Books: A Woodland Queen, v3
A >>
Andre Theuriet >> A Woodland Queen, v3
At sight of the cure, Reine turned pale; he had doubtless come to tell
her the result of his interview with Claudet, and what day had been
definitely chosen for the nuptial celebration. She had been troubled all
night by the reflection that her fate would soon be irrevocably scaled;
she had wept, and her eyes betrayed it. Only the day before, she had
looked upon this project of marriage, which she had entertained in a
moment of anger and injured feeling, as a vague thing, a vaporous
eventuality of which the realization was doubtful; now, all was arranged,
settled, cruelly certain; there was no way of escaping from a promise
which Claudet, alas! was bound to consider a serious one. These
thoughts traversed her mind, while the cure was slowly approaching the
filbert-trees; she felt her heart throb, and her eyes again filled with
tears. Yet her pride would not allow that the Abbe should witness her
irresolution and weeping; she made an effort, overcame the momentary
weakness, and addressed the priest in an almost cheerful voice:
"Monsieur le Cure, I am sorry that they have made you come up this hill
to find me. Let us go back to the farm, and I will offer you a cup of
coffee."
"No, my child," replied the Abbe, motioning with his hand that she should
stay where she was, "no, thank you! I will not take anything. Remain
where you are.
"I wish to talk to you, and we shall be less liable to be disturbed here."
There were two rustic seats under the nut-trees; the cure took one and
asked Reine to take the other, opposite to him. There they were, under
the thick, verdant branches, hidden from indiscreet passers-by,
surrounded by silence, installed as in a confessional.
The morning quiet, the solitude, the half light, all invited meditation
and confidence; nevertheless the young girl and the priest sat
motionless; both agitated and embarrassed and watching each other without
uttering a sound. It was Reine who first broke the silence.
"You have seen Claudet, Monsieur le Cure?"
"Yes, yes!" replied the Abbe, sighing deeply.
"He--spoke to you of our-plans," continued the young girl, in a quavering
voice, "and you fixed the day?"
"No, my child, we settled nothing. I wanted to see you first, and
converse with you about something very important."
The Abbe hesitated, rubbed a spot of mud off his soutane, raised his
shoulders like a man lifting a heavy burden, then gave a deep cough.
"My dear child," continued he at length, prudently dropping his voice a
tone lower, "I will begin by repeating to you what I said yesterday to
Claudet Sejournant: the marriage, that is to say, the indissoluble union,
of man and woman before God, is one of the most solemn and serious acts
of life. The Church has constituted it a sacrament, which she
administers only on certain formal conditions. Before entering into this
bond, one ought, as we are taught by Holy Writ, to sound the heart,
subject the very inmost of the soul to searching examinations. I beg of
you, therefore, answer my questions freely, without false shame, just as
if you were at the tribunal of repentance. Do you love Claudet?"
Reine trembled. This appeal to her sincerity renewed all her
perplexities and scruples. She raised her full, glistening eyes to the
cure, and replied, after a slight hesitation:
"I have a sincere affection for Claudet-and-much esteem."
"I understand that," replied the priest, compressing his lips, "but--
excuse me if I press the matter--has the engagement you have made with
him been determined simply by considerations of affection and
suitableness, or by more interior and deeper feelings?"
"Pardon, Monsieur le Cure," returned Reine, coloring, "it seems to me
that a sentiment of friendship, joined to a firm determination to prove a
faithful and devoted wife, should be, in your eyes as they are in mine, a
sufficient assurance that--"
"Certainly, certainly, my dear child; and many husbands would be
contented with less. However, it is not only a question of Claudet's
happiness, but of yours also. Come now! let me ask you: is your
affection for young Sejournant so powerful that in the event of any
unforeseen circumstance happening, to break off the marriage, you would
be forever unhappy?"
"Ah!" replied Reine, more embarrassed than ever, "you ask too grave a
question, Monsieur le Cure! If it were broken off without my having to
reproach myself for it, it is probable that I should find consolation in
time."
"Very good! Consequently, you do not love Claudet, if I may take the
word love in the sense understood by people of the world. You only like,
you do not love him? Tell me. Answer frankly."
"Frankly, Monsieur le Cure, no!"
"Thanks be to God! We are saved!" exclaimed the Abbe, drawing a long
breath, while Reine, amazed, gazed at him with wondering eves.
"I do not understand you," faltered she; "what is it?"
"It is this: the marriage can not take place."
"Can not? why?"
"It is impossible, both in the eyes of the Church and in those of the
world."
The young girl looked at him with increasing amazement.
"You alarm me!" cried she. "What has happened? What reasons hinder me
from marrying Claudet?"
"Very powerful reasons, my dear child. I do not feel at liberty to
reveal them to you, but you must know that I am not speaking without
authority, and that you may rely on the statement I have made."
Reine remained thoughtful, her brows knit, her countenance troubled.
"I have every confidence in you, Monsieur le Cure, but--"
"But you hesitate about believing me," interrupted the Abbe, piqued at
not finding in one of his flock the blind obedience on which he had
reckoned. "You must know, nevertheless, that your pastor has no interest
in deceiving you, and that when he seeks to influence you, he has in view
only your well-being in this world and in the next."
"I do not doubt your good intentions," replied Reine, with firmness, "but
a promise can not be annulled without sufficient cause. I have given my
word to Claudet, and I am too loyal at heart to break faith with him
without letting him know the reason."
"You will find some pretext."
"And supposing that Claudet would be content with such a pretext, my own
conscience would not be," objected the young girl, raising her clear,
honest glance toward the priest; "your words have entered my soul, they
are troubling me now, and it will be worse when I begin to think this
matter over again. I can not bear uncertainty. I must see my way
clearly before me. I entreat you then, Monsieur le Cure, not to do
things by halves. You have thought it your duty to tell me I can not wed
with Claudet; now tell me why not?"
"Why not? why not?" repeated the Abbe, angrily. "I distress myself in
telling you that I am not authorized to satisfy your unwise curiosity!
You must humble your intelligence and believe without arguing."
"In matters of faith, that may be possible," urged Reine, obstinately,
"but my marriage has nothing to do with discussing the truths of our holy
religion. I therefore respectfully ask to be enlightened, Monsieur le
Cure; otherwise--"
"Otherwise?" repeated the Abby Pernot, inquiringly, rolling his eyes
uneasily.
"Otherwise, I shall keep my word respectably, and I shall marry Claudet."
"You will not do that?" said he, imploringly, joining his hands as if in
supplication; "after being openly warned by me, you dare not burden your
soul with such a terrible responsibility. Come, my child, does not the
possibility of committing a mortal sin alarm your conscience as a
Christian?"
"I can not sin if I am in ignorance, and as to my conscience, Monsieur le
Cure, do you think it is acting like a Christian to alarm without
enlightening?"
"Is that your last word?" inquired the Abbe, completely aghast.
"It is my last word," she replied, vehemently, moved both by a feeling of
self-respect, and a desire to force the hand of her interlocutor.
"You are a proud, obstinate girl!" exclaimed the Abbe, rising abruptly,
"you wish to compel me to reveal this secret! Well, have your way!
I will tell you. May the harm which may result from it fall lightly upon
you, and do not hereafter reproach me for the pain I am about to inflict
upon you."
He checked himself for a moment, again joined his hands, and raising his
eyes toward heaven ejaculated fervently, as if repeating his devotions in
the oratory: "O Lord, thou knowest I would have spared her this bitter
cup, but, between two evils, I have avoided the greater. If I forfeit my
solemn promise, consider, O Lord, I pray thee, that I do it to avoid
disgrace and exposure for her, and deign to forgive thy servant!"
He seated himself again, placed one of his hands before his eyes, and
began, in a hollow voice, Reine, all the while gazing nervously at him:
"My child, you are forcing me to violate a secret which has been solemnly
confided to me. It concerns a matter not usually talked about before
young girls, but you are, I believe, already a woman in heart and
understanding, and you will hear resignedly what I have to tell you,
however much the recital may trouble you. I have already informed you
that your marriage with Claudet is impossible. I now declare that it
would be criminal, for the reason that incest is an abomination."
"Incest!" repeated Reine, pale and trembling, "what do you mean?"
"I mean," sighed the cure, "that you are Claudet's sister, not having the
same mother, but the same father: Claude-Odouart de Buxieres."
"Oh! you are mistaken! that cannot be!"
"I am stating facts. It grieves me to the heart, my dear child, that in
speaking of your deceased mother, I should have to reveal an error over
which she lamented, like David, with tears of blood. She confessed her
sin, not to the priest, but to a friend, a few days before her death.
In justice to her memory, I ought to add that, like most of the
unfortunates seduced by this untamable de Buxieres, she succumbed to his
wily misrepresentations. She was a victim rather than an accomplice.
The man himself acknowledged as much in a note entrusted to my care,
which I have here."
And the Abbe' drew from his pocket an old, worn letter, the writing
yellow with age, and placed it before Reine. In this letter, written in
Claude de Buxieres's coarse, sprawling hand, doubtless in reply to a
reproachful appeal from his mistress, he endeavored to offer some kind of
honorable amends for the violence he had used, and to calm Madame
Vincart's remorse by promising, as was his custom, to watch over the
future of the child which should be born to her.
"That child was yourself, my poor girl," continued the Abbe, picking up
the letter which Reine had thrown down, after reading it, with a gesture
of sickened disgust.
She appeared not to hear him. She had buried her face in her hands, to
hide the flushing of her cheeks, and sat motionless, altogether crushed
beneath the shameful revelation; convulsive sobs and tremblings
occasionally agitating her frame.
"You can now understand," continued the priest, "how the announcement of
this projected marriage stunned and terrified me. I could not confide to
Claudet the reason for my stupefaction, and I should have been thankful
if you could have understood so that I could have spared you this cruel
mortification, but you would not take any intimation from me. And now,
forgive me for inflicting this cross upon you, and bear it with courage,
with Christian fortitude."
"You have acted as was your duty," murmured Reine, sadly, "and I thank
you, Monsieur le Cure!"
"And will you promise me to dismiss Claudet at once--today?"
"I promise you."
The Abbe Pernot advanced to take her hand, and administer some words of
consolation; but she evaded, with a stern gesture, the good man's pious
sympathy, and escaped toward the dwelling.
The spacious kitchen was empty when she entered. The shutters had been
closed against the sun, and it had become cool and pleasant. Here and
there, among the copper utensils, and wherever a chance ray made a gleam
of light, the magpie was hopping about, uttering short, piercing cries.
In the recess of the niche containing the colored prints, sat the old man
Vincart, dozing, in his usual supine attitude, his hands spread out, his
eyelids drooping, his mouth half open. At the sound of the door, his
eyes opened wide. He rather guessed at, than saw, the entrance of the
young girl, and his pallid lips began their accustomed refrain: "Reine!
Rei-eine!"
Reine flew impetuously toward the paralytic old man, threw herself on her
knees before him, sobbing bitterly, and covered his hands with kisses.
Her caresses were given in a more respectful, humble, contrite manner
than ever before.
"Oh! father--father!" faltered she; "I loved you always, I shall love
you now with all my heart and soul!"
CHAPTER VIII
LOVE'S SAD ENDING
The kitchen was bright with sunshine, and the industrious bees were
buzzing around the flowers on the window-sills, while Reine was
listlessly attending to culinary duties, and preparing her father's meal.
The humiliating disclosures made by the Abbe Pernot weighed heavily upon
her mind. She foresaw that Claudet would shortly be at La Thuiliere in
order to hear the result of the cure's visit; but she did not feel
sufficiently mistress of herself to have a decisive interview with him at
such short notice, and resolved to gain at least one day by absenting
herself from the farm. It seemed to her necessary that she should have
that length of time to arrange her ideas, and evolve some way of
separating Claudet and herself without his suspecting the real motive of
rupture. So, telling La Guite to say that unexpected business had called
her away, she set out for the woods of Maigrefontaine.
Whenever she had felt the need of taking counsel with herself before
deciding on any important matter, the forest had been her refuge and her
inspiration. The refreshing solitude of the valleys, watered by living
streams, acted as a strengthening balm to her irresolute will; her soul
inhaled the profound peace of these leafy retreats. By the time she had
reached the inmost shade of the forest her mind had become calmer, and
better able to unravel the confusion of thoughts that surged like
troubled waters through her brain. The dominant idea was, that her self-
respect had been wounded; the shock to her maidenly modesty, and the
shame attendant upon the fact, affected her physically, as if she had
been belittled and degraded by a personal stain; and this downfall caused
her deep humiliation. By slow degrees, however, and notwithstanding this
state of abject despair, she felt, cropping up somewhere in her heart, a
faint germ of gladness, and, by close examination, discovered its origin:
she was now loosed from her obligations toward Claudet, and the prospect
of being once more free afforded her immediate consolation.
