G. P. R. James

Showing how the green-eyed monster got hold of a young lady’s heart, and what he did with it.

WHO is there that has not dreamed and had their dream broken? Who is there that has not sighed to see spring flowers blighted, or summer sunshine yield to wintry clouds; or bright hopes change to dark sorrows, and gay joys pass away like sudden meteors, that blaze for one splendid moment, and then drop powerless into the dark bosom of the night?

If memory, instead of softening all the traces, gave us back the original lines of life in their native harshness, who could live on to old age? for the catalogue of broken hopes, and disappointed wishes, and pleasures snatched from us never to return, would be more than any human mind could bear. It would harden the heart to marble, or break it in its youth. It is happy too, that in early years our mind has greater power of resistance, for the novelty of sorrow gives it a double sting.

The fatigues of her journey had long worn off, and left Pauline de Beaumont all the glow of wild youthful beauty, which had adorned her in her native hills. Her cheek had recovered its fine soft blush in all its warmth, and her eyes all their dark brilliancy. But the cheerful gaiety which had distinguished her, the light buoyancy of spirit, that seemed destined to rise above all the sorrows of the world, had not come back with the rose of her cheek, or the lustre of her eye. She loved to be alone, and instead of regretting the gloom and stillness which prevailed in the court of Anne of Austria, she often seemed to find its gaiety too much for her, and would retire to the suite of apartments appropriated to her mother and herself, to enjoy the solitude of her own thoughts.

At first, Madame de Beaumont fancied that the melancholy of her daughter was caused by the sudden change from many loved scenes, endeared by all the remembrances of infancy, to others in which, as yet, she had acquired no interest. But as a second week followed the first, after their arrival at St. Germain’s, and the same depression of spirits still continued, the Marchioness began to fear that Pauline had some more serious cause of sorrow; and her mind reverted to the suspicions of De Blenau’s constancy, which she had been the first to excite in her daughter’s bosom.

The coming time is filled with things that we know not, and chance calls forth so many unexpected events, that the only way in life is to wait for Fate, and seize the circumstances of the day; by the errors of the past to correct our actions at present, and to leave the future to a wiser judgment and a stronger hand. Madame de Beaumont took no notice of her daughter’s melancholy, resolving to be guided in her conduct by approaching circumstances; for clouds were gathering thickly on the political horizon of France, which, like a thunder-storm depending on the fickle breath of the wind, might break in tempests over their head, or be wafted afar, and leave them still in peace.

It was one of those still evenings, when the world, as if melancholy at the sun’s decline, seems to watch in silence the departure of his latest beams. All had sunk into repose, not a cloud passed over the clear expanse of sky, not a noise was stirring upon earth; and Pauline felt a sensation of quiet, pensive melancholy steal over all her thoughts, harmonizing them with the calmness of the scene, as it lay tranquilly before her, extending far away to the glowing verge of heaven, unawakened by a sound, unruffled by a breath of air.

The window at which she sat looked towards St. Denis, where lay the bones of many a race of Kings, who had, in turn, worn that often contested diadem, which to the winner had generally proved a crown of thorns. But her thoughts were not of them. The loss of early hopes, the blight of only love, was the theme on which her mind brooded, like a mother over the tomb of her child. The scene before her—its vast extent—the dying splendour of the sun—the deep pureness of the evening sky—the sublimity of the silence—all wrought upon her mind; and while she thought of all the fairy hopes she had nourished from her youth, while she dreamed, over again, all the dreams she had indulged of one on whose fame, on whose honour, on whose truth, she had fondly, rashly, raised every wish of her future life; and while new-born fears and doubts came sweeping away the whole,—the tears rose glistening in her eyes, and rolled, drop after drop, down her cheeks.

“Pauline!” said a voice close behind her. She started, turned towards the speaker, and with an impulse stronger than volition, held out her hand to Claude de Blenau. “Pauline,” said he, printing a warm kiss on the soft white hand that he held in his, “dear, beautiful Pauline, we have met at last.”

From the moment he had spoken, Pauline resolved to believe him as immaculate as any human being ever was since the first meeting of Adam and Eve; but still she wanted him to tell her so. It was not coquetry; but she was afraid that after what she had seen, and what she had heard, she ought not to be satisfied. Common propriety, she thought, required that she should be jealous till such time as he proved to her that she had no right to be so. She turned pale, and red, and drew back her hand without reply.

De Blenau gazed on her for a moment in silent astonishment; for, young, and ardent, and strongly tinged with that romantic spirit of gallantry which Anne of Austria had introduced from Spain into the court of France, the whole enthusiasm of his heart had been turned towards Pauline de Beaumont; and he had thought of her the more, perhaps, because forbid to think of her. Nor had the romance he had worked up in his own mind admitted a particle of the cold ceremonies of courtly etiquette; he had loved to figure it as something apart from the world. A life with her he loved, of ardour, and passion, and sunshiny hours, unclouded by a regret, unchilled by a reserve, but all boundless confidence, and unrestrained affection—Such had been the purport of his letters to Pauline de Beaumont, and such had been the colouring of her replies to him. And who is there that has not dreamed so once?

De Blenau gazed on her for a moment in silence. “Do you not speak to me, Pauline?” said he at length. “Or is it that you do not know me? True, true! years work a great change at our time of life. But I had fancied—perhaps foolishly fancied—that Pauline de Beaumont would know Claude de Blenau wheresoever they met, as well as De Blenau would know her.”

While he spoke, Pauline knew not well what to do with her eyes; so she turned them towards the terrace, and they fell upon Mademoiselle de Hauteford, who was walking slowly along before the Palace. Less things than that have caused greater events in this world than a renewal of all Pauline’s doubts. Doubts did I call them? Before Mademoiselle de Hauteford, with all the graceful dignity for which she was conspicuous, had taken three steps along the terrace, Pauline’s doubts had become almost certainties; and turning round, with what she fancied to be great composure, she replied, “I have the pleasure of knowing you perfectly, Monsieur de Blenau; I hope you have recovered entirely from your late wounds.”

“Monsieur de Blenau!—The pleasure of knowing me!” exclaimed the Count. “Good God, is this my reception? Not three months have gone, since your letters flattered me with the title of ‘Dear Claude.’—My wounds are better, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, but you seem inclined to inflict others of a more painful nature.”

Pauline strove to be composed, and strove to reply, but it was all in vain; Nature would have way, and she burst into tears and sobbed aloud. “Pauline, dearest Pauline!” cried De Blenau, catching her to his bosom unrepulsed: “This must be some mistake—calm yourself, dear girl, and, in the name of Heaven, tell me, what means this conduct to one who loves you as I do?”

“One who loves me, Claude!” replied Pauline, wiping the tears from her eyes; “Oh no, no—But what right had I to think that you would love me? None, none, I will allow. Separated from each other so long, I had no title to suppose that you would ever think of the child to whom you were betrothed, but of whom you were afterwards commanded not to entertain a remembrance—would think of her, after those engagements were broken by a power you could not choose but obey. But still, De Blenau, you should not have written those letters filled with professions of regard, and vows to retain the engagements your father had formed for you, notwithstanding the new obstacles which had arisen. You should not, indeed, unless you had been very sure of your own heart; for it was cruelly trifling with mine,” and she gently disengaged herself from his arms.—“I only blame you,” she added, “for ever trying to gain my affection, and not for now being wanting in love to a person you have never seen since she was a child.”

“Never seen you!” replied De Blenau with a smile: “Pauline, you are as mistaken in that, as in any doubt you have of me. A year has not passed since last we met. Remember that summer sunset on the banks of the Rhone: remember the masked Cavalier who gave you the ring now on your finger: remember the warm hills of Languedoc, glowing with a blush only equalled by your cheek, when he told you that that token was sent by one who loved you dearly, and would love you ever—that it came from Claude de Blenau, who had bid him place the ring on your finger, and a kiss on your hand, and renew the vow that he had long before pledged to you.—Pauline, Pauline, it was himself.”

“But why, dear Claude,” demanded Pauline eagerly, forgetting coldness, and pride, and suspicion, in the memory his words called up, “why did you not tell me? why did you not let me know that it was you?”

“Because if I had been discovered,” answered the Count, “it might have cost me my life, years of imprisonment in the Bastille, or worse—the destruction of her I loved? The slightest cry of surprise from you might have betrayed me.”

“But how did you escape, without your journey being known?” demanded Pauline; “they say in Languedoc, that the Cardinal has bribed the evil spirits of the air to be his spies on men’s actions.”

“It is difficult indeed to say how he acquires his information,” replied De Blenau; “but, however, I passed undiscovered. It was thus it happened: I had gone as a volunteer to the siege of Perpignan, or rather, as one of the ArriÈre-ban of Languedoc, which was led by the young and gallant Duc d’Enghien, to whom, after a long resistance, that city delivered its keys. As soon as the place had surrendered, I asked permission to absent myself for a few days. His Highness granted it immediately, and I set out.—For what think you, Pauline? what, but to visit that spot, round which all the hopes of my heart, all the dreams of my imagination, had hovered for many a year.—But to proceed, taking the two first stages of my journey towards Paris, I suddenly changed my course, and embarking on the Rhone, descended as far as the Chateau de Beaumont. You remember, that my page, Henry La Mothe, is the son of your mother’s fermier, old La Mothe, and doubtless know full well his house among the oaks, on the borders of the great wood. It was here I took up my abode, and formed a thousand plans of seeing you undiscovered. At length, fortune favoured me. Oh! how my heart beat as, standing by one of the trees in the long avenue, Henry first pointed out to me two figures coming slowly down the path from the Chateau—yourself and your mother,—and as, approaching towards me, they gradually grew more and more distinct, my impatience almost overpowered me, and I believe I should have started forward to meet you, had not Henry reminded me of the danger. You passed close by.—O Pauline! I had indulged many a waking dream. I had let fancy deck you in a thousand imaginary charms—but at that moment, I found all I had imagined, or dreamed, a thousand times excelled. I found the beautiful girl, that had been torn from me so many years before, grown into woman’s most surpassing loveliness; and the charms which fancy and memory had scattered from their united stores, faded away before the reality, like stars on the rising of the sun. But this was not enough. I watched my opportunity. I saw you, as you walked alone on the terrace, by the side of the glittering Rhone,—I spoke to you,—I heard the tones of a voice to be remembered for many an after hour, and placing the pledge of my affection on your hand, I tore myself away.”

De Blenau paused. Insensibly, whilst he was speaking, Pauline had suffered his arm again to glide round her waist. Her hand somehow became clasped in his, and as he told the tale of his affection, the tears of many a mingled emotion rolled over the dark lashes of her eye, and chasing one another down her cheek, fell upon the lip of her lover, as he pressed a kiss upon the warm sunny spot which those drops bedewed.

De Blenau saw that those tears were not tears of sorrow, and had love been with him an art, he probably would have sought no farther; for in the whole economy of life, but more especially in that soft passion Love, holds good the homely maxim, to let well alone. But De Blenau was not satisfied; and like a foolish youth, he teased Pauline to know why she had at first received him coldly. In good truth, she had by this time forgotten all about it; but as she was obliged to answer, she soon again conjured up all her doubts and suspicions. She hesitated, drew her hand from that of the Count, blushed deeper and deeper, and twice began to speak without ending her sentence.

“I know not what to think,” said she at length, “De Blenau: I would fain believe you to be all you seem,—I would fain reject every doubt of what you say.”

Her coldness, her hesitation, her embarrassment, alarmed De Blenau’s fears, and he too began to be suspicious.

“On what can you rest a doubt?” demanded he, with a look of bitter mortification; and perceiving that she still paused, he added sadly, but coldly, “Mademoiselle de Beaumont, you are unkind. Can it be that you are attached to another? Say, am I so unhappy?”

“No, De Blenau, no!” replied Pauline, struggling for firmness: “but answer me one question, explain to me but this one thing, and I am satisfied.”

“Ask me any question, propose to me any doubts,” answered the Count, “and I will reply truly, upon my honour.”

“Then tell me,” said Pauline,—— But just as she was about to proceed, she felt some difficulty in proposing her doubts. She had a thousand times before convinced herself they were very serious and well founded; but all jealous suspicions look so very foolish in black and white, or what is quite as good, in plain language, though they may seem very respectable when seen through the twilight of passion, that Pauline knew not very well how to give utterance to hers. “Then tell me,” said Pauline, with no small hesitation—“then tell me, what was the reason you would suffer no one to open your hunting coat, when you were wounded in the forest—no, not even to staunch the bleeding of the side?”

“There was a reason, certainly,” replied De Blenau, not very well perceiving the connexion between his hunting-coat and Pauline’s coldness; “there was a reason certainly; but how in the name of Heaven does that affect you, Pauline?”

“You shall see by my next question,” answered she. “Have you or have you not received a letter, privately conveyed to you from a lady? and has not Mademoiselle de Hauteford visited you secretly during your illness?”

It was now De Blenau’s turn to become embarrassed; he faltered, and looked confused, and for a moment his cheek, which had hitherto been pale with the loss of blood, became of the deepest crimson, while he replied, “I did not know that I was so watched.”

“It is enough, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Pauline rising, her doubts almost aggravated to certainties. “To justify myself, Sir, I will tell you that you have not been watched. Pauline de Beaumont would consider that man unworthy of her affection, whose conduct would require watching. What I know, has come to my ears by mere accident. In fact,” and her voice trembled the more, perhaps, that she strove to preserve its steadiness—“in fact, I have become acquainted with a painful truth through my too great kindness for you, in sending my own servant to inquire after your health, and not to watch you, Monsieur de Blenau.”

“Stop, stop, Pauline! in pity, stop,” cried De Blenau, seeing her about to depart. “Your questions place me in the most embarrassing of situations. But, on my soul, I have never suffered a thought to stray from you, and you yourself will one day do me justice. But at present, on this point, I am bound by every principle of duty and honour, not to attempt an exculpation.”

“None is necessary, Monsieur de Blenau,” replied Pauline. “It is much better to understand each other at once. I have no right to any control over you. You are of course free, and at liberty to follow the bent of your own inclinations. Adieu! I shall always wish your welfare.” And she was quitting the apartment, but De Blenau still detained her, though she gently strove to withdraw her hand.

“Yet one moment, Pauline,” said he. “You were once kind, you were once generous, you have more than once assured me of your affection. Now, tell me, did you bestow that affection on a man destitute of honour? on a man who would sully his fame by pledging his faith to what was false?” Pauline’s hand remained in his without an effort, and he went on. “I now pledge you my faith, and give you my honour, however strange it may appear that a lady should visit me in private, I have never loved or sought any but yourself. Pauline, do you doubt me now?”

Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and she did not reply, but there was a slight motion in the hand he held, as if it would fain have returned his pressure had she dared. “I could,” he continued, “within an hour obtain permission to explain it all. But oh, Pauline, how much happier would it make me to find, that you trust alone to my word, that you put full confidence in a heart that loves you!”

“I do! I do!” exclaimed Pauline, with all her own wild energy, at the same time placing her other hand also on his, and raising her eyes to his face: “Say no more, De Blenau. I believe I have been wrong; at all events, I cannot, I will not doubt, what makes me so happy to believe.” And her eyes, which again filled with tears, were hidden on his bosom.

De Blenau pressed her to his heart, and again and again thanked the lips that had spoken such kind words, in the way that such lips may best be thanked.—“Dearest Pauline,” said De Blenau, after enjoying a moment or two of that peculiar happiness which shines but once or twice even in the brightest existence, giving a momentary taste of heaven, and then losing itself, either in human cares, or less vivid joys.—The heart is a garden, and youth is its spring, and hope is its sunshine, and love is a thorny plant, that grows up and bears one bright flower, which has nothing like it in all the earth—

“Dearest Pauline,” said De Blenau, “I leave you for a time, that I may return and satisfy every doubt. Within one hour all shall be explained.”

As he spoke, the door of the apartment opened, and one of the servants of the Palace entered, with a face of some alarm. “Monsieur de Blenau,” said he, “I beg a thousand pardons for intruding, but there have been, but now, at the Palace gate, two men of the Cardinal’s guard inquiring for you: so I told them that you were most likely at the other side of the Park, for—for—” and after hesitating a moment, he added, “They are the same who arrested Monsieur de Vitry.”

De Blenau started. “Fly, fly, Claude!” exclaimed Pauline, catching him eagerly by the arm—“Oh fly, dear Claude, while there is yet time. I am sure they seek some evil towards you.”

“You have done well,” said De Blenau to the attendant. “I will speak to you as I come down.—Dearest Pauline,” he continued when the man was gone—“I must see what these gentlemen want. Nay, do not look frightened; you are mistaken about their errand. I have nothing to fear, believe me. Some trifling business, no doubt. In the mean time, I shall not neglect my original object. In half an hour all your doubts shall be satisfied.”

“I have none, Claude,” replied Pauline; “indeed I have none, but about these men.”

De Blenau endeavoured to calm her, and assured her again and again that there was no danger. But Pauline was not easy, and the Count himself had more suspicions concerning their object than he would suffer to appear.