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.