VOLUME I

PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY GEORGE BARRIE & SON PHILADELPHIA

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I. EGUZON II. THE MANOR OF CHÂTEAUBRUN III. MONSIEUR CARDONNET IV. THE VISION V. THE DRIBE VI. JEAN THE CARPENTER VII. THE ARREST VIII. GILBERTE IX. MONSIEUR ANTOINE X. A GOOD ACTION XI. A GHOST XII. INDUSTRIAL DIPLOMACY XIII. THE STRUGGLE XIV. FIRST LOVE XV. THE STAIRCASE XVI. THE TALISMAN XVII. THAW XVIII. STORM XIX. THE PORTRAIT XX. THE FORTRESS OF CROZANT XXI. MONSIEUR ANTOINE'S NAP XXII. INTRIGUE XXIII. THE DEVIL'S ROCK

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS THE SIN OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE VOLUME I

EMILE'S FIRST MEETING WITH GILBERTE. EMILE ENTERTAINED BY MONSIEUR ANTOINE. MONSIEUR DE BOISGUILBAULT TRIES EMILE'S HORSE. EMILE IN CONFERENCE WITH HIS FATHER. EMILE EXAMINES THE PORTRAIT OF THE MARQUISE DE BOISGUILBAULT. GALUCHET SURPRISED.

EMILE'S FIRST MEETING WITH GILBERTE.

A fresh young voice was singing, or rather humming, at a little distance, one of those sweet melodies, which are peculiar to the country. And the châtelain's daughter, the bachelor's child, whose mother's name was a mystery to the whole neighborhood, appeared at the corner of a clump of eglantine, as lovely as the loveliest wild flower of that charming solitude.

INTRODUCTION

I wrote the Sin of Monsieur Antoine in the country, during a season of tranquillity, outward and inward, such as seldom occurs in one's life. It was in 1845, a period when criticism of society, as it was, and dreams of an ideal society attained in the press a degree of freedom of development comparable to that of the eighteenth century. Some day, perhaps, people will find it difficult to believe the trivial but exceedingly characteristic fact I am about to mention.

At that period, if one wished to be independent, to maintain directly or indirectly the boldest ideas opposed to the vices of the existing social organization and to give expression to the liveliest hopes of the philosophical sentiment, it was hardly possible to apply to the opposition newspapers. The most advanced of them unfortunately had not readers enough to give satisfactory publicity to the ideas one desired to put forth. The more moderate nourished a profound aversion for socialism, and, in the course of the last ten years of Louis-Philippe's reign, one of these organs of the reformist opposition, the most important by reason of its age and the number of its subscribers, did me the honor several times to ask me for a serial novel, always on the condition that it should contain nothing of a socialistic tendency.

That condition was very difficult, perhaps impossible of fulfilment, to a mind absorbed by the sufferings and the needs of its generation. There are very few serious-minded artists who do not allow themselves to be influenced in their work by the threats of the present or the promises of the future, with more or less adroit circumlocution, with more or less effusion and enthusiasm. Moreover it was the time to say all that one thought, all that one believed. It was one's duty to do it, because it was possible. As the social war did not seem imminent, the monarchy, making no concessions to the needs of the people, seemed powerful enough to defy longer than it did the current of ideas.

These ideas, at which only a small number of conservative minds had as yet taken fright, had really taken firm root only in a small number of observant and laborious minds. So long as they seemed to have no application to political actualities, the ruling power worried very little about theories and allowed every man to make one for himself, to publish his dream, to construct the future city innocently in his chimney corner, in the garden of his imagination.

The conservative journals became therefore the refuge of the socialist novel. Eugène Sue published his in the Débats and the Constitutionnel. I published mine in the Constitutionnel and the Epoque. At about the same time the National was attacking the socialistic writers in its feuilletons, and overwhelming them with very bitter insults or very clever satire.

The Epoque, a journal which had a very brief life, but which began by surpassing in ardor all the conservative and absolutist organs of the moment, was the frame wherein I was given absolute liberty to publish a socialistic novel. On all the blank walls of Paris was placarded in huge letters: Read the Epoque! Read the Sin of Monsieur Antoine!

The following year, as we were wandering through the moors of Crozant and among the ruins of Châteaubrun, a rustic field in which my pen had always taken delight, a Parisian friend of mine called out facetiously to the half-civilized shepherds of those solitudes: "Have you read the Epoque? Have you read the Sin of Monsieur Antoine?" And as they fled, terrified by those incomprehensible words, he said to me with a laugh: "How evident it is that these socialistic novels go to the heads of the country people!"

An old woman, an excellent talker, came to Châteaubrun to reprove me because I had written a book full of lies about her and her master. She thought that I had intended to introduce the proprietor of the château and herself on my stage. She had heard of the book. People had told her that there was not a word of truth in it. It was impossible to make her understand what a novel is, and yet she invented one herself, for she told us of the assassination of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, who were stabbed in their carriage by the populace of Paris. They who accuse socialistic writers of inflaming people's minds should remember that they have forgotten to teach the peasants to read.

Shall I deny, now that the masses are stirring, the communism of Monsieur de Boisguilbault, a very eccentric and yet not altogether imaginary character in my novel? God forbid, especially after the socialists have been accused, in every key, of preaching the division of property.

The diametrically opposite idea, that of common ownership by association, should be the least dangerous of all in the eyes of the conservatives, since it is unfortunately the least understood and the least popular among the masses. It is especially antipathetic in the country districts and can be realized only by the initiative of a strong government or by a philosophic, religious and Christian renovation, the work of centuries it may be!

Attempts to form workingmen's associations have been made, however, among the best informed, the most moral, the most patient portion of the industrial population of the large cities. Enlightened governments, whatever their motto, will always protect these associations, because they offer a refuge to the genuinely social and religious thought of the future. Probably imperfect at their birth, they will perfect themselves in time, and when it is clearly proved that they do not destroy, but, on the contrary, preserve respect for family and property, they will insensibly lead to reciprocity among all classes, and to a union of interests and attachments,—the only path of safety open to the society of the future.

GEORGE SAND.

THE SIN OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE

I EGUZON

There are few localities in France as unattractive as the town of Eguzon on the confines of La Marche and Berry, in the southwest part of the latter province. Eighty to a hundred houses, all of more or less wretched appearance, with the exception of two or three whose opulent proprietors we will not name for fear of offending their modesty, line the two or three streets and surround the public square of that municipality, famous for leagues around by reason of the litigious nature of its population and the difficulty of reaching it. Despite this last drawback, which will soon disappear, thanks to the laying out of a new road, Eguzon sees many travellers boldly traverse the solitudes by which it is surrounded and risk the springs of their carrioles on its terrible pavement. The only inn is situated on the only square, which seems the more vast because it has one side open to the fields as if awaiting the new buildings of future citizens; and this inn is sometimes compelled, in the summer, to invite its too numerous guests to accept

accommodation in the neighboring houses, which are thrown open to them, we are bound to say, with much hospitality. Eguzon, you see, is the central point of a picturesque neighborhood dotted with imposing ruins, and whether one desires to visit Châteaubrun, Crozant, Prugne-au-Pot, or the still habitable and inhabited château of Saint-Germain, he must necessarily sleep at Eguzon, in order to start betimes on these different excursions on the following morning.

Several years ago, one lowering, stormy evening in June, the good people of Eguzon opened their eyes to their fullest extent to see a young man of attractive exterior crossing the square to leave the town just after sunset. The weather was threatening; it was growing dark more quickly than usual, and yet the young traveller, after taking a light repast at the inn, where he halted just long enough to rest his horse, rode boldly away toward the north, heedless of the representations of the innkeeper, and apparently caring naught for the dangers of the road. None knew him; he had answered all questions with an impatient gesture only, and all remonstrances with a smile. When the sound of his horse's hoofs had died away in the distance, the loafers about the inn said to one another:

"That fellow knows the road well or doesn't know it at all. Either he has been over it a hundred times and knows every stone by name, or he doesn't suspect what sort of a place it is, and will find himself in a deal of trouble."

"He's a stranger and not of these parts," said a knowing individual with a judicial air. "He wouldn't listen to anything but his own head; but half an hour hence, when the storm breaks, you'll see him coming back again."

