During the night when Alfred and Edouard went into the valley to spy upon Isaure’s actions, a man had constantly followed the two young men, keeping always in the shadow; that man, whom the reader will recognize as he who seemed to have no other home than the mountains, did not lose sight of the two friends; he seemed to take a great interest in having them learn the secret actions of the young girl, and to await impatiently the result of that discovery.
At the moment when Alfred recognized his father in the man who had left Isaure, and named him to Edouard, the vagabond, who was hiding close at hand, had made a sudden movement as if he would have rushed on the baron. But instantly he had checked himself, muttering:
"I have no weapons!" then he had walked rapidly away in the direction of the girl’s cottage.
Arrived in front of the cottage, he stopped, scrutinized it for a long while, and seemed to be meditating some scheme of vengeance. Suddenly his eyes lighted up, and a bitter smile played over his face as he muttered:
"That will be better, much better! If I had killed the baron, that would have been the end. Death is soon over; he would have suffered only a moment; but I have been suffering eighteen years; I will try to repay him what he has done to me. He must be very strongly attached to this girl, to conceal her in this place and to employ so much mystery about coming to see her. I must obtain possession of Isaure; to-morrow she shall be in my power. But in order to carry out this plan, I, too, must have weapons, and I have no money, absolutely none. The other night, but for the arrival of that Alfred, I should have found what I was looking for in the tower; but I still have time to go there again; yes, I have no other means of procuring what I want."
Thereupon, striding hurriedly along the country, and as quickly, despite the darkness, as if it were bright daylight, the vagabond took a cross road which shortened the distance to the Château of La Roche-Noire, where he arrived in a very short time. He soon stood before the small gate of the garden, to which he had a key; he opened it, entered the garden and walked toward the abandoned tower, where he arrived without meeting anyone. He rapidly mounted the winding staircase and did not stop until he reached the room where Alfred had found him two nights before. The most profound darkness reigned about him; he hesitated a moment, then drawing a flint and steel from his pocket, he decided to strike a light, at the risk of alarming the château again.
He always carried about him a small dark lantern, which had often been of great service to him at night in the mountains. It was soon lighted; then he searched in every corner of the room, which was formerly the arsenal of the château, for a weapon which was still in condition to be used. After hunting on all sides, and angrily throwing aside broken lances and rust-eaten sabres, he seized a sword which was still in reasonably good condition, and was about to depart, when he spied another, hanging on the wall in a recess. He walked to the spot, took it down, examined it and cried:
"Here it is! This is the one I was looking for! It was this sword with which I learned, in this room, to fight like a gentleman, to rid myself loyally of an enemy. Poor Richard, you were so fond of giving me lessons, and so proud of your young pupil’s talent! when you gave me this sword, you repeated to me again and again the Spanish motto: ‘Never draw it without reason; never sheathe it without honor!’"
The vagabond held the sword against his breast, and was about to throw aside the one he had taken first, but he checked himself, saying:
"No, this one will serve me to get rid of Vaillant, so that I may carry off the girl; at all events, the weapon of my youth will not be sullied by that act."
Thereupon, extinguishing his lantern and bestowing the two swords carefully under his enormous coat, the vagabond descended the winding staircase and left the tower and the château by the same road by which he had entered. Then, looking up at the sky, and reckoning how much of the night remained and how long it would take him to return to the cottage, he said in a low tone:
"It is too late to-night; I will do it to-morrow."
The next day, when night had spread its shadow over the country, the vagabond was in the valley; he scrutinized everything, nothing escaped his eye, nothing could mislead his prudence. He was certain that as yet there was no one in the White House, and that Isaure was alone in her cottage. He had anticipated everything, calculated all his chances; he soon stood beside the wall which enclosed the garden of the cottage, and placed on the ground, a few steps from the gate, one of his swords, saying:
"I will take you again when I come out."
Then, with the other in his hand, he easily scaled the low garden wall. He had not taken four steps when he heard Vaillant bark, and the dog rushed fiercely at him; but the vagabond, expecting that attack, had prepared to defend himself; advancing to meet the threatening beast, he buried the sword in his body; despite that wound, the dog leaped upon his foe and bit him savagely in the face and neck; but the loss of blood weakened him, and three more sword thrusts completed his discomfiture; poor Vaillant fell helpless at the vagabond’s feet, whereupon he threw aside the weapon he had used, and hastened upstairs to Isaure’s bedroom.
The girl was seated sadly by her window; the memory of Edouard was her sole comfort; she was not to see him again but she could continue to love him, and she abandoned herself entirely to that sentiment. When our wills and our desires are thwarted, we feel a secret satisfaction in saying to ourselves that we can at all events dispose of our hearts as we please; and women especially take refuge in that source of consolation, because they are much less at liberty to follow their wishes in their acts.
At the first yelp of her faithful guardian, Isaure started; she thought that someone was prowling about the house; she listened, and then called her dog:
"What is it, Vaillant? What has frightened you?"
"It is I," replied the vagabond, abruptly entering the girl’s room. Isaure uttered a cry of alarm at sight of that man, whose face and neck were covered with blood, and who glared at her with threatening eyes.
"Come! You must go with me, you must leave this house at once," said the stranger, approaching the pale and trembling Isaure with a savage expression. "Take some of your clothes, make a bundle of them, they will be useful to me, and give me all the money you have here; you must have plenty and we shall need it. Come! Do you hear me?"
Isaure had heard, but she could not believe her ears; she fell on her knees and raised her hands imploringly to the man who stood before her, crying:
"Monsieur, what are you going to do with me?"
"As I have told you, I am going to take you away, that is all."
"Take me away! Where are you going to take me?"
"Where I please! Ten thousand thunders! that doesn’t concern you."
"Oh! monsieur, see, my money is there in that drawer; it is all I have. Take the money, take my clothes; take what you will—but I implore you, do not take me away!"
The vagabond opened the drawer that the girl pointed out to him and filled his pockets with the money he found there, muttering:
"Good! Here’s enough to live on for a century in these mountains."
Then he turned, and finding Isaure still on her knees, in the same spot, he cried angrily:
"Well! didn’t you hear me? I told you to make a bundle of your clothes! Make haste!"
"Oh! mon Dieu! Do you still mean to take me away?" said Isaure, in an imploring voice.
"Do I mean to? Yes, that is why I forced my way into your house and braved death. This blood flowing from my face should prove to you that my resolution is not to be shaken, that I will allow neither your prayers nor your tears to change my mind. As for your shrieks, they would be thrown away, for no one can hear you; your protectors, your friends, are not near you now; your faithful guardian is dead."
"Vaillant dead!" exclaimed Isaure, with a cry of horror which was soon followed by a flood of tears.
"Yes, Vaillant is dead, or nearly so. Come! No words, no useless prayers! I say again—you must follow me willingly, or——"
The stranger took the girl’s arm and pressed it so violently that the pain nearly deprived her of strength; she could only falter:
"I will obey you, monsieur," whereupon the vagabond released her arm and pushed her roughly toward the bureau.
Having no idea what she was doing, or what was going to become of her, Isaure collected a few clothes at random, tied them in a handkerchief, took the bundle in her hand, and leaned against the wall in order not to fall.
"That is well," said the vagabond; "now give me your hand and come."
He took the hand which the girl tremblingly held out to him; he led her to the staircase, and seeing that she was staggering, compelled her to lean on his arm. When they arrived in the courtyard, Isaure saw Vaillant bathed in his blood; the faithful beast uttered a plaintive groan, and tried to rise to defend his mistress. At that sight, Isaure lost consciousness; she was falling to the ground when her guide caught her in his arms; and, throwing her over his left shoulder, walked toward the garden, preferring to go out that way rather than through the main gateway. He opened the small gate leading into the fields and picked up his sword which he had left there; then, notwithstanding the burden which he carried, he walked with a firm and swift step toward the mountains. It was a cold, rainy night, but the vagabond made rapid progress, although he took the steepest paths and the rough, winding roads by preference. From time to time he turned his head to glance at her whom he was carrying. Isaure was still unconscious, her lovely face had the pallor of death, and was wet with the rain which fell upon her whole body. But, little touched by the girl’s state, her abductor, after glancing at her, simply muttered:
"She will come out all right! This is not very serious!"
After walking a long while in this way, the stranger stopped on the top of a hill; he gazed about for some time, as if trying to make out where he was; then he placed the rain-soaked, unconscious girl on the ground, saying:
"I must take breath; she is not heavy, but after awhile the weight makes itself felt."
He gazed for some time at the body lying at his feet, which seemed already to belong to death; a bitter smile played about his lips while he gazed at Isaure, and he exclaimed:
"So here she is in my power, this girl whom the baron secretly comes to these mountains to see, this peasant whose education he has provided for, and whom he adores, no doubt! At last I am about to taste the pleasures of revenge! I wanted Alfred to abduct this girl, I tried to induce him to do all sorts of foolish things, and to fight with his friend; but all that would not have distressed the baron so much as the loss of this girl. Yes, I know what a man feels when another steals from him the woman whom he adores; I too loved Adèle; Adèle was mine; I had the right to look upon her as my wife; and yet he took her away from me!"
Several moments passed, the vagabond seemed entirely absorbed by his memories; but at last he looked at Isaure again and stooped over her, saying:
"She doesn’t come to herself! She doesn’t move! Suppose she should die! Oh! I do not want her to die! No, so long as she is with me, she may live,—but with De Marcey, never!"
He took the child’s head, raised it, rested it on his knee, and tried to warm Isaure’s icy hands in his. He felt in the bundle of clothes which he had carried away, and with the first thing he found wiped the poor child’s dripping face. At last, life seemed to return to her features, which had been so long inanimate; the beating of her heart became more rapid. Isaure opened her eyes, looked about her, and shuddered with dismay, when she found herself lying on the summit of a cliff, in the middle of the night, with her head resting against the breast of the man who had kidnapped her from her home.
"Calm yourself, be yourself again, and fear nothing," said the stranger.
"Oh! mon Dieu! Then it is not a dream!" cried Isaure, rising to her feet; "I am no longer in the home where I passed my childhood, in André’s cottage; and it is you who have taken me away! it is you who killed——"
"Yes," replied the vagabond coolly, "it was I who killed Vaillant, in order not to be torn to pieces by him; I had to do it. I would have sacrificed you too, if you had not consented to come with me."
"Unhappy creature that I am!"
"Come, come, don’t be afraid; you came with me, you are with me now, you have nothing to fear any more, that is to say, unless you make more fuss, unless you try to escape; but I fancy you will be reasonable, and will submit to your fate. I can very well understand that you would have preferred to live luxuriously in your cottage, where you had everything in abundance, where your mysterious protector allowed you to lack nothing; and, in short, where you were able to play the coquette with the young men who came to see you. That life was more agreeable for a young girl than the life you will lead with me—I agree to that. But you must make the best of it, for my will is irrevocable; your tears, your lamentations, your sighs, all will be thrown away on me. I have decided that you are not to leave me any more; but do not think that it is love which has led me to form this resolution. No! I am not in love with you, I have no sort of idea of seducing you. In that respect you may be perfectly tranquil. And yet you are pretty, very pretty indeed; but I give you my word that that is a matter of indifference to me."
These last words allayed in some measure Isaure’s grief and alarm; and fearing to irritate anew this man whose wrath seemed to her a terrible thing, she replied, forcing back her sobs:
"Well, monsieur, I will obey you; I will do whatever you command."
"That is well, that is very well; you are a good girl," said the vagabond, shaking Isaure’s hand; "in this way, we shall be good friends. But it must be nearly midnight, and we must resume our journey. Do you feel strong enough to walk? If you cannot, I will carry you; do not hesitate to say so."
"Oh! I can walk, monsieur."
"In that case, take my arm, lean on me, and let us go."
Isaure obeyed without comment; she took the arm of her guide, who had hung the bundle on the end of his sword, and carried it thus over his shoulder. They went on again through the rocky paths; they went away from Ayda, and reached the chain of hills which connects those of Cantal and of Puy-de-Dôme; Isaure was forced to cling to her companion’s arm in order to keep on her feet in the steep and slippery paths. They walked in silence, but sometimes the vagabond asked Isaure:
"Are you tired? Would you like to rest awhile?"
"No, monsieur, I can go on," the girl would reply; and they would continue their journey.
At last the dawn succeeded the dark and rainy night; Isaure’s guide, who had always taken pains to avoid passing through villages or near inhabited houses, stopped with the girl on the slope of a mountain, looked about him and said:
"Let us rest here until we can see a little better; I do not think that I can be mistaken; we must be near the end of our journey. An hour more at most. But here is the daylight, and we must not go astray."
He sat down on the ground, and Isaure did the same, seating herself a few steps away. Depressed and dejected, she dropped her head upon her breast and did not utter a word. The vagabond looked at her a moment and then turned his face in another direction, saying:
"She is not in the mood for talking; I can understand that."
After a quarter of an hour, they could see to recognize the different roads. Isaure’s companion smiled and said:
"I was not mistaken. I know this country so well. I have travelled all over it so many times in my youth and also within the last few months—Come, my girl, forward; one league more, and you will be able to rest as long as you please."
Isaure rose and took her guide’s arm once more. They descended the mountain, then turned to the left, along the narrow, winding path cut in the side of the cliff. Every moment their road became more difficult; they were in an arid, uncultivated region, where man seemed never to have trodden; only at rare intervals did they perceive a shepherd’s hut, and the wild goats that sometimes passed near them fled at their approach, as if unaccustomed to the presence of man. After walking a long while through this deserted tract, they found themselves at the entrance of a path running between two very high cliffs, which were so near together at the top that the daylight hardly reached the narrow path, which was more than eighty feet below their summits.
Along this dark and gloomy way, the vagabond guided Isaure’s steps; the girl shuddered as she entered that defile which the cliffs seemed to threaten to fill up.
"Oh! mon Dieu!—is this the way?" she said, trembling as she spoke.
"Yes, this is the way, and we have arrived," replied her companion, stopping in front of a small wooden house on the left of the path, close against the cliff, which overhung it; externally it resembled the habitation of a quarryman.
Isaure gazed at the wretched structure, which she presumed was to be her abode, but she said nothing; she allowed her tears to fall in silence and made no further attempts to move by her prayers the man who had brought her to that wild spot.
Judging from its outside, the house seemed to be of little extent; it had one floor above the ground, with a window under the roof. Below, there was a single window by the side of the door; and everything was in such a dilapidated state that it seemed that one might overturn the wretched hovel with a kick.
Isaure’s companion placed the sword and bundle on a wooden bench beside the door; then he knocked and shouted in a voice which echoed loudly along the path:
"Holà! Charlot! Are you still asleep, you sluggard? Get up; it is your friend; it is the vagabond!"
For some time, not a sound was heard; at last they could distinguish slow and heavy steps, which seemed to come from the back of the house. They approached, however; the door opened and a little man of some sixty years, lean and lank, of a livid pallor, and with red-rimmed eyes, whose expression was lifeless and stupid, appeared on the threshold of the wooden house, with his feet and part of his legs bare, but with the rest of his body covered with goat-skins held in place by leather thongs, while upon his head he wore the brimless crown of an old straw hat.
This man, whom Isaure’s companion had called Charlot, showed neither surprise nor curiosity as he stared at the persons in front of his abode, but he held out his hand to the vagabond, saying in a slow, guttural voice:
"Ah! it is you? It is a long time since you came to see me."
"Yes, true, but this time I think I have come to see you for a long time," replied Isaure’s guide; "I have brought you some company, as you see."
As he spoke, he pointed to the girl, at whom Charlot glanced indifferently, saying:
"Oh, yes! it’s a woman!"
"But let us go in, first of all; we shall have time enough to talk then," said the vagabond, motioning to Isaure to enter the house. The poor girl had difficulty in determining to comply; she cast a glance backward; she was afraid that she was looking at the sky for the last time; but her companion pushed her roughly, and she was soon in Charlot’s disgusting abode, the door of which was instantly closed behind her.
The interior of the house consisted of a room of considerable size, on the lower floor, with several beams in the centre, supporting the upper floor; on the left was a huge fireplace, in which a man could have stood without stooping; on the right there was a staircase leading to the room above. A few stools, several earthen vessels and some straw composed the furniture.
Isaure could hardly see, her eyes were so full of tears; she seated herself in the corner of the room, where the daylight hardly penetrated, because the cliff hung far over the house. She supposed that she was to be taken to the upper room, and waited silently till she should learn her fate; but the vagabond made a sign to Charlot, who thereupon went to the other end of the room, and, pushing aside one of the boards of the partition, disclosed to view a passage much better lighted than the interior of the house.
"Come this way," said Isaure’s guide, motioning to her to rise; she obeyed; he led her through that narrow opening and she found herself at one end of an excavation, where she was overjoyed to see the sky once more. This excavation, which was thirty feet in circumference, was surrounded on all sides by the earth; it resembled the bottom of a well, except that it was much larger; but the light which came from above was much stronger than it was inside of the house, because there was nothing above to shut it out from that species of quarry. At one end of this place, a second house had been built, also of wood, but it consisted only of a ground floor. It was this retreat, undiscoverable to the eye of travellers, that the young girl, who had always lived in a fertile and lovely valley, was forced to enter.
"This is your lodging from this time," said the vagabond, as he led Isaure into the house at the end of the excavation. "You see that it was not without reason that I chose to bring you here; this retreat can be found only by those who are familiar with it. People might search the house in front, on the path, and never suspect that there was another house behind. This place can be seen only by those who are up yonder on the cliff, eighty feet above us. But as that cliff is frightfully steep and is on the path to nowhere, no one ever thinks of climbing it, only from time to time a wild goat. So I am perfectly easy in my mind, no one will find you here. This is not so charming and cheerful a home as that which you have occupied, I agree; but what would you have? I had no choice. So make the best of it, and try to accustom yourself to your new quarters. You will be entirely free to follow your own devices from morning to night—except as to going out. Here is a room of good size, where you can make yourself at home; there is a bed, a table, a bench—it is the best furnished room in the house. If I can find a small piece of looking-glass, I will bring it to you; I know that women think a great deal of that. Try to calm yourself and to dry your tears; I tell you again, your virtue is safer here than it is in the neighborhood of the White House. This place seems horrible, ghastly to you now! But you will become accustomed to it, because one gets used to everything!"
Having delivered this speech, the vagabond left Isaure alone in her dismal abode, and returned with Charlot to the house on the path. There, seating himself in front of his taciturn friend, he said to him:
"Charlot, I saved your life once, two months ago, when, as you were chasing a goat, you were on the point of rolling over a precipice, and I, running after you, succeeded in reaching you my stick and pulling you away from the hole into which you were about to fall."
"I haven’t forgotten it," replied the old shepherd in a low voice.
"True," rejoined the vagabond, "since that time you have shown the most absolute devotion to me; when I had no bread, I came here, and I was sure that you would share with me all that you possessed. That is well, Charlot; you are grateful, you have treated me better than many wealthy gentlemen have done, and many women of the world; but that is not enough; to-day you must allow me to make use of your house as I choose.—Here is money for it—take all that you wish."
The vagabond spread out before the old shepherd’s eye the money that he had taken from Isaure’s house; Charlot looked at it indifferently and replied simply:
"If I haven’t any house, where shall I live?"
"You will live here as always,—indeed, that is necessary; the girl will occupy the second house, and I shall sleep here, upstairs. But you must swear to me on your life, that you will tell no one that you have anybody living with you."
"Who should I tell? I never see anybody."
"But if by chance any travellers should come here, I shall retire at once to the house behind, and you will never disclose the existence of that secret dwelling."
"No, no!"
"Do you swear it?"
"Swear? I tell you no, that is enough."
"In truth, I place more faith in your promise than in other people’s oaths; but you do not take this money?"
"What for? I don’t want it."
"Well, I will give you some when you go to buy provisions. You will have to go a long distance, and buy at different places, in order not to arouse the slightest suspicion. With this sum and your skill in killing wild goats and in snaring birds, we have enough to live on for years. Well, is it agreed? Do we live together?"
"Yes."
"And you will not mention us to anyone?"
"No."
"And you will never open your door to a traveller until I have gone to the house behind?"
"Never."
These arrangements completed, the vagabond ascended to the upper room, threw himself upon a heap of straw and went to sleep; the old shepherd, who passed a large part of his time in slumber, did the same in the room below. Isaure alone remained awake, on her knees in the vile hovel to which she had been consigned; she held up her hands imploringly to heaven, she raised her eyes, whence the tears flowed in streams, and in her despair had not the strength to utter a single word.
There is in extreme wretchedness a last burst of strength, of courage; when one has reached the climax of misfortune and is compelled to abandon all hope of a happier lot, then it seems that one feels a secret consolation in being able to defy destiny to deal us any additional blow.
Such was now Isaure’s plight—that gentle, timid maiden, forcibly removed from the home she loved and had lived in since her infancy, from her protector and from her lover, to dwell in a miserable hovel hidden in the centre of the earth, with no other company than two men, one of whom was the author of her trials and the other seemed entirely insensible to them; and yet she had succeeded in surmounting her despair. Her eyes no longer shed tears, at least in the presence of her two companions; no complaint escaped from her lips; and when she spoke to the man who had torn her from her home, it was with gentleness and docility, instead of with eyes gleaming with wrath, and with tones that expressed the horror with which he must have inspired her.
Several days had passed since the vagabond had concealed Isaure in the old shepherd’s house, and the girl’s conduct seemed to surprise him. He often sat and gazed at her in silence, for whole hours at a time. The more he looked at her, the more his surprise seemed to increase. One morning, when the old shepherd had gone out on the mountain, and the vagabond, alone with Isaure in the excavation, in front of the door of the rear house, had been gazing a long while at the girl as she worked patiently, sewing goat-skins together, he was so amazed at her mild and placid demeanor that he could not help exclaiming:
"You amaze me, girl; really I am beginning to think that I judged you wrongly, and that you really deserve the good opinion that the two friends had conceived of you. Your docility, your innocence—No, that young Edouard was not wrong to love you, to desire to marry you.—But that man whom you went secretly to see in the White House—what bond was there between you and him? How long have you known him? Come, speak,—answer me frankly."
A feeling which Isaure could not define, but which was not fear, led her to always obey the stranger promptly; so she answered with a sigh:
"I have known Monsieur Gervais since my childhood."
"Monsieur Gervais! Ah! so he never told you that he was the Baron de Marcey?"
"No, monsieur, I never have called him anything but Gervais, and it was by that name that my adopted parents, André and his wife, knew him."
"Yes, I understand; he preferred to remain unknown. Either you are a natural child of his, or, suspecting that you would become pretty some day, he intended to make you his wife."
"His wife! ah! monsieur, my protector loves me as his daughter; but he has often told me that my parents were dead."
"Was it he who placed you with the peasants?"
"Yes, monsieur. At first he came to see me very seldom, then he came oftener. When I was very small he used to take me in his arms, and kiss me and play with me. Then, when I grew up, he used to make me talk; then he taught me to read and to write, and to speak differently. He said that I learned quickly, and that it was a pity that I should be ignorant, like the people of the mountains."
"And then?"
"That is all, monsieur."
"He did not tell you that some day he would take you into the world, that he would provide you with pleasures innumerable?"
"No, he never told me that."
"And when you knew Edouard, and loved him, did you confess that to him?"
"Yes, monsieur; oh! I concealed nothing from him."
"What did he say to you then?"
"He scolded me, but very gently. He told me that I did wrong to love Edouard; that I must forget him, give up all hope of him; that he would never be my husband."
"I was sure of it! It was not for others that he brought you up in secret, that he attended to your education. No! he was acting for himself! Ah! he must love you dearly, to do as he has done. And I have deprived him of your presence, your caresses; I have wrecked all his plans of happiness for the future. So I am revenged at last!"
A ferocious smile lighted up the vagabond’s features. Isaure looked away in terror. After a few moments he said to her:
"Do not think that it was for the sole purpose of doing evil that I took you away from your home; I have had many failings, vices even, but to do evil for the sole purpose of doing it never occurred to me; and although I have many reasons for detesting men, I do them justice enough to believe that they would rarely be wicked if they did not find some advantage in it. Listen to me, my girl; I am going to tell you why I stole you from your protector. I am aware that I owe you no account of my acts, and that I am at perfect liberty to withhold this confidence from you; but your mildness, your submission, arouse my interest. Yes, the more I see you, the better I know you, the more you astonish me; I am making you unhappy, I know; and yet I would like to see you happy. What a strange effect is produced by beauty combined with kindness of heart and virtue! I believed that those things could never touch my heart again, but you prove to me that I was mistaken."
Isaure raised her eyes to the vagabond’s face; they wore an indescribable expression as she said to him:
"Ah! monsieur, I, too, feel that I would be glad to like you, even though you make me so unhappy; I cannot hate you as I should!"
"Nonsense! hush, my girl, and do not look at me like that," replied the vagabond, turning his face away to conceal his emotions. "Yes, I am pleased with your submission, but your fate will be the same, nevertheless, because it cannot be otherwise; and notwithstanding the interest you arouse in me, I would strike you dead if I saw the Baron de Marcey on the point of rescuing you from my hands. Do not be so alarmed; that can never be; you see that I have taken my precautions too well for that. Let us return to what I was about to tell you,—my reasons for my conduct; and since destiny has united us forever, learn to know the man with whom you are to pass the rest of your life.
"I was not born in poverty, as you must have surmised. My youth was passed in a château; my early days were lived in the lap of luxury, surrounded by numerous servants whose only desire was to anticipate all my wishes. What a change! and ought I to have expected to end in this wretched plight? However, man ought to expect everything, when he is unable to overcome his vices and to resist his passions. But I verily believe that misfortune has taught me to indulge in moral reflections. Of all the changes it has wrought in me, that is not the least surprising!"
The vagabond was silent for some moments; he had taken out his pipe, which he filled and lighted, then he resumed his discourse, interrupting it only to take his pipe out of his mouth from time to time.
"The two young men who came to see you so often were staying at the Château de la Roche-Noire, two leagues from your house; they probably told you so?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, it was in that same château that I passed my youth; it then belonged to one of my aunts, a most respectable old dowager, who allowed me to do exactly as I chose from morning to night. I had lost my other relations; I possessed a considerable fortune, to say nothing of that which my aunt would probably leave me; now, she considered that a noble and wealthy young man could never be his own master and misbehave himself in the world too soon. The poor dear woman! she was terribly mistaken! So I began very early to do foolish things! Women, cards, the table, wine, offered attractions which I did not even try to resist; I found it so natural to gratify my passions, my most trivial desires. I had been so accustomed to follow only my own will, that I scattered gold lavishly in order to remove all obstacles from my path. This mode of life soon acquired for me a reputation in society at which I snapped my fingers. I was the terror of fathers and brothers and husbands; for my greatest happiness consisted in seducing some young beauty, in winning her love, and then abandoning her to her regrets."
"Oh! mon Dieu!" said Isaure; "how can one take pleasure in deceiving those who love one?"
"You can’t imagine that, my girl, for you have never lived in the world, you have no idea of all that goes on there; you do not know that love is treacherous, friendship is selfish, virtues rare, and gratitude almost non-existent. If you knew that frivolous world as I do, perhaps you would consider yourself less unfortunate to live in a hole. But to return: I soon squandered the fortune which my parents had left me; my old aunt died and her inheritance put me on my feet again; I travelled a great deal in search of new enjoyments, of new faces, and sometimes to escape the vengeance of a father or of a husband; I was, I admit, a very sad scamp.
