_AN AWAKENING._
“WAS it a new step you were teaching him?” asked du Chesne. “But, no,
it cannot be—not Pierre, who disapproves of worldly amusements.”
“That melancholy death’s head of a Pierre, he professes to despise
women; he is never content with me; he has dared to sermonize me and I
punished him,” Diane roused herself to explain defiantly, instinctively
resenting the youth’s questioning gaze.
“But, Pierre—I cannot understand—Pierre is a saint—he will scarcely
raise his eyes to look at any human being—his lips utter only prayers.”
“And they are indeed detestable, these saints,” she returned petulantly.
“Surely you would respect the virtues of those holy ones. We may not be
very perfect, we others, but they accumulate perfections for us. Who can
say how much we owe them?”
Du Chesne was staunch to his teaching and traditions. His voice had a
caressing sound when he spoke to women. A smile now parted his lips as
he threw himself on the grass beside her.
“Pierre is like other men,” Diane exclaimed with laconic positiveness.
The audacity of the reply startled the young man. He watched her with
eager, wistful scrutiny. Du Chesne was not an intellectual man, but his
perceptions were swift and keen. Could it be possible that Diane loved
Pierre, and that this affection had rendered her insensible to the
attractions of the numerous lovers who had already sighed at her feet?
It was a startling supposition, overturning some of his fixed ideas, but
it would certainly account for many of the caprices which had puzzled
him. He was loyal to the core, with a jealous and fervid allegiance both
to his brother and to the girl who had held the place of a sister.
Pierre was bound by solemn vows to an ascetic life—could he be willing
to decline to what he would choose to consider a lower plane? Diane’s
affection was certainly a prize worth obtaining. No doubt it would all
come right in some way. The glamor proceeding from the indefinite
brightness of youth, certain bewitching and yet intangible possibilities
which had enthralled his own imagination, disposed him to accept the
most hopeful view of the situation. And, after all, the hypothesis might
not be built on sufficient foundation.
“And Crisasi, too,” he continued, speaking without reflection, awkwardly
and anxiously. There were curious lines of perplexity on his brow.
“Oh! the Chevalier is really too absurd; at his best he is only
doleful—never amusing. And you know it is the plain duty of a man to
show himself amusing.” Diane strove to speak lightly, notwithstanding
the rising tremor in her throat. Why should there be any restraint in
the frank, pleasant comradeship which had united them since childhood?
Du Chesne plainly comprehended none. He was so kind, so cordial, so
honestly satisfied with his own good intentions, that it was difficult
to hold him at a distance. He held an inveterate objection to
inconsistencies of every description, and tried to reconcile two
apparently conflicting tendencies in the girl, to whom he was sincerely
attached. A vague resolve that had been floating through his mind
suddenly assumed definite proportions.
“Crisasi is a brave and gallant gentleman; none in the colony is more
respected. If amusement is a necessity, choose such fops as d’Ordieux,
and leave alone the men you have power to pain. Spare the Chevalier,
Diane, he is a disappointed and heart-broken man.”
“You are as bad as Pierre! That is not like you, du Chesne.”
Mademoiselle de Monesthrol was suddenly aroused. The blood in a rich
carmine flood mantled over her delicate face; her eyes dilated,
deepened, darkened, until their soft blue changed to black. What was
this man’s frankly expressed disapproval to her that she should thrill
and tremble at his words. A terrible dread, latent in her heart, now ran
through her throbbing veins, her entire being quickened by that thrill
of feeling which is at once sweetness and keenest pain. A sentiment
which she disowned, which she had fought desperately and persistently,
inch by inch, had conquered; yet to hide the wound, to hold up her head,
smiling, and, if need be, die hiding it, was the first natural instinct.
She did not speak, for her heart was fluttering to her lips and she
could not utter a word. Yet to the tender-hearted, wilful creature there
was an excitement in the consciousness of peril. Detection might be
worse than death; still to dare discovery, to push danger to the very
verge of exposure, furnished a thrilling agitation which offered relief
from pain. Raising her head, as though courting rather than avoiding
scrutiny, she met du Chesne’s searching gaze with cool nonchalance.
“_Sainte Dame!_ and what is that to me?” with a gesture of haughty
repudiation. “Were I answerable for the disappointments of every
gentleman of New France my lot would be indeed a sad one.”
The clear tones of gentle disdain irritated the young Canadian. He could
scarcely restrain a movement of impetuous anger; and yet, with the
characteristic trust of his nature, he tried to believe the best.
“Diane, you know not of what you speak. It is your inexperience that
causes you to appear cruel. Why, I remember you cried yourself sick when
your bird died, and again when Bibelot’s paw was hurt—and then the
devotion with which you have attended little Léon shows you are no
heartless woman. It may be your time has not yet come. When it comes, as
it surely will, you will then comprehend the meaning of true love—the
happiness, the suffering, the trust and faith.” He spoke eagerly, his
glowing boyish heart shining in his eyes. Diane could not mistake the
evidence of that fire out of which love is born; her doubt and pride
were suddenly swept away. She had no power to confront this precious and
bewildering possibility. All existence was suddenly raised to brilliancy
and interest, as with a sparkling draught of sunlit elixir.
* * * * *
In a little closet off from Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s chamber stood a
miniature altar. A fair ivory image of Our Lady of Sorrows gleamed white
amidst the environment of gorgeous color; a richly chased silver lamp
burned dimly before it, and a jar of spotless lilies was set beside the
_prie-dieu_ with its velvet hassock and Book of Hours. In a fervor of
devotion the girl sank down before the altar.
“Holy Virgin, bless me! Make me worthy of the great happiness thou hast
given me.”