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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..de77670 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65481 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65481) diff --git a/old/65481-0.txt b/old/65481-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5823020..0000000 --- a/old/65481-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3053 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gabrielle de Bergerac, by Henry James - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Gabrielle de Bergerac - -Author: Henry James - -Release Date: May 31, 2021 [eBook #65481] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously - made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GABRIELLE DE BERGERAC *** - -GABRIELLE DE BERGERAC - - - -BY HENRY JAMES - - - - -NEW YORK - -BONI AND LIVERIGHT - -1918 - - - - -CONTENTS - - PART I - PART II - PART III - - - - -GABRIELLE DE BERGERAC - - -PART I - - -My good old friend, in his white flannel dressing-gown, with his wig -"removed," as they say of the dinner-service, by a crimson nightcap, sat -for some moments gazing into the fire. At last he looked up. I knew what -was coming. "Apropos, that little debt of mine--" - -Not that the debt was really very little. But M. de Bergerac was a man -of honor, and I knew I should receive my dues. He told me frankly that -he saw no way, either in the present or the future, to reimburse me in -cash. His only treasures were his paintings; would I choose one of them? -Now I had not spent an hour in M. de Bergerac's little parlor twice a -week for three winters, without learning that the Baron's paintings -were, with a single exception, of very indifferent merit. On the other -hand, I had taken a great fancy to the picture thus excepted. Yet, as I -knew it was a family portrait, I hesitated to claim it. I refused to -make a choice. M. de Bergerac, however, insisted, and I finally laid my -finger on the charming image of my friend's aunt. I of course insisted, -on my side, that M. de Bergerac should retain it during the remainder of -his life, and so it was only after his decease that I came into -possession of it. It hangs above my table as I write, and I have only to -glance up at the face of my heroine to feel how vain it is to attempt to -describe it. The portrait represents, in dimensions several degrees -below those of nature, the head and shoulders of a young girl of -two-and-twenty. The execution of the work is not especially strong, but -it is thoroughly respectable and one may easily see that the painter -deeply appreciated the character of the face. The countenance is -interesting rather than beautiful,--the forehead broad and open, the -eyes slightly prominent, all the features full and firm and yet replete -with gentleness. The head is slightly thrown back, as if in movement, -and the lips are parted in a half-smile. And yet, in spite of this -tender smile, I always fancy that the eyes are sad. The hair, dressed -without powder, is rolled back over a high cushion (as I suppose), and -adorned just above the left ear with a single white rose; while, on the -other side, a heavy tress from behind hangs upon the neck with a sort of -pastoral freedom. The neck is long and full, and the shoulders rather -broad. The whole face has a look of mingled softness and decision, and -seems to reveal a nature inclined to revery, affection, and repose, but -capable of action and even of heroism. Mlle. de Bergerac died under the -axe of the Terrorists. Now that I had acquired a certain property in -this sole memento of her life, I felt a natural curiosity as to her -character and history. Had M. de Bergerac known his aunt? Did he -remember her? Would it be a tax on his good-nature to suggest that he -should favor me with a few reminiscences? The old man fixed his eyes on -the fire, and laid his hand on mine, as if his memory were fain to draw -from both sources--from the ruddy glow and from my fresh young blood--a -certain vital, quickening warmth. A mild, rich smile ran to his lips, -and he pressed my hand. Somehow,--I hardly know why,--I felt touched -almost to tears. Mlle. de Bergerac had been a familiar figure in her -nephew's boyhood, and an important event in her life had formed a sort -of episode in his younger days. It was a simple enough story; but such -as it was, then and there, settling back into his chair, with the -fingers of the clock wandering on to the small hours of the night, he -told it with a tender, lingering garrulity. Such as it is, I repeat it. -I shall give, as far as possible, my friend's words, or the English of -them; but the reader will have to do without his inimitable accents. For -them there is no English. - -My father's household at Bergerac (said the Baron) consisted, exclusive -of the servants, of five persons,--himself, my mother, my aunt (Mlle. de -Bergerac), M. Coquelin (my preceptor), and M. Coquelin's pupil, the heir -of the house. Perhaps, indeed, I should have numbered M. Coquelin among -the servants. It is certain that my mother did. Poor little woman! she -was a great stickler for the rights of birth. Her own birth was all she -had, for she was without health, beauty, or fortune. My father, on his -side, had very little of the last; his property of Bergerac yielded only -enough to keep us without discredit. We gave no entertainments, and -passed the whole year in the country; and as my mother was resolved that -her weak health should do her a kindness as well as an injury, it was -put forward as an apology for everything. We led at best a simple, -somnolent sort of life. There was a terrible amount of leisure for rural -gentlefolks in those good old days. We slept a great deal; we slept, you -will say, on a volcano. It was a very different world from this patent -new world of yours, and I may say that I was born on a different planet. -Yes, in 1789, there came a great convulsion; the earth cracked and -opened and broke, and this poor old _pays de France_ went whirling -through space. When I look back at my childhood, I look over a gulf. -Three years ago, I spent a week at a country house in the neighborhood -of Bergerac, and my hostess drove me over to the site of the château. -The house has disappeared, and there's a homœopathic--hydropathic--what -do you call it?--establishment erected in its place. But the little town -is there, and the bridge on the river, and the church where I was -christened, and the double row of lime-trees on the market-place, and -the fountain in the middle. There's only one striking difference: the -sky is changed. I was born under the old sky. It was black enough, of -course, if we had only had eyes to see it; but to me, I confess, it -looked divinely blue. And in fact it was very bright,--the little patch -under which I cast my juvenile shadow. An odd enough little shadow you -would have thought it. I was promiscuously cuddled and fondled. I was M. -le Chevalier, and prospective master of Bergerac; and when I walked to -church on Sunday, I had a dozen yards of lace on my coat and a little -sword at my side. My poor mother did her best to make me good for -nothing. She had her maid to curl my hair with the tongs, and she used -with her own fingers to stick little black patches on my face. And yet I -was a good deal neglected too, and I would go for days with black -patches of another sort. I'm afraid I should have got very little -education if a kind Providence hadn't given me poor M. Coquelin. A kind -Providence, that is, and my father; for with my mother my tutor was no -favorite. She thought him--and, indeed, she called him--a bumpkin, a -clown. There was a very pretty abbé among her friends, M. Tiblaud by -name, whom she wished to install at the château as my intellectual, and -her spiritual, adviser; but my father, who, without being anything of an -_esprit fort_, had an incurable aversion to a priest out of church, very -soon routed this pious scheme. My poor father was an odd figure of a -man. He belonged to a type as completely obsolete as the biggest of -those big-boned, pre-historic monsters discovered by M. Cuvier. He was -not overburdened with opinions or principles. The only truth that was -absolute to his perception was that the house of Bergerac was _de bonne -noblesse._ His tastes were not delicate. He was fond of the open air, of -long rides, of the smell of the game-stocked woods in autumn, of playing -at bowls, of a drinking-cup, of a dirty pack of cards, and a free-spoken -tavern Hebe. I have nothing of him but his name. I strike you as an old -fossil, a relic, a mummy. Good heavens! you should have seen him,--his -good, his bad manners, his arrogance, his _bonhomie_, his stupidity and -pluck. - -My early years had promised ill for my health; I was listless and -languid, and my father had been content to leave me to the women, who, -on the whole, as I have said, left me a good deal to myself. But one -morning he seemed suddenly to remember that he had a little son and heir -running wild. It was, I remember, in my ninth year, a morning early in -June, after breakfast, at eleven o'clock. He took me by the hand and led -me out on the terrace, and sat down and made me stand between his knees. -I was engaged upon a great piece of bread and butter, which I had -brought away from the table. He put his hand into my hair, and, for the -first time that I could remember, looked me straight in the face. I had -seen him take the forelock of a young colt in the same way, when he -wished to look at its teeth. What did he want? Was he going to send me -for sale? His eyes seemed prodigiously black and his eyebrows terribly -thick. They were very much the eyebrows of that portrait. My father -passed his other hand over the muscles of my arms and the sinews of my -poor little legs. - -"Chevalier," said he, "you're dreadfully puny. What's one to do with -you?" - -I dropped my eyes and said nothing. Heaven knows I felt puny. - -"It's time you knew how to read and write. What are you blushing at?" - -"I _do_ know how to read," said I. - -My father stared. "Pray, who taught you?" - -"I learned in a book." - -"What book?" - -I looked up at my father before I answered. His eyes were bright, and -there was a little flush in his face,--I hardly knew whether of pleasure -or anger. I disengaged myself and went into the drawing-room, where I -took from a cupboard in the wall an odd volume of Scarron's _Roman -comique._ As I had to go through the house, I was absent some minutes. -When I came back I found a stranger on the terrace. A young man in poor -clothes, with a walking-stick, had come up from the avenue, and stood -before my father, with his hat in his hand. At the farther end of the -terrace was my aunt. She was sitting on the parapet, playing with a -great black crow, which we kept in a cage in the dining-room window. I -betook myself to my father's side with my book, and stood staring at our -visitor. He was a dark-eyed, sunburnt young man, of about twenty-eight, -of middle height, broad in the shoulders and short in the neck, with a -slight lameness in one of his legs. He looked travel-stained and weary -and pale. I remember there was something prepossessing in his being -pale. I didn't know that the paleness came simply from his being -horribly hungry. - -"In view of these facts," he said, as I came up, "I have ventured to -presume upon the good-will of M. le Baron." - -My father sat back in his chair, with his legs apart and a hand on each -knee and his waistcoat unbuttoned, as was usual after a meal. "Upon my -word," he said, "I don't know what I can do for you. There's no place -for you in my own household." - -The young man was silent a moment. "Has M. le Baron any children?" he -asked, after a pause. - -"I have my son whom you see here." - -"May I inquire if M. le Chevalier is supplied with a preceptor?" - -My father glanced down at me. "Indeed, he seems to be," he cried. "What -have you got there?" And he took my book. "The little rascal has M. -Scarron for a teacher. This is his preceptor!" - -I blushed very hard, and the young man smiled. "Is that your only -teacher?" he asked. - -"My aunt taught me to read," I said, looking round at her. - -"And did your aunt recommend this book?" asked my father. - -"My aunt gave me M. Plutarque," I said. - -My father burst out laughing, and the young man put his hat up to his -mouth. But I could see that above it his eyes had a very good-natured -look. My aunt, seeing that her name had been mentioned, walked slowly -over to where we stood, still holding her crow on her hand. You have her -there before you; judge how she looked. I remember that she frequently -dressed in blue, my poor aunt, and I know that she must have dressed -simply. Fancy her in a light stuff gown, covered with big blue flowers, -with a blue ribbon in her dark hair, and the points of her high-heeled -blue slippers peeping out under her stiff white petticoat. Imagine her -strolling along the terrace of the château with a villainous black crow -perched on her wrist. You'll admit it's a picture. - -"Is all this true, sister?" said my father. "Is the Chevalier such a -scholar?" - -"He's a clever boy," said my aunt, putting her hand on my head. - -"It seems to me that at a pinch he could do without a preceptor," said -my father. "He has such a learned aunt." - -"I've taught him all I know. He had begun to ask me questions that I was -quite unable to answer." - -"I should think he might," cried my father, with a broad laugh, "when -once he had got into M. Scarron!" - -"Questions out of Plutarch," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "which you must -know Latin to answer." - -"Would you like to know Latin, M. le Chevalier?" said the young man, -looking at me with a smile. - -"Do you know Latin,--you?" I asked. - -"Perfectly," said the young man, with the same smile. - -"Do you want to learn Latin, Chevalier?" said my aunt. - -"Every gentleman learns Latin," said the young man. - -I looked at the poor fellow, his dusty shoes and his rusty clothes. "But -you're not a gentleman," said I. - -He blushed up to his eyes. "Ah, I only teach it," he said. - -In this way it was that Pierre Coquelin came to be my governor. My -father, who had a mortal dislike to all kinds of cogitation and inquiry, -engaged him on the simple testimony of his face and of his own account -of his talents. His history, as he told it, was in three words as -follows: He was of our province, and neither more nor less than the son -of a village tailor. He is my hero: _tirez-vous de là._ Showing a -lively taste for books, instead of being promoted to the paternal bench, -he had been put to study with the Jesuits. After a residence of some -three years with these gentlemen, he had incurred their displeasure by a -foolish breach of discipline, and had been turned out into the world. -Here he had endeavored to make capital out of his excellent education, -and had gone up to Paris with the hope of earning his bread as a -scribbler. But in Paris he scribbled himself hungry and nothing more, -and was in fact in a fair way to die of starvation. At last he -encountered an agent of the Marquis de Rochambeau, who was collecting -young men for the little army which the latter was prepared to conduct -to the aid of the American insurgents. He had engaged himself among -Rochambeau's troops, taken part in several battles, and finally received -a wound in his leg of which the effect was still perceptible. At the end -of three years he had returned to France, and repaired on foot, with -what speed he might, to his native town; but only to find that in his -absence his father had died, after a tedious illness, in which he had -vainly lavished his small earnings upon the physicians, and that his -mother had married again, very little to his taste. Poor Coquelin was -friendless, penniless, and homeless. But once back on his native soil, -he found himself possessed again by his old passion for letters, and, -like: all starving members of his craft, he had turned his face to -Paris. He longed to make up for his three years in the wilderness. He -trudged along, lonely, hungry, and weary, till he came to the gates of -Bergerac. Here, sitting down to rest on a stone, he saw us come out on -the terrace to digest our breakfast in the sun. Poor Coquelin! he had -the stomach of a gentleman. He was filled with an irresistible longing -to rest awhile from his struggle with destiny, and it seemed to him that -for a mess of smoking pottage he would gladly exchange his vague and -dubious future. In obedience to this simple impulse,--an impulse -touching in its humility, when you knew the man,--he made his way up the -avenue. We looked affable enough,--an honest country gentleman, a young -girl playing with a crow, and a little boy eating bread and butter; and -it turned out, we were as kindly as we looked. - -For me, I soon grew extremely fond of him, and I was glad to think in -later days that he had found me a thoroughly docile child. In those -days, you know, thanks to Jean Jacques Rousseau, there was a vast stir -in men's notions of education, and a hundred theories afloat about the -perfect teacher and the perfect pupil. Coquelin was a firm devotee of -Jean Jacques, and very possibly applied some of his precepts to my own -little person. But of his own nature Coquelin was incapable of anything -that was not wise and gentle, and he had no need to learn humanity in -books. He was, nevertheless, a great reader, and when he had not a -volume in his hand he was sure to have two in his pockets. He had half a -dozen little copies of the Greek and Latin poets, bound in yellow -parchment, which, as he said, with a second shirt and a pair of white -stockings, constituted his whole library. He had carried these books to -America, and read them in the wilderness, and by the light of -camp-fires, and in crowded, steaming barracks in winter-quarters. He had -a passion for Virgil. M. Scarron was very soon dismissed to the -cupboard, among the dice-boxes and the old packs of cards, and I was -confined for the time to Virgil and Ovid and Plutarch, all of which, -with the stimulus of Coquelin's own delight, I found very good reading. -But better than any of the stories I read were those stories of his -wanderings, and his odd companions and encounters, and charming tales of -pure fantasy, which, with the best grace in the world, he would recite -by the hour. We took long walks, and he told me the names of the flowers -and the various styles of the stars, and I remember that I often had no -small trouble to keep them distinct. He wrote a very bad hand, but he -made very pretty drawings of the subjects then in vogue,--nymphs and -heroes and shepherds and pastoral scenes. I used to fancy that his -knowledge and skill were inexhaustible, and I pestered him so for -entertainment that I certainly proved that there were no limits to his -patience. - -When he first came to us he looked haggard and thin and weary; but -before the month was out, he had acquired a comfortable rotundity of -person, and something of the sleek and polished look which befits the -governor of a gentleman's son. And yet he never lost a certain gravity -and reserve of demeanor which was nearly akin to a mild melancholy. With -me, half the time, he was of course intolerably bored, and he must have -had hard work to keep from yawning in my face,--which, as he knew I -knew, would have been an unwarrantable liberty. At table, with my -parents, he seemed to be constantly observing himself and inwardly -regulating his words and gestures. The simple truth, I take it, was that -he had never sat at a gentleman's table, and although he must have known -himself incapable of a real breach of civility,--essentially delicate as -he was in his feelings,--he was too proud to run the risk of violating -etiquette. My poor mother was a great stickler for ceremony, and she -would have had her majordomo to lift the covers, even if she had had -nothing to put into the dishes. I remember a cruel rebuke she bestowed -upon Coquelin, shortly after his arrival. She could never be brought to -forget that he had been picked up, as she said, on the roads. At dinner -one day, in the absence of Mlle. de Bergerac, who was indisposed, he -inadvertently occupied her seat, taking me as a _vis-à-vis_ instead of -a neighbor. Shortly afterwards, coming to offer wine to my mother, he -received for all response a stare so blank, cold, and insolent as to -leave no doubt of her estimate of his presumption. In my mother's simple -philosophy, Mlle. de Bergerac's seat could be decently occupied only -herself, and in default of her presence should remain conspicuously and -sacredly vacant. Dinner at Bergerac was at best, indeed, a cold and -dismal ceremony. I see it now,--the great dining-room, with its high -windows and their faded curtains, and the tiles upon the floor, and the -immense wainscots, and the great white marble chimney-piece, reaching to -the ceiling,--a triumph of delicate carving,--and the panels above the -doors, with their _galant_ mythological paintings. All this had been the -work of my grandfather, during the Regency, who had undertaken to -renovate and beautify the château; but his funds had suddenly given -out, and we could boast but a desultory elegance. Such talk as passed at -table was between my mother and the Baron, and consisted for the most -part of a series of insidious attempts on my mother's part to extort -information which the latter had no desire, or at least no faculty, to -impart. My father was constitutionally taciturn and apathetic, and he -invariably made an end of my mother's interrogation by proclaiming that -he hated gossip. He liked to take his pleasure and have done with it, or -at best, to ruminate his substantial joys within the conservative -recesses of his capacious breast. The Baronne's inquisitive tongue was -like a lambent flame, flickering over the sides of a rock. She had a -passion for the world, and seclusion had only sharpened the edge of her -curiosity. She lived on old memories--shabby, tarnished bits of -intellectual finery--and vagrant rumors, anecdotes, and scandals. - -Once in a while, however, her curiosity held high revel; for once a week -we had the Vicomte de Treuil to dine with us. This gentleman was, -although several years my father's junior, his most intimate friend and -the only constant visitor at Bergerac. He brought with him a sort of -intoxicating perfume of the great world, which I myself was not too -young to feel. He had a marvellous fluency of talk; he was polite and -elegant; and he was constantly getting letters from Paris, books, -newspapers, and prints, and copies of the new songs. When he dined at -Bergerac, my mother used to rustle away from table, kissing her hand to -him, and actually light-headed from her deep potations of gossip. His -conversation was a constant popping of corks. My father and the Vicomte, -as I have said, were firm friends,--the firmer for the great diversity -of their characters. M. de Bergerac was dark, grave, and taciturn, with -a deep, sonorous voice. He had in his nature a touch of melancholy, and, -in default of piety, a broad vein of superstition. The foundations of -his soul, moreover, I am satisfied, in spite of the somewhat ponderous -superstructure, were laid in a soil of rich tenderness and pity. Gaston -de Treuil was of a wholly different temper. He was short and slight, -without any color, and with eyes as blue and lustrous as sapphires. He -was so careless and gracious and mirthful, that to an unenlightened -fancy he seemed the model of a joyous, reckless, gallant, impenitent -_veneur._ But it sometimes struck me that, as he revolved an idea in his -mind, it produced a certain flinty ring, which suggested that his nature -was built, as it were, on rock, and that the bottom of his heart was -hard. Young as he was, besides, he had a tired, jaded, exhausted look, -which told of his having played high at the game of life, and, very -possibly, lost. In fact, it was notorious that M. de Treuil had run -through his property, and that his actual business in our neighborhood -was to repair the breach in his fortunes by constant attendance on a -wealthy kinsman, who occupied an adjacent château, and who was dying of -age and his infirmities. But while I thus hint at the existence in his -composition of these few base particles, I should be sorry to represent -him as substantially less fair and clear and lustrous than he appeared -to he. He possessed an irresistible charm, and that of itself is a -virtue. I feel sure, moreover, that my father would never have -reconciled himself to a real scantiness of masculine worth. The Vicomte -enjoyed, I fancy, the generous energy of my father's good-fellowship, -and the Baron's healthy senses were flattered by the exquisite perfume -of the other's infallible _savoir-vivre._ I offer a hundred apologies, -at any rate, to the Vicomte's luminous shade, that I should have -ventured to cast a dingy slur upon his name. History has commemorated -it. He perished on the scaffold, and showed that he knew how to die as -well as to live. He was the last relic of the lily-handed youth of the -_bon temps_; and as he looks at me out of the poignant sadness of the -past, with a reproachful glitter in his cold blue eyes, and a scornful -smile on his fine lips, I feel that, elegant and silent as he is, he has -the last word in our dispute. I shall think of him henceforth as he -appeared one night, or rather one morning, when he came home from a ball -with my father, who had brought him to Bergerac to sleep. I had my bed -in a closet out of my mother's room, where I lay in a most unwholesome -fashion among her old gowns and hoops and cosmetics. My mother slept -little; she passed the night in her dressing-gown, bolstered up in her -bed, reading novels. The two gentlemen came in at four o'clock in the -morning and made their way up to the Baronne's little sitting-room, next -to her chamber. I suppose they were highly exhilarated, for they made a -great noise of talking and laughing, and my father began to knock at the -chamber door. He called out that he had M. de Treuil, and that they were -cold and hungry. The Baronne said that she had a fire and they might -come in. She was glad enough, poor lady, to get news of the ball, and to -catch their impressions before they had been dulled by sleep. So they -came in and sat by the fire, and M. de Treuil looked for some wine and -some little cakes where my mother told him. I was wide awake and heard -it all. I heard my mother protesting and crying out, and the Vicomte -laughing, when he looked into the wrong place; and I am afraid that in -my mother's room there were a great many wrong places. Before long, in -my little stuffy, dark closet, I began to feel hungry too; whereupon I -got out of bed and ventured forth into the room. I remember the whole -picture, as one remembers isolated scenes of childhood: my mother's bed, -with its great curtains half drawn back at the side, and her little -eager face and dark eyes peeping out of the recess; then the two men at -the fire,--my father with his hat on, sitting and looking drowsily into -the flames, and the Vicomte standing before the hearth, talking, -laughing, and gesticulating, with the candlestick in one hand and a -glass of wine in the other,--dropping the wax on one side and the wine -on the other. He was dressed from head to foot in white velvet and white -silk, with embroideries of silver, and an immense _jabot._ He was very -pale, and he looked lighter and slighter and wittier and more elegant -than ever. He had a weak voice, and when he laughed, after one feeble -little spasm, it went off into nothing, and you only knew he was -laughing by his nodding his head and lifting his eyebrows and showing -his handsome teeth. My father was in crimson velvet, with tarnished gold -facings. My mother bade me get back into bed, but my father took me on -his knees and held out my bare feet to the fire. In a little while, from -the influence of the heat, he fell asleep in his chair, and I sat in my -place and watched M. de Treuil as he stood in the firelight drinking his -wine and telling stories to my mother, until at last I too relapsed into -the innocence of slumber. They were very good friends, the Vicomte and -my mother. He admired the turn of her mind. I remember his telling me -several years later, at the time of her death, when I was old enough to -understand him, that she was a very brave, keen little woman, and that -in her musty solitude of Bergerac she said a great many more good things -than the world ever heard of. - - -During the winter which preceded Coquelin's arrival, M. de Treuil used -to show himself at Bergerac in a friendly manner; but about a month -before this event, his visits became more frequent and assumed a special -import and motive. In a word, my father and his friend between them had -conceived it to be a fine thing that the latter should marry Mlle. de -Bergerac. Neither from his own nor from his friend's point of view was -Gaston de Treuil a marrying man or a desirable _parti._ He was too fond -of pleasure to conciliate a rich wife, and too poor to support a -penniless one. But I fancy that my father was of the opinion that if the -Vicomte came into his kinsman's property, the best way to insure -the preservation of it, and to attach him to his duties and -responsibilities, would be to unite him to an amiable girl, who might -remind him of the beauty of a domestic life and lend him courage to mend -his ways. As far as the Vicomte was concerned, this was assuredly a -benevolent scheme, but it seems to me that it made small account of the -young girl's own happiness. M. de Treuil was supposed, in the matter of -women, to have known everything that can be known, and to be as _blasé_ -with regard to their charms as he was proof against their influence. -And, in fact, his manner of dealing with women, and of discussing them, -indicated a profound disenchantment,--no bravado of contempt, no -affectation of cynicism, but a cold, civil, absolute lassitude. A simply -charming woman, therefore, would never have served the purpose of my -father's theory. A very sound and liberal instinct led him to direct his -thoughts to his sister. There were, of course, various auxiliary reasons -for such disposal of Mlle. de Bergerac's hand. She was now a woman -grown, and she had as yet received no decent proposals. She had no -marriage portion of her own, and my father had no means to endow her. -Her beauty, moreover, could hardly be called a dowry. It was without -those vulgar allurements which, for many a poor girl, replace the -glitter of cash. If within a very few years more she had not succeeded -in establishing herself creditably in the world, nothing would be left -for her but to withdraw from it, and to pledge her virgin faith to the -chilly sanctity of a cloister. I was destined in the course of time to -assume the lordship and the slender revenues of Bergerac, and it was not -to be expected that I should be burdened on the very threshold of life -with the maintenance of a dowerless maiden aunt. A marriage with M. de -Treuil would be in all senses a creditable match, and, in the event of -his becoming his kinsman's legatee, a thoroughly comfortable one. - -It was some time before the color of my father's intentions, and the -milder hue of the Vicomte's acquiescence, began to show in our common -daylight. It is not the custom, as you know, in our excellent France, to -admit a lover on probation. He is expected to make up his mind on a view -of the young lady's endowments, and to content himself before marriage -with the bare cognition of her face. It is not thought decent (and there -is certainly reason in it) that he should dally with his draught, and -hold it to the light, and let the sun play through it, before carrying -it to his lips. It was only on the ground of my father's warm good-will -to Gaston de Treuil, and the latter's affectionate respect for the -Baron, that the Vicomte was allowed to appear as a lover, before making -his proposals in form. M. de Treuil, in fact, proceeded gradually, and -made his approaches from a great distance. It was not for several weeks, -therefore, that Mlle. de Bergerac became aware of them. And now, as this -dear young girl steps into my story, where, I ask you, shall I find -words to describe the broad loveliness of her person, to hint at the -perfect beauty of her mind, to suggest the sweet mystery of her first -suspicion of being sought, from afar, in marriage? Not in my fancy, -surely; for there I should disinter the flimsy elements and tarnished -properties of a superannuated comic opera. My taste, my son, was formed -once for all fifty years ago. But if I wish to call up Mlle. de -Bergerac, I must turn to my earliest memories, and delve in the -sweet-smelling virgin soil of my heart. For Mlle. de Bergerac is no -misty sylphid nor romantic moonlit nymph. She rises before me now, -glowing with life, with the sound of her voice just dying in the -air,--the more living for the mark of her crimson death-stain. - -There was every good reason why her dawning consciousness of M. de -Treuil's attentions--although these were little more than projected as -yet--should have produced a serious tremor in her heart. It was not that -she was aught of a coquette; I honestly believe that there was no latent -coquetry in her nature. At all events, whatever she might have become -after knowing M. de Treuil, she was no coquette to speak of in her -ignorance. Her ignorance of men, in truth, was great. For the Vicomte -himself, she had as yet known him only distantly, formally, as a -gentleman of rank and fashion; and for others of his quality, she had -seen but a small number, and not seen them intimately. These few words -suffice to indicate that my aunt led a life of unbroken monotony. Once a -year she spent six weeks with certain ladies of the Visitation, in whose -convent she had received her education, and of whom she continued to be -very fond. Half a dozen times in the twelvemonth she went to a hall, -under convoy of some haply ungrudging _châtelaine._ Two or three times -a month, she received a visit at Bergerac. The rest of the time she -paced, with the grace of an angel and the patience of a woman, the -dreary corridors and unclipt garden walks of Bergerac. The discovery, -then, that the brilliant Vicomte de Treuil was likely to make a proposal -for her hand was an event of no small importance. With precisely what -feelings she awaited its coming, I am unable to tell; but I have no -hesitation in saying that even at this moment (that is, in less than a -month after my tutor's arrival) her feelings were strongly modified by -her acquaintance with Pierre Coquelin. - -The word "acquaintance" perhaps exaggerates Mlle. de Bergerac's relation -to this excellent young man. Twice a day she sat facing him at table, -and half a dozen times a week she met him on the staircase, in the -saloon, or in the park. Coquelin had been accommodated with an apartment -in a small untenanted pavilion, within the enclosure of our domain, and -except at meals, and when his presence was especially requested at the -château, he confined himself to his own precinct. It was there, morning -and evening, that I took my lesson. It was impossible, therefore, that -an intimacy should have arisen between these two young persons, equally -separated as they were by material and conventional barriers. -Nevertheless, as the sequel proved, Coquelin must, by his mere presence, -have begun very soon to exert a subtle action on Mlle. de Bergerac's -thoughts. As for the young girl's influence on Coquelin, it is my belief -that he fell in love with her the very first moment he beheld her,--that -morning when he trudged wearily up our avenue. I need certainly make no -apology for the poor fellow's audacity. You tell me that you fell in -love at first sight with my aunt's portrait; you will readily excuse the -poor youth for having been smitten with the original. It is less logical -perhaps, but it is certainly no less natural, that Mlle. de Bergerac -should have ventured to think of my governor as a decidedly interesting -fellow. She saw so few men that one the more or the less made a very -great difference. Coquelin's importance, moreover, was increased rather -than diminished by the fact that, as I may say, he was a son of the -soil. Marked as he was, in aspect and utterance, with the genuine -plebeian stamp, he opened a way for the girl's fancy into a vague, -unknown world. He stirred her imagination, I conceive, in very much the -same way as such a man as Gaston de Treuil would have stirred--actually -had stirred, of course--the grosser sensibilities of many a little -_bourgeoise._ Mlle. de Bergerac was so thoroughly at peace with the -consequences of her social position, so little inclined to derogate in -act or in thought from the perfect dignity of her birth, that with the -best conscience in the world, she entertained, as they came, the -feelings provoked by Coquelin's manly virtues and graces. She had been -educated in the faith that _noblesse oblige_, and she had seen none but -gentlefolks and peasants. I think that she felt a vague, unavowed -curiosity to see what sort of a figure you might make when you were -under no obligations to nobleness. I think, finally, that unconsciously -and in the interest simply of her unsubstantial dreams, (for in those -long summer days at Bergerac, without finery, without visits, music, or -books, or anything that a well-to-do grocer's daughter enjoys at the -present day, she must, unless she was a far greater simpleton than I -wish you to suppose, have spun a thousand airy, idle visions,) she -contrasted Pierre Coquelin with the Vicomte de Treuil. I protest that I -don't see how Coquelin bore the contrast. I frankly admit that, in her -place, I would have given all my admiration to the Vicomte. At all -events, the chief result of any such comparison must have been to show -how, in spite of real trials and troubles, Coquelin had retained a -certain masculine freshness and elasticity, and how, without any sorrows -but those of his own wanton making, the Vicomte had utterly rubbed off -his primal bloom of manhood. There was that about Gaston de Treuil that -reminded you of an actor by daylight. His little row of foot-lights had -burned itself out. But this is assuredly a more pedantic view of the -case than any that Mlle. de Bergerac was capable of taking. The Vicomte -had but to learn his part and declaim it, and the illusion was complete. - -Mlle. de Bergerac may really have been a great simpleton, and my theory -of her feelings--vague and imperfect as it is--may be put together quite -after the fact. But I see you protest; you glance at the picture; you -frown. _C'est bon_; give me your hand. She received the Vicomte's -gallantries, then, with a modest, conscious dignity, and courtesied to -exactly the proper depth when he made her one of his inimitable bows. - -One evening--it was, I think, about ten days after Coquelin's -arrival--she was sitting reading to my mother, who was ill in bed. The -Vicomte had been dining with us, and after dinner we had gone into the -drawing-room. At the drawing-room door Coquelin had made his bow to my -father, and carried me off to his own apartment. Mlle. de Bergerac and -the two gentlemen had gone into the drawing-room together. At dusk I had -come back to the château, and, going up to my mother, had found her in -company with her sister-in-law. In a few moments my father came in, -looking stern and black. - -"Sister," he cried, "why did you leave us alone in the drawing-room? -Didn't you see I wanted you to stay?" - -Mlle. de Bergerac laid down her book and looked at her brother before -answering. "I had to come to my sister," she said: "I couldn't leave her -alone." - -My mother, I'm sorry to say, was not always just to my aunt. She used to -lose patience with her sister's want of coquetry, of ambition, of desire -to make much of herself. She divined wherein my aunt had offended. -"You're very devoted to your sister, suddenly," she said. "There are -duties and duties, mademoiselle. I'm very much obliged to you for -reading to me. You can put down the book." - -"The Vicomte swore very hard when you went out," my father went on. - -Mlle. de Bergerac laid aside her book. "Dear me!" she said, "if he was -going to swear, it's very well I went." - -"Are you afraid of the Vicomte?" said my mother. "You're twenty-two -years old. You're not a little girl." - -"Is she twenty-two?" cried my father. "I told him she was twenty-one." - -"Frankly, brother," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "what does he want? Does he -want to marry me?" - -My father stared a moment. "_Pardieu!