  By Mrs. Craven, Author Of “A Sister's Story.” Translated From The French, With Permission. Part Third. The Banks Of The Neckar.XLV.Fleurange, as we have said, generally returned to Rosenheim in the evening, but that day she left the princess several hours earlier than usual, and it was not yet night when Clement, who was alone in a room on the ground floor, absorbed in a large volume open before him, saw her suddenly appear at an hour when he expected her the least. Perhaps, instead of reading, he had really been dreaming over his cousin's gayety which made him so sad the night before. At all events, when she appeared so suddenly before him at this unusual hour, the same sensation contracted his heart. There was, however, nothing in her appearance to justify his presentiment. He feared in seeing Fleurange again he might behold traces of the tears on her face which had probably succeeded her feverish and causeless gayety. But now, if not smiling and gay as the evening before, if, on the contrary, she looked serious and grave, her brow nevertheless was radiant, and in her brilliant eyes it was easy to read an expression of almost triumphant joy. All this by no means resembled the dejection that usually follows a fit of factitious gayety. “You are alone!” said she immediately. “So much the better, Clement. I have something to tell you—you first, before any one else. You will see,” she continued, throwing off her cloak, “that I am faithful to my promise. I come to you now as to my brother and my best friend.” As Clement looked at her and listened to this preamble, his heart instinctively warned him more and more strongly a great trial was at hand and he must prepare to suffer. But when, without much circumlocution, she came to the point; when she clearly laid before him her design; when, with a simplicity fearful from the strength of affection and devotedness it revealed, she unfolded the plan of her projected immolation—an immolation longed for, embraced, and decided upon—Clement literally felt his hair stand on end and it seemed to him as if his reason was deserting him. What! lose one so dear, so precious, so adored!—lose her forever!—and in what way?—To see her voluntarily embrace a destiny too horrible for the imagination to contemplate. And wherefore?—wherefore?—Ah! the cry of Othello now resounded in Clement's soul: “The cause—the cause!” Yes, the cause of this sacrifice was what added so much bitterness to his pain—and stung him so sharply, so cruelly, so intolerably, that, overpowered by the unexpected disclosure, overcome by an emotion impossible to master, Clement for a moment lost all control over himself. A smothered cry escaped him, and, leaning his head on his clasped hands, the tears he could not repress fell on the floor at his feet. [pg 304]Clement's firmness was so habitual that Fleurange was surprised at its failing him now, and perhaps at the moment the hidden cause of this fit of despair came over her like a momentary flash! But it was no time to dwell on such a thought, and, besides, Clement did not give her the opportunity. He rose and walked around the room in silence. His manly and courageous heart sought to regain self-control, by an interior appeal to Him who alone could save it from bursting and renew its failing strength. He soon approached her, having triumphed over his emotion, and his first words gave an explanation quiet natural. “Pardon me, Gabrielle,” said he, “I beg you, for my inconceivable weakness. But I could not indeed have any—any friendship whatever for you, to consider calmly the frightful perspective you so abruptly unfolded to me! You understand that, I imagine?” “Yes, I expected to see all the rest greatly terrified. But you, Clement—I thought you capable of listening coolly to anything?” “Well, my dear cousin, you had, you see, too high an opinion of my courage. However, I will endeavor to behave better in the future. Do not deprive me of your confidence, that is all I ask.” “Oh! no, far from that, for it is on you I rely to inform the rest of the family of my resolution, and especially, and before any one else, your mother. You may imagine, Clement, that I must have her consent, and her blessing likewise. And you will plead my cause with her.” Clement was silent for some moments. He was trying to command his voice, but it still trembled as he said: “And when do you think of starting?” “In a week, if I can.” “In a week!—That will be before the end of January! And have you thought of the means of making such a journey at this season?” Fleurange hesitated. “I am quite well aware,” said she, “that it will be difficult for me to go alone.” Clement hastily interrupted her in a terrified tone: “Alone!—I declare, Gabrielle, it is impossible to listen to you coolly, though I know your rash words must be taken seriously.” “You must, however, take them so,” said she, in the same tone of energetic tenderness which had struck the Princess Catherine. “You must resign yourself to see me set out alone, if there is no other means of joining him.” Oh! how willingly Clement would that moment have changed places with the prisoner! He was looking at Fleurange with sorrowful admiration when she resumed: “I thought it would not be difficult to find some one travelling to Russia with whom I could make the journey.” “Go with strangers on so long and tedious a journey! That is impossible, Gabrielle, more impossible than the rest.” “Ah!” cried Fleurange then, “with what confidence I would have had recourse to the kind friend Heaven once sent me. I feel his loss more now than ever.” “You mean Doctor Leblanc?—Yes, I render justice to his memory. I am sure his devotedness would not have failed you under these circumstances. But you try my patience indeed, Gabrielle; you are too cruel.” “Clement!—” “What! you need a friend who has the unpretending merit of being faithful, devoted, capable of protecting you in so difficult a journey, and ready to remain with you till—till he [pg 305] “Clement! my dear Clement!” said Fleurange, with tearful surprise, “what do you say? and what answer can I make? Assuredly I relied, and do rely, on you as a brother, and yet I confess I should not have ventured to ask you to make such a journey with me.” Clement smiled bitterly. He could not help comparing what she was ready to do for another with what she thought him incapable of doing for her. “Well, my cousin,” said he coldly, “you were wrong; it seems to me it was the very time to remember the promise you made me. As to me, I am merely faithful to the engagement I made the same day, that is all.” “God bless you, Clement!—bless and reward you!” said she, much affected. “Yes, I acknowledge I was wrong. I should have known there was no kindness on earth equal to yours.” She held out her hand. He pressed it in his without saying a word, and without looking at her; then they separated. Fleurange longed to be alone. Clement went to fulfil her commission to his mother. XLVI.It was the professor's regular hour of repose in the latter part of the morning. Everything was quiet around him. His wife was seated at her wheel in the next room ready to answer the slightest call; for Madame Dornthal knew how to handle the spindle, and, in accordance with a custom kept up longer in Germany than anywhere else, had spun with her own hands the two finest pieces of linen for her daughter's trousseau. She looked up as her son entered, and saw by his face that something agitated him. She gave him an inquiring look. “I wish to speak to you, mother,” said he, in a low tone. “Let us go where we can talk freely.” Madame Dornthal stopped spinning, immediately rose, and, ordering a young servant to take her place and call her if needed, she followed her son, softly closing the door behind her. The opposite door, on the same corridor, opened into Clement's chamber. They went there. Clement began to relate the conversation he had just had. His first words were met by an exclamation of surprise, after which Madame Dornthal listened without interrupting him. Her face by turns expressed interest, pity, and admiration, as he spoke; and it was with tearful eyes and a faltering voice she finally replied: “My consent and blessing, do you say? You ask them for her? Poor child! how can I refuse my blessing to such devotedness! But my consent,” she continued gravely—“I cannot give that unconditionally.” “What! mother,” said Clement earnestly, “can you think of refusing to let her go?” “No, dear Clement; but I can refuse to let you accompany her.” Clement started. “Mother!” cried he with surprise. Madame Dornthal brushed back Clement's hair with her hand, and looked him in the face, as we know she loved to do when moved to unusual tenderness towards him, then slowly said: [pg 306]“Alone to St. Petersburg with Gabrielle! Have you reflected on this, Clement?” Clement's face slightly flushed, but his eyes met his mother's with a beautiful expression of candor and purity. “Mother,” said he, “Gabrielle looks upon me as a brother. As for me”—he hesitated a moment and turned pale, but continued in a firm tone—“as for me, I regard her now as the wife of another. I hope you do not think it possible I can ever forget it!” Madame Dornthal's eyes filled with tears, and for a moment she looked at her son silently. Never had she loved him so much! Never had she so fully comprehended how worthy of affection he was! But the hour had come—perhaps the only period in life when the most passionate maternal love is powerless, and can do nothing, absolutely nothing, to comfort her suffering child! She realized this; she felt she must respect her son's secret sorrow, and repress the impulse of her own affection. Neither compassion nor sympathy could be of any avail at such a time. She therefore refrained with the sure instinct of a responsive heart, and Clement's agitation soon subsided. He resumed in a calm tone: “If you think it indispensable on her account, or on account of others, that a third person should go with us, then, mother, we will try to find some one.” “Ah!” said Madame Dornthal, “if a cherished and paramount obligation did not retain me here, you would not have far to go for some one.” Clement took his mother's hand and kissed it. “I thought so,” said he, smiling. Then he continued: “We shall find some one, you may be sure, if necessary. For the moment we will leave it; we have something else to do.” And so to one after another the astonishing news was announced by him and his mother: first to the professor, and then to all the other members of the family. We will not describe their feelings individually, we will not tell how many tears were shed, what a succession of emotions poor Fleurange had to pass through that day. We will only say that, on the whole, they were all much more affected than surprised. So pure an atmosphere pervaded this unpretending household that everything beautiful and noble was at once perceived and comprehended without