Thou canst save me,      Thou ought’st! thou must!
     I tell thee at his feet
     I’ll fall a corse, ere mount his bridal bed!
     Go choose betwixt my rescue and my grave.
 
     Knowles.—The hunchbach
Notwithstanding the dreadful nature of the events which had occurred during that fatal night, Paul had not forgotten the mortal defiance² which had been exchanged between himself and Lectoure. As that young gentleman would probably not know where to find him, he thought it only decorous to save Lectoure the trouble of seeking for him, and about seven in the morning, Lieutenant³ Walter presented himself at the castle, being charged on behalf of Paul to arrange the terms of the combat. He found Emanuel in Lectoure’s apartment. The latter, on perceiving the officer, withdrew, and went down into the park, that the two young men might more freely discuss the matter. Walter had received from his commander directions to accede⁴ to every thing that might be proposed. The preliminary terms were, therefore, very speedily arranged; and it was agreed between them, that the meeting should take place in the afternoon, at four o’clock. The place of rendezvous⁵ the sea-side, near the fisherman’s hut, which was about half-way between Port Louis and Auray castle. As to the weapons, they were to bring their pistols and their swords; it would be decided⁶ on the spot which they were to use, it being clearly understood that Lectoure, having been the party insulted, should have the right to make his choice.
 
As to the marchioness, although in the first instance petrified⁷ by the unexpected appearance of Paul, she soon recovered all her natural firmness, and drawing her veil over her face, she withdrew from the chamber⁸, and walked across the outer room which had remained in darkness. She did not, therefore, perceive Marguerite, who was kneeling in one corner of it, mute from astonishment⁹ and terror. She after that crossed the park, entered the castle, and repaired to the room in which the scene of the contract had taken place. There, by the dying light of the wax tapers¹⁰, with both her elbows resting on the table, her head supported on her hands, her eyes riveted¹¹ to the paper to which Lectoure had already affixed¹² his name, and the marquis had signed the half of his, she passed the remainder of the night reflecting upon a new determination. Thus she awaited the coming day without even thinking of taking the least repose¹³, so powerfully did her soul of adamant¹⁵ support the body in which it was enclosed. This resolution was to get Emanuel and Marguerite away from the castle as speedily as possible, for it was from her children, most especially, that she desired to conceal¹⁶ that which was about to take place between Paul and herself.
 
Marguerite, who had been thus most unexpectedly present at the death-bed of the marquis and of Achard, through which she had so providentially discovered her mother’s secret, rushed into Paul’s arms immediately after her mother’s departure from the cottage, exclaiming:
 
“Oh! now you are really my brother.”
 
Her tears choked further utterance¹⁷, and it was some minutes before Paul could tranquillize her agitated¹⁸ spirit, torn by so many and such conflicting emotions. Paul then fearing that the marchioness might enquire¹⁹ for her daughter, on her arrival at the castle, urged Marguerite to hasten thither²⁰; and seeing she was still trembling at the recollection of the many horrors she had witnessed, led her out of the cottage, of which he locked the door, and accompanied her to within a few paces of the castle. During this walk, Marguerite had in a certain degree, recovered her composure. Paul stood gazing at her till he saw that she had safely entered the court yard, and then returned to watch and pray beside the body of his father’s faithful servant.
 
At seven o’clock, the marchioness hearing the noise occasioned by Lieutenant Walter’s arrival at the castle, reached a bell which was standing¹ on the table and rang it. A servant presented himself at the door in the grand livery he had worn the previous evening—it was easy to perceive that he also had not been in bed.
 
“Inform Mademoiselle d’Auray, that her mother is waiting for her in the drawing room,” said the marchioness.
 
The servant obeyed, and the marchioness resumed, gloomy and motionless, her previous attitude. In a few minutes afterward²¹, she heard a slight noise behind her, and turned round. It was Marguerite. The young girl, with more respect, perhaps, than she had ever before evinced, held out her hand toward her mother, that she might give her her hand to kiss. But the marchioness remained motionless, as if she had not understood the intention of her daughter. Marguerite let fall her hand, and silently awaited her mother’s pleasure. She also wore the same dress as the night before. Sleep had hovered²² over the whole world, but had forgotten the inhabitants of Auray castle.
 
“Come nearer,” said the marchioness.
 
Marguerite advanced one step.
 
“Why is it that you are thus pale and trembling,” continued the marchioness.
 
“Madam,” murmured Marguerite.
 
“Speak,” said the marchioness.
 
“The death of my father—so sudden—so unexpected,” stammered²³ Marguerite; “indeed I have suffered so much this night.”
 
“Yes, yes,” rejoined the marchioness, in a hollow tone, but fixing on her daughter looks which were not altogether void of affection: “yes, the young tree bends before the wind, and is stripped of its leaves. The old oak alone withstands every tempest. I, also, have suffered, Marguerite, and suffered much. I have passed a dreadful night, and yet you see me calm and firm.”
 
“God has endowed you with a soul, my mother, firm and austere²⁴; but you should not expect the same strength and firmness in the souls of others. You would destroy them.”
 
“And therefore is it,” replied the marchioness, letting her hand fall upon the table, “that all I ask of you is obedience²⁵. The marquis is dead, Marguerite, and Emanuel is now the head of the family. You must immediately set out for Bennes with Emanuel.”
 
“I!” exclaimed Marguerite, “I set out for Bennes! and for what purpose?”
 
“Because the chapel²⁶ of the castle is too narrow to contain at the same moment the wedding party of the daughter, and the funeral procession of the father.”
 
“My mother!” replied Marguerite with an indescribable accent of anguish²⁷, “it would seem to me to be more pious²⁸ to place a longer interval²⁹ between two ceremonies of so opposite a nature.”
 
“True piety,” rejoined the marchioness, “should lead us to fulfil the last wishes of the dead. Cast your eyes upon this contract, and see the first letters of your father’s name.”
 
“Oh! madam!” cried Marguerite, “allow me to ask you whether my father............