before she could solve this problem, she heard a slight noise, which

petrified her as she stood before her glass.

“It is he!” she thought; after standing for a moment half stunned, she

dragged herself as far as the stairs, and leaning over, listened with

fear and trembling. At first she could hear nothing but the beating of

her heart; then she heard the other noise again, and more distinctly.

Somebody was turning the handle of the door, trying to open it. The

unexpected obstacle of the bolt doubtless exasperated the would-be

visitor, for the door was shaken and pushed with a violence which

threatened to break the lock or push down the door.

Madame de Bergenheim’s first thought was to run into her chamber and

lock the door behind her;--the second showed her the danger that might

result if the slightest noise should reach other ears. Not a moment was

to be lost in hesitation. The young woman quickly descended the stairs

and drew the bolt. The door opened softly and closed with the same

precaution. The lamp from the parlor threw a feeble light upon the upper

steps of the staircase, but the lower ones were in complete darkness. It

was with her heart rather than her eyes that she recognized Octave; he

could distinguish Madame de Bergenheim only in an indistinct way by

her white dress, which was faintly outlined in the darkness; she stood

before him silent and trembling with emotion, for she had not yet

thought of a speech that would send him away.

He also felt the embarrassment usual in any one guilty of so foolhardy

an action. He had expected to surprise Clemence, and he found her upon

her guard; the thought of the disloyal part he was playing at this

moment made the blood mount to his cheeks and took away, for the time

being, his ordinary assurance. He sought in vain for a speech which

might first justify him and then conquer her. He had recourse to a

method often employed in the absence of eloquence. He fell on his

knees before the young woman and seized her hands; it seemed as if the

violence of his emotions rendered him incapable of expressing himself

except by silent adoration. As she felt his hands touch hers, Clemence

drew back and said in a low voice:

“You disgust me!”

“Disgust!” he repeated, drawing himself up to his full height.