“M. Rogere,” said Emilie, sternly, “it is humiliation for me to be obliged to remain for one moment in your presence; it is degradation to be obliged to speak with you. For all this you will be made to answer.”
“By whom, pray? Who is there that can call me to account? There is no law here, remember, that can restrain or punish me. Nature has given me power, and I shall use it for my own pleasure.”
“I fear not that power; I fear neither you nor your menaces; and if I remain a moment here, it is not from respect to your strength. You dare not lay your hand upon me, for there is another power than that of limbs and muscles. If you are a man, you have a soul, and that soul has power over the body. Before you can, like the wolf, become a mere creature of selfishness, before you can act upon the principle that might is right, you must rid yourself of that soul, that thing within called conscience. Even now it is at work; it is this which makes you resort to false philosophy and shallow argument to justify an act that your humor dictates, but which your soul and conscience condemn. The wolf stops not to reason, but M. Rogere, who pleads the example of the wolf, cannot wholly shake off reason. He cannot imitate the brute, without offering an apology. The wolf is no coward, but M. Rogere is a coward; there is something within that tells him that he must not, shall not, dare not exert his strength against a woman!”
As Emilie uttered these words, she rose to her full height, her eye flashing with indignation. Rogere looked upon her with astonishment. As she moved to depart, his feet seemed riveted to the ground, and it was not till she had already proceeded a considerable distance towards her home, that he recovered his self-possession. He then set out in pursuit, and had no difficulty in soon overtaking the fugitive; but at the moment he was about to lay his hand upon her shoulder, his arm was arrested, and the well-known form of Brusque stood before him. “Hold!” said the latter, fiercely; “touch not that gentle being, or, by heaven, your audacity shall be punished. I have been near, watching over the safety of this lady, and I have heard your unmanly words to her. I now know your designs. Beware, or even your boasted strength shall be insufficient to protect you from the chastisement which an insolent coward deserves!”
Brusque waited not for reply. Leaving Rogere fixed to the spot and overwhelmed with confusion, he hastened forward, drew Emilie’s arm within his own, and proceeded with her to her house. The poor girl was almost fainting with agitation, and Brusque could do no less than enter the tent. After leaving her in her mother’s charge, and giving a few words of explanation, he departed. On the morrow he called to see her, but he found her feverish, and unable to leave her bed.
The next day, Emilie sent for Brusque, and the two friends had a long interview. She thanked him tenderly for his protection from the rudeness of Rogere; and although something seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind, he still seemed cheered and softened by her tenderness. “It is indeed most welcome to me, Emilie,” said he, “to hear you say these things—would that I were more worthy of your esteem.”
“Nay, dear Philip,” said Emilie, “do not be forever indulging such a feeling of humility—I might almost say of self-abasement. What is it that oppresses you? Why are you always speaking in such terms? It was not so once, my dear friend.”
“It was not indeed,” said Brusque. “Let me speak out, Emilie, and unburthen my bosom. I was at St. Adresse your happy lover. I then dared not only to love you, but to speak of my affection, and seek its return and reward. But I am changed.”
“Changed! how? when? what is it? changed? Yes, you are changed; for you are distant and reserved, and once you were all confidence and truth.”
“Listen, Emilie, for I will make you my confessor. I left our village home and went to Paris, and engaged with the ardor of youth in the Revolution; so much you know. But you do not know that I shared in the blood and violence of that fearful frenzy, and which I now look back upon as a horrid dream. You do not know that I was familiar with the deeds of Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat. Yet so I was. These hands have not indeed been dyed in the blood of my fellow-men, but yet I assisted in many of those executions, which now seem to me little better than murders. It is in your presence, Emilie, that I most deeply realize my delusion. There is something in your innocence and purity, which rebukes and reproaches my folly, and makes it appear as unpardonable wickedness. I once loved—nay, I love you still, Heaven only knows how truly; but I should ill act the part of a friend by allying your innocence to my degradation.”