Just when the notary arose to present Hélène with the pen in order that she might affix her signature, she arose, and, standing erect and imposing, said these words:
"I wish now to say that, for a reason which does not reflect on the honour of M. le Comte Arthur, my cousin, it is impossible for me to bestow upon him my hand." Then, turning towards me, she handed me a letter, saying: "This letter will explain to you the motive of my conduct, monsieur, for we need never meet each other again." And bowing with modest confidence, she left the room, accompanied by her mother, who shared in the general amazement.
Every one left the room.
You can imagine what commotion and scandal such an adventure as this would make in the little town and in the whole province.
I found myself alone in the salon,—I was completely crushed. It was not until some moments afterwards that I remembered Hélène's letter and concluded to read it.
This letter, which I have kept ever since, was as follows. Eight years have passed since then. I have experienced very varied and distressing emotions; but I yet feel an aggrieved and vindictive glow when I read these lines so filled with an uncontrollable and overwhelming scorn.
"After the calumnious reports which had attainted my reputation, and which were brought about by the levity of your conduct towards me, it was needful that I should have public and notorious reparation; I have had it,—I am satisfied. In seeing me thus renounce, voluntarily, a union which, so far as money was concerned, would have been so advantageous to me, the world will easily believe that marriage was not necessary for my rehabilitation, since I have openly declined it.
"You have been very blind, very presumptuous, or else devoid of all generous resentment, since you have been able to believe for a moment that I did not altogether and for ever despise you from the time you said to me,—to me, Hélène, who had loved you from childhood, and who had just made you an avowal in all confidence and loyalty: 'Hélène, you planned it all; your vows, your affection, your souvenirs, were all falsehoods and deceptions; it is only an infamous speculation, for all you care for is my fortune.' Such suspicion kills the most intense affection. I would have pardoned you for anything else, deception, inconstancy, abandon, because, no matter how culpable or criminal a passion may be, the very word passion serves as an excuse for it; but that cold, hostile, and hideously selfish distrust, which, brooding over its treasure, can suspect the most generous feelings to be caused by base cupidity or a sordid nature, is unpardonable. You lie and blaspheme, when you dare to invoke the memory of your father. Your father was unfortunate enough to believe in evil, but he was generous enough to do good. Do not speak to me of repentance. Your first thought was a vile one. All the rest came on reflection, from shame of your own baseness. I think all the worse of you on this account, for you have not even energy enough to persist in evil; you are ashamed of it, but not sorry for it."
I can never give an idea of the confusion, the rage, the hate, the despair, that took possession of me after I had read this letter, and found myself so mocked at and unjustly accused; for, after all, this doubt had entered my mind from some superhuman influence, I did not feel that I was vile. My regret, my resolve to marry Hélène in spite of her disdain, the disposition I had made of my fortune, proved to me that I was capable of noble and generous inspirations.
Nevertheless, on remembering how tenderly I had been loved, and beholding myself so deeply despised, I understood that all hope was lost; and then I felt, as before, a sort of vertigo come upon me as I saw such a sudden change come over my life; it was as though from that moment I resolutely abandoned myself to destruction, and, with a heartbroken cry of regret, I exclaimed: