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      Gerfaut, by Charles de Bernard
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Gerfaut, Complete, by Charles de Bernard

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almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
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Title: Gerfaut, Complete

Author: Charles de Bernard

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Last Updated: August 23, 2016

Language: English

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</pre>

    <h1>
      GERFAUT
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Charles de Bernard
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      With a Preface by JULES CLARETIE, of the French Academy
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> CHARLES DE BERNARD </a><br /><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>BOOK 1.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>THE TRAVELLER <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>THE CASTLE OF BERGENHEIM <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>A DIVIDED HOUSEHOLD <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>THE GALLANT IN THE GARDEN <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>ART AND MUSIC <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0008"> <b>BOOK 2.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>GERFAUT&rsquo;S STORY <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>GERFAUT ASKS A FAVOR <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>A LOVER&rsquo;S RUSE <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>GERFAUT, THE WIZARD <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>PLOTS <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>A QUARREL <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>AN INHARMONIOUS MUSICALE <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> <b>BOOK 3.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>MONSIEUR DE BERGENHEIM <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>GERFAUT&rsquo;S ALLEGORY <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>DECLARATION OF WAR <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>GERFAUT WINS A POINT <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>A RUDE INTERRUPTION <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>ESPIONAGE <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>THE REVELATION <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0024"> <b>BOOK 4.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>MARILLAC TELLS A STORY <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a>A STRATAGEM <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a>THE CRISIS <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. &nbsp;&nbsp;</a>THE AGREEMENT <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>A FRIEND&rsquo;S ADVICE <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>THE WILD BOAR <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>BERGENHEIM&rsquo;S REVENGE <br /><br />
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      CHARLES DE BERNARD
    </h2>
    <p>
      PIERRE-MARIE-CHARLES DE BERNARD DU GRAIL DE LA VILLETTE, better known by
      the name of Charles de Bernard, was born in Besancon, February 24, 1804.
      He came from a very ancient family of the Vivarais, was educated at the
      college of his native city, and studied for the law in Dijon and at Paris.
      He was awarded a prize by the &lsquo;Jeux floraux&rsquo; for his dithyrambics, &lsquo;Une
      fete de Neron&rsquo; in 1829. This first success in literature did not prevent
      him aspiring to the Magistrature, when the Revolution of 1830 broke out
      and induced him to enter politics. He became one of the founders of the
      &lsquo;Gazette de Franche-Comte&rsquo; and an article in the pages of this journal
      about &lsquo;Peau de chagrin&rsquo; earned him the thanks and the friendship of
      Balzac.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter induced him to take up his domicile in Paris and initiated him
      into the art of novel-writing. Bernard had published a volume of odes:
      &lsquo;Plus Deuil que Joie&rsquo; (1838), which was not much noticed, but a series of
      stories in the same year gained him the reputation of a genial &lsquo;conteur&rsquo;.
      They were collected under the title &lsquo;Le Noeud Gordien&rsquo;, and one of the
      tales, &lsquo;Une Aventure du Magistrat, was adapted by Sardou for his comedy
      &lsquo;Pommes du voisin&rsquo;. &lsquo;Gerfaut&rsquo;, his greatest work, crowned by the Academy,
      appeared also in 1838, then followed &lsquo;Le Paravent&rsquo;, another collection of
      novels (1839); &lsquo;Les Ailes d&rsquo;Icare (1840); La Peau du Lion and La Chasse
      aux Amants (1841); L&rsquo;Ecueil (1842); Un Beau-pere (1845); and finally Le
      Gentilhomme campagnard,&rsquo; in 1847. Bernard died, only forty-eight years
      old, March 6, 1850.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles de Bernard was a realist, a pupil of Balzac. He surpasses his
      master, nevertheless, in energy and limpidity of composition. His style is
      elegant and cultured. His genius is most fully represented in a score or
      so of delightful tales rarely exceeding some sixty or seventy pages in
      length, but perfect in proportion, full of invention and originality, and
      saturated with the purest and pleasantest essence of the spirit which for
      six centuries in tableaux, farces, tales in prose and verse, comedies and
      correspondence, made French literature the delight and recreation of
      Europe. &lsquo;Gerfaut&rsquo; is considered De Bernard&rsquo;s greatest work. The plot turns
      on an attachment between a married woman and the hero of the story. The
      book has nothing that can justly offend, the incomparable sketches of
      Marillac and Mademoiselle de Corandeuil are admirable; Gerfaut and
      Bergenheim possess pronounced originality, and the author is, so to speak,
      incarnated with the hero of his romance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most uncritical reader can not fail to notice the success with which
      Charles de Bernard introduces people of rank and breeding into his
      stories. Whether or not he drew from nature, his portraits of this kind
      are exquisitely natural and easy. It is sufficient to say that he is the
      literary Sir Joshua Reynolds of the post-revolution vicomtes and
      marquises. We can see that his portraits are faithful; we must feel that
      they are at the same time charming. Bernard is an amiable and spirited
      &lsquo;conteur&rsquo; who excels in producing an animated spectacle for a refined and
      selected public, whether he paints the ridiculousness or the misery of
      humanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The works of Charles de Bernard in wit and urbanity, and in the peculiar
      charm that wit and urbanity give, are of the best French type. To any
      elevation save a lofty place in fiction they have no claim; but in that
      phase of literature their worth is undisputed, and from many testimonies
      it would seem that those whom they most amuse are those who are best worth
      amusing.
    </p>
    <p>
      These novels, well enough as they are known to professed students of
      French literature, have, by the mere fact of their age, rather slipped out
      of the list of books known to the general reader. The general reader who
      reads for amusement can not possibly do better than proceed to transform
      his ignorance of them into knowledge.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    JULES CLARETIE
                  de l&rsquo;Academie Francaise.

</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      GERFAUT
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 1.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I. THE TRAVELLER
    </h2>
    <p>
      During the first days of the month of September, 1832, a young man about
      thirty years of age was walking through one of the valleys in Lorraine
      originating in the Vosges mountains. A little river which, after a few
      leagues of its course, flows into the Moselle, watered this wild basin
      shut in between two parallel lines of mountains. The hills in the south
      became gradually lower and finally dwindled away into the plain. Alongside
      the plateau, arranged in amphitheatres, large square fields stripped of
      their harvest lay here and there in the primitive forest; in other places,
      innumerable oaks and elms had been dethroned to give place to plantations
      of cherry-trees, whose symmetrical rows promised an abundant harvest.
    </p>
    <p>
      This contest of nature with industry is everywhere, but is more pronounced
      in hilly countries. The scene changed, however, as one penetrated farther,
      and little by little the influence of the soil gained ascendancy. As the
      hills grew nearer together, enclosing the valley in a closer embrace, the
      clearings gave way to the natural obduracy of the soil. A little farther
      on they disappeared entirely. At the foot of one of the bluffs which
      bordered with its granite bands the highest plateau of the mountain, the
      forest rolled victoriously down to the banks of the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now came patches of forest, like solid battalions of infantry; sometimes
      solitary trees appeared, as if distributed by chance upon the grassy
      slopes, or scaling the summit of the steepest rocks like a body of bold
      sharpshooters. A little, unfrequented road, if one can judge from the
      scarcity of tracks, ran alongside the banks of the stream, climbing up and
      down hills; overcoming every obstacle, it stretched out in almost a
      straight line. One might compare it to those strong characters who mark
      out a course in life and imperturbably follow it. The river, on the
      contrary, like those docile and compliant minds that bend to agreeable
      emergencies, described graceful curves, obeying thus the caprices of the
      soil which served as its bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a first glance, the young man who was walking alone in the midst of
      this picturesque country seemed to have nothing remarkable in his dress; a
      straw hat, a blue blouse and linen trousers composed his costume. It would
      have been very natural to take him for an Alsatian peasant returning to
      his village through the Vosges&rsquo;s rough pathways; but a more attentive
      glance quickly dispelled this conjecture. There is something in the way in
      which a person wears the plainest costume which betrays the real man, no
      matter how he may be clothed. Thus, nothing could be more modest than this
      traveller&rsquo;s blouse, but the absence on collar and sleeves of the
      arabesques in white or red thread, the pride of all village dandies, was
      sufficient for one to realize that this was not a fancy costume.
    </p>
    <p>
      His expressive, but not handsome face was dark, it is true, but it did not
      look as if wind or sun had contributed to its complexion; it seemed rather
      to have lost by a sedentary life something of the southern carnation,
      which had ended by blending these warmer tints into a dead uniform pallor.
      Finally, if, as one may suppose after different diagnoses, this person had
      the slightest desire to play the role of Tyrcis or Amintas, his white
      hand, as carefully cared for as a pretty woman&rsquo;s, would have been
      sufficient to betray him. It was evident that the man was above his
      costume; a rare thing! The lion&rsquo;s ears pierced the ass&rsquo;s skin this time.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was three o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon; the sky, which had been overcast
      all the morning, had assumed, within a few moments, a more sombre aspect;
      large clouds were rapidly moving from south to north, rolled one over
      another by an ominous wind. So the traveller, who had just entered the
      wildest part of the valley, seemed very little disposed to admire its fine
      vegetation and romantic sites. Impatient to reach the end of his journey,
      or fearing the approaching storm, he quickened his steps; but this pace
      was not kept long. At the end of a few moments, having crossed a small
      clearing, he found himself at the entrance of a lawn where the road
      divided in two directions, one continuing to skirt the river banks, the
      other, broader and better built, turning to the left into a winding
      ravine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Which of these two roads should he follow? He did not know. The profound
      solitude of the place made him fear that he might not meet any one who
      could direct him, when the sound of a psalm vigorously chanted reached his
      ears from the distance. Soon it became more distinct, and he recognized
      the words, &lsquo;In exitu Israel de Egypto&rsquo;, sung at the top of the lungs by a
      voice so shrill that it would have irritated the larynx of any of the
      sopranos at the Opera. Its vibrating but sharp tones resounded so clearly
      in the dead silence of the forest that a number of stanzas were finished
      before the pious musician came in sight. At last a drove of cattle
      appeared through the trees which bordered the road on the left, walking
      with a slow, grave step; they were driven by a little shepherd about nine
      or ten years of age, who interrupted his song from time to time to
      reassemble the members of his flock with heavy blows from his whip, thus
      uniting temporal cares with those of a spiritual nature with a coolness
      which the most important personages might have envied him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which of these roads leads to Bergenheim?&rdquo; called out the traveller when
      they were near enough to speak to each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bergenheim!&rdquo; repeated the child, taking off his cotton cap, which was
      striped like a rainbow, and adding a few words in an unintelligible
      Gallo-Germanic patois.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not French, then?&rdquo; asked the stranger, in a disappointed tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shepherd raised his head proudly and replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Alsatian, not French!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man smiled at this trait of local patriotism so common then in
      the beautiful province by the Rhine; then he thought that pantomime might
      be necessary, so he pointed with his finger first at one road, then at the
      other:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There or there, Bergenheim?&rdquo; asked he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child, in his turn, pointed silently with the tip of his whip to the
      banks of the river, designating, at some distance on the other side, a
      thicket of woods behind which a slight column of smoke was rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The deuce!&rdquo; murmured the stranger, &ldquo;it seems that I have gone astray; if
      the chateau is on the other side, where can I establish my ambuscade?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shepherd seemed to understand the traveller&rsquo;s embarrassment. Gazing at
      him with his intelligent blue eyes, he traced, with the tip of his toe in
      the middle of the road, a furrow across which he rounded his whip like the
      arch of a bridge; then he pointed a second time up the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are an honor to your country, young fellow,&rdquo; exclaimed the stranger;
      &ldquo;there is the material in you to make one of Cooper&rsquo;s redskins.&rdquo; As he
      said these words he threw a piece of money into the child&rsquo;s cap and walked
      rapidly away in the direction indicated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Alsatian stood motionless for a few moments with one hand in his blond
      hair and his eyes fastened upon the piece of silver which shone like a
      star in the bottom of his cap; when the one whom he considered as a model
      of extraordinary generosity had disappeared behind the trees, he gave vent
      to his joy by heavy blows from his whip upon the backs of the cattle, then
      he resumed his way, singing in a still more triumphant tone: &lsquo;Mantes
      exultaverunt ut arites&rsquo;, and jumping higher himself than all the hills and
      rams in the Bible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man had not walked more than five minutes before he recognized
      the correctness of the directions he had received. The ground which he had
      passed over was a field covered with clumps of low trees; it was easy to
      see by its disc-like shape that it had been formed by successive alluvia,
      at the expense of the other shore, which had been incessantly worn away by
      the stream. This sort of flat, level peninsula was crossed in a straight
      line by the road, which deviated from the river at the point where the two
      roads came together again, like the cross and string of a bow at its
      extremity. The trees, becoming thinner, revealed a perspective all the
      more wonderful as it was unexpected. While the eye followed the widening
      stream, which disappeared in the depths of a mountainous gorge, a new
      prospect suddenly presented itself on the right upon the other shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      A second valley, smaller than the first and in measure its vassal, formed
      an amphitheatre the crest of which was bordered by a fringe of
      perpendicular rocks as white as dried bones. Under this crown, which
      rendered it almost inaccessible, the little valley was resplendent in its
      wealth of evergreen trees, oaks with their knotty branches, and its fresh
      green turf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Taken as a whole, it was a foundation worthy of the picturesque edifice
      which met one&rsquo;s eye in the foreground, and at which the traveller gazed
      with extreme interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the junction of the two valleys stood an enormous building, half
      manorial, half monastic in appearance. The shore formed, at this point,
      for an extent of several hundred feet, a bluff whose edge plunged
      vertically into the river. The chateau and its outbuildings rested upon
      this solid base. The principal house was a large parallelogram of very old
      construction, but which had evidently been almost entirely rebuilt at the
      beginning of the sixteenth century. The stones, of grayish granite which
      abounds in the Vosges, were streaked with blue and violet veins, and gave
      the facade a sombre aspect, increased by the scarcity of windows, some of
      which were &lsquo;a la Palladio&rsquo;, others almost as narrow as loop-holes. An
      immense roof of red tile, darkened by rain, projected several feet over
      the whole front, as is still to be seen in old cities in the North. Thanks
      to this projecting weather-board, the apartments upon the upper floor were
      shaded from the sun&rsquo;s rays, like those persons who have weak eyes and who
      protect them from a strong light by wearing a green shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      The view which this melancholy dwelling presented from the place where the
      traveller had first seen it, was one which made it appear to the best
      advantage; it seemed, from this point, to come immediately out of the
      river, built as it was upon the very curb of the bluffs, at this place at
      least thirty feet high. This elevation, added to that of the building,
      effaced the lack of proportion of the roof and gave to the whole a most
      imposing appearance; it seemed as if the rocks were a part of the building
      to which it served as foundation, for the stones had ended by assuming the
      same color, and it would have been difficult to discover the junction of
      man&rsquo;s work and that of nature, had it not been outlined by a massive iron
      balcony running across the entire length of the first story, whence one
      could enjoy the pleasure of line-fishing. Two round towers with pointed
      roofs stood at each corner of the facade and seemed to gaze with proud
      satisfaction at their own reflection in the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      A long line of sycamore-trees skirted the banks of the river, beginning
      from the foot of the chateau, and forming the edge of a park which
      extended to the back of the double valley. A little wooden bridge
      connected this sort of avenue with the road the traveller had just passed
      over; but the latter did not seem disposed to profit by this silent
      invitation to which large raindrops gave more emphasis. He was so absorbed
      in his meditation that, to arouse him, it needed the sound of a gruff
      voice behind him uttering these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what I call an ugly castle! It is hardly as good as our common
      country houses around Marseilles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The stranger turned quickly around and found himself face to face with a
      man wearing a gray cap and carrying his coat upon his shoulder, as workmen
      do in the South. He held in his hand a knotty stick which had been
      recently cut. The newcomer had a swarthy complexion, harsh features, and
      deep-set eyes which gave his face an ugly, false expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said an ugly castle,&rdquo; continued he. &ldquo;However, the cage is made for the
      bird.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems, then, that you do not like its master?&rdquo; said the traveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The master!&rdquo; repeated the workman, seizing hold of his stick with a
      threatening air, &ldquo;Monsieur le Baron de Bergenheim, as they say! He is rich
      and a nobleman, and I am only a poor carpenter. Well, then, if you stay
      here a few days, you will witness a comical ceremony; I shall make this
      brigand repent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brigand!&rdquo; exclaimed the stranger, in a surprised tone. &ldquo;What has he done
      to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, brigand! you may tell him so from me. But, by the way,&rdquo; continued
      the workman, surveying his companion from head to foot with a searching,
      defiant air, &ldquo;do you happen to be the carpenter who is coming from
      Strasbourg? In that case, I have a few words to say to you. Lambernier
      does not allow any one to take the bread out of his mouth in that way; do
      you understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man seemed very little moved by this declaration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not a carpenter,&rdquo; said he, smiling, &ldquo;and I have no wish for your
      work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, you do not look as if you had pushed a plane very often. It seems
      that in your business one does not spoil one&rsquo;s hands. You are a workman
      about as much as I am pope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This remark made the one to whom it was addressed feel in as bad a humor
      as an author does when he finds a grammatical error in one of his books.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you work at the chateau, then,&rdquo; said he, finally, to change the
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For six months I have worked in that shanty,&rdquo; replied the workman; &ldquo;I am
      the one who carved the new woodwork, and I will say it is well done. Well,
      this great wild boar of a Bergenheim turned me out of the house yesterday
      as if I had been one of his dogs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He doubtless had his reasons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you, I will crush him&mdash;reasons! Damn it! They told him I
      talked too often with his wife&rsquo;s maid and quarrelled with the servants, a
      pack of idlers! Did he not forbid my putting my foot upon his land? I am
      upon his land now; let him come and chase me off; let him come, he will
      see how I shall receive him. Do you see this stick? I have just cut it in
      his own woods to use it on himself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man no longer listened to the workman; his eyes were turned
      toward the castle, whose slightest details he studied, as if he hoped that
      in the end the stone would turn into glass and let him see the interior.
      If this curiosity had any other object than the architecture and form of
      the building it was not gratified. No human figure came to enliven this
      sad, lonely dwelling. All the windows were closed, as if the house were
      uninhabited. The baying of dogs, probably imprisoned in their kennel, was
      the only sound which came to break the strange silence, and the distant
      thunder, with its dull rumbling, repeated by the echoes, responded
      plaintively, and gave a lugubrious character to the scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When one speaks of the devil he appears,&rdquo; said the workman, suddenly,
      with an emotion which gave the lie to his recent bravado; &ldquo;if you wish to
      see this devil incarnate of a Bergenheim, just turn your head. Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words he leaped a ditch at the left of the road and disappeared
      in the bushes. The stranger also seemed to feel an impression very like
      that of Lambernier&rsquo;s as he saw a man on horseback advancing on a gallop.
      Instead of waiting for him, he darted into the field which descended to
      the river, and hid behind a group of trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baron, who was not more than thirty-three years of age, had one of
      those energetic, handsome faces whose type seems to belong particularly to
      old military families. His bright, blond hair and clear, blue eyes
      contrasted strongly with his ruddy complexion; his aspect was severe, but
      noble and imposing, in spite of his negligent dress, which showed that
      indifference to matters of personal attire which becomes habitual with
      country lords. His tall figure was beginning to grow stout, and that
      increased his athletic appearance. He sat very erect in his saddle, and
      from the way in which he straightened out his long legs against the sides
      of his beast, one suspected that he could, if necessary, repeat the
      Marshal de Saxe&rsquo;s feats of skill. He stopped his horse suddenly at the
      very spot which the two men had just vacated and called out in a voice
      which would startle a regiment of cuirassiers:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, Lambernier!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The carpenter hesitated a moment, at this imperative call, between the
      fear which he could not overcome and shame at fleeing from a single man in
      the presence of a witness; finally this last feeling triumphed. He
      returned to the edge of the road without saying a word, and stationed
      himself in an insolent way face to face with the Baron, with his hat drawn
      down over his ears, and grasped through precaution the knotty stick which
      served him as a weapon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lambernier,&rdquo; said the master of the castle, in a severe tone, &ldquo;your
      account was settled yesterday; was it not paid in full? Is anything due
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask nothing of you,&rdquo; replied the workman, brusquely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, why are you wandering about my place when I forbade you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am upon the highway, nobody can prevent me from passing there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are upon my land, and you came out of my woods,&rdquo; replied the Baron,
      emphasizing his words with the firmness of a man who would permit no
      violation of his rights as a landowner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ground upon which I walk is mine,&rdquo; said the workman, in his turn, as
      he struck the end of his stick upon the ground as if to take possession.
      This gesture attracted Bergenheim&rsquo;s attention, and his eyes flashed with a
      sudden light at the sight of the stick which Lambernier held.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You scoundrel!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;you probably regard my trees also as your
      own. Where did you cut that stick?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go and find out,&rdquo; said the workman, accompanying his reply with a
      flourish of the stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baron coolly dismounted, threw the bridle over his horse&rsquo;s neck,
      walked up to the workman, who had taken the position of a practised
      pugilist to receive him, and, without giving him time to strike, he
      disarmed him with one hand by a blow which would have been sufficient to
      uproot the beech rod before it was metamorphosed into a club; with the
      other hand he seized the man by the collar and gave him a shaking that it
      was as impossible to struggle against as if it had been caused by a
      steam-engine. Obeying this irresistible force, in spite of his kicking,
      Lambernier described a dozen circles around his adversary, while the
      latter set these off with some of the hardest blows from green wood that
      ever chastised an insolent fellow. This gymnastic exercise ended by a
      sleight-of-hand trick, which, after making the carpenter pirouette for the
      last time, sent him rolling head-first into a ditch, the bottom of which,
      fortunately for him, was provided with a bed of soft mud. When the
      punishment was over, Bergenheim remounted his horse as tranquilly as he
      had dismounted it, and continued his way toward the chateau.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man, in the midst of the thicket where he was concealed, had
      lost no detail of this rural scene. He could not help having a feeling of
      admiration for this energetic representative of the feudal ages who, with
      no fear of any court of justice or other bourgeois inventions, had thus
      exerted over his own domains the summary justice in force in Eastern
      countries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;France has thrashed Gaul,&rdquo; said he, smiling to himself; &ldquo;if all our men
      had this Bergenheim&rsquo;s iron fist many things determined upon to-day might
      be called in question. If I ever have the slightest difficulty with this
      Milo de Crotona, he may be sure I shall not choose pugilism as my mode of
      discussion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The storm now burst forth in all its fury. A dark curtain covered the
      whole valley, and the rain fell in torrents. The Baron put spurs to his
      horse, crossed the bridge and, entering the sycamore avenue, was soon out
      of sight. Without paying any attention to Lambernier, who was uttering
      imprecations at the bottom of the ditch, into which he was sinking deeper
      and deeper, the stranger went to seek a less illusive shelter than the
      trees under which he had taken his position; but at this moment his
      attention was attracted to one side of the castle. A window, or rather a
      glass door, just then opened upon the balcony, and a young woman in a
      rose-colored negligee appeared upon the dark facade. It would be
      impossible to imagine anything more fresh or charming than this apparition
      at such a moment. Leaning upon the balustrade, the young woman rested her
      face upon a hand which was as white as a lily, and her finger smoothed
      with a mechanical caress the ringlets of chestnut hair that lay upon her
      forehead, while her large brown eyes gazed into the depths of the clouds
      from which the lightning was flashing, and with which they vied in
      brilliancy. A poet would have said it was Miranda evoked by the tempest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger parted the branches before him to get a better view; at the
      same instant he was blinded by a terrible flash which lighted the whole
      valley and was immediately followed by a terrific crash. When he opened
      his eyes the chateau which he believed to be at the bottom of the river
      stood still upright, solemn, and firm as before; but the lady in the
      rose-colored gown had disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II. THE CASTLE OF BERGENHEIM
    </h2>
    <p>
      The appearance of the room into which the lady had precipitately entered,
      when startled by the thunder, corresponded with the edifice to which it
      belonged. It was a very large room, longer than it was wide, and lighted
      by three windows, the middle one of which opened from top to bottom like a
      door and led out upon the balcony. The woodwork and ceiling were in
      chestnut, which time had polished and a skilful hand had ornamented with a
      profusion of allegorical figures. The beauty of this work of art was
      almost entirely concealed by a very remarkable decoration which covered
      every side of the room, consisting of one of the most glorious collections
      of family portraits which a country chateau of the nineteenth century
      could offer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first of these portraits hung opposite the windows at the right of the
      entrance door and was that of a chevalier in full armor, whose teeth
      gleamed from under his long moustache like those of an untamed tiger.
      Beginning with this formidable figure, which bore the date 1247, forty
      others of about the same dimensions were placed in order according to
      their dates. It seemed as if each period had left its mark upon those of
      the personages it had seen live and die, and had left something of its own
      character there.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were more gallant cavaliers cut after the same pattern as the first.
      Their stern, harsh faces, red beards, and broad, square military shoulders
      told that by swordthrusts and broken lances they had founded the nobility
      of their race. An heroic preface to this family biography! A rough and
      warlike page of the Middle Ages! After these proud men-of-arms came
      several figures of a less ferocious aspect, but not so imposing. In these
      portraits of the fifteenth century beards had disappeared with the sword.
      In those wearing caps and velvet toques, silk robes and heavy gold chains
      supporting a badge of the same metal, one recognized lords in full and
      tranquil possession of the fiefs won by their fathers, landowners who had
      degenerated a little and preferred mountain life in a manor to the chances
      of a more hazardous existence. These pacific gentlemen were, for the most
      part, painted with the left hand gloved and resting upon the hip; the
      right one was bare, a sort of token of disarmament which one might take
      for a painter&rsquo;s epigram. Some of them had allowed their favorite dogs to
      share the honors of the picture. All in this group indicated that this
      branch of the family had many points of resemblance with the more
      illustrious faces. It was the period of idle kings.
    </p>
    <p>
      A half dozen solemn personages with gold-braided hats and long red robes
      bordered with ermine, and wearing starched ruffles, occupied one corner of
      the parlor near the windows. These worthy advisers of the Dukes of
      Lorraine explained the way in which the masters of the chateau had
      awakened from the torpor in which they had been plunged for several
      generations, in order to participate in the affairs of their country and
      enter a more active sphere.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the portraits assumed the proportions of history. Did not this
      branch, descended from warlike stock, seem like a fragment taken from the
      European annals? Was it not a symbolical image of the progress of
      civilization, of regular legislation struggling against barbaric customs?
      Thanks to these respectable counsellors and judges, one might reverse the
      motto: &lsquo;Non solum toga&rsquo;, in favor of their race. But it did not seem as if
      these bearded ancestors looked with much gratitude upon this parliamentary
      flower added to their feudal crest. They appeared to look down from the
      height of their worm-eaten frames upon their enrobed descendants with that
      disdainful smile with which the peers of France used to greet men of law
      the first time they were called to sit by their side, after being for so
      long a time at their feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the space between the windows and upon the remaining woodwork was a
      crowd of military men, with here and there an Abbe with cross and mitre, a
      Commander of Malta, and a solemn Canon, sterile branches of this
      genealogical tree. Several among the military ones wore sashes and plumes
      of the colors of Lorraine; others, even before the union of this province
      to France, had served the latter country; there were lieutenant-colonels
      of infantry and cavalry; some dressed in blue coats lined with buff serge
      and little round patches of black plush, which served as the uniform for
      the dragoons of the Lorraine legion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Last of all was a young man with an agreeable face, who smiled
      superciliously from under a vast wig of powdered hair; a rose was in the
      buttonhole of his green cloth pelisse with orange facings, a red
      sabrecache hung against his boots a little lower than the hilt of his
      sabre. The costume represented a sprightly officer of the Royal Nassau
      hussars. The portrait was hung on the left of the entrance door and only
      separated by it from his great-grandfather of 1247, whom he might have
      assisted, had these venerable portraits taken some night a fancy to
      descend from their frames to execute a dance such as Hoffmann dreamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      These two persons were the alpha and the omega of this genealogical tree,
      the two extreme links of the chain-one, the root buried in the sands of
      time; the other, the branch which had blossomed at the top. Fate had
      created a tragical resemblance between these two lives, separated by more
      than five centuries. The chevalier in coat-of-mail had been killed in the
      battle of the Mansourah during the first crusade of St. Louis. The young
      man with the supercilious smile had mounted the scaffold during the Reign
      of Terror, holding between his lips a rose, his usual decoration for his
      coat. The history of the French nobility was embodied in these two men,
      born in blood, who had died in blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Large gilded frames of Gothic style surrounded all these portraits. At the
      right, on the bottom of each picture was painted a little escutcheon
      having for its crest a baronial coronet and for supports two wild men
      armed with clubs. The field was red; with its three bulls&rsquo; heads in
      silver, it announced to people well versed in heraldic art that they had
      before them the lineaments of noble and powerful lords, squires of
      Reisnach-Bergenheim, lords of Reisnach in Suabia, barons of the Holy
      Empire, lords of Sapois, Labresse, Gerbamont, etc., counts of Bergenheim,
      the latter title granted them by Louis XV, chevaliers of Lorraine, etc.,
      etc., etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      This ostentatious enumeration was not needed in order to recognize the
      kindred of all these noble personages. Had they been mingled with other
      portraits, a careful observer would have promptly distinguished and
      reunited them, so pronounced were the family features common to them all.
      The furniture of the room was not unworthy of these proud defunct ones.
      High-backed chairs and enormous armchairs, dating from the time of Louis
      XIII; more modern sofas, which had been made to harmonize with the older
      furniture, filled the room. They were covered with flowered tapestry in
      thousands of shades, which must have busied the white hands of the ladies
      of the house for two or three generations past.
    </p>
    <p>
      The row of portraits was interrupted on one side by a large fireplace of
      grayish granite, which was too high for one to hang a mirror above or to
      place ornaments upon its mantel. Opposite was an ebony console inlaid with
      ivory, upon which was placed one of those elegant clocks whose delicate
      and original chased work has not been eclipsed by any modern workmanship.
      Two large Japanese vases accompanied it; the whole was reflected in an
      antique mirror which hung above the console; its edges were bevelled,
      doubtless in order to cause one to admire the thickness of the glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be impossible to imagine a stronger contrast than that of this
      Gothic room with the lady in the rose-colored gown who had just entered it
      so precipitately. The fire upon the hearth threw a warm light over the old
      portraits, and it was heightened by the heavy, red damask curtains which
      hung by the windows. The light sometimes softened, sometimes revivified by
      some sudden flash of the flames, glanced over the scowling faces and red
      beards, enlivening the eyes and giving a supernatural animation to those
      lifeless canvases. One would have said that the cold, grave faces looked
      with curiosity at the young woman with graceful movements and cool
      garments, whom Aladdin&rsquo;s genii seemed to have transported from the most
      elegant boudoir on the Chaussee d&rsquo;Antin, and thrown, still frightened,
      into the midst of this strange assembly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are crazy, Clemence, to leave that window open!&rdquo; said at this moment
      an old voice issuing from an armchair placed in a corner near the
      fireplace.
    </p>
    <p>
      The person who broke the charm of this silent scene was a woman of sixty
      or seventy years of age, according to the gallantry of the calculator. It
      was easy to judge that she was tall and thin as she lay, rather than sat,
      in her chair with its back lowered down. She was dressed in a
      yellowish-brown gown. A false front as black as jet, surmounted by a cap
      with poppy-colored ribbons, framed her face. She had sharp, withered
      features, and the brilliancy of her primitive freshness had been converted
      into a blotched and pimpled complexion which affected above all her nose
      and cheek-bones, but whose ardor had been dimmed only a trifle by age.
      There was something about the whole face as crabbed, sour, and unkind as
      if she had daily bathed it in vinegar. One could read old maid in every
      feature! Besides, a slight observation of her ways would have destroyed
      all lingering doubt in this respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      A large, coffee-colored pug-dog was lying before the fire. This
      interesting animal served as a footstool for his mistress, stretched in
      her easy-chair, and recalled to mind the lions which sleep at the foot of
      chevaliers in their Gothic tombs. As a pug-dog and an old maid pertain to
      each other, it was only necessary, in order to divine this venerable
      lady&rsquo;s state, to read the name upon the golden circlet which served as a
      collar for the dog: &ldquo;Constance belongs to Mademoiselle de Corandeuil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before the younger lady, who was leaning upon the back of a chair, seeming
      to breathe with difficulty, had time to reply, she received a second
      injunction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, aunt,&rdquo; said she, at last, &ldquo;it was a horrible crash! Did you not hear
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not so deaf as that yet,&rdquo; replied the old maid. &ldquo;Shut that window;
      do you not know that currents of air attract lightning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence obeyed, dropping the curtain to shut out the flashes of lightning
      which continued to dart through the heavens; she then approached the
      fireplace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since you are so afraid of lightning,&rdquo; said her aunt; &ldquo;which, by the way,
      is perfectly ridiculous in a Corandeuil, what induced you to go out upon
      the balcony? The sleeve of your gown is wet. That is the way one gets
      cold; afterward, there is nothing but an endless array of syrups and
      drugs. You ought to change your gown and put on something warmer. Who
      would ever think of dressing like that in such weather as this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you, aunt, it is not cold. It is because you have a habit of
      always being near the fire&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! habit! when you are my age you will not hint at such a thing. Now,
      everything goes wonderfully well; you never listen to my advice&mdash;you
      go out in the wind and rain with that flighty Aline and your husband, who
      has no more sense than his sister; you will pay for it later. Open the
      curtains, I pray; the storm is over, and I wish to read the Gazette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young woman obeyed a second time and stood with her forehead pressed
      against the glass. The distant rumbling of the thunder announced the end
      of the storm; but a few flashes still traversed the horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt,&rdquo; said she, after a moment&rsquo;s silence, &ldquo;come and look at the Montigny
      rocks; when the lightning strikes them they look like a file of silver
      columns or a procession of ghosts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a romantic speech,&rdquo; growled the old lady, never taking her eyes from
      her paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you I am not romantic the least in the world,&rdquo; replied Clemence.
      &ldquo;I simply find the storm a distraction, and here, you know, there is no
      great choice of pleasures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you find it dull?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, aunt, horribly so!&rdquo; At these words, pronounced with a heartfelt
      accent, the young woman dropped into an armchair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil took off her eye-glasses, put the paper upon
      the table and gazed for several moments at her pretty niece&rsquo;s face, which
      was tinged with a look of deep melancholy. She then straightened herself
      up in her chair, and, leaning forward, asked in a low tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you had any trouble with your husband?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If so, I should not be so bored,&rdquo; replied Clemence, in a gay tone, which
      she repented immediately, for she continued more calmly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, aunt; Christian is kind, very kind; he is very much attached to me,
      and full of good-humor and attentions. You have seen how he has allowed me
      to arrange my apartments to suit myself, even taking down the partition
      and enlarging the windows; and yet, you know how much he clings to
      everything that is old about the house. He tries to do everything for my
      pleasure. Did he not go to Strasbourg the other day to buy a pony for me,
      because I thought Titania was too skittish? It would be impossible to show
      greater kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your husband,&rdquo; suddenly interrupted Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, for she
      held the praise of others in sovereign displeasure, &ldquo;is a Bergenheim like
      all the Bergenheims present, past, and future, including your little
      sister-in-law, who appears more as if she had been brought up with boys
      than at the &lsquo;Sacred Heart.&rsquo; He is a worthy son of his father there,&rdquo; said
      she, pointing to one of the portraits near the young Royal-Nassau officer;
      &ldquo;and he was the most brutal, unbearable, and detestable of all the
      dragoons in Lorraine; so much so that he got into three quarrels at Nancy
      in one month, and at Metz, over a game of checkers, he killed the poor
      Vicomte de Megrigny, who was worth a hundred of him and danced so well!
      Some one described Bergenheim as being &lsquo;proud as a peacock, as stubborn as
      a mule, and as furious as a lion!&rsquo; Ugly race! ugly race! What I say to you
      now, Clemence, is to excuse your husband&rsquo;s faults, for it would be time
      lost to try to correct them. However, all men are alike; and since you are
      Madame de Bergenheim, you must accept your fate and bear it as well as
      possible. And then, if you have your troubles, you still have your good
      aunt to whom you can confide them and who will not allow you to be
      tyrannized over. I will speak to your husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence saw, from the first words of this tirade, that she must arm
      herself with resignation; for anything which concerned the Bergenheims
      aroused one of the hobbies which the old maid rode with a most complacent
      spite; so she settled herself back in her chair like a person who would at
      least be comfortable while she listened to a tiresome discourse, and
      busied herself during this lecture caressing with the tip of a very
      shapely foot the top of one of the andirons.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, aunt,&rdquo; said she at last, when the tirade was over, and she gave a
      rather drawling expression to her voice, &ldquo;I can not understand why you
      have taken this idea into your head that Christian renders me unhappy. I
      repeat it, it is impossible that one should be kinder to me than he, and,
      on my side, I have the greatest respect and friendship for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, if he is such a pearl of husbands, if you live so much like
      turtle-doves-and, to tell the truth, I do not believe a word of it&mdash;what
      causes this ennui of which you complain and which has been perfectly
      noticeable for some time? When I say ennui, it is more than that; it is
      sadness, it is grief? You grow thinner every day; you are as pale as a
      ghost; just at this moment, your complexion is gone; you will end by being
      a regular fright. They say that it is the fashion to be pale nowadays; a
      silly notion, indeed, but it will not last, for complexion makes the
      woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old lady said this like a person who had her reasons for not liking
      pale complexions, and who gladly took pimples for roses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim bowed her head as if to acquiesce in this decision,
      and then resumed in her drawling voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that I am very unreasonable, and I am often vexed with myself for
      having so little control over my feelings, but it is beyond my strength. I
      have a tired sensation, a disgust for everything, something which I can
      not overcome. It is an inexplicable physical and moral languor, for which,
      for this reason, I see no remedy. I am weary and I suffer; I am sure it
      will end in my being ill. Sometimes I wish I were dead. However, I have
      really no reason to be unhappy. I suppose I am happy&mdash;I ought to be
      happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, I can not understand in the least the women of today. Formerly,
      upon exciting occasions, we had a good nervous attack and all was over;
      the crisis passed, we became amiable again, put on rouge and went to a
      ball. Now it is languor, ennui, stomach troubles&mdash;all imagination and
      humbug! The men are just as bad, and they call it spleen! Spleen! a new
      discovery, an English importation! Fine things come to us from England; to
      begin with, the constitutional government! All this is perfectly
      ridiculous. As for you, Clemence, you ought to put an end to such
      childishness. Two months ago, in Paris, you did not have any of the rest
      that you enjoy here. I had serious reasons for wishing to delay my
      departure; my apartment to refurnish, my neuralgia which still troubles me&mdash;and
      Constance, who had just been in the hands of the doctor, was hardly in a
      condition to travel, poor creature! You would listen to nothing; we had to
      submit to your caprices, and now&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, aunt, you admitted yourself that it was the proper thing for me to
      do, to join my husband. Was it not enough, and too much, to have left him
      to pass the entire winter alone here while I was dancing in Paris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was very proper, of course, and I do not blame you. But why does the
      very thing you so much desired two months ago bore you so terribly now? In
      Paris you talked all the time of Bergenheim, longed only for Bergenheim,
      you had duties to fulfil, you wished to be with your husband; you bothered
      and wore me out with your conjugal love. When back at Bergenheim, you
      dream and sigh for Paris. Do not shake your head; I am an old aunt to whom
      you pay no heed, but who sees clearly yet. Will you do me the favor to
      tell me what it is that you regret in Paris at this time of the year, when
      there are no balls or parties, and not one human being worth visiting, for
      all the people you know are in the country? Is it because&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil did not finish her sentence, but she put a
      severity into these three words which seemed to condense all the
      quintessence of prudery that a celibacy of sixty years could coagulate in
      an old maid&rsquo;s heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence raised her eyes to her aunt&rsquo;s face as if to demand an
      explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was such a calm, steady glance that the latter could not help being
      impressed by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, softening her voice, &ldquo;there is no necessity for putting
      on such queenly airs; we are here alone, and you know that I am a kind
      aunt to you. Now, then, speak freely&mdash;have you left anything or any
      person in Paris, the remembrance of which makes your sojourn here more
      tiresome than it really is? Any of your adorers of the winter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an idea, aunt! Did I have any adorers?&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de
      Bergenheim, quickly, as if trying to conceal by a smile the rosy flush
      that mounted to her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if you should have some, child?&rdquo; continued the old maid, to whom
      curiosity lent an unaccustomed coaxing accent to her voice, &ldquo;where would
      be the harm? Is it forbidden to please? When one is of good birth, must
      one not live in society and hold one&rsquo;s position there? One need not bury
      one&rsquo;s self in a desert at twenty-three years of age, and you really are
      charming enough to inspire love; you understand, I do not say, to
      experience it; but when one is young and pretty conquests are made almost
      unwittingly. You are not the first of the family to whom that has
      happened; you are a Corandeuil. Now, then, my good Clemence, what troubled
      heart is pining for you in Paris? Is it Monsieur de Mauleon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Mauleon!&rdquo; exclaimed the young woman, bursting into laughter;
      &ldquo;he, a heart! and a troubled one, too! Oh, aunt, you do him honor!
      Monsieur de Mauleon, who is past forty-five years old and wears stays! an
      audacious man who squeezes his partners&rsquo; hands in the dance and looks at
      them with passionate glances! Oh! Monsieur de Mauleon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil sanctioned by a slight grimace of her thin lips
      her niece&rsquo;s burst of gayety, when, with one hand upon her heart, she
      rolled her sparkling eyes in imitation of the languishing air of her
      unfortunate adorer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it is Monsieur d&rsquo;Arzenac?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur d&rsquo;Arzenac is certainly very nice; he has perfect manners; it may
      be that he did not disdain to chat with me; on my side, I found his
      conversation very entertaining; but you may rest assured that he did not
      think of me nor I of him. Besides, you know that he is engaged to marry
      Mademoiselle de la Neuville.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Gerfaut?&rdquo; continued Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, with the
      persistency with which aged people follow an idea, and as if determined to
      pass in review all the young men of their acquaintance until she had
      discovered her niece&rsquo;s secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter was silent a moment before replying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you think of such a thing, aunt?&rdquo; said she at last, &ldquo;a man with
      such a bad reputation, who writes books that one hardly dares read, and
      plays that it&rsquo;s almost a sin to witness! Did you not hear Madame de
      Pontivers say that a young woman who cared for her reputation would permit
      his visits very rarely?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame de Pontivers is a prude, whom I can not endure, with her show of
      little, grimaces and her pretentious, outrageous mock-modesty. Did she not
      take it into her head this winter to constitute me her chaperon? I gave
      her to understand that a widow forty years old was quite old enough to go
      about alone! She has a mania for fearing that she may be compromised. The
      idea of turning up her nose at Monsieur de Gerfaut! What presumption! He
      certainly is too clever ever to solicit the honor of being bored to death
      in her house; for he is clever, very clever. I never could understand your
      dislike for him, nor your haughty manner of treating him; especially,
      during the latter part of our stay in Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One is not mistress of one&rsquo;s dislikes or affections, aunt. But to reply
      to your questions, I will say that you may rest assured that none of these
      gentlemen, nor any of those whom you might name, has the slightest effect
      upon my state of mind. I am bored because it probably is my nature to need
      distractions, and there are none in this deserted place. It is an
      involuntary disagreeableness, for which I reproach myself and which I hope
      will pass away. Rest assured, that the root of the evil does not lie in my
      heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil understood by the cold and rather dry tone in
      which these words were spoken that her niece wished to keep her secret, if
      she had one; she could not prevent a gesture of anger as she saw her
      advances thus repelled, but felt that she was no wiser than when she began
      the conversation. She manifested her disappointment by pushing the dog
      aside with her foot&mdash;the poor thing was perfectly innocent!&mdash;and
      in a cross tone, which was much more familiar than her former coaxing one,
      she continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, since I am wrong, since your husband adores you and you him,
      since, to sum it all up, your heart is perfectly tranquil and free, your
      conduct is devoid of common-sense, and I advise you to change it. I warn
      you that all this hypochondria, paleness, and languor are caprices which
      are very disagreeable to others. There is a Provence proverb which says:
      Vaillance de Blacas, prudence de Pontevez, caprice de Corandeuil. If there
      was not such a saying, it should be created for you, for you have
      something incomprehensible enough in your character to make a saint swear.
      If anybody should know you, it is I, who brought you up. I do not wish to
      reproach you, but you gave me trouble enough; you were a most wayward,
      capricious, and fantastic creature, a spoiled child&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt,&rdquo; interrupted Clemence, with heightened color in her pale cheeks,
      &ldquo;you have told me of my faults often enough for me to know them, and, if
      they were not corrected, it was not your fault, for you never spared me
      scoldings. If I had not been so unfortunate as to lose my mother when I
      was a baby, I should not have given you so much trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tears came into the young woman&rsquo;s eyes, but she had enough control over
      herself to keep them from streaming down her burning cheeks. Taking a
      journal from the table, she opened it, in order to conceal her emotion and
      to put an end to this conversation, which had become painful to her.
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, on her side, carefully replaced her
      eye-glasses upon her nose, and, solemnly stretching herself upon her
      chair, she turned over the leaves of the &lsquo;Gazette de France,&rsquo; which she
      had neglected so long.
    </p>
    <p>
      Silence reigned for some moments in the room. The aunt apparently read the
      paper very attentively. Her niece sat motionless, with her eyes fastened
      upon the yellow cover of the last number of &lsquo;La Mode,&rsquo; which had chanced
      to fall into her hands. She aroused herself at last from her revery and
      carelessly turned over the leaves of the review in a manner which showed
      how little interest she felt in it. As she turned the first page a
      surprised cry escaped her, and her eyes were fastened upon the pamphlet
      with eager curiosity. Upon the frontispiece, where the Duchesse de Berry&rsquo;s
      coat-of-arms is engraved, and in the middle of the shield, which was left
      empty at this time by the absence of the usual fleurs de lys, was sketched
      with a pencil a bird whose head was surmounted by a baron&rsquo;s coronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Curious to know what could have caused her niece so much surprise,
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stretched out her neck and gazed for an instant
      upon the page without seeing, at first, anything extraordinary, but
      finally her glance rested upon the armorial bearings, and she discovered
      the new feature added to the royal Bourbon coat-of-arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cock!&rdquo; exclaimed she, after a moment&rsquo;s reflection; &ldquo;a cock upon
      Madame&rsquo;s shield! What can that mean, &lsquo;bon Dieu&rsquo;! and it is not engraved
      nor lithographed; it is drawn with a pencil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not a cock, it is a crowned gerfaut,&rdquo; said Madame de Bergenheim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gerfaut! How do you know what a gerfaut is? At Corandeuil, in your
      grandfather&rsquo;s time, there was a falconry, and I have seen gerfauts there,
      but you&mdash;I tell you it is a cock, an old French cock; ugly thing!
      What you take for a coronet&mdash;and it really does resemble one&mdash;is
      a badly drawn cock&rsquo;s comb. How did this horrid creature come to be there?
      I should like to know if such pretty tricks are permitted at the
      postoffice. People protest against the &lsquo;cabinet noir&rsquo;, but it is a hundred
      times worse if one is permitted to outrage with impunity peaceable
      families in their own homes. I mean to find out who has played this trick.
      Will you be so kind as to ring the bell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It really is very strange!&rdquo; said Madame de Bergenheim, pulling the
      bell-rope with a vivacity which showed that she shared, if not the
      indignation, at least the curiosity of her aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      A servant in green livery appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who went to Remiremont yesterday for the newspapers?&rdquo; asked Mademoiselle
      de Corandeuil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was Pere Rousselet, Mademoiselle,&rdquo; replied the servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Monsieur de Bergenheim?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Baron is playing billiards with Mademoiselle Aline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send Leonard Rousselet here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Mademoiselle de Corandeuil settled herself back in her chair with the
      dignity of a chancellor about to hold court.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III. A DIVIDED HOUSEHOLD
    </h2>
    <p>
      The servants in the castle of Bergenheim formed a family whose members
      were far from living in harmony. The Baron managed his household himself,
      and employed a large number of day-laborers, farm servants, and
      kitchen-girls, whom the liveried servants treated with great disdain. The
      rustics, on their side, resisted these privileged lackeys and called them
      &ldquo;coxcombs&rdquo; and &ldquo;Parisians,&rdquo; sometimes accompanying these remarks with the
      most expressive blows. Between these tribes of sworn enemies a third
      class, much less numerous, found them selves in a critical position; these
      were the two servants brought by Mademoiselle de Corandeuil. It was
      fortunate for them that their mistress liked large, vigorous men, and had
      chosen them for their broad, military shoulders; but for that it would
      have been impossible for them to come out of their daily quarrels safe and
      sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      The question of superiority between the two households had been the first
      apple of discord; a number of personal quarrels followed to inflame them.
      They fought for their colors the whole time; the Bergenheim livery was
      red, the Corandeuil green. There were two flags; each exalted his own
      while throwing that of his adversaries in the mud. Greenhorn and crab were
      jokes; cucumber and lobster were insults.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the gracious terms exchanged every day between the two parties.
      In the midst of this civil war, which was carefully concealed from their
      masters&rsquo; eyes, whose severity they feared, lived one rather singular
      personage. Leonard Rousselet, Pere Rousselet, as he was generally called,
      was an old peasant who, disheartened with life, had made various efforts
      to get out of his sphere, but had never succeeded in doing so. Having been
      successively hairdresser, sexton, school-teacher, nurse, and gardener, he
      had ended, when sixty years old, by falling back to the very point whence
      he started. He had no particular employment in M. de Bergenheim&rsquo;s house;
      he went on errands, cared for the gardens, and doctored the mules and
      horses; he was a tall man, about as much at ease in his clothing as a dry
      almond in its shell. A long, dark, yellow coat usually hung about the
      calves of his legs, which were covered with long, blue woollen stockings,
      and looked more like vine-poles than human legs; a conformation which
      furnished daily jokes for the other servants, to which the old man deigned
      no response save a disdainful smile, grumbling through his teeth,
      &ldquo;Menials, peasants without education.&rdquo; This latter speech expressed the
      late gardener&rsquo;s scorn, for it had been his greatest grief to pass for an
      uneducated man; and he had gathered from his various conditions a
      singularly dignified and pretentious way of speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of his self-confidence, it was not without some emotion that
      Leonard Rousselet responded to this call to appear in the drawing-room
      before the person he most feared in the chateau. His bearing showed this
      feeling when he presented himself at the drawing-room door, where he stood
      as grave and silent as Banquo&rsquo;s ghost. Constance arose at sight of this
      fantastic figure, barked furiously and darted toward a pair of legs for
      which she seemed to share the irreverence of the liveried servants; but
      the texture of the blue stocking and the flesh which covered the tibia
      were rather too hard morsels for the dowager&rsquo;s teeth; she was obliged to
      give up the attack and content herself with impotent barks, while the old
      man, who would gladly have given a month&rsquo;s wages to break her jaw with the
      tip of his, boot, caressed her with his hand, saying, &ldquo;Softly, pretty
      dear! softly, pretty little creature!&rdquo; in a hypocritical tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      This courtier-like conduct touched the old lady&rsquo;s heart and softened the
      severe look upon her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop your noise, Constance,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;lie down beside your mistress.
      Rousselet, come nearer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man obeyed, walking across the floor with reverential bows, and
      taking a position like a soldier presenting arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were the one,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, &ldquo;who was sent to
      Remiremont yesterday? Did you perform all the commissions that were given
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not among the impossibilities, Mademoiselle, that I may have
      neglected some of them,&rdquo; replied the old man, fearing to compromise
      himself by a positive affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell us, then, what you did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Leonard wiped his nose behind his hat, like a well-bred orator, and,
      balancing himself upon his legs in a way not at all Bourbonic, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I went to the city that morning myself because Monsieur le Baron had said
      the night before that he should hunt to-day, and that the groom was to
      help Monsieur le Baron drive a wild boar out of the Corne woods. I reached
      Remiremont; I went to the butcher&rsquo;s; I purchased five kilogrammes of
      dressed goods&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of dressed goods at the butcher&rsquo;s!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would say ten pounds of what uneducated people call pork,&rdquo; said
      Rousselet, pronouncing this last word in a strangled voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass over these details,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil. &ldquo;You went to
      the post-office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I went to the post-office, where I put in letters for Mademoiselle,
      Madame, Monsieur le Baron, and one from Mademoiselle Aline for Monsieur
      d&rsquo;Artigues.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aline writing to her cousin! Did you know that?&rdquo; said the old aunt,
      turning quickly toward her niece.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; they correspond regularly,&rdquo; replied Clemence with a smile
      which seemed to say that she saw no harm in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old maid shook her head and protruded her under lip, as much as to
      say: We will attend to this another time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim, who was out of patience at this questioning, began
      to speak in a quick tone which was a contrast to her aunt&rsquo;s solemn
      slowness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rousselet,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;when you took the newspapers out of the office,
      did you notice whether the wrappers were intact, or whether they had been
      opened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good man half concealed his face in his cravat at this precise
      questioning, and it was with embarrassment that he replied, after a
      moment&rsquo;s hesitation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, Madame&mdash;as to the wrappers&mdash;I do not accuse the
      postmaster&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the journals were sealed when you received them, you are the only one
      who could have opened them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rousselet straightened himself up to his full height, and, giving to his
      nut-cracker face the most dignified look possible, he said in a solemn
      tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With due deference to you, Madame, Leonard Rousselet is well known.
      Fifty-seven years old on Saint-Hubert&rsquo;s day, I am incapable of opening
      newspapers. When they have been read at the chateau and they send me with
      them to the cure, I do not say&mdash;perhaps on my way&mdash;it is a
      recreation&mdash;and then the cure is Jean Bartou, son of Joseph Bartou,
      the tilemaker. But to read the newspaper before my masters have done so!
      Never! Leonard Rousselet is an old man incapable of such baseness.
      Baptized when a child; fifty-seven years on Saint-Hubert&rsquo;s day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you speak of your pastor, do so in a more becoming manner,&rdquo;
       interrupted Mademoiselle de Colrandeuil, although she herself in private
      did not speak of the plebeian priest in very respectful terms. But if
      Joseph Bartou&rsquo;s son was always the son of Joseph Bartou to her, she meant
      that he should be Monsieur le Cure to the peasants.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim had not been much affected by Pere Rousselet&rsquo;s
      harangue, and shook her head impatiently, saying in an imperative tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am certain that the newspapers have been opened by you, or by some
      person to whom you have given them, and I wish to know at once by whom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rousselet dropped his pose of a Roman senator; passing his hand behind his
      ears, a familiar gesture with people when in embarrassing positions, he
      continued less emphatically:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stopped on my way back at La Fauconnerie, at the &lsquo;Femme-sans-Tete
      Inn&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what were you doing in a tavern?&rdquo; interrupted Mademoiselle de
      Corandeuil severely. &ldquo;You know it is not intended that the servants in
      this house should frequent taverns and such low places, which are not
      respectable and corrupt the morals of the lower classes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Servants! lower classes! Old aristocrat!&rdquo; growled Rousselet secretly;
      but, not daring to show his ill humor, he replied in a bland voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mademoiselle had gone the same road that I did, with the same
      conveyance, she would know that it is a rather thirsty stretch. I stopped
      at the &lsquo;Femme-sans-Tete&rsquo; to wash the dust down my parched throat.
      Whereupon Mademoiselle Reine&mdash;the daughter of Madame Gobillot, the
      landlady of the inn&mdash;Mademoiselle Reine asked me to allow her to look
      at the yellow-journal in which there are fashions for ladies; I asked her
      why; she said it was so that she might see how they made their bonnets,
      gowns, and other finery in Paris. The frivolity of women!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil threw herself back in her chair and gave way to
      an access of hilarity in which she rarely indulged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Gobillot reading La Mode! Mademoiselle Gobillot talking of
      gowns, shawls, and cashmeres! Clemence, what do you say to that? You will
      see, she will be ordering her bonnets from Herbault! Ha! ha! This is what
      is called the progress of civilization, the age of light!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Gobillot,&rdquo; said Clemence, fixing a penetrating glance upon
      the old man, &ldquo;was not the only one who looked at La Mode. Was there no
      other person in the tavern who saw it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; replied Rousselet, forced from his last refuge, &ldquo;there were two
      young men taking their refection, and one of them wore a beard no longer
      than a goat&rsquo;s. Madame will pardon me if I allow myself to use this vulgar
      expression, but Madame wished to know all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the other young man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The other had his facial epidermis shaved as close as a lady&rsquo;s or mine.
      He was the one who held the journal while his comrade was smoking outside
      the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim made no further inquiries, but fell into a profound
      revery. With eyes fixed upon the last number of La Mode, she seemed to
      study the slightest lines of the sketch that had been made thereon, as if
      she hoped to find a solution to the mystery. Her irregular breathing, and
      the bright flush which tinged her usually pale cheeks, would have denoted
      to an eye-witness one of those tempests of the heart, the physical
      manifestations of which are like those of a fever. The pale winter flower
      dying under the snow had suddenly raised its drooping head and recovered
      its color; the melancholy against which the young woman had so vainly
      struggled had disappeared as if by enchantment. A little bird surmounted
      by a coronet, the whole rather badly sketched, was the strange talisman
      that had produced this change.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were commercial travellers,&rdquo; said the old aunt; &ldquo;they always pretend
      to know everything. One of them, doubtless, when reading the well-known
      name of Monsieur de Bergenheim upon the wrapper, sketched the animal in
      question. These gentlemen of industry usually have a rather good
      education! But this is giving the affair more importance than it merits.
      Leonard Rousselet,&rdquo; said she, raising her voice as a judge does in court
      when pronouncing his charge, &ldquo;you were wrong to let anything addressed to
      your master leave your hands. We will excuse you this time, but I warn you
      to be more careful in future; when you go to Madame Gobillot&rsquo;s, you may
      say to Mademoiselle Reine, from me, that if she wishes to read La Mode I
      shall be delighted to procure a subscriber to one of our journals. You may
      retire now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without waiting for this invitation to be repeated, Rousselet backed out
      of the room like an ambassador leaving the royal presence, escorted by
      Constance acting as master of ceremonies. Not having calculated the
      distance, he had just bumped against the door, when it suddenly opened and
      a person of extreme vivacity bounded into the middle of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a very young and petite lady, whose perfectly developed form
      predicted an inclination to stoutness in the future. She belonged to the
      Bergenheim family, if one could credit the resemblance between her
      characteristic features and several of the old portraits in the room; she
      wore a dark-brown riding-habit, a gray hat perched on one side, showing on
      the left a mass of very curly, bright blond hair. This coiffure and the
      long green veil, floating at each movement like the plume in a helmet,
      gave a singularly easy air to the fresh face of this pretty amazon, who
      brandished, in guise of a lance, a billiard cue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clemence,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;I have just beaten Christian; I made the red
      ball, I made the white, and then the double stroke; I made all!
      Mademoiselle, I have just beaten Christian two games; is it not glorious?
      He made only eighteen points in a single game. Pere Rousselet, I have just
      beaten Christian! Do you know how to play billiards?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Aline, I am absolutely ignorant of the game,&rdquo; replied the
      old man, with as gracious a smile as was possible, while he tried to
      recover his equilibrium.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are needed no longer, Rousselet,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil;
      &ldquo;close the door as you go out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When she had been obeyed, the old maid turned gravely toward Aline, who
      was still dancing about the room, having seized her sister-in-law&rsquo;s hands
      in order to force her to share her childish joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle,&rdquo; said she in a severe tone, &ldquo;is it the custom at the
      &lsquo;Sacred Heart&rsquo; to enter a room without greeting the persons who are in it,
      and to jump about like a crazy person? a thing that is never permitted
      even in a peasant&rsquo;s house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline stopped short in the midst of her dance and blushed a trifle; she
      caressed the pug dog, instead of replying, for she knew as well as
      Rousselet that it was the surest way of softening the old maid&rsquo;s heart.
      The cajolery was lost this time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not touch Constance, I beg of you,&rdquo; exclaimed the aunt, as if a dagger
      had been raised against the object of her love, &ldquo;do not soil this poor
      beast with your hands. What dreadful thing have you on your fingers? Have
      you just come out of an indigo bag?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl blushed still deeper and gazed at her pretty hands, which
      were really a little daubed, and began to wipe them with an embroidered
      handkerchief which she took from her pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was the billiards,&rdquo; she said, in a low voice, &ldquo;it is the blue chalk
      they rub the cue with in order to make good shots and caroms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make good shots! Caroms! Will you be so good as to spare us your slang
      speeches,&rdquo; continued Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who seemed to become more
      crabbed as the young girl&rsquo;s confusion increased. &ldquo;What a fine education
      for a young lady! and one who has just come from the &lsquo;Sacred Heart&rsquo;! One
      that has taken five prizes not fifteen days ago! I really do not know what
      to think of those ladies, your teachers! And now I suppose you are going
      to ride. Billiards and horses, horses and billiards! It is fine! It is
      admirable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Mademoiselle,&rdquo; said Aline, raising her large blue eyes, which were
      on the verge of tears, &ldquo;it is vacation now, and there is no wrong in my
      playing a game of billiards with my brother; we have no billiards at the
      &lsquo;Sacred Heart,&rsquo; and it is such fun! It is like riding; the doctor said
      that it would be very healthful for me, and Christian hoped that it might
      make me grow a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she said these words, the young girl glanced into the mirror in order
      to see whether her brother&rsquo;s hopes had been realized; for her small
      stature was her sole anxiety. But this glance was as quick as a flash, for
      she feared that the severe old maid would make this act of coquetry serve
      as the text for another sermon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not my niece, and I am thankful for it,&rdquo; continued the old lady.
      &ldquo;I am too old to begin another education; thank goodness, one is quite
      enough! I have no authority over you, and your conduct is your brother&rsquo;s
      concern. The advice which I give you is entirely disinterested; your
      amusements are not such as seem to me proper for a young girl of good
      birth. It may be possible that it is the fashion today, so I will say no
      more about it; but there is one thing more serious, upon which I should
      advise you to reflect. In my youth, a young lady never was allowed to
      write letters except to her father and mother. Your letters to your cousin
      d&rsquo;Artigues are inconsiderate&mdash;do not interrupt me&mdash;they are
      inconsiderate, and I should advise you to mend your ways.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil arose, and, as she had found an opportunity to
      read three sermons in one forenoon, she could not say, like Titus, &ldquo;I have
      wasted my morning.&rdquo; She left the room with a majestic step, escorted by
      her dog and satisfied with herself, bestowing an ironical curtsey on the
      young girl, which the latter did not think it necessary to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How hateful your aunt is!&rdquo; exclaimed Mademoiselle de Bergenheim to her
      sister-in-law, when they were alone. &ldquo;Christian says that I must pay no
      attention to her, because all women become like her if they never marry.
      As for myself, I know very well that if I am an old maid I shall try not
      to hurt others&rsquo; feelings&mdash;I, inconsiderate! When she can think of
      nothing more to say, she scolds me about my cousin. It is hardly worth
      while, for what we write about! Alphonse wrote of nothing, in his last
      letter, but of the partridge he had shot and his hunting costume; he is
      such a boy! But why do you not say something? You sit there speechless;
      are you angry with me, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She approached Clemence and was about to seat herself in her lap, when the
      latter arose to avoid this loving familiarity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you really have beaten Christian,&rdquo; said she, in a listless tone; &ldquo;are
      you going for a ride now? Your habit is very becoming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly? oh! I am so glad!&rdquo; replied the young girl, planting herself before
      the glass to look at her pretty figure. She pulled down her waist,
      adjusted the folds of the skirt of her dress and arranged her veil, placed
      her hat on her head with a little more jaunty air, turned three quarters
      around to get a better view of her costume; in one word, she went through
      the coquettish movements that all pretty women learn upon entering
      society. On the whole, she seemed very well pleased with her examination,
      for she smiled and showed a row of small teeth which were as white as
      milk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry now,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that I did not send for a black hat; my hair
      is so light that gray makes me look ugly. Do you not think so? Why do you
      not reply, Clemence? One can not get a word out of you to-day; is it
      because you have your neuralgia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a trifle of it,&rdquo; said Madame de Bergenheim, in order to give some
      pretext for her preoccupation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, then, you ought to come with us for a ride; the fresh air will do
      you good. Look how fine the weather is now; we will have a good gallop.
      Will you? I will help you put on your habit, and in five minutes you will
      be ready. Listen, I hear them in the yard now. I am going to tell
      Christian to have your horse saddled; come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline took her sister-in-law by the hand, led her into the next room and
      opened the window to see what was going on outside, where the cracking of
      whips and several voices were to be heard. A servant was walking up and
      down the yard leading a large horse which he had just brought from the
      stable; the Baron was holding a smaller one, which bore a lady&rsquo;s saddle,
      while he carefully examined all the buckles. As he heard the window open
      above his head, he turned and bowed to Clemence with much chivalrous
      gallantry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You still refuse to go with us?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Aline going to ride Titania,&rdquo; replied Madame de Bergenheim, making an
      effort to speak; &ldquo;I am sure the mare will end by playing her some trick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl, who had a fancy for Titania because the skittish creature
      had the attraction of forbidden fruit, nudged her sister with her elbow,
      and made a little grimace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aline is afraid of nothing,&rdquo; said the Baron; &ldquo;we will enlist her with the
      hussars as soon as she leaves the &lsquo;Sacred Heart.&rsquo; Come, Aline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl kissed the Baroness, gathered up her skirt, and in a few
      moments was in the yard patting the neck of her dear brown mare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Up with you!&rdquo; said Christian, taking his sister&rsquo;s foot in one hand while
      he raised her with the other, placing her in the saddle as easily as he
      would a six-year-old child. Then he mounted his large horse, saluted his
      wife, and the couple, starting at a trot, soon disappeared down the
      avenue, which began at the gate of the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as they were out of sight, Clemence went to her room, took a shawl
      from her bed, and went rapidly down a secret stairway which led into the
      gardens.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV. THE GALLANT IN THE GARDEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s apartments occupied the first floor of the wing on
      the left side of the house. On the ground floor were the library, a
      bathroom, and several guest-chambers. The large windows had a modern look,
      but they were made to harmonize with the rest of the house by means of
      grayish paint. At the foot of this facade was a lawn surrounded by a wall
      and orange-trees planted in tubs, forming a sort of English garden, a
      sanctuary reserved for the mistress of the castle, and which brought her,
      as a morning tribute, the perfume of its flowers and the coolness of its
      shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through the tops of the fir-trees and the tuliptrees, which rose above the
      group of smaller shrubs, the eye could follow the winding river until it
      finally disappeared at the extremity of the valley. It was this
      picturesque view and a more extensive horizon which had induced the
      Baroness to choose this part of the Gothic manor for her own private
      apartments.
    </p>
    <p>
      After crossing the lawn, the young woman opened a gate concealed by shrubs
      and entered the avenue by the banks of the river. This avenue described a
      curve around the garden, and led to the principal entrance of the chateau.
      Night was approaching, the countryside, which had been momentarily
      disturbed by the storm, had resumed its customary serenity. The leaves of
      the trees, as often happens after a rain, looked as fresh as a newly
      varnished picture. The setting sun cast long shadows through the trees,
      and their interlaced branches looked like a forest of boa-constrictors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence advanced slowly under this leafy dome, which became darker and
      more mysterious every moment, with head bent and enveloped in a large
      cashmere shawl which fell in irregular folds to the ground. Madame de
      Bergenheim had one of those faces which other women would call not at all
      remarkable, but which intelligent men ardently admire. At the first glance
      she seemed hardly pretty; at the second, she attracted involuntary
      admiration; afterward, it was difficult to keep her out of one&rsquo;s thoughts.
      Her features, which taken separately might seem irregular, were singularly
      harmonious, and, like a thin veil which tempers a too dazzling light,
      softened the whole expression. Her light chestnut hair was arranged about
      the temples in ingenious waves; while her still darker eyebrows gave, at
      times, an imposing gravity to her face. The same contrast was to be found
      in the mouth; the short distance which separated it from the nose would
      indicate, according to Lavater, unusual energy; but the prominent underlip
      impregnated her smile with enchanting voluptuousness. Her rather clearcut
      features, the exceeding brilliancy of her brown eyes, which seemed like
      diamonds set in jet, would, perhaps, have given to the whole rather too
      strong a character had not these eyes when veiled given to their dazzling
      rays a glamour of indescribable softness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect produced by this face might be compared to that of a prism,
      every facet of which reflects a different color. The ardor burning under
      this changeable surface, which, through some sudden cause, betrayed its
      presence, was so deeply hidden, however, that it seemed impossible to
      fathom it completely. Was she a coquette, or simply a fashionable lady, or
      a devotee? In one word, was she imbued with the most egotistical pride or
      the most exalted love? One might suppose anything, but know nothing; one
      remained undecided and thoughtful, but fascinated, the mind plunged into
      ecstatic contemplation such as the portrait of Monna Lisa inspires. An
      observer might have perceived that she had one of those hearts, so finely
      strung, from which a clever hand might make incomparable harmonies of
      passion gush; but perhaps he would be mistaken. So many women have their
      souls only in their eyes!
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s revery rendered the mysterious and impenetrable
      veil which usually enveloped her countenance more unfathomable yet. What
      sentiment made her bend her head and walk slowly as she meditated? Was it
      the ennui of which she had just complained to her aunt? Was it pure
      melancholy? The monotonous ripple of the stream, the singing of the birds
      in the woods, the long golden reflections under the trees, all seemed to
      unite in filling the soul with sadness; but neither the murmuring water,
      the singing birds, nor the sun&rsquo;s splendor was paid any attention to by
      Madame de Bergenheim; she gave them neither a glance nor a sigh. Her
      meditation was not revery, but thought; not thoughts of the past, but of
      the present. There was something precise and positive in the rapid,
      intelligent glance which flashed from her eyes when she raised them; it
      was as if she had a lucid foresight of an approaching drama.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment after she had passed over the wooden bridge which led from the
      avenue, a man wearing a blouse crossed it and followed her. Hearing the
      sound of hurried steps behind her, she turned and saw, not two steps from
      her, the stranger who, during the storm, had vainly tried to attract her
      attention. There was a moment&rsquo;s silence. The young man stood motionless,
      trying to catch his breath, which had been hurried, either by emotion or
      rapid walking. Madame de Bergenheim, with head thrown back and widely
      opened eyes, looked at him with a more agitated than surprised look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is you,&rdquo; exclaimed he, impulsively, &ldquo;you whom I had lost and now find
      again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What madness, Monsieur!&rdquo; she replied, in a low voice, putting out her
      hand as if to stop him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg of you, do not look at me so! Let me gaze at you and assure myself
      that it is really you&mdash;I have dreamed of this moment for so long!
      Have I not paid dear enough for it? Two months passed away from you&mdash;from
      heaven! Two months of sadness, grief, and unhappiness! But you are pale!
      Do you suffer, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much, at this moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clemence!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call me Madame, Monsieur de Gerfaut,&rdquo; she interrupted, severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should I disobey you? Are you not my lady, my queen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bent his knee as a sign of bondage, and tried to seize her hand, which
      she immediately withdrew. Madame de Bergenheim seemed to pay very little
      attention to the words addressed her; her uneasy glances wandered in every
      direction, into the depths of the bushes and the slightest undulations of
      the ground. Gerfaut understood this pantomime. He glanced, in his turn,
      over the place, and soon discovered at some distance a more propitious
      place for such a conversation as theirs. It was a semicircular recess in
      one of the thickets in the park. A rustic seat under a large oak seemed to
      have been placed there expressly for those who came to seek solitude and
      speak of love. From there, one could see the approach of danger, and, in
      case of alarm, the wood offered a secure retreat. The young man had had
      enough experience in gallant strategies to seize the advantage of this
      position, and wended his steps in that direction while continuing to
      converse. It may be that instinct which, in a critical situation, makes us
      follow mechanically an unknown impulse; it may be that the same idea of
      prudence had also struck her, for Madame de Bergenheim walked beside him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you could understand what I suffered,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;when I found that you
      had left Paris! I could not discover at first where you had gone; some
      spoke of Corandeuil, others of Italy. I thought, from this hasty departure
      and the care you took to conceal your abiding-place, that you were fleeing
      from me. Oh! tell me that I was mistaken; or, if it is true that you
      wished to separate yourself from me, say that this cruel resolve had left
      your mind, and that you will pardon me for following you! You will pardon
      me, will you not? If I trouble or annoy you, lay the blame entirely upon
      my love, which I can not restrain, and which drives me at times to do the
      most extravagant things; call it reckless, insane love, if you will; but
      believe it to be true and devoted!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence replied to this passionate tirade by simply shaking her head as a
      child does who hears the buzzing of a wasp and fears its sting; then, as
      they reached the bench, she said with affected surprise:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have made a mistake, this is not your road; you should have gone over
      the bridge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a little palpable insincerity in these words; for if the road
      which they had taken did not lead to the bridge, neither did it lead to
      the chateau, and the mistake, if there was one, was mutual.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, I beg of you,&rdquo; replied the lover, with &lsquo;a supplicating
      glance, &ldquo;I have so many things to say to you! I beg of you, grant me one
      moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afterward, will you obey me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only a few words, and I will then do all that you wish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hesitated a moment; then, her conscience doubtless lulled by this
      promise, she seated herself and made a gesture for M. de Gerfaut to do
      likewise. The young man did not make her repeat this invitation, but
      hypocritically seated himself on the farther end of the seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, talk reasonably,&rdquo; she said, in a calm tone. &ldquo;I suppose that you are
      on your way to Germany or Switzerland, and as you passed near me you
      wished to favor me with a call. I ought to be proud of this mark of
      respect from a man so celebrated as you are, although you are rather
      hiding your light under this garb. We are not very strict as to dress in
      the country, but, really, yours is quite unceremonious. Tell me, where did
      you find that headdress?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These last words were spoken with the careless, mocking gayety of a young
      girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut smiled, but he took off his cap. Knowing the importance that women
      attach to little things, and what an irreparable impression an ugly cravat
      or unblacked boots might produce in the most affecting moments, he did not
      wish to compromise himself by a ridiculous head-gear. He passed his hand
      through his hair, pushing it back from his large, broad forehead, and said
      softly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know very well that I am not going to Germany or Switzerland, and
      that Bergenheim is the end of my journey, as it has been its aim.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then will you be so good as to tell me what your intention was in taking
      such a step, and whether you have realized how strange, inconsiderate, and
      in every way extravagant your conduct is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have realized it; I know it. You were here, I came because there is a
      loadstone within you, that is my heart&rsquo;s sole attraction, and I must
      follow my heart. I came because I wanted to see your beautiful eyes again,
      to be intoxicated by your sweet voice, because to live away from you is
      impossible for me; because your presence is as necessary to my happiness
      as air to my life; because I love you. That is why I came. Is it possible
      that you do not understand me, that you will not pardon me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not wish to believe that you are speaking seriously,&rdquo; said Clemence,
      with increased severity. &ldquo;What sort of an idea can you have of me, if you
      think I will allow such conduct? And then, even if I were foolish enough
      for that-which I never shall be&mdash;to what would it lead? You know
      perfectly well that it is impossible for you to come to the castle, as you
      are not acquainted with Monsieur de Bergenheim, and I certainly shall not
      introduce you to him. My aunt is here, and she would persecute me the
      whole day long with questions! Mon Dieu! how you disturb me! how unhappy
      you make me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your aunt never goes out, so she will not see me, unless I am officially
      received at the chateau, and then there could be no danger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the servants she brought with her, and mine, who have seen you in her
      house! I tell you, the whole thing is as perilous as it is crazy, and you
      will make me die of fright and chagrin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If one of those servants should chance to meet me, how could he ever
      recognize me in this costume? Do not fear, I shall be prudent! I would
      live in a log cabin, if necessary, for the joy of seeing you
      occasionally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim smiled disdainfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be quite pastoral,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;but I believe that such
      disguises are seldom seen now except upon the stage. If this is a scene
      out of a play, which you wish to rehearse in order to judge its effect, I
      warn you that it is entirely lost upon me, and that I consider the play
      itself very ill-timed, improper, and ridiculous. Besides, for a man of
      talent and a romantic poet you have not exhibited any very great
      imagination. It is a classical imitation, nothing better. There is
      something like it in mythology, I believe. Did not Apollo disguise himself
      as a shepherd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing more is to be feared by a lover than a witty woman who does not
      love or loves but half; he is obliged to wear velvet gloves in all such
      sentimental controversies; he owes it to himself out of propriety first,
      out of prudence afterward. For it is not a question of taking part in a
      conversation for the simple pleasure of brilliant repartee; and while he
      applies himself carefully to play his part well, he feels that he has been
      dexterously cut to pieces with a well-sharpened knife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut indulged in these unpleasant reflections while gazing at Madame de
      Bergenheim. Seated up on the bench as proudly as a queen upon her throne,
      with shining eyes, scornful lips, and arms tightly folded under her
      cashmere shawl, with that haughty gesture familiar to her, the young woman
      looked as invulnerable under this light wrap as if she had been covered
      with Ajax&rsquo;s shield, formed, if we can credit Homer, of seven bulls&rsquo; hides
      and a sheet of brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      After gazing at this scornful face for a moment, Gerfaut glanced at his
      coarse blouse, his leggings, and muddy boots. His usual dainty ways made
      the details of this costume yet more shocking to him, and he exaggerated
      this little disaster. He felt degraded and almost ridiculous. The thought
      took away for a moment his presence of mind; he began mechanically to
      twirl his hat in his hands, exactly as if he had been Pere Rousselet
      himself. But instead of being hurtful to him, this awkwardness served him
      better than the eloquence of Rousseau or the coolness of Richelieu. Was it
      not a genuine triumph for Clemence to reduce a man of his recognized
      talent, who was usually anything but timid, to this state of
      embarrassment? What witty response, what passionate speech could equal the
      flattery of this poet with bent head and this expression of deep sadness
      upon his face?
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim continued her raillery, but in a softer tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This time, instead of staying in a cabin, the god of poetry has descended
      to a tavern. Have you not established your general headquarters at La
      Fauconnerie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you know that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the singular visiting-card that you drew in La Mode. Do I not know
      your coat-of-arms? An expressive one, as my aunt would say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words, which probably referred to some letters, doubtless read
      without very much anger, since they were thus recalled, Gerfaut took
      courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I am staying at La Fauconnerie; but I can not stay there
      any longer, for I think your servants make the tavern their
      pleasure-ground. I must come to some decision. I have two propositions to
      submit to you: the first is, that you will allow me to see you
      occasionally; there are numerous promenades about here; you go out alone,
      so it would be very easy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us hear the second,&rdquo; said Clemence, with a shrug of the shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you will not grant my first, I beg of you to persuade your aunt that
      she is ill and to take her with you to Plombieres or Baden. The season is
      not very far advanced; there, at least, I should be able to see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us end this folly,&rdquo; said the Baroness; &ldquo;I have listened patiently to
      you; now, in your turn, listen to me. You will be sensible, will you not?
      You will leave me and go. You will go to Switzerland, and return to the
      Montanvert, where you met me for the first time, which I shall always
      remember, if you, yourself, do not make it painful for me to do so. You
      will obey me, Octave, will you not? Give me this proof of your esteem and
      friendship. You know very well that it is impossible for me to grant what
      you ask; believe me, it is painful to me to be forced to refuse you. So,
      say farewell to me; you shall see me again next winter in Paris. Adieu!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She arose and extended her hand; he took it, but, thinking to profit by
      the emotion betrayed by Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s voice, he exclaimed in a
      sort of transport:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! I will not wait until next winter to see you. I was about to submit
      to your will; if you repulse me I will consult only myself; if you repulse
      me, Clemence, I warn you that tomorrow I shall be in your house, seated at
      your table and admitted to your drawing-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You?&rdquo; &ldquo;I!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how will you do it, pray?&rdquo; said she, defiantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is my secret, Madame,&rdquo; he replied, coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although her curiosity was greatly aroused, Clemence felt that it would be
      beneath her to ask any more questions. She replied with an affectation of
      mocking indifference:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since I am to have the pleasure of seeing you tomorrow, I hope you will
      permit me to leave you today. You know that I am not well, and it is
      showing me very little attention to allow me to stand here in this wet
      grass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her skirt a trifle and extended her foot, showing her slipper,
      which was really covered with pearly drops of rain. Octave threw himself
      quickly upon his knees, and, taking a silk handkerchief from his pocket,
      began to wipe away all traces of the storm. His action was so rapid that
      Madame de Bergenheim stood for a moment motionless and speechless, but
      when she felt her foot imprisoned in the hand of the man who had just
      declared war against her, her surprise gave place to a mingled feeling of
      impatience and anger. She drew her foot back with a sudden movement, but
      unfortunately the foot went one way and the slipper another. A
      fencing-master, who sees his foil carried ten steps away from him by a
      back stroke, could not feel more astonishment than that felt by Madame de
      Bergenheim. Her first movement was to place her foot, so singularly
      undressed, upon the ground; an instinctive horror of the damp, muddy walk
      made her draw it quickly back. She stood thus with one foot lifted; the
      movement which she had started to make threw her off her balance and as
      she was about to fall she extended her hand to find some support. This
      support proved to be Octave&rsquo;s head, for he still remained upon his knees.
      With the usual presumption of lovers, he believed that he had the right to
      give her the assistance which she seemed to ask for, and passed his arm
      about the slender waist which was bent toward him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence drew herself up at once, and with frowning brow regained her
      coolness, standing upright upon one foot, like Cupid in the painting by
      Gerard; like him, also, she seemed about to fly away, there was so much
      airy lightness in her improvised attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many puerile incidents and ridiculous events occur in life, which it would
      render impossible for the most imperturbable of mandarins to struggle
      against in order to preserve his gravity. When Louis XIV, this king so
      expert in courtly ways, dressed his hair alone behind his curtains before
      presenting himself to the eyes of his courtiers, he feared that this
      disarray of costume might compromise even his royal majesty. So, upon such
      authority, if one looks upon a complete head of hair as indispensable to
      the dignity of manhood, the same reasoning should exist for the covering
      of one&rsquo;s feet. In less than a second, Madame de Bergenheim comprehended
      that in such circumstances prudish airs would fail of their effect.
      Meanwhile, the agreeable side of her position operated within her; she
      felt unable to keep up the show of anger that she had wished to assume.
      The involuntary smile upon her lips smoothed her forehead as a ray of sun
      dissipates a cloud. Thus, disposed to clemency by reflection or
      fascination, it was in a very sweet and coaxing voice that she said:
      &ldquo;Octave, give me my slipper.&rdquo; Gerfaut gazed at the lovely face bent toward
      him with an expression of childish entreaty, then he glanced with an
      irresolute air at the trophy which he held in his hand. This slipper,
      which was as small as Cinderella&rsquo;s, was not green, but gray, the lining
      was of rose-colored silk, and the whole was so pretty, coquettish, and
      dainty that it seemed impossible its owner could be vexed with him if he
      examined it closely. &ldquo;I will give it back to you,&rdquo; said he, at last, &ldquo;on
      condition that you will allow me to put it on for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to that, certainly not,&rdquo; said she, in a sharp tone; &ldquo;I should much
      prefer to leave it with you and return home as I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut shook his head and smiled incredulously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think of your delicate lungs and of this terrible mud?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence drew her foot suddenly back under her skirt, concealing it
      entirely from the sight of the young man, who gazed at it more than she
      thought proper. Then she exclaimed, with the obstinacy of a spoiled child:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! I will return hopping on one foot; I could hop very well when
      I was young, I should be able to do so now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To give more weight to this observation, she took two little jumps with a
      grace and sprightliness worthy of Mademoiselle Taglioni.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave arose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had the pleasure of seeing you waltz,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but I admit that
      I shall be pleased to witness a new dance, and one executed for me alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said these words, he pretended to conceal the innocent object of
      this dispute in his blouse. The pretty dancer saw by this that a
      compromise would be necessary. Recourse to concessions is often as fatal
      to women as to kings; but what can one do when every other exit is closed?
      Obliged by absolute necessity to accept the conditions imposed upon her,
      Clemence wished at least to cover this defeat with sufficient dignity, and
      escape from an awkward position with the honors of war.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get down upon your knees, then,&rdquo; she said, haughtily, &ldquo;and put on my
      slipper, since you exact it, and let this end this ridiculous scene. I
      think you should be too proud to regard a maid&rsquo;s privilege as a favor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a favor which a king would envy,&rdquo; replied Gerfaut, in a voice as
      tender as hers had been disdainful. He put one knee on the ground, placed
      the little slipper upon the other and seemed to await his enemy&rsquo;s
      pleasure. But the latter found a new subject for complaint in the pedestal
      offered her, for she said with increased severity:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the ground, Monsieur; and let that end it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He obeyed, without a reply, after giving her a reproachful glance by which
      she was as much moved as by his silent obedience. She put out her foot
      with a more gracious air, and thrust it into the slipper. To be a correct
      historian, we must admit that this time she left it in the hands which
      softly pressed it longer than was strictly necessary. When Octave had
      fastened it with skill but with no haste, he bent his head and pressed his
      lips to the openwork stocking, through which he could catch a glimpse of
      white, satiny skin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, as she heard the clatter of
      horses&rsquo; hoofs at the end of the avenue; and without adding a word she fled
      rapidly toward the chateau. Gerfaut arose from his position no less
      rapidly and darted into the woods. A rustling of branches which he heard a
      few steps from him made him uneasy at first, for he feared that an
      invisible witness had been present at this imprudent interview; but he was
      soon reassured by the silence which reigned about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the Baron and his sister had passed, he crossed the avenue and soon
      disappeared over the winding road on the other side of the bridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V. ART AND MUSIC
    </h2>
    <p>
      A league below the castle of Bergenheim, the village of La Fauconnerie was
      situated, at the junction of several valleys the principal of which, by
      means of an unfrequented road, opened communications between Lorraine and
      upper Alsatia. This position had been one of some importance in the Middle
      Ages, at the time when the Vosges were beset with partisans from the two
      countries, always ready to renew border hostilities, the everlasting
      plague of all frontiers. Upon a cliff overlooking the village were
      situated the ruins which had given the village its name; it owed it to the
      birds of prey [falcons, in French: &lsquo;faucons&rsquo;], the habitual guests of the
      perpendicular rocks. To render proper justice to whom it belongs, we
      should add that the proprietors of La Fauconnerie had made it a point at
      all times to justify this appellation by customs more warlike than
      hospitable; but for some time the souvenirs of their feudal prowess had
      slept with their race under the ruins of the manor; the chateau had fallen
      without the hamlet extending over its ruins; from a bourg of some
      importance La Fauconnerie had come down to a small village, and had
      nothing remarkable about it but the melancholy ruins of the chateau.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be impossible to imagine anything more miserably prosaic than the
      houses that bordered the road, in regular order; their one story with its
      thatched roof blackened by rain; the sorry garden surrounded by a little
      low wall and presenting as vegetables patches of cabbage and a few rows of
      beans, gave an idea of the poverty of its inhabitants. Save the church,
      which the Bishop of St.-Die had caused to be built, and the manse that had
      naturally shared this fortunate privilege, only one house rose above the
      condition of a thatched cottage; this was the tavern called &lsquo;La
      Femme-sans-Tete&rsquo;, and kept by Madame Gobillot, an energetic woman, who did
      not suggest in the least the name of her establishment, &ldquo;The Headless
      Woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A large sign shared with the inevitable bunch of juniper, the honor of
      decorating the entrance and justified an appellation one might have
      regarded as disrespectful to the fair sex. The original design had been
      repainted in dazzling colors by the artist charged with restoring the
      church. This alliance of the profane with the sacred had, it is true,
      scandalized the parish priest, but he did not dare say a word too much, as
      Madame Gobillot was one of his most important parishioners. A woman in a
      rose-colored dress and large panniers, standing upon very high-heeled
      shoes, displayed upon this sign the rejuvenated costume of 1750; an
      enormous green fan, which she held in her hand, entirely concealed her
      face, and it was through this caprice of the painter that the tavern came
      to have the name it bore.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the right of this original figure was painted, in a very appetizing
      manner, a pie out of whose crust peeped a trio of woodcocks&rsquo; heads. A
      little farther, upon a bed of watercresses, floated a sort of marine
      monster, carp or sturgeon, trout or crocodile. The left of the sign was
      none the less tempting; it represented a roast chicken lying upon its back
      with its head under its wing, and raising its mutilated legs in the air
      with a piteous look; it had for its companion a cluster of crabs, of a
      little too fine a red to have been freshly caught. The whole was
      interspersed with bottles and glasses brimful of wine. There were stone
      jugs at each extremity, the sergeants of the rear-rank of this gastronomic
      platoon, whose corks had blown out and were still flying in space, while a
      bubbling white foam issued from their necks and fell majestically over
      their sides after describing a long parabola. A misleading sign, indeed!
    </p>
    <p>
      A remorseful conscience, or a desire to protect herself from all reproach
      of mendacity on the part of the customers, had made the owner of the inn
      place a wire cupboard upon the sill of one of the windows near the door;
      in which receptacle were some eggs on a plate, a bit of bread with which
      David might have loaded his sling, a white glass bottle filled with a
      liquid of some color intended to represent kirsch, but which was in
      reality only water. This array gave a much more correct idea of the
      resources of the establishment and formed a menu like an anchorite&rsquo;s
      repast, and even this it was difficult for the kitchen&rsquo;s resources to
      maintain.
    </p>
    <p>
      A carriage-gate led into the yard and to the stables, cart-drivers being
      the principal habitues of the place; another entrance, the one which was
      crowned with the fantastic sign, was flanked by two stone seats and opened
      directly into the kitchen, which also served as parlor for the guests. A
      fireplace with an enormous mantel, under which a whole family might warm
      themselves, occupied the middle of one side of the room. There was a large
      oven in one corner which opened its huge mouth, the door partly hiding the
      shovels and tongs employed in its service. Two or three thoroughly smoked
      hams, suspended from the beams, announced that there was no fear of a
      famine before the gastronomic massacres of Middlemas. Opposite the window,
      a large, polished oak dresser displayed an array of large flowered plates
      and little octagon-shaped glasses. A huge kitchen kettle and some wooden
      chairs completed the furniture of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the kitchen one passed into another room, where a permanent table
      surrounded by benches occupied its entire length. The wall paper, once
      green, was now a dirty gray; it was embellished by half a dozen black
      frames representing the story of Prince Poniatowski, who shares the honor
      of decorating village inns with Paul and Virginia and Wilhelm Tell. On the
      upper floor-for this aristocratic dwelling had a second story&mdash;several
      sleeping-rooms opened upon a long corridor, at the end of which was a room
      with two beds in it. This room was very neat and clean, and was destined
      for any distinguished guests whose unlucky star led them into this
      deserted country.
    </p>
    <p>
      That evening the inn presented an unaccustomed lively appearance; the long
      seats, each side of the door, were occupied by rustics stripping hemp, by
      some village lads, and three or four cart-drivers smoking short pipes as
      black as coal. They were listening to two girls who were singing in a most
      mournful way a song well known to all in this country:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Au chateau de Belfort
          Sont trois jolies filles, etc.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The light from the hearth, shining through the open door, left this group
      in the shadow and concentrated its rays upon a few faces in the interior
      of the kitchen. First, there was Madame Gobillot in person, wearing a long
      white apron, her head covered with an immense cap. She went from oven to
      dresser, and from dresser to fireplace with a very important air. A fat
      little servant disappeared frequently through the dining-room door, where
      she seemed to be laying the cover for a feast. With that particular
      dexterity of country girls, she made three trips to carry two plates, and
      puffed like a porpoise at her work, while the look of frightened amazement
      showed upon her face that every fibre of her intelligence was under
      unaccustomed tension. Before the fire, and upon the range, three or four
      stew-pans were bubbling. A plump chicken was turning on the spit, or,
      rather, the spit and its victim were turned by a bright-looking boy of
      about a dozen years, who with one hand turned the handle and with the
      other, armed with a large cooking-ladle, basted the roast.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the two principal persons in this picture were a young country girl
      and a young man seated opposite her, who seemed busily engaged in making
      her portrait. One would easily recognize, from the airs and elegance of
      the young woman, that she was the daughter of the house, Mademoiselle
      Reine Gobillot, the one whose passion for fashion-plates had excited
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s anger. She sat as straight and rigid upon her
      stool as a Prussian corporal carrying arms, and maintained an excessively
      gracious smile upon her lips, while she made her bust more prominent by
      drawing back her shoulders as far as she could.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young painter, on the contrary, was seated with artistic abandon,
      balancing himself upon a two-legged chair with his heels resting against
      the mantel; he was dressed in a black velvet coat, and a very small Tam
      O&rsquo;Shanter cap of the same material covered the right side of his head,
      allowing a luxuriant crop of brown hair to be seen upon the other side.
      This head-dress, accompanied by long moustaches and a pointed beard
      covering only his chin, gave the stranger&rsquo;s face the mediaeval look he
      probably desired. This travelling artist was sketching in an album placed
      upon his knees, with a freedom which indicated perfect confidence in his
      own talents. A cigar, skilfully held in one corner of his mouth, did not
      prevent him from warbling between each puff some snatches of Italian airs
      of which he seemed to possess a complete repertoire. In spite of this
      triple occupation he sustained a conversation with the ease of a man who,
      like Caesar, could have dictated to three secretaries at once if
      necessary.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Dell&rsquo; Assiria, ai semidei
          Aspirar&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have already asked you not to purse up your mouth so, Mademoiselle
      Reine; it gives you a Watteau air radically bourgeois.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of air does it give me?&rdquo; she asked, anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Watteau, Regence, Pompadour air. You have a large mouth, and we will
      leave it natural, if you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a large mouth!&rdquo; exclaimed Reine, blushing with anger; &ldquo;how polite
      you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she pinched up her lips until she reduced them to nearly the size of
      Montmorency cherries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop this vulgar way of judging of art, queen of my heart. Learn that
      there is nothing more appetizing than a large mouth. I do not care for
      rosebud mouths!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is the fashion!&rdquo; murmured the young girl, in a pleased tone, as she
      spread out horizontally her vermillion lips, which might have extended
      from ear to ear, not unlike&mdash;if we can credit that slanderer,
      Bussy-Rabutin-the amorous smile of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did you not let me put on my gold necklace?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would have given my portrait a smarter look. Sophie Mitoux had hers
      painted with a coral comb and earrings. How shabby this style is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg of you, my good Reine, let me follow my own fancy; an artist is a
      being of inspiration and spontaneity. Meanwhile, you make your bust too
      prominent; there is no necessity for you to look as if you had swallowed a
      whale. L&rsquo;art n&rsquo;est pas fait pour toi, tu n&rsquo;en as pas besoin. Upon my word,
      you have a most astonishing bust; a genuine Rubens.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Gobillot was an austere woman, though an innkeeper, and watched
      over her daughter with particular care, lest any ill-sounding or insiduous
      expression should reach her child&rsquo;s ear. Considering the company which
      frequented the house, the task was not easy. So she was shocked at the
      young man&rsquo;s last words, and although she did not quite understand his
      meaning, for that very reason she thought she scented a concealed poison
      more dangerous for Mademoiselle Reine than the awful words used by the
      drivers. She dared not, however, show her displeasure to a customer, and
      one who seemed disposed to spend money freely; and, as usual in such
      circumstances, she vented her displeasure upon the persons immediately
      under her charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurry now, Catherine! Will you never finish setting the table? I told you
      before to put on the Britannia; these gentlemen are used to eating with
      silver. Listen to me when I am talking to you. Who washed these glasses?
      What a shame! You are as afraid of water as a mad-dog. And you! what are
      you staring at that chicken for, instead of basting it? If you let it burn
      you shall go to bed without any supper. If it is not provoking!&rdquo; she
      continued, in a scolding tone, visiting her stewpans one after another,
      &ldquo;everything is dried up; a fillet that was as tender as it could be will
      be scorched! This is the third time that I have diluted the gravy.
      Catherine! bring me a dish. Now, then, make haste.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One thing is certain,&rdquo; interrupted the artist, &ldquo;that Gerfaut is making a
      fool of me. I do not see what can have become of him. Tell me, Madame
      Gobillot, are you certain that an amateur of art and the picturesque,
      travelling at this hour, would not be eaten by wolves or plundered by
      robbers in these mountains?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our mountains are safe, Monsieur,&rdquo; replied the landlady, with offended
      dignity; &ldquo;except for the pedler who was assassinated six months ago and
      whose body was found in the Combe-aux-Renards&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the driver who was stopped three weeks ago in the Fosse,&rdquo; added
      Mademoiselle Reine; &ldquo;the thieves did not quite kill him, but he is still
      in the hospital at Remiremont.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! that is enough to make one&rsquo;s hair stand on end! This is worse than
      the forest of Bondy! Truly, if I knew what direction my friend took this
      morning, I would follow him with my pistols.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is Fritz,&rdquo; said Madame Gobillot. &ldquo;He met a stranger in the woods who
      gave him ten sous for telling him the way to Bergenheim. From his
      description, it seems that it must be the gentleman you speak of. Tell us
      about it, Fritz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child related in his Alsatian patois his meeting of the afternoon, and
      the artist was convinced that it was Gerfaut he had met.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must be wandering in the valley,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;dreaming about our play.
      But did you not say something about Bergenheim? Is there a village near
      here by that name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a chateau of that name, Monsieur, and it is about a league from
      here as you go up the river.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And does this chateau happen to belong to the Baron de Bergenheim&mdash;a
      large, blond, good-looking fellow, with rather reddish moustache?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the picture of its owner, only that the Baron does not wear a
      moustache now, not since he left the service. Do you know him, Monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know him! Speaking of service, I once rendered him one which was
      of some account. Is he at the castle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur, and his lady also.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! his wife, too. She was a Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, of Provence. Is
      she pretty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle Gobillot, pursing up her lips, &ldquo;that depends
      upon tastes. If a person likes a face as white as a ghost, she is. And,
      then, she is so thin! It certainly can not be very difficult to have a
      slender waist when one is as thin as that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not everybody can have rosy cheeks and a form like an enchantress,&rdquo; said
      the painter, in a low voice, as he looked at his model in a seductive
      manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are some people who think that Monsieur&rsquo;s sister is prettier than
      Madame,&rdquo; observed Madame Gobillot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O mother! how can you say that?&rdquo; exclaimed Reine with a disdainful air.
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Aline! A child of fifteen! She certainly is not wanting in
      color; her hair is such a blond, such a red, rather! It looks as if it
      were on fire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not say anything against red hair, I beg of you,&rdquo; said the artist, &ldquo;it
      is an eminently artistic shade, which is very popular.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With some it may be so, but with Christians! It seems to me that black
      hair&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When it is long and glossy like yours, it is wonderful,&rdquo; said the young
      man, darting another killing glance. &ldquo;Madame Gobillot, would you mind
      closing that door? One can not hear one&rsquo;s self think here. I am a little
      critical, so far as music is concerned, and you have two sopranos outside
      who deafen me with their shrieks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is Marguerite Mottet and her sister. Since our cure has taken to
      teaching them, they bore us to death, coming here and singing their fine
      songs. One of these days I shall notify them to leave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she said these words, Madame Gobillot went to close the door in order
      to please her guest; as soon as her back was turned, the latter leaned
      forward with the boldness of a Lovelace and imprinted a very loving kiss
      upon the rosy cheek of Mademoiselle Reine, who never thought of drawing
      back until the offence was committed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sole witness to this incident was the little kitchen drudge, whose
      blue eyes had been fastened upon the artist&rsquo;s moustache and beard for some
      time. They seemed to plunge him into a deep admiration. But at this
      unexpected event his amazement was so complete that he dropped his spoon
      into the ashes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! mein herr, do you wish to go to bed without your supper, as has been
      promised you?&rdquo; said the young man, while the beautiful Reine was trying to
      recover her countenance. &ldquo;Now, then, sing us a little song instead of
      staring at me as if I were a giraffe. Your little cook has a nice voice,
      Madame Gobillot. Now, then, mein herr, give us a little German lied. I
      will give you six kreutzers if you sing in tune, and a flogging if you
      grate upon my ears.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He arose and put his album under his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my portrait?&rdquo; exclaimed the young girl, whose cheek was still burning
      from the kiss she had just received.
    </p>
    <p>
      The painter drew near her, smiling, and said in a mysterious tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I make a portrait of a pretty person like you, I never finish it the
      first day. If you will give me another sitting in the morning before your
      mother arises I promise to finish this sketch in a way that will not be
      displeasing to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Reine saw that her mother was watching her, and walked away
      with no reply save a glance which was not discouraging.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, then! You droll little fellow!&rdquo; exclaimed the artist, as he whirled
      on one foot; &ldquo;triple time; one, two, begin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child burst into an Alsatian song in a high, ringing voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a moment! What devilish key are you singing that in? La, la, la, la;
      mi, in E major, key of four sharps. By Jove, my little man! here is a
      fellow who sings B&rsquo;s and C&rsquo;s away up in the clouds; an E sharp, too!&rdquo; he
      continued, with astonishment, while the singer made a hold upon the
      keynote an octave higher in a voice as clear as a crystal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The artist threw into the fire the cigar which he had just lighted, and
      began pacing the kitchen floor, paying no more attention to Mademoiselle
      Reine, who felt a little piqued at seeing herself neglected for a kitchen
      drudge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A rare voice,&rdquo; said he, as he took a great stride; &ldquo;per Bacco, a very
      rare voice. Added to that, he sings very deep; two octaves and a half, a
      clear, ringing tone, the two registers are well united. He would make an
      admirable &lsquo;primo musico&rsquo;. And the little fellow has a pretty face, too.
      After supper I will make him wash his face, and I will sketch it. I am
      sure that in less than a year&rsquo;s study, he could make his debut with the
      greatest success. By Jove! I have an idea! Why does not that Gerfaut
      return? Now, then, he would do very well for &lsquo;Pippo&rsquo; in La Gazza, or for
      Gemma in Wilhelm Tell. But we must have a role for him to make his debut
      in. What subject could we take properly to introduce a child&rsquo;s part? Why
      does not that Gerfaut come? A child, girl or boy; a boy part would be
      better. &lsquo;Daniel,&rsquo; of course; viva &lsquo;Daniel!&rsquo; &lsquo;The Chaste Suzannah,&rsquo; opera
      in three acts. Madame Begrand would be fine as Suzannah. By Jove! if
      Meyerbeer would only take charge of the score! That falls to him by right
      as a compatriot. Then, that would give him an opportunity to break lances
      with Mehul and Rossini. If that fool of a Gerfaut would only come! Let us
      see what would be the three characters: Soprano, Suzannah; contralto,
      David; the old men, two basses; as for the tenor, he would be, of course,
      Suzannah&rsquo;s husband. There would be a superb entrance for him upon his
      return from the army, &lsquo;cavatina guerriera con cori&rsquo;. Oh! that terrible
      Gerfaut! the wolves must have devoured him. If he were here, we would
      knock off the thing between our fruit and cheese.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment the door opened suddenly. &ldquo;Is supper ready?&rdquo; asked a
      deep voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, here he is, the dear friend!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            &ldquo;O surprise extreme!
             Grand Dieu! c&rsquo;est lui-meme&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      alive and in the flesh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And hungry,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, as he dropped into a chair near the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like to compose an opera in three acts, The Chaste Suzannah,
      music by Meyerbeer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like some supper first. Madame Gobillot, I beseech you, give me
      something to eat. Thanks to your mountain air, I am almost starved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Monsieur, we have been waiting two hours for you,&rdquo; retorted the
      landlady, as she made each stewpan dance in succession.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is a fact,&rdquo; said the artist; &ldquo;let us go into the dining-room, then.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Gia la mensa a preparata.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While supping, I will explain my plans to you. I have just found a Daniel
      in the ashes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Marillac, drop your Daniel and Suzannah,&rdquo; replied Gerfaut, as he
      sat down to the table; &ldquo;I have something much more important to talk to
      you about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 2.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI. GERFAUT&rsquo;S STORY
    </h2>
    <p>
      While the two friends are devouring to the very last morsel the feast
      prepared for them by Madame Gobillot, it may not be out of place to
      explain in a few words the nature of the bonds that united these two men.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Vicomte de Gerfaut was one of those talented beings who are the
      veritable champions of an age when the lightest pen weighs more in the
      social balance than our ancestors&rsquo; heaviest sword. He was born in the
      south of France, of one of those old families whose fortune had diminished
      each generation, their name finally being almost all that they had left.
      After making many sacrifices to give their son an education worthy of his
      birth, his parents did not live to enjoy the fruits of their efforts, and
      Gerfaut became an orphan at the time when he had just finished his law
      studies. He then abandoned the career of which his father had dreamed for
      him, and the possibilities of a red gown bordered with ermine. A mobile
      and highly colored imagination, a passionate love for the arts, and, more
      than all, some intimacies contracted with men of letters, decided his
      vocation and launched him into literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ardent young man, without a murmur or any misgivings, drank to the
      very dregs the cup poured out to neophytes in the harsh career of letters
      by editors, theatrical managers, and publishers. With some, this course
      ends in suicide, but it only cost Gerfaut a portion of his slender
      patrimony; he bore this loss like a man who feels that he is strong enough
      to repair it. When his plans were once made, he followed them up with
      indefatigable perseverance, and became a striking example of the
      irresistible power of intelligence united to will-power. Reputation, for
      him, lay in the unknown depths of an arid and rocky soil; he was obliged,
      in order to reach it, to dig a sort of artesian well. Gerfaut accepted
      this heroic labor; he worked day and night for several years, his
      forehead, metaphorically, bathed in a painful perspiration alleviated only
      by hopes far away. At last the untiring worker&rsquo;s drill struck the
      underground spring over which so many noble ones breathlessly bend,
      although their thirst is never quenched. At this victorious stroke, glory
      burst forth, falling in luminous sparks, making this new name&mdash;his
      name&mdash;flash with a brilliancy too dearly paid for not to be lasting.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the time of which we speak, Octave had conquered every obstacle in the
      literary field. With a versatility of talent which sometimes recalled
      Voltaire&rsquo;s &ldquo;proteanism,&rdquo; he attacked in succession the most difficult
      styles. Besides their poetic value, his dramas had this positive merit,
      the highest in the theatre world they were money-makers; so the managers
      greeted him with due respect, while collaborators swarmed about him. The
      journals paid for his articles in their weight in gold; reviews snatched
      every line of his yet unfinished novels; his works were illustrated by
      Porret and Tony Johannot&mdash;the masters of the day&mdash;and shone
      resplendent behind the glass cases in the Orleans gallery. Gerfaut had at
      last made a place for himself among that baker&rsquo;s dozen of writers who call
      themselves, and justly, too, the field-marshals of French literature, of
      which Chateaubriand was then commander-in-chief.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was it that had brought such a person a hundred leagues from the
      opera balcony, to put on a pretty woman&rsquo;s slipper? Was the fair lady one
      of those caprices, so frequent and fleeting in an artist&rsquo;s thoughts, or
      had she given birth to one of those sentiments that end by absorbing the
      rest of one&rsquo;s life?
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man seated opposite Gerfaut was, physically and morally, as
      complete a contrast to him as one could possibly imagine. He was one of
      the kind very much in request in fashionable society. There is not a
      person who has not met one of these worthy fellows, destined to make good
      officers, perfect merchants, and very satisfactory lawyers, but who,
      unfortunately, have been seized with a mania for notoriety. Ordinarily
      they think of it on account of somebody else&rsquo;s talent. This one is brother
      to a poet, another son-in-law to a historian; they conclude that they also
      have a right to be poet and historian in their turn. Thomas Corneille is
      their model; but we must admit that very few of our writers reach the rank
      attained by Corneille the younger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac was train-bearer to Gerfaut, and was rewarded for this bondage by
      a few bribes of collaboration, crumbs that fall from the rich man&rsquo;s table.
      They had been close friends since they both entered the law school, where
      they were companions in folly rather than in study. Marillac also had
      thrown himself into the arena of literature; then, different fortunes
      having greeted the two friends&rsquo; efforts, he had descended little by little
      from the role of a rival to that of an inferior. Marillac was an artist,
      talent accepted, from the tip of his toes to the sole of his boots, which
      he wished to lengthen by pointed toes out of respect for the Middle Ages;
      for he excelled above all things in his manner of dressing, and possessed,
      among other intellectual merits, the longest moustache in literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      If he had not art in his brain, to make up for it he always had its name
      at his tongue&rsquo;s end. Vaudeville writing or painting, poetry or music, he
      dabbled in all these, like those horses sold as good for both riding and
      driving, which are as bad in the saddle as in front of a tilbury. He
      signed himself &ldquo;Marillac, man of letters&rdquo;; meanwhile, aside from his
      profound disdain for the bourgeois, whom he called vulgar, and for the
      French Academy, to which he had sworn never to belong, one could reproach
      him with nothing. His penchant for the picturesque in expression was not
      always, it is true, in the most excellent taste, but, in spite of these
      little oddities, his unfortunate passion for art, and his affection for
      the Middle Ages, he was a brave, worthy, and happy fellow, full of good
      qualities, very much devoted to his friends, above all to Gerfaut. One
      could, therefore, pardon him for being a pseudo-artist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will your story be a long one?&rdquo; said he to the playwright, when Catherine
      had conducted them after supper to the double-bedded room, where they were
      to pass the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long or short, what does it matter, since you must listen to it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because, first, I would make some grog and fill my pipe; otherwise, I
      would content myself with a cigar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take your pipe and make your grog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; said the artist, running after Catherine, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t rush downstairs
      so. You are wanted. Fear nothing, interesting maid; you are safe with us;
      but bring us a couple of glasses, brandy, sugar, a bowl, and some hot
      water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They want some hot water,&rdquo; cried the servant, rushing into the kitchen
      with a frightened look; &ldquo;can they be ill at this hour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give the gentlemen what they want, you little simpleton!&rdquo; replied
      Mademoiselle Reine; &ldquo;they probably want to concoct some of their Paris
      drinks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When all the articles necessary for the grog were on the table, Marillac
      drew up an old armchair, took another chair to stretch his legs upon,
      replaced his cap with a handkerchief artistically knotted about his head,
      his boots with a pair of slippers, and, finally, lighted his pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said he, as he seated himself, &ldquo;I will listen without moving an
      eyelid should your story last, like the creation, six days and nights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut took two or three turns about the room with the air of an orator
      who is seeking for a beginning to a speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that Fate has more or less influence over our lives,
      according to the condition of mind in which we happen to be. In order that
      you may understand the importance of the adventure I am about relating to
      you, it will be necessary for me to picture the state of mind which I was
      in at the time it happened; this will be a sort of philosophical and
      psychological preamble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thunder!&rdquo; interrupted Marillac, &ldquo;if I had known that, I would have
      ordered a second bowl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will remember,&rdquo; continued Gerfaut, paying no attention to this
      pleasantry, &ldquo;the rather bad attack of spleen which I had a little over a
      year ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before your trip to Switzerland?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I remember right,&rdquo; said the artist, &ldquo;you were strangely cross and
      whimsical at the time. Was it not just after the failure of our drama at
      the Porte Saint-Martin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might also add of our play at the Gymnase.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wash my hands of that. You know very well that it only went as far as
      the second act, and I did not write one word in the first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And hardly one in the second. However, I take the catastrophe upon my
      shoulders; that made two perfect failures in that d&mdash;&mdash;d month
      of August.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two failures that were hard to swallow,&rdquo; replied Marillac, &ldquo;We can say,
      for our consolation, that there never were more infamous conspiracies
      against us, above all, than at the Gymnase. My ears ring with the hisses
      yet! I could see, from our box, a little villain in a dress coat, in one
      corner of the pit, who gave the signal with a whistle as large as a
      horse-pistol. How I would have liked to cram it down his throat!&rdquo; As he
      said these words, he brought his fist down upon the table, and made the
      glasses and candles dance &lsquo;upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Conspiracy or not, this time they judged the play aright. I believe it
      would be impossible to imagine two worse plays; but, as Brid Oison says,
      &lsquo;These are things that one admits only to himself&rsquo;; it is always
      disagreeable to be informed of one&rsquo;s stupidity by an ignorant audience
      that shouts after you like a pack of hounds after a hare. In spite of my
      pretension of being the least susceptible regarding an author&rsquo;s vanity of
      all the writers in Paris, it is perfectly impossible to be indifferent to
      such a thing&mdash;a hiss is a hiss. However, vanity aside, there was a
      question of money which, as I have a bad habit of spending regularly my
      capital as well as my income, was not without its importance. It meant,
      according to my calculation, some sixty thousand francs cut off from my
      resources, and my trip to the East was indefinitely postponed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They say, with truth, that misfortunes never come singly. You know
      Melanie, whom I prevented from making her debut at the Vaudeville? By
      taking her away from all society, lodging her in a comfortable manner and
      obliging her to work, I rendered her a valuable service. She was a good
      girl, and, aside from her love for the theatre and a certain indolence
      that was not without charm, I did not find any fault in her and grew more
      attached to her every day. Sometimes after spending long hours with her, a
      fancy for a retired life and domestic happiness would seize me. Gentlemen
      with brains are privileged to commit foolish acts at times, and I really
      do not know what I might have ended in doing, had I not been preserved
      from the danger in an unexpected manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One evening, when I arrived at Melanie&rsquo;s, I found the bird had flown.
      That great ninny of a Ferussac, whom I never had suspected, and had
      introduced to her myself, had turned her head by making capital out of her
      love for the stage. As he was about to leave for Belgium, he persuaded her
      to go there and dethrone Mademoiselle Prevost. I have since learned that a
      Brussels banker revenged me by taking this Helene of the stage away from
      Ferussac. Now she is launched and can fly with her own wings upon the
      great highway of bravos, flowers, guineas&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And wreck and ruin,&rdquo; added Marillac. &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s to her health!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This triple disappointment of pride, money, and heart did not cause, I
      hope you will believe me, the deep state of melancholy into which I soon
      fell; but the malady manifested itself upon this occasion, for it had been
      lurking about me for a long time, as the dormant pain of a wound is
      aroused if one pours a caustic upon its surface.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is some dominant power in each individual which is developed at the
      expense of the other faculties, above all when the profession one chooses
      suits his nature. The vital powers thus condensed manifest themselves
      externally, and gush out with an abundance which would become impossible
      if all the faculties were used alike, and if life filtered away, so to
      speak. To avoid such destruction, and concentrate life upon one point, in
      order to increase the action, is the price of talent and individuality.
      Among athletes, the forehead contracts according as the chest enlarges;
      with men of thought, it is the brain which causes the other organs to
      suffer, insatiable vampire, exhausting at times the last drop of blood in
      the body which serves as its victim. This vampire was my torturer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For ten years I had crowded romance upon poetry, vaudeville upon drama,
      literary criticism upon leader; I proved, through my own self, in a
      physical way, the phenomena of the absorption of the senses by
      intelligence. Many times, after several nights of hard work, the chords of
      my mind being too violently stretched, they relaxed and gave only
      indistinct harmony. Then, if I happened to resist this lassitude of nature
      demanding repose, I felt the pressure of my will exhausting the sources at
      the very depths of my being. It seemed to me that I dug out my ideas from
      the bottom of a mine, instead of gathering them upon the surface of the
      brain. The more material organs came to the rescue of their failing chief.
      The blood from my heart rushed to my head to revive it; the muscles of my
      limbs communicated to the fibres of the brain their galvanic tension.
