"The future husband of Laura de Villardin is now here, and while I acknowledge my regret that in every respect he does not resemble yourself, yet he seems a noble and dignified man, with whom, I trust, she will find peace, if not happiness. The day of marriage is fixed for this day week, and beyond all doubt it will then take place. Laura is calm and composed, and her mind appears made up to her fate; but at the same time it is useless to dissemble that she suffers much. In speaking thus, my son, I have the utmost reliance on those good principles which I have marked with pleasure daily taking firmer root in your bosom; and on those generous feelings which I have often seen make you prefer the happiness of others to your own. I know that man can hardly love woman better than you love her who is now about to become the wife of another; and I believe that your love for her will not decay; but I believe at the same time that her tranquillity and peace of mind will ever be your first desire; and on this ground I entreat, I beseech, I command you never to see her after her marriage, till long years have calmed and softened feelings that are now too vehement for control. If, indeed, you do love her sincerely, such will be your course; and the blessing of a quiet conscience, and the knowledge of having acted nobly under the most trying circumstances, will follow such conduct, and cannot fail to assuage your grief.
"Ere long I shall again see you, at least, if you remain at Dumont; for as soon as the marriage is over, Monsieur de Villardin and all his family set out for Paris. On the same day I leave the Prés Vallée for Rennes, where I shall spend but three days in necessary business, and will then join you. I hope to give you consolation, and at all events to be enabled to afford you some support under the bitter disappointment which you suffer. From these circumstances, and knowing how painful all the details must be to you, I shall not write again till we meet; and in the meantime may God bless and comfort you, and give you strength, and wisdom, and faith, to bear the dispensation of his will without murmurs or repining."
The effect of these letters upon my mind may be conceived. No occupation now took any hold upon my thoughts; and the whole of the next week was spent in wandering about in a state of despairing wretchedness, that made me almost think the use of my reason would abandon me. I read over and over again the letters which conveyed to me the intelligence of the near approach of my beloved Laura's marriage to another; and, instead of feeling soothed by the terms of affection and consolation which they contained, every word served but to irritate me, and to aggravate my grief. Cruel, cruel did it seem to me, to force the poor unhappy girl into an union from which her heart revolted, without giving her time even to prepare her mind by thought; or, by contemplation, to habituate her ideas to a change of situation and of duties which implied the sacrifice of her heart's first and strongest affection. Bitterly, in my own breast, did I upbraid Monsieur de Villardin for the haste with which he proceeded--bitterly also did I upbraid Father Ferdinand for not using all his influence to obtain, at least, a delay of some weeks or months.
From what had fallen from Monsieur de Villardin, when last I saw him, I had certainly anticipated that the marriage would take place much sooner than he had at first determined; but never did I think that only three short weeks would be allowed for Laura to cast me from her heart, and to summon resolution to plight her faith to another: and the agony of mind that I knew she would suffer, as may well be supposed, added not a little to my own. Often, often was I tempted to act now, as I most certainly should have acted in former years--to hasten to the Prés Vallée, and, exerting all the influence that I possessed over her mind, to persuade her to escape from the trammels which they sought to impose upon her, and, uniting her fate to mine for ever, fly to some distant land, where we might spend the rest of our days in peace. But still a sense of honour and gratitude made me pause and doubt, till the fatal day at length arrived, and I saw the sun rise and set that was to seal my fate and hers for ever. As it sunk below the verge of the horizon, and the grey, deep night came on, the struggle between duty and passion was over, and nothing remained but despair. My heart was like a field of battle, from which a fierce and fearful strife had passed away, and had left behind nothing but mourning and death.
Shutting myself up in my own chamber, I cast myself down on my bed without undressing, and many an hour passed over my head, uncounted and unmarked, in a sort of dreary stupor, which was in everything the reverse of sleep; far from being a suspension of thought, it was the rushing of painful ideas through my brain, in such crowded multitudes, that all individual form and distinctness was lost. At length the faint grey light told me that it was dawn, and, springing from my bed, with an impulse that I could not resist, I woke the groom, and told him to saddle me my stoutest horse, determined to seek the Prés Vallée. "They are all gone by this time," I thought; "the house is lonely and desolate like my own heart, and I may at least be permitted to see the spot where last she trode."
In a few minutes the horse was at the door, and the servants, gazing anxiously upon me, asked whether they might not accompany me? I replied, somewhat harshly, "No." And springing into the saddle, shook my bridle-rein, and galloped off towards Rennes. My gallant horse, which had borne me through many a battle-field, now carried me stoutly on, and, as if he felt the same eagerness which swelled in my own heart, slackened not his pace for many a mile. As I rode through the forest, I heard some distant voices, but my heart and my brain were both too full for me to give any attention to external objects, and the sounds fell upon my ear heard, but not noticed. About six miles more brought me to the first woods of the Prés Vallée, and in a few moments, I was standing amongst the tall trees, and beside the lonely grave of turf, where Laura and myself had been accustomed to meet. I gazed sternly on the spot for a few moments, calling up all the memories which thronged around it, and torturing my own heart with every thought which could render my feelings more bitter. Tying my horse to a branch of a tree, I walked slowly on towards the house, expecting to find it nearly deserted; but I was surprised, when I approached the terrace, to see a number of grooms and servants, apparently busy in their usual occupations. The sight startled me, and, drawing rapidly back, I escaped through the garden, in order to regain my horse without being seen; for, unless the whole household had departed, to enter the Prés Vallée at such a moment of course never crossed my thoughts.
I now passed quickly through the garden, and was turning towards the door at the other side, when I suddenly heard a low voice calling after me, "Hist--hist! Monsieur le Baron," and looking round, I beheld old Jerome, the major-domo, pursuing me as fast as his somewhat feeble limbs would permit. I turned towards him, and bade him follow to some place where we should not be observed; but he replied, "O, there is no fear here. They are all gone out, and will be too tired before their return to come walking in the garden."
There were a thousand questions that I could have wished to ask, but they died away upon my lips; and had not the old man been as eager to tell as I was to hear, I should have gained no tidings.
"You have heard the news, sir," he said, "you have heard the news?"
"I have heard nothing, Jerome," I replied, "excepting that the family was to quit the Prés Vallée yesterday, which is the sole cause of my being here to-day."