CHAPTER LIV.
TWO BLEEDING HEARTS.
On the day following the queen's visit to M. de Charny, Madlle. deTaverney entered the royal bedroom as usual at the hour of the petitetoilette. The queen was just laughing over a note from Madame de laMotte. Andree, paler than usual, looked cold and grave: the queen,however, being occupied, did not notice it, but merely turning her head,said in her usual friendly tone, "Bon jour, petite." At last, however,Andree's silence struck her, and looking up she saw her sad expressionand said, "Mon Dieu! Andree, what is the matter? Has any misfortunehappened to you?"
"Yes, madame, a great one."
"What is it?"
"I am going to leave your majesty."
"Leave me!"
"Yes, madame."
"Where are you going? and what is the cause of this sudden departure?"
"Madame, I am not happy in my affections; in my family affections, Imean," added Andree, blushing.
"I do not understand you--you seemed happy yesterday."
"No, madame," replied Andree, firmly. "Yesterday was one of the unhappydays of my life."
"Explain yourself."
"It would but fatigue your majesty, and the details are not worthy ofyour hearing. Suffice it to say, that I have no satisfaction in myfamily--that I have no good to expect in this world. I come, therefore,to beg your majesty's permission to retire into a convent."
The queen rose, and although with some effort to her pride, tookAndree's hand, and said: "What is the meaning of this foolishresolution? Have you not to-day, like yesterday, a father and a brother?and were they different yesterday from to-day? Tell me yourdifficulties. Am I no longer your protectress and mother?"
Andree, trembling, and bowing low, said, "Madame, your kindnesspenetrates my heart, but does not shake my resolution. I have resolvedto quit the court. I have need of solitude. Do not force me to give upthe vocation to which I feel called."
"Since yesterday?"
"I beg your majesty not to make me speak on this point."
"Be free, then," said the queen, rather bitterly; "only I have alwaysshown you sufficient confidence for you to have placed some in me. Butit is useless to question one who will not speak. Keep your secrets, andI trust you will be happier away than you have been here. Remember onething, however, that my friendship does not expire with people'scaprices, and that I shall ever look on you as a friend. Now, go,Andree; you are at liberty. But where are you going to?"
"To the convent of St. Denis, madame."
"Well, mademoiselle, I consider you guilty towards me of ingratitude andforgetfulness."
Andree, however, left the room and the castle without giving any ofthose explanations which the good heart of the queen expected, andwithout in any way softening or humbling herself. When she arrived athome, she found Philippe in the garden--the brother dreamed, while thesister acted. At the sight of Andree, whose duties always kept her withthe queen at that hour, he advanced, surprised, and almost frightened,which was increased when he perceived her gloomy look.
He questioned her, and she told him that she was about to leave theservice of the queen, and go into a convent.
He clasped his hands, and cried, "What! you also, sister?"
"I also! what do you mean?"
"'Tis a cursed contact for us, that of the Bourbons. You wish to takereligious vows; you, at once the least worldly of women, and the leastfitted for a life of asceticism. What have you to reproach the queenwith?"
"I have nothing to reproach her with; but you, Philippe, who expected,and had the right to expect, so much--why did not you remain at court?You did not remain there three days; I have been there as many years."
"She is capricious, Andree."
"You, as a man, might put up with it. I, a woman, could not, and do notwish to do so."
"All this, my sister, does not inform me what quarrel you have had withher."
"None, Philippe, I assure you. Had you any when you left her? Oh, she isungrateful!"
"We must pardon her, Andree; she is a little spoiled by flattery, butshe has a good heart."
"Witness what she has done for you, Philippe."
"What has she done?"
"You have already forgotten. I have a better memory, and with one strokepay off your debts and my own."
"Very dear, it seems to me, Andree--to renounce the world at your age,and with your beauty. Take care, dear sister, if you renounce it young,you will regret it old, and will return to it when the time will bepassed, and you have outlived all your friends."
"You do not reason thus for yourself, brother. You are so little carefulof your fortunes, that when a hundred others would have acquired titlesand gold, you have only said--she is capricious, she is perfidious, anda coquette, and I prefer not to serve her. Therefore, you have renouncedthe world, though you have not entered into a monastery."
"You are right, sister; and were it not for our father----"
"Our father! Ah, Philippe! do not speak of him," replied Andree,bitterly. "A father should be a support to his children, or accept theirsupport. But what does ours do? Could you confide a secret to M. deTaverney, or do you believe him capable of confiding in you? M. deTaverney is made to live alone in this world."
"True, Andree, but not to die alone."
"Ah, Philippe! you take me for a daughter without feeling, but you knowI am a fond sister; and to have been a good daughter, required only tohave had a father; but everything seems to conspire to destroy in meevery tender feeling. It never happens in this world that heartsrespond; those whom we choose prefer others."
Philippe looked at her with astonishment. "What do you mean?" said he.
"Nothing," replied Andree, shrinking from a confidence. "I think mybrain is wandering; do not attend to my words."
"But----"
Andree took his hand. "Enough on this subject, my dearest brother. I amcome to beg you to conduct me to the convent of St. Denis; but be easy,I will take no vows. I can do that at a later period, if I wish. Insteadof going, like most women, to seek forgetfulness, I will go to seekmemory. It seems to me that I have too often forgotten my Creator. He isthe only consolation, as He is really the only afflictor. In approachingHim more nearly, I shall do more for my happiness than if all the richand great in this world had combined to make life pleasant to me."
"Still, Andree, I oppose this desperate resolution, for you have notconfided to me the cause of your despair!"
"Despair!" said she, with a disdainful air. "No, thank God, I am notdespairing; no, a thousand times, no."
"This excess of disdain shows a state of mind which cannot last. If youreject the word 'despair,' I must use that of 'pique.'"
"Pique! do you believe that I am so weak as to yield up my place in theworld through pique? Judge me by yourself, Philippe; if you were toretire to La Trappe, what would you call the cause of yourdetermination?"
"I should call it an incurable grief."
"Well, Philippe, I adopt your words, for they suit me."
"Then," he replied, "brother and sister are alike in their lives: happytogether, they have become unhappy at the same time." Then, thinkingfurther remonstrance useless, he asked, "When do you want to go?"
"To-morrow, even to-day, if it were possible."
"I shall be ready whenever you require me."
Andree retired to make her preparations. Soon she received this notefrom Philippe:
"You can see our father at five o'clock this evening. You must be prepared for reproaches, but an adieu is indispensable."
She answered:
"At five o'clock I will be with M. de Taverney all ready to start, and by seven we can be at St. Denis, if you will give me up your evening."