“Yes, and that is not enough,” she continued, indignantly, “I ought to

say scorn instead of disgust. You deceived me when you said you loved

me--you infamously deceived me!”

“But I adore you!” he exclaimed, with vehemence; “what proof do you wish

of my love?”

“Go! go away at once! A proof, did you say? I will accept only one: go,

I order it, do you understand?”

Instead of obeying her, he seized her in his arms in spite of her

resistance.

“Anything but that,” he said; “order me to kill myself at your feet, I

will do it, but I will not go.”

She tried for a moment to disengage herself, but although she used all

her strength, she was unable to do so.

“Oh, you are without pity,” she said, feebly, “but I abhor you; rather,

a thousand times rather, kill me!”

Gerfaut was almost frightened by the agonized accent in which she spoke

these words; he released her, but as he removed his arms, she reeled and

he was obliged to support her.

“Why do you persecute me, then?” she murmured, as she fell in a faint

upon her lover’s breast.

He picked her up in his arms and mounted the narrow stairs with

difficulty. Carrying her into the parlor, he placed her upon the divan.

She had completely lost consciousness; one would have believed her dead

from the pallor of her face, were, it not for a slight trembling which

agitated her form every few seconds and announced a nervous attack. The

most expert of lady’s maids could not have removed the little ribbon

from her neck, which seemed to trouble her respiration, more adroitly

than did Octave. In spite of his anxiety, he could not repress a

smile as he recognized the pin which he hardly expected to find upon

Clemence’s neck, considering the hostile way in which she had greeted

him. He knelt before her and bathed her temples with cold water, making

her also inhale some salts which he found upon the toilet table in the

next room. Little by little, these attentions produced an effect; the

nervous convulsion became less frequent and a slight flush suffused her

pale cheeks. She opened her eyes and then closed them, as if the light

troubled them; then, extending her arms, she passed them about Octave’s

neck as he leaned over her; she remained thus for some time, breathing

quietly and to all appearances sleeping. Suddenly she said:

“You will give me your pin, will you not?”

“Is not all that I have yours?” he replied, in a low tone.

“Mine!” she continued, in a feebly loving voice; “tell me again that you

belong to me, to me alone, Octave!”

“You do not send me away any longer, then? you like me to be near you?”

he said, with a happy smile, as he kissed the young woman’s brow.

“Oh! stay, I beg of you! stay with me forever!”

She folded her arms more tightly around him, as if she feared he might

leave her. Suddenly she sat up, opened her eyes, and gazed about her in

silent astonishment.

“What has happened?” said she, “and how is it that you are here? Ah!

this is dreadful indeed; you have cruelly punished me for my weakness.”

This sudden severity after her delicious abandon, changed Octave’s

pleasure into angry vexation.

“You are the one,” he replied, “who are cruel! Why allow me so much

bliss, if you intended to take it away from me so soon? Since you love

me only in your dreams, I beg of you to go to sleep again and never

awaken. I will stay near you. Your words were so sweet, but a moment

ago, and now you deny them!”

“What did I say?” she asked, with hesitation, a deep blush suffusing her

face and neck.

These symptoms, which he considered a bad augury, increased Octave’s

irritation. He arose and said in a bitter tone:

“Fear nothing! I will not abuse the words which have escaped you,

however flattering or charming they may have been; they told me that you

loved me. I do not believe it any longer; you are agitated, I can see;

but it is from fear and not love.”

Clemence drew herself up upon the divan, crossed her arms over her

breast and gazed at him for a few moments in silence.

“Do you believe these two sentiments incompatible?” she asked at last;

“you are the only one whom I fear. Others would not complain.”

There was such irresistible charm in her voice and glance that Gerfaut’s

ill-humor melted away like ice in the sun’s rays. He fell upon his knees

before the divan, and tried to pass her arms about his neck as before;

but instead of lending herself to this project, she attempted to rise.

“I am so happy at your feet,” he said, gently preventing her. “Everybody

else can sit beside you; I only have the right to kneel. Do not take

this right away from me.”

Madame de Bergenheim extricated one of her hands, and, raising her

finger with a threatening gesture, she said:

“Think a little less of your rights, and more of your duties. I advise

you to obey me and to profit by my kindness, which allows you to sit by

my side for a moment. Think that I might be more severe, and that if

I treated you as you merited--if I told you to go away, would you obey

me?”

Gerfaut hesitated a moment and looked at her supplicatingly.

“I would obey,” said he; “but would you have the courage to order it?”

“I allow you to remain until just half past twelve,” said she, as she

glanced at the clock, which she could see through the half-open door.

Gerfaut followed her glance, and saw that she accorded him only a

quarter of an hour: but he was too clever to make any observation. He

knew that the second quarter of an hour is always less difficult to

obtain than the first.

“I am sure,” said she, “that you have thought me capricious to-day; you

must pardon me, it is a family fault. You know the saying: ‘Caprice de

Corandeuil?”

“I wish it to be said: Amour de Gerfaut,” said he, tenderly.

“You are right to be amiable and say pleasant things to me, for I need

them badly to-night. I am sad and weary; the darkest visions come before

my mind. I think it is the storm which makes me feel so. How doleful

this thunder is! It seems to me like an omen of misfortune.”

“It is only the fancy of your vivid imagination. If you exerted the

same will to be happy that you do to imagine troubles, our life would be

perfect. What matters the storm? and even if you do see an omen in it,

what is there so very terrible? Clouds are vapor, thunder is a sound,

both are equally ephemeral; only the blue sky, which they can obscure

but for a moment, is eternal.”

“Did you not hear something just now?” asked Madame de Bergenheim, as

she gave a sudden start and listened eagerly.

“Nothing. What did you think it was?”

“I feared it might be Justine who had taken it into her head to come

down stairs; she is so tiresome in her attentions--”

She arose and went to look in her chamber, which she carefully locked; a

moment later, she returned and seated herself again upon the divan.

“Justine is sleeping by this time,” said Octave; “I should not have

ventured if I had not seen that her light was out.”

Clemence took his hand and placed it over her heart.

“Now,” said she, “when I tell you that I am frightened, will you believe

me?”

“Poor dear!” he exclaimed, as he felt her heart throbbing violently.

“You are the one who causes me these palpitations for the slightest

thing. I know that we do not run any danger, that everybody is in his

own room by this time, and yet, somehow, I feel terribly frightened.

There are women, so they say, who get used to this torture, and end by

being guilty and tranquil at the same time. It is an unworthy thought,

but I’ll confess that, sometimes, when I suffer so, I wish I were like

them. But it is impossible; I was not made for wrong-doing. You can not

understand this, you are a man; you love boldly, you indulge in every

thought that seems sweet to you without being troubled by remorse. And

then, when you suffer, your anguish at least belongs to you, nobody has

any right to ask you what is the matter. But I, my tears even are not

my own; I have often shed them on your account--I must hide them, for he

has a right to ask: ‘Why do you weep?’ And what can I reply?”

She turned away her head to conceal the tears which she could not

restrain; he saw them, and, leaning over her, he kissed them away.

“Your tears are mine!” he exclaimed, passionately; “but do not distress

me by telling me that our love makes you unhappy.”

“Unhappy! oh, yes! very unhappy! and yet I would not change this sorrow

for the richest joys of others. This unhappiness is my treasure! To be

loved by you! To think that there was a time when our love might have

been legitimate! What fatality weighs upon us, Octave? Why did we

know each other too late? I often dream a beautiful dream--a dream of

freedom.”

“You are free if you love me--It is the rain against the windows,” said

he, seeing Madame de Bergenheim anxiously listening again. They kept

silent for a moment, but could hear nothing except the monotonous

whistling of the storm.

“To be loved by you and not to blush!” said she, as she gazed at him

lovingly. “To be together always, without fearing that a stroke of

lightning might separate us! to give you my heart and still be worthy to

pray! it would be one of those heavenly delights that one grasps only in

dreams--”

“Oh! dream when I shall be far from you; but, when I am at your feet,

when our hearts beat only for each other, do not evoke, lest you destroy

our present happiness, that which is beyond our power. Do you think

there are bonds which can more strongly unite us? Am I not yours? And

you, yourself, who speak of the gift of your heart, have you not given

it to me entirely?”

“Oh! yes, entirely! And it is but right, since I owe it to you. I did

not understand life until the day I received it from your eyes; since

that minute I have lived, and I can die. I love you! I fail to find

words to tell you one-tenth of what my heart contains, but I love you--”

He received her in his arms, where she took refuge so as to conceal her

face after these words. She remained thus for an instant, then arose

with a start, seized Octave’s hands and pressed them in a convulsive

manner, saying in a voice as weak as a dying woman’s:

“I am lost!”

He instinctively followed Clemence’s gaze, which was fastened upon the

glass door. An almost imperceptible movement of the muslin curtain was

evident. At the same moment, there was a slight noise, a step upon

the carpet, the turning of the handle of the door, and it was silently

opened as if by a ghost.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE AGREEMENT

Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise, but her strength failed her, she

fell on her knees, and then dropped at her lover’s feet. The latter

leaped from the divan with out trying to assist her, stepped over the

body stretched before him, and drew his poniard out of his pocket.

Christian stood upon the threshold of the door silent and motionless.

There was a moment of terrible silence. Only the eyes of the two men

spoke; those of the husband were fixed, dull, and implacable; those

of the lover sparkled with the audacity of despair. After a moment of

mutual fascination, the Baron made a movement as if to enter.

“One step more and you are a dead man!” exclaimed Gerfaut, in a low

voice, as he clutched the handle of his poniard.

Christian extended his hand, replying to this threat only by a look; but

such an imperative one that the thrust of a lance would not have been as

fearful to the lover. Octave put his poniard in its sheath, ashamed

of his emotion in the presence of such calm, and imitated his enemy’s

scornful attitude.

“Come, Monsieur,” said the latter, in a low voice, as he took a step

backward.

Instead of following his example, Gerfaut cast a glance upon Clemence.

She had fallen in such a dead faint that he sought in vain for her

breath. He leaned over her, with an irresistible feeling of pity and

love; but just as he was about to take her in his arms and place her

upon the divan, Bergenheim’s hand stopped him. If there is a being on

earth to whom one owes regard and respect, it is the one whom our

own wrong has rendered our enemy. Octave arose, and said, in a grave,

resigned voice:

“I am at your orders, Monsieur.”

Christian pointed to the door, as if to invite him to pass out first,

thus preserving, with his extraordinary composure, the politeness which

a good education makes an indelible habit, but which at this moment

was more frightful to behold than the most furious outburst of temper.

Gerfaut glanced at Clemence again, and said, as he pointed to her:

“Shall you leave her without any aid in this condition? It is cruel.”

“It is not from cruelty, but out of pity,” replied the Baron, coldly;

“she will awake only too soon.”

Octave’s heart was intensely oppressed, but he managed to conceal his

emotion. He hesitated no longer and stepped out. The husband followed,

without giving a glance at the poor woman whose own words had condemned

her so inexorably. And so she was left alone in this pretty boudoir as

if in a tomb.

The two men descended the stairs leading from the little closet. At

the library door they found themselves in absolute obscurity; Christian

opened a dark-lantern and its faint light guided their steps. They

traversed, in silence, the picture-gallery, the vestibule, and then

mounted the main staircase. They reached the Baron’s apartment without

meeting anybody or betraying themselves by the slightest sound. With the

same outward self-possession which had characterized his whole conduct,

Christian, after carefully closing the doors, lighted a candelabra

filled with candles which was upon the mantel, and then turned to his

companion, who was far less composed than he.

Gerfaut had suffered tortures since leaving the little parlor. A feeling

of regret and deepest pity, at the thought of the inevitable catastrophe

which must follow, had softened his heart. He saw in the most odious of

colors the selfishness of his love. Clemence’s last glance as she fell

fainting at his feet--a forgiving and a loving glance--was like a dagger

in his heart. He had ruined her! the woman he loved! the queen of his

life! the angel he adored! This idea was like hell to him. He was almost

unable to control his emotion, dizzy as he was on the brink of the abyss

opened by his hand, into which he had precipitated what he counted as

the dearest part of his own self.

Bergenheim stood, cold and sombre, like a northern sky, opposite this

pale-faced man, upon whose countenance a thousand passionate emotions

were depicted like clouds on a stormy day.

When Bergenheim’s eyes met Octave’s, they were so full of vengeance and

hatred that the latter trembled as if he had come in contact with a wild

beast. The lover actually realized the inferiority of his attitude

in the presence of this enraged husband. A feeling of self-pride and

indignation came to his aid. He put aside remorse and regrets until

later; these sad expiations were forbidden him now; another duty lay

before him. There is only one reparation possible for certain offences.

The course once open, one must go to its very end; pardon is to be found

only upon the tomb of the offended.

Octave knew he had to submit to this necessity. He stifled all scruples

which might have weakened his firmness, and resumed his habitual

disdainful look. His eyes returned his enemy’s glance of deadly hatred,

and he began the conversation like a man who is accustomed to master the

events of his life and forbids any one to shape them for him.

“Before any explanations take place between us,” he said, “I have to

declare to you, upon my honor, that there is only one guilty person in

this affair, and that I am the one. The slightest reproach addressed

to Madame de Bergenheim would be a most unjust outrage and a most

deplorable error on your part. I introduced myself into her apartment

without her knowledge and without having been authorized in any way to

do so. I had just entered it when you arrived. Necessity obliges me

to admit a love that is an outrage to you; I am ready to repair this

outrage by any satisfaction you may demand; but in putting myself

at your discretion, I earnestly insist upon exculpating Madame de

Bergenheim from all that can in any way affect her virtue or her

reputation.”

“As to her reputation,” said Christian, “I will watch over that; as to

her virtue--”

He did not finish, but his face assumed an expression of incredulous

irony.

“I swear to you, Monsieur,” said Octave, with increasing emotion, “that

she is above all seduction and should be sheltered from all insult; I

swear to you--What oath can I take that you will believe? I swear that

Madame de Bergenheim never has betrayed any of her duties toward you;

that I never have received the slightest encouragement from her; that

she is as innocent of my folly as the angels in heaven.”

Christian shook his head with a scornful smile.

“This day will be the undying remorse of my life if you will not believe

me,” said Gerfaut, with almost uncontrolled vehemence; “I tell you,

Monsieur, she is innocent; innocent! do you understand me? I was led

astray by my passion. I wished to profit by your absence. You know that

I have a key to the library; I used it without her suspecting it. Would

to God that you could have been a witness to our tete-a-tete! you could

then have not one doubt left. Can one prevent a man from entering a

lady’s room, when he has succeeded in finding the way to it in spite of

her wishes? I repeat it, she--”

“Enough, Monsieur,” replied the Baron coldly. “You are doing as I should

do in your place; but this discussion is out of place; let this woman

exculpate herself. There should be no mention of her between us now.”

“When I protest that upon my honor--”

“Monsieur, under such conditions, a false oath is not dishonorable.

I have been a bachelor myself, and I know that anything is allowable

against a husband. Let us drop this, I beg of you, and return to facts.

I consider that I have been insulted by you, and you must give me

satisfaction for this insult.”

Octave made a sign of acquiescence.

“One of us must die,” replied Bergenheim, leaning his elbow negligently

upon the mantel. The lover bowed his head a second time.

“I have offended you,” said he; “you have the right to choose the

reparation due you.”

“There is only one possible, Monsieur. Blood alone can wipe away the

disgrace; you know it as well as I. You have dishonored my home, you owe

me your life for that. If Fate favors you, you will be rid of me, and I

shall be wronged in every way. There are arrangements to be made, and we

shall settle them at once, if you are willing.”

He pushed an armchair toward Gerfaut, and took another himself.

They seated themselves beside a desk which stood in the middle of

the room, and, with an equal appearance of sang-froid and polite

haughtiness, they discussed this murderous combat.

“It is not necessary for me to say to you,” said Octave, “that I

accept in advance whatever you may decide upon; the weapons, place, and

seconds--”

“Listen to me, then,” interrupted Bergenheim; “you just now spoke in

favor of this woman in a way that made me think you did not wish

her ruined in the eyes of the world; so I trust you will accept the

proposition I am about to make to you. An ordinary duel would arouse

suspicion and inevitably lead to a discovery of the truth; people would

seek for some plausible motive for the encounter, whatever story we

might tell our seconds. You know that there is but one motive which will

be found acceptable by society for a duel between a young man who had

been received as a guest of this house and the husband. In whatever way

this duel may terminate, this woman’s honor would remain on the ground

with the dead, and that is what I wish to avoid, since she bears my

name.”

“Will you explain to me what your plan is?” asked Octave, who could not

understand what his adversary had in mind.

“You know, Monsieur,” Bergenheim continued, in his calm voice, “that I

had a perfect right to kill you a moment ago; I did not do so for two

reasons: first, a gentleman should use his sword and not a poniard, and

then your dead body would have embarrassed me.”

“The river is close by!” interrupted Gerfaut, with a strange smile.

Christian looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then replied in a

slightly changed tone:

“Instead of availing myself of my right, I intend to risk my life

against yours. The danger is the same for myself, who never have

insulted you, as for you, who have offered me the deadliest insult that

one man can offer another. I am willing to spill my blood, but not to

soil my honor.”

“If it is a duel without seconds that you desire, you have my consent; I

have perfect confidence in your loyalty, and I hope you can say the same

for mine.”

Christian bowed his head slightly and continued:

“It is more than a duel without seconds, for the whole affair must be

so contrived as to be looked upon as an accident; it is the only way

to prevent the outbreak and scandal I dread so much. Now here is my

proposition: You know that a wild-boar hunt is to take place to-morrow

in the Mares woods. When we station ourselves we shall be placed

together at a spot I know of, where we shall be out of the sight of the

other hunters. When the boar crosses the enclosure we will fire at a

signal agreed upon. In this way, the denouement, whatever it may be,

will be looked upon as one of those accidents which so frequently happen

in shooting-parties.”

“I am a dead man,” thought Gerfaut, as he saw that the gun would be the

weapon chosen by his adversary, and recalled his wonderful skill, of

which he had had many and various proofs. But instead of showing the

slightest hesitation, his countenance grew still more arrogant.

“This kind of combat seems to me very wisely planned,” said he; “I

accept, for I desire as much as you that this affair should remain an

eternal secret.”

“Since we are to have no seconds,” continued Bergenheim, “let us arrange

everything so that nothing can betray us; it is inconceivable how the

most trifling circumstances often turn out crushing evidence. I think

that I have foreseen everything. If you find that I have forgotten

any detail, please remind me of it. The place I speak of is a narrow,

well-shaded path. The ground is perfectly level; it lies from north to

south, so that at eight o’clock in the morning the sun will be on that

side; there will be no advantage in position. There is an old elm on the

borders of the wood; at fifty steps’ distance in the pathway, lies

the trunk of an oak which has been felled this year. These are the two

places where we will station ourselves, if you consent to it. Is it the

proper distance?”

“Near or farther, it matters little. Breast to breast, if you like.”

“Nearer would be imprudent. However, fifty steps with the gun is less

than fifteen with a pistol. This point is settled. We will remain with

heads covered, although this is not the custom. A ball might strike the

head where the cap would be, and if this should happen it would arouse

suspicion, as people do not hunt bareheaded. It only remains to decide

who shall fire first,” continued Christian.

“You, of course; you are the offended one.”

“You do not admit the full offence to have been committed, and, since

this is in doubt, and I can not be judge and jury together, we shall

consult chance.”

“I declare to you that I will not fire first,” interrupted Gerfaut.

“Remember that it is a mortal duel, and such scruples are foolish. Let

us agree that whoever has the first shot, shall place himself upon the

border of the woods and await the signal, which the other will give when

the boar crosses the enclosure.”

He took a gold piece from his purse and threw it in the air.

“Heads!” said the lover, ready to acquiesce to the least of his

adversary’s conditions.

“Fate is for you,” said Christian, looking at the coin with marked

indifference; “but, remember, if at the signal given by me you do not

fire, or only fire in the air, I shall use my right to shoot--You know

that I rarely miss my aim.”

These preliminaries ended, the Baron took two guns from his closet,

loaded them, taking particular care to show that they were of equal

length and the same calibre. He then locked them up in the closet and

offered Gerfaut the key.

“I would not do you this injustice,” said the latter.

“This precaution is hardly necessary, since, tomorrow, you will

take your choice of those weapons. Now that everything is arranged,”

continued the Baron, in a graver tone, “I have one request to make

of you, and I think you are too loyal to refuse it. Swear to me that

whatever may be the result, you will keep all this a profound secret.

My honor is now in your hands; speaking as a gentleman to a gentleman, I

ask you to respect it.”

“If I have the sad privilege of surviving you,” replied Gerfaut, no less

solemnly, “I swear to you to keep the secret inviolate. But, supposing

a contrary event, I also have a request to make to you. What are your

intentions regarding Madame de Bergenheim?”

Christian gazed at his adversary a moment, with a searching glance which

seemed to read his innermost thoughts.

“My intentions?” said he at last, in a displeased, surprised tone; “this

is a very strange question; I do not recognize your right to ask it.”

“My right is certainly strange,” said the lover, with a bitter smile;

“but whatever it may be, I shall make use of it. I have destroyed this

woman’s happiness forever; if I can not repair this fault, at least I

ought to mitigate the effect as much as lies in my power. Will you reply

to me--if I die tomorrow, what will be her fate?”

Bergenheim kept silent, his sombre eyes lowered to the floor.

“Listen to me, Monsieur,” continued Gerfaut, with great emotion; “when I

said to you, ‘She is not guilty,’ you did not believe me, and I despair

of ever persuading you, for I know well what your suspicions must be.

However, these are the last words addressed to you that will leave my

mouth, and you know that one has to believe a dying man’s statement.

If tomorrow you avenge yourself, I earnestly beg of you, let this

reparation suffice. All my pride is gone, you see, since I beg this of

you upon my bended knees. Be humane toward her; spare her, Monsieur. It

is not pardon which I ask you to grant her--it is pity for her unsullied

innocence. Treat her kindly--honorably. Do not make her too wretched.”

He stopped, for his voice failed him, and his eyes filled with tears.

“I know what I ought to do,” replied the Baron, in as harsh a tone as

Gerfaut’s had been tender; “I am her husband, and I do not recognize

anybody’s right, yours least of all, to interpose between us.”

“I can foresee the fate which you have in reserve for her,” replied

the lover, indignantly; “you will not murder her, for that would be too

imprudent; what would become of your vaunted honor then? But you will

slowly kill her; you will make her die a new death every day, in order

to satisfy a blind vengeance. You are a man to meditate over each new

torture as calmly as you have regulated every detail of our duel.”

Bergenheim, instead of replying, lighted a candle as if to put an end to

this discussion.

“Until to-morrow, Monsieur,” said he, with a cold air.

“One moment!” exclaimed Gerfaut, as he arose; “you refuse to give me

one word which will assure me of the fate of the woman whose life I have

ruined?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Very well, then; I will protect her, and I will do it in spite of you

and against you.”

“Not another word,” interrupted the Baron, sternly.

Octave leaned over the table between them and looked at him for a

moment, then said in a terrible voice:

“You killed Lambernier!”

Christian bounded backward as if he had been struck.

“I was a witness of that murder,” continued Gerfaut, slowly, as he

emphasized each word; “I will write my deposition and give it to a man

of whom I am as sure as of myself. If I die to-morrow, I will leave him

a mission which no effort on your part will prevent him from fulfilling.

He shall watch over your slightest actions with inexorable vigilance; he

will be Madame de Bergenheim’s protector, if you forget that your first

duty is to protect her. The day upon which you abuse your position with

her, the day when she shall call out despairingly, ‘Help me!’ that day

shall my deposition be placed in the hands of the public prosecutor

at Nancy. He will believe its contents; of that you may be certain.

Besides, the river is an indiscreet tomb; before long it will give up

the body you have confided to it. You will be tried and condemned. You

know the punishment for murder! It is hard labor for life.”

Bergenheim darted toward the mantel at these words and seized a

hunting-knife which hung there. Octave, as he saw him ready to strike,

crossed his arms upon his breast, and said, coldly:

“Remember that my body might embarrass you; one corpse is enough.”

The Baron threw the weapon on the floor with such force that he broke it

in two.

“But it was you,” he said, in a trembling voice, “you were Lambernier’s

assassin. I--He knew this infamous secret, and his death was involuntary

on my part.”

“The intention is of little account. The deed is the question. There is

not a jury that would not condemn you, and that is what I wish, for such

a sentence would bring a legal separation between you and your wife and

give her her liberty.”

“You are not speaking seriously,” said Christian, turning pale; “you,

a gentleman, would not denounce me! And, besides, would not my being

sentenced injure the woman in whom you take so much interest?”

“I know all that,” Gerfaut replied; “I too cling to the honor of my

name, and yet I expose it. I have plenty of enemies who will be glad

enough to outrage my memory. Public opinion will condemn me, for they

will see only the action, and that is odious. There is one thing,

however, more precious and necessary to me than the world’s opinion, and

that is peace for every day, the right to live; and that is the reason

why, happiness having forsaken me, I am going to bequeath it to the

one whom fate has put in your power, but whom I shall not leave to your

mercy.”

“I am her husband,” Bergenheim replied, angrily.

“Yes, you are her husband; so the law is on your side. You have only to

call upon society for its aid; it will come but too gladly at your call

and help you crush a defenceless woman. And I, who love her as you have

never known how to love her, I can do nothing for her! Living, I must

keep silent and bow before your will; but dead, your absurd laws no

longer exist for me; dead, I can place myself between you and her, and I

will do it. Since, in order to aid her, I have no choice of arms, I will

not recoil from the one weapon which presents itself. Yes, if in order

to save her from your vengeance, I am obliged to resort to the shame of

a denunciation, I swear to you here, I will turn informer. I will sully

my name with this stain; I will pick up this stone from the mud, and I

will crush your head with it.”

“These are a coward’s words!” exclaimed Christian, as he fell back in

his chair.

Gerfaut looked at him with a calm, stony glance, while replying:

“No insults, please! One of us will not be living to-morrow. Remember

what I tell you: if I fall in this duel, it will be to your interest to

have this matter stop then and there. I submit to death myself; but I

exact liberty for her--liberty, with peace and respect. Think it over,

Monsieur; at the first outrage, I shall arise from my tomb to prevent

a second, and dig a trench between you and her which never can be

crossed\--the penitentiary!”

CHAPTER XXIV. A FRIEND’S ADVICE

After she came out of her faint, Madame de Bergenheim remained for a

long time in a dazed condition, and did not realize, save in a confused

manner, her real position. She saw vaguely, at her first glance,

the curtains of the bed upon which she lay, and thought that she had

awakened from an ordinary sleep. Little by little, her thoughts became

clearer, and she saw that she was fully dressed, also that her room

seemed brighter than it usually was with only her night-lamp lighted.

