XI
When I awoke on the morrow in a state of exhaustion, all the incidents of the previous night appeared to me as a dream. I began to think that Edmée’s suggestion of becoming my wife had been a perfidious trick to put off my hopes indefinitely; and, as to the sorcerer’s words, I could not recall them without a feeling of profound humiliation. Still, they had produced their effect. My emotions had left traces which could never be effaced. I was no longer the man of the day before, and never again was I to be quite the man of Roche-Mauprat.
It was late, for not until morning had I attempted to make good my sleepless night. I was still in bed when I heard the hoofs of M. de la Marche’s horse on the stones of the courtyard. Every day he used to come at this hour; every day he used to see Edmée at the same time as myself; and now, on this very day, this day when she had tried to persuade me to reckon on her hand, he was going to see her before me, and to give his soulless kiss to this hand that had been promised to myself. The thought of it stirred up all my doubts again. How could Edmée endure his attentions if she really meant to marry another man? Perhaps she dared not send him away; perhaps it was my duty to do so. I was ignorant of the ways of the world into which I was entering. Instinct counselled me to yield to my hasty impulses; and instinct spoke loudly.
I hastily dressed myself. I entered the drawing-room pale and agitated. Edmée was pale too. It was a cold, rainy morning. A fire was burning in the great fireplace. Lying back in an easy chair, she was warming her little feet and dozing. It was the same listless, almost lifeless, attitude of the days of her illness. M. de la Marche was reading the paper at the other end of the room. On seeing that Edmée was more affected than myself by the emotions of the previous night, I felt my anger cool, and, approaching her noiselessly, I sat down and gazed on her tenderly.
“Is that you, Bernard?” she asked without moving a limb, and with eyes still closed.
Her elbows were resting on the arms of her chair and her hands were gracefully crossed under her chin. At that period it was the fashion for women to have their arms half bare at all times. On one of Edmée’s I noticed a little strip of court-plaster that made my heart beat. It was the slight scratch I had caused against the bars of the chapel window. I gently lifted the lace which fell over her elbow, and, emboldened by her drowsiness, pressed my lips to the darling wound. M. de la Marche could see me, and, in fact, did see me, as I intended he should. I was burning to have a quarrel with him. Edmée started and turned red; but immediately assuming an air of indolent playfulness, she said:
“Really, Bernard, you are as gallant this morning as a court abbé. Do you happen to have been composing a madrigal last night?”
I was peculiarly mortified at this jesting. However, paying her back in her own coin, I answered:
“Yes; I composed one yesterday evening at the chapel window; and if it is a poor thing, cousin, it is your fault.”
“Say, rather, that it is the fault of your education,” she replied, kindling.
And she was never more beautiful than when her natural pride and spirit were roused.
“My own opinion is that I am being very much over-educated,” I answered; “and that if I gave more heed to my natural good sense you would not jeer at me so much.”
“Really, it seems to me that you are indulging in a veritable war of wits with Bernard,” said M. de la Marche, folding his paper carelessly and approaching us.
“I cry quits with her,” I answered, annoyed at this impertinence. “Let her keep her wit for such as you.”
I had risen to insult him, but he did not seem to notice it; and standing with his back to the fire he bent down towards Edmée and said, in a gentle and almost affectionate voice:
“What is the matter with him?” as if he were inquiring after the health of her little dog.
“How should I know?” she replied, in the same tone.
Then she rose and added:
“My head aches too much to remain here. Give me your arm and take me up to my room.”
She went out, leaning upon his arm. I was left there stupefied.
I remained in the drawing-room, resolved to insult him as soon as he should return. But the abbé now entered, and soon afterward my Uncle Hubert. They began to talk on subjects which were quite strange to me (the subjects of their conversation were nearly always so). I did not know what to do to obtain revenge. I dared not betray myself in my uncle’s presence. I was sensible to the respect I owed to him and to his hospitality. Never had I done such violence to myself at Roche-Mauprat. Yet, in spite of all efforts, my anger showed itself. I almost died at being obliged to wait for revenge. Several times the chevalier noticed the change in my features and asked in a kind tone if I were ill. M. de la Marche seemed neither to observe nor to guess anything. The abbé alone examined me attentively. More than once I caught his blue eyes anxiously fixed on me, those eyes in which natural penetration was always veiled by habitual shyness. The abbé did not like me. I could easily see that his kindly, cheerful manners grew cold in spite of himself as soon as he spoke to me; and I
