The Dream (Oxford World's Classics), page 19
‘Yes, of course he is, my good lady,’ said Mère Lemballeuse, who happened to be among the throng. ‘You mean you didn’t know?… Such a handsome young man, and rich too—rich enough to buy the whole town, if he wanted to. He has millions upon millions!’
Hubertine listened, very pale.
‘You must surely have heard the story,’ continued the old beggar-woman. ‘His mother died bringing him into the world, and so Monseigneur entered the priesthood. Today he decided to summon him back home… Félicien VII of Hautecœur—now there’s a real prince for you!’
Hubertine’s whole body registered her dismay. And delight spread over Angélique’s face as she grasped that her dream was coming true. She was not in the least bit surprised; she had been convinced all along that he was the richest, handsomest and noblest of men. And she was filled with a vast unalloyed joy that cared nothing for potential obstacles, and could not in fact conceive of any. He was at last revealing his true self, and offering himself to her in his turn. Gold streamed from the delicate candle-flames, the organ resounded with the pomp of their engagement, and the long line of Hautecœurs emerged from the mist of legend and paraded by in their majesty: Norbert I, Jean V, Félicien III, Jean XII, down to the last of them, Félicien VII, who turned his blond head towards her. He was the descendant of the Virgin Mary’s cousins, the master, the superb Jesus, revealing himself in glory beside his father.
Just at that moment Félicien smiled at her, and she did not notice the angry look that flashed across Monseigneur’s face as he caught sight of her standing there on the chair, above the crowd, her face flushed with pride and passion.
‘Oh, my poor child,’ sighed Hubertine, in despair.
But the chaplains and the acolytes had drawn up into lines on the right and left, and the first deacon, having taken the Blessed Sacrament from Monseigneur’s hands, placed it on the altar. And there followed the final benediction, choirmen bellowing the Tantum ergo,* clouds of incense rising from the censers, and then the sudden, echoing silence of the prayer. And in the middle of the blazing cathedral, overflowing with clergy and townsfolk, Monseigneur approached the altar once more beneath the soaring vaults and, picking up the great golden sun with both hands, moved it thrice through the air, slowly making the sign of the cross.
Chapter 9
That evening, as she walked back from the cathedral, Angélique thought to herself: ‘I will see him soon: he will be in the Clos-Marie, and I will go down and meet him.’ The rendezvous had been settled with a glance.
They had a late dinner, at eight o’clock, in the kitchen as usual. Exhilarated by the day’s festivities, Hubert prattled on all alone. Hubertine was in a sombre mood, and scarcely answered him. Her gaze remained fixed on the young girl, who ate with great appetite, but quite obliviously, appearing not even to realize that she was bringing the fork to her mouth—so absorbed was she in her dream. And Hubertine could read her every thought, and could follow them as they took shape, one after the other, beneath that innocent brow, translucent as a crystal of the purest water.
At nine o’clock they were surprised to hear a ring at the doorbell. It was the Abbé Cornille. Despite his weariness, he had come to let them know how much Monseigneur had admired the three ancient embroidery panels.
‘Yes, he spoke about them while I was with him. I was sure you would be pleased to know.’
At the mention of Monseigneur’s name, Angélique pricked up her ears, but fell back to dreaming when talk turned to the procession. A few minutes later she rose to her feet.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Hubertine.
She was surprised by this question, as though she didn’t quite know herself why she had got up.
‘Mother, I’m going upstairs. I’m very tired.’
Hubertine guessed the real reason behind this excuse—a desire to be alone with her happiness.
‘Come and give me a kiss.’
As she hugged Angélique, she could feel her trembling in her arms. The young girl almost squirmed out of their nightly kiss. Hubertine studied her face very gravely, and read in her eyes the planned rendezvous and her fervid desire to be off there.
‘Be good, sleep well.’
But Angélique, after a hasty goodnight to Hubert and the Abbé Cornille, was already climbing upstairs to her bedroom, greatly flustered, so near had she come to spilling her secret. If her mother had held her to her breast for a second longer, she would have told all. After she had shut herself in her bedroom with a double turn of the key, she found the light painful to her eyes, and blew out the candle. The moon was rising later and later each night, and it was very black outside. Without undressing, she sat before the window for several hours, looking out into darkness, just waiting. The minutes passed by, crowded minutes, her mind occupied by a single thought: she would go down and meet him when midnight struck. It would all happen very naturally, and in her mind’s eye she watched herself go through with it, every footstep and every gesture, moving in the effortless way one does in dreams. Almost at once she had heard the Abbé Cornille leave. Then the Huberts had gone up to their bedroom. Twice she thought she had heard their door open, and furtive footsteps advance as far as the staircase, as though someone had come to listen there for a moment. After that the house had seemed to subside into a deep slumber.
When the hour struck, Angélique stood up.
‘It’s time to go, he’s waiting for me.’
She opened the door, and went out without closing it. As she passed the Huberts’ bedroom on the staircase, she listened carefully, but heard nothing, nothing but tremulous silence. She was in fact very calm and, unmindful of any wrongdoing, felt no anxiety nor any need to rush. Some unseen force drew her along, and it all seemed so simple that she would have smiled at the thought that she was running any danger. Reaching the foot of the stairs, she went out through the kitchen into the garden and, again, forgot to close the door behind her. She walked quickly over to the little gate that led into the Clos-Marie, and left this also wide open in her wake. Once in the field, she did not hesitate, in spite of the pitch darkness, and headed straight for the plank spanning the Chevrotte, and crossed over, feeling her way as though through perfectly familiar surroundings in which every tree was known to her by heart. And turning to the right beneath a willow, she had only to stretch out her hands to meet those of the man who she knew would be waiting there for her.
She was silent for a moment as she clasped his hands tightly. They could not see one another because the sky was shrouded by a sultry haze, as yet unlit by the slender moon, which was just starting to rise. And she began to speak in the darkness, and poured out the great joy brimming in her heart.
‘Oh, my sweet lord, I love you so much, and am so thankful to you!’
She was laughing because she had finally learnt who he was, and she was thanking him for being young, handsome, and rich, more than she had dared hope. Happiness rang out in her voice, a cry full of wonder and gratitude at this gift of love offered to her by her dream.
‘You’re the king, you’re my master, and now I’m yours; my only regret is that I’m a thing of such little account… But I’m proud to belong to you, and so long as you love me, I am a queen… Although I waited in complete certainty, my heart has swelled with joy since you took full possession of it. Oh, my sweet lord, I am so grateful to you, and love you so much!’
He put his arm gently around her waist, and drew her away, saying:
‘Come home with me.’
He led her through the wild grasses to the far end of the Clos-Marie, and she understood then how he had come in each evening through the old iron gate from the bishop’s grounds, which had formerly been sealed shut. He had left the gate open and, with his arm still around her, ushered her into Monseigneur’s vast garden. Above, the moon was rising behind a warm veil of thin cloud, lighting it up with a milky transparency. The whole starless vault of the heavens shone with a pale hazy glow and its radiance shimmered down silently in the peaceful night. They walked slowly upstream alongside the Chevrotte, which ran through the grounds; but here it was no swift stream tumbling down a pebbly slope; instead its waters were calm, and meandered languidly between the clumps of trees. Beneath the luminous clouds, the Elysian river, its currents bathing the feet of the floating trees, seemed to wind away like a river in a dream.
Angélique spoke once more, in a joyful tone:
‘I feel so proud and happy when you hold me like this.’
Félicien was delighted by her great simplicity and charm, and listened as she expressed her feelings candidly, concealing nothing, saying aloud exactly what she was thinking, in all the innocence of her heart.
‘Oh, my darling, it is I who should be grateful that you are prepared to love me a little, and so sweetly… Tell me again about your love for me, and what you thought when you finally found out who I was.’
With a charming gesture of impatience, she interrupted him:
‘No, no, let’s talk about you, about you alone. Why bother about me? What does it matter who I am or what I think?… You’re the only one who exists now.’
She held him tightly, and slowed their pace as they ambled along the banks of the enchanted river. She asked him endless questions; she wanted to know about everything, his childhood, his youth, the twenty years he had spent far apart from his father.
‘I know that your mother died when you were born, and that you were brought up by your uncle, an old priest… I know that Monseigneur refused to see you again…’
He began to speak in a low, distant voice, which seemed to rise up out of the past.
‘Yes, my father adored my mother, and I was to blame because I came into the world and caused her death… My uncle kept me in complete ignorance of my family, and brought me up harshly, as though I were a pauper’s child entrusted to his care. I only learnt the truth much later on, just over two years ago… But I wasn’t at all surprised, I had always felt that I had great wealth behind me. Regular work bored me, and all I wanted to do was roam around the countryside. Then I discovered my passion for the stained-glass windows of our little church…’
She started laughing, and he too cheered up.
‘I’m a worker just like you. I had decided I would earn my living painting stained-glass windows when all this money fell into my lap… My father was very upset to receive letters from my uncle saying what a little rascal I was, and that I’d never be fit for holy orders! It had been his express wish that I should become a priest; perhaps he thought that I could atone in this way for causing my mother’s death. He relented, though, and asked me to come back to him… Oh, life, how wonderful life is! The only point of life is to love and be loved!’
Throbbing with chaste and youthful vitality, his cry rang out in the peaceful night air. Passion filled his every vein, the passion that had killed his mother, and had propelled him into this first experience of love flowering forth from mystery… It was fired by his every attribute, his wild spirit, his beauty, loyalty, ignorance, and his greedy desire to live.
‘Like you, I was waiting, and the night you appeared at your window I recognized you also… Tell me what your dreams were, and what your life was like before…’
But she silenced him once more.
‘No, let’s talk about you, about you alone. I don’t want anything about you to remain hidden from me… I want to possess you and love you completely!’
She never grew weary of hearing him talk about himself. She was overjoyed to be able to get to know him, and listened adoringly, like a holy child at the feet of Jesus. And neither of them ever tired of repeating the same things, endlessly—how they had fallen in love, and how they loved one another now. The same words were used over and over, and yet always seemed new, taking on surprising and unfathomable meanings. Their happiness grew as they explored its depths, or tasted its music on their lips. He confessed how her voice thrilled him; on hearing it he became so enraptured that he was instantly her slave. She told him of the tantalizing dread she felt when his pale skin flushed dark red at the slightest stirring of anger. They had left the misty banks of the Chevrotte behind, and were plunging into the dark cluster of great elms, their arms around each other’s waists.
‘Oh, this garden…,’ murmured Angélique, savouring the coolness that dripped down from the leaves above. ‘For years I’ve wanted to come here… And now here I am, with you!’
She did not ask where he was leading her. She allowed herself to be guided by his arm through the gloom enfolding the hundred-year-old trees. The earth felt soft beneath their feet, and the arches of foliage fading into darkness high above were like the vaults in a church ceiling. There was not a sound, not a breath of air; all they could hear was the beating of their hearts.
At last he pushed open the door to a large cottage and said:
‘Go on in, you are at my home now.’
It was here that his father had seen fit to keep him, hidden away in a remote corner of the grounds. Downstairs lay a large sitting room; above, expansive living quarters. The huge ground-floor room was illuminated by a lamp.
‘As you can see,’ he said, with a smile, ‘you are in the home of a simple artisan. This is my workshop.’
