I imagined myself an old man; my limbs were heavy, my hair gray; the
thousand fine pores of the skin, by which the body imperceptibly
imbibes vitality, and is nourished by the elements, were dried up.
With the decreasing influx of life, the power of the muscles relaxed,
the delicate parts, which we call organs, gradually hardened and
closed. I heard no more of the world, and the light of my eyes was
also extinguished. While the senses, by which the spirit is rooted to
the earth were thus dying away, the feelings became weaker, the ideas
fainter, and all that was formerly communicated to the mind by the
active senses was lost. I was no longer master of my body, and had
forgotten the names of things and their use. Men fed me, dressed and
undressed me, and treated me as a child. I was still able to speak,
but often wanted words, and sometimes uttered phrases which no one
understood; thoughts still presented themselves, and I felt, though
without regret, that I no more belonged to the earth. Soon, however, I
was not able to give utterance to my thoughts; but had only an
unvarying, torpid consciousness of existence, such as we feel while
sleeping, when not even dreams present themselves. This state, always
the same, without any external change, was unaccompanied by pleasure or
pain; there was no variety of thought, therefore no succession or
notion of time. In short, I had been dead for a long period, and my
body had been buried and mouldering for centuries. Only on earth,
during the existence of the senses, where we count the change of
things, we can speak of ages, and the succession of events suggests to
us the notion of time. Abstracting from all idea of change, time no
longer exists.
A pleasing, indefinable sensation produced a change in me; my mind,
before isolated, was connected with new organs which opened to me a
larger sphere of action in the universe.
I began to feel more and more conscious, I heard a gentle rustling
around me, which invigorated me with its delightful freshness. Before
me floated dazzling golden rays, whilst silvery clouds sportively
passed along. I cast my wandering gaze on the bright transparent
verdure of the surrounding boughs, which waved in the crystal ether
like aërial forms, and between the boughs and the clouds shone
Clementine, motionless, in ineffable beauty, a wreath of fresh flowers
entwining her dark hair.
She smiled on me with an expression of innocent love; took the wreath
from her hair, waved it with her delicate hand, and it dropped on my
breast.
“Oh! heavenly dream never depart from me,” I said, while gazing with
inexpressible rapture on the beautiful vision.
While I was in this state a carriage rolled past. Clementine’s
countenance darkened on hearing her name called.
“Farewell, Alamontade,” said she, and disappeared amidst the trembling
boughs.
At that moment I was going to fall at her feet but found myself on the
ground. I was no longer in a dream, for I perceived the Vidourle and
the château in the shade of the lofty chesnut trees.
I rose and heard a carriage rattling over the bridge, and as I hastened
along, an old servant approached, and asked whether I wished any
refreshment. On my evincing astonishment, he asked, “Are you not M.
Alamontade?” I answered in the affirmative. Then he said,
“Mademoiselle de Sonnes and her mother have left me orders to that
effect!” I went back, took up the wreath and followed the servant.
Clementine was Mademoiselle de Sonnes.
That day was the happiest and most memorable of my life.
A garret in the back part of the house of M. Bertollon, one of the
richest and most fortunate citizens of Montpellier was my dwelling.
Some roofs, black walls, and two windows, with the balconies of a house
in the opposite street were my only prospect; still I was happy.
Surrounded by books, I lived only to study, and Clementine’s wreath
hung over my table. The millions of spring blossoms lost their
splendour before the magic of these withered flowers, and the jewels of
kings were valueless to me in comparison with the smallest leaf of the
clover.
Clementine was my saint, and I loved her with a pious veneration, such
as we feel for angelic beings. Her wreath was a relic, which an angel
had let fall on me from heaven. In my dreams I saw her surrounded by
glory, and she was the subject of my poetic effusions. I looked most
anxiously for the vacations of the college to see my uncle and Nismes,
and perhaps, by some happy chance, my adored saint.
One day the door of my solitary room opened, and a handsome young man
entered. It was M. Bertollon. “You have a gloomy prospect,” he said,
as he stepped to the window, “still it extends to part of the house of
M. de Sonnes, one of the most tasteful in the town,” he added, smiling.
At that name I became agitated. M. Bertollon stood thoughtfully at the
window and appeared melancholy. We resumed the conversation, and he
asked my name and the nature of my studies. Having mentioned my
fondness for the harp, he said: “Do you play the harp and love it
passionately without possessing one?”
“I am too poor, sir, to purchase one, for the little money I have is
scarcely sufficient to procure the books that I need most.”
“My wife has two harps and can well spare one,” he replied, and left me.
Before an hour elapsed the harp was sent. How happy was I! I now
thought of Clementine, and struck the chords. Sentiments are
speechless; words have been invented to express thoughts, and melodious
tones to express the feelings of the heart.
On the following morning the amiable Bertollon came again, and I
thanked him with emotion. He asked me to play, and I complied with his
request, still thinking of Clementine. He was leaning with his
forehead against the window, and gazed sadly on the opposite roofs. My
soul was enrapt in the fulness of harmony, and I did not perceive that
he had turned and stood listening near me.
“You are a delightful magician,” he said, and embraced me with warmth;
“we must become friends.”
I was his friend already, and in the space of a few weeks our intimacy
increased. During our short excursions, when the weather was fine, he
gradually introduced me to a numerous acquaintance, who treated me
uniformly with esteem and attention, and Bertollon seemed only happy in
my society. In possession of a considerable library, and a museum of
natural history, he entrusted me with their superintendence, and
appeared to have chosen this as a way of assisting my slender means, by
a considerable annual income, without hurting my feelings.
Bertollon was in more than one respect a distinguished man. His
acquirements were various; he possessed wit and eloquence; he
captivated by his gracefulness and dignity; in company he was the
spirit of joy, and his sole aim was to gain the esteem of his
fellow-citizens. He had already refused several public appointments
with a modesty which made him still more worthy of general confidence.
He was wealthy, the partner in a large commercial house, was possessed
of one of the most delightful châteaux on the height of the
neighbouring village of Castelnau, and was the husband of the most
beautiful woman of Montpellier. His wife usually lived at the château,
where Bertollon saw her but seldom, but in winter she resided in town.
Their alliance seemed to have been formed not from love, but
convenience and interest.
What made this man still more remarkable to me was his freedom from all
prejudice, in a town which seemed entirely animated by religious
fanaticism, and where he only was an exception. Notwithstanding this
he went frequently to mass, and was himself a member of the fraternity
of the Penitents. “It is so easy,” he used to say, “to reconcile men;
we need but pay homage to their prejudices if we cannot combat and
conquer them, and are sure to gain all hearts. He who wages open war
against prejudices is as much a fanatic as he who defends them with
arms.”
We nevertheless were often involved in friendly disputes. He
considered happiness the grand end of man, and recognised no bounds in
the choice of means to that end; he derided my ardent zeal for virtue,
called it a work of social order, and proved to me that it assumed
different colours among different nations. His wit sometimes made me
appear ridiculous to myself, by following my cardinal virtues to
different nations, where he always confounded them. But
notwithstanding the danger of these principles, Bertollon was dear to
me, for he always did what was right.
While I thus devoted my time to friendship and the muses, the two
windows and the balcony of the house of De Sonnes were not forgotten.
M. Bertollon had more than once offered to exchange my garret for a
room in his house, which was furnished in costly style, and commanded
an extensive and cheerful prospect. But I would not have exchanged my
poor garret for his best drawing-room, or for the prospect of the
paradise of Languedoc.
By chance--for a singular shyness prevented me from making inquiries--I
learned that the family De Sonnes would, in a few weeks, return to
Nismes, and that they were in great grief for Clementine’s sister, who
had died lately.
The few weeks, and, indeed, the quarter passed. As often as I played
the harp, my eye was fixed on those beloved walls, but the family De
Sonnes did not return, and no chance brought me further intelligence.
I was silent, and concealed my love from the world.
The vacation arrived; I hastened to Nismes in hopes of being happier
there. As I passed the château on the Vidourle I stopped. All was
closed, though the fields and vineyards were thronged with reapers and
grape-gatherers. I looked for the magic spot under the chesnut trees,
where dream and reality were once so magically blended. I threw myself
under the waving branches, and on the spot which Clementine’s foot had
once hallowed by its touch. Love and sadness weighed me down, and I
kissed the sacred ground which had then borne all that the world
contained most dear to me.
In vain, alas! I looked for the angelic vision. I left the delightful
spot when evening approached, and only the rocky summits of the
Sevennes reflected the sun’s golden rays over the dusky plain.
My uncle Etienne and the pious mother, with my cousins, Maria, Antonia,
and Susanna, received me with affecting joy. I embraced them all
speechlessly and rapturously, and knew not who expressed the greatest
affection for me, or whom I most loved. I was the son and brother of
the family; I felt at home, and was the joy of them all.
“Yes,” said my uncle, with emotion, “you are the joy of us all, and the
hope of our church. All the reports from Montpellier have praised your
industry, and have expressed the esteem your teachers entertain for
you. Continue, Colas, to strengthen yourself, for our sufferings are
great, and the affliction of the true believers knows no end. God
calls you to become his chosen instrument to break the power of
Antichrist, and to raise triumphantly the gospel now trodden in the
dust.”
The fears of my uncle had been particularly increased of late by the
harsh expressions of the governor of the province against the secret
Protestants. The Mareschale de Montreval resided in Nismes, and was
the more powerful and formidable as he possessed the unbounded
confidence of the king. His threats against the Calvinists spread from
mouth to mouth, and were the common talk even of the boys in the street.
I was harassed by another care. In vain had I wandered daily up and
down the street in which the house of M. Albertas was situated; in vain
had I loitered in the amphitheatre; Clementine was nowhere to be seen.
One morning I met the old servant who had entertained me, by the orders
of Madame de Sonnes, in the château. He recognised me joyfully, shook
me by the hand, and told me, among a thousand other things, that Madame
de Sonnes and her daughter had left Nismes for some months, but had
gone to Marseilles to seek relief from their sorrow for the loss of a
beloved daughter and sister, in the amusements of that great commercial
city.
My hopes of seeing Clementine once more being thus disappointed, I
walked sadly home. All the joyful expectations which had supported me
for the last six months were frustrated. I determined to go to
Marseilles, which was only three days’ journey, there to search every
street and window, attend every church and mass, to discover her, if
only for a moment;--would she not, for so much trouble, give me one
kind look?
But, on cooler reflection, I soon abandoned my wild scheme, and
returned home more dejected than ever.
With surprise, I there perceived an unusual embarrassment and trouble
in every countenance.
My aunt came towards me, put her hands on my shoulders, and kissed me
with an air of deep melancholy; my cousins kindly seized my hand, as if
wishing to comfort me.
“What is it, after all?” asked my uncle, with a powerful voice; who,
notwithstanding his air of piety, had something heroic in his
character; “you know that a good Christian is most cheerful when the
waves of misfortune are lashed most tempestuously. The devil has no
power over us, and providence has numbered every hair of our heads.
The mareschale is not beyond the power of the Almighty.”
I expressed my surprise at this. “You are right, Colas,” said my
uncle, “and I am grieved at the despair of the women. The Mareschale
de Montreval sent orders here an hour ago for you to go to the castle
to-morrow morning, at ten o’clock;--that is all. And where then is
there cause for alarm? If you have a good conscience, go to him
without fear, though his castle be hell itself.”
No wonder that the peremptory order, coming from so exalted a
personage, terrified the humble miller’s family. The mareschale seldom
showed himself to the people, and then only when attended by a numerous
suite of high officers, noblemen, and guards. The external pomp of the
great, exercises greater awe on the minds of the uneducated multitude
than their power.
Next morning, my aunt arranged my wardrobe with trembling hands, and I
endeavoured to comfort my dear afflicted relatives. “It is ten
o’clock,” cried my uncle, “go in God’s name, we will pray for you.”
I went, and learned that the mareschale was still in his cabinet.
After an hour and a half I was conducted through a suite of rooms to
him. An elderly gentleman, rather thin, and of a stiff commanding
manner, of dark complexion and piercing eyes, stepped towards me, while
the respect of those around marked him as the mareschale.
“I wished to see you, Alamontade,” said he, “as you have been
distinguished by so much praise on the university list of Montpellier.
Cultivate your talents, and you may become a useful man. You shall
have my patronage for the future. Let not my encouragement make you
proud, but more industrious, and I shall not fail to learn how you
proceed. Do all in your power to retain the friendship of M.
Bertollon, your patron, and tell him that I sent for you.”
This was all the mareschale said. He evinced satisfaction with me
during this short interview. I commended myself to his favour and
hastened to comfort my family, who were most anxious about me.
Their joy at my return was great, and soon all our neighbours, indeed
the whole town had heard the great honour I had received from the
mareschale. “Did I not say before that it is God who governs the
hearts of the powerful?” exclaimed my uncle; “The sun rises out of
darkness, and the holy cross rears itself to heaven over the bruised
serpent and painful thorns.”
On arriving at Montpellier, I found M. Bertollon had gone to his wife
in the country. With melancholy feelings I stood in my garret before
the withered wreath, and sighed forth the name of Clementine, while I
kissed the faded leaves which had once bloomed in her delicate hand. I
felt half ashamed of the tears with which disappointed hope suffused my
eyes, and yet I felt happy.
The wreath and the small part of the magnificent house, De Sonnes, were
to become again, during winter, the mute witnesses of my love, joys,
and hopes. Spring and its blossoms (I said as I looked towards the
palace) will bring her, perhaps, to Montpellier.
At this moment I saw, at the opposite window, a female form attired in
deep mourning, and with her back turned towards me. My pulse ceased to
beat, my breath stopped, and my eyes became dim. “It can only be
Clementine,” said a voice within me; but I had sunk down senseless on
the window, having neither the courage nor the power to look up and
convince myself.
When I had recovered, I raised myself, and cast a trembling look
towards her. Her face was turned towards me, covered with a black
veil, with which the breezes sported; it was raised--I saw Clementine,
and that at a moment when I had engaged her attention. I cast down my
eyes, and felt a burning glow through my veins. When I again raised
them, she was gone from the window, but not from my mind. “It is she,”
said a voice within me, and I stood on the pinnacle of earthly bliss,
solitary, but having before me Clementine’s image, and inspiring
anticipations for the future. A golden gleam was poured over the smoky
walls, and a sea of flowers waved over the naked roofs; the world
dissolved before me like a splendid cloud, Clementine’s form passed
through a lovely eternity, while I was beside her, and my lot was
endless rapture. “Oh, of what bliss is the human heart susceptible!” I
exclaimed, falling on my knees, and raising my hands to heaven. “Oh
God! for what scenes hast thou spared me! Oh! perpetuate this feeling!”
Late that evening, I saw the windows lighted, and her shadow passing to
and fro; I took my harp, and with its sounds, my feelings gradually
became calm.
I did not awake till late the next morning, having passed a sleepless
night. When I stepped to the window I saw Clementine leaning from hers
in her morning dress. I saluted her, and received a scarcely
perceptible return; but she looked kindly. I was riveted to the spot
while she remained, our glances met timidly; but my soul conversed with
her, and I seemed to receive soft answers.
Oh! blessed hours which I dreamed away harmlessly in the secret
contemplation of a lovely being. With my poor and humble parentage,
and without claim, as I was, to personal attractions, how could I raise
my hopes to the most lovely, richest heiress of Montpellier, whose
favour was courted by the noblest youths of the country?
How much do my thoughts love to dwell on the recollection of those
days! Friendship and love belong only to mortal man; he shares them
neither with angels nor the animal creation; they are the offspring of
the union of the earthly and divine nature within us: they constitute
the privilege of man. In their possession we are more pious, more
believing, more indulgent, and more at home in the universe; we have
more confidence, and endure the thorns by the way. Nay, even the
wilderness appears more splendid in the glow of a calm, bright fancy.
In the evening I again took the harp, struck the chords, and played the
sufferings of Count Peter of Provençe and his beloved Magellone, then
one of the newest and most affecting ballads, and full of expressive
melody. When I had finished the first stanza, and rested a minute, I
heard the sound of a harp, softly repeating the same air in the
stillness of the night. Who could it be but Clementine, who wished to
become the echo of my sentiments? When she had finished I began again;
thus we responded to each other. Music is the language of the soul.
What an ineffable delight to my heart, Clementine thought me worthy of
this converse!
Alas! I must pass over in silence a thousand nameless trifles which
receive their inestimable value only from the sense by which they are
given and received; but they cannot be forgotten. The corse of the
dream of my happy youth, I mean recollection, is also still delightful,
though its life has passed away.
My dream lasted thus for two years. During that time we saw each other
in silence, but still loving, and we conversed only by means of the
chords of the harp, without ever approaching nearer. I knew the church
where she prayed; I also went and prayed too. I knew the days when
she, in the company of her mother and friends, promenaded amid the
shady trees of the Peyrou;[1] there I went also. Her look showed that
she recognised me, and timidly rewarded me.
Without having spoken to each other during this long space of time, we
had by degrees become the most intimate confidants; we reciprocated our
joys and sorrows; we entreated and granted, hoped and feared, and made
vows that were never broken.
No one suspected the intercourse of our souls, our sweet and innocent
familiarity. Only M. Bertollon’s kindness threatened more than once to
rob me of my joys, as he insisted on my occupying a better room, and it
was with difficulty I retained possession of my garret.
When Madame Bertollon had returned from her country house her husband
introduced me to her. “Here,” said he, “is Alamontade, a young man
whom I love as a friend, and to whom I wish nothing better than that he
may become yours also.”
What I had heard of her was not exaggerated. She seemed scarcely
twenty years old, was very beautiful, and might have served an artist
as an idea for a Madonna. A pleasing timidity rendered her the more
attractive, especially as most of her sex and rank in Montpellier knew
less of that reserve, without which grace itself loses all its charms.
She spoke little, but well; she appeared cold, but the vivacity and
brightness of her eye betrayed a sensitive heart and active mind. She
was the benefactress of the poor, and honoured by the whole city.
Neglected by her husband, and adored by young and attractive men of the
first families, she allowed not calumny itself to throw a shade over
the purity of her character. She lived as retired as in a convent. I
saw her but seldom, and only during my last year at the university,
when the illness of her husband afforded me an opportunity of meeting
in his apartment.
The tenderest anxiety for the health of M. Bertollon was visible in all
her features. She was incessantly with him, administering his
medicine, or reading to him; and, when the illness reached its crisis,
she never quitted his bedside, but even destroyed her own health by her
continual nightly watching.
When M. Bertollon recovered, he continued his cold and polite behaviour
towards her, and never returned her affection. This indifference she
seemed to feel deeply, and by degrees became estranged from him as his
health returned. I could only pity her, and reproach my friend.
“But what do you demand of me, Colas?” he said one day. “Are you
master of your own heart, that you can ask obedience from mine? I
grant you my wife is beautiful; but mere beauty is only a pleasing
gloss, under which the heart remains cold. Why do we not fall in love
with the _chefs-d’oeuvre_ of the sculptor? I grant you she has
understanding; this, however, we do not love, but at most admire. She
is charitable; but she has money enough, and takes no pleasure in
expensive amusements. She showed me much attention during my illness;
for that I am grateful to her. She shall not want any thing that she
wishes, and I can give; but the heart cannot be given, that must be
taken. As to the rest, my friend, you do not know her. She also has
her failings; nay, if you will allow so much, her faults. If it should
unfortunately happen, now, that some of these faults are of such a
nature as necessarily to extinguish every rising feeling of affection
in me, am I to blame, that I cannot change stone into gold, and
transform a marriage of convenience into one of the heart?”
“But, dear Bertollon, I never even discovered the slightest trace of
such a repulsive fault.”
“That is because you do not know my wife. To you, as my friend, I may
reveal what has estranged me from her for ever, even during the very
first days of our marriage. It is her untameable and unreasonable
temper, which is as an all-consuming fire. Trust not the ice and snow
of the external veil; a volcano is burning within it which, from time
to time, must emit its flames, or it would burst its outward covering.
She is quiet, but the more dangerous; every feeling is fermenting long
within her before it manifests itself; but when it has done so, it is
the more lasting and destructive. She seems to be virtue and
gentleness personified; without her unhappy temper she might be a
saint, but that destroys all better feelings. I have often surprised
her in designs so atrocious and terrible, that it is difficult to
conceive how one of them could find its way into the soul of a woman,
or how she could harbour it. Such a character, my friend, is not
likely to conquer one’s heart.”
These confidential communications startled me the more, as I had proofs
of Bertollon’s knowledge of men, and his correct judgments. In the
meanwhile, I did not discontinue my visits to Madame Bertollon, and
thought I perceived that she found pleasure in my society. She was
always tranquil, gentle, and seemed suffering. So much beauty and
gentleness changed my respect into sincere friendship. I formed the
resolution of reconciling her to her husband, let it cost what it
would; or, rather, of bringing him back to her arms.