CHAPTER XVI
LOVER OR BROTHER?
When Jacinthe ushered Gabriel into the apartment in the Louvre occupied by Diane de Castro as the king's legitimatized daughter, she, in the pure and honest outpouring of her heart, rushed to meet her well-beloved without undertaking to dissemble her joy. She would not have refused to offer her brow to be kissed; but he contented himself with pressing her hand.
"Here you are at last, Gabriel!" said she. "How impatiently I have been awaiting you, dear! Lately I have not seemed to know whither to turn the full stream of happiness that I feel within me. I talk and laugh when I am all alone, and I am crazy with joy! But here you are, Gabriel, and we may at least have a happy hour together! But what is the matter, my love? You seem cold and serious and almost sad. Is it with such a solemn face and such cool reserve that you show your love for me, and your gratitude to God and my father?"
"To your father? Yes, let us speak of your father, Diane. As for this seriousness at which you wonder, it is my way to receive good fortune with a grave face; for I distrust her gifts, in the first place, having been unused to them heretofore, and my experience has been that she only too often hides a sorrow under the mask of a favor.
"I didn't know that you were such a philosopher, nor so unlucky, Gabriel!" replied the maiden, half in fun and half in anger. "But, come! you were saying that you wished to talk about the king; and I am very glad. How kind and generous he is, Gabriel!"
"Yes, Diane; and he loves you dearly, doesn't he?"
"With an infinite tenderness and gentleness, Gabriel."
"No doubt," muttered Vicomte d'Exmès, "for he may very well believe, poor dupe, that she is his child! Only one thing surprises me," he continued aloud; "and that is, how the king, who must have felt in his heart that he should love you thus dearly, could have allowed twelve years to elapse without ever seeing you or knowing you, and have left you at Vimoutiers, lost, to all intents and purposes. Have you never asked him, Diane, for an explanation of such strange indifference? Such utter forgetfulness, do you know, seems hardly consistent with the kind feeling that he seems to have for you now."
"Oh," said Diane, "it was not he who forgot me,—poor Papa!"
"But who was it, then?"
"Who? Why, Madame Diane de Poitiers, to be sure! I don't know if I ought to say my mother."
"And why did she make up her mind to abandon you thus, Diane? Ought she not to have been glad and proud, and to have glorified herself in the king's sight for having given birth to you, and having thus acquired one claim the more to his affection? What had she to fear? Her husband was dead; and her father—"
"All that is very true, Gabriel," said Diane; "and it would be very hard, not to say impossible, for me to justify in your eyes this extraordinary feeling—is it of pride?—which has made Madame de Valentinois refuse to acknowledge me formally as her child. Don't you know, dear, that in the first place she induced the king to conceal the fact of my birth; that she consented to my being recalled to court only at his urgent request, which was almost a command; and that she didn't choose even to be mentioned in the decree by which I was legitimatized? I have no inclination to complain of her for it, Gabriel, because if it had not been for this inexplicable pride of hers, I should never have known you, and you would not have loved me. But, nevertheless, I have sometimes been pained to think of the sort of repugnance which my mother seems to feel for everything that relates to me."
"A repugnance which may be remorse only," thought Gabriel, with terror; "she was able to deceive the king, and it was not without hesitation and dread—"
"But what are you thinking about, dear Gabriel?" said Diane. "And why do you ask me all these questions?"
"Oh, for no reason at all! A misgiving of my anxious heart,—that's all; don't worry about it, Diane. But, at all events, if your mother does seem to feel only aversion and almost hatred for you, your father, Diane,—your father makes up for her coldness by his affection, doesn't he? And you, if you do feel shy and constrained with Madame de Valentinois, your heart expands in the king's presence, does it not, and recognizes in him a true parent?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Diane; "and the very first day that I saw him, when he spoke to me so tenderly, I felt drawn to him at once. It is not from policy that I am affectionate and obliging with him, but from instinct. It was not the king, not my benefactor and my patron, that I loved so dearly,—it was my father!"
"One can never be mistaken about such matters!" cried Gabriel, beside himself with joy. "Dear, dear Diane, my dearest love, I am glad that you love your father so, and that in his presence you feel the tender emotions of gratitude and love! This lovely filial devotion does you honor, Diane!"
