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Alamontade
by
This picture of Bertollon’s character staggered me. I found it corresponding to the original in every particular. I had never formed a clear idea of all this, although I had felt it. I discovered the enormous chasm that separated their hearts, and despaired of ever being able to fill it up.
“But, madame,” said I, pressing her hand with emotion, “do not despair; your persevering affection and virtue will finally triumph over him.”
“Virtue! Oh, my dear Alamontade, what can be expected from a man who calls it a weakness, or one-sidedness of character, or prudery of mind? From one who considers religion only as the toy of church and education,–the toy with which the fancy of the shortsighted plays with childish zeal?”
“But still he possesses a heart.”
“He has a heart, but only for himself–not for others. He wishes to be loved without any sacrifice of feeling on his part. Alas! can one love such a man? No, Alamontade, love demands something more; it gives itself up to the beloved object, exists in it, and is not master of itself; it does not calculate, it knows no care; it takes its chance whether fidelity will at length bless it or treachery destroy it. But it cannot exist without hope; it demands the heart of its object, and in that finds its heaven.”
“And in that it finds its heaven,” sighed I, as I again stood in my own chamber and thought of Clementine.
I took down the withered wreath, which had been hitherto a sacred pledge of Clementine’s favour, and hung it upon my harp. Had she not herself thrown it on the breast which incloses my loving heart? Did she not then appear as if she wished to crown that heart with her own hand? Could it only have been childish play? Ah! could it have been indifferent to her whether it was a crown of thorns or a wreath of blossoms which she was winding round my heart?
She was at the window. I raised the wreath and pressed it to my lips. She seemed to perceive it; she suppressed a smile, bent forward and looked into the street, but not again at me. This response plunged me into inexpressible trouble. It seemed as if she was ashamed of the gift she once had bestowed on me. I now suddenly became conscious of what I expected and hoped from her. I wished an impossibility. I had never thought of Clementine as my wife; I loved her and wished to be loved by her. But she my wife? I, the poor son of a farmer who died encumbered with debt. I who still had to battle with want, and only saw an uncertain fate in the future–I expect the richest heiress in Montpellier!
At this thought my proud spirit sank. I loved Clementine and forgave her if she could not return my love. I saw clearly that I could not change the relations of social life; and, in fact, was too proud to make my fortune by marriage.
Henceforth I applied more ardently to my studies, wishing to pave my way to Clementine’s elevation by my own energies. Many nights I passed sleepless in study. Desirous of hearing the unbiassed judgment of critics respecting my talents, I published, anonymously, a work on the jurisprudence of the ancients, and a collection of poems, the greater part of which were inspired by my secret passion.
This publication of my labours had an unexpected success. Curiosity soon discovered the name of the author, who was everywhere courted. The loud applause raised my self-esteem, and the success of my first attempt rekindled the extinguished flame of hope by the light of which I saw Clementine as my own, though at a distance which rendered her indistinct.