e was not tracked to his home--for
he was always very cautious in his movements--yet a strict watch was
kept for his next appearance. I went to see the old domestic, but he
knew not so much as I. My steps were next turned homeward. What a walk
that was for me? How could I enter my house the bearer of such tidings!
"_Bon Dieu! ah, bon Dieu_," I exclaimed, "_ayez pitie!_" and I stopped
under a hedge and got down on my knees and said a prayer, and then I
began crying like a child. I said my prayer again, and walked slowly on;
then I saw the house, and Agathe in the garden, and the comtesse with
the little one standing in the door--looking--looking. I came
up--"Albert--where is Albert? where is my husband?" I made no answer.
"Tell me," she said, almost fiercely, taking hold of my arm. I opened my
mouth and essayed to speak, but although my lips moved I did not get out
a syllable. I thought I might whisper it, so I tried to do so, but I
could not whisper! The comtesse shrieked, the child began to cry, and
Agathe came running in. "Come with me," said I to my wife, and I went
into our chamber and told her the whole, and bid her go to the comtesse
and tell the truth, for I could not. My dear Agathe went out half dead.
I sat still in my chamber; presently the door opened, and the comtesse
stood on the threshold. Her eyes were lighted up with fire, her
countenance was terribly agitated, her whole frame trembled: "And you
are the wretch base enough to let him be carried off to be butchered
before your eyes without lifting voice or hand against it, without
interposing one word--one look, one thought! Cowardly recreant!" she
screamed, and fell back in the arms of my wife in violent convulsions;
the infant looked on with wondering eyes and followed us as we laid the
comtesse on the bed, and then put her little hand on her mother's cheek,
and said softly, "Mamma." In a few minutes the comtesse began to
recover. She opened her eyes with an expression of intense pain, gave a
glance at Agathe and me, and then observing her child, she took it, and
pressed it to her breast and sobbed. Shortly she spoke to me, and oh,
with what a mournful voice and look: "Louis, forgive me; I said I knew
not what; I was beside myself. You have never merited aught from me but
gratitude; will you forgive me?" I cried as if I were a baby. Agathe too
went on so that I feared she could never be reconciled to the dreadful
calamity--for myself, I was well nigh mad.