Amaury E-Book

Dumas Alexandre

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

First published in 1843, this tragic-comic romance novel is set in the countryside outside Paris in 1838 and tells the story of a dying consumptive.

Leseprobe

Alexandre Dumas

AMAURY

Translated by Alfred Allinson

Copyright

First published in 1843

Copyright © 2020 Classica Libris

Introduction

“When I write finis to one book, it merely means I am beginning another,” Dumas says somewhere of himself, and his literary “output” for the year 1844 amply justifies the statement. This was the “great year,” — the year of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers; but it saw the birth of quite a brood of minor romances as well — Fernande, Gabriel Lambert, Sylvandire, and last, but not least, Amaury.

The book is not, of course, one of the “great” romances, in the sense in which The Three Musketeers, or The Chevalier (l’Harmental, or The Chevalier de Maison Rouge, or The Lady of Monsoreau, deserve that title; but it is a pathetic and beautiful story.

The tale is supposed to be told, or rather read aloud, under the following circumstances: Monsieur le Comte de M —, an old aristocrat who has survived the Revolution and all subsequent and successive bouleversements, and has known Rousseau and Voltaire, Franklin and André Chenier, Talleyrand and Madame de Staël, Chateaubriand and Madame Récamier, the Empress Josephine and the Duchesse de Berri — still holds one of those “salons” where discussions were held de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis with all the wit and wisdom of cultivated Frenchmen and Frenchwomen and all the urbanity of the ancien régime. He writes on his invitation cards “Conversation” where commonplace hostesses put “Dancing”, “the word keeps bankers and stockbrokers away, but it attracts wits who like to talk and poets who like to listen.” The Count “is one of the last and one of the most delightful representatives of the poor much-maligned Eighteenth Century. There are not a great many things he believes in himself, but, unlike the majority of free-thinkers, he has no sort of wish to make other people share his incredulity.”

On one of his evenings the question is started, “Meur-ton d’amour?” — “Do people die of love?” By way of answer the Count directs his secretary to read aloud to the company a manuscript bequeathed to him by a dead friend. “They are written experiences,” he explains, “from that friend’s life. He was a famous Parisian physician; therefore these memoirs are nothing but — pardon the expression — a long post-mortem examination. Oh! do not be alarmed, ladies — a mental post-mortem performed not with the scalpel, but the pen, one of those post-mortems of the heart at which you so love to assist.” With this document was combined another diary, that kept by Doctor D’Avrigny’s ward and his daughter’s fiancé, Amaury de Léoville; the two together give the life-story of the loves of Madeleine d’Avrigny and Amaury, the lingering death of the former and the eventual union of the latter with his lost darling’s cousin and friend, Antoinette de Valgenceuse.

In connection with the first publication of the book as a feuilleton in La Presse, Dumas was asked by Monsieur de Noailles, whose daughter was “poitrinaire,” like the heroine of the romance, and who was so intensely interested in the successive instalments of the story as seriously to aggravate the symptoms of her illness, to suspend the publication, if Madeleine was to die. This the kind-hearted author did, and even took the trouble, some versions of the story add, to improvise in manuscript a miraculous recovery and happy ending for the special benefit of Mlle, de Noailles. Publication was only resumed after her death.

The details of the disease and its progress had been studied by Dumas from the case of a companion of his own boyhood, Félix Deviolaine, son of his gusty-tempered relative, Monsieur Deviolaine, Inspector of the Royal Forest of Villers-Cotterets (it was cut down subsequently by Louis Philippe), whose house and household, and especially his girls — Cécile, who saved Dumas from being made a priest, and the rest — young Dumas’ playmates and tormentors, were such important factors in the future great man’s early days. The lad in question went through all the phases of pulmonary consumption, but eventually, almost by a miracle, recovered.

Dumas is said to have written Amaury in collaboration with Paul Meurice. Well and good! very likely he did. But to say, because in the Introductory portion, of which we have given the gist above, the Comte de M —, explaining the facts about the manuscript his secretary is going to read, declares “you must be under the impression that I am the author of this story, therefore I wish it to be clearly understood that I did not invent a word of it,” to say on the strength of this that Dumas disavows the authorship, is surely to confound fact and fiction.

The book was originally published — after running through the pages of La Presse — as part of the Bibliothique des Romans Nouveaux issued by Hippolyte Souverain, of which it fills four volumes — Paris, 1844.

Amaury

One thing there is, peculiar to France and all but unknown in all countries of Europe — to wit the art of conversation.

In all parts of the world people discuss, they talk, they argue; but only in France do they converse.

When staying in Italy, in Germany, or in England, I would sometimes announce at a moment’s notice that I was starting next day for Paris; then my friends, astounded at so sudden a decision, would ask:

“But what are you going to do in “Paris?” To which I would reply: “I am going to enjoy a bout of conversation.”

At this everybody would be still further amazed, marvelling how a man, wearied out with talking and hearing others talk, should be taking a journey of a thousand miles, merely to have some conversation.

Only my fellow-countrymen understood, and they would say enviously, “Lucky dog! ah, you lucky dog!”

Nay! Sometimes one or two of my French companions in exile who could get away with least difficulty, would slip their chain and come with me.

I know of nothing more delightful than these little gatherings, in the corner of an elegant salon, when five or six congenial guests toss the ball of conversation lightly to and fro. All is governed by the whim of the moment; now an idea is seized and followed up, but only so long as it is interesting, to be thrown aside directly its zest is exhausted; now a fresh topic is taken up, which in its turn broadens and deepens under the jests of some, the contradictions of others, the wit of all. Then, suddenly, having reached the height of its brilliance, the zenith of its development, it too disappears, melts away, bursts like a soap-bubble, at the touch of the hostess, who, carrying a cup of tea in her hand, draws near, a living shuttle that passes from group to group, guiding the silver thread of general conversation, asking the news, consulting opinions, suggesting problems, and from time to time compelling each little coterie to throw its word into that cask of the Danaïds we call conversation.

