Mont Oriol: or A Romance of Auvergne — Attainment part 1

Attainment Christiane, who had not gone to sleep till a very late hour, awoke as soon as the sun cast a flood of red light into her room through the window which she had left wide open.

She glanced at her watch--it was five o'clock--and remained lying on her back deliciously in the warmth of the bed.

It seemed to her, so active and full of joy did her soul feel, that a happiness, a great happiness, had come to her during the night.

What was it?

She sought to find out what it was; she sought to find out what was this new source of happiness which had thus penetrated her with delight.

All her sadness of the night before had vanished, melted away, during sleep.

So Paul Bretigny loved her!

How different he appeared to her from the first day!

In spite of all the efforts of her memory, she could not bring back her first impression of him; she could not even recall to her mind the man introduced to her by her brother.

He whom she knew to-day had retained nothing of the other, neither the face nor the bearing--nothing--for his first image had passed, little by little, day by day, through all the slow modifications which take place in the soul with regard to a being who from a mere acquaintance has come to be a familiar friend and a beloved object.

You take possession of him hour by hour without suspecting it; possession of his movements, of his attitudes, of his physical and moral characteristics.

He enters into you, into your eyes and your heart, by his voice, by all his gestures, by what he says and by what he thinks.

You absorb him; you comprehend him; you divine him in all the meanings of his smiles and of his words;

it seems at last that he belongs entirely to you, so much do you love, unconsciously still, all that is his and all that comes from him.

Then, too, it is impossible to remember what this being was like--to your indifferent eyes--when first he presented himself to your gaze.

So then Paul Bretigny loved her!

Christiane experienced from this discovery neither fear nor anguish, but a profound tenderness, an immense joy, new and exquisite, of being loved--of knowing that she was loved.

She was, however, a little disturbed as to the attitude that he would assume toward her and that she should preserve toward him.

But, as it was a matter of delicacy for her conscience even to think of these things, she ceased to think about them, trusting to her own tact and ingenuity to direct the course of events.

She descended at the usual hour, and found Paul smoking a cigarette before the door of the hotel.

He bowed respectfully to her: "Good day, Madame.

You feel well this morning?"

"Very well, Monsieur.

I slept very soundly."

And she put out her hand to him, fearing lest he might hold it in his too long.

But he scarcely pressed it; and they began quietly chatting as if they had forgotten one another.

And the day passed off without anything being done by him to recall his ardent avowal of the night before.

He remained, on the days that followed, quite as discreet and calm; and she placed confidence in him.

He realized, she thought, that he would wound her by becoming bolder;

and she hoped, she firmly believed, that they might be able to stop at this delightful halting-place of tenderness, where they could love, while looking into the depths of one another's eyes, without remorse, inasmuch as they would be free from defilement.

Nevertheless, she was careful never to wander out with him alone.

Now, one evening, the Saturday of the same week in which they had visited the lake of Tazenat, as they were returning to the hotel about ten o'clock,--the Marquis, Christiane, and Paul,--for they had left Gontran playing _écarté_ with Aubrey and Riquier and Doctor Honorat in the great hall of the Casino, Bretigny exclaimed, as he watched the moon shining through the branches: "How nice it would be to go and see the ruins of Tournoel on a night like this!"

At this thought alone, Christiane was filled with emotion, the moon and ruins having on her the same influence which they have on the souls of all women.

She pressed the Marquis's hands.

"Oh!

father dear, would you mind going there?"

He hesitated, being exceedingly anxious to go to bed.

She insisted: "Just think a moment, how beautiful Tournoel is even by day!

You said yourself that you had never seen a ruin so picturesque, with that great tower above the château.

What must it be at night!"

At last he consented: "Well, then, let us go!

But we'll only look at it for five minutes, and then come back immediately.

For my part, I want to be in bed at eleven o'clock."

"Yes, we will come back immediately.

It takes only twenty minutes to get there."

They set out all three, Christiane leaning on her father's arm, and Paul walking by her side.

He spoke of his travels in Switzerland, in Italy, in Sicily.

He told what his impressions were in the presence of certain phenomena, his enthusiasm on seeing the summit of Monte Rosa, when the sun, rising on the horizon of this row of icy peaks, this congealed world of eternal snows, cast on each of those lofty mountain-tops a dazzling white radiance, and illumined them, like the pale beacon-lights that must shine down upon the kingdoms of the dead.

Then he spoke of his emotion on the edge of the monstrous crater of Etna, when he felt himself, an imperceptible mite, many meters above the cloud line, having nothing any longer around him save the sea and the sky, the blue sea beneath, the blue sky above, and leaning over this dreadful chasm of the earth, whose breath stifled him.

He enlarged the objects which he described in order to excite the young woman; and, as she listened, she panted with visions she conjured up, by a flight of imagination, of those wonderful things that he had seen.

Suddenly, at a turn of the road, they discovered Tournoel.

The ancient château, standing on a mountain peak, overlooked by its high and narrow tower, letting in the light through its chinks, and dismantled by time and by the wars of bygone days, traced, upon a sky of phantoms, its huge silhouette of a fantastic manor-house.

They stopped, all three surprised.

The Marquis said, at length: "Indeed, it is impressive--like a dream of Gustave Doré realized.

Let us sit down for five minutes."

And he sat down on the sloping grass.

But Christiane, wild with enthusiasm, exclaimed: "Oh!

father, let us go on farther!

It is so beautiful!

so beautiful!

Let us walk to the foot, I beg of you!"

This time the Marquis refused: "No, my darling, I have walked enough; I can't go any farther.

If you want to see it more closely, go on there with M. Bretigny.

I will wait here for you."

Paul asked: "Will you come, Madame?"

She hesitated, seized by two apprehensions, that of finding herself alone with him, and that of wounding an honest man by having the appearance of suspecting him.

The Marquis repeated: "Go on!

Go on!

I will wait for you."

Then she took it for granted that her father would remain within reach of their voices, and she said resolutely: "Let us go on, Monsieur."

But scarcely had she walked on for some minutes when she felt herself possessed by a poignant emotion, by a vague, mysterious fear--fear of the ruin, fear of the night, fear of this man.

Suddenly she felt her legs trembling under her, just as she felt the other night by the lake of Tazenat; they refused to bear her any further, bent under her, appeared to be sinking into the soil, where her feet remained fixed when she strove to raise them.

A large chestnut-tree, planted close to the path they had been pursuing, sheltered one side of a meadow.

Christiane, out of breath just as if she had been running, let herself sink against the trunk.

And she stammered: "I shall remain here--we can see very well."

Paul sat down beside her.

She heard his heart beating with great emotional throbs.

He said, after a brief silence: "Do you believe that we have had a previous life?"

She murmured, without having well understood his question: "I don't know.

I have never thought on it."

He went on: "But I believe it--at moments--or rather I feel it.

As being is composed of a soul and a body, which seem distinct, but are, without doubt, only one whole of the same nature, it must reappear when the elements which have originally formed it find themselves together for the second time.

It is not the same individual assuredly, but it is the same man who comes back when a body like the previous form finds itself inhabited by a soul like that which animated him formerly.

Well, I, to-night, feel sure, Madame, that I lived in that château, that I possessed it, that I fought there, that I defended it.

I recognized it--it was mine, I am certain of it!

And I am also certain that I loved there a woman who resembled you, and who, like you, bore the name of Christiane.

I am so certain of it that I seem to see you still calling me from the top of that tower.

"Search your memory!

recall it to your mind!

There is a wood at the back, which descends into a deep valley.

We have often walked there.

You had light robes in the summer evenings, and I wore heavy armor, which clanked beneath the trees.

You do not recollect?

Look back, then, Christiane!

Why, your name is as familiar to me as those we hear in childhood!

Were we to inspect carefully all the stones of this fortress, we should find it there carved by my hand in days of yore!

I

declare to you that I recognize my dwelling-place, my country, just as I recognized you, you, the first time I saw you!"

He spoke in an exalted tone of conviction, poetically intoxicated by contact with this woman, and by the night, by the moon, and by the ruin.

He abruptly flung himself on his knees before Christiane, and, in a trembling voice said: "Let me adore you still since I have found you again!

Here have I been searching for you a long time!"

She wanted to rise and to go away, to join her father, but she had not the strength; she had not the courage, held back, paralyzed by a burning desire to listen to him still, to hear those ravishing words entering her heart.

She felt herself carried away in a dream, in the dream always hoped for, so sweet, so poetic, full of rays of moonlight and days of love.

He had seized her hands, and was kissing the ends of her finger-nails, murmuring: "Christiane--Christiane--take me--kill me!

I love you, Christiane!"

She felt him quivering, shuddering at her feet.

And now he kissed her knees, while his chest heaved with sobs.

She was afraid that he was going mad, and started up to make her escape.

But he had risen more quickly, and seizing her in his arms he pressed his mouth against hers.

Then, without a cry, without revolt, without resistance, she let herself sink back on the grass, as if this caress, by breaking her will, had crushed her physical power to struggle.

And he possessed her with as much ease as if he were culling a ripe fruit.

But scarcely had he loosened his clasp when she rose up distracted, and rushed away shuddering and icy-cold all of a sudden, like one who had just fallen into the water.

He overtook her with a few strides, and caught her by the arm, whispering: "Christiane, Christiane!

Be on your guard with your father!"

She walked on without answering, without turning round, going straight before her with stiff, jerky steps.

He followed her now without venturing to speak to her.

As soon as the Marquis saw them, he rose up: "Hurry," said he; "I was beginning to get cold.

These things are very fine to look at, but bad for one undergoing thermal treatment!"

Christiane pressed herself close to her father's side, as if to appeal to him for protection and take refuge in his tenderness.

As soon as she had re-entered her apartment, she undressed herself in a few seconds and buried herself in her bed, hiding her head under the clothes; then she wept.

She wept with her face pressed against the pillow for a long, long time, inert, annihilated.

She did not think, she did not suffer, she did not regret.

She wept without thinking, without reflecting, without knowing why.

She wept instinctively as one sings when one feels gay.

Then, when her tears were exhausted, overwhelmed, paralyzed with sobbing, she fell asleep from fatigue and lassitude.

She was awakened by light taps at the door of her room, which looked out on the drawing-room.

It was broad daylight, as it was nine o'clock.

"Come in," she cried.

And her husband presented himself, joyous, animated, wearing a traveling-cap and carrying by his side his little money-bag, which he was never without while on a journey.

He exclaimed: "What?

You were sleeping still, my dear!

And I had to awaken you.

There you are!

I arrived without announcing myself.

I hope you are going on well.

It is superb weather in Paris."

And having taken off his cap, he advanced to embrace her.

She drew herself away toward the wall, seized by a wild fear, by a nervous dread of this little man, with his smug, rosy countenance, who had stretched out his lips toward her.

Then, abruptly, she offered him her forehead, while she closed her eyes.

He planted there a chaste kiss, and asked: "Will you allow me to wash in your dressing-room?

As no one attended on me to-day, my room was not prepared."

She stammered: "Why, certainly."

And he disappeared through a door at the end of the bed.

She heard him moving about, splashing, snorting; then he cried: "What news here?

For my part, I have splendid news.

The analysis of the water has given unexpected results.

We can cure at least three times more patients than they can at Royat.

It is superb!"

She was sitting in the bed, suffocating, her brain overwrought by this unforeseen return, which hurt her like a physical pain and gripped her like a pang of remorse.

He reappeared, self-satisfied, spreading around him a strong odor of verbena.

Then he sat down familiarly at the foot of the bed, and asked: "And the paralytic?

How is he going on?

Is he beginning to walk?

It is not possible that he is not cured with what we found in the water!"

She had forgotten all about it for several days, and she faltered: "Why, I--I believe he is beginning to walk better.

Besides, I have not seen him this week.

I--I am a little unwell."

He looked at her with interest, and returned: "It is true, you are a little pale.

All the same, it becomes you very well.

You look charming thus--quite charming."

And he drew nearer, and bending toward her was about to pass one arm into the bed under her waist.

But she made such a backward movement of terror that he remained stupefied, with his hands extended and his mouth held toward her.

Then he asked: "What's the matter with you nowadays?

One cannot touch you any longer.

I assure you I do not intend to hurt you."

And he pressed close to her eagerly, with a glow of sudden desire in his eyes.

Then she stammered: "No--let me be--let me be!

The fact is, I believe--I believe I am pregnant!"

She had said this, maddened by the mental agony she was enduring, without thinking about her words, to avoid his touch, just as she would have said: "I have leprosy, or the plague."

He grew pale in his turn, moved by a profound joy; and he merely murmured: "Already!"

He yearned now to embrace her a long time, softly, tenderly, as a happy and grateful father.

Then, he was seized with uneasiness.

"Is it possible?

--What?

--Are you sure?

--So soon?"

She replied: "Yes--it is possible!"

Then he jumped about the room, and rubbing his hands, exclaimed: "Christi!

Christi!

What a happy day!"

There was another tap at the door.

Andermatt opened it, and a chambermaid said to him: "Doctor Latonne would like to speak to Monsieur immediately."

"All right.

Bring him into our drawing-room.

I am going there."

He hurried away to the adjoining apartment.

The doctor presently appeared.

His face had a solemn look, and his manner was starched and cold.

He bowed, touched the hand which the banker, a little surprised, held toward him, took a seat, and explained in the tone of a second in an affair of honor: "A very disagreeable matter has arisen with reference to me, my dear Monsieur, and, in order to explain my conduct, I must give you an account of it.

When you did me the honor to call me in to see Madame Andermatt, I hastened to come at the appointed hour; now it has transpired that, a few minutes before me, my brother-physician, the medical inspector, who, no doubt, inspires more confidence in the lady, had been sent for, owing to the attentions of the Marquis de Ravenel.

"The result of this is that, having been the second to see her I create the impression of having taken by a trick from Doctor Bonnefille a patient who already belonged to him--I create the impression of having committed an indelicate act, one unbecoming and unjustifiable from one member of the profession toward another.

Now it is necessary for us to carry, Monsieur, into the exercise of our art certain precautions and unusual tact in order to avoid every collision which might lead to grave consequences.

Doctor Bonnefille, having been apprised of my visit here, believing me capable of this want of delicacy, appearances being in fact against me, has spoken about me in such terms that, were it not for his age, I would have found myself compelled to demand an explanation from him.

There remains for me only one thing to do, in order to exculpate myself in his eyes, and in the eyes of the entire medical body of the country, and that is to cease, to my great regret, to give my professional attentions to your wife, and to make the entire truth about this matter known, begging of you in the meantime to accept my excuses."

Andermatt replied with embarrassment: "I understand perfectly well, doctor, the difficult situation in which you find yourself.

The fault is not mine or my wife's, but that of my father-in-law, who called in M. Bonnefille without giving us notice.

Could I not go to look for your brother-doctor, and tell him?

----" Doctor Latonne interrupted him: "It is useless, my dear Monsieur.

There is here a question of dignity and professional honor, which I am bound to respect before everything, and, in spite of my lively regrets----" Andermatt, in his turn, interrupted him.

The rich man, the man who pays, who buys a prescription for five, ten, twenty, or forty francs, as he does a box of matches for three sous, to whom everything should belong by the power of his purse, and who only appreciates beings and objects in virtue of an assimilation of their value with that of money, of a relation, rapid and direct, established between coined metal and everything else in the world, was irritated at the presumption of this vendor of remedies on paper.

He said in a stiff tone: "Be it so, doctor.

Let us stop where we are.

But I trust for your own sake that this step may not have a damaging influence on your career.

We shall see, indeed, which of us two shall have the most to suffer from your decision."

The physician, offended, rose up and bowing with the utmost politeness, said: "I have no doubt, Monsieur, it is I who will suffer.

That which I have done to-day is very painful to me from every point of view.

But I never hesitate between my interests and my conscience."

And he went out.

As he emerged through the open door, he knocked against the Marquis, who was entering, with a letter in his hand.

And M.

de Ravenel exclaimed, as soon as he was alone with his son-in-law: "Look here, my dear fellow!

this is a very troublesome thing, which has happened me through your fault.

Doctor Bonnefille, hurt by the circumstance that you sent for his brother-physician to see Christiane, has written me a note couched in very dry language informing me that I cannot count any longer on his professional services."