“Because I am the handsomest gentleman in the neighborhood?” asked Thibault, detecting by the tone of the lady’s voice that his crime was not an irremediable one.

  “No, Monsieur, but for having the blackest soul and the falsest heart ever hidden beneath such a gay and golden exterior. Now, get up, and come and give an account of yourself to me.”

  And the countess so speaking held out a hand to Thibault which offered pardon at the same time that it demanded a kiss.

  Thibault took the soft, sweet hand in his own and kissed it; never had his lips touched anything so like satin. The countess now seated herself on the settee and made a sign to Raoul to sit down beside her.

  “Let me know something of your doings, since you were last here,” said the countess to him.

  “First tell me, dear countess,” replied Thibault, “when I last was here.”

  “Do you mean you have forgotten? One does not generally acknowledge things of that kind, unless seeking for a cause of quarrel.”

  “On the contrary, dear friend, it is because the recollection of that last visit is so present with me, that I think it must have been only yesterday we were together, and I try in vain to recall what I have done, and I assure you I have committed no other crime since yesterday but that of loving you.”

  “That’s not a bad speech; but you will not get yourself out of disgrace by paying compliments.”

  “Dear countess,” said Thibault, “supposing we put off explanations to another time.”

  “No, you must answer me now; it is five days since I last saw you; what have you been doing all that time?”

  “I am waiting for you to tell me, countess. How can you expect me, conscious as I am of my innocence, to accuse myself?”

  “Very well then! I will not begin by saying anything about your loitering in the corridors.”

  “Oh, pray, let us speak of it! How can you think, countess, that knowing you, the diamond of diamonds, was waiting for me, I should stop to pick up an imitation pearl?”

  “Ah! But I know how fickle men are, and Lisette is such a pretty girl!”

  “Not so, dear Jane, but you must understand that she being our confidante, and knowing all our secrets, I cannot treat her quite like a servant.”

  “How agreeable it must be to be able to say to oneself ‘I am deceiving the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert and I am the rival of Monsieur Cramoisi!’”

  “Very well then, there shall be no more loitering in the corridors, no more kisses for poor Lisette, supposing of course there ever have been any!”

  “Well, after all, there is no great harm in that.”

  “Do you mean that I have done something even worse?”

  “Where had you been the other night, when you were met on the road between Erneville and Villers-Cotterets?”

  “Someone met me on the road?”

  “Yes, on the Erneville Road; where were you coming from?”

  “I was coming home from fishing.”

  “Fishing! What fishing?”

  “They had been drawing the Berval ponds.”

  “Oh! We know all about that; you are such a fine fisher, are you not, Monsieur? And what sort of an eel were you bringing back in your net, returning from your fishing at two o’clock in the morning!”

  “I had been dining with my friend, the baron, at Vez.”

  “At Vez? Ha! I fancy you went there mainly to console the beautiful recluse, whom the jealous baron keeps shut up there a regular prisoner, so they say. But even that I can forgive you.”

  “What, is there a blacker crime still,” said Thibault, who was beginning to feel quite reassured, seeing how quickly the pardon followed on the accusation; however serious it appeared at first.

  “Yes, at the ball given by his Highness the Duke of Orleans.”

  “What ball?”

  “Why, the one yesterday! It’s not so very along ago, is it?”

  “Oh, yesterday’s ball? I was admiring you.”

  “Indeed; but I was not there.”

  “Is it necessary for you to be present, Jane, for me to admire you; cannot one admire you in remembrance as truly as in person? And if, when absent, you triumph by comparison, the victory is only so much the greater.”

  “I daresay, and it was in order to carry out the comparison to its utmost limits that you danced four times with Madame de Bonneuil; they are very pretty, are they not, those dark women who cover themselves with rouge, and have eyebrows like the Chinese mannequins on my screens and moustaches like a grenadier.”

  “Do you know what we talked about during those four dances?”

  “It is true then, that you danced four times with her?”

  “It is true, no doubt, since you say so.”

  “Is that a proper sort of answer?”

  “What other could I give? Could anyone contradict what was said by so pretty a mouth? Not I certainly, who would still bless it, even though it were pronouncing my sentence of death.”

  And, as if to await this sentence, Thibault fell on his knees before the countess, but at that moment, the door opened, and Lisette rushed in full of alarm.

  “Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur,” she cried “save yourself! Here comes my master the count!”

  “The count!” exclaimed the countess.

  “Yes, the count in person, and his huntsman Lestocq, with him.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I assure you, Madame, Cramoisi saw them as plain as I see you; the poor fellow was quite pale with fright.”

  “Ah! Then the meet at Thury was all a pretense, a trap to catch me?”

  “Who can tell, Madame? Alas! Alas! Men are such deceiving creatures!”

  “What is to be done?” asked the countess.

  “Wait for the count and kill him,” said Thibault resolutely, furious at again seeing his good fortune escaping from him, at losing what above all things it had been his ambition to possess.

  “Kill him! Kill the count? Are you mad, Raoul? No, no, you must fly, you must save yourself. Lisette! Lisette! Take the baron through my dressing room.” And in spite of his resistance, Lisette by dint of pushing got him safely away. Only just in time! Steps were heard coming up the wide main staircase. The countess, with a last word of love to the supposed Raoul, glided quickly into her bedroom, while Thibault followed Lisette. She led him rapidly along the corridor, where Cramoisi was keeping guard at the other end; then into a room, and through this into another, and finally into a smaller one which led into a little tower; here, the fugitives came again on to a staircase corresponding with the one by which they had gone up, but when they reached the bottom they found the door locked. Lisette, with Thibault still following, went back up a few steps into a sort of office in which was a window looking over the garden; this she opened. It was only a few feet from the ground, and Thibault jumped out, landing safely below.

  “You know where your horse is,” called Lisette “jump on its back, and do not stop till you get to Vauparfond.”

  Thibault would have liked to thank her for all her kindly warnings, but she was some six feet above him and he had no time to lose. A stride or two brought him to the clump of trees under which stood the little building which served as stable for his horse. But was the horse still there? He heard a neigh which reassured him: only the neigh sounded he thought more like a cry of pain. Thibault went in, put out his hand, felt the horse, gathered up the reins, and leaped on to its back without touching the stirrups; Thibault, as we have already said, had suddenly become a consummate horseman. But the horse no sooner felt the weight of the rider on its back than the poor beast began to totter on its legs. Thibault dug his spurs in savagely, and the horse made a frantic effort to stand. But in another instant, uttering one of those pitiful neighs which Thibault had heard when he approached the stable, it rolled helplessly over on its side. Thibault quickly disengaged his leg from under the animal, which, as the poor thing struggled to rise, he had no difficulty in doing, and he found himself again on his feet. Then it became clear to him, that in order to prevent his escape, Monsieur le Comte de Mont-Gobert had hamstrung his horse.

  Thibault uttered an oath: “If I ever meet you, Monsieur Comte de Mont-Gobert,” he said, “I swear that I will hamstring you, as you have hamstrung this poor beast!”

  Then he rushed out of the little building, and remembering the way he had come, turned in the direction of the breach in the wall, and walking quickly towards it, found it, climbed over the stones, and was again outside the park. But his further passage was barred, for there in front of him was the figure of a man, who stood waiting, with a drawn sword in his hand. Thibault recognized the Comte de Mont-Gobert, the Comte de Mont-Gobert thought he recognized Raoul de Vauparfond.

  “Draw, baron!” said the count; further explanation was unnecessary.

  Thibault, on his side, equally enraged at having the prey, on which he had already set tooth and claw, snatched away from him, was as ready to fight as the count. He drew, not his sword, but his hunting knife, and the two men crossed weapons.

  Thibault, who was something of an adept at quarter staff, had no idea of fencing; what was his surprise therefore, when he found, that he knew by instinct how to handle his weapon, and could parry and thrust according to all the rules of the art. He parried the first two or three of the count’s blows with admirable skill.

  “Ah, I heard, I remember,” muttered the count between his clenched teeth, “that at the last match you rivalled Saint-Georges himself at the foils.”

  Thibault had no conception who Saint-Georges might be, but he was conscious of a strength and elasticity of wrist, thanks to which he felt he might have rivalled the devil himself.

  So far, he had only been on the defensive; but the count having aimed one or two unsuccessful lunges at him, he saw his opportunity, struck out, and sent his knife clean through his adversary’s shoulder.

  The count dropped his sword, tottered, and falling on to one knee, cried “Help, Lestocq!”

  Thibault ought then to have sheathed his knife and fled; but, unfortunately, he remembered the oath he had taken as regards the count, when he had found that his horse had been hamstrung. He slipped the sharp blade of his weapon under the bent knee and drew it towards him; the count uttered a cry; but as Thibault rose from his stooping posture, he too felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades, followed by a sensation as of extreme cold over the chest, and finally the point of a weapon appeared above his right breast. Then he saw a cloud of blood, and knew no more. Lestocq, called to his master’s aid as the latter fell, had run to the spot, and, as Thibault rose from hamstringing the count, had seized that moment to dig his hunting knife into his back.

  18

  Death and Resurrection

  The cold morning air brought Thibault back to consciousness; he tried to rise, but the extremity of his pain held him bound. He was lying on his back, with no remembrance of what had happened, seeing only the low gray sky above him. He made another effort, and turning managed to lift himself on his elbow. As he looked around him, he began to recall the events of the previous night; he recognized the breach in the wall; and then there came back to him the memory of the love meeting with the countess and the desperate duel with the count. The ground near him was red with blood, but the count was no longer there; no doubt, Lestocq, who had given him this fine blow that was nailing him to the spot, had helped his master indoors; Thibault they had left there, to die like a dog, as far as they cared. He had it on the tip of his tongue to hurl after them all the maledictory wishes wherewith one would like to assail one’s cruelest enemy. But since Thibault had been no longer Thibault, and indeed during the remainder of the time that he would still be Baron Raoul, or at least so in outward appearance, his demoniacal power had been and would continue in abeyance.

  He had until nine o’clock that evening; but would he live till then? This question gave rise in Thibault to a very uneasy state of mind. If he were to die before that hour, which of them would die, he or the baron? It seemed to him as likely to be one as the other. What, however, disturbed and angered him most was his consciousness that the misfortune which had befallen him was again owing to his own fault. He remembered now that before he had expressed the wish to be the baron for four and twenty hours, he had said some such words as these:

  “I should laugh, Raoul, if the Comte de Mont-Gobert were to take you by surprise; you would not get off so easily as if he were the Bailiff Magloire; there would be swords drawn, and blows given and received.”

  At last, with a terrible effort, and suffering the while excruciating pain, Thibault succeeded in dragging himself on to one knee. He could then make out people walking along a road not far off on their way to market, and he tried to call to them, but the blood filled his mouth and nearly choked him. So, he put his hat on the point of his knife and signaled to them like a shipwrecked mariner, but his strength again failing, he once more fell back unconscious. In a little while, however, he again awoke to sensation; he appeared to be swaying from side to side as if in a boat. He opened his eyes; the peasants, it seemed, had seen him, and although not knowing who he was, had had compassion on this handsome young man lying covered with blood, and had concocted a sort of handbarrow out of some branches, on which they were now carrying him to Villers-Cotterets. But by the time they reached Puiseux, the wounded man felt that he could no longer bear the movement, and begged them to put him down in the first peasant’s hut they came to, and to send a doctor to him there. The carriers took him to the house of the village priest, and left him there, Thibault before they parted, distributing gold among them from Raoul’s purse, accompanied by many thanks for all their kind offices. The priest was away saying mass, but on returning and finding the wounded man, he uttered loud cries of lamentation.

  Had he been Raoul himself, Thibault could not have found a better hospital. The priest had at one time been Curé of Vauparfond, and while there had been engaged to give Raoul his first schooling. Like all country priests, he knew, or thought he knew, something about doctoring; so he examined his old pupil’s wound. The knife had passed under the shoulder blade, through the right lung, and out between the second and third ribs.

  He did not for a moment disguise to himself the seriousness of the wound, but he said nothing until the doctor had been to see it. The latter arrived and after his examination, he turned and shook his head.

  “Are you going to bleed him?” asked the priest.

  “What would be the use?” asked the doctor. “If it had been done at once after the wound was given, it might perhaps have helped to save him, but it would be dangerous now to disturb the blood in any way.”

  “Is there any chance for him?” asked the priest, who was thinking that the less there was for the doctor to do, the more there would be for the priest.

  “If his wound runs the ordinary course,” said the doctor, lowering his voice, “he will probably not last out the day.”

  “You give him up then?”

  “A doctor never gives up a patient, or at least if he does so, he still trusts to the possibility of nature mercifully interfering on the patient’s behalf; a clot may form and stop the hemorrhage; a cough may disturb the clot, and the patient bleed to death.”

  “You think then that it is my duty to prepare the poor young man for death,” asked the curate.

  “I think,” answered the doctor, shrugging his shoulders, “you would do better to leave him alone; in the first place because he is, at present, in a drowsy condition and cannot hear what you say; later on, because he will be delirious, and unable to understand you.” But the doctor was mistaken; the wounded man, drowsy as he was, overheard this conversation, more reassuring as regards the salvation of his soul than the recovery of his body. How many things people say in the presence of sick persons, believing that they cannot hear, while all the while, they are taking in every word! In the present case, this extra acuteness of hearing may perhaps have been due to the fact that it was Thibault’s soul which was awake in Raoul’s body; if the soul belonging to it had been in this body, it would probably have succumbed more entirely to the effects of the wound.

  The doctor now dressed the wound in the back, but left the front wound uncovered, merely directing that a piece of linen soaked in iced water should be kept over it. Then, having poured some drops of a sedative into a glass of water, and telling the priest to give this to the patient whenever he asked for drink, the doctor departed, saying that he would come again the following morning, but that he much feared he should take his journey for nothing.

  Thibault would have liked to put in a word of his own, and to say himself what he thought about his condition, but his spirit was as if imprisoned in this dying body, and, against his will, was forced to submit to lying thus within its cell. But he could still hear the priest, who not only spoke to him, but endeavored by shaking him to arouse him from his lethargy. Thibault found this very fatiguing, and it was lucky for the priest that the wounded man, just now, had no superhuman power, for he inwardly sent the good man to the devil, many times over.

  Before long, it seemed to him that some sort of hot burning pan was being inserted under the soles of his feet, his loins, his head; his blood began to circulate, then to boil, like water over a fire. His ideas became confused, his clenched jaws opened; his tongue which had been bound became loosened; some disconnected words escaped him.

  “Ah, ah!” he thought to himself. “This no doubt is what the good doctor spoke about as delirium.” and, for the while at least, this was his last lucid idea.

  His whole life—and his life had really only existed since his first acquaintance with the black wolf—passed before him. He saw himself following, and failing to hit the buck; saw himself tied to the oak tree, and the blows of the strap falling on him; saw himself and the black wolf drawing up their compact; saw himself trying to pass the devil’s ring over Agnelette’s finger; saw himself trying to pull out the red hairs, which now covered a third of his head. Then he saw himself on his way to pay court to the pretty Madame Polet of the mill, meeting Landry, and getting rid of his rival; pursued by the farm servants, and followed by his wolves. He saw himself making the acquaintance of Madame Magloire, hunting for her, eating his share of the game, hiding behind the curtains, discovered by Maître Magloire, flouted by the Baron of Vez, turned out by all three. Again he saw the hollow tree, with his wolves couching around it and the owls perched on its branches, and heard the sounds of the approaching violins and hautboy and saw himself looking, as Agnelette and the happy wedding party went by. He saw himself the victim of angry jealousy, endeavoring to fight against it by the help of drink, and across his troubled brain came the recollection of François, of Champagne, and the innkeeper; he heard the galloping of Baron Raoul’s horse, and he felt himself knocked down and rolling in the muddy road. Then he ceased to see himself as Thibault; in his stead arose the figure of the handsome young rider whose form he had taken for a while. Once more he was kissing Lisette, once more his lips were touching the countess’s hand; then he was wanting to escape, but he found himself at a crossroad where three ways only met, and each of these was guarded by one of his victims: the first, by the specter of a drowned man, that was Marcotte; the second, by a young man dying of fever on a hospital bed, that was Landry; the third, by a wounded man, dragging himself along on one knee, and trying in vain to stand up on his mutilated leg, that was the Comte de Mont-Gobert.