"Chance took me to Bordeaux. I met there a charming young lady, whom her father, a crabbed old naval officer, kept in the strictest retirement. But bolts, locks and duennas were no obstacles to me; I succeeded in making my way to Adèle’s presence; I was even received at her father’s house. But I took great pains to conceal my past misconduct. I was then young and well-built; my features were not worn by privation, my eyes sunken by fatigue; I was well adapted to please. I had, above all, the art of appearing to be in love; but upon this occasion my passion was not feigned; Adèle aroused in me a sentiment which I had never felt for any other woman; credulous and affectionate as she was, it was not difficult for me to win her love, to seduce her, to triumph over her innocence. But I swear to you that, weary of the life I was leading, my purpose, my sole desire was to marry Adèle. Unluckily, her father, having made some inquiries concerning me, refused to receive me any more. Soon I was compelled by a duel to leave the city, but I left it persuaded that Adèle would be faithful to me. Many circumstances combined to assure me that she would never marry another, and I still retained the hope of calling her my wife; imagine my rage, therefore, when, on returning to Bordeaux, six months later, I learned that Adèle had been married a long while, that she was travelling with her husband, and that no one knew where she then was! Thus this Adèle, so gentle and so loving, who had given me so many rights over her,—she, too, had deceived me!"
"Oh! she was doubtless forced to obey her father; and as she loved you, she must have been terribly unhappy!"
"Yes, yes; I was told that her father had forced her into this marriage; but the man who married her was none the less a dastard; he must have known; Adèle must have told him,—no, she could not be his! Well! that man who stole from me the woman whom I loved, who deprived me of the only real happiness that it was in my power to enjoy, was your mysterious protector, the Baron de Marcey! Consider now whether it is sweet for me to revenge myself, and whether I was justified in tearing you away from his love!"
"Oh! monsieur, my protector probably had no idea when he married the unfortunate Adèle that he was wrecking her happiness and yours!"
"Yes, he must have known it! On learning of this marriage, I determined at once to seek out the baron and kill him, or to meet death at his hands; but his whereabouts at that time were not known, and I soon had to fly myself, in order to escape certain creditors who were pursuing me; I sold my estate of La Roche-Noire, and went over to England; I tried to deaden my suffering by new dissipation; but it seemed that from that moment misfortune followed at my heels. The gaming table carried away a large part of my fortune; women and false friends took the rest. I returned to France. In the days of my prosperity, I had lent money, I had been very generous in accommodating my friends; I applied to them in my turn, but I could obtain nothing,—the wretches!
"I learned that Adèle had died three years after her marriage with the baron, and had left no children; it was important for me to know that circumstance. The baron’s grief avenged me in part, but it was not enough; and I should have tried doubtless to inflict other troubles upon him, if the deplorable condition of my affairs had not forced me to leave the country again in order to avoid arrest.
"I went to Italy and Spain; I was no longer the same man, I was no longer the brilliant rake, admired by women, and dreaded by my rivals. Compelled to seek constantly new means of gaining a livelihood, I did not blush to ally myself with base schemers, contemptible creatures whom a few years earlier I would have driven from my house! But what was I to do? Work? I did not know how, and the idea of work was intolerable to me. I speedily adopted the habits, the low manners of the dregs of mankind who live without visible means of existence; I fell into the lowest degradation, in short; for that is where vice leads us. Sometimes indeed I cast a glance backward; I bestowed a memory and a tear on the past; I blushed for myself; and more than once I have tossed away in disgust this pipe, which idleness and degradation had placed in my mouth, and which has since become my only pleasure, my only diversion.
"However, amid my disorderly life, amid my debauchery, I still retained a feeling of honor; I never shared in the villanous trickeries which the men with whom I lived committed; they laughed at what they called my principles. Disgusted by the language of those wretches, I left them at last, and determined to return to my country; above all, to visit once more this Auvergne, where I had passed the happiest days of my life. So I returned on foot, almost penniless. But many years had passed since my departure, and so I was not afraid of being recognized. I reached this province several months ago. I had left here some friends and acquaintances, but some of them were dead, others were in foreign countries. I tried to make myself useful to travellers, to obtain work; but it seemed that something about me repelled all those to whom I offered my services. I made the best of it; I entered the mountaineer’s cabin, and never yet has an Auvergnat denied me bread and entertainment. Thus it was that I saw once more my old aunt’s château, the domain of La Roche-Noire, where I had been brought up. I found a way to enter the château secretly; and at night, while the new owner was asleep, I loved to wander about the old tower, to gaze once more on the walls which had witnessed my childish sports, the porches and galleries which had echoed the accents of my joys. There, engrossed by my recollections, I have more than once forgotten thirty years of my life and been happy once more."
The vagabond dropped his head upon his breast, heaved a sigh and stopped. Isaure, who had been deeply moved by the close of his narrative, had approached him involuntarily, and said to him in a voice that trembled with emotion:
"Ah! you have been very unhappy!"
The vagabond raised his eyes, and looked at her, and seemed more deeply impressed by her features and the tone of her voice.
"It is most surprising!" he cried. "I fancied that I heard her voice! It seems to me that I see her once more!"
"Whom?" asked the girl gently.
"The woman whom I loved best, and who was stolen from me! Yes, you have her features, the same sweet expression—or perhaps it is only a delusion.—However, the sight of this country had almost made me forget the Baron de Marcey; I still hated him, but I would not have left these mountains to find him. Fate, however, has enabled me to take my revenge. First of all, I learned that Edouard’s friend, that Alfred was the baron’s son by his first marriage."
"Alfred, my protector’s son?" cried Isaure.
"Yes, he is his son, and that is why I urged him more than once to abduct you. I tried to persuade him to do all sorts of wild things, even to fight with Edouard! By ruining the son, I hoped to avenge myself on the father. But Alfred was weak enough to renounce his love. I do not know what I should have determined upon. Perhaps I should have sought my vengeance in his blood! But fate has served me better. I learned from Alfred himself that the man of the White House was his father; thereupon, changing my plans, I determined to repay the baron a part of the anguish he has caused me, by obtaining possession of you. I have succeeded; you are parted from him forever.—Now, my girl, you know all, you know the motive which has led me to take you to this undiscoverable retreat."
"Oh! mon Dieu!" said Isaure, falling on her knees, and raising her hands to heaven; "I am most unhappy, assuredly; but if, by remaining in this place, I save my protector’s life, and his son’s, I shall not complain, and I submit to my fate without a murmur."
Touched by the girl’s demeanor, the vagabond allowed her sometimes to breathe the fresh air in front of the hovel; at such times Charlot kept watch at some little distance; and at the slightest sound, at the approach of any person, Isaure and her companion would return to the inner house. But it rarely happened that a traveller passed along that rocky path, which was at a distance from all the travelled roads. In the fortnight that she had been in the house, Isaure had seen only a few goats, which had shown their heads over the edge of the hole, in which her abode was situated; but no murmur escaped the lips of her who was now leading such a melancholy existence. She seemed to be submissive to her fate; and if she sometimes uttered Edouard’s name, it was because she believed herself to be alone, because she thought that she was musing when she pronounced her lover’s name.
