"Madame--"
"He is not in his chamber; they are hiding him from me."
"Do not think--"
"I understand all; he is in a desperate state I know, but as my end is near, too, I wish to say farewell to him, Henri."
For the first and the last time, alas! Marie called David by his baptismal name.
"Farewell!" repeated he, with a heartrending sob "you wish to say farewell!"
"But I cannot die without telling you how much I have loved you. You knew it, did you not, my friend?"
"And you say that you are going to die! No, no! Marie, the power of my love will give new life to you!" cried David, under a sort of aberration of mind. "Die! Oh, why will you die? We love each other so much."
"Yes, our love is great, my friend, and for me it began from the day you restored the life of my son"s soul."
"Oh, woe! woe!"
"No, Henri, my death is not a woe for us. It seems to me, you understand, that, in the moment of leaving this life, my soul, freed from terrestrial ties, can read the future. Henri, do you know what would have been our fate?"
"You ask me to tell you that, when this morning our plans were so--"
"Listen to me, my friend; there are profound mysteries of maternal love which, perhaps, are never unveiled but in supreme moments. As long as I felt myself free, the future appeared radiant to me, as it did to you, Henri, and perhaps for a few months, you and my son and myself would have mingled our lives in the same bliss."
"Oh, that dream! that dream!"
"The dream was beautiful, Henri; perhaps the awakening would have been cruel."
"What do you mean?"
"You know how much my son loves me. You know that all pa.s.sionate affection has its jealousy; sooner or later, he would have been jealous of my love for you, Henri."
"He, he jealous of me?"
"You can believe a mother"s heart; I am not mistaken."
"Alas, you only wish to make my sorrow less grievous; brave and generous to the last!"
"Say I am a mother to the last. Listen to me still, Henri. In uniting myself to you, I would have lost my name, that humble name that my son wanted above everything to make ill.u.s.trious, because that name was mine, because everything in the poor child had reference to me."
"Oh, yes, you were in all his thoughts; when he thought he was dying, he cried, "My mother!" and his first cry, as he began his march to a glorious destiny, was still, "My mother!""
"My friend, let us not deceive ourselves. What would have been our grief, if, just when we were about to be united, the fear of arousing my son"s jealousy, perhaps would have stopped me? And however painful to have renounced our love, think how much more horrible it would have been to see, perhaps, the development of Frederick"s jealousy after our union. What could we have done then? What would have become of us?"
"No, no, Marie, do not believe that. Frederick loves me, too, and he would have sacrificed himself to your happiness and mine."
"Sacrificed? Yes, my friend, he would have sacrificed himself. Oh, I know it, not a word, not a complaint would have pa.s.sed his lips. Always loving, always tender, he would have smiled on us sadly, and then by degrees, we would have seen him at last wasting away."
"Oh, my G.o.d, that is dreadful! Woe to me!" murmured David, with bitter lamentation. "Woe to me!"
"Joy to you, Henri, because you have been the most generous of men,"
cried Marie, with an exaltation which imparted a superhuman expression to her dying features, "Joy to you, Henri, for you have been loved, oh, pa.s.sionately loved, without costing a tear or one moment of shame to the loyal heart which adores you. Yes, Henri, I have loved you without hesitation, without resistance. I have loved you with pride, with serenity, because my love for you, Henri, had all the sacred sweetness of duty. Courage, then, my friend, let the memory of Marie and Frederick Bastien sustain you and console you."
"What do you mean? Frederick! Oh, he at least will remain to me!"
"My son will not survive me."
"Frederick?"
"I feel it here, yes, Henri, here in my heart; I tell you he will die."
"But, a little while ago, Pierre came out of the chamber where your son is lying, and told me he had not given up all hope. No, no, for him to die, too, would be more than I could bear."
"Why do you say that, Henri?"
"Great G.o.d! you--you, his mother, ask that question!"
"I told you, my friend, there are profound mysteries in maternal love. I think it would be a dreadful evil to survive my son, and Frederick thinks as I do; he loves me as much as I love him, and he does not desire to survive me."
"Oh, what misery for me to lose you both!"
"Marie and Frederick cannot be separated; neither in this world nor in the other, my friend."
"Ah, you and he are happy!"
"Henri, my strength is gone, the chill of death is on me. Give me your hand, your dear and faithful hand."
David threw himself on his knees at the bedside of the young woman, covering her hand with tears and kisses; he burst into sobs.
Marie continued talking, her voice growing more and more feeble.
"One last request, Henri; you will grant it, if it is possible. M.
Bastien has spoken to me of his desire to sell this house; I would not like to have strangers profane this home, where my life has been pa.s.sed, as well as the life of my son; for my life dates from the day I became a mother. Doctor Dufour, your best friend, dwells near here, you would like to live near him some day. Hasten that day, Henri; you will find great consolation in a heart like his."
"Oh, Marie, this house will be the object of a religious care--but--"
"Thank you, Henri, oh, thank you, that thought consoles me. A last prayer: I do not wish to be separated from my son; you understand me, do you not?"
Scarcely had Marie uttered these words when a great noise was heard in the corridor.
Marguerite in terror called the doctor.
Suddenly Madame Bastien"s door was thrown open violently. Frederick entered, livid as a corpse, dragging after him a piece of the bed linen, like a winding-sheet, while Marguerite was trying in vain to hold him back.
A last ray of intelligence, the filial instinct perhaps, led this child to die near his mother.
David, who was kneeling at the bedside of the young woman, rose, bewildered, as if he had seen a spectre.