WEARY DAYS.
Up to this period of his life the vigorous constitution of Maurice had
suffered no exhausting drain. His habits had been so regular, his mode
of life so simple, that his fine _physique_ had been untrifled with,
uninjured. As a natural sequence, the first inroads made upon its
strength were rapidly repaired. The fever once conquered, in a week he
was sufficiently convalescent to walk out, leaning on the arm of Gaston
de Bois, or Ronald Walton. His gait was feeble, his form attenuated, his
countenance had lost its ruddy glow,--the lines had sharpened until
their youthful, healthful roundness was wholly obliterated; but the
nervous, untranquil expression had passed away from his face, and the
restless glancing from side to side had left his eyes. Through the
stimulating medium of fresh air and gentle exercise he gathered new
vitality, and the promise of speedy restoration was daily confirmed.
His favorite resort was the _atelier_ of the celebrated master under
whose direction Ronald was studying his art. Seated in the comfortable
arm-chair devoted to the use of models, Maurice often remained for
hours, watching the busy brushes and earnest faces, among which the
genius-lighted countenance of the young Carolinian shone conspicuously.
On one of these occasions, after sitting for some time lost in thought,
when he chanced to turn his head Ronald surprised him by crying out,--
"My dear fellow, don't move! Keep that position another moment,--will
you? I am making a sketch of your head. It has just the outline I want
for my Saxon Knight after the battle."
Maurice could not but smile at this evidence of the national trait of
the young American, who seized upon every material within his reach for
the advancement of his art. Ronald's words, too, struck him,--"After the
battle!" Well might he resemble one who had passed through a severe
conflict; but it was also one who was prepared to fight valiantly anew,
and not disposed to succumb to the army of adverse circumstances arrayed
against his peace.
It was not possible for a young man, endowed with the impressible
temperament of Maurice, to be thrown into constant communication with
an associate as full of vigorous activity as Ronald Walton, without
being stirred and inspired by the contact. The force, decision,
aptitude, promptness, which distinguished Ronald, had constituted him a
sort of prince among his fellow-students, who gave him the lead in all
their united movements, without defining to themselves his claim to
supremacy. Ronald's character was not free from imperfections; but its
very faults were essentially national,--were characteristics of that
"fast-running nation" which is "indivertible in aim," and incredulous of
the existence of the unattainable. His dominant failing was a
self-dependence, which, in a weaker nature, would have degenerated into
self-sufficiency, but just stopped short of that complacent, puerile
egotism, which narrows the mind, and rears its own opinions upon a
judgment-seat to pronounce verdicts upon the rest of the world. He never
doubted his ability to scale any height upon which he fixed his eyes; he
laughed at obstacles; he did not believe in impossibilities; what any
other man could accomplish, that he had an internal conviction he might
also achieve; and he held the faith of the poet-queen that all men were
possible heroes.
These attributes were precisely those most calculated to impress and
charm Maurice, and he regarded Ronald with unbounded admiration, mingled
with a sickening sense of regret when he reflected upon the trammels
which reined in the ready impulses and crushed the instinctive
aspirations which were wrestling within himself.
Count Tristan, as soon as his son was sufficiently restored to travel,
suggested that he should return with him to Brittany; but Maurice
betrayed such uncompromising reluctance to this proposal that his father
thought it wise not to press the point.
Though the count had escaped a calamity, which even to contemplate had
almost driven him out of his mind,--though his son's life was spared,
and his restoration to vigorous health assured,--at times the father
felt as if that son were lost to him forever. An inexplicable reserve
had risen up and thrust them asunder. In the count's presence Maurice
was always abstracted and pensive; he uttered no complaints, made no
petitions. He had come to the conclusion that both were useless; but his
opinions and wishes were no longer frankly, boldly, iterated. He and his
father stood upon different platforms, with an invisible, but an
insurmountable barrier looming up between them. Count Tristan, albeit
irritated, galled, grieved, could discover no mode of reëstablishing the
olden footing. After spending a month in Paris, he returned to
Brittany, his mind filled with discomforting forebodings, to which he
could give no definite shape.
Maurice was once more left in the great, gay capital, his own
master,--at liberty to plunge into whatever sea of dissipation, to float
idly down whatever tide of pleasure lured him. But he wronged himself
when he warned his father, some months previous, that if he were
debarred from studying a profession, he might seek excitement, or
oblivion, in impure channels, and waste his exuberant energies in
degrading pastimes. He spoke on the spur of some vague, restless impulse
within him, that clamored for an outlet; but he misjudged himself in
imagining that he could be compelled to drown the memory of his
disappointment in the wine-cup, the vortex of the gaming-table, or the
more fearful maelstrom of siren allurements. To a young heart which has
not been sullied by familiar contact with evil, there is no ægis so
invulnerable to the assaults of those deadly enemies, who make their
attacks in the fascinating garb of licentious liberty, as a strong,
pure, life-absorbing attachment. He who wears the shield of a first,
stainless affection, carries Ithuriel's spear in his hand, and, at a
single touch, the sensual enchanter in his path, however resplendent its
disguise, drops the fair-featured mask and shining mantle, and stands
revealed in native hideousness. The image of Madeleine, ever present to
Maurice, drew around him a protecting circle which nothing vile could
enter, and, wherever his own eyes turned, it seemed to him that her
heavenly eyes followed. Could he profane their holy gaze by fixing his
upon scenes of captivating degradation and rose-crowned vice?
Day after day, as his strength returned, it was but natural that he
should grow more and more weary of monotonous indolence, and more and
more impatient to escape from its depressing, deadening thraldom. The
happy change, which a settled occupation had effected in Gaston de Bois,
seemed to add to the discontent of his friend. Sometimes he was on the
point of starting for Brittany, and making a fresh appeal to his father;
then he was withheld by the dread that an angry discussion would be the
only sequence. He knew that his father's pride, sustained by that of his
grandmother, was unconquerable, and that the sentence, which condemned
him to a dreary, inert, and profitless existence, would only be
pronounced upon him anew.
Since his illness he had entirely abandoned his vain search for
Madeleine. He always felt as though he had seen her, albeit, when he
attempted to reflect upon the likelihood that she had actually sat
beside his couch, and watched over him during his illness, reason
essayed to efface the impression which could hardly have been made by
the fingers of reality. Even granting that Madeleine, on leaving
Brittany, had joined the sisterhood, and proposed to devote her life to
holy offices, for which she was richly dowered by nature, was there not
a novitiate to be passed? How could she so soon have entered upon her
sacred duties? And if by some mysterious dispensation she had been
absolved from the probation of a novice, how could she have learned that
he was ill? How could she have come to him so promptly? Was it probable
that Mr. Walton, an entire stranger, had, by mere accident, selected a
nurse from the very society which she had joined? These questions, and
others equally difficult to answer, sprang up constantly in his mind,
and found no satisfactory solution. Yet the conviction that he had
actually beheld her remained unshaken.
Bertha had been apprised by her aunt of the dangerous illness of
Maurice, and had written to him when he was unable to read her letters.
As soon as he was convalescent, they were placed in his hands.
"My dear Gaston, write a line to my cousin for me," begged Maurice,
feeling that he had not strength to reply, and little dreaming what a
thrill of joy ran through Gaston's frame at that request.
M. de Bois wrote,--wrote with an eloquence that could never have found
utterance through his tongue.
If we may judge from the number of times Bertha perused that letter, or
if we may draw an inference from her wearing it about her person
(probably that she might be able to refresh her memory with its
information concerning her cousin), the epistle was either very
difficult of comprehension, or it had some witching spell which drew her
eyes irresistibly to its cabalistic characters.
She had not recovered her wonted buoyancy. Beneath her uncle's roof she
pined for Madeleine hardly less than at the Château de Gramont.
The Marquis de Merrivale, her guardian, was a bachelor. The chief object
of his existence was an endeavor to "take life easy," and guard himself
from all vexations and discomforts. His next aim was to pamper the
cravings of an epicurean appetite, but always with such judicious
ministry that his digestive organs might not be impaired thereby. He was
good-natured on principle, because it was too much trouble to get
excited and vexed. His equanimity was seldom disturbed, save by his
cook's failure in the concoction of a favorite dish.
Count Tristan had drawn largely on his invention when he informed the
Marchioness de Fleury that Bertha's uncle was exceedingly tenacious of
his rights, and jealous of the interference of his niece's relatives in
regard to any future alliance she might form. The marquis never dreamed
of troubling his brain with such a minor matter as matrimony. He was
inclined to be governed entirely by Bertha's predilection,--to leave the
affair wholly to her, throwing off the trouble with the responsibility.
He could have no objection to see her affianced to the Duke de
Montauban,--he would have had none to her union with Maurice de Gramont.
He found it sufficient pleasure to have his bright-faced niece sitting
opposite to him at table, so long as she was gay and had a good
appetite. If he had thwarted her wishes he would have accused himself of
making a base, unkinly attempt to injure her digestion by causing her
annoyance. He considered himself quite incapable of so unworthy, so
harmful so cruel an action.
When she returned from the Château de Gramont, he was discomposed at
finding that she brought back a clouded visage, and seemed perfectly
indifferent to the choicest dainties which he caused to be set before
her as the most striking mark of his affection. Indeed, he became so
uncomfortable when she rejected these delicate attentions day after day,
that his mind was gradually prepared to look favorably upon a
proposition which Bertha had resolved to make.
She had been at home about a month; they were dining,--that is, her
uncle was enjoyingly partaking of the meal that rounded his day, while
Bertha's fork played with the oyster _paté_ on her plate, dividing it
into tiny bits, but never lifting one to her mouth. The marquis, after
descanting warmly upon the excellence of the _paté_, which he highly
relished, interrupted his eulogium by saying,--
"My dear child, you have not tasted a morsel of this incomparable
_paté_! It is a triumph of culinary art! If you will just oblige me by
touching a small piece to your lips; the paste is so light it will
magically melt! Really, you _must eat_!"
"I cannot, uncle."
"Try, try; it disturbs me greatly to see you sitting there looking so
gloomy. It will really hurt my digestion, and that would be a frightful
calamity. Don't you like Lucien's cooking? I think him a treasure; but
if you cannot relish what he prepares he shall receive his dismissal."
"I dare say I should like the cooking in Paris better than any other,"
remarked Bertha, treacherously assailing her uncle in his vulnerable
point.
"Paris! what are you talking about? We cannot have our dinners sent from
Paris and kept warm on the road,--can we?"
"But we might go to Paris and take our dinners," she rejoined,
coaxingly.
"Bless my heart! What an idea! It is a day's journey! Think of the
trouble and discomfort of getting there!"
"Think of the new inventions of the Parisian _cuisine_; for they invent
new dishes, my Cousin Maurice has told me, as often as they originate
new fashions for dress. There are abundance of novel dishes every day
issuing from the brains of accomplished cooks,--dishes of which you have
never even heard. You really ought to taste some of them."
"That's a consideration,--positively it is. I must reflect upon it!"
replied her uncle.
"And Maurice seems to cling to the idea that my Cousin
Madeleine"--continued Bertha.
"There, there, my dear; that will do! don't touch on that unpleasant
subject, especially at dinner; it will certainly injure your digestive
organs, and give you the blues for the rest of the day. I assure you, my
child, all low spirits come from indigestion. I am convinced indigestion
is one great cause of all the sadness and sorrow, and, I dare say, of
all the sin in the world."
"It seems to me change of air must be very beneficial," replied Bertha,
recovering from the false step she had been on the point of making.
"Very wisely remarked! Change of air is beneficial, and gentle exercise
is beneficial: both stimulate the digestive faculties and keep up their
healthy action. And you really think, my dear, you would like to taste
some of those new Parisian dishes?"
"I should indeed!"
"Then you shall. I look upon it as criminal, in the present low state of
your appetite, to thwart its faintest craving. Of course we cannot
procure anything fit to sustain nature on the road to Paris, but I can
make Pierre pack up a basket of refreshments, and a bottle of old wine,
so that we shall not be poisoned on the way. If we can only make the
journey comfortably, I have no objection to investigate the gastronomic
novelties of which you have heard. I could take Lucien with us, that he
might learn some new mysteries in his art."
"To be sure you could. When shall we start, dear uncle? I am so anxious
to go! When shall we start?"
"There! there! Don't get excited about it; that will interfere with the
gastric juices. Let us conclude our dinner quietly. Try a wing of that
pheasant, while we discuss the matter with wholesome calmness."
Bertha allowed herself to be helped to the wing, and tried to force down
a few morsels for the sake of humoring the generously inclined _bon
vivant_, who grew more and more genial and amiably disposed as he sipped
his Château Margaux. Fine wine invariably had a softening, expansive
effect upon his character, and, after a few glasses, he honestly looked
upon himself as one of the most tender-hearted, soberly inoffensive, and
morally disposed of mortals.
If Bertha had openly proposed to him that they should spend a few weeks
in Paris for the gratification of any praiseworthy intention of her own,
or of any harmless whim, he would have unhesitatingly refused, and
opposed any number of objections to the proposition; but she had
introduced the subject in its most favorable light, and was sure of a
victory.
A few days later, the Marquis de Merrivale and his niece, attended by
her maid, his valet and cook, were on their way to the metropolis. The
marquis, having instituted many inquiries with the view of discovering
what hotel rejoiced in the possession of the most scientific cook,
concluded to engage a suite of apartments at the hotel _des Trois
Empereurs_.
The meeting between Bertha and Maurice was as full of tenderness as
though they had been in reality what their strong family resemblance
caused them to appear, brother and sister.
"No word from Madeleine yet?" was Bertha's first inquiry,--hardly an
inquiry, for she knew what the answer must be.
Then Maurice told her of the _soeur de bon secours_ who had sat by his
bed night after night.
"Could it really have been Madeleine?" she asked, breathlessly.
"M. de Bois seems to think not; yet I am unshaken in my conviction that
it was she herself."
"But why did you not speak to her?"
"A feeling which I can scarcely define withheld me. At first I thought I
was dreaming, and that the dream would be broken if I spoke or moved.
Then I felt sure Madeleine was there, but that she believed herself
unrecognized, and if I showed that I knew her she would leave me,--leave
me when I could not follow, and must again have lost all trace of her.
It was such a luxury, such a joy to feel her by my side! It was her
presence and not the skill of the physician which restored me."
"And you never once betrayed yourself?"
"No. What seems most singular is that from the very day I mentioned to
M. de Bois that I had seen her, she came no more. Yet how could she have
learned, or divined, that I knew her?"
"That circumstance, dear Maurice, makes it all look like a dream. As
soon as the fever left you the phantom it conjured up disappeared."
Maurice shook his head, unconvinced, and Bertha was too willing to be
deceived herself to attempt to persuade him that he was in error.
The Marquis de Merrivale now entered. Maurice, whom he had only known
slightly, rose in favor when the epicure found that the young Parisian
could give all requisite information concerning the best restaurants in
Paris; and the viscount reached a higher summit of esteem, when he
promptly promised to put Lucien _en train_ to familiarize himself with
certain valuable culinary discoveries. Maurice knew enough of the
character of the marquis to be confident that his stay in the metropolis
would be determined by the amount of comfort he enjoyed, and the quality
of the dinners set before him.
Bertha's next visit was from M. de Bois, and could she have banished
from her mind a vague impression that he loved Madeleine, or was beloved
by her, the interview would have afforded her unmitigated happiness.
M. de Bois had not yet gained sufficient mastery over himself to command
his utterance in the presence of the woman who had most power to confuse
him. He still stammered painfully; but he could not help remarking that,
even as Madeleine had said, Bertha finished his broken sentences,
apparently unaware that she was doing so. And her greeting, surely it
had been far from cold. And did she not say, with a soft emphasis which
it almost took away his breath to hear, that it seemed an age since they
met? Had she then felt the time long? And did she not drop some
involuntary remark concerning the dulness of Brittany after he and
Maurice left? Had she not coupled him with her cousin? Might he not dare
to believe that Madeleine was right, and Bertha certainly did not scorn
him?