The White House Part 83

"I sat down beside her, I took one of her hands, and begged her to listen quietly to me.

"'Adele,' I said to her, 'a villain has abused your innocence, your candor; it is he especially who is guilty; but have no fear, this misstep is hidden forever; no one will ever be able to divine it, your father shall never know it. I shall have only the name of your husband; I will be to you a brother, a friend, if you some day deem me worthy of that t.i.tle. In marrying you, when your melancholy, your secret melancholy, should have convinced me that I had not your love, I made a mistake. Presuming too far, no doubt, I listened only to the pa.s.sion which I felt, and flattered myself that I could make you share it. I must renounce all hope of that happy future; and yet I feel that it will still be sweet to me to pa.s.s my life with you, to try to allay your suffering, and to restore peace to your soul. Yes, such henceforth will be my only object; as the reward of my efforts, I hope only to see a smile upon your lips some day, and in your eyes a little affection for me.'

"Adele pressed my hand, and said in a voice trembling with emotion:

"'How kind you are, monsieur! and how much your conduct adds to the remorse I feel! But, since you will have it so, I will live; henceforth, dispose of my fate; I will have no other will than yours, even in the most trivial actions of my life; I trust that I may, by my entire submission, prove to you my respect and grat.i.tude at least!'

"After such intense emotion, Adele sorely needed rest. I left her in her room, and withdrew to mine. That is how the first night after our wedding pa.s.sed! And when so many people were envying my happiness, I was consecrating that unfortunate bond by bitter tears.

"The next day I secretly made inquiries concerning the Chevalier de Savigny, but he had quitted Bordeaux, leaving an enormous amount of debts behind him, and no one knew in what direction he had gone.

Everything that I learned about that young man convinced me that Monsieur de Montfort had not slandered him and that he was, in fact, a thorough rascal. And yet such a man had been able to make himself master of Adele's heart; but it is only too common a thing to see women misplace their love. However, I never mentioned his name before my wife; that would have compelled her to blush, and she had only too much remorse for her fault. It was enough for me to know her seducer's name to be certain that he would never appear in my presence with impunity.

"I had determined upon my plan of conduct. We pa.s.sed another fortnight with Monsieur de Montfort, and at the end of that time I announced that we were going to take a trip to Italy. My father-in-law, realizing that we were ent.i.tled to do only what we pleased, contented himself with wis.h.i.+ng us a pleasant journey, caring very little in which direction we bent our steps. My wife and I started without a single servant, and began a journey which was not to come to an end until Adele had brought into the world the child that she was bearing.

"We travelled through Italy, the Alps and Switzerland; more than six months had pa.s.sed since our marriage, and we were in Auvergne, when Adele felt that her time was at hand.

"Adele's health compelled us to stop in a small village, named, I think, Saint-Sandoux, about two leagues from here; I had taken the name of Gervais. There it was that she brought into the world a daughter, whom I caused to be baptised under the name of Isaure Gervais."

"Isaure!" cried Edouard, interrupting the baron; "what! can it be, monsieur, that Isaure is----"

"Adele's daughter, yes, Edouard; but, for heaven's sake, let me finish this painful story.--I had made my plans long before; that child could not remain with her mother. I rode about the neighboring country, alone, carrying concealed beneath my cloak the innocent creature whom I desired to hate, and in whom, nevertheless, in spite of myself, I already felt an affectionate interest. I arrived in this valley, I entered the cottage then occupied by Andre Sarpiotte and his wife; she was nursing a young baby, and I proposed to her to be the nurse of the little girl whom I carried in my arms, inventing a story concerning Isaure's birth and parents.

"The worthy Auvergnats accepted my proposition, which I supported with a purse filled with gold. They swore to me to take the greatest care of the child whom I entrusted to them; and being then more at ease in my mind, I returned to Adele, to whom I announced that she could henceforth be at ease concerning the fate of her daughter; but I did not tell her where the child was.

"As soon as Adele was restored to health we left Auvergne; but before returning to Paris and laying aside the a.s.sumed name I had taken upon my journey, I took pains to make several detours in order to avoid the possibility of anyone discovering what my honor was so much interested in concealing. At last we reached Paris, my dear Alfred! I had longed so to be there, in order to see you and to embrace you once more. There I introduced my new wife in society; and she, by her lovable qualities, readily won general esteem. A single thought still disturbed my tranquillity: I might meet in society my wife's lover; but in that case his blood would have washed out the outrage that he had perpetrated on Adele. However, my thirst for vengeance was constantly disappointed; I never saw or heard of the Chevalier de Savigny.

"Adele never dared to mention her daughter; but she poured out upon you, my dear Alfred, the affection of a mother; caring nothing for society, desiring nothing but you, and liberty to kiss you, to lavish caresses upon you, how many times have I seen her, while covering you with kisses, furtively wipe away the tears that she shed for the child who was banished from her arms! And yet, never a complaint, never a word escaped her upon that subject; attentive and submissive to me, it seemed that in every action of her life she sought to show her grat.i.tude to me.

What a woman! And how fervently I would have adored her forever! Ah!

even if she were guilty for one moment, how many others are there in society who are guiltier than she and have nothing to offer us to redeem their shortcomings!

"Five months after our arrival in Paris, I set out secretly for Auvergne, and went to see little Isaure, under the name of Gervais as before. The good people to whom I had entrusted her loved her as dearly as their own child. Andre at that time wanted to sell this house, which he had just built; it occurred to me that, if I should buy it, it would be convenient for me in the trips which I expected to make into this country. So I became, still under the name of Gervais, the owner of the White House. I furnished it so that I might have everything that I required when I came here; then, after making the peasants swear that they would not say that the owner of the White House was the same man who had placed Isaure in their charge, I returned to Paris, where I afforded Adele the most delicious pleasure by giving her most satisfactory news of her daughter.

"Two years pa.s.sed; every six months I came secretly to the White House.

As soon as they saw a light here, Andre or his wife never failed to come and bring little Isaure to me. The child of those worthy peasants died and they promised to adopt Isaure to replace him whom they had lost; for I, on my part, had promised to leave the girl with them forever.

"Meanwhile, Adele's health was still poor; I believed her to be better than she really was, and she concealed her sufferings from me and always greeted me with a smile. Soon, however, it was impossible for me to delude myself as to her condition. Presuming that her grief at being separated from her daughter was the cause of the sorrow which was secretly undermining her health, I swore to her that before long I would devise some way to have the child brought to us, without running the risk of disclosing the secret of her birth. Adele thanked me affectionately; but alas! it was too late; in a short time her disease made alarming progress, and soon I was forced to see the woman whom I adored fade away in my arms. She died, urging me never to abandon her daughter, to forgive her for her mother's sin, and imploring me to love her Isaure a little.

"I will not attempt to describe my grief; I had never loved a woman so pa.s.sionately as I had loved Adele. But I still had you, my son; I tried to transfer all my affection to you. Meanwhile, faithful to the oath I had sworn to Adele, I went to see Isaure again. Andre also had died, and his wife now had only her adopted daughter to console her; she trembled lest I had come to take her away; but I rea.s.sured her. Why should I have taken that girl away from these mountains? Could she not live here more happily than in society, where her birth would have interposed an obstacle to her marriage?

"After my Adele's death, life in Paris was painful to me; but for you, my dear Alfred, I should have left the capital and settled down in this solitary house. Amid these mountains, near little Isaure, who, by her features and her childish charms, reminded me so forcibly of her mother, I loved to come and dream of that unfortunate woman, who had known only the sorrows of love, and in such a brief life had never felt those pleasures, those delightful emotions, which seem the attributes of youth and beauty.

"But you were growing, my dear Alfred; already the world attracted you with its pleasant chimeras; it presented to your eyes only enjoyment, pleasures, happiness; you were at that age when man enjoys life; I was just leaving the circle which you were entering. So that it was easy for me to come more frequently to Auvergne without your noticing my frequent absences. I came here, and sometimes pa.s.sed a whole fortnight here. But, as I was still afraid that someone would recognize me and mention my sojourn at the White House, I always arranged to arrive here at night, and I never left the White House except after dark. Hence the reports which the superst.i.tious mountaineers spread about this house; but I urged Andre's widow not to try to correct the error of the peasants; the fear which this place inspired in them seconded my wishes, by keeping everybody away from this building.

"The more I saw Isaure, the more my affection for her increased; kindly, sensitive, affectionate, she had her mother's heart and mind. The solitary life to which her birth condemned her was likely to keep her in these mountains permanently. Doubtless, in order to avoid arousing suspicion, and causing the little goatherd to be noticed, I should have done well to allow her to remain as ignorant as the other peasants in this vicinity. But I delighted, in spite of myself, when talking with Isaure to enlighten her mind and to train her judgment; I thought that, destined as she was to live away from the world, reading would be to her a source of pleasure and of agreeable distraction. So I taught her to read. Isaure listened to me with so much attention and docility that she made rapid progress during the short time that I pa.s.sed at the White House. Thus did she little by little acquire knowledge and manners which were not those of a peasant girl; but the pleasure that her progress caused me made me forget the dictates of prudence; I did not reflect that such a wealth of attractions, of charms, and of intelligence would some day impress the stranger who should come to this valley.

"Isaure loved me as her protector and knew me only by the name of Gervais. I had told her that her parents entrusted her to my care when they died; that she had no one else in the world who took any interest in her. It was useless to distress her heart by the story of her mother's misery. I gave her Adele's portrait, which that unhappy creature had given to me for her daughter; but I made Isaure swear that she would never show that portrait to anyone, and that she would never mention me or my visits to the White House; and she has always kept her word.

"It is nearly three years since Andre's widow died, leaving her cottage to Isaure, who enjoyed there all the comforts which I could provide without arousing too much suspicion. At the death of the excellent peasant woman, I gave the girl a faithful and vigilant guardian, and I myself tried to come more often to see my Adele's daughter. Only when the peaceful inhabitants of the mountains were sound asleep, would I announce to Isaure, by a light placed in a window in this house, that I had arrived. During the day, I amused myself by visiting on foot the most beautiful parts of Limagne; and not until night did I return here.

Although alone amid the mountains, Isaure was happy none the less; she laughed in secret at the terror of the peasants, who believed her to be something of a sorceress because she had some knowledge in botany and owned a book in which the manner of raising and taking care of animals is treated; in fact, she often told me that she had no wish, no desire; that her whole happiness consisted in living in her pretty cottage, and in taking her flock to the mountains; but the sweet child did not know love. You came to this valley, you caused Isaure to experience a new sensation, more keen, more imperious, than all the others; henceforth this cottage, these flocks, this landscape were no longer sufficient for her happiness.

"Two days ago I came again to this spot; I saw Isaure; but she was no longer the same. I had no need to question her concerning the state of her heart; the sweet child candidly admitted that a young man named Edouard had come to her cottage with a friend of his; that this Edouard had come again day after day; that he had told her that he loved her, and desired to make her his wife. My son had not told me in which direction he was going with his two friends, and I was very far from suspecting that you were the Edouard of whom Isaure talked to me. But at the portrait which she drew of your refinement, of your manners, I concluded that, being a fas.h.i.+onable young man, you could not intend to marry a peasant girl; I saw in this lover whom she described as so attentive and so tender, only another villain who was scheming to deceive a defenceless girl. Such, Edouard, were the motives which led me to forbid Isaure to listen to you any more. You can appreciate also all the motives which led me not to allow the mystery which surrounded her birth to be suspected. I have revealed this painful secret to you; I have made to you this confession, which is so humiliating to my self-esteem. Now, if heaven grants that we find Isaure, and you still deem her worthy to be your wife, I shall no longer oppose that union, since you now know the whole truth."

Edouard pressed the hand which the baron held out to him, and said:

"I shall love Isaure no less now, monsieur. I shall see in her only the daughter of your Adele. Her charms and her virtues atone sufficiently for the blot upon her birth. May she soon be restored to us! And it will be my greatest joy to call her my wife."

Alfred, after affectionately embracing his father, as if to make him forget all the griefs which his narrative had revived, offered his hand to Edouard, saying:

"Yes, Isaure must be restored to us. I love her as a brother now; but I will a.s.sist you; I shall not enjoy a moment's repose until I have restored her to your arms."

"Poor Isaure!" said the baron. "Since she has been stolen from me, I realize all the strength of my attachment to her. Who can the men be who have taken her from her house? What motive can have inspired them?

Robbers would have pillaged the house but would not have taken Isaure.

Only a lover--but Isaure said that only you two came to this valley to see her. As for this wretch, this vagabond, of whom Alfred has spoken, what reason could he have had for stealing Isaure from us? And, indeed, how could he have compelled her to go with him?"

The baron and the young men lost themselves in conjectures; but they prepared to take the field once more. They went to Clermont-Ferrand to buy horses; they caused poor Vaillant to be taken to the house of honest peasants who promised to take the greatest care of him; they gave them the goats and all that composed the girl's fortunes. Alfred took with him the sword which they had found in Isaure's cottage; then all three plunged at random into the mountains, determined to visit every corner, even the hovel of the most dest.i.tute mountaineer, to search the least travelled paths, to undertake everything, in short, to find the maiden.

x.x.x

THE ABDUCTION OF ISAURE

During the night when Alfred and Edouard went into the valley to spy upon Isaure's actions, a man had constantly followed the two young men, keeping always in the shadow; that man, whom the reader will recognize as he who seemed to have no other home than the mountains, did not lose sight of the two friends; he seemed to take a great interest in having them learn the secret actions of the young girl, and to await impatiently the result of that discovery.

At the moment when Alfred recognized his father in the man who had left Isaure, and named him to Edouard, the vagabond, who was hiding close at hand, had made a sudden movement as if he would have rushed on the baron. But instantly he had checked himself, muttering:

"I have no weapons!" then he had walked rapidly away in the direction of the girl's cottage.

Arrived in front of the cottage, he stopped, scrutinized it for a long while, and seemed to be meditating some scheme of vengeance. Suddenly his eyes lighted up, and a bitter smile played over his face as he muttered:

"That will be better, much better! If I had killed the baron, that would have been the end. Death is soon over; he would have suffered only a moment; but I have been suffering eighteen years; I will try to repay him what he has done to me. He must be very strongly attached to this girl, to conceal her in this place and to employ so much mystery about coming to see her. I must obtain possession of Isaure; to-morrow she shall be in my power. But in order to carry out this plan, I, too, must have weapons, and I have no money, absolutely none. The other night, but for the arrival of that Alfred, I should have found what I was looking for in the tower; but I still have time to go there again; yes, I have no other means of procuring what I want."

Thereupon, striding hurriedly along the country, and as quickly, despite the darkness, as if it were bright daylight, the vagabond took a cross road which shortened the distance to the Chateau of La Roche-Noire, where he arrived in a very short time. He soon stood before the small gate of the garden, to which he had a key; he opened it, entered the garden and walked toward the abandoned tower, where he arrived without meeting anyone. He rapidly mounted the winding staircase and did not stop until he reached the room where Alfred had found him two nights before. The most profound darkness reigned about him; he hesitated a moment, then drawing a flint and steel from his pocket, he decided to strike a light, at the risk of alarming the chateau again.

He always carried about him a small dark lantern, which had often been of great service to him at night in the mountains. It was soon lighted; then he searched in every corner of the room, which was formerly the a.r.s.enal of the chateau, for a weapon which was still in condition to be used. After hunting on all sides, and angrily throwing aside broken lances and rust-eaten sabres, he seized a sword which was still in reasonably good condition, and was about to depart, when he spied another, hanging on the wall in a recess. He walked to the spot, took it down, examined it and cried:

"Here it is! This is the one I was looking for! It was this sword with which I learned, in this room, to fight like a gentleman, to rid myself loyally of an enemy. Poor Richard, you were so fond of giving me lessons, and so proud of your young pupil's talent! when you gave me this sword, you repeated to me again and again the Spanish motto: 'Never draw it without reason; never sheathe it without honor!'"

The vagabond held the sword against his breast, and was about to throw aside the one he had taken first, but he checked himself, saying:

"No, this one will serve me to get rid of Vaillant, so that I may carry off the girl; at all events, the weapon of my youth will not be sullied by that act."

Thereupon, extinguis.h.i.+ng his lantern and bestowing the two swords carefully under his enormous coat, the vagabond descended the winding staircase and left the tower and the chateau by the same road by which he had entered. Then, looking up at the sky, and reckoning how much of the night remained and how long it would take him to return to the cottage, he said in a low tone:

"It is too late to-night; I will do it to-morrow."

The next day, when night had spread its shadow over the country, the vagabond was in the valley; he scrutinized everything, nothing escaped his eye, nothing could mislead his prudence. He was certain that as yet there was no one in the White House, and that Isaure was alone in her cottage. He had antic.i.p.ated everything, calculated all his chances; he soon stood beside the wall which enclosed the garden of the cottage, and placed on the ground, a few steps from the gate, one of his swords, saying: