Part 50

The shriek of a female under the vaults startled me one evening out of my dreams. Darkness had already crept into the halls. I hastened down the steps from the second story, and perceived a well-dressed woman in the power of a common man. The sound of my steps frightened the villain, and he disappeared among the columns. A young girl with dishevelled hair sat on a block of marble, trembling, and almost beside herself with fright.

“Have you sustained any harm?” I asked her.

She raised her hand to her head, and said: “It was a robber, sir, who had torn off my head-dress, consisting of some pins of value;--nothing further. I entreat you to afford me your protection, as I am a stranger in this place. It was from curiosity I left my mother and sister who are waiting without. This man was to guide me back from this extensive labyrinth, and he led me to this remote spot.”

I offered her my arm; we stepped out to the daylight. Oh! my Clementine! ....

She was sixteen years of age, delicately and beautifully formed. She floats at my side, like an aërial being; I did not perceive her steps. The sweetness, freshness, and intellectual expression of her countenance were angelic, and her look, full of innocence and love, penetrated my inmost soul.

I sank into a pleasant confusion. I had never before known such a sensation of confidence and admiration, of inexpressible affection and profound respect. I had grown up to the age of twenty-one, I knew love only from the pictures of the ancient poets, and I called it a passionate friendship, unworthy a man. Alas! it was, indeed, something very different. Love is the poetry of human nature. The sensation we experience in contemplating beauty, ennobles rude sensuality, and elevates it to a point of contact with the spiritual, so that the virtuous, independent spirit unites itself, under the magic influence of grace, with the earthly. Thus it is true that love deifies the mortal clay, and draws down upon earth what is heavenly.

Thus I went on, and I had lost all my recollection, till we arrived at the Carmelite-gate, where, suddenly, I came to myself again.

“You are a stranger?” I asked, in a faltering voice.

“Yes,” she replied; “but it is in vain that we seek my mother and sister. Do you know the house of M. Albertas? It is there we live.”

“I will bring you to it.”

We turned round towards the street where M. Albertas resided. What a change! The narrow dark streets seemed no longer to me like damp dungeon walls, but like splendid clouds through which men were passing like shadows.

We did not speak. We came to the house. The door was joyfully opened. The whole family pressed forward to welcome the beloved lost child, for whom servants had been sent out, who were still in search of her. It was then that I heard, amidst a thousand caresses towards her, the name, “Clementine.” She thanked me in a few words, not without blushing. All the rest did the same; but I was unable to reply. They asked my name; I told it them, bowed, and left the company.

I was often afterwards in the amphitheatre, and my way led me frequently through the street in which M. Albertas lived. Her I did not see again; but her image was constantly hovering before me, in my waking hours as well as in my dreams. The hope of beholding the beautiful vision again forsook me; but not so my longing after her.

Now, for the first time, I felt that I stood alone in the world, and that I could not cling to a being akin to myself. I was without a mother and father, without a sister or brother. Beloved by the family of my uncle, I still looked upon myself amidst them, only as a fortunate orphan; and upon all who loaded me with their kindness, I looked as upon beings elevated above myself.

The time approached when I was to be sent to the academy of Montpellier. M. Etienne repeated to me his wishes, and conjured me not to disappoint his expectations. In the excess of his confidence in my youthful faculties, he saw in me the future protecting angel of the Protestant church in France. He gave me his blessing, whilst the whole family stood weeping round me as I took my farewell. I promised to come to Nismes in all my vacations, and went away overpowered with grief.

The distance from Montpellier to Nismes is full eight leagues. I walked in the shade of mulberry-trees, between the golden fields of corn, and along the vineyards on the chain of hills, overtopped by the gray Sevennes. But the air was glowing, and the ground beneath my feet burning. After three hours’ walk, I sank fatigued on the banks of the Vidourle, in the shade of a neat villa and its chesnut trees.

I reflected on my past and future life. I computed the time I had lived, and the space of time still remaining, according to the general measure, for my sphere of action. I found I had still forty years, and, for the first time, I shuddered at the shortness of our life. The oak on the mountains wants one century for its development, and stands for another in its full vigour, while man’s existence is so transitory! And wherefore is it thus? How shall he employ his faculties? Not a long life, but a life of variety, is given to mortal man by nature. This thought quiets me. Well, then, I said to myself, forty years more, and I shall stand perfected where my father is.

Pursuing these thoughts, I gradually fell into a slumber. In my dream I imagined myself an old man; my limbs were heavy, my hair gray; the thousand fine pores of the skin, by which the body imperceptibly imbibes vitality, and is nourished by the elements, were dried up. With the decreasing influx of life, the power of the muscles relaxed, the delicate parts, which we call organs, gradually hardened and closed. I heard no more of the world, and the light of my eyes was also extinguished. While the senses, by which the spirit is rooted to the earth were thus dying away, the feelings became weaker, the ideas fainter, and all that was formerly communicated to the mind by the active senses was lost. I was no longer master of my body, and had forgotten the names of things and their use. Men fed me, dressed and undressed me, and treated me as a child. I was still able to speak, but often wanted words, and sometimes uttered phrases which no one understood; thoughts still presented themselves, and I felt, though without regret, that I no more belonged to the earth. Soon, however, I was not able to give utterance to my thoughts; but had only an unvarying, torpid consciousness of existence, such as we feel while sleeping, when not even dreams present themselves. This state, always the same, without any external change, was unaccompanied by pleasure or pain; there was no variety of thought, therefore no succession or notion of time. In short, I had been dead for a long period, and my body had been buried and mouldering for centuries. Only on earth, during the existence of the senses, where we count the change of things, we can speak of ages, and the succession of events suggests to us the notion of time. Abstracting from all idea of change, time no longer exists.

A pleasing, indefinable sensation produced a change in me; my mind, before isolated, was connected with new organs which opened to me a larger sphere of action in the universe.

I began to feel more and more conscious, I heard a gentle rustling around me, which invigorated me with its delightful freshness. Before me floated dazzling golden rays, whilst silvery clouds sportively passed along. I cast my wandering gaze on the bright transparent verdure of the surrounding boughs, which waved in the crystal ether like aërial forms, and between the boughs and the clouds shone Clementine, motionless, in ineffable beauty, a wreath of fresh flowers entwining her dark hair.

She smiled on me with an expression of innocent love; took the wreath from her hair, waved it with her delicate hand, and it dropped on my breast.

“Oh! heavenly dream never depart from me,” I said, while gazing with inexpressible rapture on the beautiful vision.

While I was in this state a carriage rolled past. Clementine’s countenance darkened on hearing her name called.

“Farewell, Alamontade,” said she, and disappeared amidst the trembling boughs.

At that moment I was going to fall at her feet but found myself on the ground. I was no longer in a dream, for I perceived the Vidourle and the château in the shade of the lofty chesnut trees.

I rose and heard a carriage rattling over the bridge, and as I hastened along, an old servant approached, and asked whether I wished any refreshment. On my evincing astonishment, he asked, “Are you not M. Alamontade?” I answered in the affirmative. Then he said, “Mademoiselle de Sonnes and her mother have left me orders to that effect!” I went back, took up the wreath and followed the servant. Clementine was Mademoiselle de Sonnes.

That day was the happiest and most memorable of my life.

A garret in the back part of the house of M. Bertollon, one of the richest and most fortunate citizens of Montpellier was my dwelling. Some roofs, black walls, and two windows, with the balconies of a house in the opposite street were my only prospect; still I was happy. Surrounded by books, I lived only to study, and Clementine’s wreath hung over my table. The millions of spring blossoms lost their splendour before the magic of these withered flowers, and the jewels of kings were valueless to me in comparison with the smallest leaf of the clover.

Clementine was my saint, and I loved her with a pious veneration, such as we feel for angelic beings. Her wreath was a relic, which an angel had let fall on me from heaven. In my dreams I saw her surrounded by glory, and she was the subject of my poetic effusions. I looked most anxiously for the vacations of the college to see my uncle and Nismes, and perhaps, by some happy chance, my adored saint.

One day the door of my solitary room opened, and a handsome young man entered. It was M. Bertollon. “You have a gloomy prospect,” he said, as he stepped to the window, “still it extends to part of the house of M. de Sonnes, one of the most tasteful in the town,” he added, smiling.

At that name I became agitated. M. Bertollon stood thoughtfully at the window and appeared melancholy. We resumed the conversation, and he asked my name and the nature of my studies. Having mentioned my fondness for the harp, he said: “Do you play the harp and love it passionately without possessing one?”

“I am too poor, sir, to purchase one, for the little money I have is scarcely sufficient to procure the books that I need most.”

“My wife has two harps and can well spare one,” he replied, and left me.

Before an hour elapsed the harp was sent. How happy was I! I now thought of Clementine, and struck the chords. Sentiments are speechless; words have been invented to express thoughts, and melodious tones to express the feelings of the heart.

On the following morning the amiable Bertollon came again, and I thanked him with emotion. He asked me to play, and I complied with his request, still thinking of Clementine. He was leaning with his forehead against the window, and gazed sadly on the opposite roofs. My soul was enrapt in the fulness of harmony, and I did not perceive that he had turned and stood listening near me.

“You are a delightful magician,” he said, and embraced me with warmth; “we must become friends.”

I was his friend already, and in the space of a few weeks our intimacy increased. During our short excursions, when the weather was fine, he gradually introduced me to a numerous acquaintance, who treated me uniformly with esteem and attention, and Bertollon seemed only happy in my society. In possession of a considerable library, and a museum of natural history, he entrusted me with their superintendence, and appeared to have chosen this as a way of assisting my slender means, by a considerable annual income, without hurting my feelings.

Bertollon was in more than one respect a distinguished man. His acquirements were various; he possessed wit and eloquence; he captivated by his gracefulness and dignity; in company he was the spirit of joy, and his sole aim was to gain the esteem of his fellow-citizens. He had already refused several public appointments with a modesty which made him still more worthy of general confidence. He was wealthy, the partner in a large commercial house, was possessed of one of the most delightful châteaux on the height of the neighbouring village of Castelnau, and was the husband of the most beautiful woman of Montpellier. His wife usually lived at the château, where Bertollon saw her but seldom, but in winter she resided in town. Their alliance seemed to have been formed not from love, but convenience and interest.

What made this man still more remarkable to me was his freedom from all prejudice, in a town which seemed entirely animated by religious fanaticism, and where he only was an exception. Notwithstanding this he went frequently to mass, and was himself a member of the fraternity of the Penitents. “It is so easy,” he used to say, “to reconcile men; we need but pay homage to their prejudices if we cannot combat and conquer them, and are sure to gain all hearts. He who wages open war against prejudices is as much a fanatic as he who defends them with arms.”

We nevertheless were often involved in friendly disputes. He considered happiness the grand end of man, and recognised no bounds in the choice of means to that end; he derided my ardent zeal for virtue, called it a work of social order, and proved to me that it assumed different colours among different nations. His wit sometimes made me appear ridiculous to myself, by following my cardinal virtues to different nations, where he always confounded them. But notwithstanding the danger of these principles, Bertollon was dear to me, for he always did what was right.

While I thus devoted my time to friendship and the muses, the two windows and the balcony of the house of De Sonnes were not forgotten. M. Bertollon had more than once offered to exchange my garret for a room in his house, which was furnished in costly style, and commanded an extensive and cheerful prospect. But I would not have exchanged my poor garret for his best drawing-room, or for the prospect of the paradise of Languedoc.

