Читать книгу Henry of Guise (Historical Novel) - G. P. R. James - Страница 12

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The conduct which, as we have seen, was pursued by Charles of Montsoreau, had not been framed alone upon the supposition that his love for Marie de Clairvaut was without return. That belief, indeed, ultimately decided his determination; but a thousand other considerations had previously led him up to a point, where it wanted but one word to change the balance in either direction.

He had set out that morning for Morly full of hope and joy. He was not, indeed, confident that he was beloved; but he was confident that Marie de Clairvaut herself saw his affection, and had done nothing to check it. From all that he knew of her himself--from all that he had heard of her--from the casual conversation of Madame de Saulny, he was very, very sure, that the conduct of Marie de Clairvaut would have been quite different, if she had not felt a sufficient degree of regard for him, to know that love might follow if he sought it. This was quite enough to give him hope and happiness. He had, indeed, remarked his brother's ill humour upon many occasions, and he had attributed it justly to the disappointment of a desire to engross all their fair guest's conversation; but he had not the slightest idea of the eager and fiery passions that were rising up in the breast of Gaspar of Montsoreau.

When he mounted his horse, then, to visit the old Count de Morly--one who, though only distantly related to his family, had been his father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor--Charles of Montsoreau looked forward to his return in the evening, and to the audience he had craved of Marie de Clairvaut, with a heart full of joyful emotions, and with fear bearing a very small proportion to hope. There was much happiness in his whole air; but it was thoughtful happiness, and for two or three miles he rode on in silence.

His companion, the Abbé de Boisguerin, was silent too, and thoughtful, and from time to time, as they rode along, he gazed upon his former pupil with a look of contemplative earnestness, a slight frown upon his calm, cold brow, and the thin nostril raised with something between triumph and scorn in the expression. He said not a single word till he saw that Charles of Montsoreau himself began to feel his own silence strange, and looked round as if about to commence some conversation. Then, however, the Abbé spoke.

"If you are awake, Charles," he said, "I should wish some conference with you; if you are dreaming, dream on: Heaven forbid that I should disturb you, for your visions seem pleasant ones."

"They were, dear friend," replied Charles, with a smile; "but I can give them up for a time, in the hopes of their being realised."

"Visions are often realised," replied the Abbé.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau; "you surely are jesting, my sage friend. I thought to hear you reprove such idle fancies, and tell me that visions, however specious, were seldom, if ever, realised."

"No, far from it," replied the Abbé: "the visions of a strong, sensible, and reasoning mind like yours, Charles, are, on the contrary, very often realised; for they are seldom formed but upon some sufficient basis. But still I must have my lesson; and I will tell you, my dear Charles, that the visions which we have formed upon the best grounds, and which are consequently often realised in all their parts, are not unfrequently those productive of the utmost misery to ourselves, even when we thought them the most hopeful, the most happy. It is, Charles, that a thousand other things mingle with the realisation of our dreams, which in our dreams we dreamt not of, turning as with a fairy's wand the pure gold to dross, rendering the sweetness bitter, and changing wholesome food to poison. Look at that distant hill--the Peak of Geran--how soft, and blue, and smooth, and beautiful it looks, and yet you and I know that the small sharp stones with which it is covered will cut, till they bleed, the feet of the person who attempts to climb it. That soft blue mountain in the distance, Charles, is as the vision of an eager mind, and the rough impracticable stony side, as the realisation of the dream itself. I would always ask every one who indulges in a vision--Have you calculated beyond all question of doubt what may be the concomitant pangs, sorrows, and evils that even probably will accompany the realisation of that which you desire?--I would ask everyone this question, Charles; and I now ask you."

"I should think, my dear friend," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "that it would be utterly impossible for any one to answer such a question in the affirmative. The very fallibility of our human nature would prevent our doing so with truth. Good and evil must, of course, be always mingled in this world; and all that we can do is to think calmly, and endeavour to judge rationally, of that which is the best for our ultimate happiness. We must prepare ourselves to take the consequences, be they what they may. If you ask me the question you have mentioned, I should at once reply--No, I have not calculated all even of the probable evils which might attend the realisation of the visions with which I was occupied, because my mind is not capable of discovering one half of the chances attending any future event."

Charles spoke somewhat warmly; for there is always a degree of bitterness to the confident mind of youth in any words that tend to shadow the bright promises of hope, and to teach us by doctrine that which we can only learn by experience, the fallacy of expectations, the mingled nature of our best pleasures, the dust and ashes of human enjoyment. The Abbé gazed upon his face for a moment ere he replied; but then said, "I would put my question closer to you, Charles of Montsoreau, and I will put it seriously. Have you calculated all the self-evident evils that would attend the realisation of the visions which you were pondering?"

"Why, my dear Abbé," replied Charles with a smile, "it would seem by your serious aspect, that to-day you had turned prophet as well as preacher, could divine my thoughts, and see their results."

"I can divine your thoughts, Charles, and do," replied the Abbé; "and as it is a subject on which, however unwillingly, I must speak, I will tell you at once what these thoughts were. The results are in the hand of God, and in the hand of God alone. But I can and will show you some of the probable results."

"Nay, then," replied Charles, seeing that the Abbé spoke quite seriously, "such being the case, my dear Abbé, I need not tell you, that if you speak to me with warning, as your words imply, I will listen to you with every sort of deference. Speak, I beg you, and speak freely. Though no longer your pupil in name, I will gladly be so in reality. So now let me hear entirely what you have to say."

"Well, then, Charles," replied the Abbé, "what I have to say is this, and simply this. Your visions were of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. You fancied that by the various services which you have rendered her you have obtained a strong hold upon her regard, a claim even upon her hand; that she showed a fondness for your society, a degree of affection for your person, which promised you fair in every respect; and, in fact, believing--and with some degree of justice--that you yourself love her deeply, you saw every prospect of that love being gratified by obtaining hers, and ultimately, perhaps, her hand. Now, Charles, was this, or was this not, the matter in your thoughts? was this the vision upon which your mind was bent? were not these the prospects which you contemplated just now?"

"They were," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I do not deny it."

"Well, then," replied the Abbé, "I will not now dwell for even a single moment upon difficulties, obstacles, obstructions, upon the pride of the race of Guise, upon the views of self-interest and ambition, upon the probability of their treating your love for their niece with contempt, and rejecting your proffered alliance with scorn. I will not pause for a moment on such things; but I will speak of the matter with which we began; namely, of the probable, the self-evident evils which must attend the realisation of your hopes and wishes. Charles of Montsoreau, have you thought of your brother?"

The blood came somewhat warmly up into Charles's countenance. "I have thought of him," he replied, "most assuredly; but I have merely thought, my excellent friend, that though he might have some degree of admiration for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, yet he has neither had the opportunities, nor the occasion, if I may use the term, of feeling towards her as I do. Fate has willed it that I should be the person to aid her upon all occasions; fate has established between us links of connection which do not exist between her and Gaspar."

"But fate has not willed it," replied the Abbé sternly, "that you should love her a bit better than he does. On the contrary, Charles, fate has willed that he should love her deeply, passionately, strongly, with the whole intensity of feeling of which he is capable. This has been the will of fate, Charles of Montsoreau, and let not the selfishness of passion blind you. In your pursuit of Marie de Clairvaut, you are the rival of your brother."

Charles of Montsoreau cast down his eyes as they rode along, and for several minutes remained in deep silence. "You mean to say," he replied at length, "that my brother is my rival, for I first loved her, I first won her regard: he strives to snatch her from me, not I from him, and why should I hesitate at the consequences? He must learn to overcome his passion, a passion which is evidently not returned. I go on with hope; and in love, thank God, at least, there is no elder brother's right to bar us from success."

"If such be your thoughts and feelings, Charles," replied the Abbé, in a slow and solemn manner, "I see no hope but strife, contention, misery--perhaps bloodshed! between two brothers, who were born to love, to succour, to support each other. And now they will draw their swords upon each other for a woman's smile."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau. "Fear not that, Abbé! My sword shall never be drawn against my brother, were he to urge me to the utmost. But you view this matter too gravely, you deceive yourself, I am sure. In the first place, though angry, and mortified, and somewhat jealous, perhaps, that I have had opportunities of serving Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, which he has not obtained--though somewhat charmed with her beauty, and captivated with her graces--I do not, I cannot, believe that Gaspar feels that love towards her which cannot easily be conquered. He feels not, Abbé, as I feel--he cannot feel as I feel towards her."

