Part 3

My physician answered for my life, if I remained at St. Germain, and she at last consented to leave me. The excessive tenderness she showed on parting with me, calmed me for an instant; but after her departure, the real and complete loneliness I was left in for the first time, threw me into despair. The vision was realized that my imagination had so long dwelt upon; I was dying far away from those I loved; the sound of my lamentations reached not their ear. Alas! it would but have disturbed their joy. I fancied them given up to the most ecstatic bliss, whilst I lay pining on my sickbed. They were all I cared for in the world, but they wanted not my care. I had but them through life, yet I was not wanted by them. The frightful conviction of the uselessness of my existence made me sick of it. It was a pang not to be endured, and sincerely I prayed that I might die of my illness. I neither spoke or gave any sign of life. The only distinct idea I could express in my mind was, _I wish I could die_. Then at other times I became excessively agitated. All that had passed in my last conversation with Charles rushed into my mind. I saw him lost in the ocean of delight he had pictured to me, whilst I was abandoned to a death as solitary as my life. This produced a kind of irritation, more painful to endure than grief; I increased it by filling my brain with chimeras; I fancied Charles coming to St Germain, being told that I was dead, and being made miserable by my death. Can it be believed? The idea, of grieving him rejoiced me. It would be a revenge. Revenge! for what? for his goodness, for his having been the protecting angel of my life? Such guilty thoughts were soon replaced by horror, at having conceived them. My grief I thought no crime, but thus giving way to it, might lead to one: then I tried to collect my inward strength, that it might fight against this irritation; but even that I sought not where I should have found it. I was ashamed of my ingratitude. Oh! let me die, I exclaimed, but let no wicked passions enter my heart. Ourika is a portionless orphan, but innocence is yet her's. Let her not tarnish it by ingratitude. She will pass away like a shadow upon earth, but in her grave she will at least rest in peace. Her friends are all happy, then let Ourika be so, and die as the leaves fall in autumn? I fell into a state of languor when this dangerous fever left me. Madame de B. continued to reside at St. Germain, after Charles's marriage. He often visited her, accompanied by his Anais, never without her. I always suffered more when they were present. I know not whether the image of their happiness made me feel my misfortune more acutely, or that the sight of Charles renewed my remembrance of our old friendship, which I sought to find what it once was, but could not. Yet he always spoke to me just as before: it resembled the friendship he used to show me, as the artificial flower does the natural one. It was the same, except that it had neither life nor perfume.

Charles attributed the change in my temper to the weakness of my constitution. I believe that Madame de B. knew more of its real cause: she guessed my secret, and was sensibly affected by it.

Anais gave hopes of increasing her family, and we returned to Paris. My languor increased daily. The spectacle of domestic happiness so peaceful--of family bonds so endearing--of love so passionate and yet so tender--was misery to a poor wretch who was doomed to live in no other bonds but those of dependence and pity.

Days and months passed on thus. I took no share in conversation: my talents were neglected: the only books I could endure were those in which a feeble picture of my own sufferings was traced. I fed upon these poisons,--I feasted on my tears,--and remained shut up in my room whole hours giving way to them.

The birth of a son completed the measure of Charles's happiness. He came, his heart overflowing with joy, to give me the news; and I recognised in the expressions of his delight, some of the accents of his former confidence. It was the voice of the friend that I had lost, and brought painful remembrances back with it. The child of Anais was as beautiful as herself. Every body felt moved at the sight of this tender young mother and her sweet infant. I alone beheld them with bitter envy. "What had I done that I should have been brought to this land of exile? Why was I not left to follow my destiny?--Well, if I had been the negro slave of some rich planter, sold to cultivate his land, exposed all day to the burning heat of the sun; still when evening came and my toils were over, I should have found repose in my humble cottage. I should have a sharer in them, a companion through life, and children of my own colour to call me mother! They would have pressed their infant lips upon my cheek without disgust, and lain their little heads to sleep upon my bosom.--Why am I never to experience the only affection my heart was made for? Oh my God! take me I beseech thee from this world,--I cannot, cannot endure life any longer!"

I was addressing this impious prayer to my Creator in agony, upon my knees, when my door opened, and the Marchioness de C----, who was just returned from England, entered the room. I beheld her approach with terror, for I too well remembered that she had first revealed my fate to me,--she had first caused my misery.

* * * * *

"My dear Ourika," said she, "I want to speak with you. You know that I have loved and admired you from your infancy, and I grieve to see you giving way to such deep melancholy. How comes it that you make not a better use of the ample resources of your mind?"

"The resources of the mind, Madam," answered I; "only serve to increase misfortunes by showing them under a thousand different forms." "But if those misfortunes are without remedy, is it not a folly to struggle against them, instead of submitting to necessity, which can compel even the strongest to yield?"--"True, Madam; but that only makes necessity a hardship the more."--"Still, you must own, Ourika, that reason commands us to resign ourselves, and divert our attention."--"We must have a glimpse of happiness elsewhere to be able to do so."--"Then cannot you try what occupation and forcing your mind to a little pleasure will do?"--"Ah! Madam, pleasures that are forced upon us are more tedious than melancholy."--"But why neglect your talents?"--"Talents must have some object (when they charm not their possessor,) ere they can become a resource. Mine would be like the flower of the English poet--

Born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness in the desert air."

