MADAME AGNES.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.
CONCLUDED.
CHAPTER XXVI.
"Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra!"
Louis was thunderstruck at seeing Madeleine. He had not spoken a word to her for several days, and intended to maintain a reserve full of circumspection towards her. His connection with the family had twice given rise to the most malevolent interpretations, and he by no means wished a similar vexation to be repeated. He received the young girl with a coldness that was almost rude.
"What do you wish?" said he.
"To speak with you, monsieur. But I fear I have come at the wrong time. I will return at a later hour."
"Not later, but elsewhere."
"Why?" asked Madeleine, with naïveté.
"But what have you so urgent to tell me?..."
"Nothing concerning you, monsieur; it only relates to myself. I am so unhappy.... If I ventured to come here at this hour, it is because I feared being seen talking with you. I have a secret to confide to you which my parents alone are aware of. If they knew I told you, I do not know what they would do to me."
"Where are your parents now?"
"At my cousin's, a league off. They will not be back for several hours."
Madeleine was so overwhelmed with grief and anxiety that Louis was filled with compassion. He motioned for her to be seated on a lounge before his desk, and then said:
"Well, my good Madeleine, what has happened? Tell me your troubles. If in my power to remove them, it shall soon be done. What can I do for you?"
"You know Durand, the overseer?"
"Yes, yes!..." said Louis, frowning with the air of a man who knows more than he expresses.
"He and my father have become intimate, I know not how or why, within a few weeks—since you stopped coming to our house. He often came before the inundation, and paid me a thousand absurd compliments. I made no reply to his silly speeches, but they seemed to please my parents. The first moment I set eyes on that man, he inspired me with fear. He looks so bold—so false! And besides...."
"Besides what? Madeleine, I insist on your telling me everything."
"Well, he tried every way to make us believe you are.... I dare not tell you...."
"Go on, child. Nothing would astonish me from Durand. I know he hates me."
"He says you are a hypocrite, a—Jesuit, a dangerous man. He told my father you were going to leave the mill, and seemed to boast of being the cause of it."
"I suspected it," said Louis to himself. "Adams was only Durand's tool. Oh! what deceit!"
"Is it true, then, that you are going away?" asked Madeleine anxiously.
"Quite true, my child."
"Oh! what a hateful man! I was right in detesting him! Since we have been here living in the same house with him, he has tormented me more than ever. He says he wishes to marry me...."
"Has he dared go that far?"
"Yes; and, what is worse, my parents have given their consent. Durand tells them he has money laid up; that he is earning a good deal here, and is willing to live with them and provide for the support of the whole family.... But I—I have a horror of that man! There is nothing disagreeable I do not say to him. I have told him plainly I would never consent to marry him. My parents were terribly angry at this; my father beat me, and my mother loaded me with abuse. They ended by saying, if I persisted in refusing Durand, they would find a way of making me change my mind. This scene took place last evening. What shall I do? O God! what shall I do?..." So saying, Madeleine burst into tears.
Louis remained silent. He was reflecting. Self whispered: "Leave this girl to her unhappy fate. Do not embark in another undertaking that will get you into fresh trouble and may endanger everything—both Eugénie's love for you, and your reputation itself. This unfortunate girl has already been the cause of more than one sad moment; take care she does not at last ruin you, and likewise compromise herself...."
But such selfish promptings had no power over a heart so generous and upright as that of Louis. Besides, he had learned such shocking things about Durand that, if he did not reveal them in order to save Madeleine, he would regard himself guilty of a crime, and not without reason. After some moments of silent reflection, all incertitude ceased. He had decided on the course to pursue.
"How old are you, my child?" said he.
"I am in my twenty-first year."
"Well, you have hitherto devoted yourself generously to the interests of your parents. They have now made this impossible. There is no choice in the matter. You must leave them."
"I have thought of it. But where could I go? I have no place of refuge, now my aunt is dead."
"I will give you a note to a lady who lives in the city. I may as well say at once it is my sister. She will take care of you, and get you a place as a chamber-maid, if she does not keep you herself."
"Oh! how kind you are!... You revive my courage. When can I go?"
"When you please."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, to-morrow morning."
"And who will inform my parents?"
"You yourself. Write a line, and leave it with some one you can trust, to be delivered a few hours after you are gone. You can tell your parents you are going to seek a situation in the city in order to escape from Durand. Promise to be a credit to them, to love them always, and even to render them assistance; and I will say more to them when the proper time comes. Above all, I will tell them what Durand really is.... Thank God, my child, that he enables you to escape that man's snares...."
Everything was done as agreed upon by Louis and Madeleine. The latter left for town the next morning. Her parents were not informed of her departure till about noon. They immediately notified Durand.
"The engineer has had a hand in this," said he to Vinceneau and his wife. "He shall pay for it."
"What makes you think he had anything to do with it?" asked Vinceneau.
"Your daughter went to see him last evening.... My police told me."
"How shall we be revenged?"
"By telling everybody what this Tartuffe is. I will see to it. Ah! he induces young girls to run away without any one's knowing where they are gone! That is rather too bold!"
Durand watched for an opportunity of speaking to Albert, with whom he kept up daily communication. He told him what had occurred, adding calumnious suppositions that may be imagined. Albert, delighted at the news, went at once to tell his aunt. It was near dinnertime. Mme. Smithson said to her nephew: "Wait till we are at table, then relate this story without appearing to attach any importance to it. If I am not very much mistaken, this will be a death-blow to that troublesome creature. Only be prudent, and do not begin till I make a sign. There are times when your uncle takes no interest in the conversation, no matter what is said. Poor Eugénie will blush well to hear of such infamous conduct, for she loves him. It is horrible to say, but so it is. Since I caught them talking together the other day, I have had no doubt about it. Besides, as you have remarked, she grows more and more reserved toward us, while, on the contrary, she has redoubled her amiability towards her father. I really believe, if the foolish fellow had not compromised himself, she would in the end have got the better of us. Her father is so indulgent to her!... But after what has taken place, there can be no more illusion! She will perceive the worth of her hero!... It must be acknowledged there is no alternative! Her romance has ended in a way to make her ashamed of it for ever.... You will see, Albert, she will end by thinking it too great an honor to be your wife."
"Too great an honor! Hum! hum! It will be well if she consents. Eugénie has more pride than any girl I ever saw. Humbled, she will be unapproachable. Believe me, aunt, we must be cautious in availing ourselves of this advantage."
They took seats at table at six o'clock as usual. Mr. Smithson appeared thoughtful and out of humor, but that often happened. Eugénie was no less serious. Very little was said till the dessert. Albert evidently longed to let fly the shaft he held in reserve against Louis. Mme. Smithson was quite as impatient as he, but could not find a propitious opportunity. However, her bitterness against Louis prevailed. Towards the end of dinner, she made Albert an imperceptible sign, as much as to say: "Proceed, but be prudent!"
Albert assumed as indifferent an air as possible, and in an off-hand way began his attack after this manner:
"There is trouble in the refugees' quarter to-day."
Mme. Smithson looked up with an air of surprise at the news. Mr. Smithson and Eugénie remained impassible.
"The Vinceneaus are in great commotion," continued Albert. "Their daughter has run away."
"A poor set—those Vinceneaus," muttered Mr. Smithson.
"Yes," replied Albert, "a poor set indeed! But this time I pity them. Their daughter has gone off, and no one knows where she has gone."
"Why did she leave them?" asked Eugénie.
"She and her parents had a violent quarrel day before yesterday, but not the first; they say this Madeleine is more amiable in appearance than in reality. Anyhow, there is something inexplicable about her. It seems she was to have been married; then she refused to be. Result: anger of the parents, obstinacy of the daughter. All that is known besides this is that she went all alone to consult the engineer last evening. Durand and another workman saw her go to his room. This morning she disappeared, leaving word she intended to get a situation, no one knows where; she has not thought it proper to leave her address...."
While listening to this account, Eugénie turned pale, then red, and finally almost fainted. Mr. Smithson perceived the sad effect of the story on her, and was filled with inexpressible sorrow. Heretofore he had refused to believe in the possibility of her loving Louis; but now he could no longer doubt it. For the first time in his life, he acknowledged his wife had shown more penetration than he—more prudence. The look that rested on Eugénie was not of anger, however, but full of affection and anxiety. He loved her too much not to pity her, even though he blamed her.
Eugénie, with characteristic energy, recovered her self-possession in a few moments. Suspicions of a stronger and more painful character than any she had yet had struggled with the love in this proud girl's heart.
Albert was overjoyed, but concealed his satisfaction under a hypocritical air of compassion. Continuing the subject, he said the workmen were all indignant at Madeleine's flight. "The engineer has done well not to show himself since the girl's departure was known," he added. "He would have exposed himself to a public manifestation of rather a disagreeable nature. And I do not see who could defend him...."
"He could defend himself, if he is innocent," thought Eugénie.... Then another idea occurred to her: "But if he has plans he cannot yet acknowledge, ... if he loves this Madeleine, ... ah! how he will have deceived me!... No! it is impossible!... And yet it is true he has disappeared: I have not seen him to-day...."
By an unfortunate coincidence, Louis had been obliged to come to see me that day. I had been taken with a terrible pain in all my limbs—the first symptoms of my paralytic seizure. My mother, frightened beyond all expression, sent a messenger to our poor friend, conjuring him to come with all possible speed.
"Enough!" said Mr. Smithson. "The subject does not please me. I do not like to be deceived, as I have so often been before. It seems to me there is some mistake here. I shall ascertain the truth. But this shall be my care. Let it be understood that no one but myself is to make any inquiries about the affair. No tittle-tattle!"
They retired to the salon a few moments after. Albert offered Eugénie his arm. She refused it, as if to show him, if Louis were driven from her heart, he, Albert, should never have a place there. She seated herself at the piano, and played a succession of pieces with great effect. Her ardent nature required the relief of some outward manifestation. For the first time in her life, she blushed before her parents—before the cousin she despised. But the torture she suffered from her wounded pride was not the most painful. She had loved Louis—she loved him still, as a woman of her intelligence and energy alone could love—that is to say, to excess. And now she is forced to ask herself: is an affection so pure met only with hypocrisy, or at least an indifference but too easy to understand. Swayed between love and contempt; by turns ashamed of herself, then drawing herself up with pride, she would have given ten years of her life to be able at once to solve the doubt that caused her so much suffering.
While the poor girl was thus abandoning herself to the most distressing anxiety, without any consolation, Mme. Smithson and Albert were talking in a low tone near the fireplace. They appeared dissatisfied.
"The affair has begun badly," said Albert. "One would think my uncle resolved to thwart me in everything.... Why could he not intimate to that fellow that there is no necessity of his remaining any longer?... That is what I hoped and what I expected! He has certainly done enough to deserve being treated in such a way.... Instead of that, my uncle is going to undertake an investigation!... I wager this arrant piece of craft will find some way of making himself out innocent."
"That would be rather too much!" said Mme. Smithson. "You are right: we must despatch business, or all is lost. I will talk to your uncle this very evening, and make every effort to prevent their meeting...."
CHAPTER XXVII.
A VILLAIN'S REVENGE.
The whole family were still in the salon, when, about half-past eight, they heard an unusual noise out of doors, and people seemed to be moving about in the darkness. In a few moments, a servant entered and said a few words to Mr. Smithson in a low tone. He immediately rose and started to go out; but, before leaving the room, he said: "I shall not be gone long. I wish you all to remain here till my return."
Eugénie continued to drum furiously on the piano; then, weary of this monotonous employment, she took a book, and pretended to read. Mme. Smithson and Albert were far from being at ease. Triumphant as they were, they stood in awe of Eugénie. To keep themselves in countenance, they began a game of cards.
What was Mr. Smithson doing meanwhile? He forbade his servants mentioning a word of what had happened, which they were aware of as well as he. Sure of being obeyed, he went directly to Louis' apartment. Entering the room, he found him lying all dressed on his bed, groaning and unable to utter a word. A bloody handkerchief was tied across his forehead, as if he had received a severe wound. At a sign from Mr. Smithson, the servant dismissed all the men—hands at the mill—who had brought the engineer to his room. When they were gone, the servant removed the handkerchief that concealed the wound. It was a long gash, which was still bleeding. Louis opened his eyes, and put his hand to his neck, as if there was another wound there. The servant untied his cravat. The unfortunate young man's neck, in fact, bore marks of violence.
The servant seemed greatly affected at the sight. He placed the wounded man in as comfortable a position as he could, bandaged his wounds, and tried to revive him with eau-de-Cologne. Louis came to himself a little, and, extending his hand, pressed that of the good fellow who was tending him so kindly. Mr. Smithson stood a few steps from the bed, looking on as calmly as if gazing at some unreal spectacle in a theatre. No one would have divined his thoughts from the expression of his countenance; but at the bottom of his heart there was a feeling of animosity against Louis, which was scarcely lessened by the sight of his sufferings. At that moment, he believed Louis guilty, and what had happened only a chastisement he merited. Nevertheless, he sent in haste for a physician, who arrived in a short time. Louis' clothes were removed, and his wounds dressed with the greatest care. The relief he experienced, the warmth of the bed, and the skill of the attentive physician, produced a speedy and favorable reaction. He recovered the perfect use of speech, and, addressing those around him with an attempt at a smile, he said:
"They have brought me to a sad condition."
"You will get over it," replied the doctor.
"How did it happen?" asked Mr. Smithson coldly.
"It is a long story to tell," replied Louis. "I have not recovered from the violent concussion, and am still in severe pain; but I will endeavor to tell you how it happened. It is time for you to know the truth about many things, Mr. Smithson. What is your opinion of Durand?"
"He is a capable hand, but somewhat unaccountable."
"Well, I have found him out.... He is a dangerous man. The condition you see me in is owing to him."
"What induced him to ill-treat you in this way?"
"He has hated me for a long time, though secretly. Before I came here, he did somewhat as he pleased, and was guilty of many base acts. He robbed you in many ways—saying he had paid the workmen money that was never given them, and having an understanding with one and another, in order to cheat you. I found out his dishonest trafficking, and put a stop to it. This was the origin of his dislike."
"Why did you not notify me at once?"
"My silence proceeded from motives of delicacy. You will recollect the man came here with excellent recommendations; he was a Protestant; and you liked him, and thought more of him than of many others."
"That is true. Go on."
"I afterwards discovered he lent money on security. My reproaches offended him still more. Within a short time, he has become intimate with that drunken Vinceneau and his indolent wife, and, since the inundation drove them here for shelter, he has permanently installed himself in their house. He only did this to annoy their poor daughter, Madeleine, with his audacious attentions. The girl was indignant. Young as she is, she felt there was something vile—I may say criminal—in the depths of his deceitful soul. But her father and mother countenanced him. They hoped a son-in-law so much richer than they would enable them to give themselves up to their shameful inclinations—the husband to drink, and the wife to idleness. Madeleine was, therefore, ordered—and in such a way!—to accept Durand's offer. She came to consult me on the subject, and said the man inspired her with invincible horror. On the other hand, her parents threatened her with the worst treatment possible if she resisted their orders—a treatment already begun. Now, I had learned only a few days previous the following particulars respecting Durand: His name is not Durand, but Renaud. He is not a Protestant, but a Catholic, if such a man can be said to have any religion. His fine recommendations did not come from his employers; he wrote them himself. He is not a bachelor, but is married, and the father of three children. Be good enough to open my desk, Mr. Smithson.... You will find a letter from Durand's wife, in which all these facts are stated with a minuteness of detail, and such an accent of truth, that there can be no doubt after reading it. It was addressed to the curé, begging him to threaten Durand—or rather, Renaud—with the law if he did not send for his wife and children. They are dying of want at Lille, whence he fled without saying anything to them. They lost all trace of him for a year, and only heard of him again about six months ago."
Mr. Smithson opened Louis' desk, and took out the letter. The details it contained were, in truth, so numerous and so precise that there could be no doubt they really referred to the so-called Durand.
"What an infamous impostor!" exclaimed he, as he finished the letter. "Continue your account, monsieur. I am eager to know how this sad affair terminated."
"My friend, Mme. Barnier," continued Louis, "has not been able to leave St. Denis, where she took refuge at the time of the inundation. A violent affection of the muscular system obliges her to keep her bed. I learned this morning from a letter that she was worse, and wished to see me immediately. I went to St. Denis. On my way back this evening on foot, I met Durand not three hundred steps from the mill. I cannot say he was waiting for me, but am inclined to think so. When he perceived me by the light of the moon, a gleam of fury lighted up his features. I had no weapon of defence. He, as usual, carried a strong, knotty cane in his hand.
"'Where is Madeleine?' said he.
"'At my sister's,' I replied. In fact, I had sent her there with a letter of recommendation.
"'Why did you send her away?'
"'Because I wished to withdraw her from your criminal pursuit.'
"'Criminal?... How was my pursuit criminal? I wished to marry her.'
"'You have not the right.'
"'What do you say? I haven't a right to marry?'
"'No, you have not. You are married already.'
"'It is false.'
