"Monsieur Férulus, you dropped this book."
"Jehovah! it is Seneca’s treatise on Contempt of Wealth."
"Perhaps you might have missed it."
The ex-librarian instantly closed the hand into which the two articles had been slipped, smiled agreeably at Alfred, then hurried away as if he were afraid that he might wish to take back what he had just given him.
Alfred and Edouard returned to their apartments and remained there until the hour for breakfast. Then they went to the salon, where the family had assembled. Although he had passed the night with his wife, Robineau seemed no less timid than before with her; but Cornélie hardly took pains to reply to her husband; she scolded each servant in turn, and had already informed her husband that Jeannette, the groom and Monsieur Cunette would speedily follow Monsieur Férulus. Robineau had no time to approve his wife’s resolution, because, whenever he attempted to speak, his father-in-law cut him short by saying:
"Son-in-law, allow your wife to do as she pleases, and never thwart her, or by heaven! you will have to deal with me."
The young men informed the company that they were going to leave the château, and Eudoxie said in an undertone:
"It will be very amusing here now! I certainly shall not stay long!"
Madame de la Roche-Noire received this news very coolly; the young men had not seemed sufficiently dazzled by her charms for her to regret them. But Robineau, who was beginning to discover that since he had been married he did not enjoy himself as much as he hoped, exclaimed:
"What! you mean to leave us already? to go away? When, for heaven’s sake?"
"This very day," said Alfred.
"To-day! Oh! On my word, I won’t—we won’t allow it, it will cause my wife much distress. Just a few days more,—it isn’t right to go away so abruptly."
"Very well, we won’t go until to-morrow," replied Edouard, who had seemed lost in profound thought for some minutes.
"To-morrow it is then," said Alfred, who was surprised, however, that Edouard consented to defer their departure.
The guests soon separated, each to do what pleased him best. Eudoxie doubtless wished that Alfred should pay his last farewells to her, for she asked him for his arm for a walk in the garden; and Cornélie, left alone with Robineau, said to him:
"Why do you presume to keep these gentlemen at the château without finding out whether I would like it?"
"My love, I thought that——"
"Your friends are very agreeable, are they not, to pass all their time travelling about no one knows where, and coming here only to eat? Hereafter, monsieur, I will invite the persons whom I wish to receive."
"Very well, my dear love, if you wish, I will go and tell Alfred and Edouard that they can go at once, that we don’t care."
"Another absurd remark! No, monsieur, say nothing, do nothing, meddle in nothing,—that is all I ask of you."
And with that, Cornélie left Robineau, who, when he was alone, stamped the floor viciously, saying:
"I will not thwart her, because this is our honeymoon; but I know that I am master, and that is enough for me."
After walking for a sufficiently long time with Eudoxie, Alfred returned to the château; he arranged everything for his approaching departure and then joined Edouard.
"What was your reason for consenting to defer our departure?" said Alfred; "I supposed that you were in a hurry to leave this region and these mountains."
"Yes, yes, of course," replied Edouard, with some embarrassment; "but before leaving Auvergne, to which I shall never come again, I would like,—you will scold me, Alfred!"
"No; tell me frankly what hope you have."
"I have no hope at all, but I cannot resist the longing to see Isaure once more, to bid her a last farewell!"
"I suspected as much."
"I left her so abruptly, and yet I did not then know all her treachery; but never fear, it is not for the purpose of reproaching her uselessly, that I wish to see her—far from it. I will tell her that I forgive her all the pain that she has caused me, that I hope that she may be happy, that her image will never—Oh, no! I will not tell her that, and yet—Ah! blame me for my weakness, my friend, but I believe that I love her more dearly than ever."
"You mean to go to see Isaure again? Why, how can you think of such a thing? Suppose you should find—suppose you should meet the baron there?"
"I will watch for a moment when she is alone, you know very well that she passes only a little time at the White House; I must see her again, even though I may be able to speak to her but a moment. Remember, Alfred, that it will be the last time."
"Very well, I will go with you. Yes, I will go with you; at all events, I shall be more certain that you will commit no imprudence, and I shall be able to see to it that no one surprises you with her."
"Dear Alfred! how kind you are!"
"I must needs become wise when you make a fool of yourself; each in his turn. I will go and tell the groom to have the horses ready for us to-night, for I do not see the necessity of going on foot again. We will start at the hour when the others go to bed, having alleged our departure to-morrow as an excuse for retiring early.—Edouard, you will take no weapons, I trust?"
"What an idea! Oh, no! I only want to see her, I only want to bid her farewell before leaving this place forever!"
Everything having been agreed upon, the young men returned to the guests. As Férulus had predicted, the dinner was much less merry than usual. Alfred and Edouard had too much to think about to try to keep up the conversation. Eudoxie seemed bored; Monsieur de la Pincerie was in bad humor, because he foresaw that there would no longer be anybody to play whist with him in the evening; Cornélie maintained her haughty air, and hardly spoke; even Mignon himself did not seem very well pleased, because his niece had given him a thousand things to do in the château; lastly, Robineau treated his two friends with extreme coolness, hoping thereby to please his wife.
In the evening, the young men made their farewells.
"It is possible," said Alfred, "that we shall start to-morrow before you ladies have risen."
"As you please, messieurs," said Robineau; "indeed, if it will give you pleasure to go this evening, you may——"
Monsieur de la Roche-Noire did not finish his sentence, because his wife pulled his coat-tail so that she almost tore it. Alfred and Edouard glanced at each other with a smile; and after several hours’ conversation, interrupted by frequent yawns on the part of the marquis and by the stifled sighs of Madame de Hautmont, they bade one another farewell and separated.
The young men gave their hosts time to shut themselves up in their rooms; then they went down into the courtyard, found the horses saddled, and bade the concierge open the gate for them, saying to him:
"We shall return in two hours."
"You can return when you please, you will find the gate open," replied Cunette, who was drunk as usual. "The mistress has told me that I could look for another place. So you see I don’t propose to bother my head about her gate. I am going to bed, and I will leave everything open; what is planted may come up; I don’t care a fig; I don’t propose to put myself out."
"We shall have ridden over this country at night quite often," said Alfred, as he trotted beside Edouard. The roads were very bad; the rain which had fallen during the evening had made them soft and slippery; and only by taking great precautions could the two horsemen proceed without accident.
Edouard answered his friend only by heaving a profound sigh. Alfred understood that as Edouard was about to see Isaure for the last time, he was naturally engrossed by his memories and his regrets; and so, respecting his friend’s silence and his distress of mind, he rode close beside him, but did not speak to him again.
They had travelled only a third of the distance; a cold rain was falling; Edouard tried to urge his horse, but twice already the animal had nearly fallen. The road had become steep, and they had to resign themselves to go at a walk.
"I believe that we could travel faster on foot," said Edouard impatiently.
"Haven’t we time enough?" replied Alfred; "There is no hurry about our returning to the château; and you don’t need the whole night to bid Isaure farewell."
"I don’t know what the matter is with me, but it seems to me as if I cannot reach her side soon enough. Gloomy thoughts oppress me.—Alfred, do you believe in presentiments?"
"Nonsense! what childish folly! when one has had some trouble, when one has been deceived, betrayed in one’s affections, one dreads some new misfortune every instant; we call that having a presentiment, whereas it is simply the result of our frame of mind. Lucky people, those with whom everything succeeds, never have presentiments; and yet unpleasant things sometimes happen to them; but they have never foreseen them, because they don’t look at the dark side of things.—This infernal horse! he absolutely insists upon kneeling. François told me that at Clermont, where he went the other day, there were two very good horses for sale; if you would like to travel that way, I will buy them."
Edouard did not reply; he had relapsed into his reflections, and emerged from them only to say in a low voice:
"How dismal and gloomy this night is! what a difference from last night!"
"Yes," said Alfred; "I begin to think that in winter, life in Auvergne is not very hilarious."
"Ah! If she had loved me, as she said; if I might have lived with her, these snow-covered mountains, these glaciers, this wild landscape, would always have been cheerful in my eyes!"
"Come, come, Edouard, be sensible; time will console you. I, too, loved Isaure dearly; oh, yes! I was mad over her; but I succeeded in triumphing over that love."
Edouard made no reply, but he sighed and said to himself: "He was very far from loving her as I do!"
At last they reached the path leading down into the valley; they halted and left their horses at the usual place, then walked toward the cottage. Alfred took Edouard’s arm; the latter’s excitement doubled as they approached Isaure’s abode.
"She is at home!" cried Edouard, as they perceived a light in the window of the first floor. "Ah! my friend, let us stop a moment; my heart is beating so violently. She is in her room! I was so afraid that I should not see her again; I was in despair lest we should not arrive soon enough. Ah! you were right, Alfred; when one is in trouble, one adds to it by one’s imagination! But her window is closed; I cannot see her as I could last night. I would like to see her without her knowing that I am here!"
"As you mean to speak to her for the last time, of course she must know that you are here. Shall we not knock? Or do you prefer to call her?"
"I don’t know—wait a moment; suppose there was someone with her! Do you see any light in the White House?"
"No."
"How can we make sure that she is alone? Suppose that your father were there? Let us wait; perhaps she will open her window, or will come out to go to the White House."
The young men waited several minutes; Edouard kept his eyes fixed on the window in which the light shone.
"It is very strange," he said at last; "I can see no shadow through the curtains, the light does not move at all, and there is not the slightest sound to indicate that she is there. And yet, in this lonely valley, the least movement can easily be heard. Alfred, there is something absolutely terrifying in this stillness."
"More of your black ideas! For heaven’s sake, what do you suppose has happened to her? Are thieves or brigands ever seen in this region?"
"Come, let us go near the house, perhaps we shall hear something."
Alfred followed Edouard; they went close to the door; but the most profound silence continued to reign in Isaure’s home.
Suddenly Edouard, struck by a sudden thought, exclaimed:
"Great heavens! here we are standing close against the door, and Vaillant does not bark, although he always divines the presence of a stranger a long distance away!"
"That is strange, in very truth," said Alfred.
"I cannot resist any longer, let us knock."
Edouard knocked on the door, gently at first, then a little louder; but no sound indicated that anyone proposed to admit them.
"Isaure! Isaure! it is I," said Edouard, standing under the window; "I have come to bid you farewell before going away from here. Are you not willing to see me?"
There was no reply. Edouard’s distress and excitement were extreme.
"Can it be that she has sworn never to speak to me again, not to listen to me?" he cried; and in his anger he knocked loudly on the door. Thereupon a low groan, a plaintive sound, which seemed to come from behind the house, answered the clamor that Edouard was making.
"Did you hear?" he asked Alfred.
"Yes, I thought——"
"There, listen again; that mournful sound echoed in my heart. Some calamity has happened to Isaure. We must go into this house."
Alfred, who now fully shared Edouard’s fears, seconded his efforts to force the door of the cottage. The lock alone held it; that broken, the two young men entered the lower room, where it was pitch dark.
"Let us go upstairs, let us go to her room at once," said Edouard, feeling for the staircase; he found it and ran rapidly up; he soon reached the room where the light was; the door was not locked. Edouard, followed by Alfred, entered the girl’s room, but they found it empty, and observed there a disorder which was not natural. The bureau-drawers were open, and several female garments were scattered about the floor; it seemed as if some few things had been taken in haste, and several pieces of money which lay on the floor indicated that someone had also taken possession of the cash contained in that piece of furniture.
"She is not here!" cried Edouard, gazing about him in dismay. "But what is the meaning of this disorder? Has someone taken her away by force? Has she been torn from this house against her will?"
"Come," said Alfred, taking the lamp; "let us search the house, we may perhaps discover some clew. Let us find out first where that noise we heard came from."
They went downstairs, entered every room, called Isaure, and received no answer; but, as they passed near the yard which separated the house from the garden, they heard once more the plaintive moan which had impressed them before. They went into the yard, and traces of blood caught their eyes. Edouard’s heart stood still; but in a moment he shuddered with horror as he saw Vaillant lying by the garden gate, wounded in several places, bathed in blood, but trying to drag himself to those whom he recognized as his mistress’s friends.
"It is Vaillant! He has been murdered!" cried Edouard. "Ah! some horrible thing has happened, my friend! Brigands, murderers have forced their way into this house! But what have they done with Isaure? They have killed him who tried to defend her, and I was not here! Poor Vaillant! He seems to be asking me where his mistress is. They must have taken her away through the garden. Come! come! Let us continue our search!"
"But Vaillant is not dead," said Alfred; "perhaps these wounds, which seem to have been made by a sword, are not fatal. Shall we leave without assistance the only one who dared to defend his mistress? Poor dog! How he gazes at us! Wait until I bind his wounds. Perhaps your handkerchief and mine will suffice to stop the flow of blood."
Despite his impatience to fly in search of Isaure, Edouard seconded his friend in attending to the needs of the girl’s faithful defender. Vaillant was transported gently to his mistress’s bed, where he was wrapped in linen. Then the young men went to the garden; they found a small gate opening into the country still open. Blood stains indicated that the dog had followed his mistress thus far, and that Isaure had been taken away in that direction.
Edouard wished to scour the country, to follow the tracks of Isaure’s abductors; he flattered himself that he could overtake them, and he asked Alfred for his weapons.
"What do you mean to do now, pray?" asked Alfred. "You have no idea in what direction they have gone! Which way do you propose to go this dark night? Is it not better to wait till daylight?"
"Wait! Why, perhaps even now she may be calling to me for help! Everything seems to indicate that it is not long since this horrible crime was committed. I implore you, Alfred, give me your pistols! What have you to fear? I only wish to restore Isaure to your father. If he had been here, doubtless he would have defended her. Come! come! Let us search these mountains; perhaps there is still time to save her."
Alfred yielded to his friend’s entreaties; he gave him one of his pistols, kept the other, and tried to keep up with Edouard, who started across the country at a rapid pace.
The weather was still unpleasant, and it was difficult to distinguish objects at a short distance. Edouard frequently stopped and listened to see whether he could not hear shrieks or footsteps. They had passed the White House, and were going toward Chadrat, Alfred being some yards behind Edouard, when they heard footsteps in front of them. Edouard instantly rushed forward, and before Alfred had time to urge him to be prudent, he found himself face to face with a person whom he abruptly stopped:
"Where are you going? Where have you come from?"
The man whom Edouard had arrested took a step backward, and drawing his arm from beneath his cloak, held a pistol in the young man’s face as he retorted in a firm voice:
"By what right do you question me?"
At the sound of that voice so familiar to his heart, Alfred darted in front of Edouard, exclaiming:
"Wretched man! What are you doing? It is my father!"
The Baron de Marcey, for it was he in very truth, uttered a cry of surprise as he recognized his son; while Edouard stood as if rooted to the ground.
"What! you, Alfred? you, in these mountains, at night, and with——"
"Oh! don’t be alarmed, father," replied Alfred; "it is Edouard who is with me; and although he did bring you to a halt rather abruptly, you may be sure that we have not become highwaymen! On the contrary, we are on the track of the abductors of a young girl; and when he saw you, Edouard took you for one of the men we are looking for."
"You, in this country; you, here!" said the baron, unable to recover from his surprise; "and—this girl?"
"Is Isaure!" cried Edouard.
"Isaure! you know Isaure?" rejoined the baron, whose surprise and excitement increased momentarily. "What! then it was you, Edouard, whom she had so much to say to me about?"
"Yes, monsieur, it was I who loved her, who love her still, who wished to give her my hand, and never to part from her again, not knowing that another had a prior right over her, and that that other was Alfred’s father! But at this moment, monsieur le baron, let us think only of finding her, of helping her. Her house is empty; Vaillant is pierced with wounds, and everything indicates that Isaure has been abducted from her home."
"Great heaven! the poor child! But she may be in the White House; she may have succeeded in escaping thither. Come, come! we still have that last hope; may it not soon be taken away from us!"
The baron strode rapidly forward; the two young men walked beside him; all three were silent; a single thought, a single desire inspired them at that moment. They soon reached the White House. The baron opened the door and went in first. With the aid of a match he soon struck a light, and all three examined the house and garden; but Isaure was not there.
"How could she have come here in your absence?" said Edouard, looking at the baron with an expression of curiosity.
"She had a key to the garden of this house," replied Monsieur de Marcey; "but let us go to her cottage and see if we cannot find some proof which may help us to discover the authors of this crime!"
They returned to the cottage, they visited and examined every corner; but except in Isaure’s bedroom, they found nothing disturbed in the house.
"She has carried away a part of her clothes!" said the baron, who seemed overwhelmed by Isaure’s disappearance.
"Can she have gone voluntarily?" cried Edouard.
"Voluntarily!" said Alfred; "does not this wounded dog prove, on the contrary, that someone forced his way into the house to carry Isaure away? The entrance was effected through the garden. Had Isaure any money with her?"
"She may have had some fifty louis," said the baron.
"That money is no longer here," cried Edouard; "so it must have been a robber who came here. But would a robber have taken Isaure away with him?"
They left the house, and were crossing the yard when Alfred spied something that glistened against the wall; he held his light to it and saw at his feet a sword still dripping with blood; it seemed evident that that was the weapon with which Vaillant had been wounded. They at once examined the sword with care. It was a weapon which seemed to be very old, the hilt was broken in several places, and it was impossible to distinguish the characters which had once been carved on the blade, which seemed to be of finely tempered steel.
"Such a weapon cannot have belonged to a thief," said the baron.
The young men agreed with him, and they lost themselves in innumerable conjectures. Suddenly, Alfred exclaimed:
"Stay! something, I don’t know what, tells me that that wretch, that vagabond, who is always prowling about these mountains, is not unconnected with this event!"
"What man are you talking about?" asked the baron.
"A villain, whose conduct and speech seem to indicate that he formerly lived in good society. We have not been able to take a step without meeting him; he knew you, father—at least he said he did; and when your name was mentioned before him, it seemed to produce a strange effect on him. However, I offered him money, and he refused it; but some unknown motive led him to think ill of Isaure. The villain! if I had followed his advice, I should have abducted this girl long ago; he considers such an exploit as a trivial escapade, and constantly told me that a girl that lived alone did not deserve to be treated differently."
"The scoundrel!" said the baron. "Ah! he did not know my Isaure! Dear Alfred, how bitterly you would have regretted it, if you had yielded to a passing passion! You do not know yet who this sweet, interesting girl is; you have no idea what bond there is between her and myself. I did not intend to reveal this mystery to you, I wished that it might be kept concealed forever; but since circumstances have led to your meeting your father in this place, you shall know everything, you shall learn the secret which is the cross of my life. You will pity your father, but I think that you cannot blame him. And you, Edouard, who think perhaps that you see in me a rival, you shall know how pure and unselfish is my attachment for Isaure; you shall learn that in seeking to keep her apart from the world, I had no such purpose as you may have supposed me to have."
