Arthur

I held the bridle, and Hélène, at the least movement of little Black, would suddenly place her hand on my shoulder. This foolish timidity caused much merriment to Mlle. de Verteuil, who, much braver than her friend, and wishing to encourage her, would often gallop off and leave us alone.

We usually took these promenades on the green turf of a long avenue of leafy oak-trees. As long as Mlle. de Verteuil remained with us I was gay and talkative, and Hélène, who was naturally dreamy, would brighten up and become quite animated; but as soon as Sophie left us we fell into interminable silences, of which I was quite ashamed, but which seemed to me perfectly blissful.

I soon afterwards wrote to a friend in London to send me some fine horses, several grooms, and two or three carriages of different sorts. My season of mourning was about to end. The arrival of all these equipages made a sort of little fête at Serval. I had kept it a secret, and I well remember Hélène's childish and simple pleasure, when one beautiful evening in August, upon expressing a wish to drive in the forest, she saw, instead of one of our ordinary carriages, a charming calèche, with four black horses, harnessed en d'Aumont, and mounted by two little English postilions, dressed in pearl gray velveteen.

She climbed into the chariot, accompanied by her mother and her friend. I rode beside them on horseback through that magnificent forest, and we returned slowly to the château, in the beautiful moonlight, which shone so picturesquely through the long, dark avenues of grand old trees.

While speaking of this drive, I should wish to state that I have never met with a woman who seemed more in keeping with luxurious surroundings, or, rather, one who heightened the effect of luxury more than Hélène; she possessed such stateliness, joined to such an enchanting and involuntary grace, that it was impossible to think of her except as constantly surrounded by every object of the best and most cultivated taste.

Thus without being extraordinarily beautiful, Hélène would have become one of those rare women, whose dress, equipage or home, we never think of admiring, no matter how supremely elegant they all may be,—the pervading woman harmonising and assimilating all these beautiful accessories. So many people are simply an advertisement of, or a contrast to, their wealth, and so few know how to cast upon their luxury that beautiful reflection, which, like a ray of sunshine, embellishes even the most magnificent object!

One evening, on returning from our drive, and as we were waiting for tea to be served, Hélène proposed that we should remain without lights in the salon, and that the windows should be opened so that the soft rays of the moonlight might shine into the room; to this her mother gave consent. Nothing was ever more melancholy than this vast apartment thus illuminated; so that from talking gaily, we gradually all became silent.

My aunt had spoken of my father; this remembrance saddened us all, though in different ways: my aunt remembered that she had lost a much loved brother; Madame de Verteuil, in thinking upon his death, remembered the state of her daughter's health, and the sad fate which probably menaced her; while I was once more overcome with shame of my guilty forgetfulness.

We were soon all perfectly silent; I was seated beside Hélène, my head on my hands. I know not why, but I began to reproach myself for the display I was already beginning to make. I experienced a puerile remorse in thinking how, instead of taking our drive in the great heavy carriage that had belonged to my father, with his faithful old servants seated on the box, I had been riding in a light, elegant, modern turnout, with foreigners seated on the backs of my horses. Certainly nothing could be sillier or more inane than such ideas, and yet they affected me quite painfully.

After some time passed in reflection, I let my hand fall on to the arm of my chair, and found that I had placed it on the hand of Hélène; I blushed, and my heart began to beat strangely. When Hélène felt my hand, hers became suddenly cold, as though all the blood in her veins had rushed towards her heart. I dared neither take away my hand nor press hers, which I could feel growing warmer and warmer until presently it became burning hot. By the nervous trembling of her beautiful arm I could count the throbbing of her breast. I was entirely overcome and was filled with both unutterable joy and sadness.

Oh, ingenuous serenity of first emotion, what can ever replace thee! Oh, spring, so pure at thy source! How delicious is thy cool freshness when murmuring peacefully along, furtive and undiscovered, under the tufts of green leaves; but, alas! how soon does all this charm vanish when, coming boldly out of the shade and reflecting alike every shore, the current of thy troubled waters is soiled by the débris they carry along.

I loved Hélène passionately, I idolised her, and yet, I had not dared as yet to make her an avowal of my love.

One day when we were out walking with Mlle. de Verteuil, who had been at the convent school with Hélène, we began by I know not what chance to speak of anniversaries and fêtes; suddenly Sophie de Verteuil exclaimed, as she looked towards me: "Do you remember, Hélène, our great excitement when we were little girls and celebrated his fête?"

Hélène blushed scarlet, and, with a shrug, replied to her friend, "I don't understand you." The poor child said no more, and we came back home quite soberly.

The next day, meeting Mlle. de Verteuil in the library, I asked her to tell me the meaning of those words which had, the day before, made such an impression on Hélène. After hesitating a long time, she ended by avowing that, when at the convent, Hélène had every year celebrated my fête with childish solemnity. The preparations consisted in buying a great bouquet of flowers, that she tied up with a fine ribbon, on which she had mysteriously embroidered the initials of my name; after which she would place the bouquet in an old marble vase, which stood in a lonely corner of the convent garden; here she would spend the hours of her recreation in prayer before her shrine, begging God to grant me a prosperous voyage.

Mlle. de Verteuil never tired in telling me of Hélène's terror of being surprised whilst embroidering the ribbon, and of her thousand and one attempts (sometimes unsuccessful) to procure a fine enough bunch of flowers.

How can I tell how it came about that these childish doings told so simply by Mlle. de Verteuil filled me with delighted surprise and touched me to the heart? For before starting on my voyage, during a short visit that Hélène made to Serval, I had never considered her as anything but a child.

From the evening when I had, by accident, felt her hand under mine, Hélène appeared to avoid me; her habitual taciturnity became greater; her manner, until then sweet and equable, became brusque; she would remain for hours shut up in her own room with the blinds closed in perfect obscurity.

I was very unhappy myself; I was restless and preoccupied; I believed that an avowal on my part was all that was wanting to render Hélène calm and happy; but a timidity which I was not able to overcome sealed my lips to such a declaration.

One evening, however, when Hélène was less dejected and less sad than usual, I went with her for a horseback ride. I vowed to myself that I would have the courage to tell her of my love,—I would tell it as soon as we were riding in the great avenue of oaks I have spoken about. We arrived there,—my heart beat fearfully, but I dared not speak.

Ashamed and mortified, I came to a new decision, and I told myself that the marble temple at the end of the avenue should be the place where I would make a second attempt.

When we arrived there, I became dizzy, my heart seemed to stop beating, I could only say in a choking voice, "Hélène!" then I became dumb.

She turned her great moist eyes on me; she appeared paler than usual; her bosom heaved; she looked at me as though her gaze would penetrate the depths of my heart.

"Oh, Hélène!" I began again, and I know not what insurmountable timidity prevented me from saying a single word more.

She then, with a look of grief and despair I can never forget, cried out, "Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable always!"

Then, as if frightened at her own words, she gave a stroke of the whip to her pony, and dashed off at a gallop. Rooted to the spot, I watched her as she rode, and saw her rapidly approaching a gate which closed the end of the avenue. I sat there and shuddered; but she, who was usually such a coward, jumped her horse over the barrier at a single bound, and I soon lost sight of her in the depths of the forest.

When I found myself alone, the words uttered by Hélène with so much bitterness, "Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable for ever!" caused me a grievous sense of pain. I understood now that my silence had amounted almost to a declaration of love.

Then at last, remembering her confusion and her reticence, I began to believe that she also loved me, and the sort of avowal she had made filled me with such delight that, intoxicated with joy, I wandered about here and there like a crazy man, with no thought, no plan for the future, but happy,—oh, who can tell how happy?—ineffably happy and radiantly proud.

At last, night having come, I returned to the château. On entering the parlour, Hélène was there; her cheeks were glowing, her eyes shone with a strange light; seated at the piano she was playing very slowly, and with great expression, "The Last Thought," by Weber, that musical phrase of so much sweetness and melancholy. When Hélène saw me she said, "Come, admit that I frightened you, did I not?" And, without waiting for me to answer, she stopped playing the morceau, as though fearing it might betray the sadness of her thoughts. She began a brilliant waltz, singing to the music from time to time with a voice which was noticeably tremulous.

Her mother and Mlle. de Verteuil looked at each other, as stupefied as myself by this sudden access of gaiety, which was so unlike Hélène.

Hélène paid no attention, but continued playing her waltz with all the noisy liveliness of a child.

Somehow all this unnatural joyfulness wounded and shocked me, so wild did Hélène appear. In fact, after this spasmodic behavior had gone on about half an hour, she became suddenly very pale and then fainted away.

A week after this scene Hélène knew of my love and had acknowledged her love for me.

CHAPTER VII

THE LETTER

The three months that followed our avowal passed like a dream. These moments were certainly the happiest of my life. Everything was in harmony with our innocent young love,—the delightful season of the year, our sumptuous and picturesque home. Every adjunct of our daily life was of the most luxurious and elegant kind, a sort of poetry in action always of an inestimable value,—the gilded frame which adds to the effect of even the most beautiful painting.

In the midst of the park was a large lake. I had a gondola or barge constructed, rigged with awnings, curtains, and carpets; besides, there were soft cushions and a tea-table; here very often, when the evenings were fine, Hélène, her mother, Sophie, and I would spend delightful hours. In the middle of the lake was a small wooded island, crowned by a kiosk for music, and frequently I sent to the neighbouring town, where there was a military garrison, for three excellent German musicians who, hidden in the pavilion, played us lovely trios for alto, flute, and harp.

In order to be alone in the barge, and to prevent feeling the motion of the oars, I had it towed at the end of a long rope fastened to a small boat, which two of the men servants rowed ahead of us.

How often thus rocked by the waves, dreamily listening to the drip of the distant oar, breathing the aroma of the tea, or cooling our lips with snowy sherbets, we would suddenly be enchanted by a sudden burst of harmony coming to us from the island, while around us the fields and great forest-trees were bathed in the clear moonlight!

How many long evenings have I passed thus at Hélène's side! How intoxicating were these waves of melody, now sweet and sonorous, now dying in sudden silence! I remember that these pauses caused us to feel the most delicious sadness. The ear at last becomes weary of sounds, no matter how harmonious they may be, but music, interrupted now and then by a pause, which gives one the time to think of what has gone before, to listen, as it were, in your heart to the echo of those last plaintive vibrations,—music thus interrupted has an added charm, and makes one sigh for more.

During these delightful moments I was always seated at Hélène's side, holding her hand in mine; and we thus, by a gentle pressure, which was for us a mute language, exchanged our heartfelt and varied thoughts; sometimes even—intoxicating and chaste privilege!—I seized the opportunity, which a moment of obscurity afforded me, of leaning my head on Hélène's white shoulder. Her slender figure would then bend in a more languishing curve than ever.

But, alas! these beautiful dreams were doomed to have a bitter awakening.

It was at the close of a November day; I was on the way home to the château, on foot, with Hélène, Mlle. de Verteuil, and my tutor, who had now become my intendant.

The weather was dark and cloudy; the sun was about to set; we were walking along the edge of the forest, which was already here and there brightened by the tints of autumn.

The silvery-barked birch-trees seemed to be showering down golden leaves; the thorn-bushes, the creepers, and the wild blackberries had all turned a beautiful glowing red.

To the right of us was a newly ploughed hillside, whose deep brown tones contrasted violently with a broad zone of orange-coloured light thrown on them by the setting sun; overhead great masses of deep blue-gray clouds piled themselves up like aerial mountain chains. Here and there, where weeds were burning on the hillsides, the light spirals of their smoke arose in white clouds, and slowly mingled with the vapours of the evening mists. To complete all, on the crest of the hill some cattle were slowly moving along to the monotonous jangling of their bells. As they stood out, so black, against the horizon, crimsoned as it was by the last glow of daylight, they seemed to be of colossal size.

Why was it that such a scene, so calm and peaceful, should have affected me so painfully? Hélène was thoughtfully leaning on my arm. After a long silence she said: "I do not know how to explain it, but I seem to be chilled to the heart."

Absorbed as I was by the sad thoughts I was trying to conceal from Hélène, this community of impressions struck me forcibly. "It is only nervousness," said I; "it is because of this dark and dismal weather." After this we continued our walk in silence.

In truth, I am ashamed to avow the cause of my discontent; it was childish, weak, even silly. It was the first time in my life that I was taken possession of by that insurmountable desire for independence and solitude, whose influence I so often felt in after life, sometimes even in the midst of the utmost gaiety and dissipation. I loved Hélène, almost to adoration; every moment spent away from her was torture to me, and yet on that day, without any reason, and not out of spitefulness, Hélène having been as sweet and affectionate towards me as she always was, for some unknown reason I felt that I was really unhappy. It made me wretched to think that I should be obliged to appear in the salon that evening to be polite to my guests, and to reply to the tender appeals of Hélène.

After being so impressed by the melancholy aspect of nature, it would have been pleasant to be able to spend my evening in dreaming, meditating, reading, in the midst of profound silence, one of my favourite books; but, above everything, I wanted to be entirely alone.

Nothing was to prevent my going to my own rooms and remaining there; but I knew that there were people in the house. I should have to give some reason for my behaviour; I should have to answer questions, kindly ones, no doubt, as to my state of health, but which would be intolerable to me; therefore, I made up my mind that I was a perfectly miserable being because I would not be able to spend my evening all alone.

I only cite this puerile fact for the reason that this capricious and strange desire for solitude, amid the happy life I was then leading, was so unusual at my age that it now seems to me to have been an inherited taste. While on this theme, I remember that my mother told me how, before his retirement to Serval, when, on account of his position, my father was obliged to see a great deal of society in Paris, that on reception days his moroseness and habitual misanthropy would take possession of him to an extraordinary degree; and yet, when he would once force himself to make the plunge, if I may say so, no one could receive, with more grace, more entire politeness, more delicate and perfect tact. It was, my mother said, as though all these three or four hours of hypocrisy, that he knew he would have to go through with, worked him up to a frightful state of exasperation beforehand; and yet, when remarking on his gracious and noble face, his charmingly affable and dignified manners, strangers would suppose that he could never be contented to live except in the world of society, where he appeared to such rare and excellent advantage.

But I must return to that sad November day, when, for the first time, I experienced that extraordinary desire for isolation.

We at last reached the château.

As I was going up to my room to dress, one of my aunt's maids told me that my aunt begged me to come to her room for a few moments. I had no reason to dread such an interview, and yet I felt a great weight at my heart. I hastened to my aunt's room; she was seated beside her work-table, on which I noticed an open letter; I noticed also that she had been weeping.

"My friend," she said, "there are very wicked and very infamous people in this world. Read this." Then she handed me the letter, and replaced her handkerchief over her eyes.

I read. It was an anonymous and "friendly" warning to Hélène's mother, charitably informing her that my familiar intimacy with her daughter had brought irreparable ruin to her reputation. In a word, she was given to understand, by means of the confused phraseology usual in such cases, that Hélène was "looked upon as my mistress," and that, by her unpardonable weakness and carelessness, my aunt had countenanced the odious rumour.

It was false, absolutely false; it was a horrible calumny; but I was stunned, for I saw in an instant that appearances would give a terrible credit to the accusation.

I felt as if I were wakened from a dream. I have told how I allowed myself to be swept on by the current of this sweet and chaste affection with neither forethought nor reflection, with all the delightful inconsistency of happiness. This letter put the reality before my eyes and I was crushed.

My first movement was noble and generous. I tore up the letter, saying to my aunt, "Believe me, the reputation of my cousin Hélène shall be vindicated in the most satisfactory manner."

My aunt smiled sadly, and said to me, "My friend, you must feel that after such rumours we must live separate lives; to remain at Serval any longer would be to justify these calumnies. I know my daughter, and I know the purity of your sentiments; this is sufficient for me. But, my child, appearances are against us; the confidence I so legitimately have in your honour would be called weakness and carelessness. I should have remembered, alas! that the purest life has always been at the mercy of those who desire to cover it with disgrace. You know our position. Hélène is poor; she has nothing in the world but her good name. May it please God that these frightful lies have not gone so far as to do fatal and irreparable injury!"

"Has Hélène been told of this?" I asked my aunt.

"No, my friend; but she is of sufficiently strong mind to be told everything without concealment."

"Well, then, my aunt, promise me to be gracious enough not to tell her until to-morrow."

My aunt consented to my request and I went up to my own room.

You may readily suppose that my vague and passing wish for solitude quickly vanished now that I was in real mental distress.

The dinner was a sad affair; afterwards we returned to the salon. Hélène loved her mother too well and was also too fond of me not to perceive at once that we were worried; besides, I had not, in those days, enough dissimulation to hide my resentment.

A thousand confused ideas were working in my brain; I could come to no decision; I recalled my long talks with Hélène, our frequent solitary walks, which were authorised by the familiarity of relationship and dated from our childhood; I thought of our simple pleasures, the involuntary preference I had always shown for Hélène's society; when walking she always had my arm; when on horseback I was always at her side; in fact I never quitted her. I saw then that to the most unprejudiced eyes such persistent attention must have gravely compromised Hélène. Then again, I remembered the thousand looks and signals arranged, beforehand between us, mute and amorous language not destined to escape the notice of the visitors we received. Fatal charm of first love, so engrossing as to leave us no thought except of ourselves! stupefying atmosphere in which we had been living so happy and so free from all care, and which we foolishly believed was impenetrable to the idle gaze of the world!

As the veil with which until then my conduct had been hidden was gradually raised, I began to understand my inconceivable thoughtlessness, and, like all young people, I began to exaggerate my imprudence still more. I saw Hélène's future life ruined; because, as she was without worldly goods, the irreproachable purity of her life was doubly precious to her. Then in a transport of joy I remembered her love, the sweet and devoted affection which dated from her childhood, her serious and noble qualities, her kindness, her beauty, her exquisite elegance. Finally, I thought of how Hélène, though perfectly innocent, might appear guilty in the eyes of the world, and how, as it was through my fault that this blight might fall on her reputation, the only possible reparation which was worthy of my offering and of her acceptance was the offer of my hand.

Then I beheld myself living peacefully and happily in our old château at her side, living as we had always lived,—what a marvellously calm and radiant horizon! As I contemplated such a future my soul seemed to expand and become more noble. A voice seemed to say to me: "Thou art on the threshold of life; two ways are open before thee: the one mysterious, vague, indefinite; the other fixed and assured. In one the past allows you to judge as to what the future will be, it is the beginning of a happiness which only depends on you to follow. See what a sweet and smiling existence,—the serenity of a country life, family souvenirs, a peaceful home. Thou art rich enough to live surrounded by all the prestige of luxury and amid the benedictions of those to whom thou may'st bring help and comfort; Hélène has loved thee since her infancy, thou lovest her. See, there is thy happiness; lay hold upon it. If this chance escapes thee thy life shall be given over to all the storms of thy passions."

It was with ecstasy that I listened to this species of revelation, and for a moment happiness seemed assured to me should I decide to pass my life thus at the side of Hélène.

These convictions were so tranquillising that my face beamed with joy, my features bore the impress of the purest felicity; I was so transported with my happiness that I cried out in response to my most secret thoughts:

"Oh, yes, Hélène, all this shall come to pass; this is my life's destiny."

Imagine the astonishment of my aunt, of Madame de Verteuil, of Sophie and Hélène, on hearing this sudden and unintelligible exclamation.

"Arthur, you have gone mad," said my aunt.

"No, my good aunt, never in my life have I said a wiser thing." Then I added, "Remember your promise." And kissing Hélène's hand, I said to her as I said every evening, "Bon soir, Hélène." Then I left the salon and went to my own room.

I have told how for a long time I had not dared to open the frame containing my father's portrait; but my happiness made me so brave that I found myself courageous enough to look upon that face which had so terrified me.

And, besides, I thought that on such a solemn moment in my life I should take counsel with my father; so, trembling in spite of my resolution, I opened the frame of the portrait.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PORTRAIT

It was night; the light from the candles shone brightly on the portrait. Why was it that, in spite of my joyful state of mind caused by my decision in regard to Hélène,—why should I feel so suddenly overcome with sadness as soon as I beheld the austere face of my father? Never had his sad and gloomy nature impressed me more powerfully. His high and bare forehead was preëminent; the deep-set eyes, overshadowed by their thick gray eyebrows, stared at me with piercing fixedness; the high cheek-bones, the hollow cheeks, the proud and severe expression of the mouth, even the dark colour of the vestments, hardly distinguishable from the background,—all was as I had last seen it and produced the same effect on me. I could see nothing but that pale face shining out of the obscurity.

I knelt down and remained a long time in meditation.

When I raised my head something quite natural in itself frightened me so badly that I shivered involuntarily. I fancied I saw, or rather I really did see, something like a brilliant tear roll down the cheeks of the portrait, and then fall in a cold drop on my hand, which was placed on the frame.

No words can express my terror; I remained for some moments paralysed with fright.

Then, overcoming this childish alarm, I went nearer to the portrait, and discovered that the combined heat and moisture of the room had caused a sort of dew to form on the canvas, which had been kept closed for such a length of time. I smiled sadly at my fright, but the impression had been so violent, that I could not get over my resentment. As I became more calm, I seated myself before the portrait.

Little by little my long conversations with my father returned to my mind; so did his cold-blooded maxims, and his doubts as to the reality and duration of any earthly affection. As I had so recently felt my heart expand and dilate with pleasure, so now I felt it contracting with agony. The remembrance of my indifference, of my forgetfulness, disgusted me with myself; but wishing to escape from the circle of these bitter fancies, I attempted to consult my father mentally on the decision. I had just arrived at the point of marrying Hélène. Still thinking of that future which appeared so smiling and beautiful, I fixed my eyes on that pale and mute visage, and wildly demanded of it an answer to my questionings. I implored its approval of my resolution, but its imperturbable and disdainfully sad smile froze my blood.

"I love Hélène with the deepest, purest love," I cried, extending my hands towards the portrait. "I am not deceived as to my feelings; the noble and generous resolution I have taken will certainly secure my own and Hélène's happiness,—is it not true, my father?"

And I waited eagerly for an answer from these motionless features, believing in that momentary hallucination that I would receive a sign of affirmation.

But the white and wrinkled forehead bowed not; then I thought I could hear from the most secret recesses of my heart the steady voice of my father, saying:

"You loved me once with this profound, unchanging love; I have done more for you than Hélène has, I have given you both life and fortune. And it is in the enjoyment of that fortune I am forgotten! Poor child!"

Overcome with terror, I continued:

"But Hélène loves me sincerely, does she not, father?" And as I steadfastly gazed on the motionless figure, whose silence so overpowered me, I repeated in my anxiety:

"Do you not believe in her love? I am, then, mistaken in what I suppose to be the love I bear to her, since you stare upon me thus, oh, my father!"

"Did I not warn you against trusting in the admirations your fortune would excite, and tell you never to trust to deceitful appearances?"

"But, great God! what deception can Hélène be capable of,—such a noble and candid young girl, she who always loved you as a father and me as a brother? Has she not given herself freely to me, confiding in my love, careless of all the rest, and so absorbed by it that she has even recklessly exposed her reputation—her sole treasure—to the evil tongue of slander?"

Alas! pardon, oh, my father! Perhaps it was but a base and sordid instinct of my own which I mistook for your answer. Doubtless, ashamed to acknowledge my own baseness, I was willing to attribute to your influence the vile, infernal thought, this first horrible doubt which has come to trouble for ever the smiling and pure stream of my beliefs; pardon, father, pardon once more, if in that moment when, overcome with anguish, I asked you, "What reason can Hélène have for feigning love for me?" my brutal selfishness answered, "Your fortune, for Hélène is poor!"

Since that fatal day, constantly tormented by an incessant and absorbing idea, for ever tortured by doubt,—that two-bladed sword which wounds both him who wields it, and him against whom it is raised,—I have persistently sought, and, to my sorrow, generally believed myself to have discovered, the most infamous motives hidden under the most innocent appearances, the most odious projects under the most expansive and generous devotion. I have very often, alas! pitilessly killed with a word the tenderest and sweetest enthusiasms; but never, O God! never can I forget the grievous, heartrending shock with which scepticism tore out from my heart its sacred and primal faith.

From that instant, it was as though a funereal crêpe was banded over my eyes, disfiguring everything I looked at. Hélène's face, so candid and pure, now seemed filled with falseness and cupidity. The blackest plot was unfolded to my view: my aunt's carelessness was a base calculation; that letter, drawing her attention to the rumours in circulation, was a part of the scheme; then, with a cruel pride, I applauded myself for having been so clever as to discover and overturn this shameless compact into which they had all entered against me; they had taken me, then, for their dupe.

Then, by a swift and inexplicable reaction, all my love was turned to hatred and despite; the tenderest effusions appeared to me as disgraceful pretences. Oh, shame! Oh, grief! my execrable doubting went so far as to disbelieve in the childish affection that Hélène had demonstrated when in the convent; and in my secret heart I even dared to accuse Madame de Verteuil and her daughter with being the accomplices of Hélène and her mother, and to have invented that episode in order to blind me the more surely.

Certainly the supposition of so base a deception was odious and stupid; it was horrible and incredible to be thus possessed with doubt when barely twenty-three years old; when, in all my life so far, no bitter experiences, no past deceptions justified me in such scepticism!

Alas! it was a sorry benefit, for one cannot deny that, when clothed in such a cuirass of doubt, and armed with such wise distrust, one braves with impunity the falsehoods and deceits of the world. But, as the steel corselet, while protecting you from the enemy's sword, renders you insensible to the warmth of a friendly hand, so unbelief, that iron armour, so cold and polished, protects you from the deceitfulness of a scoundrel, but makes you, alas! impenetrable to the ineffable belief in pure affection.

Since now I can analyse and get to the root of the influences, instincts, or natural organisation, which were the causes of this sudden germination and development in my mind of the distrust henceforth to be the centre around which all my thoughts were to gravitate, no matter in how apparently indubitable a position I might be, I can remember my father telling me frequently: "I am glad to see that you distrust your own motives. When we can distrust ourselves, we can defy others, and in this there is great wisdom."

Then, by a singular contrast, my mother, blinded by maternal pride, which sublime egotism is to women what personality is to men, after vainly attempting to work me up to a fit of self-glorification, would say, sadly: "My poor, dear child, I am in despair when I see how little confidence you have in yourself; by dint of distrusting yourself, you will lose your belief in others, and that will be a terrible misfortune."

Now I am certain that my insurmountable self-distrust was one of the principal causes of my doubting others; having no faith in the opinions people professed to have of me, for they seemed false and exaggerated, I consequently was always on the watch for some interested or underhand reason for their admiration of me. What confirmed me in this opinion is, that I have never found more persistent, more imperturbable believers than among foolish and vain people. The want of intelligence of the fool prevents him from observing, reflecting, or comparing, while the conceited man's self-satisfaction never permits him to doubt as to the certain and prodigious effect he is sure of producing.

To return to my projects of a union with Hélène: from the day that doubt entered my mind, my plans were for ever changed.

I passed a sleepless and unhappy night.

The next day I was weak enough to avoid my aunt and Hélène; I mounted my horse early in the morning, and went to one of my farms, where I spent the whole day.

I returned home late in the evening, and, pretending to be excessively tired, I did not appear in the salon.

On entering my room, I saw on my study-table these words in Hélène's handwriting (they were in a book which she had returned me): "My mother has told me all. I will be at the pavilion of the pyramid to-morrow morning at nine o'clock. Meet me there. Ah, how much you must have suffered!"

Though in my state of mind such an interview would be painful and distasteful, I could not very well avoid it, therefore I resolved to go.

CHAPTER IX

THE PAVILION

The pavilion where I was to meet Hélène was situated in the depths of the forest; to get there I had to traverse long, dismal paths, all choked up with dead leaves. The morning mist was so heavy and thick that I could hardly see ten steps before me, though it was nine o'clock. My meditations of the night before had confirmed me in my doubt and my decision. Having once admitted that Hélène's conduct was the result of base cupidity, it became, unhappily, only too easy to misinterpret all her actions. Thus the involuntary avowal that had escaped her lips, that chaste cry of love which had long been withheld and hidden in her tender heart, became in my eyes nothing more than a shameless enticement.

What shall I say? That, as I walked along to the pavilion, my ideas were a frightful mixture of selfishness, wounded pride, and cruel resolutions, also of bitter regret to have dispelled so fair an illusion, to have lost all hope of consoling myself some day by the remembrance of a pure and disinterested first love. What is horrible and ridiculous to admit is, that never for a moment did the thought that I might be mistaken ever enter my mind; that, having admitted the possibility of evil, I should also be willing to admit the chances of good; that, after all, taking no account of Hélène's character and the nobility of her mind, there were a thousand circumstances, a thousand reasons, which would prove beyond a doubt that her love was pure and without a selfish thought; and, then, my fortune being part of my condition, was not Hélène obliged to take me as she found me, and, finding me rich, love me, rich though I was?

But, no, my one idea was so fixed in my mind, and possessed me with such brutal ferocity, that I never attempted to find a single excuse in favour of the woman I so cruelly suspected.

Long years have passed since then, and now that I review my past conduct, I have the consolation of knowing that it was not to avoid the fulfilment of my duty that I forced myself into this blind faith in evil; for I knew that the stories in circulation had an appearance of truth to the eyes of the world, though they were utterly false in every respect. I knew that I owed it to Hélène to make the reparation my first impulse had shown me was the right one. She was my relative, she had been like a daughter to my father. I knew her excellent qualities, and I had been convinced that I would become the happiest man in the world, should I become her husband.

But my conduct towards her was not dictated by one of those sordid instincts which we are ashamed to admit but whose tool we allow ourselves to become. Later in life I should not have been able to deliberately deceive myself, but then I was so young, so confident in my incredulity, and I remember perfectly that what caused me the most smarting mortification was not the fact that I had been duped, but the unspeakable regret that I had not been able to inspire Hélène with a real affection.

At last I arrived at the pavilion. When I entered I found Hélène waiting for me seated near the door; she was wrapped in a black cloak, and trembling with cold. When she saw me she rose, and, holding out her hands to me, said, in a tone of the deepest sadness: "Ah, you have come at last! How much we have suffered these last two days!"

Then, no doubt struck by the stern and unkind expression of my features, she added, "Good God! What is the matter, Arthur? You frighten me."

Thereupon, with that mocking and silly cruelty fit for children, or happy, selfish people, who have never suffered, I put on a gay and careless manner, and, kissing her hand, replied: "What, I frighten you! That is not the effect I hoped to have on you in such a charming rendezvous!"

The ironical way in which I uttered these words was so different from my habitual way of addressing Hélène that she opened her great eyes in astonishment, knowing not what I meant. Then, after a moment of silence, she added, "Arthur, my mother has told me all."

"Ah, indeed!" I answered, with indifference. Then, closing the collar of her mantle, I added: "Take care, the fog is very damp and penetrating; you might catch cold."

The poor child thought she must be dreaming.

"What!" said she, joining her hands in stupefaction, "you don't see that it is all horrible, infamous?"

"What does it all matter, since it is all a lie?" I answered, without changing countenance.

"What does it matter? Does it make no difference to you that the woman who is to bear your name should be dishonoured before she becomes your wife?"

At these words, which seemed to me the height of effrontery and the flagrant proof of the truth of my suspicions, I was seized with an uncontrollable desire for revenge, all my scruples vanished, and to-day I bless the hazard that retained on my lips the horrible words that came into my mind. Fortunately for me, I was disposed to be ironical, and I contained myself.

"Hélène," said I, "our conversation should be grave and serious; be so good as to listen to me. You who are candour, loyalty, and disinterestedness personified," said I, with an accent of disgusting insolence,—which she never even noticed, so far above all suspicion was she conscious of being,—"I beg of you, answer me with perfect loyalty; our whole future is in the balance."

With that instinctive divination which rarely is mistaken, Hélène guessed at my treachery, for she cried out in anguish: "Stop, Arthur, something extraordinary is passing in your mind. I have never seen you with such an icy, defiant look; you alarm me! In heaven's name, what have I done to you?"

"You have done me no harm; but since you mean to bear my name, since you expect to be my wife,—and I am infinitely obliged to you for the confidence you have in the future, it does honour to both of us," I continued, with a smile which terrified her,—"you must reply to my questions."

"Good God, with what a look you say that, Arthur! I don't understand; what does it all mean? What must I answer?"

"Hélène, when for the first time you began to interest yourself in my presence, or my future, when you began to love me, what was your object, your motive?"

"My object, my motive? I tell you again that I don't understand you," said she, shaking her head; then overcome with astonishment: "Stop, Arthur, you are torturing me; in the name of your mother, explain yourself clearly. What do you want of me? What is the meaning of all these questions?"

"Very well, then! I will follow your example, and speak with equal frankness, liberality, and clearness; like you I give free rein to my sudden impulses, without the least arrière-pensée, without the slightest calculation; and as there is no doubt about your becoming my wife, and when that delightful hour arrives we will wish to be in each other's confidence, I will tell you how and why I have loved you, but before doing so I mean to exact from you a similar confession. It will be a mutual exchange of generous and tender sentiments which will be a consolation to my poor troubled heart, do you not think so?" I said all this with a cold, cruel, and ironical manner which wounded the poor child to the quick, and distressed her greatly, though she could not understand the withering allusions with which I blighted her pure and unselfish love.

Now that I can calmly reflect on this scene, I shudder to think how much Hélène must have suffered in hearing me speak to her thus for the first time. I can see her yet, standing pale, cold, and trembling with anxiety in the middle of that pavilion, with its rustic furniture and its open windows where the thick fog was drifting in; I blush with shame when I remember that it was to an acknowledged enemy, defiant and determined to interpret everything to his own justification, she was summoned to reveal all those chaste and tender feelings which had preceded her avowal,—those treasures unknown to the lover which disclose the joys, alarms, and pains that he has unwittingly caused.

At last, Hélène, overcoming her agitation, said:

"Arthur, I cannot conceive of what is passing in your mind; you wish me to tell you how and why I have loved you. Ah!" said she, her eyes filled with tears, "it is very simple. Mon Dieu! When I was still a very little child, I heard my mother constantly speaking about you, of the solitary life your father made you live, without any of the amusements suited to your age, without any young friends, occupied almost all the time with serious study, and deprived of almost every joy and pleasure of youth. The first impressions of you were that you were very unhappy and much to be pitied, and I pitied you because, in knowing how much I possessed, I thought of all that you missed: I had young companions whom I loved; my mother, always tender and good, entered into all our childish pleasures. So that sometimes, without knowing wherefore, I felt ashamed of myself for being so happy while you were living a life that seemed to me so forlorn and isolated.

"I think that was the beginning of my dislike of playing with the other children, their games displeased me because I knew you to be deprived of companionship; in a word, Arthur, it is because you seemed to me so much to be pitied that I was so much interested in you. Later, when you started off on your first voyage, the dangers you encountered, and which I, no doubt, exaggerated, made me tremble for your life and redoubled my affection. That was the time Sophie told you of, when at the convent school I was childish enough to celebrate your birthday, and when every day I would pray to God for your safety. Still later, when your poor mother died, it seemed as though that fearful loss was to bind you to me all the nearer, for then I believed you were entirely alone, unhappy, and deprived of the only person you could confide in. It was then that we came to live here, to dwell with your father. My mother had often told me that, though excessively good to us, your father was cold and severe. In fact, he seemed to be so grave, so sad, and you were always so timid and so uneasy in his presence, so gloomy after the conversations you had with him every morning, that I pitied you more bitterly than ever, and my love for you increased as I thought of all the trials you had to suffer.

"However, as much as I dreaded your father I could not prevent myself from loving him; he suffered so much! And besides, in showing myself always attentive and thoughtful to him, I meant to prove my love to you.

"Finally, Arthur, when you had the misfortune of losing him, seeing you quite alone in the world, I fancied that from thenceforth my fate was allied to yours, that the destiny of my life had always been and should always be to love you, to make you happy, that henceforth my heart was to become your only refuge. You had never told me that you loved me, but I thought that you did, that it must be so, that such a thing was inevitable, seeing that my vocation was the consecration of my life to your service; so each day I confidently awaited an avowal on your part, and when, despairing of ever hearing that avowal, I exclaimed unintentionally, 'Ah, you will never love any one! You will never be happy!' it was because I had an involuntary presentiment that you would be unhappy all your life, if you would not love me,—love me who loved you so dearly, who believed myself necessary to your happiness! Since then you have declared to me that you love me. I have been happy,—happy beyond expression; but that has been no surprise to me.

"Yesterday my mother caused me the greatest pain by repeating to me all those frightful calumnies. Not seeing you all day, I believed that you were as much distressed as I, that you shared my grief in this matter. This is all I have to tell you, Arthur, this is how I came to love you, the way I love you now; but be merciful and cease to torment me thus, become what you have always been to me! Why are you so changed? I beseech you to tell me—what have I done?"

While Hélène was telling me all this with such naïve and truthful simplicity, I had never taken my eyes off her; instead of being touched by her tender recital, I had been watching her with all the cruel and wary suspicion of a hostile and prejudiced judge; however, when she raised her beautiful eyes, so gentle and moist under their long lashes, she looked into mine with such candid assurance and so much serenity, that I must have been blind indeed, not to have read in them the noblest and deepest love.

But, alas! when one is possessed by stubborn doubt, everything that tends to destroy that doubt irritates you beyond measure, and appears to be dictated by perfidy and falsehood; you persist all the more in your conviction, because you believe you would be tricked if you gave it up. The most undeniable truths become adroit lies, and the noblest and most sudden inspirations become so many snares deliberately set for you. It was thus with me, so I continued to play the unworthy part I had imposed on myself.

"That is all very perfectly and cleverly thought out," I replied. "The causes and effects follow each other in the most perfect and logical succession; the fable is very plausible, and a stupider man than I would believe the whole story."

"The fable! What fable?" said Hélène, who could not conceive my suspicions.

But without answering her, I continued:

"Since you can reason so wisely, how was it that you never reflected that, in permitting me to show you such assiduous preference, it was possible for you to be gravely compromised?"

"I never thought of it, I never reflected, because I loved you; besides, how could I think that anything we did was wrong, when I was certain of your affection?"

"Then from the very beginning you meant to marry me?"

Hélène scarcely seemed to hear me, and said:

"What did you say, Arthur?"

"I said this," said I, impatiently, "that you felt perfectly sure that I meant to marry you?"

"But," replied Hélène, more and more surprised, "I don't understand the meaning of the questions you ask me, Arthur. Think of what you are telling me! Heavens! after our vows of love! Have I ever had any doubts of you—of—?"

Then interrupting herself, she cried out:

"Ah, don't vilify yourself like that!"

Her perfect assurance, or rather the blind confidence she had in my loyalty, so shocked my stupid pride that I had the horrible courage to add ('tis true that I spoke slowly and that my lips became dry as I uttered the words):

"And in those fine projects of our union, which will probably never amount to anything more than projects, did you never think of my fortune?"

When I had once uttered these hateful words, I would have given my whole life to recall them, for so long as I had only thought them, I had not perceived the whole of their ignoble significance; but when I heard myself answer in this way the ingenuous, noble, and touching avowal just made by Hélène, who when yet a child had only loved me because she thought me unhappy,—when I realised the incurable wound I had given this generous girl who was so proud, so shy, and so sensitive, I was seized with horrible and vain remorse.

Alas! I had plenty of time to realise the horror of my position, for Hélène was a long time in understanding my words, and still longer in recovering from her stupefaction when she had at last understood them.

But when I saw depicted on her beautiful face those expressions of grief, of indignation, and of utter contempt which gave it a majestic and even a threatening look, I felt in my heart such violent emotion that, joining my hands together, I fell on my knees before Hélène, and cried out:

"Pardon! Pardon!"

But she, still seated there with cheeks aflame and sparkling eyes, leaned towards me; then, taking my two hands, she shook them violently as she fixed on me a look of implacable disdain which I shall never forget, then she said, slowly:

"I had designs on your fortune,—I—Hélène!"

She gave to those two words, "I—Hélène!" such an accent of scorn and wounded pride, that, overcome with shame, I bowed my head before her and broke into sobbing.

Then she, without adding another word, arose quickly and went out from the pavilion with firm and steady step.

I remained where I was, utterly annihilated. It seemed to me that from henceforth my life was irreparably devoted to evil and misfortune.

In spite of which I was resolved to see Hélène once more.

CHAPTER X

THE CONTRACT

For four days after the scene in the pavilion, it was impossible for me to see either Hélène or my aunt; I knew only from their women servants that they were both extremely ill.

Those days were frightful ones for me. Since the fatal moment when I had so brutally crushed the tender and delicate affections of Hélène, my eyes had been opened. I had repeated word for word her innocent recital wherein she had told the history of her life, that is to say, the story of her love for me; the more I analysed each phrase, each expression, the more I became convinced of the purity of her sentiments, for I remembered many occasions when she had manifested the rarest delicacy.

Then, as it always happens when all hope is for ever ruined, her precious qualities shone with a brighter lustre. I saw and recognised, one by one, all the chances of happiness that I lost. Where should I ever find so many conditions of felicity united,—beauty, tenderness, grace, elegance? And then the thought of the future without Hélène terrified me. I knew that I was neither strong enough to live a retired and solitary life, or to traverse without misfortune the thousand experiences of an aimless and adventurous existence.

I foresaw the violence of my passions,—everything would tend to lead me into excesses. I was independent, rich, and young; yet, however desirable such a life of pleasure might be for another in my position, the idea of it was distressing to me; it was a torrent which I could see rushing along, but knew not whither it would lead me. Would it plunge into a bottomless gulf? Or, later, calming the impetuosity of its waters, would it become a peaceful current?

Then, hard and defiant, as I had just found myself capable of becoming towards Hélène, who was so noble and so good, in what love would I ever have faith in the future? I should never even be able to enjoy those rare moments of effusive confidences that sometimes shine so brilliantly from out the stormy clouds of passion. In a word, isolation alarmed me,—it would crush me under its weight of coldness and dullness,—and without knowing the reason, the life of society affrighted me. Like a wretched man, seized with vertigo, I saw the abyss in all its horror, and yet a fatal and irresistible attraction dragged me towards it.

Filled with such thoughts and such fears, I determined to make every attempt to destroy in Hélène's heart the dreadful impression I must have left there.

The fifth day after that fatal scene I was permitted to pay a visit to my aunt. I found her very pale, very much changed. In our long conversation I confessed everything to her, my frightful doubts and what had caused them, my heartless conduct towards Hélène, her indignation and scorn upon hearing my miserably sordid suspicions. But I also told her under whose influence I had yielded in acting so cruelly; I recalled to her the soul-chilling maxims of my father; I sought an excuse by telling her of the indelible impression those precepts had made on me; I showed her what an unfortunate position Hélène would hold in the eyes of the world, should she persist in her determination to have no more to do with me. These rumours were calumnies, as we knew, but they existed; and then on my knees, and in the name of Hélène's future, I begged her mother to intercede in my behalf.

My aunt, being kind and generous, was touched, for my grief was profound and real; she promised to speak with her daughter, to try and overcome her objections, and to induce her to accept my hand.

Hélène continued to refuse to see me.

At last, two days afterwards, my aunt came to inform me that, having at last overcome Hélène's violent objections to seeing me, she had induced her to grant me an interview, but she was entirely ignorant as to what decision Hélène would come.

I went with her mother to her room. I was in a state of excitement impossible to describe. When I entered, I was greatly shocked at Hélène's appearance; she seemed to have suffered greatly, but her manner was cool, calm, and dignified.

"I have sent for you, monsieur," said she, in a firm and penetrating voice, "to inform you of the decision I have taken after much reflection. It is very humiliating to me to remind you of an avowal which was so cruelly received, but I owe it to myself and to my mother. I loved you, and believing myself sure of the nobility and truth of the sentiments you had declared to me, trusting in the elevation of your nature, more from instinct than reflection, I had placed such blind confidence in you that our affectionate relation to one another passed in the eyes of the world for a guilty love,—so that at this very hour, monsieur, my reputation has been shamefully defamed."

"Hélène, believe me," I cried, "that my whole life—"

But imperiously making me a sign to be silent, she continued, "I have no one in the world but my mother to protect me; and, besides, if the most unfounded calumny always leaves an indelible stain, a calumny which is based on undeniable appearances ruins a woman's character for ever. I find, myself, then, monsieur, placed between dishonour, if I do not exact from you the only reparation public opinion ever accepts, or a miserable existence, in case I accept from you this reparation; for the doubts that you have expressed, and the words you have spoken, will remain engraved in my mind for ever and ever."

"No, Hélène," I cried out, "the tenderest and truest words, the most sincere repentance will chase those dreadful words from your heart, if you will only be generous to be guided by a heaven-sent inspiration!" And I threw myself at her knees.

She made me rise, and continued, with a sang-froid which chilled my blood: "You must understand, monsieur, that, being perfectly indifferent to the opinion of a man whom I no longer esteem, and clear in my conscience, I prefer to pass in your eyes as mercenary—"

"Hélène! Hélène! have pity on me!"

"Than to pass in the eyes of the world as infamous," she added; "therefore, that reparation which you have offered me, I accept it."

"Hélène, my dear child," said her mother, throwing herself into Hélène's arms, "Arthur, too, is generous and good; he has been out of his senses; have pity on him."

"Hélène," said I, with exaltation, "I know your character,—you would have preferred dishonour to that life with a man you despise, if your instinct had not told you that, in spite of a moment of frightful error, I was still worthy of your love!"

Hélène shook her head, and, blushing with the recollection of the indignity put upon her, added:

"Do not believe it. At such a solemn time, I neither wish to deceive you, nor ought to do so. The wound is incurable; never, no, never, shall I forget that once you suspected me of being vile."

"Yes, yes! you will forget it, Hélène, and I know in the depths of my heart that the future will be as happy as the past."

"I shall never forget it, I tell you," said Hélène, with her habitual firmness. "So reflect upon what you are about to do. There is still time; nothing binds you, except your honour. You can still refuse me what I have required you to do; but do not believe that I shall ever change. I tell you that for all the remainder of my life my heart is separated from yours by a dreadful abyss."

"Believe it then, be it so," said I to Hélène, for I felt reassured by the promptings of all my former tenderness. "Believe it if you must! What does it matter to me? But your hand,—but the right to make you forget all the misery that I was the cause of, this is what I claim, this what I desire, what I accept, what I beg of you on my knees."

"You really wish this?" said Hélène, fixing a penetrating look on me, and seeming for a moment to hesitate.

"I implore it of you as I desire my eternal salvation; I beg it of you as my life's only destiny! Ah," said I, with the tears in my eyes, "I beg it of you with as much religious fervour as though I were asking it of God."

"Then it shall be so; I grant you my hand," said Hélène, as she turned away her eyes to hide the first sign of emotion she had exhibited since the beginning of our interview.

I was the happiest of men. I knew too well Hélène's susceptibility not to have expected all these reproaches. Her heart had been so cruelly stricken that the wound would remain for a long time open and bleeding. I knew that it would take many days, many years of tender and delicate care to heal this wound; but I felt so certain of my love, so happy in my belief in the future, that I had no doubt as to my success. Noble and loyal as I knew Hélène to be, her promise showed me that, though she still felt resentment, she had not lost all esteem for me; that she had read my secret thoughts, and was persuaded that, in expressing the horrid thought which had so grievously distressed her, I had only been the involuntary echo of my father's pessimistic maxims.

We soon after started for the city of ——, where Hélène and her mother had always lived.

Our marriage, which was announced with certain formality, was set for a date in the near future, for I had besought Hélène to hasten the happy moment as much as the exigencies of the necessary publicity would allow.

My heart beat high with hope and love. Hélène never appeared so beautiful. Her ordinary expression of sweetness and tenderness had given place to a proud and melancholy look, which gave to her features an expression of superiority. I saw grandeur and noble self-esteem in the determination she had shown in thus braving my offensive suspicions, being conscious all the time of her own innocence. So I allowed myself to form all kinds of smiling plans for the future. I was almost pleased by the coolness with which Hélène continued to treat me, because I took it as a sign of a generous nature which suffers all the more keenly because of its more exquisite sensibility.

The cruel indecision which had so alarmed me when thinking of my future had changed into a serene and peaceful certitude. All was radiant on the horizon. It was to be a life such as I had dreamed of and already begun to experience at Serval; a calm and contented existence; and then every victory I should win over Hélène's sad resentment would be a delight. I thought, with inexpressible joy, that I would have to begin all over again to gain Hélène's love. With what pleasure I contemplated the means I would take to heal that sad wound! I felt in myself such a wealth of tenderness, of devotion, and of love that I felt certain of bringing back to that adorable face its old look of confiding and ingenuous goodness, of fixing for ever on those charming lips their ineffable smile of other days, in place of the serious disdain which they now expressed. I hoped to see that stern and scornful look soften little by little,—from scornful become severe, then sad, then melancholy—kindly—tender—and finally to read in its smiling azure this blessed word, Pardon!

Everything delighted me, even to the most trifling details of the preparations for our union; I was as interested in them all as a child. As I did not wish to be separated from Hélène, I had written to a friend of my mother, a woman of the most perfect taste, to send me from Paris everything she could think of that was elegant, select, and splendid for the wedding corbeille of Hélène.

I remember how all these presents were brought by my intendant from Serval, in two of my carriages. I had made a great show of this ceremony of presentation. The two carriages, the servants, and the horses were all gaily decorated, and went at a respectful walk to the door of Hélène's house, to the great admiration of the townsfolk.

When all these marvels of taste and sumptuousness were spread out in my aunt's salon, and Hélène came in, my heart beat with joy and excitement as I watched to see her look of surprise at the sight of such beautiful presents.

The look was indifferent, absent-minded, even ironical.

At first this caused me horrible chagrin; my eyes filled with tears; I had, alas! spent so much time, so much thought, in the selection and presentation of these first gifts. But very soon I began to think that nothing could be more natural and to be expected from Hélène, as I had always known how little she cared for useless luxury. After having accused her of mercenary motives, how could she be pleased at this foolish display of my wealth?

At last the day for signing the contract arrived. In provincial towns this is a great solemnity, and numerous friends were invited to assist at this function.

Hélène was still at her toilet, we waited for her some time in my aunt's salon; while I was receiving all sorts of stupid congratulations with the most politeness I could summon, the notary came and asked me if nothing was to be changed in the conditions of the contract, so strange did they seem to his clerk; I replied "no," with a great deal of impatience.

In this contract, which I had kept secret, I had left to Hélène the whole disposition of my fortune. The only thing that surprised me was that Hélène should have allowed me to make such an arrangement, but I attributed this to the extreme repugnance she must feel to enter into any business details. At last Hélène appeared in the salon: she was rather pale and seemed somewhat moved. I can see her still as she entered, wearing a simple white dress, with a pale blue sash. Her splendid hair fell on each side of her face in soft fair curls, and was simply twisted up at the back of her head, Nothing could have been more enchanting, fresher, or more charming than this apparition, which seemed to suddenly change the aspect of everything in the salon.

Hélène sat down beside her mother and I seated myself at her side.

The notary made a gesture recommending silence, and began the reading of the contract.

When he came to the clause in which I willed all my fortune to Hélène, my heart beat fearfully, and covered with confusion, almost shame, I cast down my eyes, fearing to meet her glance. At last that clause was read.

Every one was aware of the mediocrity of my aunt's fortune, and therefore my generosity was received with a murmur of approbation. It was only then that I at last dared to raise my eyes and glance at Hélène; she saw me, and the look she gave me caused me to shudder, so cold was it, so disdainful, almost malicious.

The reading of the contract was over.

Just when the notary arose to present Hélène with the pen in order that she might affix her signature, she arose, and, standing erect and imposing, said these words:

"I wish now to say that, for a reason which does not reflect on the honour of M. le Comte Arthur, my cousin, it is impossible for me to bestow upon him my hand." Then, turning towards me, she handed me a letter, saying: "This letter will explain to you the motive of my conduct, monsieur, for we need never meet each other again." And bowing with modest confidence, she left the room, accompanied by her mother, who shared in the general amazement.

Every one left the room.

You can imagine what commotion and scandal such an adventure as this would make in the little town and in the whole province.

I found myself alone in the salon,—I was completely crushed. It was not until some moments afterwards that I remembered Hélène's letter and concluded to read it.

This letter, which I have kept ever since, was as follows. Eight years have passed since then. I have experienced very varied and distressing emotions; but I yet feel an aggrieved and vindictive glow when I read these lines so filled with an uncontrollable and overwhelming scorn.

"After the calumnious reports which had attainted my reputation, and which were brought about by the levity of your conduct towards me, it was needful that I should have public and notorious reparation; I have had it,—I am satisfied. In seeing me thus renounce, voluntarily, a union which, so far as money was concerned, would have been so advantageous to me, the world will easily believe that marriage was not necessary for my rehabilitation, since I have openly declined it.

"You have been very blind, very presumptuous, or else devoid of all generous resentment, since you have been able to believe for a moment that I did not altogether and for ever despise you from the time you said to me,—to me, Hélène, who had loved you from childhood, and who had just made you an avowal in all confidence and loyalty: 'Hélène, you planned it all; your vows, your affection, your souvenirs, were all falsehoods and deceptions; it is only an infamous speculation, for all you care for is my fortune.' Such suspicion kills the most intense affection. I would have pardoned you for anything else, deception, inconstancy, abandon, because, no matter how culpable or criminal a passion may be, the very word passion serves as an excuse for it; but that cold, hostile, and hideously selfish distrust, which, brooding over its treasure, can suspect the most generous feelings to be caused by base cupidity or a sordid nature, is unpardonable. You lie and blaspheme, when you dare to invoke the memory of your father. Your father was unfortunate enough to believe in evil, but he was generous enough to do good. Do not speak to me of repentance. Your first thought was a vile one. All the rest came on reflection, from shame of your own baseness. I think all the worse of you on this account, for you have not even energy enough to persist in evil; you are ashamed of it, but not sorry for it."

I can never give an idea of the confusion, the rage, the hate, the despair, that took possession of me after I had read this letter, and found myself so mocked at and unjustly accused; for, after all, this doubt had entered my mind from some superhuman influence, I did not feel that I was vile. My regret, my resolve to marry Hélène in spite of her disdain, the disposition I had made of my fortune, proved to me that I was capable of noble and generous inspirations.

Nevertheless, on remembering how tenderly I had been loved, and beholding myself so deeply despised, I understood that all hope was lost; and then I felt, as before, a sort of vertigo come upon me as I saw such a sudden change come over my life; it was as though from that moment I resolutely abandoned myself to destruction, and, with a heartbroken cry of regret, I exclaimed:

"Hélène, you have been pitiless to me; perhaps one day you will have to answer for my ruined life."

That same night I set forth for Paris, wishing to arrive there in midwinter and in the heart of the season, when I could benumb my griefs by the distractions of its exciting and dissipating life.

CHAPTER XI

PORTRAITS