Since the successive departures of Roland, then Madame de Montrevel and her son, and finally Sir John—Roland to rejoin his general, Madame de Montrevel to place Edouard in school, and Sir John to acquaint Roland with his matrimonial plans—Amélie had remained alone with Charlotte at the Château des Noires-Fontaines. We say alone, because Michel and his son Jacques did not live in the house, but in the little lodge1 at the gate where he added the duties of porter to those of gardener.
It therefore happened that at night all the windows, excepting those of Amélie, which, as we have said, were on the first floor overlooking the garden, and that of Charlotte in the attic2, were left in darkness.
Madame de Montrevel had taken the second chambermaid with her. The two young girls were perhaps rather isolated3 in their part of the house, which consisted of a dozen bedrooms on three floors, especially at a time when so many rumors4 of robberies on the highroads reached them. Michel, therefore, proposed to his young mistress that he sleep in the main building, so as to be near her in case of need. But she, in a firm voice, assured him that she felt no fear, and desired no change in the customary routine of the château.
Michel did not insist, and retired5, saying that Mademoiselle might, in any case, sleep in peace, for he and Jacques would make the rounds of the house during the night.
Amélie at first seemed anxious about those rounds; but she soon noticed that Michel and Jacques contented6 themselves with watching on the edge of the forest of Seillon, and the frequent appearance of a jugged hare, or a haunch of venison on the table, proved to her that Michel kept his word regarding the promised rounds.
She therefore ceased to trouble about Michel’s rounds, which were always on the side of the house opposite to that where she feared them.
Now, as we have said, three days after the events we have just related, or, to speak more correctly, during the night following the third day, those who were accustomed to see no light save in Amélie’s windows on the first floor and Charlotte’s on the third, might have observed with surprise that, from eleven o’clock until midnight, the four windows on the first floor were illuminated7. It is true that each was lighted by a single wax-candle. They might also have seen the figure of a young girl through the shades, staring in the direction of the village of Ceyzeriat.
This young girl was Amélie, pale, breathing with difficulty, and seeming to watch anxiously for a signal.
At the end of a few minutes she wiped her forehead and drew a joyous8 breath. A fire was lighted in the direction she had been watching. Then she passed from room to room, putting out the three candles one after the other, leaving only the one which was burning in her own room. As if the fire awaited this return signal, it was now extinguished.
Amélie sat down by her window and remained motionless, her eyes fixed9 on the garden. The night was dark, without moon or stars, and yet at the end of a quarter of an hour she saw, or rather divined, a shadow crossing the lawn and approaching the window. She placed her single candle in the furthest corner of her room, and returned to open her window.
He whom she was awaiting was already on the balcony.
As on the first night when we saw him climb it, the young man put his arm around the girl’s waist and drew her into the room. She made but slight resistance; her hand sought the cord of the Venetian blind, unfastened it from the hook that held it, and let it fall with more noise than prudence10 would have counselled.
Behind the blind, she closed the window; then she fetched the candle from the corner where she had hidden it. The light illuminated her face, and the young man gave a cry of alarm, for it was covered with tears.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“A great misfortune!” replied the young girl.
“Oh, I feared it when I saw the signal by which you recalled me after receiving me last night. But is it irreparable?”
“Almost,” answered Amélie.
“I hope, at least, that it threatens only me.”
“It threatens us both.”
The young man passed his hand over his brow to wipe away the sweat that covered it.
“Tell me,” said he; “you know I am strong.”
“If you have the strength to hear it,” said she, “I have none to tell it.” Then, taking a letter from the chimney-piece, she added: “Read that; that is what I received by the post to-night.”
The young man took the letter, opened it, and glanced hastily at the signature.
“From Madame de Montrevel,” said he.
“Yes, with a postscript11 from Roland.”
The young man read:
MY DEAREST DAUGHTER—I hope that the news I announce will give
you as much joy as it has already given our dear Roland and me.
Sir John, whose heart you doubted, claiming that it was only a
mechanical contrivance, manufactured in the workshops at
Vaucanson, admits that such an opinion was a just one until the
day he saw you; but he maintains that since that day he has a
heart, and that that heart adores you.
Did you suspect it, my dear Amélie, from his aristocratic and
polished manners, when your mother’s eyes failed to discern this
tenderness.
This morning, while breakfasting with your brother, he formally
asked your hand. Your brother received the offer with joy, but
he made no promises at first. The First Consul12, before Roland’s
departure for the Vendée, had already spoken of making himself
responsible for your establishment. But since then he has asked to
see Lord Tanlay, and Sir John, though he maintained his national
reserve, was taken into the first Consul’s good graces at once, to
such a degree that he received from him, at their first interview,
a mission to his uncle, Lord Grenville. Sir John started for
England immediately.
I do not know how many days Sir John will be absent, but on his
return he is certain to present himself to you as your betrothed14.
Lord Tanlay is still young, pleasing in appearance, and immensely
rich; he is highly connected in England, and Roland’s friend. I
do not know a man who has more right, I will not say to your love,
but to your profound esteem15.
The rest of my news I can tell you in two words. The First Consul
is still most kind to me and to your two brothers, and Madame
Bonaparte has let me know that she only awaits your marriage to
place you near her.
There is talk of leaving the Luxembourg, and removing to the
Tuileries. Do you understand the full meaning of this change of
domicile?
Your mother, who loves you,
CLOTILDE DE MONTREVEL.
Without pausing, the young man turned to Roland’s postscript. It was as follows:
You have read, my dear little sister, what our good mother has
written. This marriage is a suitable one under all aspects. It
is not a thing to be childish about; the First Consul wishes
you to become Lady Tanlay; that is to say, he wills it.
I am leaving Paris for a few days. Though you may not see me,
you will hear of me.
I kiss you, ROLAND.
“Well, Charles,” asked Amélie, when the young man had finished reading, “what do you think of that?”
“That it is something we had to expect from day to day, my poor angel, but it is none the less terrible.”
“What is to be done?”
“There are three things we can do.”
“Tell me.”
“In the first place, resist if you have the strength; it is the shortest and surest way.”
Amélie dropped her head.
“You will never dare, will you?”
“Never.”
“And yet you are my wife, Amélie; a priest has blessed our union.”
“But they say that marriage before a priest is null before the law.”
“Is it not enough for you, the wife of a proscribed16 man?” asked Morgan, his voice trembling as he spoke13.
Amélie flung herself into his arms.
“But my mother,” said she; “our marriage did not have her presence and blessing17.”
“Because there were too many risks to run, and we wished to run them alone.”
“But that man—Did you notice that my brother says he wills it?”
“Oh, if you loved me, Amélie, that man would see that he may change the face of the State, carry war from one end of the world to the other, make laws, build a throne, but that he cannot force lips to say yes when the heart says no.”
“If I loved you!” said Amélie, in a tone of soft reproach. “It is midnight, you are here in my room, I weep in your arms—I, the daughter of General de Montrevel and the sister of Roland—and you say, ‘If you loved me.’”
“I was wrong, I was wrong, my darling Amélie. Yes, I know that you were brought up in adoration18 of that man; you cannot understand that any one should resist him, and whoever does resist him is a rebel in your eyes.”
“Charles, you said there were three things that we could do. What is the second?”
“Accept apparently19 the marriage they propose to you, and gain time, by delaying under various pretexts20. The man is not immortal21.”
“No; but is too young for us to count on his death. The third way, dear friend?”
“Fly—but that is a last resource, Amélie; there are two objections: first, your
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