Meanwhile we glided gently with the current of the stream between two strips of wet meadow. Here and there, small black cattle with large pointed horns turned and looked fiercely at us. The valley through which the widening river crept, was shut in on both sides by a chain of hills, some covered with dry heather and furze, and some with green brushwood. Sometimes, at the end of a transversal cleft between two hills, we could see the crest of a mountain, blue and round in the distance. In spite of her indifference, Mlle. Marguerite was careful to draw my attention to all the beauties of this austere and peaceful country, and careful also, to qualify each remark with some ironic comment.For a little while a dull, continuous sound had told us that we were approaching a waterfall. Suddenly the valley narrowed into a wild and lonely gorge. On the left stood a high wall of rock overgrown with moss; oaks and firs mixed with ivy and straggling brushwood rose one above the other in every crevice till they reached the top of the cliff, throwing a mysterious shade on to the deeper water at the foot of the rocks. A hundred paces in front of us, the water boiled and foamed, and then disappeared all at once, and the broken line of the stream stood out in a veil of white spray, against a distant background of vague foliage. On our right, the bank opposite to the cliff had only a narrow margin of sloping meadow, fringed with the sombre velvet of the wooded hills."Land, Alain," said the young Creole. Alain moored the boat to a willow."Now, sir," she said, stepping lightly on to grass, "aren't you overcome? Aren't you troubled, petrified, thunderstruck? You ought to be, for this is supposed to be a very pretty place. I like it because it is always fresh and cool. But follow me through the woods—if you are not too much afraid—and I will show you the famous stones."Bright, alert, and gay as I had never seen her before, Mlle. Marguerite crossed the fields with a bounding step, and took a path which led along the hills to the forest. Alain and I followed in Indian file. After a few minutes' quick walking our guide stopped and seemed to hesitate, and looked about her for a moment. Then, deliberately separating two interlaced branches, she left the beaten track and plunged into the undergrowth. It was very difficult to make way through the thicket of strong young oaks whose slanting stems and twisted branches were knotted together as closely as Robinson Crusoe's palisade. At least Alain and I, bent double, advanced very slowly, catching our heads against something at every step, and at each of our clumsy movements bringing down a shower of dew upon us. But Mlle. Marguerite, with the greater dexterity and the catlike suppleness of her sex, slipped without any apparent effort through the meshes of the labyrinth, laughing at our sufferings, and carelessly letting the branches spring back after her into our faces. At last we reached a narrow glade on the top of the hill. There, not without emotion, I saw the dark and monstrous table of stone supported by five or six huge blocks half sunk in the earth, forming a cavern full of sacred horror. At first sight this perfect monument of a time almost fabulous, and of a primitive religion, has an aspect of eternal verity and of a real mysterious presence, that takes hold of the imagination, and fills the mind with awe.The sunshine streaming through the leaves stole through the interstices in the roughly joined blocks, played about the sinister slab, and lent an idyllic charm to this barbarous altar. Even Mlle. Marguerite seemed pensive and brooding. For my part I entered the cavern, and, after examining thedolmenthoroughly, set to work to sketch it. For ten minutes I had been absorbed in this work, forgetting everything that was going on about me, when Mlle. Marguerite suddenly spoke:"Do you want a Velleda to enliven your picture?"I looked up. She had wound a wreath of oak-leaves round her forehead and stood at the head of thedolmen, leaning lightly against a sheaf of saplings. In the half-light, under the branches, her white dress looked like marble, and her eyes shone with strange fire in the shadow of the oaken crown. She was beautiful, and I think she knew it. I looked at her and found it hard to speak."If I am in the way, I'll move," she said."Oh, no! please don't.""Well, make haste; put Mervyn in too. He'll be the Druid and I the Druidess."I was so lucky—thanks to the vagueness of a sketch—as to reproduce this poetic vision pretty faithfully. Evidently interested, she came and looked at the drawing."It isn't bad," she said, laughing, as she threw her crown away. "You must admit that I am very good to you."I did. I might even have added, if she had asked me, that she was not without a spice of coquetry. But without that she would not have been a woman. Perfection is detestable, and even goddesses need something besides their deathless beauty to win love.We went back through the tangled underwood to the path in the wood, and thence returned to the river."Before we return," said the young girl, "I want to show you the waterfall, more especially as I am looking forward to a little diversion on my own account. Come, Mervyn, come along, dear dog. Oh, you are lovely!"We soon reached the bank facing the rocks which blocked the bed of the river. The water fell from a height of many feet into a large and deeply sunk circular basin, which seemed to be shut in on all sides by an amphitheatre of vegetation, broken by dripping rocks. But there were unseen outlets for the overflow of the little lake, and the streams so formed reunited a little lower down."It is not exactly a Niagara," said Mlle. Marguerite, raising her voice against the noise of the falling waters, "but I have heard connoisseurs and artists say that it is rather pretty, nevertheless. Have you admired it? Good! Now I hope you'll bestow any enthusiasm you may have left on Mervyn. Here, Mervyn!"The Newfoundland ran to his mistress, and, trembling with impatience, watched her while she tied some pebbles into her handkerchief. She threw it into the stream a little above the fall, and at the same moment Mervyn fell like a block into the lower basin and struck out swiftly from the edge. The handkerchief followed the current, reached the rocks, danced in an eddy for a minute, and then, shooting like an arrow past the smooth rock, swept in a mass of foam under the eyes of the dog, who seized it dexterously in his mouth, after which Mervyn returned proudly to the bank, where Mlle. Marguerite stood clapping her hands.This feat was performed several times with great success. At the sixth repetition, either because the dog started too late or because the handkerchief was thrown too soon, Mervyn missed it. The handkerchief, swept on by the eddies from the fall, was carried among some thorny brushwood that overhung the water a little farther on. Mervyn went to fetch it, but we were very much surprised to see him suddenly struggle convulsively, drop his booty, and raise his head towards us, howling pitifully."My God! what has happened?" exclaimed Mlle. Marguerite."He seems to be caught among the bushes. He'll free himself directly, no doubt."But soon one had to doubt, and even to despair, of this issue. The network of creepers in which the dog had been caught lay directly below one of the mouths of the sluice, which poured a mass of seething water continuously on Mervyn's head. The poor beast, half-suffocated, ceased to make the slightest effort to release himself, and his plaintive cries sounded more and more like a death-rattle. At this moment Mlle. Marguerite seized my arm, and whispered almost in my ear:"He is lost. It's no use.... Let us go."I looked at her. Grief, pain, and her violent effort to control herself had distorted her pale features and brought dark circles under her eyes."It is impossible," I said, "to get the boat down there; but if you will allow me, I can swim a little, and I'll go and give a hand to the poor fellow.""No, no; don't attempt it. It's too far. And they say it's very deep and dangerous under the fall.""You needn't fear, mademoiselle; I am very cautious."At the same moment I took off my coat and went into the water, taking care to keep a good distance from the fall. It was very deep, and I did not find a footing till I reached the exhausted Mervyn. I do not know whether there had been an islet here which had dwindled and crumbled away, or whether a sudden rising of the river had swept away part of the bank, and deposited the fragments in this place; but, whatever the cause, there was an accumulated and flourishing mass of entangled brushwood and roots under this treacherous water. I got my feet on a trunk from which the bushes seemed to spring, and managed to release Mervyn. Feeling himself free, he recovered at once, and struck out for the bank, leaving me to my fate with all the goodwill imaginable. This was scarcely acting up to the chivalrous reputation of his breed, but Mervyn has lived a long while among men, and I suppose has become a bit of a philosopher. But when I tried to follow him, I found, to my disgust, that, in my turn, I was caught in the nets of the jealous and malignant naiad who reigns in the pool. One of my legs was entangled in the creepers, and I could not free it. It is difficult to exert all one's strength in deep water, and on a bed of sticky mud. And besides, I was half-blinded by the bubbling spray. In short, my situation was becoming awkward. I looked towards the bank; Mlle. Marguerite, holding to Alain's arm, hung over the gulf, and watched me with mortal anxiety. I told myself that it rested with me to be wept for by those bright eyes, and to end a miserable existence in an enviable fashion. Then I shook off such maudlin fancies vigorously, and freed myself by a violent effort. I tied the little handkerchief, now in rags, round my neck, and easily regained the shore.As I landed, Mlle. Marguerite offered me her hand. It trembled a little, and I was pleased."What rashness! You might have been drowned, and for a dog!""It was yours," I whispered in the same low tone she had used to me.This speech seemed to annoy her; she withdrew her hand quickly, and turning to Mervyn, who lay yawning and drying himself in the sun, began to punish him."Oh, the stupid! the big stupid!" she said. "What an idiot he is!"But the water was streaming from my clothes on to the grass. I did not quite know what to do with myself, till Mlle. Marguerite came back, and said very kindly:"Take the boat, M. Maxime, and get away as fast as you can. You'll keep warm rowing. I will come back with Alain through the wood; it is the shortest way."I agreed to this arrangement, which was in every way the best. I said farewell, touched her hand for the second time, and got into the boat. To my surprise, when I was dressing at home I found the little handkerchief still round my neck. I had forgotten to restore it to Mlle. Marguerite, who must have given it up for lost, so I shamelessly determined to keep it as the reward of my watery adventure.I went to the château in the evening. Mlle. Laroque received me with her habitual air of disdainful indolence, sombre preoccupation, and embitteredennui, which was in singular contrast with the gracious friendliness and playful vivacity of my companion of the morning.During dinner, at which M. de Bévallan was present, she spoke of our excursion in a manner that stripped it of all sentiment, and as she went on, said some sharp things about lovers of nature, and finished with an account of Mervyn's misadventure, without mentioning my share in it. If, as I thought, this was meant as a hint of the line I was to take, the young lady had been at needless trouble. However that may be, M. de Bévallan, on hearing the story, nearly deafened us with his cries of despair. What! Mlle. Marguerite had endured such anxiety, the brave Mervyn had been in such danger, and he, Bévallan, had not been there. Cruel fate! He would never get over it. There was nothing for him to do but hang himself, like Crillon."Well," said Alain, "if it depended on me to cut him down, I should take my time about it."The next day did not begin so pleasantly for me as its predecessor. In the morning I received a letter from Madrid, asking me to inform Mlle. de Porhoët that her lawsuit was finally lost. Her agent also informed me that her opponents would not profit by their victory, as the Crown, attracted by the millions at stake, claimed to succeed under the law by which the property escheats to the state.After careful consideration, I decided that it would be kinder not to let my old friend know of the total destruction of her hopes. I intend, therefore, to secure the assistance of her agent in Spain; he will allege further delays, and on my side I shall continue my researches among the archives, and do my best to preserve the poor soul's cherished delusions to the end. However innocent and legitimate this deception might be, I could not feel at rest until it had been approved by some one whose judgment in such matters I could trust. I went to the château in the afternoon, and made confession to Mme. Laroque, who approved of my plan, and commended me rather more than the occasion warranted. And to my great surprise she finished the interview with these words:"I must take this opportunity of telling you, M. Odiot, that I am deeply grateful for your devotion to my interests, that each day I appreciate your character more truly, and enjoy your company more thoroughly. I could wish—you must forgive my saying it, as you are scarcely likely to share my wish—I could wish that you could always remain with us ... and I humbly pray heaven to perform the miracles necessary to bring this about ... for I know that only miracles can do so."I did not quite grasp the meaning of this language, nor could I explain the sudden emotion that shone in the eyes of the excellent lady. I acknowledged her kindness properly, and went away to indulge my melancholy in the fields.By an accident—not purely fortuitous, I must admit—I found myself, after an hour's walking, in a deserted valley, and on the brink of the pool which had been the scene of my recent prowess. The amphitheatre of rocks and greenery which surrounds the small lake realizes the very ideal of solitude. There you are at the end of the world, in a virgin country, in China—where you will! I lay down among the heather, recalling my expedition of yesterday, one not likely to occur again in the course of the longest life. Already I felt that if such good fortune should come to me a second time, it would not have that charm of surprise, of peacefulness, and—in one word—of innocence. I had to own that this fresh romance of youth, which gave a perfume to my thoughts, could have but one chapter, one page, and that I had read it. Yes, this hour, this hour of love, to call it by its true name, had been royally sweet, because it had not been premeditated, because I had not known what it was till it had gone, because I had had the rapture, and had been spared remorse. Now my conscience was awake. I saw myself on the verge of an impossible, a ridiculous love, and worse, of a culpable passion. Poor and disinherited as I am, it is time to keep a strict watch over myself.I was addressing these warnings to myself in this solitary place—any other would have served my purpose as well—when the sound of voices interrupted my reflections. I rose, and saw a company of four or five people who had just landed, advancing towards me. First came Mlle. Marguerite leaning on M. de Bévallan's arm; next Mlle. Hélouin and Mme. Aubry, followed by Alain and Mervyn. The sound of their approach had been drowned in the roar of the waterfall; they were only a few yards off; there was no time for retreat, so I had to resign myself to being discovered in the character of the romantic recluse. But my presence did not excite any particular attention, though I saw a shadow of annoyance on Mlle. Marguerite's face, and she returned my bow with marked stiffness.M. de Bévallan, standing at the verge of the pool, wearied the echoes with the clamour of his conventional admiration. "Delicious! How picturesque! What a feast! The pen of George Sand.... The pencil of Salvator Rosa!"All this was accompanied by violent gestures, by which he appeared to be snatching from these great artists, the instruments of their genius.At last he became calmer, and asked to be shown the dangerous channel where Mervyn had nearly been drowned. Again Mlle. Marguerite related the adventure, and again she suppressed the part I had taken in the denouement. With a kind of cruelty, evidently levelled at me, she enlarged on the cleverness, courage, and presence of mind her dog had shown in his trying situation. Apparently she seemed to think that her transient good-humour, and the service I had been so fortunate as to render her, had filled my head with some presumptuous notions, which it was necessary to nip in the bud.As Mlle. Hélouin and Mme. Aubry particularly wished to see Mervyn repeat his wonderful exploit, his mistress called the Newfoundland, and, as before, threw her handkerchief into the current. But at the signal the brave Mervyn, instead of jumping into the lake, rushed up and down the bank, barking furiously, lashing about with his tail, showing, in fact, the greatest interest in the proceedings, but at the same time an excellent memory. Evidently the head controls the heart in this sagacious beast. In vain Mlle. Marguerite, angry and confused, first tried caresses and then threats to overcome her favourite's obstinacy. Nothing could persuade the intelligent creature to trust himself again in those dangerous waters. After such high-flown announcements, Mervyn's stubborn prudence was really amusing. I had a better right to laugh than any one present, and I did so without compunction. Besides, the merriment soon became general, and in the end Mlle. Marguerite herself joined in, rather half-heartedly."And now," she said, "I've lost another handkerchief."The handkerchief, carried along by the eddies, had naturally landed among the branches of the fatal bush, not far from the further bank."Rely upon me, mademoiselle," cried M. de Bévallan. "In ten minutes you shall have your handkerchief, or I shall exist no longer."At this magnanimous declaration I thought that Mlle. Marguerite looked stealthily at me, as much as to say, "You see, there are others who are devoted to me!" Then she answered M. de Bévallan."For Heaven's sake, don't be so foolish! The water is very deep.... it is really dangerous.""It is all the same to me," said M. de Bévallan. "Have you a knife, Alain?""A knife?" said Mlle. Marguerite, surprised."Yes, a knife. Please allow me ... I know what I mean to do.""But what do you mean to do with a knife?""I mean to cut a switch," said M. de Bévallan.The girl looked at him gravely."I thought," she murmured, "that you were going to swim for it.""To swim!" said M. de Bévallan; "excuse me, mademoiselle.... Firstly, I am not in swimming costume; next, I must admit that I cannot swim.""If you cannot swim," she said dryly, "the question of costume is not important.""You are quite right," said M. de Bévallan, with amusing coolness; "but you are not particularly anxious that I should drown myself, are you? You want your handkerchief, that is the point. When I have got it, you will be satisfied. Isn't that so?""Well, go and cut your switch," she said, sitting down resignedly.M. de Bévallan is not easily disconcerted. He disappeared into the nearest thicket, and soon we heard the branches crack. He came back armed with a long switch from a nut-tree, and proceeded to strip the leaves off."Do you think you'll reach the other side with that stick?" asked Mlle. Marguerite, who was beginning to be amused."Allow me to manage it my own way. That is all I ask," said the imperturbable gentleman.We left him alone. He finished his switch, and then set out for the boat. We at last understood that he meant to cross the river in the boat, to land above the waterfall, and to harpoon the handkerchief, which he could easily do from the bank. At this discovery there was an indignant outcry from the ladies, who, as we all know, are extremely fond of dangerous adventures—in which they are not themselves concerned."A pretty contrivance, M. de Bévallan. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?""Tu-tu, ladies! Remember Columbus and the egg. The idea is everything, you know."Contrary to our expectation, this apparently harmless expedition was not to be carried through without some emotions, and some risks, for M. de Bévallan, instead of making for the bank immediately opposite the little bay, where the boat had been moored, unluckily decided to land nearer the cataract. He pushed the boat into the middle of the stream and let it drift for a moment, till he saw that as the river approached the fall, its pace increased with alarming rapidity. We appreciated the danger when we saw him put the boat across the current, and begin to row with feverish energy. For a few seconds he struggled with doubtful success. But, little by little, he got nearer to the bank, though the stream still swept him fiercely towards the cataract, which thundered ominously in his ears. He was only a few feet from it, when a supreme effort brought him near enough to the shore to put him out of danger. With a vigorous spring he leaped on to the slope of the bank, sending the boat out among the rocks, where it was at once overturned. It presently floated into the pool keel upward. While the danger lasted, our only feeling was one of keen anxiety, but when it was over, the contrast between the comicdénouementand its hero's usual coolness and self-confidence, could not fail to tickle our sense of humour. Besides, laughter is a natural relief when a danger is happily past. Directly we saw that M. de Bévallan was out of the boat, we all gave ourselves up to unrestrained merriment. I should say, that at this moment his bad luck was completed by a truly distressing detail. The bank on which he had jumped sloped sharply and was very wet. His feet had scarcely touched it when he fell backwards. Fortunately there were some strong branches within his reach. He hung on to them desperately, his legs beating the shallow water like two angry oars. As there was no danger, his situation became purely ridiculous, and I suppose that this thought made him struggle so frantically and awkwardly, that his efforts defeated their purpose. He succeeded, however, in raising himself and getting another footing on the slope. Then, all of a sudden, we saw him slide down again, tearing the bushes and brushwood as he went, and renewing his wild pantomime in the water in evident desperation. It was irresistible. Never, I believe, had Mlle. Marguerite been at such an entertainment. She had utterly lost all care for her dignity. Like some mirthful Bacchante, she filled all the grove with bursts of almost convulsive gaiety. Between her shouts of laughter she clapped her hands and called out in a half-suffocated voice:"Bravo! bravo! M. de Bévallan! Very pretty! Delicious! Picturesque! Salvator Rosa!"At last M. de Bévallan succeeded in dragging himself toterra firma. Then, turning to the ladies, he made them a speech which the noise of the waterfall prevented us from hearing distinctly; but, from his animated gestures, the illustrative movements of his arms, and his air of forced good-humour, we understood that he was giving us a reasoned explanation of his disaster."Yes, yes," replied Mlle. Marguerite, continuing to laugh with a woman's implacable barbarity. "it was a great success. I congratulate you!"When she was a little more serious, she asked me how we should recover the capsized boat, which, by-the-bye, was the best we had. I promised to bring some men the next day, and superintend the rescue. Then we struck across the fields towards the château. M. de Bévallan, not being in swimming costume, could not rejoin us. With a melancholy air he disappeared behind the rocks above the farther bank.August 20th.At last this extraordinary girl has revealed the secret of her stormy soul to me. Would that she had preserved it forever!During the day that followed the scenes I have just described, Mlle. Marguerite, as if ashamed of the impulses of youthful frankness to which she had yielded, wrapped herself more closely than ever in her veil of mournful pride, disdain, and mistrust. In the midst of the noisy pleasures, thefêtes, and dances that succeeded one another, she passed like a ghost, indifferent, icy, and sometimes angry.Her irony vented itself with inconceivable bitterness, sometimes on the purest pleasures of the mind, those that come from contemplation and study, sometimes on the noblest and most sacred sentiments. If an instance of courage or virtue was mentioned in her presence, she examined it minutely in search of its selfish motive; or if by chance one burned the smallest grain of incense on the altar of art, she extinguished it with a disdainful wave of her hand. With her short, abrupt, and terrible laugh, like the mocking of a fallen angel, she seemed determined to blight (wherever she saw a trace of them) the most generous faculties of the human soul—enthusiasm and passion. I noticed that this strange spirit of disparagement took on a special character of persecution—positive hostility—when directed against me. I did not understand, and even now I do not quite understand, why I have attracted these particular attentions. True, I carry in my heart the worship of things ideal and eternal, which only death can tear from me (great God, what would be left me if I had not that!); but I am not given to public ecstasies, and my admiration, like my love, will never be obtrusive. In vain I maintained more scrupulously than ever the modesty which springs from real feeling. I gained nothing by it. The most romantic fancies were attributed to me just for the pleasure of combating them, and perpetually some kind of grotesque harp was thrust into my hands, solely for the amusement of breaking its strings.Although this open warfare against anything higher than the material interests and sordid realities of life, was not a new trait in Mlle. Marguerite's character, it had been suddenly exaggerated and embittered to the point of wounding the hearts most devoted to this young girl. One day Mlle. de Porhoët, weary of this incessant mocking, said to her in my presence:"My darling, for some time past you have been possessed by a devil which you would do well to cast out as soon as possible, or you will finish by making up a trio with Mme. Aubry and Mme. de Saint-Cast. For my part, I do not pride myself on being, or ever having been, particularly romantic, but I like to think that there are still some people in the world who are capable of generous sentiments; I believe in disinterestedness, if only in my own, and I even believe in heroism, because I have known heroes. More, I love to hear the little birds singing under my arbour, and I like to build my cathedral in the drifting clouds. All this may sound very ridiculous, my dear, but I venture to remind you that these illusions are the riches of the poor, that M. Odiot and I have no other kind of wealth, and that we are so singular as not to complain."On another occasion, when I had just received Mlle. Marguerite's sarcasm with my usual impassibility, her mother drew me aside."M. Maxime," she said, "my daughter teases you a little, but I hope you will excuse her. You must have noticed that she has changed very much lately.""Your daughter seems to be more preoccupied than usual.""And not without good reason; she is about to come to a very serious decision, and at such a moment young girls are apt to be capricious."I bowed and said nothing."You are now a friend of the family," continued Mme. Laroque, "and as such I ask you to give me your opinion of M. de Bévallan.""I believe, madame, that M. de Bévallan has a very handsome fortune—not so large as yours, but undeniably handsome—about a hundred and fifty thousand francs a year!""Yes, but what do you think of him personally, and of his character?""M. de Bévallan is what the world calls a perfect gentleman. He has wit; he is considered an honourable man.""But do you think he will make my daughter happy?""I do not think he will make her unhappy. He is not unkind.""What do you think I ought to do? I am not entirely satisfied with him ... but he is the only one Marguerite at all cares for ... and there are so few men with a hundred thousand francs a year. You can understand that my daughter—in her position—has had plenty of offers. For the last two or three years we have been literally besieged.... Well, it is time we decided.... I am not strong.... I may go any day.... My daughter would be unprotected. Here is an unexceptionable suitor whom the world will certainly approve—it is my duty to welcome him. Already people say that I have filled my daughter's head with romantic notions—which is not the truth. She has her own ideas. Now, what do you advise me to do?""May I ask what is Mlle. de Porhoët's opinion? She is a lady of great judgment and experience, and besides, entirely devoted to you.""Oh, if I listened to Mlle. de Porhoët I should send M. de Bévallan about his business. But it is all very well for Mlle. de Porhoët to talk. When he's gone, she won't marry my daughter for me.""But, madame, from the monetary point of view, M. de Bévallan is certainly a fine match. I do not dispute it for a moment, and if you stand out for a hundred thousand francs a year.""But, my dear sir, I care no more for a hundred thousand francs than for a hundred pence! However, I am not talking of myself, but of my daughter. Well, I can't let her marry a mason, can I? I should have rather liked to be the wife of a mason, but it does not follow that what would have made me happy would make her so. I ought, in marrying her, to be guided by received opinion, not merely by my own.""Well, then, madame, if this marriage suits you, and suits your daughter equally well...""Ah, no! ... it does not suit me ... nor does it suit my daughter any better. It is a marriage ... to speak plainly, it isun mariage de convenance.""Am I to understand that it is quite settled?""No, or I should scarcely ask your advice. If it were, my daughter would be more at ease. Her misgivings disturb her, and then..."Mme. Laroque sank back into the shadow of the hood over her chair and added:"Haveyouany idea of what is going on in that unfortunate head?""None, madame."She fixed her sparkling eyes on me for a moment, sighed deeply, and said, gently and sadly:"You may go ... I won't detain you any longer."The confidence with which I had just been honoured, had not surprised me much. For some time it had been evident that Mlle. Marguerite reserved for M. de Bévallan whatever sympathy she had left for humanity. But she seemed to show rather a friendly preference than an impassioned tenderness. And I ought to say that the preference was quite intelligible. I have never liked M. de Bévallan, and in these pages I have, in spite of myself, given a caricature rather than a portrait of him, but I admit that he combines most of the qualities and defects that are popular with women. He is absolutely devoid of modesty, which is a great advantage, as women do not like it. He has the cool, mocking, and witty assurance which nothing can daunt, which easily daunts others, and which gives to its possessor a kind of domination and a factitious superiority. His tall figure, his bold features, his skill in athletic exercises, his reputation as a sportsman, give him a manly authority which impresses the timid sex. And he has an air of daring, enterprise, and conquest which attracts and troubles women, and fills their souls with secret ardour. Such advantages, it is true, are, as a rule, chiefly impressive to vulgar natures; but though, as usual, I had at first been tempted to put Mlle. Marguerite's nature on a level with her beauty, she had for some time past seemed to make a positive parade of very mediocre sentiments, and I believed she was capable of yielding without resistance as without enthusiasm, and with the passive coldness of a lifeless imagination, to the charms of a common-place lady-killer, and, later, to the yoke of a respectable marriage.AH this made it necessary for me to accept the inevitable, and I did so more easily than I should have thought possible a month ago. For I had summoned all my courage to combat the first temptations of a love, equally condemned by good sense and by honour. And she who had unwittingly imposed this combat on me, had also unwittingly powerfully helped me in my resistance. If she could not hide her beauty from me, she also unveiled her soul, and mine had recoiled. Small loss, no doubt, for the young millionaire, but a good thing for me.Meanwhile I had to go to Paris, partly on Mme. Laroque's business and partly on my own. I returned two days ago, and as I arrived at the château I was told that old M. Laroque had repeatedly asked for me since the morning. I hurried to his apartment. A smile flickered across his withered cheeks as he saw me. He looked at me with an expression of malignant joy and secret triumph; then he said, in his dull, hollow voice:"M. de Saint-Cast is dead."This news, which the strange old man had wanted to tell me himself, was correct. On the previous night poor General de Saint-Cast had had a stroke of apoplexy, and