Chapter III (10)

But this was only the beginning of his surprise. If the inside could easily be seen, the conversation was as plainly heard through the wooden walls, lined with moss; and what he heard froze the blood in his veins. Isidore first spoke, and made an eloquent discourse, which was several times interrupted by the bravos of his audience; in which speech he showed precisely what he was--a pagan, an agrarian, a complete villain, without either faith or justice. He encouraged his friends, the ruffianly crew before him, to proceed to arson and pillage--to murder, if necessary--for the one purpose, said he, of gaining the triumph of the _holy cause_. This word _holy_, which he did not scruple to repeat, sounded so horribly in his blasphemous mouth that poor Jean-Louis shuddered while listening to him; not from fear, but from the furious desire to avenge the name of holy, which he had dared to pollute with his tongue.

"O my God!" thought he; "that the husband of Jeannette! And is it on account of such a vagabond that I have been treated so harshly? Poor, poor Jeanne!"

After Isidore had finished his frightful speech, his companions began to curse and swear all at once. Glasses of brandy were passed around, and their heads, already heated by wicked passions, became still more excited; so that they began to dispute among themselves as to whom should belong this and that piece of the estate of Val-Saint. This one wanted the fields, another the wood, a third such or such a farm, and so on with the rest, until Isidore, commanding silence, reminded them, with threats and oaths, that the château should belong to his father, and that whoever failed to comply with his promise would be answerable to him personally.

"Come, come," said one of the men, "we will see a little about that; he is going rather too far. Is it because he is going to marry a devotee--eh, Isidore?"

Perdreau turned livid with anger at being thus addressed--not that he respected Jeannette or her principles, but because he was as proud as a peacock; and as he held every one around him in sovereign contempt, he did not recognize their right to meddle in his private affairs.

"I will marry whom I please," said he haughtily; "and the first one that finds fault has only to speak."

"Bah! bah! Isidore, don't be angry," said an old wood-cutter, who went by the name of _Blackbeard_, on account of his savage look. "What they say is only for your good; we have heard tell of your marriage, and it alarms us. The truth is that if the thing is true, you will be tied for ever to that Ragaud, who belongs to the sacristy clique."

"Ha! ha!" replied Isidore, somewhat pacified; "the moment you talk sense, I am willing to answer. Tell me, then, what would you do if a chestful of gold came under your hand?"

"What nonsense even to ask such a question! Why, I would pick it up, of course."

"That is just what I am doing," replied Isidore, laughing; "and as for the piety and all that stuff, I don't bother myself. When I will have the principal, I am capable of regulating the rest."

"Do it, and joy be with you," said Blackbeard; "we understand each other. So no one will be allowed to interfere with Isidore; he is worthy of our esteem!"

The rascals applauded, and recommenced their shameful jokes and infernal proposals. Isidore, once more master of the assembly, spoke at greater length, and ended by exacting an oath that no one should move in the cause until a given signal from Paris. They all swore as he wished, and, as the night was far advanced, honest Perdreau took leave of his good friends, fearing that daylight might surprise him before he could regain his house.

Jean-Louis needed all the strength mercifully granted by the good God in such a trying moment to listen until the end to all these horrors. The blood boiled in his veins; he felt neither the snow, nor the biting north wind, and more than once his indignation was so great, he stepped forward and clenched his fist, as though he would throw himself in the midst of those demons, without reflecting that a solid wall separated them from him. Happily, he restrained himself; for courage is not imprudence, and, if he had failed in coolness, he would have lost all the results of the important discovery he had just made. He went back to Michou's cabin, whom he found awaiting his return, according to his promise, and who had commenced to feel very anxious about his long absence.

"M. Jacques," said he, on entering, "I came very near not returning...."

And in a few words he recounted all he had heard and seen.

Michou said not a word. He relighted his pipe, and paced the floor, plunged in thought.

"I knew the Perdreaux were famous scamps," said he at last, "but not quite so bad as that!"

"Oh!" cried Jeannet, "if my death could have saved Jeannette from that rascal, I would have broken in the door and fallen in the midst of them without hesitation."

"A very stupid thing you would have done, then," replied Michou; "they would have killed you, and to-morrow announced that you had fallen from a tree. That would have been a lucky thing for Perdreau."

"God watched over me," replied Jean-Louis. "And now, what shall we do?"

"That little Ragaud," said Michou, "deserves it all for her frivolity and vanity; and, as a punishment, we should let her go to the end of the rope with her Isidore."

"Never, never!" cried Jean-Louis. "You are not speaking seriously? The daughter of your old brother-in-arms?"

"Ha!" replied the old fellow, "my old brother-in-arms! Ten years ago I predicted what would be the end of his nonsense."

"This is not the time to wish it now," replied Jeannet. "Let us save them, M. Michou; I can do nothing without you."

"Why not? You have a tongue like me; more than that, you saw and heard all; go to-morrow to Muiceron."

"Impossible," said Jeannet, much embarrassed.

"Impossible? There is something behind that!"

"But was it not you yourself who made me promise not to return to my parents?"

"Most certainly, my child; but the case is urgent, it seems to me, and they should know in time, so as to change their minds before it is too late."

"I will lose my self-control if I meet Isidore face to face."

"Jeannet," said Michou, "you have a good heart. I know all, my boy; they drove you from Muiceron. Marion heard that little magpie of a Jeannette dismiss you, and she related the story to me, weeping all the while, good fat girl that she is. I wished to see how far your generosity would carry you. Evil be to them who treated you in that manner; they deserve what has happened."

"No," said Jean-Louis, "they are blinded, that is all; and now I have forgotten those words, said without reflection. M. Jacques, I beg of you help me to save Jeannette."

"You will have a fine reward, eh?"

"Oh! what is it to me? After all, can I, for a few cruel words, lose the memory of twenty years of tenderness and kindness?"

"If you do not have your place in heaven," said the keeper, raising his shoulders and voice at the same time, to conceal his emotion, which was very visible, "I think our _curé_ himself cannot answer for his. Come, let us see what we can do to save this hare-brained Jeannette. In the first place, to-morrow, at the latest, I intend that M. le Marquis' place shall be cleared of those rascals that encumber it. The thing is easy; I will tell them that, owing to the bad weather, we will postpone the clearing of the forest until spring, as the work advances too slowly, and give them two weeks' pay ... no, I won't; one week is enough. And then you--you must write; do you hear? _Write._ Writing remains, and scenes and conflicts are avoided; you will therefore write six lines, carefully worded, to Perdreau. You will tell him you were at the meeting in the wood that night. How? That is none of his business--it is enough that you were there; then you will add: 'I give you three days to disappear, after which I will warn the police.' And for the explanation at Muiceron, I will see to it."

Jean-Louis saw at once the good sense of this arrangement, and obeyed immediately. In reality, it was the only means of bringing things to the best possible conclusion.

The next day Michou went to the wood, as usual. He found the men at their work, as though nothing had happened, and taking aside old Blackbeard, who appeared to have some control over his companions, he told him very quietly of his intention. Now, you will have no difficulty in seeing that for men who reckoned upon dividing a domain worth five hundred thousand crowns in a few days, to be free from work and receive a week's pay was a clear and enticing advantage. Michou was applauded; and, but that it went against the grain, he would have had the happiness of shaking hands with the whole crew. But as he was not very desirous of that pleasure with such a set, he was entirely rewarded for his pains by seeing them file past him arm-in-arm, and watched them as they went down the road, singing at the top of their lungs.

That same morning Jean-Louis' letter left for its destination, and in the evening the letter-carrier deposited it at the notary's house.

It has been remarked that villains are not brave. The good God, who protects honest men because they scarcely think of defending themselves, has put cowardice in the hearts of their enemies, and it serves as a rampart always raised before virtue, which prevents the wicked blows of vice from piercing it to death. Do not be astonished at that beautiful phrase; I acknowledge I am not capable of inventing it; but, in order that I might repeat it to you, I carefully copied it from a big book, full of wise sayings, formerly lent to me by the Dean of Aubiers.

If the lightning had fallen upon the notary's house, it would not have produced a greater shock than Jeannet's simple letter. The Perdreaux, as they were better educated than the mass of the poor people, whom the ringleaders of the revolution use for their own purpose, did not doubt but there would be great trouble and an overthrow of thrones, but were not the less sure of the universal division of property, which they looked forward to with such eagerness. But the safest and strongest plank of salvation for them was the marriage of Isidore, and it was most important that it should take place now, or else the prison-doors would soon be opened. Old Perdreau was annihilated. For thirty years he had had the boldness to calumniate his neighbors on every occasion; he was on the eve, if he could, of causing the ruin, and perhaps the death, of our good lord by delivering up his property and betraying his secrets; but before this paper, which contained only a few lines without threats or anger, written by a foundling, he turned livid and trembled with fright, and his ugly face, ordinarily so bold, was covered with a cold sweat. Isidore also was as pale as he; from time to time he read Jean-Louis' letter, crushed it in his hand, trampled it under foot, swore by the holy name of the Lord, and struck the tables and chairs with his clenched fist. But that did not help the matter. The father and son dared not speak to each other. At last Isidore took the paper up again; and as if that scare-crow, by disappearing, could mend affairs, he tore it into a thousand pieces.

"We are lost, lost!" repeated old Perdreau, clutching his gray hair with both his hands.

"That remains to be seen!" cried Isidore. "Father, instead of sinking into such despair, you had better think of some plan. It was by your order I went to Montreux. I knew there was no need of such hurry."

"What could I do?" asked the unhappy old man, ready to humiliate himself before his son. "We were menaced on all sides."

"It was only you who saw all that," replied Isidore harshly; "I always listened to you too much."

"We can deny it all," ventured Perdreau.

"That is easy to say. But I am not sure of our men, if they should be questioned. That cursed foundling will be believed before all of us."

"Lost! lost!" repeated the notary, in the last state of despair.

"We won't give up," said Isidore. "Go to bed, father; you are in no condition to talk. I will reflect for both."

"Ah! think of something, no matter what; we must avert the blow," said old Perdreau, as he staggered to his room.

"Avert the blow!" repeated Isidore; "the devil himself would not succeed--unless--unless...."

He paused, as if some one would listen to his thought. A frightful idea entered his head, and all that night the notary, who groaned and shivered with fever in his bed, heard him walking about, taking great strides across the floor, whilst he uttered disconnected words.

The next day the servant found her masters in a sad state; one sick, almost delirious, the other asleep, all dressed, in a chair, with a face haggard from the effects of the terrible night that had just passed.

But two hours afterwards, affairs resumed their accustomed train. Isidore bathed and changed his clothes, drank a bowl of hot wine, in which he poured a good pint of brandy. He swallowed this comforter, ate a mouthful, and appeared fresh and well. But an experienced person would easily have seen that his eyes looked like balls of fire under the red lids, and that every moment he made a singular movement with his shoulders; you would have thought he shuddered, but doubtless that was owing to the heavy frost the night before.

He went to see Jeannette, as usual, and was wonderfully polite; the little thing was sad, but gentle and quiet. She willingly spoke of the marriage, of the contemplated journey, and the presents she wished. But yet it was easy to see that each one of the betrothed was playing a part in trying to appear at ease, and scarcely succeeded. Jeannette, in the midst of a fine phrase, would stop and look out of the window, and Isidore would profit by the opportunity to fall into a reverie, which certainly was not suitable at such a time. The reason was that the slight friendship that was felt on one side had taken wings and flown away; whilst on the other that which perhaps might begin threatened to be cut short by circumstances: but whose fault was it?

"As you make your bed, so you must lie," said our _curé_, and Isidore, who had stuffed his with thorns, should not have been surprised if he felt them. No one can describe, because, very fortunately, no one can understand, the disordered state of this unhappy young man's mind. He had formed a resolution whose result you will soon see; and on whatever side he looked, he saw a bottomless abyss open before his eyes. He was afraid--this yet can be said in his favor, for indifference to crime is the state of finished scoundrels--and he would not now have gone so far, if, as we hope, he had not previously lost his senses.

He prolonged his visit to Muiceron as long as he could. Little Jeannette was tired out and did not attempt to conceal it, which sufficiently showed how much pleasure she took in the presence of her future husband. She even yawned two or three times, which any other day he would have resented; but now it escaped his notice.

At nightfall he at last decided to leave, and then it could be seen, by his pallor and the manner that he passed his hand across his brow, that the great deep pit of which I spoke caused him a greater vertigo than ever.

Nevertheless, he started resolutely on the road for the wood of Montreux, and, when he was near the wood-cutters' retreat, he looked as if he wished to enter it; but suddenly he retraced his steps, and afterwards appeared so absent and buried in his own reflections, he did not notice that the cabin was empty, and no work going on inside.

One man, however, was walking among the huge piles of timber, half ready for delivery; it was Michou. He at once perceived Isidore, and followed him with his eyes a long distance; but it was not necessary to accost him, and he let him pass on, with the idea that he was seeking the high-road to Issoudun, in obedience to the letter of Jean-Louis.

"The hawk is caught," said he to himself. "Well, let him go in peace, that he may receive his last shot elsewhere."

During this time, Perdreau directed his steps towards the game-keeper's house. He easily entered, as the door was only closed by a latch; Michou, in his isolated abode counting more on his gun, which he always kept loaded at his bedside, than on the protection of bolts.

Isidore knew that each night Jeannet came to eat and sleep in the little house; but he also knew that he worked until late in the night, and that there was no risk of meeting him at this early hour.

As he expected, he found the idiot Barbette alone in the house. The poor girl was preparing the soup Jean-Louis was accustomed to eat on returning home, and near her was her dog, who never left her, not even at night, when both went out together to sleep with the sheep.

She knew Isidore, as she had seen him roaming around the country. Except to say good-morning and good-evening, she scarcely knew how to speak, and therefore showed neither astonishment nor fear, as is the case with children deprived of reason, who are not conscious either of good or evil.

Isidore sank into a chair without speaking; Barbette nodded to him, and continued stirring her stew-pan.

"What are you making there?" asked Perdreau, after a few moments' silence.

The idiot burst out laughing, as though the question was very funny.

"Soup," she replied, still laughing loudly.

"Is it for your uncle?"

"No, my uncle has dined."

"Who is it for, then?"

"For the other one."

"The other one? Is it for Jean-Louis?"

"Yes."

"You are very sure?"

"Yes, yes!" said she, laughing louder than ever.

"Very good," muttered Isidore between his teeth. He suddenly arose, and gave the dog a furious kick.

Barbette uttered a shrill scream. Her dog was her only friend; she threw herself between Isidore and the poor beast, which she clasped in her arms.

During this movement, which was very quick, the wretched Perdreau sprang towards the stove, threw into the soup a paper of white powder, which he had kept hidden in his hand, and disappeared in a second, like one who feels his clothes catching fire.

Soon all was again quiet and silent. Little Barbette understood nothing, except that the wicked man who had beaten her dog without any cause had left, and that she could return to her cooking. She recommenced stirring her soup, laughing softly to herself, but taking care, however, that her dog was close to her side.

Michou entered about a quarter of an hour later. He was fatigued with his day's work, and thought no more of Isidore, whom he believed far away. Besides, if he had given him a thought, the idea would never have entered his head to question Barbette, who was not in a condition to render an account of anybody or anything.

The game-keeper had his bed and Jeannet's also (straw mattresses, laid on trestles) placed in a recess at the end of the room, so that, upon retiring, they could draw the curtains, and be as private as though in another room. He undressed quietly, and stretched himself upon the bed to take his much-needed rest, knowing well that Jean-Louis often came in late, but made so little noise he was never disturbed.

A long time passed. Michou was sleeping soundly, when he heard Barbette call him.

"What do you want?" he asked, raising himself up in his bed.

"Uncle," said the poor idiot, "Jean-Louis has not returned."

"Well, what of that?"

"I am hungry," she replied, for she never ate supper until her work was finished.

"Eat," said Michou. "What is there to prevent you?"

"Can I eat Jean-Louis' soup?" she asked.

"Faith," thought the game-keeper, "he must have supped with the Luguets. Yes," said he aloud, "eat, and be off to bed."

Barbette did not wait to be told twice. She emptied the soup into a bowl, swallowed half of it with a good appetite, and gave the rest to her dog.

Then she went out, fastening the latch as well as she could, and Michou turned over in his bed, where he was soon asleep again, and nothing else happened to disturb him, as Jeannet that night did not return home.

XVIII.

The night was terribly cold, and the following morning the sky was dark and heavy from the snow that fell unceasingly; so that our superb wood of Val-Saint, so delightful in summer, looked horrible and desolate enough to make one think of death and the grave, all around was so still and quiet in its white winding-sheet. Michou, who had nothing to do after he sent off the workmen, rose later than usual, and was rather astonished to see Jeannet's bed still vacant. It was the first time the dear boy had slept away from home without giving warning. He knew him too well to think that it was from want of attention: what could have happened?

He thought again of Perdreau, whom he had seen roving around the premises the night before; and for the first time in his life the game-keeper felt a thrill of terror.

"The good-for-nothing is capable of anything," thought he; "he may have watched for Jean-Louis in some out-of-the-way place to harm him."

But after this reflection, he reassured himself by thinking of Jean-Louis' extraordinary strength and great height, which surpassed Isidore's by at least a head.

"That puppy has no more nerve than a chicken," said he. "Jeannet could knock him down with one blow; and as for drawing a pistol, he would be afraid of the noise."

However, good Jacques hurried with his dressing, so that he might go to the Luguets', to inquire after Jean-Louis. While doing so, he looked at his big silver watch, which hung on a nail by his bedside, and saw with astonishment that it was nine o'clock.

"This is something strange!" said he; "it is the first time in ten years I have slept so late."

He went to the door, but, as he put out his head, he was driven back by a whirlwind of snow which struck him in the face, and at the same time a man presented himself upon the threshold.

"M. Michou," said the new-comer, who was no other than the letter-carrier of the commune, "it is unfortunate you have some correspondent in this awful weather."

"That is true! You are not very lucky," replied the game-keeper; "for this is the first letter you have brought me in two years."

It was from Jean-Louis, and contained but a few words:

"M. JACQUES: Do not be uneasy about me. I am in good health, but I will not return before three days, as I am going to Paris on important business.

"Your ever-faithful
"JEAN-LOUIS."

"What the devil can that child have to do in Paris?" thought Michou. "Never mind, this letter is a great relief; I would rather know he was off there than here."

He gave the carrier a warm drink, and conversed with him some time before the hearth, upon which burned a good armful of vine-branches. Then, when he had taken his departure, the thought of Barbette suddenly entered his head.

"What is she doing?" said he. "The poor child has forgotten my breakfast; I suppose she has also slept late."

He opened the door; the snow was not falling quite so thick and fast, and the sky appeared less sombre.

He left the house, and went to the sheepfold, to see what had become of his idiotic niece.

Alas! If you have listened to me until now, you can well guess what had taken place in that gloomy night! And yet, upon entering the enclosure, nothing at first foreboded the misfortune which was about to startle the good game-keeper. The sheep bleated and tumbled pell-mell, climbing on one another's backs, browsing contentedly upon the hay scattered here and there; but down at the end of the sheepfold, in a little corner, poor Barbette was extended, stark dead and already cold, the mouth half-opened and the face rigid from its terrible struggle. Close to her, with his head laid across her feet, her dog also slept, never more to be awakened.

It was evident the innocent child had suffered fearfully. Her poor body seemed longer by three inches than before, as though the limbs had been stretched in her dreadful death-struggle. Her little, shrivelled hands still clutched bunches of wool that she must have torn from the sheep in her agony. With all that, she looked tranquil and at peace, as if an angel of the good God had come at the supreme moment to bear away her soul, exempt from sin.

Michou fell on his knees beside the little dead body. He tried to raise her, but she was so stiff he had to move her like a wooden statue. Certainly, many hours must have elapsed since her death; the dog, also, was frozen to the touch, and as hard as stone. There was no doubt these two creatures, so attached to each other during life, had met together a violent death. Nothing more remained to be done but to make the necessary declarations and hold the inquest usual in such cases. The good man bent over the agonized face of the child a few minutes; one or two tears fell upon his gray beard, and, while wiping them off with his coat-sleeve, he recited a Pater and a De Profundis; then he brought several planks and bundles of straw, which he placed around the poor corpse, so that the sheep should not injure it while playing around. He left the dog lying on the feet of his mistress, Barbette; and mere creature, without soul, as the good God had made him, he deserved this respect, having died faithful as he had lived.

Jacques Michou left the sheepfold, his otter-skin cap in his hand, and on the threshold turned again and made another sign of the cross. His old heart was heavy with pain from the shock; but he did not dream for an instant of what we know, and at that you must not be too much astonished. The good man was perfectly honest, and could not at first conjecture that a great crime had caused this extraordinary death. He rather imagined that Barbette, who had been given to wandering around like all innocents, had gathered some poisonous weed, or drank by mistake from a vessel in which remedies were prepared for the sheep when afflicted with the mange, which are always composed of a decoction of tobacco or other noxious preparation; which cures, if applied externally, but is certain death when taken internally, if the directions are not followed. Thus plunged in sad and bitter meditation, he arrived, almost before he knew it, at the village of Val-Saint, and thought to continue still further, to warn Dr. Aubry. "He will be able to tell me," thought he; "with his learning he can say what killed the poor child."

Just then he raised his head, and saw that he was before the notary's house, and recognized the doctor's horse and wagon before the door.

"This is lucky!" thought he. "I will find out all the sooner."

He entered without having to knock, probably because M. Aubry, who was always absent-minded, had neglected to close the door, ordinarily shut tight; so that the game-keeper found himself standing in the middle of Perdreau's dining-room before any one had given notice of his entrance.

Isidore was there, so wan, and haggard, and wild-looking, you would have doubted, at the first glance, whether it was himself or his shadow. There was nothing terrifying in Michou's aspect; he appeared sad and quiet, and only wished to meet the doctor, that he might relate his lamentable story. But criminals see in every one and everywhere justice and vengeance ready to fall upon them. Isidore no sooner recognized the honest game-keeper, than he uttered a cry of terror, and endeavored to escape.

That movement, the terrified face, and, still further, we must believe, the inspiration of the good God, made Michou divine, in the twinkling of an eye, what he had not even suspected the moment before. You will understand me if you will only recall some remembrances of the past; for surely you must once or twice in your life have experienced the same effect. An event takes place--no one knows which way to turn; all is dark; suddenly a light breaks forth, shedding its brilliant rays on all around, and in an instant everything is clear to the mind: is it not so? To explain how this great secret fire is lighted I cannot, but to affirm that it happens daily you must acknowledge with me, no matter how poor your memory may be.

The presence of Perdreau the evening before in the neighborhood of the wood of Montreux, his sombre and agitated look at the time, the preceding letter of Jean-Louis, finally, that soup, destined for another than Barbette, and eaten by her--all this passed in a second before the eyes of the game-keeper, like so many actors playing in the same piece. As the truth, in all its horror, flashed before him, his face became terrible, and Isidore, whose eyes, starting from his head with terror, glared fixedly upon him, saw this time, without mistake, his judge and the avenger of his crime.

The two men looked at each other a moment. Isidore advanced a step, in the vague hope of reaching the door. Michou stepped back, his arms crossed, and barred his passage.

"Let me go out," at last gasped Isidore between his closed teeth.

"Wretch!" said the game-keeper in a deep voice, "whom did you come to poison at my house last night?"

"Michou, you are crazy!" replied Isidore; "let me out, or I will call."

"Call as loudly as you please," answered Michou, standing straight and firm with his back against the door; "call Dr. Aubry, who must be somewhere about. You will tell him that I have come in search of him to prove the death of Barbette, whom you killed, cowardly villain that you are!"

"Barbette! What do you mean? You are drunk, Michou," stammered Isidore, becoming each moment more and more livid.

"Neither drunk nor crazy, you know well, accursed wretch," replied Jacques. "Your insults do not harm me. Ha! you were not very skilful in your crime, but you were also mistaken. Jean-Louis is safe and sound; you only killed a child deprived of reason, and you will finish on a scaffold; for if I were allowed to kill you with my own hand, I would not, so as not to stain the hand of an honest man."

"Michou," said Isidore, his teeth chattering with fear, "have mercy on me; I will explain myself later. I am sick.... My father is dying.... You are not cruel.... Let me go out."

"Ha! ha! you are a coward.... Faith, I am glad of it; it takes from me the slightest compassion for you. Traitor! scoundrel! you were not so much afraid yesterday, when you thought of killing a brave, defenceless boy. To-day it is not repentance that makes you tremble, but the justice of men, who will not spare you. You feel them on your heels; you are not deceived. I have you; try to stir."

And he seized him by the arm with so vigorous a hand, the wretch felt his bones crack.

"You hurt me; let me go!" yelled Isidore, writhing under that iron hand.

"Shut up! Avow your crime; did you come, yes or no, to poison Jean-Louis?"

"He had provoked me. I was wild, I was mad--let me go...."

"You avow it, then; what poison was it?"

"I don't know; I know nothing further.... Michou, in the name of God, let me go...."

"Do you dare pronounce the name of God?" cried Michou, grasping him still more firmly. "Do you believe, then, in him, whom you have blasphemed since you were able to speak? You don't know what poison you used? After all, it matters little; M. Aubry will know--yes, he and the judge also. The case is clear, and, if I could drag you myself before the police, I would only leave hold of you at the door of the prison."

