thout remembering that he had already told them in the
morning. Edmee's obstinate refusals and the dismissal of M. de la Marche
had caused great astonishment, and given rise to many conjectures
among the curious. One young man who was in love with her, and had been
rejected like the rest, was impelled by a stupid and cowardly conceit to
avenge himself on the only woman of his own class who, according to him,
had dared to repulse him. Having discovered that Edmee had been carried
off by the Hamstringers, he spread a report that she had spent a night
of wild debauch at Roche-Mauprat. At best, he only deigned to concede
that she had yielded only to violence. Edmee commanded too much respect
and esteem to be accused of having shown complaisance to the brigands;
but she soon passed for having been a victim of their brutality. Marked
with an indelible stain, she was no longer sought in marriage by any
one. My absence only served to confirm this opinion. I had saved her
from death, it was said, but not from shame, and it was impossible for
me to make her my wife; I was in love with her, and had fled lest I
should yield to the temptation to marry her. All this seemed so probable
that it would have been difficult to make the public accept the true
version. They were the less ready to accept it from the fact that Edmee
had been unwilling to put an end to the evil reports by giving her
hand to a man she could not love. Such, then, were the causes of her
isolation; it was not until later that I fully understood them. But I
could see the austerity of the chevalier's home and Edmee's melancholy
calm, and I was afraid to drop even a dry leaf in the sleeping waters.
Thus I begged the abbe to remain with them until my return. I took no
one with me except my faithful sergeant Marcasse. Edmee had declared
that he must not leave me, and had arranged that henceforth he was to
share Patience's elegant hut and administrative life.

I arrived at Roche-Mauprat one foggy evening in the early days of
autumn; the sun was hidden, and all Nature was wrapped in silence and
mist. The plains were deserted; the air alone seemed alive with the
noise of great flocks of birds of passage; cranes were drawing their
gigantic triangles across the sky, and storks at an immeasurable
height were filling the clouds with mournful cries, which fell upon the
saddened country like the dirge of parting summer. For the first time in
the year I felt a chilliness in the ai