"What! Can it be, monsieur?" cried Edouard, whose jealousy was instantly banished by these words. "You do not love Isaure? Then she did not deceive me when she told me that she still loved me, that she constantly thought of me? Her tears were not feigned! Oh! Mon Dieu! and to think that I added to her grief by my suspicions, by my jealousy!"
"This is no time to give way to fruitless regret," said Alfred; "we must find her, first of all. If the man I suspect is the author of this abduction, he may still be in this neighborhood. Why, I believe that that fellow, whose audacity is unmeasured, is capable of having taken Isaure to the château, to the tower, into the cellars, perhaps. We must neglect nothing. I’ll ride back to the château and search every nook and corner of the deserted portion."
"Go, dear Alfred; meanwhile, monsieur le baron and I will continue our search in the mountains. I shall not take an instant’s rest until I have found Isaure."
"To-morrow, at daybreak," said the baron, "we will meet at the White House; and there, my son, I propose to tell you the cause of my mysterious conduct. Edouard, too, shall know my misfortunes. He loves Isaure and she loves him; he must know the whole story of her birth, and then he can consider whether he still wishes her to be his wife."
"Ah! always, always, monsieur!"
Alfred did not allow Edouard to discourse any farther upon his love; he urged him to remember that at that moment it was more important to act, and to try to overtake the girl’s abductors. Edouard mounted his horse; Alfred did the same. The baron had his at the White House, and each of them took a different road, agreeing to meet on the morrow at daybreak. Alfred dug his spurs into his horse, at the risk of breaking his neck on the mountain paths; he reached the château at three o’clock in the morning. As the concierge had informed him, the gate was not closed, and the Château of La Roche-Noire was open to all comers. But Alfred needed a light, and he desired the concierge to open the underground vaults and the deserted apartments, to which he had the keys. So he knocked loudly at the door of Monsieur Cunette, who was sleeping like a deaf man and did not reply. Caring little whether he disturbed the rest of the occupants of the château, Alfred continued to hammer and call, and soon nearly every window opened except the concierge’s.
Robineau appeared at the window of his apartment in his silk nightcap, the marquis in one of cotton, Eudoxie half-wrapped in a pelisse, Cornélie in a lace-trimmed dressing jacket, Mademoiselle Cheval in déshabillé, Jeannette in a mob cap; the scullions also showed themselves in the windows in the roof.
"What’s the matter? what’s up now?" asked Robineau.
"Why this uproar?" said Cornélie.
"Is this château bewitched?" said Eudoxie.
"A body can’t dream comfortably here," said the cook.
"Son-in-law," said Monsieur de la Pincerie, "I order you to go down and thrash the miscreants who are disturbing my sleep."
"Monsieur le marquis, I am distressed to have awakened you," said Alfred, "but I do not believe that anyone will thrash me for that."
"What! is it Alfred who is making this disturbance?"
"My dear fellow, go back to bed with your wife; there are no thieves or ghosts in the château. It is possible, however, that there may be someone hidden in the old tower; and it is that someone that I propose to arrest."
"Someone hidden in my house!"
"It wouldn’t be the first time that that person had passed the night in this house."
"Great heavens! People hide themselves in my château, without my knowledge?"
"You see, monsieur, that we are well guarded," said Cornélie; "to-morrow I shall throw the whole household out of doors!"
However, upon the assurance that there was nothing new in the château, the windows closed one by one. The cook provided Alfred with a light, and he decided to examine the tower and the vaults, without the assistance of the concierge. Mademoiselle Cheval boldly offered to accompany the young man; but he thanked her and bent his steps alone toward the part of the château which was not occupied.
Alfred found the door of the tower still open; he went up to every floor, examined all the chambers, and carefully secured the doors; then he went down into the cellars, to which the more dignified name of subterranean vaults had been given; but he saw no one there and nothing to indicate that the vagabond had visited the place very recently.
Alfred spent nearly two hours in his investigation. The dawn was beginning to appear when he went to his apartment, to prepare his things for his departure. He ordered François to send his luggage and Edouard’s to the White House, and was on the point of leaving the château, when he saw Robineau, who had risen very early in order to see his friends before their departure.
"So you are going away?" said Robineau to Alfred.
"Yes, my friend; nothing can stop me now."
"And Monsieur Edouard?"
"He is waiting for me at the White House."
"At the White House?"
"Yes, we know the owner now."
"The deuce you do? and the girl?"
"She has been kidnapped and we are looking for her."
"Kidnapped! the little witch!"
"Adieu; when I see you again, I will tell you more."
"But—who is this person who dares to come to my château at night?"
"The man of Clermont-Ferrand."
"Mon Dieu! and you never told me! I am going to have the North Tower torn down."
"Simply have it carefully secured and have all the doors walled up, as well as the gate in the garden behind the statue of Mars, and no one will make his way into your premises without your permission, unless your concierge continues to leave the main gate open all night."
With that, Alfred shook hands with Robineau, and, leaving him bewildered by what he had learned, left the château to return to the White House, feeling sure that his father or Edouard would have been more fortunate in their search than he had been.
Alfred found only the baron at the place of meeting. Edouard had not yet returned, and they hoped that he had discovered the track of Isaure’s abductors.
"Poor child!" said the baron; "if we cannot find her, I shall reproach myself with this disaster forever; and yet you shall judge, Alfred, if I have acted ill, if love and jealousy made me unjust."
"Father," said Alfred, "if it is painful for you to reveal this mystery to me, if you would have occasion to blush before your son, I do not wish to know it, I do not care to hear your secret."
"My dear boy, I might have had to blush in society, although I am in no wise culpable, but I can only be pitied by my son. You shall know all."
After they had waited two hours, Edouard arrived; but he was alone and in despair, for he had learned nothing of Isaure.
"Before undertaking our search anew," said the baron, "listen to me, my friends; learn at last the motive of my conduct and of the mystery of my relations with Isaure."
Alfred and Edouard seated themselves beside the baron in the living room of the White House, the doors of which were carefully secured; and Monsieur de Marcey, after pressing his son’s hand affectionately once more, and heaving a profound sigh, at last gratified the impatient curiosity of the two young men.
"I entered the service very young; the military profession had a great charm for me, I was burning to achieve renown, eager, ardent, impulsive; but my heart was never insensible to the sufferings of my fellowmen, and I recall that even on the battle field, I always remembered that I was fighting against men whom politics alone had made my enemies.
"I was passionately fond of women, too. Like yourself, my dear Alfred, I was for some time a fickle creature; I ran from one conquest to another, forgetting on the morrow the fair one who had charmed me the day before; that time was the happiest in my life, but it was brief; my heart, in reality easily moved, longed to be attached by other than trivial bonds. But I was born jealous; that cruel sentiment had already made me unhappy with women whom I hardly loved; it was to be feared therefore that it would assume still greater proportions with one whom I adored. That is why my parents induced me to contract, at twenty-three years, what is called a marriage of reason. Although I was not madly in love with her, I married Céline de Colleville, your mother, my dear Alfred. A year after our wedding, she brought you into the world. Your birth and your mother’s virtues had made my happiness secure; every day I felt that my attachment to Céline increased, and I thanked my parents for the choice that they had made for me; but a year after your birth, I lost my wife. You were too young for me to seek comfort from you; but the war, which had broken out again, recalled me to the field, and there I found distraction from my grief.
"More than five years had passed since the death of your mother, my memory of whom was still as sweet as that which recalls to our hearts a friend from whom fate has parted us. A severe wound, which was certain to be a long time in healing, caused me to quit the service, I had paid my debt to my country, and I was determined to devote myself to my son. Meanwhile, to reëstablish my health, which had become precarious since my wound, the doctors ordered me to travel in the South. You were too young for me to take you with me, so I left you in reliable hands and went to Toulouse, to Marseilles, and lastly to Bordeaux.
"I had been in the latter city for some time; my health was entirely restored, and I was even on the point of returning to Paris, when one day I was presented to Monsieur de Montfort, an ex-naval officer, very wealthy, who was a widower, and had an only child, a daughter, then seventeen years old. Adèle was her name. It would be hard for me to describe all her charms, all her attractions. Adèle was pretty, rather than beautiful; but it was impossible to resist the charms of her face, the sweetness of her expression, the enchanting tone of her voice. I fell madly in love with her, and from the moment that I saw her, I felt that the happiness of my life henceforth depended upon her.
"Monsieur de Montfort was far from having in his manner that charm, that gentleness which attracted everybody to his daughter. He was a man with a stern glance and a harsh manner; his eyes shot fire when they were inflamed by anger; he had retained the brusque, peremptory tone common to the naval officer, which he seemed to think that no one should resist. However, Monsieur de Montfort received me very well; he was almost cordial with me; and whether it was my fortune, my rank, or the wounds which I had received for my country, that led him to regard me with interest, he manifested considerable friendliness for me and urged me to come often to his house.
"This permission was most precious to me; to be with Adèle was already my only wish; determined to marry her if her father would bestow her hand upon me, I was most desirous to please her; she seemed to take pleasure in seeing me, and to have some friendly feeling for me; I flattered myself that that feeling of amity would become love; but I was distressed to observe in her a melancholy which nothing could overcome; only in her father’s presence, before whom it was easy to see that she always trembled, would Adèle try to be cheerful and to take some part in the amusements of the company.
"I was never able to be alone with Adèle; only before other people was I allowed to see her, to speak with her, to try to make her understand all the love that she had inspired in me; she seemed to be afraid to answer me, and I saw that she shuddered at the slightest glance which Monsieur de Montfort cast upon us.
"Burning with the desire to make my happiness secure, I had been on visiting terms at Monsieur de Montfort’s hardly a fortnight, when I declared to him my love for his daughter.
"‘I had guessed it’; he replied, with his usual abruptness; ‘and if this love of yours had not seemed to me a suitable thing, you may be sure that I should not have allowed you to come to my house so often. I know your family; you are wealthy and well-behaved; you have a son by your first wife, but your fortune is more than sufficient to bring up other children too, and I am sure that Adèle will love your son. You are satisfactory to me as a son-in-law, and I give you my daughter’s hand.’
"I was happy beyond words. Monsieur de Montfort added: ‘I confess that I am not sorry to marry my daughter early. I am not of the proper temperament to be always watching a girl. My Adèle is virtuous, but she is pretty. Several young men have seemed to be very much in love with her already, but they did not suit me; I propose that my son-in-law shall be agreeable to me, first of all.’
"‘But suppose that one of them had pleased Adèle?’ I said.
"‘Do you suppose that my daughter would love anybody before I had given her permission?’ he demanded angrily. ‘No, monsieur, no; that cannot be. A certain Chevalier de Savigny, of a very old family, I believe, seemed to be particularly fond of Adèle; but as soon as I became aware of his love I forbade him to come to my house again, for this Savigny is a downright scamp, a rake, a gambler, a libertine. A scandalous business, a duel about a woman, forced him to leave Bordeaux, where he had been for some time. And should such a man be my daughter’s husband? No, though she had died of love for him, I would never have consented to that marriage.’
"‘But I trust that she did not love this Savigny?’ I said, with an anxiety which I could not surmount.
"‘I am inclined to believe that she did not dislike him,’ replied Monsieur de Montfort; ‘that is to say, like all women, Adèle was dazzled, surprised, by the rascal’s gallant manners and honeyed tone; for, in order to obtain admission to my house, he had succeeded in disguising his vicious tastes at first. But love him! ten thousand frigates! she would never have dared!—However, monsieur, if you do not think my daughter worthy of you, nothing is settled as yet; but in that case I will request you to cease visits which might have some ill effect upon her reputation, and to say nothing more to me about your love.’
"Monsieur de Montfort was a man with whom it was necessary to decide promptly; excessively sensitive upon everything connected with honor as he was, I saw that, if I hesitated a moment, Adèle was lost to me. And I was too much in love to abandon the hope of being her husband; even supposing that she had received with pleasure the attentions of Savigny, should I for that reason abandon my suit? Savigny was no longer received at Monsieur de Montfort’s house, where I had never seen him. He had left Bordeaux and no one knew what had become of him. Adèle was only seventeen; was I not justified in hoping that my attentions, my affection would soon efface from her heart the memories which another might have left there? In short, I made haste to inform Monsieur de Montfort that my only desire was to become his daughter’s husband speedily.
"Satisfied with my sentiments, he assured me that Adèle should be my wife within a week; and summoning his daughter, who came to us at once, he quickly informed her of his intentions by ordering her to prepare to give me her hand.
"At that news, Adèle turned pale, a sudden trembling shook her from head to foot; I saw her stagger; she stammered some words which I could not understand; I flew to her side, I put my arm about her, and implored her to tell me if the thought of becoming my wife distressed her. But her father was there with his threatening eyes fixed upon her, and she answered under her breath:
"‘I will obey my father’; then she withdrew to her apartments.
"Adèle’s evident confusion had distressed me deeply; but Monsieur de Montfort was the first to speak jestingly of it. He knew but one thing,—obedience to his will.
"‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘when a girl is told that she is to be married, isn’t it to be expected that she will blush and turn pale and sigh and seem to be deeply moved? That is all customary. But a week after marriage, when a husband has any strength of character, a woman has no more vapors or giddy turns or faintings.’
"I did not propose to take Monsieur de Montfort for my model; I hoped to obtain Adèle’s affections by gentleness and love. Monsieur de Montfort wished that our marriage should take place at a country house of his in the suburbs of Bordeaux. He went there at once with his daughter; I remained a few days in the city to settle my affairs and make the customary purchases; then I joined my new family.
"I found Adèle as sad as ever, and as terrified before her father. During the four days which preceded our union, I flattered myself that I should have more than one opportunity to be alone with my future bride; but Monsieur de Montfort was almost always present, he left us very little; and when, being alone with Adèle, I spoke to her of my love, she sighed, lowered her eyes and did not answer me.
"Our wedding-day arrived; Adèle, whose pallor and distress made her even lovelier in my eyes, walked with me to the altar. As we were about to take the oath which bound us to each other, I saw her tremble and look at her father. At last we were united, and I received her hand, which trembled in mine. I should have been at the very summit of felicity, if my wife’s melancholy had not secretly worried me; but I say again, I loved her with an idolatrous love, and I still flattered myself that I could make her love me in return.
"Our wedding-day passed quietly, without festivities; only a few friends and neighbors spent it with us. It seemed to me that I could see Adèle’s sadness and depression increase momentarily; but when I asked her if she were suffering, she answered gently that there was nothing the matter. The hour to retire arrived. Adèle went to our apartment, but I was obliged to remain a few moments longer with the guests. At last, everyone went away, and I hastened to join my wife.
"They had given us for our quarters a very pleasant wing looking on the garden, and separated from the other parts of the building. I dismissed the servants and was soon in my room, where I expected to find my wife; but it was empty. Surprised not to find Adèle there, I went through the adjoining rooms, looking for her and calling her; but I soon acquired the certainty that she was not in the building. Her absence disturbed me; I noticed that the small door opening into the garden was ajar, and I concluded that Adèle, feeling indisposed, had gone out into the garden for a breath of fresh air. I instantly went there in search of her.
"The garden was immense; I walked hastily along, seeking to pierce the darkness in the paths which surrounded me. There was a heavy weight at my heart, and my anxiety became greater every moment. I was approaching a beautiful pond at the foot of an extensive lawn, when I fancied that I distinguished the figure of a woman kneeling on the edge of the water. I quickened my pace, but before I reached the bank, she whom I had seen had hurled herself into the water. I saw my Adèle’s white garments floating on the surface. I was soon beside her, I succeeded in grasping her, and in swimming back to the shore with her; taking her in my arms, I carried her to our apartment, where, without calling anyone, I instantly bestowed on her every attention demanded by her condition.
"Adèle had been taken from the water so quickly that I had no fear for her life; my efforts were soon rewarded; she opened her eyes and saw me beside her, moistening with my tears the hands which I had warmed in mine.
"‘You saved me!’ she exclaimed, with an expression of the most profound regret.
"‘Yes,’ I said to her, ‘yes, heaven permitted me to arrive in time to bring you back to life. But who will save me now from my despair? Who will allay the remorse which I feel for having induced you to contract a union which causes you such horror? Do you detest me so, Adèle? Do I inspire you with such insurmountable aversion that you’d rather kill yourself than be mine?’
"Adèle seemed touched by my excessive despair; her eyes filled with tears, and she answered, while sobbing:
"‘No, I do not hate you; indeed I have the most affectionate friendship for you; but alas! I could not be your wife, and yet I had to obey my father, of whom I am so afraid, whose anger is so terrible! Ah! he would have killed me if I had resisted his will; I preferred to kill myself after obeying him. In pity’s name, forgive me and let me die!’
"The unhappy creature threw herself at my feet and held out her hands in entreaty; I raised her and implored her to be calm, to look upon me only as a brother, as a friend, and to conceal from me no longer the cause of her grief.
"‘You wish it,’ she said; ‘well, I will obey you. This confession is very painful; it would have been easier for me to die, but I must undergo this punishment, too. As I have told you, I am unworthy to bear the name of your wife. Another man has my love. He told me that he would die rather than abandon me; and yet, alas! he has gone; and I, I had the weakness to believe in his words! I hoped that my father would consent to our union; but, far from that, he harshly refused my hand to the man who already called me his wife; and I, when I allowed my father to see that I shared the love of him whom he turned away from his house—Ah! if you knew how terrible his anger was! I realized that he would kill me if he suspected my fault and I did not wish to die by my father’s hand.—Yes, I am guilty, I am ruined, and I bear in my womb the fruit of my dishonor!’
"You can judge of the effect produced upon me by such a confidence; jealous rage created a revolution in my mind. I longed to kill Savigny, or to die at his hands; for although she had not named her seducer, I could not doubt that it was that man, of whom Monsieur de Montfort had spoken to me, who had abused Adèle’s innocence.—While, giving way to the first outburst of my rage, I strode rapidly back and forth, swearing to be revenged, the unfortunate creature who had made so painful a confession had lost consciousness again. She lay on the floor, pale and lifeless. That sight recalled me to myself, and I blamed myself for my barbarity; for doubtless, after the confession of her wrongdoing, Adèle had heard the threats inspired by my despair, and I had added to her sufferings. I took her in my arms; as I gazed upon her sweet and lovely features, I promised to do my utmost to restore tranquillity, at least, if not happiness, to her heart. By my persistent efforts I restored her to consciousness once more; but she dared not look me in the face, she feared to read there an expression of contempt; she thought that I would not forgive her for giving me her hand when her honor was sullied, and she said again, in a heartrending tone, that there was nothing for her to do but to die.
"I sat down beside her, I took one of her hands, and begged her to listen quietly to me.
