One morning the Marquis, writing at the large table in the library,
while Caroline at the other end was turning over some maps, laid down
his pen and said to her with emotion,--
"Mlle de Saint-Geneix, I remember that you have sometimes expressed a
good-natured wish to know about this work of mine, and I thought I could
never make up my mind to satisfy you; but now,--yes, now, I feel that
submitting it to you will give me pleasure. This book is your work much
more than it is mine, after all; because I did not believe in it, and
you have led me to respect the impulse which prompted it. By restoring
my faith in my task, you have enabled me to carry it further in one
month than I had done for ten years before. You are also the cause why I
shall certainly finish a thing which I should, perhaps, have been always
recommencing until my last hour. Besides, it was near at hand, this last
hour! I felt it coming quickly, and I hastened, the prey of despair, for
I could see nothing advancing but the close of my life. You ordered me
to live, and I have lived; to be calm, and I am at peace; to believe in
God, and in myself, and I do so believe. Since I now have faith in my
thought you must also give me faith in my power to express it, for
although I do not hold to style more than is reasonable, yet I consider
it necessary to give weight and attractiveness to truth. Here, my
friend, read!"
"Yes," replied Caroline, eagerly; "you see that I do not hesitate, that
I do not refuse; and this is neither prudent nor modest on my part. Very
well, I am not disturbed by that! I am so sure of your talent, that I
stand in no fear of the fact that I shall have to be sincere, and I
believe so thoroughly in the harmony of our opinions, that I even
flatter myself I shall comprehend what, under other circumstances, would
be beyond my reach."
But, as she was about to take the manuscript, Caroline hesitated before
accepting so especial a mark of confidence, and inquired whether the
excellent Duke was not also to be a sharer in this gratification.
"No," replied the Marquis, "my brother will not come to-day. I have
seized upon a time when he is away hunting. I do not wish him to know
about my work before it is finished; he would not comprehend it. His
hereditary prejudices would stand in the way. To be sure he thinks he
has a few 'advanced ideas' as he calls them, and he knows that I go
farther than he; but he does not suspect how far I have strayed from the
road in which my education placed me. My rebellion against these things
of the past would put him in consternation, and this might disturb me
before the close of my work. But you yourself,--perhaps you are going to
be a little uneasy?"
"I have reached no decision myself," replied Caroline, "and very
probably I shall adopt your opinions when I understand them exactly. Sit
down now; I will read aloud for your benefit as well as my own. I want
you to hear yourself speak. I think this must be a good way of rereading
one's work."
Caroline read that morning a half-volume, resuming the employment the
next day and the day after. In three days, she had made the Marquis
listen to a summary of his studies for many years. She followed his
handwriting as easily as print, although it was somewhat blind; and as
she read aloud with admirable clearness, intelligence, and simplicity,
growing animated and conscious of her own emotion when the narration
rose to the lyric passages in the epic construction of the history, the
author felt himself enlightened at once by a very sun of certainty
formed of all the scattered rays by which his meditations had been
penetrated.
The picture was fine, of beautiful originality, bearing the stamp of
real greatness. Under the simple and mysterious heading, "The History of
Titles," he raised a whole series of bold questions, which aimed at
nothing less than rendering universal, without restrictions and forever,
the thought of the revolutionary night, August 4, 1789. This son of a
noble house with ancient privileges, brought up in the pride of family
and in the disdain of commoners, introduced before our modern
civilization a written accusation of the nobility, along with documents
to sustain his case, the proofs of their usurpations, their outrages, or
their crimes, and pronounced sentence of forfeiture against them in the
name of logic and justice, in the name of the human conscience, and,
more than all, in the name of simple, scriptural Christianity. He boldly
attacked the compromise of eighteen centuries, which would ally the
equality revealed by the apostles to the arrangements of civil and
theocratical hierarchies. Admitting in all classes none but political
and executive hierarchies, that is to say, official positions, held as
proofs of personal courage and social activity, or in a word, of any
real services rendered, he pursued the privilege of birth as far as into
the present state of public opinion and even as far as its final
influences; tracing with a firm hand the history of the spoliations and
usurpations of power from the creation of the feudal nobility down to
the present time. It was reconstructing the history of France from a
special point of view, under the sway of one idea,--a distinct,
absolute, inflexible, indignant idea, springing from that religious
feeling, which aristocracy cannot attack, without itself committing
suicide, invoking, as it does, the divine right for the support of its
own institution.
We will say no more about the data of this book, even a criticism of
which would be foreign to our subject. Whatever judgment might be passed
on the convictions of the author, it was impossible not to recognize in
him a splendid talent, joined to the knowledge and strong good faith
which mark a mind of the first rank. His style especially was
magnificent, of a copiousness and richness which the modest brevity of
the Marquis in social life would never have led one to suspect; though,
even in his book, he gave small space to discussions. After having
stated his premises and the motives of his investigation in a few pages
of warm and severe criticism, he passed on with eloquent clearness to
the facts themselves and classified them historically. His narrations,
teeming as they did with color, had the interest of a drama or a
romance, even when, rummaging among obscure family archives, he revealed
the horrors of feudal times, with the sufferings and degradation of the
lower classes. An enthusiast, but making no apologies for the fact, he
deeply felt all offences against justice, against modesty, against love,
and in many pages his soul, in its passion for truth, justice, and
beauty, would reveal itself entirely in bursts of excited eloquence.
