“Have you not noticed,” said the abbé, turning to M. de la Marche, as soon as they had left the room, “that Mademoiselle de Mauprat has very much changed of late?”
“She has grown thinner,” answered the lieutenant-general; “but in my opinion she is only the more beautiful for that.”
“Yes; but I fear she may be more seriously ill than she owns,” replied the abbé. “Her temperament seems no less changed than her face; she has grown quite sad.”
“Sad? Why, I don’t think I ever saw her so gay as she was this morning; don’t you agree with me, Monsieur Bernard? It was only after our walk that she complained of a slight headache.”
“I assure you that she is really sad,” rejoined the abbé. “Nowadays, when she is gay, her gaiety is excessive; at such a time there seems to be something strange and forced about her which is quite foreign to her usual manner. Then the next minute she relapses into a state of melancholy, which I never noticed before the famous night in the forest. You may be certain that night was a terrible experience.”
“True, she was obliged to witness a frightful scene at Gazeau Tower,” said M. de la Marche; “and then she must have been very much exhausted and frightened when her horse bolted from the field and galloped right through the forest. Yet her pluck is so remarkable that … What do you think, my dear Monsieur Bernard? When you met her in the forest, did she seem very frightened?”
“In the forest?” I said. “I did not meet her in the forest at all.”
“No; it was in Varenne that you met her, wasn’t it?”
The abbé hastened to intervene. … “By the by, Monsieur Bernard, can you spare me a minute to talk over a little matter connected with your property at …”
Hereupon he drew me out of the drawing-room, and said in a low voice:
“There is no question of business; I only want to beg of you not to let a single soul, not even M. de la Marche, suspect that Mademoiselle de Mauprat was at Roche-Mauprat for the fraction of a second.”
“And why?” I asked. “Was she not under my protection there? Did she not leave it pure, thanks to me? Must it not be well known to the neighbourhood that she passed two hours there?”
“At present no one knows,” he answered. “At the very moment she left it, Roche-Mauprat fell before the attack of the police, and not one of its inmates will return from the grave or from exile to proclaim the fact. When you know the world better, you will understand how important it is for the reputation of a young lady that none should have reason to suppose that even a shadow of danger has fallen upon her honour. Meanwhile, I implore you, in the name of her father, in the name of the affection for her which you expressed this morning in so noble and touching a manner …”
“You are very clever, Monsieur l’Abbé,” I said, interrupting him. “All your words have a hidden meaning which I can grasp perfectly well, clown as I am. Tell my cousin that she may set her mind at ease. I have nothing to say against her virtue, that is very certain; and I trust I am not capable of spoiling the marriage she desires. Tell her that I claim but one thing of her, the fulfilment of that promise of friendship which she made me at Roche-Mauprat.”
“In your eyes, then, that promise has a peculiar solemnity?” said the abbé. “If so, what grounds for distrusting it have you?”
I looked at him fixedly, and as he appeared very much agitated, I took a pleasure in keeping him on the rack, hoping that he would repeat my words to Edmée.
“None,” I answered. “Only I observe that you are afraid that M. de la Marche may break off the marriage, if he happens to hear of the adventure at Roche-Mauprat. If the gentleman is capable of suspecting Edmée, and of grossly insulting her on the eve of his wedding, it seems to me that there is one very simple means of mending matters.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Why, to challenge him and kill him.”
“I trust you will do all you can to spare the venerable M. Hubert the necessity of facing such a hideous danger.”
“I will spare him this and many others by taking upon myself to avenge my cousin. In truth, this is my right, Monsieur l’Abbé. I know the duties of a gentleman quite as well as if I had learnt Latin. You may tell her this from me. Let her sleep in peace. I will keep silence, and if that is useless I will fight.”
“But, Bernard,” replied the abbé in a gentle, insinuating tone, “have you thought of your cousin’s affection for M. de la Marche?”
“All the more reason that I should fight him,” I cried, in a fit of anger.
And I turned my back on him abruptly.
The abbé retailed the whole of our conversation to the penitent. The part that the worthy priest had to play was very embarrassing. Under the seal of confession he had been entrusted with a secret to which in his conversations with me he could make only indirect allusions, to bring me to understand that my pertinacity was a crime, and that the only honourable course was to yield. He hoped too much of me. Virtue such as this was beyond my power, and equally beyond my understanding.
X
A few days passed in apparent calm. Edmée said she was unwell, and rarely quitted her room. M. de la Marche called nearly every day, his château being only a short distance off. My dislike for him grew stronger and stronger in spite of all the politeness he showed me. I understood nothing whatever of his dabblings in