_" he cried. - -"She looks as if she didn't believe it," said my mother. "Pray, did you -ever ask him?" - -"No, madam; did you? You are very kind." Mlle. de Bergerac was excited; -her cheeks flushed. - -"In the course of time," said my father, gravely, "the Vicomte proposes -to demand your hand." - -"What is he waiting for?" asked Mlle. de Bergerac, simply. - -"_Fi donc, mademoiselle!_" cried my mother. - -"He is waiting for M. de Sorbières to die," said I, who had got this -bit of news from my mother's waiting-woman. - -My father stared at me, half angrily; and then,--"He expects to -inherit," he said, boldly. "It's a very fine property." - -"He would have done better, it seems to me," rejoined Mlle. de Bergerac, -after a pause, "to wait till he had actually come into possession of -it." - -"M. de Sorbières," cried my father, "has given him his word a dozen -times over. Besides, the Vicomte loves you." - -Mlle. de Bergerac blushed, with a little smile, and as she did so her -eyes fell on mine. I was standing gazing at her as a child gazes at a -familiar friend who is presented to him in a new light. She put out her -hand and drew me towards her. "The truth comes out of the mouths of -children," she said. "Chevalier, does he love me?" - -"Stuff!" cried the Baronne; "one doesn't: speak to children of such -things. A young girl should believe what she's told. I believed my -mother when she told me that your brother loved me. He didn't, but I -believed it, and as far as I know I'm none the worse for it." - -For ten days after this I heard nothing more of Mlle. de Bergerac's -marriage, and I suppose that, childlike, I ceased to think of what I had -already heard. One evening, about midsummer, M. de Treuil came over to -supper, and announced that he was about to set out in company with poor -M. de Sorbières for some mineral springs in the South, by the use of -which the latter hoped to prolong his life. - -I remember that, while we sat at table, Coquelin was appealed to as an -authority upon some topic broached by the Vicomte, on which he found -himself at variance with my father. It was the first time, I fancy, that -he had been so honored and that his opinions had been deemed worth -hearing. The point under discussion must have related to the history of -the American War, for Coquelin spoke with the firmness and fulness -warranted by personal knowledge. I fancy that he was a little frightened -by the sound of his own voice, but he acquitted himself with perfect -good grace and success. We all sat attentive; my mother even staring a -little, surprised to find in a beggarly pedagogue a perfect beau diseur. -My father, as became so great a gentleman, knew by a certain rough -instinct when a man had something amusing to say. He leaned back, with -his hands in his pockets, listening and paying the poor fellow the -tribute of a half-puzzled frown. The Vicomte, like a man of taste, was -charmed. He told stories himself, he was a good judge. - -After supper we went out on the terrace. It was a perfect summer night, -neither too warm nor too cool. There was no moon, but the stars flung -down their languid light, and the earth, with its great dark masses of -vegetation and the gently swaying tree-tops, seemed to answer back in a -thousand vague perfumes. Somewhere, close at hand, out of an enchanted -tree, a nightingale raved and carolled in delirious music. We had the -good taste to listen in silence. My mother sat down on a bench against -the house, and put out her hand and made my father sit beside her. Mlle. -de Bergerac strolled to the edge of the terrace, and leaned against the -balustrade, whither M. de Treuil soon followed her. She stood -motionless, with her head raised, intent upon the music. The Vicomte -seated himself upon the parapet, with his face towards her and his arms -folded. He may perhaps have been talking, under cover of the -nightingale. Coquelin seated himself near the other end of the terrace, -and drew me between his knees. At last the nightingale ceased. Coquelin -got up, and bade good night to the company, and made his way across the -park to his lodge. I went over to my aunt and the Vicomte. - -"M. Coquelin is a clever man," said the Vicomte, as he disappeared down -the avenue. "He spoke very well this evening." - -"He never spoke so much before," said I. "He's very shy." - -"I think," said my aunt, "he's a little proud." - -"I don't understand," said the Vicomte, "how a man with any pride can -put up with the place of a tutor. I had rather dig in the fields." - -"The Chevalier is much obliged to you," said my aunt, laughing. "In -fact, M. Coquelin has to dig a little, hasn't he, Chevalier?" - -"Not at all," said I. "But he keeps some plants in pots." - -At this my aunt and the Vicomte began to laugh. "He keeps one precious -plant," cried my aunt, tapping my face with her fan. - -At this moment my mother called me away. "He makes them laugh," I heard -her say to my father, as I went to her. - -"She had better laugh about it than cry," said my father. - -Before long, Mlle. de Bergerac and her companion came back toward the -house. - -"M. le Vicomte, brother," said my aunt, "invites me to go down and walk -in the park. May I accept?" - -"By all means," said my father. "You may go with the Vicomte as you -would go with me." - -"Ah!" said the Vicomte. - -"Come then, Chevalier," said my aunt. "In my turn, I invite you." - -"My son," said the Baronne, "I forbid you." - -"But my brother says," rejoined Mlle. de Bergerac, "that I may go with -M. de Treuil as I would go with himself. He would not object to my -taking my nephew." And she put out her hand. - -"One would think," said my mother, "that you were setting out for -Siberia." - -"For Siberia!" cried the Vicomte, laughing; "O no!" - -I paused, undecided. But my father gave me a push. "After all," he said, -"it's better." - -When I overtook my aunt and her lover, the latter, losing no time, -appeared to have come quite to the point. - -"Your brother tells me, mademoiselle," he had begun, "that he has spoken -to you." - -The young girl was silent. - -"You may be indifferent," pursued the Vicomte, "but I can't believe -you're ignorant." - -"My brother has spoken to me," said Mlle. de Bergerac at last, with an -apparent effort,--"my brother has spoken to me of his project." - -"I'm very glad he seemed to you to have espoused my cause so warmly that -you call it his own. I did my best to convince him that I possess what a -person of your merit is entitled to exact of the man who asks her hand. -In doing so, I almost convinced myself. The point is now to convince -you." - -"I listen." - -"You admit, then, that your mind is not made up in advance against me." - -"_Mon Dieu!_" cried my aunt, with some emphasis, "a poor girl like me -doesn't make up her mind. You frighten me, Vicomte. This is a serious -question. I have the misfortune to have no mother. I can only pray God. -But prayer helps me not to choose, but only to be resigned." - -"Pray often, then, mademoiselle. I'm not an arrogant lover, and since I -have known you a little better, I have lost all my vanity. I'm not a -good man nor a wise one. I have no doubt you think me very light and -foolish, but you can't begin to know how light and foolish I am. Marry -me and you'll never know. If you don't marry me, I'm afraid you'll never -marry." - -"You're very frank. Vicomte. If you think I'm afraid of never marrying, -you're mistaken. One can be very happy as an old maid. I spend six weeks -every year with the ladies of the Visitation. Several of them are -excellent women, charming women. They read, they educate young girls, -they visit the poor--" - -The Vicomte broke into a laugh. "They get up at five o'clock in the -morning; they breakfast on boiled cabbage; they make flannel waistcoats, -and very good sweetmeats! Why do you talk so, mademoiselle? Why do you -say that you would like to lead such a life? One might almost believe it -is coquetry. _Tenez_, I believe it's ignorance,--ignorance of your own -feelings, your own nature, and your own needs." M. de Treuil paused a -moment, and, although I had a very imperfect notion of the meaning of -his words, I remember being struck with the vehement look of his pale -face, which seemed fairly to glow in the darkness. Plainly, he was in -love. "You are not made for solitude," he went on; "you are not made to -be buried in a dingy old château, in the depths of a ridiculous -province. You are made for the world, for the court, for pleasure, to be -loved, admired, and envied. No, you don't know yourself, nor does -Bergerac know you, nor his wife! I, at least, appreciate you. I blow -that you are supremely beautiful--" - -"Vicomte," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "you forget--the child." - -"Hang the child! Why did you bring him along? You are no child. You can -understand me. You are a woman, full of intelligence and goodness and -beauty. They don't know you here, they think you a little demoiselle in -pinafores. Before Heaven, mademoiselle, there is that about you,--I see -it, I feel it here at your side, in this rustling darkness--there is -that about you that a man would gladly die for." - -Mlle. de Bergerac interrupted him with energy. "You talk extravagantly. -I don't understand you; you frighten me." - -"I talk as I feel. I frighten you? So much the better. I wish to stir -your heart and get some answer to the passion of my own." - -Mlle. de Bergerac was silent a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. -"If I talk with you on this subject, I must do it with my wits about -me," she said at last. "I must know exactly what we each mean." - -"It's plain then that I can't hope to inspire you with any degree of -affection." - -"One doesn't promise to love, Vicomte; I can only answer for the -present. My heart is so full of good wishes toward you that it costs me -comparatively little to say I don't love you." - -"And anything I may say of my own feelings will make no difference to -you?" - -"You have said you love me. Let it rest there." - -"But you look as if you doubted my word." - -"You can't see how I look; Vicomte, I believe you." - -"Well then, there is one point gained. Let us pass to the others. I'm -thirty years old. I have a very good name and a very bad reputation. I -honestly believe that, though I've fallen below my birth, I've kept -above my fame. I believe that I have no vices of temper; I'm neither -brutal, nor jealous, nor miserly. As for my fortune, I'm obliged to -admit that it consists chiefly in my expectations. My actual property is -about equal to your brother's and you know how your sister-in-law is -obliged to live. My expectations are thought particularly good. My -great-uncle, M. de Sorbières, possesses, chiefly in landed estates, a -fortune of some three millions of livres. I have no important -competitors, either in blood or devotion. He is eighty-seven years old -and paralytic, and within the past year I have been laying siege to his -favor with such constancy that his surrender, like his extinction, is -only a question of time. I received yesterday a summons to go with him -to the Pyrenees, to drink certain medicinal waters. The least he can do, -on my return, is to make me a handsome allowance, which with my own -revenues will make--_en attendant_ better things--a sufficient income -for a reasonable couple." - -There was a pause of some moments, during which we slowly walked along -in the obstructed starlight, the silence broken only by the train of my -aunt's dress brushing against the twigs and pebbles. - -"What a pity," she said, at last, "that you are not able to speak of all -this good fortune as in the present rather than in the future." - -"There it is! Until I came to know you, I had no thoughts of marriage. -What did I want of wealth? If five years ago I had foreseen this moment, -I should stand here with something better than promises." - -"Well, Vicomte," pursued the young girl, with singular composure, "you -do me the honor to think very well of me: I hope you will not be vexed -to find that prudence is one of my virtues. If I marry, I wish to marry -well. It's not only the husband, but the marriage that counts. In -accepting you as you stand, I should make neither a sentimental match -nor a brilliant one." - -"Excellent. I love you, prudence and all. Say, then, that I present -myself here three months hence with the titles and tokens of property -amounting to a million and a half of livres, will you consider that I am -a _parti_ sufficiently brilliant to make you forget that you don't love -me?" - -"I should never forget that." - -"Well, nor I either. It makes a sort of sorrowful harmony! If three -months hence, I repeat, I offer you a fortune instead of this poor empty -hand, will you accept the one for the sake of the other?" - -My aunt stopped short in the path. "I hope, Vicomte," she said, with -much apparent simplicity, "that you are going to do nothing indelicate." - -"God forbid, mademoiselle! It shall be a clean hand and a clean -fortune." - -"If you ask then a promise, a pledge--" - -"You'll not give it. I ask then only for a little hope. Give it in what -form you will." - -We walked a few steps farther and came out from among the shadows, -beneath the open sky. The voice of M. de Treuil, as he uttered these -words, was low and deep and tender and full of entreaty. Mlle. de -Bergerac cannot but have been deeply moved. I think she was somewhat -awe-struck at having called up such a force of devotion in a nature -deemed cold and inconstant. She put out her hand. "I wish success to any -honorable efforts. In any case you will be happier for your wealth. In -one case it will get you a wife, and in the other it will console you." - -"Console me! I shall hate it, despise it, and throw it into the sea!" - -Mlle. de Bergerac had no intention, of course, of leaving her companion -under an illusion. "Ah, but understand. Vicomte," she said, "I make no -promise. My brother claims the right to bestow my hand. If he wishes our -marriage now, of course he will wish it three months hence. I have never -gainsaid him." - -"From now to three months a great deal may happen." - -"To you, perhaps, but not to me." - -"Are you going to your friends of the Visitation?" - -"No, indeed. I have no wish to spend the summer in a cloister. I prefer -the green fields." - -"Well, then _va_ for the green fields! They're the next best thing. I -recommend you to the Chevalier's protection." - -We had made half the circuit of the park, and turned into an alley which -stretched away towards the house, and about midway in its course -separated into two paths, one leading to the main avenue, and the other -to the little pavilion inhabited by Coquelin. At the point where the -alley was divided stood an enormous oak of great circumference, with a -circular bench surrounding its trunk. It occupied, I believe, the -central point of the whole domain. As we reached the oak, I looked down -along the footpath towards the pavilion, and saw Coquelin's light -shining in one of the windows. I immediately proposed that we should pay -him a visit. My aunt objected, on the ground that he was doubtless busy -and would not thank us for interrupting him. And then, when I insisted, -she said it was not proper. - -"How not proper?" - -"It's not proper for me. A lady doesn't visit young men in their own -apartments." - -At this the Vicomte cried out. He was partly amused, I think, at my -aunt's attaching any compromising power to poor little Coquelin, and -partly annoyed at her not considering his own company, in view of his -pretensions, a sufficient guaranty. - -"I should think," he said, "that with the Chevalier and me you might -venture--" - -"As you please, then," said my aunt. And I accordingly led the way to my -governor's abode. - -It was a small edifice of a single floor, standing prettily enough among -the trees, and still habitable, although very much in disrepair. It had -been built by that same ancestor to whom Bergerac was indebted, in the -absence of several of the necessities of life, for many of its elegant -superfluities, and had been designed, I suppose, as a scene of -pleasure,--such pleasure as he preferred to celebrate elsewhere than -beneath the roof of his domicile. Whether it had ever been used I know -not; but it certainly had very little of the look of a pleasure-house. -Such furniture as it had once possessed had long since been transferred -to the needy saloons of the château, and it now looked dark and bare -and cold. In front, the shrubbery had been left to grow thick and wild -and almost totally to exclude the light from the windows; but behind, -outside of the two rooms which he occupied, and which had been provided -from the château with the articles necessary for comfort, Coquelin had -obtained my father's permission to effect a great clearance in the -foliage, and he now enjoyed plenty of sunlight and a charming view of -the neighboring country. It was in the larger of these two rooms, -arranged as a sort of study, that we found him. - -He seemed surprised and somewhat confused by our visit, but he very soon -recovered himself sufficiently to do the honors of his little -establishment. - -"It was an idea of my nephew," said Mlle. de Bergerac. "We were walking -in the park, and he saw your light. Now that we are here, Chevalier, -what would you have us do?" - -"M. Coquelin has some very pretty things to show you," said I. - -Coquelin turned very red. "Pretty things, Chevalier? Pray, what do you -mean? I have some of your nephew's copy-books," he said, turning to my -aunt. - -"Nay, you have some of your own," I cried. "He has books full of -drawings, made by himself." - -"Ah, you draw?" said the Vicomte. - -"M. le Chevalier does me the honor to think so. My drawings are meant -for no critics but children." - -"In the way of criticism," said my aunt, gently, "we too are children." -Her beautiful eyes, as she uttered these words, must have been quite as -gentle as her voice. Coquelin looked at her, thinking very modestly of -his little pictures, but loth to refuse the first request she had ever -made him. - -"Show them, at any rate," said the Vicomte, in a somewhat peremptory -tone. In those days, you see, a man occupying Coquelin's place was -expected to hold all his faculties and talents at the disposal of his -patron, and it was thought an unwarrantable piece of assumption that he -should cultivate any of the arts for his own peculiar delectation. In -withholding his drawings, therefore, it may have seemed to the Vicomte -that Coquelin was unfaithful to the service to which he was held,--that, -namely, of instructing, diverting, and edifying the household of -Bergerac. Coquelin went to a little cupboard in the wall, and took out -three small albums and a couple of portfolios. Mlle. de Bergerac sat -down at the table, and Coquelin drew up the lamp and placed his drawings -before her. He turned them over, and gave such explanations as seemed -necessary. I have only my childish impressions of the character of these -sketches, which, in my eyes, of course, seemed prodigiously clever. What -the judgment of my companions was worth I know not, but they appeared -very well pleased. The Vicomte probably knew a good sketch from a poor -one, and he very good-naturedly pronounced my tutor an extremely knowing -fellow. Coquelin had drawn anything and everything,--peasants and dumb -brutes, landscapes and Parisian types and figures, taken indifferently -from high and low life. But the best pieces in the collection were a -series of illustrations and reminiscences of his adventures with the -American army, and of the figures and episodes he had observed in the -Colonies. They were for the most part rudely enough executed, owing to -his want of time and materials, but they were full of _finesse_ and -character. M. de Treuil was very much amused at the rude equipments of -your ancestors. There were sketches of the enemy too, whom Coquelin had -apparently not been afraid to look in the face. While he was turning -over these designs for Mlle. de Bergerac, the Vicomte took up one of his -portfolios, and, after a short inspection, drew from it, with a cry of -surprise, a large portrait in pen and ink. - -"_Tiens!_" said I; "it's my aunt!" - -Coquelin turned pale. Mlle. de Bergerac looked at him, and turned the -least bit red. As for the Vicomte, he never changed color. There was no -eluding the fact that it was a likeness, and Coquelin had to pay the -penalty of his skill. - -"I didn't know," he said, at random, "that it was in that portfolio. Do -you recognize it, mademoiselle?" - -"Ah," said the Vicomte, dryly, "M. Coquelin meant to hide it." - -"It's too pretty to hide," said my aunt; "and yet it's too pretty to -show. It's flattered." - -"Why should I have flattered you, mademoiselle?" asked Coquelin. "You -were never to see it." - -"That's what it is, mademoiselle," said the Vicomte, "to have such -dazzling beauty. It penetrates the world. Who knows where you'll find it -reflected next?" - -However pretty a compliment this may have been to Mlle. de Bergerac, it -was decidedly a back-handed blow to Coquelin. The young girl perceived -that he felt it. - -She rose to her feet. "My beauty," she said, with a slight tremor in her -voice, "would be a small thing without M. Coquelin's talent. We are much -obliged to you. I hope that you'll bring your pictures to the château, -so that we may look at the rest." - -"Are you going to leave him this?" asked M. de Treuil, holding up the -portrait. - -"If M. Coquelin will give it to me, I shall be very glad to have it." - -"One doesn't keep one's own portrait," said the Vicomte. "It ought to -belong to me." In those days, before the invention of our sublime -machinery for the reproduction of the human face, a young fellow was -very glad to have his mistress's likeness in pen and ink. - -But Coquelin had no idea of contributing to the Vicomte's gallery. -"Excuse me," he said, gently, but looking the nobleman in the face. "The -picture isn't good enough for Mlle. de Bergerac, but it's too good for -any one else"; and he drew it out of the other's hands, tore it across, -and applied it to the flame of the lamp. - -We went back to the château in silence. The drawing-room was empty; but -as we went in, the Vicomte took a lighted candle from a table and raised -it to the young girl's face. "_Parbleu!_" he exclaimed, "the vagabond -had looked at you to good purpose!" - -Mlle. de Bergerac gave a half-confused laugh. "At any rate," she said, -"he didn't hold a candle to me as if I were my old smoke-stained -grandame, yonder!" and she blew out the light. "I'll call my brother," -she said, preparing to retire. - -"A moment," said her lover; "I shall not see you for some weeks. I shall -start to-morrow with my uncle. I shall think of you by day, and dream of -you by night. And meanwhile I shall very much doubt whether you think of -me." - -Mlle. de Bergerac smiled. "Doubt, doubt. It will help you to pass the -time. With faith alone it would hang very heavy." - -"It seems hard," pursued M. de Treuil, "that I should give you so many -pledges, and that you should give me none." - -"I give all I ask." - -"Then, for Heaven's sake, ask for something!" - -"Your kind words are all I want." - -"Then give me some kind word yourself." - -"What shall I say. Vicomte?" - -"Say,--say that you'll wait for me." - -They were standing in the centre of the great saloon, their figures -reflected by the light of a couple of candles in the shining inlaid -floor. Mlle. de Bergerac walked away a few steps with a look of -agitation. Then turning about, "Vicomte," she asked, in a deep, full -voice, "do you truly love me?" - -"Ah, Gabrielle!" cried the young man. - -I take it that no woman can hear her baptismal name uttered for the -first time as that of Mlle. de Bergerac then came from her suitor's lips -without being thrilled with joy and pride. - -"Well, M. de Treuil," she said, "I will wait for you." - - - - -PART II - - -I remember distinctly the incidents of that summer at Bergerac; or at -least its general character, its tone. It was a hot, dry season; we -lived with doors and windows open. M. Coquelin suffered very much from -the heat, and sometimes, for days together, my lessons were suspended. -We put our books away and rambled out for a long day in the fields. My -tutor was perfectly faithful; he never allowed me to wander beyond call. -I was very fond of fishing, and I used to sit for hours, like a little -old man, with my legs dangling over the bank of our slender river, -patiently awaiting the bite that so seldom came. Near at hand, in the -shade, stretched at his length on the grass, Coquelin read and re-read -one of his half dozen Greek and Latin poets. If we had walked far from -home, we used to go and ask for some dinner at the hut of a neighboring -peasant. For a very small coin we got enough bread and cheese and small -fruit to keep us over till supper. The peasants, stupid and squalid as -they were, always received us civilly enough, though on Coquelin's -account quite as much as on my own. He addressed them with an easy -familiarity, which made them feel, I suppose, that he was, if not quite -one of themselves, at least by birth and sympathies much nearer to them -than to the future Baron de Bergerac. He gave me in the course of these -walks a great deal of good advice; and without perverting my signorial -morals or instilling any notions that were treason to my rank and -position, he kindled in my childish breast a little democratic flame -which has never quite become extinct. He taught me the beauty of -humanity, justice, and tolerance; and whenever he detected me in a -precocious attempt to assert my baronial rights over the wretched little -_manants_ who crossed my path, he gave me morally a very hard drubbing. He -had none of the base complaisance and cynical nonchalance of the -traditional tutor of our old novels and comedies. Later in life I might -have found him too rigorous a moralist; but in those days I liked him -all the better for letting me sometimes feel the curb. It gave me a -highly agreeable sense of importance and a maturity. It was a tribute to -half-divined possibilities of naughtiness. In the afternoon, when I was -tired of fishing, he would lie with his thumb in his book and his eyes -half closed and tell me fairy-tales till the eyes of both of us closed -together. Do the instructors of youth nowadays condescend to the -fairy-tale pure and simple? Coquelin's stories belonged to the old, old -world: no political economy, no physics, no application to anything in -life. Do you remember in Doré's illustrations to Perrault's tales, the -picture of the enchanted castle of the Sleeping Beauty? Back in the -distance, in the bosom of an ancient park and surrounded by thick -baronial woods which blacken all the gloomy horizon, on the farther side -of a great abysmal hollow of tangled forest verdure, rise the long -façade, the moss-grown terraces, the towers, the purple roofs, of a -château of the time of Henry IV. Its massive foundations plunge far -down into the wild chasm of the woodland, and its cold pinnacles of -slate tower upwards, close to the rolling autumn clouds. The afternoon -is closing in and a chill October wind is beginning to set the forest -a-howling. In the foreground, on an elevation beneath a mighty oak, -stand a couple of old woodcutters pointing across into the enchanted -distance and answering the questions of the young prince. They are the -bent and blackened woodcutters of old France, of La Fontaine's Fables -and the _Médecin malgré lui._ What does the castle contain? What -secret is locked in its stately walls? What revel is enacted in its long -saloons? What strange figures stand aloof from its vacant windows? You -ask the question, and the answer is a long revery. I never look at the -picture without thinking of those summer afternoons in the woods and of -Coquelin's long stories. His fairies were the fairies of the _Grand -Siècle_, and his princes and shepherds the godsons of Perrault and -Madame d'Aulnay. They lived in such palaces and they hunted in such -woods. - -Mlle. de Bergerac, to all appearance, was not likely to break her -promise to M. de Treuil,--for lack of the opportunity, quite as much as -of the will. Those bright summer days must have seemed very long to her, -and I can't for my life imagine what she did with her time. But she, -too, as she had told the Vicomte, was very fond of the green fields; and -although she never wandered very far from the house, she spent many an -hour in the open air. Neither here nor within doors was she likely to -encounter the happy man of whom the Vicomte might be jealous. Mlle. de -Bergerac had a friend, a single intimate friend, who came sometimes to -pass the day with her, and whose visits she occasionally returned. Marie -de Chalais, the granddaughter of the Marquis de Chalais, who lived some -ten miles away, was in all respects the exact counterpart and foil of my -aunt. She was extremely plain, but with that sprightly, highly seasoned -ugliness which is often so agreeable to men. Short, spare, swarthy, -light, with an immense mouth, a most impertinent little nose, an -imperceptible foot, a charming hand, and a delightful voice, she was, in -spite of her great name and her fine clothes, the very ideal of the old -stage soubrette. Frequently, indeed, in her dress and manner, she used -to provoke a comparison with this incomparable type. A cap, an apron, -and a short petticoat were all sufficient; with these and her bold, dark -eyes she could impersonate the very genius of impertinence and intrigue. -She was a thoroughly light creature, and later in life, after her -marriage, she became famous for her ugliness, her witticisms, and her -adventures; but that she had a good heart is shown by her real -attachment to my aunt. They were forever at cross-purposes, and yet they -were excellent friends. When my aunt wished to walk, Mlle. de Chalais -wished to sit still; when Mlle. de Chalais wished to laugh, my aunt -wished to meditate; when my aunt wished to talk piety, Mlle. de Chalais -wished to talk scandal. Mlle. de Bergerac, however, usually carried the -day and set the tune. There was nothing on earth that Marie de Chalais -so despised as the green fields; and yet you might have seen her a dozen -times that summer wandering over the domain of Bergerac, in a short -muslin dress and a straw hat, with her arm entwined about the waist of -her more stately friend. We used often to meet them, and as we drew near -Mlle. de Chalais would always stop and offer to kiss the Chevalier. By -this pretty trick Coquelin was subjected for a few moments to the -influence of her innocent _agaçeries_; for rather than have no man at -all to prick with the little darts of her coquetry, the poor girl would -have gone off and made eyes at the scare-crow in the wheat-field. -Coquelin was not at all abashed by her harmless advances; for although, -in addressing my aunt, he was apt to lose his voice or his countenance, -he often showed a very pretty wit in answering Mlle. de Chalais. - -On one occasion she spent several days at Bergerac, and during her stay -she proffered an urgent entreaty that my aunt should go back with her to -her grandfather's house, where, having no parents, she lived with her -governess. Mlle. de Bergerac declined, on the ground of having no gowns -fit to visit in; whereupon Mlle. de Chalais went to my mother, begged -the gift of an old blue silk dress, and with her own cunning little -hands made it over for my aunt's figure. That evening Mlle. de Bergerac -appeared at supper in this renovated garment,--the first silk gown she -had ever worn. Mlle. de Chalais had also dressed her hair, and decked -her out with a number of trinkets and furbelows; and when the two came -into the room together, they reminded me of the beautiful Duchess in Don -Quixote, followed by a little dark-visaged Spanish waiting-maid. The -next morning Coquelin and I rambled off as usual in search of -adventures, and the day after that they were to leave the château. -Whether we met with any adventures or not I forget; but we found -ourselves at dinner-time at some distance from home, very hungry after a -long tramp. We directed our steps to a little roadside hovel, where we -had already purchased hospitality, and made our way in unannounced. We -were somewhat surprised at the scene that met our eyes. - -On a wretched bed at the farther end of the hut lay the master of the -household, a young peasant whom we had seen a fortnight before in full -health and vigor. At the head of the bed stood his wife, moaning, -crying, and wringing her hands. Hanging about her, clinging to her -skirts, and adding their piping cries to her own lamentations, were four -little children, unwashed, unfed, and half clad. At the foot, facing the -dying man, knelt his old mother--a horrible hag, so bent and brown and -wrinkled with labor and age that there was nothing womanly left of her -but her coarse, rude dress and cap, nothing of maternity but her sobs. -Beside the pillow stood the priest, who had apparently just discharged -the last offices of the Church. On the other side, on her knees, with -the poor fellow's hand in her own, knelt Mlle. de Bergerac, like a -consoling angel. On a stool near the door, looking on from a distance, -sat Mlle. de Chalais, holding a little bleating kid in her arms. When -she saw us, she started up. "Ah, M. Coquelin!" she cried, "do persuade -Mlle. de Bergerac to leave this horrible place." - -I saw Mlle. de Bergerac look at the curé and shake her head, as if to -say that it was all over. She rose from her knees and went round to the -wife, telling the same tale with her face. The poor, squalid _paysanne_ -gave a sort of savage, stupid cry, and threw herself and her rags on the -young girl's neck. Mlle. de Bergerac caressed her, and whispered heaven -knows what divinely simple words of comfort. Then, for the first time, -she saw Coquelin and me, and beckoned us to approach. - -"Chevalier," she said, still holding the woman on her breast, "have you -got any money?" - -At these words the woman raised her head. I signified that I was -penniless. - -My aunt frowned impatiently. "M. Coquelin, have you?" - -Coquelin drew forth a single small piece, all that he possessed; for it -was the end of his month. Mlle. de Bergerac took it, and pursued her -inquiry. - -"Curé, have you any money?" - -"Not a sou," said the curé, smiling sweetly. - -"Bah!" said Mlle. de Bergerac, with a sort of tragic petulance. "What -can I do with twelve sous?" - -"Give it all the same," said the woman, doggedly, putting out her hand. - -"They want money," said Mlle de Bergerac, lowering her voice to -Coquelin. "They have had this great sorrow, but a _louis d'or_ would -dull the wound. But we're all penniless. O for the sight of a little -gold!" - -"I have a _louis_ at home," said I; and I felt Coquelin lay his hand on -my head. - -"What was the matter with the husband?" he asked. - -"_Mon Dieu!_" said my aunt, glancing round at the bed. "I don't know." - -Coquelin looked at her, half amazed, half worshipping. - -"Who are they, these people? What are they?" she asked. - -"Mademoiselle," said Coquelin, fervently, "you're an angel!" - -"I wish I were," said Mlle. de Bergerac, simply; and she turned to the -old mother. - -We walked home together,--the curé with Mlle. de Chalais and me, and -Mlle. de Bergerac in front with Coquelin. Asking how the two young girls -had found their way to the deathbed we had just left, I learned from -Mlle. de Chalais that they had set out for a stroll together, and, -striking into a footpath across the fields, had gone farther than they -supposed, and lost their way. While they were trying to recover it, they -came upon the wretched hut where we had found them, and were struck by -the sight of two children, standing crying at the door. Mlle. de -Bergerac had stopped and questioned them to ascertain the cause of their -sorrow, which with some difficulty she found to be that their father was -dying of a fever. Whereupon, in spite of her companion's lively -opposition, she had entered the miserable abode, and taken her place at -the wretched couch, in the position in which we had discovered her. All -this, doubtless, implied no extraordinary merit on Mlle. de Bergerac's -part; but it placed her in a gracious, pleasing light. - -The next morning the young girls went off in the great coach of M. de -Chalais, which had been sent for them overnight, my father riding along -as an escort. My aunt was absent a week, and I think I may say we keenly -missed her. When I say we, I mean Coquelin and I, and when I say -Coquelin and I, I mean Coquelin in particular; for it had come to this, -that my tutor was roundly in love with my aunt. I didn't know it then, -of course; but looking back, I see that he must already have been -stirred to his soul's depths. Young as I was, moreover, I believe that I -even then suspected his passion, and, loving him as I did, watched it -with a vague, childish awe and sympathy. My aunt was to me, of course, a -very old story, and I am sure she neither charmed nor dazzled my boyish -fancy. I was quite too young to apprehend the meaning or the -consequences of Coquelin's feelings; but I knew that he had a secret, -and I wished him joy of it. He kept so jealous a guard on it that I -would have defied my elders to discover the least reason for accusing -him; but with a simple child of ten, thinking himself alone and -uninterpreted, he showed himself plainly a lover. He was absent, -restless, preoccupied; now steeped in languid revery, now pacing up and -down with the exaltation of something akin to hope. Hope itself he could -never have felt; for it must have seemed to him that his passion was so -audacious as almost to be criminal. Mlle. de Bergerac's absence showed -him, I imagine, that to know her had been the event of his life; to see -her across the table, to hear her voice, her tread, to pass her, to meet -her eye, a deep, consoling, healing joy. It revealed to him the force -with which she had grasped his heart, and I think he was half frightened -at the energy of his passion. - -One evening, while Mlle. de Bergerac was still away, I sat in his -window, committing my lesson for the morrow by the waning light. He was -walking up and down among the shadows. "Chevalier," said he, suddenly, -"what should you do if I were to leave you?" - -My poor little heart stood still. "Leave me?" I cried, aghast; "why -should you leave me?" - -"Why, you know I didn't come to stay forever." - -"But you came to stay till I'm a man grown. Don't you like your place?" - -"Perfectly." - -"Don't you like my father?" - -"Your father is excellent." - -"And my mother?" - -"Your mother is perfect." - -"And me, Coquelin?" - -"You, Chevalier, are a little goose." - -And then, from a sort of unreasoned instinct that Mlle. de Bergerac was -somehow connected with his idea of going away, "And my aunt?" I added. - -"How, your aunt?" - -"Don't you like her?" - -Coquelin had stopped in his walk, and stood near me and above me. He -looked at me some moments without answering, and then sat down beside me -in the window-seat, and laid his hand on my head. - -"Chevalier," he said, "I will tell you something." - -"Well?" said I, after I had waited some time. - -"One of these days you will be a man grown, and I shall have left you -long before that. You'll learn a great many things that you don't know -now. You'll learn what a strange, vast world it is, and what strange -creatures men are--and women; how strong, how weak, how happy, how -unhappy. You'll learn how many feelings and passions they have, and what -a power of joy and of suffering. You'll be Baron de Bergerac and master -of the château and of this little house. You'll sometimes be very proud -of your title, and you'll sometimes feel very sad that it's so little -more than a bare title. But neither your pride nor your grief will come -to anything beside this, that one day, in the prime of your youth and -strength and good looks, you'll see a woman whom you will love more than -all these things,--more than your name, your lands, your youth, and -strength, and beauty. It happens to all men, especially the good ones, -and you'll be a good one. But the woman you love will be far out of your -reach. She'll be a princess, perhaps she'll be the Queen. How can a poor -little Baron de Bergerac expect her to look at him? You will give up -your life for a touch of her hand; but what will she care for your life -or your death? You'll curse your love, and yet you'll bless it, and -perhaps--not having your living to get--you'll come up here and shut -yourself up with your dreams and regrets. You'll come perhaps into this -pavilion, and sit here alone in the twilight. And then, my child, you'll -remember this evening; that I foretold it all and gave you my blessing -in advance and--kissed you." He bent over, and I felt his burning lips -on my forehead. - -I understood hardly a word of what he said; but whether it was that I -was terrified by his picture of the possible insignificance of a Baron -de Bergerac, or that I was vaguely overawed by his deep, solemn tones, I -know not; but my eyes very quietly began to emit a flood of tears. The -effect of my grief was to induce him to assure me that he had no present -intention of leaving me. It was not, of course, till later in life, -that, thinking over the situation, I understood his impulse to arrest -his hopeless passion for Mlle. de Bergerac by immediate departure. He -was not brave in time. - -At the end of a week she returned one evening as we were at supper. She -came in with M. de Chalais, an amiable old man, who had been so kind as -to accompany her. She greeted us severally, and nodded to Coquelin. She -talked, I remember, with great volubility, relating what she had seen -and done in her absence, and laughing with extraordinary freedom. As we -left the table, she took my hand, and I put out the other and took -Coquelin's. - -"Has the Chevalier been a good boy?" she asked. - -"Perfect," said Coquelin; "but he has wanted his aunt sadly." - -"Not at all," said I, resenting the imputation as derogatory to my -independence. - -"You have had a pleasant week, mademoiselle?" said Coquelin. - -"A charming week. And you?" - -"M. Coquelin has been very unhappy," said I. "He thought of going away." - -"Ah?" said my aunt. - -Coquelin was silent. - -"You think of going away?" - -"I merely spoke of it, mademoiselle. I must go away some time, you know. -The Chevalier looks upon me as something eternal." - -"What's eternal?" asked the Chevalier. - -"There is nothing eternal, my child," said Mlle. de Bergerac. "Nothing -lasts more than a moment." - -"O," said Coquelin, "I don't agree with you!" - -"You don't believe that in this world everything is vain and fleeting -and transitory?" - -"By no means; I believe in the permanence of many things." - -"Of what, for instance?" - -"Well, of sentiments and passions." - -"Very likely. But not of the hearts that hold them. 'Lovers die, but -love survives.' I heard a gentleman say that at Chalais." - -"It's better, at least, than if he had put it the other way. But lovers -last too. They survive; they outlive the things that would fain destroy -them,--indifference, denial, and despair." - -"But meanwhile the loved object disappears. When it isn't one, it's the -other." - -"O, I admit that it's a shifting world. But I have a philosophy for -that." - -"I'm curious to know your philosophy." - -"It's a very old one. It's simply to make the most of life while it -lasts. I'm very fond of life," said Coquelin, laughing. - -"I should say that as yet, from what I know of your history, you have -had no great reason to be." - -"Nay, it's like a cruel mistress," said Coquelin. "When once you love -her, she's absolute. Her hard usage doesn't affect you. And certainly I -have nothing to complain of now." - -"You're happy here then?" - -"Profoundly, mademoiselle, in spite of the Chevalier." - -"I should suppose that with your tastes you would prefer something more -active, more ardent." - -"_Mon Dieu_, my tastes are very simple. And then--happiness, _cela ne se -raisonne pas._ You don't find it when you go in quest of it. It's like -fortune; it comes to you in your sleep." - -"I imagine," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "that I was never happy." - -"That's a sad story," said Coquelin. - -The young girl began to laugh. "And never unhappy." - -"Dear me, that's still worse. Never fear, it will come." - -"What will come?" - -"That which is both bliss and misery at once." - -Mlle. de Bergerac hesitated a moment. "And what is this strange thing?" -she asked. - -On his side Coquelin was silent. "When it comes to you," he said, at -last, "you'll tell me what you call it." - -About a week after this, at breakfast, in pursuance of an urgent request -of mine, Coquelin proposed to my father to allow him to take me to visit -the ruins of an ancient feudal castle some four leagues distant, which -he had observed and explored while he trudged across the country on his -way to Bergerac, and which, indeed, although the taste for ruins was at -that time by no means so general as since the Revolution (when one may -say it was in a measure created), enjoyed a certain notoriety throughout -the province. My father good-naturedly consented; and as the distance -was too great to be achieved on foot, he placed his two old coach-horses -at our service. You know that although I affected, in boyish sort, to -have been indifferent to my aunt's absence, I was really very fond of -her, and it occurred to me that our excursion would be more solemn and -splendid for her taking part in it. So I appealed to my father and asked -if Mlle. de Bergerac might be allowed to go with us. What the Baron -would have decided had he been left to himself I know not; but happily -for our cause my mother cried out that, to her mind, it was highly -improper that her sister-in-law should travel twenty miles alone with -two young men. - -"One of your young men is a child," said my father, "and her nephew into -the bargain; and the other,"--and he laughed, coarsely but not -ill-humoredly,--"the other is--Coquelin!" - -"Coquelin is not a child nor is mademoiselle either," said my mother. - -"All the more reason for their going, Gabrielle, will you go?" My -father, I fear, was not remarkable in general for his tenderness or his -_prévenance_ for the poor girl whom fortune had given him to protect; -but from time to time he would wake up to a downright sense of kinship -and duty, kindled by the pardonable aggressions of my mother, between -whom and her sister-in-law there existed a singular antagonism of -temper. - -Mlle. de Bergerac looked at my father intently and with a little blush. -"Yes, brother. I'll go. The Chevalier can take me _en croupe._" - -So we started, Coquelin on one horse, and I on the other, with my aunt -mounted behind me. Our sport for the first part of the journey consisted -chiefly in my urging my beast into a somewhat ponderous gallop, so as to -terrify my aunt, who was not very sure of her seat, and who, at moments, -between pleading and laughing, had hard work to preserve her balance. At -these times Coquelin would ride close alongside of us, at the same -cumbersome pace, declaring himself ready to catch the young girl if she -fell. In this way we jolted along, in a cloud of dust, with shouts and -laughter. - -"Madame the Baronne was wrong," said Coquelin, "in denying that we are -children." - -"O, this is nothing yet," cried my aunt. - -The castle of Fossy lifted its dark and crumbling towers with a decided -air of feudal arrogance from the summit of a gentle eminence in the -recess of a shallow gorge among the hills. Exactly when it had -flourished and when it had decayed I knew not, but in the year of grace -of our pilgrimage it was a truly venerable, almost a formidable, ruin. -Two great towers were standing,--one of them diminished by half its -upper elevation, and the other sadly scathed and shattered, but still -exposing its hoary head to the weather, and offering the sullen -hospitality of its empty skull to a colony of swallows. I shall never -forget that day at Fossy; it was one of those long raptures of childhood -which seem to imprint upon the mind an ineffaceable stain of light. The -novelty and mystery of the dilapidated fortress,--its antiquity, its -intricacy, its sounding vaults and corridors, its inaccessible heights -and impenetrable depths, the broad sunny glare of its grass-grown courts -and yards, the twilight of its passages and midnight of its dungeons, -and along with all this my freedom to rove and scramble, my perpetual -curiosity, my lusty absorption of the sun-warmed air, and the contagion -of my companions' careless and sensuous mirth,--all these things -combined to make our excursion one of the memorable events of my youth. -My two companions accepted the situation and drank in the beauty of the -day and the richness of the spot with all my own reckless freedom. -Coquelin was half mad with the joy of spending a whole unbroken summer's -day with the woman whom he secretly loved. He was all motion and humor -and resonant laughter; and yet intermingled with his random gayety there -lurked a solemn sweetness and reticence, a feverish concentration of -thought, which to a woman with a woman's senses must have fairly -betrayed his passion. Mlle. de Bergerac, without quite putting aside her -natural dignity and gravity of mien, lent herself with a charming -girlish energy to the undisciplined spirit of the hour. - -Our first thoughts, after Coquelin had turned the horses to pasture in -one of the grassy courts of the castle, were naturally bestowed upon our -little basket of provisions; and our first act was to sit down on a heap -of fallen masonry and divide its contents. After that we wandered. We -climbed the still practicable staircases, and wedged ourselves into the -turrets and strolled through the chambers and halls; we started from -their long repose every echo and bat and owl within the innumerable -walls. - -Finally, after we had rambled a couple of hours, Mlle. de Bergerac -betrayed signs of fatigue. Coquelin went with her in search of a place -of rest, and I was left to my own devices. For an hour I found plenty of -diversion, at the end of which I returned to my friends. I had some -difficulty in finding them. They had mounted by an imperfect and -somewhat perilous ascent to one of the upper platforms of the castle. -Mlle. de Bergerac was sitting in a listless posture on a block of stone, -against the wall, in the shadow of the still surviving tower; opposite, -in the light, half leaning, half sitting on the parapet of the terrace, -was her companion. - -"For the last half-hour, mademoiselle," said Coquelin, as I came up, -"you've not spoken a word." - -"All the morning," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "I've been scrambling and -chattering and laughing. Now, by reaction, I'm _triste._" - -"I protest, so am I," said Coquelin. "The truth is, this old feudal -fortress is a decidedly melancholy spot. It's haunted with the ghost of -the past. It smells of tragedies, sorrows, and cruelties." He uttered -these words with singular emphasis. "It's a horrible place," he pursued, -with a shudder. - -Mlle. de Bergerac began to laugh. "It's odd that we should only just now -have discovered it!" - -"No, it's like the history of that abominable past of which it's a -relic. At the first glance we see nothing but the great proportions, the -show, and the splendor; but when we come to explore, we detect a vast -underground world of iniquity and suffering. Only half this castle is -above the soil; the rest is dungeons and vaults and _oubliettes._" - -"Nevertheless," said the young girl, "I should have liked to live in -those old days. Shouldn't you?" - -"Verily, no, mademoiselle!" And then after a pause, with a certain -irrepressible bitterness: "Life is hard enough now." - -Mlle. de Bergerac stared but said nothing. - -"In those good old days," Coquelin resumed, "I should have been a -brutal, senseless peasant, yoked down like an ox, with my forehead in -the soil. Or else I should have been a trembling, groaning, fasting -monk, moaning my soul away in the ecstasies of faith." - -Mlle. de Bergerac rose and came to the edge of the platform. "Was no -other career open in those days?" - -"To such a one as me,--no. As I say, mademoiselle, life is hard now, but -it was a mere dead weight then. I know it was. I feel in my bones and -pulses that awful burden of despair under which my wretched ancestors -struggled. _Tenez_, I'm the great man of the race. My father came next; -he was one of four brothers, who all thought it a prodigious rise in the -world when he became a village tailor. If we had lived five hundred -years ago, in the shadow of these great towers, we should never have -risen at all. We should have stuck with our feet in the clay. As I'm not -a fighting man, I suppose I should have gone into the Church. If I -hadn't died from an overdose of inanition, very likely I might have -lived to be a cardinal." - -Mlle. de Bergerac leaned against the parapet, and with a meditative -droop of the head looked down the little glen toward the plain and the -highway. "For myself," she said, "I can imagine very charming things of -life in this castle of Fossy." - -"For yourself, very likely." - -"Fancy the great moat below filled with water and sheeted with lilies, -and the drawbridge lowered, and a company of knights riding into the -gates. Within, in one of those vaulted, quaintly timbered rooms, the -châtelaine stands ready to receive them, with her women, her chaplain, -her physician, and her little page. They come clanking up the staircase, -with ringing swords, sweeping the ground with their plumes. They are all -brave and splendid and fierce, but one of them far more than the rest. -They each bend a knee to the lady--" - -"But he bends two," cried Coquelin. "They wander apart into one of those -deep embrasures and spin the threads of perfect love. Ah, I could fancy -a sweet life, in those days, mademoiselle, if I could only fancy myself -a knight!" - -"And you can't," said the young girl, gravely, looking at him. - -"It's an idle game; it's not worth trying." - -"Apparently then, you're a cynic; you have an equally small opinion of -the past and the present." - -"No; you do me injustice." - -"But you say that life is hard." - -"I speak not for myself, but for others; for my brothers and sisters and -kinsmen in all degrees; for the great mass of petits gens of my own -class." - -"Dear me, M. Coquelin, while you're about it, you can speak for others -still; for poor portionless girls, for instance." - -"Are they very much to be pitied?" - -Mlle. de Bergerac was silent. "After all," she resumed, "they oughtn't -to complain." - -"Not when they have a great name and beauty," said Coquelin. - -"O heaven!" said the young girl, impatiently, and turned away. Coquelin -stood watching her, his brow contracted, his lips parted. Presently, she -came back. "Perhaps you think," she said, "that I care for my name,--my -great name, as you call it." - -"Assuredly, I do." - -She stood looking at him, blushing a little and frowning. As he said -these words, she gave an impatient toss of the head and turned away -again. In her hand she carried an ornamented fan, an antiquated and -sadly dilapidated instrument. She suddenly raised it above her head, -swung it a moment, and threw it far across the parapet. "There goes the -name of Bergerac!" she said; and sweeping round, made the young man a -very low courtesy. - -There was in the whole action a certain passionate freedom which set -poor Coquelin's heart a-throbbing. "To have a good name, mademoiselle," -he said, "and to be indifferent to it, is the sign of a noble mind." (In -parenthesis, I may say that I think he was quite wrong.) - -"It's quite as noble, monsieur," returned my aunt, "to have a small name -and not to blush for it." - -With these words I fancy they felt as if they had said enough; the -conversation was growing rather too pointed. - -"I think," said my aunt, "that we had better prepare to go." And she -cast a farewell glance at the broad expanse of country which lay -stretched out beneath us, striped with the long afternoon shadows. - -Coquelin followed the direction of her eyes. "I wish very much," he -said, "that before we go we might be able to make our way up into the -summit of the great tower. It would be worth the attempt. The view from -here, charming as it is, must be only a fragment of what you see from -that topmost platform." - -"It's not likely," said my aunt, "that the staircase is still in a state -to be used." - -"Possibly not; but we can see." - -"Nay," insisted my aunt, "I'm afraid to trust the Chevalier. There are -great breaches in the sides of the ascent, which are so many open doors -to destruction." - -I strongly opposed this view of the case; but Coquelin, after scanning -the elevation of the tower and such of the fissures as were visible from -our standpoint, declared that my aunt was right and that it was my duty -to comply. "And you, too, mademoiselle," he said, "had better not try -it, unless you pride yourself on your strong head." - -"No, indeed, I have a particularly weak one. And you?" - -"I confess I'm very curious to see the view. I always want to read to -the end of a book, to walk to the turn of a road, and to climb to the -top of a building." - -"Good," said Mlle. de Bergerac. "We'll wait for you." - -Although in a straight line from the spot which we occupied, the -distance through the air to the rugged sides of the great cylinder of -masonry which frowned above us was not more than thirty yards, Coquelin -was obliged, in order to strike at the nearest accessible point the -winding staircase which clung to its massive ribs, to retrace his steps -through the interior of the castle and make a _détour_ of some five -minutes' duration. In ten minutes more he showed himself at an aperture -in the wall, facing our terrace. - -"How do you prosper?" cried my aunt, raising her voice. - -"I've mounted eighty steps," he shouted; "I've a hundred more." -Presently he appeared again at another opening. "The steps have -stopped," he cried. - -"You've only to stop too," rejoined Mlle. de Bergerac. Again he was lost -to sight and we supposed he was returning. A quarter of an hour elapsed, -and we began to wonder at his not having overtaken us, when we heard a -loud call high above our heads. There he stood, on the summit of the -edifice, waving his hat. At this point he was so far above us that it -was difficult to communicate by sounds, in spite of our curiosity to -know how, in the absence of a staircase, he had effected the rest of the -ascent. He began to represent, by gestures of pretended rapture, the -immensity and beauty of the prospect. Finally Mlle. de Bergerac beckoned -to him to descend, and pointed to the declining sun, informing him at -the same time that we would go down and meet him in the lower part of -the castle. We left the terrace accordingly, and, making the best of our -way through the intricate passages of the edifice, at last, not without -a feeling of relief, found ourselves on the level earth. We waited quite -half an hour without seeing anything of our companion. My aunt, I could -see, had become anxious, although she endeavored to appear at her ease. -As the time elapsed, however, it became so evident that Coquelin had -encountered some serious obstacle to his descent, that Mlle. de Bergerac -proposed we should, in so far as was possible, betake ourselves to his -assistance. The point was to approach him within speaking distance. - -We entered the body of the castle again, climbed to one of the upper -levels, and reached a spot where an extensive destruction of the -external wall partially exposed the great tower. As we approached this -crumbling breach, Mlle. de Bergerac drew back from its brink with a loud -cry of horror. It was not long before I discerned the cause of her -movement. The side of the tower visible from where we stood presented a -vast yawning fissure, which explained the interruption of the staircase, -the latter having fallen for want of support. The central column, to -which the steps had been fastened, seemed, nevertheless, still to be -erect, and to have formed, with the agglomeration of fallen fragments -and various occasional projections of masonry, the means by which -Coquelin, with extraordinary courage and skill, had reached the topmost -platform. The ascent, then, had been possible; the descent, curiously -enough, he seemed to have found another matter; and after striving in -vain to retrace his footsteps, had been obliged to commit himself to the -dangerous experiment of passing from the tower to the external surface -of the main fortress. He had accomplished half his journey and now stood -directly over against us in a posture which caused my young limbs to -stiffen with dismay. The point to which he had directed himself was -apparently the breach at which we stood; meanwhile he had paused, -clinging in mid-air to heaven knows what narrow ledge or flimsy iron -clump in the stone-work, and straining his nerves to an agonized tension -in the effort not to fall, while his eyes vaguely wandered in quest of -another footing. The wall of the castle was so immensely thick, that -wherever he could embrace its entire section, progress was comparatively -easy; the more especially as, above our heads, this same wall had been -demolished in such a way as to maintain a rapid upward inclination to -the point where it communicated with the tower. - -I stood staring at Coquelin with my heart in my throat, forgetting (or -rather too young to reflect) that the sudden shock of seeing me where I -was might prove fatal to his equipoise. He perceived me, however, and -tried to smile. "Don't be afraid," he cried, "I'll be with you in a -moment." My aunt, who had fallen back, returned to the aperture, and -gazed at him with pale cheeks and clasped hands. He made a long step -forward, successfully, and, as he recovered himself, caught sight of her -face and looked at her with fearful intentness. Then seeing, I suppose, -that she was sickened by his insecurity, he disengaged one hand and -motioned her back. She retreated, paced in a single moment the length of -the enclosure in which we stood, returned and stopped just short of the -point at which she would have seen him again. She buried her face in her -hands, like one muttering a rapid prayer, and then advanced once more -within range of her friend's vision. As she looked at him, clinging in -mid-air and planting step after step on the jagged and treacherous edge -of the immense perpendicular chasm, she repressed another loud cry only -by thrusting her handkerchief into her mouth. He caught her eyes again, -gazed into them with piercing keenness, as if to drink in coolness and -confidence, and then, as she closed them again in horror, motioned me -with his head to lead her away. She returned to the farther end of the -apartment and leaned her head against the wall. I remained staring at -poor Coquelin, fascinated by the spectacle of his mingled danger and -courage. Inch by inch, yard by yard, I saw him lessen the interval which -threatened his life. It was a horrible, beautiful sight. Some five -minutes elapsed; they seemed like fifty. The last few yards he -accomplished with a rush; he reached the window which was the goal of -his efforts, swung himself in and let himself down by a prodigious leap -to the level on which we stood. Here he stopped, pale, lacerated, and -drenched with perspiration. He put out his hand to Mlle. de Bergerac, -who, at the sound of his steps, had turned herself about. On seeing him -she made a few steps forward and burst into tears. I took his extended -hand. He bent over me and kissed me, and then giving me a push, "Go and -kiss your poor aunt," he said. Mlle. de Bergerac clasped me to her -breast with a most convulsive pressure. From that moment till we reached -home, there was very little said. Both my companions had matter for -silent reflection,--Mlle. de Bergerac in the deep significance of that -offered hand, and Coquelin in the rich avowal of her tears. - - - - -PART III - - -A week after this memorable visit to Fossy, in emulation of my good -preceptor, I treated my friends, or myself at least, to a five minutes' -fright. Wandering beside the river one day when Coquelin had been -detained within doors to overlook some accounts for my father, I amused -myself, where the bank projected slightly over the stream, with kicking -the earth away in fragments, and watching it borne down the current. The -result may be anticipated: I came very near going the way of those same -fragments. I lost my foothold and fell into the stream, which, however, -was so shallow as to offer no great obstacle to self-preservation. I -scrambled ashore, wet to the bone, and, feeling rather ashamed of my -misadventure, skulked about in the fields for a couple of hours, in my -dripping clothes. Finally, there being no sun and my garments remaining -inexorably damp, my teeth began to chatter and my limbs to ache. I went -home and surrendered myself. Here again the result may be foreseen: the -next day I was laid up with a high fever. - -Mlle. de Bergerac, as I afterwards learned, immediately appointed -herself my nurse, removed me from my little sleeping-closet to her own -room, and watched me with the most tender care. My illness lasted some -ten days, my convalescence a week. When I began to mend, my bed was -transferred to an unoccupied room adjoining my aunt's. Here, late one -afternoon, I lay languidly singing to myself and watching the western -sunbeams shimmering on the opposite wall. If you were ever ill as a -child, you will remember such moments. You look by the hour at your -thin, white hands; you listen to the sounds in the house, the opening of -doors and the tread of feet; you murmur strange odds and ends of talk; -and you watch the fading of the day and the dark flowering of the night. -Presently my aunt came in, introducing Coquelin, whom she left by my -bedside. He sat with me a long time, talking in the old, kind way, and -gradually lulled me to sleep with the gentle murmur of his voice. When I -awoke again it was night. The sun was quenched on the opposite wall, but -through a window on the same side came a broad ray of moonlight. In the -window sat Coquelin, who had apparently not left the room. Near him was -Mlle. de Bergerac. - -Some time elapsed between my becoming conscious of their presence and my -distinguishing the sense of the words that were passing between them. -When I did so, if I had reached the age when one ponders and interprets -what one hears, I should readily have perceived that since those last -thrilling moments at Fossy their friendship had taken a very long step, -and that the secret of each heart had changed place with its mate. But -even now there was little that was careless and joyous in their young -love; the first words of Mlle. Bergerac that I distinguished betrayed -the sombre tinge of their passion. - -"I don't care what happens now," she said. "It will always be something -to have lived through these days." - -"You're stronger than I, then," said Coquelin. "I haven't the courage to -defy the future. I'm afraid to think of it. Ah, why can't we make a -future of our own?" - -"It would be a greater happiness than we have a right to. Who are you, -Pierre Coquelin, that you should claim the right to marry the girl you -love, when she's a demoiselle de Bergerac to begin with? And who am I, -that I should expect to have deserved a greater blessing than that one -look of your eyes, which I shall never, never forget? It is more than -enough to watch you and pray for you and worship you in silence." - -"What am I? what are you? We are two honest mortals, who have a perfect -right to repudiate the blessings of God. If ever a passion deserved its -reward, mademoiselle, it's the absolute love I bear you. It's not a -spasm, a miracle, or a delusion; it's the most natural emotion of my -nature." - -"We don't live in a natural world, Coquelin. If we did, there would be -no need of concealing this divine affection. Great heaven! who's -natural? Is it my sister-in-law? Is it M. de Treuil? Is it my brother? -My brother is sometimes so natural that he's brutal. Is it I myself? -There are moments when I'm afraid of my nature." - -It was too dark for me to distinguish my companions' faces in the course -of this singular dialogue; but it's not hard to imagine how, as my aunt -uttered these words, with a burst of sombre _naïveté_, her lover must -have turned upon her face the puzzled brightness of his eyes. - -"What do you mean?" he asked. - -"_Mon Dieu!