“Ah! he’s a sly fox! he knows a lot! I would like right well to know the man who educated him!”

“I can satisfy you, my friends, by telling you the story of my youth; it will not take long and it will amuse you. Moreover, Murville will derive some profit from it; there are some things in it which concern him, and I have no need now of standing on ceremony with him.”

“Tell on, tell on,” said Lampin; “meanwhile, we will drink; in fact, there’s nothing better for us to do in this infernal wood, where we have drawn blank for two nights. Come, comrades, let us start up the fire and drink quietly.”

I was born in a small village in the neighborhood of Rennes. My father, who had been rich and highly esteemed, was completely ruined by the loss of a lawsuit which a cousin of his brought against him. Reduced to poverty and having no friends, he was obliged to accept a place as game-keeper to an old nobleman who cared more for his game than for his vassals, and would not forgive the death of a rabbit or a partridge killed on his land.

My father’s words readily found a lodging in my memory. Perhaps other advice might have led me to protect and defend those whom I swore to despise and to hate; but first impressions are all-powerful upon an inexperienced mind, and the independence of my tastes inclined me to crush without examination all the obstacles which thwarted my desires.

An episode which I witnessed served to intensify my aversion for mankind. I was then thirteen years old, and I had just taken a lesson in reading from my father; for he had told me that education was essential to my best interests, and that reason alone had induced me to learn something. I was walking in the woods when I heard two shots very near me. I ran in the direction from which the reports came, and I saw two young men, who had been arrested because they were hunting in the nobleman’s forest.

One was a well-dressed young man, of aristocratic manners and bearing; the other was a poor peasant, covered with rags and apparently in the last stages of want. The first had killed a kid, the other a rabbit, and yet the young man from the city was laughing and singing among the keepers, while the peasant, pale-faced and trembling, had hardly strength enough to stand.

“Monsieur, I am distressed to be obliged to act harshly,” said the steward in a wheedling tone, “but my master is very strict, and his orders are absolute.”

“Bah! old fox, you are joking, I fancy, with your orders,” said the young man, laughing at the steward; “understand that I am a young man of family, and that if you do not set me at liberty instantly, I will cut off your ears at the first opportunity.”

“Monsieur, this is a very strange tone, and I cannot allow——”

“Look you, old Arab, I see what you want! You are the steward, that tells the whole story; take this purse; there are fifteen louis in it; that is more than all your master’s kids are worth.”

As he spoke, the young man took from his pocket a purse, which the steward accepted without hesitation. Then, opening a little secret door, he said in an undertone:

“Go down this way into the garden; then turn to the right and you can go out through another gate that leads into the fields. I am endangering myself for you, but you have such engaging manners!”

They brought in the peasant, and the steward was left alone with him.

“Why do you hunt?” he asked the peasant, in a harsh voice and a sharp tone which bore no resemblance to that which he had assumed with the other prisoner.

“My good monsieur,” said the poor man, falling on his knees, “pray forgive me; it is the first time and I swear that it shall be the last.”

“These rascals always say the same thing!”

“I ain’t a rascal, but a poor devil with a wife and five children, and I can’t support ’em.”

“Well, you knave, why do you have children?”

“Well! monsieur l’intendant, that’s the only pleasure a man can get without money.”

“As if clowns like you ought to have any pleasure! Work, you dog, work; that’s your lot.”

“I haven’t got any work, and I earn so little, so little, that it’s hardly enough to keep us alive!”

“Because you eat like ogres!”

“I don’t ever eat enough, so’s to have some to give to the little ones.”

“Your little ones! your little ones! These rascals starve the whole province with their little ones!”

“Pardi! monsieur l’intendant, your master raises more than fifty dogs, and it seems to me that I can raise four or five children.”

“Fancy this wretch daring to compare his disgusting young ones with monseigneur’s greyhounds! Come, no arguing, you were caught poaching, your case is clear, and the theft is proved. You will be lashed, fined, and imprisoned!”

“A rabbit, you scoundrel! a rabbit! Do you know what a rabbit is? Monseigneur preserves rabbits; I must avenge the one that you killed.”

“Morgué! if it was for monsieur’s table——”

“That’s a very different matter; it would be too happy to enter its master’s mouth; but you are a poacher.”

“Have pity on my wife and children, monsieur l’intendant! We are so poor! there ain’t a sou in our house!”

“You deserve to be hanged! Off with you, to prison, and to-morrow the lash.”

The steward rang, the servants appeared, and the peasant was taken away despite his prayers and his tears.

I had remained under the table, where I was fairly choking with indignation; when everybody had gone, I jumped out of the window and ran home, to tell my father all that I had heard. My story did not surprise him. It was only one proof more of the injustice and the barbarity of men. For my own part, I had my plan. I knew that the nobleman was to return next day, and I proposed to assure the punishment of the rascally steward.

And so at daybreak I started for the château. When I arrived there, I saw the unfortunate peasant in the courtyard being pitilessly beaten by the servants, while the nobleman watched the spectacle from the balcony, giving biscuit to his Danish hound and sugar to his greyhound.

The old nobleman seemed a little surprised to learn that another poacher had been arrested; but the steward, who quivered with anger while I was speaking, made haste to tell his master that the young man was a marquis, and that he had thought that he ought not to detain him.

“A marquis,” said the nobleman, taking a pinch of snuff, “a marquis! The devil! that’s so—of course we could not have him beaten; so the peasant must pay for both.”

“That is what I thought, monseigneur.”

“And you did well; send away this boy, who was awkward enough to tread on Castor’s paw.”

The steward did not wait for the order to be repeated; he took me by the arm; and I went unresistingly, unable to understand why monseigneur had not been angry with the rascally servant. On the way, the steward gave me a number of blows, and as many kicks; that was the only reward which I received at the château.

I returned home in a frenzy of rage, revolving in my brain a thousand schemes of revenge. My father, who then realized to what excess my animosity might lead me, tried, but in vain, to pacify me.

During the night, while my father slept at the foot of a tree, I stole away with a dark lantern and the gun which he always carried with him.

I hurried in the direction of monseigneur’s château. When I arrived there, I made piles of sticks, and set fire to the four corners of the château, taking pains, lest the fire should not burn quickly enough, to throw blazing brands on the roofs of all the buildings, with particular attention to the stables.

I soon had the pleasure of seeing that my revenge was complete; the fire caught in several places and spread rapidly to all the wings of the château. They sounded the tocsin, the villagers hastened to the spot, and several of them had the complaisance to throw themselves into the flames, to save a nobleman who took pleasure in having them beaten. Amid the confusion and the tumult, I made my way to the private apartments and found the steward trying to escape, with a little casket which he held against his breast. I took my stand in front of him and said, aiming my gun at him:

“Look you, this is to teach you to strike me and kick me!”

I fired, and he fell dead at my feet. I threw my gun away, took possession of the casket, and leaping from a window with my usual agility, I fled from the château, which soon presented nothing but a pile of ruins.

But what was my surprise not to find my father, whom I supposed to be still sleeping at the foot of the tree! In vain did I search the whole neighborhood, calling him at the top of my voice; I had to go on to another village, uncertain what had become of him. Being uneasy concerning my treasure, I buried it at the foot of an old oak, after taking out a few pieces of gold of which the casket was full.

I went to bed at a small inn, thinking justly enough that a child would not be suspected of setting fire to the château. In fact, little attention was paid to me; everyone was talking about the terrible calamity that had happened to the nobleman. Everyone formed conjectures of his own, but during the day a peasant came in and said that the guilty party was arrested; he was, so he stated, a former game-keeper in monseigneur’s service; he had been discharged, and was bitterly incensed against the steward, whom he presumed to be responsible for his disgrace. He had set the fire in order to obtain access to his enemy more easily, for they had found the latter, killed by a rifle shot, and had recognized the weapon as belonging to the game-keeper.

On hearing that story, I had no doubt that my father had been arrested in my place; I trembled for him, and having determined to sacrifice myself to save him, I at once left the inn and started for the village to which he was to have been taken. I did not stop an instant on the road, for I felt that minutes were precious; I reached the public square of the village at last, and saw my father hanging on a gallows.

At night, I took down my father’s body; I had the strength to carry it into the forest, where I dug a grave for it; I swore, over his lifeless remains, to avenge his death and his misfortune upon all mankind, and never to love those who had unjustly ruined him and put him to death, although innocent.

I went to get my precious casket, and I left the country. Thanks to the treasure which I possessed, I was able to gratify all my tastes and procure myself all sorts of pleasure. I lived thus for five years, abandoning myself to all the passions which age had developed within me; I loved wine, cards and women, and so long as I had money, I denied myself nothing; but my treasure could not last long with the life I was leading. At the age of eighteen, I saw the bottom of my treasure chest; but, far from mourning over that event, I rejoiced at the thought that the time had come to keep the oath I had taken over my father’s grave.

So I devoted my whole time to making dupes, and that was not difficult for me; in the best society, to which, thanks to my wealth, I had succeeded in introducing myself, I had learned good manners; I had, furthermore, the talent of disguising my features and of changing my voice when that was necessary; add to that, wit, audacity, resolution, and eloquence, and you may judge what triumphs were in store for me.

First of all, it was necessary to obtain access to your house; I succeeded; then I found a way to sow discord in your family, by leading you on gently to your ruin, which was the goal of all my plans. I discovered your inclination for gambling; after that it was not hard for me to lead you into all imaginable sorts of folly. I desired to enrich myself at your expense, but the infernal cards were never favorable to me. I forced you on toward crime, because your wife had spurned me, and I was determined to revenge myself upon you for all her contempt. In short, you were simply a machine, which I handled at my pleasure.

After having tried all methods to overcome Adeline’s resistance, I had recourse to stratagem, and I succeeded one night in making my way to her apartment and in sharing her bed.—You shudder! Oh! my poor Edouard, your wife deceived no one but herself! you had a very dragon of virtue! When she saw who I was, she manifested more detestation of me than ever, but I had the certainty of having ruined her happiness for all time.

Dufresne concluded his narrative, and the robbers seemed proud of having such a miscreant to command them. Edouard, appalled by what he had heard, shuddered at the memory of all that he had done through the advice of a monster who had sworn his destruction, and who coolly told him of his own dishonor. But it was too late to look back, especially with Edouard’s weak and reckless nature. He felt that he hated Dufresne, but he had not the strength to leave him.

Vice debases and degrades men. Edouard, while he realized the horror of his situation, had not sufficient energy to try to escape from it.

The dawn was beginning to whiten the mountain peaks, and to make its way into the clearings of the forest. The robbers extinguished the fire and placed the remains of their provisions in their wallet.

“Comrades,” said Dufresne, “we must leave this neighborhood, we are making nothing here. So let us start; but in the first town of any size near which we pass, the boldest of us must go and buy some clothes which will give us the appearance of respectable people, for believe me, it is the same with our trade as with all others: to be successful, we must throw dust in people’s eyes; and with our torn jackets and trousers we shall never be able to leave these woods, but shall remain miserable vagabonds all our lives.”

A long chain of mountains, covered with forests, separates Alsace and Franche-Comté from Lorraine, and extends as far as the Ardennes. It was among these mountains, called the Vosges, that the excellent Monsieur Gerval’s estate was situated, and it was there that he took the ill-fated creatures whom he had resolved to protect.

Monsieur Gerval’s household consisted of Dupré, whom we already know; of Catherine, who performed the duties of cook,—an old woman somewhat talkative, but faithful, obliging, kindhearted, and deeply attached to her master; and lastly, of a young peasant named Lucas, who was gardener, indoor man, and messenger.

Throughout the neighborhood, within a radius of many leagues, the name of Gerval was revered and pronounced with emotion by the unfortunate ones upon whom the good man constantly lavished benefactions. He had not always occupied his house in the woods; often the exigencies of his business had kept him away for a long time; but at such times Dupré and Catherine, who knew their master’s heart, continued his beneficent work, so that the poor could hardly notice the absence of their protector.

The peasants, when they learned that Monsieur Gerval had gone to Paris, were afraid that he would not return to them; Catherine herself shared that feeling, for she knew that her master wished to see some old friends whom he had been obliged to neglect for a long time, and to whom he was very much attached. But a letter from Monsieur Gerval brought joy to the people of the Vosges; they learned that they were to see their friend, their staff, their father, once more; that he was to return among them, never to leave them again. This news soon became known throughout the neighborhood; the people hurried to Catherine to ascertain if it were true, and she read to each one her master’s letter, announcing his arrival on a certain day.

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” said the old servant, “but he cannot be long now.”

They strung themselves out along the road, they went up to the hilltops, in order to descry the carriage sooner. They saw it at last; it was instantly surrounded, the old man’s name passed from mouth to mouth, and the blessings of the poor celebrated the return of their wealthy benefactor.

Gerval shed tears of emotion when he saw the joy of the worthy folk who regarded him as their father.

“Ah! my friend,” he said to Dupré, “how pleasant it is to be able to do good!”

The carriage entered the courtyard; the peasants uttered cries of joy.

“Hush! hush! my friends,” said the old man as he alighted from his carriage; “do not give such loud expression to your joy; it pleases me, but it distresses an unhappy woman to whom the slightest noise is a danger.”

As he spoke, Gerval helped Adeline out of the carriage, while Dupré lifted little Ermance in his arms.

Adeline glanced uneasily about; much noise always caused her to shrink in alarm; the sight of a number of people increased her excitement; she shuddered and tried to fly. Gerval was obliged to motion to the villagers to stand a little aside, before he could induce the unfortunate young woman to enter the house.

They gazed at Adeline with interest, and joy gave way to sadness when they realized her condition.

“My children,” said Catherine, “as soon as I learn this young stranger’s story, I will tell it to you, I promise you; and I shall know it soon, for my master keeps nothing from me.”

Unfortunately for Catherine, her master knew no more than she upon that subject. To satisfy his old servant’s curiosity, Monsieur Gerval told her how he had made Adeline’s acquaintance, and the deplorable state in which he had found her afterward. The servant uttered exclamations of surprise during her master’s narrative, but she declared that she would be able to learn all the young woman’s misfortunes little by little. Meanwhile, as she already felt drawn to love and cherish her child, she hastened to prepare one of the pleasantest rooms in the house for them.

Adeline was given a room on the ground floor, looking on the woods; the window was supplied with stout iron bars, and there was no danger that she would run away from the house in one of her fits of delirium. They left the child with her, for she seemed always to know her daughter, and often pressed her affectionately to her heart.

“Those are the only moments of happiness which she seems still to enjoy,” said Monsieur Gerval; “let us not deprive her of them! and let us not rob the child of her mother’s caresses!”

They knew little Ermance’s name, because her mother had called her by it several times in her delirium; but they did not know the mother’s name, and Monsieur Gerval had decided that she should be called Constance. That melodious name was approved by Catherine, who declared that the stranger’s misfortunes must be due to love. So that was the name by which Adeline was called by the people at the house in the woods; but sometimes Lucas, and the peasants of the neighborhood, called her simply “the mad woman.”

The peace that reigned in the house in the Vosges, the tranquil life that they led there, and the affectionate attentions lavished upon Adeline, seemed to bring a little repose to her mind; she caressed her daughter and often embraced her; she smiled at her benefactor and at all those about her; but only incoherent words came from her lips; and she would relapse almost immediately into a state of sombre melancholy from which nothing could arouse her. She passed part of the day in the garden, which was large and well cared for. Sometimes she plucked flowers and seemed to feel a moment’s cheerfulness; but soon the smile disappeared from her pale features, and she would seat herself upon a bench of turf and remain whole hours there without a sign of life.

“What a misfortune!” said honest Gerval, as he contemplated her, while playing with little Ermance, who already returned his caresses; “I am inclined to think that there is no hope of her recovery.”

“Parbleu! to be sure, that is what the doctor from Paris says; but that is just what we shall never know.”

“Pshaw! how can we tell? She talks sometimes. Look, she seems to be smiling now; she is watching her daughter play; she is much better to-day than usual, and I am going to question her.”

“Take care, Catherine, and don’t distress her.”

“Don’t be afraid, monsieur.”

Catherine walked toward the clump of shrubbery under which Adeline was sitting, and Gerval, Dupré and Lucas stood near by in order to hear the stranger’s replies.

“Madame,” said Catherine in her softest tone, “why do you grieve all the time? You are surrounded by people who love you; tell us your trouble, and we will try to comfort you.”

“Comfort me!” said Adeline, gazing at Catherine in amazement. “Oh! I am happy, very happy! I have no need of comfort. Edouard adores me; he has just sworn that he does; we are united again, and he will make me happy now, for he is not wicked!”

“But why did he leave you?”

“Leave me! No, he did not leave me; he is with me in the house where he lived in his youth; my mother, my daughter and his brother are with us. Oh! I don’t want him to go to Paris; he might meet—No! no! don’t let him go!”

“Take care, Catherine,” said Monsieur Gerval in an undertone; “her eyes are beginning to flash, her excitement is increasing; for heaven’s sake, don’t worry her any more.”

“Let me alone,” said Adeline, shaking herself free, “let me fly! He is there, he is chasing me! see, look,—do you see him? He follows me everywhere; he has sworn to ruin me; he dares still to talk to me of his love! The monster! Oh! in pity’s name, do not let him come near me!”

She hurried away, ran to every corner of the garden, and did not stop until, exhausted and unable to endure her terror, she fell to the ground, unconscious and helpless.

They took her at once to her apartment, and their zealous attentions recalled her to life. Monsieur Gerval strictly forbade any questioning of her because it always intensified her disease.

“All right, monsieur,” said Catherine; “but you see that we are certain now that she is married, that her husband has a brother, and that with all the rest there is some miserable fellow who makes love to her, and whom she is afraid of! Oh! I can guess the trouble easily enough! I’ll bet that it’s that same fellow who enticed the husband to Paris, where he forgot his wife and child! Pardi! that’s sure to be the result. Oh! what a pity that I can’t make her talk more! We should soon know everything.”

But as the excellent woman did not wish to arouse the stranger’s excitement, she dared not ask her questions. She often walked with Adeline in the woods about the house; one or the other of them carried Ermance; the old servant watched every movement of the young woman, she listened carefully to the words that fell from her mouth, put them together, and based conjectures upon them; but after three months, she knew no more than on the second day.

“That woman wasn’t born in a cabin; her manners and her language show that she belongs in good society! And to think that we shall never know who she is! It’s enough to drive one mad.”

A young peasant had climbed a tree to steal a nest; his foot slipped, and a branch at which he grasped broke at the same time; he fell to the ground, wounded himself badly in the head, and uttered a lamentable cry.

That cry was heard by Adeline, who was then near the wounded man; she instantly stopped and began to tremble; terror was depicted upon her features, and her eyes sought the ground as if they feared to rest upon an object which horrified her; suddenly she took her child and fled through the woods. In vain did Catherine run after her, calling to her; Adeline’s strength was redoubled, and Catherine’s shouts augmented her frenzy; she climbed the steepest paths without taking breath; she scarcely touched the ground; she rushed into the mountains and the old servant soon lost sight of her.

Catherine returned to her master in despair, and told him what had happened. Monsieur Gerval knew that all the peasants were devoted to him, and he sent Dupré and Lucas to beg them to search the whole district. The good people made haste to beat up the forest. Success crowned their zealous efforts; they found Adeline lying at the foot of a tree; fever had given place to exhaustion, and the fugitive had been unable to go farther.

In the throes of constantly returning terror, Adeline talked more than usual, and Catherine did not leave her side. But she shuddered at the broken phrases that the stranger uttered:

“Take him from that scaffold!” Adeline exclaimed again and again, putting her hands before her eyes. “In pity’s name, do not give him to the executioners! They are going to kill him! I hear his voice! But no, that plaintive cry did not come from his mouth; that was another victim.—Oh! I cannot be mistaken, I recognize his tones; they always go to my heart!”

Catherine shed tears; Monsieur Gerval caught a glimpse of a ghastly mystery, and the old servant repeated to her master:

“A scaffold! executioners! Ah! that makes one shudder, monsieur!”

“No matter,” said the kindhearted Gerval; “if the young woman’s husband or relatives are criminals I will keep her none the less. She is not guilty, I am sure; she is only unfortunate!”

“Yes, monsieur; but the monsters who have brought her to this condition! they are very guilty; they deserve to be severely punished!”

Monsieur Gerval summoned his servants again, and urged them to redouble their attention, in order to spare the young mother such dangerous emotion.

“No noise, no shouts in the neighborhood of her room! If you come together to talk and laugh, which I do not wish to forbid you to do, let it be in some room at a distance from Constance’s so that she cannot hear you. Above all, no more questions; for they lead to no good result.”

“Oh! I am done, monsieur,” said the old servant; “I have no desire to learn anything more now; it strikes me as altogether too painful a subject; and I should be terribly distressed to pain a woman whom I should like to see happy once more.”

Thanks to these precautions, Adeline became calm once more, and everything went on in its accustomed order. Some time passed before they dared to let the invalid leave the house; and she no longer walked in the woods except under the escort of both Lucas and Catherine; and as soon as the peasants caught sight of her, knowing her condition and the orders that Monsieur Gerval had given, they quietly moved away from her path. If she approached, unperceived, a group of peasant girls, who were engaged in diverting themselves, their games, their dancing or singing were instantly suspended.

“It is the mad woman,” they would whisper to one another; “let’s not make any noise, for that makes her worse.”

A year had passed since Monsieur Gerval had taken Adeline and her daughter under his roof. Pretty Ermance loved the old man as she would have loved her father. Her little white hands patted her protector’s white hair, and he became more and more attached every day to the sweet child.

“You have no parents,” he said to her one night, taking her on his knees. “Your mother is dead to you, poor child! Your father is dead too, no doubt, or else he has abandoned you, and does not deserve your love. I propose to assure your future; you shall be rich; and may you be happy and think sometimes of the old man who adopted you, but who will not live long enough to see you enjoy his gifts!”

The winter came and stripped the trees of their foliage and the earth of the verdure which embellished it. The woods were deserted, the birds had gone to seek shade and water beneath another sky. The snow, falling in great flakes on the mountains, lay in huge drifts among the Vosges, and made the roads difficult for pedestrians and impracticable for carriages. The evenings grew long, and the whistling of the wind made them melancholy and gloomy. The peasant, who was forced to pass through the woods, made haste to reach his home, for fear of being overtaken by the darkness; he hurried along, blowing on his fingers, and his footprints in the snow often served to guide the traveller who had lost his way.

When a violent gust of wind made the windows creak, and blew against them the branches of the trees which stood near the house, Lucas, who was not courageous, but who loved to frighten himself by reading terrifying stories, would drop his book and look about him in dismay; the monotonous noise of the weathercock on the roof, the uniform beating of an iron hook against the wall, were so many subjects of alarm to the gardener.

Sometimes Adeline would break the silence, crying:

The snow had fallen with more violence and in greater abundance than usual; the gusts of wind constantly snapped off branches of the trees and hurled them far away across the roads, which soon became impassable. The clock struck eight and it had long been dark.

Adeline, whom the roaring of the tempest made more melancholy than usual, had not left her room during the day. Catherine had brought Ermance downstairs and put her to bed beside her mother, who was sitting in a chair and refused to retire so early, despite the old servant’s entreaties. The master of the house was playing his usual game with Dupré, and Lucas had just taken up his great book, when the bell at the gate rang loudly.

“Somebody is ringing,” said Monsieur Gerval; “company so late as this, and in such weather!”

“It is very strange!” repeated Lucas.

“Shall I open the door, monsieur?” asked Dupré.

“Why, we must find out first who it is; it may be travellers who have got lost in the mountains and cannot go any farther, or some unfortunate creature whom the villagers have sent to me, as they sometimes do. I hear Catherine coming, she will tell us who it is.”

Catherine had been to the door to look out, and she came up again to take her master’s orders.

“Certainly, and we will do our best for them.”

“But, monsieur,” said Dupré, “three men, at night—that is rather imprudent!”

“Why so, Dupré? They are peddlers and one of them is old; what have we to fear? It is perfectly natural that they should seek shelter in bad weather; ought I to leave people to lose their way among these mountains, for fear of entertaining vagabonds? Ah! my friend, if it were necessary to read the hearts of those whom one succors, one would do good too seldom! Go and let them in quickly, Catherine; do not leave these travellers at the gate any longer; and do you, Dupré, make a big fire so that they may dry themselves; and Lucas will prepare the small room which I always reserve for visitors.”

Catherine went down and opened the gate for the travellers, who overwhelmed her with thanks. The two younger ones held the old man by the arms, and only with great difficulty did they succeed in helping him up the staircase to the first floor, where the master of the house awaited them in the living-room.

“Welcome, messieurs,” said honest Gerval, inviting them to draw near the fire. “First of all, let us make this old gentleman comfortable; he seems completely exhausted.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said the aged stranger in a tremulous voice, “the cold has so affected me that, except for the help of my children, I should have remained on the road.”

The peddlers deposited in a corner of the room several bundles which seemed to contain linens, handkerchiefs and muslin; Dupré, who was a little suspicious, walked to the bundles and examined them; one of the young men noticed his action, and made haste to open several of them and exhibit his wares to the old servant.

“If there’s anything that takes your fancy, say so, monsieur,” he said; “we will do our best to please you.”

“Thanks,” replied Dupré, seeing that his master appeared displeased by his inspection of the bundles; “we can see these things better to-morrow morning.”

The two peddlers returned to the old man, and sat down in front of the fire. Catherine brought a bottle of wine and glasses, and Lucas took up the bundles and carried them to the room on the second floor.

“Here is something that will warm you while your supper is preparing,” said Monsieur Gerval, filling the strangers’ glasses. “Drink, messieurs,—it is very good.”

“With pleasure,” said that one of the young men who had already spoken to Dupré. “An excellent thing is good wine! Here, father; here, Jean; your health, monsieur.”

“Are these your sons?” Monsieur Gerval asked the old man.

“Yes, monsieur, they are my support, the staff of my old age. This is Gervais, my oldest; he is always merry, always ready to laugh; and this is Jean, my youngest, he isn’t so light-hearted as his brother, he doesn’t speak much, but he is a steady fellow, a great worker and very economical. I love them both, for they are honest and incapable of deceiving anybody, and with those qualities a man is certain to make his way.”

“You see, monsieur, we’re going to Metz to set up in business; my boys are going to marry the daughters of a correspondent of theirs, and I am going to live with them.”

“That makes a difference; but was it chance that brought you to my house, or did the peasants point it out to you as a good place at which to pass the night?”

“Monsieur,” said Gervais, “we are not familiar with this neighborhood, and as we started out rather late, the darkness took us by surprise; that is why we sought shelter, especially on account of our father, who is too old to endure severe weather. But for him, we should never have been able to make up our minds to ask a gentleman for a night’s lodging, and we should have passed the night on the snow, my brother and I—shouldn’t we, Jean?”

“Yes,” said Jean in a low voice, and without removing his gaze from the fire.

“You would have done very wrong, messieurs,” said Monsieur Gerval, filling the strangers’ glasses; “I like to be useful to my fellowmen, and I will try to give you a comfortable night.”

“You live in a very isolated house,” said Gervais, emptying his glass; “aren’t you ever afraid of being victimized by robbers?”

“I have never been afraid of that; nothing has ever happened to me thus far.”

“Besides, there are enough of us here to defend ourselves,” said Dupré, drawing himself up; “and we have weapons, thank God!”

“Dupré, go and see if Catherine is getting supper ready.”

Dupré did not go to Adeline’s room; but he was glad of an opportunity to let the strangers know that there were more people in the house, for he was not at all pleased to find that the strangers were going to pass the night there.

He went to the kitchen, and asked Catherine what she thought of the strangers.

“Faith! I think they’re honest folk; the old man seems very respectable.”

“For an old man who can hardly stand on his legs, he has very bright eyes! And his two sons! one of them looks very much like a regular ne’er-do-well; he always has a sneering laugh when he speaks, and he drinks—oh! he don’t leave any in his glass!”

“Indeed! that’s very surprising, isn’t it? A peddler!”

“And the other one,—such a sombre air! He never lifts his eyes; and so far the only word he has said is a single ‘yes,’ and he said it in such a lugubrious way! I don’t like those people.”

“Bah! you are too suspicious, my dear Dupré.”

“No, but I like to know my people.”

“Do we know this poor woman who has been living here for more than a year?”

“Oh! but what a difference! A young, beautiful, and interesting woman; why, her condition alone would make anyone pity her; and that child, such a sweet, pretty creature! You see, I know something about faces; and these peddlers—I tell you, Catherine, I shan’t sleep sound to-night.”

“And I shall sleep very well, I trust.”

“For all that, don’t forget to lock your door.”

“You are mistaken, Catherine; I am not a coward; but I realize that I am more than twenty years old. Oh! if I were only twenty, I wouldn’t be afraid of three men!”

“Let me get my supper ready, instead of making my ears ache with your nonsense.”

“Nonsense! Hum! that’s easy to say.—And what about our young woman,—won’t she come to supper?”

“You know very well that it isn’t her custom. She is asleep, I hope; I suppose you would like to wake her, wouldn’t you?”

“Catherine.”

“Well?”

“It seems to me that I hear a noise in the yard, near the gate.”

“It’s the wind waving the trees and shaking the windows. However, go and see.”

“Yes, I propose to make sure for myself, although you say that I am a coward.”

Dupré lighted a lantern, and made the circuit of the courtyard. Everything was in its accustomed order; the gate was securely locked; he stopped a moment to look through the bars, but the wind blew the snow into his face. While he was rubbing his eyes, a dull sound reached his ears, which seemed to come from the room on the ground floor which Adeline occupied.

“Poor woman! she isn’t asleep yet,” said Dupré to himself; “suppose I should go and find out if she wants anything? But monsieur doesn’t want her to be disturbed at night; he has forbidden it; so I’ll go upstairs again and watch the peddlers.”

“Have you arranged the bedroom for these strangers?” asked Dupré.

“Yes, and I’ve carried their bundles there; and the tall one wanted to give me a piece of money for my trouble, but I refused it.”

“You did well. For people who travel on foot, they’re very generous.”

“Oh! he has the look of a high liver, has that tall fellow with the red hair; he laughs and drinks and talks for the whole party. If we often had guests like him, there’d be a little more fun here, I tell you! But we haven’t got anybody but that poor woman; and a lunatic is never very gay, especially this one.”

“Humph! you don’t know how to judge people. I don’t say that these peddlers are scoundrels, but——”

“But what?”

“Lock your door tight to-night—do you hear, Lucas?”

“Yes, Monsieur Dupré, yes, I hear,” replied Lucas, whose hilarity suddenly vanished, and who became pale and perturbed, while Dupré returned slowly to his master’s presence.

The old man and Gervais were talking with Monsieur Gerval; the other young man replied only by monosyllables to the questions that were put to him.

“My brother is a little serious,” said tall Gervais to his host, in an undertone. “The trouble is, that he is jealous, he’s afraid that his sweetheart has forgotten him in the two years that he has been away, and that disturbs him.”

“I can understand that, but you don’t seem to have the same anxiety!”

“Hush, my son,” said the old man, interrupting him abruptly; “you talk a little too freely; excuse him, monsieur; you see he’s been a soldier.”

“Aha! you have been in the army, have you?”

“Yes, to be sure I have; and when there’s any fighting to be done, I am always on hand; eh, father?”

“Oh! to be sure! You are a wrong-headed youngster! anybody can see that!”

Catherine appeared and announced that supper was served in the next room.

“Let us adjourn to the table, messieurs,” said Monsieur Gerval, escorting the newcomers to the dining-room. They took their seats, the old peddler beside his host. Dupré, as a very old servant, who had become his master’s friend, always ate at his table; he took his place, but Monsieur Gerval noticed that there was another plate beside him.

“For whom is this place, Dupré?” asked Monsieur Gerval.

“It is for our young lady, monsieur, or for her daughter, if either of them should come.”

“You know very well, my friend, that they are asleep now; Constance isn’t in the habit of sitting up so late.”

“She isn’t asleep, monsieur, for I heard a noise in her room.”

The old man cast a glance at his two companions, then addressed his host:

“You have ladies in your house? If we prevent them from coming to the table, we will go up to our room at once.”

“No, indeed! I have only a young woman and a child. The poor mother, alas! is bereft of her reason. She is an unfortunate creature, who has a too loving heart.”

“Let us drink to her health, messieurs,” said tall Gervais, filling his glass and his neighbor’s.

“That fellow doesn’t stand much on ceremony,” thought Dupré, as he glanced at the peddler, who took the bottle himself; “the devil! he would exhaust our cellar in short order.”

The old man glanced at his oldest son from time to time; he seemed displeased to see him drink so often, and reproached him for not being more temperate.

“You see, our host’s wine is delicious,” replied Gervais; “and you know that I am a good judge, father.”

“Do not spare it,” said Monsieur Gerval; “it will give you strength to continue your journey to-morrow.”

“With pleasure, my dear monsieur; I am inclined to crook my elbow a bit.”

Dupré made a wry face; it seemed to him that Monsieur Gervais used some very peculiar expressions, and the more he drank, the less reserve he manifested. Honest Gerval excused it, and was much amused by the joviality of the peddler, which did not seem to please the old man so much.

“Why don’t you drink, Jean?” said Gervais, nudging his neighbor; “you’re a sad fellow! And you, my dear and honored father; you make eyes at me that shine like salt cellars! Morbleu! I am the only one of the family that knows how to laugh; eh, monsieur?—Monsieur de Gerval, your health and your family’s and your lunatic’s; and yours, you old fox, who look at us as if we’d come from Arabia Petræa.—Here’s everybody’s health! I am not stingy!”

“Excuse him, monsieur,” the old man said to Dupré, “but when he has drunk a little, he doesn’t know what he says.”

“I don’t know what I say!” cried Gervais; “ah! ten thousand dogs! you think that, do you, my dear father? Well! you lie like the blockhead you are! Isn’t that so, Jean? isn’t he a blockhead?”

The old man rose in a rage.

“If it weren’t for the respect that I owe to our host,” he said, “I’d punish you for your insolence; but I take pity on the situation you’re in; come with me, and let us not keep monsieur from retiring any longer.”

“That’s so, that’s so, my dear father; I rather think I have been talking nonsense, and it’s more prudent to go to bed; meanwhile I ask you for your blessing.”

As he said this, Gervais approached the old man, who pushed him away, and bade Monsieur Gerval good-night, apologizing again for his oldest son’s conduct.

Lucas took candles and was about to escort the strangers to the room set apart for them, when they heard a noise in the courtyard. The peddlers expressed surprise and Dupré ran to the window to look out; he saw Adeline, dressed in a simple déshabillé, holding a light in her hand and walking excitedly through the drifts of snow in the courtyard.

“It is she, monsieur,” said Dupré to his master; “it’s very surprising that she has left her room so late.”

“Is that the poor woman?” asked the old man.

“Pardieu! I want to see the mad woman!” cried tall Gervais; “I am curious to know whether or not she is pretty.”

He ran at once to the window but Adeline had already returned to her room.

“Good-night, messieurs,” said Gerval to the strangers; “I will see you to-morrow before you leave.”

The latter, left alone with his master, for the cook had already retired, communicated to Monsieur Gerval his observations on the subject of the strangers.

“You must agree, monsieur,” he said, “that that tall fellow has the look of a vagabond. His way of talking and of behaving, his lack of respect toward his father——”

“What do you expect? He had had a little too much to drink!”

“His peculiar expressions——”

“He has been in the army.”

“Oh! that isn’t the language of a soldier.—God grant, my dear master, that you do not repent the hospitality you have given to these people!”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know, but everything about them looks suspicious to me; even the silence of that other one, whose sinister expression does not indicate an honest heart.”

“Nonsense, Dupré! calm your excitement and go to bed. A night is soon passed.”

“Yes, when you sleep! but it is very long sometimes. What pleases me is that my room is next to yours; if you hear any noise, you will call me instantly, won’t you, monsieur?”

“Yes, my good Dupré; go now and don’t be frightened.”

Dupré left his master regretfully; the latter went to bed in perfect confidence, and soon forgot in sleep his old servant’s words.

Tormented by an anxiety which he could not overcome, Dupré resolved to keep awake, and to try to clear up his suspicions. He looked from his window at the strangers’ apartment; the light was still burning.

“They have not gone to bed,” he said; “if I only could hear them talking! I will try.”

