Chapter XXXI: Life in the Hovel.--A Last Hope Dispelled

There is in extreme wretchedness a last burst of strength, of courage; when one has reached the climax of misfortune and is compelled to abandon all hope of a happier lot, then it seems that one feels a secret consolation in being able to defy destiny to deal us any additional blow.

Such was now Isaure’s plight--that gentle, timid maiden, forcibly removed from the home she loved and had lived in since her infancy, from her protector and from her lover, to dwell in a miserable hovel hidden in the centre of the earth, with no other company than two men, one of whom was the author of her trials and the other seemed entirely insensible to them; and yet she had succeeded in surmounting her despair. Her eyes no longer shed tears, at least in the presence of her two companions; no complaint escaped from her lips; and when she spoke to the man who had torn her from her home, it was with gentleness and docility, instead of with eyes gleaming with wrath, and with tones that expressed the horror with which he must have inspired her.

Several days had passed since the vagabond had concealed Isaure in the old shepherd’s house, and the girl’s conduct seemed to surprise him. He often sat and gazed at her in silence, for whole hours at a time. The more he looked at her, the more his surprise seemed to increase. One morning, when the old shepherd had gone out on the mountain, and the vagabond, alone with Isaure in the excavation, in front of the door of the rear house, had been gazing a long while at the girl as she worked patiently, sewing goat-skins together, he was so amazed at her mild and placid demeanor that he could not help exclaiming:

"You amaze me, girl; really I am beginning to think that I judged you wrongly, and that you really deserve the good opinion that the two friends had conceived of you. Your docility, your innocence--No, that young Edouard was not wrong to love you, to desire to marry you.--But that man whom you went secretly to see in the White House--what bond was there between you and him? How long have you known him? Come, speak,--answer me frankly."

A feeling which Isaure could not define, but which was not fear, led her to always obey the stranger promptly; so she answered with a sigh:

"I have known Monsieur Gervais since my childhood."

"Monsieur Gervais! Ah! so he never told you that he was the Baron de Marcey?"

"No, monsieur, I never have called him anything but Gervais, and it was by that name that my adopted parents, André and his wife, knew him."

"Yes, I understand; he preferred to remain unknown. Either you are a natural child of his, or, suspecting that you would become pretty some day, he intended to make you his wife."

"His wife! ah! monsieur, my protector loves me as his daughter; but he has often told me that my parents were dead."

"Was it he who placed you with the peasants?"

"Yes, monsieur. At first he came to see me very seldom, then he came oftener. When I was very small he used to take me in his arms, and kiss me and play with me. Then, when I grew up, he used to make me talk; then he taught me to read and to write, and to speak differently. He said that I learned quickly, and that it was a pity that I should be ignorant, like the people of the mountains."

"And then?"

"That is all, monsieur."

"He did not tell you that some day he would take you into the world, that he would provide you with pleasures innumerable?"

"No, he never told me that."

"And when you knew Edouard, and loved him, did you confess that to him?"

"Yes, monsieur; oh! I concealed nothing from him."

"What did he say to you then?"

"He scolded me, but very gently. He told me that I did wrong to love Edouard; that I must forget him, give up all hope of him; that he would never be my husband."

"I was sure of it! It was not for others that he brought you up in secret, that he attended to your education. No! he was acting for himself! Ah! he must love you dearly, to do as he has done. And I have deprived him of your presence, your caresses; I have wrecked all his plans of happiness for the future. So I am revenged at last!"

A ferocious smile lighted up the vagabond’s features. Isaure looked away in terror. After a few moments he said to her:

"Do not think that it was for the sole purpose of doing evil that I took you away from your home; I have had many failings, vices even, but to do evil for the sole purpose of doing it never occurred to me; and although I have many reasons for detesting men, I do them justice enough to believe that they would rarely be wicked if they did not find some advantage in it. Listen to me, my girl; I am going to tell you why I stole you from your protector. I am aware that I owe you no account of my acts, and that I am at perfect liberty to withhold this confidence from you; but your mildness, your submission, arouse my interest. Yes, the more I see you, the better I know you, the more you astonish me; I am making you unhappy, I know; and yet I would like to see you happy. What a strange effect is produced by beauty combined with kindness of heart and virtue! I believed that those things could never touch my heart again, but you prove to me that I was mistaken."

