“I have expressed myself badly. You shall not go alone.”
He raised his hands to heaven, as if in utter despair.
“Great God! Thou grantest me this consolation!”
But Dionysia went on speaking in a firmer voice.
“Did you think I would be mean enough to forsake the friend who
is betrayed by everybody else? No, no! Grandpapa and my aunts will
accompany me, and we will meet you in England. You will change your
name, and go across to America; and we will look out, far in the West,
for some new country where we can establish ourselves. It won’t be
France, to be sure. But our country, Jacques, is the country where we
are free, where we are beloved, where we are happy.”
Jacques de Boiscoran was moved to the last fibre of his innermost heart,
and in a kind of ecstasy which did not allow him to keep up any longer
his mask of impassive indifference. Was there a man upon earth who could
receive a more glorious proof of love and devotion? And from what a
woman! From a young girl, who united in herself all the qualities of
which a single one makes others proud,--intelligence and grace, high
rank and fortune, beauty and angelic purity.
Ah! she did not hesitate like that other one; she did not think of
asking for securities before she granted the first favor; she did not
make a science of duplicity, nor hypocrisy her only virtue. She gave
herself up entirely, and without the slightest reserve.
And all this at the moment when Jacques saw every thing else around him
crumbled to pieces, when he was on the very brink of utter despair, just
then this happiness came to him, this great and unexpected happiness,
which well-nigh broke his heart.
For a moment he could not move, he could not think.
Then all of a sudden, drawing his betrothed to him, pressing her
convulsively to his bosom, and covering her hair with a thousand kisses,
he cried,--
“I bless you, oh, my darling! I bless you, my well beloved! I shall
mourn no longer. Whatever may happen, I have had my share of heavenly
bliss.”
She thought he consented. Palpitating like the bird in the hand of a
child, she drew back, and looking at Jacques with ineffable love and
tenderness, she said,--
“Let us fix the day!”
“What day?”
“The day for your flight.”
This word alone recalled Jacques to a sense of his fearful position. He
was soaring in the supreme heights of the ether, and he was plunged down
into the vile mud of reality. His face, radiant with celestial joy, grew
dark in an instant, and he said hoarsely,--
“That dream is too beautiful to be realized.”
“What do you say?” she stammered.
“I can not, I must not, escape!”
“You refuse me, Jacques?”
He made no reply.
“You refuse me, when I swear to you that I will join you, and share your
exile? Do you doubt my word? Do you fear that my grandfather or my aunts
might keep me here in spite of myself?”
As this suppliant voice fell upon his ears, Jacques felt as if all his
energy abandoned him, and his will was shaken.
“I beseech you, Dionysia,” he said, “do not insist, do not deprive me of
my courage.”
She was evidently suffering agonies. Her eyes shone with unbearable
fire. Her dry lips were trembling.
“You will submit to being brought up in court?” she asked.
“Yes!”
“And if you are condemned?”
“I may be, I know.”
“This is madness!” cried the young girl.
In her despair she was wringing her hands; and then the words escaped
from her lips, almost unconsciously,--
“Great God,” she said, “inspire me! How can I bend him? What must I say?
Jacques, do you love me no longer? For my sake, if not for your own, I
beseech you, let us flee! You escape disgrace; you secure liberty. Can
nothing touch you? What do you want? Must I throw myself at your feet?”
And she really let herself fall at his feet.
“Flee!” she repeated again and again. “Oh, flee!”
Like all truly energetic men, Jacques recovered in the very excess of
his emotion all his self-possession. Gathering his bewildered thoughts
by a great effort of mind, he raised Dionysia, and carried her, almost
fainting, to the rough prison bench; then, kneeling down by her side,
and taking her hands he said,--
“Dionysia, for pity’s sake, come to yourself and listen to me. I am
innocent; and to flee would be to confess that I am guilty.”
“Ah! what does that matter?”
“Do you think that my escape would stop the trial? No. Although absent,
I should still be tried, and found guilty without any opposition: I
should be condemned, disgraced, irrevocably dishonored.”
“What does it matter?”
Then he felt that such arguments would never bring her back to reason.
He rose, therefore, and said in a firm voice,--
“Let me tell you what you do not know. To flee would be easy, I agree.
I think, as you do, we could reach England readily enough, and we might
even take ship there without trouble. But what then? The cable is faster
than the fastest steamer; and, upon landing on American soil, I should,
no doubt, be met by agents with orders to arrest me. But suppose even I
should escape this first danger. Do you think there is in all this world
an asylum for incendiaries and murderers? There is none. At the extreme
confines of civilization I should still meet with police-agents and
soldiers, who, an extradition treaty in hand, would give me up to the
government of my country. If I were alone, I might possibly escape all
these dangers. But I should never succeed if I had you near me, and
Grandpapa Chandore, and your two aunts.”
Dionysia was forcibly struck by these objections, of which she had had
no idea. She said nothing.
“Still, suppose we might possibly escape all such dangers. What would
our life be! Do you know what it would mean to have to hide and to
run incessantly, to have to avoid the looks of every stranger, and to
tremble, day by day, at the thought of discovery? With me, Dionysia,
your existence would be that of the wife of one of those banditti whom
the police are hunting down in his dens. And you ought to know that such
a life is so intolerable, that hardened criminals have been unable to
endure it, and have given up their life for the boon of a night’s quiet
sleep.”
Big tears were silently rolling down the poor girl’s cheeks. She
murmured,--
“Perhaps you are right, Jacques. But, O Jacques, if they should condemn
you!”
“Well, I should at least have done my duty. I should have met fate,
and defended my honor. And, whatever the sentence may be, it will not
overthrow me; for, as long as my heart beats within me, I mean to defend
myself. And, if I die before I succeed in proving my innocence, I
shall leave it to you, Dionysia, to your kindred, and to my friends, to
continue the struggle, and to restore my honor.”
She was worthy of comprehending and of appreciating such sentiments.
“I was wrong, Jacques,” she said, offering him her hand: “you must
forgive me.”
She had risen, and, after a few moments’ hesitation, was about to leave
the room, when Jacques retained her, saying,--
“I do not mean to escape; but would not the people who have agreed to
favor my evasion be willing to furnish me the means for passing a few
hours outside of my prison?”
“I think they would,” replied the young girl; “And, if you wish it, I
will make sure of it.”
“Yes. That might be a last resort.”
With these words they parted, exhorting each other to keep up their
courage, and promising each other to meet again during the next days.
Dionysia found her poor aunt Lavarande very tired of the long watch; and
they hastened home.
“How pale you are!” exclaimed M. de Chandore, when he saw his
grand-daughter; “and how red your eyes are! What has happened?”
She told him every thing; and the old gentleman felt chilled to the
marrow of his bones, when he found that it had depended on Jacques alone
to carry off his grandchild. But he had not done so.
“Ah, he is an honest man!” he said.