Chapter IV: Part 4

"The Bourbons," said Mlle. de Porhoet, sticking her knitting-needle into her blond peruke, "the Bourbons are a good family, but" (with an air of modesty) "there are better."

However, it is impossible not to render homage to this august old lady, who bears with surprising dignity the heavy and triple majesty of birth, age, and misfortune. A wretched lawsuit in some foreign country which she has persisted in carrying on for fifteen years, has gradually reduced a fortune, which was but small to begin with; and now she has scarcely a thousand francs a year. Privation has not broken her pride or embittered her temper. She is gay, good-humoured, and courteous. She lives, no one quite knows how, in her small house with her little servant, and contrives even to find money for charity. To their great honour, Mme. Laroque and her daughter are devoted to their poor and noble neighbour. At their house she is treated with a respectful attention which amazes Mme. Aubry. I have often seen Mlle. Marguerite leave the gayest dance to make a fourth for Mlle. de Porhoet's rubber, for the world would come to an end if Mlle. de Porhoet's whist (halfpenny points) was omitted for a single day. I am one of the old lady's favourite partners, and on this particular evening soon found myself, with the cure and the doctor, seated at the whist-table with the descendant of Conan le Tort.

I ought to mention here that at the commencement of the last century a grand-uncle of Mlle. de Porhoet, who held an office in the establishment of the Duke d'Anjou, crossed the Pyrenees in the suite of the young prince, who became Philip V, settled in Spain, and prospered there. His posterity became extinct about fifteen years ago, and Mlle. de Porhoet, who had never lost sight of her Spanish relatives, at once declared herself heiress to their considerable property. Her claims were contested, only too justly, I fear, by one of the oldest Castilian families allied to the Spanish branch of the Porhoets.

Hence the lawsuit which the unfortunate octogenarian maintained at great expense, going from court to court with a persistence akin to mania, which her friends deplored and other people ridiculed. Dr. Desmarets, despite his respect for Mlle. de Porhoet, belongs to the party who laughs; more particularly, because he strongly disapproves of the use to which the poor lady has prospectively devoted her fictitious heritage. She intends to build in the neighbouring town a cathedral in the richest _flamboyant_ style, which shall perpetuate the name of the foundress and of a great departed race to all future generations. This cathedral--dream begotten of a dream!--is the harmless hobby of the old lady. She has had the plans made; she spends her days and sometimes her nights brooding on its splendours, altering its arrangements, or adding to its decoration. She speaks of it as already existent: "I was in the nave of my cathedral; to-night I noticed something very ugly in the north aisle of my cathedral; I have altered the uniform of the _suisse_;" etc., etc.

"Well, mademoiselle," said the doctor, shuffling the cards, "have you been working at the cathedral since yesterday?"

"Yes, of course I have, doctor; and I've had a rather happy idea. I have replaced the solid wall, which you know separates the choir from the sacristy, by a screen of carved foliage in imitation of the Clisson chapel in the church at Josselin. It is much lighter."

"No doubt; but in the meanwhile what is the news from Spain? Can it be true, as I think I saw in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ this morning, that the young duke of Villa-Hermosa proposes to put an end to the case in a friendly way, by offering to marry you?"

Mademoiselle de Porhoet disdainfully shook the plume of faded ribbons attached to her cap.

"I should refuse absolutely," she said.

"Ah, yes, you say so, mademoiselle! But how about the guitar that's been heard under your windows the last few nights?"

"Bah!"

"Bah? And that Spaniard who has been prowling about the country in a mantle and yellow boots, sighing as if his heart would burst?"

"You are a feather-head, Dr. Desmarets," said Mademoiselle de Porhoet, calmly opening her snuff-box. "Still, as you wish to know--I may say that my man of business wrote to me from Madrid a day or two ago that with a little more patience we should see the end of all our troubles."

"I can quite believe that! Do you know where your man of business comes from, madame? Straight from Gil Blas' cavern. He'll drain you of your last shilling, and then he'll laugh in your face. How much better it would be to give up this folly for good and all, and live at ease quietly! What good will these millions do you? Aren't you happy and respected ... what more do you want? ... As for your cathedral, I won't speak of it, because--it is a bad joke."

"My cathedral is not a bad joke to any but bad jokers, Dr. Desmarets; besides, I am defending my rights, I am fighting for justice; the property belongs to me. I have heard my father say so a hundred times, and never, with my consent, shall it go to people who are actually as much strangers to our family as yourself, my friend, or," she added, indicating me, "this gentleman."

I was childish enough to resent this remark, and at once replied: "As far as I am concerned, mademoiselle, you are mistaken; for my family has had the honour of being allied to yours, and _vice versa_."

At this startling announcement Mlle. de Porhoet hastily brought her cards, which she held spread out fanwise, nearer to her pointed chin, and straightening her spare figure, looked me in the face as if she doubted my sanity. By a tremendous effort she recovered her self-possession, and said, as she carried a pinch of Spanish snuff to her thin nose, "Young man, you will have to prove what you say to me."

Ashamed of my foolish boast, and embarrassed by the attention it had aroused, I bowed awkwardly without speaking. Our rubber was played in gloomy silence. It was ten o'clock, and I was preparing to slip off, when Mlle. de Porhoet touched my arm.

"Sir," she said, "will you be so kind as to accompany me to the end of the avenue?"

