A mutual affection had existed from their very childhood between
Henri Merville and Louise Courtin; their respective parents were
near neighbours, and on very friendly terms with one another; they,
therefore, watched the infantile attachment of their children with
great pleasure, and with still more self-congratulation did they
perceive that, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their
strength, it had ripened into an ardent and deep-rooted passion. When
Henri, however, had attained his twentieth year, Louise being also only
seventeen, it became necessary that he should leave the humble village
of Verny, and perfect himself in his trade as a cabinet-maker, by
visiting and working in some large and opulent towns. The lovers, amid
their increasing happiness, had never thought of this long separation;
so that when Henri was told by his father that he must leave home, and
be away three years, and Louise informed by her mother of the same
circumstance, the intelligence came upon them like an earthquake.
Woman's feelings are more easily excited, and Louise felt as if Verny
would be a desert without her dear Henri; he too was sad enough,
although the preparations for his journey occupied the greatest portion
of his time, and prevented his so continually thinking of the separation
as she did. Grief and regret were useless; the parting hour arrived, and
the now miserable pair were left to themselves. They mutually made vows
of eternal constancy and fidelity; as is the custom in the provinces,
they _exchanged rings_, and became rather more resigned to their
unavoidable separation.
Henri at last departed, and was ten miles from Verny before he could
comprehend how he had summoned up resolution enough to leave it.
Louise, shut up in her little room, was weeping bitterly, and felt
no inclination to go out, since she could no longer meet Henri; but,
in a short time, both of them, without feeling less regret, bethought
themselves of making the wearisome interval useful to their future
prospects.
During the first eighteen months, he travelled about from town to town;
but at last, in Lyons, made an engagement with a person who had a very
extensive business, of the name of Gerval, for the remaining period. His
master preferred cards and the bottle to work, and finding Henri honest
and attentive, was anxious to retain him in his situation. He had a
daughter, named Annette, a quick, lively, and fascinating girl, who
seemed rather disposed to coquet with Henri, and was somewhat frequently
in the workshop with him. Gerval observed, and by no means discouraged,
this, thinking that, even after all, his assistant would become neither
a bad partner for Annette nor himself; and that their intercourse, at
all events, would keep away Louis, a former workman, who had affected
a great regard for his daughter, but possessed very little inclination
to use the saw or the plane. All this attention was very delightful to
Henri, particularly as it proceeded from so interesting a creature as
his present companion. Are, then, Verny and the sorrowful Louise quite
forgotten? It must be confessed, that they almost escaped his memory,
when thus employed with Annette; but, to do him justice, in the solitude
of his chamber he experienced feelings almost akin to remorse; often in
his dreams did he behold Louise, ever tender, ever affectionate, as in
their infancy; this vision was recalled when he awoke, and he arose,
vowing that she should never have a rival in his heart: but Henri was
young, Louise two hundred _miles_ off, and Annette only two _steps_.
Gerval, to keep away all aspirants, gave it out that they were
betrothed, and especially informed Louis, the dismissed swain, of this
agreement, who, in consequence thereof, immediately left Lyons. Henri's
time, meanwhile, was passing away; he had received some very tender
letters from Louise, and had written to her, but less frequently than
he would have done if Annette had not occupied his leisure hours.
Having, however, received no intelligence from Verny for more than
three months, he began to be disquieted, and determined to leave Gerval,
notwithstanding all Annette's attractions. To be sure, he had found
her very pretty and agreeable--he had romped and flirted with her--but
had never, for a moment, thought of marrying her, and had, strictly
speaking, been faithful to Louise. Judge then of his surprise, when, one
night, Gerval returned home half-drunk, and asked them, if they were
not beginning to think of the wedding. Annette threw herself into her
father's arms; Henri, pale as death, hid his face with his hands, and
knew not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the sight of this
confusion, burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter; "You put me
in mind," said he, at last, "of one of those _ninnies_ of lovers on
the stage, who throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses,
as if they were idols. Come, my lad, embrace your betrothed--exchange
rings--and long live joy, for it costs nothing." The words "_exchange
rings_" restored Henri to his senses, for he thought he beheld his
beloved Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, "Dear Henri, what will
become of me without you?" And this ring, too, which was asked from him,
was the self-same one that he had received from her!--He immediately
addressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, and, having
thanked him, told him that he should never forget his friendship and his
kind intentions, that he should always love Annette as a sister, but
that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own
native place. He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a
single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he
had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed her the ring, about which
she had teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man's reproaches
on _her_. These reproaches all fell on _him_; he bore them,
however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was "_a good sort of
fellow_," was, in the end, affected by it. "Go, then, and marry your
betrothed," said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; "since it
is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better. I must say, I shall
regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval
and his daughter."
Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea
of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. During the four or five first
days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling
countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble
from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise--"Annette will
console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me? Oh, yes!--she is
so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity,
when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I
was placed." Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily,
and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette
effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with
the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each
lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or
birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri
thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise,
and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the
loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering. Oh! could
he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that way! He tried
to do so, but his efforts were fruitless: the first Sunday arrived,
and he was still two days' journey from Verny. In the evening he found
himself in a large town, called Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless
endeavours, and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every thing
seemed prepared for the festival--the street was neat and clean--the
fountains adorned with branches, and decorated with large nosegays,
tied together with beautiful ribands--fir-trees marked the dwellings of
the young females--all had flowers around them, but he remarked, that
_one_ had only white ones on it, fastened with a crape riband--the
street was deserted. Before he could reach the inn, which was at
the other end of the town, he had to pass by the church and the
burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and in the latter there
was an open grave. This melancholy sight rendered it evident, that some
one was dead; that her loss had suspended the public joy; and the
_bouquet_, encircled with crape, had been planted before the "house
of mourning." He entered the church-yard--groups of females were walking
there. They were conversing in a low tone, and Henri discovered that the
deceased was young and beautiful; and that she had been the victim of a
misplaced affection; he could not restrain his tears, for he thought how
near, perhaps, he had been occasioning the death of his Louise. "But,"
said one of the females, "why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why
did she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?"--"She
always told me," replied Isabelle, (the person addressed, and who was in
deeper mourning than the others,) "that she could only love once, and
that she had no longer a heart to give."--"Well, then," said another,
"was she sure that her lover was faithless?"--"Quite sure. She had
long feared that he was; she saw it in his letters, for when a woman
like Marie loves, the heart divines every thing; still, however, she
flattered herself with the fond hope that he would return, and that
her forgiveness of his neglect would revive in him all his former
affection. Three months ago this hope was destroyed, she heard that he
was--_married_. Since that time she has only languished; she wished
to live for the sake of her parents, but her grief has proved the most
powerful. He quitted me in the month of May," said she to me; "in the
month of May I shall quit life." "That time is come, and Marie is no
more."--"Tell us her whole history," exclaimed two or three of the
listeners, at once. Isabelle consented; they were crowding round her,
and Henri was approaching nearer, and redoubling his attention, when
the funeral bell tolled drearily and solemnly. He started, and Isabelle
said, with a sigh, "I must tell you my dear friend's story another time;
we must now accompany her remains to their last sad home, and place
these flowers upon her coffin."
They walked on mournfully, two and two, and Henri followed them with an
interest that he could not account for, or define. The coffin advanced,
preceded by the priests, bearing torches that were obscured by the
silvery light of the moon; it was carried by six men, and among them it
was easy to recognise Guillaume, by his profound sorrow; for, to Henri's
great surprise, he alone wept. The more aged men who followed the
corpse, the one even next it, and who, of course, was the father, or
nearest relative of the deceased, had, like the rest, merely a composed
and serious countenance, undisfigured by any great affliction. The body
was lowered into the grave; the officiating minister made a brief, and
somewhat cold, discourse on the frailty of life; the young females
afterwards came forward, and each threw her wreath of flowers on the
coffin; and then chanted some rhymes.
The grave was then about to be filled up; the noise of the earth, in
falling, resounded on the coffin, and Henri shuddered. The crowd
gradually dispersed; Guillaume and Isabelle alone remained beside the
tomb; Henri approached it, and Isabelle observing him, with a forced
smile, said, "Did you know her? I have seen you follow the funeral train
with apparent interest, and now I behold you in tears; are you a
relation, friend, or only even a native of the same place?" Henri
listened to these questions with great surprise; "I scarcely understand
you," he at length replied; "I am merely a traveller; but the deceased
was, doubtless, _your_ friend?"--"Yes, my best, my dearest friend;
yet our friendship was doomed to be of very short continuance. I was
not at all acquainted with her until, about three months ago, she
came to reside with my father, who is a physician, and to whose care
her relations, when aware of her forlorn state, confided her." "Her
relations," remarked Henri, "did not seem to be much affected; they
appeared, indeed, quite resigned to their loss." "Her relations!"
replied Isabelle, "she had none here; she was a stranger, and my father
attended as chief mourner; he lamented her loss, but Marie was not his
daughter, although I _myself_ loved her as a sister." "Marie!" she
was called Marie! but what was her family-name? Often shall I think of
her unhappy destiny. "Marie was only a name that she adopted, and we
called her, because she could never bear to hear her own." "Isabelle,"
said she to me, almost at our first meeting, "never name me as he who
has destroyed me named me; never, I entreat you, call me _dear
Louise_." "Louise!" exclaimed Henri, growing pale as death; "Louise!"
"Yes, Louise Courtin, of Verny!" No sooner had Isabelle uttered these
words, than she beheld the young traveller fall senseless beside the
grave, feebly repeating the name of Louise. Isabelle, in alarm, called
her brother to her assistance; they raised up the stranger, who opened
his eyes for a moment, and again muttered the same words. "Gracious
Providence!" exclaimed the affrighted girl, "it is--it must be--Henri!"
The youth made an effort, and cried out, in a frantic manner: "Yes!
Henri, the murderer of his beloved; the assassin of Louise!" He then
again fell down exhausted, and to all appearance dead. Guillaume had
him conveyed to his father's, where every assistance that skill could
devise, was tendered him; but he only recovered his recollection
sufficiently to learn from Isabelle, that a person named Louis had
brought positive intelligence to Verny, that Henri had espoused his
master's daughter at Lyons; that her father himself had made him
acquainted with the circumstance, and that he had seen the newly married
couple in all the raptures of connubial happiness. It was impossible to
discredit this news, which was a death-blow to the sensitive Louise.
After having listened to this melancholy narrative, Henri, when he had
regained sufficient composure, entrusted Isabelle with his vindication,
for Louise's parents and his own, and expired without a groan the next
day. The same moon which had illuminated his betrothed's funeral shone
upon his, and they repose beside each other in the picturesque
burial-ground of Nuneville, not quite forgotten or unlamented by its
inhabitants.--_Abridged from a collection of interesting Tales and
Sketches, entitled "A Cantab's Leisure."_
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