She noticed between the half-open curtains a gigantic form reflected

almost to the ceiling opposite her bed. She sat up and distinctly saw a

man sitting in the corner by the fireplace. Frozen with terror, she fell

back upon her pillow as she recognized her husband. Then she remembered

everything, even the slightest details of the scene in the small parlor.

She felt ready to faint again when she heard Christian’s steps upon the

carpet, although he walked with great precaution.

The Baron looked at her a moment, and then, opening the bed-curtains, he

said:

“You can not pass the night thus, it is nearly three o’clock. You must

go to bed as usual.”

Clemence shivered at these words, whose accent, however, was not hard.

She obeyed mechanically; but she had hardly risen when she was obliged

to recline upon the bed, for her trembling limbs would not support her.

“Do not be afraid of me,” said Bergenheim, drawing back a few steps; “my

presence should not frighten you. I only wish that people should know

that I have passed the night in your chamber, for it is possible that

my return may arouse suspicion. You know that our love is only a comedy

played for the benefit of our servants.”

There was such affected lightness in these remarks that the young woman

was cut to the very quick. She had expected an explosion of anger, but

not this calm contempt. Her revolted pride gave her courage.

“I do not deserve to be treated thus,” said she; “do not condemn me

without a hearing.”

“I ask nothing of you,” replied Christian, who seated himself again

beside the mantel; “undress yourself, and go to sleep if it is possible

for you to do so. It is not necessary for Justine to make any comments

tomorrow about your day clothes not having been removed.”

Instead of obeying him, she went toward him and tried to remain standing

in order to speak to him, but her emotion was so intense that it took

away her strength and she was obliged to sit down.

“You treat me too cruelly, Christian,” said she, when she had succeeded

to recover her voice. “I am not guilty; at least, not so much as you

think I am--” said she, drooping her head.

He looked at her attentively for a moment, and then replied, in a voice

which did not betray the slightest emotion:

“You must know that my greatest desire is to be persuaded of this by

you. I know that too often appearances are deceitful; perhaps you

will be able to explain to me what took place last evening; I am still

inclined to believe your word. Swear to me that you do not love Monsieur

de Gerfaut.”

“I swear it!” said she, in a weak voice, and without raising her eyes.

He went to the bed and took down a little silver crucifix which was

hanging above it.

“Swear it to me upon this crucifix,” said he, presenting it to his wife.

She tried in vain to raise her hand, which seemed fastened to the arm of

her chair.

“I swear it!” she stammered a second time, while her face became as pale

as death.

A savage laugh escaped Christian’s lips. He put the crucifix in its

place again without saying a word, then he opened the secret panel and,

taking out the casket, placed it upon the table before his wife. She

made a movement as if to seize it, but her courage failed her.

“You have perjured yourself to your husband and to God!” said Bergenheim

slowly. “Do you know what kind of woman you are?”

Clemence remained for some time powerless to reply; her respiration was

so painful that each breath seemed like suffocation; her head, after

rolling about on the back of the chair, fell upon her breast, like a

blade of grass broken and bruised by the rain.

“If you have read those letters,” she murmured, when she had strength

enough to speak, “you must know that I am not as unworthy as you think.

I am very guilty--but I still have a right to be forgiven.”

Christian, at this moment, had he been gifted with the intelligence

which fathoms the mysteries of the heart, might have renewed the bonds

which were so near being broken; he could at least have stopped Clemence

upon a dangerous path and saved her from a most irreparable fall. But

his nature was too unrefined for him to see the degrees which separate

weakness from vice, and the intoxication of a loving heart from the

depravity of a corrupt character. With the obstinacy of narrow-minded

people, he had been looking at the whole thing in its worst light, and

for several hours already he had decided upon his wife’s guilt in his

own mind; this served now as a foundation for his stern conduct. His

features remained perfectly impassive as he listened to Clemence’s words

of justification, which she uttered in a weak, broken voice.

“I know that I merit your hatred-but if you could know how much I

suffer, you would surely forgive me--You left me in Paris very young,

inexperienced; I ought to have fought against this feeling better than I

did, but I used up in this struggle all the strength that I had--You can

see how pale and changed I have become within the past year. I have aged

several years in those few months; I am not yet what you call a--a lost

woman. He ought to have told you that--”

“Oh, he has! of course he has,” replied Christian with bitter irony.

“Oh, you have in him a loyal cavalier!”

“You do not believe me, then! you do not believe me!” she continued,

wringing her hands in despair; “but read these letters, the last ones.

See whether one writes like this to a woman who is entirely lost--”

She tried to take the package which her husband held; instead of giving

the letters to her, he lighted them at the candle and then threw them

into the fireplace. Clemence uttered a cry and darted forward to save

them, but Christian’s iron hand seized her and pushed her back into her

chair.

“I understand how much you care for this correspondence,” said he, in a

more excited tone, “but you are more loving than prudent. Let me destroy

one witness which accuses you. Do you know that I have already killed a

man on account of these letters?”

“Killed!” exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, whom this word drove almost to

madness, for she could not understand its real meaning and applied it

to her lover. “Well, then, kill me too, for I lied when I said that I

repented. I do not repent! I am guilty! I deceived you! I love him and I

abhor you; I love him! kill me!”

She fell upon her knees before him and dragged herself along the floor,

striking her head upon it as if she wished to break it. Christian

raised her and seated her in the chair, in spite of her resistance. She

struggled in her husband’s arms, and the only words which she uttered

were: “I love him! kill me! I love him! kill me!”

Her grief was so intense that Bergenheim really pitied her.

“You did not understand me,” he said, “he is not the man I killed.”

She became motionless, dumb. He left her then, from a feeling of

compassion, and returned to his seat. They remained for some time

seated in this way, one on each side of the fireplace; he, with his head

leaning against the mantel; she, crouched in her chair with her face

concealed behind her hands; only the striking of the clock interrupted

this silence and lulled their gloomy thoughts with its monotonous

vibrations.

A sharp, quick sound against one of the windows interrupted this sad

scene. Clemence arose suddenly as if she had received a galvanic shock;

her frightened eyes met her husband’s. He made an imperious gesture

with his hand as if to order silence, and both listened attentively and

anxiously.

The same noise was heard a second time. A rattling against the blinds

was followed by a dry, metallic sound, evidently caused by the contact

of some body against the window.

“It is some signal,” said Christian in a low voice, as he looked at his

wife. “You probably know what it means.”

“I do not, I swear to you,” replied Clemence, her heart throbbing with a

new emotion.

“I will tell you, then; he is there and he has something to say to you.

Rise and open the window.”

“Open the window?” said she, with a frightened look.

“Do what I tell you. Do you wish him to pass the night under your

window, so that the servants may see him?”

At this command, spoken in a severe tone, she arose. Noticing that their

shadows might be seen from the outside when the curtains were drawn,

Bergenheim changed the candles to another place. Clemence walked slowly

toward the window; she had hardly opened it, when a purse fell upon the

floor.

“Close it now,” said the Baron. While his wife was quietly obeying, he

picked up the purse, and opening it, took the following note from it:

“I have ruined you--you for whom I would gladly have died! But of

what use are regrets and despair now? And my blood will not wipe

away your tears. Our position is so frightful that I tremble so

speak of it. I ought to tell you the truth, however, horrible as it

may be. Do not curse me, Clemence; do not impute to me this

fatality, which obliges me thus to torture you. In a few hours I

shall have expiated the wrongs of my love, or you yourself may be

free. Free! pardon me for using this word; I know it is an odious

one to you, but I am too troubled to find another. Whatever

happens, I am about to put within your reach the only aid which it

is possible for me to offer you; it will at least give you a choice

of unhappiness. If you never see me again, to live with him will be

a torture beyond your strength, perhaps, for you love me. I do not

know how to express my thoughts, and I dare not offer you advice or

entreat you. All that I feel is the necessity of telling you that

my whole life belongs to you, that I am yours until death; but I

hardly dare have the courage to lay at your feet the offering of a

destiny already so sad, and which may soon be stained with blood.

A fatal necessity sometimes imposes actions which public opinion

condemns, but the heart excuses, for it alone understands them.

Do not be angry at what you are about to read; never did words like

these come out of a more desolate heart. During the whole day a

post-chaise will wait for you at the rear of the Montigny plateau;

a fire lighted upon the rock which you can see from your room will

notify you of its presence. In a short time it can reach the Rhine.

A person devoted to you will accompany you to Munich, to the house

of one of my relatives, whose character and position will assure you

sufficient protection from all tyranny. There, at least, you will

be permitted to weep. That is all that I can do for you. My heart

is broken when I think of the powerlessness of my love. They say

that when one crushes the scorpion which has wounded him, he is

cured; even my death will not repair the wrong that I have done you;

it will only be one grief the more. Can you understand how

desperate is the feeling which I experience now? For months past,

to be loved by you has been the sole desire of my heart, and now I

must repent ever having attained it. Out of pity for you, I ought

to wish that you did love me with a love as perishable as my life,

so that a remembrance of me would leave you in peace. All this is

so sad that I have not the courage to continue. Adieu, Clemence!

