← catalogue

Mauprat

by George Sand · English · Gutenberg #2194 · 714,531 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mauprat
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Mauprat

Author: George Sand

Translator: Stanley Young


        
Release date: March 26, 2006 [eBook #2194]
                Most recently updated: October 2, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2194

Credits: Produced by Dagny; John Bickers and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAUPRAT ***




MAUPRAT

by George Sand


Translated by Stanley Young



CONTENTS

George Sand Pearl Mary-Teresa Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes)

Life of George Sand Edmund Gosse

The Author’s Preface

Mauprat




GEORGE SAND

Napoleon in exile declared that were he again on the throne he should
make a point of spending two hours a day in conversation with women,
from whom there was much to be learnt. He had, no doubt, several types
of women in mind, but it is more than probable that the banishment of
Madame de Stael rose before him as one of the mistakes in his career. It
was not that he showed lack of judgment merely by the persecution of a
rare talent, but by failing to see that the rare talent was pointing out
truths very valuable to his own safety. This is what happened in France
when George Sand--the greatest woman writer the world has known, or is
ever likely to know--was attacked by the orthodox critics of her time.
They feared her warnings; they detested her sincerity--a sincerity
displayed as much in her life as in her works (the hypocrite’s Paradise
was precisely her idea of Hell); they resented bitterly an independence
of spirit which in a man would have been in the highest degree
distinguished, which remained, under every test, untamable. With a kind
of _bonhomie_ which one can only compare with Fielding’s, with a passion
as great as Montaigne’s for acknowledging the truths of experience,
with an absence of self-consciousness truly amazing in the artistic
temperament of either sex, she wrote exactly as she thought, saw and
felt. Humour was not her strong point. She had an exultant joy in
living, but laughter, whether genial or sardonic, is not in her work.
Irony she seldom, if ever, employed; satire she never attempted. It was
on the maternal, the sympathetic side that her femininity, and therefore
her creative genius, was most strongly developed. She was masculine only
in the deliberate libertinism of certain episodes in her own life. This
was a characteristic--one on no account to be overlooked or denied or
disguised, but it was not her character. The character was womanly,
tender, exquisitely patient and good-natured. She would take cross
humanity in her arms, and carry it out into the sunshine of the fields;
she would show it flowers and birds, sing songs to it, tell it stories,
recall its original beauty. Even in her moods of depression and revolt,
one recognises the fatigue of the strong. It is never for a moment the
lassitude of the feeble, the weary spite of a sick and ill-used soul. As
she was free from personal vanity, she was also free from hysteria. On
marriage--the one subject which drove her to a certain though always
disciplined violence--she clearly felt more for others than they
felt for themselves; and in observing certain households and life
partnerships, she may have been afflicted with a dismay which the
unreflecting sufferers did not share. No writer who was carried away
by egoistic anger or disappointment could have told these stories of
unhappiness, infidelity, and luckless love with such dispassionate
lucidity.

With the artist’s dislike of all that is positive and arbitrary, she
was, nevertheless, subject rather to her intellect than her emotions.
An insult to her intelligence was the one thing she found it hard
to pardon, and she allowed no external interference to disturb her
relations with her own reasoning faculty. She followed caprices, no
doubt, but she was never under any apprehension with regard to their
true nature, displaying in this respect a detachment which is usually
considered exclusively virile. _Elle et Lui_, which, perhaps because
it is short and associated with actual facts, is the most frequently
discussed in general conversation on her work, remains probably the
sanest account of a sentimental experiment which was ever written. How
far it may have seemed accurate to De Musset is not to the point.
Her version of her grievance is at least convincing. Without fear and
without hope, she makes her statement, and it stands, therefore, unique
of its kind among indictments. It has been said that her fault was an
excess of emotionalism; that is to say, she attached too much importance
to mere feeling and described it, in French of marvellous ease and
beauty, with a good deal of something else which one can almost condemn
as the high-flown. Not that the high-flown is of necessity unnatural,
but it is misleading; it places the passing mood, the lyrical note,
dependent on so many accidents, above the essential temperament and the
dominant chord which depend on life only. Where she falls short of the
very greatest masters is in this all but deliberate confusion of things
which must change or can be changed with things which are unchangeable,
incurable, and permanent. Shakespeare, it is true, makes all his
villains talk poetry, but it is the poetry which a villain, were he a
poet, would inevitably write. George Sand glorifies every mind with her
own peculiar fire and tears. The fire is, fortunately, so much stronger
than the tears that her passion never degenerates into the maudlin. All
the same, she makes too universal a use of her own strongest gifts,
and this is why she cannot be said to excel as a portrait painter. One
merit, however, is certain: if her earliest writings were dangerous,
it was because of her wonderful power of idealization, not because she
filled her pages with the revolting and epicene sensuality of the new
Italian, French, and English schools. Intellectual viciousness was
not her failing, and she never made the modern mistake of confusing
indecency with vigour. She loved nature, air, and light too well and
too truly to go very far wrong in her imaginations. It may indeed be
impossible for many of us to accept all her social and political views;
they have no bearing, fortunately, on the quality of her literary art;
they have to be considered under a different aspect. In politics, her
judgment, as displayed in the letters to Mazzini, was profound. Her
correspondence with Flaubert shows us a capacity for stanch, unblemished
friendship unequalled, probably, in the biographies, whether published
or unpublished, of the remarkable.

With regard to her impiety--for such it should be called--it did not
arise from arrogance, nor was it based in any way upon the higher
learning of her period. Simply she did not possess the religious
instinct. She understood it sympathetically--in _Spiridion_, for
instance, she describes an ascetic nature as it has never been done in
any other work of fiction. Newman himself has not written passages of
deeper or purer mysticism, of more sincere spirituality. Balzac, in
_Seraphita_, attempted something of the kind, but the result was never
more than a _tour de force_. He could invent, he could describe, but
George Sand felt; and as she felt, she composed, living with and
loving with an understanding love all her creations. But it has to be
remembered always that she repudiated all religious restraint, that she
believed in the human heart, that she acknowledged no higher law than
its own impulses, that she saw love where others see only a cruel
struggle for existence, that she found beauty where ordinary visions can
detect little besides a selfishness worse than brutal and a squalor more
pitiful than death. Everywhere she insists upon the purifying influence
of affection, no matter how degraded in its circumstances or how illegal
in its manifestation. No writer--not excepting the Brontes--has shown
a deeper sympathy with uncommon temperaments, misunderstood aims,
consciences with flickering lights, the discontented, the abnormal, or
the unhappy. The great modern specialist for nervous diseases has not
improved on her analysis of the neuropathic and hysterical. There is
scarcely a novel of hers in which some character does not appear who
is, in the usual phrase, out of the common run. Yet, with this perfect
understanding of the exceptional case, she never permits any science of
cause and effect to obscure the rules and principles which in the main
control life for the majority. It was, no doubt, this balance which made
her a popular writer, even while she never ceased to keep in touch with
the most acute minds of France.

She possessed, in addition to creative genius of an order especially
individual and charming, a capacity for the invention of ideas. There
are in many of her chapters more ideas, more suggestions than one
would find in a whole volume of Flaubert. It is not possible that these
surprising, admirable, and usually sound thoughts were the result of
long hours of reflection. They belonged to her nature and a quality of
judgment which, even in her most extravagant romances, is never for a
moment swayed from that sane impartiality described by the unobservant
as common sense.

Her fairness to women was not the least astounding of her gifts. She is
kind to the beautiful, the yielding, above all to the very young, and in
none of her stories has she introduced any violently disagreeable female
characters. Her villains are mostly men, and even these she invests
with a picturesque fatality which drives them to errors, crimes,
and scoundrelism with a certain plaintive, if relentless, grace. The
inconstant lover is invariably pursued by the furies of remorse; the
brutal has always some mitigating influence in his career; the libertine
retains through many vicissitudes a seraphic love for some faithful
Solveig.

Humanity meant far more to her than art: she began her literary career
by describing facts as she knew them: critics drove her to examine their
causes, and so she gradually changed from the chronicler with strong
sympathies to the interpreter with a reasoned philosophy. She discovered
that a great deal of the suffering in this world is due not so much to
original sin, but to a kind of original stupidity, an unimaginative,
stubborn stupidity. People were dishonest because they believed,
wrongly, that dishonesty was somehow successful. They were cruel because
they supposed that repulsive exhibitions of power inspired a prolonged
fear. They were treacherous because they had never been taught the
greater strength of candour. George Sand tried to point out the
advantage of plain dealing, and the natural goodness of mankind
when uncorrupted by a false education. She loved the wayward and
the desolate: pretentiousness in any disguise was the one thing she
suspected and could not tolerate. It may be questioned whether she ever
deceived herself; but it must be said, that on the whole she flattered
weakness--and excused, by enchanting eloquence, much which cannot always
be justified merely on the ground that it is explicable. But to explain
was something--all but everything at the time of her appearance in
literature. Every novel she wrote made for charity--for a better
acquaintance with our neighbour’s woes and our own egoism. Such an
attitude of mind is only possible to an absolutely frank, even Arcadian,
nature. She did what she wished to do: she said what she had to say, not
because she wanted to provoke excitement or astonish the multitude, but
because she had succeeded eminently in leading her own life according to
her own lights. The terror of appearing inconsistent excited her scorn.
Appearances never troubled that unashamed soul. This is the magic, the
peculiar fascination of her books. We find ourselves in the presence
of a freshness, a primeval vigour which produces actually the effect of
seeing new scenes, of facing a fresh climate. Her love of the soil,
of flowers, and the sky, for whatever was young and unspoilt, seems
to animate every page--even in her passages of rhetorical sentiment we
never suspect the burning pastille, the gauze tea-gown, or the depressed
pink light. Rhetoric it may be, but it is the rhetoric of the sea and
the wheat field. It can be spoken in the open air and read by the light
of day.

George Sand never confined herself to any especial manner in her
literary work. Her spontaneity of feeling and the actual fecundity, as
it were, of her imaginative gift, could not be restrained, concentrated,
and formally arranged as it was in the case of the two first masters of
modern French novel-writing. Her work in this respect may be compared to
a gold mine, while theirs is rather the goldsmith’s craft. It must not
be supposed, however, that she was a writer without very strong views
with regard to the construction of a plot and the development of
character. Her literary essays and reviews show a knowledge of technique
which could be accepted at any time as a text-book for the critics and
the criticised. She knew exactly how artistic effects were obtained, how
and why certain things were done, why realism, so-called, could never be
anything but caricature, and why over-elaboration of small matters can
never be otherwise than disproportionate. Nothing could be more just
than her saying about Balzac that he was such a logician that he
invented things more truthful than the truth itself. No one knew better
than she that the truth, as it is commonly understood, does not exist;
that it cannot be logical because of its mystery; and that it is
the knowledge of its contradictions which shows the real expert in
psychology.

Three of her stories--_La Petite Fadette_, _La Mare au Diable_, and
_Les Maitres Mosaistes_--are as neat in their workmanship as a Dutch
painting. Her brilliant powers of analysis, the intellectual atmosphere
with which she surrounds the more complex characters in her longer
romances, are entirely put aside, and we are given instead a series
of pictures and dialogues in what has been called the purely objective
style; so pure in its objectivity and detachment that it would be hard
for any one to decide from internal evidence that they were in reality
her own composition.

To those who seek for proportion and form there is, without doubt, much
that is unsymmetrical in her designs. Interesting she always is, but to
the trained eye scenes of minor importance are, strictly speaking, too
long: descriptions in musical language sometimes distract the reader
from the progress of the story. But this arose from her own joy in
writing: much as she valued proportion, she liked expressing her mind
better, not out of conceit or self-importance, but as the birds, whom
she loved so well, sing.

Good nature is what we need above all in reading George Sand. It is
there--infectious enough in her own pages, and with it the courage which
can come only from a heart at peace with itself. This is why neither
fashion nor new nor old criticism can affect the title of George Sand
among the greatest influences of the last century and the present one.
Much that she has said still seems untried and unexpected. Writers so
opposite as Ibsen and Anatole France have expanded her themes. She is
quoted unconsciously to-day by hundreds who are ignorant of their real
source of inspiration. No woman ever wrote with such force before, and
no woman since has even approached her supreme accomplishments.

PEARL MARY-TERESA CRAIGIE.




LIFE OF GEORGE SAND

George Sand, in whose life nothing was commonplace, was born in Paris,
“in the midst of roses, to the sound of music,” at a dance which her
mother had somewhat rashly attended, on the 5th of July, 1804. Her
maiden name was Armentine Lucile Aurore Dupin, and her ancestry was of
a romantic character. She was, in fact, of royal blood, being the
great-grand-daughter of the Marshal Maurice du Saxe and a Mlle.
Verriere; her grandfather was M. Dupin de Francueil, the charming friend
of Rousseau and Mme. d’Epinay; her father, Maurice Dupin, was a gay and
brilliant soldier, who married the pretty daughter of a bird-fancier,
and died early. She was a child of the people on her mother’s side, an
aristocrat on her father’s. In 1807 she was taken by her father, who was
on Murat’s staff, into Spain, from which she returned to the house of
her grandmother, at Nohant in Berry. This old lady adopted Aurore at the
death of her father, in 1808. Of her childhood George Sand has given a
most picturesque account in her “Histoire de ma Vie.” In 1817 the girl
was sent to the Convent of the English Augustinians in Paris, where she
passed through a state of religious mysticism. She returned to Nohant
in 1820, and soon threw off her pietism in the outdoor exercises of a
wholesome country life. Within a few months, Mme. Dupin de Francueil
died at a great age, and Aurore was tempted to return to Paris. Her
relatives, however, were anxious that she should not do this, and
they introduced to her the natural son of a retired colonel, the Baron
Dudevant, whom, in September, 1822, she married. She brought him to live
with her at Nohant, and she bore him two sons, Maurice and Solange,
and a daughter. She quickly perceived, as her own intellectual nature
developed, that her boorish husband was unsuited to her, but their early
years of married life were not absolutely intolerable. In 1831, however,
she could endure him no longer, and an amicable separation was agreed
upon. She left M. Dudevant at Nohant, resigning her fortune, and
proceeded to Paris, where she was hard pressed to find a living. She
endeavoured, without success, to paint the lids of cigar-boxes, and in
final desperation, under the influence of Jules Sandeau--who became her
lover, and who invented the pseudonym of George Sand for her--she turned
her attention to literature. Her earliest work was to help Sandeau in
the composition of his novel, “Rose et Blanche” Her first independent
novel, “Indiana,” appeared at the close of 1831, and her second,
“Valentine,” two months later. These books produced a great and
immediate sensation, and she felt that she had found her vocation.
In 1833 she produced “Lebia”; in 1834 the “Lettres d’un Voyageur” and
“Jacques”; in 1835 “Andre” and “Leone Leoni.” After this her works
become too numerous and were produced with too monotonous a regularity
to be chronicled here. But it should be said that “Mauprat” was written
in 1836 at Nohant, while she was pleading for a legal separation from
her husband, which was given her by the tribunal of Bourges, with full
authority over the education of her children. These early novels all
reflect in measure the personal sorrows of the author, although
George Sand never ceased to protest against too strict a biographical
interpretation of their incidents. “Spiridion” (1839), composed under
the influence of Lamennais, deals with questions of free thought in
religion. But the novels of the first period of her literary activity,
which came to a close in 1840, are mainly occupied with a lyrical
individualism, and are inspired by the wrongs and disillusions of the
author’s personal adventures.

The years 1833 and 1834 were marked by her too-celebrated relations with
Alfred de Musset, with whom she lived in Paris and at Venice, and with
whom she quarrelled at last in circumstances deplorably infelicitous.
Neither of these great creatures had the reticence to exclude the world
from a narrative of their misfortunes and adventures; of the two it was
fairly certainly the woman who came the less injured out of the furnace.
In “Elle et Lui” (1859) she gave long afterward her version of the
unhappy and undignified story. Her stay in Venice appears to have
impressed her genius more deeply than any other section of her numerous
foreign sojournings.

The writings of George Sand’s second period, which extended from 1840
to 1848, are of a more general character, and are tinged with a generous
but not very enlightened ardour for social emancipation. Of these
novels, the earliest is “Le Compagnon du Tour de France” (1840), which
is scarcely a masterpiece. In the pursuit of foreign modes of thought,
and impelled by experiences of travel, George Sand rose to far greater
heights in “Jeanne” (1842), in “Consuelo” (1842-’43), and in “La
Comtesse de Rudolstade” (1844). All these books were composed in her
retirement at Nohant, where she definitely settled in 1839, after
having travelled for several months in Switzerland with Liszt and Mme.
d’Agoult, and having lived in the island of Majorca for some time
with the dying Chopin, an episode which is enshrined in her “Lucrezia
Floriani” (1847).

The Revolution of 1848 appeared to George Sand a realization of her
Utopian dreams, and plunged her thoughts into a painful disorder. She
soon, however, became dissatisfied with the result of her republican
theories, and she turned to two new sources of success, the country
story and the stage. Her delicious romance of “Francois le Champi”
 (1850) attracted a new and enthusiastic audience to her, and her entire
emancipation from “problems” was marked in the pages of “La Petite
Fadette” and of “La Mare au Diable.” To the same period belong “Les
Visions de la Nuit des les Campagnes,” “Les Maitres Sonneurs,” and
“Cosina.” From 1850 to 1864 she gave a great deal of attention to
the theatre, and of her numerous pieces several enjoyed a wide and
considerable success, although it cannot be said that any of her plays
have possessed the vitality of her best novels. The most solid of the
former was her dramatization of her story, “Le Marquis de Villemer”
 (1864), which was one of the latest, and next to it “Le Mariage de
Victorine” (1851), which was one of the earliest. Her successes on the
stage, such as they are, appear mainly due to collaboration with others.

In her latest period, from 1860 to 1876, George Sand returned to
her first lyrical manner, although with more reticence and a wider
experience of life. Of the very abundant fruitage of these last years,
not many rank with the masterpieces of her earlier periods, although
such novels as “Tamaris” (1862), “La Confession d’une Jeune Fille”
 (1865), and “Cadio,” seemed to her admirers to show no decline of force
or fire. Still finer, perhaps, were “Le Marquis de Villemer” (1861) and
“Jean de la Roche” (1860). Her latest production, which appeared after
her death, was the “Contes d’une Grand’mere,” a collection full of
humanity and beauty. George Sand died at Nohant on the 8th of June,
1876. She had great qualities of soul, and in spite of the naive
irregularities of her conduct in early middle life, she cannot
be regarded otherwise than as an excellent woman. She was brave,
courageous, heroically industrious, a loyal friend, a tender and wise
mother. Her principle fault has been wittily defined by Mr. Henry James,
who has remarked that in affairs of the heart George Sand never “behaved
like a gentleman.”

E. G.




PREFACE

When I wrote my novel _Mauprat_ at Nohant--in 1846, if I remember
rightly--I had just been suing for a separation. Hitherto I had written
much against the abuses of marriage, and perhaps, though insufficiently
explaining my views, had induced a belief that I failed to appreciate
its essence; but it was at this time that marriage itself stood before
me in all the moral beauty of its principle.

Misfortune is not without its uses to the thoughtful mind. The more
clearly I had realized the pain and pity of having to break a sacred
bond, the more profoundly I felt that where marriage is wanting, is
in certain elements of happiness and justice of too lofty a nature to
appeal to our actual society. Nay, more; society strives to take from
the sanctity of the institution by treating it as a contract of material
interests, attacking it on all sides at once, by the spirit of its
manners, by its prejudices, by its hypocritical incredulity.

While writing a novel as an occupation and distraction for my mind, I
conceived the idea of portraying an exclusive and undying love, before,
during, and after marriage. Thus I drew the hero of my book proclaiming,
at the age of eighty, his fidelity to the one woman he had ever loved.

The ideal of love is assuredly eternal fidelity. Moral and religious
laws have aimed at consecrating this ideal. Material facts obscure it.
Civil laws are so framed as to make it impossible or illusory. Here,
however, is not the place to prove this. Nor has _Mauprat_ been burdened
with a proof of the theory; only, the sentiment by which I was specially
penetrated at the time of writing it is embodied in the words of
_Mauprat_ towards the end of the book: “She was the only woman I loved
in all my life; none other ever won a glance from me, or knew the
pressure of my hand.”

GEORGE SAND.

June 5, 1857.



TO

GUSTAVE PAPET

Though fashion may proscribe the patriarchal fashion of dedications, I
would ask you, brother and friend, to accept this of a tale which is not
new to you. I have drawn my materials in part from the cottages of our
Noire valley. May we live and die there, repeating every evening our
beloved invocation:

SANCTA SIMPLICITAS!

