“This change of manner attracted the attention of many besides the inhabitants of the château. They remarked his altered looks and bearing, the more studied attention to his dress and appearance, and the singular difference in all his habits of life. No longer did he pass his time in the wild orgies of debauchery and excess, but in careful management of the estate, and rarely or never left the château after nightfall.
“A hundred different interpretations were given to this line of acting. Some said that the more settled condition of political affairs had made him cautious and careful, for it was now the reign of the Directory, and the old excesses of '92 were no longer endured; others, that he was naturally of a kind and benevolent nature, and that his savage manner and reckless conduct were assumed merely in compliance with the horrible features of the time.
“None, however, suspected the real cause. Léon Guichard was in love! Yes, the humble steward, the coarse follower of the vices of that detestable period, was captivated by the beauty of the young girl, now springing into womanhood. The freshness of her artless nature, her guileless innocence, her soft voice, her character so balanced between gayety and thoughtfulness, her loveliness, so unlike all he had ever seen before, had seized upon his whole heart; and, as the sun darting from behind the blackest clouds will light up the surface of a bleak landscape, touching every barren rock and tipping every bell of purple heath with color and richness, so over his rugged nature the beauty of this fair girl shed a very halo of light, and a spirit awoke within him to seek for better things, to endeavor better things, to fly the coarse, depraved habits of his former self, to conform to the tastes of her he worshipped. Day by day his stern nature became more softened. No longer those terrible bursts of passion, to which he once gave way, escaped him; his voice, his very look, too, were changed in their expression, and a gentleness of manner almost amounting to timidity now characterized him who had once been the type of the most savage Jacobin.
“She to whom this wondrous change was owing knew nothing of the miracle she had worked; she would not, indeed, have believed, had one told her. She scarcely remarked him when they met, and did not perceive that he was no longer like his former self; her whole soul wrapped up in her dear brother, s fate, she lived from week to week in the thought of his letters home. It is true, her life had many enjoyments which owed their source to the intendant's care; but she knew not of this, and felt more grateful to him when he came letter in hand from the little post of the village, than when the fair mossroses of spring filled the vases of the salon, or the earliest fruits of summer decked her table. At times something in his demeanor would strike her,—a tinge of sorrow it seemed rather than aught else; but as she attributed this, as every other grief, to her brother's absence, she paid no further attention to it, and merely thought good Leon had more feeling than they used to give him credit for.
“At last, the campaign of Arcole over, the young soldier obtained a short leave to see his sister. How altered were they both! She, from the child, had become the beautiful girl,—her eyes flashing with the brilliant sparkle of youth, her step elastic, her color changing with every passing expression. He was already a man, bronzed and sunburnt, his dark eyes darker, and his voice deeper; but still his former self in all the warmth of his affection to his sister.
“The lieutenant—for so was he always called by the old soldier who accompanied him as his servant, and oftentimes by the rest of his household—had seen much of the world in the few years of his absence.
“The chances and changes of a camp had taught him many things which lie far beyond its own limits, and he had learned to scan men's minds and motives with a quick eye and ready wit. He was not long, therefore, in observing the alteration in Léon Guichard's manner; nor was he slow in tracing it to its real cause. At first the sudden impulse of his passion would have driven him to any length,—the presumption of such a thought was too great to endure. But then the times he lived in taught him some strong lessons. He remembered the scenes of social disorder and anarchy of his childhood,—how every rank became subverted, and how men's minds were left to their own unbridled influences to choose their own position,—and he bethought him, that in such trials as these Leon had conducted himself with moderation; that to his skilful management it was owing if the property had not suffered confiscation like so many others; and that it was perhaps hard to condemn a man for being struck by charms which, however above him in the scale of rank, were still continually before his eyes.
“Reasoning thus, he determined, as the wisest course, to remove his sister to the house of a relative, where she could remain during his absence. This would at once put a stop to the steward's folly,—for so he could not help deeming it,—and, what was of equal consequence in the young soldier's eyes, prevent his sister being offended by ever suspecting the existence of such a feeling towards her. The plan, once resolved on, met no difficulty from his sister; his promise to return soon to see her was enough to compensate for any arrangement, and it was determined that they should set out towards the South by the first week in September.
“When the intimation of this change first reached Léon, which it did from the other servants, he could not believe it, and resolved to hasten to the lieutenant himself, and ask if it were true. On that day, however, the young soldier was absent shooting, and was not to return before night. Tortured with doubt and fear, trembling at the very thought of her departure whose presence had been the loadstar of his life, he rushed from the house and hurried into the wood. Every spot reminded him of her; and he shuddered to think that in a few hours his existence would have lost its spring; that ere the week was passed he would be alone without the sight of her whom even to have seen constituted the happiness of the whole day. Revolving such sad thoughts, he strolled on, not knowing whither, and at last, on turning the angle of a path, found himself before the object of his musings. She was returning from a farewell visit to one of the cottagers, and was hastening to the château to dress for dinner.
“'Ah, Monsieur Léon,' said she, suddenly, 'I am glad to meet you here. These poor people at the wooden bridge will miss me, I fear; you must look to them in my absence. And there is old Jeannette,—she fancies she can spin still; I pray you let her have her little pension regularly. The children at Calotte, too,—they are too far from the school; mind that they have their books.'