There are in Paris five or six such salons as I have been describing, where there is no dancing, no singing, no card-playing, and yet where no one takes his leave before three or four o’clock in the morning.

One such salon is that of my old friend Count de M —; instead of calling him my old friend, I should rather have said an old friend of my father’s, as Count de M —, who is careful never to tell his age, and whom certainly no one would ever think of questioning on that point, must be between sixty-five and sixty-eight. Though, thanks to the great care he takes of himself, he does not look a day more than fifty. He is one of the last and one of the most delightful representatives of the poor much-maligned eighteenth century. There are not a great many things he believes in himself, but unlike the majority of free-thinkers, he has no sort of wish to make other people share his incredulity.

He is the victim of two conflicting principles, one which emanates from the heart, the other from the head. Selfish in theory, he is naturally of a generous disposition. Born in the age of noblemen and philosophers, in him the aristocrat is stronger than the philosopher, though he has been fortunate enough to see all the great and intellectual lights of the last century. Rousseau called him citizen; Voltaire predicted that he would be a poet; Franklin told him to be an honest man.

He can tell of the horrors of ’93 as the Comte de Saint-Germain talked of the proscriptions of Sylla, and the butcheries of Nero. He has seen them all pass by one after the other, with an equal distrust for them all — murderers and massacres, men of September and men of the guillotine, first in their car of triumph, then in their cart of ignominy. He has known Florian and André Chénier, Demoustier and Madame de Staël, the Chevalier de Bertin and Chateaubriand; he has kissed the hand of Madame Tallien, of Madame Récamier, of the Princess Borghèse, of Joséphine, and of the Duchesse de Berri. He has seen the rise of Bonaparte and the fall of Napoleon. The Abbé Maury called him his pupil, and Monsieur de Talleyrand his disciple; he is a dictionary of dates, an epitome of facts, a hand-book of anecdotes, an inexhaustible mine of witticisms. To make sure of keeping his reputation for superiority, he has always refused to write his experiences; he will only relate them.

Therefore, as I was saying, his salon is one of the five or six in Paris where, though there is neither card-playing, nor music, nor dancing, no one leaves before three or four o’clock in the morning. True, on his invitation cards is written with his own hand: “Conversation,” where others usually have printed: “Dancing.”

The word keeps bankers and stockbrokers away; but it attracts wits who like to talk, poets who like to listen, and misanthropes of every sort, who despise all the entreaties of enterprising hostesses, never venture to take the floor, and pretend to believe that a valse à trois temps is so called because it is three times as impossible as any other dance.

Moreover he has a rare tact in turning the conversation by a word from subjects likely to wound other people’s feelings, and of cutting short discussions which threaten to become tedious.

A young man with long hair and a long beard was one day discussing Robespierre in his presence; he praised his system, lamented his untimely death and predicted his ultimate rehabilitation. “Future generations have yet to record their verdict.”

“Luckily for us, past generations did record theirs — and it was the guillotine,” replied the Count de M —, and there the subject dropped.

Now about a month ago I happened to be at one of these evenings when, all other topics of conversation being pretty well exhausted, somebody, probably not knowing what else to talk about, started the subject of love.

It happened to be just one of those moments when conversation becomes general, and when words are bandied about from one end of the room to the other.

“Who speaks of love?” asked Count de M —.

“Doctor P —,” replied a voice.

“And what has he to say about it?”

“He says it is a mild form of congestion of the brain, which may easily be cured by diet, leeches and bleeding.”

“Do you really believe that, doctor?”

“Yes! though of course to possess the object of one’s love is even better; it is a quicker and more certain cure.”

“But, for the sake of argument, let us suppose that one’s love is not returned, and that the patient does not go to you, who have discovered the universal panacea, but to a fellow practitioner, not so learned as yourself in the disease, what then? Do folks die of love?”

“Egad! That is a question which the patient is better able to answer than the physician,” retorted the doctor. “Come, gentlemen, answer. Ladies, what is your opinion?”

One can easily understand that on so interesting a subject opinions were divided.

The young folk, who had long years before them in which to die of despair, answered yes; the old people, to whom time now could bring nothing worse than influenza or gout, answered no. The women tossed their heads doubtfully, but said nothing — too proud to say no, too truthful to say yes.

Each one was so anxious to express his own views that it ended in a general misunderstanding.

“Well!” said Count de M —, “I see I must help you out of the difficulty.”

“You!”

“Yes! I.”

“How can you do that?”

“By telling you what is the difference between a love that kills and a love that does not kill.”

“Then there are different kinds of love?” asked a woman, who of all the company present was perhaps the least justified in asking this particular question.

“Yes, Madam,” answered the Count, “but at present I think there would hardly be time to enumerate them all.

“Let us therefore go back to my original proposition. It is nearly midnight; therefore we have still two or three hours before us. You are all cosily ensconced in armchairs, and the fire burns bright on the hearth. Outside, it is a cold night, and snow is falling. At last, therefore, fate is kind in providing me with an audience such as I have long waited for. I have got you, and I won’t let you escape. Auguste, see that the doors are shut, and bring me the MS.; you know the one.”

A young man got up, he was Count de M —’s secretary, a distinguished-looking young fellow, whose position in the house, it was rumoured, was by right of a closer relationship than was apparent; and, certainly, the fatherly affection with which Count de M — regarded him gave some colour to the rumour.

Eagerness and impatience were manifested by all directly he mentioned the word “manuscript.”

“Pardon me,” said the Count, “but no novel ever begins without a preface, and I have not yet come to the end of mine. You might be under the impression that I am the author of this story, therefore I wish it to be clearly understood that I have never invented one word of it. This is how the story I am going to read you came to my knowledge. As executor to a friend of mine who died eighteen months ago, I was looking over his papers, and, in doing so, came across these memoirs; but let me say at once, they are written experiences from his own life, not from the lives of others. He was a doctor; therefore, pardon the expression, these memoirs are nothing but a long post-mortem examination. Oh! do not be alarmed, ladies; a mental post-mortem, a post-mortem performed not with the scalpel, but with the pen, one of those post-mortems of the heart at which you so love to assist.

“A second diary, in a different handwriting, was mixed up with his reminiscences, just as the biography of Kressler is mixed up with the lucubrations of Murr, the cat. I recognised this handwriting at once; it was that of his ward, a young man whom I had often met at his house.

“These two manuscripts, which, taken separately, made but an unintelligible story, when read together formed a complete whole. I have read them, and to me the story was full of — what shall I say? — full of pathos. I was deeply interested in it, and seeing I am generally looked upon as a scoffer (you all know that I have the reputation of being one, happy they who can boast of any special reputation) — I say, considering I am a scoffer, and that my interest is not often keenly awakened, it seemed to me that as this story had so touched my heart — you must pardon my making use of the word, doctor, I am well aware that, in that sense, there is no such thing as a heart, but unless I keep to the ordinary term I may not be understood — I thought then that, if this story had so touched the heart of an old scoffer like myself, it might make a like impression on others; then, to be perfectly frank, a little touch of vanity was mixed up with the matter too. I was afraid that, if I committed this to writing, my reputation as a man of letters might melt into thin air, as did that of M — — I cannot recall his name for the moment, but you all know whom I mean, he has since become a minister of State. I therefore classified the two diaries, numbered each in the order in which it should be read to make a connected story; then I erased the real names, and replaced them by others of my own invention; lastly I substituted the third person for the first, and one fine day awoke to find myself the possessor of a couple of volumes.”

“I suppose your reason for not having them published is because some of the people are still alive?”

“No! Good Heavens, no! That is not why. Of the two principal characters, one died eighteen months ago: the other left Paris a fortnight ago. Now, I am quite sure you are all either too busy or too forgetful to recognise the picture of either the dead or the absent, however true to life it may be. You must see, therefore, that that cannot have been the motive which restrained me.”

“What was it, then?”

“Hush! not a word of this to Lamennais, or Béranger, or Alfred de Vigny, or Soulié or Balzac, or Deschamps, or Sainte-Beuve, or Dumas, but I am promised the next vacant seat in the Academy on the one condition, that I go on writing nothing. Once my seat secured, I am free to do as I please.”

“Auguste, dear boy,” continued the Count, addressing himself to the young fellow who had just re-entered the room with the manuscript, “sit down and read it out to us; we are ready to listen.”

Auguste sat down, then there was a general clearing of throats, moving of chairs, settling on sofas, and when everyone was comfortable, the young man, in the midst of a solemn silence, proceeded to read what follows.

Chapter 1

Towards the beginning of May, in the year 1838, as ten o’clock was just striking, the courtyard door of a large house in the Rue des Mathurins opened, and a young man, whose slender limbs and rather long neck betrayed his English origin, rode out mounted on a fine chestnut horse; behind him, and from the same entrance of the same house, followed a groom, dressed in black, who rode at a suitable distance. He too was mounted on a thoroughbred, though a lover of horseflesh would have easily discerned that his horse was not of so pure a blood as his master’s.

This horseman, who only needed to be seen to be instantly recognised for what, in the parlance our English neighbours across the water, the world calls a “lion,” was a young fellow between twenty-three and twenty-four, whose dress was marked by that simplicity and elegance which distinguishes those of gentle birth, and the habit of which can never be acquired by education.

It is but fair to say that his looks were in perfect harmony with his dress and appearance, and it would be difficult to meet with anyone more distinguished and refined-looking than this man, with his face framed in black hair and black whiskers, and to which a colourless, yet fresh and youthful, complexion lent a special air of distinction. The young man, last scion of one of the oldest families under the monarchy, was the proud possessor of one of those ancient names which are now rapidly dying out and will soon figure only in history: his name was Amaury de Léoville.

Now, if after describing his outward appearance, we pass on to a more intimate description, from the physical to the moral, from what seems to what is, we shall see that the calmness of his face is in harmony with the state of his heart, of which it is the reflex. The smile, which from time to time curves his lips, and which is but an answer to his thoughts, is the smile of a happy man.

Let us follow this fortunate youth, so richly endowed by fate that he is at once the possessor of good birth and good means, youth and distinction, handsome looks and happiness, for he is the hero of our story.

On leaving home he set his horse at a canter; and, keeping the same pace, reached the Boulevard, passed the Madeleine, threaded his way along the Faubourg St. Honoré, and arrived at the Rue d’Angoulême.

Once there, with a light touch on the rein, he slackened speed, whilst his hitherto careless and indifferent gaze became riveted on a certain point in the street he was just entering.

This was a charming house situated between a forecourt, full of flowers and enclosed by iron railings, and one of those large gardens which the industrial Paris of these times sees day by day disappearing, only to be replaced by those huge stone barracks, without air, without space, without greenery, which we so inappropriately call houses. On reaching this spot, his horse drew up of its own accord, as though from force of habit, but after a long look at two of the windows, the curtains of which were closely drawn as if to defy too curious inquiry from without, Amaury continued his way, not, however, without looking back more than once, not without satisfying himself by consulting his watch that the hour had not yet arrived which would open the doors to him.

The only thing therefore for our young hero to do was to kill time: so he dismounted at Lepage’s Gallery, and amused himself by shooting first at dolls, then at eggs, and finally at a minute mark.

All games of skill arouse the wish to excel. So in spite of the fact that our young marksman had no other spectators but the loaders, as he was an admirable shot, and they had nothing else to do than to stand round and watch him, he was able to dispose very satisfactorily of three quarters of an hour or so at this sport. Then he remounted, galloped off towards the Bois, and in a few minutes found himself at the Avenue Madrid. There he met one of his friends, with whom he spent half-an-hour discussing the latest steeple-chase, and the coming races at Chantilly.

They were then joined by a third friend, whom they came across at the Porte St. James. The friend in question was but three days returned from the East, and his descriptions of social life at Cairo and Constantinople were so interesting, that another hour passed by without seeming too excessively long. But this hour gone, our hero could no longer restrain himself, and wishing his two friends goodbye, he galloped off. Then, without drawing rein or slackening his pace, he returned, straight as an arrow, to that end of the Rue d’Angoulême which opens on to the Champs-Elysées.

There he pulled up, looked at his watch and, seeing that it was now one o’clock, he dismounted, threw the reins to his groom, approached the house before which he had stopped some hours earlier, and rang the bell.

If Amaury were diffident, this diffidence seemed rather unaccountable, as by the smile with which the servants greeted him, from the concierge who opened the door, to the footman in the hall, it was very evident he was no stranger to the house.

So too, when the visitor asked if Monsieur d’Avrigny were at home, the servant replied as to one for whom the usual conventionalities might naturally be relaxed.

“No! sir! but the ladies are in the small drawing-room.”

Then as he was about to announce him, Amaury waved him aside, and with the assurance of an old friend of the family, went along a narrow passage, on to which all the doors opened, and soon reached the small drawing-room, the door of which being ajar, enabled him to see into the room.

For one moment he stood in the doorway. Two young girls of eighteen and nineteen were seated facing each other embroidering at the same frame, whilst in the window recess their old English governess had just put down her book and was gazing affectionately at her two pupils.

The highest conception of painting, that queen of the arts, could not have reproduced a more charming picture than that formed by the two young girls; the two faces, almost touching one another, were such a contrast both in character and appearance, that one might have imagined Raphael himself had brought them together as a study of two distinct types, equally beautiful though utterly different.

One of the young girls was fair and pale with long hair curled in the English fashion, blue eyes, and a neck perhaps a shade too long; she seemed a fragile and delicate maiden, born to float on the mists swept by the north wind round the summits of the bleak mountains of Scotland, or through the foggy valleys of Great Britain; one of those visions half-human, half-fairy, which Shakespeare alone has conceived, and transformed by sheer force of genius, from the fantastic to the real delightful creations which, before his birth, no one had ever imagined, since his death, no one has ever equalled, and to which he gave such sweet names as Cordelia, Ophelia, or Miranda.

Her companion, on the other hand, had black hair, which she wore plaited; a brilliant complexion, sparkling eyes, rich red lips, and a bright, sparkling manner; she reminded one of those maidens, bronzed by the suns of Italy, whom Boccaccio brings together in the Villa Palmieri, to listen to the gay tales of the Decameron. She was overflowing with life and health, thoughts which she could not put into words were reflected in her expressive face. If at times sad, for none however happy but have their moments of sadness, her melancholy could never entirely cloud her usually cheerful expression; behind her sadness one could always feel her smile, as the sun peeps out from behind the thunder-cloud.

Such were the two girls, who, as we have already said, seated opposite to each other, and bending over the same embroidery frame, worked at a bunch of flowers, which grew under their dainty fingers; and, each true to her character, the one created lilies and pale hyacinths, whilst the other shaded with living colours tulips, auriculas, and carnations.

After a moment or two of quiet contemplation, the young man pushed open the door.

At the sound both girls turned and uttered a little cry, like two gazelles caught unawares; the only difference was that a bright but fleeting blush suffused the fair girl’s face, whilst, on the other hand, her companion grew imperceptibly paler.

“I see that I should not have entered unannounced,” said the young man, as he advanced eagerly towards the fair young girl, taking no notice of her friend, “because I startled you, Madeleine. Forgive me, Madeleine; somehow I always consider myself Monsieur d’Avrigny’s adopted son, and act as if I were still living in the house.”

“Quite right, Amaury,” answered Madeleine. “Besides, I do not believe you could act differently, even if you tried; six weeks cannot change the habits of eighteen years. But you have not yet wished Antoinette good-morning.”

Smiling the young man held out his hand to the dark girl.

“Excuse my seeming rudeness, dear Antoinette,” he said, “but I felt I must ask forgiveness for my awkwardness from her whom my awkwardness alarmed. I heard Madeleine cry out and hastened at once to her.”

Then turning to the governess he said, “How do you do, Miss Brown?”

Antoinette smiled half sadly, as she returned the young man’s grasp, because she knew that she too had uttered a cry, but Amaury had not noticed it.

As to Miss Brown, she saw nothing, or rather she saw everything, but did not look below the surface.

“You need make no excuses, my dear Count,” she said, “on the contrary, it is a pity others do not more often follow your example, if only to cure this dear child of her foolish terrors and sudden alarms. Do you know what is the cause of it all? her habit of dreaming. She lives in a world of her own into which she retires when wearied with the real world. What happens in that other world? I cannot tell. I only know that if this goes on, she will end by giving up the one for the other, and then her dream will become her life, whilst her life will become the dream.”

Madeleine turned to the young Count with a sweet steady look, which plainly said: “You know of whom I am thinking in my dreams. Amaury, do you not?”

Antoinette caught this look, she remained standing motionless for one moment, then instead of sitting down again at the frame, moved to the piano, and let her fingers stray lightly over the keys into one of Thalberg’s fantasias.

Madeleine took up her work, and Amaury seated himself beside her.

Chapter 2

“How it pains me, my dear Madeleine,” whispered Amaury, “that we are now so rarely alone and free to talk! Is it by chance or by your father’s orders?”

“Alas! I do not know,” answered the girl, “but be sure I suffer just as much as you do. When we were able to see each other every day, and at every hour of the day, we did not sufficiently appreciate our happiness; it is so in everything — to make us long for the sun, we must first have felt the shadow.”

“But, could you not tell Antoinette, or at least hint to her, that by sometimes keeping good old Miss Brown away, she would be doing us a great kindness; I think she remains on here more from force of habit than motives of prudence, and I do not believe your father has ever given her positive orders to keep us always in sight.”

“I have thought of doing so twenty times over, Amaury, but I really cannot account for the feeling which always hinders me. The instant I open my lips to speak of you to my cousin, my voice fails, and yet what can I tell her which she does not know already? She knows how I love you.”

“Yes! and I know it too, Madeleine; but I want to hear you say it openly. Look dear, you know how happy it makes me to see you, but truly I think I would rather deprive myself of this happiness than have to meet you always before strangers, before cold and indifferent people in whose presence your dear voice changes, and you disguise your feelings. Why, even at this moment you cannot tell how this restraint chafes me.”

Madeleine rose with a smile on her face. “Amaury,” she said, “will you come with me into the garden and greenhouse to pick some flowers? I am painting a nosegay from nature, and as mine of yesterday is faded, I must have a fresh one.”

Antoinette got up quickly.

“Madeleine,” she said, as the two girls exchanged a meaning glance, “it is not wise for you to go out this dull, cold weather. Let me do this for you, and I know that I shall carry it out with credit to myself. My dear Miss Brown,” she said, “will you be good enough to fetch the nosegay which you will find in a Japanese vase on the small round buhl table in Madeleine’s room, and bring it to me in the garden; only by having the old one before my eyes, can I arrange another exactly like it.”

So saying, Antoinette stepped out by one of the windows opening to the ground, and walked down a flight of steps into the garden, whilst Miss Brown, who had received no instructions with regard to the two young people, and who well knew the strong affection which existed between them from childhood, opened a side door, and went out of the room, without making any remark.

Amaury’s eyes followed the governess out of the room, then as soon as he found himself alone with the young girl, he seized her hand.

“At last, Madeleine dear,” he said, with a look of passionate love, “we are alone for a moment. Look at me, darling. Tell me again and again that you love me, because truly, since the unaccountable change in your father’s manner towards me, I begin to doubt everything. You know that I am yours body and soul; you know that I love you!”

“Oh yes!” answered the girl, with one of those sighs of joy which relieve the over-full heart, “yes, tell me again that you love me, because sometimes, frail creature that I am, it seems your great love alone which keeps me alive. When you are with me, Amaury, I breathe freely, I feel strong. Before you come, after you have gone, my heart dies within me; and now that you no longer live with us, you are so often away. How long must it be before it is my right to be always with you — you who are my life, my soul?”

“Listen, Madeleine, whatever happens, I shall write to your father this very night.”

“And what do you suppose can happen but that our childhood’s dreams will at last be realised? Since you are twenty, and I fifteen, have we not always felt ourselves destined for each other? Write boldly to my father, Amaury, and you will see that he cannot refuse to listen to your letter on the one hand and my entreaties on the other.”

“I wish I felt equally confident, Madeleine, but really your father’s manner has I greatly changed towards me of late. After treating me for fifteen years as his own son, has he not little by little assumed towards me the attitude of a stranger? After living in this house like your brother, now when I come into the room without warning, you utter a cry of alarm.”

“Ah! that cry was one of joy, Amaury; your presence can never take me by surprise, for I am always expecting you; but I am now so weak and nervous that I cannot control my feelings. You must be lenient with me, dearest, and treat me like that sensitive plant which we amused ourselves with tormenting the other day, not thinking that it too has life, as we have, and that very probably we were hurting it. Well! I am like the sensitive plant; to feel you near me gives me that sense of security which, as a child, I felt when on my mother’s knee. God, in taking her from me, has given me you instead. To her I owe the first part of my life, the second, I owe to you. She brought me to the light of day, you to the light of the soul. Amaury, to make me wholly yours, be often with me.”

“Always, always,” cried Amaury, taking the girl’s hand, and pressing it to his burning lips, “oh! Madeleine, I love you, I love you!”

But at the touch of his kiss, the poor child started up, flushed and trembling, and, putting her hand to her side, said: “Oh! no, no! your voice is too passionate, it frightens me; your lips are burning. Restrain yourself, I do beseech you. Do remember the poor sensitive plant; I went to look at it yesterday, but it was dead.”

“Well! well! Madeleine, it shall be as you wish. Sit down again, dear, and let me lie on this cushion at your feet, and since my love frightens you, well, I must content myself with a brotherly chat. Thank Heaven! your cheeks look natural again; they have lost that hectic flush which they had awhile ago, and that deadly pallor which overspread them when I came in so suddenly. You are better again, you are well, Madeleine, my sister, my sweetheart.

The girl sank down, rather than sat in the armchair, supporting herself on her elbow, and let her face, shaded by her long fair hair, fall forward, the tips of her curls brushing against the young man’s forehead.

In this attitude her breath mingled with her lover’s.

“Yes,” she said, “yes Amaury, you can make me blush and grew pale at will. You are to me what the sun is to the flowers.”

“Oh! how intoxicating to thus make you blush with a look — revive with a word! Madeleine, I love you, I love you.”

A silence fell between the two young people, and their very souls seemed to meet in that look.

Suddenly they heard a slight noise in the room. Madeleine raised her head, Amaury turned round.

Monsieur d’Avrigny was standing behind them, with a look of anger on his face.

“My father!” cried Madeleine, throwing herself back in her chair.

“My dear guardian!” said Amaury awkwardly, as he rose and bowed to him.

Monsieur d’Avrigny made no reply, but slowly took off his gloves and placed his hat on a chair, and, still without moving from the same spot, after a moment’s silence which seemed like an hour’s torture to the two young people, he said in a harsh grating voice:

“What! here again, Amaury! you are likely to become a very accomplished diplomat, if you continue thus to study politics in ladies’ boudoirs, and to make yourself acquainted with the wants and interests of the masses, by seeing how embroidery is made! You are sure not to remain long a simple attaché but are certain to have rapid promotion as first Secretary in London or St. Petersburg, if you practise so industriously to fathom the depths of thought of a Talleyrand or a Metternich, in the company of a schoolgirl.”

“Sir,” Amaury replied, in a tone in which filial affection struggled with hurt pride, “perhaps in your eyes I neglect somewhat the studies necessary to the career you have been good enough to choose for me, but the Minister has never reproached me with any such neglect, and only yesterday, when reading over to him certain documents which he had given me…”

“The Minister has given you documents to draw up, you! on what subject? on the forming of a second jockey-club, on the rules of boxing or fencing, on the laws of sport in general, or steeple-chasing in particular? Ah! then, I am no longer surprised, he was well satisfied.”

“But, my dear guardian,” Amaury replied with a slight smile, “may I remind you that it is to your almost fatherly solicitude I am indebted for these elegant accomplishments with which you now reproach me. You have always impressed upon me that fencing and riding, together with a knowledge of the two or three foreign languages I have mastered, are essential to the education of a gentleman of the nineteenth century.”

“Oh! I am well aware of that fact, sir, when he uses these accomplishments as a distraction from serious work, but not when he turns serious work into a foil for pleasure. You are truly an exact type of the man of the present day, who imagines science is to be mastered without hard study, and who, after spending an hour in the morning at the Chamber, an hour at the Sorbonne in the afternoon, an hour at the theatre in the evening, poses as a Mirabeau, a Cuvier, a Geoffrey, proclaiming aloud his genius, and contemptuously tossing his drawing-room judgment into the scale where the destinies of the world are weighed. You say the Minister congratulated you yesterday? very well, live on these great expectations, discount these pompous praises, and when the day of reckoning comes, fate will leave you bankrupt. Because at twenty-three, guided by an accommodating guardian, you find yourself doctor of law, bachelor of arts, attaché at the Embassy, because you are privileged to attend the lévees at Court in a uniform with gold embroidery on the collar; because the Legion of Honor has perhaps been promised you as to many others to whom it still remains but a promise, you seem to think that all is accomplished and that fortune can bring you nothing more. I am rich, you say, therefore I need do nothing; and as a result of this clever reasoning, your title of gentleman degenerates into a brevet for idleness.”

“But, father, dear,” cried Madeleine, alarmed at Monsieur d’Avrigny’s increasing anger, “what are you saying? I have never heard you speak to Amaury in this way before.”

“Sir! sir!” stammered the young fellow.

“Yes!” continued Monsieur d’Avrigny more calmly, but more bitterly, “my reproaches wound you, because you know how well they are deserved, is it not so? Well! you must get used to them, if you continue spending your time in such an aimless fashion, or else, you must make up your mind to cease visiting a cross and exacting guardian. Oh! it is only since yesterday that you have become your own master. The power over you which my old friend, the Comte de Léoville bequeathed to me, no longer legally exists now, but, morally, I feel the same responsibility; and it is my duty to warn you that in these troublous times, when wealth and honours depend on the caprice of the masses, or a rising of the people, one should only rely upon oneself, and that millionaire and nobleman though you be, a father of good position would but be acting wisely in refusing you the hand of his daughter, remembering that your success in racing, and your rank at the jockey-club are not considerations of any serious importance.”

Monsieur d’Avrigny’s excitement increased as he spoke, he strode up and down the room, neither looking at his daughter, who was trembling like a leaf, nor at Amaury who stood with knitted brows.

The young man, whom respect alone kept silent, looked from Monsieur d’Avrigny, powerless to understand the cause of his anger, to Madeleine who was as astounded as himself.

“Do you mean to say,” continued Monsieur d’Avrigny, standing before the two young people, who were struck dumb by his sudden anger, “do you mean to say that you did not understand why I asked you to give up living with us? It is because I think it most unsuitable that a young man of birth and fortune should spend his time playing with girls; because what is all very well when twelve years old, becomes ridiculous at twenty-three; because, after all, my daughter’s future, although in no way connected with yours, might suffer equally with your own from these repeated visits.”

“Oh, sir! sir!” cried Amaury, “in pity spare Madeleine. Can you not see that you are killing her?”

For Madeleine, white as death, had fallen back motionless into her chair, struck to the heart by her father’s terrible words.

“My daughter, my daughter!” exclaimed Monsieur d’Avrigny, turning as pale as she, “my daughter! Ah! it is you, Amaury, who are killing her.”

And going up to Madeleine, he took her in his arms, as if she were a child, and carried her into the adjoining room.

Amaury wished to follow him.

“Remain where you are, sir,” he said, turning on the threshold. “I order you.”

“But,” cried Amaury, clasping his hands, “she needs help.”

“Well!” returned Monsieur d’Avrigny, “am I not a doctor?”

“I beg your pardon sir,” stammered the poor young fellow, “but I thought — I should have been glad to remain at hand, in case…”

“Many thanks, my good sir, many thanks for your solicitude. But rest content — Madeleine is with her father, and I will look after her myself. Therefore take care of yourself, and goodbye!”

“Goodbye for the present,” said the young fellow hesitatingly.

“Oh! goodbye,” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied coldly; and with his foot he pushed open the door, which closed on himself and Madeleine.

Amaury stood still a moment, motionless, crushed.

Just then a bell rang, summoning the maid; at the same moment, Antoinette re-entered the room with Miss Brown.

“Good Heavens! what is the matter?” cried Antoinette, “why are you so pale and unnerved? Where is Madeleine?”

“She is dying! dying!” exclaimed the young man. “Do go to her, Miss Brown; she badly needs your help.”

Miss Brown walked hurriedly towards the room which Amaury pointed out.

“But why do you not go in too?” asked Antoinette.

“Because he has forbidden me to do so,” answered Amaury.

“Who has?”

“He! Monsieur d’Avrigny! Madeleine’s father.”

And snatching up his hat and gloves, the young man rushed like a madman from the room.

Chapter 3

On reaching home, he found a friend ’waiting to see him. his was a young barrister, his schoolfellow at St. Barbe and afterwards at the Ecole de Droit and the University. He and Amaury were about the same age; but, although he was of independent means, with an income of some 20,000 francs a year, he was of humble birth, none of his ancestors having ever been great or famous. His name was Philip Auvray.

Amaury was apprised by his valet of this untimely visit, and, for one moment, he thought of going straight to his bedroom and leaving Philip to wait until he was tired of waiting. But Philip was such a good fellow, that Amaury felt it would be too bad to treat him so. He therefore entered the little study into which his friend had been shown.

As he entered the room, Philip rose, and came towards him.

“Well! old fellow,” said the young barrister, “I have been waiting for you nearly an hour. I was getting very impatient, and had just decided to leave; in fact, I would have done so long ago, had I not wished to ask your advice on a most important matter.”

“My dear Philip,” said Amaury, “we are such fast friends, that I know you will not feel hurt at what I am going to say. Have you lost at cards, or have you a duel on hand — the only two things which cannot be put off; must the money be found today? have you’ to fight tomorrow? In either case my purse and myself are entirely at your service.”

“No,” said Philip, “it is something far more important, but manifestly less pressing.”

“In that case, dear friend,” said Amaury, “I must ask you to postpone to another day whatever you may have to tell me, as one of those things has just befallen me which thoroughly unnerve a man. I have no heart for anything. In spite of our great friendship, whatever you might say would be sheer waste of words.”

“My poor fellow,” said Philip, “but I, cannot I do something for you?”

“Nothing, but to put off for a few days what you wished to consult me about; nothing, but to leave me to myself and my troubles.”

“You unhappy! Amaury unhappy! Amaury who can boast of one of the most envied names, and one of the largest fortunes in France? Is it possible that the Comte de Léoville with a hundred thousand francs a year can be unhappy! Faith! had you not yourself said so, I could not have believed it.”

“Well! it is nevertheless true, old friend — yes! yes! miserable… most miserable! and it seems to me that when our friends are in trouble, the greatest kindness we can show them is to leave them to themselves, and their sorrow. You do not know what trouble means, Philip, unless you can understand this.”

“Whether I understand or not, Amaury, you know full well that I always do what you ask me. You wish to be alone, dear old fellow — then goodbye, goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” said Amaury, as he flung himself into an armchair.

Just as Philip was closing the door, he said:

“Philip, tell my valet that I am at home to no one, and do not wish to be disturbed on any pretext whatever, unless I ring.”

Philip signed to his friend that he would do as he wished, and after speaking to the valet, he went away, vainly trying to understand what could have happened to plunge Amaury in such deep distress.

As to Amaury, when he found himself alone, he let his head fall between his hands, trying to think what he could possibly have done to deserve his guardian’s anger, and although in a moment his whole life passed before him, he could discover no explanation of this sudden displeasure which had so unexpectedly burst upon him.

As we have already said, Amaury was one of those singularly gifted men who are Fortune’s favourites. Kindly nature had made him handsome, elegant, and distinguished looking, and his father had bequeathed him an old and honoured name, to which the wars of the Empire had added renewed lustre, and a fortune of more than a million and a half. He had appointed Monsieur d’Avrigny, an old friend of his, and one of the most noted physicians of the day, guardian to his son.

Moreover Amaury knew that his guardian had so ably managed his fortune, that it had now increased by nearly a third.

But Monsieur d’Avrigny had not only looked after his ward’s fortune, he had himself superintended his education, as if he had been his own son.

The result was that Amaury, brought up with Madeleine, and only three or four years her senior, had learned to love most tenderly one who looked upon him only as a brother, and had a more than brotherly affection for her whom he had so long called his sister.

And thus from childhood, these two children, in their sweet innocence and purity of heart, had vowed never to be parted from one another.

The great love which Monsieur d’Avrigny had borne his young wife, who died from consumption when only twenty-three, he now lavished on his daughter, and the almost fatherly affection which Amaury knew he had inspired in Monsieur d’Avrigny, contributed to make the young people sure of his consent; they never for one moment doubted it.

Everything had therefore conspired to delude them with vain hopes of one and the same future, and it was their unceasing subject of conversation ever since they had awakened to a consciousness of the deep love that lay in their hearts for one another.

As Monsieur d’Avrigny was frequently absent from home, being obliged to devote himself almost entirely to his practice, to the hospital of which he was a director, to the Institut, of which he was a member, this gave them many opportunities of building these delusive castles in the air to which memory of the past and hope for the future imparted the apparent solidity of granite.

It was at this stage of their life, Madeleine having reached her seventeenth year, and Amaury being twenty-two, that Monsieur d’Avrigny’s usually pleasant genial manner suddenly changed towards them both.

At first, they thought the alteration was due to the death of a sister, who was very dear to him, and whose daughter, also a girl of seventeen, was Madeleine’s constant companion and shared her studies and her pleasures.

But days and months passed by, and Monsieur d’Avrigny, instead of looking happier, grew more and more gloomy every day, and strangely enough, it was nearly always Amaury who had to bear the brunt of his displeasure, without knowing why or wherefore, or else Madeleine, the child whom he worshipped, and on whom from her earliest days he had lavished that priceless love which usually a mother alone can give. Then, by an equally strange caprice, it was now bright playful Antoinette who seemed to be Monsieur d’Avrigny’s favourite, and who was permitted to speak to him in a way which, hitherto, Madeleine alone had been privileged to do.

But more than this, Monsieur d’Avrigny was continually praising Antoinette in Amaury’s presence, and had more than once hinted that Amaury would best please his guardian by abandoning the hope which he himself had so long encouraged between his ward and his daughter, and by transferring his affections to this niece whom he had adopted as an inmate of his home and on whom he seemed to have bestowed all his visible affection.

Meanwhile Amaury and Madeleine, blinded by their usual happy intercourse, saw nothing so very strange in Monsieur d’Avrigny’s passing displeasure — and never dreamed of a real trouble.

Their implicit confidence and trust in each other had thus remained unchanged, when one day as they were running round the billiard-table like the two children they were, Madeleine defending herself from Amaury, who tried to snatch a flower from her, the door suddenly opened and Monsieur d’Avrigny appeared.

“Well,” said he, with that bitterness which was now apparent whenever he addressed them, “what in the world is the meaning of this child’s play? Are you still a little girl of ten, Madeleine? or you, Amaury, a boy of fifteen? Do you think you are running round the lawn at the Château de Léoville? Why do you wish to take that flower from Madeleine? who is quite right in refusing to let you have it. I thought that only shepherds and shepherdesses at the opera performed these extraordinary gyrations; evidently I was mistaken.”

“But, father,” ventured Madeleine, who at first thought that he was only joking, but now perceived that, on the contrary, he had never been more in earnest, “but, father, only yesterday…”

“Yesterday is no longer today, Madeleine; if you wish always to live in the past, you must renounce the future. And since you are so willing to go back to your childish games, pray why have you given up your dolls and your toys? If you do not realize that, as you grow older, certain duties and proprieties have to be observed, then it is my duty to remind you of the fact.”

“But, my dear guardian,” protested Amaury, “I think you are rather hard on us. You say that we are too childish! Why! you yourself have often told me that one of the evils of this century is that children so soon wish to become men!”

“Have I indeed ever told you that, sir? That may perhaps apply to young students who have just left college and think that they are going to reform the world — to those Richelieus who are ‘blasé ‘at twenty, to those embryo poets who, out of disenchantment, create a tenth muse. But for you, my dear Amaury, if not because of your age, then because of your rank, you should take things more seriously. If you are not really in earnest, at least pretend that you are; however, I have come this time to have a serious talk with you. You had better leave the room, Madeleine.”

Madeleine rose to go, and as she did so, cast one of those pleading looks at her father which formerly softened his anger in a moment.

But Monsieur d’Avrigny remained cold and angry, for he remembered for whom these lovely eyes were pleading.

Left alone with Amaury, Monsieur d’Avrigny paced up and down the room for some time, without saying a word, whilst Amaury followed each step with anxious eyes. At last he stopped opposite the young man, and without relaxing his severe expression, said:

“Amaury, I should perhaps have told you long ago what I now feel it my duty to say at once, and which I blame myself for not having mentioned sooner; it is that I no longer consider it suitable that you, a young man of twenty-one, should continue to live in the same house as two young girls who are not related to you in any way. It is not without regret that I have come to this decision, and that is perhaps why I have delayed so long before telling you that this separation is absolutely necessary. But after today, any further delay on my part would be unpardonable. Do not therefore argue with me, it would be quite useless; make no objections, they would not convince me; my mind is made up on this point, and nothing can alter it.”

“But my dear, kind guardian,” said Amaury, his voice trembling with emotion, “it always gave me pleasure to think that you were so used to having me with you and looking upon me as your son, that you now considered me an actual member of your family, or at least that, one day, I might hope to become so in reality. Have I unconsciously offended you? And do you no longer love me, that you condemn me to this exile?”

“My dear boy,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, “it seems to me that I had only an account of my guardianship to give you, and that being satisfactorily settled, we are quits?”

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Amaury, “because I at least must always feel indebted to you; I can never forget all your kindness; you have been more than a faithful guardian, you have been to me a tender, watchful father. It is you who have brought me up, you who have made me what I am, you who have instilled into me whatever good there is in my heart and soul; you have been to me all that one man can be to another, guardian, father, tutor, guide and friend. I owe you, therefore, above everything, implicit obedience, and I can best prove this by leaving you. Farewell, father, I hope that some day you will recall your son.”

At these words, Amaury approached Monsieur d’Avrigny, and, almost against his will, took his hand and pressed it to his lips; this done, he immediately left the room.

The next day he sent in his card to Monsieur d’Avrigny, as if he already were a stranger and informed him in a firm voice which belied the moisture in his eyes, that he had rented a small house in the Rue des Mathurins, that his belongings were being removed there, and that he came to wish him goodbye.

Madeleine was in the room; she hung her head, poor broken lily, chilled by the cold breath of fatherly caprice, and as she stealthily raised her eyes to look at Amaury, her father noticed her face so white and drawn that he started.

Then, doubtless, Monsieur d’Avrigny realized that his unaccountable behaviour must appear hateful in his daughter’s eyes, and his severity relaxed a little, as, holding out his hand to Amaury, he said:

“Amaury, you have quite mistaken my motives; this parting does not mean exile. Far from it, this house will always be your home, and whenever you wish to come, you will be welcome.”

Monsieur d’Avrigny was rewarded by seeing a look of joy light up his daughter’s sad face and a faint smile hover round her lips.

But, as if Amaury had already understood that this concession was only due to his daughter’s sadness, he bowed humbly to his guardian, kissed Madeleine’s hand, but with so sorrowful an air that all thought of love seemed swallowed up in pain. Then he left the house.

Only now, when they were parted from each other, did these two young people realize how great was their love, and how indispensable they were to each other’s existence.