Once more, one last time, I must say: I love you! and yet, I dare

not. I feel unworthy to speak to you thus, for my love has become a

disastrous gift. Did I not ruin you? The only word that seems to

be permissible is the one that even a murderer dares to address to

his God: pardon me!”

After reading this, the Baron passed the letter to his wife without

saying a word, and resumed his sombre attitude.

“You see what he asks of you?” he said, after a rather long pause, as

he observed the dazed way in which Madame de Bergenheim’s eyes wandered

over this letter.

“My head is bewildered,” she replied, “I do not understand what he

says--Why does he speak of death?”

Christian’s lips curled disdainfully as he answered:

“It does not concern you; one does not kill women.”

“They need it not to die,” replied Clemence, who gazed at her husband

with wild, haggard eyes.

“Then you are going to fight?” she added, after a moment’s pause.

“Really, have you divined as much?” he replied, with an ironical smile;

“it is a wonderful thing how quick is your intelligence! You have spoken

the truth. You see, each of us has his part to play. The wife deceives

her husband; the husband fights with the lover, and the lover in order

to close the comedy in a suitable manner--proposes to run away with the

wife, for that is the meaning of his letter, notwithstanding all his

oratorical precautions.”

“You are going to fight!” she exclaimed, with the energy of despair.

“You are going to fight! And for me--unworthy and miserable creature

that I am! What have you done? And is he not free to love? I alone

am the guilty one, I alone have offended you, and I alone deserve

punishment. Do with me what you will; shut me up in a convent or a cell;

bring me poison, I will drink it.”

The Baron burst into sardonic laughter.

“So you are afraid that I shall kill, him?” said he, gazing at her

intently, with his arms crossed upon his breast.

“I fear for you, for us all. Do you think that I can live after causing

blood to be shed? If there must be a victim, take me--or, at least,

begin with me. Have pity! tell me that you will not fight.”

“But think--there is an even chance that you may be set free!” said he.

“Spare me!” she murmured, shivering with horror.

“It is a pity that blood must be shed, is it not?” said Bergenheim, in

a mocking tone; “adultery would be pleasant but for that. I am sure

that you think me coarse and brutal to look upon your honor as a serious

thing, when you do not do so yourself.”

“I entreat you!”

“I am the one who has to entreat you. This astonishes you, does

it not?--While I live, I shall protect your reputation in spite of

yourself; but if I die, try to guard it yourself. Content yourself with

having betrayed me; do not outrage my memory. I am glad now that we

have no children, for I should fear for them, and should feel obliged

to deprive you of their care as much as lay in my power. That is one

trouble the less. But as you bear my name, and I can not take it away

from you, I beg of you do not drag it in the mire when I shall not be

here to wash it for you.”

The young woman fell back upon her seat as if every fibre in her body

had been successively torn to pieces.

“You crush me to the earth!” she said, feebly.

“This revolts you,” continued the husband, who seemed to choose the most

cutting thrust; “you are young; this is your first error, you are not

made for such adventures. But rest assured, one becomes accustomed to

everything. A lover always knows how to find the most beautiful phrases

with which to console a widow and vanquish her repugnances.”

“You are killing me,” she murmured, falling back almost unconscious in

her chair.

Christian leaned over her, and, taking her by the arm, said in a low

tone:

“Remember, if I die and he asks you to follow him, you will be an

infamous creature if you obey him. He is a man to glory in you; that is

easy enough to see. He is a man who would drag you after him--”

“Oh! have pity--I shall die--”

Clemence closed her eyes and her lips twitched convulsively.

The first rays of the morning sun fell upon another scene in the

opposite wing of the chateau. Marillac was quietly sleeping the sleep

of the just when he was suddenly awakened by a shaking that nearly threw

him out of his bed.

“Go to the devil!” he said, angrily, when he succeeded in half opening

his heavy eyes, and recognized Gerfaut standing beside his bed.

“Get up!” said the latter, taking him by the arm to give more force to

his command.

The artist covered himself with the clothes up to his chin.

“Are you walking in your sleep or insane?” asked Marillac, “or do you

want me to go to work?” he added, as he saw that his friend had some

papers in his hand. “You know very well I never have any ideas when

fasting, and that I am stupid until noon.”

“Get up at once!” said Gerfaut, “I must have a talk with you.”

There was something so serious and urgent in Gerfaut’s accent as he

said these words, that the artist got up at once and hurriedly dressed

himself.

“What is the matter?” he asked, as he put on his dressing-gown, “you

look as if the affairs of the nation rested upon you.”

“Put on your coat and boots,” said Octave, “you must go to La

Fauconnerie. They are used to seeing you go out early in the morning for

your appointments with Reine, and therefore--”

“It is to this shepherdess you would send me!” interrupted the artist,

as he began to undress himself; “in that case I will go to bed again.

Enough of that!”

“I am to fight with Bergenheim at nine o’clock!” said Gerfaut, in a low

voice.

“Stupendous!” exclaimed Marillac, as he jumped back a few steps, and

then stood as motionless as a statue. Without wasting any time in

unnecessary explanations, his friend gave him a brief account of the

night’s events.

“Now,” said he, “I need you; can I count upon your friendship?”

“In life and in death!” exclaimed Marillac, and he pressed his hand with

the emotion that the bravest of men feel at the approach of a danger

which threatens one who is dear to them.

“Here,” said Gerfaut, as he handed him the papers in his hand, “is a

letter for you in which you will find my instructions in full; they will

serve you as a guide, according to circumstances. This sealed paper will

be deposited by you in the office of the public prosecutor at Nancy,

under certain circumstances which my note explains. Finally, this is my

will. I have no very near relative; I have made you my heir.

“Listen to me! I do not know a more honest man than you, that is the

reason why I select you. First, this legacy is a trust. I speak to you

now in case of events which probably will never happen, but which I

ought to prepare for. I do not know what effect this may have upon

Clemence’s fate; her aunt, who is very austere, may quarrel with her

and deprive her of her rights; her personal fortune is not very large, I

believe, and I know nothing about her marriage settlement. She may thus

be entirely at her husband’s mercy, and that is what I will not allow.

My fortune is therefore a trust that you will hold to be placed at her

disposal at any time. I hope that she loves me enough not to refuse this

service of me.”

“Well and good!” said Marillac; “I will admit that the thought of

inheriting from you choked me like a noose around my neck.”

“I beg of you to accept for yourself my copyrights as author. You can

not refuse that,” said Gerfaut, with a half smile; “this legacy belongs

to the domain of art. To whom should I leave it if not to you, my

Patroclus, my faithful collaborator?”

The artist took several agitated turns about his room.

“To think,” he exclaimed, “that I was the one who saved this

Bergenheim’s life! If he kills you, I shall never forgive myself. And

yet, I told you this would end in some tragic manner.”

“What business had he there? Is it not so? What can I say? We were

seeking for a drama; here it is. I am not anxious on my own account, but

on hers. Unhappy woman! A duel is a stone that might fall upon a man’s

head twenty times a day; it is sufficient for a simpleton if you stare

at him, or for an awkward fellow if you tread upon his toes; but on her

account--poor angel!--I can not think of it. I need the fullest command

of my head and my heart. But it is growing lighter; there is not a

moment to lose. Go to the stable; saddle a horse yourself, if there is

no servant up; go, as I said, to La Fauconnerie; I have often seen a

post-chaise in the tavern courtyard; order it to wait all day at the

back of the Montigny plateau. You will find everything explained in

detail in the note which I have given you. Here is my purse; I need no

money.”

Marillac put the purse in his pocket and the papers in his

memorandum-book; he then buttoned up his redingote and put on his

travelling cap. His countenance showed a state of exaltation which

belied, for the time being, the pacific theories he had expounded a few

days before.

“You can depend upon me as upon yourself,” said he with energy. “If

this poor woman calls for my aid, I promise you that I will serve her

faithfully. I will take her wherever she wishes; to China, if she asks

it, and in spite of the whole police force. If Bergenheim kills you and

then follows her up, there will be another duel.”

As he said these words, he took his stiletto and a pair of pistols from

the mantel and put them in his pocket, after examining the edge of the

one and the caps of the others.

“Adieu!” said Gerfaut.

“Adieu!” said the artist, whose extreme agitation contrasted strongly

with his friend’s calm. “Rest easy! I will look after her--and I will

publish a complete edition--But what an idea--to accept a duel as

irregular as this! Have you ever seen him use a gun? He had no right to

exact this.”

“Hurry! you must leave before the servants are up.”

“Kiss me, my poor fellow!” said Marillac, with tears in his eyes; “it is

not very manly I know, but I can not help it--Oh! these women! I adore

them, of course; but just now I am like Nero, I wish that they all had

but one head. It is for these little, worthless dolls that we kill each

other!”

“You can curse them on your way,” said Gerfaut, who was impatient to see

him leave.

“Oh, good gracious, yes! They can flatter themselves this moment that

they all inspire me with a deadly hatred.”

“Do not make any noise,” said his friend, as he carefully opened the

door.

Marillac pressed his hand for the last time, and went out. When he

reached the end of the corridor, he stopped a moment, then went back.

“Above all things,” said he, as he passed his head through the half-open

door, “no foolish proceedings. Remember that it is necessary that one

of you should fall, and that if you fail; he will not. Take your

time--aim--and fire at him as you would at a rabbit.”

After this last piece of advice, he went away; ten minutes after he had

left, Gerfaut saw him riding out of the courtyard as fast as Beverley’s

four legs would carry him.

CHAPTER XXV. THE WILD BOAR

The most radiant sun that ever gilded a beautiful September day had

arisen upon the castle. The whole valley was as fresh and laughing as a

young girl who had just left her bath. The rocks seemed to have a band

of silver surrounding them; the woods a mantle of green draped over

their shoulders.

There was an unusual excitement in the courtyard of the chateau. The

servants were coming and going, the dogs were starting a concert of

irregular barks, and the horses were jumping about, sharing their

instinctive presentiment and trying to break away from the bridles which

held them.

The Baron, seated in his saddle with his usual military attitude, and a

cigar in his mouth, went from one to another, speaking in a joking tone

which prevented anybody from suspecting his secret thoughts. Gerfaut had

imposed upon his countenance that impassible serenity which guards the

heart’s inner secrets, but had not succeeded so well. His affectation of

gayety betrayed continual restraint; the smile which he forced upon

his lips left the rest of his face cold, and never removed the wrinkle

between his brows. An incident, perhaps sadly longed for, but unhoped

for, increased this gloomy, melancholy expression. Just as the cavalcade

passed before the English garden, which separated the sycamore walk

from the wing of the chateau occupied by Madame de Bergenheim, Octave

slackened the pace of his horse and lingered behind the rest of his

companions; his eyes closely examined each of the windows; the blinds

of her sleeping-room were only half closed; behind the panes he saw

the curtains move and then separate. A pale face appeared for a moment

between the blue folds, like an angel who peeps through the sky to gaze

upon the earth. Gerfaut raised himself on his stirrups so as to drink in

this apparition as long as possible, but he dared not make one gesture

of adieu. As he was still endeavoring to obtain one more glance, he saw

that the Baron was at his side.

“Play your role better,” said he to him; “we are surrounded by spies. De

Camier has already made an observation about your preoccupied demeanor.”

“You are right,” said Octave; “and you join example to advice. I admire

your coolness, but I despair of equalling it.”

“You must mingle with my guests and talk with them,” Christian replied.

He started off at a trot; Gerfaut followed his example, stifling a sigh

as he darted a last glance toward the chateau. They soon rejoined the

cart which carried several of the hunters, and which Monsieur de Camier

drove with the assurance of a professional coachman.

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the trot of the horses and

the sound of the wheels upon the level ground.

“What the devil ails your dogs?” exclaimed Monsieur de Camier suddenly,

as he turned to the Baron, who was riding behind him. “There they are

all making for the river.” Just at this moment the dogs, who could be

seen in the distance, hurried to the water-side, in spite of all that

their leader could do to prevent them. They almost disappeared behind

the willows that bordered the river, and one could hear them barking

furiously; their barks sounded like rage mingled with terror.

“It is some duck that they have scented,” observed the prosecutor.

“They wouldn’t bark like that,” said Monsieur de Camier, with the

sagacity of a professional hunter; “if it were a wolf, they could not

make a greater uproar. Is it by chance some wild boar who is taking a

bath, in order to receive us more ceremoniously?”

He gave the horses a vigorous blow from the whip, and they all rapidly

approached the spot where a scene was taking place which excited to the

highest pitch everybody’s curiosity. Before they reached the spot, the

keeper, who had run after the dogs to call them together, came out of a

thicket, waving his hat to stop the hunters, exclaiming:

“A body! a body!”

“A body! a drowned man!” he exclaimed, when the vehicle stopped.

This time it was the public prosecutor who arose and jumped from the

cart with the agility of a deer.

“A drowned man!” said he. “In the name of the law, let nobody touch the

body. Call back the dogs.”

As he said these words he hastened to the spot which the servant pointed

out to him. Everybody dismounted and followed him. Octave and Bergenheim

had exchanged strange glances when they heard the servant’s words.

It was, as the servant had announced, the battered body of a man, thrown

by the current against the trunk of the tree, and there caught between

two branches of the willow as if in a vise.

“It is the carpenter!” exclaimed Monsieur de Camier as he parted the

foliage, which had prevented the head from being seen until then, for he

recognized the workman’s livid, swollen features. “It is that poor devil

of a Lambernier, is it not, Bergenheim?”

“It is true!” stammered Christian, who, in spite of his boldness, could

not help turning away his eyes.

“The carpenter!--drowned!--this is frightful!--I never should have

recognized him--how disfigured he is!” exclaimed the others, as they

pressed forward to gaze at this horrible spectacle.

“This is a sad way to escape justice,” observed the notary, in a

philosophical tone.

The Baron seized this opening with avidity.

“He must have crossed the river to escape,” said he, “and in his haste

he made a misstep and fell.”

The public prosecutor shook his head with an air of doubt.

“That is not probable,” said he; “I know the place. If he tried to cross

the river a little above or a little below the rock--it doesn’t matter

which--the current would have carried him into the little bay above the

rock and not here. It is evident that he must have drowned himself or

been drowned farther down. I say, been drowned, for you can see that he

has a wound upon the left side of his forehead, as if he had received a

violent blow, or his head had, hit against a hard substance. Now, if

he had been drowned accidentally while crossing the river, he would not

have been wounded in this manner.”

This remark silenced the Baron; and while the others exhausted

conjectures to explain the way in which this tragic event had taken

place, he stood motionless, with his eyes fastened upon the river

and avoiding a glance at the dead body. During this time the public

prosecutor had taken from his pocket some paper and a pen, which he

usually carried with him.

“Gentlemen,” said he, seating himself upon the trunk of a tree opposite

the drowned man, “two of you will do me the favor to act as witnesses

while I draw up my official report. If any of you have a statement to

make in regard to this affair, I beg of him to remain here, so that I

may receive his deposition.”

Nobody stirred, but Gerfaut threw such a penetrating glance at the Baron

that the latter turned away his eyes.

“Gentlemen,” continued the magistrate, “I do not wish any of you to

renounce the sport on account of this untoward incident. There is

nothing attractive about this spectacle, and I assure you that if my

duty did not keep me here, I should be the first to withdraw. Baron, I

beg of you to send me two men and a stretcher in order to have the body

carried away; I will have it taken to one of your farms, so as not to

frighten the ladies.”

“The prosecutor is right,” said Christian, whom these words delivered

from a terrible anxiety.

After a deliberation, presided over by Monsieur de Camier, the

‘tragueurs’ and the dogs left in silence to surround the thickets where

the animal had been found to be hidden. At the same time the hunters

turned their steps in the opposite direction in order to take their

positions. They soon reached the ditch alongside of which they were to

place themselves. From time to time, as they advanced, one of them left

the party and remained mute and motionless like a sentinel at his post.

This manoeuvre gradually reduced their numbers, and at last there were

only three remaining.

“You remain here, Camier,” said the Baron, when they were about sixty

steps from the last position.

That gentleman, who knew the ground, was hardly flattered by this

proposition.

“By Jove!” said he, “you are on your own grounds; you ought at least to

do the honors of your woods and let us choose our own positions. I think

you wish to place yourself upon the outskirts, because it is always

about that region that the animal first appears; but there will be two

of us, for I shall go also.”

This determination annoyed Christian considerably, since it threatened

to ruin the plan so prudently laid out.

“I am going to put our friend Gerfaut at this post,” said he, whispering

to the refractory hunter; “I shall be very much pleased if he has an

opportunity to fire. What difference does one boar more or less make to

an old hunter like you?”

“Well and good; just as you like,” retorted Monsieur de Carrier,

striking the ground with the butt-end of his gun, and beginning to

whistle in order to cool off his anger.

When the adversaries found themselves side by side and alone,

Bergenheim’s countenance changed suddenly; the smiling look he

had assumed, in order to convince the old hunter of his cheerful

disposition, gave place to deep gravity.

“You remember our agreement,” he said, as they walked along; “I feel

sure that the boar will come in our direction. At the moment when I call

out, ‘Take care!’ I shall expect you to fire; if, at the end of twenty

seconds, you have not done so, I warn you that I shall fire myself.”

“Very well, Monsieur,” said Gerfaut, looking at him fixedly; “you also

doubtless remember my words; the discovery of this body will give

them still more weight. The public prosecutor has already begun his

preliminary proceedings; remember that it depends on me how they shall

be completed. The deposition which I spoke to you about is in the

hands of a safe person, who is fully instructed to make use of it if

necessary.”

“Marillac, I suppose,” said Christian, in an evil tone; “he is your

confidant. It is a fatal secret that you have confided to him, Monsieur.

If I survive today, I shall have to secure his silence. May all this

blood, past, present, and future, be on your head!”

Deeply affected by this reproach, the Vicomte bowed his head in silence.

“Here is my place,” said the Baron, stopping before the trunk of an old

oak, “and there is the elm where you are to station yourself.”

Gerfaut stopped, and said, in a trembling voice:

“Monsieur, one of us will not leave these woods alive. In the presence

of death, one tells the truth. I hope for your peace of mind, and my

own, that you will believe my last words. I swear to you, upon my honor

and by all that is sacred, that Madame de Bergenheim is innocent.”

He bowed, and withdrew from Christian without waiting for a response.

Bergenheim and Gerfaut were out of sight of the others, and stood at

their posts with eyes fastened upon each other. The ditch was wide

enough to prevent the branches of the trees from troubling them; at

the distance of sixty feet, which separated them, each could see his

adversary standing motionless, framed by the green foliage. Suddenly,

barking was heard in the distance, partially drowned by the firing of a

gun. A few seconds later, two feeble reports were heard, followed by an

imprecation from Monsieur de Camier, whose caps flashed in the pan. The

Baron, who had just leaned forward that he might see better through the

thicket, raised his hand to warn Octave to hold himself in readiness. He

then placed himself in position. An extreme indecision marked Gerfaut’s

attitude. After raising his gun, he dropped it to the ground with a

despondent gesture, as if his resolution to fire had suddenly abandoned

him; the pallor of death could not be more terrible than that which

overspread his features. The howling of the dogs and shouts of the

hunters increased. Suddenly another sound was heard. Low, deep growls,

followed by the crackling of branches, came from the woods opposite our

adversaries. The whole thicket seemed to tremble as if agitated by a

storm.

“Take care!” exclaimed Bergenheim, in a firm voice.

At the same moment an enormous head appeared, and the report of a gun

was heard. When Gerfaut looked through the smoke caused by his gun, at

the farther end of the ditch, nothing was to be seen but the foliage.

The boar, after crossing the clearing, vanished like a flash, leaving

behind him a trail of broken branches--and Bergenheim lay behind the

trunk of the old oak, upon which large drops of blood had already

fallen.

CHAPTER XXVI. BERGENHEIM’S REVENGE

On the same morning the drawing-room of the Bergenheim castle was the

theatre of a quiet home scene very much like the one we described at the

beginning of this story. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was seated in her

armchair reading the periodicals which had just arrived; Aline was

practising upon the piano, and her sister-in-law was seated before one

of the windows embroidering. By the calm attitude of these three ladies,

and the interest they seemed to show in their several occupations, one

would have supposed that they were all equally peaceful at heart. Madame

de Bergenheim, upon rising, had resumed her usual habits; she managed

to find the proper words to reply when spoken to, her dejection did not

differ from her usual melancholy enough for it to become the subject of

remark. A rather bright color in her cheeks heightened her beauty; her

eyes never had sparkled with more brilliancy; but if a hand had been

placed upon her forehead, one would have soon discovered by its burning

the secret of all this unwonted color. In fact, in the midst of

this sumptuous room, surrounded by her friends, and bending over her

embroidery with most exquisite grace, Madame de Bergenheim was slowly

dying. A wasting fever was circulating like poison through her veins.

She felt that an unheard-of sorrow was hanging over her head, and that

no effort of hers could prevent it.

At this very moment, either the man she belonged to or the one she loved

was about to die; whatever her widowhood might be, she felt that

her mourning would be brief; young, beautiful, surrounded by all the

privileges of rank and fortune, life was closing around her, and left

but one pathway open, which was full of blood; she would have to bathe

her feet in it in order to pass through.

“What is that smoke above the Montigny rock?” Aline exclaimed with

surprise; “it looks as if there were a fire in the woods.”

Madame de Bergenheim raised her eyes, shivered from head to foot as she

saw the stream of smoke which stood out against the horizon, and then

let her head droop upon her breast. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stopped

her reading as she heard Aline’s remark, and turned slowly to look out

of the window.

“That’s some of the shepherds’ work,” said she; “they have built a fire

in the bushes at the risk of setting fire to the whole woods. Really, I

do not know what to think of your husband, Clemence; he takes everybody

away to the hunt with him, and does not leave a soul here to prevent his

dwelling from being devastated.”

Clemence made no reply, and her sister-in-law, who expected she would

say something to keep the conversation alive, returned and seated

herself at the piano with a pouting air.

“Thanks, that will do for to-day!” exclaimed the old lady at the first

notes; “you have split our heads long enough. You would do better to

study your history of France.”

Aline closed the piano angrily; but instead of obeying this last piece

of advice, she remained seated upon the stool with the sulky air of

a pupil in disgrace. A deep silence reigned. Madame de Bergenheim

had dropped her embroidery without noticing it. From time to time she

trembled as if a chill passed over her, her eyes were raised to watch

the smoke ascending above the rock, or else she seemed to listen to some

imaginary sound.

“Truly,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, as she laid her journal

down in her lap, “good morals have made great progress since the July

revolution. Yesterday a woman twenty years of age ran away to Montpelier

with her lover; to-day, here is another, in Lyons, who poisons her

husband and kills herself afterward. If I were superstitious, I should

say that the world was coming to an end. What do you think of such

atrocious doings, my dear?”

Clemence raised her head with an effort, and answered, in a gloomy

voice:

“You must pardon her, since she is dead.”

“You are very indulgent,” replied the old aunt; “such creatures ought to

be burned alive, like the Brinvilliers.”

“They often speak in the papers of husbands who kill their wives, but

not so often of wives killing their husbands,” said Aline, with the

partisan feeling natural to the fair sex.

“It is not proper that you should talk of such horrid things,” said the

old lady, in a severe tone; “behold the fruits of all the morals of the

age! It is the effect of all the disgusting stuff that is acted nowadays

upon the stage and written in novels. When one thinks of the fine

education that is given youth at the present time, it is enough to make

one tremble for the future!”

“Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle, you may be sure that I shall never kill

my husband,” replied the young girl, to whom this remark seemed

particularly addressed.

A stifled groan, which Madame de Bergenheim could not suppress,

attracted the attention of the two ladies.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,

noticing for the first time her niece’s dejected air and the frightened

expression in her eyes.

“Nothing,” murmured the latter; “I think it is the heat of the room.”

Aline hastily opened a window, then went and took her sister-in-law’s

hands in her own.

“You have a fever,” said she; “your hands burn and your forehead also; I

did not dare tell you, but your beautiful color--”

A frightful cry which Madame de Bergenheim uttered made the young girl

draw back in fright.

“Clemence! Clemence!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who thought

that her niece had gone insane.

“Did you not hear?” she cried, with an accent of terror impossible to

describe. She darted suddenly toward the drawing-room door; but, instead

of opening it, she leaned against it with arms crossed. Then she ran two

or three times around the room in a sort of frenzy, and ended by falling

upon her knees before the sofa and burying her head in its cushions.

This scene bewildered the two women. While Mademoiselle de Corandeuil

tried to raise Clemence, Aline, still more frightened, ran out of the

room to call for aid. A rumor which had just begun to arise in the

courtyard was distinctly heard when the door was thrown open. A moment

more, and a piercing shriek was heard, and the young girl rushed into

the parlor; throwing herself on her knees beside her sister-in-law she

pressed her to her breast with convulsive energy.

As she felt herself seized in this fashion, Clemence raised her head

and, placing her hands upon Aline’s shoulders, she pushed her backward

and gazed at her with eyes that seemed to devour her.

“Which? which?” she asked, in a harsh voice.

“My brother--covered with blood!” stammered Aline.

Madame de Bergenheim pushed her aside and threw herself upon the sofa.

Her first feeling was a horrible joy at not hearing the name of Octave;

but she tried to smother her hysterical utterances by pressing her mouth

against the cushion upon which her face was leaning.

A noise of voices was heard in the vestibule; the greatest confusion

seemed to reign among the people outside. At last, several men entered

the drawing room; at their head was Monsieur de Camier, whose ruddy face

had lost all its color.

“Do not be frightened, ladies,” said he, in a trembling voice; “do

not be frightened. It is only a slight accident, without any danger.

Monsieur de Bergenheim was wounded in the hunt,” he continued,

addressing Mademoiselle de Corandeuil.

At last, the folding-doors were thrown open, and two servants appeared,

bearing the Baron upon a mattress.

When the servants had deposited their burden in front of one of

the windows, Aline threw herself upon her brother’s body, uttering

heartrending cries. Madame de Bergenheim did not stir; she lay upon

the sofa with eyes and ears buried in the cushions, and seemed deaf and

blind to all that surrounded her. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was the

only one who preserved her presence of mind. Controlling her emotion,

she leaned over the Baron and sought for some sign of life.

“Is he dead?” she asked, in a low voice, of Monsieur de Camier.

“No, Mademoiselle,” replied the latter, in a tone which announced that

he had little hope.

