AMAURY, page 19
Amaury met Antoinette on the stairs. On seeing him the young girl was about to turn away, but he seized her hand, drew her gently to him, and kissed her on the forehead.
Antoinette was amazed at his self- possession, and watched him attentively as he disappeared into his own room.
He placed his pistols in the drawer of his writing desk, and put the key into his pocket. Then he dressed for the funeral.
His toilet complete, he went downstairs and came face to face with Monsieur d’Avrigny, who, this night also, had kept watch over his dead child, just as he had watched beside her when alive.
The poor father’s eyes were sunken, his face pale and haggard, and it seemed as if he himself were just risen from the dead. He started back on coming out of Madeleine’s room, dazzled by the bright light of day.
“Already twenty-four hours have passed away,” he said thoughtfully.
Stretching out his hand to Amaury, he looked fixedly at him without speaking; doubtless his thoughts were too deep for words. And yet, since the previous day, he had issued his orders with calmness, and self-possession. According to his instructions, the body of Madeleine, after lying in state in the hall, was to be borne to the Church of his own parish, St. Philippe du Roule; the funeral service was to take place at noon, then the body was to be transferred to Ville d’Auray.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE mourning-coaches arrived at half-past eleven, Monsieur d’Avrigny was in the first coach, alone with the bereaved Amaury, and although custom no longer permits parents to follow the mortal remains of their children, he accompanied his daughter’s body to the church.
The nave, the choir, and the side-chapels were entirely draped in white.
The father and the lover were the only two who followed into the chancel those mortal remains which were so soon to be committed to the earth; the friends, and those assembled out of curiosity, if indeed it be necessary to use different words in order to define two classes of people which so closely resemble each other, the friends and the curious gazers placed themselves in the side-aisles.
The service for the dead was performed with solemn pomp and grandeur.
Thalberg, who was a friend of both Amaury’s and the doctor’s, had offered to preside at the organ, and one can understand that, when this became known, it contributed in no small degree to attract large crowds to the Church.
The three young fellows who had accosted Amaury on the previous day, and who, like himself, intended to go to the Opera in the evening, simply looked upon this service as a second concert in the same day.
Nevertheless, only the father and the lover, of all those present, could fully understand the terrible significance of the words of the funeral service, which found so mournful an echo in their hearts.
Especially did Monsieur d’Avrigny appropriate to himself the interpretation of the saddest texts, and, with a full heart, repeated the sacred words after the priest.
“I will give thee rest, saith the Lord, because thou hast found favour in My sight, and I know thee by thy name.”
“Blessed are they which die in the Lord, for they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them.”
With what zealous fervour did the childless father exclaim: “Oh! Lord God! deliver my life; alas! how long shall mine exile last? I wait, oh, God! that my time shall come; my soul longs for Thee like a parched land for the rain, and as the hart pants after the living waters, so longs my heart after Thee, oh, God.”
The old and the young man were overcome with emotion when the appalling “Dies Irae “rolled out under the master- touch of Thalberg, and thundered up to the vaulted roof; yet the impression which the music produced on each was: utterly different.
Impetuous Amaury felt himself rise superior to this hymn of God’s anger, and it seemed to him a cry from his own overburdened heart. Whilst Monsieur d’Avrigny, utterly crushed, felt the full terror of this righteous anger, and meekly bowed his head under its menace. The lover wove his feeling of despair into the music, and armed with these formidable harmonies, he doomed to nothingness this world where Madeleine no longer had a place.
Let it perish! this world which, now that the sun no longer shines upon it, now that love no longer glorifies it, must for ever remain a desert! let it be destroyed! let it return to chaos. Now appears the supreme Judge, seated upon His throne of thunder, to mete out punishment to all the ungodly and the guilty; Madeleine once gone from this world, then this world becomes a hell!
Less powerfully angered than the young man of twenty-five, the desolate heart of the father trembled before the tremendous canticle, and the outraged majesty of God, which had just absolved his child and would soon pronounce judgment upon him; he now felt himself mean and of no account, he, the haughty, the unbelieving, the sceptic.
Terrified, he probed into the depths of his conscience, and, saw with horror, how full of sins and faults his life had been; and a feeling of fear came over him, not lest God should strike him with His thunders, but lest He should separate him from his child.
But when the psalm of vengeance was succeeded by the one of hope, with what living faith, what anxious fervour, did he lay hold on the sweet promises of Infinite Love, with what tears of repentance did he beseech our merciful Father to forget His justice and only remember His mercy.
Then, when the last sad service was over, Amaury walked out with head erect, as if defying the universe; whereas Monsieur d’Avrigny followed the coffin of his child with bent head, as if to disarm the displeasure of an avenging God.
As we have already said, Madeleine was to be buried at Ville d’Auray; Monsieur d’Avrigny felt that, in a country churchyard, solitary and alone, he would have his darling much more to himself.
But one can understand that the guests, most of whom were the same as those invited to the ball, were not, for the most part, anxious to follow the body to its last resting-place.
Perè-la-Chaise, happily, is only a walk; but Ville d’Auray — why, one would have had to waste a whole day, and a whole day in Paris is of value.
Therefore, as Monsieur d’Avrigny had hoped and foreseen, only three or four intimate friends, amongst whom was Philip Auvray, got into the third mourning coach.
Monsieur d’Avrigny and Amaury were seated in the second, and the priests occupied the first. Neither father nor lover exchanged a single word during the whole drive.
The Curé of Ville d’Auray awaited the funeral procession at the porch of the house of God.
The body was to make a final halt in the small chapel where the girl had taken her first communion; it seemed to Monsieur d’Avrigny that so long as the earth did not hide her from his sight, he was not yet altogether separated from his child.
Here, no music, no pomp; only a simple prayer, uttered in low tones, a last farewell whispered in the ear of the maiden who had left earth for heaven.
Then the solemn cortege started again, this time on foot; and five minutes later the churchyard gate was reached.
The cemetery at Ville d’Auray is a beautiful country churchyard, such an one as Gray and Lamartine would have loved, quiet and restful, adjoining the apse of the parish church.
One should sleep peacefully there; there are no heavy monuments, no lying epitaphs; only wooden crosses bearing a simple name, that is all; here and there are fine old trees which keep the earth cool for the dead, and quite near is the little church where, every Sunday, those lying around are recommended to the prayers of the faithful.
It is not imposing, but it is all very sweet to see; the moment we step into the hallowed place a feeling of peace and rest steals over us, and we can say with Luther at Worms:
“I envy them, because they are at rest.”
But when Luther pronounced the words, he was not following to the grave the body of his darling child, or his beloved wife; he spoke as a philosopher, not as a father, or a husband.
Oh God! who can portray the poignant grief which overcomes the stricken soul of him who follows his beloved dead to the grave; first the chanting of the priests, so solemn and so mournful; then, in the distance, looms the newly dug grave making a dull blot on the brilliant green of the turf; then the thud of the first spadefuls of earth, which resound dully on the coffin-lid, and gradually grow fainter, as if the coffin were drawing farther away from us, swallowed up in the depths of eternity.
Monsieur d’Avrigny was present throughout the whole of this last sad rite, kneeling beside the grave.
Amaury stood erect, leaning against a cypress tree, and supporting himself by one of its branches.
Then, when the last spadeful of earth had been laid on the mound which marks a newly-made grave, and which in turn is levelled by the hand of Time, a slab of white marble was placed at the side of the grave; it did not rest upon the grave, but ran the whole length of the mound, and bore the following double epitaph:
Here lies Madeleine d’Avrigny,
Died 10th September, 1839.
Aged 18 years, 3 months and 5 days.
Here lies Doctor d’Avrigny,
her father,
who died on the same day.
Buried
The date was not filled in, but Monsieur d’Avrigny hoped that it would be inserted within a year.
Then in the newly-turned earth which hid the coffin from sight, they proceeded at once to plant white rose trees, because white roses had always been Madeleine’s favourites, and the father’s grief, poetical as Ronsard’s verses, wished to give these flowers to his child, “Afin que vif et mort son corps ne fût que roses.”
When all was over, the doctor threw a kiss to his darling.
“Until to-morrow,” he half whispered — ” only until to-morrow, Madeleine — never to part from you again.”
And, with a firm step, he left the churchyard, with his friends.
The sacristan closed the door after him.
“Gentlemen,” said the old man, to the few friends who had had the courage to accompany him to Ville d’Auray, “you may have read on Madeleine’s tomb that the man now speaking to you is no longer living. From to-day, I do not belong to this world, but only to my child. From to-morrow, Paris and Society will know me no more, nor will I again see Paris or the world. Alone, in this house of mine, the windows of which, as you may see, overlook the churchyard, I shall wait, without ever receiving anyone inside my doors, until God fills in the date which is now a blank on our tombstone.
“Therefore, gentlemen, for the last time, accept my thanks, and my farewells.”
His tone was so assured, his manner so decided, that no one dreamed of replying to his words; sad and sorrowful, each silently pressed his hand and withdrew.
When he had watched out of sight the carriage which conveyed them back to Paris, Monsieur d’Avrigny turned to Amaury, who alone remained beside him, erect and bare-headed.
“Amaury,” he said, “I have just declared openly that I shall never see Paris again, but I wish to return thither with you to-day, to settle my accounts, and set all my affairs in order.”
“So do I,” Amaury coldly answered; “if you have forgotten me when inscribing Madeleine’s epitaph, at any rate I am glad to see that there is room for two names — one on each side of her own.”
“Ah!” replied Monsieur d’Avrigny, looking attentively at the young fellow, but without betraying any surprise at his reply, “ah, that is well!”
Then stepping forward, he added, “Come, then.”
They got into the last carriage, which had waited for them, and drove towards Paris, not speaking more to each other during this long drive than they had done in the morning.
Arrived at the “Rond Point,” Amaury ordered the coachman to stop.
“Excuse me,” said he, to Monsieur d’Avrigny, but I also have something to do this evening. May I have the honour of seeing you when I come in?”
The doctor nodded his head in reply.
Amaury alighted, and the carriage proceeded towards the Rue d’Angoulême.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
IT was nine o’clock in the evening.
Amaury got into a cab, and drove to the Opera; he entered his box and sat quite at the back, pale and sad.
The house was bright, and dazzling with lights and diamonds. He looked coldly on all this glitter with a wondering gaze and a disdainful smile.
Apart from the surprise excited by his presence, those of his friends who saw him were so impressed by the stern, set look on his face, that none of them dared go near him.
He had mentioned his fatal resolution to no one, and yet everyone was appalled at the thought that possibly this young man was saying to the world, as of old the gladiators said to Caesar:
“One who is about to die salutes thee.”
He sat throughout the trying third act of Othello, listening to the music of Rossini which made so fitting a compliment to that of Thalberg, and seemed like a continuation of the “Dies Irae” of the morning; he had taken the whole scene so seriously that when, after strangling Desdemona, the Moor kills himself, he was tempted to cry out, like Arria to Paetus:
“It does not hurt, Othello, does it?”
The play over, Amaury quietly left the Opera-house, without being accosted by any of his friends. He again got into a cab and drove to the Rue d’Angoulême.
The servants were waiting up for him. Seeing a light in Monsieur d’Avrigny’s room, he knocked at the door, and in answer to the question, “Is that you, Amaury?” he walked in.
Monsieur d’Avrigny was seated at his writing-table, but he rose at the other’s approach.
“I have come to wish you good-night before going to sleep,” Amaury said, calmly, ‘“Good-bye! father, good-bye!”
Monsieur d’Avrigny looked fixedly at him, and grasping his out-stretched hand said:
“Good-bye, Amaury, good-bye!”
Then slipping his arm through his, Monsieur d’Avrigny placed his hand over the young man’s heart, and felt that it was perfectly quiet.
This action passed unperceived by the young man, who now turned away to retire from the room, but, as he reached the door Monsieur d’Avrigny, who had followed him with his eyes, said, in a voice trembling with emotion:
“Amaury! one word more.”
“Yes! sir, what is it?” asked Amaury.
“I will join you in your own room in five minutes, as I have still a few words to say to you.”
“I shall be there, father,” and Amaury bowed and went out.
His room and Monsieur d’Avrigny’s were situated in the same corridor; on entering, he went straight to his writing table, and opened the drawer, to assure himself that his pistols had not been tampered with, and that they were still loaded and primed as he had left them. He smiled to himself as he played with the triggers.
On hearing Monsieur d’Avrigny’s approaching footsteps, he put back the pistols, and closed the drawer.
Monsieur d’Avrigny opened the door, closed it carefully, and coming quietly forward, placed his hand on Amaury’s shoulder.
For a few moments the two men looked one another in the face in silence.
“You had something to say to me, father,” said Amaury.
“Yes!” replied the old man.
“What is it?”
“Can you suppose, my dear boy, that I have not understood that it is your intention to take your own life to-night — this evening — perhaps this very moment?”
Amaury started, and involuntarily glanced at the drawer which contained the loaded pistols.
“Yes! you wish to do away with yourself,” Monsieur d’Avrigny continued; “the pistols, the dagger, or the poison are in that drawer.
“Although you have not faltered, or rather, because you have not faltered, I saw through it all.
“Well! my son, I can enter into your feelings; I admire you because of your great love for Madeleine, and I say now that she had good reason to love you, and that you thoroughly deserved her pure affection. Yes! is it not true that one cannot live without her?
“Oh! rest assured, that in future we shall understand each other well; but, Amaury, I do not wish you to commit suicide.”
“Sir,” interrupted Amaury.
“Let me explain myself, my dear, dear boy. Do you think I am going to bid you console yourself, or seek for distraction? These conventional phrases, these vain attempts at consolation are not worthy either of your grief or of mine.
“I feel with you, Amaury, that our Madeleine being no longer here below, the only thing left us now is to rejoin her above.
“But I have thought much on this subject, not merely to-day or yesterday, or the day before yesterday, but always. It is not by laying violent hands upon ourselves that we shall be able to meet her; certainly it is the shortest way, but not the surest, for it is not the Lord’s way.”
“Nevertheless, father — ” said Amaury.
“Do not interrupt me.
“Did you not hear the ‘Dies Irae’ this morning in church, Amaury? yes, you must have heard it.”
Amaury passed his hand wearily across his brow.
“Surely you must have heard it; for its awful harmony strikes even into the coldest heart, and daunts the boldest imagination; well, since hearing it, I have reflected seriously, and now I am afraid.
“What if, after all, the Church should be right; if the Lord, in His wrath at our having destroyed the gift which He Himself bestows, will not admit among His elect those who have violently severed the thread of life; if, in fact, He should separate us from Madeleine, which is possible. Were there but one chance in twenty of this awful threat being realized, to avoid this possibility, I would suffer the fiercest torments, I would live ten years longer if need be; yes, ten years, that is how I feel,” said the old man; “to be sure of meeting her in eternity, I would live ten years longer.”
“Live! live!” mournfully exclaimed Amaury, “live without air, without sun, without love, live without Madeleine.”
“It must be, Amaury; listen to me: In the name of Madeleine, in the name of her who is sacred to us both, I, her father, forbid you to take your life.”
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