Clermont/Chapter 13
CHAP. III.
My lab'ring heart, that swells with indignation,
Heaves to discharge its burden, that once done
The busy thing shall rest within its cell.
Expecting every moment to behold him, she took the path to the grotto; but reached it without having that expectation fulfilled. Surprised and disappointed she stopped before it, irresolute whether to return to the chateau directly or wait a few minutes there; she at last resolved on the latter, and seated herself on the moss covered stone at its entrance. The deep gloom of the grotto made her involuntarily shudder whenever she cast a glance within it, but in spite of terror she continued on her seat, till the dark shades of night began to involve every object, and warned her to return home: as she arose for that purpose an idea darted into her mind, that illness or some dreadful accident, had alone prevented de Sevignie from keeping an appointment so eagerly desired, so tenderly solicited, and regretting the time she had wasted in expectation, she now rather flew than walked to the chateau, in order to entreat the Countess to send a servant to V———, to enquire about him; she had not proceeded many yards, however, when her progress was impeded by the object who had caused her apprehensions and solicitude. So little did she now expect to see him, that as he slowly emerged from amidst the trees, she started back, as if he had been the last creature in the world she had thought of seeing. Ere she could recover sufficiently from her agitation to speak, de Sevignie, rather negligently bowing, said, "he hoped he had not been the means of keeping her out to so late an hour."
"The officers (continued he, but without looking at her) to whose hospitality and politeness I have been so much indebted, since my residence at V———, insisted on my dining with them to-day, and though I wished and tried to leave them at an early hour, they would not suffer me to do so, nor to depart at the one I did, had I not promised to return immediately to them."
The coldness of his manner, the frivolous excuse he made for his want of punctuality, and the intention he avowed of quitting her directly, without any reference to their conversation of the preceding night, all struck Madeline with a conviction, that his sentiments were totally changed since that conversation had taken place: for a change so sudden, so unaccountable, tenderness suggested an enquiry, but pride repeled it, and she would instantly have quitted him with every indication of the disdain he seemed to merit, had her agitation permitted her to move."
"Will you allow me, Mademoiselle Clermont (cried de Sevignie, still looking rather from her) to attend you to the castle, 'ere I bid you adieu; and also to hope, that at some other time, I may have the honour of seeing you."
"Never—(said Madeline, recovering her voice, and summoning all her spirits to her aid) never—no sir.—No, de Sevignie, except in the presence or the house of the Countess de Merville, never more will I permit you to see me."
"In her house, (repeated de Sevignie with quickness, and turning his eyes upon her.) How could I attempt seeing you in the house of the Countess, unacquainted as I am with her."
"The Countess (replied Madeline) would never be displeased at my seeing any one in her house whom I considered as my friend. Besides—besides—(added she, hesitating, doubtful whether to stop or to go on) besides—(after the pause of a minute) she gave permission to have you introduced to her."
"When, on what account did she give that permission; (demanded de Sevignie, with yet greater quickness then he had before spoken) did she discover, or did you tell her that we had met."
"I told her (said Madeline, with firmness, and looking steadily at him.) The Countess is my friend;—she is more. She is the guardian to whose care my father has consigned me, and concealment to her would be criminal. I told her we had met. I told her every circumstance of that meeting; every circumstance prior to it; I communicated every thought, I revealed my whole soul."
"I admire your prudence," exclaimed de Sevignie, in an accent which denoted vexation, whilst the melancholy of his countenance gave way to a dark frown, and the paleness of his cheek to a deep crimson.
"I rejoice at it, (cried Madeline) my friend will strengthen my weakness, will confirm my resolves, will give me a clue to discover the dark and intricate mazes of the human heart."
Her language seemed to penetrate the soul of de Sevignie, he turned from her with emotion, then as abruptly turning to her again, "for what purpose (asked he) did the Countess give you permission to introduce me to her."
"For the purpose—" Madeline paused, she had been on the point of saying, for the purpose of promoting our happiness, but timely checked herself. And ah, thought she at the moment, from the altered manner of de Sevignie, I cannot believe that his happiness could be promoted by the intentions of the Countess.
"Tell me, I entreat, I conjure you," said de Sevignie, with earnestness.
Madeline hesitated.—Yet 'tis but justice (she thought) to my friend, to de Sevignie himself, to confess her intentions; if the alteration in his manner is occasioned by finding the plan he recently conceived impracticable, the divulgment of her generous intentions will again set all to rights; catching at this idea, and flattering herself it was a just one, she briefly related the conversation which had past between her and the Countess; de Sevignie listened with fixed attention, but continued silent many minutes after she had ceased to speak, as if in a profound reverie; then suddenly raising his eyes from the ground he fastened them on her with an expression of the deepest melancholy, and thus addressed her:
"Great (cried he) is my regret, greater than language can express, at being unable to avail myself of the high honour the Countess designed me; but though unable to avail myself of it; though unable to profit by her noble her generous intentions, my inability to do so, has not suppressed my gratitude for them.
"Why, why, that inability exists, I cannot explain; but let me do myself the justice of saying, that candour would not err in putting the most favourable construction on it. In this moment, when declaring the renunciation of every hope relative to you, I would apologize for the presumption, the impetuosity, the inconsistencies of my conduct to you. Could I do so as I wish, but as that is impossible, I must, without pleading for it, cast myself upon the sweetness of your disposition for forgiveness. I often, before this period, declared I would never more intrude into your presence; I now solemnly repeat that declaration, for I am now thoroughly convinced of the folly of my former conduct, and he who is sensible of his error, yet perseveres in it, is guilty of weakness in the extreme; such weakness is not mine. In future, I mean to avoid every pursuit, to fly from every thought which can enervate my mind."
His voice faltered, and a deep sigh burst from him. "farewell, Mademoiselle Clermont, (said he, after the pause of a moment) too long have I detained—too long have I persecuted you—with my last adieu receive my best wishes for your happiness, may they be more availing than those I formed for my own." He cast another lingering look upon her, then turning into a winding path, disappeared in a moment.
Every flattering hope, every pleasing expectation of Madeline's, was again crushed, without the smallest prospect of their being ever more revived; like the unsubstantial pageants of a dream they faded, nor left a wreck behind. Oh, what a vacuum did their loss occasion in the heart of Madeline: at first, she almost fancied she had dreamt the conversation of the preceding night, and that it was only now, the illusions of that dream were flying from her. But by degrees, her thoughts grew more composed, and then every wild or soothing suggestion of fancy died away, and she began to reconsider the conduct of de Sevignie. His last words had not been able to make her think favourably of it. "No, (she cried) I am convinced, without some motive for doing so, which he durst not avow, he never would have with-held the confidence he was so kindly invited to repose in the most amiable of women. And yet—(she continued, after pausing some minutes) he with-held it, perhaps, not from having any improper motives to make him wish concealment, but because his sentiments were altered respecting me.—Though no, (she proceeded, after another pause) that could not be the case; 'tis impossible in one night so great an alteration could have taken place. 'Tis evident then, too evident, that a cause exists for concealment, which he either fears or is ashamed to acknowledge; and also, that his coldness this evening, sprung from a wish of trying his power over me, for they say neglect is the test of affection;—but de Sevignie, your artifice caused you no triumph, and never—never more, shall you have an opportunity of exercising it on me; like you, I will in future avoid every pursuit, fly from every thought which can enervate my mind."
The striking of the castle clock now reached her ear, and she hastily walked to the chateau; alarmed on finding the usual supper hour over, least she should by her long stay, have again given uneasiness to the bosom of her friend.
On reaching the chateau, a servant informed her, that the Countess was in her dressing-room: slowly Madeline ascended to it; she felt ready to sink with confusion at the idea of the mortifying explanation she must make to the Countess. "She will think (cried she) that I have hitherto been the dupe of my own fancy; and that de Sevignie, but in my own imagination, has been amiable." She paused at the door for a minute, from a vain hope that by so doing, she should regain some composure.
"Well, (said her friend, smiling as she entered) I find, Madeline, by your long stay, that you could not withstand the pleasures of a tête-a-tête; but where is the Chevalier de Sevignie, (she continued, on seeing Madeline shut the door) were you afraid to bring him, least I should rival you."
"He is gone, Madam," answered Madeline, in a faint voice, as she sat down on the nearest chair, unable any longer to support herself.
"Gone! (repeated the Countess, in a tone of amazement) but bless me, my dear, you look very pale, are you ill."
"No madam," Madeline attempted to say, but her voice failed her, and she burst into tears.
"Gracious heaven! (exclaimed the Countess, rising, and going to her, ) you terrify me beyond expression. Madeline, my love, what is the matter."
"Nothing, madam, (replied Madeline) only, only, (sobbing as if her heart would break) that I think, I believe—the Chevalier de Sevignie, is not quite so amiable as I once imagined."
"Try to compose yourself and speak intelligently my dear, (said the Countess) for I cannot support, much longer, the fears you excite." The tears she shed somewhat relieved the full heart of Madeline; and the Countess taking a seat by her, she was able in a few minutes, to relate the conduct of de Sevignie, and acknowledge the sentiments it had inspired her with.
"His behaviour is strange, is inexplicable, indeed (said the Countess) and I perfectly agree with you in thinking, that he is an unworthy character; too undeserving to have an effort made to solve the mystery which he has wrapped himself in; had he any sensibility, had he any nobleness, he never would have wounded your innocent, your ingenuous heart as he has done. Had he respected, had he regarded you properly, he never would have regretted your making me your confidant; that regret confirms my belief, notwithstanding his solemn protestations of seeing you no more, that he still entertains designs concerning you; designs, I am sorry to shock your nature by saying so, of a dishonourable nature. Should he therefore, again throw himself in your way, as I apprehend, shun him, I entreat, I conjure you, my Madeline; as you value your happiness, your honour, the peace of your friends, the esteem of the world."
"Ah, madam, (cried Madeline) I hope you do not doubt my resolution;—my tenderness is wounded, my pride is roused, and thinking as I do of him, could I now permit an interview with de Sevignie, I should be lessened in my own eyes."
"I do not doubt your resolution, my love, (replied the Countess, kissing her cheek) and I beg you to excuse the caution, the unnecessary caution of age. (She now expressed her pleasure at not having written to Clermont, since things had taken so different a turn from what was expected.) I rejoice to think, (continued she) that he will not know how unworthy de Sevignie was of the kindness he showed him."
Madeline sighed deeply at those words, the violence of offended pride was abated, and in this moment of decreased resentment, an emotion of softness again stole o'er her heart, and made her regret having exposed de Sevignie, by her own animadversions, to the still severer ones of the Countess. She regretted, because from this returning softness she was tempted to doubt his deserving them, and to impute the inconsistencies of his conduct, to difficulties too dreadful perhaps to relate; and she shuddered at the idea of having, in addition to his other misfortunes, drawn upon him the unmerited imputation of baseness; but from this idea, torturing in the extreme, reflection soon relieved her, for when she re-considered his conduct, she could not help thinking he deserved that imputation.
"Yet is it possible, (she cried to herself) that de Sevignie, he who appeared possessed of the nicest delicacy, the most exalted honour, the steadiest principles of rectitude; is it possible that he can be unamiable? Alas, why cannot I doubt it still;—but no, let me rather rejoice than regret not being able to do so; rejoice, that passion no longer spreads a mist before my eyes: to endeavour to doubt his unworthiness now, would be to try and blind my reason, and weaken my resolves."
But notwithstanding what she said, she still fluctuated between resentment and tenderness, candour and distrust,—alternately acquitted, alternately condemned him.
With the utmost gentleness, the Countess tried to sooth and steal her from her sorrow; she did not, like a rigid censor, chide her for weakness in indulging it. She knew what it was to have the projects of youthful hope overthrown; the anguish which attends the shock of a first disappointment, and that time must be allowed to conquer it. That time, aided by reason, would heal the wound which had been given to the gentle bosom of her Madeline, she trusted and believed.
On retiring to her chamber, Madeline could not suppress her tears at the contrast she drew between her present feelings and those of the preceding night; and again she began to fancy de Sevignie more unfortunate than unamiable; when suddenly recollecting her resolution of expeling this idea, she hastily tried to divert her thoughts from it.
"That we are separated, I am assured, (cried she) and to ascertain whether I have reason to esteem or condemn him, (though soothing perhaps to my feelings to think the former) can now be of little consequence to me."