      Nerves turned into imagination, flesh into life. Nothing has developed my
      materialistic beliefs like this decarnation of which I had such a
      sensible, or rather visible perception.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I destroyed my health with these psychological experiments, and the abuse
      of work perhaps shortened my life. When I was thirty years old my face was
      wrinkled, my cheeks were pallid, and my heart blighted and empty. For what
      result, grand Dieu! For a fleeting and fruitless renown!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The failure of my two plays warned me that others judged me as I judged
      myself. I recalled to mind the Archbishop of Granada, and I thought I
      could hear Gil Blas predicting the failure of my works. We can not dismiss
      the public as we can our secretary; meanwhile, I surrendered to a too
      severe justice in order to decline others&rsquo; opinions. A horrible thought
      suddenly came into my mind; my artistic life was ended, I was a worn-out
      man; in one word, to picture my situation in a trivial but correct manner,
      I had reached the end of my rope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not express to you the discouragement that I felt at this
      conviction. Melanie&rsquo;s infidelity was the crowning touch. It was not my
      heart, but my vanity which had been rendered more irritable by recent
      disappointments. This, then, was the end of all my ambitious dreams! I had
      not enough mind left, at thirty years of age, to write a vaudeville or to
      be loved by a grisette!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One day Doctor Labanchie came to see me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What are you doing there&rsquo; said he, as he saw me seated at my desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Doctor,&rsquo; said I, reaching out my hand to him, &lsquo;I believe that I am a
      little feverish.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Your pulse is a little rapid,&rsquo; said he, after making careful
      examination, &lsquo;but your fever is more of imagination than of blood.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I explained to him my condition, which was now becoming almost
      unendurable. Without believing in medicine very much, I had confidence in
      him and knew him to be a man who would give good advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You work too much,&rsquo; said he, shaking his head. &lsquo;Your brain is put to too
      strong a tension. This is a warning nature gives you, and you will make a
      mistake if you do not follow it. When you are sleepy, go to bed; when you
      are tired, you must have rest. It is rest for your brain that you now
      need. Go into the country, confine yourself to a regular and healthy diet:
      vegetables, white meat, milk in the morning, a very little wine, but,
      above all things, no coffee. Take moderate exercise, hunt&mdash;and avoid
      all irritating thoughts; read the &lsquo;Musee des familles&rsquo; or the &lsquo;Magasin
      Pittoresque&rsquo;. This regime will have the effect of a soothing poultice upon
      your brain, and before the end of six months you will be in your normal
      condition again.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Six months!&rsquo; I exclaimed. &lsquo;You wretch of a doctor, tell me, then, to let
      my beard and nails grow like Nebuchadnezzar. Six months! You do not know
      how I detest the country, partridges, rabbits and all. For heaven&rsquo;s sake,
      find some other remedy for me.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;There is homoeopathy,&rsquo; said he, smiling. &lsquo;Hahnemann is quite the fashion
      now.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Let us have homoeopathy!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You know the principles of the system: &lsquo;Similia similibus!&rsquo; If you have
      fever, redouble it; if you have smallpox, be inoculated with a triple
      dose. So far as you are concerned, you are a little used up and &lsquo;blase&rsquo;,
      as we all are in this Babylon of ours; have recourse, then, as a remedy,
      to the very excesses which have brought you into this state. Homoeopathize
      yourself morally. It may cure you, it may kill you; I wash my hands of
      it.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The doctor was joking, I said to myself after he had left. Does he think
      that passions are like the Wandering Jew&rsquo;s five sous, that there is
      nothing to do but to put your hand in your pocket and take them out at
      your convenience when necessary. However, this idea, strange as it seemed,
      struck me forcibly. I decided to try it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The next day at seven o&rsquo;clock in the evening, I was rolling along the
      road to Lyons. Eight days later, I was rowing in a boat on Lake Geneva.
      For a long time I had wanted to go to Switzerland, and it seemed as if I
      could not have chosen a better time. I hoped that the fresh mountain air
      and the soft pure breezes from the lakes would communicate some of their
      calm serenity to my heart and brain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is something in Parisian life, I do not know what, so exclusive and
      hardening, that it ends by making one irresponsive to sensations of a more
      simple order.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;My kingdom for the gutter in the Rue du Bac!&rsquo; I exclaimed with Madame de
      Stael from the height of the Coppet terrace. The spectacle of nature
      interests only contemplative and religious minds powerfully. Mine was
      neither the one nor the other. My habits of analysis and observation make
      me find more attraction in a characteristic face than in a magnificent
      landscape; I prefer the exercising of thought to the careless
      gratification of ecstasy, the study of flesh and soul to earthly horizons,
      of human passions to a perfectly pure atmosphere.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I met at Geneva an Englishman, who was as morose as myself. We vented our
      spleen in common and were both bored together. We travelled thus through
      the Oberland and the best part of Valais; we were often rolled up in our
      travelling robes in the depths of the carriage, and fast asleep when the
      most beautiful points of interest were in sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From Valais we went to Mont-Blanc, and one night we arrived at Chamounix&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you see any idiots in Valais?&rdquo; suddenly interrupted Marillac, as he
      filled his pipe the second time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Several, and they were all horrible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you not think we might compose something with an idiot in it? It might
      be rather taking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would not equal Caliban or Quasimodo; will you be so kind as to spare
      me just now these efforts of imagination, and listen to me, for I am
      reaching the interesting part of my story?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be praised!&rdquo; said the artist, as he puffed out an enormous cloud of
      smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The next day the Englishman was served with tea in his bedroom, and when
      I asked him to go to the &lsquo;Mer de Glace&rsquo; he turned his head toward the
      wall; so, leaving my phlegmatic companion enveloped in bedclothes up to
      his ears, I started alone for the Montanvert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a magnificent morning, and small parties of travellers, some on
      foot, others mounted, skirted the banks of the Arve or climbed the sides
      of the mountain. They looked like groups of mice in the distance, and this
      extreme lessening in size made one comprehend, better than anything else,
      the immense proportions of the landscape. As for myself, I was alone: I
      had not even taken a guide, this was too favorite a resort for tourists,
      for the precaution to be necessary. For a wonder, I felt rather gay, with
      an elasticity of body and mind which I had not felt in some time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I courageously began climbing the rough pathway which led to the Mer de
      Glace, aiding myself with a long staff, which I had procured at the inn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At every step I breathed with renewed pleasure the fresh, pure, morning
      air; I gazed vaguely at the different effects of the sun or mist, at the
      undulations of the road, which sometimes rose almost straight up in the
      air, sometimes followed a horizontal line, while skirting the open abyss
      at the right. The Arve, wending its course like a silvery ribbon, seemed
      at times to recede, while the ridges of the perpendicular rocks stood out
      more plainly. At times, the noise of a falling avalanche was repeated,
      echo after echo. A troupe of German students below me were responding to
      the voice of the glaciers by a chorus from Oberon. Following the turns in
      the road, I could see through the fir-trees, or, rather, at my feet, their
      long Teutonic frock-coats, their blond beards, and caps about the size of
      one&rsquo;s fist. As I walked along, when the path was not too steep, I amused
      myself by throwing my stick against the trunks of the trees which bordered
      the roadside; I remember how pleased I was when I succeeded in hitting
      them, which I admit was not very often.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the midst of this innocent amusement, I reached the spot where the
      reign of the Alpine plants begins. All at once I saw, above me, a rock
      decked with rhododendrons; these flowers looked like tufts of oleanders
      through the dark foliage of the fir-trees, and produced a charming effect.
      I left the path in order to reach them sooner, and when I had gathered a
      bouquet, I threw my staff and at the same time uttered a joyous cry, in
      imitation of the students, my companions on this trip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A frightened scream responded to mine. My staff in its flight had crossed
      the path and darted into an angle in the road. At that same moment, I saw
      a mule&rsquo;s head appear with ears thrown back in terror, then the rest of its
      body, and upon its back a lady ready to fall into the abyss. Fright
      paralyzed me. All aid was impossible on account of the narrowness of the
      road, and this stranger&rsquo;s life depended upon her coolness and the
      intelligence of her beast. Finally the animal seemed to regain its courage
      and began to walk away, lowering its head as if it could still hear the
      terrible whistle of the javelin in his ears. I slipped from the rock upon
      which I stood and seized the mule by the bridle, and succeeded in getting
      them out of a bad position. I led the animal in this way for some
      distance, until I reached a place where the path was broader, and danger
      was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I then offered my apologies to the person whose life I had just
      compromised by my imprudence, and for the first time took a good look at
      her. She was young and well dressed; a black silk gown fitted her slender
      form to perfection; her straw hat was fastened to the saddle, and her long
      chestnut hair floated in disorder over her pale cheeks. As she heard my
      voice, she opened her eyes, which in her fright she had instinctively
      closed; they seemed to me the most beautiful I had ever seen in my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She looked at the precipice and turned away with a shudder. Her glance
      rested upon me, and then upon the rhododendrons which I held in my hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The frightened expression on her face was replaced immediately by one of
      childish curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What pretty flowers!&rsquo; she exclaimed, in a fresh, young voice. &lsquo;Are those
      rhododendrons, Monsieur?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presented her my bouquet without replying; as she hesitated about
      taking it, I said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;If you refuse these flowers, Madame, I shall not believe that you have
      pardoned me.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By this time, the persons who were with her had joined us. There were two
      other ladies, three or four men mounted upon mules, and several guides. At
      the word rhododendron, a rather large, handsome fellow, dressed in a
      pretentious style, slipped from his mule and climbed the somewhat steep
      precipice in quest of the flowers which seemed to be so much in favor.
      When he returned, panting for breath, with an enormous bunch of them in
      his hand, the lady had already accepted mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Thank you, Monsieur de Mauleon,&rsquo; said she, with a rather scornful air;
      &lsquo;offer your flowers to these ladies.&rsquo; Then, with a slight inclination of
      the head to me, she struck her mule with her whip, and they rode away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The rest of the company followed her, gazing at me as they passed, the
      big, fashionable fellow especially giving me a rather impertinent glance.
      I did not try to pick a quarrel with him on account of this discourteous
      manifestation. When the cavalcade was at some distance, I went in search
      of my stick, which I found under a tree on the edge of the precipice; then
      I continued climbing the steep path, with my eyes fastened upon the rider
      in the black silk gown, her hair flying in the wind and my bouquet in her
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A few moments later, I reached the pavilion at the Montanvert, where I
      found a gay company gathered together, made up principally of English
      people. As for myself, I must admit the frivolous, or, rather mundane,
      bent of my tastes; the truly admirable spectacle presented to my eyes
      interested me much less than the young stranger, who at this moment was
      descending with the lightness of a sylph the little road which led to the
      Mer de Glace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know what mysterious link bound me to this woman. I had met many
      much more beautiful, but the sight of them had left me perfectly
      indifferent. This one attracted me from the first. The singular
      circumstances of this first interview, doubtless, had something to do with
      the impression. I felt glad to see that she had kept my bouquet; she held
      it in one hand, while she leaned with the other upon a staff somewhat like
      my own. The two other ladies, and even the men had stopped on the edge of
      the ice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Mauleon wished to fulfil his duties as escort, but at the
      first crevasse he had also halted without manifesting the slightest desire
      to imitate the chamois. The young woman seemed to take a malicious
      pleasure in contemplating her admirer&rsquo;s prudent attitude, and, far from
      listening to the advice he gave her, she began to run upon the ice,
      bounding over the crevasses with the aid of her stick. I was admiring her
      lightness and thoughtlessness, but with an uneasy feeling, when I saw her
      suddenly stop. I instinctively ran toward her. An enormous crevasse of
      great depth lay at her feet, blue at its edges and dark in its depths. She
      stood motionless before this frightful gulf with hands thrown out before
      her in horror, but charmed like a bird about to be swallowed by a serpent.
      I knew the irresistible effect upon nervous temperaments of this magnetic
      attraction toward an abyss. I seized her by the arm, the suddenness of the
      movement made her drop her staff and flowers, which fell into the depths
      of the chasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tried to lead her away, but after she had taken a few steps, I felt her
      totter; she had grown pale; her eyes were closed. I threw my arm about
      her, in order to support her and turned her face toward the north; the
      cold air striking her revived her, and she soon opened her beautiful brown
      eyes. I do not know what sudden tenderness seized me then, but I pressed
      this lovely creature within my grasp, and she remained in my arms
      unresistingly. I felt that I loved her already.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She remained for a moment with her languishing eyes fixed on mine, making
      no response, perhaps not even having heard me. The shouts of her party,
      some of whom were coming toward her, broke the charm. With a rapid
      movement, she withdrew from my embrace, and I offered her my arm, just as
      if we were in a drawing-room and I was about to lead her out for a dance;
      she took it, but I did not feel elated at this, for I could feel her knees
      waver at every step. The smallest crevasse, which she had crossed before
      with such agility, now inspired her with a horror which I could divine by
      the trembling of her arm within mine. I was obliged to make numerous
      detours in order to avoid them, and thus prolonged the distance, for which
      I was not sorry. Did I not know that when we reached our destination, the
      world, that other sea of ice, was going to take her away from me, perhaps
      forever? We walked silently, occasionally making a few trivial remarks,
      both deeply embarrassed. When we reached the persons who awaited her, I
      said, as she disengaged my arm:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You dropped my flowers, Madame; will it be the same with your memory of
      me?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She looked at me, but made no reply. I loved this silence. I bowed
      politely to her and returned to the pavilion, while she related her
      adventure to her friends; but I am quite sure she did not tell all the
      details.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The register for travellers who visit the Montan-Vert is a mixture of all
      nationalities, and no tourist refuses his tribute; modest ones write down
      their names only. I hoped in this way to learn the name of the young
      traveller, and I was not disappointed. I soon saw the corpulent Monsieur
      de Mauleon busily writing his name upon the register in characters worthy
      of Monsieur Prudhomme; the other members of the little party followed his
      example. The young woman was the last to write down her name. I took the
      book in my turn, after she had left, and with apparent composure I read
      upon the last line these words, written in a slender handwriting:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Baroness Clemence de Bergenheim.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII. GERFAUT ASKS A FAVOR
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Baroness de Bergenheim!&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac. &ldquo;Ah! I understand it all
      now, and you may dispense with the remainder of your story. So this was
      the reason why, instead of visiting the banks of the Rhine as we agreed,
      you made me leave the route at Strasbourg under the pretext of walking
      through the picturesque sites of the Vosges. It was unworthy of you to
      abuse my confidence as a friend. And I allowed myself to be led by the
      nose to within a mile of Bergenheim!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace,&rdquo; interrupted Gerfaut; &ldquo;I have not finished. Smoke and listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I followed Madame de Bergenheim as far as Geneva. She had gone there from
      here with her aunt, and had availed herself of this journey to visit Mont
      Blanc. She left for her home the next day without my meeting her again;
      but I preserved her name, and it was not unknown to me. I had heard it
      spoken in several houses in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and I knew that I
      should certainly have an opportunity of meeting her during the winter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I remained at Geneva, yielding to a sensation as new as it was
      strange. It first acted upon my brain whose ice I felt melting away, and
      its sources ready to gush forth. I seized my pen with a passion not unlike
      an access of rage. I finished in four days two acts of a drama that I was
      then writing. I never had written anything more vigorous or more highly
      colored. My unconstrained genius throbbed in my arteries, ran through my
      blood, and bubbled over as if it wished to burst forth. My hand could not
      keep even with the course of my imagination; I was obliged to write in
      hieroglyphics.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu to the empty reveries brought about by spleen, and to the
      meditations &lsquo;a la Werther&rsquo;! The sky was blue, the air pure, life
      delightful&mdash;my talent was not dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After this first effort, I slackened a little! Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s
      face, which I had seen but dimly during this short time, returned to me in
      a less vaporous form; I took extreme delight in calling to mind the
      slightest circumstances of our meeting, the smallest details of her
      features, her toilette, her manner of walking and carrying her head. What
      had impressed me most was the extreme softness of her dark eyes, the
      almost childish tone of her voice, a vague odor of heliotrope with which
      her hair was perfumed; also the touch of her hand upon my arm. I sometimes
      caught myself embracing myself in order to feel this last sensation again,
      and then I could not help laughing at my thoughts, which were worthy of a
      fifteen-year-old lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had felt so convinced of my powerlessness to love, that the thought of
      a serious passion did not at first enter my mind. However, a remembrance
      of my beautiful traveller pervaded my thoughts more and more, and
      threatened to usurp the place of everything else. I then subjected myself
      to a rigid analysis; I sought for the exact location of this sentiment
      whose involuntary yoke I already felt; I persuaded myself, for some time
      yet, that it was only the transient excitement of my brain, one of those
      fevers of imagination whose fleeting titillations I had felt more than
      once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I realized that the evil, or the good&mdash;for why call love an
      evil?&mdash;had penetrated into the most remote regions of my being, and I
      realized the energy of my struggle like a person entombed who tries to
      extricate himself. From the ashes of this volcano which I had believed to
      be extinct, a flower had suddenly blossomed, perfumed with the most
      fragrant of odors and decked with the most charming colors. Artless
      enthusiasm, faith in love, all the brilliant array of the fresh illusions
      of my youth returned, as if by enchantment, to greet this new bloom of my
      life; it seemed to me as if I had been created a second time, since I was
      aided by intelligence and understood its mysteries while tasting of its
      delights. My past, in the presence of this regeneration, was nothing more
      than a shadow at the bottom of an abyss. I turned toward the future with
      the faith of a Mussulman who kneels with his face toward the East&mdash;I
      loved!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I returned to Paris, and applied to my friend Casorans, who knows the
      Faubourg Saint-Germain from Dan to Beersheba.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Madame de Bergenheim,&rsquo; he said to me, &lsquo;is a very popular society woman,
      not very pretty, perhaps, rather clever, though, and very amiable. She is
      one of our coquettes of the old nobility, and with her twenty-four carats&rsquo; 
      virtue she always has two sufferers attached to her chariot, and a third
      on the waiting-list, and yet it is impossible for one to find a word to
      say against her behavior. Just at this moment, Mauleon and d&rsquo;Arzenac
      compose the team; I do not know who is on the waiting-list. She will
      probably spend the winter here with her aunt, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,
      one of the hatefullest old women on the Rue de Varennes. The husband is a
      good fellow who, since the July revolution, has lived upon his estates,
      caring for his forests and killing wild boars without troubling himself
      much about his wife.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He then told me which houses these ladies frequented, and left me, saying
      with a knowing air:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Take care, if you intend to try the power of your seductions upon the
      little Baroness; whoever meddles with her smarts for it!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This information from a viper like Casorans satisfied me in every way.
      Evidently the place was not taken; impregnable, that was another thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s return, I began to show myself assiduously
      at the houses of which my friend had spoken. My position in the Faubourg
      Saint-Germain is peculiar, but good, according to my opinion. I have
      enough family ties to be sustained by several should I be attacked by
      many, and this is the essential point. It is true that, thanks to my
      works, I am regarded as an atheist and a Jacobin; aside from these two
      little defects, they think well enough of me. Besides, it is a notorious
      fact that I have rejected several offers from the present government, and
      refused last year the &lsquo;croix d&rsquo;honneur&rsquo;; this makes amends and washes away
      half my sins. Finally, I have the reputation of having a certain-knowledge
      of heraldry, which I owe to my uncle, a confirmed hunter after
      genealogical claims. This gains me a respect which makes me laugh
      sometimes, when I see people who detest me greet me as cordially as the
      Cure of Saint-Eustache greeted Bayle, for fear that I might destroy their
      favorite saint. However, in this society, I am no longer Gerfaut of the
      Porte-Saint-Martin, but I am the Vicomte de Gerfaut. Perhaps, with your
      bourgeois ideas, you do not understand&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bourgeois!&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac, bounding from his seat, &ldquo;what are you
      talking about? Do you wish that we should cut each other&rsquo;s throats before
      breakfast to-morrow? Bourgeois! why not grocer? I am an artist&mdash;don&rsquo;t
      you know that by this time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t get angry, my dear fellow; I meant to say that in certain places
      the title of a Vicomte has still a more powerful attraction than you, with
      your artistic but plebeian ideas, would suppose in this year of our Lord
      1832.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well and good. I accept your apology.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A vicomte&rsquo;s title is a recommendation in the eyes of people who still
      cling to the baubles of nobility, and all women are of this class. There
      is something, I know not what, delicate and knightly in this title, which
      suits a youngish bachelor. Duke above all titles is the one that sounds
      the best. Moliere and Regnard have done great harm to the title of
      marquis. Count is terribly bourgeois, thanks to the senators of the
      empire. As to a Baron, unless he is called Montmorency or Beaufremont, it
      is the lowest grade of nobility; vicomte, on the contrary, is above
      reproach; it exhales a mixed odor of the old regime and young France;
      then, don&rsquo;t you know, our Chateaubriand was a vicomte.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I departed from my subject in speaking of nobility. I accidentally turned
      over one day to the article upon my family in the Dictionnaire de
      Saint-Allais; I found that one of my ancestors, Christophe de Gerfaut,
      married, in 1569, a Mademoiselle Yolande de Corandeuil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;O my ancestor! O my ancestress!&rsquo; I exclaimed, &lsquo;you had strange baptismal
      names; but no matter, I thank you. You are going to serve me as a
      grappling iron; I shall be very unskilful if at the very first meeting the
      old aunt escapes Christophe.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A few days later I went to the Marquise de Chameillan&rsquo;s, one of the most
      exclusive houses in the noble Faubourg. When I enter her drawing-room, I
      usually cause the same sensation that Beelzebub would doubtless produce
      should he put his foot into one of the drawing-rooms in Paradise. That
      evening, when I was announced, I saw a certain undulation of heads in a
      group of young women who were whispering to one another; many curious eyes
      were fastened upon me, and among these beautiful eyes were two more
      beautiful than all the others: they were those of my bewitching traveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I exchanged a rapid glance with her, one only; after paying my respects
      to the mistress of the house, I mingled with a crowd of men, and entered
      into conversation with an old peer upon some political question, avoiding
      to look again toward Madame de Bergenheim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A moment later, Madame de Chameillan came to ask the peer to play whist;
      he excused himself, he could not remain late.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I dare not ask you to play with Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,&rsquo; said she,
      turning toward me; &lsquo;besides, I understand too well that it is to my
      interest and the pleasure of these ladies, not to exile you to a whist
      table.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I took the card which she half offered me with an eagerness which might
      have made her suppose that I had become a confirmed whist expert during my
      voyage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle de Corandeuil certainly was the ugly, crabbed creature that
      Casorans had described; but had she been as frightful as the witches in
      Macbeth I was determined to make her conquest. So I began playing with
      unusual attention. I was her partner, and I knew from experience the
      profound horror which the loss of money inspires in old women. Thank
      heaven, we won! Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who has an income of one
      hundred thousand francs, was not at all indifferent to the gain of two or
      three louis. She, therefore, with an almost gracious air, congratulated
      me, as we left the table, upon my manner of playing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I would willingly contract an alliance, offensive and defensive with
      you,&rsquo; said she to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;The alliance is already contracted, Mademoiselle,&rsquo; said I, seizing the
      opportunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;How is that, Monsieur?&rsquo; she replied, raising her head with a dignified
      air, as if she were getting ready to rebuke some impertinent speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I also gravely straightened up and gave a feudal look to my face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Mademoiselle, I have the honor of belonging to your family, a little
      distantly, to be sure; that is what makes me speak of an alliance between
      us as a thing already concluded. One of my ancestors, Christophe de
      Gerfaut, married Mademoiselle Yolande de Corandeuil, one of your
      great-grand-aunts, in 1569.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Yolande is really a family name,&rsquo; replied the old lady, with the most
      affable smile that her face would admit; &lsquo;I bear it myself. The
      Corandeuils, Monsieur, never have denied their alliances, and it is a
      pleasure for me to recognize my relationship with such a man as you. We
      address by the title of cousin relatives as far back as 1300.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I am nearer related to you by three centuries,&rsquo; I replied, in my most
      insinuating voice; &lsquo;may I hope that this good fortune will authorize me to
      pay my respects to you?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle de Corandeuil replied to my &lsquo;tartuferie&rsquo; by granting me
      permission to call upon her. My attention was not so much absorbed in our
      conversation that I did not see in a mirror, during this time, the
      interest with which Madame de Bergenheim watched my conversation with her
      aunt; but I was careful not to turn around, and I let her take her
      departure without giving her a second glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three days later, I made my first call. Madame de Bergenheim received my
      greeting like a woman who had been warned and was, therefore, prepared. We
      exchanged only one rapid, earnest glance, that was all. Availing myself of
      the presence of other callers, numerous enough to assure each one his
      liberty, I began to observe, with a practised eye, the field whereon I had
      just taken my position.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before the end of the evening, I recognized the correctness of Casorans&rsquo;s
      information. Among all the gentlemen present I found only two professed
      admirers: Monsieur de Mauleon, whose insignificance was notorious, and
      Monsieur d&rsquo;Arzenac, who appeared at first glance as if he might be more to
      be feared. D&rsquo;Arzenac, thanks to an income of ten thousand livres, beside
      being a man of rank, occupies also one of the finest positions that one
      could desire; he is not unworthy of his name and his fortune.
      Irreproachable in morals as in manners; sufficiently well informed; of an
      exquisite but reserved politeness; understanding perfectly the ground that
      he is walking upon; making also more advances than is customary among the
      pachas of modern France, he was, without doubt, the flower of the flock in
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s drawing-room. In spite of all these
      advantages, an attentive examination showed me that his passion was
      hopeless. Madame de Bergenheim received his attentions very kindly&mdash;too
      kindly. She usually listened to him with a smile in which one could read
      gratitude for the devotion he lavished upon her. She willingly accepted
      him as her favorite partner in the galop, which he danced to perfection.
      His success stopped there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the end of several days, the ground having been carefully explored and
      the admirers, dangerous and otherwise, having been passed in review, one
      after another, I felt convinced that Clemence loved nobody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She shall love me,&rsquo; said I, on the day I reached this conclusion. In
      order to formulate in a decisive manner the accomplishment of my desire, I
      relied upon the following propositions, which are to me articles of faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No woman is unattainable, except when she loves another. Thus, a woman
      who does not love, and who has resisted nine admirers, will yield to the
      tenth. The only question for me was to be the tenth. Here began the
      problem to be solved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame de Bergenheim had been married only three years; her husband, who
      was good-looking and young, passed for a model husband; if these latter
      considerations were of little importance, the first was of great weight.
      According to all probability, it was too soon for any serious attack.
      Without being beautiful, she pleased much and many; a second obstacle,
      since sensibility in women is almost always developed in inverse ratio to
      their success. She had brains; she was wonderfully aristocratic in all her
      tastes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last, being very much the fashion, sought after and envied, she was under
      the special surveillance of pious persons, old maids, retired beauties in
      one word, all that feminine mounted police, whose eyes, ears, and mouths
      seem to have assumed the express mission of annoying sensitive hearts
      while watching over the preservation of good morals.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This mass of difficulties, none of which escaped me, traced as many lines
      upon my forehead as if I had been commanded to solve at once all the
      propositions in Euclid. She shall love me! these words flashed unceasingly
      before my eyes; but the means to attain this end? No satisfactory plan
      came to me. Women are so capricious, deep, and unfathomable! It is, with
      them, the thing soonest done which is soonest ended! A false step, the
      least awkwardness, a want of intelligence, a quarter of an hour too soon
      or too late! One thing only was evident: it needed a grand display of
      attractions, a complete plan of gallant strategy; but, then, what more?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That earthly paradise of the Montanvert was far from us, where I had been
      able in less time than it would take to walk over a quadrille, to expose
      her to death, to save her afterward, and finally to say to her &lsquo;I love
      you!&rsquo; Passion in drawing-rooms is not allowed those free, dramatic ways;
      flowers fade in the candle-light; the oppressive atmosphere of balls and
      fetes stifles the heart, so ready to dilate in pure mountain air. The
      unexpected and irresistible influence of the glacier would have been
      improper and foolish in Paris. There, an artless sympathy, stronger than
      social conventions, had drawn us to each other&mdash;Octave and Clemence.
      Here, she was the Baroness de Bergenheim, and I the Vicomte de Gerfaut. I
      must from necessity enter the ordinary route, begin the romance at the
      first page, without knowing how to connect the prologue with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What should be my plan of campaign?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should I pose as an agreeable man, and try to captivate her attention and
      good graces by the minute attentions and delicate flattery which
      constitute what is classically called paying court? But D&rsquo;Arzenac had
      seized this role, and filled it in such a superior way that all
      competition would be unsuccessful. I saw where this had led him. It
      needed, in order to inflame this heart, a more active spark than foppish
      gallantry; the latter flatters the vanity without reaching the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was the passionate method&mdash;ardent, burning, fierce love. There
      are some women upon whom convulsive sighs drawn from the depths of the
      stomach, eyebrows frowning in a fantastic manner, and eyes in which only
      the whites are to be seen and which seem to say: &lsquo;Love me, or I will kill
      you!&rsquo; produce a prodigious effect. I had myself felt the power of this
      fascination while using it one day upon a softhearted blond creature who
      thought it delightful to have a Blue-Beard for a lover. But the drooping
      corners of Clemence&rsquo;s mouth showed at times an ironical expression which
      would have cooled down even an Othello&rsquo;s outbursts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She has brains, and she knows it,&rsquo; said I to myself; &lsquo;shall I attack her
      in that direction?&rsquo; Women rather like such a little war of words; it gives
      them an opportunity for displaying a mine of pretty expressions, piquant
      pouts, fresh bursts of laughter, graceful peculiarities of which they well
      know the effect. Should I be the Benedict to this Beatrice? But this
      by-play would hardly fill the prologue, and I very much wished to reach
      the epilogue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I passed in review the different routes that a lover might take to reach
      his end; I recapitulated every one of the more or less infallible methods
      of conquering female hearts; in a word, I went over my tactics like a
      lieutenant about to drill a battalion of recruits. When I had ended I had
      made no farther advance than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;To the devil with systems!&rsquo; exclaimed I; &lsquo;I will not be so foolish as
      wilfully to adopt the role of roue when I feel called upon to play the
      plain role of true lover. Let those who like play the part of Lovelace! As
      for myself, I will love; upon the whole, that is what pleases best.&rsquo; And I
      jumped headlong into the torrent without troubling myself as to the place
      of landing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While I was thus scheming my attack, Madame de Bergenheim was upon her
      guard and had prepared her means of defence. Puzzled by my reserve, which
      was in singular contrast with my almost extravagant conduct at our first
      meeting, her woman&rsquo;s intelligence had surmised, on my part, a plan which
      she proposed to baffle. I was partly found out, but I knew it and thus
      kept the advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not help smiling at the Baroness&rsquo;s clever coquetry, when I
      decided to follow the inspirations of my heart, instead of choosing
      selfish motives as my guide. Every time I took her hand when dancing with
      her, I expected to feel a little claw ready to pierce the cold glove. But,
      while waiting for the scratch, it was a very soft, velvety little hand
      that was given me; and I, who willingly lent myself to her deception, did
      not feel very much duped. It was evident that the sort of halo which my
      merited or unmerited reputation had thrown over me had made me appear to
      her as a conquest of some value, a victim upon whom one could lavish just
      enough flowers in order to bring him to the sacrificial altar. In order to
      wind the first chain around my neck, Mauleon and D&rsquo;Arzenac, &lsquo;a tutti
      quanti&rsquo;, were sacrificed for me without my soliciting, even by a glance,
      this general disbandment. I could interpret this discharge. I saw that the
      fair one wished to concentrate all her seductions against me, so as to
      leave me no means of escape; people neglect the hares to hunt for the
      deer. You must excuse my conceit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This conduct wounded me at first, but I afterward forgave her, when a
      more careful examination taught me to know this adorable woman&rsquo;s
      character. Coquetry was with her not a vice of the heart or of an
      unscrupulous mind; having nothing better to do, she enjoyed it as a
      legitimate pastime, without giving it any importance or feeling any
      scruples. Like all women, she liked to please; her success was sweet to
      her vanity; perhaps flattery turned her head at times, but in the midst of
      this tumult her heart remained in perfect peace. She found so little
      danger for herself in the game she played that it did not seem to her that
      it could be very serious for others. Genuine love is not common enough in
      Parisian parlors for a pretty woman to conceive any great remorse at
      pleasing without loving.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame de Bergenheim was thus, ingenuously, unsuspectingly, a matchless
      coquette. Never having loved, not even her husband, she looked upon her
      little intriguing as one of the rights earned on the day of her marriage,
      the same as her diamonds and cashmeres. There was something touching in
      the sound of her voice and in her large, innocent eyes which she sometimes
      allowed to rest upon mine, without thinking to turn them away, and which
      said, &lsquo;I have never loved.&rsquo; As for myself, I believed it all; one is so
      happy to believe!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Far from being annoyed at the trap she laid for me, I, on the contrary,
      ran my head into it and presented my neck to the yoke with a docility
      which must have amused her, I think; but I hoped not to bear it alone. A
      coquette who coolly flaunts her triumphs to the world resembles those
      master-swimmers who, while spectators are admiring the grace of their
      poses, are struck by an unexpected current; the performer is sometimes
      swept away and drowned without his elegant strokes being of much service
      to him. Throw Celimene into the current of genuine passion&mdash;I do not
      mean the brutality of Alceste&mdash;I will wager that coquetry will be
      swept away by love. I had such faith in mine that I thought to be able to
      fix the moment when I should call myself victorious and sure of being
      obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that sadness and ennui were considered etiquette last winter, in
      a certain society, which was thrown into mourning by the July revolution.
      Reunions were very few; there were no balls or soirees; dancing in
      drawing-rooms to the piano was hardly permissible, even with intimate
      friends. When once I was installed in Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s
      drawing-room upon a friendly footing, this cessation of worldly
      festivities gave me an opportunity to see Clemence in a rather intimate
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would take too long to tell you now all the thousand and one little
      incidents which compose the history of all passions. Profiting by her
      coquetry, which made her receive me kindly in order to make me expiate my
      success afterward, my love for her was soon an understood thing between
      us; she listened to me in a mocking way, but did not dispute my right to
      speak. She ended by receiving my letters, after being constrained to do so
      through a course of strategies in which, truly, I showed incredible
      invention. I was listened to and she read my letters; I asked for nothing
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My love, from the first, had been her secret as well as mine; but every
      day I made to sparkle some unexpected facet of this prism of a thousand
      colors. Even after telling her a hundred times how much I adored her, my
      love still had for her the attraction of the unknown. I really had
      something inexhaustible in my heart, and I was sure, in the end, to
      intoxicate her with this philtre, which I constantly poured out and which
      she drank, while making sport of it like a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One day I found her thoughtful and silent. She did not reply to me with
      her usual sprightliness during the few moments that I was able to talk
      with her; the expression of her eyes had changed; there was something
      deeper and less glowing in their depths; instead of dazzling me by their
      excessive splendor, as had often happened to me before, they seemed to
      soften as they rested on mine; she kept her eyelids a trifle lowered, as
      if she were tired of being gazed at by me. Her voice, as she spoke, had a
      low, soft sound, a sort of inexplicable something which came from the very
      depths of her soul. She never had looked at me with that glance or spoken
      to me in that tone before. Upon that day I knew that she loved me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I returned to my home unutterably happy, for I loved this woman with a
      love of which I believed myself incapable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I met Madame de Bergenheim again, I found her completely changed
      toward me; an icy gravity, an impassible calm, an ironical and disdainful
      haughtiness had taken the place of the delicious abandon of her former
      bearing. In spite of my strong determination to allow myself to love with
      the utmost candor, it was impossible for me to return to that happy age
      when the frowning brows of the beautiful idol to whom we paid court
      inspired us with the resolve to drown ourselves. I could not isolate
      myself from my past experiences. My heart was rejuvenated, but my head
      remained old. I was, therefore, not in the least discouraged by this
      change of humor, and the fit of anger which it portended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Now,&rsquo; said I to myself, &lsquo;there is an end to coquetry, it is beaten on
      all sides; it is gone, never to return. She has seen that the affair is a
      little too deep for that, and the field not tenable. She will erect
      barriers in order to defend herself and will no longer attack.&rsquo; Thus we
      pass from the period of amiable smiles, sweet glances, and half-avowals to
      that of severity and prudery, while waiting for the remorse and despair of
      the denouement. I am sure that at this time she called to her help all her
      powers of resistance. From that day she would retreat behind the line of
      duty, conjugal fidelity, honor, and all the other fine sentiments which
      would need numbering after the fashion of Homer. At the first attack, all
      this household battalion would make a furious sortie; should I succeed in
      overthrowing them and take up my quarters in the trenches, there would
      then be a gathering of the reserve force, and boiling oil or tar would
      rain upon my head, representing virtue, religion, heaven, and hell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sort of conjugal earthquake,&rdquo; interrupted Marillac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I calculated the strength and approximate duration of these means of
      defence. The whole thing appeared to me only a question of time, a few
      days or weeks at most&mdash;so long on the husband&rsquo;s account, so long on
      the father confessor&rsquo;s account. I deserved to be boxed on the ears for my
      presumption; I was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A combat is necessary in order to secure a victory. In spite of all my
      efforts and ruses, it was not possible for me to fight this combat; I did
      not succeed, in spite of all my challenges, in shattering, as I expected,
      this virtuous conjugal fortress. Madame de Bergenheim still persisted in
      her systematic reserve, with incredible prudence and skill. During the
      remainder of the winter, I did not find more than one opportunity of
      speaking to her alone. As I was a permanent fixture every evening in her
      aunt&rsquo;s parlors, she entered them only when other guests were there. She
      never went out alone, and in every place where I was likely to meet her I
      was sure to find a triple rampart of women erected between us, through
      which it was impossible to address one word to her. In short, I was
      encountering a desperate resistance; and, yet, she loved me! I could see
      her cheeks gradually grow pale; her brilliant eyes often had dark rings
      beneath them, as if sleep had deserted her. Sometimes, when she thought
      she was not observed, I surprised them fastened upon me; but she
      immediately turned them away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had been coquettish and indifferent; she was now loving but virtuous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spring came. One afternoon I went to call upon Mademoiselle de
      Corandeuil, who had been ill for several days. I was received, however,
      probably through some mistake of the servants. As I entered the room I saw
      Madame de Bergenheim; she was alone at her embroidery, seated upon a
      divan. There were several vases of flowers in the windows, whose curtains
      only permitted a soft, mysterious light to penetrate the room. The perfume
      from the flowers, the sort of obscurity, the solitude in which I found
      her, overcame me for a moment; I was obliged to pause in order to quiet
      the beating of my heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She arose as she heard my name announced; without speaking or laying down
      her work, she pointed to a chair and seated herself; but instead of
      obeying her, I fell upon my knees before her and seized her hands, which
      she did not withdraw. It had been impossible for me to say another word to
      her before, save &lsquo;I love you!&rsquo; I now told her of all my love. Oh! I am
      sure of it, my words penetrated to the very depth of her heart, for I felt
      her hands tremble as they left mine. She listened without interrupting me
      or making any reply, with her face bent toward me as if she were breathing
      the perfume of a flower. When I begged her to answer me, when I implored
      her for one single word from her heart, she withdrew one of her hands,
      imprisoned within mine, and placed it upon my forehead, pushing back my
      head with a gesture familiar to women. She gazed at me thus for a long
      time; her eyes were so languishing under their long lashes, and their
      languor was so penetrating, that I closed mine, not being able to endure
      the fascination of this glance any longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A shiver which ran over her and which went through me also, like an
      electric shock, aroused me. When I opened my eyes I saw her face bathed in
      tears. She drew back and repelled me. I arose impetuously, seated myself
      by her side and took her in my arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Am I not a wretched, unhappy woman?&rsquo; said she, and fell upon my breast,
      sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Madame la Comtesse de Pontiviers,&rsquo; announced the servant, whom I would
      willingly have assassinated, as well as the visiting bore who followed in
      his footsteps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never saw Madame de Bergenheim in Paris again. I was obliged to go to
      Bordeaux the next day, on account of a lawsuit which you know all about.
      Upon my return, at the end of three weeks, I found she had left. I finally
      learned that she had come to this place, and I followed her. That is the
      extent of my drama.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you know very well that I have not related this long story to you for
      the sole pleasure of keeping you awake until one o&rsquo;clock in the morning. I
      wanted to explain to you that it was really a serious thing for me, so
      that you might not refuse to do what I wish to ask of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I understand what you are aiming at,&rdquo; said Marillac, rather
      pensively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know Bergenheim; you will go to see him to-morrow. He will invite you
      to pass a few days with him; you will stay to dinner. You will see
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, in whose presence you will speak my name as
      you refer to our journey; and before night, my venerable cousin of 1569
      shall send me an invitation to come to see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would rather render you any other service than this,&rdquo; replied the
      artist, walking up and down the room in long strides. &ldquo;I know very well
      that in all circumstances bachelors should triumph over husbands, but that
      does not prevent my conscience from smiting me. You know that I saved
      Bergenheim&rsquo;s life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rest assured that he runs no very great danger at present. Nothing will
      result from this step save the little enjoyment I shall take in annoying
      the cruel creature who defied me today. Is it agreed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since you insist upon it. But then, when our visit is ended, shall we go
      to work at our drama or upon &lsquo;The Chaste Suzannah&rsquo; opera in three acts?
      For, really, you neglected art terribly for the sake of your love
      affairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Chaste Suzannah or the whole Sacred History we shall put into
      vaudeville, if you exact it. Until to-morrow, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Until to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII. A LOVER&rsquo;S RUSE
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was three o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon; the drawing-room of the Chateau de
      Bergenheim presented its usual aspect and occupants. The fire on the
      hearth, lighted during the morning, was slowly dying, and a beautiful
      autumn sun threw its rays upon the floor through the half-opened windows.
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, stretched on the couch before the fireplace
      with Constance at her feet, was reading, according to her habit, the
      newspapers which had just arrived. Madame de Bergenheim seemed very busily
      occupied with a piece of tapestry in her lap; but the slow manner in which
      her needle moved, and the singular mistakes she made, showed that her mind
      was far away from the flowers she was working. She had just finished a
      beautiful dark lily, which contrasted strangely with its neighbors, when a
      servant entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;there is a person here inquiring for Monsieur le Baron
      de Bergenheim.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Monsieur de Bergenheim not at home?&rdquo; asked Mademoiselle de Corandeuil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur has gone to ride with Mademoiselle Aline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is this person?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a gentleman; but I did not ask his name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him enter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence arose at the servant&rsquo;s first words and threw her work upon a
      chair, making a movement as if to leave the room; but after a moment&rsquo;s
      reflection, she resumed her seat and her work, apparently indifferent as
      to who might enter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Marillac,&rdquo; announced the lackey, as he opened the door a
      second time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim darted a rapid glance at the individual who presented
      himself, and then breathed freely again.
    </p>
    <p>
      After setting to rights his coiffure &lsquo;a la Perinet&rsquo;, the artist entered
      the room, throwing back his shoulders. Tightly buttoned up in his
      travelling redingote, and balancing with ease a small gray hat, he bowed
      respectfully to the two ladies and then assumed a pose a la Van Dyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Constance was so frightened at the sight of this imposing figure that,
      instead of jumping at the newcomer&rsquo;s legs, as was her custom, she
      sheltered herself under her mistress&rsquo;s chair, uttering low growls; at
      first glance the latter shared, if not the terror, at least the aversion
      of her dog. Among her numerous antipathies, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil
      detested a beard. This was a common sentiment with all old ladies, who
      barely tolerated moustaches: &ldquo;Gentlemen did not wear them in 1780,&rdquo; they
      would say.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac&rsquo;s eyes turned involuntarily toward the portraits, and other
      picturesque details of a room which was worthy the attention of a
      connoisseur; but he felt that the moment was not opportune for indulging
      in artistic contemplation, and that he must leave the dead for the living.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ladies,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I ought, first of all, to ask your pardon for thus
      intruding without having had the honor of an introduction. I hoped to find
      here Monsieur de Bergenheim, with whom I am on very intimate terms. I was
      told that he was at the chateau.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband&rsquo;s friends do not need to be presented at his house,&rdquo; said
      Clemence; &ldquo;Monsieur de Bergenheim probably will return soon.&rdquo; And with a
      gracious gesture she motioned the visitor to a seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your name is not unknown to me,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil in her
      turn, having succeeded in calming Constance&rsquo;s agitation. &ldquo;I remember
      having heard Monsieur de Bergenheim mention you often.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were at college together, although I am a few years younger than
      Christian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, struck by some sudden thought,
      &ldquo;there is more than a college friendship between you. Are you not,
      Monsieur, the person who saved my husband&rsquo;s life in 1830?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac smiled, bowed his head, and seated himself. Mademoiselle de
      Corandeuil herself could not but graciously greet her nephew&rsquo;s preserver,
      had he had a moustache as long as that of the Shah of Persia, who ties his
      in a bow behind his neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the exchange of a few compliments, Madame de Bergenheim, with the
      amiability of a mistress of the house who seeks subjects of conversation
      that may show off to best advantage the persons she receives, continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband does not like to talk of himself, and never has told us the
      details of this adventure, in which he ran such great danger. Will you be
      kind enough to gratify our curiosity on this point?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac, among his other pretensions, had that of being able to relate a
      story in an impressive manner. These words were as pleasing to his ears as
      the request for a song is to a lady who requires urging, although she is
      dying to sing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ladies,&rdquo; said he, crossing one leg over the other and leaning upon one
      arm of his chair, &ldquo;it was on the twenty-eighth of July, 1830; the
      disastrous decrees had produced their effects; the volcano which&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, Monsieur, if I interrupt you,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de
      Corandeuil, quickly; &ldquo;according to my opinion, and that of many others,
      the royal decrees you speak of were good and necessary. The only mistake
      of Charles Tenth was not to have fifty thousand men around Paris to force
      their acceptance. I am only a woman, Monsieur, but if I had had under my
      command twenty cannon upon the quays, and as many upon the boulevards, I
      assure you that your tricolored flag never should have floated over the
      Tuileries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pitt and Cobourg!&rdquo; said the artist between his teeth, as, with an
      astonished air, he gazed at the old lady; but his common-sense told him
      that republicanism was not acceptable within this castle. Besides,
      remembering the mission with which he was charged, he did not think his
      conscience would feel much hurt if he made a little concession of
      principles and manoeuvred diplomatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; replied he, &ldquo;I call the decrees disastrous when I think of their
      result. You will certainly admit that our situation to-day ought to make
      everybody regret the causes which brought it about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are exactly of the same opinion regarding that point, Monsieur,&rdquo; said
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, resuming her serenity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The open volcano beneath our feet,&rdquo; continued Marillac, who still stuck
      to his point, &ldquo;warned us by deep rumblings of the hot lava which was about
      to gush forth. The excitement of the people was intense. Several
      engagements with the soldiers had already taken place at different points.
      I stood on the Boulevard Poissonniere, where I had just taken my luncheon,
      and was gazing with an artist&rsquo;s eye upon the dramatic scene spread out
      before me. Men with bare arms and women panting with excitement were
      tearing up the pavements or felling trees. An omnibus had just been upset;
      the rioters added cabriolets, furniture, and casks to it; everything
      became means of defence. The crashing of the trees as they fell, the blows
      of crowbars on the stones, the confused roaring of thousands of voices,
      the Marseillaise sung in chorus, and the irregular cannonading which
      resounded from the direction of the Rue Saint-Denis, all composed a
      strident, stupefying, tempestuous harmony, beside which Beethoven&rsquo;s
      Tempest would have seemed like the buzzing of a bee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was listening to the roaring of the people, who were gnawing at their
      chains before breaking them, when my eyes happened to fall upon a window
      of a second-floor apartment opposite me. A man about sixty years of age,
      with gray hair, a fresh, plump face, an honest, placid countenance, and
      wearing a mouse-colored silk dressing-gown, was seated before a small,
      round table. The window opened to the floor, and I could see him in this
      frame like a full-length portrait. There was a bowl of coffee upon the
      table, in which he dipped his roll as he read his journal. I beg your
      pardon, ladies, for entering into these petty details, but the habit of
      writing&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you, Monsieur, your story interests me very much,&rdquo; said Madame
      de Bergenheim, kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A King Charles spaniel, like yours, Mademoiselle, was standing near the
      window with his paws resting upon it; he was gazing with curiosity at the
      revolution of July, while his master was reading his paper and sipping his
      coffee, as indifferent to all that passed as if he had been in Pekin or
      New York.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Oh, the calm of a pure, sincere soul!&rsquo; I exclaimed to myself, at the
      sight of this little tableau worthy of Greuze; &lsquo;oh, patriarchal
      philosophy! in a few minutes perhaps blood will flow in the streets, and
      here sits a handsome old man quietly sipping his coffee.&rsquo; He seemed like a
      lamb browsing upon a volcano.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac loved volcanoes, and never lost an opportunity to bring one in at
      every possible opportunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suddenly a commotion ran through the crowd; the people rushed in every
      direction, and in an instant the boulevard was empty. Plumes waving from
      high caps, red-and-white flags floating from the ends of long lances, and
      the cavalcade that I saw approaching through the trees told me the cause
      of this panic. A squadron of lancers was charging. Have you ever seen a
      charge of lancers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; said both of the ladies at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a very grand sight, I assure you. Fancy, ladies, a legion of demons
      galloping along upon their horses, thrusting to the right and left with
      long pikes, whose steel points are eighteen inches long. That is a charge
      of lancers. I beg you to believe that I had shown before this the mettle
      there was in me, but I will not conceal from you that at this moment I
      shared with the crowd the impression which the coming of these gentlemen
      made. I had only time to jump over the sidewalk and to dart up a staircase
      which ran on the outside of a house, every door being closed. I never
      shall forget the face of one of those men who thrust the point of a lance
      at me, long enough to pierce through six men at once. I admit that I felt
      excited then! The jinn having passed&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The&mdash;what?&rdquo; asked Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who was not familiar
      with Eastern terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg a thousand pardons, it was a poetical reminiscence. The lancers,
      having rushed through the boulevard like an avalanche, a laggard rider, a
      hundred steps behind the others, galloped proudly by, erect in his
      stirrups and flourishing his sword. Suddenly the report of a gun
      resounded, the lancer reeled backward, then forward, and finally fell upon
      his horse&rsquo;s neck; a moment later he turned in his saddle and lay stretched
      upon the ground, his foot caught in the stirrup; the horse, still
      galloping, dragged the man and the lance, which was fastened to his arm by
      a leather band.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How horrible!&rdquo; said Clemence, clasping her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac, much pleased with the effect of his narration, leaned back in
      his chair and continued his tale with his usual assurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I looked to the neighboring roofs to discover whence came this shot; as I
      was glancing to the right and left I saw smoke issuing through the blinds
      of the room on the second floor, which had been closed at the approach of
      the lancers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Good God!&rsquo; I exclaimed; &lsquo;it must be this handsome old man in the
      mouse-colored silk dressing-gown who amuses himself by firing upon the
      lancers, as if they were rabbits in a warren!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just then the blinds were opened, and the strange fellow with the
      unruffled countenance leaned out and gazed with a smiling face in the
      direction the horse was taking, dragging his master&rsquo;s body after him. The
      patriarch had killed his man between two sips of his coffee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that is the cowardly way in which members of the royal guard were
      assassinated by the &lsquo;heroes&rsquo; of your glorious insurrection!&rdquo; exclaimed
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, indignantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When the troops had passed,&rdquo; Marillac continued, &ldquo;the crowd returned,
      more excited and noisy than ever. Barricades were erected with wonderful
      rapidity; two of those were on the boulevard close to the place where I
      was. I saw a horseman suddenly bound over the first; he wore a tuft of
      red-and-white feathers in his hat. I saw that it was a staff officer,
      doubtless carrying some despatch to headquarters. He continued his way,
      sabre in its sheath, head erect, proud and calm in the midst of insulting
      shouts from the crowd; stones were thrown at him and sticks at his horse&rsquo;s
      legs; he looked as if he were parading upon the Place du Carrousel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When he reached the second barricade, he drew his horse up, as if it were
      merely a question of jumping a hurdle in a steeplechase just then I saw
      the window on the first floor open again. &lsquo;Ah! you old rascal!&rsquo; I
      exclaimed. The report of a gun drowned my voice; the horse which had just
      made the leap, fell on his knees; the horseman tried to pull him up, but
      after making one effort the animal fell over upon his side. The ball had
      gone through the steed&rsquo;s head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was that poor Fidele that I gave your husband,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de
      Corandeuil, who was always very sentimental in the choice of names she
      gave to animals.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He merited his name, Mademoiselle, for the poor beast died for his
      master, for whom the shot was in tended. Several of those horrible faces,
      which upon riot days suddenly appear as if they came out of the ground,
      darted toward the unhorsed officer. I, and several other young men who
      were as little disposed as myself to allow a defenceless man to be
      slaughtered, ran toward him. I recognized Christian as I approached; his
      right leg was caught under the horse, and he was trying to unsheath his
      sword with his left hand. Sticks and stones were showered at him. I drew
      out the sword, which his position prevented him from doing, and exclaimed
      as I waved it in the air: &lsquo;The first rascal who advances, I will cut open
      like a dog.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I accompanied these words with a flourish which kept the cannibals at a
      distance for the time being.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The young fellows who were with me followed my example. One took a
      pickaxe, another seized the branch of a tree, while others tried to
      release Christian from his horse. During this time the crowd increased
      around us; the shouts redoubled: &lsquo;Down with the ordinances! These are
      disguised gendarmes! Vive la liberte!&mdash;We must kill them! Let&rsquo;s hang
      the spies to the lamp-posts!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Danger was imminent, and I realized that only a patriotic harangue would
      get us out of the scrape. While they were releasing Christian, I jumped
      upon Fidele so as to be seen by all and shouted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Vive la liberte!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Vive la liberte!&rsquo; replied the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Down with Charles Tenth! Down with the ministers! Down with the
      ordinances!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Down!&rsquo; shouted a thousand voices at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You understand, ladies, this was a sort of bait, intended to close the
      mouths of these brutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;We are all citizens, we are all Frenchmen,&rsquo; I continued; &lsquo;we must not
      soil our hands with the blood of one of our disarmed brothers. After a
      victory there are no enemies. This officer was doing his duty in
      fulfilling his chief&rsquo;s commands; let us do ours by dying, if necessary,
      for our country and the preservation of our rights.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Vive la liberte! vive la liberte!&rsquo; shouted the crowd. &lsquo;He is right; the
      officer was doing his duty. It would be assassination!&rsquo; exclaimed numerous
      voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Thanks, Marillac,&rsquo; said Bergenheim to me, as I took his hand to lead him
      away, availing ourselves of the effect of my harangue; &lsquo;but do not press
      me so hard, for I really believe that my right arm is broken; only for
      that, I should ask you to return me my sword that I might show this rabble
      that they can not kill a Bergenheim as they would a chicken.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Let him cry: Vive la Charte!&rsquo; roared out a man, with a ferocious face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I receive orders from nobody,&rsquo; Christian replied, in a very loud voice,
      as he glared at him with eyes which would have put a rhinoceros to
      flight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your husband is really a very brave man,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de
      Corandeuil, addressing Clemence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brave as an old warrior. This time he pushed his courage to the verge of
      imprudence; I do not know what the result might have been if the crowd had
      not been dispersed a second time by the approach of the lancers, who were
      returning through the boulevard. I led Bergenheim into a cafe;
      fortunately, his arm was only sprained.&rdquo; Just at this moment Marillac&rsquo;s
      story was interrupted by a sound of voices and hurried steps. The door
      opened suddenly, and Aline burst into the room with her usual impetuosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has happened to you, Aline?&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim,
      hurrying to her sister&rsquo;s side. The young girl&rsquo;s riding-habit and hat were
      covered with splashes of mud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing,&rdquo; replied the young girl, in a broken voice; &ldquo;it was only
      Titania, who wanted to throw me into the river. Do you know where
      Rousselet is? They say it is necessary to bleed him; and he is the only
      one who knows how to do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom do you mean, child? Is my husband wounded?&rdquo; asked Clemence, turning
      pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not Christian; it is a gentleman I do not know; only for him I should
      have been drowned. Mon Dieu! can not Rousselet be found?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline left the room in great agitation. They all went over to the windows
      that opened out into the court, whence the sound of voices seemed to
      arise, and where they could hear the master&rsquo;s voice thundering out his
      commands. Several servants had gone to his assistance: one of them held
      Titania by the bridle; she was covered with foam and mud, and was
      trembling, with distended nostrils, like a beast that knows it has just
      committed a wicked action. A young man was seated upon a stone bench,
      wiping away blood which streamed from his forehead. It was Monsieur de
      Gerfaut.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this sight Clemence supported herself against the framework of the
      window, and Marillac hurriedly left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pere Rousselet, who had at last been found in the kitchen, advanced
      majestically, eating an enormous slice of bread and butter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! have you arrived at last?&rdquo; exclaimed Bergenheim. &ldquo;Here is a
      gentleman this crazy mare has thrown against a tree, and who has received
      a violent blow on the head. Do you not think it would be the proper thing
      to bleed him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A slight phlebotomy might be very advantageous in stopping the
      extravasation of blood in the frontal region,&rdquo; replied the peasant,
      calling to his aid all the technical terms he had learned when he was a
      hospital nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure you can do this bleeding well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take the liberty of saying to Monsieur le Baron that I phlebotomized
      Perdreau last week and Mascareau only a month ago, without any complaint
      from them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! I believe you,&rdquo; sneered the groom, &ldquo;both are on their last legs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am neither Perdreau nor Mascareau,&rdquo; observed the wounded man with a
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rousselet drew himself up at full height, with the dignity of a man of
      talent who scorns to reply to either criticism or mistrust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, turning to the Baron, &ldquo;I am really causing you
      too much trouble. This trifle does not merit the attention you give it. I
      do not suffer in the least. Some water and a napkin are all that I need. I
      fancy that I resemble an Iroquois Indian who has just been scalped; my
      pride is really what is most hurt,&rdquo; he added, with a smile, &ldquo;when I think
      of the grotesque sight I must present to the ladies whom I notice at the
      window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it is Monsieur de Gerfaut!&rdquo; exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,
      toward whom he raised his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave bowed to her with a gracious air. His glance wandered from the old
      lady to Clemence, who did not seem to have the strength to leave the
      window. M. de Bergenheim, after hurriedly greeting Marillac, finally
      yielded to the assurance that a surgeon was unnecessary, and conducted the
      two friends to his own room, where the wounded man could find everything
      that he needed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil was the use in sending me as ambassador, since you were to
      make such a fine entrance upon the stage?&rdquo; murmured Marillac in his
      friend&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; replied the latter as he pressed his hand; &ldquo;I am only behind
      the scenes as yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During this time Clemence and her aunt had led Aline to her room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, tell us what all this means?&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, while
      the young girl was changing her dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was Christian&rsquo;s fault,&rdquo; replied Aline. &ldquo;We were galloping along beside
      the river when Titania became frightened by the branch of a tree. &lsquo;Do not
      be afraid!&rsquo; exclaimed my brother. I was not in the least frightened; but
      when he saw that my horse was about to run away, he urged his on in order
      to join me. When Titania heard the galloping behind her she did run away
      in earnest; she left the road and started straight for the river. Then I
      began to be a little frightened. Just fancy, Clemence, I bounded in the
      saddle at each leap, sometimes upon the mare&rsquo;s neck, sometimes upon the
      crupper; it was terrible! I tried to withdraw my foot from the stirrup as
      Christian had told me to do; but just then Titania ran against the trunk
      of a tree, and I rolled over with her. A gentleman, whom I had not seen
      before, and who, I believe, actually jumped out of the ground, raised me
      from the saddle, where I was held by something, I do not know what; then
      that naughty Titania threw him against the tree as he was helping me to my
      feet, and when I was able to look at him his face was covered with blood.
      Christian rushed on the scene, and, when he saw that I was not badly hurt,
      he ran after Titania and beat her! Oh! how he beat her! Mon Dieu! how
      cruel men are! It was in vain for me to cry for mercy; he would not listen
      to me. Then we came home, and, since this gentleman is not badly wounded,
      it seems that my poor dress has fared worst of all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl took her riding-habit from the chair as she said these
      words, and could not restrain a cry of horror when she saw an enormous
      rent in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mon Dieu!&rdquo; she exclaimed, as she showed it to her sister-in-law. It was
      all that she had strength to articulate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil took the skirt in her turn, and looked at it
      with the practised eye of a person who had made a special study of little
      disasters of the toilet and the ways of remedying them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is in the fullness,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and by putting in a new breadth it
      will never be seen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline, once convinced that the evil could be repaired, soon recovered her
      serenity.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the three ladies entered the drawing-room they found the Baron and
      his two guests chatting amicably. Gerfaut had his forehead tied up with a
      black silk band which gave him a slight resemblance to Cupid with his
      bandage just off his eyes. His sparkling glance showed that blindness was
      not what there was in common between him and the charming little god.
      After the first greetings, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who was always
      strict as to etiquette, and who thought that Titania had been a rather
      unceremonious master of ceremonies between her nephew and M. de Gerfaut,
      advanced toward the latter in order to introduce them formally to each
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that Monsieur de Bergenheim has had the honor
      of meeting you before today; allow me then to present you to him. Baron,
      this is Monsieur le Vicomte de Gerfaut, one of my relatives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was in good humor, she treated Gerfaut as
      a relative on account of their family alliance of 1569. At this moment the
      poet felt profoundly grateful for this kindness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur has presented himself so well,&rdquo; said Christian frankly, &ldquo;that
      your recommendation, my dear aunt, in spite of the respect I have for it,
      will not add to my gratitude. Only for Monsieur de Gerfaut, here is a
      madcap little girl whom we should be obliged to look for now at the bottom
      of the river.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said these words, he passed his arm about his sister&rsquo;s waist and
      kissed her tenderly, while Aline was obliged to stand upon the tips of her
      toes to reach her brother&rsquo;s lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These gentlemen,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;have agreed to sacrifice for us the
      pleasure of the Femme-sans-Tete, as well as Mademoiselle Gobillot&rsquo;s
      civilities, and establish their headquarters in my house. They can pursue
      their picturesque and romantic studies from here just as well; I suppose,
      Marillac, that you are still a determined dauber of canvas?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell the truth,&rdquo; replied the poet, &ldquo;art absorbs me a great deal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to myself, I never succeeded in drawing a nose that did not resemble
      an ear and vice versa. But for that worthy Baringnier, who was kind enough
      to look over my plans, I ran a great risk of leaving Saint Cyr without a
      graduating diploma. But seriously, gentlemen, when you are tired of
      sketching trees and tumbledown houses, I can give you some good boar
      hunting. Are you a hunter, Monsieur de Gerfaut?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like hunting very much,&rdquo; replied the lover, with rare effrontery.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation continued thus upon the topics that occupy people who
      meet for the first time. When the Baron spoke of the two friends
      installing themselves at the chateau, Octave darted a glance at Madame de
      Bergenheim, as if soliciting a tacit approbation of his conduct; but met
      with no response. Clemence, with a gloomy, sombre air fulfilled the duties
      that politeness imposed upon her as mistress of the house. Her conduct did
      not change during the rest of the evening, and Gerfaut no longer tried by
      a single glance to soften the severity she seemed determined to adopt
      toward him. All his attentions were reserved for Mademoiselle de
      Corandeuil and Aline, who listened with unconcealed pleasure to the man
      whom she regarded as her saviour; for the young girl&rsquo;s remembrance of the
      danger which she had run excited her more and more.
    </p>
    <p>
      After supper Mademoiselle de Corandeuil proposed a game of whist to M. de
      Gerfaut, whose talent for the game had made a lasting impression upon her.
      The poet accepted this diversion with an enthusiasm equal to that he had
      shown for hunting, and quite as sincere too. Christian and his sister&mdash;a
      little gamester in embryo, like all of her family&mdash;completed the
      party, while Clemence took up her work and listened with an absentminded
      air to Marillac&rsquo;s conversation. It was in vain for the latter to call art
      and the Middle Ages to his aid, using the very quintessence of his
      brightest speeches&mdash;success did not attend his effort. After the end
      of an hour, he had a firm conviction that Madame de Bergenheim was,
      everything considered, only a woman of ordinary intelligence and entirely
      unworthy of the passion she had inspired in his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my soul,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;I would a hundred times rather have Reine
      Gobillot for a sweetheart. I must take a trip in that direction tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When they separated for the night, Gerfaut, bored by his evening and
      wounded by his reception from Clemence, which, he thought, surpassed
      anything he could have expected of her capricious disposition, addressed
      to the young woman a profound bow and a look which said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am here in spite of you; I shall stay here in spite of you; you shall
      love me in spite of yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim replied by a glance none the less expressive, in
      which a lover the most prone to conceit could read:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do as you like; I have as much indifference for your love as disdain for
      your presumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the last shot in this preliminary skirmish.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX. GERFAUT, THE WIZARD
    </h2>
    <p>
      There are some women who, like the heroic Cure Merino, need but one hour&rsquo;s
      sleep. A nervous, irritable, subtle organization gives them a power for
      waking, without apparent fatigue, refused to most men. And yet, when a
      strong emotion causes its corrosive waters to filtrate into the veins of
      these impressionable beings, it trickles there drop by drop, until it has
      hollowed out in the very depths of their hearts a lake full of trouble and
      storms. Then, in the silence of night and the calm of solitude, insomnia
      makes the rosy cheeks grow pale and dark rings encircle the most sparkling
      eyes. It is in vain for the burning forehead to seek the cool pillow; the
      pillow grows warm without the forehead cooling. In vain the mind hunts for
      commonplace ideas, as a sort of intellectual poppy-leaves that may lead to
      a quiet night&rsquo;s rest; a persistent thought still returns, chasing away all
      others, as an eagle disperses a flock of timid birds in order to remain
      sole master of its prey. If one tries to repeat the accustomed prayer, and
      invoke the aid of the Virgin, or the good angel who watches at the foot of
      young girls&rsquo; beds, in order to keep away the charms of the tempter, the
      prayer is only on the lips, the Virgin is deaf, the angel sleeps! The
      breath of passion against which one struggles runs through every fibre of
      the heart, like a storm over the chords of an Tolian harp, and extorts
      from it those magic melodies to which a poor, troubled, and frightened
      woman listens with remorse and despair; but to which she listens, and with
      which at last she is intoxicated, for the allegory of Eve is an immortal
      myth, that repeats itself, through every century and in every clime.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since her entrance into society, Madame de Bergenheim had formed the habit
      of keeping late hours. When the minute details of her toilette for the
      night were over, and she had confided her beautiful body to the snowy
      sheets of her couch, some new novel or fashionable magazine helped her
      wile away the time until sleep came to her. Christian left his room, like
      a good country gentleman, at sunrise; he left it either for the chase&mdash;or
      to oversee workmen, who were continually being employed upon some part of
      his domain. Ordinarily, he returned only in time for dinner, and rarely
      saw Clemence except between that time and supper, at the conclusion of
      which, fatigued by his day&rsquo;s work, he hastened to seek the repose of the
      just. Husband and wife, while living under the same roof, were thus almost
      completely isolated from each other; night for one was day for the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the haste with which Clemence shortened her preparations for the night,
      one would have said that she must have been blessed with an unusually
      sleepy sensation. But when she lay in bed, with her head under her arm,
      like a swan with his neck under his wing, and almost in the attitude of
      Correggio&rsquo;s Magdalen, her eyes, which sparkled with a feverish light,
      betrayed the fact that she had sought the solitude of her bed in order to
      indulge more freely in deep meditation.
    </p>
    <p>
      With marvelous fidelity she went over the slightest events of the day, to
      which by a constant effort of willpower, she had seemed so indifferent.
      First, she saw Gerfaut with his face covered with blood, and the thought
      of the terrible sensation which this sight caused her made her heart throb
      violently. She then recalled him as she next saw him, in the drawing-room
      by her husband&rsquo;s side, seated in the very chair that she had left but a
      moment before. This trifling circumstance impressed her; she saw in this a
      proof of sympathetic understanding, a sort of gift of second sight which
      Octave possessed, and which in her eyes was so formidable a weapon.
      According to her ideas, he must have suspected that this was her own
      favorite chair and have seized it for that reason, just as he would have
      loved to take her in his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first time, Clemence had seen together the man to whom she
      belonged and the man whom she regarded somewhat as her property. For, by
      one of those arrangements with their consciences of which women alone
      possess the secret, she had managed to reason like this: &ldquo;Since I am
      certain always to belong to Monsieur de Bergenheim only, Octave can
      certainly belong to me.&rdquo; An heterodoxical syllogism, whose two premises
      she reconciled with an inconceivable subtlety. A feeling of shame had made
      her dread this meeting, which the most hardened coquette could never
      witness without embarrassment. A woman, between her husband and her lover,
      is like a plant one sprinkles with ice-cold water while a ray of sunlight
      is trying to comfort it. The sombre and jealous, or even tranquil and
      unsuspecting, face of a husband has a wonderful power of repression. One
      is embarrassed to love under the glance of an eye that darts flashes as
      bright as steel; and a calm, kindly look is more terrible yet, for all
      jealousy seems tyrannical, and tyranny leads to revolt; but a confiding
      husband is like a victim strangled in his sleep, and inspires, by his very
      calmness, the most poignant remorse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The meeting of these two men naturally led Clemence to a comparison which
      could but be to Christian&rsquo;s advantage. Gerfaut had nothing remarkable
      about him save an intelligent, intensely clever air; there was a
      thoughtful look in his eyes and an archness in his smile, but his
      irregular features showed no mark of beauty; his face wore an habitually
      tired expression, peculiar to those people who have lived a great deal in
      a short time, and it made him look older than Christian, although he was
      really several years younger. The latter, on the contrary, owed to his
      strong constitution, fortified by country life, an appearance of blooming
      youth that enhanced his noble regularity of features.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a word, Christian was handsomer than his rival, and Clemence
      exaggerated her husband&rsquo;s superiority over her lover. Not being able to
      find the latter awkward or insignificant, she tried to persuade herself
      that he was ugly. She then reviewed in her mind all M. de Bergenheim&rsquo;s
      good qualities, his attachment and kindness to her, his loyal, generous
      ways; she recalled the striking instance that Marillac had related of his
      bravery, a quality without which there is no hope of success for a man in
      the eyes of any woman. She did all in her power to inflame her imagination
      and to see in her husband a hero worthy of inspiring the most fervent
      love. When she had exhausted her efforts toward such enthusiasm and
      admiration, she turned round, in despair, and, burying her head in her
      pillow, she sobbed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot, I cannot love him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She wept bitterly for a long while. As she recalled her own severity in
      the past regarding women whose conduct had caused scandal, she employed in
      her turn the harshness of her judgment in examining her own actions. She
      felt herself more guilty than all the others, for her weakness appeared
      less excusable to her. She felt that she was unworthy and contemptible,
      and wished to die that she might escape the shame that made her blush
      scarlet, and the remorse that tortured her soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      How many such unhappy tears bathe the eyes of those who should shed only
      tears of joy! How many such sighs break the silence of the night! There
      are noble, celestial beings among women whom remorse stretches out upon
      its relentless brasier, but in the midst of the flames that torture them
      the heart palpitates, imperishable as a salamander. Is it not human fate
      to suffer? After Madame de Bergenheim had given vent, by convulsive sobs
      and stifled sighs, to her grief for this love which she could not tear
      from her breast, she formed a desperate resolution. From the manner in
      which M. de Gerfaut had taken possession of the chateau the very first
      day, she recognized that he was master of the situation. The sort of
      infatuation which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil seemed to have for him, and
      Christian&rsquo;s courteous and hospitable habits, would give him an opportunity
      to prolong his stay as long as he desired. She thus compared herself to a
      besieged general, who sees the enemy within his ramparts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! I will shut myself up in the fortress!&rdquo; said she, smiling in
      spite of herself in the midst of her tears. &ldquo;Since this insupportable man
      has taken possession of my drawing-room, I will remain in my own room; we
      will see whether he dares to approach that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her pretty head with a defiant air, but she could not help
      glancing into the room which was barely lighted with a night lamp. She sat
      up and listened for a moment rather anxiously, as if Octave&rsquo;s dark eyes
      might suddenly glisten in the obscurity. When she had assured herself that
      all was tranquil, and that the throbbing of her heart was all that
      disturbed the silence, she continued preparing her plan of defense.
    </p>
    <p>
      She decided that she would be ill the next day and keep to her bed, if
      necessary, until her persecutor should make up his mind to beat a retreat.
      She solemnly pledged herself to be firm, courageous, and inflexible; then
      she tried to pray. It was now two o&rsquo;clock in the morning. For some time
      Clemence remained motionless, and one might have thought that at least she
      was asleep. Suddenly she arose. Without stopping to put on her
      dressing-gown, she lighted a candle by the night-lamp, pushed the bolt of
      her door and then went to the windows, the space between them forming a
      rather deep projection on account of the thickness of the walls. A
      portrait of the Duke of Bordeaux hung there; she raised it and pressed a
      button concealed in the woodwork. A panel opened, showing a small empty
      space. The shelf in this sort of closet contained only a rosewood casket.
      She opened this mysterious box and took from it a package of letters, then
      returned to her bed with the eagerness of a miser who is about to gaze
      upon his treasures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had she not struggled and prayed? Had she not offered upon the tyrannical
      altar of duty as an expiation, tears, pale cheeks and a tortured soul? Had
      she not just taken a solemn vow, in the presence of God and herself, which
      should protect her against her weakness? Was she not a virtuous wife, and
      had she not paid dearly enough for a moment of sad happiness? Was it a
      crime to breathe for an instant the balmy air of love through the gratings
      of this prison-cell, the doors of which she had just locked with her own
      hand? Admirable logic for loving hearts, which, not being able to control
      their feelings, suffer in order to prove themselves less guilty, and
      clothe themselves in haircloth so that each shudder may cause a pain that
      condones the sin!
    </p>
    <p>
      Being at peace with herself, she read as women read who are in love;
      leaning her head upon her hand, she drew out the letters, one by one, from
      her bosom where she had placed them. She drank with her heart and eyes the
      poison these passionate words contained; she allowed herself to be swayed
      at will by these melodies which lulled but did not benumb. When one of
      those invincible appeals of imploring passion awoke all the echoes of her
      love, and ran through her veins with a thrill, striking the innermost
      depths of her heart, she threw herself back and imprinted her burning lips
      upon the cold paper. With one letter pressed to her heart, and another
      pressed to her lips, she gave herself up completely, exclaiming in an
      inaudible voice: &ldquo;I love thee! I am thine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next morning, when Aline entered her sister-in law&rsquo;s room, according
      to her usual custom, the latter was not obliged to feign the indisposition
      she had planned; the sensations of this sleepless night had paled her
      cheeks and altered her features; it would have been difficult to imagine a
      more complete contrast than that between these two young women at this
      moment. Clemence, lying upon her bed motionless and white as the sheet
      which covered her, resembled Juliet sleeping in her tomb; Aline, rosy,
      vivacious, and more petulant than usual, looked very much the madcap
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had reproached her with being. Her face was
      full of that still childish grace, more lovely than calm, more pleasing
      than impressive, which makes young girls so charming to the eye but less
      eloquent to the heart; for are they not fresh flowers more rich in
      coloring than in perfume?
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence could hardly stifle a sigh as she gazed at those rosy checks,
      those sparkling eyes, that life so full of the rich future. She recalled a
      time when she was thus, when grief glided over her cheeks without paling
      them, when tears dried as they left her eyes; she also had had her happy,
      careless days, her dreams of unalloyed bliss.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aline, after presenting her face like a child who asks for a kiss, wished
      to tease her as usual, but, with a tired gesture, her sister-in-law begged
      for mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you ill?&rdquo; asked the young girl anxiously, as she seated herself upon
      the edge of the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim smiled, a forced smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank me for my poor health,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;for it obliges you to do the
      honors; I shall doubtless not be able to go down to dinner, and you must
      take my place. You know that it tires my aunt to have to trouble herself
      about others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline made a little grimace as she replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I thought you were speaking seriously, I would go and get into my own
      bed at once!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Child! will you not in your turn be mistress of a home? Is it not
      necessary for you to become accustomed to it? It is an excellent
      opportunity, and, with my aunt as a guide, you are sure to acquit yourself
      well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These last words were spoken rather maliciously, for the young woman knew
      that of all the possible mentors, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was the one
      whom Aline dreaded most.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg of you, my kind sister,&rdquo; replied the girl, clasping her hands, &ldquo;do
      not be ill to-day. Is it the neuralgia of the day before yesterday you are
      suffering from? Do be a good sister, and get up and come and take a walk
      in the park; the fresh air will cure you, I am sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I shall not be obliged to preside at the dinner-table, you would add;
      is it not so? You selfish girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid of Monsieur de Gerfaut,&rdquo; said the child, lowering her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she heard pronounced this name, so deeply agitating her, Madame de
      Bergenheim was silent for a moment; at last she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has Monsieur de Gerfaut done to you? Is it not downright ungrateful
      to be afraid of him so soon after the service he has rendered you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I am not ungrateful,&rdquo; replied the young girl quickly. &ldquo;I never shall
      forget that I owe my life to him, for certainly, but for him, I should
      have been dragged into the river. But he has such black, piercing eyes
      that they seem to look into your very soul; and then, he is such a
      brilliant man! I am all the time afraid of saying something that he may
      laugh at. You know, some people think I talk too much; but I shall never
      dare open my mouth in his presence. Why do some persons&rsquo; eyes make such an
      impression upon one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence lowered her own beautiful eyes and made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His friend, Monsieur Marillac, does not frighten me one bit, in spite of
      his big moustache. Tell me, does not this Monsieur de Gerfaut frighten you
      a little too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, I assure you,&rdquo; replied Madame de Bergenheim, trying to smile.
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; she continued, in order to change the conversation, &ldquo;how fine you
      look! You have certainly some plan of conquest. What! a city gown at nine
      o&rsquo;clock in the morning, and hair dressed as if for a ball?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like to know the compliment your aunt just paid me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some little jest of hers, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might say some spiteful remark, for she is the hatefulest thing! She
      told me that blue ribbons suited red hair very badly and advised me to
      change one or the other. Is it true that my hair is red?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Bergenheim asked this question with so much anxiety that
      her sister-in-law could not repress a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that my aunt delights in annoying you,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Your hair is
      very pretty, a bright blond, very pleasant to the eye; only Justine waves
      it a little too tight; it curls naturally. She dresses your hair too high;
      it would be more becoming to you if she pushed it back from your temples a
      little than to wave it as much as she does. Come a little nearer to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline knelt before Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s bed, and the latter, adding a
      practical lesson to verbal advice, began to modify the maid&rsquo;s work to suit
      her own taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It curls like a little mane,&rdquo; said the young girl, as she saw the trouble
      her sister-in-law had in succeeding; &ldquo;it was my great trouble at the
      Sacred Heart. The sisters wished us to wear our hair plain, and I always
      had a terrible time to keep it in place. However, blond hair looks ugly
      when too plainly dressed, and Monsieur de Gerfaut said yesterday that it
      was the shade he liked best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Gerfaut told you he liked blond hair best!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care; you are pulling my hair! Yes, blond hair and blue eyes. He
      said that when speaking of Carlo Dolci&rsquo;s Virgin, and he said she was of
      the most beautiful Jewish type; if he intended it as a compliment to me, I
      am very much obliged to him. Do you think that my eyes are as blue as that
      of the painted Virgin&rsquo;s. Monsieur de Gerfaut pretends that there is a
      strong resemblance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim withdrew her hand so quickly that she pulled out half
      a dozen or more hairs from her sister-in-law&rsquo;s head, and buried herself up
      to the chin in the bedclothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Monsieur de Gerfaut knows how to pay very pretty compliments!&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;And you doubtless are very well pleased to resemble Carlo Dolci&rsquo;s
      Madonna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is very pretty!&mdash;and then it is the Holy Virgin, you know&mdash;Ah!
      I hear Monsieur de Gerfaut&rsquo;s voice in the garden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl arose quickly and ran to the window, where, concealed
      behind the curtains, she could see what was going on outside without being
      seen herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is with Christian,&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;There, they are going to the
      library. They must have just taken a long walk, for they are bespattered
      with mud. If you could only see what a pretty little cap Monsieur de
      Gerfaut has on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, he will turn her head,&rdquo; thought Madame de Bergenheim, with a
      decided feeling of anger; then she closed her eyes as if she wished to
      sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut had, in fact, just returned from paying his respects to the
      estate. He had followed his host, who, under the pretext of showing him
      several picturesque sights, promenaded him, in the morning dew, through
      the lettuce in the kitchen garden and the underbrush in the park. But he
      knew through experience that all was not roses in a lover&rsquo;s path; watching
      in the snow, climbing walls, hiding in obscure closets, imprisonment in
      wardrobes, were more disagreeable incidents than a quiet tete-a-tete with
      a husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      He listened, therefore, complacently enough to Bergenheim&rsquo;s prolix
      explanations, interested himself in the planting of trees, thought the
      fields very green, the forests admirable, the granite rocks more beautiful
      than those of the Alps, went into ecstasies over the smallest vista,
      advised the establishment of a new mill on the river, which, being
      navigable for rafts, might convey lumber to all the cities on the Moselle,
      and thus greatly increase the value of the owner&rsquo;s woods. They fraternized
      like Glaucus and Diomede; Gerfaut hoping, of course, to play the part of
      the Greek, who, according to Homer, received in return for a common iron
      armor a gold one of inestimable value. There is always such a secret
      mental reservation in the lover&rsquo;s mind when associating with the husband
      of his inamorata.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he entered the room of his wife, whose indisposition had been
      reported to him, Christian&rsquo;s first words were:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This Monsieur de Gerfaut appears to be a very excellent fellow, and I
      shall be delighted if he will stay with us a while. It is too bad that you
      are ill. He is a good musician, as well as Marillac; you might have sung
      together. Try to get better quickly and come down to dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can not really tell him that Monsieur de Gerfaut has loved me for more
      than a year,&rdquo; said Madame de Bergenheim to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment later, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil appeared, and with a prim air
      seated herself beside the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you think that I am fooled by this indisposition. I see plainly
      that you wish to be impolite to Monsieur de Gerfaut, for you can not
      endure him. It seems to me, however, that a relative of your family ought
      to be treated with more respect by you, above all, when you know how much
      I esteem him. This is unheard-of absurdity, and I shall end by speaking to
      your husband about it; we shall see if his intervention will not have more
      effect than mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall not do that, aunt,&rdquo; Clemence interrupted, sitting up in bed and
      trying to take her aunt&rsquo;s hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you wish that your discourteous conduct should rest a secret between
      us, I advise you to get rid of your neuralgia this very day. Now, you had
      better decide immediately&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is genuine persecution,&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, falling
      back upon her bed when the old lady had departed. &ldquo;He has bewitched
      everybody! Aline, my aunt, and my husband; to say nothing of myself, for I
      shall end by going mad. I must end this, at any price.&rdquo; She rang the bell
      violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Justine,&rdquo; said she to her maid, &ldquo;do not let any one enter this room under
      any pretext whatsoever, and do not come in yourself until I ring; I will
      try to sleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Justine obeyed, after closing the blinds. She had hardly gone out when her
      mistress arose, put on her dressing-gown and slippers with a vivacity
      which betokened anger; she then seated herself at her desk and began to
      write rapidly, dashing her pen over the satiny paper without troubling
      herself as to blots. The last word was ended with a dash as energetically
      drawn as the Napoleonic flourish.
    </p>
    <p>
      When a young man who, according to custom, begins to read the end of his
      letters first finds an arabesque of this style at the bottom of a lady&rsquo;s
      letter, he ought to arm himself with patience and resignation before he
      reads its contents.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X. PLOTS
    </h2>
    <p>
      That evening, when Gerfaut entered his room he hardly took time to place
      the candlestick which he held in his hand upon the mantel before he took
      from his waistcoat pocket a paper reduced to microscopic dimensions, which
      he carried to his lips and kissed passionately before opening. His eyes
      fell first upon the threatening flourish of the final word; this word was:
      Adieu!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hum!&rdquo; said the lover, whose exaltation was sensibly cooled at this sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      He read the whole letter with one glance of the eye, darting to the
      culminating point of each phrase as a deer bounds over ledges of rocks; he
      weighed the plain meaning as well as the innuendoes of the slightest
      expression, like a rabbi who comments upon the Bible, and deciphered the
      erasures with the patience of a seeker after hieroglyphics, so as to
      detach from them some particle of the idea they had contained. After
      analyzing and criticising this note in all its most imperceptible shades,
      he crushed it within his hand and began to pace the floor, uttering from
      time to time some of those exclamations which the Dictionnaire de
      l&rsquo;Academie has not yet decided to sanction; for all lovers resemble the
      lazzaroni who kiss San-Gennaro&rsquo;s feet when he acts well, but who call him
      briconne as soon as they have reason to complain of him. However, women
      are very kind, and almost invariably excuse the stones that an angry lover
      throws at them in such moments of acute disappointment, and willingly say
      with the indulgent smile of the Roman emperor: &ldquo;I feel no wound!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of this paroxysm of furious anger, two or three knocks
      resounded behind the woodwork.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you composing?&rdquo; asked a voice like that of a ventriloquist; &ldquo;I am
      with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A minute later, Marillac appeared upon the threshold, in his slippers and
      with a silk handkerchief tied about his head, holding his candlestick in
      one hand and a pipe in the other; he stood there motionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are fine,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you are magnificent, fatal and accursed&mdash;You
      remind me of Kean in Othello&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        &ldquo;Have you pray&rsquo;d to-night, Desdemona?&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Gerfaut gazed at him with frowning brows, but made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will wager that it is the last scene in our third act,&rdquo; replied the
      artist, placing his candlestick upon the mantel; &ldquo;it seems that it is to
      be very tragic. Now listen! I also feel the poetical afflatus coming over
      me, and, if you like, we will set about devouring paper like two
      boa-constrictors. Speaking of serpents, have you a rattle? Ah, yes! Here
      is the bell-rope. I was about to say that we would have a bowl of coffee.
      Or rather, I will go into the kitchen myself; I am very good friends with
      Marianne, the cook; besides, the motto of the house of Bergenheim is
      liberte, libertas. Coffee is my muse; in this respect, I resemble Voltaire&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marillac!&rdquo; exclaimed Gerfaut, as the artist was about to leave the room.
      The artist turned, and meekly retraced his steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be so good as to do me the favor of returning to your room,&rdquo;
       said Gerfaut. &ldquo;You may work or you may sleep, just as you like; between
      us, you would do well to sleep. I wish to be alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say that as if you meditated an attempt upon your illustrious person.
      Are you thinking of suicide? Let us see whether you have some concealed
      weapon, some poisoned ring. Curse upon it! the poison of the Borgias! Is
      the white substance in this china bowl, vulgarly called sugar, by some
      terrible chance infamous arsenic disguised under the appearance of an
      honest colonial commodity?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be kind enough to spare your jokes,&rdquo; said Octave, as his friend poked
      about in all the corners of the room with an affectation of anxiety, &ldquo;and,
      as I can not get rid of you, listen to my opinion: if you think that I
      brought you here for you to conduct yourself as you have for the last two
      days, you are mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have I done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You left me the whole morning with that tiresome Bergenheim on my hands,
      and I verily believe he made me count every stick in his park and every
      frog in his pond. Tonight, when that old witch of Endor proposed her
      infernal game of whist, to which it seems I am to be condemned daily,
      you-excused yourself upon the pretext of ignorance, and yet you play as
      good a game as I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can not endure whist at twenty sous a point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I like it any better?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you are a nice fellow! You have an object in view which should make
      you swallow all these disagreeable trifles as if they were as sweet as
      honey. Is it possible you would like me to play Bertrand and Raton? I
      should be Raton the oftener of the two!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, really, what did you do all day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac posed before the mirror, arranged his kerchief about his head in
      a more picturesque fashion, twisted his moustache, puffed out, through the
      corner of his mouth, a cloud of smoke, which surrounded his face like a
      London fog, then turned to his friend and said, with the air of a person
      perfectly satisfied with himself:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my faith, my dear friend, each one for himself and God for us all!
      You, for example, indulge in romantic love-affairs; you must have titled
      ladies. Titles turn your head and make you exclusive. You make love to the
      aristocracy; so be it, that is your own concern. As for me, I have another
      system; I am, in all matters of sentiment, what I am in politics: I want
      republican institutions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is all that nonsense about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me tell you. I want universal suffrage, the cooperation of all
      citizens, admission to all offices, general elections, a popular
      government, in a word, a sound, patriotic hash. Which means regarding
      women that I carry them all in my heart, that I recognize between them no
      distinction of caste or rank. Article First of my set of laws: all women
      are equal in love, provided they are young, pretty, admirably attractive
      in shape and carriage, above all, not too thin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what of equality?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the worse. With this eminently liberal and constitutional policy,
      I intend to gather all the flowers that will allow themselves to be
      gathered by me, without one being esteemed more fresh than another,
      because it belongs to the nobility, or another less sweet, because
      plebeian. And as field daisies are a little more numerous than imperial
      roses, it follows that I very often stoop. That is the reason why, at this
      very moment, I am up to my ears in a little rustic love affair:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        Simple et naive bergerette, elle regne&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop that noise; Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s room is just underneath.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you then, since I must give an account of myself, that I went
      into the park to sketch a few fir-trees before dinner; they are more
      beautiful of their kind than the ancient Fontainebleau oaks. That is for
      art. At dinner, I dined nobly and well. To do the Bergenheims justice,
      they live in a royal manner. That is for the stomach. Afterward I
      stealthily ordered a horse to be saddled and rode to La Fauconnerie in a
      trice, where I presented the expression of my adoration to Mademoiselle
      Reine Gobillot, a minor yet, but enjoying her full rights already. That is
      for the heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No sarcasm, if you please; not everybody can share your taste for
      princesses, who make you go a hundred leagues to follow them and then upon
      your arrival, only give you the tip of a glove to kiss. Such intrigues are
      not to my fancy.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Je suis sergent,
          Brave&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again, I say, will you stop that noise? Don&rsquo;t you know that I have nobody
      on my side at present but this respectable dowager on the first floor
      below? If she supposes that I am making all this racket over her head we
      shall be deadly enemies by to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Zitto, zitto, piano, piano,
          Senza strepito e rumore,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      replied Marillac, putting his finger to his lips and lowering his voice.
      &ldquo;What you say is a surprise to me. From the way in which you offered your
      arm to Madame de Bergenheim to lead her into the drawing-room after
      supper, I thought you understood each other perfectly. As I was returning,
      for I made it my duty to offer my arm to the old lady&mdash;and you say
      that I do nothing for you&mdash;it seemed to me that I noticed a meeting
      of hands&mdash;You know that I have an eagle eye. She slipped a note into
      your hand as sure as my name is Marillac.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut took the note which he held crumpled up in his hand, and held it
      in the flame of one of the candles. The paper ignited, and in less than a
      second nothing of it remained but a few dark pieces which fell into ashes
      upon the marble mantel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You burn it! You are wrong,&rdquo; said the artist; &ldquo;as for me, I keep
      everything, letters and hair. When I am old, I shall have the letters to
      read evenings, and shall weave an allegorical picture with the hair. I
      shall hang it before my desk, so as to have before me a souvenir of the
      adorable creatures who furnished the threads. I will answer for it that
      there will be every shade in it from that of Camille Hautier, my first
      love, who was an albino, to this that I have here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he took out of his pocket a small parcel from which he drew a
      lock of coal-black hair, which he spread out upon his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you pull this hair from Titania&rsquo;s mane?&rdquo; asked Gerfaut, as he drew
      through his fingers the more glossy than silky lock, which he ridiculed by
      this ironical supposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They might be softer, I admit,&rdquo; replied Marillac negligently; and he
      examined the lock submitted to this merciless criticism as if it were
      simply a piece of goods, of the fineness of whose texture he wished to
      assure himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will admit at least that the color is beautiful, and the quantity
      makes up for the quality. Upon my word, this poor Reine has given me
      enough to make a pacha&rsquo;s banner. Provincial and primitive simplicity! I
      know of one woman in particular who never gave an adorer more than seven
      of her hairs; and yet, at the end of three years, this cautious beauty was
      obliged to wear a false front. All her hair had disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you like me, Octave? The first thing I ask for is one of these locks.
      Women rather like this sort of childishness, and when they have granted
      you that, it is a snare spread for them which catches them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac took the long, dark tress and held it near the candle; but his
      movement was so poorly calculated that the hair caught fire and was
      instantly destroyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bad sign,&rdquo; exclaimed Gerfaut, who could not help laughing at his
      friend&rsquo;s dismayed look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a day of autos-de-fe,&rdquo; said the artist, dropping into a chair;
      &ldquo;but bah! small loss; if Reine asks to see this lock, I will tell her that
      I destroyed it with kisses. That always flatters them, and I am sure it
      will please this little field-flower. It is a fact that she has cheeks
      like rosy apples! On my way back I thought of a vaudeville that I should
      like to write about this. Only I should lay the scene in Switzerland and I
      should call the young woman Betty or Kettly instead of Reine, a name
      ending in &lsquo;Y&rsquo; which would rhyme with Rutly, on account of local
      peculiarities. Will you join in it? I have almost finished the scenario.
      First scene&mdash;Upon the rising of the curtain, harvesters are
      discovered&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you do me the favor of going to bed?&rdquo; interrupted Gerfaut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chorus of harvesters:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
             Deja l&rsquo;aurore
             Qui se colore&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you do not leave me alone, I will throw the contents of this
      water-pitcher at your head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never have seen you in such a surly temper. It looks indeed as if your
      divinity had treated you cruelly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has treated me shamefully!&rdquo; exclaimed the lover, whose anger was
      freshly kindled at this question; &ldquo;she has treated me as one would treat a
      barber&rsquo;s boy. This note, which I just burned, was a most formal,
      unpleasant, insolent dismissal. This woman is a monster, do you understand
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A monster! your angel, a monster!&rdquo; said Marillac, suppressing with
      difficulty a violent outburst of laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She, an angel? I must say that she is a demon&mdash;This woman&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you not adore her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hate her, I abhor her, she makes me shudder. You may laugh, if you
      like!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said these words, Gerfaut struck a violent blow upon the table with
      his fist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget that Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s room is just beneath us,&rdquo;
       said the artist, in a teasing way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, Marillac! Your system with women is vulgar, gross, and
      trivial. The daisies which you gather, the maidens from whom you cut
      handfuls of hair excellent for stuffing mattresses, your rustic beauties
      with cheeks like rosy apples are conquests worthy of counter-jumpers in
      their Sunday clothes. That is nothing but the very lowest grade of
      love-making, and yet you are right, a thousand times right, and
      wonderfully wise compared with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do me too much honor! So, then, you are not loved?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, I had an idea I was, or, if I was not loved to-day, I hoped to be
      to-morrow. But you are mistaken as to what discourages me. I simply fear
      that her heart is narrow. I believe that she loves me as much as she is
      able to love; unfortunately, that is not enough for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It certainly seems to me that, so far, she has not shown herself madly in
      love with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, madly! Do you know many women who love madly with their hearts and
      souls? You talk like a college braggart. There are conquerors like
      yourself who, if we are to believe them, would devour a whole convent at
      their breakfast. These men excite my pity. As for me, really, I have
      always felt that it was most difficult to make one&rsquo;s self really loved. In
      these days of prudery, almost all women of rank appear &lsquo;frappe a la
      glace&rsquo;, like a bottle of champagne. It is necessary to thaw them first,
      and there are some of them whose shells are so frigid that they would put
      out the devil&rsquo;s furnace. They call this virtue; I call it social
      servitude. But what matters the name? the result is the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, really, are you sure that Madame de Bergenheim loves you?&rdquo; asked
      Marillac, emphasizing the word &ldquo;love&rdquo; so strongly as to attract his
      friend&rsquo;s attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure? of course I am!&rdquo; replied the latter. &ldquo;Why do you ask me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because, when you are not quite so angry, I want to ask you something.&rdquo;
       He hesitated a moment. &ldquo;If you learned that she cares more for another
      than for you, what would you do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut looked at him and smiled disdainfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you have heard me storm and curse, and you took this
      nonsense for genuine hatred. My good fellow! do you know why I raved in
      such a manner? It was because, knowing my temperament, I felt the
      necessity of getting angry and giving vent to what was in my heart. If I
      had not employed this infallible remedy, the annoyance which this note
      caused me would have disturbed my nerves all night, and when I do not
      sleep my complexion is more leaden than usual and I have dark rings under
      my eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simpleton!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why simpleton?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you take me for a dandy? Do you not understand why I wish to sleep
      soundly? It is simply because I do not wish to appear before her with a
      face like a ghost. That would be all that was needed to encourage her in
      her severity. I shall take good care that she does not discover how hard
      her last thrust has hit me. I would give you a one-hundred-franc note if I
      could secure for to-morrow morning your alderman&rsquo;s face and your
      complexion a la Teniers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, we are not masquerading just at present.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nevertheless, all that you have said does not prove in the slightest that
      she loves you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Marillac, words may have escaped me in my anger which have caused
      you to judge hastily. Now that I am calm and that my remedy has brought
      back my nervous system to its normal state, I will explain to you my real
      position. She is my Galatea, I her Pygmalion. &lsquo;An allegory as old as the
      world,&rsquo; you are about to say; old or not, it is my true story. I have not
      yet broken the marble-virtue, education, propriety, duty, prejudices&mdash;which
      covers the flesh of my statue; but I am nearing my goal and I shall reach
      it. Her desperate resistance is the very proof of my progress. It is a
      terrible step for a woman to take, from No to Yes. My Galatea begins to
      feel the blows from my heart over her heart and she is afraid&mdash;afraid
      of the world, of me, of her husband, of herself, of heaven and hell. Do
      you not adore women who are afraid of everything? She, love another!
      never! It is written in all eternity that she shall be mine. What did you
      wish to say to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, since you are so sure of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure&mdash;more than of my eternal life! But I wish to know what you
      mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you won&rsquo;t be told just a suspicion that came to me; something that
      was told to me the other day; a conjecture so vague that it would be
      useless to dwell upon it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not good at guessing enigmas,&rdquo; said Octave, in a dry tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will speak of this again to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you like,&rdquo; replied the lover, with somewhat affected indifference. &ldquo;If
      you wish to play the part of Iago with me, I warn you I am not disposed to
      jealousy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow, I tell you, I shall enlighten myself as to this affair;
      whatever the result of my inquiries may be, I will tell you the truth.
      After all, it was nothing but woman&rsquo;s gossip.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, take your time. But I have another favor to ask of you.
      Tomorrow I shall try to persuade the ladies to take a walk in the park.
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil will probably not go; you must do me the favor
      of sticking to Bergenheim and the little sister, and gradually to walk on
      ahead of us, in such a way as to give me an opportunity of speaking with
      this cruel creature alone for a few moments; for she has given me to
      understand that I shall not succeed in speaking with her alone under any
      circumstances, and it is absolutely necessary that I should do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There will be one difficulty in the way, though&mdash;they expect about
      twenty persons at dinner, and all her time will probably be taken up with
      her duties as hostess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; exclaimed Gerfaut, jumping up so suddenly that he upset
      his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You still forget that Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s room is beneath us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil is playing her hand!&rdquo; exclaimed the lover, as he paced the room
      in long strides. &ldquo;I wish that during the night he would wring the neck of
      all these visitors. Now; then, she has her innings. Today and tomorrow
      this little despot&rsquo;s battle of Ligny will be fought and won; but the day
      after to-morrow, look out for her Waterloo!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-night, my Lord Wellington,&rdquo; said Marillac, as he arose and took up
      his candlestick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-night, Iago! Ah! you think you have annoyed me with your mysterious
      words and melodramatic reticence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow! to-morrow!&rdquo; replied the artist as he left the room.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               &ldquo;Ce secret-la
               Se trahira.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI. A QUARREL
    </h2>
    <p>
      The next morning, before most of the inhabitants of the chateau had
      thought of leaving their beds, or at least their rooms, a man, on
      horseback, and alone, took his departure through a door opening from the
      stable-yard into the park. He wore a long travelling redingote trimmed
      with braid and fur, rather premature clothing for the season, but which
      the sharp cold air that was blowing at this moment made appear very
      comfortable. He galloped away, and continued this pace for about
      three-quarters of a mile, in spite of the unevenness of the road, which
      followed a nearly straight line over hilly ground. It would have been
      difficult to decide which to admire more, the horse&rsquo;s limbs or the rider&rsquo;s
      lungs; for the latter, during this rapid ride, had sung without taking
      breath, so to speak, the whole overture to Wilhelm Tell. We must admit
      that the voice in which he sang the andante of the Swiss mountaineer&rsquo;s
      chorus resembled a reed pipe more than a hautboy; but, to make amends when
      he reached the presto, his voice, a rather good bass, struck the horse&rsquo;s
      ears with such force that the latter redoubled his vigor as if this melody
      had produced upon him the effect of a trumpet sounding the charge on the
      day of battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The traveller, whom we have probably recognized by his musical feat,
      concluded his concert by stopping at the entrance to some woods which
      extended from the top of the rocks to the river, breaking, here and there,
      the uniformity of the fields. After gazing about him for some time, he
      left the road and, entering the woods on the right, stopped at the foot of
      a large tree. Near this tree was a very small brook, which took its source
      not far away and descended with a sweet murmur to the river, making a
      narrow bed in the clayey ground which it watered. Such was the modesty of
      its course that a little brighter green and fresher grass a few feet away
      from it were the only indications of its presence. Nothing was wanting to
      make this an idyllic place for a rendezvous, neither the protecting shade,
      the warbling of birds in the trees, the picturesque landscape surrounding
      it, nor the soft grass.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dismounting from his steed and tying him to the branches of an oak,
      thus conforming to the time-honored custom of lovers, the cavalier struck
      his foot upon the ground three or four times to start the circulation in
      his legs, and then drew from his pocket a very pretty Breguet watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten minutes past eight,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I am late and yet I am early. It looks
      as if the clocks at La Fauconnerie were not very well regulated.&rdquo; He
      walked up and down with a quick step whistling with a vengeance:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Quand je quittai la Normandie
          J&rsquo;attends&mdash;j&rsquo;attends&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      a refrain which the occasion brought to his mind. When this pastime was
      exhausted he had recourse to another, the nature of which proved that if
      the expected beauty had not punctuality for a virtue, she was not one of
      those little exacting creatures always ready to faint or whose delicate
      nerves make them intolerant of their lovers&rsquo; imperfections. Plunging his
      hand into one of the pockets in his redingote, the waiting cavalier drew
      out a sealskin case filled with Havana cigars, and, lighting one, began to
      smoke, while continuing his promenade.
    </p>
    <p>
      But at the end of a few moments this palliative, like the first, had
      exhausted its effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-five minutes past eight!&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac, as he looked at his
      watch a second time; &ldquo;I should like to know what this little miniature
      rose takes me for? It was hardly worth the trouble of over-straining this
      poor horse, who looks as wet as if he had come out of the river. It is
      enough to give him inflammation of the lungs. If Bergenheim were to see
      him sweating and panting like this in this bleak wind, he would give me a
      sound blowing-up. Upon my word, it is becoming comical! There are no more
      young girls! I shall see her appear presently as spruce and conceited as
      if she had been playing the finest trick in the world. It will do for
      once; but if we sojourn in these quarters some time yet, she must be
      educated and taught to say, &lsquo;If you please&rsquo; and &lsquo;Thanks.&rsquo; Ah! ha! she has
      no idea what sort of man she is dealing with! Half past eight! If she is
      not here in five minutes I shall go to La Fauconnerie and raise a terrible
      uproar. I will break every bit of crockery there is in the
      &lsquo;Femme-sans-Tete&rsquo; with blows from my whip. What can I do to kill time?&rdquo; He
      raised his head quickly, as he felt himself suddenly almost smothered
      under a shower of dust. This was a fatal movement for him, for his eyes
      received part of the libation destined for his hair. He closed them with a
      disagreeable sensation, after seeing Mademoiselle Reine Gobillot&rsquo;s fresh,
      chubby face, her figure prim beyond measure in a lilac-and-green plaid
      gingham dress, and carrying a basket on her arm, a necessary burden to
      maidens of a certain class who play truant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of breeding is this?&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac, rubbing his eyes;
      &ldquo;you have made me dance attendance for an hour and now you have blinded
      me. I do not like this at all, you understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How you scold me, just for a little pinch of dust!&rdquo; replied Reine,
      turning as red as a cherry as she threw the remainder of the handful which
      she had taken from a mole-heap close by them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is because it smarts like the devil,&rdquo; replied the artist, in a milder
      tone, for he realized the ridiculousness of his anger; &ldquo;since you have
      hurt me, try at least to ease the pain; they say that to blow in the eye
      will cure it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I&rsquo;ll do nothing of the kind&mdash;I don&rsquo;t like to be spoken to
      harshly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The artist arose at once as he saw the young girl make a movement as if to
      go; he put his arm about her waist and half forced her to sit beside him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The grass is damp and I shall stain my dress,&rdquo; said she, as a last
      resistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      A handkerchief was at once spread upon the ground, in lieu of a carpet, by
      the lover, who had suddenly become very polite again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, my dear Reine,&rdquo; continued he, &ldquo;will you tell me why you come so
      late? Do you know that for an hour I have been tearing my hair in
      despair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps the dust will make it grow again,&rdquo; she replied, with a malicious
      glance at Marillac, whose head was powdered with brown dust as if a
      tobacco-box had been emptied upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naughty girl!&rdquo; he exclaimed, laughing, although his eyes looked as if he
      were crying; and, acting upon the principle of retaliation less odious in
      love than in war, he tried to snatch a kiss to punish her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop that, Monsieur Marillac! you know very well what you promised me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To love you forever, you entrancing creature,&rdquo; said he, in the voice of a
      crocodile that sighs to attract his prey.
    </p>
    <p>
      Reine pursed up her lips and assumed important airs, but, in order to obey
      the feminine instinct which prescribes changing the subject of
      conversation after too direct an avowal, with the firm intention of
      returning to it later through another channel, she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What were you doing just as I arrived? You were so busy you did not hear
      me coming. You were so droll; you waved your arms in the air and struck
      your forehead as you talked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was thinking of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it was not necessary, in order to do that, to strike your head with
      your fist. It must have hurt you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adorable woman!&rdquo; exclaimed the artist, in a passionate tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mon Dieu! how you frighten me. If I had known I would not have come here
      at all. I must go away directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave me already, queen of my heart! No! do not expect to do that; I
      would sooner lose my life&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you stop! what if some one should hear you? they might be passing,&rdquo;
       said Reine, gazing anxiously about her. &ldquo;If you knew how frightened I was
      in coming! I told mamma that I was going to the mill to see my uncle; but
      that horrid old Lambernier met me just as I entered the woods. What shall
      I do if he tells that he saw me? This is not the road to the mill. It is
      to be hoped that he has not followed me! I should be in a pretty plight!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can say that you came to gather berries or nuts, or to hear the
      nightingale sing; Mother Gobillot will not think anything of it. Who is
      this Lambernier?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know&mdash;the carpenter. You saw him at our house the other day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! ah!&rdquo; said Marillac, with interest, &ldquo;the one who was turned away from
      the chateau?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and they did well to do it, too; he is a downright bad man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is the one who told you something about Madame de Bergenheim. Tell me
      the story. Your mother interrupted us yesterday just as you began telling
      it to me.&mdash;What was it that he said?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! falsehoods probably. One can not believe anything that he says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what did he tell you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What difference does it make to you what is said about the Baroness?&rdquo;
       replied the young girl, rather spitefully, as she saw that Marillac was
      not occupied in thinking of her exclusively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pure curiosity. He told you then that he would tell the Baron what he
      knew, and that the latter would give him plenty of money to make him keep
      silent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It makes no difference what he told me. Ask him if you wish to know. Why
      did you not stay at the chateau if you can think only of the Baroness? Are
      you in love with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in love with you, my dear. [The devil take me if she is not jealous
      now! How shall I make her talk?] I am of the same opinion as you,&rdquo; he
      replied, in a loud voice, &ldquo;that all this talk of Lambernier&rsquo;s is pure
      calumny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no doubt about it. He is well known about the place; he has a
      wicked tongue and watches everything that one does or says in order to
      report it at cross-purposes. Mon Dieu! suppose he should make some story
      out of his seeing me enter these woods!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame de Bergenheim,&rdquo; continued the artist, with affectation, &ldquo;is
      certainly far above the gossip of a scoundrel of this kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Reine pursed up her lips, but made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has too many good qualities and virtues for people to believe
      anything he says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, as to that, there are hypocrites among the Parisian ladies as well as
      elsewhere,&rdquo; said the young girl, with a sour look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless me!&rdquo; thought Marillac, &ldquo;we have it now. I&rsquo;d wager my last franc
      that I&rsquo;ll loosen her tongue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame de Bergenheim,&rdquo; he replied, emphasizing each word, &ldquo;is such a good
      woman, so sensible and so pretty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mon Dieu! say that you love her at once, then&mdash;that&rsquo;ll be plain
      talk,&rdquo; exclaimed Reine, suddenly disengaging herself from the arm which
      was still about her waist. &ldquo;A great lady who has her carriages and footmen
      in livery is a conquest to boast of! While a country girl, who has only
      her virtue&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lowered her eyes with an air of affected modesty, and did not finish
      her sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A virtue which grants a rendezvous at the end of three days&rsquo; 
      acquaintance, and in the depths of the woods! That is amusing!&rdquo; thought
      the artist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still, you will not be the first of the fine lady&rsquo;s lovers,&rdquo; she
      continued, raising her head and trying to conceal her vexation under an
      ironical air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are falsehoods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Falsehoods, when I tell you that I know what I am speaking about!
      Lambernier is not a liar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lambernier is not a liar?&rdquo; repeated a harsh, hoarse voice, which seemed
      to come from the cavity of the tree under which they were seated. &ldquo;Who has
      said that Lambernier was a liar?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment, the carpenter in person suddenly appeared upon the
      scene. He stood before the amazed pair with his brown coat thrown over his
      shoulders, as usual, and his broad-brimmed gray hat pulled down over his
      ears, gazing at them with his deep, ugly eyes and a sardonic laugh
      escaping from his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Reine uttered a shriek as if she had seen Satan rise up from
      the ground at her feet; Marillac rose with a bound and seized his whip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a very insolent fellow,&rdquo; said he, in his ringing bass voice. &ldquo;Go
      your way!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I receive no such orders,&rdquo; replied the workman, in a tone which justified
      the epithet which had just been bestowed upon him; &ldquo;we are upon public
      ground, and I have a right to be here as well as you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you do not take to your heels at once,&rdquo; said the artist, becoming
      purple with rage, &ldquo;I will cut your face in two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apples are sometimes cut in two,&rdquo; said Lambernier, sneeringly advancing
      his face with an air of bravado. &ldquo;My face is not afraid of your whip; you
      can not frighten me because you are a gentleman and I am a workman! I snap
      my fingers at bourgeois like&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time he did not have time to finish his comparison; a blow from the
      whip cut him in the face and made him reel in spite of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By heaven!&rdquo; he exclaimed, in a voice like thunder, &ldquo;may I lose my name if
      I do not polish you off well!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He threw his coat on the grass, spat, in his hands and rubbed them
      together, assuming the position of an athlete ready for a boxing-bout.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Gobillot, arose, trembling with fright at this demonstration,
      and uttered two or three inarticulate cries; but, instead of throwing
      herself between the combatants in the approved style, she ran away as fast
      as she could.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although the weapons of the adversaries were not of a nature to spill
      blood upon the turf, there was something warlike about their countenances
      which would have done honor to ancient paladins. Lambernier squatting upon
      his legs, according to the rules of pugilism, and with his fists on a
      level with his shoulders, resembled, somewhat, a cat ready to bound upon
      its prey. The artist stood with his body thrown backward, his legs on a
      tension, his chin buried up to his moustache in the fur collar of his
      coat, with whip lowered, watching all his adversary&rsquo;s movements with a
      steady eye. When he saw the carpenter advancing toward him, he raised his
      arm and gave him on the left side a second lash from his whip, so
      vigorously applied that the workman beat a retreat once more, rubbing his
      hands and roaring:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thunder! I&rsquo;ll finish you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put his hands in his trousers&rsquo; pockets and drew out one of those large
      iron compasses such as carpenters use, and opened it with a rapid
      movement. He then seized it in the centre and was thus armed with a sort
      of double-pointed stiletto, which he brandished with a threatening
      gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac, at this sight, drew back a few paces, passed his whip to his
      left hand and, arming himself with his Corsican poniard, placed himself in
      a position of defence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend,&rdquo; said he, with perfect deliberation, &ldquo;my needle is shorter
      than yours, but it pricks better. If you take one step nearer me, if you
      raise your hand, I will bleed you like a wild boar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Seeing the firm attitude of the artist, whose solid figure seemed to
      denote rather uncommon vigor, and whose moustache and sparkling eyes gave
      him a rather formidable aspect at this moment; above all, when he saw the
      large, sharp blade of the poniard, Lambernier stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the gods!&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac, who saw that his bold looks had
      produced their effect, &ldquo;you are a Provencal, and I a Gascon. You have a
      quick hand, comrade&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, by Jove! you are the one who has the quick hand; you struck me with
      your whip as if I had been a horse. You have put my eye almost out. Do you
      imagine that I am well provided for like yourself and have nothing to do
      but to flirt with girls? I need my eyes in order to work, by God! Because
      you are a bourgeois and I am a workman&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not more of a bourgeois than you,&rdquo; replied the artist, rather glad
      to see his adversary&rsquo;s fury exhaust itself in words, and his attitude
      assume a less threatening character; &ldquo;pick up your compass and return to
      your work. Here,&rdquo; he added, taking two five-franc pieces from his pocket.
      &ldquo;You were a little boorish and I a little hasty. Go and bathe your eyes
      with a glass of wine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lambernier scowled and his eyes darted ugly, hateful glances. He hesitated
      a moment, as if he were thinking what he had better do, and was weighing
      his chances of success in case of a hostile resolve. After a few moments&rsquo; 
      reflection, prudence got the better of his anger. He closed his compass
      and put it in his pocket, but he refused the silver offered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are generous,&rdquo; said he, with a bitter smile; &ldquo;five francs for each
      blow of the whip! I know a good many people who would offer you their
      cheek twelve hours of the day at that price. But I am not one of that
      kind; I ask nothing of nobody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Leonardo da Vinci could have seen this fellow&rsquo;s face just now,&rdquo;
       thought the artist, &ldquo;he would not have had to seek so long for his model
      for the face of Judas. Only for my poniard, my fate would have been
      settled. This man was ready to murder me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, Lambernier,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I was wrong to strike you, and I would
      like to atone for it. I have been told that you were sent away from the
      chateau against your will. I am intimate enough with Monsieur de
      Bergenheim to be useful to you; do you wish me to speak to him for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The carpenter stood motionless in his place, with his eyes fixed upon his
      adversary while the latter was preparing his horse to mount, eyes which
      seemed filled with hatred to their very depths. His face suddenly changed
      its expression and became abjectly polite when he heard himself addressed
      anew. He shook his head two or three times before replying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless you are the very devil,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I defy you to make this
      gentleman say yes when he has once said no. He turned me away like a dog;
      all right. Let them laugh that win. It was that old idiot of a Rousselet
      and that old simpleton of a coachman of Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s who
      told tales about me. I could tell tales also if I liked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what motive could they have to send you away?&rdquo; continued Marillac,
      &ldquo;you are a clever workman. I have seen your work at the chateau; there are
      some rooms yet unfinished; there must have been some very grave reason for
      their not employing you just at the moment when they needed you most.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They said that I talked with Mademoiselle Justine, and Madame caused me
      to be discharged. She is mistress there, is she not? But I am the one to
      make her repent for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how can you make her repent for it?&rdquo; asked the artist, whose
      curiosity, left ungratified by Mademoiselle Reine, was growing more and
      more excited, &ldquo;what can you have in common with Madame la Baronne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because she is a lady and I am a workman, you mean? All the same, if I
      could only whisper two or three words in her ear, she would give me more
      gold than I have earned since I worked at the chateau, I am sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the powers! if I were in your place, I would say those words to her
      this very day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So as to be thrown out by that band of idle fellows in their red coats.
      None of that for me. I have my own scheme; let them laugh that win!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he repeated this proverb, the workman uttered his usual sardonic laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lambernier,&rdquo; said the artist, in a serious tone, &ldquo;I have heard of certain
      very strange speeches that you have made within the last few days. Do you
      know that there is a punishment by law for those who invent calumnies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it a calumny, when one can prove what he says?&rdquo; replied the carpenter,
      with assurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it that you undertake to prove?&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! you know very well that if Monsieur le Baron&mdash;&rdquo; he did not
      continue, but with a coarse gesture he finished explaining his thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can prove this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before the courts, if necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before the courts would not amount to very much for you; but if you will
      cease this talk and never open your mouth about all this, whatever it may
      be, and will give to me, and me only, this proof of which you speak, I
      will give you ten napoleons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment Lambernier gazed at the artist with a singularly penetrating
      glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you have two sweethearts, then&mdash;one from the city and one from
      the country, a married woman and this poor girl,&rdquo; said he, in a jeering
      tone; &ldquo;does little Reine know that she is playing second fiddle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean to insinuate?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! you are more clever than I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two men looked at each other in silence, trying to read each other&rsquo;s
      thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a lover of Madame de Bergenheim,&rdquo; thought Lambernier, with the
      barefaced impudence of his kind; &ldquo;if I were to tell him what I know, my
      vengeance would be in good hands, without my taking the trouble to commit
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is a sneaking fellow who pretends to be deucedly strong in
      diplomacy,&rdquo; said Marillac to himself; &ldquo;but he is revengeful and I must
      make him explain himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten napoleons are not to be found every day,&rdquo; continued the carpenter,
      after a moment&rsquo;s silence; &ldquo;you may give them to me, if you like, in a
      week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be able to prove to me, then, what you have said,&rdquo; replied
      Marillac, with hesitation, blushing in spite of himself at the part he was
      playing at that moment, upon the odious side of which he had not looked
      until now. &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; said he to himself, in order to quiet his conscience,
      &ldquo;if this rascal really knows anything it is much better that I should buy
      the secret than anybody else. I never should take advantage of it, and I
      might be able to render the lady a service. Is it not a gentleman&rsquo;s sworn
      duty to devote himself to the defence of an imprudent beauty who is in
      danger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will bring you the proof you want,&rdquo; said the carpenter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Meet me Monday at four o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon at the cross-roads near
      the corner of the Come woods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the end of the park?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a little above the rocks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be there. Until then, you will not say a word to anybody?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is a bargain, since you buy the goods I have for sale&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is some money to bind the trade,&rdquo; replied the artist. And he handed
      him the silver pieces he still held in his hand; Lambernier took them this
      time without any objections, and put them in his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monday, at four o&rsquo;clock!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monday, at four o&rsquo;clock!&rdquo; repeated Marillac, as he mounted his horse and
      rode away in great haste as if eager to take leave of his companion. He
      turned when he reached the road, and, looking behind him, saw the workman
      standing motionless at the foot of the tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a scamp,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;whose ball and chain are waiting for him
      at Toulon or Brest, and I have just concluded a devilish treaty with him.
