by Eugène Sue
Bastien, whose mind continued to be somewhat confused, took the reins and said to André, who stood at the horse’s head:
“Is the old road to Blémur good?”
“The old road? Why, nobody can pass, monsieur.”
“Why?”
“Because the overflow has washed up everything, monsieur, without counting the embankment on the side of the pond which has been swept away, — so from that place the road is still covered ten feet in water.”
“That is a pity, for that would have shortened our way wonderfully,” replied Bastien, whipping the horse so vigorously that it started off at a full gallop.
“Softly, Jacques, softly,” said the bailiff, beginning to feel concerned about his comrade’s condition. “The roads are not good and you must not upset us. Come, come now, Jacques, do pay attention! Ah, you do not look an inch before you!”
We will leave M. Bridou in his constantly increasing perplexity and will return to the farm.
As we have said, Marie, after having tried in vain to reach the stable through the garden gate, came back and cowered down in one of the corners of the porch.
During the first half-hour the cold had caused her the most painful suffering. To this torture succeeded a sort of numbness at first very distressing; then soon followed a state of almost complete insensibility, an invincible torpor, which in such circumstances often proves a transition to death.
Marie, brave as ever, preserved her presence of mind a long time and tried to divert her thoughts from the danger that she was running, saying to herself that at three o’clock in the morning there must necessarily be some stir in the house caused by the departure of M. Bastien, who wished, as Marguerite had told her, to set out on his journey at the rising of the moon.
Whether he left or not, the young woman intended to profit by the going and coming of Marguerite, and to make herself heard by rapping either on the door of the corridor or the blinds of the dining-room, and thus gain an entrance into her chamber.
But the terrible influence of the cold — the rapid and piercing effects of which were unknown to Madame Bastien — froze, so to speak, her thoughts, as it froze her limbs.
At the end of the half-hour the exhausted woman yielded to an unconquerable drowsiness, from which she would rise a moment by sheer force of courage, to fall back again into a deeper sleep than before.
About three o’clock in the morning, the light that Marguerite carried had several times shone through the window-blinds, and her steps had resounded behind the front door.
But Marie, in an ever increasing torpor, saw nothing and heard nothing.
Fortunately, in one of the rare periods when she succeeded in rousing herself from her stupor, she trembled at the voice of Bastien; as he went out with Bridou he noisily drew the bolt of the door.
At the voice of her husband the young woman, by an almost superhuman effort of will, roused herself from her stupor, rose, although stiff and almost bent double by the icy cold, went out of the porch, and hid herself behind one of the ivy-covered posts, just as the door opened before Bastien and Bridou, who went out through the garden gate. Marie, seeing the two men depart, slipped into the house and reached her chamber without having met Marguerite. But the moment she rang, her strength failed, and she fell on the floor unconscious.
The servant ran at the sound of her mistress’s bell, found her lying in the middle of the floor, and cried, as she stooped to lift her up:
“Great God! madame, what has happened to you?”
“Silence!” murmured the young woman in a feeble voice; “do not wake my son! Help me to get back to bed.”
“Alas! madame,” said the servant, sustaining Marie as the poor woman got into bed, “you are shivering, you are frozen.”
“To-night,” replied the young mother, with a failing voice, “feeling myself in pain I tried to rise to ring for you. I had not the strength, I was ill, and just this moment I dragged myself to the chimney to call you, and I—”
The young woman did not finish; her teeth clashed together, her head fell back, and she fainted.
Marguerite, frightened at the responsibility resting on her, and losing her presence of mind entirely, cried, as she ran to Frederick’s chamber:
“Monsieur, monsieur! get up! madame is very ill.” Then, returning to Marie, she cried, kneeling down by the bed:
“My God! what must I do, what must I do?”
At the end of a few moments Frederick, having put on his dressing-gown, came out of his chamber.
Imagine his agony at the sight of his mother, — pale, inanimate, and from time to time writhing under a convulsive chill.
“Mother,” cried Frederick, kneeling in despair by Marie’s pillow. “Mother, answer me, what is the matter?”
“Alas! M. Frederick,” said Marguerite, sobbing, “madame is unconscious. What shall I do, my God, what shall I do?”
“Marguerite,” cried Frederick, “run and wake M. David.”
While Frederick, in unspeakable terror, remained near his mother, the servant hurried to André’s chamber, where David had spent the night. The preceptor, dressing himself in haste, opened the door for Marguerite.
“My God! what is the matter?”
“M. David, a great trouble, — madame—”
“Go on.”
“To-night she was taken ill and rose to ring for me; all her strength failed her; she had fallen in the middle of her chamber, where she lay a long time on the floor; when I entered and helped her to bed she was frozen.”
“On such a night, — it is frightful!” cried David, turning pale; “and now, how is she?”
“My God! M. David, she has fainted away. Poor M. Frederick is on his knees at her pillow sobbing; he calls her, but she hears nothing. It was he who told me to run for you, because we do not know what to do, we have all lost our head.”
“You must tell André to hitch up and go in haste to Pont Brillant for Doctor Dufour. Run, run, Marguerite.”
“Alas! monsieur, that is impossible. Master left this morning at three o’clock with the horse, and André is so old that he would take I do not know how much time to go to the city.”
“I will go,” said David, with a calmness which belied the agitation depicted in his face.
“You, M. David, go to the city on foot so far this freezing night!”
“In an hour,” replied David, as he finished dressing himself for the journey, “Doctor Dufour will be here. Tell Frederick that to calm him. While waiting my return, you had better take some warm tea to Madame Bastien. Try to get her warm by covering her with care, and drawing her bed near the large fire which you must kindle immediately. Come, courage, Marguerite,” added David, taking his hat and hastily descending the stairs; “be sure to tell Frederick Doctor Dufour will be here in an hour.”
Marguerite, after having conducted David to the garden gate, came to get the lamp that she had left on the threshold of the door, sheltered by the rustic porch.
As she stooped to take up the lamp she saw, half hidden by the snow, a neckerchief of orange silk belonging to Madame Bastien, and almost in the same spot she found a little slipper of red morocco encrusted, so to speak, in the snow hardened by the ice.
More and more surprised, and wondering how these articles, which evidently belonged to her mistress, came to be there, Marguerite, struck with a sudden idea, picked up the neckerchief and the slipper, then, with the aid of her lamp, she examined attentively the pavement of the corridor.
There she recognised the recent imprint of snow-covered feet, so that in following this trace of Madame Bastien’s little feet she noticed the last tracks at the door of her mistress. Suddenly Marguerite recollected that when she had assisted her mistress, overcome by the cold, to get in bed, it had not been unmade; other circumstances corroborated these observations, and the servant, terrified at the discovery she had just made, entered Madame Bastien’s chamber, where Frederick was sitting near his mother.
An hour and a q
uarter after David’s departure a cabriolet with two horses white with foam and marked with the postilion’s whip stopped at the door of the farm.
David and Doctor Dufour descended from this carriage.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
ABOUT THREE HOURS had passed since the doctor had arrived at the farm.
David, discreetly withdrawn into the library, waited with mortal anxiety the news of Madame Bastien, with whom the doctor and Frederick remained.
Once only, David, standing in the door of the library, and seeing Marguerite rapidly passing, as she came from the chamber of her mistress, called, in a low voice:
“Ah, well, Marguerite?”
“Ah, M. David!” was the only reply of the weeping woman, who passed on without stopping.
“She is dying,” said David, returning to the library.
And pale, his features distorted, his heart broken, he threw himself in an armchair, hid his face in his hands, and burst into tears, vainly trying to suppress his sobs.
“I have realised the despair of this restrained, hidden, impossible love,” murmured he. “I thought I had suffered cruelly, — what is it to suffer derision compared to the fear of losing Marie? To lose her, — she to die — no, no! oh, but I will at least see her!”
And almost crazed with grief, David rushed across the room, but he stopped at the door.
“She is dying, perhaps, and I have no right to assist at her agony. What am I here? A stranger. Let me listen — nothing — nothing — the silence of the tomb. My God! in this chamber, where she perhaps is in the agony of death, what is happening? Ah, some one is coming out. It is Pierre.”
And David, taking one step into the corridor, saw in the twilight of the dark passage, the doctor coming out of Marie’s chamber.
“Pierre,” said he, in a low voice, to hasten his coming, “Pierre!”
Doctor Dufour advanced rapidly toward David, when the latter heard a voice whisper:
“Doctor, I must speak to you.”
At this voice Doctor Dufour stopped abruptly before the door of the dining-room, where he entered.
“Whose is this voice?” thought David. “Is it Marguerite? My God! what has happened?” and he listened on the side where the doctor entered. “It is Pierre who is talking; his exclamations announce indignation, dismay. There, he is coming out at last; here he is.”
In fact, Doctor Dufour, his face altered, and frowning with anger, entered the library, his hands still clasped in a gesture of horror, and exclaimed:
“It is horrible! it is infamous!”
David, thinking only of Marie, sprang to meet his friend.
“Pierre, in the name of Heaven, how is she? The truth! I will have courage, but for pity’s sake, the truth, frightful as it may be. There is no torture equal to what I have endured here for three hours, asking myself, is she living, agonising, or dead?”
The distorted features of David, his glowing eyes, red with recent tears, the inflection of his voice, betrayed at the same time so much despair and so much love, that Doctor Dufour, although himself under the power of violent emotion, stopped short at the sight of his friend, and gazed at him some moments before replying to him.
“Pierre, you tell me nothing, nothing!” cried David, distracted with grief. “Is she dying, then?”
“No, Henri, she is not dying.”
“She will live!” cried David.
At this hope, his face became transfigured; he pressed the physician to his breast, as he murmured, unable to restrain his tears:
“I shall owe you more than life, Pierre.”
“Henri,” replied the doctor, with a sigh, “I have not said that she would live.”
“You fear?”
“Very much.”
“Oh, my God! but at least you hope?”
“I dare not yet.”
“And how is she at this moment?”
“More calm, she is sleeping.”
“Oh, she must live, she must live, Pierre! she will live, will she not? she will live?”
“Henri, you love her.”
Recalled to himself by these words of his friend, David trembled, remained silent, with his eyes fixed on the eyes of the doctor.
The latter answered, in a grave and sad tone:
“Henri, you love her. I have not surprised your secret. You have just revealed it yourself.”
“I?”
“By your grief.”
“It is true, I love her.”
“Henri,” cried the doctor, with tears in his eyes and with deep emotion, “Henri, I pity you, oh, I pity you.”
“It is a love without hope, I know it; but let her live, and I will bless the torments that I must endure near her, because her son, who binds us for ever, will always be a link between her and me.”
“Yes, your love is without hope, Henri; yes, delicacy will always prevent your ever letting Marie suspect your sentiments. But that is not all, and I repeat it to you, Henri, you are more to be pitied than you think.”
“My God! Pierre, what do you mean?”
“Do you know? But wait, my blood boils, my indignation burns, everything in me revolts, because I cannot speak of such a base atrocity with calmness.”
“Unhappy woman, it concerns her. Oh, speak, speak, I pray you. You crush me, you kill me!”
“Just now I was coming to join you.”
“And some one stopped you in the passage.”
“It was Marguerite. Do you know where Madame Bastien spent a part of the night?”
“What do you mean?”
“She spent it out of her house.”
“She? the night out of her house?”
“Yes, her husband thrust her outdoors, half naked, this bitter cold night.”
David shuddered through his whole body, then pressing both hands to his forehead as if to restrain the violence of his thoughts, he said to the doctor, in a broken voice:
“Wait, Pierre; I have heard your words, but I do not understand their import. A cloud seems to be passing over my mind.”
“At first, neither did I understand it, my friend; it was too monstrous. Marguerite, yesterday evening, a little while after leaving her mistress, heard a long conversation, sometimes in a low voice, sometimes with violence, in the library, then walking in the corridor; then the noise of a door which opened and shut, then nothing more. In the night, after the departure of M. Bastien, Marguerite, rung up by her mistress, thought at first Marie had fainted, but later, by certain indications, she had the proof that her mistress had been compelled to stay from midnight until three o’clock, in the porch, exposed to all the severity of this freezing night. So, this sickness, mortal perhaps—”
“But it is a murder!” cried David, mad with grief and rage. “That man is an assassin!”
“The wretch was drunk as Marguerite has told me; it was in consequence of an altercation with the unhappy woman that he thrust her outdoors.”
“Pierre, this man will return presently; he has insulted me grossly twice; I intend to provoke him and kill him.”
“Henri, keep calm.”
“I wish to kill him.”
“Listen to me.”
“If he refuses to fight me, I will assassinate him and kill myself afterward. Marie shall be delivered from him.”
“Henri, Henri! this is madness!”
“Oh, my God! she, she, treated in this way!” said David, in a heartrending voice. “To know that this angel of purity, this adorable mother and saint, is always at the mercy of this stupid and brutal man! And do you not see that if she does not die this time, he will kill her some other time?”
“I believe it, Henri, and yet he need not have her in his power.”
“And you are not willing that I—”
“Henri,” cried the doctor, seizing his friend’s hand with effusion, “Henri, noble and excellent heart, come to yourself, be what you have always been, full of generosity and courage, — yes, of courage, for it is necessary to have courage to accomplish a
cruel sacrifice, but one indispensable to the salvation of Madame Bastien.”
“A sacrifice for Marie’s salvation! Oh, speak, speak!”
“Brave, noble heart, you are yourself again, and I was wrong to tell you that you were more to be pitied than you thought, for souls like yours live upon sacrifices and renunciations. Listen to me, Henri, — admitting that I can save Madame Bastien from the disease she has contracted to-night, a most dangerous inflammation of the lungs, this angelic woman ought not to remain in the power of this wretch.”
“Go on, finish!”
“There is an honourable and lawful means of snatching from this man the victim that he has tortured for seventeen years.”
“And what is this means?”
“A legal separation.”
“And how is it to be obtained?”
“The atrocious conduct of this man, during this night, is a serious charge of cruelty. Marguerite will testify to it; it will not be necessary to have more to obtain a separation, and besides, I myself will see the judges, and I will tell them, with all the ardour and indignation of an honest heart, the conduct of Bastien toward his wife since his marriage; I will tell them of Marie’s angelic resignation, of her admirable devotion to her son, and above all, of the purity of her life.”
“Stop, Pierre; a little while ago I spoke like a madman. To beastly wickedness, I responded with homicidal violence. You are right, Madame Bastien must be separated from her husband, that she may be free.” And at this thought, David could not repress a thrill of hope. “Yes, let her be free, and then, being able to dispose of her son’s future, and—”
“Henri,” said the physician, interrupting his friend, “you must understand that to make this separation worthy and honourable on Marie’s part, it is essential that you go away.”
“I!” cried David, shocked at the words of the doctor, who continued, in a firm voice:
“Henri, I repeat to you, it is absolutely essential for you to go away.”
“Leave her, leave her dying? Never!”
“My friend!”
“Never! neither would she consent to it.”