By chance--for a singular shyness prevented me from making inquiries--I learned that the family De Sonnes would, in a few weeks, return to Nismes, and that they were in great grief for Clementine’s sister, who had died lately.

The few weeks, and, indeed, the quarter passed. As often as I played the harp, my eye was fixed on those beloved walls, but the family De Sonnes did not return, and no chance brought me further intelligence. I was silent, and concealed my love from the world.

The vacation arrived; I hastened to Nismes in hopes of being happier there. As I passed the château on the Vidourle I stopped. All was closed, though the fields and vineyards were thronged with reapers and grape-gatherers. I looked for the magic spot under the chesnut trees, where dream and reality were once so magically blended. I threw myself under the waving branches, and on the spot which Clementine’s foot had once hallowed by its touch. Love and sadness weighed me down, and I kissed the sacred ground which had then borne all that the world contained most dear to me.

In vain, alas! I looked for the angelic vision. I left the delightful spot when evening approached, and only the rocky summits of the Sevennes reflected the sun’s golden rays over the dusky plain.

My uncle Etienne and the pious mother, with my cousins, Maria, Antonia, and Susanna, received me with affecting joy. I embraced them all speechlessly and rapturously, and knew not who expressed the greatest affection for me, or whom I most loved. I was the son and brother of the family; I felt at home, and was the joy of them all.

“Yes,” said my uncle, with emotion, “you are the joy of us all, and the hope of our church. All the reports from Montpellier have praised your industry, and have expressed the esteem your teachers entertain for you. Continue, Colas, to strengthen yourself, for our sufferings are great, and the affliction of the true believers knows no end. God calls you to become his chosen instrument to break the power of Antichrist, and to raise triumphantly the gospel now trodden in the dust.”

The fears of my uncle had been particularly increased of late by the harsh expressions of the governor of the province against the secret Protestants. The Mareschale de Montreval resided in Nismes, and was the more powerful and formidable as he possessed the unbounded confidence of the king. His threats against the Calvinists spread from mouth to mouth, and were the common talk even of the boys in the street.

I was harassed by another care. In vain had I wandered daily up and down the street in which the house of M. Albertas was situated; in vain had I loitered in the amphitheatre; Clementine was nowhere to be seen.

One morning I met the old servant who had entertained me, by the orders of Madame de Sonnes, in the château. He recognised me joyfully, shook me by the hand, and told me, among a thousand other things, that Madame de Sonnes and her daughter had left Nismes for some months, but had gone to Marseilles to seek relief from their sorrow for the loss of a beloved daughter and sister, in the amusements of that great commercial city.

My hopes of seeing Clementine once more being thus disappointed, I walked sadly home. All the joyful expectations which had supported me for the last six months were frustrated. I determined to go to Marseilles, which was only three days’ journey, there to search every street and window, attend every church and mass, to discover her, if only for a moment;--would she not, for so much trouble, give me one kind look?

But, on cooler reflection, I soon abandoned my wild scheme, and returned home more dejected than ever.

With surprise, I there perceived an unusual embarrassment and trouble in every countenance.

My aunt came towards me, put her hands on my shoulders, and kissed me with an air of deep melancholy; my cousins kindly seized my hand, as if wishing to comfort me.

“What is it, after all?” asked my uncle, with a powerful voice; who, notwithstanding his air of piety, had something heroic in his character; “you know that a good Christian is most cheerful when the waves of misfortune are lashed most tempestuously. The devil has no power over us, and providence has numbered every hair of our heads. The mareschale is not beyond the power of the Almighty.”

I expressed my surprise at this. “You are right, Colas,” said my uncle, “and I am grieved at the despair of the women. The Mareschale de Montreval sent orders here an hour ago for you to go to the castle to-morrow morning, at ten o’clock;--that is all. And where then is there cause for alarm? If you have a good conscience, go to him without fear, though his castle be hell itself.”

