"Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say, Albert! I declare to you, by all that is sacred and solemn, that I have firmly taken the resolution I spoke of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word and deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you further pledges of my truth."
"Pledges!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, more and more excited by a happiness so wholly unlocked for. "What need have I of any pledges? Do not your look, your tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own heart, all convince me of the truth of your words? But, Clémence, man, you know, is a creature not easily satisfied; and," added the marquis, approaching his wife's chair, "your noble, generous conduct inspires me with the boldness, the courage, to hope—to hope,—yes, Clémence, to venture to hope for that which, only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse than madness to presume to think of."
"For mercy's sake, explain yourself!" said Clémence, alarmed at the impassioned words and glances of her husband.
"Yes," cried he, seizing her hand, "yes, by dint of tender, untiring, unwearied love,—Clémence, do you understand me?—I say, by dint of love such as mine I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I dare to anticipate being loved by you,—not with a cold, lukewarm regard, but with a passion ardent as my own for you. Ah, you know not the real nature of such a love as I would inspire you with! Alas! I never even dared to breathe it in your ears,—so frigid, so repulsive were you to me. Never did you bestow on me a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now, when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness; and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the passionate ardour of my love for you. Oh, Clémence, when you will let me only tell you half I have suffered,—how I have writhed in despairing anguish at your coldness, your disdain, how I have watched and sighed in vain for one encouraging glance,—you will own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, I am inferior to none. Whence arose that melancholy, that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? Can you not guess the cause? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Clémence, to that overwhelming dread was owing the sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the desponding gloom, which excited so many different conjectures. Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of my heart's idolatry, was my own,—legally, irrevocably mine,—dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more completely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the opposite parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my bitter tears, reached not you; or, I feel almost persuaded, they would have moved even you to pity me. And now it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings, and have come, like an angel of goodness as you are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be doomed to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your graceful beauty; no more shall I account myself most blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body, alas! I am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indisputably mine! Will it not, dear Clémence? Speak to me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward of all I have so long endured!"
As M. d'Harville uttered these last words, he seized the hand of his wife, and covered it with passionate kisses; while Clémence, much grieved at the mistake her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdrawing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. And the expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke her feelings, that M. d'Harville saw at once the fearful error he had committed. The blow fell with redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately conjured up. A look of intense agony replaced the bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little while since, when Madame d'Harville, eagerly extending her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone:
"Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as the most tender and affectionate sister,—but nothing more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if, inadvertently, my words have inspired you with hopes which can never be realised."
"Never?" exclaimed M. d'Harville, fixing on his wife a look of despairing entreaty.
"Never!" answered she. The single word, with the tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the irrevocable decision Clémence had formed.
Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her nobleness of character, Madame d'Harville had firmly resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and affectionate attention; but to love him she felt utterly out of her power; and to this immutable resolution she was driven by a power more forcible than either fear, contempt, or even dislike,—it was a species of repugnance almost amounting to horror.
After a painful silence of some duration, M. d'Harville passed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a voice of bitterness: