Part 40 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXV
NOT EVEN LOVE CAN FIND A WAY
Standing in the middle of the room, her closed hand resting upon a table upon which she leaned as if for support, was Laure d'Aumenier.
The old Marquis had not noticed it, nor did the young man; that is, the eye of neither took in the details, but both had been conscious of the general effect, for the young Countess had dressed herself in her most becoming gown, one that had been newly made for her in Paris before the journey to the south of France and that she had never worn before.
She had spent a miserable night and day. When she had talked with her uncle a short time before, the effects of her sleeplessness and anguish had been plainly apparent. But there, within that room, her color coming to her face, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with excitement and emotion, she looked as fresh and as beautiful as the springtime without.
It was her right hand that rested on the table, and as Marteau approached her left instinctively sought her heart. In his emotion he looked at her with steady, concentrated glance, so keen, so piercing, as if he sought to penetrate to the very depths of her heart, that she could scarcely sustain his gaze. He, too, had forgot cares and anxieties, antic.i.p.ation, hopes, dreams; in his excitement and surprise everything had gone from him but her presence. Here was the woman he loved, looking at him in such a way, with such an air and such a bearing, her hand upon her heart--was that heart beating for him? Was she trying to still it, to control it, because----
His approach was slow, almost terribly deliberate, like the movement of the old Guard under Dorsenne--_Le Beau Dorsenne_!--against the heights of Pratzen on the glorious yet dreadful day of Austerlitz. His advance was irresistible, but unhurried, as if there must be a tremendous clash of arms in a moment to which haste could lend nothing, from the dignity and splendor of which hurry would detract. At another time the woman might have shrunk back faltering, she might have voiced a protest, or temporized, but now, in the presence of death itself, as it were, she stood steady waiting for him. Enjoying the luxury of looking upon him unrestrained, her heart going out to him as he drew nearer, nearer, nearer, she found herself tremblingly longing for his actual touch.
Now his arms went out to her, she felt them slowly fold around her, and then, like a whirlwind released, he crushed her against his breast, and, as she hung there, her throbbing heart making answer to the beating of his own, he kissed her again, again, again. Her heart almost stopped its beating. Beneath the fire of his lips her face burned. Her head drooped at last, her tense body gave way, she leaned upon him heavily, glad for the support of his strong arms.
”Laure,” he whispered, ”my little Laure, you love me. Oh, my G.o.d, you love me. It was true, then. I did not dream it. My ears did not mock me.”
”Yes, yes,” said the woman at last. ”Whoever you are, whatever you are, wherever you go, I love you.”
”And was it to tell me this that you came?”
”Yes. But not for this alone.”
”What else?”
”I would have you live.”
”For you?”
”For me.”
”As your husband?”
”And if that were possible would you----”
”Yes, yes, would I what?”
”Give up the Eagle?”
”My G.o.d!” said the man, loosening his clasp of her a little and holding her a little away that he might look at her. ”Does your love tempt me to dishonor?”
”I do not know,” said the woman piteously. ”I am confused. I cannot think aright. Oh, Marteau, Jean, with whom I played as a child, think of me. I cannot bear to see you dead outside there. I cannot look upon a soldier without thinking of it. The rattling of the carts in the streets sounds in my ear like shots. Don't, don't die. You must not.”
”And, if I lived, would you love me?”
”So long as the good G.o.d gives me the breath of life.”
”With the love of youth and the love of age?”
”Aye, for eternity.”