University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
A FRIEND'S DEVOTION.

Contrary to the expectations of all, Ernest
survived his wounds. For several days
he lay, so to speak, on the brink of the
grave; but at last, thanks to the surgeon's
skill, youth, and a naturally strong constitution,
he began slowly to recover.

Several weeks after the events related in
our last chapter, when Ernest had nearly regained
his strength, Maurice Lambert was
seated one day alone with Marie Duval.
Little did the young girl suspect the feelings
she had inspired in the hearts of the two
young men, and still less did she dream of
the struggle in Maurice's breast between
love for her and devotion to his friend. Had
Ernest never confided to him his passion,
Maurice might have used every means to
win the hand of Marie for himself, even in
opposition to his friend; but, as it was, he
felt that to do so would be not only dishonorable,
but perfidious in the extreme. Nobly
did he oppose the dictates of his passion;
generously did he resolve to sacrifice his
own happiness to that of his friend; firmly
did he determine to conceal his love from
all. Any less noble than he might have regretted
that Ernest did not die; but Maurice,
far above such unworthy thoughts, was
the first to rejoice in the recovery of his
friend.

The young man, we said, was alone with
Marie Duval He had determined to do all
in his power to favor Ernest's interests, and
had resolved to speak with Marie upon the
subject.

The young girl had just been reading in
the works of the immortal Chateaubriand,
the description of Atala upon her death-bed;
and the passionate breathings of tenderness
which that fair and virtuous being addressed
to her afflicted lover, had sunk deep into
her heart. Tears of sympathy were still
glistening in her eyes; as, turning to Maurice
Lambert, she said in a voice tremulous
with emotion:

`How deep and holy must be that passion
which is triumphant even in death—which
can inspire the heart to struggle against dissolution,
and to feel itself immortal by the
strength of love alone![1] But I can scarce
believe in the existence of such love.'

`Indeed!' said Maurice.

`No—for it is too heavenly—'

`But I have witnessed it in a degree.'

`You!'

`Yes; only a few weeks ago, I was at the
death-bed of a friend, whose last thoughts
were of one whom he loved in secret, but
deeply—perhaps hopelessly.'

`A friend, do you say?' asked Marie, interested.

`Yes, and it is a friend of mine too whom
he loved.'

`And she never knew his sentiments towards
her?'

`No, for he feared lest she might despise
the poor offering of his heart.'

`Ah!' said Marie, `little did he know of
woman, if he judged her thus. She may
reject, but she cannot despise man's love,
though she may appear to do so to the
world.'

`But perhaps she whom he loved was an
exception—she might be more cruel than
her sex in general. But yet she is fair and
gentle.'

`Do I know her?' asked Marie.

`You have seen her, perhaps,' replied
Maurice with a smile. `And between us, I
will say that my friend, feeling himself about
to die, put into my hands the portrait of his
mistress, which he had procured unknown
to her, and worn next to his heart as a secret
treasure.'

`Have you it now?'

`It is this,' replied Maurice, producing a
locket. `Would you like to look at it?'

`Ah!' sighed Marie, affected by the reality
of the story her companion was relating;
if it should prove the miniature of one I
know, I fear that I could never look on her
again without regarding her as unnatural
and cruel.'

`But you forget that she knew not the
sentiments she inspired.'

`True. But the portrait.'

Maurice handed the locket to his companion,
who opened it and beheld—a likeness
of herself! She turned pale at first,
and then a tinge of crimson mounted to her
brow.

`How is this?' she murmured, `explain.'

`In the first place,' said Maurice, `you
must know that my friend, although dangerously
wounded, did not die.'

`And what you have said is true?'

`Every word,' except that he lives and
loves you still.'

Marie blushed, but it was not with shame
nor offence. Marie was a woman; and none
can deny that the thought of being the object
of sincere and pure affection, is dear to
woman's heart. But a pang shot through
her bosom, for she cherished a hidden affection
for another who she knew had not been
dangerously ill. But Maurice, when he revealed
to her the name of her lover, judged
by her appearance, that Ernest was the object

of her choice, and although his own
heart received a wound, hastened to impart
the intelligence to his friend.