It happened, perhaps fortunately, that Monsieur de Villardin's new station in the army had prevented my being with him so continually as during our former campaigns. Thus the great change that had taken place in my habits and my feelings had not been so constantly brought before him as it otherwise would have been. It had not, however, passed without remark; and the consequences were totally different from those which would most probably have followed, had he known the causes of the melancholy that oppressed me. The desire of keeping me near him, which he had expressed on my last return to Brittany, was now increased to a positive determination of not suffering me to be absent from him; and, when I faintly proposed to remain behind him in Paris, and to see somewhat of the Court, in which were now just bursting forth the dawnings of that full blaze of magnificence which it ultimately displayed, he laid his hand affectionately upon my arm, replying--"No, no, my dear Juvigny; you must come with me into the calm quiet of the country. You have over-exerted both your mind and your body; and I see that you are always better and happier when you are with me in Brittany."
I had not strength of mind to say no; and, besides, I had persuaded myself that neither danger nor harm could accrue from my following the course he pointed out. We returned, therefore, to Brittany, after a very short stay in Paris. The journey seemed an eternity; and, when once I was embarked in it, more than one misgiving as to my own resolution and firmness certainly did cross my heart. It was now, however, too late to retreat; and at length the carnage stopped before the grey towers of the Prés Vallée. Our coming had been notified beforehand; and Laura instantly ran out to welcome her father. It seemed to me that every hour since I had left her had added some new charm to features that before had seemed perfection; had given some additional grace to a form which had before appeared in my eyes symmetry itself. From her father she turned to me; but I felt her hand tremble in mine, and her cheek burned as my lips touched it. Her eyes, too, sought the ground of the terrace; and her words of welcome were warm, indeed, but faltering and low. Everything told me that the discovery which had taken place in my own heart had been made also by hers, and that, whether she could return my affection or not, she was no longer unconscious of my love. It is scarcely possible to explain what were my feelings at that moment. I was agitated--I was even pained; and yet the joy of seeing her again, and, perhaps, a fancy, too, that my affection was not without return, were sufficient to outweigh, for the moment, all the apprehensions, and sorrows, and anxieties which were cast into the other scale. Her first embarrassment wore away in an instant; and it was easy to see that, whatever she had discovered, none of the pains and sorrows which had become so familiar to my mind, had, as yet, presented themselves to her eyes.
While little Clement de la Marke was claiming his share of welcome, Monsieur de Villardin and I turned to meet Father Ferdinand, who was now coming out to receive us. I had not seen him for nearly three years; and that space of time seemed to have effected a greater change in him than in any of the rest of the party, with the exception, indeed, of Laura, who, from a sweet, graceful girl, had grown into a beautiful woman. He was now, certainly, an old man; and a considerable inclination of his head, marked, but not undignified, had taken near two inches from his height since last I saw him. He embraced me as a father would do a son, and asked me anxiously what was the cause of the sad change he remarked in my once robust and muscular frame? As he spoke, I saw Laura's eyes seek mine with an expression of anxiety and apprehension which was painfully sweet to my heart. She spoke not, however; and I replied to Father Ferdinand, attempting to smile gaily as I did so.
"You must remember, my good Father," I answered, "I am no longer a boy, and may well be expected to lose the plump, smooth-faced roundness of my youth: besides, I have seen some hard service; and more than eighteen years which I have now spent--ever more or less in the tented field--may well be supposed to take away a great deal from one's youthful freshness."
Laura sighed deeply, and Father Ferdinand gravely shook his head; and I could see distinctly that neither the one nor the other gave credit to the reasons I assigned for my altered appearance. No more questions, however, were asked; and all the bustle and the little tittle-tattle of a first arrival in the country carried us well and lightly over the evening. I dreaded, it is true, the coming of the next morning; for now that I was in the midst of the peril, I had become apprehensive of myself; I felt that each night I should have to thank God if I had done nothing wrong; I felt that every day would bring a renewed struggle against myself; I felt that I should look to every sunrise with dread, lest I should fail in resolution during the coming day. Even the sweetest and dearest feelings of my heart were causes of apprehension. Every look, every word, of Laura de Villardin was to me a subject of delight, so bright, so deep, that, conscious of all which was going on within my bosom, I feared the joy I felt in her society would each instant betray itself to others. But that fear was not all that embittered the enjoyment. I felt now but too keenly that I was nurturing a passion which must end in misery; and that the sweet, sweet draught, which I was draining to the dregs, was mingled with poison which must speedily take effect. Yet now that I grasped the cup, with the full knowledge of all that it contained, I would not have resigned it for a world till the last drop had been drained. I listened to the tones of her voice, I hung upon her every smile; and when, during the evening, with her fair arms thrown round little Clement de la Marke, she listened while the boy repeated enthusiastically how very very kind I had been to him during his illness, I gazed upon her beaming countenance till she turned her eyes towards me with a look of sweet applause; and the feelings of my heart becoming too overpowering to be mastered, I quitted the room hastily, lest the mingled emotions should make a woman of me, and overflow at my eyes.
How the night passed, it were useless to relate. Agitation such as I felt, sleeps but little; and with the grey dawn, I plunged into the woods and wandered on wildly, seeking to gain command over myself ere I encountered any of the family. For nearly two hours I pursued a varying and irregular path, avoiding the hamlets and scattered cottages that here and there sheltered themselves in the edges of the wood surrounding the Prés Vallée, and walking on, now quick, now slow, amongst the gloom of the old trees, and by the dim banks of the silent stream. Bitter, bitter was my commune with my own heart, and little way did I make in the attempt to vanquish emotions that seemed to become more turbulent under reflection. Following solely as my guide the desire of avoiding a meeting with any human being, I scarcely knew which way I turned, till at length I found myself within a few yards of the grave of the unhappy Count de Mesnil. Some impulse, I do not well know what,--whether there was a latent sympathy in my bosom with the love, however mad and vicious, which had been expiated by his death, or whether there was alone that thirst of calm repose which was to be found nowhere but in the grave, I cannot tell,--but some impulse caused me to cast myself down upon the turf that covered his remains, and, giving way to all the bitterest feelings of my heart, I wept aloud, fervently wishing that I might soon find a quiet resting-place like that.
Ere I had been there a moment, I heard a flutter of female garments bending over me; and raising my eyes, I beheld Laura de Villardin with her eyes full of tears at the suffering which she saw me endure without being able to account for. I started up, and, in the agitation of the moment, gazed upon her without salutation, while she exclaimed,--"Oh, tell me--do tell me, dear De Juvigny, what is it makes you so unhappy?"
My firmness was gone before--my good resolution vanished, and pressing the hand that she held out to me to my lips and to my heart, I told her all--how deeply, how passionately I loved her. With the warm blood crimson over her cheek and forehead, she sank down in my arms and hid her face upon my bosom, while a tear or two sprang up in her eyes, and shone like living diamonds amongst her long dark eyelashes. It was but for a moment that, yielding to woman's first impulse, she hid her face; but then, raising her look to mine, as, sitting on the very grave of De Mesnil, I held her circled in my arms, she asked,--"And is that all? Do I not love you too?"
The hardest and bitterest part of the task was still to come. I had to tell her how hopeless was our love, which her ignorance of the world had not suffered her to perceive; and although I thought I had no right to inform her that her father destined her for another, which I found he himself had not yet communicated, yet I had to explain to her that our union was quite impossible.
"But are we not very happy as we are?" she asked. "Why make yourself wretched by thinking of what you acknowledge cannot be? Why not let us live on as we now are, loving each other more dearly than anything else in life--seeing each other every day--spending our whole days together? Why not let us live thus, and be as happy as we have hitherto been?"
I had to crush the bright bubble for ever. "But," I said, "when you are required to marry some other, Laura, what will then become of me?"
"Oh, but I will never marry any one else!" she replied, eagerly: "no, no, I love you; and if I cannot marry you, of course no one else shall ever have my hand!"
"But listen to me, dear Laura," I replied. "Suppose your father makes it a command; can you disobey? Suppose he comes to you and tells you that he has plighted his word and engaged his honour that you shall be the bride of some man equal in fortune and station to yourself--will you refuse to redeem his pledge? will you offend him for ever, and bring upon him the imputation of breaking his word? Can you do it, Laura?"
She wept bitterly, and I felt that those tears were a sufficient reply; I was gaining more firmness myself, also, from the very arguments I used; and I went on.--"No, no, dear Laura, we must both try to do our duty: I love you beyond everything on earth; and it would nearly destroy me to see you the wife of another: but yet let us make up our minds to that which cannot be avoided. We can never forget, we can never wholly cease to love each other; but we must make an effort to conquer our love, at least so far as to render it no longer dangerous or wrong: we must try to rule it by reason and by resolution, and to reduce it, if possible, to that affection which brother and sister may feel towards each other."
"Then you must help me--then you must guide me, De Juvigny," she replied; "you must teach me that which is right to do; for I feel, indeed I feel that I am incapable of guiding myself."
"It is a terrible task, Laura--it is a terrible task," I replied--"for a heart that loves like mine, to teach you how our love is to be conquered; and yet the very responsibility will, I trust, enable me to execute it well: but, hark! I hear a step," and I started up.
"It is only Lise," she replied: "I sent her back for a book; but she knows all about it. She first told me I loved you months ago."
I wished noconfidantesto a passion so hopeless as ours; but ere I could think, Lise was too near us to avoid her, and Laura's eyes told too distinctly a part of our story, to leave her ignorant of the remainder. She was a good and affectionate, but somewhat romantic creature; and though the suivante would have been the last to counsel her mistress to anything that she believed to be wrong, yet she had too much knowledge of the human heart to believe that a deep-rooted passion could ever be eradicated by the means that we proposed to employ; and her notions of what would be proper under such cases were likewise very different from ours. As soon as, by one means or another, she had made herself mistress of all that had passed, and had heard our difficulties and our resolutions, she shook her head, exclaiming,--"That will never do! No, no, Monsieur de Juvigny, there is only one way for it. Such love as yours and Mademoiselle's is not to be conquered as you think, and it must have its way, or worse will come of it. I have been thinking ever since you were here last, of what would be best to do, for I very well saw the whole business then, and quite understood that Monsieur the Duc would never consent. However, I have a scheme for you; you must marry privately: I know a good priest at Rennes who will undertake to perform the ceremony; and then, when it is found out, which it certainly will be in time, Monsieur de Villardin will be very angry at first, of course; but then he will soon forgive you, and it will be all settled."
Laura was silent; and as her hand rested on my arm, I could feel it tremble violently. For my part, I own that--though poor Lise meant no harm--yet, had she been the very fiend himself, she could not have tempted me more dreadfully. Honour, however, overcame; and after a long, painful pause, I answered,--"No, no, Lise! Monsieur de Villardin is my friend, my benefactor, my more than father, and I cannot betray his trust."
"But is not Mademoiselle, here, your friend, your love, and your more than sister?" answered Lise, laughing; "and will you make her unhappy for ever? But never mind; I knew that you would talk a great deal of that kind of nonsense whenever I came to propose it; but you'll see you will both be of my opinion before a fortnight be over, and then it will be,--'Pray, good Lise, seek the priest;' and as I am the best creature in the world, Iwillseek the priest. So when you have made up your minds to do the only thing that can save you both from a great deal of unhappiness, let me know, and I will arrange all the rest."
Thus saying, she turned away and walked a short distance towards the château, in order to leave Laura and myself time to speak together alone. As soon as she was gone, the dear girl raised her eyes to mine, and said,--"We must not do it, De Juvigny--we must not do it! It would be very happy, doubtless, to know that nothing could ever separate us, but it would be at the expense of your honour and my duty, and we must not do it. But, hark! there is the breakfast hour striking: we must go back separate; but you must, indeed you must tell me how I am to act, and what I am to do, to conquer all these feelings, and guard myself against wrong. We will walk out together to-morrow morning, as we used to do, and you shall give me my lesson."
But consciousness had, as usual, taken from me my bold firmness. I was not certain that any step that I was taking was right, and therefore I dreaded that any one should discover all that was passing between myself and Laura. "It will be better, dear Laura," I replied, "for us to meet in some part of the woods--at all events till we have fully determined the line of conduct we are to pursue. Let us have time to think and judge for ourselves before any one else perceives our feelings towards each other, and assumes the right of judging for us. Where shall I meet you to-morrow?"
"Since you have been away," she answered, "I have been much in the habit of coming out in the summer mornings to read under this tree. It is one of the finest round about, and if you remark, there is a little kind of rise in the soft turf at its foot, which serves me for a seat."
It was the grave of Monsieur de Mesnil to which she pointed; and certainly the memories connected with that spot did not render the feelings of my heart less sad. I replied, however, "Well, let us meet here: we are less likely to be disturbed here, perhaps, than elsewhere."
"That was one of the reasons why I used to love the place," replied Laura: "I never found any one here yet but Father Ferdinand, whom I one day saw kneeling at his beads beneath this tree; but it is almost always lonely, and I used to come here with a book, and sometimes read a little; but more often think of you and my father, and pray God to shield you both from all the dangers of the war. Let us part, however, now; for it is growing late, and I must wash my eyes before any one sees me."
I pressed her to my heart, and I pressed my lips to hers--I acted very wrong in so doing, I know; but, as I have said, this book is a confession, and therefore I tell all--I pressed her to my heart, and I pressed my lips to hers, and then we parted, to meet again the next morning at the same spot.
My next private interview was one with Father Ferdinand. I saw, during breakfast, that he was anxious to speak with me; but the feeling of consciousness to which I have before referred, made me as desirous of avoiding any particular conversation with him now as I had formerly been willing and pleased to enjoy his society alone. As soon as the meal was over, then, I turned, as if to seek my own apartments, but in reality intending to take my hat and once more go out into the park. So well acquainted, however, was Father Ferdinand with the turns of the human heart, and the actions that all those various turns are likely to produce, that he met me at the gate at the very moment I was setting out; and, laying his hand upon my arm, he said, "I am about to take my walk with you, my son."
I had now no excuse for avoiding his society, and we walked on together, proceeding for the first few minutes in silence. He then began the conversation by telling me that he felt deeply and personally all the care and kindness that I had bestowed upon Clement de la Marke. "I have spoken with the little fellow long this morning," he said, "and from all that he has told me, I must say that, had you been his own father, or his brother, you could not have shown him more judicious kindness."
I knew the good priest too well, and the exact proportion of kindly subtlety which tempered a disposition that was naturally candid, to believe that his sole object in thus forcing me, as it were, into a private interview with him, was to commend my behaviour to the little page. Nevertheless, though I understood all this very well, yet he went on so long and so skilfully, speaking upon that subject, and the events of the campaign alone, that I was thrown off my guard, and found myself detailing many of the occurrences that had taken place, more at large than I had intended, or perhaps desired. Observing me pause, as I found this to be the case, he replied, quietly, "It seems to me, my son, that in this last campaign you have exposed yourself a great deal more than was at all necessary; and, indeed, Clement has told me that you did so to such a degree, that it became a common observation, amongst both officers and soldiers, that you wereseeking death. Tell me, my son," he added, in a more emphatic tone--"tell me, if you love me, what is the cause of that deep despondency, which you cannot conceal from one who, like myself, has watched you, with the affection of a father, for many years."
I felt that to deny the despondency was vain, and I did not choose to prevaricate concerning its cause. I replied, therefore, at once, "You must not ask me, my good father. At some time--and that ere long--I will tell you the whole. But rest satisfied at present with knowing that though, perhaps, as it seems was too apparent, I did seek Death wherever he was to be found, yet I have now learned to think better; and, whatever I may suffer, will make such frantic attempts no more."
"I trust that it will be so," replied Father Ferdinand--"I trust that it will be so. As you tell me not the cause of your suffering--and I will not pretend to know it--I can of course offer you no spiritual consolation; nevertheless, I can perhaps yield you some of a worldly kind. Therefore, let me beg you to remember, before you make yourself miserable about anything that this earth contains, that those things which seem the most hopeless are often, by a slight change of circumstances, brought within our reach. Let my own history be a warning to you. Born to a high rank, and to a princely fortune, from an early disappointment I abjured station, wealth, and the world, concealed myself in the cells of a foreign monastery, and when, at the end of twenty years, I came forth again in the humble state in which you now see me, I discovered that had I but paused three months ere I rendered my fate irrevocable, every obstacle which lay in my way would have been removed, and that all I sought might have been mine. Let it be a lesson to you, young man, and learn never to despair. Now, farewell; and when you are inclined to make me your confidant, you will always find that you have a sincere friend."
Thus saying, he turned away, and left me to pursue my walk alone. What he told me was, indeed, intended to produce a good effect; but, nevertheless, the consequences might have been very evil. He raised up again hopes that were better crushed. He conjured up dreams that were only calculated to mislead; and for the first half hour, believing that he had seen the real cause of all I suffered, and thought it right, from some other knowledge that I did not possess, to encourage my hopes, I gave myself up to visions of joy. Then, however, came the remembrance that Monsieur de Villardin had promised the hand of his daughter to the Count de Laval; and recollecting that he had not informed Laura herself of the fact, I saw clearly that he had not informed Father Ferdinand either. The good Priest, then, I concluded, had seen our love; and not knowing the engagement which bound the Duke to another, had believed that he might be moved by our mutual affection. Thus fled, once more, all my brilliant dreams; for I was too thoroughly acquainted with Monsieur de Villardin's stern adherence to his word, to believe that any circumstance would make him even think of withdrawing it.
That day passed without any farther incident of note. The next morning I again met Laura de Villardin; and each day, during the whole week that followed, we failed not to spend at least two or three hours together--I may call it alone; for Lise, who accompanied her, generally left us till it was time to part. It must not be thought, however, that these clandestine meetings were devoted to thoughts or feelings that all the world might not have witnessed. They were foolish, I grant, and only served to nourish the passion that we believed we were taking means and laying schemes to overcome. The proposal that Lise had made of a private marriage was never again mentioned between us. We never encouraged each other with false hopes, but admitted to our own hearts, in the fullest degree, that no chance existed of our union. The delight of being together we certainly did possess; and it was doubtless the secret desire of retaining at least that blessing which blinded our eyes to the imprudence of our continual meetings.
