"And such as you describe him, so have I always found him," cried Rodolph; "all heart, disinterestedness, and delicacy! But did you never speak to him of the marriages so hastily broken off?"
"I will confess to you, my lord, that the question was several times on my lips; but, when I recollected the sensitiveness of his nature, I feared to pain him by questions which might, at any rate, have wounded his self-love, or taxed his honour to reply to truly. The nearer the day fixed for our marriage approached, the more delighted did M. d'Harville appear. Yet I several times detected him absorbed in the most perfect dejection, the deepest melancholy. One day, in particular, I caught his eyes fixed on me with a settled gaze, as though resolving to confide to me some important secret he yet could not bring himself to reveal. I perceived a large tear trickle slowly down his cheek, as though wrung from his very heart. The recollection of his two former prospects of marriage, so suddenly destroyed, rose to my mind; and, I confess, I almost felt afraid to proceed. A vague presentiment whispered within me that the happiness of my whole life was at stake,—perhaps perilled for ever. But then, on the other hand, such was my eager desire to quit my father's house, that I turned a deaf ear to every suggestion of evil arising from my union with M. d'Harville."
"And did M. d'Harville make you no voluntary confession?"
"Not any. When I inquired the cause of his continual fits of melancholy, he would answer, 'Pray, do not heed it! But I am always most sad when most happy.' These words, pronounced in the kindest and most touching manner, reassured me a little. And how, indeed, was it possible, when his voice would quiver with emotion, and his eyes fill with tears, to manifest any further suspicion, by repeating my questions as to the past, when it was with the future only I had any business? The persons appointed to witness the contract on the part of M. d'Harville, M. de Lucenay and M. de Saint-Rémy, arrived at Aubiers some days previous to the marriage; my nearest relations alone were invited. Immediately after the conclusion of the ceremony, we were to depart for Paris; and it is true I felt for M. d'Harville none of that love with which a young wife ought to regard the man she vows her future life to, but I admired and respected his character and disposition, and, but for the disastrous events which followed this fatal union, a more tender feeling could doubtless soon have attached me to him. Well, we were married."
At these words, Madame d'Harville turned rather pale, and her resolution appeared to forsake her. After a pause, she resumed:
"Immediately after the ceremony, my father embraced me tenderly, as did Madame Roland also. Before so many persons I could not avoid the display of this fresh exhibition of hypocrisy. With her dry and white hand she squeezed mine so hard as to pain me, and said, in a whisper, and in a tone as gentle as it was perfidious, these words, which I never can forget: 'Think of me sometimes in the midst of your bliss, for it was I who arranged your marriage.' Alas, I was far from comprehending at that moment the full force of those words! Our marriage took place at eleven o'clock, and we immediately entered our carriage, followed by my waiting-woman and the old valet de chambre of M. d'Harville's, and we travelled so rapidly that we reached Paris before ten o'clock in the evening. I should have been surprised at the silence and melancholy of M. d'Harville had I not known that he had what he termed his happy sadness. I was myself painfully disturbed; I was returning to Paris for the first time since my mother's death; I arrived there alone with my husband, whom I had hardly known more than six weeks, and who, up to the evening before, had not addressed a word to me but what was marked by respectful formality. Men, however well bred, do not think sufficiently of the fear which the sudden change in their tone and manners occasions to a young female as soon as she belongs to them; they do not reflect that a youthful maiden cannot in a few hours forget all her timidity and virgin scruples."
"Nothing is to me more barbarous than this system of carrying off a young female as soon as the wedding ceremony is over,—a ceremony which ought to consecrate the right and duty to employ still more every tenderness of love and effort to render mutual affection still stronger and more endearing."
"You will imagine, monseigneur, the indefinable alarm with which I found myself in Paris,—in the city in which my mother had died hardly a year before. We reached the Hôtel d'Harville—"
The emotion of the young lady redoubled, her cheeks were flushed with scarlet, and she added, in a voice scarcely intelligible:
"You must know all; if not, I shall appear too contemptible in your eyes. Well, then," she resumed, with desperate resolution, "I was led to my apartment and left there alone; after an hour M. d'Harville joined me there. I was weeping bitterly. My husband came towards me, and was about to take my arm, when he fell at my feet in agony. He could not hear my voice, his countenance was spasmodic with fearful convulsions, his eyes rolled in their orbits with a rapidity that appalled me, his contorted mouth was filled with blood and foam, and his hand grasped me with inconceivable force. I made a desperate effort, and his stiffened fingers at length unclasped from my wrist, and I fainted at the moment when M. d'Harville was struggling in the paroxysm of this horrible attack. This was my wedding night, my lord,—this was the vengeance of Madame Roland!"