 | CHAPTER VIII. Lafitte |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“The evils of this world, drive more to the cloister, than the happi
ness held out to them in the next, invites.”
“To say that men never love truly but once, is well enough in poetry;
but every day's realities convince us of its untruth. If you have observed
much, you have found that men seldom marry the first object
of their youthful affections.”
Chesterfield.
A SURPRISE—AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN A NUN AND THE CHIEF.
On the third evening, the wound of the chief
closed, and he was rapidly convalescing; having
received permission from the surgeon to leave the
convent the succeeding day.
The eve of that day, the halls and corridors of the
convent were deserted. Silence reigned undisturbed,
save by the light step of a nun in her vigils
around the couch of an invalid, the deep breathing
of some sufferer, and the sighing of the winds
among the foliage of the evergreens, waving their
branches without. At the extremity of the hall, stood
the couch of the chief, above which a narrow window
opened upon the court yard adjoining the edifice.
The cool night wind blew in, refreshingly,
upon his temples, and the rich melody of a distant
mocking-bird, which loves to wake the echoes of
night, fell soothingly, as he listened to its varied
notes, upon his attentive ear.
Théodore had just deserted his couch, and stepped
forth to enjoy the cool air of the night. Under
these soothing influences, the wounded chief insensibly
slept; but his slumbers were soon disturbed by
passage. He opened his eyes, and by the dim
light of a lamp suspended in the centre of the ceiling
of the corridor, he discovered near him, the tall
and graceful form of one of the nuns, who had often
bent above him in his feverish moments, and whose
presence exerted a strange power over his thoughts,
and even the very throbbings of his heart, which
became irregular and wild when she was near.
He felt there was a mystery around her, in some
way connected with himself; but how, or why, after
long hours given to thought and imagination, he
could not conjecture. Her voice he had never yet
heard, but her slight fingers placed upon his pulse
or throbbing temples, would strangely thrill the blood
in his veins. But all his speculations respecting
her were futile—and at last, wearied with pursuing
the vague associations, her presence, air and manner
called up, he would close his eyes, articulating—“Strange!
strange! very strange!” and fall
into disturbed sleep, in which visions of his boyhood
and its scenes of love and strife, passed with wonderful
distinctness before him; yet still, in all his
dreams, the form of the nun was mysteriously mingled
with other characters, which memory, with her
dreamy wand called up from the abyss of the past.
Giving no evidence of being conscious of her presence,
with his eyes closed, he waited with palpitating
heart, the approach of his midnight visitant. She
came within a few feet of him and stopped; while
shading her brow with her hand, from the light of
the lamp above her, she gazed fixedly at the apparent
sleeper, as though to be assured that he
slept.
Her figure, as she bent forward in an attitude of
natural grace, displayed faultless proportions. She
was a little above the middle height of women, and
her brow, as she drew aside her black veil, which,
her person, was calm and pale—paler, perhaps,
from the strong contrast of her transparent skin,
with the black mantilla she wore about her head.
Her marble-like features rivalled in Grecian accuracy
of outline, the most perfect models that ever
passed from the chisel of Praxitiles: the colour of
her eye was of a deep blue—not the cold blue of
northern skies, but the warm azure of sunny Italy.
There was in them, a shade of melancholy, cast
also over her whole face. Piety and devotion were
written upon her seraphic countenance, from which
care and sorrow, not illness, had faded the roses
and richness of youth.
Yet she was not a youthful maiden! Perhaps
seven and twenty summers and winters, had passed,
with their changes and vicissitudes, over her head.
Her general manner and air was that of humble resignation
to some great and deep-settled sorrow.
No one could gaze upon her without interest; no
one without respect. Among her sister nuns she
was regarded as but a little lower than a saint in
Heaven; by the devotees of her church, her blessing
and prayers were sought next to that of their
tutelar divinities. Among the sisterhood, she was
was called the holy St. Marie. Her real name,
for which she had assumed this religious one, had
been concealed from all but the superior, during the
twelve or thirteen years she had been an inmate of
the convent.
Apparently satisfied that her patient slept, she
approached him, and uttering a short ejaculation,
while she raised her fine eyes heavenward, she
laid a finger lightly upon his temple.
“He is better! thank thee Heaven, and sweet
Mary, mother! His sleep is calm, and he is much
—much better!” and as she spoke low, her voice,
although saddened in its tones, was silvery.
Its effect upon the chief, was extraordinary; and
although he raised not his eyes, nor moved, his heart
beat wildly, and the veins upon his temple leaped
to her touch. Yet, with a strong effort, anxious to
know more of his mysterious visiter, and wondering
at the strange effect of her voice upon him, he
remained apparently asleep. Still retaining her
hand upon his temple, she continued:—“His sleep
is yet unquiet. Our blessed Saviour grant him life
for repentance!” she said fervently.
“She knows me!” thought he. “Strange
that she should take such interest in me, then.—
Those silvery accents! where have I heard them
before? Why do they move me so? I must solve
this mystery.”
“I thank thee, sweet Mother of Heaven, for this
favour!” she continued; “I may yet be the instrument
in thy hands for good to this wanderer! Forgive
me, Holy Mary—I thought I had bid adieu to
all worldly emotion—and yet I should have betrayed
my feelings to all around me in the hall, when I
recognized his features, so like his father's, had I
not hastened to my cell to give vent to my feelings
in tears. Sinful! sinful, I have been! Resentment
and pity have been s'ruggling the past hour within
this bosom, that should be dead to all earthly excitement.
Pity me, Heaven! I will err no more!
But, oh! what a history of buried recollections has
the sight of him revived! I thought I had shut out
the world for ever; but no, no! with him before
me, I live again in it! Its scenes are present with
me; and when I gaze on this working brow—these
features, which many years have changed, but
whose familiar expression still lives—how can I be
all at once the calm, impassioned nun! I sin whilst I
speak! I know I am sinning! but pity my weakness,
Mary! Thou hast been human, and a woman! and
thou canst sympathize—but oh! censure not! Indulge
will then give back my whole heart and soul to
thee!”
And as she spoke, she lifted her angelic countenance
upward, clasped the cross she wore, and
pressed it to her lips. At this moment, Lafitte
opened his eyes, and, while every word she uttered,
glowed in his bosom like a pleasant memory of half-forgotten
things—of mingled bliss and woe—for the
first time he had a glimpse at her features—
“Great God! Gertrude!” he exclaimed, springing
from the couch and clasping her uplifted hands
in his own—“Gertrude! speak—Is it you?—my
cousin?”
“It is, Achille! Gertrude—and none other!” she
said, while the rich blood mounted to her pale
cheeks, at the sudden movement and ardent manner
of her cousin.
“Can I believe?” he said, gazing fondly, while he
still held her hands. “Yet, still it must be—and
why here—in this garb? were you not the bride
of—?”
“Of Heaven alone, cousin!” she said, interrupting
his impetuous interrogations.
“Where then is—but how came you here?—I
know—alas I know it all—all!” he added bitterly, striking
his forehead with his clenched hand, and falling
back upon the pillow, as she covered her pale face
with her hands in tearful silence: “I know all! This
hand has made you thus!” and burying his face in
the curtain of his couch, his chest heaved, and he
sobbed audibly and with great agitation.
Gertrude was deeply affected by his emotion.
The discovery of her cousin among the wounded,
had broken up a life of repose, which she had chosen
after the crime and flight of her cousin. Even
when giving preference to his brother, who had won
her by those gentle means, which, rather than passionate
—assures victory, there existed in her bosom, a partiality
for, or rather friendly feeling towards Achille,
his own impetuosity of character rendered him incapable
of profiting by. He desired to be loved at
once, and for himself, scorning to seek, by assiduous
attention, smiles and favours which could not
become his own at the mere expression of his wish
to possess them.
In love, as well as in other pursuits which engage
men, it is labour which must ever conquer.
To the contempt by the one, and the adoption by
the other, of this maxim, in relation to a young heart
as yet neutral in its partialities, is to be, perhaps,
attributed the success of Henri, and the failure of
his brother.
“Calm your emotion, cousin; I forgive you all
that through heaven you have caused me to suffer!”
she said, taking his unresisting hand.
Lafitte spoke not, and for a few moments, he
seemed to be suffering under the acutest mental
torments.
“You have—indeed you have my forgiveness!”
she repeated with earnestness; “but it is not to me
you must look for forgiveness, Achille. It is not
me you have injured or sinned against!”
“My brother! my poor—poor brother!” he groaned.
“Not Henri alone. Heaven,” she said with fervour,
“awaits your contrition and repentance,
Achille!”
“Heaven!” he repeated, as though he knew not
that he spoke aloud. “I know it. I do repent and
sue its mercy! But my brother! my innocent murdered
brother?” he interrogated, rising and grasping
her arm.
“Nay, Achille, you are not so guilty in act as
you imagine! Henri survived the wound.”
“Survives! Henri lives! Lives! did you say—
speak, tell me quickly! oh heavenly tidings! Angel
of mercy! Speak, tell me, oh tell me my brother
lives!” he reiterated, with almost insane animation;
while a strange fire filled his eyes, as, sitting
upright, with both hands grasping her sholders, he
fixed them upon her face.
“Say that he lives! that he lives! LIVES!”
“He does, Achille; calm yourself, he lives, and
you may yet meet him.”
“Oh! God—lives—meet again!” he faintly articulated,
“Oh! I could die, with those sweet
words dwelling upon my ear!”
“He recovered and went to France,” she said,
after a few moments mutual silence, “the day after
my arrival in this city to seclude myself, the ill-fated
cause of all your quarrel, for ever from the
world.”
“Heaven is good—too kind!” “You say he
died not! Oh, speak it again!—once more let me
hear the sweet assurance.”
“He died not by your hand!”
“It is enough, enough!” he said, and sunk back
like a child, overpowered by the strong excitement,
weakened as he still was, he had passed through.
In a few moments he resumed his self-possession,
and addressed Gertrude more calmly.
“Where went he, cousin?”
“To France. Since then, shut out from the
world, I have sought to forget it, and have not
heard from him.”
“Why married you him not?”
“As an atonement—the only atonement I could
make, for the mischief of which I was the unintentional
cause—I renounced all worldly hopes and
became the bride of the church.”
“And I have made you thus!” he said sadly;
“but I thank you, thank you for your tidings. This
out, and at his feet atone for the wrongs I did him.
Poor, gentle boy! I loved him, Gertrude, and
would not have slain him.—No, no!” he added,
quickly, and laughed wildly—“ha! ha! ha!—You
tell me he did not die—he lives! God of heaven! I
thank thee! I am not my brother's murderer!”
With his spirit subdued, and his heart full of gratitude,
he hid his face in the folds of his cousin's
mantilla, and wept aloud.
She would not interrupt him, by addressing him;
but silently kneeled beside his couch, and with all
the devotions of a woman's piety, put up a prayer
to heaven, for the spiritual welfare of the softened
being before her. With holy fervor, like a seraph
supplicating, she sought pardon for his errors, and
prayed that the spirit of penitence would embrace
that moment to act upon his heart and renew him
with a right spirit. Every word of the lovely and
devout petitioner fell soothingly, like the pleading
of an angel, upon his heart, and before she concluded
her holy petition, his heart was melted, and
with the quiet humility of a child, he joined his voice
with hers, in responding “Amen!”
The nun rose from her kneeling posture, and taking
the hand of her cousin, said with as calm a
voice and manner as she could assume—
“Cousin, I must leave you now. I have too long
held stolen intercourse with you; but Heaven I
hope will forgive me if I have erred. We must
now part. You leave our convent to-morrow, and
from this time we meet no more—till—we meet I
hope in heaven!” and her soft blue eyes beamed with
celestial intelligence, as she raised them to her future
home.
“God forbid we should part thus! Gertrude!
cousin! bid not adieu! leave me not. Oh, God!
how lonelv and utterly lost I shall be without you!”
“Nay, cousin. I cannot stay; I must go!” she
added firmly—“I must go now!” May God, who
is ever ready to meet the returning penitent, forgive
your past life, and guide you in the new path
you have chosen, and for which you have already
shed your blood!”
“You know me and my life, then?” he inquired
eagerly.
“I know you now, as my cousin Achille, a reclaimed,
penitent son of the church. You have
borne a name I wish not to utter!”
“Lafitte?”
“The same,” she replied, mournfully.
“Why, then, cared you for me?”
“That I might do you good.”
“No one in the convent has recognized or identified
me as Lafitte; how did you?
“The youth”—
“Théodore?”
“That is his name, I believe. He has told me
all.”
“And yet, you can come and see, and talk with
me! Ah! kind, good Gertrude! how much I have
injured you! and yet you can forget it and forgive
it all. Sweet woman! thou art indeed earth's
angel!”
“Now, farewell, Achille. Christianity teaches
us both to forget and forgive,” she said, with humility.
“It is our religion, not me, you should admire.
We will meet in heaven.”
“Oh! go not yet—stay but for a moment!” he
said, rising, and following her. “May I not see you
again?”
“Not on Earth, Achille. I am betrothed to
Heaven!” she said, with dignity united with humility,
in her voice and manner.
Lafitte held her hand for a moment in silence,
emotions.
Suddenly, he spoke and said, with energy—
“Gertrude! listen to me! this interview has decided
my fate. I have wronged you; I would
cheerfully lay down my life to atone for it; but
with the will of heaven, I will work out a more
befitting atonement. My brother—thank God, that
he lives—I have injured deeply, deeply! I will
seek him out, if he is yet a living man, and obtain
his forgiveness for my crime. Then, having made
restitution to those I have wronged, as far as lies in
my power, I will devote the remainder of my life
to penance and prayer. Oh! I have sinned—grievously
sinned!
“Yet there is pardon for the guiltiest, cousin!”
she replied, with timid firmness.
“I know it—it is in that I trust,” he answered with
animation.
“May the Blessed Virgin, grant you life to accomplish
your holy purposes,” she said, while her
face glowed with devotion. “Achille—cousin! I
must now bid you farewell.”
“But, the old man, my father?” inquired he, with
sudden eagerness, as memory, though slowly, faithful
to her task, brought up the past scenes of his
early life—
“Lives he?”
The heavy gate in front of the convent, at that
moment opened, with a startling sound, and she replied
hastily—“I know not, Achille. Your father—
my beloved uncle, and Henri, after accompanying
me to this city, departed the next day for France.
From neither have I heard since. He did speak of
leaving Henri in France, and visiting his estate
near Martinique. He may now reside there. O!
what a tide of feeling—of sorrow!” she said, while
sealed up in my heart, have you called forth! Oh!
I must be more than human, not to feel—Farewell!
God and heaven bless you!”
Once more pressing his hand, while tears told
that nature would hold her empire even within
the strong walls and gloomy cloisters of a convent,
she hastily glided to the farthest extremity of the
hall, and swiftly ascending the broad winding staircase
dimly lighted by a lamp, suspended in the hall
beneath, she disappeared from his eager gaze.
His first impulse was to pursue her, though his
purpose, he himself could not have defined. This
determination he however abandoned, as he heard
the tramp of men bearing a litter up the avenue;
when they entered the hall, he had resumed his
original recumbent position on the couch, where
wakeful, and his brain teeming with busy thoughts,
in deep melancholly, he passed the remaining hours
of the night.
In those hours of reflection, he lived over again,
his whole life. With how much sorrow for crime
—how much remorse, was that retrospection filled!
He sunk to sleep as the morning broke, after having
resolved, and fortified his resolutions by an appeal
to Heaven, that he would restore, so far as lay
in his power, the wealth he had taken from others;
although to collect it, he knew he must sail to his
different places of rendezvous. This accomplished,
he determined that he would seek out his brother,
obtain forgiveness for the injuries he had done him,
and then, in the seclusion of a monastery, bury himself
from the world, and devote the remainder of
his life to acts of beneficence and piety.
| CHAPTER VIII. Lafitte | |