The Chouans by Honoré de Balzac (chrysanthemum read aloud .txt) 📗

madame,” he replied in a sharp tone which went to the lady’s heart and turned her pale; “her generous action disproves your supposition. Pray remember that the welfare of the king is the sole bond between us. You, who have had Charette at your feet must find the world without him empty; are you not living to avenge him?”

The lady stood still and pensive, like one who sees from the shore the wreck of all her treasures, and only the more eagerly longs for the vanished property.

Mademoiselle de Verneuil re-entered the room; the young man exchanged a smile with her and gave her a glance full of gentle meaning. However uncertain the future might seem, however ephemeral their union, the promises of their sudden love were only the more endearing to them. Rapid as the glance was, it did not escape the sagacious eye of Madame du Gua, who instantly understood it; her brow clouded, and she was unable to wholly conceal her jealous anger. Francine was observing her; she saw the eyes glitter, the cheeks flush; she thought she perceived a diabolical spirit in the face, stirred by some sudden and terrible revulsion. But lightning is not more rapid, nor death more prompt than this brief exhibition of inward emotion. Madame du Gua recovered her lively manner with such immediate self-possession that Francine fancied herself mistaken. Nevertheless, having once perceived in this woman a violence of feeling that was fully equal to that of Mademoiselle de Verneuil, she trembled as she foresaw the clash with which such natures might come together, and the girl shuddered when she saw Mademoiselle de Verneuil go up to the young man with a passionate look and, taking him by the hand, draw him close beside her and into the light, with a coquettish glance that was full of witchery.

“Now,” she said, trying to read his eyes, “own to me that you are not the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr.”

“Yes, I am, mademoiselle.”

“But he and his mother were killed yesterday.”

“I am very sorry for that,” he replied, laughing. “However that may be, I am none the less under a great obligation to you, for which I shall always feel the deepest gratitude and only wish I could prove it to you.”

“I thought I was saving an emigre, but I love you better as a Republican.”

The words escaped her lips as it were impulsively; she became confused; even her eyes blushed, and her face bore no other expression than one of exquisite simplicity of feeling; she softly released the young man’s hand, not from shame at having pressed it, but because of a thought too weighty, it seemed, for her heart to bear, leaving him drunk with hope. Suddenly she appeared to regret this freedom, permissible as it might be under the passing circumstances of a journey. She recovered her conventional manner, bowed to the lady and her son, and taking Francine with her, left the room. When they reached their own chamber Francine wrung her hands and tossed her arms, as she looked at her mistress, saying: “Ah, Marie, what a crowd of things in a moment of time! who but you would have such adventures?”

Mademoiselle de Verneuil sprang forward and clasped Francine round the neck.

“Ah! this is life indeed—I am in heaven!”

“Or hell,” retorted Francine.

“Yes, hell if you like!” cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “Here, give me your hand; feel my heart, how it beats. There’s fever in my veins; the whole world is now a mere nothing to me! How many times have I not seen that man in my dreams! Oh! how beautiful his head is—how his eyes sparkle!”

“Will he love you?” said the simple peasant-woman, in a quivering voice, her face full of sad foreboding.

“How can you ask me that!” cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “But, Francine, tell me,” she added throwing herself into a pose that was half serious, half comic, “will it be very hard to love me?”

“No, but will he love you always?” replied Francine, smiling.

They looked at each other for a moment speechless,—Francine at revealing so much knowledge of life, and Marie at the perception, which now came to her for the first time, of a future of happiness in her passion. She seemed to herself hanging over a gulf of which she had wanted to know the depth, and listening to the fall of the stone she had flung, at first heedlessly, into it.

“Well, it is my own affair,” she said, with the gesture of a gambler. “I should never pity a betrayed woman; she has no one but herself to blame if she is abandoned. I shall know how to keep, either living or dead, the man whose heart has once been mine. But,” she added, with some surprise and after a moment’s silence, “where did you get your knowledge of love, Francine?”

“Mademoiselle,” said the peasant-woman, hastily, “hush, I hear steps in the passage.”

“Ah! not his steps!” said Marie, listening. “But you are evading an answer; well, well, I’ll wait for it, or guess it.”

Francine was right, however. Three taps on the door interrupted the conversation. Captain Merle appeared, after receiving Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s permission to enter.

With a military salute to the lady, whose beauty dazzled him, the soldier ventured on giving her a glance, but he found nothing better to say than: “Mademoiselle, I am at your orders.”

“Then you are to be my protector, in place of the commander, who retires; is that so?”

“No, my superior is the adjutant-major Gerard, who has sent me here.”

“Your commandant must be very much afraid of me,” she said.

“Beg pardon, mademoiselle, Hulot is afraid of nothing. But women, you see, are not in his line; it ruffled him to have a general in a mob-cap.”

“And yet,” continued Mademoiselle de Verneuil, “it was his duty to obey his superiors. I like subordination, and I warn you that I shall allow no one to disobey me.”

“That would be difficult,” replied Merle, gallantly.

“Let us consult,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “You can get fresh troops here and accompany me to Mayenne, which I must reach this evening. Shall we find other soldiers there, so that I might go on at once, without stopping at Mayenne? The Chouans are quite ignorant of our little expedition. If we travel at night, we can avoid meeting any number of them, and so escape an attack. Do you think this feasible?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“What sort of road is it between Mayenne and Fougeres?”

“Rough; all up and down, a regular squirrel-wheel.”

“Well, let us start at once. As we have nothing to fear near Alencon, you can go before me; we’ll join you soon.”

“One would think she had seen ten years’ service,” thought Merle, as he departed. “Hulot is mistaken; that young girl is not earning her living out of a feather-bed. Ten thousand carriages! if I want to be