Isidore, prostrated and speechless from pain--for Michou, whose strength was trebled, crushed his arm with redoubled force--fell to the ground in the most miserable state that can be imagined.

"There," said Michou, pushing him aside with his foot, "if I did not still respect the mark of your baptism, I would wish to see you die there like a dog. Ah! you can weep now! See to what your life of debauchery and idleness has brought you; but you are not capable of understanding my words. Listen; it is not you that I pity, but the remembrance of an honest girl, who, to the eyes of the neighborhood, was your betrothed, the unfortunate creature! In the name of Jeanne Ragaud, I will save you from the scaffold that you deserve; but on one condition...."

"Speak, speak! I will do whatever you wish," cried the wretch, raising himself upon his knees. "I promise you, Michou; but save me!"

"Miserable coward!" said the game-keeper with disgust, "your prayers and your tears cause me as much horror as your crimes. You have not even the courage to play the part of a murderer! But what I have said I will do. Get up, if you have still strength to stand on your legs. Mark what I say. You must disappear. I give you, not three days, like Jean-Louis, but two hours, in which I will go and remove the body of your victim, and warn the police. In two hours I will have declared on oath that Barbette was poisoned by you, and the proofs will not be wanting. Do what you please--hide yourself in a hole or fly. In two hours, I repeat, the police will be on your track, and, if the devil wishes to save you, that is his affair."

"Thanks," said Isidore, rising.

"Your thanks is another insult," said Michou. He opened the door himself, and pushed the wretch outside with such a tremendous blow of his fist that he stumbled and fell across the threshold.

Owing to the bad weather, the village street was deserted. Michou saw Isidore disappear with the quickness of a deer. He closed the door again, and sat down, resting his head upon his hands, to gather together his ideas.

"My God," said the excellent man, raising his eyes to heaven with the honest look of a Christian, "perhaps I have done wrong, but thou art powerful enough to repair the effect of my too great mercy, and I have saved from a disgrace that could not be remedied thy servants, the poor Ragauds."

All this had not taken much time, and Michou was meditating upon the events of that terrible night, when he felt some one strike him on the shoulder; it was M. Aubry.

"It is you, M. Jacques?" said the doctor. "What are you doing here, old fellow?"

"I was waiting for you, monsieur," replied he quietly, for he had entirely recovered his self-possession. "Is any one sick here?"

"Eh?" said the doctor. "It is the old man, who was seized with a fever yesterday, and is now delirious. His brain is affected. It is an attack which I anticipated; I don't think he will recover."

"So much the better!" said Michou.

"What do you say? So much the better? It can be easily seen he is not in your good graces. Faith! I must say, if I were not his physician, I would think the same. I don't generally believe all the gossip floating around; we can take a little on credit, and leave the rest; but, in my opinion, M. le Marquis did not place his confidence within the pale of the church when he gave it to that old ape; he may yet have to repent of it. Well, and you--what can I do for you?"

"Come with me to the wood of Montreux," said the game-keeper, "and I will tell you on the way."

"Is the case urgent? Between ourselves, Michou, if your patient is not in danger I would like to put it off until to-morrow. My carriage is open, and Cocotte is not rough-shod. It is beastly weather to go through the forest."

"Alas! monsieur," replied Jacques, "the patient who requires you can wait until the last judgment, for she is dead. But I must carry you off all the same, as this death does not seem natural to me, and I wish your opinion."

"Let us be off," said M. Aubry, without hesitating; "you can tell me the whole story as we go along."

Which Jacques Michou did, whilst Cocotte, with her head down, trotted along, not very well pleased to receive the snow full in her face.

The poor beast excepted, neither of the travellers in the wagon felt the horrible weather. The doctor, while listening to the game-keeper, looked serious and severe, which was not at all his usual custom. Michou had nothing to hide. He related every detail of the mournful story, without omitting any fact or thought necessary to enlighten M. Aubry. When he came to speak of his terrible explanation with Isidore and the wretch's crime, the doctor swore a round oath, which marked his disapproval, and Cocotte received such a famous cut with the whip, she started off on a furious gallop.

"I did not think you were, at your age, such a snivelling, sentimental baby as that," said he in a rage. "What were you dreaming about? To have had your hand on the villain, and then to let him go! You deserve to be locked up in his place!"

"Monsieur," replied Michou, "what I did I would do again. Have you thought that it would also have been a frightful trial for the Ragauds? Would they not all have been called upon to testify? And think for a moment what a disgrace it would have been for that unfortunate young girl, who was on the eve of marrying the scoundrel. No, no, M. Aubry, in the bottom of your soul you cannot blame me. Believe that the good God will bring it all right; but such a scandal in our province, an execution, perhaps, in the square of Val-Saint--what shame, what misery!"

"Jeanne Ragaud and her family owe you a fine taper," replied the doctor, a little softened. "There is some truth in what you say; but, for all that, I would have been better pleased to have seen that dangerous animal caged!"

"Be easy," replied Michou; "he will never hurt any one else unless himself. Without wishing to excuse him, I am inclined to believe he was out of his mind--pushed to extremity by the great danger in which Jeannet's discovery had placed him. When a man is accustomed to crime, monsieur, he bears the consequences more boldly. I saw Isidore Perdreau so completely demoralized, his crime was written on his brow, where I read it at the first glance, and which any one else could have done as easily in my place. So be convinced, neither God nor man can blame me for letting him go, and I certainly do not regret it."