"‘Adèle,’ I said to her, ‘a villain has abused your innocence, your candor; it is he especially who is guilty; but have no fear, this misstep is hidden forever; no one will ever be able to divine it, your father shall never know it. I shall have only the name of your husband; I will be to you a brother, a friend, if you some day deem me worthy of that title. In marrying you, when your melancholy, your secret melancholy, should have convinced me that I had not your love, I made a mistake. Presuming too far, no doubt, I listened only to the passion which I felt, and flattered myself that I could make you share it. I must renounce all hope of that happy future; and yet I feel that it will still be sweet to me to pass my life with you, to try to allay your suffering, and to restore peace to your soul. Yes, such henceforth will be my only object; as the reward of my efforts, I hope only to see a smile upon your lips some day, and in your eyes a little affection for me.’
"Adèle pressed my hand, and said in a voice trembling with emotion:
"‘How kind you are, monsieur! and how much your conduct adds to the remorse I feel! But, since you will have it so, I will live; henceforth, dispose of my fate; I will have no other will than yours, even in the most trivial actions of my life; I trust that I may, by my entire submission, prove to you my respect and gratitude at least!’
"After such intense emotion, Adèle sorely needed rest. I left her in her room, and withdrew to mine. That is how the first night after our wedding passed! And when so many people were envying my happiness, I was consecrating that unfortunate bond by bitter tears.
"The next day I secretly made inquiries concerning the Chevalier de Savigny, but he had quitted Bordeaux, leaving an enormous amount of debts behind him, and no one knew in what direction he had gone. Everything that I learned about that young man convinced me that Monsieur de Montfort had not slandered him and that he was, in fact, a thorough rascal. And yet such a man had been able to make himself master of Adèle’s heart; but it is only too common a thing to see women misplace their love. However, I never mentioned his name before my wife; that would have compelled her to blush, and she had only too much remorse for her fault. It was enough for me to know her seducer’s name to be certain that he would never appear in my presence with impunity.
"I had determined upon my plan of conduct. We passed another fortnight with Monsieur de Montfort, and at the end of that time I announced that we were going to take a trip to Italy. My father-in-law, realizing that we were entitled to do only what we pleased, contented himself with wishing us a pleasant journey, caring very little in which direction we bent our steps. My wife and I started without a single servant, and began a journey which was not to come to an end until Adèle had brought into the world the child that she was bearing.
"We travelled through Italy, the Alps and Switzerland; more than six months had passed since our marriage, and we were in Auvergne, when Adèle felt that her time was at hand.
"Adèle’s health compelled us to stop in a small village, named, I think, Saint-Sandoux, about two leagues from here; I had taken the name of Gervais. There it was that she brought into the world a daughter, whom I caused to be baptised under the name of Isaure Gervais."
"Isaure!" cried Edouard, interrupting the baron; "what! can it be, monsieur, that Isaure is——"
"Adèle’s daughter, yes, Edouard; but, for heaven’s sake, let me finish this painful story.—I had made my plans long before; that child could not remain with her mother. I rode about the neighboring country, alone, carrying concealed beneath my cloak the innocent creature whom I desired to hate, and in whom, nevertheless, in spite of myself, I already felt an affectionate interest. I arrived in this valley, I entered the cottage then occupied by André Sarpiotte and his wife; she was nursing a young baby, and I proposed to her to be the nurse of the little girl whom I carried in my arms, inventing a story concerning Isaure’s birth and parents.
"The worthy Auvergnats accepted my proposition, which I supported with a purse filled with gold. They swore to me to take the greatest care of the child whom I entrusted to them; and being then more at ease in my mind, I returned to Adèle, to whom I announced that she could henceforth be at ease concerning the fate of her daughter; but I did not tell her where the child was.
"As soon as Adèle was restored to health we left Auvergne; but before returning to Paris and laying aside the assumed name I had taken upon my journey, I took pains to make several detours in order to avoid the possibility of anyone discovering what my honor was so much interested in concealing. At last we reached Paris, my dear Alfred! I had longed so to be there, in order to see you and to embrace you once more. There I introduced my new wife in society; and she, by her lovable qualities, readily won general esteem. A single thought still disturbed my tranquillity: I might meet in society my wife’s lover; but in that case his blood would have washed out the outrage that he had perpetrated on Adèle. However, my thirst for vengeance was constantly disappointed; I never saw or heard of the Chevalier de Savigny.
"Adèle never dared to mention her daughter; but she poured out upon you, my dear Alfred, the affection of a mother; caring nothing for society, desiring nothing but you, and liberty to kiss you, to lavish caresses upon you, how many times have I seen her, while covering you with kisses, furtively wipe away the tears that she shed for the child who was banished from her arms! And yet, never a complaint, never a word escaped her upon that subject; attentive and submissive to me, it seemed that in every action of her life she sought to show her gratitude to me. What a woman! And how fervently I would have adored her forever! Ah! even if she were guilty for one moment, how many others are there in society who are guiltier than she and have nothing to offer us to redeem their shortcomings!
"Five months after our arrival in Paris, I set out secretly for Auvergne, and went to see little Isaure, under the name of Gervais as before. The good people to whom I had entrusted her loved her as dearly as their own child. André at that time wanted to sell this house, which he had just built; it occurred to me that, if I should buy it, it would be convenient for me in the trips which I expected to make into this country. So I became, still under the name of Gervais, the owner of the White House. I furnished it so that I might have everything that I required when I came here; then, after making the peasants swear that they would not say that the owner of the White House was the same man who had placed Isaure in their charge, I returned to Paris, where I afforded Adèle the most delicious pleasure by giving her most satisfactory news of her daughter.
"Two years passed; every six months I came secretly to the White House. As soon as they saw a light here, André or his wife never failed to come and bring little Isaure to me. The child of those worthy peasants died and they promised to adopt Isaure to replace him whom they had lost; for I, on my part, had promised to leave the girl with them forever.
"Meanwhile, Adèle’s health was still poor; I believed her to be better than she really was, and she concealed her sufferings from me and always greeted me with a smile. Soon, however, it was impossible for me to delude myself as to her condition. Presuming that her grief at being separated from her daughter was the cause of the sorrow which was secretly undermining her health, I swore to her that before long I would devise some way to have the child brought to us, without running the risk of disclosing the secret of her birth. Adèle thanked me affectionately; but alas! it was too late; in a short time her disease made alarming progress, and soon I was forced to see the woman whom I adored fade away in my arms. She died, urging me never to abandon her daughter, to forgive her for her mother’s sin, and imploring me to love her Isaure a little.
"I will not attempt to describe my grief; I had never loved a woman so passionately as I had loved Adèle. But I still had you, my son; I tried to transfer all my affection to you. Meanwhile, faithful to the oath I had sworn to Adèle, I went to see Isaure again. André also had died, and his wife now had only her adopted daughter to console her; she trembled lest I had come to take her away; but I reassured her. Why should I have taken that girl away from these mountains? Could she not live here more happily than in society, where her birth would have interposed an obstacle to her marriage?
"After my Adèle’s death, life in Paris was painful to me; but for you, my dear Alfred, I should have left the capital and settled down in this solitary house. Amid these mountains, near little Isaure, who, by her features and her childish charms, reminded me so forcibly of her mother, I loved to come and dream of that unfortunate woman, who had known only the sorrows of love, and in such a brief life had never felt those pleasures, those delightful emotions, which seem the attributes of youth and beauty.
"But you were growing, my dear Alfred; already the world attracted you with its pleasant chimeras; it presented to your eyes only enjoyment, pleasures, happiness; you were at that age when man enjoys life; I was just leaving the circle which you were entering. So that it was easy for me to come more frequently to Auvergne without your noticing my frequent absences. I came here, and sometimes passed a whole fortnight here. But, as I was still afraid that someone would recognize me and mention my sojourn at the White House, I always arranged to arrive here at night, and I never left the White House except after dark. Hence the reports which the superstitious mountaineers spread about this house; but I urged André’s widow not to try to correct the error of the peasants; the fear which this place inspired in them seconded my wishes, by keeping everybody away from this building.
"The more I saw Isaure, the more my affection for her increased; kindly, sensitive, affectionate, she had her mother’s heart and mind. The solitary life to which her birth condemned her was likely to keep her in these mountains permanently. Doubtless, in order to avoid arousing suspicion, and causing the little goatherd to be noticed, I should have done well to allow her to remain as ignorant as the other peasants in this vicinity. But I delighted, in spite of myself, when talking with Isaure to enlighten her mind and to train her judgment; I thought that, destined as she was to live away from the world, reading would be to her a source of pleasure and of agreeable distraction. So I taught her to read. Isaure listened to me with so much attention and docility that she made rapid progress during the short time that I passed at the White House. Thus did she little by little acquire knowledge and manners which were not those of a peasant girl; but the pleasure that her progress caused me made me forget the dictates of prudence; I did not reflect that such a wealth of attractions, of charms, and of intelligence would some day impress the stranger who should come to this valley.
"Isaure loved me as her protector and knew me only by the name of Gervais. I had told her that her parents entrusted her to my care when they died; that she had no one else in the world who took any interest in her. It was useless to distress her heart by the story of her mother’s misery. I gave her Adèle’s portrait, which that unhappy creature had given to me for her daughter; but I made Isaure swear that she would never show that portrait to anyone, and that she would never mention me or my visits to the White House; and she has always kept her word.
"It is nearly three years since André’s widow died, leaving her cottage to Isaure, who enjoyed there all the comforts which I could provide without arousing too much suspicion. At the death of the excellent peasant woman, I gave the girl a faithful and vigilant guardian, and I myself tried to come more often to see my Adèle’s daughter. Only when the peaceful inhabitants of the mountains were sound asleep, would I announce to Isaure, by a light placed in a window in this house, that I had arrived. During the day, I amused myself by visiting on foot the most beautiful parts of Limagne; and not until night did I return here. Although alone amid the mountains, Isaure was happy none the less; she laughed in secret at the terror of the peasants, who believed her to be something of a sorceress because she had some knowledge in botany and owned a book in which the manner of raising and taking care of animals is treated; in fact, she often told me that she had no wish, no desire; that her whole happiness consisted in living in her pretty cottage, and in taking her flock to the mountains; but the sweet child did not know love. You came to this valley, you caused Isaure to experience a new sensation, more keen, more imperious, than all the others; henceforth this cottage, these flocks, this landscape were no longer sufficient for her happiness.
"Two days ago I came again to this spot; I saw Isaure; but she was no longer the same. I had no need to question her concerning the state of her heart; the sweet child candidly admitted that a young man named Edouard had come to her cottage with a friend of his; that this Edouard had come again day after day; that he had told her that he loved her, and desired to make her his wife. My son had not told me in which direction he was going with his two friends, and I was very far from suspecting that you were the Edouard of whom Isaure talked to me. But at the portrait which she drew of your refinement, of your manners, I concluded that, being a fashionable young man, you could not intend to marry a peasant girl; I saw in this lover whom she described as so attentive and so tender, only another villain who was scheming to deceive a defenceless girl. Such, Edouard, were the motives which led me to forbid Isaure to listen to you any more. You can appreciate also all the motives which led me not to allow the mystery which surrounded her birth to be suspected. I have revealed this painful secret to you; I have made to you this confession, which is so humiliating to my self-esteem. Now, if heaven grants that we find Isaure, and you still deem her worthy to be your wife, I shall no longer oppose that union, since you now know the whole truth."
Edouard pressed the hand which the baron held out to him, and said:
"I shall love Isaure no less now, monsieur. I shall see in her only the daughter of your Adèle. Her charms and her virtues atone sufficiently for the blot upon her birth. May she soon be restored to us! And it will be my greatest joy to call her my wife."
Alfred, after affectionately embracing his father, as if to make him forget all the griefs which his narrative had revived, offered his hand to Edouard, saying:
"Yes, Isaure must be restored to us. I love her as a brother now; but I will assist you; I shall not enjoy a moment’s repose until I have restored her to your arms."
"Poor Isaure!" said the baron. "Since she has been stolen from me, I realize all the strength of my attachment to her. Who can the men be who have taken her from her house? What motive can have inspired them? Robbers would have pillaged the house but would not have taken Isaure. Only a lover—but Isaure said that only you two came to this valley to see her. As for this wretch, this vagabond, of whom Alfred has spoken, what reason could he have had for stealing Isaure from us? And, indeed, how could he have compelled her to go with him?"
The baron and the young men lost themselves in conjectures; but they prepared to take the field once more. They went to Clermont-Ferrand to buy horses; they caused poor Vaillant to be taken to the house of honest peasants who promised to take the greatest care of him; they gave them the goats and all that composed the girl’s fortunes. Alfred took with him the sword which they had found in Isaure’s cottage; then all three plunged at random into the mountains, determined to visit every corner, even the hovel of the most destitute mountaineer, to search the least travelled paths, to undertake everything, in short, to find the maiden.