"My Dear Almer,--We have been here three days, and are comfortably established in your singularly-named villa, the House of White Shadows. It is a perfect country residence, and the scenery around it is, I am told, charming. As you are aware, I have no eyes for the beauties of Nature; human nature and human motive alone interest me, and my impressions of the neighbourhood are derived from the descriptions of my wife, who enjoys novelty with the impulsive enjoyment of a child. It appears that she was enchanted when she heard from your lips that your house was supposed to be haunted by shadows, and although you cautioned her immediately afterwards, she was not to be deterred from accepting your invitation. Up to this time, no ghost has appeared to her, nor has my composure been disturbed by supernatural visions. I am a non-believer in visions from the spiritual world; she is only too ready to believe. It is the human interest attached to such fancies--for which, of course, there must be some foundation--which fascinates and arrests the general attention. There, for me, the interest ends; I do not travel beyond reality.
"I am supposed to have come for rest and repose. The physicians who laid this burden upon me know little of my nature; idleness is more irksome, and I believe more injurious, to me than the severest labour; and it is a relief, therefore, to me to find myself interested in a startling criminal case which is shortly coming on for trial in Geneva. It is a case of murder, and a man is in prison, charged with its commission. He has no friends, he has no means, he is a vicious creature of the commonest and lowest type. There is nothing in him to recommend him to favour; he is a being to be avoided--but these are not the points to be considered. Is the man guilty or not guilty? He is pronounced guilty by universal public opinion, and the jury which will be empannelled to try him will be ready to convict upon the slightest evidence, or, indeed, without evidence. The trial will be a mockery of justice unless the accused is defended by one who is not influenced by passion and prejudice. There is a feature in the case which has taken powerful possession of me, and which, as far as I can judge, has not occurred to others. I intend to devote the whole of to-night to a study of the details of the crime, and it is likely that I shall undertake the defence of this repulsive creature--no doubt much to his astonishment. I have, with this object in view, already had an interview with him in his prison-cell, and the trouble I had to obtain permission to see him is a sufficient indication of the popular temper. When, therefore, you hear--if in the mountain fastness in which you are intrenched, you have the opportunity of hearing any news at all from the world at your feet--that I have undertaken the defence of a man named Gautran, accused of the murder of a flower-girl named Madeline, do not be surprised.
"What is most troubling me at the present moment is--what is my wife to do, how is she to occupy her time, during our stay in the House of White Shadows? At present she is full of animation and delight; the new faces and scenery by which she is surrounded are very attractive to her; but the novelty will wear off and then she will grow dull. Save me from self-reproach and uneasiness by taking up your residence with us, if not for the whole of the time we remain here, which I should much prefer, at least for a few weeks. By so doing you will confer a service upon us all. My wife enjoys your society; you know the feeling I entertain for you; and personal association with sincere friends will be of real benefit to you. I urge it earnestly upon you, for I have an impression that you are brooding over unhealthy fancies, and that you have sought solitude for the purpose of battling with one of those ordinary maladies of the mind to which sensitive natures are prone. If it be so, Christian, you are committing a grave error; the battle is unequal; silence and seclusion will not help you to a victory over yourself. Come and unbosom yourself to me, if you have anything to unbosom, and do not fear that I shall intrude either myself or my advice upon you against your inclination. If you have a grief, meet it in the society of those who love you. There is a medicine in a friendly smile, in a friendly word, which you cannot find in solitude. One needs sometimes, not the sunshine of fair weather, but the sunshine of the soul. Here it awaits you, and should you bring dark vapours with you I promise you they will soon be dispelled. I am disposed--out of purest friendliness--to insist upon your coming, and to be so uncharitable as to accept it as an act of weakness if you refuse me. When the case of Gautran is at an end I shall be an idle man; you, and only you, can avert the injurious effect idleness will have upon me. We will find occupation together, and create reminiscences for future pleasant thought. It may be a long time, if ever, before another opportunity so favourable occurs for passing a few weeks in each other's society, undisturbed by professional cares and duties. You see I am taking a selfish view of the matter. Add an inestimable value to your hospitality by coming here at once and sweetening my leisure.
"Your friend,
"Edward."
"My Own,--My husband is uneasy about you, and has imposed a task upon me. You shall judge for yourself whether it is a disagreeable one. I am to write to you immediately, to insist upon your coming to us without an hour's delay. You have not the option of refusal. The Advocate insists upon it, and I also insist upon it. You must come. Upon the receipt of this letter you will pack up your portmanteau, and travel hither in the swiftest possible way, by the shortest possible route. Be sure that you do not disobey me. You are to come instantly, without an hour's--nay, without a moment's delay. If you fail I will not answer for the consequences, and upon you will rest the responsibility of all that follows. For what reason, do you suppose, did I accept the offer of your villa in this strangely quiet valley, unless it was in the hope and the belief that we should be near each other? And now that Iamhere, pledged to remain, unable to leave without an exhibition of the most dreadful vacillation--which would not matter were I to have my own way, and were everything to be exactly as I wish it--you are bound to fly swiftly to the side of one who entertains for you the very sincerest affection. Do not be angry with me for my disregard of your caution to be careful in my manner of writing to you. I cannot help it. I think of you continually, and if you wish me not to write what you fear other eyes than ours might see, you must come and talk to me. I shall count the minutes till you are here. The Advocate is uneasy about you, and is, indeed and indeed, most anxious that you should be with us. He seems to have an idea that you have some cause for melancholy, and that you are brooding over it. Could anything be more absurd? Cause for melancholy! Just as if you were alone in the world! You do not need to be told that there is one being who will care for you till she is an old, old woman. Think of me as I shall be then. An old woman, with white hair, walking with a crutch-stick, as they do on the stage. If youaresad, it is a just punishment upon you. There was nothing in the world to prevent your travelling with us. What do you think a friend of yours, a banker in Geneva, suggested to the Advocate? He said that it was probable that you had experienced a disappointment in love. Now, this sets me thinking. Why have you chosen to hide yourself in the mountains, a hundred and a hundred miles away? Have you been there before? Is there some pretty girl to attract you, from whom you find it impossible to tear yourself? If it is so, let her beware of me. You have no idea of what I should be capable if you gave me cause for jealousy. What is her disposition--pensive or gay? She is younger than I am, I suppose--though I am not so old, sir!--with hands---- Ah, I am easier in my mind; her hands must be coarse, for she is a peasant. I am almost reconciled; you could never fall in love with a peasant. They may be pretty and fresh for a month or two, but they cannot help being coarse, and I know how anything coarse grates upon you. But a peasant-girl might fall in love with you--there are more unlikely things than that. Shall I tell you what the Advocate said of you this evening? It will make you vain, but never mind. 'I have never in my life known a man more likely to inspire love in a woman's heart than Christian Almer.' There, sir, his very words. How true they are! Ah, how cruel was the chance that separated us from each other, and brought us together again when I was another man's wife! Oh, if I had only known! If some kind fairy had told me that the man who, when I was a child, enthralled me with his beautiful fancies, and won my heart, and who then, as it seemed, passed out of my life--if I had suspected that, after many years, he would return home from his wanderings with the resolve to seek out the child and make her his wife, do you for one moment suppose I would not have waited for him? Do you think it possible I could ever have accepted the hand of another man? No, it could not have been, for even as a child I used to dream of you, and held you in my heart above all other human beings. But you were gone--I never thought of seeing you again--and I was so young that I could have had no foreshadowing of what was to come.
"Have you ever considered how utterly different my life might have been had you not crossed it? Not that I reproach you--do not think that; but how strangely things turn out, without the principal actor having anything to do with them! It is exactly like sitting down quietly by yourself, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things happen in which you have no hand, though if you were not in existence they could never have occurred. Just think for a moment. If it had not happened that you knew me when I was a child, and was fond of me then, as you have told me I don't know how many times--if it had not happened that your restless spirit drove you abroad where you remained for years and years and years--if it had not happened that, tired of leading a wandering life, you resolved to come home and seek out the child you used to pet and make love to (but she did not know the meaning of love then)--if it had not happened that, entirely ignorant of what was passing in your mind, the child, grown into a pretty woman (I think I may say that, without vanity), was persuaded by her friends that to refuse an offer of marriage made to her by a great lawyer, famous and rich, was something too shocking to contemplate--if it had not happened that she, knowing nothing of her own heart, knowing nothing of the world, allowed herself to be guided by these cold calculating friends to accept a man utterly unsuited to her, and with whom she has never had an hour's real happiness--if it had not happened by the strangest chance, that this man and you were friends---- There, my dear, follow it out for yourself, and reflect how different our lives might have been if everything had happened in the way it ought to have done. I was cheated and tricked into a marriage with a man whose heart has room for only one sentiment--ambition. I am bound to him for life, but I am yours till death--although the bond which unites us is, as you have taught me, but a spiritual bond.
"Are you angry with me for putting all this on paper? You must not be, for I cannot help it if I am not wise. Wisdom belongs to men. Come, then, and give me wise counsel, and prevent me from committing indiscretions. For I declare to you, upon my heart and honour, if you do not very soon present yourself at the House of White Shadows, I will steal from it in the night and make my way to the mountains to see what wonderful attraction it is that separates us. What food for scandal! What wagging and shaking of heads! How the women's tongues would run! I can imagine it all. Save me from exposure as you are a true man.
"You have made the villa beautiful. As I walk about the house and grounds I am filled with delight to think that you have effected such a magic change for my sake. Master Lamont has shown really exquisite taste. What a singular old man he is. I can't decide whether I like him or not. But how strange that you should have had it all done by deputy, and that you have not set foot in the house since you were a child. You see I know a great deal. Who tells me? My new maid Dionetta. Do you remember, in one of the letters you showed me from your steward, that he spoke about the old housekeeper, Mother Denise, and a pretty granddaughter? I made up my mind at the time that the pretty granddaughter should be my maid. And she is, and her name is Dionetta. Is it not pretty?--but not prettier than the owner. Will that tempt you? I have sent my town maid away, much to her displeasure; she spoke to the Advocate in complaint, but he did not mention it to me; I found it out for myself. He is as close as the grave. So I am here absolutely alone, with none but strangers around me.
"I am very much interested in the pictures in the studio of the old châlet, especially in a pair which represents, the first, two lovers with the sun shining on them; the second, the lovers parted by a cold grey sea. They stand on opposite shores, gazing despairingly at each other. He must have been a weak-minded man indeed; he should have taken a boat, and rowed across to her; and if he was afraid to do that, she should have gone to him. That would have been the most sensible thing.
"I could continue my gossip till daylight breaks, but I have already lost an hour of my beauty sleep, and I want you, upon your arrival, to see me at my best.
"My heart goes with this letter; bring it swiftly back to me."
"Yours for ever,
"Adelaide."
"News, Master Lamont, news!"
"Of what nature, Fritz?"
"Of a diabolical nature. Satan is busy."
"He is never idle--for which the priests, if they have any gratitude in them, should be thankful."
"You are not fond of the priests, Master Lamont."
"I do not hate them."
"Still you are not fond of them."
"I do not love them. Your news, fool--concerning whom?"
"A greater than you, or you do not speak the truth."
"The Advocate, then?"
"The same. You are a good guesser."
"Fritz, your news is stale."
"I am unlucky; I thought to be the first. You have heard the news?"
"Not I."
"You have read a letter, informing you of it."
"You are a bad guesser. I have neither received nor read a letter to-day."
"You have heard nothing, you have read nothing; and yet you know."
"As surely as you stand before me. Fritz, you are not a scholar, but I will give you a sum any fool can do. Add one to one--what do you make of it?"
"Why, that is easy enough, Master Lamont."
"The answer then, fool?"
"One."
"Good. You shall smart for it, in the most vulnerable part of man. You receive from me, every week, one franc. I owe you, for last week, one franc; I owe you, for this, one."
"That is so."
"Last week, one; this week, one. I discharge the liability." And Pierre Lamont handed a franc to Fritz.
Fritz weighed the coin in the palm of his hand, spun it in the air and smiled.
"Master Lamont, here is a fair challenge. If I prove to you that one and one are one, this franc you have given me shall not count off what you owe me."
"I agree."
"When one man and one woman are joined in matrimony, they become one flesh. Therefore, one and one are one.
"You have earned the franc, fool. Here are the two I owe you."
"Now, perhaps, you will tellmewhat I came here to tell you."
"The Advocate intends to defend Gautran, who stands charged with the murder of the flower-girl."
"You are a master worth serving. I have half a mind to give you back your franc."
"Make it a whole mind, Fritz."
"No; second thoughts are best. My pockets are not as warm as yours. They are not so well lined. How did you guess, Master Lamont?"
"By means of a golden rule, an infallible rule, by the Rule of One--which, intelligibly interpreted to shallow minds--no offence, Fritz, I hope----"
"Don't mind me, Master Lamont; I am a fool and used to hard knocks."
"Then by the Rule of One, which means the rule of human nature--as, for example, that makes the drunkard stagger to the wine-shop and the sluggard to his bed--I guessed that the Advocate could not withstand so tempting a chance to prove the truth of the scriptural words that all men are liars. What will be palatable information to me is the manner in which the news has been received."
