Thus I went on, and I had lost all my recollection, till we arrived at the Carmelite-gate, where, suddenly, I came to myself again.
“You are a stranger?” I asked, in a faltering voice.
“Yes,” she replied; “but it is in vain that we seek my mother and sister. Do you know the house of M. Albertas? It is there we live.”
“I will bring you to it.”
We turned round towards the street where M. Albertas resided. What a change! The narrow dark streets seemed no longer to me like damp dungeon walls, but like splendid clouds through which men were passing like shadows.
We did not speak. We came to the house. The door was joyfully opened. The whole family pressed forward to welcome the beloved lost child, for whom servants had been sent out, who were still in search of her. It was then that I heard, amidst a thousand caresses towards her, the name, “Clementine.” She thanked me in a few words, not without blushing. All the rest did the same; but I was unable to reply. They asked my name; I told it them, bowed, and left the company.
I was often afterwards in the amphitheatre, and my way led me frequently through the street in which M. Albertas lived. Her I did not see again; but her image was constantly hovering before me, in my waking hours as well as in my dreams. The hope of beholding the beautiful vision again forsook me; but not so my longing after her.
Now, for the first time, I felt that I stood alone in the world, and that I could not cling to a being akin to myself. I was without a mother and father, without a sister or brother. Beloved by the family of my uncle, I still looked upon myself amidst them, only as a fortunate orphan; and upon all who loaded me with their kindness, I looked as upon beings elevated above myself.
The time approached when I was to be sent to the academy of Montpellier. M. Etienne repeated to me his wishes, and conjured me not to disappoint his expectations. In the excess of his confidence in my youthful faculties, he saw in me the future protecting angel of the Protestant church in France. He gave me his blessing, whilst the whole family stood weeping round me as I took my farewell. I promised to come to Nismes in all my vacations, and went away overpowered with grief.
The distance from Montpellier to Nismes is full eight leagues. I walked in the shade of mulberry-trees, between the golden fields of corn, and along the vineyards on the chain of hills, overtopped by the gray Sevennes. But the air was glowing, and the ground beneath my feet burning. After three hours’ walk, I sank fatigued on the banks of the Vidourle, in the shade of a neat villa and its chesnut trees.
I reflected on my past and future life. I computed the time I had lived, and the space of time still remaining, according to the general measure, for my sphere of action. I found I had still forty years, and, for the first time, I shuddered at the shortness of our life. The oak on the mountains wants one century for its development, and stands for another in its full vigour, while man’s existence is so transitory! And wherefore is it thus? How shall he employ his faculties? Not a long life, but a life of variety, is given to mortal man by nature. This thought quiets me. Well, then, I said to myself, forty years more, and I shall stand perfected where my father is.
Pursuing these thoughts, I gradually fell into a slumber. In my dream I imagined myself an old man; my limbs were heavy, my hair gray; the thousand fine pores of the skin, by which the body imperceptibly imbibes vitality, and is nourished by the elements, were dried up. With the decreasing influx of life, the power of the muscles relaxed, the delicate parts, which we call organs, gradually hardened and closed. I heard no more of the world, and the light of my eyes was also extinguished. While the senses, by which the spirit is rooted to the earth were thus dying away, the feelings became weaker, the ideas fainter, and all that was formerly communicated to the mind by the active senses was lost. I was no longer master of my body, and had forgotten the names of things and their use. Men fed me, dressed and undressed me, and treated me as a child. I was still able to speak, but often wanted words, and sometimes uttered phrases which no one understood; thoughts still presented themselves, and I felt, though without regret, that I no more belonged to the earth. Soon, however, I was not able to give utterance to my thoughts; but had only an unvarying, torpid consciousness of existence, such as we feel while sleeping, when not even dreams present themselves. This state, always the same, without any external change, was unaccompanied by pleasure or pain; there was no variety of thought, therefore no succession or notion of time. In short, I had been dead for a long period, and my body had been buried and mouldering for centuries. Only on earth, during the existence of the senses, where we count the change of things, we can speak of ages, and the succession of events suggests to us the notion of time. Abstracting from all idea of change, time no longer exists.
A pleasing, indefinable sensation produced a change in me; my mind, before isolated, was connected with new organs which opened to me a larger sphere of action in the universe.
I began to feel more and more conscious, I heard a gentle rustling around me, which invigorated me with its delightful freshness. Before me floated dazzling golden rays, whilst silvery clouds sportively passed along. I cast my wandering gaze on the bright transparent verdure of the surrounding boughs, which waved in the crystal ether like aërial forms, and between the boughs and the clouds shone Clementine, motionless, in ineffable beauty, a wreath of fresh flowers entwining her dark hair.
She smiled on me with an expression of innocent love; took the wreath from her hair, waved it with her delicate hand, and it dropped on my breast.
“Oh! heavenly dream never depart from me,” I said, while gazing with inexpressible rapture on the beautiful vision.
While I was in this state a carriage rolled past. Clementine’s countenance darkened on hearing her name called.
“Farewell, Alamontade,” said she, and disappeared amidst the trembling boughs.
At that moment I was going to fall at her feet but found myself on the ground. I was no longer in a dream, for I perceived the Vidourle and the château in the shade of the lofty chesnut trees.
I rose and heard a carriage rattling over the bridge, and as I hastened along, an old servant approached, and asked whether I wished any refreshment. On my evincing astonishment, he asked, “Are you not M. Alamontade?” I answered in the affirmative. Then he said, “Mademoiselle de Sonnes and her mother have left me orders to that effect!” I went back, took up the wreath and followed the servant. Clementine was Mademoiselle de Sonnes.
That day was the happiest and most memorable of my life.
A garret in the back part of the house of M. Bertollon, one of the richest and most fortunate citizens of Montpellier was my dwelling. Some roofs, black walls, and two windows, with the balconies of a house in the opposite street were my only prospect; still I was happy. Surrounded by books, I lived only to study, and Clementine’s wreath hung over my table. The millions of spring blossoms lost their splendour before the magic of these withered flowers, and the jewels of kings were valueless to me in comparison with the smallest leaf of the clover.
Clementine was my saint, and I loved her with a pious veneration, such as we feel for angelic beings. Her wreath was a relic, which an angel had let fall on me from heaven. In my dreams I saw her surrounded by glory, and she was the subject of my poetic effusions. I looked most anxiously for the vacations of the college to see my uncle and Nismes, and perhaps, by some happy chance, my adored saint.
One day the door of my solitary room opened, and a handsome young man entered. It was M. Bertollon. “You have a gloomy prospect,” he said, as he stepped to the window, “still it extends to part of the house of M. de Sonnes, one of the most tasteful in the town,” he added, smiling.
At that name I became agitated. M. Bertollon stood thoughtfully at the window and appeared melancholy. We resumed the conversation, and he asked my name and the nature of my studies. Having mentioned my fondness for the harp, he said: “Do you play the harp and love it passionately without possessing one?”
“I am too poor, sir, to purchase one, for the little money I have is scarcely sufficient to procure the books that I need most.”
“My wife has two harps and can well spare one,” he replied, and left me.
