TOUCHING MADEMOISELLE SOPHIE.
I have said how much my encounter with De Malmy seemed to affect my
companion, but that might have been accounted for in three ways.
First, her fear for herself; second, her fear for me; and lastly,
perhaps, her fear for my adversary.
I had not forgotten what Father Gerbaut had said with regard to his
daughter’s looking higher than her position warranted, and to the
attention which she drew from the young gentlemen who put up at the
“Bras d’Or,” some of whom were, no doubt, those with whom we had been
in contest.
I had naturally followed, with my eyes, the little cavalcade, until
it finally disappeared.
On withdrawing my looks from it, I perceived that Sophie was half
fainting. I offered her my arm, which she took, trembling at the same
time all over.
“Oh, M. Réné,” said she, “I was so frightened! How glad I am that it
ended as it did!”
For whom was she frightened? and for whose sake was she so glad that
all was over?
Was it for our sakes, or for that of the young lords?
I did not like to ask her.
M. Drouet walked along the Place with us. We passed under the arch,
and entered the Rue de la Basse Cour. Billaud lived some distance
away, and Guillaume almost in the country; so those three young men
went to the “Hotel du Bras d’Or,” and although the brothers Leblanc
wished to give them a dinner for nothing, they insisted on paying for
everything that they had.
The table at which they dined was on the other side of the street,
just opposite to ours.
The clock of St. Gengoulf gave the signal for dinner.
The two first toasts proposed were “The King!” and “The nation!” They
then drank another “To the health of those who, believing them to be
in danger, had flown to their succor.”
Sophie ate but little, in spite of my remonstrances. Now and then,
her father broke out into violent abuse against the young nobles, and
I saw the tears trembling on her eyelashes every time that he did so.
We crossed the bridge thrown over the River Aire. Two streams of
promenaders were continually passing—the one set mounting up, the
other coming down. The Place du Grand Monarque was splendidly
illuminated. The tables were not in any one’s way, being, for the
most part, piled in front of the door of the church.
The Place du Grand Monarque being smoother and better paved than the
Place Latry and, besides, not having the dispiriting influence of a
cemetery, was chosen for the ball room.
The signal for the dance was given by a joyous peal from the church
bells, to which violins and clarionets replied, and a quadrille was
speedily formed.
My partner took my arm for the second dance, but suddenly complaining
of illness, she implored me to take her home.
I was not an experienced dancer, but under Sophie’s tuition I got on
so well, that I tried all I could to dissuade her from retiring; but
she said, with a sad smile, “Do not ask me to remain, Réné,” and so I
was obliged to comply with her request.
I gave her my arm, and we retraced our steps to the house.
M. Gerbaut had heard all about the fracas in the Rue des Réligieuses,
and was very well pleased that we had given the young gentlemen a
lesson.
Sophie, who had her arm in mine, heard all that he said to me, with
downcast eyes, and gave no sign of approbation or otherwise, but I
felt her shudder under her father’s words.
As I was leaving, “Mademoiselle,” said I, “I go back to-morrow, with
my friends, probably before you awake; so permit me to say good-bye
this evening, and to tell you before M. Gerbaut, what pleasure I feel
in having made your acquaintance.”
“And I, M. Réné,” said she, “like you as a friend, and am well
disposed to love you as a brother.”
“Very well, my children,” said Father Gerbaut, “embrace each other
and say good-bye.”
Sophie turned to me both cheeks, which I kissed with a feeling of
ineffable pleasure.
She then retired to her own room; I followed her with my eyes to the
door, when she turned, and gave me a parting glance, and a parting
smile.
“She is a good girl, after all,” said her father.
“A good girl, M. Gerbaut? Say, rather, an angel!”
“Angels are not so common as all that, my boy. But,” continued he,
leading me along the corridor, and opening a door, “here is your
room, not only for to-night, but for ever, if you will enter into my
service. You shall have board and lodging, and twenty-five crowns a
month. Do you hear me?”
I shook him by the hand, and thanked him for his kindness. He then
wished me to come down stairs again, to drink a glass to the health
of the nation. But I pleaded fatigue, and want of sleep, and entered
my chamber.
The real reason why I did not comply with his offer, was that I
wished to be alone.
I shut the door, for I was afraid that any one might come and look
for me. But there was no fear of that. Every one was so busy enjoying
himself, that they had no time to think of aught else.
I threw myself on the bed, and thought of Sophie.
M. Drouet had given me a sincere liking for intellectual existence,
but Sophie awakened in me another kind of existence, that of love;
and I felt, for the first time, that indescribable, but pleasurable
sensation, which predicts the dawning of that passion.
A new future opened before me. This was the scene. A happy, though,
perhaps, a humble home, with a careful and a beloved wife. I could
see myself, at set of sun, walking by the river’s side, her heart
beating against mine. I could fancy delaying under the tall trees,
to hear the blackbird’s song. In a word, this dream of the future
was that twofold life which, till then, had never engaged my boyish
thoughts. Now, I seemed to have taken one step into this fairyland;
and, although I trembled still, I would fain go on.
What, then, prevented me, I asked myself, from making this dream a
reality? Why did I not at once close with M. Gerbaut’s offer? It was
because my heart misgave me. I thought of Sophie’s evident leaning
towards men of a higher class; I reflected that, to her, I must be a
mere boy. And I groaned in spirit that I was not half a dozen years
older.
At daybreak, the reveillé was beaten. My comrade had passed the night
on the Place and in the streets, dancing and drinking. I jumped from
my couch, and, having hastily dressed myself, crept on tip-toe to the
door of Sophie’s chamber, wishing to say adieu, even if only through
the key-hole.
I had trodden as lightly as possible, scarcely hearing my own
footsteps; and how great was my astonishment on seeing the door open
a little way, and a hand put out.
It was easy to see, through the crevice from which the hand was
protruded, that Sophie had not retired to rest at all; or, if she
had, that she had not undressed herself.
I seized the hand, and pressed it to my lips.
She withdrew it, leaving, at the same time, a little billet in mine,
and quickly closed the door.
I could scarcely believe my eyes. I approached a window, and, by the
light of early dawn, read these words:—
“I have no friends, Réné. Be one to me. I am very unhappy!”
I pressed, with one hand, the billet to my heart, and, with the other
extended towards her chamber, I swore to accept and prove myself
worthy of the friendship so mysteriously offered.
Then, perceiving that all was quiet in her room, I went down stairs,
took my gun, and, throwing one parting glance at her window, passed
into the street.
The curtain drew back, giving me a glimpse of her face. She nodded,
throwing me a sad smile, and the curtain was replaced before the
window.
Small as the time was that I had for observation, I could not help
thinking that her eyes were reddened with weeping.
There was nothing wonderful in that. Had she not told me, in her
letter, that she was very unhappy?
There was a mystery, which, no doubt, thought I, time will clear up.
I walked rapidly down the street, in the direction of the Place,
knowing that, if I did not make a vigorous effort, I should never be
able to tear myself away from the vicinity of the house.
The men of Clermont, D’Islettes, and St. Menehould—in fact, all who
followed the same route—were collected in one group. They drank one
last toast, shook hands for the last time, and separated.
Father Gerbaut conducted us as far as the top of the Hill des
Réligieuses, and there renewed the offers that he had previously made
to me.
I reached Father Descharmes’ cottage, and, for the first time, found
it lonely, and my room wretched.
On the morrow, I re-commenced my usual routine of life; and though I
had the same wish to make progress in my studies, still there was a
dreary blank in my heart, which they could not fill.