At midnight, the newly married couple having discreetly disappeared, the
Marchioness signified to her son that she was tired and would like to
withdraw. "Give me your arm, dear child," said she, when he came to her
side; "let us not disturb Caroline, who is dancing; I will leave her
under the protection of Madame de D----."
And as the Marquis was helping her through the corridor leading to her
own room on the lower floor,--they had been considerate enough to humor
her distrust of staircases, "My dear son," she said, "you will no longer
have the trouble of carrying on your arm your poor little bundle of a
mother. You did it very often when you were with us at the other house,
and with you I did not seem afraid; but it pained me to give you the
trouble."
"And I--I shall regret that lost pleasure," said Urbain.
"How elegant and aristocratic this reception is!" resumed the
Marchioness, having at last reached her apartment; "and this Caroline
who is its queen! I am astonished at the beauty and grace the little
creature has."
"Mother," said the Marquis, "are you really very tired just now? and if
I should ask fifteen minutes' conversation with you--"
"Let us talk, my son, by all means!" cried the Marchioness. "I was tired
only because I could not talk with those I love. And then I was afraid
of seeming ridiculous, in case I said too much about my happiness. Let
us speak of it, let us speak of your brother, and of yourself as well!
Come, will you not bring a second day like this into my life?"
"Dear mother," said the Marquis, kneeling before her and taking both her
hands in his, "it depends upon you alone whether I, too, shall soon have
my day of supreme joy."
"Ah! what do you say? Truly? Tell me quickly then!"
"Yes, I will speak. This is the moment I was waiting for; I have held
myself in reserve, and turned all my longings toward this blessed hour,
when my brother, reconciled to God, to truth, and to himself, could take
a wife worthy to be your daughter. And when such a moment came I
intended to say this: Mother, I also can present you with a second
daughter, more lovely than the first and no less pure. For a year, for
more than a year, I have devotedly loved a most perfect being. She has
suspected this perhaps, but she does not know it; I have so much respect
and esteem for her that without your consent I well knew I should never
gain her own. Besides, she gave me to understand this sharply one day,
one single day, when my secret came near escaping me in spite of myself,
four months ago, and I have since kept strict silence in her presence
and in yours. It was my duty not to plunge you into anxieties which,
thank God! no longer exist. Your fate, my brother's, and my own are
henceforth secure. Now, comfortably rich, I may properly refuse to
enlarge my fortune, and I can marry according to my inclinations. You
have a sacrifice to make for me nevertheless; but your motherly love
will not refuse, for it involves the happiness of my whole life. This
lady belongs to an honorable family; you made sure of this yourself
before you admitted her to intimacy with you; but she does not belong to
one of those ancient and illustrious lines, for which you have a
preference that I do not mean to oppose. I said you would have to make a
sacrifice for me; will you do it? Do you love me enough? Yes, mother,
yes, your heart, which I can feel beating, will yield without regret, in
its vast maternal tenderness, to the prayer of a son who worships you."
"Ah, bless me! you are speaking of Caroline," cried the Marchioness,
trembling. "Stop, stop, my son! The shock is rude, and I was not
prepared for it."
"O, do not say that!" resumed the Marquis, warmly; "if the shock is too
rude, I do not want you to bear it. I will give it all up; I will never
marry--"
"Never marry! Why, that would be worse still! Come, come, do let me know
where I am! It is, perhaps, easier to bear than it seems. It is not so
much her birth. Her father was knighted: that's nothing very great; but
if that was really all! There is this poverty which has fallen upon her.
You may tell me that but for you I should have fallen into it myself;
but I should have died, while she--she has courage to work for a living,
and to accept a kind of domestic service--"
"Heavens!" cried the Marquis, "would you make a blemish of what is the
crowning merit of her life?"
"No, no, not I," returned the Marchioness, eagerly, "quite the contrary;
but the world is so--"
"So unjust and so blind!"
"That is true too, and I was wrong to let it influence me. Come! we are
in the midst of love-matches, so I have only one more objection to make.
Caroline is twenty-five years old--"
"And I am now over thirty-four myself."
"It is not that. She is young enough, if her heart is as pure, as
unsophisticated as your own; but she has been in love before."
"No. I know her whole life. I have conversed with her sister; she was to
have married, but she has never really loved."
"Still, between this projected marriage and the time when she came to us
some years must have elapsed--"
"I have inquired about this. I know her life day by day and almost hour
by hour. If I tell you that Mlle de Saint-Geneix is worthy of you and of
me, it is because I know it. A foolish passion has not blinded me. No, a
serious love based upon reflection, upon comparison with all other
women, upon certainty, has given me strength to keep silence and to
wait, wishing to convince you on good grounds."
The Marquis talked with his mother some time longer, and he triumphed.
He used all the eloquence of passion, and all that filial tenderness of
which he had given so many proofs. His mother was touched and yielded.
"Well, now," cried the Marquis, "will you let me call her here on your
behalf? Are you willing that, for the first time,--in your presence, at
your feet,--I should tell her that I love her? See, I yet dare not tell
her alone! One cold look, one word of distrust, would break my heart.
Here, in your presence, I can speak, I will convince her."
"My son," said the Marchioness, "you have my promise. And you see,"
added she, taking him in her feeble arms, "if I have not given it with
very impulsive joy, it is at least with tenderness unlimited and
unalloyed. I ask, I exact one single thing; that is, that you will take
twenty-four hours to reflect upon your position. It is new, for here you
are in possession of my consent, which you thought more than doubtful an
hour ago. Up to that time you believed yourself parted from Mlle de
Saint-Geneix by obstacles that you did not think of overcoming so
easily, perhaps, and this may have given illusive strength to your
feelings for her. Don't shake your head! What do you know about it
yourself? Besides, what I ask is a very little thing,--twenty-four hours
without speaking to her, that is all. For myself, I feel the need of
accepting completely before God the decision I have just reached; that
my face, my agitation, my tears, may not lead Caroline to suspect that
it has cost me something--"
"O yes, you are right," exclaimed the Marquis. "If she suspected that,
she never would let me speak to her. To-morrow, then, dear mother.
Twenty-four hours, did you say? It is very long! And then,--it is one
o'clock in the morning. Will you be up again to-morrow night?"
"Yes, for we have a concert to-morrow at the apartments of the young
Duchess. You see why we must sleep to-night. Are you going back to the
ball-room?"
"Ah! please let me: she is there still, and she is so lovely with her
white dress and the pearls. I have not looked at her enough, really. I
did not dare--now only shall I truly see her."
"Well! make this sacrifice for me in your turn, not to look at her
again,--not to speak to her before to-morrow evening. Promise me, as you
have no idea of sleeping, to think of her, of me, and of yourself, all
alone, for a few hours, and then again to-morrow morning. You are not to
come here before dinner-time. You must not; promise me!"
The Marquis promised and kept his word; but the solitude, the darkness,
the pain of not seeing Caroline, and of leaving her surrounded by the
notice and homage of others, only increased his impatience, only fed the
fire of his passion. Besides, his mother's precautions, although wise in
themselves, were of no use to a man who had been reflecting and deciding
so long.
Caroline was surprised not to see the Marquis reappear, and was one of
the first to withdraw,--trying to persuade herself she had not been
mistaken in thinking he would soon recover his self-control. She was, as
will be seen, far from suspecting the truth.
Madame d'Arglade had her spies at this ball, and among others a man who
desired to marry her, a secretary of legation, who, the next morning,
reported to her the great success of the "young lady companion." The
devotion of the Marquis had not escaped malevolent eyes, and the
diplomatic apprentice had even scented out an interesting conversation
between the Marquis and his mother, as they left the room together.
Léonie listened to this report with apparent indifference; but she said
to herself it was time to act, and at noon she was inquiring for the
Marchioness at the very moment Caroline appeared.
"One minute, my dear friend," said she to Mlle de Saint-Geneix, "let me
go in before you do; it is an urgent matter,--a kindness to be done for
some poor people who wish to remain unknown."
Once alone with the Marchioness, she apologized for coming to speak
about the poor in these days of rejoicing. "They are, on the contrary,
the days of the poor," replied the generous lady; "speak. One of my
great joys now will be that I can do more good than I could awhile ago."
Léonie had her pretext all prepared. When she had presented her
request, and put the Marchioness down on her subscription-list, she
pretended that she was in haste to go, so as to be invited to stay a
little while. It is useless to relate the skilful turns and tricks by
which she maliciously contrived to reach the interesting point of the
conversation. These mean-spirited attacks, unhappily too common, will be
remembered by all those who have ever felt their cruel effects; and they
are very few who have been forgotten by calumny.
