Part 21 (1/2)
”Yes, since you have gone so far, and since our father has given his consent, and since our mother's opposition might only cause still greater unhappiness....”
”You are right, Jean. Greater unhappiness, for father told me that----”
”Yes, I guess. He told you that he would crush all opposition, that he would leave our mother rather than give in. That is all very likely. He would do it. I shall not enter into any struggle with him. Only, I keep my liberty of action with regard to von Farnow.”
”What do you mean by that?” she asked quickly.
”I wish,” Jean replied, in a tone of authority, in which Lucienne felt her brother's invincible determination, ”I wish to let him know exactly what I think. I shall find some means of having an explanation with him. If he persists, after that, in his desire to marry you, he will make no mistake, at least as to the difference of feeling and ideas which separate us.”
”I do not mind that,” answered Lucienne, rea.s.sured, and she smiled, being certain that von Farnow would stand the trial.
She turned towards Alsheim. A cry of victory was on her lips, but she restrained it. For some time she stood silent, breathing quickly, and seeking with her eyes and mind what she could say so that her happiness should not appear an insult to her brother.
Then she shook her head.
”Poor house,” she said. ”Now that I am going to leave it, it is becoming dear to me. I am persuaded that later on, when life in the garrison takes me away from Alsace, I shall have visions of Alsheim.
I shall see it in imagination, just as it stands there.”
In the midst of its girdle of orchards were ma.s.sed together the red roofs of the village. And both village and trees formed an island among the corn and April clover. Little birds, gilded by the suns.h.i.+ne, were flying over Alsheim. The house of the Oberles at this distance seemed only to be one of many. There was so much sweetness in all things that one might have imagined life itself sweet.
Lucienne gave herself up to this appreciation of beauty, which only came to her as a consequence of her thoughts of love. Again she heard her own words, ”I shall have visions of Alsheim just as it stands there.” Then the undulating line of the Bastians' wood, which rose like a little blue cloud beyond the farthest gardens, reminded her of Jean's trouble. She only then realised that he had not answered her. She was moved, not enough to ask herself if she should renounce her happiness to make Jean happy, but up to the point of regretting, with a sort of tender violence, this conflict between their loves. She would have liked to soothe the pain she had caused, to comfort it with words, to put it to rest, and not to feel it so close to her and so alive.
”Jean, my brother Jean,” she said, ”I will requite you for all you are doing for me by helping you, by doing my very best for you. Who knows but by working together we may not be able to solve the problem?”
”No; it is beyond your power and mine.”
”Odile loves you? Yes, of course she loves you. Then you will be very strong.”
Jean made a movement of weariness.
”Do not try, Lucienne. Let us go back.”
”I beseech you. Tell me at least how you came to love her? I can understand that. We said we would tell each other more than the names. You have only me to whom you can speak your mind without danger.”
She was making herself out to be humble. She was even humiliated by her secret happiness. She renewed her request, was affectionate, and found the right words to describe Odile's stately beauty, and Jean spoke.
He did it because his need to confide to some one the hope which had been his--a hope which was still struggling not to die. He told of the Easter vigil at Sainte Odile and how he had met the young girl on Maundy Thursday in the cherry avenue. From that, each helping the other to recall happenings, to fix dates, to find words, they went back into the past, up to long-ago times when their parents were not at variance, or at least when the children were ignorant of their dissensions or did not perceive them, when in the holidays Lucienne, Odile, and Jean might believe that the two families, united in intimate friends.h.i.+p, would continue to live as important land-owners, respected and beloved by the village of Alsheim.
Lucienne did not realise that in calling up these pictures of the happy past she was not calming her brother's mind. He may have found pleasure in them for a moment, hoping to get away from the present, but a comparison was immediately drawn, and his revolt was only the more profound, arousing all the powers of his being, against his father, against his sister, against that false pity behind which Lucienne's incapability of sacrifice was hidden. Soon the young man gave up answering his sister. Alsheim was getting nearer, and was now a long outline broken here and there. In the calm evening the Oberles' house raised its protecting roof amid the tops of the trees, still bare. When the park gates, closed each day when the workmen left, were opened for the two pedestrians, Jean slipped behind Lucienne, and, making her go on, said, in very low, ironical tones:
”Come, Baroness von Farnow, enter the house of the old protesting deputy, Philippe Oberle.”
She was going to make a retort, but an energetic footstep scrunched the gravel, a man turned into the avenue round a gigantic clump of beeches, and a resonant, imperious voice, which was singing in order to appear the voice of a happy man without any regrets, cried:
”There you are, my children! What a nice walk you must have had!
From the waterfall by the works I saw you in the corn leaning towards each other like lovers.”