CHAPTER XXXI.
D'Aubin passed a restless and unquiet night; and the next morning hispale countenance and languid look re-awakened in the bosom of Beatriceof Ferrara all those apprehensions and anxieties which are treacherousinternal allies of the ambitious tyrant love. From that day, however,the conduct of Philip d'Aubin underwent a change, slight, indeed, toappearance, but yet of no small import. His demeanour grew softer,tenderer, more solicitous towards his fair companion; his conversationwas all of love. From every bright thing in external nature, from thestores of history, or the pages of imagination, he drew matter forcomparing, and illustrating, and typifying the ardent passion of theheart. Beatrice listened, pleased, and joined in, and felt that shewas beloved; and spoke her own warm feelings boldly, so long as thewords were general. Her eyes, and the varying colour of her cheek,told all the rest: and much would they discuss the evil and the goodof strong and fiery passion; and to their hearts' content they provedthat it was aught but a fault, a capability in a bright spirit, aproof of superior energy of heart and mind. But then Beatrice said itmust be ruled and governed by ties and principles as strong andenergetic as itself; and D'Aubin, though he did not venture todissent, went on in the praise of intense and vehement love withoutrestriction, and brought forth a thousand examples in which thatpassion, in what he called nobler and more generous times, had beencarried to a height unknown in their own age. Still, on every pointwhere he and Beatrice might differ, he touched the subject lightly,and then left it; pointing still, by many an endearing name and softcaress, the object and application of all his bland eloquence.Beatrice hoped and believed, and was happy; and now that her bosom wasat rest--that the conflict of hope, and fear, and passion, which hadceaselessly agitated her during the last four years, was at an end,and her heart reposed in peace on the conviction of being loved, andthe prospect of future happiness, her demeanour grew milder, softer,tenderer; it lost the wild and eager fire which it had acquired, andfell back into all that was sweet, and womanly, and gentle. The dayspassed on, too, in peace; for D'Aubin asked no questions upon the manymatters which might have called up subjects painful to either; andBeatrice, ere she spoke of the past, wished all those things completedwhich would put an irrevocable seal upon the happiness of the present.Then she thought that addressing her husband and her lover both inone, she could tell him that all he had done amiss was forgiven; thathe had been ever loved, even in his errors; and that her eye had beenever watchful, her hand ever stretched out, to snatch him from theconsequences of his faults, and to lead him away from those faultsthemselves.
At length, on one bright and sunshiny morning in June, when the clearlustre of health had fully returned into D'Aubin's eye, and his stepwas as firm as it had been four months before, the lovers sat togetherin a wood near the chateau, passing away, under the shadow of the oldtrees, the hot hours of summer noon. She scarcely knew why, but with alingering touch of timidity, to which she yielded willingly, withouttrying to scrutinise it, Beatrice had ever, in her interviews withD'Aubin, kept some of her women round her; and although, feeling thatthere was much to be said between them which were better said withoutwitnesses, she had day after day determined to dispense with theirpresence, still there they sat at a little distance, plying the busyneedle on the object which served to occupy their discreet eyes. Theirpresence was no great restraint, it is true, but still D'Aubin foundit burthensome; and, resolved to hesitate no longer in his purposes,he besought Beatrice to send the women away. With a blushing cheek,and somewhat of an agitated tone, Beatrice complied; and then, turningaway her head, played idly with the flowers that gemmed the grass onwhich they sat.
D'Aubin paused and hesitated, even at that moment, if he should go on;but his determination soon returned, and gliding his arm round herwaist, while with his right hand he took hers unresistingly, he said,"Beatrice, dear Beatrice, do we not love one another?"
Beatrice replied nothing; but the trembling of her whole frame was asufficient answer; and D'Aubin went on. "Hear me, Beatrice, andbelieve me, when I say that I love you with my whole heart and soul,with the deepest, the truest, the most lasting affection; that I loveyou better than anything on earth; and that for you I am ready toabandon friends, and country, and station altogether."
He paused, and Beatrice replied in a low voice, "But, thank God! nosuch sacrifice is necessary, D'Aubin."
"If it be, I am ready to make it," pursued the Count, in a voice towhich deep and sincere passion lent all its earnestness; "if it be, Iam ready to make it. Oh, Beatrice, you know not how I love you! but Imust be loved with the like affection, not with the cold and formallove of fashion and society--idols to which I have only bowed becauseI found no better godhead. Now I have found a power above,--now I knowthat, however I have erred, I have loved you ever, and you alone; thatwithout you the earth would be one vast piece of desolation to myeyes. Wherever you are, is henceforth my country; wherever you dwell,is henceforth my home; for you I will sacrifice everything, for you Iwill regret nothing. Tell me, Beatrice, is your love for me the same?"
"Can you doubt it, Philip?" she replied, "can you doubt it?"
"Then I am happy," he cried, pressing her to his bosom; "the vainties, the idle ceremonies of the world may bind together cold andcareless hands, and indifferent and unimpassioned bosoms, but betweenyour heart and mine, Beatrice, there will be a dearer, a nobler, amore lasting tie, and we will have no other!"
Beatrice disengaged herself from his arms. "What do you mean,D'Aubin?" she cried: but then pausing, she added, "but I forgot; youfancy yourself bound to another by one of those bonds of society whichcannot be broken: but you are mistaken; your supposed marriage withEugenie de Menancourt is null. The ceremony was vain, the seemingpriest was none, and I have papers here to prove that he was but asoldier in the army of the Huguenots."
"Glad am I to hear it," cried D'Aubin, again throwing his arms aroundher; "yet listen to me, Beatrice; is the same idle ceremony necessarybetween you and me? Do you doubt my love, Beatrice? will yourconstancy faint unless upheld by an idle form? Is your love so weak,that, when I am ready to resign all, even to my country, for you, youwill not make the sacrifice even of a mere name for me?"
Beatrice turned, as he held her in his arms; and for an instant gazedin his face, with a look of wondering inquiry, as if--even acquaintedwith the world and all its ways as she was--the base, ungratefulwickedness of his purpose were too much for her belief. At length,convinced that her ears had not deceived her, and satisfied, from thesoft, entreating expression he assumed, that his proposal was theresult of calm, deliberate forethought--no idle jest, no capricioustrial of her heart--she burst from him like a young eagle from a netwhich had been spread for larks; and, standing in all the majesty ofindignant beauty on the spot where she had lately sat, she gazed uponhim with flashing eyes, and a quivering lip, while the fingers of herright hand felt along her girdle for the dagger, which, according to acommon custom of the day, usually hung there. But it had beenforgotten; and it might be lucky for the Count d'Aubin that it was so.
For a moment anger and surprise, and bitter indignation seemed to takeaway all words; but ere D'Aubin could speak again, she had recoveredherself. "Out of my sight, viper!" she cried; "base, ungrateful,perfidious snake! Oh God! Oh God! never let woman, henceforth and forever, love man again. Let her trample upon that black thing, hisheart, and sport with his torture, and deceive his love, and betrayhis confidence, till he know not where to find faith or truth in allthe world; for, the moment that he believes her true, or kind, orgentle, or affectionate, he turns a serpent which would sting her, andpoison for her the life, the feelings, the happiness, she is everready to devote to him. Out of my sight, traitor, I say! Why lingeryou here?"
"Hear me! hear me, Beatrice!" cried D'Aubin, rising and attempting totake her hand. "Hear me! I meant not to offend you! I am no traitor. Imeant but----"
"No traitor!" cried Beatrice. "Is he no traitor, that, received withfriendship and hospitality into the heart of a fortr
ess in time ofwar, treated with confidence and love, saved from death, cherished,protected, befriended, strives to corrupt the garrison and betray theleader, to ruin the defences, and destroy the walls? Out on thee, man!Out on thee! I would not be the base, ungenerous, contemptible thingthou art, for all the power of a C?sar!"
D'Aubin saw he had deceived himself; and at the same moment that heperceived that he had risked the love of Beatrice for ever, he feltmost strongly what an inestimable jewel that love was. "Hear me--buthear me, Beatrice!" he said. "Have I not said that I am ready tosacrifice everything for you? I make no exception to that sacrifice;not a pride, not a vanity, not a prejudice do I wish excepted. I willsacrifice all! Be mine on any terms. I did but think that Beatrice wasmore liberal, more unprejudiced, than our idle crowd of courtly dames,who insist upon a ceremonious vow that they break, one and all, mostunceremoniously, rather than that private compact which binds theheart."
"Say no more, Sir--say no more," cried Beatrice. "Those last words arequite enough, if all the rest of your conduct were insufficient. Thereis hope in every man who can yet believe in purity; but he whose viceis so confirmed, that he does not credit the existence of virtue, isirreclaimable. So you did but think," she continued, while her cheekagain glowed, and her eye flashed--"you did but think, that Beatriceof Ferrara was too liberal, too unprejudiced, to hold her honour as ajewel, without which life is darkness and bitterness. You did butthink, that, because to save, to reclaim, to elevate a man she fanciednot wholly lost, she braved opinion, and, strong in her ownrighteousness, set the world's maxims at defiance. You did but thinkthat she had forgotten the line between virtue and prejudice, in hermad love for Philip d'Aubin, and would soon, for his sake, trampleupon the one, as she had spurned the other? But, sir, you weremistaken; and you will now quit for ever her you have insulted."
D'Aubin had nothing in the shape of reason to reply, but he had muchin the shape of love; and with a heart full of passion, and shame, andregret, he failed not to plead for forgiveness with vehemence andeloquence. Forgetting pride and all its train, he cast himself at herfeet; he held her hand when she sought to go; and he poured forth,from the deep feelings in his heart, all those ardent and fiery wordswhich well might move and win. At first Beatrice strove to stay him,and to disengage her hand; but when she found that his vehemence wouldbe heard, she stood and listened, but with that calm and colddemeanour, which ere long brought his eloquence to an end. Thenwithdrawing her hand and her robe from his grasp, she said, in a lowand agitated, but determined tone, which, full of deep feeling butstrong resolution, was much more striking than the words of passionwhich had at first broken from her lips, "Rise, Monsieur d'Aubin! andas I have heard you, now hear me! When first you talked of love to me,I knew you to be young, and light, and foolish; but I thought that Idiscovered, underneath the follies of youth and gaiety, deeperfeelings, better aspirations, and a nobler soul. I then saw youflutter round many another woman, and I heard of vices into which Idid not inquire; for, in your language and your manner towards me,there was much that gave me better hopes, and I strove to reclaim youby gentleness and kindness. Deeper offences succeeded; and it becameme, though love loses hope but slowly, to assume a demeanour towardsyou, which might at once tend to awaken you, and do justice to myself.The weakness of a woman's heart taught me to believe, that, on oneoccasion I had carried severity too far, and I reproached myself forhaving hurried you on in evil. I soon had an opportunity of mendingthat. In a battle, where I had good assurance that your party wouldfail, I caused you to be followed by some faithful and skilful men,who had orders to rescue you at any moment of extreme need. Theybrought you wounded, and apparently dying, to my dwelling, and like asister I tended you night and day, till all hope was lost; and then Iwept for you as no sister could have wept. Against all calculation yourecovered; saw how deep, how strong, was my love towards you; taughtme to give full scope to that love, by pretending reformation andvirtue: and now you have ended all, by proving to me that kindness,like the spring sun upon a torpid snake, but re-awakens your venomwith your strength; that you look upon the love of woman but as themeans of injuring her; that kind deeds and services but hire you toingratitude; and that, though you may be capable of passion, you areincapable of love! Thus convinced, sir, I bid you quit me, and forever. No time, no circumstances, will change my resolution ofbanishing you from my thoughts for ever; for Beatrice of Ferrara wouldsooner die than wed one whom she has at length learned so thoroughlyto despise, could he offer a kingly crown."
D'Aubin rose in silent bitterness, and half turned away; but ere hewent he again paused, as if to speak, and a few indistinct wordstrembled on his tongue. Beatrice, however, stopped him, and with anair of calm, stern dignity, exclaimed, "No more, Monsieur d'Aubin, Iwill hear no more; it is time, sir, that you should quit one whom youhave so basely insulted. Your horse is in the stable, your health isrestored; my servants will guide and guard you on your way, should youneed protection; but never let your step cross the threshold ofBeatrice of Ferrara again, as never again shall your image enter hermind."
"Your commands shall be obeyed, Lady," replied D'Aubin, proudly; "andas to protection, I need none. Fare you well, madam, with thanks forthe kindness you showed me at first; and with silence--if so it mustbe--for the harshness you now show; and yet I could wish to be heard."
"Not a word more!" replied Beatrice. "Sir, I bid you farewell! Laura!Annette! Where are those girls? Annette, I say!" and turning from him,she hastened on in the direction which her maids had taken when shesent them from her. They were at no great distance; and bidding themfollow her, Beatrice with a rapid step retrod her way towards thechateau. Firmly, and apparently unshaken by what had passed, but withher dark bright eyes bent upon the ground, the beautiful girl enteredthe gates of the house; hurried along its many passages to the chamberin which, during the first period of D'Aubin's illness, she had beenaccustomed to repose; and opening the door, advanced towards a chair.But the energy of her great effort did not last till she reached it;her brain reeled, her steps wavered, and she sunk upon the floor,insensible and silent, ere her attendants could catch her in theirarms. That innate faculty which teaches women to divine, as byintuition, the secrets of their fellow woman's hearts, held the girlswho had followed Beatrice quite silent and noiseless, as they did allin their power to recall her to herself. There was no bustle, nooutcry, no running hither and thither for assistance; but with quietand persevering assiduity they tended her, till at length she openedher eyes and gazed languidly round the chamber. Then came some brokensobs, and then a flood of tears; and then, wiping away the drops thatgemmed her long dark eyelashes, Beatrice of Ferrara once more shookoff the bonds of woman's weakness, and was herself again.
"Be silent on what has past, Annette," she said; "Laura, I know I cantrust you. I would fain learn whether the chateau is free of allguests; I long to be alone in my own house again. Fly, Annette, andsee."
The girl sped away, and soon returned, saying, "The count mounted hishorse, lady, and rode away some twenty minutes since."
"Did he?" said Beatrice--"did he?" and she fell into a deep fit ofthought.