I have told all that I remember of that night,--a night whose horrible
events still haunt my memory like the ghosts of the unburied on the
banks of Styx, often flitting across my mind's eye, when it would fain
turn to scenes of happiness and joy. If ever a horrible dream disturbs
my slumber, it is also sure to refer to that night, and I find myself
labouring on in the midst of wilds and darkness, rocks and precipices,
the tempest dashing in my face, and the wind hurling me into the midst
of the suffocating snow.
My recovery from the sort of stupor into which I had fallen after I
had discovered the death of poor Father Francis was very different in
all its sensations from my resuscitation after drowning. I remember
nothing of the actual return to life, and it must, indeed, have been
some weeks before I regained my powers of reason and perception in
their full force, passing the interval in a state of delirium, brought
on by the cold, and also, perhaps, by the excessive excitement in
which I had been for some hours previous to my losing my recollection.
When I first woke, as it were, from this state of mental alienation, I
found myself lying on a bed, stretched in my mother's toilet chamber.
I believe I had been asleep, and felt excessively enfeebled--so much
so, indeed, that, though I plainly saw my mother just rising from
beside me, I could not summon sufficient energy to speak to her, and I
reclosed my eyes. I heard her say, however, "He wakes! try, dear
Helen, to soothe him to sleep again, while I go and endeavour to rest
myself, for I am very much worn with watching last night." Her steps
retreated, for she fancied me still delirious; and I could hear some
one else glide forward--though the footfall was, perhaps, the lightest
that ever touched the earth--and take the seat my mother had left. So
acute had become my sense of hearing, that the least sound was
perceptible to my ears, even for many weeks afterwards, to such a
degree as to be positively painful to me.
I was well aware that it was Helen Arnault--my beloved Helen--that sat
beside me; and yet, though I can scarcely say my senses were
sufficiently restored for me positively to exercise that faculty which
is called _thinking_, there was upon my mind a vague dreamy
remembrance that I had acted wrong in her regard, which made me still
keep my eyes closed, trying to call up more clearly the images of all
my adventures at Saragossa. As I lay thus, I felt a soft sweet breath
fan my cheek, like the air of spring, and then a warm drop or two fall
upon it, like a spring shower. I opened my eyes, and saw Helen gazing
upon me and weeping. She raised her head slightly, for her lips had
been close to my cheek; but thinking that my mind was still in the
same wandering state, she continued to gaze upon my face, and I could
see in her eyes the look of that deep, devoted, resolute affection,
with which woman is pre-eminently endowed--her blessing or her curse!
I laid my hand gently upon one of hers which rested on the side of my
bed, and drawing it towards me, I pressed it to my lips. She instantly
started up, and looked at me with a glance of surprise and joy that I
can see even now.
"Oh, is it possible!" cried she: "are you better really?" and she
seemed as if to start away to convey the tidings to my mother; but I
beckoned her to bend her head down towards me, and when she had done
so, I thanked her, in a low voice, but with energetic words, for her
care, her kindness, and for her love. Her blushing cheek was close to
my lips, but sickness, which had rendered all my sensations morbidly
acute, had also made my feelings of delicacy much more refined, and
had given a degree of timidity I did not often otherwise feel. I would
not for the world have taken advantage of the opportunity which her
kindness and confidence afforded; and though, as I have said, her
cheek, looking like the summer side of a blooming peach, was within
the reach of my lips, I let her raise it without a touch, when I had
poured forth my thanks into her ear; and I then suffered her to do her
joyful errand to my mother, only venturing to tell her, ere she went,
how much I loved, and how much I would love her to the end of my
existence.
A moment after, my mother returned herself, her eyes streaming with
tears of joy; and, kneeling by my bedside, she covered my cheek with
those fond maternal kisses, whose unmixed purity gives them a sweet
and holy balm, which love with all its fire and brightness can seldom,
seldom attain.
My convalescence was tedious, and months elapsed before I regained
anything like the robust health which I had formerly enjoyed. Months
of sickness are very apt to make a spoilt child; and had I not lately
received some lessons hard to be forgot, such might have been the case
with me, when I saw the whole happiness of the three persons I myself
loved best depending upon my slightest change of looks. My father's
delight at my recovery was not less than my mother's; and every day
that I met Helen, I could see her eye rest for an instant upon my
face, as if to watch what progress returning health had made since the
day before; and when, by chance it gained a deeper touch of red, or my
eyes had acquired a ray of renewed fire, the happiness of her heart
raised the blood into her cheek, and made her look a thousand times
lovelier than ever.
