The Mysteries Of Paris Volume Iii Part 26

This infamous concoction was put into the post by Sarah herself, about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her interview with the notary.

On this same day, after having given renewed directions to M. de Graun to expedite the arrival of Cecily in Paris by every means in his power, Rodolph prepared to pa.s.s the evening with the Amba.s.sadress of ----, and on his return to call on Madame d'Harville, for the purpose of informing her he had found a charitable intrigue worthy even of her cooperation.

We shall now conduct our readers to the hotel of Madame d'Harville. The following dialogue will abundantly prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of Madame d'Harville had already determined to practise the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by Rodolph. The marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner-table, and the scene we are about to describe took place in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. The features of Clemence wore an expression of kindness almost amounting to tenderness, and even M. d'Harville appeared less sad and dejected than usual. It only remains to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor.

"What are your arrangements for this evening?" inquired M. d'Harville, almost mechanically, of his wife.

"I have no intention of going out. And what are your own plans?"

"I hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. "I feel more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and I shall pa.s.s my evening, as I have pa.s.sed many others, alone."

"Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out?"

M. d'Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to comprehend her. "I am aware," said he, "that you mentioned your intention to pa.s.s this evening at home; still, I--"

"Pray go on, my lord."

"I did not imagine you would choose to have your solitude broken in upon. I believe you have always expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive company?"

"Perhaps I may have done so," said Clemence, with a smile; "but let me, for once, plead my s.e.x's privilege of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of astonishing you by my caprice, I will own that I should greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you,--that is, if it would be quite agreeable to you."

"Oh, how very good of you," exclaimed M. d'Harville, with much delight, "thus to antic.i.p.ate my most ardent desire, which I durst not have requested had you not so kindly encouraged me!"

"Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach to me."

"A reproach! Oh, not for worlds would I have you so understand me! But to find you so kindly considerate, so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying and delightful sort."

"Come, come, my lord," said Madame d'Harville, with a smile of heavenly sweetness, "let the past be for ever forgotten between us."

"Can you, Clemence," said M. d'Harville, "can you bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated violence I now shudder to think of?

Still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable wrong I have done you?"

"Again I say," returned Clemence, making a violent effort to command herself, "let us forget the past."

"What do I hear? Can you,--oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and forget all the past?"

"I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed."

"Oh, Clemence! Can you, indeed, be so generous? But no, no,--I dare not hope it! I have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever be mine."

"And now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion."

"But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream? Speak to me, Clemence! Tell me I am not deceiving myself,--that all is not mere illusion! Speak! Say that I may trust my senses!"

"Indeed you may; I mean all I have said."

"And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your eye,--your manner is less cold,--your voice tremulous. Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? Or am I the sport of some illusion?"

"Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness."

"You, Clemence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what, or wherefore?"

"Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel, towards you? Ought I not to have remembered that it required a more than ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did,--a virtue more than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others! Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have not trusted in vain."

"Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such heavenly words!"

exclaimed M. d'Harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. "Let me again hear you p.r.o.nounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence were opening upon me."

"Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us.

Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been."

"Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clemence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?"

"Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed, your reluctance to credit my a.s.sertions grieves me more than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct!

Ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults rise up in judgment against me; but with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me how to repair my past errors."

"Your errors, my poor injured Clemence! Alas, you were not to blame!"

"Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day following our marriage,--"

"Clemence, for pity's sake no more!"

"Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. Under the circ.u.mstances in which I was placed, instead of allowing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten everything but the severe affliction under which you laboured. By degrees I should have become attached to my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary duty; for which your grateful appreciation would have been a rich reward. I might, at last--But what ails you, my lord? Are you ill? Surely you are weeping!"

"But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my heart! Heed not my tears, beloved Clemence; trust me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I seem so guilty in my own eyes as I now appear, for having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine!"

"And never did I find myself more disposed to forget the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion; the sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to me a source of happiness. .h.i.therto unknown to me. Courage! Courage! Let us, in place of that bright and prosperous life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoyment in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us. Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn to our child, and make her the depositary of all our affections. Thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfailing store of holy, of tranquil joys."

"Sure, 'tis some angel speaks!" cried M. d'Harville, contemplating his wife with impa.s.sioned looks. "Oh, Clemence, you little know the pleasure and the pain you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed me--your hardest word or most merited rebuke never touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment. Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within me. I dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future which suggests itself to my imagination."

"Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say, Albert! I declare to you, by all that is sacred and solemn, that I have firmly taken the resolution I spoke of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word and deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you further pledges of my truth."

"Pledges!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, more and more excited by a happiness so wholly unlocked for. "What need have I of any pledges? Do not your look, your tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own heart, all convince me of the truth of your words? But, Clemence, man, you know, is a creature not easily satisfied; and," added the marquis, approaching his wife's chair, "your n.o.ble, generous conduct inspires me with the boldness, the courage, to hope--to hope,--yes, Clemence, to venture to hope for that which, only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse than madness to presume to think of."

"For mercy's sake, explain yourself!" said Clemence, alarmed at the impa.s.sioned words and glances of her husband.

"Yes," cried he, seizing her hand, "yes, by dint of tender, untiring, unwearied love,--Clemence, do you understand me?--I say, by dint of love such as mine I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I dare to antic.i.p.ate being loved by you,--not with a cold, lukewarm regard, but with a pa.s.sion ardent as my own for you. Ah, you know not the real nature of such a love as I would inspire you with! Alas! I never even dared to breathe it in your ears,--so frigid, so repulsive were you to me. Never did you bestow on me a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now, when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness; and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the pa.s.sionate ardour of my love for you. Oh, Clemence, when you will let me only tell you half I have suffered,--how I have writhed in despairing anguish at your coldness, your disdain, how I have watched and sighed in vain for one encouraging glance,--you will own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, I am inferior to none. Whence arose that melancholy, that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? Can you not guess the cause? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Clemence, to that overwhelming dread was owing the sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the desponding gloom, which excited so many different conjectures. Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of my heart's idolatry, was my own,--legally, irrevocably mine,--dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more completely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the opposite parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my bitter tears, reached not you; or, I feel almost persuaded, they would have moved even you to pity me. And now it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings, and have come, like an angel of goodness as you are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be doomed to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your graceful beauty; no more shall I account myself most blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body, alas! I am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indisputably mine! Will it not, dear Clemence? Speak to me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward of all I have so long endured!"

As M. d'Harville uttered these last words, he seized the hand of his wife, and covered it with pa.s.sionate kisses; while Clemence, much grieved at the mistake her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdrawing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. And the expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke her feelings, that M.

d'Harville saw at once the fearful error he had committed. The blow fell with redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately conjured up. A look of intense agony replaced the bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little while since, when Madame d'Harville, eagerly extending her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone:

"Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as the most tender and affectionate sister,--but nothing more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if, inadvertently, my words have inspired you with hopes which can never be realised."

"Never?" exclaimed M. d'Harville, fixing on his wife a look of despairing entreaty.

"Never!" answered she. The single word, with the tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the irrevocable decision Clemence had formed.

Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her n.o.bleness of character, Madame d'Harville had firmly resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and affectionate attention; but to love him she felt utterly out of her power; and to this immutable resolution she was driven by a power more forcible than either fear, contempt, or even dislike,--it was a species of repugnance almost amounting to horror.

After a painful silence of some duration, M. d'Harville pa.s.sed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a voice of bitterness: