THE VISIT.
All this passed, as we have said, in the lane under Helene's windows.
She had heard the noise; and, as among the voices she thought she
distinguished that of the chevalier, she ran anxiously to the window,
when, at the same moment, Madame Desroches appeared.
She came to beg Helene to go into the drawing-room, as the visitor had
arrived.
Helene started, and nearly fell; her voice failed her, and she followed,
silent and trembling.
The room into which Madame Desroches led her was without any light,
except what was thrown on the carpet by the last remains of a fire.
Madame Desroches threw some water over the flame, and left the room
entirely dark.
Begging Helene to have no fear, Madame Desroches withdrew. The instant
after, Helene heard a voice behind the fourth door, which had not yet
opened.
She started at the sound, and involuntarily made a few steps toward the
door.
"Is she ready?" said the voice.
"Yes, monseigneur," was the reply.
"Monseigneur!" murmured Helene; "who is coming, then?"
"Is she alone?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Is she aware of my arrival?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"We shall not be interrupted?"
"Monseigneur may rely upon me."
"And no light?"
"None whatever."
The steps approached, then stopped.
"Speak frankly, Madame Desroches," said the voice. "Is she as pretty as
they said?"
"More beautiful than your highness can imagine."
"Your highness! who can he be?" thought Helene, much agitated.
At this moment the door creaked on its hinges and a heavy step
approached.
"Mademoiselle," said the voice, "I beg you to receive and hear me."
"I am here," said Helene, faintly.
"Are you frightened?"
"I confess it, mon--Shall I say 'monsieur' or 'monseigneur'?"
"Say 'my friend.'"
At this moment her hand touched that of the unknown.
"Madame Desroches, are you there?" asked Helene, drawing back.
"Madame Desroches," said the voice, "tell mademoiselle that she is as
safe as in a temple before God."
"Ah! monseigneur, I am at your feet, pardon me."
"Rise, my child, and seat yourself there. Madame Desroches, close all
the doors; and now," continued he, "give me your hand, I beg."
Helene's hand again met that of the stranger, and this time it was not
withdrawn.
"He seems to tremble also," murmured she.
"Tell me are you afraid, dear child?"
"No," replied Helene; "but when your hand clasps mine, a strange thrill
passes through me."
"Speak to me, Helene," said the unknown, with an expression of
tenderness. "I know already that you are beautiful, but this is the
first time I have heard your voice. Speak--I am listening."
"But have you seen me, then?" asked Helene.
"Do you remember that two years ago the abbess had your portrait taken?"
"Yes, I remember--an artist came expressly from Paris."
"It was I who sent him."
"And was the portrait for you?"
"It is here," said the unknown, taking from his pocket a miniature,
which Helene could feel, though she could not see it.
"But what interest could you have in the portrait of a poor orphan?"
"Helene, I am your father's friend."
"My father! Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"Shall I ever see him?"
"Perhaps."
"Oh!" said Helene, pressing the stranger's hand, "I bless you for
bringing me this news."
"Dear child!" said he.
"But if he be alive," said Helene, "why has he not sought out his
child?"
"He had news of you every month; and though at a distance, watched over
you."
"And yet," said Helene, reproachfully, "he has not seen me for sixteen
years."
"Believe me, none but the most important reasons would have induced him
to deprive himself of this pleasure."
"I believe you, monsieur; it is not for me to accuse my father."
"No; it is for you to pardon him if he accuses himself."
"To pardon him!" cried Helene.
"Yes; and this pardon, which he cannot ask for himself, I ask in his
name."
"Monsieur," said Helene, "I do not understand you.'"
"Listen, then, and give me back your hand."
"Here it is."
"Your father was an officer in the king's service; at the battle of
Nerwinden, where he charged at the head of the king's household troops,
one of his followers, called M. de Chaverny, fell near him, pierced by a
ball. Your father wished to assist him, but the wound was mortal, and
the wounded man, who knew that it was so, said, 'Think not of me, but of
my child.' Your father pressed his hand as a promise, and the man fell
back and died, as though he only waited this assurance to close his
eyes. You are listening, are you not, Helene?"
"Oh! need you ask such a question?" said the young girl.
"At the end of the campaign, your father's first care was for the little
orphan. She was a charming child, of from ten to twelve years, who
promised to be as beautiful as you are. The death of M. de Chaverny, her
father, left her without support or fortune; your father placed her at
the convent of the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and announced that at a
proper age he should give her a dowry."
"I thank God," cried Helene, "for having made me the child of a man who
so nobly kept his promise."
"Wait, Helene," said the unknown, "for now comes the time when your
father will not receive your praises."
Helene was silent.
The unknown continued: "Your father, indeed, watched over the orphan
till her eighteenth year. She was an adorable young girl, and his visits
to the convent became longer and more frequent than they should have
been: your father began to love his protegee. At first he was frightened
at his own love, for he remembered his promise to her dying father. He
begged the superior to look for a suitable husband for Mademoiselle de
Chaverny, and was told that her nephew, a young Breton, having seen her,
loved her, and wished to obtain her hand."
"Well, monsieur?" asked Helene, hearing that the unknown hesitated to
proceed.
"Well; your father's surprise was great, Helene, when he learned from
the superior that Mademoiselle de Chaverny had replied that she did not
wish to marry, and that her greatest desire was to remain in the convent
where she had been brought up, and that the happiest day of her life
would be that on which she should pronounce her vows."
"She loved some one," said Helene.
"Yes, my child, you are right--alas! we cannot avoid our
fate--Mademoiselle de Chaverny loved your father. For a long time she
kept her secret, but one day, when your father begged her to renounce
her strange wish to take the veil, the poor child confessed all. Strong
against his love when he did not believe it returned, he succumbed when
he found he had but to desire and to obtain. They were both so
young--your father scarcely twenty-five, she not eighteen--they forgot
the world, and only remembered that they could be happy."
"But since they loved," said Helene, "why did they not marry?"
"Union was impossible, on account of the distance which separated them.
Do you not know that your father is of high station?"
"Alas! yes," said Helene, "I know it."
"During a year," continued he, "their happiness surpassed their hopes;
but at the end of that time you came into the world, and then--"
"Well?" asked the young girl, timidly.
"Your birth cost your mother's life."
Helene sobbed.
"Yes," continued the unknown, in a voice full of emotion, "yes, Helene,
weep for your mother; she was a noble woman, of whom, through his
griefs, his pleasures, even his follies--your father retains a tender
recollection; he transferred to you all his love for her."
"And yet," said Helene, "he consented to remove me from him, and has
never again seen me."
"Helene, on this point pardon your father, for it was not his fault. You
were born in 1703, at the most austere period of Louis XIV.'s reign;
your father was already out of favor with the king, or rather with
Madame de Maintenon; and for your sake, as much or more than for his, he
sent you into Bretagne, confiding you to Mother Ursula, superior of the
convent where you were brought up. At length, Louis XIV. being dead, and
everything having changed through all France, it is decided to bring you
nearer to him. During the journey, however, you must have seen that his
care was over you, and when he knew that you were at Rambouillet, he
could not wait till to-morrow--he is come to you here, Helene."
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Helene, "is this true?"
"And in seeing, or rather in listening to you, he thinks he hears your
mother--the same accent in the voice. Helene, Helene, that you may be
happier than she was is his heartfelt prayer!"
"Oh, heavens!" cried Helene, "this emotion, your trembling hand.
Monsieur, you said my father is come to meet me."
"Yes."
"Here at Rambouillet?"
"Yes."
"You say he is happy to see me again?"
"Oh yes, very happy!"
"But this happiness was not enough, is it not so? He wished to speak to
me, to tell me himself the story of my life--that I may thank him for
his love--that I may fall at his feet, that I may ask his blessing. Oh!"
cried Helene, kneeling, "oh, I am at your feet; bless me, father!"
"Helene, my child, my daughter!" cried the unknown, "not at my feet, but
in my arms!"
"My father, my father!" was Helene's only reply.
"And yet," continued he, "I came with a different intention, prepared to
deny all, to remain a stranger to you; but having you so near me,
pressing your hand, hearing your voice, I had not the strength; but do
not make me repent my weakness, and let secrecy--"
"I swear by my mother's grave," cried Helene.
"That is all I desire," cried the unknown. "Now listen, for I must leave
you."
"What, already!"
"It must be so."
"Speak, then, my father. I am ready to obey you."
"To-morrow you leave for Paris; there is a house there destined for you.
Madame Desroches will take you there, and at the very first moment that
I can do so, I will come there to see you."
"Soon, I hope, for do not forget that I am alone in the world."
"As soon as possible;" and pressing his lips to Helene's forehead, the
unknown imprinted on it one of those kisses as sweet to the heart of a
father as a kiss of love to the heart of a lover.
Ten minutes later Madame Desroches entered with a light. Helene was on
her knees praying; without rising, she signed to Madame Desroches to
place the light on the chimney-piece, which that lady did, and then
retired.
Helene, after praying for some time, rose, and looked around her as
though for some evidence that the whole was not a dream; her own
emotion, however, assured her that it was really a great event in her
life which had taken place. Then the thought of Gaston rose to her mind;
this father whom she had so dreaded to see--this father, who himself had
loved so ardently and suffered so deeply, would not do violence to her
love; besides, Gaston was a scion of an ancient house, and beyond all
this, she loved him, so that she would die if she were separated from
him, and her father would not wish her death.
The obstacles on Gaston's side could be but the right, and would
doubtless be easily overcome, and Helene fell asleep to dream of a happy
and smiling future.
Gaston, on his part, set at liberty with many apologies from those who
pretended to have mistaken him for another person, went back to fetch
his coat and cloak, which he was overjoyed to find where he had left
them; he anxiously opened his pocket-book--it was as he had left it,
and for greater safety he now burned the address of La Jonquiere. He
gave his orders for the next day to Owen and retired.
Meanwhile, two carriages rolled away from the door of the Tigre-Royal;
in the first were two gentlemen in traveling costume, preceded and
followed by outriders.
In the second was a single traveler, wrapped in a large cloak; this
carriage followed close behind the other as far as the Barriere de
l'Etoile, where they separated, and while the first stopped at the
Palais Royal, the other drew up at the Rue de Valois.