CHAPTER XXXII.
So long as there was a human eye upon her, Beatrice of Ferraragoverned the mingled and passionate feelings that struggled with eachother in her bosom, and would fain have had the mastery of her also.After a time, however, when she had preserved her apparent calmnesslong enough to deceive completely those around her; when she haddrawn, with a hand full of grace and fancy, the groups of flowerswhich were to serve as patterns for her maiden's embroidery--hadstruck the chords of her lute with a careless but skilful hand, andtalked for some ten minutes on a butterfly--she desired to be leftalone.
Then however, when, with the door closed and the arras drawn, therewas no eye upon her but that of Heaven, she once more gave way to allshe felt. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" she cried, clasping her small hands, "tobe thus treated by one whom I have so deeply loved--for whom I havedone so much--for whose sake I sacrificed my nights and days,scattered my fortunes, left my state and station, took on me menialoffices, put my life in peril, and even my good name to risk--andmore, far more, for whom I forgot and pardoned those errors that womenforget least easily, and loved him still, even when he sported with mylove as a thing of nought! Oh, God! oh, God! that he who, if ever manyet believed the love of woman to be a pure and holy thing, shouldhave held the feelings of my heart most sacred--that he should dare totalk to me the words of shame, the vile sophisms of guilt and infamy;that he should dream that I--I who have stood alone, in the midst of adepraved court, the wonder and hatred of them all--that I shouldbecome his paramour, his leman, to be held or discarded at hispleasure--to play him sweet airs upon the lute, and sing to him whenhe was in the mood, and be called the Italian mistress of the gayCount d'Aubin!" and, as she called up all the images of thedegradation he had proposed, she strained her hands upon one anothertill the clear blood vanished from beneath the small finger nails; andshe raised her dark eyes to heaven, as if asking, "Is it possible thatGod can permit such baseness."
"It is my own fault!" she cried at length; "it is my own fault! Ishould have known too well what a vile slave man is--how he licks thedust beneath our feet, so long as we tread upon his neck, and turns tosmite us as soon as we smile upon him. I should have known it, andwith haughty dignity and distant sternness commanded the love that Ihave stooped to win. It is my own fault, weak girl that I am--it is myown fault! He thought that she who could go masquerading in boy'sattire, and make herself the companion of grooms and horse-boys forhis sake--that she who could dare the perils of the camp in a strangeguise--could come and go, at the risk of question and discovery,through the gates of a beleaguered city--could bind up his wounds withher own hands, and watch for fourteen nights by the side of his sickbed,--would surely refuse him nothing--no, not her honour. Or perhapseven now, in his profligacy of heart, he scoffs and jeers at thethought of my fastidiousness; or deems that, by a cunning device andaffectation of virtue, I sought to patch up a ruined reputation by amarriage with him. He may hold me as some light wanton! Out upon him!out upon him! Did he but know the heart he tramples on!" and burstinginto tears, she covered her face with her hands, and remained thus forseveral minutes in silent bitterness of heart.
The tears again seemed to relieve her; and at length she wiped themfrom her eyes, and looked out vacantly upon the gay and sunnylandscape that lay stretched in bright confusion from the height onwhich the chateau stood, to some distant hills, that, rising again onthe opposite side of a deep valley, towered up, now covered with greenwoods, now massed in the grey distance.
However resolutely the soul may hold itself within the citadel of theheart besieged by grief, the garrison of that sad fortress will beaffected by the sight of things that pass beyond its limits. Sweetsounds, though we listen to them not, will tend to soothe; andpleasant objects, though the eye appears void of all remark, willtranquillize and calm. There were lovelier scenes to be found onearth, than that which lay beneath her sight, and Beatrice had seenmany fairer far: but over it the sun, now slanting down towards hisrest, was casting soft broad shadows; and now and then a slow passingcloud came, like the faint and pleasing shade of melancholy thatsometimes steals upon our happiest moments, and touched the brightthings below with a blue ethereal hue as it flitted on above them.Nothing was seen to move in the sky or on the earth, but that slowcloud and its soft shadow; but, on a bough before the window, agay-hearted bird carolled volubly to the evening sun, mingling,however, now and then, with its blither notes, a tone or two in a sadminor key, which made its song harmonise both with the scene and withthe heart of her who listened. I am wrong; the heart of Beatrice didnot harmonise with it,--her bosom was full of griefs too deep, toolasting, to assimilate with the glad voice of nature; but still themelancholy tones so far chastened the cheerful song of the bird, thatshe could hear it and not think it harsh, and the shadows of thatcloud were just sufficient to make her feel the brightness notblighting. She sat and gazed; and though neither her eye nor her earmarked anything with precision, she fell into a dreamy fit of musing,and that musing was softer and less bitter than it had been.
True, she thought of the course of her love, and of that love'sblight. She knew that for her joys of life, the dreams, the hopes, theimaginings--all the green things of a happy heart, in short--werewithered, and blasted, and shrivelled up, like the leaves of a boughbroken off by the lightning. To be calm and passionless, sad andsolitary, were the brightest aspirations which her once ardent bosomcould harbour now; but still to think over such a state, was peace, tothe bitter paroxysm that went before. Did she ever think that hopemight revive in regard to him she had loved? Never! For though herlove was not over--ah, no! and she would have given her fortune andher life to have blessed him; yet so lost was all her esteem and allher confidence, that could she have thought her heart would everbetray her into one weak fancy in regard to him, she would have tornit out to trample it beneath her feet. She loved him still, she knew,she felt she loved him; for her heart was as a pile of incense whichthat passion had lighted, and the fire could only be extinguished bythe end of her own being; but still the dream, the bright and goldendream, of happiness was over; and not even love--that ardent andundying love, which was now an indivisible part of her being and hersoul--could have bribed her, by the brightest promises of hope, to seethat man again, or hear his lips pronounce one other word. No!bitterly, but fully, was she convinced at last of his unworthiness;and though she still loved the erring and earthly being whom her ownimagination had purified and adorned, the dream of hope was at anend--the voice of the syren was mute: and yet a consolation graduallystole upon her heart, soothed the anguish and disappointment, and didaway the indignation and disdain. On it, too, she framed the scheme ofher future life, as she paused and thought of the coming years. Thatconsolation was the conviction, the certainty, the indubitableassurance, that she was beloved; that he who had insulted and injuredher--who had repaid her tenderness with ingratitude, and herconfidence by baseness--still loved her deeply, passionately, andalone. What then was her resolution? Not to watch him farther, eventhrough the eyes of others--not to seek for tidings of his actions, orto dream that he would amend; but on the contrary, to fly him far andfor ever; to shut her ears against every rumour from the land in whichhe lived, and dead as he was to her, to consider him no more amongstthe living; but still, as the balm and the comfort of the longafter-years, to remember that she had been beloved--that, impure anddark as was the flame that had been lighted upon the altar of hisheart, still it had been kindled, and had burned for her. This was tobe the theme of memory--the occupation of her long, lonely hours--thematter for the immortal working of thought--the balsam for her woundedheart--the light of her long night of maiden widowhood,--that she hadbeen loved by him she loved!
As she thus thought, and as she thus determined, the bitterness of hergrief diminished. Dark and melancholy, indeed, was the fate that shepictured for herself, but yet it was relief, for it offered hertranquillity at least; and she had learned, amidst the strife of hope,and fear, and passion, to value God's best blessi
ng--peace. Hermeditations had been long, and had not exactly followed the evencourse in which they have been here detailed; for tears were notwanting to chequer them, nor many an angry and a bitter thought tostruggle hard against the not unsound philosophy with which she soughtto preserve, for future years, all, out of the bright harvest of herhopes now blighted, that had escaped the storm. But the tears grewless frequent, and the bitter pangs of disappointment waxed fainter,as the minutes flew; and at length, when she had determined how toshape her course through the rest of life's long and dangerous voyage,she raised her eyes once more to the heaven above and the landscapebelow; and the objects which met her gaze were more marked and notednow, than they had been not long before.
The change upon the scene, however, was but slight--the same bird wasstill tuning its unwearied throat in the tree hard by--the sameunmoving stillness dwelt over the whole view--and not a living objectwas to be seen upon the solitary road that wound away through a thinlypeopled part of the much-depopulated realm of France. But the shadowshad grown longer, and the little stream which had lately glistened inthe sunshine, now rested scarcely visible in the brown shade of thehills; and those changes, slight as they were, to a quick andimaginative mind like that of Beatrice, might well speak of time'srapid pace, and man's slow resolves. Stretching forth her hand to asmall silver bell, she rung is sharply; and when the girl Annetteappeared, bade her call Bartholo instantly.
It was not long before the dwarf obeyed the summons; and though heentered with that air of deference and respect, which was habitual tohim in the presence of Beatrice, yet there was a gleam of satisfactionin his eye which he could not quell; and which, had she been in herusual keen and observing state of mind, would not have escaped theglance of his mistress. But Beatrice scarcely saw him as he stoodbefore her; but sat with her eyes bent upon the ground, and her busythoughts straying sorrowfully over the past.
"You sent for me, Madam," said the dwarf at length; "and I comejoyfully, because I have not been thus honoured of late so often as Iused formerly to be, when Bartholo's scheme, or Bartholo's advice waswell nigh his lady's oracle."
"I have somewhat distrusted thee, Bartholo!" said Beatrice, gravely."Many of my plans have failed in thy hands----"
"But by no fault of mine, lady!" cried the dwarf, eagerly. "What haveI done to be distrusted? How have I deserved to lose your confidence?What secret have I betrayed? How have I acted to frustrate anythingthat you proposed?"
"Those, Bartholo," replied the lady, "those who suffer themselves tobe discovered in their art, by open acts or heedless words, arepoliticians of a different stuff from that of which thou art made. Butthere are such things as looks, and smiles, and frowns, and curlingsof the upper lip, which, to the eye of Beatrice of Ferrara, are oftenas legible as a book fairly printed in the language of her nativeland. I have somewhat doubted thee; but I may have been deceived--andGod send it may be so! for I would not willingly believe that any onewhom I have nourished with my bread, and have rewarded not only withdull gold, but also with inestimable favour and affection, woulddeceive or betray me; far less could I wish to think, that one who hasknown me from infancy, and on whom my parents, as well as myself, haverained benefits, would wrong my confidence."
"Lady!" replied the dwarf vehemently, "so help me Heaven, as I wouldsooner die than do ought that you do not wish, except for your owngood!"
"Ay, there may we bitterly fall out, good Bartholo, if we speakfarther!" replied Beatrice. "What I require is service, and notjudgment of my actions; and henceforth let me but see that you evenwaver in obeying, or fulfil not my behest, whatever it may be, to thevery letter, and I will send you from me never to return again.However, I somewhat doubted thee, and therefore have not trusted theein matters where I required uninquiring promptitude and exactobedience. Those matters now are over, and a smoother trodden pathlies out before me."
Bartholo started, for he had heard and marked much that had passed;and yet she spoke so calmly, that he deemed it impossible one of herpassionate nature could bear the blight of all her hopes so meekly."It has wrung my heart, lady," he said, in a tone of deep despondency,that touched Beatrice more at this moment than it might have done atany other, because grief is credulous of grief. "It has wrung myheart, lady, to have been distrusted by you for an hour, though thewound would have gone deeper had I deserved it. But you know not,lady, what it is, when one has been brought up from boyhood near sobright and good a person as yourself; has been habituated to watchyour every word, to obey you, and to hasten before your wishes toplease you; has become keen of wit and daring of execution for thesole service of your behests; and has watched you expand fromloveliness to loveliness, like a flower in the spring tide--you knownot what it is to be looked coldly on, even for a moment; to bedistrusted by her whom one would give the inmost heart's best blood toserve."
The tone touched Beatrice, for it was unlike the dwarf's ordinarycynicism: but there was something in the words, though they wererespectfully spoken, which did not please her; and she might havereplied more coldly than the kindness of her heart approved, had notthe dwarf gone on rapidly:--"At your birth, lady, I was little morethan twelve years old; and from that hour to this, I have followedyour fortunes and obeyed you in every word, even to quitting you whenyou bade me quit you, and taking apparent service, once with a man Ihated, and once with a man I despised; and now I find that you havedistrusted me, you have looked cold upon me, you have kept me fromyour presence! Lady, I beseech you, do not so again; rather as yousay, send me from you for ever. Call me to you, and say, 'Bartholo,thou pleasest me no longer, get thee gone, and take thy stinted andmisshapen form from before my eyes; let me see no more thy apishcountenance! Despised of all the world, thou art despised of me also;and though the dwarf has been my sport and mockery, has stood in theplace of parrot, or lapdog, or marmoset, I am now tired of the goblin;so get thee hence!' Say this! say a thousand things more biting andbitter still, but never, oh never, lady, distrust me again."
"Nay, Bartholo, nay!" replied Beatrice, better pleased with his lastwords than those that preceded them. "Thou goest too far, in thebitterness of thine anger. I have never contemned, I have neverdespised thee! and have felt pity for thy fate, less because it trulydeserved pity, than because it grieved thee. As to the past, thouownest thyself, that if thou hadst deemed my interest required it,thou wouldest have betrayed my confidence; I was just, therefore, inmistrusting thee; but it was thy vanity I doubted--vanity that mustjudge of my happiness better than I can myself--and not thy love,Bartholo, which I do verily believe would seek that happiness for meat the risk of life."
"Oh! never, never doubt that, lady!" cried the dwarf, casting himselfat her feet, and kissing her hand; "never, never doubt that; for yourutmost trust therein can only do me scanty justice."
Beatrice withdrew her hand. "Enough, enough!" she said. "We understandeach other for the future. You always remember, that I am the bestjudge of my own happiness; and I----" He shook his head with amournful look, and clasping his hands together, cast his eyes upon theground. "What mean you, knave?" cried Beatrice, for his actioninterrupted her more than words could have done. "What would you bythat gesture?"
"I would ask, lady," said the dwarf, in a firm but melancholytone,--"If you have lately proved yourself so good a judge of your ownhappiness? Pardon me, my noble lady! Pardon me! but did I not longsince predict all that has happened? Did I not tell you, when firstyou fixed your love on one whose name I will not pronounce, so deeplydo I hate him for his conduct towards you----"
"Hate him not, Bartholo!" interrupted Beatrice, fixing her bright darkeyes upon the dwarf as she spoke--"hate him not, Bartholo; for I lovehim still! and he loves me!"
A bright flush played over the pale cheek of the dwarf, like a gleamof summer lightning upon the twilight sky, and his nether lipquivered; but for some moments he made no reply, except by againclasping his hands together, and gazing down upon the ground, as if indeep meditation. "Lady!" he said at length, "you love him still
! Idoubt it not; for yours is one of those firm hearts, on which a lineonce engraved can never be effaced. But alas, alas! he loves not you;and all your sad experience will not convince you, solely because youstill love him."
"Not so, Bartholo," replied Beatrice. "All my experience convinces methat he does love me; and I thank God for it, though most likely Ishall never see his face again. Do not interrupt me! For once Icondescend to speak to you of my past and my future actions; but afterthis, we mention such things no more. I am not the weak being youbelieve me. I placed you in the service of Philip d'Aubin, now yearsago, not that you might act as a spy for me upon each pitiful andinsignificant occurrence of his life, or note every failing or everyfalsehood he committed against the vows he had plighted to me; but, onthe contrary, to satisfy myself on two great points, whereon my futurehappiness depended, first, whether he loved me, and next, whether hemight not become worthy of my love. When he left Paris and retiredinto Maine, shaken by still greater doubts, I determined to watch himmyself more nearly, and made you prepare me an entrance into thefamily of his uncle; but it was still for those two great objects thatI risked so much. Circumstances rendered this scheme nearly fruitless:the death of his uncle, his return towards Paris, his separation fromhis cousin, all thwarted me; but still, step by step, and little bylittle, his character developed itself before me. At length, hopingand confiding still, I had the man I loved, followed by my emissaries,traced from place to place, withdrawn from the fatal battle whichruined the cause he had espoused, and brought hither as thou knowest.Here I watched him from sickness unto health. Here the last trait ofhis character displayed itself. All is open--all is clear! My twoquestions are resolved! I am satisfied. He loves me, Bartholo! He doeslove me! But he is unworthy of my love!"
She spoke rapidly and eagerly, but she had by this time regained hercommand over herself; and not a tear rose in her eye, as she brieflytouched upon the various efforts which love, deeper, stronger thaneven she herself believed, had urged her on to make, and upon the sadresult of all her endeavours. As she ended, indeed, she raised hereyes to the sky; and, led away by memory, forgot the presence of thepage and the conclusion of her speech, and, gazing out for manyminutes, remained in silent but painful meditation. Still she gave noway to grief; and, after awhile, again turned towards the dwarf,saying--"Well, Bartholo, so much for the past! Now for the future. Foreleven long years have I sojourned in this fair realm of France, butmy stay therein draws towards an end. The last tie that bound me tothis place is broken! My soul yearns towards my native land. Bartholo,I am about to tread back my way to Italy."
"Indeed! indeed!" cried the dwarf, his whole face brightening. "Thenall is right, indeed. But when, lady--oh, tell me when?"
"I knew not that thou wert such a lover of thy native land!" repliedBeatrice, as she gazed upon his small features beaming with a sort oftriumphant joy. "I have heard thee call thyself a citizen of theworld; and vow that nature, when she made thee smaller than the commonrace of other countries, by unfitting thee for any, had fitted theefor all alike. But I see that, smother our feelings however we may,the love of our own land will not give way so long as memory binds usto it with the thousand ties of sweet associations and earlyhappiness. Well, be thy mind at ease! Eight days, eight short days,and I am on my way hence, unless some unforeseen event delay me. Ihave but to withdraw my poor girls from Paris, at least those thatlike to follow me; to place the somewhat wasted wealth which I havehere under the protection of the laws, if the laws, indeed, can giveprotection now-a-day; to make sure of one point more, which will soonbe settled, and then to depart."
The face of the dwarf, which, during the whole of his interview withhis lady, had been agitated with strong feelings either ofmortification or of joy, now at once resumed the look of calm bittercynicism, which, though perhaps more natural to his features, was, atall events, more habitual. "Ay, lady!" he said, "so it is ever! Thereis ever one point more to be made sure of when a lady's love and herjudgment lead her different ways; and that one point more will verysurely keep your steps from Italy. So I will e'en go and sing."
"Knave, thou art somewhat too bold!" cried Beatrice. "I have pamperedthee too much, and made thee insolent; but thou shalt be better taughtin future!"
"Not so, lady, not so!" cried the dwarf, in a deprecatory tone."Forgive the first outbreaking of my disappointment. I thought ourjourney to Italy sure, when suddenly came that '_one point more_;' andI know human nature all too well to doubt, that upon one small pointlove can raise up such mighty prison-walls, that the best climber, erehe could escape, would break his neck in the attempt to scale them."
"Like others who fancy they know human nature well," answeredBeatrice, "thou cheatest thyself with thine own imaginations. That onepoint more will not detain me here; but whether thy curiosityregarding it--and which I clearly see--originate in folly or inpolicy, it shall not be gratified. Content thyself with what I chooseto tell thee, and ask no more! And now listen to my commands. Makeevery preparation for a journey; and in regard to this house, on whichI have wasted so much wealth that might have been better spent, takeorder that, if possible, it be guarded against the chances of thesecivil wars till peace be again established. You understand what Iwould have. When law is once more recognised in France, perchance itand the hotel in Paris may be sold, and I have nothing more in a landthat I no longer love. Now get thee hence and leave me; but let allthings be done quickly."
The dwarf replied nothing, but retired at once; and Beatrice, afterfollowing him with her eyes to the door, sat for several moments insilence, with an air of anxious thought. "I doubt that imp!" she saidat length. "I doubt that imp! There has of late been a fire and aneagerness in his words when he speaks to me that I love not; and Ihave remarked that his eyes, when he thinks that mine are not on him,have a somewhat bold familiarity with my person." And as she thusthought, a slight shudder passed over her. "I doubt him," she went on;"and he is bold, and cunning, and politic, to a point rarely reachedby those whose communion with their fellow-men is more extended thanhis, and who, consequently, find a thousand things to call theirattention from their darling schemes. I doubt him, and will have himwatched! I fear he may have betrayed me already, but he shall do so nomore. Annette!" she cried aloud, "Annette!"
The girl appeared, and her mistress bade her send Joachim to her. Someminutes then elapsed; but at length appeared the old man who had soskilfully managed the little comedy which had enabled Beatrice andEugenie de Menancourt to pass the gates of Paris. "Joachim!" said hismistress, as he entered, "have a strict watch put upon the dwarfBartholo: I doubt him; I doubt his faith and honesty."
"And so do I, lady," replied the man. "I myself heard you command himnot to show himself in the sight of the Count d'Aubin, and to mycertain knowledge he visited him alone in his chamber."
"Indeed!" said Beatrice, thoughtfully; "indeed! That may mean much!But have him watched, without making it apparent. Quick, Joachim! You,at least, I can trust."
"You may, dear lady!" replied the old man, laying his hand upon hisbreast; and then, bowing low, he left Beatrice to long, deep, anxiousthought.