As soon as it was dark Veronique, leaning on her mother's arm, walked slowly through the park to the chalet. The moon was shining with all its brilliancy, the air was soft, and the two women, visibly affected, found encouragement, of a sort, in the things of nature. The mother stopped now and then, to rest her daughter, whose sufferings were poignant, so that it was well-nigh midnight before they reached the path that goes down from the woods to the sloping meadow where the silvery roof of the chalet shone. The moonlight gave to the surface of the quiet water, the tint of pearls. The little noises of the night, echoing in the silence, made softest harmony. Veronique sat down on the bench of the chalet, amid this beauteous scene of the starry night. The murmur of two voices and the footfall of two persons still at a distance on the sandy shore were brought by the water, which sometimes, when all is still, reproduces sounds as faithfully as it reflects objects on the surface. Veronique recognized at once the exquisite voice of the rector, and the rustle of his cassock, also the movement of some silken stuff that was probably the material of a woman's gown.
"Let us go in," she said to her mother.
Madame Sauviat and her daughter sat down on a crib in the lower room, which was intended for a stable.
"My child," they heard the rector saying, "I do not blame you,--you are quite excusable; but your return may be the cause of irreparable evil; she is the soul of this region."
"Ah! monsieur, then I had better go away to-night," replied the stranger. "Though--I must tell you--to leave my country once more is death to me. If I had stayed a day longer in that horrible New York, where there is neither hope, nor faith, nor charity, I should have died without being ill. The air I breathed oppressed my chest, food did not nourish me, I was dying while full of life and vigor. My sufferings ceased the moment I set foot upon the vessel to return. I seemed to be already in France. Oh! monsieur, I saw my mother and one of my sisters-in-law die of grief. My grandfather and grandmother Tascheron are dead; dead, my dear Monsieur Bonnet, in spite of the prosperity of Tascheronville,--for my father founded a village in Ohio and gave it that name. That village is now almost a town, and a third of all the land is cultivated by members of our family, whom God has constantly protected. Our tillage succeeded, our crops have been enormous, and we are rich. The town is Catholic, and we have managed to build a Catholic church; we do not allow any other form of worship, and we hope to convert by our example the many sects which surround us. True religion is in a minority in that land of money and selfish interests, where the soul is cold. Nevertheless, I will return to die there, sooner than do harm or cause distress to the mother of our Francis. Only, Monsieur Bonnet, take me to-night to the parsonage that I may pray upon /his/ tomb, the thought of which has brought me here; the nearer I have come to where /he/ is, the more I felt myself another being. No, I never expected to feel so happy again as I do here."
"Well, then," said the rector, "come with me now. If there should come a time when you might return without doing injury, I will write to you, Denise; but perhaps this visit to your birthplace will stop the homesickness, and enable you to live over there without suffering--"
"Oh! to leave this country, now so beautiful! What wonders Madame Graslin has done for it!" she exclaimed, pointing to the lake as it lay in the moonlight. "All this fine domain will belong to our dear Francis."
"You shall not go away, Denise," said Madame Graslin, who was standing at the stable door.
Jean-Francois Tascheron's sister clasped her hands on seeing the spectre which addressed her. At that moment the pale Veronique, standing in the moonlight, was like a shade defined upon the darkness of the open door-way. Her eyes alone shone like stars.
"No, my child, you shall not leave the country you have come so far to see again; you shall be happy here, or God will refuse to help me; it is He, no doubt, who has brought you back."
She took the astonished Denise by the hand, and led her away by a path toward the other shore of the lake, leaving her mother and the rector, who seated themselves on the bench.
"Let her do as she wishes," said Madame Sauviat.
A few moments later Veronique returned alone, and was taken back to the chateau by her mother and Monsieur Bonnet. Doubtless she had formed some plan which required secrecy, for no one in the neighborhood either saw Denise or heard any mention of her.
Madame Graslin took to her bed that day and never but once left it again; she went from bad to worse daily, and seemed annoyed and thwarted that she could not rise,--trying to do so on several occasions, and expressing a desire to walk out into the park. A few days, however, after the scene we have just related, about the beginning of June, she made a violent effort, rose, dressed as if for a gala day, and begged Gerard to give her his arm, declaring that she was resolved to take a walk. She gathered up all her strength and expended it on this expedition, accomplishing her intention in a paroxy** of will which had, necessarily, a fatal reaction.
"Take me to the chalet, and alone," she said to Gerard in a soft voice, looking at him with a sort of coquetry. "This is my last excursion; I dreamed last night the doctors arrived and captured me."
"Do you want to see your woods?" asked Gerard.
"For the last time, yes," she answered. "But what I really want," she added, in a coaxing voice, "is to make you a singular proposition."
She asked Gerard to embark with her in one of the boats on the second lake, to which she went on foot. When the young man, surprised at her intention, began to move the oars, she pointed to the hermitage as the object of her coming.
"My friend," she said, after a long pause, during which she had been contemplating the sky and water, the hills and shores, "I have a strange request to make of you; but I think you are a man who would obey my wishes--"