an hour later had been snatched from the life of wealth and luxury which he owed to his wife. Directly the news came to the château, Mme. Aubry had started off to her friend, and the two had, as Dr. Desmarets told us, passed the day chanting a sort of litany of original and piquant ideas on the subject of death—the swiftness with which it strikes its prey, the impossibility of preventing or guarding against it, the futility of regrets, which cannot bring back the departed, the consoling effects of time, etc., etc.After which they sat down to dinner, and gradually recovered their spirits. "Madame," said Mme. Aubry, "you must eat, you must keep yourself alive. It is our duty and the will of God."At dessert Mme. de Saint-Cast had a bottle of the poor general's favourite Spanish wine, and begged Mme. Aubry to taste it for his sake. But, as Mme. Aubry firmly refused to be the only one to partake of it, Mme. de Saint-Cast allowed herself to be persuaded that God also wished her to have a glass of Spanish wine and a crust of bread. The general's health was not drunk. Early yesterday morning, Mme. Laroque and her daughter, both in mourning, took their places in the carriage. I accompanied them. About ten o'clock we were at the little town. While I attended the general's funeral, the ladies joined the widow's circle of official sympathizers. After the service I returned to the house, and with some other friends I was introduced into the famous drawing-room, the furniture of which had cost fifteen thousand francs. In the funereal half-light I distinguished the inconsolable Mme. de Saint-Cast sitting on a twelve-hundred-franc sofa, enveloped in crape, the price of which we were told before long. At her side was Mme. Aubry, an image of physical and moral prostration. Half a dozen friends and relatives completed this doleful group. As we took up our positions in line at the farther end of thesalon, there was a sound of shuffling feet and some cracking of the parquet, then gloomy silence fell again on this mausoleum. Only from time to time a lamentable sigh, faithfully echoed by Mme. Aubry, rose from the sofa.At last a young man appeared. He had lingered in the street to finish the cigar he had lighted as he left the cemetery. As he slipped discreetly into our ranks Mme. de Saint-Cast perceived him."Is that you, Arthur?" she said in a lugubrious voice."Yes, aunt," said the young man, advancing in front of the line."Well," continued the widow, in the same plaintive drawl, "is it over?""Yes, aunt," said Arthur, in curt, deliberate accents. He seemed to be a young man who was perfectly satisfied with himself.There was a pause, after which Mme. de Saint-Cast drew from the depths of her expiring soul this new series of questions:"Did it go off well?""Very well, aunt, very well.""Were there many people?""The whole town, aunt, the whole town.""The military?""Yes, aunt, the whole garrison, and the band."Mme. de Saint-Cast groaned, and added:"The fire brigade?""The fire brigade too, aunt—certainly."I do not quite see why this last detail should have particularly affected Mme. de Saint-Cast, but she could not resist it. A sudden swoon, accompanied by infantile wailings, summoned all the resources of feminine sensibility to her aid, and gave us the opportunity of slipping away. I was glad of it. I could not bear to see this ridiculous vixen performing her hypocritical mummeries over the tomb of the weak, but good and loyal fellow, whose life she had embittered, and whose end she had probably hastened.A few moments later, Mme. Laroque asked me to accompany her to the Langoat farm, five or six leagues farther on towards the coast. She intended to dine there with her daughter. The farmer's wife, who had been Mlle. Marguerite's nurse, was ill, and the ladies had for some time meant to give her this proof of their interest in her welfare. We started at two o clock in the afternoon. It was one of the hottest days of this hot summer. Through the open windows of the carriage, the heavy, burning gusts which rose in waves from the parchedlandeunder the torrid sky, swept across us.The conversation suffered from our oppression. Mme. Laroque, who declared that she was in paradise, had at last thrown off her furs and remained sunk in a gentle ecstasy. Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself with Spanish gravity. While we slowly climbed the interminable hills, we saw the calcined rocks swarming with legions of silver-coated lizards, and heard the continuous crackling of the furze opening its ripe pods to the sun.In the middle of one of our laborious ascents a voice suddenly called out from the side of the road:"Stop, if you please."At the same time a big girl with bare legs, holding a distaff in her hand, and wearing the ancient costume and ducal coif of the peasants of this country, leaped quickly across the ditch, knocking over as she came along some of the sheep she was tending. She perched herself with a kind of grace on the carriage-step, and stood before us with her brown, self-possessed, and smiling face framed in the window."Pardon, ladies," she said in the quick, melodious tones of her country, "will you be so kind as to read this to me?"She took from her bodice a letter folded in the ancient fashion."Read it, M. Odiot," said Mme. Laroque, laughing, "and read it aloud, if necessary."It was a love-letter, addressed very carefully to Mlle. Christine Ogadec, ——'s Farm, in the commune of ——, near ——. It was written by an awkward but sincere hand. The date showed that Mlle. Christine had received it two or three weeks ago. Not being able to read, and fearing to trust her secret to the ill-nature of her associates, the poor girl had kept the letter in the hope that some passing stranger, at once good-natured and educated, would interpret the mystery that had been burning in her bosom for more than a fortnight. Her blue, wide-opened eyes were fixed on me with an air of ineffable satisfaction as I laboriously read the sloping lines which conveyed this message:"Mademoiselle, this is to tell you that my intentions have not changed since the day we spoke on thelandeafter vespers, and that I am anxious about yours. My heart is all yours, mademoiselle, and I wish yours to be all mine; and if it is you may be sure and certain that no one alive is happier on earth or in heaven than your friend—who does not put his name here, but you know quite well who he is, mademoiselle.""And do you know, Mlle. Christine?" I said, returning the letter."Very likely I do," she said, with a smile that showed her white teeth, while she gravely nodded, her young face radiant with happiness. "Thank you, ladies and gentleman!"She jumped off the step and soon disappeared among the bushes, chanting as she went the deep and joyful notes of some Bretonne ballad.Mme. Laroque had followed with evident rapture all the details of this pastoral scene, which harmonized deliciously with her favourite fancies. She smiled and dreamed at the vision of this happy, barefooted girl as if she were under a spell. However, when Mlle. Ogadec was out of sight, a strange notion came into Mme. Laroque's head. After all, she thought, it would not have been a bad thing to have given the girl a five-franc piece—in addition to her admiration."Call her back, Alain," she cried."But, mother, why?" said Mlle. Marguerite quickly, though so far she had apparently taken no notice of the incident."My dear child, perhaps this girl does not thoroughly understand how much I should enjoy, and how much she ought to enjoy, running about barefooted in the dust. It would be nice, at any rate, to leave her some little souvenir.""Money!" replied Mlle. Marguerite. "Oh, mother, don't! Don't soil her happiness with money."This delicate sentiment—which, by the way, poor Christine might not have appreciated—was astonishing enough in the mouth of Mlle. Marguerite, who did not, as a rule, pride herself on such subtlety. Indeed, I thought she was joking, though she showed no signs of amusement. However that may be, her mother took the caprice very seriously. It was decided enthusiastically to leave this idyll to innocence and bare feet.After this pretty episode Mme. Laroque relapsed into her smiling ecstasy, and Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself more seriously than ever. An hour later we reached our destination. Like most of the farms in this country, where the uplands and plateaux are the sterilelande, the farm of Langoat lies in the hollow of a valley, with a water-course running through it.The farmer's wife was better, and at once set to work preparing dinner, the chief elements of which we had been careful to bring with us. It was served on the natural lawn of a meadow, under the shade of an enormous chestnut. Mme. Laroque, though sitting in a most uncomfortable attitude, on one of the cushions from the carriage, seemed perfectly radiant. She said our party reminded her of the groups of reapers we see crowding under the shade of a hedge, whose rustic feasts she had always envied. As for me, I might perhaps at another time have found a singular sweetness in the close and easy intimacy, which an outdoor meal of this kind usually creates among the guests. But, with a painful feeling of constraint, I thrust away an enjoyment that might inflict regret, and the bread of this transient fraternity was bitter in my mouth."Have you ever been up there?" said Mme. Laroque to me as we finished dinner. She indicated the top of a lofty hill which commanded the meadow we were in."No, madame.""Oh, but you should go. You get such a lovely view. You must see it ... Marguerite will take you while they're putting the horses in. Won't you?""I, mother? I have only been there once, and it was a long time ago ... However, I daresay I can find the way. Come, M. Odiot, and be prepared for a stiff climb."Mlle. Marguerite and I started at once to climb a very steep path which wound along the side of the mountain, passing in some places through clumps of trees. The girl stopped from time to time in her swift and easy ascent to see if I were following her, and, panting a little, smiled at me without speaking. On reaching the bare heath which formed the plateau, I saw, a short way off, a village church, the lines of its little steeple sharply defined against the sky."That's where it is," said my young guide, quickening her pace.Beyond the church was a cemetery shut in by walls. She opened the gate, and made her way with difficulty through the tall grass and trailing brambles, which choked the place of rest, towards a kind of semicircularperronwhich stood at the farther end. Two or three rough steps, defaced by time and rather strangely ornamented with massive balls, led to a narrow platform raised to the level of the wall. A granite cross stood in the centre of the semicircle.Mlle. Marguerite had scarcely reached the platform and looked into the space that opened before her, when I saw her place her hand before her eyes as if she were suddenly dazzled. I hastened to join her. The beautiful day, nearing to its end, lighted with its last splendours a scene so vast, so strange, and so sublime, that I shall never forget it.
Meanwhile we glided gently with the current of the stream between two strips of wet meadow. Here and there, small black cattle with large pointed horns turned and looked fiercely at us. The valley through which the widening river crept, was shut in on both sides by a chain of hills, some covered with dry heather and furze, and some with green brushwood. Sometimes, at the end of a transversal cleft between two hills, we could see the crest of a mountain, blue and round in the distance. In spite of her indifference, Mlle. Marguerite was careful to draw my attention to all the beauties of this austere and peaceful country, and careful also, to qualify each remark with some ironic comment.
For a little while a dull, continuous sound had told us that we were approaching a waterfall. Suddenly the valley narrowed into a wild and lonely gorge. On the left stood a high wall of rock overgrown with moss; oaks and firs mixed with ivy and straggling brushwood rose one above the other in every crevice till they reached the top of the cliff, throwing a mysterious shade on to the deeper water at the foot of the rocks. A hundred paces in front of us, the water boiled and foamed, and then disappeared all at once, and the broken line of the stream stood out in a veil of white spray, against a distant background of vague foliage. On our right, the bank opposite to the cliff had only a narrow margin of sloping meadow, fringed with the sombre velvet of the wooded hills.
"Land, Alain," said the young Creole. Alain moored the boat to a willow.
"Now, sir," she said, stepping lightly on to grass, "aren't you overcome? Aren't you troubled, petrified, thunderstruck? You ought to be, for this is supposed to be a very pretty place. I like it because it is always fresh and cool. But follow me through the woods—if you are not too much afraid—and I will show you the famous stones."
Bright, alert, and gay as I had never seen her before, Mlle. Marguerite crossed the fields with a bounding step, and took a path which led along the hills to the forest. Alain and I followed in Indian file. After a few minutes' quick walking our guide stopped and seemed to hesitate, and looked about her for a moment. Then, deliberately separating two interlaced branches, she left the beaten track and plunged into the undergrowth. It was very difficult to make way through the thicket of strong young oaks whose slanting stems and twisted branches were knotted together as closely as Robinson Crusoe's palisade. At least Alain and I, bent double, advanced very slowly, catching our heads against something at every step, and at each of our clumsy movements bringing down a shower of dew upon us. But Mlle. Marguerite, with the greater dexterity and the catlike suppleness of her sex, slipped without any apparent effort through the meshes of the labyrinth, laughing at our sufferings, and carelessly letting the branches spring back after her into our faces. At last we reached a narrow glade on the top of the hill. There, not without emotion, I saw the dark and monstrous table of stone supported by five or six huge blocks half sunk in the earth, forming a cavern full of sacred horror. At first sight this perfect monument of a time almost fabulous, and of a primitive religion, has an aspect of eternal verity and of a real mysterious presence, that takes hold of the imagination, and fills the mind with awe.
The sunshine streaming through the leaves stole through the interstices in the roughly joined blocks, played about the sinister slab, and lent an idyllic charm to this barbarous altar. Even Mlle. Marguerite seemed pensive and brooding. For my part I entered the cavern, and, after examining thedolmenthoroughly, set to work to sketch it. For ten minutes I had been absorbed in this work, forgetting everything that was going on about me, when Mlle. Marguerite suddenly spoke:
"Do you want a Velleda to enliven your picture?"
I looked up. She had wound a wreath of oak-leaves round her forehead and stood at the head of thedolmen, leaning lightly against a sheaf of saplings. In the half-light, under the branches, her white dress looked like marble, and her eyes shone with strange fire in the shadow of the oaken crown. She was beautiful, and I think she knew it. I looked at her and found it hard to speak.
"If I am in the way, I'll move," she said.
"Oh, no! please don't."
"Well, make haste; put Mervyn in too. He'll be the Druid and I the Druidess."
I was so lucky—thanks to the vagueness of a sketch—as to reproduce this poetic vision pretty faithfully. Evidently interested, she came and looked at the drawing.
"It isn't bad," she said, laughing, as she threw her crown away. "You must admit that I am very good to you."
I did. I might even have added, if she had asked me, that she was not without a spice of coquetry. But without that she would not have been a woman. Perfection is detestable, and even goddesses need something besides their deathless beauty to win love.
We went back through the tangled underwood to the path in the wood, and thence returned to the river.
"Before we return," said the young girl, "I want to show you the waterfall, more especially as I am looking forward to a little diversion on my own account. Come, Mervyn, come along, dear dog. Oh, you are lovely!"
We soon reached the bank facing the rocks which blocked the bed of the river. The water fell from a height of many feet into a large and deeply sunk circular basin, which seemed to be shut in on all sides by an amphitheatre of vegetation, broken by dripping rocks. But there were unseen outlets for the overflow of the little lake, and the streams so formed reunited a little lower down.
"It is not exactly a Niagara," said Mlle. Marguerite, raising her voice against the noise of the falling waters, "but I have heard connoisseurs and artists say that it is rather pretty, nevertheless. Have you admired it? Good! Now I hope you'll bestow any enthusiasm you may have left on Mervyn. Here, Mervyn!"
The Newfoundland ran to his mistress, and, trembling with impatience, watched her while she tied some pebbles into her handkerchief. She threw it into the stream a little above the fall, and at the same moment Mervyn fell like a block into the lower basin and struck out swiftly from the edge. The handkerchief followed the current, reached the rocks, danced in an eddy for a minute, and then, shooting like an arrow past the smooth rock, swept in a mass of foam under the eyes of the dog, who seized it dexterously in his mouth, after which Mervyn returned proudly to the bank, where Mlle. Marguerite stood clapping her hands.
This feat was performed several times with great success. At the sixth repetition, either because the dog started too late or because the handkerchief was thrown too soon, Mervyn missed it. The handkerchief, swept on by the eddies from the fall, was carried among some thorny brushwood that overhung the water a little farther on. Mervyn went to fetch it, but we were very much surprised to see him suddenly struggle convulsively, drop his booty, and raise his head towards us, howling pitifully.
"My God! what has happened?" exclaimed Mlle. Marguerite.
"He seems to be caught among the bushes. He'll free himself directly, no doubt."
But soon one had to doubt, and even to despair, of this issue. The network of creepers in which the dog had been caught lay directly below one of the mouths of the sluice, which poured a mass of seething water continuously on Mervyn's head. The poor beast, half-suffocated, ceased to make the slightest effort to release himself, and his plaintive cries sounded more and more like a death-rattle. At this moment Mlle. Marguerite seized my arm, and whispered almost in my ear:
"He is lost. It's no use.... Let us go."
I looked at her. Grief, pain, and her violent effort to control herself had distorted her pale features and brought dark circles under her eyes.
"It is impossible," I said, "to get the boat down there; but if you will allow me, I can swim a little, and I'll go and give a hand to the poor fellow."
"No, no; don't attempt it. It's too far. And they say it's very deep and dangerous under the fall."
"You needn't fear, mademoiselle; I am very cautious."
At the same moment I took off my coat and went into the water, taking care to keep a good distance from the fall. It was very deep, and I did not find a footing till I reached the exhausted Mervyn. I do not know whether there had been an islet here which had dwindled and crumbled away, or whether a sudden rising of the river had swept away part of the bank, and deposited the fragments in this place; but, whatever the cause, there was an accumulated and flourishing mass of entangled brushwood and roots under this treacherous water. I got my feet on a trunk from which the bushes seemed to spring, and managed to release Mervyn. Feeling himself free, he recovered at once, and struck out for the bank, leaving me to my fate with all the goodwill imaginable. This was scarcely acting up to the chivalrous reputation of his breed, but Mervyn has lived a long while among men, and I suppose has become a bit of a philosopher. But when I tried to follow him, I found, to my disgust, that, in my turn, I was caught in the nets of the jealous and malignant naiad who reigns in the pool. One of my legs was entangled in the creepers, and I could not free it. It is difficult to exert all one's strength in deep water, and on a bed of sticky mud. And besides, I was half-blinded by the bubbling spray. In short, my situation was becoming awkward. I looked towards the bank; Mlle. Marguerite, holding to Alain's arm, hung over the gulf, and watched me with mortal anxiety. I told myself that it rested with me to be wept for by those bright eyes, and to end a miserable existence in an enviable fashion. Then I shook off such maudlin fancies vigorously, and freed myself by a violent effort. I tied the little handkerchief, now in rags, round my neck, and easily regained the shore.
As I landed, Mlle. Marguerite offered me her hand. It trembled a little, and I was pleased.
"What rashness! You might have been drowned, and for a dog!"
"It was yours," I whispered in the same low tone she had used to me.
This speech seemed to annoy her; she withdrew her hand quickly, and turning to Mervyn, who lay yawning and drying himself in the sun, began to punish him.
"Oh, the stupid! the big stupid!" she said. "What an idiot he is!"
But the water was streaming from my clothes on to the grass. I did not quite know what to do with myself, till Mlle. Marguerite came back, and said very kindly:
"Take the boat, M. Maxime, and get away as fast as you can. You'll keep warm rowing. I will come back with Alain through the wood; it is the shortest way."
I agreed to this arrangement, which was in every way the best. I said farewell, touched her hand for the second time, and got into the boat. To my surprise, when I was dressing at home I found the little handkerchief still round my neck. I had forgotten to restore it to Mlle. Marguerite, who must have given it up for lost, so I shamelessly determined to keep it as the reward of my watery adventure.
I went to the château in the evening. Mlle. Laroque received me with her habitual air of disdainful indolence, sombre preoccupation, and embitteredennui, which was in singular contrast with the gracious friendliness and playful vivacity of my companion of the morning.
During dinner, at which M. de Bévallan was present, she spoke of our excursion in a manner that stripped it of all sentiment, and as she went on, said some sharp things about lovers of nature, and finished with an account of Mervyn's misadventure, without mentioning my share in it. If, as I thought, this was meant as a hint of the line I was to take, the young lady had been at needless trouble. However that may be, M. de Bévallan, on hearing the story, nearly deafened us with his cries of despair. What! Mlle. Marguerite had endured such anxiety, the brave Mervyn had been in such danger, and he, Bévallan, had not been there. Cruel fate! He would never get over it. There was nothing for him to do but hang himself, like Crillon.
"Well," said Alain, "if it depended on me to cut him down, I should take my time about it."
The next day did not begin so pleasantly for me as its predecessor. In the morning I received a letter from Madrid, asking me to inform Mlle. de Porhoët that her lawsuit was finally lost. Her agent also informed me that her opponents would not profit by their victory, as the Crown, attracted by the millions at stake, claimed to succeed under the law by which the property escheats to the state.
After careful consideration, I decided that it would be kinder not to let my old friend know of the total destruction of her hopes. I intend, therefore, to secure the assistance of her agent in Spain; he will allege further delays, and on my side I shall continue my researches among the archives, and do my best to preserve the poor soul's cherished delusions to the end. However innocent and legitimate this deception might be, I could not feel at rest until it had been approved by some one whose judgment in such matters I could trust. I went to the château in the afternoon, and made confession to Mme. Laroque, who approved of my plan, and commended me rather more than the occasion warranted. And to my great surprise she finished the interview with these words:
"I must take this opportunity of telling you, M. Odiot, that I am deeply grateful for your devotion to my interests, that each day I appreciate your character more truly, and enjoy your company more thoroughly. I could wish—you must forgive my saying it, as you are scarcely likely to share my wish—I could wish that you could always remain with us ... and I humbly pray heaven to perform the miracles necessary to bring this about ... for I know that only miracles can do so."
I did not quite grasp the meaning of this language, nor could I explain the sudden emotion that shone in the eyes of the excellent lady. I acknowledged her kindness properly, and went away to indulge my melancholy in the fields.
By an accident—not purely fortuitous, I must admit—I found myself, after an hour's walking, in a deserted valley, and on the brink of the pool which had been the scene of my recent prowess. The amphitheatre of rocks and greenery which surrounds the small lake realizes the very ideal of solitude. There you are at the end of the world, in a virgin country, in China—where you will! I lay down among the heather, recalling my expedition of yesterday, one not likely to occur again in the course of the longest life. Already I felt that if such good fortune should come to me a second time, it would not have that charm of surprise, of peacefulness, and—in one word—of innocence. I had to own that this fresh romance of youth, which gave a perfume to my thoughts, could have but one chapter, one page, and that I had read it. Yes, this hour, this hour of love, to call it by its true name, had been royally sweet, because it had not been premeditated, because I had not known what it was till it had gone, because I had had the rapture, and had been spared remorse. Now my conscience was awake. I saw myself on the verge of an impossible, a ridiculous love, and worse, of a culpable passion. Poor and disinherited as I am, it is time to keep a strict watch over myself.
I was addressing these warnings to myself in this solitary place—any other would have served my purpose as well—when the sound of voices interrupted my reflections. I rose, and saw a company of four or five people who had just landed, advancing towards me. First came Mlle. Marguerite leaning on M. de Bévallan's arm; next Mlle. Hélouin and Mme. Aubry, followed by Alain and Mervyn. The sound of their approach had been drowned in the roar of the waterfall; they were only a few yards off; there was no time for retreat, so I had to resign myself to being discovered in the character of the romantic recluse. But my presence did not excite any particular attention, though I saw a shadow of annoyance on Mlle. Marguerite's face, and she returned my bow with marked stiffness.
M. de Bévallan, standing at the verge of the pool, wearied the echoes with the clamour of his conventional admiration. "Delicious! How picturesque! What a feast! The pen of George Sand.... The pencil of Salvator Rosa!"
All this was accompanied by violent gestures, by which he appeared to be snatching from these great artists, the instruments of their genius.
At last he became calmer, and asked to be shown the dangerous channel where Mervyn had nearly been drowned. Again Mlle. Marguerite related the adventure, and again she suppressed the part I had taken in the denouement. With a kind of cruelty, evidently levelled at me, she enlarged on the cleverness, courage, and presence of mind her dog had shown in his trying situation. Apparently she seemed to think that her transient good-humour, and the service I had been so fortunate as to render her, had filled my head with some presumptuous notions, which it was necessary to nip in the bud.
As Mlle. Hélouin and Mme. Aubry particularly wished to see Mervyn repeat his wonderful exploit, his mistress called the Newfoundland, and, as before, threw her handkerchief into the current. But at the signal the brave Mervyn, instead of jumping into the lake, rushed up and down the bank, barking furiously, lashing about with his tail, showing, in fact, the greatest interest in the proceedings, but at the same time an excellent memory. Evidently the head controls the heart in this sagacious beast. In vain Mlle. Marguerite, angry and confused, first tried caresses and then threats to overcome her favourite's obstinacy. Nothing could persuade the intelligent creature to trust himself again in those dangerous waters. After such high-flown announcements, Mervyn's stubborn prudence was really amusing. I had a better right to laugh than any one present, and I did so without compunction. Besides, the merriment soon became general, and in the end Mlle. Marguerite herself joined in, rather half-heartedly.
"And now," she said, "I've lost another handkerchief."
The handkerchief, carried along by the eddies, had naturally landed among the branches of the fatal bush, not far from the further bank.
"Rely upon me, mademoiselle," cried M. de Bévallan. "In ten minutes you shall have your handkerchief, or I shall exist no longer."
At this magnanimous declaration I thought that Mlle. Marguerite looked stealthily at me, as much as to say, "You see, there are others who are devoted to me!" Then she answered M. de Bévallan.
"For Heaven's sake, don't be so foolish! The water is very deep.... it is really dangerous."
"It is all the same to me," said M. de Bévallan. "Have you a knife, Alain?"
"A knife?" said Mlle. Marguerite, surprised.
"Yes, a knife. Please allow me ... I know what I mean to do."
"But what do you mean to do with a knife?"
"I mean to cut a switch," said M. de Bévallan.
The girl looked at him gravely.
"I thought," she murmured, "that you were going to swim for it."
"To swim!" said M. de Bévallan; "excuse me, mademoiselle.... Firstly, I am not in swimming costume; next, I must admit that I cannot swim."
"If you cannot swim," she said dryly, "the question of costume is not important."
"You are quite right," said M. de Bévallan, with amusing coolness; "but you are not particularly anxious that I should drown myself, are you? You want your handkerchief, that is the point. When I have got it, you will be satisfied. Isn't that so?"
"Well, go and cut your switch," she said, sitting down resignedly.
M. de Bévallan is not easily disconcerted. He disappeared into the nearest thicket, and soon we heard the branches crack. He came back armed with a long switch from a nut-tree, and proceeded to strip the leaves off.
"Do you think you'll reach the other side with that stick?" asked Mlle. Marguerite, who was beginning to be amused.
"Allow me to manage it my own way. That is all I ask," said the imperturbable gentleman.
We left him alone. He finished his switch, and then set out for the boat. We at last understood that he meant to cross the river in the boat, to land above the waterfall, and to harpoon the handkerchief, which he could easily do from the bank. At this discovery there was an indignant outcry from the ladies, who, as we all know, are extremely fond of dangerous adventures—in which they are not themselves concerned.
"A pretty contrivance, M. de Bévallan. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"Tu-tu, ladies! Remember Columbus and the egg. The idea is everything, you know."
Contrary to our expectation, this apparently harmless expedition was not to be carried through without some emotions, and some risks, for M. de Bévallan, instead of making for the bank immediately opposite the little bay, where the boat had been moored, unluckily decided to land nearer the cataract. He pushed the boat into the middle of the stream and let it drift for a moment, till he saw that as the river approached the fall, its pace increased with alarming rapidity. We appreciated the danger when we saw him put the boat across the current, and begin to row with feverish energy. For a few seconds he struggled with doubtful success. But, little by little, he got nearer to the bank, though the stream still swept him fiercely towards the cataract, which thundered ominously in his ears. He was only a few feet from it, when a supreme effort brought him near enough to the shore to put him out of danger. With a vigorous spring he leaped on to the slope of the bank, sending the boat out among the rocks, where it was at once overturned. It presently floated into the pool keel upward. While the danger lasted, our only feeling was one of keen anxiety, but when it was over, the contrast between the comicdénouementand its hero's usual coolness and self-confidence, could not fail to tickle our sense of humour. Besides, laughter is a natural relief when a danger is happily past. Directly we saw that M. de Bévallan was out of the boat, we all gave ourselves up to unrestrained merriment. I should say, that at this moment his bad luck was completed by a truly distressing detail. The bank on which he had jumped sloped sharply and was very wet. His feet had scarcely touched it when he fell backwards. Fortunately there were some strong branches within his reach. He hung on to them desperately, his legs beating the shallow water like two angry oars. As there was no danger, his situation became purely ridiculous, and I suppose that this thought made him struggle so frantically and awkwardly, that his efforts defeated their purpose. He succeeded, however, in raising himself and getting another footing on the slope. Then, all of a sudden, we saw him slide down again, tearing the bushes and brushwood as he went, and renewing his wild pantomime in the water in evident desperation. It was irresistible. Never, I believe, had Mlle. Marguerite been at such an entertainment. She had utterly lost all care for her dignity. Like some mirthful Bacchante, she filled all the grove with bursts of almost convulsive gaiety. Between her shouts of laughter she clapped her hands and called out in a half-suffocated voice:
"Bravo! bravo! M. de Bévallan! Very pretty! Delicious! Picturesque! Salvator Rosa!"
At last M. de Bévallan succeeded in dragging himself toterra firma. Then, turning to the ladies, he made them a speech which the noise of the waterfall prevented us from hearing distinctly; but, from his animated gestures, the illustrative movements of his arms, and his air of forced good-humour, we understood that he was giving us a reasoned explanation of his disaster.
"Yes, yes," replied Mlle. Marguerite, continuing to laugh with a woman's implacable barbarity. "it was a great success. I congratulate you!"
When she was a little more serious, she asked me how we should recover the capsized boat, which, by-the-bye, was the best we had. I promised to bring some men the next day, and superintend the rescue. Then we struck across the fields towards the château. M. de Bévallan, not being in swimming costume, could not rejoin us. With a melancholy air he disappeared behind the rocks above the farther bank.
August 20th.
At last this extraordinary girl has revealed the secret of her stormy soul to me. Would that she had preserved it forever!
During the day that followed the scenes I have just described, Mlle. Marguerite, as if ashamed of the impulses of youthful frankness to which she had yielded, wrapped herself more closely than ever in her veil of mournful pride, disdain, and mistrust. In the midst of the noisy pleasures, thefêtes, and dances that succeeded one another, she passed like a ghost, indifferent, icy, and sometimes angry.
Her irony vented itself with inconceivable bitterness, sometimes on the purest pleasures of the mind, those that come from contemplation and study, sometimes on the noblest and most sacred sentiments. If an instance of courage or virtue was mentioned in her presence, she examined it minutely in search of its selfish motive; or if by chance one burned the smallest grain of incense on the altar of art, she extinguished it with a disdainful wave of her hand. With her short, abrupt, and terrible laugh, like the mocking of a fallen angel, she seemed determined to blight (wherever she saw a trace of them) the most generous faculties of the human soul—enthusiasm and passion. I noticed that this strange spirit of disparagement took on a special character of persecution—positive hostility—when directed against me. I did not understand, and even now I do not quite understand, why I have attracted these particular attentions. True, I carry in my heart the worship of things ideal and eternal, which only death can tear from me (great God, what would be left me if I had not that!); but I am not given to public ecstasies, and my admiration, like my love, will never be obtrusive. In vain I maintained more scrupulously than ever the modesty which springs from real feeling. I gained nothing by it. The most romantic fancies were attributed to me just for the pleasure of combating them, and perpetually some kind of grotesque harp was thrust into my hands, solely for the amusement of breaking its strings.
Although this open warfare against anything higher than the material interests and sordid realities of life, was not a new trait in Mlle. Marguerite's character, it had been suddenly exaggerated and embittered to the point of wounding the hearts most devoted to this young girl. One day Mlle. de Porhoët, weary of this incessant mocking, said to her in my presence:
"My darling, for some time past you have been possessed by a devil which you would do well to cast out as soon as possible, or you will finish by making up a trio with Mme. Aubry and Mme. de Saint-Cast. For my part, I do not pride myself on being, or ever having been, particularly romantic, but I like to think that there are still some people in the world who are capable of generous sentiments; I believe in disinterestedness, if only in my own, and I even believe in heroism, because I have known heroes. More, I love to hear the little birds singing under my arbour, and I like to build my cathedral in the drifting clouds. All this may sound very ridiculous, my dear, but I venture to remind you that these illusions are the riches of the poor, that M. Odiot and I have no other kind of wealth, and that we are so singular as not to complain."
On another occasion, when I had just received Mlle. Marguerite's sarcasm with my usual impassibility, her mother drew me aside.
"M. Maxime," she said, "my daughter teases you a little, but I hope you will excuse her. You must have noticed that she has changed very much lately."
"Your daughter seems to be more preoccupied than usual."
"And not without good reason; she is about to come to a very serious decision, and at such a moment young girls are apt to be capricious."
I bowed and said nothing.
"You are now a friend of the family," continued Mme. Laroque, "and as such I ask you to give me your opinion of M. de Bévallan."
"I believe, madame, that M. de Bévallan has a very handsome fortune—not so large as yours, but undeniably handsome—about a hundred and fifty thousand francs a year!"
"Yes, but what do you think of him personally, and of his character?"
"M. de Bévallan is what the world calls a perfect gentleman. He has wit; he is considered an honourable man."
"But do you think he will make my daughter happy?"
"I do not think he will make her unhappy. He is not unkind."
"What do you think I ought to do? I am not entirely satisfied with him ... but he is the only one Marguerite at all cares for ... and there are so few men with a hundred thousand francs a year. You can understand that my daughter—in her position—has had plenty of offers. For the last two or three years we have been literally besieged.... Well, it is time we decided.... I am not strong.... I may go any day.... My daughter would be unprotected. Here is an unexceptionable suitor whom the world will certainly approve—it is my duty to welcome him. Already people say that I have filled my daughter's head with romantic notions—which is not the truth. She has her own ideas. Now, what do you advise me to do?"
"May I ask what is Mlle. de Porhoët's opinion? She is a lady of great judgment and experience, and besides, entirely devoted to you."
"Oh, if I listened to Mlle. de Porhoët I should send M. de Bévallan about his business. But it is all very well for Mlle. de Porhoët to talk. When he's gone, she won't marry my daughter for me."
"But, madame, from the monetary point of view, M. de Bévallan is certainly a fine match. I do not dispute it for a moment, and if you stand out for a hundred thousand francs a year."
"But, my dear sir, I care no more for a hundred thousand francs than for a hundred pence! However, I am not talking of myself, but of my daughter. Well, I can't let her marry a mason, can I? I should have rather liked to be the wife of a mason, but it does not follow that what would have made me happy would make her so. I ought, in marrying her, to be guided by received opinion, not merely by my own."
"Well, then, madame, if this marriage suits you, and suits your daughter equally well..."
"Ah, no! ... it does not suit me ... nor does it suit my daughter any better. It is a marriage ... to speak plainly, it isun mariage de convenance."
"Am I to understand that it is quite settled?"
"No, or I should scarcely ask your advice. If it were, my daughter would be more at ease. Her misgivings disturb her, and then..."
Mme. Laroque sank back into the shadow of the hood over her chair and added:
"Haveyouany idea of what is going on in that unfortunate head?"
"None, madame."
She fixed her sparkling eyes on me for a moment, sighed deeply, and said, gently and sadly:
"You may go ... I won't detain you any longer."
The confidence with which I had just been honoured, had not surprised me much. For some time it had been evident that Mlle. Marguerite reserved for M. de Bévallan whatever sympathy she had left for humanity. But she seemed to show rather a friendly preference than an impassioned tenderness. And I ought to say that the preference was quite intelligible. I have never liked M. de Bévallan, and in these pages I have, in spite of myself, given a caricature rather than a portrait of him, but I admit that he combines most of the qualities and defects that are popular with women. He is absolutely devoid of modesty, which is a great advantage, as women do not like it. He has the cool, mocking, and witty assurance which nothing can daunt, which easily daunts others, and which gives to its possessor a kind of domination and a factitious superiority. His tall figure, his bold features, his skill in athletic exercises, his reputation as a sportsman, give him a manly authority which impresses the timid sex. And he has an air of daring, enterprise, and conquest which attracts and troubles women, and fills their souls with secret ardour. Such advantages, it is true, are, as a rule, chiefly impressive to vulgar natures; but though, as usual, I had at first been tempted to put Mlle. Marguerite's nature on a level with her beauty, she had for some time past seemed to make a positive parade of very mediocre sentiments, and I believed she was capable of yielding without resistance as without enthusiasm, and with the passive coldness of a lifeless imagination, to the charms of a common-place lady-killer, and, later, to the yoke of a respectable marriage.
AH this made it necessary for me to accept the inevitable, and I did so more easily than I should have thought possible a month ago. For I had summoned all my courage to combat the first temptations of a love, equally condemned by good sense and by honour. And she who had unwittingly imposed this combat on me, had also unwittingly powerfully helped me in my resistance. If she could not hide her beauty from me, she also unveiled her soul, and mine had recoiled. Small loss, no doubt, for the young millionaire, but a good thing for me.
Meanwhile I had to go to Paris, partly on Mme. Laroque's business and partly on my own. I returned two days ago, and as I arrived at the château I was told that old M. Laroque had repeatedly asked for me since the morning. I hurried to his apartment. A smile flickered across his withered cheeks as he saw me. He looked at me with an expression of malignant joy and secret triumph; then he said, in his dull, hollow voice:
"M. de Saint-Cast is dead."
This news, which the strange old man had wanted to tell me himself, was correct. On the previous night poor General de Saint-Cast had had a stroke of apoplexy, and an hour later had been snatched from the life of wealth and luxury which he owed to his wife. Directly the news came to the château, Mme. Aubry had started off to her friend, and the two had, as Dr. Desmarets told us, passed the day chanting a sort of litany of original and piquant ideas on the subject of death—the swiftness with which it strikes its prey, the impossibility of preventing or guarding against it, the futility of regrets, which cannot bring back the departed, the consoling effects of time, etc., etc.
After which they sat down to dinner, and gradually recovered their spirits. "Madame," said Mme. Aubry, "you must eat, you must keep yourself alive. It is our duty and the will of God."
At dessert Mme. de Saint-Cast had a bottle of the poor general's favourite Spanish wine, and begged Mme. Aubry to taste it for his sake. But, as Mme. Aubry firmly refused to be the only one to partake of it, Mme. de Saint-Cast allowed herself to be persuaded that God also wished her to have a glass of Spanish wine and a crust of bread. The general's health was not drunk. Early yesterday morning, Mme. Laroque and her daughter, both in mourning, took their places in the carriage. I accompanied them. About ten o'clock we were at the little town. While I attended the general's funeral, the ladies joined the widow's circle of official sympathizers. After the service I returned to the house, and with some other friends I was introduced into the famous drawing-room, the furniture of which had cost fifteen thousand francs. In the funereal half-light I distinguished the inconsolable Mme. de Saint-Cast sitting on a twelve-hundred-franc sofa, enveloped in crape, the price of which we were told before long. At her side was Mme. Aubry, an image of physical and moral prostration. Half a dozen friends and relatives completed this doleful group. As we took up our positions in line at the farther end of thesalon, there was a sound of shuffling feet and some cracking of the parquet, then gloomy silence fell again on this mausoleum. Only from time to time a lamentable sigh, faithfully echoed by Mme. Aubry, rose from the sofa.
At last a young man appeared. He had lingered in the street to finish the cigar he had lighted as he left the cemetery. As he slipped discreetly into our ranks Mme. de Saint-Cast perceived him.
"Is that you, Arthur?" she said in a lugubrious voice.
"Yes, aunt," said the young man, advancing in front of the line.
"Well," continued the widow, in the same plaintive drawl, "is it over?"
"Yes, aunt," said Arthur, in curt, deliberate accents. He seemed to be a young man who was perfectly satisfied with himself.
There was a pause, after which Mme. de Saint-Cast drew from the depths of her expiring soul this new series of questions:
"Did it go off well?"
"Very well, aunt, very well."
"Were there many people?"
"The whole town, aunt, the whole town."
"The military?"
"Yes, aunt, the whole garrison, and the band."
Mme. de Saint-Cast groaned, and added:
"The fire brigade?"
"The fire brigade too, aunt—certainly."
I do not quite see why this last detail should have particularly affected Mme. de Saint-Cast, but she could not resist it. A sudden swoon, accompanied by infantile wailings, summoned all the resources of feminine sensibility to her aid, and gave us the opportunity of slipping away. I was glad of it. I could not bear to see this ridiculous vixen performing her hypocritical mummeries over the tomb of the weak, but good and loyal fellow, whose life she had embittered, and whose end she had probably hastened.
A few moments later, Mme. Laroque asked me to accompany her to the Langoat farm, five or six leagues farther on towards the coast. She intended to dine there with her daughter. The farmer's wife, who had been Mlle. Marguerite's nurse, was ill, and the ladies had for some time meant to give her this proof of their interest in her welfare. We started at two o clock in the afternoon. It was one of the hottest days of this hot summer. Through the open windows of the carriage, the heavy, burning gusts which rose in waves from the parchedlandeunder the torrid sky, swept across us.
The conversation suffered from our oppression. Mme. Laroque, who declared that she was in paradise, had at last thrown off her furs and remained sunk in a gentle ecstasy. Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself with Spanish gravity. While we slowly climbed the interminable hills, we saw the calcined rocks swarming with legions of silver-coated lizards, and heard the continuous crackling of the furze opening its ripe pods to the sun.
In the middle of one of our laborious ascents a voice suddenly called out from the side of the road:
"Stop, if you please."
At the same time a big girl with bare legs, holding a distaff in her hand, and wearing the ancient costume and ducal coif of the peasants of this country, leaped quickly across the ditch, knocking over as she came along some of the sheep she was tending. She perched herself with a kind of grace on the carriage-step, and stood before us with her brown, self-possessed, and smiling face framed in the window.
"Pardon, ladies," she said in the quick, melodious tones of her country, "will you be so kind as to read this to me?"
She took from her bodice a letter folded in the ancient fashion.
"Read it, M. Odiot," said Mme. Laroque, laughing, "and read it aloud, if necessary."
It was a love-letter, addressed very carefully to Mlle. Christine Ogadec, ——'s Farm, in the commune of ——, near ——. It was written by an awkward but sincere hand. The date showed that Mlle. Christine had received it two or three weeks ago. Not being able to read, and fearing to trust her secret to the ill-nature of her associates, the poor girl had kept the letter in the hope that some passing stranger, at once good-natured and educated, would interpret the mystery that had been burning in her bosom for more than a fortnight. Her blue, wide-opened eyes were fixed on me with an air of ineffable satisfaction as I laboriously read the sloping lines which conveyed this message:
"Mademoiselle, this is to tell you that my intentions have not changed since the day we spoke on thelandeafter vespers, and that I am anxious about yours. My heart is all yours, mademoiselle, and I wish yours to be all mine; and if it is you may be sure and certain that no one alive is happier on earth or in heaven than your friend—who does not put his name here, but you know quite well who he is, mademoiselle."
"And do you know, Mlle. Christine?" I said, returning the letter.
"Very likely I do," she said, with a smile that showed her white teeth, while she gravely nodded, her young face radiant with happiness. "Thank you, ladies and gentleman!"
She jumped off the step and soon disappeared among the bushes, chanting as she went the deep and joyful notes of some Bretonne ballad.
Mme. Laroque had followed with evident rapture all the details of this pastoral scene, which harmonized deliciously with her favourite fancies. She smiled and dreamed at the vision of this happy, barefooted girl as if she were under a spell. However, when Mlle. Ogadec was out of sight, a strange notion came into Mme. Laroque's head. After all, she thought, it would not have been a bad thing to have given the girl a five-franc piece—in addition to her admiration.
"Call her back, Alain," she cried.
"But, mother, why?" said Mlle. Marguerite quickly, though so far she had apparently taken no notice of the incident.
"My dear child, perhaps this girl does not thoroughly understand how much I should enjoy, and how much she ought to enjoy, running about barefooted in the dust. It would be nice, at any rate, to leave her some little souvenir."
"Money!" replied Mlle. Marguerite. "Oh, mother, don't! Don't soil her happiness with money."
This delicate sentiment—which, by the way, poor Christine might not have appreciated—was astonishing enough in the mouth of Mlle. Marguerite, who did not, as a rule, pride herself on such subtlety. Indeed, I thought she was joking, though she showed no signs of amusement. However that may be, her mother took the caprice very seriously. It was decided enthusiastically to leave this idyll to innocence and bare feet.
After this pretty episode Mme. Laroque relapsed into her smiling ecstasy, and Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself more seriously than ever. An hour later we reached our destination. Like most of the farms in this country, where the uplands and plateaux are the sterilelande, the farm of Langoat lies in the hollow of a valley, with a water-course running through it.
The farmer's wife was better, and at once set to work preparing dinner, the chief elements of which we had been careful to bring with us. It was served on the natural lawn of a meadow, under the shade of an enormous chestnut. Mme. Laroque, though sitting in a most uncomfortable attitude, on one of the cushions from the carriage, seemed perfectly radiant. She said our party reminded her of the groups of reapers we see crowding under the shade of a hedge, whose rustic feasts she had always envied. As for me, I might perhaps at another time have found a singular sweetness in the close and easy intimacy, which an outdoor meal of this kind usually creates among the guests. But, with a painful feeling of constraint, I thrust away an enjoyment that might inflict regret, and the bread of this transient fraternity was bitter in my mouth.
"Have you ever been up there?" said Mme. Laroque to me as we finished dinner. She indicated the top of a lofty hill which commanded the meadow we were in.
"No, madame."
"Oh, but you should go. You get such a lovely view. You must see it ... Marguerite will take you while they're putting the horses in. Won't you?"
"I, mother? I have only been there once, and it was a long time ago ... However, I daresay I can find the way. Come, M. Odiot, and be prepared for a stiff climb."
Mlle. Marguerite and I started at once to climb a very steep path which wound along the side of the mountain, passing in some places through clumps of trees. The girl stopped from time to time in her swift and easy ascent to see if I were following her, and, panting a little, smiled at me without speaking. On reaching the bare heath which formed the plateau, I saw, a short way off, a village church, the lines of its little steeple sharply defined against the sky.
"That's where it is," said my young guide, quickening her pace.
Beyond the church was a cemetery shut in by walls. She opened the gate, and made her way with difficulty through the tall grass and trailing brambles, which choked the place of rest, towards a kind of semicircularperronwhich stood at the farther end. Two or three rough steps, defaced by time and rather strangely ornamented with massive balls, led to a narrow platform raised to the level of the wall. A granite cross stood in the centre of the semicircle.
Mlle. Marguerite had scarcely reached the platform and looked into the space that opened before her, when I saw her place her hand before her eyes as if she were suddenly dazzled. I hastened to join her. The beautiful day, nearing to its end, lighted with its last splendours a scene so vast, so strange, and so sublime, that I shall never forget it.