III.—­I Go to America and Return

For a long time I am sure my presence was a source of utter discomfort to the kind and venerable chevalier, and to his daughter.  I was boorish and illiterate and Edmee was one of the most perfect women to be found in France.  She found her happiness in her own family, and the sweetest simplicity crowned her mental powers and lofty virtues.  Brute like, at that time I saw her only with the eyes of the body, and believed I loved her because she was beautiful.  Her fiance, M. de la Marche, the lieutenant-general, a shallow and frigid Voltairean, understood her but little better.  A day came when I could understand her—­the day when M. de la Marche could have understood her would never have come.

The first step was taken on my part when I realised that I was ignorant and savage, and I applied to the Abbe Aubert, the chaplain, whose offices I had hitherto despised, to instruct me.  I learnt quickly, and soon vanity at my rapid progress became the bane of my life.

With Edmee I was so passionately in love that jealousy would awaken the old brutality that I thought dead, and I would gladly have killed de la Marche in a duel.  Then after an outburst remorse would overtake me.

My cousin at last told me plainly that while she would be true to her word, and not marry anyone before me, she would not marry me, and that on her father’s death a convent should be her refuge.  I knew my boorishness was responsible for this, and resolved to leave her.

Lafayette was taking out volunteers to help the United States in their war of independence.  I told him I would go with him, and crossed hastily into Spain, whence he was going to sail to America.

I left a note to my uncle, and wrote to Edmee that, as far as I was concerned, she was free, and that, while I would not thwart a wish of hers, it was impossible for me to witness a rival’s triumph.

Before we sailed came the following reply from Edmee: 

“You have done well, Bernard.  Go where honour and love of truth call you.  Return when your mission is accomplished; you will find me neither married nor in a convent.”

I cannot describe the American war.  I stayed till peace was declared, and then chafing at my long absence from France, for I was away six years—­and more in love with Edmee than ever, at last set sail and in due time landed at Brest.

I had not sent any letter to announce my coming, and when I reached the Chateau of Sainte-Severe I almost feared to cross the threshold.  Then I rushed forward and entered the drawing room.  The chevalier was asleep and did not wake.  Edmee, bending over her tapestry, did not hear my steps.

For a few seconds I stood looking at her, then I fell at her feet without being able to say a word.  She uttered no cry, no exclamation of surprise, but took my head in her two arms, and held it for sometime pressed to her bosom.  The good chevalier, who had waked with a start, stared at us in astonishment; then he said: