"To death, to death!" cried Clémence, casting herself upon his bosom, and weeping bitterly, "you are remaining to die. I know it, I know it, and I will never quit you!"
The Count kissed her tenderly, and pressed her to his heart; but he suffered not his resolution to be shaken. "Listen to me, my Clémence," he said. "What may be my fate I know not: but I trust in God's mercy, and in my own uprightness of intentions. But think, Clémence, only think, dear Clémence, how terrible would be my feelings, how tenfold deep and agonising would be all that I may have to suffer, if I knew that, not only I myself was in danger, but that you also were in still greater peril. If I knew that you were in imprisonment, that the having followed the dictates of your conscience was imputed to you as a crime; that you were to be tormented by the agony of trial, before a tyrannical tribunal, and doomed to torture, to cruel death, or to eternal imprisonment. Conceive, Clémence, conceive how my heart would be wrung under such circumstances. Conceive how to every pang that I may otherwise suffer would be added the infinite weight of grief, and indignation, and suspense on your account. Conceive all this, and then, oh Clémence, be merciful, be kind, and give me the blessing of seeing you depart in safety, as a consolation and a support under all that I may have myself to suffer."
Clémence wept bitterly upon his bosom, and the Count soothed her by every endearing and tender word. At length, she suddenly raised her head, as if some new idea had struck her, and she exclaimed, "I will go, Albert. I will go upon one condition, without torturing you more by opposition."
"What is that condition, dear Clémence?" demanded the Count, gazing on her face, which was glowing warmly even through her tears. "What is that condition, dearest Clémence?"
Clémence hid her face again upon his breast, and answered, "It is, that I may become your wife before I quit this shore. We have Protestant ministers here; the ceremony can be easily performed. My uncle, I know, will offer no opposition; and I would fain bear the name of one so noble and so beloved, to another land, and to the grave, which may, perhaps, soon reunite us."
The Count's heart was wrung, but he replied, "Oh, beloved Clémence, why, why propose that which must not--which cannot be; why propose that which, though so tempting to every feeling of my heart, would cover me with well-deserved shame if I yielded to it?--Think, think Clémence, what would deservedly be said of me if I were to consent--if I were to allow you to become my wife; to part with you at the altar, and perhaps by my death as a condemned criminal, to leave you an unprotected widow within a few days."
Clémence clasped her hands, vehemently exclaiming, "So help me Heaven as I would rather be the widow of Albert of Morseiul, than the wife of any other man that ever lived on earth!"
Sir Thomas Cecil, however, interposed. "Clémence," he said, "your lover is right: but he will not use arguments to persuade you that I may use. This is a severe and bitter trial. The Almighty only knows how it will terminate: but, my dear child, remember that this is no ordinary man you love. Let his character be complete to the last! Do not--do not, by any solicitation of your's, Clémence, take the least brightness from his bright example. Let him go on, my child, to do what he believes his duty at all risks, and through all sacrifices. Let there not be one selfish spot from the beginning to the end for man to point at; and the Almighty will protect and reward him to whom he has given power to act uprightly to the last;--if not in this world, in another he will be blest, Clémence, and to that other we must turn our hopes of happiness, for here it is God's will that we should have tribulation."
Clémence clasped her hands, and bent down her eyes to the ground. For several minutes she remained as if in deep thought, and then said, in a low but a firmer voice, "Albert, I yield; and knowing from what is in my own heart, how dreadful this moment must be to you, I will not render it more dreadful by asking you any thing more that you must refuse. I will endeavour to be as calm as I can, Albert;--but weep I must. Perhaps," she added, with a faint, faint smile upon her lips, "I might weep less if there were no hope; if it were all despair: but I see a glimmering for exertion on my part, if not exactly for hope; and that exertion may certainly be better made in another land than if I were to remain here:--and now for the pain of departure. That must be undergone, and I am ready to undergo it rather at once than when I have forgotten my faint resolution. Do you go with me?" she continued, turning to her uncle; "if it be needful that you stay, I fear not to go alone."
Sir Thomas Cecil, however, replied that he was ready to accompany her. Her maid, Maria, was warned to prepare with all speed; and ere a few more sentences were spoken on either part, the Marquis du Bar came to inform the Count, that the boats were afloat, and the vessels standing in, as far as they could into the bay. The Huguenot gentlemen mentioned in the list of proscription were already on the shore, and not a little eager to be in the first boats to put off. The soldiery were drawn up under arms to await the expiration of the truce; and as the Count and Sir Thomas Cecil led down Clémence, weeping bitterly, to the sands, a murmur of sympathy and compassion ran through the crowd, and through the ranks of the soldiery, and the gentlemen drew back to give her the first place in the boats. Before they reached the edge, however, the Count, whose eye had been raised for a moment to the vessels, pointed towards them with a smile of satisfaction.