One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre

by G. P. R. James

"Then I am happy," he cried, pressing her to his bosom; "the vain ties, the idle ceremonies of the world may bind together cold and careless hands, and indifferent and unimpassioned bosoms, but between your heart and mine, Beatrice, there will be a dearer, a nobler, a more lasting tie, and we will have no other!"

Beatrice disengaged herself from his arms. "What do you mean, D'Aubin?" she cried: but then pausing, she added, "but I forgot; you fancy yourself bound to another by one of those bonds of society which cannot be broken: but you are mistaken; your supposed marriage with Eugenie de Menancourt is null. The ceremony was vain, the seeming priest was none, and I have papers here to prove that he was but a soldier in the army of the Huguenots."

"Glad am I to hear it," cried D'Aubin, again throwing his arms around her; "yet listen to me, Beatrice; is the same idle ceremony necessary between you and me? Do you doubt my love, Beatrice? will your constancy faint unless upheld by an idle form? Is your love so weak, that, when I am ready to resign all, even to my country, for you, you will not make the sacrifice even of a mere name for me?"

Beatrice turned, as he held her in his arms; and for an instant gazed in his face, with a look of wondering inquiry, as if--even acquainted with the world and all its ways as she was--the base, ungrateful wickedness of his purpose were too much for her belief. At length, convinced that her ears had not deceived her, and satisfied, from the soft, entreating expression he assumed, that his proposal was the result of calm, deliberate forethought--no idle jest, no capricious trial of her heart--she burst from him like a young eagle from a net which had been spread for larks; and, standing in all the majesty of indignant beauty on the spot where she had lately sat, she gazed upon him with flashing eyes, and a quivering lip, while the fingers of her right hand felt along her girdle for the dagger, which, according to a common custom of the day, usually hung there. But it had been forgotten; and it might be lucky for the Count d'Aubin that it was so.

For a moment anger and surprise, and bitter indignation seemed to take away all words; but ere D'Aubin could speak again, she had recovered herself. "Out of my sight, viper!" she cried; "base, ungrateful, perfidious snake! Oh God! Oh God! never let woman, henceforth and for ever, love man again. Let her trample upon that black thing, his heart, and sport with his torture, and deceive his love, and betray his confidence, till he know not where to find faith or truth in all the world; for, the moment that he believes her true, or kind, or gentle, or affectionate, he turns a serpent which would sting her, and poison for her the life, the feelings, the happiness, she is ever ready to devote to him. Out of my sight, traitor, I say! Why linger you here?"

"Hear me! hear me, Beatrice!" cried D'Aubin, rising and attempting to take her hand. "Hear me! I meant not to offend you! I am no traitor. I meant but----"

"No traitor!" cried Beatrice. "Is he no traitor, that, received with friendship and hospitality into the heart of a fortress in time of war, treated with confidence and love, saved from death, cherished, protected, befriended, strives to corrupt the garrison and betray the leader, to ruin the defences, and destroy the walls? Out on thee, man! Out on thee! I would not be the base, ungenerous, contemptible thing thou art, for all the power of a Cæsar!"

D'Aubin saw he had deceived himself; and at the same moment that he perceived that he had risked the love of Beatrice for ever, he felt most strongly what an inestimable jewel that love was. "Hear me--but hear me, Beatrice!" he said. "Have I not said that I am ready to sacrifice everything for you? I make no exception to that sacrifice; not a pride, not a vanity, not a prejudice do I wish excepted. I will sacrifice all! Be mine on any terms. I did but think that Beatrice was more liberal, more unprejudiced, than our idle crowd of courtly dames, who insist upon a ceremonious vow that they break, one and all, most unceremoniously, rather than that private compact which binds the heart."

"Say no more, Sir--say no more," cried Beatrice. "Those last words are quite enough, if all the rest of your conduct were insufficient. There is hope in every man who can yet believe in purity; but he whose vice is so confirmed, that he does not credit the existence of virtue, is irreclaimable. So you did but think," she continued, while her cheek again glowed, and her eye flashed--"you did but think, that Beatrice of Ferrara was too liberal, too unprejudiced, to hold her honour as a jewel, without which life is darkness and bitterness. You did but think, that, because to save, to reclaim, to elevate a man she fancied not wholly lost, she braved opinion, and, strong in her own righteousness, set the world's maxims at defiance. You did but think that she had forgotten the line between virtue and prejudice, in her mad love for Philip d'Aubin, and would soon, for his sake, trample upon the one, as she had spurned the other? But, sir, you were mistaken; and you will now quit for ever her you have insulted."

D'Aubin had nothing in the shape of reason to reply, but he had much in the shape of love; and with a heart full of passion, and shame, and regret, he failed not to plead for forgiveness with vehemence and eloquence. Forgetting pride and all its train, he cast himself at her feet; he held her hand when she sought to go; and he poured forth, from the deep feelings in his heart, all those ardent and fiery words which well might move and win. At first Beatrice strove to stay him, and to disengage her hand; but when she found that his vehemence would be heard, she stood and listened, but with that calm and cold demeanour, which ere long brought his eloquence to an end. Then withdrawing her hand and her robe from his grasp, she said, in a low and agitated, but determined tone, which, full of deep feeling but strong resolution, was much more striking than the words of passion which had at first broken from her lips, "Rise, Monsieur d'Aubin! and as I have heard you, now hear me! When first you talked of love to me, I knew you to be young, and light, and foolish; but I thought that I discovered, underneath the follies of youth and gaiety, deeper feelings, better aspirations, and a nobler soul. I then saw you flutter round many another woman, and I heard of vices into which I did not inquire; for, in your language and your manner towards me, there was much that gave me better hopes, and I strove to reclaim you by gentleness and kindness. Deeper offences succeeded; and it became me, though love loses hope but slowly, to assume a demeanour towards you, which might at once tend to awaken you, and do justice to myself. The weakness of a woman's heart taught me to believe, that, on one occasion I had carried severity too far, and I reproached myself for having hurried you on in evil. I soon had an opportunity of mending that. In a battle, where I had good assurance that your party would fail, I caused you to be followed by some faithful and skilful men, who had orders to rescue you at any moment of extreme need. They brought you wounded, and apparently dying, to my dwelling, and like a sister I tended you night and day, till all hope was lost; and then I wept for you as no sister could have wept. Against all calculation you recovered; saw how deep, how strong, was my love towards you; taught me to give full scope to that love, by pretending reformation and virtue: and now you have ended all, by proving to me that kindness, like the spring sun upon a torpid snake, but re-awakens your venom with your strength; that you look upon the love of woman but as the means of injuring her; that kind deeds and services but hire you to ingratitude; and that, though you may be capable of passion, you are incapable of love! Thus convinced, sir, I bid you quit me, and for ever. No time, no circumstances, will change my resolution of banishing you from my thoughts for ever; for Beatrice of Ferrara would sooner die than wed one whom she has at length learned so thoroughly to despise, could he offer a kingly crown."