At such times, to comfort the poor child, the author of her misfortunes said to her coldly:
"Your Edouard would have been no better than the rest; his love would have passed away, because everything passes away in this life; and then he would have deceived and abandoned you, or else he would have repented marrying you and would have reproached you harshly."
Isaure made no reply; but she did not believe that Edouard would have behaved thus; her heart told her that he would always have loved her dearly; that, although he no longer saw her, he constantly thought of her; that idea was the last consolation, the last ray of happiness that the poor child had; why should she not try to retain it?
In the long hours which she passed in solitude, she was always thinking of Edouard; sometimes she involuntarily called him; perhaps all hope was not banished from her heart; but when her courage failed her, when she felt more keenly the horror of her new existence, she took from her breast the locket which she kept carefully hidden there; and, after assuring herself that she was quite alone, that no one could see her, she covered with kisses the portrait which she had been told was her mother’s, and which she had sworn never to show to anyone. Indeed, she had no idea that the sight of that beloved image could possess any interest to those with whom she was condemned to pass her life.
Three weeks had passed since Isaure had been taken to Charlot’s house; during that time, only two shepherds had appeared in the neighborhood, and they had not entered the narrow path, but had followed the road which passed at the end of it. So the vagabond believed that although he was only twelve leagues at most from the White House, his captive was more difficult to find than if he had taken her into another province.
Isaure was seated on the bench in front of the outer house; it was mid-day, but the weather was bad and no one was likely to be tempted to travel through the mountains. However, the old shepherd was keeping watch on a cliff near by, and the vagabond himself, who was a few yards away from Isaure, also watched keenly.
Suddenly, old Charlot gave the signal agreed upon to warn him of someone’s approach. The vagabond hastily entered the hovel with the girl, and soon the old shepherd joined them there.
"What is it?" the vagabond asked Charlot.
"I saw three men in the distance on the mountain."
"Three men! Are they coming in this direction?"
"They act as if they didn’t know where they wanted to go."
"Remain in this cabin; if these men knock at the door, open at once, don’t keep them waiting, and let them come in and rest; if they want refreshment, give them only bread and water; if they ask you questions, you know what you are to answer."
Charlot nodded and returned to his house. The passage leading to the inner house was carefully secured. The vagabond made Isaure go in; she had started when she heard mention of three travellers; a secret presentiment seemed to tell her that they were her protector, with his son and Edouard, searching for her. But the vagabond’s eye had become threatening. He had seized his sword, which had been hidden in a corner of the excavation, and seizing Isaure’s arm, he said to her in a menacing voice:
"If a single cry escapes you while those strangers are with Charlot, if you try to reveal your presence, I swear that I will kill you! Do you swear, therefore, that you will keep the most absolute silence?"
"I swear," replied Isaure, trembling from head to foot; thereupon the vagabond left her in her room and returning to the hole, walked to the boards which formed the rear of Charlot’s house, and placing his eye at a wide crack, saw everything that took place in the room that looked on the path; more than ten minutes passed, and no one arrived; the old shepherd was beginning to think that the travellers whom he had seen had taken another road, when footsteps were heard; they stopped in front of the house and a voice exclaimed:
"Here is a house, at all events."
The vagabond started at that voice, for he recognized it as Edouard’s. There was a knock at the door, Charlot opened, and the vagabond shuddered as he saw the Baron de Marcey, Edouard and Alfred enter.
"Excuse us, my friend, if we disturb you," said the baron, while the young men glanced curiously about them. "We are tired; the roads are so bad in these mountains that we were obliged to leave our horses in the village below; may we rest a moment here?"
"Yes, messieurs, sit down," replied Charlot calmly. Thereupon the three travellers seated themselves upon some straw, and Alfred, taking a sword from beneath his cloak, placed it beside him. The vagabond could not avoid a thrill of horror as he recognized the weapon he had used against Vaillant. But he was conscious of a savage joy when he saw the grieved and melancholy expression in the eyes of the two young men and the baron.
"Do you live alone here?" the baron asked the old shepherd.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Do you ever entertain travellers here?"
"Oh! hardly anybody ever comes here."
"And you do not remember having seen a man with a young girl?"
"No."
"Listen!" said Alfred to Charlot; "we are looking for a lovely young woman, whom one or more wretches have stolen from her house; if her abductors did not come here, it is possible that they passed through this neighborhood, that you have heard someone speak of them. If you can give us any information concerning her for whom we are looking, you will be handsomely rewarded."
"I don’t know anything and I haven’t seen anyone," replied Charlot, with cold indifference.
"So all our search is vain!" cried Edouard, in a despairing tone. "Dear Isaure! We shall never be able to find you, to see you again; we do not know even in what direction to look for you!"
The baron took Edouard’s hand and tried to allay his grief, although it was easy to see that he was no less affected himself. Alfred rose; he examined the place where they were, and, noticing the staircase, said to Charlot:
"You have another room upstairs?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I suppose it looks on the narrow path by which we came; could we rest more comfortably there than here?"
Without awaiting the old shepherd’s reply, Alfred went to the upper room, but he found it empty, and came sadly down again, seated himself by his companions and said:
"We shall be quite as comfortable here."
"This part of the mountains is quite unfrequented," said the baron. "How do you manage to live here?"
"I go to the village and buy bread enough to last ten days."
"What a dismal place to live in!" said Alfred. "How in the deuce can a man make up his mind to pass his life here?"
"Poor Isaure!" said Edouard, "who knows that you are not living in some hovel as wretched as this? Three weeks have passed already since you were torn away from our love, and no indication,—nothing to lead us to hope that we are on the track of your abductors!"
The three travellers were silent for a long time. The vagabond, hidden behind the partition at the rear, did not take his eyes from them, and did not leave his place; after half an hour, the baron rose, saying:
"Let us go on; it is useless to remain here any longer."
"Yes, let us go," said Alfred, "and let us try to remember the road, so that we need not go over the same ground twice, which would cause us to waste time. However, this place is easily recognized; I have seen few spots so wild, so melancholy as this, where somebody has thought fit to build this house.—Well, Edouard, are you coming?"
Edouard rose, casting a last glance at the walls of the hut, and walked slowly off with his companions. Soon their steps died away along the path, then the travellers disappeared altogether from the sight of Charlot, who was looking after them from the doorway.
Thereupon the vagabond returned triumphantly to Isaure, crying:
"It was they! but they haven’t the slightest suspicion, and they have gone away from this place, and will never return to it!"
"It was they!" murmured the girl; it seemed to her then that she had been torn once more from those whom she loved; she had not yet experienced such a feeling of anguish; her last hope was gone; and she fell, sobbing, at the vagabond’s feet.
The Baron de Marcey and the two friends searched with the utmost care every village and hamlet in Auvergne. The shepherd’s hut, the ploughman’s cottage, the most wretched hovel did not escape their notice. Wherever they went, they asked questions, made inquiries, described Isaure, and promised money to anyone who should furnish information concerning the girl. Everywhere their search was fruitless, their investigations without result, and each day that passed took away a part of the hope that sustained them.
