It happened, perhaps fortunately, that Monsieur de Villardin's new
station in the army had prevented my being with him so continually as
during our former campaigns. Thus the great change that had taken
place in my habits and my feelings had not been so constantly brought
before him as it otherwise would have been. It had not, however,
passed without remark; and the consequences were totally different
from those which would most probably have followed, had he known the
causes of the melancholy that oppressed me. The desire of keeping me
near him, which he had expressed on my last return to Brittany, was
now increased to a positive determination of not suffering me to be
absent from him; and, when I faintly proposed to remain behind him in
Paris, and to see somewhat of the Court, in which were now just
bursting forth the dawnings of that full blaze of magnificence which
it ultimately displayed, he laid his hand affectionately upon my arm,
replying--"No, no, my dear Juvigny; you must come with me into the
calm quiet of the country. You have over-exerted both your mind and
your body; and I see that you are always better and happier when you
are with me in Brittany."
I had not strength of mind to say no; and, besides, I had persuaded
myself that neither danger nor harm could accrue from my following the
course he pointed out. We returned, therefore, to Brittany, after a
very short stay in Paris. The journey seemed an eternity; and, when
once I was embarked in it, more than one misgiving as to my own
resolution and firmness certainly did cross my heart. It was now,
however, too late to retreat; and at length the carnage stopped before
the grey towers of the Prés Vallée. Our coming had been notified
beforehand; and Laura instantly ran out to welcome her father. It
seemed to me that every hour since I had left her had added some new
charm to features that before had seemed perfection; had given some
additional grace to a form which had before appeared in my eyes
symmetry itself. From her father she turned to me; but I felt her
hand tremble in mine, and her cheek burned as my lips touched it. Her
eyes, too, sought the ground of the terrace; and her words of welcome
were warm, indeed, but faltering and low. Everything told me that the
discovery which had taken place in my own heart had been made also by
hers, and that, whether she could return my affection or not, she was
no longer unconscious of my love. It is scarcely possible to explain
what were my feelings at that moment. I was agitated--I was even
pained; and yet the joy of seeing her again, and, perhaps, a fancy,
too, that my affection was not without return, were sufficient to
outweigh, for the moment, all the apprehensions, and sorrows, and
anxieties which were cast into the other scale. Her first
embarrassment wore away in an instant; and it was easy to see that,
whatever she had discovered, none of the pains and sorrows which had
become so familiar to my mind, had, as yet, presented themselves to
her eyes.
While little Clement de la Marke was claiming his share of welcome,
Monsieur de Villardin and I turned to meet Father Ferdinand, who was
now coming out to receive us. I had not seen him for nearly three
years; and that space of time seemed to have effected a greater change
in him than in any of the rest of the party, with the exception,
indeed, of Laura, who, from a sweet, graceful girl, had grown into a
beautiful woman. He was now, certainly, an old man; and a considerable
inclination of his head, marked, but not undignified, had taken near
two inches from his height since last I saw him. He embraced me as a
father would do a son, and asked me anxiously what was the cause of
the sad change he remarked in my once robust and muscular frame? As he
spoke, I saw Laura's eyes seek mine with an expression of anxiety and
apprehension which was painfully sweet to my heart. She spoke not,
however; and I replied to Father Ferdinand, attempting to smile gaily
as I did so.
"You must remember, my good Father," I answered, "I am no longer a
boy, and may well be expected to lose the plump, smooth-faced
roundness of my youth: besides, I have seen some hard service; and
more than eighteen years which I have now spent--ever more or less in
the tented field--may well be supposed to take away a great deal from
one's youthful freshness."
Laura sighed deeply, and Father Ferdinand gravely shook his head; and
I could see distinctly that neither the one nor the other gave credit
to the reasons I assigned for my altered appearance. No more
questions, however, were asked; and all the bustle and the little
tittle-tattle of a first arrival in the country carried us well and
lightly over the evening. I dreaded, it is true, the coming of the
next morning; for now that I was in the midst of the peril, I had
become apprehensive of myself; I felt that each night I should have to
thank God if I had done nothing wrong; I felt that every day would
bring a renewed struggle against myself; I felt that I should look to
every sunrise with dread, lest I should fail in resolution during the
coming day. Even the sweetest and dearest feelings of my heart were
causes of apprehension. Every look, every word, of Laura de Villardin
was to me a subject of delight, so bright, so deep, that, conscious of
all which was going on within my bosom, I feared the joy I felt in her
society would each instant betray itself to others. But that fear was
not all that embittered the enjoyment. I felt now but too keenly that
I was nurturing a passion which must end in misery; and that the
sweet, sweet draught, which I was draining to the dregs, was mingled
with poison which must speedily take effect. Yet now that I grasped
the cup, with the full knowledge of all that it contained, I would not
have resigned it for a world till the last drop had been drained. I
listened to the tones of her voice, I hung upon her every smile; and
when, during the evening, with her fair arms thrown round little
Clement de la Marke, she listened while the boy repeated
enthusiastically how very very kind I had been to him during his
illness, I gazed upon her beaming countenance till she turned her eyes
towards me with a look of sweet applause; and the feelings of my heart
becoming too overpowering to be mastered, I quitted the room hastily,
lest the mingled emotions should make a woman of me, and overflow at
my eyes.
How the night passed, it were useless to relate. Agitation such as I
felt, sleeps but little; and with the grey dawn, I plunged into the
woods and wandered on wildly, seeking to gain command over myself ere
I encountered any of the family. For nearly two hours I pursued a
varying and irregular path, avoiding the hamlets and scattered
cottages that here and there sheltered themselves in the edges of the
wood surrounding the Prés Vallée, and walking on, now quick, now slow,
amongst the gloom of the old trees, and by the dim banks of the silent
stream. Bitter, bitter was my commune with my own heart, and little
way did I make in the attempt to vanquish emotions that seemed to
become more turbulent under reflection. Following solely as my guide
the desire of avoiding a meeting with any human being, I scarcely knew
which way I turned, till at length I found myself within a few yards
of the grave of the unhappy Count de Mesnil. Some impulse, I do not
well know what,--whether there was a latent sympathy in my bosom with
the love, however mad and vicious, which had been expiated by his
death, or whether there was alone that thirst of calm repose which was
to be found nowhere but in the grave, I cannot tell,--but some impulse
caused me to cast myself down upon the turf that covered his remains,
and, giving way to all the bitterest feelings of my heart, I wept
aloud, fervently wishing that I might soon find a quiet resting-place
like that.
Ere I had been there a moment, I heard a flutter of female garments
bending over me; and raising my eyes, I beheld Laura de Villardin with
her eyes full of tears at the suffering which she saw me endure
without being able to account for. I started up, and, in the agitation
of the moment, gazed upon her without salutation, while she
exclaimed,--"Oh, tell me--do tell me, dear De Juvigny, what is it
makes you so unhappy?"
My firmness was gone before--my good resolution vanished, and pressing
the hand that she held out to me to my lips and to my heart, I told
her all--how deeply, how passionately I loved her. With the warm blood
crimson over her cheek and forehead, she sank down in my arms and hid
her face upon my bosom, while a tear or two sprang up in her eyes, and
shone like living diamonds amongst her long dark eyelashes. It was but
for a moment that, yielding to woman's first impulse, she hid her
face; but then, raising her look to mine, as, sitting on the very
grave of De Mesnil, I held her circled in my arms, she asked,--"And
is that all? Do I not love you too?"
The hardest and bitterest part of the task was still to come. I had to
tell her how hopeless was our love, which her ignorance of the world
had not suffered her to perceive; and although I thought I had no
right to inform her that her father destined her for another, which I
found he himself had not yet communicated, yet I had to explain to her
that our union was quite impossible.
"But are we not very happy as we are?" she asked. "Why make yourself
wretched by thinking of what you acknowledge cannot be? Why not let us
live on as we now are, loving each other more dearly than anything
else in life--seeing each other every day--spending our whole days
together? Why not let us live thus, and be as happy as we have
hitherto been?"
I had to crush the bright bubble for ever. "But," I said, "when you
are required to marry some other, Laura, what will then become of me?"
"Oh, but I will never marry any one else!" she replied, eagerly: "no,
no, I love you; and if I cannot marry you, of course no one else shall
ever have my hand!"
"But listen to me, dear Laura," I replied. "Suppose your father makes
it a command; can you disobey? Suppose he comes to you and tells you
that he has plighted his word and engaged his honour that you shall be
the bride of some man equal in fortune and station to yourself--will
you refuse to redeem his pledge? will you offend him for ever, and
bring upon him the imputation of breaking his word? Can you do it,
Laura?"
She wept bitterly, and I felt that those tears were a sufficient
reply; I was gaining more firmness myself, also, from the very
arguments I used; and I went on.--"No, no, dear Laura, we must both
try to do our duty: I love you beyond everything on earth; and it
would nearly destroy me to see you the wife of another: but yet let us
make up our minds to that which cannot be avoided. We can never
forget, we can never wholly cease to love each other; but we must make
an effort to conquer our love, at least so far as to render it no
longer dangerous or wrong: we must try to rule it by reason and by
resolution, and to reduce it, if possible, to that affection which
brother and sister may feel towards each other."
"Then you must help me--then you must guide me, De Juvigny," she
replied; "you must teach me that which is right to do; for I feel,
indeed I feel that I am incapable of guiding myself."
"It is a terrible task, Laura--it is a terrible task," I
replied--"for a heart that loves like mine, to teach you how our love
is to be conquered; and yet the very responsibility will, I trust,
enable me to execute it well: but, hark! I hear a step," and I
started up.
"It is only Lise," she replied: "I sent her back for a book; but she
knows all about it. She first told me I loved you months ago."
I wished no _confidantes_ to a passion so hopeless as ours; but ere I
could think, Lise was too near us to avoid her, and Laura's eyes told
too distinctly a part of our story, to leave her ignorant of the
remainder. She was a good and affectionate, but somewhat romantic
creature; and though the suivante would have been the last to counsel
her mistress to anything that she believed to be wrong, yet she had
too much knowledge of the human heart to believe that a deep-rooted
passion could ever be eradicated by the means that we proposed to
employ; and her notions of what would be proper under such cases were
likewise very different from ours. As soon as, by one means or
another, she had made herself mistress of all that had passed, and had
heard our difficulties and our resolutions, she shook her head,
exclaiming,--"That will never do! No, no, Monsieur de Juvigny, there
is only one way for it. Such love as yours and Mademoiselle's is not
to be conquered as you think, and it must have its way, or worse will
come of it. I have been thinking ever since you were here last, of
what would be best to do, for I very well saw the whole business then,
and quite understood that Monsieur the Duc would never consent.
However, I have a scheme for you; you must marry privately: I know a
good priest at Rennes who will undertake to perform the ceremony; and
then, when it is found out, which it certainly will be in time,
Monsieur de Villardin will be very angry at first, of course; but then
he will soon forgive you, and it will be all settled."
Laura was silent; and as her hand rested on my arm, I could feel it
tremble violently. For my part, I own that--though poor Lise meant no
harm--yet, had she been the very fiend himself, she could not have
tempted me more dreadfully. Honour, however, overcame; and after a
long, painful pause, I answered,--"No, no, Lise! Monsieur de
Villardin is my friend, my benefactor, my more than father, and I
cannot betray his trust."
"But is not Mademoiselle, here, your friend, your love, and your more
than sister?" answered Lise, laughing; "and will you make her unhappy
for ever? But never mind; I knew that you would talk a great deal of
that kind of nonsense whenever I came to propose it; but you'll see
you will both be of my opinion before a fortnight be over, and then it
will be,--'Pray, good Lise, seek the priest;' and as I am the best
creature in the world, I _will_ seek the priest. So when you have made
up your minds to do the only thing that can save you both from a great
deal of unhappiness, let me know, and I will arrange all the rest."
Thus saying, she turned away and walked a short distance towards the
château, in order to leave Laura and myself time to speak together
alone. As soon as she was gone, the dear girl raised her eyes to mine,
and said,--"We must not do it, De Juvigny--we must not do it! It
would be very happy, doubtless, to know that nothing could ever
separate us, but it would be at the expense of your honour and my
duty, and we must not do it. But, hark! there is the breakfast hour
striking: we must go back separate; but you must, indeed you must tell
me how I am to act, and what I am to do, to conquer all these
feelings, and guard myself against wrong. We will walk out together
to-morrow morning, as we used to do, and you shall give me my lesson."
But consciousness had, as usual, taken from me my bold firmness. I was
not certain that any step that I was taking was right, and therefore I
dreaded that any one should discover all that was passing between
myself and Laura. "It will be better, dear Laura," I replied, "for us
to meet in some part of the woods--at all events till we have fully
determined the line of conduct we are to pursue. Let us have time to
think and judge for ourselves before any one else perceives our
feelings towards each other, and assumes the right of judging for us.
Where shall I meet you to-morrow?"
"Since you have been away," she answered, "I have been much in the
habit of coming out in the summer mornings to read under this tree. It
is one of the finest round about, and if you remark, there is a little
kind of rise in the soft turf at its foot, which serves me for a
seat."
It was the grave of Monsieur de Mesnil to which she pointed; and
certainly the memories connected with that spot did not render the
feelings of my heart less sad. I replied, however, "Well, let us meet
here: we are less likely to be disturbed here, perhaps, than
elsewhere."
"That was one of the reasons why I used to love the place," replied
Laura: "I never found any one here yet but Father Ferdinand, whom I
one day saw kneeling at his beads beneath this tree; but it is almost
always lonely, and I used to come here with a book, and sometimes read
a little; but more often think of you and my father, and pray God to
shield you both from all the dangers of the war. Let us part, however,
now; for it is growing late, and I must wash my eyes before any one
sees me."
I pressed her to my heart, and I pressed my lips to hers--I acted very
wrong in so doing, I know; but, as I have said, this book is a
confession, and therefore I tell all--I pressed her to my heart, and I
pressed my lips to hers, and then we parted, to meet again the next
morning at the same spot.
My next private interview was one with Father Ferdinand. I saw, during
breakfast, that he was anxious to speak with me; but the feeling of
consciousness to which I have before referred, made me as desirous of
avoiding any particular conversation with him now as I had formerly
been willing and pleased to enjoy his society alone. As soon as the
meal was over, then, I turned, as if to seek my own apartments, but in
reality intending to take my hat and once more go out into the park.
So well acquainted, however, was Father Ferdinand with the turns of
the human heart, and the actions that all those various turns are
likely to produce, that he met me at the gate at the very moment I was
setting out; and, laying his hand upon my arm, he said, "I am about to
take my walk with you, my son."
I had now no excuse for avoiding his society, and we walked on
together, proceeding for the first few minutes in silence. He then
began the conversation by telling me that he felt deeply and
personally all the care and kindness that I had bestowed upon Clement
de la Marke. "I have spoken with the little fellow long this morning,"
he said, "and from all that he has told me, I must say that, had you
been his own father, or his brother, you could not have shown him more
judicious kindness."
I knew the good priest too well, and the exact proportion of kindly
subtlety which tempered a disposition that was naturally candid, to
believe that his sole object in thus forcing me, as it were, into a
private interview with him, was to commend my behaviour to the little
page. Nevertheless, though I understood all this very well, yet he
went on so long and so skilfully, speaking upon that subject, and the
events of the campaign alone, that I was thrown off my guard, and
found myself detailing many of the occurrences that had taken place,
more at large than I had intended, or perhaps desired. Observing me
pause, as I found this to be the case, he replied, quietly, "It seems
to me, my son, that in this last campaign you have exposed yourself a
great deal more than was at all necessary; and, indeed, Clement has
told me that you did so to such a degree, that it became a common
observation, amongst both officers and soldiers, that you were _seeking
death_. Tell me, my son," he added, in a more emphatic tone--"tell me,
if you love me, what is the cause of that deep despondency, which you
cannot conceal from one who, like myself, has watched you, with the
affection of a father, for many years."
I felt that to deny the despondency was vain, and I did not choose to
prevaricate concerning its cause. I replied, therefore, at once, "You
must not ask me, my good father. At some time--and that ere long--I
will tell you the whole. But rest satisfied at present with knowing
that though, perhaps, as it seems was too apparent, I did seek Death
wherever he was to be found, yet I have now learned to think better;
and, whatever I may suffer, will make such frantic attempts no more."
"I trust that it will be so," replied Father Ferdinand--"I trust that
it will be so. As you tell me not the cause of your suffering--and I
will not pretend to know it--I can of course offer you no spiritual
consolation; nevertheless, I can perhaps yield you some of a worldly
kind. Therefore, let me beg you to remember, before you make yourself
miserable about anything that this earth contains, that those things
which seem the most hopeless are often, by a slight change of
circumstances, brought within our reach. Let my own history be a
warning to you. Born to a high rank, and to a princely fortune, from
an early disappointment I abjured station, wealth, and the world,
concealed myself in the cells of a foreign monastery, and when, at the
end of twenty years, I came forth again in the humble state in which
you now see me, I discovered that had I but paused three months ere I
rendered my fate irrevocable, every obstacle which lay in my way would
have been removed, and that all I sought might have been mine. Let it
be a lesson to you, young man, and learn never to despair. Now,
farewell; and when you are inclined to make me your confidant, you
will always find that you have a sincere friend."
Thus saying, he turned away, and left me to pursue my walk alone. What
he told me was, indeed, intended to produce a good effect; but,
nevertheless, the consequences might have been very evil. He raised up
again hopes that were better crushed. He conjured up dreams that were
only calculated to mislead; and for the first half hour, believing
that he had seen the real cause of all I suffered, and thought it
right, from some other knowledge that I did not possess, to encourage
my hopes, I gave myself up to visions of joy. Then, however, came the
remembrance that Monsieur de Villardin had promised the hand of his
daughter to the Count de Laval; and recollecting that he had not
informed Laura herself of the fact, I saw clearly that he had not
informed Father Ferdinand either. The good Priest, then, I concluded,
had seen our love; and not knowing the engagement which bound the Duke
to another, had believed that he might be moved by our mutual
affection. Thus fled, once more, all my brilliant dreams; for I was
too thoroughly acquainted with Monsieur de Villardin's stern adherence
to his word, to believe that any circumstance would make him even
think of withdrawing it.
That day passed without any farther incident of note. The next morning
I again met Laura de Villardin; and each day, during the whole week
that followed, we failed not to spend at least two or three hours
together--I may call it alone; for Lise, who accompanied her,
generally left us till it was time to part. It must not be thought,
however, that these clandestine meetings were devoted to thoughts or
feelings that all the world might not have witnessed. They were
foolish, I grant, and only served to nourish the passion that we
believed we were taking means and laying schemes to overcome. The
proposal that Lise had made of a private marriage was never again
mentioned between us. We never encouraged each other with false hopes,
but admitted to our own hearts, in the fullest degree, that no chance
existed of our union. The delight of being together we certainly did
possess; and it was doubtless the secret desire of retaining at least
that blessing which blinded our eyes to the imprudence of our
continual meetings.
Our whole conversations were devoted to forming determinations of
future firmness and resolution, mingled, indeed, with many a tear and
many a caress; but certainly--however weak was our conduct--however
much we suffered ourselves to be deceived by our own wishes--our
intentions at least were good throughout the whole.
Thus passed the time, as painfully as it could well be conceived,
till, one morning, as we were returning towards the château, while
Laura--as we were still at some distance from the house--was hanging
upon my arm, the form of Father Ferdinand appeared at a little
distance in the alley before us. He saw us, beyond doubt, for he
paused, turned out of the way he was pursuing, and left us to proceed
to the house without speaking to us. What might be the event I knew
not, but I saw him no more till supper, at which everything passed
tranquilly, and we separated for the night.