The Dream (Oxford World's Classics), page 21
She had expected a storm of tears, and was surprised to see her daughter, her face ashen, sit calmly down. The old oak table had been cleared, and the lamp cast its light across the ancient common room, whose peace was disturbed only by the quiet chattering of a kettle.
‘Mother, nothing is over… You must tell me. I have a right to know, don’t I? All these things concern me directly.’
And she listened carefully to what Hubertine thought fit to tell her of the things the priest had recounted, skipping over certain details, and continuing to hide the facts of life from this unworldly child.
Since he had summoned back his son, Monseigneur’s life had been plunged into turmoil. Having sent him away the day after his wife’s death, and refused for twenty years to acknowledge his existence, he was suddenly confronted now by a young man brimming with strength and vitality, a living portrait of the woman he mourned, being the same age as she had been, and possessing the same fair-haired grace that had marked her beauty. The long period of exile, the resentment he had harboured against the child who had robbed him of the mother, had all been well-advised: he felt this now, and regretted going back on his decision. His advancing age, twenty years spent in prayer, the descent of God into his soul—none of these had stopped him from being the man he had always been. And this child of his flesh, the flesh of his beloved wife, had only to rise to his feet with laughter in his blue eyes for the older man’s heart to start pounding fit to burst, in the belief that the dead woman had come back to life. He beat his chest with his fist, and wept in futile repentance, crying out that men who had partaken of women, and who were still bound to them by the bond of blood, should be forbidden from the priesthood.
The good Abbé Cornille had related all this to Hubertine in a hushed voice, his hands trembling. Mysterious rumours circulated; it was whispered that Monseigneur locked himself away at dusk, and spent the nights in desperate torment, weeping and wailing so wildly that, despite the muffling draperies, all in the Bishop’s Palace were terrified. He thought that he had forgotten the past and mastered his passion; but it had revived in his heart with all the savagery of a tempest. And he remained the fearsome man of earlier years, the reckless adventurer, the descendant of legendary military commanders. Every night, sinking to his knees, a hair-shirt rasping his skin, he tried to drive away the spectre of his much lamented wife, forcing himself to think on the dust lying in her coffin, which was all that must now remain of her. But instead she rose up alive, fresh and exquisite as a flower, appearing exactly as she had done when she was young, and he had loved her with the passionate devotion of a man already in his middle years. The torment began anew, and felt as raw as on the day she had died. He mourned her, and he desired her, and he revolted once more against God, who had taken her from him. It was only at daybreak that he grew calm once more and, deeply wearied, was overcome with self-loathing and contempt for the world. Ah, passion! He longed to slay this vile monster, and slip away again into the peaceful oblivion of divine love!
Emerging from his room, Monseigneur once more assumed a severe demeanour, his expression calm and haughty, his face still a touch pallid. On the morning when Félicien had made his confession, he had listened without saying a word, mastering himself so sternly that not a single fibre of his flesh had quivered. Staring at his son, he was distressed to find him so young, handsome, and passionate, for he saw himself again in this extremity of love. Resentment had given way to an inflexible resolve, a grim sense of obligation to shield his son from an error like the one that still tortured him so bitterly. He would crush his son’s passion, just as he wished to crush the passion within himself. This tale, which could have been plucked from the old romances, simply deepened his anguish. What, a poor girl, a girl with no name, a little embroideress glimpsed in the moonlight, transformed into a slender virgin of the Legend, and adored in a dream! He had finally uttered just a single word in reply: ‘Never!’ Félicien then threw himself at his father’s feet, imploring him, pleading his own case and Angélique’s. Until then, he had always trembled with fear when approaching his father but now, without daring to raise his eyes to this man of God, he begged him not to stand in the way of his happiness. In a subdued voice, he offered to disappear completely, taking his wife so far away that they would never be seen again. He would leave his great fortune to the Church. He wished simply to love and be loved, in obscurity. At these words, a shudder ran through Monseigneur. He had made a pledge to the Voincourts, and would never go back on it. Félicien, at his wits’ end, feeling the rage mount within him, had stormed away, alarmed by the flush of blood darkening his cheeks which threatened to plunge him into impious and overt rebellion.