      Bah! I have nothing to reproach myself with. Of two evils choose the
      least; it remains to be seen whether Gerfaut is the dupe of a coquette or
      whether his love is threatened with some catastrophe; at all events, I am
      his friend, and I ought to clear up this mystery and put him on his
      guard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten francs to-day, and ten napoleons Monday,&rdquo; said Lambernier as, with an
      eye in which there was a mixture of scorn and hatred, he watched the
      traveller disappear. &ldquo;I should be a double idiot to refuse. But this does
      not pay for the blows from your whip, you puppy; when we have settled this
      affair of the fine lady, I shall attend to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII. AN INHARMONIOUS MUSICALE
    </h2>
    <p>
      The visitors referred to in the conversation between the two friends
      arrived at the castle at an early hour, according to the custom in the
      country, where they dine in the middle of the day. Gerfaut saw from his
      chamber, where he had remained like Achilles under his tent, half a dozen
      carriages drive one after another up the avenue, bringing the guests
      announced by Marillac. Little by little the company scattered through the
      gardens in groups; four or five young girls under Aline&rsquo;s escort hurried
      to a swing, to which several good-natured young men attached themselves,
      and among them Gerfaut recognized his Pylades. During this time Madame de
      Bergenheim was doing the honors of the house to the matrons, who thought
      this amusement too youthful for their age and preferred a quiet walk
      through the park. Christian, on his side, was explaining methods of
      improvements to gentlemen of agricultural and industrial appearance, who
      seemed to listen to him with great interest. Three or four others had
      taken possession of the billiard-table; while the more venerable among the
      guests had remained in the parlor with Mademoiselle de Corandeuil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you a pair of clean trousers?&rdquo; asked Marillac, hastily entering his
      friend&rsquo;s room as the first bell rang for dinner. An enormous green stain
      upon one of his knees was all the explanation necessary on this subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, lose no time,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, as he opened a drawer in his closet.
      &ldquo;Which of these rustic beauties has had the honor of seeing you on your
      knees at her feet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was that confounded swing! Silly invention! To sacrifice one&rsquo;s self to
      please little girls! If I am ever caught at it again I&rsquo;ll let you know!
      Your selfish method is a better, one. By the way, Madame de Bergenheim
      asked me, with a rather sly look, whether you were ill and whether you
      would not come down to dinner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Irony!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It: seemed like it. The lady smiled in a decidedly disagreeable manner. I
      am not timid, but I would rather write a vaudeville in three acts than to
      be obliged to make a declaration to her if she had that impish smile on
      her lips. She has a way of protruding her under lip-ugh! do you know you
      are terribly slender? Will you let me cut the band of your trousers? I
      never could dance with my stomach compressed in this manner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about this secret you were to reveal to me?&rdquo; Gerfaut interrupted,
      with a smile which seemed to denote perfect security.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac looked at his friend with a grave countenance, then began to
      laugh in an embarrassed manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will leave serious matters until to-morrow,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;The
      essential thing to-day is to make ourselves agreeable. Madame de
      Bergenheim asked me a little while ago whether we would be kind enough to
      sing a few duets? I accepted for us both. I do not suppose that the
      inhabitants of this valley have often heard the duet from Mose with the
      embellishments a la Tamburini:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
             Palpito a quello aspetto,
             &lsquo;Gemo nel suo dolor.&rsquo; 
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you prefer that or the one from &lsquo;Il Barbiere&rsquo;? although that is out
      of date, now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever pleases you, but do not split my head about it in advance. I
      wish that music and dancing were at the bottom of the Moselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart, but not the dinner. I gave a glance into the
      dining-room; it promises to be very fine. Now, then, everybody has
      returned to the house; to the table!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The time has long since passed when Paris and the province formed two
      regions almost foreign to each other. To-day, thanks to the rapidity of
      communication, and the importations of all kinds which reach the centre
      from the circumference without having time to spoil on the way, Paris and
      the rest of France are only one immense body excited by the same opinions,
      dressed in the same fashions, laughing at the same bon mot, revolutionized
      by the same opinions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Provincial customs have almost entirely lost their peculiarities; a
      drawing-room filled with guests is the same everywhere. There are
      sometimes exceptions, however. The company gathered at the Bergenheim
      chateau was an example of one of those heterogeneous assemblies which the
      most exclusive mistress of a mansion can not avoid if she wishes to be
      neighborly, and in which a duchess may have on her right at the table the
      village mayor, and the most elegant of ladies a corpulent justice of the
      peace who believes he is making himself agreeable when he urges his fair
      neighbor to frequent potations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim had discovered symptoms of haughty jealousy among her
      country neighbors, always ready to feel themselves insulted and very
      little qualified to make themselves agreeable in society. So she resolved
      to extend a general invitation to all those whom she felt obliged to
      receive, in order to relieve herself at once of a nuisance for which no
      pleasure could prove an equivalent. This day was one of her duty days.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among these ladies, much more gorgeously than elegantly attired, these
      healthy young girls with large arms, and feet shaped like flat-irons,
      ponderous gentlemen strangled by their white cravats and puffed up in
      their frock-coats, Gerfaut, whose nervous system had been singularly
      irritated by his disappointment of the night before, felt ready to burst
      with rage. He was seated at the table between two ladies, who seemed to
      have exhausted, in their toilettes, every color in the solar spectrum, and
      whose coquettish instincts were aroused by the proximity of a celebrated
      writer. But their simperings were all lost; the one for whom they were
      intended bore himself in a sulky way, which fortunately passed for
      romantic melancholy; this rendered him still more interesting in the eyes
      of his neighbor on the left, a plump blonde about twenty-five years old,
      fresh and dimpled, who doted upon Lord Byron, a common pretension among
      pretty, buxom women who adore false sentimentality.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the exception of a bow when he entered the drawing-room, Octave had
      not shown Madame de Bergenheim any attention. The cold, disdainful, bored
      manner in which he patiently endured the pleasures of the day exceeded
      even the privilege for boorish bearing willingly granted to gentlemen of
      unquestionable talent. Clemence, on the contrary, seemed to increase in
      amiability and liveliness. There was not one of her tiresome guests to
      whom she did not address some pleasant remark, not one of those vulgar,
      pretentious women to whom she was not gracious and attentive; one would
      have said that she had a particular desire to be more attractive than
      usual, and that her lover&rsquo;s sombre air added materially to her good humor.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner they retired to the drawing-room where coffee was served. A
      sudden shower, whose drops pattered loudly against the windows, rendered
      impossible all plans for amusement out of doors. Gerfaut soon noticed a
      rather animated conversation taking place between Madame de Bergenheim,
      who was somewhat embarrassed as to how to amuse her guests for the
      remainder of the afternoon, and Marillac, who, with his accustomed
      enthusiasm, had constituted himself master of ceremonies. A moment later,
      the drawing-room door opened, and servants appeared bending under the
      burden of an enormous grand piano which was placed between the windows. At
      this sight, a tremor of delight ran through the group of young girls,
      while Octave, who was standing in one corner near the mantel, finished his
      Mocha with a still more melancholy air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, then!&rdquo; said Marillac, who had been extremely busy during these
      preparations, and had spread a dozen musical scores upon the top of the
      piano, &ldquo;it is agreed that we shall sing the duet from Mose. There are two
      or three little boarding-school misses here whose mothers are dying for
      them to show off. You understand that we must sacrifice ourselves to
      encourage them. Besides, a duet for male voices is the thing to open a
      concert with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A concert! has Madame de Bergenheim arranged to pasture us in this
      sheepfold in order to make use of us this evening?&rdquo; replied Gerfaut, whose
      ill-humor increased every moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five or six pieces only, afterward they will have a dance. I have an
      engagement with your diva; if you wish for a quadrille and have not yet
      secured your number, I should advise you to ask her for it now, for there
      are five or six dandies who seem to be terribly attentive to her. After
      our duet I shall sing the trio from La Date Blanche, with those young
      ladies who have eyes as round as a fish&rsquo;s, and apricot-colored gowns on&mdash;those
      two over there in the corner, near that pretty blonde who sat beside you
      at table and ogled you all the time. She had already bored me to death! I
      do not know whether I shall be able to hit my low &lsquo;G&rsquo; right or not. I have
      a cataclysm of charlotte-russe in my stomach. Just listen:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &lsquo;A cette complaisance!&mdash;&lsquo;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Marillac leaned toward his friend and roared in his ear the note supposed
      to be the &ldquo;G&rdquo; in question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like an ophicleide,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, who could not help laughing at the
      importance the artist attached to his display of talent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case I shall risk my great run at the end of the first solo. Two
      octaves from &lsquo;E&rsquo; to &lsquo;E&rsquo;! Zuchelli was good enough to give me a few points
      as to the time, and I do it rather nicely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame would like to speak to Monsieur,&rdquo; said a servant, who interrupted
      him in the midst of his sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dolce, soave amor,&rdquo; warbled the artist, softly, as he responded to the
      call from the lady of the house, trying to fix in his mind that run, which
      he regarded as one of the most beautiful flowers in his musical crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everybody was seated, Madame de Bergenheim sat at the piano and Marillac
      stood behind her. The artist selected one of the scores, spread it out on
      the rack, turned down the corners so that during the execution he might
      not be stopped by some refractory leaf, coughed in his deep bass voice,
      placed himself in such a manner as to show the side of his head which he
      thought would produce the best effect upon the audience, then gave a
      knowing nod to Gerfaut, who still stood gloomy and isolated in a far
      corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We trespass upon your kindness too much, Monsieur,&rdquo; said Madame de
      Bergenheim to him, when he had responded to this mute invitation; and as
      she struck a few chords, she raised her dark, brown eyes to his. It was
      the first glance she had given him that day; from coquetry, perhaps, or
      because sorrow for her lover had softened her heart, or because she felt
      remorse for the extreme harshness of her note the night before, we must
      admit that this glance had nothing very discouraging in it. Octave bowed,
      and spoke a few words as coldly polite as he would have spoken to a woman
      sixty years of age.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim lowered her eyes and endeavored to smile
      disdainfully, as she struck the first bars of the duet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The concert began. Gerfaut had a sweet, clear, tenor voice which he used
      skilfully, gliding over dangerous passages, skipping too difficult ones
      which he thought beyond his execution, singing, in fact, with the prudence
      of an amateur who can not spend his time studying runs and chromatic
      passages four hours daily. He sang his solo with a simplicity bordering
      upon negligence, and even substituted for the rather complicated passage
      at the end a more than modest ending.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence, for whom he had often sung, putting his whole soul into the
      performance, was vexed with this affectation of indifference. It seemed to
      her as if he ought, for her sake, to make more of an effort in her
      drawing-room, whatever might be their private quarrel; she felt it was a
      consideration due to her and to which his numerous homages had accustomed
      her. She entered this new grievance in a double-entry book, which a woman
      always devotes to the slightest actions of the man who pays court to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac, on the contrary, was grateful to his friend for this
      indifference of execution, for he saw in it an occasion to shine at his
      expense. He began his solo &lsquo;E il ciel per noi sereno,&rsquo; with an unusual
      tension of the larynx, roaring out his low notes. Except for the extension
      being a little irregular and unconnected, he did not acquit himself very
      badly in the first part. When he reached his final run, he took a long
      breath, as if it devolved upon him to set in motion all the windmills in
      Montmartre, and started with a majestic fury; the first forty notes, while
      they did not resemble Mademoiselle Grisi&rsquo;s pearly tones, ascended and
      descended without any notable accident; but at the last stages of the
      descent, the singer&rsquo;s breath and voice failed him at the same moment, the
      &ldquo;A&rdquo; came out weak, the &ldquo;G&rdquo; was stifled, the &ldquo;F&rdquo; resembled the buzzing of a
      bee, and the &ldquo;E&rdquo; was absent!
    </p>
    <p>
      Zuchelli&rsquo;s run was like one of those Gothic staircases which show an
      almost complete state of preservation upon the upper floor, but whose
      base, worn by time, leaves a solution of continuity between the ground and
      the last step.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim waited the conclusion of this dangerous run, not
      thinking to strike the final chord; the only sound heard was the rustling
      of the dilettante&rsquo;s beard, as his chin sought his voice in vain in the
      depths of his satin cravat, accompanied by applause from a benevolent old
      lady who had judged of the merit of the execution by the desperate
      contortions of the singer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;n that charlotte-russe!&rdquo; growled the artist, whose face was as
      red as a lobster.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of the duet was sung without any new incident, and gave general
      satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, your piano is half a tone too low,&rdquo; said the basso, with a
      reproachful accent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; replied Clemence, who could not restrain a smile; &ldquo;I have
      so little voice that I am obliged to have my piano tuned to suit it. You
      can well afford to pardon me for my selfishness, for you sang like an
      angel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac bowed, partly consoled by this compliment, but thinking to
      himself that a hostess&rsquo;s first duty was to have her piano in tune, and not
      to expose a bass singer to the danger of imperilling his low &ldquo;E&rdquo; before an
      audience of forty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, can I be of any more service to you?&rdquo; asked Gerfaut, as he leaned
      toward Madame de Bergenheim, with one of his coldest smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not wish to impose further upon your kindness, Monsieur,&rdquo; said she,
      in a voice which showed her secret displeasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poet bowed and walked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Clemence, upon general request, sang a romance with more taste than
      brilliancy, and more method than expression. It seemed as if Octave&rsquo;s icy
      manner had reacted upon her, in spite of the efforts she had made at first
      to maintain a cheerful air. A singular oppression overcame her; once or
      twice she feared her voice would fail her entirely. When she finished, the
      compliments and applause with which she was overwhelmed seemed so
      insupportable to her that it was with difficulty she could restrain
      herself from leaving the room. While exasperated by her weakness, she
      could not help casting a glance in Octave&rsquo;s direction. She could not catch
      his eye, however, as he was busy talking with Aline. She felt so lonely
      and deserted at this moment, and longed so for this glance which she could
      not obtain, that tears of vexation filled her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was wrong to write him as I did,&rdquo; thought she; &ldquo;but if he really loved
      me, he would not so quickly resign himself to obeying me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A woman in a drawing-room resembles a soldier on a breastwork;
      self-abnegation is the first of her duties; however much she may suffer,
      she must present as calm and serene a countenance as a warrior in the hour
      of danger, and fall, if necessary, upon the spot, with death in her heart
      and a smile upon her lips. In order to obey this unwritten law, Madame de
      Bergenheim, after a slight interruption, seated herself at the piano to
      accompany three or four young girls who were each to sing in turn the
      songs that they had been drilled on for six months.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac, who had gone to strengthen his stomach with a glass of rum,
      atoned for his little mishap, in the trio from La Dame Blanche, and
      everything went smoothly. Finally, to close this concert (may heaven
      preserve us from all exhibitions of this kind!), Aline was led to the
      piano by her brother, who, like all people who are not musical, could not
      understand why one should study music for years if not from love for the
      art. Christian was fond of his little sister and very proud of her
      talents. The poor child, whose courage had all disappeared, sang in a
      fresh, trembling little voice, a romance revised and corrected at her
      boarding-school. The word love had been replaced by that of friendship,
      and to repair this slight fault of prosody, the extra syllable disappeared
      in a hiatus which would have made Boileau&rsquo;s blond wig stand on end. But
      the Sacred Heart has a system of versification of its own which, rather
      than allow the dangerous expression to be used, let ultra-modesty destroy
      poetry!
    </p>
    <p>
      This sample of sacred music was the final number of the concert; after
      that, they began dancing, and Gerfaut invited Aline. Whether because he
      wished to struggle against his ill-humor, or from kindness of heart
      because he understood her emotion, he began to talk with the young girl,
      who was still blushing at her success. Among his talents, Octave possessed
      in a peculiar degree that of adapting his conversation to the age,
      position, and character of his companions. Aline listened with unconcealed
      pleasure to her partner&rsquo;s words; the elasticity of her step and a sort of
      general trembling made her seem like a flower swaying to the breeze, and
      revealed the pleasure which his conversation gave her. Every time her eyes
      met Octave&rsquo;s penetrating glance they fell, out of instinctive modesty.
      Each word, however indifferent it might be, rang in her ears sweet and
      melodious; each contact with his hand seemed to her like a tender
      pressure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut experienced a feeling of melancholy as he noticed how this fresh,
      innocent rose brightened up at each word he uttered, and he thought:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would love me as I want to be loved, with all her heart, mind, and
      soul. She would kneel before my love as before an altar, while this
      coquette&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He glanced in the direction where Madame de Bergenheim was dancing with
      Marillac, and met her gaze fixed full upon him. The glance which he
      received was rapid, displeased, and imperious. It signified clearly: &ldquo;I
      forbid you to speak thus to your partner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Octave, at that moment; was not disposed to obedience. After glancing over
      the quadrille, as if it were by mere chance that his eyes had met
      Clemence&rsquo;s, he turned toward Aline and redoubled his amiability:
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment later, he received, not directly, but through the medium of the
      mirror&mdash;that so often indiscreet confidant&mdash;a second glance more
      sombre and threatening than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; said he, to himself, as he led the young girl to her seat;
      &ldquo;we are jealous. That alters the situation. I know now where the ramparts
      are the weakest and where to begin my attack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No other incident marked the day. The guests left at nightfall, and the
      society was reduced to the usual members of the household. Octave entered
      his room after supper, humming an Italian air, evidently in such good
      spirits that his friend was quite surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I give it up, I can not understand your conduct,&rdquo; said the latter; &ldquo;you
      have been as solemn as an owl all day, and now here you are as gay as a
      lark; have you had an understanding?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am more vexed than ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you enjoy being so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you are playing &lsquo;who loses wins!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly; but as my good sentiments lead to nothing, I hope to conduct
      myself in such a disagreeable way as to force this capricious creature to
      adore me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil! that is clever. Besides, it is a system as good as any other.
      Women are such extraordinary creatures!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; said Octave, &ldquo;resembles a pendulum, whose movement is a continual
      reaction; when it moves to the right, it has to go to the left in order to
      return to the right again, and so on. Suppose virtue is on one side and
      love on the other, and the feminine balance between them, the odds are
      that, having moved to the right in a violent manner, it will return none
      the less energetically to the left; for the longer a vibration has been,
      the greater play the contrary vibration has. In order to hasten the action
      of this pendulum I am about to attach to it&mdash;to act as extra
      balance-weight&mdash;a little anguish which I ought to have employed
      sooner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why make her suffer, since you believe that she loves you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why? Because she drives me to it. Do you fancy that I torture her
      willingly; that I take pleasure in seeing her cheeks grow pale from
      insomnia and her eyes show traces of tears? I love her, I tell you; I
      suffer and weep with her. But I love her, and I must make sure of her
      love. If she will leave but a road full of brambles and sharp stones for
      me to reach her, must I give up the struggle just because I run the risk
      by taking her with me, of wounding her charming feet? I will cure them
      with my kisses!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me! I am not in love; I am an artist. If I have some peculiar
      ideas, it is not my fault. And you, in your character of docile lover,
      have you decided to yield?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Morally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! after all, you are right. The science of love resembles those
      old signs upon which one reads: &lsquo;Here, hair is dressed according to one&rsquo;s
      fancy.&rsquo; If this angel wishes her hair pulled, do it for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 3.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII. MONSIEUR DE BERGENHEIM
    </h2>
    <p>
      Some men in society marry too soon, a great number too late, a small and
      fortunate proportion at an opportune time. Young men in the country, of
      good family, are usually established in marriage by their parents as early
      as possible. When the family council finds an heiress who answers all the
      conditions of the programme laid out, they begin by giving the victim his
      cue. Provided the young lady has not a positively crooked nose, arms too
      red, and too uncouth a waist&mdash;sometimes even notwithstanding these
      little misfortunes&mdash;the transaction is concluded without any
      difficulty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence and Christian should be placed in the first rank of privileged
      couples of this kind. The most fastidious old uncle or precise old dowager
      could not discover the slightest pretense for criticism. Age, social
      position, wealth, physical endowments, all seemed united by a chance as
      rare as fortunate. So Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who had very high
      pretensions for her niece, made no objection upon receiving the first
      overtures. She had not, at this time, the antipathy for her future
      nephew&rsquo;s family which developed later. The Bergenheims were in her eyes
      very well-born gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      A meeting took place at the Russian Embassy. Bergenheim came in uniform;
      it was etiquette to do so, as the minister of war was present; but at the
      same time, of course, there was a little vanity on his part, for his
      uniform showed off his tall, athletic figure to the best advantage.
      Christian was certainly a very handsome soldier; his moustache and
      eyebrows were of a lighter tint than his complexion, and gave him that
      martial air which pleases women. Clemence could find no reason for a
      refusal. The way in which she had been brought up by her aunt had not
      rendered her so happy but that she often desired to change her situation.
      Like the greater number of young girls, she consented to become a wife so
      as not to remain a maiden; she said yes, so as not to say no.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to Christian, he was in love with his wife as nine out of ten cavalry
      officers know how to love, and he seemed perfectly satisfied with the
      sentiment that he received in return for this sudden affection. A few
      successes with young belles, for whom an epaulette has an irresistible
      attraction, had inspired Baron de Bergenheim with a confidence in himself
      the simplicity of which excused the conceit. He persuaded himself that he
      pleased Clemence because she suited him exactly.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are singers who pretend to read music at sight; give them a score by
      Gluck&mdash;&ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; they will say, &ldquo;my part is written here
      in the key of &lsquo;C&rsquo; and I sing only in the key of &lsquo;G&rsquo;!&rdquo; How many men do not
      know even the key of &lsquo;G&rsquo; in matters of love! Unfortunately for him,
      Bergenheim was one of that number. After three years of married life, he
      had not divined the first note in Clemence&rsquo;s character. He decided in his
      own mind, at the end of a few months, that she was cold, if not heartless.
      This discovery, which ought to have wounded his vanity, inspired him, on
      the contrary, with a deeper respect for her; insensibly this reserve
      reacted upon himself, for love is a fire whose heat dies out for want of
      fuel, and its cooling off is more sudden when the flame is more on the
      surface than in the depths.
    </p>
    <p>
      The revolution of 1830 stopped Christian&rsquo;s career, and gave further
      pretexts for temporary absences which only added to the coolness which
      already existed between husband and wife. After handing in his
      resignation, the Baron fixed his residence at his chateau in the Vosges
      mountains, for which he shared the hereditary predilection of his family.
      His tastes were in perfect harmony with this dwelling, for he had quickly
      become the perfect type of a country gentleman, scorning the court and
      rarely leaving his ancestral acres. He was too kind-hearted to exact that
      his wife should share his country tastes and retired life. The unlimited
      confidence which he had in her, a loyalty which never allowed him to
      suppose evil or suspect her, a nature very little inclined to jealousy,
      made him allow Clemence the greatest liberty. The young woman lived at
      will in Paris with her aunt, or at Bergenheim with her husband, without a
      suspicious thought ever entering his head. Really,&mdash;what had he to
      fear? What wrong could she reproach him with? Was he not full of kindness
      and attention toward her? Did he not leave her mistress of her own
      fortune, free to do as she liked, to gratify every caprice? He thus lived
      upon his faith in the marriage contract, with unbounded confidence and
      old-fashioned loyalty.
    </p>
    <p>
      According to general opinion, Madame de Bergenheim was a very fortunate
      woman, to whom virtue must be so easy that it could hardly be called a
      merit. Happiness, according to society, consists in a box at the Opera, a
      fine carriage, and a husband who pays the bills without frowning. Add to
      the above privileges, a hundred thousand francs&rsquo; worth of diamonds, and a
      woman has really no right to dream or to suffer. There are, however, poor,
      loving creatures who stifle under this happiness as if under one of those
      leaden covers that Dante speaks of; they breathe, in imagination, the
      pure, vital air that a fatal instinct has revealed to them; they struggle
      between duty and desire; they gaze, like captive doves and with a
      sorrowful eye, upon the forbidden region where it would be so blissful to
      soar; for, in fastening a chain to their feet, the law did not bandage
      their eyes, and nature gave them wings; if the wings tear the chain
      asunder, shame and misfortune await them! Society will never forgive the
      heart that catches a glimpse of the joys it is unacquainted with; even a
      brief hour in that paradise has to be expiated by implacable social
      damnation and its everlasting flames.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV. GERFAUT&rsquo;S ALLEGORY
    </h2>
    <p>
      There almost always comes a moment when a woman, in her combat against
      love, is obliged to call falsehood to the help of duty. Madame de
      Bergenheim had entered this terrible period, in which virtue, doubting its
      own strength, does not blush to resort to other resources. At the moment
      when Octave, a man of experience, was seeking assistance in exciting her
      jealousy, she was meditating a plan of defence founded upon deceit. In
      order to take away all hope from her lover, she pretended a sudden
      affection for her husband, and in spite of her secret remorse she
      persisted in this role for two days; but during the night her tears
      expiated her treachery. Christian greeted his wife&rsquo;s virtuous coquetry
      with the gratitude and eagerness of a husband who has been deprived of
      love more than he likes. Gerfaut was very indignant at the sight of this
      perfidious manoeuvre, the intention of which he immediately divined; and
      his rage wanted only provocation to break out in full force.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening they were all gathered in the drawing-room with the exception
      of Aline, whom a reprimand from Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had exiled to
      her room. The old lady, stretched out in her chair, had decided to be
      unfaithful to her whist in favor of conversation. Marillac, leaning his
      elbows upon a round table, was negligently sketching some political
      caricatures, at that time very much the fashion, and particularly
      agreeable to the Legitimist party. Christian, who was seated near his
      wife, whose hand he was pressing with caressing familiarity, passed from
      one subject to another, and showed in his conversation the overwhelming
      conceit of a happy man who regards his happiness as a proof of
      superiority.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut, standing, gazed gloomily at Clemence, who leaned toward her
      husband and seemed to listen eagerly to his slightest word. Bergenheim was
      a faithful admirer of the classics, as are all country gentlemen, who
      introduce a sentiment of propriety into their literary opinions and prefer
      the ancient writers to the modern, for the reason that their libraries are
      much richer in old works than in modern books. The Baron unmercifully
      sacrificed Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas, whom he had never read, upon
      the altar of Racine and Corneille, of which he possessed two or three
      editions, and yet it would have embarrassed him to recite half a dozen
      verses from them. Marillac boldly defended the cause of contemporary
      literature, which he considered as a personal matter, and poured out a
      profusion of sarcastic remarks in which there was more wit than good
      taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The gods fell from Olympus, why should they not also fall from
      Parnassus?&rdquo; said the artist, finally, with a triumphant air. &ldquo;Say what you
      will, Bergenheim, your feeble opposition will not prevail against the
      instincts of the age. The future is ours, let me tell you, and we are the
      high priests of the new religion; is it not so, Gerfaut?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil shook her head, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A new religion!&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;if this pretension should be verified you
      would only be guilty of heresy, and, without allowing myself to be taken
      in, I can understand how elevated minds and enthusiastic hearts might be
      attracted by the promises of a deceptive Utopia; but you, gentlemen, whom
      I believe to be sincere, do you not see to what an extent you delude
      yourselves? What you call religion is the most absolute negation of
      religious principles; it is the most distressing impiety ornamented with a
      certain sentimental hypocrisy which has not even the courage frankly to
      proclaim its principles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear to you, Mademoiselle, that I am religious three days out of
      four,&rdquo; replied Marillac; &ldquo;that is something; there are some Christians who
      are pious only on Sunday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Materialism is the source from which modern literature takes its
      inspiration,&rdquo; continued the old lady; &ldquo;and this poisonous stream not only
      dries up the thoughts which would expand toward heaven, but also withers
      all that is noble in human sentiment. To-day, people are not content to
      deny God, because they are not pure enough to comprehend Him; they disown
      even the weakness of the heart, provided they have an exalted and
      dignified character. They believe no longer in love. All the women that
      your fashionable writers tell us about are vulgar and sometimes unchaste
      creatures, to whom formerly a gentleman would have blushed to give one
      glance or to offer a supper. I say this for your benefit, Monsieur de
      Gerfaut, for in this respect you are far from being irreproachable; and I
      could bring forth your books to support my theory. If I accuse you of
      atheism, in love, what have you to say in reply?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carried away by one of those impulsive emotions which men of imagination
      can not resist, Octave arose and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should not deny such an accusation. Yes, it is a sad thing, but true,
      and only weak minds recoil from the truth: reality exists only in material
      objects; all the rest is merely deception and fancy. All poetry is a
      dream, all spiritualism a fraud! Why not apply to love the accommodating
      philosophy which takes the world as it is, and does not throw a savory
      fruit into the press under the pretext of extracting I know not what
      imaginary essence? Two beautiful eyes, a satin skin, white teeth, and a
      shapely foot and hand are of such positive and inestimable value! Is it
      not unreasonable, then, to place elsewhere than in them all the wealth of
      love? Intellect sustains its owner, they say; no, intelligence kills. It
      is thought that corrupts sensation and causes suffering where, but for
      that, joy would reign supreme.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thought! accursed gift! Do we give or ask a thought of the rose whose
      perfume we breathe? Why not love as we breathe? Would not woman,
      considered simply as a perfectly organized vegetation, be the queen of
      creation? Why not enjoy her perfume as we bend before her, leaving her
      clinging to the ground where she was born and lives? Why tear her from the
      earth, this flower so fresh, and have her wither in our hands as we raise
      her up like an offering? Why make of so weak and fragile a creature a
      being above all others, for whom our enthusiasm can find no name, and then
      discover her to be but an unworthy angel?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Angel! yes, of course, but an angel of the Earth, not of Heaven; an angel
      of flesh, not of light! By dint of loving, we love wrongly. We place our
      mistress too high and ourselves too low; there is never a pedestal lofty
      enough for her, according to our ideas. Fools! Oh! reflection is always
      wise, but desire is foolish, and our conduct is regulated by our desire.
      We, above all, with our active, restless minds, blase in many respects,
      unbelieving in others and disrespectful in the remainder, soar over life
      as over an impure lake, and look at everything with contempt, seeking in
      love an altar before which we can humble our pride and soften our disdain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For there is in every man an insurmountable need to fall on his knees
      before no matter what idol, if it remains standing and allows itself to be
      adored. At certain hours, a prayerbell rings in the depth of the heart,
      the sound of which throws him upon his knees as it cries: &lsquo;Kneel!&rsquo; And
      then the very being who ignores God in His churches and scorns kings upon
      their thrones, the being who has already exhausted the hollow idols of
      glory and fame, not having a temple to pray in, makes a fetich for himself
      in order to have a divinity to adore, so as not to be alone in his
      impiety, and to see, above his head when he arises, something that shall
      not be empty and vacant space. This man seeks a woman, takes all that he
      has, talent passion, youth, enthusiasm, all the wealth of his heart, and
      throws them at her feet like the mantle that Raleigh spread out before
      Elizabeth, and he says to this woman: &lsquo;Walk, O my queen; trample under
      your blessed feet the heart of your adoring slave!&rsquo; This man is a fool, is
      he not? For when the queen has passed, what remains upon the mantle? Mud!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut accompanied these words with such a withering glance that the one
      for whom they were intended felt her blood freeze in her veins, and
      withdrew the hand her husband had kept till then in his; she soon arose
      and seated herself at the other side of the table, under the pretext of
      getting nearer the lamp to work, but in reality in order to withdraw from
      Christian&rsquo;s vicinity. Clemence had expected her lover&rsquo;s anger, but not his
      scorn; she had not strength to endure this torture, and the conjugal love
      which had, not without difficulty, inflamed her heart for the last few
      days, fell to ashes at the first breath of Octave&rsquo;s indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil greeted the Vicomte&rsquo;s words indulgently; for,
      from consummate pride, she separated herself from other women.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So then,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;you pretend that if to-day love is painted under
      false and vulgar colors, the fault is the model&rsquo;s, not the artist&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You express my thought much better than I could have done it myself,&rdquo;
       said Gerfaut, in an ironical tone; &ldquo;where are the angels whose portraits
      are called for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are in our poetical dreams,&rdquo; said Marillac, raising his eyes to the
      ceiling with an inspired air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! tell us your dreams then, instead of copying a reality which
      it is impossible for you to render poetic, since you yourselves see it
      without illusions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut smiled bitterly at this suggestion, artlessly uttered by the
      Baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dreams,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I should tell them to you poorly indeed, for the
      first blessing of the awakening is forgetfulness, and to-day I am awake.
      However, I remember how I allowed myself to be once overcome by a dream
      that has now vanished, but still emits its luminous trail in my eyes. I
      thought I had discovered, under a beautiful and attractive appearance, the
      richest treasure that the earth can bestow upon the heart of man; I
      thought I had discovered a soul, that divine mystery, deep as the ocean,
      ardent as a flame, pure as air, glorious as heaven itself, infinite as
      space, immortal as eternity! It was another universe, where I should be
      king. With what ardent and holy love I attempted the conquest of this new
      world, but, less fortunate than Columbus, I met with shipwreck instead of
      triumph.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence, at this avowal of her lover&rsquo;s defeat, threw him a glance of
      intense contradiction, then lowered her eyes, for she felt her face
      suffused with burning blushes.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he entered his room that night, Gerfaut went straight to the window.
      He could see in the darkness the light which gleamed in Clemence&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is alone,&rdquo; said he to himself; &ldquo;certainly heaven protects us, for in
      the state of exasperation I am in, I should have killed them both.&rdquo;
     </p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV. DECLARATION OF WAR
    </h2>
    <p>
      Far from rejoicing at this moment in the triumph he had just obtained,
      Gerfaut fell into one of those attacks of disenchantment, during which,
      urged on by some unknown demon, he unmercifully administered to himself
      his own dreaded sarcasm. Being unable to sleep, he arose and opened his
      window again, and remained with his elbows resting upon the sill for some
      time. The night was calm, numberless stars twinkled in the heavens, the
      moon bathed with its silvery light the tops of the trees, through which a
      monotonous breeze softly rustled. After gazing at this melancholy picture
      of sleeping nature, the poet smiled disdainfully, and said to himself
      &ldquo;This comedy must end. I can not waste my life thus. Doubtless, glory is a
      dream as well as love; to pass the night idiotically gazing at the moon
      and stars is, after all, as reasonable as to grow pale over a work
      destined to live a day, a year, or a century! for what renown lasts longer
      than that? If I were really loved, I should not regret those wasted hours;
      but is it true that I am loved? There are moments when I recover my
      coolness and clearness of mind, a degree of self possession incompatible
      with the enthusiasm of genuine passion; at other times, it is true, a
      sudden agitation renders me powerless and leaves me as weak as a child.
      Oh, yes, I love her in a strange manner; the sentiment that I feel for her
      has become a study of the mind as well as an emotion of the heart, and
      that is what gives it its despotic tenacity; for a material impression
      weakens and gradually dies out, but when an energetic intelligence is
      brought to bear upon it, it becomes desperate. I should be wrong to
      complain. Passion, a passive sentiment! This word has a contradictory
      meaning for me. I am a lover as Napoleon was an emperor: nobody forced the
      crown upon him, he took it and crowned himself with his own hand. If my
      crown happens to be a thorny one, whom can I accuse? Did not my brow crave
      it?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have loved this woman of my own choosing, above all others; the choice
      made, I have worked at my love as I would at a cherished poem; it has been
      the subject of all my meditations, the fairy of all my dreams, for more
      than a year. I have not had a thought in which I have not paid her homage.
      I have devoted my talents to her; it seemed to me that by loving and
      perpetually contemplating her image, I might at last become worthy of
      painting it. I was conscious of a grand future, if only she had understood
      me; I often thought of Raphael and his own Fornarina. There is a throne
      vacant in poetry; I had dreamed of this throne in order to lay it at
      Clemence&rsquo;s feet. Oh! although this may never be more than a dream, this
      dream has given me hours of incomparable happiness! I should be ungrateful
      to deny it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet this love is only a fictitious sentiment; I realize it today. It
      is not with her that I am in love, it is with a woman created by my
      imagination, and whom I see clearly within this unfeeling marble shape.
      When we have meditated for a long time, our thoughts end by taking life
      and walking by our side. I can now understand the allegory of Adam taking
      Eve from his own substance; but flesh forms a palpitating flesh akin to
      itself; the mind creates only a shadow, and a shadow can not animate a
      dead body. Two dead bodies can not make a living one; a body without a
      soul is only a cadaver&mdash;and she has no soul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut sat motionless for some time with his face buried in his hands;
      suddenly he raised his head and burst into harsh laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough of this soaring in the clouds!&rdquo; he exclaimed; &ldquo;let us come down to
      earth again. It is permissible to think in verse, but one must act in
      prose, and that is what I shall do tomorrow. This woman&rsquo;s caprices, which
      she takes for efforts of virtue, have made of me a cruel and inexorable
      man; I have begged in vain for peace; if she wishes war, very well, so be
      it, she shall have war.&rdquo;
     </p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI. GERFAUT WINS A POINT
    </h2>
    <p>
      For several days, Gerfaut followed, with unrelenting perseverance, the
      plan which he had mapped out in that eventful night. The most exacting
      woman could but appear satisfied with the politeness he displayed toward
      Madame de Bergenheim, but nothing in his conduct showed the slightest
      desire for an explanation. He was so careful of every look, gesture, and
      word of his, that it would have been impossible to discover the slightest
      difference in his actions toward Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, and the
      manner in which he treated Clemence. His choicest attentions and most
      particular efforts at amiability were bestowed upon Aline. He used as much
      caution as cunning, in his little game, for he knew that in spite of her
      inclination to be jealous, Madame de Bergenheim would never believe in a
      sudden desertion, and that she would surely discover the object of his
      ruse, if he made the mistake of exaggerating it in the least.
    </p>
    <p>
      While renouncing the idea of a direct attack, he did not work with any
      less care to fortify his position. He redoubled his activity in widening
      the breach between the old aunt and the husband, following the principles
      of military art, that one should become master of the exterior works of a
      stronghold before seriously attacking its ramparts.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, in a way, by reflection that Octave&rsquo;s passion reached Clemence.
      Every few moments she learned some detail of this indirect attack, to
      which it was impossible for her to raise any objections.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Gerfaut has promised to spend a fortnight longer with us,&rdquo;
       said her aunt to her, in a jeering tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Gerfaut is very obliging,&rdquo; said her husband, in his turn; &ldquo;he
      thinks it very strange that we have not had a genealogical tree made to
      put in the drawing-room. He pretends that it is an indispensable
      complement to my collection of family portraits, and he offers to do me
      the favor of assuming charge of it. It seems, from what your aunt tells
      me, that he is very learned in heraldry. Would you believe it, he spent
      the whole morning in the library looking over files of old manuscripts? I
      am delighted, for this will prolong his stay here. He is a very charming
      fellow; a Liberal in politics, but a gentleman at heart. Marillac, who is
      a superb penman, undertakes to make a fair copy of the genealogy and to
      illuminate the crests. Do you know, we can not find my great-grandmother
      Cantelescar&rsquo;s coat-of-arms? But, my darling, it seems to me that you are
      not very kindly disposed toward your cousin Gerfaut.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim, when these remarks and various others of a similar
      nature came up, tried to change the conversation, but she felt an
      antipathy for her husband bordering upon aversion. For lack of
      intelligence is one of the faults women can pardon the least; they look
      upon a confidence which is lulled into security by faith in their honor,
      and a blindness which does not suspect the possibility of a fall, as
      positive crimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at these pretty verses Monsieur de Gerfaut has written in my album,
      Clemence,&rdquo; said Aline, in her turn. During vacation, among her other
      pleasures forbidden her at the Sacred Heart, the young girl had purchased
      a superbly bound album, containing so far but two ugly sketches in sepia,
      one very bad attempt in water-colors, and the verses in question. She
      called this &ldquo;my album!&rdquo; as she called a certain little blank book, &ldquo;my
      diary!&rdquo; To the latter she confided every night the important events of the
      day. This book had assumed such proportions, during the last few days,
      that it threatened to reach the dimensions of the Duchesse d&rsquo;Abrantes&rsquo; 
      memoires, but if the album was free to public admiration, nobody ever saw
      the diary, and Justine herself never had been able to discover the
      sanctuary that concealed this mysterious manuscript.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aline was not so pleasantly received as the others, and Madame de
      Bergenheim hardly concealed the ill-humor her pretty sister-in-law&rsquo;s
      beaming face caused her every time Octave&rsquo;s name was mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter&rsquo;s diplomatic conduct was bearing fruit, and his expectations
      were being fulfilled with a precision which proved the correctness of his
      calculations.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of all the contradictory sentiments of fear, remorse,
      vexation, love, and jealousy, Clemence&rsquo;s head was so turned, at times,
      that she did not know what she did want. She found herself in one of those
      situations when a woman of a complex and mobile character whom all
      sensations impress, passes, with surprising facility, from one resolve to
      another entirely opposed to it. After being frightened beyond measure by
      her lover&rsquo;s presence in her husband&rsquo;s house, she ended by becoming
      accustomed to it, and then by ridiculing her first terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly,&rdquo; she thought, at times, &ldquo;I was too silly thus to torment myself
      and make myself ill; I was wanting in self-respect to mistrust myself to
      such an extent, and to see danger where there was none. He can not expect
      to make himself so very formidable while scrawling this genealogical tree.
      If he came one hundred leagues from Paris for that, he really does not
      merit such severe treatment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, having thus reassured herself against the perils of her position,
      without realizing that to fear danger less was to embolden love, she
      proceeded to examine her lover&rsquo;s conduct.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He seems perfectly resigned,&rdquo; she said, to herself; &ldquo;not one word or
      glance for two days! Since he resigns himself so easily, he might, it
      seems to me, obey me entirely and go away; or, if he wishes to disobey me,
      he might do it in a less disagreeable manner. For really, his manner is
      almost rude; he might at least remember that I am his hostess, and that he
      is in my house. I do not see what pleasure he can take in talking to this
      little girl. I wager that his only object is to annoy me! He deceives
      himself most assuredly; it is all the same to me! But Aline takes all this
      seriously! She has become very coquettish, the last few days! It certainly
      is very wrong for him to try to turn this child&rsquo;s head. I should like to
      know what he would say to justify himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus, little by little, she mentally reached the point to which Octave
      wished to bring her. The desire for an explanation with him, which she
      dared not admit to herself at first from a feeling of pride, became
      greater from day to day, and at last Octave himself could not have longed
      more ardently for an interview. Now that Octave seemed to forget her, she
      realized that she loved him almost to adoration. She reproached herself
      for her harshness toward him more than she had ever reproached herself for
      her weakness. Her antipathy for all that did not concern him increased to
      such a degree that the most simple of household duties became odious to
      her. It seemed to her that all the people about her were enemies bent upon
      separating her from happiness, for happiness was Octave; and this
      happiness, made up of words, letters, glances from him, was lost!
    </p>
    <p>
      The evening of the fourth day, she found this torture beyond her strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall become insane,&rdquo; she thought; &ldquo;to-morrow I will speak to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut was saying to himself, at nearly the same moment: &ldquo;To-morrow I
      will have a talk with her.&rdquo; Thus, by a strange sympathy, their hearts
      seemed to understand each other in spite of their separation. But what was
      an irresistible attraction in Clemence was only a determination resulting
      from almost a mathematical calculation on her lover&rsquo;s part. By the aid of
      this gift of second sight which intelligent men who are in love sometimes
      possess, he had followed, degree by degree, the variations of her heart,
      without her saying one word; and in spite of the veil of scorn and
      indifference with which she still had the courage to shield herself, he
      had not lost a single one of the tortures she had endured for the last
      four days. Now he thought that he had discovered enough to allow him to
      risk a step that, until then, he would have deemed dangerous; and with the
      egotism common to all men, even the best of lovers, he trusted in the
      weakness born of sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day a hunting party was arranged with some of the neighbors.
      Early in the morning, Bergenheim and Marillac started for the rendezvous,
      which was at the foot of the large oak-tree where the artist&rsquo;s tete-a-tete
      had been so cruelly interrupted. Gerfaut refused to join them, under the
      pretence of finishing an article for the &lsquo;Revue de Paris&rsquo;, and remained at
      home with the three ladies. As soon as dinner was ended, he went to his
      room in order to give a semblance of truth to his excuse.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been busying himself for some time trimming a quill pen at the
      window, which looked out upon the park, when he saw in the garden,
      directly beneath him, Constance&rsquo;s forefeet and nose; soon the dog jumped
      upon the sill in order to warm herself in the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The old lady has entered her sanctuary,&rdquo; thought Gerfaut, who knew that
      it was as impossible to see Constance without her mistress as St.-Roch
      without his dog.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment later he saw Justine and Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s maid
      starting off, arm in arm, as if they were going for a promenade. Finally,
      he had hardly written half a page, when he noticed Aline opposite his
      window, with a straw hat upon her head and a watering-pot in her hand. A
      servant carried a bucket of water and placed it near a mass of dahlias,
      which the young girl had taken under her protection, and she at once set
      about her work with great zeal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, &ldquo;let us see whether the place is approachable.&rdquo; And
      closing his desk, he stealthily descended the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      After crossing the vestibule on the first floor, and a small gallery
      decorated with commonplace pictures, he found himself at the library door.
      Thanks to the genealogical tree which he had promised to compile, he
      possessed a key to this room, which was not usually open. By dint of
      preaching about the danger in certain reading for young girls,
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had caused this system of locking-up,
      especially designed to preserve Aline from the temptation of opening
      certain novels which the old lady rejected en masse. &ldquo;Young girls did not
      read novels in 1780,&rdquo; she would say. This put an end to all discussion and
      cut short the protestations of the young girl, who was brought up
      exclusively upon a diet of Le Ragois and Mentelle&rsquo;s geography, and such
      solid mental food.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several large books and numerous manuscripts were spread out upon the
      table in the library, together with a wide sheet of Holland paper, upon
      which was sketched the family tree of the Bergenheims. Instead of going to
      work, however, Gerfaut locked the door, and then went across the room and
      pressed a little knob which opened a small door no one would have noticed
      at first.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leather bands representing the binding of books, like those which covered
      the rest of the walls, made it necessary for one to be informed of the
      existence of this secret exit in order to distinguish it from the rest of
      the room. This door had had a singular attraction for Gerfaut ever since
      the day he first discovered it. After silently opening it, he found
      himself in a small passage at the end of which was a small spiral
      staircase leading to the floor above. A cat creeping to surprise a bird
      asleep could not have walked more stealthily than he, as he mounted the
      stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he crossed the last step, he found himself in a small room, filled
      with wardrobes, lighted by a small glass door covered with a muslin
      curtain. This door opened into a little parlor which separated Madame de
      Bergenheim&rsquo;s private sitting-room from her sleeping-apartment. The only
      window was opposite the closet and occupied almost the whole of the
      woodwork, the rest of which was hung with pearl-gray stuff with lilac
      figures upon it. A broad, low divan, covered with the same material as the
      hanging, occupied the space in front of the window. It was the only piece
      of furniture, and it seemed almost impossible to introduce even one chair
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blinds were carefully closed, as well as the double curtains, and they
      let in so little light that Octave had to accustom himself to the
      obscurity before he could distinguish Madame de Bergenheim through the
      muslin, curtains and the glass door. She was lying upon the divan, with
      her head turned in his direction and a book in her hand. He first thought
      her asleep, but soon noticed her gleaming eyes fastened upon the ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is not asleep, she does not read, then she is thinking of me!&rdquo; said
      he to himself, by a logical deduction he believed incontestable.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a moment&rsquo;s hesitation, seeing that the young woman remained
      motionless, Gerfaut tried to turn the handle of the door as softly as
      possible so as to make his entrance quietly. The bolt had just noiselessly
      slipped in the lock when the drawing-room door suddenly opened, a flood of
      light inundated the floor, and Aline appeared upon the threshold,
      watering-pot in hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young girl stopped an instant, for she thought her sister-in-law was
      asleep; but, meeting in the shade Clemence&rsquo;s sparkling eyes, she entered,
      saying in a fresh, silvery voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All my flowers are doing well; I have come to water yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim made no reply, but her eyebrows contracted slightly
      as she watched the young girl kneel before a superb datura. This almost
      imperceptible symptom, and the rather ill-humored look, foretold a storm.
      A few drops of water falling upon the floor gave her the needed pretext,
      and Gerfaut, as much in love as he was, could not help thinking of the
      fable of the wolf and the lamb, when he heard the lady of his thoughts
      exclaim, in an impatient tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let those flowers alone; they do not need to be watered. Do you not see
      that you are wetting the floor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline turned around and looked at the scolder for a moment; then, placing
      her watering-pot upon the floor, she darted toward the divan like a kitten
      that has just received a blow from its mother&rsquo;s paw and feels authorized
      to play with her. Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise at this unexpected
      attack; but before she could sit up, she was thrown back upon the cushions
      by the young girl, who seized both her hands and kissed her on each cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good gracious! how cross you have been for the last few days!&rdquo; cried
      Aline, pressing her sister&rsquo;s hands. &ldquo;Are you going to be like your aunt?
      You do nothing but scold now. What have I done? Are you vexed with me? Do
      you not love me any longer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence felt a sort of remorse at this question, asked with such a loving
      accent; but her jealousy she could not overcome. To make up for it, she
      kissed her sister-in-law with a show of affection which seemed to satisfy
      the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you reading?&rdquo; asked the young girl, picking up the book which
      had fallen to the floor in their struggle&mdash;&ldquo;Notre Dame de Paris. That
      must be interesting! Will you let me read it? Oh! do! will you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know very well that my aunt has forbidden you to read novels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! she does that just to annoy me and for no other reason. Do you think
      that is right? Must I remain an idiot, and never read anything but history
      and geography the rest of my life? As if I did not know that Louis
      Thirteenth was the son of Henri Fourth, and that there are eighty-six
      departments in France. You read novels. Does it do you any harm?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence replied in a rather imperative tone, which should have put an end
      to the discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you are married you can do as you like. Until then you must leave
      your education in the hands of those who are interested in you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All my friends,&rdquo; replied Aline with a pout, &ldquo;have relatives who are
      interested in them, at least as much as your aunt is in me, and they do
      not prevent their reading the books they like. There is Claire de Saponay,
      who has read all of Walter Scott&rsquo;s novels, Maleck-Adel, Eugenie and
      Mathilde&mdash;and I do not know how many more; Gessner, Mademoiselle de
      Lafayette&mdash;she has read everything; and I&mdash;they have let me read
      Numa Ponzpilius and Paul and Virginia. Isn&rsquo;t that ridiculous at sixteen
      years of age?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not get excited, but go into the library and get one of Walter Scott&rsquo;s
      novels; but do not let my aunt know anything about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this act of capitulation, by which Madame de Bergenheim doubtless
      wished to atone for her disagreeableness, Aline made one joyous bound for
      the glass door. Gerfaut had barely time to leave his post of observation
      and to conceal himself between two wardrobes, under a cloak which was
      hanging there, when the young girl made her appearance, but she paid no
      attention to the pair of legs which were but imperfectly concealed. She
      bounded down the stairs and returned a moment later with the precious
      volumes in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Waverley, or, Scotland Sixty Years Ago,&rdquo; said she, as she read the title.
      &ldquo;I took the first one on the shelf, because you are going to lend them all
      to me, one by one, are you not? Claire says that a young girl can read
      Walter Scott, and that his books are very nice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall see whether you are sensible,&rdquo; replied Clemence, smiling; &ldquo;but,
      above all things, do not let my aunt see these books, for I am the one who
      would get the scolding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not worry;&mdash;I will go and hide them in my room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She went as far as the door, then stopped and came back a few steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that Monsieur de Gerfaut worked in the library
      yesterday, for there are piles of books on the table. It is very kind of
      him to be willing to make this tree, is it not? Shall we both be in it? Do
      they put women in such things? I hope your aunt will not be there; she is
      not one of our family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence&rsquo;s face clouded again at the name of Gerfaut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know no more about it than you,&rdquo; she replied, a little harshly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The reason I asked is because there are only pictures of men in the
      drawing-room; it is not very polite on their part. I should much prefer
      that there should be portraits of our grandmothers; it would be so amusing
      to see the beautiful dresses that they wore in those days rather than
      those old beards which frighten me. But perhaps they do not put young
      girls in genealogical trees,&rdquo; she continued, in a musing tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might ask Monsieur de Gerfaut; he wishes to please you too much to
      refuse to tell you,&rdquo; said Clemence, with an almost ironical smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo; asked Aline, innocently. &ldquo;I should never dare to ask
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are still afraid of him, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little,&rdquo; replied the young girl, lowering her eyes, for she felt her
      face flush.
    </p>
    <p>
      This symptom made Madame de Bergenheim more vexed than ever, and she
      continued, in a cutting, sarcastic tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has your cousin d&rsquo;Artigues written you lately?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Bergenheim raised her eyes and looked at her for a moment
      with an indifferent air:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; she said, at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you do not know whether you have received a letter from your
      cousin?&rdquo; continued Clemence, laughing affectedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Alphonse&mdash;no, that is, yes; but it was a long time ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How cold and indifferent you are all of a sudden to this dear Alphonse!
      You do not remember, then, how you wept at his departure, a year ago, and
      how vexed you were with your brother who tried to tease you about this
      beautiful affection, and how you swore that you would never have any other
      husband than your cousin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was a simpleton, and Christian was right. Alphonse is only one year
      older than I! Think of it, what a fine couple we should make! I know that
      I am not very sensible, and so it is necessary that my husband should be
      wise enough for both. Christian is nine years older than you, is he not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think that is too much?&rdquo; asked Madame de Bergenheim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite the contrary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What age should you like your husband to be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;thirty,&rdquo; replied the young girl, after a slight hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Gerfaut&rsquo;s age?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They gazed at each other in silence. Octave, who, from his place of
      concealment heard the whole of this conversation, noticed the sad
      expression which passed over Clemence&rsquo;s face, and seemed to provoke entire
      confidence. The young girl allowed herself to be caught by this appearance
      of interest and affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you something,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if you will promise never to tell
      a soul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To whom should I repeat it? You know that I am very discreet as to your
      little secrets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is because this might be perhaps a great secret,&rdquo; continued Aline.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence took her sister-in-law&rsquo;s hand, and drew her down beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; said Aline, &ldquo;that Christian has promised to give me a watch
      like yours, because I do not like mine. Yesterday, when we were out
      walking, I told him I thought it was very unkind of him not to have given
      it to me yet. Do you know what he replied?&mdash;It is true that he
      laughed a little&mdash;It is hardly worth while buying you one now; when
      you are the Vicomtesse de Gerfaut, your husband will give you one.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your brother was joking at your expense; how could you be such a child as
      not to perceive it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not such a child!&rdquo; exclaimed Aline, rising with a vexed air; &ldquo;I know
      what I have seen. They were talking a long time together in the
      drawing-room last evening, and I am sure they were speaking of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim burst into laughter, which increased her
      sister-in-law&rsquo;s vexation, for she was less and less disposed to be treated
      like a young girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Aline!&rdquo; said the Baroness, at last; &ldquo;they were talking about the
      fifth portrait; Monsieur de Gerfaut can not find the name of the original
      among the old papers, and he thinks he did not belong to the family. You
      know, that old face with the gray beard, near the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl bent her head, like a child who sees her naughty sister
      throw down her castle of cards.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how do you know?&rdquo; said she, after a moment&rsquo;s reflection. &ldquo;You were at
      the piano. How could you hear at the other end of the room what Monsieur
      de Gerfaut was saying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Clemence&rsquo;s turn to hang her head, for it seemed to her that the
      girl had suspected the constant attention which, under an affectation of
      indifference, never allowed her to lose one of Octave&rsquo;s words. As usual,
      she concealed her embarrassment by redoubling her sarcasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very likely,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I was mistaken, and you may be right after all.
      What day shall we have the honor of saluting Madame la Vicomtesse de
      Gerfaut?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I foolishly told you what I imagined, and you at once make fun of me,&rdquo;
       said Aline, whose round face lengthened at each word, and passed from
      rose-color to scarlet; &ldquo;is it my fault that my brother said this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think it was necessary for him to speak of it, for you to think
      a great deal about the matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; must one not think of something?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But one should be careful of one&rsquo;s thoughts; it is not proper for a young
      girl to think of any man,&rdquo; replied Clemence, with an accent of severity
      which would have made her aunt recognize with pride the pure blood of the
      Corandeuils.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it is more proper for a young girl to do so than for a married
      woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this unexpected retort, Madame de Bergenheim lost countenance and sat
      speechless before the young maiden, like a pupil who has just been
      punished by his teacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where the devil did the little serpent get that idea?&rdquo; thought Gerfaut,
      who was very ill at ease between the two wardrobes where he was concealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing that her sister-in-law did not reply to her, Aline took this
      silence from confusion for an expression of bad temper, and at once became
      angry in her turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very cross to-day,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;good-by, I do not want your
      books.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She threw the volumes of Waverley upon the sofa, picked up her
      watering-pot and went out, closing the door with a loud bang. Madame de
      Bergenheim sat motionless with a pensive, gloomy air, as if the young
      girl&rsquo;s remark had changed her into a statue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I enter?&rdquo; said Octave to himself, leaving his niche and putting his
      hand upon the door-knob. &ldquo;This little simpleton has done me an infinite
      wrong with her silly speeches. I am sure that she is cruising with full
      sails set upon the stormy sea of remorse, and that those two rosebuds she
      is gazing at now seem to her like her husband&rsquo;s eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before the poet could make up his mind what to do, the Baroness arose and
      left the room, closing the door almost as noisily as her sister-in-law had
      done.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut went downstairs, cursing, from the very depths of his heart,
      boarding-school misses and sixteen-year-old hearts. After walking up and
      down the library for a few moments, he left it and started to return to
      his room. As he passed the drawing-room, loud music reached his ear;
      chromatic fireworks, scales running with the rapidity of the cataract of
      Niagara, extraordinary arpeggios, hammering in the bass with a petulance
      and frenzy which proved that the &lsquo;furie francaise&rsquo; is not the exclusive
      right of the stronger sex. In this jumble of grave, wild, and sad notes,
      Gerfaut recognized, by the clearness of touch and brilliancy of some of
      the passages, that this improvisation could not come from Aline&rsquo;s
      unpractised fingers. He understood that the piano must be at this moment
      Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s confidant, and that she was pouring out the
      contradictory emotions in which she had indulged for several days; for, to
      a heart deprived of another heart in which to confide its joys and woes,
      music is a friend that listens and replies.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut listened for some time in silence, with his head leaning against
      the drawing-room door. Clemence wandered through vague melodies without
      fixing upon any one in particular. At last a thought seemed to captivate
      her. After playing the first measures of the romance from Saul, she
      resumed the motive with more precision, and when she had finished the
      ritornello she began to sing, in a soft, veiled voice,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Assisa al pie d&rsquo;un salice&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Gerfaut had heard her sing this several times, in society, but never with
      this depth of expression. She sang before strangers with her lips; now it
      all came from her heart. At the third verse, when he believed her to be
      exalted by her singing and the passion exhaled in this exquisite song, the
      poet softly entered, judging it to be a favorable moment, and enough
      agitated himself to believe in the contagion of his agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first sight which met his eyes was Mademoiselle de Corandeuil
      stretched out in her armchair, head thrown back, arms drooping and letting
      escape by way of accompaniment a whistling, crackling, nasal melody. The
      old maid&rsquo;s spectacles hanging on the end of her nose had singularly
      compromised the harmony of her false front. The &lsquo;Gazette de France&rsquo; had
      fallen from her hands and decorated the back of Constance, who, as usual,
      was lying at her mistress&rsquo;s feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horrible old witch!&rdquo; said Gerfaut to himself. &ldquo;Decidedly, the Fates are
      against me to-day.&rdquo; However, as both mistress and dog were sleeping
      soundly, he closed the door and tiptoed across the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim had ceased to sing, but her fingers still continued
      softly to play the motive of the song. As she saw Octave approaching her,
      she leaned over to look at her aunt, whom she had not noticed to be
      asleep, as the high back of her chair was turned toward her. Nobody sleeps
      in a very imposing manner, but the old lady&rsquo;s profile, with her false
      front awry, was so comical that it was too much for her niece&rsquo;s gravity.
      The desire to laugh was, for the moment, stronger than respect for
      melancholy; and Clemence, through that necessity for sympathy peculiar to
      acute merriment, glanced involuntarily at Octave, who was also smiling.
      Although there was nothing sentimental in this exchange of thoughts, the
      latter hastened to profit by it; a moment more, and he was seated upon a
      stool in front of the piano, at her left and only a few inches from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can a person sleep when you are singing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The most embarrassed freshman could have turned out as bright a speech as
      this; but the eloquence of it lay less in the words than in the
      expression. The ease and grace with which Octave seated himself, the
      elegant precision of his manner, the gracious way in which he bent his
      head toward Clemence, while speaking, showed a great aptitude in this kind
      of conversation. If the words were those of a freshman, the accent and
      pose were those of a graduate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baroness&rsquo;s first thought was to rise and leave the room, but an
      invincible charm held her back. She was not mistress enough of her eyes to
      dare to let them meet Octave&rsquo;s; so she turned them away and pretended to
      look at the old lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a particular talent for putting my aunt to sleep,&rdquo; said she, in a
      gay tone; &ldquo;she will sleep until evening, if I like; when I stop playing,
      the silence awakens her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg of you, continue to play; never awaken her,&rdquo; said Gerfaut; and, as
      if he were afraid his wish would not be granted, he began to pound in the
      bass without being disturbed by the unmusical sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not play discords,&rdquo; said Clemence, laughing; &ldquo;let us at least put her
      to sleep in tune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was wrong to say us; for her lover took this as complicity for
      whatever might happen. Us, in a tete-a-tete, is the most traitorous word
      in the whole language.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be that Clemence had no great desire that her aunt should awaken;
      perhaps she wished to avoid a conversation; perhaps she wished to enjoy in
      silence the happiness of feeling that she was still loved, for since he
      had seated himself beside her Octave&rsquo;s slightest action had become a
      renewed avowal. Madame de Bergenheim began to play the Duke of
      Reichstadt&rsquo;s Waltz, striking only the first measure of the accompaniment,
      in order to show her lover where to put his fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The waltz went on. Clemence played the air and Octave the bass, two of
      their hands remaining unoccupied&mdash;those that were close to each
      other. Now, what could two idle hands do, when one belonged to a man
      deeply in love, the other to a young woman who for some time had
      ill-treated her lover and exhausted her severity? Before the end of the
      first part, the long unoccupied, tapering fingers of the treble were
      imprisoned by those of the bass, without the least disturbance in the
      musical effect&mdash;and the old aunt slept on!
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment later, Octave&rsquo;s lips were fastened upon this rather trembling
      hand, as if he wished to imbibe, to the very depths of his soul, the soft,
      perfumed tissue. Twice the Baroness tried to disengage herself, twice her
      strength failed her. It was beginning to be time for the aunt to awaken,
      but she slept more soundly than ever; and if a slight indecision was to be
      noticed in the upper hand, the lower notes were struck with an energy
      capable of metamorphosing Mademoiselle de Corandeuil into a second
      Sleeping Beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Octave had softly caressed this hand for a long time, he raised his
      head in order to obtain a new favor. This time Madame de Bergenheim did
      not turn away her eyes, but, after looking at Octave for an instant, she
      said to him in a coquettish, seductive way:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aline?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mute glance which replied to this question was such an eloquent denial
      that all words were superfluous. His sweet, knowing smile betrayed the
      secret of his duplicity; he was understood and forgiven. There was at this
      moment no longer any doubt, fear, or struggle between them. They did not
      feel the necessity of any explanation as to the mutual suffering they had
      undergone; the suffering no longer existed. They were silent for some
      time, happy to look at each other, to be together and alone-for the old
      aunt still slept. Not a sound was to be heard; one would have said that
      sleep had overcome the two lovers also. Suddenly the charm was broken by a
      terrible noise, like a trumpet calling the guilty ones to repentance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII. A RUDE INTERRUPTION
    </h2>
    <p>
      Had a cannon-ball struck the two lovers in the midst of their ecstasy it
      would have been less cruel than the sensation caused by this horrible
      noise. Clemence trembled and fell back in her chair, frozen with horror.
      Gerfaut rose, almost as frightened as she; Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,
      aroused from her sleep, sat up in her chair as suddenly as a Jack-in-a-box
      that jumps in one&rsquo;s face when a spring is touched. As to Constance, she
      darted under her mistress&rsquo;s chair, uttering the most piteous howls.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the folding-doors opposite the window opened; the bell of a
      hunting-horn appeared in the opening, blown at full blast and waking the
      echoes in the drawing-room. The curtain of the drama had risen upon a
      parody, a second incident had changed the pantomime and sentiments of the
      performers. The old lady fell back in her chair and stopped up her ears
      with her fingers, as she stamped upon the floor; but it was in vain for
      her to try to speak, her words were drowned by the racket made by this
      terrible instrument. Clemence also stopped her ears. After running in her
      terror, under every chair in the room, Constance, half wild, darted, in a
      fit of despair, through the partly opened door. Gerfaut finally began to
      laugh heartily as if he thought it all great fun, for M. de Bergenheim&rsquo;s
      purple face took the place of the trumpet and his hearty laugh rang out
      almost as noisily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! ha! you did not expect that kind of accompaniment,&rdquo; said the Baron,
      when his gayety had calmed a little; &ldquo;this is the article that you were
      obliged to write for the Revue de Paris, is it? Do you think that I am
      going to leave you to sing Italian duets with Madame while I am scouring
      the woods? You must take me for a very careless husband, Vicomte. Now,
      then, right about face! March! Do me the kindness to take a gun. We are
      going to shoot a few hares in the Corne woods before supper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Bergenheim,&rdquo; exclaimed the old lady, when her emotion would
      allow her to speak, &ldquo;this is indecorous&mdash;vulgar&mdash;the conduct of
      a common soldier&mdash;of a cannibal! My head is split open; I am sure to
      have an awful neuralgia in a quarter of an hour. It is the conduct of a
      herdsman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not think of your neuralgia, my dear aunt,&rdquo; replied Christian, whose
      good-humor seemed aroused by the day&rsquo;s sport; &ldquo;you are as fresh as a
      rosebud&mdash;and Constance shall have some hares&rsquo; heads roasted for her
      supper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a second uproar was heard in the courtyard; a horn was
      evidently being played by an amateur, accompanied by the confused yelps
      and barks of a numerous pack of hounds; the whole was mingled with shouts
      of laughter, the cracking of whips, and clamors of all kinds. In the midst
      of this racket, a cry, more piercing than the others, rang out, a cry of
      agony and despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Constance!&rdquo; exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, in a falsetto voice
      full of terror; she rushed to one of the windows and all followed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spectacle in the courtyard was as noisy as it was picturesque.
      Marillac, seated upon a bench, was blowing upon a trumpet, trying to play
      the waltz from Robert-le-Diable in a true infernal manner. At his feet
      were seven or eight hunters and as many servants encouraging him by their
      shouts. The Baron&rsquo;s pack of hounds, of great renown in the country, was
      composed of about forty dogs, all branded upon their right thighs with the
      Bergenheim coat-of-arms. From time immemorial, the chateau&rsquo;s dogs had been
      branded thus with their master&rsquo;s crest, and Christian, who was a great
      stickler for old customs, had taken care not to drop this one. This feudal
      sign had probably acted upon the morals of the pack, for it was impossible
      to find, within twenty leagues, a collection of more snarly terriers,
      dissolute hounds, ugly bloodhounds, or more quarrelsome greyhounds. They
      were perfect hunters, but it seemed as if, on account of their being dogs
      of quality, all vices were permitted them.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of this horde, without respect for law or order, the
      unfortunate Constance had found herself after crossing the ante-chamber,
      vestibule, and outside steps, still pursued by the sounds from Christian&rsquo;s
      huge horn. An honest merchant surprised at the turn of the road by a band
      of robbers would not have been greeted any better than the poodle was at
      the moment she darted into the yard. It may have been that the quarrel
      between the Bergenheims and Corandeuils had reached the canine species; it
      may have been at the instigation of the footmen, who all cordially
      detested the beast&mdash;the sad fact remains that she was pounced upon in
      a moment as if she were a deer, snatched, turned topsy-turvy, rolled,
      kicked about, and bitten by the forty four-legged brigands, who each
      seemed determined to carry away as a trophy some portion of her
      cafe-au-lait colored blanket.
    </p>
    <p>
      The person who took the most delight in this deplorable spectacle was Pere
      Rousselet. He actually clapped his hands together behind his back, spread
      his legs apart in the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, while his
      coat-skirts almost touched the ground, giving him the look of a kangaroo
      resting his paws under his tail. From his large cockatoo mouth escaped
      provoking hisses, which encouraged the assassins in their crime as much as
      did Marillac&rsquo;s racket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Constance!&rdquo; exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil a second time, frozen
      with horror at the sight of her poodle lying upon its back among its
      enemies.
    </p>
    <p>
      This call produced no effect upon the animal section of the actors in this
      scene, but it caused a sudden change among the servants and a few of the
      hunters; the shouts of encouragement ceased at once; several of the
      participants prudently tried to efface themselves; as to Rousselet, more
      politic than the others, he boldly darted into the melee and picked up the
      fainting puppy in his arms, carrying her as tenderly as a mother would an
      infant, without troubling himself whether or not he was leaving part of
      his coat-tails with the savage hounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the old lady saw the object of her love placed at her feet covered
      with mud, sprinkled with blood, and uttering stifled groans, which she
      took for the death-rattle, she fell back in her chair speechless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go,&rdquo; said Bergenheim in a low voice, taking his guest by the arm.
      Gerfaut threw a glance around him and sought Clemence&rsquo;s eyes, but he did
      not find them. Without troubling herself as to her aunt&rsquo;s despair,
      Clemence had hurried to her room; for she felt the necessity of solitude
      in order to calm her emotions, or perhaps to live them over a second time.
      Octave resigned himself to following his companion. At the end of a few
      moments, the barking of the dogs, the joking of the hunters, even the wind
      in the trees and the rustling leaves, had bored Octave to such an extent
      that, in spite of himself, his face betrayed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a doleful face you have!&rdquo; exclaimed his host, laughingly. &ldquo;I am
      sorry that I took you away from Madame de Bergenheim; it seems that you
      decidedly prefer her society to ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you be very jealous if I were to admit the fact?&rdquo; replied Octave,
      making an effort to assume the same laughing tone as the Baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jealous! No, upon my honor! However, you are well constituted to give
      umbrage to a poor husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But jealousy is not one of my traits of character, nor among my
      principles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are philosophical!&rdquo; said the lover, with a forced smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My philosophy is very simple. I respect my wife too much to suspect her,
      and I love her too much to annoy her in advance with an imaginary trouble.
      If this trouble should come, and I were sure of it, it would be time
      enough to worry myself about it. Besides, it would be an affair soon
      settled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What affair?&rdquo; asked Marillac, slackening his pace in order to join in the
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A foolish affair, my friend, which does not concern you, Monsieur de
      Gerfaut, nor myself any longer, I hope; although I belong to the class
      exposed to danger. We were speaking of conjugal troubles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The artist threw a glance at his friend which signified: &ldquo;What the deuce
      made you take it into your head to start up this hare?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are many things to be said on this subject,&rdquo; said he, in a
      sententious tone, thinking that his intervention might be useful in
      getting his friend out of the awkward position in which he found himself,
      &ldquo;an infinite number of things may be said; books without number have been
      written upon this subject. Every one has his own system and plan of
      conduct as to the way of looking at and acting upon it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what would be yours, you consummate villain?&rdquo; asked Christian; &ldquo;would
      you be as cruel a husband as you are an immoral bachelor? That usually
      happens; the bolder a poacher one has been, the more intractable a
      gamekeeper one becomes. What would be your system?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hum! hum! you are mistaken, Bergenheim; my boyish love adventures have
      disposed me to indulgence. &lsquo;Debilis caro&rsquo;, you know! Shakespeare has
      translated it, &lsquo;Frailty, thy name is woman!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a little rusty in my; Latin and I never knew a word of English. What
      does that mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, it means, if I were married and my wife deceived me, I
      should resign myself to it like a gentleman, considering the fragility of
      this enchanting sex.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mere boy&rsquo;s talk, my friend! And you, Gerfaut?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must admit,&rdquo; replied the latter, a little embarrassed, &ldquo;that I have
      never given the subject very much thought. However, I believe in the
      virtue of women.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is all very well, but in case of misfortune what would you do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I should say with Lanoue: &lsquo;Sensation is for the fop, complaints
      for the fool, an honest man who is deceived goes away and says nothing.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I partly agree with Lanoue; only I should make a little variation&mdash;instead
      of goes away should say avenges himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac threw at his friend a second glance full of meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Per Bacco!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;are you a Venetian or a Castilian husband?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh!&rdquo; replied Bergenheim, &ldquo;I suppose that without being either, I should
      kill my wife, the other man, and then myself, without even crying,
      &lsquo;Beware!&rsquo; Here! Brichou! pay attention; Tambeau is separated from the
      rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said these words the Baron leaped over a broad ditch, which divided
      the road from the clearing which the hunters had already entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you say to that?&rdquo; murmured the artist, in a rather dramatic tone,
      in his friend&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of replying, the lover made a gesture which signified, according
      to all appearance: &ldquo;I do not care.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The clearing they must cross in order to reach the woods formed a large,
      square field upon an inclined plane which sloped to the river side. Just
      as Marillac in his turn was jumping the ditch, his friend saw, at the
      extremity of the clearing, Madame de Bergenheim walking slowly in the
      avenue of sycamores. A moment later, she had disappeared behind a mass of
      trees without the other men noticing her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care that you do not slip,&rdquo; said the artist, &ldquo;the ground is wet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This warning brought misfortune to Gerfaut, who in jumping caught his foot
      in the root of a tree and fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you hurt?&rdquo; asked Bergenheim.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave arose and tried to walk, but was obliged to lean upon his gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I have twisted my foot,&rdquo; said he, and he carried his hand to it
      as if he felt a sharp pain there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil! it may be a sprain,&rdquo; observed the Baron, coming toward them;
      &ldquo;sit down. Do you think you will be able to walk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but I fear hunting would be too much for me; I will return to the
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you wish us to make a litter and carry you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are laughing at me; it&rsquo;s not so bad as that. I will walk back slowly,
      and will take a foot-bath in my room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lean upon me, then, and I will help you,&rdquo; said the artist, offering his
      arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks; I do not need you,&rdquo; Octave replied; &ldquo;go to the devil!&rdquo; he
      continued, in an expressive aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Capisco!&rdquo; Marillac replied, in the same tone, giving his arm an
      expressive pressure. &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; said he aloud, &ldquo;I am not willing that
      you should go alone. I will be your Antigone&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Antigone me reste, Antigone est and fille.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bergenheim, I will take charge of him. Go on with your hunting, the
      gentlemen are waiting for you. We will meet again at supper; around the
      table; legs are articles of luxury and sprains a delusion, provided that
      the throat and stomach are properly treated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Baron looked first at his guests, then at the group that had just
      reached the top of the clearing. For an instant Christian charity
      struggled against love of hunting, then the latter triumphed. As he saw
      that Octave, although limping slightly, was already in a condition to
      walk, especially with the aid of his friend&rsquo;s arm, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not forget to put your foot in water, and send for Rousselet; he
      understands all about sprains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This advice having eased his conscience, he joined his companions, while
      the two friends slowly took the road back to the chateau, Octave resting
      one hand upon the artist&rsquo;s arm and the other upon his gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bourgeois is outwitted!&rdquo; said Marillac with a stifled laugh, as soon
      as he was sure that Bergenheim could not hear him. &ldquo;Upon my word, these
      soldiers have a primitive, baptismal candor! It is not so with us artists;
      they could not bamboozle us in this way. Your strain is an old story; it
      is taken from the &lsquo;Mariage de raison&rsquo;, first act, second scene.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will do me the favor to leave me as soon as we reach the woods,&rdquo; said
      Gerfaut, as he continued to limp with a grace which would have made Lord
      Byron envious; &ldquo;you may go straight ahead, or you may turn to the left, as
      you choose; the right is forbidden you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. Hearts are trumps, it seems, and, for the time being, you
      agree with Sganarelle, who places the heart on the right side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not return to the chateau, as it is understood that we are together.
      If you rejoin the hunting-party, say to Bergenheim that you left me seated
      at the foot of a tree and that the pain in my foot had almost entirely
      gone. You would have done better not to accompany me, as I tried to make
      you understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had reasons of my own for wishing to get out of Christian&rsquo;s crowd.
      To-day is Monday, and I have an appointment at four o&rsquo;clock which
      interests you more than me. Now, will you listen to a little advice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, yes; follow it, not so sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O race of lovers!&rdquo; exclaimed the artist, in a sort of transport,
      &ldquo;foolish, absurd, wicked, impious, and sacrilegious kind!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of it? I tell you this will all end with swords for two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know that this rabid Bergenheim, with his round face and
      good-natured smile, killed three or four men while he was in the service,
      on account of a game of billiards or some such trivial matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Requiescat in pace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care that he does not cause the &lsquo;De Profundis&rsquo; to be sung for you.
      He was called the best swords man at Saint-Cyr: he has the devil of a
      lunge. As to pistol-shooting, I have seen him break nine plaster images at
      Lepage&rsquo;s one after another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, if I have an engagement with him, we will fight it out with
      arsenic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove, joking is out of place. I tell you that he is sure to discover
      something, and then your business will soon be settled; he will kill you
      as if you were one of the hares he is hunting this moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might find a less humiliating comparison for me,&rdquo; replied Gerfaut,
      with an indifferent smile; &ldquo;however, you exaggerate. I have always noticed
      that these bullies with mysterious threats of their own and these
      slaughterers of plaster images were not such very dangerous fellows to
      meet. This is not disputing Bergenheim&rsquo;s bravery, for I believe it to be
      solid and genuine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you, he is a regular lion! After all, you will admit that it is
      sheer folly to come and attack him in his cage and pull his whiskers
      through the bars. And that is what you are doing. To be in love with his
      wife and pay court to her in Paris, when he is a hundred leagues from you,
      is all very well, but to install yourself in his house, within reach of
      his clutches! that is not love, it is sheer madness. This is nothing to
      laugh at. I am sure that this will end in some horrible tragedy. You heard
      him speak of killing his wife and her lover just now, as if it were a very
      slight matter. Very well; I know him; he will do as he says without
      flinching. These ruddy-faced people are very devils, if you meddle with
      their family affairs! He is capable of murdering you in some corner of his
      park, and of burying you at the foot of some tree and then of forcing
      Madame de Bergenheim to eat your heart fricasseed in champagne, as they
      say Raoul de Coucy did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will admit, at least, that it would be a very charming repast, and
      that there would be nothing bourgeois about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, I boast of detesting the bourgeois; I am celebrated for that;
      but I should much prefer to die in a worsted nightcap, flannel underwear,
      and cotton night-shirt, than to have Bergenheim assist me, too brusquely,
      in this little operation. He is such an out-and-out Goliath! Just look at
      him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the artist forced his friend to turn about, and pointed at Christian,
      who stood with the other hunters upon the brow of the hill, a few steps
      from the spot where they had left him. The Baron was indeed a worthy
      representative of the feudal ages, when physical strength was the only
      incontestable superiority. In spite of the distance, they could hear his
      clear, ringing voice although they could not distinguish his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He really has a look of the times of the Round Table,&rdquo; said Gerfaut;
      &ldquo;five or six hundred years ago it would not have been very agreeable to
      find one&rsquo;s self face to face with him in a tournament; and if to-day, as
      in those times, feminine hearts were won by feats with double-edged
      swords, I admit that my chances would not be very good. Fortunately, we
      are emancipated from animal vigor; it is out, of fashion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out of fashion, if you like; meanwhile, he will kill you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not understand the charms of danger nor the attractions that
      difficulties give to pleasure. I have studied Christian thoroughly since I
      have been here, and I know him as well as if I had passed my life with
      him. I am also sure that, at the very first revelation, he will kill me if
      he can, and I take a strange interest in knowing that I risk my life thus.
      Here we are in the woods,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, as he dropped the artist&rsquo;s arm
      and ceased limping; &ldquo;they can no longer see us; the farce is played out.
      You know what I told you to say if you join them: you left me at the foot
      of a tree. You are forbidden to approach the sycamores, under penalty of
      receiving the shot from my gun in your moustache.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words he threw the gun which had served him as crutch over his
      shoulder, and darted off in the direction of the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII. ESPIONAGE
    </h2>
    <p>
      At the extremity of the sycamore walk, the shore formed a bluff like the
      one upon which the chateau was built, but much more abrupt, and partly
      wooded. In order to avoid this stretch, which was not passable for
      carriages, the road leading into the principal part of the valley turned
      to the right, and reached by an easier ascent a more level plateau. There
      was only one narrow path by the river, which was shaded by branches of
      beeches and willows that hung over this bank into the river. After walking
      a short distance through this shady path, one found himself before a huge
      triangular rock covered with moss, which nature had rolled from the top of
      the mountain as if to close up the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      This obstacle was not insurmountable; but in order to cross it, one must
      have a sure foot and steady head, for the least false step would
      precipitate the unlucky one into the river, which was rapid as well as
      deep. From the rock, one could reach the top of the cliff by means of some
      natural stone steps, and then, descending on the other side, could resume
      the path by the river, which had been momentarily interrupted. In this
      case, one would reach, in about sixty steps, a place where the river grew
      broader and the banks projected, forming here and there little islands of
      sand covered with bushes. Here was a ford well known to shepherds and to
      all persons who wished to avoid going as far as the castle bridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Near the mossy rock of which we have spoken as being close to the sycamore
      walk, at the foot of a wall against which it flowed, forming a rather deep
      excavation, the current had found a vein of soft, brittle stone which, by
      its incessant force, it had ended in wearing away. It was a natural grotto
      formed by water, but which earth, in its turn, had undertaken to
      embellish. An enormous willow had taken root in a few inches of soil in a
      fissure of the rock, and its drooping branches fell into the stream, which
      drifted them along without being able to detach them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim was seated at the front of this grotto, upon a seat
      formed by the base of the rock. She was tracing in the sand, with a stick
      which she had picked up on the way, strange figures which she carefully
      erased with her foot. Doubtless these hieroglyphics had some meaning to
      her, and perhaps she feared lest the slightest marks might be carelessly
      forgotten, as they would betray the secret they concealed. Clemence was
      plunged into one of those ecstatic reveries which abolish time and
      distance. The fibres of her heart, whose exquisite vibrating had been so
      suddenly paralyzed by Christian&rsquo;s arrival, had resumed their passionate
      thrills. She lived over again in her mind the tete-a-tete in the
      drawing-room; she could hear the entrancing waltz again; she felt her
      lover&rsquo;s breath in her hair; her hand trembled again under the pressure of
      his kiss. When she awoke from this dream it was a reality; for Octave was
      seated by her side without her having seen him arrive, and he had taken up
      the scene at the piano just where it had been interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was not afraid. Her mind had reached that state of exaltation which
      renders imperceptible the transition from dreaming to reality. It seemed
      to her that Octave had always been there, that it was his place, and for a
      moment she no longer thought, but remained motionless in the arms which
      embraced her. But soon her reason came back to her. She arose trembling,
      and drew away a few steps, standing before her lover with lowered head and
      face suffused with blushes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you afraid of me? Do you not think me worthy of your love?&rdquo; he
      asked, in an altered voice, and, without trying to retain or approach her,
      he fell upon his knees with a movement of sweet, sad grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had analyzed Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s character well enough to perceive
      the least variation in her capricious nature. By the young woman&rsquo;s
      frightened attitude, her burning cheeks and the flashes which he saw from
      her eyes through her long, drooping lashes, he saw that a reaction had
      taken place, and he feared the next outburst; for he knew that women, when
      overcome with remorse, always smite their lover by way of expiation for
      themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I let this recovered virtue have the mastery, I am a lost man for a
      fortnight at least,&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      He quickly abandoned the dangerous ground upon which he had taken
      position, and passed, by an adroit transition, from the most passionate
      frenzy to the most submissive bearing. When Clemence raised her large
      eyes, in which was a threatening gleam, she saw, instead of an audacious
      man to be punished, an imploring slave.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something so flattering in this attitude of humility that she
      was completely disarmed. She approached Octave, and took him by the hand
      to raise him, seated herself again and allowed him to resume his position
      beside her. She softly pressed his hand, of which she had not let go, and,
      looking her lover in the eyes, said in that deep, penetrating voice that
      women sometimes have:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Friend!&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;yes, certainly. I will raise no dispute as to the
      word, provided the fact is recognized. What matters the color of the flag?
      Only fools trouble themselves about that. &lsquo;Friend&rsquo; is not the throne I
      aspire to, but it is the road that leads to it. So then, let it be
      &lsquo;friend,&rsquo; while waiting for better. This word is very pleasant to hear
      when spoken in these siren&rsquo;s accents, and when at the same time the eyes
      say &lsquo;lover!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you always love me thus?&rdquo; Octave asked, whose face beamed with
      virtuous pledges.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Always!&rdquo; sighed Clemence, without lowering eyes under the burning glance
      which met hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be the soul of my soul; the angel of my heaven?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your sister,&rdquo; she said, with a sweet smile, as she caressed her lover&rsquo;s
      cheek with her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      He felt the blood mount to his face at this caress, and turned his eyes
      away with a dreamy air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I probably am one of the greatest fools that has ever existed since the
      days of Joseph and Hippolytus,&rdquo; thought he.
    </p>
    <p>
      He remained silent and apparently indifferent for several moments.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of what are you thinking?&rdquo; asked Madame de Bergenheim, surprised by
      Octave&rsquo;s silence and rather listless air.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave a start of surprise at this question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I die if I tell her!&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;she must think me ridiculous
      enough as it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, I wish you to speak out,&rdquo; she continued, in that despotic tone
      which a woman assumes when sure of her empire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of replying, as she demanded, he gave her a long, questioning
      glance, and it would have been impossible at that moment for her to keep a
      single secret from her lover. Madame de Bergenheim felt the magnetic
      influence of his penetrating glance so deeply that it seemed to her these
      sharp eyes were fathoming her very heart. She felt intensely disturbed to
      be gazed at in that way, and, in order to free herself from this mute
      questioning, she leaned her head upon Octave&rsquo;s shoulder, as she said
      softly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not look at me like that or I shall not love your eyes any more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her straw hat, whose ribbons were not tied, slipped and fell, dragging
      with it the comb which confined her beautiful hair, and it fell in
      disorder over her shoulders. Gerfaut passed his hand behind the charming
      head which rested upon his breast, in order to carry this silky, perfumed
      fleece to his lips. At the same time, he gently pressed the supple form
      which, as it bent toward him, seemed to ask for this caress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence made a sudden effort and arose, fastening her hair at the back of
      her head with an almost shamed haste.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you refuse me one lock of your hair as a souvenir of this hour?&rdquo;
       said Octave, stopping her gently as she was about to replace her comb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you need any souvenir?&rdquo; she replied, giving him a glance which was
      neither a reproach nor a refusal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The souvenir is in my heart, the hair will never leave my bosom! We live
      in an unworthy age. I can not boast of wearing your colors in everybody&rsquo;s
      eyes, and yet I should like to wear a sign of my bondage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She let her hair fall down her back again, but seemed embarrassed as to
      how to execute his wish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can not cut my hair with my teeth,&rdquo; she said, with a smile which
      betrayed a double row of pearls.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave took a stiletto from his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you always carry this stiletto?&rdquo; asked the young woman, in a
      changed voice; &ldquo;it frightens me to see you armed thus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fear nothing,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, who did not reply to her question, &ldquo;I will
      respect the hair which serves you as a crown. I know where I must cut it,
      and, if my ambition is great, my hand shall be discreet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim had no confidence in his moderation, and, fearing to
      leave her beautiful hair to her lover&rsquo;s mercy, she took the stiletto and
      cut off a little lock which she drew through her fingers and then offered
      to him, with a loving gesture that doubled the value of the gift. At this
      moment, hunting-horns resounded in the distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must leave you now!&rdquo; exclaimed Clemence, &ldquo;I must. My dear love, let me
      go now; say good-by to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She leaned toward him and presented her forehead to receive this adieu. It
      was her lips which met Octave&rsquo;s, but this kiss was rapid and fleeting as a
      flash of light. Withdrawing from the arms which would yet retain her, she
      darted out of the grotto, and in a moment had disappeared in one of the
      shady paths.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some time, plunged in deep reflection, Gerfaut stood on the same spot;
      but at last arousing himself from this dreamy languor, he climbed the rock
      so as to reach the top of the cliff. After taking a few steps he stopped
      with a frightened look, as if he had espied some venomous reptile in his
      path. He could see, through the bushes which bordered the crest of the
      plateau at the top of the ladder cut in the rock, Bergenheim, motionless,
      and in the attitude of a man who is trying to conceal himself in order
      that he may watch somebody. The Baron&rsquo;s eyes not being turned in Gerfaut&rsquo;s
      direction, he could not tell whether he was the object of this espionage,
      or whether the lay of the land allowed him to see Madame de Bergenheim,
      who must be under the sycamores by this time. Uncertain as to what he
      should do, he remained motionless, half crouched down upon the rock,
      behind the ledge of which, thanks to his position, he could hide from the
      Baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX. THE REVELATION
    </h2>
    <p>
      A few moments before the castle clock struck four, a man leaped across the
      ditch which served as enclosure to the park. Lambernier, for it was he who
      showed himself so prompt at keeping his promise, directed his steps
      through the thickets toward the corner of the Corne woods which he had
      designated to Marillac; but, after walking for some time, he was forced to
      slacken his steps. The hunting-party were coming in his direction, and
      Lambernier knew that to continue in the path he had first chosen would
      take him directly among the hunters; and, in spite of his insolence, he
      feared the Baron too much to wish to expose himself to the danger of
      another chastisement. He therefore retraced his steps and took a
      roundabout way through the thickets, whose paths were all familiar to him;
      he descended to the banks of the river ready to ascend to the place
      appointed for the rendezvous as soon as the hunting party had passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had hardly reached the plateau covered with trees, which extended above
      the rocks, when, as he entered a clearing which had been recently made, he
      saw two men coming toward him who were walking very fast, and whom to meet
      in this place caused him a very disagreeable sensation. The first man was
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil&rsquo;s coachman, as large a fellow as ever crushed
      the seats of landau or brougham with his rotundity. He was advancing with
      hands in the pockets of his green jacket and his broad shoulders thrown
      back, as if he had taken it upon himself to replace Atlas. His cap, placed
      in military fashion upon his head, his scowling brows, and his bombastic
      air, announced that he was upon the point of accomplishing some important
      deed which greatly interested him. Leonard Rousselet, walking by his side,
      moved his spider legs with equal activity, carefully holding up the skirts
      of his long coat as if they were petticoats.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lambernier, at sight of them, turned to enter the woods again, but he was
      stopped in his retreat by a threatening shout.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop, you vagabond!&rdquo; exclaimed the coachman; &ldquo;halt! If you take a trot, I
      shall take a gallop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want? I have no business with you,&rdquo; replied the workman, in a
      surly tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have business with you,&rdquo; replied the big domestic, placing himself
      in front of him and balancing himself first on his toes then on his heels,
      with a motion like the wooden rocking-horses children play with. &ldquo;Come
      here, Rousselet; are you wheezy or foundered?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not as good legs as your horses,&rdquo; replied the old man, who reached
      them at last, breathless, and took off his hat to wipe his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does this mean, jumping out upon one from a corner in the woods like
      two assassins?&rdquo; asked Lambernier, foreseeing that this beginning might
      lead to some scene in which he was threatened to be forced to play a not
      very agreeable role.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It means,&rdquo; said the coachman: &ldquo;first, that Rousselet has nothing to do
      with it; I do not need anybody&rsquo;s help to punish an insignificant fellow
      like you; second, that you are going to receive your quietus in a trice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words he pushed his cap down over his ears and rolled up his
      sleeves, in order to give freer action to his large, broad hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      The three men were standing upon a plot of ground where charcoal had been
      burned the year before. The ground was black and slippery, but being
      rather level, it was a very favorable place for a duel with fists or any
      other weapons. When Lambernier saw the lackey&rsquo;s warlike preparations, he
      placed his cap and coat upon an old stump and stationed himself in front
      of his adversary. But, before the hostilities had begun, Rousselet
      advanced, stretching his long arms out between them, and said, in a voice
      whose solemnity seemed to be increased by the gravity of the occasion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not suppose that you both wish to kill each other; only uneducated
      people conduct themselves in this vulgar manner; you ought to have a
      friendly explanation, and see if the matter is not susceptible of
      arrangement. That was the way such things were done when I was in the
      twenty-fifth demi-brigade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The explanation is,&rdquo; said the coachman, in his gruff voice, &ldquo;that here is
      a low fellow who takes every opportunity to undervalue me and my horses,
      and I have sworn to give him a good drubbing the first time I could lay my
      hands upon him. So, Pere Rousselet, step aside. He will see if I am a
      pickle; he will find out that the pickle is peppery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you made use of such a vulgar expression as that,&rdquo; observed Rousselet,
      turning to Lambernier, &ldquo;you were at fault, and should beg his pardon as is
      the custom among educated people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is false!&rdquo; exclaimed Lambernier; &ldquo;and besides, everybody calls the
      Corandeuils that, on account of the color of their livery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you not say Sunday, at the &lsquo;Femme-sans-Tete&rsquo;, and in the presence of
      Thiedot, that all the servants of the chateau were idlers and
      good-for-nothings, and that if you met one of them who tried to annoy you,
      you would level him with your plane?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you used the word &lsquo;level,&rsquo; it was very uncivil,&rdquo; observed Rousselet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thiedot had better keep in his own house,&rdquo; growled the carpenter,
      clenching his fists.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It looks well for a tramp like you to insult gentlemen like us,&rdquo;
       continued the lackey, in an imposing tone. &ldquo;And did you not say that when
      I took Mademoiselle to mass I looked like a green toad upon the box,...
      thus trying to dishonor my physique and my clothes? Did you not say that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only a joke about the color of your livery. They call the others measles
      and lobsters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lobsters are lobsters,&rdquo; replied the coachman, in an imperative tone; &ldquo;if
      that vexes them, they can take care of themselves. But I will not allow
      any one to attack my honor or that of my beasts by calling them screws&mdash;and
      that is what you did, you vagabond! And did you not say that I sent bags
      of oats to Remiremont to be sold, and that, for a month, my team had
      steadily been getting thin? Did you ever hear anything so scandalous, Pere
      Rousselet? to dare to say that I endanger the lives of my horses? Did you
      not say that, you rascal? And did you not say that Mademoiselle Marianne
      and I had little private feasts in her room, and that was why I could not
      eat more at the table? Here is Rousselet, who has been a doctor and knows
      that I am on a diet on account of my weak stomach.&rdquo; At these words, the
      servant, carried away by his anger, gave his stomach a blow with his fist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lambernier,&rdquo; said Rousselet, turning up his lips with a look of contempt,
      &ldquo;I must admit that, for a man well brought up, you have made most
      disgusting remarks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To say that I eat the horses&rsquo; oats!&rdquo; roared the coachman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ought to have said that you drank them,&rdquo; replied Lambernier, with his
      usual sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rousselet, out of the way!&rdquo; exclaimed the burly lackey at this new
      insult; the old peasant not moving as quickly as he desired, he seized him
      by the arm and sent him whirling ten steps away.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, a new person completed the scene, joining in it, if not as
      actor at least as interested spectator. If the two champions had suspected
      his presence they would have probably postponed their fight until a more
      opportune moment, for this spectator was no other than the Baron himself.
      As he saw from a distance the trio gesticulating in a very animated
      manner, he judged that a disorderly scene was in preparation, and as he
      had wished for a long time to put an end to the quarrelsome ways of the
      chateau servants, he was not sorry to catch them in the very act, so as to
      make an example of them. At first, he stooped and concealed himself in the
      thickets, ready to appear for the denouement.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Lambernier saw the giant&rsquo;s fist coming down upon him, he darted to one
      side and the blow only struck the air, making the coachman stumble from
      the force of his impetuosity. Lambernier profited by this position to
      gather all his strength, and threw himself upon his adversary, whom he
      seized by the flank and gave such a severe blow as to bring him down upon
      his knees. He then gave him a dozen more blows upon the head, and
      succeeded in overthrowing him completely.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the coachman had not had a cranium as hard as iron, he probably could
      not have received such a storm of fisticuffs without giving up the ghost.
      Fortunately for him, he had one of those excellent Breton heads that break
      the sticks which beat them. Save for a certain giddiness, he came out of
      the scramble safe and sound. Far from losing his presence of mind by the
      disadvantageous position in which he found himself, he supported himself
      upon the ground with his left hand, and, passing his other arm behind him,
      he wound it around the workman&rsquo;s legs, who thus found himself reaped down,
      so to speak, and a moment later was lying on his back in front of his
      adversary. The latter, holding him fast with his strong hands, placed a
      knee, as large as a plate, upon his chest and then pulled off the cap that
      his enemy had pushed down over his eyes, and proceeded to administer full
      justice to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you thought you&rsquo;d attack me treacherously, did you?&rdquo; said he, with a
      derisive chuckle as if to slacken the speed of his horses. &ldquo;You know short
      reckonings make good friends. Oh! what a fine thrashing you are going to
      receive, my friend! Take care! if you try to bite my hand, I&rsquo;ll choke you
      with my two fingers, do you hear! Now, then, take this for the green toad;
      this, for my horses&rsquo; sake; this, for Mademoiselle Marianne!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He followed each &ldquo;this&rdquo; with a heavy blow from his fist. At the third blow
      the blood poured out of the mouth of the carpenter, who writhed under the
      pressure of his adversary&rsquo;s knee like a buffalo stifled by a
      boa-constrictor; he succeeded at last in freeing one hand, which he thrust
      into his trousers&rsquo; pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you rascal! I am killed!&rdquo; howled the coachman, giving a bound
      backward. Lambernier, profiting by his freedom, jumped upon his feet, and,
      without troubling himself as to his adversary, who had fallen on his knees
      and was pressing his hand to his left thigh; he picked up his cap and vest
      and started off through the clearing. Rousselet, who until then had
      prudently kept aside, tried to stop the workman, at a cry from his
      companion, but the scoundrel brandished his iron compass before his eyes
      with such an ugly look that the peasant promptly left the way open for
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this tragic and unexpected denouement, Bergenheim, who was getting
      ready to make his appearance from behind the trees and to interpose his
      authority, started in full pursuit of the would-be murderer. From the
      direction he took, he judged that he would try to reach the river by
      passing over the rock. He walked in this direction, with his gun over his
      shoulder, until he reached the foot of the steps which descended into the
      grotto. Christian crouched behind some bushes to wait for Lambernier, who
      must pass this way, and it was at this moment that Gerfaut, who was forty
      feet below him, saw him without suspecting the reason for his attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim soon found out that he had calculated correctly when he heard a
      sound like that made by a wild boar when he rushes through the thickets
      and breaks the small branches in his path, as if they were no more than
      blades of grass. Soon Lambernier appeared with a haggard, wild look and a
      face bleeding from the blows he had received. He stopped for a moment to
      catch his breath and to wipe off his compass with a handful of grass; he
      then staunched the blood streaming from his nose and mouth, and after
      putting on his coat started rapidly in the direction of the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halt!&rdquo; exclaimed the Baron, suddenly, rising before him and barring his
      passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      The workman jumped back in terror; then he drew out his compass a second
      time and made a movement as if to throw himself upon this new adversary,
      out of sheer desperation. Christian, at this threatening pantomime, raised
      his gun to his cheek with as much coolness and precision as he would have
      shown at firing into a body of soldiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Down with your weapon!&rdquo; he exclaimed, in his commanding voice, &ldquo;or I will
      shoot you down like a rabbit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The carpenter uttered a hoarse cry as he saw the muzzle of the gun within
      an inch of his head, ready to blow his brains out. Feeling assured that
      there was no escape for him, he closed his compass and threw it with an
      angry gesture at the Baron&rsquo;s feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said the latter, &ldquo;you will walk straight ahead of me as far as the
      chateau, and if you turn one step to the right or left, I will send the
      contents of my gun into you. So right about march!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said these words, he stooped, without losing sight of the workman,
      and picked up the compass, which he put in his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Baron, it was the coachman who attacked me first; I had to
      defend myself,&rdquo; stammered Lambernier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, we will see about that later. March on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will deliver me up to the police&mdash;I am a ruined man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will make one rascal the less,&rdquo; exclaimed Christian, repelling with
      disgust the workman, who had thrown himself on his knees before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have three children, Monsieur, three children,&rdquo; he repeated, in a
      supplicating tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you march!&rdquo; replied Bergenheim imperiously, as he made a gesture
      with his gun as if to shoot him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lambernier arose suddenly, and the expression of terror upon his
      countenance gave place to one of resolution mingled with hatred and scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;let us go on! but remember what I tell you; if
      you have me arrested, you will be the first to repent of it, Baron though
      you are. If I appear before a judge, I will tell something that you would
      pay a good price for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim looked fixedly at Lambernier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by such insolence?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you what I mean, if you will promise to let me go; if you
      give me into the hands of the police, I repeat it, you will repent not
      having listened to me to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is some idle yarn, made to gain time; no matter, speak; I will
      listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The workman darted a defiant glance at Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me your word of honor to let me go afterward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I do not do so, are you not at liberty to repeat your story?&rdquo; replied
      the Baron, who, in spite of his curiosity, would not give his word to a
      scoundrel whose only aim probably was to escape justice.
    </p>
    <p>
      This observation impressed Lambernier, who, after a moment&rsquo;s reflection,
      assumed a strange attitude of cool assurance, considering the position in
      which he found himself. Not a sound was to be heard; even the barking of
      the dogs in the distance had ceased. The deepest silence surrounded them;
      even Gerfaut, in the place where he was concealed, could no longer see
      them, now that Bergenheim had left the edge of the cliff; from time to
      time their voices reached him, but he could not distinguish the meaning of
      their words.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leaning with one hand upon his gun, Christian waited for the carpenter to
      begin his story, gazing at him with his clear, piercing eyes. Lambernier
      bore this glance without flinching, returning it in his insolent way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, Monsieur, that when the alterations were made in Madame&rsquo;s
      apartment, I had charge of the carving for her chamber. When I took away
      the old woodwork, I saw that the wall between the windows was constructed
      out of square, and I asked Madame if she wished that the panel should be
      fastened like the other or if she preferred it to open so that it would
      make a closet. She said to have it open by means of a secret spring. So I
      made the panel with concealed hinges and a little button hidden in the
      lower part of the woodwork; it only needs to be pressed, after turning it
      to the right, and the woodwork will open like a door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian had now become extremely attentive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur will remember that he was in Nancy at the time, and that
      Madame&rsquo;s chamber was completed during his absence. As I was the only one
      who worked in this room, the other workmen not being capable of carving
      the wood as Madame wished, I was the only person who knew that the panel
      was not nailed down the length of the wall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; asked the Baron, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; Lambernier replied, in a careless tone, &ldquo;if, on account of the
      blow which I gave the coachman, it is necessary for me to appear in court,
      I shall be obliged to tell, in order to revenge myself, what I saw in that
      closet not more than a month ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Finish your story,&rdquo; exclaimed Bergenheim, as he clenched the handle of
      his gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Justine took me into this room in order to hang some
      curtains; as I needed some nails, she went out to get them. While I was
      examining the woodwork, which I had not seen since it had been put in
      place, I saw that the oak had warped in one place because it was not dry
      enough when it was used. I wished to see if the same thing had happened
      between the windows, and if the panel could open. I pressed the spring,
      and when the door opened I saw a small package of letters upon the little
      shelf; it seemed very singular to me that Madame should choose this place
      to keep her letters, and the thought came to me that she wished to conceal
      them from Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim gave the workman a withering glance, and made a sign for him to
      continue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were already talking about discharging me from the chateau&rsquo;s employ;
      I do not know how it happened, but the thought entered my head that
      perhaps one of these letters would be of use to me, and I took the first
      one in the package; I had only time to close the panel when Mademoiselle
      Justine returned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! what is there in common between these letters and the criminal
      court that awaits you?&rdquo; asked Christian, in an altered voice, although he
      tried to appear indifferent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! nothing at all,&rdquo; replied the carpenter, with an air of indifference;
      &ldquo;but I thought that you would not like people to know that Madame had a
      lover.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim shivered as if he were taken with a chill, and his gun dropped
      from his hand to the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      As quick as thought Lambernier stooped over to seize the gun, but he did
      not have time to carry out his intention, for he was seized by the throat
      and half choked by an iron hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That letter! that letter!&rdquo; said Christian to him, in a low, trembling
      voice, and he put his face down close to the carpenter&rsquo;s, as if he feared
      that a breath of wind might carry away his words and repeat them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me alone first, I can not breathe&mdash;&rdquo; stammered the workman,
      whose face, was becoming purple and his eyes starting out of his head, as
      if his adversary&rsquo;s fingers had been a rope.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter granted the prayer by loosening his hold of the carpenter&rsquo;s
      neck and seizing him by his vest in such a way as to take away all chance
      of escape while leaving him free to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This letter!&rdquo; he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Frightened by the shaking he had just received, and not in a condition to
      reflect with his usual prudence, Lambernier mechanically obeyed this
      order; he hunted in his pockets for some time, and at last took a
      carefully folded paper from his vest-pocket, saying with a stunned air:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here it is. It is worth ten louis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian seized the paper and opened it with his teeth, for he could not
      use his hands without releasing his prisoner. It was, like all notes of
      this kind, without address, seal, or signature. It did not differ from
      most of its kind save in the natural beauty of its style and its simple
      eloquence. Ardent protestations, sweet and loving complaints, those
      precious words that one bestows only upon the woman he loves and which
      betray a love that has yet much to desire but as much to hope. The
      handwriting was entirely unknown to Bergenheim, but Clemence&rsquo;s name, which
      was repeated several times, did not permit him to doubt for a moment that
      this note was written to his wife. When he had finished reading, he put it
      in his pocket with apparent serenity, and then looked at Lambernier, who,
      during this time, had remained motionless under the hand that detained
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are mistaken, Lambernier,&rdquo; said he to him; &ldquo;it is one of my letters
      before my marriage.&rdquo; And he tried to force himself to smile; but the
      muscles of his lips refused to act this falsehood, and drops of cold
      perspiration stood upon his forehead and at the roots of his hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The carpenter had watched the change in the Baron&rsquo;s countenance as he read
      the letter. He was persuaded that he could turn the capital importance of
      his revelations into profit for himself; he believed that the time had
      come when he might gain advantage by showing that he understood perfectly
      well the value of the secret he had just imparted. So he replied with a
      glance of intelligence:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur&rsquo;s handwriting must have changed greatly, then; I have some of
      his orders which do not resemble this any more than a glass of water does
      a glass of wine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian tried to find a response but failed. His eyebrows contracted in
      a manner that betokened a coming storm, but Lambernier was not disturbed
      by this symptom; he continued in a more and more assured voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I said that this letter was worth ten louis, I meant that it was
      worth that much to a mere stranger, and I am very sure I should not have
      to go very far to find one; but Monsieur le Baron is too sensible not to
      know the value of this secret. I do not wish to set a price upon it, but
      since I am obliged to go away on account of this coachman, and have no
      money&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not have time to finish; Bergenheim seized him in the middle of the
      body and made him describe a horizontal half-circle without touching the
      ground, then threw him upon his knees on the edge of the path which
      descended almost perpendicularly alongside the rocks. Lambernier suddenly
      saw his haggard face reflected in the river fifty feet below. At this
      sight, and feeling a powerful knee between his shoulders which bent him
      over the abyss, as if to make him appreciate its dangers, the workman
      uttered a terrified cry; his hands clutched wildly at the tufts of grass
      and roots of plants which grew here and there on the sides of the rocks,
      and he struggled with all his might to throw himself back upon the ground.
      But it was in vain for him to struggle against the superior strength of
      his adversary, and his attempts only aggravated the danger of his
      position. After two or three powerless attempts, he found himself lying
      upon his stomach with half his body hanging over the precipice, having
      nothing to prevent him from falling over but Bergenheim&rsquo;s hand, which held
      him by the collar and at the same time hindered him from rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you ever said one word about this?&rdquo; asked the Baron, as he took hold
      of the trunk of a tree to steady himself upon this dangerous ground that
      he had chosen as the field of discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To nobody!&mdash;ah!&mdash;how my head swims!&rdquo; replied the carpenter,
      closing his eyes in terror, for the blood rushing to his brain made him
      dizzy, and it seemed to him that the river was slowly reaching him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see that if I make one gesture, you are a dead man,&rdquo; replied the
      Baron, leaning upon him harder yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me up to the police; I will say nothing about the letters; as sure
      as there is a God, I will say nothing. But do not let me fall&mdash;hold
      me tight&mdash;do not let go of me&mdash;I am slipping&mdash;oh! holy
      mother of God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian taking hold of the tree near him, leaned over and raised
      Lambernier up, for he really was incapable of doing so himself; fright and
      the sight of the water had given him vertigo. When he was upon his legs
      again, he reeled like a drunken man and his feet nearly gave way beneath
      him. The Baron looked at him a moment in silence, but at last he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go away, leave the country at once; you have time to fly before there
      will be any pursuit. But remember that if I ever hear one word of what has
      passed between us from your lips, I shall know how to find you and you
      will die by my hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear by the Holy Virgin and by all the saints&mdash;&rdquo; stammered
      Lambernier, who had suddenly become a very fervent Catholic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian pointed with his finger to the stone steps beneath them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is your road; pass over the rock, through the woods, and reach
      Alsace. If you conduct yourself well, I will assure your living. But
      remember; one single indiscreet word, and you are a dead man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words he pushed him into the path with one of those quick
      movements which very powerful men can not always calculate the effect of.
      Lambernier, whose strength was almost exhausted by the struggles he had
      undergone, had not vigor enough left to stand, and he lost his balance at
      this violent as well as unexpected push. He stumbled over the first step,
      reeled as he tried to regain his footing, and fell head first down the
      almost vertical declivity. A ledge of the cliff, against which he first
      struck, threw him upon the loose rocks. He slowly glided downward,
      uttering lamentable cries; he clutched, for a moment, a little bush which
      had grown in a crevice of the rocks but he did not have strength enough to
      hold on to it, his arm having been broken in three places by his fall. He
      let go of it suddenly, and dropped farther and farther down uttering a
      last terrible shriek of despair; he rolled over twice again-and then fell
      into the torrent below, that swallowed him up like a mass already deprived
      of life.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      BOOK 4.
    </h2>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX. MARILLAC TELLS A STORY
    </h2>
    <p>
      Guests were seated that evening around the oval table in the dining-room
      of the castle of Bergenheim. According to custom, the ladies were not
      present at this repast. This was a custom which had been adopted by the
      Baroness for the suppers which were given by her husband at the close of
      his hunting parties; she dispensed with appearing at table on those days;
      perhaps she was too fastidious to preside at these lengthy seances of
      which the ruses of the hare, the death of the stag, and the feats of the
      hounds, formed the principal topics of conversation. It is probable that
      this conduct was duly appreciated by those who participated in those
      rather boisterous repasts, and that they felt a certain gratitude, in
      spite of the regrets they manifested on account of Madame&rsquo;s absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the guests was Marillac, whose sparkling eye, and cheeks even more
      rosy than usual, made him conspicuous. Seated between a fat notary and
      another boon companion, who were almost as drunk as he Marillac emptied
      glass after glass, red wine after the white, the white after the red, with
      noisy laughter, and jests of all kinds by way of accompaniment. His head
      became every moment more and more excited by the libations destined to
      refresh his throat, and his neighbors, without his perceiving the
      conspiracy, thought it would be good fun to put a Parisian dandy under the
      table. However, he was not the only one who was gliding over the slippery
      precipice that leads to the attractive abyss of drunkenness. The majority
      of the guests shared his imprudent abandon and progressive exaltation. A
      bacchic emulation reigned, which threatened to end in scenes bordering
      upon a debauch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among these highly colored cheeks, under which the wine seemed to
      circulate with the blood, these eyes shining with a dull, fictitious
      light, all this disorderly pantomime so contrary to the quiet habit of the
      gesticulators, two faces contrasted strangely with the careless mirth of
      the others. The Baron fulfilled his duties as master of the house with a
      sort of nervous excitement which might pass for genuine merriment in the
      eyes of those of his guests who were in no condition to study his
      countenance; but a quiet observer would soon have discerned that these
      violent efforts at good-humor and bantering concealed some terrible
      suffering. From time to time, in the midst of a sentence or a laugh, he
      would suddenly stop, the muscles of his face would twitch as if the spring
      which set them in motion had broken; his expression became sombre and
      savage; he sank back in his chair motionless, a stranger to all that
      surrounded him, and gave himself up to some mysterious thought against
      which resistance seemed powerless. Suddenly he appeared to wake from some
      perplexing dream, and by another powerful effort aroused himself and
      joined in the conversation with sharp, cutting speeches; he encouraged the
      noisy humor of his guests, inciting them to drunkenness by setting the
      example himself; then the same mysterious thought would cross his face
      anew, and he would fall back into the tortures of a revery which must have
      been horrible, to judge by the expression of his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among his guests, one only, who was seated almost opposite Bergenheim,
      seemed to be in the secret of his thoughts and to study the symptoms with
      deep attention. Gerfaut, for it was he, showed an interest in this
      examination which reacted on his own countenance, for he was paler than
      ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I saw that the hare was reaching the upper road,&rdquo; said one of the
      guests, a handsome old man about sixty years of age, with gray hair and
      rosy cheeks, &ldquo;I ran toward the new clearing to wait for its return. I felt
      perfectly sure, notary, that he would pass through your hands safe and
      sound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, notary,&rdquo; said Marillac, from the other end of the table, &ldquo;defend
      yourself; one, two, three, ready!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Camier,&rdquo; replied the hunter whose skill had been questioned,
      &ldquo;I do not pretend to have your skill. I never have shot as large game as
      you did at your last hunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This reply was an allusion to a little misadventure which had happened to
      the first speaker, who, on account of nearsightedness, had shot a cow,
      taking it for a buck. The laugh, which had been at the notary&rsquo;s expense
      first, now turned against his adversary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many pairs of boots did you get out of your game?&rdquo; asked one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, let us return to our conversation,&rdquo; said a young man, whose
      precise face aspired to an austere and imposing air. &ldquo;Up to this time, we
      can form only very vague conjectures as to the road that Lambernier took
      to escape. This, allow me to say, is more important than the notary&rsquo;s hare
      or Monsieur de Carrier&rsquo;s cow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words, Bergenheim, who had taken no part in the conversation,
      straightened up in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A glass of Sauterne,&rdquo; said he, suddenly, to one of his neighbors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut looked at him stealthily for a moment, and then lowered his eyes,
      as if he feared his glance might be noticed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The public prosecutor scents a culprit, and there is no fear he will drop
      the trail,&rdquo; said the notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The case will doubtless come up at the next session of the Assizes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Carrier put his glass, which was half filled, upon the table,
      angrily exclaiming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil take the jury! I am called to the next session, and I will
      wager my head that I shall be drawn. How agreeable that will be! To leave
      my home and business in the middle of winter and spend a fortnight with a
      lot of fellows whom I do not know from Adam! That is one of the agreeable
      things supplied by constitutional government. The French have to be judged
      by their peers! Of what use is it to pay for judges if we, land-owners,
      are obliged to do their work. The old parliaments, against which so much
      has been said, were a thousand times better than all this bedlam let loose
      in a court of assizes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac, who during this speech was amusing himself with singing his low
      &ldquo;G&rdquo; while peeling an apple, interrupted his song, to the great relief of a
      hound who lay at his feet, and whose nerves seemed to be singularly
      affected by the strain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Carrier,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you are a large landowner, an eligible
      citizen and a Carlist; you fast on Fridays, go to mass in your parish, and
      occasionally kill cows for bucks; I esteem and respect you; but allow me
      to say that you have just uttered an old, antediluvian platitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said the public prosecutor, punctuating each word with his
      first finger, &ldquo;I have the greatest respect for the old parliaments, those
      worthy models of our modern magistracy, those incorruptible defenders of
      national freedom, but my veneration is none the less great for the
      institutions emanating from our wise constitution, and it prevents me from
      adopting an exclusive opinion. However, without pretending to proclaim in
      too absolute a manner the superiority of the old system over the new, I am
      in a certain sense of Monsieur de Carrier&rsquo;s opinion. In my position, I am
      better able than any other person to study the advantages and
      disadvantages of a jury, and I am forced to admit that if the advantages
      are real, the disadvantages are none the less indisputable. One of the
      great vices of juries consists in the habit that a great number of its
      members have of calling for material proofs in order to form their
      opinions. They must almost see the wounds of the victim before agreeing on
      a verdict. As to Lambernier, I hope that they will not contest the
      existence of the main evidence: the victim&rsquo;s still bleeding thigh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tra-de-ri-di-ra,&rdquo; exclaimed the artist, striking alternately with his
      knife a glass and a bottle, as if he were playing a triangle. &ldquo;I must say
      that you choose madly gay subjects for conversation. We are truly a joyous
      crowd; look at Bergenheim opposite us; he looks like Macbeth in the
      presence of Banquo&rsquo;s ghost; here is my friend Gerfaut drinking water with
      a profoundly solemn air. Good gracious, gentlemen! enough of this foolish
      talk! Let them cut this Lambernier&rsquo;s throat and put an end to the subject!
      The theatre for dramatic music, the church for sacred!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Le vin, le jeu; les belles,
          Voila mes seuls amours.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      A general protestation rose from the whole table at this verse, which was
      roared out in a lugubrious voice. Noisy shouts, rapping of knives upon
      tumblers and bottles, and exclamations of all kinds called the orator to
      order.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Marillac,&rdquo; exclaimed the public prosecutor, in a joking tone,
      &ldquo;it seems to me that you have wandered from the subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The artist looked at him with an astonished air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had I anything in particular to say to you?&rdquo; he asked; &ldquo;if so, I will
      sustain my point. Only do me the kindness to tell me what it was about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was on the subject of this man Lambernier,&rdquo; whispered the notary to
      him, as he poured out a glass of wine. &ldquo;Courage! you improvise better than
      Berryer! If you exert yourself, the public prosecutor will be beaten in no
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac thanked his neighbor with a smile and a nod of the head, which
      signified: &ldquo;Trust me.&rdquo; He then emptied his glass with the recklessness
      that had characterized his drinking for some time, but, strangely enough,
      the libation, instead of putting the finishing stroke to his drunkenness,
      gave his mind, for the time being, a sort of lucidity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The accusation,&rdquo; he continued, with the coolness of an old lawyer, &ldquo;rests
      upon two grounds: first, the presence without cause of the accused upon
      the spot where the crime was committed; second, the nature of the weapon
      used.&mdash;Two simple but peremptory replies will make the scaffold which
      has been erected upon this double supposition fall to the ground. First,
      Lambernier had a rendezvous at this place, and at the exact hour when this
      crime with which he is accused took place; this will be proved by a
      witness, and will be established by evidence in a most indisputable
      manner. His presence will thus be explained without its being interpreted
      in any way against him. Second, the public prosecutor has admitted that
      the carrying of a weapon which Lambernier may have been in the habit of
      using in his regular trade could not be used as an argument against him,
      and for that same reason could not be used as an argument in favor of
      premeditation; now, this is precisely the case in question. This weapon
      was neither a sword, bayonet, nor stiletto, nothing that the fertile
      imagination of the public prosecutor could imagine; it was a simple tool
      used by the accused in his profession, the presence of which in his pocket
      is as easily understood as that of a snuff-box in the pocket of my
      neighbor, the notary, who takes twenty pinches of snuff a minute.
      Gentlemen, this weapon was a pair of carpenter&rsquo;s compasses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A compass!&rdquo; exclaimed several voices at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A compass!&rdquo; exclaimed the Baron, gazing fixedly at the artist. Then he
      carried his hand to his pocket, and suddenly withdrew it, as he felt the
      workman&rsquo;s compass there, where it had been ever since the scene upon the
      rocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An iron compass,&rdquo; repeated the artist, &ldquo;about ten inches long, more or
      less, the legs of it being closed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you explain yourself, Monsieur?&rdquo; excitedly exclaimed the public
      prosecutor, &ldquo;for it really seems as if you had witnessed the crime. In
      that case you will be called out as a witness for the defence. Justice is
      impartial, gentlemen. Justice has not two pairs of scales.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the devil with justice! You must have come from Timbuctoo to use such
      old-fashioned metaphors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make your deposition, witness; I require you to make your deposition,&rdquo;
       said the magistrate, whose increasing drunkenness appeared as dignified
      and solemn as the artist was noisy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have nothing to state; I saw nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the Baron drew a long breath, as if these words were a relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I saw something!&rdquo; said Gerfaut to himself, as he gazed at the Baron&rsquo;s
      face, upon which anxiety was depicted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reason by hypothesis and supposition,&rdquo; continued the artist. &ldquo;I had a
      little altercation with Lambernier a few days ago, and, but for my good
      poniard, he would have put an end to me as he did to this fellow to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then related his meeting with Lambernier, but the consideration due
      Mademoiselle Gobillot&rsquo;s honor imposed numberless circumlocutions and
      concealments which ended by making his story rather unintelligible to his
      auditors, and in the midst of it his head became so muddled that he was
      completely put out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Basta!&rdquo; he exclaimed, in conclusion, as he dropped heavily into his
      chair. &ldquo;Not another word for the &lsquo;whole empire. Give me something to
      drink! Notary, you are the only man here who has any regard for me. One
      thing is certain about this matter&mdash;I am in ten louis by this
      rascal&rsquo;s adventure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These words struck the Baron forcibly, as they brought to his mind what
      the carpenter had said to him when he gave him the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten louis!&rdquo; said he, suddenly, looking at Marillac as if he wished to
      look into his very heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two hundred francs, if you like it better. A genuine bargain. But we have
      talked enough, &lsquo;mio caro&rsquo;; you deceive yourselves if you think you are
      going to make me blab. No, indeed! I am not the one to allow myself to
      become entangled. I am now as mute and silent as the grave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim insisted no longer, but, leaning against the back of his chair,
      he let his head fall upon his breast. He remained for some time buried in
      thought and vainly trying to connect the obscure words he had just heard
      with Lambernier&rsquo;s incomplete revelations. With the exception of Gerfaut,
      who did not lose one of his host&rsquo;s movements, the guests, more or less
      absorbed by their own sensations, paid no attention to the strange
      attitude of the master of the house, or, like Monsieur de Camier,
      attributed it to the influence of wine. The conversation continued its
      noisy course, interrupted every few moments by the startling vagaries of
      some guest more animatedly excited than the rest, for, at the end of a
      repast where sobriety has not reigned, each one is disposed to impose upon
      others the despotism of his own intoxication, and the idle talk of his
      peculiar hallucinations. Marillac bore away the prize among the talking
      contingent, thanks to the vigor of his lungs and the originality of his
      words, which sometimes forced the attention of his adversaries. Finally he
      remained master of the field, and flashed volleys of his drunken eloquence
      to the right and left.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a pity,&rdquo; he exclaimed, in the midst of his triumph, as he glanced
      disdainfully up and down the table, &ldquo;it really is a pity, gentlemen, to
      listen to your conversation. One could imagine nothing more
      commonplace-prosaic or bourgeois. Would it not please you to indulge in a
      discussion of a little higher order?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us join hands, and talk of poetry and art. I am thirsting for an
      artistic conversation; I am thirsting for wit and intelligence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must drink if you are thirsty,&rdquo; said the notary, filling his glass to
      the brim.
    </p>
    <p>
      The artist emptied it at one draught, and continued in a languishing voice
      as he gazed with a loving look at his fat neighbor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will begin our artistic conversation: &lsquo;Knowest thou the land where the
      orange-flower blooms?&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is warmer than ours,&rdquo; replied the notary, who was not familiar with
      Mignon&rsquo;s song; and, beginning to laugh maliciously, he gave a wink at his
      neighbors as if to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have settled him now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac leaned toward him with the meekness of a lamb that presents his
      head to the butcher, and sympathetically pressed his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O poet!&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;do you not feel, as I do at the twilight hour and
      in the eventide, a vague desire for a sunny, perfumed, southern life? Will
      you not bid adieu to this sterile country and sail away to a land where
      the blue sky is reflected in the blue sea? Venice! the Rialto, the Bridge
      of Sighs, Saint Mark! Rome! the Coliseum and Saint Peter&mdash;But I know
      Italy by heart; let us go instead to Constantinople. I am thirsting for
      sultanas and houris; I am thirsting&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good gracious! why do you not drink if you are thirsty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gladly. I never say no to that. I scorn love in a nightcap; I adore
      danger. Danger is life to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dote on silken ladders as long as Jacob&rsquo;s, on citadels worth scaling;
      on moonlight evenings, bearded husbands, and all that sort of thing&mdash;I
      would love a bed composed of five hundred poniards; you understand me,
      poet&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg of you, do not make him drink any more,&rdquo; said Gerfaut to the
      notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right not to wish to drink any more, Octave, I was about to
      advise you not to. You have already drunk to excess to-day, and I am
      afraid that it will make you ill; your health is so weak&mdash;you are not
      a strong man like me. Fancy, gentlemen, Monsieur le Vicomte de Gerfaut, a
      native of Gascony, a roue by profession, a star of the first magnitude in
      literature, is afflicted by nature with a stomach which has nothing in
      common with that of an ostrich; he has need to use the greatest care. So
      we have him drink seltzer-water principally, and feed him on the white
      meat of the chicken. Besides, we keep this precious phenomenon rolled up
      between two wool blankets and over a kettle of boiling water. He is a
      great poet; I myself am a very great poet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I also, I hope,&rdquo; said the notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, formerly there were poets who wrote only in verse; nowadays
      they revel in prose. There are some even who are neither prose nor verse
      writers, who have never confided their secret to anybody, and who
      selfishly keep their poetry to themselves. It is a very simple thing to be
      a poet, provided you feel the indescribable intoxication of the soul, and
      understand the inexpressible afflatus that bubbles over in your large
      brain, and your noble heart throbs under your left breast&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is as drunk as a fool,&rdquo; said M. de Camier, loud enough for him to
      hear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old man,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you are the one who is drunk. Besides the word drunk
      is not civil; if you had said intoxicated I should not have objected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Loud shouts of laughter burst forth from the party. He threw a threatening
      glance around him, as if he were seeking some one upon whom to vent his
      anger, and, placing his hand upon his hip, assumed the pose of a bully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Softly, my good fellows!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if any of you pretend that I am
      drunk, I declare to him that he lies, and I call him a misanthrope, a
      vagabond, an academician!&rdquo; he concluded, with a loud burst of laughter;
      for he thought that the jesters would be crushed by this last heavy
      weapon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove! your friend is hilariously drunk,&rdquo; said the notary to Gerfaut;
      &ldquo;while here is Bergenheim, who has not taken very much wine, and yet looks
      as if he were assisting at a funeral. I thought he was more substantial
      than this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac&rsquo;s voice burst out more loudly than ever, and Octave&rsquo;s reply was
      not heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is simply astounding. They are all as drunk as fools, and yet they
      pretend that it is I who am drunk. Very well! I defy you all; who among
      you wishes to argue with me? Will you discuss art, literature, politics,
      medicine, music, philosophy, archeology, jurisprudence, magnetism&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jurisprudence!&rdquo; exclaimed the thick voice of the public prosecutor, who
      was aroused from his stupor by this magic word; &ldquo;let us talk
      jurisprudence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you like,&rdquo; said Marillac, without stopping at this interruption,
      &ldquo;that I should improvise a discourse upon the death penalty or upon
      temperance? Would you like me to tell you a story?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A story, yes, a story!&rdquo; they all exclaimed in unison.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak out, then; order what story you like; it will cost you nothing,&rdquo;
       replied the artist, rubbing his hands with a radiant air. &ldquo;Would you like
      a tale from the Middle Ages? a fairy, an eastern, a comical, or a private
      story? I warn you that the latter style is less old-fashioned than the
      others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us have it, then, by all means,&rdquo; said all the drunken voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. Now would you like it to be laid in Spain, Arabia, or France?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;France!&rdquo; exclaimed the prosecutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am French, you are French, he is French. You shall have a French
      story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac leaned his forehead upon his hands, and his elbows upon the
      table, as if to gather his scattered ideas. After a few moments&rsquo; 
      reflection, he raised his head and looked first at Gerfaut, then at
      Bergenheim, with a peculiar smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be very original,&rdquo; said he, in a low voice as if replying to his
      own thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The story!&rdquo; exclaimed one of the party, more impatient than the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here it is,&rdquo; replied the artist. &ldquo;You all know, gentlemen, how difficult
      it always is to choose a title. In order not to make you wait, I have
      chosen one which is already well known. My story is to be called &lsquo;The
      husband, the wife, and the lover.&rsquo; We are not all single men here, and a
      wise proverb says that one must never speak&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In spite of his muddled brain, the artist did not finish his quotation. A
      remnant of common-sense made him realize that he was treading upon
      dangerous ground and was upon the point of committing an unpardonable
      indiscretion. Fortunately, the Baron had paid no attention to his words;
      but Gerfaut was frightened at his friend&rsquo;s jabbering, and threw him a
      glance of the most threatening advice to be prudent. Marillac vaguely
      understood his mistake, and was half intimidated by this glance; he leaned
      before the notary and said to him, in a voice which he tried to make
      confidential, but which could be heard from one end of the table to the
      other:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be calm, Octave, I will tell it in obscure words and in such a way that
      he will not see anything in it. It is a scene for a drama that I have in
      my mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will make some grotesque blunder, if you go on drinking and talking,&rdquo;
       replied Gerfaut, in an anxious voice. &ldquo;Hold your tongue, or else come away
      from the table with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I tell you that I will use obscure words,&rdquo; replied the artist; &ldquo;what
      do you take me for? I swear to you that I will gloss it over in such a way
      that nobody will suspect anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The story! the story!&rdquo; exclaimed several, who were amused by the
      incoherent chattering of the artist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here it is,&rdquo; said the latter, sitting upright in his char, and paying no
      heed to his friend&rsquo;s warnings. &ldquo;The scene takes place in a little court in
      Germany&mdash;Eh!&rdquo; said he, looking at Gerfaut and maliciously winking his
      eye&mdash;&ldquo;do you not think that is glossed over?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in a German court, you said it was to be a French story,&rdquo; said the
      public prosecutor, disposed to play the critic toward the orator who had
      reduced him to silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it is a French story, but the scene is laid in Germany,&rdquo; he
      replied, coolly. &ldquo;Do you desire to teach me my profession? Understand that
      nothing is more elastic than a German court; the story-teller can
      introduce there whoever he likes; I may bring in the Shah of Persia and
      the Emperor of China if I care to. However, if you prefer the court of
      Italy, it is the same thing to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This conciliating proposal remained without response. Marillac continued
      raising his eyes in such a way that nothing but the whites could be seen,
      and as if he were searching for his words in the ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Princess Borinski was walking slowly in the mysterious alley on the
      borders of the foaming torrent&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Borinski! she is a Pole, then?&rdquo; interrupted M. de Camier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! go to the devil, old man! Do not interrupt me,&rdquo; exclaimed the artist,
      impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is right. Silence now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have the floor,&rdquo; said several voices at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;She was pale, and she heaved convulsive sighs and wrung her soft,
      warm hands, and a white pearl rolled from her dark lashes, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you begin all your phrases with &lsquo;and?&rsquo;&rdquo; asked the public
      prosecutor, with the captiousness of an inexorable critic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because it is biblical and unaffected. Now let me alone,&rdquo; replied
      Marillac, with superb disdain. &ldquo;You are a police-officer; I am an artist;
      what is there in common between you and me? I will continue: And he saw
      this pensive, weeping woman pass in the distance, and he said to the
      Prince: &lsquo;Borinski, a bit of root in which my foot caught has hurt my limb,
      will you suffer me to return to the palace? And the Prince Borinski said
      to him, &lsquo;Shall my men carry you in a palanquin?&rsquo; and the cunning Octave
      replied&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your story has not even common-sense and you are a terrible bore,&rdquo;
       interrupted Gerfaut brusquely. &ldquo;Gentlemen, are we going to sit at the
      table all night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He arose, but nobody followed his example. Bergenheim, who for the last
      few minutes had lent an attentive ear to the artist&rsquo;s story, gazed
      alternately at the two friends with an observing eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him talk,&rdquo; said the young magistrate, with an ironical smile. &ldquo;I like
      the palanquin in the court of Germany. That is probably what novelists
      call local color. O Racine, poor, deserted Racine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac was not intimidated this time by Gerfaut&rsquo;s withering glance, but,
      with the obstinacy of drunkenness, continued in a more or less stammering
      voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swore that I would gloss it over; you annoy me. I committed an error,
      gentlemen, in calling the lover in this story Octave. It is as clear as
      day that his name is Boleslas, Boleslas Matalowski. There is no more
      connection between him and my friend Octave than there is between my other
      friend Bergenheim and the prince Kolinski&mdash;Woginski&mdash;what the
      devil has become of my Prince&rsquo;s name? A good reward to whoever will tell
      me his name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is wrong to take advantage of his condition and make him talk any
      more,&rdquo; said Gerfaut. &ldquo;I beg of you, Marillac, hold your tongue and come
      with me,&rdquo; said he, lowering his voice as he leaned toward the headstrong
      story-teller and took him by the arm, trying to make him rise. This
      attempt only irritated Marillac; he seized hold of the edge of the table
      and clung to it with all his might, screaming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! a thousand times no! I will finish my story. President, allow me to
      speak. Ah! ha! you wish to prevent me from speaking because you know that
      I tell a story better than you, and that I make an impression upon my
      audience. You never have been able to catch my chic. Jealous! Envious! I
      know you, serpent!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg of you, if you ever cared for me, listen!&rdquo; replied Octave, who, as
      he bent over his friend, noticed the Baron&rsquo;s attentive look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I say no!&rdquo; shouted the artist again, and he added to this word one of
      the ugliest-sounding oaths in the French language. He arose, and pushing
      Octave aside, leaned upon the table, bursting into a loud laugh. &ldquo;Poets
      all,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;be reassured and rejoice. You shall have your story, in
      spite of those envious serpents. But first give me something to drink, for
      my throat is like a box of matches. No wine,&rdquo; he added, as he saw the
      notary armed with a bottle. &ldquo;This devilish wine has made me thirsty
      instead of refreshing me; besides, I am going to be as sober as a judge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut, with the desperation of a man who sees that he is about to be
      ruined, seized him again by the arm and tried to fascinate him by his
      steady gaze. But he obtained no response to this mute and threatening
      supplication except a stupid smile and these stammering words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me something to drink, Boleslas&mdash;Marinski-Graboski&mdash;I
      believe that Satan has lighted his heating apparatus within my stomach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The persons seated near the two friends heard an angry hiss from Gerfaut&rsquo;s
      lips. He suddenly leaned over, and taking, from among several bottles, a
      little carafe he filled Marillac&rsquo;s glass to the brim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; said the latter, trying to stand erect upon his legs; &ldquo;you are
      an angel. Rest easy, your love affairs will run no risk. I will gloss it
      all over&mdash;To your health, gentlemen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He emptied the glass and put it upon the table; he then smiled and waved
      his hand at his auditors with true royal courtesy; but his mouth remained
      half open as if his lips were petrified, his eyes grew large and assumed a
      haggard expression; the hand he had stretched out fell to his side; a
      second more, and he reeled and fell from his chair as if he had had a
      stroke of apoplexy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut, whose eyes had not left him, watched these different symptoms
      with unutterable anxiety; but in spite of his fright, he drew a sigh of
      relief when he saw Marillac mute and speechless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is singular,&rdquo; observed the notary, as he aided in removing his
      neighbor from the table, &ldquo;that glass of water had more effect upon him
      than four or five bottles of wine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Georges,&rdquo; said Gerfaut to one of the servants, in an agitated voice,
      &ldquo;open his bed and help me carry him to it; Monsieur de Bergenheim, I
      suppose there is a chemist near here, if I should need any medicine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The greater part of the guests arose at this unexpected incident, and some
      of them hastened to Marillac&rsquo;s side, as he remained motionless in his
      chair. The repeated bathing of his temples with cold water and the holding
      of salts to his nose were not able to bring him to consciousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of going to his aid with the others, Bergenheim profited by the
      general confusion to lean over the table. He plunged his finger into the
      artist&rsquo;s glass, in which a part of the water remained, and then touched
      his tongue. Only the notary noticed this movement. Thinking this rather
      strange, he seized the glass in his turn and swallowed the few drops that
      it contained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; he exclaimed, in a low voice, to Bergenheim, &ldquo;I am not
      surprised that the bumper asphyxiated him on the spot. Do you know, Baron,
      if this Monsieur de Gerfaut had taken anything but water during the
      evening, I should say that he was the drunker of the two; or that, if they
      were not such good friends, he wished to poison him in order to stop his
      talk. Did you notice that he did not seem pleased to hear this story?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you, too!&rdquo; exclaimed the Baron angrily, &ldquo;everybody will know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To take a carafe of kirsch for clear water,&rdquo; continued the notary,
      without paying any attention to the Baron&rsquo;s agitation. &ldquo;The devil! the
      safe thing to do is to give him an emetic at once; this poor fellow has
      enough prussic acid in his stomach to poison a cow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is talking of prussic acid and poisoning?&rdquo; exclaimed the public
      prosecutor, running with an unsteady step from one extremity of the table
      to the other, &ldquo;who has been poisoned? I am the public prosecutor, I am the
      only one here who has any power to start an investigation. Have they had
      an autopsy? Where did they find it? Buried in the fields or the woods, or
      floating on the river?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You lie! there is no dead body in the river!&rdquo; exclaimed Bergenheim, in a
      thundering voice, as he seized the magistrate by the collar in a
      bewildered way.
    </p>
    <p>
      The magistrate was incapable of making the least resistance when held by
      such a vigorous hand and he received two or three shakings. Suddenly the
      Baron stopped, and struck his forehead with a gesture common to persons
      who feel that their reason has given way under a paroxysm of rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am crazy,&rdquo; said he, with much emotion. &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;I am very
      sorry. We really have all taken too much wine. I beg your pardon,
      gentlemen. I will leave you a moment&mdash;I need some fresh air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hurriedly left the room, almost running against the persons who were
      carrying Marillac to his room. The public prosecutor, whose ideas had been
      somewhat mixed before, was now completely muddled by this unheard-of
      attack upon his dignity, and fell back exhausted in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All poor drinkers!&rdquo; said the notary to Monsieur de Carrier who was left
      alone with him, for the prosecutor, half suffocated with indignation and
      intoxication, could no longer be counted as one of them. &ldquo;Here they are,
      all drunk, from just a few glasses of wine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The notary shook his head with a mysterious air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These things, though, are plain enough to me,&rdquo; said he at last; &ldquo;first,
      this Monsieur Marillac has not a very strong head and tells pretty tedious
      stories when drunk; then his friend has a way of taking kirsch for water
      which I can understand only in extreme cases; but the Baron is the one who
      astonished me most. Did you notice how he shook our friend who has just
      fallen on the floor? As to the Baron pretending that he was drunk and thus
      excusing himself, I do not believe one word of it; he drank nothing but
      water. There were times this evening when he appeared very strange indeed!
      There is some deviltry underneath all this; Monsieur de Carrier, rest
      assured there is some deviltry underneath it all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the public prosecutor&mdash;they can not remove the body without
      me,&rdquo; stammered the weak voice of the magistrate, who, after trying in vain
      to recover his equilibrium, lay flat upon the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI. A STRATAGEM
    </h2>
    <p>
      Instead of joining the persons who were carrying Marillac away, Christian
      went into the garden after leaving the dining-room, in quest of the fresh
      air which he gave as an excuse for leaving his guests. In fact, he felt
      oppressed almost to suffocation by the emotions he had undergone during
      the last few hours. The dissimulation which prudence made a necessity and
      honor a duty had aggravated the suffering by protracted concealment.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some time Christian walked rapidly among the paths and trees in the
      park. Bathing his burning brow in the cool night air, he sought to calm
      the secret agitation and the boiling blood that were raging within him, in
      the midst of which his reason struggled and fought like a ship about to be
      wrecked. He used all his strength to recover his self-possession, so as to
      be able to master the perils and troubles which surrounded him with a calm
      if not indifferent eye; in one word, to regain that control over himself
      that he had lost several times during the supper. His efforts were not in
      vain. He contemplated his situation without weakness, exaggeration, or
      anger, as if it concerned another. Two facts rose foremost before him, one
      accomplished, the other uncertain. On one side, murder, on the other,
      adultery. No human power could remedy the first or prevent its
      consequences; he accepted it, then, but turn his mind away from it he
      must, in the presence of this greater disaster. So far, only presumptions
      existed against Clemence&mdash;grave ones, to be sure, if one added
      Lambernier&rsquo;s revelations to Marillac&rsquo;s strangely indiscreet remarks. It
      was his first duty to himself, as well as to her, to know the whole truth;
      if innocent, he would beg her forgiveness; if guilty, he had a
      chastisement to inflict.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is an abyss,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;and I may find as much blood as mud at the
      bottom of it. No matter, I will descend to its very depths.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he returned to the chateau, his face had resumed its usual calm
      expression. The most observing person would hardly have noticed any change
      in his looks. The dining-room had been abandoned at last. The victorious
      and the vanquished had retired to their rooms. First of all, he went up to
      the artist&rsquo;s apartment, so that no singularity in his conduct should
      attract attention, for, as master of the house, a visit to one of his
      guests who had fallen dead, or nearly so, at his own table was a positive
      duty. The attentions lavished upon Marillac by his friend had removed the
      danger which might have resulted from his imprudent excesses in drinking,
      and the sort of poisoning with which he had crowned the whole. He lay upon
      his bed in the same position in which he had first been placed, and was
      sleeping that heavy, painful sleep which serves as an expiation for
      bacchic excesses. Gerfaut was seated a few steps from him, at a table,
      writing; he seemed prepared to sit up all night, and to fulfill, with the
      devotion of a friend, the duties of a nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave arose at sight of the Baron, his face having resumed its habitual
      reserved expression. The two men greeted each other with equal composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he sleeping?&rdquo; asked Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But a few minutes only,&rdquo; replied the latter; &ldquo;he is all right now, and I
      hope,&rdquo; Octave added, smilingly, &ldquo;that this will serve as a lesson to you,
      and that hereafter you will put some limits to your princely hospitality.
      Your table is a regular ambush.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not throw stones at me, I pray,&rdquo; replied the Baron, with an appearance
      of equal good-humor. &ldquo;If your friend wants to ask an explanation of
      anybody it is of you, for you took some kirsch of 1765 for water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really believe that I was the drunker of the two,&rdquo; interrupted Octave,
      with a vivacity which concealed a certain embarrassment; &ldquo;we must have
      terribly scandalized Monsieur de Camier, who has but a poor opinion of
      Parisian heads and stomachs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After looking for a moment at the sleeping artist, Christian approached
      the table where Gerfaut was seated, and threw a glance over the latter&rsquo;s
      writing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are still at work, I see?&rdquo; said he, as his eyes rested upon the
      paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just now I am following the modest trade of copyist. These are some
      verses which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil asked me for&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you do me a favor? I am going to her room now; give me these verses
      to hand to her. Since the misfortune that befell Constance, she has been
      terribly angry with me, and I shall not be sorry to have some reason for
      going to her room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Octave finished the two or three lines which remained to be copied, and
      handed the sheet to Bergenheim. The latter looked at it attentively, then
      carefully folded it and put it in his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you, Monsieur,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I will leave you to your friendly
      duties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something so solemn in the calm accent of these words, and the
      polite bow which accompanied them, that Gerfaut felt chilled, though not
      alarmed, for he did not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he reached his room, Bergenheim opened the paper which Gerfaut had
      just given him and compared it with the letter he had received from
      Lambernier. The suspicions which a separate examination had aroused were
      confirmed upon comparing the two letters; no doubt was possible; the
      letter and the poetry were written by the same hand!
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few moments&rsquo; reflection, Christian went to his wife&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence was seated in an armchair, near the fireplace, indulging in a
      revery. Although her lover was not there, she was still under the charm of
      this consuming as well as intellectual passion, which responded to the
      yearnings of her heart, the delicacy of her tastes, and the activity of
      her imagination. At this moment, she was happy to live; there was not a
      sad thought that these words, &ldquo;He loves me!&rdquo; could not efface.
    </p>
    <p>
      The noise of the opening door aroused her from her meditation. Madame de
      Bergenheim turned her head with a look of vexation, but instead of the
      servant whom she was ready to reprimand, she saw her husband. The
      expression of impatience imprinted upon her face gave way to one of
      fright. She arose with a movement she could not repress, as if she had
      seen a stranger, and stood leaning against the mantel in a constrained
      attitude. Nothing in Christian&rsquo;s manner justified, however, the fear the
      sight of him seemed to cause his wife. He advanced with a tranquil air,
      and a smile that he had forced upon his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the presence of mind with which all women seem to be gifted, Clemence
      fell back into her chair, and, assuming a languid, suffering tone, mixed
      with an appearance of reproach, she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad to see you for a moment in order to scold you; you have not
      shown your usual consideration to-night. Did you not think that the noise
      from the dining-room might reach as far as here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has it troubled you?&rdquo; asked Christian, looking at her attentively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless one had a head of cast-iron&mdash;It seems that these gentlemen
      have abused the liberty permitted in the country. From what Justine tells
      me, things have taken place which would have been more appropriate at the
      Femme-sans-Tete.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you suffering very much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A frightful neuralgia&mdash;I only wish I could sleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was wrong not to have thought of this. You will forgive me, will you
      not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim leaned over the chair, passed his arm around the young woman&rsquo;s
      shoulders, and pressed his lips to her forehead. For the first time in his
      life, he was playing a part upon the marital stage, and he watched with
      the closest attention the slightest expression of his wife&rsquo;s face. He
      noticed that she shivered, and that her forehead which he had lightly
      touched was as cold as marble.
    </p>
    <p>
      He arose and took several turns about the room, avoiding even a glance at
      her, for the aversion which she had just shown toward her husband seemed
      to him positive proof of the very thing he dreaded, and he feared he
      should not be able to contain himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; she asked, as she noticed his agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      These words brought the Baron to his senses, and he returned to her side,
      replying in a careless tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am annoyed for a very simple cause; it concerns your aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. She is furious against you on account of the double misfortune to
      her dog and coachman. You will admit that, as far as Constance is
      concerned, you are guilty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is not content with being furious; she threatens a complete rupture.
      Here, read this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He handed her a large letter, folded lengthwise and sealed with the
      Corandeuil crest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim took the letter and read its contents aloud:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;After the unheard-of and unqualifiable events of this day, the
   resolution which I have formed will doubtless not surprise you in
   the least, Monsieur. You will understand that I can not and will
   not remain longer in a house where the lives of my servants and
   other creatures which are dear to me may be exposed to the most
   deplorable, wilful injury. I have seen for some time, although I
   have tried to close my eyes to the light of truth, the plots that
   were hatched daily against all who wore the Corandeuil livery. I
   supposed that I should not be obliged to put an end to this highly
   unpleasant matter myself, but that you would undertake this charge.
   It seems, however, that respect and regard for women do not form
   part of a gentleman&rsquo;s duties nowadays. I shall therefore be obliged
   to make up myself for the absence of such attentions, and watch over
   the safety of the persons and other creatures that belong to me. I
   shall leave for Paris tomorrow. I hope that Constance&rsquo;s condition
   will permit her to endure the journey, but Baptiste&rsquo;s wound is too
   serious for me to dare to expose him. I am compelled, although with
   deep regret, to leave him here until he is able to travel, trusting
   him to the kind mercies of my niece.

   &ldquo;Receive, Monsieur, with my adieux, my thanks for your courteous
   hospitality.

   &ldquo;YOLANDE DE CORANDEUIL.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your aunt abuses the privileges of being foolish,&rdquo; said the Baron, when
      his wife had finished reading the letter; &ldquo;she deserts the battlefield and
      leaves behind her wounded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I saw her, not two hours ago, and, although she was very angry, she
      did not say one word of this departure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jean handed me this letter but a moment ago, clad in full livery, and
      with the importance of an ambassador who demands his passports. You must
      go and talk with her, dear, and use all your eloquence to make her change
      her mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go at once,&rdquo; said Clemence, rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that your aunt is rather obstinate when she takes a notion into
      her head. If she persists in this, tell her, in order to decide her to
      remain, that I am obliged to go to Epinal with Monsieur de Carrier
      tomorrow morning, on account of the sale of some wood-land, and that I
      shall be absent three days at least. You understand that it will be
      difficult for your aunt to leave you alone during my absence, on account
      of these gentlemen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, that could not be,&rdquo; said she, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not see, as far as I am concerned, anything improper about it,&rdquo; said
      the Baron, trying to smile; &ldquo;but we must obey the proprieties. You are too
      young and too pretty a mistress of the house to pass for a chaperon, and
      Aline, instead of being a help, would be one inconvenience the more. So
      your aunt must stay here until my return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And by that time Constance and Baptiste will be both cured and her anger
      will have passed away. You did not tell me about this trip to Epinal nor
      the selling of the woodland.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to your aunt&rsquo;s room before she retires to bed,&rdquo; replied Bergenheim,
      without paying any attention to this remark, and seating himself in the
      armchair; &ldquo;I will wait for you here. We leave to-morrow morning early, and
      I wish to know tonight what to depend upon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As soon as Madame de Bergenheim had left the room, Christian arose and
      ran, rather than walked, to the space between the two windows, and sought
      the button in the woodwork of which Lambernier had told him. He soon found
      it, and upon his first pressure the spring worked and the panel flew open.
      The casket was upon the shelf; he took it and carefully examined the
      letters which it contained. The greater part of them resembled in form the
      one that he possessed; some of them were in envelopes directed to Madame
      de Bergenheim and bore Gerfaut&rsquo;s crest. There was no doubt about the
      identity of the handwriting; if the Baron had had any, these proofs were
      enough. After glancing rapidly over a few of the notes, he replaced them
      in the casket and returned the latter to the shelf where he had found it.
      He then carefully closed the little door and reseated himself beside the
      fireplace.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Clemence returned, her husband seemed absorbed in reading one of the
      books which he had found upon her table, while he mechanically played with
      a little bronze cup that his wife used to drop her rings in when she
      removed them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have won my case,&rdquo; said the Baroness, in a gay tone; &ldquo;my aunt saw
      clearly the logic of the reasons which I gave her, and she defers her
      departure until your return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That means that she will not go at all, for her anger will have time to
      cool off in three days; at heart she is really kind!&mdash;How long is it
      since you have known English?&rdquo; she asked, as she noticed that her
      husband&rsquo;s attention seemed to be fixed upon a volume of Lord Byron&rsquo;s
      poems.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim threw the book on the table, raised his head and gazed calmly
      at his wife. In spite of all his efforts, his face had assumed an
      expression which would have frightened her if she had noticed it, but her
      eyes were fastened upon the cup which he was twisting in his hand as if it
      were made of clay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mon Dieu! Christian, what is the matter with you? What are you doing to
      my poor cup?&rdquo; she asked, with surprise mingled with a little of that
      fright which is so prompt to be aroused if one feels not above reproach.
    </p>
    <p>
      He arose and put the misshapen bronze upon the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know what ails me to-night,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;my nerves are unstrung. I
      will leave you, for I need rest myself. I shall start to-morrow morning
      before you are up, and I shall return Wednesday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not any later, I hope,&rdquo; she said, with that soft, sweet voice, from
      which, in such circumstances, very few women have the loyalty to abstain.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went out without replying, for he feared he might be no longer master
      of himself; he felt, when offered this hypocritical, almost criminal,
      caress, as if he would like to end it all by killing her on the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII. THE CRISIS
    </h2>
    <p>
      Twenty-four hours had passed. The Baron had departed early in the morning,
      and so had all his guests, with the exception of Gerfaut and the artist.
      The day passed slowly and tediously. Aline had been vexed, somewhat
      estranged from her sister-in-law since their conversation in the little
      parlor. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was entirely occupied in restoring her
      poodle to health.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac, who had been drinking tea ever since rising, dared not present
      his face, which showed the effects of his debauch of the night before, to
      the mistress of the house, whose exacting and aristocratic austerity he
      very much feared. He pretended to be ill, in order to delay the moment
      when he should be forced to make his appearance. Madame de Bergenheim did
      not leave her aunt, and thus avoided being alone with Octave&mdash;who, on
      account of these different complications, might have spent a continual
      tete-a-tete with her had she been so inclined. Christian&rsquo;s absence,
      instead of being a signal of deliverance for the lovers, seemed to have
      created a new misunderstanding, for Clemence felt that it would be a mean
      action to abuse the liberty her husband&rsquo;s departure gave her. She was thus
      very reserved during the day, when she felt that there were more
      facilities for yielding, but, in the evening, when alone in her apartment,
      this fictitious prudery disappeared. She spent the entire evening lying
      upon the divan in the little boudoir, dreaming of Octave, talking to him
      as if he could reply, putting into practice again that capitulation of
      conscience which permits our mind to wander on the brink of guilt,
      provided actions are strictly correct.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a while this exaltation fell by degrees. When struggling earnestly,
      she had regarded Octave as an enemy; but, since she had gone to him as one
      passes over to the enemy, and, in her heart, had taken part with the lover
      against the husband, her courage failed her as she thought of this, and
      she fell, weak, guilty, and vanquished before the combat.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had played with her passion, she had given Christian little
      thought; she had felt it childish to bring her husband into an amusement
      that she believed perfectly harmless; then, when she wished to break her
      plaything, and found it made of iron and turning more and more into a
      tyrannical yoke, she called to her aid the conjugal divinities, but in too
      faint a voice to be heard. Now the situation had changed again. Christian
      was no longer the insignificant ally that the virtuous wife had condemned,
      through self-conceit, to ignorant neutrality; he was the husband, in the
      hostile and fearful acceptation of the word. This man whom she had wronged
      would always have law on his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Religion sometimes takes pity on a wayward wife, but society is always
      ready to condemn her. She was his own, fastened to him by indissoluble
      bonds. He had marked her with his name like a thing of his own; he held
      the threads of her life in his hands; he was the dispenser of her fortune,
      the judge of her actions, and the master of their fireside. She had no
      dignity except through him. If he should withdraw his support for a single
      day, she would fall from her position without any human power being able
      to rescue her. Society closes its doors to the outcast wife, and adds to
      the husband&rsquo;s sentence another penalty still more scathing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having now fallen from the sphere of illusion to that of reality, Madame
      de Bergenheim was wounded at every step. A bitter feeling of
      discouragement overwhelmed her, as she thought of the impossibility of
      happiness to which a deplorable fatality condemned her. Marriage and love
      struggled for existence, both powerless to conquer, and qualified only to
      cause each other&rsquo;s death. Marriage made love a crime; love made marriage a
      torture. She could only choose between two abysses: shame in her love,
      despair in her virtue.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hours passed rapidly in these sad and gloomy meditations; the clock
      marked the hour of midnight. Madame de Bergenheim thought it time to try
      to sleep; but, instead of ringing for her maid, she decided to go to the
      library herself and get a book, thinking that perhaps it might aid her in
      going to sleep. As she opened the door leading into the closet adjoining
      her parlor, she saw by the light of the candle which she held in her hand
      something which shone like a precious stone lying upon the floor. At first
      she thought it might be one of her rings, but as she stooped to pick it up
      she saw her error. It was a ruby pin mounted in enamelled gold. She
      recognized it, at the very first glance, as belonging to M. de Gerfaut.
    </p>
    <p>
      She picked up the pin and returned to the parlor. She exhausted in
      imagination a thousand conjectures in order to explain the presence of
      this object in such a place. Octave must have entered it or he could not
      have left this sign of his presence; it meant that he could enter her room
      at his will; what he had done once, he could certainly do again! The
      terror which this thought gave her dissipated like a dash of cold water
      all her former intoxicating thoughts; for, like the majority of women, she
      had more courage in theory than in action. A moment before, she had
      invoked Octave&rsquo;s image and seated it lovingly by her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she believed this realization possible, all she thought of was to
      prevent it. She was sure that her lover never had entered the closet
      through the parlor, as he never had been in this part of the house farther
      than the little drawing-room. Suddenly a thought of the little corridor
      door struck her; she remembered that this door was not usually locked
      because the one from the library was always closed; she knew that Octave
      had a key to the latter, and she readily understood how he had reached her
      apartment. Mustering up all her courage through excessive fear, she
      returned to the closet, hurried down the stairs, and pushed the bolt. She
      then returned to the parlor and fell upon the divan, completely exhausted
      by her expedition.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little by little her emotion passed away. Her fright appeared childish to
      her, as soon as she believed herself sheltered from danger; she promised
      herself to give Octave a good scolding the next morning; then she
      renounced this little pleasure, when she remembered that it would force
      her to admit the discovery of the pin, and of course to return it to him,
      for she had resolved to keep it. She had always had a particular fancy for
      this pin, but she would never have dared to ask him for it, and besides,
      it was the fact that Octave usually wore it that made it of infinite value
      to her. The desire to appropriate it was irresistible, since chance had
      thrown it into her hands. She tied a black satin ribbon about her white
      neck, and pinned it with the precious ruby. After kissing it as devotedly
      as if it were a relic, she ran to her mirror to judge of the effect of the
      theft.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How pretty, and how I love it!&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;but how can I wear it so that
      he will not see it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before she could solve this problem, she heard a slight noise, which
      petrified her as she stood before her glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is he!&rdquo; she thought; after standing for a moment half stunned, she
      dragged herself as far as the stairs, and leaning over, listened with fear
      and trembling. At first she could hear nothing but the beating of her
      heart; then she heard the other noise again, and more distinctly. Somebody
      was turning the handle of the door, trying to open it. The unexpected
      obstacle of the bolt doubtless exasperated the would-be visitor, for the
      door was shaken and pushed with a violence which threatened to break the
      lock or push down the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s first thought was to run into her chamber and lock
      the door behind her;&mdash;the second showed her the danger that might
      result if the slightest noise should reach other ears. Not a moment was to
      be lost in hesitation. The young woman quickly descended the stairs and
      drew the bolt. The door opened softly and closed with the same precaution.
      The lamp from the parlor threw a feeble light upon the upper steps of the
      staircase, but the lower ones were in complete darkness. It was with her
      heart rather than her eyes that she recognized Octave; he could
      distinguish Madame de Bergenheim only in an indistinct way by her white
      dress, which was faintly outlined in the darkness; she stood before him
      silent and trembling with emotion, for she had not yet thought of a speech
      that would send him away.
    </p>
    <p>
      He also felt the embarrassment usual in any one guilty of so foolhardy an
      action. He had expected to surprise Clemence, and he found her upon her
      guard; the thought of the disloyal part he was playing at this moment made
      the blood mount to his cheeks and took away, for the time being, his
      ordinary assurance. He sought in vain for a speech which might first
      justify him and then conquer her. He had recourse to a method often
      employed in the absence of eloquence. He fell on his knees before the
      young woman and seized her hands; it seemed as if the violence of his
      emotions rendered him incapable of expressing himself except by silent
      adoration. As she felt his hands touch hers, Clemence drew back and said
      in a low voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You disgust me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Disgust!&rdquo; he repeated, drawing himself up to his full height.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and that is not enough,&rdquo; she continued, indignantly, &ldquo;I ought to say
      scorn instead of disgust. You deceived me when you said you loved me&mdash;you
      infamously deceived me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I adore you!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with vehemence; &ldquo;what proof do you wish
      of my love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go! go away at once! A proof, did you say? I will accept only one: go, I
      order it, do you understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Instead of obeying her, he seized her in his arms in spite of her
      resistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything but that,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;order me to kill myself at your feet, I
      will do it, but I will not go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She tried for a moment to disengage herself, but although she used all her
      strength, she was unable to do so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you are without pity,&rdquo; she said, feebly, &ldquo;but I abhor you; rather, a
      thousand times rather, kill me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut was almost frightened by the agonized accent in which she spoke
      these words; he released her, but as he removed his arms, she reeled and
      he was obliged to support her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you persecute me, then?&rdquo; she murmured, as she fell in a faint upon
      her lover&rsquo;s breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      He picked her up in his arms and mounted the narrow stairs with
      difficulty. Carrying her into the parlor, he placed her upon the divan.
      She had completely lost consciousness; one would have believed her dead
      from the pallor of her face, were, it not for a slight trembling which
      agitated her form every few seconds and announced a nervous attack. The
      most expert of lady&rsquo;s maids could not have removed the little ribbon from
      her neck, which seemed to trouble her respiration, more adroitly than did
      Octave. In spite of his anxiety, he could not repress a smile as he
      recognized the pin which he hardly expected to find upon Clemence&rsquo;s neck,
      considering the hostile way in which she had greeted him. He knelt before
      her and bathed her temples with cold water, making her also inhale some
      salts which he found upon the toilet table in the next room. Little by
      little, these attentions produced an effect; the nervous convulsion became
      less frequent and a slight flush suffused her pale cheeks. She opened her
      eyes and then closed them, as if the light troubled them; then, extending
      her arms, she passed them about Octave&rsquo;s neck as he leaned over her; she
      remained thus for some time, breathing quietly and to all appearances
      sleeping. Suddenly she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will give me your pin, will you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is not all that I have yours?&rdquo; he replied, in a low tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine!&rdquo; she continued, in a feebly loving voice; &ldquo;tell me again that you
      belong to me, to me alone, Octave!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not send me away any longer, then? you like me to be near you?&rdquo; he
      said, with a happy smile, as he kissed the young woman&rsquo;s brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! stay, I beg of you! stay with me forever!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She folded her arms more tightly around him, as if she feared he might
      leave her. Suddenly she sat up, opened her eyes, and gazed about her in
      silent astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has happened?&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and how is it that you are here? Ah! this
      is dreadful indeed; you have cruelly punished me for my weakness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This sudden severity after her delicious abandon, changed Octave&rsquo;s
      pleasure into angry vexation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are the one,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;who are cruel! Why allow me so much bliss,
      if you intended to take it away from me so soon? Since you love me only in
      your dreams, I beg of you to go to sleep again and never awaken. I will
      stay near you. Your words were so sweet, but a moment ago, and now you
      deny them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did I say?&rdquo; she asked, with hesitation, a deep blush suffusing her
      face and neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      These symptoms, which he considered a bad augury, increased Octave&rsquo;s
      irritation. He arose and said in a bitter tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fear nothing! I will not abuse the words which have escaped you, however
      flattering or charming they may have been; they told me that you loved me.
      I do not believe it any longer; you are agitated, I can see; but it is
      from fear and not love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence drew herself up upon the divan, crossed her arms over her breast
      and gazed at him for a few moments in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you believe these two sentiments incompatible?&rdquo; she asked at last;
      &ldquo;you are the only one whom I fear. Others would not complain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was such irresistible charm in her voice and glance that Gerfaut&rsquo;s
      ill-humor melted away like ice in the sun&rsquo;s rays. He fell upon his knees
      before the divan, and tried to pass her arms about his neck as before; but
      instead of lending herself to this project, she attempted to rise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so happy at your feet,&rdquo; he said, gently preventing her. &ldquo;Everybody
      else can sit beside you; I only have the right to kneel. Do not take this
      right away from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim extricated one of her hands, and, raising her finger
      with a threatening gesture, she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think a little less of your rights, and more of your duties. I advise you
      to obey me and to profit by my kindness, which allows you to sit by my
      side for a moment. Think that I might be more severe, and that if I
      treated you as you merited&mdash;if I told you to go away, would you obey
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut hesitated a moment and looked at her supplicatingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would obey,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but would you have the courage to order it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I allow you to remain until just half past twelve,&rdquo; said she, as she
      glanced at the clock, which she could see through the half-open door.
      Gerfaut followed her glance, and saw that she accorded him only a quarter
      of an hour: but he was too clever to make any observation. He knew that
      the second quarter of an hour is always less difficult to obtain than the
      first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that you have thought me capricious to-day; you
      must pardon me, it is a family fault. You know the saying: &lsquo;Caprice de
      Corandeuil?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish it to be said: Amour de Gerfaut,&rdquo; said he, tenderly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right to be amiable and say pleasant things to me, for I need
      them badly to-night. I am sad and weary; the darkest visions come before
      my mind. I think it is the storm which makes me feel so. How doleful this
      thunder is! It seems to me like an omen of misfortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is only the fancy of your vivid imagination. If you exerted the same
      will to be happy that you do to imagine troubles, our life would be
      perfect. What matters the storm? and even if you do see an omen in it,
      what is there so very terrible? Clouds are vapor, thunder is a sound, both
      are equally ephemeral; only the blue sky, which they can obscure but for a
      moment, is eternal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you not hear something just now?&rdquo; asked Madame de Bergenheim, as she
      gave a sudden start and listened eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing. What did you think it was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feared it might be Justine who had taken it into her head to come down
      stairs; she is so tiresome in her attentions&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She arose and went to look in her chamber, which she carefully locked; a
      moment later, she returned and seated herself again upon the divan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Justine is sleeping by this time,&rdquo; said Octave; &ldquo;I should not have
      ventured if I had not seen that her light was out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence took his hand and placed it over her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;when I tell you that I am frightened, will you believe
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor dear!&rdquo; he exclaimed, as he felt her heart throbbing violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are the one who causes me these palpitations for the slightest thing.
      I know that we do not run any danger, that everybody is in his own room by
      this time, and yet, somehow, I feel terribly frightened. There are women,
      so they say, who get used to this torture, and end by being guilty and
      tranquil at the same time. It is an unworthy thought, but I&rsquo;ll confess
      that, sometimes, when I suffer so, I wish I were like them. But it is
      impossible; I was not made for wrong-doing. You can not understand this,
      you are a man; you love boldly, you indulge in every thought that seems
      sweet to you without being troubled by remorse. And then, when you suffer,
      your anguish at least belongs to you, nobody has any right to ask you what
      is the matter. But I, my tears even are not my own; I have often shed them
      on your account&mdash;I must hide them, for he has a right to ask: &lsquo;Why do
      you weep?&rsquo; And what can I reply?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned away her head to conceal the tears which she could not
      restrain; he saw them, and, leaning over her, he kissed them away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your tears are mine!&rdquo; he exclaimed, passionately; &ldquo;but do not distress me
      by telling me that our love makes you unhappy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unhappy! oh, yes! very unhappy! and yet I would not change this sorrow
      for the richest joys of others. This unhappiness is my treasure! To be
      loved by you! To think that there was a time when our love might have been
      legitimate! What fatality weighs upon us, Octave? Why did we know each
      other too late? I often dream a beautiful dream&mdash;a dream of freedom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are free if you love me&mdash;It is the rain against the windows,&rdquo;
       said he, seeing Madame de Bergenheim anxiously listening again. They kept
      silent for a moment, but could hear nothing except the monotonous
      whistling of the storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be loved by you and not to blush!&rdquo; said she, as she gazed at him
      lovingly. &ldquo;To be together always, without fearing that a stroke of
      lightning might separate us! to give you my heart and still be worthy to
      pray! it would be one of those heavenly delights that one grasps only in
      dreams&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! dream when I shall be far from you; but, when I am at your feet, when
      our hearts beat only for each other, do not evoke, lest you destroy our
      present happiness, that which is beyond our power. Do you think there are
      bonds which can more strongly unite us? Am I not yours? And you, yourself,
      who speak of the gift of your heart, have you not given it to me
      entirely?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! yes, entirely! And it is but right, since I owe it to you. I did not
      understand life until the day I received it from your eyes; since that
      minute I have lived, and I can die. I love you! I fail to find words to
      tell you one-tenth of what my heart contains, but I love you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He received her in his arms, where she took refuge so as to conceal her
      face after these words. She remained thus for an instant, then arose with
      a start, seized Octave&rsquo;s hands and pressed them in a convulsive manner,
      saying in a voice as weak as a dying woman&rsquo;s:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am lost!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He instinctively followed Clemence&rsquo;s gaze, which was fastened upon the
      glass door. An almost imperceptible movement of the muslin curtain was
      evident. At the same moment, there was a slight noise, a step upon the
      carpet, the turning of the handle of the door, and it was silently opened
      as if by a ghost.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII. THE AGREEMENT
    </h2>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise, but her strength failed her, she fell
      on her knees, and then dropped at her lover&rsquo;s feet. The latter leaped from
      the divan with out trying to assist her, stepped over the body stretched
      before him, and drew his poniard out of his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian stood upon the threshold of the door silent and motionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a moment of terrible silence. Only the eyes of the two men
      spoke; those of the husband were fixed, dull, and implacable; those of the
      lover sparkled with the audacity of despair. After a moment of mutual
      fascination, the Baron made a movement as if to enter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One step more and you are a dead man!&rdquo; exclaimed Gerfaut, in a low voice,
      as he clutched the handle of his poniard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian extended his hand, replying to this threat only by a look; but
      such an imperative one that the thrust of a lance would not have been as
      fearful to the lover. Octave put his poniard in its sheath, ashamed of his
      emotion in the presence of such calm, and imitated his enemy&rsquo;s scornful
      attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Monsieur,&rdquo; said the latter, in a low voice, as he took a step
      backward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of following his example, Gerfaut cast a glance upon Clemence. She
      had fallen in such a dead faint that he sought in vain for her breath. He
      leaned over her, with an irresistible feeling of pity and love; but just
      as he was about to take her in his arms and place her upon the divan,
      Bergenheim&rsquo;s hand stopped him. If there is a being on earth to whom one
      owes regard and respect, it is the one whom our own wrong has rendered our
      enemy. Octave arose, and said, in a grave, resigned voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am at your orders, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian pointed to the door, as if to invite him to pass out first, thus
      preserving, with his extraordinary composure, the politeness which a good
      education makes an indelible habit, but which at this moment was more
      frightful to behold than the most furious outburst of temper. Gerfaut
      glanced at Clemence again, and said, as he pointed to her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall you leave her without any aid in this condition? It is cruel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not from cruelty, but out of pity,&rdquo; replied the Baron, coldly; &ldquo;she
      will awake only too soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Octave&rsquo;s heart was intensely oppressed, but he managed to conceal his
      emotion. He hesitated no longer and stepped out. The husband followed,
      without giving a glance at the poor woman whose own words had condemned
      her so inexorably. And so she was left alone in this pretty boudoir as if
      in a tomb.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two men descended the stairs leading from the little closet. At the
      library door they found themselves in absolute obscurity; Christian opened
      a dark-lantern and its faint light guided their steps. They traversed, in
      silence, the picture-gallery, the vestibule, and then mounted the main
      staircase. They reached the Baron&rsquo;s apartment without meeting anybody or
      betraying themselves by the slightest sound. With the same outward
      self-possession which had characterized his whole conduct, Christian,
      after carefully closing the doors, lighted a candelabra filled with
      candles which was upon the mantel, and then turned to his companion, who
      was far less composed than he.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut had suffered tortures since leaving the little parlor. A feeling
      of regret and deepest pity, at the thought of the inevitable catastrophe
      which must follow, had softened his heart. He saw in the most odious of
      colors the selfishness of his love. Clemence&rsquo;s last glance as she fell
      fainting at his feet&mdash;a forgiving and a loving glance&mdash;was like
      a dagger in his heart. He had ruined her! the woman he loved! the queen of
      his life! the angel he adored! This idea was like hell to him. He was
      almost unable to control his emotion, dizzy as he was on the brink of the
      abyss opened by his hand, into which he had precipitated what he counted
      as the dearest part of his own self.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim stood, cold and sombre, like a northern sky, opposite this
      pale-faced man, upon whose countenance a thousand passionate emotions were
      depicted like clouds on a stormy day.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Bergenheim&rsquo;s eyes met Octave&rsquo;s, they were so full of vengeance and
      hatred that the latter trembled as if he had come in contact with a wild
      beast. The lover actually realized the inferiority of his attitude in the
      presence of this enraged husband. A feeling of self-pride and indignation
      came to his aid. He put aside remorse and regrets until later; these sad
      expiations were forbidden him now; another duty lay before him. There is
      only one reparation possible for certain offences. The course once open,
      one must go to its very end; pardon is to be found only upon the tomb of
      the offended.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave knew he had to submit to this necessity. He stifled all scruples
      which might have weakened his firmness, and resumed his habitual
      disdainful look. His eyes returned his enemy&rsquo;s glance of deadly hatred,
      and he began the conversation like a man who is accustomed to master the
      events of his life and forbids any one to shape them for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before any explanations take place between us,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I have to
      declare to you, upon my honor, that there is only one guilty person in
      this affair, and that I am the one. The slightest reproach addressed to
      Madame de Bergenheim would be a most unjust outrage and a most deplorable
      error on your part. I introduced myself into her apartment without her
      knowledge and without having been authorized in any way to do so. I had
      just entered it when you arrived. Necessity obliges me to admit a love
      that is an outrage to you; I am ready to repair this outrage by any
      satisfaction you may demand; but in putting myself at your discretion, I
      earnestly insist upon exculpating Madame de Bergenheim from all that can
      in any way affect her virtue or her reputation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to her reputation,&rdquo; said Christian, &ldquo;I will watch over that; as to her
      virtue&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not finish, but his face assumed an expression of incredulous
      irony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear to you, Monsieur,&rdquo; said Octave, with increasing emotion, &ldquo;that
      she is above all seduction and should be sheltered from all insult; I
      swear to you&mdash;What oath can I take that you will believe? I swear
      that Madame de Bergenheim never has betrayed any of her duties toward you;
      that I never have received the slightest encouragement from her; that she
      is as innocent of my folly as the angels in heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian shook his head with a scornful smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This day will be the undying remorse of my life if you will not believe
      me,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, with almost uncontrolled vehemence; &ldquo;I tell you,
      Monsieur, she is innocent; innocent! do you understand me? I was led
      astray by my passion. I wished to profit by your absence. You know that I
      have a key to the library; I used it without her suspecting it. Would to
      God that you could have been a witness to our tete-a-tete! you could then
      have not one doubt left. Can one prevent a man from entering a lady&rsquo;s
      room, when he has succeeded in finding the way to it in spite of her
      wishes? I repeat it, she&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, Monsieur,&rdquo; replied the Baron coldly. &ldquo;You are doing as I should
      do in your place; but this discussion is out of place; let this woman
      exculpate herself. There should be no mention of her between us now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I protest that upon my honor&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, under such conditions, a false oath is not dishonorable. I have
      been a bachelor myself, and I know that anything is allowable against a
      husband. Let us drop this, I beg of you, and return to facts. I consider
      that I have been insulted by you, and you must give me satisfaction for
      this insult.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Octave made a sign of acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of us must die,&rdquo; replied Bergenheim, leaning his elbow negligently
      upon the mantel. The lover bowed his head a second time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have offended you,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;you have the right to choose the
      reparation due you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is only one possible, Monsieur. Blood alone can wipe away the
      disgrace; you know it as well as I. You have dishonored my home, you owe
      me your life for that. If Fate favors you, you will be rid of me, and I
      shall be wronged in every way. There are arrangements to be made, and we
      shall settle them at once, if you are willing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pushed an armchair toward Gerfaut, and took another himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      They seated themselves beside a desk which stood in the middle of the
      room, and, with an equal appearance of sang-froid and polite haughtiness,
      they discussed this murderous combat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not necessary for me to say to you,&rdquo; said Octave, &ldquo;that I accept in
      advance whatever you may decide upon; the weapons, place, and seconds&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, then,&rdquo; interrupted Bergenheim; &ldquo;you just now spoke in favor
      of this woman in a way that made me think you did not wish her ruined in
      the eyes of the world; so I trust you will accept the proposition I am
      about to make to you. An ordinary duel would arouse suspicion and
      inevitably lead to a discovery of the truth; people would seek for some
      plausible motive for the encounter, whatever story we might tell our
      seconds. You know that there is but one motive which will be found
      acceptable by society for a duel between a young man who had been received
      as a guest of this house and the husband. In whatever way this duel may
      terminate, this woman&rsquo;s honor would remain on the ground with the dead,
      and that is what I wish to avoid, since she bears my name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you explain to me what your plan is?&rdquo; asked Octave, who could not
      understand what his adversary had in mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, Monsieur,&rdquo; Bergenheim continued, in his calm voice, &ldquo;that I had
      a perfect right to kill you a moment ago; I did not do so for two reasons:
      first, a gentleman should use his sword and not a poniard, and then your
      dead body would have embarrassed me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The river is close by!&rdquo; interrupted Gerfaut, with a strange smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then replied in a
      slightly changed tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Instead of availing myself of my right, I intend to risk my life against
      yours. The danger is the same for myself, who never have insulted you, as
      for you, who have offered me the deadliest insult that one man can offer
      another. I am willing to spill my blood, but not to soil my honor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is a duel without seconds that you desire, you have my consent; I
      have perfect confidence in your loyalty, and I hope you can say the same
      for mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian bowed his head slightly and continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is more than a duel without seconds, for the whole affair must be so
      contrived as to be looked upon as an accident; it is the only way to
      prevent the outbreak and scandal I dread so much. Now here is my
      proposition: You know that a wild-boar hunt is to take place to-morrow in
      the Mares woods. When we station ourselves we shall be placed together at
      a spot I know of, where we shall be out of the sight of the other hunters.
      When the boar crosses the enclosure we will fire at a signal agreed upon.
      In this way, the denouement, whatever it may be, will be looked upon as
      one of those accidents which so frequently happen in shooting-parties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a dead man,&rdquo; thought Gerfaut, as he saw that the gun would be the
      weapon chosen by his adversary, and recalled his wonderful skill, of which
      he had had many and various proofs. But instead of showing the slightest
      hesitation, his countenance grew still more arrogant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This kind of combat seems to me very wisely planned,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I accept,
      for I desire as much as you that this affair should remain an eternal
      secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since we are to have no seconds,&rdquo; continued Bergenheim, &ldquo;let us arrange
      everything so that nothing can betray us; it is inconceivable how the most
      trifling circumstances often turn out crushing evidence. I think that I
      have foreseen everything. If you find that I have forgotten any detail,
      please remind me of it. The place I speak of is a narrow, well-shaded
      path. The ground is perfectly level; it lies from north to south, so that
      at eight o&rsquo;clock in the morning the sun will be on that side; there will
      be no advantage in position. There is an old elm on the borders of the
      wood; at fifty steps&rsquo; distance in the pathway, lies the trunk of an oak
      which has been felled this year. These are the two places where we will
      station ourselves, if you consent to it. Is it the proper distance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Near or farther, it matters little. Breast to breast, if you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nearer would be imprudent. However, fifty steps with the gun is less than
      fifteen with a pistol. This point is settled. We will remain with heads
      covered, although this is not the custom. A ball might strike the head
      where the cap would be, and if this should happen it would arouse
      suspicion, as people do not hunt bareheaded. It only remains to decide who
      shall fire first,&rdquo; continued Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, of course; you are the offended one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not admit the full offence to have been committed, and, since this
      is in doubt, and I can not be judge and jury together, we shall consult
      chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I declare to you that I will not fire first,&rdquo; interrupted Gerfaut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember that it is a mortal duel, and such scruples are foolish. Let us
      agree that whoever has the first shot, shall place himself upon the border
      of the woods and await the signal, which the other will give when the boar
      crosses the enclosure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took a gold piece from his purse and threw it in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heads!&rdquo; said the lover, ready to acquiesce to the least of his
      adversary&rsquo;s conditions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fate is for you,&rdquo; said Christian, looking at the coin with marked
      indifference; &ldquo;but, remember, if at the signal given by me you do not
      fire, or only fire in the air, I shall use my right to shoot&mdash;You
      know that I rarely miss my aim.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These preliminaries ended, the Baron took two guns from his closet, loaded
      them, taking particular care to show that they were of equal length and
      the same calibre. He then locked them up in the closet and offered Gerfaut
      the key.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not do you this injustice,&rdquo; said the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This precaution is hardly necessary, since, tomorrow, you will take your
      choice of those weapons. Now that everything is arranged,&rdquo; continued the
      Baron, in a graver tone, &ldquo;I have one request to make of you, and I think
      you are too loyal to refuse it. Swear to me that whatever may be the
      result, you will keep all this a profound secret. My honor is now in your
      hands; speaking as a gentleman to a gentleman, I ask you to respect it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I have the sad privilege of surviving you,&rdquo; replied Gerfaut, no less
      solemnly, &ldquo;I swear to you to keep the secret inviolate. But, supposing a
      contrary event, I also have a request to make to you. What are your
      intentions regarding Madame de Bergenheim?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian gazed at his adversary a moment, with a searching glance which
      seemed to read his innermost thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My intentions?&rdquo; said he at last, in a displeased, surprised tone; &ldquo;this
      is a very strange question; I do not recognize your right to ask it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My right is certainly strange,&rdquo; said the lover, with a bitter smile; &ldquo;but
      whatever it may be, I shall make use of it. I have destroyed this woman&rsquo;s
      happiness forever; if I can not repair this fault, at least I ought to
      mitigate the effect as much as lies in my power. Will you reply to me&mdash;if
      I die tomorrow, what will be her fate?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim kept silent, his sombre eyes lowered to the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, Monsieur,&rdquo; continued Gerfaut, with great emotion; &ldquo;when I
      said to you, &lsquo;She is not guilty,&rsquo; you did not believe me, and I despair of
      ever persuading you, for I know well what your suspicions must be.
      However, these are the last words addressed to you that will leave my
      mouth, and you know that one has to believe a dying man&rsquo;s statement. If
      tomorrow you avenge yourself, I earnestly beg of you, let this reparation
      suffice. All my pride is gone, you see, since I beg this of you upon my
      bended knees. Be humane toward her; spare her, Monsieur. It is not pardon
      which I ask you to grant her&mdash;it is pity for her unsullied innocence.
      Treat her kindly&mdash;honorably. Do not make her too wretched.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, for his voice failed him, and his eyes filled with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know what I ought to do,&rdquo; replied the Baron, in as harsh a tone as
      Gerfaut&rsquo;s had been tender; &ldquo;I am her husband, and I do not recognize
      anybody&rsquo;s right, yours least of all, to interpose between us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can foresee the fate which you have in reserve for her,&rdquo; replied the
      lover, indignantly; &ldquo;you will not murder her, for that would be too
      imprudent; what would become of your vaunted honor then? But you will
      slowly kill her; you will make her die a new death every day, in order to
      satisfy a blind vengeance. You are a man to meditate over each new torture
      as calmly as you have regulated every detail of our duel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim, instead of replying, lighted a candle as if to put an end to
      this discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Until to-morrow, Monsieur,&rdquo; said he, with a cold air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One moment!&rdquo; exclaimed Gerfaut, as he arose; &ldquo;you refuse to give me one
      word which will assure me of the fate of the woman whose life I have
      ruined?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have nothing to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then; I will protect her, and I will do it in spite of you and
      against you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not another word,&rdquo; interrupted the Baron, sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Octave leaned over the table between them and looked at him for a moment,
      then said in a terrible voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You killed Lambernier!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian bounded backward as if he had been struck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was a witness of that murder,&rdquo; continued Gerfaut, slowly, as he
      emphasized each word; &ldquo;I will write my deposition and give it to a man of
      whom I am as sure as of myself. If I die to-morrow, I will leave him a
      mission which no effort on your part will prevent him from fulfilling. He
      shall watch over your slightest actions with inexorable vigilance; he will
      be Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s protector, if you forget that your first duty is
      to protect her. The day upon which you abuse your position with her, the
      day when she shall call out despairingly, &lsquo;Help me!&rsquo; that day shall my
      deposition be placed in the hands of the public prosecutor at Nancy. He
      will believe its contents; of that you may be certain. Besides, the river
      is an indiscreet tomb; before long it will give up the body you have
      confided to it. You will be tried and condemned. You know the punishment
      for murder! It is hard labor for life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim darted toward the mantel at these words and seized a
      hunting-knife which hung there. Octave, as he saw him ready to strike,
      crossed his arms upon his breast, and said, coldly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember that my body might embarrass you; one corpse is enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Baron threw the weapon on the floor with such force that he broke it
      in two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it was you,&rdquo; he said, in a trembling voice, &ldquo;you were Lambernier&rsquo;s
      assassin. I&mdash;He knew this infamous secret, and his death was
      involuntary on my part.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The intention is of little account. The deed is the question. There is
      not a jury that would not condemn you, and that is what I wish, for such a
      sentence would bring a legal separation between you and your wife and give
      her her liberty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not speaking seriously,&rdquo; said Christian, turning pale; &ldquo;you, a
      gentleman, would not denounce me! And, besides, would not my being
      sentenced injure the woman in whom you take so much interest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know all that,&rdquo; Gerfaut replied; &ldquo;I too cling to the honor of my name,
      and yet I expose it. I have plenty of enemies who will be glad enough to
      outrage my memory. Public opinion will condemn me, for they will see only
      the action, and that is odious. There is one thing, however, more precious
      and necessary to me than the world&rsquo;s opinion, and that is peace for every
      day, the right to live; and that is the reason why, happiness having
      forsaken me, I am going to bequeath it to the one whom fate has put in
      your power, but whom I shall not leave to your mercy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am her husband,&rdquo; Bergenheim replied, angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you are her husband; so the law is on your side. You have only to
      call upon society for its aid; it will come but too gladly at your call
      and help you crush a defenceless woman. And I, who love her as you have
      never known how to love her, I can do nothing for her! Living, I must keep
      silent and bow before your will; but dead, your absurd laws no longer
      exist for me; dead, I can place myself between you and her, and I will do
      it. Since, in order to aid her, I have no choice of arms, I will not
      recoil from the one weapon which presents itself. Yes, if in order to save
      her from your vengeance, I am obliged to resort to the shame of a
      denunciation, I swear to you here, I will turn informer. I will sully my
      name with this stain; I will pick up this stone from the mud, and I will
      crush your head with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are a coward&rsquo;s words!&rdquo; exclaimed Christian, as he fell back in his
      chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut looked at him with a calm, stony glance, while replying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No insults, please! One of us will not be living to-morrow. Remember what
      I tell you: if I fall in this duel, it will be to your interest to have
      this matter stop then and there. I submit to death myself; but I exact
      liberty for her&mdash;liberty, with peace and respect. Think it over,
      Monsieur; at the first outrage, I shall arise from my tomb to prevent a
      second, and dig a trench between you and her which never can be crossed\&mdash;the
      penitentiary!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV. A FRIEND&rsquo;S ADVICE
    </h2>
    <p>
      After she came out of her faint, Madame de Bergenheim remained for a long
      time in a dazed condition, and did not realize, save in a confused manner,
      her real position. She saw vaguely, at her first glance, the curtains of
      the bed upon which she lay, and thought that she had awakened from an
      ordinary sleep. Little by little, her thoughts became clearer, and she saw
      that she was fully dressed, also that her room seemed brighter than it
      usually was with only her night-lamp lighted. She noticed between the
      half-open curtains a gigantic form reflected almost to the ceiling
      opposite her bed. She sat up and distinctly saw a man sitting in the
      corner by the fireplace. Frozen with terror, she fell back upon her pillow
      as she recognized her husband. Then she remembered everything, even the
      slightest details of the scene in the small parlor. She felt ready to
      faint again when she heard Christian&rsquo;s steps upon the carpet, although he
      walked with great precaution.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baron looked at her a moment, and then, opening the bed-curtains, he
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can not pass the night thus, it is nearly three o&rsquo;clock. You must go
      to bed as usual.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence shivered at these words, whose accent, however, was not hard. She
      obeyed mechanically; but she had hardly risen when she was obliged to
      recline upon the bed, for her trembling limbs would not support her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not be afraid of me,&rdquo; said Bergenheim, drawing back a few steps; &ldquo;my
      presence should not frighten you. I only wish that people should know that
      I have passed the night in your chamber, for it is possible that my return
      may arouse suspicion. You know that our love is only a comedy played for
      the benefit of our servants.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was such affected lightness in these remarks that the young woman
      was cut to the very quick. She had expected an explosion of anger, but not
      this calm contempt. Her revolted pride gave her courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not deserve to be treated thus,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;do not condemn me
      without a hearing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask nothing of you,&rdquo; replied Christian, who seated himself again beside
      the mantel; &ldquo;undress yourself, and go to sleep if it is possible for you
      to do so. It is not necessary for Justine to make any comments tomorrow
      about your day clothes not having been removed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Instead of obeying him, she went toward him and tried to remain standing
      in order to speak to him, but her emotion was so intense that it took away
      her strength and she was obliged to sit down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You treat me too cruelly, Christian,&rdquo; said she, when she had succeeded to
      recover her voice. &ldquo;I am not guilty; at least, not so much as you think I
      am&mdash;&rdquo; said she, drooping her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her attentively for a moment, and then replied, in a voice
      which did not betray the slightest emotion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must know that my greatest desire is to be persuaded of this by you.
      I know that too often appearances are deceitful; perhaps you will be able
      to explain to me what took place last evening; I am still inclined to
      believe your word. Swear to me that you do not love Monsieur de Gerfaut.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear it!&rdquo; said she, in a weak voice, and without raising her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went to the bed and took down a little silver crucifix which was
      hanging above it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Swear it to me upon this crucifix,&rdquo; said he, presenting it to his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried in vain to raise her hand, which seemed fastened to the arm of
      her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear it!&rdquo; she stammered a second time, while her face became as pale
      as death.
    </p>
    <p>
      A savage laugh escaped Christian&rsquo;s lips. He put the crucifix in its place
      again without saying a word, then he opened the secret panel and, taking
      out the casket, placed it upon the table before his wife. She made a
      movement as if to seize it, but her courage failed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have perjured yourself to your husband and to God!&rdquo; said Bergenheim
      slowly. &ldquo;Do you know what kind of woman you are?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence remained for some time powerless to reply; her respiration was so
      painful that each breath seemed like suffocation; her head, after rolling
      about on the back of the chair, fell upon her breast, like a blade of
      grass broken and bruised by the rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you have read those letters,&rdquo; she murmured, when she had strength
      enough to speak, &ldquo;you must know that I am not as unworthy as you think. I
      am very guilty&mdash;but I still have a right to be forgiven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian, at this moment, had he been gifted with the intelligence which
      fathoms the mysteries of the heart, might have renewed the bonds which
      were so near being broken; he could at least have stopped Clemence upon a
      dangerous path and saved her from a most irreparable fall. But his nature
      was too unrefined for him to see the degrees which separate weakness from
      vice, and the intoxication of a loving heart from the depravity of a
      corrupt character. With the obstinacy of narrow-minded people, he had been
      looking at the whole thing in its worst light, and for several hours
      already he had decided upon his wife&rsquo;s guilt in his own mind; this served
      now as a foundation for his stern conduct. His features remained perfectly
      impassive as he listened to Clemence&rsquo;s words of justification, which she
      uttered in a weak, broken voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that I merit your hatred-but if you could know how much I suffer,
      you would surely forgive me&mdash;You left me in Paris very young,
      inexperienced; I ought to have fought against this feeling better than I
      did, but I used up in this struggle all the strength that I had&mdash;You
      can see how pale and changed I have become within the past year. I have
      aged several years in those few months; I am not yet what you call a&mdash;a
      lost woman. He ought to have told you that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he has! of course he has,&rdquo; replied Christian with bitter irony. &ldquo;Oh,
      you have in him a loyal cavalier!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not believe me, then! you do not believe me!&rdquo; she continued,
      wringing her hands in despair; &ldquo;but read these letters, the last ones. See
      whether one writes like this to a woman who is entirely lost&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She tried to take the package which her husband held; instead of giving
      the letters to her, he lighted them at the candle and then threw them into
      the fireplace. Clemence uttered a cry and darted forward to save them, but
      Christian&rsquo;s iron hand seized her and pushed her back into her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand how much you care for this correspondence,&rdquo; said he, in a
      more excited tone, &ldquo;but you are more loving than prudent. Let me destroy
      one witness which accuses you. Do you know that I have already killed a
      man on account of these letters?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Killed!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, whom this word drove almost to
      madness, for she could not understand its real meaning and applied it to
      her lover. &ldquo;Well, then, kill me too, for I lied when I said that I
      repented. I do not repent! I am guilty! I deceived you! I love him and I
      abhor you; I love him! kill me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She fell upon her knees before him and dragged herself along the floor,
      striking her head upon it as if she wished to break it. Christian raised
      her and seated her in the chair, in spite of her resistance. She struggled
      in her husband&rsquo;s arms, and the only words which she uttered were: &ldquo;I love
      him! kill me! I love him! kill me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her grief was so intense that Bergenheim really pitied her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did not understand me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;he is not the man I killed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She became motionless, dumb. He left her then, from a feeling of
      compassion, and returned to his seat. They remained for some time seated
      in this way, one on each side of the fireplace; he, with his head leaning
      against the mantel; she, crouched in her chair with her face concealed
      behind her hands; only the striking of the clock interrupted this silence
      and lulled their gloomy thoughts with its monotonous vibrations.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sharp, quick sound against one of the windows interrupted this sad
      scene. Clemence arose suddenly as if she had received a galvanic shock;
      her frightened eyes met her husband&rsquo;s. He made an imperious gesture with
      his hand as if to order silence, and both listened attentively and
      anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same noise was heard a second time. A rattling against the blinds was
      followed by a dry, metallic sound, evidently caused by the contact of some
      body against the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is some signal,&rdquo; said Christian in a low voice, as he looked at his
      wife. &ldquo;You probably know what it means.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not, I swear to you,&rdquo; replied Clemence, her heart throbbing with a
      new emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you, then; he is there and he has something to say to you.
      Rise and open the window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Open the window?&rdquo; said she, with a frightened look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do what I tell you. Do you wish him to pass the night under your window,
      so that the servants may see him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this command, spoken in a severe tone, she arose. Noticing that their
      shadows might be seen from the outside when the curtains were drawn,
      Bergenheim changed the candles to another place. Clemence walked slowly
      toward the window; she had hardly opened it, when a purse fell upon the
      floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Close it now,&rdquo; said the Baron. While his wife was quietly obeying, he
      picked up the purse, and opening it, took the following note from it:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;I have ruined you&mdash;you for whom I would gladly have died! But of
   what use are regrets and despair now? And my blood will not wipe
   away your tears. Our position is so frightful that I tremble so
   speak of it. I ought to tell you the truth, however, horrible as it
   may be. Do not curse me, Clemence; do not impute to me this
   fatality, which obliges me thus to torture you. In a few hours I
   shall have expiated the wrongs of my love, or you yourself may be
   free. Free! pardon me for using this word; I know it is an odious
   one to you, but I am too troubled to find another. Whatever
   happens, I am about to put within your reach the only aid which it
   is possible for me to offer you; it will at least give you a choice
   of unhappiness. If you never see me again, to live with him will be
   a torture beyond your strength, perhaps, for you love me. I do not
   know how to express my thoughts, and I dare not offer you advice or
   entreat you. All that I feel is the necessity of telling you that
   my whole life belongs to you, that I am yours until death; but I
   hardly dare have the courage to lay at your feet the offering of a
   destiny already so sad, and which may soon be stained with blood.
   A fatal necessity sometimes imposes actions which public opinion
   condemns, but the heart excuses, for it alone understands them.
   Do not be angry at what you are about to read; never did words like
   these come out of a more desolate heart. During the whole day a
   post-chaise will wait for you at the rear of the Montigny plateau;
   a fire lighted upon the rock which you can see from your room will
   notify you of its presence. In a short time it can reach the Rhine.
   A person devoted to you will accompany you to Munich, to the house
   of one of my relatives, whose character and position will assure you
   sufficient protection from all tyranny. There, at least, you will
   be permitted to weep. That is all that I can do for you. My heart
   is broken when I think of the powerlessness of my love. They say
   that when one crushes the scorpion which has wounded him, he is
   cured; even my death will not repair the wrong that I have done you;
   it will only be one grief the more. Can you understand how
   desperate is the feeling which I experience now? For months past,
   to be loved by you has been the sole desire of my heart, and now I
   must repent ever having attained it. Out of pity for you, I ought
   to wish that you did love me with a love as perishable as my life,
   so that a remembrance of me would leave you in peace. All this is
   so sad that I have not the courage to continue. Adieu, Clemence!
   Once more, one last time, I must say: I love you! and yet, I dare
   not. I feel unworthy to speak to you thus, for my love has become a
   disastrous gift. Did I not ruin you? The only word that seems to
   be permissible is the one that even a murderer dares to address to
   his God: pardon me!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      After reading this, the Baron passed the letter to his wife without saying
      a word, and resumed his sombre attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see what he asks of you?&rdquo; he said, after a rather long pause, as he
      observed the dazed way in which Madame de Bergenheim&rsquo;s eyes wandered over
      this letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My head is bewildered,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;I do not understand what he says&mdash;Why
      does he speak of death?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christian&rsquo;s lips curled disdainfully as he answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does not concern you; one does not kill women.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They need it not to die,&rdquo; replied Clemence, who gazed at her husband with
      wild, haggard eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you are going to fight?&rdquo; she added, after a moment&rsquo;s pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, have you divined as much?&rdquo; he replied, with an ironical smile;
      &ldquo;it is a wonderful thing how quick is your intelligence! You have spoken
      the truth. You see, each of us has his part to play. The wife deceives her
      husband; the husband fights with the lover, and the lover in order to
      close the comedy in a suitable manner&mdash;proposes to run away with the
      wife, for that is the meaning of his letter, notwithstanding all his
      oratorical precautions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are going to fight!&rdquo; she exclaimed, with the energy of despair. &ldquo;You
      are going to fight! And for me&mdash;unworthy and miserable creature that
      I am! What have you done? And is he not free to love? I alone am the
      guilty one, I alone have offended you, and I alone deserve punishment. Do
      with me what you will; shut me up in a convent or a cell; bring me poison,
      I will drink it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Baron burst into sardonic laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you are afraid that I shall kill, him?&rdquo; said he, gazing at her
      intently, with his arms crossed upon his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear for you, for us all. Do you think that I can live after causing
      blood to be shed? If there must be a victim, take me&mdash;or, at least,
      begin with me. Have pity! tell me that you will not fight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But think&mdash;there is an even chance that you may be set free!&rdquo; said
      he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spare me!&rdquo; she murmured, shivering with horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a pity that blood must be shed, is it not?&rdquo; said Bergenheim, in a
      mocking tone; &ldquo;adultery would be pleasant but for that. I am sure that you
      think me coarse and brutal to look upon your honor as a serious thing,
      when you do not do so yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I entreat you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the one who has to entreat you. This astonishes you, does it not?&mdash;While
      I live, I shall protect your reputation in spite of yourself; but if I
      die, try to guard it yourself. Content yourself with having betrayed me;
      do not outrage my memory. I am glad now that we have no children, for I
      should fear for them, and should feel obliged to deprive you of their care
      as much as lay in my power. That is one trouble the less. But as you bear
      my name, and I can not take it away from you, I beg of you do not drag it
      in the mire when I shall not be here to wash it for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young woman fell back upon her seat as if every fibre in her body had
      been successively torn to pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You crush me to the earth!&rdquo; she said, feebly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This revolts you,&rdquo; continued the husband, who seemed to choose the most
      cutting thrust; &ldquo;you are young; this is your first error, you are not made
      for such adventures. But rest assured, one becomes accustomed to
      everything. A lover always knows how to find the most beautiful phrases
      with which to console a widow and vanquish her repugnances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are killing me,&rdquo; she murmured, falling back almost unconscious in her
      chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian leaned over her, and, taking her by the arm, said in a low tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember, if I die and he asks you to follow him, you will be an infamous
      creature if you obey him. He is a man to glory in you; that is easy enough
      to see. He is a man who would drag you after him&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! have pity&mdash;I shall die&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence closed her eyes and her lips twitched convulsively.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first rays of the morning sun fell upon another scene in the opposite
      wing of the chateau. Marillac was quietly sleeping the sleep of the just
      when he was suddenly awakened by a shaking that nearly threw him out of
      his bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to the devil!&rdquo; he said, angrily, when he succeeded in half opening his
      heavy eyes, and recognized Gerfaut standing beside his bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get up!&rdquo; said the latter, taking him by the arm to give more force to his
      command.
    </p>
    <p>
      The artist covered himself with the clothes up to his chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you walking in your sleep or insane?&rdquo; asked Marillac, &ldquo;or do you want
      me to go to work?&rdquo; he added, as he saw that his friend had some papers in
      his hand. &ldquo;You know very well I never have any ideas when fasting, and
      that I am stupid until noon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get up at once!&rdquo; said Gerfaut, &ldquo;I must have a talk with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something so serious and urgent in Gerfaut&rsquo;s accent as he said
      these words, that the artist got up at once and hurriedly dressed himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; he asked, as he put on his dressing-gown, &ldquo;you look
      as if the affairs of the nation rested upon you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put on your coat and boots,&rdquo; said Octave, &ldquo;you must go to La Fauconnerie.
      They are used to seeing you go out early in the morning for your
      appointments with Reine, and therefore&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is to this shepherdess you would send me!&rdquo; interrupted the artist, as
      he began to undress himself; &ldquo;in that case I will go to bed again. Enough
      of that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am to fight with Bergenheim at nine o&rsquo;clock!&rdquo; said Gerfaut, in a low
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stupendous!&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac, as he jumped back a few steps, and then
      stood as motionless as a statue. Without wasting any time in unnecessary
      explanations, his friend gave him a brief account of the night&rsquo;s events.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I need you; can I count upon your friendship?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In life and in death!&rdquo; exclaimed Marillac, and he pressed his hand with
      the emotion that the bravest of men feel at the approach of a danger which
      threatens one who is dear to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, as he handed him the papers in his hand, &ldquo;is a
      letter for you in which you will find my instructions in full; they will
      serve you as a guide, according to circumstances. This sealed paper will
      be deposited by you in the office of the public prosecutor at Nancy, under
      certain circumstances which my note explains. Finally, this is my will. I
      have no very near relative; I have made you my heir.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me! I do not know a more honest man than you, that is the
      reason why I select you. First, this legacy is a trust. I speak to you now
      in case of events which probably will never happen, but which I ought to
      prepare for. I do not know what effect this may have upon Clemence&rsquo;s fate;
      her aunt, who is very austere, may quarrel with her and deprive her of her
      rights; her personal fortune is not very large, I believe, and I know
      nothing about her marriage settlement. She may thus be entirely at her
      husband&rsquo;s mercy, and that is what I will not allow. My fortune is
      therefore a trust that you will hold to be placed at her disposal at any
      time. I hope that she loves me enough not to refuse this service of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well and good!&rdquo; said Marillac; &ldquo;I will admit that the thought of
      inheriting from you choked me like a noose around my neck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg of you to accept for yourself my copyrights as author. You can not
      refuse that,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, with a half smile; &ldquo;this legacy belongs to the
      domain of art. To whom should I leave it if not to you, my Patroclus, my
      faithful collaborator?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The artist took several agitated turns about his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To think,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;that I was the one who saved this Bergenheim&rsquo;s
      life! If he kills you, I shall never forgive myself. And yet, I told you
      this would end in some tragic manner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What business had he there? Is it not so? What can I say? We were seeking
      for a drama; here it is. I am not anxious on my own account, but on hers.
      Unhappy woman! A duel is a stone that might fall upon a man&rsquo;s head twenty
      times a day; it is sufficient for a simpleton if you stare at him, or for
      an awkward fellow if you tread upon his toes; but on her account&mdash;poor
      angel!&mdash;I can not think of it. I need the fullest command of my head
      and my heart. But it is growing lighter; there is not a moment to lose. Go
      to the stable; saddle a horse yourself, if there is no servant up; go, as
      I said, to La Fauconnerie; I have often seen a post-chaise in the tavern
      courtyard; order it to wait all day at the back of the Montigny plateau.
      You will find everything explained in detail in the note which I have
      given you. Here is my purse; I need no money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marillac put the purse in his pocket and the papers in his
      memorandum-book; he then buttoned up his redingote and put on his
      travelling cap. His countenance showed a state of exaltation which belied,
      for the time being, the pacific theories he had expounded a few days
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can depend upon me as upon yourself,&rdquo; said he with energy. &ldquo;If this
      poor woman calls for my aid, I promise you that I will serve her
      faithfully. I will take her wherever she wishes; to China, if she asks it,
      and in spite of the whole police force. If Bergenheim kills you and then
      follows her up, there will be another duel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said these words, he took his stiletto and a pair of pistols from
      the mantel and put them in his pocket, after examining the edge of the one
      and the caps of the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu!&rdquo; said Gerfaut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu!&rdquo; said the artist, whose extreme agitation contrasted strongly with
      his friend&rsquo;s calm. &ldquo;Rest easy! I will look after her&mdash;and I will
      publish a complete edition&mdash;But what an idea&mdash;to accept a duel
      as irregular as this! Have you ever seen him use a gun? He had no right to
      exact this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurry! you must leave before the servants are up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kiss me, my poor fellow!&rdquo; said Marillac, with tears in his eyes; &ldquo;it is
      not very manly I know, but I can not help it&mdash;Oh! these women! I
      adore them, of course; but just now I am like Nero, I wish that they all
      had but one head. It is for these little, worthless dolls that we kill
      each other!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can curse them on your way,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, who was impatient to see
      him leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, good gracious, yes! They can flatter themselves this moment that they
      all inspire me with a deadly hatred.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not make any noise,&rdquo; said his friend, as he carefully opened the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marillac pressed his hand for the last time, and went out. When he reached
      the end of the corridor, he stopped a moment, then went back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Above all things,&rdquo; said he, as he passed his head through the half-open
      door, &ldquo;no foolish proceedings. Remember that it is necessary that one of
      you should fall, and that if you fail; he will not. Take your time&mdash;aim&mdash;and
      fire at him as you would at a rabbit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After this last piece of advice, he went away; ten minutes after he had
      left, Gerfaut saw him riding out of the courtyard as fast as Beverley&rsquo;s
      four legs would carry him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV. THE WILD BOAR
    </h2>
    <p>
      The most radiant sun that ever gilded a beautiful September day had arisen
      upon the castle. The whole valley was as fresh and laughing as a young
      girl who had just left her bath. The rocks seemed to have a band of silver
      surrounding them; the woods a mantle of green draped over their shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an unusual excitement in the courtyard of the chateau. The
      servants were coming and going, the dogs were starting a concert of
      irregular barks, and the horses were jumping about, sharing their
      instinctive presentiment and trying to break away from the bridles which
      held them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baron, seated in his saddle with his usual military attitude, and a
      cigar in his mouth, went from one to another, speaking in a joking tone
      which prevented anybody from suspecting his secret thoughts. Gerfaut had
      imposed upon his countenance that impassible serenity which guards the
      heart&rsquo;s inner secrets, but had not succeeded so well. His affectation of
      gayety betrayed continual restraint; the smile which he forced upon his
      lips left the rest of his face cold, and never removed the wrinkle between
      his brows. An incident, perhaps sadly longed for, but unhoped for,
      increased this gloomy, melancholy expression. Just as the cavalcade passed
      before the English garden, which separated the sycamore walk from the wing
      of the chateau occupied by Madame de Bergenheim, Octave slackened the pace
      of his horse and lingered behind the rest of his companions; his eyes
      closely examined each of the windows; the blinds of her sleeping-room were
      only half closed; behind the panes he saw the curtains move and then
      separate. A pale face appeared for a moment between the blue folds, like
      an angel who peeps through the sky to gaze upon the earth. Gerfaut raised
      himself on his stirrups so as to drink in this apparition as long as
      possible, but he dared not make one gesture of adieu. As he was still
      endeavoring to obtain one more glance, he saw that the Baron was at his
      side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Play your role better,&rdquo; said he to him; &ldquo;we are surrounded by spies. De
      Camier has already made an observation about your preoccupied demeanor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; said Octave; &ldquo;and you join example to advice. I admire
      your coolness, but I despair of equalling it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must mingle with my guests and talk with them,&rdquo; Christian replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      He started off at a trot; Gerfaut followed his example, stifling a sigh as
      he darted a last glance toward the chateau. They soon rejoined the cart
      which carried several of the hunters, and which Monsieur de Camier drove
      with the assurance of a professional coachman.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a moment&rsquo;s silence, broken only by the trot of the horses and
      the sound of the wheels upon the level ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil ails your dogs?&rdquo; exclaimed Monsieur de Camier suddenly, as
      he turned to the Baron, who was riding behind him. &ldquo;There they are all
      making for the river.&rdquo; Just at this moment the dogs, who could be seen in
      the distance, hurried to the water-side, in spite of all that their leader
      could do to prevent them. They almost disappeared behind the willows that
      bordered the river, and one could hear them barking furiously; their barks
      sounded like rage mingled with terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is some duck that they have scented,&rdquo; observed the prosecutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They wouldn&rsquo;t bark like that,&rdquo; said Monsieur de Camier, with the sagacity
      of a professional hunter; &ldquo;if it were a wolf, they could not make a
      greater uproar. Is it by chance some wild boar who is taking a bath, in
      order to receive us more ceremoniously?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave the horses a vigorous blow from the whip, and they all rapidly
      approached the spot where a scene was taking place which excited to the
      highest pitch everybody&rsquo;s curiosity. Before they reached the spot, the
      keeper, who had run after the dogs to call them together, came out of a
      thicket, waving his hat to stop the hunters, exclaiming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A body! a body!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A body! a drowned man!&rdquo; he exclaimed, when the vehicle stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time it was the public prosecutor who arose and jumped from the cart
      with the agility of a deer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A drowned man!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;In the name of the law, let nobody touch the
      body. Call back the dogs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said these words he hastened to the spot which the servant pointed
      out to him. Everybody dismounted and followed him. Octave and Bergenheim
      had exchanged strange glances when they heard the servant&rsquo;s words.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, as the servant had announced, the battered body of a man, thrown
      by the current against the trunk of the tree, and there caught between two
      branches of the willow as if in a vise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the carpenter!&rdquo; exclaimed Monsieur de Camier as he parted the
      foliage, which had prevented the head from being seen until then, for he
      recognized the workman&rsquo;s livid, swollen features. &ldquo;It is that poor devil
      of a Lambernier, is it not, Bergenheim?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true!&rdquo; stammered Christian, who, in spite of his boldness, could
      not help turning away his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The carpenter!&mdash;drowned!&mdash;this is frightful!&mdash;I never
      should have recognized him&mdash;how disfigured he is!&rdquo; exclaimed the
      others, as they pressed forward to gaze at this horrible spectacle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a sad way to escape justice,&rdquo; observed the notary, in a
      philosophical tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baron seized this opening with avidity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must have crossed the river to escape,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and in his haste he
      made a misstep and fell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The public prosecutor shook his head with an air of doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not probable,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I know the place. If he tried to cross
      the river a little above or a little below the rock&mdash;it doesn&rsquo;t
      matter which&mdash;the current would have carried him into the little bay
      above the rock and not here. It is evident that he must have drowned
      himself or been drowned farther down. I say, been drowned, for you can see
      that he has a wound upon the left side of his forehead, as if he had
      received a violent blow, or his head had, hit against a hard substance.
      Now, if he had been drowned accidentally while crossing the river, he
      would not have been wounded in this manner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This remark silenced the Baron; and while the others exhausted conjectures
      to explain the way in which this tragic event had taken place, he stood
      motionless, with his eyes fastened upon the river and avoiding a glance at
      the dead body. During this time the public prosecutor had taken from his
      pocket some paper and a pen, which he usually carried with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said he, seating himself upon the trunk of a tree opposite
      the drowned man, &ldquo;two of you will do me the favor to act as witnesses
      while I draw up my official report. If any of you have a statement to make
      in regard to this affair, I beg of him to remain here, so that I may
      receive his deposition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nobody stirred, but Gerfaut threw such a penetrating glance at the Baron
      that the latter turned away his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; continued the magistrate, &ldquo;I do not wish any of you to
      renounce the sport on account of this untoward incident. There is nothing
      attractive about this spectacle, and I assure you that if my duty did not
      keep me here, I should be the first to withdraw. Baron, I beg of you to
      send me two men and a stretcher in order to have the body carried away; I
      will have it taken to one of your farms, so as not to frighten the
      ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prosecutor is right,&rdquo; said Christian, whom these words delivered from
      a terrible anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a deliberation, presided over by Monsieur de Camier, the &lsquo;tragueurs&rsquo; 
      and the dogs left in silence to surround the thickets where the animal had
      been found to be hidden. At the same time the hunters turned their steps
      in the opposite direction in order to take their positions. They soon
      reached the ditch alongside of which they were to place themselves. From
      time to time, as they advanced, one of them left the party and remained
      mute and motionless like a sentinel at his post. This manoeuvre gradually
      reduced their numbers, and at last there were only three remaining.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remain here, Camier,&rdquo; said the Baron, when they were about sixty
      steps from the last position.
    </p>
    <p>
      That gentleman, who knew the ground, was hardly flattered by this
      proposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you are on your own grounds; you ought at least to do
      the honors of your woods and let us choose our own positions. I think you
      wish to place yourself upon the outskirts, because it is always about that
      region that the animal first appears; but there will be two of us, for I
      shall go also.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This determination annoyed Christian considerably, since it threatened to
      ruin the plan so prudently laid out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to put our friend Gerfaut at this post,&rdquo; said he, whispering
      to the refractory hunter; &ldquo;I shall be very much pleased if he has an
      opportunity to fire. What difference does one boar more or less make to an
      old hunter like you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well and good; just as you like,&rdquo; retorted Monsieur de Carrier, striking
      the ground with the butt-end of his gun, and beginning to whistle in order
      to cool off his anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the adversaries found themselves side by side and alone, Bergenheim&rsquo;s
      countenance changed suddenly; the smiling look he had assumed, in order to
      convince the old hunter of his cheerful disposition, gave place to deep
      gravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remember our agreement,&rdquo; he said, as they walked along; &ldquo;I feel sure
      that the boar will come in our direction. At the moment when I call out,
      &lsquo;Take care!&rsquo; I shall expect you to fire; if, at the end of twenty seconds,
      you have not done so, I warn you that I shall fire myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, Monsieur,&rdquo; said Gerfaut, looking at him fixedly; &ldquo;you also
      doubtless remember my words; the discovery of this body will give them
      still more weight. The public prosecutor has already begun his preliminary
      proceedings; remember that it depends on me how they shall be completed.
      The deposition which I spoke to you about is in the hands of a safe
      person, who is fully instructed to make use of it if necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marillac, I suppose,&rdquo; said Christian, in an evil tone; &ldquo;he is your
      confidant. It is a fatal secret that you have confided to him, Monsieur.
      If I survive today, I shall have to secure his silence. May all this
      blood, past, present, and future, be on your head!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Deeply affected by this reproach, the Vicomte bowed his head in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is my place,&rdquo; said the Baron, stopping before the trunk of an old
      oak, &ldquo;and there is the elm where you are to station yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gerfaut stopped, and said, in a trembling voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, one of us will not leave these woods alive. In the presence of
      death, one tells the truth. I hope for your peace of mind, and my own,
      that you will believe my last words. I swear to you, upon my honor and by
      all that is sacred, that Madame de Bergenheim is innocent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bowed, and withdrew from Christian without waiting for a response.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim and Gerfaut were out of sight of the others, and stood at their
      posts with eyes fastened upon each other. The ditch was wide enough to
      prevent the branches of the trees from troubling them; at the distance of
      sixty feet, which separated them, each could see his adversary standing
      motionless, framed by the green foliage. Suddenly, barking was heard in
      the distance, partially drowned by the firing of a gun. A few seconds
      later, two feeble reports were heard, followed by an imprecation from
      Monsieur de Camier, whose caps flashed in the pan. The Baron, who had just
      leaned forward that he might see better through the thicket, raised his
      hand to warn Octave to hold himself in readiness. He then placed himself
      in position. An extreme indecision marked Gerfaut&rsquo;s attitude. After
      raising his gun, he dropped it to the ground with a despondent gesture, as
      if his resolution to fire had suddenly abandoned him; the pallor of death
      could not be more terrible than that which overspread his features. The
      howling of the dogs and shouts of the hunters increased. Suddenly another
      sound was heard. Low, deep growls, followed by the crackling of branches,
      came from the woods opposite our adversaries. The whole thicket seemed to
      tremble as if agitated by a storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care!&rdquo; exclaimed Bergenheim, in a firm voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment an enormous head appeared, and the report of a gun was
      heard. When Gerfaut looked through the smoke caused by his gun, at the
      farther end of the ditch, nothing was to be seen but the foliage.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boar, after crossing the clearing, vanished like a flash, leaving
      behind him a trail of broken branches&mdash;and Bergenheim lay behind the
      trunk of the old oak, upon which large drops of blood had already fallen.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI. BERGENHEIM&rsquo;S REVENGE
    </h2>
    <p>
      On the same morning the drawing-room of the Bergenheim castle was the
      theatre of a quiet home scene very much like the one we described at the
      beginning of this story. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was seated in her
      armchair reading the periodicals which had just arrived; Aline was
      practising upon the piano, and her sister-in-law was seated before one of
      the windows embroidering. By the calm attitude of these three ladies, and
      the interest they seemed to show in their several occupations, one would
      have supposed that they were all equally peaceful at heart. Madame de
      Bergenheim, upon rising, had resumed her usual habits; she managed to find
      the proper words to reply when spoken to, her dejection did not differ
      from her usual melancholy enough for it to become the subject of remark. A
      rather bright color in her cheeks heightened her beauty; her eyes never
      had sparkled with more brilliancy; but if a hand had been placed upon her
      forehead, one would have soon discovered by its burning the secret of all
      this unwonted color. In fact, in the midst of this sumptuous room,
      surrounded by her friends, and bending over her embroidery with most
      exquisite grace, Madame de Bergenheim was slowly dying. A wasting fever
      was circulating like poison through her veins. She felt that an unheard-of
      sorrow was hanging over her head, and that no effort of hers could prevent
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this very moment, either the man she belonged to or the one she loved
      was about to die; whatever her widowhood might be, she felt that her
      mourning would be brief; young, beautiful, surrounded by all the
      privileges of rank and fortune, life was closing around her, and left but
      one pathway open, which was full of blood; she would have to bathe her
      feet in it in order to pass through.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that smoke above the Montigny rock?&rdquo; Aline exclaimed with
      surprise; &ldquo;it looks as if there were a fire in the woods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim raised her eyes, shivered from head to foot as she
      saw the stream of smoke which stood out against the horizon, and then let
      her head droop upon her breast. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stopped her
      reading as she heard Aline&rsquo;s remark, and turned slowly to look out of the
      window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s some of the shepherds&rsquo; work,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;they have built a fire in
      the bushes at the risk of setting fire to the whole woods. Really, I do
      not know what to think of your husband, Clemence; he takes everybody away
      to the hunt with him, and does not leave a soul here to prevent his
      dwelling from being devastated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence made no reply, and her sister-in-law, who expected she would say
      something to keep the conversation alive, returned and seated herself at
      the piano with a pouting air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, that will do for to-day!&rdquo; exclaimed the old lady at the first
      notes; &ldquo;you have split our heads long enough. You would do better to study
      your history of France.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline closed the piano angrily; but instead of obeying this last piece of
      advice, she remained seated upon the stool with the sulky air of a pupil
      in disgrace. A deep silence reigned. Madame de Bergenheim had dropped her
      embroidery without noticing it. From time to time she trembled as if a
      chill passed over her, her eyes were raised to watch the smoke ascending
      above the rock, or else she seemed to listen to some imaginary sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, as she laid her journal down in
      her lap, &ldquo;good morals have made great progress since the July revolution.
      Yesterday a woman twenty years of age ran away to Montpelier with her
      lover; to-day, here is another, in Lyons, who poisons her husband and
      kills herself afterward. If I were superstitious, I should say that the
      world was coming to an end. What do you think of such atrocious doings, my
      dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clemence raised her head with an effort, and answered, in a gloomy voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must pardon her, since she is dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very indulgent,&rdquo; replied the old aunt; &ldquo;such creatures ought to
      be burned alive, like the Brinvilliers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They often speak in the papers of husbands who kill their wives, but not
      so often of wives killing their husbands,&rdquo; said Aline, with the partisan
      feeling natural to the fair sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not proper that you should talk of such horrid things,&rdquo; said the
      old lady, in a severe tone; &ldquo;behold the fruits of all the morals of the
      age! It is the effect of all the disgusting stuff that is acted nowadays
      upon the stage and written in novels. When one thinks of the fine
      education that is given youth at the present time, it is enough to make
      one tremble for the future!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle, you may be sure that I shall never kill my
      husband,&rdquo; replied the young girl, to whom this remark seemed particularly
      addressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      A stifled groan, which Madame de Bergenheim could not suppress, attracted
      the attention of the two ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; asked Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, noticing
      for the first time her niece&rsquo;s dejected air and the frightened expression
      in her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; murmured the latter; &ldquo;I think it is the heat of the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aline hastily opened a window, then went and took her sister-in-law&rsquo;s
      hands in her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a fever,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;your hands burn and your forehead also; I
      did not dare tell you, but your beautiful color&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A frightful cry which Madame de Bergenheim uttered made the young girl
      draw back in fright.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clemence! Clemence!&rdquo; exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who thought
      that her niece had gone insane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you not hear?&rdquo; she cried, with an accent of terror impossible to
      describe. She darted suddenly toward the drawing-room door; but, instead
      of opening it, she leaned against it with arms crossed. Then she ran two
      or three times around the room in a sort of frenzy, and ended by falling
      upon her knees before the sofa and burying her head in its cushions.
    </p>
    <p>
      This scene bewildered the two women. While Mademoiselle de Corandeuil
      tried to raise Clemence, Aline, still more frightened, ran out of the room
      to call for aid. A rumor which had just begun to arise in the courtyard
      was distinctly heard when the door was thrown open. A moment more, and a
      piercing shriek was heard, and the young girl rushed into the parlor;
      throwing herself on her knees beside her sister-in-law she pressed her to
      her breast with convulsive energy.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she felt herself seized in this fashion, Clemence raised her head and,
      placing her hands upon Aline&rsquo;s shoulders, she pushed her backward and
      gazed at her with eyes that seemed to devour her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which? which?&rdquo; she asked, in a harsh voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother&mdash;covered with blood!&rdquo; stammered Aline.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim pushed her aside and threw herself upon the sofa. Her
      first feeling was a horrible joy at not hearing the name of Octave; but
      she tried to smother her hysterical utterances by pressing her mouth
      against the cushion upon which her face was leaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      A noise of voices was heard in the vestibule; the greatest confusion
      seemed to reign among the people outside. At last, several men entered the
      drawing room; at their head was Monsieur de Camier, whose ruddy face had
      lost all its color.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not be frightened, ladies,&rdquo; said he, in a trembling voice; &ldquo;do not be
      frightened. It is only a slight accident, without any danger. Monsieur de
      Bergenheim was wounded in the hunt,&rdquo; he continued, addressing Mademoiselle
      de Corandeuil.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, the folding-doors were thrown open, and two servants appeared,
      bearing the Baron upon a mattress.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the servants had deposited their burden in front of one of the
      windows, Aline threw herself upon her brother&rsquo;s body, uttering
      heartrending cries. Madame de Bergenheim did not stir; she lay upon the
      sofa with eyes and ears buried in the cushions, and seemed deaf and blind
      to all that surrounded her. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was the only one
      who preserved her presence of mind. Controlling her emotion, she leaned
      over the Baron and sought for some sign of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he dead?&rdquo; she asked, in a low voice, of Monsieur de Camier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mademoiselle,&rdquo; replied the latter, in a tone which announced that he
      had little hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has a physician been sent for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Remiremont, Epinal, everywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment Aline uttered a cry of joy. Bergenheim had just stirred,
      brought to life, perhaps, by the pressure of his sister&rsquo;s arms. He opened
      his eyes and, closed them several times; at last his energy triumphed over
      his sufferings; he sat up on his improvised cot and, leaning upon his left
      elbow, he glanced around the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My wife!&rdquo; said he, in a weak voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim arose and forced her way through the group that
      surrounded the mattress, and silently took her place beside her husband.
      Her features had changed so terribly within a few moments that a murmur of
      pity ran through the group of men that filled the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take my sister away,&rdquo; said Christian, disengaging his hand from the young
      girl, who was covering it with kisses and tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother! I can not leave my brother!&rdquo; exclaimed Aline, as she was
      dragged away rather than led to her room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave me for a moment,&rdquo; continued the Baron; &ldquo;I wish to speak to my
      wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil gave Monsieur de Gamier a questioning glance,
      as if to ask if it were best to grant this request.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can do nothing before the doctors arrive,&rdquo; said the latter, in a low
      voice, &ldquo;and perhaps it would be imprudent to oppose him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle de Corandeuil recognized the correctness of this observation,
      and left the room, asking the others to follow her. During this time,
      Madame de Bergenheim remained motionless in her place, apparently
      insensible to all that surrounded her. The noise of the closing door
      aroused her from her stupor. She looked around the room as if she were
      seeking the others; her eyes, which were opened with the fixed look of a
      somnambulist, did not change their expression when they fell upon her
      husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come nearer,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I have not strength enough to speak loud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She obeyed mechanically. When she saw the large red stain which had soaked
      Christian&rsquo;s right sleeve, she closed her eyes, threw back her head, and
      her features contracted with a horrified expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You women are wonderfully fastidious,&rdquo; said the Baron, as he noticed this
      movement; &ldquo;you delight in causing a murder, but the slightest scratch
      frightens you. Pass over to the left side; you will not see so much
      blood-besides, it is the side where the heart is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something terrible in the irony of the voice in which he spoke
      at this moment. Clemence fell upon her knees beside him and took his hand,
      crying,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon! pardon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dying man took away his hand, raised his wife&rsquo;s head, and, looking at
      her a few moments attentively, he said at last:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your eyes are very dry. No tears! What! not one tear when you see me
      thus!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can not weep,&rdquo; replied she; &ldquo;I shall die!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very humiliating for me to be so poorly regretted, and it does you
      little honor&mdash;try to shed a few tears, Madame&mdash;it will be
      remarked&mdash;a widow who does not weep!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A widow&mdash;never!&rdquo; she said, with energy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be convenient if they sold tears as they sell crape, would it
      not? Ah! only you women have a real talent for that&mdash;all women know
      how to weep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not die, Christian&mdash;oh! tell me that you will not die&mdash;and
      that you will forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your lover has killed me,&rdquo; said Bergenheim, slowly; &ldquo;I have a bullet in
      my chest&mdash;I feel it&mdash;I am the one who is to die&mdash;in less
      than an hour I shall be a corpse&mdash;don&rsquo;t you see how hard it is
      already for me to talk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In reality his voice was becoming weaker and weaker. His breath grew
      shorter with each word; a wheezing sound within his chest indicated the
      extent of the lesion and the continued extravasation of blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy! pardon!&rdquo; exclaimed the unhappy woman, prostrating herself upon the
      floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More air&mdash;open the windows&mdash;&rdquo; said the Baron, as he fell back
      upon the mattress, exhausted by the efforts he had just made to talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim obeyed his order with the precision of an automaton.
      A fresh, pure breeze entered the room; when the curtains were raised,
      floods of light illuminated the floor, and the old portraits, suddenly
      lighted up, looked like ghosts who had left their graves to witness the
      death agonies of the last of their descendants. Christian, refreshed by
      the air which swept over his face, sat up again. He gazed with a
      melancholy eye at the radiant sun and the green woods which lay stretched
      out in front of the chateau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I lost my father on such a day as this,&rdquo; said he, as if talking to
      himself&mdash;&ldquo;all our family die during the beautiful weather&mdash;ah!
      do you see that smoke over the Montigny rock?&rdquo; he exclaimed, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      After opening the windows, Clemence stepped out upon the balcony. Leaning
      upon the balustrade, she gazed at the deep, rapid river which flowed at
      her feet. Her husband&rsquo;s voice calling her aroused her from this gloomy
      contemplation. When she returned to Christian, his eyes were flaming, a
      flush like that of fever had overspread his cheeks, and a writhing,
      furious indignation was depicted upon his face. &ldquo;Were you looking at that
      smoke?&rdquo; said he, angrily; &ldquo;it is your lover&rsquo;s signal; he is there&mdash;he
      is waiting to take you away&mdash;and I, your husband, forbid you to go&mdash;you
      must not leave me&mdash;your place is here&mdash;close by me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Close by you,&rdquo; she repeated, not understanding what he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait at least until I am dead,&rdquo; he continued, while his eyes flashed more
      and more&mdash;&ldquo;let my body get cold&mdash;when you are a widow you can do
      as you like&mdash;you will be free&mdash;and even then&mdash;I forbid it&mdash;I
      order you to wear mourning for me&mdash;above all, try to weep&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strike me with a knife! At least I should bleed,&rdquo; said she, bending
      toward him and tearing open her dress to lay bare her bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seized her by the arm, and, exerting all his wasting strength to reach
      her, he said, in a voice whose harshness was changed almost into
      supplication:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clemence, do not dishonor me by giving yourself to him when I am dead&mdash;I
      would curse you if I thought that you would do that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! do not curse me!&rdquo; she exclaimed; &ldquo;do not drive me mad. Do you not
      know that I am about to die?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are women who do not see their husband&rsquo;s blood upon their lover&rsquo;s
      hands&mdash;but I would curse you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He dropped Clemence&rsquo;s arm and fell back upon the mattress with a sob. His
      eyes closed, and some unintelligible words died on his lips, which were
      covered with a bloody froth. He was dying.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Bergenheim, crouched down upon the floor, heard him repeating in
      his expiring voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would curse you&mdash;I would curse you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She remained motionless for some time, her eyes fastened upon the dying
      man before her with a look of stupefied curiosity. Then she arose and went
      to the mirror; she gazed at herself for a moment as if obeying the whim of
      an insane woman, pushing aside, in order to see herself better, the hair
      which covered her forehead. Suddenly a flash of reason came to her; she
      uttered a horrible cry as she saw some blood upon her face; she looked at
      herself from head to foot; her dress was stained with it; she wrung her
      hands in horror, and felt that they were wet. Her husband&rsquo;s blood was
      everywhere. Then, her brain filled with the fire of raving madness, she
      rushed out upon the balcony, and Bergenheim, before his last breath
      escaped him, heard the noise of her body as it fell into the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several days later, the Sentinelle des Vosges contained the following
      paragraph, written with the official sorrow found in all death-notices at
      thirty sous per line:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A frightful event, which has just thrown two of our best families into
      mourning, has caused the greatest consternation throughout the Remiremont
      district. Monsieur le Baron de Bergenheim, one of the richest land-owners
      in our province, was killed by accident at a wild-boar hunt on his own
      domains. It was by the hand of one of his best friends, Monsieur de
      Gerfaut, well known by, his important literary work, which has given its
      author a worldwide reputation, that he received his death-blow. Nothing
      could equal the grief of the involuntary cause of this catastrophe. Madame
      de Bergenheim, upon learning of this tragic accident, was unable to
      survive the death of her adored husband, and drowned herself in her
      despair. Thus the same grave received this couple, still in the bloom of
      life, to whom their great mutual affection seemed to promise a most happy
      future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Twenty-eight months later the Parisian journals, in their turn, inserted,
      with but slight variations, the following article:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing could give any idea of the enthusiasm manifested at the
      Theatre-Francais last evening, at the first representation of Monsieur de
      Gerfaut&rsquo;s new drama. Never has this writer, whose silence literature has
      deplored for too long a time, distinguished himself so highly. His early
      departure for the East is announced. Let us hope that this voyage will
      turn to the advantage of art, and that the beautiful and sunny countries
      of Asia will be a mine for new inspirations for this celebrated poet, who
      has taken, in such a glorious manner, his place at the heal of our
      literature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bergenheim&rsquo;s last wish had been realized; his honor was secure; nobody
      outraged by even an incredulous smile the purity of Clemence&rsquo;s
      winding-sheet; and the world did not refuse to their double grave the
      commonplace consideration that had surrounded their lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clemence&rsquo;s death did not destroy the future of the man who loved her so
      passionately, but the mourning he wears for her, to this day, is of the
      kind that is never put aside. And, as the poet&rsquo;s heart was always
      reflected in his works, the world took part in this mourning without being
      initiated into its mystery. When the bitter cup of memory overflowed in
      them, they believed it to be a new vein which had opened in the writer&rsquo;s
      brain. Octave received, every day, congratulations upon this sadly
      exquisite tone of his lyre, whose vibrations surpassed in supreme
      intensity the sighs of Rene or Obermann&rsquo;s Reveries. Nobody knew that those
      sad pages were written under the inspiration of the most mournful of
      visions, and that this dark and melancholy tinge, which was taken for a
      caprice of the imagination, had its source in blood and in the spasms of a
      broken heart.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ETEXT EDITOR&rsquo;S BOOKMARKS:

     Antipathy for her husband bordering upon aversion
     Attractions that difficulties give to pleasure
     Attractive abyss of drunkenness
     Consented to become a wife so as not to remain a maiden
     Despotic tone which a woman assumes when sure of her empire
     Evident that the man was above his costume; a rare thing!
     I believed it all; one is so happy to believe!
     It is a terrible step for a woman to take, from No to Yes
     Lady who requires urging, although she is dying to sing
     Let them laugh that win!
     Let ultra-modesty destroy poetry
     Love is a fire whose heat dies out for want of fuel
     Mania for fearing that she may be compromised
     Material in you to make one of Cooper&rsquo;s redskins
     Misfortunes never come single
     No woman is unattainable, except when she loves another
     Obstinacy of drunkenness
     Recourse to concessions is often as fatal to women as to kings
     Regards his happiness as a proof of superiority
     She said yes, so as not to say no
     These are things that one admits only to himself
     Those whom they most amuse are those who are best worth amusing
     Topics that occupy people who meet for the first time
     Trying to conceal by a smile (a blush)
     When one speaks of the devil he appears
     Wiped his nose behind his hat, like a well-bred orator
     You are playing &lsquo;who loses wins!&rsquo; 
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">



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