I bowed again and followed her into the park. The little servant in Breton costume went first, carrying a lantern; then came Mlle. de Porhoet, stiff and silent, carefully holding up her worn silk frock; she had coldly declined the offer of my arm, and I walked humbly at her side, feeling very much dissatisfied with myself. After a few minutes of this funeral march the old lady spoke.

"Well, sir?" she said. "You may speak; I am waiting. You have asserted that your family is allied to mine, and as an alliance of this kind is a piece of history entirely new to me, I shall be greatly obliged if you will enlighten me on the subject."

I had decided that I must at all costs keep the secret of my incognito.

"I venture to hope, mademoiselle, that you won't take a mere joke quite seriously."

"A joke!" exclaimed Mlle. de Porhoet. "A nice subject to joke upon! And, sir, what do you people of to-day call the jokes that can be boldly addressed to an old and defenceless woman, but which you would not dare to utter in the presence of a man?"

"Mademoiselle, you leave me no choice; I must trust to your discretion. I do not know whether the name of Champcey d'Hauterive is familiar to you?"

"I know the Champcey d'Hauterives perfectly well, sir. They are a good, an excellent Dauphin family. What inference am I to make from your question?"

"I am the present representative of that family."

"You!" exclaimed Mlle. de Porhoet, coming to a sudden halt. "You are a Champcey d'Hauterive?"

"Yes, the male representative, mademoiselle."

"That alters the question," she said. "Give me your arm, cousin, and tell me your history."

I thought that in the circumstances it would be better not to conceal anything from her. As I finished the painful story of my family troubles, we found ourselves opposite a small house, remarkably low and narrow. On one side stood a kind of low pigeon-house with a pointed roof.

"Enter, marquis," said the daughter of the kings of Gael at the threshold of her lowly palace. "I beg that you will enter."

The next moment I stepped into a little _salon_ meanly paved with brick; on the faded tapestry of the walls hung portraits of ancestors gorgeous in ducal ermine. Over the mantel-piece sparkled a magnificent clock in tortoise-shell and brass, surmounted by a group representing the chariot of the sun. Some oval-backed arm-chairs and an old spindle-legged couch completed the furniture of the room. Everything shone with cleanliness, and the air was filled with mingled odours of iris, Spanish snuff, and aromatic essences.

"Pray be seated," said the old lady, taking her place on the couch; "pray be seated, my cousin. I call you cousin, though we are not related, and cannot be, as Jeanne de Porhoet and Hugues de Champcey were so ill-advised as to leave no issue. But, with your permission, I should like to treat you as a cousin when we are alone, if only to make me forget for a moment that I am alone in the world.

"So, cousin, I see how you are situated; the case is a hard one, most assuredly. But I will suggest one or two reflections which have solaced me, and which I think are likely to bring consolation to you.

"In the first place, my dear marquis, I often tell myself that among all the charlatans and ex-lackeys one now sees rolling in carriages, poverty has a peculiar perfume of distinction and good taste. And also I am inclined to believe that God has brought some of us down to a poor and narrow life, that this coarse, materialistic, money-grubbing age may have before it the type of a merit, dignity, and splendour which owes nothing to money, that money cannot buy--that is not for sale. In all probability, my cousin, such is the providential justification of your situation and of mine."

I conveyed to Mlle. de Porhoet my satisfaction at having been chosen with her to give the world the noble example it needs so much, and shows itself so ready to profit by.

"For my own part," she went on, "I am inured to privation, and I do not feel it much. When, in the course of a life that has been too long, one has seen a father and four brothers, worthy of their father, perish before their time, by sword or bullet; when one has lost, one by one, all the objects of one's affection and worship, one must have a very paltry soul to be much concerned about more or less ample meals and more or less dainty clothing. Certainly, marquis, you may be sure that if my personal comfort only were at stake, I should not trouble about my Spanish millions; but to me it seems but right and proper and exemplary that a house like mine should not disappear without leaving some permanent sign, some striking monument of its grandeur and its faith. And that is why, cousin, I have, in imitation of some of my ancestors, thought of the pious foundation of which you must have heard, and which, while I have life, I shall not relinquish."

Assured of my sympathy, the noble old lady seemed to lose herself in meditation, and as she looked sadly at the fading portraits of her ancestors, only the beat of the hereditary clock broke the silence of midnight in the dim room.

"There will be," Mlle. de Porhoet suddenly resumed, in a solemn voice, "there will be a chapter of regular canons attached to the church. Each day at matins, a mass will be said in the private chapel of my family, for the repose of my soul and the souls of my ancestors. The feet of the celebrant priest will tread a slab of unlettered marble, which will form the step of the altar and cover my ashes."

I bent towards her with evident emotion, with visible respect. Mlle. de Porhoet took my hand and pressed it gently.

"Cousin," she said, "I am not mad, whatever they may say. My father, who was truth itself, always declared that when the direct line of our Spanish branch became exhausted we should be sole heirs to the estate. Unfortunately, his sudden and violent death prevented him from giving us more exact information; but, as I cannot doubt his word, I do not doubt my rights. However," she added, after a little pause, and in accents of touching sadness, "if I am not mad, I am old, and the people in Spain know it. For fifteen years they have dragged me on from one delay to another; they are waiting for my death to finish everything. And ... they will not have to wait long. Some morning, very soon now, I must make my last sacrifice. My dear cathedral--my only love, which has taken the place of so many broken or suppressed attachments--will have but one stone--that of my tomb."

