for nothing. But drink; this will cure it. Confess now, was it not a
bold stroke of mine? My wife must think she is quite bewitched, for
she does not know that I have the best of picklocks in the world for
all her drawers.”
“But--” said I, becoming suddenly sober with horror.
“Let no one hear any thing of this; you, Colas, are my only confidant.
You must know that the affair might have terminated badly after all, as
in my haste I upset a phial containing a red liquid in the
medicine-chest, and forgot to replace it. But, to cut the matter
short, Colas, I am happy. You shall be so too. I swear to you that
the day on which I marry Julia, you shall celebrate your nuptials with
Clementine. But what is the matter with you? Actually you are
fainting. There--drink some water. The champagne does not agree with
you.”
He supported me with one arm, while offering me the glass with the
other, which I pushed back shuddering. I was stunned by what I had
heard.
“Go to bed,” he said.
I left him, while he staggered after me, laughing loudly.
Midnight had long passed, sleep had not visited me, and when morning
approached I had not even undressed, and I walked up and down the room
in great agitation. What a night! What had I learned? I was not able
to believe so atrocious and revolting a crime. An innocent and
virtuous wife, who had never offended her husband, plunged into prison
and everlasting disgrace; the husband abusing his friend by making him
accomplish his hellish designs, and innocence tortured with pangs more
bitter than death?
I felt some relief, however, in the hope that Bertollon only wished to
test my friendship. For, if he really had acted so atrociously, how
could he venture to let another glass of wine pass his lips, since
every drop threatened to disclose his secret; how could he so
shamelessly reveal himself in all his atrocity, either to a villain or
to an honourable man?
But I hoped in vain to deceive myself; his expressions respecting me
and his unfortunate wife, and his former willingness to resign her to
me, made all but too true. His early plans were now becoming clearly
developed in the misty distance. I recollected many expressions which
he had used, and that he himself favoured my intercourse with Madame
Bertollon, and refused to become suspicious of our intimacy. And when
he spoke of the vehemence and reserve of her disposition, he probably
then conceived designs of charging her with this crime.
The morning had dawned, and I was still undecided as to what I should
do. Innocence must be saved, but her safety must be the ruin of my
benefactor, my first and only friend; only an excess of love for me had
elicited the horrible secret. Should I go and betray him? He was the
author of my happiness; should the hand which had received innumerable
benefits from him, plunge him ungratefully into an unfathomable abyss?
Should I lose him whom I still loved, the only one who loved me?
“Unhappy series of events,” I sighed, “must I become the instrument of
fettering innocence, or of sacrificing the life of my benefactor?”
But my conscience cried, “Be just before you wish to be kind! Whatever
consequences may attend the actions which we perform, from duty,--nay,
even did they involve the destruction of ourselves--nothing should
hinder us when virtue is at stake. Return to your poverty, go solitary
and cheerfully through life, only save your peace of mind and carry
with you a quiet conscience. You did what justice required. There is
a God, be pure as he is.”
I wrote to the police inspector of the district to come immediately to
me on most urgent business. On his arrival I repaired to Bertollon’s
room, while the officer remained without.
Bertollon was still asleep; I trembled, love and compassion overcame
me, I exclaimed, “Bertollon,” and kissed him.
He awoke, and I suffered him to wake completely during some indifferent
conversation.
“Tell me,” I said, at length, “is your wife really innocent? Had you
poisoned the essence yourself?”
He looked at me with a penetrating glance, saying, “Be silent.”
“But, Bertollon, this answer is but a confirmation of last night’s
statement. I conjure you, my friend, remove my doubts. Have you done
all you said, or did you only wish to----”
Bertollon rose, and said, “Colas! I trust you are discreet.”
“But speak, Bertollon, pray speak! the court will pass sentence on your
wife to-day, let not innocence perish!”
“Are you mad, Colas? Would you become the betrayer of your friend?”
While stammering this he appeared in violent emotion. He turned pale,
and his lips became livid; his eyes stared vacantly. All proved too
certainly that he had confessed the previous night, in the excitement
of wine, circumstances at which he was now terrified, seeing they were
no longer safe in my keeping.
I put my hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “Bertollon!
dress, take money enough with you, and flee. I will manage the rest.”
With a look threatening death, he asked, “Why?”
“Fly, I say, while there is time.”
“Why?” he replied, “Do you intend---- or have you, perhaps, already----”
“By all that is dear and sacred to you, fly!”
While I whispered these last words to him, he suddenly jumped up,
looked about the room as if searching for something, which made me
think he had forgotten in his consternation that his clothes lay near
the bed. While I stooped to give them to him he fired a pistol at me,
and the blood gushed down over my chest.
The door was burst open, and the inspector of police entered in terror.
Bertollon still holding in one hand the pistol he had fired, and a
second in the other, looked aghast at the unexpected appearance.
“Accursed dog!” he cried to me, with gestures of despair, and flung the
discharged pistol furiously at my head. Another shot
followed--Bertollon had shot himself. He reeled against me--I caught
him in my arms--his head was shattered.
I became senseless, sank on the floor, and when I first recovered
consciousness, I found myself in my own room, with physicians and
servants busy about me. My wound, which was under the left shoulder,
was probed and dressed, but was not dangerous.
All around me were in great consternation. Several of Bertollon’s
friends were near me, assailing me with questions.
I dismissed them, and, when recovered, dressed myself and ordered a
sedan-chair to carry me to the assembled court.
In the meanwhile Bertollon’s suicide had become known in the town. An
enormous concourse of people thronged his house, but when they learned
that I intended going to the court the curious crowd followed me.
Sentence had already been passed on Madame Bertollon at a private
sitting of the court. The moment she was led into the hall to hear it
before the assembled multitude, I arrived.
I begged a hearing as I had to make important disclosures. Permission
to speak was granted me. Amidst a silence as if death reigned, I said
to the judges: “My lords, once I stood here the accuser of innocence, I
now come to save her, and to prepare her for a well-deserved triumph.
I was deceived by the appearance of circumstances, deceived and abused
by my friend, and an accomplice in an act of cruelty without knowing
it. The unfortunate lady upon whom you are about to pronounce sentence
is not guilty of any crime.”
I now distinctly stated the history of the previous night, Bertollon’s
suicide, and his attempt on my life. Beside me stood the
police-inspector as a witness, and lame Jacques, who recollected that
he had seen M. Bertollon the evening previous to the poison being
taken, coming from the apartment of his wife with a light.
Such a termination to the trial in which I had at first achieved such a
splendid victory over my opponent Menard, and which was to found my
reputation in that country, no one had expected. During my speech
astonishment and horror were depicted on a thousand faces. But when I
stopped, a murmuring arose which swelled to loud exultation. My name
was shouted with enthusiastic joy, and the eyes of all were filled with
tears.
All order was at an end: Madame Bertollon had sunk fainting amidst the
congratulations of those around. The vice-governor of the province, a
relation of the Mareschale Montreval, whom chance or curiosity brought
to the court, descended from his seat and embraced me. M. Menard
followed his example, amidst the shouts of the enthusiastic multitude.
I was led to Madame Bertollon, my knees failed me, I sank down and
pressed her hand, which I bedewed with tears.
“Can you forgive me?” I faltered.
With a look full of excessive love and a heavenly smile, she looked
down on me. “Alamontade!” she sighed softly, but tears checked her
words.
The court broke up and the judges embraced me. In vain I endeavoured
to find Madame Bertollon; the crowd was too great. I was led down the
steps of the court-house, through the dense mass which headed me, with
marks of honour.
In the act of getting into my sedan, I was stopped by a well-dressed
young man saying, “Sir, you cannot possibly return with pleasant
feelings to a house which still contains the corpse of a suicide, and
which must remind you of the most horrible circumstances. Do me the
honour of allowing me to entertain you in the meanwhile in my own
house.”
This invitation, urged with cordiality, was quite unexpected. Tears
still sparkled in the young man’s eyes, and he entreated me so
earnestly that I could not refuse. He pressed my hand with joyful
gratitude, gave orders to the bearers and disappeared.
Followed by the acclamations of the multitude through the streets, I
proceeded but slowly, but at length arrived at the house of my unknown
friend. I only noticed that it was in the neighbourhood of Bertollon’s
house and in the street where Clementine lived, which could not be an
unpleasant discovery to me, though I was still confused and overcome.
At the foot of the steps in the inner court, the sedan-chair was
opened. The friendly stranger awaited me; I saw myself in a large
splendid building, and was assisted up the marble stairs by two
servants.
All that is terrible and pleasing in human life was compressed for me
into the narrow space of this one day.
The folding-doors were opened, and some ladies advanced to receive me.
The eldest among them addressed me, saying, “I am much indebted to my
nephew for procuring me the honour of seeing the noble-minded deliverer
of innocence in my dwelling.”
Who can describe my astonishment when I discovered this lady to be
Madame de Sonnes, and that Clementine was following her. I was about
to stammer something in reply to her kind reception, but was too much
exhausted. The loss of blood in the morning, after a night spent in
wakeful melancholy, and the various and extraordinary sensations to
which I had been exposed, had quite exhausted me. Clementine’s
appearance made me lose sight of all around me. I only saw her, only
spoke to her, until forms and colours were blended before my fading
sight in a confused chaos.
For several weeks I kept my bed and room, a fever having been produced
by the sufferings from my wound. Young M. de Sonnes never left me; he
had all my property removed from Bertollon’s house; including the harp,
but not the wreath. They did not know of what value it was to me.
In the meanwhile Madame Bertollon had been acquitted; and M. de Sonnes
told me that the fair sufferer had immediately left Montpellier, and
had gone into a distant convent. He likewise gave me a letter which
had been sent for me, under cover, to Madame de Sonnes, saying, “Madame
Bertollon probably wished us to thank her deliverer.”
I took it with a trembling hand; as soon as I was alone I perused it,
and ever since it has accompanied me in weal and woe. Its contents are
as follows:--
“Abbey St. G., at V----,
“May 11, 1762.
“Farewell, Alamontade, these lines, the first I ever wrote to a man,
will be the last. I have left the stormy life of the great world; the
solemn stillness of sacred walls encloses me; I have been able to
disengage myself, without regret, from all that once was dear and
indispensable; I take nothing out of the world except the wounds which
it inflicted.
“Ah! that I could have left these wounds, and the remembrance of the
past behind me. They cling to me to make my last friend, Death, the
more desirable.
“In the bloom of life the black veil of widowhood encircles me; by it I
show to men a mourning which I feel not, and conceal that which
consumes me.
“Yes, Alamontade, I do not blush even now, in this sacred spot, to
confess what I never wished to conceal from you, that I loved you. You
knew it. Alas! you still know it; and it was you who could point the
dagger to a heart which beat for you alone in this world.
“Oh! Alamontade, you have deceived me. You never loved me. I was not
grieved at my unfortunate husband accusing me of the blackest crime.
No. But that you could believe me guilty, could become my accuser;
you, for whom I would cheerfully have died,--that has withered the very
root of my life.
“But no; no reproaches. Noble, and still beloved, you were blameless.
Dazzled by appearances, you sacrificed feeling to friendship and your
sense of justice. You wished, at most, to be unhappy, not ungrateful.
I feel it fully; the wife of another dared not love you; and I, in my
sinful affection, was never worthy of your pure heart. I always felt
this, and my weakness was always at war with my inclination. No being
was more wretched than I; and each look from you, each kiss perpetuated
a flame which it ought to have extinguished. In a moment of despair I
wished for a voluntary death rather than the danger of losing my
virtue. Then I procured the poison which I had destined for myself,
because I loved you much too passionately. This is the secret which
shame would have prevented me from confessing upon the rack. Alas!
You, the source of my misfortune--it was you that interrogated me
before the judges.
“You have never loved me, and my separation will never grieve you. I
had deceived myself, and must suffer for the devotion of my
unsuspecting heart. The world pities me, but its pity leaves me
without consolation; and even your compassion, my friend, aggravates my
pain instead of mitigating it.
“Within these cloistered walls I see the end of my short pilgrimage;
the lime-tree before the grated window of my cell throws its shade upon
the little spot that will become my tomb. This is my consolation.
“Ah! how melancholy to stand thus alone in the world! and I am alone,
for no one living loves me. My friends have forgotten me already in
their joyous circles, and my tears do not disturb their merriment. I
fade like the solitary flower of the mountain, unknown and unseen; it
gives and receives no joy; its disappearance leaves no trace behind.
“And you, the only one I loved, receive these lines as a farewell. A
breaking heart breathed these words; a dying hand traced them. I do my
last duty. Do not disturb my peace by answering this. I shall not
receive any letter, and will never see you. I will pray to God for
your happiness; and my last sigh shall be for you; and, with the
remembrance of you, death shall lead me to a better life.
“AMELIA BERTOLLON.”
I never saw the noble creature again. Perfectly virtuous, she sank.
But I never forgot her, and often shed tears to her memory.
Madame de Sonnes and Clementine frequently visited me during my
illness, and treated me not like a stranger, but like a brother, or
near relative.
Madame de Sonnes was a noble lady of lively temperament and superior
education. She never seemed to live for herself, but only for others;
being constantly anxious to afford pleasure and render some service,
she knew how to give to those, who were not above profiting by her
benevolence, the appearance of being her benefactors. Her kindness
always wore the stamp of gratitude.
Clementine, the pride of the family, was quite worthy of her mother.
Perfect innocence and constant serenity formed her character, and no
one could approach her without loving her. I had never seen, never
fancied her so beautiful as now. Her smile was inspiring, her look
penetrated to the soul, her deportment was the _beau ideal_ of grace,
and she was distinguished above her friends by so much amiability that
she alone was unusually admired. Yet she was the most unassuming of
all; she knew nothing of all her excellence, and was delighted when she
discovered excellence in others. You could imagine that she had never
seen her own image reflected.
I had never touched my harp since I had been with them; she also was
more reserved than when at a distance as formerly; she came less
frequently than any one else, spoke less to me than to others, and yet
was most solicitous about me, watching anxiously my minutest wish.
Only her eyes expressed her friendly feeling towards me.
While my love for her increased to an unconquerable passion, a thousand
obstacles became more evident, which deprived me of all hope of ever
being made happy by her hand. I was poor, as I possessed nothing but a
good reputation and the confidence of all honest people. But how
little is that in the great world! I had, indeed, gained such general
reputation by Bertollon’s lawsuit, that the number of my clients
increased daily. Still how long had I to work before I could acquire a
fortune sufficient even to approach Clementine. I saw the lovely
creature every day, both at home and in the garden, sometimes alone and
sometimes in company. Oh! she might easily perceive how much I loved
her, for my silence and my converse, my approach and departure, were so
many betrayers of my heart.
I became daily more embarrassed and uneasy. Absence from her was the
only remedy against inexpressible unhappiness. I came to the
resolution of taking a house for myself, and discovered my intention to
M. de Sonnes. Both he and his aunt opposed me in vain; I remained
immoveable to their wishes and entreaties. Clementine alone neither
appeared nor entreated, but she became more serious, and, as I thought,
more sad.
“You are very cruel,” said Madame de Sonnes one day to me; “what have
we done to offend you, that you wish to punish us so severely? You
will take with you the peace of our house, until now so happy. We all
love you, leave us not, I beseech you.”
All the reasons that I could state to justify my departure were
insufficient to satisfy her. The most important, indeed the only one,
I could not reveal, and she saw nothing but unconquerable caprice in my
refusal.
“Well then,” she said at length, “we must, I suppose, resign ourselves
to your will; we are more indifferent to you than I thought. Why is it
not given to all to allow friendship to strike root in the heart just
deep enough to be plucked up without pain at any time?--Clementine will
some day be unhappy for this. I fear she will be quite ill.”
These words pained me. I turned pale and trembled, faltering,
“Clementine suffer?”
Without the least suspicion of what was passing in my mind, Madame de
Sonnes said, “Come with me to my room.” I followed; and on opening the
door, she said to her daughter: “He will not stay, you perhaps can
persuade him.” Finding myself alone with her, I approached her.
What a beautiful picture of grief! It will never be effaced from my
memory. The terrors of endless misery which I have suffered in foreign
climes have not been able to deprive it of its charm and life. There
she sat in her plain attire, charming as a child of Eden; a fading
blossom of lilac hung from her head, peering forth by her simple veil,
as though it were a symbol of that which she most needed, repose.
When I approached her, she looked up, and her kindly beaming eyes,
filled with tears, smiled upon me. I took her hand, and kneeling
before her, sighed, “Clementine!”
She made no answer, nor did she smile.
“Do you also wish me to stay? Only command me and I will joyfully
obey, even if I should become more unhappy.”
“More unhappy?” she replied, with an anxious look; “Are you then
unhappy with us!”
“You do not know that! You only wish to diffuse happiness around you;
but, Clementine, you accustomed me to a heaven too soon. If sooner or
later I should have to lose all, to lose your society (and such a time
might arrive, Clementine), how would it then be with me?” I asked,
while I pressed her hand against my throbbing heart.
“If you never separate yourself from us we shall not lose you,” she
replied.
“Would to heaven I might not leave you but in death,” I exclaimed.
She looked towards heaven, sighed, and leaning forward, a burning tear
rolled on my hand.
“Do you doubt the constancy of my friendship,” she said.
“Have I a right to your friendship, Clementine, and this noble heart?
Alas! will it not some day beat more warmly for another? and then,
Clementine, then----”
“Never! Alamontade,” she said, rising quickly, and turning away her
face, which was suffused with a gentle glow. I rose with ineffable
rapture, clasped her in my arms, her bosom heaving with strong emotion,
her cheeks glowing, and her looks expressing the words which her lips
refused to utter.
Our souls were united, and made the everlasting compact. A trembling
sigh was our vow, the world vanished like a shadow, and in a kiss we
exchanged life for life.
Oh! what bliss has the hand of the Almighty infused even in the dust,
and how much has it sweetened the lot of the spirit to be united with
the earthly.
When we awoke from our pure rapture, and I could lisp Clementine’s
name, and she mine, all nature around was changed, and nothing was left
of the former world. Every thing shone more gloriously and
beautifully; the dull apartment resembled a temple, and a sweet spirit
spoke from every object--from the pictures and from the carpet. Even
the whispering of the trees was significant, and in the waving shadows
of the leaves there was a secret expression of delight.
“I will remain,” I exclaimed.
“And for ever,” she added.
A few hours afterwards, when I saw Madame de Sonnes, I felt a slight
timidity; but she came to me with a smile, and said, “What changes have
you worked on Clementine? She is inspired. She speaks in verses. She
steps as light as a fairy. But what do I see, Alamontade? Why do you
blush? I am indebted to you. How shall I show my gratitude?”
Saying this, she embraced me with great affection, adding, “You are a
noble man. I know well the dearest reasons you had for leaving us.”
I was so confused that I could not reply.
“Singular enough, that I, after all, was not to guess your secret. You
always wished to be the wiser, and so you are, Alamontade, but not this
time! Do you think that I did not perceive your love for Clementine?
Why did you make a secret of it to me, the mother of your beloved?”
“Madame,----” I faltered, more confused.
“I think you would, even now, deny it if you could,” she said, in a
pleasant tone. “I stood near you both when in the height of your
happiness, you neither saw me nor the world around; and then I felt
that I was not at all required to witness your betrothal. My daughter
lives for you, make her happy, and then I shall be so too.”
What kindness! I sank at her feet, and kissed her hand without being
able to utter a word.
“Not so,” she said, “a son must not kneel before his mother.”
“Madame,” I exclaimed, “you give more than the most daring hopes
could----”
“Not I,” she replied, “it is you, dear friend, who bring peace to our
house. I am indeed a mother, but I have no command over my daughter’s
heart. Clementine has known you longer than I. On your account she
has refused many offers; her hopes were centred in you. To complete
her happiness is my duty. Now I know you, I bless Clementine’s choice.”
“This is too great kindness,” I said; “it was indeed my resolution,
some day, when my fortune should be adequate--but I am poor, Madame----”
“What has fortune to do with this affair?” answered the noble lady,
“you have a respectable competency, and Clementine, beside having
property of her own, is my heiress. The cares of life cannot trouble
you; and should you ever, by any misfortune, lose all, you must
retrench; you possess knowledge, activity, and honesty: with these you
will always succeed.”
In vain I stated several obstacles; she was above considering them
important.