His confidences, which I had at first repelled, ended by winning me over. His was one of those frank and open natures which no one could resist. He questioned me persistently, and seemed to understand the art of doing so without appearing either curious or importunate. You could not help feeling that he was really interested in you, and that he wished those whom he loved to be as happy as himself.
I allowed myself then to go as far as to tell him the whole of my story, and even to confess the strange passion that dominated me. He listened to me very seriously and assured me he saw nothing absurd in my love. Instead of trying to make me forget it, he advised me to complete the task I had set myself of becoming a good and worthy man.
“When you have accomplished this,” said he, “either some miracle will happen to you, or rather your mind, no longer perturbed, will recognize that it has wandered in pursuit of some sweet chimera; some still sweeter reality will then replace it, and your virtues as well as your talents will none the less prove blessings of inestimable value.”
“Never,” I replied, “I will never love another than the heroine of my dream.”
And in order to prove to him how all my thoughts were absorbed, I showed him the verses and prose that I had written under the empire of this exclusive passion. He read and reread them with the frank enthusiasm of friendship. Had I been willing to accept his decision, I would have thought myself a great poet. He soon knew the best pieces in my collection by heart, and recited them to me with fervor, in our walks to the old castle of Angers and in the charming environs of the city. I resisted his desire that they should be printed. I could make verses for my own pleasure and for the relief of my troubled soul, but it would not answer for me to seek the renown of a poet. At that period, and among the people with whom I lived, it would have cast great discredit upon my profession.
At last the day came when he was allowed to make his appearance at the château d’Ionis, which Caroline had never left during the three months of her widowhood. He received a letter from her and read me the postscript. I was invited to accompany him in terms at once ceremonious and affectionate.
CHAPTER VI.
Conclusion.
We reached our destination on an evening in December. The ground was covered with snow, and the sun was setting in superbly shaded violet clouds, but with an air of melancholy. I did not wish to interfere with the first effusions of two lovers’ hearts, and so ordered Bernard to precede me to the château. Besides, I needed the sole companionship of my thoughts for the first few moments. It was not without a great emotion that I again beheld the spot where I had lived centuries in the space of three days.
I threw Baptiste the reins of my horse, and he proceeded towards the stables, while I went in alone through one of the small doors of the park.
This beautiful spot, stripped of its flowers and verdure, had now a grander character. From the sombre pines, frosty showers fell upon my head, and the branches of the old lindens, clad in ice formed delicate arcades of crystal, above the arbor of the alleys. One might have thought them the naves of a gigantic cathedral offering all the caprices of an unknown and fantastic architecture. But I again found Spring in the rotunda of the library. They had separated it from the contiguous galleries by fitting the arches with glass windows, so as to make a sort of temperate hothouse. The waters of the fountain still murmured amid exotics that were even more beautiful than those I had seen before, and this flowing water, whilst without all sources slept enchained in ice, delighted alike the eye and ear.