The Cross of Berny Part 20

"Very beautiful."

"She is a companion, engaged by my mother to stay here until I marry."

The hidden meaning of this jesting speech seemed to disgust M. de Villiers; he cast upon his friend a severe and scornful look that clearly said: You conceited puppy! I think, but am not certain, this look also signified: Would-be Lovelace! Provincial Don Juan, &c.

At dinner I was placed opposite him, and all during the meal I was wondering why this handsome, elegant, distinguished-looking young man should be nicknamed Don Quixote. Thoughtful observation solved the enigma. Don Quixote was ridiculed for two things: being very ugly and being too generous. And I confess I felt myself immediately fascinated by his captivating characteristics.

After dinner we were on the terrace, when he approached me and said with a smile:

"I am distressed, madame, to think that without knowing you, I must have made a disagreeable impression."

"I confess that you startled me."

"How pale you turned!... perhaps you were expecting some one!" ... He asked this question with a troubled look and such charming anxiety that I answered quickly--too quickly, perhaps:

"No, monsieur, I did not expect any one."

"You saw me coming up the walk?"

"Yes, I saw you coming."

"But was there any reason why I should have caused you this sudden fright!... some resemblance, perhaps?--no?--It is strange ... I am puzzled."

"And I am also very much puzzled, monsieur."

"About me!... What happiness!"

"I wish to know why you are called Don Quixote?"

"Ah! you embarra.s.s me by asking for my great secret, Madame, but I will confide it to you, since you are kind enough to be interested in me. I am called Don Quixote because I am a kind of a fool, an original, an enthusiastic admirer of all n.o.ble and holy things, a dreamer of n.o.ble deeds, a defender of the oppressed, a slayer of egotists; because I believe in all religions, even the religion of love. I think that a man ought to respect himself out of respect to the woman who loves him; that he should constantly think of her with devotion, avoid doing anything that could displease her, and be always, even in her absence, courteous, pleasing, amiable, I would even say _loveable_, if the word were admissible; a man who is beloved is, according to my ridiculous ideas, a sort of dignitary; he should thenceforth behave as if he were an idol, and deify himself as much as possible. I also have my patriotic religion; I love my country like an old member of the National Guard....

My friends say I am a real Vaudeville Frenchman. I reply that it is better to be a real Vaudeville Frenchman than an imitation of English jockeys, as they are; they call me knight-errant because I reprove them for speaking coa.r.s.ely of women. I advise them to keep silent and conceal their misdeeds. I tell them that their boasted preferences only prove their blindness and bad taste; that I am more fortunate than they; all the women of my acquaintance are good and perfect, and my greatest desire in life is to be worthy of their friendship. I am called Don Quixote because I love glory and all those who have the ambition to seek it; because in my eyes there is nothing true but the hopeful future, as we are deceived at every step we take in the present. Because I understand inexplicable disinterestedness, generous folly; because I can understand how one can live for an idea and die for a word; I can sympathize with all who struggle and suffer for a cherished belief; because I have the courage to turn my back upon those whom I despise and am eccentric enough to always speak the truth; I a.s.sert that n.o.body is worth the hypocrisy of a falsehood; because I am an incorrigible, systematic, insatiable dupe; I prefer going astray, making a mistake by doing a good deed, rather than being always distrustful and suspicious; while I see evil I believe in good; doubtless the evil predominates and daily increases, but then it is cultivated, and if the same cultivation were bestowed upon the good perfection would be attained. Finally, madame, and this is my supreme folly, I believe in happiness and seek it with credulous hope; I believe that the purest joys are those which are most dearly bought; but I am ready for any sacrifice, and would willingly give my life for an hour of this sublime joy that I have so long dreamed of and still hope to possess.... Now you know why I am called Don Quixote. To be a knight-errant in the present day is rather difficult; a certain amount of courage is necessary to dare to say to unbelievers: I believe; to egotists, I love; to materialists, I dream; it requires more than courage, it requires audacity and insolence. Yes, one must commence by appearing aggressive in order to have the right to appear generous. If I were merely loyal and charitable, my opinions would not be supported; instead of being called _Don Quixote_, I would be called _Grandison_ ... and I would be a ruined man! Thus I hasten to polish my armor and attack the insolent with insolence, the scoffers with scoffing; I defend my enthusiasm with irony; like the eagle, I let my claws grow in order to defend my wings." ... Here he stopped....

"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "how could I compare myself to an eagle; I beg your pardon, madame, for this presumptuous comparison.... You see to what flights your indulgence leads me" ... and he laughed at his own enthusiasm, ... but I did not laugh, my feelings were too deeply stirred.

Valentine, what I repeat to you is very different from his way of saying it. What eloquence in his n.o.ble words, his tones of voice, his sparkling eyes! His generous sentiments, so long restrained, were poured forth with fire; he was happy at finding himself at last understood, at being able for once in his life to see appreciated the divine treasures of his heart, to be able to impart all his pet ideas without seeing them jeered at and their name insulted! Sympathy inspired him with confidence in me. With delight I recognised myself in his own description. I saw with pride, in his profound convictions, his strong and holy truths, the poetical beliefs of my youth, that have always been treated by every one else as fictions, and foolish illusions; he carried me back to the happy days of my early life, by repeating to me, like an echo of the past, those n.o.ble words that are no longer heard in the present--those n.o.ble precepts--those beautiful refrains of chivalry in which my infancy was cradled.... As I listened I said to myself: how my mother would have loved him! and this thought made my eyes fill with tears. Ah! never, never did such an idea cross my mind when I was with Edgar, or near Roger.... Now you must acknowledge, my dear Valentine, that I am right when I say that: It is he! It is he!

We had been absorbed an hour in these confidential reveries, forgetting the persons around us, the place we were in, who we were ourselves, and the whole world!

The universe had disappeared, leaving us only the delicate perfume of the orange blossoms around us, and the soft light of the stars peeping forth from the sky above us.

We returned to the parlor and I was seated near the centre-table, when Edgar came up to me and said:

"What is the matter with you this evening? You seem depressed; are you not well?"

"I have a slight cold."

"What a tiresome general--he continued--he monopolizes all my evening, ... a tiresome hero is _so_ hard to entertain!"

I forgot to tell you we had a general to dinner.

"Raymond, come here ... it is your turn to keep the warrior awake." ...

M. de Villiers approached the table and began to examine the bouquet I had brought. "Ah! I recognise these flowers!" he looked at me and I blushed. "I do too," said Edgar, without taking in the true sense of the words, and he pointed to the prettiest flowers in the bouquet, and said: "these are the flowers of the _pelargonium diadematum coccineum_."

I exclaimed at the dreadful name. M. de Villiers repeated: "_Pelargonium diadematum coccineum_!" in an undertone, with a most fascinating smile, and said: "Oh! I did not mean that!" ... I could not help looking at him and smiling in complicity; now why should Edgar be so learned?

I suppose you think it very childish to write you these particulars, but the most trifling details of this day are precious to me, and I must confide them to some one. Towards midnight we separated, and I rejoiced at being alone with my happiness. The emotion I felt was so lively that I hastened to carry it far away from everybody, even from him, its author. I wished for solitude that I might ask myself what had caused this agitation--nothing of importance had occurred this day, no word of engagement for the future had been made, and yet my whole life wore a different aspect ... my usually calm heart was throbbing violently--my mind always so uneasy was settled; who had thus changed my fate?... A stranger ... and what had he done to merit this sudden preference? He had picked up some flowers ... But this stranger wore on his brow the aureola of the dreamed-of ideal, his musical voice had the imperative accent of a master, and from the first moment he looked at me, there existed between us that mysterious affinity of fraternal instincts, that spontaneous alliance of two hearts suddenly mated, unfailing grat.i.tude, irresistible sympathy, mutual echo, reciprocal exchange, quick appreciation, ardent and sublime harmony, that creates in one moment--the poets are right--that creates in one moment eternal love!

To restore my tranquillity, I sat down to write to you, but had not the courage to put my thoughts on paper, and I remained there all night, trembling and meditative, oppressed by this powerful emotion; I did not think, I did not pray, I did not live; I loved, and absorbed in loving, taking no note of time, I sat there till daybreak; at five o'clock I heard a noise of rakes and scythes in the garden, and wishing to cool my hot eyes with a breath of fresh air, I descended to the terrace.

Everybody was asleep in the chateau and all the blinds closed, but I opened the gla.s.s door leading into the garden, and after walking up and down the gravel-path, crossed the bridge over the brook, and went by way of the little thicket where I had rested yesterday; I was led by some magnetic attraction to the covered spring; I did not go up the poplar-walk, but took a little by-path seldom used by any one, and almost covered with gra.s.s; I reached the spring, and suddenly ... before me ... I saw him ... Valentine!... he was there alone, ... sitting on the bench by the fountain, with his beautiful eyes fastened on the spot where he had seen me the day before! And oh, the sad wistfulness of his look went straight to my heart! I stood still, happy, yet frightened; I wished to flee; I felt that my presence was a confession, a proof of his empire; I was right when I said he called me and I obeyed the call!...

He looked up and saw me, ... and oh, how pale he turned,... he seemed more alarmed than I had been the day previous! His agitation restored my calmness; it convinced me that during these hours of separation our thoughts had been the same, and that our love was mutual. He arose and approached me, saying:--

"This is your favorite place, madame, and I will not intrude any longer, but before I go you can reward this great sacrifice by a single word: confess frankly that you are not astonished at finding me here?" I was silent, but my blushes answered for me. As he stood there looking at me I heard a noise near us; it was only a deer coming to drink at the spring; but I trembled so violently that M. de Villiers saw by my alarm that it would distress me to be found alone with him; he was moving away, when I made a sign for him to remain, which meant: Stay, and continue to think of me.... I then quickly returned to the chateau. I have seen him since; we pa.s.sed the day together, with Madame de Meilhan and her son, playing on the piano, or entertaining the country neighbors, but under it all enjoying the same fascinating preoccupation, an under-current of bliss, a secret intoxication. Edgar is uneasy and Madame de Meilhan is contented; the serious love of her son alarmed her; she sees with pleasure an increasing rivalry that may destroy it. I know not what is about to happen, but I dread anything unpleasant occurring to interrupt my sweet contentment; any explanations, humiliations, adieux, departures--a thousand annoyances,... but it matters not, I am happy, I am in love, and I know there is nothing so satisfying, so sweet as being in love!

This time I say nothing of yourself, my dear Valentine, of yourself, nor of our old friendship, but is not each word of this letter a proof of tender devotion? I confide to you every thought and emotion of my heart--so foolish that one would dare not confess them to a mother. Is not this the same as saying to you: You are the beloved sister of my choice?

Give my dear little G.o.ddaughter Irene a kiss for me. Oh, I am so glad she is growing prettier every day!

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.

XX.

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR EDGAR DE MEILHAN Richeport, Pont de l'Arche (Eure).

Paris, July 8th 18--.

Dear Edgar,--Stupidity was invented by our s.e.x. When a woman deceives or deserts us,--synonymous transgressions,--we are foolish enough to prolong to infinity our despair, instead of singing with Metastasio--

"Grazie all' inganni tuoi Al fin respir' o Nice!"

Alas! such is man! Women have more pride. If I had deserted Mlle. de Chateaudun she certainly would not have searched the highways and byways to discover me. I fear there is a great deal of vanity at the bottom of our manly pa.s.sions. Vanity is the eldest son of love. I shall develop this theory upon some future occasion. One must be calm when one philosophizes. At present I am obliged to continue in my folly, begging reason to await my return.

In the intense darkness of despair, one naturally rushes towards the horizon where shines some bright object, be it lighthouse, star, phosphorus or jack-o'-lantern. Will it prove a safe haven or a dangerous rock? Fate,--Chance,--to thee we trust!

My faithful agents are ever watchful. I have just received their despatches, and they inspire me with the hope that at last the thick mist is about to be dispersed. I will spare you all the minute details written by faithful servants, who have more sagacity than epistolary style, and give you a synopsis:--Mlle. de Chateaudun left for Rouen a month ago. She engaged two seats in the car. She was seen at the depot--her maid was with her. There is no longer any doubt--Irene is at Rouen; I have proofs of it in my hand.

An old family servant, devoted to me, is living at Rouen. I will make his house the centre of my observations, and will not compromise the result by any negligence or recklessness on part.

The inexorable logic of victorious combinations will be revealed to me on the first night of my solitude. I am about to start; address me no longer at Paris. Railways were invented for the benefit of love affairs.

A lover laid the first rail, and a speculator laid the last. Happily Rouen is a faubourg of Paris! This advantage of rapid locomotion will permit me to pa.s.s two hours at Richeport with you, and have the delight of pressing Raymond's hand. Two hours of my life gained by losing them with my oldest and best friend. I will be overjoyed to once more see the n.o.ble Raymond, the last of knight-errants, doubtless occupied in painting in stone-color some old manor where Queen Blanche has left traditions of the course of true love.

How dreadful it is, dear Edgar, to endeavor to unravel a mystery when a woman is at the bottom of it! Yes, Irene is at Rouen, I am convinced of that fact. Rouen is a large city, full of large houses, small houses, hotels and churches; but love is a grand inquisitor, capable of searching the city in twenty-four hours, and making the receiver of stolen property surrender Mlle. de Chateaudun. Then what will happen?

Have I the right to inst.i.tute a scheme of this strange nature about a young woman? Is she alone at Rouen? And if misfortune does not mislead me by these certain traces, is there anything in reserve for me worse than losing her?

Oh! if such be the case, then is the time to pray G.o.d for strength to repeat the other two verses of the poet:--

"Col mio rival istesso, Posso di te parlar!"