“What has happened, then?”

“My friend,” replied Edmée, putting, to my infinite astonishment, her little white hand into the sorcerer’s big rough palm, “welcome him as you we come me. I was a prisoner at Roche-Mauprat, and it was he who rescued me.”

“May the sins of his fathers be forgiven him for this act!” said the curé.

Patience took me by the arm, without saying anything, and led me nearer the fire. They seated me on the only chair in the house, and the curé took upon himself the task of attending to my leg, while Edmée gave an account, up to a certain point, of our adventure. Then she asked for information about the hunt and about her father. Patience, however, could give her no news. He had heard the horn in the woods, and the firing at the wolves had disturbed his tranquility several times during the day. But since the storm broke over them the noise of the wind had drowned all other sounds, and he knew nothing of what was taking place in Varenne. Marcasse, meanwhile, had very nimbly climbed a ladder which served as an approach to the upper stories of the house, now that the staircase was broken. His dog followed him with marvellous skill. Soon they came down again, and we learned that a red light could be distinguished on the horizon in the direction of Roche-Mauprat. In spite of the loathing I had for this place and its owners, I could not repress a feeling very much like consternation on hearing that the hereditary manor which bore my own name had apparently been taken and set on fire. It meant disgrace, defeat; and this fire was as a seal of vassalage affixed to my arms by those I called clodhoppers and serfs. I sprang up from my chair, and had I not been held back by the violent pain in my foot, I believe I should have rushed out.

“What is the matter?” said Edmée, who was by my side at the time.

“The matter is,” I answered abruptly, “that I must return yonder; for it is my duty to get killed rather than let my uncles parley with the rabble.”

“The rabble!” cried Patience, addressing me for the first time since I arrived. “Who dares to talk of rabble here? I myself am of the rabble. It is my title, and I shall know how to make it respected.”

“By Jove! Not by me,” I said, pushing away the curé, who had made me sit down again.

“And yet it would not be for the first time,” replied Patience, with a contemptuous smile.

“You remind me,” I answered, “that we two have some old accounts to settle.”

And heedless of the frightful agony caused by my sprain. I rose again, and with a backhander I sent Don Marcasse, who was endeavouring to play the curé’s part of peacemaker, head over heels into the middle of the ashes. I did not mean him any harm, but my movements were somewhat rough, and the poor man was so frail that to my hand he was but as a weasel would have been to his own. Patience was standing before me with his arms crossed, in the attitude of a stoic philosopher, but the fire was flashing in his eyes. Conscious of his position as my host, he was evidently waiting until I struck the first blow before attempting to crush me. I should not have kept him waiting long, had not Edmée, scorning the danger of interfering with a madman, seized my arm and said, in an authoritative tone:

“Sit down again, and be quiet; I command you.”

So much boldness and confidence surprised and pleased me at the same time. The rights which she arrogated to herself over me were, in some measure, a sanction of those I claimed to have over her.

“You are right,” I answered, sitting down.

And I added, with a glance at Patience:

“Some other time.”

“Amen,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Marcasse had picked himself up with much composure, and shaking off the ashes with which he was covered, instead of finding fault with me, he tried, after his fashion, to lecture Patience. This was in reality by no means easy to do; yet nothing could have been less irritating than that monosyllabic censure throwing out its little note in the thick of a quarrel like an echo in a storm.

“At your age,” he said to his host; “not patient at all! Wholly to blame—yes—wrong—you!”

“How naughty you are!” Edmée said to me, putting her hand on my shoulder; “do not begin again, or I shall go away and leave you.”

I willingly let myself be scolded by her; nor did I realize that during the last few minutes we had exchanged parts. It was she who was now commanding and threatening. The moment we crossed the threshold of Gazeau Tower she had given evidence of that superiority over me which was really hers. This wild place, too, these strange witnesses, this fierce host, had already furnished a taste of the society into which I had entered, and whose fetters I was soon to feel.

“Come,” she said, turning to Patience, “we do not understand each other here; and, for my part, I am devoured by anxiety about my poor father, who is no doubt searching for me, and wringing his hands at this very moment. My good Patience, do find me some means of rejoining him with this unfortunate boy, whom I dare not leave to your care, since you have not sufficient love for me to be patient and compassionate with him.”

“What do you say?” cried Patience, putting his hand to his brow as if waking from a dream. “Yes, you are right; I am an old brute, an old fool. Daughter of God, tell this boy, this nobleman, that I ask his pardon for the past, and that, for the present, my poor cell is at his disposal. Is that well said?”

“Yes, Patience,” answered the curé. “Besides, everything may be managed.