Isaure raised her eyes to the vagabond’s face; they wore an indescribable expression as she said to him:

"Ah! monsieur, I, too, feel that I would be glad to like you, even though you make me so unhappy; I cannot hate you as I should!"

"Nonsense! hush, my girl, and do not look at me like that," replied the vagabond, turning his face away to conceal his emotions. "Yes, I am pleased with your submission, but your fate will be the same, nevertheless, because it cannot be otherwise; and notwithstanding the interest you arouse in me, I would strike you dead if I saw the Baron de Marcey on the point of rescuing you from my hands. Do not be so alarmed; that can never be; you see that I have taken my precautions too well for that. Let us return to what I was about to tell you,--my reasons for my conduct; and since destiny has united us forever, learn to know the man with whom you are to pass the rest of your life.

"I was not born in poverty, as you must have surmised. My youth was passed in a château; my early days were lived in the lap of luxury, surrounded by numerous servants whose only desire was to anticipate all my wishes. What a change! and ought I to have expected to end in this wretched plight? However, man ought to expect everything, when he is unable to overcome his vices and to resist his passions. But I verily believe that misfortune has taught me to indulge in moral reflections. Of all the changes it has wrought in me, that is not the least surprising!"

The vagabond was silent for some moments; he had taken out his pipe, which he filled and lighted, then he resumed his discourse, interrupting it only to take his pipe out of his mouth from time to time.

"The two young men who came to see you so often were staying at the Château de la Roche-Noire, two leagues from your house; they probably told you so?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, it was in that same château that I passed my youth; it then belonged to one of my aunts, a most respectable old dowager, who allowed me to do exactly as I chose from morning to night. I had lost my other relations; I possessed a considerable fortune, to say nothing of that which my aunt would probably leave me; now, she considered that a noble and wealthy young man could never be his own master and misbehave himself in the world too soon. The poor dear woman! she was terribly mistaken! So I began very early to do foolish things! Women, cards, the table, wine, offered attractions which I did not even try to resist; I found it so natural to gratify my passions, my most trivial desires. I had been so accustomed to follow only my own will, that I scattered gold lavishly in order to remove all obstacles from my path. This mode of life soon acquired for me a reputation in society at which I snapped my fingers. I was the terror of fathers and brothers and husbands; for my greatest happiness consisted in seducing some young beauty, in winning her love, and then abandoning her to her regrets."

"Oh! mon Dieu!" said Isaure; "how can one take pleasure in deceiving those who love one?"

"You can’t imagine that, my girl, for you have never lived in the world, you have no idea of all that goes on there; you do not know that love is treacherous, friendship is selfish, virtues rare, and gratitude almost non-existent. If you knew that frivolous world as I do, perhaps you would consider yourself less unfortunate to live in a hole. But to return: I soon squandered the fortune which my parents had left me; my old aunt died and her inheritance put me on my feet again; I travelled a great deal in search of new enjoyments, of new faces, and sometimes to escape the vengeance of a father or of a husband; I was, I admit, a very sad scamp.

"Chance took me to Bordeaux. I met there a charming young lady, whom her father, a crabbed old naval officer, kept in the strictest retirement. But bolts, locks and duennas were no obstacles to me; I succeeded in making my way to Adèle’s presence; I was even received at her father’s house. But I took great pains to conceal my past misconduct. I was then young and well-built; my features were not worn by privation, my eyes sunken by fatigue; I was well adapted to please. I had, above all, the art of appearing to be in love; but upon this occasion my passion was not feigned; Adèle aroused in me a sentiment which I had never felt for any other woman; credulous and affectionate as she was, it was not difficult for me to win her love, to seduce her, to triumph over her innocence. But I swear to you that, weary of the life I was leading, my purpose, my sole desire was to marry Adèle. Unluckily, her father, having made some inquiries concerning me, refused to receive me any more. Soon I was compelled by a duel to leave the city, but I left it persuaded that Adèle would be faithful to me. Many circumstances combined to assure me that she would never marry another, and I still retained the hope of calling her my wife; imagine my rage, therefore, when, on returning to Bordeaux, six months later, I learned that Adèle had been married a long while, that she was travelling with her husband, and that no one knew where she then was! Thus this Adèle, so gentle and so loving, who had given me so many rights over her,--she, too, had deceived me!"

"Oh! she was doubtless forced to obey her father; and as she loved you, she must have been terribly unhappy!"

"Yes, yes; I was told that her father had forced her into this marriage; but the man who married her was none the less a dastard; he must have known; Adèle must have told him,--no, she could not be his! Well! that man who stole from me the woman whom I loved, who deprived me of the only real happiness that it was in my power to enjoy, was your mysterious protector, the Baron de Marcey! Consider now whether it is sweet for me to revenge myself, and whether I was justified in tearing you away from his love!"

"Oh! monsieur, my protector probably had no idea when he married the unfortunate Adèle that he was wrecking her happiness and yours!"

"Yes, he must have known it! On learning of this marriage, I determined at once to seek out the baron and kill him, or to meet death at his hands; but his whereabouts at that time were not known, and I soon had to fly myself, in order to escape certain creditors who were pursuing me; I sold my estate of La Roche-Noire, and went over to England; I tried to deaden my suffering by new dissipation; but it seemed that from that moment misfortune followed at my heels. The gaming table carried away a large part of my fortune; women and false friends took the rest. I returned to France. In the days of my prosperity, I had lent money, I had been very generous in accommodating my friends; I applied to them in my turn, but I could obtain nothing,--the wretches!

"I learned that Adèle had died three years after her marriage with the baron, and had left no children; it was important for me to know that circumstance. The baron’s grief avenged me in part, but it was not enough; and I should have tried doubtless to inflict other troubles upon him, if the deplorable condition of my affairs had not forced me to leave the country again in order to avoid arrest.

"I went to Italy and Spain; I was no longer the same man, I was no longer the brilliant rake, admired by women, and dreaded by my rivals. Compelled to seek constantly new means of gaining a livelihood, I did not blush to ally myself with base schemers, contemptible creatures whom a few years earlier I would have driven from my house! But what was I to do? Work? I did not know how, and the idea of work was intolerable to me. I speedily adopted the habits, the low manners of the dregs of mankind who live without visible means of existence; I fell into the lowest degradation, in short; for that is where vice leads us. Sometimes indeed I cast a glance backward; I bestowed a memory and a tear on the past; I blushed for myself; and more than once I have tossed away in disgust this pipe, which idleness and degradation had placed in my mouth, and which has since become my only pleasure, my only diversion.

"However, amid my disorderly life, amid my debauchery, I still retained a feeling of honor; I never shared in the villanous trickeries which the men with whom I lived committed; they laughed at what they called my principles. Disgusted by the language of those wretches, I left them at last, and determined to return to my country; above all, to visit once more this Auvergne, where I had passed the happiest days of my life. So I returned on foot, almost penniless. But many years had passed since my departure, and so I was not afraid of being recognized. I reached this province several months ago. I had left here some friends and acquaintances, but some of them were dead, others were in foreign countries. I tried to make myself useful to travellers, to obtain work; but it seemed that something about me repelled all those to whom I offered my services. I made the best of it; I entered the mountaineer’s cabin, and never yet has an Auvergnat denied me bread and entertainment. Thus it was that I saw once more my old aunt’s château, the domain of La Roche-Noire, where I had been brought up. I found a way to enter the château secretly; and at night, while the new owner was asleep, I loved to wander about the old tower, to gaze once more on the walls which had witnessed my childish sports, the porches and galleries which had echoed the accents of my joys. There, engrossed by my recollections, I have more than once forgotten thirty years of my life and been happy once more."

The vagabond dropped his head upon his breast, heaved a sigh and stopped. Isaure, who had been deeply moved by the close of his narrative, had approached him involuntarily, and said to him in a voice that trembled with emotion:

"Ah! you have been very unhappy!"

The vagabond raised his eyes, and looked at her, and seemed more deeply impressed by her features and the tone of her voice.

"It is most surprising!" he cried. "I fancied that I heard her voice! It seems to me that I see her once more!"

"Whom?" asked the girl gently.

"The woman whom I loved best, and who was stolen from me! Yes, you have her features, the same sweet expression--or perhaps it is only a delusion.--However, the sight of this country had almost made me forget the Baron de Marcey; I still hated him, but I would not have left these mountains to find him. Fate, however, has enabled me to take my revenge. First of all, I learned that Edouard’s friend, that Alfred was the baron’s son by his first marriage."

"Alfred, my protector’s son?" cried Isaure.

"Yes, he is his son, and that is why I urged him more than once to abduct you. I tried to persuade him to do all sorts of wild things, even to fight with Edouard! By ruining the son, I hoped to avenge myself on the father. But Alfred was weak enough to renounce his love. I do not know what I should have determined upon. Perhaps I should have sought my vengeance in his blood! But fate has served me better. I learned from Alfred himself that the man of the White House was his father; thereupon, changing my plans, I determined to repay the baron a part of the anguish he has caused me, by obtaining possession of you. I have succeeded; you are parted from him forever.--Now, my girl, you know all, you know the motive which has led me to take you to this undiscoverable retreat."

"Oh! mon Dieu!" said Isaure, falling on her knees, and raising her hands to heaven; "I am most unhappy, assuredly; but if, by remaining in this place, I save my protector’s life, and his son’s, I shall not complain, and I submit to my fate without a murmur."

Touched by the girl’s demeanor, the vagabond allowed her sometimes to breathe the fresh air in front of the hovel; at such times Charlot kept watch at some little distance; and at the slightest sound, at the approach of any person, Isaure and her companion would return to the inner house. But it rarely happened that a traveller passed along that rocky path, which was at a distance from all the travelled roads. In the fortnight that she had been in the house, Isaure had seen only a few goats, which had shown their heads over the edge of the hole, in which her abode was situated; but no murmur escaped the lips of her who was now leading such a melancholy existence. She seemed to be submissive to her fate; and if she sometimes uttered Edouard’s name, it was because she believed herself to be alone, because she thought that she was musing when she pronounced her lover’s name.

At such times, to comfort the poor child, the author of her misfortunes said to her coldly:

"Your Edouard would have been no better than the rest; his love would have passed away, because everything passes away in this life; and then he would have deceived and abandoned you, or else he would have repented marrying you and would have reproached you harshly."

Isaure made no reply; but she did not believe that Edouard would have behaved thus; her heart told her that he would always have loved her dearly; that, although he no longer saw her, he constantly thought of her; that idea was the last consolation, the last ray of happiness that the poor child had; why should she not try to retain it?

In the long hours which she passed in solitude, she was always thinking of Edouard; sometimes she involuntarily called him; perhaps all hope was not banished from her heart; but when her courage failed her, when she felt more keenly the horror of her new existence, she took from her breast the locket which she kept carefully hidden there; and, after assuring herself that she was quite alone, that no one could see her, she covered with kisses the portrait which she had been told was her mother’s, and which she had sworn never to show to anyone. Indeed, she had no idea that the sight of that beloved image could possess any interest to those with whom she was condemned to pass her life.

Three weeks had passed since Isaure had been taken to Charlot’s house; during that time, only two shepherds had appeared in the neighborhood, and they had not entered the narrow path, but had followed the road which passed at the end of it. So the vagabond believed that although he was only twelve leagues at most from the White House, his captive was more difficult to find than if he had taken her into another province.

Isaure was seated on the bench in front of the outer house; it was mid-day, but the weather was bad and no one was likely to be tempted to travel through the mountains. However, the old shepherd was keeping watch on a cliff near by, and the vagabond himself, who was a few yards away from Isaure, also watched keenly.

Suddenly, old Charlot gave the signal agreed upon to warn him of someone’s approach. The vagabond hastily entered the hovel with the girl, and soon the old shepherd joined them there.

"What is it?" the vagabond asked Charlot.

"I saw three men in the distance on the mountain."

"Three men! Are they coming in this direction?"

"They act as if they didn’t know where they wanted to go."

"Remain in this cabin; if these men knock at the door, open at once, don’t keep them waiting, and let them come in and rest; if they want refreshment, give them only bread and water; if they ask you questions, you know what you are to answer."

Charlot nodded and returned to his house. The passage leading to the inner house was carefully secured. The vagabond made Isaure go in; she had started when she heard mention of three travellers; a secret presentiment seemed to tell her that they were her protector, with his son and Edouard, searching for her. But the vagabond’s eye had become threatening. He had seized his sword, which had been hidden in a corner of the excavation, and seizing Isaure’s arm, he said to her in a menacing voice:

"If a single cry escapes you while those strangers are with Charlot, if you try to reveal your presence, I swear that I will kill you! Do you swear, therefore, that you will keep the most absolute silence?"

"I swear," replied Isaure, trembling from head to foot; thereupon the vagabond left her in her room and returning to the hole, walked to the boards which formed the rear of Charlot’s house, and placing his eye at a wide crack, saw everything that took place in the room that looked on the path; more than ten minutes passed, and no one arrived; the old shepherd was beginning to think that the travellers whom he had seen had taken another road, when footsteps were heard; they stopped in front of the house and a voice exclaimed:

"Here is a house, at all events."

The vagabond started at that voice, for he recognized it as Edouard’s. There was a knock at the door, Charlot opened, and the vagabond shuddered as he saw the Baron de Marcey, Edouard and Alfred enter.

"Excuse us, my friend, if we disturb you," said the baron, while the young men glanced curiously about them. "We are tired; the roads are so bad in these mountains that we were obliged to leave our horses in the village below; may we rest a moment here?"

"Yes, messieurs, sit down," replied Charlot calmly. Thereupon the three travellers seated themselves upon some straw, and Alfred, taking a sword from beneath his cloak, placed it beside him. The vagabond could not avoid a thrill of horror as he recognized the weapon he had used against Vaillant. But he was conscious of a savage joy when he saw the grieved and melancholy expression in the eyes of the two young men and the baron.

"Do you live alone here?" the baron asked the old shepherd.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Do you ever entertain travellers here?"

"Oh! hardly anybody ever comes here."

"And you do not remember having seen a man with a young girl?"

"No."

"Listen!" said Alfred to Charlot; "we are looking for a lovely young woman, whom one or more wretches have stolen from her house; if her abductors did not come here, it is possible that they passed through this neighborhood, that you have heard someone speak of them. If you can give us any information concerning her for whom we are looking, you will be handsomely rewarded."

"I don’t know anything and I haven’t seen anyone," replied Charlot, with cold indifference.

"So all our search is vain!" cried Edouard, in a despairing tone. "Dear Isaure! We shall never be able to find you, to see you again; we do not know even in what direction to look for you!"

The baron took Edouard’s hand and tried to allay his grief, although it was easy to see that he was no less affected himself. Alfred rose; he examined the place where they were, and, noticing the staircase, said to Charlot:

"You have another room upstairs?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I suppose it looks on the narrow path by which we came; could we rest more comfortably there than here?"

Without awaiting the old shepherd’s reply, Alfred went to the upper room, but he found it empty, and came sadly down again, seated himself by his companions and said:

"We shall be quite as comfortable here."

"This part of the mountains is quite unfrequented," said the baron. "How do you manage to live here?"

"I go to the village and buy bread enough to last ten days."

"What a dismal place to live in!" said Alfred. "How in the deuce can a man make up his mind to pass his life here?"

"Poor Isaure!" said Edouard, "who knows that you are not living in some hovel as wretched as this? Three weeks have passed already since you were torn away from our love, and no indication,--nothing to lead us to hope that we are on the track of your abductors!"

The three travellers were silent for a long time. The vagabond, hidden behind the partition at the rear, did not take his eyes from them, and did not leave his place; after half an hour, the baron rose, saying:

"Let us go on; it is useless to remain here any longer."

"Yes, let us go," said Alfred, "and let us try to remember the road, so that we need not go over the same ground twice, which would cause us to waste time. However, this place is easily recognized; I have seen few spots so wild, so melancholy as this, where somebody has thought fit to build this house.--Well, Edouard, are you coming?"

Edouard rose, casting a last glance at the walls of the hut, and walked slowly off with his companions. Soon their steps died away along the path, then the travellers disappeared altogether from the sight of Charlot, who was looking after them from the doorway.

Thereupon the vagabond returned triumphantly to Isaure, crying:

"It was they! but they haven’t the slightest suspicion, and they have gone away from this place, and will never return to it!"

"It was they!" murmured the girl; it seemed to her then that she had been torn once more from those whom she loved; she had not yet experienced such a feeling of anguish; her last hope was gone; and she fell, sobbing, at the vagabond’s feet.