The Chouans by Honoré de Balzac (best classic romance novels txt) 📖

her under its natural form or in its own colors. She grasped the hand of the little boy with a violence not natural to her, dragging him along with such precipitate steps that she seemed to have the motions of a madwoman. She saw neither persons nor things in the salon as she crossed it, and yet she was saluted by three men who made way to let her pass.

“That must be she,” said one of them.

“She is very handsome,” exclaimed another, who was a priest.

“Yes,” replied the first; “but how pale and agitated—”

“And beside herself,” said the third; “she did not even see us.”

At the door of her own room Mademoiselle de Verneuil saw the smiling face of Francine, who whispered to her: “He is here, Marie.”

Mademoiselle de Verneuil awoke, reflected, looked at the child whose hand she held, remembered all, and replied to the girl: “Shut up that boy; if you wish me to live do not let him escape you.”

As she slowly said the words her eyes were fixed on the door of her bedroom, and there they continued fastened with so dreadful a fixedness that it seemed as if she saw her victim through the wooden panels. Then she gently opened it, passed through and closed it behind her without turning round, for she saw the marquis standing before the fireplace. His dress, without being too choice, had the look of careful arrangement which adds so much to the admiration which a woman feels for her lover. All her self-possession came back to her at the sight of him. Her lips, rigid, although half-open, showed the enamel of her white teeth and formed a smile that was fixed and terrible rather than voluptuous. She walked with slow steps toward the young man and pointed with her finger to the clock.

“A man who is worthy of love is worth waiting for,” she said with deceptive gaiety.

Then, overcome with the violence of her emotions, she dropped upon the sofa which was near the fireplace.

“Dear Marie, you are so charming when you are angry,” said the marquis, sitting down beside her and taking her hand, which she let him take, and entreating a look, which she refused him. “I hope,” he continued, in a tender, caressing voice, “that my wife will not long refuse a glance to her loving husband.”

Hearing the words she turned abruptly and looked into his eyes.

“What is the meaning of that dreadful look?” he said, laughing. “But your hand is burning! oh, my love, what is it?”

“Your love!” she repeated, in a dull, changed voice.

“Yes,” he said, throwing himself on his knees beside her and taking her two hands which he covered with kisses. “Yes, my love—I am thine for life.”

She pushed him violently away from her and rose. Her features contracted, she laughed as mad people laugh, and then she said to him: “You do not mean one word of all you are saying, base man—baser than the lowest villain.” She sprang to the dagger which was lying beside a flower-vase, and let it sparkle before the eyes of the amazed young marquis. “Bah!” she said, flinging it away from her, “I do not respect you enough to kill you. Your blood is even too vile to be shed by soldiers; I see nothing fit for you but the executioner.”

The words were painfully uttered in a low voice, and she moved her feet like a spoilt child, impatiently. The marquis went to her and tried to clasp her.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, recoiling from him with a look of horror.

“She is mad!” said the marquis in despair.

“Mad, yes!” she repeated, “but not mad enough to be your dupe. What would I not forgive to passion? but to seek to possess me without love, and to write to that woman—”

“To whom have I written?” he said, with an astonishment which was certainly not feigned.

“To that chaste woman who sought to kill me.”

The marquis turned pale with anger and said, grasping the back of a chair until he broke it, “If Madame du Gua has committed some dastardly wrong—”

Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked for the letter; not finding it she called to Francine.

“Where is that letter?” she asked.

“Monsieur Corentin took it.”

“Corentin! ah! I understand it all; he wrote the letter; he has deceived me with diabolical art—as he alone can deceive.”

With a piercing cry she flung herself on the sofa, tears rushing from her eyes. Doubt and confidence were equally dreadful now. The marquis knelt beside her and clasped her to his breast, saying, again and again, the only words he was able to utter:—

“Why do you weep, my darling? there is no harm done; your reproaches were all love; do not weep, I love you—I shall always love you.”

Suddenly he felt her press him with almost supernatural force. “Do you still love me?” she said, amid her sobs.

“Can you doubt it?” he replied in a tone that was almost melancholy.

She abruptly disengaged herself from his arms, and fled, as if frightened and confused, to a little distance.

“Do I doubt it?” she exclaimed, but a smile of gentle meaning was on her lover’s face, and the words died away upon her lips; she let him take her by the hand and lead her to the salon. There an altar had been hastily arranged during her absence. The priest was robed in his officiating vestments. The lighted tapers shed upon the ceiling a glow as soft as hope itself. She now recognized the two men who had bowed to her, the Comte de Bauvan and the Baron du Guenic, the witnesses chosen by Montauran.

“You will not still refuse?” said the marquis.

But at the sight she stopped, stepped backward into her chamber and fell on her knees; raising her hands towards the marquis she cried out: “Pardon! pardon! pardon!”

Her voice died away, her head fell back, her eyes closed, and she lay in the arms of her lover and Francine as if dead. When she opened her eyes they met those of the young man full of loving tenderness.

“Marie! patience! this is your last trial,” he said.

“The last!” she exclaimed, bitterly.

Francine and the marquis looked at each other in surprise, but she silenced them by a gesture.

“Call the priest,” she said, “and leave me alone with him.”

They did so, and withdrew.

“My father,” she said to the priest so suddenly called to her, “in my childhood an old man, white-haired like yourself, used to tell me that God would grant all things to those who had faith. Is that true?”

“It is true,” replied the