More than once Caroline felt the tears come to her eyes, and laid aside
the book to recover her composure.
Caroline made no objections. It is not for the simple narrator to say
that she should have made them or that there were really none to make;
it is necessary to relate merely that she found no objections to offer;
so great was her admiration of his ability and her esteem for the man
himself. The Marquis de Villemer became in her eyes a person so
completely superior to all she had ever met, that she then and there
formed the purpose of devoting herself to him unreservedly and for her
whole life.
When we say "unreservedly" we are mindful that there was very certainly
one exception which would not have been agreed to thus, had it presented
itself to her mind; but it did not present itself. In such a man there
was nothing to disturb the serenity of her enthusiasm. And yet we should
not dare to affirm that, from this time onward, her enthusiasm did not
unconsciously include love as one of the elements indispensable to its
fulness; but love had not been its point of departure. The Marquis had
never until now revealed all the attractiveness of his intellect or of
his person; he had been constrained, agitated, and out of health.
Caroline did not, at first, perceive the change in him, that was taking
place in such a gradual way, for he grew eloquent, young, and handsome,
day by day, and hour by hour; recovering his health, his confidence in
himself, the certainty of his own power, and the charm happiness gives
to a noble face which has been veiled by doubt.
When she began to account for all these delightful transformations, she
had already felt their effects without her own knowledge, and the autumn
had come. They were about returning to Paris, and Madame de Villemer,
under the sway of a fixed idea, would say every day to her young
companion, "In three weeks, in a fortnight, in a week, the 'famous'
interview of my son with Mlle de Xaintrailles will take place."
Caroline then felt a fearful anguish in the depths of her heart, a
consternation, a terror, and an overmastering revelation of a kind of
attachment which she did not yet confess even to herself. She had so
fully accepted the vague and still distant prospect of this marriage
that she had never been willing to ask herself whether it would give her
pain. It was for her a thing inevitable, like old age or death; but one
does not really accept, old age or death until either arrives, and
Caroline felt that she was growing weak and that she should die at the
thought of this absolute separation, so near at hand.
She had ended by believing with the Marchioness that the scheme could
not fail. She had never dared to question the Marquis; besides the Duke
had forbidden this, in the name of the friendship she felt for the
family. According to him, the Marquis would never come to a decision as
long as he was tormented about it, and the Duke well knew that the least
anxiety on Caroline's part would overthrow all his brother's designs.
The Duke, after having sincerely admired the purity of their relations,
began to grow anxious about it. "This is becoming," said he to himself
"an attachment so serious that one cannot foresee its results. Shall we
believe that his tender respect for her has killed his love? No, no,
such respect in a case like this is love with redoubled power."
The Duke was not mistaken. The Marquis was not at all concerned at the
prospect of a marriage which he had now determined not to contract. He
was only troubled about the change which a residence in Paris would for
a time effect in his relations with Mlle de Saint-Geneix, in their free
intimacy, in their common studies, in that continuous security which
could not be found elsewhere. He mentioned this to her with great
sadness. She felt the same regret, and attributed her own inward sorrow
to her love for the country and to the breaking up of a life so sweet
and noble.
She, however, experienced a charming surprise on her arrival in Paris.
She found her sister there awaiting her with the children, and learned
that Camille was going to be near her. She was to live at Étampes in a
little house, half city and half country residence, pretty, new, in a
good atmosphere, with the enjoyment besides of a considerable garden.
She would be only an hour's ride by rail from Paris. She had placed Lili
at school, having obtained a scholarship for her in a Parisian convent.
Caroline would be able to see her every week. Finally a scholarship had
also been promised her for little Charles, in a college when he should
be old enough to enter.
"You fill me with surprise and delight!" cried Caroline, embracing her
sister; "but who has worked all these miracles?"
"You," replied Camille, "you alone; it is always you."
"No, indeed. I had hopes of obtaining these scholarships, that is, of
procuring them some day or other, through Léonie, who is so obliging;
but I did not hope for such prompt success."
"O no!" replied Madame Heudebert, "this did not come from Léonie; it
came from some one here."
"Impossible! I have never said a word about it to the Marchioness.
Knowing how much she is at variance with 'the powers that be,' I should
not have dared--"
"Some one has dared to approach the ministry, and this some one--he does
not wish to be named; he has acted in secrecy, and yet I shall betray
him because it is impossible for me to keep a secret from you--this some
one is the Marquis de Villemer."