difficulty. To lose this charming sister, who had grown dearer and dearer, was too painful to be concealed, but Madame Dornthal's daughters, like her, were ready for any sacrifice. Therefore the young girl felt that they entered into her feelings, and would regret, without blaming her. This sympathy not only increased her affection for those she was to leave, but gave great support to her courage. The only person who did not at first participate in this general heroism was Mademoiselle Josephine. The knowledge of Fleurange's resolution threw her into a state of stupefaction that would have been comical under any other circumstances. Her eyes wandered from one to another with a perplexed expression of consternation, as if imploring an explanation which would enable her to comprehend so extraordinary a fact. When, at her usual time, she joined the family circle in the evening, she was still speechless. She took her place among them, knitting-work in hand, without saying a word or looking at any one. The professor, cautiously informed of this new separation, heard it with resignation—a feeling that had grown [pg 307] “O Clement! how can I do without her?—I love her so much!—I love her so much!—” Clement hid his face in the child's long curls, pressed her in his arms, and kissed her affectionately, but he could not succeed in calming her till he promised that Gabrielle should return, and that he would bring her back. At this assurance, the child's tears ceased to flow, she became quiet, and remained serious and thoughtful in her brother's arms. All at once Mademoiselle Josephine broke her long silence: “Siberia is a great way off, is it not?” said she. A general smile accompanied the reply to this question, which was the first-fruit of the elderly maiden's prolonged deliberations. “And is Clement going to Siberia, also?” “No; he is going to St. Petersburg.” “And how far is to St. Petersburg?” They replied by giving her a full account of the way Fleurange would take to reach the end of her first journey. Being enlightened on this point, mademoiselle relapsed into her former silence, but not for a long time. A new idea suddenly occurred to her. She snatched off her glasses hastily. “But those two children cannot travel all alone!” she exclaimed. Madame Dornthal and Fleurange looked up, and Clement gave a start which disturbed the sleep into which Frida had fallen: every one became attentive. “No, certainly not,” said the old lady earnestly. “How would that look, I beg to know?—Excuse me, Clement, you know how I esteem and love you; but then, my good friend, how old are you, pray? And as to Gabrielle, besides her age (which is equally objectionable), she has, as I have told her a thousand times, a dangerous face—a face which will not allow her to do a great many things permissible to others not older than she—I tell you the truth, and defy any one to deny it.” No one attempted it, for the thought just expressed so characteristically was the opinion of all. “Therefore,” continued mademoiselle, “Gabrielle must be accompanied by some respectable person. Once more pardon, Clement; this does not imply you can be dispensed with (you are a protector not to be easily replaced); but, my dear friend, les convenances require she should have at the same time an elderly and reliable companion. Now, I propose that this reliable and elderly person be—myself!—” There was a general exclamation at these unexpected words. Every one spoke at once, and for some moments no one could be heard. The good Mademoiselle Josephine, however, comprehended at once that her proposition was generally approved. [pg 308] This signified that she accepted her generous offer without any formality. A few hours previous, her aunt, we know, had attached a condition to her consent, and this was preoccupying Fleurange when her excellent old friend suddenly decided the matter in so unexpected a way. From this moment, everything was plain to Mademoiselle Josephine. The opportunity she so greatly desired had not been long delayed. In this extraordinary phase of Gabrielle's life she found an opportunity of manifesting the greatest devotedness, and of retarding still longer the hour of separation from her beloved protÉgÉe. She felt comforted, and was at once restored to her usual placid good humor. There remained, however, more than one misconception about the whole arrangement which she could not seem to clear up. “Why,” said she an hour after, when, following her servant, who had come for her with a lantern, she took Clement's arm to go home—“why cannot we also go to Siberia with her, if not disagreeable to this M. le Comte, whose name I can never pronounce?” Clement could not repress a smile at this, but there was too much bitterness in it for him to wish to reply. She did not perceive it. She was only thinking aloud without regard to him, and, following the course of her reflections, she soon made another, which, far from exciting the least temptation to smile, made Clement shudder from head to foot. “If,” she said, after a few moments' silence—“if this Monsieur George is only worthy of the sacrifice she is going to make for him!—If after leaving us all—us who love her so much—she does not hereafter discover he does not love her as much as we!” XLVII.Clement left Mademoiselle Josephine at her door, and hastened back, struggling against the new tempest excited in his breast by the words he had just heard. Hitherto, in consequence of the impressions left by his meeting with Count George, and the prestige he had acquired in his eyes from the very attachment of his cousin, Clement had always regarded him as a superior being, to whom it merely seemed right, in the unpretending simplicity of his heart, that his humble affection should be sacrificed. To doubt him worthy of her—to fear that, beloved by her, he could cease to love in return, had never occurred to him, and mademoiselle had quite unwittingly thrust a warm blade into his bleeding heart. To admit such a thought would absolutely shake the foundations of his devotion and add despair to abnegation. He therefore repelled the thought with a kind of terror, and by way of reassuring himself he began to recall all the remembrances that once were so torturing. He took pleasure in dreaming of the devotion of which his rival was the object, the better to persuade himself it was absolutely contrary to the nature of things he could ever be ungrateful. Fleurange's reflections at the same hour were of a different nature. Somewhat recovered from the successive [pg 309] Ah! Madre Maddalena was right in thinking hers was not a heart called to the supreme honor of loving God alone, of bestowing on him that ineffable love which does not suffer the contact of any other affection, that unique love which, if it has not always been supreme, blots out, as soon as it springs up, all other love, as the sun causes the darkness to flee away and return no more to its presence!... “Whosoever loveth, knoweth the cry of this voice.”132 It was this voice which spoke directly to Madre Maddalena's heart. Fleurange did not hear it so distinctly, even while silently listening to it apart from the noise of the world, though by no means deaf to the divine inspirations. She was pure: she was pious and steadfast: she had a fervent and courageous heart—a heart shut against evil, which preferred nothing to God, but which was ardently susceptible to affection when she could yield to it without remorse. This is doubtless the appointed way for nearly all, even among the best, and it is the ordinary path of virtue. But we would observe here that it is not the path of exquisite and inexpressible happiness already referred to, and we moreover add that, when a soul is inclined to make an idol of the object of its love, and place it on too frail a foundation, it is not rare that suffering—suffering whose severity is in proportion to the beauty and purity of the soul—leads it back sooner or later to that point where it sees the true centre to which, even unknown to ourselves, we all aspire, and which all human passion, even the most noble and most legitimate in the world, makes us lose sight of. Fleurange perhaps had a confused intuition of this, and it made her look upon the frightful conditions on which happiness was vouchsafed her as a kind of expiation, which she accepted with joy, hoping thereby to assure the permanence of the love that overruled all other sentiments. After Gabrielle's conversation with Princess Catherine, the state of the latter underwent a salutary change. Her physical sufferings, and her grief itself, seemed suspended. A fresh activity was aroused as soon as she perceived a way of exerting herself for her son, and entering into almost direct communication with him. Let us add to these motives the princess' natural taste for the extraordinary, and we shall comprehend that Fleurange's heroic resolution afforded her an interesting distraction, and, at the same time, a source of activity which was useful and beneficial. She made every arrangement herself. They were forced to allow her to direct all the preparations for the long journey the young girl was going to undertake. She and her elderly companion were to go as far as St. Petersburg in one of the princess' [pg 310] All this was transmitted by the princess to the Marquis Adelardi, whom she charged to receive and protect Gabrielle. Moreover, he must find means of announcing to George the unexpected alleviation Heaven granted to his misfortunes. As to the steps to be taken in order to obtain the necessary permission for the accomplishment of this strange lugubrious marriage, and for the newly-made wife to accompany her condemned husband, the princess thought the most successful course would be to obtain for Gabrielle an audience of the empress. “Either I am very much deceived,” wrote the princess, “or her heart will be touched by such heroic devotion, by Gabrielle's appearance, and the charm there is about her, and perhaps even by a remnant of pity for my poor George. Something tells me this pity still survives the favor he showed himself unworthy of, and that the day will perchance come when I can appeal to her with success. Obtain my son's pardon!—behold him again!—Yes, in spite of everything, I hope, I believe, I may say I feel sure, that sooner or later this happiness will be granted me, unless so much sorrow shortens my life. Nevertheless, the effect of this terrible sentence, should he incur its penalty only for a day, will never be effaced. I feel it. My hopes for him have all vanished, never to return. How, then, could I hesitate to accept Gabrielle's generous sacrifice—to accept it at first with a transport of enthusiasm which, I confess, I was seized with when, with indescribable words and accents, she so unexpectedly begged my consent on her knees, but afterwards deliberately, and, in consideration of the strange and painful circumstances in which we are situated, with sincere gratitude?” “No doubt,” she added, with an instinctive and natural feeling, never wholly or for a long time dormant—“no doubt, when the time comes which I look forward to with hope—the time when he will be restored to me, other regrets will revive. But then, his condemnation, only too certain, puts an end to all hope in that direction. The conspirator acquitted, or even pardoned, might win a heart in which love perhaps still pleads his cause; but the haughty Vera will never bestow a thought on the returned exile from Siberia. I resign myself, therefore—and, after all, Gabrielle is charming, and, as far as I know, he never loved any one else as well. You will perhaps say that a quick fire is soon extinguished in George's heart. I know that well, but it is very certain that this young girl's devotion is calculated to foster the love she has inspired, and even to revive it if deadened by the revolutionary tempest he has passed through. As for me, I know, if anything can make me endure this fearful separation, it is the thought that this beautiful and noble creature, who is better fitted than any one else to preserve him from despair, will be with him in his exile.” In the princess' eyes, Gabrielle was, in spite of the pure generosity of her love, only a pis-aller, or rather she was only something relatively to herself. She overwhelmed her to-day with attentions and caresses as before she abruptly dismissed her, and as she would be quite ready to do again [pg 311] The days, however, passed rapidly away, and as the time of separation approached, more courage was required for those she was to leave behind than for herself. And when the farewell hour at length arrived, and she knelt in church with Clement, to utter a last prayer, the All-Seeing Eye saw to which of the two belonged at that moment the palm of devotedness and sacrifice. Part Fourth. The Immolation.L'amour vrai, c'est l'oubli de soi. XLVIII.Our travellers were already far away, having pursued their journey for more than twelve days without stopping. In spite of the increasing severity of the weather, Fleurange and her companion went as far as Berlin, and even beyond, without suffering from the cold—thanks to the numerous precautions taken by the princess to protect them from it. But at KÖnigsberg they were obliged to leave the comfortable carriage in which they had travelled thus far, for they wished, above all things, to travel fast, and they had the Strand to cross (the only way to St. Petersburgh at that season), that is to say, the narrow tongue of sandy soil that extends along the Baltic as far as the arm of the sea which separates Prussia from Courland like a wide canal, and then forms the basin or inland lake of Kurishe Haff. This bounds the Strand at the right, whereas at the left its dreary coast is shut in between the sea and the high dunes of sand which ward off the winds from the scattered habitations of this desolate region, all situated so as to face the lake and turn their backs on the sea. The princess' carriage remained, therefore, at KÖnigsberg, to await the return of Fleurange's travelling companions. She took with her, however, the rich furs, so warm and light, with which she had been provided, to wrap around Mademoiselle Josephine, in spite of her resistance. As for herself, she reserved a cloak of sufficiently thick material to protect her from the cold, not wishing to accustom herself to comforts she must afterwards be deprived of. The change from one carriage to another was promptly effected, and the small calÈche in which they were closely seated was soon on its way over the Strand towards Memel, which they hoped to reach the same [pg 312] The weather was not as cold as on the previous day. The gray clouds charged with rain seemed to indicate a sudden thaw, and through them the sun, veiled as before a coming storm, cast a pale light over the dark waves and the sandy shore. The postilion, to favor his horses, rode so close to the water that the waves broke over their pathway. To the right rose the dismal sand-hills, and on that side, as well as before them, nothing was to be seen but sand as far as the eye could reach; to the left, nothing but the tumultuous and threatening waves. Not a house far or near, not a tree, not a blade of grass, not a living creature, save now and then some sea-birds skimming wildly over the waves, adding another melancholy feature to the dreariness of the scene, which with the storm was a sufficiently exact image of the mental condition of him who was regarding it. As to Fleurange, instead of looking around, she closed her eyes, the better to wander in imagination among the cherished scenes of the past and those she looked forward to. She beheld again the blue waters of the Mediterranean, and the radiant sky whose azure they reflect, and the graceful undulations of the mountains veiled in a pearly mist; then Florence, sparkling and poetical in the golden rays of departing light, and beside her she heard a voice murmuring words once dangerous to hear, but now delicious to recall and repeat to herself. How much she then suffered in struggling against her own impulses! Recalling those sufferings, how could she fear those she was about to brave?—sufferings repaid by the immense happiness of loving!—of loving without fear!—loving without remorse!—Besides, they were both young.—His mother's hopes might be realized.—Yes, perhaps some day they would again behold, and together, that charming region, and then in the restored brilliancy of his former position, with her beside him, he would be convinced, convinced beyond doubt, that that was not the attraction which had won her, but really himself, and only him, whom she loved! Yes, she was now happy; no fears troubled her; she was full of hope; and, as it is said of the only great and true love that it “believes it may and can do all things,”133 so earthly love which is its pale but faithful reflection, made every earthly happiness appear possible and certain to Fleurange, inasmuch as the greatest of all was in store for her. Clement was still absorbed in silent contemplation, and Fleurange in her sweet dreams, when Mademoiselle Josephine awoke from the drowsiness favored by the ample furs in which she was wrapped, which not only excluded the air but the sight of outward objects. She looked up and around for the first time that morning, and gave a sudden start of surprise. “Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!—” she cried with alarm. “Gabrielle, what is that?” Fleurange, suddenly recalled from the land of dreams to what was passing around her, replied: “It is the sea. Did you not notice it before?” “The sea!—the sea!—” repeated Mademoiselle Josephine, as if stupefied. “No, I had not seen it, and [pg 313] Fleurange laughed. “Here, dear mademoiselle, look on this side, and you will see we are not on the sea, but only on the shore.” “Very near it, however, for we are riding through the water.” “It is only the waves that break on the shore and then recede. There, you see the land, now.” Mademoiselle felt somewhat reassured. She looked to the right, she looked to the left, she looked before her, then turned her eyes towards the gloomy immensity of the sea beside which they were riding. “Oh! how dismal, how repulsive it is,” she exclaimed, at last. Fleurange now gazed around. Her thoughts were no longer wandering. “The scene is indeed singularly gloomy,” said she. “The leaden sky—that mock sun—the dark waters of that melancholy sea, and the interminable sand. Yes, the whole region is frightful!” And she slightly shuddered. “I have always been told,” said mademoiselle, “that the sea was glorious; but it seems it was a traveller's tale for the benefit of those who never go from home.” “No, no,” cried Fleurange, “do not say so. The sea is really beautiful where it is as blue as the heavens above, and where its shores are luxuriant with trees, plants, and flowers; but not here, I acknowledge.” And, in spite of herself, the sweet impression of her recent dreams, caused by the contrast, entirely vanished. Her heart sank. She became silent, and for a long time none of the three travellers spoke. The Strand, about twelve or fourteen leagues in length, was divided into several stages by post-stations on the other side of the sand-hills, whence were brought fresh horses. A carriage could not approach the stations on account of the deep sand, and when they paused a few moments to exchange horses, the travellers were only made aware of a neighboring habitation by a peal of the horn which responded afar off to that of the postilion as he announced his approach. While they were thus halting at the last stage, Fleurange noticed Clement's anxious look towards the sea and the threatening sky. The wind grew stronger and stronger, and the waves mounted higher. A violent storm was evidently at hand. She beckoned to him, and said in a tone inaudible to her companion: “We are going to have bad weather, are we not?” “Yes,” replied he, in the same tone. “It will be dark in about an hour, and I fear we may find the crossing rough and difficult. I do not say this on your account,” added he, with a somewhat forced smile. “I know well I am not allowed to tremble for you, however great the danger, but I fear you may find it difficult by-and-by to reassure your poor friend.” He mounted to his seat again, ordered [pg 314] “O Jesus, my Saviour!” prayed the poor demoiselle, clasping her hands with terror: “the time, then, has come for us to die!” The rain fell in torrents. The waves broke over the boat. Darkness added its horrors to the danger, which, to her inexperienced eyes, appeared to be extreme. The sweet voice of her young companion vainly sought to encourage her. By the light of the lanterns carried from side to side to light the boatman, she soon distinguished Clement standing beside the carriage, holding up a sail with a firm hand to screen them on the side most exposed to the waves. “Poor Clement,” she exclaimed, “it is all over with us, then.” “No, not quite, unfortunately,” replied Clement. “It will be at least half an hour before we reach the shore.” “The shore!—the shore!—He imagines, then, we shall reach it alive?” said mademoiselle, hiding her face on Fleurange's shoulder. “Yes, yes,” replied the latter, pressing her in her arms. “Dear friend, there is no danger, I assure you. Believe me, I am only alarmed to see you so terrified.” “Pardon me, child,” said the other, raising her head. “I resolved you should know nothing about it. But this time, Gabrielle, you cannot say we are not crossing the sea in a carriage,” continued she, with renewed alarm as she felt the increased motion of the waves. Fleurange embraced her, repeating the same reassuring words. The poor old lady made no reply, she was trying to overcome her terror by a genuine act of heroism. “Danger or not, it is like what I have always imagined a terrible tempest, destructive of human life. But then,” murmured she still lower, “God overrules all, and nothing happens without his consent.” Her physical nature was weak, but her soul was strong, and piety, a support in every trial, served now to calm her. She began to pray mentally, and did not utter another word till they reached the shore. XLIX.But a far greater danger awaited our travellers beyond Memel, whence they continued their journey the following day in sledges. The first, containing their baggage, preceded them several hours in advance to announce their arrival at the post-stations; the second somewhat resembled a clumsy boat on runners, surmounted by a hood, and protected by a boot of thick fur. It was in this sledge Fleurange and her companion [pg 315] The cold had become as intense as ever within a few hours. The pouring rain of the previous night after several days of thawing weather, alarming at that season, caused great gullies in the road, and endangered the passage over the rivers, at that time of the year, on the ice. Though scarcely four o'clock, the short day was nearly ended, and daylight was declining when our travellers came to the river they were obliged to cross in order to reach the small town of Y——. It was a deep, rapid stream, which at the beginning of every winter was encumbered with thick cakes of floating ice before the surface of its waters was congealed, and which, at the approach of spring, was also the first to resume its course and break the icy fetters that confined its current. This river was therefore almost always difficult to pass over, and very often dangerous, and, when the travellers came to the only place where it could be crossed, they felt they had reason to be anxious about the thaw. As soon as Clement cast his eyes on the river, he thought there were really some alarming indications. He at once saw there was no time to be lost, and drove directly on to the ice. Then he stopped, and hurriedly said to the young guide: “I think we should let the heaviest sledge go first: we will follow, if we can.” “Yes, if we can,” said the other. The order was instantly given, and the sledge that contained Fleurange and her companion passed rapidly on. But it had scarcely gone ten or twelve feet from the shore before an ominous cracking was heard. The frightened driver stopped. Clement imperiously ordered him to proceed without a second's delay. But, instead of obeying, the driver, seized with fear, jumped out on the ice and sprang back to the shore he had just left. This jar increased the breaking of the ice which had already commenced. That next the shore gave way and began to move with the current, leaving an open gulf between the land and the still solid ice where our travellers remained. Great promptness of decision was necessary at a moment of such sudden and extreme danger, and orders as prompt as the judgment. “Descend, Gabrielle,” said Clement, with authority. The young girl instantly sprang from the sledge. Clement took Mademoiselle Josephine in his arms and placed her beside Fleurange. “Get into my sledge, Gabrielle,” said he calmly, but very quickly. “As soon as you are safe, the sledge shall return for your friend. There is time, but you must not hesitate.” “I do not hesitate,” said Fleurange. “I shall remain myself: she shall be saved first.” Clement shuddered. But there was not time to contest the point. Besides, he knew from the tone of Fleurange's voice that her decision was irrevocable, and he yielded without another word. He placed poor mademoiselle, who was incapable of comprehending what was transpiring, in the light sledge, gave the order—obeyed at once—and it darted off. [pg 316] Fleurange and Clement were left alone. Night was gathering around them. Not far off could be heard the slow cracking of the ice beneath the heavy weight of the sledge at the edge of the first opening. The noise increased, and the ice broke away the second time. The huge mass, thus detached, quivered, then, like the first, slowly descended the river, carrying the sledge with it. The opening became frightfully large. Clement looked before him to see if he could venture, by taking Fleurange in his arms, to cross on foot the long interval that separated them from the opposite shore. But it was too dark to distinguish the path, and, if they left that, death was inevitable. They might lose the only chance of being saved—by awaiting the return of the sledge. And yet they could not remain long where they were. The ice was already loosening around them. In a few moments there was another cracking, and it gave way before them. The fragment on which they stood became a kind of floating island. Clement saw at a glance the only course to be taken. He did not hesitate. He seized Fleurange in his arms, and, by the uncertain light of the snow, sprang boldly across the opening before them. They were once more on the solid ice, but who could tell how long it would be so? Who knew whether the sledge would succeed in reaching them again? Perhaps it was swallowed up in the impenetrable darkness, or left on the ice broken up around it. Otherwise it should have returned. These thoughts crowded into Clement's mind faster than they can be written. Fleurange, silent but courageous, was equally sensible of their danger. She bent down her head and silently prayed. Leaning thus against Clement, her hair brushing his very face, she might have heard the rapid pulsations of his heart and felt the trembling of the arm that supported her, and the hand that pressed her own. But he did not utter a word. His sensations were strange. A desire to save her doubled his strength and courage, and quickened all his faculties. At the same time, he was conscious of a transport he could not control—that she was there alone with him, that they were to die together, and she would never be able to fulfil the odious design of her journey! But this moment of selfish love and despair was short. His thoughts returned to her—her alone. He must save her—save her at whatever cost. But how? It seemed as if an hour had passed away. It was useless to hope for the return of the sledge.