No wonder that the peremptory order, coming from so exalted a personage, terrified the humble miller’s family. The mareschale seldom showed himself to the people, and then only when attended by a numerous suite of high officers, noblemen, and guards. The external pomp of the great, exercises greater awe on the minds of the uneducated multitude than their power.

Next morning, my aunt arranged my wardrobe with trembling hands, and I endeavoured to comfort my dear afflicted relatives. “It is ten o’clock,” cried my uncle, “go in God’s name, we will pray for you.”

I went, and learned that the mareschale was still in his cabinet. After an hour and a half I was conducted through a suite of rooms to him. An elderly gentleman, rather thin, and of a stiff commanding manner, of dark complexion and piercing eyes, stepped towards me, while the respect of those around marked him as the mareschale.

“I wished to see you, Alamontade,” said he, “as you have been distinguished by so much praise on the university list of Montpellier. Cultivate your talents, and you may become a useful man. You shall have my patronage for the future. Let not my encouragement make you proud, but more industrious, and I shall not fail to learn how you proceed. Do all in your power to retain the friendship of M. Bertollon, your patron, and tell him that I sent for you.”

This was all the mareschale said. He evinced satisfaction with me during this short interview. I commended myself to his favour and hastened to comfort my family, who were most anxious about me.

Their joy at my return was great, and soon all our neighbours, indeed the whole town had heard the great honour I had received from the mareschale. “Did I not say before that it is God who governs the hearts of the powerful?” exclaimed my uncle; “The sun rises out of darkness, and the holy cross rears itself to heaven over the bruised serpent and painful thorns.”

On arriving at Montpellier, I found M. Bertollon had gone to his wife in the country. With melancholy feelings I stood in my garret before the withered wreath, and sighed forth the name of Clementine, while I kissed the faded leaves which had once bloomed in her delicate hand. I felt half ashamed of the tears with which disappointed hope suffused my eyes, and yet I felt happy.

The wreath and the small part of the magnificent house, De Sonnes, were to become again, during winter, the mute witnesses of my love, joys, and hopes. Spring and its blossoms (I said as I looked towards the palace) will bring her, perhaps, to Montpellier.

At this moment I saw, at the opposite window, a female form attired in deep mourning, and with her back turned towards me. My pulse ceased to beat, my breath stopped, and my eyes became dim. “It can only be Clementine,” said a voice within me; but I had sunk down senseless on the window, having neither the courage nor the power to look up and convince myself.

When I had recovered, I raised myself, and cast a trembling look towards her. Her face was turned towards me, covered with a black veil, with which the breezes sported; it was raised--I saw Clementine, and that at a moment when I had engaged her attention. I cast down my eyes, and felt a burning glow through my veins. When I again raised them, she was gone from the window, but not from my mind. “It is she,” said a voice within me, and I stood on the pinnacle of earthly bliss, solitary, but having before me Clementine’s image, and inspiring anticipations for the future. A golden gleam was poured over the smoky walls, and a sea of flowers waved over the naked roofs; the world dissolved before me like a splendid cloud, Clementine’s form passed through a lovely eternity, while I was beside her, and my lot was endless rapture. “Oh, of what bliss is the human heart susceptible!” I exclaimed, falling on my knees, and raising my hands to heaven. “Oh God! for what scenes hast thou spared me! Oh! perpetuate this feeling!”

Late that evening, I saw the windows lighted, and her shadow passing to and fro; I took my harp, and with its sounds, my feelings gradually became calm.

I did not awake till late the next morning, having passed a sleepless night. When I stepped to the window I saw Clementine leaning from hers in her morning dress. I saluted her, and received a scarcely perceptible return; but she looked kindly. I was riveted to the spot while she remained, our glances met timidly; but my soul conversed with her, and I seemed to receive soft answers.

Oh! blessed hours which I dreamed away harmlessly in the secret contemplation of a lovely being. With my poor and humble parentage, and without claim, as I was, to personal attractions, how could I raise my hopes to the most lovely, richest heiress of Montpellier, whose favour was courted by the noblest youths of the country?