AMAURY, page 25
“Besides, are you not there, Antoinette? and I long to make amends for all that you have suffered. All those letters, which were sent on to me here, have deeply touched me, for they tell me of a sisterly affection, strong and true, of a sorrow bravely borne. As I read each line, I can picture you standing before me, charming in your sadness, attractive in your artlessness, laughing and crying at one and the same time.
“Yes! to win your forgiveness, I shall entrust my future to you, live but to minister to your generous impulses, place my stricken heart in your dear hands.
“AMAURY.”
MONSIEUR D’AVRIGNY’S DIARY
“Doctor Gaston called a few days ago, under pretext of asking my advice, but in reality to see me; I understood it all; Antoinette must have told him that I am ill, and he wanted to know what I am suffering from. I therefore refused to see him.
“Oh God I thou knowest how jealously I guard the earthly treasure thou hast sent me; I keep it to myself alone, and hide it from the eyes of others.
“For a long while, I was in doubt, but at last the symptoms have declared themselves, and during the last eight or ten days, they have become so pronounced, that I am now quite convinced; I am suffering from an affection of the brain, one of the few diseases which may be brought on through great mental trouble.
“The history of my own case, which will be found at my death, should be a curious study; medical men will be interested in following up the development of a malady which has been allowed to work its way freely in a human organisation, a disease entirely unchecked and running unhindered through its every phase.
“I am now at the first stage of the disease; occasional fits of absent-mindedness, which are followed by feelings of curious exaltation, together with sharp shooting pains in the head; nervous twitchings which seize me when I least expect it, and often cause me to fall back in my chair, or which paralyse my arm when I stretch it out to take up something.
“In two or three months all will be over.
“It seems a long time to wait, two or three months!
“How ungrateful I am! Oh God! forgive me.”
CHAPTER XLIV.
ON the 1st May, Antoinette arrived at Ville d’ Auray, at her usual hour, eleven o’clock in the morning.
She was more than ever struck by Monsieur d’Avrigny’s appearance, for he looked as if he had one foot in the grave already. During the last two months she had noticed in this strong intellect a strange absence of mind, and even what seemed to her certain symptoms of mental decay.
By continually dwelling on the same subject, the mind becomes as confused as the sight, when the eyes are ever fixed on the same spot.
One ever-present thought shone through the darkness of his desolate existence, and, like a will-o’-the-wisp, lured him on to the verge of irrationality, and to the contemplation of death alone. Monsieur d’Avrigny was fast becoming blind to the interests of life. However, on this 1st May, as though he felt he had no time to lose, he made an unusual effort to collect his thoughts, and showed a greater solicitude than on former occasions, as to the life and future prospects of his niece.
This subject was always a painful one to Antoinette, and she tried to turn the conversation, but Monsieur d’Avrigny was persistent.
“Listen, Antoinette,” he said, with a smile of calm content, “you must not deceive yourself; better to face the truth as I do.
“I feel my days are numbered, my soul, impatient to be gone, already far outstrips my body, and even now at times leaves this earth and soars to realms above, quits the shadow for the substance, the dream for the reality.
“Yes! it is indeed so, Antoinette, and I rejoice at it.
“The fact that my brain often refuses to obey my will, is a proof of my approaching death; therefore, my child, before the power of consecutive thought is quite taken from me, I wish to consider your future, so that when I meet your mother in Heaven, she may greet me with a smile. Happily, my mind is pretty clear to-day, and I shall try to keep my thoughts from wandering, whilst you tell me all about yourself.
“Come, dear; tell me first of all, who are the friends who most often call upon you?”
Antoinette named those of her old friends who had continued to visit at the house in the Rue d’Angoulème, and Philip Auvray’s name was mentioned among others.
Monsieur d’Avrigny made an effort to refresh his failing memory.
“Is not this Philip Auvray a friend of Amaury’s,” he asked.
“Yes, uncle.”
“He is a young man of fashion then?”
“Oh! no, uncle.”
“Young, however, and rich I believe?”
“Oh, yes! certainly,”
“Of gentle birth?”
“No !”
“Does he love you?”
“I am afraid he does.”
“And you, do you love him?”
“Not the least in the world.”
“Your answers are, at least, clear and to the point,” replied Monsieur d’Avrigny; “but come now, is there no one you care for, Antoinette.”
“No one but you,” replied the girl with a smile.
“That is not sufficient, dear,” said the old man, “for, as I have just told you, in a month or two I shall be no more, and if you love no one but me, when I am dead, there will be no one left for you to love.”
“Oh! my dear uncle, surely you are mistaken?”
“No, dear child, I feel that I grow weaker each day: even now when I go to visit my poor Madeleine’s last resting place at night and in the morning, I need the support of Joseph’s arm, and he is five years older than I. Fortunately,” he continued, turning towards the cemetery, “this window overlooks her grave, so that, at least my last gaze will rest upon it.”
As he spoke, the old man looked towards the place in the cemetery where Madeleine lay buried, then suddenly, with an amount of energy of which, but a moment before, he had seemed incapable, he raised himself, leaning his whole weight on the arm of his chair, and cried excitedly: “There is someone at Madeleine’s grave; who is this stranger — ”
Then falling back again, he said: “Ah! it is no stranger, it is he!”
“He! who?” exclaimed Antoinette, rushing to the window.
“Amaury!” replied the old man.
“Amaury !” she repeated, and she leant against the wall, trembling in every limb.
“Yes! doubtless he has returned, and his first visit is to her grave, — well, that is but right.”
Then Monsieur d’Avrigny relapsed into his habitual apathy; as to Antoinette, she remained where she stood, mute and motionless, but from quite an opposite cause. Monsieur d’Avrigny was past feeling anything; but she felt all too keenly.
It was indeed Amaury who had but just arrived, and had gone at once to the cemetery.
He had approached the grave bareheaded, and had knelt there for about ten minutes, evidently praying; then rising from his knees he walked towards the gate and disappeared. Antoinette guessed that he would soon be coming in, and a feeling of faintness came over her. A few minutes later she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, the door opened and Amaury entered.
Although prepared to see him, Antoinette could not prevent a cry from escaping her. On hearing this cry, Monsieur d’Avrigny seemed to rouse himself from his stupor and turned towards the door.
“Amaury!” exclaimed Antoinette.
“It is you, Amaury?” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, as quietly as though he had only parted from him the day before. He held out his hand, and Amaury approached the old man and knelt before him.
“Bless me, father,” he said.
Monsieur d’Avrigny placed his hands, without a word, on the young man’s bowed head.
Amaury remained thus a few moments. Both he and Antoinette were in tears, and only Monsieur d’Avrigny remained unmoved.
At last the young man rose and, going up to Antoinette, he kissed her hand, and for some little time they all three remained silently observing each other.
Amaury noticed that these eight months had wrought a greater change in Monsieur d’Avrigny than if eight years had passed over his head.
His hair was snow-white, his chest sunken, his eyes glassy, his face deeply lined, his voice weak and tremulous. He was but a shadow of his former self.
And what of Antoinette?
Each day, which had added one wrinkle the more to the old man’s face, had lent but a greater charm to the young girl’s.
Eight months at seventeen years may work as great change as eight months at sixty.
Antoinette was now more charming than ever.
The eyes rested with delight on the graceful flowing curves of her willowy figure. Her delicate nostrils dilated with every breath she drew, her dark liquid eyes were eloquent both of sadness and of mirth, and gave an expression of gentleness and merriment to her sweet face.
Her cheeks were fresh and velvety as a peach, her lips red as a cherry; her hands were small, plump, white, and delicately veined, and her feet seemed no larger than when she was twelve years old.
She was, in fact, beautiful; a fairy, a peri.
Amaury looked at Antoinette, and did not know her again. The fact is, when Madeleine had been near, he had rarely looked at Antoinette.
Amaury, too, had greatly altered, but Antoinette thought for the better.
Sorrow, far from ageing him, had set a seal of gravity on the young man’s face which suited him well; solitude, too, had done him no harm, but by imposing upon him habits of thought, hitherto unknown to his indolent nature, had added breadth and depth to his expression. Then his long excursions into the mountains had improved him physically, as change of thought and ideas had improved him mentally.
He had grown paler, more serious, more unassuming, — in a word, more manly.
Antoinette looked at him furtively, her mind filled with a thousand conflicting emotions.
The doctor was the first to speak.
“You are looking better, Amaury,” he said to the young man, “and,” he added, significantly, “I am sure you find me looking better too.”
“Yes,” answered the young man. gravely, “and you are very fortunate, I congratulate you; but, what would you have? God rules over all, and I have not the power to control nature as you have.” And now,” he continued, seriously, “I have resolved to live so long as it pleases God.”
“Thank God!” Antoinette murmured in a low voice and with tears in her eyes.”
“You will live on,” the doctor replied; “that is well done and wisely spoken, Amaury; I have always known you to be brave and true. Live! I admire you for it. Let me be perfectly frank; I feel somehow ashamed of a senseless gladness, a sort of petty vanity which comes over me at times, when I realize that, after all, the father’s grief has proved more deep, more deadly than the lover’s. And yet, when I reflect upon it, perhaps it is less brave to die of grief than to live on with grief, to live on in widowed loneliness, grave and sad, and yet resigned, trying to be helpful to others, to take a kindly interest in their lives and thoughts, yet without their affecting one’s own.”
“That is, indeed, the only course which the future now holds out to me,” Amaury replied, “that is the life which I wish to lead; and tell me this, father, will not he who has waited longest, have suffered most?”
“Forgive me for interrupting you,” put in Antoinette, overwhelmed by the stoicism of these two men; “you two, my uncle and you, Amaury, are men off stronger calibre than most, therefore you think nothing of talking as you do; but please remember that I am here, and cannot help listening to all you say.
“So do not, I pray you, discuss such strange subjects, the meaning of which is only clear to you, before a timid, sensitive woman like myself.
“Such grave questions as those of life and death are best left in God’s hands alone; let us simply talk of your return, Amaury, and of the joy it gives us to have you here again, after so long an absence.
“Oh! I am so, so glad to see you again,” she said, with the unrestrained delight of a child, and taking Amaury’s two hands in her own.
What could the two men do, on seeing the unfeigned delight and charming frankness of the girl, but join in her unconstrained pleasure; Monsieur d’ Aurigny himself could no longer resist Antoinette’s tender caresses.
“Come, my dear children,” he said, “as this is one of our last days together, let us enjoy it to the full; I know that I shall not be able to spare you many more!”
And from that moment he gave himself up unreservedly to the two young people.
Amaury and Antoinette chatted with him, as in the old days, long and familiarly.
The doctor questioned Amaury as to his future plans, entered fully into his views, and with all the finished courtesy of a man of the world, set him right on certain rash and immature ideas, and greeted with nothing more than an indulgent smile, some of the old-time errors and foolish delusions which are common to us all when in our twentieth year. He noticed, with marked pleasure, how this young mind, ignorant of its own possibilities, was yet possessed of power and energy.
Meanwhile Amaury held forth enthusiastically on his disillusion with life, on the dead embers of his passion; his great wish now was to live for others, not for himself; he accepted life from a philanthropic point of view.
The far-seeing Doctor shook his head gravely on hearing all these dreams, and obligingly acquiesced in all these Utopian ideas.
As for Antoinette, she was enraptured at finding Amaury so noble-hearted, generous and unselfish.
After dinner, the conversation, which had hitherto been confined to Amaury’s doings, now drifted to Antoinette’s affairs.
“Amaury,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, when at about seven o’clock in the evening, they again found themselves alone, “Amaury, when I am gone, I entrust her to your care. You have now passed through the fire of sorrow. As you intend in the future to live retired from the world, you will be a better judge of men and things; advise her, my boy, and watch over her interests; be to her as a brother.”
“Yes! “Amaury replied effusively, “I promise to be a most devoted brother; I gladly accept the duties of a young father which you impose upon me, and shall resign them to no one, until she is claimed by a husband who will love her truly and be worthy of her.”
As soon as this subject was broached, Antoinette became silent and subdued, and lowered her eyes; but the Doctor hastened to say:
“That is the very subject we were discussing, Amaury, when you arrived. It would be a great comfort to me, if before I am taken from you, I felt her happy and beloved in the home of a husband worthy of her.”
“Now Amaury,” the old man went on, “amongst your many friends, is there no one you can suggest?”
But Amaury was silent.
CHAPTER XLV.
“WELL,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, looking up.
“Well!” replied Amaury, “this is a serious question, sir, and one that requires consideration. Most of the young men of our aristocracy, alas! but too few in number, are personally known to me.”
“Then, name us some of them,” said the Doctor.
Amaury looked questioningly at Antoinette, but she obstinately refused to meet his gaze.
“Well,” continued Amaury, feeling obliged to reply to his guardian, “to begin with there is Arthur de Lancy.”
“Yes!” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied quickly, “yes, to be sure; he is young, handsome, and clever; also he has inherited a good name, and is possessed of considerable wealth.”
“But unfortunately he will never do for Antoinette; he is a libertine, a roué, and aims at the reputation of a Don Juan or a Lovelace, which, in the nineteenth century, is to my mind simply ridiculous and absurd; these may be attractive qualities in the eyes of hair-brained fops like himself, but certainly are a very doubtful guarantee for the happiness of a wife.”
Antoinette drew a long breath of relief, and seemed to thank Amaury with her eyes.
“Then let us think of someone else,” said the old man.”
“I should prefer Gaston de Sommervieux,” said Amaury.
“Truly,” replied Monsieur d’Avrigny, “he is of equal fortune, and of equally good birth with Arthur de Lancy, and besides I remember hearing him spoken of as a good, steady, unassuming young fellow.”
“Yes! but had anyone taken the trouble to enumerate his good qualities to you,” said Amaury, “they might have added that he is a fool, with a good deal of surface polish, it is true; but, just by way of amusement, try to break through his majestic silence, and his commanding dignity, and, take my word for it, you will find him very commonplace indeed.”
“But,” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied, as if trying to refresh his memory, since Amaury’s appeared so defective, “did you not once introduce to me a young man, called Léonce de Guérignou?”
“I did, sir,” Amaury said, the blood rushing to his face as he spoke.
“This young man seemed to me to have a brilliant career before him; is he not already a Councillor of State?”
“Assuredly! but he is not rich.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, “but surely Antoinette is rich enough for both.”
“Besides,” continued Amaury, almost ill-temperedly, “rumour has it that his father did not play too honourable a rôle during the Revolution.”. “Even allowing that were true,” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied, “it could not be his father, but his grandfather; and even were these slanders proved, in these days descendants are not responsible for the faults of their ancestors. Therefore, Amaury, you must introduce this young man to Antoinette, of course, under the auspices of Monsieur de Mengis, and if she likes him — ”
“Oh! what a fool I must be!” exclaimed Amaury, “evidently a few months’ absence has quite confused my memory; I was forgetting that Léonce has sworn to live and die a bachelor. It is quite a mania with him, and even the most fascinating, the most charming beauties of the Faubourg St. Germain have failed to captivate his fastidious fancy.”
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