The Vow.
Andre Bernard arrived at the Chateau de Peyrelade like a man walking in
his sleep. He found that he had been ushered into the Countess's
boudoir, and that he was sitting there awaiting her arrival, without
having the faintest remembrance of the forest through which he must have
come, the gates through which he must have passed, or the staircase
which he must have ascended. Truly the Abbe Bernard had been asleep, and
his sleep had lasted for two months. Now he was slowly awaking, and it
was the stern reality of his position that so bewildered him.
The charm which spread itself round the young and beautiful Countess had
not been unfelt by this lonely priest, whose calm and passionless
existence had hitherto been passed in the society of an aged
housekeeper, or of a simple and untaught peasantry. Seeing nothing for
long years beyond the narrow limits of his own little world--his
parsonage, his chapel, or his parishioners; familiar only with the
savage grandeur of the mountains, or the cool stillnesses of the
valleys, is it to be wondered at that the presence of an accomplished
and graceful woman should blind the reason of a simple Cure?
Even at this moment, the perfumed atmosphere of the boudoir intoxicated
him. Exotics of exquisite shape and colour, with long drooping leaves
and heavy white and purple blossoms, were piled against the windows; a
Persian carpet, gorgeous with eastern dyes--
"Orange and azure deep'ning into gold,"
was spread beneath his feet. Yonder was her lute; here were some of her
favourite books; all around, draperies of pink silk fell from the
ceiling, and curtained round the boudoir like a tent.
The Abbe laid his head upon his hand, and groaned aloud.
When he again looked up, the Countess was standing beside him, with an
unwonted trouble in her face--a trouble that might have been pity, or
anxiety, or shame, or a mingling of all three.
She began to speak; she hesitated; her voice trembled, and her words
were indistinct.
Andre Bernard was suddenly aroused from his dream. The lover, not the
priest, was awakened.
He rose abruptly.
"Madame la Comtesse," he said, sternly, "spare yourself useless and
sinful words. I know why you have sent for me to-day, and I tell you
that the All-Powerful who has received your vow, commands you by my lips
to observe its sanctity."
The young woman cast a terrified glance at the gloomy countenance of the
priest, and hid her face in her hands.
"Then, Monsieur le Cure, the All-Powerful bids me die!"
"No, you will not die," replied the Abbe, in the same profound and
steady voice--"you will not die. Heaven, which gave you strength to bear
the first separation, will enable you to sustain the second."
"Alas! alas!" cried the Countess, in a piercing tone, "I had thought to
be so happy!"
The priest dug his nails into the palms of his clenched hands. A
convulsive tremor shook him from head to foot, and he gasped for breath.
Before he had seen her, he had prepared a host of holy consolations for
the wounded heart; but now that he had it before him, trembling and
bleeding like the stricken bird which had nestled in his breast the
night before, he had not a word of comfort or pity to soothe her
anguish. Every tear that forced its way between her slender fingers,
fell like a burning coal upon the conscience of the good Cure. In this
cruel perplexity he murmured a brief prayer for strength and guidance.
"Alas, Madame," he faltered, "do you then love him so deeply?"
"I have loved him all my life!" she cried despairingly.
The priest was silent. He threw open the window, and suffered the
evening breeze to cool his brow and lift his long black hair.
Then he returned.
"Marguerite," he said, in a broken voice, "be it as you will. In the
name of the living God, I release you from your vow; and if in this a
wrong should be committed, henceforth I take that sin upon my soul."
Powerfully moved, glowing with excitement, elevated for the moment by a
rapture of generosity--feeling, perhaps, as the martyrs of old, when
they went triumphant to their deaths, and sealed their faith with
blood--so Andre Bernard stood in the glory of the setting sun, rapt,
illumined, glorified. And Marguerite de Peyrelade, dimly conscious of
the dark struggle that had passed through his soul and the divine
victory which he had achieved, fell on her knees as to a deity, calling
upon him as her saviour, her benefactor!
"Not unto me, Marguerite, but unto Him," said Andre, releasing his hand
gently from her lips, and pointing upwards. "It is not I who give you
happiness. _C'est Dieu qui l'envoie. Priez Dieu!_" And he pointed to a
crucifix against the wall.
The young woman bowed before the sacred emblem in speechless gratitude,
and when she rose from her knees the priest was gone.
In an hour from this time, two persons were sitting together on the
terrace, upon which opened the Countess's boudoir. One was a young man,
pale, but with a light of joy in his countenance that replaced the bloom
of health. He was seated in an easy chair, and wrapped in a large
military cloak. The other was a woman, young and beautiful, who sat on a
low stool at his feet, with her cheek resting on his hand. They spoke at
intervals in low caressing tones, and seemed calmly, speechlessly
happy.
Far around them extended range beyond range of purple mountains, quiet
valleys, and long, dark masses of foliage tinted with all the hues of
autumn and golden in the sun. No traces of the late storm were visible,
save that here and there a tree lay prostrate, and one or two brawling
streams that but yesterday were tiny rivulets, dashed foaming through
the valleys.
Presently the red disc of the sun disappeared slowly behind the
tree-tops; the gathered clouds faded into grey; the mountain summits
grew darker, and their outline more minutely distinct; a mist came over
the valley; and a star gleamed out above.
The lady wrapped his cloak more closely round her lover, to protect him
from the evening air, and then resumed her lowly seat. And so they sat,
looking at the stars and into one another's eyes, listening to the
distant sheep-bell, or the lowing of the herds as they were driven home
to their stalls.
"Methinks, sweet one," said the gentleman, as he looked down at the dear
head laid against his hand--"methinks, that in an hour such as this,
with thee beside me, I should love to die!"
But the lady kissed his hand, and then his brow, and looked at him with
eyes that were filled only with life and love.
That night the Baron de Pradines set off to join his regiment.