She treated this resistance to her will as one of the unhappy consequences of living in a republican country. She suspected Angela of communicating American ideas of independence to her daughter, and would have added to her wretchedness by forbidding further intercourse between the two friends. But Jeannette again interfered; she knew that Pauline's doom was sealed, and that it would be more than cruel to deprive her of the companion she loved. She herself carried the note that conveyed the intelligence of Pauline's coming fate to the indignant Angela, and extended her walks that her poor young lady might derive what consolation she could from her friend's willing sympathy. Many were the tears she shed, many the sighs that burst from her oppressed heart, as the poor old creature followed behind them. Once she had summoned courage sufficient to expostulate with her mistress upon the cruelty of her conduct to her daughter; but she was haughtily dismissed.
Every effort had been made, and at length Angela appealed to Pauline. She entreated her to be more firm, and to declare her resolution never to marry where she could not love.
"Rouse yourself, Pauline—the misery of a lifetime is before you, and it is not yet too late."
"I have done every thing, Angela," said Pauline, despairingly. "My doom is sealed, and I must bend to my bitter fate. I would fly, but that I could not survive my mother's curse."
"The curse of the unrighteous availeth naught," replied her friend, solemnly. "Were you wrongfully opposing your mother's will, mine would be the last voice to uphold you; but now your very soul is at stake."
Pauline cast up her eyes in mute appeal to heaven. Her companion became excited as she proceeded, depicting the horrors of an unequal marriage. Pale and exhausted, her listener at length entreated her to forbear. She had been too long the slave of her mother's wishes to oppose them now; she had been drilled into fear until it was a weakness. This her bold-hearted, energetic friend could not understand; and it was on her reproaching Pauline with moral cowardice that she, for the first time, resented what had in fact been patiently borne.
We have seen how kindly Angela forgave the accusation, and how she wept over the effect of her words. The sudden entrance of Madame Dumesnil put an end to the conversation, and the friends separated.
The next morning Angela was at Pauline's side again. Silently she assisted in decorating the victim for the sacrifice. The bright jewels clasped her arm and neck; the long veil hung around her slender form; the orange wreath rested on the dark, dark tresses—and the dress was beautiful. But the bride! she was pale and ghastly, and her lips blue and quivering. Her eyes were void of all expression—those liquid, lustrous eyes; and ever and anon the large drops rolled over her face, oozing from the depths of her heart.
Poor Jeannette turned away, sobbing convulsively as the finishing touches were given to this sad bridal toilette. Angela remained firm and collected, but she, too, was pale; her cherished companion was gone from her forever—gone in such misery, too, that she almost prayed to see her the corpse she at that moment resembled.
Madame Dumesnil had remained below with the bridegroom and Mr. Percy, the sole witness to this ill-omened marriage. At length the hour came, Pauline was nearly carried down by Angela and Jeannette, and in a few moments bound forever to a man she loathed. The ceremony was ended, and the bride, with a convulsive sigh, fell back into the arms of her mother. Restoratives were procured, and at last she opened her eyes. They rested on the face of her friend, who hung over her in mute agony. Forcing a smile, which was taken by M. de Vaissiere for himself, Pauline arose, and hurried through her farewell. Her husband handed her into his carriage—and thus Pauline Dumesnil left her friends and her home.