"Are your friends then no object?" "I have no friends, Madam; I have patrons." "Ourika, you make yourself very needlessly unhappy." "Every thing in my life is needless, Madam, even my grief." "How can you nourish such bitter thoughts. You, Ourika, who were so devoted to Madame de B. during her distress, when every other friend had left her." "Alas! Madam, I am like an evil genius, whose power lasts in calamity, but who dies on the return of happiness." "Let me be your confidant, my dear; open your heart to me. Tell me your secret. No one can take a greater interest in you than I do, and I shall perhaps be able to do you good." "I have no secret," replied I; "my colour and my situation are my sole misfortunes, as you know, Madam." "Nay, do you deny that you have a secret sorrow? It is impossible to behold you for a moment without being certain of it." I persisted in what I had first said. She grew impatient, and I saw the storm rising that was to burst upon me. "Is this your good faith?" cried she. "Is this your vaunted sincerity? Ourika, take care. Reserve sometimes leads to deceit." "What, Madam, can I have to reveal to you? You, who foresaw my misery so long ago, I can tell you nothing that you do not know already." "I will not believe you," answered she; "and since you refuse to trust your secret to me, and pretend that you have none, I will convince you that I know it. Yes, Ourika; a senseless passion is the cause of all your grief, and your regret; and were you not so desperately in love with Charles, you would care very little about being a negress. Adieu. I leave you, I must own, with much less regard than I felt in coming here." So saying she quitted the room. I remained thunderstruck. What had she revealed to me? What horrid interpretation had she put upon my grief? Who? I nourish a criminal passion? I let it canker my heart! Was my wish to hold a link in the chain of my fellow-creatures, my longing after natural affections, and my grief at being desolate, was that the despair of guilty love? And when I thought that I was only envying the _picture_ of his bliss, did my impious wishes aspire to the object itself? What cause had I given to be suspected of so hopeless a passion? Might I not love him more than my own life, and yet with innocence? Did the mother, when she threw herself into the lion's jaw to save her son, or the brothers and sisters, who intreated that they might die upon the same scaffold, and united their prayers to heaven as they went up to it, did they feel influenced by guilty love? Is not humanity alone the cause of the sublimest devotion of every kind? And why might I not have the same feelings for Charles, my friend from infancy, and the protector of my youth? And yet a secret voice unheard before warns me that I am guilty! Oh, heaven! remorse must then become a fresh torment to my wasted heart! Poor Ourika! Every species of misery must then oppress her! Poor Ourika! and are even her tears become a crime? Is she forbidden to think of him? Must she no longer dare even to be unhappy!

* * * * *

These thoughts threw me into a death-like stupor. Before night came I was taken violently ill, and in three days my life was despaired of. My physician declared that the sacrament should be promptly administered to me, for there was not a moment to lose. My confessor had died a short time since. Madame de B. sent for the parish priest, who could only bestow extreme unction upon me, for I was perfectly insensible to what was passing round me. But then when my death was hourly expected, when all hopes were over, then it was that God took pity on my soul, by preserving my life. Contrary to all expectation I continued to struggle against my illness; at the end of which time my senses returned to me. Madame de B. had never left me, and Charles's affection for me seemed returned. The priest had visited me every day, anxious to find an interval of reason to confess me; I desired it likewise as soon as I had thought again; I seemed led by an involuntary impulse to seek for repose in the bosom of religion. I made an avowal of my errors to the priest. The state of my soul did not frighten him. Like an old experienced mariner, he was accustomed to the tempest. He quieted my fears as to the passion I was accused of. "Your heart is pure," said he; "you have injured no one but yourself, and in that you were guilty. You will have to account for your happiness to God, for he entrusted it to you. It depended on yourself, since it lies in the performance of your duty. Have you ever considered in what that duty consisted? God should be the aim of man, but has your's been? Let not, however, let not thy courage fail thee, Ourika; but pray to God. He hears you, and will receive you in his arms. He knows no difference of men or colour. All are of equal value in his eye, and do thou strive to render thyself worthy of his favour."

* * * * *

Thus did this venerable man open the path of consolation to me. His simple words carried peace with them to my heart. I meditated on them, and drew from them, as a fertile mine, a store of new thoughts. I saw only that I had not known my duty; for there are duties for the lonely as well as for those connected in the world to perform. Though they are deprived of the ties of blood, heaven has granted them the whole world for their family. The charity sister, thought I, is not isolated on earth, though she has renounced its enjoyments. She has a family of her own choosing. She is the orphan's mother, the daughter of the aged, and a sister to the unhappy. How often have men of the world sought for retirement, there to adore in solitude the Author of all that is great and good, privately seeking to render their souls worthy of appearing before the Lord.

* * * * *

Sweet it is, oh God! to seek to please thee by purifying the heart for the great day of thy appearance.--But I had not done so! A senseless victim of each uncurbed impulse of my soul, I had pursued the enjoyments of the world, and had thrown away my happiness. Still I lost not all hope.--God was willing, perhaps, in throwing me on this foreign land, to take me to himself. He snatched me from my savage state of ignorance. He saved me from the vices of slavery, and permitted me to learn his laws. They point out my duty to me, and I will pursue it. Never more, oh Lord! will I offend thee for the favours thou hast granted me, or accuse thee of my faults.

The new light in which I viewed my situation, brought peace to my heart. I was astonished at the calm that it enjoyed after so many storms. An outlet had been opened for the torrent, and it now floated in peaceful tides, instead of carrying devastation with its current.

* * * * *

I soon determined upon taking the veil, and intreated Madame de B.'s permission to do so. "I shall be truly grieved, my dearest Ourika," said she, "to part with you, but I have done you so much harm by wanting to do you good, that I have no right to oppose your determination." Charles pleaded against it with great earnestness: he entreated, he conjured me to renounce it. "Hinder me not, Charles," cried I; "let me seek the only asylum where my prayers for you will be equally pure with the friendship I have ever entertained for you."

* * * * *

Here the young Nun abruptly ended her narrative. I continued to attend her, but all my endeavours to preserve her life were vain. She fell with the last leaves of Autumn.

THE END.