Edouard had sunk into the lowest depths of despair. Since he had known that Isaure really loved him, that no other than he had made her heart beat faster, his love had become more intense. He reproached himself bitterly for the suspicions he had conceived, for the tears he had caused the poor child to shed. The thought of not seeing her again, of having no opportunity, by the power of his love, to make her forget the grief that he had caused her, crushed him and made him insensible to every other sentiment. If the baron’s grief was less keen, one could see by his melancholy expression and by his careworn brow how profoundly he regretted the lovable child upon whom he had bestowed so much care. Indeed, he often accused himself of the disaster that had befallen Isaure.
"If I had kept her with me," he said, "if I had not banished my Adèle’s daughter from my arms, I should not now be deprived of her caresses."
Alfred, whose temperament made it easier for him to overcome grief, did his utmost to distract his father and Edouard in some measure; when they lost all hope, he strove earnestly to renew it, saying:
"Why should we despair? We may find Isaure just when we least expect it; she may escape from the place where she is undoubtedly detained against her will; then she will hasten back to her cottage near the White House. Who knows that she has not returned there now?"
That hope led them back to the little valley. After more than six weeks employed in scouring the mountains, they returned to Isaure’s home; but they found the same solitude as before. She whom they sought had not reappeared in the neighborhood of Chadrat, and even Alfred himself seemed to lose all hope.
Before going to the White House to repair the fatigue of their toilsome journey, the baron and the young men went to the cottage of the peasant with whom they had left Vaillant. They were afraid that they might not find Isaure’s faithful defender alive; but their fears speedily disappeared: they were a hundred yards from the Auvergnat’s house when a noble dog came out and ran toward them with every manifestation of the liveliest joy. It was Vaillant, his wounds entirely healed; he fawned upon the baron, then ran to Alfred and Edouard and licked their hands as if to thank them for assisting him and dressing his wounds when he lay dying in the yard of the cottage. The three travellers, overjoyed to find the gallant creature, who had nearly died for his mistress, well and strong again, returned his caresses. But suddenly, ceasing his demonstrations of joy, Vaillant began to walk about them, as if in search of something; he looked at the house, then took his stand in front of the travellers again.
"Alas! my poor old Vaillant!" said Edouard, "are you looking for someone else? Are you asking us if we have brought back your mistress? No! she is lost to us—perhaps forever!"
The dog looked closely at Edouard; he seemed to understand his grief; he made no sound, but contented himself with walking silently beside him to the house of the peasants, whom they rewarded handsomely for the care they had taken of Vaillant. Then they returned to the White House, where they proposed to remain until they had decided what further steps to take.
The winter had come; it had scattered afar the dead leaves from the trees, it had stripped the shrubs and withered the grass. The winter is sharper and more severe in mountainous regions; nature there assumes a more melancholy and imposing aspect. Snow had fallen in abundance in the little valley; the roof of the White House was covered with it, and the garden displayed the combination of dried and blackened branches and the brilliant glare of the snow. However, despite the inclemency of the season, despite the depressing aspect of the country, the Baron de Marcey, his son and Edouard remained in Auvergne, living in the White House, going forth each day to visit some point in the neighborhood. A secret hope detained them in the place where Isaure had lived; they could not make up their minds to leave it.
Vaillant always accompanied the gentlemen who were seeking his mistress; it seemed that the dog was desirous to dig through the snow to the ground, hoping to find there Isaure’s footprints. They saw him stop more than once and scratch violently; then look uneasily to the right and the left; but the blanket of snow that covered the ground seemed to perplex him and to arrest his advance.
As the baron and the young men often went in different directions, Vaillant was sometimes with one and sometimes with another. Every day they acquired fresh proofs of his intelligence; every day he was pleased and joyous when they left the White House to pursue their search, but he always returned silent and sad.
Alfred argued that they would not succeed in finding Isaure by staying always in the same place; he did not believe that her abductors had remained in Auvergne, and he urged his father and his friend to bid that province farewell for some time. Certain business matters required the baron’s presence in Paris; they agreed to go thither for a short time, and then to resume their search.
But Edouard suggested making one more circuit of the mountains before leaving Auvergne, upon which he regretted to turn his back. Although they looked for no success from that course, Alfred and the baron acceded to his wish. One fine winter’s day the three started on foot, accompanied by the faithful Vaillant. They wrapped and wound themselves in enormous cloaks, and Alfred still carried under his the sword they had found in Isaure’s house.
The travellers walked a large part of the day over roads which the snow had made very hard to travel. They passed the night in a village, and, as their search had been no more successful than usual, they prepared to return to the White House on the morrow. They started early in the morning and took roads which had been pointed out to them as the shortest to Saint-Amand. But, after walking several hours, they found themselves in the heart of the mountains, in an absolutely deserted spot; and they had no doubt that the snow had caused them to wander from their road.
"Where in the devil are we?" said Alfred, stopping to look about; "instead of approaching our destination, we are going away from it."
"It seems to me that I recognize this place," said the baron, "and that we have been here before."
"Let us follow Vaillant," said Edouard; "see, he keeps on, he seems to propose to be our guide."
The dog was in fact going on ahead, manifesting extraordinary eagerness and excitement. The travellers covered themselves with their cloaks as well as they could, to protect themselves from the cold, and decided to follow Vaillant. They soon came to the steep slope of a mountain, and saw before them a dark, narrow path, running between two very high cliffs.
"I recognize this spot now," said the baron; "we took this path nearly two months ago, and visited an old hut occupied by an aged shepherd."
"Come," said Alfred, "it is useless to follow a course that will take us still farther from our destination."
The travellers were about to retrace their steps when, on looking about for Vaillant, they saw him running toward the path at incredible speed. They called him, but he did not heed the voice of his masters, and entered alone the narrow road between the cliffs. The ardor with which the dog ran in that direction impressed the travellers; they went on as far as the entrance to the path, but the prolonged barking of Vaillant, a loud, savage barking, announced that he had made some important discovery.
The baron and the young men walked rapidly along the narrow way and saw the dog in front of the hovel. Vaillant’s eyes were gleaming; he threw himself against the door, scratched at it with his claws, and his barking redoubled in force and fury.
"What does this mean?" cried Edouard; "does not Vaillant’s frenzy indicate that that house contains his assassin? Look! look! he will not leave that door; he looks at us to urge us to second his efforts."
"But we examined this house once," said the baron.
"No matter; it cannot be without some reason that that faithful servant insists on entering that wretched place. O my God! suppose we should find Isaure in this hole!"
"Open! open!" cried Alfred, pounding on the door. But nobody replied; there was no sound to be heard within. Notwithstanding, Vaillant’s anger seemed to wax greater with every moment; his prolonged barking echoed loudly among the cliffs, and the three travellers determined to enter the old hut, peaceably or by force.
After the dog began to bark, a ghastly scene took place inside the second hovel. The vagabond was alone with the girl; the old shepherd had gone to the nearest village to obtain provisions. At the dog’s first howl, Isaure’s companion ran to the door and looked out; he recognized Vaillant; instantly a cold perspiration came out on his forehead; he felt that he was lost, that Isaure’s retreat would be discovered, because no human power could force the dog to leave that house until he had found his assailant. Soon the baron’s voice and the shouts of the young men fully convinced him that he could no longer keep the girl concealed from them, for Vaillant would surely show them the secret entrance to Isaure’s hiding-place. It was impossible for him to fly with his prisoner; he could not leave the excavation and reach the top of the cliff. In an instant the vagabond realized his position, and thereupon he formed a ghastly resolution. He returned to the inner house, carefully secured the passage of communication and joined the girl, who was listening in the most intense excitement to the barking of the dog, saying in an undertone:
"O mon Dieu! I should think that it was Vaillant! Can it be that heaven has sent me a preserver? Is my faithful companion not dead?"
"Yes! it is he, in truth," said the vagabond in threatening tones, glaring at the girl with a terrifying expression; "but instead of saving you, that dog will be the cause of your destruction!"
"Great heaven! what do you mean? why do you look at me like that?" said Isaure with a shudder.
The vagabond took his sword and walked toward the girl, seized one of her hands, which she raised tremblingly in appeal to him, and said to her:
"You must die!"
"Die!" cried the girl, turning with an imploring glance to him who was threatening her life. "O mon Dieu! you intend to kill me! What have I done? how have I deserved death? have I not obeyed you without a murmur ever since I have been with you?"
"Yes, yes! you do not deserve such a horrible fate, I know; far from hating you, I had for you a feeling—I do not know how to describe it—but my hatred for the baron is stronger than every other sentiment! I have sworn that you should not fall into his hands again alive. I will keep my oath.—Do you hear them? They are besieging this place; soon they will break down the door, which is not strong; that miserable dog will show them the way to this last hiding-place. They mean to save you, to take you away from here! They shall not find you alive! Isaure, you must die before they find their way here!"
Beside herself, desperate, Isaure tried once more to move her assassin; she threw herself at his feet; but in his frenzy, he was no longer himself; in his right hand he held the sword; with the other he bared the girl’s breast, the more surely to pierce her heart. Isaure struggled; she tried to escape; and he, detaining her by main strength, tore aside the garment that covered her breast. The locket which the girl wore hidden there arrested the sword that was about to take her life; the portrait caught the eye of the assassin; he uttered a cry of surprise, of horror.
"Can I believe my eyes?" he exclaimed; "that portrait! that woman! Where did you get it? Speak! speak!"
"It is my mother’s portrait!" cried Isaure, holding her clasped hands toward him; "she was most unhappy too, they say; oh! in heaven’s name, have mercy on her daughter!"
"Your mother! Adèle! Adèle was your mother? What thought is this? Can it be that you are——"
He did not finish the sentence; his sword fell from his hands; he was like a man struck by lightning. But soon they heard a loud crash; the door of the hut had been broken in. While the baron and Edouard entered the room below, Alfred, assisted by Vaillant, and striking the wall on all sides with the sword he had brought under his cloak, succeeded in discovering the entrance to the excavation. He rushed through the passage and entered the second hut, sword in hand, at the moment that Isaure, overcome by terror, fell unconscious at the vagabond’s feet.
"Villain!" cried Alfred, "so I was not mistaken: it was you who abducted her! You shall pay for your infamous conduct with your life!"
"Isaure belongs to me!" replied the vagabond, seizing his sword once more; "no one has a stronger claim to her than I have!"
But Alfred had already rushed upon him, sword in hand; a terrible combat took place within a few feet of the unconscious girl. It lasted only a few seconds; Alfred dealt his blows with startling rapidity; he seemed endowed with unusual strength and dexterity. His adversary fell at his feet, mortally wounded, at the moment that the baron and Edouard entered Isaure’s retreat.
They were about to take the girl away from that horrible place and carry her out to the path, where the sharp air would probably restore her to consciousness. But the man whom Alfred had overcome still breathed and motioned that he wished to speak. They gathered about him; compassion had succeeded the desire for revenge, and they tried to assist him.
"Spare yourself useless trouble," said the wounded man in a dying voice; "I feel that I am dying,—let me look once more upon Isaure’s beloved features. Oh! do not recall her to life until I have ceased to live.—Alfred, you have avenged your father! I am Savigny—the unhappy Adèle’s seducer!"
"Savigny!" cried the baron, with a gesture expressive of horror.
"Yes; I see it all now. Isaure is my daughter, my Adèle’s child! And I barely missed being her murderer! But heaven decreed that that ghastly crime should not be committed, and I thank heaven for it! The poor child will execrate my memory!—Promise me that you will never tell her that I was her father!"
The three men who stood about Savigny had hardly made the promise he requested, when, after making a last effort to kiss his unconscious daughter’s hand, the wretched man fell back and closed his eyes forever.
They carried Isaure out to the path and did all that could be done for her. At last she opened her eyes, glanced about and uttered a cry of joy when she found that she was in the arms of her friends.
"O my God! thou hast saved me!" she said; but a moment later she cried, glancing in terror toward the hut: "But he is there! suppose he should come and still want to kill me!"
"The man who snatched you from our arms no longer lives," said the baron. "You will see him no more, my dear Isaure; he died fighting with my son."
"He is dead!" exclaimed Isaure, evidently with a thrill of compassion; and instantly, falling on her knees, she raised her hands toward heaven, saying: "O my God! forgive him, as I do, all the injury he has done me!"
Isaure’s friends listened respectfully to her prayer; but the glances which they exchanged betrayed their emotion at the sight of that girl unconsciously invoking God’s forgiveness for her father.
Their first thought was to remove Isaure from that horrible spot, where she had passed nearly three months. The old shepherd returned home just then; they gave him money and ordered him to bury Savigny at the entrance to the path, and to see that the unhappy man’s grave was respected so long as he lived.
Then they set out for the little valley. Vaillant ran and leaped and gambolled about in front of his mistress, and you may guess how they caressed and fondled him, seeking to reward him to whom the finding of Isaure was due. The young girl could not credit her good fortune; she pressed the baron’s hand and Alfred’s; she looked at Edouard, and in that look all her love was expressed.
At last they saw the cottage and the White House once more; they took up their abode in the latter and abandoned themselves to the joy of being united. There Isaure learned that her protector was no longer opposed to her union with Edouard, and that she could without fear give herself up to the pleasure of loving.
After three months of separation and suffering, it is natural to be in a hurry to be happy; Edouard did not wish to leave the White House except with the title of Isaure’s husband. So that the marriage was celebrated in Auvergne, quietly, without festivities, without other guests than love and friendship.
The young girl was married under the name of Isaure Gervais; she thought that the last name was her father’s, and all her friends were careful not to undeceive her. But Edouard found in his bride no less virtues and lovable qualities than charms and sweetness of character; he considered that all these were worth fully as much as a long genealogy, and he said, parodying the line inMérope: