Since having this confidential conversation with her aunt, Marie appeared lovelier than ever to me, and more charming.
So I continued my daily visits to the farm; sometimes even, when it was snowing or excessively cold, good Madame Kerouët invited me to stay there all night, and became quite provoked when I proposed starting off in the dark to go through the forest by the ill-kept road which led to Blémur, where I was supposed to live.
If I decided to remain, Marie would innocently show how pleased she was; there would be almost a little fête at the farm. Madame Kerouët busied herself about the details of the dinner, and Marie, who slept in her aunt's room, with attentive and gracious hospitality saw that nothing was wanting in the little room destined for me, which was up in one of the towers.
That hospitality so kindly and thoughtful touched me deeply; but what proved to me the purity of sentiment of these two women, and their generous confidence in me, was the fact, that they never thought for a moment that the frequency of my visits might compromise them. My arrival always pleased them; I enlivened and brightened their solitude; and if I thanked them with effusion for all their kindness to me, Madame Kerouët would say, naïvely: "Should not we poor country women rather be grateful that you, monsieur, an artist (they supposed I was a painter), should help us to pass our long winter evenings so pleasantly, coming almost every day, three leagues to come and three leagues to go back again,—such horrid weather, too! Tenez, M. Arthur," said the good-hearted woman. "I don't know how it has come about, but now you are like one of our own family, and if you had to give up your visits we would be quite miserable and sad, is not that so, Marie?"
"Oh, certainly we would, my aunt," said Marie, with adorable candour.
I knew that Marie had very few books. She spoke perfectly well both English and Italian. I therefore sent to Paris for a set of books, and ordered them to be sent by way of Nantes, and from Nantes to be forwarded to the farm.
Just as I had hoped, the present of the books was attributed to M. Belmont, or to his friend, M. Duvallon.
By such means, I succeeded in surrounding Marie and her aunt with a certain degree of comfort which was until then wanting. Little at a time furniture and carpets arrived at the farm, and were received joyfully as an attention from the exile or his friend.
Filled with gratitude, Marie wrote a charming letter of thanks to M. Duvallon, who answered her saying that he did not understand a word of Madame Belmont's gratitude.
Fearing discovery, I begged Madame Kerouët not to speak any more of these presents, making her believe that M. Belmont had good reasons for wishing for secrecy.
Marie's birthday was soon to be celebrated. On that anniversary she was to permit me to enter the mysterious little room she called her study, and which I had not been allowed to see before.
Knowing that the room was exactly like the one I inhabited in the opposite tower, such times as I slept all night at the farm, I had sent from Paris, still by the way of Nantes, all that was needed to furnish it with elegance. One of Marie's greatest regrets was that she had neither piano nor harp. I sent then for these two instruments, which were to arrive at the farm in time for Marie's birthday. All these details gave me infinite satisfaction.
Every day, well wrapped up, I started from Serval on my pony, braving the rain and the snow. I arrived at the farm, where I found a bright fire crackling in my room. I dressed myself with some care in spite of the everlasting teasing of the worthy fermière, who reproached me for being too coquet, then I went down into the grande chambre.
If the weather was not too bad, Marie took my arm and we sallied forth to affront the wind and cold, climb the mountainsides, where we gathered plants for Marie's herbarium, or tramp through the forest, where we would amuse ourselves by startling the doe with her faun, from her hiding-place in these solitary glades.
During these long walks, Marie, who was always lively, laughed and joked like a schoolgirl, and treated me like a brother. In her chaste innocence she often made me undergo severe trials. Sometimes it was her fur collar to fasten, sometimes to push up her long hair under her hat, or to fasten the lace of her shoe, which had become undone.
So, in those long tramps, as I would gaze on the lovely face of Marie, which under its curls, all powdered with sleet, looked like a rose covered with snow,—how many times an avowal came to my lips! How often was I on the point of declaring my love! But Marie, crossing both of her arms on mine, would lean on me with such confidence, would look at me with such candour and security, that each day I was fain to put off this declaration until the next.
I was fearful that, if I risked a premature word, I might destroy all this tranquil happiness.
I waited then patiently. I was not deceived as to the sentiments I had inspired in Marie's breast; without being foolishly conceited or ridiculously vain, I could not withstand the evidence of my own eyes. For the last two months and more I had seen her almost every day. My attentions to her, to one so young, so unsophisticated, so little accustomed to the ways of the world, had made a deep impression on her; but I had recognised in her such high principles, such decided religious sentiment, and such a deep sense of duty, that I felt I would have to undergo a long struggle, perhaps a painful one, although a thousand trifles showed me that Marie cared for me with a measure of affection of which she herself was most likely ignorant.
In the evening, after one of my dinners at the farm, Madame Kerouët, seated in her great armchair at the chimney-corner, would spin off a distaff of flax, while Marie and I, seated at the same table, arranged the plants we had collected for our herbariums in the course of our winter walks.
When fixing the slight stalks on paper, our hands would often touch. Often when we were both leaning over the table my hair would be pressed against Marie's forehead, or I would feel her warm breath caressing my cheek.
At such times she would blush, her breast would heave rapidly, and sometimes her hand would tremble on the paper.
Then, as if awakening from a dream, she would say to me, pretending to be reproachful: "See, now, how badly you have placed that plant."
"It is your fault," I would answer, laughing. "You neither help me, nor hold the paper."
"Not at all. It is you who have not the least patience, you are always afraid of getting gum on your fingers when you are pasting the little bands."
"Ah, what terrible wranglers!" said Madame Kerouët, "one of you is no better than the other!"
At other times, we took turns at reading aloud some of the works of Walter Scott, in which Madame Kerouët took great interest. Marie had a clear, sweet voice, and one of my greatest pleasures was to listen to her as she read.
But it was a greater pleasure still to watch her. So, when the time came for me to read, if I found any allusion to my love, I would first read the phrases with my eyes, and then repeat them aloud from memory, fixing on Marie a passionate look. Sometimes Marie would lower her eyes, and put on a severe expression, but then, at others, she would blush, and with the end of her pretty forefinger make me an imperious sign to keep my eyes on my book.
Another trick that I invented was this: I would improvise whole passages, and introduce them into the book I was reading, so that when the situation permitted me I could give Marie a more distinct insight as to my love for her.
Thus, one evening, in that chaste and passionate scene where Ivanhoe declares his love for the beautiful Saxon, I substituted for the speech of the Crusader a long monologue, in which I made the most direct allusions to Marie and myself, by recalling a thousand souvenirs of our walks and talks.
Marie seemed quite overcome,—troubled. She looked at me reprovingly.
I stopped reading.
"I don't wish to interrupt you, M. Arthur," said Madame Kerouët, "for I don't think I ever heard you read so well as you have to-day."
Then putting down her distaff, she said, naïvely: "Ah, a woman would surely have a heart of stone not to have pity on a lover who talked like that. I know very little about it, but it seems to me that one could say no more than what Ivanhoe says,—it is all so true and natural."
"Oh, it is really all very beautiful," said Marie, "but M. Arthur must be tired. I will read now in my turn."
As she took, in spite of my resistance, the book from my hand, she looked for the improvised passage, and not finding it said, saucily:
"The pages that you have just been reading are so beautiful that I want to read them over again."
"Thou art right, Marie," said her aunt; "I, too, would like to hear them once more."
"Ah, mon Dieu, ten o'clock, already!" said I, to change the subject. "I must be going."
"So it is, already!" said Madame Kerouët, as she looked at the clock.
Usually, when I started to go, Marie would go to the window to see what sort of weather it was. This evening she remained motionless.
Her aunt said to her: "Why don't you look to see if it is snowing, my child?"
Marie rose up and came back, saying, "It is snowing hard."
"It snows hard. What a heartless way you say that! You don't seem to remember that M. Arthur has three leagues to ride in the pitch-dark, and right through the forest."
I tried to meet Marie's eyes. She turned away her head; so I said to her, sadly, "Bon soir, madame."
