Collected works of eugen.., p.79
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 79
“I did not imagine you would choose to have your solitude broken in upon. I believe you have always expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive company?”
“Perhaps I may have done so,” said Clémence, with a smile; “but let me, for once, plead my sex’s privilege of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of astonishing you by my caprice, I will own that I should greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you, — that is, if it would be quite agreeable to you.”
“Oh, how very good of you,” exclaimed M. d’Harville, with much delight, “thus to anticipate my most ardent desire, which I durst not have requested had you not so kindly encouraged me!”
“Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach to me.”
“A reproach! Oh, not for worlds would I have you so understand me! But to find you so kindly considerate, so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying and delightful sort.”
“Come, come, my lord,” said Madame d’Harville, with a smile of heavenly sweetness, “let the past be for ever forgotten between us.”
“Can you, Clémence,” said M. d’Harville, “can you bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated violence I now shudder to think of? Still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable wrong I have done you?”
“Again I say,” returned Clémence, making a violent effort to command herself, “let us forget the past.”
“What do I hear? Can you, — oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and forget all the past?”
“I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed.”
“Oh, Clémence! Can you, indeed, be so generous? But no, no, — I dare not hope it! I have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever be mine.”
“And now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion.”
“But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream? Speak to me, Clémence! Tell me I am not deceiving myself, — that all is not mere illusion! Speak! Say that I may trust my senses!”
“Indeed you may; I mean all I have said.”
“And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your eye, — your manner is less cold, — your voice tremulous. Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? Or am I the sport of some illusion?”
“Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness.”
“You, Clémence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what, or wherefore?”
“Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel, towards you? Ought I not to have remembered that it required a more than ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did, — a virtue more than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others! Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have not trusted in vain.”
“Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such heavenly words!” exclaimed M. d’Harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. “Let me again hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence were opening upon me.”
“Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been.”
“Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clémence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?”
“Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed, your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct! Ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults rise up in judgment against me; but with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me how to repair my past errors.”
“Your errors, my poor injured Clémence! Alas, you were not to blame!”
“Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day following our marriage,—”
“Clémence, for pity’s sake no more!”
“Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. Under the circumstances in which I was placed, instead of allowing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten everything but the severe affliction under which you laboured. By degrees I should have become attached to my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary duty; for which your grateful appreciation would have been a rich reward. I might, at last — But what ails you, my lord? Are you ill? Surely you are weeping!”
“But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my heart! Heed not my tears, beloved Clémence; trust me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I seem so guilty in my own eyes as I now appear, for having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine!”
“And never did I find myself more disposed to forget the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion; the sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to me a source of happiness hitherto unknown to me. Courage! Courage! Let us, in place of that bright and prosperous life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoyment in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us. Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn to our child, and make her the depositary of all our affections. Thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfailing store of holy, of tranquil joys.”
“Sure, ’tis some angel speaks!” cried M. d’Harville, contemplating his wife with impassioned looks. “Oh, Clémence, you little know the pleasure and the pain you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed me — your hardest word or most merited rebuke never touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment. Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within me. I dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future which suggests itself to my imagination.”
“Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say, Albert! I declare to you, by all that is sacred and solemn, that I have firmly taken the resolution I spoke of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word and deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you further pledges of my truth.”
“Pledges!” exclaimed M. d’Harville, more and more excited by a happiness so wholly unlocked for. “What need have I of any pledges? Do not your look, your tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own heart, all convince me of the truth of your words? But, Clémence, man, you know, is a creature not easily satisfied; and,” added the marquis, approaching his wife’s chair, “your noble, generous conduct inspires me with the boldness, the courage, to hope — to hope, — yes, Clémence, to venture to hope for that which, only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse than madness to presume to think of.”
“For mercy’s sake, explain yourself!” said Clémence, alarmed at the impassioned words and glances of her husband.
“Yes,” cried he, seizing her hand, “yes, by dint of tender, untiring, unwearied love, — Clémence, do you understand me? — I say, by dint of love such as mine I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I dare to anticipate being loved by you, — not with a cold, lukewarm regard, but with a passion ardent as my own for you. Ah, you know not the real nature of such a love as I would inspire you with! Alas! I never even dared to breathe it in your ears, — so frigid, so repulsive were you to me. Never did you bestow on me a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now, when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness; and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the passionate ardour of my love for you. Oh, Clémence, when you will let me only tell you half I have suffered, — how I have writhed in despairing anguish at your coldness, your disdain, how I have watched and sighed in vain for one encouraging glance, — you will own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, I am inferior to none. Whence arose that melancholy, that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? Can you not guess the cause? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Clémence, to that overwhelming dread was owing the sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the desponding gloom, which excited so many different conjectures. Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of my heart’s idolatry, was my own, — legally, irrevocably mine, — dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more completely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the opposite parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my bitter tears, reached not you; or, I feel almost persuaded, they would have moved even you to pity me. And now it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings, and have come, like an angel of goodness as you are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be doomed to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your graceful beauty; no more shall I account myself most blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body, alas! I am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indisputably mine! Will it not, dear Clémence? Speak to me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward of all I have so long endured!”
As M. d’Harville uttered these last words, he seized the hand of his wife, and covered it with passionate kisses; while Clémence, much grieved at the mistake her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdrawing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. And the expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke her feelings, that M. d’Harville saw at once the fearful error he had committed. The blow fell with redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately conjured up. A look of intense agony replaced the bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little while since, when Madame d’Harville, eagerly extending her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone:
“Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as the most tender and affectionate sister, — but nothing more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if, inadvertently, my words have inspired you with hopes which can never be realised.”
“Never?” exclaimed M. d’Harville, fixing on his wife a look of despairing entreaty.
“Never!” answered she. The single word, with the tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the irrevocable decision Clémence had formed.
Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her nobleness of character, Madame d’Harville had firmly resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and affectionate attention; but to love him she felt utterly out of her power; and to this immutable resolution she was driven by a power more forcible than either fear, contempt, or even dislike, — it was a species of repugnance almost amounting to horror.
After a painful silence of some duration, M. d’Harville passed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a voice of bitterness:
“Let me entreat your pardon for the unintentional mistake I have made. Oh, refuse not to forgive me for having ventured to believe that happiness could exist for me!”
And again a long pause ensued, broken at last by D’Harville’s vehemently exclaiming, “What a wretch am I!”
“Albert,” said Clémence, gently, “for worlds would I not reproach you; yet is my promise of being unto you the most loving and affectionate of sisters unworthy any estimation? You will receive from the tender cares of devoted friendship more solid happiness than love could afford. Look forward to brighter days. Hitherto you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows; you shall henceforward find me all zeal and solicitude to alleviate them, and eager to share with you every grief or cause of suffering, whether of body or of mind.”
At this moment a servant, throwing open the folding doors, announced:
“His Highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein.”
M. d’Harville started; then, by a powerful effort, recovering his self-command, he advanced to meet his visitor.
“I am singularly fortunate, madame,” said Rodolph, approaching Clémence, “to find you at home to-night; and I am still more delighted with my good fortune, since it procures me the pleasure of meeting you, also, my dear Albert,” continued he, turning to the marquis, and shaking him cordially by the hand.
“It is, indeed, some time since I have had the honour of paying my respects to your royal highness.”
“If the truth must be spoken, my dear Albert,” said the prince, smilingly, “you are somewhat platonic in your friendships, and, relying on the certain attachment of your friends, care very little about either giving or receiving any outward proof of affection.”
By a breach of etiquette, which somewhat annoyed Madame d’Harville, a servant here entered the room with a letter for the marquis. It was the anonymous epistle of Sarah, accusing Rodolph of being the lover of Madame d’Harville.
The marquis, out of deference for the prince, put away with his hand the small silver salver presented to him by the servant, saying, in an undertone:
“Another time, — another time.”
“My dear Albert,” said Rodolph, in a voice of the most genuine affection, “why all this ceremony with me?”
“My lord!”
“With Madame d’Harville’s permission, let me beg of you to read your letter without delay.”
“I assure you, my lord, it is not of the slightest consequence.”
“Again I say, Albert, read your letter all the same for my being here.”
“But, my lord, indeed—”
“Nay, I ask you to do so; or, if you will have it, I desire you to read it immediately.”
“If your highness commands it, my duty is obedience,” said the marquis, taking the letter from the salver.
“Yes, I positively command you to treat me as one old friend ought to treat another.” Then turning towards Madame d’Harville, while the marquis was breaking the seal of the fatal letter, the contents of which were, of course, unknown to Rodolph, he said, smilingly, to Madame d’Harville:
“What a triumph for you, madame, to bend this untractable spirit, and make it bow to your very caprice!”
M. d’Harville having opened Sarah’s infamous letter, approached the wax-lights burning on the mantelpiece, the better to read it. His features bore no visible mark of agitation as he perused the vile scrawl. A slight trembling of the hand alone was visible, as, after a short hesitation, he refolded the paper and placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat.
“At the risk of passing for a perfect Goth,” said he, with a smile, to Rodolph, “I will ask you to excuse me, my lord, while I retire to reply to this letter, which is more important than it at first appeared.”
“Shall I not see you again this evening?”
“I am fearful I shall not have that honour, my lord; and I trust your royal highness will condescend to excuse me.”
“What a slippery person you are!” cried Rodolph, gaily. “Will you not, madame, endeavour to prevent his quitting us?”
“Nay, I dare not attempt that your highness has failed to accomplish.”
“But seriously, my dear Albert, endeavour to come back as soon as you have concluded your letter; or, if that is not possible, promise to give me a few minutes in the morning. I have a thousand things to say to you.”
“Your highness overwhelms me with kindness,” answered the marquis, as, bowing profoundly, he withdrew, leaving Clémence and the prince alone.
“Your husband has some heavy care on his mind,” observed Rodolph to the marquise; “his smile appeared to me a forced one.”
“At the moment of your highness’s arrival, M. d’Harville was much excited, and he has had great difficulty in concealing his agitation from you.”
“My visit was, probably, mal à propos?”
“Oh, no, my lord! You came just in time to spare me the conclusion of a most painful conversation.”
“Indeed! May I inquire the subject of it?”
“I had explained to M. d’Harville the line of conduct I had determined to pursue towards him for the future, assuring him of my future sympathy and affectionate attention to his happiness.”
“How happy you must have rendered him by such gratifying words!”
“He did, indeed, at first, seem most truly happy; and so was I, likewise; for his tears and his joys caused in me a feeling of delight I never before experienced. Once I fancied I did but indulge a just revenge each time I addressed to him a reproach or a sarcasm; but it was a weak and impotent mode of torture, which always recoiled upon myself, as my better judgment pointed out the unworthiness of such conduct; while just now how great was the difference! I had inquired of my husband if he were going out, to which he mournfully replied that he had no intention of so doing, but should pass the evening alone, as he most frequently did. Ah, my lord, could you but have seen his surprise when I offered to be his companion, and how suddenly did the gloomy expression of his features give place to a bright glow of happiness! Ah, you were quite right, there is nothing more really delightful than preparing happy surprises for those around us.”
