PAGE 29
Alamontade
by
While my love for her increased to an unconquerable passion, a thousand obstacles became more evident, which deprived me of all hope of ever being made happy by her hand. I was poor, as I possessed nothing but a good reputation and the confidence of all honest people. But how little is that in the great world! I had, indeed, gained such general reputation by Bertollon’s lawsuit, that the number of my clients increased daily. Still how long had I to work before I could acquire a fortune sufficient even to approach Clementine. I saw the lovely creature every day, both at home and in the garden, sometimes alone and sometimes in company. Oh! she might easily perceive how much I loved her, for my silence and my converse, my approach and departure, were so many betrayers of my heart.
I became daily more embarrassed and uneasy. Absence from her was the only remedy against inexpressible unhappiness. I came to the resolution of taking a house for myself, and discovered my intention to M. de Sonnes. Both he and his aunt opposed me in vain; I remained immoveable to their wishes and entreaties. Clementine alone neither appeared nor entreated, but she became more serious, and, as I thought, more sad.
“You are very cruel,” said Madame de Sonnes one day to me; “what have we done to offend you, that you wish to punish us so severely? You will take with you the peace of our house, until now so happy. We all love you, leave us not, I beseech you.”
All the reasons that I could state to justify my departure were insufficient to satisfy her. The most important, indeed the only one, I could not reveal, and she saw nothing but unconquerable caprice in my refusal.
“Well then,” she said at length, “we must, I suppose, resign ourselves to your will; we are more indifferent to you than I thought. Why is it not given to all to allow friendship to strike root in the heart just deep enough to be plucked up without pain at any time?–Clementine will some day be unhappy for this. I fear she will be quite ill.”
These words pained me. I turned pale and trembled, faltering, “Clementine suffer?”
Without the least suspicion of what was passing in my mind, Madame de Sonnes said, “Come with me to my room.” I followed; and on opening the door, she said to her daughter: “He will not stay, you perhaps can persuade him.” Finding myself alone with her, I approached her.
What a beautiful picture of grief! It will never be effaced from my memory. The terrors of endless misery which I have suffered in foreign climes have not been able to deprive it of its charm and life. There she sat in her plain attire, charming as a child of Eden; a fading blossom of lilac hung from her head, peering forth by her simple veil, as though it were a symbol of that which she most needed, repose.
When I approached her, she looked up, and her kindly beaming eyes, filled with tears, smiled upon me. I took her hand, and kneeling before her, sighed, “Clementine!”
She made no answer, nor did she smile.
“Do you also wish me to stay? Only command me and I will joyfully obey, even if I should become more unhappy.”
“More unhappy?” she replied, with an anxious look; “Are you then unhappy with us!”
“You do not know that! You only wish to diffuse happiness around you; but, Clementine, you accustomed me to a heaven too soon. If sooner or later I should have to lose all, to lose your society (and such a time might arrive, Clementine), how would it then be with me?” I asked, while I pressed her hand against my throbbing heart.