And as the Marquis was helping2 her through the corridor leading to her own room on the lower floor,—they had been considerate enough to humor her distrust of staircases, "My dear son," she said, "you will no longer have the trouble of carrying on your arm your poor little bundle of a mother. You did it very often when you were with us at the other house, and with you I did not seem afraid; but it pained me to give you the trouble."
"And I—I shall regret that lost pleasure," said Urbain.
"How elegant and aristocratic this reception is!" resumed the Marchioness, having at last reached her apartment; "and this Caroline who is its queen! I am astonished at the beauty and grace the little creature has."
"Mother," said the Marquis, "are you really very tired just now? and if I should ask fifteen minutes' conversation with you—"
"Let us talk, my son, by all means!" cried the Marchioness. "I was tired only because I could not talk with those I love. And then I was afraid of seeming ridiculous, in case I said too much about my happiness. Let us speak of it, let us speak of your brother, and of yourself as well! Come, will you not bring a second day like this into my life?"
"Dear mother," said the Marquis, kneeling before her and taking both her hands in his, "it depends upon you alone whether I, too, shall soon have my day of supreme3 joy."
"Ah! what do you say? Truly? Tell me quickly then!"
"Yes, I will speak. This is the moment I was waiting for; I have held myself in reserve, and turned all my longings4 toward this blessed hour, when my brother, reconciled to God, to truth, and to himself, could take a wife worthy5 to be your daughter. And when such a moment came I intended to say this: Mother, I also can present you with a second daughter, more lovely than the first and no less pure. For a year, for more than a year, I have devotedly6 loved a most perfect being. She has suspected this perhaps, but she does not know it; I have so much respect and esteem7 for her that without your consent I well knew I should never gain her own. Besides, she gave me to understand this sharply one day, one single day, when my secret came near escaping me in spite of myself, four months ago, and I have since kept strict silence in her presence and in yours. It was my duty not to plunge8 you into anxieties which, thank God! no longer exist. Your fate, my brother's, and my own are henceforth secure. Now, comfortably rich, I may properly refuse to enlarge my fortune, and I can marry according to my inclinations9. You have a sacrifice to make for me nevertheless; but your motherly love will not refuse, for it involves the happiness of my whole life. This lady belongs to an honorable family; you made sure of this yourself before you admitted her to intimacy10 with you; but she does not belong to one of those ancient and illustrious lines, for which you have a preference that I do not mean to oppose. I said you would have to make a sacrifice for me; will you do it? Do you love me enough? Yes, mother, yes, your heart, which I can feel beating, will yield without regret, in its vast maternal11 tenderness, to the prayer of a son who worships you."
"Ah, bless me! you are speaking of Caroline," cried the Marchioness, trembling. "Stop, stop, my son! The shock is rude, and I was not prepared for it."
"O, do not say that!" resumed the Marquis, warmly; "if the shock is too rude, I do not want you to bear it. I will give it all up; I will never marry—"
"Never marry! Why, that would be worse still! Come, come, do let me know where I am! It is, perhaps, easier to bear than it seems. It is not so much her birth. Her father was knighted: that's nothing very great; but if that was really all! There is this poverty which has fallen upon her. You may tell me that but for you I should have fallen into it myself; but I should have died, while she—she has courage to work for a living, and to accept a kind of domestic service—"
"Heavens!" cried the Marquis, "would you make a blemish12 of what is the crowning merit of her life?"
"No, no, not I," returned the Marchioness, eagerly, "quite the contrary; but the world is so—"
"So unjust and so blind!"
"That is true too, and I was wrong to let it influence me. Come! we are in the midst of love-matches, so I have only one more objection to make. Caroline is twenty-five years old—"
"And I am now over thirty-four myself."
"It is not that. She is young enough, if her heart is as pure, as unsophisticated as your own; but she has been in love before."
"No. I know her whole life. I have conversed13 with her sister; she was to have married, but she has never really loved."
"Still, between this projected marriage and the time when she came to us some years must have elapsed—"
"I have inquired about this. I know her life day by day and almost hour by hour. If I tell you that Mlle de Saint-Geneix is worthy of you and of me, it is because I know it. A foolish passion has not blinded me. No, a serious love based upon reflection, upon comparison with all other women, upon certainty, has given me strength to keep silence and to wait, wishing to convince you on good grounds."
The Marquis talked with his mother some time longer, and he triumphed. He used all the eloquence14 of passion, and all that filial tenderness of which he had given so many proofs. His mother was touched and yielded.
"Well, now," cried the Marquis, "will you let me call her here on your behalf? Are you willing that, for the first time,—in your presence, at your feet,—I should tell her that I love her? See, I yet dare not tell her alone! One cold look, one word of distrust, would break my heart. Here, in your presence, I can speak, I will convince her."
"My son," said the Marchioness, "you have my promise. And you see," added she, taking him in her feeble arms, "if I have not given it with very impulsive15 joy, it is at least with tenderness unlimited16 and unalloyed. I ask, I exact one single thing; that is, that you will take twenty-four hours to reflect upon your position. It is new, for here you are in possession of my consent, which you thought more than doubtful an hour ago. Up to that time you believed yourself parted from Mlle de Saint-Geneix by obstacles that you did not think of overcoming so easily, perhaps, and this may have given illusive17 strength to your feelings for her. Don't shake your head! What do you know about it yourself? Besides, what I ask is a very little thing,—twenty-four hours without speaking to her, that is all. For myself, I feel the need of accepting completely before God the decision I have just reached; that my face, my agitation18, my tears, may not lead Caroline to suspect that it has cost me something—"
"O yes, you are right," exclaimed the Marquis. "If she suspected that, she never would let me speak to her. To-morrow, then, dear mother. Twenty-four hours, did you say? It is very long! And then,—it is one o'clock in the morning. Will you be up again to-morrow night?"
"Yes, for we have a concert to-morrow at the apartments of the young Duchess. You see why we must sleep to-night. Are you going back to the ball-room?"
"Ah! please let me: she is there still, and she is so lovely with her white dress and the pearls. I have not looked at her enough, really. I did not dare—now only shall I truly see her."
"Well! make this sacrifice for me in your turn, not to look at her again,—not to speak to her before to-morrow evening. Promise me, as you have no idea of sleeping, to think of her, of me, and of yourself, all alone, for a few hours, and then again to-morrow morning. You are not to come here before dinner-time. You must not; promise me!"
The Marquis promised and kept his word; but the solitude19, the darkness, the pain of not seeing Caroline, and of leaving her surrounded by the notice and homage20 of others, only increased his impatience21, only fed the fire of his passion. Besides, his mother's precautions, although wise in themselves, were of no use to a man who had been reflecting and deciding so long.
Caroline was surprised not to see the Marquis reappear, and was one of the first to withdraw,—trying to persuade herself she had not been mistaken in thinking he would soon recover his self-control. She was, as will be seen, far from suspecting the truth.
Madame d'Arglade had her spies at this ball, and among others a man who desired to marry her, a secretary of legation, who, the next morning, reported to her the great success of the "young lady companion." The devotion of the Marquis had not escaped malevolent22 eyes, and the diplomatic apprentice23 had even scented24 out an interesting conversation between the Marquis and his mother, as they left the room together.
Léonie listened to this report with apparent indifference25; but she said to herself it was time to act, and at noon she was inquiring for the Marchioness at the very moment Caroline appeared.
"One minute, my dear friend," said she to Mlle de Saint-Geneix, "let me go in before you do; it is an urgent matter,—a kindness to be done for some poor people who wish to remain unknown."
Once alone with the Marchioness, she apologized for coming to speak about the poor in these days of rejoicing. "They are, on the contrary, the days of the poor," replied the generous lady; "speak. One of my great joys now will be that I can do more good than I could awhile ago."
Léonie had her pretext26 all prepared. When she had presented her request, and put the Marchioness down on her subscription-list, she pretended that she was in haste to go, so as to be invited to stay a little while. It is useless to relate the skilful27 turns and tricks by which she maliciously28 contrived29 to reach the interesting point of the conversation. These mean-spirited attacks, unhappily too common, will be remembered by all those who have ever felt their cruel effects; and they are very few who have been forgotten by calumny30.
They naturally spoke31 of Gaëtan's happiness and about the perfections of the young Duchess. "What I love most in her," said Léonie, "is that she isn't jealous of any one, not even of—Oh! beg pardon, the name was just going to escape me."
She returned to this subject several times, refusing to mention the name until the Marchioness began to grow uneasy. At last it did escape her, and the name was that of Caroline.
She hastened to take it back, to say her tongue had tripped; but in ten minutes the blow had been dealt by a sure hand, and the Marchioness had drawn32 from her a solemn asseveration that she had seen, with her own eyes seen, at Séval, the Duke conducting Caroline back to her room at daybreak, and holding both her hands in his, talking to her eagerly, for three good minutes, at the foot of the Renard stairway.
Upon this she made the Marchioness, whose word she knew was sacred, promise not to betray her, not to make her enemies,—because so far she had never had any; saying she was in despair at the persistence33 which had drawn this disclosure from her, that she would have done better to disobey the Marchioness outright34, that at heart she really loved Caroline, and that, after all, since she had answered for her character, it was, perhaps, her duty to confess that she had been mistaken.
"Bah!" exclaimed the Marchioness thoroughly35 mistress of herself, "all this is not so serious. She may have been very good otherwise, and yet have been impressed by this irresistible36 Duke. He is so skilful! Have no fear. I am to know nothing of this, and I will act at the proper time and place, if need be, without its appearing at all."
When Caroline entered just as Léonie was going, the latter extended her hand with a good-natured air, telling her that the news of her triumph the evening before had reached her even, and that she offered her congratulations.
Caroline found the Marchioness so pale as to arouse her anxiety, and on asking the cause she received a very cool reply. "It is the fatigue37 of all this festivity," said the Marchioness; "it is nothing. Be so good as to read me my letters."
While Caroline was reading Madame de Villemer did not listen. She was thinking of what she was going to do. She was concealing38 deep indignation against the young girl, a violent grief at the blow she would have to inflict39 on the Marquis; and with this maternal sorrow mingled40 the involuntary satisfaction of a titled lady at being released from a promise which had cost her much, and to which, for twelve hours, she had not recurred41 without a shudder42.
When she had reached her decision, she interrupted the reading harshly, saying, in an icy tone, "That is enough, Mlle de Saint-Geneix. I want to speak with you seriously. One of my sons, I need not say which, seems lately to have entertained sentiments for you which you surely have not encouraged?"
Caroline turned as pale as the Marchioness; but, strong in her own conscience, she replied without hesitation43, "I am ignorant of what you assert, Madame. Neither of your sons has ever expressed to me any sentiments at which I could be seriously alarmed."
The Marchioness took this reply for an audacious falsehood. She flung at the poor girl one contemptuous look, and for a moment was silent; then she resumed, "I shall not speak of the Duke; it is entirely44 useless to defend yourself on this point."
"I have no complaint to make of him or of his brother," replied Caroline.
"I suppose not!" said the Marchioness, with a withering45 smile; "but as for me, I should have good cause for complaint if you had the presumption—"
Caroline interrupted the Marchioness with a violence she could not control. "I have shown no presumption," cried she, "and no one in the world has a right to speak to me as if I were to blame, or even ridiculous—Pardon, Madame," added she, seeing the Marchioness almost frightened by her excitement; "I have interrupted you. I have spoken rudely. Forgive me. I love you,—I love you so that I would give you my life willingly. You see why your suspicion hurts me so that I lose my temper. But I ought to control myself; I will control myself! I see there is some misunderstanding between us. Be so good as to explain—or question me. I will answer with all the calmness in my power."
"My dear Caroline," said the Marchioness, more gently, "I do not question you. I warn you. It is not my intention to condemn46 you or sadden you with useless questions. You were mistress of your own heart—"
"No, Madame, I was not."
"Indeed! Very well, the truth comes out in spite of you," said the Marchioness, with a return of her ironical47 disdain48.
"No, a hundred times no!" rejoined Caroline, indignantly. "That is not what I mean. Knowing that a thousand duties, some more serious than others, forbade me to dispose of it, I have given it to no one."
The Marchioness looked at Caroline with astonishment49. "How well she understands lying!" thought Madame de Villemer. Then she said to herself that, so far as the Duke was concerned, this poor girl was not obliged to betray herself; that the feeling she had entertained for him ought to be regarded just as if it had never been, since, after all, she had made him no trouble and claimed no rights detrimental50 to his marriage.
This idea, which had but just occurred to her, suddenly mollified the rancor51 of the Marchioness; and when she saw her silence was wounding Caroline, whose eyes were full of scalding tears, she returned to her friendship for her, and even to a new kind of esteem.
"My dear little one," said she, extending her hands to her, "forgive me! I have hurt your feelings; I have explained myself wretchedly. Let us even admit I was unjust for a moment. In point of fact I understand you better than you think, and I appreciate your conduct. You are unselfish, prudent52, generous, and wise. If you have chanced—to think more of certain attentions than was for your own happiness, it is none the less certain you have always stood ready to make sacrifices on occasion, and you would be ready to do the same again; it is so, is it not?"
Caroline did not comprehend, and could not comprehend that in all this there was an allusion53 to Gaëtan's marriage. She thought only his brother's case was called in question; and as she had never relaxed her self-control for a moment, she felt as if the Marchioness had no right to pry54 into the painful secrets of her heart. "I have never had any sacrifice to make," replied she, haughtily55. "If you have orders for me give them, Madame, and do not think it any merit on my part to obey you."
"You mean to say, and you do say, my dear, that you have never responded to the sentiments of the Marquis?"
"I have never known them."
"You had never suspected them?"
"No, Madame; and I do not believe in them! Who could have made you suppose the contrary? Certainly not the Marquis himself."
"Well, pardon me, but it was he. You see what confidence I have in you. I tell you the truth. I trust to your generosity56 without hesitation. My son loves you and thinks he may have won your love in return."
"Monsieur the Marquis is strangely mistaken," replied Caroline, wounded by an avowal57 which, presented thus, was almost an offence.
"Ah! you are telling the truth now, I see that," cried the Marchioness, deceived by the pride of Mlle de Saint-Geneix; and wishing to control her by means of her self-respect, the old lady kissed her on the forehead. "Thank you, my dear child," said she, "you restore me to life. You are sincere; you are too noble to punish my doubts by trifling58 with my peace. Very well; now let me tell my son Urbain that he has been only dreaming, that this marriage is impossible, not through my opposition59, but through yours."
This imprudent request enlightened Caroline. She understood the admirable delicacy60 which had led the Marquis to consult his mother before declaring his feelings to her; but she was not deluded61 by this discovery, for she saw how much the Marchioness disliked the idea of their marriage. She attributed this severity to the ambition of Madame de Villemer, which she had known perfectly62 and feared for a long time. She was very far from thinking that, after having yielded the point with a good grace, the Marchioness was now withdrawing her consent because she believed in the stain of a fault. "Madame de Villemer," replied she, with a certain severity, "you are never wrong in the eyes of your son. I understand that; and I fear no reproaches from him, if, on my own part, I decline the honor he would do me. Over and above this you can tell him what you think best; I shall not be here to contradict you."
"What! do you want to leave me?" cried Madame de Villemer, alarmed at a conclusion which she did not expect so suddenly, although she had secretly desired it. "No, no, that is impossible! It would ruin everything. My son loves you with an earnestness,—whose future consequences I do not fear, if you will help me to contend against them, but whose violence at the first moment I do fear. Stop! He would follow you, perhaps; he is eloquent63, he would triumph over your resistance, he would bring you back, and I should be forced to tell him—what I never want to tell him."
"You will never have to say 'No' to him!" replied Caroline, still under a delusion64, and nowise suspecting this menace of her pretended misconduct hanging over her head; "it is I who should tell him, is it not? Well then I will write to him, and my letter shall pass through your hands."
"But his grief—his anger, perhaps—have you thought of that?"
"Madame, let me go away!" replied Caroline, desperately65, for the thought of this grief touched her heart. "I did not come here to suffer in this way. I was brought here without even being told that you had sons. Let me leave you without trouble as well as without blame. I will never see M. de Villemer again; this is all I can promise. If he should follow me—"
"Do not doubt that he will! For Heaven's sake, speak lower! What if any one should hear you! In case he should follow you, what would you do?"
"I shall go where he cannot follow me. Permit me to arrange this according to my own judgment66. In an hour I will return to take leave of you, Madame de Villemer."
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1
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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intimacy
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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blemish
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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unlimited
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illusive
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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homage
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impatience
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malevolent
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apprentice
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scented
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indifference
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pretext
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skilful
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maliciously
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contrived
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calumny
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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drawn
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persistence
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outright
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thoroughly
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irresistible
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fatigue
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concealing
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inflict
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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shudder
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hesitation
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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ironical
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disdain
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astonishment
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detrimental
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rancor
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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54
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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55
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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56
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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57
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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58
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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59
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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60
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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61
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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63
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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64
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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65
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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66
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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