Mysteries of Paris Volume II Part 35

"My dear marquis," cried Rudolph, "our enemies are unlucky; thanks to them, we are only the more intimate from the past. You never have more justly appreciated Madame d'Harville: she has never been more devoted to you; acknowledge that we are well avenged of the envious and wicked. That will answer while waiting for something better, for I divine from whence this came, and I am not accustomed to suffer patiently the injuries done to my friends. But this regards me. Adieu, madame; here is our _intrigue_ discovered; you will no longer be alone in a.s.sisting your _protegees_: be a.s.sured we will get up some new mysterious enterprise, which the marquis must be very cunning to discover."

After having accompanied the prince to his carriage, to thank him again, the marquis retired to his own apartments without seeing Clemence again.

CHAPTER XI.

REFLECTIONS.

It would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and contrary sentiments which agitated D'Harville when he found himself alone. He acknowleged with joy the falsity of the accusation against Rudolph and Clemence, but he was also convinced that he must renounce the hope of being loved by her. The more in her conversation with Rudolph Clemence had shown herself courageous and resolute to do good, the more he bitterly reproached himself for having, with guilty egotism, linked this unhappy lady to his fate. Far from being consoled from the conversation he had just heard, he fell into a state of sadness, of inexpressible despondency. There is in a life of opulence without employment this terrible disadvantage: nothing turns its attention, nothing protects the mind from brooding on its sorrows, on itself.

Never being compelled to occupy itself with the necessities of the future, or the labors of each day, it remains entirely a prey to great mental afflictions. Being able to possess all that gold can procure, it desires or regrets violently that which gold alone cannot procure.

The grief of D'Harville was desperate; for, after all, he desired nothing but what was just and lawful.

To transports of vain anger succeeded a feeling of gloomy dejection.

"Oh!" cried he, at once softened and cast down, "it is my fault, my fault! poor unhappy woman, I have deceived her, unworthily deceived her! She can, she ought to hate me; and yet, just now, again she evinced the most touching interest for me; but, instead of contenting myself with that, my foolish pa.s.sions have carried me away. I became tender; I have spoken to her of my love, and hardly had my lips touched her hand, than she trembled with affright. If I could still have had any doubt of the invincible repugnance with which I inspire her, what she has just now said to the prince leaves me no illusion.

Oh! it is frightful--frightful!

"And by what right did she confide to him this hideous secret? it is an unworthy betrayal of confidence? By what right? Alas! by the same right as prisoners have to complain of their executioner. Poor girl!

so young and lovely, all that she could find to say that was cruel against the horrible fate to which I have doomed her, is that such was not the lot she had dreamed of, and that she was very young to renounce love! I know Clemence; the word she has given me, which she has given to the prince, she will henceforth keep; she will be for me the most affectionate sister. Well! my position is not worthy of envy!

to the cold and constrained feeling which existed between us, are going to succeed the most affectionate and the kindest relations, while she might have continued to treat me with a frozen contempt, without my daring to complain. Another torture! How I have suffered, my G.o.d! when I thought her guilty!--what terrible agony! But no, this fear is vain; Clemence has sworn not to fail in her duties; she will keep her promises; but at what a price! Just now, when she returned to me with her affectionate words, how her sad, soft, melancholy smile caused me pain! How much this return to her executioner must have cost her! Poor woman, how handsome she looked! For the first time I felt acute remorse, for until then her haughty coldness was her revenge.

Oh, unfortunate man, unfortunate man that I am!"

After a long sleepless night of bitter reflections, the agitation of D'Harville ceased as by enchantment.

He awaited the day with impatience. As soon as it was morning, he rang for his valet, old Joseph. On entering the room, the latter heard his master, to his great astonishment, humming a hunting-song, a sign, as rare as it was sure, of D'Harville's good-humor.

"Ah!" said the faithful servant, quite softened, "what a good voice your lordship has! what a shame you do not sing oftener!" "Really, Joseph, have I a good voice?" said D'Harville, laughing.

"My lord might have a voice as hoa.r.s.e as an owl or a rattle, I should still think he had a good voice."

"Hold your tongue, flatterer!"

"When your lordship sings, it is a sign you are contented; and then your voice appears to me the most charming music in the world."

"In that case, Joseph, learn to open your long ears."

"What do you say?"

"You can enjoy this charming music every day."

"You will be happy every day, my lord?" cried Joseph, clasping his hands with astonished delight.

"Every day, my old Joseph! happy every day. Yes, no more sorrow--no more sadness. I can tell this to you, who are sole and discreet confidant of all my sorrows! I am overjoyed with happiness! My wife is an angel of goodness! she has asked pardon for her past coldness, attributing it to--can you guess?--to jealousy!"

"To jealousy?"

"Yes; absurd suspicions, caused by anonymous letters."

"What indignity!"

"You comprehend? women have so much self-love! It needed nothing more to separate us; but, happily, last night we had an explanation. I undeceived her; to tell you of her joy would be impossible; for she loves me! oh, how she loves me! Thus, this cruel separation has ceased; judge of my joy!"

"Can it be true?" cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. "Then, my lord, you are forever happy, since the love of her ladyship was alone wanting, as you have told me."

"And to whom should I have told it, my poor old Joseph? Do you not possess a still more sorrowful secret? But let us not talk of sorrow; the day is too happy. You see, perhaps, I have wept! it is thus, you see, happiness overpowers me! I so little expected it! How weak I am!"

"Yes, yes, my lord can well weep for joy, who has wept so much for sorrow. Hold! am I not acting as you are? Brave tears! I would not part with them for ten years of my life. I have only one fear: it is that I shall hardly be able to keep from throwing myself at my lady's feet the first time I see her."

"Old fool! you are as unreasonable as your master. Now I have a fear that this will not last. I am too happy! what is wanting?"

"Nothing, my lord, absolutely nothing."

"It is on this account I am mistrustful of happiness so perfect--so complete!"

"Alas! if it was not for--but no, I dare not."

"I understand you: well, believe your fears are vain; the change that my happiness causes me is so great, so profound, that I am almost sure of being saved."

"How is that?"

"My physician has told me a hundred times, that often a violent mental shock sufficed to induce or cure my malady. Why should not emotions of happiness produce the same effect?"

"If you believe this, my lord, it will be so--it is so--you are cured!

Why this is, indeed, a blessed day! Ah! as you say, her ladyship is a good angel descended from heaven; and I begin to be almost alarmed myself; it is, perhaps, too much felicity for one day; but I must think--if to rea.s.sure you it only needs a small sorrow--I have it!"

"How?"

"One of your friends has received, very fortunately and seasonably, as it happens, a sword cut--not at all serious, it is true; but no matter, it is enough to make you a little sorry, that there may be, as you desire it, a little trouble on this happy day. It is true, that in regard to that, it had been better if the thrust had been more dangerous; but we must be contented as it is."

"Will you be quiet? Of whom do you speak?"

"Of his grace the Duke of Lucenay. He is wounded! a scratch on the arm. He came yesterday to see you, and he said he would come this morning and ask for a cup of tea."

"Poor Lucenay! why did you not tell me?"

"Last night I was not able to see my lord."

After a moment's thought, D'Harville replied, "You are right; this light sorrow will doubtless satisfy jealous destiny. But an idea has just struck me; I have a mind to have this morning a bachelor breakfast, all friends of M. de Lucenay, to congratulate him on the happy result of his duel: he will be enchanted."

"Joy forever! Make up lost time. How many covers, so that I can give the orders?"

"Six, in the little winter breakfast parlor."

"And the invitations?"

"I will go and write them. A man from the stables can take them round on horseback. It is early; they will all be found at home. Ring."