"All very well," said the doctor; "but that would not prevent me from acting very differently if I should catch him this evening."

"Nor I either," replied Michou; "for if he should fall under my hand this evening, I would see clearly that the good God did not wish him to be saved, at least in this world."

As he finished speaking, they stopped before the sheepfold, and the doctor, together with Michou, entered, their heads uncovered. All was as Michou had left it, only that the cold and the hours which had elapsed had rendered the little body still stiffer than at the moment of discovery. The effects of the poison began to appear, as great black spots were visible on the face of the dead girl, which gave her such a suffering and pitiful look, the tears fell from their eyes.

M. Aubry had not to examine very much to be convinced that the poor idiot had been poisoned by taking a dose of arsenic capable of killing three men. As this poison is infallible against rats, nearly all the country people obtain permission to keep a small quantity on hand; and nothing had been easier than for Isidore to take a little from his father's own kitchen, where the servant complained of the ravages of the mice among the cheeses and other provisions. Thus, step by step, everything was terribly brought to light, and yet with much simplicity, as is always the case with events incontestably true; therefore, it was easy for M. Aubry to prepare his statements, affirmations, and declarations according to his conscience, in the report which he read before the official authorities.

One very sad thing, but which they scarcely thought of at the moment, was to give a rather more decent bed than the straw of the sheepfold to the poor innocent victim. But this they could not do, as they were obliged to let her lie as she was until the arrival of the district attorney, the sheriff, and the chief of police.

Michou would willingly have watched by her side, but this was not possible either. M. Aubry aided him to construct a solid barrier of planks; then they covered the body with a blanket; and on the breast the game-keeper placed, with profound respect, a cross made of branches. This devout duty accomplished, Jacques Michou locked the sheepfold, put the key in his pocket, and left with the doctor to warn the authorities.

You can imagine that in all this coming and going much more time had elapsed than the two hours accorded to the fugitive. Michou, who desired it from the bottom of his heart, for the good reasons we already know, and which he did not regret, was not sorry at the delay. M. Aubry, on the contrary, growled and stormed, whipped Cocotte with the full strength of his arm, and tried to hurry up affairs with the greatest diligence. But impossibilities cannot be performed, and, with all his efforts, the usual formalities in these sad circumstances were not fulfilled until late in the afternoon.

Then the news spread from mouth to mouth as rapidly as the waves of our river during an inundation. The curious assembled in the public square, where the servants of M. le Marquis, who never were bothered with too much work, were the first to appear. They talked, they gesticulated, said heaps of foolish things, mixed with some words of common sense. Our master learned from public rumor that young Perdreau was suspected, and that he had disappeared. It can be easily understood that he was indignant at such a calumny, and generously offered to guarantee his innocence. Mademoiselle wept, Dame Berthe imitated her, and these two excellent ladies wished immediately to rush off to Jeannette, to console her in this great trial. But poor mademoiselle had to be content with her benevolent wishes, for neither coachman nor footman, nor even a simple groom, could be found; all had run off to the wood of Montreux in search of news.

As they were obliged to pass Muiceron to reach the wood, you may well imagine that more than one of the hurried crowd lagged behind to talk to the Ragauds, and thus they, in their turn, heard of the terrible affair. The consternation was unparalleled, for there, as at the château, no one would believe the wicked rumors afloat concerning Isidore. Jeannette, who cared but little for her intended husband, and had desired to be freed from her engagement, was indignant as soon as she thought he was in trouble, and defended him warmly, which made people believe she loved him devotedly. The truth was, this little creature's soul was generous and high-strung, and, like all such natures, she defended him, whom she willingly would have sent off the night before, only because she thought he was unfortunate.

But days passed, and each one brought new and overwhelming proofs of the truth. The police searched the neighborhood in vain, and soon all hope of seeing Isidore reappear (which would have pleaded in his justification) faded from the eyes of those who wished to defend him. M. le Marquis, after having conversed with M. Aubry, Michou, and the judicial authorities, was overcome with grief, and acknowledged that he could not conscientiously mix himself up with the affair. As for old Perdreau, he never recovered his consciousness, and died shortly after. They placed the seals on his house, where, later, they discovered the documents and correspondence which revealed his wicked life; and now you can judge if there was anything to gossip about in a commune as peaceable and tranquil as ours. In the memory of man there had never been such a terrible event, and nothing will ever happen again approaching to it, I devoutly wish.

Mademoiselle, who was not very well, was seriously injured by all this trouble; and as M. le Marquis loved her dearly, and, besides, heard the rumbling of the revolution in the capital which he had so long ardently desired, packed up, and was soon off, bag and baggage, for Paris, where he hoped to distract poor mademoiselle, and drive off mournful recollections.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE LITTLE CHAPEL.

It stands within a narrow, quiet street,
And well-worn steps ascend at either side,
Where, all day long till twilight, pious feet
Softly and silently forsake the tide
Of feverish life, to rest a little space
Within its calm, and gaze upon his face.

The dead Christ, lying on his Mother's breast,
May not uplift those lifeless, closed eyes:
O helplessness divine! O sweet behest!
Rigid and white beneath the cross he lies,
That here, before this holy altar-stone,
Our miserable pride be overthrown.

The dull, gray walls with simple Stations hung,
The stainèd windows, blending liquid rays
Of red and gold in lucent amber, flung
Across the chancel like a hymn of praise
From spirit-voices flowing--all of these
Make endless peace and wondrous harmonies.

And when at evening hour the solemn strain
Of some quaint _Tantum Ergo_, strange and sweet,
Tunes the full soul to perfect chords again,
And from the beaten pathway weary feet
Turn heavenward once more, unchained and free,
It is a dear and blessed place to be.

Slowly the heavy waves of incense rise,
Parting amid the arches overhead.
Start, fervent tears of peace from burning eyes!
Mount, happy prayers! Despair, lie prone and dead!
Open, ye perfumed clouds, and give them room,
While _Benedicite_ pierces the gloom.

It is a quiet spot--the busy feet
Of toil and turmoil pause before its gates,
And turn aside, with reverent steps, to greet
The Holy One of Ages--him who waits,
With patient hands outstretched, to love and bless
The lowliest soul that craves his tenderness.

PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.

III.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE CATHOLIC WORLD:

In my last letter, while criticising an incorrect definition of the word _act_, I made the remark that "the gravity of bodies is not a _power_, as some unphilosophical scientists imagine."[268] When writing these words, I had to confine myself to a mere statement of the scientific error; but it occurs to me that in an age in which most of the so-called men of science are so little acquainted with philosophy as to mistake effects for causes, and yet so proud of their achievements as to aspire to the leadership of the public mind, some precautions must be taken, lest our philosophical terminology be infected with such improprieties as are now too leniently tolerated in the language of science. It is the abuse of one word that does the greatest mischief in the department of physics. This word is _force_. Its frequent misapplication tends to confound and falsify the whole doctrine of physical causation. It is therefore of great importance, even in a scientific point of view, to determine within what limits the use of such a word should be restricted in accordance with the laws of philosophical terminology. Such is the main object of my present communication.

The theory of physical causation deals with natural causes, powers, actions, forces, movements, and the results of movements. When these terms are properly defined, all relations between agents and patients, between causes and effects, and consequent phenomena, can be easily expressed with philosophical precision; but when the causes, the powers, the actions, and the movements themselves are all confounded under one common name of _force_, as it is now the fashion in the scientific world to do, no one need be surprised if such a course ends in philosophical inconsistencies. To show what great proportions this evil has taken, innumerable passages of modern writers might be adduced. But, not to perplex the reader with conflicting quotations from different sources, I will give only a few extracts from one of the best representatives of modern science. I have before me the _Correlation of Physical Forces_, by Mr. Grove. It is a well-known little work, much esteemed by physicists, and one which certainly transcends the average merit of many modern productions of the same kind. Now, what is Mr. Grove's notion of cause, of force, of power, as compared with one another and with the phenomena of nature? The following passages will show. He says:

"In each particular case, where we speak of cause, we habitually refer to some antecedent power or force; we never see motion or any change in matter take effect, without regarding it as produced by some previous change" (p. 13).

Here _force_, _power_, and _cause_ are taken as equivalent; moreover, _motion_, or a change in matter, is considered as "produced" by a previous change; which implies that a previous change or movement is the efficient cause of a subsequent change or movement. Hence, according to such a terminology, movement, force, power, and cause should be accepted as synonymous. But philosophy cannot admit of such a wholesale confusion.

"A force," says he, "cannot originate otherwise than by devolution from some pre-existing force or forces.... The term 'force,' although used in very different senses by different authors, in its limited sense may be defined as that which produces or resists motion.... I use the term 'force' as meaning that active principle inseparable from matter, which is supposed to induce its various changes" (p. 16).

Here _force_ is again confounded with _power_ and with _cause_, inasmuch as "active principles" are _powers_, and "that which produces or resists motion" is a _cause_. We are told at the same time that the active principle is not a primordial and essential constituent of material substances, but an accidental result of devolution from other active principles residing in other substances. Philosophy cannot admit of such a phraseology; for, as the active principle of a substance is a constituent of its nature, if the active principle of any substance were thus communicated to it by accidental devolution, such a substance would have no definite nature of its own, and would be nothing; and, in spite of this, it would also be capable of becoming anything, according as its active principle might originate from different pre-existing forces. Now, we know that the first elements of any given substance have a definite nature, and a definite active principle independently of devolution from other substances; and that, according to the results of a constant and universal experience, they are not liable to exchange their nature for anything else, but keep it permanently and unalterably amidst all the vicissitudes brought about by the interference of surrounding bodies. It is, therefore, plain that the "active principle inseparable from matter" cannot originate in devolution from other pre-existing forces. But let us proceed.

"The position which I seek to establish in this essay," says Mr. Grove, "is, that the various affections of matter which constitute the main object of experimental physics--viz., heat, light, electricity, magnetism, chemical affinity, and motion--are all correlative, or have a reciprocal dependence; that neither, taken abstractedly, can be said to be the essential cause of the others, but that either may produce, or be convertible into, any of the others" (p. 15).