TWO BLEEDING HEARTS.
On the day following the queen’s visit to M. de Charny, Madlle. de
Taverney entered the royal bedroom as usual at the hour of the petite
toilette. The queen was just laughing over a note from Madame de la
Motte. Andrée, paler than usual, looked cold and grave: the queen,
however, being occupied, did not notice it, but merely turning her
head, said in her usual friendly tone, “Bon jour, petite.” At last,
however, Andrée’s silence struck her, and looking up she saw her sad
expression and said, “Mon Dieu! Andrée, what is the matter? Has any
misfortune happened to you?”
“Yes, madame, a great one.”
“What is it?”
“I am going to leave your majesty.”
“Leave me!”
“Yes, madame.”
“Where are you going? and what is the cause of this sudden departure?”
“Madame, I am not happy in my affections; in my family affections, I
mean,” added Andrée, blushing.
“I do not understand you—you seemed happy yesterday.”
“No, madame,” replied Andrée, firmly. “Yesterday was one of the unhappy
days of my life.”
“Explain yourself.”
“It would but fatigue your majesty, and the details are not worthy of
your hearing. Suffice it to say, that I have no satisfaction in my
family—that I have no good to expect in this world. I come, therefore,
to beg your majesty’s permission to retire into a convent.”
The queen rose, and although with some effort to her pride, took
Andrée’s hand, and said: “What is the meaning of this foolish
resolution? Have you not to-day, like yesterday, a father and a
brother? and were they different yesterday from to-day? Tell me your
difficulties. Am I no longer your protectress and mother?”
Andrée, trembling, and bowing low, said, “Madame, your kindness
penetrates my heart, but does not shake my resolution. I have resolved
to quit the court. I have need of solitude. Do not force me to give up
the vocation to which I feel called.”
“Since yesterday?”
“I beg your majesty not to make me speak on this point.”
“Be free, then,” said the queen, rather bitterly; “only I have always
shown you sufficient confidence for you to have placed some in me. But
it is useless to question one who will not speak. Keep your secrets,
and I trust you will be happier away than you have been here. Remember
one thing, however, that my friendship does not expire with people’s
caprices, and that I shall ever look on you as a friend. Now, go,
Andrée; you are at liberty. But where are you going to?”
“To the convent of St. Denis, madame.”
“Well, mademoiselle, I consider you guilty towards me of ingratitude
and forgetfulness.”
Andrée, however, left the room and the castle without giving any of
those explanations which the good heart of the queen expected, and
without in any way softening or humbling herself. When she arrived at
home, she found Philippe in the garden—the brother dreamed, while the
sister acted. At the sight of Andrée, whose duties always kept her with
the queen at that hour, he advanced, surprised, and almost frightened,
which was increased when he perceived her gloomy look.
He questioned her, and she told him that she was about to leave the
service of the queen, and go into a convent.
He clasped his hands, and cried, “What! you also, sister?”
“I also! what do you mean?”
“’Tis a cursed contact for us, that of the Bourbons. You wish to take
religious vows; you, at once the least worldly of women, and the least
fitted for a life of asceticism. What have you to reproach the queen
with?”
“I have nothing to reproach her with; but you, Philippe, who expected,
and had the right to expect, so much—why did not you remain at court?
You did not remain there three days; I have been there as many years.”
“She is capricious, Andrée.”
“You, as a man, might put up with it. I, a woman, could not, and do not
wish to do so.”
“All this, my sister, does not inform me what quarrel you have had with
her.”
“None, Philippe, I assure you. Had you any when you left her? Oh, she
is ungrateful!”
“We must pardon her, Andrée; she is a little spoiled by flattery, but
she has a good heart.”
“Witness what she has done for you, Philippe.”
“What has she done?”
“You have already forgotten. I have a better memory, and with one
stroke pay off your debts and my own.”
“Very dear, it seems to me, Andrée—to renounce the world at your age,
and with your beauty. Take care, dear sister, if you renounce it young,
you will regret it old, and will return to it when the time will be
passed, and you have outlived all your friends.”
“You do not reason thus for yourself, brother. You are so little
careful of your fortunes, that when a hundred others would have
acquired titles and gold, you have only said—she is capricious, she is
perfidious, and a coquette, and I prefer not to serve her. Therefore,
you have renounced the world, though you have not entered into a
monastery.”
“You are right, sister; and were it not for our father——”
“Our father! Ah, Philippe! do not speak of him,” replied Andrée,
bitterly. “A father should be a support to his children, or accept
their support. But what does ours do? Could you confide a secret to M.
de Taverney, or do you believe him capable of confiding in you? M. de
Taverney is made to live alone in this world.”
“True, Andrée, but not to die alone.”
“Ah, Philippe! you take me for a daughter without feeling, but you know
I am a fond sister; and to have been a good daughter, required only to
have had a father; but everything seems to conspire to destroy in me
every tender feeling. It never happens in this world that hearts
respond; those whom we choose prefer others.”
Philippe looked at her with astonishment. “What do you mean?” said he.
“Nothing,” replied Andrée, shrinking from a confidence. “I think my
brain is wandering; do not attend to my words.”
“But——”
Andrée took his hand. “Enough on this subject, my dearest brother. I am
come to beg you to conduct me to the convent of St. Denis; but be easy,
I will take no vows. I can do that at a later period, if I wish.
Instead of going, like most women, to seek forgetfulness, I will go to
seek memory. It seems to me that I have too often forgotten my Creator.
He is the only consolation, as He is really the only afflictor. In
approaching Him more nearly, I shall do more for my happiness than if
all the rich and great in this world had combined to make life pleasant
to me.”
“Still, Andrée, I oppose this desperate resolution, for you have not
confided to me the cause of your despair!”
“Despair!” said she, with a disdainful air. “No, thank God, I am not
despairing; no, a thousand times, no.”
“This excess of disdain shows a state of mind which cannot last. If you
reject the word ‘despair,’ I must use that of ‘pique.’”
“Pique! do you believe that I am so weak as to yield up my place in the
world through pique? Judge me by yourself, Philippe; if you were to
retire to La Trappe, what would you call the cause of your
determination?”
“I should call it an incurable grief.”
“Well, Philippe, I adopt your words, for they suit me.”
“Then,” he replied, “brother and sister are alike in their lives: happy
together, they have become unhappy at the same time.” Then, thinking
further remonstrance useless, he asked, “When do you want to go?”
“To-morrow, even to-day, if it were possible.”
“I shall be ready whenever you require me.”
Andrée retired to make her preparations. Soon she received this note
from Philippe:
“You can see our father at five o’clock this evening. You must be
prepared for reproaches, but an adieu is indispensable.”
She answered:
“At five o’clock I will be with M. de Taverney all ready to start, and
by seven we can be at St. Denis, if you will give me up your evening.”