GEORGE SAND.





MAUPRAT


On the borders of La Marche and Berry, in the district known as
Varenne, which is naught but a vast moor studded with forests of oak
and chestnut, and in the most thickly wooded and wildest part of the
country, may be found, crouching within a ravine, a little ruined
chateau. The dilapidated turrets would not catch your eye until you were
about a hundred yards from the principal portcullis. The venerable trees
around and the scattered rocks above, bury it in everlasting obscurity;
and you would experience the greatest difficulty, even in broad
daylight, in crossing the deserted path leading to it, without stumbling
against the gnarled trunks and rubbish that bar every step. The name
given to this dark ravine and gloomy castle is Roche-Mauprat.

It was not so long ago that the last of the Mauprats, the heir to this
property, had the roofing taken away and all the woodwork sold. Then,
as if to give a kick to the memory of his ancestors, he ordered the
entrance gate to be thrown down, the north tower to be gutted, and a
breach to be made in the surrounding wall. This done, he departed with
his workmen, shaking the dust from off his feet, and abandoning his
domain to foxes, and cormorants, and vipers. Since then, whenever the
wood-cutters and charcoal-burners from the huts in the neighbourhood
pass along the top of the Roche-Mauprat ravine, if it is in daytime they
whistle with a defiant air or hurl a hearty curse at the ruins; but
when day falls and the goat-sucker begins to screech from the top of
the loopholes, wood-cutter and charcoal-burner pass by silently, with
quickened step, and cross themselves from time to time to ward off the
evil spirits that hold sway among the ruins.

For myself, I own that I have never skirted the ravine at night without
feeling a certain uneasiness; and I would not like to swear that on some
stormy nights I have not given my horse a touch of the spur, in order
to escape the more quickly from the disagreeable impression this
neighbourhood made on me.

The reason is that in childhood I classed the name of Mauprat with those
of Cartouche and Bluebeard; and in the course of horrible dreams I often
used to mix up the ancient legends of the Ogre and the Bogey with the
quite recent events which in our province had given such a sinister
lustre to this Mauprat family.

Frequently, out shooting, when my companions and I have left our posts
to go and warm ourselves at the charcoal fires which the workmen keep
up all night, I have heard this name dying away on their lips at our
approach. But when they had recognised us and thoroughly satisfied
themselves that the ghosts of none of these robbers were hiding in our
midst, they would tell us in a whisper such stories as might make one’s
hair stand on end, stories which I shall take good care not to pass on
to you, grieved as I am that they should ever have darkened and pained
my own memory.

Not that the story I am about to tell is altogether pleasant and
cheerful. On the contrary, I must ask your pardon for unfolding so
sombre a tale. Yet, in the impression which it has made on myself there
is something so consoling and, if I may venture the phrase, so healthful
to the soul, that you will excuse me, I hope, for the sake of the
result. Besides this is a story which has just been told to me. And now
you ask me for one. The opportunity is too good to be missed for one of
my laziness or lack of invention.

It was only last week that I met Bernard Mauprat, the last of the
line, the man who, having long before severed himself from his infamous
connections, determined to demolish his manor as a sign of the horror
aroused in him by the recollections of childhood. This Bernard is one of
the most respected men in the province. He lives in a pretty house near
Chateauroux, in a flat country. Finding myself in the neighbourhood,
with a friend of mine who knows him, I expressed a wish to be
introduced; and my friend, promising me a hearty welcome, took me to his
house then and there.

I already knew in outline the remarkable history of this old man; but I
had always felt a keen desire to fill in the details, and above all to
receive them from himself. For me, the strange destiny of the man was
a philosophical problem to be solved. I therefore noticed his features,
his manners, and his home with peculiar interest.

Bernard Mauprat must be fully eighty-four, though his robust health, his
upright figure, his firm step, and the absence of any infirmity might
indicate some fifteen or twenty years less. His face would have appeared
to me extremely handsome, had not a certain harshness of expression
brought before my eyes, in spite of myself, the shades of his fathers.
I very much fear that, externally at all events, he must resemble them.
This he alone could have told us; for neither my friend nor myself had
known any other Mauprat. Naturally, however, we were very careful not to
inquire.

It struck us that his servants waited on him with a promptitude and
punctuality quite marvellous in Berrichon domestics. Nevertheless, at
the least semblance of delay he raised his voice, knitted his eyebrows
(which still showed very black under his white hair), and muttered a few
expressions of impatience which lent wings even to the slowest. At first
I was somewhat shocked at this habit; it appeared to savour rather too
strongly of the Mauprats. But the kindly and almost paternal manner in
which he spoke to them a moment later, and their zeal, which seemed so
distinct from fear, soon reconciled me to him. Towards us, moreover, he
showed an exquisite politeness, and expressed himself in the choicest
terms. Unfortunately, at the end of dinner, a door which had been left
open and through which a cold air found its way to his venerable skull,
drew from him such a frightful oath that my friend and I exchanged a
look of surprise. He noticed it.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said. “I am afraid you find me an odd
mixture. Ah, you see but a short distance. I am an old branch, happily
torn from a vile trunk and transplanted into good soil, but still
knotted and rough like the wild holly of the original stock. I have,
believe me, had no little trouble in reaching the state of comparative
gentleness and calm in which you behold me. Alas! if I dared, I should
reproach Providence with a great injustice--that of having allotted me
a life as short as other men’s. When one has to struggle for forty or
fifty years to transform one’s self from a wolf into a man, one ought to
live a hundred years longer to enjoy one’s victory. Yet what good
would that do me?” he added in a tone of sadness. “The kind fairy who
transformed me is here no more to take pleasure in her work. Bah! it is
quite time to have done with it all.”

Then he turned towards me, and, looking at me with big dark eyes, still
strangely animated, said:

“Come, my dear young man; I know what brings you to see me; you are
curious to hear my history. Draw nearer the fire, then. Mauprat though
I am, I will not make you do duty for a log. In listening you are giving
me the greatest pleasure you could give. Your friend will tell you,
however, that I do not willingly talk of myself. I am generally afraid
of having to deal with blockheads, but you I have already heard of;
I know your character and your profession; you are an observer and
narrator--in other words, pardon me, inquisitive and a chatterbox.”

He began to laugh, and I made an effort to laugh too, though with
a rising suspicion that he was making game of us. Nor could I help
thinking of the nasty tricks that his grandfather took a delight in
playing on the imprudent busybodies who called upon him. But he put his
arm through mine in a friendly way, and making me sit down in front of a
good fire, near a table covered with cups--

“Don’t be annoyed,” he said. “At my age I cannot get rid of hereditary
sarcasm; but there is nothing spiteful in mine. To speak seriously, I am
delighted to see you and to confide in you the story of my life. A man
as unfortunate as I have been deserves to find a faithful biographer to
clear his memory from all stain. Listen, then, and take some coffee.”

I offered him a cup in silence. He refused it with a wave of the arm
and a smile which seemed to say, “That is rather for your effeminate
generation.”

Then he began his narrative in these words:




I

You live not very far from Roche-Mauprat, and must have often passed by
the ruins. Thus there is no need for me to describe them. All I can tell
you is that the place has never been so attractive as it is now. On the
day that I had the roof taken off, the sun for the first time brightened
the damp walls within which my childhood was passed; and the lizards
to which I have left them are much better housed there than I once was.
They can at least behold the light of day and warm their cold limbs in
the rays of the sun at noon.

There used to be an elder and a younger branch of the Mauprats. I belong
to the elder. My grandfather was that old Tristan de Mauprat who ran
through his fortune, dishonoured his name, and was such a blackguard
that his memory is already surrounded by a halo of the marvelous. The
peasants still believe that his ghost appears, either in the body of a
wizard who shows malefactors the way to the dwellings of Varenne, or in
that of an old white hare which reveals itself to people meditating
some evil deed. When I came into the world the only living member of the
younger branch was Monsieur Hubert de Mauprat, known as the chevalier,
because he belonged to the Order of the Knights of Malta; a man just as
good as his cousin was bad. Being the youngest son of his family, he had
taken the vow of celibacy; but, when he found himself the sole survivor
of several brothers and sisters, he obtained release from his vow, and
took a wife the year before I was born. Rumour says that before changing
his existence in this way he made strenuous efforts to find some
descendant of the elder branch worthy to restore the tarnished family
name, and preserve the fortune which had accumulated in the hands of the
younger branch. He had endeavoured to put his cousin Tristan’s affairs
in order, and had frequently paid off the latter’s creditors. Seeing,
however, that the only effect of his kindness was to encourage the vices
of the family, and that, instead of respect and gratitude, he received
nothing but secret hatred and churlish jealousy, he abandoned all
attempts at friendship, broke with his cousins, and in spite of his
advanced age (he was over sixty), took a wife in order to have heirs of
his own. He had one daughter, and there his hopes of posterity ended;
for soon afterward his wife died of a violent illness which the doctors
called iliac passion. He then left that part of the country and returned
but rarely to his estates. These were situated about six leagues from
Roche-Mauprat, on the borders of the Varenne du Fromental. He was a
prudent man and a just, because he was cultured, because his father had
moved with the spirit of his century, and had had him educated. None the
less he had preserved a firm character and an enterprising mind, and,
like his ancestors, he was proud of hearing as a sort of surname the
knightly title of Headbreaker, hereditary in the original Mauprat stock.
As for the elder branch, it had turned out so badly, or rather had
preserved from the old feudal days such terrible habits of brigandage,
that it had won for itself the distinctive title of Hamstringer. [I
hazard “Headbreaker” and “Hamstringer” as poor equivalents for the
“Casse-Tete” and “Coupe-Jarret” of the French.--TR.] Of the sons of
Tristan, my father, the eldest, was the only one who married. I was his
only child. Here it is necessary to mention a fact of which I was long
ignorant. Hubert de Mauprat, on hearing of my birth, begged me of my
parents, undertaking to make me his heir if he were allowed absolute
control over my education. At a shooting-party about this time my
father was killed by an accidental shot, and my grandfather refused the
chevalier’s offer, declaring that his children were the sole legitimate
heirs of the younger branch, and that consequently he would resist with
all his might any substitution in my favour. It was then that Hubert’s
daughter was born. But when, seven years later, his wife died leaving
him this one child, the desire, so strong in the nobles of that time, to
perpetuate their name, urged him to renew his request to my mother. What
her answer was I do not know; she fell ill and died. The country doctors
again brought in a verdict of iliac passion. My grandfather had spent
the last two days she passed in this world with her.

Pour me out a glass of Spanish wine; for I feel a cold shiver running
through my body. It is nothing serious--merely the effect that these
early recollections have on me when I begin to narrate them. It will
soon pass off.

He swallowed a large glass of wine, and we did the same; for a sensation
of cold came upon us too as we gazed at his stern face and listened to
his brief, abrupt sentences. He continued:

Thus at the age of seven I found myself an orphan. My grandfather
searched my mother’s house and seized all the money and valuables he
could carry away. Then, leaving the rest, and declaring he would have
nothing to do with lawyers, he did not even wait for the funeral, but
took me by the collar and flung me on to the crupper of his horse,
saying: “Now, my young ward, come home with me; and try to stop that
crying soon, for I haven’t much patience with brats.” In fact, after
a few seconds he gave me such hard cuts with his whip that I stopped
crying, and, withdrawing myself like a tortoise into my shell, completed
the journey without daring to breathe.

He was a tall old man, bony and cross-eyed. I fancy I see him now as he
was then. The impression that evening made on me can never be effaced.
It was a sudden realization of all the horrors which my mother had
foreshadowed when speaking of her execrable father-in-law and his
brigands of sons. The moon, I remember, was shining here and there
through the dense foliage of the forest. My grandfather’s horse was
lean, hardy, and bad-tempered like himself. It kicked at every cut of
the whip, and its master gave it plenty. Swift as an arrow it jumped the
ravines and little torrents which everywhere intersect Varenne in all
directions. At each jump I lost my balance, and clung in terror to the
saddle or my grandfather’s coat. As for him, he was so little concerned
about me that, had I fallen, I doubt whether he would have taken the
trouble to pick me up. Sometimes, noticing my terror, he would jeer at
me, and, to make me still more afraid, set his horse plunging again.
Twenty times, in a frenzy of despair, I was on the point of throwing
myself off; but the instinctive love of life prevented me from giving
way to the impulse. At last, about midnight, we suddenly stopped before
a small pointed gate, and the drawbridge was soon lifted behind us. My
grandfather took me, bathed in a cold sweat as I was, and threw me
over to a great fellow, lame and horribly ugly, who carried me into the
house. This was my Uncle John, and I was at Roche-Mauprat.

At that time my grandfather, along with his eight sons, formed the last
relic in our province of that race of petty feudal tyrants by
which France had been overrun and harassed for so many centuries.
Civilization, already advancing rapidly towards the great convulsion of
the Revolution, was gradually stamping out the systematic extortions
of these robbers. The light of education, a species of good taste
reflected, however dimly, from a polished court, and perhaps a
presentiment of the impending terrible awakening of the people, were
spreading through the castles and even through the half-rustic manors
of the lordlings. Ever in our midland provinces, the most backward by
reason of their situation, the sentiment of social equality was
already driving out the customs of a barbarous age. More than one vile
scapegrace had been forced to reform, in spite of his privileges; and
in certain places where the peasants, driven to desperation, had rid
themselves of their overlord, the law had not dreamt of interfering, nor
had the relatives dared to demand redress.

In spite of the prevailing tone of mind, my grandfather had long
maintained his position in the country without experiencing any
opposition. But, having had a large family, endowed like himself with a
goodly number of vices, he finally found himself pestered and besieged
by creditors who, instead of being frightened by his threats, as of old,
were themselves threatening to make him suffer. He was obliged to devise
some means of avoiding the bailiffs on the one hand, and, on the other,
the fights which were continually taking place. In these fights the
Mauprats no longer shone, despite their numbers, their complete union,
and their herculean strength; since the whole population of the district
sided with their opponents and took upon itself the duty of stoning
them. So, rallying his progeny around him, as the wild boar gathers
together its young after a hunt, Tristan withdrew into his castle and
ordered the drawbridge to be raised. Shut up with him were ten or twelve
peasants, his servants, all of them poachers or refugees, who like
himself had some interest in “retiring from the world” (his own
expression), and in finding a place of safety behind good stout walls.
An enormous pile of hunting weapons, duck-guns, carbines, blunderbusses,
spears, and cutlasses, were raised on the platform, and the porter
received orders never to let more than two persons at a time approach
within range of his gun.

From that day Mauprat and his sons broke with all civil laws as they had
already broken with all moral laws. They formed themselves into a band
of adventurers. While their well-beloved and trusty poachers supplied
the house with game, they levied illegal taxes on the small farms in the
neighbourhood. Now, without being cowards (and they are far from that),
the peasants of our province, as you know, are meek and timid, partly
from listlessness, partly from distrust of the law, which they have
never understood, and of which even to this day they have but a scanty
knowledge. No province of France has preserved more old traditions or
longer endured the abuses of feudalism. Nowhere else, perhaps, has the
title of the lord of the manor been handed down, as hitherto with us, to
the owners of certain estates; and nowhere is it so easy to frighten the
people with reports of some absurd and impossible political event. At
the time of which I speak the Mauprats, being the only powerful family
in a district remote from towns and cut off from communication with the
outside world, had little difficulty in persuading their vassals that
serfdom was about to be re-established, and that it would go hard with
all who resisted. The peasants hesitated, listened timorously to the few
among themselves who preached independence, then thought the matter over
and decided to submit. The Mauprats were clever enough not to demand
money of them, for money is what the peasant in such a district
obtains with the greatest difficulty, and parts from with the greatest
reluctance. “Money is dear,” is one of his proverbs, because in his
eyes money stands for something different from manual labour. It means
traffic with men and things outside his world, an effort of foresight or
circumspection, a bargain, a sort of intellectual struggle, which lifts
him out of his ordinary heedless habits; it means, in a word, mental
labour, and this for him is the most painful and the most wearing.

The Mauprats, knowing how the ground lay, and having no particular need
of money any longer, since they had repudiated their debts, demanded
payments in kind only. They ruled that one man should contribute capons,
another calves, a third corn, a fourth fodder, and so on. They were
careful, too, to tax judiciously, to demand from each the commodity
he could provide with least inconvenience to himself. In return they
promised help and protection to all; and up to a certain point they kept
their word. They cleared the land of wolves and foxes, gave a welcome
and a hiding-place to all deserters, and helped to defraud the state by
intimidating the excise officers and tax-collectors.

They took advantage of their power to give the poor man a false notion
of his real interests, and to corrupt the simple folk by undermining all
sense of their dignity and natural liberty. They made the whole district
combine in a sort of secession from the law, and they so frightened
the functionaries appointed to enforce respect for it, that after a few
years it fell into a veritable desuetude. Thus it happened that, while
France at a short distance from this region was advancing with rapid
strides towards the enfranchisement of the poorer classes, Varenne was
executing a retrograde march and returning at full speed to the ancient
tyranny of the country squires. It was easy enough for the Mauprats to
pervert these poor folk; they feigned a friendly interest in them
to mark their difference from the other nobles in the province whose
manners still retained some of the haughtiness of their ancient power.
Above all, my grandfather lost no opportunity of making the peasants
share his own hatred of his own cousin, Hubert de Mauprat. The latter,
whenever he interviewed his vassals, would remain seated in his
arm-chair, while they stood before him bareheaded; whereas Tristan de
Mauprat would make them sit down at his table, and drink some of the
wine they had brought him as a sign of voluntary homage. He would then
have them led home by his men in the middle of the night, all dead
drunk, torches in hand, and making the forest resound with ribald songs.
Libertinism completed the demoralization of the peasantry. In every
family the Mauprats soon had their mistresses. This was tolerated,
partly because it was profitable, and partly (alas! that it should
have to be said) because it gratified vanity. The very isolation of the
houses was favourable to the evil. No scandal, no denunciation were
to be feared. The tiniest village would have been sufficient for the
creation and maintenance of a public opinion. There, however, there
were only scattered cottages and isolated farms; wastes and woods so
separated the families from one another that the exercise of any mutual
control was impossible. Shame is stronger than conscience. I need not
tell you of all the bonds of infamy that united masters and slaves.
Debauchery, extortion, and fraud were both precept and example for my
youth, and life went on merrily. All notions of justice were scoffed at;
creditors were defrauded of both interest and capital; any law officer
who ventured to serve a summons received a sound thrashing, and the
mounted police were fired on if they approached too near the turrets. A
plague on parliament; starvation to all imbued with the new philosophy;
and death to the younger branch of the Mauprats--such were the
watchwords of these men who, to crown all, gave themselves the airs of
knights-errant of the twelfth century. My grandfather talked of nothing
but his pedigree and the prowess of his ancestors. He regretted the good
old days when every lordling had instruments of torture in his manor,
and dungeons, and, best, of all cannon. In ours we only had pitchforks
and sticks, and a second-rate culverin which my Uncle John used to
point--and point very well, in fact--and which was sufficient to keep at
a respectful distance the military force of the district.




II

Old Mauprat was a treacherous animal of the carnivorous order, a
cross between a lynx and a fox. Along with a copious and easy flow of
language, he had a veneer of education which helped his cunning. He made
a point of excessive politeness, and had great powers of persuasion,
even with the objects of his vengeance. He knew how to entice them to
his castle, where he would make them undergo frightful ill-treatment,
for which, however, having no witnesses, they were unable to obtain
redress by law. All his villainies bore the stamp of such consummate
skill that the country came to view them with a sort of awe akin to
respect. No one could ever catch him out of his den, though he issued
forth often enough, and apparently without taking many precautions. In
truth, he was a man with a genius for evil; and his sons, bound to him
by no ties of affection, of which, indeed, they were incapable, yet
acknowledged the sway of this superior evil genius, and gave him
a uniform and ready obedience, in which there was something almost
fanatic. He was their deliverer in all desperate cases; and when the
weariness of confinement under our chilly vaults began to fill them with
_ennui_, his mind, brutal even in jest, would cure them by arranging
for their pleasure shows worthy of a den of thieves. Sometimes poor
mendicant monks collecting alms would be terrified or tortured for their
benefit; their beards would be burned off, or they would be lowered into
a well and kept hanging between life and death until they had sung some
foul song or uttered some blasphemy. Everybody knows the story of the
notary who was allowed to enter in company with his four clerks, and
whom they received with all the assiduity of pompous hospitality. My
grandfather pretended to agree with a good grace to the execution of
their warrant, and politely helped them to make an inventory of his
furniture, of which the sale had been decreed. After this, when dinner
was served and the king’s men had taken their places at table, he said
to the notary:

“Ah, mon Dieu! I was forgetting a poor hack of mine in the stable. It’s
a small matter. Still, you might be reprimanded for omitting it; and
as I see that you are a worthy fellow I should be sorry to mislead you.
Come with me and see it; it won’t take us a moment.”

The notary followed Mauprat unsuspectingly. Just as they were about to
enter the stable together, Mauprat, who was leading the way, told him to
put in his head only. The notary, anxious to show great consideration in
the performance of his duties, and not to pry into things too closely,
did as he was told. Then Mauprat suddenly pushed the door to and
squeezed his neck so violently between it and the wall that the wretched
man could not breathe. Deeming him sufficiently punished, Tristan opened
the door again, and, asking pardon for his carelessness, with great
civility offered the man his arm to take him back to dinner. This the
notary did not consider it wise to refuse; but as soon as he re-entered
the room where his colleagues were, he threw himself into a chair, and
pointing to his livid face and mangled neck, demanded justice for the
trap into which he had just been led. It was then that my grandfather,
revelling in his rascally wit, went through a comedy scene of sublime
audacity. He gravely reproached the notary with accusing him unjustly,
and always addressing him kindly and with studied politeness, called the
others to bear witness to his conduct, begging them to make allowances
if his precarious position had forced him to give them such a poor
reception, all the while doing the honours of the table in splendid
style. The poor notary did not dare to press the matter and was
compelled to dine, although half dead. His companions were so completely
duped by Mauprat’s assurance that they ate and drank merrily, treating
the notary as a lunatic and a boor. They left Roche-Mauprat all drunk,
singing the praises of their host, and laughing at the notary, who fell
down dead upon the threshold of his house on dismounting from his horse.

The eight sons, the pride and strength of old Mauprat, all resembled
him in physical vigour, brutality of manners, and, to some extent, in
craftiness and jesting ill-nature. The truth is they were veritable
brutes, capable of any evil, and completely dead to any noble thought
or generous sentiment. Nevertheless, they were endowed with a sort of
reckless, dashing courage which now and then seemed to have in it an
element of grandeur. But it is time that I told you about myself, and
gave you some idea of the development of my character in the thick of
this filthy mire into which it had pleased God to plunge me, on leaving
my cradle.

I should be wrong if, in order to gain your sympathy in these early
years of my life, I asserted that I was born with a noble nature, a pure
and incorruptible soul. As to this, I know nothing. Maybe there are no
incorruptible souls. Maybe there are. That is what neither you nor any
one will ever know. The great questions awaiting an answer are these:
“Are our innate tendencies invincible? If not, can they be modified
merely or wholly destroyed by education?” For myself, I would not dare
to affirm. I am neither a metaphysician, nor a psychologist, nor a
philosopher; but I have had a terrible life, gentlemen, and if I were a
legislator, I would order that man to have his tongue torn out, or
his head cut off, who dared to preach or write that the nature of
individuals is unchangeable, and that it is no more possible to reform
the character of a man than the appetite of a tiger. God has preserved
me from believing this.

All I can tell you is that my mother instilled into me good principles,
though, perhaps, I was not endowed by nature with her good qualities.
Even with her I was of a violent disposition, but my violence was
sullen and suppressed. I was blind and brutal in anger, nervous even to
cowardice at the approach of danger, daring almost to foolhardiness when
hand to hand with it--that is to say, at once timid and brave from my
love of life. My obstinacy was revolting; yet my mother alone could
conquer me; and without attempting to reason, for my mind developed very
slowly, I used to obey her as if by a sort of magnetic necessity. This
one guiding hand which I remember, and another woman’s which I felt
later, were and have been sufficient to lead me towards good. But I lost
my mother before she had been able to teach me anything seriously; and
when I was transplanted to Roche-Mauprat, my feeling for the evil done
there was merely an instinctive aversion, feeble enough, perhaps, if
fear had not been mingled with it.

But I thank Heaven from the bottom of my heart for the cruelties
heaped upon me there, and above all for the hatred which my Uncle John
conceived for me. My ill-fortune preserved me from indifference in
the presence of evil, and my sufferings helped me to detest those who
wrought it.

This John was certainly the most detestable of his race. Ever since a
fall from his horse had maimed him, his evil temper had developed
in proportion to his inability to do as much harm as his companions.
Compelled to remain at home when the others set out on their
expeditions, for he could not bestride a horse, he found his only chance
of pleasure in those fruitless little attacks which the mounted police
sometimes made on the castle, as if to ease their conscience. Then,
intrenched behind a rampart of freestone which he had had built to
suit himself, John, calmly seated near his culverin, would pick off
a gentleman from time to time, and at once regain, as he said, his
sleeping and eating power, which want of exercise had taken from him.
And he would even climb up to his beloved platform without waiting for
the excuse of an attack, and there, crouching down like a cat ready to
spring, as soon as he saw any one appear in the distance without giving
the signal, he would try his skill upon the target, and make the man
retrace his steps. This he called sweeping the path clean.

As I was too young to accompany my uncles on their hunting and
plundering expeditions, John naturally became my guardian and
tutor--that is to say, my jailor and tormentor. I will not give you all
the details of that infernal existence. For nearly ten years I endured
cold, hunger, insults, the dungeon, and blows, according to the more or
less savage caprices of this monster. His fierce hatred of me arose
from the fact that he could not succeed in depraving me; my rugged,
headstrong, and unsociable nature preserved me from his vile seductions.
It is possible that I had not any strong tendencies to virtue; to hatred
I luckily had. Rather than do the bidding of my tyrant I would have
suffered a thousand deaths. And so I grew up without conceiving any
affection for vice. However, my notions about society were so strange
that my uncles’ mode of life did not in itself cause me any repugnance.
Seeing that I was brought up behind the walls of Roche-Mauprat, and that
I lived in a state of perpetual siege, you will understand that I had
precisely such ideas as any armed retainer in the barbarous ages of
feudalism might have had. What, outside our den, was termed by other men
assassinating, plundering, and torturing, I was taught to call fighting,
conquering, and subduing. My sole knowledge of history consisted of
an acquaintance with certain legends and ballads of chivalry which my
grandfather used to repeat to me of an evening, when he had time to
think of what he was pleased to call my education. Whenever I asked him
any question about the present time, he used to answer that times had
sadly changed, that all Frenchmen had become traitors and felons, that
they had frightened their kings, and that these, like cravens, had
deserted the nobles, who in their turn had been cowardly enough to
renounce their privileges and let laws be made for them by clodhoppers.
I listened with surprise, almost with indignation, to this account of
the age in which I lived, for me an age of shadows and mysteries. My
grandfather had but vague ideas of chronology; not a book of any kind
was to be found at Roche-Mauprat, except, I should say, the History of
the Sons of Aymon, and a few chronicles of the same class brought by our
servants from country fairs. Three names, and only three, stood clear in
the chaos of my ignorance--Charlemagne, Louis XI, and Louis XIV; because
my grandfather would frequently introduce these into dissertations on
the unrecognised rights of the nobles. In truth, I was so ignorant that
I scarcely knew the difference between a reign and a race; and I was by
no means sure that my grandfather had not seen Charlemagne, for he spoke
of him more frequently and more gladly than of any other man.

But, while my native energy led me to admire the exploits of my uncles,
and filled me with a longing to share in them, the cold-blooded cruelty
they perpetrated on returning from their expeditions, and the perfidious
artifices by which they lured their dupes to the castle, in order
to torture them to extort ransom, roused in me strange and painful
emotions, which, now that I am speaking in all sincerity, it would be
difficult for me to account for exactly. In the absence of all ordinary
moral principles it might have been natural for me to accept the theory
which I daily saw carried into practice, that makes it right; but the
humiliation and suffering which my Uncle John inflicted on me in virtue
of this theory, taught me to be dissatisfied with it. I could appreciate
the right of the bravest, and I genuinely despised those who, with death
in their power, yet chose life at the price of such ignominy as they
had to bear at Roche-Mauprat. But I could only explain these insults and
horrors heaped on prisoners, some of them women and mere children,
as manifestations of bloodthirsty appetites. I do not know if I was
sufficiently susceptible of a noble sentiment to be inspired with pity
for the victim; but certain it is that I experienced that feeling
of selfish commiseration which is common to all natures, and which,
purified and ennobled, has become charity among civilized peoples. Under
my coarse exterior my heart no doubt merely felt passing shocks of fear
and disgust at the sight of punishments which I myself might have to
endure any day at the caprice of my oppressors; especially as John,
when he saw me turn pale at these frightful spectacles, had a habit of
saying, in a mocking tone:

“That’s what I’ll do to you when you are disobedient.”

All I know is that in presence of such iniquitous acts I experienced a
horrible uneasiness; my blood curdled in my veins, my throat began
to close, and I had to rush away, so as not to repeat the cries which
pierced my ears. In time, however, I became somewhat hardened to these
terrible impressions. The fibres of feeling grew tougher, and habit gave
me power to hide what they termed my cowardice. I even felt ashamed of
the signs of weakness I showed, and forced my face into the hyena
smile which I saw on the faces of my kinsmen. But I could never prevent
convulsive shudders from running through my limbs, and the coldness as
of death from falling on my heart, at the recollection of these scenes
of agony. The women, dragged half-willingly, half by force, under the
roof of Roche-Mauprat, caused me inconceivable agitation. I began to
feel the fires of youth kindling within me, and even to look with envy
on this part of my uncles’ spoil; but with these new-born desires were
mingled inexpressible pangs. To all around me women were merely objects
of contempt, and vainly did I try to separate this idea from that of the
pleasure which was luring me. My mind was bewildered, and my irritated
nerves imparted a violent and sickly strain to all my temptations. In
other matters, I had as vile a disposition as my companions; if my heart
was better than theirs, my manners were no less arrogant, and my jokes
in no better taste. And here it may be well to give you an illustration
of my youthful malice, especially as the results of these events have
had an influence on the rest of my life.




III

Some three leagues from Roche-Mauprat, on your way to Fromental, you
must have noticed an old tower standing by itself in the middle of the
woods. It is famous for the tragic death of a prisoner about a century
ago. The executioner, on his rounds, thought good to hang him without
any further formality, merely to gratify an old Mauprat, his overlord.

At the time of which I am speaking Gazeau Tower was already deserted
and falling into ruins. It was state property, and, more from negligence
than kindness, the authorities had allowed a poor old fellow to take
up his abode there. He was quite a character, used to live completely
alone, and was known in the district as Gaffer Patience.

“Yes,” I interrupted; “I have heard my nurse’s grandmother speak of him;
she believed he was a sorcerer.”

Exactly so; and while we are at this point let me tell you what sort of
a man this Patience really was, for I shall have to speak of him more
than once in the course of my story. I had opportunities of studying him
thoroughly.

Patience, then, was a rustic philosopher. Heaven had endowed him with
a keen intellect, but he had had little education. By a sort of strange
fatality, his brain had doggedly resisted the little instruction he
might have received. For instance, he had been to the Carmelite’s school
at ----, and instead of showing any aptitude for work, he had played
truant with a keener delight than any of his school-fellows. His was
an eminently contemplative nature, kindly and indolent, but proud and
almost savage in its love of independence; religious, yet opposed to
all authority; somewhat captious, very suspicious, and inexorable with
hypocrites. The observances of the cloister inspired him with but little
awe; and as a result of once or twice speaking his mind too freely to
the monks he was expelled from the school. From that time forth he was
the sworn foe of what he called monkism, and declared openly for the
cure of the Briantes, who was accused of being a Jansenist. In the
instruction of Patience, however, the cure succeeded no better than the
monks. The young peasant, endowed though he was with herculean strength
and a great desire for knowledge, displayed an unconquerable aversion
for every kind of work, whether physical or mental. He professed a sort
of artless philosophy which the cure found it very difficult to argue
against. There was, he said, no need for a man to work as long as he did
not want money; and he was in no need of money as long as his wants were
moderate. Patience practised what he preached: during the years when
passions are so powerful he lived a life of austerity, drank nothing
but water, never entered a tavern, and never joined in a dance. He was
always very awkward and shy with women, who, it must be owned, found
little to please in his eccentric character, stern face, and somewhat
sarcastic wit. As if to avenge himself for this by showing his contempt,
or to console himself by displaying his wisdom, he took a pleasure, like
Diogenes of old, in decrying the vain pleasures of others; and if at
times he was to be seen passing under the branches in the middle of the
fetes, it was merely to throw out some shaft of scorn, a flash from his
inexorable good sense. Sometimes, too, his uncompromising morality found
expression in biting words, which left clouds of sadness or fear hanging
over agitated consciences. This naturally gained him violent enemies;
and the efforts of impotent hatred, helped by the feeling of awe which
his eccentric behaviour produced, fastened upon him the reputation of a
sorcerer.

When I said that Patience was lacking in education, I expressed myself
badly. Longing for a knowledge of the sublime mysteries of Nature,
his mind wished to soar to heaven on its first flight. From the very
beginning, the Jansenist vicar was so perplexed and startled by
the audacity of his pupil, he had to say so much to calm him into
submission, he was obliged to sustain such assaults of bold questions
and proud objections, that he had no leisure to teach him the alphabet;
and at the end of ten years of studies, broken off and taken up at the
bidding of a whim or on compulsion, Patience could not even read. It was
only with great difficulty, after poring over a book for some two hours,
that he deciphered a single page, and even then he did not grasp the
meaning of most of the words expressing abstract ideas. Yet these
abstract ideas were undoubtedly in him; you felt their presence while
watching and listening to him; and the way in which he managed to embody
them in homely phrase enlivened with a rude poetry was so marvellous,
that one scarcely knew whether to feel astounded or amused.

Always serious, always positive himself, he scorned dalliance with
any dialectic. A Stoic by nature and on principle, enthusiastic in the
propagation of his doctrine of severance from false ideas, but resolute
in the practice of resignation, he made many a breach in the poor cure’s
defences; and it was in these discussions, as he often told me in his
last years, that he acquired his knowledge of philosophy. In order to
make a stand against the battering-ram of natural logic, the worthy
Jansenist was obliged to invoke the testimony of all the Fathers of the
Church, and to oppose these, often even to corroborate them, with the
teaching of all the sages and scholars of antiquity. Then Patience, his
round eyes starting from his head (this was his own expression), lapsed
into silence, and, delighted to learn without having the bother of
studying, would ask for long explanations of the doctrines of these
men, and for an account of their lives. Noticing this attention and
this silence, his adversary would exult; but just as he thought he had
convinced this rebellious soul, Patience, hearing the village clock
strike midnight, would rise, take an affectionate leave of his host, and
on the very threshold of the vicarage, would dismay the good man with
some laconic and cutting comment that confounded Saint Jerome and Plato
alike, Eusebius equally with Seneca, Tertullian no less than Aristotle.

The cure was not too ready to acknowledge the superiority of this
untutored intellect. Still, he was quite astonished at passing so many
winter evenings by his fireside with this peasant without feeling
either bored or tired; and he would wonder how it was that the village
schoolmaster, and even the prior of the convent, in spite of their Greek
and Latin, appeared to him, the one a bore, the other a sophist, in all
their discussions. Knowing the perfect purity of the peasant’s life,
he attributed the ascendency of his mind to the power of virtue and the
charm it spreads over all things. Then, each evening, he would humbly
accuse himself before God of not having disputed with his pupil from a
sufficiently Christian point of view; he would confess to his guardian
angel that pride in his own learning and joy at being listened to
so devoutly had carried him somewhat beyond the bounds of religious
instruction; that he had quoted profane writers too complacently;
that he had even experienced a dangerous pleasure in roaming with
his disciple through the fields of the past, plucking pagan flowers
unsprinkled by the waters of baptism, flowers in whose fragrance a
priest should not have found such delight.

On his side, Patience loved the cure dearly. He was his only friend,
his only bond of union with society, his only bond of union, through
the light of knowledge, with God. The peasant largely over-estimated his
pastor’s learning. He did not know that even the most enlightened men
often draw wrong conclusions, or no conclusions at all, from the course
of progress. Patience would have been spared great distress of mind if
he could have seen for certain that his master was frequently mistaken
and that it was the man, not the truth, that was at fault. Not knowing
this, and finding the experience of the ages at variance with his innate
sense of justice, he was continually a prey to agonizing reveries; and,
living by himself, and wandering through the country at all hours of the
day and night, wrapped in thoughts undreamed of by his fellows, he gave
more and more credit to the tales of sorcery reported against him.

The convent did not like the pastor. A few monks whom Patience had
unmasked hated Patience. Hence, both pastor and pupil were persecuted.
The ignorant monks did not scruple to accuse the cure to his bishop of
devoting himself to the occult sciences in concert with the magician
Patience. A sort of religious war broke out in the village and
neighbourhood. All who were not for the convent were for the cure,
and _vice versa_. Patience scorned to take part in this struggle. One
morning he went to see his friend, with tears in his eyes, and said to
him:

“You are the one man in all the world that I love, and I will not have
you persecuted on my account. Since, after you, I neither know nor
care for a soul, I am going off to live in the woods, like the men
of primitive times. I have inherited a field which brings me in fifty
francs a year. It is the only land I have ever stirred with these hands,
and half its wretched rent has gone to pay the tithe of labour I owe the
seignior. I trust to die without ever doing duty as a beast of burden
for others. And yet, should they remove you from your office, or rob you
of your income, if you have a field that needs ploughing, only send me
word, and you will see that these arms have not grown altogether stiff
in their idleness.”

It was in vain that the pastor opposed this resolve. Patience departed,
carrying with him as his only belonging the coat he had on his back,
and an abridgment of the teachings of Epictetus. For this book he had a
great affection, and, thanks to much study of it, could read as many
as three of its pages a day without unduly tiring himself. The rustic
anchorite went into the desert to live. At first he built himself a hut
of branches in a wood. Then, as wolves attacked him, he took refuge in
one of the lower halls of Gazeau Tower, which he furnished luxuriously
with a bed of moss, and some stumps of trees; wild roots, wild fruit,
and goat’s milk constituted a daily fare very little inferior to what
he had had in the village. This is no exaggeration. You have to see the
peasants in certain parts of Varenne to form an idea of the frugal diet
on which a man can live and keep in good health. In the midst of these
men of stoical habits all round him, Patience was still exceptional.
Never had wine reddened his lips, and bread had seemed to him a
superfluity. Besides, the doctrine of Pythagoras was not wholly
displeasing to him; and in the rare interviews which he henceforth had
with his friend he would declare that, without exactly believing in
metempsychosis, and without making it a rule to eat vegetables only, he
felt a secret joy at being able to live thus, and at having no further
occasion to see death dealt out every day to innocent animals.

Patience had formed this curious resolution at the age of forty. He was
sixty when I saw him for the first time, and he was then possessed of
extraordinary physical vigour. In truth, he was in the habit of roaming
about the country every year. However, in proportion as I tell you about
my own life, I shall give you details of the hermit life of Patience.

At the time of which I am about to speak, the forest rangers, more
from fear of his casting a spell over them than out of compassion, had
finally ceased their persecutions, and given him full permission to
live in Gazeau Tower, not, however, without warning him that it would
probably fall about his head during the first gale of wind. To this
Patience had replied philosophically that if he was destined to be
crushed to death, the first tree in the forest would do the work quite
as well as the walls of Gazeau Tower.

Before putting my actor Patience on the stage, and with many apologies
for inflicting on you such a long preliminary biography, I have still to
mention that during the twenty years of which I have spoken the cure’s
mind had bowed to a new power. He loved philosophy, and in spite of
himself, dear man, could not prevent this love from embracing the
philosophers too, even the least orthodox. The works of Jean Jacques
Rousseau carried him away into new regions, in spite of all his efforts
at resistance; and when one morning, when returning from a visit to some
sick folk, he came across Patience gathering his dinner of herbs from
the rocks of Crevant, he sat down near him on one of the druidical
stones and made, without knowing it, the profession of faith of the
Savoyard vicar. Patience drank more willingly of this poetic religion
than of the ancient orthodoxy. The pleasure with which he listened to
a summary of the new doctrines led the cure to arrange secret meetings
with him in isolated parts of Varenne, where they agreed to come
upon each other as if by chance. At these mysterious interviews the
imagination of Patience, fresh and ardent from long solitude, was fired
with all the magic of the thoughts and hopes which were then fermenting
in France, from the court of Versailles to the most uninhabitable heath.
He became enamoured of Jean Jacques, and made the cure read as much of
him as he possibly could without neglecting his duties. Then he begged a
copy of the _Contrat Social_, and hastened to Gazeau Tower to spell his
way through it feverishly. At first the cure had given him of this manna
only with a sparing hand, and while making him admire the lofty thoughts
and noble sentiments of the philosopher, had thought to put him on his
guard against the poison of anarchy. But all the old learning, all the
happy texts of bygone days--in a word, all the theology of the worthy
priest--was swept away like a fragile bridge by the torrent of wild
eloquence and ungovernable enthusiasm which Patience had accumulated
in his desert. The vicar had to give way and fall back terrified upon
himself. There he discovered that the shrine of his own science was
everywhere cracking and crumbling to ruin. The new sun which was rising
on the political horizon and making havoc in so many minds, melted his
own like a light snow under the first breath of spring. The sublime
enthusiasm of Patience; the strange poetic life of the man which seemed
to reveal him as one inspired; the romantic turn which their mysterious
relations were taking (the ignoble persecutions of the convent making it
noble to revolt)--all this so worked upon the priest that by 1770 he had
already travelled far from Jansenism, and was vainly searching all the
religious heresies for some spot on which he might rest before falling
into the abyss of philosophy so often opened at his feet by Patience, so
often hidden in vain by the exorcisms of Roman theology.




IV

After this account of the philosophical life of Patience, set forth
by me now in manhood (continued Bernard, after a pause), it is not
altogether easy to return to the very different impressions I received
in boyhood on meeting the wizard of Gazeau Tower. I will make an effort,
however, to reproduce my recollections faithfully.

It was one summer evening, as I was returning from bird-snaring with
several peasant-boys, that I passed Gazeau Tower for the first time.
My age was about thirteen, and I was bigger and stronger than any of my
comrades; besides, I exercised over them, sternly enough, the authority
I drew from my noble birth. In fact, the mixture of familiarity and
etiquette in our intercourse was rather fantastic. Sometimes, when the
excitement of sport or the fatigue of the day had greater powers over
them than I, they used to have their own way; and I already knew how
to yield at the right moment, as tyrants do, so as always to avoid the
appearance of being compelled. However, I generally found a chance for
revenge, and soon saw them trembling before the hated name of my family.

Well, night was coming on, and we were walking along gaily, whistling,
knocking down crab-apples with stones, imitating the notes of birds,
when the boy who was ahead suddenly stopped, and, coming back to us,
declared that he was not going by the Gazeau Tower path, but would
rather cut across the wood. This idea was favoured by two others. A
third objected that we ran the risk of losing ourselves if we left the
path, that night was near, and that there were plenty of wolves about.

“Come on, you funks!” I cried in a princely tone, pushing forward the
guide; “follow the path, and have done with this nonsense.”

“Not me,” said the youngster. “I’ve just seen the sorcerer at his door
saying magic words, and I don’t want to have a fever all the year.”

“Bah!” said another; “he doesn’t do harm to everybody. He never hurts
children; and, besides, we have only to pass by very quietly without
saying anything to him. What do you suppose he’ll do to us?”

“Oh, it would be all right if we were alone,” answered the first; “but
M. Bernard is here; we’re sure to have a spell cast on us.”

“What do you say, you fool?” I cried, doubling my fist.

“It’s not my fault, my lord,” replied the boy. “That old wretch doesn’t
like the gentry, and he has said he would be glad to see M. Tristan and
all his sons hanging from the same bough.”

“He said that, did he? Good!” I answered. “Come on, and you shall see.
All who are my friends will follow; any one that leaves me is a coward.”

Two of my companions, out of vanity, let themselves be drawn on. The
others pretended to imitate them; but, after a few steps, they had all
taken flight and disappeared into the copse. However, I went on proudly,
escorted by my two acolytes. Little Sylvain, who was in front, took off
his hat as soon as he saw Patience in the distance; and when we arrived
opposite him, though the man was looking on the ground without appearing
to notice us, he was seized with terror, and said, in a trembling voice:

“Good evening, Master Patience; a good night’s rest to you.”

The sorcerer, roused out of his reverie, started like a man waked from
sleep; and I saw, not without a certain emotion, his weather-beaten face
half covered with a thick gray beard. His big head was quite bald, and
the bareness of his forehead only served to make his bushy eyebrows
more prominent. Behind these his round deepset eyes seemed to flash
like lightning at the end of summer behind the fading foliage. He was
of small stature, but very broad-shouldered; in fact, built like a
gladiator. The rags in which he was clad were defiantly filthy. His face
was short and of a vulgar type, like that of Socrates; and if the fire
of genius glowed in his strongly marked features, I certainly could not
perceive it. He appeared to me a wild beast, an unclean animal. Filled
with a sense of loathing, and determined to avenge the insult he had
offered to my name, I put a stone in my sling, and without further ado
hurled it at him with all my might.

At the moment the stone flew out, Patience was in the act of replying to
the boy’s greeting.

“Good evening, lads; God be with you!” he was saying when the stone
whistled past his ear and struck a tame owl of which Patience had made a
pet, and which at the approach of night was beginning to rouse itself in
the ivy above the door.

The owl gave a piercing cry and fell bleeding at the feet of its
master, who answered it with a roar of anger. For a few seconds he stood
motionless with surprise and fury. Then suddenly, taking the palpitating
victim by the feet, he lifted it up, and, coming towards us, cried in a
voice of thunder:

“Which of you wretches threw that stone?”

The boy who had been walking behind, flew with the swiftness of the
wind; but Sylvain, seized by the great hand of the sorcerer, fell
upon his knees, swearing by the Holy Virgin and by Saint Solange, the
patroness of Berry, that he was innocent of the death of the bird. I
felt, I confess, a strong inclination to let him get out of the scrape
as best he could, and make my escape into the thicket. I had expected
to see a decrepit old juggler, not to fall into the hands of a robust
enemy; but pride held me back.

“If you did this,” said Patience to my trembling comrade, “I pity you;
for you are a wicked child, and you will grow into a dishonest man. You
have done a bad deed; you have made it your pleasure to cause pain to
an old man who never did you any harm; and you have done this
treacherously, like a coward, while feigning politeness and bidding him
good-evening. You are a liar, a miscreant; you have robbed me of my only
society, my only riches; you have taken delight in evil. God preserve
you from living if you are going on in this way.”

“Oh, Monsieur Patience!” cried the boy, clasping his hands; “do not
curse me; do not bewitch me; do not give me any illness; it wasn’t I!
May God strike me dead if it was!”

“If it wasn’t you, it was this one, then!” said Patience, seizing me by
the coat-collar and shaking me like a young tree to be uprooted.

“Yes, I did it,” I replied, haughtily; “and if you wish to know my name,
learn that I am called Bernard Mauprat, and that a peasant who lays a
hand on a nobleman deserves death.”

“Death! You! You would put me to death, Mauprat!” cried the old man,
petrified with surprise and indignation. “And what would God be, then,
if a brat like you had a right to threaten a man of my age? Death! Ah,
you are a genuine Mauprat, and you bite like your breed, cursed whelp!
Such things as they talk of putting to death the very moment they are
born! Death, my wolf-cub! Do you know it is yourself who deserves death,
not for what you have just done, but for being the son of your father,
and the nephew of your uncles? Ah! I am glad to hold a Mauprat in the
hollow of my hand, and see whether a cur of a nobleman weighs as much as
a Christian.”

As he spoke he lifted me from the ground as he would have lifted a hare.

“Little one,” he said to my comrade, “you can run home; you needn’t
be afraid. Patience rarely gets angry with his equals; and he always
pardons his brothers, because his brothers are ignorant like himself,
and know not what they do; but a Mauprat, look you, is a thing that
knows how to read and write, and is only the viler for it all. Run
away, then. But no; stay; I should like you once in your life to see
a nobleman receive a thrashing from the hand of a peasant. And that is
what you are going to see; and I ask you not to forget it, little one,
and to tell your parents about it.”

Livid, and gnashing my teeth with rage, I made desperate efforts to
resist. Patience, with hideous calmness, bound me to a tree with an
osier shoot. At the touch of his great horny hand I bent like a reed;
and yet I was remarkably strong for my age. He fixed the owl to a branch
above my head, and the bird’s blood, as it fell on me drop by drop,
caused me unspeakable horror; for though this was only the correction
we administer to sporting dogs that worry game, my brain, bewildered by
rage, despair, and my comrades’ cries, began to imagine some
frightful witchcraft. However, I really think I would rather have
been metamorphosed into an owl at once than undergo the punishment he
inflicted on me. In vain did I fling threats at him; in vain did I take
terrible vows of vengeance; in vain did the peasant child throw himself
on his knees again and supplicate:

“Monsieur Patience, for God’s sake, for your own sake, don’t harm him;
the Mauprats will kill you.”

He laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. Then, taking a handful of holly
twigs, he flogged me in a manner, I must own, more humiliating than
cruel; for no sooner did he see a few drops of my blood appear, than he
stopped and threw down the rod. I even noticed a sudden softening of his
features and voice, as if he were sorry for his severity.

“Mauprat,” he said, crossing his arms on his breast and looking at me
fixedly, “you have now been punished; you have now been insulted,
my fine gentleman; that is enough for me. As you see, I might easily
prevent you from ever harming me by stopping your breath with a touch of
my finger, and burying you under the stone at my door. Who would think
of coming to Gaffer Patience to look for this fine child of noble blood?
But, as you may also see, I am not fond of vengeance; at the first
cry of pain that escaped you, I stopped. No; I don’t like to cause
suffering; I’m not a Mauprat. Still, it was well for you to learn by
experience what is to be a victim. May this disgust you of the hangman’s
trade, which had been handed down from father to son in your family.
Good-evening! You can go now; I no longer bear you malice; the justice
of God is satisfied. You can tell your uncles to put me on their
gridiron; they will have a tough morsel to eat; and they will swallow
flesh that will come to life again in their gullets and choke them.”

Then he picked up the dead owl, and looking at it sadly:

“A peasant’s child would not have done this,” he said. “This is sport
for gentle blood.”

As he retired to his door he gave utterance to an exclamation which
escaped him only on solemn occasions, and from which he derived his
curious surname:

“Patience, patience!” he cried.

This, according to the gossips, was a cabalistic formula of his; and
whenever he had been heard to pronounce it, some misfortune had happened
to the individual who had offended him. Sylvain crossed himself to ward
off the evil spirit. The terrible words resounded through the tower into
which Patience had just withdrawn, then the door closed behind him with
a bang.

My comrade was so eager to be off that he was within an ace of leaving
me there bound to the tree. As soon as he had released me, he exclaimed:

“A sign of the cross! For God’s sake, a sign of the cross! If you don’t
cross yourself you are bewitched; we shall be devoured by wolves as we
go, or else we shall meet the great monster.”

“Idiot!” I said; “I have something else to think about. Listen; if you
are ever unlucky enough to tell a single soul of what has happened, I
will strangle you.”

“Alas! sir, what am I to do?” he replied with a mixture of innocence and
malice. “The sorcerer said I was to tell my parents.”

I raised my fist to strike him, but my strength failed. Choking with
rage at the treatment I had just undergone, I fell down almost in a
faint, and Sylvain seized the opportunity for flight.

When I came to I found myself alone. I did not know this part of
Varenne; I had never been here before, and it was horribly wild. All
through the day I had seen tracks of wolves and wild boars in the sand.
And now night had come and I was still two leagues from Roche-Mauprat.
The gate would be shut, the drawbridge up; and I should get a bullet
through me if I tried to enter after nine o’clock. As I did not know
the way, it was a hundred to one against my doing the two leagues in an
hour. However, I would have preferred to die a thousand deaths rather
than ask shelter of the man in Gazeau Tower, even had he granted it
gracefully. My pride was bleeding more than my flesh.

I started off at a run, heedless of all risks. The path made a thousand
turns; a thousand other paths kept crossing it. When I reached the plain
I found myself in a pasture surrounded by hedges. There every trace of
the path disappeared. I jumped the hedge at a venture, and fell into a
field. The night was pitch-dark; even had it been day it would have been
impossible to ascertain my way in the midst of little properties buried
between high banks bristling with thorns. Finally I reached a heath,
then some woods; and my fears, which had been somewhat subdued, now grew
intense. Yes, I own I was a prey to mortal terrors. Trained to bravery,
as a dog is to sport, I bore myself well enough before others. Spurred
by vanity, indeed, I was foolishly bold when I had spectators; but left
to myself, in the middle of the night, exhausted by toil and hunger,
though with no longing for food, unhinged by the emotions I had just
experienced, certain that my uncles would beat me when I returned, yet
as anxious to return as if I were going to find paradise on earth at
Roche-Mauprat, I wandered about until daybreak, suffering indescribable
agonies. The howls of wolves, happily far off, more than once reached
my ears and froze the blood in my veins; and, as if my position had not
been perilous enough in reality, my overwrought imagination must needs
add to it a thousand extravagant fantasies. Patience had the reputation
of being a wolf-rearer. This, as you know, is a cabalistic speciality
accredited in all countries. I kept on fancying, therefore, that I saw
this devilish little gray-beard, escorted by his ravening pack, and
himself in the form of a demi-wolf, pursing me through the woods.
Several times when rabbits got up at my feet I almost fell backwards
from the shock. And now, as I was certain that nobody could see, I made
many a sign of the cross; for, while affecting incredulity, I was, of
course, at heart filled with all the superstitions born of fear.

At last, at daybreak, I reached Roche-Mauprat. I waited in a moat until
the gates were opened, and then slipped up to my room without being
seen by anybody. As it was not altogether an unfailing tenderness that
watched over me at Roche-Mauprat, my absence had not been noticed during
the night. Meeting my Uncle John on the stairs, I led him to believe
that I had just got up; and, as the artifice proved successful, I went
off to the hayloft and slept for the rest of the day.




V

As I had nothing further to fear for myself, it would have been easy to
take vengeance on my enemy. Everything was favourable. The words he had
uttered against my family would have been sufficient without any mention
of the outrage done to my own person, which, in truth, I hardly cared to
make known. I had only to say a word, and in a quarter of an hour seven
Mauprats would have been in the saddle, delighted at the opportunity of
making an example of a man who paid them no dues. Such a man would have
seemed to them good for nothing but hanging as a warning to others.

But even if things had not been likely to reach this pitch, I somehow
felt an unconquerable aversion to asking eight men to avenge me on a
single one. Just as I was about to ask them (for, in my anger, I had
firmly resolved to do so), I was held back by some instinct for fair
dealing to which I had hitherto been a stranger, and whose presence in
myself I could hardly explain. Perhaps, too, the words of Patience had,
unknown to myself, aroused in me a healthy sense of shame. Perhaps his
righteous maledictions on the nobles had given me glimpses of the idea
of justice. Perhaps, in short, what I had hitherto despised in myself
as impulses of weakness and compassion, henceforth began dimly to take a
more solemn and less contemptible shape.

Be that as it may, I kept silent. I contented myself with thrashing
Sylvain as a punishment for having deserted me, and to impress upon him
that he was not to breathe a word about my unfortunate adventure. The
bitterness of the recollection was intensified by an incident which
happened toward the end of autumn when I was out with him beating the
woods for game. The poor boy was genuinely attached to me; for, my
brutality notwithstanding, he always used to be at my heels the instant
I was outside the castle. When any of his companions spoke ill of me, he
would take up my cause, and declare that I was merely somewhat hasty
and not really bad at heart. Ah, it is the gentle, resigned souls of the
humble that keep up the pride and roughness of the great. Well, we were
trying to trap larks when my sabot-shot page, who always hunted about
ahead of me, came back, saying in his rude dialect:

“I can see the wolf-driver with the mole-catcher.”

This announcement sent a shudder through all my limbs. However, the
longing for revenge produced a reaction, and I marched straight on
to meet the sorcerer. Perhaps, too, I felt somewhat reassured by the
presence of his companion, who was a frequenter of Roche-Mauprat, and
would be likely to show me respect and afford me assistance.

Marcasse, the mole-catcher, as he was called, professed to rid the
dwellings and fields of the district of polecats, weasels, rats and
other vermin. Nor did he confine his good offices to Berry; every year
he went the round of La Marche, Nivernais, Limousin, and Saintonge,
visiting, alone and on foot, all the places that had the good sense to
appreciate his talents. He was well received everywhere, in the castle
no less than in the cottage; for his was a trade that had been carried
on successfully and honestly in his family for generations (indeed, his
descendants still carry it on). Thus he had work and a home awaiting him
for every day in the year. As regular in his round as the earth in her
rotation, he would reappear on a given day at the very place where he
had appeared the year before, and always with the same dog and with the
same long sword.

This personage was as curious as the sorcerer Patience; perhaps more
comic in his way than the sorcerer. He was a bilious, melancholy man,
tall, lean, angular, full of languor, dignity, and deliberation in
speech and action. So little did he like talking that he answered all
questions in monosyllables; and yet he never failed to obey the laws of
the most scrupulous politeness, and rarely said a word without raising
his hand to the corner of his hat as a sign of respect and civility.
Was he thus by nature, or, in his itinerant trade, had this wise
reserve arisen from a fear of alienating some of his numerous clients
by incautious chatter? No one knew. In all houses he was allowed a free
hand; during the day he had the key of every granary; in the evening,
a place at the fireside of every kitchen. He knew everything that
happened; for his dreamy, absorbed air led people to talk freely in his
presence; yet he had never been known to inform any household of the
doings of another.

If you wish to know how I had become struck by this strange character,
I may tell you that I had been a witness of my uncle’s and grandfather’s
efforts to make him talk. They hoped to draw from him some information
about the chateau of Saint-Severe, the home of a man they hated and
envied, M. Hubert de Mauprat. Although Don Marcasse (they called him Don
because he seemed to have the bearing and pride of a ruined hidalgo),
although Don Marcasse, I say, had shown himself as incompressible here
as elsewhere, the Coupe-Jarret Mauprats never failed to squeeze him a
little more in the hope of extracting some details about the Casse-Tete
Mauprats.

Nobody, then, could discover Marcasse’s opinions about anything; it
would have been simplest to suppose that he did not take the trouble
to have any. Yet the attraction which Patience seemed to feel towards
him--so great that he would accompany him on his travels for several
weeks altogether--led one to believe that there was some witchery in the
man’s mysterious air, and that it was not solely the length of his sword
and the skill of his dog which played such wonderful havoc with the
moles and weasels. There were whispered rumours of the enchanted herbs
that he employed to lure these suspicious animals from their holes into
his nets. However, as people found themselves better off for his magic,
no one dreamt of denouncing it as criminal.

I do not know if you have ever seen one of the rat-hunts. It is a
curious sight, especially in a fodder-loft. The man and dog climbing up
ladders and running along beams with marvellous assurance and agility,
the dog sniffing every hole in the wall, playing the cat, crouching down
and lying in wait until the game comes out for his master’s rapier;
the man thrusting through bundles of straw and putting the enemy to the
sword--all this, when arranged and carried out with gravity and dignity
by Don Marcasse, was, I assure you, a most singular and interesting
performance.

When I saw this trusty fellow I felt equal to braving the sorcerer, and
advanced boldly. Sylvain stared at me in admiration, and I noticed that
Patience himself was not prepared for such audacity. I pretended to go
up to Marcasse and speak to him, as though quite unconcerned about
the presence of my enemy. Seeing this he gently thrust aside the
mole-catcher, and, laying his heavy hand on my head, said very quietly:

“You have grown of late, my fine gentleman!”

The blood rushed to my face, and, drawing back scornfully, I answered:

“Take care what you are doing, clodhopper; you should remember that if
you still have your two ears, it is to my kindness that you owe them.”

“My two ears!” said Patience, with a bitter laugh.

Then making an allusion to the nickname of my family, he added:

“Perhaps you mean my two hamstrings? Patience, patience! The time,
maybe, is not far distant when clodhoppers will rid the nobles of
neither ears nor hamstrings, but of their heads and their purses.”

“Silence, Master Patience!” said the mole-catcher solemnly; “these are
not the words of a philosopher.”

“You are quite right, quite right,” replied the sorcerer; “and in truth,
I don’t know why I allow myself to argue with this lad. He might have
had me made into pap by his uncles. I whipped him in the summer for
playing me a stupid trick; and I don’t know what happened to the family,
but the Mauprats lost a fine chance of injuring a neighbour.”

“Learn, peasant,” I said, “that a nobleman always takes vengeance nobly.
I did not want my wrongs avenged by people more powerful than yourself;
but wait a couple of years; I promise I will hang you with my own hand
on a certain tree that I shall easily recognise, not very far from the
door of Gazeau Tower. If I don’t I will renounce my birthright; if I
spare you I will take the title of wolf-driver.”

