“What is the matter?” said Edmée, who was by my side at the time.
“The matter is,” I answered abruptly, “that I must return yonder; for it is my duty to get killed rather than let my uncles parley with the rabble.”
“The rabble!” cried Patience, addressing me for the first time since I arrived. “Who dares to talk of rabble here? I myself am of the rabble. It is my title, and I shall know how to make it respected.”
“By Jove! Not by me,” I said, pushing away the curé, who had made me sit down again.
“And yet it would not be for the first time,” replied Patience, with a contemptuous smile.
“You remind me,” I answered, “that we two have some old accounts to settle.”
And heedless of the frightful agony caused by my sprain, I rose again, and with a backhander I sent Don Marcasse, who was endeavouring the play the curé’s part of peacemaker, head over heels into the middle of the ashes. I did not mean him any harm, but my movements were somewhat rough, and the poor man was so frail that to my hand he was but as a weasel would have been to his own. Patience was standing before me with his arms crossed, in the attitude of a stoic philosopher, but the fire was flashing in his eyes. Conscious of his position as my host, he was evidently waiting until I struck the first blow before attempting to crush me. I should not have kept him waiting long, had not Edmée, scorning the danger of interfering with a madman, seized my arm and said, in an authoritative tone:
“Sit down again, and be quiet; I command you.”
So much boldness and confidence surprised and pleased me at the same time. The rights which she arrogated to herself over me were, in some measure, a sanction of those I claimed to have over her.
“You are right,” I answered, sitting down.
And I added, with a glance at Patience:
“Some other time.”
“Amen,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Marcasse had picked himself up with much composure, and shaking off the ashes with which he was covered, instead of finding fault with me, he tried, after his fashion to lecture Patience. This was in reality by no means easy to do; yet nothing could have been less irritating than that monosyllabic censure throwing out its little note in the thick of a quarrel like an echo in a storm.
“At your age,” he said to his host; “not patient at all. Wholly to blame—yes—wrong—you!”
“How naughty you are!” Edmée said to me, putting her hand on my shoulder; “do not begin again, or I shall go away and leave you.”
I willingly let myself be scolded by her; nor did I realize that during the last minutes we had exchanged parts. The moment we crossed the threshold of Gazeau Tower she had given evidence of that superiority over me which was really hers. This wild place, too, these strange witnesses, this fierce host, had already furnished a taste of the society into which I had entered, and whose fetters I was soon to feel.
“Come,” she said, turning to Patience, “we do not understand each other here; and, for my part, I am devoured by anxiety about my poor father, who is no doubt searching for me, and wringing his hands at this very moment. My good Patience, do find me some means of rejoining him with this unfortunate boy, whom I dare not leave to your care, since you have not sufficient love for me to be patient and compassionate with him.”
“What do you say?” said Patience, putting his hand to his brow as if waking from a dream. “Yes, you are right; I am an old brute, an old fool. Daughter of God, tell this boy, this nobleman, that I ask his pardon for the past, and that, for the present, my poor cell is at his disposal. Is that well said?”
“Yes, Patience,” answered the curé. “Besides, everything may be managed. My horse is quiet and steady, and Mademoiselle de Mauprat can ride it, while you and Marcasse lead it by the bridle. For myself, I will remain here with our invalid. I promise to take good care of him and not to annoy him in any way. That will do, won’t it, Monsieur Bernard? You don’t bear me any ill-will, and you may be very sure that I am not your enemy.”
“I know nothing about it,” I answered; “it is as you please. Look after my cousin; take her home safely. For my own part, I need nothing and care for no one. A bundle of straw and a glass of wine, that is all I should like, if it were possible to have them.”
“You shall have both,” said Marcasse, handing me his flask, “but first of all here is something to cheer you up. I am going to the stable to get the horse ready.”
“No, I will go myself,” said Patience; “you see to the wants of this young man.”
And he passed into another lower hall, which served as a stable for the curé’s horse during the visits which the good priest paid him. They brought the animal through the room where we were; and Patience, after arranging the curé’s cloak on the saddle, with fatherly care helped Edmée to mount.
“One moment,” she said, before letting them lead her out. “Monsieur le Curé, will you promise me on the salvation of your soul not to leave my
