Le chien d'or. English
CHAPTER XXVII. CHEERFUL YESTERDAYS AND CONFIDENT TO-MORROWS.
The ladies retired to their several rooms, and after a generalrearranging of toilets descended to the great parlor, where they werejoined by Messire La Lande, the cure of the parish, a benevolent, rosyold priest, and several ladies from the neighborhood, with two or threeold gentlemen of a military air and manner, retired officers of the armywho enjoyed their pensions and kept up their respectability at a cheaperrate in the country than they could do in the city.
Felix Beaudoin had for the last two hours kept the cooks in hot water.He was now superintending the laying of the table, resolved that,notwithstanding his long absence from home, the dinner should be amarvellous success.
Amelie was very beautiful to-day. Her face was aglow with pure air andexercise, and she felt happy in the apparent contentment of her brother,whom she met with Pierre on the broad terrace of the Manor House.
She was dressed with exquisite neatness, yet plainly. An antique crossof gold formed her only adornment except her own charms. That cross shehad put on in honor of Pierre Philibert. He recognized it with delightas a birthday gift to Amelie which he had himself given her during theirdays of juvenile companionship, on one of his holiday visits to Tilly.
She was conscious of his recognition of it,--it brought a flush to hercheek. "It is in honor of your visit, Pierre," said she, frankly, "thatI wear your gift. Old friendship lasts well with me, does it not? Butyou will find more old friends than me at Tilly who have not forgottenyou."
"I am already richer than Croesus, if friendship count as riches,Amelie. The hare had many friends, but none at last; I am more fortunatein possessing one friend worth a million."
"Nay, you have the million too, if good wishes count in your favor,Pierre, you are richer"--the bell in the turret of the chateau began toring for dinner, drowning her voice somewhat.
"Thanks to the old bell for cutting short the compliment, Pierre,"continued she, laughing; "you don't know what you have lost! butin compensation you shall be my cavalier, and escort me to thedining-room."
She took the arm of Pierre, and in a merry mood, which brought backsweet memories of the past, their voices echoed again along the oldcorridors of the Manor House as they proceeded to the great dining-room,where the rest of the company were assembling.
The dinner was rather a stately affair, owing to the determination ofFelix Beaudoin to do especial honor to the return home of the family.How the company ate, talked, and drank at the hospitable table need notbe recorded here. The good Cure's face, under the joint influence ofgood humor and good cheer, was full as a harvest moon. He rose at last,folded his hands, and slowly repeated "agimus gratias." After dinnerthe company withdrew to the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, whereconversation, music, and a few games of cards for such as liked them,filled up a couple of hours longer.
The Lady de Tilly, seated beside Pierre Philibert on the sofa, conversedwith him in a pleasant strain, while the Cure, with a couple of olddowagers in turbans, and an old veteran officer of the colonial marine,long stranded on a lee shore, formed a quartette at cards.
These were steady enthusiasts of whist and piquet, such as are only tobe found in small country circles where society is scarce and amusementsfew. They had met as partners or antagonists, and played, laughed, andwrangled over sixpenny stakes and odd tricks and honors, every week fora quarter of a century, and would willingly have gone on playing tillthe day of judgment without a change of partners if they could havetrumped death and won the odd trick of him.
Pierre recollected having seen these same old friends seated at the samecard-table during his earliest visits to the Manor House. He recalledthe fact to the Lady de Tilly, who laughed and said her old friends hadlived so long in the company of the kings and queens that formed thepaste-board Court of the Kingdom of Cocagne that they could relish nomeaner amusement than one which royalty, although mad, had the credit ofintroducing.
Amelie devoted herself to the task of cheering her somewhat moodybrother. She sat beside him, resting her hand with sisterly affectionupon his shoulder, while in a low, sweet voice she talked to him,adroitly touching those topics only which she knew awoke pleasurableassociations in his mind. Her words were sweet as manna and full ofwomanly tenderness and sympathy, skilfully wrapped in a strain of gaietylike a bridal veil which covers the tears of the heart.
Pierre Philibert's eyes involuntarily turned towards her, and hisears caught much of what she said. He was astonished at the grace andperfection of her language; it seemed to him like a strain of musicfilled with every melody of earth and heaven, surpassing poets in beautyof diction, philosophers in truth,--and in purity of affection, all thesaints and sweetest women of whom he had ever read.
Her beauty, her vivacity, her modest reticences, and her delicate tactin addressing the captious spirit of Le Gardeur, filled Pierrewith admiration. He could at that moment have knelt at her feet andworshipped in her the realization of every image which his imaginationhad ever formed of a perfect woman.
Now and then she played on the harp for Le Gardeur the airs which sheknew he liked best. His sombre mood yielded to her fond exertions, andshe had the reward of drawing at last a smile from his eyes as well asfrom his lips. The last she knew might be simulated, the former she feltwas real, for the smile of the eye is the flash of the joy kindled inthe glad heart.
Le Gardeur was not dull nor ungrateful; he read clearly enough theloving purpose of his sister. His brow cleared up under her sunshine.He smiled, he laughed; and Amelie had the exquisite joy of believing shehad gained a victory over the dark spirit that had taken possession ofhis soul, although the hollow laugh struck the ear of Pierre Philibertwith a more uncertain sound than that which fluttered the fond hopes ofAmelie.
Amelie looked towards Pierre, and saw his eyes fixed upon her withthat look which fills every woman with an emotion almost painful in itsexcess of pleasure when first she meets it--that unmistakable glancefrom the eyes of a man who, she is proud to perceive, has singled herout from all other women for his love and homage.
Her face became of a deep glow in spite of her efforts to look calm andcold; she feared Pierre might have misinterpreted her vivacity ofspeech and manner. Sudden distrust of herself came over her in hispresence,--the flow of her conversation was embarrassed, and almostceased.
To extricate herself from her momentary confusion, which she was veryconscious had not escaped the observation of Pierre,--and the thought ofthat confused her still more,--she rose and went to the harpsichord, torecover her composure by singing a sweet song of her own composition,written in the soft dialect of Provence, the Languedoc, full of thesweet sadness of a tender, impassioned love.
Her voice, tremulous in its power, flowed in a thousand harmonies on theenraptured ears of her listeners. Even the veteran card-players left agame of whist unfinished, to cluster round the angelic singer.
Pierre Philibert sat like one in a trance. He loved music, andunderstood it passing well. He had heard all the rare voices which Parisprided itself in the possession of, but he thought he had never knownwhat music was till now. His heart throbbed in sympathy with everyinflection of the voice of Amelie, which went through him like a sweetspell of enchantment. It was the voice of a disembodied spirit singingin the language of earth, which changed at last into a benediction andgood-night for the parting guests, who, at an earlier hour than usual,out of consideration for the fatigue of their hosts, took their leave ofthe Manor House and its hospitable inmates.
The family, as families will do upon the departure of their guests, drewup in a narrower circle round the fire, that blessed circle of freedomand confidence which belongs only to happy households. The noveltyof the situation kept up the interest of the day, and they sat andconversed until a late hour.
The Lady de Tilly reclined comfortably in her fauteuil looking withgood-natured complacency upon the little group beside her. Amelie,sitting on a stool, reclined her head against the bosom of her aunt,whose a
rm embraced her closely and lovingly as she listened withabsorbing interest to an animated conversation between her aunt andPierre Philibert.
The Lady de Tilly drew Pierre out to talk of his travels, his studies,and his military career, of which he spoke frankly and modestly. Hishigh principles won her admiration; the chivalry and loyalty of hischaracter, mingled with the humanity of the true soldier, touched achord in her own heart, stirring within her the sympathies of a natureakin to his.
The presence of Pierre Philibert, so unforeseen at the old Manor House,seemed to Amelie the work of Providence for a good and great end--thereformation of her brother. If she dared to think of herself inconnection with him it was with fear and trembling, as a saint on earthreceives a beatific vision that may only be realized in Heaven.
Amelie, with peculiar tact, sought to entangle Le Gardeur's thoughts inan elaborate cobweb of occupations rivalling that of Arachne, which shehad woven to catch every leisure hour of his, so as to leave him no timeto brood over the pleasures of the Palace of the Intendant or the charmsof Angelique des Meloises.
There were golden threads too in the network in which she hoped toentangle him: long rides to the neighboring seigniories, where brighteyes and laughing lips were ready to expel every shadow of care from themost dejected of men, much more from a handsome gallant like Le Gardeurde Repentigny, whose presence at any of these old manors put their fairinmates at once in holiday trim and in holiday humor; there were shorterwalks through the park and domain of Tilly, where she intended tobotanize and sketch, and even fish and hunt with Le Gardeur and Pierre,although, sooth to say, Amelie's share in hunting would only be to rideher sure-footed pony and look at her companions; there were visits tofriends far and near, and visits in return to the Manor House, anda grand excursion of all to the lake of Tilly in boats,--they wouldcolonize its little island for a day, set up tents, make a governor andintendant, perhaps a king and queen, and forget the world till theirreturn home.
This elaborate scheme secured the approbation of the Lady de Tilly, whohad, in truth, contributed part of it. Le Gardeur said he was a poorfly whom they were resolved to catch and pin to the wall of a chateauen Espagne, but he would enter the web without a buzz of opposition oncondition that Pierre would join him. So it was all settled.
Amelie did not venture again that night to encounter the eyes of PierrePhilibert,--she needed more courage than she felt just now to do that;but in secret she blessed him, and treasured those fond looks of his inher heart, never to be forgotten any more. When she retired to herown chamber and was alone, she threw herself in passionate abandonmentbefore the altar in her little oratory, which she had crownedwith flowers to mark her gladness. She poured out her pure soul ininvocations of blessings upon Pierre Philibert and upon her brother andall the house. The golden head of her rosary lingered long in her lovingfingers that night, as she repeated over and over her accustomed prayersfor his safety and welfare.
The sun rose gloriously next morning over the green woods and stillgreener meadows of Tilly. The atmosphere was soft and pure; it had beenwashed clean of all its impurities by a few showers in the night. Everyobject seemed nearer and clearer to the eye, while the delicious odor offresh flowers filled the whole air with fragrance.
The trees, rocks, waters, and green slopes stood out with marvellousprecision of outline, as if cut with a keen knife. No fringe of hazesurrounded them, as in a drought or as in the evening when the airis filled with the shimmering of the day dust which follows the sun'schariot in his course round the world.
Every object, great and small, seemed magnified to welcome PierrePhilibert, who was up betimes this morning and out in the pure airviewing the old familiar scenes.
With what delight he recognized each favorite spot! There was thecluster of trees which crowned a promontory overlooking the St. Lawrencewhere he and Le Gardeur had stormed the eagle's nest. In that sweep offorest the deer used to browse and the fawns crouch in the long ferns.Upon yonder breezy hill they used to sit and count the sails turningalternately bright and dark as the vessels tacked up the broad river.There was a stretch of green lawn, still green as it was in hismemory--how everlasting are God's colors! There he had taught Amelie toride, and, holding fast, ran by her side, keeping pace with her flyingIndian pony. How beautiful and fresh the picture of her remained in hismemory!--the soft white dress she wore, her black hair streaming overher shoulders, her dark eyes flashing delight, her merry laugh rivallingthe trill of the blackbird which flew over their heads chatteringfor very joy. Before him lay the pretty brook with its rustic bridgereflecting itself in the clear water as in a mirror. That path alongthe bank led down to the willows where the big mossy stones lay in thestream and the silvery salmon and speckled trout lay fanning the watergently with their fins as they contemplated their shadows on the smooth,sandy bottom.
Pierre Philibert sat down on a stone by the side of the brook andwatched the shoals of minnows move about in little battalions, wheelinglike soldiers to the right or left at a wave of the hand. But histhoughts were running in a circle of questions and enigmas for which hefound neither end nor answer.
For the hundredth time Pierre proposed to himself the tormenting enigma,harder, he thought, to solve than any problem of mathematics,--for itwas the riddle of his life: "What thoughts are truly in the heart ofAmelie de Repentigny respecting me? Does she recollect me only asher brother's companion, who may possibly have some claim upon herfriendship, but none upon her love?" His imagination pictured every lookshe had given him since his return. Not all! Oh, Pierre Philibert! thelooks you would have given worlds to catch, you were unconscious of!Every word she had spoken, the soft inflection of every syllable of hersilvery voice lingered in his ear. He had caught meanings whereperhaps no meaning was, and missed the key to others which he knew werethere--never, perhaps, to be revealed to him. But although he questionedin the name of love, and found many divine echoes in her words,imperceptible to every ear but his own, he could not wholly solve theriddle of his life. Still he hoped.
"If love creates love, as some say it does," thought he, "Amelie deRepentigny cannot be indifferent to a passion which governs everyimpulse of my being! But is there any especial merit in loving herwhom all the world cannot help admiring equally with myself? I ampresumptuous to think so!--and more presumptuous still to expect, afterso many years of separation and forgetfulness, that her heart, so lovingand so sympathetic, has not already bestowed its affection upon some onemore fortunate than me."
While Pierre tormented himself with these sharp thorns of doubt,--andof hopes painful as doubts,--little did he think what a brave, lovingspirit was hid under the silken vesture of Amelie de Repentigny, andhow hard was her struggle to conceal from his eyes those tender regards,which, with over-delicacy, she accounted censurable because they werewholly spontaneous.
He little thought how entirely his image had filled her heart duringthose years when she dreamed of him in the quiet cloister, living in aworld of bright imaginings of her own; how she had prayed for his safetyand welfare as she would have prayed for the soul of one dead,--neverthinking, or even hoping, to see him again.
Pierre had become to her as one of the disembodied saints or angelswhose pictures looked down from the wall of the Convent chapel--thebright angel of the Annunciation or the youthful Baptist proclaiming theway of the Lord. Now that Pierre Philibert was alive in theflesh,--a man, beautiful, brave, honorable, and worthy of any woman'slove,--Amelie was frightened. She had not looked for that, and yet ithad come upon her. And, although trembling, she was glad and proud tofind she had been remembered by the brave youth, who recognized in theperfect woman the girl he had so ardently loved as a boy.
Did he love her still? Woman's heart is quicker to apprehend allpossibilities than man's. She had caught a look once or twice in theeyes of Pierre Philibert which thrilled the inmost fibres of her being;she had detected his ardent admiration. Was she offended? Far from it!And although her cheek had flushed deeply red, and her pulses th
robbedhard at the sudden consciousness that Pierre Philibert admired, nay,more,--she could not conceal it from herself,--she knew that night thathe loved her! She would not have foregone that moment of revelation forall that the world had to offer.
She would gladly at that moment of discovery have fled to her ownapartment and cried for joy, but she dared not; she trembled lest hiseyes, if she looked up, should discover the secret of her own. She hadan overpowering consciousness that she stood upon the brink of her fate;that ere long that look of his would be followed by words--blessed,hoped-for words, from the lips of Pierre Philibert! words which would bethe pledge and assurance to her of that love which was hereafter to bethe joy--it might be the despair, but in any case the all in all of herlife forever.
Amelie had not yet realized the truth that love is the strength, not theweakness of woman; and that the boldness of the man is rank cowardicein comparison with the bravery she is capable of, and the sacrifices shewill make for the sake of the man who has won her heart.
God locks up in a golden casket of modesty the yearnings of a woman'sheart; but when the hand in which he has placed the key that opens itcalls forth her glorified affections, they come out like the strongangels, and hold back the winds that blow from the four corners of theearth that they may not hurt the man whose forehead is sealed with thekiss of her acknowledged love.