XXXIV.

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS

to

MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,

Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère).

Paris, Aug. 11th 18—.

This is probably the last letter that I shall ever write to you. Do not pity me, my fate is more worthy of envy than of pity. I never knew, I never dreamed of anything more beautiful. It has been said time and again that real life is tame, spiritless and disenchanted by the side of the fictions of the poets. What a mistake! There is a more wonderful inventor than any rhapsodist, and that inventor is called reality. It wears the magic ring, and imagination is but a poor magician compared with it. Madame, do not write to Mademoiselle de Chateaudun. Since you have not done so my letters must necessarily have miscarried. Blessed be the happy chance which prevented you from following my advice! What did I say to you? I was a fool. Be careful not to alarm my darling. The man has lived long enough upon whom she has bestowed her love for one single day. Do not write, it is too late; but admire the decrees of fate. The diamond that I had sought with the Prince de Monbert, I have unwittingly found; I assisted in searching for it, while it was hid, unknown to me, in my heart. Louise is Irene. Madame Guérin is Mademoiselle de Chateaudun. If you could have seen her delight in revealing her identity! I saw her joyful and triumphant as if her love were not the most precious gift she could bestow. When she proclaimed herself, I felt an icy chill pass through me; but I thanked God for the bliss which I shall not survive, so great that death must follow after.

"Do you not love me well enough," she said, "to pardon me my fortune?"

How was she to know that in revealing herself she had signed my death-warrant?

She spoke, laughingly, of M. de Monbert, as she had done of Edgar; to excuse herself she related a story of disenchantment which you already know, madame. It would have been honorable in me, at this juncture, to have undeceived Irene and enlightened her upon the Prince's passion. I did so, but feebly. When happiness is offered us loaded with ball, we have no longer the right to be generous.

We are to be married privately to-morrow, without noise or display. A plain-looking carriage will wait for us on the Place de la Madeleine; immediately on leaving the church we shall set out for Villiers. M. de Meilhan is at Richeport. M. de Monbert is in Brittany. Eight days must elapse before the news can reach them. Thus I have before me eight days of holy intoxication. What man has ever been able to say as much?

Recall to mind the words of one of your poet friends; It is better to die young and restore to God, your judge, a heart pure and full of illusions. Your poet is right; only it is more ecstatic to die in the arms of happiness, and to be buried with the flower of a love which has not yet faded.

My love would never have followed the fatal law of common-place affection; years would never have withered it in their passage. But what signifies its duration, if we can crowd eternity into an hour? What signifies the number of days if the days are full?

Nevertheless, I cannot refrain from regretting an existence which promises so much beauty. We would have been very happy in my little château on the Creuse. I was born for fireside joys, the delights of home. I already saw my beautiful children playing over my green lawns, and pressing joyfully around their mother. What exquisite pleasure to be able to initiate into the mysteries of fortune the sweet and noble being whom I then believed to be poor and friendless! I would take possession of her life to make a long fête-day of it. What tender care would I not bestow upon so dear and charming a destiny! Downy would be her nest, warm the sun that shone upon her, sweet the perfumes that surrounded her, soft the breezes that fanned her cheek, green and velvety the turf under her delicate feet! But a truce to such sweet dreams. I know M. de Monbert; what I have seen of him is sufficient. M. de Meilhan, too, will not disappoint me. I shall not conceal myself; in eight days these two men will have found me. In eight days they will knock at my door, like two creditors, demanding restitution, one of Louise, the other of Irene. If I were to descend to justification, even if I were to succeed in convincing them of my loyalty and uprightness, their despair would cry out all the louder for vengeance. Then, madame, what shall I do? Shall I try to take the life of my friends after having robbed them of their happiness? Let them kill me; I shall be ready; but they shall see upon my lips, growing cold in death, the triumphant smile of victorious love; my last sigh, breathing Irene's name, will be a cruel insult to these unhappy men, who will envy me even in the arms of death.

I neither believe nor desire that Irene should survive me. My soul, in leaving, will draw hers after it. What would she do here below, without me? You will see, that feeling herself gently drawn upward, she will leave a world that I no longer inhabit. I repeat, that I would not have her live on earth without me. But sorrow does not always kill; youth is strong, and nature works miracles. I have seen trees, struck by lightning, still stand erect and put forth new leaves. I have seen blasted lives drag their weary length to a loveless old age. I have seen noble hearts severed from their mates, slowly consumed by the weariness of widowhood and solitude. If we could die when we have lost those we love, it would be too sweet to love. Jealous of his creature, God does not always permit it. It is a grace which he accords only to the elect. If, by a fatality not without precedent, Irene should have the strength and misfortune to survive me, to you, madame, do I confide her. Care for her, not with the hope of consoling her, but to banish all bitterness from her regrets. Picture my death to her, not as the expiation of the innocent whim of her youth, but as that of a happiness too great to go unchecked. Tell her that there are great joys as well as great sorrows, and that when they have outweighed the human measure of happiness, the heart which holds them must break and grow still. Tell her, ah! above all, tell her that I have dearly loved her, and if I carry her whole life away with me, I leave her mine in exchange. Finally, madame, tell her that I died blessing her, regretting that I had but one life to lay down as the price of her love.

While I write, I see her at her window, smiling, radiant, beautiful, beaming with happiness, resplendent with life and youth.

Farewell, madame; an eternal farewell!

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS.