When Marie presented herself so unexpectedly before him, David was
seated at his little table in the attitude of meditation. At the sight
of the young woman, pale, weeping, her hair dishevelled, and in the
disorder of her night-dress, he rose abruptly, and, turning as pale as
Marie herself, at the fear that some dreadful event had taken place,
said:
"Madame, what has happened? Has Frederick--"
"M. David!" exclaimed the young woman, "it is impossible for you to
abandon us in this way!"
"Madame--"
"I tell you, that you shall not leave, no, you cannot have the heart to
do it. My only, my last hope is in you, because--you know it well, oh,
my God!--I have no one in the world to help me but you!"
"Madame, a word, I implore you."
Marie, clasping her hands, continued in a supplicating voice:
"Mercy, M. David, be good and generous to the end. Why are you
discouraged? The transports of my son have ceased, he has given up his
plans for vengeance. That is already a great deal, and that I owe to
your influence. Frederick's dejection increases, but that is no reason
for despair. My God! My God! Perhaps you think me ungrateful, because I
express my gratitude to you so poorly. It is not my fault. My poor child
seems as dear to you as to me. Sometimes you say _our_ Frederick; then I
forget that you are a stranger who has had pity on us! Your tenderness
toward my son seems to me so sincere that I am no more astonished at
your devotion to him than at my own."
In his astonishment, David had not at first been able to find a word;
then he experienced such delight in hearing Marie portray her gratitude
in such a touching manner that, in spite of himself, he did not reassure
her, perhaps, as soon as he could have done so. Nevertheless,
reproaching himself for not putting an end to the agony of this unhappy
woman, he said:
"Will you listen to me, madame?"
"No, no," cried she, with the impetuosity of grief and entreaty. "Oh,
you surely will have pity, you will not kill me with despair, after
having made me hope so much! How can I do without you now? Oh, my God!
what do you think will become of us if you go away? Oh, monsieur, there
is one memory which is all-powerful with you, the memory of your
brother. In the name of this memory, I implore you not to abandon
Frederick. You have been as tender with him as if he were your own child
or your own brother. These are sacred links which unite you and me, and
you will not break these links without pity; no, no, it cannot be
possible!"
And sobs stifled the voice of the young woman.
Tears came also to the eyes of David, and he hastened to say to Madame
Bastien, in a voice full of emotion:
"I do not know, madame, what has made you think that I intended to go
away. Nothing was farther from my thought."
"Really!" exclaimed Marie, in a voice which cannot be described.
"And if I must tell you, madame, while I have not been discouraged, I
have realised the difficulty of our task; but to-day, at this hour, for
the first time I have good hope."
"My God, you hear him!" murmured Marie with religious fervour. "May this
hope not be in vain!"
"It will not be, madame, I have every reason to believe, and, far from
contemplating departure, I have spent my time in reflecting all this
day, because to-morrow may offer something decisive. And in order that
my reflections might not be interrupted, I did not appear at dinner,
under the pretext of a slight indisposition. Calm yourself, madame, I
implore you in my turn. Believe that I have only one thought in the
world, the salvation of our Frederick. To-day this salvation is not only
possible, but probable. Yes, everything tells me that to-morrow will be
a happy day for us."
It is impossible to describe the transformation which, at each word of
David, was manifested in the countenance of the young woman. Her face,
so pale and distorted by agony, became suddenly bright with joyous
surprise; her lovely features, half veiled by her loose and beautiful
hair, now shone with ineffable hope.
Marie was so adorably beautiful, thus attired in her white
dressing-gown, half open from the violent palpitations of her bosom,
that a deep blush mounted to David's brow, and the passionate love that
he had so long felt, not without dread, now took possession of his
heart.
"M. David," continued Madame Bastien, "surely you will not deceive me
with false hope, in order to escape my prayers, and spare yourself the
sight of my tears. Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I am ashamed of this last
doubt, the last echo of my past terror. Oh, I believe you, yes, I
believe you! I am so happy to believe you!"
"You can do so, madame, for I have never lied," replied David, scarcely
daring to look up at Marie, whose beauty intoxicated him almost to
infatuation. "But who, madame, has led you to suppose that I was going
away?"
"It was Marguerite who told me a little while ago in my chamber; then,
in my dismay, I ran to you."
