Edmée, who until now had remained very pale and apparently heedless of my words, all at once cast a lightning glance at me and said with an air of unconcern:
“To obtain a release from what, may I ask, Bernard?”
I saw that, in spite of this show of courage, she was very much perturbed; for she broke her fan while shutting it. I answered her with a look in which the artless malice of the rustic must have been apparent:
“To obtain release, cousin, from a certain promise you made me at Roche-Mauprat.”
She grew paler than ever, and on her face I could see an expression of terror, but ill-disguised by a smile of contempt.
“What was the promise you made him, Edmée?” asked the chevalier, turning towards her ingenuously.
At the same time the abbé pressed my arm furtively, and I understood that my cousin’s confessor was in possession of the secret.
I shrugged my shoulders; their fears did me an injustice, though they roused my pity.
“She promised me,” I replied, with a smile, “that she would always look upon me as a brother and a friend. Were not those your words, Edmée, and do you think it is possible to make them good by mere money?”
She rose as if filled with new life, and, holding out her hand to me, said in a voice full of emotion:
“You are right, Bernard; yours is a noble heart, and I should never forgive myself if I doubted it for a moment.”
I caught sight of a tear on the edge of her eyelid, and I pressed her hand somewhat too roughly, no doubt, for she could not restrain a little cry, followed, however, by a charming smile. The chevalier clasped me to his breast, and the abbé rocked about in his chair and exclaimed repeatedly:
“How beautiful! How noble! How very beautiful! Ah,” he added, “that is something that cannot be learnt from books,” turning to the chevalier. “God writes his words and breathes forth his spirit upon the hearts of the young.”
“You will see,” said the chevalier, deeply moved, “that this Mauprat will yet build up the honour of the family again. And now, my dear Bernard, I will say no more about business. I know how I ought to act, and you cannot prevent me from taking such steps as I shall think fit to insure the rehabilitation of my name by yourself. The only true rehabilitation is guaranteed by your noble sentiments; but there is still another which I know you will not refuse to attempt—the way to this lies through your talents and intelligence. You will make the effort out of love for us, I hope. However, we need not talk of this at present. I respect your proud spirit, and I gladly renew my offers without conditions. And now, abbé, I shall be glad if you will accompany me to the town to see my lawyer. The carriage is waiting. As for you, children, you can have lunch together. Come, Bernard, offer your arm to your cousin, or rather, to your sister. You must acquire some courtesy of manner, since in her case it will be but the expression of your heart.”
“That is true, uncle,” I answered, taking hold of Edmée’s arm somewhat roughly to lead her downstairs.
I could feel her trembling; but the pink had returned to her cheeks, and a smile of affection was playing about her lips.
As soon as we were seated opposite each other at table our happy harmony was chilled in a very few moments. We both returned to our former state of embarrassment. Had we been alone I should have got out of the difficulty by one of those abrupt sallies which I knew how to force from myself when I grew too much ashamed of my bashfulness; but the presence of Saint-Jean, who was waiting upon us, condemned me to silence on the subject next to my heart. I decided, therefore, to talk about Patience. I asked her how it came to pass that she was on such good terms with him, and in what light I ought to look upon the pretended sorcerer. She gave me the main points in the history of the rustic philosopher, and explained that it was the Abbé Aubert who had taken her to Gazeau Tower. She had been much struck by the intelligence and wisdom of the stoic hermit, and used to derive great pleasure from conversation with him. On his side, Patience had conceived such a friendship for her that for some time he had relaxed his strict habits, and would frequently pay her a visit when he came to see the abbé.
As you may imagine, she had no little difficulty in making these explanations intelligible to me. I was very much surprised at the praise she bestowed on Patience, and at the sympathy
