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Meanwhile the Countess and her brother arrived safely at the Château de Peyrelade; and, having changed their wet garments, were sitting before a blazing log-fire, in the big salon overlooking the valley. Both were silent. Their reconciliation had not been, as yet, of long duration. Marguerite could not forget her wrongs, and the Baron felt embarrassed in her presence. It is true that he endeavoured to conceal his embarrassment under an excess of courteous respect; but his smiles looked false, and his attentions always appeared, to his sister at least, to wear an air of mockery. And so they sat in the great salon and listened to the storm.

It was a gloomy place at all times, but gloomier now than ever, with the winds howling round it and the rain dashing blindly against the windows. Great oaken panellings and frowning ancestral portraits adorned the walls, with here and there a stand of arms, a rusty helmet and sword, or a tattered flag that shivered when the storm swept by. Old cabinets inlaid with tortoiseshell and tarnished ormolu were placed between the heavy crimson draperies that hung before the windows; a long oaken table stood in the centre of the room; and above the fire-place the ghastly skull and antlers of a royal deer seemed to nod spectrally in the flickering light of the wood-fire.

At length the Baron broke silence: —

"What are you thinking about so intently, Madame?" said he.

"I am wondering," replied the lady, "if any hapless travellers are out in this heavy storm. If so, heaven have mercy on them!"

"Ah, truly," replied the brother, carelessly. "By the way, that poor devil of a Curé, who would not come to dinner, I wonder if he got safely back to his den at Saturnin. Do you know, Marguerite, 'tis my belief that the holy man is smitten with your beautiful eyes!"

"Monsieur mon frère!" exclaimed the lady indignantly, "if you forget your own position and mine, I must beg you at least to remember the profession of the holy man whom you calumniate. He is ill repaid for his goodness towards you by language such as this! But for his intercessions you would not now be my guest at Peyrelade."

"I beg a thousand pardons, my dear sister," said the Baron lightly. "Pray do not attach such importance to a mere jest. Ce cher Curé! he has not at better friend in the world than myself. By-the-by, has he happened to mention to you the dilapidated state of the chapel at Pradines? It should be put into proper repair, and would cost a mere trifle – three hundred louis – which sum, however, I really cannot at present command. Now, my dear sister, you are so kind…"

"George," said the Countess, gravely, "M. le Curé has not spoken to me of anything of the kind. I will not, however, refuse this sum to you; but do not deceive me. Shall you really put the money to this use? Have you quite given up play?"

"Au diable la morale!" muttered the dragoon between his teeth. Then he added, aloud, "If I ask it for any other use, I wish I may be – "

"No more, M. le Baron," interrupted the lady. "To-morrow morning you shall have the three hundred louis."

As she spoke these last words, a loud knocking was heard at the outer gates of the château.

"Bravo!" cried the Baron, delighted at this interruption to the conversation. "Here is a visitor. Yet, no; for what visitor in his senses would come out on such a night? It must be a message from the king."

It was neither, for in a few moments a servant entered, saying that an accident had occurred to a traveller a short distance from the château. His horse, taking fright at the fall of a large fragment of rock, had become unmanageable, and had flung himself and his rider over a steep bank. Happily, some bushes had served to break the force of their fall, or they must inevitably have been much injured. As it was, however, the gentleman was a good deal hurt, and his servant entreated shelter within the walls of the château.

The Countess desired that the traveller should be brought into the salon, and a horseman be despatched to the nearest town for a surgeon.

"Ah, brother," said she, "I had a presentiment of evil this night! Alas, the unfortunate gentleman! Throw on more logs, I beseech you, and draw this couch nearer to the fire, that we may lay him upon it."

The door was again opened, and the stranger's groom, assisted by the people of the château, brought in the wounded traveller, whom they laid upon the couch beside the fire. He was a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, slightly made, and dressed in a foreign military uniform.

The Countess, who had advanced to render some assistance, suddenly retreated and became very pale.

"What is the matter, Marguerite? What ails you?" cried her brother.

She made no reply, but leaned heavily upon his arm. At this moment the traveller, who began to recover when placed near the warmth, raised his head feebly, and looked around him. All at once his vague and wandering glance rested on Marguerite. Instantly a look of recognition flashed into his eyes. Then he raised himself by a convulsive effort, and fell back again, insensible as before.

The Baron de Pradines, who had attentively observed this scene, turned to the stranger's groom, and asked him in a low voice the name of his master.

He could not repress a start when the man replied – "My master, Monsieur, is called the Chevalier de Fontane."

"Ah!" said the ex-captain of Royal Musketeers, as he rent one of his lace ruffles into tiny shreds that fell upon the floor, "I will not leave to-morrow!"

CHAPTER III

The Parsonage

André Bernard, Curé of the parish of St. Saturnin, was sitting in the little parlour which served him for breakfast-room, dining-room, and study. He had just said mass in the tiny chapel adjoining his garden; and now the peasants were dispersing towards their various homes, or clustering in little knots beneath the roadside trees, discussing the weather, the harvest, or the arrival of their lady the Countess in her château at Auvergne.

The pastor had hastened back to his cottage, and was already seated in his great leathern armchair, busily cleaning his gun, which was laid across his knees; but at the same time, in order that mind and body should be equally employed, he was devoutly reading an office from the breviary which lay open on a stool beside him. His dog lay at his feet, sleeping. His modest array of books filled a couple of shelves behind his chair; the open window looked upon the mountain-country beyond, and admitted a sweet breath from the clustering Provence roses that hung like a frame-work round the casement. The floor was sanded. A few coloured prints of the Virgin and various saints upon the walls; a small black crucifix above the fire-place; a clock, and an old oak press behind the door, make up the list of furniture in the Curé's salon de compagnie.

Opposite to her master, seated in a second high-backed leathern chair, the very brother to his own, an old woman who played the important part of housekeeper in the parsonage, sat silently spinning flax and superintending the progress of a meagre potage that was "simmering" on the fire. Not a sound was heard in the chamber save the monotonous rattle of the spindle, and the heavy breathing of the dog; save now and then when the priest turned a leaf of his breviary. The old woman cast frequent glances at her master through her large tortoiseshell spectacles, and seemed several times about to address him, but as often checked herself in respect to his holy employment.

At last she could keep silence no longer.

"Monsieur le Curé," she exclaimed, in that shrill tone which age and long familiarity appears to authorise in old servants, "Monsieur le Curé, will you never have finished reading your breviary?"

The Abbé, who did not seem to hear her in the least, went on mechanically rubbing his gun, and murmuring words of the Latin office.

The old lady repeated her question – this time with more effect; for André Bernard slowly raised his head, fixed his eyes vacantly upon her, and resting the butt-end of his musket on the floor, made the sign of the cross, and reverently closed the book.

"Jeannette," said he, gravely, "here is a screw in the gun-barrel that will not hold any longer; fetch me the box of nails and screws, that I may fit it with a fresh one."

Having said these words, he opened the breviary in a fresh place, and resumed his orisons.

"Here, Monsieur le Curé," said the good housekeeper, somewhat testily, bringing out a little box of gunsmith's tools from a corner cupboard, "here is what you asked for; but I think there must be some spell on your musket if it wants mending with the little use you make of it! There is no danger of your ever wanting a new one, I'm certain. Then your powder – it never diminishes! I have not filled your pouch for the last three weeks. Truly we should starve but for the eggs and vegetables; and the saints know that our larder has been empty for a long time!"

"What is the matter, my poor Jeannette?" said the priest, kindly, as he again looked up from his breviary. "I do not know how it is, but the game has fled from me lately."

"Say rather, Monsieur le Curé, that it is you who fly from the game! The other day M. Gaspard, the schoolmaster, told me that he met you on the mountains, and that a great hare ran past you at a yard's distance, and you only looked at it as if it had been a Christian!"

"The schoolmaster must have mistaken, Jeannette."

"Oh, no, Monsieur le Curé; Gaspard's eyes are excellent! Then your breviary – it is frightful to see you reading from morning till night, from night till morning, instead of being out in the fresh air, and bringing back a good store of game for ourselves and our neighbours. How shall we live? If you will not kill, you must buy – and your money all goes in charity. Ah, Monsieur, you must indeed be more industrious with your gun!"

"Well, Jeannette, I promise to reform," said the priest, smiling; "I will go out this afternoon, and try to be more successful."

"Indeed I should advise it, Monsieur le Curé; and above all do not come back, as you did yesterday, wet to the skin, and bringing what, forsooth? – nothing but a miserable partridge!"

"Ah! but I do not mean to make a supper of that partridge, my good Jeannette: I mean to keep it."

"To keep it – holy Virgin! Keep a partridge! A live partridge! Why, Monsieur, it would devour our corn, and cost as much as twenty canaries. If you do these things, Monsieur, instead of giving alms you will have to beg."

"Be calm, Jeannette, my good Jeannette; we shall never be ruined by a partridge. Besides, it is a rare bird. Bring it here to me."

"Rare, Monsieur le Curé! I have seen them over and over again after a severe winter."

"Well, Jeannette, for my sake take care of this poor little bird, for I value it greatly. Bring it here; I wish to feed it myself."

The good housekeeper looked uneasily at her master through her great spectacles, and began glancing from right to left in evident tribulation. She did not offer, however, to rise from her seat.

"Are you dreaming, Jeannette?" said the priest, with much surprise; "did you hear me?"

"Oh, yes, Monsieur le Curé. The – the partridge…"

"Well?"

"Well – that is, Monsieur le Curé, you will be a little vexed, I fear – perhaps – but the partridge – "

"Will you speak, Jeannette?"

"There – Monsieur le Curé – there was nothing in the house for supper, Monsieur le Curé – and – and so I – "

"Wretch! have you killed it?"

And the priest sprang from his seat, pale with anger, and advanced towards the terrified housekeeper, who fell upon her knees, and clasped her hands in a speechless appeal for mercy.

Even the dog ran trembling under the table, and uttered a low deprecatory howl.

Recalled to himself by the panic of his household, André Bernard threw himself back into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Could one have removed those fingers, they would have seen large tears upon his sunken cheeks.

At this moment the door was opened quickly, and a man entered the room. The priest rose precipitately from his chair, for in the intruder he saw no less a person than the Baron de Pradines.

"Excuse my intrusion, Monsieur le Curé," said the gentleman, whose features wore an expression of peculiar anxiety. "I wish to speak with you in private." And he glanced towards the still-kneeling Jeannette. "You see I have not yet returned to my regiment. I have, for the present, changed my plans. Pray who is this woman?"

"She is my housekeeper, Monsieur le Baron: she – she was in prayer when you entered," said André Bernard, telling another falsehood to account for the strange position of Jeannette.

Poor Abbé! he blushed and faltered, and mentally vowed another penance for his sin.

"Jeannette," he said, "you may go, I will hear the rest of your confession in the evening."

The Baron smiled furtively as the old lady rose and left the room – he had, unfortunately heard the latter part of the pretended confession.

"Now, Monsieur le Curé," said he, "I have come to consult you on a very grave and important subject. You are renowned in all this district for your piety and learning; tell me, do you consider vows to be sacred and indissoluble?"

The priest was surprised to hear these words from the lips of a gentleman whose reputation for light morals and free views was so extensively known; but after a few moments' consideration —

"There are several kinds of vows, Monsieur le Baron," he replied; "there are vows by which we bind ourselves to the service of God, and those never must be broken. Then there are vows rashly uttered in times of mental excitement, by which people engage themselves to perform acts of sacrifice or penance."

"Ah, it is of such that I would speak!" said the captain. "What of those? Think well, M. le Curé, before you answer me."

"It is doubtless a great sin," replied the priest, "not to fulfil such vows; but still I do not think that the good God in His mercy would desire to chastise eternally an erring creature who had thus offended him; especially if the vow were made under the strong influence of human passion."

The dragoon bit his lips angrily.

"I am no churchman, Monsieur le Curé," said he roughly, "but I cannot agree with you there. Do you forget that God commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac his son?"

"Yes, but I also remember that He sent an angel to arrest the father's hand."

"Possibly," said the Baron, with a bitter laugh; "but I do not believe anything of the kind myself!"

André Bernard raised his eyes to the ceiling, in pious horror.

After a moment, George de Pradines drew his chair beside the priest, and continued: —

"And yet, Monsieur le Curé, I have something to tell you that I think will change your opinion in the matter of vows."

"Proceed," murmured the priest, who was already troubled with a presentiment of evil.

"Since we parted last night, strange things have happened at the château. A wounded traveller has arrived – a traveller whom we believed long since dead. He lives. Eh bien, Monsieur le Curé, can you guess who he is?"

"Monsieur le Baron – I – I know not," murmured the priest; and for the third time André Bernard uttered an untruth.

"I am really surprised, Monsieur le Curé at your want of penetration. Well, it is the Chevalier de Fontane."

At this name the priest turned pale and trembled. He looked silently upon the ground.

"Listen, Monsieur le Curé," cried the young man determinedly; "dissimulation avails nothing. My sister is a rich widow, and I shall be ruined if she breaks her solemn vow never to marry a second time. I have already procured large sums of money upon the reversion of her estate, when she either dies or adopts a conventual life. I am not a man who could pass his days agreeably at the galleys. My future depends solely on her vow, and she must not marry a second time."

"But, Monsieur le Baron, it seems to me that you leap at too hasty a conclusion. Your fears may be without foundation. Madame may not wish to be absolved from her vow – Monsieur le Chevalier may no longer be desirous…"

"Bah!" interrupted the Baron, savagely, "what else is he here for? His servant has told me all. He has been for eight or nine years serving in the Prussian army; during all that time he kept a strict watch upon France. At length he heard of the death of the late Count de Peyrelade: he obtained leave of absence when a decent time had elapsed. Loving and hoping more ardently than ever, he set off for Auvergne; he met with this accident at the very gates of the château, (would that it had killed him!); and there he is!"

The priest was silent.

"You see, Monsieur le Curé, there is but one way to prevent this marriage. My sister is pious, and rests every faith in your sanctity. She will sigh – perhaps she will weep; but is it for a priest, a minister of the church, to be swayed by trifles of this kind? No! it is for the sake of religion and heaven, Monsieur le Curé, that you will be firm and faithful to your trust. It is nothing to you if my fortunes fail or prosper – if a young woman weeps or smiles —you must fulfil the disinterested duties of your sacred calling —you must maintain the sanctity of vows —you must rescue my sister from the abyss of crime into which she is falling!"

"It is quite true," said the poor Abbé, tremulously.

"Then you will render your utmost assistance?" said the Baron eagerly.

"Yes," murmured the priest.

"Monsieur le Curé, you are a holy man, and you have my esteem."

The Abbé blushed and accepted the proffered hand of the dragoon. At that moment some one knocked at the door.

"Who is there?" said the Abbé, starting like a guilty man.

"It is I," replied old Jeannette. "A servant from the château presents the compliments of Madame la Comtesse, and requests M. le Curé to pay her a visit directly on urgent business."

"You see," said the Baron, "my sister has her scruples already. Go quickly, my dear Abbé, and do not forget that the interests of the church are in your hands. It is a holy mission!"

"A holy mission!" repeated the priest, as he turned to leave the room. "A holy mission! O mon Dieu, mon Dieu! do not forsake thy servant!"

CHAPTER IV

The Vow

André Bernard arrived at the Château de Peyrelade like a man walking in his sleep. He found that he had been ushered into the Countess's boudoir, and that he was sitting there awaiting her arrival, without having the faintest remembrance of the forest through which he must have come, the gates through which he must have passed, or the staircase which he must have ascended. Truly the Abbé Bernard had been asleep, and his sleep had lasted for two months. Now he was slowly awaking, and it was the stern reality of his position that so bewildered him.

The charm which spread itself round the young and beautiful Countess had not been unfelt by this lonely priest, whose calm and passionless existence had hitherto been passed in the society of an aged housekeeper, or of a simple and untaught peasantry. Seeing nothing for long years beyond the narrow limits of his own little world – his parsonage, his chapel, or his parishioners; familiar only with the savage grandeur of the mountains, or the cool stillnesses of the valleys, is it to be wondered at that the presence of an accomplished and graceful woman should blind the reason of a simple Curé?

Even at this moment, the perfumed atmosphere of the boudoir intoxicated him. Exotics of exquisite shape and colour, with long drooping leaves and heavy white and purple blossoms, were piled against the windows; a Persian carpet, gorgeous with eastern dyes —

 
"Orange and azure deep'ning into gold,"
 

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.