"Unhappy woman!" said Rodolph, overwhelmed. "I understand,—an epileptic. Ah, 'tis horrible!"
"And that is not all," added Clémence, in a voice almost choked by emotion; "my child, my angel girl, she has inherited this frightful malady."
"Your daughter! She! What? Her paleness—her weakness—"
"Is, I dread to believe, hereditary; and the physicians think, therefore, that it is incurable."
Madame d'Harville hid her face in her hands; overcome by this painful disclosure, she had not courage to add another word. Rodolph also remained silent. His mind recoiled affrighted from the terrible mysteries of this night. He pictured to himself the young maiden, already sad, in consequence of her return to the city in which her mother had died, arriving at a strange house, alone with a man for whom she felt an interest and esteem, but not love, nor any of those sentiments which enchant the mind, none of the engrossing feeling which removes the chaste alarms of a woman in the participation of a lawful and reciprocal affection. No, no; on the contrary, Clémence arrived agitated and distressed, with depressed spirits and tearful eyes. She was, however, resolved on resignation and the fulfilment of duty, when, instead of listening to language full of devotion, love, and tenderness, which would compensate for the sorrowful feelings which were uppermost in her mind, she sees convulsed at her feet a stricken man, who twists, and foams, and shrieks, in the hideous convulsions of one of the most fearful infirmities with which a man can be incurably smitten! This is not all: his child, poor little innocent angel! is also withered from her birth. These sad and painful avowals excited bitter reflections in Rodolph's mind. "Such," said he, "is the law of the land. A young, handsome, and pure girl, the confiding and gentle victim of a shameful dissimulation, unites her destiny to that of a man tainted with an incurable malady,—a fatal inheritance which he will assuredly transmit to his children. The unhappy wife discovers this horrid mystery. What can she do? Nothing,—nothing but suffer and weep; nothing but endeavour to overcome her disgust and fright; nothing but pass her days in anguish, in indefinable and endless terror; nothing but seek, perhaps, culpable consolation without the desolate existence which has been created around her. Again," said Rodolph, "these strange laws sometimes produce horrible unions: fearful for humanity. In these laws, animals always appear superior to man in the care bestowed upon them; in the improvements that are studied for them; in the protection which encircles, the guarantees which attend them. Buy an animal, and, if an infirmity decried by the law is detected after the purchase, the sale is null and void. Indeed, what a shame, what a case of public injury would it be to compel a man to keep an animal which has a cough, is lame, or has lost an eye! Why, it would be scandalous, criminal, unheard-of infamy! Only imagine being compelled to keep, and keep for ever, a mule with a cough, a horse that was blind, or an ass that was lame! What frightful consequences might not such injustice entail on the community! Therefore, no such bargains hold good, no words bind, no contract is valid: the omnipotent law unlooses all that was thus bound. But if it relates to a creature made after God's own image, if it respects a young girl who, in the full and innocent reliance on the good faith of a man, unites her lot with his, and wakes up in the company of an epileptic, an unhappy wretch stricken with a fearful malady, whose moral and physical consequences are immeasurably distressing, a malady which may throw disorder and aversion into a family, perpetuate a horrible disease, vitiate whole generations, yes, this law, so inexorable when lame, blind, or coughing animals are the consideration—this law, so singularly clear-sighted, which will not allow an unsound horse to increase the species—this law will not loosen the victim of a union such as we have described. These bonds are sacred, indissoluble: it is to offend God and man to break them. In truth," continued Rodolph, "men sometimes display a humility most shameful and an egotistical pride which is only execrable. He values himself at less than the beast which he protects by warranties which he refuses for himself; and he imposes on himself, makes sacred, and perpetuates his most distressing infirmities by putting them under the protection of the immutability of laws, human and divine." Rodolph greatly blamed M. d'Harville, but he promised to himself to excuse him in the eyes of Clémence, although fully persuaded, after her sad disclosure, that the marquis was for ever alienated from her heart. One thought led to another, and Rodolph said to himself, "I have kept aloof from a woman I love, and who, perhaps, already feels a secret inclination for me. Either from an attachment of heart or friendship, she has bestowed her honour—her life—for the sake of a fool whom she thought unhappy. If, instead of leaving her, I had paid her all sorts of attentions, love, and consideration, my name would have been such that her reputation would not have received the slightest stain, the suspicions of her husband would never have been excited: whilst, now, she is all but at the mercy of such an ass as M. Charles Robert, who, I fear, will become the more indiscreet in proportion as he has the less right to be so. And then, too, who knows if, in spite of the dangers she has risked, the heart of Madame d'Harville will always remain free? Any return to her husband is henceforward impossible. Young, handsome, courted, with a disposition sympathising with all who suffer, what dangers, what shoals and quicksands, lie before her! For M. d'Harville, what anguish and what deep chagrin! At the same time jealous of and in love with his wife, who cannot subdue the disgust and fright which he excited in her on their nuptials,—what a lot is his!"
Clémence, with her forehead hidden by her hands, her eyes brimful of tears, and her cheek reddened by embarrassment, avoided Rodolph's look, such pain had the disclosure cost her.
"Ah, now," said Rodolph, after a long silence, "I can understand the cause of M. d'Harville's sadness, which I could not before account for. I can imagine his regrets—"
"His regrets!" exclaimed Clémence; "say his remorse, monseigneur, if he have any, for never was such a crime more coolly meditated."
"What else is it, my lord, to bind to yourself in indissoluble bonds a young girl, who confides in your honour, when you are fatally stricken with a malady which inspires fear and horror? What else is it, to devote with certainty an unhappy child to similar misery? What forced M. d'Harville to make two victims? A blind, insensate passion? No; he found my birth, my fortune, and my person, to his taste. He wished to make a convenient marriage, because, doubtless, a bachelor's life wearied him."