CHAPTER LIV
THE CONFESSION
Three days after the events we have just recited, a carriage
covered with dust and drawn by two horses white with foam stopped
about seven of the evening before the gate of the Château des
Noires-Fontaines. To the great astonishment of the person who
was in such haste to arrive, the gates were open, a crowd of
peasants filled the courtyard, and men and women were kneeling
on the portico. Then, his sense of hearing being rendered more
acute by astonishment at what he had seen, he fancied he heard
the ringing of a bell.
He opened the door of the chaise, sprang out, crossed the courtyard
rapidly, went up the portico, and found the stairway leading to
the first floor filled with people.
Up the stairs he ran as he had up the portico, and heard what
seemed to him a murmured prayer from his sister's bedroom. He
went to the room. The door was open. Madame de Montrevel and
little Edouard were kneeling beside Amélie's pillow; Charlotte,
Michel, and his son Jacques were close at hand. The curate of
Sainte-Claire was administering the last sacraments; the dismal
scene was lighted only by the light of the wax-tapers.
The reader has recognized Roland in the traveller whose carriage
stopped at the gate. The bystanders made way for him; he entered
the room with his head uncovered and knelt beside his mother.
The dying girl lay on her back, her hands clasped, her head raised
on her pillows, her eyes fixed upon the sky, in a sort of ecstasy.
She seemed unconscious of Roland's arrival. It was as though
her soul were floating between heaven and earth, while the body
still belonged to this world.
Madame de Montrevel's hand sought that of Roland, and finding
it, the poor mother dropped her head on his shoulder, sobbing.
The sobs passed unnoticed by the dying girl, even as her brother's
arrival had done. She lay there perfectly immovable. Only when the
viaticum had been administered, when the priest's voice promised
her eternal blessedness, her marble lips appeared to live again,
and she murmured in a feeble but intelligible voice: "Amen!"
Then the bell rang again; the choir-boy, who was carrying it,
left the room first, followed by the two acolytes who bore the
tapers, then the cross-bearer, and lastly the priest with the
Host. All the strangers present followed the procession, and
the family and household were left alone. The house, an instant
before so full of sound and life, was silent, almost deserted.
The dying girl had not moved; her lips were closed, her hands
clasped, her eyes raised to heaven. After a few minutes Roland
stooped to his mother's ear, and whispered: "Come out with me,
mother, I must speak to you." Madame de Montrevel rose. She pushed
little Edouard toward the bed, and the child stood on tiptoe
to kiss his sister on the forehead. Then the mother followed
him, and, leaning over, with a sob she pressed a kiss upon the
same spot. Roland, with dry eyes but a breaking heart--he would
have given much for tears in which to drown his sorrow--kissed
his sister as his mother and little brother had done. She seemed
as insensible to this kiss as to the preceding ones.
Edouard left the room, followed by Madame de Montrevel and Roland.
Just as they reached the door they stopped, quivering. They had
heard the name of Roland, uttered in a low but distinct tone.
Roland turned. Amélie called him a second time.
"Did you call me, Amélie?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the dying girl.
"Alone, or with my mother?"
"Alone."
That voice, devoid of emphasis, yet perfectly intelligible, had
something glacial about it; it was like an echo from another
world.
"Go, mother," said Roland. "You see that she wishes to be alone
with me."
"O my God!" murmured Madame de Montrevel, "can there still be
hope?"
Low as these words were, the dying girl heard them.
"No, mother," she said. "God has permitted me to see my brother
again; but to-night I go to Him."
Madame de Montrevel groaned.
"Roland, Roland!" she said, "she is there already."
Roland signed to her to leave them alone, and she went away with
little Edouard. Roland closed the door, and returned to his sister's
bedside with unutterable emotion.
Her body was already stiffening in death; the breath from her lips
would scarcely have dimmed a mirror; the eyes only, wide-open,
were fixed and brilliant, as though the whole remaining life of
the body, dead before its time, were centred, there. Roland had
heard of this strange state called ecstasy, which is nothing
else than catalepsy. He saw that Amélie was a victim of that
preliminary death.
"I am here, sister," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"I knew you would come," she replied, still without moving, "and
I waited for you."
"How did you know that I was coming?" asked Roland.
"I saw you coming."
Roland shuddered.
"Did you know why I was coming?" he asked.
"Yes; I prayed God so earnestly in my heart that He gave me strength
to rise and write to you."
"When was that?"
"Last night."
"Where is the letter?"
"Under my pillow. Take it, and read it."
Roland hesitated an instant. Was his sister delirious?
"Poor Amélie!" he murmured.
"Do not pity me," she said, "I go to join him."
"Whom?" asked Roland.
"Him whom I loved, and whom you killed."
Roland uttered a cry. This was delirium; or else--what did his
sister mean?
"Amélie," said he, "I came to question you--"
"About Lord Tanlay; yes, I know," replied the young girl.
"You knew! How could you know?"
"Did I not tell you I saw you coming, and knew why you came?"
"Then answer me."
"Do not turn me from God and from him, Roland. I have written
it all; read my letter."
Roland slipped his hand beneath the pillow, convinced that his
sister was delirious.
To his great astonishment he felt a paper, which he drew out.
It was a sealed letter; on it were written these words: "For
Roland, who will come to-morrow."
He went over to the night-light in order to read the letter,
which was dated the night before at eleven o'clock in the evening.
My brother, we have each a terrible thing to forgive the
other.
Roland looked at his sister; she was still motionless. He continued
to read:
I loved Charles de Sainte-Hermine; I did more than
love him, he was my lover.
"Oh!" muttered the young man between his teeth, "he shall die."
"He is dead," said Amélie.
The young man gave a cry of astonishment. He had uttered the words
to which Amélie had replied too low even to hear them himself. His
eyes went back to the letter.
There was no legal marriage possible between the sister
of Roland de Montrevel and the leader of the Companions
of Jehu: that was the terrible secret which I bore--and
it crushed me.
One person alone had to know it, and I told him; that
person was Sir John Tanlay.
May God forever bless that noble-hearted man, who
promised to break off an impossible marriage, and who
kept his word. Let his life be sacred to you, Roland; he
has been my only friend in sorrow, and his tears have
mingled with mine.
I loved Charles de Saint-Hermine; I was his mistress;
that is the terrible thing you must forgive.
But, in exchange, you caused his death; that is the
terrible thing I now forgive you.
Oh I come fast, Roland, for I cannot die till you are
here.
To die is to see him again; to die is to be with him and
never to leave him again. I am glad to die.
All was clearly and plainly written; there was no sign of delirium
in the letter.
Roland read it through twice, and stood for an instant silent,
motionless, palpitating, full of bitterness; then pity got the
better of his anger. He went to Amélie, stretched his hand over
her, and said: "Sister, I forgive you."
A slight quiver shook the dying body.
"And now," she said, "call my mother, that I may die in her arms."
Roland opened the door and called Madame de Montrevel. She was
waiting and came at once.
"Is there any change?" she asked, eagerly.
"No," replied Roland, "only Amélie wishes to die in your arms."
Madame de Montrevel fell upon her knees beside her daughter's
bed.
Then Amélie, as though an invisible hand had loosened the bonds
that held her rigid body to the bed, rose slowly, parted the
hands that were clasped upon her breast, and let one fall slowly
into those of her mother.
"Mother," she said, "you gave me life and you have taken it from
me; I bless you. It was a mother's act. There was no happiness
possible for your daughter in this life."
Then, letting her other hand fall into that of Roland, who was
kneeling on the other side of the bed, she said: "We have forgiven
each other, brother?"
"Yes, dear Amélie," he replied, "and from the depths of our hearts,
I hope."
"I have still one last request to make."
"What is it?"
"Do not forget that Lord Tanlay has been my best friend."
"Fear nothing," said Roland; "Lord Tanlay's life is sacred to me."
Amélie drew a long breath; then in a voice which showed her growing
weakness, she said: "Farewell, mother; farewell, Roland; kiss
Edouard for me."
Then with a cry from her soul, in which there was more of joy
than sadness, she said: "Here I am, Charles, here I am!"
She fell back upon her bed, withdrawing her two hands as she did
so, and clasping them upon her breast again.
Roland and his mother rose and leaned over her. She had resumed
her first position, except that her eyelids were closed and her
breath extinguished. Amélie's martyrdom was over, she was dead.