"If he doesn't break his neck first, going down the Pont des Piles," observed a third.

"Faith!" said the bystanders in chorus, "that's his business! Let's go and close our shutters, so that the hail won't break our window-panes."

And throughout the village there was a great noise of doors and windows being hastily barred, while the wind, which was beginning to moan over the moors, outstripped the breathless maid-servants, and sent back into their faces the folding leaves of the heavy shutters wherein the mechanics of the province, in conformity with the traditions of their ancestors, spared neither oak nor iron bolts. From time to time a voice could be heard from one end of the street to the other, and such remarks as these were shouted from doorway to doorway: "Is all yours in?" "Ah oua! I've got two loads still on the ground." "And I've got six standing!" "Well, I don't care, mine are all in the barn." They were talking about hay.

The traveller, riding an excellent Brenne hackney, left the clouds behind him and, quickening his pace, flattered himself that he could outstrip the storm; but, at a sudden turn in the road, he realized that he must inevitably be taken in flank. He unfolded his cloak, which was strapped to his valise, tied his cap under his chin, and, digging his spurs into his horse, galloped on once more, hoping at least to reach and cross, by daylight, the dangerous spot that had been described to him. But his hope was disappointed; the road became so difficult that he had to go at a footpace and watch his horse to keep him from falling over the rocks with which the ground was strewn. When he reached the top of the ravine of La Creuse, the storm-cloud had enveloped the whole sky; it was quite dark, and he could judge the depth of the abyss he was skirting only by the dull, muffled roar of the torrent.

With the rashness of his twenty years the young man disregarded his horse's prudent hesitation and forced him to take the chances of a descent which the docile beast found more uneven and steeper at every step. But suddenly he stopped and threw himself back on his haunches, and his rider, who was slightly startled by the shock, saw, by the light of a brilliant flash, that he was on the extreme edge of a perpendicular precipice, and that another step would infallibly have hurled him to the bottom of La Creuse.

The rain was beginning to fall, and a furious squall twisted the tops of the old chestnut trees on the level of the road. The west wind forced man and horse alike toward the stream, and the danger became so real that the traveller was obliged to dismount, in order to present less surface to the wind and to guide his horse more surely in the darkness. What the lightning flash had enabled him to see of the landscape had seemed wonderfully beautiful to him; moreover, his situation whetted the task for adventure which is characteristic of youth.

A second flash enabled him to distinguish his surroundings, and he profited by a third to familiarize himself with the objects nearest at hand. The road was not narrow, but its very width made it hard to follow. There were some half a dozen vaguely defined tracks, marked only by hoof-prints and wheel-ruts, forming divers paths, interlaced as if by chance, on the slope of a hill; and as there was neither hedge, nor ditch, nor any sign of cultivation, those who passed that way had climbed the hill wherever they happened to choose; thus with each season a new road was opened, or some old one reopened which time and nonuse had closed. Between each two of these capricious tracks were little mounds of rock or tufts of furze, which looked just alike in the darkness, and as no two of them were on the same level it was difficult to pass from one to the other without risking a fall which might well end in the abyss; for they all sloped sidewise as well as forward, so that one must lean backward and to the left. Thus no one of these

winding paths was safe; for since the spring all had been trodden equally hard, the natives taking any one of them at random in broad daylight; but, on a dark night, it was of the greatest importance not to lose one's footing, and the young man, who was more careful of the knees of the horse he loved than of his own life, concluded to halt behind a rock that was high enough to shelter them both from the violence of the wind, and to wait there until the sky should brighten up a bit. He leaned against Corbeau, and, raising a corner of his waterproof cloak in such wise as to protect his companion's quarters and the saddle, he fell into a romantic reverie, as well pleased to hear the howling of the tempest as the good people of Eguzon, assuming them to be thinking of him at all at that moment, supposed him to be anxious and disappointed.

The successive flashes soon afforded him a sufficient acquaintance with the surrounding country. Directly in front of him the road climbed the opposite slope of the ravine, equally steep and presenting difficulties of the same nature. The Creuse, a clear, swift stream, flowed not very noisily at the foot of the precipice and drew its banks together to pass with a dull, never-ending roar under the arches of an old bridge that seemed in a very dilapidated condition. The view opposite was limited by the steep incline; but at the left he could catch glimpses of sloping, well-cultivated meadows, through the middle of which the stream wound; and opposite our traveller, on the crest of a hill bristling with huge boulders interspersed with rich vegetation, rose the dilapidated towers of a vast ruined manor. But, even if it had occurred to the young man to seek shelter there from the storm, it would have been difficult to find a way of reaching it; for there was no apparent communication between the road and the ruin, and another ravine, traversed by a stream that

emptied into the Creuse, separated the two hills. The site was most picturesque and the pallid gleam of the lightning imparted a touch of the terrible which one would have sought in vain by daylight. Gigantic chimneys, exposed by the falling of the roofs, towered up toward the heavy clouds that hovered over the château and seemed to rend it asunder. When the sky was lighted by the swift flashes, the ruins were outlined in white against the dark background of the atmosphere, and, on the contrary, when the eyes had accustomed themselves to the succeeding darkness, they formed a dark mass against a lighter horizon. A large star, which the clouds seemed not to dare to cover, shone a long while over the haughty donjon, like a carbuncle on a giant's head. At last it disappeared, and the torrents of rain, falling with redoubled force, made it impossible for the traveller to distinguish anything except through a thick veil. The water, falling on the rocks near by and on the ground hardened by the recent extreme heat, rebounded like white foam

and at times resembled clouds of dust raised by the wind.

As he moved forward to shelter his horse more effectually behind the rock, the young man discovered that he was not alone. Another man had come to that spot in search of shelter, or perhaps had taken possession of it first. It was impossible to tell, in those alternations of dazzling light and intense darkness. The horseman had not time to obtain a good view of the pedestrian; he seemed to be wretchedly dressed and not of very attractive appearance. Indeed he seemed inclined to keep out of sight by crouching as far under the rock as possible; but as soon as he concluded, from an exclamation of the traveller, that he was discovered, he unhesitatingly addressed him in a loud, clear voice:

"This is bad weather for riding, monsieur, and if you're wise you will go back to Eguzon to sleep."

"Much obliged, my friend," replied the young man, making his stout, lead-handled hunting-crop whistle through the air, in order to give his problematical companion to understand that he was armed.

The latter understood the warning and answered it by tapping the rock, as if absent-mindedly, with an enormous holly staff, which broke off several splinters of stone. The weapon was stout and so was the wrist that wielded it.

"You won't go far to-night in such weather," continued the pedestrian.

"I shall go as far as I choose," replied the horseman, "and I should not advise anybody to take it into his head to delay me on the way."

"Are you afraid of robbers that you meet friendly overtures with threats? I don't know what province you come from, my young man, but you hardly seem to know what province you are in. Thank God, there are neither highwaymen, nor assassins among us."

The stranger's proud but frank tone inspired confidence. The young man rejoined more mildly:

"You're of this province, are you, comrade?"

"Yes, monsieur, I am, and always shall be."

"You are right to propose to remain here; it's a beautiful country."

"Not always though! At this moment, for instance, it's none too pleasant; the weather is venting its spite, and it will be bad all night."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it. If you follow the valley of the Creuse you'll have the storm for company till to-morrow noon, but I fancy that you didn't start out so late without expecting to find shelter near at hand?"

"To tell you the truth, I am inclined to think that the place I am going to is farther away than I supposed at first. I fancied that they tried to keep me at Eguzon by exaggerating the distance and the bad condition of the roads; but I see, from the little progress I have made in an hour, that they hardly overstated it."

"Not to be inquisitive, where might you be going?"

"To Gargilesse. How far do you call it?"

"Not far, monsieur, if you could see where you are going; but, if you don't know the country, it will take you all night; for what you see from here is nothing in comparison with the break-neck places you have to descend to go from the ravine of La Creuse to that of Gargilesse, and you risk your life to boot."

"Well, my friend, will you undertake to guide me, for a good round sum?"

"No, monsieur, thank you."

"Is the road very dangerous that you are so disobliging?"