"M. le comte, this is a letter from the princess. I have gained four hours upon M. le comte. I could do no more."
The letter just contained these words:
"My daughter is dying—is dying—and my sole hope is in you."
"You must turn back," I cried to the postilions, "return to the stage. And you," I said to the courier, "can you gallop all the way back to Paris, and have horses ready for me at the stages?"
"Certainly, M. le comte."
"Then mount, and be off."
The good fellow turned back at full speed on the road to Paris.
"But, monsieur," said my man of business, in dismay, "you cannot go back to Paris; here we are just at Havre."
I looked at him in astonishment.
"Why not?"
"But this failure, monsieur," he exclaimed; "an hour may lose all, and fifty thousand dollars are at stake!"
I had entirely forgotten the purport of my journey.
"You are right," said I. "You are not more than a mile from Havre; oblige me by walking that distance, and arrange matters as best you can."
I had the carriage door opened.
"But, monsieur, once more, it is impossible," resumed the astounded man; "without you I can do nothing. I do not even have your power of attorney. Without you my presence is utterly useless. Come at least as far as Havre; we shall go to a notary, you will give me a power of attorney, and then—"
I was boiling with impatience. "Monsieur," said I, hastily, "you will go on to Havre without me, or you will return to Paris with me. The door is open; you can get down, or remain."
"But, monsieur—"
"Close the door, and off for Paris!" I exclaimed.
The agent at once left the carriage, saying to me, with an air of despair, "As you please, monsieur. I shall have nothing to reproach myself with. You may as well look upon these fifty thousand dollars as lost. Send me, at least, your power of attorney, registered, etc."
I did not hear the rest. The horses had started at full speed.
In my whole life, I had never travelled with such velocity.
At Versailles, I gave orders to stop in Paris a little way, before reaching Madame de Fersen's door.
When I arrived, I saw the street was strewn with straw.
Reflecting that I might possibly have to remain at Madame de Fersen's, and not wishing to have it known, I instructed my servant to take my carriage home, and tell my people that I had remained at Havre, and would return by the steamer.
I entered the mansion.
The slightest details of this dreadful scene are still present to my mind.
Midnight struck as I entered the antechamber of Madame de Fersen's apartment.
It was dark, and I found none of her people about. This seemed to me very strange. Led by a dim light, I crossed several rooms, only one of which was faintly lighted; my heart shrank with terror.
As I reached a half-open door, stifled sobs greeted my ear.
Noiselessly I pushed the door open.
Gracious heavens! what a picture!
Irene's cot, placed next to her mother's bed, occupied the end of the room facing the door.
Kneeling by the bedside, Catherine held one of the child's hands in hers.
I could not see the face of the unfortunate mother, only from time to time a sudden, convulsive movement shook her frame.
At the left side was Frank, the great painter, Hélène's husband.
Seated on a low chair, he sketched Irene's dying countenance.
A harrowing remembrance, which, no doubt, Madame de Fersen wished to preserve.
Frank, by means of a shade, had so arranged the lamp that the full light fell on Irene's face.
The rest of the apartment was plunged into almost total darkness.
A tall man, in a fur-lined coat, stood at the foot of the cot. His hair was white; his prominent bald forehead shone like old ivory; a ray of bright light brought out his sharply marked profile.
This was Doctor Ralph, Madame de Fersen's medical attendant.
He seemed watching with an anxious eye the slightest change in Irene's face.
In a dark corner of the room the nurse was seated, leaning her head against the wall, and scarcely able to smother her sobs.
As I entered, her sobbing became so uncontrollable that, holding her handkerchief to her mouth, she left the room.
I, also, was weeping bitterly at the sight of that angelic, childish face, so tender, so resigned, which, in spite of approaching death, preserved a character of sublime serenity.
Brilliantly lighted, her pale face stood out vividly against the white pillows; her beautiful black locks fell in disorder, covering her forehead; her large eyes half closed, and encircled by dark rings, showed under the heavy lids her half-extinct pupils. From her pretty half-open mouth, from her lips, formerly so roseate, and now so discoloured, came forth a panting breath, and often a feeble plaintive murmur. This poor little face, formerly so plump, so fresh and childlike, was already becoming livid.
From time to time the unhappy child moved her hands restlessly into space, or turned her head heavily on her pillows, with a deep sigh. Then she again became frightfully still.
Frank's face, which I had not seen for two years, wore an expression of heart-breaking sadness.
He, also, could not repress his tears every time he glanced at the face of the dying child.
The calmness, the silence of this scene, which I seized at one glance, made such an impression upon me that for an instant I stood rooted to the threshold.
Madame de Fersen turned towards the clock, then shook her head, with a gesture of despair.
I understood, she was beginning to lose faith in me.
I pushed the door open.
Catherine saw me; in an instant she was at my side, and drawing me to the cot, she said, in a heartrending tone, "Save her! have pity on me, and save her!"
Madame de Fersen's voice was low and broken; her beautiful face was tear-stained and worn; yet under this appearance of weakness one felt the superhuman energy which always sustains a mother, so long as her child needs her.
"One moment," said Doctor Ralph, in a low, solemn voice. "This is our last hope, let us not take too great a risk."
The unhappy woman hid her face in her hands.
"I have told you, madame," said the doctor, showing a vial containing a dark liquid, "this potion will restore this child to consciousness, will light up the faint spark of intelligence which still remains, perhaps. Then the sight of the person who exercises on her so strange an influence may work a miracle, for, alas! madame, nothing but a miracle can bring your child back to life."
"I know it, I know it," said Catherine, choking back her tears, "I am prepared for the worst. But, tell me, the potion,—what effect will it have?"
"I can answer for its immediate effects; but not for the consequences that may follow."
"What is to be done? Mon Dieu! what is to be done?" cried Catherine, in accents of anguish.
"Do not hesitate, madame," I said; "since all hope is gone, accept the only chance that remains!"
"I am of the same opinion, do not hesitate, madame," said Frank, who shared our emotion.
"Proceed, monsieur," whispered Madame de Fersen, in an accent of desperate determination; and she knelt down by her child's cot.
Her lips moved in prayer.
She, Frank, and I fixed upon the doctor sorrowing and apprehensive looks.
He alone was calm, as with slow and silent steps he approached Irene's bedside.
At the sight of his tall figure, his austere countenance, his long white hair, his peculiar garb, one might have supposed him a man gifted with some occult power, ready to perform by a potion some mysterious charm.
He poured into a golden spoon a few drops of the liquid contained in the vial.
Madame de Fersen took it, and approached the spoon to the child's lips.
But her hand trembled to such an extent that the liquid was spilled.
"I am afraid," said she, with a frightened look.
She gave back the spoon to the doctor. He filled it once more, and with a firm hand put it to Irene's lips.
The child swallowed it without reluctance.
It is impossible to express the intense alarm, the mortal anguish, with which we watched the effects of the potion.
The doctor himself, eagerly bending over the bed, watched Irene's face with anxious eyes.
Soon the potion began to work.
By degrees, Irene began moving her arms and hands, and her cheeks assumed a faint tinge of colour. Several times she quickly turned her head on her pillow, moaned piteously, closed her eyes, and then opened them.
The lamp was in front of her, and the bright light seemed painful, for she covered her eyes with her hands.
"She sees! she sees!" cried the doctor, with an alacrity that seemed to us of good omen.
"She is saved!" exclaimed Catherine, clasping her hands, as if in thanks to Heaven.
"No rash expectation, madame!" said Doctor Ralph, austerely and almost harshly. "I have already told you this semblance of life is deceptive. It is like galvanism which gives motion to a dead body, and a breath may snap the invisible cord which binds this child to life." Then, turning to me, he added: "It will be your turn, monsieur, presently to endeavour to strengthen that feeble thread. I solemnly declare, if that child lives, which, alas! I scarcely dare to hope, it is to you she will owe it, for known science does not work such miracles."
"God alone can work them," said Frank, in a solemn voice.
"Or certain mysterious and magnetic influences which one must concede without understanding them," added the doctor.
The stimulus of the potion upon Irene became more and more apparent. Two or three times she sighed deeply, held forth her arms, and then murmured, in a feeble voice: "Mother! Arthur!"
"Now," said the doctor, "take one of the child's hands in yours, monsieur, and let the other be in her mother's; come as close to her as possible, and call her, softly, slowly, so that the sound may have time to reach her feeble hearing."
I took hold of one of Irene's hands, her mother held the other.
Her hand was cold and moist.
I leaned over Irene. Her big eyes, looking still larger since her illness, wandered around as if in search of some one.
"Irene—Irene—I am here," I said, in a low voice.
"Irene—my child—your mother is here also," said Catherine, with an accent of passionate and fearful anxiety impossible to describe.
At first the child did not seem to hear us.
"Irene—it is your friend—it is Arthur and your mother. Do you not hear her?"
"Your mother—mon Dieu! your mother is near you!" repeated Catherine.
This time the child's look no longer wandered. She moved her head suddenly, as if a sound from afar had reached her.
"How is her hand?" inquired the doctor, in a whisper.
"Still cold," I answered.
"Still cold," rejoined the mother.
"That is bad, you are not yet en rapport,—continue."
"Irene—dear child—angel—do you hear me? It is I—Arthur," I whispered.
Irene raised her eyes, and met mine fastened on her.
I had often heard magnetic attraction spoken of, and this time I experienced its action and reaction.
I fixed an eager and despairing glance upon Irene. By degrees, as if her eyes took life from mine, they lost their dullness, they became clear, bright, beaming with intelligence.
On her countenance, returning to life, I could follow the progress of her thoughts, of her awakening mind.
She threw out her arms, and an angelic smile lighted on her lips.
Too weak to raise her head, she sought her mother with her glance.
Catherine bent over the bed, still holding, as I did, one of Irene's hands.
After looking at us for a moment, the child gently brought together her mother's hand and mine; her eyes suffused with tears, and she wept freely.
When my hand touched Catherine's, my heart received an electric shock. For a moment I heard no more, I saw no more. I held Catherine's and Irene's hands in mine, and became unconscious of the contact.
It seemed to me that a flood of electricity surrounded us, and blended us in one.
This impression was deep, inexplicable, almost painful. When I regained consciousness, I heard the doctor exclaiming, "She has shed tears! she is saved!"
"You have given her back to me," said Catherine, falling on her knees before me.
This healing crisis saved Irene.
During the month of convalescence I left her neither by day nor by night.
In the early days of spring, Doctor Ralph urged Madame de Fersen to go to the country with her daughter, and recommended the vicinity of Fontainebleau.
Madame de Fersen having seen a very pretty cottage, called the Grove, had secured it, and the necessary repairs having been made, it was decided we should take up our residence there the first days of May.
If my continuous abode at Madame de Fersen's house had been known, it would have provoked the most odious comments. Consequently, the morning after the crisis, which had proved so favourable to Irene, I told her mother that she must forbid access to her apartment to every one, with the exception of the doctor, the nurse, and one of her maids, on whose discretion she could rely.
I had occupied during Irene's illness a vacant entresol, of which the windows opened on an uninhabited piece of ground, thus my return to Paris and my presence at Catherine's house was unknown to every one.
Madame de Fersen took to Fontainebleau only the same people who had been in attendance on her during her little girl's illness, the nurse and two maids. The rest of the household remained in Paris.
She asked me to follow her to the Grove in two days.
She took her departure.
The next morning I received from her most detailed instructions about finding my way to the small park gate at the Grove.
At the appointed hour I was at that gate; I knocked, and it was opened.
The sun was about setting, but it still threw some warm rays across the green lacework and violet clusters of an arbour of glycynia, under which Catherine was waiting for me with Irene, whose hand she was holding.
Was it intentional, or was it mere chance? I know not, but like the day when for the first time I saw her on board the Russian frigate, Catherine wore a gauzy white gown and a lace head-dress ornamented with a spray of red geranium.
The trials through which she had passed had made her fall away, but she was still beautiful, and even more lovely than beautiful. Her figure, as heretofore, was elegant and stately; her countenance noble, gracious, and pensive; her large, soft eyes of a perfect blue were fringed with long, dark lashes; the heavy tresses of her jet black hair framed her brow, lofty and sad, and her face paled by sorrow.
Irene, like her mother, was dressed in white; her long dark hair was tied with ribbons and fell to her waist, and her lovely face, though still pensive and sad, showed scarcely any traces of her recent sufferings.
Catherine's first impulse was to take her child in her arms, and, placing her in mine, she said, with great emotion, "Is she not now your Irene also?"
And amid her tears her eyes shone with joy and gratitude.
There are emotions which one cannot attempt to describe, for they are as vast as the infinite.
This first outburst of happiness passed, Madame de Fersen said to me, "Now I must show you to your apartment."
I offered Catherine my arm, Irene took my hand, and allowed them to lead me.
For some time we kept silent.
After following a long avenue, rapidly becoming dark as the sun sank below the horizon, we came to a clearing on the outskirts of the wood.
"Here is your cottage," said Madame de Fersen.
My cottage was a sort of Swiss chalet, half hidden in a mass of pink acacias, of linden-trees and lilacs. It was built on the edge of a small lake, on a foundation of great boulders of that flinty rock found in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. This structure having been erected as a point of observation, every advantage had been taken to make the most of its charming position.
A thick carpet of periwinkles, of ivy, of moss, and wild strawberry covered almost entirely the whitish rocks, and from each cranny sprouted a tuft of iris, of rhododendron, or heather.
On the other side of the lake a beautiful lawn, surrounded by the woods, rose in a gentle incline up to the front of the house occupied by Madame de Fersen, and which might be seen from a distance.
The sight was limited on all sides by a ring of verdure, formed by the thick woods surrounding the high walls of the park, and hiding them completely.
One might have wished more variety in the prospect; but as our life at the Grove was to be surrounded by the most profound mystery, this extensive and impenetrable barrier of leafage was very precious.
After a few minutes we reached the foot of the steps leading to the cottage. Madame de Fersen drew a small key from her belt and opened the front door.
At a glance I saw that she had been the presiding genius in the arrangement of the two rooms. Everything was of excessive but elegant simplicity. I found flowers on every side; also a piano, a painter's easel, and some books which she had heard me mention as my favourites.
Pointing out to me an ebony cabinet frame with doors richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Madame de Fersen asked me to open it. On one side I found the exquisite sketch which Frank had made of the dying Irene, and on the other side a recent portrait of Irene also painted by Frank.
I took Catherine's hand and carried it to my lips, with a feeling of inexpressible gratitude.
She herself pressed her hand to my lip with an impulse full of tenderness. She then turned and passionately embraced her child.
I closed the panel, still more touched by this mark of Catherine's remembrance, for I had expressed to her my views regarding portraits exposed to the gaze of all.
When we left the cottage, the purple and gold of the dying sun was mirrored in the bosom of the lake. The acacias were dropping their roseate and fragrant petals. No sound was heard; on all sides the horizon was bounded by dark masses of verdure; we found ourselves in the midst of the most profound solitude, the most peaceful, the most mysterious.
Impressed by the sight of this sad and touching picture, Catherine leaned on the balcony of the chalet, and remained a few minutes plunged in reverie.
Irene sat at her feet, and began to gather roses and honeysuckle to make a bouquet.
I leaned against the door, and could not help feeling a pang of anguish as I looked upon Madame de Fersen.
I was going to pass long days near this woman, so passionately loved, and delicacy forbade my speaking one word of this deep and ardent love, which circumstances recently had combined to increase.
I knew not if I was beloved, or, rather, I despaired of being loved; it seemed to me that fate, which had brought Madame de Fersen and me together, by the death-bed of her child, during a month of terrible anguish, had been too tragic to end in so tender a sentiment.
I was absorbed in these sad thoughts, when Madame de Fersen made a quick movement, as if she were aroused from a dream, and said to me, "Pardon me, but it is so long since I breathed air so fragrant and invigorating that I selfishly enjoy this lovely nature."
Irene divided her bouquet in two, gave one half to her mother, the other to me, and we then started towards the house.
We reached it after a long walk, for the park was very extensive.
THE GROVE, 10th May, 18—.[6]
It is eleven o'clock; I have just left Madame de Fersen. Here am I in the chalet, which, henceforward, I am to occupy near her!
I experience a strange emotion.
Events have succeeded each other with such rapidity, my heart has been torn by such conflicting passions, that I feel the necessity of reviewing my memories, my desires, and my hopes.
I therefore resume my journal, interrupted after my departure from Khios.
My thoughts press so confusedly upon my brain that I hope to clear them by writing. I act like those who, unable to make a mental calculation, are obliged to have recourse to pencil and paper.
What for me will be the end of this love? Doctor Ralph has formally declared to Madame de Fersen that, for a long time yet, my presence is indispensable to Irene's perfect recovery, and that, for two or three months longer, it was absolutely necessary to soothe the child's imagination, and not give her the slightest shock or the least sorrow, these emotions being the more dangerous for her in that they were so profoundly concentrated.
Doctor Ralph attributes the attraction which I have for Irene to magnetic and mysterious affinities and he cites many examples, both among human beings and animals. He is unable, however, to offer any explanation of this. As I said, this attraction places me in a singular position.
The effect of my presence or absence upon this child is a proven and undeniable fact. For the past year Irene has had three or four attacks, sometimes slight, others serious and almost fatal, whose sole origin was her grief at not seeing me, and, above all, at not seeing me near her mother; for the nurse has since told me that even our meetings at the Tuileries did not quite satisfy Irene, who pined for the time spent on board the frigate.
My presence, therefore, is, one may say, the tie that binds Irene to life.
Were it not for my love, my passion for Catherine, were it not for the deep interest her child inspires in me, this imperious obligation to remain ever at Irene's side would be both painful and embarrassing.
But I worship her mother! When I compare other passions which I have experienced to that which she inspires, I find this the truest of all; and, seeing her daily, brought near her by the most startling and mysterious circumstances, most apt to bring the most passive love to a point of exaltation, I still must be silent; Catherine for me must be sacred as a sister, as a friend!
Can I, in the name of my past devotedness, in the name of the fatal influence I exercise over Irene, approach Catherine, professing my love, and expressing my hopes?
It would be base, it would be despicable.
And if the unhappy mother were to think—oh, Heaven!—that I demanded her love as the price for my presence near her child!
Ah, this thought is horrible!
My resolution is taken, irrevocably taken.
Never shall a word of love pass my lips.
THE GROVE, 11th May, 18—.
My best deeds bring me bad luck,—one reason the more for keeping silent.
This morning the newspapers were brought in.
Madame de Fersen opened one, and began to read.
All at once she ceased to read, I saw her shiver and blush deeply; then, with an expression of dumb surprise, lowering her hands to her knees, she shook her head, as if she were saying, "Is this really possible!"
Looking at me with eyes filled with tears, she quickly rose, and left the room.
Not knowing what might have caused this keen emotion, I picked up the newspaper, and the following lines soon explained to me Madame de Fersen's dismay.
"It is well known that a month ago the firm —— & Co. failed for a sum amounting to several millions. The head of the firm secretly embarked for the United States. A few creditors, warned by alarming rumours as to the solvency of the firm, were in time to withdraw a portion of their funds. M. Dumont, business agent of M. le Comte de ——, involved in this bankruptcy to the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, has not been equally fortunate; although he had come to Havre to ward off this disaster, he was not provided with the necessary papers, and as the bankruptcy was considered fraudulent, he laid his complaint before the district attorney, but in view of the assets amounting to scarcely eighty thousand francs, the numerous creditors of the firm —— must look upon their funds as lost."
Madame de Fersen knew of my hurried departure for Havre, for her courier had overtaken me before I reached that town. I had returned immediately, and the date of my return coincided with that of the bankruptcy. It was therefore evident to Catherine that my eagerness to return to the dying Irene was the sole cause of the severe loss I had sustained. Thus now, more than ever, should I appear to demand a reward for my sacrifices.
While mechanically skimming the newspaper, beneath the article which I have quoted, I came upon the following paragraph, which also concerned me.
The paper which I was reading was a semi-official journal, and might be considered well informed.
"Many changes are imminent in our corps diplomatique. Among those mentioned as likely to be called to a prominent position in foreign affairs is M. le Comte Arthur de ——, who, though still young, has strong claims to this favour on account of his travels, his researches, and the conscientious work to which he has devoted himself for some time past, as chief secretary of his Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs. These particulars, for whose accuracy we can vouch, prove clearly that when high birth and the advantages of fortune accompany an eminent and recognised capacity, everything may be expected from the favours of the king's ministry."
This article evidently emanated from the office of M. de Sérigny, who thought, perhaps, that it would give me pleasure if, during my absence, he asked the king some favour for me.
I must confess, this piece of news left me indifferent, and I went in search of Catherine.
I found her in an avenue of the park.
"I know all," she said, holding out her hand. "Another sacrifice," she continued, raising her eyes to heaven. "And I, what have I done for him?"
These words went to my heart, and produced so great, so sweet an emotion, that, in spite of myself, my hopes once more were aroused, but, controlling my thoughts, and wishing to change the subject, I said:
"Do you not congratulate me on my future successes?"
She looked at me in amazement.
"What successes?"
"Have you not read to-day's paper?"
"Yes, I have. But of what success are you speaking?"
"They say in this paper that very soon I shall be called to a very important position at the Foreign Office."
Catherine, without appearing to have heard me, replied:
"Will you make me a promise?"
"What is it?"
"I shall send Irene to you to the chalet, but I do not wish to see you to-day. You will not be vexed with me?" she said, sadly, to me, holding out her hand.
"No, certainly not," I said, much surprised, however, at this sudden determination.
THE GROVE, 13th May, 18—.
How long is it since this journal was interrupted? I know not. I cannot remember.
Besides, what do I know now? What do I remember?
All that has happened, is it not a dream, a dream so dazzling that I ask myself where is the limit of reality? Where ends the dream? Where commences the awakening?
Dream, memory, awakening! These are vain words, and faded, which I used before this day.
I wish now for new words to describe what I had never before felt.
Not only does it seem to me impossible to use the words of other days to describe my feelings of to-day, it seems to me a blasphemy, a profanation.
Am I not the dupe of a delusion? Is it I, my own self, who is writing this at the Grove, in the chalet?
Yes, yes, it is my own self. I am looking at the clock which points to the hour of five. I see the lake reflecting the rays of the sun. I hear the trees rustling in the breeze. I scent the fragrance of the flowers, and in the distance I see her dwelling,—hers.
It is not, then, a dream?
Let me see, let me gather my thoughts, let me go back step by step to the source of that torrent of happiness which intoxicates me.
What day is this? I know not. Ah, yes, it is Sunday. She went to mass this morning, and there she wept, she wept abundantly.
Blessed be those precious tears!
But when did we receive those papers? Ah, here they are,—it was the day before yesterday.
The day before yesterday! 'Tis strange! If years had passed since that day it would not seem to me further away!
Between the past of yesterday, which was almost indifferent to us, and the present to-day, which is all in all to us, is there not the distance of centuries?
Yes, it was the day before yesterday that Catherine begged me to leave her to herself.
I obeyed her wishes, but felt very sad.
Irene came to play on the steps of the chalet.
The dinner bell sounded.
Instead of appearing at table, as usual, Catherine sent word begging me to dine by myself, for she was suffering.
In the evening the air was sultry. Catherine came down to the parlours. I found her looking very pale.
"I am stifling," she said, "I am restless, nervous, agitated, the weather is so stormy."
She then asked me to give her my arm, as she was going to walk in the park. Contrary to her custom, she requested Madame Paul, Irene's nurse, to follow us with the little girl.
We followed the winding avenue of the woods, and soon came upon the arbour, covered with glycynia, where she had waited for me with Irene the first day of my arrival at the Grove.
I know not whether it was emotion, or fatigue, or indisposition, but Catherine complained of feeling tired, and seated herself on a bench.
The sun had just set; the sky was covered with clouds, gilded by the last rays of the sun. Almost continuously the entire hemisphere was illumined with vivid flashes of summer lightning, which Irene watched with a curious and tranquil air.
Catherine did not speak, and seemed deeply absorbed.
Twilight had begun to darken the woods, when Irene, who was resting on her nurse's lap, fell asleep.
"Madame," said Madame Paul, "Mlle. Irene is falling asleep, and the doctor was very particular that she should not be exposed to the damp evening air."
"Let us go home," said Catherine, as she rose.
She felt so weak that she leaned on my arm with her whole weight.
We walked a few steps, but very slowly; Madame Paul was in front with Irene.
Suddenly I felt Catherine giving way, and she said, in a broken voice, "I cannot take another step, I am prostrated."
"Just make an effort," I said to her, "to reach the chalet, which is close at hand, and you can rest on the bench at the door."
"But, Irene!" she exclaimed, anxiously.
A turn in the road hid the nurse, who was already some way in advance.
I supported Catherine, and a few seconds later she was seated at the entrance of the chalet.
The threatening clouds had dispersed; at our feet we saw the lake reflecting the stars as they made their appearance; the perfume of flowers, rendered more acute by the warm and sultry weather, permeated the atmosphere; there was not a breath of air, not a sound.
The night was so soft, so balmy and clear, that in the uncertain light I could perfectly distinguish Catherine's features. My whole being seemed concentrated in my heart, which was beating violently.
Like Catherine, I felt overpowered, unnerved, by the warm, perfumed air which surrounded us.
Madame de Fersen was seated, resting on cushions, her head leaning on her hands.
The calm was so intense that I could hear Catherine's panting breath. I fell into a deep reverie, at once sad and blissful.
Never, perhaps, would I have a more favourable opportunity to unbosom myself to Catherine; but my scruples, and the dread of seeming to ask reward for a service rendered, kept me silent.
Suddenly she exclaimed:
"I implore you, do not leave me to my thoughts; let me hear your voice. Tell me all you wish, but speak to me; in the name of Heaven, speak to me!"
"What shall I say?" I replied, submissively.
"What matters!" she cried, clasping her hands in supplication; "what matters! only speak to me, drive from me the thoughts which possess me, have pity, or, rather, be pitiless,—accuse me, overwhelm me, tell me I am a thankless, selfish woman, base enough not to have the courage to be grateful," she continued, with increasing excitement, as if a secret long suppressed was now escaping her. "Do not soften your reproaches, for you cannot tell how deeply your resignation wounds me, you cannot tell how I long to find you less generous. For what can be said of a woman who meets a true, discreet friend, and for six months permits him to surround her with the most delicate, most assiduous, and respectful attentions, sees him devote himself to the least whims of her poor, suffering child, and who, one day, in all thanklessness, and for the idlest and most puerile of motives, coldly dismisses this friend? And this is not all. When this woman, in a terrible dilemma, again has need of him,—for she knows he alone can save her child's life,—she forthwith recalls him, well aware that she can demand everything from the self-denial of this brave heart; and he, sacrificing all, instantly returns to draw this child from the very jaws of death!"
"Hold, I pray you! Let us not recall these sad memories, let us only think of our present happiness," said I.
But Catherine appeared not to hear me, and continued with an ever increasing excitement which alarmed me:
"This friend, so good, so noble, has he ever attempted by a single word to speak of his admirable conduct? He has been the protecting genius of this woman and her child when both were suffering; and when he has saved them,—for to save the child is to save the mother,—he goes, proudly, silent, and reserved, happy doubtless in the good he has done, but seeming to fear the thanklessness or disdain the gratitude he has inspired."
Catherine's voice was growing more and more broken and gasping. I was almost frenzied by her words, but they seemed to me drawn from her by feverish excitation, and contrasted so forcibly with her habitual reserve that I feared her reason, until now so strong and clear, had yielded to the tardy reaction of the terrible experiences which had shaken her for the past six weeks.
"Catherine, Catherine!" I exclaimed. "You are too passionately devoted to your child for me ever to have doubted of your gratitude,—my dearest, most precious reward."
Catherine heard my reply, for she alluded to my words as she continued in a still more passionate accent:
"Oh, yes, yes; tell me, then, that the intoxicating, invincible sentiment that invades me at this moment is gratitude; tell me that nothing is more sacred, more holy and legitimate, than what I feel. A woman has certainly the right to devote her life to him who has restored her child to her, more especially when he, as generous as he is considerate, has never attempted to say one word of his hopes; therefore, is it not for her—for her—to come to him, and ask with joy, with pride, How can I ever reward so much love?"
"By returning it!" I exclaimed.
"By confessing that I have always returned it," said Catherine, in a subdued voice.
And her hands languorously fell into mine.
THE GROVE, 16th May, 18—.
Woe! Woe!
Since yesterday I have not seen her. Doctor Ralph arrived last night. He found her in great danger. He attributed this devouring fever, this terrible delirium, to reaction from the anguish which the unfortunate woman had repressed during her child's illness.
He does not know all.
Ah, her remorse must be terrible! How she must suffer, and I am not there, by her side,—and I cannot be there.
Ah, yes, I love her, I love her with all my strength. This intoxicating memory, which yesterday made me almost frenzied with love, to-day I curse it!
The sight of Irene hurts me. This morning the child came towards me, and I repulsed her. She is fateful to her mother, as, perhaps, she will be fateful to myself.
Doctor Ralph has just left me; there is no change for the better.
I observed a strange difference in him. This morning, on his arrival, he gave me his hand as usual cordially; the austere expression of his face generally assumed a look of benevolence on meeting me. This evening I gave him my hand, he did not grasp it. His glance seemed to me severe, interrogative. After having briefly informed me of the state of Catherine's health, he coldly left the room.
Can Catherine have betrayed herself in the wanderings of fever?
This thought is dreadful. Happily, there is near her no one but Irene's nurse and Doctor Ralph.
But what matter! what matter! This nurse is only a servant, and this doctor is but a stranger! And is she, so proud, because heretofore she had a right to be so, condemned henceforth to blush before these people!
If she has spoken, she is not aware of it, perhaps may never know it, but they know it, they, perhaps, have her secret and mine.
If with a word one could annihilate two persons at once, I believe I would utter that word.
THE GROVE, 17th May, 18—.
What is to be done, what will become of us, if Catherine so rapidly gets worse? Doctor Ralph will no longer take the sole responsibility, he will call in some consulting physicians, and then—
I cannot continue to write, my sobs stifle me.
This morning something very strange happened.
When the doctor announced to me that Catherine was worse, I came back here in the chalet; I wished to write down what I felt, for I cannot and will not confide to any one my joys and sorrows; so, when my heart overflows with grief or happiness, it is a great relief to me silently to confide to this journal.
When I heard of Catherine's renewed danger, my sufferings were so great that I wished to write, that is, to pour out my anguish.
This was impossible. I could only trace with a trembling hand the few lines at the head of this page, but was soon interrupted by my tears.
Then I went out into the park.
There, for the first time, I regretted—oh, bitterly regretted—that I possessed neither religious faith nor hope.
I might have prayed for Catherine.
There is certainly nothing more heartrending than to recognise the utter futility of addressing prayers to Heaven for a beloved being whom you fear to lose. In prayer you have some minutes of hope, you are fulfilling a duty, your sorrow at least has a language, which you believe is not quite barren.
But not to be able to say to any human or superhuman power, "Save her!" It is terrible.
I so painfully felt this helplessness, that in despair I fell on my knees, without having consciousness to whom my prayer was addressed. But firmly convinced, in that momentary hallucination, that my voice would be heard, I cried aloud: "Save her! Save her!" Then, in spite of myself, I experienced a glimmer of hope, I felt the consciousness of a duty fulfilled.
Later I blushed for what I called my weakness, my puerility.
Since my mind could not grasp, could not believe, the assertions which constitute the various human religions, what God was I imploring?
What power had succeeded in tearing from me this prayer, this last cry, this the last utterance of despair?
The crisis which the doctor feared did not take place.
Catherine is no better, but she is not worse, and yet her delirium continues.
Doctor Ralph's coldness towards me is still excessive.
Since her mother's illness, Irene has given frequent proofs of tenderness and feeling, which, though childlike, are serious and resolute like her character.
This morning she said to me: "My mother suffers very much, does she not?"
"Very much, my poor Irene."
"When a child is suffering, her mother comes to suffer in her stead, so that the little one may not suffer any more, is it not so?" she inquired, gravely.
Astonished at this reasoning, I looked at her attentively without replying. She continued:
"I wish to suffer in my mother's place, take me to the doctor."
This childish trait, which, under other circumstances, would have made me smile, gave me a heart pang, and I kissed Irene to conceal my tears.
THE GROVE, 17th May, 18—.
There is hope; the delirium ceases; an alarming prostration has followed. Doctor Ralph dreaded the heat of her fevered blood. Now he fears excessive languor, heart failure.
Her consciousness has returned. Her first utterance was her child's name.
The nurse told me that the doctor had not yet allowed Irene to go near her mother.
Twenty times have I been on the point of asking Madame Paul if Catherine had inquired after me, but I dared not.
THE GROVE, 18th May, 18—.
To-day, for the first time, Doctor Ralph permitted the nurse to take Irene to her mother.
I waited with anxious and irritable impatience for the moment when I would see Irene, hoping from her to have some particulars about her mother, perhaps a word, a remembrance, from Catherine.
Once returned to consciousness, I know not what course Madame de Fersen will take towards me.
During the paroxysm of remorseful despair which follows a first fault, a woman often hates the man to whom she has succumbed; she overwhelms him with reproaches as violent as her regrets, as vehement as her sorrow; it is on him alone the sole responsibility weighs for their guilt; she is not his accomplice, but his victim.
If her soul has remained pure, notwithstanding that for a moment she was involuntarily led astray, she takes the sincere resolution never again to see the man who has seduced her, and to have to weep over one sole betrayal, one sole defeat.
To this resolution she at first remains faithful.
She seeks, not to excuse, but to redeem her error, by the rigorous fulfilment of her duties; but the remembrance of her fault is there, ever there.
The more noble the heart, the more austere the conscience, so will the remorse be the more implacable. Then, alas! she suffers terribly, the poor creature, for she stands alone, and is compelled in secret to devour her tears, while to the world she still wears a smile.
Sometimes, again, she becomes frightened at her isolation, at that wordless concentration of her grief, and she resigns herself to ask for comfort and strength of the man who is the cause of her fall. She then implores him, for the sake of her remorse, to forget a moment of madness, and to be for her no more than the truest of friends, the confidant of the sorrows he has brought upon her. But, alas! almost always the unhappy woman has still more tears to shed.
Man, with the coarser instincts of his sex, does not realise the sublime struggle which woman endures between love and duty. The incessant torture, the menacing terrors aroused in her by the remembrance of outraged religion and family honour, these dreadful tortures are treated by man as ridiculous whims, as childish scruples, or the absurd influence of the confessional.
If the struggle is prolonged, if the unhappy woman passes her life in efforts to conceal a sorrow caused by her dishonour, and valiantly resists the commission of a second fault, the man is irritated, and revolts against these pruderies which wound his self-love and his eager and brutal passion to the quick; for one last time he reviles her virtue, her sorrows, and her courage by saying to this miserable woman that her return to high principles is somewhat tardy. Frenzied by a base desire for revenge, he at once rushes with his cynical nature to make a notorious display of some other intrigue.
He has been loved, he is still beloved! A virtuous and beautiful woman has jeopardised, for his sake, her happiness, her future, and that of her children! while he basely recoils from the least sacrifice.
How comes it that this man is so worthless, and yet so worshipped? Because woman loves man more for the qualities she attributes to him, and with which her sensitive nature adorns him, than for those he really possesses.
If, on the contrary, by a rare exception, a man realises all that is saintly and beautiful in this remorse, if he endeavours to comfort the sorrow of which he is the origin, the woman's gentleness and resignation may prove for her another pitfall.
Catherine,—will she be pursued by incessant remorse?
Like those women who, from an insatiable yearning for sympathy, or, with the chastity of sorrow, conceal their woes, and make only a display of their joys, will Catherine leave me in ignorance of the anguish she suffers?
Knowing her as I do, I believe, after I have seen Irene, and gathered from her the substance of her conversation with her mother, I shall be able to divine Catherine's sentiments towards me.
Hence I look forward with eager impatience to the child's visit.
Heaven be praised! I see her running, holding in her hand a bouquet of roses.
My heart did not deceive me; Catherine sends it to me.
She forgives me my happiness.