Patience smiled; then, suddenly becoming serious, he fixed on me that
searching look which rendered his physiognomy so striking. Then turning
to the weasel-hunter:

“It is strange,” he said; “there must be something in blood. Take the
vilest noble, and you will find that in certain things he has more
spirit than the bravest of us. Ah! it is simple enough,” he added,
speaking to himself; “they are brought up like that, whilst we--we, they
tell us, are born to obey. Patience!”

He was silent for an instant; then, rousing himself from his reverie, he
said to me in a kindly though somewhat mocking tone:

“And so you want to hang me, Monseigneur Straw-Stalk? You will have to
eat a lot of beef, then, for you are not yet tall enough to reach the
branch which is to bear me; and before then . . . perhaps many things
will happen that are not dreamt of in your little philosophy.”

“Nonsense! Why talk nonsense?” said the mole-catcher, with a serious
air; “come, make peace. Monseigneur Bernard, I ask pardon for Patience;
he is an old man, a fool.”

“No, no,” said Patience; “I want him to hang me; he is right; this is
merely my due; and, in fact, it may come more quickly than all the rest.
You must not make too much haste to grow, monsieur; for I--well, I am
making more haste to grow old than I would wish; and you who are so
brave, you would not attack a man no longer able to defend himself.”

“You didn’t hesitate to use your strength against me!” I cried.
“Confess, now; didn’t you treat me brutally? Wasn’t it a coward’s work,
that?”

“Oh, children, children!” he said. “See how the thing reasons! Out of
the mouths of children cometh truth.”

And he moved away dreamily, and muttering to himself as was his wont.
Marcasse took off his hat to me and said in an impassive tone:

“He is wrong . . . live at peace . . . pardon . . . peace . . .
farewell!”

They disappeared; and there ended my relations with Patience. I did not
come in contact with him again until long afterward.




VI

I was fifteen when my grandfather died. At Roche-Mauprat his death
caused no sorrow, but infinite consternation. He was the soul of every
vice that reigned therein, and it is certain that he was more cruel,
though less vile, than his sons. On his death the sort of glory which
his audacity had won for us grew dim. His sons, hitherto held under firm
control, became more and more drunken and debauched. Moreover, each day
added some new peril to their expeditions.

Except for the few trusty vassals whom we treated well, and who were all
devoted to us, we were becoming more and more isolated and resourceless.
People had left the neighbouring country in consequence of our violent
depredations. The terror that we inspired pushed back daily the bounds
of the desert around us. In making our ventures we had to go farther
afield, even to the borders of the plain. There we had not the upper
hand; and my Uncle Laurence, the boldest of us all, was dangerously
wounded in a skirmish. Other schemes had to be devised. John suggested
them. One was that we should slip into the fairs under various
disguises, and exercise our skill in thieving. From brigands we became
pick-pockets, and our detested name sank lower and lower in infamy.
We formed a fellowship with the most noisome characters our province
concealed, and, by an exchange of rascally services, once again managed
to avoid destitution.

I say we, for I was beginning to take a place in this band of cutthroats
when my grandfather died. He had yielded to my entreaties and allowed
me to join in some of the last expeditions he attempted. I shall make
no apologies; but here, gentlemen, you behold a man who has followed the
profession of a bandit. I feel no remorse at the recollection, no more
than a soldier would feel at having served a campaign under orders from
his general. I thought that I was still living in the middle ages. The
laws of the land, with all their strength and wisdom, were to me words
devoid of meaning. I felt brave and full of vigour; fighting was a joy.
Truly, the results of our victories often made me blush; but, as they in
no way profited myself, I washed my hands of them. Nay, I remember with
pleasure that I helped more than one victim who had been knocked down to
get up and escape.

This existence, with its movement, its dangers, and its fatigues, had a
numbing effect on me. It took me away from any painful reflections which
might have arisen in my mind. Besides, it freed me from the immediate
tyranny of John. However, after the death of my grandfather, when our
band degraded itself to exploits of a different nature, I fell back
under his odious sway. I was by no means fitted for lying and fraud. I
displayed not only aversion but also incapacity for this new industry.
Consequently my uncle looked upon me as useless, and began to maltreat
me again. They would have driven me away had they not been afraid that
I might make my peace with society, and become a dangerous enemy to
themselves. While they were in doubt as to whether it was wiser to
feed me or to live in fear of me, they often thought (as I have since
learned) of picking a quarrel with me, and forcing a fight in which I
might be got rid of. This was John’s suggestion. Antony, however, who
retained more of Tristan’s energy and love of fair play at home than any
of his brothers, proved clearly that I did more good than harm. I was,
he declared, a brave fighter, and there was no knowing when they might
need an extra hand. I might also be shaped into a swindler. I was very
young and very ignorant; but John, perhaps, would endeavour to win me
over by kindness, and make my lot less wretched. Above all, he might
enlighten me as to my true position, by explaining that I was an
outcast from society, and could not return to it without being hanged
immediately. Then, perhaps, my obstinacy and pride would give way, out
of regard to my own well-being on the one hand, and from necessity on
the other. At all events, they should try this before getting rid of me.

“For,” said Antony to round off his homily, “we were ten Mauprats last
year; our father is dead, and, if we kill Bernard, we shall only be
eight.”

This argument gained the day. They brought me forth from the species of
dungeon in which I had languished for several months; they gave me new
clothes; they exchanged my old gun for a beautiful carbine that I had
always coveted; they explained to me my position in the world; they
honoured me with the best wine at meals. I promised to reflect, and
meanwhile, became rather more brutalized by inaction and drunkenness
than I had been by brigandage.

However, my captivity had made such a terrible impression on me that
I took a secret oath to dare any dangers that might assail me on the
territories of the King of France, rather than endure a repetition of
that hideous experience. Nothing but a miserable point of honour now
kept me at Roche-Mauprat. It was evident that a storm was gathering over
our heads. The peasants were discontented, in spite of all our
efforts to attach them to us; doctrines of independence were secretly
insinuating themselves into their midst; our most faithful retainers
were growing tired of merely having their fill of bread and meat; they
were demanding money, and we had none. We had received more than one
serious summons to pay our fiscal dues to the state, and as our private
creditors had joined hands with the crown officers and the recalcitrant
peasants, everything was threatening us with a catastrophe like that
which had just overtaken the Seigneur de Pleumartin in our province.(*)

     (*) The reputation which the Seigneur de Pleumartin has left
     behind him in the province will preserve the story of
     Mauprat from the reproach of exaggeration. Pen would refuse
     to trace the savage obscenities and refinements of cruelty
     which marked the life of this madman, and which perpetuated
     the traditions of feudal brigandage in Berry down to the
     last days of the ancient monarchy. His chateau was besieged,
     and after a stubborn resistance he was taken and hanged.
     There are many people still living, nor yet very advanced in
     years, who knew the man.

My uncles had long thought of making common cause with this country
squire in his marauding expeditions and his resistance to authority.
However, just as Pleumartin, about to fall into the hands of his
enemies, had given his word of honour that he would welcome us as
friends and allies if we went to his assistance, we had heard of his
defeat and tragic end. Thus we ourselves were now on our guard night
and day. It was a question of either fleeing the country or bracing
ourselves for a decisive struggle. Some counselled the former
alternative; the others declared their resolve to follow the advice of
their dying father and to find a grave under the ruins of the keep.
Any suggestion of flight or compromise they denounced as contemptible
cowardice. The fear, then, of incurring such a reproach, and perhaps in
some measure an instinctive love of danger, still kept me back. However,
my aversion to this odious existence was only lying dormant, ready to
break out violently at any moment.

One evening, after a heavy supper, we remained at table, drinking
and conversing--God knows in what words and on what subject! It was
frightful weather. The rain, driven through the broken windows, was
running in streams across the stone floor of the hall; and the old walls
were trembling in the storm. The night wind was whistling through chinks
in the roof and making the flames of our resin torches flicker weirdly.
During the meal my uncles had rallied me very much on what they called
my virtue; they had treated my shyness in the presence of women as a
sign of continence; and it was especially in this matter that they urged
me to evil by ridiculing my modesty. While parrying these coarse gibes
and making thrusts in the same strain, I had been drinking enormously.
Consequently, my wild imagination had become inflamed, and I boasted
that I would be bolder and more successful with the first woman brought
to Roche-Mauprat than any of my uncles. The challenge was accepted amid
roars of laughter. Peals of thunder sent back an answer to the infernal
merriment.

All at once the horn was heard at the portcullis. Everybody stopped
talking. The blast just blown was the signal used by the Mauprats to
summon each other or make themselves known. It was my Uncle Laurence,
who had been absent all day and who was now asking to be let in. We had
so little confidence in others that we acted as our own turnkeys in the
fortress. John rose and took down the keys, but he stopped immediately
on hearing a second blast of the horn. This meant that Laurence was
bringing in a prize, and that we were to go and meet him. In the
twinkling of an eye all the Mauprats were at the portcullis, torch in
hand--except myself, whose indifference at this moment was profound, and
whose legs were seriously conscious of wine.

“If it is a woman,” cried Antony as he went out, “I swear by the soul of
my father that she shall be handed over to you, my valiant young man,
and we’ll see if your courage comes up to your conceit.”

I remained with my elbows on the table, sunk in an uncomfortable stupor.

When the door opened again I saw a woman in a strange costume entering
with a confident step. It required an effort to keep my mind from
wandering, and to grasp what one of the Mauprats came and whispered to
me. In the middle of a wolf-hunt, at which several of the nobles in the
neighbourhood had been present with their wives, this young lady’s horse
had taken fright and bolted away from the rest of the field. When it had
pulled up after a gallop of about a league, she had tried to find her
way back; but, not knowing the Varenne district, where all the landmarks
are so much alike, she had gone farther and farther astray. The
storm and the advent of night had completed her perplexity. Laurence,
happening to meet her, had offered to escort her to the chateau of
Rochemaure, which, as a fact, was more than six leagues distant; but
he had declared that it was quite near, and had pretended to be the
gamekeeper there. She did not actually know the lady of Rochemaure, but
being a distant connection of hers, she counted upon a welcome. Never
having seen the face of a single Mauprat, and little dreaming that she
was so near their haunt, she had followed her guide confidingly; and as
she had never in her life caught a glimpse of Roche-Mauprat, whether in
the distance or close at hand, she was led upon the scene of our orgies
without having the least suspicion of the trap into which she had
fallen.

When I rubbed my heavy eyes and beheld this woman, so young and so
beautiful, with her expression of calm sincerity and of goodness, the
like of which I had never seen on the brow of any other (for all
those who had passed the portcullis of our abode were either insolent
prostitutes or stupid victims), I could not but think I was dreaming.

Remembering how prominently fairies figured in my legends of chivalry,
I almost fancied that Morgana or Urganda had come among us to administer
justice; and, for the moment, I felt an inclination to throw myself on
my knees and protest against any judgment which should confound me
with my uncles. Antony, to whom Laurence had quickly given the cue,
approached her with as much politeness as he had in his composition, and
begged her to excuse his hunting costume, likewise that of his friends.
They were all nephews or cousins of the lady of Rochemaure, whom they
were now awaiting before sitting down to table. Being very religious,
she was at present in the chapel, in pious conference with the chaplain.
The air of simple confidence with which the stranger listened to these
absurd lies went to my heart, but I had not a very clear idea of what I
felt.

“Please,” she said to my Uncle John, who was dancing attendance on her
with the leer of a satyr, “please do not let me disturb this lady. I am
so troubled about the anxiety I must be causing my father and my friends
at the present moment, that I could not really stop here. All I ask is
that she will be kind enough to lend me a fresh horse and a guide, so
that I may return to the place where I presume my people may have gone
to wait for me.”

“Madame,” replied John, with assurance, “it is impossible for you to
start again in such weather as this; besides, if you did, that would
only serve to delay the hour of rejoining those who are looking for you.
Ten of our men, well mounted and provided with torches, shall set out
this very moment in ten different directions and scour every corner of
Varenne. Thus, in two hours at the most, your relatives will be certain
to have news of you, and you will soon see them arriving here, where we
will entertain them as best we can. Please, then, set your mind at rest,
and take some cordial to restore you; for you must be wet through and
quite exhausted.”

“Were it not for the anxiety I feel,” she answered with a smile,
“I should be famished. I will try to eat something; but do not put
yourselves to any inconvenience on my account. You have been far too
good already.”

Approaching the table, where I was still resting on my elbows, she took
some fruit that was by my side without noticing me. I turned and stared
at her insolently with a besotted expression. She returned my gaze
haughtily--at least, so it appeared to me then. I have since learned
that she did not even see me; for, while making a great effort to
appear calm and to reply with an air of confidence to the offers of
hospitality, she was at heart very much disturbed by the unexpected
presence of so many strange men with their forbidding mien and rough
garb. However, she did not suspect anything. I overheard one of the
Mauprats near me saying to John:

“Good! It’s all right; she is falling into the trap. Let us make her
drink; then she will begin to talk.”

“One moment,” replied John; “watch her carefully; this is a serious
matter; there is something better to be had out of this than a little
passing pleasure. I am going to talk it over with the others; you will
be sent for to give your opinion. Meanwhile keep an eye on Bernard.”

“What is the matter?” I said abruptly, as I faced him. “Does not
this girl belong to me? Did not Antony swear it by the soul of my
grandfather?”

“Yes, confound it, that’s true,” said Antony, approaching our group,
whilst the other Mauprats surrounded the lady. “Listen, Bernard; I will
keep my word on one condition.”

“What is that?”

“It is quite simple: that you won’t within the next ten minutes tell
this wench that she is not at old Rochemaure’s.”

“What do you take me for?” I answered, pulling my hat over my eyes. “Do
you think that I am an idiot? Wait a minute; would you like me to go
and get my grandmother’s dress which is upstairs and pass myself off for
this same lady of Rochemaure?”

“A splendid idea!” replied Laurence.

“But before anything is done,” said John, “I want to speak to you all.”

And making signs to the others, he drew them out of the hall. Just as
they were going out I thought I noticed that John was trying to persuade
Antony to keep watch over me. But Antony, with a firmness which I could
not understand, insisted on following the rest. I was left alone with
the stranger.

For a moment I remained bewildered, almost stupefied, and more
embarrassed than pleased at the _tete-a-tete_. Then I endeavoured to
think of some explanation of these mysterious things that were happening
around me, and succeeded, as far as the fumes of the wine would allow
me, in imagining something fairly probable, though, indeed, remote
enough from the actual truth.

I thought I could account for everything I had just seen and heard by
supposing, first, that the lady, quiet and richly dressed though she
was, was one of those daughters of Bohemia that I had sometimes seen
at fairs; secondly, that Laurence, having met her in the country, had
brought her here to amuse the company; and, thirdly, that they had told
her of my condition of swaggering drunkenness, and had prevailed on her
to put my gallantry to the proof, whilst they were to watch me through
the keyhole. My first movement, as soon as these ideas had taken
possession of me, was to rise and go straight to the door. This I locked
with a double turn and then bolted. When I had done this I returned to
the lady, determined that I would not, at all events, give her cause to
laugh at my bashfulness.

She was sitting close to the fire, and as she was occupied in drying
her wet garments, leaning forward over the hearth, she had not taken
any notice of what I was doing; but when I approached her the strange
expression on my face caused her to start. I had made up my mind to kiss
her, as a beginning; but, I know not by what miracle, as soon as she
raised her eyes to mine, this familiarity became impossible. I only had
sufficient courage to say:

“Upon my word, mademoiselle, you are a charming creature, and I love
you--as true as my name is Bernard Mauprat.”

“Bernard Mauprat!” she cried, springing up; “you are Bernard Mauprat,
you? In that case, change your manner and learn to whom you are talking.
Have they not told you?”

“No one has told me, but I can guess,” I replied with a grin, while
trying hard to trample down the feeling of respect with which her sudden
pallor and imperious attitude inspired me.

“If you can guess,” she said, “how is it possible that you allow
yourself to speak to me in this way? But they were right when they said
you were ill-mannered; and yet I always had a wish to meet you.”

“Really!” I said, with the same hideous grin. “You! A princess of the
king’s highway, who have known so many men in your life? But let my
lips meet your own, my sweet, and you shall see if I am not as nicely
mannered as those uncles of mine whom you were listening to so willingly
just now.”

“Your uncles!” she cried, suddenly seizing her chair and placing it
between us as if from some instinct of self-defence. “Oh, mon Dieu! mon
Dieu! Then I am not at Madame de Rochemaure’s?”

“Our name certainly begins in the same way, and we come of as good a
rock as anybody.”

“Roche-Mauprat!” she muttered, trembling from head to foot, like a hind
when it hears the howl of wolves.

And her lips grew quite white. Her agony was manifest in every gesture.
From an involuntary feeling of sympathy I shuddered myself, and I was on
the point of changing my manner and language forthwith.

“What can there be in this to astound her so?” I asked myself. “Is she
not merely acting a part? And even if the Mauprats are not hidden behind
some wainscot listening to us, is she not sure to give them an account
of everything that takes place? And yet she is trembling like an aspen
leaf. But what if she is acting? I once saw an actress play Genevieve de
Brabant, and she wept so that one might have been deceived.”

I was in a state of great perplexity, and I cast harassed glances now at
her, now at the doors, which I fancied every moment would be thrown wide
open amid roars of laughter from my uncles.

This woman was beautiful as the day. I do not believe there has ever
lived a woman as lovely as she. It is not I alone who say so; she has
left a reputation for beauty which has not yet died out in her province.
She was rather tall, slender, and remarkable for the easy grace of her
movements. Her complexion was very fair, while her eyes were dark and
her hair like ebony. Her glance and her smile showed a union of goodness
and acuteness which it was almost impossible to conceive; it was as
if Heaven had given her two souls, one wholly of intellect, the other
wholly of feeling. She was naturally cheerful and brave--an angel,
indeed, whom the sorrows of humanity had not yet dared to touch. She
knew not what it was to suffer; she knew not what it was to distrust
and dread. This, indeed, was the first trial of her life, and it was I,
brute that I was, who made her undergo it. I took her for a gipsy, and
she was an angel of purity.

She was my young cousin (or aunt, after the Breton fashion), Edmee de
Mauprat, the daughter of M. Hubert, my great-uncle (again in the Breton
fashion), known as the Chevalier--he who had sought release from the
Order of Malta that he might marry, though already somewhat advanced
in years. My cousin was the same age as myself; at least, there was
a difference of only a few months between us. Both of us were now
seventeen, and this was our first interview. She whom I ought to have
protected at the peril of my life against the world was now standing
before me trembling and terror-stricken, like a victim before the
executioner.

She made a great effort, and approaching me as I walked about the hall
deep in thought, she explained who she was, adding:

“It is impossible that you can be an infamous creature like all these
brigands whom I have just seen, and of whose hideous life I have often
heard. You are young; your mother was good and wise. My father wanted to
adopt you and bring you up as his son. Even to-day he is still full of
grief at not being able to draw you out of the abyss in which you lie.
Have you not often received messages from him? Bernard, you and I are of
the same family; think of the ties of blood; why would you insult me? Do
they intend to assassinate me here or torture me? Why did they deceive
me by saying that I was at Rochemaure? Why did they withdraw in this
mysterious way? What are they preparing? What is going to happen?”

Her words were cut short by the report of a gun outside. A shot from the
culverin replied to it, and the alarm trumpet shook the gloomy walls of
the keep with its dismal note. Mademoiselle de Mauprat fell back into
her chair. I remained where I was, wondering whether this was some
new scene in the comedy they were enjoying at my expense. However,
I resolved not to let the alarm cause me any uneasiness until I had
certain proof that it was not a trick.

“Come, now,” I said, going up to her again, “own that all this is a
joke. You are not Mademoiselle de Mauprat at all; and you merely want to
discover if I am an apprentice capable of making love.”

“I swear by Christ,” she answered, taking my hands in her own, which
were cold as death, “that I am Edmee, your cousin, your prisoner--yes,
and your friend; for I have always felt an interest in you; I have
always implored my father not to cease his efforts for you. But listen,
Bernard; they are fighting, and fighting with guns! It must be my father
who has come to look for me, and they are going to kill him. Ah!” she
cried, falling on her knees before me, “go and prevent that, Bernard!
Tell your uncles to respect my father, the best of men, if you but knew!
Tell them that, if they hate our family, if they must have blood, they
may kill me! Let them tear my heart out; but let them respect my father
. . .”

