The sunbeams never shone more golden through the casement of a lady's
bower than on that same morning of St. Martin's through the window of
the chamber of Amélie de Repentigny, as she sat in the midst of a group
of young ladies holding earnest council over the dresses and adornments
of herself and companions, who were to be her bridesmaids on her
marriage with Pierre Philibert.
Amélie had risen from pleasant dreams. The tender flush of yesterday's
walk on the banks of the Lairet lingered on her cheek all night long,
like the rosy tint of a midsummer's sunset. The loving words of Pierre
floated through her memory like a strain of divine music, with the sweet
accompaniment of her own modest confessions of love, which she had so
frankly expressed.
Amélie's chamber was vocal with gaiety and laughter; for with her to-day
were the chosen friends and lifelong companions who had ever shared her
love and confidence.
These were, Hortense Beauharnais, happy also in her recent betrothal to
Jumonville de Villiers; Héloise de Lotbinière, so tenderly attached to
Amélie, and whom of all her friends Amélie wanted most to call by the
name of sister; Agathe, the fair daughter of La Corne St. Luc, so like
her father in looks and spirit; and Amélie's cousin, Marguerite de
Repentigny, the reflection of herself in feature and manners.
There was rich material in that chamber for the conversation of such a
group of happy girls. The bridal trousseau was spread out before
them, and upon chairs and couches lay dresses of marvellous fabric
and beauty,--muslins and shawls of India and Cashmere, and the finest
products of the looms of France and Holland. It was a trousseau fit for
a queen, and an evidence at once of the wealth of the Lady de Tilly and
of her unbounded love for her niece, Amélie. The gifts of Pierre
were not mingled with the rest, nor as yet had they been shown to her
bridesmaids,--Amélie kept them for a pretty surprise upon another day.
Upon the table stood a golden casket of Venetian workmanship, the
carvings of which represented the marriage at Cana in Galilee. It was
stored with priceless jewels which dazzled the sight and presented a
constellation of starry gems, the like of which had never been seen in
the New World. It was the gift of the Bourgeois Philibert, who gave this
splendid token of his affection and utter contentment with Amélie as the
bride of his son and heir.
The girls were startled in the midst of their preparations by the sudden
dashing past of a horseman, who rode in a cloud of dust, followed by a
wild, strange cry, as of many people shouting together in lamentation
and anger.
Amélie and Héloise looked at each other with a strange feeling, but sat
still while the rest rushed to the balcony, where they leaned eagerly
over to catch sight of the passing horseman and discover the meaning of
the loud and still repeated cry.
The rider had disappeared round the angle of the Cape, but the cry from
the city waxed still louder, as if more and more voices joined in it.
Presently men on horseback and on foot were seen hurrying towards the
Castle of St. Louis, and one or two shot up the long slope of the Place
d'Armes, galloping towards the mansion of the Lady de Tilly, talking and
gesticulating in the wildest manner.
“In God's name, what is the matter, Monsieur La Force?” exclaimed
Hortense as that gentleman rode furiously up and checked his horse
violently at the sight of the ladies upon the balcony.
Hortense repeated her question. La Force took off his hat and looked
up, puzzled and distressed. “Is the Lady de Tilly at home?” inquired he
eagerly.
“Not just now, she has gone out; but what is the matter, in heaven's
name?” repeated she, as another wild cry came up from the city.
“Is Mademoiselle Amélie home?” again asked La Force with agitated voice.
“She is home. Heavens! have you some bad news to tell her or the Lady de
Tilly?” breathlessly inquired Hortense.
“Bad news for both of them; for all of us, Hortense. But I will not be
the bearer of such terrible tidings,--others are following me; ask them.
Oh, Hortense, prepare poor Amélie for the worst news that ever came to
her.”
The Sieur La Force would not wait to be further questioned,--he rode off
furiously.
The bridesmaids all turned pale with affright at these ominous words,
and stood looking at each other and asking what they could mean.
Amélie and Héloise caught some of the conversation between Hortense
and La Force. They sprang up and ran to the balcony just as two of the
servants of the house came rushing up with open mouths, staring eyes,
and trembling with excitement. They did not wait to be asked what was
the matter, but as soon as they saw the ladies they shouted out the
terrible news, as the manner of their kind is, without a thought of the
consequences: that Le Gardeur had just killed the Bourgeois Philibert in
the market-place, and was himself either killed or a prisoner, and the
people were going to burn the Friponne and hang the Intendant under the
tablet of the Golden Dog, and all the city was going to be destroyed.
The servants, having communicated this piece of wild intelligence,
instantly rushed into the house and repeated it to the household,
filling the mansion in a few moments with shrieks and confusion.
It was in vain Hortense and Agathe La Corne St. Luc strove to withhold
the terrible truth from Amélie. Her friends endeavored with kindly force
and eager exhortations to prevent her coming to the balcony, but she
would not be stayed; in her excitement she had the strength of one of
God's angels. She had caught enough of the speech of the servants to
gather up its sense into a connected whole, and in a moment of terrible
enlightenment, that came like a thunderbolt driven through her soul, she
understood the whole significance of their tidings.
Her hapless brother, maddened with disappointment, drink, and
desperation, had killed the father of Pierre, the father of her
betrothed husband, his own friend and hers; why or how, was a mystery of
amazement.
She saw at a glance all the ruin of it. Her brother a murderer,
the Bourgeois a bleeding corpse. Pierre, her lover and her pride,
lost,--lost to her forever! The blood of his father rising up between
them calling for vengeance upon Le Gardeur and invoking a curse upon the
whole house of Repentigny.
The heart of Amélie, but a few moments ago expanding with joy and
overflowing with the tenderest emotions of a loving bride, suddenly
collapsed and shrivelled like a leaf in the fire of this unlooked-for
catastrophe.
She stared wildly and imploringly in the countenances of her trembling
companions as if for help, but no human help could avail her. She spake
not, but uttering one long, agonizing scream, fell senseless upon the
bosom of Héloise de Lotbinière, who, herself nigh fainting, bore Amélie
with the assistance of her friends to a couch, where she lay unconscious
of the tears and wailing that surrounded her.
Marguerite de Repentigny with her weeping companions remained in
the chamber of Amélie, watching eagerly for some sign of returning
consciousness, and assiduously administering such restoratives as were
at hand.
Their patience and tenderness were at last rewarded,--Amélie gave a
flutter of reviving life. Her dark eyes opened and stared wildly for a
moment at her companions with a blank look, until they rested upon the
veil and orange blossoms on the head of Agathe, who had put them on in
such a merry mood and forgotten in the sudden catastrophe to take them
off again.
The sight of the bridal veil and wreath seemed to rouse Amélie to
consciousness. The terrible news of the murder of the Bourgeois by Le
Gardeur flashed upon her mind, and she pressed her burning eyelids hard
shut with her hands, as if not to see the hideous thought.
Her companions wept, but Amélie found no relief in tears as she murmured
the name of the Bourgeois, Le Gardeur, and Pierre.
They spoke softly to her in tones of tenderest sympathy, but she
scarcely heeded them, absorbed as she was in deepest despair, and still
pressing her eyes shut as if she had done with day and cared no more
to see the bright sunshine that streamed through the lattice. The past,
present, and future of her whole life started up before her in terrible
distinctness, and seemed concentrated in one present spot of mental
anguish.
Amélie came of a heroic race, stern to endure pain as to inflict it,
capable of unshrinking fortitude and of desperate resolves. A few
moments of terrible contemplation decided her forever, changed the whole
current of her life, and overthrew as with an earthquake the gorgeous
palace of her maiden hopes and long-cherished anticipations of love and
happiness as the wife of Pierre Philibert.
She saw it all; there was no room for hope, no chance of averting the
fatal doom that had fallen upon her. Her life, as she had long pictured
it to her imagination, was done and ended. Her projected marriage with
Pierre Philibert? It was like sudden death! In one moment the hand of
God had transported her from the living to the dead world of woman's
love. A terrible crime had been perpetrated, and she, innocent as she
was, must bear the burden of punishment. She had but one object now
to live for: to put on sackcloth and ashes, and wear her knees out in
prayer before God, imploring forgiveness and mercy upon her unhappy
brother, and expiate the righteous blood of the just man who had been
slain by him.
She rose hastily and stood up. Her face was beautiful as the face of a
marble Niobe, but as pale and as full of anguish.
“My loving bridesmaids,” said she, “it is now all over with poor Amélie
de Repentigny; tell Pierre,” and here she sobbed, almost choking in
her grief, “tell Pierre not to hate me for this blood that lies on
the threshold of our house! Tell him how truly and faithfully I was
preparing to devote myself to his happiness as his bride and wife; tell
him how I loved him, and I only forsake him because it is the inexorable
decree of my sad fate; not my will, but my cruel misfortune. But I
know his noble nature; he will pity, not hate me. Tell him it will even
rejoice me where I am going to know that Pierre Philibert still loves
me. I cannot, dare not ask him to pardon Le Gardeur! I dare not pardon
him myself! But I know Pierre will be just and merciful to my poor
brother, even in this hour of doom.”
“And now,” continued she, speaking with a terrible energy, “put away
these bridal deceits; they will never be worn by me! I have a garb more
becoming the bridal of death; more fitting to wear by the sister of--O
God! I was going to say, of a murderer!”
Amélie, with a wild desperation, gathered up the gay robes and garlands
and threw them in a heap in the corner of the chamber. “My glory is
departed!” said she. “Oh, Hortense, I am punished for the pride I took
in them! Yet it was not for myself, but for the sake of him, I took
pride in them! Bestow them, I pray you, upon some more happy girl, who
is poor in fortune, but rich in love, who will wear them at her bridal,
instead of the unhappy Amélie.”
The group of girls beheld her, while their eyes were swimming with
tears. “I have long, long kept a bridal veil in my closet,” she went
on, “and knew not it was to be mine!” Opening a wardrobe, she took out a
long black veil. It had belonged to her grandaunt, the nun, Madelaine de
Repentigny, and was kept as an heirloom in her family.
“This,” said she, “shall be mine till death! Embrace me, O my sisters,
my bridesmaids and companions. I go now to the Ursulines to kneel at the
door and crave admittance to pass a life of penitence for Le Gardeur,
and of prayer for my beloved Pierre.”
“O Amélie, think what you do!” exclaimed Hortense Beauharnais; “be not
hasty, take not a step that cannot be recalled. It will kill Pierre!”
“Alas! I have killed him already!” said she; “but my mind is made up!
Dear Hortense, I love Pierre, but oh, I could never look at his face
again without shame that would burn like guilt. I give myself henceforth
to Christ, not for my own sake, but for his, and for my unhappy
brother's! Do not hinder me, dear friends, and do not follow me! May you
all be happy in your happiness, and pray for poor Amélie, whom fate
has stricken so hard and so cruelly in the very moment of her brightest
hopes! And now let me go--alone--and God bless you all! Bid my aunt to
come and see me,” added she; “I cannot even wait her return.”
The girls stood weeping around her, and kissed and embraced her over and
over. They would not disobey her request to be allowed to go alone to
the Convent, but as she turned to depart, she was clasped around the
neck by Héloise de Lotbinière, exclaiming that she should not go alone,
that the light of the world had gone out for her as well as for Amélie,
and she would go with her.
“But why, Héloise, would you go with me to the Convent?” asked Amélie,
sadly. She knew but too well why.
“Oh, my cousin! I too would pray for Le Gardeur! I too--but no matter! I
will go with you, Amélie! If the door of the Ursulines open for you, it
shall open for Héloise de Lotbinière also.”
“I have no right to say nay, Héloise, nor will I,” replied Amélie,
embracing her; “you are of my blood and lineage, and the lamp
of Repentigny is always burning in the holy chapel to receive
broken-hearted penitents like you and me!”
“Oh, Héloise, do not you also leave us! Stay till to-morrow!” exclaimed
the agitated girls, amazed at this new announcement.
“My mind is made up; it has long been made up!” replied Héloise. “I only
waited the marriage of Amélie before consummating my resolution to enter
the convent. I go now to comfort Amélie, as no other friend in the world
can comfort her. We shall be more content in the midst of our sorrows to
be together.”
It was in vain to plead with or to dissuade them. Amélie and Héloise
were inexorable and eager to be gone. They again kissed their
companions, with many tears bidding them a last farewell, and the two
weeping girls, hiding their heads under their veils, left the bright
mansion that was their home, and proceeded with hasty steps towards the
Convent of the Ursulines.