Clermont/Chapter 6
CHAP. VI.
The joys of meeting pay the pangs of absence.
The nearest neighbours the Countess had, were a Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter: they resided in a garrison town at the foot of the Alps, about three leagues from the chateau. They were people of fortune, amiable, elegant, and accomplished; and their house was the constant resort of all the gay and fashionable people in its vicinity. To them the Countess determined to introduce Madeline, not only as a means of improving, but preparing her for the yet more brilliant society of Paris.
She accordingly one morning set out with her for this purpose; and, during the ride, endeavoured to re-assure the timid Madeline, who wished, yet dreaded an introduction, lest she should not acquit herself properly: the lively conversation of her friend, and the novelty of every thing she saw, pretty well however dissipated her fears ere she reached the house; which stood at the farther end of the town, in a large court surrounded with rows of chestnut trees, and wearing an appearance of cheerfulness that justly indicated the temper of its owners. The Countess had the satisfaction of finding them at home, and was immediately ushered into a room, where they sat alone. They both flew to her with open arms; but when they heard how long she had been returned to the country, could not refrain reproaching her amidst their embraces for not letting them know of her arrival. She gave the real reason as an excuse for not doing so; and the first compliments being over, took the hand of Madeline, who, timidly standing behind, had not hitherto been noticed, and presented her to them. The reception she met with was truly flattering, and quite revived her spirits; for she was convinced that nothing satirical could lurk beneath the benevolent smile of Madame Chatteneuf, or the delightful vivacity of her daughter. The charms and simplicity of Madeline, exclusive of her being the avowed favourite of the Countess, immediately interested them in her favour; and they assured her with real sincerity, that they should be happy to cultivate her friendship.
"Though I am angry (said Madame Chatteneuf, addressing the Countess when they were seated), at your having so long concealed your return to the chateau; yet now I can scarcely wonder at it, as I am sure that Mam'selle Clermont rendered solitude so delightful, that in relinquishing it, you rather diminish than promote your own happiness; (the Countess smiled, and Madeline bowed), but now that we have discovered the treasure you possess, be assured, my good friend (continued she), we shall not suffer you to monopolize it entirely to yourself."
"Do not wrong me so much (said the Countess), as to suppose I ever harboured so selfish an idea; no, be assured I would not do society so much injustice."
"I am particularly pleased (said Madame Chatteneuf), that you have come to-day, as my daughter gives a little ball this evening, which, to her and her whole party, I am sure will be doubly agreeable from having your company and Mam'selle Clermont's."
"How unfortunate (exclaimed the Countess), that we had no presentiment of this, for then we should have put on all our airs and graces."
"Nature has already done that," replied Madame Chatteneuf.
"Well, but seriously (said the Countess), we shall not be able to appear in our morning dresses before company so brilliant as I know yours always to be."
"Every one (cried Madame Chatteneuf), will be dressed quite in a simple stile, I can assure you, for it is to be quite a rural affair; we are to dance in the garden, and have a collation in the banqueting-house; and should I now be deprived of the pleasure of your company and Mam'selle Clermont's, after the hope I entertained of enjoying it, I should derive little from the amusement."
"Enough (said the Countess), we will not mortify ourselves by refusing your invitation."
The conversation then turned on general subjects, and Madeline became if possible more pleased with her new friends. After dinner they proceeded to the garden which was large and beautiful: on a spacious and level green, at the remote end of it, surrounded with trees, stood the banqueting-house, a light and elegant structure, elevated on white marble steps, and encompassed by a balustrading of the same: it opened entirely in front in form of a pavilion, supported by fluted pillars, which were entwined with fragrant shrubs that, creeping over the roof, fell through its lattice-work and formed a canopy of "in-woven shade:" orchestres were erected in the most sequestered parts of the garden, and the walks were ornamented with arches and festoons of coloured lamps. Madeline was struck with admiration at all she saw; and her friends anticipated the yet greater pleasure and surprise she would experience when the company assembled and the garden was lighted: nor were they mistaken; she could then have almost fancied herself suddenly conveyed to the regions of fairy-land; the brilliancy of the lights, heightened by the darkness of the grove through which the walks they ornamented were cut;—the softness of the music that seemed to steal from the very bosom of retirement;—the elegance and animation of the company that were scattered about in groupes,—altogether formed such a scene as Madeline had never before seen, or even conceived; a scene, crowned by a prospect of the majestic Alps, whose awful cliffs appeared in many places to overhang the garden, and tinted as they were with the purple rays of evening, united richness and solemnity to gaiety and splendour. The ladies, engaged in receiving their guests, could no longer pay her particular attention; and the Countess, who had a numerous acquaintance, was drawn from her into a chatting party with some of her old friends, but not till she had seen her in a general manner introduced to the company, with, whom she then supposed she would intermix and amuse herself; but poor Madeline was too diffident to join any party unsolicited; and they were all too gay and thoughtless either to solicit her or deem it necessary to do so. Left to herself, she felt awkward at standing alone, and accordingly repaired to a bench placed round the trunk of an old tree near the spot destined for the dancers. Some ladies and gentlemen occupied the same seat, though at a little distance from her, and thus prevented any impropriety in her situation. Here she was sufficiently amused by attending to what was going forward; but when she saw the company preparing for the dance, an universal terror seized her least she should be asked to join them: fearful as she was that she should not be able to acquit herself like them from never having mixed in any but the simple dance of the peasant, she took care to place herself as much out of the way as possible: but while enjoying her obscurity, a party of officers suddenly emerged from a winding path near her seat, and in passing it, they could not avoid observing her; they stopped as if involuntarily, and their eyes were immediately fastened on her. Confused by their ardent gaze, she was bending hers to the ground, when a gentleman, who had hitherto stood rather behind them, suddenly starting forward, exclaimed,
"Good heaven! do my eyes really deceive me, or do I behold Mademoiselle Clermont?"
The heart of Madeline vibrated to his voice, and looking up, she beheld de Sevignie. The pleasure, the agitation of that moment cannot be expressed;—a pleasure, an agitation which, even in a greater degree he seemed to experience.
"For once (cried he, taking her hand and pressing it between his), for once has chance been my friend!—oh, how often have I wished for such a moment as this!—but hopelessly I wished—despairingly I sighed for it."
Madeline blushed and trembled; she was not more confused by his manner, than by the looks of the officers, whom she perceived smiling significantly at each other: her countenance betrayed her feelings, and made de Sevignie recollect himself; he resigned her hand, endeavoured to repress his agitation, and turning to his companions, asked them if they would join the dancers?
"That is to say (cried one of them with a significant glance) that you wish us to do so."
"Yes (replied de Sevignie, colouring, and half smiling as he interpreted the glance); and to follow your example, if Mademoiselle Clermont is inclined, and will honour me with her hand———"
Not more unwilling from diffidence, than unable from agitation, Madeline in a faint voice, said she could not dance, but begged she might not prevent him.
"A wish to promote my own felicity will prevent me (said he in a low voice); for oh, how much more delightfully will my minutes be spent if you permit me to devote them to you."
The officers now moved on; but their yet more expressive glances as they did so, so shocked Madeline, that, unable to bear the idea of being thought anxious for a tete-a-tete with de Sevignie, she rose abruptly and walked towards an avenue crowded with company; de Sevignie followed.—"Do you fly me then? (said he) after so long a separation, so unexpected a meeting, do you refuse me a few minutes conversation? ah, Madeline, you once permitted me to call myself your friend,—a permission which, I fear, you have now forgotten. You once promised to remember me;—a promise which, like too many in the world, was made I fear without thought, and forgotten without remorse!"
