The Dream (Oxford World's Classics), page 25
With a smile on her lips, she had raised her hand in intense concentration. These scattered breaths of air sent a thrill running through her whole being. The virgins of the Legend were there, appearing to her imagination just as they had done in childhood, the whole mystical host emerging from that old book lying on the table, its pages filled with naive imagery. First Agnes, her hair falling down around her like a gown, with the engagement ring of the priest Paulinus on her finger; and then all the others, Barbara with her tower, Genevieve with her lambs, Cecilia with her viol, Agatha with her torn breasts, Elizabeth begging in the street, Catherine prevailing over the learned men. Lucy miraculously grows so heavy that a thousand men and five pairs of oxen cannot haul her away to a house of ill repute. The governor who tries to kiss Anastasia is struck blind. And all of them hover palely on the bright night air, their chests torn open by torturing irons, and streams of milk, instead of blood, pour out. The air turns pale, and the darkness is lit up as though by a shower of stars. Oh, what it would be to die of love like them, to die a virgin, radiant and white, at the first kiss of the betrothed!
Félicien had come up to her.
‘I am someone who actually exists, Angélique, and you are rejecting me for your dreams…’
‘Dreams,’ she murmured.
‘If there are visions encircling you, it is because you have created them… Come now, if you stop investing the things around you with your spirit, they will fall silent.’
A thrill of exultation ran through her.
‘Oh no, let them speak, let them speak even louder! They are my source of strength, and give me the courage to resist you… This is grace itself, and never has it filled me with such spirit. If it is only a dream, a dream I have imparted to the things around me, and which now comes back to me, what does it matter! The dream is saving me, bearing me along unsullied through a world of appearances… Oh, just give up, and obey like me! I don’t want to follow you.’
Weak as she was, she had drawn herself up to her full height, and appeared steadfast and invincible.
‘But you were deceived,’ he resumed, ‘they stooped to telling lies in order to keep us apart!’
‘The wrongs of others do not excuse our own.’
‘Oh, your affection for me has waned, you don’t love me any more.’
‘I do love you—I’m only resisting you for the sake of our love and our happiness… Obtain your father’s consent, and I will follow you.’
‘You don’t know what my father’s like. Only God could sway him… Well, then, tell me, is it all over? If my father orders me to marry Claire de Voincourt, must I obey him?’
As she staggered beneath this final blow, Angélique could not help complaining:
‘This is all too much… Go away, I beg you, don’t be so cruel… Why did you come here? I was resigned to my situation, I’d got used to the appalling idea that you didn’t love me. And now I learn that you do love me, and I shall have to go through all this suffering again!… What do you expect me to do now?’
Thinking he had found a weak point, he repeated:
‘If my father wishes me to marry her…’
She stiffened herself against the pain, and managed to remain standing, even though her heart was on the verge of breaking. Then she dragged herself over to the table, as though to let him pass.
‘Marry her, you must obey.’
He made his way over to the window, and was about to leave, since she seemed intent on sending him away.
‘But it will be the death of you!’ he cried.
She had regained her calm, and murmured with a smile:
‘I’m halfway there already.’
He gazed at her for a moment longer, so pale and small, as delicate as a feather that the faintest breath of wind might carry away. Then he shrugged with angry resolve, and disappeared into the night.
She propped herself against the back of the armchair, once he had gone, and thrust out her arms despairingly towards the darkness. Deep sobs convulsed her body, and her face was bathed in mortal sweat. My God, this was the end! She would never see him again. Her malady had retaken possession of her flesh, and her weary legs gave way beneath her. It was only with great difficulty that she managed to regain her bed and lay herself down, triumphant yet scarcely breathing. When they came in the next morning they realized that she was dying. The lamp had burned itself out at dawn in the triumphal whiteness of her bedroom.
Chapter 13
Angélique was dying. It was ten o’clock on a crisp, clear morning towards the end of winter, and the sun was glittering in a pale sky. She lay motionless in the great royal bed hung with antique pink chintz, and had not regained consciousness since the previous day. Stretched out on her back, her ivory hands resting lifelessly on the sheets, she had not once opened her eyes; and her profile appeared more pinched beneath her golden cloud of hair; and one might easily have imagined that she was already dead but for the faint breath issuing between her lips.
The previous day, feeling desperately unwell, Angélique had made her confession and taken communion. Towards three o’clock, the Abbé Cornille had brought her the holy viaticum.* And then, in the evening, as the chill of death spread slowly through her body, she had felt an urgent desire for extreme unction, that celestial physic instituted for the healing of body and soul. In her last words before she lost consciousness—a faint murmur that was caught by Hubertine—she had stammered out her wish for the holy oils: oh, at once, while there was still time! But the night was wearing on, and so they had waited for day to come, and the priest, who had been alerted, was finally about to arrive.
The Huberts had finished arranging the room, and everything was ready. As the bright sun struck the windows at this early hour, the room, with its expanse of bare white walls, seemed to glow with the pale light of dawn. They had covered the table with a white cloth. To the right and left of a crucifix, two candles burned in silver candlesticks brought up from the sitting room. They had also placed there holy water and an aspergillum,* a ewer of water in its basin, a towel, and two white porcelain plates, one containing balls of cotton wool, the other white paper cones. They had been to visit all the glasshouses in the lower town, but the only flowers they had been able to find were roses, big white roses with heavy clusters of flowers that made it look as though the table were adorned with rippling white lace. And amid this dazzling sea of white, the dying Angélique drew breath faintly, her eyelids closed.
During his morning visit, the doctor had said that she would not last the day. She might pass away at any moment, without ever regaining consciousness. And so the Huberts waited. For all their tears, it had to be this way. If they willed her death, preferring that the child should die rather than live on in defiance, it was because God willed it also. Now things lay beyond their control, and all they could do was submit. They felt no regret, but were harrowed to the core by grief. Ever since she had come to the verge of death, they had looked after her, and refused all help from outside. They were alone again, in this final hour, and they waited.
Hubert mechanically went over and opened the door of the earthenware stove, which had been making a doleful moan. A hush fell, and the roses appeared duller in the gentle warmth that washed over them. Hubertine had been listening for a moment to the sounds of the cathedral that came from the other side of the wall. A bell was tolling, sending a shiver through the old stones; no doubt the Abbé Cornille was coming out of the cathedral with his holy oils, and so she went downstairs to meet him on the doorstep. A couple of minutes later, a commotion filled the narrow turret staircase. Then, in spite of the warmth in the room, Hubert began to tremble, utterly amazed, and fell to his knees, filled with sacred dread, and a glimmer of hope.
Instead of the old priest they had been expecting, it was Monseigneur who entered: Monseigneur in a lace rochet* and violet stole, bearing a silver vessel containing the Oil of the Sick, which he himself had blessed on Maundy Thursday. He gazed straight ahead with his eagle eyes, and his pale, handsome face, fringed with thick white curls, was full of majesty. And behind him, in the simple role of clerk, walked the Abbé Cornille, a crucifix in one hand, the ritual* tucked under his other arm.
Stopping for a moment by the door, the bishop said solemnly:
‘Pax huic domui.’
‘Et omnibus habitantibus in ea,’* responded the priest, more softly.
After they had gone in, Hubertine, who had come up the stairs behind them, and was also trembling with astonishment, went over and knelt beside her husband. And both alike, with heads bowed and hands clasped, prayed with all their might.
The day after his visit to Angélique, there had been a terrible confrontation between Félicien and his father. He had forced his way in at first light and bearded the bishop in the oratory, where the older man was still praying after a night spent in terrible struggle against his resurgent past. The dutiful son, held back by fear until now, gave vent to his long-suppressed defiance; and the two men, sharing the same blood, and both swift to anger, clashed fiercely. Rising from his prie-dieu, the old man listened in obstinate and disdainful silence, his cheeks flushing crimson. The young man, his face similarly aflame, poured out his discontent, his voice gradually mounting until he was bellowing. He told his father that Angélique was ill and on the verge of death, and related how, as his mind churned with fear and tenderness, he had made plans to run away with her—and how she had refused to go with him, displaying all the chaste renunciation of a saint. Would it not be tantamount to murder if this obedient child, who would take him only with his father’s consent, were allowed to die? When she was finally able to have him, along with his title and his fortune, she had cried out no, struggling with herself until she emerged victorious. And he loved her, too, more than life itself, and he despised himself for not being there by her side, so that the two of them might die together, taking their final breath as one! Could anyone be so cruel as to want them to die so wretchedly? Oh, what did these things count for—pride in one’s name, resplendent wealth, stubborn resolve—beside the simple matter of making two people happy? He wrung his trembling hands, twisting one about the other and, beside himself with anguish, demanded his father’s consent, threatening him at one moment, and begging him the next. But the bishop deigned to reply only with that single word that resonated with his supreme authority: Never!
Then Félicien rose into a frenzy of defiance, losing all measure of self-control. He spoke about his mother. It was she who was coming back to life within him, claiming what was rightfully owed to lovers. His father could never have loved her and must have delighted in her death if he were prepared to behave so sternly towards lovers who wished to live. It was in vain that he should try to shut himself away with the chilly abnegations of religion; she would come back to haunt him, and torment him, because he was tormenting the child born of their marriage. She was still alive, and wanted to carry on living through her son’s children, eternally; and he was killing her all over again by refusing to let his son have his chosen fiancée, the woman who would carry on their line. You could not be married to the Church after you had been married to a woman. Looking directly at his father, who stood still, and seemed to loom taller in the terrifying silence, he called him a betrayer and a murderer. Then, stricken by horror, he staggered away.
When he was alone, Monseigneur turned and sank down, as though a knife had been plunged into his chest, his knees settling onto the prie-dieu. A terrible moan escaped his throat. Oh, what sorrows lay in the heart, and what inescapable weakness in the flesh! That woman, that dead woman who insisted on returning to life, he loved her as much as on that first evening when he had kissed her pale feet. And his son, well! He adored him as though he were an extension of herself, a portion of her living flesh that remained after she had gone. And that young woman, the little working girl he had spurned, he adored her too with all the love his son felt for her. Now his nights were tormented by thoughts of all three of them. Although he could not admit it, she had moved him to pity in the cathedral, the simple little embroideress with her golden hair, and charming neck, and lovely youthful fragrance. She passed before his sight, delicate, pure and enchantingly obedient, and lodged in his core as surely and invincibly as any of his regrets. Although officially he repudiated her, he knew that she held his heart in her humble, needle-scarred hands. While Félicien had been angrily entreating him, he had glimpsed behind his son’s blond head those two beloved women, one the object of his tears, the other now dying for his son. And, hollow-cheeked and sobbing, at a complete loss as to how he might ever recover peace of mind, he begged heaven to send him the courage to tear out his heart, since his heart no longer belonged to God.
Monseigneur prayed on until evening. When he reappeared, he was as pale as wax, desolate and yet determined. For his part, there was nothing he could do, and he repeated the awful word: Never! Only God had the right to release him from his vow; and when he had beseeched God, God had remained silent. The suffering had to continue.
Two days went by, and Félicien loitered in front of the little house, wild with anguish, and desperate for any news. Whenever anybody emerged, he grew faint with dread. And so it was, when Hubertine came out that morning and ran over to the cathedral to ask for the holy oils, he knew that Angélique would not last the day. But the Abbé Cornille was not there, and so Félicien scoured the town for him, feeling that the last hope for divine help lay with this man alone. But then, as he returned with the good priest, his hope dissipated, and he was racked by doubts, and filled with anger. What could be done? How could he compel the intervention of heaven? He ran off, and forced his way again into the Bishop’s Palace; and, hearing his son’s ravings, the bishop was momentarily afraid. But at last he understood: on the verge of death, Angélique was awaiting extreme unction—only God could save her. The young man had come solely to bellow his pain aloud, to sever all relations with his abominable father, and to throw the accusation of murder in his face. But Monseigneur listened to him without anger, his eyes suddenly alight, as though a voice had finally spoken. And he motioned to Félicien to lead the way, and followed on saying:
‘If God wills, I will.’
A great shiver ran through Félicien’s frame. His father, released from his earlier resolution, was offering his consent, and submitting to the will of the miraculous. They, themselves, were of no account now: God would act. Tears blinded him as Monseigneur took the holy oils from the Abbé Cornille in the sacristy. He went with them in a daze, but dared not go into the bedroom, and fell to his knees on the landing, in front of the open door.
‘Pax huic domui.’
‘Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.’
Monseigneur had just placed the holy oils between the two candles on the white table, after making a sign of the cross with the silver vessel. He then took the crucifix from the hands of the priest, and bore it over to the sick girl so that she might kiss it. But Angélique was still unconscious and, with her eyelids closed and her hands rigid, resembled a slender stone statue lying stiffly on the lid of a tomb. He studied her for a moment and, seeing by her faint breathing that she was still alive, placed the crucifix to her lips. He waited, his face bearing the august expression of a minister of penance, no human emotion playing across his features as he perceived that her delicate profile and lucent hair remained untroubled by the slightest tremor. She was still alive though, and that was enough for the remission of her sins.
Monseigneur then took from the priest the small bowl containing the holy water and the aspergillum and, with the priest holding the ritual open before him, he sprinkled holy water on the dying girl as he read out the Latin words:
‘Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.’*
The droplets flew out, and the great bed was bathed in freshness, as though by a fall of dew. The droplets showered down on fingers and cheeks, and trickled away, one by one, as though running down lifeless marble. And the bishop then turned towards the others who were present, and sprinkled them in turn. Hubert and Hubertine, kneeling side by side, and desperate to feel their faith burn higher, bowed down beneath these waves of blessing. And the bishop carried on, blessing the room, the furniture, the white walls, all its bare white expanses, until, coming to the doorway, he found himself before his son, huddled there on the threshold, overwhelmed by anguish, sobbing into his burning hands. Three times the bishop slowly raised the aspergillum, and sent a gentle rain down upon him, cleansing him. Scattered all around like this, the holy water was intended to drive out the evil spirits that flew about invisibly in their millions. Just at this moment a pale ray of winter sunlight struck the bed, bringing to life a whole host of dust motes, an innumerable crowd of darting speckles, which streamed down from a corner of the window to bathe the cold hands of the dying girl in their warm flood.
Monseigneur came back to the table, and recited the prayer ‘Exaudi nos’.*
He did not make haste. Death was there, among the old chintz curtains, but he sensed that it was not in any hurry, and would wait. And although the child, in the depths of her prostration, could not hear him, he spoke to her, asking:
