"Oh! father! father!"
"You see that your father is altogether deranged," said the marchioness, triumphantly; "say no more to him."
"Oh!" cried Marguerite, "God will, I trust perform a miracle! My love, my caresses, my tears, will restore him to reason."
"Make the attempt," replied the marchioness, coldly, abandoning to her care the marquis, who was powerless, speechless, and almost without consciousness.
"Oh! my poor father!" exclaimed Marguerite, in a tone of agony.
The marquis remained perfectly impassible.
"Sir!" said the marchioness, in an imperative manner.
"Eh! eh!" cried the marquis, shuddering.
"Save me! oh! save me, father!" cried Marguerite, wringing her hands, and throwing herself back in despair.
"Take this pen and sign," said the marchioness, "you must – it is my will."
"Now, I am lost indeed!" cried Marguerite, overwhelmed with terror, and feeling that she had no longer strength to continue the struggle.
But at the moment that the marquis, overpowered, had written the first letters of his name; when the marchioness was congratulating herself on the victory she had obtained, and Marguerite was about to leave the room in despair, an unexpected incident suddenly changed the scene. The door of the study opened, and Paul, who had been anxiously watching, though invisibly, the whole of this terrible conflict, issued from it.
"Madam," said he, "one word before this contract is signed!"
"Who is it calls me!" said the marchioness, endeavoring to distinguish in the distance that separated them, the person who had thus spoken, and who stood in a dark corner of the room.
"I know that voice!" exclaimed the marquis, shuddering, as if seared by a red-hot iron.
Paul advanced three paces, and the light from the lustre hanging in the centre of the room fell full upon him.
"Is it a spectre?" cried the marchioness, in her turn, struck with the resemblance of the youth who stood before her to her former lover.
"I know that face!" cried the marquis, believing that he saw the man whom he had killed.
"My God! my God! protect me," stammered Marguerite, raising her eyes and hands to heaven.
"Morlaix! Morlaix!" said the marquis, rising and advancing toward Paul, "Morlaix! – pardon! mercy!" and he fell at full length upon the floor.
"My father!" cried Marguerite, rushing to his assistance.
At that moment a servant entered the room, with terror in his looks, and addressing the marchioness said —
"Madam, Achard has sent to request that the priest and the doctor of the castle, may instantly be ordered to attend him – he is dying."
"Tell him," replied the marchioness, pointing to her husband, whom Marguerite was vainly endeavoring to restore to consciousness, "that they are both obliged to remain here to attend upon the marquis."
CHAPTER XIV. – RELIGIOUS CONVICTION
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
Shakespeare.
As has been seen by the end of the preceding chapter, God, by one of those extraordinary combinations, which short-sighted man almost always attributes to chance, had summoned to his presence, and almost at the same moment, the souls of the noble Marquis d'Auray, and the poor low-born Achard. We have seen that the former, struck by the sight of Paul, the living portrait of his father, as if by a thunderbolt, fell at the feet of the young man, who was himself terrified at the effect his appearance had produced.
As to Achard, the circumstances which had hastened his death, although differing in their nature, and from very opposite feelings, had arisen from the same fatal causes, and had been brought about by the same individual. The sight of Paul had created direful emotions in the breasts both of the marquis and Achard. On the former from excess of terror, on the latter from excess of joy.
During the day which had preceded the intended signing of the contract, Achard had felt himself more feeble than usual. Notwithstanding this, he had not neglected in the evening to crawl to his master's grave, there to put up his accustomed prayer. Thence he had observed with a devotion more profound than ever, that ever new and splendid spectacle, the sun sinking into the ocean. He had followed the decline of its enpurpled light, and as though the vast torch of the world had drawn his soul toward it, he had felt his strength extinguished with its last rays; so that when the servant from the castle came in the evening at the accustomed hour to receive his orders, not finding him in his house, had sought for him without the park, and as it was well known that he generally walked in that direction, found him lying extended at the foot of the great oak tree, upon the grave of his master, and deprived of consciousness. Thus did he remain constant to the last in that religious devotedness he had vowed to his master's tomb, and which had been the exclusive feeling of the last years of his life.
The servant took him in his arms, and carried him into his house; and then, terrified at the unexpected accident, had hastened to the marchioness to inform her that Achard required the attendance of a physician and a priest, which message was delivered to her by the servant then in waiting, to which the marchioness refused to accede, under the pretext that they were required as urgently by the marquis as the old servant, and that superiority of rank, powerful, even when at the point of death, gave her husband the right of first employing.
But the intelligence which had been announced to the marchioness at the moment of that dreadful agony, into which their varying interests and varying passions had thrown the actors in this family drama, of which we have become the historian, this intelligence, we say, was heard by Paul. Conceiving that the signature of the contract had now become impossible from the state of the marquis, he had only allowed himself time to whisper to Marguerite, that should she need his assistance, she would find him at Achard's cottage, and then he rushed into the park, and winding his way amid its serpentine walks and thickets, with the skill of a sear man, who reads his path in the starry firmament, he soon reached the house, entered it panting from his rapid course, and found Achard just as he was recovering from his fainting fit, and clasped him in his arms. The delight of again seeing him renewed the strength of the old man, who now felt certain of having a friendly hand to close his eyes.
"Oh! it is you – it is you!" exclaimed the old man.
"I did not hope to see you again."
"And could you possibly believe that I should have been apprized of the state in which you were, and that I would not instantly fly to your assistance?"
"But I knew not where to find you – where I could send to tell you that I wished once more to see you before I died."
"I was at the castle, father, where I learned that you were dangerously ill, and I hastened hither."
"And how was it that you were at the castle?" said the old man, with amazement.
Paul related to him all that had occurred.
"Eternal Providence!" cried the old man, when Paul had concluded his recital, "how hidden and inevitable are thy decrees. Thou, who, after twenty years, hast conducted this youth to the cradle of his infancy, and hast killed the assassin of the father, by the mere aspect of the son!"
"Yes, yes, thus it happens," replied Paul, "and it is Providence, also, who conducts me to you, that I might save you. For I heard them refuse to send you the physician and the priest."
"According to common justice," rejoined Achard, "they might have made a fair division. The marquis, who fears death, might have retained the physician, while to me who am tired of life, they might have sent the priest."
"I can go on horseback," said Paul, "and in less than an hour – "
"In an hour it would be too late," said the dying man, in an enfeebled voice, "a priest! a priest only – I ask but for a priest."
"Father," replied Paul, "in his sacred functions, I know I cannot supply his place; but we can speak of God, of his greatness and his goodness."
"Yes, but let us first finish with the things of this earth, that we may then be able to turn our thoughts wholly to those of heaven. You say that, like myself, the marquis is dying."
"I left him at the last agony."
"You know, that immediately after his death, the papers which are deposited in that closet, and which prove your birth, are yours by right."
"I know it."
"If I die before the marquis, to whom can I confide them?" The old man sat up and pointed to a key hanging at the head of his bed. "You will take that key, you will open the closet – in it you will find a casket. You are a man of honor. Swear to me that you will not open that casket until the marquis shall be dead."
"I swear it," said Paul solemnly, and extending his hand towards the crucifix hanging at the head of the bed.
"'Tis well," replied Achard; "now I shall die in peace."
"You may do so, for the son holds your hand in this world, and the father stretches out his towards you from heaven!"
"Do you believe, my child, that he will be satisfied with my fidelity?"
"No king was ever so faithfully obeyed during life, as he has been since his death."
"Yes," murmured the old man, in a gloomy tone, "I was but too exact in following his orders. I ought not to have suffered the duel to have taken place; I ought to have refused attending it as a witness. Hear me, Paul; it is this that I wished to have said to a priest, for it is the only thing that weighs upon my conscience: listen: there have been moments of doubt, during which, I have regarded this solitary duel as an assassination. In that case, Paul, oh! in that case, I have not only been a witness, but an accomplice!"
"Oh! my second father," replied Paul, "I know not whether the laws of earth are always in accordance with the laws of heaven, and whether honor as it is considered by man, would be a virtue in the eyes of the Lord; I know not whether our holy church, an enemy to bloodshed, permits that the injured should attempt with his own hands, to avenge the wrongs inflicted upon him by attacking his injurer, and if in that case, the judgment of heaven directs the pistol ball or the sword's point. These are questions not to be decided by reasoning, but by conscience. Well, then, my conscience tells me, that situated as you were, I should have done precisely as you did. Should conscience in this case mislead me, it also misled you, and in this view of the matter, I have a greater right than a priest, to absolve you; and in my name, and in that of my father, I pardon you."
"Thanks! thanks!" cried the old man, pressing the hands of Paul; "thanks, for these words, pour consolation into the soul of a dying man. Remorse is a dreadful thing! remorse would lead one to believe that there exists no God. For without a judge there can be no judgment."
"Listen to me," said Paul, in that poetic and solemn accent, which was peculiar to him: "I also have often doubted in the existence of a God: isolated and lost in the wide world, without family, and without a single friend, I sought for support in the Lord, and I asked of every thing that encircled me, some proof of his existence. Often have I arrested my steps at the foot of one of these crosses, erected by the road side, and with my eyes fixed upon the Saviour, I demanded, and with tears, to be assured of his existence, and divine mission; I prayed that his eyes would deign to look upon me: that one drop of blood might fall from his wound, or that a sigh might issue from his lips. The crucifix remained motionless, and I arose, my heart being overcome with despair, saying – 'did I but know where I could find my father's tomb, I would question him as Hamlet did the ghost, and he would perhaps answer me!'"
"Poor child!"
"Then would I enter a church," continued Paul, "one of those churches of the north, gloomy, religious, Christian! And I would feel myself borne down with sorrow; but sorrow is not faith! I approached the altar; I threw myself upon my knees before the tabernacle, in which God dwells; I bowed my head till it touched the marble of the steps; and when I had thus remained prostrated for hours and lost in doubt, I raised my head, hoping that the God I was seeking would at length manifest his presence to me by a ray of his glory, or by some dazzling proof of his power. But the church remained gloomy, as the cross had remained motionless. And I would then rush from its porches with insensate haste, crying, 'Lord! Lord! didst thou exist, thou would reveal thyself to man. It is thy will, then, that men should doubt, since thou canst reveal thyself to them, but dost not.'"
"Beware of what you are saying, Paul," cried the old man: "beware that the doubt thy heart contains do not attaint mine! Thou hast time left to thee to believe, whereas, I – I am about to die."
"Wait, father, wait!" continued Paul, with softened voice, and placid features. "I have not told you all. It was then, that I said to myself, 'the crucifix by the road side, the churches of the cities are but the work of man. Let us seek God, in God's own works.' From that moment, my father, began that wandering life, which will remain an eternal mystery, known only to the heavens, the ocean, and myself – it led me into the solitary wilds of America, for I thought the newer a world was, the more freshly would it retain the impress of God's hand. I did not deceive myself. There, often in those virgin forests, into which I was perhaps the first who had ever penetrated; with no shelter, but the heavens, no couch, but the earth, absorbed by one sole thought, I have listened to the thousand noises of a world about to sleep, and nature when awakening. For a long time, did I still remain without comprehending that unknown tongue, formed by the mingling of the murmur of rivers, the vapor of the lakes, the rustling of the forest, and the perfume of flowers. Finally, the veil which had obscured my eyes, and the weight which had oppressed my heart, was little by little removed; and from that time, I began to believe that these noises of evening, and of approaching day, were but one universal hymn, by which created things expressed their gratitude to the Creator."
"Almighty God!" cried the dying man, clasping his hands, and raising his eyes to heaven, with an expression of holy faith, "I cried to you from the bottomless pit, and you heard me in my distress; oh! my God I I thank thee."
"Then," continued Paul, with still increasing enthusiasm, "then, I sought upon the ocean, that full conviction which earth had refused to me. The earth is but a span – the ocean is immensity! The ocean is, after God himself, the grandest, the most powerful object in the universe. I have heard the ocean roar like a chafed lion, and then at the voice of its master, become tranquil as a submissive dog; I have seen it rise like a Titan, to scale the heavens; and then beneath the whip of the tempest, moan like a weeping infant. I have seen it dashing its waves to meet the lightning, and endeavoring to quench the thunder with its foam; and then become smooth as a mirror, and reflect even the smallest star in the heavens. Upon the land, I had become convinced of God's existence, upon the ocean, I recognised his power. In the solitary wilds, as Moses, I had heard the voice of the Lord, but during the tempest, I saw him, as did Ezekiel, riding upon the wings of the storm. Thenceforward, my father, thenceforward, all doubt was driven from my mind, and from the evening on which I witnessed the first hurricane, I believed, and prayed."
"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth," said the dying man, with ardent faith; and he continued thus the symbol of the apostles to the last word.
Paul listened to him in silence, with his eyes raised to heaven, and when he had concluded, said —
"It is not thus, that a priest would have spoken to you, my father, for I have spoken to you as a seaman, and with a voice more accustomed to pronounce words of death than consolation. Forgive me, father, forgive me for it."
"You have made me pray, and believe as you do," said the old man; "tell me, then, what more could a priest have done? What you have said is plain and grand – let me reflect on what you have said."
"Listen!" said Paul, shuddering, "What is it?"
"Did you not hear?"
"No."
"I thought that a voice of some one in distress called to me – there again – do you not hear it? – now, again! – It is the voice of Marguerite."
"Go to her instantly," replied the old man; "I need to be alone."
Paul rushed into the adjoining room, and as he entered it he heard his name again repeated, and close to the door of the cottage. Then, running to the door he anxiously opened it, and found Marguerite upon the threshold, her strength having failed her, and she had fallen upon her knees.
"Save me! save me!" she cried, with an expression of profound terror, on perceiving Paul, and clasped his knees.
CHAPTER XV. – THE PAPERS
Mercy from him!
And how can I expect it?
By what right
Can I demand he should withhold his claim,
The proofs once in his power? – Anonymous.
Paul ran to Marguerite, and caught her in his arms; she was pale and icy cold. He carried her into the first room, placed her in an arm chair, returned to the door which had remained open, and closed it, and then hastened back.
"What is it that so terrifies you? who is pursuing you? and how does it happen that you come here at this unusual hour?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Marguerite, "at any hour, whether by day or night, I should have flown as long as the earth would have borne me! I should have flown till I had found some heart in which I could have poured forth my sorrows, an arm capable of defending me. Paul! Paul! my father is dead?"
"Poor child!" said Paul, pressing Marguerite to his heart, "who flies from one house of death to fall into another; who leaves death in the castle, to find it in the cottage."
"Yes, yes!" cried Marguerite rising, still trembling with terror, and convulsively pressing Paul's arm. "Death is yonder, and I find death here! but yonder it is attended with despair and fear, while here it is met with tranquillity and hope. Oh! Paul! Paul! had you but seen that which I have seen!"
"Tell me all that happened."
"You saw the terrible effect produced by your appearance, and the mere sound of your voice?"
"Yes, I saw that."
"They carried him still fainting and speechless into his own room."
"It was to your mother that I spoke," said Paul, "and he heard me; I could not foresee it would so much have terrified him."
"You full well know all that had passed, for you must have heard from the room in which you were concealed, every word we uttered. My father, my poor father, had recognized me, and I, seeing him thus, could, not repress my uneasiness: notwithstanding the risk I ran of irritating my mother, I went up to his room – the door was locked; I knocked softly at it. He had recovered his senses, for I heard a faint voice asking 'who was there?'"
"And your mother?" said Paul eagerly.
"My mother," replied Marguerite, "was no longer there, and she had locked him in as she would have done to a child; but when he had recognized my voice, when I had told him that it was his daughter Marguerite who wished to see him, he told me that I could get into the room by going down stairs again, and that in the study I should find a private staircase which led to it. A minute afterwards, I was kneeling by his bedside, and he gave me his blessing. Yes, Paul, I received his blessing before he died, his paternal benediction, which I trust will bring down the blessing of God upon my head."
"Yes," said Paul, "God will pardon you; you may now feel tranquil. Weep for your father, Marguerite, but weep no longer for yourself, for you are saved."
"You have heard nothing yet, Paul!" exclaimed Marguerite. "Hear me still."
"Proceed!"
"At the very moment when I was kneeling, kissing the hand of my father, and thanking him for the relief he had afforded my afflicted mind, I heard my mothers footstep on the staircase. I recognized her voice, and my father also recognized it, for he again embraced me, and made a sign to me to leave him. I obeyed him, but such was my terror and confusion, that I mistook the door, and instead of the staircase by which I had ascended, I found myself in a small cabinet which had no issue. I felt all around its walls, but could find no door. I was compelled to remain there. I then heard my mother, accompanied by the priest, entering my father's room – I restrained my breathing, fearing that she should hear me. I saw then through the glass window of the door, and I assure you, Paul, that she was paler than my father who was about to die."
"Gracious heaven!" murmured Paul.
"The priest seated himself by the bed-side," continued Marguerite, so terrified that she pressed still closer against Paul; "my mother remained standing at the foot of the bed – I was there, just opposite to them, compelled to remain a witness of that mournful spectacle, without the means of retreat! – a daughter, obliged to hear the dying confession of her father! – was it not horrible? I fell upon my knees, closing my eyes that I might not see – praying that I might not hear – and yet in spite of myself – and this I swear to you, Paul – I saw and I heard – Oh! what I then heard, can never be obliterated from my memory – I saw my father, whose recollections seemed to inspire him with a feverish strength, sit up in his bed, the paleness of death imprinted on his face. I heard him – I heard him pronounce the words, a duel – adultery – assassination! – and at each word he uttered, I saw my mother turn pale – and paler even than before – and I heard her raise her voice so that it might drown the voice of the dying man, saying to the priest: 'believe him not – believe him not, reverend father; what he says is false – or rather, he is mad, he knows not what he says – believe him not!' Oh! Paul, it was a dreadful spectacle, an impious sacrilege; a cold perspiration stood upon my forehead, and I fainted."
"Justice of Heaven!" cried Paul. "I know not how long I remained without consciousness. When I recovered my senses, the room was as silent as the tomb. My mother and the priest had disappeared, and two wax lights were burning near my father. I opened the door of the cabinet, and cast my eyes on the bed; it appeared to me that I could distinguish beneath the sheet which completely covered it, the stiffened form of a corpse. I divined that all was over! I remained motionless, divided between the funereal awe which such a sight inspired, and the pious desire of raising the covering to kiss once more before he should be inclosed in his coffin, the venerable forehead of my dear father. Fear, however, overcame every other feeling – an ice-like mortal, and invincible terror drove me from the room. I flew down the staircase, I know not how, but I believe without touching a single step, – I fled across the rooms and through the corridors, till the freshness of the air convinced me that I had left the castle. I fled, completely unconscious of whither my steps were leading me, until I remembered you had told me I should find you here. A secret instinct – tell me what it was – for I cannot myself comprehend it, had led me in this direction. It appeared to me that I was pursued by shadows, horrid phantoms. At the corner of one of the avenues I thought – (had I then lost my senses?) – I thought I saw my mother, dressed all in black, and walking as noiselessly as a sceptre. Oh! then, then! terror lent me wings – I at first fled without knowing whither; after this my strength failed me, and it was then you heard my cries. I dragged myself along a few more paces, and fell motionless at this door; had you not opened it, I should have expired upon the spot, for I was so much terrified, that it appeared to me," – then suddenly pausing, Marguerite trembled, and whispered to Paul, "Silence! do you not hear?"
"Yes," replied Paul, instantly extinguishing the lamp, "yes, yes – footsteps – I hear them also."
"Look! look!" cried Marguerite, concealing herself behind the curtain of the window, and throwing them around Paul at the same moment – "look! I was not mistaken – it was my mother."
The door had been opened, and the marchioness, pale as a spectre, entered the room slowly, closed the door after her, and locked it, and then without observing Paul and Marguerite, went into the second room where Achard was lying. She then walked up to his bed, as she had only a short time before to that of the marquis, only that she was not now accompanied by a priest.
"Who is there?" said Achard, drawing back one of the curtains of his bed.
"It is I," replied the marchioness, drawing back the other curtain.
"You, madam," cried the old man with terror; "for what purpose have you come to the bedside of a dying man?"
"I have come to make a proposal to him."
"One that will lose his soul! is it not?"
"To save it, on the contrary. There is only one thing in this world, Achard, of which you stand in need," rejoined the marchioness, bending down over the bed of the dying man, "and that is a priest."
"You refused to allow the one who is attached to the castle to attend me."
"In five minutes, if you wish it, he shall be here."
"Let him be sent then," said the old man, "and believe me there is not a moment to be lost. He must come quickly."
"But if I give you the peace of heaven, you will give me in exchange peace on earth."
"What can I do for you?" murmured the dying man, closing his eyes, that he might not see a woman whose looks chilled him.
"You stand in need of a priest, that you may die in peace," said the marchioness, "you know the gift I require, in order to exist in tranquillity."
"You would close heaven to me by a perjury."
"I would open it to you by a pardon."
"That pardon I have already received."
"And from whom? – "
"From him who, perhaps, had alone the right to grant it to me."
"Has Morlaix then descended from heaven?" asked the marchioness, in a tone in which there was almost as much terror as irony.
"No, madam," replied he, "but have you forgotten that he left a son upon this earth?"
"Then you have also seen him," exclaimed the marchioness.
"Yes," replied Achard.
"And you have told him all – "
"All!"
"And the papers which prove his birth?" asked the marchioness, with trembling anxiety.
"The marquis was not dead – the papers are still there."
"Achard!" cried the marchioness, falling upon her knees, by the bedside. "Achard! you will take pity on me?"
"You, on your knees, before me, madam?"
"Yes, old man," replied the marchioness, in a supplicating tone, "yes, I am on my knees before you – and I beg, I implore you, for you hold in your hands the honor of one of the most ancient families in France – my past, my future life! Those papers are my heart, my soul – they are more than this – they are my name – the name of my forefathers – of my children – and you well know all that I have suffered to preserve that name unsullied. Do you believe that I had not a heart as other women have? the feelings of a lover, of a wife, and of a mother? Well! I have overcome them all, one by one, and the struggle has been long. I am twenty years younger than you are, old man, I am still in the prime of life, and you are on the verge of the grave. Look, then, upon these hairs; they are even whiter than your own."
"What says she?" whispered Marguerite, who had softly crept to the door, and could see all that was passing in the inner room. "Gracious heaven!"
"Listen, listen, dear child," said Paul, "it is the Lord who permits that all shall be thus revealed."
"Yes, yes," murmured Achard, who was becoming weaker every moment. "Yes, you doubted the goodness of the Lord, you had forgotten that he had forgiven the adulterous woman – "
"Yes, but when she met with Christ, men were about to cast stones at her – men, who for twenty generations have been accustomed to revere our name, to honor our family – did they but learn, that which, thank heaven! has heretofore been hidden from them – would hear it uttered with shame and with contempt. I have so much suffered, that God will pardon me – but man! men are so implacable, that they will not pardon – moreover, am I alone exposed to their insults – on either side, the cross I bear, have I not a child? – and is not the other that we speak of, the first-born? In the eyes of the law, is he not the son of the Marquis d'Auray? do you forget that he is the first-born, the head of the family? Do you not know, that in order to possess himself of the title, the estates, the fortune of the family of Auray, he has only to invoke the law? and then what would remain to Emanuel? The cross of the order of Malta – and to Marguerite? – a convent."
"Oh! yes, yes," whispered Marguerite, and stretching out her arms, toward the marchioness, "yes, a convent, in which I would pray for you, my mother."
"Silence! silence!" whispered Paul.
"Oh! you know him not," said Achard, whose voice was scarcely audible.
"No! but I know human nature," replied the marchioness, "he may recover a name, he! who has no name – a fortune, he! who has no fortune. And do you believe he would renounce that fortune and that name."
"Should you ask it of him, he would."
"And by what right could I demand it?" said the marchioness; "by what right could I ask him to spare me, to spare Emanuel, to spare Marguerite? He would say, 'I do not know you, madam – I have never seen you – you are my mother, and that is all I know.'"
"In his name," stammered Achard, whose tongue death was beginning to benumb, "in his name, madam, I engage, I swear – oh! my God! my God!"
The marchioness arose, observing attentively by the old man's features, the approach of death.
"You engage, you swear!" she said, "is he here to ratify this engagement – you engage! you swear! and on your word, you would, that I should stake the years I have yet to live, against the moments which yet remain between you and death! I have entreated, I have implored, and again, I entreat and implore you to give up those papers to me."