by Eugène Sue
“He began by saying that, coming to dwell in the village of — , he considered it a duty and a pleasure to pay me a visit, and that he would be under a great obligation to me if I would be willing to supervise the disbursement of twenty-five louis a month which he wished to place at my disposition, either for the poor of the parish or for the amelioration of their condition in whatever way I judged most suitable. He also begged me to talk things over with the doctor of the village, who would probably know more of the suffering and necessity of the poor than any one else.
“He furthermore begged me to believe that any request destined to lighten suffering or prevent misfortune would be heard and granted by him with the greatest gratification. What shall I say, monsieur? How shall I tell it to you? The count showed himself to be such a wise and enlightened philanthropist that, notwithstanding my resolutions and prejudices, I could not help being struck with astonishment, almost with admiration, at the sight of a man, still young, and who had, so they said, surfeited himself on all the pleasures which the rich and fortunate in this life enjoy, who was able to understand so truly the sorrows and misery of the obscure, and how to go about helping them in the surest way.
“But alas! at the end of this conversation, which had held me under an inexplicable charm, though I struggled against it in vain, my dislike returned stronger; and I know not to this day whether to my glory or to my shame, for the count avowed to me shamelessly, as though wishing to proclaim his impiety, that he ‘had no faith in our religions,’ but that he respected them sufficiently to amuse himself with them, and that I must therefore understand that I need never expect to see him in church.
“What did he mean by those words, ‘he had no faith in our religions?’ I ignore the meaning still. Did he mean the religions of Europe? Did he wish to have it understood that he was neither Catholic nor Protestant, nor a member of any one of the dissident sects which diverge from Catholicism, though clinging still to it by the root of Christianity? I am still ignorant of his creed, though I saw him in his last dreadful hour.
“As I have told you, monsieur, this resolution of his, never to take part in the celebration of our holy mysteries, caused me a feeling of indignation. I saw in it only a disdainful pretext used to hide a total indifference or a culpable estrangement. Thus I could only see a scarcely meritorious commiseration in the liberal display of almsgiving, which his brilliant position and fortune enabled him to make at no personal sacrifice.
“I was wrong in this, because he confined himself not merely to the bestowing of gold; he had discussed at length with me the misery of the poor, and had sought my advice as to the best means of being helpful; but as I keep telling you, his want of faith in our religion rendered me unjust, oh, very unjust, as you will see, for I allowed the blow of my righteous indignation to fall on one who was completely innocent.
“On the Sunday following my conversation with the count, I saw kneeling in the church the young woman who lived with him, and who, they said, did not bear his name. This was the truth, as I have since found out. The liaison was culpable in the eyes of God and men; but alas! if the crime of these unfortunate beings was great, their chastisement was terrible.
“Pardon me for being so touched by this remembrance. I was telling you,” said the abbé, as he wiped away his tears, “that I saw, one Sunday, this lady kneeling in the church.
“I mounted the pulpit stairs, and went so far in my sermon as to make direct and even cruel allusions to the detestable immorality of the rich of this earth, who hoped, I added, to extenuate their faults by disdainfully throwing alms to the poor. I exalted the poor unfortunate who prays, believes, and divides the bread for which he is famishing with one more miserable than himself; while I had only a few cold words of eulogy to give to the rich man, whose beneficence is only of his superfluity. I did more; I went further; I exalted the peaceful and virtuous existence of the poor man who seeks forgetfulness of his ills in the sweetness of a union blessed by God, and I raised my voice violently against the rich, who seem to trample underfoot all received morality, and take a wicked delight in setting at defiance those duties which, in their impious pride, they regard as beneath their station, and only suitable for the lower classes.
“Ah, monsieur, I do not reproach myself for those bitter words, for they but expressed my horror of a conduct which at this hour I think as criminal as I did then. But can you believe it? since that time I have been weak enough to bitterly repent of all I then said.
“That Sunday, on hearing my discourse, to which my indignation lent great energy, the eyes of all our mountaineers were turned towards this unfortunate woman who was humbly kneeling in their midst She bent her head lower, and covered her face with the folds of her veil, while from the convulsive movements of her shoulders she seemed to be weeping bitterly. I was elated with triumph, for I thought I had awakened the spirit of remorse in a guilty soul. When holy service was over I returned to the presbytery.
“While I had no fear for the anger of the count, who might justly take offence at my allusions, I was nevertheless preoccupied as to the effect on him of my discourse.
“The next day he came to see me.
“When my sister came to announce his visit, I could not help feeling a certain emotion, but his manner was as cordial as on the former occasion. He said not a word about the sermon of the previous day, but spoke about the needs of our poor people. He had come to speak to me of a project he had of establishing a school for the children of the parish under my direction, communicated to me his ideas on the subject, showed what I thought to be a wise and remarkable distinction between the education which ought to be given to children who were destined to manual labour, and that which would be suitable for those who intended to follow the liberal professions. He disclosed in this conversation, during which I again fell under his charm, the highest and broadest views, and a spirit of maturity and justice. Then he quitted me.