She was silent; her thin hands wiped away two tears that flowed down her worn face, as, striving to smile, she said:

"Forgive me, cousin, you have enough troubles of your own. Besides, it is late--you must go. You will compromise me!"

Before leaving, I again recommended the greatest discretion in reference to the secret I had intrusted to her. She replied, a little naively, that I need not be anxious, and that my peace of mind and dignity were safe in her hands. Nevertheless, during the next few days, I suspected, from Mme. Laroque's increased attentions, that my excellent friend had handed on my confidence. Indeed, Mlle. de Porhoet admitted the fact, declaring that the honour of her family demanded this, and assured me that Mme. Laroque was incapable of betraying a secret intrusted to her, even to her own daughter.

Our interview had filled me with sympathetic respect for the old lady, which I tried to express by my actions. The evening of the next day I taxed all the resources of my pencil in the invention of decorations, internal and external, for her beloved cathedral. The attention seemed to please her very much, and I soon got into the habit of working on the cathedral every evening after our whist, enriching the ideal edifice with a statue, a pulpit, and a rood-loft. Mlle. Marguerite, who seems to feel a kind of adoration for her old neighbour, associated herself with my work of charity by devoting a special album to the Basilica Porhoet, which it is my duty to fill with designs and drawings.

And in addition, I offered my old confidant to take my share in the inquiries and other matters of business connected with her lawsuit. The poor lady confessed that I should do her a service; that though she could still keep up her ordinary correspondence, her sight was too weak to decipher the manuscripts of her archives. Hitherto she had not associated any one with her in this important work, for fear of giving more occasion to the rustic humourists. In short, she accepted me as counsellor and collaborator. Since this, I have conscientiously studied the voluminous documents of her lawsuit, and I have been convinced that the case, which must be sooner or later definitively settled, is absolutely hopeless from the beginning. M. Laubepin agrees with me in this opinion, which as far as possible I have concealed from the old lady. Meanwhile I have pleased her by going through her family archives piece by piece; she still hopes to find among them some incontestable proof in favour of her claim. Unfortunately, the records are very copious, and fill the pigeon-house from floor to roof. Yesterday I went early to Mlle. de Porhoet's to finish before lunch the examination of packet No. 115, which I had begun overnight. The lady of the house had not risen yet, so, with the help of the little servant, I quietly installed myself in the _salon_ and settled down to my dusty work. About an hour later, as I was going joyfully through the last sheet of packet No. 115, Mlle. de Porhoet came in, dragging a huge bundle neatly wrapped up in a white linen cover.

"Good-morning, my dear cousin," she said. "I've heard how you have been working for me this morning, so I determined to work for you. Here is packet No. 116."

I must confess that at this moment Mlle. de Porhoet reminded me of the cruel fairy of folklore, who shuts the princess up in a lonely tower and imposes a succession of extraordinary and impossible tasks on her.

"Last night," she continued, "I dreamed that the key of my Spanish treasure lay in this packet. So you will very much oblige me by examining it at once. Afterward I hope you will do me the honour to share a frugal repast in the shade of my arbour."

There was no help for it. I obeyed, and I need not say that the wonderful packet No. 116 contained, like its predecessors, nothing more valuable than the dust of centuries. Precisely at noon, the old lady came to offer me her arm and conduct me formally to a little box-bordered garden which, with a bit of adjoining meadow, now constitutes the sole domain of the Porhoets. The table was set out under an arched bower of foliage, and through the leaves the sunshine of a fine summer's day dappled the spotless, sweet-smelling table-cloth. I had done justice to the chicken, the fresh salad, and the bottle of old Bordeaux, which made up the _menu_ of the banquet, when Mlle. de Porhoet, who seemed charmed with my appetite, turned the conversation on to the Laroque family.

"I will own," she said to me, "that I do not care for the old buccaneer. When he first came here he had a large and favourite ape, which he dressed up like a servant, and which he seemed to be able to communicate with perfectly. The animal was a nuisance to the whole country, and only a man without education or decency could have kept it. I agreed when they told me that it was an ape, but, as a fact, I have always believed that it was a negro, more especially as I had always suspected its master of having trafficked in that commodity in Africa. But M. Laroque, the son, was a good sort of man, and quite a gentleman. As to the ladies--I refer, of course, to Mme. Laroque and her daughter, and in no way to the widow Aubry, an extremely common person--as to the ladies, I say, they deserve every good thing one can say of them."

Just then we heard the hoofs of a horse on the path that runs outside the garden wall, and the next moment some one was knocking sharply at a small door near the arbour.

"Yes," said Mlle. de Porhoet. "Who goes there?"

I looked up, and saw a black plume above the top of the wall.

"Open," said a gay voice outside, full of musical intonations. "Open. 'Tis the fortune of France!"

"What? Is it you, my darling?" said the old lady. "Quick, cousin, run!"

As I opened the door Mervyn rushed between my legs, nearly throwing me down. Mlle. Marguerite was tying up her horse to the fence by his reins.

"_Bonjour_, M. Odiot," she said, without showing any surprise at finding me there. Throwing the long folds of her habit over her arm, she entered the garden.

"Welcome this lovely day, my lovely girl!" said Mlle. de Porhoet. "Kiss me, dear. You've been riding too fast, you foolish child. I can tell by your colour and the fire that literally seems to flash from your eyes. What can I offer you, my beauty?"

"Let me see," said Mlle. Marguerite, glancing at the table. "What have you got? Has M. Odiot eaten up everything? Not that it matters. I am thirsty, not hungry."

"I utterly forbid you to drink while you're so hot. But wait a moment; there are some strawberries left in that bed."

"Strawberries! _O gioia_!" sang the girl. "Take one of those fig-leaves, M. Odiot, and come with me. Quick!"

While I chose the largest of the fig-leaves, Mlle. de Porhoet half-closed one eye, and followed her favourite with the other, as she walked proudly along the sunlit alley.

"Look at her, cousin," she whispered, with an approving smile; "isn't she worthy to be one of us?"

Meanwhile, Mlle. Marguerite, bending over the bed and catching her foot in her train at every step, greeted each strawberry she found with a little cry of delight. I kept near to her, holding out the fig-leaf, in which she put one strawberry for every two she ate, to help her to be patient. When she was satisfied with the harvest we returned in triumph to the arbour. The rest of the strawberries were sprinkled with sugar, and crushed by the prettiest teeth in Brittany with great relish.

"Oh, that's done me good!" exclaimed Mlle. Marguerite, throwing her hat on the seat and leaning back against the side of the bower. "And now, dearest lady, to complete my happiness, you're going to tell me stories of the old days when you were a fair warrior."

Mlle. de Porhoet, smiling and charmed, needed no pressing, and began to tell us some of the most striking events of her famous expeditions with Lescure and La Rochefoucauld. And on this occasion my old friend gave me another proof of her nobility of nature, for she paid her tribute to the heroes of those troublous wars without distinction of party. She spoke of General Hoche, whose prisoner she had been, with almost tender admiration. Mlle. Marguerite listened with an impassioned attention which surprised me. At one moment, half-buried in her leafy niche, her long eyelashes a little lowered, she sat as motionless as a statue; at another, when the story became more exciting, she put her elbows on the table, plunged a beautiful hand into the masses of her loosened hair, and fixed the lightning of her brilliant eyes eagerly on the old _Vendienne_.

Among the sweetest hours of my dull life, I shall always count those I spent watching that noble face, irradiated by the reflections of the glowing sky and the impressions of a valiant heart.

When the story-telling was over, Mlle. Marguerite embraced her old friend, and waking up Mervyn, who was asleep at her feet, declared that she must return to the chateau. As I was sure it would cause her no embarrassment, I had no hesitation in leaving at the same time. Apart from my personal insignificance in the sight of the rich heiress, Mlle. Laroque was quite at her ease without a chaperon. Her mother had given her the same kind of liberal education she had herself received in one of the British colonies. And we know that the English method accords to women before marriage all that independence which we so wisely give them only when the abuse of it becomes irreparable. So we went out of the garden together. I held her stirrup while she mounted, and we set off towards the chateau.

"Really, M. Odiot," she said, after a few steps, "I am afraid I spoiled your _tete-a-tete_ in the garden. You seemed to be very happy."

"Certainly, mademoiselle, but as I had already been there a long time, I forgive you; nay, more, I thank you."

"You are very good to our poor friend. My mother is very grateful to you."

"And your mother's daughter?" I said, laughing.

"Oh, I'm not so easily impressed. I am afraid you will have to wait a little before you get any praises from me. I don't judge people's actions leniently; there is generally more than one explanation of them. I grant that your behaviour towards Mlle. de Porhoet looks very well, but----" she paused, shook her head, and went on in a serious, bitter, and frankly insulting tone, "but I am not at all certain that you are not paying court to her in the hope that she may make you her heir."

I felt myself grow pale. But, seeing how absurd it would be to answer this young girl angrily, I controlled myself, and replied grandly, "Allow me, mademoiselle, to express my sincere pity for you."

She appeared very much surprised. "Your sincere pity?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, the respectful pity to which I think you have a right."

"Pity!" she said, stopping her horse and slowly turning her disdainful, half-closed eyes towards me. "I am not so fortunate as to understand you."

"It is really quite simple, mademoiselle; if disillusion, doubt, and callousness are the bitterest fruits of long experience, nothing in the world deserves pity so much as a heart withered by mistrust before it has even seen life."

"Sir," said Mlle. Laroque, with a strange vehemence, "you do not know what you are talking about. And," she added more harshly, "you forget to whom you are speaking!"

"That is true, mademoiselle," I answered gently, bowing. "I may have spoken without much knowledge, and perhaps I forgot, to some extent, to whom I was speaking. But you set me the example."

Her eyes fixed on the top of the trees that bordered the road, Mlle. Marguerite asked, with haughty irony:

"Must I beg your pardon?"

"Most certainly, mademoiselle," I replied firmly, "if either of us should ask pardon, it is you. You are rich, I am poor; you can humble yourself.... I cannot."

There was silence. Her tightened lips, her quivering nostrils, and the sudden whiteness of her forehead, showed what a struggle was going on within her. Suddenly lowering her whip as if to salute, she said:

"Very well, I beg your pardon."

At the same moment she gave her horse a sharp cut and set off at a gallop, leaving me in the middle of the road.

I have not seen her since.

_July 30th_.

The calculation of probabilities is never more misleading than when it has to do with the thoughts and feelings of a woman. After the painful scene between Mlle. Marguerite and myself, I had not been very anxious to encounter her. For two days I had not been to the chateau and I scarcely expected that the resentment I had aroused in this proud nature, would have subsided in this short interval. However, about seven o'clock on the morning of the day before yesterday, when I was working at the open window of my tower, I heard my name called out in a most friendly way by the very person of whom I thought I had made an enemy.

"M. Odiot, are you there?"

I went to the window and saw Mlle. Marguerite standing in the boat that was kept by the bridge. She was holding back the brim of her brown straw hat and looking up at my dark tower.

"Here I am, mademoiselle," I said eagerly.

"Are you coming out?"

After my well-founded apprehension of the last two days, so much condescension made me think, to use the accepted formula, I was the dupe of a disordered fancy.

"I beg your pardon.... What did you say?"

"Will you come out for a little with Alain, Mervyn, and me?"

"With pleasure, mademoiselle."

"Very well--bring your album."

I went down quickly and hurried to the bank.

"Ah! ah!" said the girl, laughing, "you're in a good-humour this morning, it seems."

I awkwardly murmured something to the effect that I was always in a good-humour, but Mlle. Marguerite scarcely seemed convinced of the fact. Then I stepped into the boat and sat down at her side.

"Row away, Alain," she said immediately; and old Alain, who prides himself on being a first-rate oarsman, set to work steadily, the long oars moving to and fro at his sides, making him look like a heavy bird trying to fly.

"I was obliged to come and save you from your donjon," said Mlle. Marguerite, "where you have been ailing for two whole days."

"Mademoiselle, I assure you that only consideration for you--respect--fear of..."

"Respect! Fear! Oh, dear, no! You were sulking, that is all. We behave much better than you. My mother, for some reason or other, thinks you ought to be treated with special consideration, and has implored me to sacrifice myself on the altar of your pride; so, like an obedient daughter, I sacrifice myself."

I expressed my gratitude frankly and warmly.

"Not to do things by halves," she continued, "I have determined to give you a treat to your taste. So here you have a lovely summer morning, woods and glades with all the proper light effects, birds warbling in the foliage, a mysterious bark gliding on the waves. As this is the sort of thing you like, you ought to be satisfied."

"Mademoiselle, I am charmed."

"Well, that's all right."

For the moment I was fairly contented with my fate. The air was sweet with the scent of the new-mown hay lying in swaths on either bank; the sombre avenues of the park, dotted with patches of sunshine, slipped past us, and from the flower-cups came the happy drone of myriads of insects feasting on the dew. Opposite me, old Alain smiled complacently at me with a protecting look at each stroke of his oars, and closer to me Mlle. Marguerite, dressed in white--contrary to her custom--beautiful and fresh and pure as a periwinkle blossom, shook with one hand the pearls of dew from her veil while she held out the other as a bait for Mervyn, who was swimming after the boat. I should not have wanted much persuasion to go to the end of the world in that little white boat.

As we passed under an arch in the wall that bounds the park the young Creole said to me:

"You do not ask where I am taking you?"

"No, mademoiselle, I do not. It is all the same to me."

"I am taking you into fairyland."

"I thought so, mademoiselle."

"Mlle. Helouin, more versed in poetic lore than I am, has no doubt told you that the thickets that cover the country for twenty miles round are the remains of the ancient forest of Brouliande, the hunting-ground of those beings of Gael, ancestors of your friend Mlle. de Porhoet, and the place where Mervyn's ancestor, wizard though he was, came under the magic spells of a damsel called Vivien. Now we shall soon be in the centre of that forest. And if this is not enough to fire your imagination, let me tell you that these woods are full of remains of the mysterious religion of the Celts; they are paved with them. In every shady nook you picture to yourself a white-robed Druid, and in every ray of sunlight the glitter of a golden sickle. The religion of these old bores has left near here, in a solitary and romantic place, a monument before which people subject to ecstasy are usually in raptures. I thought you would like to sketch it, and as it is not easy to find, I will show you the way, on condition that you suppress the explosions of an enthusiasm I cannot share."

"Agreed, mademoiselle, I will control myself."

"Yes, please do."

"I promise. And what is the name of this monument?"

"I call it a heap of big stones, but the antiquaries have more than one name for it. Some call it simply a _dolmen_, others, more pedantic, say it's a _cromlech_, and the country people--I do not know why--call it the _migourdit_."[#]

[#] In the wood of Cadoudal (Morbihan).

Meanwhile we glided gently with the current of the stream between two strips of wet meadow. Here and there, small black cattle with large pointed horns turned and looked fiercely at us. The valley through which the widening river crept, was shut in on both sides by a chain of hills, some covered with dry heather and furze, and some with green brushwood. Sometimes, at the end of a transversal cleft between two hills, we could see the crest of a mountain, blue and round in the distance. In spite of her indifference, Mlle. Marguerite was careful to draw my attention to all the beauties of this austere and peaceful country, and careful also, to qualify each remark with some ironic comment.

For a little while a dull, continuous sound had told us that we were approaching a waterfall. Suddenly the valley narrowed into a wild and lonely gorge. On the left stood a high wall of rock overgrown with moss; oaks and firs mixed with ivy and straggling brushwood rose one above the other in every crevice till they reached the top of the cliff, throwing a mysterious shade on to the deeper water at the foot of the rocks. A hundred paces in front of us, the water boiled and foamed, and then disappeared all at once, and the broken line of the stream stood out in a veil of white spray, against a distant background of vague foliage. On our right, the bank opposite to the cliff had only a narrow margin of sloping meadow, fringed with the sombre velvet of the wooded hills.

"Land, Alain," said the young Creole. Alain moored the boat to a willow.

"Now, sir," she said, stepping lightly on to grass, "aren't you overcome? Aren't you troubled, petrified, thunderstruck? You ought to be, for this is supposed to be a very pretty place. I like it because it is always fresh and cool. But follow me through the woods--if you are not too much afraid--and I will show you the famous stones."

Bright, alert, and gay as I had never seen her before, Mlle. Marguerite crossed the fields with a bounding step, and took a path which led along the hills to the forest. Alain and I followed in Indian file. After a few minutes' quick walking our guide stopped and seemed to hesitate, and looked about her for a moment. Then, deliberately separating two interlaced branches, she left the beaten track and plunged into the undergrowth. It was very difficult to make way through the thicket of strong young oaks whose slanting stems and twisted branches were knotted together as closely as Robinson Crusoe's palisade. At least Alain and I, bent double, advanced very slowly, catching our heads against something at every step, and at each of our clumsy movements bringing down a shower of dew upon us. But Mlle. Marguerite, with the greater dexterity and the catlike suppleness of her sex, slipped without any apparent effort through the meshes of the labyrinth, laughing at our sufferings, and carelessly letting the branches spring back after her into our faces. At last we reached a narrow glade on the top of the hill. There, not without emotion, I saw the dark and monstrous table of stone supported by five or six huge blocks half sunk in the earth, forming a cavern full of sacred horror. At first sight this perfect monument of a time almost fabulous, and of a primitive religion, has an aspect of eternal verity and of a real mysterious presence, that takes hold of the imagination, and fills the mind with awe.

The sunshine streaming through the leaves stole through the interstices in the roughly joined blocks, played about the sinister slab, and lent an idyllic charm to this barbarous altar. Even Mlle. Marguerite seemed pensive and brooding. For my part I entered the cavern, and, after examining the _dolmen_ thoroughly, set to work to sketch it. For ten minutes I had been absorbed in this work, forgetting everything that was going on about me, when Mlle. Marguerite suddenly spoke:

"Do you want a Velleda to enliven your picture?"

I looked up. She had wound a wreath of oak-leaves round her forehead and stood at the head of the _dolmen_, leaning lightly against a sheaf of saplings. In the half-light, under the branches, her white dress looked like marble, and her eyes shone with strange fire in the shadow of the oaken crown. She was beautiful, and I think she knew it. I looked at her and found it hard to speak.

"If I am in the way, I'll move," she said.

"Oh, no! please don't."

"Well, make haste; put Mervyn in too. He'll be the Druid and I the Druidess."

I was so lucky--thanks to the vagueness of a sketch--as to reproduce this poetic vision pretty faithfully. Evidently interested, she came and looked at the drawing.

"It isn't bad," she said, laughing, as she threw her crown away. "You must admit that I am very good to you."

I did. I might even have added, if she had asked me, that she was not without a spice of coquetry. But without that she would not have been a woman. Perfection is detestable, and even goddesses need something besides their deathless beauty to win love.

We went back through the tangled underwood to the path in the wood, and thence returned to the river.

"Before we return," said the young girl, "I want to show you the waterfall, more especially as I am looking forward to a little diversion on my own account. Come, Mervyn, come along, dear dog. Oh, you are lovely!"

We soon reached the bank facing the rocks which blocked the bed of the river. The water fell from a height of many feet into a large and deeply sunk circular basin, which seemed to be shut in on all sides by an amphitheatre of vegetation, broken by dripping rocks. But there were unseen outlets for the overflow of the little lake, and the streams so formed reunited a little lower down.

"It is not exactly a Niagara," said Mlle. Marguerite, raising her voice against the noise of the falling waters, "but I have heard connoisseurs and artists say that it is rather pretty, nevertheless. Have you admired it? Good! Now I hope you'll bestow any enthusiasm you may have left on Mervyn. Here, Mervyn!"

The Newfoundland ran to his mistress, and, trembling with impatience, watched her while she tied some pebbles into her handkerchief. She threw it into the stream a little above the fall, and at the same moment Mervyn fell like a block into the lower basin and struck out swiftly from the edge. The handkerchief followed the current, reached the rocks, danced in an eddy for a minute, and then, shooting like an arrow past the smooth rock, swept in a mass of foam under the eyes of the dog, who seized it dexterously in his mouth, after which Mervyn returned proudly to the bank, where Mlle. Marguerite stood clapping her hands.

This feat was performed several times with great success. At the sixth repetition, either because the dog started too late or because the handkerchief was thrown too soon, Mervyn missed it. The handkerchief, swept on by the eddies from the fall, was carried among some thorny brushwood that overhung the water a little farther on. Mervyn went to fetch it, but we were very much surprised to see him suddenly struggle convulsively, drop his booty, and raise his head towards us, howling pitifully.

"My God! what has happened?" exclaimed Mlle. Marguerite.

"He seems to be caught among the bushes. He'll free himself directly, no doubt."

But soon one had to doubt, and even to despair, of this issue. The network of creepers in which the dog had been caught lay directly below one of the mouths of the sluice, which poured a mass of seething water continuously on Mervyn's head. The poor beast, half-suffocated, ceased to make the slightest effort to release himself, and his plaintive cries sounded more and more like a death-rattle. At this moment Mlle. Marguerite seized my arm, and whispered almost in my ear:

"He is lost. It's no use.... Let us go."

I looked at her. Grief, pain, and her violent effort to control herself had distorted her pale features and brought dark circles under her eyes.

"It is impossible," I said, "to get the boat down there; but if you will allow me, I can swim a little, and I'll go and give a hand to the poor fellow."

"No, no; don't attempt it. It's too far. And they say it's very deep and dangerous under the fall."

"You needn't fear, mademoiselle; I am very cautious."

At the same moment I took off my coat and went into the water, taking care to keep a good distance from the fall. It was very deep, and I did not find a footing till I reached the exhausted Mervyn. I do not know whether there had been an islet here which had dwindled and crumbled away, or whether a sudden rising of the river had swept away part of the bank, and deposited the fragments in this place; but, whatever the cause, there was an accumulated and flourishing mass of entangled brushwood and roots under this treacherous water. I got my feet on a trunk from which the bushes seemed to spring, and managed to release Mervyn. Feeling himself free, he recovered at once, and struck out for the bank, leaving me to my fate with all the goodwill imaginable. This was scarcely acting up to the chivalrous reputation of his breed, but Mervyn has lived a long while among men, and I suppose has become a bit of a philosopher. But when I tried to follow him, I found, to my disgust, that, in my turn, I was caught in the nets of the jealous and malignant naiad who reigns in the pool. One of my legs was entangled in the creepers, and I could not free it. It is difficult to exert all one's strength in deep water, and on a bed of sticky mud. And besides, I was half-blinded by the bubbling spray. In short, my situation was becoming awkward. I looked towards the bank; Mlle. Marguerite, holding to Alain's arm, hung over the gulf, and watched me with mortal anxiety. I told myself that it rested with me to be wept for by those bright eyes, and to end a miserable existence in an enviable fashion. Then I shook off such maudlin fancies vigorously, and freed myself by a violent effort. I tied the little handkerchief, now in rags, round my neck, and easily regained the shore.

As I landed, Mlle. Marguerite offered me her hand. It trembled a little, and I was pleased.

"What rashness! You might have been drowned, and for a dog!"

"It was yours," I whispered in the same low tone she had used to me.

This speech seemed to annoy her; she withdrew her hand quickly, and turning to Mervyn, who lay yawning and drying himself in the sun, began to punish him.

"Oh, the stupid! the big stupid!" she said. "What an idiot he is!"

But the water was streaming from my clothes on to the grass. I did not quite know what to do with myself, till Mlle. Marguerite came back, and said very kindly:

"Take the boat, M. Maxime, and get away as fast as you can. You'll keep warm rowing. I will come back with Alain through the wood; it is the shortest way."

I agreed to this arrangement, which was in every way the best. I said farewell, touched her hand for the second time, and got into the boat. To my surprise, when I was dressing at home I found the little handkerchief still round my neck. I had forgotten to restore it to Mlle. Marguerite, who must have given it up for lost, so I shamelessly determined to keep it as the reward of my watery adventure.

I went to the chateau in the evening. Mlle. Laroque received me with her habitual air of disdainful indolence, sombre preoccupation, and embittered _ennui_, which was in singular contrast with the gracious friendliness and playful vivacity of my companion of the morning.

During dinner, at which M. de Bevallan was present, she spoke of our excursion in a manner that stripped it of all sentiment, and as she went on, said some sharp things about lovers of nature, and finished with an account of Mervyn's misadventure, without mentioning my share in it. If, as I thought, this was meant as a hint of the line I was to take, the young lady had been at needless trouble. However that may be, M. de Bevallan, on hearing the story, nearly deafened us with his cries of despair. What! Mlle. Marguerite had endured such anxiety, the brave Mervyn had been in such danger, and he, Bevallan, had not been there. Cruel fate! He would never get over it. There was nothing for him to do but hang himself, like Crillon.

"Well," said Alain, "if it depended on me to cut him down, I should take my time about it."

The next day did not begin so pleasantly for me as its predecessor. In the morning I received a letter from Madrid, asking me to inform Mlle. de Porhoet that her lawsuit was finally lost. Her agent also informed me that her opponents would not profit by their victory, as the Crown, attracted by the millions at stake, claimed to succeed under the law by which the property escheats to the state.

After careful consideration, I decided that it would be kinder not to let my old friend know of the total destruction of her hopes. I intend, therefore, to secure the assistance of her agent in Spain; he will allege further delays, and on my side I shall continue my researches among the archives, and do my best to preserve the poor soul's cherished delusions to the end. However innocent and legitimate this deception might be, I could not feel at rest until it had been approved by some one whose judgment in such matters I could trust. I went to the chateau in the afternoon, and made confession to Mme. Laroque, who approved of my plan, and commended me rather more than the occasion warranted. And to my great surprise she finished the interview with these words:

"I must take this opportunity of telling you, M. Odiot, that I am deeply grateful for your devotion to my interests, that each day I appreciate your character more truly, and enjoy your company more thoroughly. I could wish--you must forgive my saying it, as you are scarcely likely to share my wish--I could wish that you could always remain with us ... and I humbly pray heaven to perform the miracles necessary to bring this about ... for I know that only miracles can do so."

I did not quite grasp the meaning of this language, nor could I explain the sudden emotion that shone in the eyes of the excellent lady. I acknowledged her kindness properly, and went away to indulge my melancholy in the fields.

By an accident--not purely fortuitous, I must admit--I found myself, after an hour's walking, in a deserted valley, and on the brink of the pool which had been the scene of my recent prowess. The amphitheatre of rocks and greenery which surrounds the small lake realizes the very ideal of solitude. There you are at the end of the world, in a virgin country, in China--where you will! I lay down among the heather, recalling my expedition of yesterday, one not likely to occur again in the course of the longest life. Already I felt that if such good fortune should come to me a second time, it would not have that charm of surprise, of peacefulness, and--in one word--of innocence. I had to own that this fresh romance of youth, which gave a perfume to my thoughts, could have but one chapter, one page, and that I had read it. Yes, this hour, this hour of love, to call it by its true name, had been royally sweet, because it had not been premeditated, because I had not known what it was till it had gone, because I had had the rapture, and had been spared remorse. Now my conscience was awake. I saw myself on the verge of an impossible, a ridiculous love, and worse, of a culpable passion. Poor and disinherited as I am, it is time to keep a strict watch over myself.

I was addressing these warnings to myself in this solitary place--any other would have served my purpose as well--when the sound of voices interrupted my reflections. I rose, and saw a company of four or five people who had just landed, advancing towards me. First came Mlle. Marguerite leaning on M. de Bevallan's arm; next Mlle. Helouin and Mme. Aubry, followed by Alain and Mervyn. The sound of their approach had been drowned in the roar of the waterfall; they were only a few yards off; there was no time for retreat, so I had to resign myself to being discovered in the character of the romantic recluse. But my presence did not excite any particular attention, though I saw a shadow of annoyance on Mlle. Marguerite's face, and she returned my bow with marked stiffness.

M. de Bevallan, standing at the verge of the pool, wearied the echoes with the clamour of his conventional admiration. "Delicious! How picturesque! What a feast! The pen of George Sand.... The pencil of Salvator Rosa!"

All this was accompanied by violent gestures, by which he appeared to be snatching from these great artists, the instruments of their genius.

At last he became calmer, and asked to be shown the dangerous channel where Mervyn had nearly been drowned. Again Mlle. Marguerite related the adventure, and again she suppressed the part I had taken in the denouement. With a kind of cruelty, evidently levelled at me, she enlarged on the cleverness, courage, and presence of mind her dog had shown in his trying situation. Apparently she seemed to think that her transient good-humour, and the service I had been so fortunate as to render her, had filled my head with some presumptuous notions, which it was necessary to nip in the bud.

As Mlle. Helouin and Mme. Aubry particularly wished to see Mervyn repeat his wonderful exploit, his mistress called the Newfoundland, and, as before, threw her handkerchief into the current. But at the signal the brave Mervyn, instead of jumping into the lake, rushed up and down the bank, barking furiously, lashing about with his tail, showing, in fact, the greatest interest in the proceedings, but at the same time an excellent memory. Evidently the head controls the heart in this sagacious beast. In vain Mlle. Marguerite, angry and confused, first tried caresses and then threats to overcome her favourite's obstinacy. Nothing could persuade the intelligent creature to trust himself again in those dangerous waters. After such high-flown announcements, Mervyn's stubborn prudence was really amusing. I had a better right to laugh than any one present, and I did so without compunction. Besides, the merriment soon became general, and in the end Mlle. Marguerite herself joined in, rather half-heartedly.

"And now," she said, "I've lost another handkerchief."

The handkerchief, carried along by the eddies, had naturally landed among the branches of the fatal bush, not far from the further bank.

"Rely upon me, mademoiselle," cried M. de Bevallan. "In ten minutes you shall have your handkerchief, or I shall exist no longer."

At this magnanimous declaration I thought that Mlle. Marguerite looked stealthily at me, as much as to say, "You see, there are others who are devoted to me!" Then she answered M. de Bevallan.

"For Heaven's sake, don't be so foolish! The water is very deep.... it is really dangerous."

"It is all the same to me," said M. de Bevallan. "Have you a knife, Alain?"

"A knife?" said Mlle. Marguerite, surprised.

"Yes, a knife. Please allow me ... I know what I mean to do."

"But what do you mean to do with a knife?"

"I mean to cut a switch," said M. de Bevallan.

The girl looked at him gravely.

"I thought," she murmured, "that you were going to swim for it."

"To swim!" said M. de Bevallan; "excuse me, mademoiselle.... Firstly, I am not in swimming costume; next, I must admit that I cannot swim."

"If you cannot swim," she said dryly, "the question of costume is not important."

"You are quite right," said M. de Bevallan, with amusing coolness; "but you are not particularly anxious that I should drown myself, are you? You want your handkerchief, that is the point. When I have got it, you will be satisfied. Isn't that so?"

"Well, go and cut your switch," she said, sitting down resignedly.

M. de Bevallan is not easily disconcerted. He disappeared into the nearest thicket, and soon we heard the branches crack. He came back armed with a long switch from a nut-tree, and proceeded to strip the leaves off.

"Do you think you'll reach the other side with that stick?" asked Mlle. Marguerite, who was beginning to be amused.

"Allow me to manage it my own way. That is all I ask," said the imperturbable gentleman.