"Charles, you deceive yourself," replied the Abbé, "nay more, you deceive yourself wilfully. Last night in the great hall, after you had retired to rest, your brother walked up and down with me in a state almost of frenzy. He told me how deeply, how passionately, he loved her; he poured forth into the bosom which has been accustomed to receive all his thoughts, his grief, his agony, his madness itself--for I can call it nothing but madness. He spoke of you--of you, the brother of his love, the being who has gone on nurtured with him from infancy till now without one harsh word or angry feeling between you--he spoke of you, I say, with hatred and abhorrence; he longed to imbrue his hands in your blood; he called you the destroyer of his peace, the obstacle of his happiness, the being who had driven him to wretchedness and despair."

Charles of Montsoreau dropped the bridle on his horse's neck, and covered his eyes with his hands. "This is very terrible!" he said--"this is very terrible!"

"It is terrible," replied the Abbé--"it is very terrible, Charles; but it is no less true. Your brother so mild, so kind-hearted as he was, is now changed by his rivalry with you, is now full of the feelings of a murderer, is now ready to become a second Cain, and slay his brother, because his offering has not found favour in the sight of the being he worships, as yours has done! Of all this you knew not, and therefore you could not judge; but when I said you were deceiving yourself wilfully, Charles, I said not so without cause. Think of what your brother was, one bare fortnight ago--all gay, all cheerful, all good-humoured, bearing contradiction with a smile, laughing at the thought of care, putting you always in the first place before himself. See what he is now, Charles, even when restrained by the eyes of many upon him--moody, irritable, passionate, evidently abhorring the brother he so lately loved. Can this entire change have come over a man's nature, I ask you, this sad, this terrible, this blighting change, without some strong and overpowering passion? and will you tell me you do not see he loves, loves with all the intensity of an eager, a warm, a fiery heart, loves passionately, loves to madness?"

Again Charles of Montsoreau bent his eyes down upon the ground, again he remained silent for a considerable space of time; and in that space, terrible was the conflict which went on within him. At length he raised his eyes gravely, even sternly, to the face of the Abbé de Boisguerin, and demanded, "Abbé, what would you have me do?"

"It is not for me to dictate, Charles," said the Abbé, in a sad and solemn tone. "You are your own master, you are lord of princely lands and great wealth, you are lord also of yourself. It is not for me to say what you shall do. But I can tell you, Charles of Montsoreau, what you would do if you were the same generous, noble, kind-hearted, self-denying youth that was once under my charge. You would labour zealously, constantly, firmly, to overcome a passion which can produce nothing but misery."

"What!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, "and see the woman I love become the bride of my brother! What! witness their union, when she loves me rather than him! Why is this to be put upon me, Abbé?--why, when there is every right on my side, and none on his? Why am I to be the sacrifice rather than Gaspar? Why do you address these words of exhortation to me rather than to him?"

"In the first place," replied the Abbé, "what you fear--what you seem most to fear, what it would be almost too much to demand from you--never will, never can take place. Marie de Clairvaut will never be your brother's bride. She loves him not; she rather dislikes him: that is evident. You cannot suppose, Charles, that she will ever be his. So I remove that from all consideration. You next ask me why I put the hard task on you rather than him; why I exhort you rather than him. I will tell you, Charles; because with you I believe exhortation will have effect; with him it will have none. I have told you before, this passion with him is a madness. He is more violent, he is less generous, in his nature than you are, Charles; and if you would know more, know that I have already exhorted him, and found my exhortations vain. If you persist in your passion, if you, too, do not make a great effort to conquer it, misery, agony, and bloodshed will be the consequence. The despair, the death of him who hung at the same bosom with yourself will lie heavy on your head. You, you will be more to blame than he is; for you are acting with determinate reason and forethought, when I tell you that his reason is gone. And, moreover----"

"Then," exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, interrupting him, "then I ought to become a madman, too, to put myself in the right! Abbé, your reasoning is not just; but I understand and feel your motives, though I cannot admit your arguments--hear me, hear me out. Were my own feelings and my own happiness alone concerned, I could--yes, I think I could--sacrifice them all to my brother, if by so doing I thought I could secure his peace. But, in the first place, you do not even hold out to me the supposition that any sacrifice on my part would secure his happiness; and, in the next place, I have to remember that there is another whose feelings and whose comfort are to be considered. Much may have passed between Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and myself to make me sure that she knows my love, and to make me hope that she returns it. And, if such be the case, I have no right to draw back a single step, nor will I for any consideration upon earth. If I love her without her loving me, I can struggle against my love, though I can never overcome it; but if she love me too, I will trifle with her happiness for no man upon earth--no, not my brother!"

The Abbé remained silent for a moment or two; and then replied, "Charles, your hopes are deceiving you. Mademoiselle de Clairvaut's feelings may be favourable to you, may be kindly; but, believe me," he added, and a very slight appearance of a sneering smile hung about his lip--"but, believe me, there is no chance of your injuring her happiness by ceasing to seek her love. I speak from good authority, Charles; as it is not two days ago, from Madame de Saulny's own account, that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut declared her intention to be stronger than ever of going into a convent. It is very natural, my dear Charles, that you, knowing and feeling the passion in your own breast, should think it equally evident to her. Very likely you may have addressed to her words of passion and of love, displayed signs of tenderness and affection, which you think fully sufficient to convince her; and yet she may not have the slightest idea that your feelings are any thing but those of common courtesy and kindness. You must remember, that a pure and fine-minded woman shuns the very idea of any man being in love with her, till his absolute assurance that such is the case, leaves her no longer any room to doubt. Pure, modest, and retiring, as Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is, such, depend upon it, are her feelings; and be you perfectly sure that nothing you have done for her has been construed by her in any other light than that of common kindness and courtesy."

"I will soon know that," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I will know that this very night; and if I find that I have been deceiving myself, I will make any sacrifice for my brother. I will quit the place; I will stand in his way no longer; although you yourself," he added bitterly, "give me no hope that, by any of the sacrifices you demand, I shall contribute in the least to my brother's happiness."

"I think," replied the Abbé, "that you will contribute greatly to the happiness of both; or, at all events, remove those causes of dissension which would have made you both miserable. Your own happiness, too, may be served in the end more than you imagine. The obstacles to your brother's happiness will come from her, not from you. He may grow wearied of a pursuit that he finds to be fruitless; he may conquer a passion which he sees can never be returned. Your generosity and forbearance may, in turn, have their natural effect upon his heart; and he may learn to see with pleasure your union with her who never could be his. Thus, in fact, by making a sacrifice, you may make none; and by seeming to abandon, may win but the more surely."

"No!" replied the young nobleman--"No, Abbé! I will do nothing by halves. I will act upon no motives but straightforward ones. I believe that Marie de Clairvaut knows, has seen, and returns my affection. If she love me, if her happiness is implicated, nothing on earth shall make me abandon her. I will love her, and seek her unto death. But if I find that I have deceived myself; if I learn that she has not seen and does not return my love, I will fly from her at once. To-morrow's sunset shall see me far away; and then I will do every thing that lies in my power to contribute to my brother's happiness. He shall be forced to say that I have laboured for his gratification and my own disappointment, though he has embittered his heart towards his brother, and suffered passion to turn the milk of our mother into gall. Let us ride on, Abbé, let us ride on: my determinations are taken. It is better to know our fate at once. I shall stay but a short time with the good Count de Morly; and I will then leave you with him, and ride back with all speed."

"Nay, my dear Charles," replied the Abbé, "I will go back with you. I cannot suffer you to tread a long road companioned by such painful thoughts as I fear you will have."

"No, no," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I would rather go alone. I must deal with this business singly, Abbé; and, besides, some of us should stay awhile with the good count. He is your cousin as well as ours, you know; and, as he has no other relations, may leave you all his wealth."

The Abbé turned quickly round, with an inquiring and half-angry look, as if there was something in his own bosom told him that he might find a sneer upon the countenance of his young companion. Such, however, was not the case. All was clear and calm upon the face of Charles of Montsoreau, except a melancholy smile, as if the motives which he jestingly attributed to the Abbé were too absurd for any one to believe he spoke in earnest. They conversed no more on a subject so painful as that which they had already discussed, but rode on quickly and in silence. Such had been the conversation which preceded the interview between Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut.