Chapter C: A. F (2)

She was at the window. I raised the wreath and pressed it to my lips. She seemed to perceive it; she suppressed a smile, bent forward and looked into the street, but not again at me. This response plunged me into inexpressible trouble. It seemed as if she was ashamed of the gift she once had bestowed on me. I now suddenly became conscious of what I expected and hoped from her. I wished an impossibility. I had never thought of Clementine as my wife; I loved her and wished to be loved by her. But she my wife? I, the poor son of a farmer who died encumbered with debt. I who still had to battle with want, and only saw an uncertain fate in the future--I expect the richest heiress in Montpellier!

At this thought my proud spirit sank. I loved Clementine and forgave her if she could not return my love. I saw clearly that I could not change the relations of social life; and, in fact, was too proud to make my fortune by marriage.

Henceforth I applied more ardently to my studies, wishing to pave my way to Clementine’s elevation by my own energies. Many nights I passed sleepless in study. Desirous of hearing the unbiassed judgment of critics respecting my talents, I published, anonymously, a work on the jurisprudence of the ancients, and a collection of poems, the greater part of which were inspired by my secret passion.

This publication of my labours had an unexpected success. Curiosity soon discovered the name of the author, who was everywhere courted. The loud applause raised my self-esteem, and the success of my first attempt rekindled the extinguished flame of hope by the light of which I saw Clementine as my own, though at a distance which rendered her indistinct.

She herself rewarded me in the most pleasing manner, by once reading my poems at the window, when their author had become known. Indeed, from a hundred allusions in the poems which she only understood, she might have guessed their author. She looked across to me, smiled, and pressed the book to her bosom, as if she wished to tell me, “I love it, and what you express in it you have addressed to this heart, which feels and is grateful.”

I again took up the withered wreath, at which I had often sung; smiled, made a sigh, and retired.

But no one was more delighted by the applause I had gained than my friend Bertollon. He became more affectionate and confidential. We regarded each other as brothers; he was devoted to me, and proved, in a thousand ways, that he had a heart for others. He did not let a day pass without showing some kindness; it was only by chance that I learned many of his noble deeds.

“Oh! Bertollon,” I once exclaimed, as I pressed him to my heart, “what a man you are! Why must I pity as much as admire you?”

“You go too far in both points, for I deserve neither one nor the other,” replied he, with a complacent smile.

“No! Bertollon, what I lament is, that you are good and virtuous, without wishing to appear so; you call virtue fanaticism and narrowness of ideas, and yet you constantly practise its precepts.”

“Well, then, Alamontade, rest satisfied with that. Why do you for ever weary yourself with my conversion? When you are older I shall see you treading in my footsteps; be, at least, tolerant for the present; the same child has, perhaps, a twofold name.”

“I doubt it. Could you, Bertollon, voluntarily plunge yourself into misery in order to support a righteous cause?”

“What do you call a righteous cause? Your ideas are not clear.”

“If you could save Montpellier from destruction by sacrificing yourself, would you be capable of suffering poverty or death?”

“M. Colas, you rave again. Only fanatics can demand and make such sacrifices, and it is good for the world that there are such. But now come for once to your senses; I am sorry that you are always indulging such whims, for in this way you will never be happy. Run over the whole world and collect the fools who would meet death for your notions: you will not find one in a hundred million. Every thing is true, good, useful, just, and noble, only under certain circumstances. The ideas of men vary everywhere; many have fancied that they could save the world by their death. They died, but for their own caprice, not for the world, and were afterwards laughed at as fools.”

“For these words I could despise you, Bertollon.”

“Then you would not be over virtuous, according to your own notions.”

“If you could increase your wealth by plunging me into misery, would you do so!”

“For such a question I ought to despise you, Colas?”

“And yet I may put it, for you say that you only strive after that which is useful to yourself. You weigh the goodness of an action only by the result.”

“Dear Colas, I see you will be a bad advocate, and will make a poor fortune, if you only defend causes which are right according to your notions, and never an unjust one by which you might gain.”

“I swear to you, Bertollon, I should abhor myself as long as I lived, if ever I moved my lips for the accusation of innocence, and the defence of crime.”

“And yet you, good-hearted simpleton, you will do it more than once, because you will not always find guilt or innocence written on men’s foreheads. You will be the world’s fool, if you will not walk its way.”

In this manner we often disputed. I was sometimes puzzled with him, and could have feared him, had he not always expressed his terrible opinions so jocosely, that he did not seem to believe them himself. He only wished to irritate me, and when he had succeeded, laughed heartily. But his actions contradicted his words.

Madame Bertollon, on the contrary, daily displayed more of the noble sentiments that animated her. She glowed for the virtuous actions which she practised with religious ardour.

I became her guest, and we were never in want of conversation. Alone with her I spent the long winter evenings, and from me she learned the harp. Soon I could accompany her charming voice, while she sang my songs with deep feeling. She was lovely, and her beauty would have been dangerous to me, had not my heart been fixed on Clementine.

When I spoke of her with enthusiasm to Bertollon, he smiled; if I reproached him for leaving such a lovely creature to herself, he replied, “Our tastes differ; let every one follow his own inclination. Would you, dear despot, have all heads and hearts moulded in the same form? I know my wife loses nothing by me, consequently she is not made unhappy by my treating her in the manner so customary in fashionable society. She knew this beforehand. If you are happy in her society I am glad; and I rejoice if she also finds pleasure in your conversation. You see, virtuous Colas, that I, also, am capable of great sacrifices, for I leave you to her often when I most sincerely desire your company.”

I had finished my studies, had taken the degree of Doctor of Laws, and had obtained permission to practise as attorney before the tribunals of the kingdom. My increased occupations during this time prevented me from visiting Madame Bertollon as frequently as before; but she received me the more joy fully when we met; and I felt now, more than ever, how sincerely I was attached to her. We never confessed how indispensable we were to each other; but each of us betrayed it in every feature, and by the cordiality of demeanour.

At times it seemed to me as if she were more melancholy than she had been, and then, again, more affable and complaisant; at other times she appeared to treat me with marked coldness and reserve; and then, again, as if she wished, with sisterly affection, to quiet my anxiety. This change of behaviour surprised me, and I vainly endeavoured to discover the reason of it. I could not help perceiving that she no longer possessed her former serenity and equanimity. I often found her with eyes that evinced recent weeping. She sometimes spoke with singular enthusiasm of the retirement of a convent, and withdrew more and more from her usual society. A hidden melancholy gnawed the bud of her youth.

These reflections make me also melancholy, and I in vain endeavoured to cheer her. The calm sadness of her look, the vanishing bloom of her cheek, her deep silence, and her efforts to conceal, by an affected cheerfulness, the grief which was gnawing her heart, added to my friendship the genial warmth and tenderness of sympathy. How gladly would I have sacrificed my life to procure happiness for her!

One evening when I accompanied her singing on my harp, a sudden burst of tears choked her voice. Alarmed, I ceased playing. She rose, and was on the point of hurrying to her apartment to conceal her grief.

How touching, in moments of quiet suffering, are youth, beauty, and innocence. I seized her hand, and held her back.

“No!” she exclaimed, “let me go.”

“Stay, I cannot possibly let you go in this excited state. May I not witness your grief? Am I not your friend? Do you not yourself call me so? And does not this pleasing name give me a right to ask you the cause of that affliction which you in vain endeavour to conceal from me?”

“Leave me, I conjure you, leave me,” she cried, as she endeavoured, with feeble efforts, to free herself.

“No,” said I, “you are unhappy.”

“Unhappy, alas!” she sighed, with unrestrained grief, drooping her beautiful face on my bosom to conceal her tears.

Involuntarily I clasped my arms around the gentle sufferer. A deep sympathy seized me. I stammered forth some words of consolation, and begged her to be calm.

“Alas! I am unhappy,” she exclaimed, sobbing, and with vehemence. I dared not endeavour further to appease the storm of feeling by my untimely persuasions; and, letting her weep without interruption, I led her back to her seat, as I felt that she became exhausted and trembling, her head resting still on my bosom.

“You are not well?” I asked timidly.

“I feel better now,” she replied; and, becoming more tranquil, she looked up, and seeing tears in my eyes, asked, “Why do you weep, Alamontade?”

“Can I remain unmoved by your sorrows?” I answered, bending down to her. Silently we sat absorbed in our feelings, hand in hand, gazing at each other. A tear rolled down her cheek, which I kissed away, and drew the sufferer closely to my heart, unconscious of what I was doing. During this embrace our fears evaporated with the glow of our cheeks; and what we called friendship, was changed into love.

We parted; ten times we bade each other farewell, and as often I clasped her in my arms, forgetting the separation.

Keeling as if intoxicated, I entered my room; the harp, wreath, and window, terrified me.

I had never been in a greater state of confusion than I was on the following morning. I could not understand myself, and wavered between contradictions. Madame Bertollon appeared to love me; but hitherto she had heroically struggled with feelings which seemed to wound the nobility of her mind. I was the wretch who, without loving her, could encourage her passion, and fan the fatal flame by which she must be consumed, and I must be dishonoured still more than the unhappy woman herself.

In vain I called to mind the sacredness of my duties; in vain I disclosed to myself the base ingratitude I committed against Bertollon’s generous friendship; in vain I remembered my own and Clementine’s vows; all that once had been to her pleasing and estimable had lost its power and influence. The tumult of my senses continued without intermission: only Bertollon’s lovely wife floated in my imagination; I still felt on my lip the glow of her kiss, and my flattered vanity overwhelmed the earnest warnings of my conscience with illusive sophistry.

“Wretch! you will feel remorse, you will some day blush at your own disgraceful act, and the snow of advanced age will not quench the burning of an evil conscience!”

With these words I endeavoured to arouse my better feelings. While I still revelled in the remembrance of the previous evening, and dark forebodings were rising in my mind, I sat down at the table to write to Madame Bertollon, to describe to her the danger to which we should both expose ourselves by further intercourse, and to tell her that to continue worthy of her friendship I must leave her and Montpellier.

But while reason dictated her precepts, and I wished to make the first heavy sacrifice to virtue, I wrote to Madame Bertollon the most solemn oaths of my attachment, declaring falsely that a secret passion for her had long consumed me, and that I saw my happiness only in her love. I entreated and conjured her not to let me despair, and unrolled to her imagination a vivid picture of our bliss.

I started up, read the letter over and over, tore it, and wrote another, repeating only what I had written, and then again destroyed it. As if by an unknown power I was drawn against my will to a crime at which my soul vainly shuddered. While vowing to myself, in a half-suppressed voice, that I would start for Nismes, and never again see the walls of Montpellier, I also vowed unconsciously I would never leave the charming though unhappy woman; but that I would cling to her, although my passion should lead to inevitable death.

It was as if two distinct souls were struggling within me with equal power and skill. But consciousness became more dim, and the feeling of duty expired in the feeling of the all-engrossing desire. I resolved to hasten to Madame Bertollon, thinking that she was perhaps tormenting herself with reproaches at the weakness she had shown, or that she also might be determined to leave me and Monpellier. I intended to detain her to reason away her fears, and to endeavour to persuade her of the lawfulness of our love.

I started up and ran to the door. A voice within me again cried, “You are going to sin then?--to lose the long guarded feeling of innocence?” I hesitated, and stepped back, saying to myself, “Be pure as God and continue so. One day more and this storm will pass over, and then you are safe.”

This holy feeling exalted me; the words, “Be pure as God,” sounded above the tumult of my agitated feelings, and deterred me, for the time at least, from hastening to Madame Bertollon. But the struggle remained undecided; my yearnings became more impetuous, and I scorned my own virtuous intentions.

At this moment the door of my room opened, and M. Bertollon entered.

“How are you, dear Colas,” he asked, “are you unwell?” At this question I first perceived that I had thrown myself on my bed, from which I jumped up, but had not the courage to take the hand which he extended to me.

“But what is the matter with you, Colas?” he said again, “you look confused and pale.”

Before I could reply, the voice within me again called, “Disclose all to him, disclose all to her husband, and a barrier will be raised between you and his wife; you will remain pure, you will not be the seducer of a woman, nor the traitor and deceiver of your noble benefactor and friend.”

“Bertollon,” said I, hastily, fearing that I might not finish my confession; “I am unhappy, because I love your wife.” I had scarcely uttered the last syllable when remorse seized me; but it was too late, it was done, the husband knew all, and I was now for once right. In the wild tumult of the senses, when powerful passion struggles with the sense of duty, it is only a sudden and decided act which we perceive to be a remedy, that can save us. We must as it were forcibly drive the reluctant body to accomplish it, until we can no more return. I felt like one who is tossed about by the waves of the ocean, and who, when on the point of drowning, indistinctly perceives before his giddy eye the branches on the shore, and hears a voice within him saying, “Seize them.”

Bertollon changed colour and said, “What did you say, Colas?”

“I must go, I must flee Montpellier, you and your wife, for I love her,” replied I.

“I think you are a fool,” said he, smiling, and he regained his usual colour.

“No, Bertollon, I am in earnest; I must not remain here. Your wife is a virtuous woman! and I fear my intercourse with her will prove her ruin and my own. It is yet time. You are my friend, my benefactor, I will not deceive you. Take this bitter confession as a proof of my love for you. I am too weak to be always master of myself, and your wife is too lovely for me to remain indifferent near her.”

“A saint like you, Colas,” said Bertollon, laughing loud, “who with pious devotion confesses the secrets of his heart to the husband himself, will not be dangerous to any husband. Compose yourself; you will remain with us. What folly to make so much ado about a passion? I trust you, and have suspicion neither of you nor of my wife; let that suffice. If you love each other, what can I do against your hearts? If I interpose the world between you, would you love each other less for that? Will your removal remove also your heart? Love each other; I know you both think too nobly to forget yourselves.”

He said all this so ingenuously and cheerfully, and with a tone of such unsuspecting confidence, that I pressed him with emotion to my heart. His noble-mindedness renewed my virtuous resolutions; I was ashamed of my baseness and even of the fact that it had cost me so hard a struggle.

“No! dear Bertollon,” said I. “I should indeed be a wretch if I could betray your confidence and requite your friendship so disgracefully. You have brought me back to a sense of my better self; I will remain here, and the recollection of your trust in me will preserve me against any dishonourable intention. I will remain and prove that I am worthy of you, by breaking off all intercourse with your wife. I will never see her alone; I will----”

“Why tell me all this?” interrupted Bertollon. “It is enough that I trust you. Do you imagine that I have not long observed that my wife loves you, that her love is characterised by her violent, impetuous temper, and that her passion is the more powerful the more she conceals it? Impress her with your noble principles, and cure her if you wish; but be cautious. I know her; her love might soon change into terrible hatred, and then woe be to you.”

“What! Do you expect, Bertollon, that I shall cure her of a disease by which I am myself overwhelmed? And what are you talking of the violence of her temper? Of this I have never discovered even the slightest symptom.”

“Friend Colas, you do not know the sex. In order to please you, she will not show herself in her true colours; and should she once forget herself, love will make you blind.”

Here the subject was dropped, and he engaged my attention by another topic, as he would not suffer me to resume our former conversation. The more I had cause to admire the extent of his confidence, the calmer I became, and the more I resolved to separate gradually from his wife. The following evening I saw her again: she was sitting alone in her apartment, her beautiful head resting sadly on her arm. As soon as she perceived me she rose, her face expressing a pleasing confusion, and her eyes cast down. For some time we remain silent.

At length I asked, trembling, “May I dare to appear before you? But I only come to atone for my transgression.”

To this she made no reply.

“I have abused your confidence,” I continued. “Esteem ought to be my only feeling for the wife of my friend. I have acted dishonourably.”

“So have I,” she added in a whisper.

“Alas! madame, I feel I am too little master of myself;--nay, who could be so in your presence? But, should it cost my life, I will not disturb your peace of mind. My resolution is unalterably taken. I have discovered my innermost heart to your husband.”

“Discovered!” she exclaimed, terrified; “and he--?”

“He at first changed colour.”

“He changed colour?” she faltered.

“But with confidence in you, madame, and with a confidence greater than my virtue, he wished to dissuade me from my intention of leaving Montpellier.”

“Was that your intention, Alamontade?”

“It is still so. I love you, madame; but you are Bertollon’s wife, and I will not disturb the peace of a family to which I am indebted for a thousand benefits.”

“You are a noble man,” said she, shedding tears. “You intend doing what I was resolved to do. My clothes are ready packed. I must and will not conceal from you, Alamontade, that I wish I had never known you. Our friendship grew into love. I deceived myself in vain, and struggled too late against my violent feelings.”

She sobbed more violently, and exclaimed, “Yes, it is better thus! We must part, but not for ever. No! only until our hearts beat more calmly, until we can meet with cooler friendship.”

At these words I was deeply moved.

“But, alas! kind friend,” she continued, still sobbing, and throwing herself on my bosom, “I shall not long survive this separation.”

While her heart beat against mine, and our passion was rekindled, and our sense of duty was struggling for victory, the hours fled quickly. We vowed eternal, pure, sacred love, and yet swore to extinguish it in our hearts. We resolved to separate, to see each other seldom, and then only with calmness, and in the presence of witnesses, and sealed the indissoluble alliance of our souls with rapturous kisses.

What a wretched creature is man! He is ever weakest when he thinks himself strongest. He who flees temptation is the hero; he who wantonly runs into it to attain the crown of virtue has lost it before he begins the combat.

When we parted, we agreed that I should not go farther than a league from Montpellier. I was to live at the château near Castelnau, and only to come to town on an occasional visit. Without delay I executed my design, departing without venturing to take leave of Madame Bertollon; and, however much M. Bertollon was against it, he was, nevertheless, obliged at last to consent.

I soon recovered from my delusion in the tranquillity of rural nature. I felt that I had never loved Madame Bertollon, and I despised myself for endeavouring to make her believe that I entertained a sentiment for her which I did not feel. All with me had been nothing but an intoxicating delusion, which was first produced by the unhappy passion that this lovely creature could no longer conceal from me. She alone was to be pitied, and it was my duty to restore to her the peace she had lost.

My mind now gradually resuming its wonted serenity and cheerfulness, rose above the clouds that had darkened it, and Clementine’s image stood before me more resplendent and charming than ever. At my departure from Montpellier, I had left the wreath and harp behind, not because I had then quite forgotten Clementine, but because shame and a sacred awe drove me back when I was on the point of touching the adored relics. I no longer thought myself worthy of her, and considered the torments of my longing, and of the separation from her, a mild penance for my crime.

Several weeks passed, during which Bertollon only called on me, telling me often that he could not live without me, and yet that he was fettered by his affairs to the unlucky town.

He made several attempts to induce me to return to Montpellier; but in vain. I continued in my salutary retreat, and felt myself happier.

One morning early, I was awakened by my servant, who told me that M. Larette, a friend of Bertollon’s, had called, and desired to speak to me immediately. At the same moment, Larette himself entered, pale and confused.

“Get up,” he cried, “and come directly to Montpellier.”

“What is the matter?” I asked, terrified.

“Get up and dress yourself; you must not lose a moment; Bertollon is poisoned, and is on the point of death.”

“Poisoned?” I faltered, and sank back senseless on my bed.

“Only be quick, he wishes to see you once more; I hastened here by his order.”

Trembling, I flung on my clothes, and followed him mechanically to the door, where a carriage awaited us. We stepped in, and, with the utmost speed, went to Montpellier.

“Poisoned?” I asked again on the way.

“Certainly,” replied M. Larette, “but there is an inconceivable mystery about the affair. A fellow who bought the poison at the chemist’s has been imprisoned; Madame Bertollon is also a prisoner in her apartment.”

“Madame Bertollon a prisoner!--For what reason? And who has put her under arrest?”

“The magistrate.”

“The magistrate! Is the police mad enough to fancy Madame Bertollon capable of poisoning her husband?”

“He believes it, and every body----”

“Sir, you are shrugging your shoulders; ‘And every body?--’ Well, continue: what were you going to say.”

“That every body believes it. The fellow, Valentine I think is his name----”

“What Valentine? Sure the old faithful servant, the most honest fellow under the sun----”

“Well, he has deposed, that about a week ago, he fetched the poison by order of Madame Bertollon.”

“The infernal liar; the----”

“And Madame Bertollon, when interrogated about the servant’s deposition, has confessed it unconditionally. There, that is the whole affair.”

“Confessed? I am bewildered; for I do not understand you. What has she confessed?”

“That she sent Valentine for the poison.”

“Horrible! and also that it was she that murdered, poisoned, her own husband?”

“Who would like to confess such things? but such unfortunately is the case. Bertollon felt yesterday morning his usual indisposition; you know he is sometimes subject to giddiness. He then requested his wife, who keeps a medicine-chest, to give him the usual cordial, a very expensive essence which she keeps in a gilt blue phial.”

“I know it well and also the essence.”

“She herself poured it into a spoon, added some sugar and administered it to her husband. In a short time he felt the most violent spasms in his bowels. The physician was sent for and recognised the symptoms as the effect of poison; of which they found remains in the spoon. The physician did his utmost to save him. He asked for the essence to analyze it. At this Madame Bertollon was offended, and asked whether they thought she was a poisoner; but at length being no longer able to refuse the phial without causing suspicion, she gave it up. In the meanwhile several physicians had been called, as well as an officer of the police. The affair becoming known, the druggist, who recollected that the poison had been bought by Valentine, had informed the police of the circumstance. Valentine was immediately arrested, but referred to his mistress and her orders. Madame Bertollon being interrogated by the police, fainted; all her keys were taken from her, the medicine-chest was examined, and the poison, which was recognised by the above-mentioned druggist, was found. It was, however, deficient in weight, and the essence in the blue phial being likewise examined, the poison was discovered in that. Thus, sir, do matters stand, and you may think of it as you please.”

I shuddered but did not say a word, seeing in the whole a horrible connexion which neither Larette nor any one but myself could perceive. Madame Bertollon loved me with frightful intensity, and our separation had increased her passion instead of checking it; thus she conceived this atrocious plan of freeing herself from her husband. I called to mind the consuming fire in her character, of which Bertollon had told me. I also remembered my last interview with her, during which I had inconsiderately told her that I had candidly confessed our attachment to her husband, and how she then was startled, and how she had inquired anxiously concerning Bertollon’s deportment.

My conjecture was changed into a frightful certainty. I could imagine how the black thought was matured in her, I saw her mixing the accursed draught, and, infatuated by her passion, presenting it to her unhappy husband.

We arrived in Montpellier. I hastened to the room of my beloved benefactor, exclaiming at the foot of the stairs: “Is he still living?”

They told me in whispers to be calm, and prevented me from entering his apartment. He had sunk into a gentle slumber, from which he was expected to derive benefit, and even to recover during its influence.

“And where is Madame Bertollon?” I asked.

In answer to this I was told that she had left the house early that morning, and had gone to her relations, where she was under arrest upon the security of her family; that her nearest relations, by their influence and with much difficulty, had succeeded in saving her from the disgrace of imprisonment. I was further told in confidence that M. Bertollon had advised her, through a friend, to fly to Italy before it was too late. As she hesitated, her brothers also had endeavoured to persuade her to avail herself of her short period of liberty. Her pride, however, triumphed, and her reply was: “I shall not fly, for by doing so I should own a crime of which I am not yet, and cannot be, convicted.”

Beauty of form exerts its magic only so far as we conceive it to be the sign of a noble soul, but loses all its power, nay, inspires us with horror, when it is the cloak of crime. Let the artist paint Sin beautiful on the threshold of hell, and it will be a thousand times more terrible when that which is dearest to man is but the tool of his wickedness.

I could no longer think of Madame Bertollon without detestation. She was a poisoner, and all that Larette had hastily told me was confirmed in Montpellier; while a number of various circumstances threw still greater light on her murderous deed.

All Montpellier was in agitation at this extraordinary occurrence. Bertollon’s gradual recovery, which was accomplished by the skill of the physicians, caused the most lively joy in every house. I no more left the bed of my beloved friend, whom I honoured as a father and a brother.

“Oh, Bertollon!” I exclaimed one day, “You are saved. How miserable I should have been had you died! My grief would not long have allowed me to survive your death. You are my only friend, the only one in the world; you are my benefactor, my guardian angel. I am always ready to die for you. And is it possible that a woman, such a tender timid creature, a woman endowed with, such heavenly charms, a woman whose eyes and mouth preached virtue so sweetly, could be so atrocious?”

“Do you still love her, Alamontade,” said Bertollon, pressing my hand.

“Love her? The very thought is revolting to me. I never loved her; it was only trifling vanity and a delusion of the senses that I once in my infatuation called love. I have never loved her. A secret power always drove my heart from her. How should I love one who intended to murder you? I curse every hour I spent in her society; and repent the attentions I lavished on her. Ah! I knew her not.”

By this time the trial had commenced. The most celebrated counsel in Montpellier, M. Menard, came forward of his own accord to the family of the accused, and offered to be her defender. Menard had never lost a suit. The charm of his eloquence conquered all; where he could not convince reason he knew how to entangle it inextricably by doubts, and to excite against it all the feelings of the heart. Whenever he spoke in the court it was crowded with spectators, who often came from distant parts to hear him. He undertook with success even the worst cause, if he could expect from it a rich reward.