They naturally spoke of Gaëtan's happiness and about the perfections of
the young Duchess. "What I love most in her," said Léonie, "is that she
isn't jealous of any one, not even of--Oh! beg pardon, the name was
just going to escape me."
She returned to this subject several times, refusing to mention the name
until the Marchioness began to grow uneasy. At last it did escape her,
and the name was that of Caroline.
She hastened to take it back, to say her tongue had tripped; but in ten
minutes the blow had been dealt by a sure hand, and the Marchioness had
drawn from her a solemn asseveration that she had seen, with her own
eyes seen, at Séval, the Duke conducting Caroline back to her room at
daybreak, and holding both her hands in his, talking to her eagerly, for
three good minutes, at the foot of the Renard stairway.
Upon this she made the Marchioness, whose word she knew was sacred,
promise not to betray her, not to make her enemies,--because so far she
had never had any; saying she was in despair at the persistence which
had drawn this disclosure from her, that she would have done better to
disobey the Marchioness outright, that at heart she really loved
Caroline, and that, after all, since she had answered for her character,
it was, perhaps, her duty to confess that she had been mistaken.
"Bah!" exclaimed the Marchioness thoroughly mistress of herself, "all
this is not so serious. She may have been very good otherwise, and yet
have been impressed by this irresistible Duke. He is so skilful! Have no
fear. I am to know nothing of this, and I will act at the proper time
and place, if need be, without its appearing at all."
When Caroline entered just as Léonie was going, the latter extended her
hand with a good-natured air, telling her that the news of her triumph
the evening before had reached her even, and that she offered her
congratulations.
Caroline found the Marchioness so pale as to arouse her anxiety, and on
asking the cause she received a very cool reply. "It is the fatigue of
all this festivity," said the Marchioness; "it is nothing. Be so good as
to read me my letters."
While Caroline was reading Madame de Villemer did not listen. She was
thinking of what she was going to do. She was concealing deep
indignation against the young girl, a violent grief at the blow she
would have to inflict on the Marquis; and with this maternal sorrow
mingled the involuntary satisfaction of a titled lady at being released
from a promise which had cost her much, and to which, for twelve hours,
she had not recurred without a shudder.
When she had reached her decision, she interrupted the reading harshly,
saying, in an icy tone, "That is enough, Mlle de Saint-Geneix. I want to
speak with you seriously. One of my sons, I need not say which, seems
lately to have entertained sentiments for you which you surely have not
encouraged?"
Caroline turned as pale as the Marchioness; but, strong in her own
conscience, she replied without hesitation, "I am ignorant of what you
assert, Madame. Neither of your sons has ever expressed to me any
sentiments at which I could be seriously alarmed."
The Marchioness took this reply for an audacious falsehood. She flung at
the poor girl one contemptuous look, and for a moment was silent; then
she resumed, "I shall not speak of the Duke; it is entirely useless to
defend yourself on this point."
"I have no complaint to make of him or of his brother," replied
Caroline.
"I suppose not!" said the Marchioness, with a withering smile; "but as
for me, I should have good cause for complaint if you had the
presumption--"
Caroline interrupted the Marchioness with a violence she could not
control. "I have shown no presumption," cried she, "and no one in the
world has a right to speak to me as if I were to blame, or even
ridiculous--Pardon, Madame," added she, seeing the Marchioness almost
frightened by her excitement; "I have interrupted you. I have spoken
rudely. Forgive me. I love you,--I love you so that I would give you my
life willingly. You see why your suspicion hurts me so that I lose my
temper. But I ought to control myself; I will control myself! I see
there is some misunderstanding between us. Be so good as to explain--or
question me. I will answer with all the calmness in my power."
"My dear Caroline," said the Marchioness, more gently, "I do not
question you. I warn you. It is not my intention to condemn you or
sadden you with useless questions. You were mistress of your own
heart--"
"No, Madame, I was not."
"Indeed! Very well, the truth comes out in spite of you," said the
Marchioness, with a return of her ironical disdain.
"No, a hundred times no!" rejoined Caroline, indignantly. "That is not
what I mean. Knowing that a thousand duties, some more serious than
others, forbade me to dispose of it, I have given it to no one."
The Marchioness looked at Caroline with astonishment. "How well she
understands lying!" thought Madame de Villemer. Then she said to herself
that, so far as the Duke was concerned, this poor girl was not obliged
to betray herself; that the feeling she had entertained for him ought to
be regarded just as if it had never been, since, after all, she had made
him no trouble and claimed no rights detrimental to his marriage.
This idea, which had but just occurred to her, suddenly mollified the
rancor of the Marchioness; and when she saw her silence was wounding
Caroline, whose eyes were full of scalding tears, she returned to her
friendship for her, and even to a new kind of esteem.
"My dear little one," said she, extending her hands to her, "forgive me!
I have hurt your feelings; I have explained myself wretchedly. Let us
even admit I was unjust for a moment. In point of fact I understand you
better than you think, and I appreciate your conduct. You are unselfish,
prudent, generous, and wise. If you have chanced--to think more of
certain attentions than was for your own happiness, it is none the less
certain you have always stood ready to make sacrifices on occasion, and
you would be ready to do the same again; it is so, is it not?"
Caroline did not comprehend, and could not comprehend that in all this
there was an allusion to Gaëtan's marriage. She thought only his
brother's case was called in question; and as she had never relaxed her
self-control for a moment, she felt as if the Marchioness had no right
to pry into the painful secrets of her heart. "I have never had any
sacrifice to make," replied she, haughtily. "If you have orders for me
give them, Madame, and do not think it any merit on my part to obey
you."
"You mean to say, and you do say, my dear, that you have never responded
to the sentiments of the Marquis?"
"I have never known them."
"You had never suspected them?"
"No, Madame; and I do not believe in them! Who could have made you
suppose the contrary? Certainly not the Marquis himself."
"Well, pardon me, but it was he. You see what confidence I have in you.
I tell you the truth. I trust to your generosity without hesitation. My
son loves you and thinks he may have won your love in return."
"Monsieur the Marquis is strangely mistaken," replied Caroline, wounded
by an avowal which, presented thus, was almost an offence.
"Ah! you are telling the truth now, I see that," cried the Marchioness,
deceived by the pride of Mlle de Saint-Geneix; and wishing to control
her by means of her self-respect, the old lady kissed her on the
forehead. "Thank you, my dear child," said she, "you restore me to life.
You are sincere; you are too noble to punish my doubts by trifling with
my peace. Very well; now let me tell my son Urbain that he has been only
dreaming, that this marriage is impossible, not through my opposition,
but through yours."
This imprudent request enlightened Caroline. She understood the
admirable delicacy which had led the Marquis to consult his mother
before declaring his feelings to her; but she was not deluded by this
discovery, for she saw how much the Marchioness disliked the idea of
their marriage. She attributed this severity to the ambition of Madame
de Villemer, which she had known perfectly and feared for a long time.
She was very far from thinking that, after having yielded the point with
a good grace, the Marchioness was now withdrawing her consent because
she believed in the stain of a fault. "Madame de Villemer," replied she,
with a certain severity, "you are never wrong in the eyes of your son. I
understand that; and I fear no reproaches from him, if, on my own part,
I decline the honor he would do me. Over and above this you can tell him
what you think best; I shall not be here to contradict you."
"What! do you want to leave me?" cried Madame de Villemer, alarmed at a
conclusion which she did not expect so suddenly, although she had
secretly desired it. "No, no, that is impossible! It would ruin
everything. My son loves you with an earnestness,--whose future
consequences I do not fear, if you will help me to contend against them,
but whose violence at the first moment I do fear. Stop! He would follow
you, perhaps; he is eloquent, he would triumph over your resistance, he
would bring you back, and I should be forced to tell him--what I never
want to tell him."
"You will never have to say 'No' to him!" replied Caroline, still under
a delusion, and nowise suspecting this menace of her pretended
misconduct hanging over her head; "it is I who should tell him, is it
not? Well then I will write to him, and my letter shall pass through
your hands."
"But his grief--his anger, perhaps--have you thought of that?"
"Madame, let me go away!" replied Caroline, desperately, for the thought
of this grief touched her heart. "I did not come here to suffer in this
way. I was brought here without even being told that you had sons. Let
me leave you without trouble as well as without blame. I will never see
M. de Villemer again; this is all I can promise. If he should follow
me--"
"Do not doubt that he will! For Heaven's sake, speak lower! What if any
one should hear you! In case he should follow you, what would you do?"
"I shall go where he cannot follow me. Permit me to arrange this
according to my own judgment. In an hour I will return to take leave of
you, Madame de Villemer."