She had so much regretted, during the last few weeks, the feeling of
outraged pride which had incited her to consent to this marriage; her
loyal, sincere nature had revolted at the constraint she had imposed upon
herself; her nerves had been so severely taxed by having to receive her
fiance with sufficient warmth to satisfy his expectations, and yet not
afford any encouragement to his demonstrative tendencies, that the
certainty of her newly acquired freedom created a sensation of relief and
well-being. But, hardly had she analyzed and acknowledged this sensation
when she reproached herself for harboring it when she was about to cause
Claudet such affliction.
Poor Claudet! what a cruel blow was in store for him! He was so
guilelessly in love, and had such unbounded confidence in the success of
his projects! Reine was overcome by tender reminiscences. She had
always experienced, as if divining by instinct the natural bonds which
united them, a sisterly affection for Claudet. Since their earliest
infancy, at the age when they learned their catechism under the church
porch, they had been united in a bond of friendly fellowship. With
Reine, this tender feeling had always remained one of friendship, but,
with Claudet, it had ripened into love; and now, after allowing the poor
young fellow to believe that his love was reciprocated, she was forced to
disabuse him. It was useless for her to try to find some way of
softening the blow; there was none. Claudet was too much in love to
remain satisfied with empty words; he would require solid reasons; and
the only conclusive one which would convince him, without wounding his
self-love, was exactly the one which the young girl could not give him.
She was, therefore, doomed to send Claudet away with the impression that
he had been jilted by a heartless and unprincipled coquette. And yet
something must be done. The grand chasserot had been too long already in
the toils; there was something barbarously cruel in not freeing him from
his illusions.
In this troubled state of mind, Reine gazed appealingly at the silent
witnesses of her distress. She heard a voice within her saying to the
tall, vaulted ash, "Inspire me!" to the little rose-colored centaurea of
the wayside, "Teach me a charm to cure the harm I have done!" But the
woods, which in former days had been her advisers and instructors,
remained deaf to her invocation. For the first time, she felt herself
isolated and abandoned to her own resources, even in the midst of her
beloved forest.
It is when we experience these violent mental crises, that we become
suddenly conscious of Nature's cold indifference to our sufferings. She
really is nothing more than the reflex of our own sensations, and can
only give us back what we lend her. Beautiful but selfish, she allows
herself to be courted by novices, but presents a freezing, emotionless
aspect to those who have outlived their illusions.
Reine did not reach home until the day had begun to wane. La Guite
informed her that Claudet had waited for her during part of the
afternoon, and that he would come again the next day at nine o'clock.
Notwithstanding her bodily fatigue, she slept uneasily, and her sleep was
troubled by feverish dreams. Every time she closed her eyes, she fancied
herself conversing with Claudet, and woke with a start at the sound of
his angry voice.
She arose at dawn, descended at once to the lower floor, to get through
her morning tasks, and as soon as the big kitchen clock struck nine, she
left the house and took the path by which Claudet would come. A feeling
of delicate consideration toward her lover had impelled her to choose for
her explanation any other place than the one where she had first received
his declaration of love, and consented to the marriage. Very soon he
came in sight, his stalwart figure outlined against the gray landscape.
He was walking rapidly; her heart smote her, her hands became like ice,
but she summoned all her fortitude, and went bravely forward to meet him.
When he came within forty or fifty feet, he recognized Reine, and took a
short cut across the stubble studded with cobwebs glistening with dew.
"Aha! my Reine, my queen, good-morning!" cried he, joyously, "it is
sweet of you to come to meet me!"
"Good-morning, Claudet. I came to meet you because I wish to speak with
you on matters of importance, and I preferred not to have the
conversation take place in our house. Shall we walk as far as the
Planche-au-Vacher?"
He stopped short, astonished at the proposal and also at the sad and
resolute attitude of his betrothed. He examined her more closely,
noticed her deep-set eyes, her cheeks, whiter than usual.
"Why, what is the matter, Reine?" he inquired; "you are not yourself; do
you not feel well?"
"Yes, and no. I have passed a bad night, thinking over matters that are
troubling me, and I think that has produced some fever."
"What matters? Any that concern us?"
"Yes;" replied she, laconically.
Claudet opened his eyes. The young girl's continued gravity began to
alarm him; but, seeing that she walked quickly forward, with an absent
air, her face lowered, her brows bent, her mouth compressed, he lost
courage and refrained from asking her any questions. They walked on thus
in silence, until they came to the open level covered with juniper-
bushes, from which solitary place, surrounded by hawthorn hedges, they
could trace the narrow defile leading to Vivey, and the faint mist
beyond.
"Let us stop here," said Reine, seating herself on a flat, mossy stone,
"we can talk here without fear of being disturbed."
"No fear of that," remarked Claudet, with a forced smile, "with the
exception of the shepherd of Vivey, who comes here sometimes with his
cattle, we shall not see many passers-by. It must be a secret that you
have to tell me, Reine?" he added.
"No;" she returned, "but I foresee that my words will give you pain, my
poor Claudet, and I prefer you should hear them without being annoyed by
the farm-people passing to and fro."
"Explain yourself!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "For heaven's sake,
don't keep me in suspense!"
"Listen, Claudet. When you asked my hand in marriage, I answered yes,
without taking time to reflect. But, since I have been thinking over our
plans, I have had scruples. My father is becoming every day more of an
invalid, and in his present state I really have no right to live for any
one but him. One would think he was aware of our intentions, for since
you have been visiting at the farm, he is more agitated and suffers more.
I think that any change in his way of living would bring on a stroke, and
I never should forgive myself if I thought I had shortened his life.
That is the reason why, as long as I have him with me, I do not see that
it will be possible for me to dispose of myself. On the other hand, I do
not wish to abuse your patience. I therefore ask you to take back your
liberty and give me back my promise."
"That is to say, you won't have me!" he exclaimed.
"No; my poor friend, it means only that I shall not marry so long as my
father is living, and that I can not ask you to wait until I am perfectly
free. Forgive me for having entered into the engagement too carelessly,
and do not on that account take your friendship from me."
"Reine," interrupted Claudet, angrily, "don't turn your brain inside out
to make me believe that night is broad day. I am not a child, and I see
very well that your father's health is only a pretext. You don't want
me, that's all, and, with all due respect, you have changed your mind
very quickly! Only the day before yesterday you authorized me to arrange
about the day for the ceremony with the Abbe Pernot. Now that you have
had a visit from the cure, you want to put the affair off until the week
when two Sundays come together! I am a little curious to know what that
confounded old abbe has been babbling about me, to turn you inside out
like a glove in such a short time."
Claudet's conscience reminded him of several rare frolics, chance love-
affairs, meetings in the woods, and so on, and he feared the priest might
have told Reine some unfavorable stories about him. "Ah!" he continued,
clenching his fists, "if this old poacher in a cassock has done me an ill
turn with you, he will not have much of a chance for paradise!"
"Undeceive yourself," said Reine, quickly, "Monsieur le Cure is your
friend, like myself; he esteems you highly, and never has said anything
but good of you."
"Oh, indeed!" sneered the young man, "as you are both so fond of me, how
does it happen that you have given me my dismissal the very day after
your interview with the cure?"
Reine, knowing Claudet's violent disposition, and wishing to avoid
trouble for the cure, thought it advisable to have recourse to evasion.
"Monsieur le Cure," said she, "has had no part in my decision. He has
not spoken against you, and deserves no reproaches from you."
"In that case, why do you send me away?"
"I repeat again, the comfort and peace of my father are paramount with
me, and I do not intend to marry so long as he may have need of me."
"Well," said Claudet, persistently, "I love you, and I will wait."
"It can not be."
"Why?"
"Because," replied she, sharply, "because it would be kind neither to
you, nor to my father, nor to me. Because marriages that drag along in
that way are never good for anything!"
"Those are bad reasons!" he muttered, gloomily.
"Good or bad," replied the young girl, "they appear valid to me, and I
hold to them."
"Reine," said he, drawing near to her and looking straight into her eyes,
"can you swear, by the head of your father, that you have given me the
true reason for your rejecting me?"
She became embarrassed, and remained silent.
"See!" he exclaimed, "you dare not take the oath!"
"My word should suffice," she faltered.
"No; it does not suffice. But your silence says a great deal, I tell
you! You are too frank, Reine, and you don't know how to lie. I read it
in your eyes, I do. The true reason is that you do not love me."