"Happy without you! it is in vain: I love you too well; and if it be true that you are the prey of the evil one, 'twere better die with you than live away from you!"
Doubtless, the beloved voice has power above all things over the softened heart: at the last step of misery we can dare all with desperate courage. Before the assembled crowd she exclaimed: "Oh, yes, Pascal, I do love you—I would have died alone; but, since you will have it so, I resist no longer. If it is our fate—we will die together."
Pascal is in heaven—the crowd amazed—the soldier mute. Pascal approaches him. "I am," he said, "more fortunate than you; but you are brave, and will forgive me. To conduct me to my grave,[20] I require a friend—I have none—will you act the part of one?"
Marcel is silent—he muses—a great struggle is in his heart—his eye flashes—his brow is bent strongly—he gazes on Françonnette, and the paleness of death creeps over him—he shakes off his faintness, and tries to smile. "Since it is her will," he cries, "I will be that friend."
Two weeks had passed,—and a wedding train descended the green hill. In the front of the procession walked the handsome pair. A triple range of people, from all quarters, extended for more than a league: they were curious to know the fate of Pascal. Marcel is at the head of all; he directs all; there is a secret pleasure in his eye, which none can understand. One would say that to-day he triumphs; he insists on arranging the marriage, and it is he who gives to his rival the feast and the ball—his money flows liberally, his purse is open—all is profusion; but there is no rejoicing—no singing—no smiling.
The bridegroom is on the brink of the grave—his rival guides him thither, though he looks so gay—the day declines—all hearts sink with fear and pity—they would fain save Pascal, but it is too late: there they all stand motionless—but more as if at a burial than a wedding.
Fascinated by love, the pair have sacrificed all; though the gulf yawns for them, they have no ears, no eyes, but for each other; as they pass along, hand-in-hand, the happiness of loving has absorbed all other feeling.
It is night.
A female suddenly appears: she clings round the neck of Pascal.—"My son, leave her, leave your bride—I have seen the wise woman—the sieve has turned—your death is certain—sulphur fills the bridal chamber—Pascal, enter not in—you are lost if you remain; and I, who loved you thus, what will become of me when you are gone?"
Pascal's tears flowed, but he held still firmer his bride's hand within his own. The mother fell at his feet.