"And I am glad, too, that you understand it and approve of it," said Diane. "But now that we have spoken of my father, and of his love for me and mine for him, and of our obligation to him, Gabriel, suppose we talk a little about ourselves and our own love; why not? Come, what do you say? We are selfish creatures," added she, with the lovely ingenousness which was hers alone. "Besides, if the king were here, he would reprove me for not thinking at all of myself,—of ourselves; and do you know, Gabriel, what he keeps saying to me every minute? 'My dear child, be happy! Be happy; do you understand? And in that way you will make me happy.' And so, Monsieur, now that our debt of gratitude is paid, let us not be too forgetful of ourselves."
"Very true," said Gabriel, thoughtfully,—"very true. Let us now give ourselves up to this attachment which binds us to each other for life. Let us look into our hearts, and see what is going on there. Let us lay bare our very souls to each other."
"Well, we will," said Diane; "that will be delightful!"
"Yes, delightful!" responded Gabriel, in a melancholy tone. "And do you, first, Diane, tell me what you feel for me. Don't you love me less than your father?"
"Oh, you jealous boy!" said Diane. "Be sure that my love for you is very different, and it is not by any means easy to explain. When I am with the king, I am calm, and my heart beats no more quickly than usual; but when I see you, oh, then I feel a curious agitation, which pains and delights me at the same time, and spreads over my whole being. To my father I can say, even before the whole world, the sweet and loving words which come to my lips; but to you, it seems to me that I should never dare to say even the one word 'Gabriel' before another soul, not even when I am your wife. In a word, the happiness which your presence brings me is as restless and unquiet—I had almost said painful—as the joy which I feel with my father is calm and peaceful; but the pain of the one is more ecstatic than the tranquillity of the other."
"Say no more! oh, say no more!" cried Gabriel, in despair. "Yes, you do love me, indeed; and it terrifies me! And yet it encourages me, too, I must say; for surely God would not have implanted such a passion in your heart, if it had been wrong for you to love me!"
"What do you mean, Gabriel?" asked Diane, in amazement. "Why should my confession, which I have the best right in the world to make to you, since you are going to be my husband,—why should it put you thus beside yourself? What danger can be hidden in my love?"
"None, Diane, none. Pay no attention to me. It is joy which intoxicates me thus,—pure joy! Such supreme happiness makes me dizzy with delight. But you didn't always love me so restlessly and with such painful sensations. When we used to walk together under the trees at Vimoutiers, you had only friendship for me,—fraternal friendship."
"I was only a child then," said Diane. "I had not then been dreaming of you for six solitary homesick years; my love had not then grown as my body grew; I had not lived two months in the midst of a court where licentious language and corrupt morals had made me cherish more fondly still the thought of our pure and holy affection."
"True, true, Diane!" said Gabriel.
"And now, do you, dear Gabriel, in your turn tell me of your devotion and passionate love for me. Open your heart to me, as I have laid mine bare to your gaze. If my words have sounded pleasantly in your ears, do you let me hear your voice telling me how much you love me, and how dearly you love me."
"Oh, as for me, I don't know," said Gabriel. "I cannot tell you that! Don't ask me about it, don't press me to ask myself, for it is too terrible!"
"But, Gabriel," cried Diane, in deadly terror, "it is your words that are terrible; don't you see that they are? What! You don't choose even to tell me that you love me?"
"If I love you, Diane! She asks me if I love her! Truly, then, yes, I do love you, like a madman, perhaps like a criminal!"
"Like a criminal!" cried Madame de Castro, beside herself with terror and amazement. "What crime can there be in our love? Are we not both free? Will not my father consent to our union? God and the angels must delight in such a love."
"Grant, oh, Lord, that she blaspheme not," cried Gabriel, in his heart, "even as I perhaps blasphemed myself, in speaking to Aloyse!"
"What can be the matter?" repeated Diane. "My dear, you are not sick, are you? And you, generally so strong, whence come these fanciful fears? For I have no fear when near you. I know that with you I am as safe as with my father. See, to recall you to yourself, to life and happiness, I press close to your breast without fear, my dearly beloved husband! I press my brow against your lips without hesitation."
Smiling bewitchingly, she approached him, her glorious face turned up to his, and her angelic glance soliciting his pure embrace.
But Gabriel pushed her away in terror. "Away!" he cried; "no, no! leave me, flee from me!"
"Oh, mon Dieu!" moaned Diane, letting her arms fall by her side. "Mon Dieu! he repels me; he loves me not!"
"I love you too well!" said Gabriel.
"If you love me, why should my proffered caresses be so terrible to you?"
"Are they really terrible to me, then?" said Gabriel to himself. "Is it my instinct which repels them, and not my reason? Oh, come, Diane, let me see you and know you, and feel your presence! Come, and let me press my lips on your brow with a brother's kiss, in which a betrothed lover may indulge himself."
He strained Diane to his heart, and pressed a long burning kiss on her hair.
"Ah, I deceived myself!" cried he, in rapture at her very touch. "It is not the voice of blood which is crying to you from my heart; it is the voice of love! I know it! Oh, what bliss!"
"What did you say, dear?" replied Diane. "If you say that you love me, you say all that I care to hear or to know."
"Oh, indeed I love you, blessed angel; I love you passionately, madly! Yes, I love you, and to feel your heart beating against mine, like this, is very heaven to me; or is it hell?" cried he, suddenly, releasing himself from her embrace. "Away, away! let me fly, for I am accursed!"
And he fled wildly from the room, leaving Diane dumb with terror, and as if turned to stone by despair.
And he, poor fellow, no longer knew where he was going or what he was doing. He descended the stairs mechanically, reeling like a drunken man. These three fearful experiences were too much for his reason. When he reached the grand gallery of the Louvre, his eyes closed in spite of him, his legs gave way, and he sank on his knees against the wall, murmuring,—
"I foresaw that the angel would cause me more bitter agony than the two devils."
He had fainted. Night had come on; and no one was passing through the gallery.
He was recalled to his senses by feeling a soft hand smoothing his forehead, and hearing a sweet voice speaking to his very soul. He opened his eyes. The little queen-dauphine, Mary Stuart, stood before him, with a lighted taper in her hand.
"Ah, how fortunate! Another angel!" said Gabriel.
"Is it you, Monsieur d'Exmès?" said Mary. "Oh, how you frightened me! I thought you were dead. What is the matter? How pale you are! Do you feel any better? I will call for help, if you wish."
"Useless, Madame," said Gabriel, trying to rise. "Your voice has restored me to life."
"Let me help you," said Mary. "Poor fellow! Are you ill? You had fainted, hadn't you? As I was passing, I spied you lying here, and I hadn't strength enough to cry out. And then reflection gave me courage, and I came nearer to you; and I was pretty brave, I think. I laid my hand on your forehead, which was like ice. I called you, and you came to yourself. Do you still feel better?"
"Yes, Madame; and may God bless you for your goodness! I remember now, I had a fearful pain in my temples as if they were being pressed by an iron vice; my knees shook under me; and I fell here by this drapery. But how did the pain come on? Ah, yes, I remember now, I remember it all. Alas, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Too well I remember."
"It is some terrible sorrow that oppresses you so, is it not?" asked Mary. "It must be so, for, see, you are paler than ever again at the mere remembrance of it. Lean on my arm, for I am willing and strong; and I will call help, and find somebody to go home with you."
"Thanks, Madame," said Gabriel, struggling to recover his strength and his resolution. "I find I still have strength enough to go home alone. See, I can walk without help, and with a firm step. I am no less grateful to you; and while I live I shall never forget your simple and touching kindness, Madame. You came to me like an angel of comfort at a painful crisis in my life. Nothing but death, Madame, can ever efface it from my heart."
"Oh, mon Dieu! what I did was the most natural thing in the world to do, Monsieur d'Exmès; I would have done as much for any suffering creature, and so much the more gladly for you whom I know to be the devoted friend of my Uncle de Guise. Pray don't thank me for such a small matter."
"This small matter was everything, Madame, in the state of despair to which I was reduced. You don't wish that I should thank you; but I, Madame, wish to remember it. Adieu; I shall remember."
"Adieu, Monsieur d'Exmès; pray take care of yourself, and try to find comfort somewhere."
She gave him her hand, which Gabriel kissed with deep respect. Then she left the gallery by one door, and he by another.
When he was outside of the walls of the Louvre, he walked along the river-bank, and arrived at the Rue des Jardins in about half an hour. He had but one thought in his brain, and was suffering terribly.
Aloyse was anxiously awaiting him.
"Well?" said she.
Gabriel struggled manfully to overcome a feeling of faintness which dimmed his sight anew. He would have liked well to weep, but he could not. He replied in a faltering voice,—
"I know nothing, Aloyse! Everything has been dumb and speechless,—these women and my heart as well. I know nothing except that my brow is as cold as ice, and yet I am burning up. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"
"Courage, Monseigneur!" said Aloyse.
"I have had courage," said Gabriel; "but God be merciful to me, I am dying!"
And once more he fell backward on the floor, but this time he did not come to himself again.