He left his room noiselessly, without a light, and went up to the second floor; he stopped at the door of the peddlers’ room; but he remembered then that there was a small dressing-room between the hall and the bedroom, which made it impossible to hear what they said, from the landing. Dupré was about to go down again, when he remembered that the top of the chimney of the room where the strangers were was directly in front of the round window in the loft. He at once went up to the loft, walking with the utmost precaution. He opened the round window very softly, crawled out on his stomach, and placed his ear near the top of the flue; then, thanks to his nearness to the floor below, he easily heard the following conversation:

“You are incorrigible, Lampin; your infernal sottishness came near betraying us a hundred times.”

“Bah! bah; what had we to fear, after all? There’s nobody in the house but three old blockheads, a fool, a mad woman and a child! That’s a very terrible lot, isn’t it? If you had taken my advice, once we were in the house, we would have acted without disguise. For my part, I would look after the old Crœsus and his servant.”

“It is much better to act without risk, and to be able to effect our retreat without disorder. You may be sure that, before bringing you here, I made inquiries about the people in the house. The owner is very rich, he helps everybody.”

“He must have much money here; I know that he received remittances from his farmers a week ago. All that money must be in his room; we can easily get in there, take possession of the treasure, and escape through the mad woman’s room; for the gate is very strong, and very securely fastened, and we should have much difficulty in forcing it.”

“Very good! But I saw bars at the ground floor window looking on the woods. Is that the way that you propose to take us out, my most honored father?”

“You idiot! Do you suppose that I haven’t thought of everything? Our comrades have orders to file the bars, and I told them that they could work without fear, as the woman who occupies the room would watch them without saying a word.”

“Bravo! That is a most excellent idea; isn’t it, Edouard? Speak up, you infernal dreamer!”

“Yes, yes, the plan is well devised.”

“It is very lucky that it pleases you! If only that old steward who looked askance at us doesn’t disturb our arrangements.”

“Woe to him, if he should dare!—We will let our comrades in; then we shall be in force; and those who make trouble for us will soon be reduced to silence!”

“That’s the talk! strong measures.”

“Luckily I was moderate at table; if I had imitated you, Lampin, we should have betrayed ourselves.”

“What the devil! you played the old man so well that I nearly choked with laughter. But if I did drink, it only increased my courage; there is gold to be got here, and that gives me nerve, my colleagues. Let’s see, how do we distribute our functions?”

“That’s well arranged; this good fellow cannot complain of having a too dangerous post; to stay with a woman and a child, both asleep! What prowess!”

“Very true, but they mustn’t wake; if they should make the slightest sound—remember, Edouard, that our safety, our lives, are at stake.”

“All right, I understand.”

“And so do I,” said Dupré to himself, noiselessly withdrawing his head; “I know enough;—the villains! I was not mistaken! We have given hospitality to brigands! O my God! inspire me, so that I may save my master and that poor woman!”

The old servant crept along the roof and reëntered the loft. Despite all he could do to revive his spirits and his courage, his legs trembled, he could hardly hold himself erect, and his imagination, thrown into confusion by all that he had heard, saw nothing but scenes of blood and death. Dupré was sixty-five years old; at that age, a man is a long time coming to a decision; and in dangerous crises, the time that he loses in making up his mind as to what he shall do makes the danger more imminent.

This plan seemed the wisest to the old servant. He decided to go downstairs, but he trembled and shuddered as he placed his foot on the staircase. If the villains should come out of their room and meet him, he would be lost! He listened before venturing upon each step; at the slightest sound he stopped. He was about to pass the door of the second floor; but he heard voices and footsteps. The door was thrown open, and Dupré hurried back to the loft.

The pretended peddlers had heard a noise above their heads; the old man’s heavy step had made the boards creak and had disturbed the silence of the night. Dufresne left the room first; he held a torch in one hand and a dagger in the other. Lampin followed, and they entered the loft just as the old servant was crawling under a bundle of straw.

“We are betrayed!” said Dufresne; “someone has been listening to us.”

He instantly plunged his dagger into the old man’s bosom, as he clasped his hands to implore mercy. Dupré expired without uttering a sound; his blood inundated the floor, and Lampin covered the ill-fated servant’s body with straw.

“Let us go down,” said Dufresne; “and as suspicion has been aroused, let us make haste to act!”

“What has happened?” asked Edouard, who had remained on the landing as a sentinel.

“Let us go at once to the mad woman’s room; our friends should be at their post; let us not leave them any longer cooling their heels in the open air.”

The brigands went down to the ground floor; the key was in the door of Adeline’s room, and they entered. A lamp on the hearth half lighted the room, the window of which opened on the forest. The child’s little bed was placed beside the mother’s, the curtains of which were tightly drawn. Well assured that she who was in the bed was not awake to spy upon their acts, Dufresne went at once to open the shutters, and admitted his companions, who had remained by the window after sawing the bars.

“All goes well,” said Dufresne; “let us leave these shutters open, and there will be nothing to interfere with our flight. Edouard, remain here; above all things, no pity if she wakes.—You, my friends, come with me, and I will show you your posts; then Lampin and I will look after the rest.”

During Dufresne’s speech, Lampin turned up his sleeves, drew his weapons, and examined the point of his dagger; a tigerish smile gleamed in his eyes, and his hideous face, animated by wine and the anticipation of pillage, seemed to bear with joy the impress of crime.

“Is it you? is it you?” she cried in a loud voice.

“This miserable creature will betray us,” said Edouard to himself; “her voice will attract those travellers in this direction.—Well! I must do it!”

He ran to the bed, dagger in hand; he was about to strike, when he recognized his wife and child.