And that was right, though I had not recalled it at the time; but it was too bad of Clara to try and make out that Achille was prompted by mercenary motives, when he was the very soul of generosity, and kept himself horribly poor by the amounts he gave away. And, besides, he was too much of a gentleman to care for money, except as regarded the good it would do to his fellow creatures.
But there, as it must have been seen all along, Clara always was petty, and spiteful, and full of little remarks of that sort, which she would throw at you, when they would come round, and hard, and prickly, just like one of those nasty, spikey chestnut shucks that will not bear to be handled. So I grew not to mind what she said; and when I told Achille, he used to laugh, and say that she was “une drôle de fille,” and, like me, he took no further notice of it.
I would not consent for such a time—months, and months, and months; but I knew that at last I should be compelled to yield, and go with him. “But not yet,” I said, “not yet,” and I drove it off as long as I could; but at last I gave up, and promised to be his—the promise that should make me another’s! And then began a week of such nervous excitement as was almost unbearable. Such foolish ideas, too, came into my head—some of them so childish that I was almost ashamed of them; such as wishing, like I had read of somewhere, to save up pieces of bread and butter, and to purchase a suit of boy’s clothes. In short, it seemed as if nothing but absurdities would come into my head.
I should have gone on as comfortably again if I could have taken Clara and Euphemia into my confidence; but upon this most momentous of undertakings I felt, and Achille agreed with me, that I should confide in no one; for this was, indeed, too serious a matter to trust to another. In fact, at times I felt that I could hardly trust myself; for I used to be like the wife of King Midas, and I declare that the knowledge was such a burden that it would have been a relief to have put one’s head down by the river, and whispered the secret. Every lesson day came a note; and there was the night settled, and everything arranged, before I could bring myself to believe that it was true; while all around me seemed strained, changed, and unnatural, and sometimes I really used to feel as if I were dreaming.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Memory the Twenty-Third—The Horror of my Blighted Life.
The night before the one appointed for my flight with Achille, I sat down and wrote two letters home—one the usual weekly affair, the other a tear-bedewed prayer for pardon. In it I detailed the full particulars of the step which I had taken, pointing out at the same time the uselessness of attempting pursuit; for long before I could be discovered I should be the wife of the man who possessed my heart, truly and thoroughly. Yes; that letter was tear-bedewed, and there was something very mournful in writing home upon such an occasion. But the die was cast, and I felt quite relieved when I had placed both letters in their envelopes; and then, leaving one for enclosure in the letter-bag of the house, I secured the other in my bosom, and soon after retired to rest.
Yes, I retired to rest, but not to sleep, and rose the next morning pale and dejected; while how I went through my lessons that day I cannot think now. However, to keep suspicion entirely at a distance, when Achille came we took not the slightest notice of one another; and, so that there should be no miscarriage of our undertaking, not so much as a single line passed from one to the other. But just as he was going I gave him one look, to show him that I was worthy of his trust, and, come what would, I should keep my word.