by George Sand
Ah, gentlemen, forgive my childishness. I must tell you how she was dressed. After that weird night she never wore that costume again, and yet I can remember it so exactly. It is a long, long time ago. But were I to live as long as I have already lived again, I should not forget a single detail, so much was I struck by it amid the tumult that was raging within me and without; amid the din of shots striking the ramparts, the lightning flashes ripping the sky, and the violent palpitations which sent my blood surging from my heart to my brain, and from my head to my breast.
Oh, how lovely she was! It seems as if her shade were even now passing before my eyes. Yes; I fancy I see her in that same dress, the riding-habit which used to be worn in those days. The skirt of it was of cloth and very full; round the waist was a red sash, while a waistcoat of pearl-gray satin, fastened with buttons, fitted closely to the figure; over this was a hunting-jacket, trimmed with lace, short, and open in front; the hat, of gray felt, with a broad rim turned up in front, was crowned with half a dozen red feathers. The hair, which was not powdered, was drawn back from the face and fell down in two long plaits, like those of the Bernese women. Edmée’s were so long that they almost reached the ground.
Her garb, to me so strangely fascinating, her youth and beauty, and the favour with which she now seemed to regard my pretensions, combined to make me mad with love and joy. I could imagine nothing more beautiful than a lovely woman yielding without coarse words, and without tears of shame. My first impulse was to take her in my arms; but, as if overcome by that irresistible longing to worship which characterizes a first love, even with the grossest of beings, I fell down before her and pressed her knees to my breast; and yet, on my own supposition, it was to a shameless wanton that this homage was paid. I was none the less nigh to swooning from bliss.
She took my head between her two beautiful hands, and exclaimed
“Ah, I was right! I knew quite well that you were not one of those reprobates. You are going to save me, aren’t you? Thank God! How I thank you, O God! Must we jump from the window? Oh, I am not afraid; come—come!”
I seemed as if awakened from a dream, and, I confess, the awakening was not a little painful.
“What does this mean?” I asked, as I rose to my feet. “Are you still jesting with me? Do you not know where you are? Do you think that I am a child?”
“I know that I am at Roche-Mauprat,” she replied, turning pale again, “and that I shall be outraged and assassinated in a couple of hours, if meanwhile I do not succeed in inspiring you with some pity. But I shall succeed,” she cried, falling at my feet in her turn; “you are not one of those men. You are too young to be a monster like them. I could see from your eyes that you pitied me. You will help me to escape, won’t you, won’t you, my dear heart?”
She took my hands and kissed them frenziedly, in the hope of moving me. I listened and looked at her with a sullen stupidity scarcely calculated to reassure her. My heart was naturally but little accessible to feelings of generosity and compassion, and at this moment a passion stronger than all the rest was keeping down the impulse she had striven to arouse. I devoured her with my eyes, and made no effort to understand her words. I only wished to discover whether I was pleasing to her, or whether she was trying to make use of me to effect her escape.
“I see that you are afraid,” I said. “You are wrong to be afraid of me. I shall certainly not do you any harm. You are too pretty for me to think of anything but of caressing you.”
“Yes; but your uncles will kill me,” she cried; “you know they will. Surely you would not have me killed? Since you love me, save me; I will love you afterwards.”
“Oh, yes; afterwards, afterwards,” I answered, laughing with a silly, unbelieving air; “after you have had me hanged by those gendarmes to whom I have just given such a drubbing. Come, now; prove that you love me at once; I will save you afterwards. You see, I can talk about ‘afterwards’ too.”
I pursued her round the room. Though she fled from me, she gave no signs of anger, and still appealed to me with soft words. In me the poor girl was husbanding her one hope, and was fearful of losing it. Ah, if I had only been able to realize what such a woman as she was, and what my own position meant! But I was unable then. I had but one fixed idea—the idea which a wolf may have on a like occasion.
At last, as my only answer to all her entreaties was, “Do you love me, or are you fooling me?” she saw what a brute she had to deal with, and, making up her mind accordingly, she came towards me, three her arms round my neck, hid her face in my bosom, and let me kiss her hair. Then she put me gently from her, saying:
“Ah, mon Dieu! don’t you see how I love you—how I could not help loving you from the very first moment I saw you? But don’t you understand that I hate your uncles, and that I would be yours alone?”
“Yes,” I replied, obstinately, “because you say to yourself: ‘This is a booby whom I shall persuade to do anything I wish, by telling him that I love him; he will believe it, and I will take him away to be hanged.’ Come; there is only one word which will serve if you love me.”
She looked at me with an agonized air. I sought to press my lips to hers whenever her head was not turned away. I held her hands in mine. She was powerless now to do more than delay the hour of her defeat. Suddenly the colour rushed back to the pale face; she began to smile; and with an expression of angelic coquetry, she asked:
“And you—do you love me?”
From this moment the victory was hers. I no longer-had power to will what I wished. The lynx in me was subdued; the man rose in its place; and I believe that my voice had a human ring, as I cried for the first time in my life:
“Yes, I love you! Yes, I love you!”
“Well, then,” she said, distractedly, and in a caressing tone, “let us love each other and escape together.”
“Yes; let us escape,” I answered. “I loathe this house, and I loathe my uncles. I have long wanted to escape. And yet I shall only be hanged, you know.”
“They won’t hang you,” she rejoined with a laugh; “my betrothed is a lieutenant-general.”
“Your betrothed!” I cried, in a fresh fit of jealousy more violent than the first. “You are going to be married? 99
“And why not?” she replied, watching me attentively.
I turned pale and clinched my teeth. “In that case, …” I said, trying to carry her off in my arms.
“In that case,” she answered, giving me a little tap on the cheek, “I see that you are jealous; but his must be a peculiar jealousy who at ten o’clock yearns for his mistress, only to hand her over at midnight to eight drunken men who will return her to him on the morrow as foul as the mud on the roads.”
“Ah, you are right!” I exclaimed. “Go, then; go. I would defend you to the last drop of my blood; but I should be vanquished by numbers, and I should die with the knowledge that you were left to them. How horrible! I shudder to think of it. Come—you must go.”
“Yes! yes, my angel!” she cried, kissing me passionately on the cheek.
These caresses, the first a woman had given me since my childhood, recalled, I know not how or why, my mother’s last kiss, and, instead of pleasure, caused me profound sadness. I felt my eyes filling with tears. Noticing this, she kissed my tears, repeating the while:
“Save me! Save me!”
“And your marriage?” I asked. “Oh! listen. Swear that you will not marry before I die. You will not have to wait long; for my uncles administer sound justice and swift, as they say.”
“You are not going to follow me, then?” she asked.
“Follow you? No; it is as well to be hanged here for helping you to escape as to be hanged yonder for being a bandit. Here, at least, I avoid a twofold shame: I shall not be accounted an informer, and shall not be hanged in a public place.”
“I will not leave you here,” she cried, “though I die myself. Fly with me. You run no risk, believe me. Before God, I declare you are safe. Kill me, if I lie. But l
et us start—quickly. O God! I hear them singing. They are coming this way. Ah, if you will not defend me, kill me at once!”
She threw herself into my arms. Love and jealousy were gradually overpowering me. Indeed, I even thought seriously of killing her; and I kept my hand on my hunting-knife as long as I heard any noise or voices near the hall. They were exulting in their victory. I cursed Heaven for not giving it to our foes. I clasped Edmée to my breast, and we remained motionless in each other’s arms, until a fresh report announced that the fight was beginning again. Then I pressed her passionately to my heart.
“You remind me,” I said, “of a poor little dove which one day flew into my jacket to escape from a kite, and tried to hide itself in my bosom.”
“And you did not give it up to the kite, did you?” said Edmée.
“No, by all the devils! not any more than I shall give you up, you, the prettiest of all the birds in the woods, to these vile night-birds that are threatening you.”
“But how shall we escape?” she cried, terror-stricken by the volleys they were firing.
“Easily,” I said. “Follow me.”
I seized a torch, and lifting a trap-door, I made her descend with me to the cellar. Thence we passed into a subterranean passage hollowed out of the rock. This, in bygone days, had enabled the garrison, then more numerous, to venture upon an important move in case of an attack; some of the besieged would emerge into the open country on the side opposite the portcullis and fall on, the rear of the besiegers, who were thus caught between two fires. But many years had passed since the garrison of Roche-Mauprat was large enough to be divided into two bodies; and besides, during the night it would have been folly to venture beyond the walls. We arrived, therefore, at the exit of the passage without meeting with any obstacle. But at the last moment I was seized with a fit of madness. I threw down my torch, and leaned against the door.
“You shall not go out from here,” I said to the trembling Edmée, “without promising to be mine.”
We were in darkness; the noise of the fight no longer reached us. Before any one could surprise us here we had ample time to escape. Everything was in my favour. Edmée was now at the mercy of my caprice. When she saw that the seductions of her beauty could no longer rouse me to ecstasy, she ceased to implore, and drew backward a few steps.
“Open the door,” she said, “and go out first, or I will kill myself. See, I have your hunting-knife. You left it by the side of the trap-door. To return to your uncles you will have to walk through my blood.”
Her resolute manner frightened me.
“Give me that knife,” I said, “or, be the consequences what they may, I will take it from you by force.”
“Do you think I am afraid to die?” she said calmly. “If this knife had only been in my hand yonder in the château, I should not have humbled myself before you.”
“Confound it!” I cried, “you have deceived me. Your love is a sham. Begone! I despise you. I will not follow such as you.”
At the same time I opened the door.
“I would not go without you,” she cried; “and you—you would not have me go without dishonour. Which of us is the more generous?”
“You are mad,” I said. “You have lied to me; and you do not know what to do to make a fool of me. However, you shall not go out from here without swearing that your marriage with the lieutenant-general or any other man shall not take place before you have been my mistress.”
“Your mistress!” she said. “Are you dreaming? Could you not at least soften the insult by saying your wife?”
“That is what any one of my uncles would say in my place; because they would care only about your dowry. But I—I yearn for nothing but your beauty. Swear, then, that you will be mine first; afterwards you shall be free, on my honour. And if my jealousy prove so fierce that it may not be borne, well, since a man may not go from his word, I will blow my brains out.”
“I swear,” said Edmée, “to be no man’s before being yours.”
“That is not it. Swear to be mine before being any other’s.”
“It is the same thing,” she answered. “Yes; I swear it.”
“On the gospel? On the name of Christ? By the salvation of your soul? By the memory of your mother?”
“On the gospel; in the name of Christ; by the salvation of my soul; by the memory of my mother.”
“Good.”
“One moment,” she rejoined; “I want you to swear that my promise and its fulfilment shall remain a secret; that my father shall never know it, or any person who might tell him.”
“No one in the world shall hear it from me. Why should I want others to know, provided only that you keep your word?”
She made me repeat the formula of an oath. Then we hurried forth into the open, holding each other’s hands as a sign of mutual trust.
But now our flight became dangerous. Edmée feared the besiegers almost as much as the besieged. We were fortunate enough not to meet any. Still, it was by no means easy to move quickly. The night was so dark that we were continually running against trees, and the ground was so slippery that we were unable to avoid falls. A sudden noise made us start; but, from the rattle of the chain fixed on its foot, I “immediately recognised my grandfather’s horse, an animal of an extraordinary age, but still strong and spirited. It was the very horse that had brought me to Roche-Mauprat ten years before. At present the only thing that would serve as a bridle was the rope round its neck. I passed this through its mouth, and I threw my jacket over the crupper and helped my companion to mount; I undid the chain, sprang on the animal’s back, and urging it on desperately, made it set off at a gallop, happen what might. Luckily for us, it knew the paths better than I, and, as if by instinct, followed their windings without knocking against any trees. However, it frequently slipped, and in recovering itself, gave us such jolts that we should have lost our seats a thousand times (equipped as we were) had we not been hanging between life and death. In such a strait desperate ventures are best, and God protects those whom man pursues. We were congratulating ourselves on being out of danger, when all at once the horse struck against a stump, and catching his hoof in a root on the ground, fell down. Before we were up he had made off into the darkness, and I could hear him galloping farther and farther away. As we fell I had caught Edmée in my arms. She was unhurt. My own ankle, however, was sprained so severely that it was impossible for me to move a step. Edmée thought that my leg had been broken. I was inclined to think so myself, so great was the pain; but soon I thought no further either of my agony or my anxiety. Edmée’s tender solicitude made me forget everything. It was in vain that I urged her to continue her flight without me. I pointed out that she could now escape alone; that we were some distance from the château; that day would soon be breaking; that she would be certain to find some house, and that everywhere the people would protect her against the Mauprats.
“I will not leave you,” she persisted in answering. ‘You have devoted yourself to me; I will show the same devotion to you. We will both escape, or we will die together.”
“I am not mistaken,” I cried; “it is a light that I see between the branches. Edmée, there is a house yonder; go and knock at the door. You need not feel anxious about leaving me here; and you will find a guide to take you home.”
“Whatever happens,” she said, “I will not leave you; but I will try to find some one to help you.”
“Yet, no,” I said; “I will not let you knock at that door alone. That light, in the middle of the night, in a house situated in the heart of the woods, may be a lure.”
I dragged myself as far as the door. It felt cold, as if of metal. The walls were covered with ivy.
“Who is there?” cried some one within, before we had knocked.
“We are saved!” cried Edmée; “it is Patience’s voice.”
“We are lost!” I said; “he and I are mortal enemies.”
“Fear nothing,” she said; “follow me. It was God that l
ed us here.”
“Yes, it was God that led you here, daughter of Heaven, morning star!” said Patience, opening the door; “and whoever is with you is welcome too at Gazeau Tower.”
We entered under a surbased vault, in the middle of which hung an iron lamp. By the light of this dismal luminary and of a handful of brushwood which was blazing on the hearth we saw, not without surprise, that Gazeau Tower was exceptionally honoured with visitors. On one side the light fell upon the pale and serious face of a man in clerical garb. On the other, a broad-brimmed hat overshadowed a sort of olive-green cone terminating in a scanty beard; and on the wall could be seen the shadow of a nose so distinctly tapered that nothing in the world might compare with it except, perhaps, a long rapier lying across the knees of the personage in question, and a little dog’s face which, from its pointed shape, might have been mistaken for that of a gigantic rat. In fact, it seemed as if a mysterious harmony reigned between these three salient points—the nose of Don Marcasse, his dog’s snout, and the blade of his sword. He got up slowly and raised his hand to his hat. The Jansenist curé did the same. The dog thrust its head forward between its master’s legs, and, silent like him, showed’ its teeth and put back its ears without barking.
“Quiet, Blaireau!” said Marcasse to it.
* The reputation which the Seigneur de Pleumartin has left behind him in the province will preserve the story of Mauprat from the reproach of exaggeration. Pen would refuse to trace the savage obscenities and refinements of cruelty which marked the life of this madman, and which perpetuated the traditions of feudal brigandage in Berry down to the last days of the ancient monarchy. His château was besieged, and after a stubborn resistance he was taken and hanged. There are many people still living, nor yet very advanced in years, vrho knew the man.
VII
No sooner had the curé recognised Edmée than he started back with an exclamation of surprise. But this was nothing to the stupefaction of Patience when he had examined my features by the light of the burning brand that served him as torch.