Books: Monsieur de Camors, v2
O >>
Octave Feuillet >> Monsieur de Camors, v2
Pages:
1 | 2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7
The old man consulted quickly with Madame de Tecle, who found she had not
in her country pharmacy the necessary remedies, or counter-irritants,
which the urgency of the case demanded. The doctor was obliged to
content himself with the essence of coffee, which the servant was ordered
to prepare in haste, and to send to the village for the other things
needed.
"To the village!" cried Madame de Tecle. "Good heavens! it is four
leagues--it is night, and we shall have to wait probably three or four
hours!"
Camors heard this: "Doctor, write your prescription," he said: "Trilby is
at the door, and with him I can do the four leagues in an hour--in one
hour I promise to return here."
"Oh! thank you, Monsieur!" said Madame de Tecle.
He took the prescription which Dr. Durocher had rapidly traced on a leaf
of his pocketbook, mounted his horse, and departed.
The highroad was fortunately not far distant. When he reached it he rode
like the phantom horseman.
It was nine o'clock when Madame de Tecle witnessed his departure--it was
a few moments after ten when she heard the tramp of his horse at the foot
of the hill and ran to the door of the hut. The condition of the two
children seemed to have grown worse in the interval, but the old doctor
had great hopes in the remedies which Camors was to bring. She waited
with impatience, and received him like the dawn of the last hope. She
contented herself with pressing his hand, when, breathless, he descended
from his horse. But this adorable creature threw herself on Trilby, who
was covered with foam and steaming like a furnace.
"Poor Trilby," she said, embracing him in her two arms, "dear Trilby--
good Trilby! you are half dead, are you not? But I love you well. Go
quickly, Monsieur de Camors, I will attend to Trilby"--and while the
young man entered the cabin, she confided Trilby to the charge of her
servant, with orders to take him to the stable, and a thousand minute
directions to take good care of him after his noble conduct.
Dr. Durocher had to obtain the aid of Camors to pass the new medicine
through the clenched teeth of the unfortunate children. While both were
engaged in this work, Madame de Tecle was sitting on a stool with her
head resting against the cabin wall. Durocher suddenly raised his eyes
and fixed them on her.
"My dear Madame," he said, "you are ill. You have had too much
excitement, and the odors here are insupportable. You must go home."
"I really do not feel very well," she murmured.
"You must go at once. We shall send you the news. One of your servants
will take you home."
She raised herself, trembling; but one look from the young wife of the
sabot-maker arrested her. To this poor woman, it seemed that Providence
deserted her with Madame de Tecle.
"No!" she said with a divine sweetness; "I will not go. I shall only
breathe a little fresh air. I will remain until they are safe, I promise
you;" and she left the room smiling upon the poor woman. After a few
minutes, Durocher said to M. de Camors:
"My dear sir, I thank you--but I really have no further need of your
services; so you too may go and rest yourself, for you also are growing
pale."
Camors, exhausted by his long ride, felt suffocated by the atmosphere of
the hut, and consented to the suggestion of the old man, saying that he
would not go far.
As he put his foot outside of the cottage, Madame de Tecle, who was
sitting before the door, quickly rose and threw over his shoulders a
cloak which they had brought for her. She then reseated herself without
speaking.
"But you can not remain here all night," he said.
"I should be too uneasy at home."
"But the night is very cold--shall I make you a fire?"
"If you wish," she said.
"Let us see where we can make this little fire. In the midst of this
wood it is impossible--we should have a conflagration to finish the
picture. Can you walk?
"Then take my arm, and we shall go and search for a place for our
encampment."
She leaned lightly on his arm, and took a few steps with him toward the
forest.
"Do you think they are saved?" she asked.
"I hope so," he replied. "The face of Doctor Durocher is more cheerful."
"Oh! how glad I am!"
Both of them stumbled over a root, and laughed like two children for
several minutes.
"We shall soon be in the woods," said Madame de Tecle, "and I declare I
can go no farther: good or bad, I choose this spot."
They were still quite close to the hut, but the branches of the old trees
which had been spared by the axe spread like a sombre dome over their
heads. Near by was a large rock, slightly covered with moss, and a
number of old trunks of trees, on which Madame de Tecle took her seat.
"Nothing could be better," said Camors, gayly. "I must collect my
materials."
A moment after he reappeared, bringing in his arms brushwood, and also a
travelling-rug which his servant had brought him.
He got on his knees in front of the rock, prepared the fagots, and
lighted them with a match. When the flame began to flicker on the rustic
hearth Madame de Tecle trembled with joy, and held out both hands to the
blaze.
"Ah! how nice that is!" she said; "and then it is so amusing; one would
say we had been shipwrecked.
"Now, Monsieur, if you would be perfect go and see what Durocher reports."
He ran to the hut. When he returned he could not avoid stopping half way
to admire the elegant and simple silhouette of the young woman, defined
sharply against the blackness of the wood, her fine countenance slightly.
illuminated by the firelight. The moment she saw him:
"Well!" she cried.
"A great deal of hope."
"Oh! what happiness, Monsieur!" She pressed his hand.
"Sit down there," she said.
He sat down on a rock contiguous to hers, and replied to her eager
questions. He repeated, in detail, his conversation with the doctor, and
explained at length the properties of belladonna. She listened at first
with interest, but little by little, with her head wrapped in her veil
and resting on the boughs interlaced behind her, she seemed to be
uncomfortably resting from fatigue.
"You are likely to fall asleep there," he said, laughing.
"Perhaps!" she murmured--smiled, and went to sleep.
Her sleep resembled death, it was so profound, and so calm was the
beating of her heart, so light her breathing.
Camors knelt down again by the fire, to listen breathlessly and to gaze
upon her. From time to time he seemed to meditate, and the solitude was
disturbed only by the rustling of the leaves. His eyes followed the
flickering of the flame, sometimes resting on the white cheek, sometimes
on the grove, sometimes on the arches of the high trees, as if he wished
to fix in his memory all the details of this sweet scene. Then his gaze
rested again on the young woman, clothed in her beauty, grace, and
confiding repose.
What heavenly thoughts descended at that moment on this sombre soul--what
hesitation, what doubt assailed it! What images of peace, truth, virtue,
and happiness passed into that brain full of storm, and chased away the
phantoms of the sophistries he cherished! He himself knew, but never
told.
The brisk crackling of the wood awakened her. She opened her eyes in
surprise, and as soon as she saw the young man kneeling before her,
addressed him:
"How are they now, Monsieur?"
He did not know how to tell her that for the last hour he had had but one
thought, and that was of her. Durocher appeared suddenly before them.
"They are saved, Madame," said the old man, brusquely; "come quickly,
embrace them, and return home, or we shall have to treat you to-morrow.
You are very imprudent to have remained in this damp wood, and it was
absurd of Monsieur to let you do so."
She took the arm of the old doctor, smiling, and reentered the hut. The
two children, now roused from the dangerous torpor, but who seemed still
terrified by the threatened death, raised their little round heads. She
made them a sign to keep quiet, and leaned over their pillow smiling upon
them, and imprinted two kisses on their golden curls.
"To-morrow, my angels," she said. But the mother, half laughing, half
crying, followed Madame de Tecle step by step, speaking to her, and
kissing her garments.
"Let her alone," cried the old doctor, querulously. "Go home, Madame.
Monsieur de Camors, take her home."
She was going out, when the man, who had not before spoken, and who was
sitting in the corner of his but as if stupefied, rose suddenly, seized
the arm of Madame de Tecle, who, slightly terrified, turned round, for
the gesture of the man was so violent as to seem menacing; his eyes, hard
and dry, were fixed upon her, and he continued to press her arm with a
contracted hand.
"My friend!" she said, although rather uncertain.
"Yes, your friend," muttered the man with a hollow voice; "yes, your
friend."
He could not continue, his mouth worked as if in a convulsion, suppressed
weeping shook his frame; he then threw himself on his knees, and they saw
a shower of tears force themselves through the hands clasped over his
face.
"Take her away, Monsieur," said the old doctor.
Camors gently pushed her out of the but and followed her. She took his
arm and descended the rugged path which led to her home.
It was a walk of twenty minutes from the wood. Half the distance was
passed without interchanging a word. Once or twice, when the rays of the
moon pierced through the clouds, Camors thought he saw her wipe away a
tear with the end of her glove. He guided her cautiously in the
darkness, although the light step of the young woman was little slower in
the obscurity. Her springy step pressed noiselessly the fallen leaves--
avoided without assistance the ruts and marshes, as if she had been
endowed with a magical clairvoyance. When they reached a crossroad, and
Camors seemed uncertain, she indicated the way by a slight pressure of
the arm. Both were no doubt embarrassed by the long silence--it was
Madame de Tecle who first broke it.
"You have been very good this evening, Monsieur," she said in a low and
slightly agitated voice.
"I love you so much!" said the young man.
He pronounced these simple words in such a deep impassioned tone that
Madame de Tecle trembled and stood still in the road.
"Monsieur de Camors!"
"What, Madame?" he demanded, in a strange tone.
"Heavens!--in fact-nothing!" said she, "for this is a declaration of
friendship, I suppose--and your friendship gives me much pleasure."
He let go her arm at once, and in a hoarse and angry voice said--
"I am not your friend!"
"What are you then, Monsieur?"
Her voice was calm, but she recoiled a few steps, and leaned against one
of the trees which bordered the road. The explosion so long pent up
burst forth, and a flood of words poured from the young man's lips with
inexpressible impetuosity.
"What I am I know not! I no longer know whether I am myself--if I am
dead or alive--if I am good or bad--whether I am dreaming or waking. Oh,
Madame, what I wish is that the day may never rise again--that this night
would never finish--that I should wish to feel always--always--in my
head, my heart, my entire being--that which I now feel, near you--of you
--for you! I should wish to be stricken with some sudden illness,
without hope, in order to be watched and wept for by you, like those
children--and to be embalmed in your tears; and to see you bowed down in
terror before me is horrible to me! By the name of your God, whom you
have made me respect, I swear you are sacred to me--the child in the arms
of its mother is not more so!"
"I have no fear," she murmured.
"Oh, no!--have no fear!" he repeated in a tone of voice infinitely
softened and tender. "It is I who am afraid--it is I who tremble--you
see it; for since I have spoken, all is finished. I expect nothing more
--I hope for nothing--this night has no possible tomorrow. I know it.
Your husband I dare not be--your lover I should not wish to be. I ask
nothing of you--understand well! I should like to burn my heart at your
feet, as on an altar--this is all. Do you believe me? Answer! Are you
tranquil? Are you confident? Will you hear me? May I tell you what
image I carry of you in the secret recesses of my heart? Dear creature
that you are, you do not--ah, you do not know how great is your worth;
and I fear to tell you; so much am I afraid of stripping you of your
charms, or of one of your virtues. If you had been proud of yourself,
as you have a right to be, you would be less perfect, and I should love
you less. But I wish to tell you how lovable and how charming you are.
You alone do not know it. You alone do not see the soft flame of your
large eyes--the reflection of your heroic soul on your young but serene
brow. Your charm is over everything you do--your slightest gesture is
engraven on my heart. Into the most ordinary duties of every-day life
you carry a peculiar grace, like a young priestess who recites her daily
devotions. Your hand, your touch, your breath purifies everything--even
the most humble and the most wicked beings--and myself first of all!
"I am astonished at the words which I dare to pronounce, and the
sentiments which animate me, to whom you have made clear new truths.
Yes, all the rhapsodies of the poets, all the loves of the martyrs,
I comprehend in your presence. This is truth itself. I understand those
who died for their faith by the torture--because I should like to suffer
for you--because I believe in you--because I respect you--I cherish you--
I adore you!"
He stopped, shivering, and half prostrating himself before her, seized
the end of her veil and kissed it.
"Now," he continued, with a kind of grave sadness, "go, Madame, I have
forgotten too long that you require repose. Pardon me--proceed. I shall
follow you at a distance, until you reach your home, to protect you--but
fear nothing from me."
Madame de Tecle had listened, without once interrupting him even by a
sigh. Words would only excite the young man more. Probably she
understood, for the first time in her life, one of those songs of love--
one of those hymns alive with passion, which every woman wishes to hear
before she dies. Should she die because she had heard it? She remained
without speaking, as if just awakening from a dream, and said quite
simply, in a voice as soft and feeble as a sigh, "My God!" After another
pause she advanced a few steps on the road.
"Give me your arm as far as my house, Monsieur," she said.
He obeyed her, and they continued their walk toward the house, the lights
of which they soon saw. They did not exchange a word--only as they
reached the gate, Madame de Tecle turned and made him a slight gesture
with her hand, in sign of adieu. In return, M. de Camors bowed low, and
withdrew.
CHAPTER X
THE PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY
The Comte de Camors had been sincere. When true passion surprises the
human soul, it breaks down all resolves, sweeps away all logic, and
crushes all calculations.
In this lies its grandeur, and also its danger. It suddenly seizes on
you, as the ancient god inspired the priestess on her tripod--speaks
through your lips, utters words you hardly comprehend, falsifies your
thoughts, confounds your reason, and betrays your secrets. When this
sublime madness possesses you, it elevates you--it transfigures you.
It can suddenly convert a common man into a poet, a coward into a hero,
an egotist into a martyr, and Don Juan himself into an angel of purity.
With women--and it is to their honor--this metamorphosis can be durable,
but it is rarely so with men. Once transported to this stormy sky, women
frankly accept it as their proper home, and the vicinity of the thunder
does not disquiet them.
Passion is their element--they feel at home there. There are few women
worthy of the name who are not ready to put in action all the words which
passion has caused to bubble from their lips. If they speak of flight,
they are ready for exile. If they talk of dying, they are ready for
death. Men are far less consistent with their ideas.
It was not until late the next morning that Camors regretted his outbreak
of sincerity; for, during the remainder of the night, still filled with
his excitement, agitated and shaken by the passage of the god, sunk into
a confused and feverish reverie, he was incapable of reflection. But
when, on awakening, he surveyed the situation calmly and by the plain
light of day, and thought over the preceding evening and its events, he
could not fail to recognize the fact that he had been cruelly duped by
his own nervous system. To love Madame de Tecle was perfectly proper,
and he loved her still--for she was a person to be loved and desired--
but to elevate that love or any other as the master of his life, instead
of its plaything, was one of those weaknesses interdicted by his system
more than any other. In fact, he felt that he had spoken and acted like
a school-boy on a holiday. He had uttered words, made promises, and
taken engagements on himself which no one demanded of him. No conduct
could have been more ridiculous. Happily, nothing was lost. He had yet
time to give his love that subordinate place which this sort of fantasy
should occupy in the life of man. He had been imprudent; but this very
imprudence might finally prove of service to him. All that remained of
this scene was a declaration--gracefully made, spontaneous, natural--
which subjected Madame de Tecle to the double charm of a mystic idolatry
which pleased her sex, and to a manly ardor which could not displease
her.
He had, therefore, nothing to regret--although he certainly would have
preferred, from the point of view of his principles, to have displayed a
somewhat less childish weakness.
But what course should he now adopt? Nothing could be more simple. He
would go to Madame de Tecle--implore her forgiveness--throw himself again
at her feet, promising eternal respect, and succeed. Consequently, about
ten o'clock, M. de Camors wrote the following note:
"MADAME
"I can not leave without bidding you adieu, and once more demanding
your forgiveness.
"Will you permit me?
"CAMORS."
This letter he was about despatching, when he received one containing the
following words:
"I shall be happy, Monsieur, if you will call upon me to-day, about
four o'clock.
"ELISE DE TECLE."
Upon which M. de Camors threw his own note in the fire, as entirely
superfluous.
No matter what interpretation he put upon this note, it was an evident
sign that love had triumphed and that virtue was defeated; for, after
what had passed the previous evening between Madame de Tecle and himself,
there was only one course for a virtuous woman to take; and that was
never to see him again. To see him was to pardon him; to pardon him was
to surrender herself to him, with or without circumlocution. Camors did
not allow himself to deplore any further an adventure which had so
suddenly lost its gravity. He soliloquized on the weakness of women.
He thought it bad taste in Madame de Tecle not to have maintained longer
the high ideal his innocence had created for her. Anticipating the
disenchantment which follows possession, he already saw her deprived of
all her prestige, and ticketed in the museum of his amorous souvenirs.
Nevertheless, when he approached her house, and had the feeling of her
near presence, he was troubled. Doubt--and anxiety assailed him. When
he saw through the trees the window of her room, his heart throbbed so
violently that he had to sit down on the root of a tree for a moment.
"I love her like a madman!" he murmured; then leaping up suddenly he
exclaimed, "But she is only a woman, after all--I shall go on!"
For the first time Madame de Tecle received him in her own apartment.
This room M. de Camors had never seen. It was a large and lofty
apartment, draped and furnished in sombre tints.
It contained gilded mirrors, bronzes, engravings, and old family jewelry
lying on tables--the whole presenting the appearance of the ornamentation
of a church.
In this severe and almost religious interior, however rich, reigned a
vague odor of flowers; and there were also to be seen boxes of lace,
drawers of perfumed linen, and that dainty atmosphere which ever
accompanies refined women.
But every one has her personal individuality, and forms her own
atmosphere which fascinates her lover. Madame de Tecle, finding herself
almost lost in this very large room, had so arranged some pieces of
furniture as to make herself a little private nook near the chimneypiece,
which her daughter called, "My mother's chapel." It was there Camors now
perceived her, by the soft light of a lamp, sitting in an armchair, and,
contrary to her custom, having no work in her hands. She appeared calm,
though two dark circles surrounded her eyes. She had evidently suffered
much, and wept much.
On seeing that dear face, worn and haggard with grief, Camors forgot the
neat phrases he had prepared for his entrance. He forgot all except that
he really adored her.
He advanced hastily toward her, seized in his two hands those of the
young woman and, without speaking, interrogated her eyes with tenderness
and profound pity.
"It is nothing," she said, withdrawing her hand and bending her pale face
gently; "I am better; I may even be very happy, if you wish it."
There was in the smile, the look, and the accent of Madame de Tecle
something indefinable, which froze the blood of Camors.
He felt confusedly that she loved him, and yet was lost to him; that he
had before him a species of being he did not understand, and that this
woman, saddened, broken, and lost by love, yet loved something else in
this world better even than that love.
She made him a slight sign, which he obeyed like a child, and he sat down
beside her.
"Monsieur," she said to him, in a voice tremulous at first, but which
grew stronger as she proceeded, "I heard you last night perhaps with a
little too much patience. I shall now, in return, ask from you the same
kindness. You have told me that you love me, Monsieur; and I avow
frankly that I entertain a lively affection for you. Such being the
case, we must either separate forever, or unite ourselves by the only tie
worthy of us both. To part:--that will afflict me much, and I also
believe it would occasion much grief to you. To unite ourselves:--for my
own part, Monsieur, I should be willing to give you my life; but I can
not do it, I can not wed you without manifest folly. You are younger
than I; and as good and generous as I believe you to be, simple reason
tells me that by so doing I should bring bitter repentance on myself.
But there is yet another reason. I do not belong to myself, I belong to
my daughter, to my family, to my past. In giving up my name for yours I
should wound, I should cruelly afflict, all the friends who surround me,
and, I believe, some who exist no longer. Well, Monsieur," she
continued, with a smile of celestial grace and resignation, "I have
discovered a way by which we yet can avoid breaking off an intimacy so
sweet to both of us--in fact, to make it closer and more dear. My
proposal may surprise you, but have the kindness to think over it,
and do not say no, at once."
She glanced at him, and was terrified at the pallor which overspread his
face. She gently took his hand, and said:
"Have patience!"
"Speak on!" he muttered, hoarsely.
"Monsieur," she continued, with her smile of angelic charity, "God be
praised, you are quite young; in our society men situated as you are do
not marry early, and I think they are right. Well, then, this is what I
wish to do, if you will allow me to tell you. I wish to blend in one
affection the two strongest sentiments of my heart! I wish to
concentrate all my care, all my tenderness, all my joy on forming a wife
worthy of you--a young soul who will make you happy, a cultivated
intellect of which you can be proud. I will promise you, Monsieur, I
will swear to you, to consecrate to you this sweet duty, and to
consecrate to it all that is best in myself. I shall devote to it all my
time, every instant of my life, as to the holy work of a saint. I swear
to you that I shall be very happy if you will only tell me that you will
consent to this."
His answer was an impatient exclamation of irony and anger: then he
spoke:
"You will pardon me, Madame," he said, "if so sudden a change in my
sentiments can not be as prompt as you wish."
She blushed slightly.
"Yes," she said, with a faint smile; "I can understand that the idea of
my being your mother-in-law may seem strange to you; but in some years,
even in a very few years' time, I shall be an old woman, and then it will
seem to you very natural."
To consummate her mournful sacrifice, the poor woman did not shrink from
covering herself, even in the presence of the man she loved, with the
mantle of old age.
Pages:
1 | 2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7