“No! my dearly loved ones, do not regret loving each other; you do no wrong to our beloved dead whose grave we see from here. In the sublime light of Heaven, where she now watches over us, all the narrow affections and petty jealousies of earth disappear, and her forgiveness is more complete and less selfish than my own; because, if I must be perfectly frank with you, Amaury,” the doctor added, lowering his voice, “if I must lay bare to you the heart of the man whom, rightly or wrongly you accept as your judge, my reason for giving you such easy absolution is only because of a sort of vain and foolish joy, a feeling of selfish egotism.

  “Yes! I am more to be blamed, less pure-hearted than you, in that I often tell myself proudly, that I shall be the only one to rejoin my daughter, virgin on earth, virgin in Heaven; that she will thus be more my own, that she will know that, after all, I was the one who loved her best.

  “It is wrong, it is unfair,” Monsieur d’Avrigny went on, shaking his head and speaking as if to himself, “the father is old, the lover is young. I have experienced a long and painful existence and have now reached the end of my journey.

  “You are on the threshold of life, have but begun your journey; the future holds for you all that the past holds for me, and at your age one does not die of love — one lives.

  “Therefore, my children, put behind you all shame, all regrets, do not struggle against your interests, do not fight against your nature, do not rebel against God. Impute no blame to your youth, to your power of loving. You have struggled enough, have suffered enough, have made ample atonement.

  “Take hold of the future, of love, of happiness, and kneel before me, that my hands may rest upon your dear heads, and that I may bless you in Madeleine’s name.”

  The two young people fell at the old man’s feet, who placed his hands on their bowed heads, and lifted his eyes to heaven with a smile of ineffable joy; whilst they, still kneeling, whispered timidly to each other:

  “Then you have loved me this long while, Antoinette?”

  “Your love is not a dream, Amaury?”

  “Can you not read my happiness in my face?” whispered Amaury.

  “Can you not see it in my tears?” murmured Antoinette.

  And for some moments only a few broken words escaped the young people, who with clasped hands, and looks of love, were overwhelmed with their own happiness, whilst the old man, so soon to die, invoked blessings from God upon his children, who were so full of life.

  “Come, spare my feelings a little, dear children,” said the doctor. “Since I feel that you are perfectly happy, I shall die happy.

  “Now we have no time to lose, I in particular; for I may have even less time than you.

  “You must be married this very month; I am not able, neither do I wish, to leave Ville d’Auray; but I shall send all necessary instructions to Monsieur de Mengis. You need only think of your love.

  “One thing only do I ask, Amaury, that on the 1st August, you will bring your wife to me, and spend the whole of that day here, as you are doing to-day.”

  Just at this moment, as Amaury and Antoinette replied by covering the old man’s hands with tears and kisses, a great disturbance was heard in the hall, the door opened and old Joseph appeared.

  “Well! what is the matter “? asked Monsieur d’Avrigny, “who comes to disturb us?”

  “Sir,” said Joseph, “a young man has just driven up and insists upon seeing you; he asserts that it is on business affecting the happiness of Mlle. Antoinette. The footmen, both of them, had the greatest trouble to prevent his forcing his way into your presence. Why! here he is.”

  And in fact, as he said the words, Philip Auvray entered the room, flushed and breathless; he bowed to Monsieur d’Avrigny and Antoinette, and held out his hand to Amaury.

  Joseph retired on seeing him.

  “Ah! there you are, my poor Amaury,” said Philip, “I am very glad that you preceded me, for you will, at least, be able to inform the Comte de Mengis how Philip Auvray makes amends for his acts of thoughtlessness.”

  The two young people stole a glance at each other.

  Philip turned solemnly towards the doctor.

  “Sir,” said he, “I must ask your forgiveness for appearing before you in this careless attire, and with a hat from which the crown has been dislodged; but under the circumstances which have brought me here, I could make no delay.

  “Sir, I have the honour to ask for the hand of your niece, Mlle. Antoinette de Valgenceuse, in marriage.”

  “And I, sir,” the doctor replied, “have the honour to invite you to the marriage of Mlle. Antoinette de Valgenceuse with Comte Amaury de Léoville, which will take place between the 25th and 30th of the present month.”

  One cry escaped Philip — deep, desperate, piercing — then, without a bow, without taking leave of anyone, without a single word, he rushed from the room, and threw himself, like a madman, into his cab.

  The unfortunate Philip had, as usual, arrived just half-an-hour too late.

  CONCLUSION.

  THE following 1st August Amaury and Antoinette, installed in the small house in the Rue des Mathurins, and wholly given up to the dreams and bliss of a newly-married couple, were quite oblivious of the fact that the morning was already far advanced.

  They had been married only the previous evening at the Church of Sainte Croix d’ Antin.

  “Come, dear Amaury,” said Antoinette, “we really must be starting; twelve o’clock is striking and my uncle will be expecting us.”

  “He will never expect you again,” said the voice of old Joseph behind them.

  “Monsieur d’Avrigny had been feeling rather worse for several days, but gave positive orders that you were not to be informed of his condition, as he did not wish to sadden you; but yesterday afternoon, at half-past four o’clock, he passed peacefully away.”

  This was the precise hour at which the marriage blessing was pronounced upon Antoinette and Amaury.

  *****

  There was a moment’s silence, as the Comte de M — ’s Secretary concluded his reading of the manuscript.

  “Well!” said M — at last, “now you know the difference between a love that kills and a love that does not.”

  “Yes! but,” interposed one of the guests, a young man, “what if I were to’ assure you that next Thursday evening I could tell you another tale, if I liked, where the lover was killed off remorselessly, while the father lived on happily and prosperously?”

  “That would only go to show,” said the Count with a laugh, “that while stories may prove a great deal in books, in actual life they prove nothing whatsoever.”

  THE END

 

 

  Alexandre Dumas, AMAURY

 

 

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