"'I have the proof in my possession—a letter from your wife.' Then I told him what I knew of his history, and ended thus: 'You have hitherto gone from one crime to another. It is time for you to reform. Promise to begin a new life, and I pledge my word to keep what I know to myself.'
"'I promise—humble myself—and to you!... There is one man too many in the world, you or I. By heaven! this must be ended.'
"I heard no more. Before I could ward off the blow, he hit me, causing the wound you see on my head. Then he continued striking me with diabolical fury. I could not defend myself, but called for help. Two men heard me in the mill, and came running with all their might. As soon as Durand saw them, he fled I know not where. I beg he may not be pursued; the crime is too serious."
Louis had ended his account.
"Monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, "you have been strangely unfortunate since you came here. It has all arisen from a misunderstanding. I distrusted you. I was wrong. You have a noble heart. I see it now. What you have said explains many things I did not understand. You have been odiously calumniated, monsieur! Now that we have come to an understanding, promise not to leave me. I will go further: forgive me."
Louis was affected to tears, and could not reply.
"And now, monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, "can I render you any service?"
"I wish my father and sister to be cautiously informed of what has happened to me."
"I will go myself," said Mr. Smithson, "and give them an account of your unfortunate adventure. You may rely on my making the communication with all the discretion you could wish. Will to-morrow be soon enough?"
"Oh! yes. To go this evening would made them think me in great danger."
They continued to converse some minutes longer, then Mr. Smithson returned to the house. When he entered the salon, he found the family exceedingly anxious. They suspected something serious had occurred, but the servants had not dared communicate the slightest particular. Mr. Smithson had forbidden it, and in his house every one obeyed to the letter.
"M. Louis, ..." began he. At this name, Eugénie turned pale. She still loved the engineer, and waited with dread for her father to allay the suspicions so hateful to her, or to confirm them.
"M. Louis came near being killed. He was only wounded, and will soon be well again."
"What happened to him?" cried Eugénie eagerly.
Mme. Smithson and Albert exchanged a look of intelligence. Mr. Smithson related the facts he had just learned from Louis. In proportion as he unveiled the infamy of Durand's conduct, and revealed the nobility of Louis' nature, an expression of joy, mingled with pride, dawned on Eugénie's face. It was easy to read the look she gave her mother and Albert—a look of mingled happiness and triumph which seemed to say: "He is innocent; it is my turn to rejoice!" Mr. Smithson, always sincere and ready to acknowledge an error, ended his account by expressing his regret at having been hard, suspicious, and unjust towards Louis. "I shall henceforth regard him with the highest respect; and I hope, if any of you, like me, have been deceived about him, that my words and example will suffice to correct your mistake."
Mme. Smithson and Albert pretended not to hear his last words; but they struck Eugénie particularly. Had she dared, she would have thrown her arms around her father's neck, and given vent to her joy and gratitude. She was obliged to refrain, but her sentiments were so legible in her face that no one could mistake them. You will not be surprised to hear that Mme. Smithson and her nephew cut a sad figure.
A few moments after, they all retired to their rooms. As Eugénie embraced her father, she could not refrain from timidly asking him one question: "Is it really true that M. Louis' life is not in danger, father? It would be very sad for so good a man to be killed by a villain on our own premises."
"There is no danger, my child, I assure you," replied Mr. Smithson kindly. He then tenderly kissed his daughter for the second time. This mark of affection on the part of so cold a man had a special value—I might even say, a special significance.
"This voluntary expression of love from my father," said Eugénie to herself, "shows he is aware of all I have suffered, and that he sympathizes with me." And she went away full of joy and hope. Once more in her chamber, she reflected on all the events of the last few days. Louis had been calumniated many times before, and she believed him guilty; but he had always come out of these attacks justified, so that the very circumstances which at first seemed against him turned to his benefit. What had happened during the evening now at an end threw a new light on the state of affairs. Louis was an upright man. He was sincere, and the persecution he had undergone made him so much the worthier of being loved. For the first time, Eugénie ventured to say to herself boldly: "Yes, I love him!" Then she prayed for him. At length a new doubt—a cruel doubt—rose in her heart: "But he, does he love me?" immediately followed by another question: if Louis loved her, would her father consent to receive him as a son-in-law?... He had won his esteem—that was a good deal; but Mr. Smithson was not a man to be led away by enthusiasm. These questions were very embarrassing. Nor were they all. Eugénie foresaw many other difficulties also: Louis was poor; he was a Catholic, not only in name, but in heart and deed. His poverty and his piety were two obstacles to his gaining Mr. Smithson's entire favor. These two reasons might prevent him from ever consenting to give Louis his daughter's hand. Such were Eugénie's thoughts. Reflection, instead of allaying her anxiety, only served to make it more keen.
"One hope remains," thought she, "but that is a powerful one: my father loves me too well to render me unhappy. I will acknowledge that the happiness of my life depends on his decision."
At that same hour, Louis, in the midst of his sufferings, was a prey to similar anxiety. But he had one advantage over Eugénie. "It is not without some design," he said, "that Providence has directed everything with such wonderful goodness. I trust that, after giving me so clear a glimpse of happiness, I shall at last be permitted to attain the reality."
This was by no means certain, for the designs of God, though ever merciful, are always unfathomable. No one can tell beforehand how things will end. But we must pardon a little temerity in the heart of a lover. It is sad to say, but even in the most upright souls love overpowers reason.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BETROTHAL.
The next morning, Eugénie had news that surprised her, but seemed a happy augury: her cousin had suddenly decided to go home! His departure was announced by Fanny. As long as things remained undecided, and Albert had some hope, Fanny had appeared cross and dissatisfied. But now she made her appearance as she used to be—smiling, chatty, and agreeable, without any one's knowing why. The artful soubrette felt it was high time to change her tactics. In consequence of the blunders Albert had committed, and Eugénie's marked antipathy to him, he would henceforth be blotted out of the list of mademoiselle's admirers. If, therefore, Fanny wished to reinstate herself in her mistress' good graces, if she wished to make sure of that cherished asylum—the object of all her aims for the last ten years—she must pave the way by her subserviency to her future patrons—Eugénie and the husband of her choice, whoever he might be. With a keener eye, or at least bolder, than Eugénie's, Fanny had no doubt it would be Louis.
With the assurance of those people who make others forget their faults by appearing to be ignorant of them themselves, Fanny went with a single bound over to the side of the man she regarded as a personal enemy the night before. Eugénie perceived the sudden tack. It greatly amused her, though she pretended not to see it.
"Where is my father?" she asked Fanny.
"Monsieur is going to town with M. Albert, and also to notify Mr. Louis' family of the misfortune that has happened to him—a painful errand. M. Louis has a father who is greatly attached to him, and a sister who is still fonder of him—a very amiable woman, with a strong mind."
"Ah! indeed; where did you learn these particulars?"
"Here and there. Mademoiselle knows the good God has given me ears to hear with."
"And especially a tongue that can ask questions, Fanny."
Eugénie went down to the breakfast-room, where she found the rest assembled. Mr. Smithson wore a cheerful air. Albert was in an ill-humor, which he badly concealed under pretended elation. Mme. Smithson appeared anxious, but Eugénie saw with delight that she was more affectionate towards her than she had been of late.
A policeman from St. M—— passed by the window.
"What is that policeman here for?" inquired Eugénie.
"We had to search Durand's room, my child," replied Mr. Smithson. "The man cheated me in a shameful manner. I have obtained positive proofs of it. We found letters from his wife and other people which prove him utterly heartless and base—in short, one of the most dangerous men I ever saw."
Mr. Smithson and Albert started a short time after. The parting between the two cousins was not, as you may suppose, very affecting. As Mr. Smithson entered the carriage, he said to his wife: "Go and tell M. Louis I am on my way to his father's. I intend to bring him back with me, and hope the sister will accompany him; for no one knows so well how to take care of him, or to do it so acceptably. Do not delay giving him this information; it will do him more good than a visit from the doctor."
Mme. Smithson made a brief reply, in which a slight confusion and a lingering antipathy were perceptible. The commission was evidently disagreeable, but she obeyed her husband. As soon as he was out of sight, she proceeded towards the wounded man's room. Eugénie returned to the house. She expected her mother would be back in a few minutes, and was greatly surprised when a quarter of an hour—half an hour—nearly a whole hour passed without her returning. She became extremely anxious. She feared her mother had found Louis in too dangerous a state to be left till Mr. Smithson returned. "Perhaps," she also thought—"perhaps mother and M. Louis are having a painful explanation. Mother is very kind, but at times she is dreadful! Exasperated by my cousin's abrupt departure, I fear she may, under the impulse of vexation or animosity, say something painful to the poor sick fellow...." And at this, she gave her imagination full course.
At length Mme. Smithson reappeared. Eugénie refrained from questioning her, but she looked as if she would read the bottom of her mother's heart.
"We had rather a long talk," said Mme. Smithson, without appearing to suspect how anxious her daughter had been. "He is a good young man, that M. Louis; a little serious, a little too gloomy, but that seems to please certain people!... He is delighted because his sister is coming...."
"I am not surprised," said Eugénie.
The conversation was kept up for some time in this discreet tone, neither of them wishing to let the other see what she really thought. It seemed to Eugénie, however, that her mother, instead of manifesting any irritation against Louis, was making an effort to reconcile herself to him. Had she then an idea he might become her son-in-law, and did she wish to accustom herself to a prospect but recently so contrary to her views?...
The carriage arrived an hour after. Eugénie felt somewhat agitated at the thought of meeting Louis' father and sister. "Shall I like them? Will they like me?" she said to herself, as she proceeded resolutely to the door to receive them. She first shook hands with Aline. The poor girl was pale with anxiety, but her very anxiety increased her beauty. She made a conquest of Eugénie at the first glance. Her thoughtful air, the distinction of her manners, her intelligent and animated countenance, were all pleasing to her. Eugénie felt, if Aline did not become her friend, it would be because she did not wish to. Their interview lasted only a few minutes; then Aline followed Mr. Smithson, who had taken her father's arm, to Louis' room. Eugénie was also pleased with M. Beauvais. He had a cold, stern air, but so had Mr. Smithson himself.
Quite a series of incidents of no special importance occurred after this, which it would take too much time to relate. I must hasten to end my story, as you wish, I fear.
A week after, Mr. Smithson's house was en fête to celebrate Louis' convalescence. Both families assembled on this occasion. Aline, Eugénie, and Mme. Smithson, who had again become the excellent woman she was when we first knew her, formed a trio of friends such as is seldom found. And one would have taken Mr. Smithson and Louis' father for two old friends from boyhood, so familiarly did they converse. They seemed to understand each other at half a word.
"What a delightful réunion!" said Mr. Smithson when they came to the dessert. "It is hard to think we must all separate to-morrow. But it is settled that you, M. Louis, are to come back as soon as you are perfectly well."
"I give you my word," said Louis; "and promise also never to leave you from the time you see me again."
"I hope you will carry out that intention. We will never separate again. But you are young, and it is more difficult for a young man to foresee what may occur."
"As far as it depends on me, I can." As Louis said these words, he glanced at Eugénie, who sat opposite. His look seemed to say: "There is the magnet that will keep me here for ever!" Eugénie blushed. Every one noticed it.
"It is useless for you to say that," said Mr. Smithson. "I shall always be in fear of your escape till you are positively bound here. But how shall we bind you to St. M——? There is one way," and Mr. Smithson smiled as he spoke; "which has occurred to the parents; will the children consent?"
Eugénie and Louis looked at each other. In the eyes of both beamed the same joy.
"The children make no reply, ..." resumed Mr. Smithson.
"Pardon me," exclaimed Louis. "I dare not be the first to answer."
"Silence implies consent," replied Mr. Smithson. "If Eugénie is not of your mind, let her protest against it. Otherwise I shall give my own interpretation to her silence."
"I do not protest," said Eugénie, unusually intimidated.
"Oh! what strange lovers!" continued Mr. Smithson. "I think we shall have to tell them they love each other."
"Perhaps we are already aware of it," said Louis. "At least, I have been for a long time."
"And have you not confessed it to each other?"
"I had forbidden myself to do so."
"Louis, you have a noble heart," said Mr. Smithson. "To keep silence in such a case requires a courage amounting to heroism. But I have remarked that the heroic qualities you have given so many proofs of since you came here always turn to the advantage of those who continue under their influence. This proves that God, even in this world, rewards the deeds of the upright much oftener than is supposed. Doubtless they are also recompensed in heaven, but they often have on earth a foretaste of what awaits them hereafter."
Such was the betrothal of my two friends. The next day, Louis came to town, in order to obtain the medical aid necessary to complete his cure. I had returned myself a few days previous. I cannot tell you with what pleasure I received him, and learned the welcome news from the lips of the fiancée herself, who greatly pleased me at the very first interview, and never gave me any reason to change my opinion. My intercourse with them and Aline—three choice spirits—was so delightful that it sustained me in the midst of the terrible trials through which I was then passing. My grief for the death of my husband had grown more calm, but his memory followed me constantly and everywhere.
In addition to my mental troubles, I underwent physical sufferings that were sometimes excruciating. And I was filled with a dread that was still worse. I trembled at the thought I might always be a burden to my poor mother and sister. I had not fully learned that, when God sends a trial, he likewise gives the strength to bear it, and some way of mitigating it. How many times I have since realized this! God comes to the aid of those whose will is in conformity with his.
The marriage of Louis and Eugénie took place a month afterwards. For them, and I might almost say for myself, it was the beginning of a life of serene happiness that lasted six years. The better these two souls became acquainted, the more they loved each other. They were always of the same mind on all subjects whatever, particularly when there was a question of doing good. Eugénie, under her husband's influence, became in a few months a woman of angelic piety. The good works Louis had previously begun under such unfavorable circumstances were resumed at once, and carried on with a zeal and prudence that had the happiest influence on the whole country round. St. M—— was transformed into a Christian republic. The wicked—to be found everywhere—were few in number, and, instead of ruling over the good, considered themselves fortunate in being tolerated. Ah! if it were thus everywhere!... Every summer, I went to pass three months with my friends. I was happier there than I can express. It was delightful to behold a family so admirably united, so beloved and respected everywhere around! Mr. Smithson himself was hardly to be recognized. The sight of the wonders effected by his son-in-law and daughter destroyed one by one all his prejudices against the true religion....
Alas! the happiness of this world is seldom of long duration. Eugénie had been married six years, and was the mother of two children, when she was seized with a severe illness that endangered her life. She got over it, however, but remained feeble and languid. The physicians insisted on her residing permanently in the South. A large manufactory being for sale on the delightful shores of the Mediterranean, a few leagues from Marseilles, on the picturesque and charming road leading from the Phocæan City to Toulon, Louis purchased it, and they all went away!
No words could describe the sadness they experienced at leaving so dear a spot as St. M——, where they were greatly beloved. They likewise regretted separating from me. When I saw them start, I felt almost as distressed as I was at the death of my husband; but I did not tell them so, for fear of increasing their regret. After they went to Provence, they had one more year of happiness; but the amelioration that took place in Eugénie's health did not last any longer. She died three months later.
Some time after, Louis came to seek consolation from his sister and me. His very aspect made us heartsick. His grief was beyond the reach of any human consolation. It would have been wrong had he voluntarily given himself up to it. But, no; he struggled against it. It prevailed, however, in spite of himself, as phthisis resists every remedy and wears the sufferer to the grave. We represented to him the good he might still effect, and reminded him he had one child left to bring up; the other being dead. He listened kindly to our representations, and said he had had more happiness on earth than he merited; that he submitted to the divine will, and resigned himself to live as long as God wished. But all this was said with a dejection and involuntary weariness of everything, that was no good sign. Louis was one of those souls, all sensibility, who die as soon as their hearts receive a deep wound. Had he been an unbeliever, he would have taken his own life, or died of grief in a few months. Religion sustained him four years longer.
During that time, his friends always found him resigned. He became more devout than ever, and more zealous in doing good. A sudden illness at length carried him off. The physicians asserted that he might have recovered if grief had not undermined his constitution, once so robust. When he died, he left his son to be brought up by his sister. God gave him the happiness, before his death, of seeing his father-in-law enter the bosom of the church.
Madame Agnes had finished her story.
"Such, my friend, is the history of my life," said she. "It is not very entertaining, I confess, but I think it instructive. All who had a part in it suffered, but they never lost courage. Such a misfortune could not happen to them, because they only expected from life what it has to give—many days of trial, mingled with some that are joyful. But whether their days were sad or joyful, my friends were never deprived of the light of the divine presence. They received from the hand of God happiness and sorrow with equal gratitude, aware that he disposes all things for the good of those he loves, and that in him all they have loved on earth will be found again.
"My friend, imitate the example of these dear ones now gone! Keep intact the gift of faith, which was their dearest, most precious treasure. Let it also be yours! If you rely on God, you will never lack resignation and hope, even in the midst of the most bitter trials. Faith, while waiting to open the gates of heaven to you—faith, practical and ardent, wonderfully softens every trial here below."