was spread beneath his feet. Yonder was her lute; here were some of her favourite books; all around, draperies of pink silk fell from the ceiling, and curtained round the boudoir like a tent.
The Abbé laid his head upon his hand, and groaned aloud.
When he again looked up, the Countess was standing beside him, with an unwonted trouble in her face—a trouble that might have been pity, or anxiety, or shame, or a mingling of all three.
She began to speak; she hesitated; her voice trembled, and her words were indistinct.
André Bernard was suddenly aroused from his dream. The lover, not the priest, was awakened.
He rose abruptly.
"Madame la Comtesse," he said, sternly, "spare yourself useless and sinful words. I know why you have sent for me to-day, and I tell you that the All-Powerful who has received your vow, commands you by my lips to observe its sanctity."
The young woman cast a terrified glance at the gloomy countenance of the priest, and hid her face in her hands.
"Then, Monsieur le Curé, the All-Powerful bids me die!"
"No, you will not die," replied the Abbé, in the same profound and steady voice—"you will not die. Heaven, which gave you strength to bear the first separation, will enable you to sustain the second."
"Alas! alas!" cried the Countess, in a piercing tone, "I had thought to be so happy!"
The priest dug his nails into the palms of his clenched hands. A convulsive tremor shook him from head to foot, and he gasped for breath. Before he had seen her, he had prepared a host of holy consolations for the wounded heart; but now that he had it before him, trembling and bleeding like the stricken bird which had nestled in his breast the night before, he had not a word of comfort or pity to soothe her anguish. Every tear that forced its way between her slender fingers, fell like a burning coal upon the conscience of the good Curé. In this cruel perplexity he murmured a brief prayer for strength and guidance.
"Alas, Madame," he faltered, "do you then love him so deeply?"
"I have loved him all my life!" she cried despairingly.
The priest was silent. He threw open the window, and suffered the evening breeze to cool his brow and lift his long black hair.
Then he returned.
"Marguerite," he said, in a broken voice, "be it as you will. In the name of the living God, I release you from your vow; and if in this a wrong should be committed, henceforth I take that sin upon my soul."
Powerfully moved, glowing with excitement, elevated for the moment by a rapture of generosity—feeling, perhaps, as the martyrs of old, when they went triumphant to their deaths, and sealed their faith with blood—so André Bernard stood in the glory of the setting sun, rapt, illumined, glorified. And Marguerite de Peyrelade, dimly conscious of the dark struggle that had passed through his soul and the divine victory which he had achieved, fell on her knees as to a deity, calling upon him as her saviour, her benefactor!
"Not unto me, Marguerite, but unto Him," said André, releasing his hand gently from her lips, and pointing upwards. "It is not I who give you happiness. C'est Dieu qui l'envoie. Priez Dieu!" And he pointed to a crucifix against the wall.
The young woman bowed before the sacred emblem in speechless gratitude, and when she rose from her knees the priest was gone.
In an hour from this time, two persons were sitting together on the terrace, upon which opened the Countess's boudoir. One was a young man, pale, but with a light of joy in his countenance that replaced the bloom of health. He was seated in an easy chair, and wrapped in a large military cloak. The other was a woman, young and beautiful, who sat on a low stool at his feet, with her cheek resting on his hand. They spoke at intervals in low caressing tones, and seemed calmly, speechlessly happy.
Far around them extended range beyond range of purple mountains, quiet valleys, and long, dark masses of foliage tinted with all the hues of autumn and golden in the sun. No traces of the late storm were visible, save that here and there a tree lay prostrate, and one or two brawling streams that but yesterday were tiny rivulets, dashed foaming through the valleys.
Presently the red disc of the sun disappeared slowly behind the tree-tops; the gathered clouds faded into grey; the mountain summits grew darker, and their outline more minutely distinct; a mist came over the valley; and a star gleamed out above.
The lady wrapped his cloak more closely round her lover, to protect him from the evening air, and then resumed her lowly seat. And so they sat, looking at the stars and into one another's eyes, listening to the distant sheep-bell, or the lowing of the herds as they were driven home to their stalls.
"Methinks, sweet one," said the gentleman, as he looked down at the dear head laid against his hand—"methinks, that in an hour such as this, with thee beside me, I should love to die!"
But the lady kissed his hand, and then his brow, and looked at him with eyes that were filled only with life and love.
That night the Baron de Pradines set off to join his regiment.
CHAPTER V.
The Supper of All-Saints' Eve.
Two months quickly passed away in the Château de Peyrelade, during which the Chevalier de Fontane had recovered from his accident, and the Countess from her melancholy. Preparations had been making for the last three weeks for the celebration of their marriage. Workmen from Paris had been decorating the rooms; a dignitary of the church was invited to perform the ceremony; and all the nobility for miles around were invited to the fête. Even the Baron de Pradines, mortally offended as he was by the whole business, had at last consented to be friends, and had accepted an invitation to the wedding. In a word, the contract was to be signed on the evening of All-Saints' Day, and the marriage was to take place the following morning.
At length All-Saints' Day arrived, a grey, cold, snowing morning. Autumn is wintry enough, sometimes, in the Haute Auvergne. The earth looks bare and hard, the chestnut-trees are all stripped of their thick foliage, and the snow has encroached half-way down the sides of the mountains. The raw north-east wind rushes howling through the passes and along the valley, carrying with it at sunrise and sunset drifting sleet and fine snow, Soon it will come down thick and fast, and bury all the bushes in its white mantle. Now the herdsmen's huts are empty, and the cows are transferred to the warm stabling of the château.
Marguerite de Peyrelade, sitting in her salon, surrounded by a gay and noble company, is ill at ease, thinking of the dark night, of the falling snow, of the howling wolves, and of the Chevalier de Fontane, who has been out since morning and is momentarily expected at the château. He has been to the notary's in the neighbouring town respecting the marriage-settlements, and has promised to return in time for the great supper of All-Saints' Eve. The Baron de Pradines is also to arrive to-night to be present at the signing of the contract; and the young Countess, whose heart is overflowing with love and charity, is even a little concerned for the safety of her ungracious brother.
Parisian workmen have effected wondrous changes in the great dark salon of the Château de Peyrelade. Who would recognize, in the brilliantly lighted reception-room blazing with chandeliers and mirrors, furnished with exquisite taste, garlanded with evergreens, and crowded with all the rank and pride of Auvergne, the gloomy, cavernous hall with the rusty armour and ghostly antlers of two months since?
Uniforms and glittering orders were abundant. There was the Marquis de Florac, gorgeous with the ribbon and decoration of St. John of Jerusalem; the Count de Saint Flour, in his uniform as Colonel of the St. Flour cavalry; the Commander de Fontane, cousin of the bridegroom, in a rich court dress redolent of Versailles; the Lieutenant of Police; the Seigneur de Rochevert, who owned the adjoining estate; several officers, a cabinet minister, some diplomatic gentlemen, and one or two younger sons from the colleges and the Polytechnique. The gentlemen were gathered in little knots, playing at ombre and piquet: the ladies were assembled round la belle reine Marguerite.
But the queen of the fête was anxious and abstracted, and her thoughts wandered away to the Chevalier de Fontane and his lonely journey. The time-piece in the ante-chamber struck nine. No one heard it but Marguerite. Neither laughter, nor music, nor the sound of many voices could drown that silvery reverberation, however, for her listening ears. Her impatience became intolerable, for the Chevalier should have returned full three hours before. At last she rose and slipped quietly out of the room, through the ante-chamber, along the corridor, and so into her little quiet boudoir, far away from the jarring merriment of her guests. There she wrapped herself in a great cloak lined with sables, opened the window, and stepped out on the terrace.
It was a gloomy night. The moon shone fitfully through masses of black cloud. There was snow upon the terrace; snow in the garden beneath; snow in the valley; snow on the distant mountains. The silence was profound; not a sound was audible from the noisy salon; not a sound from the distant forest. All around lay deep shadow and spectral moonlight; and upon all the scene a stillness as of death. Suddenly, in the midst of the silence, Marguerite de Peyrelade heard the sharp, clear report of a distant musket shot. She listened, trembling and terrified. It was instantly followed by another.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" murmured the young woman, leaning for support against the window-frame; "what Christian hunts at such an hour as this? Heaven protect Eugène!"
And now another sound almost as deadly—a prolonged howling of wolves startled in their lair—came up from the valley. Then the moon became obscured by heavy clouds, and snow began to fall.
The Countess re-entered her boudoir, closed the windows hastily, and was glad once more to find herself in the noisy salon.
"Our hostess looks very pale," whispered the Marquis de Morac to his partner at ombre. "She is anxious, I suppose, for the arrival of M. de Fontane."
"Very likely," said his companion—"I play the king."
"Is Madame unwell?" asked a young Colonel of Hussars, going up to her with a profound salutation. "Madame appears much agitated."
"I have heard something very strange," stammered the Countess, as she sank into a chair: "the report of a gun!"
"Indeed, Madame!" said the Lieutenant of Police. "That is somewhat strange at this hour of the evening!"
"And it was followed by—by a second," said the Countess.
"Stranger still!" muttered the Lieutenant.
"Pooh! nothing but the fall of some fragment of rock up in the mountains yonder," said the Commander de Fontane, with a gay laugh. "The days of banditti are past. Do not be alarmed, chère petite cousine; Eugène is safe enough, and knows how to take care of himself."
"He should have been here some hours ago, Monsieur," replied the lady.
At this moment the door of the salon was thrown open, and the Majordomo announced that supper was served.
"But the two principal guests are not yet here," cried the Marquis de Florac. "Monsieur le Chevalier de Fontane, and Monsieur le Baron de Pradines!"
"Three are wanting, M. le Marquis," said the Countess, forcing a smile. "Our good Abbé Bernard, the Curé of St. Saturnin, has not yet arrived; and how could we take our places at table without his presence on All-Saints' Eve? We must wait awhile for the three missing guests. I am surprised at the absence of M. le Curé, for he has the shortest road to travel; not more than a quarter of a league."
"A quarter of a league, did you say?" exclaimed the Commander: "is that all? Why, with a good horse it would not take more than five minutes to go and return. If you command it, Madame, I will fly to M. le Curé, and bring him to your feet dead or alive!"
"Monsieur, I thank you," said the Countess, smiling; "but here is our worthy Abbé!"
At the same instant the Curé of St. Saturnin was ushered into the salon. He looked strangely white and wan; his teeth chattered; his hands were damp and cold.
"At last, Monsieur le Curé!" said the Countess, as she advanced to meet him.
"At last, Monsieur le Curé!" repeated several voices.
"Five minutes later, Monsieur le Curé, and I protest that Madame's chef de cuisine would have committed suicide for grief at the ruin of the ragoûts, and you would have had murder on your conscience!" exclaimed the Commander.
"Murder!" echoed André Bernard in a hollow voice, staring round him upon the company—"who speaks here of murder?"
"For shame, Monsieur le Commandeur! you alarm our good Abbé," said Madame de Peyrelade. "Come to the fire, Monsieur le Curé; you are trembling from cold."
"The supper is served," said the Majordomo for the second time, with an appealing look towards his mistress.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will wait no longer for Monsieur de Fontane or my brother," said the Countess, rising. "The former will doubtless be here before supper is over; and the Baron de Pradines is possibly detained at court, and may not arrive till to-morrow. We will defer supper no longer. Your arm, Monsieur de Florac."
The supper was laid out in the great hall of the château. Wine and jests went round. Even the Countess recovered her spirits, and joined in the gaiety of her guests.
"Remove those two covers," said she. "We will tell these gentlemen, if they arrive, that they shall have no supper by way of penance."
"No, no," exclaimed the Commander; "I protest against the sentence! They will be here soon, and deserve pity rather than reproof. Who knows? Perhaps my cousin and the Baron have agreed to surprise us at the supper-table, and will both be in the midst of us in a few minutes."
"Both!" ejaculated the priest, casting a terrified glance at the vacant chairs.
"And why not, Monsieur le Curé? I remember, when I was some twelve years younger, being invited to sup with a party of friends at ten leagues' distance. It was a pouring night, but there was a pretty girl in question, and so I rode through the rain, and arrived just at the right time, but wet to the skin. These gentlemen would either of them undertake a similar expedition, and I will answer for it they will both be here before supper is over. Come, I bet a hundred crowns! Who will take it? Will you, Monsieur le Curé?"
"I? Heaven forbid!" cried the priest.
"Well, you will not refuse to drink their healths?" said the Commander, as he filled the priest's glass and his own. "The health of Messieurs le Baron de Pradines and le Chevalier de Fontane!"
"Thanks cousin, for the honour!" cried a voice from the farther end of the hall. "When I am a little thawed, I shall be happy to return the compliment!"
And the Chevalier de Fontane, flushed from riding, and radiant with happiness, came hastening up to kiss the hand of his betrothed.
"Mon dieu, Monsieur de Fontane, what has happened?" cried the lady beside whom he took his seat; "your neckcloth and ruffles are covered with blood!"
"A mere trifle, Madame de Rochevert," laughed the young officer, holding up his hand, round which a handkerchief was bound; "a tussle with a wolf, who would fain have supped off of your humble servant, instead of suffering him to occupy this chair by your side—voilà tout!"
"How horrible!" exclaimed several ladies.
Madame de Peyrelade turned pale, and murmured a prayer of thanks to Heaven.
Healths went round again. Everyone drank to the Chevalier, and congratulated him upon his victory. Then the conversation turned upon the Baron de Pradines.
"It is now too late to hope for his arrival," said Marguerite. "I trust he has met with no wolves on the road."
"Let us drink to him," said the Commander, "and perhaps, like my cousin Eugène, he may come upon us at the very moment. The health of M. le Baron de Pradines!"
"The health of M. le Baron de Pradines!" cried all the voices.
"I denounce M. l'Abbé of high treason," exclaimed a lady. "He never opened his lips, and put down his glass untasted!"
The Curé was dumb with consternation.
"For shame, M. le Curé!" cried the merry-makers. "We can have no abstinence to-night. Do penance and drink the health alone."
"To the health of M. le Baron de Pradines!" said the priest in a hollow voice, and emptied his glass at a draught.
"Bravo! bravo, M. le Curé!" cried the gentlemen, rattling their glasses, by way of applause. "Nothing like the amende honorable!"
At this moment, a succession of thundering blows upon the outer gate startled the revellers into a momentary silence.
"The Baron de Pradines, for a hundred crowns!" cried the Marquis de Florac.
André Bernard turned paler than before.
"Who comes?" asked the Countess. "Go, Pierre," she said to a servant behind her chair, "go and see if it be M. de Pradines."
In a moment the valet returned, pale and speechless. A confused murmur was heard without.
"Who is there?" asked the Countess.
"Doubtless," said the Curé, in a hoarse wandering voice, "doubtless it is one of the guests who has arrived in time for the dessert."
At these words everyone rose from table, struck by a fatal presentiment.
The door opened, and Père Jacques appeared, followed by his two assistants. They carried the body of a man wrapped in a military cloak. The Countess recognising the body of her brother, uttered a piercing cry and hid her face in her hands. Silent and terror-stricken, the company stood looking at each other. The Curé clasped his hands as if in prayer; the Lieutenant of Police went over and examined the body.
"This is not the work of a robber," said he, "for the jewels and purse of the Baron are untouched. He has been shot in the temple. Does any person here present know anything of this murder?"
No one spoke.
"Where was the body found?"
"We discovered it near the foot of Mont Cantal, with M. le Baron's horse standing beside it, M. le Lieutenant," replied Père Jacques.
"Does any person know of any enemy whom M. le Baron may have had in this neighbourhood?" pursued the officer of police.
"Alas, Monsieur," replied the cowkeeper, bluntly, "the Baron de Pradines had very few friends in these parts, but no enemy, I think, who would serve him a turn like this."
"Does any person know if M. le Baron had any difference or quarrel lately with any person?"
There was a profound silence; but more than one glance was directed towards the Chevalier de Fontane.
The Lieutenant of Police repeated the inquiry. "I—I know of only one person, Monsieur," stammered the boutillier, "and—and——"
He was silent: a stern look from Père Jacques arrested the words upon his lips, and he said no more.
"And that person?"
"Pardon, M. le Lieutenant, but—but I will not say."
"Answer, I command you," said the officer, "in the name of the King."
"It is—M. le Chevalier de Fontanel!" gasped the terrified peasant.
"You hear this, Monsieur," said the Lieutenant. "What answer do you make? Have you had a quarrel with the late Baron?"
"I acknowledge—that is—I——" faltered the young man in evident confusion and dismay.
"Enough, Monsieur. Appearances, I regret to say, are against you. You arrive late; your dress is disordered; your apparel is blood-stained, and your hand is wounded. I am grieved beyond measure; but I am compelled to arrest you on the charge of murder."
CHAPTER VI.
The Lieutenant of Police.
When misfortune falls upon a house in the midst of feasting and revelry, the guests, of late so friendly and familiar, shun the presence of their entertainers as if there were contagion in the very air. It is as if the plague had broken out within the walls, and as if the black flag were alone needed to complete the resemblance.
So it was in the Château de Peyrelade after the arrival of the body of the Baron de Pradines. Some few of the guests who lived in the immediate neighbourhood, mounted their horses and hastened home that very night. Others, not caring for the night-journey through a mountain-country in fast-falling snow, waited courageously for the dawn. All, however, rose so early next morning and contrived so well that, by the time the sun poured his full radiance into the disordered apartments, not a soul remained in the château beyond its usual inhabitants. The kitchens that had been so busy with cooks and servants, the salon that had been thronged with visitors, the supper-room that had of late been the scene of festivity and mirth—all were deserted; and on the supper-table lay the body of the murdered man, covered with a sheet.
We have said that all the guests were gone; but this was not strictly true, for two remained at the château—the Commandeur de Fontane, cousin to the prisoner, and the Lieutenant of Police. The former had stayed to stand by his kinsman; the latter, in the prosecution of his duties. Determined to investigate the matter to the utmost, he had already despatched two of his servants to the town of St. Flour, to command the instant attendance of a detachment of gendarmerie. Father Jacques, and the unfortunate boutillier, who had (through sheer terror and excitement) betrayed the hostility existing between the Baron and the Chevalier, were placed with loaded muskets before the door of the wretched bridegroom's chamber. The public crier was sent round the parish of St. Saturnin to proclaim rewards for information tending to throw light upon the murder of the high and puissant George, Baron de Pradines, and, during life, Captain of the Auvergne Light Dragoons.
In short, Monsieur the Lieutenant of Police was an active and intelligent officer, and before noon on the day following the event, had done all that was in the power of man towards discovering the particulars of the dreadful deed, and securing the person of the supposed offender.
Having discharged these duties, the worthy Lieutenant found himself altogether unemployed. Nothing more could be done till the arrival of the gendarmerie from St. Flour; so he resolved to go into the supper-room and examine the body of the Baron de Pradines.
The Countess de Peyrelade, veiled and in deep mourning, was kneeling at the foot of the table, absorbed in prayer. He signified by a gesture that he had no intention of disturbing her orisons; and as she once more resumed her attitude of devotion, he turned down the sheet, and attentively contemplated the body. M. le Lieutenant was a man eminently skilful in his profession, and he was not ignorant of the importance of slight indications. He knew how frequently the weightiest discoveries lie concealed beneath a veil of the commonest circumstances.
George de Pradines was yet dressed in the clothes which he had worn at the moment of his fall. His features, even in death, preserved their habitually proud and sarcastic expression; nay, it even seemed as if the haughty lip were curved more mockingly than ever. The bullet-hole on his temple proved that he was face to face with the murderer when attacked. This circumstance precluded, at least, all suspicion of a cowardly ambush. What if he could be shown to have fallen in a duel!
The Lieutenant of Police took up the musket lying beside the body. It was loaded. He then examined the pistols which were in the belt around the dead man's waist. They were loaded likewise. Strange! Had he not even defended himself, though facing his murderer's weapon? And then had not Madame de Peyrelade, returning to the salon pale and terrified, told the assembled company in evident terror that she had distinctly heard two reports of a gun in the direction of the mountains?
Presently Madame de Peyrelade rose from her knees, and burst into tears.
"He is not guilty, Monsieur le Lieutenant!" she cried, sobbing. "Eugène is not guilty! Why have you accused him of this fearful crime? Why have you brought this misery upon us? Was it not enough," she said, pointing to the body, "was it not enough that my brother should be assassinated, but that you—the guest under my roof—should seek to fix the guilt upon my betrothed husband?"
"Madame la Comtesse," replied the Lieutenant, with severe courtesy, "you forget that I am but fulfilling my duty to the state. It is not I who act, but the law in my person. I do not say that Monsieur de Fontane is guilty. It is for the Judge to decide that point. Appearances are strongly against him: public opinion accused him before I did: the suspicions of your friends and dependents were directed to him at once. Madame, be just."
Marguerite's gentle heart was touched.
"Monsieur le Lieutenant," she said, "I was in the wrong. Forgive me."
"Madame," replied the gentleman, kindly, as he held the door for her to pass, "retire now to your chamber, and take some rest. I fear that it will be our painful duty, ere night, to remove the body of the Baron de Pradines to St. Flour. Should such commands arrive from the judicial authorities, I regret to say that it will be imperative upon me to include yourself, some of your people, and the Chevalier de Fontane among our party. Fear nothing, Madame, and hope for the best. Perseverance alone can aid us now; and the stricter are our investigations, the more completely shall we, I hope, prove the innocence of Monsieur de Fontane."
The lady retired, and the Lieutenant of Police returned to his contemplation of the corpse.
He was not wrong. Before night a party of soldiers arrived, bringing with them a paper of instructions from the authorities both military and civil. Before daybreak on the following morning the gloomy procession—including the Countess, two of her women-servants, the Chevalier de Fontane, Father Jacques, and his assistants—set off for St. Flour. The body of the murdered officer, in a plain black coffin borne upon the shoulders of six gendarmes, brought up the rear.
From the moment of his arrest the Chevalier had scarcely spoken, except to utter broken ejaculations of grief and horror. The mountaineers who guarded the door of his chamber had heard him restlessly pacing to and fro all that dreadful night.
Food had been twice or thrice brought to him, but there it still lay untouched, untasted. Being summoned to the carriage that was to convey him to St. Flour, he went quite silently and submissively, between a couple of guards.
In the hall they passed the coffin. For a moment the young man paused. He turned very pale, took off his hat, crossed himself devoutly, and passed on.
Only once he was seen to give way to emotion. It was when the Lieutenant of Police stepped into the carriage and took his seat opposite to him.
"Monsieur," he exclaimed, passionately, "one word, for mercy's sake! Does she believe that I am guilty?"
"Monsieur de Fontane," replied the Lieutenant, briefly but kindly, "Madame la Comtesse entertains no doubt of your innocence."
The prisoner's whole countenance brightened. He bent his head gratefully, and spoke no more during the rest of the journey.
CHAPTER VII.
The Trial.
The court-house was crowded in every part. The judge in gloomy state, the robed lawyers, the busy avocats, the imperious ushers—all were there. It was a dark, wintry day. The great chandeliers were lighted in the hall. The windows were closed; but a little patch of daylight streamed in at the œil-de-bœuf overhead, and made the murky atmosphere still darker by contrast.
All Madame de Peyrelade's dear friends, who had fled so precipitately the evening of the murder, might have been seen in various parts of the court-house, chattering to each other with the most lively interest, and now and then affecting a tone of profound compassion for "ce pauvre Baron," or "cette charmante Madame la Comtesse." They, however, agreed unanimously in condemning the unfortunate Chevalier. All had discovered that his countenance wore a very cruel and sinister expression. One had never liked him from a boy: another had mistrusted him from the first: a third said it was rumoured that he had been much disliked in Prussia, and even dismissed the service: a fourth would not be in the least surprised to hear that this assassination was not the first of which he had been guilty.
The object of these charitable remarks sat, however, pale and composed, in the space railed off for the prisoner. Not the soldiers who stood behind his chair were more completely unmoved. He looked worn and sorrowful, but neither desponding nor abashed. He was dressed in a suit of complete mourning. His lawyer sat at a table near him, with far the more troubled countenance of the two. In a room set apart for the witnesses at the farther end of the Justice Hall might have been observed the three herdsmen who discovered the body, the Chevalier's servant, some gendarmes, and several strangers.
Near the bench, on a raised platform, sat a veiled lady in deep mourning, surrounded by a party of her friends. This was Madame de Peyrelade. Near her stood the Commandeur de Fontane, the Lieutenant of Police, and some other gentlemen of the Province.
A dense crowd of townspeople, Auvergne peasants, and country gentry filled the court-house to the very passages and ante-rooms.
The proceedings opened with a short address from the Advocate-General, of which not one syllable was to be heard above the incessant hum of voices. Then he sat down, and Père Jacques was placed in the witness-box.
The noise instantly subsided; the interest of the assembled multitude was excited; and the business of the day began in earnest.
The honest cowkeeper gave his testimony in a straightforward, unhesitating voice. He had been to high mass at the chapel of St. Saturnin with his two companions—Pierre, the boutillier, and Henri, the herdsman. They were returning from thence to the Château de Peyrelade, where Madame had invited all her dependents to supper in the servant's hall, while she gave a grand entertainment in the state-rooms to all the gentry of the province. He (Jacques) and his friends were walking leisurely along, laughing and talking, and thinking of nothing but the wedding which was to take place on the morrow. When they had turned the foot of the Rocher Rouge, which lies between the chapel and the Château, and were coming down into the valley, Henri, who was a little in advance, gave a great cry, and shouted "Murder!" And sure enough, when he (Jacques) came up, there was a man lying upon his face under a tree, with his horse standing beside him, trembling all over and covered with foam. They lifted the body, and found that it was the Baron de Pradines. Then they wrapped it in his cloak, and picked up the musket, which had fallen beside him on the grass. There was no one in sight, and there were no signs of any struggle. He (Jacques) felt the body: the Baron was quite dead, but not yet cold. He had no more to say.
M. le Lieutenant de Police. "At what hour of the evening did this occur?"
Jacques. "As near as I can guess, M. le Lieutenant, about nine, or a quarter past."
Lieut. "Was it dark at the time?"
Jacques. "It was neither dark nor light, Monsieur. The moon kept going in and out, and the snow began to come down just after we had found the body."
Lieut. "Did you hear any shots fired?"
Jacques. "No, M. le Lieutenant."
Lieut. "But if the body was not cold, the shots could not have been fired very long before you discovered it?"
Jacques. "That might be, too, M. le Lieutenant; for the wind set the other way, towards the Château, and would have carried the noise away from us."
Lieut. "At what time did the mass begin?"
Jacques. "At seven o'clock, Monsieur le Lieutenant."
Pierre and Henri were next examined.
These witnesses corroborated the testimony of Father Jacques. The first in a nervous and confused manner, the second in a bold and steady voice. Pierre looked several times in a contrite and supplicating manner towards the Chevalier de Fontane and Madame de Peyrelade; but neither observed him.
He was very penitent and unhappy. He felt that it was through his indiscretion that the betrothed lover of his mistress was placed in this position of peril; and he would have given the world to be far enough away in the desolate Buron.
Henri stated that, after finding the body, he climbed the high tree beneath which it lay, for the purpose of reconnoitring; but no person was in sight.
The Lieutenant of Police next examined the boutillier Pierre.
Lieut. "Repeat what you said of the quarrel between Monsieur le Chevalier and the Baron de Pradines."
Pierre. [in great confusion]: "I know nothing, Monsieur, beyond what the poor people say about the village."
Lieut. "Well, and what do the poor people say about the village?"
Pierre. "Indeed, Monsieur, I know nothing."
Lieut. "You must speak. You must not trifle with the law."
Pierre. "Mon Dieu! they only said that Monsieur le Baron wanted Madame's money and estates himself, and that he hated Monsieur le Chevalier, because Monsieur le Chevalier loved Madame and Madame loved him."
Lieut. "And from whom did you hear these reports?"
Pierre. "From Père Jacques, Monsieur le Lieutenant."
Lieut. [cross-examining Jacques the cowkeeper] "What did you know, witness, of the difference between these gentlemen?"
Jacques. "Nothing, M. le Lieutenant."
Lieut. "Did you ever hear of any such quarrel?"
Jacques. "I don't deny to have heard it talked about, Monsieur."
Lieut. "Whom did you hear talk about it?"
Jacques. "I have heard Gustave, Monsieur le Chevalier's valet, say so many times."
Lieut. [examining Gustave] "Relate all you know or have heard respecting the differences that are said to have arisen between your master and the late Baron de Pradines."
Gustave. "I came with my master, the Chevalier de Fontane, from Prussia, about ten weeks ago. As soon as we got near the Château de Peyrelade, my master met with an accident. We got him into the house, where he stayed some weeks, till he had quite recovered. The Countess and my master were old lovers, and very glad to meet each other again. They made up the match between themselves the very next day, and Madame sent for a priest, who absolved her of a vow that she had made, never to marry again. After the priest was gone, M. le Baron, who had been out since the morning, came home, and Madame informed him that she was betrothed to the Chevalier, and that the marriage would take place in a few weeks. M. le Baron was furious. He swore at Madame, and at M. de Fontane, and even at the priest. He asked Madame if she had no respect for her vow or her soul, and he called M. le Chevalier a villain and a coward to his face. M. le Chevalier was too ill and weak to pay any attention to him; but Madame was very indignant, and told her brother that it was himself who was the coward, so to insult a woman and a sick man. In a word, Madame said that, if he could not conduct himself more like a gentleman, he had better leave the house. And so M. le Baron did leave the house that very night, and set off for his regiment. But it did not end here. M. le Baron had been gone only a very few days when he sent abusive and violent letters to Madame, and to Monsieur le Chevalier; and I heard that he had also the audacity to send one to the holy priest; but this I cannot be sure of. Madame had no sooner read hers than she burnt it; but Monsieur le Chevalier only laughed, and threw his into his writing-case. He said that the writer deserved a good thrashing, but did not seem at all angry. In a few days there came another letter to M. le Chevalier, and this time the Baron threatened to bring the matter before Holy Church on account of Madame's broken vow, as he called it; for he would not hear of the absolution granted by M. le Curé. This letter vexed M. le Chevalier a good deal, for he could not bear the idea of Madame's name being brought into a court of ecclesiastical law; and so he wrote back a very sharp answer to M. le Baron, representing the odium which it would bring both upon himself and the family, and telling him how perfectly useless such a step would be, since Madame was altogether absolved from her rash engagement. Well, the Baron never wrote any reply to this letter; but about a week before All Saints' Day, Madame sent a very kind and loving letter to her brother (at least so I overheard her telling Monsieur le Chevalier), and invited him to the wedding. Whether it was that M. le Baron thought it would be no use holding out; or whether he really was sorry for having been so unkind; or whether he only intended to spoil the festivities by being disagreeable to everybody, I cannot tell; but at all events he wrote back, accepting Madame's invitation, and saying he hoped she would be happy, and that she and Monsieur would forget the past, and receive him as a brother. You may be sure that Madame was delighted; and Monsieur le Chevalier declared that for his part he was quite ready to shake hands with him. No more letters passed, and I never saw M. de Pradines again till he was brought in dead on the evening of All Saints' Day."
Here the judge desired that the writing-case of M. de Fontane should be brought into court; and a small black folio was accordingly laid upon the table by one of the attendants. It was found to contain, among various unimportant papers, two letters from the deceased addressed to M. le Chevalier. Both were corroborative of the depositions of the last witness, and were couched in violent and abusive language.
The Lieutenant of Police, cross-examining the servant of M. de Fontane, then continued:—
"Where was M. de Fontane on All-Saints' Day?"
Gustave. "My master left the Château early in the morning for Murat, where the notary resided to whom he had confided the drawing up of the contract and settlements. Monsieur was to have returned by six o'clock, bringing the papers with him; but he did not arrive till between nine and ten o'clock."
Lieut. "Let the notary be called."
M. François, notary and avocat of Murat, was then called to the witness-box.
Lieut. "At what hour did the Chevalier de Fontane leave your offices at Murat?"
M. François. "At about six o'clock: the papers were not ready, and he waited for them."
Lieut. "How long would it take a man to ride from Murat to the Château?"
M. François. "About two hours."
Lieut. "He should then have reached Peyrelade about eight?"
M. François. "I suppose so, Monsieur."
Lieut. "Did the Chevalier appear at all excited or out of humour?"
M. François. "He appeared excited, and in the highest spirits; but not in the least out of humour."
Marguerite de Peyrelade, née Pradines, was then summoned by the crier. She rose from her chair with difficulty, leaning on the arm of the Commandeur, and was about to proceed to the witness-box, but the judge begged her to remain seated.
A sympathetic murmur ran through the court. She raised her veil and looked steadily at the Lieutenant, never once glancing towards the prisoner, who, pale and trembling, was observing her every movement.
"Madame de Peyrelade," said the Lieutenant, "do you remember to have heard M. de Fontane utter any hostile expressions on receipt of either of the letters lately examined?"
Madame had nothing to say beyond what had been stated by Gustave, Monsieur de Fontane's servant.
"Did Madame think that Monsieur de Fontane thoroughly pardoned the imprudent language of M. de Pradines?"
The lady said that she believed it from her heart.
"Did not Madame, on the night of her fête, leave the salon and go out a little after nine o'clock on the terrace at the west side of the Château?"
She answered in the affirmative.
"Did not Madame aver that she then heard two shots fired, at a considerable distance from the Château?"
She did, and was greatly terrified.
"Could Madame have been mistaken as to the second report? Is Madame certain that she distinguished more than one?"
The Countess said that she undoubtedly heard a second.
"Still, might not Madame have been deceived—by an echo, for instance?"
The lady was convinced of the accuracy of her statement.
Here there was a pause of some minutes, during which the lawyers whispered together, and the Lieutenant of Police conferred with the Judge.
He then went on with the examination.
"How long an interval elapsed, Madame, between the two reports?"
"Scarcely a minute, I should think," replied the Countess.
There was another pause. Then the Lieutenant of Police thanked her for her information, and intimated that, for the present, she would not be troubled farther.
Some gendarmes were then summoned, and gave their evidence as follows:—
Paul Dubourg, gendarme in the Baillage of St. Flour. "I have examined the body and firearms of the late Baron, in the presence of M. le Lieutenant of Police. A musket was found lying beside the body, and a brace of pistols were in his riding-belt. None of these had been discharged. All the pieces were loaded."
Lieut. "Should you suppose that the Baron had made any defence?"
P. Dubourg. "Evidently none, Monsieur."
Michel Perrin, gendarme in the Baillage of St. Flour, corroborated the testimony of Paul Dubourg.
Monsieur Berthet, Surgeon, was then called for. He testified that the Baron de Pradines had died of a fracture of the skull caused by a wound in the temple. The wound was given by a musket-ball, which had struck him three-quarters of an inch above the eyebrow, and entered the brain, He (M. Berthet) had extracted the ball, which he now laid before the Court. From the wound being inflicted in the front of the head, witness concluded that he must have been face to face with the assassin. At the same time, the fact of none of his own weapons being used countenanced the probability of a surprise. Could not conceive how it was possible that two shots should have been fired without the Baron's offering any resistance. Had the first taken effect, there was then no need of a second: whereas, if the first failed, the Baron would surely have defended himself against a second. Had no more to say, and left the witness-box.
Louis Masson, groom to Madame de Peyrelade, was next examined.
Lieut. of Police. "You were in the stables when Monsieur de Fontane returned on the evening of All Saints' Day?"
L. Masson. "I was, Monsieur le Lieutenant."
Lieut. "In what condition was his horse when he arrived?"
L. Masson. "The horse was covered with sweat, and appeared to have been ridden fast. It trembled a good deal likewise, as if it had been frightened, and there were some spots of blood on the chest and knees. The saddle was also spotted with blood."
Lieut. "How did M. de Fontane seem when he rode in?"
L. Masson. "He seemed very much excited, M. le Lieutenant. His neckcloth and waistcoat were stained with blood, and his hand was tied in a handkerchief."
Lieut. "Did he make any remarks to you about it?"
L. Masson. "Yes, Monsieur, he laughed a good deal, in a wild sort of way, and said he had been settling a wolf among the mountains."
There was a movement of horror throughout the Court.
Lieut. "A wolf? Did you believe him?"
L. Masson. "Why, yes, Monsieur; none of us doubted him, for he's a brave young gentleman, and has killed many a noted wolf in the woods about Pradines, in the old Baron's time. To be sure, when M. le Baron was brought in, soon after, we could not help recollecting the disagreement which they had lately had, and we did think that M. le Chevalier had indeed settled a wolf; but one of another sort. However, I said nothing till Pierre the boutillier spoke out to your worship in the hall."
Lieut. "Bring into court the clothes worn by the Chevalier de Fontane and the firearms that he carried about his person on the evening in question."
A servant here laid some clothes, a musket, and a pair of holsters on the table. The clothes were then carefully examined, The waistcoat, cravat, and shirt-front were spotted in several places with blood. The lawyers shook their heads, and the prisoner's advocate, who had not yet spoken, looked grave and uneasy.
The Lieutenant took up the musket.
"This weapon has been discharged," he said, as he passed it to the Judge for inspection.
He then drew the pistols from the holsters, and examined the priming of both.
"Neither of these pistols has been used," he said, as he passed them on. "Both are loaded."
No second shot, therefore, had been fired.
The Countess clasped her hands, and uttered an exclamation of thankfulness.
"Nay, Madame," whispered the Lieutenant kindly, "we must not begin to hope too soon. This one ambiguous circumstance will not alone be sufficient to clear our friend. We must have patience and fortitude."
The Prosecutor for the Crown then rose, and summed up the evidence. The substance of his speech was this:—"That the body of George, Baron de Pradines, had been discovered by three servants of the Countess de Peyrelade, lying dead in the valley known as the Val du Rocher Rouge, on the evening of All Saints' Day. It was known that M. de Fontane had had some misunderstanding with the deceased, and had received from him letters of a threatening nature. M. de Fontane had been out all day at Murat, and in returning thence must pass through that valley. Monsieur de Fontane left Murat at six o'clock, and did not reach the Château de Peyrelade till between nine and ten. The journey need not occupy longer than two hours. What had the Chevalier done with the surplus time? He arrives at the Château in an excited state, with his clothes blood-stained, and his horse trembling as if from terror and hard riding. His voice is wild, and he says he has killed 'a wolf.' When the body is brought to the Château and he is interrogated by M. le Lieutenant, he betrays manifest confusion and alarm. Even the grooms and herdsmen attach suspicion to him; and, as if to cherish the lingering rancour which he entertained against M. de Pradines, both the letters sent to him by that gentleman are found preserved in his writing-case. Madame la Comtesse affirms that she heard two shots fired on the night of the murder, and only one of M. de Fontane's weapons has been discharged. He felt bound to say that this circumstance tended to the advantage of the prisoner; but, at the same time, everyone knew that, to a lady in the naturally anxious state of mind of Madame de Peyrelade, every sight and sound becomes magnified. What more likely than that the second shot should be a mere trick of the distempered imagination? The examination of the weapons proved that one shot only could have been fired. Out of four pistols and two muskets—six firearms in all—one only had been discharged; and that was the musket of M. de Fontane. He believed that nothing farther could be said on the subject."
The Judge then asked the prisoner if he had anything to reply.
M. de Fontane rose, pale and self-possessed. He bowed to the Judge, to the Procureur du Roi, and to the Lieutenant of Police.
"My Lord," he said calmly, "I have little to urge in my defence, except to assever my innocence. I left Murat at six, and set off briskly for the Château de Peyrelade. Before half-an-hour had elapsed, the evening became quite dark. Much snow had already fallen, and by the time I entered upon the road across the mountains, the way was not only dark, but slippery for my horse. I dismounted, and led him up the first steep ascent. I thus lost considerable time. When I came down at the opposite side and arrived at the open space whence five different ways branch off in five different directions, I found myself altogether at fault. I had not travelled this country for many years—the snow had changed the general features of the place, and it was just then quite dark. I thought it best to leave all to the sagacity of the horse, and, remounting, dropped the reins upon his neck, and let him choose his way. He was as much perplexed as myself. Twice he turned towards the road on our left; then, after a momentary pause, chose a road straight before us. So we went on. The farther we went, however, the more I became convinced that the horse had taken a wrong direction. At last I found that we were entering a thick wood, and as I knew there should be nothing of the kind on the way to the Château, I turned the horse's head, and began to retrace our steps. Scarcely had I proceeded a dozen yards on the way back, when I heard a distant howl. The horse stopped instinctively, and we both listened. Again that sound, and nearer! I needed no spur to urge my steed on his flight—that ominous cry was enough. Away he started with me, as if we had not gone a mile that day! It was of little use; for the wolf gained on us, and at last I descried him about a quarter of a mile behind, coming with savage speed along the snow. I now saw that there was nothing for it but a mortal combat with the brute. So I alighted quietly, and waited for him, a clasp-knife open and ready in my belt, and my gun on the cock. I did not tie the horse to a tree, for I thought if the wolf conquered, the poor animal might at least have the chance of escape. The beast was up in less time too than I take to tell it. When within a couple of yards, he stopped, seeing me prepared to receive him. His eyes were red and bright as coals—his sides gaunt—his tongue lolling from his mouth. His hot breath smoked in the frosty air. So we stood for a second or two, face to face—the wolf and I. Then he gave a low howl, and as he sprang towards me, I fired! I hit him—lamed one of his fore-legs; but that only made him more furious, for he was on me again directly, like a tiger! I tried in vain to beat him off with my gun, but he was too strong for me; so I threw it down, got my knife from my belt, and held it between my teeth. As I did so, he snapped at my hand and nearly tore my fingers off. Then I threw my arms round the brute, and fell upon him. It was my last resource—he was under, and if I could only keep him there, and strangle him, or cut his throat, I was safe. It was a frightful moment. My head swam—my breath failed—then I gathered up all my remaining strength, and plunged the knife in his throat! He moaned, his head fell back—the struggle was over—he was dead! I then mounted my horse, who had never once offered to leave me, though he stood trembling all over with terror. I cheered him on—I shouted—I laughed—I sang! I rode like a madman at full speed, and when I reached the Château I had not yet recovered from the excitement of the contest. I came out of a death-fight to a brilliant company—from a wolf to a bride, and I was just about to relate my adventure—when—when, my Lord, the corpse of the Baron de Pradines was brought into the room, and I heard myself accused of being his murderer! I have no more to say. I have stated the whole truth. I lost my way, and almost my life. I am innocent, and God will judge me rightly, however my fellow-men may decide against me."
The young man sat down, flushed with the relation of his combat, and confident in the justice of his cause.
A loud murmur of sympathy and satisfaction ran through the Court, and the prisoner was rewarded for all his sufferings by one glad and loving glance from Marguerite de Peyrelade. Her mind was now relieved of every doubt; and, indeed, with the exception of the lawyers, there was not a soul in the hall who doubted his innocence.
When the murmur had subsided, more witnesses were called.
Antoine Guinot and Elie Blainval, two gendarmes, next gave evidence.
Lieut. of Police. "Antoine Guinot—you went by my orders to inspect the roads among the mountains."
A. Guinot. "Yes, M. le Lieutenant."
Lieut. "Did you there discover the body of a dead wolf, or any signs of blood on the snow?"
A. Guinot. "No, M. le Lieutenant."
Lieut. "Did you thoroughly search the Val du Rocher Rouge?"
A. Guinot. "Yes, Monsieur. There was no dead wolf to be seen in any part. Snow had been falling for two days and nights before we got there, so there would have been nothing but the carcase of the beast to guide us; but there was no such carcase anywhere about."
Elie Blainval was next examined. Went with the last witness. Saw no carcase. Snow was deep on the ground, and of course no stains or other marks could be distinguished. Would swear there was no dead wolf anywhere on the mountain roads. Corroborated the statement of his companion in every particular.
On this the Prosecutor for the Crown again addressed the Court, but very briefly. The jury, he said, had heard the statements of the last witnesses. M. the Lieutenant of Police had despatched them on the day following the murder, as soon as they arrived from St. Flour, in order that the prisoner's statement might be thoroughly investigated. No carcase of any description had been found. It was not his (the Prosecutor's) desire to prejudice his hearers against the prisoner; but he felt it his duty to remind them that his defence was unsupported by any kind of proof. They had before them a strong case of circumstantial evidence on the one side, and on the other the bare assertion of a man whose only chance for life depended on the plausibility of his defence and the credulity of his auditors. He begged now to leave the matter in the hands of the Jury.
After an address from the judge, in which he summed up the evidence in a very similar manner to the Prosecutor for the Crown, and in which he exhorted them to lay any doubts which they might entertain to the side of mercy, the jury retired.
Then the chorus of laughter and loud talking, so long hushed, broke forth again. By this time night had come on, and the patch of daylight seen through the œil-de-bœuf had long since disappeared. The young men made bets with each other on the verdict. All the ladies took the part of the prisoner; and, to do them justice, most of the gentlemen likewise. The peasants pulled out lumps of brown bread and country cheese, and began to eat.
Time went on. Two hours passed away without the return of the jury. Then another hour. Ten o'clock struck by the great clock over the entrance, and the audience grew silent and weary. Still the twelve came not. The judge nodded on the bench. Madame de Peyrelade sat, statue-like, in the same spot. The Chevalier de Fontane paced the dock in an agony of suspense.
Then eleven struck; and ere the last stroke had died away, the jury returned and took their places.
"Gentlemen of the jury," said his lordship waking up, "are you all agreed?"
"Yes, my Lord," said the foreman slowly and distinctly.
The silence was intense throughout the court. Every breath was held; every eye turned towards him.
"Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty?"
"Guilty."
A loud murmur broke from all parts of the hall. The prisoner—a shade paler than before—folded his arms across his breast, and looked calmly round him. The Countess de Peyrelade was carried fainting from the court.
The judge then pronounced sentence of death. Not a word was audible; but his lips were seen to move, and he shed tears.
The Chevalier was then conducted from the dock; the judge and jury retired; and the great mass of spectators, undulating and noisy, gradually dispersed; thankful to exchange the thick, steaming atmosphere of the densely-crowded Justice Hall, for the cold night-air, with the keen stars overhead.
The trial had lasted fourteen hours. They had begun at nine a.m., and it now wanted less than an hour to midnight. All was over—the hope, the fear, the suspense. The Chevalier de Fontane was condemned to die within twenty-four hours.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Scaffold and the Confession.
It is night. The air is cold and biting; the stars are bright in the clear sky; and the moon is slowly sinking behind the Cathedral of St. Flour. Snow lies on the ground and on the house-tops, and everything looks pale in the blue moonlight. A gloomy platform hung with black cloth and surrounded by horse-soldiers, each with a torch in his left hand and a drawn sword in his right, stands in the midst of the public square. A vast multitude is assembled outside the barriers that surround the scaffold. The houses blaze with lights, and all the windows are crowded with curious spectators. Huge and sombre, the prison rises on one side of the square, and the church upon the other. A low unquiet sound comes from the indistinct mass all around, as it heaves and sways from side to side in ever-restless undulation.
Now the great Cathedral clock strikes the first stroke of ten. Scarcely has it begun when the iron tongues of all the churches in the town reply. They clash—they mingle—they are still. Then the gates of the gaol swing apart, and a procession comes slowly forth. First, soldiers; then the sheriff and the governor of the gaol; then more soldiers; then the bishop of the diocese; then the prisoner; then more soldiers to bring up the rear.
They pass slowly through a double file of horse-soldiery till they reach the scaffold. They ascend; and the sheriff, with his black wand in one hand, advances with a parchment roll in the other, and reads aloud the dreadful formula:—
"He whom we have brought hither is Eugène Fontane, formerly called Chevalier de Fontane, and ex-Captain of Hussars in the military service of His Majesty the King of Prussia. The said Eugène de Fontane is brought hither to suffer death, being condemned thereto by the criminal court of this town. He will now be broken on the wheel, being charged and convicted of the crime of homicide on the person of the very noble, puissant, and excellent Seigneur George, Baron de Pradines, and, during life, Captain of the Auvergne Light Dragoons. Pray to God for the repose of their souls!"
Eugène is pale, but resigned. He has not long since taken leave of Marguerite, and, despite the agony of that parting, he is comforted, for she believes him innocent. His step is firm, his head erect, his eye bright and fearless. His right hand is hidden in the breast of his coat, closely pressed against his heart. It holds a lock of her hair.
Now the bishop addresses to him the last words which a prisoner hears on earth.
"Eugène de Fontane," he says, solemnly, "if you will speak the truth and declare yourself guilty of the crime for which you are condemned, I am here, in the name of God, to give you absolution; and when you are stretched upon the wheel the executioner will give you the coup de grace, in order to spare you the sufferings which you would otherwise endure. Reflect, for the sake of both body and soul. Do you yet persist in saying that you are innocent?"
The young man cast a glance of horror at the hideous apparatus. His lip quivered, and for a moment his resolution seemed to fail. Then he fell upon his knees and prayed silently.
When he rose, he was calm and stedfast as before.
"Let the executioner do his office," he said, firmly. "I will not die with a lie upon my tongue. I am innocent, and Heaven knows it."
The Chevalier then draws at ring from his finger and gives it to the executioner, in token of pardon. And now he takes off his coat and waistcoat and holds out his arms to be bound; and now, suddenly, a cry is heard on the outskirts of the crowd—a shrill, piercing, despairing cry.
"Stop! stop! let me pass! I am the murderer!—he is innocent! I am the murderer of the Baron de Pradines!"
And a mounted man, pale, breathless, disordered, is seen pressing wildly through the crowd. He gains the foot of the scaffold—he rushes eagerly up the steps—falls fainting at the feet of the condemned!
It is the priest—it is André Bernard.
Once again the Justice Hall is thronged. Once again we see the former crowd; the same faces; the same peasants; the same lawyers; the same mass of spectators, noble and plebeian; the same judge; the same jury.
Yet there is one great and material difference; there is not the same prisoner. André Bernard is in the dock, and the Chevalier de Fontane is nowhere present.
Madame de Peyrelade and servants are also absent. Otherwise the Court House looks as it did a week since, when an innocent man was there condemned to die.
"Prisoner," says the Judge, "the Court is prepared to listen to your confession."
The Abbé rose. A profound silence reigned throughout the hall. In a voice broken with emotion, he began as follows:—
"About three months since, I was visited by the Baron de Pradines in my parsonage at St. Saturnin. He had not been on good terms with his sister, Madame de Peyrelade, for some years, and he now desired a reconciliation. He was a man of violent temper and dissolute habits; but he professed repentance for his former courses, and ardently entreated my intercession with Madame. I believed him, and became the bearer of his penitent messages. Owing to my representations, the lady believed him also, and he was received into the Château. A fortnight had scarcely elapsed, when M. de Fontane arrived at the Château; and on a due consideration of—of all the previous events" (here the prisoner's voice faltered), "I absolved Madame from a rash vow which she had too hastily contracted. Now M. de Pradines had hoped to inherit the estates and fortune of his sister; he was therefore much enraged on finding that the said vow was made null and void. He departed at once to join his regiment, and in the course of a few days I received from him an abusive letter. Of this I took no notice, and I may say that it caused me no anger. I destroyed and forgot it. In about two months' time from the date of his departure, the marriage of his sister with M. de Fontane was appointed to take place. The Baron, seeing the uselessness of further hostilities, then yielded to the entreaties of Madame and accepted her invitation, appointing the Fête of All-Saints as the day of his arrival, that he might be present at the ceremony of betrothal. On that day I said mass in the morning at my chapel, and high mass at seven o'clock in the afternoon. I was invited to the Château that evening, and nine was the hour appointed. Mass would not be over till half-past eight—I had therefore half an hour only to reach the Château; and, as soon as I had pronounced the benediction, I hastened from the chapel by the side-door, and was some distance on the road before my congregation dispersed. The moon shone out at times, and at times was overcast. I had my gun with me; for after night-fall at this season, the wolves are savage, and often come down from the heights, I had not gone far when I heard a horse coming along at full speed behind me. I drew on one side to let the rider pass. The moon just then shone out, and I recognised the Baron de Pradines. He knew me also; and though he had been galloping before, he now reigned up his horse and stood quite still.
"'Good evening, most reverend Abbé,' said he in a mocking voice. 'Will you favour me with a piece of godly information; for I am but a poor sinner, and need enlightening. Pray how much have you been paid by M. le Chevalier for patching up this marriage?'
"I felt my blood boil and my cheeks burn at this insult, but I affected to treat it as a jest."
"'You are facetious, Monsieur le Baron,' I replied.
"'Not at all,' he said, with a bitter laugh. 'Gentlemen in your profession, M. le Curé, have their prices for everything; from the absolution for a vow to the absolution for a murder.'
"'Monsieur,' I replied, 'your expressions exceed the limits of pleasantry.'
"'Not at all, Monsieur le Curé,' he repeated again, 'not at all. And, withal, you are a very noble, and meek, and self-sacrificing gentleman, M. le Curé. You love my sister, most holy sir; and yet you sell the absolution which enables her to marry another. It is really difficult to tell, M. le Curé, which of your admirable qualities predominates—your Avarice, or your Love. Both, at least, are equally respectable in a priest who is vowed to poverty and celibacy.'