"Ah! Then you wrote to ask him--"
"Not at all. It was he who wrote to me, inquiring about my situation and
my claims with a kindness, a propriety, a delicacy,--yes, Caroline, you
were quite right in esteeming a character like his. But stop, I have
brought his letters. I wish you would read them." Caroline read the
letters, and saw that, beginning from the day when she had taken care of
M. de Villemer, he had been bestowing attentions upon her family, with
a lively and constant interest. He had anticipated her secret wishes, he
had concerned himself about the education of the children. He had taken
prompt and sure measures by letter, without even offering to take them;
confining himself to asking Camille for the necessary information as to
the services of her husband in his department. He had announced his
success, refusing to be thanked, and saying that his debt of gratitude
to Mlle de Saint-Geneix was far from being paid. This good news had
reached Camille during the slow journey with post-horses which Caroline
was taking with the Marchioness, for the old lady had a fear and horror
of coaches and railways.
As to the house at Étampes, this was also the idea and proposition of
the Marquis. There was, he said, a little estate, bringing in nothing,
which had been left him by an aged relative, and he begged Madame
Heudebert to do him the favor of living there. She had accepted this
offer, saying that she would take upon herself all the expense of
repairs; but she had found the little house in excellent condition,
furnished, and even provided with fuel, wine, and vegetables for more
than a year. When she inquired about the rent of the person charged by
the Marquis with these details, he replied that his orders were to
receive no money, that it was too slight a matter, and that the Marquis
had never proposed to rent the house of his aged cousin to strangers.
Though Caroline was deeply moved by these favors from her friend, and
pleased to see the lot of her family so much improved, she felt,
nevertheless, a sorrow at heart. It seemed as if this was a kind of
farewell from him whose life was to be parted forever from her own, and,
as it were, an account settled by his gratitude. She drove back this
sorrow, however, and passed her mornings for several days in walking out
with her sister and the children, in buying the outfit of the little
school-girl, and finally in establishing her at the convent. The
Marchioness wished to see Madame Heudebert, and the pretty Elizabeth who
was going to lose at the convent her soft pet name of Lili. She was
pleasant to Caroline's sister, and did not let the child depart without
a pretty present: she wished to give Caroline two days of freedom with
her family, so that she might have ample time to bid them good by and
conduct them to the station again. She even rode herself to the convent
to recommend Elizabeth Heudebert as under her special protection.
Camille had also seen the Marquis and the Duke at their mother's; she
had only ventured to present Lili to her benefactor, the other children
not being old enough; but M. de Villemer wanted to see them all; he went
to call upon Madame Heudebert at the hotel where she had taken lodgings,
and found Caroline in the midst of the children, by whom she was almost
worshipped. She found him, for his part, not in a revery, but apparently
absorbed in the contemplation of the cares and caresses that she gave
them. He looked at each child with tender attention, and spoke to them
all, like a man in whom the paternal sentiment is already well
developed. Caroline, ignorant that he really was a father, imagined,
with a sigh, that he was thinking of future family joys.
The following day, after she had seen her sister safely in the railway
carriage which was to carry her back to Étampes, Caroline felt herself
horribly alone, and, for the first time, the marriage of the Marquis
presented itself to her mind as an irreparable disaster in her own life.
She left the platform quickly to hide her tears; but in the court she
came directly upon M. de Villemer. "What!" said he, offering her his
arm. "You are weeping. That is just what I was expecting; and I was
anxious to come to this place, where pretexts for the public are not
wanting, to sustain you a little in this sorrow which is so natural, and
to remind you that you still have sincere friends here."
"What! did you come here on my account?" replied Caroline, wiping away
her tears. "I am ashamed of this momentary weakness. It is ingratitude
to you who have loaded my relatives with favors, who have established
them near me, and whom I ought to bless with joy instead of feeling the
slight pain of a separation which cannot last very long. My sister will
often return to see her daughter, and I shall see her myself oftener
still. No, no, I have no cause for grief; on the contrary, I am very
happy,--thanks to you for it!"
"Then why do you still weep?" said the Marquis, as he led her back to
the carriage he had brought for her: "come, you are a little nervous,
are you not? but it troubles me. Let us go back to the platform as if we
were in search of some one. I shall not leave you in tears. It is the
first time I have seen you weeping, and it hurts me. Stop, we are only a
few steps from the Jardin des Plantes; at eight in the morning there is
no risk of meeting any one we know. Besides, with that mantle and veil,
no one will recognize you. It is pleasant enough; will you come and look
at the 'Swiss Valley'? We will try to imagine ourselves in the country
again, and when I leave you, I shall be sure--at least, I hope, that you
will not be ill."
There was so much friendly solicitude in the tone of the Marquis, that
Caroline did not think of refusing his offer. "Who knows," thought she,
"that he does not wish to bid me a brotherly adieu before entering upon
his new existence? It is, indeed, a thing which is allowable for us to
do,--which perhaps we ought to do. He has never yet spoken to me of his
marriage; it would be strange if he did not speak to me about it, and if
I were not prepared and willing to hear him."