AMAURY, page 4
“But my dear, kind guardian,” said Amaury, his voice trembling with emotion, “it always gave me pleasure to think that you were so used to having me with you and looking upon me as your son, that you now considered me an actual member of your family, or at least that, one day, I might hope to become so in reality. Have I unconsciously offended you? And do you no longer love me, that you condemn me to this exile?”
“My dear boy,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, “it seems to me that I had only an account of my guardianship to give you, and that being satisfactorily settled, we are quits?”
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Amaury, “because I at least must always feel indebted to you; I can never forget all your kindness; you have been more than a faithful guardian, you have been to me a tender, watchful father. It is you who have brought me up, you who have made me what I am, you who have instilled into me whatever good there is in my heart and soul; you have been to me all that one man can be to another, guardian, father, tutor, guide and friend. I owe you, therefore, above everything, implicit obedience, and I can best prove this by leaving you. Farewell, father, I hope that some day you will recall your son.”
At these words, Amaury approached Monsieur d’Avrigny, and, almost against his will, took his hand and pressed it to his lips; this done, he immediately left the room.
The next day he sent in his card to Monsieur d’Avrigny, as if he already were a stranger and informed him in a firm voice which belied the moisture in his eyes, that he had rented a small house in the Rue des Mathurins, that his belongings were being removed there, and that he came to wish him good-bye.
Madeleine was in the room; she hung her head, poor broken lily, chilled by the cold breath of fatherly caprice, and as she stealthily raised her eyes to look at Amaury, her father noticed her face so white and drawn that he started.
Then, doubtless, Monsieur d’Avrigny realized that his unaccountable behaviour must appear hateful in his daughter’s eyes, and his severity relaxed a little, as, holding out his hand to Amaury, he said:
“Amaury, you have quite mistaken my motives; this parting does not mean exile. Far from it, this house will always be your home, and whenever you wish to come, you will be welcome.”
Monsieur d’Avrigny was rewarded by seeing a look of joy light up his daughter’s sad face and a faint smile hover round her lips.
But, as if Amaury had already understood that this concession was only due to his daughter’s sadness, he bowed humbly to his guardian, kissed Madeleine’s hand, but with so sorrowful an air that all thought of love seemed swallowed up in pain. Then he left the house.
Only now, when they were parted from each other, did these two young people realize how great was their love, and how indispensable they were to each other’s existence.
The longings to be together when apart, the sudden emotion felt when the loved one enters the room, the fits of unaccountable joy, then sadness, which are the usual symptoms of that sickness of the mind which we call love, were all severally experienced by our young lovers. Nothing of this escaped Monsieur d’Avrigny’s watchful eye, and more than once he had seemed to regret having allowed Amaury to visit at the house, when the scene which we have just described took place.
All these events, therefore, passed before Amaury’s eyes, as we have brought them before the reader’s notice, and yet the young fellow, although he taxed his memory most severely, could find no adequate reason for the sudden change.
At last it occurred to him that the only thing which could reasonably explain his guardian’s strange conduct was that, believing his marriage with Madeleine an understood thing, he had never spoken to Monsieur d’Avrigny on the subject. Could Monsieur d’Avrigny have thought that although living under his roof, then continuing to visit at the house when he no longer lived there, he had made other plans for the future than those which he had at first attributed to him?
It suddenly struck him that his silence had been misconstrued, and that, all unwittingly, he had wounded his guardian’s fatherly pride; he therefore decided to write a formal letter to Monsieur d’Avrigny, asking the hand of his daughter in marriage.
This decision arrived at, he set about putting it into execution at once and wrote the following letter.
CHAPTER IV.
“SIR,
“I am twenty-three years of age; my name, one of the most ancient in France, is Amaury de Léoville, a name revered in the council, and illustrious in the Army.
“An only son, I inherit from my father and mother, who are both dead, a fortune of nearly three million francs in landed property, which brings me in an annual income of about a hundred thousand a year.
“I state quite frankly these several advantages which have come to me by chance and not through any merit of my own, and which induce me to hope that with this fortune, this name, and the influence of those who love me, I may eventually reach the zenith of the career which I have entered upon — that of diplomacy.
“Sir, I have the honour to ask the hand of your daughter, Mlle. Madeleine d’Avrigny, in marriage.”
“MY DEAR GUARDIAN, “Enclosed you will find my formal epistle to Monsieur d’Avrigny, exact to a letter, dry to a fault.
“And now will you allow your child to speak to you out of the gratitude and fullness of his heart?
“I love Madeleine, and I hope that she loves me; and if we have delayed in making this confession to you, it is because we ourselves were ignorant of it.
“Our love has grown so gradually, then suddenly awakened so quickly, that it has surprised us both like a clap of thunder on a cloudless summer’s day. She and I have been brought up together, sharing your warm affection, and when the brotherly love which I once had for her changed to that of a lover, I myself was scarcely aware of it. I hope presently to prove to you the truth of what I say.
“To my surprise I can still remember the games and childish caresses of our early days, passed in your beautiful country house at Ville-d’Auray, with only dear Miss Brown to look after us both.
“I always called ‘Madeleine ‘by her name, and she always said ‘Amaury ‘; we wandered in the shadowy dells, from the depths of which we watched the setting sun; in the long summer evenings we danced beneath the chestnut trees in the park; we spent long days on the river, and took endless walks in the forest. My dear Guardian, those were indeed halcyon days.
“Why should our lives, which mingled at the dawn, be torn apart before they reach the noon-day?
“Why, as you already call me your son, may I not be so in reality?
“Why may not Madeleine and I again take up the dear old ways?
“Why may I no longer call her ‘Madeleine,’ and she no more say ‘Amaury ‘?
“It all seems to me so simple, that I am dismayed and imagine endless difficulties; but there are none in reality, are there, my dear Guardian?
“Can it be that you think me too young and perhaps too frivolous? but I am four years older than Madeleine, and this frivolity is not a part of myself. As you know, I am not naturally frivolous, but have become so simply because you wished it.
“And I can give up all these passing pleasures at a word from you or a sign from Madeleine, for I love her as dearly as I respect you. I swear I can make her happy, and the younger I am, the longer shall I have in which to make her so. Oh, God! my life, my whole life belongs to her.
“You who love Madeleine, know well, that to love her once is to love her for ever.
“How is it possible to cease from loving her? it is madness even to think of it. To see her, to gaze on her beauty, to fathom the wealth of goodness, love, faith and purity, which is hers, is to be overwhelmed; she is the one woman in the world, and for me will be the only angel in heaven. Oh! my guardian, my father. I love her passionately. As the words come into my mind, I write them, without rhyme or reason; which must prove to you that I love her madly.
“Give her to me, dear father, and remain with us to guide us.
“There is no need for you to leave us, you will watch over our happiness, and if you ever detect in dear Madeleine’s eyes a single tear, be it of sorrow or of pain, and that this sadness is caused through me, take any weapon you may choose, blow out my brains, or stab me to the heart, and you will be committing but an act of justice, you will be doing only what is right.
“But you need have no fear, Madeleine will never have cause to weep.
“Good heavens! who could be so cruel as to make this angel weep? a child so delicate, so tender, so sweet, that she is wounded by a harsh word, crushed by a jealous thought. Why! such a man would be a coward, and you well know, my dear guardian, that, at any rate, I am not a coward.
“Therefore, my father, your daughter will be happy. See, I already call you father, surely a sweet custom which you do not wish me to discontinue. Yet, lately, there is a harshness in your manner which, for me, was never there before; surely that must be because I have delayed so long in writing you on the subject nearest my heart.
“But I think that now I have discovered a simple way of justifying myself in your eyes, a way which you have yourself pointed out to me.
“You are annoyed because you think I have not been frank with you; because I have hidden from you as if it were a wrong, this love which should not and surely cannot offend you. Well! read my heart as God reads it, and you will see whether I am guilty.
“As you know, each night I write in my diary what I have thought and done during the day; this is a habit which you have taught me from childhood, and which you yourself, though busied with so many serious duties, have never once failed to keep up.
“Alone, face to face with our own selves, we can each of us judge fairly of our actions, and every morning have a truer knowledge of our inner nature.
“This fixed habit of self-analysis, this criticism of conduct, is sufficient to impart fairness to all one’s actions, and a sense of completeness to one’s life.
“I have always continued the habit, which I learned from you, and am now, more than ever, thankful to have done so, as it enables me to place before you the open book of my mind, which if not blameless, is, at least, candid.
“You will see reflected in this mirror my increasing love, though all unknown to myself; for I do assure you that, until the day when you parted us, I did not realize how dear Madeline had become to me, I did not know how well I loved her, until confronted by the fear that I might lose her. When you know me as I now know myself, you will then be in a position to judge whether or no I deserve the loss of your esteem.
“Therefore, dear father, although confident of your affection, I await with impatience and anguish your sentence on my future.
“It is in your hands, and as I pray to God, so do I beseech you, in mercy do not dash my fondest hopes to the ground.
“Ah! when shall I know whether you sentence me to life or death? A single night, a single hour! how interminable it sometimes seems.
“Farewell, dear guardian, God grant that the father in you may soften the judge. Farewell.
“Pray pardon the disconnectedness of this epistle, which I began in the formal manner of a business letter, but must end with a cry wrung from my heart, and which will surely find an echo in your own.
“I love Madeleine, dear father. It is death to me, if God or you should separate us.
“Your affectionate and grateful ward, “AMAURY DE LEOVILLE.”
Having written this letter, Amaury took the diary in which he had inscribed day by day his thoughts, his feelings, the events of his life.
He made a parcel of the whole, which he addressed to Monsieur d’Avrigny, and ringing for his valet, gave orders for the parcel to be taken at once to its destination.
Then, the young man, filled with uncertainty and anxiety, waited for a reply.
CHAPTER V.
AT the very time when Amaury was sending off his letter, Monsieur d’Avrigny came out of his daughter’s room, and shut himself into his study.
