AMAURY, page 3
A silence fell between the two young people, and their very souls seemed to meet in that look.
Suddenly they heard a slight noise in the room. Madeleine raised her head, Amaury turned round.
Monsieur d’Avrigny was standing behind them, with a look of anger on his face.
“My father!” cried Madeleine, throwing herself back in her chair.
“My dear guardian!” said Amaury awkwardly, as he rose and bowed to him.
Monsieur d’Avrigny made no reply, but slowly took off his gloves and placed his hat on a chair, and, still without moving from the same spot, after a moment’s silence which seemed like an hour’s torture to the two young people, he said in a harsh grating voice:
“What! here again, Amaury! you are likely to become a very accomplished diplomat, if you continue thus to study politics in ladies’ boudoirs, and to make yourself acquainted with the wants and interests of the masses, by seeing how embroidery is made! You are sure not to remain long a simple attaché, but are certain to have rapid promotion as first Secretary in London or St. Petersburg, if you practise so industriously to fathom the depths of thought of a Talleyrand or a Metternich, in the company of a schoolgirl.”
“Sir,” Amaury replied, in a tone in which filial affection struggled with hurt pride, “perhaps in your eyes I neglect somewhat the studies necessary to the career you have been good enough to choose for me, but the Minister has never reproached me with any such neglect, and only yesterday, when reading over to him certain documents which he had given me — .”
“The Minister has given you documents to draw up, you! on what subject? on the forming of a second jockey-club, on the rules of boxing or fencing, on the laws of sport in general, or steeple-chasing in particular? Ah! then, I am no longer surprised, he was well satisfied.”
“But, my dear guardian,” Amaury replied with a slight smile, “may I remind you that it is to your almost fatherly solicitude I am indebted for these elegant accomplishments with which you now reproach me. You have always impressed upon me that fencing and riding, together with a knowledge of the two or three foreign languages I have mastered, are essential to the education of a gentleman of the nineteenth century.”
“Oh! I am well aware of that fact, sir, when he uses these accomplishments as a distraction from serious work, but not when he turns serious work into a foil for pleasure. You are truly an exact type of the man of the present day, who imagines science is to be mastered without hard study, and who, after spending an hour in the morning at the Chamber, an hour at the Sorbonne in the afternoon, an hour at the theatre in the evening, poses as a Mirabeau, a Cuvier, a Geoffrey, proclaiming aloud his genius, and contemptuously tossing his drawing-room judgment into the scale where the destinies of the world are weighed. You say the Minister congratulated you yesterday? very well, live on these great expectations, discount these pompous praises, and when the day of reckoning comes, fate will leave you bankrupt. Because at twenty-three, guided by an accommodating guardian, you find yourself doctor of law, bachelor of arts, attaché at the Embassy, because you are privileged to attend the lévees at Court in a uniform with gold embroidery on the collar; because the Legion of Honor has perhaps been promised you as to many others to whom it still remains but a promise, you seem to think that all is accomplished and that fortune can bring you nothing more. I am rich, you say, therefore I need do nothing; and as a result of this clever reasoning, your title of gentleman degenerates into a brevet for idleness.”
“But, father, dear,” cried Madeleine, alarmed at Monsieur d’Avrigny’s increasing anger, “what are you saying? I have never heard you speak to Amaury in this way before.”
“Sir! sir!” stammered the young fellow.
“Yes!” continued Monsieur d’Avrigny more calmly, but more bitterly, “my reproaches wound you, because you know how well they are deserved, is it not so? Well! you must get used to them, if you continue spending your time in such an aimless fashion, or else, you must make up your mind to cease visiting a cross and exacting guardian. Oh! it is only since yesterday that you have become your own master. The power over you which my old friend, the Comte de Léoville bequeathed to me, no longer legally exists now, but, morally, I feel the same responsibility; and it is my duty to warn you that in these troublous times, when wealth and honours depend on the caprice of the masses, or a rising of the people, one should only rely upon oneself, and that millionaire and nobleman though you be, a father of good position would but be acting wisely in refusing you the hand of his daughter, remembering that your success in racing, and your rank at the jockey-club are not considerations of any serious importance.”
Monsieur d’Avrigny’s excitement increased as he spoke, he strode up and down the room, neither looking at his daughter, who was trembling like a leaf, nor at Amaury who stood with knitted brows.
The young man, whom respect alone kept silent, looked from Monsieur d’Avrigny, powerless to understand the cause of his anger, to Madeleine who was as astounded as himself.
“Do you mean to say,” continued Monsieur d’Avrigny, standing before the two young people, who were struck dumb by his sudden anger, “do you mean to say that you did not understand why I asked you to give up living with us? It is because I think it most unsuitable that a young man of birth and fortune should spend his time playing with girls; because what is all very well when twelve years old, becomes ridiculous at twenty- three; because, after all, my daughter’s future, although in no way connected with yours, might suffer equally with your own from these repeated visits.”
“Oh, sir! sir!” cried Amaury, “in pity spare Madeleine. Can you not see that you are killing her?”
For Madeleine, white as death, had fallen back motionless into her chair, struck to the heart by her father’s terrible words.
“My daughter, my daughter!” exclaimed Monsieur d’Avrigny, turning as pale as she, “my daughter! Ah! it is you, Amaury, who are killing her.”
And going up to Madeleine, he took her in his arms, as if she were a child, and carried her into the adjoining room.
Amaury wished to follow him.
“Remain where you are, sir,” he said, turning on the threshold. “I order you.”
“But,” cried Amaury, clasping his hands, “she needs help.”
“Well!” returned Monsieur d’Avrigny, “am I not a doctor?”
“I beg your pardon sir,” stammered the poor young fellow, “but I thought — I should have been glad to remain at hand, in case — .”
“Many thanks, my good sir, many thanks for your solicitude. But rest content — Madeleine is with her father, and I will look after her myself. Therefore take care of yourself, and good-bye!”
“Good-bye for the present,” said the young fellow hesitatingly.
“Oh! good-bye,” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied coldly; and with his foot he pushed open the door, which closed on himself and Madeleine.
Amaury stood still a moment, motionless, crushed.
Just then a bell rang, summoning the maid; at the same moment, Antoinette re-entered the room with Miss Brown.
“Good Heavens! what is the matter?” cried Antoinette, “why are you so pale and unnerved? Where is Madeleine?”
“She is dying! dying!” exclaimed the young man. “Do go to her, Miss Brown; she badly needs your help.”
Miss Brown walked hurriedly towards the room which Amaury pointed out.
“But why do you not go in too?” asked Antoinette.
“Because he has forbidden me to do so,” answered Amaury.
“Who has?”
“He! Monsieur d’Avrigny! Madeleine’s father.”
And snatching up his hat and gloves, the young man rushed like a madman from the room.
CHAPTER III.
ON reaching home, he found a friend ‘waiting to see him. his was a young barrister, his schoolfellow at St. Barbe and afterwards at the Ecole de Droit and the University. He and Amaury were about the same age; but, although he was of independent means, with an income of some 20,000 francs a year, he was of humble birth, none of his ancestors having ever been great or famous. His name was Philip Auvray.
Amaury was apprised by his valet of this untimely visit, and, for one moment, he thought of going straight to his bedroom and leaving Philip to wait until he was tired of waiting. But Philip was such a good fellow, that Amaury felt it would be too bad to treat him so. He therefore entered the little study into which his friend had been shown.
As he entered the room, Philip rose, and came towards him.
“Well! old fellow,” said the young barrister, “I have been waiting for you nearly an hour. I was getting very impatient, and had just decided to leave; in fact, I would have done so long ago, had I not wished to ask your advice on a most important matter.”
“My dear Philip,” said Amaury, “we are such fast friends, that I know you will not feel hurt at what I am going to say. Have you lost at cards, or have you a duel on hand, — the only two things which cannot be put off; must the money be found to-day? have you’ to fight tomorrow? In either case my purse and myself are entirely at your service.”
“No,” said Philip, “it is something far more important, but manifestly less pressing.”
“In that case, dear friend,” said Amaury, “I must ask you to postpone to another day whatever you may have to tell me, as one of those things has just befallen me which thoroughly unnerve a man. I have no heart for anything. In spite of our great friendship, whatever you might say would be sheer waste of words.”
“My poor fellow,” said Philip, “but I, cannot I do something for you?”
“Nothing, but to put off for a few days what you wished to consult me about; nothing, but to leave me to myself and my troubles.”
“You unhappy! Amaury unhappy! Amaury who can boast of one of the most envied names, and one of the largest fortunes in France? Is it possible that the Comte de Léoville with a hundred thousand francs a year can be unhappy! Faith! had you not yourself said so, I could not have believed it.”
“Well! it is nevertheless true, old friend — yes! yes! miserable... most miserable! and it seems to me that when our friends are in trouble, the greatest kindness we can show them is to leave them to themselves, and their sorrow. You do not know what trouble means, Philip, unless you can understand this.”
“Whether I understand or not, Amaury, you know full well that I always do what you ask me. You wish to be alone, dear old fellow — then goodbye, goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” said Amaury, as he flung himself into an armchair.
Just as Philip was closing the door, he said:
“Philip, tell my valet that I am at home to no one, and do not wish to be disturbed on any pretext whatever, unless I ring.”
Philip signed to his friend that he would do as he wished, and after speaking to the valet, he went away, vainly trying to understand what could have happened to plunge Amaury in such deep distress.
As to Amaury, when he found himself alone, he let his head fall between his hands, trying to think what he could possibly have done to deserve his guardian’s anger, and although in a moment his whole life passed before him, he could discover no explanation of this sudden displeasure which had so unexpectedly burst upon him.
As we have already said, Amaury was one of those singularly gifted men who are Fortune’s favourites. Kindly nature had made him handsome, elegant, and distinguished looking, and his father had bequeathed him an old and honoured name, to which the wars of the Empire had added renewed lustre, and a fortune of more than a million and a half. He had appointed Monsieur d’Avrigny, an old friend of his, and one of the most noted physicians of the day, guardian to his son.
Moreover Amaury knew that his guardian had so ably managed his fortune, that it had now increased by nearly a third.
But Monsieur d’Avrigny had not only looked after his ward’s fortune, he had himself superintended his education, as if he had been his own son.
The result was that Amaury, brought up with Madeleine, and only three or four years her senior, had learned to love most tenderly one who looked upon him only as a brother, and had a more than brotherly affection for her whom he had so long called his sister.
And thus from childhood, these two children, in their sweet innocence and purity of heart, had vowed never to be parted from one another.
The great love which Monsieur d’Avrigny had borne his young wife, who died from consumption when only twenty- three, he now lavished on his daughter, and the almost fatherly affection which Amaury knew he had inspired in Monsieur d’Avrigny, contributed to make the young people sure of his consent; they never for one moment doubted it.
Everything had therefore conspired to delude them with vain hopes of one and the same future, and it was their unceasing subject of conversation ever since they had awakened to a consciousness of the deep love that lay in their hearts for one another.
As Monsieur d’Avrigny was frequently absent from home, being obliged to devote himself almost entirely to his practice, to the hospital of which he was a director, to the Institut, of which he was a member, this gave them many opportunities of building these delusive castles in the air to which memory of the past and hope for the future imparted the apparent solidity of granite.
It was at this stage of their life, Madeleine having reached her seventeenth year, and Amaury being twenty-two, that Monsieur d’Avrigny’s usually pleasant genial manner suddenly changed towards them both.
At first they thought the alteration was due to the death of a sister, who was very dear to him, and whose daughter, also a girl of seventeen, was Madeleine’s constant companion and shared her studies and her pleasures.
But days and months passed by, and Monsieur d’Avrigny, instead of looking happier, grew more and more gloomy every day, and strangely enough, it was nearly always Amaury who had to bear the brunt of his displeasure, without knowing why or wherefore, or else Madeleine, the child whom he worshipped, and on whom from her earliest days he had lavished that priceless love which usually a mother alone can give. Then, by an equally strange caprice, it was now bright playful Antoinette who seemed to be Monsieur d’Avrigny’s favourite, and who was permitted to speak to him in a way which, hitherto, Madeleine alone had been privileged to do.
But more than this, Monsieur d’Avrigny was continually praising Antoinette in Amaury’s presence, and had more than once hinted that Amaury would best please his guardian by abandoning the hope which he himself had so long encouraged between his ward and his daughter, and by transferring his affections to this niece whom he had adopted as an inmate of his home and on whom he seemed to have bestowed all his visible affection.
Meanwhile Amaury and Madeleine, blinded by their usual happy intercourse, saw nothing so very strange in Monsieur d’Avrigny’s passing displeasure — and never dreamed of a real trouble.
Their implicit confidence and trust in each other had thus remained unchanged, when one day as they were running round the billiard-table like the two children they were, Madeleine defending herself from Amaury, who tried to snatch a flower from her, the door suddenly opened and Monsieur d’Avrigny appeared.
“Well,” said he, with that bitterness which was now apparent whenever he addressed them, “what in the world is the meaning of this child’s play? Are you still a little girl of ten, Madeleine? or you, Amaury, a boy of fifteen? Do you think you are running round the lawn at the Château de Léoville? Why do you wish to take that flower from Madeleine? who is quite right in refusing to let you have it. I thought that only shepherds and shepherdesses at the opera performed these extraordinary gyrations; evidently I was mistaken.”
“But, father,” ventured Madeleine, who at first thought that he was only joking, but now perceived that, on the contrary, he had never been more in earnest, “but, father, only yesterday — ”
“Yesterday is no longer to-day, Madeleine; if you wish always to live in the past, you must renounce the future. And since you are so willing to go back to your childish games, pray why have you given up your dolls and your toys? If you do not realize that, as you grow older, certain duties and proprieties have to be observed, then it is my duty to remind you of the fact.”
“But, my dear guardian,” protested Amaury, “I think you are rather hard on us. You say that we are too childish! Why! you yourself have often told me that one of the evils of this century is that children so soon wish to become men!”
“Have I indeed ever told you that, sir? That may perhaps apply to young students who have just left college, and think that they are going to reform the world — to those Richelieus who are ‘blasé ‘at twenty, to those embryo poets who, out of disenchantment, create a tenth muse. But for you, my dear Amaury, if not because of your age, then because of your rank, you should take things more seriously. If you are not really in earnest, at least pretend that you are; however, I have come this time to have a serious talk with you. You had better leave the room, Madeleine.”
Madeleine rose to go, and as she did so, cast one of those pleading looks at her father which formerly softened his anger in a moment.
But Monsieur d’Avrigny remained cold and angry, for he remembered for whom these lovely eyes were pleading.
Left alone with Amaury, Monsieur d’Avrigny paced up and down the room for some time, without saying a word, whilst Amaury followed each step with anxious eyes. At last he stopped opposite the young man, and without relaxing his severe expression, said:
“Amaury, I should perhaps have told you long ago what I now feel it my duty to say at once, and which I blame myself for not having mentioned sooner; it is that I no longer consider it suitable that you, a young man of twenty-one, should continue to live in the same house as two young girls who are not related to you in any way. It is not without regret that I have come to this decision, and that is perhaps why I have delayed so long before telling you that this separation is absolutely necessary. But after to-day, any further delay on my part would be unpardonable. Do not therefore argue with me, it would be quite useless; make no objections, they would not convince me; my mind is made up on this point, and nothing can alter it.”
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