“Alas! monsieur, how inexplicable are the weaknesses of our poor human nature! I was almost offended by the count’s apparent indifference to my sermon, whereas he showed, by the moderation of his behaviour, a respectful submission to the duty which my convictions and my nature imposed on me.
“Soon afterwards, one of the great festivals of the Church drew nigh. I went to the church to hear the confessions of our mountain people, and as I was about to enter the confessional I saw among the peasants this same woman, who was humbly kneeling like all the rest on the cold, moist stone floor. She waited there a long time, and came in her turn to the penitential tribunal.
“I am far from indulgent towards our peasants, but I know not why I should have felt myself disposed to be unusually severe to a person whose rank seemed to place her above them. The lady’s voice was trembling with emotion, her accent was timid and sweet; and without here disclosing one of our greatest, one of our most sacred secrets, since, alas! monsieur, I only tell you the facts which have since been made public by a frightful event, I recognised that day, and from thenceforth, a most noble and repentant soul, but at the same time most weak and guilty in its criminal attachment to the count. This attachment resembled a sort of exaltation which, were it not almost a profanation of the words, I might describe as holy and religious.
“What more can I tell you, monsieur! After six months’ residence in our part of the country, the count and this lady, whom our peasants in their grateful simplicity called ‘l’Ange Marie’ (for no one had ever heard her called by any name but Marie), — the count and this lady had been so charitable that one could hardly find an unhappy creature in the whole parish. What is more, such was the strange confidence that our mountaineers had in the inexhaustible beneficence of this sweet soul, that if sometimes I would seek to deter them from some perilous hunting excursion by reminding them of their families, should any of them perish, they would reply to me, ‘Father, the Angel Marie will take care of them.’ In short, this lady had become the providence of the village, and the poor folks relied on her goodnes
s as on the bon Dieu.
“At the end of a year this beloved and blessed lady fell dangerously ill. At the sad news, I cannot describe to you, monsieur, the fear or the despair of our peasants, the prayers, the ex-voto which they offered for her, the desolation which reigned in the village.
“Fearing to compromise the rigorous severity of my character, although the count had been to see me every day I had never been to return any of his visits; but when that lady was very ill, and asked for me, and the count came and besought me to go to her, I could not refuse to do so. I found her apparently dying.
“It was a dreadful moment. Never until now had her piety been revealed to me in all its depth and fervour. I consoled her, I exhorted her. For eight days we watched her with the greatest anxiety. Finally, her youth saved her.
“I cannot describe to you, monsieur, the frightful state of mind of the count during this illness. One night, when we had given up all hope of saving the sick woman, he terrified me, for, by some words which escaped him, I realised that, should death be the result of this illness, he would throw himself from the region of high aspirations and generous sentiments into an abyss of the greatest perversity, and in that moment I believed in the reality of all the stories I had heard told about the count. At last l’Ange Marie was restored to health. Little by little beauty returned to this noble and charming face, where remorse for a great fault and the consciousness of a great happiness constantly struggled for supremacy. Ah, monsieur, as I have said, I had fully determined never to return to that house, fearing to compromise my dignity, but I continued to go there. I was wrong, no doubt, but perhaps in the sight of God I may be forgiven, for that woman and the count were so charitable to the poor. Thanks to him and thanks to her, I was enabled to do so much good that I have faith in the pardon of God for not having repulsed the hand that scattered abroad his alms with so much kindness and discernment.
“And then, poor priest as I was, I loved science, I was a student, and there was no one in the village with whom I could converse, while in the count I discovered one of the most brilliant intellects I have ever encountered, I will not say among men, for I am very inexperienced in men and things, but in the books that I had read. His learning was vast, profound, and almost universal. He appeared to have travelled a great deal, and yet not to have neglected public life, for when by chance we would discuss some political question, he would discourse with a powerful and energetic conciseness. His judgment was clear, penetrating, and went straight to the point; but strange to say, whether from reflection, indifference, or contempt, he appeared to be devoid of all party prejudice or sentiment of caste; it amounted to what you might call a frightful impartiality. What alarmed and shocked me the most was that I never heard him pronounce a single word which might lead one to believe that he entertained the slightest faith in any form of religion. Although it was tacitly understood between us that we were never to discuss religious opinions, it would sometimes happen, in the course of the conversation, he would let fall some words on these formidable questions which would seem so coldly disinterested that I should, for the hope of his salvation, have preferred an attack or a denial of these eternal truths; for then his conversion might have seemed possible at some future time, whereas this icy indifference left me no hope on that subject.
“And yet his conduct was a practical example of the most splendid application of the principles of Christianity, it was the spirit without the letter. Neither did I ever hear between him and l’Ange Marie any religious conversation whatever, although their child was piously reared by its mother in our faith. Though I have frequently seen the count’s eye moistened with tears when the woman he loved would join the hands of this little angel and make it repeat its prayer to God, I think his emotion was caused more by the sight of the beautiful face of the child, and the innocent accents of its voice, than by any devotional words it may have uttered.
“The lady had received a solid and varied education. She had a remarkable mind, and, above all, an ineffable indulgence which reached all classes.
“If the count, whose speech was sometimes biting or sarcastic, attacked some person or event, contemporaneous or historical, she would always try to discover in the vilest soul, or the saddest event, some kindly feeling, some generous instinct, which might serve as an excuse.
Then tears would come into my eyes as I fancied it must be self-reproach, an unceasing remorse, which rendered this poor woman so forgiving to every one, as though, feeling her own guiltiness, it was not for her to raise her voice in accusation of whomsoever it might be.
“And the count, monsieur, if you could have seen with what profound and respectful tenderness he addressed her! How he would listen to her! With what delicate pride he knew how to appreciate and draw out all that was great and noble in the mind and heart of the one he loved so well! How his face would beam at the sight of her! Many a time I have seen him thus silently gaze on her, and then, as though words failed him to express his admiration, he would join his hands and raise his eyes to heaven, with a look of indescribable happiness.
“Ah, monsieur, how many long and happy evenings have I thus passed in the intimacy of these two persons, so culpable and yet so virtuous! How many times has this fatal and bizarre contrast almost troubled my reason! How many summer evenings, in quitting them, have I, instead of returning to the presbytery, gone to wander on the mountain slopes, to meditate in silence in the sight of God alone! ‘Oh, Lord,’ cried I, ‘how impenetrable are thy ways! This woman is an adulteress, and is fully conscious of her fault, since she constantly deplores it. She is very guilty in thy sight and in the sight of men, and yet, what life could be more exemplary, more beneficent, more practically touching and virtuous, than the one she leads? How many times have I not heard her chanting hymns in thy praise, in a voice so filled with religious fervour as to carry conviction of her faith! Oh, dear Lord, what dangerous things are vice and crime, when they clothe themselves under such deceptive appearances! Must we hate them more? Ought we to have pity on them?
Should they not deserve our pardon? And he, that strange man who says he has no faith in our religions, of what religion is he? What can be that ignored religion which imposes on him a life of such goodness and generosity, which makes him so humane, which causes him to be loved and blessed by every one? From what unknown source does he derive those principles of a wise and far-reaching charity? And yet they say that he has respected nothing that men hold holy and sacred, that he has trampled underfoot every law of social life. And it must be true, for if his love of to-day is unlawful, his former life was more criminal still; they say so, and I believe it; for, as by a flash of lightning one can see the immensity of the abyss, so, in that fearful moment in which he feared to lose the one he loved, I had penetrated into the depths of his soul, and I had shuddered with terror. And yet his conduct has never given the lie to the nobility of his sentiments. Oh, God, thy ways are impenetrable!’ I repeated more undecided than ever, as I humbled myself before the mysterious designs of Providence. I was soon to have a terrible proof of how his inexorable justice inevitably reaches the guilty.
“Alas! monsieur, my tale is nearing its end, and that end is a frightful one.
“Three months ago, one evening, I was talking with my sister about an occurrence which had greatly alarmed me. Two peasants had assured me that they had seen an old man, with white hair and black eyebrows, whose face was the colour of copper, and who appeared to be very vigorous for his age, climb over the wall of the count’s garden. Soon afterwards they had heard two pistol-shots. I had just made up my mind to go and find out what it all meant, when some one came rushing in and begged me to go with all speed to the count. Ah, monsieur, imagine my terror! I found the count and the lady, each one pierced by a ball. One of the two shots had also reached the poor little child, who was lying in the sleep of death in his cradle.
“The count had not two minutes to live. His last words were these: ‘Marie will tell you all — care for her
first.’ Then he turned towards the lady and said, ‘Adieu, Marie! — alas!— ’tis for ever! — Ah, — it is my fault! If I only had believed you — However — !’ And he was dead.
“The lady scarcely survived him a quarter of an hour; and, before expiring, she confided to me this terrible adventure, to the end that justice might be done, and to prevent a false accusation of the innocent.
“In a word, as you have perhaps already guessed, monsieur, the old man was the husband of this unfortunate woman. Availing himself of the fearful right which the law gives him, finding his wife and the count seated near the cradle of their son, he had fired on them twice at close range. The same ball that killed the mother had killed the child.”
“But the old man, what became of him?” I asked the curé, whose story had greatly affected me.
“I never could find out, monsieur. All that I know is, that a little Genoese schooner, which had been riding at anchor off the coast for about eight days, got up sail the evening of this triple murder.”
You can conceive the interest this recital awakened in me, and you may easily fancy that, after hearing the terrible story, I had very little desire to purchase a place which was connected with such a sad past, and which seemed to me to be accursed.
I remained at the presbytery until, the time allowed by law for a private sale having passed, the house was sold to a retired merchant, who, finding the furniture out of date, put it up at auction.
