For ten long months, Victor had suffered from a terrible malady that never lets go. Every remedy had been tried in vain. His disease was phthisis of a peculiar kind and of the most alarming character. The two physicians we consulted could only reply when their patient insisted on knowing the truth: “Your illness is of an extremely serious nature; but you are young, and at your age nature often finds unexpected resources in a time of danger.”
It was impossible to cure him. They could only prolong his life, and this was the aim of the physicians. By dint of care, they succeeded in keeping him alive till the beginning of September. Then the disease, whose ravages we had not realized, suddenly came to a crisis. Throughout the whole course of his sufferings, I had, in spite of everything, cherished a secret hope in the depths of my heart. When one of those favorable turns came peculiar to such complaints, I flattered myself that he would get well, and abandoned myself to a foolish joy. This joy, so natural, and yet so unreasonable, gave Victor pain. He endeavored to moderate it in a thousand ingenious and delicate ways. He himself was never under any illusion. His illness was fatal: he knew it, and calmly prepared himself for what he called the great journey. He was greatly afflicted to see I was not, like himself, preparing for our separation, the thought of which became more painful in proportion to the horror with which I regarded it. He tried to banish all my false hopes, but his efforts were in vain. I clung to them without owning it. I only gave them up at the time I have arrived at in my sad story. Then I began to realize the frightful truth, and, as I saw his alarming symptoms increase, I thought I should die.
Victor at length succeeded in restoring somewhat of calmness to my soul. With a strength of mind that increased in proportion to the nearness of that awful moment, he made his final preparations. He gave himself up to the contemplation of eternal things. His friend, the good Abbé Merlin, administered the last consolations of religion. Louis received them with a faith that edified every one, and a joy that showed how he had profited by his illness to prepare for heaven. He was already there in spirit, and longed to be there in reality. This touched me, and I confess, to my great shame, I reproached him in my excessive grief with some expressions of bitterness. This was the last sorrow I caused my poor husband. Such reproaches could only come from a selfish soul. I now blush at the remembrance.
All these necessary steps having been taken, Victor told me I must send for Louis. As you know, he received my note in the evening. That very night he arrived. It was high time. We all three passed the night together talking, praying, and weeping by turns. Victor consoled us. He even forced himself to express anxiety as to Louis’ affairs. The latter spoke of them very unwillingly, for his grief overpowered his sense of love. When Victor learned the trials he was undergoing, he said:
“My friend, I fear they are contriving some new plot against you. Eugénie loves you; there is no doubt of that in my mind; but does she love you well enough to withstand all the difficulties that are rising up around you? I know not. If, with her knowledge of you, she allows herself to be influenced by people of evil intentions, it seems to me you will have a right to judge her severely.”
“Even then I could not,” said Louis.
“Your answer does not surprise me. It proves I was right in my impressions. You love her as much as a good man ought to love. You even love her too well; for I believe your affection would render you insensible to the truth rather than blame the object of your love.”
“That is true.”
“I cannot approve of that. It is not right. There is only one thing, there is only one Being, a noble and well-balanced soul, a soul thoroughly imbued with piety, allows itself to love above all things—that thing is truth, that Being is God. Believe me, if Eugénie allows herself to be alienated from you, it will be a proof she has not the worth you give her credit for, and also that it is not the will of God she should become your wife. Well, I will not oppose the indulgence you feel towards her. I consent to it. Say to yourself she has been deceived, that she is innocent, but submit to the divine will. Do not attempt impossibilities to link together the chain God himself breaks, however dear she may be to you.”
Victor seemed to have recalled all the energy of his manly nature to utter these words. His firmness and judicious counsel were not lost on Louis.