At the same time, she thought she could understand the meaning of the change, and, candid and out-spoken as ever, she said sweetly and kindly, but in a sad, broken voice—
"You are annoyed with me, are you not, for having remained so long without seeing you; for having shut my door against you, and having treated you as strangers—you, for whom I have so sincere a regard? Ah! if you only knew what I have undergone. But you were the last persons to whom I should have dared to confide my uncertainty, my fears, my hopes. I could only impart to you the result of my inquiries and my proceedings, and I have known that result but for a few hours. I was nerving myself to tell you all—to summon you—when you appeared. Now, I have no longer any right to be silent—I must divulge my secret."
She stopped, and they dared not reply, so deeply had her sympathetic, moving voice touched them, so strange was the emotion she aroused within them. Already their suffering had decreased, already were they reproaching themselves for their jealousy. She, who spoke to them and looked at them as she was then doing, could not be guilty of treason, either in love or friendship. They had accused her falsely, led away, blinded, and rendered unjust and cruel by their passion. But what was the secret she was about to entrust to their keeping? They longed in trembling anxiety to hear it.
She resumed, and her uneasiness was now equal to their own. She seemed to suffer from being compelled to speak as she was about to do, and blamed herself for the trouble she knew she should bring upon them. Her voice had lost its firmness, her countenance its composure, and her look its candour.
"First of all," she said, "let me tell you how deeply I regret having induced you to leave your country and enter on a life of adventure, without any object, as far as you are concerned, and—without any hope. My only idea, I assure you, was to undertake a journey, a pilgrimage, if you will, but a pilgrimage to a tomb where I had the right to kneel without wounding you. To-day the situation is changed, and you can no longer accompany me. I must continue on my way alone, and without your help go onwards towards the goal which I wish—which I ought to reach. I thank you with all my heart for your devotion to me, for the kindly affection you have ever displayed towards me. But, my dear companions, my valued friends, I must leave you, and you must forget me. My destiny is no longer my own to shape."
And as, pale, trembling, and unable to utter a word, they looked at her with anxiously inquiring gaze, she added timidly, nervously, without even stopping to take breath—
"I am not a widow. My husband, the victim of his devotion to science and his own personal bravery, is still alive, a prisoner in a country where no one had previously dared to penetrate. I must rescue him—I must save him. I am determined to do it, and I must say farewell to you."
CHAPTER XLVII.
The revelation just made by Madame de Guéran to MM. Périères and de Morin was certainly calculated to drive them to despair. If they had had any doubts about the power she exercised over them, their feelings and sufferings during the past few days would have removed them all. They were as deeply, seriously in love as it was possible for men to be; absolutely conquered and enslaved. And it was at this very moment, when they were acknowledging to themselves their defeat and the intensity of their love, that they heard her say—"Give up all hope, give me up, for I belong no more to myself!"
The blow, however, was not so severe as they might have supposed, because its effect had been weakened, deadened by the revulsion of feeling they had just experienced. For had they not sought Madame de Guéran for the sole purpose of heaping reproaches upon her, complaining of her treason, and saying farewell to her? They had looked upon her as lost after the cruellest fashion, M. de Morin picturing himself as sacrificed to M. Périères, and the latter, on the other hand, assuming that his rival was the lucky man, the victor, and the husband elect. Jealousy is the legitimate offspring of wounded amour-propre, the two sentiments depend on one another, are natural to each other, and one springs from the other. Get rid of amour-propre, and jealousy will disappear; do away with jealousy, and the most unhappy love will, at all events, be calm and tranquil. Say to love—"Your beloved will not have anything to say to you because she loves another"—and off he will go in desperation, meditating revenge or suicide, according to his temperament. But say to him—"This woman keeps you at a distance simply because she neither can nor will belong to any one; she loves you, but she will never tell you so, nor will she allow you to tell her"—and away goes his anger; he loves still, perhaps may love always, but quietly and resignedly.