After the vagabond’s visit, Isaure was sad and pensive; what the man had said to her concerning Alfred and Edouard caused the girl to reflect upon her situation. She thought that she had done wrong to talk to the two young men every morning; but could she prevent them from coming into the valley and resting in her cottage? They manifested such an affectionate friendliness for her! And they had long since ceased to talk of love to her. Once in a while, Alfred had tried to kiss her; but is it so rare a thing to see a peasant steal a kiss from a girl in the country? It is true that Edouard looked at her very affectionately, that he sighed when he shook her hand; but did all that prove that he was in love with a simple peasant girl?
The evening passed in such reflections. At the faintest sound outside, Isaure listened intently; she dreaded a visit from the stranger; that man aroused in her a sensation which she could not define; she felt that he lacked those things which ordinarily arouse one’s interest in an unfortunate person; she had a feeling now of fear in her lonely house; her glances as she looked about were wanting in the usual confidence; the darkness caused her an indefinable terror. Several times she went up to the topmost chamber in the cottage, and opening the window which looked toward the White House, gazed long and earnestly at the building, upon which the moon cast a pale light.
After passing several hours at the window, Isaure retired; then at daybreak she drove her goats to the mountain as usual, saying to herself:
"They will come to-day! Shall I say anything to them about what that stranger said to me? No, I must not; he told me that these gentlemen love me; as if young men from the city could love a girl from the mountains! Oh, no! it was only in jest that Monsieur Alfred pretended to be in love with me; and Monsieur Edouard? Ah! he has never told me that he loved me!"
But the hour at which the young men usually came to the valley had long since passed and they had not appeared. Isaure gazed very long and often at the road by which they always came, and she remained later than usual upon the mountain; at last she returned sadly to her cottage, and there continued to wait the coming of those who manifested so much friendship for her.
"They will not come," said the girl to herself, looking out of the door. "No, they will not come to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow either. I ought not to be disappointed, since it is wrong to talk with those gentlemen every day."
And yet a tear fell from the girl’s eyes; it seemed to her that she was once more utterly deserted.
"Perhaps they have left this part of the country!" she said to herself. "Left without bidding me good-by; he especially, who seemed always so sorry to leave me! who smiled so sweetly at me! Why, then, did he accustom me to see him every day?"
The girl was right: why accustom people to happiness in order to inflict pain upon them afterward? That is what one should say to oneself before trying to beguile a heart. But at that time we think of almost anything else.
The day passed and the young men did not come. Isaure did all that she could to divert her thoughts; she went in and out of the house, she talked to her hens and her cow and to Vaillant; but, despite all her efforts, her heart was heavy; the time seemed to pass more slowly than usual, and she did not sleep the whole of the night.
Once more day broke. The girl was already up, and was about to leave her cottage to go to the mountain, when she heard a faint sound in the distance. It speedily drew nearer. Isaure stopped; hope and joy glistened in her eyes. Yes, it was certainly the gallop of a horse that she heard, and it came nearer and nearer. Isaure looked down the road; a young man was approaching at a fast gallop; she recognized him; it was he, he whom she was especially surprised not to see the day before. Is it possible for a woman to be mistaken when love is in question?
Edouard had not slept during the night following the fête, and he had risen before dawn and saddled a horse for himself. Alfred was asleep, and Edouard felt no desire to wake him; but it was a breach of their agreement to go without him to see Isaure; however, love makes one forget as many agreements as it forgets itself!
In a few moments Edouard had dismounted, fastened his horse near the cottage, and run to Isaure, who did not dream of concealing all the pleasure which his presence caused her.
"Here you are!" she said; "ah! I had already made up my mind that you would not come any more!"
"Not come any more! not see you any more, Isaure! Do you think that it would be possible for me to exist away from you?"
As he spoke, Edouard took the girl’s hands and pressed them fondly in his; then they sat down together at the foot of a tree, and gazed at each other for some time in silence. But one can speak so eloquently with the eyes!
"You did not come yesterday?" said the girl at last.
"No, it was impossible; there was company, a party, at the château at which we are staying! But how long the day seemed to me, amid all that noise, with those people for whom I care nothing, those pleasures in which I could take no part, because I was thinking of you, of you alone, with whom I am so happy!"
"The time seemed very long to me, too; I was bored. I looked very often at the road by which you come. You have accustomed me to seeing you; you have done wrong, for after all, you will not always remain in this region, and then I shall not see you any more, and it seems to me that I shall not be so happy as I used to be."
"Dear Isaure! But would it be to me or to Alfred that you would give the keenest regrets? To-day I have come without him, I am defying his anger, for I am determined to know at last what I may hope. Yes, yes, I love you, Isaure; I feel for you the most passionate, the most sincere love; I have tried for some time to fight against it; but I feel that it is impossible for me, I feel that this love is now a part of my existence. And why should I fear to give myself up to it? I am free, I am my own master; and if you love me, who can object to our union? But it is necessary that you should love me, that you should prefer me to Alfred. Oh! speak, confess to me frankly what is taking place in your heart. Isaure, you would not, you could not, deceive me."
Isaure timidly cast down her eyes, and withdrew her hand from Edouard’s, faltering:
"So it is true! You do love me? He did not deceive me?"
"Who, pray?"
"That poor man—you know, that stranger who is wandering about our mountains."
"Have you seen him?"
"Yes, the day before yesterday, after you had gone, he came into my house. I asked him to rest, and he remained quite a long time. He kept his eyes fixed on me all the time, and with such a strange expression! Ah! it was not like you! For, instead of giving me pleasure, it frightened me."
"Did that villain insult you?"
"No! oh, no! he simply said to me—what you yourself have just said—that it was love which brought you to me; and then he asked me which of you I preferred."
"Who has authorized him to question you concerning your most secret feelings? Ah! when I meet him again, I will chastise his insolence!"
"Oh! do not be angry with him, I beg you; the man is unfortunate; he says that all the world has deserted him! You must not make him any unhappier. No doubt he questioned me for his own amusement, but he did not insist when he saw that I did not like it. You will not say anything to him, will you?"
"How kind-hearted you are! But you are right, we must forget that man. Ah, dear Isaure, you will answer me; you will let me read your heart?"
"What do you want me to say to you?"
"Which do you prefer, Alfred or me?"
"Oh, dear! I love to see you both."
"Both equally?"
The girl blushed; she did not know how to express what she felt. Edouard approached her, gently put his arm about her waist and said to her tenderly:
"If Alfred should not come to see you again, would you be very much disappointed?"
"Why, I should think of him sometimes,—we would talk together about him; that is all."
"And suppose it were I who did not come again—would you console yourself in the same way by talking with him?"
"Oh! never, never!" cried the girl, in a tone that came from her heart.
"Dear Isaure! then it is I whom you love with love!"
Isaure softly raised her beautiful blue eyes to Edouard’s face; her expression, in which her whole soul was depicted, left no possible doubt in his mind who was master of her heart. In his intoxication, Edouard embraced her and imprinted a kiss on her lips. Instantly they heard a mocking laugh behind them.
The lovers turned their heads, but they saw no one.
"Didn’t you hear something?" asked Isaure anxiously.
"Yes, I thought—but I see no one about. Ah! what do we care for the world? What is the whole universe to me? You love me, dear Isaure! That assurance is perfect bliss to me! You love me, you are an orphan, you are dependent upon nobody; I too am my own master, and I shall be your husband! Yes, I shall be deemed worthy of so many charms, of such perfect innocence! Ah! I have known society sufficiently to be sure I could never find there anyone to be compared with you, and besides, your education and your manners are not those of a peasant; if I should desire to present you in society, you would be its brightest ornament. But no, we will live apart, for each other; to make us happy we shall have no need of those noisy dissipations of which you know nothing. My fortune is more than sufficient to satisfy all our wishes. I will buy a house in some lovely country district; I shall take delight in teaching you music and drawing myself, in reading with you those famous authors who enlighten our minds and rejoice our hearts; and if my inclination for letters, for the stage, calls me sometimes to Paris, I shall return to your arms to seek repose from the fatigues of the city. Ah! This prospect promises me the most blissful of lives; tell me that it will make you happy, too!"
For some moments past, while listening to Edouard, Isaure had become pensive, and her eyes no longer bore the expression of pleasure which had animated them; it seemed that her mind had been invaded by melancholy memories and new reflections; Edouard noticed this change, for the girl’s slightest feelings were expressed at once upon her features.
"What is the matter?" he asked anxiously. "Are you angry that I have read your heart, that I know that you love me?"
"Oh, no, it isn’t that," replied the girl, with a sigh. "Why should I hide from you what I feel? One should always say what one thinks, should not one?"
"Yes, always."
"But perhaps I have done wrong to love you! I ought first to have found out—However, I did not try to resist—what I felt when I saw you was such perfect bliss!"
"Well, Isaure, why these regrets now that I swear to love you all my life, and propose to make you my wife?"
"Your wife!" replied the girl sadly, glancing at the White House. "Ah, yes! I should be very happy then; but perhaps it is not possible!"
"Why not? Aren’t you an orphan, alone on earth, since you lost the good people who adopted you?"
Isaure did not reply for some time, but at last she said, lowering her eyes:
"Yes, I am an orphan, I have no parents."
"Well! Who could interpose any obstacle to our happiness? Who could prevent you from being mine, from never parting from me any more?"
Isaure seemed deeply agitated; after glancing about her with an expression of dread, she put out her hand, pointed to the White House, and said to Edouard in a very low tone:
"I can never go away from that house."
Edouard was thunderstruck; he gazed in amazement at the White House, to which she pointed, then turned his eyes anxiously upon the girl again; he seemed to await some further explanation. But Isaure said no more.
"What!" said Edouard at last, "you can never go away from that deserted house? Pray, what powerful reason compels you to remain near that house?"
"I cannot tell," replied Isaure, under her breath.
"What is this mystery, this obstacle which you conceal from me? You have secrets from me, when I propose to devote my life to you, to unite myself to you by indissoluble bonds! Oh! speak, I implore you, conceal nothing from me!"
"I cannot speak. Pray, forgive me for causing you pain! If it rested only with me——"
"Dear Isaure! is it some promise, some oath that you gave your adopted mother? Perhaps she ordered you never to leave these mountains. But reflect that, if your parents were alive, they could not disapprove of my love! This house at which you point so mysteriously has long been uninhabited; it does not belong to you, because if I am to believe what I have been told, your adopted father sold it shortly after taking you into his family; and you cannot go away from it, you say! Come, confess that there is underneath all this some absurd, inconsiderate promise. Tell me the whole story, and I will soon satisfy you that you are entirely at liberty to dispose of your future."
"At liberty to dispose of my future!" replied the girl earnestly; "oh, no! I am not!"
"Why, in whose power are you then?" cried Edouard; "who can have any authority over you?"
Isaure looked down and made no reply. Edouard’s brow darkened; a thousand suspicions sprang up in his mind; the love which gleamed in his eyes gave place to distrust and anger. He rose, walked away from the girl, who remained seated at the foot of the tree, then said at last in a tone which he tried to make indifferent.
"Well, mademoiselle, since you do not deem me worthy of your confidence, I will not presume to ask you any more questions. I thought that I had your love, I hoped to make you happy; I was mistaken; I will try to forget all my plans!"
The girl said nothing. Edouard walked still farther away; but surprised by her silence, he turned to look at her once more. Isaure’s pretty face was bathed in the tears which flowed freely from her eyes. At that sight, Edouard was soon by her side; he threw himself at her feet, and covered her hands with kisses, crying:
"You are weeping! and it is I who am the cause of it! Oh! forgive me, dear Isaure; pardon my unjust suspicions!"
"You think that I do not love you!" said the girl, sobbing.
"I have grieved you! Ah! am I not too fortunate to have won your love? How I repent having caused your tears to flow! Hereafter I will not seek to know your secrets, I will not ask you any more questions. You love me! What more can I ask?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Isaure, while a smile appeared beneath her tears, "I shall always love you, for I do not think that it is possible to change. Forgive me for not telling you everything that concerns me. Ah! I would like to! but the secret does not belong to me. Some day perhaps I shall have no more secrets from you; and before long, no doubt, I shall know whether I can be your wife, whether I may be permitted to go with you whereever you go. As for my heart, it is yours; you know very well that I cannot take it away from you again."
The sweet child pressed Edouard’s hand lovingly, and had no hesitation in showing him all the pleasure it gave her to love him; but it did not occur to Edouard to abuse her confidence, for he too loved sincerely. The time passes quickly with two lovers who still have mutual pleasures to bestow; Edouard noticed at last that it was more than time that he should return to the château. He tore himself away with difficulty from her whom he loved, saying to her tenderly:
"Until to-morrow."
"Until to-morrow," said Isaure. "Remember that you have accustomed me to see you, that the time seems very long to me when I am not with you; and now that I have admitted that I love you, I would like to tell you so every day!"
Edouard took the girl’s hand, held it to his heart and said:
"May it be that before long I shall never be obliged to leave you!"
He remounted his horse, waved his hand to Isaure, who stood in her doorway, then rode back toward the château. But, in spite of himself, he could not help turning his head to look at the White House; and although he had promised the girl not to worry about what she concealed from him, and not to conceive unjust suspicions, he felt a weight at his heart as he gazed at that deserted house, and he said to himself with a sigh:
"What can be the reason that prevents her from going away from this place?"
On rising, on the day following the fête, Alfred went to Edouard’s apartment; not finding him there, or in the château, or in the gardens, Alfred felt assured, that disregarding their agreement, Edouard had gone without him to see Isaure. He was furious, he cursed his sleep, he was on the point of mounting and riding into the mountains after him. But he reflected that the morning was already far advanced and that Edouard, who had started some time before, was doubtless on his way back. He decided to wait in order that he might have an explanation with him the sooner.
While Alfred impatiently paced the gallery which looked over the country, Robineau, who had just risen, was devoting special care to his toilet. At last he came forth with a self-satisfied air, and said to the young baron, smiling blandly:
"Good-morning, my dear Alfred!"
"Good-morning!" replied the other shortly, continuing to stride back and forth.
"Parbleu! I am very glad to find you this morning, which rarely happens; for ordinarily you and the poet are up before Phœbus. Ha! ha! Being with that devil of a Férulus, I am getting into the habit of speaking in metaphors altogether.—But let us come to what I want to say to you. You are not listening to me, Alfred!"
"Yes, yes, I am listening to you; speak on."
"Well, my friend, I will tell you then that during the day yesterday, I—By the way, what did you think of yesterday’s affair? You haven’t said anything to me about my fête. It was rather neat, eh?"
"Yes, with the exception of Monsieur Férulus’s poetry, the gladiators’ cheese, and Mademoiselle Cheval’s posteriors, it was very good."
"Oh! what can you expect? Such unforeseen little accidents always happen. Indeed, Monsieur Berlingue assured me that those things made the party more piquant.—However, my dear Alfred, during the day I definitely settled upon my choice."
"Your choice for what?"
"What! for what? Why, for my wife, nothing else. I absolutely must marry! When a man occupies a certain position, when he has a château—and then, my heart has spoken; oh, yes! it has spoken in a most extraordinary fashion! I have never been in love like this; it is true that no such fascinating object was ever before within my reach. I will bet that you have guessed, Alfred! You must have noticed our understanding. For my part, I confess that I could not restrain myself.—I say, Alfred, what are you looking at out of the window?"
"I am listening to you, I hear what you say; go ahead."
"Well, my dear friend, it is Mademoiselle Cornélie de la Pincerie who has won my heart; it is she who will be my wife, if, as I hope, monsieur le marquis, her father, does not interpose any obstacle to our union."
Alfred left the window, and walked toward Robineau, saying to him:
"It is Mademoiselle Cornélie, that tall young woman with whom you opened the ball, whom you propose to marry?"
"Just so, my friend. She is charming, isn’t she?"
"Yes, she isn’t bad-looking!"
"And how she dances, eh?"
"Yes, but one doesn’t marry to dance all the time. Listen, Robineau——"
"I have told you that I would not answer to that name."
"Well, Jules la Roche-Noire, or whatever you choose,—listen to me, I beg you. You are a good fellow, although wealth has rather turned your head, and although you are trying to play the grand seigneur. We were at school together, and honestly I should be sorry to see you wretchedly unhappy some day."
"What a devil of a preamble!"
"You are spending more than your income, you are running through your inheritance too fast; however, since you are enjoying yourself, I will overlook that; but my friend, take my advice, do not marry Mademoiselle Cornélie; for I am very sure that, if you do, you will not enjoy yourself long."
Robineau pressed his lips together with an air of vexation, and replied:
"My dear Alfred, so many phrases were not necessary to come to that—that I should not marry Mademoiselle de la Pincerie. I admit that I thought that you were going, on the contrary, to compliment me upon my taste. And why should I not marry her?"
"Because that woman is not at all suited to you."
"The fact that I adore her proves, on the contrary, that she is suited to me."
"Pshaw! you imagine that! You adored Fifine, too, and you left her without regret!"
"Fifine! Why in the deuce do you mention her! My friend, I entreat you, do not utter that name again. If the La Pincerie family should find out—I know of course that a young man is at liberty to amuse himself, but no matter! The family is so rigid in the matter of morals that it might prejudice me."
"You love Mademoiselle Cornélie, I doubt not; but she does not love you; she will marry you in order to have a husband, that’s all."
"She does not love me!" cried Robineau. "Ah! upon my word, my dear Alfred, I thought that you had more tact and discernment than that. Mademoiselle de la Pincerie does not love me! No, she adores me, that’s all; and thank heaven! yesterday I had proofs of that, the most amiableabandon, hand-clasps, sighs, nervous thrills! The fact is, she is mad over me."
Alfred turned away with a shrug, then rejoined:
"All right, she adores you, I don’t deny it; I may have been mistaken. But that woman is as old as you are; she is fully twenty-eight."
"No, no! she is not twenty-eight, she was twenty-seven and a half last month."
"And her fortune; that is important. How much of a dowry has she?"
"Dowry—why she has a thousand things. First, magnificent hopes; then, what her father may obtain from the government for his plans for rural economy, which he is to send immediately to the minister; also, all that her Uncle Mignon will leave her, and he is certain to be appointed sub-prefect this year or next year—he cannot miss it; and lastly, a superb and very lucrative office which the marquis has the promise of for his son-in-law!"
"And for fifty years he has been trying unsuccessfully to obtain a place for his brother."
"That doesn’t prove anything. Besides, my friend, I don’t haggle over a dowry like a tradesman on Rue Saint Denis. Bargain for a wife! Fie, fie! And a wife like Mademoiselle de la Pincerie! It seems to me that the honor of entering such a family should count for something."
Alfred took Robineau’s hand and said to him with the utmost coolness:
"My friend, I tell you again, if you make this marriage, you will make a fool of yourself."
Robineau glared at his friend with eyes like an angry turkey-cock’s, and dropped his hand, saying:
"My friend, as to making a fool of myself, I don’t need your advice. I don’t make love to goatherds, but I will marry whomever I please."
"Marry the devil, if you choose!" said Alfred, abruptly leaving the gallery.
"I will not marry the devil, but I will marry Mademoiselle Cornélie," said Robineau, striding with a determined air toward the garden.—"Ah! so she doesn’t love me! I shall make a fool of myself!" he said to himself as he hurried toward the stable. "I see how it is.—Parbleu! it is easy to guess: Monsieur Alfred would like to steal Mademoiselle de la Pincerie away from me, and that is why he tries to dissuade me from this marriage. But the trick is too clumsy; to deprive him of all hope, I will hasten to the marquis’s house, and I will not leave him until he has promised me his daughter’s hand."
Robineau called the coachman and the groom, and ordered the horse to be harnessed to the char-à-bancs. Monsieur Férulus came at that moment to inquire for Monsieur de la Roche-Noire’s health, and to inform him that breakfast was served. Robineau reflected that he had time for breakfast before going to ask for Mademoiselle Cornélie’s hand. So he accompanied his librarian to the dining-room, and while breakfasting, said to him:
"Monsieur Férulus, I am going to be married very soon."
Monsieur Férulus made a wry face, because the life he was leading at the château was very agreeable to him, and he instantly foresaw that the arrival of a mistress would lessen the importance of his duties, that he would no longer be allowed to order the dinner and to decide how long they should remain at table. However, as Robineau had said it with a very determined air and as it was easy to see in his eyes that he expected congratulations, Monsieur Férulus tried to turn his grimace into a smile, and replied in a honeyed tone:
"Monseigneur, marriage is an institution which dates back to the earliest period of antiquity. People have always married, even before the days of notaries and municipal officers; to marry is to follow the decrees of Providence, and it was because they refused to marry that the people of Sodom were burned. Marry, therefore, monseigneur; great men have always had much inclination for marriage; Hercules, in a single night, married forty-nine daughters of Thespius, King of Bœotia; and if we are to believe Dion Cassius, Cæsar put forth a decree which declared him the husband of all the women in Rome, when he chose to avail himself of it. Ah! what fellows Cæsar and Hercules were! But now a man can marry but one wife at once; and indeed, I think that’s enough.—May I know, monsieur, who the party is upon whom your eyes have fallen?"
"It is the younger daughter of Monsieur le Marquis de la Pincerie,—a tall, well-made young lady, named Cornélie, who sat beside me at table."
"Ah, yes! I know, monseigneur, I know. An antique face, a Greek profile, the figure of an Antigone, academic attitudes, and a way of expressing herself at once refined and grammatical! I congratulate you, monseigneur; she was the loveliest person at the fête!"
"Dear Monsieur Férulus!" said Robineau, pressing his librarian’s hand affectionately. "Good! he knows what he is talking about, and he approves my choice because passion does not blind him, and he says what he thinks."
"Approve your choice, monseigneur! I will do more, I will sing of it in iambics, hexameters and pentameters."
"Very well, my dear Férulus; I am going at once to Monsieur le Marquis de la Pincerie; you can understand that I do not propose to neglect such a matter. Some other man might take Mademoiselle Cornélie away from me, and I should never console myself. The horse is in the carriage, and I am going to Saint-Amand; I hope to induce the family to come to the château for several days before the wedding."
"Go, monseigneur," said Monsieur Férulus, escorting Robineau to the char-à-bancs; and, as he watched him drive away, he added: "Go in search of a wife, since you are in such a hurry to be married. It seems to me, however, that the château was kept up on a very good footing, and that we had under our hands all that we needed. But no matter, I must seem to be enchanted over this union, and I must write poetry for the whole La Pincerie family."
Alfred had, on leaving Robineau, gone out upon the lawn, where he paced back and forth excitedly, waiting for Edouard. At last he appeared, and Alfred walked away from the château to meet him. Edouard had dropped the reins upon his horse’s neck. Engrossed by thoughts of Isaure, of his love, and of that White House, which already offered an obstacle to his plans of happiness, he did not look about him, and did not think that he was so near the château. Suddenly a voice called to him:
"Stop; dismount; I want to speak to you."
Edouard started at the sound of that voice, which was familiar to him, but which seemed at that moment changed by anger. He raised his eyes, and saw Alfred standing before him pale and motionless, although his agitation was manifest in his features. Edouard dismounted and left his horse free, and the animal returned of its own accord to the château. The young men were at the entrance to a road lined with trees; Alfred left it, and motioned to Edouard to follow him; he halted in a more isolated spot. Edouard said nothing, but waited for his companion to begin an interview, the probable subject of which he divined.
"You have seen Isaure?" said Alfred at last.
"Yes, I have just left her."
"And is this the way you keep your promise? Have you forgotten our agreement? I, too, have longed a hundred times to go into the mountains without you,—to be alone with that girl. But I have restrained that longing, for I was afraid of breaking my promise. And you——"
"Alfred, I was wrong, I admit it. But my love for Isaure is so violent that I absolutely could not resist."
"Say rather that, being less honorable than I, you laughed at my good faith!"
"Alfred, listen to me, I beg; and do not think that it is a simple caprice which I feel for Isaure."
"But how do you know that I do not love her as much as you do? To win her love, you employ sighs and melancholy; I go about it more frankly; I declare myself, I do not conceal my love."
"But after all, Alfred, that girl cannot love us both; and suppose—suppose it were not you whom she preferred?"
"I understand you," retorted Alfred angrily; "I see that this morning, being alone with her, you made the best of your time; that you neglected nothing to carry the day over me. And do you think that, upon the strength of this statement, I propose to withdraw and to abandon your conquest to you? But you will permit me to entertain some slight doubt of your triumph and to try to be as fortunate as you. I, too, will see Isaure alone; perhaps then that haughty beauty will deign to be less stern to me."
"I do not know what your plans are, monsieur; but since you force me to tell you, why, yes, Isaure does love me, I am the one whom she prefers. She told me so only a moment ago."
"Really! You remind me at this moment of Robineau, when he came just now to tell me that he was adored by Mademoiselle de la Pincerie. All you fellows persuade yourselves that you are adored! You will allow me, although I have less self-conceit, to think that I too may possibly make an impression.—But I will see this little Isaure, who is more of a flirt than I had supposed; and I warn you that I too will do my utmost to make her adore me."
"Whatever you may say, I do not confound Isaure with all the coquettes we have known, and I have not the least fear that she will forget the vows she has exchanged with me."
"Aha! So you have already exchanged vows! Didn’t I say that you had made the most of your time?—This, then, is the rare virtue that yields at a first tête-à-tête!"
"That yields!—What, Alfred, you could believe—Oh! trifle with me no longer—Alfred, I swear to you——"
"I do not place any faith in the oaths of a man who has just shown such a lack of honor."
"Alfred!"
"Yes, yes, I say it again; and if it offends you, say the word; I am at your service."
Edouard and Alfred were silent for several moments. But the former reflected that he was more fortunate than Alfred, since Isaure loved him; he thought of the disappointment, of the regrets, which he must feel who had been unable to touch the young mountaineer’s heart; thereupon his wrath faded away, he pitied his rival, he said to himself that it was the duty of the more fortunate lover to pardon the other; and approaching Alfred, he took his hand, pressed it affectionately, and said:
"Could you really fight with me?"
Alfred was moved, but he strove to control himself as he replied:
"When one has insulted a person, should one not be ready to give him satisfaction?"
"But can I take offense at a word inspired by anger, and which your heart disavows? Should one never forgive his friend for anything? What would be the use of friendship if it does not make us more indulgent to those whom we love?"
"Friendship! I no longer believe in yours!"
"Alfred, I have but one thing more to say to you; I propose that Isaure shall be my wife."
"Your wife?" cried Alfred in amazement, "your wife,—that young peasant!"
"Yes, I am fully determined upon it. Will you forgive me now for the preference which she accords to me?"
"If you really propose to make her your wife," said Alfred, after a moment’s silence, "you deserve to win her; for, I admit, I never had that intention. But it is very hard for me to believe it. However, I shall find a way to ascertain the truth."
Alfred walked back to the château and Edouard did the same; but they said nothing more to each other.
The next day, at daybreak, a certain excitement was apparent among the servants of the château; they were assembled in the courtyard, talking earnestly among themselves. Among those who declaimed the most loudly was the concierge, who seemed to be haranguing the others.
"I tell you that it can’t be anything," cried Cunette, gesticulating in a most dramatic way. "For more than fifteen years I’ve been concierge in this château, and nothing strange ever happened here."
"I don’t know whether it is strange or not," said the groom, "but I tell you that I saw a light. You know we came back late with monsieur; and then I had to groom the horse, put away the carriage, and then eat my supper; so that it was very late when I went to bed. As the weather was fine and I didn’t feel much like sleeping, I went to the window and happened to look at the tower opposite, which you call the North Tower."
"Where no one lives," said Cunette, "because monseigneur thought that it was in too bad condition, and that it wasn’t worth while to have it done over new, as there’s plenty of room in the château."
"Well, whether anyone lives there or not, I tell you that last night about eleven o’clock—or rather, it was pretty near midnight—I saw a light in one of the little windows up at the top."
"Mon Dieu!" said Jeannette; "midnight! That’s the time for ghosts, ain’t it, Mamzelle Cheval?"
"Nonsense!" said the cook; "do you suppose I believe in ghosts? All those stories are made up to frighten folks. It’s more likely to be thieves who want to steal my chickens,—that is, if it was anything at all."
"What!" said François, approaching the other servants, "are there ghosts in this château, too?"
"Oh, no! Monsieur François; there’s no question of ghosts," replied the groom, "it’s just a light that I saw last night in the tower where no one sleeps."
"It was a reflection of the moon, that he took for a light," said Cunette; "I am the concierge, and I’ll answer for it that no suspicious person came into the château."
"Pardi!" said Jeannette, "if it was a ghost, do they come in through the doors?"
"Observe," continued the concierge, "that Benoît says that the light was up high at that window; that’s in the arsenal; what would any thieves go to the arsenal for, where there’s nothing but old rusty swords?"
"But suppose it wasn’t a thief?"
Vincent, who had not yet spoken, drew near at that moment with a mysterious air, and said:
"My children, all this reminds me of something I’d forgotten, which might have some connection with what Benoît saw."
All the servants crowded around Vincent and looked at him with interest.
"About five or six days ago," continued the gardener, "I don’t know just when it was, but it was night, and I was going to bed; I remembered that I needed my big pickaxe the next morning to work in this part of the garden. You know that I keep most of my tools in a little shed at the end of the broad path on the left."
"Yes, yes."
"Well then, I says to myself: ‘I guess I’ll go and get my pickaxe.’ So I went out, and went into the garden; I was about in the middle of the broad path when I heard steps in front of me."
"Mon Dieu! how that frightens me!" said Jeannette, pressing against one of the scullions.
"I thought it was one of the gentlemen from the château," continued Vincent, "and I stopped politely to let him pass, and took off my hat; but no, he stopped too, and instead of coming toward me, he turned back. That appeared to me suspicious, so I called out: ‘Who’s that?’ but he didn’t answer; he walked faster than ever and I tried to follow him, but I ran into a tree, and then good-night! I didn’t hear anything more."
"Ah! what a strange thing!"
"Pshaw! perhaps it was our master as was taking a ramble."
"Oh, no indeed! he never goes alone into the garden at night."
"You ought to have asked the gentlemen the next morning."
"Faith, I slept on it, and I forgot all about it."
"We must ask Monsieur Férulus what it was," said the other servants. "He’s a man who knows everything, a scholar; he’ll tell us whether we ought to be afraid."
As it happened, Monsieur Férulus was just crossing the courtyard, holding in his hand some verses which he had already written for Robineau’s future bride, and which he intended to present to Robineau at breakfast. He approached to ascertain the cause of the gathering which he noticed in the courtyard. Thereupon he was told of what Benoît and Vincent had just related. Monsieur Férulus listened with much attention, shaking his head now and then; every time that the librarian moved his eyebrows, Jeannette and the groom exclaimed:
"See, that frightens him, too!"
After reflecting long, Monsieur Férulus asked Benoît:
"Are you perfectly sure that it was a light that you saw in the tower?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur! In the first place, it moved around; if it had been the moon, I should have saw——"
"I should have seen——"
"I should—what?"
"I should have seen; you must pay attention to the pluperfect subjunctive."
"Oh! monsieur, I didn’t say that I saw a pluperfect! I said I saw a light."
"How unfortunate it is to have to deal with ignoramuses!" said Monsieur Férulus to himself.—"And you, Vincent, are you perfectly certain that there was a man in the garden?"
"Certain; that is to say, a man or a woman, I can’t be sure about the sex. But it was someone, for it walked and ran in front of me."
"Perhaps it was a rabbit?"
"Nonsense! A rabbit with nails in its shoes!"
"All this seems to me decidedly peculiar," said Férulus.
"There you see that it is peculiar," cried Jeannette, "and that we ought to be afraid."
"I don’t say that. Things which seem to us marvelous at a distance are often perfectly natural when examined at close quarters. Indeed, there are some which lose a good deal by being looked at too closely. But before pronouncing definitely upon this, I would like to assure myself with my own eyes of the truth, forpluris est oculatus unus quam auriti decem!"
"You see!" said Cunette, "that means that it’s all nonsense, and that you dreamed it all."
"No, it doesn’t mean that, at all!" continued Férulus. "My dear Cunette, you do not translate literally. I think,primo, that there is something or nothing. That is my principle, and I start from that, because one should start from a principle."
"Well! I say that there ain’t anything," said Mademoiselle Cheval, "and that they was frightened by their ownshades!"
"Why!" said Jeannette, "monsieur is a scholar, you must know—for he has shown me a whole heap of things already, me——"
"That’s all right, Jeannette! that is between ourselves," said Férulus, nudging the stout girl’s arm; "but don’t branch off from the question."
"Well, monsieur," replied Jeannette, "tell us once for all whether there is any ghosts or isn’t."
"Yes, that’s it," said the other servants; "then at least we shall know what to think."
"My children," said Férulus, after blowing his nose at great length, "the question that you put to me is a thorny one. Hippocrates says yes and Galen says no!"
"But we don’t ask you for Monsieur Pocrates’s opinion," said Mademoiselle Cheval, "for it’s yours that we want."
"My dearcoqua, otherwise called cook, do not interrupt me, if you please. You wish to know whether there are or have been ghosts, or if we ought still to believe in them; that is the problem propounded; I start from that. I embark my reply upon the vessel of my lips, to cross the stormy sea of your attention, and to reach at last the blessed haven of your ears!"
"Look here, monsieur, if you are going to talk a foreign language, we shall never understand you!" said Jeannette.
"That is true, Jeannette; I yielded to the torrent of my eloquence, and forgot that I should come down to your level. I am there now. Ought we to believe in ghosts? Saint Augustine declares that it is rash to deny the intimate connection between devils and women; but Montaigne says that we should give magicians hellebore and not hemlock. For my part, I do not believe in supernatural things; in fact, I never have. However, I am not a Pyrrhonist; I am not one of those people who doubt everything! According to them, Xerxes did not enter Greece with five million men, and did not chastise the sea; a wolf was not the nurse of Romulus and Remus; Mutius Scævola did not proudly extend his arm over a red-hot fire; they do not believe in the phantom which twice appeared to the second Brutus, or in the labarum seen in the air by Constantine the Great. I know very well that all those things were very much out of the common course; but since they are in history, why, then, as Virgil says,felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas!—That, my children, is my opinion concerning ghosts; I advise you to govern yourselves by it. However, I do not see that it is worth while as yet to worry monseigneur about it."
With that, Monsieur Férulus walked away to present his poetry to Robineau; and the servants, who had not understood a word of his harangue, separated, each retaining his own opinion.
Edouard soon left his room. He would long before have left the château had he not deemed it his duty to wait for Alfred, in order to go to Isaure with him. He hoped in that way to prove to him that he did not seek to influence the girl’s feelings, and that it was her heart alone which guided her. In short, although overjoyed by the preference accorded to him, Edouard, who was warmly attached to Alfred, earnestly desired that his success in love should not cause him to lose his friend.
The time passed; Edouard, who was burning with impatience to see Isaure again, was surprised at Alfred’s tardiness. He appeared at last; but when he saw Edouard, his brow darkened and an expression of vexation appeared upon his face.
"I was waiting for you!" said Edouard, going to meet Alfred, whose hand he tried to take; but Alfred at once drew his hand away, replying coldly:
"Why are you waiting for me?"
"In order to go with you—to go with you to see Isaure."
"With me!" exclaimed Alfred satirically; "it seems to me that hereafter that is not worth while, and that each of us is at liberty to do what he pleases. Go, let nothing detain you. I, too, shall go alone to the valley."
"You are still angry with me, Alfred!" said Edouard in a sorrowful tone.
"Oh, no! I should be very wrong to be angry, no doubt; you are so frank in your conduct! And when do you propose to marry Isaure?"
Edouard made no reply; he seemed embarrassed.
"Well! you do not answer," continued Alfred ironically; "when a man is so much in love, and is certain that he is loved in return, I do not see why he should postpone his happiness; you are both free; there is nothing to interfere with your contracting this bond. Is it your purpose to conceal your marriage? to make a mystery of it? you who have so much contempt for the prejudices of society!"
"No, monsieur; if I marry Isaure, I shall not make it a mystery; I shall not fear to call her my wife openly."
"If you marry her! Ah! it seems that you are not so decided to-day as you were yesterday. Really, Edouard, you must think me very credulous, or a great fool, to believe that I will place any faith in this stratagem of yours, which you resorted to only to separate me entirely from the girl! Yes, yes, she is very pretty, I agree; but you know as well as I that one is not bound to marry all the pretty women; and when it is a question of a simple peasant, whose head it is so easy to turn, I shall never believe——"
"So much the worse for you, monsieur, if you think that a man cannot settle down for life with her who combines everything which is likely to make one happy. I have told you frankly what my intentions are. I cannot compel you to believe me, but ere long I trust that you will be convinced that I have not deceived you."
With that Edouard walked away from Alfred, mounted his horse and rode away from the château alone.
Alfred stood for some moments lost in thought. He did not know what course to pursue. He considered Isaure fascinating; his self-esteem was piqued; it was most unpleasant to him to abandon so readily the hope of winning the little goatherd’s heart. However, if he had been certain that Edouard really intended to make her his wife, he would have renounced at once his projects concerning the girl.
He decided to call upon Isaure also. He desired to assure himself with his own eyes of her preference for Edouard, and to know whether he had not deceived him. So he took the only remaining horse, and left the château a quarter of an hour after Edouard. This time he did not urge his steed, for he was reflecting upon the best method of ascertaining the truth. He would have liked to listen to his rival without being seen; and yet the thought of watching, of spying upon anyone, was too repugnant to his frank disposition for him to harbor it a moment.
He was only a short distance from Isaure’s cottage, when someone, jumping out suddenly from behind a rock, caught his horse by the bridle, saying:
"You will arrive too late; another is ahead of you."
Alfred recognized the vagabond, who stood leaning upon his stick, with his gleaming eyes fastened upon the young man.
"Ah! it is you, is it?" said Alfred; "what do you mean?"
"That you started too late. Your rival is an earlier bird than you, and he makes the most of his time. Yesterday you did not come. But he did, and he went away very happy!"
These words were accompanied by a mocking smile. The stranger’s features wore an even more malicious and evil expression than usual.
"How do you know all this?" demanded Alfred.
"How do I know it? Parbleu! it’s not very difficult to know. Lovers always think themselves alone, and they do not trouble themselves to conceal their feelings. I had plenty of time to count their kisses!"
"Their kisses!" replied Alfred, trembling with anger.
"Why, yes! Does that surprise you? Oh! your friend doesn’t go slow; with his little sugary way, he gets ahead! What surprises me is that you, who seem accustomed to the ways of the world, are not more advanced than he."
"But," replied Alfred, stifling a sigh, "since it is Edouard whom she prefers——"
"Whom she prefers! Nonsense! As if these little girls ever had a preference! They love everybody, everybody who makes love to them. She would have loved you, if you didn’t always come last. However, whenever you choose, it will rest entirely with you to carry the day. Don’t you know that with time and money one can accomplish everything?"
"Really," said Alfred, gazing at the vagabond in surprise, "you have principles which I should never have expected to find in an old soldier."
"Soldier! Who told you that I was ever a soldier?" retorted the stranger proudly.
"You yourself, the other morning, after speaking of my father, whose name made such an impression upon you."
The stranger frowned, and was silent for some moments; at last he continued:
"Well, that isn’t the question now; do you propose to allow this girl to be whisked away from you by your rival, when it is entirely in your power to possess her? I confess that that surprises me on the part of the young Baron de Marcey."
"Thoughtless and enterprising as I am, or as I have been, I have always respected the happiness of my friends. I may have tried to triumph over Edouard when it was a question simply of a caprice, of a mere amourette! But since this girl has turned his head to the point that he proposes to make her his wife——"
"To make her his wife!" cried the stranger, with an outburst of sarcastic laughter. "Oh! that would be too much, upon my word! If you love Monsieur Edouard, you will confer a genuine service upon him by preventing him from doing such a foolish thing."
"You speak with much assurance. What makes you think so ill of this girl, pray?"
"I have eyes and experience; and you, who know women, how can you fail to see that this one with her simple, sweet manner is a little minx who knows a great deal? What do you think of a girl whose parents no one knows, and to whom they who adopt her leave all their property? Who entertains generously all those who seek hospitality at her hands? Who lives alone in these mountains, and talks as correctly as a woman brought up in the city? But that is not all; there are other mysterious circumstances, and I shall discover them."
Alfred reflected upon what he had heard; he could not help thinking that Isaure’s conduct was in fact calculated to arouse strange suspicions.
The man who had stopped in front of Alfred watched him closely while he reflected; one could see that he was trying to read his eyes, to divine what was taking place in the depths of his heart. After a rather long silence he continued at last:
"Upon my word, you hesitate a long while; a lot of time and sighs wasted upon a girl who amounts to nothing; and who asks nothing better than to be seduced! If she were the heiress of a great name, or a noble châtelaine, you could not treat her with more respect! In heaven’s name, have we gone back to the time of the Renauds and the Amadises? I am tempted to believe it. You ought to give tournaments for this young beauty; to break a lance or two to demonstrate her virtue, and to shatter a few helmets in favor of her innocence! Happy times those were when, in order to be recognized as the loveliest and the most virtuous of women, a maid had only to choose the bravest and strongest champion."
Alfred listened closely to the speaker’s last words. He scrutinized him with more attention than before, and said to him:
"Who on earth are you, who presume to give me advice for which I do not ask you? I see that I am mistaken about you. No, you are not an ex-soldier. Edouard guessed the truth more nearly, I see, when he said that you must have held some position in society; in truth, your language, although you often affect a vulgar tone and manners, your language betrays education and knowledge. What misfortunes have reduced you to the melancholy situation in which I find you now?"
"What is there so surprising, young man, in my having once been rich and highly considered, and being so no longer? That is seen every day! Is not a man subject to a thousand and one reverses? And is not one especially in danger of falling when one occupies a lofty position? Whether those reverses were due to others or to my own fault, I do not need to tell you. I had ardent passions, I admit, and I loved to gratify them; that is the history of practically all men."
"You will agree," said Alfred with a smile, "that your present situation is hardly calculated to arouse a desire to imitate you."
"Oh! How many men, who have done worse than I, are still on the pinnacle? After all, what is there so unfortunate in my position? I am free, I am my own master, I can do whatever I please from morning until night. I wear a costume which is not fashionable, but it covers me, and that is enough for me; I do not envy the wealth of other men, because I have been sated with pleasure; when a man has often made himself drunk on exquisite wines, he is not sorry to drink water."
"But I have fancied that I noticed from your remarks that you had a decidedly bad opinion of women; have they treated you so very badly, that you bear them such a grudge?"
"Treated me badly! Not at all! On the contrary I was their favorite, their Benjamin; they have more reason to complain of me. There was one, however, whom I loved more sincerely than the others; she alone, I think, might have been able to subdue my character, to master my passions; with her, in short, I might perhaps have become virtuous and orderly; and I should not now be wandering about these mountains!"
"In that case, why did you not marry her?"
"Why?" replied the stranger, and his eyes gleamed with rage, as he raised them to Alfred’s face; "because another, more fortunate than I, stole her from me, and that other——"
"Well, that other?"
"I was never able to find an opportunity to be revenged upon him; but I hope to find one before long, and you may well believe that I shall not let it escape me."
"I have never appreciated the pleasure of revenge!"
"Ah! you are young still! However, you know love, and you allow the woman who attracts you to be stolen from you, when it rests only with you——"
"When it rests only with me! Upon my honor, you speak very coolly. Isaure is more cruel than you think."
"She was not yesterday with your friend."
"She has with her a guardian whom it is very difficult to bribe."
"But might one not remove that faithful guardian?"
"What?"
"To be sure; could you not lure her away from her home, and then take her somewhere else, to a place where you could do whatever you chose with her, with the alternative of taking her back to her cottage if she absolutely refused to listen to your suit?"
"But who would undertake such an enterprise?"
"Who! parbleu! I would."
"You?"
"Yes, I, whenever you choose; say the word, and I promise you that your rival will not find the little one at her house to-morrow."
Alfred gazed at the vagabond for some moments, and then exclaimed:
"You are a miserable villain! Leave me, say nothing more to me! I blush to think that I have listened to such propositions!"
The stranger replied with a sneering laugh:
"What! just a little abduction of a girl who asks nothing better! A mere trick frightens you! Oh! I thought that you were farther advanced than that, monsieur le baron; but just as you please. Let your friend enjoy himself at your expense, let the girl laugh in her sleeve at your respect! After all, what difference does it make to me? But I will wager that before long you will see that my advice was good; then, if you need me, you will find me still, for I do not bear a grudge for a word.—Au revoir!"
The stranger turned his back on Alfred and disappeared by a narrow path among the cliffs, and young De Marcey, after a moment’s reflection, turned and rode back to the château, instead of pursuing his journey.
The vagabond’s aspect and suggestions had produced upon Alfred’s mind an effect different from that which that man apparently hoped. Disgusted by the wretch’s hateful propositions, Alfred reflected upon the injustice of his conduct toward Edouard; he felt that he ought not to consider it a crime in him to have triumphed over him; and if Isaure really loved him, he vowed that he would not seek to interfere with his friend’s happiness.
More content with himself after taking this resolution, Alfred, when he saw Edouard again, far from manifesting the same coolness as in the morning, spoke to him as was his habit before their rivalry. Edouard, no less surprised than delighted by this change in Alfred’s humor, felt much happier since he had reason to hope that he had recovered his friend.
The next day Alfred accompanied Edouard; they rode together into the mountains. The young men did not mention Isaure; they seemed equally to dread talking about her. But they approached the valley, they were soon to see her, and Edouard felt a weight at his heart on Alfred’s account. Still he was soon to see her whom he adored; but it is when we are happiest that we would like all those whom we love to share our happiness.
Since the girl had told Edouard that she loved him, she no longer feared to let him see all the pleasure which his presence caused her; she stood in her doorway, awaiting his arrival, because there she was much nearer the road, and could be the sooner in her lover’s arms.
The two horsemen soon espied Isaure; they dismounted, and she walked toward them. Alfred’s presence, far from annoying Isaure, seemed to please her; she received him as graciously as ever, and manifested as much friendship for him; but she had no hesitation in disclosing before him the more tender feeling which bound her to Edouard. In love for the first time, loving with all the sincerity of her years, she thought that she ought not to make a mystery of her love, especially to her lover’s friend.
Alfred responded graciously enough to Isaure’s friendly advances. It was easy for him to see that Edouard had told him the truth, that it was he who possessed the young girl’s heart; but he tried to overcome the chagrin that he felt. The two young men stayed a shorter time than usual with Isaure, for Edouard was not so happy in the presence of Alfred, before whom he did not wish to speak of his love; and Alfred, despite all his efforts, could not succeed in recovering his usual gayety.
"My dear Edouard," said Alfred as they rode back to the château, "hereafter, I shall let you go alone to see Isaure; you are the one she loves, she does not try to conceal it; but really she is so pretty, so fascinating, even with the man whom she is not seeking to please, that despite all my friendship for you, if I should see her often, I would not promise—yes, I should do some crazy thing, and then I should be in despair over it; so it is much better that I should cease to see this girl, or at all events that I should wait until the sight of her makes less impression upon my heart. People say that I am thoughtless and fickle; I pray that I may be as much so as people say, and that I may soon forget!—Well, it is all over; she loves you, and henceforth I propose to think of her only as a sister."
Edouard shook Alfred’s hand affectionately and exclaimed:
"A friend like you and a sweetheart like her! Should not one be the happiest of men with those?"
And yet Edouard sighed as he said this, for he thought of the secret which Isaure concealed from him, and of the unknown obstacle which interfered to prevent his being entirely happy. But Isaure loved him, she had told him so a hundred times; her lips could not know falsehood; the mystery which she concealed from him would undoubtedly soon be cleared up, for she herself had given him that hope; so that he ought to see nothing in the future save the most perfect happiness. Thus did Edouard console himself; to see happiness in the future is much, even though one is destined never to attain it.
On reaching the château, the young men noticed a bustle and a movement there which indicated something new. Robineau had already returned from the town, and they found him in the salon, listening to the verses which Monsieur Férulus was declaiming.
"Congratulate me, messieurs," he cried to his two friends the instant that he caught sight of them; "my wishes have been gratified! I have carried the day over my numerous rivals! In a word, Monsieur le Marquis de la Pincerie has solemnly promised me his daughter’s hand, and has authorized me to look upon myself already as a member of his illustrious family."
"My dear fellow," said Alfred, "as you wish to be congratulated, we will congratulate you; and in fact, now that it is decided, it is the best thing there is to do."
"What! you are going to marry, Monsieur Jules?" said Edouard; "and who is the lady whom you are to marry, pray? There were so many people at your fête that I do not remember——"
"The sister of the pretty woman whom, by the way, you always had on your arm, my dear child of the Muses."
"Ah! I remember now: Mademoiselle Cornélie?"
"Herself. Oh! you could not have helped noticing her! She was so conspicuous! I confess that I am in a state of intoxication, of enchantment!"
"You have reason enough, certainly!" said Alfred. "But do you propose to give a second fête at the château so soon? All your people have such a busy look!"
"It is because they are preparing apartments for my future family, who have consented to pass at my château the time which must still intervene before my wedding. I would have liked to marry at once; but monsieur le marquis, who is a great stickler for form, for propriety, declares that it cannot be done so abruptly. Besides, there are papers to be drawn, and purchases to make,—the wedding gifts which I shall send to Paris for; and in order that all this time may seem less long to us, they are coming to pass it at my château, and to enjoy the pleasures of the country. I expect the whole family this very day.—I trust, messieurs, that henceforth we shall see you here a little more, and that you will not leave the château early in the morning, to return only at dinner time."
"For my part, I promise to wait upon the ladies," said Alfred, "and to be as gallant and as agreeable as I can."
"I dare not promise as much," said Edouard; "I realize that I am a very unentertaining guest, and as you have so much company coming, allow me to leave you."
"Leave us! What! go away before my marriage,—not be present at my wedding? No, I certainly will not allow it! Besides, it would disappoint the ladies; they asked me particularly if my two friends were still at the château, and urged me not to let you go away. So it is decided, you will stay. Oh! we are going to have plenty of sport! We shall hunt. Monsieur le marquis tells me that he loves to hunt. You must teach me to hunt, messieurs; for I admit that I never tried it; but my future bride says that a man should know how to fire a gun, and consequently I propose to become a great hunter."
"Monseigneur," said Férulus, "the arrival of these gentlemen interrupted us; with your permission, I will begin again the poem I have written for your marriage. I have taken for my text this pretty line of Propertius: