Severity;
My heart’s so tender, should you charge me rough,
But use me gently, like a loving brother,
And search through all the secrets of my soul.—Otway.
Marguerite d’Auray, whose history the reader has become aquainted with, from the conversation between Captain Paul and Emanuel, was one of those delicate, pale beauties, who bear impressed upon their features the characteristic stamp of high birth. At the first glance, from the soft flexibility3 of her form, the whiteness of her skin, the shape of her hands and tapering4 fingers, with their thin, rosy5 and transparent6 nails, could be discerned that she was descended7 from an ancient race. It was evident that her feet, so small that both of them could have been placed in the foot-mark of most women, had never walked excepting on carpeted saloons or on the flowery turf of a park. There was in her movements, graceful8 as they were, a certain degree of haughtiness9 and pride, the attribute of all her family; in fine, she conveyed the impression that her soul, capable of making any sacrifice she had resolved upon, was very likely to rebel against tyranny; that devotedness10 was an instinctive11 virtue12 of her heart, while obedience13, in her view, was only an educational duty, so that the tempest wind which blew upon her, might make her bend down before it as a lily, but not as a reed.
And yet, when she appeared at the door, her features depicted14 such complete discouragement, her eyes had retained the traces of such burning tears, her whole frame seemed weighed down by such an overwhelming despair, that Emanuel saw at once, that she must have summoned all her strength to assume an appearance of calmness. On seeing him, she made a violent effort, and it was with a certain degree of nervous firmness that she approached the arm chair on which he was sitting. And then, seeing that the features of her brother retained the expression of impatience15, which they had assumed on being interrupted, she paused, and these two children of the same mother, looked at each other as strangers, the one with the eyes of ambition, the other with those of fear. By degrees, Marguerite resumed her courage.
“You have come at last, Emanuel! I was awaiting your return as the blind await the light, and yet from the manner in which you look upon your sister, it is easy to perceive that she was wrong in placing her hopes in you.”
“If my sifter16 has become, as she always ought to have been,” replied Emanuel, “that is to say, a submissive and respectful daughter, she will have understood what her rank and her position demand of her; she will have forgotten past events as things which never should have happened, and which consequently she ought not to remember, and she will have prepared herself for the new destiny which awaits her. If it is in this disposition17 that she now comes before me, my arms are open to receive her, and my sister is still my sister.”
“Listen attentively18 to what I am about to say,” said Marguerite, “and above all, consider it as a justification19 of myself, and not intended as a reproach to others. If my mother—and God forbid that I should accuse her, for a holy duty keeps her apart from us—if my mother had been, I was about to say, toward me as other mothers are towards their daughters, I should constantly have opened my heart to her as a book; at the first word traced upon it by any stranger hand, she would have warned me of my danger and I should have avoided it. Had I been educated in the world instead of being brought up like a poor wild flower beneath the shade of this old castle, I should have learned from infancy20 the value of the rank and position which you speak of to-day, and I should, perhaps, not have infringed21 the decorum they prescribe, or the duties they impose. In short, had I been tutored amidst women of the world, with their sparkling wit and frivolous22 hearts, whom I have so often heard you praise, but whom I never knew, had I been guilty of some faults from levity23, which love has caused me to commit—yes, I can well understand, I might then have forgotten the past, have sown upon the surface new recollections as flowers are planted upon tombs; and then, forgetting the place where they had grown, have formed of them a bouquet24 for a ball, or a bridal wreath. But unfortunately it is not so, Emanuel. I was told to beware, when it was too late to avoid the danger. They spoke25 to me of my rank and position in society, when I had already forfeited26 them, and I am now called upon to look forward to joy in the future, when my heart is drowned in the tears and misery27 of the past.”
“And the conclusion of all this,” bitterly rejoined Emanuel.
“The conclusion depends on you alone, Emanuel; it is in your power to render it, if not happy, at all events becoming. I cannot have recourse to my father. Alas28! I know not even if he could recognise his daughter. I have no hope in my mother; her glance freezes me, her words are death to me. You alone, Emanuel, were left to me, to whom I could say, brother: you are now the head of the family; it is to you alone that we are answerable for our honor. I have fallen from ignorance, and I have been punished for my fault as if it had been a wilful29 crime.”
“Well! well!”, murmured Emanuel impatiently, “what is it that you ask?”
“Brother, I demand, since a union with the only being I could have loved, is said to be impossible, I demand that my punishment be regulated according to my strength to bear it. My mother—may heaven pardon her!—tore my child from me as if she had never herself been a mother, and my child will be brought up far from me, neglected, and in obscurity. You, Emanuel, removed the father, as my mother did the child, and you were more cruel to him than the case required; I will not say as man to man, but even as a judge towards a guilty person. As to myself, you have both united to impose upon me a martyrdom more painful still. Well, then, Emanuel, I demand in the name of our childhood spent in the same cradle, of our youth passed under the same roof, in the name of the tender appellations30 of brother and sister, which nature bestowed31 upon us—I demand that a convent be opened to me, and that its gates should close upon me for ever. And in that convent, I swear to you, Emanuel, that every day upon my knees, before God, my forehead bent32 down to the stone-pavement, weighed down by my fault, I will entreat33 the Lord as a recompense for all my sufferings, to restore my father to reason, my mother to happiness, and to pour on you, Emanuel, honor, and glory and fortune. I swear to you, I will do this.”
“Yes; and the world will say that I had a sister whom I sacrificed to my fortune, whose property I inherited while she still lived! Why this is sheer madness!”
“Listen to me, Emanuel,” rejoined Marguerite, supporting herself on the back of a chair, near which she was standing34.
“Well?” replied Emanuel.
“When you have pledged your word, you keep it, do you not?”
“I am a gentleman.”
“I see it—perfectly—what then?”
“It is fastened by a key—the key which opens it is attached to a ring, and with that ring, I pledged my word that I would not be released from a promise I had made, until the ring should be brought back and returned to me.”
“And he who has the key of it?”
“Thanks to you, and to my mother, Emanuel, he is too far from us to ask it of him. He is at Cayenne.”
“Before you are married two months,” replied Emanuel, with an ironical36 smile, “that bracelet will be so irksome to you, that you will be the first to get rid of it.”
“I thought that I had told you it is locked upon my arm.”
“You know what people do when they have lost the key and cannot get into their house—they send for a locksmith.”
“Well! in my case, Emanuel,” replied Marguerite, rasing her voice, and extending her arm with a solemn gesture, “they must send for the executioner then, for this hand shall be cut off before I give it to another.”
“Silence! silence!” cried Emanuel, rising hastily, and looking anxiously towards the door of the inner room.
“And now I have said all I had to say,” rejoined Marguerite: “my only hope was in you, Emanuel; for although you cannot comprehend any deep-seated feeling, you are not cruel. I came to you in tears, look at me and you will see that it is true—I came to you to say, ‘Brother, this marriage is the misfortune, is the misery of my life—I would prefer a convent—I would prefer death to it—and you have not listened to me, or if you have listened, you have not understood me. Well, then, I will address myself to this man—I will appeal to his honor, to his delicacy37; if that should not be sufficient, I will tell him all; my love for another, my weakness, my fault, my crime! I will tell him that I have a child; that although he was torn from me, although I have never since seen him, although I am ignorant of his abode38, still my child exists. A child cannot die, without his death striking some chord within its mother’s heart. In short I will tell him, should it be necessary, that I still love another, that I cannot love him, and that I never will.”
“Well! tell him all this,” cried Emanuel, irritated by her persistence39, “and that evening we will sign the contract, and the next day you will be Baroness40 de Lectoure.”
“And then,” replied Marguerite, “then, I shall be truly the most miserable41 woman in existence, for I should then have a brother whom I should no longer love, and a husband for whom I should have no esteem42. Farewell, Emanuel; believe me this contract is not yet signed.”
And after saying these words, Marguerite withdrew with that deep and settled despair upon her features, which could not for a moment be mistaken. And Emanuel, convinced that he had not, as he had anticipated, obtained a victory, but that the struggle was still to be continued, gazed after her with an anxiety which was not devoid43 of tenderness.
After a few moments of silence, in which he sat pensive44 and motionless, he turned round and saw Captain Paul, whom he had completely forgotten, standing at the door of the study, and then considering the vital importance it was to him to get possession of the papers, which the captain had offered him, he hurriedly sat down at the table, took a pen and paper, and turning towards him, said—
“And now, sir, we are again alone, and there is nothing to prevent our at once concluding this affair. In what terms do you wish the promise to be drawn45 up? Dictate46 them, I am ready to write them down.”
“It is now useless,” coldly replied the captain.
“And why so?”
“I have changed my mind.”
“How is that?” said Emanuel, rising, alarmed at the consequences which he perceived might arise from words which he was far from expecting.
“I will give,” replied Paul, with the calmness of a fixed47 determination, “the hundred thousand livres to the child, and I will find a husband for your sister.”
“Who are you, then,” said Emanuel, advancing a step towards him, “who are you, sir, who thus disposes of a young girl who is my sister, who has never seen you, and who does not even know that you exist?”
“Who am I!” replied Paul, smiling; “upon my honor, I know no more upon that subject than you do, for my birth is a secret which is only to be revealed to me when I have attained48 my twenty-fifth year.”
“This evening, sir. I place myself at your disposal from to-morrow morning, to give you all the information you may require of me,” and saying these words, Paul bowed.
“I allow you to depart, sir, but you will understand it is upon the condition that we meet again.”
“I was about to propose that condition, count, and I thank you for having anticipated me.”
He then bowed to Emanuel a second time, and left the room. At the castle gate, Paul found his horse and servant, and resumed the route to Port Louis. When he had got out of sight of the castle, he alighted from his horse, and directed his steps towards a fisherman’s hut, built upon the beach. At the door of this house, seated upon a bench, and in a sailor’s’ dress, was a young man so deeply absorbed in thought, that he did not observe Paul’s approach. The captain placed his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, the other started, looked at him, and became frightfully pale, although the open and joyful50 countenance51 of Paul, indicated that he was far from being the bearer of bad news.
“Well!” said Paul to him, “I have seen her.”
“Who?” demanded the young man.
“Marguerite, by heaven!”
“And——”
“She is charming.”
“I did not ask you that.”
“She loves you still.”
“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed the young man, throwing himself into Paul’s arms, and bursting into tears.
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1
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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7
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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8
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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9
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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devotedness
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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sifter
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| n.（用于筛撒粉状食物的）筛具，撒粉器；滤器；罗圈；罗 | |
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17
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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21
infringed
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的过去式和过去分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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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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26
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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28
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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30
appellations
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| n.名称，称号( appellation的名词复数 ) | |
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31
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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41
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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43
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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44
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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45
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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46
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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47
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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48
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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49
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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50
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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51
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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