"Heaven keep me from ever being so received! The Advocate has not added to the number of his friends. People are gazing at each other in amazement, and asking for reasons which none are able to give."
"And his wife, Fritz, his wife?"
"Takes as much interest in his doings as a bee does in the crawling of a snail."
"Rogue, you have cheated me! How about one and one being one?"
"There are marriages and marriages. This was not made in Heaven; when it came about there was a confusion in the pairing, and another couple are as badly off. There will be a natural end to both."
"How brought about, fool?"
"By your own rule, the rule of human nature."
"When a jumper jumps, he first measures his distance with his eye. Do they quarrel?"
"No."
"Does she look coldly upon him, or he upon her?"
"No."
"Is there silence between them?"
"No."
"You are a bad jumper, Fritz. You have not measured your distance."
"See, Master Lamont, I will prove it to you by a figure of speech. There travels from the south a flame of fire. There travels from the north a lump of snow. They meet. What happens? Either that the snow extinguishes the fire and it dies, or that the fire puts an end to the snow."
"Fairly illustrated, Fritz. Fire and snow! Truly a most unfortunate conjunction."
"She was in the mood to visit you yesterday had you lived a mile nearer the valley."
"You were out together."
"She and Dionetta were walking, and I met them and accompanied them. She spoke graciously to the villagers, and went into the cottages, and drank more than one cup of milk. She was sweeter than sugar, Master Lamont, and won the hearts of some of the women and of all the men. As for the children, they would have followed her to the world's end, I do believe, out of pure admiration. They carry now in their little heads the vision of the beautiful lady. Even Father Capel was struck by her beauty."
"Priests are mortals, Fritz. On which side did you walk--next to my lady or Dionetta?"
"I should be wrecked in a tempest. I sail only in quiet lakes."
"And the maid--did she object to your walking close to her?--for you are other than I take you to be if you did not walk close."
"Why should she object? Am I not a man? Women rather like fools."
"How stands the pretty maid with her new mistress?"
"In high favour, if one can judge from fingers."
"Fritz, your wit resembles a tide that is for ever flowing. Favour me with your parable."
"It is a delicate point to decide where actual love commences. Have you ever considered it, Master Lamont?"
"Not deeply, fool. In my young days I was a mad-brain; you are a philosopher. Like a bee, I took what fell in my way, and did not puzzle myself or the flower with questions. Where love commences? In the heart."
"No."
"In the brain."
"No."
"In the eye."
"No."
"Where, then?"
"In the finger-tips. Dionetta and I, walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder, our arms hanging down, brought into close contact our finger-tips. What wonder that they touched!"
"Natural magnetism, Fritz."
"With our finger-tips touching, we walked along, and if her heart palpitated as mine did, she must have experienced an inward commotion. Master Lamont, this is a confession for your ears only. I should be base and ungrateful to hide it from you."
"Your confidence shall be respected."
"It leads to an answer to your question as to how Dionetta stands with her new mistress. First the finger-tips, then the fingers, and her little hand was clasped in mine. It was then I felt the ring upon her finger."
"Ah!"
"Now, Dionetta never till yesterday owned a ring. I felt it, as a man who is curious would do, and suddenly her hand was snatched from mine. A moment or two afterwards, her hand was in mine again, but the ring was gone. A fine piece of conjuring. A man is no match for a woman in these small ways. To-day I saw her for about as long as I could count three. 'Who gave you the ring?' I asked. 'My lady,' she answered. 'Don't tell grandmother that I have got a ring.' Therefore, Master Lamont, Dionetta stands well with her mistress."
"Logically carried out, Fritz. The saints prosper your wooing."
In his lonely room in the mountain hut in which he had taken up his quarters, Christian Almer sat writing. It was early morning; he had risen before the sun. During the past week he had struggled earnestly with the terror which oppressed him; his suffering had been great, but he believed he was conquering. The task he had imposed upon himself of setting his duty before him in clear terms afforded him consolation. The book in which he was writing contained the record of a love which had filled him with unrest, and threatened to bring dishonor into his life.
"I thank Heaven," he wrote, "that I am calmer than I have been for several days. Separation has proved an inestimable blessing. The day may come when I shall look upon my love as dead, and shall be able to think of it as one thinks of a beloved being whom death has snatched away.
"Even now, as I think of her, there is no fever in the thought. I have not betrayed my friend.
"How would he regard me if he were acquainted with my mad passion--if he knew that the woman he adored looked upon him with aversion, and gave her love to the friend whom he trusted as a brother?
"There was the error. To listen to her confession of love, and to make confession of my own.
"That a man should so forget himself--should be so completely the slave of his passions!
"How came it about? When were the first words spoken?
"She sat by my side, radiant and beautiful. Admiring glances from every part of the theatre were cast upon her. In a corner of the box sat her husband, silent and thoughtful, heedless of the brilliant scene before him, heedless of her, as it seemed, heedless of the music and the singers.
"Royalty was there, immediately facing us, and princes levelled their opera-glasses at her.
"There are moments of intoxication when reason and conscience desert us.
"We were stepping into the carriage when a note was delivered to him. He read it, and said, 'I cannot go with you; I am called away. You will not miss me, as I do not dance. I will join you in a couple of hours."
"So we went alone, we two together, and her hand rested lightly upon mine. And in the dance the words were spoken--words never to be recalled.
"What demon prompted them? Why did not an angel whisper to me, 'Remember. There is a to-morrow.'
"But in the present the morrow is forgotten. A false sense of security shuts out all thoughts of the consequences of our actions. A selfish delight enthrals us, and we do not see the figure of Retribution hovering above us.
"It is only when we are alone with our conscience that this figure is visible. Then it is that we tremble; then it is that we hear words which appal us.
"Again and again has this occurred to me, and I have vowed to myself that I would tear myself from her--a vow as worthless as the gambler's resolve to play no more. Drawn irresistibly forward, and finding in every meeting a shameful justification in the delusion that I was seeing her for the last time; and leaving her with a promise to come again soon. Incredible infatuation! But to listen to the recital of her sorrows and unhappiness without sympathising with her--it was not possible; and to hear her whisper, 'I love you, and only you,' without being thrilled by the confession--a man would need to be made of stone.
"How often has she said to me, when speaking of her husband, 'He has no heart!'
"Can I then, aver with any semblance of honesty that I have not betrayed my friend? Basely have I betrayed him.
"If I were sure that she would not suffer--if I were sure that she would forget me! Coldness, neglect, indifference--they are sharp weapons, but I deserve to bleed.
"Still, I cry out against my fate. I have committed no crime. Love came to me and tortured me. But a man must perform a man's duty. I will strive to perform mine. Then in years to come I may be able to think of the past without shame, even with pride at having conquered.
"I have destroyed her portrait. I could not look upon her face and forget her."
A voice from an adjoining room caused him to lay aside his pen. It was the peasant, the master of the hut, calling to him, and asking if he was ready. He went out to the man.
"I heard you stirring," said the peasant, "and my young ones are waiting to show you where the edelweiss can be found."
The children, a boy and a girl, looked eagerly at Christian Almer. It had been arranged on the previous day that the three should go for a mountain excursion in search of the flower that brings good luck and good fortune to the finder. The children were sturdy-limbed and ruddy-faced, and were impatient to be off.
"Breakfast first," said Christian Almer, pinching the little girl's cheek.
Brown bread, honey, goat's milk, and an omelette were on the table, and the stranger, who had been as a godsend to the poor family, enjoyed the homely fare. The peasant had already calculated that if his lodger lived a year in the hut, they could save five hundred francs--a fortune. Christian Almer had been generous to the children, in whose eyes he was something more than mortal. Money is a magic power.
"Will the day be fine?" asked Christian.
"Yes," said the peasant; "but there will be a change in the evening. The little ones will know--you can trust to them."
Young as they were, they could read the signs on Nature's face, and could teach their gentleman friend wise things, great and rich as he was.
The father accompanied them for a couple of miles; he was a goat-herd, and, unlike others of his class, was by no means a silent man.
"You live a happy life here," said Christian Almer.
"Why, yes," said the peasant; "it is happy enough. We have to eat, but not to spare; there is the trouble. Still, God be thanked. The children are strong and healthy; that is another reason for thankfulness."
"Is your wife, as you are, mountain born?"
"Yes; and could tell you stories. And there," said the peasant, pointing upwards afar off, "as though it knew my wife were being talked of, there is the lämmergeier."
An enormous vulture, which seemed to have suddenly grown out of the air, was suspended in the clouds. So motionless was it that it might have been likened to a sculptured work, wrought by an angel's hand, and fixed in heaven as a sign. It could not have measured less than ten feet from wing to wing. Its colour was brown, with bright edges and white quills, and its fiery eyes were encircled by broad orange-shaded rings.
"My wife," said the peasant, "has reason to remember the lämmergeier. When she was three years old her father took her to a part of the mountains where they were hay-making, and not being able to work and attend to her at the same time, he set her down by the side of a hut. It was a fine sunny day, and Anna fell asleep. Her father, seeing her sleeping calmly, covered her face with a straw hat, and continued his work. Two hours afterwards he went to the spot, and Anna was gone. He searched for her everywhere, and all the haymakers assisted in the search, but Anna was nowhere to be found. My father and I--I was a mere lad at the time, five years older than Anna--were walking towards a mountain stream, three miles from where Anna had been sleeping, when I heard the cry of a child. It came from a precipice, and above this precipice a vulture was flying. We went in the direction of the cry, and found Anna lying on the edge of the precipice, clinging to the roots with her little hand. She was slipping down, and would have slipped to certain death had we been three minutes later. It was a difficult task to rescue her as it was, but we managed it, and carried her to her father. She had no cap to her head, and no shoes or stockings on her feet; she had lost them in her flight through the air in the vulture's beak. She has a scar on her left arm to this day as a remembrance of her acquaintance with the lämmergeier. So it fell out afterwards, when she was a young woman, that I married her."
Ever and again, as they walked onwards, Christian Almer turned to look upon the vulture, which remained perfectly still, with its wings outstretched, until it was hid from his sight by the peculiar formation of the valleys they were traversing.
Hitherto their course had lain amidst masses of the most beautiful flowers; gentians with purple bells, others spotted and yellow, with brilliant whorls of bloom, the lilac-flowered campanula, the anemone, the blue columbine and starwort, the lovely forget-me-not--which Christian Almer mentally likened to bits of heaven dropped down--and the Alpine rose, the queen of Alpine flowers. Now all was changed. The track was bare of foliage; not a blade of grass peeped up from the barren rocks.
"There is good reason for it," said the peasant; "here, long years ago, a man killed his brother in cold blood. Since that day no flowers will grow upon the spot. There are nights on which the spirit of the murderer wanders mournfully about these rocks; a black dog accompanies him, whose bark you can sometimes hear. This valley is accursed."
Soon afterwards the peasant left Christian Almer to the guidance of the children, and with them the young man spent the day, sharing contentedly with them the black bread and hard sausage they had brought for dinner. This mid-day meal was eaten as they sat beside a lake, in the waters of which there was not a sign of life, and Christian Almer noticed that, as the children ate, they watched the bosom of this lake with a strange and singular interest.
"What are you gazing at?" he asked, curious to learn.
"For the dead white trout," answered the boy. "Whenever a priest dies it floats upon the lake."
In the lower heights, where the fir-trees stretched their feathery tips to the clouds, they found the flower they were in search of, and the children were wild with delight. The sun was setting when they returned to the hut, tired and gratified with their day's wanderings. The peasant's wife smiled as she saw the edelweiss.
"A lucky love-flower," she said to Christian Almer.
These simple words proved to him how hard was the lesson of forgetfulness he was striving to learn; he was profoundly agitated by them.
Night fell, and the clouds grew black.
"The wind is rising," said the peasant; "an ill night for travellers. Here is one coming towards us."
It proved to be a guide who lived in the nearest post village, and who, duly commissioned for the service, brought to Christian Almer the letters of the Advocate and his wife.
"A storm is gathering," said the guide; "I must find shelter on the heights to-night."
In his lonely room Christian Almer broke the seals, and by the dull light of a single candle read the lines written by friend to friend, by lover to lover.
The thunder rolled over the mountains; the lightning flashed through the small window; the storm was upon him.
He read the letters once only, but every word was impressed clearly upon his brain. For an hour he sat in silence, gazing vacantly at the edelweiss on the table, the lucky love-flower.
The peasant's wife called to him, and asked if he wanted anything.
"Nothing," he replied, in a voice that sounded strange to him.
"I will leave the bread and milk on the table," she said. "Good-night."
He did not answer her, nor did he respond to the children's good-night. Their voices, the children's especially, seemed to his ears to come from a great distance.
A drop of rain fell from the roof upon the candle, and extinguished the light. For a long while he remained in darkness, until all in the hut were sleeping; then he went out into the wild night, clutching the letters tight in his hand.
He staggered almost blindly onwards, and in the course of half an hour found himself standing on a narrow and perilous bridge, from which the few travellers who passed that way could obtain a view of a torrent which dashed with sublime and terrific force over a precipice upon the rocks below, a thousand feet down.
"If I were to grow dizzy now!" he muttered, with a reckless laugh; and he tempted fate by leaning over the narrow bridge, and gazing downwards into the dark depths.
Indistinct shapes grew out of the mighty and eternal waterfall. Of hosts of angry men battling with each other; of rushing horses; of armies of vultures swooping down for prey; of accusing and beautiful faces; of smiling mouths and white teeth flashing; and, amidst the whirl, sounds of shrieks and laughter.
Suddenly he straightened himself, and tearing Adelaide's letter into a thousand pieces, flung the evidence of a treacherous love into the furious torrent of waters; and as he did so he thought that there were times in a man's life when death were the best blessing which Heaven could bestow upon him!
The trial of Gautran was proceeding, and the court was thronged with an excited gathering of men and women, upon whom not a word in the story of the tragic drama was thrown away. Impressed by the great powers of the Advocate who had undertaken to appear for the accused, the most effective measures had been adopted to prove Gautran's guilt, and obtain a conviction.
It was a legal battle, fought with all the subtle weapons at the disposal of the law.
Gautran's prosecutors fought with faces unmasked, and with their hands displayed; the Advocate, on the contrary, was pursuing a course which none could fathom; nor did he give a clue to it. Long before the case was closed the jury were ready to deliver their verdict; but, calm and unmoved, the Advocate, with amazing patience, followed out his secret theory, the revelation of which was awaited, by those who knew him best and feared him most, with intense and painful curiosity.
Every disreputable circumstance in Gautran's life was raked up to display the odiousness of his character; his infamous career was tracked from his childhood to the hour of his arrest. A creature more debased, with features more hideous, it would have been difficult to drag forward from the worst haunts of crime and shame. Degraded he was born, degraded he had lived, degraded he stood before his judges. It was a horror to gaze upon his face as he stood in the dock, convulsively clutching the rails.
For eight days had he so stood, execrated and condemned by all. For eight days he had endured the anguish of a thousand deaths, of a myriad agonising fears. His soul had been harrowed by the most awful visions--visions of which none but himself had any conception. In his cell with the gaolers watching his every movement; in the court with the glare of daylight upon him; in the dusky corridors he traversed morning and evening he saw the phantom of the girl with whose murder he was charged, and by her side the phantom of himself standing on the threshold of a future in which there was no mercy or pity.
No communication passed between him and the lawyer who was fighting for him; not once did the Advocate turn to the prisoner or address a word to him; it was as though he were battling for a victory in which Gautran was in no wise concerned. But if indeed he desired to win, he adopted the strangest tactics to accomplish his desire. Not a question he asked the witnesses, not an observation he made to the judge, but tended to fix more surely the prisoner's degradation, and gradually there stole into Gautran's heart a deadly hatred and animosity against his defender.
"He defends me to ruin me," this was Gautran's thought; "he is seeking to destroy me, body and soul."
His own replies to the questions put to him by the judge were sufficient to convict him. He equivocated and lied in the most barefaced manner, and when he was exposed and reproved, evinced no shame--preserving either a dogged silence, or obstinately exclaiming that the whole world was leagued against him. Apart from the question whether he was lying or speaking the truth, there was a certain consistency in his method which would have been of service to him had his cause been good. This was especially noticeable when he was being interrogated with respect to his relations with the murdered girl.
"You insist," said the judge, "that Madeline accepted you as her lover?"
"Yes," replied Gautran, "I insist upon it."
"Evidence will be brought forward to prove that it was not so. What, then, will you answer?"
"That whoever denies it is a liar."
"And if a dozen or twenty deny it?"
"They lie, the lot of them."
"What should make them speak falsely instead of truly?"
"Because they are all against me."
"There is no other evidence except your bare statement that Madeline and you were affianced."
"That is my misfortune. If she were alive she could speak for me."
"It is a safe remark, the poor child being in her grave. It is the rule for young girls to love men whose appearance is not repulsive."
"Is this," cried Gautran, smiting his face with his fist, "to stand as a witness against me, too?"
"No; but a girl has generally a cause for falling in love. If the man be not attractive in appearance, it is almost certain he will possess some other quality to attract her. He may be clever, and this may win her."
"I do not pretend to be clever."
"His manners may be engaging. His nature may be kind and affectionate, and she may have had proof of it."
"Mynature is kind and affectionate. It may have been that, if you are determined upon having a reason for her fondness for me."
"She was fond of you?"
"Aye."
"Did she tell you so, and when?"
"Always when we were alone."
"We cannot have Madeline's evidence as to the feelings she entertained for you; but we can have the evidence of others who knew you both. Are you acquainted with Katherine Scherrer?"
"Not too well; we were never very intimate."
"She is a young woman a few years older than Madeline, and she warned Madeline against you. She herself had received instances of your brutality. Before you saw Madeline you made advances towards Katherine Scherrer."
"False. She made advances towards me. She asked me to be her lover, and now she speaks against me out of revenge."
"She has not spoken yet, but she will. Madeline told her that she trembled at the sight of you, and had entreated you not to follow her; but that you would not be shaken off."
"It is my way; I will never be baulked."
"It is true, therefore; you paid no attention to this poor girl's entreaties because it is your way not to allow yourself to be baulked."
"I did not mean that; I was thinking of other matters."
"Katherine Scherrer has a mother."
"Yes; a woman of no account."
"Some time ago this mother informed you, if you did not cease to pester Katherine with your insulting proposals, that she would have you beaten."
"I should like to see the man who would have attempted it."
"That is savagely spoken for one whose nature is kind and affectionate."
"May not a man defend himself? I don't say I am kind and affectionate to men; but I am to women."
"The murdered girl found you so. Hearing from her daughter that Madeline was frightened of you, and did not wish you to follow her, Katherine's mother desired you to let the girl alone."
"She lies."
"They all lie who utter a word against you?"
"Every one of them."
"You never courted Katherine Scherrer?"
"Never."
"Her mother never spoke to you about either her daughter or Madeline?"
"Never."
"Do you know the Widow Joseph?"
"No."
"Madeline lodged in her house."
"What is that to me?"
"Did she never speak to you concerning Madeline?"
"Never."
"Attend. Four nights before Madeline met her death you were seen prowling outside Widow Joseph's house."
"I was not there."
"The Widow Joseph came out and asked you what you wanted."
"She did not."
"You said you must see Madeline. The Widow Joseph went into the house, and returned with the message that Madeline would not see you. Upon that you tried to force your way into the house, and struck the woman because she prevented you. Madeline came down, alarmed at the sounds of the struggle, and begged you to go away, and you said you would, now that you had seen her, as you had made up your mind to. What have you to say to this?"
"A batch of lies. Twenty women could not have prevented me getting into the house."
"You think yourself a match for twenty women?"
"Aye."
"And for as many men?"
"For one man, whoever he may be. Give me the chance of proving it."
"Do you know Heinrich Heitz?"
"No."
"He is, like yourself, a woodcutter."
"There are thousands of woodcutters."
"Did you and he not work together as partners?"
"We did not."
"Were you not continually quarrelling, and did he not wish to break the partnership?"
"No."
"In consequence of this, did you not threaten to murder him?"
"No."
"Did you not strike him with a weapon, and cut his forehead open?"
"No."
"How many women have you loved?"
"One."
"Her name?"
"Madeline."
"You never loved another?"
"Never."
"Have you been married?"
"No."
"Have you ever lived with a woman who should have been your wife?"
"Never."
"Did you not continually beat this poor woman until her life became a burden to her, and she was compelled to fly from you to another part of the country?"
"No."
"Do you expect to be believed in the answers you have given?"
"No."
"It is said that you possess great strength."
"It has served me in good stead."
"That you are a man of violent passions."
"I have my feelings. I would never submit to be trampled on."
"You were always kind to Madeline?"
"Always."
"On the night of her murder?"
"Yes."
"Witnesses will prove that you were heard to say, 'I will kill you! I will kill you!' Do you deny saying so?"
"No."
"How does that cruel threat accord with a mild and affectionate nature?"
"I was asking her whether she had another lover, and I said if she had, and encouraged him, that I would kill her."
"The handkerchief found round her neck was yours."
"I gave it to her as a love-gift."
"A terrible love-gift. It was not wound loosely round her neck; it was tight, almost to strangulation."
"She must have made it so in her struggles, or----"
"Or?"
"The man who killed her must have attempted to strangle her with it."
"That is your explanation?"
"Yes."
"Your face is bathed in perspiration; your eyes glare wildly."
"Change places with me, and see how you would feel."
"Such signs, then, are the signs of innocence?"
"What else should they be?"
During this long examination, Gautran's limbs trembled violently, and there passed over his face the most frightful expressions.