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Alamontade
by
“If you never separate yourself from us we shall not lose you,” she replied.
“Would to heaven I might not leave you but in death,” I exclaimed.
She looked towards heaven, sighed, and leaning forward, a burning tear rolled on my hand.
“Do you doubt the constancy of my friendship,” she said.
“Have I a right to your friendship, Clementine, and this noble heart? Alas! will it not some day beat more warmly for another? and then, Clementine, then—-“
“Never! Alamontade,” she said, rising quickly, and turning away her face, which was suffused with a gentle glow. I rose with ineffable rapture, clasped her in my arms, her bosom heaving with strong emotion, her cheeks glowing, and her looks expressing the words which her lips refused to utter.
Our souls were united, and made the everlasting compact. A trembling sigh was our vow, the world vanished like a shadow, and in a kiss we exchanged life for life.
Oh! what bliss has the hand of the Almighty infused even in the dust, and how much has it sweetened the lot of the spirit to be united with the earthly.
When we awoke from our pure rapture, and I could lisp Clementine’s name, and she mine, all nature around was changed, and nothing was left of the former world. Every thing shone more gloriously and beautifully; the dull apartment resembled a temple, and a sweet spirit spoke from every object–from the pictures and from the carpet. Even the whispering of the trees was significant, and in the waving shadows of the leaves there was a secret expression of delight.
“I will remain,” I exclaimed.
“And for ever,” she added.
A few hours afterwards, when I saw Madame de Sonnes, I felt a slight timidity; but she came to me with a smile, and said, “What changes have you worked on Clementine? She is inspired. She speaks in verses. She steps as light as a fairy. But what do I see, Alamontade? Why do you blush? I am indebted to you. How shall I show my gratitude?”
Saying this, she embraced me with great affection, adding, “You are a noble man. I know well the dearest reasons you had for leaving us.”
I was so confused that I could not reply.
“Singular enough, that I, after all, was not to guess your secret. You always wished to be the wiser, and so you are, Alamontade, but not this time! Do you think that I did not perceive your love for Clementine? Why did you make a secret of it to me, the mother of your beloved?”
“Madame,—-” I faltered, more confused.
“I think you would, even now, deny it if you could,” she said, in a pleasant tone. “I stood near you both when in the height of your happiness, you neither saw me nor the world around; and then I felt that I was not at all required to witness your betrothal. My daughter lives for you, make her happy, and then I shall be so too.”
What kindness! I sank at her feet, and kissed her hand without being able to utter a word.
“Not so,” she said, “a son must not kneel before his mother.”
“Madame,” I exclaimed, “you give more than the most daring hopes could—-“
“Not I,” she replied, “it is you, dear friend, who bring peace to our house. I am indeed a mother, but I have no command over my daughter’s heart. Clementine has known you longer than I. On your account she has refused many offers; her hopes were centred in you. To complete her happiness is my duty. Now I know you, I bless Clementine’s choice.”
“This is too great kindness,” I said; “it was indeed my resolution, some day, when my fortune should be adequate–but I am poor, Madame—-“
“What has fortune to do with this affair?” answered the noble lady, “you have a respectable competency, and Clementine, beside having property of her own, is my heiress. The cares of life cannot trouble you; and should you ever, by any misfortune, lose all, you must retrench; you possess knowledge, activity, and honesty: with these you will always succeed.”