if for a
festivity; the dinner was
exquisite. For the
grey-headed Vidame the Duchess displayed all the brilliancy of
her wit; she was more
charming than she had ever been before. At
first the Vidame tried to look on all these preparations as a
young woman's jest; but now and again the attempted illusion
faded, the spell of his fair cousin's charm was broken. He
detected a
shudder caused by some kind of sudden dread, and once
she seemed to listen during a pause.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Hush!" she said.
At seven o'clock the Duchess left him for a few minutes. When
she came back again she was dressed as her maid might have
dressed for a journey. She asked her guest to be her escort,
took his arm,
sprang into a hackney coach, and by a quarter to
eight they stood outside M. de Montriveau's door.
Armand
meantime had been
reading the following letter:--
"MY FRIEND,--I went to your rooms for a few minutes without your
knowledge; I found my letters there, and took them away. This
cannot be
indifference, Armand, between us; and
hatred would show
itself quite
differently. If you love me, make an end of this
cruel play, or you will kill me, and afterwards,
learning how
much you were loved, you might be in
despair. If I have not
rightly understood you, if you have no feeling towards me but
aversion, which implies both
contempt and
disgust, then I give up
all hope. A man never recovers from those feelings. You will
have no regrets. Dreadful though that thought may be, it will
comfort me in my long sorrow. Regrets? Oh, my Armand, may I
never know of them; if I thought that I had caused you a single
regret----But, no, I will not tell you what
desolation I should
feel. I should be living still, and I could not be your wife; it
would be too late!
"Now that I have given myself
wholly to you in thought, to whom
else should I give myself?--to God. The eyes that you loved for
a little while shall never look on another man's face; and may
the glory of God blind them to all besides. I shall never hear
human voices more since I heard yours--so gentle at the first, so
terrible
yesterday; for it seems to me that I am still only on
the
morrow of your
vengeance. And now may the will of God
consume me. Between His wrath and yours, my friend, there will
be nothing left for me but a little space for tears and prayers.
"Perhaps you wonder why I write to you? Ah! do not think ill of
me if I keep a gleam of hope, and give one last sigh to happy
life before I take leave of it forever. I am in a hideous
position. I feel all the
inward serenity that comes when a great
resolution has been taken, even while I hear the last growlings
of the storm. When you went out on that terrible adventure which
so drew me to you, Armand, you went from the desert to the oasis
with a good guide to show you the way. Well, I am going out of
the oasis into the desert, and you are a
pitiless guide to me.
And yet you only, my friend, can understand how
melancholy it is
to look back for the last time on happiness--to you, and you
only, I can make moan without a blush. If you grant my entreaty,
I shall be happy; if you are inexorable, I shall expiate the
wrong that I have done. After all, it is natural, is it not,
that a woman should wish to live, invested with all noble
feelings, in her friend's memory? Oh! my one and only love, let
her to whom you gave life go down into the tomb in the belief
that she is great in your eyes. Your harshness led me to
reflect; and now that I love you so, it seems to me that I am
less
guilty than you think. Listen to my
justification, I owe it
to you; and you that are all the world to me, owe me at least a
moment's justice.
"I have
learned by my own
anguish all that I made you suffer by
my coquetry; but in those days I was utterly
ignorant of love.
YOU know what the
torture is, and you mete it out to me! During
those first eight months that you gave me you never roused any
feeling of love in me. Do you ask why this was so, my friend? I
can no more explain it than I can tell you why I love you now.
Oh! certainly it flattered my
vanity that I should be the subject
of your
passionate" target="_blank" title="a.易动情的;易怒的">
passionate talk, and receive those burning glances of
yours; but you left me cold. No, I was not a woman; I had no
conception of womanly
devotion and happiness. Who was to blame?
You would have despised me, would you not, if I had given myself
without the
impulse of
passion? Perhaps it is the highest height
to which we can rise--to give all and receive no joy; perhaps