Before an hour elapsed the harp was sent. How happy was I! I now thought of Clementine, and struck the chords. Sentiments are speechless; words have been invented to express thoughts, and melodious tones to express the feelings of the heart.
On the following morning the amiable Bertollon came again, and I thanked him with emotion. He asked me to play, and I complied with his request, still thinking of Clementine. He was leaning with his forehead against the window, and gazed sadly on the opposite roofs. My soul was enrapt in the fulness of harmony, and I did not perceive that he had turned and stood listening near me.
“You are a delightful magician,” he said, and embraced me with warmth; “we must become friends.”
I was his friend already, and in the space of a few weeks our intimacy increased. During our short excursions, when the weather was fine, he gradually introduced me to a numerous acquaintance, who treated me uniformly with esteem and attention, and Bertollon seemed only happy in my society. In possession of a considerable library, and a museum of natural history, he entrusted me with their superintendence, and appeared to have chosen this as a way of assisting my slender means, by a considerable annual income, without hurting my feelings.
Bertollon was in more than one respect a distinguished man. His acquirements were various; he possessed wit and eloquence; he captivated by his gracefulness and dignity; in company he was the spirit of joy, and his sole aim was to gain the esteem of his fellow-citizens. He had already refused several public appointments with a modesty which made him still more worthy of general confidence. He was wealthy, the partner in a large commercial house, was possessed of one of the most delightful châteaux on the height of the neighbouring village of Castelnau, and was the husband of the most beautiful woman of Montpellier. His wife usually lived at the château, where Bertollon saw her but seldom, but in winter she resided in town. Their alliance seemed to have been formed not from love, but convenience and interest.
What made this man still more remarkable to me was his freedom from all prejudice, in a town which seemed entirely animated by religious fanaticism, and where he only was an exception. Notwithstanding this he went frequently to mass, and was himself a member of the fraternity of the Penitents. “It is so easy,” he used to say, “to reconcile men; we need but pay homage to their prejudices if we cannot combat and conquer them, and are sure to gain all hearts. He who wages open war against prejudices is as much a fanatic as he who defends them with arms.”
We nevertheless were often involved in friendly disputes. He considered happiness the grand end of man, and recognised no bounds in the choice of means to that end; he derided my ardent zeal for virtue, called it a work of social order, and proved to me that it assumed different colours among different nations. His wit sometimes made me appear ridiculous to myself, by following my cardinal virtues to different nations, where he always confounded them. But notwithstanding the danger of these principles, Bertollon was dear to me, for he always did what was right.
While I thus devoted my time to friendship and the muses, the two windows and the balcony of the house of De Sonnes were not forgotten. M. Bertollon had more than once offered to exchange my garret for a room in his house, which was furnished in costly style, and commanded an extensive and cheerful prospect. But I would not have exchanged my poor garret for his best drawing-room, or for the prospect of the paradise of Languedoc.
By chance—for a singular shyness prevented me from making inquiries—I learned that the family De Sonnes would, in a few weeks, return to Nismes, and that they were in great grief for Clementine’s sister, who had died lately.
The few weeks, and, indeed, the quarter passed. As often as I played the harp, my eye was fixed on those beloved walls, but the family De Sonnes did not return, and no chance brought me further intelligence. I was silent, and concealed my love from the world.
The vacation arrived; I hastened to Nismes in hopes of being happier there. As I passed the château on the Vidourle I stopped. All was closed, though the fields and vineyards were thronged with reapers and grape-gatherers. I looked for the magic spot under the chesnut trees, where dream and reality were once so magically blended. I threw myself under the waving branches, and on the spot which Clementine’s foot had once hallowed by its touch. Love and sadness weighed me down, and I kissed the sacred ground which had then borne all that the world contained most dear to me.
In vain, alas! I looked for the angelic vision. I left the delightful spot when evening approached, and only the rocky summits of the Sevennes reflected the sun’s golden rays over the dusky plain.
My uncle Etienne and the pious mother, with my cousins, Maria, Antonia, and Susanna, received me with affecting joy. I embraced them all speechlessly and rapturously, and knew not who expressed the greatest affection for me, or whom I most loved. I was the son and brother of the family; I felt at home, and was the joy of them all.
“Yes,” said my uncle, with emotion, “you are the joy of us all, and the hope of our church. All the reports from Montpellier have praised your industry, and have expressed the esteem your teachers entertain for you. Continue, Colas, to strengthen yourself, for our sufferings are great, and the affliction of the true believers knows no end. God calls you to become his chosen instrument to break the power of Antichrist, and to raise triumphantly the gospel now trodden in the dust.”
The fears of my uncle had been particularly increased of late by the harsh expressions of the governor of the province against the secret Protestants. The Mareschale de Montreval resided in Nismes, and was the more powerful and formidable as he possessed the unbounded confidence of the king. His threats against the Calvinists spread from mouth to mouth, and were the common talk even of the boys in the street.
I was harassed by another care. In vain had I wandered daily up and down the street in which the house of M. Albertas was situated; in vain had I loitered in the amphitheatre; Clementine was nowhere to be seen.
One morning I met the old servant who had entertained me, by the orders of Madame de Sonnes, in the château. He recognised me joyfully, shook me by the hand, and told me, among a thousand other things, that Madame de Sonnes and her daughter had left Nismes for some months, but had gone to Marseilles to seek relief from their sorrow for the loss of a beloved daughter and sister, in the amusements of that great commercial city.
My hopes of seeing Clementine once more being thus disappointed, I walked sadly home. All the joyful expectations which had supported me for the last six months were frustrated. I determined to go to Marseilles, which was only three days’ journey, there to search every street and window, attend every church and mass, to discover her, if only for a moment;—would she not, for so much trouble, give me one kind look?
But, on cooler reflection, I soon abandoned my wild scheme, and returned home more dejected than ever.
With surprise, I there perceived an unusual embarrassment and trouble in every countenance.
My aunt came towards me, put her hands on my shoulders, and kissed me with an air of deep melancholy; my cousins kindly seized my hand, as if wishing to comfort me.
“What is it, after all?” asked my uncle, with a powerful voice; who, notwithstanding his air of piety, had something heroic in his character; “you know that a good Christian is most cheerful when the waves of misfortune are lashed most tempestuously. The devil has no power over us, and providence has numbered every hair of our heads. The mareschale is not beyond the power of the Almighty.”
I expressed my surprise at this. “You are right, Colas,” said my uncle, “and I am grieved at the despair of the women. The Mareschale de Montreval sent orders here an hour ago for you to go to the castle to-morrow morning, at ten o’clock;—that is all. And where then is there cause for alarm? If you have a good conscience, go to him without fear, though his castle be hell itself.”
No wonder that the peremptory order, coming from so exalted a personage, terrified the humble miller’s family. The mareschale seldom showed himself to the people, and then only when attended by a numerous suite of high officers, noblemen, and guards. The external pomp of the great, exercises greater awe on the minds of the uneducated multitude than their power.
Next morning, my aunt arranged my wardrobe with trembling hands, and I endeavoured to comfort my dear afflicted relatives. “It is ten o’clock,” cried my uncle, “go in God’s name, we will pray for you.”
I went, and learned that the mareschale was still in his cabinet. After an hour and a half I was conducted through a suite of rooms to him. An elderly gentleman, rather thin, and of a stiff commanding manner, of dark complexion and piercing eyes, stepped towards me, while the respect of those around marked him as the mareschale.
“I wished to see you, Alamontade,” said he, “as you have been distinguished by so much praise on the university list of Montpellier. Cultivate your talents, and you may become a useful man. You shall have my patronage for the future. Let not my encouragement make you proud, but more industrious, and I shall not fail to learn how you proceed. Do all in your power to retain the friendship of M. Bertollon, your patron, and tell him that I sent for you.”
This was all the mareschale said. He evinced satisfaction with me during this short interview. I commended myself to his favour and hastened to comfort my family, who were most anxious about me.
Their joy at my return was great, and soon all our neighbours, indeed the whole town had heard the great honour I had received from the mareschale. “Did I not say before that it is God who governs the hearts of the powerful?” exclaimed my uncle; “The sun rises out of darkness, and the holy cross rears itself to heaven over the bruised serpent and painful thorns.”
On arriving at Montpellier, I found M. Bertollon had gone to his wife in the country. With melancholy feelings I stood in my garret before the withered wreath, and sighed forth the name of Clementine, while I kissed the faded leaves which had once bloomed in her delicate hand. I felt half ashamed of the tears with which disappointed hope suffused my eyes, and yet I felt happy.
The wreath and the small part of the magnificent house, De Sonnes, were to become again, during winter, the mute witnesses of my love, joys, and hopes. Spring and its blossoms (I said as I looked towards the palace) will bring her, perhaps, to Montpellier.
At this moment I saw, at the opposite window, a female form attired in deep mourning, and with her back turned towards me. My pulse ceased to beat, my breath stopped, and my eyes became dim. “It can only be Clementine,” said a voice within me; but I had sunk down senseless on the window, having neither the courage nor the power to look up and convince myself.
When I had recovered, I raised myself, and cast a trembling look towards her. Her face was turned towards me, covered with a black veil, with which the breezes sported; it was raised—I saw Clementine, and that at a moment when I had engaged her attention. I cast down my eyes, and felt a burning glow through my veins. When I again raised them, she was gone from the window, but not from my mind. “It is she,” said a voice within me, and I stood on the pinnacle of earthly bliss, solitary, but having before me Clementine’s image, and inspiring anticipations for the future. A golden gleam was poured over the smoky walls, and a sea of flowers waved over the naked roofs; the world dissolved before me like a splendid cloud, Clementine’s form passed through a lovely eternity, while I was beside her, and my lot was endless rapture. “Oh, of what bliss is the human heart susceptible!” I exclaimed, falling on my knees, and raising my hands to heaven. “Oh God! for what scenes hast thou spared me! Oh! perpetuate this feeling!”
Late that evening, I saw the windows lighted, and her shadow passing to and fro; I took my harp, and with its sounds, my feelings gradually became calm.
I did not awake till late the next morning, having passed a sleepless night. When I stepped to the window I saw Clementine leaning from hers in her morning dress. I saluted her, and received a scarcely perceptible return; but she looked kindly. I was riveted to the spot while she remained, our glances met timidly; but my soul conversed with her, and I seemed to receive soft answers.
Oh! blessed hours which I dreamed away harmlessly in the secret contemplation of a lovely being. With my poor and humble parentage, and without claim, as I was, to personal attractions, how could I raise my hopes to the most lovely, richest heiress of Montpellier, whose favour was courted by the noblest youths of the country?
How much do my thoughts love to dwell on the recollection of those days! Friendship and love belong only to mortal man; he shares them neither with angels nor the animal creation; they are the offspring of the union of the earthly and divine nature within us: they constitute the privilege of man. In their possession we are more pious, more believing, more indulgent, and more at home in the universe; we have more confidence, and endure the thorns by the way. Nay, even the wilderness appears more splendid in the glow of a calm, bright fancy.
In the evening I again took the harp, struck the chords, and played the sufferings of Count Peter of Provençe and his beloved Magellone, then one of the newest and most affecting ballads, and full of expressive melody. When I had finished the first stanza, and rested a minute, I heard the sound of a harp, softly repeating the same air in the stillness of the night. Who could it be but Clementine, who wished to become the echo of my sentiments? When she had finished I began again; thus we responded to each other. Music is the language of the soul. What an ineffable delight to my heart, Clementine thought me worthy of this converse!
Alas! I must pass over in silence a thousand nameless trifles which receive their inestimable value only from the sense by which they are given and received; but they cannot be forgotten. The corse of the dream of my happy youth, I mean recollection, is also still delightful, though its life has passed away.
My dream lasted thus for two years. During that time we saw each other in silence, but still loving, and we conversed only by means of the chords of the harp, without ever approaching nearer. I knew the church where she prayed; I also went and prayed too. I knew the days when she, in the company of her mother and friends, promenaded amid the shady trees of the Peyrou;[1] there I went also. Her look showed that she recognised me, and timidly rewarded me.
Without having spoken to each other during this long space of time, we had by degrees become the most intimate confidants; we reciprocated our joys and sorrows; we entreated and granted, hoped and feared, and made vows that were never broken.
No one suspected the intercourse of our souls, our sweet and innocent familiarity. Only M. Bertollon’s kindness threatened more than once to rob me of my joys, as he insisted on my occupying a better room, and it was with difficulty I retained possession of my garret.
When Madame Bertollon had returned from her country house her husband introduced me to her. “Here,” said he, “is Alamontade, a young man whom I love as a friend, and to whom I wish nothing better than that he may become yours also.”
What I had heard of her was not exaggerated. She seemed scarcely twenty years old, was very beautiful, and might have served an artist as an idea for a Madonna. A pleasing timidity rendered her the more attractive, especially as most of her sex and rank in Montpellier knew less of that reserve, without which grace itself loses all its charms.
She spoke little, but well; she appeared cold, but the vivacity and brightness of her eye betrayed a sensitive heart and active mind. She was the benefactress of the poor, and honoured by the whole city. Neglected by her husband, and adored by young and attractive men of the first families, she allowed not calumny itself to throw a shade over the purity of her character. She lived as retired as in a convent. I saw her but seldom, and only during my last year at the university, when the illness of her husband afforded me an opportunity of meeting in his apartment.
The tenderest anxiety for the health of M. Bertollon was visible in all her features. She was incessantly with him, administering his medicine, or reading to him; and, when the illness reached its crisis, she never quitted his bedside, but even destroyed her own health by her continual nightly watching.
When M. Bertollon recovered, he continued his cold and polite behaviour towards her, and never returned her affection. This indifference she seemed to feel deeply, and by degrees became estranged from him as his health returned. I could only pity her, and reproach my friend.
“But what do you demand of me, Colas?” he said one day. “Are you master of your own heart, that you can ask obedience from mine? I grant you my wife is beautiful; but mere beauty is only a pleasing gloss, under which the heart remains cold. Why do we not fall in love with thechefs-d’oeuvreof the sculptor? I grant you she has understanding; this, however, we do not love, but at most admire. She is charitable; but she has money enough, and takes no pleasure in expensive amusements. She showed me much attention during my illness; for that I am grateful to her. She shall not want any thing that she wishes, and I can give; but the heart cannot be given, that must be taken. As to the rest, my friend, you do not know her. She also has her failings; nay, if you will allow so much, her faults. If it should unfortunately happen, now, that some of these faults are of such a nature as necessarily to extinguish every rising feeling of affection in me, am I to blame, that I cannot change stone into gold, and transform a marriage of convenience into one of the heart?”
“But, dear Bertollon, I never even discovered the slightest trace of such a repulsive fault.”
“That is because you do not know my wife. To you, as my friend, I may reveal what has estranged me from her for ever, even during the very first days of our marriage. It is her untameable and unreasonable temper, which is as an all-consuming fire. Trust not the ice and snow of the external veil; a volcano is burning within it which, from time to time, must emit its flames, or it would burst its outward covering. She is quiet, but the more dangerous; every feeling is fermenting long within her before it manifests itself; but when it has done so, it is the more lasting and destructive. She seems to be virtue and gentleness personified; without her unhappy temper she might be a saint, but that destroys all better feelings. I have often surprised her in designs so atrocious and terrible, that it is difficult to conceive how one of them could find its way into the soul of a woman, or how she could harbour it. Such a character, my friend, is not likely to conquer one’s heart.”
These confidential communications startled me the more, as I had proofs of Bertollon’s knowledge of men, and his correct judgments. In the meanwhile, I did not discontinue my visits to Madame Bertollon, and thought I perceived that she found pleasure in my society. She was always tranquil, gentle, and seemed suffering. So much beauty and gentleness changed my respect into sincere friendship. I formed the resolution of reconciling her to her husband, let it cost what it would; or, rather, of bringing him back to her arms.
The habit of daily intercourse removed, by degrees, the constraint of etiquette, and made her society absolutely necessary to me. Once when I was walking with her in the garden, and she leaned on my arm, she said: “You are Bertollon’s most intimate friend and confidant. I consider you mine also, and your character gives me a claim on your kindness. Speak openly, Alamontade, for you know the reason—why does Bertollon hate me?”
“He does not hate you, madame, he entertains the highest esteem for you. Hate? he must be a monster if he can do that. No! he is a noble man, he cannot hate any body.”
“You are right: he can hate no one, because he loves no one. He does not consider himself born for the world, nor for any one; but that the whole world, and every one in it, is made for him. Education, perhaps, never poisoned a more feeling heart and a sounder head than his.”
“You judge, perhaps, too harshly, madame.”
“Would to Heaven I did! Pray convince me of the contrary.”
“I convince you? Not so, madame; observe your husband, and you will change your mind.”
“Observe him? I always did so, and always found him the same.”
“He is a kind, amiable man, at least.”
“Amiable! he is so, he knows it, and takes pains to be so; but, unfortunately, not to make others happy—only himself. For this I cannot call him good, although I cannot call him bad.”
“Surely, madame, I do not understand you; permit me, however, to return confidence for confidence. I never knew two human beings who so much deserved to be happy, and were so calculated to render each other so, as you and your husband, and yet you are estranged from each other. I shall certainly believe I have lived long enough, and have accomplished enough, if I can unite you more affectionately to each other, and attach your now divided hearts.”
“You are very kind; but though half your wish is already accomplished—for my heart has long been pursuing his, which flies from me—I fear that you attempt an impossibility. However, if any one could succeed in this, you are that one. You, Alamontade, are the first to whom Bertollon has quite attached himself,—to whom he firmly clings. Try it; change the disposition of the man.”
“You are joking; I change him? What other virtue do you wish Bertollon to practise? He is generous, modest, the protector of innocence, of an unvarying temper, without predominant passions, disinterested, kind.”
“You are right, he is all that.”
“And how shall I change him?”
“Make him a better man.”
“A better man?” replied I, astonished, stopping and looking with embarrassment into the eyes of this beautiful woman, which were filled with tears. “Is he, then, bad? Is he vicious?”
“That he is not,” she said; “but he is not good.”
“And yet, madame, you allow that he possesses all the noble qualities for which I just now praised him? Do you not, perhaps, demand too much from a mortal?”
“I do not deny that he possesses what you have praised in him, Alamontade; but he does not use those qualities as virtues, only as instruments. He does much good, not because it is good, but because it is advantageous to him. He is not virtuous, but prudent. In every action he only looks at the useful and injurious, never at the good and evil. He would as soon employ hell for accomplishing his designs as heaven. His happiness consists in the attainment of his desires, and for this he is and does what suits his purpose under any given circumstances. The world is to him the field of desire, wherein all belongs to the most fortunate and cunning. The throng of men living together created, in his opinion, states and laws, religions and usages. The wisest man in his eyes is he who knows the entangled tissue of circumstances to its finest threads; and he who knows that can do any thing. Nothing is in itself right or wrong; opinion alone sanctions and condemns. This, Alamontade, is a picture of my husband. He cannot love me, for he only loves himself. His mind and taste change, and with them his nature. With iron perseverance he pursues and attains his ends. The son of a much respected family, which had been reduced in circumstances, he wished to be rich, so he became a merchant, went to distant lands and returned the possessor of a million. He then wished to secure his wealth by uniting himself with one of the most respectable families of this city, and I became his wife. Desirous to possess influence in public affairs, without exciting envy, he made himself popular, and refused the most honourable posts of office. In his opinion nothing is unattainable; he considers nothing sacred; he conquers every obstacle; no one is too strong for him, because all are weak by some propensity, passion, and opinion.”
This picture of Bertollon’s character staggered me. I found it corresponding to the original in every particular. I had never formed a clear idea of all this, although I had felt it. I discovered the enormous chasm that separated their hearts, and despaired of ever being able to fill it up.
“But, madame,” said I, pressing her hand with emotion, “do not despair; your persevering affection and virtue will finally triumph over him.”
“Virtue! Oh, my dear Alamontade, what can be expected from a man who calls it a weakness, or one-sidedness of character, or prudery of mind? From one who considers religion only as the toy of church and education,—the toy with which the fancy of the shortsighted plays with childish zeal?”
“But still he possesses a heart.”
“He has a heart, but only for himself—not for others. He wishes to be loved without any sacrifice of feeling on his part. Alas! can one love such a man? No, Alamontade, love demands something more; it gives itself up to the beloved object, exists in it, and is not master of itself; it does not calculate, it knows no care; it takes its chance whether fidelity will at length bless it or treachery destroy it. But it cannot exist without hope; it demands the heart of its object, and in that finds its heaven.”
“And in that it finds its heaven,” sighed I, as I again stood in my own chamber and thought of Clementine.
I took down the withered wreath, which had been hitherto a sacred pledge of Clementine’s favour, and hung it upon my harp. Had she not herself thrown it on the breast which incloses my loving heart? Did she not then appear as if she wished to crown that heart with her own hand? Could it only have been childish play? Ah! could it have been indifferent to her whether it was a crown of thorns or a wreath of blossoms which she was winding round my heart?
She was at the window. I raised the wreath and pressed it to my lips. She seemed to perceive it; she suppressed a smile, bent forward and looked into the street, but not again at me. This response plunged me into inexpressible trouble. It seemed as if she was ashamed of the gift she once had bestowed on me. I now suddenly became conscious of what I expected and hoped from her. I wished an impossibility. I had never thought of Clementine as my wife; I loved her and wished to be loved by her. But she my wife? I, the poor son of a farmer who died encumbered with debt. I who still had to battle with want, and only saw an uncertain fate in the future—I expect the richest heiress in Montpellier!
At this thought my proud spirit sank. I loved Clementine and forgave her if she could not return my love. I saw clearly that I could not change the relations of social life; and, in fact, was too proud to make my fortune by marriage.
Henceforth I applied more ardently to my studies, wishing to pave my way to Clementine’s elevation by my own energies. Many nights I passed sleepless in study. Desirous of hearing the unbiassed judgment of critics respecting my talents, I published, anonymously, a work on the jurisprudence of the ancients, and a collection of poems, the greater part of which were inspired by my secret passion.
This publication of my labours had an unexpected success. Curiosity soon discovered the name of the author, who was everywhere courted. The loud applause raised my self-esteem, and the success of my first attempt rekindled the extinguished flame of hope by the light of which I saw Clementine as my own, though at a distance which rendered her indistinct.
She herself rewarded me in the most pleasing manner, by once reading my poems at the window, when their author had become known. Indeed, from a hundred allusions in the poems which she only understood, she might have guessed their author. She looked across to me, smiled, and pressed the book to her bosom, as if she wished to tell me, “I love it, and what you express in it you have addressed to this heart, which feels and is grateful.”
I again took up the withered wreath, at which I had often sung; smiled, made a sigh, and retired.
But no one was more delighted by the applause I had gained than my friend Bertollon. He became more affectionate and confidential. We regarded each other as brothers; he was devoted to me, and proved, in a thousand ways, that he had a heart for others. He did not let a day pass without showing some kindness; it was only by chance that I learned many of his noble deeds.
“Oh! Bertollon,” I once exclaimed, as I pressed him to my heart, “what a man you are! Why must I pity as much as admire you?”
“You go too far in both points, for I deserve neither one nor the other,” replied he, with a complacent smile.
“No! Bertollon, what I lament is, that you are good and virtuous, without wishing to appear so; you call virtue fanaticism and narrowness of ideas, and yet you constantly practise its precepts.”
“Well, then, Alamontade, rest satisfied with that. Why do you for ever weary yourself with my conversion? When you are older I shall see you treading in my footsteps; be, at least, tolerant for the present; the same child has, perhaps, a twofold name.”
“I doubt it. Could you, Bertollon, voluntarily plunge yourself into misery in order to support a righteous cause?”
“What do you call a righteous cause? Your ideas are not clear.”
“If you could save Montpellier from destruction by sacrificing yourself, would you be capable of suffering poverty or death?”
“M. Colas, you rave again. Only fanatics can demand and make such sacrifices, and it is good for the world that there are such. But now come for once to your senses; I am sorry that you are always indulging such whims, for in this way you will never be happy. Run over the whole world and collect the fools who would meet death for your notions: you will not find one in a hundred million. Every thing is true, good, useful, just, and noble, only under certain circumstances. The ideas of men vary everywhere; many have fancied that they could save the world by their death. They died, but for their own caprice, not for the world, and were afterwards laughed at as fools.”
“For these words I could despise you, Bertollon.”
“Then you would not be over virtuous, according to your own notions.”
“If you could increase your wealth by plunging me into misery, would you do so!”
“For such a question I ought to despise you, Colas?”
“And yet I may put it, for you say that you only strive after that which is useful to yourself. You weigh the goodness of an action only by the result.”
“Dear Colas, I see you will be a bad advocate, and will make a poor fortune, if you only defend causes which are right according to your notions, and never an unjust one by which you might gain.”
“I swear to you, Bertollon, I should abhor myself as long as I lived, if ever I moved my lips for the accusation of innocence, and the defence of crime.”
“And yet you, good-hearted simpleton, you will do it more than once, because you will not always find guilt or innocence written on men’s foreheads. You will be the world’s fool, if you will not walk its way.”
In this manner we often disputed. I was sometimes puzzled with him, and could have feared him, had he not always expressed his terrible opinions so jocosely, that he did not seem to believe them himself. He only wished to irritate me, and when he had succeeded, laughed heartily. But his actions contradicted his words.
Madame Bertollon, on the contrary, daily displayed more of the noble sentiments that animated her. She glowed for the virtuous actions which she practised with religious ardour.
I became her guest, and we were never in want of conversation. Alone with her I spent the long winter evenings, and from me she learned the harp. Soon I could accompany her charming voice, while she sang my songs with deep feeling. She was lovely, and her beauty would have been dangerous to me, had not my heart been fixed on Clementine.
When I spoke of her with enthusiasm to Bertollon, he smiled; if I reproached him for leaving such a lovely creature to herself, he replied, “Our tastes differ; let every one follow his own inclination. Would you, dear despot, have all heads and hearts moulded in the same form? I know my wife loses nothing by me, consequently she is not made unhappy by my treating her in the manner so customary in fashionable society. She knew this beforehand. If you are happy in her society I am glad; and I rejoice if she also finds pleasure in your conversation. You see, virtuous Colas, that I, also, am capable of great sacrifices, for I leave you to her often when I most sincerely desire your company.”
I had finished my studies, had taken the degree of Doctor of Laws, and had obtained permission to practise as attorney before the tribunals of the kingdom. My increased occupations during this time prevented me from visiting Madame Bertollon as frequently as before; but she received me the more joy fully when we met; and I felt now, more than ever, how sincerely I was attached to her. We never confessed how indispensable we were to each other; but each of us betrayed it in every feature, and by the cordiality of demeanour.
At times it seemed to me as if she were more melancholy than she had been, and then, again, more affable and complaisant; at other times she appeared to treat me with marked coldness and reserve; and then, again, as if she wished, with sisterly affection, to quiet my anxiety. This change of behaviour surprised me, and I vainly endeavoured to discover the reason of it. I could not help perceiving that she no longer possessed her former serenity and equanimity. I often found her with eyes that evinced recent weeping. She sometimes spoke with singular enthusiasm of the retirement of a convent, and withdrew more and more from her usual society. A hidden melancholy gnawed the bud of her youth.
These reflections make me also melancholy, and I in vain endeavoured to cheer her. The calm sadness of her look, the vanishing bloom of her cheek, her deep silence, and her efforts to conceal, by an affected cheerfulness, the grief which was gnawing her heart, added to my friendship the genial warmth and tenderness of sympathy. How gladly would I have sacrificed my life to procure happiness for her!
One evening when I accompanied her singing on my harp, a sudden burst of tears choked her voice. Alarmed, I ceased playing. She rose, and was on the point of hurrying to her apartment to conceal her grief.
