ENLIGHTENMENT
Yvette, also, could not sleep.Like her mother, she leaned upon the sill of the open window, and tears, her first bitter tears, filled her eyes.Up to this time she had lived, had grown up, in the heedless and serene confidence of happy youth.Why should she have dreamed, reflected, puzzled? Why should she not have been a young girl, like all other young girls? Why should a doubt, a fear, or painful suspicion have come to her?
She seemed posted on all topics because she had a way of talking on all subjects, because she had taken the tone, demeanor, and words of the people who lived around her.But she really knew no more than a little girl raised in a convent; her audacities of speech came from her memory, from that unconscious faculty of imitation and assimilation which women possess, and not from a mind instructed and emboldened.
She spoke of love as the son of a painter or a musician would, at the age of ten or twelve years, speak of painting or music.She knew or rather suspected very well what sort of mystery this word concealed;--too many jokes had been whispered before her, for her innocence not to be a trifle enlightened,--but how could she have drawn the conclusion from all this, that all families did not resemble hers?
They kissed her mother's hand with the semblance of respect; all their friends had titles; they all were rich or seemed to be so;they all spoke familiarly of the princes of the royal line.Two sons of kings had even come often, in the evening, to the Marquise's house.How should she have known?
And, then, she was naturally artless.She did not estimate or sum up people as her mother, did.She lived tranquilly, too joyous in her life to worry herself about what might appear suspicious to creatures more calm, thoughtful, reserved, less cordial, and sunny.
But now, all at once, Servigny, by a few words, the brutality of which she felt without understanding them, awakened in her a sudden disquietude, unreasoning at first, but which grew into a tormenting apprehension.She had fled home, had escaped like a wounded animal, wounded in fact most deeply by those words which she ceaselessly repeated to get all their sense and bearing: "You know very well that there can be no question of marriage between us--but only of love."What did he mean? And why this insult? Was she then in ignorance of something, some secret, some shame? She was the only one ignorant of it, no doubt.But what could she do? She was frightened, startled, as a person is when he discovers some hidden infamy, some treason of a beloved friend, one of those heart-disasters which crush.
She dreamed, reflected, puzzled, wept, consumed by fears and suspicions.Then her joyous young soul reassuring itself, she began to plan an adventure, to imagine an abnormal and dramatic situation, founded on the recollections of all the poetical romances she had read.She recalled all the moving catastrophes, or sad and touching stories; she jumbled them together, and concocted a story of her own with which she interpreted the half-understood mystery which enveloped her life.
She was no longer cast down.She dreamed, she lifted veils, she imagined unlikely complications, a thousand singular, terrible things, seductive, nevertheless, by their very strangeness.Could she be, by chance, the natural daughter of a prince? Had her poor mother, betrayed and deserted, made Marquise by some king, perhaps King Victor Emmanuel, been obliged to take flight before the anger of the family? Was she not rather a child abandoned by its relations, who were noble and illustrious, the fruit of a clandestine love, taken in by the Marquise, who had adopted and brought her up?
Still other suppositions passed through her mind.She accepted or rejected them according to the dictates of her fancy.She was moved to pity over her own case, happy at the bottom of her heart, and sad also, taking a sort of satisfaction in becoming a sort of a heroine of a book who must: assume a noble attitude, worthy of herself.
She laid out the part she must play, according to events at which she guessed.She vaguely outlined this role, like one of Scribe's or of George Sand's.It should be endued with devotion, self-abnegation, greatness of soul, tenderness; and fine words.Her pliant nature almost rejoiced in this new attitude.She pondered almost till evening what she should do, wondering how she should manage to wrest the truth from the Marquise.
And when night came, favorable to tragic situations, she had thought out a simple and subtile trick to obtain what she wanted: it was, brusquely, to say that Servigny had asked for her hand in marriage.
At this news, Madame Obardi, taken by surprise, would certainly let a word escape her lips, a cry which would throw light into the mind of her daughter.And Yvette had accomplished her plan.
She expected an explosion of astonishment, an expansion of love, a confidence full of gestures and tears.But, instead of this, her mother, without appearing stupefied or grieved, had only seemed bored; and from the constrained, discontented, and worried tone in which she had replied, the young girl, in whom there suddenly awaked all the astuteness, keenness, and sharpness of a woman, understanding that she must not insist, that the mystery was of another nature, that it would be painful to her to learn it, and that she must puzzle it out all alone, had gone back to her room, her heart oppressed, her soul in distress, possessed now with the apprehensions of a real misfortune, without knowing exactly either whence or why this emotion came to her.So she wept, leaning at the window.
She wept long, not dreaming of anything now, not seeking to discover anything more, and little by little, weariness overcoming her, she closed her eyes.She dozed for a few minutes, with that deep sleep of people who are tired out and have not the energy to undress and go to bed, that heavy sleep, broken by dreams, when the head nods upon the breast.
