CHAPTER XVI.
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE.
Louis came to see us as often as his occupations allowed. He made us a long call the very day after Eugénie gave him the books for his library, and seemed more excited than usual. He related his conversation with Mr. Smithson, and spoke of his pleasure at meeting Eugénie and regaining her good opinion by a frank explanation of his plans and the motives by which he was influenced.
“Well,” said Victor, “does she continue to please you?”
“More than I wish.”
“Why this regret?”
“It is only reasonable. My happiness is involved in being pleased with her.”
“Come, I see we shall not be able to agree on this point.”
“Yes, my dear friend; the more I reflect, the plainer it is that I ought not to become attached to her; at least, to make her aware of it, should such a misfortune happen. But I will not conceal it from you: I fear I already love her....”
“You are decidedly tenacious in your notions. Why do you torture yourself with scruples that are evidently exaggerated?...”
“All your friendly reasonings are of no avail. However disinterested my love might be, it would seem to her only the result of calculation; this is enough to justify me in my apprehensions.”
“I cannot agree with you. Delicacy of sentiment is a noble thing, but it must not be carried to excess. I am willing you should conceal your love for her till you can prove it sincere; that is, not the result of calculation—I will go still further: till the time comes when they voluntarily render homage to the nobleness of your intentions. But when that day comes, and you see that Mlle. Eugénie esteems and loves you....”
“She will never love me.”
“How do you know?”
“Mlle. Smithson has rare qualities which make her the realization of all my dreams, but I see I am not pleasing to her. Before any change in her sentiments is possible, she will have another suitor with more to offer her than I, and without a past like mine to frustrate his hopes. He will please her, and I can only withdraw. Well, I confess I wish to reserve one consolation for that day, feeble as it may be—the satisfaction of being able to say to myself: “She did not know I loved her.”
“My poor friend, you take too gloomy a view of the future.”
“Do not imagine my fears will result in a dangerous melancholy. I realize more fully than you may suppose the advantages of my present position. I might at this very moment be in another world—a world of despair.... To us Christians, such a thought is full of horror. Instead of that, I see the possibility of repairing the past, and of doing some good. When I compare my present life with that I was leading a year ago, the favorable contrast makes me happy! I had discarded the faith, lost the esteem of upright men, and given myself up to ignoble pleasures!—useless to the world, an object of disgust to myself. I had not the courage to look at myself as I was. How all that is changed! How happy I ought to be!... But, no; the heart of man is at once weak and insatiable. At a time when I ought to be happy, I am so weak as to yield to a love I should have denied myself. If I cannot overcome it, it will be a source of new regret. I know there is one means of safety, or perhaps there is—that of flight.... But, no; I will not, I cannot thus ensure a selfish security. It would be cowardly to recede before the noble work God has assigned me. There is no doubt now as to my future usefulness at Mr. Smithson’s. I could not find elsewhere the same facilities for doing the good I long to effect. I will remain....”
“I will not assert it would be cowardly to leave, but a man as courageous as you are and have need to be ought to remain at his post at whatever cost. Like you, I believe that is the post to which God himself has called you.”
“I shall remain.... You cannot imagine how happy I am there when my heart is not agitated. Provisions are dear this year, and we have quite a number of hands forced by want to leave Paris. These two things combined have produced unusual demoralization among the men we employ. Some give themselves up to drunkenness by way of relief; others, listening to the evil suggestions of hunger, conceive an inward hatred against those who are rich. There are a few ringleaders, and a good many disaffected men, all ready to yield to the most criminal proposals. Mr. Smithson is aware of this, and therefore fully approves of my plan for the amelioration of so mixed a set. I must do him the justice to acknowledge he has been generous. His wife and daughter are still more so. I shall therefore remain as long as I can. I only beseech God for one favor—to bless my efforts, and give me the courage necessary to make the great sacrifice if it be required....”
“Ah! then you really love Mlle. Smithson. I thought at the most you were only afraid of loving her.”
“No; I will no longer keep this secret to myself; it is too great a burden to bear alone. Besides, this concealment would not be worthy of either of us. I was still in doubt this morning, but have since read the state of my heart more clearly. And this is what enabled me to do so:
“I returned home from church this morning with Mlle. Eugénie and her mother. The church, you know, is a kilometre and a half from the mill, but the road is delightful. On coming out of church, Mme. Smithson, who is an excellent woman, and quite pleasant and easy in her manners, invited me, as it were, to accompany them. Mlle. Eugénie at first remained apart with her waiting-maid, but still near enough to hear what we said. We first discussed the things suitable to give the poor, and the utility of familiar conversation with them in their houses. I expressed a determination to perform this act of charity as often as possible. I begged Mme. Smithson to mention the families she thought it advisable to visit in this way, as she knows them better than I. She promised to give me a list. Mlle. Eugénie then drew near, and said she would add a few names to it; then, taking a part in the conversation, and even directing it with the grace she shows in everything, she spoke in turn of charity, religion, and literature with an elevation of thought and in such beautiful language that it was a pleasure to listen to her. From time to time we stopped to look, now at one object, and then at another—the large trees by the wayside, the bushes, or the cottages. Mlle. Smithson found something charming to say of everything. We were half an hour in going a distance we might have accomplished in twenty minutes—a delightful half-hour, but it had its bitterness, as all my joys will henceforth have. I see it is the will of God that I should expiate my offences. Like you, I am persuaded that the privilege of doing good—the most desirable of all privileges—is only to be purchased at the price of suffering.”
“Yes,” said Victor; “but at the price of what suffering? Who can assure you it is that of which you are thinking?... That is a secret known only to God.”
“That is true, but I am sure I had to-day a foretaste of the suffering I allude to. She was there beside me—that beautiful young girl who would be a model of feminine excellence did she not lack one quality—piety—a piety more womanly, more profound, and more simple. She said many striking things—things that go straight to the heart: there was perfect sympathy between her soul and mine, but I watched over myself that I might not betray the admiration, the delight, the emotion, with which I listened to her! In the expression of her eyes, the tone of her voice, and whole manner, I could see, alas! how indifferent she was towards me; that she regarded me as her father’s agent—a mere employé, worthy only of passing attention.”
“How do you know? You are so accustomed to reading hearts that perhaps you take imagination for reality.”
“I do not think so.... She has changed towards me, I acknowledge. She regards me as a sincere, upright person. I know how to keep in my place, but there she allows me to remain, and will continue to do so.”
Louis was extremely agitated when he left us that evening. My poor Victor, ill as he was, and he was now worse than ever, was thoughtful and sad for some time after Louis had gone.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“I am thinking of Louis,” he replied. “I fear things may turn out badly for our poor friend. I do not know whether he will ever marry Eugénie or not; but I have a presentiment, I know not why, that this love is to cause him great suffering. And yet this attachment could not fail to spring up. If it is God’s will that Louis should pass through a severe trial, promise me to stand by him.”
“But you will also stand by him?”
“I shall no longer be here.”
Sad words! they were soon to be verified. Meanwhile, the hour of trial was approaching our poor friend—the trial he himself had foreseen.