The Dream: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Since the return of his son to him Monseigneur's days had been full of
trouble. After having banished him from his presence almost immediately
upon the death of his wife, and remaining without seeing him for twenty
years, lo! he had now come back to him in the plenitude and lustre of
youth, the living portrait of the one he had so mourned, with the same
delicate grace and beauty. This long exile, this resentment against
a child whose life had cost that of the mother, was also an act of
prudence. He realised it doubly now, and regretted that he had changed
his determination of not seeing him again. Age, twenty years of prayer,
his life as clergyman, had not subdued the unregenerate man within him.
It was simply necessary that this son of his, this child of the wife he
had so adored, should appear with his laughing blue eyes, to make the
blood circulate so rapidly in his veins as if it would burst them, as he
seemed to think that the dead had been brought to life again. He struck
his breast, he sobbed bitterly in penitence, as he remembered that the
joys of married life and the ties springing therefrom were prohibited
to the priesthood. The good Abbe Cornille had spoken of all this to
Hubertine in a low voice and with trembling lips. Mysterious sounds had
been heard, and it was whispered that Monseigneur shut himself up
after twilight, and passed nights of combat, of tears and of cries, the
violence of which, although partly stifled by the hangings of his room,
yet frightened the members of his household. He thought that he had
forgotten; that he had conquered passion; but it reappeared with the
violence of a tempest, reminding him of the terrible man he had been
formerly--the bold adventurer, the descendant of brave, legendary
chieftains. Each evening on his knees he flayed his skin with haircloth,
he tried to banish the phantom of the regretted wife by calling from its
coffin the skeleton which must now be there. But she constantly appeared
before him, living, in the delicious freshness of youth, such as she
was when very young he had first met her and loved her with the devoted
affection of maturity. The torture then recommenced as keen and intense
as on the day after her death: he mourned her, he longed for her with
the same revolt against God Who had taken her from him; he was unable to
calm himself until the break of day, when quite exhausted by contempt of
himself and disgust of all the world. Oh! Divine love! When he went out
of his room Monseigneur resumed his severe attitude, his expression was
calm and haughty, and his face was only slightly pale. The morning
when Felicien had made his confession he listened to him without
interruption, controlling himself with so great an effort that not a
fibre of his body quivered, and he looked earnestly at him, distressed
beyond measure to see him, so young, so handsome, so eager, and so
like himself in this folly of impetuous love. It was no longer with
bitterness, but it was his absolute will, his hard duty to save his
son from the ills which had caused him so much suffering, and he would
destroy the passion in his child as he wished to kill it in himself.
This romantic history ended by giving him great anxiety. Could it be
true that a poor girl--a child without a name, a little embroiderer,
first seen under a pale ray of moonlight, had been transfigured into a
delicate Virgin of the Legends, and adored with a fervent love as if in
a dream? At each new acknowledgment he thought his anger was increased,
as his heart beat with such an inordinate emotion, and he redoubled his
attempts at self-control, knowing not what cry might come to his lips.
He had finished by replying with a single word, "Never!" Then Felicien
threw himself on his knees before him, implored him, and pleaded his
cause as well as that of Angelique, in the trembling of respect and of
terror with which the sight of his father always filled him. Until then
he had approached him only with fear. He besought him not to oppose
his happiness, without even daring to lift his eyes towards his saintly
personage. With a submissive voice he offered to go away, no matter
where; to leave all his great fortune to the Church, and to take his
wife so far from there that they would never be seen again. He only
wished to love and to be loved, unknown. Monseigneur shook from
trembling as he repeated severely the word, "Never!" He had pledged
himself to the Voincourts, and he would never break his engagement
with them. Then Felicien, quite discouraged, realising that he was very
angry, went away, fearing lest the rush of blood, which empurpled his
cheeks, might make him commit the sacrilege of an open revolt against
paternal authority.

"My child," concluded Hubertine, "you can easily understand that you
must no longer think of this young man, for you certainly would not
wish to act in opposition to the wishes of Monseigneur. I knew that
beforehand, but I preferred that the facts should speak for themselves,
and that no obstacle should appear to come from me."

Angelique had listened to all this calmly, with her hands listlessly
clasped in her lap. Scarcely had she even dropped her eyelids from
time to time, as with fixed looks she saw the scene so vividly
described--Felicien at the feet of Monseigneur, speaking of her in an
overflow of tenderness. She did not answer immediately, but continued to
think seriously, in the dead quiet of the kitchen, where even the little
bubbling sound of the water in the boiler was no longer heard. She
lowered her eyes and looked as her hands, which, under the lamplight,
seemed as if made of beautiful ivory. Then, while the smile of perfect
confidence came back to her lips, she said simply:

"If Monseigneur refuses, it is because he waits to know me."

That night Angelique slept but little. The idea that to see her would
enable at once Monseigneur to decide in her favor haunted her. There was
in it no personal, feminine vanity, but she was under the influence of a
deep, intense love, and her true affection for Felicien was so evident,
she was sure that when his father realised it he could not be so
obstinate as to make them both unhappy. Many times she turned restlessly
in her bed as she pictured what would happen. Before her closed eyes
Monseigneur constantly passed in his violet-coloured robe. Perhaps it
was, indeed, through him, and by him, that the expected miracle was to
appear. The warm night was sleeping without, and she eagerly listened
for the voices, trying to know what the trees, the Chevrotte, the
Cathedral, her chamber itself, peopled with such friendly shadows,
advised her to do. But there was only an indistinct humming, and nothing
precise came to her. It seemed, however, as if mysterious whispers
encouraged her to persevere. At last she grew impatient of these too
slow certitudes, and as she fell asleep she surprised herself by saying:

"To-morrow I will speak to Monseigneur."

When she awoke, her proposed plan seemed not only quite natural but
necessary. It was ingenuous and brave; born of a proud and great purity.

She knew that at five o'clock on every Saturday afternoon Monseigneur
went to kneel in the Chapel Hautecoeur, where he liked to pray alone,
giving himself up entirely to the past of his race and to himself,
seeking a solitude which was respected by all connected with the
Cathedral. As it fortunately happened, this was a Saturday. She quickly
came to a decision. At the Bishop's Palace, not only would she be apt
to find it difficult to be received, but, on the other hand, there were
always so many people about she would be ill at ease; whilst it would
be so simple to await him in the chapel, and to introduce herself to
Monseigneur as soon as he appeared. That day she embroidered with her
usual application and composure. Firm in her wish, sure of doing the
right thing, she had no impatient fever of expectation. When it was
four o'clock she spoke of going to see the _mere_ Gabet, and went out,
dressed as for an ordinary walk, wearing her little garden-hat tied
carelessly under her chin. She turned to the left, and pushing open
the linted, stuffed door of the portal of Saint Agnes, let it fall back
heavily behind her.

The church was empty; alone, the confessional of Saint Joseph was still
occupied by a penitent, the edge of whose black dress was just seen as
one passed. Angelique, who had been perfectly self-possessed until now,
began to tremble as she entered this sacred, cold solitude, where even
the little sound of her steps seemed to echo terribly. Why was it that
her heart grew so oppressed? She had thought she was quite strong, and
the day had passed most peacefully--she was so sure of being right in
her desire to be happy. But now that she was ignorant of what might
happen she turned pale as if guilty, quite frightened at thinking
that she was to see Monseigneur, and that in truth she had come there
expressly to speak to him. She went quietly to the Chapel Hautecoeur,
where she was obliged to remain leaning against the gate.

This chapel was one of the most sunken and dark of the old Romanesque
apse. Like a cave hewn in a rock, straight and bare, with the simple
lines of its low, vaulted ceiling, it had but one window, that of
stained glass, on which was the Legend of St. George, and in whose panes
the red and blue so predominated that they made a lilac-coloured light,
as if it were twilight. The altar, in black and white marble, was
unornamented, and the whole place, with its picture of the Crucifixion,
and its two chandeliers, seemed like a tomb. The walls were covered
with commemorative tablets, a collection from top to bottom of stones
crumbling from age, on which the deeply-cut inscriptions could still be
read.

Almost stifled, Angelique waited, motionless. A beadle passed, who
did not even see her, so closely had she pressed herself against the
interior of the iron railing. She still saw the dress of the penitent
who was at the confessional near the entrance. Her eyes, gradually
accustomed to the half-light, were mechanically fixed upon the
inscriptions, the characters of which she ended by deciphering. Certain
names struck her, calling back to her memory the legends of the Chateau
d'Hautecoeur, of Jean V le Grand, of Raoul III, and of Herve VII.

She soon found two others, those of Laurette and of Balbine, which
brought tears to her eyes, so nervous was she from trouble and
anxiety--Laurette, who fell from a ray of moonlight, on her way to
rejoin her betrothed, and Balbine, who died from sudden joy at the
return of her husband, whom she thought had been killed in the war.
They both of them came back at night and enveloped the Castle with their
immense, flowing white robes. Had she not seen them herself the day of
their visit to the ruins, as they floated, towards evening, above the
towers in the rosy pallor of the dusk? Ah! how willingly she would die
as they did, although but sixteen years of age, in the supreme happiness
of the realisation of her dream!

A loud noise which reverberated under the arches made her tremble. It
was the priest who came out from the confessional of Saint Joseph and
shut the door after him. She was surprised at no longer seeing the
penitent, who had already gone. And when in his turn the clergyman went
out by way of the sacristy, she realised that she was absolutely alone
in the vast solitude of the Cathedral. At the loud sound of the door
of the confessional, as it creaked on its hinges, she thought that
Monseigneur was coming. It was nearly half an hour since she had
expected him, yet she did not realise it, for her excitement prevented
her from taking any note of time.

Soon a new name drew her eyes towards the tablets--Felicien III, who
went to Palestine, carrying a candle in his hand, to fulfil a vow of
Philippe le Bel. And her heart beat with pride as she saw before
her, mentally, the youthful Felicien VII, the descendant of all these
worthies, the fair-haired nobleman whom she adored, and by whom she was
so tenderly loved. She suddenly became filled with pride and fear. Was
it possible that she herself was there, in the expectation of bringing
about a prodigy? Opposite her there was a fresher plaque of marble,
dating from the last century, the black letters upon which she could
easily read. Norbert Louis Ogier, Marquis d'Hautecoeur, Prince of
Mirande and of Rouvres, Count of Ferrieres, of Montegu and of Saint
Marc, and also of Villemareuil, Chevalier of the four Royal Orders
of Saint Esprit, Saint Michel, Notre Dame de Carmel and Saint Louis,
Lieutenant in the Army of the King, Governor of Normandy, holding office
as Captain-General of the Hunting, and Master of the Hounds. All these
were the titles of Felicien's grandfather, and yet she had come, so
simple, with her working-dress and her fingers worn by the needle, in
hopes of marrying the grandson of this dead dignitary!

There was a slight sound, scarcely a rustling, on the flagstones. She
turned and saw Monseigneur, and remained motionless at this silent
approach without the pomp and surroundings she had vaguely expected.
He entered into the chapel, tall, erect, and noble-looking, dressed in
purple, with his pale face, his rather large nose, and his superb eyes,
which still seemed youthful in their expression. At first he did not
notice her against the black gate. Then, as he was about to kneel down,
he saw her before him at his feet.

With trembling limbs, overcome by respect and fear, Angelique had fallen
upon her knees. He seemed to her at this moment like the Eternal Father,
terrible in aspect and absolute master of her destiny. But her heart was
still courageous, and she spoke at once.

"Oh! Monseigneur, I have come----"

As for the Bishop, he had risen immediately. He had a vague recollection
of her; the young girl, seen first at her window on the day of the
procession, and re-found a little later standing on a chair in the
church; this little embroiderer, with whom his son was so desperately
in love. He uttered no word, he made no gesture. He waited, stern and
stiff.

"Oh! Monseigneur, I have come on purpose that you may see me. You have,
it is true, refused to accept me, but you do not know me. And now, here
I am. Please look at me before you repel me again. I am the one who
loves, and am also beloved, and that is all. Nothing beyond this
affection. Nothing but a poor child, found at the door of this church.
You see me at your feet, little, weak, and humble. If I trouble you it
will be very easy for you to send me away. You have only to lift your
little finger to crush me. But think of my tears! Were you to know how
I have suffered, you would be compassionate. I wished, Monseigneur, to
plead my cause in my turn. I love, and that is why I kneel before you,
to tell you so. I am ignorant in many ways; I only know I love. All
my strength and all my pride is centred in that fact. Is not that
sufficient? It certainly makes one great and good to be able to say that
one really loves."

She continued with sighs, and in broken phrases, to confess everything
to him, in an unaffected outpouring of ardent feeling. It was a true
affection that thus acknowledged itself. She dared to do so because she
was innocent and pure. Little by little she raised her head.

"We love each other, Monseigneur. Without doubt he has already told
you how all this came to pass. As for me, I have often asked myself the
question without being able to reply to it. But we love each other, and
if it is a crime to do so, pardon it, I beseech you, for it came from
afar, from everything in short that surrounded us. When I realised that
I loved him, it was already too late to prevent it. Now, is it possible
to be angry on that account? You can keep him with you, make him marry
some other person, but you cannot prevent him from giving me his heart.
He will die without me, as I shall if obliged to part from him. When
he is not by my side I feel that he is really near me, and that we will
never be entirely separated, since we carry each other's life with us.
I have only to close my eyes to re-see him when I wish, so firmly is his
image impressed upon my soul. Our whole natures are thus closely united
for life. And could you wish to draw us away from this union? Oh!
Monseigneur, it is divine; do not try to prevent us loving each other!"

He looked at her in her simple working-dress, so fresh, so unpretending,
and attractive. He listened to her as she repeated the canticle of their
love in a voice that both fascinated and troubled him, and which grew
stronger by degrees. But as her garden-hat fell upon her shoulders, her
exquisite hair seemed to make a halo around her head of fine gold, and
she appeared to him, indeed, like one of those legendary virgins of the
old prayer-books, so frail was she, so primitive, so absorbed in her
deep feeling of intense and pure affection.

"Be good, be merciful, Monseigneur. You are the master. Do allow us to
be happy!"

She implored him, and finding that he remained unmoved, without
speaking, she again bowed down her head.

Oh! this unhappy child at his feet; this odour of youth that came up
from the sweet figure thus bent before him! There he saw, as it were
again, the beautiful light locks he had so fondly caressed in the days
gone by. She, whose memory still distressed him after twenty years of
penitence, had the same fresh youthfulness, the same proud expression,
and the same lily-like grace. She had re-appeared; it was she herself
who now sobbed and besought him to be tender and merciful.

Tears had come to Angelique, yet she continued to outpour her heart.

"And, Monseigneur, it is not only that I love him, but I also love the
nobility of his name, the lustre of his royal fortune. Yes, I know well
that being nothing, that having nothing, it seems as if I were only
desirous of his money. In a way, it is true it is also for his wealth
that I wish to marry him. I tell you this because it is necessary that
you should know me thoroughly. Ah! to become rich by him and with him,
to owe all my happiness to him, to live in the sweetness and splendour
of luxury, to be free in our loving home, and to have no more sorrow, no
misery around us! That is my ideal! Since he has loved me I fancy myself
dressed in heavy brocades, as ladies wore in olden days; I have on my
arms and around my neck strings of pearls and precious stones; I have
horses and carriages; groves in which I take long walks, followed
by pages. Whenever I think of him my dream recommences, and I say to
myself, 'This must all come to pass, for it perfects my desire to become
a queen.' Is it, then, Monseigneur, a bad thing to love him more because
he can gratify all my childish wishing by showering down miraculous
floods of gold upon me as in fairy-tales?"

He saw then that she rose up proudly, with a charming, stately air of
a true princess, in spite of her real simplicity. And she was always
exactly like the fair maiden of other years, with the same flower-like
delicacy, the same tender tears, clear as smiles. A species of
intoxication came from her, the warm breath of which mounted to his
face--the same shadow of a remembrance which made him at night throw
himself on his devotional chair, sobbing so deeply that he disturbed the
sacred silence of the Palace. Until three o'clock in the morning of this
same day he had contended with himself again, and this long history of
love, this story of passion, would only revive and excite his incurable
wound. But behind his impassiveness nothing was seen, nothing betrayed
his effort at self-control and his attempt to conquer the beating of his
heart. Were he to lose his life's blood, drop by drop, no one should see
it flow, and he now simply became paler, was silent and immovable.

At last this great persistent silence made Angelique desperate, and she
redoubled her prayers.

"I put myself in your hands, Monseigneur. Do with me whatever you think
best; but have pity when deciding my fate."

Still, as he continued silent, he terrified her, and seemed to grow
taller than ever as he stood before her in his fearful majesty. The
deserted Cathedral, whose aisles were already dark, with its high
vaulted arches where the daylight seemed dying, made the agony of this
silence still harder to bear. In the chapel, where the commemorative
slabs could no longer be seen, there remained only the Bishop in his
purple cassock, that now looked black, and his long white face, which
alone seemed to have absorbed all the light. She saw his bright eyes
fixed upon her with an ever-increasing depth of expression, and shrunk
from them, wondering if it were possible that anger made them shine in
so strange a way.

"Monseigneur, had I not come to-day, I should have eternally reproached
myself for having brought about the unhappiness of us both from my want
of courage. Tell me then, oh, tell me that I was right in doing so, and
that you will give us your consent!"

What use would there be in discussing the matter with this child? He
had already given his son the reasons for his refusal, and that was
all-sufficient. That he had not yet spoken was only because he thought
he had nothing to say. She, no doubt, understood him, and she seemed to
wish to raise herself up that she might be able to kiss his hands. But
he threw them behind him violently, and she was startled at seeing his
white face become suddenly crimson, from a rush of blood to his head.

"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"

At last he opened his lips, to say to her just one word, the same he had
said to his son:

"Never!"

And without remaining to pray that day, as was his wont, he left the
chapel, and with slow steps soon disappeared behind the pillars of the
apse.

Falling on the flagstones, Angelique wept for a long time, sobbing
deeply in the great peaceful silence of the empty church.

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