“I desire nothing,” said Bertollon, “but an eternal separation from the poisoner, and I require no other punishment for her than the failure of her attempt. Her own conscience and public contempt are a sufficient sting to her. I know Menard is my personal enemy. He was once my rival, and I foresee that by his artifices he will so confound and dazzle the judges and people, that my infamous wife will extricate herself triumphantly.”

“That he shall not do!” I exclaimed with vehemence. “Pray Bertollon entrust me with your case, though I am but a beginner, and have never spoken in a court of law. Confide in me and the justness of your cause. Indeed, it does not grieve me to appear before the tribunal against a lady whom I once called my friend, and who loaded me with treacherous favours. You are my brother and benefactor, your cause is sacred.”

Bertollon smiled, expressing at the same time his doubts as to my being a match for my adversary’s tact. At length, however, he agreed to my wish of making his suit the first trial of my ability, but was apparently apprehensive.

“Be easy, dear Bertollon,” said I, “friendship will inspire and exalt me if I should seem to sink under Menard’s superior powers, and notwithstanding all his subtlety he will not be able to get over the facts which his client too hastily confessed.”

From time immemorial no trial had excited greater interest than this, which was rendered so conspicuous, both by the atrocity of its cause, and the respectability of the parties concerned. And what a part I undertook! No one knew the relation in which I had stood to Madame Bertollon. No one imagined that I had once clasped the accused to my heart in a moment of extatic rapture; no one knew that her illicit affection for me had perhaps given her hand the first direction towards mixing the poisonous draught.

All this was still a secret, and was to remain so until Menard’s art should threaten victory over me. Then only this last mine was to explode against him.

When it was reported in Montpellier that I was Bertollon’s advocate, success was given to my opponent beforehand. After sufficient investigation, and the examination of witnesses, Menard and I were called to the bar. This powerful speaker seemed only to mock me. He almost evinced contempt, at appearing against a young man who had recently been his pupil, and was now going to make his _debût_. He spoke with such power that he affected me most deeply, and almost inspired me for the cause of the accused.

The trial had been prolonged by Menard’s manoeuvres for six months, when I had hoped to conquer in a few weeks. Menard was always followed by the applause of the people on leaving the court; and it appeared that I wasted my energies in rendering his victory more difficult, only to increase his laurels.

The beauty of the accused had gained for her party all the young men of the town, and her former beneficence engaged for her the poorer class of the people. I had to contend against Menard, against the secret predilection of innumerable hearts prejudiced in her favour, and the remembrance of the virtues which Madame Bertollon had once displayed.

The more, however, my cause seemed hopeless, the more my courage rose. An unusual energy animated me, and Menard himself began to respect or fear me the more I drove him back from his first conquests. His party diminished in proportion, as he was forced to acknowledge the truth of facts which he had before rendered doubtful and uncertain. Soon I heard my praise in public; soon a small number of partisans surrounded me: soon the applause of the people was increased, the more Madame Bertollon appeared guilty, and her beauty and virtues were eclipsed and darkened by the remembrance of so black a deed.

Pleasing as this incense was to me, it delighted me less than Clementine’s quiet approval. Madame Bertollon was related to the family De Sonnes. When it was known that I undertook Bertollon’s cause, Clementine often appeared at the window shaking her head sadly, and making menacing signs. I thought I understood her, and shrugged my shoulders, but was not deterred from performing a duty so sacred.

As my name became more known and lauded in Montpellier, she became more friendly. She appeared to forget her relationship to Madame Bertollon in my success. Yes! I saw myself loved by the angel I adored. No mortal could be happier than I. Our dumb correspondence had now lasted for years.

But I turn to that fatal trial which now took the most serious turn for the accused. Madame Bertollon seeing every fact and witness in league against her, could do nothing but strongly deny her intention of poisoning her husband, though appearances rendered her guilty. I now insisted on interrogating her more closely respecting her object in buying the poison a week previous to the deed. To this she gave evasive answers, and entangled herself in contradictions. It was evident that she feared discovering the reason. All the entreaties of her relations, and the menaces of her advocate, were of no avail. This increased the suspicion; Menard gave up his case as lost, though still protesting her innocence. The tribunal ordered closer confinement, and threatened the first examination by the rack to force confession.

Now Madame Bertollon undertook to plead her own cause before the tribunal in which Menard had been so unsuccessful. In this I saw nothing but an artifice of Menard himself, who wished to call the power of female beauty to his aid to support his eloquence.

As she entered the hall a deathlike silence prevailed. She never was so charming as at this moment; her simple attire, and the paleness of deep grief, summoned compassion into each heart, and tears into every eye.

All was silent, and all eyes were turned from her upon me. I was to speak, but could not, such was my inexpressible confusion. She was the picture of suffering innocence. All the delightful hours I had spent with her were recalled to my memory on seeing her, and surrounded my soul like weeping angels pleading for her and whispering that she was certainly guiltless.

At length I recovered. I declared that no one would be more delighted by a proof of the innocence of the accused than her husband, and myself, his advocate. But for this proof it was necessary that she should remove suspicion and confess her intention in purchasing the poison.

Madame Bertollon appeared very weak, leaning on the arm of her advocate. She looked at me with a painful glance, expressive of love and sorrow.

“Oh! Alamontade,” she said, in a faint voice, “and must it be you to urge the discovery of my object in purchasing the poison? You--and in this place?”

After a few moments’ silence she suddenly rose, turned her pale countenance towards the judges, and said, in a bitter tone, expressive of mental despair,

“My lords, you have threatened me with the rack to force my confession; that is sufficient, and I will put an end to the proceedings--I am guilty, I intended a murder with this poison. More you will not learn from me; pronounce your verdict.”

She turned and left the court--perfect silence and utter amazement prevailed. Two days afterwards the tribunal pronounced the verdict of “guilty” against the wretched woman.

M. Bertollon had long since recovered. He was more cheerful than usual, and joked as before at my zeal for virtue; he loved me at the same time so truly that it grieved him that I so obstinately persisted in my strict principles. I therefore sometimes afforded him the satisfaction of appearing to agree with him, and of yielding to his favourite whim, that all upon earth was but a play of expediency.

The evening previous to the day on which the sentence was passed I was with him; we were cheerfully sitting at our wine, until midnight, and swore everlasting friendship to each other till death.

“Tell me, Colas, do you know Clementine de Sonnes?”

I blushed. Wine and confidence in his friendship elicited the holy secret. Bertollon laughed immoderately, exclaiming repeatedly, “Simpleton that you are! you are everywhere tricked by your heavenly virtue. Pray be rational for once, why have you not told me this long since? She would now be your betrothed; well, she shall be yours, here is my hand upon it. With prudence we may subdue the world, why not a girl or a proud family? I have already observed that Clementine is not likely to refuse you.”

In raptures I clasped my friend in my arms. “Oh! if you could do that, Bertollon, you would make me happy--make me a god.”

“So much the better, for I shall still want your divine assistance for some pet plan. A girl so like your Clementine that they might be taken for sisters. Such a girl lives at Adze. You simpletons have hitherto thought that I go there as frequently as I do for the sake of pure air or business. No; I love the girl inexpressibly; no woman ever fettered me like her. As soon as I am rid of my wife I shall court the Venus of Adze. But then, M. Colas, I shall trouble you not to have such conversations with my future wife as you used to enjoy with my first one.”

“What, Bertollon!” I exclaimed, confounded; “you will marry again?”

“Certainly. Look you. I at first thought you were going to play a romance in due form with my wife; I thought you really loved her, in which case I would have resigned her to you, and then we could have come to some arrangement in the affair. I should have liked it very well, and we should not have had all this ado about the poison which had nearly gone against me.”

“But how do you mean, Bertollon? I do not quite understand you.”

“I must tell you, you innocent. In my wife’s absence, I one evening secretly searched her drawers--you may laugh; you see I did not quite trust you at that time, with all your virtue; for I thought you had exchanged love letters of grief and affection. While so doing, the lame Jacques happened to come down the stairs and saw me leave my wife’s room after I played her this trick. But the blockhead passed quickly and saluted me.”

“What trick do you mean? You talk so confusedly. Drink! here is to your health.”

“And to yours, Colas! You have acquitted yourself well. You are a capital fellow. I lay you would not have made an address half so good before the court against my wife, had you known that I myself mixed the poison with the essence, though it was only a small quantity.”

“No! certainly not, dear Bertollon.”

“Therefore it was wise on my part not to tell you before; now it can do no harm.”

“Why you were not fool enough to wish to poison yourself?”

“As to that I knew very well that I was in no great danger. I was only astonished to find poison in my wife’s possession. She had labelled it. But what do you think she intended to do with it?”

“Why, that is an enigma.”

“But it was a deep trick, Colas, was it not? The following morning I pretended giddiness, sent for my wife, who brought me the essence herself as usual. The physician was also sent for, and an antidote was applied, but I had only mixed in a small quantity of the poison.”

“But Bertollon, what are you talking about? Your wife after all then is quite innocent?”

“That is the joke in the affair. And you have pleaded your throat sore for nothing. But drink; this will cure it. Confess now, was it not a bold stroke of mine? My wife must think she is quite bewitched, for she does not know that I have the best of picklocks in the world for all her drawers.”

“But--” said I, becoming suddenly sober with horror.

“Let no one hear any thing of this; you, Colas, are my only confidant. You must know that the affair might have terminated badly after all, as in my haste I upset a phial containing a red liquid in the medicine-chest, and forgot to replace it. But, to cut the matter short, Colas, I am happy. You shall be so too. I swear to you that the day on which I marry Julia, you shall celebrate your nuptials with Clementine. But what is the matter with you? Actually you are fainting. There--drink some water. The champagne does not agree with you.”

He supported me with one arm, while offering me the glass with the other, which I pushed back shuddering. I was stunned by what I had heard.

“Go to bed,” he said.

I left him, while he staggered after me, laughing loudly.

Midnight had long passed, sleep had not visited me, and when morning approached I had not even undressed, and I walked up and down the room in great agitation. What a night! What had I learned? I was not able to believe so atrocious and revolting a crime. An innocent and virtuous wife, who had never offended her husband, plunged into prison and everlasting disgrace; the husband abusing his friend by making him accomplish his hellish designs, and innocence tortured with pangs more bitter than death?

I felt some relief, however, in the hope that Bertollon only wished to test my friendship. For, if he really had acted so atrociously, how could he venture to let another glass of wine pass his lips, since every drop threatened to disclose his secret; how could he so shamelessly reveal himself in all his atrocity, either to a villain or to an honourable man?

But I hoped in vain to deceive myself; his expressions respecting me and his unfortunate wife, and his former willingness to resign her to me, made all but too true. His early plans were now becoming clearly developed in the misty distance. I recollected many expressions which he had used, and that he himself favoured my intercourse with Madame Bertollon, and refused to become suspicious of our intimacy. And when he spoke of the vehemence and reserve of her disposition, he probably then conceived designs of charging her with this crime.

The morning had dawned, and I was still undecided as to what I should do. Innocence must be saved, but her safety must be the ruin of my benefactor, my first and only friend; only an excess of love for me had elicited the horrible secret. Should I go and betray him? He was the author of my happiness; should the hand which had received innumerable benefits from him, plunge him ungratefully into an unfathomable abyss? Should I lose him whom I still loved, the only one who loved me? “Unhappy series of events,” I sighed, “must I become the instrument of fettering innocence, or of sacrificing the life of my benefactor?”

But my conscience cried, “Be just before you wish to be kind! Whatever consequences may attend the actions which we perform, from duty,--nay, even did they involve the destruction of ourselves--nothing should hinder us when virtue is at stake. Return to your poverty, go solitary and cheerfully through life, only save your peace of mind and carry with you a quiet conscience. You did what justice required. There is a God, be pure as he is.”

I wrote to the police inspector of the district to come immediately to me on most urgent business. On his arrival I repaired to Bertollon’s room, while the officer remained without.

Bertollon was still asleep; I trembled, love and compassion overcame me, I exclaimed, “Bertollon,” and kissed him.

He awoke, and I suffered him to wake completely during some indifferent conversation.

“Tell me,” I said, at length, “is your wife really innocent? Had you poisoned the essence yourself?”

He looked at me with a penetrating glance, saying, “Be silent.”

“But, Bertollon, this answer is but a confirmation of last night’s statement. I conjure you, my friend, remove my doubts. Have you done all you said, or did you only wish to----”

Bertollon rose, and said, “Colas! I trust you are discreet.”

“But speak, Bertollon, pray speak! the court will pass sentence on your wife to-day, let not innocence perish!”

“Are you mad, Colas? Would you become the betrayer of your friend?”

While stammering this he appeared in violent emotion. He turned pale, and his lips became livid; his eyes stared vacantly. All proved too certainly that he had confessed the previous night, in the excitement of wine, circumstances at which he was now terrified, seeing they were no longer safe in my keeping.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “Bertollon! dress, take money enough with you, and flee. I will manage the rest.”

With a look threatening death, he asked, “Why?”

“Fly, I say, while there is time.”

“Why?” he replied, “Do you intend---- or have you, perhaps, already----”

“By all that is dear and sacred to you, fly!”

While I whispered these last words to him, he suddenly jumped up, looked about the room as if searching for something, which made me think he had forgotten in his consternation that his clothes lay near the bed. While I stooped to give them to him he fired a pistol at me, and the blood gushed down over my chest.

The door was burst open, and the inspector of police entered in terror. Bertollon still holding in one hand the pistol he had fired, and a second in the other, looked aghast at the unexpected appearance.

“Accursed dog!” he cried to me, with gestures of despair, and flung the discharged pistol furiously at my head. Another shot followed--Bertollon had shot himself. He reeled against me--I caught him in my arms--his head was shattered.

I became senseless, sank on the floor, and when I first recovered consciousness, I found myself in my own room, with physicians and servants busy about me. My wound, which was under the left shoulder, was probed and dressed, but was not dangerous.

All around me were in great consternation. Several of Bertollon’s friends were near me, assailing me with questions.

I dismissed them, and, when recovered, dressed myself and ordered a sedan-chair to carry me to the assembled court.

In the meanwhile Bertollon’s suicide had become known in the town. An enormous concourse of people thronged his house, but when they learned that I intended going to the court the curious crowd followed me.

Sentence had already been passed on Madame Bertollon at a private sitting of the court. The moment she was led into the hall to hear it before the assembled multitude, I arrived.

I begged a hearing as I had to make important disclosures. Permission to speak was granted me. Amidst a silence as if death reigned, I said to the judges: “My lords, once I stood here the accuser of innocence, I now come to save her, and to prepare her for a well-deserved triumph. I was deceived by the appearance of circumstances, deceived and abused by my friend, and an accomplice in an act of cruelty without knowing it. The unfortunate lady upon whom you are about to pronounce sentence is not guilty of any crime.”

I now distinctly stated the history of the previous night, Bertollon’s suicide, and his attempt on my life. Beside me stood the police-inspector as a witness, and lame Jacques, who recollected that he had seen M. Bertollon the evening previous to the poison being taken, coming from the apartment of his wife with a light.

Such a termination to the trial in which I had at first achieved such a splendid victory over my opponent Menard, and which was to found my reputation in that country, no one had expected. During my speech astonishment and horror were depicted on a thousand faces. But when I stopped, a murmuring arose which swelled to loud exultation. My name was shouted with enthusiastic joy, and the eyes of all were filled with tears.