Our whole conversations were devoted to forming determinations of future firmness and resolution, mingled, indeed, with many a tear and many a caress; but certainly--however weak was our conduct--however much we suffered ourselves to be deceived by our own wishes--our intentions at least were good throughout the whole.
Thus passed the time, as painfully as it could well be conceived, till, one morning, as we were returning towards the château, while Laura--as we were still at some distance from the house--was hanging upon my arm, the form of Father Ferdinand appeared at a little distance in the alley before us. He saw us, beyond doubt, for he paused, turned out of the way he was pursuing, and left us to proceed to the house without speaking to us. What might be the event I knew not, but I saw him no more till supper, at which everything passed tranquilly, and we separated for the night.
I was sitting musing in my room, about an hour after supper, when the door opened, and Father Ferdinand appeared. He was evidently a good deal agitated, and seemed scarcely able to speak to me.
"My son," he said, taking both my hands, and gazing anxiously in my face,--"my son, I am afraid you have done wrong."
I understood him at once, and replied, "No, father, I have not; unless to struggle against every feeling of my heart, which prompted me to ingratitude and deceit,--unless, I say, to struggle against such feelings be evil,--I have not done wrong."
He raised his right hand, while he still held mine in his left, saying, solemnly,--"Thank God for that. I at least have acted wrong," he added: "I once gave you hope without clearly knowing whither that hope might lead you. I now know all; and, I tell you, you must despair."
"Father," I replied, "I have never entertained a hope. I knew that you were unacquainted with my situation, and the dreams you raised lasted but half an hour."
"Forgive me for having raised them at all," he said; "and now, mark me; you must speak with Monsieur de Villardin----Nay, indeed you must: he already expects you. Give me but five minutes to speak with him more at length, and then follow me to the library."
I would fain have asked more: I would fain have discovered what, or rather how much, Monsieur de Villardin knew; but there were so many contending emotions in my bosom that I was afraid my voice would be choked ere I could put my questions, and I merely replied, "I will."
Without rejoinder, Father Ferdinand left me; and, burying my face on my arms, I remained in the same state of mind as a condemned criminal who has just heard an order given for his instant execution. I was not one, however, to shake before any mortal man. I felt, too, that with the power to have won happiness for myself by wronging him I was just about to see, I had sacrificed my own peace rather than act ungratefully towards him. This feeling nerved my heart for whatever might come, and by the time that the five minutes were over, I was slowly descending the great staircase towards the library. I knew not how Monsieur de Villardin would treat me, and I almost feared, from some casual traits which I had remarked in his character, that he might demean himself haughtily towards me. Such a method was not that calculated to govern or affect one of my disposition; and, as I passed through the saloon, and crossed the very spot where I had seen Madame de Villardin stand with the Count de Mesnil, a number of services which at different times I had rendered to the Duke rose up before my eyes, and I advanced with a firmer step, from feeling that the balance of obligation was not altogether against myself. As I passed by the mirrors, I saw that I was deadly pale; but I could not help that; and, opening the door, I entered the library with more command over myself than I had thought I could assume.
Monsieur de Villardin was alone, and striding up and down the room in a state of agitation that it is impossible to describe. He was at the farther end of the chamber when I entered, but immediately turned round and paused for a moment, gazing upon me with a quivering lip. I took a step or two more forward, and then waited for him to begin; but he said nothing, and, advancing rapidly towards me, threw his arms around me as if I had been his child, exclaiming--"Oh! De Juvigny!"
It overpowered me at once: pride--and resolution, and firmness, all gave way; and I wept like a woman, while he mingled his tears with mine.
"This is too much," said Monsieur de Villardin. "Sit down, my dear boy, and let us speak as calmly as possible over an event that has made me more wretched than you can conceive."
Casting myself into the seat opposite to that in which he usually sat, I leaned my head forward upon the table, and suffered him to proceed, while feelings that defy all language struggled fearfully in my bosom.
"De Juvigny," he said, in a low, earnest voice, "my friend, my benefactor, my more than son--twice have you saved my life, once have you saved my child, ever have you counselled me aright even as a boy--you have watched my couch of sickness, you have calmed me in the moment of passion, you have laboured to prevent me from committing crime, you have striven to sooth the voice of remorse, you have sought far and near to find consolation for my grief--and now, what is it I am called to do? I have to make you miserable. I have to inflict upon you the bitterest pangs that a heart like yours can suffer. I have to deny you the only gift which could fittingly recompense the benefits you have conferred upon me; and all this, because I foolishly engaged myself by a promise, ere I knew how much misery it would cause to fulfil it. Believe me, my dear boy,--believe me, upon my honour,--that were it not for that promise, I would set all the world's maxims of pride, and ambition, and avarice at nought: and, knowing none so worthy or so noble as yourself, would bestow upon you my sweet child as contentedly as if you were a king:--but oh! De Juvigny, that promise--that fatal promise!"
I did not forget that he had made me, too, a promise in former years, to grant me any boon that I might ask; and the idea certainly had crossed my mind, as I had descended to the library, to demand its execution now. But he had met me so differently from the manner in which I had expected to be met, that all my feelings were changed in a moment; and, as he spoke, I could make no reply; for his generous kindness shook and agitated mc far more than if he had piled upon my head the bitterest of reproaches.
"Our excellent friend, Father Ferdinand," continued Monsieur de Villardin, "has pointed out to me the cause of all your conduct during the last campaign. Strange your behaviour certainly has appeared in my eyes; and, if I remember right, the change took place when I told you of the promise I had given, and gave you news that must have blasted all your hopes for ever."
"My lord, I never entertained a hope," I replied. "Although, I believe, without boldness, I may say that my race is as noble as your own, yet I came before you as an exiled adventurer, without home, without country, without fortune; and most presumptuous would it have been for me to entertain a hope under such circumstances. The change in my conduct, or rather the end of my happiness for life, took place as soon as I discovered what were the feelings which I had been nourishing in my bosom. It did, perhaps, add somewhat to the load, to know that Mademoiselle de Villardin was destined to wed a man she did not love; but that knowledge destroyed no hopes, for I had entertained none."
Monsieur de Villardin gazed upon me thoughtfully for several minutes, and then said,--"De Juvigny, I am almost afraid to ask you; yet answer me sincerely, and fear not that I shall blame you, for I have been too faulty a being myself to have any title to chide with others where passion is concerned. Tell me, is Laura acquainted with your feelings towards her?"
"She is so now, my lord," I answered; "but such was not the case till our return from the last campaign."
"You have done wrong, De Juvigny," he said, speaking mournfully, but not harshly; "you have done wrong: but still, as I have said, I have no right to blame you, for I look upon myself as the cause of all this unhappiness. I should have been upon my guard; I should have known that such an intimacy could not go on without ending as it has done; and I should have taken measures either to warn you yourself, or to make you happy. I blame you not, therefore, however great might have been the relief to know that Laura was unacquainted with feelings that cannot be gratified."
"Believe me, my lord," I answered, "I never intended that she should be made acquainted with those feelings, and that the discovery of them was entirely accidental. You will do me the justice, too, I am sure, to feel confident that my opportunities of seeing and conversing with Mademoiselle de Villardin have never been employed to make her forget her duty towards you. On the contrary, our whole thoughts have been turned to the means of overcoming a passion that we felt to be hopeless."
"There is but one means, De Juvigny," replied Monsieur de Villardin,--"there is but one way--to part. To know that I am bound to wound my daughter's happiness, as well as that of a man I love better than if he were my own son, is bitter enough; but still it must be done. My promise is given, and it must not only be held inviolable, but I must show no hesitation in fulfilling it--no wish to evade its immediate execution. You and Laura must part, De Juvigny, and I am sure that on reflection you will find it is better for you both to do so at once. I trust--I hope--that this passion has not yet obtained so deep a root in the bosom of either, as not to yield to the power of reason and the effect of time and absence."
I shook my head, for I felt that such could not be the case; but at the same time I replied,--"It will be better for us to part, I do indeed believe, my lord; for, however vain it is to hope that I shall ever forget, yet my stay here serves no good purpose, and only renders myself and her I love more miserable. I am ready to set out even this very night, if you think fit."
"No, no," he said, hastily; "not so, my dear boy: you must not quit my dwelling as one in disgrace! That I cannot suffer!--especially when I feel that I owe you atonement for having exposed you to so much unhappiness, as well as deep gratitude and affection for all that you have done for me and mine. No,--your departure must be as that of a well-beloved son, honoured, esteemed, and regretted; and your fortune must be rendered equal to maintain a high station in society, and to obtain for you a ready acceptance from the friends of any one on whom you may hereafter place your affection."
The feelings in my heart were too bitter to permit of my making any reply for some minutes, but I answered at length,--"I will appeal to your own heart, my lord, whether those who have loved deeply and truly ever love twice. But that matters not. In the present instance, you must permit me to decline any farther gift. I am proud to believe that, on some occasions, I have rendered your lordship services of some importance; and deeply gratified to find that you value them at a higher rate even than they deserve. But if, as you are pleased to say, you owe me some gratitude, I owe you infinitely more; and though I love you too deeply and too sincerely to offer to restore those things which you formerly bestowed upon me, yet I can accept no more, especially at a moment like this."
"I will not press you then now," replied Monsieur de Villardin; "but we are not going to part for ever, De Juvigny, and when we meet again, I shall insist upon that which I wave for the present. But tell me, in the meantime, what you intend to do with yourself; for of course my interest in you remains not only unabated, but increased, from all that has occurred."
"Oh! fear not, my lord," I replied, the bitterness of my heart mastering me in spite of all my efforts, and drawing from me but an ungrateful return for the kindness of Monsieur de Villardin; "fear not, my lord; I shall do well enough. When I first touched the shores of France, my worldly situation was much less brilliant than it is at present, though I had, indeed, a lighter heart. I have now lands and lordships, and a regiment in the service of the King of France. What need I more?"
"I will tell you, De Juvigny," replied Monsieur de Villardin, laying his hand kindly upon my arm, and speaking mildly, though somewhat reproachfully; "I will tell you what you need more than all:--a friend and companion, who will sooth your sorrows, will divert your griefs from preying on your own mind, will point out topics of consolation, will persuade you to think well of those who love you, will endeavour to make you feel less acutely what it may be impossible to forget, and, in short, will act towards you in your sorrows the part which you acted towards me in mine. It grieves me that I cannot be the man to do so myself; but if you will follow my advice, you will seek out your friend Lord Masterton, and, from all I have ever heard of him, I think you will find one who will take a deep interest, in your fate, and feel the most sincere sympathy for all that afflicts you."
"No, no, my lord," I replied, "it cannot be. Lord Masterton, happy in his wife and his family, shall not be disturbed by any sorrows of mine; and, however selfish it may appear, I must confess that the sight of his domestic tranquillity would but render more painful the consciousness that such a state can never be mine. There is nothing fit for my present frame of mind but solitude. I doubt not that thought and reflection, before I am called upon to resume my duties in the service, will enable me so far to conquer my regrets and disappointment as to permit of my mingling in society, without much pain to myself or any annoyance to others. In the meantime, however, if your lordship will permit me, I will retire either to Juvigny or to Dumont, and spend a month or two there in perfect privacy. My little page Clement will furnish me with society and entertainment enough; and when, in the course of time," I added, struggling for as much firmness as I could command,--"and when, in the course of time, the last irremediable seal is put to the destiny of Mademoiselle de Villardin and myself, as your lordship will probably be left alone from time to time, I shall hope to enjoy your society, when it can be no longer dangerous to myself, or inconsistent with your other arrangements."
Without making any reply, Monsieur de Villardin took two or three turns up and down the library, and then, sitting down again, he said,--"It is better, De Juvigny, to tell you my determination at once. As my word must be fulfilled, and as I see no object whatever to be gained by delay, I have resolved that Laura shall give her hand to the Count de Laval as soon as it be possible to complete the necessary arrangements."
This was certainly a new pang, but I had already borne so much that night, that the very habit of suffering enabled me still to endure. I did think that Monsieur de Villardin was wrong; I did think that it was even cruel to afford his daughter no time for thought or consideration, no time to compose her feelings, no time to prepare for the future or to forget the past. Of course, however, it was not for me even to suggest an objection, and I merely bowed my head, while Monsieur de Villardin went on. "As soon as the ceremony is over, I will write to you and let you know," he said; "and I hope that, from that moment, you will be able to come to me, and supply the place of the child from whom I am about to part. In the meantime, you must not certainly set off till I have seen you to-morrow; and, let me beg you, my dear Juvigny," he added, grasping my hand, "let me beg of you to strive for as much firmness as possible. Remember that, though my honour is dearer to me than life itself, yet that I love you better than any other thing, and that to make you happy, I would sacrifice everything--but my honour."
"I will do my best, my lord," I replied, "both to be and to appear firm; and, whatever I now suffer--whatever I may hereafter have to undergo, your kindness and generosity towards me, in these, as in all other circumstances, will be the chief consolation, and the brightest remembrance that I have left."
Thus saying, I rose and turned towards the door; but ere I reached it, the remembrance that Laura knew nothing of what had taken place during that evening, and would expect me at our usual place of meeting, flashed across my mind, and somewhat embarrassed me. However, I could not entertain the thought for a moment, of showing the slightest ingratitude or want of confidence to one who had just treated me with so much kindness and feeling; and, turning at the door, I again approached Monsieur de Villardin, saying,--"You desire me, my lord, not to set out to-morrow ere I have seen you. Will you give me your own directions as to how I am to behave towards Mademoiselle de Villardin?"
"I have the most perfect confidence in you, De Juvigny," he replied, "and can have no objection to your having one more interview with her, though of course that must be the last. See her--speak with her--endeavour to console her--use what arguments you may think meet. I rely entirely upon your honour to do all that you can to make her yield a willing consent to that arrangement for which her father has plighted his word. You will doubtless find ready means to see her. In these respects I ask no questions in regard to the past; and for the future I trust entirely, as I have said, to your own honour."
We now separated; and, returning to my own apartments, I busied myself with thoughts too wild and confused to be remembered or transcribed. I had long seen and had long known, indeed, that such must be the result of my love for Laura de Villardin. I had long seen that fate could have nothing else in store for me; but yet I do not think that, even if I had been taken totally unprepared, I could have felt more bitterly--more terribly--the agony of sudden disappointment, than I now felt the severing of the last tie between love and hope. If there was anything in the whole which might have proved soothing,--if there was anything on which my mind might have rested with pleasure, it was on the noble confidence which Monsieur de Villardin had shown towards me; but even that was not without a pang, and the sting which it inflicted was bitterer than all: for I saw from his conduct now, that had I, when first I discovered the passion that I entertained for his daughter, made him acquainted with it at once--had I, when we were journeying on together towards Paris, poured out my whole feelings into his bosom, and confided in him, as perhaps I ought to have done, Laura might still have been mine, and a brighter destiny than ever hope had pictured would have crowned the end of my career. Thus then the bitterest regret was added to the most acute disappointment. The cup of happiness had been nearly at my lips; but, not knowing what it contained, I had passed it by, and I felt too surely that it would never come within my reach again.
I knew that such regrets were useless; I knew that nothing remained for me but to endure; I strove even to acquire strength from despair; but it was all in vain. Regret, disappointment, agony, mingled with every thought, and every memory, and every expectation; and for an hour, I strode up and down in a state of mind that I shall not attempt any farther to depict. At the end of that time, there was a light tap at my door, and the next moment, Laura's maid, Lise, entered the room. My agitation was sufficiently apparent, and would probably have betrayed what had occurred, even had not the soubrette been partially aware before that some sort of a discovery had taken place.
"Ah! Monsieur le Baron," she said, as soon as she saw me, "I see how it is all going. I have been watching all the evening, and have learned enough from the going to and fro, to perceive that monseigneur has discovered it all, and that unless you will follow my advice, you and Mademoiselle will be unhappy for ever."
"And, pray, what is your advice, my good Lise?" I demanded; "the Duke has indeed discovered all, but that makes very little difference in regard to our situation. But say, what is your advice?"
"Why, it is simply this," replied the waiting woman; "that you come directly to Mademoiselle's chamber, and persuade her to set off with you to Rennes. My good friend, Father Martin, will perform the ceremony, as he promised me he would, not a week ago. Degville, the notary, will draw up the contract, and for a couple of thousand francs to a priest and a lawyer, you will get the sweetest lady in all Brittany, and the one that loves you best."
It is not impossible that, had Monsieur de Villardin said one harsh or unkind word to me, had he treated me with pride or with indignity, he might have lost his daughter; and I, teaching myself to believe that every stratagem is honourable in love, might have embraced the plan which Lise, in her love for the romantic, had laid out, and might have made Laura de Villardin my bride before the next morning. The state of Brittany at that time, and the lax administration of the law, both civil and ecclesiastical, so greatly facilitated any scheme of the kind, that I well knew it was perfectly practicable; but my mind was so completely made up as to the course which I was bound in honour to pursue--the whole of my good feelings were so strongly arrayed against the persuasions of passion, that the proposal made by Lise did not even tempt me for a moment. It was unnecessary, however, to tell her all that had passed; and, assuming as much calmness as I could, I replied,--"No, no, Lise, such a course is quite unnecessary. Do not agitate your mistress, I beseech you, by telling her that anything has occurred in the château to disturb the usual course of events; but beg her to let me see her to-morrow in the same place in which we have usually met."
Lise gazed at me with some surprise. "Will they let you see her, then?" she demanded: "are you sure of being able to come?"
"Quite sure, Lise," I replied; "so tell her what I bid you; and take this ring," I added, giving her one that I had bought in Paris, "and keep it as a remembrance of me hereafter."
"It is a very pretty ring," replied Lise, taking it, "and I will keep it for your sake with all my heart; but, nevertheless, I would much rather that you had given another of a different kind to my mistress this very night. However, I suppose, Monsieur le Baron, you know your own business best, and so I shall meddle no more."
Thus saying, Lise took her leave, and left me to pass as miserable a night as ever wretch yet spent upon the face of this earth.