How touching, in moments of quiet suffering, are youth, beauty, and innocence. I seized her hand, and held her back.
“No!” she exclaimed, “let me go.”
“Stay, I cannot possibly let you go in this excited state. May I not witness your grief? Am I not your friend? Do you not yourself call me so? And does not this pleasing name give me a right to ask you the cause of that affliction which you in vain endeavour to conceal from me?”
“Leave me, I conjure you, leave me,” she cried, as she endeavoured, with feeble efforts, to free herself.
“No,” said I, “you are unhappy.”
“Unhappy, alas!” she sighed, with unrestrained grief, drooping her beautiful face on my bosom to conceal her tears.
Involuntarily I clasped my arms around the gentle sufferer. A deep sympathy seized me. I stammered forth some words of consolation, and begged her to be calm.
“Alas! I am unhappy,” she exclaimed, sobbing, and with vehemence. I dared not endeavour further to appease the storm of feeling by my untimely persuasions; and, letting her weep without interruption, I led her back to her seat, as I felt that she became exhausted and trembling, her head resting still on my bosom.
“You are not well?” I asked timidly.
“I feel better now,” she replied; and, becoming more tranquil, she looked up, and seeing tears in my eyes, asked, “Why do you weep, Alamontade?”
“Can I remain unmoved by your sorrows?” I answered, bending down to her. Silently we sat absorbed in our feelings, hand in hand, gazing at each other. A tear rolled down her cheek, which I kissed away, and drew the sufferer closely to my heart, unconscious of what I was doing. During this embrace our fears evaporated with the glow of our cheeks; and what we called friendship, was changed into love.
We parted; ten times we bade each other farewell, and as often I clasped her in my arms, forgetting the separation.
Keeling as if intoxicated, I entered my room; the harp, wreath, and window, terrified me.
I had never been in a greater state of confusion than I was on the following morning. I could not understand myself, and wavered between contradictions. Madame Bertollon appeared to love me; but hitherto she had heroically struggled with feelings which seemed to wound the nobility of her mind. I was the wretch who, without loving her, could encourage her passion, and fan the fatal flame by which she must be consumed, and I must be dishonoured still more than the unhappy woman herself.
In vain I called to mind the sacredness of my duties; in vain I disclosed to myself the base ingratitude I committed against Bertollon’s generous friendship; in vain I remembered my own and Clementine’s vows; all that once had been to her pleasing and estimable had lost its power and influence. The tumult of my senses continued without intermission: only Bertollon’s lovely wife floated in my imagination; I still felt on my lip the glow of her kiss, and my flattered vanity overwhelmed the earnest warnings of my conscience with illusive sophistry.
“Wretch! you will feel remorse, you will some day blush at your own disgraceful act, and the snow of advanced age will not quench the burning of an evil conscience!”
With these words I endeavoured to arouse my better feelings. While I still revelled in the remembrance of the previous evening, and dark forebodings were rising in my mind, I sat down at the table to write to Madame Bertollon, to describe to her the danger to which we should both expose ourselves by further intercourse, and to tell her that to continue worthy of her friendship I must leave her and Montpellier.
But while reason dictated her precepts, and I wished to make the first heavy sacrifice to virtue, I wrote to Madame Bertollon the most solemn oaths of my attachment, declaring falsely that a secret passion for her had long consumed me, and that I saw my happiness only in her love. I entreated and conjured her not to let me despair, and unrolled to her imagination a vivid picture of our bliss.
I started up, read the letter over and over, tore it, and wrote another, repeating only what I had written, and then again destroyed it. As if by an unknown power I was drawn against my will to a crime at which my soul vainly shuddered. While vowing to myself, in a half-suppressed voice, that I would start for Nismes, and never again see the walls of Montpellier, I also vowed unconsciously I would never leave the charming though unhappy woman; but that I would cling to her, although my passion should lead to inevitable death.
It was as if two distinct souls were struggling within me with equal power and skill. But consciousness became more dim, and the feeling of duty expired in the feeling of the all-engrossing desire. I resolved to hasten to Madame Bertollon, thinking that she was perhaps tormenting herself with reproaches at the weakness she had shown, or that she also might be determined to leave me and Monpellier. I intended to detain her to reason away her fears, and to endeavour to persuade her of the lawfulness of our love.
I started up and ran to the door. A voice within me again cried, “You are going to sin then?—to lose the long guarded feeling of innocence?” I hesitated, and stepped back, saying to myself, “Be pure as God and continue so. One day more and this storm will pass over, and then you are safe.”
This holy feeling exalted me; the words, “Be pure as God,” sounded above the tumult of my agitated feelings, and deterred me, for the time at least, from hastening to Madame Bertollon. But the struggle remained undecided; my yearnings became more impetuous, and I scorned my own virtuous intentions.
At this moment the door of my room opened, and M. Bertollon entered.
“How are you, dear Colas,” he asked, “are you unwell?” At this question I first perceived that I had thrown myself on my bed, from which I jumped up, but had not the courage to take the hand which he extended to me.
“But what is the matter with you, Colas?” he said again, “you look confused and pale.”
Before I could reply, the voice within me again called, “Disclose all to him, disclose all to her husband, and a barrier will be raised between you and his wife; you will remain pure, you will not be the seducer of a woman, nor the traitor and deceiver of your noble benefactor and friend.”
“Bertollon,” said I, hastily, fearing that I might not finish my confession; “I am unhappy, because I love your wife.” I had scarcely uttered the last syllable when remorse seized me; but it was too late, it was done, the husband knew all, and I was now for once right. In the wild tumult of the senses, when powerful passion struggles with the sense of duty, it is only a sudden and decided act which we perceive to be a remedy, that can save us. We must as it were forcibly drive the reluctant body to accomplish it, until we can no more return. I felt like one who is tossed about by the waves of the ocean, and who, when on the point of drowning, indistinctly perceives before his giddy eye the branches on the shore, and hears a voice within him saying, “Seize them.”
Bertollon changed colour and said, “What did you say, Colas?”
“I must go, I must flee Montpellier, you and your wife, for I love her,” replied I.
“I think you are a fool,” said he, smiling, and he regained his usual colour.
“No, Bertollon, I am in earnest; I must not remain here. Your wife is a virtuous woman! and I fear my intercourse with her will prove her ruin and my own. It is yet time. You are my friend, my benefactor, I will not deceive you. Take this bitter confession as a proof of my love for you. I am too weak to be always master of myself, and your wife is too lovely for me to remain indifferent near her.”
“A saint like you, Colas,” said Bertollon, laughing loud, “who with pious devotion confesses the secrets of his heart to the husband himself, will not be dangerous to any husband. Compose yourself; you will remain with us. What folly to make so much ado about a passion? I trust you, and have suspicion neither of you nor of my wife; let that suffice. If you love each other, what can I do against your hearts? If I interpose the world between you, would you love each other less for that? Will your removal remove also your heart? Love each other; I know you both think too nobly to forget yourselves.”
He said all this so ingenuously and cheerfully, and with a tone of such unsuspecting confidence, that I pressed him with emotion to my heart. His noble-mindedness renewed my virtuous resolutions; I was ashamed of my baseness and even of the fact that it had cost me so hard a struggle.
“No! dear Bertollon,” said I. “I should indeed be a wretch if I could betray your confidence and requite your friendship so disgracefully. You have brought me back to a sense of my better self; I will remain here, and the recollection of your trust in me will preserve me against any dishonourable intention. I will remain and prove that I am worthy of you, by breaking off all intercourse with your wife. I will never see her alone; I will——”
“Why tell me all this?” interrupted Bertollon. “It is enough that I trust you. Do you imagine that I have not long observed that my wife loves you, that her love is characterised by her violent, impetuous temper, and that her passion is the more powerful the more she conceals it? Impress her with your noble principles, and cure her if you wish; but be cautious. I know her; her love might soon change into terrible hatred, and then woe be to you.”
“What! Do you expect, Bertollon, that I shall cure her of a disease by which I am myself overwhelmed? And what are you talking of the violence of her temper? Of this I have never discovered even the slightest symptom.”
“Friend Colas, you do not know the sex. In order to please you, she will not show herself in her true colours; and should she once forget herself, love will make you blind.”
Here the subject was dropped, and he engaged my attention by another topic, as he would not suffer me to resume our former conversation. The more I had cause to admire the extent of his confidence, the calmer I became, and the more I resolved to separate gradually from his wife. The following evening I saw her again: she was sitting alone in her apartment, her beautiful head resting sadly on her arm. As soon as she perceived me she rose, her face expressing a pleasing confusion, and her eyes cast down. For some time we remain silent.
At length I asked, trembling, “May I dare to appear before you? But I only come to atone for my transgression.”
To this she made no reply.
“I have abused your confidence,” I continued. “Esteem ought to be my only feeling for the wife of my friend. I have acted dishonourably.”
“So have I,” she added in a whisper.
“Alas! madame, I feel I am too little master of myself;—nay, who could be so in your presence? But, should it cost my life, I will not disturb your peace of mind. My resolution is unalterably taken. I have discovered my innermost heart to your husband.”
“Discovered!” she exclaimed, terrified; “and he—?”
“He at first changed colour.”
“He changed colour?” she faltered.
“But with confidence in you, madame, and with a confidence greater than my virtue, he wished to dissuade me from my intention of leaving Montpellier.”
“Was that your intention, Alamontade?”
“It is still so. I love you, madame; but you are Bertollon’s wife, and I will not disturb the peace of a family to which I am indebted for a thousand benefits.”
“You are a noble man,” said she, shedding tears. “You intend doing what I was resolved to do. My clothes are ready packed. I must and will not conceal from you, Alamontade, that I wish I had never known you. Our friendship grew into love. I deceived myself in vain, and struggled too late against my violent feelings.”
She sobbed more violently, and exclaimed, “Yes, it is better thus! We must part, but not for ever. No! only until our hearts beat more calmly, until we can meet with cooler friendship.”
At these words I was deeply moved.
“But, alas! kind friend,” she continued, still sobbing, and throwing herself on my bosom, “I shall not long survive this separation.”
While her heart beat against mine, and our passion was rekindled, and our sense of duty was struggling for victory, the hours fled quickly. We vowed eternal, pure, sacred love, and yet swore to extinguish it in our hearts. We resolved to separate, to see each other seldom, and then only with calmness, and in the presence of witnesses, and sealed the indissoluble alliance of our souls with rapturous kisses.
What a wretched creature is man! He is ever weakest when he thinks himself strongest. He who flees temptation is the hero; he who wantonly runs into it to attain the crown of virtue has lost it before he begins the combat.
When we parted, we agreed that I should not go farther than a league from Montpellier. I was to live at the château near Castelnau, and only to come to town on an occasional visit. Without delay I executed my design, departing without venturing to take leave of Madame Bertollon; and, however much M. Bertollon was against it, he was, nevertheless, obliged at last to consent.
I soon recovered from my delusion in the tranquillity of rural nature. I felt that I had never loved Madame Bertollon, and I despised myself for endeavouring to make her believe that I entertained a sentiment for her which I did not feel. All with me had been nothing but an intoxicating delusion, which was first produced by the unhappy passion that this lovely creature could no longer conceal from me. She alone was to be pitied, and it was my duty to restore to her the peace she had lost.
My mind now gradually resuming its wonted serenity and cheerfulness, rose above the clouds that had darkened it, and Clementine’s image stood before me more resplendent and charming than ever. At my departure from Montpellier, I had left the wreath and harp behind, not because I had then quite forgotten Clementine, but because shame and a sacred awe drove me back when I was on the point of touching the adored relics. I no longer thought myself worthy of her, and considered the torments of my longing, and of the separation from her, a mild penance for my crime.
Several weeks passed, during which Bertollon only called on me, telling me often that he could not live without me, and yet that he was fettered by his affairs to the unlucky town.
He made several attempts to induce me to return to Montpellier; but in vain. I continued in my salutary retreat, and felt myself happier.
One morning early, I was awakened by my servant, who told me that M. Larette, a friend of Bertollon’s, had called, and desired to speak to me immediately. At the same moment, Larette himself entered, pale and confused.
“Get up,” he cried, “and come directly to Montpellier.”
“What is the matter?” I asked, terrified.
“Get up and dress yourself; you must not lose a moment; Bertollon is poisoned, and is on the point of death.”
“Poisoned?” I faltered, and sank back senseless on my bed.
“Only be quick, he wishes to see you once more; I hastened here by his order.”
Trembling, I flung on my clothes, and followed him mechanically to the door, where a carriage awaited us. We stepped in, and, with the utmost speed, went to Montpellier.
“Poisoned?” I asked again on the way.
“Certainly,” replied M. Larette, “but there is an inconceivable mystery about the affair. A fellow who bought the poison at the chemist’s has been imprisoned; Madame Bertollon is also a prisoner in her apartment.”
“Madame Bertollon a prisoner!—For what reason? And who has put her under arrest?”
“The magistrate.”
“The magistrate! Is the police mad enough to fancy Madame Bertollon capable of poisoning her husband?”
“He believes it, and every body——”
“Sir, you are shrugging your shoulders; ‘And every body?—’ Well, continue: what were you going to say.”
“That every body believes it. The fellow, Valentine I think is his name——”
“What Valentine? Sure the old faithful servant, the most honest fellow under the sun——”
“Well, he has deposed, that about a week ago, he fetched the poison by order of Madame Bertollon.”
“The infernal liar; the——”
“And Madame Bertollon, when interrogated about the servant’s deposition, has confessed it unconditionally. There, that is the whole affair.”
“Confessed? I am bewildered; for I do not understand you. What has she confessed?”
“That she sent Valentine for the poison.”
“Horrible! and also that it was she that murdered, poisoned, her own husband?”
“Who would like to confess such things? but such unfortunately is the case. Bertollon felt yesterday morning his usual indisposition; you know he is sometimes subject to giddiness. He then requested his wife, who keeps a medicine-chest, to give him the usual cordial, a very expensive essence which she keeps in a gilt blue phial.”
“I know it well and also the essence.”
“She herself poured it into a spoon, added some sugar and administered it to her husband. In a short time he felt the most violent spasms in his bowels. The physician was sent for and recognised the symptoms as the effect of poison; of which they found remains in the spoon. The physician did his utmost to save him. He asked for the essence to analyze it. At this Madame Bertollon was offended, and asked whether they thought she was a poisoner; but at length being no longer able to refuse the phial without causing suspicion, she gave it up. In the meanwhile several physicians had been called, as well as an officer of the police. The affair becoming known, the druggist, who recollected that the poison had been bought by Valentine, had informed the police of the circumstance. Valentine was immediately arrested, but referred to his mistress and her orders. Madame Bertollon being interrogated by the police, fainted; all her keys were taken from her, the medicine-chest was examined, and the poison, which was recognised by the above-mentioned druggist, was found. It was, however, deficient in weight, and the essence in the blue phial being likewise examined, the poison was discovered in that. Thus, sir, do matters stand, and you may think of it as you please.”
I shuddered but did not say a word, seeing in the whole a horrible connexion which neither Larette nor any one but myself could perceive. Madame Bertollon loved me with frightful intensity, and our separation had increased her passion instead of checking it; thus she conceived this atrocious plan of freeing herself from her husband. I called to mind the consuming fire in her character, of which Bertollon had told me. I also remembered my last interview with her, during which I had inconsiderately told her that I had candidly confessed our attachment to her husband, and how she then was startled, and how she had inquired anxiously concerning Bertollon’s deportment.
My conjecture was changed into a frightful certainty. I could imagine how the black thought was matured in her, I saw her mixing the accursed draught, and, infatuated by her passion, presenting it to her unhappy husband.
We arrived in Montpellier. I hastened to the room of my beloved benefactor, exclaiming at the foot of the stairs: “Is he still living?”
They told me in whispers to be calm, and prevented me from entering his apartment. He had sunk into a gentle slumber, from which he was expected to derive benefit, and even to recover during its influence.
“And where is Madame Bertollon?” I asked.
In answer to this I was told that she had left the house early that morning, and had gone to her relations, where she was under arrest upon the security of her family; that her nearest relations, by their influence and with much difficulty, had succeeded in saving her from the disgrace of imprisonment. I was further told in confidence that M. Bertollon had advised her, through a friend, to fly to Italy before it was too late. As she hesitated, her brothers also had endeavoured to persuade her to avail herself of her short period of liberty. Her pride, however, triumphed, and her reply was: “I shall not fly, for by doing so I should own a crime of which I am not yet, and cannot be, convicted.”
Beauty of form exerts its magic only so far as we conceive it to be the sign of a noble soul, but loses all its power, nay, inspires us with horror, when it is the cloak of crime. Let the artist paint Sin beautiful on the threshold of hell, and it will be a thousand times more terrible when that which is dearest to man is but the tool of his wickedness.
I could no longer think of Madame Bertollon without detestation. She was a poisoner, and all that Larette had hastily told me was confirmed in Montpellier; while a number of various circumstances threw still greater light on her murderous deed.
All Montpellier was in agitation at this extraordinary occurrence. Bertollon’s gradual recovery, which was accomplished by the skill of the physicians, caused the most lively joy in every house. I no more left the bed of my beloved friend, whom I honoured as a father and a brother.
“Oh, Bertollon!” I exclaimed one day, “You are saved. How miserable I should have been had you died! My grief would not long have allowed me to survive your death. You are my only friend, the only one in the world; you are my benefactor, my guardian angel. I am always ready to die for you. And is it possible that a woman, such a tender timid creature, a woman endowed with, such heavenly charms, a woman whose eyes and mouth preached virtue so sweetly, could be so atrocious?”
“Do you still love her, Alamontade,” said Bertollon, pressing my hand.
“Love her? The very thought is revolting to me. I never loved her; it was only trifling vanity and a delusion of the senses that I once in my infatuation called love. I have never loved her. A secret power always drove my heart from her. How should I love one who intended to murder you? I curse every hour I spent in her society; and repent the attentions I lavished on her. Ah! I knew her not.”
By this time the trial had commenced. The most celebrated counsel in Montpellier, M. Menard, came forward of his own accord to the family of the accused, and offered to be her defender. Menard had never lost a suit. The charm of his eloquence conquered all; where he could not convince reason he knew how to entangle it inextricably by doubts, and to excite against it all the feelings of the heart. Whenever he spoke in the court it was crowded with spectators, who often came from distant parts to hear him. He undertook with success even the worst cause, if he could expect from it a rich reward.
“I desire nothing,” said Bertollon, “but an eternal separation from the poisoner, and I require no other punishment for her than the failure of her attempt. Her own conscience and public contempt are a sufficient sting to her. I know Menard is my personal enemy. He was once my rival, and I foresee that by his artifices he will so confound and dazzle the judges and people, that my infamous wife will extricate herself triumphantly.”
“That he shall not do!” I exclaimed with vehemence. “Pray Bertollon entrust me with your case, though I am but a beginner, and have never spoken in a court of law. Confide in me and the justness of your cause. Indeed, it does not grieve me to appear before the tribunal against a lady whom I once called my friend, and who loaded me with treacherous favours. You are my brother and benefactor, your cause is sacred.”
Bertollon smiled, expressing at the same time his doubts as to my being a match for my adversary’s tact. At length, however, he agreed to my wish of making his suit the first trial of my ability, but was apparently apprehensive.
“Be easy, dear Bertollon,” said I, “friendship will inspire and exalt me if I should seem to sink under Menard’s superior powers, and notwithstanding all his subtlety he will not be able to get over the facts which his client too hastily confessed.”
From time immemorial no trial had excited greater interest than this, which was rendered so conspicuous, both by the atrocity of its cause, and the respectability of the parties concerned. And what a part I undertook! No one knew the relation in which I had stood to Madame Bertollon. No one imagined that I had once clasped the accused to my heart in a moment of extatic rapture; no one knew that her illicit affection for me had perhaps given her hand the first direction towards mixing the poisonous draught.
All this was still a secret, and was to remain so until Menard’s art should threaten victory over me. Then only this last mine was to explode against him.
When it was reported in Montpellier that I was Bertollon’s advocate, success was given to my opponent beforehand. After sufficient investigation, and the examination of witnesses, Menard and I were called to the bar. This powerful speaker seemed only to mock me. He almost evinced contempt, at appearing against a young man who had recently been his pupil, and was now going to make hisdebût. He spoke with such power that he affected me most deeply, and almost inspired me for the cause of the accused.
The trial had been prolonged by Menard’s manoeuvres for six months, when I had hoped to conquer in a few weeks. Menard was always followed by the applause of the people on leaving the court; and it appeared that I wasted my energies in rendering his victory more difficult, only to increase his laurels.
The beauty of the accused had gained for her party all the young men of the town, and her former beneficence engaged for her the poorer class of the people. I had to contend against Menard, against the secret predilection of innumerable hearts prejudiced in her favour, and the remembrance of the virtues which Madame Bertollon had once displayed.