AMAURY, page 15
“However, I shall be with her when you leave.’
“I promised faithfully to remember his wishes.
“Of course, I cannot disguise from myself that the life of this frail child hangs on a thread, which may at any moment be snapped by sudden emotion; and thank God I love Madeleine well enough to consent that I should pretend to love her less than I do.
“I left Monsieur d’Avrigny, and came up into my own room, to write you these few lines, Antoinette dear; but I hear Madeleine asking for me, so shall finish this letter.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
“10 o’clock.”
“SCOLD me, Antoinette, for I very greatly fear that I have just committed a great folly.
“I found Madeleine alone; she had sent for me to say that she hoped we would have one more tête-à-tête before I left.
“The dear child, in the innocence of her heart, wished me to arrange a meeting; had I suggested this to any other girl, it would have been refused me.
“Believe me, if you can, dear Antoinette, but with the promise I had made to Monsieur d’Avrigny still ringing in my ears, I at first honestly tried to put from me this tempting hour of happiness, for which, at any other time, I would have given my life.
“I told her that in all probability Miss Brown had received instructions from Monsieur d’Avrigny, and would not lend herself to such a thing.
“‘But why mention it to Miss Brown,’ was Madeleine’s reply.
“‘How can you help it? only a thin partition separates your room from Miss Brown’s, and if she hears the faintest sound, she will come in thinking you are ill, and find me with you.’
“‘Oh! of course, if you come here, Madeleine replied.
“‘But where else can we meet?’
“‘Can you not go into the garden, and I would join you there.’
“‘The garden? you must not think of it, Madeleine; why, what of the evening dews?’
“‘Did you not hear my father say ! yesterday that the only time to be feared was between eight and nine o’clock in the evening, when the dew is falling, but this first chilliness once over, the nights are almost as warm as the day; besides I shall wrap myself up well in my large cashmere shawl.’
“Although, in spite of myself, I felt my power of resistance growing weaker, yet I still tried to make some objection.
“‘But,’ I said, ‘is it right that we should meet alone like this at night?’
“‘Why not? we are alone together during the day,’ she replied, with that charming naïveté you know so well.
“‘But the day — the day ‘ — I replied.
“‘Well! where is the difference? ‘Madeleine asked.
“‘There is a great difference, my child,’ I answered with a smile.
“‘Why, only the other day were you not complaining that if my father accompanied us on our journey, he would be in our way? you therefore expected to be with me night and day.’
“‘But we were to travel together only after our marriage?’
“‘Yes! I have often noticed that married women are permitted many privileges which we young girls are denied; as if the mere fact of a marriage ceremony had the power instantly to change a foolish child into a reasoning woman. Besides, are we not even now as good as married? Does not everyone know that we are soon to become husband and wife; in fact, had it not been for this cruel illness, would we not now be married?’
“I really did not know what reply to make.
“‘Come now,’ said Madeleine,’ you are not going to refuse me? It would be so very kind of you now when you are going away, and should have thousands of things to say to me, and endless promises to make. You who are leaving, cannot know how unhappy I shall be; the least that you can do is to leave me some sweet tender words to think about, which, coming from you, always make me glad.’
“I found myself in a ridiculous position, which would have made any further objections on my part an impertinence. I therefore silently vowed that I would keep a strict watch over us both, and agreed to be in the garden punctually at eleven o’clock. Truly, dear Antoinette, it would have required the wisdom of all the Seven Sages of Greece to resist so tempting a request. I only begged that she would wrap up warmly, and she was just agreeing to do so, when Monsieur d’Avrigny came into the room.
“At ten o’clock we both left her.
“‘You see, Amaury,’ her father said, ‘I have kept my word and left you alone with Madeleine. Poor child! I felt that on this last evening you would have much to say to each other. You, on your side, have acted most discreetly. The result you see is that dear Madeleine is calm and will have a good night’s rest.
“‘To-morrow morning I shall again leave you alone, and then in six weeks’ time you will find your future wife strong and happy, waiting to meet you at Nice.’
“A feeling of remorse came over me, and I felt almost tempted to confess all; but what would Madeleine say? Probably such an annoyance would be more hurtful to her than our stolen interview.
“Besides, as I have sworn, I shall keep watch over myself.
“Eleven o’clock is striking”; good-night, Antoinette; I leave you to go to Madeleine.”
10 a m.
“Immediately on receipt of this letter, Antoinette, leave Ville d’Auray and come at once to Paris; we need you sadly here. Good God! Madeleine is dying!
“Oh! miserable wretch that I am — come, oh! come quickly!
“AMAURY.”
MONSIEUR D’AVRIGNY TO ANTOINETTE.
“However much we may need you, however anxious you may feel on hearing of my daughter’s condition, do not come, dear Antoinette, until Madeleine asks for you.
“Alas! I fear that will soon be.
“Pity me, you who know how I love her!
“Your uncle, “LEOPOLD D’AVRIGNY.”
CHAPTER XXV.
THIS is what had happened.
After finishing his letter to Antoinette, Amaury left his rooms; no one saw him; no one met him; he went through the drawing-room and listened at Madeleine’s door, but heard no sound.
Doubtless Madeleine had pretended to go to bed, so as to get rid of Miss Brown, he had then gone on to the balcony and into the garden.
The shutters and curtains of Madeleine’s room were so closely drawn that not a glimmer of light was to be seen; along the whole front of the house, there was but one window lighted up, and that was Monsieur d’Avrigny’s.
Amaury fixed his eyes on the window with a feeling almost of remorse. Both father and lover were keeping watch for Madeleine, but what a difference in the two vigils.
The one watched, filled with self-sacrificing love, trying to wrest from science some hidden way of snatching his child from death.
The other with nothing but a selfish affection, had agreed to keep his tryst, although he knew that the result might prove fatal to her.
For one instant Amaury thought he would go in again, and tell Madeleine, from outside her bedroom door, “Stay in your room, dear; your father is up, and may see us.”
But just then the light in Monsieur d’Avrigny’s room was suddenly extinguished, and simultaneously a shadow appeared on the balcony, hesitated a moment, then glided down the steps. Amaury rushed towards her, forgetting everything, for the shadow was Madeleine.
She gave a little cry, and threw herself into her lover’s arms, trembling violently, for she instinctively knew that she was doing wrong. Amaury could feel the beating of her heart, as she leaned against him.
So great was their emotion that for a moment they both stood still, speechless and almost breathless.
Then Amaury led the young girl to her favourite nook under the lilacs, roses and honeysuckle, and sat down, drawing her to his side.
Madeleine was right when she said there was nothing to fear from the night air. It was one of those glorious summer nights, warm, bright and starry; on looking up at the sky studded with myriads of stars which sparkled like diamonds, the soul was filled with a sublime sense of the infinite and the unknown.
A gentle breeze, soft as the breath of love, stirred the branches of the trees.
The noisy hum of Paris had died away into that distant murmur, which never ceases, but which sounds like the mighty breathing of the sleeping city.
At the farther end of the garden, a nightingale was singing, at times his note would suddenly cease, then as suddenly he would again break out into song, now swelling in sweet, melodious tones, now trilling in sharp, clear, reverberating, notes. It was truly one of those ideal nights which seem made for nightingales, lovers and poets.
Such a night could not fail to produce a deep impression on so sensitive a nature as Madeleine’s. She seemed for the first time to inhale this gentle breeze, to see this starry sky, to listen to these accents of love. Her whole self was steeped in the beauty of the night.
With head thrown back, she gazed rapturously at the sky, and two tears, which looked like two drops of dew from the bunches of lilac overhead coursed down her cheeks.
The witchery of the night had also taken full possession of Amaury; he to had inhaled the magic of it all, and whilst its effect upon Madeleine was to produce in her a gentle languor, it stirred Amaury’s blood, and made it course like fire through his veins.
Madeleine was the first to break the silence.
“What a glorious night, Amaury? can you believe that Nice, with its much vaunted climate, can offer us anything lovelier than this.
“Does it not seem as if, before we part, God has granted us this boon, that the memory of it may remain with us when we are far apart.”
“Yes,” Amaury said, “you are right, Madeleine, for it seems to me as if only now do I begin to live; only since tonight do I begin to love you. This heavenly night awakes in me emotions hitherto unknown. Can it be that I have ever said ‘I love you, Madeleine ‘ — then I lied, or else I did not say it as I should have done. Listen, dearest, I love you! I love you!”
There was such passion in the young man’s voice, that she to whom these words were spoken trembled from head to foot.
“And I too love you,” she murmured, letting her head fall on to Amaury’s shoulder, “I too love you dearly.”
As Amaury felt the light burden rest on his shoulder, his eyes closed in ecstasy; he felt as if such happiness were too great.
“Oh God!” said he, “when I think- that to-morrow I must leave you, my beloved; that for six long weeks, perhaps two months, I shall not see your dear face; and that when we do meet again, the presence of your father will prevent my falling at your knees, kissing your feet, pressing you to my heart; oh! I feel as if I must give up everything for your sweet sake.”
And Amaury put his arm round Madeleine, who nestled closer to him.
“No, no,” she murmured, “my father is right, Amaury, you must go; I must grow stronger before I can bear the weight of our great love; you know that twice already it has nearly killed me, poor broken reed that I am, oh God! nearly killed me. Do you realize, Amaury, that I might have died, and that, instead of being here, close to you, ‘alive, glad and happy, I should now be lying with folded hands, in the grave. Why! what is the matter, my beloved?”
“Oh! my darling,” Amaury cried, “do not say such things or you will drive me mad.”
“Well! be comforted! I am here beside you, dearest, happy, and thank God, strong again; close to you on this heavenly night, which breathes only of love. Does it not seem to you that we can hear the angels whispering such words as we say to each other.”
And the young girl paused as if to listen.
Just then a gentle breeze caught Madeleine’s long curls and swept them across Amaury’s face; almost beside himself with emotion, he threw back his head with a long-drawn sigh.
“Oh! in pity, Madeleine, in pity, spare me!”
“Spare you? Are you not happy? I cannot understand you? to me, my beloved, this night is like a dream of heaven. Tell me, is it not a happiness such as this which awaits us in paradise? Can there possibly be a greater?”
“Oh yes!” the young fellow whispered, opening his eyes, and seeing Madeleine’s dainty head turned towards him, “yes! there is a greater!”
And he threw his two arms round the young girl’s neck, gently drew her face to his, until her hair again touched his brow, and her breath mingled with his. “What is it? “Madeleine asked. “It is to let our love meet in one single kiss. I love you, Madeleine!”
“I love you, Am--”
“At this moment the young man’s lips touched her own, and the word begun in a tone of unspeakable love, ended in a cry of pain.
On hearing the cry, Amaury drew back hastily, the sweat of anguish on his brow. Madeleine had fallen back, one hand pressed to her heart, the other holding a handkerchief to her lips.
A terrible thought flashed across Amaury; he flung himself at Madeleine’s feet, put his arm round her, and snatched the handkerchief from her lips.
Through the darkness, he saw that it was stained with blood.
Taking Madeleine up in his arms, and running like a madman, he carried her, breathless and choking, into her own room, placed her on the bed, and snatching at the bell which communicated with Monsieur d’Avrigny’s study, he pulled it violently.
Then, feeling that he could not face the unhappy father, he rushed from the room, and like one who had committed a crime, he fled to his own room.
CHAPTER XXVI.
FOR an hour Amaury remained by the half-open door in breathless suspense, listening to every sound that re-echoed in the house; he dared not go down to ask what had happened, and passed through all the agony which separates uncertainty from despair.
At last he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and approaching his room, and then he saw old Joseph appear on the threshold.
“Joseph!” he whispered, “how is Madeleine?”
Without a word, Joseph handed him a letter; it contained but one line, in Monsieur d’Avrigny’s handwriting: “This time she will die, and you will have killed her.”
One can easily understand what a terrible night Amaury passed.
His bedroom was immediately above Madeleine’s, and all night long he sat up straining his ears to catch any sound from the room below, rising only to open the door in the hope that one of the servants might pass from whom he might ask news of the invalid.
From time to time the sound of rapid footsteps coming and going told him that a fresh crisis had occurred; or sometimes he heard fearful fits of coughing which seemed to tear his breast.
At length day dawned, and little by little the sounds in Madeleine’s room ceased, and Amaury hoped that she had fallen asleep.
He came down to the small drawing- room and listened for a long time at the bedroom door as if riveted to the spot; not daring to enter and yet not wishing to go back to his own room.
As the door opened suddenly, Amaury stepped backwards; it was Monsieur d’Avrigny who was coming out of the room, and whose grave face hardened perceptibly at sight of Amaury.
A feeling of despair came over him, and he fell on his knees exclaiming, “Forgive me.”
He remained thus for some time, his head buried in his hands, not daring to raise his face, whilst his breast heaved with sobs, and tears fell unheeded to the floor. At last he felt Monsieur d’Avrigny draw his two clasped hands within his own, which were cold as marble.
“Rise, dear Amaury,” said he, “the fault does not lie with you, but with nature, which has ordained that love, which to some brings new life, should have a fatal effect upon others. All this I had foreseen, and that is why I was anxious that you should go.”
“Father, dearest father,” cried Amaury, “save her, oh, save her; even though I should never see her again.”
“You ask me to save her! “Monsieur d’Avrigny replied, “you ask me such a thing, when you know that I would gladly give my life for hers? no, it is to God that you must pray, not to me.”
“Have you no hope then? Is our doom irrevocably sealed?”
“Rest assured, Amaury, that all that human skill can do in such a case shall be done; but, take it from me, science can do nothing where the ravages of disease have made such terrible strides.”
And two big tears rolled down the old man’s face. Amaury wrung his hands with such despair that Monsieur d’Avrigny. took compassion on him, and passing his arm through his, he said: “Listen, Amaury; there is now but one thing we can do, and that is to make her last days on earth as peaceful as possible, I, by my skill, and you, by your love; let us therefore each fulfil our part; go back to your own room, and as soon as Madeleine is able to see you, I will send for you.”
The poor young man, who had expected bitter reproaches, was overwhelmed by this touching kindness; he would far have preferred reproach and abuse to this grave and solemn sadness.
He returned to his room and decided to write to Antoinette, but finding that he could not collect his thoughts, he flung away his pen, and buried his head in his hands.
He remained thus mute, motionless, and totally oblivious of time; at last he was roused by the sound of Joseph’s voice.
“Monsieur d’Avrigny,” said he, “wishes me to inform you that Mademoiselle Madeleine is able to see you now.”
Without a word Amaury rose, and followed the old servant, but stopped short on reaching the door, not daring to enter.
“Come in, Amaury,” Madeleine said, making an effort to raise her voice; “do come in, dear.” The poor invalid had recognised her lover’s step.
Amaury was just going to rush impetuously into the room, but suddenly remembered that any such emotion would be injurious to her. So he composed his features, gently pushed open the door, and entered with a smile on his face, though his heart was nearly breaking.
Madeleine stretched out her hands to him, and tried to sit up, but the effort was too great, and she sank back exhausted on the pillow.
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