"Bon soir, M. Arthur," she replied, without looking at me.
I heard the impatient whinnying of Black; the farm boy was bringing him from the stable. I was just leaving the room, when Marie, seizing an opportunity when her aunt was not looking, came close to me, and, taking my hand, said, with deep emotion:
"I am very angry with you. You do not know how much you have distressed me!"
The words were not precisely an avowal; and yet, in spite of the dark, in spite of the storm, I rode back to Serval with a joyful heart.
From that evening I began to take hope.
That was a week ago.
To-morrow is Marie's birthday, a solemn festival, when we are going to inaugurate the mysterious room in the tower.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE PORTRAIT
SERVAL, 10th December, 18—.
I can scarcely believe what I have seen to-day.
What a strange fate is mine!
This morning, as we had agreed, I went to the farm.
It was the anniversary of Marie's birth; she had promised to allow me to enter the mysterious chamber that she occupies in one of the towers. It is there that she has had placed the harp and piano which recently arrived from Nantes.
"Come and see my retreat," said Marie to me, after breakfast.
We went up into the tower with Madame Kerouët.
We enter the room; what do I behold?
Facing me, in a large gold frame, there stands the portrait of the pirate of Porquerolles! the pilot of Malta!
"How did you come by that picture? Do you know who that man is?" I cried out, addressing the two women, who were staring at me in the greatest astonishment.
"Why, I painted that portrait myself, and that is M. Belmont," said Marie, with surprise.
"That is M. Belmont?"
"Certainly; that is my husband. But what is the matter with you, M. Arthur? Why are you so astonished, so overcome?"
"Have you ever seen M. Belmont anywhere?" asked Madame Kerouët.
I thought I was dreaming, or the victim of some extraordinary resemblance.
"The fact is," said I to Madame Kerouët, "I have met M. Belmont somewhere in my travels, or it might have been some one who is remarkably like him; for, on account of the circumstances under which we met, I cannot believe that the person I speak of can be the M. Belmont of this portrait."
"There is a very easy way of finding out if your M. Belmont is ours. What are your M. Belmont's teeth like?" said Marie's aunt.
"There is no longer the slightest doubt. It is he!" thought I.
"His teeth are like no one else's," I said, "they are sharp, and very wide apart."
"That is just how they are," said Madame Kerouët, laughing, "and so for fun we call him the ogre."
Then it was he!
Everything was explained now.
In the ballroom at the château, the English ambassador had told me that they were on the track of the pirate, and hoped to capture him. The ball had taken place about the middle of January, just the time that Belmont had returned to Nantes, to hasten his union with Marie.
Our rencontre at the Variétés, and the fear of discovery, had, doubtless, caused the anxiety Madame Kerouët noticed in his behaviour subsequent to that time.
Thus, had it not been for the note of warning, the commissaire and the officer of gendarmerie would have arrested this miserable man on the day of his marriage. And I quite understood that M. Duvallon, the pirate's best man, should have held him up to the eyes of Marie and her aunt in the light of a political victim, in order to deceive them as to the real cause of his arrest.
Did Duvallon know the vile traffic of Belmont, or had he, too, been deceived by him?
All these thoughts and questions rushed confusedly through my mind, and excited me so much that I left the farm much earlier than usual, under the pretext of a headache. Marie and her aunt were annoyed and worried by my sudden departure.
Thus the day, which was to have been a little fête to us, ended very sadly.
What ought I to do?
I love Marie with all the strength of my soul. It would be no crime to carry her off from Belmont, that brigand, that assassin; it would be a noble and generous action.
Marie has been basely deceived. Her family thought they were uniting her to a brave and honest sailor, and not to a vile murderer. This marriage is void, in the name of reason and honour.
It should also be null in the sight of men! This very day I will tell everything to these unhappy women.
But will they believe what I have to say? What proof can I give them of my truthfulness?
And then there would be, in such a denunciation on my part, something low and mean, which is revolting.
After all, Marie is the legitimate wife of Belmont. I am in love with Marie. Such a love almost puts that man on a level with me.
Now it is to be, henceforth, open war between us. I have already the advantage, for he is absent; it would not be fair to augment my chances of success by turning informer. So, finally, if Marie loves me enough to vanquish her scruples to forget her duty towards a man whom she believes to be honest and good, shall I not take more pride in my conquest than if she believed herself only sacrificing a vile creature, who was unworthy of her and who had deceived her, a man that the law might claim as its prey?
Decidedly, I shall say nothing at all.
But suppose that man should return? My God, what a frightful thought!
Marie is his wife after all, and it is only by a extraordinary hazard that she has been saved from being defiled by that infamous man.
My scruples are crazy, are stupid. Why should I hesitate to tell Marie all?
But what good would it do? Would such a disclosure hasten, or would it hinder this man's return?
He may come back at any time.
What shall I do? What shall I do?
SERVAL, 12th December, 18—.
My incognito has been discovered, Marie knows who I am.
Yesterday I went to the farm.
I was still irresolute as to what I ought to say in regard to the pirate.
I was talking with Marie and her aunt when my overseer entered.
I became very red, very much embarrassed; the man never noticed it; he made me a low and respectful bow.
"Tiens, you know M. Arthur?" asked Madame Kerouët.
"Have I the honour of knowing M. le comte?" repeated the overseer, with surprise.
"M. le comte!" cried out at the same time Marie and her aunt as they rose up with bewildered looks.
Fearing the man would put a bad interpretation on my reasons for hiding my name, I said to him: "You are very stupid, Rivière. I wished to get some information about the state of cultivation of this farm, as I thought of raising the rent, now you have come and spoiled all. Please go and wait for me at Serval, for I want to talk about it with you."
The overseer went out.
"You have deceived us, M. le comte!" said Madame Kerouët to me, with much dignity. "It was very wrong in you."
Marie said not a word, but disappeared without even looking at me.
"And why was it wrong?" said I to that excellent woman. "If I had told you who I was, your scruples would never have allowed you to treat me with such freedom and cordial affection as you have always manifested towards me. I should have remained towards you the master of this farm, and would never have become your friend."
"There can be no safe, no possible friendship except between equals, M. le comte," said Madame Kerouët, with great coolness.
"But in what way are our positions different at the present hour? If my friendship was pleasant to you until now, why should we change our relations? Why should we forget four or five months of charming intimacy?"
"I shall not forget them, M. le comte, but they shall give place to sentiments more suitable to the modest position of Marie and myself."
One of the farm women came then to find Madame Kerouët, and begged her to go to Marie.
She bowed to me respectfully and went out. I left the farm in a violent rage with my overseer.
Then I reflected that, after all, this incognito could not be kept up for ever, and, though the discovery might have been a shock to Marie, it certainly would not alter her love for me.
SERVAL, 15th December, 18—.
I have seen Marie once more.
For some days she was sad and distressed at my dissimulation, which she could not understand. She asked why I had thus concealed my name. I told her that, knowing false and malignant stories had reached her ears, which showed me in the very worst colours, I had preferred being unknown.
It was hard to convince her, but I finally succeeded in chasing all these unhappy impressions from her mind.
Though Madame Kerouët frowns on me sometimes, our intimacy, which for a time was threatened, has resumed all former charm.
SERVAL, 20th December, 18—.
Marie loves me, she loves me, I can no longer have any doubt. May this day remain ever engraved in my heart!
SERVAL, 30th December, 18—.
What a terrible thing has happened! No, no, a thousand times no; she shall not leave me. Now that I have the right to watch over her, never will I abandon her.
This morning a farm servant came over to the château. He brought me a letter from Marie.
She besought me to come to her instantly.
An hour after I was at the farm.
I found Marie and her aunt both in tears.
"What is the matter? What has happened?" I cried out.
"We have had a letter," said Madame Kerouët, "a letter from M. Duvallon; he says that he is coming here to-day to take away Marie, by order of M. Belmont."
"And you would allow her to go?" I exclaimed. "And you, Marie, would you consent to go?"
Marie, pale as death, passed her hands over her eyes and cried out: "What an awakening! Mon Dieu! what shall I do? I am lost."
I made an expressive sign to Marie. Her aunt, preoccupied by her own distress, had not heard her.
"Ah, mon Dieu!" said Madame Kerouët. "Give up my child! I never will have the strength to do it."
"You shall not give her up, you ought not, good mother! You must not give her up to such a man as Duvallon."
"Alas! monsieur, what objection can we make? Is not M. Duvallon the intimate friend of M. Belmont? Has he not received his orders?"
"It is just because he is the intimate friend of a man like Belmont that you must be on your guard against him."
Marie and Madame Kerouët stared at me with astonishment, but I continued: "Listen to me, you, Madame Kerouët, and you, Marie. Allow me to receive M. Duvallon; I will take it upon myself to make him listen to reason. When do you expect him to arrive?"
"If he comes when he says he will, it will be by the diligence from Bourges. He will get here at three o'clock," said Madame Kerouët.
"Make him no promises, but send him to me, and let us hope for the best."
And on a signal from Marie I went out.
After awhile, at five o'clock, I heard the noise of a carriole in the courtyard of the château. I could not repress an exclamation of anger. I felt the blood rush to my face, and my temples throb violently.
M. Duvallon was ushered in.
I beheld a robust man of great height, apparently about sixty years of age. His complexion was high-coloured, his manner impertinent, vulgar, but self-satisfied. He was dressed like a Frenchman on a journey, that is to say, shabbily.
I made him a sign to be seated, and he sat down.
"Monsieur," said I to him, "I beg your pardon for any trouble I may have given you, but I am charged by Madame Kerouët, who leases one of my farms, and who has some confidence in me—"
"Parbleu! her niece has confidence in you, too, and a great deal too much of it!" cried out the man, rudely interrupting me.
"It is true, monsieur," said I, trying to keep my temper, "I have the honour of being one of Madame Belmont's friends."
"And I am one of M. Belmont's friends, monsieur, and as such am commissioned to bring his wife back to him at Nantes, where she will remain under the surveillance of my spouse until the return of her husband, my friend Belmont, which will not be very long."
"You call yourself the friend of Belmont?" said I to Duvallon, staring at him fixedly. "Do you know what that man is?"
"That man,—that man is as good as any other man, morbleu!" cried out Duvallon, rising quickly from his seat.
I remained seated.
"That man is a brigand, monsieur! That man is an assassin, monsieur! a murderer!" and I accented with an imperious and resolute nod each one of these charges.
"If you were not in your own house!" said Duvallon to me as he doubled up his fists.
"I am not a child, monsieur, and your threats are ridiculous. Let us speak frankly and have it out. The proof that your friend is an assassin is that I was wounded by him on board of a yacht that he attacked in the Mediterranean; is that clear? The proof that your friend is a brigand is that I was on board of the same yacht, which he villainously wrecked off the coast of the island of Malta; is that clear? And to conclude, the proof that these accusations are true is that the English ambassador to France and the Foreign Office, informed by me of the presence of this wretch in Paris, have taken measures for his arrest, which would have been successful if you, on his wedding day, had not helped him to escape from justice."
Duvallon looked at me stupidly; he bit his lips with rage. I continued:
"Neither Madame Belmont nor her aunt have heard a word of all this, monsieur; but I solemnly declare to you that, if you insist upon carrying away Madame Belmont from her aunt, I will tell them the whole story, and at the same time advise them to seek legal advice, or put this affair in the hands of justice."
"Thousand thunders!" cried out Duvallon, stamping with his foot, "not a word of all that is true. I mean to carry off that wench from under your very nose, mort-Dieu! or you will see what will happen."
"If you were not the intimate friend of Belmont, you would pay dearly for your lies and your threat. Leave the room instantly, monsieur."
"I defy you, I dare you to order me out of here!" said the old corsair, as he stepped towards me with a threatening scowl.
But on second thoughts, as he compared his age to my age and his strength to mine, he restrained himself, contenting himself with saying, in a very concentration of fury:
"You mean, then, to raise up yourself in opposition to me, fearing that I will carry off your mistress? Any one can see that. But I have said that I would take her off, and I mean to take her, mort-Dieu! Don't you suppose that I know all that has been going on here? Don't I know all about the presents you have made her? And haven't I been getting these letters of thanks from those two foolish women, letters that I could not understand, thanking me for all those fine presents? But it has all come to an end, it has got to stop; do you hear? Belmont is on his way home, and in the meantime I take the demoiselle, whether or no, by force if I must."
Not wishing to answer this man, I rang the bell.
"Pierre," said I to the servant-man, "I wish you to saddle two horses, one for myself and one for George, who must go with me. I also wish you to tell Lefort to mount his horse, and tell his son to do the same. They are to go to the ferme des Prés and wait for me."
The servant went out.
"Now, monsieur," said I to Duvallon, "reflect well on what you are about to do. If you do not instantly quit this part of the country I will tell all to Madame Belmont and her aunt, and shall advise them to put themselves under the protection of the law. I am going immediately to the Field Farm. I shall wait there for you, monsieur, and I shall see if you dare to come."
Then ringing again for Pierre, I said: "Show monsieur out."
Without waiting for a reply from Duvallon, I went out, mounted my horse, and set off for the farm.
Lefort and his son had already started ahead of me.
SERVAL, 31st December, 18—.
Yesterday Duvallon did not dare to come to the farm.
He wrote to Marie telling her that he had gone back to Nantes. The letter was filled with the grossest insults. He threatened her with the return of Belmont.
Marie is plunged in the darkest despair. To-day I was not able to see her.
There is but one thing left for me to do: that is to persuade Marie to follow me.
What can her life be from this time?
If Belmont comes back he will sooner or later be arrested, whether I denounce him or no.
If he is acquitted, he is Marie's master: she is his wife; she will be obliged to go with him.
If he is found guilty, if he is condemned, what a horrible fate for Marie! And what is to become of me? My life belongs to her, as hers does to me.
If she refuses to come with me, what is to be done?
The former crimes of this man will not annul the marriage, or if they do, what publicity, what disgusting revelations, will Marie have to submit to!
She must do it, she must follow me, it is the only thing she can do.
What has she to keep her here, poor orphan girl?
Her aunt, that excellent woman.
But perhaps she would come with us,—no, no. If she suspected the truth; if she knew that there was between us a sweeter bond than that of friendship, that we belonged to each other for ever and always; if she knew—
No, no! it is not to be thought of.
But will Marie ever consent to leave her?
However, it must be done!
If Marie will follow me, what a future! We would retire to some solitary place, where I would spend the rest of my life at her side.
Though I am young, I have seen so much of life, I have suffered so much, I have learned so much about men and things, and have been so weary of them, that it would be rapture to me, this solitary and peaceful life of trusting love.
And besides she has in herself so many resources that fit her for such a life of isolation: heart, soul, mind, artistic talents, an angelic disposition, adorable simplicity, the imagination of a young girl who can please, occupy, or amuse herself with the veriest trifle.
She must follow me, she will follow me.
CHAPTER XXX
THE FLIGHT
SERVAL, 10th March, 18—.
I open again this journal which I have not written a line in for three months.
I wish to write one more date, one last page here at Serval, in this poor old paternal château that I am about to leave, perhaps, for ever.
Strange coincidence! It was here that my mundane life began with my love for Hélène.
It is here my mundane life is to end with my love for Marie.
Henceforth she and I mean to live in the greatest seclusion. Oh, if we are only able to realise our dreams, our life will be one of enchantment.
But by how many cruel trials it will have been purchased.
For three months Marie has been weeping in secret! but little by little I have been able to overcome her resistance.
At last she has consented to fly with me.
Besides, she dare not, she cannot, remain here; she is about to become a mother!
And now, my faithful George, who has been living in Nantes to keep a watch on Duvallon, wrote me this morning that a man I cannot fail to recognise as Belmont arrived last night at the house of the old corsair.
I told Marie of his return, and then she decided.
How would she dare to appear before her husband?
And how could she bear the reproaches of her aunt?
To-morrow night, then, we are to depart secretly.
So as to be sure of no mistakes, let me set down what I have arranged to do.
Send relays of horses before me as far as ——, across the country, so as to leave no traces; it is twenty-five leagues shorter.
Take the mail coach at ——, and in thirty hours we will be at the frontier.
Once outside of France, and the first noise of our elopement calmed, we will wait to see what happens. Perhaps we will return, perhaps Belmont will be arrested.
DOUX REPOS, September, 18—.
You have asked me, Marie, to tell you the story of my whole life.
We have broken off all connection with the world.
Retired from society, here in this peaceful and charming abode, we have been living for two years with our dear child, and ineffably happy.
You have been my angel, my saviour, my god, my love, my only treasure, because you possess all the riches of heart, mind, and soul.
In the midst of our solitude, each day brings a new joy that makes you dearer to my heart.
Thus the pearls of the sea owe their imperishable lustre to the shadows of each succeeding wave.
You often tell me, Marie, that my nature is noble, generous, and, above all, good.
When you will have read this journal of my whole life, Marie, my beautiful and gentle Marie, you will find out that I have often been hard-hearted and wicked.
That goodness for which you praise me, it is to you that I owe it!
Under your holy influence, my beautiful guardian angel, all my bad instincts have disappeared, all my highest sentiments have been exalted; in a word I have loved you, I love you now as you deserve to be loved.
To love you thus, and to be loved by you, Marie, is to believe oneself the first and noblest of men, to despise glory, ambition, fortune, to feel above them all.
It is to have gone beyond the limits of all possible happiness.
This superhuman happiness would alarm me, had we not purchased it by your sorrow and remorse, poor Marie!
This remorse has been, and still is, your only grief; the time has come to deliver you from it.
You shall be told the truth about the man you married, whom you have believed to be in prison as a political criminal, for these last two years.
Later you will know why I hid this secret from you until now.
These lines which I now write in this journal retrace almost all the events of my life, up to the moment when we quitted Serval together. They will be the last I shall write in it.
Why should I henceforth need such a cold confidant?
It is in your angelic heart, Marie, that I will trace all my thoughts; or, rather, it is there that I will leave the imprint of the perfect bliss that intoxicates me.
You will read this journal, Marie; you will see that I have been very guilty, that I have suffered greatly.
You will read the story of our love from its very inception.
Since leaving Serval I have ceased to write in this journal. What could I have written? Whatever I have said, Marie, will apply to the future years I shall spend with you.
You will not find here the date of the birth of our Arthur,—our child,—the greatest joy of my life. Nor will you find the date of that terrible day on which I trembled for your life, my day of most fearful torture.
While the paroxysm of that unknown joy, of that unknown grief, lasted, I neither thought, reflected, nor acted, I did not exist.
When one still has the consciousness of one's sufferings, when one can contemplate one's own joy, then neither has joy nor sorrow arrived at its highest degree.
I had thus far suffered atrociously. I had experienced the most intense delights, but I had never been so absorbed as to lose self-consciousness, or the power of self-investigation.
I have spoken of an unknown happiness, Marie, and yet the date of the blissful day when I no longer doubted of your love is written in this journal, while the date of our Arthur's birth is not found here.
Your tender soul will understand and appreciate the difference, will it not?
As for our child, Marie, our beautiful and adorable child, we will think of his future, and—
These were the last words of the journal of an unknown.
By looking at the dates, and comparing them with the information given me by the curé of the village of ——, in the first volume, one can see that this last passage must have been written the day or the day before the triple assassination of the count, Marie, and their child, by Belmont, the pirate of Porquerolles, who, having escaped from prison, and knowing the retreat of the count, wished to wreak upon him a terrible vengeance before leaving France for ever.
THE END.