Those were reproaches poor Madeline did not merit; and the soft melancholy and confusion of her looks too plainly told him so; he caught her hand, and attempted to lead her back to the seat she had just quitted.
"I cannot go (said Madeline, struggling to disengage her hand); your companions will think it so strange if they see us there."
"They are too much engrossed by their amusement either to observe or think about us: and of this be assured (cried de Sevignie), you cannot be more tenacious about every thing which concerns your delicacy than I am, and ever shall be."
Madeline no longer opposed him; even if inclined to do so, her emotions were almost too violent to have permitted her; and he led her back to the bench, which they found deserted by the company they had left upon it. De Sevignie now enquired particularly for Clermont, for whom he expressed the warmest esteem and gratitude; and then to what fortunate circumstance he owed his present happiness.
Madeline briefly informed him a friend of her father's had taken her under her protection; and in turn enquired whether he resided at V———?
"No, (he replied), chance merely brought him to it, and hospitality and kindness detained him in it. By accident (said he), I got acquainted with the officers quartered here soon after my arrival, and they introduced me to the inhabitants, whose politeness and attention have from day to day induced me to put off my departure.—And for once (glancing at Madeline), I have reason to be happy at following the bent of inclination. Though I never dared to think (said he) of again intruding on the hospitality of Monsieur Clermont, yet a thousand times on the airy wings of fancy I have been transported to his cottage, to the side of his Madeline, listening in imagination to the soft pathos of that voice, which had power to thrill through every fibre of my heart; oh, happy and delightful days when I was not indebted to illusion for the sound! never has the remembrance of them been absent from my thoughts; compared to them, how insipid appear those I now pass. Tell me, (he continued, gazing on her with the most impassioned tenderness), did your father, or did you ever condescend to bestow one thought upon me after we parted?"
"Yes, sometimes (said Madeline hesitatingly and blushing), my father has talked of the unlucky accident you met with, and expressed his hopes of your having quite recovered it."
"A more unlucky accident indeed (said de Sevignie, laying his hand expressively upon his heart), than he was aware of."
"I am sorry for it," cried Madeline, who, though she understood his meaning, wished to appear ignorant of it.
"His simples, for once, were unsuccessful (resumed de Sevignie); yet, notwithstanding their failure, through his means only I could expect the wound completely cured."
Madeline could no longer disguise her confusion; and averting her eyes to avoid his, to her infinite surprise and embarrassment, beheld the Countess de Merville at a little distance attentively observing her: covered with blushes, she snatched away her hand from de Sevignie, and starting from her seat, hastened to the Countess.
"I have been seeking you every where, Madeline (said her friend in a grave accent), and was disappointed at not finding you amongst the dancers."
"I should be particularly honoured (exclaimed de Sevignie, who had followed Madeline, and conjectured this to be her protectress, bowing as he spoke), if Mademoiselle Clermont would permit me to lead her to them."
Madeline bowed, but refused; she thought to dance with him now would be to acknowledge a wish of receiving his attentions; and delicacy made her shrink from any conduct which could excite such an idea.
"We will go into a more frequented walk then," said the Countess.
There was something in her manner which made Madeline believe she was not quite pleased with her; and she bitterly regretted having staid with de Sevignie against her better judgment. He seemed in some degree to share her distress and confusion; and attempted not again to address the Countess, who had merely noticed him by a slight inclination of her head.
"I presume (cried she to Madeline, when they had got some yards from him), you are well acquainted with that young gentleman."
"Yes, madam," replied Madeline.
"And pray by what means?" asked her friend.
Madeline, as well as her confusion would permit, related the accident which had introduced him to the notice of her and her father.
"Is he agreeable?" enquired the Countess.
"Yes—very—that is, I mean rather so," answered Madeline, blushing, and bending her eyes to the ground.
They now reached a large party, amongst whom was Mademoiselle Chatteneuf. She rallied Madeline for having so long hidden herself;—"you certainly did so (said she), to tease and mortify those who wished to engage you to dance: were you not a total stranger, I should suspect that you and some sighing swain had been courting the rural shades together."
The Countess smiled significantly at Madeline, who, oppressed by consciousness, turned away her head.
Mademoiselle Chatteneuf now introduced a gentleman who wished to engage her for the ensuing dance. Madeline hesitated how to answer, not merely to avoid dancing, but on de Sevignie's account, to whom she considered herself engaged, though she feared saying so before the Countess. De Sevignie, however, had followed her; he therefore, on perceiving her situation, stepped forward, and asserted his prior right to her hand. "Is this the case, Mam'selle?" asked the other. She replied in the affirmative: and expressing his regret at his late application, he retired.
The dancing soon commenced again; and Madeline, notwithstanding her diffidence, had too much real taste not to acquit herself with elegance; the harmonious symmetry of her form, the charms of her face, heightened by the glow of modesty, and the grace and animation of every movement, excited universal admiration; and all who had not before seen, were anxious to learn who she was. When the cotillion was over, the Countess contrived to have her seated by herself, and thus precluded all further conversation of an interesting nature between her and de Sevignie: he still remained, however, near his lovely partner, and by his eyes expressed his feelings: but even the little pleasure derived from a restrained conversation, and those glances, he was soon deprived of; for as the Countess rose to repair to the banqueting-house, a party of her friends surrounded her and Madeline, and rendered all his efforts to rejoin the latter unsuccessful. The gentleman who had been prevented by him from dancing with Madeline, now led her in triumph to the supper-table, and seated her between the Countess and himself. Had the mind of Madeline been less occupied by its own immediate concerns than it now was, she would have been delighted with the scene exhibited to her view; the beautiful foliage that crept through the roof of the building was intermixed with lights which glittered like so many stars amongst it; and its drooping boughs were carelessly intermingled with festoons of coloured lamps that hung between the pillars, through which a grand perspective of illuminated arches were seen terminated in a dark grove, from whence the softest music stole, and seemed to keep time to the murmurs of a fountain which played directly before the banqueting-house.
Madeline perceived she was attentively watched by the Countess, and endeavoured to appear amused; but the scene had no charms for her. She could not prevent herself from stealing a glance at de Sevignie, who sat opposite to her; she caught his eyes at the moment, and hers were instantly withdrawn, yet not without observing a pensive expression in his face, which seemed to say his gaiety, like hers, was only assumed.
She felt pleased, as if about being relieved from a disagreeable restraint, when the company broke up; as she was quitting the banqueting-house with the Countess, de Sevignie contrived to approach and enquire, in a low voice, whether she returned to the chateau that night. She replied in the negative, having just been informed by the Countess it was her intention to continue in town till the next morning. He then begged to know whether she would permit him to wait upon her the ensuing day at Madame Chatteneuf's. The emotion those words gave Madeline, almost took from her the power of granting him the permission he requested. The moment he had obtained it, he bade her adieu.
The ladies were too much fatigued to continue long together after their return to the house. Madeline was delighted when she found herself alone; in the privacy of her chamber she could uninterrupted indulge the pleasing ideas which had taken possession of her mind; ideas which her second meeting with de Sevignie had given rise to: never before had his language been so expressive of love, consequently her hopes relative to him had never before been so sanguine; every word, every look, now declared her ascendancy over him, and prospects of felicity opened to her view which she had scarcely ever before permitted her thoughts to dwell on;—prospects which, if realized, would elevate her to the summit of her wishes; and that they would, she now began not to doubt: the words, the looks of de Sevignie, above all the interview he had requested, flattered her hopes, and her expectations. "Ah, how little did I think (cried she), when I left the chateau of the happiness that awaited me! how little think that, ere my return to it, I might be———." She paused, she blushed,—yet felt that if indeed she was, ere her return to it, the affianced wife of de Sevignie, she would be one of the happiest of her sex.