And it was indeed a workshop, set up at the whim of a wealthy young man whom it amused to dabble in a profession, that of glass painting. He had rediscovered old techniques from the thirteenth century, and could easily imagine himself one of those primitive glass-makers turning out masterpieces using the unsophisticated methods of the time. He made do with just an old table, coated in powdered chalk, on which he drew in red, and where he cut up pieces of glass with a hot iron, disdaining to use a diamond. The muffle kiln,* a small oven he had reconstructed from a drawing, was in use at that moment; the firing of some glass, destined for the repairs to another of the cathedral’s windows, was just nearing completion. And in boxes nearby lay pieces of glass of every colour, which he had had to order specially, blues, yellows, greens, and reds, pale, marbled, smoky, dark, pearly or rich in tone. The room was hung with splendid fabrics, and the workshop disappeared beneath the wealth of sumptuous furnishings. At the far end of the room, on an antique tabernacle that served as a pedestal, a tall gilded Virgin smiled through crimson lips.
‘And you’re working, you’re working!’ Angélique repeated with childish glee.
She was delighted by the kiln, and asked him to tell her everything about his work; how, following the example of the old masters, he used only glass that had been coloured in the paste,* to which he would merely add black shading; why he confined himself to small, clearly outlined figures, carefully bringing out their gestures and their flowing robes; and his thoughts on the glass-maker’s art, which had gone into decline once they had started painting on the glass, using enamel, and making more accurate drawings; and his final word on the stained-glass window—that it ought simply to be a transparent mosaic, the brightest tones ordered in greatest harmony, a delicate floral array erupting with colour. But just at this moment she cared little, deep down, for the glass-maker’s art! These things interested her only because they originated with him, and they allowed her to involve herself with him, and formed an intimate part of his life.
‘How happy we will be,’ she said, ‘you doing your glass-painting and I my embroidery!’
He had taken hold of her hands again in the middle of the great room, among whose luxurious furnishings she felt perfectly at ease, as though this were the natural setting in which the grace within her would blossom. For a moment both fell silent. And then it was she who spoke up once more:
‘So, is it settled then?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, with a smile.
‘Our marriage.’
He hesitated for a moment, his pale face suddenly darkening. She was alarmed.
‘Are you angry with me?’
But he had already taken her hands in a clasp that seemed to enfold her entirely.
‘It’s settled. Every wish of yours will be granted, whatever the obstacles. My only reason for living is to obey you.’
An expression of joy lit up her face.
‘We’ll get married, we’ll always love one another, and we’ll never part.’
She had no doubts whatsoever. Everything would unfold exactly as planned the very next day, as effortlessly as in the miracles of the Legend. She hadn’t the slightest concern that they might encounter any hindrance or delay. Since they loved each other, why would anyone wish to keep them apart a moment longer? People fall in love and then they marry: it’s all very simple. The thought filled her with serene and boundless joy.
‘It’s agreed, then, let’s shake on it!’ she joked.
He brought her little hand up to his lips.
‘It’s agreed.’
Fearful of being caught by the dawn, and impatient to divulge her secret, she started to set off, but he was anxious to see her home.
‘No, no, we wouldn’t make it before daybreak. I can find my way easily enough… Until tomorrow.’
‘Until tomorrow.’
Félicien yielded to her wish, and gazed after her as she made off, running beneath the gloomy elms and alongside a Chevrotte now bathed in light. She darted through the park gate and flew through the tall grass in the Clos-Marie. As she ran it occurred to her that she would never be able to wait until sunrise, and that it would be best to awaken the Huberts with a knock on their door, and tell them everything. Happiness swelled inside her, and honesty reared up defiantly: she felt unable to conceal for even five minutes longer the secret that she had kept so long. She ran into the garden, closing the gate behind her.
And there, over by the cathedral, Angélique caught sight of Hubertine, who had sat through the night waiting for her on the stone bench, a clump of straggly lilacs clustering around. Awoken by a pang of dread, Hubertine had gone upstairs and, finding the doors open, had immediately understood. And, sick with worry, uncertain where to go next, and fearing to make things worse, she had decided to wait.
