Volume I Part 6 (1/2)
Charles of Montsoreau cast down his eyes as they rode along, and for several minutes remained in deep silence. ”You mean to say,” he replied at length, ”that my brother is my rival, for I first loved her, I first won her regard: he strives to s.n.a.t.c.h her from me, not I from him, and why should I hesitate at the consequences? He must learn to overcome his pa.s.sion, a pa.s.sion which is evidently not returned. I go on with hope; and in love, thank G.o.d, at least, there is no elder brother's right to bar us from success.”
”If such be your thoughts and feelings, Charles,” replied the Abbe, in a slow and solemn manner, ”I see no hope but strife, contention, misery--perhaps bloodshed! between two brothers, who were born to love, to succour, to support each other. And now they will draw their swords upon each other for a woman's smile.”
”Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau. ”Fear not that, Abbe! My sword shall never be drawn against my brother, were he to urge me to the utmost. But you view this matter too gravely, you deceive yourself, I am sure. In the first place, though angry, and mortified, and somewhat jealous, perhaps, that I have had opportunities of serving Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, which he has not obtained--though somewhat charmed with her beauty, and captivated with her graces--I do not, I cannot, believe that Gaspar feels that love towards her which cannot easily be conquered. He feels not, Abbe, as I feel--he cannot feel as I feel towards her.”
”Charles, you deceive yourself,” replied the Abbe, ”nay more, you deceive yourself wilfully. Last night in the great hall, after you had retired to rest, your brother walked up and down with me in a state almost of frenzy. He told me how deeply, how pa.s.sionately, he loved her; he poured forth into the bosom which has been accustomed to receive all his thoughts, his grief, his agony, his madness itself--for I can call it nothing but madness. He spoke of you--of you, the brother of his love, the being who has gone on nurtured with him from infancy till now without one harsh word or angry feeling between you--he spoke of you, I say, with hatred and abhorrence; he longed to imbrue his hands in your blood; he called you the destroyer of his peace, the obstacle of his happiness, the being who had driven him to wretchedness and despair.”
Charles of Montsoreau dropped the bridle on his horse's neck, and covered his eyes with his hands. ”This is very terrible!” he said--”this is very terrible!”
”It is terrible,” replied the Abbe--”it is very terrible, Charles; but it is no less true. Your brother so mild, so kind-hearted as he was, is now changed by his rivalry with you, is now full of the feelings of a murderer, is now ready to become a second Cain, and slay his brother, because his offering has not found favour in the sight of the being he wors.h.i.+ps, as yours has done! Of all this you knew not, and therefore you could not judge; but when I said you were deceiving yourself wilfully, Charles, I said not so without cause. Think of what your brother was, one bare fortnight ago--all gay, all cheerful, all good-humoured, bearing contradiction with a smile, laughing at the thought of care, putting you always in the first place before himself.
See what he is now, Charles, even when restrained by the eyes of many upon him--moody, irritable, pa.s.sionate, evidently abhorring the brother he so lately loved. Can this entire change have come over a man's nature, I ask you, this sad, this terrible, this blighting change, without some strong and overpowering pa.s.sion? and will you tell me you do not see he loves, loves with all the intensity of an eager, a warm, a fiery heart, loves pa.s.sionately, loves to madness?”
Again Charles of Montsoreau bent his eyes down upon the ground, again he remained silent for a considerable s.p.a.ce of time; and in that s.p.a.ce, terrible was the conflict which went on within him. At length he raised his eyes gravely, even sternly, to the face of the Abbe de Boisguerin, and demanded, ”Abbe, what would you have me do?”
”It is not for me to dictate, Charles,” said the Abbe, in a sad and solemn tone. ”You are your own master, you are lord of princely lands and great wealth, you are lord also of yourself. It is not for me to say what you shall do. But I can tell you, Charles of Montsoreau, what you would do if you were the same generous, n.o.ble, kind-hearted, self-denying youth that was once under my charge. You would labour zealously, constantly, firmly, to overcome a pa.s.sion which can produce nothing but misery.”
”What!” exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, ”and see the woman I love become the bride of my brother! What! witness their union, when she loves me rather than him! Why is this to be put upon me, Abbe?--why, when there is every right on my side, and none on his? Why am I to be the sacrifice rather than Gaspar? Why do you address these words of exhortation to me rather than to him?”
”In the first place,” replied the Abbe, ”what you fear--what you seem most to fear, what it would be almost too much to demand from you--never will, never can take place. Marie de Clairvaut will never be your brother's bride. She loves him not; she rather dislikes him: that is evident. You cannot suppose, Charles, that she will ever be his. So I remove that from all consideration. You next ask me why I put the hard task on you rather than him; why I exhort you rather than him. I will tell you, Charles; because with you I believe exhortation will have effect; with him it will have none. I have told you before, this pa.s.sion with him is a madness. He is more violent, he is less generous, in his nature than you are, Charles; and if you would know more, know that I have already exhorted him, and found my exhortations vain. If you persist in your pa.s.sion, if you, too, do not make a great effort to conquer it, misery, agony, and bloodshed will be the consequence. The despair, the death of him who hung at the same bosom with yourself will lie heavy on your head. You, you will be more to blame than he is; for you are acting with determinate reason and forethought, when I tell you that his reason is gone. And, moreover----”
”Then,” exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, interrupting him, ”then I ought to become a madman, too, to put myself in the right! Abbe, your reasoning is not just; but I understand and feel your motives, though I cannot admit your arguments--hear me, hear me out. Were my own feelings and my own happiness alone concerned, I could--yes, I think I could--sacrifice them all to my brother, if by so doing I thought I could secure his peace. But, in the first place, you do not even hold out to me the supposition that any sacrifice on my part would secure his happiness; and, in the next place, I have to remember that there is another whose feelings and whose comfort are to be considered. Much may have pa.s.sed between Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and myself to make me sure that she knows my love, and to make me hope that she returns it. And, if such be the case, I have no right to draw back a single step, nor will I for any consideration upon earth. If I love her without her loving me, I can struggle against my love, though I can never overcome it; but if she love me too, I will trifle with her happiness for no man upon earth--no, not my brother!”
The Abbe remained silent for a moment or two; and then replied, ”Charles, your hopes are deceiving you. Mademoiselle de Clairvaut's feelings may be favourable to you, may be kindly; but, believe me,” he added, and a very slight appearance of a sneering smile hung about his lip--”but, believe me, there is no chance of your injuring her happiness by ceasing to seek her love. I speak from good authority, Charles; as it is not two days ago, from Madame de Saulny's own account, that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut declared her intention to be stronger than ever of going into a convent. It is very natural, my dear Charles, that you, knowing and feeling the pa.s.sion in your own breast, should think it equally evident to her. Very likely you may have addressed to her words of pa.s.sion and of love, displayed signs of tenderness and affection, which you think fully sufficient to convince her; and yet she may not have the slightest idea that your feelings are any thing but those of common courtesy and kindness. You must remember, that a pure and fine-minded woman shuns the very idea of any man being in love with her, till his absolute a.s.surance that such is the case, leaves her no longer any room to doubt. Pure, modest, and retiring, as Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is, such, depend upon it, are her feelings; and be you perfectly sure that nothing you have done for her has been construed by her in any other light than that of common kindness and courtesy.”
”I will soon know that,” replied Charles of Montsoreau; ”I will know that this very night; and if I find that I have been deceiving myself, I will make any sacrifice for my brother. I will quit the place; I will stand in his way no longer; although you yourself,” he added bitterly, ”give me no hope that, by any of the sacrifices you demand, I shall contribute in the least to my brother's happiness.”
”I think,” replied the Abbe, ”that you will contribute greatly to the happiness of both; or, at all events, remove those causes of dissension which would have made you both miserable. Your own happiness, too, may be served in the end more than you imagine. The obstacles to your brother's happiness will come from her, not from you. He may grow wearied of a pursuit that he finds to be fruitless; he may conquer a pa.s.sion which he sees can never be returned. Your generosity and forbearance may, in turn, have their natural effect upon his heart; and he may learn to see with pleasure your union with her who never could be his. Thus, in fact, by making a sacrifice, you may make none; and by seeming to abandon, may win but the more surely.”
”No!” replied the young n.o.bleman--”No, Abbe! I will do nothing by halves. I will act upon no motives but straightforward ones. I believe that Marie de Clairvaut knows, has seen, and returns my affection. If she love me, if her happiness is implicated, nothing on earth shall make me abandon her. I will love her, and seek her unto death. But if I find that I have deceived myself; if I learn that she has not seen and does not return my love, I will fly from her at once. To-morrow's sunset shall see me far away; and then I will do every thing that lies in my power to contribute to my brother's happiness. He shall be forced to say that I have laboured for his gratification and my own disappointment, though he has embittered his heart towards his brother, and suffered pa.s.sion to turn the milk of our mother into gall. Let us ride on, Abbe, let us ride on: my determinations are taken. It is better to know our fate at once. I shall stay but a short time with the good Count de Morly; and I will then leave you with him, and ride back with all speed.”
”Nay, my dear Charles,” replied the Abbe, ”I will go back with you. I cannot suffer you to tread a long road companioned by such painful thoughts as I fear you will have.”
”No, no,” replied Charles of Montsoreau; ”I would rather go alone. I must deal with this business singly, Abbe; and, besides, some of us should stay awhile with the good count. He is your cousin as well as ours, you know; and, as he has no other relations, may leave you all his wealth.”
The Abbe turned quickly round, with an inquiring and half-angry look, as if there was something in his own bosom told him that he might find a sneer upon the countenance of his young companion. Such, however, was not the case. All was clear and calm upon the face of Charles of Montsoreau, except a melancholy smile, as if the motives which he jestingly attributed to the Abbe were too absurd for any one to believe he spoke in earnest. They conversed no more on a subject so painful as that which they had already discussed, but rode on quickly and in silence. Such had been the conversation which preceded the interview between Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut.
CHAP. VIII.
It was in the grey of the dawn, that about ten horses were a.s.sembled in the court-yard of the chateau of Montsoreau, on the following morning. Six were saddled and bridled, as if for instant departure; and the men who stood by the sides of those six were armed up to the teeth. Steel-caps, then called salads, crowned the head of each; and long swords slung high up on the hip, with the point of the scabbard almost touching the ground, showed a preparation for desperate resistance in case of attack; while the small pistols in the girdle were accompanied by several others attached to the saddle, so as to give every man an opportunity of firing five or six shots without the necessity of pausing to reload.
The other four horses were burdened with various packages; and after the whole had been a.s.sembled for a few minutes in the court-yard, Charles of Montsoreau himself, accompanied by his brother and the Abbe de Boisguerin, descended the steps from the great hall, while his own strong charger was led forth, together with a spare horse to be led in hand by one of the grooms.
The countenance of the young n.o.bleman was pale as the day before, and deep emotions were certainly busy in his bosom. But his aspect was calm and collected; and he gazed round the chateau of his fathers, from which he was going forth, perhaps for the last time, with an air of grave and tranquil resolution, which contrasted strongly and strangely with the agitation evident on the countenance of his brother. He grasped the hand of the Abbe de Boisguerin in silence; then spoke a few words, and made a few inquiries of his attendants; and at length turning to his brother, extended his hand to him, fixing his full eyes upon his countenance, and saying, ”Farewell, Gaspar!”
The Marquis pressed his hand eagerly, but he did not speak, for he was agitated in a very terrible degree; and his brother put his foot into the stirrup, and slowly threw himself into the saddle, in a manner very different from that light and buoyant one with which he usually mounted his horse to go forth from the same walls.
As he was pa.s.sing through the archway, however, something suddenly seemed to strike him; and he turned his horse round to say to his brother, ”Remember my poor dog Lupo, and be kind to him, Gaspar,” and his eye ran for a moment over the upper windows, at one of which the curtain was partly drawn back, though neither the hand that drew it, nor the eyes which gazed from behind it, were visible to the sight of those below.