‘My child,’ concluded Hubertine, ‘you must see now that you’ll have to stop thinking about this young man, because I’m sure you wouldn’t want to go against Monseigneur’s wishes… It has all turned out as I predicted. But I prefer to let the facts speak for themselves, rather than place any obstacle in your path myself.’
Angélique had listened calmly, her hands folded in her lap. Staring into space, she scarcely blinked as she imagined the scene, Félicien at Monseigneur’s feet, overflowing with tender affection as he spoke about her. She did not reply at once, and remained deep in thought, enfolded in the perfect silence that had spread through the kitchen since the kettle ceased its soft chattering. She lowered her eyes, and looked at her hands, which, in the lamplight, appeared as though of palest ivory. And, then, as a smile of invincible faith rose once more to her lips, she said simply:
‘If Monseigneur doesn’t yet consent, it’s only because he’s waiting to meet me.’
Angélique barely slept that night. She turned over and over in her mind the idea that the bishop would alter his stance if only he saw her. There was no personal womanly vanity in this; she believed love to be all-powerful, and loved Félicien so deeply that she felt sure that this would be obvious to his father, and he would change his mind, and no longer hinder their happiness. For a long time she tossed and turned in her great bed, as the same thoughts whirled around in her head. Monseigneur seemed to float before her closed eyes. Perhaps it was within him, and through him, that the long-awaited miracle would occur. The warm night slumbered on outside, and she strained her ears to make out the voices, trying to catch whatever counsel was flowing from the trees, the Chevrotte, the cathedral, and even the bedroom itself, which thronged with friendly shades. But everything around seemed to hum and murmur, and she could make out nothing specific. She grew impatient as certainty of any kind continued to elude her. But, as she fell asleep, she found herself saying:
‘Tomorrow I shall speak to Monseigneur.’
When she awoke, the step she planned seemed perfectly straightforward and necessary. It was sparked by innocent and courageous passion, and in her valour there mingled great purity and pride.
She was aware that, every Saturday, at around five o’clock in the evening, the bishop would go and kneel in the Hautecœur chapel, where he liked to pray alone, immersed in the history of his family and in his own past, seeking out a solitude that was respected by all the clergy. And, as it happened, today was Saturday. She quickly made her decision. If she had gone to the Bishop’s Palace, it was possible that she would not have been allowed in to see him; and, in any case, there were always a lot of people about there, which would have flustered her. On the other hand, it would be so easy just to wait in the chapel and introduce herself to Monseigneur when he appeared. That day she worked on her embroidery with her usual calm diligence; she felt no great agitation, and was firm in her resolve, confident that she was doing the right thing. Then, at four o’clock, she said she was just popping out to see Mère Gabet, and went out, dressed as though for a visit to the local shops, wearing a simple garden hat knotted carelessly under her chin. She turned left towards St Agnes’s portal and pushed open one of the padded doors, which swung shut behind her with a muffled thud.
The cathedral was deserted, and just a solitary penitent lingered in a confessional in St Joseph’s chapel, given away only by her black skirt trailing out. And Angélique, who had been very calm until then, began to tremble as she was enveloped in the chill seclusion of this holy place, the sharp little tap of her footsteps echoing in an alarming fashion. Why did she feel so apprehensive? She had imagined herself to be so very strong, and had remained calm throughout the day, convinced that she had a perfect right to seek after happiness! But now she no longer felt sure, and was blenching as though guilty of a crime! She slipped along to the Hautecœur chapel, where she had to hold tight to the grille to support herself.
It was one of the darkest and most sequestered chapels in the ancient Romanesque apse. Resembling a tomb hewn out of solid rock, cramped and stark, with plain ribs running across its low vault, it was lit only by the window, the legend of St George, in which red and blue pieces predominated, creating a purplish gloom. The unornamented altar, made of black and white marble, and mounted simply with a crucifix and a pair of double candelabra, looked like a sepulchre. And the rest of the walls were covered with memorial tablets, the time-worn stones crowding flush against one another from roof to floor, the deeply cut letters of the inscriptions still legible.
Angélique waited, scarcely breathing and perfectly still. A beadle walked right by, but did not see her there, pressed against the inside of the grille. She could still see the skirt of the penitent trailing from the confessional. Her eyes adapted to the half-light and, as her gaze settled mechanically on the inscriptions, she eventually began to pick out letters. She recognized some of the names, which conjured up the legends of Hautecœur Castle, Jean V the Great, Raoul III, and Hervé VII. Her eyes fell on two more, those of Laurette and Balbine, which, in her agitated state, moved her to tears. These were the names of the Happy Dead, Laurette, who had plummeted from a moonbeam on the way to meet her betrothed, and Balbine, who had been struck dead by excess of joy on her husband’s return, having thought him killed in battle. It was they who returned at night, their great gowns swathing the castle in billowing white. On the day she had visited the ruins hadn’t she seen them hovering above the towers in the pale grey dusk? Oh, she would gladly have died like them, aged 16, in the blissful fulfilment of her dream!
A loud crash, echoing beneath the vaults, made her tremble. It was the priest leaving the confessional in St Joseph’s chapel, shutting the door behind him. She was surprised not to see the penitent lady, who had already vanished. And then, when the priest, in turn, went out through the sacristy, she felt absolutely alone in the vast solitude of the cathedral. Hearing that thunderous report as the old confessional banged on its rusty hinges, she had thought that Monseigneur must be drawing near. She had been waiting for him for almost half an hour, unaware of how long it had been. In her trepidation, she was oblivious to the passing minutes.
A new name caught her eye, Félicien III. It was he who had travelled to Palestine carrying a candle, to fulfil a vow made by Philip the Fair. And her heart beat faster as she saw in her imagination the youthful face of Félicien VII, who was descended from them all, the blond-haired lord whom she adored, and who adored her. The thought filled her with pride and fear. Was it really possible that a miracle was going to occur before her? In front of her there was a more recent marble slab, dating from the previous century, on which she could easily read in black lettering: Norbert Louis Ogier, marquis of Hautecœur, prince of Mirande and Rouvres, count of Ferrières, Montégu and Saint-Marc, and also Villemareuil, baron of Combeville, lord of Morainvilliers, knight of the Four Orders of the King, lieutenant of his armies, governor of Normandy, entrusted with the office of captain general of the hunt and the company of the boar.* These were the titles of Félicien’s grandfather, and she had come in all her simplicity, dressed in just her work dress, her fingers scarred by the needle, to marry the grandson of this dead nobleman.
She heard a faint sound, something brushing softly over the flagstones. She turned, and was startled to see Monseigneur there, so silent had his approach been, unaccompanied by the expected thunderclap. He had come into the chapel, appearing very tall and very noble, with his pale face and strong nose, and eyes flashing with youthful vigour. At first he did not see her huddled against the dark grille. Then, as he bowed towards the altar, he discovered her there before him, at his feet.
Angélique’s legs had buckled, so overwhelmed was she by dread and terror, and she had sunk to her knees. He appeared to her like God the Father, awful in his absolute mastery over her fate. But she had a valiant heart, and spoke up immediately:
‘Oh, Monseigneur, I have come…’
He stood up straight. He remembered her: the young girl he had noticed in the window on the day of the procession and, again, inside the cathedral, standing on a chair, the little embroideress his son was madly in love with. He did not utter a word, or make the slightest motion. He waited, standing tall and rigid.
‘Oh, Monseigneur, I’ve come so that you can see who I am. You rejected me, but you don’t even know me. So here I am, look at me, before you dismiss me again… I’m simply the girl who loves your son and is loved by him, I’m nothing more than that. Without love I’m nothing, nothing but a wretched child, found under the porch of this cathedral… You see me at your feet, how small, weak, and humble I am… You can easily push me aside if I’m a nuisance to you. You could destroy me with your little finger… But, oh, how many tears we’ve shed! You must understand that we’re suffering. We’re miserable… I wanted, like your son, to argue my case, Monseigneur. I’m ignorant, I know only that I love, and that I’m loved… Isn’t that enough? To love—to love and proclaim it out loud!’
And she went on, speaking in snatches and strangled phrases, revealing her every last thought in an outpouring of innocence and ever more fervent passion. It was love itself making its confession. She had the courage to speak like this only because she was chaste. Gradually, she had lifted up her glance.
‘We love one another, Monseigneur. Doubtless he has explained to you how this came about. I’ve often asked myself the same question, without managing to find an answer… We love one another, and if that’s a crime, you must excuse it, because it came to us from afar, from the very trees and stones around us. When I realized that I loved him, it was too late to stop loving him… And why would anyone wish for that now? You can keep him at home, and marry him to someone else, but you will never be able to stop him loving me. He will die without me, as I shall die without him. When he’s not with me, I still have the feeling that he’s there by my side, and that we shall never be apart, and that each has the keeping of the other’s heart. I need only close my eyes, and I can see him, and he is within me… And will you then tear this union asunder? Monseigneur, it is something given by God, I beg you, please don’t prevent us from loving one another.’
He looked at her, so fresh and modest, fragrant as a flower, in her simple work dress. He listened as she uttered this hymn to her love in an irresistibly charming voice, which gradually grew steadier. But her garden hat had slipped back onto her shoulders, and her radiant hair formed a delicate golden halo around her face; and she appeared to him like one of the legendary virgins of the old missals,* having, in her passion, something about her that was fragile, primitive, graceful, and passionately pure.
‘Be kind, Monseigneur… You are our lord and master, please allow us to be happy.’
Seeing him so cold, motionless, and silent, she pleaded with him and inclined her head once more. Oh, what it was to behold this distraught child at his feet, to inhale the fragrance of youth that rose from her bowed neck! The little blonde curls that he had kissed so wildly long ago were there before him once more. The woman whose memory still tormented him, after twenty years’ penance, had had the same youthful fragrance, the same lovely neck, proud and graceful as a lily. She had come to life again: it was she who wept, and who entreated him to show clemency towards passionate love.
With tears now running down her cheeks, Angélique went on, determined to say all that was on her mind.
‘And, Monseigneur, I don’t love him just for himself, I also love his noble name, and the lustre of his royal fortune… And, yes, I realize that, since I am a nobody and have nothing, it must appear that I want him for his money. And it’s true, I do want him for his money, as well… I tell you this because I want you to know everything about me… Oh, what it would be to become rich through him and live with him in opulent splendour; to owe him my every joy, to be free to love as we please, to be surrounded by tears and woe no longer!… For as long as he has loved me, I have imagined myself dressed in brocade, as in olden times. My neck and wrists are hung with glistening jewels and pearls; I have horses, carriages, and vast woods where I can stroll about followed by my page boys… Whenever I think about him, I have this dream. And I say to myself that all this must come to be, that my dream of being a queen has been fulfilled. Monseigneur, is it then so terrible to love him even more because he will gratify all my childhood wishes, and gold will shower down as in the fairy tales?’
She stood proud and tall, and in her simplicity bore herself with all the graceful charm of a princess. She seemed the very image of the other woman, with the same flower-like delicacy, and the same gentle tears that sparkled like smiles. The ecstasy of love spread all around her, and he could feel its warmth ripple through him, mounting to his face—and it was this same warm tremor that welled in his memory every night, causing him to collapse sobbing onto his prie-dieu,* shattering the devout silence of the Bishop’s Palace with his laments. Just the night before, he had wrestled once again with his feelings until three o’clock in the morning; and this love affair of theirs, with its roiling passions, inflamed his incurable wound. But his impassive mask was impenetrable; nothing betrayed the efforts he made to master the beating of his heart. If his blood were ebbing from him drop by drop, nobody was able to see where it trickled out: he simply appeared paler and more taciturn.