He was pale and trembling; traces of a deep sorrow were visible on his face; he quietly went up to a table strewn with papers and books, with a deep sigh let his head fall between his hands, and remained for some time plunged in deep thought.
Then he roused himself, paced up and down the room with an agitated step, took from his pocket a small key which for a few seconds he turned over and over in his fingers, then, finally, unlocking his desk, he took from it a book, which he laid on the writing table.
It was his diary, in which, like Amaury, he wrote down each event of the day.
He remained standing for some little time, with his hand resting on the desk, reading aloud the last lines which he had written on the previous evening.
At last, with the triumphant look of a man who has conquered himself, and come to a painful resolution, he sat down, seized his pen, rested his trembling hand on the paper before him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, wrote as follows:
“Friday, 12th May, 5 p m.
“Thank God! Madeleine is better; she is now asleep.
“I gave orders for her room to be darkened, and by the light of her night lamp watched the colour gradually come back to her cheeks, and her breathing grow calm and regular. Then, after pressing my lips to her moist yet burning brow, I left the room on tip-toe.
“Antoinette and Miss Brown are watching by her, and now here I sit face to face with my conscience, which condemns me.
“Yes, I have been unjust, I have been cruel; yes, I have, without a gleam of pity, mercilessly dealt a cruel blow to two pure young hearts that love each other. I have been the cause of my beloved daughter’s fainting from grief, — poor frail child, who is overwhelmed by an unkind word.
“For the second time, I have forbidden my ward the house, he, the son of my best friend, who has so kindly a nature that even now I do not believe he suspects how wicked I am, nor the reason why.
“And what is my real reason? I scarcely dare own it even to myself.
“Here I am, pen in hand, with this diary open before me, in which are written all my thoughts, and yet I hesitate to put it in black and white.
“Why am I unjust? Why am I unkind? Why such unreasoning cruelty towards two beings who are dear to me?
“Because I am jealous!
“Everyone would not understand me, I know; but all fathers will; because I am jealous of my daughter, jealous of her love, jealous of her future, jealous of her life. It is a sad, sad thing to say, but it is the truth; even the best of us, — and do we not all believe ourselves to be in that category? — have thoughts of which we are ashamed, and terrible mental reservations; I, like Pascal, know this only too well.
“As a doctor, I have sounded in their death-agony, the depths of many hearts, of many consciences; but to analyse one’s own is the most difficult of all.
“When I think of her, as I do now, away from her presence, that is to say dispassionately, I make a firm resolution to conquer and to cure myself.
“Then, at the next impassioned look which I intercept between Madeleine and Amaury, it flashes across me that now I only hold the second place in my child’s affections, — she who has my whole heart; and the unreasoning instinct of fatherly egotism gains the day. I become blind, mad, furious. And yet, it is such a natural thing; he is 23, she is 19; they are young, good-looking, and they love each other. Formerly, when Madeleine was a child, I looked forward to their union with joyful anticipation, and now, in truth, I often ask myself whether my behaviour is either logical or reasonable, worthy of a man who is looked upon as an authority in the scientific world.
“An authority in the scientific world, because I was one of the first to penetrate into the mysteries of the human organization; because, by feeling a man’s pulse, I am able to diagnose accurately what he is suffering from; because I have been successful in curing certain diseases which others, less learned than myself, had pronounced incurable.
“But here my skill ceases; set me to cure any disease of the mind, and I am powerless, my pride is vanquished.
“Then are there not other diseases, before which all human skill is of no avail; one in particular which caused the death of the only woman I ever loved, Madeleine’s mother?
“Yes! yes! your young beautiful wife, who loves you and whom you love, is taken from you and returns to God, leaving you, as only comfort and supreme hope, an angel, her image, a younger and earlier picture of herself. You cling to this last joy as a shipwrecked man to his last plank, you kiss her little hand, which draws you back to life and love.
“The future is blighted, but another opens out before you, you may still find happiness in the blessing that is left; you merge your whole existence in that of this young frail creature; each breath she draws seems to rise from your own over-burdened heart.
“This world, which without your child, would be but a desert waste, wakes into life in her sweet presence, and is strewn with flowers under the touch of her tender feet.
“From the day you took her from her dying mother’s arms, you have never, for one moment, lost sight of her; you have surrounded her with watchful, loving care, whilst she played in the day, whilst she slept at night; you have anxiously watched her pulse, her breathing, growing anxious if a pallor overspread her face, or a flush mounted to her cheeks. Her fever has burnt your veins, her cough has racked your chest; and a hundred times have you parleyed with death, the grim spectre that keeps pace with us through life, walks ever at our side, unseen by all, except our unfortunate selves, whom science has so well taught; a hundred times have you told this dread spectre that by a touch may crush your flower, by a breath may destroy your re-awakened life, a hundred times have you said:
“‘Take me, and spare her life.’
“And death has turned away, not in answer to your prayer, but because the time had not yet come, and as the dread spectre fades away, you have taken fresh heart, even as, at its approach, all hope died out.
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