“I have heard of good fortune for you,” said I, “and, like all who love much, I feel some vague fears.—Will not your greatness mar your friendship?”
“Mine!” cried she. “For shame! If you ever have such an idea, I shall not despise you, but simply forget you forever.”
I looked at her in a state of intoxication, which must surely have been infectious.
“We get the benefit of an edict which we neither prompted nor asked for, and we shall neither be beggars nor grasping,” she went on. “Besides, as you know, neither I nor Monsieur de Mortsauf can ever leave Clochegourde. By my advice he has declined the active command he had a right to at the Maison Rouge. It is enough that my father should have an appointment. And our compulsory modesty,” she went on, with a bitter smile, “has been to our boy’s advantage already. The King, on whom my father is in attendance, has very graciously promised to reserve for Jacques the favors we have declined.
“Jacques’ education, which must now be thought of, is the subject of very grave discussion. He will be the representative of the two houses of Mortsauf and Lenoncourt. I have no ambition but for him, so this is an added anxiety. Not only must Jacques be kept alive, but he must also be made worthy of his name, and the two necessities are antagonistic. Hitherto I have been able to teach him, graduating his tasks to his strength; but where am I to find a tutor who would suit me in this respect? And then, by and by, to what friend can I look to preserve him in that dreadful Paris, where everything is a snare to the soul and a peril to the body?
“My friend,” she went on, in an agitated voice, “who that looks at your brow and eye can fail to see in you one of the birds that dwell on the heights? Take your flight, soar up, and one day become the guardian of our beloved child. Go to Paris; and if your brother and your father will not help you, our family, especially my mother, who has a genius for business, will have great influence. Take the benefit of it, and then you will never lack support or encouragement in any career you may choose. Throw your superabundant energy into ambition—”
“I understand,” said I, interrupting her. “My ambition is to be my mistress! I do not need that to make me wholly yours. No; I do not choose to be rewarded for my good behavior here by favors there. I will go; I will grow up alone, unaided. I will accept what you can give me; from anyone else I will take nothing.”
“That is childish,” she murmured, but she could not disguise a smile of satisfaction.
“Besides,” I went on, “I have pledged myself. In considering our position, I have resolved to bind myself to you by ties which can never be loosened.”
She shivered, and stood still to look in my face.
“What do you mean?” she asked, letting the other couples who were in front of us go forward, and keeping the children by her side.
“Well,” replied I, “tell me plainly how you would wish me to love you.”
“Love me as my aunt loved me; I have given you her rights by permitting you to call me by the name she had chosen from my names.”
“Love you without hope, with entire devotion?—Yes, I will do for you what men do for God. Have you not asked it of me?—I will go into a seminary; I will come out a priest, and I will educate Jacques. Your Jacques shall be my second self: my political notions, my thoughts, my energy, and patience—I will give them all to him. Thus I may remain near you, and no suspicion can fall on my love, set in religion like a silver image in a crystal. You need not fear any of those perfervid outbreaks which come over a man, which once already proved too much for me. I will be burned in the fire, and love you with purified ardor.”
She turned pale, and answered eagerly:
“Félix, do not fetter yourself with cords, which some day may be an obstacle in the way of our happiness. I should die of grief if I were the cause of such suicide. Child, is the despair of love a religious vocation? Wait to test life before you judge of life. I desire it—I insist. Marry neither the Church nor a woman; do not marry at all; I forbid it. Remain free. You are now one-and-twenty; you scarcely know what the future may have in store.
“Good Heavens! am I mistaken in you? But I believe that in two months one might really know some natures.”
“What, then, is it that you hope for?” I asked, with lightning in my eyes.
“My friend, accept my assistance, educate yourself, make a fortune, and you shall know.—Well, then,” she added, as if she were betraying her secret, “always hold fast to Madeleine’s hand, which is at this moment in yours.”
She had bent towards me to whisper these words, which showed how seriously she had thought of my future prospects.
“Madeleine?” cried I. “Never!”
These two words left us silent again and greatly agitated. Our minds were tossed by such upheavals as leave indelible traces.
Just before us was a wooden gate into the park of Frapesle—I think I can see it now, with its tumbledown side-posts overgrown with climbing plants, moss, weeds, and brambles. Suddenly an idea—that of the Count’s death—flashed like an arrow through my brain, and I said:
“I understand.”
“That is fortunate,” she replied, in a tone which made me see that I had suspected her of a thought that could never have occurred to her.
Her pure-mindedness wrung from me a tear of admiration, made bitter indeed by the selfishness of my passion. Then, with a
