That same evening in the kitchen, after they left the dinner-table,
Angelique confessed everything to Hubert, telling him of her interview
with the Bishop, and of the latter’s refusal. She was very pale, but not
at all excited.
Hubert was quite overcome. What? Could it be possible that his dear
child already suffered? That she also had been so deeply wounded in her
affections? His eyes were filled with tears from his sympathy with her,
as they were both of that excessively sensitive nature that at the least
breath they were carried away by their imaginations.
“Ah! my poor darling, why did you not consult me? I would willingly have
accompanied you, and perhaps I might have persuaded Monseigneur to yield
to your prayers.”
With a look Hubertine stopped him. He was really unreasonable. Was it
not much better to seize this occasion to put an end at once to all
ideas of a marriage which would be impossible? She took the young girl
in her arms, and tenderly kissed her forehead.
“Then, now it is ended, my dear child; all ended?”
Angelique at first did not appear to understand what was said to her.
Soon the words returned to her as if from a distance. She looked fixedly
before her, seeming anxious to question the empty space, and at last she
replied:
“Without doubt, mother.”
Indeed, on the morrow she seated herself at the work-frame and
embroidered as she was wont to do. She took up her usual routine of
daily work, and did not appear to suffer. Moreover, no allusion was made
to the past; she no longer looked from time to time out of the window
into the garden, and gradually losing her paleness, the natural
colour came back to her cheeks. The sacrifice appeared to have been
accomplished.
Hubert himself thought it was so, and, convinced of the wisdom of
Hubertine, did all in his power to keep Felicien at a distance. The
latter, not daring to openly revolt against his father, grew feverishly
impatient, to such a degree that he almost broke the promise he had made
to wait quietly without trying to see Angelique again. He wrote to her,
and the letters were intercepted. He even went to the house one morning,
but it was Hubert alone who received him. Their explanatory conversation
saddened them both to an equal degree, so much did the young man appear
to suffer when the embroiderer told him of his daughter’s calmness and
her air of forgetfulness. He besought him to be loyal, and go to away,
that he might not again throw the child into the fearful trouble of the
last few weeks.
Felicien again pledged himself to be patient, but he violently refused
to take back his word, for he was still hopeful that he might persuade
his father in the end. He could wait; he would let affairs remain in
their present state with the Voincourts, where he dined twice a week,
doing so simply to avoid a direct act of open rebellion.
And as he left the house he besought Hubert to explain to Angelique why
he had consented to the torment of not seeing her for the moment; he
thought only of her, and the sole aim of everything he did was to gain
her at last.
When her husband repeated this conversation to her, Hubertine grew very
serious. Then, after a short silence, she asked:
“Shall you tell our daughter what he asked you to say to her?”
“I ought to do so.”
She was again silent, but finally added:
“Act according to your conscience. But he is now under a delusion. He
will eventually be obliged to yield to his father’s wishes, and then our
poor, dear little girl will die in consequence.”
Hubert, overcome with grief, hesitated. But after contending with
himself, he concluded to repeat nothing. Moreover, he became a little
reassured each day when his wife called his attention to Angelique’s
tranquil appearance.
“You see well that the wound is healing. She is learning to forget.”
But she did not forget; she also was simply waiting. All hope of human
aid having died within her, she now had returned to the idea of some
wonderful prodigy. There would surely be one, if God wished her to be
happy. She had only to give herself up entirely into His hands; she
believed that this new trial had been sent to her as a punishment
for having attempted to force His will in intruding upon Monseigneur.
Without true grace mankind was weak, and incapable of success. Her need
of that grace made her humble, bringing to her as an only hope the
aid of the Invisible; so that she gave up acting for herself, but left
everything to the mysterious forces which surrounded her. Each evening
at lamplight she recommenced her reading of the “Golden Legend,” being
as delighted with it as when she was a young child. She doubted none
of the miracles related therein, being convinced that the power of the
Unknown is without limit for the triumph of pure souls.
Just at this time the upholsterer of the Cathedral ordered of the
Huberts a panel of the very richest embroidery for the throne of
Monseigneur the Bishop. This panel, one yard and a half in width and
three yards in length, was to be set in old carved wood, and on it were
to be represented two angels of life-size, holding a crown, on which
were to be the arms of the Hautecœurs. It was necessary that the
embroidery should be in bas-relief, a work which not only required great
artistic knowledge, but also needed physical strength, to be well done.
When proposed to the Huberts, they at first declined the offer, being
not only fearful of fatiguing Angelique, but especially dreading that
she would be saddened by the remembrances which would be brought to her
mind as she wrought thread after thread during the several weeks. But
she insisted upon accepting the command, and every morning applied
herself to her task with an extraordinary energy. It seemed as if
she found her happiness in tiring herself, and that she needed to be
physically exhausted in order to be calm.
So in the old workroom life continued in the same regular way, as if
their hearts had not even for a moment beaten more quickly than usual.
Whilst Hubert occupied himself with arranging the frames, or drew
the patterns, or stretched or relaxed the materials, Hubertine helped
Angelique, both of them having their hands terribly tired and bruised
when evening came. For the angels and the ornaments it had been
necessary at the beginning to divide each subject into several parts,
which were treated separately. In order to perfect the most salient
points, Angelique first took spools of coarse unbleached thread,
which she re-covered with the strong thread of Brittany in a contrary
direction; and as the need came, making use of a heavy pair of shears,
as well as of a roughing-chisel, she modelled these threads, shaped the
drapery of the angels, and detached the details of the ornaments. In all
this there was a real work of sculpture. At last, when the desired form
was obtained, with the aid of Hubertine she threw on masses of gold
thread, which she fastened down with little stitches of silk. Thus there
was a bas-relief of gold, incomparably soft and bright, shining like a
sun in the centre of this dark, smoky room. The old tools were arranged
in the same lines as they had been for centuries--the punches, the
awls, the mallets, and the hammers; on the work-frame the little donkey
waste-basket and the tinsel, the thimbles and the needles, moved up
and down as usual, while in the different corners, where they ended by
growing rusty, the diligent, the hand spinning-wheel, and the reel for
winding, seemed to sleep in the peaceful quiet which entered through the
open window.
Days passed. Angelique broke many needles between morning and evening,
so difficult was it to sew down the gold, through the thickness of
the waxed threads. To have seen her, one would have said she was so
thoroughly absorbed by her hard work that she could think of nothing
else. At nine o’clock she was exhausted by fatigue, and, going to bed,
she sank at once into a heavy, dreamless sleep. When her embroidery gave
her mind a moment’s leisure, she was astonished not to see Felicien.
Although she took no step towards seeking him, it seemed to her that he
ought to have tried every possible way to come to her. Yet she approved
of his wisdom in acting as he did, and would have scolded him had
he tried to hasten matters. No doubt he also looked for something
supernatural to happen. It was this expectation upon which she now
lived, thinking each night that it would certainly come on the morrow.
Until now she had never rebelled. Still, at times she lifted up her head
inquiringly, as if asking “What! Has nothing yet come to pass?” And then
she pricked her finger so deeply that her hand bled, and she was obliged
to take the pincers to draw the needle out. When her needle would break
with a sharp little sound, as if of glass, she did not even make a
movement of impatience.
Hubertine was very anxious on seeing her apply herself so desperately
to her work, and as the time for the great washing had come again, she
forced her to leave her panel of embroidery, that she might have four
good days of active outdoor life in the broad sunlight. The _mère_
Gabet, now free of her rheumatism, was able to help in the soaping and
rinsing. It was a regular fête in the Clos-Marie, these last August
days, in which the weather was splendid, the sky almost cloudless, while
a delicious fragrance came up from the Chevrotte, the water of which as
it passed under the willows was almost icy cold. The first day Angelique
was very gay, as she beat the linen after plunging it in the stream;
enjoying to the full the river, the elms, the old ruined mill, the wild
herbs, and all those friendly surroundings, so filled with pleasant
memories. Was it not there she had become acquainted with Felicien, who
under the moonlight had at first seemed so mysterious a being, and who,
later on, had been so adorably awkward the morning when he ran after
the dressing-sacque that was being carried away by the current? As she
rinsed each article, she could not refrain from glancing at the gateway
of the Bishop’s garden, which until recently had been nailed up. One
evening she had passed through it on his arm, and who could tell but he
might suddenly now open it and come to take her as she applied herself
to her work in the midst of the frothy foam that at times almost covered
her.
But the next day, as the _mère_ Gabet brought the last barrow of linen,
which she spread out on the grass with Angelique, she interrupted her
interminable chattering upon the gossip of the neighbourhood to say
maliciously:
“By the way, you know that Monseigneur is to marry his son?”
The young girl, who was just smoothing out a sheet, knelt down in the
grass, her strength leaving her all at once, from the rudeness of the
shock.
“Yes, everyone is talking of it. The son of Monseigneur will in the
autumn marry Mademoiselle de Voincourt. It seems that everything was
decided upon and arranged yesterday.”
She remained on her knees, as a flood of confused ideas passed through
her brain, and a strange humming was in her ears. She was not at all
surprised at the news, and she realised it must be true. Her mother had
already warned her, so she ought to have been prepared for it. She did
not yet even doubt Felicien’s love for her, as that was her faith and
her strength. But at the present moment, that which weakened her so
greatly and excited her to the very depths of her being was the thought
that, trembling before the commands of his father, he could at last
yield from weariness, and consent to wed one whom he did not love. Then
he would be lost to her whom he really adored. Never had she thought
such an act on his part possible; but now she saw him obliged by his
filial duty and his sense of obedience to make them both unhappy for
ever. Still motionless, her eyes fixed upon the little gate, she at
last revolted against the facts, feeling as if she must go and shake the
bars, force them open with her hands, run to Felicien, and, aiding him
by her own courage, persuade him not to yield. She was surprised to hear
herself reply to the _mère_ Gabet, in the purely mechanical instinct of
hiding her trouble:
“Ah! then he is to marry Mademoiselle Claire. She is not only very
beautiful, but it is said she is also very good.”
Certainly, as soon as the old woman went away, she must go and find him.
She had waited long enough; she would break her promise of not seeing
him as if it were a troublesome obstacle. What right had anyone
to separate them in this way? Everything spoke to her of their
affection--the Cathedral, the fresh water, and the old elm-trees under
which they had been so happy. Since their affection had grown on this
spot, it was there that she wished to find him again, to go with him
arm-in-arm far away, so far that no one would ever see them.
“That is all,” said at last the _mère_ Gabet, as she hung the last
napkins on a bush. “In two hours they will be dry. Good-night,
mademoiselle, as you no longer have need of me.”
Now, standing in the midst of this efflorescence of linen that shone
on the green grass, Angelique thought of that other day, when, in the
tempest of wind, among the flapping of the sheets and tablecloths, they
unfolded so ingenuously the secrets of their lives to each other. Why
had he discontinued his visits to her? Why had he not come to meet her
during her healthy exercise of the past three days? But it would not
be long before she would run to him, and when he had clasped her in his
arms, he would know well that he was hers, and hers only. She would not
even need to reproach him for his apparent weakness; it would be enough
for her to show herself to make him realise that their happiness was in
being together.
He would dare everything for her sake when once she had rejoined him.
An hour passed, and Angelique walked slowly between the pieces of
linen, all white herself from the blinding reflection of the sun; and
a confused sentiment awoke in her breast, which, growing stronger and
stronger, prevented her from going over to the gate, as she had wished
to do. She was frightened before this commencement of a struggle. What
did it mean? She certainly could act according to her own will. Yet
something new, inexplicable, thwarted her and changed the simplicity of
her passion. It was such a simple thing to go to a beloved one; yet she
could not possibly do so now, being kept back by a tormenting doubt.
Also, since she had given her promise, perhaps it would be wrong to
break it. In the evening, when the whole “wash” was dry, and Hubertine
came to help her to take it to the house, she was still undecided what
to do, and concluded to reflect upon it during the night. With her arms
filled to overflowing with linen, white as snow, and smelling fresh and
clean, she cast an anxious look towards the Clos-Marie, already bathed
in the twilight, as if it were a friendly corner of Nature refusing to
be her accomplice.
In the morning Angelique was greatly troubled when she awoke. Several
other nights passed without her having come to any decision. She could
not recover her ease of mind until she had the certainty that she was
still beloved. Were her faith in that unshaken she would be perfectly at
rest. If loved, she could bear anything. A fit of being charitable had
again taken possession of her, so that she was touched by the slightest
suffering, and her eyes were filled with tears ready to overflow at any
moment. The old man Mascart made her give him tobacco, and the Chouarts
drew from her everything they wished, even to preserved fruits. But the
Lemballeuses also profited by her gifts, and Tiennette had been seen
dancing at the fêtes, dressed in one of “the good young lady’s” gowns.
And one day, as she was taking to the grandmother some chemises promised
her the previous evening, she saw from a distance, in the midst of the
poor family, Madame de Voincourt and her daughter Claire, accompanied by
Felicien. The latter, no doubt, had taken them there. She did not show
herself, but returned home at once, chilled to the heart. Two days
later she saw the two again as they came out from the Château; then one
morning the old man Mascart told her of a visit he had received from
the handsome young gentleman and two ladies. Then she abandoned her poor
people, who seemed no longer to have claims upon her, since Felicien had
taken them and given them to his new friends. She gave up her walks
for fear she might see them, and thus be so deeply wounded that her
sufferings would be increased tenfold. She felt as if something were
dying within her, as if, little by little, her very life was passing
away.
One evening, after one of these meetings, when alone in her chamber,
stifling from anguish, she uttered this cry:
“But he loves me no longer.”
She saw before her, mentally, Claire de Voincourt, tall, beautiful,
with her crown of black hair, and he was at her side, slight, proud, and
handsome. Were they not really created for each other, of the same race,
so well mated that one might think they were already married?
“He no longer loves me! Oh! he no longer loves me!”
This exclamation broke from her lips as if it were the ruin of all her
hopes, and, her faith once shaken, everything gave way without her being
able to examine the facts of the case or to regard them calmly. The
previous evening she believed in something, but that had now passed by.
A breath, coming from she knew not where, had been sufficient, and all
at once by a single blow she had fallen into the greatest despair--that
of thinking she was not beloved. He had indeed spoken wisely when he
told her once that this was the only real grief, the one insupportable
torture. Now her turn had come. Until then she had been resigned,
she felt so strong and confident as she awaited the miracle. But her
strength passed away with her faith; she was tormented by her distress
like a child; her whole being seemed to be only an open wound. And a
painful struggle commenced in her soul.
At first she called upon her pride to help her; she was too proud to
care for him any more. She tried to deceive herself, she pretended to be
free from all care, as she sang while embroidering the Hautecœur coat
of arms, upon which she was at work. But her heart was so full it almost
stifled her, and she was ashamed to acknowledge to herself that she was
weak enough to love him still in spite of all, and even to love him more
than ever. For a week these armorial bearings, as they grew thread by
thread under her fingers, filled her with a terrible sorrow. Quartered
one and four, two and three, of Jerusalem and d’Hautecœur; of
Jerusalem, which is argent, a cross potence, or, between four
cross-crosslets of the last; and d’Hautecœur, azure, on a castle, or, a
shield, sable, charged with a human heart, argent; the whole accompanied
by three fleurs-de-lys, or, two at the top and one in the point. The
enamels were made of twist, the metals of gold and silver thread. What
misery it was to feel that her hands trembled, and to be obliged to
lower her head to hide her eyes, that were blinded with tears, from all
this brightness. She thought only of him; she adored him in the lustre
of his legendary nobility. And when she embroidered the motto of the
family, “_Si Dieu veult, je veux_,” in black silk on a streamer of
silver, she realised that she was his slave, and that never again
could she reclaim him. Then tears prevented her from seeing, while
mechanically she continued to make little stitches in her work.
After this it was indeed pitiable. Angelique loved in despair, fought
against this hopeless affection, which she could not destroy. She still
wished to go to Felicien, to reconquer him by throwing her arms around
his neck; and thus the contest was daily renewed. Sometimes she thought
she had gained control over her feelings, so great a silence appeared to
have fallen within and around her. She seemed to see herself as if in a
vision, a stranger in reality, very little, very cold, and kneeling like
an obedient child in the humility of renunciation. Then it was no longer
herself, but a sensible young girl, made so by her education and her
home life. Soon a rush of blood mounted to her face, making her dizzy;
her perfect health, the ardent feelings of her youth, seemed to gallop
like runaway colts, and she resaw herself, proud and passionate, in all
the reality of her unknown origin. Why, then, had she been so obedient?
There was no true duty to consult, only free-will. Already she had
planned her flight, and calculated the most favourable hour for forcing
open the gate of the Bishop’s garden. But already, also, the agony, the
grave uneasiness, the torment of a doubt had come back to her. Were she
to yield to evil she would suffer eternal remorse in consequence. Hours,
most abominable hours, passed in this uncertainty as to what part she
should take under this tempestuous wind, which constantly threw her from
the revolt of her love to the horror of a fault. And she came out of the
contest weakened by each victory over her heart.
One evening, as she was about leaving the house to go to join Felicien,
she suddenly thought of her little book from the Society of Aid to
Abandoned Children. She was so distressed to find that she no longer had
strength to resist her pride. She took it from the depths of the chest
of drawers, turned over its leaves, whispered to herself at each page
the lowness of her birth, so eager was she in her need of humility.
Father and mother unknown; no name; nothing but a date and a number; a
complete neglect, like that of a wild plant that grows by the roadside!
Then crowds of memories came to her: the rich pastures of the Mièvre and
the cows she had watched there; the flat route of Soulanges, where she
had so often walked barefooted; and Maman Nini, who boxed her ears when
she stole apples. Certain pages specially attracted her by their painful
associations:--those which certified every three months to the visits
of the under-inspector and of the physician, whose signatures were
sometimes accompanied by observations or information, as, for instance,
a severe illness, during which she had almost died; a claim from her
nurse on the subject of a pair of shoes that had been burnt; and bad
marks that had been given her for her uncontrollable temper. It was, in
short, the journal of her misery. But one thing disturbed her above all
others--the report in reference to the breaking of the necklace she
had worn until she was six years of age. She recollected that she had
instinctively hated it, this string of beads of bone, cut in the shape
of little olives, strung on a silken cord, and fastened by a medallion
of plaited silver, bearing the date of her entrance into the “Home” and
her number. She considered it as a badge of slavery, and tried several
times to break it with her little hands, without any fear as to the
consequences of doing so. Then, when older, she complained that it
choked her. For a year longer she was obliged to wear it. Great, indeed,
was her joy when, in the presence of the mayor of the parish, the
inspector’s aid had cut the cord, replacing this sign of individuality
by a formal description, in which allusion was made to her
violet-coloured eyes and her fine golden hair. Yet she always seemed
to feel around her neck this collar, as if she were an animal that was
marked in order that she might be recognised if she went astray; it cut
into her flesh and stifled her. When she came to that page on this day,
her humility came back to her, she was frightened, and went up to her
chamber, sobbing as if unworthy of being loved. At two other times this
little book saved her. At last it lost its power, and could not help her
in checking her rebellious thoughts.
Now, her greatest temptation came to her at night. Before going to
bed, that her sleep might be calm, she imposed upon herself the task of
resuming reading the Legends. But, resting her forehead on her hands,
notwithstanding all her efforts she could understand nothing. The
miracles stupefied her; she saw only a discoloured flight of phantoms.
Then in her great bed, after a most intense prostration, she started
suddenly from her sleep, in agony, in the midst of the darkness. She sat
upright, distracted; then knelt among the half thrown-back clothes, as
the perspiration started from her forehead, while she trembled from head
to foot. Clasping her hands together, she stammered in prayer, “Oh! my
God! Why have You forsaken me?”
Her great distress was to realise that she was alone in the obscurity
at such moments. She had dreamed of Felicien, she was eager to dress
herself and go to join him, before anyone could come to prevent her
from fleeing. It was as if the Divine grace were leaving her, as if God
ceased to protect her, and even the elements abandoned her. In despair,
she called upon the unknown, she listened attentively, hoping for some
sign from the Invisible. But there was no reply; the air seemed empty.
There were no more whispering voices, no more mysterious rustlings.
Everything seemed to be dead--the Clos-Marie, with the Chevrotte, the
willows, the elm-trees in the Bishop’s garden, and the Cathedral itself.
Nothing remained of the dreams she had placed there; the white flight of
her friends in passing away left behind them only their sepulchre. She
was in agony at her powerlessness, disarmed, like a Christian of the
Primitive Church overcome by original sin, as soon as the aid of the
supernatural had departed. In the dull silence of this protected corner
she heard this evil inheritance come back, howling triumphant over
everything. If in ten minutes more no help came to her from figurative
forces, if things around her did not rouse up and sustain her, she would
certainly succumb and go to her ruin. “My God! My God! Why have You
abandoned me?” Still kneeling on her bed, slight and delicate, it seemed
to her as if she were dying.
Each time, until now, at the moment of her greatest distress she had
been sustained by a certain freshness. It was the Eternal Grace which
had pity upon her, and restored her illusions. She jumped out on to the
floor with her bare feet, and ran eagerly to the window. Then at last
she heard the voices rising again; invisible wings brushed against her
hair, the people of the “Golden Legend” came out from the trees and the
stones, and crowded around her. Her purity, her goodness, all that which
resembled her in Nature, returned to her and saved her. Now she was no
longer afraid, for she knew that she was watched over. Agnes had come
back with the wandering, gentle virgins, and in the air she breathed
was a sweet calmness, which, notwithstanding her intense sadness,
strengthened her in her resolve to die rather than fail in her duty or
break her promise. At last, quite exhausted, she crept back into
her bed, falling asleep again with the fear of the morrow’s trials,
constantly tormented by the idea that she must succumb in the end, if
her weakness thus increased each day.
In fact, a languor gained fearfully upon Angelique since she thought
Felicien no longer loved her. She was deeply wounded and silent,
uncomplaining; she seemed to be dying hourly. At first it showed itself
by weariness. She would have an attack of want of breath, when she was
forced to drop her thread, and for a moment remain with her eyes half
closed, seeing nothing, although apparently looking straight before her.
Then she left off eating, scarcely taking even a little milk; and she
either hid her bread or gave it to the neighbours’ chickens, that she
need not make her parents anxious. A physician having been called,
found no acute disease, but considering her life too solitary, simply
recommended a great deal of exercise. It was like a gradual fading away
of her whole being; a disappearing by slow degrees, an obliterating
of her physique from its immaterial beauty. Her form floated like the
swaying of two great wings; a strong light seemed to come from her
thin face, where the soul was burning. She could now come down from her
chamber only in tottering steps, as she supported herself by putting her
two hands against the wall of the stairway. But as soon as she realised
she was being looked at, she made a great effort, and even persisted in
wishing to finish the panel of heavy embroidery for the Bishop’s seat.
Her little, slender hands had no more strength, and when she broke a
needle she could not draw it from the work with the pincers.
One morning, when Hubert and Hubertine had been obliged to go out, and
had left her alone at her work, the embroiderer, coming back first, had
found her on the floor near the frame, where she had fallen from her
chair after having fainted away. She had at last succumbed before her
task, one of the great golden angels being still unfinished. Hubert took
her in his arms, and tried to place her on her feet. But she fell back
again, and did not recover consciousness.
“My darling! My darling! Speak to me! Have pity on me!”
At last she opened her eyes and looked at him in despair. Why had he
wished her to come back to life! She would so gladly die!
“What is the matter with you, my dear child? Have you really deceived
us? Do you still love him?”
She made no answer, but simply looked at him with intense sadness. Then
he embraced her gently, took her in his arms, and carried her up to her
room. Having placed her upon her bed, when he saw how white and frail
she was he wept that he had had so cruel a task to perform as to keep
away from her the one whom she so loved.
“But I would have given him to you, my dear! Why did you say nothing to
me?”
She did not speak; her eyelids closed, and she appeared to fall
asleep. He remained standing, his looks fixed upon the thin, lily-white
countenance, his heart bleeding with pity. Then, as her breathing had
become quiet, he went downstairs, as he heard his wife come in.
He explained everything to her in the working-room. Hubertine had just
taken off her hat and gloves, and he at once told her of his having
found the child on the floor in a dead faint, that she was now sleeping
on her bed, overcome with weakness, and almost lifeless.
“We have really been greatly mistaken. She thinks constantly of this
young man, and it is killing her by inches. Ah! if you knew what a shock
it gave me, and the remorse which has made me almost distracted, since
I have realised the truth of the case, and carried her upstairs in so
pitiable a state. It is our fault. We have separated them by falsehoods,
and I am not only ashamed, but so angry with myself it makes me ill. But
what? Will you let her suffer so, without saying anything to save her?”
Still Hubertine was as silent as Angelique, and, pale from anxiety,
looked at him calmly and soothingly. But he, always an excitable man,
was now so overcome by what he had just seen that, forgetting his usual
submission, he was almost beside himself, could not keep still, but
threw his hands up and down in his feverish agitation.
“Very well, then! I will speak, and I will tell her that Felicien loves
her, and that it is we who have had the cruelty to prevent him from
returning, in deceiving him also. Now, every tear she sheds cuts me to
the heart. Were she to die, I should consider myself as having been her
murderer. I wish her to be happy. Yes! happy at any cost, no matter how,
but by all possible means.”
He had approached his wife, and he dared to cry out in the revolt of
his tenderness, being doubly irritated by the sad silence she still
maintained.
“Since they love each other, it is they alone who should be masters of
the situation. There is surely nothing in the world greater than to love
and be loved. Yes, happiness is always legitimate.”
At length Hubertine, standing motionless, spoke slowly:
“You are willing, then, that he should take her from us, are you not?
That he should marry her notwithstanding our opposition, and without the
consent of his father? Would you advise them to do so? Do you think that
they would be happy afterwards, and that love would suffice them?”
And without changing her manner she continued in the same heart-broken
voice:
“On my way home I passed by the cemetery, and an undefinable hope made
me enter there again. I knelt once more on the spot that is worn by our
knees, and I prayed there for a long time.”
Hubert had turned very pale, and a cold chill replaced the fever of a
few moments before. Certainly he knew well the tomb of the unforgiving
mother, where they had so often been in tears and in submission, as they
accused themselves of their disobedience, and besought the dead to send
them her pardon from the depths of the earth. They had remained there
for hours, sure that if the grace they demanded were ever granted them
they would be cognisant of it at once. That for which they pleaded, that
for which they hoped, was for another infant, a child of pardon, the
only sign which would assure them that at last they themselves had been
forgiven. But all was in vain. The cold, hard mother was deaf to all
their entreaties, and left them under the inexorable punishment of the
death of their firstborn, whom she had taken and carried away, and whom
she refused to restore to them.
“I prayed there for a long time,” repeated Hubertine. “I listened
eagerly to know if there would not be some slight movement.”
Hubert questioned her with an anxious look.
“But there was nothing--no! no sound came up to me from the earth, and
within me there was no feeling of relief. Ah! yes, it is useless to hope
any longer. It is too late. We brought about our own unhappiness.”
Then, trembling, he asked:
“Do you accuse me of it?”
“Yes, you are to blame, and I also did wrong in following you. We
disobeyed in the beginning, and all our life has been spoiled in
consequence of that one false step.”
“But are you not happy?”
“No, I am not happy. A woman who has no child can never be happy. To
love merely is not enough. That love must be crowned and blest.”
He had fallen into a chair, faint and overcome, as tears came to his
eyes. Never before had she reproached him for the ever-open wound which
marred their lives, and she who always after having grieved him by
an involuntary allusion to the past had quickly recovered herself and
consoled him, this time let him suffer, looking at him as she stood
near, but making no sign, taking no step towards him. He wept bitterly,
exclaiming in the midst of his tears:
“Ah! the dear child upstairs--it is she you condemn. You are not willing
that Felicien should marry her, as I married you, and that she should
suffer as you have done.”
She answered simply by a look: a clear, affectionate glance, in which he
read the strength and simplicity of her heart.
“But you said yourself, my dear, that our sweet daughter would die of
grief if matters were not changed. Do you, then, wish for her death?”
“Yes. Her death now would be preferable to an unhappy life.”
He left his seat, and clasped her in his arms as they both sobbed
bitterly. For some minutes they embraced each other. Then he conquered
himself, and she in her turn was obliged to lean upon his shoulder, that
he might comfort her and renew her courage. They were indeed distressed,
but were firm in their decision to keep perfectly silent, and, if it
were God’s will that their child must die in consequence, they must
accept it submissively, rather than advise her to do wrong.
From that day Angelique was obliged to keep in her room. Her weakness
increased so rapidly and to such a degree that she could no longer go
down to the workroom. Did she attempt to walk, her head became dizzy
at once and her limbs bent under her. At first, by the aid of the
furniture, she was able to get to the balcony. Later, she was obliged
to content herself with going from her armchair to her bed. Even that
distance seemed long to her, and she only tried it in the morning and
evening, she was so exhausted.
However, she still worked, giving up the embroidery in bas-relief as
being too difficult, and simply making use of coloured silks. She copied
flowers after Nature, from a bunch of hydrangeas and hollyhocks, which,
having no odour, she could keep in her room. The bouquet was in full
bloom in a large vase, and often she would rest for several minutes as
she looked at it with pleasure, for even the light silks were too heavy
for her fingers. In two days she had made one flower, which was fresh
and bright as it shone upon the satin; but this occupation was her
life, and she would use her needle until her last breath. Softened by
suffering, emaciated by the inner fever that was consuming her, she
seemed now to be but a spirit, a pure and beautiful flame that would
soon be extinguished.
Why was it necessary to struggle any longer if Felicien did not love
her? Now she was dying with this conviction; not only had he no love for
her to-day, but perhaps he had never really cared for her. So long as
her strength lasted she had contended against her heart, her health, and
her youth, all of which urged her to go and join him. But now that she
was unable to move, she must resign herself and accept her fate.
One morning, as Hubert placed her in her easy chair, and put a cushion
under her little, motionless feet, she said, with a smile:
“Ah! I am sure of being good now, and not trying to run away.”
Hubert hastened to go downstairs, that she might not see his tears.