Some one outside called me in a violent voice.

“Where is the coward? Where is that wretched boy?” shouted my Uncle
Laurence.

Then he shook the door; but I had fastened it so securely that it
resisted all his furious blows.

“That miserable cur is amusing himself by making love while our throats
are being cut! Bernard, the mounted police are attacking us! Your Uncle
Louis had just been killed! Come and help us! For God’s sake, come,
Bernard!”

“May the devil take the lot of you,” I cried, “and may you be killed
yourself, if I believe a single word of all this. I am not such a fool
as you imagine; the only cowards here are those who lie. Didn’t I swear
that the woman should be mine? I’m not going to give her up until I
choose.”

“To hell with you!” replied Laurence; “you are pretending . . .”

The shots rang out faster. Frightful cries were heard. Laurence left the
door and ran in the direction of the noise. His eagerness proved him
so much in earnest that I could no longer refuse to believe him. The
thought that they would accuse me of cowardice overcame me. I advanced
towards the door.

“O Bernard! O Monsieur de Mauprat!” cried Edmee, staggering after me;
“let me go with you. I will throw myself at your uncles’ feet; I will
make them stop the fight; I will give them all I possess, my life, if
they wish . . . if only they will spare my father.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, turning towards her; “I am by no means certain
that this is not a joke at my expense. I have a suspicion that my uncles
are there, behind that door, and that, while our whippers-in are firing
off guns in the courtyard, they are waiting with a blanket to toss me.
Now, either you are my cousin, or you are a . . . You must make me a
solemn promise, and I will make you one in return. If you are one of
these wandering charmers and I quit this room the dupe of your pretty
acting, you must swear to be my mistress, and to allow none other near
you until I have had my rights; otherwise, for my part, I swear that
you shall be chastised, even as my spotted dog Flora was chastised this
morning. If, on the other hand, you are Edmee, and I swear to intervene
between your father and those who would kill him, what promise will you
make me, what will you swear?”

“If you save my father,” she cried, “I swear to you that I will marry
you, I swear it.”

“Ho! ho! indeed!” I said, emboldened by her enthusiasm, the sublimity of
which I did not understand. “Give me a pledge, then, so that in any case
I do not go out from here like a fool.”

I took her in my arms and kissed her. She did not attempt to resist. Her
cheeks were like ice. Mechanically she began to follow me as I moved to
the door. I was obliged to push her back. I did so without roughness;
but she fell as one in a faint. I began to grasp the gravity of my
position; for there was nobody in the corridor and the tumult outside
was becoming more and more alarming. I was about to run and get my
weapons, when a last feeling of distrust, or it may have been another
sentiment, prompted me to go back and double-lock the door of the hall
where I was leaving Edmee. I put the key into my belt and hastened to
the ramparts, armed with a gun, which I loaded as I ran.

It was simply an attack made by the mounted police, and had nothing
whatever to do with Mademoiselle de Mauprat. A little while before our
creditors had obtained a writ of arrest against us. The law officers,
beaten and otherwise severely handled, had demanded of the King’s
advocate at the provincial court of Bourges another warrant of arrest.
This the armed police were now doing their best to execute. They had
hoped to effect an easy capture by means of a night surprise. But we
were in a better state of defence than they had anticipated. Our men
were brave and well armed; and then we were fighting for our very
existence; we had the courage of despair, and this was an immense
advantage. Our band amounted to twenty-four all told; theirs to more
than fifty soldiers, in addition to a score or more of peasants, who
were slinging stones from the flanks. These, however, did more harm to
their allies than they did to us.

For half an hour the fighting was most desperate. At the end of this
time the enemy had become so dismayed by our resistance that they fell
back, and hostilities were suspended. However, they soon returned to the
attack, and again were repulsed with loss. Hostilities were once more
suspended. They then, for the third time, called upon us to surrender,
promising that our lives should be spared. Antony Mauprat replied with
an obscene jest. They remained undecided, but did not withdraw.

I had fought bravely; I had done what I called my duty. There was a long
lull. It was impossible to judge the distance of the enemy, and we
dared not fire at random into the darkness, for our ammunition was too
precious. All my uncles remained riveted on the ramparts, in case of
fresh attack. My Uncle Louis was dangerously wounded. Thoughts of my
prisoner returned to my mind. At the beginning of the fight I had heard
John Mauprat saying, that if our defeat seemed imminent, we must offer
to hand her over to the enemy, on condition that they should raise the
seige; that if they refused, we must hang her before their eyes. I
had no longer any doubts about the truth of what she had told me.
When victory appeared to declare for us they forgot the captive. But I
noticed the crafty John quitting the culverin which he so loved to
fire, and creeping away like a cat into the darkness. A feeling of
ungovernable jealousy seized me. I threw down my gun and dashed after
him, knife in hand, resolved, I believe, to stab him if he attempted to
touch what I considered my booty. I saw him approach the door, try to
open it, peer attentively through the keyhole, to assure himself that
his prey had not escaped him. Suddenly shots were heard again. He sprang
to his maimed feet with that marvellous agility of his, and limped off
to the ramparts. For myself, hidden as I was by the darkness, I let him
pass and did not follow. A passion other than the love of slaughter had
just taken possession of me. A flash of jealousy had fired my senses.
The smell of powder, the sight of blood, the noise, the danger, and the
many bumpers of brandy we had passed round to keep up our strength had
strangely heated my brain. I took the key from my belt and opened the
door noisily. And now, as I stood before my captive again, I was no
longer the suspicious and clumsy novice she had so easily moved to pity:
I was the wild outlaw of Roche-Mauprat, a hundred times more dangerous
than at first. She rushed towards me eagerly. I opened my arms to
catch her; instead of being frightened she threw herself into them,
exclaiming:

“Well! and my father?”

“Your father,” I said, kissing her, “is not there. At the present moment
there is no question either of him or of you. We have brought down a
dozen gendarmes, that is all. Victory, as usual, is declaring for us.
So, don’t trouble yourself any more about your father; and I, I won’t
trouble myself further about the King’s men. Let us live in peace and
rejoice in love.”

With these words I raised to my lips a goblet of wine which had been
left on the table. But she took it out of my hands with an air of
authority that made me all the bolder.

“Don’t drink any more,” she said; “think seriously of what you are
saying. Is what you tell me true? Will you answer for it on your honour,
on the soul of your mother?”

“Every word is true; I swear it by your pretty rosy lips,” I replied,
trying to kiss her again.

But she drew back in terror.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, “he is drunk! Bernard! Bernard! remember
what you promised; do not break your word. You have not forgotten, have
you, that I am your kinswoman, your sister?”

“You are my mistress or my wife,” I answered, still pursuing her.

“You are a contemptible creature!” she rejoined, repulsing me with her
riding whip. “What have you done that I should be aught to you? Have you
helped my father?”

“I swore to help him; and I would have helped him if he had been there;
it is just the same, therefore, as if I really had. But, had he been
there, and had I tried to save him and failed, do you know that for
this treachery Roche-Mauprat could not have provided any instrument of
torture cruel enough and slow enough to drag the life out of me inch by
inch? For all I know, they may actually have heard my vow; I proclaimed
it loudly enough. But what do I care? I set little store by a couple of
days more or less of life. But I do set some store by your favour, my
beauty. I don’t want to be the languishing knight that every one laughs
at. Come, now, love me at once; or, my word, I will return to the fight,
and if I am killed, so much the worse for you. You will no longer have
a knight to help you, and you will still have seven Mauprats to keep at
bay. I’m afraid you are not strong enough for that rough work, my pretty
little love-bird.”

These words, which I threw out at random, merely to distract her
attention so that I might seize her hands or her waist, made a deep
impression on her. She fled to the other end of the hall, and tried
to force open the window; but her little hands could not even move the
heavy leaden sash in the rusty ironwork. Her efforts made me laugh. She
clasped her hands in terror, and remained motionless. Then all at once
the expression of her face changed. She seemed to have resolved how to
act, and came toward me smiling and with outstretched hand. So beautiful
was she thus that a mist came over my eyes and for a moment I saw her
not.

Ah, gentlemen, forgive my childishness. I must tell you how she was
dressed. After that weird night she never wore that costume again, and
yet I can remember it so exactly. It is a long, long time ago. But were
I to live as long as I have already lived again, I should not forget
a single detail, so much was I struck by it amid the tumult that
was raging within me and without; amid the din of shots striking
the ramparts, the lightning flashes ripping the sky, and the violent
palpitations which sent my blood surging from my heart to my brain, and
from my head to my breast.

Oh, how lovely she was! It seems as if her shade were even now
passing before my eyes. Yes; I fancy I see her in the same dress, the
riding-habit which used to be worn in those days. The skirt of it was of
cloth and very full; round the waist was a red sash, while a waistcoat
of pearl-gray satin, fastened with buttons, fitted closely to the
figure; over this was a hunting-jacket, trimmed with lace, short and
open in front; the hat, of gray felt, with a broad brim turned up in
front, was crowned with half a dozen red feathers. The hair, which was
not powdered, was drawn back from the face and fell down in two long
plaits, like those of the Bernese women. Edmee’s were so long that they
almost reached the ground.

Her garb, to me so strangely fascinating, her youth and beauty, and the
favour with which she now seemed to regard my pretensions, combined to
make me mad with love and joy. I could imagine nothing more beautiful
than a lovely woman yielding without coarse words, and without tears of
shame. My first impulse was to take her in my arms; but, as if overcome
by that irresistible longing to worship which characterizes a first
love, even with the grossest of beings, I fell down before her and
pressed her knees to my breast; and yet, on my own supposition, it was
to a shameless wanton that this homage was paid. I was none the less
nigh to swooning from bliss.

She took my head between her two beautiful hands, and exclaimed:

“Ah, I was right! I knew quite well that you were not one of those
reprobates. You are going to save me, aren’t you? Thank God! How I
thank you, O God! Must we jump from the window? Oh, I am not afraid;
come--come!”

I seemed as if awakened from a dream, and, I confess, the awakening was
not a little painful.

“What does this mean?” I asked, as I rose to my feet. “Are you still
jesting with me? Do you not know where you are? Do you think that I am a
child?”

“I know that I am at Roche-Mauprat,” she replied, turning pale again,
“and that I shall be outraged and assassinated in a couple of hours, if
meanwhile I do not succeed in inspiring you with some pity. But I shall
succeed,” she cried, falling at my feet in her turn; “you are not one of
those men. You are too young to be a monster like them. I could see from
your eyes that you pitied me. You will help me to escape, won’t you,
won’t you, my dear heart?”

She took my hands and kissed them frenziedly, in the hope of moving me.
I listened and looked at her with a sullen stupidity scarcely calculated
to reassure her. My heart was naturally but little accessible to
feelings of generosity and compassion, and at this moment a passion
stronger than all the rest was keeping down the impulse she had striven
to arouse. I devoured her with my eyes, and made no effort to understand
her words. I only wished to discover whether I was pleasing to her, or
whether she was trying to make use of me to effect her escape.

“I see that you are afraid,” I said. “You are wrong to be afraid of
me. I shall certainly not do you any harm. You are too pretty for me to
think of anything but of caressing you.”

“Yes; but your uncles will kill me,” she cried; “you know they will.
Surely you would not have me killed? Since you love me, save me; I will
love you afterwards.”

“Oh, yes; afterwards, afterwards,” I answered, laughing with a silly,
unbelieving air; “after you have had me hanged by those gendarmes to
whom I have just given such a drubbing. Come, now; prove that you
love me at once; I will save you afterwards. You see, I can talk about
‘afterwards’ too.”

I pursued her round the room. Though she fled from me, she gave no signs
of anger, and still appealed to me with soft words. In me the poor girl
was husbanding her one hope, and was fearful of losing it. Ah, if I had
only been able to realize what such a woman as she was, and what my own
position meant! But I was unable then. I had but one fixed idea--the
idea which a wolf may have on a like occasion.

At last, as my only answer to all her entreaties was, “Do you love me,
or are you fooling me?” she saw what a brute she had to deal with, and,
making up her mind accordingly, she came towards me, threw her arms
round my neck, hid her face in my bosom, and let me kiss her hair. Then
she put me gently from her, saying:

“Ah, mon Dieu! don’t you see how I love you--how I could not help loving
you from the very first moment I saw you? But don’t you understand that
I hate your uncles, and that I would be yours alone?”

“Yes,” I replied, obstinately, “because you say to yourself: ‘This is a
booby whom I shall persuade to do anything I wish, by telling him that
I love him; he will believe it, and I will take him away to be hanged.’
Come; there is only one word which will serve if you love me.”

She looked at me with an agonized air. I sought to press my lips to hers
whenever her head was not turned away. I held her hands in mine. She was
powerless now to do more than delay the hour of her defeat. Suddenly
the colour rushed back to the pale face; she began to smile; and with an
expression of angelic coquetry, she asked:

“And you--do you love me?”

From this moment the victory was hers. I no longer had power to will
what I wished. The lynx in me was subdued; the man rose in its place;
and I believe that my voice had a human ring, as I cried for the first
time in my life:

“Yes, I love you! Yes, I love you!”

“Well, then,” she said, distractedly, and in a caressing tone, “let us
love each other and escape together.”

“Yes, let us escape,” I answered. “I loathe this house, and I loathe my
uncles. I have long wanted to escape. And yet I shall only be hanged,
you know.”

“They won’t hang you,” she rejoined with a laugh; “my betrothed is a
lieutenant-general.”

“Your betrothed!” I cried, in a fresh fit of jealousy more violent than
the first. “You are going to be married?”

“And why not?” she replied, watching me attentively.

I turned pale and clinched my teeth.

“In that case, . . .” I said, trying to carry her off in my arms.

“In that case,” she answered, giving me a little tap on the cheek, “I
see that you are jealous; but his must be a particular jealousy who at
ten o’clock yearns for his mistress, only to hand her over at midnight
to eight drunken men who will return her to him on the morrow as foul as
the mud on the roads.”

“Ah, you are right!” I exclaimed. “Go, then; go. I would defend you to
the last drop of my blood; but I should be vanquished by numbers, and I
should die with the knowledge that you were left to them. How horrible!
I shudder to think of it. Come--you must go.”

“Yes! yes, my angel!” she cried, kissing me passionately on the cheek.

These caresses, the first a woman had given me since my childhood,
recalled, I know not how or why, my mother’s last kiss, and, instead of
pleasure, caused me profound sadness. I felt my eyes filling with tears.
Noticing this, she kissed my tears, repeating the while:

“Save me! Save me!”

“And your marriage?” I asked. “Oh! listen. Swear that you will not marry
before I die. You will not have to wait long; for my uncles administer
sound justice and swift, as they say.”

“You are not going to follow me, then?” she asked.

“Follow you? No; it is as well to be hanged here for helping you to
escape as to be hanged yonder for being a bandit. Here, at least, I
avoid a twofold shame: I shall not be accounted an informer, and shall
not be hanged in a public place.”

“I will not leave you here,” she cried, “though I die myself. Fly with
me. You run no risk, believe me. Before God, I declare you are safe.
Kill me, if I lie. But let us start--quickly. O God! I hear them
singing. They are coming this way. Ah, if you will not defend me, kill
me at once!”

She threw herself into my arms. Love and jealousy were gradually
overpowering me. Indeed, I even thought seriously of killing her; and I
kept my hand on my hunting-knife as long as I heard any noise or voices
near the hall. They were exulting in their victory. I cursed Heaven for
not giving it to our foes. I clasped Edmee to my breast, and we remained
motionless in each other’s arms, until a fresh report announced that the
fight was beginning again. Then I pressed her passionately to my heart.

“You remind me,” I said, “of a poor little dove which one day flew into
my jacket to escape from a kite, and tried to hide itself in my bosom.”

“And you did not give it up to the kite, did you?” asked Edmee.

“No, by all the devils! not any more than I shall give you up, you, the
prettiest of all the birds in the woods, to these vile night-birds that
are threatening you.”

“But how shall we escape?” she cried, terror-stricken by the volleys
they were firing.

“Easily,” I said. “Follow me.”

I seized a torch, and lifting a trap-door, I made her descend with me to
the cellar. Thence we passed into a subterranean passage hollowed out
of the rock. This, in bygone days had enabled the garrison, then more
numerous, to venture upon an important move in case of an attack; some
of the besieged would emerge into the open country on the side opposite
the portcullis and fall on the rear of the besiegers, who were thus
caught between two fires. But many years had passed since the garrison
of Roche-Mauprat was large enough to be divided into two bodies; and
besides, during the night it would have been folly to venture beyond the
walls. We arrived, therefore, at the exit of the passage without meeting
with any obstacle. But at the last moment I was seized with a fit of
madness. I threw down my torch, and leaned against the door.

“You shall not go out from here,” I said to the trembling Edmee,
“without promising to be mine.”

We were in darkness; the noise of the fight no longer reached us. Before
any one could surprise us here we had ample time to escape. Everything
was in my favour. Edmee was now at the mercy of my caprice. When she saw
that the seductions of her beauty could no longer rouse me to ecstasy,
she ceased to implore, and drew backward a few steps.

“Open the door,” she said, “and go out first, or I will kill myself.
See, I have your hunting-knife. You left it by the side of the
trap-door. To return to your uncles you will have to walk through my
blood.”

Her resolute manner frightened me.

“Give me that knife,” I said, “or, be the consequences what they may, I
will take it from you by force.”

“Do you think I am afraid to die?” she said calmly. “If this knife had
only been in my hand yonder in the chateau, I should not have humbled
myself before you.”

“Confound it!” I cried, “you have deceived me. Your love is a sham.
Begone! I despise you. I will not follow such as you.”

At the same time I opened the door.

“I would not go without you,” she cried; “and you--you would not have me
go without dishonour. Which of us is the more generous?”

“You are mad,” I said. “You have lied to me; and you do not know what to
do to make a fool of me. However, you shall not go out from here without
swearing that your marriage with the lieutenant-general or any other man
shall not take place before you have been my mistress.”

“Your mistress!” she said. “Are you dreaming? Could you not at least
soften the insult by saying your wife?”

“That is what any one of my uncles would say in my place; because they
would care only about your dowry. But I--I yearn for nothing but your
beauty. Swear, then, that you will be mine first; afterwards you shall
be free, on my honour. And if my jealousy prove so fierce that it may
not be borne, well, since a man may not go from his word, I will blow my
brains out.”

“I swear,” said Edmee, “to be no man’s before being yours.”

“That is not it. Swear to be mine before being any other’s.”

“It is the same thing,” she answered. “Yes; I swear it.”

“On the gospel? On the name of Christ? By the salvation of your soul? By
the memory of your mother?”

“On the gospel; in the name of Christ; by the salvation of my soul; by
the memory of my mother.”

“Good.”

“One moment,” she rejoined; “I want you to swear that my promise and its
fulfilment shall remain a secret; that my father shall never know it, or
any person who might tell him.”

“No one in the world shall hear it from me. Why should I want others to
know, provided only that you keep your word?”

She made me repeat the formula of an oath. Then we hurried forth into
the open, holding each other’s hands as a sign of mutual trust.

But now our flight became dangerous. Edmee feared the besiegers almost
as much as the besieged. We were fortunate enough not to meet any.
Still, it was by no means easy to move quickly. The night was so dark
that we were continually running against trees, and the ground was so
slippery that we were unable to avoid falls. A sudden noise made
us start; but, from the rattle of the chain fixed on its foot,
I immediately recognised my grandfather’s horse, an animal of an
extraordinary age, but still strong and spirited. It was the very horse
that had brought me to Roche-Mauprat ten years before. At present the
only thing that would serve as a bridle was the rope round its neck. I
passed this through its mouth, and I threw my jacket over the crupper
and helped my companion to mount; I undid the chain, sprang on the
animal’s back, and urging it on desperately, made it set off at a
gallop, happen what might. Luckily for us, it knew the paths better
than I, and, as if by instinct, followed their windings without knocking
against any trees. However, it frequently slipped, and in recovering
itself, gave us such jolts that we should have lost our seats a thousand
times (equipped as we were) had we not been hanging between life and
death. In such a strait desperate ventures are best, and God protects
those whom man pursues. We were congratulating ourselves on being out of
danger, when all at once the horse struck against a stump, and catching
his hoof in a root on the ground, fell down. Before we were up he had
made off into the darkness, and I could hear him galloping farther and
farther away. As we fell I had caught Edmee in my arms. She was unhurt.
My own ankle, however, was sprained so severely that it was impossible
for me to move a step. Edmee thought that my leg had been broken. I was
inclined to think so myself, so great was the pain; but soon I thought
no further either of my agony or my anxiety. Edmee’s tender solicitude
made me forget everything. It was in vain that I urged her to continue
her flight without me. I pointed out that she could now escape alone;
that we were some distance from the chateau; that day would soon
be breaking; that she would be certain to find some house, and that
everywhere the people would protect her against the Mauprats.

“I will not leave you,” she persisted in answering. “You have devoted
yourself to me; I will show the same devotion to you. We will both
escape, or we will die together.”

“I am not mistaken,” I cried; “it is a light that I see between the
branches. Edmee, there is a house yonder; go and knock at the door. You
need not feel anxious about leaving me here; and you will find a guide
to take you home.”

“Whatever happens,” she said, “I will not leave you; but I will try to
find some one to help you.”

“Yet, no,” I said, “I will not let you knock at that door alone. That
light, in the middle of the night, in a house situated in the heart of
the woods, may be a lure.”

I dragged myself as far as the door. It felt cold, as if of metal. The
walls were covered with ivy.

“Who is there?” cried some one within, before we had knocked.

“We are saved!” cried Edmee; “it is Patience’s voice.”

“We are lost!” I said; “he and I are mortal enemies.

“Fear nothing,” she said; “follow me. It was God that led us here.”

“Yes, it was God that led you here, daughter of Heaven, morning star!”
 said Patience, opening the door; “and whoever is with you is welcome too
at Gazeau Tower.”

We entered under a surbased vault, in the middle of which hung an iron
lamp. By the light of this dismal luminary and of a handful of brushwood
which was blazing on the hearth we saw, not without surprise, that
Gazeau Tower was exceptionally honoured with visitors. On one side the
light fell upon the pale and serious face of a man in clerical garb. On
the other, a broad-brimmed hat overshadowed a sort of olive-green cone
terminating in a scanty beard; and on the wall could be seen the shadow
of a nose so distinctly tapered that nothing in the world might compare
with it except, perhaps, a long rapier lying across the knees of the
personage in question, and a little dog’s face which, from its pointed
shape, might have been mistaken for that of a gigantic rat. In fact, it
seemed as if a mysterious harmony reigned between these three salient
points--the nose of Don Marcasse, his dog’s snout, and the blade of his
sword. He got up slowly and raised his hand to his hat. The Jansenist
cure did the same. The dog thrust its head forward between its master’s
legs, and, silent like him, showed its teeth and put back its ears
without barking.

“Quiet, Blaireau!” said Marcasse to it.




VII

No sooner had the cure recognised Edmee than he started back with an
exclamation of surprise. But this was nothing to the stupefaction of
Patience when he had examined my features by the light of the burning
brand that served him as torch.

“The lamb in the company of the wolf!” he cried. “What has happened,
then?”

“My friend,” replied Edmee, putting, to my infinite astonishment, her
little white hand into the sorcerer’s big rough palm, “welcome him as
you welcome me. I was a prisoner at Roche-Mauprat, and it was he who
rescued me.”

“May the sins of his fathers be forgiven him for this act!” said the
cure.

Patience took me by the arm, without saying anything, and led me nearer
the fire. They seated me on the only chair in the house, and the cure
took upon himself the task of attending to my leg, while Edmee gave an
account, up to a certain point, of our adventure. Then she asked for
information about the hunt and about her father. Patience, however,
could give her no news. He had heard the horn in the woods, and the
firing at the wolves had disturbed his tranquility several times during
the day. But since the storm broke over them the noise of the wind had
drowned all other sounds, and he knew nothing of what was taking place
in Varenne. Marcasse, meanwhile, had very nimbly climbed a ladder which
served as an approach to the upper stories of the house, now that the
staircase was broken. His dog followed him with marvellous skill.
Soon they came down again, and we learned that a red light could be
distinguished on the horizon in the direction of Roche-Mauprat. In spite
of the loathing I had for this place and its owners, I could not repress
a feeling very much like consternation on hearing that the hereditary
manor which bore my own name had apparently been taken and set on fire.
It meant disgrace, defeat; and this fire was as a seal of vassalage
affixed to my arms by those I called clodhoppers and serfs. I sprang up
from my chair, and had I not been held back by the violent pain in my
foot, I believe I should have rushed out.

“What is the matter?” said Edmee, who was by my side at the time.

“The matter is,” I answered abruptly, “that I must return yonder; for
it is my duty to get killed rather than let my uncles parley with the
rabble.”

“The rabble!” cried Patience, addressing me for the first time since I
arrived. “Who dares to talk of rabble here? I myself am of the rabble.
It is my title, and I shall know how to make it respected.”

“By Jove! Not by me,” I said, pushing away the cure, who had made me sit
down again.

“And yet it would not be for the first time,” replied Patience, with a
contemptuous smile.

“You remind me,” I answered, “that we two have some old accounts to
settle.”

And heedless of the frightful agony caused by my sprain, I rose again,
and with a backhander I sent Don Marcasse, who was endeavouring the play
the cure’s part of peacemaker, head over heels into the middle of the
ashes. I did not mean him any harm, but my movements were somewhat
rough, and the poor man was so frail that to my hand he was but as a
weasel would have been to his own. Patience was standing before me with
his arms crossed, in the attitude of a stoic philosopher, but the fire
was flashing in his eyes. Conscious of his position as my host, he was
evidently waiting until I struck the first blow before attempting
to crush me. I should not have kept him waiting long, had not Edmee,
scorning the danger of interfering with a madman, seized my arm and
said, in an authoritative tone:

“Sit down again, and be quiet; I command you.”

So much boldness and confidence surprised and pleased me at the same
time. The rights which she arrogated to herself over me were, in some
measure, a sanction of those I claimed to have over her.

“You are right,” I answered, sitting down.

And I added, with a glance at Patience:

“Some other time.”

“Amen,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Marcasse had picked himself up with much composure, and shaking off the
ashes with which he was covered, instead of finding fault with me, he
tried, after his fashion to lecture Patience. This was in reality by no
means easy to do; yet nothing could have been less irritating than that
monosyllabic censure throwing out its little note in the thick of a
quarrel like an echo in a storm.

“At your age,” he said to his host; “not patient at all. Wholly to
blame--yes--wrong--you!”

“How naughty you are!” Edmee said to me, putting her hand on my
shoulder; “do not begin again, or I shall go away and leave you.”

I willingly let myself be scolded by her; nor did I realize that during
the last minutes we had exchanged parts. The moment we crossed the
threshold of Gazeau Tower she had given evidence of that superiority
over me which was really hers. This wild place, too, these strange
witnesses, this fierce host, had already furnished a taste of the
society into which I had entered, and whose fetters I was soon to feel.

“Come,” she said, turning to Patience, “we do not understand each other
here; and, for my part, I am devoured by anxiety about my poor father,
who is no doubt searching for me, and wringing his hands at this very
moment. My good Patience, do find me some means of rejoining him with
this unfortunate boy, whom I dare not leave to your care, since you have
not sufficient love for me to be patient and compassionate with him.”

“What do you say?” said Patience, putting his hand to his brow as if
waking from a dream. “Yes, you are right; I am an old brute, an old
fool. Daughter of God, tell this boy, this nobleman, that I ask his
pardon for the past, and that, for the present, my poor cell is at his
disposal. Is that well said?”

“Yes, Patience,” answered the cure. “Besides, everything may be managed.
My horse is quiet and steady, and Mademoiselle de Mauprat can ride it,
while you and Marcasse lead it by the bridle. For myself, I will remain
here with our invalid. I promise to take good care of him and not to
annoy him in any way. That will do, won’t it, Monsieur Bernard? You
don’t bear me any ill-will, and you may be very sure that I am not your
enemy.”

“I know nothing about it,” I answered; “it is as you please. Look after
my cousin; take her home safely. For my own part, I need nothing and
care for no one. A bundle of straw and a glass of wine, that is all I
should like, if it were possible to have them.”

“You shall have both,” said Marcasse, handing me his flask, “but first
of all here is something to cheer you up. I am going to the stable to
get the horse ready.”

“No, I will go myself,” said Patience; “you see to the wants of this
young man.”

And he passed into another lower hall, which served as a stable for
the cure’s horse during the visits which the good priest paid him. They
brought the animal through the room where we were; and Patience, after
arranging the cure’s cloak on the saddle, with fatherly care helped
Edmee to mount.

“One moment,” she said, before letting them lead her out. “Monsieur le
Cure, will you promise me on the salvation of your soul not to leave my
cousin before I return with my father to fetch him?”

“I promise solemnly,” replied the cure.

“And you, Bernard,” said Edmee, “will you give me your word of honour to
wait for me here?”

“I can’t say,” I answered; “that will depend on the length of your
absence and on my patience; but you know quite well, cousin, that we
shall meet again, even if it be in hell; and for my part, the sooner the
better.”

By the light of the brand which Patience was holding to examine the
horse’s harness, I saw her beautiful face flush and then turn pale. Then
she raised her eyes which had been lowered in sorrow, and looked at me
fixedly with a strange expression.

“Are we ready to start?” said Marcasse, opening the door.

“Yes, forward,” said Patience, taking the bridle. “Edmee, my child, take
care to bend down while passing under the door.”

“What is the matter, Blaireau?” said Marcasse, stopping on the threshold
and thrusting out the point of his sword, gloriously rusted by the blood
of the rodent tribe.

Blaireau did not stir, and if he had not been born dumb, as his master
said, he would have barked. But he gave warning as usual by a sort of
dry cough. This was his most emphatic sign of anger and uneasiness.

“There must be something down there,” said Marcasse; and he boldly
advanced into the darkness, after making a sign to the rider not to
follow. The report of firearms made us all start. Edmee jumped down
lightly from her horse, and I did not fail to notice that some impulse
at once prompted her to come and stand behind my chair. Patience rushed
out of the tower. The cure ran to the frightened horse, which was
rearing and backing toward us. Blaireau managed to bark. I forgot my
sprain, and in a single bound I was outside.

A man covered with wounds, and with the blood streaming from him, was
lying across the doorway. It was my Uncle Laurence. He had been mortally
wounded at the siege of Roche-Mauprat, and had come to die under our
eyes. With him was his brother Leonard, who had just fired his last
pistol shot at random, luckily without hitting any one. Patience’s
first impulse was to prepare to defend himself. On recognising Marcasse,
however, the fugitives, far from showing themselves hostile, asked for
shelter and help. As their situation was so desperate no one thought
that assistance should be refused. The police were pursuing them.
Roche-Mauprat was in flames; Louis and Peter had died fighting; Antony,
John, and Walter had fled in another direction, and, perhaps, were
already prisoners. No words would paint the horror of Laurence’s last
moments. His agony was brief but terrible. His blasphemy made the cure
turn pale. Scarce had the door been shut and the dying man laid on the
floor than the horrible death-rattle was heard. Leonard, who knew of no
remedy but brandy, snatched Marcasse’s flask out of my hand (not without
swearing and scornfully reproaching me for my flight), forced open his
brother’s clinched teeth with the blade of his hunting-knife, and,
in spite of our warning, poured half the flask down his throat. The
wretched man bounded into the air, brandished his arms in desperate
convulsions, drew himself up to his full height, and fell back stone
dead upon the blood-stained floor. There was no time to offer up a
prayer over the body, for the door resounded under the furious blows of
our assailants.

“Open in the King’s name!” cried several voices; “open to the police!”

“Help! help!” cried Leonard, seizing his knife and rushing towards the
door. “Peasants, prove yourselves nobles! And you, Bernard, atone for
your fault; wash out your shame; do not let a Mauprat fall into the
hands of the gendarmes alive!”

Urged on by native courage and by pride, I was about to follow his
example, when Patience rushed at him, and exerting his herculean
strength, threw him to the ground. Putting one knee on his chest, he
called to Marcasse to open the door. This was done before I could take
my uncle’s part against his terrible assailant. Six gendarmes at once
rushed into the tower and, with their guns pointed, bade us move at our
peril.

“Stay, gentlemen,” said Patience, “don’t harm any one. This is your
prisoner. Had I been alone with him, I should either have defended him
or helped him to escape; but there are honest people here who ought not
to suffer for a knave; and I did not wish to expose them to a fight.
Here is the Mauprat. Your duty, as you know, is to deliver him safe and
sound into the hands of justice. This other is dead.”

“Monsieur, surrender!” said the sergeant of the gendarmes, laying his
hand on Leonard.

“Never shall a Mauprat drag his name into the dock of a police court,”
 replied Leonard, with a sullen expression. “I surrender, but you will
get nothing but my skin.”

And he allowed himself to be placed in a chair without making any
resistance.

But while they were preparing to bind him he said to the cure:

“Do me one last kindness, Father. Give me what is left in the flask; I
am dying of thirst and exhaustion.”

The good cure handed him the flask, which he emptied at a draught. His
distorted face took on an expression of awful calm. He seemed absorbed,
stunned, incapable of resistance. But as soon as they were engaged
in binding his feet, he snatched a pistol from the belt of one of the
gendarmes and blew his brains out.

This frightful spectacle completely unnerved me. Sunk in a dull stupor,
no longer conscious of what was happening around me, I stood there as if
turned to stone, and it was only after some minutes that I realized
that I was the subject of a serious discussion between the police and
my hosts. One of the gendarmes declared that he recognised me as a
Hamstringer Mauprat. Patience declared that I was nothing but M. Hubert
de Mauprat’s gamekeeper, in charge of his daughter. Annoyed at the
discussion, I was about to make myself known when I saw a ghost rise
by my side. It was Edmee. She had taken refuge between the wall and the
cure’s poor frightened horse, which, with outstretched legs and eyes
of fire, made her a sort of rampart with its body. She was as pale as
death, and her lips were so compressed with horror that at first, in
spite of desperate efforts to speak, she was unable to express herself
otherwise than by signs. The sergeant, moved by her youth and her
painful situation, waited with deference until she could manage to make
herself understood. At last she persuaded them not to treat me as a
prisoner, but to take me with her to her father’s chateau, where she
gave her word of honour that satisfactory explanations and guarantees
would be furnished on my account. The cure and the other witnesses,
having pledged their words to this, we set out all together, Edmee
on the sergeant’s horse, he on an animal belonging to one of his men,
myself on the cure’s, Patience and the cure afoot between us, the police
on either side, and Marcasse in front, still impassive amid the general
terror and consternation. Two of the gendarmes remained behind to guard
the bodies and prepare a report.




VIII

We had travelled about a league through the woods. Wherever other paths
had crossed our own, we had stopped to call aloud; for Edmee, convinced
that her father would not return home without finding her, had implored
her companions to help her to rejoin him. To this shouting the gendarmes
had been very averse, as they were afraid of being discovered and
attacked by bodies of the fugitives from Roche-Mauprat. On our way they
informed us that this den had been captured at the third assault. Until
then the assailants had husbanded their forces. The officer in command
of the gendarmes was anxious to get possession of the keep without
destroying it; and, above all, to take the defenders alive. This,
however, was impossible on account of the desperate resistance they
made. The besiegers suffered so severely in their second attempt that
they found themselves compelled to adopt extreme measures or to retreat.
They therefore set the outer buildings on fire, and in the ensuing
assault put forth all their strength. Two Mauprats were killed while
fighting on the ruins of their bastion; the other five disappeared. Six
men were dispatched in pursuit of them in one direction, six in another.
Traces of the fugitives had been discovered immediately, and the men who
gave us these details had followed Laurence and Leonard so closely that
several of their shots had hit the former only a short distance from
Gazeau Tower. They had heard him cry that he was done for; and, as far
as they could see, Leonard had carried him to the sorcerer’s door. This
Leonard was the only one of my uncles who deserved any pity, for he was
the only one who might, perhaps, have been encouraged to a better kind
of life. At times there was a touch of chivalry in his brigandage,
and his savage heart was capable of affection. I was deeply moved,
therefore, by his tragic death, and let myself be carried along
mechanically, plunged in gloomy thoughts, and determined to end my days
in the same manner should I ever be condemned to the disgrace he had
scorned to endure.

All at once the sound of horns and the baying of hounds announced the
approach of a party of huntsmen. While we, on our side, were answering
with shouts, Patience ran to meet them. Edmee, longing to see her father
again, and forgetting all the horrors of this bloody night, whipped
up her horse and reached the hunters first. As soon as we came up with
them, I saw Edmee in the arms of a tall man with a venerable face. He
was richly dressed; his hunting-coat, with gold lace over all the seams,
and the magnificent Norman horse, which a groom was holding behind him,
so struck me that I thought I was in the presence of a prince. The signs
of love which he was showing his daughter were so new to me that I was
inclined to deem them exaggerated and unworthy of the dignity of a man.
At the same time they filled me with a sort of brute jealousy; for it
did not occur to my mind that a man so splendidly dressed could be
my uncle. Edmee was speaking to him in a low voice, but with great
animation. Their conversation lasted a few moments. At the end of it the
old man came and embraced me cordially. Everything about these manners
seemed so new to me, that I responded neither by word nor gesture to the
protestations and caresses of which I was the object. A tall young man,
with a handsome face, as elegantly dressed as M. Hubert, also came and
shook my hand and proffered thanks; why, I could not understand. He next
entered into a discussion with the gendarmes, and I gathered that he was
the lieutenant-general of the province, and that he was ordering them
to set me at liberty for the present, that I might accompany my uncle to
his chateau, where he undertook to be responsible for me. The gendarmes
then left us, for the chevalier and the lieutenant-general were
sufficiently well escorted by their own men not to fear attack from
any one. A fresh cause of astonishment for me was to see the chevalier
bestowing marks of warm friendship on Patience and Marcasse. As for the
cure, he was upon a footing of equality with these seigneurs. For some
months he had been chaplain at the chateau of Saint-Severe, having
previously been compelled to give up his living by the persecutions of
the diocesan clergy.

All this tenderness of which Edmee was the object, this family affection
so completely new to me, the genuinely cordial relations existing
between respectful plebeians and kindly patricians--everything that I
now saw and heard seemed like a dream. I looked on with a sensation that
it was all unintelligible to me. However, soon after our caravan started
my brain began to work; for I then saw the lieutenant-general (M. de
la Marche) thrust his horse between Edmee’s and my own, as if he had a
right to be next to her. I remembered her telling me at Roche-Mauprat
that he was her betrothed. Hatred and anger at once surged up within me,
and I know not what absurdity I should have committed, had not Edmee,
apparently divining the workings of my unruly soul, told him that she
wanted to speak to me, and thus restored me to my place by her side.

“What have you to say to me?” I asked with more eagerness than
politeness.

“Nothing,” she answered in an undertone. “I shall have much to say
later. Until then will you do everything I ask of you?”

“And why the devil should I do everything you ask of me, cousin?”

For a moment she hesitated to reply; then, making an effort, she said:

“Because it is thus that a man proves to a woman that he loves her.”

“Do you believe that I don’t love you?” I replied abruptly.

“How should I know?” she said.

This doubt astonished me very much, and I tried to combat it after my
fashion.

“Are you not beautiful?” I said; “and am not I a young man? Perhaps you
think I am too much of a boy to notice a woman’s beauty; but now that my
head is calm, and I am sad and quite serious, I can assure you that I am
even more deeply in love with you than I thought. The more I look at you
the more beautiful you seem. I did not think that a woman could be so
lovely. I tell you I shall not sleep till . . .”

“Hold your tongue,” she said sharply.

“Oh, I suppose you are afraid that man will hear me,” I answered,
pointing to M. de la Marche. “Have no fear; I know how to keep my word;
and, as you are the daughter of a noble house, I hope you know how to
keep yours.”

She did not reply. We had reached a part of the road where it was
only possible for two to walk abreast. The darkness was profound, and
although the chevalier and the lieutenant-general were at our heels, I
was going to make bold to put my arm round her waist, when she said to
me, in a sad and weary voice:

“Cousin, forgive me for not talking to you. I’m afraid I did not quite
understand what you said. I am so exhausted that I feel as if I were
going to die. Luckily, we have reached home now. Promise me that you
will love my father, that you will yield to all his wishes, that you
will decide nothing without consulting me. Promise me this if you would
have me believe in your friendship.”

“Oh, my friendship? you are welcome not to believe in that,” I answered;
“but you must believe in my love. I promise everything you wish. And
you, will you not promise me anything? Do, now, with a good grace.”

“What can I promise that is not yours?” she said in a serious tone. “You
saved my honour; my life belongs to you.”

