"If such be your feelings," replied the Abbé, "if such--contrary to all justice and reason--is the state in which your mind is to remain, there is one way that will alleviate and soothe you, that may seem in your eyes some atonement, and put your conscience more at rest. Cast off this love which you believe has led you into evil, yield the pursuit of this fair girl, renounce the object for which you did that whereof your heart reproaches you, and by that voluntary punishment and self-command, do penance for aught in which you may have failed. Doubtless, that penance will be severe and terrible to endure; but the more it is so, the greater is the atonement."
The Marquis gazed him in the face thoughtfully while the Abbé spoke, and then fell into a long reverie. His brow was raised and depressed, his teeth gnawed his nether lip, his hand clenched and opened with the struggle that was going on within, and at length, stamping his heel upon the ground, he exclaimed, "No, no, no! I have paid a mighty price, and I will save the jewel that I have bought with my soul's salvation! That fiery love is the only thing now left me upon earth.--She shall be mine, or I will die! What is there that shall stop me now? What is there that shall hinder me? Have I not wealth, and power, and courage, and strength, and daring, and determination? The fear of crime! the fear of crime! that weak barrier is cast down and trampled under my feet. Have I not broken the nearest and the dearest ties of kindred and affection, murdered the brother that hung on the same breast, dimmed the eyes that looked upon me in infancy, frozen the warm heart that was cradled in the same womb with mine?--Out upon it! What is there should stop me now? The lesser crimes of earth, the smaller violences, seem ground into unseen dust by this greater crime. Abbé, I will buy her of Villequier!--I know how to win him!--I will force her to love me, or she shall hate her husband! What is there shall stop me now? I will buy the priest as well as the ring, or the wedding garment; and she shall be mine, whether her heart be mine or not!".
While he spoke the Abbé de Boisguerin gazed upon him with one of his calm dark smiles; but upon the present occasion that smile upon the lip was at variance with a slight frown upon his brow. He replied little, however, saying merely, "It is so, Gaspar! It is so, that men seek to enjoy the fruit, and yet regret the means. They will never find happiness thus, however."
"Happiness!" exclaimed the Marquis, with a look of agony upon his face. "Is there such a thing as happiness? Oh yes, there is, and I once knew it, when together with that brother who is now no more, and you also, my friend, undisturbed by stormy passions, content with that I had, blessed with the only friendship and affection that was needful to content, I passed the sunny hours in sport and joy, and scarcely knew the common pains incident to man's general nature. And you have aided to destroy this state, and you have helped to drive me forth from happiness, to blot it out so entirely, that I could almost forget it ever existed."
"No, no, Gaspar of Montsoreau!" exclaimed the Abbé quickly, "I have not done any of these things you talk of. I have not aided in any one degree to take from you the happiness you formerly had. There is but one secret for the preservation of happiness, Gaspar. It matters not what is the object of desire, for any thing that we thirst for really may give us happiness in nearly the same portion as another. Happiness is gained by the right estimation of the means. If a man ever uses means that he regrets, to obtain any object that he desires, he loses the double happiness which may be obtained in life, the happiness of pursuit and the happiness of enjoyment. Every means must, of course, be proportioned to its end; where much is to be won, much must be risked or paid: but the firm strong mind, the powerful understanding, weighs the object against the price; and, if it be worthy, whatever that price may be, after it is once paid and the object attained, regrets not the payment. It is like an idle child who covets a gilt toy, spoils it in half an hour, and then regrets the money it has cost, ever to sorrow over means we have used, when those means have proved successful. Say not, Gaspar, that I disturbed your happiness! While you were in your own lands, enjoying the calm pleasures of a provincial life, knowing no joys, seeking no pleasures but those which, like light winds that ruffle the surface and plough not up the bosom of the water, amuse the mind but never agitate the heart, I lived contented and happy amongst you, believing that, but once or twice at most in the life of man, a joy is set before him, which is worthy of being bartered against amusement. I joined in all your sports, I furnished you with new sources of the same calm pleasures; and as long as I saw the passions were shut out, I sought no change for myself or for you either. But when the moment came, that strong and deep passions were to be introduced; when I saw that your heart, and that of your brother, like the moulded figure by the demigod, had been touched with the ethereal fire, and woke from slumber never to sleep again, then it was but befitting that I should aid him who confided in me, in the pursuit that he was now destined to follow. If the object was a great and worthy one, the means to obtain it were necessarily powerful and hazardous. No man ought to yield his repose for any thing that is not worth all risks; but having once begun the course, he must go on; and weak and idle is he who cannot overleap the barriers that he meets with, or, when the race is won, turns to regret this flower or that which he may have trampled down in his course."
"You are harsh, Abbé," replied the Marquis thoughtfully, somewhat shaken by his words--for though the wounds of remorse admit no balm, they are sometimes forgotten in strong excitement. "You are harsh, but yet it is a terrible thing to have slain one's brother."
"It is," replied the Abbé; "but circumstances give the value of every fact. It is a terrible thing to slay any human being; to take the life of a creature, full of the same high intelligences as ourselves: but if I slay that man in a room, and for no purpose, it is called murder; if I slay him in a battle-field, in order to obtain a crown, it is a glorious act, and worthy of immortal renown."
The Marquis listened to his sophistry, eager to take any theme of consolation to his heart. But any one who heard him, would have supposed that the Abbé de Boisguerin thought his companion too easily consoled. Perhaps it might be that the Abbé himself sought to defend his share in the transaction, rather than to give any comfort to his unhappy cousin. At all events, after a brief pause, during which both fell into thought, he added, "What I grieve the most for is, that Charles was kind-hearted and generous, frank and true, and I believe sincerely that, but for this unhappy business, he loved us both."
"Ay, there is the horror! there is the horror!" exclaimed the Marquis, casting himself down into a chair, and covering his eyes with his hands. "He did love me, I know he did; and I believe he sought to act generously by me."
The Abbé suffered him to indulge in his grief for a moment or two, and then replied, "But the misfortune is, that, with all this, your object is not yet secured; that though you have once more snatched her from the power of the Guises, you have not contrived to keep her in your own."