CHAPTER IV.

Conquered, weak, and dying, she lay upon her bed in the joyous carnival time. While all Paris was gay and merry, she was drawing her last breath.

Misery, degradation, desertion, and consumption, had done their worst; they had destroyed her, but not wholly killed her beauty. Far, far from the brilliant creature who had ruled over so many but a short time before, she was yet beautiful as she lay upon her bed, awake, and heavily breathing through the dark hours of the night.

Now and then she would fall into a feverish sleep, but only to start back into wakefulness, as a bevy of masques returned home from their revels, singing as they went. What a contrast! the poor dying creature lying there, and below in the streets the heedless revellers, shouting their noisy songs, and dancing madly through the otherwise deserted streets.

She knew that she had not many days to live, and yet she had one glorious hope, possessing which she looked back upon her blank despair with horror.

It was three months since the catastrophe at the ball. Her protector and Armand had met and fought, and the former been slightly wounded. This was the joy: he knew the whole truth or would know it. His father had promised that when she died he should know all. But alas! after the duel he had left Paris, and no one knew where he had hidden himself. To think that he might know that her very love had bidden her leave him, and that he himself was now the only cause of his ignorance. Yet there was plenty of time, plenty of time; and before she died she should surely see him.

Many of her companions and friends had forgotten her by this time. But when her waiting woman came in that morning, she had half-a-dozen new year’s presents for the patient;--so she was not forgotten altogether.

The faithful doctor soon came, he who had so patiently tended her, without fee or reward.

Asking her how she was, she replied that she was better and worse, worse in body, better in mind. The night before, she said, she felt so surely that she was dying that she sent for a priest. She welcomed him heartily, she added smiling. How beautiful was religion, the minister came to talk with her for an hour, and then leaving, he carried away with him despair, terror, remorse. Then she said she fell asleep quite peacefully. The doctor promised her health on the very first day in spring.

Smiling again, she said it was his duty to say so; an untruth surely was not a sin in a doctor, for he must speak one for every patient he saw.

For indeed she was much worse that day.

Moreover, want was tormenting her last hours. Her creditors were again exacting, and almost every hour brought one of them to the door. Indeed, the new year’s presents, jewels for the most part, were ordered to be sold almost as soon as seen.

Left alone, she took from the bosom of her dress a letter. It was one written by M. Duval, saying that his son would soon be with her to entreat his pardon, and the writer’s own. It bade her be careful of her health, and said that her courage promised a happy future. For six weeks had she read this letter daily--for six weeks of days she had watched for his return, and still she watched--sickening with despair one moment only to glow with hope the next. If she could only have a letter from him, if she could only live till the spring--why then? She got slowly up from the soft chair to which she had been led, and eagerly searched her wan face in a looking-glass. “How changed I am! yet the doctor has promised to cure me. Oh! I must have patience. And yet, did he not tell my waiting woman, Nannie, did I not hear him say I was much worse? Yet, only _much worse_; there is, then, still some hope, still a few short months to live, and if in that time he comes to me, I shall be saved--I SHALL BE SAVED. This is now new year’s day, then surely I may hope. And--and, besides, if I were really in danger, they all of them, the doctor, Nannie, my old friends, could not come laughing to my bedside as they do, nor would the doctor leave me.” Here she slowly wandered to the window and looked from it. “Ah! what joy is there not in a family, how beautiful now is that child playing with his toys--ah, I could die loving that little one.”

Suddenly her maid ran quickly into the room, her face full of joy. “Madame! madame!”

“Well! well!”

“You are strong to-day--you feel quite strong.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Pray be calm.”

“Yes, yes, but why?”

“I would prepare you--a sudden joy is so heavy to bear.”

“A joy? A joy for _me_? You have seen him--he--he is coming!”

With weak, rapid steps she staggered to the door, and called to him. Then he stood before her, pale and trembling. She fell upon his neck, and clung to him as though he were life. “No, no, it is not thee; not so much clemency can be shown to such as I am.”

“‘Tis I, Marguerite, and so repentant, and ashamed, so guilty, that I dared not to pass the threshold. I was afraid to enter; so I waited till Nannie came to the door, and then I spoke to her. My father has told me all. I fled, no one knew where, after that night; travelled night and day, without sleep, without hope, ever pursued by vague presentiments. If I had not found thee, I must have died, for should I not have been the cause of thy death? Tell me that you pardon me, that you forgive, too, my poor father.”

“_I_ pardon? _I_, the guilty one? And I did what I thought the best for thy happiness, even at the expense of my own. But now, thy father will not separate us again. Ah! look at me, I am not the creature that you left, yet--yet, I am still young, and I shall grow beautiful now that I am happy. We will forget the past and commence a new life from this good day.”

“Never to leave thee again--never. We will quit the house. Quit Paris for ever. We will be happy, for our future is our own.”

“Speak on, speak on, my soul burns at thy words, and each moment I gather new strength. I said this morning thou couldst save me, and I was right.”

Then she said they must go together, and kneel in the nearest church, and pray, and be grateful; and as she spoke she staggered to her feet again, and called to her maid to bring her a shawl and bonnet.

As the girl came forward, the youth had a good word for her.

“Oh,” continued the suffering woman, “Nannie and I talked of thee every day, and she always said thou wouldst come back, and she was right. So thou hast seen beautiful countries since that time. Ah! well, now we will see them together.”

“Marguerite, thou hast turned quite pale, and thou art so cold!”

“Oh, nothing, ’tis nothing,” she said, hurriedly, and nervously drawing a thick shawl about her. “The coming in of so much joy; why joy sometimes is as hard to bear as grief itself.”

And then she dropped exhausted upon the nearest chair.

“Dear Marguerite! speak, speak to me.”

“Be not afraid, you know I was always subject to these sudden fits of weakness, but they are gone almost directly. Watch me, thou seest I can smile already. And again I feel strong. ’Twas only the hope of life thrilling through me.”

Taking her thin hand he said, “how thou tremblest.”

“No, no. I _will_ go out. Nannie, give me a bonnet.”

He drew away from her for a moment in horror.

She again strove to stand, but could not. Then falling upon a seat, she tore off the shawl and cried “I am dying, I am dying.”

As he flung himself down by her side, the serving girl ran from the room, and sped away, crying out that she would go for the doctor.

“Yes, yes, bring him to me, tell him Armand is here--that I want to live--that I WILL live. Why, if thy return doth not save me, nothing can!”

“Oh, thou wilt live, dearest.”

“Sit down beside me, close to me, my husband, and hear me.” She spoke very quietly, very faintly. “But a moment since I raged against death. I am sorry for my fault. It is right that I should die, and I love death now that it has spared me to see thee once again. Ah, if my death had not been sure, thy father would never have bade thee come to me.”

“Marguerite, speak not of death. I shall go mad. Say no more that you will die, say rather that you desire to live.”

“Ah, what is my will? If I were a good girl, if I were honest, perhaps I should weep to leave the world, and leave _you_ behind, for then the future would be full of hope; my past life would then let me hope. Dying, thou wilt hold me in gentle remembrance; living, there would ever be a gloom upon our love. Believe me, all is for the best; what is done, is well done.”

In an agony of grief he clung about her.

“What then it is _I_ who must give _thee_ courage! Gently obey me. Open that little drawer, you will find there my portrait, when they told me I was pretty. Keep it, for it will help thee to remember me. But if some day, there cometh a kindly honest girl who will love and marry thee, as it should be, as I hope it may be, and if she should find this portrait, tell her it is the likeness of a friend who, if she may reach the obscurest corner of heaven, will pray for her happiness. If though she is jealous of the past (as we women are sometimes), if she demands from you this poor picture, place it in her hand, without fear or remorse--it will be but justice. And now I pardon thee the act, for a loving woman suffers so much when her love is not returned. Thou hast heard me. Dying--dying--yet happy. Tell them to talk about me sometimes--and they will--will they not? and--and--give me your hand. Oh, it is not hard to die when one dies happily. But what is this?”

She stood up for a moment, smiling gloriously; then she continued, “Why I suffer no more. All pain has left me. Has a new life been breathed into me? I feel as I have never felt. Am I to live--am I to live?”

Then she gently sat down again, leant back in her chair, and, sighing softly, became silent.

“She is sleeping,” said Armand to himself, his hand still pressed in hers. “Marguerite, Marguerite.”

Still her hand was clasped in his.

“Marguerite--Marguerite!” Still she slept.

He uttered a loud cry, and started to his feet. But his hand still remained clasped in hers.

“Marguerite,” he again cried, and with a terrible energy, he tore his hand from her grasp. Her own fell placidly to her side.

He flung himself down at her feet.

“Dead--dead--dead.”

DON PASQUALE. (DONIZETTI.)