—He thought he felt the ice quiver anew beneath his feet.—He looked at the dark current behind. Should he jump into the water, and endeavor to regain the shore they had left, but now no longer visible?—He hesitated a moment—no, that would expose her to certain death, and a more speedy one than now threatened them. It would be better to remain where they were, and endure the fearful suspense to the end. They therefore remained motionless for some minutes more of silent agony. Notwithstanding her courage, the young girl's strength began to fail. Her sight grew dim. There was a strange hum in her ears. Then her head fell on her cousin's shoulder. “Oh! I am dying,” murmured she. “May God restore you to your mother, Clement!” At this moment of supreme anguish, Clement raised his eyes to heaven, and the cry of love and despair [pg 317] “Blessed be God! she is saved!” was Clement's cry. But Fleurange, overcome by weakness and terror, was already senseless in his arms. He bore her to the sledge, and as he placed her within, but half conscious of what was occurring, he pressed her once more to his heart with unrestrained tenderness, and said: “Adieu, dear Gabrielle. Regret not that I die here. God is good. He spares me the sorrow of living without you.” And he added, in a lower tone: “Gabrielle, I have loved you more than anything else in the world. I can acknowledge it now, for death is at hand.” Then he stepped back, and ordered the young guide to hurry away. His first words had only been indistinctly heard by Fleurange, as in a dream; but she clearly understood this precise order. It brought her at once to herself. “Away!” she exclaimed. “Away without you! What do you mean?” “It must be so,” said Clement. “The sledge can only hold you and the guide. Any additional weight would be dangerous. Go, without an instant's delay.” “Never!” said Fleurange resolutely. “Clement, we will all three die here, rather than leave you!” “You must go!” repeated Clement energetically. “Go, I tell you! The sledge will return for me.” “It will be impossible to cross a third time,” said the young conductor. Clement knew it. He only replied by imperiously ordering him to start. Fleurange, no less firm than Clement, rose and checked the hand that held the reins. The driver at once jumped down from his seat. “Do you know how to drive?” said he. “Yes.” “Well, I know how to swim. Here, get in quick.—Keep that for me,” continued he, hastily taking off his caftan and throwing it into the sledge. “Do not be uneasy. I shall get it again to-morrow. I know the way and am familiar with the river.” And without hesitating he plunged into the dark current, while Clement sprang to his seat in the sledge. With a boldness that is the only chance of safety in such a case, he forced the horses into a gallop. They thus traversed with giddy rapidity the considerable distance that separated them from the other shore. The ice, jarred by the two former trips, cracked beneath the horse's feet. To slacken their course an instant would have submerged them in the river, but the sledge flew rather than ran on the ice, and the hand that guided it was firm. They arrived at the goal in less than half an hour, and Fleurange, pale, exhausted, and chilled, fell into the arms of her dear old friend. The latter was quietly awaiting them in a warm, well-lighted room at the post-station, and supper had been ordered, but Fleurange was neither able to talk nor eat. Mademoiselle saw that instant repose was absolutely necessary. She only persuaded her to take some hot mulled [pg 318] After the experience of the past day, Mademoiselle Josephine resolved never to manifest any astonishment at whatever might occur in this strange journey. She would go in a balloon without wincing, as readily as in a sledge, at Clement's slightest injunction, for he seemed more and more to merit boundless confidence. Perhaps, at the end of this terrible day, Clement did not give himself so much credit. He recalled what he had dared say to Fleurange in the height of their danger, and anxiously wondered if she heard and understood the words that rose from his heart at the moment death seemed so inevitable. Was she conscious when he uttered that last farewell? He did not know, and it was natural he should await the following day with anxiety. But he was then reassured by finding his cousin as calm and frank as ever. She evidently had not understood, and probably not heard his words, or thought them sufficiently explained by the intensity of emotion naturally irrepressible at such a moment of extreme danger. The young girl was forced to rest a whole day to recover from her exhaustion. But it was their last halting-place, and, when they resumed their journey, it was not to stop again till they arrived at its end. To Be Continued. |
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