_ think how I have lived! What a senseless, thoughtless, -passionless life! What solitude, ignorance, and languor! What trivial -duties and petty joys! I have fancied myself happy at times, for it was -God's mercy that I didn't know what I lacked. But now that my soul -begins to stir and throb and live, it shakes me with its mighty -pulsations. I feel as if in the mere wantonness of strength and joy it -might drive me to some extravagance. I seem to feel myself making a -great rush, with my eyes closed and my heart in my throat And then the -earth sinks away from under my feet, and in my ears is the sound of a -dreadful tumult." - -"Evidently we have very different ways of feeling. For you our love is -action, passion; for me it's rest. For you it's romance; for me it's -reality. For me it's a necessity; for you (how shall I say it?) it's a -luxury. In point of fact, mademoiselle, how should it be otherwise? When -a demoiselle de Bergerac bestows her heart upon an obscure adventurer, a -man born in poverty and servitude, it's a matter of charity, of noble -generosity." - -Mlle. de Bergerac received this speech in silence, and for some moments -nothing was said. At last she resumed: "After all that has passed -between us, Coquelin, it seems to me a matter neither of generosity nor -of charity to allude again to that miserable fact of my birth." - -"I was only trying to carry out your own idea, and to get at the truth -with regard to our situation. If our love is worth a straw, we needn't -be afraid of that. Isn't it true--blessedly true, perhaps, for all I -know--that you shrink a little from taking me as I am? Except for my -character, I'm so little! It's impossible to be less of a _personage._ -You can't quite reconcile it to your dignity to love a nobody, so you -fling over your weakness a veil of mystery and romance and exaltation. -You regard your passion, perhaps, as more of an escapade, an adventure, -than it needs to be." - -"My 'nobody,'" said Mlle. de Bergerac, gently, "is a very wise man, and -a great philosopher. I don't understand a word you say." - -"Ah, so much the better!" said Coquelin with a little laugh. - -"Will you promise me," pursued the young girl, "never again by word or -deed to allude to the difference of our birth? If you refuse, I shall -consider you an excellent pedagogue, but no lover." - -"Will you in return promise me--" - -"Promise you what?" - -Coquelin was standing before her, looking at her, with folded arms. -"Promise me likewise to forget it!" - -Mlle. de Bergerac stared a moment, and also rose to her feet. "Forget -it! Is this generous?" she cried. "Is it delicate? I had pretty well -forgot it, I think, on that dreadful day at Fossy!" Her voice trembled -and swelled; she burst into tears. Coquelin attempted to remonstrate, -but she motioned him aside, and swept out of the room. - -It must have been a very genuine passion between these two, you'll -observe, to allow this handling without gloves. Only a plant of hardy -growth could have endured this chilling blast of discord and -disputation. Ultimately, indeed, its effect seemed to have been to -fortify and consecrate their love. This was apparent several days later; -but I know not what manner of communication they had had in the -interval. I was much better, but I was still weak and languid. Mlle. de -Bergerac brought me my breakfast in bed, and then, having helped me to -rise and dress, led me out into the garden, where she had caused a chair -to be placed in the shade. While I sat watching the bees and -butterflies, and pulling the flowers to pieces, she strolled up and down -the alley close at hand, taking slow stitches in a piece of embroidery. -We had been so occupied about ten minutes, when Coquelin came towards us -from his lodge,--by appointment, evidently, for this was a roundabout -way to the house. Mlle. de Bergerac met him at the end of the path, -where I could not hear what they said, but only see their gestures. As -they came along together, she raised both hands to her ears, and shook -her head with vehemence, as if to refuse to listen to what he was -urging. When they drew near my resting-place, she had interrupted him. - -"No, no, no!" she cried, "I will never forget it to my dying day. How -should I? How can I look at you without remembering it? It's in your -face, your figure, your movements, the tones of your voice. It's -you,--it's what I love in you! It was that which went through my heart -that day at Fossy. It was the look, the tone, with which you called the -place horrible; it was your bitter plebeian hate. When you spoke of the -misery and baseness of your race, I could have cried out in an anguish -of love! When I contradicted you, and pretended that I prized and -honored all these tokens of your servitude,--just heaven! you know now -what my words were worth!" - -Coquelin walked beside her with his hands clasped behind him, and his -eyes fixed on the ground with a look of repressed sensibility. He passed -his poor little convalescent pupil without heeding him. When they came -down the path again, the young girl was still talking with the same -feverish volubility. - -"But most of all, the first day, the first hour, when you came up the -avenue to my brother! I had never seen any one like you. I had seen -others, but you had something that went to my soul. I devoured you with -my eyes,--your dusty clothes, your uncombed hair, your pale face, the -way you held yourself not to seem tired. I went down on my knees, then; -I haven't been up since." - -The poor girl, you see, was completely possessed by her passion, and yet -she was in a very strait place. For her life she wouldn't recede; and -yet how was she to advance? There must have been an odd sort of -simplicity in her way of bestowing her love; or perhaps you'll think it -an odd sort of subtlety. It seems plain to me now, as I tell the story, -that Coquelin, with his perfect good sense, was right, and that there -was, at this moment, a large element of romance in the composition of -her feelings. She seemed to feel no desire to realize her passion. Her -hand was already bestowed; fate was inexorable. She wished simply to -compress a world of bliss into her few remaining hours of freedom. - -The day after this interview in the garden I came down to dinner; on the -next I sat up to supper, and for some time afterwards, thanks to my -aunt's preoccupation of mind. On rising from the table, my father left -the château; my mother, who was ailing, returned to her room. Coquelin -disappeared, under pretence of going to his own apartments; but, Mlle. -de Bergerac having taken me into the drawing-room and detained me there -some minutes, he shortly rejoined us. - -"Great heaven, mademoiselle, this must end!" he cried, as he came into -the room. "I can stand it no longer." - -"Nor can I," said my aunt. "But I have given my word." - -"Take back your word, then! Write him a letter--go to him--send me to -him--anything! I can't stay here on the footing of a thief and impostor. -I'll do anything," he continued, as she was silent. "I'll go to him in -person; I'll go to your brother; I'll go to your sister even. I'll -proclaim it to the world. Or, if you don't like that. I'll keep it a -mortal secret. I'll leave the château with you without an hour's delay. -I'll defy pursuit and discovery. We'll go to America,--anywhere you -wish, if it's only action. Only spare me the agony of seeing you drift -along into that man's arms." - -Mlle. de Bergerac made no reply for some moments. At last, "I will never -marry M. de Treuil," she said. - -To this declaration Coquelin made no response; but after a pause, "Well, -well, well?" he cried. - -"Ah, you're pitiless!" said the young girl. - -"No, mademoiselle, from the bottom of my heart I pity you." - -"Well, then, think of all you ask! Think of the inexpiable criminality -of my love. Think of me standing here,--here before my mother's -portrait,--murmuring out my shame, scorched by my sister's scorn, -buffeted by my brother's curses! Gracious heaven, Coquelin, suppose -after all I were a bad, hard girl!" - -"I'll suppose nothing; this is no time for hair-splitting." And then, -after a pause, as if with a violent effort, in a voice hoarse and yet -soft: "Gabrielle, passion is blind. Reason alone is worth a straw. I'll -not counsel you in passion, let us wait till reason comes to us." He put -out his hand; she gave him her own; he pressed it to his lips and -departed. - -On the following day, as I still professed myself too weak to resume my -books, Coquelin left the château alone, after breakfast, for a long -walk. He was going, I suppose, into the woods and meadows in quest of -Reason. She was hard to find, apparently, for he failed to return to -dinner. He reappeared, however, at supper, but now my father was absent. -My mother, as she left the table, expressed the wish that Mlle. de -Bergerac should attend her to her own room. Coquelin, meanwhile, went -with me into the great saloon, and for half an hour talked to me gravely -and kindly about my studies, and questioned me on what we had learned -before my illness. At the end of this time Mlle. de Bergerac returned. - -"I got this letter to-day from M. de Treuil," she said, and offered him -a missive which had apparently been handed to her since dinner. - -"I don't care to read it," he said. - -She tore it across and held the pieces to the flame of the candle. "He -is to be here to-morrow," she added finally. - -"Well?" asked Coquelin gravely. - -"You know my answer." - -"Your answer to him, perfectly. But what is your answer to me?" - -She looked at him in silence. They stood for a minute, their eyes locked -together. And then, in the same posture,--her arms loose at her sides, -her head slightly thrown back,--"To you," she said, "my answer -is--farewell." - -The word was little more than whispered; but, though he heard it, he -neither started nor spoke. He stood unmoved, all his soul trembling -under his brows and filling the space between his mistress and himself -with a sort of sacred stillness. Then, gradually, his head sank on his -breast, and his eyes dropped on the ground. - -"It's reason," the young girl began. "Reason has come to me. She tells -me that if I marry in my brother's despite, and in opposition to all the -traditions that have been kept sacred in my family, I shall neither find -happiness nor give it. I must choose the simplest course. The other is a -gulf; I can't leap it. It's harder than you think. Something in the air -forbids it,--something in the very look of these old walls, within which -I was born and I've lived. I shall never marry; I shall go into -religion. I tried to fling away my name; it was sowing dragons' teeth. I -don't ask you to forgive me. It's small enough comfort that you should -have the right to think of me as a poor, weak heart. Keep repeating -that: it will console you. I shall not have the compensation of doubting -the perfection of what I love." - -Coquelin turned away in silence. Mlle. de Bergerac sprang after him. -"In Heaven's name," she cried, "say something! Rave, storm, swear, but -don't let me think I've broken your heart." - -"My heart's sound," said Coquelin, almost with a smile. "I regret -nothing that has happened. O, how I love you!" - -The young girl buried her face in her hands. - -"This end," he went on, "is doubtless the only possible one. It's -thinking very lightly of life to expect any other. After all, what call -had I to interrupt your life,--to burden you with a trouble, a choice, a -decision? As much as anything that I have ever known in you I admire -your beautiful delicacy of conscience." - -"Ah," said the young girl, with a moan, "don't kill me with fine names!" - -And then came the farewell. "I feel," said poor Coquelin, "that -I can't see you again. We must not meet. I will leave Bergerac -immediately,--to-night,--under pretext of having been summoned home by -my mother's illness. In a few days I will write to your brother that -circumstances forbid me to return." - -My own part in this painful interview I shall not describe at length. -When it began to dawn upon my mind that my friend was actually going to -disappear, I was seized with a convulsion of rage and grief. "Ah," cried -Mlle. de Bergerac bitterly, "that was all that was wanting!" What means -were taken to restore me to composure, what promises were made me, what -pious deception was practised, I forget; but, when at last I came to my -senses, Coquelin had made his exit. - -My aunt took me by the hand and prepared to-lead me up to bed, fearing -naturally that my ruffled aspect and swollen visage would arouse -suspicion. At this moment I heard the clatter of hoofs in the court, -mingled with the sound of voices. From the window, I saw M. de Treuil -and my father alighting from horseback. Mlle. de Bergerac, apparently, -made the same observation; she dropped my hand and sank down in a chair. -She was not left long in suspense. Perceiving a light in the saloon, the -two gentlemen immediately made their way to this apartment. They came in -together, arm in arm, the Vicomte dressed in mourning. Just within the -threshold they stopped; my father disengaged his arm, took his companion -by the hand and led him to Mlle. de Bergerac. She rose to her feet as -you may imagine a sitting statue to rise. The Vicomte bent his knee. - -"At last, mademoiselle," said he,--"sooner than I had hoped,--my long -probation is finished." - -The young girl spoke, but no one would have recognized her voice. "I -fear, M. le Vicomte," she said, "that it has only begun." - -The Vicomte broke into a harsh, nervous laugh. - -"Fol de rol, mademoiselle," cried my father, "your pleasantry is in very -bad taste." - -But the Vicomte had recovered himself. "Mademoiselle is quite right," he -declared; "she means that I must now begin to deserve my happiness." -This little speech showed a very brave fancy. It was in flagrant discord -with the expression of the poor girl's figure, as she stood twisting her -hands together and rolling her eyes,--an image of sombre desperation. - -My father felt there was a storm in the air. "M. le Vicomte is in -mourning for M. de Sorbières," he said. "M. le Vicomte is his sole -legatee. He comes to exact the fulfilment of your promise." - -"I made no promise," said Mlle. de Bergerac. - -"Excuse me, mademoiselle; you gave your word that you'd wait for me." - -"Gracious heaven!" cried the young girl; "haven't I waited for you!" - -"_Ma toute belle_" said the Baron, trying to keep his angry voice within -the compass of an undertone, and reducing it in the effort to a very -ugly whisper, "if I had supposed you were going to make us a scene, _nom -de Dieu!_ I would have taken my precautions beforehand! You know what -you're to expect. Vicomte, keep her to her word. I'll give you half an -hour. Come, Chevalier." And he took me by the hand. - -We had crossed the threshold and reached the hall, when I heard the -Vicomte give a long moan, half plaintive, half indignant. My father -turned, and answered with a fierce, inarticulate cry, which I can best -describe as a roar. He straightway retraced his steps, I, of course, -following. Exactly what, in the brief interval, had passed between our -companions I am unable to say; but it was plain that Mlle. de Bergerac, -by some cruelly unerring word or act, had discharged the bolt of her -refusal. Her gallant lover had sunk into a chair, burying his face in -his hands, and stamping his feet on the floor in a frenzy of -disappointment. She stood regarding him in a sort of helpless, distant -pity. My father had been going to break out into a storm of -imprecations; but he suppressed them, and folded his arms. - -"And now, mademoiselle," he said, "will you be so good as to inform me -of your intentions?" - -Beneath my father's gaze the softness passed out of my aunt's face and -gave place to an angry defiance, which he must have recognized as -cousin-german, at least, to the passion in his own breast. "My -intentions had been," she said, "to let M. le Vicomte know that I -couldn't marry him, with as little offence as possible. But you seem -determined, my brother, to thrust in a world of offence somewhere." - -You must not blame Mlle. de Bergerac for the sting of her retort. She -foresaw a hard fight; she had only sprung to her arms. - -My father looked at the wretched Vicomte, as he sat sobbing and stamping -like a child His bosom was wrung with pity for his friend "Look at that -dear Gaston, that charming man, and blush for your audacity." - -"I know a great deal more about my audacity than you, brother. I might -tell you things that would surprise you." - -"Gabrielle, you are mad!" the Baron broke out. - -"Perhaps I am," said the young girl. And then, turning to M. de Treuil, -in a tone of exquisite reproach, "M. le Vicomte, you suffer less well -than I had hoped." - -My father could endure no more. He seized his sister by her two wrists, -so that beneath the pressure her eyes filled with tears. "Heartless -fool!" he cried, "do you know what I can do to you?" - -"I can imagine, from this specimen," said the poor creature. - -The Baron was beside himself with passion. "Down, down on your knees," -he went on, "and beg our pardon all round for your senseless, shameless -perversity!" As he spoke, he increased the pressure of his grasp to that -degree that, after a vain struggle to free herself, she uttered a scream -of pain. The Vicomte sprang to his feet. "In heaven's name, Gabrielle," -he cried,--and it was the only real _naïveté_ that he had ever -uttered,--"isn't it all a horrible jest?" - -Mlle. de Bergerac shook her head. "It seems hard. Vicomte," she said, -"that I should be answerable for your happiness." - -"You hold it there in your hand. Think of what I suffer. To have lived -for weeks in the hope of this hour, and to find it what you would fain -make it! To have dreamed of rapturous bliss, and to wake to find it -hideous misery! Think of it once again!" - -"She shall have a chance to think of it," the Baron declared; "she shall -think of it quite at her ease. Go to your room, mademoiselle, and remain -there till further notice." - -Gabrielle prepared to go, but, as she moved away, "I used to fear you, -brother," she said with homely scorn, "but I don't fear you now. Judge -whether it's because I love you more!" - -"Gabrielle," the Vicomte cried out, "I haven't given you up." - -"Your feelings are your own, M. le Vicomte. I would have given more than -I can say rather than have caused you to suffer. Your asking my hand has -been the great honor of my life; my withholding it has been the great -trial." And she walked out of the room with the step of unacted tragedy. -My father, with an oath, despatched me to bed in her train. Heavy-headed -with the recent spectacle of so much half-apprehended emotion, I -speedily fell asleep. - -I was aroused by the sound of voices, and the grasp of a heavy hand on -my shoulder. My father stood before me, holding a candle, with M. de -Treuil beside him. "Chevalier," he said, "open your eyes like a man, and -come to your senses." - -Thus exhorted, I sat up and stared. The Baron sat down on the edge of -the bed. "This evening," he began, "before the Vicomte and I came in, -were you alone with your aunt?"--My dear friend, you see the scene from -here. I answered with the cruel directness of my years. Even if I had -had the wit to dissemble, I should have lacked the courage. Of course I -had no story to tell. I had drawn no inferences; I didn't say that my -tutor was my aunt's lover. I simply said that he had been with us after -supper, and that he wanted my aunt to go away with him. Such was my part -in the play. I see the whole picture again,--my father brandishing the -candlestick, and devouring my words with his great flaming eyes; and the -Vicomte behind, portentously silent, with his black clothes and his pale -face. - -They had not been three minutes out of the room when the door leading to -my aunt's chamber opened and Mlle. de Bergerac appeared. She had heard -sounds in my apartment, and suspected the visit of the gentlemen and its -motive. She immediately won from me the recital of what I had been -forced to avow. "Poor Chevalier," she cried, for all commentary. And -then, after a pause, "What made them suspect that M. Coquelin had been -with us?" - -"They saw him, or some one, leave the château as they came in." - -"And where have they gone now?" - -"To supper. My father said to M. de Treuil that first of all they must -sup." - -Mlle. de Bergerac stood a moment in meditation. Then suddenly, "Get up, -Chevalier," she said, "I want you to go with me." - -"Where are you going?" - -"To M. Coquelin's." - -I needed no second admonition. I hustled on my clothes; Mlle. de -Bergerac left the room and immediately returned, clad in a light mantle. -We made our way undiscovered to one of the private entrances of the -château, hurried across the park and found a light in the window of -Coquelin's lodge. It was about half past nine. Mlle. de Bergerac gave a -loud knock at the door, and we entered her lover's apartment. - -Coquelin was seated at his table writing. He sprang to his feet with a -cry of amazement. Mlle. de Bergerac stood panting, with one hand pressed -to her heart, while rapidly moving the other as if to enjoin calmness. - -"They are come back," she began,--"M. de Treuil and my brother!" - -"I thought he was to come to-morrow. Was it a deception?" - -"Ah, no! not from him,--an accident Pierre Coquelin, I've had such a -scene! But it's not your fault." - -"What made the scene?" - -"My refusal, of course." - -"You turned off the Vicomte?" - -"Holy Virgin! You ask me?" - -"Unhappy girl!" cried Coquelin. - -"No, I was a happy girl to have had a chance to act as my heart bade me. -I had faltered enough. But it was hard!" - -"It's all hard." - -"The hardest is to come," said my aunt She put out her hand; he sprang -to her and seized it, and she pressed his own with vehemence. "They have -discovered our secret,--don't ask how. It was Heaven's will. From this -moment, of course--" - -"From this moment, of course," cried Coquelin, "I stay where I am!" - -With an impetuous movement she raised his hand to her lips and kissed -it. "You stay where you are. We have nothing to conceal, but we have -nothing to avow. We have no confessions to make. Before God we have done -our duty. You may expect them, I fancy, to-night; perhaps, too, they -will honor me with a visit. They are supping between two battles. They -will attack us with fury, I know; but let them dash themselves against -our silence as against a wall of stone. I have taken my stand. My love, -my errors, my longings, are my own affair. My reputation is a sealed -book. Woe to him who would force it open!" - -The poor girl had said once, you know, that she was afraid of her -nature. Assuredly it had now sprung erect in its strength; it came -hurrying into action on the winds of her indignation. "Remember, -Coquelin," she went on, "you are still and always my friend. You are the -guardian of my weakness, the support of my strength." - -"Say it all, Gabrielle!" he cried. "I'm for ever and ever your lover!" - -Suddenly, above the music of his voice, there came a great rattling -knock at the door. Coquelin sprang forward; it opened in his face and -disclosed my father and M. de Treuil. I have no words in my dictionary, -no images in my rhetoric, to represent the sudden horror that leaped -into my father's face as his eye fell upon his sister. He staggered back -a step and then stood glaring, until his feelings found utterance in a -single word: "_Coureuse!_" I have never been able to look upon the word -as trivial since that moment. - -The Vicomte came striding past him into the room, like a bolt of -lightning from a rumbling cloud, quivering with baffled desire, and -looking taller by the head for his passion. "And it was for this, -mademoiselle," he cried, "and for _that!_" and he flung out a scornful -hand toward Coquelin. "For a beggarly, boorish, ignorant pedagogue!" - -Coquelin folded his arms. "Address me directly, M. le Vicomte," he said; -"don't fling mud at me over mademoiselle's head." - -"You? Who are you?" hissed the nobleman. "A man doesn't address you; -he sends his lackeys to flog you!" - -"Well, M. le Vicomte, you're complete," said Coquelin, eyeing him from -head to foot. - -"Complete?" and M. de Treuil broke into an almost hysterical laugh. "I -only lack having married your mistress!" - -"Ah!" cried Mlle. de Bergerac. - -"O, you poor, insensate fool!" said Coquelin. - -"Heaven help me," the young man went on, "I'm ready to marry her still." - -While these words were rapidly exchanged, my father stood choking with -the confusion of amusement and rage. He was stupefied at his sister's -audacity,--at the dauntless spirit which ventured to flaunt its shameful -passion in the very face of honor and authority. Yet that simple -interjection which I have quoted from my aunt's lips stirred a secret -tremor in his heart; it was like the striking of some magic silver hell, -portending monstrous things. His passion faltered, and, as his eyes -glanced upon my innocent head (which, it must be confessed, was sadly -out of place in that pernicious scene), alighted on this smaller wrong. -"The next time you go on your adventures, mademoiselle," he cried, "I'd -thank you not to pollute my son by dragging him at your skirts." - -"I'm not sorry to have my family present," said the young girl, who had -had time to collect her thoughts. "I should be glad even if my sister -were here. I wish simply to bid you farewell." - -Coquelin, at these words, made a step towards her. She passed her hand -through his arm. "Things have taken place--and chiefly within the last -moment--which change the face of the future. You've done the business, -brother," and she fixed her glittering eyes on the Baron; "you've driven -me back on myself. I spared you, but you never spared me. I cared for my -name; you loaded it with dishonor. I chose between happiness and -duty,--duty as you would have laid it down: I preferred duty. But now -that happiness has become one with simple safety from violence and -insult, I go back to happiness. I give you back your name; though I have -kept it more jealously than you. I have another ready for me. O -Messieurs!" she cried, with a burst of rapturous exaltation, "for what -you have done to me I thank you." - -My father began to groan and tremble. He had grasped my hand in his own, -which was clammy with perspiration. "For the love of God, Gabrielle," he -implored, "or the fear of the Devil, speak so that a sickened, maddened -Christian can understand you! For what purpose did you come here -to-night?" - -"_Mon Dieu_, it's a long story. You made short work with it. I might in -justice do as much. I came here, brother, to guard my reputation, and -not to lose it." - -All this while my father had neither looked at Coquelin nor spoken to -him, either because he thought him not worth his words, or because he -had kept some transcendent insult in reserve. Here my governor broke in. -"It seems to me time, M. le Baron, that I should inquire the purpose of -your own visit." - -My father stared a moment. "I came, M. Coquelin, to take you by the -shoulders and eject you through that door, with the further impulsion, -if necessary, of a vigorous kick." - -"Good! And M. le Vicomte?" - -"M. le Vicomte came to see it done." - -"Perfect! A little more and you had come too late. I was on the point of -leaving Bergerac. I can put the story into three words. I have been so -happy as to secure the affections of Mlle. de Bergerac. She asked -herself, devoutly, what course of action was possible under the -circumstances. She decided that the only course was that we should -immediately separate. I had no hesitation in bringing my residence with -M. le Chevalier to a sudden close. I was to have quitted the château -early to-morrow morning, leaving mademoiselle at absolute liberty. With -her refusal of M. de Treuil I have nothing to do. Her action in this -matter seems to have been strangely precipitated, and my own departure -anticipated in consequence. It was at her adjuration that I was -preparing to depart. She came here this evening to command me to stay. -In our relations there was nothing that the world had a right to lay a -finger upon. From the moment that they were suspected it was of the -first importance to the security and sanctity of Mlle. de Bergerac's -position that there should be no appearance on my part of elusion or -flight. The relations I speak of had ceased to exist; there was, -therefore, every reason why for the present I should retain my place. -Mlle. de Bergerac had been here some three minutes, and had just made -known her wishes, when you arrived with the honorable intentions which -you avow, and under that illusion the perfect stupidity of which is its -least reproach. In my own turn. Messieurs, I thank you!" - -"Gabrielle," said my father, as Coquelin ceased speaking, "the long and -short of it appears to be that after all you needn't marry this man. Am -I to understand that you intend to?" - -"Brother, I mean to marry M. Coquelin." - -My father stood looking from the young girl to her lover. The Vicomte -walked to the window, as if he were in want of air. The night was cool -and the window closed. He tried the sash, but for some reason it -resisted. Whereupon he raised his sword-hilt and with a violent blow -shivered a pane into fragments. The Baron went on: "On what do you -propose to live?" - -"It's for me to propose," said Coquelin. "My wife shall not suffer." - -"Whither do you mean to go?" - -"Since you're so good as to ask,--to Paris." - -My father had got back his fire. "Well, then," he cried, "my bitterest -unforgiveness go with you, and turn your unholy pride to abject woe! My -sister may marry a base-born vagrant if she wants, but I shall not give -her away. I hope you'll enjoy the mud in which you've planted yourself. -I hope your marriage will be blessed in the good old fashion, and that -you'll regard philosophically the sight of a half-dozen starving -children. I hope you'll enjoy the company of chandlers and cobblers and -scribblers!" The Baron could go no further. "Ah, my sister!" he half -exclaimed. His voice broke; he gave a great convulsive sob, and fell -into a chair. - -"Coquelin," said my aunt, "take me back to the château." - -As she walked to the door, her hand in the young man's arm, the Vicomte -turned short about from the window, and stood with his drawn sword, -grimacing horribly. - -"Not if I can help it!" he cried through his teeth, and with a sweep of -his weapon he made a savage thrust at the young girl's breast Coquelin, -with equal speed, sprang before her, threw out his arm, and took the -blow just below the elbow. - -"Thank you, M. le Vicomte," he said, "for the chance of calling you a -coward! There was something I wanted." - -Mlle. de Bergerac spent the night at the château, but by early dawn she -had disappeared. Whither Coquelin betook himself with his gratitude and -his wound, I know not. He lay, I suppose, at some neighboring farmer's. -My father and the Vicomte kept for an hour a silent, sullen vigil in my -preceptor's vacant apartment,--for an hour and perhaps longer, for at -the end of this time I fell asleep, and when I came to my senses, the -next morning, I was in my own bed. - - -M. de Bergerac had finished his talk. - -"But the marriage," I asked, after a pause,--"was it happy?" - -"Reasonably so, I fancy. There is no doubt that Coquelin was an -excellent fellow. They had three children, and lost them all. They -managed to live. He painted portraits and did literary work. - -"And his wife?" - -"Her history, I take it, is that of all good wives: she loved her -husband. When the Revolution came, they went into politics; but here, in -spite of his base birth, Coquelin acted with that superior temperance -which I always associate with his memory. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Gabrielle de Bergerac</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Henry James</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 31, 2021 [eBook #65481]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GABRIELLE DE BERGERAC ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/gabrielle_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h2>GABRIELLE DE BERGERAC</h2> - - - -<h3>BY HENRY JAMES</h3> - - - - -<h4>NEW YORK</h4> - -<h4>BONI AND LIVERIGHT</h4> - -<h5>1918</h5> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p class="nind"><a href="#PART_I">PART I</a><br /> -<a href="#PART_II">PART II</a><br /> -<a href="#PART_III">PART III</a></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>GABRIELLE DE BERGERAC</h4> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_I"></a>PART I</h4> - -<p> -My good old friend, in his white flannel dressing-gown, with his wig -"removed," as they say of the dinner-service, by a crimson nightcap, sat -for some moments gazing into the fire. At last he looked up. I knew what -was coming. "Apropos, that little debt of mine—" -</p> - -<p> -Not that the debt was really very little. But M. de Bergerac was a man -of honor, and I knew I should receive my dues. He told me frankly that -he saw no way, either in the present or the future, to reimburse me in -cash. His only treasures were his paintings; would I choose one of them? -Now I had not spent an hour in M. de Bergerac's little parlor twice a -week for three winters, without learning that the Baron's paintings -were, with a single exception, of very indifferent merit. On the other -hand, I had taken a great fancy to the picture thus excepted. Yet, as I -knew it was a family portrait, I hesitated to claim it. I refused to -make a choice. M. de Bergerac, however, insisted, and I finally laid my -finger on the charming image of my friend's aunt. I of course insisted, -on my side, that M. de Bergerac should retain it during the remainder of -his life, and so it was only after his decease that I came into -possession of it. It hangs above my table as I write, and I have only to -glance up at the face of my heroine to feel how vain it is to attempt to -describe it. The portrait represents, in dimensions several degrees -below those of nature, the head and shoulders of a young girl of -two-and-twenty. The execution of the work is not especially strong, but -it is thoroughly respectable and one may easily see that the painter -deeply appreciated the character of the face. The countenance is -interesting rather than beautiful,—the forehead broad and open, -the eyes slightly prominent, all the features full and firm and yet -replete with gentleness. The head is slightly thrown back, as if in -movement, and the lips are parted in a half-smile. And yet, in spite of -this tender smile, I always fancy that the eyes are sad. The hair, -dressed without powder, is rolled back over a high cushion (as I -suppose), and adorned just above the left ear with a single white rose; -while, on the other side, a heavy tress from behind hangs upon the neck -with a sort of pastoral freedom. The neck is long and full, and the -shoulders rather broad. The whole face has a look of mingled softness -and decision, and seems to reveal a nature inclined to revery, -affection, and repose, but capable of action and even of heroism. Mlle. -de Bergerac died under the axe of the Terrorists. Now that I had -acquired a certain property in this sole memento of her life, I felt a -natural curiosity as to her character and history. Had M. de Bergerac -known his aunt? Did he remember her? Would it be a tax on his -good-nature to suggest that he should favor me with a few reminiscences? -The old man fixed his eyes on the fire, and laid his hand on mine, as if -his memory were fain to draw from both sources—from the ruddy glow -and from my fresh young blood—a certain vital, quickening warmth. -A mild, rich smile ran to his lips, and he pressed my hand. -Somehow,—I hardly know why,—I felt touched almost to tears. -Mlle. de Bergerac had been a familiar figure in her nephew's boyhood, -and an important event in her life had formed a sort of episode in his -younger days. It was a simple enough story; but such as it was, then and -there, settling back into his chair, with the fingers of the clock -wandering on to the small hours of the night, he told it with a tender, -lingering garrulity. Such as it is, I repeat it. I shall give, as far as -possible, my friend's words, or the English of them; but the reader will -have to do without his inimitable accents. For them there is no English. -</p> - -<p> -My father's household at Bergerac (said the Baron) consisted, exclusive -of the servants, of five persons,—himself, my mother, my aunt -(Mlle. de Bergerac), M. Coquelin (my preceptor), and M. Coquelin's -pupil, the heir of the house. Perhaps, indeed, I should have numbered M. -Coquelin among the servants. It is certain that my mother did. Poor -little woman! she was a great stickler for the rights of birth. Her own -birth was all she had, for she was without health, beauty, or fortune. -My father, on his side, had very little of the last; his property of -Bergerac yielded only enough to keep us without discredit. We gave no -entertainments, and passed the whole year in the country; and as my -mother was resolved that her weak health should do her a kindness as -well as an injury, it was put forward as an apology for everything. We -led at best a simple, somnolent sort of life. There was a terrible -amount of leisure for rural gentlefolks in those good old days. We slept -a great deal; we slept, you will say, on a volcano. It was a very -different world from this patent new world of yours, and I may say that -I was born on a different planet. Yes, in 1789, there came a great -convulsion; the earth cracked and opened and broke, and this poor old -<i>pays de France</i> went whirling through space. When I look back at -my childhood, I look over a gulf. Three years ago, I spent a week at a -country house in the neighborhood of Bergerac, and my hostess drove me -over to the site of the château. The house has disappeared, and there's -a homœopathic—hydropathic—what do you call -it?—establishment erected in its place. But the little town is -there, and the bridge on the river, and the church where I was -christened, and the double row of lime-trees on the market-place, and -the fountain in the middle. There's only one striking difference: the -sky is changed. I was born under the old sky. It was black enough, of -course, if we had only had eyes to see it; but to me, I confess, it -looked divinely blue. And in fact it was very bright,—the little -patch under which I cast my juvenile shadow. An odd enough little shadow -you would have thought it. I was promiscuously cuddled and fondled. I -was M. le Chevalier, and prospective master of Bergerac; and when I -walked to church on Sunday, I had a dozen yards of lace on my coat and a -little sword at my side. My poor mother did her best to make me good for -nothing. She had her maid to curl my hair with the tongs, and she used -with her own fingers to stick little black patches on my face. And yet I -was a good deal neglected too, and I would go for days with black -patches of another sort. I'm afraid I should have got very little -education if a kind Providence hadn't given me poor M. Coquelin. A kind -Providence, that is, and my father; for with my mother my tutor was no -favorite. She thought him—and, indeed, she called him—a -bumpkin, a clown. There was a very pretty abbé among her friends, M. -Tiblaud by name, whom she wished to install at the château as my -intellectual, and her spiritual, adviser; but my father, who, without -being anything of an <i>esprit fort</i>, had an incurable aversion to a -priest out of church, very soon routed this pious scheme. My poor father -was an odd figure of a man. He belonged to a type as completely obsolete -as the biggest of those big-boned, pre-historic monsters discovered by -M. Cuvier. He was not overburdened with opinions or principles. The only -truth that was absolute to his perception was that the house of Bergerac -was <i>de bonne noblesse.</i> His tastes were not delicate. He was fond -of the open air, of long rides, of the smell of the game-stocked woods -in autumn, of playing at bowls, of a drinking-cup, of a dirty pack of -cards, and a free-spoken tavern Hebe. I have nothing of him but his -name. I strike you as an old fossil, a relic, a mummy. Good heavens! you -should have seen him,—his good, his bad manners, his arrogance, -his <i>bonhomie</i>, his stupidity and pluck. -</p> - -<p> -My early years had promised ill for my health; I was listless and -languid, and my father had been content to leave me to the women, who, -on the whole, as I have said, left me a good deal to myself. But one -morning he seemed suddenly to remember that he had a little son and heir -running wild. It was, I remember, in my ninth year, a morning early in -June, after breakfast, at eleven o'clock. He took me by the hand and led -me out on the terrace, and sat down and made me stand between his knees. -I was engaged upon a great piece of bread and butter, which I had -brought away from the table. He put his hand into my hair, and, for the -first time that I could remember, looked me straight in the face. I had -seen him take the forelock of a young colt in the same way, when he -wished to look at its teeth. What did he want? Was he going to send me -for sale? His eyes seemed prodigiously black and his eyebrows terribly -thick. They were very much the eyebrows of that portrait. My father -passed his other hand over the muscles of my arms and the sinews of my -poor little legs. -</p> - -<p> -"Chevalier," said he, "you're dreadfully puny. What's one to do with -you?" -</p> - -<p> -I dropped my eyes and said nothing. Heaven knows I felt puny. -</p> - -<p> -"It's time you knew how to read and write. What are you blushing at?" -</p> - -<p> -"I <i>do</i> know how to read," said I. -</p> - -<p> -My father stared. "Pray, who taught you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I learned in a book." -</p> - -<p> -"What book?" -</p> - -<p> -I looked up at my father before I answered. His eyes were bright, and -there was a little flush in his face,—I hardly knew whether of -pleasure or anger. I disengaged myself and went into the drawing-room, -where I took from a cupboard in the wall an odd volume of Scarron's -<i>Roman comique.</i> As I had to go through the house, I was absent -some minutes. When I came back I found a stranger on the terrace. A -young man in poor clothes, with a walking-stick, had come up from the -avenue, and stood before my father, with his hat in his hand. At the -farther end of the terrace was my aunt. She was sitting on the parapet, -playing with a great black crow, which we kept in a cage in the -dining-room window. I betook myself to my father's side with my book, -and stood staring at our visitor. He was a dark-eyed, sunburnt young -man, of about twenty-eight, of middle height, broad in the shoulders and -short in the neck, with a slight lameness in one of his legs. He looked -travel-stained and weary and pale. I remember there was something -prepossessing in his being pale. I didn't know that the paleness came -simply from his being horribly hungry. -</p> - -<p> -"In view of these facts," he said, as I came up, "I have ventured to -presume upon the good-will of M. le Baron." -</p> - -<p> -My father sat back in his chair, with his legs apart and a hand on each -knee and his waistcoat unbuttoned, as was usual after a meal. "Upon my -word," he said, "I don't know what I can do for you. There's no place -for you in my own household." -</p> - -<p> -The young man was silent a moment. "Has M. le Baron any children?" he -asked, after a pause. -</p> - -<p> -"I have my son whom you see here." -</p> - -<p> -"May I inquire if M. le Chevalier is supplied with a preceptor?" -</p> - -<p> -My father glanced down at me. "Indeed, he seems to be," he cried. "What -have you got there?" And he took my book. "The little rascal has M. -Scarron for a teacher. This is his preceptor!" -</p> - -<p> -I blushed very hard, and the young man smiled. "Is that your only -teacher?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"My aunt taught me to read," I said, looking round at her. -</p> - -<p> -"And did your aunt recommend this book?" asked my father. -</p> - -<p> -"My aunt gave me M. Plutarque," I said. -</p> - -<p> -My father burst out laughing, and the young man put his hat up to his -mouth. But I could see that above it his eyes had a very good-natured -look. My aunt, seeing that her name had been mentioned, walked slowly -over to where we stood, still holding her crow on her hand. You have her -there before you; judge how she looked. I remember that she frequently -dressed in blue, my poor aunt, and I know that she must have dressed -simply. Fancy her in a light stuff gown, covered with big blue flowers, -with a blue ribbon in her dark hair, and the points of her high-heeled -blue slippers peeping out under her stiff white petticoat. Imagine her -strolling along the terrace of the château with a villainous black crow -perched on her wrist. You'll admit it's a picture. -</p> - -<p> -"Is all this true, sister?" said my father. "Is the Chevalier such a -scholar?" -</p> - -<p> -"He's a clever boy," said my aunt, putting her hand on my head. -</p> - -<p> -"It seems to me that at a pinch he could do without a preceptor," said -my father. "He has such a learned aunt." -</p> - -<p> -"I've taught him all I know. He had begun to ask me questions that I was -quite unable to answer." -</p> - -<p> -"I should think he might," cried my father, with a broad laugh, "when -once he had got into M. Scarron!" -</p> - -<p> -"Questions out of Plutarch," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "which you must -know Latin to answer." -</p> - -<p> -"Would you like to know Latin, M. le Chevalier?" said the young man, -looking at me with a smile. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know Latin,—you?" I asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Perfectly," said the young man, with the same smile. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you want to learn Latin, Chevalier?" said my aunt. -</p> - -<p> -"Every gentleman learns Latin," said the young man. -</p> - -<p> -I looked at the poor fellow, his dusty shoes and his rusty clothes. "But -you're not a gentleman," said I. -</p> - -<p> -He blushed up to his eyes. "Ah, I only teach it," he said. -</p> - -<p> -In this way it was that Pierre Coquelin came to be my governor. My -father, who had a mortal dislike to all kinds of cogitation and inquiry, -engaged him on the simple testimony of his face and of his own account -of his talents. His history, as he told it, was in three words as -follows: He was of our province, and neither more nor less than the son -of a village tailor. He is my hero: <i>tirez-vous de là.</i> Showing a -lively taste for books, instead of being promoted to the paternal bench, -he had been put to study with the Jesuits. After a residence of some -three years with these gentlemen, he had incurred their displeasure by a -foolish breach of discipline, and had been turned out into the world. -Here he had endeavored to make capital out of his excellent education, -and had gone up to Paris with the hope of earning his bread as a -scribbler. But in Paris he scribbled himself hungry and nothing more, -and was in fact in a fair way to die of starvation. At last he -encountered an agent of the Marquis de Rochambeau, who was collecting -young men for the little army which the latter was prepared to conduct -to the aid of the American insurgents. He had engaged himself among -Rochambeau's troops, taken part in several battles, and finally received -a wound in his leg of which the effect was still perceptible. At the end -of three years he had returned to France, and repaired on foot, with -what speed he might, to his native town; but only to find that in his -absence his father had died, after a tedious illness, in which he had -vainly lavished his small earnings upon the physicians, and that his -mother had married again, very little to his taste. Poor Coquelin was -friendless, penniless, and homeless. But once back on his native soil, -he found himself possessed again by his old passion for letters, and, -like: all starving members of his craft, he had turned his face to -Paris. He longed to make up for his three years in the wilderness. He -trudged along, lonely, hungry, and weary, till he came to the gates of -Bergerac. Here, sitting down to rest on a stone, he saw us come out on -the terrace to digest our breakfast in the sun. Poor Coquelin! he had -the stomach of a gentleman. He was filled with an irresistible longing -to rest awhile from his struggle with destiny, and it seemed to him that -for a mess of smoking pottage he would gladly exchange his vague and -dubious future. In obedience to this simple impulse,—an impulse -touching in its humility, when you knew the man,—he made his way up -the avenue. We looked affable enough,—an honest country gentleman, a -young girl playing with a crow, and a little boy eating bread and butter; -and it turned out, we were as kindly as we looked. -</p> - -<p> -For me, I soon grew extremely fond of him, and I was glad to think in -later days that he had found me a thoroughly docile child. In those -days, you know, thanks to Jean Jacques Rousseau, there was a vast stir -in men's notions of education, and a hundred theories afloat about the -perfect teacher and the perfect pupil. Coquelin was a firm devotee of -Jean Jacques, and very possibly applied some of his precepts to my own -little person. But of his own nature Coquelin was incapable of anything -that was not wise and gentle, and he had no need to learn humanity in -books. He was, nevertheless, a great reader, and when he had not a -volume in his hand he was sure to have two in his pockets. He had half a -dozen little copies of the Greek and Latin poets, bound in yellow -parchment, which, as he said, with a second shirt and a pair of white -stockings, constituted his whole library. He had carried these books to -America, and read them in the wilderness, and by the light of -camp-fires, and in crowded, steaming barracks in winter-quarters. He had -a passion for Virgil. M. Scarron was very soon dismissed to the -cupboard, among the dice-boxes and the old packs of cards, and I was -confined for the time to Virgil and Ovid and Plutarch, all of which, -with the stimulus of Coquelin's own delight, I found very good reading. -But better than any of the stories I read were those stories of his -wanderings, and his odd companions and encounters, and charming tales of -pure fantasy, which, with the best grace in the world, he would recite -by the hour. We took long walks, and he told me the names of the flowers -and the various styles of the stars, and I remember that I often had no -small trouble to keep them distinct. He wrote a very bad hand, but he -made very pretty drawings of the subjects then in vogue,—nymphs and -heroes and shepherds and pastoral scenes. I used to fancy that his -knowledge and skill were inexhaustible, and I pestered him so for -entertainment that I certainly proved that there were no limits to his -patience. -</p> - -<p> -When he first came to us he looked haggard and thin and weary; but -before the month was out, he had acquired a comfortable rotundity of -person, and something of the sleek and polished look which befits the -governor of a gentleman's son. And yet he never lost a certain gravity -and reserve of demeanor which was nearly akin to a mild melancholy. With -me, half the time, he was of course intolerably bored, and he must have -had hard work to keep from yawning in my face,—which, as he knew I -knew, would have been an unwarrantable liberty. At table, with my -parents, he seemed to be constantly observing himself and inwardly -regulating his words and gestures. The simple truth, I take it, was that -he had never sat at a gentleman's table, and although he must have known -himself incapable of a real breach of civility,—essentially delicate -as he was in his feelings,—he was too proud to run the risk of -violating etiquette. My poor mother was a great stickler for ceremony, and -she would have had her majordomo to lift the covers, even if she had had -nothing to put into the dishes. I remember a cruel rebuke she bestowed -upon Coquelin, shortly after his arrival. She could never be brought to -forget that he had been picked up, as she said, on the roads. At dinner -one day, in the absence of Mlle. de Bergerac, who was indisposed, he -inadvertently occupied her seat, taking me as a <i>vis-à-vis</i> instead -of a neighbor. Shortly afterwards, coming to offer wine to my mother, he -received for all response a stare so blank, cold, and insolent as to -leave no doubt of her estimate of his presumption. In my mother's simple -philosophy, Mlle. de Bergerac's seat could be decently occupied only -herself, and in default of her presence should remain conspicuously and -sacredly vacant. Dinner at Bergerac was at best, indeed, a cold and -dismal ceremony. I see it now,—the great dining-room, with its high -windows and their faded curtains, and the tiles upon the floor, and the -immense wainscots, and the great white marble chimney-piece, reaching to -the ceiling,—a triumph of delicate carving,—and the panels -above the doors, with their <i>galant</i> mythological paintings. All this -had been the work of my grandfather, during the Regency, who had undertaken -to renovate and beautify the château; but his funds had suddenly given -out, and we could boast but a desultory elegance. Such talk as passed at -table was between my mother and the Baron, and consisted for the most -part of a series of insidious attempts on my mother's part to extort -information which the latter had no desire, or at least no faculty, to -impart. My father was constitutionally taciturn and apathetic, and he -invariably made an end of my mother's interrogation by proclaiming that -he hated gossip. He liked to take his pleasure and have done with it, or -at best, to ruminate his substantial joys within the conservative -recesses of his capacious breast. The Baronne's inquisitive tongue was -like a lambent flame, flickering over the sides of a rock. She had a -passion for the world, and seclusion had only sharpened the edge of her -curiosity. She lived on old memories—shabby, tarnished bits of -intellectual finery—and vagrant rumors, anecdotes, and scandals. -</p> - -<p> -Once in a while, however, her curiosity held high revel; for once a week -we had the Vicomte de Treuil to dine with us. This gentleman was, -although several years my father's junior, his most intimate friend and -the only constant visitor at Bergerac. He brought with him a sort of -intoxicating perfume of the great world, which I myself was not too -young to feel. He had a marvellous fluency of talk; he was polite and -elegant; and he was constantly getting letters from Paris, books, -newspapers, and prints, and copies of the new songs. When he dined at -Bergerac, my mother used to rustle away from table, kissing her hand to -him, and actually light-headed from her deep potations of gossip. His -conversation was a constant popping of corks. My father and the Vicomte, -as I have said, were firm friends,—the firmer for the great diversity -of their characters. M. de Bergerac was dark, grave, and taciturn, with -a deep, sonorous voice. He had in his nature a touch of melancholy, and, -in default of piety, a broad vein of superstition. The foundations of -his soul, moreover, I am satisfied, in spite of the somewhat ponderous -superstructure, were laid in a soil of rich tenderness and pity. Gaston -de Treuil was of a wholly different temper. He was short and slight, -without any color, and with eyes as blue and lustrous as sapphires. He -was so careless and gracious and mirthful, that to an unenlightened -fancy he seemed the model of a joyous, reckless, gallant, impenitent -<i>veneur.</i> But it sometimes struck me that, as he revolved an idea in -his mind, it produced a certain flinty ring, which suggested that his -nature was built, as it were, on rock, and that the bottom of his heart was -hard. Young as he was, besides, he had a tired, jaded, exhausted look, -which told of his having played high at the game of life, and, very -possibly, lost. In fact, it was notorious that M. de Treuil had run -through his property, and that his actual business in our neighborhood -was to repair the breach in his fortunes by constant attendance on a -wealthy kinsman, who occupied an adjacent château, and who was dying of -age and his infirmities. But while I thus hint at the existence in his -composition of these few base particles, I should be sorry to represent -him as substantially less fair and clear and lustrous than he appeared -to he. He possessed an irresistible charm, and that of itself is a -virtue. I feel sure, moreover, that my father would never have -reconciled himself to a real scantiness of masculine worth. The Vicomte -enjoyed, I fancy, the generous energy of my father's good-fellowship, -and the Baron's healthy senses were flattered by the exquisite perfume -of the other's infallible <i>savoir-vivre.</i> I offer a hundred apologies, -at any rate, to the Vicomte's luminous shade, that I should have -ventured to cast a dingy slur upon his name. History has commemorated -it. He perished on the scaffold, and showed that he knew how to die as -well as to live. He was the last relic of the lily-handed youth of the -<i>bon temps</i>; and as he looks at me out of the poignant sadness of the -past, with a reproachful glitter in his cold blue eyes, and a scornful -smile on his fine lips, I feel that, elegant and silent as he is, he has -the last word in our dispute. I shall think of him henceforth as he -appeared one night, or rather one morning, when he came home from a ball -with my father, who had brought him to Bergerac to sleep. I had my bed -in a closet out of my mother's room, where I lay in a most unwholesome -fashion among her old gowns and hoops and cosmetics. My mother slept -little; she passed the night in her dressing-gown, bolstered up in her -bed, reading novels. The two gentlemen came in at four o'clock in the -morning and made their way up to the Baronne's little sitting-room, next -to her chamber. I suppose they were highly exhilarated, for they made a -great noise of talking and laughing, and my father began to knock at the -chamber door. He called out that he had M. de Treuil, and that they were -cold and hungry. The Baronne said that she had a fire and they might -come in. She was glad enough, poor lady, to get news of the ball, and to -catch their impressions before they had been dulled by sleep. So they -came in and sat by the fire, and M. de Treuil looked for some wine and -some little cakes where my mother told him. I was wide awake and heard -it all. I heard my mother protesting and crying out, and the Vicomte -laughing, when he looked into the wrong place; and I am afraid that in -my mother's room there were a great many wrong places. Before long, in -my little stuffy, dark closet, I began to feel hungry too; whereupon I -got out of bed and ventured forth into the room. I remember the whole -picture, as one remembers isolated scenes of childhood: my mother's bed, -with its great curtains half drawn back at the side, and her little -eager face and dark eyes peeping out of the recess; then the two men at -the fire,—my father with his hat on, sitting and looking drowsily -into the flames, and the Vicomte standing before the hearth, talking, -laughing, and gesticulating, with the candlestick in one hand and a -glass of wine in the other,—dropping the wax on one side and the wine -on the other. He was dressed from head to foot in white velvet and white -silk, with embroideries of silver, and an immense <i>jabot.</i> He was very -pale, and he looked lighter and slighter and wittier and more elegant -than ever. He had a weak voice, and when he laughed, after one feeble -little spasm, it went off into nothing, and you only knew he was -laughing by his nodding his head and lifting his eyebrows and showing -his handsome teeth. My father was in crimson velvet, with tarnished gold -facings. My mother bade me get back into bed, but my father took me on -his knees and held out my bare feet to the fire. In a little while, from -the influence of the heat, he fell asleep in his chair, and I sat in my -place and watched M. de Treuil as he stood in the firelight drinking his -wine and telling stories to my mother, until at last I too relapsed into -the innocence of slumber. They were very good friends, the Vicomte and -my mother. He admired the turn of her mind. I remember his telling me -several years later, at the time of her death, when I was old enough to -understand him, that she was a very brave, keen little woman, and that -in her musty solitude of Bergerac she said a great many more good things -than the world ever heard of. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -During the winter which preceded Coquelin's arrival, M. de Treuil used -to show himself at Bergerac in a friendly manner; but about a month -before this event, his visits became more frequent and assumed a special -import and motive. In a word, my father and his friend between them had -conceived it to be a fine thing that the latter should marry Mlle. de -Bergerac. Neither from his own nor from his friend's point of view was -Gaston de Treuil a marrying man or a desirable <i>parti.</i> He was too -fond of pleasure to conciliate a rich wife, and too poor to support a -penniless one. But I fancy that my father was of the opinion that if the -Vicomte came into his kinsman's property, the best way to insure the -preservation of it, and to attach him to his duties and -responsibilities, would be to unite him to an amiable girl, who might -remind him of the beauty of a domestic life and lend him courage to mend -his ways. As far as the Vicomte was concerned, this was assuredly a -benevolent scheme, but it seems to me that it made small account of the -young girl's own happiness. M. de Treuil was supposed, in the matter of -women, to have known everything that can be known, and to be as -<i>blasé</i> with regard to their charms as he was proof against their -influence. And, in fact, his manner of dealing with women, and of -discussing them, indicated a profound disenchantment,—no bravado -of contempt, no affectation of cynicism, but a cold, civil, absolute -lassitude. A simply charming woman, therefore, would never have served -the purpose of my father's theory. A very sound and liberal instinct led -him to direct his thoughts to his sister. There were, of course, various -auxiliary reasons for such disposal of Mlle. de Bergerac's hand. She was -now a woman grown, and she had as yet received no decent proposals. She -had no marriage portion of her own, and my father had no means to endow -her. Her beauty, moreover, could hardly be called a dowry. It was -without those vulgar allurements which, for many a poor girl, replace -the glitter of cash. If within a very few years more she had not -succeeded in establishing herself creditably in the world, nothing would -be left for her but to withdraw from it, and to pledge her virgin faith -to the chilly sanctity of a cloister. I was destined in the course of -time to assume the lordship and the slender revenues of Bergerac, and it -was not to be expected that I should be burdened on the very threshold -of life with the maintenance of a dowerless maiden aunt. A marriage with -M. de Treuil would be in all senses a creditable match, and, in the -event of his becoming his kinsman's legatee, a thoroughly comfortable -one. -</p> - -<p> -It was some time before the color of my father's intentions, and the -milder hue of the Vicomte's acquiescence, began to show in our common -daylight. It is not the custom, as you know, in our excellent France, to -admit a lover on probation. He is expected to make up his mind on a view -of the young lady's endowments, and to content himself before marriage -with the bare cognition of her face. It is not thought decent (and there -is certainly reason in it) that he should dally with his draught, and -hold it to the light, and let the sun play through it, before carrying -it to his lips. It was only on the ground of my father's warm good-will -to Gaston de Treuil, and the latter's affectionate respect for the -Baron, that the Vicomte was allowed to appear as a lover, before making -his proposals in form. M. de Treuil, in fact, proceeded gradually, and -made his approaches from a great distance. It was not for several weeks, -therefore, that Mlle. de Bergerac became aware of them. And now, as this -dear young girl steps into my story, where, I ask you, shall I find -words to describe the broad loveliness of her person, to hint at the -perfect beauty of her mind, to suggest the sweet mystery of her first -suspicion of being sought, from afar, in marriage? Not in my fancy, -surely; for there I should disinter the flimsy elements and tarnished -properties of a superannuated comic opera. My taste, my son, was formed -once for all fifty years ago. But if I wish to call up Mlle. de -Bergerac, I must turn to my earliest memories, and delve in the -sweet-smelling virgin soil of my heart. For Mlle. de Bergerac is no -misty sylphid nor romantic moonlit nymph. She rises before me now, -glowing with life, with the sound of her voice just dying in the -air,—the more living for the mark of her crimson death-stain. -</p> - -<p> -There was every good reason why her dawning consciousness of M. de -Treuil's attentions—although these were little more than projected as -yet—should have produced a serious tremor in her heart. It was not -that she was aught of a coquette; I honestly believe that there was no -latent coquetry in her nature. At all events, whatever she might have -become after knowing M. de Treuil, she was no coquette to speak of in her -ignorance. Her ignorance of men, in truth, was great. For the Vicomte -himself, she had as yet known him only distantly, formally, as a -gentleman of rank and fashion; and for others of his quality, she had -seen but a small number, and not seen them intimately. These few words -suffice to indicate that my aunt led a life of unbroken monotony. Once a -year she spent six weeks with certain ladies of the Visitation, in whose -convent she had received her education, and of whom she continued to be -very fond. Half a dozen times in the twelvemonth she went to a hall, -under convoy of some haply ungrudging <i>châtelaine.</i> Two or three times -a month, she received a visit at Bergerac. The rest of the time she -paced, with the grace of an angel and the patience of a woman, the -dreary corridors and unclipt garden walks of Bergerac. The discovery, -then, that the brilliant Vicomte de Treuil was likely to make a proposal -for her hand was an event of no small importance. With precisely what -feelings she awaited its coming, I am unable to tell; but I have no -hesitation in saying that even at this moment (that is, in less than a -month after my tutor's arrival) her feelings were strongly modified by -her acquaintance with Pierre Coquelin. -</p> - -<p> -The word "acquaintance" perhaps exaggerates Mlle. de Bergerac's relation -to this excellent young man. Twice a day she sat facing him at table, -and half a dozen times a week she met him on the staircase, in the -saloon, or in the park. Coquelin had been accommodated with an apartment -in a small untenanted pavilion, within the enclosure of our domain, and -except at meals, and when his presence was especially requested at the -château, he confined himself to his own precinct. It was there, morning -and evening, that I took my lesson. It was impossible, therefore, that -an intimacy should have arisen between these two young persons, equally -separated as they were by material and conventional barriers. -Nevertheless, as the sequel proved, Coquelin must, by his mere presence, -have begun very soon to exert a subtle action on Mlle. de Bergerac's -thoughts. As for the young girl's influence on Coquelin, it is my belief -that he fell in love with her the very first moment he beheld -her,—that morning when he trudged wearily up our avenue. I need -certainly make no apology for the poor fellow's audacity. You tell me -that you fell in love at first sight with my aunt's portrait; you will -readily excuse the poor youth for having been smitten with the original. -It is less logical perhaps, but it is certainly no less natural, that -Mlle. de Bergerac should have ventured to think of my governor as a -decidedly interesting fellow. She saw so few men that one the more or -the less made a very great difference. Coquelin's importance, moreover, -was increased rather than diminished by the fact that, as I may say, he -was a son of the soil. Marked as he was, in aspect and utterance, with -the genuine plebeian stamp, he opened a way for the girl's fancy into a -vague, unknown world. He stirred her imagination, I conceive, in very -much the same way as such a man as Gaston de Treuil would have -stirred—actually had stirred, of course—the grosser -sensibilities of many a little <i>bourgeoise.</i> Mlle. de Bergerac was -so thoroughly at peace with the consequences of her social position, so -little inclined to derogate in act or in thought from the perfect -dignity of her birth, that with the best conscience in the world, she -entertained, as they came, the feelings provoked by Coquelin's manly -virtues and graces. She had been educated in the faith that <i>noblesse -oblige</i>, and she had seen none but gentlefolks and peasants. I think -that she felt a vague, unavowed curiosity to see what sort of a figure -you might make when you were under no obligations to nobleness. I think, -finally, that unconsciously and in the interest simply of her -unsubstantial dreams, (for in those long summer days at Bergerac, -without finery, without visits, music, or books, or anything that a -well-to-do grocer's daughter enjoys at the present day, she must, unless -she was a far greater simpleton than I wish you to suppose, have spun a -thousand airy, idle visions,) she contrasted Pierre Coquelin with the -Vicomte de Treuil. I protest that I don't see how Coquelin bore the -contrast. I frankly admit that, in her place, I would have given all my -admiration to the Vicomte. At all events, the chief result of any such -comparison must have been to show how, in spite of real trials and -troubles, Coquelin had retained a certain masculine freshness and -elasticity, and how, without any sorrows but those of his own wanton -making, the Vicomte had utterly rubbed off his primal bloom of manhood. -There was that about Gaston de Treuil that reminded you of an actor by -daylight. His little row of foot-lights had burned itself out. But this -is assuredly a more pedantic view of the case than any that Mlle. de -Bergerac was capable of taking. The Vicomte had but to learn his part -and declaim it, and the illusion was complete. -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac may really have been a great simpleton, and my theory -of her feelings—vague and imperfect as it is—may be put -together quite after the fact. But I see you protest; you glance at the -picture; you frown. <i>C'est bon</i>; give me your hand. She received the -Vicomte's gallantries, then, with a modest, conscious dignity, and -courtesied to exactly the proper depth when he made her one of his -inimitable bows. -</p> - -<p> -One evening—it was, I think, about ten days after Coquelin's -arrival—she was sitting reading to my mother, who was ill in bed. The -Vicomte had been dining with us, and after dinner we had gone into the -drawing-room. At the drawing-room door Coquelin had made his bow to my -father, and carried me off to his own apartment. Mlle. de Bergerac and -the two gentlemen had gone into the drawing-room together. At dusk I had -come back to the château, and, going up to my mother, had found her in -company with her sister-in-law. In a few moments my father came in, -looking stern and black. -</p> - -<p> -"Sister," he cried, "why did you leave us alone in the drawing-room? -Didn't you see I wanted you to stay?" -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac laid down her book and looked at her brother before -answering. "I had to come to my sister," she said: "I couldn't leave her -alone." -</p> - -<p> -My mother, I'm sorry to say, was not always just to my aunt. She used to -lose patience with her sister's want of coquetry, of ambition, of desire -to make much of herself. She divined wherein my aunt had offended. -"You're very devoted to your sister, suddenly," she said. "There are -duties and duties, mademoiselle. I'm very much obliged to you for -reading to me. You can put down the book." -</p> - -<p> -"The Vicomte swore very hard when you went out," my father went on. -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac laid aside her book. "Dear me!" she said, "if he was -going to swear, it's very well I went." -</p> - -<p> -"Are you afraid of the Vicomte?" said my mother. "You're twenty-two -years old. You're not a little girl." -</p> - -<p> -"Is she twenty-two?" cried my father. "I told him she was twenty-one." -</p> - -<p> -"Frankly, brother," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "what does he want? Does he -want to marry me?" -</p> - -<p> -My father stared a moment. "<i>Pardieu!