Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 362, March 21, 1829», страница 5

THE NOVELIST

THE BROKEN HEART

A mutual affection had existed from their very childhood between Henri Merville and Louise Courtin; their respective parents were near neighbours, and on very friendly terms with one another; they, therefore, watched the infantile attachment of their children with great pleasure, and with still more self-congratulation did they perceive that, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their strength, it had ripened into an ardent and deep-rooted passion. When Henri, however, had attained his twentieth year, Louise being also only seventeen, it became necessary that he should leave the humble village of Verny, and perfect himself in his trade as a cabinet-maker, by visiting and working in some large and opulent towns. The lovers, amid their increasing happiness, had never thought of this long separation; so that when Henri was told by his father that he must leave home, and be away three years, and Louise informed by her mother of the same circumstance, the intelligence came upon them like an earthquake. Woman's feelings are more easily excited, and Louise felt as if Verny would be a desert without her dear Henri; he too was sad enough, although the preparations for his journey occupied the greatest portion of his time, and prevented his so continually thinking of the separation as she did. Grief and regret were useless; the parting hour arrived, and the now miserable pair were left to themselves. They mutually made vows of eternal constancy and fidelity; as is the custom in the provinces, they exchanged rings, and became rather more resigned to their unavoidable separation.

Henri at last departed, and was ten miles from Verny before he could comprehend how he had summoned up resolution enough to leave it. Louise, shut up in her little room, was weeping bitterly, and felt no inclination to go out, since she could no longer meet Henri; but, in a short time, both of them, without feeling less regret, bethought themselves of making the wearisome interval useful to their future prospects.

During the first eighteen months, he travelled about from town to town; but at last, in Lyons, made an engagement with a person who had a very extensive business, of the name of Gerval, for the remaining period. His master preferred cards and the bottle to work, and finding Henri honest and attentive, was anxious to retain him in his situation. He had a daughter, named Annette, a quick, lively, and fascinating girl, who seemed rather disposed to coquet with Henri, and was somewhat frequently in the workshop with him. Gerval observed, and by no means discouraged, this, thinking that, even after all, his assistant would become neither a bad partner for Annette nor himself; and that their intercourse, at all events, would keep away Louis, a former workman, who had affected a great regard for his daughter, but possessed very little inclination to use the saw or the plane. All this attention was very delightful to Henri, particularly as it proceeded from so interesting a creature as his present companion. Are, then, Verny and the sorrowful Louise quite forgotten? It must be confessed, that they almost escaped his memory, when thus employed with Annette; but, to do him justice, in the solitude of his chamber he experienced feelings almost akin to remorse; often in his dreams did he behold Louise, ever tender, ever affectionate, as in their infancy; this vision was recalled when he awoke, and he arose, vowing that she should never have a rival in his heart: but Henri was young, Louise two hundred miles off, and Annette only two steps.

Gerval, to keep away all aspirants, gave it out that they were betrothed, and especially informed Louis, the dismissed swain, of this agreement, who, in consequence thereof, immediately left Lyons. Henri's time, meanwhile, was passing away; he had received some very tender letters from Louise, and had written to her, but less frequently than he would have done if Annette had not occupied his leisure hours. Having, however, received no intelligence from Verny for more than three months, he began to be disquieted, and determined to leave Gerval, notwithstanding all Annette's attractions. To be sure, he had found her very pretty and agreeable—he had romped and flirted with her—but had never, for a moment, thought of marrying her, and had, strictly speaking, been faithful to Louise. Judge then of his surprise, when, one night, Gerval returned home half-drunk, and asked them, if they were not beginning to think of the wedding. Annette threw herself into her father's arms; Henri, pale as death, hid his face with his hands, and knew not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the sight of this confusion, burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter; "You put me in mind," said he, at last, "of one of those ninnies of lovers on the stage, who throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses, as if they were idols. Come, my lad, embrace your betrothed—exchange rings—and long live joy, for it costs nothing." The words "exchange rings" restored Henri to his senses, for he thought he beheld his beloved Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, "Dear Henri, what will become of me without you?" And this ring, too, which was asked from him, was the self-same one that he had received from her!—He immediately addressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, and, having thanked him, told him that he should never forget his friendship and his kind intentions, that he should always love Annette as a sister, but that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own native place. He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed her the ring, about which she had teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man's reproaches on her. These reproaches all fell on him; he bore them, however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was "a good sort of fellow," was, in the end, affected by it. "Go, then, and marry your betrothed," said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; "since it is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better. I must say, I shall regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval and his daughter."

Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. During the four or five first days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise—"Annette will console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me? Oh, yes!—she is so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity, when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I was placed." Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily, and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise, and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering. Oh! could he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that way! He tried to do so, but his efforts were fruitless: the first Sunday arrived, and he was still two days' journey from Verny. In the evening he found himself in a large town, called Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless endeavours, and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every thing seemed prepared for the festival—the street was neat and clean—the fountains adorned with branches, and decorated with large nosegays, tied together with beautiful ribands—fir-trees marked the dwellings of the young females—all had flowers around them, but he remarked, that one had only white ones on it, fastened with a crape riband—the street was deserted. Before he could reach the inn, which was at the other end of the town, he had to pass by the church and the burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and in the latter there was an open grave. This melancholy sight rendered it evident, that some one was dead; that her loss had suspended the public joy; and the bouquet, encircled with crape, had been planted before the "house of mourning." He entered the church-yard—groups of females were walking there. They were conversing in a low tone, and Henri discovered that the deceased was young and beautiful; and that she had been the victim of a misplaced affection; he could not restrain his tears, for he thought how near, perhaps, he had been occasioning the death of his Louise. "But," said one of the females, "why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why did she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?"—"She always told me," replied Isabelle, (the person addressed, and who was in deeper mourning than the others,) "that she could only love once, and that she had no longer a heart to give."—"Well, then," said another, "was she sure that her lover was faithless?"—"Quite sure. She had long feared that he was; she saw it in his letters, for when a woman like Marie loves, the heart divines every thing; still, however, she flattered herself with the fond hope that he would return, and that her forgiveness of his neglect would revive in him all his former affection. Three months ago this hope was destroyed, she heard that he was—married. Since that time she has only languished; she wished to live for the sake of her parents, but her grief has proved the most powerful. He quitted me in the month of May," said she to me; "in the month of May I shall quit life." "That time is come, and Marie is no more."—"Tell us her whole history," exclaimed two or three of the listeners, at once. Isabelle consented; they were crowding round her, and Henri was approaching nearer, and redoubling his attention, when the funeral bell tolled drearily and solemnly. He started, and Isabelle said, with a sigh, "I must tell you my dear friend's story another time; we must now accompany her remains to their last sad home, and place these flowers upon her coffin."

They walked on mournfully, two and two, and Henri followed them with an interest that he could not account for, or define. The coffin advanced, preceded by the priests, bearing torches that were obscured by the silvery light of the moon; it was carried by six men, and among them it was easy to recognise Guillaume, by his profound sorrow; for, to Henri's great surprise, he alone wept. The more aged men who followed the corpse, the one even next it, and who, of course, was the father, or nearest relative of the deceased, had, like the rest, merely a composed and serious countenance, undisfigured by any great affliction. The body was lowered into the grave; the officiating minister made a brief, and somewhat cold, discourse on the frailty of life; the young females afterwards came forward, and each threw her wreath of flowers on the coffin; and then chanted some rhymes.

The grave was then about to be filled up; the noise of the earth, in falling, resounded on the coffin, and Henri shuddered. The crowd gradually dispersed; Guillaume and Isabelle alone remained beside the tomb; Henri approached it, and Isabelle observing him, with a forced smile, said, "Did you know her? I have seen you follow the funeral train with apparent interest, and now I behold you in tears; are you a relation, friend, or only even a native of the same place?" Henri listened to these questions with great surprise; "I scarcely understand you," he at length replied; "I am merely a traveller; but the deceased was, doubtless, your friend?"—"Yes, my best, my dearest friend; yet our friendship was doomed to be of very short continuance. I was not at all acquainted with her until, about three months ago, she came to reside with my father, who is a physician, and to whose care her relations, when aware of her forlorn state, confided her." "Her relations," remarked Henri, "did not seem to be much affected; they appeared, indeed, quite resigned to their loss." "Her relations!" replied Isabelle, "she had none here; she was a stranger, and my father attended as chief mourner; he lamented her loss, but Marie was not his daughter, although I myself loved her as a sister." "Marie!" she was called Marie! but what was her family-name? Often shall I think of her unhappy destiny." "Marie was only a name that she adopted, and we called her, because she could never bear to hear her own. "Isabelle," said she to me, almost at our first meeting, "never name me as he who has destroyed me named me; never, I entreat you, call me dear Louise." "Louise!" exclaimed Henri, growing pale as death; "Louise!" "Yes, Louise Courtin, of Verny!" No sooner had Isabelle uttered these words, than she beheld the young traveller fall senseless beside the grave, feebly repeating the name of Louise. Isabelle, in alarm, called her brother to her assistance; they raised up the stranger, who opened his eyes for a moment, and again muttered the same words. "Gracious Providence!" exclaimed the affrighted girl, "it is—it must be—Henri!" The youth made an effort, and cried out, in a frantic manner: "Yes! Henri, the murderer of his beloved; the assassin of Louise!" He then again fell down exhausted, and to all appearance dead. Guillaume had him conveyed to his father's, where every assistance that skill could devise, was tendered him; but he only recovered his recollection sufficiently to learn from Isabelle, that a person named Louis had brought positive intelligence to Verny, that Henri had espoused his master's daughter at Lyons; that her father himself had made him acquainted with the circumstance, and that he had seen the newly married couple in all the raptures of connubial happiness. It was impossible to discredit this news, which was a death-blow to the sensitive Louise.