Mauprat

by George Sand

  “I have some work to do,” said the chevalier to me. “Stay here with her; but do not make her talk too much, for she is still very weak.”

  This recommendation really seemed a sarcasm. Edmée was pretending to be sleepy, perhaps to conceal some of the embarrassment that weighed on her heart; and, as for myself, I felt so incapable of overcoming her reserve that it was in reality a kindness to counsel silence.

  The chevalier opened a door at one end of the room and closed it after him; but, as I could hear him cough from time to time, I gathered that his study was separated from his daughter’s room only by a wooden partition. Still, it was bliss to be alone with her for a few moments, as long as she appeared to be asleep. She did not see me, and I could gaze on her at will. So pale was she that she seemed as white as her muslin dressing-gown, or as her satin slippers with their trimming of swan’s-down. Her delicate, transparent hand was to my eyes like some unknown jewel. Never before had I realized what a woman was; beauty for me had hitherto meant youth and health, together with a sort of manly hardihood. Edmée, in her riding-habit, as I first beheld her, had in a measure displayed such beauty, and I had understood her better then. Now, as I studied her afresh, my very ideas, which were beginning to get a little light from without, all helped to make this second tête-à-tête very different from the first.

  But the strange, uneasy pleasure I experienced in gazing on her was disturbed by the arrival of a duenna, a certain Mademoiselle Leblanc, who performed the duties of lady’s maid in Edmée’s private apartments, and filled the post of companion in the drawing-room. Perhaps she had received orders from her mistress not to leave us. Certain it is that she took her place by the side of the invalid’s chair in such a way as to present to my disappointed gaze her own long, meagre back, instead of Edmée’s beautiful face. Then she took some work out of her pocket, and quietly began to knit. Meanwhile the birds continued to warble, the chevalier to cough, Edmée to sleep or to pretend to sleep, while I remained at the other end of the room with my head bent over the prints in a book that I was holding upside down.

  After some time I became aware that Edmée was not asleep, and that she was talking to her attendant in a low voice. I fancied I noticed the latter glancing at me from time to time out of the corner of her eye in a somewhat stealthy manner. To escape the ordeal of such an examination, and also from an impulse of cunning, which was by no means foreign to my nature, I let my head fall on the book, and the book on the pier-table, and in this posture I remained as if buried in sleep or thought. Then, little by little, their voices grew louder, until I could hear what they were saying about me.

  “It’s all the same; you have certainly chosen a funny sort of page, mademoiselle.”

  “A page, Leblanc! Why do you talk such nonsense? As if one had pages nowadays! You are always imagining we are still in my grandmother’s time. I tell you he is my father’s adopted son.”

  “M. le Chevalier is undoubtedly quite right to adopt a son; but where on earth did he fish up such a creature as that?”

  I gave a side glance at them and saw that Edmée was laughing behind her fan. She was enjoying the chatter of this old maid, who was supposed to be a wag and allowed perfect freedom of speech. I was very much hurt to see that my cousin was making fun of me.

  “He looks like a bear, a badger, a wolf, a kite, anything rather than a man,” continued Leblanc. “What hands! what legs! And now he has been cleaned up a little, he is nothing to what he was! You ought to have seen him the day he arrived with his smock and his leather gaiters; it was enough to take away one’s breath.”

  “Do you think so?” answered Edmée. “For my part, I preferred him in his poacher’s garb. It suited his face and figure better.”

  “He looked like a bandit. You could not have looked at him properly, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh! yes, I did.”

  The tone in which she pronounced these words,” Yes, I did,” made me shudder; and somehow I again felt upon my lips the impress of the kiss she had given me at Roche-Mauprat.

  “It would not be so bad if his hair were dressed properly,” continued the duenna; “but, so far, no one has been able to persuade him to have it powdered. Saint-Jean told me that just as he was about to put the powder puff to his head he got up in a rage and said, ‘Anything you like except that confounded flour. I want to be able to move my head about without coughing and sneezing.’ Heavens, what a savage!”

  “Yet, in reality, he is quite right. If fashion did not sanction the absurdity, everybody would perceive that it is both ugly and inconvenient. Look and see if it is not more becoming to have long black hair like his?”

  “Long hair like that? What a mane. It is enough to frighten one.”

  “Besides, boys do not have their hair powdered, and he is still a boy.”

  “A boy? My stars! what a brat! Boys? Why he would eat them for his breakfast; he’s a regular ogre. But where does the hulking dog spring from? I suppose M. le Chevalier brought him here from behind some plough. What is his name again? … You did tell me his name, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, inquisitive; I told you he is called Bernard.”

  “Bernard! And nothing else?”

  “Nothing, for the present. What are you looking at?”

  “He is sleeping like a dormouse. Look at the booby. I was wondering whether he resembled M. le Chevalier. Perhaps it was a momentary error—a fit of forgetfulness with some milk-maid.”

  “Come, come, Leblanc; you are going too far…

  “Goodness gracious, mademoiselle, has not M. le Chevalier been young like any other man? And that does not prevent virtue coming on with years, does it?”

  “Doubtless your own experience has shown you that this is possible. But listen: don’t take upon yourself to make fun of this young man. It is possible that you have guessed right; but my father requires him to be treated as one of the family.”

  “Well, well; that must be pleasant for you, mademoiselle. As for myself, what does it matter to me? I have nothing to do with the gentleman.”

  “Ah, if you were thirty years younger.”

  “But did your father consult you, mademoiselle, before planting yon great brigand in your room?”

  “Why ask such a question? Is there anywhere in the world a better father than mine?”

  “But you are very good also…. There are many young ladies who would have been by no means pleased.”

  “And why, I should like to know? There is nothing disagreeable about the fellow. When he has been polished a little …”

  “He will always be perfectly ugly.”

  “My dear Leblanc, he is far from ugly. You are too old; you are no longer a judge of young men.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the chevalier, who came in to look for a book.

  “Mademoiselle Leblanc is here, is she?” he said in a very quiet tone. “I thought you were alone with my son. Well, Edmée, have you had a talk with him? Did you tell him that you would be his sister? Are you pleased with her, Bernard?”

  Such answers as I gave could compromise no one. As a rule, they consisted of four or five incoherent words crippled by shame. M. de Mauprat returned to his study, and I had sat down again, hoping that my cousin was going to send away her duenna and talk to me. But they exchanged a few words in a whisper; the duenna remained, and two mortal hours passed without my daring to stir from my chair. I believe Edmée really was asleep this time. When the bell rang for dinner her father came in again to fetch me, and before leaving her room he said to her again:

  “Well, have you had a chat?”

  “Yes, father, dear,” she replied, with an assurance that astounded me.

  My cousin’s behaviour seemed to me to prove beyond doubt that she had merely been trifling with me, and that she was now afraid of my reproaches. And yet hope sprang up again when I remembered the strain in which she had spoken of me to Mademoiselle Leblanc. I even succeeded in persuading myself that she feared arousing her father�
�s suspicions, and that she was now feigning complete indifference only to draw me the more surely to her arms as soon as the favourable moment had arrived. As it was impossible to ascertain the truth, I resigned myself to waiting. But days and nights passed without any explanation being sent, or any secret message bidding me be patient. She used to come down to the drawing-room for an hour in the morning; in the evening she was present at dinner, and then would play piquet or chess with her father. During all this time she was so well watched that I could not exchange a glance with her. For the rest of the day she remained in her own room—inaccessible. Noticing that I was chafing at the species of captivity in which I was compelled to live, the chevalier frequently said to me:

  “Go and have a chat with Edmée. You can go to her room and tell her that I sent you.”

  But it was in vain that I knocked. No doubt they had heard me coming and had recognised me by my heavy shuffling step. The door was never opened to me. I grew desperate, furious.

  Here I must interrupt the account of my personal impressions to tell you what was happening at this time in the luckless Mauprat family. John and Antony had really managed to escape, and though a very close search had been made for them, they had not as yet been captured. All their property was seized, and an order issued by the courts for the sale of the Roche-Mauprat fief. As it proved, however, a sale was unnecessary. M. Hubert de Mauprat put an end to the proceedings by coming forward as purchaser. The creditors were paid off, and the title-deeds of Roche-Mauprat passed into his hands.

  The little garrison kept by the Mauprats, made up of adventurers of the lowest type, had met the same fate as their masters. As I have already said, the garrison had long been reduced to a few individuals. Two or three of these were killed, others took to flight; one only was captured. This man was tried and made to suffer for all. A serious question arose as to whether judgment should not also be given against John and Antony de Mauprat by default. There was apparently no doubt that they had fled; the pond in which Walter’s body was found floating had been drained, yet no traces of the bodies had been discovered. The chevalier, however, for the sake of the name he bore, strove to prevent the disgrace of an ignominious sentence; as if such a sentence could have added aught to the horror of the name of Mauprat. He brought to bear all M. de la Marche’s influence and his own (which was very real in the province, especially on account of his high moral character), to hush up the affair, and he succeeded. As for myself, though I had certainly had a hand in more than one of my uncles’ robberies, there was no thought of discussing me even at the bar of public opinion. In the storm of anger that my uncles had aroused people were pleased to consider me simply as a young captive, a victim of their cruelty, and thoroughly well disposed towards everybody. Certainly, in his generous good nature and desire to rehabilitate the family, the chevalier greatly exaggerated my merits, and spread a report everywhere that I was an angel of sweetness and intelligence.

  On the day that M. Hubert became purchaser of the estate he entered my room early in the morning accompanied by his daughter and the abbé. Showing me the documents which bore witness to his sacrifice (Roche-Mauprat was valued at about two hundred thousand francs), he declared that I was forthwith going to be put in possession not only of my share in the inheritance, which was by no means considerable, but also of half the revenue of the property. At the same time, he said, the whole estate, lands and produce, should be secured to me by his will on one condition, namely, that I would consent to receive an education suitable to my position.

  The chevalier had made all these arrangements in the kindness of his heart and without ostentation, partly out of gratitude for the service he knew I had rendered Edmée, and partly from family pride; but he had not expected that I should prove so stubborn on the question of education. I cannot tell you the irritation I felt at this word “condition”; especially as I thought I detected in it signs of some plan that Edmée had formed to free herself from her promise to me.

  “Uncle,” I answered, after listening to all his magnificent offers in absolute silence, “I thank you for all you wish to do for me; but it is not right that I should avail myself of your kindness. I have no need of a fortune. A man like myself wants nothing but a little bread, a gun, a hound, and the first inn he comes to on the edge of the wood. Since you are good enough to act as my guardian, pay me the income on my eighth of the fief and do not ask me to learn that Latin bosh. A man of birth is sufficiently well educated when he knows how to bring down a snipe and sign his name. I have no desire to be seigneur of Roche-Mauprat; it is enough to have been a slave there. You are most kind, and on my honour I love you; but I have very little love for conditions. I have never done anything from interested motives. I would rather remain an ignoramus than develop a pretty wit for another’s dole. Moreover, I could never consent to make such a hole in my cousin’s fortune; though I know perfectly well that she would willingly; sacrifice a part of her dowry to obtain release from …”

  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 these 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 eye-lid, 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 bash-fulness; 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 she showed for his revolutionary ideas. This was the first time I had heard a peasant spoken of as a man. Besides, I had hitherto looked upon the sorcerer of Gazeau Tower as very much below the ordinary peasant, and here was Edmée praising him above most of the men she knew, and even siding with him against the nobles. From this I drew the comfortable conclusion that education was not so essential as the chevalier and the abbé would have me believe.