TRANSFIGURATION.
After her prayer Diana rose so beautiful and radiant that the comte
uttered a cry of surprise and admiration. She appeared to be waking out
of a long sleep, of which the dreams had fatigued her and weighed upon
her mind; or rather, she was like the daughter of Jairus, called from
death and rising from her funeral couch, already purified and ready for
heaven. Awakening from her lethargy, she cast around her a glance so
sweet and gentle, that Henri began to believe he should see her feel for
his pain, and yield to a sentiment of gratitude and pity. While the
gendarmes, after their frugal repast, slept about among the ruins, while
Remy himself yielded to it, Henri came and sat down close to Diana, and
in a voice so low and sweet that it seemed a murmur of the breeze, said:
"Madame, you live. Oh! let me tell you all the joy which overflows my
heart when I see you here in safety, after having seen you on the
threshold of the tomb."
"It is true, monsieur," replied she; "I live through you, and I wish I
could say I was grateful."
"But, madame," replied Henri, with an immense effort, "if it is only
that you are restored to those you love?"
"What do you mean?"
"To those you are going to rejoin through so many perils."
"Monsieur, those I loved are dead! those I am going to rejoin are so
also."
"Oh, madame!" cried Henri, falling on his knees, "throw your eyes on
me--on me, who have suffered so much and loved so much. Oh, do not turn
away; you are young, and beautiful as the angels in heaven; read my
heart, which I open to you, and you will see that it contains not an
atom of that love that most men feel. You do not believe me? Examine the
past hours; which of them has given me joy, or even hope? yet I have
persevered. You made me weep; I devoured my tears. You made me suffer; I
hid my sufferings. You drove me to seek death, and I went to meet it
without a complaint. Even at this moment, when you turn away your head,
when each of my words, burning as they are, seems a drop of iced water
falling on your heart, my soul is full of you, and I live only because
you live. Just now, was I not ready to die with you? What have I asked
for? Nothing. Have I touched your hand? Never, but to draw you from a
mortal peril. I held you in my arms to draw you from the waves--nothing
more. All in me has been purified by the devouring fire of my love."
"Oh, monsieur! for pity's sake do not speak thus to me."
"Oh, in pity do not condemn me. He told me you loved no one; oh! repeat
to me this assurance; it is a singular favor for a man in love to ask to
be told that he is not loved, but I prefer to know that you are
insensible to all. Oh, madame, you who are the only adoration of my
life, reply to me."
In spite of Henri's prayers, a sigh was the only answer.
"You say nothing," continued the comte; "Remy at least had more pity for
me, for he tried to console him. Oh! I see you will not reply, because
you do not wish to tell me that you came to Flanders to rejoin some one
happier than I, and yet I am young, and am ready to die at your feet."
"M. le Comte," replied Diana, with majestic solemnity, "do not say to me
things fit only to be said to a woman; I belong to another world, and do
not live for this. Had I seen you less noble--less good--less generous,
had I not for you in the bottom of my heart the tender feeling of a
sister for a brother, I should say, 'Rise, comte, and do not importune
with love my ears, which hold it in horror.' But I do not say so, comte,
because I suffer in seeing you suffer. I say more; now that I know you,
I will take your hand and place it on my heart, and I will say to you
willingly, 'See, my heart beats no more; live near me, if you like, and
assist day by day, if such be your pleasure, at this painful execution
of a body which is being killed by the tortures of the soul;' but this
sacrifice, which you may accept as happiness--"
"Oh, yes!" cried Henri, eagerly.
"Well, this sacrifice I ought to forbid. This very day a change has
taken place in my life; I have no longer the right to lean on any human
arm--not even on the arm of that generous friend, that noble creature,
who lies there, and for a time finds the happiness of forgetfulness.
Alas! poor Remy," continued she, with the first change of tone that
Henri remarked in her voice, "your waking will also be sad; you do not
know the progress of my thought; you cannot read in my eyes that you
will soon be alone, and that alone I must go to God."
"What do you mean, madame? do you also wish to die?"
Remy, awakened by the cry of the young count, began to listen.
"You saw me pray, did you not?" said Diana.
"Yes," answered Henri.
"This prayer was my adieu to earth; the joy that you remarked on my
face--the joy that fills me even now, is the same you would see in me if
the angel of death were to come and say to me, 'Rise, Diana, and follow
me.'"
"Diana! Diana! now I know your name; Diana, cherished name!" murmured
the young man.
"Oh, silence!" cried she, "forget this name which escaped me; no living
person has the right to pierce my heart by pronouncing it."
"Oh! madame, do not tell me you are going to die."
"I do not say that," replied she in her grave voice; "I say that I am
about to quit this world of tears--of hatreds--of bad passions--of vile
interests and desires. I say that I have nothing left to do among the
creatures whom God created my fellow mortals; I have no more tears, no
more blood in my heart; no more thoughts--they are dead. I am a
worthless offering, for in renouncing the world I sacrifice nothing,
neither desires nor hopes; but such as I am I offer myself to my God,
and he will accept me--he who has made me suffer so much, and yet kept
me from sinking under it."
Remy, who had heard this, rose slowly, and said, "You abandon me?"
"For God," said Diana, raising her thin white hand to heaven.
"It is true," said Remy, sadly; and seizing her hand he pressed it to
his breast.
"Oh! what am I by these two hearts?" said Henri.
"You are," replied Diana, "the only human creature, except Remy, on whom
I have looked twice for years."
Henri knelt. "Thanks, madame," said he, "I bow to my destiny. You belong
to God; I cannot be jealous."
As he rose, they heard the sound of trumpets on the plain, from which
the water was rapidly disappearing. The gendarmes seized their arms and
were on horseback at once.
Henri listened. "Gentlemen," cried he, "those are the admiral's
trumpets; I know them. Oh, God! may they announce my brother!"
"You see that you still wish something, and still love something; why,
then, should you choose despair, like those who desire nothing--like
those who love no one?"
"A horse!" cried Henri; "who will lend me a horse?"
"But the water is still all around us," said the ensign.
"But you see that the plain is practicable; they must be advancing,
since we hear their trumpets."
"Mount to the top of the bank, M. le Comte, the sky is clear, perhaps
you will see."
Henri climbed up; the trumpets continued to sound at intervals, but were
seemingly stationary.