by Eugène Sue
Then, quite terrified, I would close the frame suddenly, and would weep bitter tears over my indifference; but these harrowing regrets lasted but a short time, and I would be overcome with shame as I said to myself: “For the time being I am grievously distressed, and yet to-morrow, this evening perhaps, I shall have forgotten him altogether and shall be smiling and happy in the society of Hélène.”
No, nothing can give an idea of the painful resentment such a thought caused me. It was an insult to my grief, showing me the uselessness of it, even at the very moment of my truest and most heartbroken despair.
At last, I tell it to my shame, having gone a whole month without opening the picture-frame, I had the inconceivable cowardice to really dread a sight of it, so much did I fear this sort of apparition. At a later day I braved it, however, and you will see how the act, insignificant as it was, reacted on all my ensuing destiny.
These impressions, which I can now coldly analyse, excited and confused me at the time; but though I was steeped in the intoxication of a first love, I could yet feel their painful and deadening influence.
I have said that I loved Hélène; the phases of this love were very strange, and revealed to me feelings of the most miserable selfishness, pride, and incredulity, which, until then, had been dormant in my heart.
Never, alas! will I dare to blame my father for having given me those terrible counsels of which I have spoken. My future happiness was his most ardent desire, but as certain vigorous wild plants, transplanted into a soil too poor to nourish them, exhaust it quickly, and fade away before bearing either flower or fruit, so my moral nature was evidently not strong enough to profit by such formidable teachings. In the case of my father, these fierce and sombre convictions blossomed at least with flowers of benevolence and pardon for all; in my case the generous and hardy sap was wanting, and the stalk was destined to remain in all the barren nakedness of its dried-up bark, and never to bring forth a flower.
Let us return to Hélène, even though some of these recollections now cause me to blush for shame.
It was my heart’s first love, and, like every first love, it was naif, thoughtless, careless, allowing itself to float idly on the smiling and pure stream of passion, lulled by the harmony of the first wakenings of the heart, and, like the old mythological emblem, with eyes closed for fear of seeing the horizon.
These three months, with their freedom from all thought of the future, were, nevertheless, delightful, and it is with delight that I recall the smallest detail of their happy moments. Soon after the arrival of Madame de Verteuil and her daughter at Serval, I asked Hélène one day to ride on horseback, like her friend, who took that exercise for her health. I had caused two very gentle ponies to be brought from England, for Hélène was extremely timid. Before I could prevail on her to accompany Mlle, de Verteuil and myself on one of our excursions outside of the park limits, it was necessary, in order to overcome her first alarms, for me to walk beside her pony for quite a long time.
Nothing could be more charming than the little shadows of fear that would creep over her lovely face, the upper half of which, shaded from the sun by a large straw hat, was seen in a luminous golden half obscurity, while her red lips and rosy chin shone in the bright sunshine. She always wore white dresses and a wide gray moiré sash to mark the waist, which was so slender and flexible that she would bend like a reed before the breeze at each jolt of the little black Scotch pony, whose thick mane and long tail went streaming in the wind.
I held the bridle, and Hélène, at the least movement of little Black, would suddenly place her hand on my shoulder. This foolish timidity caused much merriment to Mlle, de Verteuil, who, much braver than her friend, and wishing to encourage her, would often gallop off and leave us alone.
We usually took these promenades on the green turf of a long avenue of leafy oak-trees. As long as Mile, de Verteuil remained with us I was gay and talkative, and Hélène, who was naturally dreamy, would brighten up and become quite animated; but as soon as Sophie left us we fell into interminable silences, of which I was quite ashamed, but which seemed to me perfectly blissful.
I soon afterwards wrote to a friend in London to send me some fine horses, several grooms, and two or three carriages of different sorts. My season of mourning was about to end. The arrival of all these equipages made a sort of little fête at Serval. I had kept it a secret, and I well remember Hélène’s childish and simple pleasure, when one beautiful evening in August, upon expressing a wish to drive in the forest, she saw, instead of one of our ordinary carriages, a charming calèche with four black horses, harnessed en d’Aumont, and mounted by two little English postilions, dressed in pearl gray velveteen.
She climbed into the chariot, accompanied by her mother and her friend. I rode beside them on horseback through that magnificent forest, and we returned slowly to the château, in the beautiful moonlight, which shone so picturesquely through the long, dark avenues of grand old trees.
While speaking of this drive, I should wish to state that I have never met with a woman who seemed more in keeping with luxurious surroundings, or, rather, one who heightened the effect of luxury more than Hélène; she possessed such stateliness, joined to such an enchanting and involuntary grace, that it was impossible to think of her except as constantly surrounded by every object of the best and most cultivated taste.
Thus without being extraordinarily beautiful, Hélène would have become one of those rare women, whose dress, equipage or home, we never think of admiring, no matter how supremely elegant they all may be, — the pervading woman harmonising and assimilating all these beautiful accessories. So many people are simply an advertisement of, or a contrast to, their wealth, and so few know how to cast upon their luxury that beautiful reflection, which, like a ray of sunshine, embellishes even the most magnificent object!
One evening, on returning from our drive, and as we were waiting for tea to be served, Hélène proposed that we should remain without lights in the salon, and that the Windows should be opened so that the soft rays of the moonlight might shine into the room; to this her mother gave consent Nothing was ever more melancholy than this vast apartment thus illuminated; so that from talking gaily, we gradually all became silent My aunt had spoken of my father; this remembrance saddened us all, though in different ways: my aunt remembered that she had lost a much loved brother; Madame de Verteuil, in thinking upon his death, remembered the state of her daughter’s health, and the sad fate which probably menaced her; while I was once more overcome with shame of my guilty forgetfulness.
We were soon all perfectly silent; I was seated beside Hélène, my head on my hands. I know not why, but I began to reproach myself for the display I was already beginning to make. I experienced a puerile remorse in thinking how, instead of taking our drive in the great heavy carriage that had belonged to my father, with his faithful old servants seated on the box, I had been riding in a light, elegant, modern turnout, with foreigners seated on the backs of my horses. Certainly nothing could be sillier or more inane than such ideas, and yet they affected me quite painfully.
After some time passed in reflection, I let my hand fall on to the arm of my chair, and found that I had placed it on the hand of Hélène; I blushed, and my heart began to beat strangely. When Hélène felt my hand, hers became suddenly cold, as though all the blood in her veins had rushed towards her heart. I dared neither take away my hand nor press hers, which I could feel growing warmer and warmer until presently it became burning hot. By the nervous trembling of her beautiful arm I could count the throbbing of her breast. I was entirely overcome and was filled with both unutterable joy and sadness.
Oh, ingenuous serenity of first emotion, what can ever replace thee! Oh, spring, so pure at thy source! How delicious is thy cool freshness when murmuring peacefully along, furtive and undiscovered, under the tufts of green leaves; but, alas! how soon does all this charm vanish when, coming boldly out of the shade and reflecting alike every shore, the current of thy
troubled waters is soiled by the débris they carry along.
I loved Hélène passionately, I idolised her, and yet, I had not dared as yet to make her an avowal of my love.
One day when we were out walking with Mlle, de Verteuil, who had been at the convent school with Hélène, we began by I know not what chance to speak of anniversaries and fêtes; suddenly Sophie de Verteuil exclaimed, as she looked towards me: “Do you remember, Hélène, our great excitement when we were little girls and celebrated his fête?”
Hélène blushed scarlet, and, with a shrug, replied to her friend, “I don’t understand you.” The poor child said no more, and we came back home quite soberly.
The next day, meeting Mlle, de Verteuil in the library, I asked her to tell me the meaning of those words which had, the day before, made such an impression on Hélène. After hesitating a long time, she ended by avowing that, when at the convent, Hélène had every year celebrated my fête with childish solemnity. The preparations consisted in buying a great bouquet of flowers, that she tied up with a fine ribbon, on which she had mysteriously embroidered the initials of my name; after which she would place the bouquet in an old marble vase, which stood in a lonely corner of the convent garden; here she would spend the hours of her recreation in prayer before her shrine, begging God to grant me a prosperous voyage.
Mlle, de Verteuil never tired in telling me of Hélène’s terror of being surprised whilst embroidering the ribbon, and of her thousand and one attempts (sometimes unsuccessful) to procure a fine enough bunch of flowers.
How can I tell how it came about that these childish doings told so simply by Mlle, de Verteuil filled me with delighted surprise and touched me to the heart? For before starting on my voyage, during a short visit that Hélène made to Serval, I had never considered her as anything but a child.
From the evening when I had, by accident, felt her hand under mine, Hélène appeared to avoid me; her habitual taciturnity became greater; her manner, until then sweet and equable, became brusque; she would remain for hours shut up in her own room with the blinds closed in perfect obscurity.
I was very unhappy myself; I was restless and preoccupied; I believed that an avowal on my part was all that was wanting to render Hélène calm and happy; but a timidity which I was not able to overcome sealed my lips to such a declaration.
One evening, however, when Hélène was less dejected and less sad than usual, I went with her for a horseback ride. I vowed to myself that I would have the courage to tell her of my love, — I would tell it as soon as we were riding in the great avenue of oaks I have spoken about. We arrived there, — my heart beat fearfully, but I dared not speak.
Ashamed and mortified, I came to a new decision, and I told myself that the marble temple at the end of the avenue should be the place where I would make a second attempt When we arrived there, I became dizzy, my heart seemed to stop beating, I could only say in a choking voice, “Hélène!” then I became dumb.
She turned her great moist eyes on me; she appeared paler than usual; her bosom heaved; she looked at me as though her gaze would penetrate the depths of my heart.
“Oh, Hélène!” I began again, and I know not what insurmountable timidity prevented me from saying a single word more.
She then, with a look of grief and despair I can never forget, cried out, “Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable always!”
Then, as if frightened at her own words, she gave a stroke of the whip to her pony, and dashed off at a gallop. Rooted to the spot, I watched her as she rode, and saw her rapidly approaching a gate which closed the end of the avenue. I sat there and shuddered; but she, who was usually such a coward, jumped her horse over the barrier at a single bound, and I soon lost sight of her in the depths of the forest.
When I found myself alone, the words uttered by Hélène with so much bitterness, “Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable for ever!” caused me a grievous sense of pain. I understood now that my silence had amounted almost to a declaration of love.
Then at last, remembering her confusion and her reticence, I began to believe that she also loved me, and the sort of avowal she had made filled me with such delight that, intoxicated with joy, I wandered about here and there like a crazy man, with no thought, no plan for the future, but happy, — oh, who can tell how happy? — ineffably happy and radiantly proud.
At last, night having come, I returned to the château. On entering the parlour, Hélène was there; her cheeks were glowing, her eyes shone with a strange light; seated at the piano she was playing very slowly, and with great expression, “The Last Thought,” by Weber, that musical phrase of so much sweetness and melancholy. When Hélène saw me she said, “Come, admit that I frightened you, did I not?” And, without waiting for me to answer, she stopped playing the morceau, as though fearing it might betray the sadness of her thoughts. She began a brilliant waltz, singing to the music from time to time with a voice which was noticeably tremulous.
Her mother and Mlle, de Verteuil looked at each other, as stupefied as myself by this sudden access of gaiety, which was so unlike Hélène.
Hélène paid no attention, but continued playing her waltz with all the noisy liveliness of a child.
Somehow all this unnatural joyfulness wounded and shocked me, so wild did Hélène appear. In fact, after this spasmodic behaviour had gone on about half an hour, she became suddenly very pale and then fainted. away.
A week after this scene Hélène knew of my love and had acknowledged her love for me.
CHAPTER VII.
THE LETTER.
THE THREE MONTHS that followed our avowal passed like a dream. These moments were certainly the happiest of my life. Everything was in harmony with our innocent young love, — the delightful season of the year, our sumptuous and picturesque home. Every adjunct of our daily life was of the most luxurious and elegant kind, a sort of poetry in action always of an inestimable value, — the gilded frame which adds to the effect of even the most beautiful painting.
In the midst of the park was a large lake. I had a gondola or barge constructed, rigged with awnings, curtains, and carpets; besides, there were soft cushions and a tea-table; here very often, when the evenings were fine, Hélène, her mother, Sophie, and I would spend delightful hours. In the middle of the lake was a small wooded island, crowned by a kiosk for music, and frequently I sent to the neighbouring town, where there was a military garrison, for three excellent German musicians who, hidden in the pavilion, played us lovely trios for alto, flute, and harp.
In order to be alone in the barge, and to prevent feeling the motion of the oars, I had it towed at the end of a long rope fastened to a small boat, which two of the men servants rowed ahead of us.
How often thus rocked by the waves, dreamily listening to the drip of the distant oar, breathing the aroma of the tea, or cooling our lips with snowy sherbets, we would suddenly be enchanted by a sudden burst of harmony coming to us from the island, while around us the fields and great forest-trees were bathed in the clear moonlight!
How many long evenings have I passed thus at Hélène’s side! How intoxicating were these waves of melody, now sweet and sonorous, now dying in sudden silence! I remember that these pauses caused us to feel the most delicious sadness. The ear at last becomes weary of sounds, no matter how harmonious they may be, but music, interrupted now and then by a pause, which gives one the time to think of what has gone before, to listen, as it were, in your heart to the echo of those last plaintive vibrations, — music thus interrupted has an added charm, and makes one sigh for more.
During these delightful moments I was always seated at Hélène’s side, holding her hand in mine; and we, thus, by a gentle pressure, which was for us a mute language, exchanged our heartfelt and varied thoughts; sometimes even — intoxicating and chaste privilege! — I seized the opportunity, which a moment of obscurity afforded me, of leaning my head on Hélène’s white shoulder. Her slender figure would then bend in a more lang
uishing curve than ever.
But, alas! these beautiful dreams were doomed to have a bitter awakening.
It was at the close of a November day; I was on the way home to the château, on foot, with Hélène, Mlle, de Verteuil, and my tutor, who had now become my intendant The weather was dark and cloudy; the sun was about to set; we were walking along the edge of the forest, which was already here and there brightened by the tints of autumn.
The silvery-barked birch-trees seemed to be showering down golden leaves; the thorn-bushes, the creepers, and the wild blackberries had all turned a beautiful glowing red.
To the right of us was a newly ploughed hillside, whose deep brown tones contrasted violently with a broad zone of orange-coloured light thrown on them by the setting sun; overhead great masses of deep blue-gray clouds piled themselves up like aerial mountain chains. Here and there, where weeds were burning on the hillsides, the light spirals of their smoke arose in white clouds, and slowly mingled with the vapours of the evening mists. To complete all, on the crest of the hill some cattle were slowly moving along to the monotonous jangling of their bells. As they stood out, so black, against the horizon, crimsoned as it was by the last glow of daylight, they seemed to be of colossal size.
