Presentiments’.
THE NEXT DAY, as the clock at Trianon was striking twelve. Nicole’s voice was heard calling Andree, who had not yet left her apartment;
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, here is M. Philip!”
The exclamation came from the bottom of the stairs.
Andree, at once surprised and delighted, drew her muslin robe closely over her neck and shoulders, and hastened to meet the young man, who was in fact dismounting in the courtyard of Trianon, and inquiring from the servants at what time he could see his sister.
Andree therefore opened the door in person, and found herself face to face with Philip, whom the officious Nicole had ran to summon from the courtyard, and was accompanying up the stairs.
The young girl threw her arms round her brother’s neck, and they entered Andree’s apartments together, followed by Nicole.
It was then that Andree for the first time remarked that Philip was more serious than usual — that his smile was not free from sadness — that he wore his elegant uniform with the most scrupulous neatness, and that he held a traveling-cloak over his arm.
“What is the matter, Philip?” asked she, with the instinct of tender affection, of which a look is a sufficient revelation.
“My sister,” said Philip, “this morning I received an order to join my regiment.”
“ And you are going?”
“I must.”
“Oh!” said Andree; and with this plaintive exclamation all her courage, and almost all her strength, seemed to desert her.
And although this departure was a very natural occurrence, and one which she might have foreseen, yet she felt so overpowered by the announcement that she was obliged to lean for support on her brother’s arm.
“Good heavens!” asked Philip, astonished, “does this departure afflict you so much, Andree? You know, in a soldier’s life, it is a most commonplace event.”
“Yes, yes; it is in truth common,” murmured the young girl. “And whither do you go, brother?”
“My garrison is at Rheinis. You see. I have not a very long journey to undertake. But it is probable that from thence the regiment will return to Strasbourg.”
“Alas!” said Andree; “and when do you set out?
“The order commands me to start immediately.”
“You have come to bid me good-by, then?”
“Yes, sister.”
“A farewell!”
“Have you anything particular to say to me, Andree?” asked Philip, fearing that this extreme dejection might have some other cause than his departure.
Andree understood that these words were meant to call her attention to Nicole, who, astonished at Andree’s extreme grief, was gazing at this scene with much surprise; for, in fact, the departure of an officer to his garrison was not a catastrophe to cause such a flood of tears.
Andree, therefore, saw at the same instant Philip’s feelings and Nicole’s surprise. She took up a mantle, threw it over her shoulders, and, leading her brother to the staircase:
“Come,” said she, “as far as the park, gates, Philip. I will accompany you through the covered alley. I have, in truth, many things to tell you, brother.”
These words were equivalent to a dismissal for Nicole, who returned to her mistress’s chamber, while the latter descended the staircase with Philip.
Andree led the way to the passage which still, even at the present day, opens from the chapel into the garden; but although Philip’s look anxiously questioned her, she remained for a longtime silent, leaning upon his arm, and supporting her head upon his shoulder.
But at last her heart was too full; her features were overspread with a deathlike paleness, a deep sigh escaped her lips, and tears rushed from her eyes.
“My dear sister — my sweet Andree!” exclaimed Philip, “in the name of Heaven, what is the matter?”
“My friend — my only friend!” said Andree, “you depart — you leave me alone in this great world, which I entered but yesterday, and yet you ask me why I weep? Ah! remember, Philip, I lost my mother at my birth; it is dreadful to acknowledge it, but I have never had a father. All my little griefs — all my little secrets — I could confide to you alone. Who smiled upon me? Who caressed me? Who rocked me in my cradle? It was you. Who has protected me since I grew up? You. Who taught me that God’s creatures were not cast into the world only to suffer? You, Philip — you alone. For, since the hour of my birth, I have loved no one in the world but you, and no one but you has loved me in return. Oh! Philip, Philip,” continued Andree, sadly, “you turn away your head, and I can read your thoughts. You think I am young — that I am beautiful — and that I am wrong not to trust to the future and to love. And yet you see, alas! Philip, it is not enough to be young and handsome, for no one thinks of me.
“You will say the dauphiness is kind, and she is so. She is all perfection; at least, she seems so in my eyes, and I look upon her as a divinity. But it is exactly because she holds this exalted situation that I can feel only respect for her, and nut affection. Yet, Philip, affection is necessary for my heart, which if always thrust back on itself must at last break. My father — I tell you nothing new, Philip — my father is not only no protector or friend, but I cannot even look at him without feeling terror. Yes, yes, I fear him. Philip, and still more now, since you are leaving me.
“You will ask, why should I fear him? I know not. Do not the birds of the air and the flocks of the field feel and dread the approaching storm? You will say they are endowed with instinct; but why will you deny the instinct of misfortune to our immortal souls? For some time past everything has prospered with our family; I know it well. You are a captain; I am in the household, and almost in the intimacy, of the dauphiness; my father, it is said, supped last night almost tete-a-tete with the king. Well! Philip, I repeat it, even should you think me mad, all this alarms me more than our peaceful poverty and obscurity at Taverney.”
“And yet, dear sister,” said Philip sadly, “you were alone there also; I was not with you there to console you.”
“Yes, but at least I was alone — alone with the memories of childhood. It seemed to me as if the house where my mother lived and breathed her last owed me, if I may so speak, a protecting care. All there was peaceful, gentle, affectionate. I could see you depart with calmness, and welcome you back with joy. But whether you departed or returned, my heart was not all with you; it was attached also to that dear house, to my gardens, to my flowers, to the whole scene of which formerly you were but a part. Now you are all to me, Philip, and when you leave me I am indeed alone.”
“And yet, Andree, you have now a protector far more powerful than I am.”
“True.”
“A happy future before you.”
“Who can tell?”
““Why do you doubt it?”
“I do not know.”
“This is ingratitude toward God, my sister.”
“Oh! no, thank Heaven, I am not ungrateful to God. Morning and evening I offer up thanks to Him; but it seems to me as if, instead of receiving my prayers with grace, every time I bend the knee, a voice from on high whispers to my heart; ‘Take care, young girl, take care!’
“But against what are you to guard? Answer me. I will admit that a danger threatens you. Have you any presentiment of the nature of this misfortune? Do you know how to act so as best to confront it, or how to avoid it?”
“I know nothing, Philip, except that my life seems to hang by a thread, that nothing will look bright to me from the moment of your departure. In a word, it seems as if during my sleep I had been placed on the declivity of a precipice too steep to allow me to arrest my progress when roused to a sense of my danger; that I see the abyss, and yet am dragged down; and that, you being far away, and your helping hand no longer ready to support me, I shall be dashed down and crushed in the fall.”
“Dear sister! my sweet Andree!” said Philip, agitated in spite of himself by the expression of deep and unaffected terror in her voice and manner, you exaggerate the extent of an affection for which I feel deeply grateful. Yes, you will lose your friend, but only for a time; I shall not be so far distant but that you can send for me if necessity should arise. Besides, remember that except chimerical fears, nothing threatens you.”
Andree placed herself in her brother’s way.
“Then, Philip,” said she, “how does it happen that you, who are a man, and gifted with so much more strength, are at this moment as sad as I am? Tell me, my brother, how do you explain that?”
“Easily, dear sister,” said Philip, arresting Andree’s steps, for she had again moved forward on ceasing to speak. “We are not only brother and sister by blood, but in heart and affection; therefore we have lived in an intimate communion of thoughts and feelings, which, especially since our arrival in Paris, has become to me a delightful necessity. I break this chain, my sweet love, or rather it is broken by others, and I feel the blow in my inmost heart. I am sad, but only for the moment, Andree. I can look beyond our separation; I do not believe in any misfortune, except in that of not seeing you for some months, perhaps for a year. I am resigned, and do not say, ‘farewell,’ but rather, “we shall soon meet again.”
In spite of these consolatory words. Andree could only reply by sobs and tears.
“Dearest sister,” exclaimed Philip, grieved at this dejection, which seemed so incomprehensible to him, “dearest sister, you have not told me all — you hide something from me. In Heaven’s name, speak!”
And he took her in his arms, pressing her to his heart, and gazing earnestly in her eyes.
“I!” said she. “No, no, Philip, I assure you solemnly. You know all the most secret recesses of my heart are open before you.”
“Well, then, Andree, for pity’s sake, take courage; do not grieve me so.”
“You are right,” said she, “and I am mad. Listen; I never had a strong mind, as you, Philip, know better than any one; I have always been a timid, dreaming, melancholy creature. But I have no right to make so tenderly beloved a brother a sharer in my fears, above all when he labors to give me courage, and proves to me that I am wrong to be alarmed. You are right, Philip; it is true, everything here is conducive to my happiness. Forgive me, Philip! You see, I dry my tears — I weep no longer — I smile, Philip — I do not say ‘adieu,’ but rather, ‘we shall soon meet again.’”
And the young maiden tenderly embraced her brother, hiding her head on his shoulder to conceal from his view a tear which still dimmed her eye, and which dropped like a pearl upon the golden epaulet of the young officer.
Philip gazed upon her with that infinite tenderness which partakes at the same time of a father’s and a brother’s affection.
“Andree,” said he, “I love to see you bear yourself thus bravely. Be of good courage; I must go, but the courier shall bring you a letter every week. And every week let me receive one from you in return.”
“Yes, Philip,” said Andree; “yes, it will be my only happiness. But you have informed my father, have you not?”
“Of what?”
“Of your departure.”
“Dear sister, it was the baron himself who brought me the minister’s order this morning. M. de Taverney is not like you, Andree, and it seems will easily part with me. He appeared pleased at the thought of my departure, and in fact he was right. Here I can never get forward, while there many occasions may present themselves.”
“My father is glad to see you go?” murmured Andree. “Are you not mistaken, Philip?”
“He has you,” replied Philip, eluding the question; “that is a consolation for him, sister.”
“Do you think so, Philip? He never sees me.”
“My sister, he bade me tell you that this very day, after my departure, he would come to Trianon. Believe me, he loves you; only it is after his own fashion.”
“What is the matter now, Philip? you seem embarrassed.”
“Dearest Andree, I heard the clock strike — what hour is it?”
“A quarter to one.”
“Well, dear sister, I seem embarrassed because I ought to have been on the road an hour ago, and here we are at the gate where my horse is waiting. Therefore—”
Andree assumed a calm demeanor, and taking her brother’s hand:
“Therefore,” said she, in a voice too firm to be entirely natural, “therefore, brother, adieu!”
Philip gave her one last embrace.
“To meet soon again,” said he; “remember your promise.”
“What promise?”
“One letter a week, at least.”
“Oh! do you think it necessary to ask it?”
She required a violent effort to pronounce these last words. The poor girl’s voice was scarcely audible.
Philip waved his hand in token of adieu, and walked quickly toward the gate. Andree followed his retreating form with her eyes, holding in her breath in the endeavor to repress her sighs. Philip bounded lightly on horseback, shouted a last farewell from the other side of the gate, and was gone. Andree remained standing motionless till he was out of sight, then she turned, darted, like a wounded fawn among the shady trees, perceived a bench, and had only strength sufficient to reach it, and to sink on it powerless and almost lifeless. Then, heaving a deep and heartrending sigh, she exclaimed:
“Oh, my God! do not leave me quite alone upon earth.”
She buried her face in her hands, while the big tears she did not seek to restrain made their way through her slender fingers. At this instant a slight rustling was heard amid the shrubs behind her. Andree thought she heard a sigh. She turned, alarmed; a melancholy form stood before her.
It was Gilbert.