These words reminded David that the presence of Madame Bastien in his
chamber at a late hour of the night might seem strange to the servants
of the house, in spite of the affectionate respect with which they
regarded the young mother, so, taking advantage of the excuse she had
just offered, he advanced to the threshold of his door, left open during
this conversation, and called Marguerite in a loud voice.
"I beg your pardon, madame," said he to Marie, who looked at him with
surprise. "I would like to know why Marguerite thought I was going
away."
The servant, astonished and frightened by the sudden flight of her
mistress, hurried to David's chamber, and he at once said to her:
"My dear Marguerite, you have just been the cause of great distress to
Madame Bastien, by telling her that I was preparing to leave the house,
and that, too, at a time when Frederick, this poor child whom you have
seen from his birth, has need of all our care. In her deep anxiety,
Madame Bastien ran up here; fortunately, I have been able to satisfy
her; but, again, how came you to think I was about to leave?"
"As I told madame, M. David, you had asked Andre for a horse and cart to
carry trunks to Pont Brillant. Then, I thought--"
"That is true," said David, interrupting Marguerite.
Then, addressing Marie, he said:
"A thousand pardons, madame, for having given reason for the mistake
which has caused you so much anxiety. The story is simply this: I had
charge of some boxes of books that I was to deliver, upon my arrival at
Senegal, to one of my compatriots. In departing from Nantes, I had, in
my preoccupation of mind, given order to address my baggage here; these
boxes, contrary to my intention, were included in the list, and it
was--"
"To return them to Nantes by the coach which passes Pont Brillant that
you asked for a horse and cart, was it not, M. David?" said the old
servant.
"Exactly, my dear Marguerite."
"It is the fault of Andre, too," said the servant. "He told me trunks. I
said trunks or effects, which are the same thing, but, thank God! you
have calmed madame, and you must stay, M. David, because, if left alone,
she will have trouble with poor M. Frederick."
During this interchange of explanation between Marguerite and David,
Madame Bastien, altogether encouraged, came, so to speak, to herself
entirely; then feeling her hair float over her half-naked bosom, she
thought of the disorder of her attire; but she was so pure and
unaffected, so much the mother more than the woman, that she attached no
importance to the fact of her nocturnal interview with David; but when
her instinct of natural modesty awakened, she reflected upon the
embarrassment and painful awkwardness of running to David's chamber in
her night-dress, and she saw at once the delicacy of sentiment which he
had obeyed in calling Marguerite and demanding an explanation of the
circumstances.
These reflections filled her mind while David and Marguerite were
conversing upon the subject.
Not knowing how to arrange her disordered toilet without being seen by
David, and feeling that any attempt at arrangement was a tacit avowal of
her embarrassment, however excusable, the young woman found a way out of
the complication.
The servant wore a large red woollen shawl. Madame Bastien took it and
silently wrapped it around herself, then, as many of the women of the
country do, she put it over her head and crossed it, so that her
floating hair was half hidden and she was enveloped to her waist in the
long folds of the shawl.
This was done with so much quickness that David did not perceive the
metamorphosis in Marie's costume until she said to her servant, with
affectionate familiarity:
"My good Marguerite, forgive me for taking your shawl, but to-night is
freezing, and I am cold."
If David had found the young woman adorably beautiful and attractive
with dishevelled hair and all in white, he beheld a still more
captivating beauty in her as she stood wrapped in this mantle of
scarlet; nothing could have more enhanced the soft brilliancy of her
large blue eyes, the lovely colour of her brown hair, and the delicate
rose of her complexion.
"Good night, M. David," said the young mother; "after having entered
your room in despair, I leave it greatly encouraged, since you tell me
that to-morrow will be a day of decisive experience for Frederick, and
perhaps a day of happiness for us."
"Yes, madame, I have good hope, and if you will permit it, to-morrow
morning, before seeing Frederick, I would like to meet you in the
library."
"I will await you there, M. David, and with great impatience. God grant
that our anticipations may not be mistaken. Good night again, M. David.
Come, Marguerite."
Long after the young woman had left the chamber of David, he stood
motionless in the same place, trembling with rapture, as he pictured to
himself the enchanting loveliness of the face sheltered under the folds
of the scarlet shawl.