BARON MICHEL FINDS AN OAK INSTEAD OF A REED
ON WHICH TO LEAN.
Mary felt that Rosine's coming was a help sent to her from above.
Alone, without other support than her own heart, which had yielded so
utterly, she felt herself at the mercy of her lover. Seeing Rosine,
she ran to her and caught her hand.
"What is it, my child?" she said. "What have you come to say?"
She passed her hands over her forehead and eyes to efface, if
possible, the signs of her emotion.
"Mademoiselle," said Rosine, "I think I hear a boat."
"In which direction?"
"Toward Saint-Philbert."
"I thought your father's boat was the only one on the lake."
"No, mademoiselle, the miller of Grand-Lieu has one; it is half-rotten
to be sure, but some one has no doubt taken it to come over here."
"Well," said Mary, "I'll go with you and see who it is?"
Then, without paying the slightest heed to the young man, who
stretched out his arms to her in a supplicating way, Mary, who was not
sorry to leave Michel in order to gather up her courage, sprang from
the hut. Rosine followed her.
Michel was left alone, completely crushed; he felt that happiness had
escaped him, and he doubted the possibility of recovering it. Never
again would another such scene bring another such avowal.
When Mary returned, after listening in all directions without hearing
anything more than the lapping of the water on the shore, she found
Michel sitting on the reeds with his head in his hands. She thought
him calm,--he was only depressed; she went to him. Michel, hearing her
step, raised his head, and seeing her as reserved on her return as she
was emotional before she left him, he merely held out his hand and
shook his head sadly.
"Oh, Mary, Mary!" he said.
"Well, my friend?" she replied.
"Repeat to me, for Heaven's sake--repeat to me those dear words you
said just now! Tell me again that you love me!"
"I will repeat it, dear friend," said Mary, sadly; "and as often as
you wish it, if the conviction that my love is watching tenderly your
sufferings and your efforts can in any way inspire you with courage
and resolution."
"What!" cried Michel, wringing his hands, "are you still thinking of
that cruel separation? Can you expect me, with the knowledge of my
love for you, and the certainty of your love for me,--can you still
expect me to give myself to another woman?"
"I expect us both to accomplish the duty that lies before us, my
friend. That is why I do not regret having opened my heart to you. I
hope that my example will teach you to suffer, and inspire you with
resignation to the will of God. A fatal chain of circumstances, which
I deplore as much as you, Michel, has separated us; we cannot belong
to each other."
"But why not? I have made no pledge. I never said one word of love to
Mademoiselle Bertha."
"No; but she told me that she loved you. I received her confidence as
long ago as that evening when you met her at Tinguy's cottage, and
walked home with her."
"But whatever I said to her that night that may have seemed tender
referred to you," said the luckless young man.
"Ah! friend, a heart which bends is soon filled; poor Bertha deceived
herself. As we returned to the château that night and I was thinking
in the depths of my heart, 'I love him,' she said those very words to
me aloud. To love you is only to suffer, but to be yours, Michel,
would be a crime."
"Ah! my God! my God!"
"Yes. God will give us strength, Michel,--the God whom we invoke. Let
us bear heroically the consequences of our mutual timidity. I do not
blame you for yours, be sure of that; but, at least, spare me the
remorse of feeling that I have made my sister's unhappiness without
benefit or advantage to myself."
"But," said Michel, "your project is senseless; the very thing you
seek to avoid would surely come of it. Sooner or later Bertha must
discover that I do not love her, and then--"
"Listen to me, friend." interrupted Mary, laying her hand on Michel's
arm: "though very young, I have strong convictions on what is called
love. My education, the direct opposite of yours, has, like yours, its
drawbacks, but also some advantages. One of these advantages--a
terrible one, I admit--is a practical view of realities. Accustomed to
hear conversations in which the past disguised nothing of its
weakness, I know, through what I have learned from my father's life,
that nothing is more fugitive than the feelings which you now express
to me. I therefore hope that Bertha will have taken my place in your
heart before she has time to perceive your indifference. That is my
hope, Michel, and I pray you not to destroy it."
"You ask an impossibility, Mary."
"Well, if it must be so, it must. You are free not to keep the
engagement which binds you to my sister: free to reject the prayer I
make to you on my knees; it will be only another wound and shame
inflicted on two poor girls already unjustly treated by the world. My
poor Bertha will suffer, I know that; but at least I shall suffer with
her, and with the same pain as hers; but take care, Michel, lest our
sufferings, increased by each seeing that of the other, end by cursing
you.
"I implore you, Mary. I conjure you do not say such words,--they break
my heart."
"Listen, Michel; the hours are passing, the night is nearly gone, day
will soon be here; we must now separate, and my resolution is
irrevocable. We have both dreamed a dream which we must both forget. I
have told you how you can deserve,--I will not say my love, for you
have it,--but the eternal gratitude of your poor Mary. I swear to
you," she added, in a deeper tone of supplication than she had yet
used; "I swear to you that if you will devote yourself to the
happiness of my sister, I will have but one thought, one prayer, in my
heart,--that of beseeching God to reward you here below, and in heaven
above. If on contrary, you refuse me, Michel, if your heart cannot
rise to the level of my own abnegation, you must renounce the sight of
us, you must go far away; for, I repeat, and I swear it before God, I
will never, my friend, _never_ be yours!"
"Mary, Mary, do not take that oath; leave me some hope, at least. The
obstacles around us may lessen."
"To leave you any hope would be doing wrong, Michel; and since the
certainty that I share your sufferings has not given you--as you
promised me it should--the firmness and resignation which strengthen
my own heart, I bitterly regret the confession I have made this night.
No," she added, passing her hand across her forehead, "we must have no
more dreams; they are too dangerous. I have made you a request, a
prayer; you will not listen to it; there is nothing left but to bid
you an eternal farewell."
"Never to see you, Mary! Oh, rather death! I will do what you exact--"
He stopped, unable to say the words.
"I exact nothing," said Mary. "I have asked you on my knees not to
break two hearts instead of one, and, on my knees, I once more ask
it."
And she did, in fact, slip down to the feet of the young man.
"Rise, rise!" he cried. "Yes, Mary, yes, I will do what you want. But
you must be there, you must never leave me; and when I suffer too much
I must draw my strength and courage from your eyes. Promise me that,
Mary, and I will obey you."
"Thank you, friend, thank you. That which gives me strength to ask and
accept this sacrifice, is my conviction that nothing is lost for your
happiness as well as Bertha's."
"But yours, yours?" cried the young man.
"Do not think of me, Michel." A groan escaped him. "God," she
continued, "has given consolations to sacrifice of which the soul
knows nothing till it sounds those depths. As for me," said Mary,
veiling her eyes with her hand as though she feared they might deny
her words, "I shall endeavor to find the sight of your happiness
sufficient for me."
"Oh, my God, my God!" cried Michel, wringing his hands; "is it all
over,--am I condemned to death?"
And he flung himself face down upon the floor.
At that moment Rosine entered.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "the day is breaking."
"What is the matter, Rosine?" asked Mary; "you are trembling!"
"I am sure I heard oars in the lake; and just now I heard footsteps
behind me."
"Footsteps on this lonely islet! you are dreaming, child."
"I think so myself, for I have searched everywhere and seen no one."
"Now we must go," said Mary.
A sob from Michel made her turn to him.
"We must go alone, my friend," she said, "but in an hour Rosine shall
come back for you with the boat. Don't forget what you have promised
me. I rely upon your courage."
"Rely upon my love, Mary," he said. "The proof you exact is terrible;
the task you impose immense. God grant I may not fail under the burden
of it."
"Remember, Michel, that Bertha loves you, that she cherishes every
glance you give her. Remember, too, that I would rather die than have
her discover the true state of your heart."
"Oh, my God! my God!" murmured the young man.
"Courage! courage! Farewell, friend!"
Profiting by the moment when Rosine turned to open the door and look
outside, Mary laid a kiss on Michel's forehead. It was a different
kiss from that she had given him half an hour earlier. The first was
the jet of flame, which darts from the heart of the lover to that of
the loved one; the second was the chaste farewell of a sister to a
brother.
Michel understood the difference, and it wrung his heart. Tears sprang
again to his eyes. He went with the two young girls to the shore, and
when he had seen them in the boat he sat down upon a stone and watched
the little bark till it was lost in the morning mist that was rising
from the lake.
The sound of oars still lingered in his ear; he was listening, as
though to some funeral knell which told him that his illusions were
vanishing like phantom dreams, when a hand was lightly laid upon his
shoulder. He turned and saw Jean Oullier close beside him.
The Vendéan's face was sadder than usual, but it seemed to have lost
the expression of hatred which Michel had so often seen there. His
eyelids were moist, and two big drops were hanging to the beard which
formed a collar round his face. Were they dew? Could they be tears
from the eyes of the old follower of Charette?
He held out his hand to Michel, a thing he had never done before. The
latter looked at him in surprise, and took, with some hesitation, the
hand that was offered to him.
"I heard all," said Jean Oullier.
Michel sighed and dropped his head.
"Noble hearts! both of you," said the Vendéan; "but you were right. It
is a terrible task that poor child has set you. May God reward her
devotion! As for you, when you feel that you are weakening, let me
know, Monsieur de la Logerie, and you'll find out one thing, and that
is, if Jean Oullier hates his enemies he can also love those he does
love."
"Thank you," replied Michel.
"Come, come!" continued Jean Oullier, "no more tears; it isn't manly
to cry. If necessary, I'll try to make that iron head, called Bertha,
listen to reason; though I admit to you, in advance, it isn't easy."
"But in case she won't hear reason, there is one thing else you can
help me in,--an easy thing."
"What is that?"
"To get myself killed."
Michel said it so simply that it was evidently the expression of his
thought.
"Oh, oh!" muttered Jean Oullier; "he really looks, my faith, as if
he'd do it." Then he added aloud, addressing the young man: "Well, so
be it; if the necessity comes, we'll see about it."
This promise, melancholy as it was, gave Michel a little courage.
"Now, then," said the old Chouan, "come with me. You can't stay here.
I have a miserable boat, but by taking some precautions I think we can
both of us get safely ashore."
"But Rosine was to return in an hour and row me over," objected the
young man.
"She will come on a useless errand, that's all;" replied Jean Oullier.
"It will teach her to gossip on the high-road about other people's
affairs as she did with you to-night."
After these words, which explained how Jean Oullier came to visit the
island of Jonchère, Michel followed him to the boat, and presently,
avoiding the road taken by Mary and Rosine, they took to the open
country in the direction of Saint-Philbert.