We now also met oftener than formerly. The ties which she had entwined
round my mother's heart had been, during my illness, drawn more
tightly than ever. That restraint no longer existed which had formerly
proved so irksome to me; Helen was in every way treated as a child of
the family; and, had she chosen it, might have yielded me many an hour
of that private conversation which I was not remiss in seeking. But
far from it; with an ingenuity, which mingled gentleness, perhaps even
affection, with reserve, she avoided all opportunity of hearing what
her heart forbade her to reprove, and to which she yet felt it wrong
to listen.
When before my father or mother, instead of appearing to feel a
greater degree of timidity, it seemed as if the restraint was removed,
and she would behave towards me as a gentle and affectionate sister;
but if ever she encountered me alone, she had still some excuse to
leave me, ere I could tell her all that was passing in my heart, or
win from her any reiteration of her once acknowledged regard.
Her conduct made me grave and melancholy. My bosom was full of a
passion that I burned to pour forth with all the ardour of youth, and
it drove me forth to solitude to dream over the feelings I was denied
the power to communicate. My father observed my long and lonely
rambles; and remonstrated with me on giving way to such melancholy
gloom, when I had so many causes for happiness and for gratitude to
Heaven. "Not," said he, "that I contemn an occasional recourse to the
commune of one's own thoughts; it enlarges, it elevates, it improves
the mind; and I am convinced that the beautiful Roman fable of Numa
and Egeria was but a fine allegory, to express that the Roman king
learned wisdom by a frequent intercourse with the divine and
instructive spirit of solitude. But your retirement, my dear Louis,
seems to me of a gloomy and dissatisfied nature; perhaps it originates
in a desire to see more of courts and cities than you have hitherto
done. If so, it is easy to gratify you, however painful it may be to
your mother and myself to lose your society."
In reply, I assured him that I entertained no desire of the kind; but
he had persuaded himself that such was the case, and still retained
his first opinion, though God knows to leave Helen was the last thing
I sought. He continued, however, to turn in his own mind his project
of sending me to the court, notwithstanding which, it is probable that
the whole would have gradually passed away from his memory, had not my
mother, to whom he had communicated his wishes, from other motives,
determined upon the same proceeding; and with her calm but active
spirit, while my father spoke of it every day, yet took no step
towards its accomplishment, she hardly mentioned the subject, but
carried it into effect.
As I recovered my health, there was of course much to hear concerning
all that had occurred, both during my absence in Spain, and my illness
after my return.
In regard to the first, I shall merely notice the circumstance which
occasioned my father to recal me: this was nothing else than a visit
from the Marquis de St. Brie, of whom the Chevalier had instilled into
our minds so unfavourable an opinion.
On his presenting himself at the château, my father received him
coldly and haughtily; but the Marquis soon, by the polished elegance
of his manners, and the apparent frankness of his character, did away
the evil impression which had been created against him. He spoke of
his rencontre with me, and he praised my conduct in the highest
manner. Courage, and skill, and generous forbearance, were all
attributed to me; and the ears of the parent were easily soothed by
the commendation bestowed upon his child. Besides, my father was too
lazy to hold his opinion steadfastly, when any one strove to steal it
from him; and he gradually brought himself to believe that the Marquis
de St. Brie was a very much slandered person, and that, so far from
having any evil intent towards me, the Marquis was my very good friend
and well-wisher.
My mother was slower to be convinced; but the language of my former
adversary was so high whenever he spoke of me, that she also gradually
yielded her unfavourable impressions, and willingly consented to my
recal--the Marquis having promised to revisit the Château de l'Orme in
the spring, and expressed a wish to see me, offering at the same time,
if his interest could be of service to my views, to use it to the
utmost in my behalf. My mother looked upon this, at the worst, as an
empty profession, and my father almost believed him to be sincere.
Thus I was recalled; and my adventures on my return being already
told, I have only farther to relate the means by which I was saved
from the fate that menaced me. Immediately on quitting Father Francis
and myself, my faithful Houssaye had ridden on with the guide to
Laruns, as hard as he could. The wind, however, and the snow had
delayed them far longer than he had anticipated; and, anxious for my
safety, he galloped to the little cabaret in search of some one to
return and lend their assistance in finding me out, and rescuing me
from the peril in which he had left me.
The first persons whom he encountered in the auberge were Arnault, the
procureur of Lourdes, and his son, the latter of whom instantly
proffered to join the party, and aid with all his heart. But the old
procureur was thereupon immediately smitten with a fit of paternal
tenderness, such as had not visited him for many years before; and he
not only positively prohibited Jean Baptiste from encountering the
dangers of the snow himself, but he also pronounced such a pathetic
oration upon the horrors and dangers of the undertaking, that of the
whole party collected in the cabaret not one could be found to
venture.
Houssaye's next resource was amongst the cottagers round about, and,
by promises and persuasion, he induced eight sturdy mountaineers to
accompany him with the resin torches for which they are famous in that
part of the country, and which are almost as difficult to extinguish
as the celebrated fire of Callinicus. With these they began their
search on the road towards Gabas; but scarcely had they passed the
defile immediately above Laruns, than the light of the torches flashed
over a spot where the snow had evidently been disturbed, and on
examining they found a part of my clothes not yet covered with the
drift which had come down since the wind had swept Father Francis and
myself from the path. We were soon extricated, and carried to Laruns
apparently dead.
Here all means were applied to recall us to life, but they proved
successful only with me; on Father Francis they had no effect, though
Houssaye assured me that everything which could be devised was
employed in vain.
Amongst the most active in rendering me every assistance after I was
extricated was the good youth who had saved me before from a watery
grave; but in the midst of his endeavours, his father checked him, and
calling him on one side, spoke to him for long in a low voice.
"The old fox thought I could hear nothing," said Houssaye; "but enough
reached me to make me understand he would rather have had you die than
live. If he dies, I heard him say, you shall have both--something
which I did not hear--and all the property; but if he lives, mark if
he do not thwart us, though I will take care to throw obstacles enough
in his way! The lad seemed well enough inclined to help you still,"
proceeded Houssaye, "but his father would not let him; though he came
the next morning himself, fawning and asking if he could bear any
message back to Lourdes, whither he was about to return, finding that
he could not pass into Spain as he had intended."
This latter part of the worthy old trumpeter's narration astonished
and embarrassed me a good deal; and after turning it in every way that
my imagination could suggest, without being able to discover any
solution of the mystery, I was obliged to conclude that, in what the
narrator declared he had overheard, fancy had full as great a share as
matter of fact. Arnault might dislike me--indeed, I was very sure that
he did so--but how my life might thwart his views, or my death might
profit him, I was at a loss to discover.
One thing, however, I remarked--Arnault, after my recovery, came more
than once to see his daughter, which he had not done more than twice
before, since she had been at the château. Her brother, also, was more
frequently with her; and on these occasions, the father, if he met any
member of my family, was humble and fawning, the son awkward and
sheepish; and it struck me that the behaviour of the latter was very
much changed towards myself, as if he were playing a part learned by
rote, which neither assimilated with his character nor suited his
inclination.
I also perceived a change take place in Helen--she grew silent, pale,
thoughtful. When she looked at me, it seemed as if her eyes would
overflow with tears, were it not for the restraint imposed upon her by
the presence of others. Her gaiety was gone; and even the servants,
amongst whom she was almost adored, began to remark the sadness of
_Mademoiselle Helene_, and comment on its cause. All this was to me a
mystery; and doubt of any kind, even concerning a trifle, has ever
been to me a thousand times more painful than evident danger or real
misfortune. Doubt is to my mind what the darkness of night is to a
ghost-frightened school-boy--I go on gazing anxiously about me on
every side, conjuring up a thousand ideal spectres, and distorting
every dim object that I see into the likeness of some fearful phantom
of the imagination. Nor can all the reasoning in my power divest my
mind of the credulity with which I listen either to hope or to
apprehension: though I well know that apprehension is to sorrow what
hope is to joy--a sort of _avant courier_, who greatly magnifies the
importance of the personage whom he precedes.
In the present instance, I determined to change my doubts to
certainties, if human ingenuity might do so. Probably I should have
accomplished it, but passion--which generally interferes with the best
laid schemes of human wisdom, suggesting that the gratification which
the heart seeks may easily be blended with the designs which the brain
has formed--was ingenious enough to persuade me that the very best
thing I could do for the accomplishment of my object was suddenly to
explain myself with Helen. She avoided giving me any opportunity of
doing so. I persisted with all the ardour of my nature, watching with
unwearied assiduity even to gain a quarter of an hour; but I watched
in vain.
Thus lapsed first a week, and then another, at the end of which the
Marquis de St. Brie arrived at the château, full ten days before he
had been expected. He came, however, with no train which could
incommode his host and hostess. Two servants were all that accompanied
him; and the seeming frankness of this conduct even won much upon my
opinion. I found him a different person from what I had conceived. He
was proud, perhaps, in manner, but not haughty; he was witty--he was
well informed--he was pleasing. In short, he was the opposite to that
Marquis de St. Brie whom I had more than once regretted not having
sent to his long account at the time it was in my power to do so.
Was he changed--or was I? Perhaps both; and I am afraid that a degree
of pique towards the Chevalier did certainly make me easily receive
every favourable impression that the manners and appearance of my
former adversary were calculated to produce. In latter years I have
tried to judge my own motives in the various events of life--I have
judged them strictly--as strictly as it is possible for a man to do;
but not too much so, for it is impossible that any one can be too
severe upon himself. The result of my self-investigation on this point
has been, that had my friendship for the Chevalier been as lively as
ever, I should have found less charms in the society of the Marquis de
St. Brie.