</i>" he cried. -</p> - -<p> -"She looks as if she didn't believe it," said my mother. "Pray, did you -ever ask him?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, madam; did you? You are very kind." Mlle. de Bergerac was excited; -her cheeks flushed. -</p> - -<p> -"In the course of time," said my father, gravely, "the Vicomte proposes -to demand your hand." -</p> - -<p> -"What is he waiting for?" asked Mlle. de Bergerac, simply. -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Fi donc, mademoiselle!</i>" cried my mother. -</p> - -<p> -"He is waiting for M. de Sorbières to die," said I, who had got this -bit of news from my mother's waiting-woman. -</p> - -<p> -My father stared at me, half angrily; and then,—"He expects to -inherit," he said, boldly. "It's a very fine property." -</p> - -<p> -"He would have done better, it seems to me," rejoined Mlle. de Bergerac, -after a pause, "to wait till he had actually come into possession of -it." -</p> - -<p> -"M. de Sorbières," cried my father, "has given him his word a dozen -times over. Besides, the Vicomte loves you." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac blushed, with a little smile, and as she did so her -eyes fell on mine. I was standing gazing at her as a child gazes at a -familiar friend who is presented to him in a new light. She put out her -hand and drew me towards her. "The truth comes out of the mouths of -children," she said. "Chevalier, does he love me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Stuff!" cried the Baronne; "one doesn't: speak to children of such -things. A young girl should believe what she's told. I believed my -mother when she told me that your brother loved me. He didn't, but I -believed it, and as far as I know I'm none the worse for it." -</p> - -<p> -For ten days after this I heard nothing more of Mlle. de Bergerac's -marriage, and I suppose that, childlike, I ceased to think of what I had -already heard. One evening, about midsummer, M. de Treuil came over to -supper, and announced that he was about to set out in company with poor -M. de Sorbières for some mineral springs in the South, by the use of -which the latter hoped to prolong his life. -</p> - -<p> -I remember that, while we sat at table, Coquelin was appealed to as an -authority upon some topic broached by the Vicomte, on which he found -himself at variance with my father. It was the first time, I fancy, that -he had been so honored and that his opinions had been deemed worth -hearing. The point under discussion must have related to the history of -the American War, for Coquelin spoke with the firmness and fulness -warranted by personal knowledge. I fancy that he was a little frightened -by the sound of his own voice, but he acquitted himself with perfect -good grace and success. We all sat attentive; my mother even staring a -little, surprised to find in a beggarly pedagogue a perfect beau diseur. -My father, as became so great a gentleman, knew by a certain rough -instinct when a man had something amusing to say. He leaned back, with -his hands in his pockets, listening and paying the poor fellow the -tribute of a half-puzzled frown. The Vicomte, like a man of taste, was -charmed. He told stories himself, he was a good judge. -</p> - -<p> -After supper we went out on the terrace. It was a perfect summer night, -neither too warm nor too cool. There was no moon, but the stars flung -down their languid light, and the earth, with its great dark masses of -vegetation and the gently swaying tree-tops, seemed to answer back in a -thousand vague perfumes. Somewhere, close at hand, out of an enchanted -tree, a nightingale raved and carolled in delirious music. We had the -good taste to listen in silence. My mother sat down on a bench against -the house, and put out her hand and made my father sit beside her. Mlle. -de Bergerac strolled to the edge of the terrace, and leaned against the -balustrade, whither M. de Treuil soon followed her. She stood -motionless, with her head raised, intent upon the music. The Vicomte -seated himself upon the parapet, with his face towards her and his arms -folded. He may perhaps have been talking, under cover of the -nightingale. Coquelin seated himself near the other end of the terrace, -and drew me between his knees. At last the nightingale ceased. Coquelin -got up, and bade good night to the company, and made his way across the -park to his lodge. I went over to my aunt and the Vicomte. -</p> - -<p> -"M. Coquelin is a clever man," said the Vicomte, as he disappeared down -the avenue. "He spoke very well this evening." -</p> - -<p> -"He never spoke so much before," said I. "He's very shy." -</p> - -<p> -"I think," said my aunt, "he's a little proud." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't understand," said the Vicomte, "how a man with any pride can -put up with the place of a tutor. I had rather dig in the fields." -</p> - -<p> -"The Chevalier is much obliged to you," said my aunt, laughing. "In -fact, M. Coquelin has to dig a little, hasn't he, Chevalier?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," said I. "But he keeps some plants in pots." -</p> - -<p> -At this my aunt and the Vicomte began to laugh. "He keeps one precious -plant," cried my aunt, tapping my face with her fan. -</p> - -<p> -At this moment my mother called me away. "He makes them laugh," I heard -her say to my father, as I went to her. -</p> - -<p> -"She had better laugh about it than cry," said my father. -</p> - -<p> -Before long, Mlle. de Bergerac and her companion came back toward the -house. -</p> - -<p> -"M. le Vicomte, brother," said my aunt, "invites me to go down and walk -in the park. May I accept?" -</p> - -<p> -"By all means," said my father. "You may go with the Vicomte as you -would go with me." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" said the Vicomte. -</p> - -<p> -"Come then, Chevalier," said my aunt. "In my turn, I invite you." -</p> - -<p> -"My son," said the Baronne, "I forbid you." -</p> - -<p> -"But my brother says," rejoined Mlle. de Bergerac, "that I may go with -M. de Treuil as I would go with himself. He would not object to my -taking my nephew." And she put out her hand. -</p> - -<p> -"One would think," said my mother, "that you were setting out for -Siberia." -</p> - -<p> -"For Siberia!" cried the Vicomte, laughing; "O no!" -</p> - -<p> -I paused, undecided. But my father gave me a push. "After all," he said, -"it's better." -</p> - -<p> -When I overtook my aunt and her lover, the latter, losing no time, -appeared to have come quite to the point. -</p> - -<p> -"Your brother tells me, mademoiselle," he had begun, "that he has spoken -to you." -</p> - -<p> -The young girl was silent. -</p> - -<p> -"You may be indifferent," pursued the Vicomte, "but I can't believe -you're ignorant." -</p> - -<p> -"My brother has spoken to me," said Mlle. de Bergerac at last, with an -apparent effort,—"my brother has spoken to me of his project." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm very glad he seemed to you to have espoused my cause so warmly that -you call it his own. I did my best to convince him that I possess what a -person of your merit is entitled to exact of the man who asks her hand. -In doing so, I almost convinced myself. The point is now to convince -you." -</p> - -<p> -"I listen." -</p> - -<p> -"You admit, then, that your mind is not made up in advance against me." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Mon Dieu!</i>" cried my aunt, with some emphasis, "a poor girl like me -doesn't make up her mind. You frighten me, Vicomte. This is a serious -question. I have the misfortune to have no mother. I can only pray God. -But prayer helps me not to choose, but only to be resigned." -</p> - -<p> -"Pray often, then, mademoiselle. I'm not an arrogant lover, and since I -have known you a little better, I have lost all my vanity. I'm not a -good man nor a wise one. I have no doubt you think me very light and -foolish, but you can't begin to know how light and foolish I am. Marry -me and you'll never know. If you don't marry me, I'm afraid you'll never -marry." -</p> - -<p> -"You're very frank. Vicomte. If you think I'm afraid of never marrying, -you're mistaken. One can be very happy as an old maid. I spend six weeks -every year with the ladies of the Visitation. Several of them are -excellent women, charming women. They read, they educate young girls, -they visit the poor—" -</p> - -<p> -The Vicomte broke into a laugh. "They get up at five o'clock in the -morning; they breakfast on boiled cabbage; they make flannel waistcoats, -and very good sweetmeats! Why do you talk so, mademoiselle? Why do you -say that you would like to lead such a life? One might almost believe it -is coquetry. <i>Tenez</i>, I believe it's ignorance,—ignorance of -your own feelings, your own nature, and your own needs." M. de Treuil -paused a moment, and, although I had a very imperfect notion of the meaning -of his words, I remember being struck with the vehement look of his pale -face, which seemed fairly to glow in the darkness. Plainly, he was in -love. "You are not made for solitude," he went on; "you are not made to -be buried in a dingy old château, in the depths of a ridiculous -province. You are made for the world, for the court, for pleasure, to be -loved, admired, and envied. No, you don't know yourself, nor does -Bergerac know you, nor his wife! I, at least, appreciate you. I blow -that you are supremely beautiful—" -</p> - -<p> -"Vicomte," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "you forget—the child." -</p> - -<p> -"Hang the child! Why did you bring him along? You are no child. You can -understand me. You are a woman, full of intelligence and goodness and -beauty. They don't know you here, they think you a little demoiselle in -pinafores. Before Heaven, mademoiselle, there is that about you,—I -see it, I feel it here at your side, in this rustling darkness—there -is that about you that a man would gladly die for." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac interrupted him with energy. "You talk extravagantly. -I don't understand you; you frighten me." -</p> - -<p> -"I talk as I feel. I frighten you? So much the better. I wish to stir -your heart and get some answer to the passion of my own." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac was silent a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. -"If I talk with you on this subject, I must do it with my wits about -me," she said at last. "I must know exactly what we each mean." -</p> - -<p> -"It's plain then that I can't hope to inspire you with any degree of -affection." -</p> - -<p> -"One doesn't promise to love, Vicomte; I can only answer for the -present. My heart is so full of good wishes toward you that it costs me -comparatively little to say I don't love you." -</p> - -<p> -"And anything I may say of my own feelings will make no difference to -you?" -</p> - -<p> -"You have said you love me. Let it rest there." -</p> - -<p> -"But you look as if you doubted my word." -</p> - -<p> -"You can't see how I look; Vicomte, I believe you." -</p> - -<p> -"Well then, there is one point gained. Let us pass to the others. I'm -thirty years old. I have a very good name and a very bad reputation. I -honestly believe that, though I've fallen below my birth, I've kept -above my fame. I believe that I have no vices of temper; I'm neither -brutal, nor jealous, nor miserly. As for my fortune, I'm obliged to -admit that it consists chiefly in my expectations. My actual property is -about equal to your brother's and you know how your sister-in-law is -obliged to live. My expectations are thought particularly good. My -great-uncle, M. de Sorbières, possesses, chiefly in landed estates, a -fortune of some three millions of livres. I have no important -competitors, either in blood or devotion. He is eighty-seven years old -and paralytic, and within the past year I have been laying siege to his -favor with such constancy that his surrender, like his extinction, is -only a question of time. I received yesterday a summons to go with him -to the Pyrenees, to drink certain medicinal waters. The least he can do, -on my return, is to make me a handsome allowance, which with my own -revenues will make—<i>en attendant</i> better things—a -sufficient income for a reasonable couple." -</p> - -<p> -There was a pause of some moments, during which we slowly walked along -in the obstructed starlight, the silence broken only by the train of my -aunt's dress brushing against the twigs and pebbles. -</p> - -<p> -"What a pity," she said, at last, "that you are not able to speak of all -this good fortune as in the present rather than in the future." -</p> - -<p> -"There it is! Until I came to know you, I had no thoughts of marriage. -What did I want of wealth? If five years ago I had foreseen this moment, -I should stand here with something better than promises." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, Vicomte," pursued the young girl, with singular composure, "you -do me the honor to think very well of me: I hope you will not be vexed -to find that prudence is one of my virtues. If I marry, I wish to marry -well. It's not only the husband, but the marriage that counts. In -accepting you as you stand, I should make neither a sentimental match -nor a brilliant one." -</p> - -<p> -"Excellent. I love you, prudence and all. Say, then, that I present -myself here three months hence with the titles and tokens of property -amounting to a million and a half of livres, will you consider that I am -a <i>parti</i> sufficiently brilliant to make you forget that you don't -love me?" -</p> - -<p> -"I should never forget that." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, nor I either. It makes a sort of sorrowful harmony! If three -months hence, I repeat, I offer you a fortune instead of this poor empty -hand, will you accept the one for the sake of the other?" -</p> - -<p> -My aunt stopped short in the path. "I hope, Vicomte," she said, with -much apparent simplicity, "that you are going to do nothing indelicate." -</p> - -<p> -"God forbid, mademoiselle! It shall be a clean hand and a clean -fortune." -</p> - -<p> -"If you ask then a promise, a pledge—" -</p> - -<p> -"You'll not give it. I ask then only for a little hope. Give it in what -form you will." -</p> - -<p> -We walked a few steps farther and came out from among the shadows, -beneath the open sky. The voice of M. de Treuil, as he uttered these -words, was low and deep and tender and full of entreaty. Mlle. de -Bergerac cannot but have been deeply moved. I think she was somewhat -awe-struck at having called up such a force of devotion in a nature -deemed cold and inconstant. She put out her hand. "I wish success to any -honorable efforts. In any case you will be happier for your wealth. In -one case it will get you a wife, and in the other it will console you." -</p> - -<p> -"Console me! I shall hate it, despise it, and throw it into the sea!" -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac had no intention, of course, of leaving her companion -under an illusion. "Ah, but understand. Vicomte," she said, "I make no -promise. My brother claims the right to bestow my hand. If he wishes our -marriage now, of course he will wish it three months hence. I have never -gainsaid him." -</p> - -<p> -"From now to three months a great deal may happen." -</p> - -<p> -"To you, perhaps, but not to me." -</p> - -<p> -"Are you going to your friends of the Visitation?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, indeed. I have no wish to spend the summer in a cloister. I prefer -the green fields." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then <i>va</i> for the green fields! They're the next best thing. I -recommend you to the Chevalier's protection." -</p> - -<p> -We had made half the circuit of the park, and turned into an alley which -stretched away towards the house, and about midway in its course -separated into two paths, one leading to the main avenue, and the other -to the little pavilion inhabited by Coquelin. At the point where the -alley was divided stood an enormous oak of great circumference, with a -circular bench surrounding its trunk. It occupied, I believe, the -central point of the whole domain. As we reached the oak, I looked down -along the footpath towards the pavilion, and saw Coquelin's light -shining in one of the windows. I immediately proposed that we should pay -him a visit. My aunt objected, on the ground that he was doubtless busy -and would not thank us for interrupting him. And then, when I insisted, -she said it was not proper. -</p> - -<p> -"How not proper?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's not proper for me. A lady doesn't visit young men in their own -apartments." -</p> - -<p> -At this the Vicomte cried out. He was partly amused, I think, at my -aunt's attaching any compromising power to poor little Coquelin, and -partly annoyed at her not considering his own company, in view of his -pretensions, a sufficient guaranty. -</p> - -<p> -"I should think," he said, "that with the Chevalier and me you might -venture—" -</p> - -<p> -"As you please, then," said my aunt. And I accordingly led the way to my -governor's abode. -</p> - -<p> -It was a small edifice of a single floor, standing prettily enough among -the trees, and still habitable, although very much in disrepair. It had -been built by that same ancestor to whom Bergerac was indebted, in the -absence of several of the necessities of life, for many of its elegant -superfluities, and had been designed, I suppose, as a scene of -pleasure,—such pleasure as he preferred to celebrate elsewhere than -beneath the roof of his domicile. Whether it had ever been used I know -not; but it certainly had very little of the look of a pleasure-house. -Such furniture as it had once possessed had long since been transferred -to the needy saloons of the château, and it now looked dark and bare -and cold. In front, the shrubbery had been left to grow thick and wild -and almost totally to exclude the light from the windows; but behind, -outside of the two rooms which he occupied, and which had been provided -from the château with the articles necessary for comfort, Coquelin had -obtained my father's permission to effect a great clearance in the -foliage, and he now enjoyed plenty of sunlight and a charming view of -the neighboring country. It was in the larger of these two rooms, -arranged as a sort of study, that we found him. -</p> - -<p> -He seemed surprised and somewhat confused by our visit, but he very soon -recovered himself sufficiently to do the honors of his little -establishment. -</p> - -<p> -"It was an idea of my nephew," said Mlle. de Bergerac. "We were walking -in the park, and he saw your light. Now that we are here, Chevalier, -what would you have us do?" -</p> - -<p> -"M. Coquelin has some very pretty things to show you," said I. -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin turned very red. "Pretty things, Chevalier? Pray, what do you -mean? I have some of your nephew's copy-books," he said, turning to my -aunt. -</p> - -<p> -"Nay, you have some of your own," I cried. "He has books full of -drawings, made by himself." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, you draw?" said the Vicomte. -</p> - -<p> -"M. le Chevalier does me the honor to think so. My drawings are meant -for no critics but children." -</p> - -<p> -"In the way of criticism," said my aunt, gently, "we too are children." -Her beautiful eyes, as she uttered these words, must have been quite as -gentle as her voice. Coquelin looked at her, thinking very modestly of -his little pictures, but loth to refuse the first request she had ever -made him. -</p> - -<p> -"Show them, at any rate," said the Vicomte, in a somewhat peremptory -tone. In those days, you see, a man occupying Coquelin's place was -expected to hold all his faculties and talents at the disposal of his -patron, and it was thought an unwarrantable piece of assumption that he -should cultivate any of the arts for his own peculiar delectation. In -withholding his drawings, therefore, it may have seemed to the Vicomte that -Coquelin was unfaithful to the service to which he was held,—that, -namely, of instructing, diverting, and edifying the household of -Bergerac. Coquelin went to a little cupboard in the wall, and took out -three small albums and a couple of portfolios. Mlle. de Bergerac sat -down at the table, and Coquelin drew up the lamp and placed his drawings -before her. He turned them over, and gave such explanations as seemed -necessary. I have only my childish impressions of the character of these -sketches, which, in my eyes, of course, seemed prodigiously clever. What -the judgment of my companions was worth I know not, but they appeared -very well pleased. The Vicomte probably knew a good sketch from a poor -one, and he very good-naturedly pronounced my tutor an extremely knowing -fellow. Coquelin had drawn anything and everything,—peasants and dumb -brutes, landscapes and Parisian types and figures, taken indifferently -from high and low life. But the best pieces in the collection were a -series of illustrations and reminiscences of his adventures with the -American army, and of the figures and episodes he had observed in the -Colonies. They were for the most part rudely enough executed, owing to -his want of time and materials, but they were full of <i>finesse</i> and -character. M. de Treuil was very much amused at the rude equipments of -your ancestors. There were sketches of the enemy too, whom Coquelin had -apparently not been afraid to look in the face. While he was turning -over these designs for Mlle. de Bergerac, the Vicomte took up one of his -portfolios, and, after a short inspection, drew from it, with a cry of -surprise, a large portrait in pen and ink. -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Tiens!</i>" said I; "it's my aunt!" -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin turned pale. Mlle. de Bergerac looked at him, and turned the -least bit red. As for the Vicomte, he never changed color. There was no -eluding the fact that it was a likeness, and Coquelin had to pay the -penalty of his skill. -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't know," he said, at random, "that it was in that portfolio. Do -you recognize it, mademoiselle?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," said the Vicomte, dryly, "M. Coquelin meant to hide it." -</p> - -<p> -"It's too pretty to hide," said my aunt; "and yet it's too pretty to -show. It's flattered." -</p> - -<p> -"Why should I have flattered you, mademoiselle?" asked Coquelin. "You -were never to see it." -</p> - -<p> -"That's what it is, mademoiselle," said the Vicomte, "to have such -dazzling beauty. It penetrates the world. Who knows where you'll find it -reflected next?" -</p> - -<p> -However pretty a compliment this may have been to Mlle. de Bergerac, it -was decidedly a back-handed blow to Coquelin. The young girl perceived -that he felt it. -</p> - -<p> -She rose to her feet. "My beauty," she said, with a slight tremor in her -voice, "would be a small thing without M. Coquelin's talent. We are much -obliged to you. I hope that you'll bring your pictures to the château, -so that we may look at the rest." -</p> - -<p> -"Are you going to leave him this?" asked M. de Treuil, holding up the -portrait. -</p> - -<p> -"If M. Coquelin will give it to me, I shall be very glad to have it." -</p> - -<p> -"One doesn't keep one's own portrait," said the Vicomte. "It ought to -belong to me." In those days, before the invention of our sublime -machinery for the reproduction of the human face, a young fellow was -very glad to have his mistress's likeness in pen and ink. -</p> - -<p> -But Coquelin had no idea of contributing to the Vicomte's gallery. -"Excuse me," he said, gently, but looking the nobleman in the face. "The -picture isn't good enough for Mlle. de Bergerac, but it's too good for -any one else"; and he drew it out of the other's hands, tore it across, -and applied it to the flame of the lamp. -</p> - -<p> -We went back to the château in silence. The drawing-room was empty; but -as we went in, the Vicomte took a lighted candle from a table and raised -it to the young girl's face. "<i>Parbleu!</i>" he exclaimed, "the vagabond -had looked at you to good purpose!" -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac gave a half-confused laugh. "At any rate," she said, -"he didn't hold a candle to me as if I were my old smoke-stained -grandame, yonder!" and she blew out the light. "I'll call my brother," -she said, preparing to retire. -</p> - -<p> -"A moment," said her lover; "I shall not see you for some weeks. I shall -start to-morrow with my uncle. I shall think of you by day, and dream of -you by night. And meanwhile I shall very much doubt whether you think of -me." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac smiled. "Doubt, doubt. It will help you to pass the -time. With faith alone it would hang very heavy." -</p> - -<p> -"It seems hard," pursued M. de Treuil, "that I should give you so many -pledges, and that you should give me none." -</p> - -<p> -"I give all I ask." -</p> - -<p> -"Then, for Heaven's sake, ask for something!" -</p> - -<p> -"Your kind words are all I want." -</p> - -<p> -"Then give me some kind word yourself." -</p> - -<p> -"What shall I say. Vicomte?" -</p> - -<p> -"Say,—say that you'll wait for me." -</p> - -<p> -They were standing in the centre of the great saloon, their figures -reflected by the light of a couple of candles in the shining inlaid -floor. Mlle. de Bergerac walked away a few steps with a look of -agitation. Then turning about, "Vicomte," she asked, in a deep, full -voice, "do you truly love me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, Gabrielle!" cried the young man. -</p> - -<p> -I take it that no woman can hear her baptismal name uttered for the -first time as that of Mlle. de Bergerac then came from her suitor's lips -without being thrilled with joy and pride. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, M. de Treuil," she said, "I will wait for you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_II"></a>PART II</h4> - -<p> -I remember distinctly the incidents of that summer at Bergerac; or at -least its general character, its tone. It was a hot, dry season; we -lived with doors and windows open. M. Coquelin suffered very much from -the heat, and sometimes, for days together, my lessons were suspended. -We put our books away and rambled out for a long day in the fields. My -tutor was perfectly faithful; he never allowed me to wander beyond call. -I was very fond of fishing, and I used to sit for hours, like a little -old man, with my legs dangling over the bank of our slender river, -patiently awaiting the bite that so seldom came. Near at hand, in the -shade, stretched at his length on the grass, Coquelin read and re-read -one of his half dozen Greek and Latin poets. If we had walked far from -home, we used to go and ask for some dinner at the hut of a neighboring -peasant. For a very small coin we got enough bread and cheese and small -fruit to keep us over till supper. The peasants, stupid and squalid as -they were, always received us civilly enough, though on Coquelin's -account quite as much as on my own. He addressed them with an easy -familiarity, which made them feel, I suppose, that he was, if not quite -one of themselves, at least by birth and sympathies much nearer to them -than to the future Baron de Bergerac. He gave me in the course of these -walks a great deal of good advice; and without perverting my signorial -morals or instilling any notions that were treason to my rank and -position, he kindled in my childish breast a little democratic flame -which has never quite become extinct. He taught me the beauty of -humanity, justice, and tolerance; and whenever he detected me in a -precocious attempt to assert my baronial rights over the wretched little -<i>manants</i> who crossed my path, he gave me morally a very hard -drubbing. He had none of the base complaisance and cynical nonchalance of -the traditional tutor of our old novels and comedies. Later in life I might -have found him too rigorous a moralist; but in those days I liked him -all the better for letting me sometimes feel the curb. It gave me a -highly agreeable sense of importance and a maturity. It was a tribute to -half-divined possibilities of naughtiness. In the afternoon, when I was -tired of fishing, he would lie with his thumb in his book and his eyes -half closed and tell me fairy-tales till the eyes of both of us closed -together. Do the instructors of youth nowadays condescend to the -fairy-tale pure and simple? Coquelin's stories belonged to the old, old -world: no political economy, no physics, no application to anything in -life. Do you remember in Doré's illustrations to Perrault's tales, the -picture of the enchanted castle of the Sleeping Beauty? Back in the -distance, in the bosom of an ancient park and surrounded by thick -baronial woods which blacken all the gloomy horizon, on the farther side -of a great abysmal hollow of tangled forest verdure, rise the long -façade, the moss-grown terraces, the towers, the purple roofs, of a -château of the time of Henry IV. Its massive foundations plunge far -down into the wild chasm of the woodland, and its cold pinnacles of -slate tower upwards, close to the rolling autumn clouds. The afternoon -is closing in and a chill October wind is beginning to set the forest -a-howling. In the foreground, on an elevation beneath a mighty oak, -stand a couple of old woodcutters pointing across into the enchanted -distance and answering the questions of the young prince. They are the -bent and blackened woodcutters of old France, of La Fontaine's Fables -and the <i>Médecin malgré lui.</i> What does the castle contain? What -secret is locked in its stately walls? What revel is enacted in its long -saloons? What strange figures stand aloof from its vacant windows? You -ask the question, and the answer is a long revery. I never look at the -picture without thinking of those summer afternoons in the woods and of -Coquelin's long stories. His fairies were the fairies of the <i>Grand -Siècle</i>, and his princes and shepherds the godsons of Perrault and -Madame d'Aulnay. They lived in such palaces and they hunted in such -woods. -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac, to all appearance, was not likely to break her promise -to M. de Treuil,—for lack of the opportunity, quite as much as -of the will. Those bright summer days must have seemed very long to her, -and I can't for my life imagine what she did with her time. But she, -too, as she had told the Vicomte, was very fond of the green fields; and -although she never wandered very far from the house, she spent many an -hour in the open air. Neither here nor within doors was she likely to -encounter the happy man of whom the Vicomte might be jealous. Mlle. de -Bergerac had a friend, a single intimate friend, who came sometimes to -pass the day with her, and whose visits she occasionally returned. Marie -de Chalais, the granddaughter of the Marquis de Chalais, who lived some -ten miles away, was in all respects the exact counterpart and foil of my -aunt. She was extremely plain, but with that sprightly, highly seasoned -ugliness which is often so agreeable to men. Short, spare, swarthy, -light, with an immense mouth, a most impertinent little nose, an -imperceptible foot, a charming hand, and a delightful voice, she was, in -spite of her great name and her fine clothes, the very ideal of the old -stage soubrette. Frequently, indeed, in her dress and manner, she used -to provoke a comparison with this incomparable type. A cap, an apron, -and a short petticoat were all sufficient; with these and her bold, dark -eyes she could impersonate the very genius of impertinence and intrigue. -She was a thoroughly light creature, and later in life, after her -marriage, she became famous for her ugliness, her witticisms, and her -adventures; but that she had a good heart is shown by her real -attachment to my aunt. They were forever at cross-purposes, and yet they -were excellent friends. When my aunt wished to walk, Mlle. de Chalais -wished to sit still; when Mlle. de Chalais wished to laugh, my aunt -wished to meditate; when my aunt wished to talk piety, Mlle. de Chalais -wished to talk scandal. Mlle. de Bergerac, however, usually carried the -day and set the tune. There was nothing on earth that Marie de Chalais -so despised as the green fields; and yet you might have seen her a dozen -times that summer wandering over the domain of Bergerac, in a short -muslin dress and a straw hat, with her arm entwined about the waist of -her more stately friend. We used often to meet them, and as we drew near -Mlle. de Chalais would always stop and offer to kiss the Chevalier. By -this pretty trick Coquelin was subjected for a few moments to the -influence of her innocent <i>agaçeries</i>; for rather than have no man at -all to prick with the little darts of her coquetry, the poor girl would -have gone off and made eyes at the scare-crow in the wheat-field. -Coquelin was not at all abashed by her harmless advances; for although, -in addressing my aunt, he was apt to lose his voice or his countenance, -he often showed a very pretty wit in answering Mlle. de Chalais. -</p> - -<p> -On one occasion she spent several days at Bergerac, and during her stay -she proffered an urgent entreaty that my aunt should go back with her to -her grandfather's house, where, having no parents, she lived with her -governess. Mlle. de Bergerac declined, on the ground of having no gowns -fit to visit in; whereupon Mlle. de Chalais went to my mother, begged -the gift of an old blue silk dress, and with her own cunning little -hands made it over for my aunt's figure. That evening Mlle. de Bergerac -appeared at supper in this renovated garment,—the first silk gown she -had ever worn. Mlle. de Chalais had also dressed her hair, and decked -her out with a number of trinkets and furbelows; and when the two came -into the room together, they reminded me of the beautiful Duchess in Don -Quixote, followed by a little dark-visaged Spanish waiting-maid. The -next morning Coquelin and I rambled off as usual in search of -adventures, and the day after that they were to leave the château. -Whether we met with any adventures or not I forget; but we found -ourselves at dinner-time at some distance from home, very hungry after a -long tramp. We directed our steps to a little roadside hovel, where we -had already purchased hospitality, and made our way in unannounced. We -were somewhat surprised at the scene that met our eyes. -</p> - -<p> -On a wretched bed at the farther end of the hut lay the master of the -household, a young peasant whom we had seen a fortnight before in full -health and vigor. At the head of the bed stood his wife, moaning, -crying, and wringing her hands. Hanging about her, clinging to her -skirts, and adding their piping cries to her own lamentations, were four -little children, unwashed, unfed, and half clad. At the foot, facing the -dying man, knelt his old mother—a horrible hag, so bent and brown and -wrinkled with labor and age that there was nothing womanly left of her -but her coarse, rude dress and cap, nothing of maternity but her sobs. -Beside the pillow stood the priest, who had apparently just discharged -the last offices of the Church. On the other side, on her knees, with -the poor fellow's hand in her own, knelt Mlle. de Bergerac, like a -consoling angel. On a stool near the door, looking on from a distance, -sat Mlle. de Chalais, holding a little bleating kid in her arms. When -she saw us, she started up. "Ah, M. Coquelin!" she cried, "do persuade -Mlle. de Bergerac to leave this horrible place." -</p> - -<p> -I saw Mlle. de Bergerac look at the curé and shake her head, as if to -say that it was all over. She rose from her knees and went round -to the wife, telling the same tale with her face. The poor, squalid -<i>paysanne</i> gave a sort of savage, stupid cry, and threw herself and -her rags on the young girl's neck. Mlle. de Bergerac caressed her, and -whispered heaven knows what divinely simple words of comfort. Then, for -the first time, she saw Coquelin and me, and beckoned us to approach. -</p> - -<p> -"Chevalier," she said, still holding the woman on her breast, "have you -got any money?" -</p> - -<p> -At these words the woman raised her head. I signified that I was -penniless. -</p> - -<p> -My aunt frowned impatiently. "M. Coquelin, have you?" -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin drew forth a single small piece, all that he possessed; for it -was the end of his month. Mlle. de Bergerac took it, and pursued her -inquiry. -</p> - -<p> -"Curé, have you any money?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not a sou," said the curé, smiling sweetly. -</p> - -<p> -"Bah!" said Mlle. de Bergerac, with a sort of tragic petulance. "What -can I do with twelve sous?" -</p> - -<p> -"Give it all the same," said the woman, doggedly, putting out her hand. -</p> - -<p> -"They want money," said Mlle de Bergerac, lowering her voice to -Coquelin. "They have had this great sorrow, but a <i>louis d'or</i> would -dull the wound. But we're all penniless. O for the sight of a little -gold!" -</p> - -<p> -"I have a <i>louis</i> at home," said I; and I felt Coquelin lay his hand -on my head. -</p> - -<p> -"What was the matter with the husband?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Mon Dieu!</i>" said my aunt, glancing round at the bed. "I don't know." -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin looked at her, half amazed, half worshipping. -</p> - -<p> -"Who are they, these people? What are they?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Mademoiselle," said Coquelin, fervently, "you're an angel!" -</p> - -<p> -"I wish I were," said Mlle. de Bergerac, simply; and she turned to the -old mother. -</p> - -<p> -We walked home together,—the curé with Mlle. de Chalais and me, and -Mlle. de Bergerac in front with Coquelin. Asking how the two young girls -had found their way to the deathbed we had just left, I learned from -Mlle. de Chalais that they had set out for a stroll together, and, -striking into a footpath across the fields, had gone farther than they -supposed, and lost their way. While they were trying to recover it, they -came upon the wretched hut where we had found them, and were struck by -the sight of two children, standing crying at the door. Mlle. de -Bergerac had stopped and questioned them to ascertain the cause of their -sorrow, which with some difficulty she found to be that their father was -dying of a fever. Whereupon, in spite of her companion's lively -opposition, she had entered the miserable abode, and taken her place at -the wretched couch, in the position in which we had discovered her. All -this, doubtless, implied no extraordinary merit on Mlle. de Bergerac's -part; but it placed her in a gracious, pleasing light. -</p> - -<p> -The next morning the young girls went off in the great coach of M. de -Chalais, which had been sent for them overnight, my father riding along -as an escort. My aunt was absent a week, and I think I may say we keenly -missed her. When I say we, I mean Coquelin and I, and when I say -Coquelin and I, I mean Coquelin in particular; for it had come to this, -that my tutor was roundly in love with my aunt. I didn't know it then, -of course; but looking back, I see that he must already have been -stirred to his soul's depths. Young as I was, moreover, I believe that I -even then suspected his passion, and, loving him as I did, watched it -with a vague, childish awe and sympathy. My aunt was to me, of course, a -very old story, and I am sure she neither charmed nor dazzled my boyish -fancy. I was quite too young to apprehend the meaning or the -consequences of Coquelin's feelings; but I knew that he had a secret, -and I wished him joy of it. He kept so jealous a guard on it that I -would have defied my elders to discover the least reason for accusing -him; but with a simple child of ten, thinking himself alone and -uninterpreted, he showed himself plainly a lover. He was absent, -restless, preoccupied; now steeped in languid revery, now pacing up and -down with the exaltation of something akin to hope. Hope itself he could -never have felt; for it must have seemed to him that his passion was so -audacious as almost to be criminal. Mlle. de Bergerac's absence showed -him, I imagine, that to know her had been the event of his life; to see -her across the table, to hear her voice, her tread, to pass her, to meet -her eye, a deep, consoling, healing joy. It revealed to him the force -with which she had grasped his heart, and I think he was half frightened -at the energy of his passion. -</p> - -<p> -One evening, while Mlle. de Bergerac was still away, I sat in his -window, committing my lesson for the morrow by the waning light. He was -walking up and down among the shadows. "Chevalier," said he, suddenly, -"what should you do if I were to leave you?" -</p> - -<p> -My poor little heart stood still. "Leave me?" I cried, aghast; "why -should you leave me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why, you know I didn't come to stay forever." -</p> - -<p> -"But you came to stay till I'm a man grown. Don't you like your place?" -</p> - -<p> -"Perfectly." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you like my father?" -</p> - -<p> -"Your father is excellent." -</p> - -<p> -"And my mother?" -</p> - -<p> -"Your mother is perfect." -</p> - -<p> -"And me, Coquelin?" -</p> - -<p> -"You, Chevalier, are a little goose." -</p> - -<p> -And then, from a sort of unreasoned instinct that Mlle. de Bergerac was -somehow connected with his idea of going away, "And my aunt?" I added. -</p> - -<p> -"How, your aunt?" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you like her?" -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin had stopped in his walk, and stood near me and above me. He -looked at me some moments without answering, and then sat down beside me -in the window-seat, and laid his hand on my head. -</p> - -<p> -"Chevalier," he said, "I will tell you something." -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" said I, after I had waited some time. -</p> - -<p> -"One of these days you will be a man grown, and I shall have left you -long before that. You'll learn a great many things that you don't know -now. You'll learn what a strange, vast world it is, and what strange -creatures men are—and women; how strong, how weak, how happy, how -unhappy. You'll learn how many feelings and passions they have, and what -a power of joy and of suffering. You'll be Baron de Bergerac and master -of the château and of this little house. You'll sometimes be very proud -of your title, and you'll sometimes feel very sad that it's so little -more than a bare title. But neither your pride nor your grief will come -to anything beside this, that one day, in the prime of your youth and -strength and good looks, you'll see a woman whom you will love more than -all these things,—more than your name, your lands, your youth, and -strength, and beauty. It happens to all men, especially the good ones, -and you'll be a good one. But the woman you love will be far out of your -reach. She'll be a princess, perhaps she'll be the Queen. How can a poor -little Baron de Bergerac expect her to look at him? You will give up -your life for a touch of her hand; but what will she care for your life -or your death? You'll curse your love, and yet you'll bless it, and -perhaps—not having your living to get—you'll come up here and -shut yourself up with your dreams and regrets. You'll come perhaps into -this pavilion, and sit here alone in the twilight. And then, my child, -you'll remember this evening; that I foretold it all and gave you my -blessing in advance and—kissed you." He bent over, and I felt his -burning lips on my forehead. -</p> - -<p> -I understood hardly a word of what he said; but whether it was that I -was terrified by his picture of the possible insignificance of a Baron -de Bergerac, or that I was vaguely overawed by his deep, solemn tones, I -know not; but my eyes very quietly began to emit a flood of tears. The -effect of my grief was to induce him to assure me that he had no present -intention of leaving me. It was not, of course, till later in life, -that, thinking over the situation, I understood his impulse to arrest -his hopeless passion for Mlle. de Bergerac by immediate departure. He -was not brave in time. -</p> - -<p> -At the end of a week she returned one evening as we were at supper. She -came in with M. de Chalais, an amiable old man, who had been so kind as -to accompany her. She greeted us severally, and nodded to Coquelin. She -talked, I remember, with great volubility, relating what she had seen -and done in her absence, and laughing with extraordinary freedom. As we -left the table, she took my hand, and I put out the other and took -Coquelin's. -</p> - -<p> -"Has the Chevalier been a good boy?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Perfect," said Coquelin; "but he has wanted his aunt sadly." -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," said I, resenting the imputation as derogatory to my -independence. -</p> - -<p> -"You have had a pleasant week, mademoiselle?" said Coquelin. -</p> - -<p> -"A charming week. And you?" -</p> - -<p> -"M. Coquelin has been very unhappy," said I. "He thought of going away." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah?" said my aunt. -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin was silent. -</p> - -<p> -"You think of going away?" -</p> - -<p> -"I merely spoke of it, mademoiselle. I must go away some time, you know. -The Chevalier looks upon me as something eternal." -</p> - -<p> -"What's eternal?" asked the Chevalier. -</p> - -<p> -"There is nothing eternal, my child," said Mlle. de Bergerac. "Nothing -lasts more than a moment." -</p> - -<p> -"O," said Coquelin, "I don't agree with you!" -</p> - -<p> -"You don't believe that in this world everything is vain and fleeting -and transitory?" -</p> - -<p> -"By no means; I believe in the permanence of many things." -</p> - -<p> -"Of what, for instance?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of sentiments and passions." -</p> - -<p> -"Very likely. But not of the hearts that hold them. 'Lovers die, but -love survives.' I heard a gentleman say that at Chalais." -</p> - -<p> -"It's better, at least, than if he had put it the other way. But lovers -last too. They survive; they outlive the things that would fain destroy -them,—indifference, denial, and despair." -</p> - -<p> -"But meanwhile the loved object disappears. When it isn't one, it's the -other." -</p> - -<p> -"O, I admit that it's a shifting world. But I have a philosophy for -that." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm curious to know your philosophy." -</p> - -<p> -"It's a very old one. It's simply to make the most of life while it -lasts. I'm very fond of life," said Coquelin, laughing. -</p> - -<p> -"I should say that as yet, from what I know of your history, you have -had no great reason to be." -</p> - -<p> -"Nay, it's like a cruel mistress," said Coquelin. "When once you love -her, she's absolute. Her hard usage doesn't affect you. And certainly I -have nothing to complain of now." -</p> - -<p> -"You're happy here then?" -</p> - -<p> -"Profoundly, mademoiselle, in spite of the Chevalier." -</p> - -<p> -"I should suppose that with your tastes you would prefer something more -active, more ardent." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Mon Dieu</i>, my tastes are very simple. And then—happiness, -<i>cela ne se raisonne pas.</i> You don't find it when you go in quest of -it. It's like fortune; it comes to you in your sleep." -</p> - -<p> -"I imagine," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "that I was never happy." -</p> - -<p> -"That's a sad story," said Coquelin. -</p> - -<p> -The young girl began to laugh. "And never unhappy." -</p> - -<p> -"Dear me, that's still worse. Never fear, it will come." -</p> - -<p> -"What will come?" -</p> - -<p> -"That which is both bliss and misery at once." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac hesitated a moment. "And what is this strange thing?" -she asked. -</p> - -<p> -On his side Coquelin was silent. "When it comes to you," he said, at -last, "you'll tell me what you call it." -</p> - -<p> -About a week after this, at breakfast, in pursuance of an urgent request -of mine, Coquelin proposed to my father to allow him to take me to visit -the ruins of an ancient feudal castle some four leagues distant, which -he had observed and explored while he trudged across the country on his -way to Bergerac, and which, indeed, although the taste for ruins was at -that time by no means so general as since the Revolution (when one may -say it was in a measure created), enjoyed a certain notoriety throughout -the province. My father good-naturedly consented; and as the distance -was too great to be achieved on foot, he placed his two old coach-horses -at our service. You know that although I affected, in boyish sort, to -have been indifferent to my aunt's absence, I was really very fond of -her, and it occurred to me that our excursion would be more solemn and -splendid for her taking part in it. So I appealed to my father and asked -if Mlle. de Bergerac might be allowed to go with us. What the Baron -would have decided had he been left to himself I know not; but happily -for our cause my mother cried out that, to her mind, it was highly -improper that her sister-in-law should travel twenty miles alone with -two young men. -</p> - -<p> -"One of your young men is a child," said my father, "and her nephew into -the bargain; and the other,"—and he laughed, coarsely but not -ill-humoredly,—"the other is—Coquelin!" -</p> - -<p> -"Coquelin is not a child nor is mademoiselle either," said my mother. -</p> - -<p> -"All the more reason for their going, Gabrielle, will you go?" My -father, I fear, was not remarkable in general for his tenderness or his -<i>prévenance</i> for the poor girl whom fortune had given him to protect; -but from time to time he would wake up to a downright sense of kinship -and duty, kindled by the pardonable aggressions of my mother, between -whom and her sister-in-law there existed a singular antagonism of -temper. -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac looked at my father intently and with a little blush. -"Yes, brother. I'll go. The Chevalier can take me <i>en croupe.</i>" -</p> - -<p> -So we started, Coquelin on one horse, and I on the other, with my aunt -mounted behind me. Our sport for the first part of the journey consisted -chiefly in my urging my beast into a somewhat ponderous gallop, so as to -terrify my aunt, who was not very sure of her seat, and who, at moments, -between pleading and laughing, had hard work to preserve her balance. At -these times Coquelin would ride close alongside of us, at the same -cumbersome pace, declaring himself ready to catch the young girl if she -fell. In this way we jolted along, in a cloud of dust, with shouts and -laughter. -</p> - -<p> -"Madame the Baronne was wrong," said Coquelin, "in denying that we are -children." -</p> - -<p> -"O, this is nothing yet," cried my aunt. -</p> - -<p> -The castle of Fossy lifted its dark and crumbling towers with a decided -air of feudal arrogance from the summit of a gentle eminence in the -recess of a shallow gorge among the hills. Exactly when it had -flourished and when it had decayed I knew not, but in the year of grace -of our pilgrimage it was a truly venerable, almost a formidable, ruin. -Two great towers were standing,—one of them diminished by half its -upper elevation, and the other sadly scathed and shattered, but still -exposing its hoary head to the weather, and offering the sullen -hospitality of its empty skull to a colony of swallows. I shall never -forget that day at Fossy; it was one of those long raptures of childhood -which seem to imprint upon the mind an ineffaceable stain of light. The -novelty and mystery of the dilapidated fortress,—its antiquity, its -intricacy, its sounding vaults and corridors, its inaccessible heights -and impenetrable depths, the broad sunny glare of its grass-grown courts -and yards, the twilight of its passages and midnight of its dungeons, -and along with all this my freedom to rove and scramble, my perpetual -curiosity, my lusty absorption of the sun-warmed air, and the contagion -of my companions' careless and sensuous mirth,—all these things -combined to make our excursion one of the memorable events of my youth. -My two companions accepted the situation and drank in the beauty of the -day and the richness of the spot with all my own reckless freedom. -Coquelin was half mad with the joy of spending a whole unbroken summer's -day with the woman whom he secretly loved. He was all motion and humor -and resonant laughter; and yet intermingled with his random gayety there -lurked a solemn sweetness and reticence, a feverish concentration of -thought, which to a woman with a woman's senses must have fairly -betrayed his passion. Mlle. de Bergerac, without quite putting aside her -natural dignity and gravity of mien, lent herself with a charming -girlish energy to the undisciplined spirit of the hour. -</p> - -<p> -Our first thoughts, after Coquelin had turned the horses to pasture in -one of the grassy courts of the castle, were naturally bestowed upon our -little basket of provisions; and our first act was to sit down on a heap -of fallen masonry and divide its contents. After that we wandered. We -climbed the still practicable staircases, and wedged ourselves into the -turrets and strolled through the chambers and halls; we started from -their long repose every echo and bat and owl within the innumerable -walls. -</p> - -<p> -Finally, after we had rambled a couple of hours, Mlle. de Bergerac -betrayed signs of fatigue. Coquelin went with her in search of a place -of rest, and I was left to my own devices. For an hour I found plenty of -diversion, at the end of which I returned to my friends. I had some -difficulty in finding them. They had mounted by an imperfect and -somewhat perilous ascent to one of the upper platforms of the castle. -Mlle. de Bergerac was sitting in a listless posture on a block of stone, -against the wall, in the shadow of the still surviving tower; opposite, -in the light, half leaning, half sitting on the parapet of the terrace, -was her companion. -</p> - -<p> -"For the last half-hour, mademoiselle," said Coquelin, as I came up, -"you've not spoken a word." -</p> - -<p> -"All the morning," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "I've been scrambling and -chattering and laughing. Now, by reaction, I'm <i>triste.</i>" -</p> - -<p> -"I protest, so am I," said Coquelin. "The truth is, this old feudal -fortress is a decidedly melancholy spot. It's haunted with the ghost of -the past. It smells of tragedies, sorrows, and cruelties." He uttered -these words with singular emphasis. "It's a horrible place," he pursued, -with a shudder. -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac began to laugh. "It's odd that we should only just now -have discovered it!" -</p> - -<p> -"No, it's like the history of that abominable past of which it's a -relic. At the first glance we see nothing but the great proportions, the -show, and the splendor; but when we come to explore, we detect a vast -underground world of iniquity and suffering. Only half this castle is -above the soil; the rest is dungeons and vaults and <i>oubliettes.</i>" -</p> - -<p> -"Nevertheless," said the young girl, "I should have liked to live in -those old days. Shouldn't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Verily, no, mademoiselle!" And then after a pause, with a certain -irrepressible bitterness: "Life is hard enough now." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac stared but said nothing. -</p> - -<p> -"In those good old days," Coquelin resumed, "I should have been a -brutal, senseless peasant, yoked down like an ox, with my forehead in -the soil. Or else I should have been a trembling, groaning, fasting -monk, moaning my soul away in the ecstasies of faith." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac rose and came to the edge of the platform. "Was no -other career open in those days?" -</p> - -<p> -"To such a one as me,—no. As I say, mademoiselle, life is hard now, -but it was a mere dead weight then. I know it was. I feel in my bones and -pulses that awful burden of despair under which my wretched ancestors -struggled. <i>Tenez</i>, I'm the great man of the race. My father came -next; he was one of four brothers, who all thought it a prodigious rise in -the world when he became a village tailor. If we had lived five hundred -years ago, in the shadow of these great towers, we should never have -risen at all. We should have stuck with our feet in the clay. As I'm not -a fighting man, I suppose I should have gone into the Church. If I -hadn't died from an overdose of inanition, very likely I might have -lived to be a cardinal." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac leaned against the parapet, and with a meditative -droop of the head looked down the little glen toward the plain and the -highway. "For myself," she said, "I can imagine very charming things of -life in this castle of Fossy." -</p> - -<p> -"For yourself, very likely." -</p> - -<p> -"Fancy the great moat below filled with water and sheeted with lilies, -and the drawbridge lowered, and a company of knights riding into the -gates. Within, in one of those vaulted, quaintly timbered rooms, the -châtelaine stands ready to receive them, with her women, her chaplain, -her physician, and her little page. They come clanking up the staircase, -with ringing swords, sweeping the ground with their plumes. They are all -brave and splendid and fierce, but one of them far more than the rest. -They each bend a knee to the lady—" -</p> - -<p> -"But he bends two," cried Coquelin. "They wander apart into one of those -deep embrasures and spin the threads of perfect love. Ah, I could fancy -a sweet life, in those days, mademoiselle, if I could only fancy myself -a knight!" -</p> - -<p> -"And you can't," said the young girl, gravely, looking at him. -</p> - -<p> -"It's an idle game; it's not worth trying." -</p> - -<p> -"Apparently then, you're a cynic; you have an equally small opinion of -the past and the present." -</p> - -<p> -"No; you do me injustice." -</p> - -<p> -"But you say that life is hard." -</p> - -<p> -"I speak not for myself, but for others; for my brothers and sisters and -kinsmen in all degrees; for the great mass of petits gens of my own -class." -</p> - -<p> -"Dear me, M. Coquelin, while you're about it, you can speak for others -still; for poor portionless girls, for instance." -</p> - -<p> -"Are they very much to be pitied?" -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac was silent. "After all," she resumed, "they oughtn't -to complain." -</p> - -<p> -"Not when they have a great name and beauty," said Coquelin. -</p> - -<p> -"O heaven!" said the young girl, impatiently, and turned away. -Coquelin stood watching her, his brow contracted, his lips parted. -Presently, she came back. "Perhaps you think," she said, "that I care -for my name,—my great name, as you call it." -</p> - -<p> -"Assuredly, I do." -</p> - -<p> -She stood looking at him, blushing a little and frowning. As he said -these words, she gave an impatient toss of the head and turned away -again. In her hand she carried an ornamented fan, an antiquated and -sadly dilapidated instrument. She suddenly raised it above her head, -swung it a moment, and threw it far across the parapet. "There goes the -name of Bergerac!" she said; and sweeping round, made the young man a -very low courtesy. -</p> - -<p> -There was in the whole action a certain passionate freedom which set -poor Coquelin's heart a-throbbing. "To have a good name, mademoiselle," -he said, "and to be indifferent to it, is the sign of a noble mind." (In -parenthesis, I may say that I think he was quite wrong.) -</p> - -<p> -"It's quite as noble, monsieur," returned my aunt, "to have a small name -and not to blush for it." -</p> - -<p> -With these words I fancy they felt as if they had said enough; the -conversation was growing rather too pointed. -</p> - -<p> -"I think," said my aunt, "that we had better prepare to go." And she -cast a farewell glance at the broad expanse of country which lay -stretched out beneath us, striped with the long afternoon shadows. -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin followed the direction of her eyes. "I wish very much," he -said, "that before we go we might be able to make our way up into the -summit of the great tower. It would be worth the attempt. The view from -here, charming as it is, must be only a fragment of what you see from -that topmost platform." -</p> - -<p> -"It's not likely," said my aunt, "that the staircase is still in a state -to be used." -</p> - -<p> -"Possibly not; but we can see." -</p> - -<p> -"Nay," insisted my aunt, "I'm afraid to trust the Chevalier. There are -great breaches in the sides of the ascent, which are so many open doors -to destruction." -</p> - -<p> -I strongly opposed this view of the case; but Coquelin, after scanning -the elevation of the tower and such of the fissures as were visible from -our standpoint, declared that my aunt was right and that it was my duty -to comply. "And you, too, mademoiselle," he said, "had better not try -it, unless you pride yourself on your strong head." -</p> - -<p> -"No, indeed, I have a particularly weak one. And you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I confess I'm very curious to see the view. I always want to read to -the end of a book, to walk to the turn of a road, and to climb to the -top of a building." -</p> - -<p> -"Good," said Mlle. de Bergerac. "We'll wait for you." -</p> - -<p> -Although in a straight line from the spot which we occupied, the -distance through the air to the rugged sides of the great cylinder of -masonry which frowned above us was not more than thirty yards, Coquelin -was obliged, in order to strike at the nearest accessible point the -winding staircase which clung to its massive ribs, to retrace his steps -through the interior of the castle and make a <i>détour</i> of some five -minutes' duration. In ten minutes more he showed himself at an aperture -in the wall, facing our terrace. -</p> - -<p> -"How do you prosper?" cried my aunt, raising her voice. -</p> - -<p> -"I've mounted eighty steps," he shouted; "I've a hundred more." -Presently he appeared again at another opening. "The steps have -stopped," he cried. -</p> - -<p> -"You've only to stop too," rejoined Mlle. de Bergerac. Again he was lost -to sight and we supposed he was returning. A quarter of an hour elapsed, -and we began to wonder at his not having overtaken us, when we heard a -loud call high above our heads. There he stood, on the summit of the -edifice, waving his hat. At this point he was so far above us that it -was difficult to communicate by sounds, in spite of our curiosity to -know how, in the absence of a staircase, he had effected the rest of the -ascent. He began to represent, by gestures of pretended rapture, the -immensity and beauty of the prospect. Finally Mlle. de Bergerac beckoned -to him to descend, and pointed to the declining sun, informing him at -the same time that we would go down and meet him in the lower part of -the castle. We left the terrace accordingly, and, making the best of our -way through the intricate passages of the edifice, at last, not without -a feeling of relief, found ourselves on the level earth. We waited quite -half an hour without seeing anything of our companion. My aunt, I could -see, had become anxious, although she endeavored to appear at her ease. -As the time elapsed, however, it became so evident that Coquelin had -encountered some serious obstacle to his descent, that Mlle. de Bergerac -proposed we should, in so far as was possible, betake ourselves to his -assistance. The point was to approach him within speaking distance. -</p> - -<p> -We entered the body of the castle again, climbed to one of the upper -levels, and reached a spot where an extensive destruction of the -external wall partially exposed the great tower. As we approached this -crumbling breach, Mlle. de Bergerac drew back from its brink with a loud -cry of horror. It was not long before I discerned the cause of her -movement. The side of the tower visible from where we stood presented a -vast yawning fissure, which explained the interruption of the staircase, -the latter having fallen for want of support. The central column, to -which the steps had been fastened, seemed, nevertheless, still to be -erect, and to have formed, with the agglomeration of fallen fragments -and various occasional projections of masonry, the means by which -Coquelin, with extraordinary courage and skill, had reached the topmost -platform. The ascent, then, had been possible; the descent, curiously -enough, he seemed to have found another matter; and after striving in -vain to retrace his footsteps, had been obliged to commit himself to the -dangerous experiment of passing from the tower to the external surface -of the main fortress. He had accomplished half his journey and now stood -directly over against us in a posture which caused my young limbs to -stiffen with dismay. The point to which he had directed himself was -apparently the breach at which we stood; meanwhile he had paused, -clinging in mid-air to heaven knows what narrow ledge or flimsy iron -clump in the stone-work, and straining his nerves to an agonized tension -in the effort not to fall, while his eyes vaguely wandered in quest of -another footing. The wall of the castle was so immensely thick, that -wherever he could embrace its entire section, progress was comparatively -easy; the more especially as, above our heads, this same wall had been -demolished in such a way as to maintain a rapid upward inclination to -the point where it communicated with the tower. -</p> - -<p> -I stood staring at Coquelin with my heart in my throat, forgetting (or -rather too young to reflect) that the sudden shock of seeing me where I -was might prove fatal to his equipoise. He perceived me, however, and -tried to smile. "Don't be afraid," he cried, "I'll be with you in a -moment." My aunt, who had fallen back, returned to the aperture, and -gazed at him with pale cheeks and clasped hands. He made a long step -forward, successfully, and, as he recovered himself, caught sight of her -face and looked at her with fearful intentness. Then seeing, I suppose, -that she was sickened by his insecurity, he disengaged one hand and -motioned her back. She retreated, paced in a single moment the length of -the enclosure in which we stood, returned and stopped just short of the -point at which she would have seen him again. She buried her face in her -hands, like one muttering a rapid prayer, and then advanced once more -within range of her friend's vision. As she looked at him, clinging in -mid-air and planting step after step on the jagged and treacherous edge -of the immense perpendicular chasm, she repressed another loud cry only -by thrusting her handkerchief into her mouth. He caught her eyes again, -gazed into them with piercing keenness, as if to drink in coolness and -confidence, and then, as she closed them again in horror, motioned me -with his head to lead her away. She returned to the farther end of the -apartment and leaned her head against the wall. I remained staring at -poor Coquelin, fascinated by the spectacle of his mingled danger and -courage. Inch by inch, yard by yard, I saw him lessen the interval which -threatened his life. It was a horrible, beautiful sight. Some five -minutes elapsed; they seemed like fifty. The last few yards he -accomplished with a rush; he reached the window which was the goal of -his efforts, swung himself in and let himself down by a prodigious leap -to the level on which we stood. Here he stopped, pale, lacerated, and -drenched with perspiration. He put out his hand to Mlle. de Bergerac, -who, at the sound of his steps, had turned herself about. On seeing him -she made a few steps forward and burst into tears. I took his extended -hand. He bent over me and kissed me, and then giving me a push, "Go and -kiss your poor aunt," he said. Mlle. de Bergerac clasped me to her -breast with a most convulsive pressure. From that moment till we reached -home, there was very little said. Both my companions had matter for -silent reflection,—Mlle. de Bergerac in the deep significance of that -offered hand, and Coquelin in the rich avowal of her tears. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="PART_III"></a>PART III</h4> - -<p> -A week after this memorable visit to Fossy, in emulation of my good -preceptor, I treated my friends, or myself at least, to a five minutes' -fright. Wandering beside the river one day when Coquelin had been -detained within doors to overlook some accounts for my father, I amused -myself, where the bank projected slightly over the stream, with kicking -the earth away in fragments, and watching it borne down the current. The -result may be anticipated: I came very near going the way of those same -fragments. I lost my foothold and fell into the stream, which, however, -was so shallow as to offer no great obstacle to self-preservation. I -scrambled ashore, wet to the bone, and, feeling rather ashamed of my -misadventure, skulked about in the fields for a couple of hours, in my -dripping clothes. Finally, there being no sun and my garments remaining -inexorably damp, my teeth began to chatter and my limbs to ache. I went -home and surrendered myself. Here again the result may be foreseen: the -next day I was laid up with a high fever. -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac, as I afterwards learned, immediately appointed -herself my nurse, removed me from my little sleeping-closet to her own -room, and watched me with the most tender care. My illness lasted some -ten days, my convalescence a week. When I began to mend, my bed was -transferred to an unoccupied room adjoining my aunt's. Here, late one -afternoon, I lay languidly singing to myself and watching the western -sunbeams shimmering on the opposite wall. If you were ever ill as a -child, you will remember such moments. You look by the hour at your -thin, white hands; you listen to the sounds in the house, the opening of -doors and the tread of feet; you murmur strange odds and ends of talk; -and you watch the fading of the day and the dark flowering of the night. -Presently my aunt came in, introducing Coquelin, whom she left by my -bedside. He sat with me a long time, talking in the old, kind way, and -gradually lulled me to sleep with the gentle murmur of his voice. When I -awoke again it was night. The sun was quenched on the opposite wall, but -through a window on the same side came a broad ray of moonlight. In the -window sat Coquelin, who had apparently not left the room. Near him was -Mlle. de Bergerac. -</p> - -<p> -Some time elapsed between my becoming conscious of their presence and my -distinguishing the sense of the words that were passing between them. -When I did so, if I had reached the age when one ponders and interprets -what one hears, I should readily have perceived that since those last -thrilling moments at Fossy their friendship had taken a very long step, -and that the secret of each heart had changed place with its mate. But -even now there was little that was careless and joyous in their young -love; the first words of Mlle. Bergerac that I distinguished betrayed -the sombre tinge of their passion. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care what happens now," she said. "It will always be something -to have lived through these days." -</p> - -<p> -"You're stronger than I, then," said Coquelin. "I haven't the courage to -defy the future. I'm afraid to think of it. Ah, why can't we make a -future of our own?" -</p> - -<p> -"It would be a greater happiness than we have a right to. Who are you, -Pierre Coquelin, that you should claim the right to marry the girl you -love, when she's a demoiselle de Bergerac to begin with? And who am I, -that I should expect to have deserved a greater blessing than that one -look of your eyes, which I shall never, never forget? It is more than -enough to watch you and pray for you and worship you in silence." -</p> - -<p> -"What am I? what are you? We are two honest mortals, who have a perfect -right to repudiate the blessings of God. If ever a passion deserved its -reward, mademoiselle, it's the absolute love I bear you. It's not a -spasm, a miracle, or a delusion; it's the most natural emotion of my -nature." -</p> - -<p> -"We don't live in a natural world, Coquelin. If we did, there would be -no need of concealing this divine affection. Great heaven! who's -natural? Is it my sister-in-law? Is it M. de Treuil? Is it my brother? -My brother is sometimes so natural that he's brutal. Is it I myself? -There are moments when I'm afraid of my nature." -</p> - -<p> -It was too dark for me to distinguish my companions' faces in the course -of this singular dialogue; but it's not hard to imagine how, as my aunt -uttered these words, with a burst of sombre <i>naïveté</i>, her lover must -have turned upon her face the puzzled brightness of his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Mon Dieu!</i> think how I have lived! What a senseless, thoughtless, -passionless life! What solitude, ignorance, and languor! What trivial -duties and petty joys! I have fancied myself happy at times, for it was -God's mercy that I didn't know what I lacked. But now that my soul -begins to stir and throb and live, it shakes me with its mighty -pulsations. I feel as if in the mere wantonness of strength and joy it -might drive me to some extravagance. I seem to feel myself making a -great rush, with my eyes closed and my heart in my throat And then the -earth sinks away from under my feet, and in my ears is the sound of a -dreadful tumult." -</p> - -<p> -"Evidently we have very different ways of feeling. For you our love is -action, passion; for me it's rest. For you it's romance; for me it's -reality. For me it's a necessity; for you (how shall I say it?) it's a -luxury. In point of fact, mademoiselle, how should it be otherwise? When -a demoiselle de Bergerac bestows her heart upon an obscure adventurer, a -man born in poverty and servitude, it's a matter of charity, of noble -generosity." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac received this speech in silence, and for some moments -nothing was said. At last she resumed: "After all that has passed -between us, Coquelin, it seems to me a matter neither of generosity nor -of charity to allude again to that miserable fact of my birth." -</p> - -<p> -"I was only trying to carry out your own idea, and to get at the truth -with regard to our situation. If our love is worth a straw, we needn't -be afraid of that. Isn't it true—blessedly true, perhaps, for all I -know—that you shrink a little from taking me as I am? Except for my -character, I'm so little! It's impossible to be less of a <i>personage.</i> -You can't quite reconcile it to your dignity to love a nobody, so you -fling over your weakness a veil of mystery and romance and exaltation. -You regard your passion, perhaps, as more of an escapade, an adventure, -than it needs to be." -</p> - -<p> -"My 'nobody,'" said Mlle. de Bergerac, gently, "is a very wise man, and -a great philosopher. I don't understand a word you say." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, so much the better!" said Coquelin with a little laugh. -</p> - -<p> -"Will you promise me," pursued the young girl, "never again by word or -deed to allude to the difference of our birth? If you refuse, I shall -consider you an excellent pedagogue, but no lover." -</p> - -<p> -"Will you in return promise me—" -</p> - -<p> -"Promise you what?" -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin was standing before her, looking at her, with folded arms. -"Promise me likewise to forget it!" -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac stared a moment, and also rose to her feet. "Forget -it! Is this generous?" she cried. "Is it delicate? I had pretty well -forgot it, I think, on that dreadful day at Fossy!" Her voice trembled -and swelled; she burst into tears. Coquelin attempted to remonstrate, -but she motioned him aside, and swept out of the room. -</p> - -<p> -It must have been a very genuine passion between these two, you'll -observe, to allow this handling without gloves. Only a plant of hardy -growth could have endured this chilling blast of discord and -disputation. Ultimately, indeed, its effect seemed to have been to -fortify and consecrate their love. This was apparent several days later; -but I know not what manner of communication they had had in the -interval. I was much better, but I was still weak and languid. Mlle. de -Bergerac brought me my breakfast in bed, and then, having helped me to -rise and dress, led me out into the garden, where she had caused a chair -to be placed in the shade. While I sat watching the bees and -butterflies, and pulling the flowers to pieces, she strolled up and down -the alley close at hand, taking slow stitches in a piece of embroidery. -We had been so occupied about ten minutes, when Coquelin came towards us -from his lodge,—by appointment, evidently, for this was a roundabout -way to the house. Mlle. de Bergerac met him at the end of the path, -where I could not hear what they said, but only see their gestures. As -they came along together, she raised both hands to her ears, and shook -her head with vehemence, as if to refuse to listen to what he was -urging. When they drew near my resting-place, she had interrupted him. -</p> - -<p> -"No, no, no!" she cried, "I will never forget it to my dying day. How -should I? How can I look at you without remembering it? It's in your -face, your figure, your movements, the tones of your voice. It's -you,—it's what I love in you! It was that which went through my heart -that day at Fossy. It was the look, the tone, with which you called the -place horrible; it was your bitter plebeian hate. When you spoke of the -misery and baseness of your race, I could have cried out in an anguish -of love! When I contradicted you, and pretended that I prized and -honored all these tokens of your servitude,—just heaven! you know now -what my words were worth!" -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin walked beside her with his hands clasped behind him, and his -eyes fixed on the ground with a look of repressed sensibility. He passed -his poor little convalescent pupil without heeding him. When they came -down the path again, the young girl was still talking with the same -feverish volubility. -</p> - -<p> -"But most of all, the first day, the first hour, when you came up the -avenue to my brother! I had never seen any one like you. I had seen -others, but you had something that went to my soul. I devoured you with -my eyes,—your dusty clothes, your uncombed hair, your pale face, the -way you held yourself not to seem tired. I went down on my knees, then; -I haven't been up since." -</p> - -<p> -The poor girl, you see, was completely possessed by her passion, and yet -she was in a very strait place. For her life she wouldn't recede; and -yet how was she to advance? There must have been an odd sort of -simplicity in her way of bestowing her love; or perhaps you'll think it -an odd sort of subtlety. It seems plain to me now, as I tell the story, -that Coquelin, with his perfect good sense, was right, and that there -was, at this moment, a large element of romance in the composition of -her feelings. She seemed to feel no desire to realize her passion. Her -hand was already bestowed; fate was inexorable. She wished simply to -compress a world of bliss into her few remaining hours of freedom. -</p> - -<p> -The day after this interview in the garden I came down to dinner; on the -next I sat up to supper, and for some time afterwards, thanks to my -aunt's preoccupation of mind. On rising from the table, my father left -the château; my mother, who was ailing, returned to her room. Coquelin -disappeared, under pretence of going to his own apartments; but, Mlle. -de Bergerac having taken me into the drawing-room and detained me there -some minutes, he shortly rejoined us. -</p> - -<p> -"Great heaven, mademoiselle, this must end!" he cried, as he came into -the room. "I can stand it no longer." -</p> - -<p> -"Nor can I," said my aunt. "But I have given my word." -</p> - -<p> -"Take back your word, then! Write him a letter—go to -him—send me to him—anything! I can't stay here on the -footing of a thief and impostor. I'll do anything," he continued, as she -was silent. "I'll go to him in person; I'll go to your brother; I'll go -to your sister even. I'll proclaim it to the world. Or, if you don't -like that. I'll keep it a mortal secret. I'll leave the château with -you without an hour's delay. I'll defy pursuit and discovery. We'll go -to America,—anywhere you wish, if it's only action. Only spare me -the agony of seeing you drift along into that man's arms." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac made no reply for some moments. At last, "I will never -marry M. de Treuil," she said. -</p> - -<p> -To this declaration Coquelin made no response; but after a pause, "Well, -well, well?" he cried. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, you're pitiless!" said the young girl. -</p> - -<p> -"No, mademoiselle, from the bottom of my heart I pity you." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then, think of all you ask! Think of the inexpiable criminality -of my love. Think of me standing here,—here before my mother's -portrait,—murmuring out my shame, scorched by my sister's scorn, -buffeted by my brother's curses! Gracious heaven, Coquelin, suppose -after all I were a bad, hard girl!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll suppose nothing; this is no time for hair-splitting." And then, -after a pause, as if with a violent effort, in a voice hoarse and yet -soft: "Gabrielle, passion is blind. Reason alone is worth a straw. I'll -not counsel you in passion, let us wait till reason comes to us." He put -out his hand; she gave him her own; he pressed it to his lips and -departed. -</p> - -<p> -On the following day, as I still professed myself too weak to resume my -books, Coquelin left the château alone, after breakfast, for a long -walk. He was going, I suppose, into the woods and meadows in quest of -Reason. She was hard to find, apparently, for he failed to return to -dinner. He reappeared, however, at supper, but now my father was absent. -My mother, as she left the table, expressed the wish that Mlle. de -Bergerac should attend her to her own room. Coquelin, meanwhile, went -with me into the great saloon, and for half an hour talked to me gravely -and kindly about my studies, and questioned me on what we had learned -before my illness. At the end of this time Mlle. de Bergerac returned. -</p> - -<p> -"I got this letter to-day from M. de Treuil," she said, and offered him -a missive which had apparently been handed to her since dinner. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't care to read it," he said. -</p> - -<p> -She tore it across and held the pieces to the flame of the candle. "He -is to be here to-morrow," she added finally. -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" asked Coquelin gravely. -</p> - -<p> -"You know my answer." -</p> - -<p> -"Your answer to him, perfectly. But what is your answer to me?" -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him in silence. They stood for a minute, their eyes locked -together. And then, in the same posture,—her arms loose at her sides, -her head slightly thrown back,—"To you," she said, "my answer -is—farewell." -</p> - -<p> -The word was little more than whispered; but, though he heard it, he -neither started nor spoke. He stood unmoved, all his soul trembling -under his brows and filling the space between his mistress and himself -with a sort of sacred stillness. Then, gradually, his head sank on his -breast, and his eyes dropped on the ground. -</p> - -<p> -"It's reason," the young girl began. "Reason has come to me. She tells -me that if I marry in my brother's despite, and in opposition to all the -traditions that have been kept sacred in my family, I shall neither find -happiness nor give it. I must choose the simplest course. The other is a -gulf; I can't leap it. It's harder than you think. Something in the air -forbids it,—something in the very look of these old walls, within -which I was born and I've lived. I shall never marry; I shall go into -religion. I tried to fling away my name; it was sowing dragons' teeth. I -don't ask you to forgive me. It's small enough comfort that you should -have the right to think of me as a poor, weak heart. Keep repeating -that: it will console you. I shall not have the compensation of doubting -the perfection of what I love." -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin turned away in silence. Mlle. de Bergerac sprang after him. -"In Heaven's name," she cried, "say something! Rave, storm, swear, but -don't let me think I've broken your heart." -</p> - -<p> -"My heart's sound," said Coquelin, almost with a smile. "I regret -nothing that has happened. O, how I love you!" -</p> - -<p> -The young girl buried her face in her hands. -</p> - -<p> -"This end," he went on, "is doubtless the only possible one. It's -thinking very lightly of life to expect any other. After all, what call -had I to interrupt your life,—to burden you with a trouble, a choice, -a decision? As much as anything that I have ever known in you I admire -your beautiful delicacy of conscience." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," said the young girl, with a moan, "don't kill me with fine names!" -</p> - -<p> -And then came the farewell. "I feel," said poor Coquelin, "that -I can't see you again. We must not meet. I will leave Bergerac -immediately,—to-night,—under pretext of having been summoned -home by my mother's illness. In a few days I will write to your brother -that circumstances forbid me to return." -</p> - -<p> -My own part in this painful interview I shall not describe at length. -When it began to dawn upon my mind that my friend was actually going to -disappear, I was seized with a convulsion of rage and grief. "Ah," cried -Mlle. de Bergerac bitterly, "that was all that was wanting!" What means -were taken to restore me to composure, what promises were made me, what -pious deception was practised, I forget; but, when at last I came to my -senses, Coquelin had made his exit. -</p> - -<p> -My aunt took me by the hand and prepared to-lead me up to bed, fearing -naturally that my ruffled aspect and swollen visage would arouse -suspicion. At this moment I heard the clatter of hoofs in the court, -mingled with the sound of voices. From the window, I saw M. de Treuil -and my father alighting from horseback. Mlle. de Bergerac, apparently, -made the same observation; she dropped my hand and sank down in a chair. -She was not left long in suspense. Perceiving a light in the saloon, the -two gentlemen immediately made their way to this apartment. They came in -together, arm in arm, the Vicomte dressed in mourning. Just within the -threshold they stopped; my father disengaged his arm, took his companion -by the hand and led him to Mlle. de Bergerac. She rose to her feet as -you may imagine a sitting statue to rise. The Vicomte bent his knee. -</p> - -<p> -"At last, mademoiselle," said he,—"sooner than I had hoped,—my -long probation is finished." -</p> - -<p> -The young girl spoke, but no one would have recognized her voice. "I -fear, M. le Vicomte," she said, "that it has only begun." -</p> - -<p> -The Vicomte broke into a harsh, nervous laugh. -</p> - -<p> -"Fol de rol, mademoiselle," cried my father, "your pleasantry is in very -bad taste." -</p> - -<p> -But the Vicomte had recovered himself. "Mademoiselle is quite right," he -declared; "she means that I must now begin to deserve my happiness." -This little speech showed a very brave fancy. It was in flagrant discord -with the expression of the poor girl's figure, as she stood twisting her -hands together and rolling her eyes,—an image of sombre desperation. -</p> - -<p> -My father felt there was a storm in the air. "M. le Vicomte is in -mourning for M. de Sorbières," he said. "M. le Vicomte is his sole -legatee. He comes to exact the fulfilment of your promise." -</p> - -<p> -"I made no promise," said Mlle. de Bergerac. -</p> - -<p> -"Excuse me, mademoiselle; you gave your word that you'd wait for me." -</p> - -<p> -"Gracious heaven!" cried the young girl; "haven't I waited for you!" -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Ma toute belle</i>" said the Baron, trying to keep his angry voice -within the compass of an undertone, and reducing it in the effort to a very -ugly whisper, "if I had supposed you were going to make us a scene, <i>nom -de Dieu!</i> I would have taken my precautions beforehand! You know what -you're to expect. Vicomte, keep her to her word. I'll give you half an -hour. Come, Chevalier." And he took me by the hand. -</p> - -<p> -We had crossed the threshold and reached the hall, when I heard the -Vicomte give a long moan, half plaintive, half indignant. My father -turned, and answered with a fierce, inarticulate cry, which I can best -describe as a roar. He straightway retraced his steps, I, of course, -following. Exactly what, in the brief interval, had passed between our -companions I am unable to say; but it was plain that Mlle. de Bergerac, -by some cruelly unerring word or act, had discharged the bolt of her -refusal. Her gallant lover had sunk into a chair, burying his face in -his hands, and stamping his feet on the floor in a frenzy of -disappointment. She stood regarding him in a sort of helpless, distant -pity. My father had been going to break out into a storm of -imprecations; but he suppressed them, and folded his arms. -</p> - -<p> -"And now, mademoiselle," he said, "will you be so good as to inform me -of your intentions?" -</p> - -<p> -Beneath my father's gaze the softness passed out of my aunt's face and -gave place to an angry defiance, which he must have recognized as -cousin-german, at least, to the passion in his own breast. "My -intentions had been," she said, "to let M. le Vicomte know that I -couldn't marry him, with as little offence as possible. But you seem -determined, my brother, to thrust in a world of offence somewhere." -</p> - -<p> -You must not blame Mlle. de Bergerac for the sting of her retort. She -foresaw a hard fight; she had only sprung to her arms. -</p> - -<p> -My father looked at the wretched Vicomte, as he sat sobbing and stamping -like a child His bosom was wrung with pity for his friend "Look at that -dear Gaston, that charming man, and blush for your audacity." -</p> - -<p> -"I know a great deal more about my audacity than you, brother. I might -tell you things that would surprise you." -</p> - -<p> -"Gabrielle, you are mad!" the Baron broke out. -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps I am," said the young girl. And then, turning to M. de Treuil, -in a tone of exquisite reproach, "M. le Vicomte, you suffer less well -than I had hoped." -</p> - -<p> -My father could endure no more. He seized his sister by her two wrists, -so that beneath the pressure her eyes filled with tears. "Heartless -fool!" he cried, "do you know what I can do to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I can imagine, from this specimen," said the poor creature. -</p> - -<p> -The Baron was beside himself with passion. "Down, down on your knees," -he went on, "and beg our pardon all round for your senseless, shameless -perversity!" As he spoke, he increased the pressure of his grasp to that -degree that, after a vain struggle to free herself, she uttered a scream -of pain. The Vicomte sprang to his feet. "In heaven's name, Gabrielle," -he cried,—and it was the only real <i>naïveté</i> that he had ever -uttered,—"isn't it all a horrible jest?" -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac shook her head. "It seems hard. Vicomte," she said, -"that I should be answerable for your happiness." -</p> - -<p> -"You hold it there in your hand. Think of what I suffer. To have lived -for weeks in the hope of this hour, and to find it what you would fain -make it! To have dreamed of rapturous bliss, and to wake to find it -hideous misery! Think of it once again!" -</p> - -<p> -"She shall have a chance to think of it," the Baron declared; "she shall -think of it quite at her ease. Go to your room, mademoiselle, and remain -there till further notice." -</p> - -<p> -Gabrielle prepared to go, but, as she moved away, "I used to fear you, -brother," she said with homely scorn, "but I don't fear you now. Judge -whether it's because I love you more!" -</p> - -<p> -"Gabrielle," the Vicomte cried out, "I haven't given you up." -</p> - -<p> -"Your feelings are your own, M. le Vicomte. I would have given more than -I can say rather than have caused you to suffer. Your asking my hand has -been the great honor of my life; my withholding it has been the great -trial." And she walked out of the room with the step of unacted tragedy. -My father, with an oath, despatched me to bed in her train. Heavy-headed -with the recent spectacle of so much half-apprehended emotion, I -speedily fell asleep. -</p> - -<p> -I was aroused by the sound of voices, and the grasp of a heavy hand on -my shoulder. My father stood before me, holding a candle, with M. de -Treuil beside him. "Chevalier," he said, "open your eyes like a man, and -come to your senses." -</p> - -<p> -Thus exhorted, I sat up and stared. The Baron sat down on the edge of -the bed. "This evening," he began, "before the Vicomte and I came in, were -you alone with your aunt?"—My dear friend, you see the scene from -here. I answered with the cruel directness of my years. Even if I had -had the wit to dissemble, I should have lacked the courage. Of course I -had no story to tell. I had drawn no inferences; I didn't say that my -tutor was my aunt's lover. I simply said that he had been with us after -supper, and that he wanted my aunt to go away with him. Such was my part -in the play. I see the whole picture again,—my father brandishing the -candlestick, and devouring my words with his great flaming eyes; and the -Vicomte behind, portentously silent, with his black clothes and his pale -face. -</p> - -<p> -They had not been three minutes out of the room when the door leading to -my aunt's chamber opened and Mlle. de Bergerac appeared. She had heard -sounds in my apartment, and suspected the visit of the gentlemen and its -motive. She immediately won from me the recital of what I had been -forced to avow. "Poor Chevalier," she cried, for all commentary. And -then, after a pause, "What made them suspect that M. Coquelin had been -with us?" -</p> - -<p> -"They saw him, or some one, leave the château as they came in." -</p> - -<p> -"And where have they gone now?" -</p> - -<p> -"To supper. My father said to M. de Treuil that first of all they must -sup." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac stood a moment in meditation. Then suddenly, "Get up, -Chevalier," she said, "I want you to go with me." -</p> - -<p> -"Where are you going?" -</p> - -<p> -"To M. Coquelin's." -</p> - -<p> -I needed no second admonition. I hustled on my clothes; Mlle. de -Bergerac left the room and immediately returned, clad in a light mantle. -We made our way undiscovered to one of the private entrances of the -château, hurried across the park and found a light in the window of -Coquelin's lodge. It was about half past nine. Mlle. de Bergerac gave a -loud knock at the door, and we entered her lover's apartment. -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin was seated at his table writing. He sprang to his feet with a -cry of amazement. Mlle. de Bergerac stood panting, with one hand pressed -to her heart, while rapidly moving the other as if to enjoin calmness. -</p> - -<p> -"They are come back," she began,—"M. de Treuil and my brother!" -</p> - -<p> -"I thought he was to come to-morrow. Was it a deception?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, no! not from him,—an accident Pierre Coquelin, I've had such a -scene! But it's not your fault." -</p> - -<p> -"What made the scene?" -</p> - -<p> -"My refusal, of course." -</p> - -<p> -"You turned off the Vicomte?" -</p> - -<p> -"Holy Virgin! You ask me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Unhappy girl!" cried Coquelin. -</p> - -<p> -"No, I was a happy girl to have had a chance to act as my heart bade me. -I had faltered enough. But it was hard!" -</p> - -<p> -"It's all hard." -</p> - -<p> -"The hardest is to come," said my aunt She put out her hand; he sprang -to her and seized it, and she pressed his own with vehemence. "They have -discovered our secret,—don't ask how. It was Heaven's will. From this -moment, of course—" -</p> - -<p> -"From this moment, of course," cried Coquelin, "I stay where I am!" -</p> - -<p> -With an impetuous movement she raised his hand to her lips and kissed -it. "You stay where you are. We have nothing to conceal, but we have -nothing to avow. We have no confessions to make. Before God we have done -our duty. You may expect them, I fancy, to-night; perhaps, too, they -will honor me with a visit. They are supping between two battles. They -will attack us with fury, I know; but let them dash themselves against -our silence as against a wall of stone. I have taken my stand. My love, -my errors, my longings, are my own affair. My reputation is a sealed -book. Woe to him who would force it open!" -</p> - -<p> -The poor girl had said once, you know, that she was afraid of her -nature. Assuredly it had now sprung erect in its strength; it came -hurrying into action on the winds of her indignation. "Remember, -Coquelin," she went on, "you are still and always my friend. You are the -guardian of my weakness, the support of my strength." -</p> - -<p> -"Say it all, Gabrielle!" he cried. "I'm for ever and ever your lover!" -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly, above the music of his voice, there came a great rattling -knock at the door. Coquelin sprang forward; it opened in his face and -disclosed my father and M. de Treuil. I have no words in my dictionary, -no images in my rhetoric, to represent the sudden horror that leaped -into my father's face as his eye fell upon his sister. He staggered back -a step and then stood glaring, until his feelings found utterance in a -single word: "<i>Coureuse!</i>" I have never been able to look upon the -word as trivial since that moment. -</p> - -<p> -The Vicomte came striding past him into the room, like a bolt of -lightning from a rumbling cloud, quivering with baffled desire, and -looking taller by the head for his passion. "And it was for this, -mademoiselle," he cried, "and for <i>that!</i>" and he flung out a scornful -hand toward Coquelin. "For a beggarly, boorish, ignorant pedagogue!" -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin folded his arms. "Address me directly, M. le Vicomte," he said; -"don't fling mud at me over mademoiselle's head." -</p> - -<p> -"You? Who are you?" hissed the nobleman. "A man doesn't address you; -he sends his lackeys to flog you!" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, M. le Vicomte, you're complete," said Coquelin, eyeing him from -head to foot. -</p> - -<p> -"Complete?" and M. de Treuil broke into an almost hysterical laugh. "I -only lack having married your mistress!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" cried Mlle. de Bergerac. -</p> - -<p> -"O, you poor, insensate fool!" said Coquelin. -</p> - -<p> -"Heaven help me," the young man went on, "I'm ready to marry her still." -</p> - -<p> -While these words were rapidly exchanged, my father stood choking with -the confusion of amusement and rage. He was stupefied at his sister's -audacity,—at the dauntless spirit which ventured to flaunt its -shameful passion in the very face of honor and authority. Yet that simple -interjection which I have quoted from my aunt's lips stirred a secret -tremor in his heart; it was like the striking of some magic silver hell, -portending monstrous things. His passion faltered, and, as his eyes -glanced upon my innocent head (which, it must be confessed, was sadly -out of place in that pernicious scene), alighted on this smaller wrong. -"The next time you go on your adventures, mademoiselle," he cried, "I'd -thank you not to pollute my son by dragging him at your skirts." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not sorry to have my family present," said the young girl, who had -had time to collect her thoughts. "I should be glad even if my sister -were here. I wish simply to bid you farewell." -</p> - -<p> -Coquelin, at these words, made a step towards her. She passed her hand -through his arm. "Things have taken place—and chiefly within the last -moment—which change the face of the future. You've done the business, -brother," and she fixed her glittering eyes on the Baron; "you've driven -me back on myself. I spared you, but you never spared me. I cared for my -name; you loaded it with dishonor. I chose between happiness and -duty,—duty as you would have laid it down: I preferred duty. But now -that happiness has become one with simple safety from violence and -insult, I go back to happiness. I give you back your name; though I have -kept it more jealously than you. I have another ready for me. O -Messieurs!" she cried, with a burst of rapturous exaltation, "for what -you have done to me I thank you." -</p> - -<p> -My father began to groan and tremble. He had grasped my hand in his own, -which was clammy with perspiration. "For the love of God, Gabrielle," he -implored, "or the fear of the Devil, speak so that a sickened, maddened -Christian can understand you! For what purpose did you come here -to-night?" -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Mon Dieu</i>, it's a long story. You made short work with it. I might -in justice do as much. I came here, brother, to guard my reputation, and -not to lose it." -</p> - -<p> -All this while my father had neither looked at Coquelin nor spoken to -him, either because he thought him not worth his words, or because he -had kept some transcendent insult in reserve. Here my governor broke in. -"It seems to me time, M. le Baron, that I should inquire the purpose of -your own visit." -</p> - -<p> -My father stared a moment. "I came, M. Coquelin, to take you by the -shoulders and eject you through that door, with the further impulsion, -if necessary, of a vigorous kick." -</p> - -<p> -"Good! And M. le Vicomte?" -</p> - -<p> -"M. le Vicomte came to see it done." -</p> - -<p> -"Perfect! A little more and you had come too late. I was on the point of -leaving Bergerac. I can put the story into three words. I have been so -happy as to secure the affections of Mlle. de Bergerac. She asked -herself, devoutly, what course of action was possible under the -circumstances. She decided that the only course was that we should -immediately separate. I had no hesitation in bringing my residence with -M. le Chevalier to a sudden close. I was to have quitted the château -early to-morrow morning, leaving mademoiselle at absolute liberty. With -her refusal of M. de Treuil I have nothing to do. Her action in this -matter seems to have been strangely precipitated, and my own departure -anticipated in consequence. It was at her adjuration that I was -preparing to depart. She came here this evening to command me to stay. -In our relations there was nothing that the world had a right to lay a -finger upon. From the moment that they were suspected it was of the -first importance to the security and sanctity of Mlle. de Bergerac's -position that there should be no appearance on my part of elusion or -flight. The relations I speak of had ceased to exist; there was, -therefore, every reason why for the present I should retain my place. -Mlle. de Bergerac had been here some three minutes, and had just made -known her wishes, when you arrived with the honorable intentions which -you avow, and under that illusion the perfect stupidity of which is its -least reproach. In my own turn. Messieurs, I thank you!" -</p> - -<p> -"Gabrielle," said my father, as Coquelin ceased speaking, "the long and -short of it appears to be that after all you needn't marry this man. Am -I to understand that you intend to?" -</p> - -<p> -"Brother, I mean to marry M. Coquelin." -</p> - -<p> -My father stood looking from the young girl to her lover. The Vicomte -walked to the window, as if he were in want of air. The night was cool -and the window closed. He tried the sash, but for some reason it -resisted. Whereupon he raised his sword-hilt and with a violent blow -shivered a pane into fragments. The Baron went on: "On what do you -propose to live?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's for me to propose," said Coquelin. "My wife shall not suffer." -</p> - -<p> -"Whither do you mean to go?" -</p> - -<p> -"Since you're so good as to ask,—to Paris." -</p> - -<p> -My father had got back his fire. "Well, then," he cried, "my bitterest -unforgiveness go with you, and turn your unholy pride to abject woe! My -sister may marry a base-born vagrant if she wants, but I shall not give -her away. I hope you'll enjoy the mud in which you've planted yourself. -I hope your marriage will be blessed in the good old fashion, and that -you'll regard philosophically the sight of a half-dozen starving -children. I hope you'll enjoy the company of chandlers and cobblers and -scribblers!" The Baron could go no further. "Ah, my sister!" he half -exclaimed. His voice broke; he gave a great convulsive sob, and fell -into a chair. -</p> - -<p> -"Coquelin," said my aunt, "take me back to the château." -</p> - -<p> -As she walked to the door, her hand in the young man's arm, the Vicomte -turned short about from the window, and stood with his drawn sword, -grimacing horribly. -</p> - -<p> -"Not if I can help it!" he cried through his teeth, and with a sweep of -his weapon he made a savage thrust at the young girl's breast Coquelin, -with equal speed, sprang before her, threw out his arm, and took the -blow just below the elbow. -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you, M. le Vicomte," he said, "for the chance of calling you a -coward! There was something I wanted." -</p> - -<p> -Mlle. de Bergerac spent the night at the château, but by early dawn she -had disappeared. Whither Coquelin betook himself with his gratitude and -his wound, I know not. He lay, I suppose, at some neighboring farmer's. -My father and the Vicomte kept for an hour a silent, sullen vigil in my -preceptor's vacant apartment,—for an hour and perhaps longer, for at -the end of this time I fell asleep, and when I came to my senses, the -next morning, I was in my own bed. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -M. de Bergerac had finished his talk. -</p> - -<p> -"But the marriage," I asked, after a pause,—"was it happy?" -</p> - -<p> -"Reasonably so, I fancy. There is no doubt that Coquelin was an -excellent fellow. They had three children, and lost them all. They -managed to live. He painted portraits and did literary work. -</p> - -<p> -"And his wife?" -</p> - -<p> -"Her history, I take it, is that of all good wives: she loved her -husband. When the Revolution came, they went into politics; but here, in -spite of his base birth, Coquelin acted with that superior temperance -which I always associate with his memory. He was no <i>sans-culotte.</i> -They both went to the scaffold among the Girondists." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GABRIELLE DE BERGERAC ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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