“Has a physician been sent for?”

“To Remiremont, Epinal, everywhere.”

At this moment Aline uttered a cry of joy. Bergenheim had just stirred,

brought to life, perhaps, by the pressure of his sister’s arms. He

opened his eyes and, closed them several times; at last his energy

triumphed over his sufferings; he sat up on his improvised cot and,

leaning upon his left elbow, he glanced around the room.

“My wife!” said he, in a weak voice.

Madame de Bergenheim arose and forced her way through the group that

surrounded the mattress, and silently took her place beside her husband.

Her features had changed so terribly within a few moments that a murmur

of pity ran through the group of men that filled the room.

“Take my sister away,” said Christian, disengaging his hand from the

young girl, who was covering it with kisses and tears.

“My brother! I can not leave my brother!” exclaimed Aline, as she was

dragged away rather than led to her room.

“Leave me for a moment,” continued the Baron; “I wish to speak to my

wife.”

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil gave Monsieur de Gamier a questioning glance,

as if to ask if it were best to grant this request.

“We can do nothing before the doctors arrive,” said the latter, in a low

voice, “and perhaps it would be imprudent to oppose him.”

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil recognized the correctness of this

observation, and left the room, asking the others to follow her. During

this time, Madame de Bergenheim remained motionless in her place,

apparently insensible to all that surrounded her. The noise of the

closing door aroused her from her stupor. She looked around the room

as if she were seeking the others; her eyes, which were opened with the

fixed look of a somnambulist, did not change their expression when they

fell upon her husband.

“Come nearer,” said he, “I have not strength enough to speak loud.”

She obeyed mechanically. When she saw the large red stain which had

soaked Christian’s right sleeve, she closed her eyes, threw back her

head, and her features contracted with a horrified expression.

“You women are wonderfully fastidious,” said the Baron, as he noticed

this movement; “you delight in causing a murder, but the slightest

scratch frightens you. Pass over to the left side; you will not see so

much blood-besides, it is the side where the heart is.”

There was something terrible in the irony of the voice in which he spoke

at this moment. Clemence fell upon her knees beside him and took his

hand, crying,

“Pardon! pardon!”

The dying man took away his hand, raised his wife’s head, and, looking

at her a few moments attentively, he said at last:

“Your eyes are very dry. No tears! What! not one tear when you see me

thus!”

“I can not weep,” replied she; “I shall die!”

“It is very humiliating for me to be so poorly regretted, and it

does you little honor--try to shed a few tears, Madame--it will be

remarked--a widow who does not weep!”

“A widow--never!” she said, with energy.

“It would be convenient if they sold tears as they sell crape, would it

not? Ah! only you women have a real talent for that--all women know how

to weep.”

“You will not die, Christian--oh! tell me that you will not die--and

that you will forgive me.”

“Your lover has killed me,” said Bergenheim, slowly; “I have a bullet in

my chest--I feel it--I am the one who is to die--in less than an hour I

shall be a corpse--don’t you see how hard it is already for me to talk?”

In reality his voice was becoming weaker and weaker. His breath grew

shorter with each word; a wheezing sound within his chest indicated the

extent of the lesion and the continued extravasation of blood.

“Mercy! pardon!” exclaimed the unhappy woman, prostrating herself upon

the floor.

“More air--open the windows--” said the Baron, as he fell back upon the

mattress, exhausted by the efforts he had just made to talk.

Madame de Bergenheim obeyed his order with the precision of an

automaton. A fresh, pure breeze entered the room; when the curtains were

raised, floods of light illuminated the floor, and the old portraits,

suddenly lighted up, looked like ghosts who had left their graves to

witness the death agonies of the last of their descendants. Christian,

refreshed by the air which swept over his face, sat up again. He gazed

with a melancholy eye at the radiant sun and the green woods which lay

stretched out in front of the chateau.

“I lost my father on such a day as this,” said he, as if talking to

himself--“all our family die during the beautiful weather--ah! do you

see that smoke over the Montigny rock?” he exclaimed, suddenly.

After opening the windows, Clemence stepped out upon the balcony.

Leaning upon the balustrade, she gazed at the deep, rapid river which

flowed at her feet. Her husband’s voice calling her aroused her from

this gloomy contemplation. When she returned to Christian, his eyes were

flaming, a flush like that of fever had overspread his cheeks, and a

writhing, furious indignation was depicted upon his face. “Were you

looking at that smoke?” said he, angrily; “it is your lover’s signal;

he is there--he is waiting to take you away--and I, your husband, forbid

you to go--you must not leave me--your place is here--close by me.”

“Close by you,” she repeated, not understanding what he said.

“Wait at least until I am dead,” he continued, while his eyes flashed

more and more--“let my body get cold--when you are a widow you can do as

you like--you will be free--and even then--I forbid it--I order you to

wear mourning for me--above all, try to weep--”

“Strike me with a knife! At least I should bleed,” said she, bending

toward him and tearing open her dress to lay bare her bosom.

He seized her by the arm, and, exerting all his wasting strength to

reach her, he said, in a voice whose harshness was changed almost into

supplication:

“Clemence, do not dishonor me by giving yourself to him when I am

dead--I would curse you if I thought that you would do that.”

“Oh! do not curse me!” she exclaimed; “do not drive me mad. Do you not

know that I am about to die?”

“There are women who do not see their husband’s blood upon their lover’s

hands--but I would curse you--”

He dropped Clemence’s arm and fell back upon the mattress with a sob.

His eyes closed, and some unintelligible words died on his lips, which

were covered with a bloody froth. He was dying.

Madame de Bergenheim, crouched down upon the floor, heard him repeating

in his expiring voice:

“I would curse you--I would curse you!”

She remained motionless for some time, her eyes fastened upon the dying

man before her with a look of stupefied curiosity. Then she arose and

went to the mirror; she gazed at herself for a moment as if obeying the

whim of an insane woman, pushing aside, in order to see herself better,

the hair which covered her forehead. Suddenly a flash of reason came to

her; she uttered a horrible cry as she saw some blood upon her face; she

looked at herself from head to foot; her dress was stained with it; she

wrung her hands in horror, and felt that they were wet. Her husband’s

blood was everywhere. Then, her brain filled with the fire of raving

madness, she rushed out upon the balcony, and Bergenheim, before his

last breath escaped him, heard the noise of her body as it fell into the

river.

Several days later, the Sentinelle des Vosges contained the following

paragraph, written with the official sorrow found in all death-notices

at thirty sous per line:

“A frightful event, which has just thrown two of our best families

into mourning, has caused the greatest consternation throughout the

Remiremont district. Monsieur le Baron de Bergenheim, one of the richest

land-owners in our province, was killed by accident at a wild-boar

hunt on his own domains. It was by the hand of one of his best friends,

Monsieur de Gerfaut, well known by, his important literary work, which

has given its author a worldwide reputation, that he received his

death-blow. Nothing could equal the grief of the involuntary cause of

this catastrophe. Madame de Bergenheim, upon learning of this tragic

accident, was unable to survive the death of her adored husband, and

drowned herself in her despair. Thus the same grave received this

couple, still in the bloom of life, to whom their great mutual affection

seemed to promise a most happy future.”

Twenty-eight months later the Parisian journals, in their turn,

inserted, with but slight variations, the following article:

“Nothing could give any idea of the enthusiasm manifested at the

Theatre-Francais last evening, at the first representation of Monsieur

de Gerfaut’s new drama. Never has this writer, whose silence literature

has deplored for too long a time, distinguished himself so highly. His

early departure for the East is announced. Let us hope that this voyage

will turn to the advantage of art, and that the beautiful and sunny

countries of Asia will be a mine for new inspirations for this

celebrated poet, who has taken, in such a glorious manner, his place at

the heal of our literature.”

Bergenheim’s last wish had been realized; his honor was secure;

nobody outraged by even an incredulous smile the purity of Clemence’s

winding-sheet; and the world did not refuse to their double grave the

commonplace consideration that had surrounded their lives.

Clemence’s death did not destroy the future of the man who loved her so

passionately, but the mourning he wears for her, to this day, is of

the kind that is never put aside. And, as the poet’s heart was always

reflected in his works, the world took part in this mourning without

being initiated into its mystery. When the bitter cup of memory

overflowed in them, they believed it to be a new vein which had opened

in the writer’s brain. Octave received, every day, congratulations upon

this sadly exquisite tone of his lyre, whose vibrations surpassed in

supreme intensity the sighs of Rene or Obermann’s Reveries. Nobody knew

that those sad pages were written under the inspiration of the most

mournful of visions, and that this dark and melancholy tinge, which was

taken for a caprice of the imagination, had its source in blood and in

the spasms of a broken heart.

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Attractions that difficulties give to pleasure

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Consented to become a wife so as not to remain a maiden

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Evident that the man was above his costume; a rare thing!

I believed it all; one is so happy to believe!

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Lady who requires urging, although she is dying to sing

Let them laugh that win!

Let ultra-modesty destroy poetry

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Mania for fearing that she may be compromised

Material in you to make one of Cooper’s redskins

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