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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 theRue 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.
ThePlace du Grand Monarquebeing 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 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 Hilldes 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.