The first glimmerings of dawn were now beginning to light the horizon.
We had reached the village of Saint-Severe, and soon afterward we
entered the courtyard of the chateau. On dismounting from her horse
Edmee fell into her father’s arms; she was as pale as death. M. de la
Marche uttered a cry, and helped to carry her away. She had fainted.
The cure took charge of me. I was very uneasy about my fate. The natural
distrust of the brigand sprang up again as soon as I ceased to be under
the spell of her who had managed to lure me from my den. I was like a
wounded wolf; I cast sullen glances about me, ready to rush at the first
being who should stir my suspicions by a doubtful word or deed. I was
taken into a splendid room, and a meal, prepared with a luxury far
beyond anything I could have conceived, was immediately served. The
cure displayed the kindest interest in me; and, having succeeded in
reassuring me a little, he went to attend to his friend Patience. The
disturbed state of my mind and my remnant of uneasiness were not
proof against the generous appetite of youth. Had it not been for the
respectful assiduity of a valet much better dressed than myself, who
stood behind my chair, and whose politeness I could not help returning
whenever he hastened to anticipate my wants, I should have made
a terrific breakfast; as it was, the green coat and silk breeches
embarrassed me considerably. It was much worse when, going down on his
knees, he set about taking off my boots preparatory to putting me to
bed. For the moment I thought he was playing a trick upon me, and came
very near giving him a good blow on the head; but his manner was so
serious as he went through this task that I sat and stared at him in
amazement.

At first, at finding myself in bed without arms, and with people
entering and leaving my room always on tip-toe, I again began to feel
suspicious. I took advantage of a moment when I was alone to get out of
bed and take from the table, which was only half cleared, the longest
knife I could find. Feeling easier in my mind, I returned to bed and
fell into a sound sleep, with the knife firmly clasped in my hand.

When I awoke again the rays of the setting sun, softened by my red
damask curtains, were falling on my beautifully fine sheets and lighting
up the golden pomegranates that adorned the corners of the bed. This bed
was so handsome and soft that I felt inclined to make it my apologies
for having slept in it. As I was about to get up I saw a kindly,
venerable face looking through the half-drawn curtains and smiling. It
was the Chevalier Hubert de Mauprat. He inquired anxiously about
the state of my health. I endeavoured to be polite and to express my
gratitude; but the language I used seemed so different from his that
I was disconcerted and pained at my awkwardness without being able to
realize why. To crown my misery, a movement that I made caused the
knife which I had taken as bedfellow to fall at M. de Mauprat’s feet. He
picked it up, looked at it, and then at myself with extreme surprise. I
turned as red as fire and stammered out I know not what. I expected he
would reprove me for this insult to his hospitality. However, he was too
polite to insist upon a more complete explanation. He quietly placed the
knife on the mantel-piece and, returning to me, spoke as follows:

“Bernard, I now know that I owe to you the life that I hold dearest in
the world. All my own life shall be devoted to giving you proofs of my
gratitude and esteem. My daughter also is sacredly indebted to you. You
need, then, have no anxiety about your future. I know what persecution
and vengeance you exposed yourself to in coming to us; but I know, too,
from what a frightful existence my friendship and devotion will be able
to deliver you. You are an orphan, and I have no son. Will you have me
for your father?”

I stared at the chevalier with wild eyes. I could not believe my ears.
All feeling within me seemed paralyzed by astonishment and timidity. I
was unable to answer a word. The chevalier himself evidently felt
some astonishment; he had not expected to find a nature so brutishly
ill-conditioned.

“Come,” he said; “I hope that you will grow accustomed to us. At all
events, shake hands, to show that you trust me. I will send up your
servant; give him your orders; he is at your disposal. I have only one
promise to exact from you, and that is that you will not go beyond the
walls of the park until I have taken steps to make you safe from the
pursuit of justice. At present it is possible that the charges which
have been hanging over your uncles’ heads might be made to fall on your
own.”

“My uncles!” I exclaimed, putting my hand to my brow. “Is this all a
hideous dream? Where are they? What has become of Roche-Mauprat?”

“Roche-Mauprat,” he answered, “has been saved from the flames. Only
a few of the outer buildings have been destroyed; but I undertake to
repair the house and to redeem your fief from the creditors who claim
it. As to your uncles . . . you are probably the sole heir of a name
that it behoves you to rehabilitate.”

“The sole heir?” I cried. “Four Mauprats fell last night; but the other
three . . .”

“The fifth, Walter, perished in his attempt to escape. His body was
discovered this morning in the pond of Les Froids. Neither John nor
Antony has been caught, but the horse belonging to one and a cloak of
the other’s, found near the spot where Walter’s body was lying, seem to
hint darkly that their fate was as his. Even if one of them manages to
escape, he will never dare make himself known again, for there would
be no hope for him. And since they have drawn down upon their heads
the inevitable storm, it is best, both for themselves and for us, who
unfortunately bear the same name, that they should have come to this
tragic end--better to have fallen weapon in hand, than to have suffered
an infamous death upon the gallows. Let us bow to what God has ordained
for them. It is a stern judgment; seven men in the pride of youth and
strength summoned in a single night to their terrible reckoning! . . .
We must pray for them, Bernard, and by dint of good works try to make
good the evil they have done, and remove the stains they have left on
our escutcheon.”

These concluding words summed up the chevalier’s whole character. He was
pious, just, and full of charity; but, with him, as with most nobles,
the precepts of Christian humility were wont to fall before the pride
of rank. He would gladly have had a poor man at his table, and on Good
Friday, indeed, he used to wash the feet of twelve beggars; but he was
none the less attached to all the prejudices of our caste. In trampling
under foot the dignity of man, my cousins, he considered, had,
as noblemen, been much more culpable than they would have been as
plebeians. On the latter hypothesis, according to him, their crimes
would not have been half so grave. For a long time I shared the
conviction myself; it was in my blood, if I may use the expression. I
lost it only in the stern lessons of my destiny.

He then confirmed what his daughter had told me. From my birth he had
earnestly desired to undertake my education. But his brother Tristan
had always stubbornly opposed this desire. There the chevalier’s brow
darkened.

“You do not know,” he said, “how baneful have been the consequences of
that simple wish of mine--baneful for me, and for you too. But that must
remain wrapped in mystery--a hideous mystery, the blood of the
Atridae. . . .”

He took my hand, and added, in a broken voice:

“Bernard, we are both of us victims of a vicious family. This is not
the moment to pile up charges against those who in this very hour are
standing before the terrible tribunal of God; but they have done me an
irreparable wrong--they have broken my heart. The wrong they have done
you shall be repaired--I swear it by the memory of your mother. They
have deprived you of education; they have made you a partner in their
brigandage; yet your soul has remained great and pure as was the soul of
the angel who gave you birth. You will correct the mistakes which others
made in your childhood; you will receive an education suitable to your
rank. And then, Bernard, you will restore the honour of your family. You
will, won’t you? Promise me this, Bernard. It is the one thing I long
for. I will throw myself at your knees if so I may win your confidence;
and I shall win it, for Providence has destined you to be my son. Ah,
once it was my dream that you should be more completely mine. If, when
I made my second petition, they had granted you to my loving care, you
would have been brought up with my daughter and you would certainly have
become her husband. But God would not have it so. You have now to begin
your education, whereas hers is almost finished. She is of an age to
marry; and, besides, her choice is already made. She loves M. de la
Marche; in fact, their marriage is soon to take place. Probably she had
told you.”

I stammered out a few confused words. The affection and generous ideas
of this noble man had moved me profoundly, and I was conscious of a new
nature, as it were, awakening within me. But when he pronounced the name
of his future son-in-law, all my savage instincts rose up again, and I
felt that no principle of social loyalty would make me renounce my claim
to her whom I regarded as my fairly won prize. I grew pale; I grew red;
I gasped for breath. Luckily, we were interrupted by the Abbe Aubert
(the Jansenist cure), who came to inquire how I was after my fall. Then
for the first time the chevalier heard of my accident; an incident that
had escaped him amid the press of so many more serious matters. He sent
for his doctor at once, and I was overwhelmed with kind attentions,
which seemed to me rather childish, but to which I submitted from a
sense of gratitude.

I had not dared to ask the chevalier for any news of his daughter. With
the abbe, however, I was bolder. He informed me that the length and
uneasiness of her sleep were causing some anxiety; and the doctor, when
he returned in the evening to dress my ankle, told me that she was very
feverish, and that he was afraid she was going to have some serious
illness.

For a few days, indeed, she was ill enough to cause anxiety. In the
terrible experience she had gone through she had displayed great energy;
but the reaction was correspondingly violent. For myself, I was also
kept to my bed. I could not take a step without feeling considerable
pain, and the doctor threatened that I should be laid up for several
months if I did not submit to inaction for a few days. As I was
otherwise in vigorous health, and had never been ill in my life, the
change from any active habits to this sluggish captivity caused me
indescribable _ennui_. Only those who have lived in the depths of woods,
and experienced all the hardships of a rough life, can understand the
kind of horror and despair I felt on finding myself shut up for more
than a week between four silk curtains. The luxuriousness of my room,
the gilding of my bed, the minute attentions of the lackeys, everything,
even to the excellence of the food--trifles which I had somewhat
appreciated the first day--became odious to me at the end of twenty-four
hours. The chevalier paid me affectionate but short visits; for he
was absorbed by the illness of his darling daughter. The abbe was all
kindness. To neither did I dare confess how wretched I felt; but when I
was alone I felt inclined to roar like a caged lion; and at night I had
dreams in which the moss in the woods, the curtain of forest trees, and
even the gloomy battlements of Roche-Mauprat, appeared to me like an
earthly paradise. At other times, the tragic scenes that had accompanied
and followed my escape were reproduced so vividly by my memory that,
even when awake, I was a prey to a sort of delirium.

A visit from M. de la Marche stirred my ideas to still wilder disorder.
He displayed the deepest interest in me, shook me by the hand again and
again, and implored my friendship, vowed a dozen times that he would lay
down his life for me, and made I don’t know how many other protestations
which I scarcely heard, for his voice was like a raging torrent in my
ears, and if I had had my hunting-knife I believe I should have thrown
myself upon him. My rough manners and sullen looks astonished him very
much; but, the abbe having explained that my mind was disturbed by
the terrible events which had happened in my family, he renewed his
protestations, and took leave of me in the most affectionate and
courteous manner.

This politeness which I found common to everybody, from the master
of the house to the meanest of his servants, though it struck me with
admiration, yet made me feel strangely ill at ease; for, even if it had
not been inspired by good-will towards me, I could never have brought
myself to understand that it might be something very different from real
goodness. It bore so little resemblance to the facetious braggadocio of
the Mauprats, that it seemed to me like an entirely new language, which
I understood but could not speak.

However, I recovered the power of speech when the abbe announced that
he was to have charge of my education, and began questioning me about
my attainments. My ignorance was so far beyond anything he could have
imagined that I was getting ashamed to lay it all bare; and, my savage
pride getting the upper hand, I declared that I was a gentleman, and had
no desire to become a clerk. His only answer was a burst of laughter,
which offended me greatly. He tapped me quickly on the shoulder, with
a good-natured smile, saying that I should change my mind in time, but
that I was certainly a funny fellow. I was purple with rage when the
chevalier entered. The abbe told him of our conversation and of my
little speech. M. Hubert suppressed a smile.

“My boy,” he said, in a kind tone, “I trust I may never do anything to
annoy you, even from affection. Let us talk no more about work to-day.
Before conceiving a taste for it you must first realize its necessity.
Since you have a noble heart you can not but have a sound mind; the
desire for knowledge will come to you of itself. And now to supper. I
expect you are hungry. Do you like wine?”

“Much better than Latin,” I replied.

“Come, abbe,” he continued laughingly, “as a punishment for having
played the pedant you must drink with us. Edmee is now quite out of
danger. The doctor has said that Bernard can get up and walk a few
steps. We will have supper served in this room.”

The supper and wine were so good, indeed, that I was not long in getting
tipsy, according to the Roche-Mauprat custom. I even saw they aided and
abetted, in order to make me talk, and show at once what species of boor
they had to deal with. My lack of education surpassed anything they had
anticipated; but I suppose they augured well from my native powers; for,
instead of giving me up, they laboured at the rough block with a zeal
which showed at least that they were not without hope. As soon as I was
able to leave my room I lost the feeling of _ennui_. The abbe was my
inseparable companion through the whole first day. The length of the
second was diminished by the hope they gave me of seeing Edmee on the
morrow, and by the kindness I experienced from every one. I began to
feel the charm of these gentle manners in proportion as I ceased to be
astonished at them. The never-failing goodness of the chevalier could
not but overcome my boorishness; nay, more, it rapidly won my heart.
This was the first affection of my life. It took up its abode in me side
by side with a violent love for his daughter, nor did I even dream of
pitting one of these feelings against the other. I was all yearning,
all instinct, all desire. I had the passions of a man in the soul of a
child.




IX

At last, one morning after breakfast, Mr. Hubert took me to see his
daughter. When the door of her room was opened I felt almost suffocated
by the warm-scented air which met me. The room itself was charming
in its simplicity; the curtains and coverings of chintz, with a white
ground. Large china vases filled with flowers exhaled a delicate
perfume. African birds were sporting in a gilded cage, and singing their
sweet little love songs. The carpet was softer to the feet than is
the moss of the woods in the month of March. I was in such a state of
agitation that my eyes grew more and more dim every moment. My feet
caught in one another most awkwardly, and I kept stumbling against the
furniture without being able to advance. Edmee was lying on a long white
chair, carelessly fingering a mother-of-pearl fan. She seemed to me
even more beautiful than before, yet so changed that a feeling of
apprehension chilled me in the middle of my ecstasy. She held out her
hand to me; I did not like to kiss it in the presence of her father. I
could not hear what she was saying to me--I believe her words were full
of affection. Then, as if overcome with fatigue, she let her head fall
back on the pillow and closed her eyes.

“I have some work to do,” said the chevalier to me. “Stay here with her;
but do not make her talk too much, for she is still very weak.”

This recommendation really seemed a sarcasm. Edmee was pretending to be
sleepy, perhaps to conceal some of the embarrassment that weighed on her
heart; and, as for myself, I felt so incapable of overcoming her reserve
that it was in reality a kindness to counsel silence.

The chevalier opened a door at one end of the room and closed it after
him; but, as I could hear him cough from time to time, I gathered
that his study was separated from his daughter’s room only by a wooden
partition. Still, it was bliss to be alone with her for a few moments,
as long as she appeared to be asleep. She did not see me, and I could
gaze on her at will. So pale was she that she seemed as white as her
muslin dressing-gown, or as her satin slippers with their trimming of
swan’s down. Her delicate, transparent hand was to my eyes like some
unknown jewel. Never before had I realized what a woman was; beauty for
me had hitherto meant youth and health, together with a sort of manly
hardihood. Edmee, in her riding-habit, as I first beheld her, had in
a measure displayed such beauty, and I had understood her better then.
Now, as I studied her afresh, my very ideas, which were beginning to
get a little light from without, all helped to make this second
_tete-a-tete_ very different from the first.

But the strange, uneasy pleasure I experienced in gazing on her was
disturbed by the arrival of a duenna, a certain Mademoiselle Leblanc,
who performed the duties of lady’s maid in Edmee’s private apartments,
and filled the post of companion in the drawing-room. Perhaps she had
received orders from her mistress not to leave us. Certain it is that
she took her place by the side of the invalid’s chair in such a way as
to present to my disappointed gaze her own long, meagre back, instead of
Edmee’s beautiful face. Then she took some work out of her pocket, and
quietly began to knit. Meanwhile the birds continued to warble, the
chevalier to cough, Edmee to sleep or to pretend to sleep, while I
remained at the other end of the room with my head bent over the prints
in a book that I was holding upside down.

After some time I became aware that Edmee was not asleep, and that she
was talking to her attendant in a low voice. I fancied I noticed the
latter glancing at me from time to time out of the corner of her eye in
a somewhat stealthy manner. To escape the ordeal of such an examination,
and also from an impulse of cunning, which was by no means foreign to my
nature, I let my head fall on the book, and the book on the pier-table,
and in this posture I remained as if buried in sleep or thought. Then,
little by little, their voices grew louder, until I could hear what they
were saying about me.

“It’s all the same; you have certainly have chosen a funny sort of page,
mademoiselle.”

“A page, Leblanc! Why do you talk such nonsense? As if one had pages
nowadays! You are always imagining we are still in my grandmother’s
time. I tell you he is my father’s adopted son.”

“M. le Chevalier is undoubtedly quite right to adopt a son; but where on
earth did he fish up such a creature as that?”

I gave a side glance at them and saw that Edmee was laughing behind her
fan. She was enjoying the chatter of this old maid, who was supposed to
be a wag and allowed perfect freedom of speech. I was very much hurt to
see my cousin was making fun of me.

“He looks like a bear, a badger, a wolf, a kite, anything rather than
a man,” continued Leblanc. “What hands! what legs! And now he has been
cleaned up a little, he is nothing to what he was! You ought to have
seen him the day he arrived with his smock and his leather gaiters; it
was enough to take away one’s breath.”

“Do you think so?” answered Edmee. “For my part, I preferred him in his
poacher’s garb. It suited his face and figure better.”

“He looked like a bandit. You could not have looked at him properly,
mademoiselle.”

“Oh! yes, I did.”

The tone in which she pronounced these words, “Yes, I did,” made me
shudder; and somehow I again felt upon my lips the impress of the kiss
she had given me at Roche-Mauprat.

“It would not be so bad if his hair were dressed properly,” continued
the duenna; “but, so far, no one had been able to persuade him to have
it powdered. Saint-Jean told me that just as he was about to put the
powder puff to his head he got up in a rage and said, ‘Anything you like
except that confounded flour. I want to be able to move my head about
without coughing and sneezing.’ Heavens, what a savage!”

“Yet, in reality, he is quite right. If fashion did not sanction
the absurdity, everybody would perceive that it is both ugly and
inconvenient. Look and see if it is not more becoming to have long black
hair like his?”

“Long hair like that? What a mane. It is enough to frighten one.”

“Besides, boys do not have their hair powdered, and he is still a boy.”

“A boy? My stars! what a brat Boys? Why he would eat them for his
breakfast; he’s a regular ogre. But where does the hulking dog spring
from? I suppose M. le Chevalier brought him here from behind some
plough. What is his name again? . . . You did tell me his name, didn’t
you?”

“Yes, inquisitive; I told you he is called Bernard.”

“Bernard! And nothing else?”

“Nothing, for the present. What are you looking at?”

“He is sleeping like a dormouse. Look at the booby. I was wondering
whether he resembled M. le Chevalier. Perhaps it was a momentary
error--a fit of forgetfulness with some milk-maid.”

“Come, come, Leblanc; you are going too far . . .”

“Goodness gracious, mademoiselle, has not M. le Chevalier been young
like any other man? And that does not prevent virtue coming on with
years, does it?”

“Doubtless your own experience has shown you that this is possible. But
listen: don’t take upon yourself to make fun of this young man. It is
possible that you have guessed right; but my father requires him to be
treated as one of the family.”

“Well, well; that must be pleasant for you, mademoiselle. As for myself,
what does it matter to me? I have nothing to do with the gentleman.”

“Ah, if you were thirty years younger.”

“But did your father consult you, mademoiselle, before planting yon
great brigand in your room?”

“Why ask such a question? Is there anywhere in the world a better father
than mine?”

“But you are very good also. . . . There are many young ladies who would
have been by no means pleased.”

“And why, I should like to know? There is nothing disagreeable about the
fellow. When he has been polished a little . . .”

“He will always be perfectly ugly.”

“My dear Leblanc, he is far from ugly. You are too old; you are no
longer a judge of young men.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the chevalier, who came in to look
for a book.

“Mademoiselle Leblanc is here, is she?” he said in a very quiet tone.
“I thought you were alone with my son. Well, Edmee, have you had a talk
with him? Did you tell him that you would be his sister? Are you pleased
with her, Bernard?”

Such answers as I gave could compromise no one. As a rule, they
consisted of four or five incoherent words crippled by shame. M. de
Mauprat returned to his study, and I had sat down again, hoping that
my cousin was going to send away her duenna and talk to me. But they
exchanged a few words in a whisper; the duenna remained, and two mortal
hours passed without my daring to stir from my chair. I believe Edmee
really was asleep this time. When the bell rang for dinner her father
came in again to fetch me, and before leaving her room he said to her
again:

“Well, have you had a chat?”

“Yes, father, dear,” she replied, with an assurance that astounded me.

My cousin’s behaviour seemed to me to prove beyond doubt that she
had merely been trifling with me, and that she was not afraid of my
reproaches. And yet hope sprang up again when

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/2194