Then, in a low tone, Angelique began her story. She related in a flow
of inexhaustible words all that had happened, calling up the most minute
details, growing more and more excited at the recollection of them. She
omitted nothing, but searched her memory as if it were for a confession.
She was not at all embarrassed, although her cheeks grew very red and
her eyes sparkled with flashes of pride; yet she did not raise her
voice, but continued to talk earnestly in a half-whisper.
At length Hubertine interrupted her, speaking also very low:
“Ah, my dear! Now you are too excited. You have indeed to correct
yourself, for you are carried away by your feelings, as if by a great
wind. Ah, my vain, my headstrong child, you are always the same little
girl who refused to wash up the kitchen floor, and who kissed her own
hands.”
Angelique could not prevent herself from laughing.
“No, do not laugh. It may be that by-and-by you will not have tears
enough to weep. My poor darling, this marriage can never take place.”
Again her gaiety burst out in a long musical laugh.
“But mother, mother, what are you saying? Do you wish to punish me by
teasing me? It is a very simple matter. This evening Felicien is to talk
of it with his father. To-morrow he will come to arrange everything with
you.”
Could it be true that she believed all this? Hubertine was distressed,
and knew not what to do. At last she concluded it was best to be
pitiless and tell her; that it would be impossible for a little
embroiderer without money and without name to marry Felicien
d’Hautecœur. A young man who was worth so many millions! The last
descendant of one of the oldest families of France! No, that could never
be.
But at each new obstacle Angelique tranquilly replied: “But why not?”
It would be a real scandal, a marriage beyond all ordinary conditions
of happiness. Did she hope, then, to contend against all the world? “But
why not?” Monseigneur is called very strict and very haughty, proud
of his name, and severe in his criticisms in regard to all marks of
affection. Could she dare to expect to bend him?
“But why not?” And, unshakable in her faith, in her firm, ingenuous
manner she said: “It is very odd, dear mother, that you should think
people all so bad! Especially when I have just assured you that
everything is well under way, and is sure to come out all right. Do you
not recollect that only two months ago you scolded me, and ridiculed
my plans? Yet I was right, and everything that I expected has come to
pass.”
“But, unhappy child, wait for the end!”
Hubertine now thought of the past, and was angry with herself, as she
now reflected, more bitterly than ever before, that Angelique had
been brought up in such ignorance. Again she predicted to her the
hard lessons of the reality of life, and she would have liked to have
explained to her some of the cruelties and abominations of the world,
but, greatly embarrassed, she could not find the necessary words. What
a grief it would be to her if some day she were forced to accuse herself
of having brought about the unhappiness of this child, who had been kept
alone as a recluse, and allowed to dwell in the continued falsehood of
imagination and dreams!
“Listen to me, dearest. You certainly would not wish to marry this young
man against the wish of us all, and without the consent of his father?”
Angelique had grown very serious. She looked her mother in the face, and
in a serious tone replied:
“Why should I not do so? I love him, and he loves me.”
With a pang of anguish, Hubertine took her again in her arms, clasped
her tenderly, but convulsively, and looked at her earnestly, but without
speaking. The pale moon had disappeared from sight behind the Cathedral,
and the flying, misty clouds were now delicately coloured in the heavens
by the approach of the dawn. They were both of them enveloped in this
purity of the early morn, in the great fresh silence, which was alone
disturbed by the little chirping of the just-awakening birds.
“But alas! my dear child, happiness is only found in obedience and in
humility. For one little hour of passion, or of pride, we sometimes are
obliged to suffer all our lives. If you wish to be contented on this
earth, be submissive, be ready to renounce and give up everything.”
But feeling that she was still rebellious under her embrace, that which
she had never said to anyone, that which she still hesitated to speak
of, almost involuntarily escaped from her lips:
“Listen to me once more, my dear child. You think that we are happy,
do you not, your father and I. We should indeed be so had not our lives
been embittered by a great vexation.”
She lowered her voice still more, as she related with a trembling breath
their history. The marriage without the consent of her mother, the death
of their infant, and their vain desire to have another child, which was
evidently the punishment of their fault. Still, they adored each other.
They had lived by working, had wanted for nothing; but their regret for
the child they had lost was so ever-present that they would have been
wretchedly unhappy, would have quarrelled, and perhaps even have been
separated, had it not been that her husband was so thoroughly good,
while for herself she had always tried to be just and reasonable.
“Reflect, my daughter. Do not put any stumbling-block in your path which
will make you suffer later on. Be humble, obey, check the impulse of
your heart as much as possible.”
Subdued at last, Angelique restrained her tears, but grew very pale as
she listened, and interrupted her by saying:
“Mother, you pain me terribly. I love him, and I am sure that he loves
me.”
Then she allowed her tears to flow. She was quite overcome by all she
had listened to, softened, and with an expression in her eyes as if
deeply wounded by the glimpse given her of the probable truth of the
case. Yet she could suffer, and would willingly die, if need be, for her
love.
Then Hubertine decided to continue.
“I do not wish to pain you too deeply at once, yet it is absolutely
necessary that you should know the whole truth. Last evening, after you
had gone upstairs, I had quite a talk with the Abbé Cornille, and he
explained to me why Monseigneur, after great hesitation, had at last
decided to call his son to Beaumont. One of his greatest troubles was
the impetuosity of the young man, the uncontrollable haste which he
manifested to plunge into the excitement of life, without listening to
the advice of his elders. After having with pain renounced all hope of
making him a priest, his father found that he could not establish him in
any occupation suitable to his rank and his fortune. He would never be
anything but a headstrong fellow, restless, wandering, yielding to his
artistic tastes when so inclined. He was alarmed at seeing in his son
traits of character like those from which he himself had so cruelly
suffered. At last, from fear that he might take some foolish step, and
fall in love with someone beneath him in position, he wished to have him
here, that he might be married at once.”
“Very well,” said Angelique, who did not yet understand.
“Such a marriage had been proposed even before his arrival, and all
preliminaries were settled yesterday, so that the Abbé Cornille formally
announced that in the autumn Felicien would wed Mademoiselle Claire de
Voincourt. You know very well the Hotel de Voincourt there, close to the
Bishop’s Palace. The family are very intimate with Monseigneur. On both
sides, nothing better could be hoped for, either in the way of name or
of fortune. The Abbé himself highly approves of the union.”
The young girl no longer listened to these reasons of the fitness of
things. Suddenly an image appeared to come before her eyes--that of
Claire. She saw her, as she had occasionally had a glimpse of her in
the alleys of the Park during the winter, or as she had seen her on fête
days in the Cathedral. A tall young lady, a brunette, very handsome, of
a much more striking beauty than her own, and with a royal bearing and
appearance. Notwithstanding her haughty air, she was said to be very
good and kind.
“So he is to marry this elegant young lady, who is not only beautiful
but very rich,” she murmured.
Then, as if suddenly pierced by a sharp agony, she exclaimed:
“He uttered a falsehood! He did not tell me this!”
She recollected now the momentary hesitation of Felicien, the rush
of blood which had coloured his cheeks when she spoke to him of their
marriage. The shock was so great that she turned deadly pale, and her
head fell heavily on her mother’s shoulders.
“My darling, my dear darling! This is, indeed, a cruel thing; I know it
well. But it would have been still worse had you waited. Take courage,
then, and draw at once the knife from the wound. Repeat to yourself,
whenever the thought of this young man comes to you, that never would
Monseigneur, the terrible Jean XII., whose intractable pride, it appears,
is still recollected by all the world, give his son, the last of his
race, to a little embroiderer, found under a gateway and adopted by poor
people like ourselves.”
In her weakness, Angelique heard all this without making any objection.
What was it she felt pass over her face? A cold breath coming from a
distance, from far above the roofs of the houses, seemed to freeze her
blood. Was it true that her mother was telling her of this misery of the
world, this sad reality, in the same way that parents relate the story
of the wolf to unreasonable children? She would never forget the shock
and the grief of this first experience of a bitter disappointment. Yet,
however, she already excused Felicien. He had told no falsehood; he
simply had been silent. Were his father to wish him to marry this young
girl, no doubt he would refuse to do so. But as yet he had not dared to
rebel. As he had not said anything to her of the matter, perhaps it was
because he had just made up his mind as to what it was best for him to
do. Before this sudden vanishing away of her air-castles, pale and weak
from the rude touch of the actual life, she still kept her faith,
and trusted, in spite of all, in the future realisation of her dream.
Eventually the fair promises for the future would come to pass, even
although now her pride was crushed and she sank down into a state of
humiliation and resignation.
“Mother, it is true I have done wrong, but I will never sin again. I
promise you that I will be patient, and submit myself without a murmur
of revolt to whatever Heaven wishes me to be.”
It was true grace which spoke within her. The trial was great, but she
was able to conquer, from the effects of the education she had received
and the excellent example of the home life in which she had grown up.
Why should she doubt the morrow, when until this present moment everyone
near her had been so generous and so tender towards her? She prayed
that she might be able to have the wisdom of Catherine, the meekness
of Elizabeth, the chastity of Agnes; and re-comforted by the aid of
the saints, she was sure that they alone would help her to triumph over
every trouble. Was it not true that her old friends the Cathedral, the
Clos-Marie, and the Chevrotte, the little fresh house of the Huberts,
the Huberts themselves, all who loved her, would defend her, without her
being obliged to do anything, except to be obedient and good?
“Then, dear child, you promise me that you will never act contrary to
our wishes, and above all against those of Monseigneur?”
“Yes, mother, I promise.”
“You also promise me not to see this young man again, and no longer to
indulge in the foolish idea of marrying him?”
At this question her courage failed her. She almost felt the spirit
of rebellion rise again within her, as she thought of the depth of her
love. But in a moment she bowed her head and was definitely conquered.
“I promise to do nothing to bring about a meeting with him, and to take
no steps towards our marriage.”
Hubertine, touched to the heart, pressed the young girl most
affectionately in her arms as she thanked her for her obedience. Oh!
what a dreadful thing it was, when wishing to do good to the child she
so tenderly loved, she was forced to make her suffer so intensely. She
was exhausted, and rose up hastily, surprised that daylight had come.
The little cry of the birds had increased in every direction, although
as yet none were to be seen in flight. In the sky the clouds, delicate
as gauze, seemed to float away in the limpid blueness of the atmosphere.
Then Angelique, whose look had mechanically fallen upon her wild
rose-bush, at last noticed it with its puny leaves. She smiled sadly as
she said:
“You were right, mother dear; it will never be in blossom.”
At seven o’clock in the morning Angelique was at her work as usual. The
days followed each other, and every forenoon found her seated before the
chasuble she had left on the previous evening. Nothing appeared to be
changed outwardly; she kept strictly her promise, shut herself up, and
made no attempt whatever to see Felicien. This did not seem to depress
her at all, but she kept her bright, youthful look, smiling sweetly
at Hubertine when occasionally she saw her eyes fixed upon her as if
astonished. However, in this enforced silence she thought only of him;
he was always in her mind.
Her hope remained firm, and she was sure that in spite of all obstacles
everything would come out all right in the end. In fact, it was this
feeling of certainty that gave her such an air of courage, of haughty
rectitude, and of justice.
Hubert from time to time scolded her.
“You are over-doing, my dear; you are really growing pale. I hope at
least that you sleep well at night.”
“Oh yes, father! Like a log! Never in my life did I feel better than
now.”
But Hubertine, becoming anxious in her turn, proposed that they should
take a little vacation, and said:
“If you would like it, my child, we will shut up the house, and we will
go, all three of us, to Paris for a while.”
“Oh! mother mine, of what are you thinking? What would become of all our
orders for work? You know I am never in better health than when closely
occupied.”
In reality, Angelique simply awaited a miracle, some manifestation of
the Invisible which would give her to Felicien. In addition to the
fact that she had promised to do nothing, what need was there of her
striving, since in the beyond some unknown power was always working for
her? So, in her voluntary inaction, while feigning indifference, she was
continually on the watch, listening to the voices of all that quivered
around her, and to the little familiar sounds of this circle in which
she lived and which would assuredly help her. Something must eventually
come from necessity. As she leaned over her embroidery-frame, not far
from the open window, she lost not a trembling of the leaves, not a
murmur of the Chevrotte. The slightest sighs from the Cathedral came to
her, magnified tenfold by the eagerness of her attention; she even heard
the slippers of the beadle as he walked round the altar when putting
out the tapers. Again at her side she felt the light touch of mysterious
wings; she knew that she was aided by the unknown, and at times she even
turned suddenly, thinking that a phantom had whispered in her ear the
way of gaining the hoped-for victory. But days passed and no change
came.
At night, that she need not break her word, Angelique at first did not
go out upon the balcony, for fear of being tempted to rejoin Felicien,
were she to see him below her. She remained quietly waiting in her
chamber. Then, as the leaves even scarcely stirred, but seemed to sleep,
she ventured out, and began to question the dark shadows as before.
From whence would the miracle come? Without doubt, in the Bishop’s
garden would be seen a flaming hand, which would beckon to her to
approach.
Or, perhaps, the sign would appear in the Cathedral, the great organs of
which would peal forth, and would call her to the altar.
Nothing would have surprised her: neither the doves of the “Golden
Legend” bringing the words of benediction, nor the intervention of
saints, who would enter through the walls, to tell her that Monseigneur
wished to see her. The only thing at which she wondered was the slowness
of the working of the marvel. Like the day, the nights succeeded nights,
yet nothing, nothing manifested itself.
At the close of the second week, that which astonished Angelique above
all was that she had not seen Felicien. She, it was true, had pledged
herself to take no steps towards meeting him, yet, without having said
so to anyone, she thought he would do all in his power to find her. But
the Clos-Marie remained deserted, and he no longer walked among the
wild grasses therein. Not once during the past fortnight had she had a
glimpse of him by day, or even seen his shadow in the evening. Still
her faith remained unshaken; that he did not come was simply that he
was occupied in making his preparations to rejoin her. However, as her
surprise increased there was at length mingled with it a beginning of
anxiety.
At last, one evening the dinner was sad at the embroiderer’s, and as
soon as it was over Hubert went out, under the pretext of having an
important commission to attend to, so Hubertine remained alone with
Angelique in the kitchen. She looked at her for a long time with
moistened eyes, touched by such courage. During the past fortnight not
one word had been exchanged between them in reference to those things
with which their hearts were full, and she was deeply moved by the
strength of character and loyalty her daughter displayed in thus keeping
her promise. A sudden feeling of deep tenderness made her open her arms,
and the young girl threw herself upon her breast, and in silence they
clasped each other in a loving embrace.
Then, when Hubertine was able to speak, she said:
“Ah! my poor child, I have been impatient to be alone with you, for you
must know that now all is at an end; yes, quite at an end.”
Startled, Angelique rose quickly, exclaiming:
“What! Is Felicien dead?”
“No! oh no!”
“If he will never come again, it is only that he is dead.”
So Hubertine was obliged to explain to her that the day after the
procession she had been to see him, and had made him also promise that
he would keep way from them until he had the full authorisation of
Monseigneur to do otherwise. It was thus a definite leave-taking, for
she knew a marriage would be utterly impossible. She had made him almost
distracted as she explained to him how wrongly he had done in thus
compromising a young, ignorant, confiding child, whom he would not be
allowed to make his wife; and then he had assured her, that if he could
not see her again, he would die from grief, rather than be disloyal.
That same evening he confessed everything to his father.
“You see, my dear,” continued Hubertine, “you are so courageous that I
can repeat to you all I know without hesitation. Oh! if you realised, my
darling, how I pity you, and what admiration I have for you since I have
found you so strong, so brave in keeping silent and in appearing gay
when your heart was heavily burdened. But you will have need of even
more firmness; yes, much more, my dear. This afternoon I have seen the
Abbé Cornille, and he gives me no encouragement whatever. Monseigneur
refuses to listen to the subject, so there is no more hope.”
She expected a flood of fears, and she was astonished to see her
daughter reseat herself tranquilly, although she had turned very pale.
The old oaken table had been cleared, and a lamp lighted up this ancient
servants’ hall, the quiet of which was only disturbed by the humming of
the boiler.
“Mother, dear, the end has not yet come. Tell me everything, I beg of
you. Have I not a right to know all, since I am the one above all others
most deeply interested in the matter?”
And she listened attentively to what Hubertine thought best to tell her
of what she had learned from the Abbé, keeping back only certain details
of the life which was as yet an unknown thing to this innocent child.