Scenes from a Courtesan's Life [22]
remind the poor child of past orgies; and the opera, which would give her mind some images of worldliness. His despotic authority was needed to tempt the young saint to such profanation. Herrera disguised himself so effectually as a military man, that Esther hardly recognized him; he took care to make his companion wear a veil, and put her in a box where she was hidden from all eyes.
This palliative, which had no risks for innocence so sincerely regained, soon lost its effect. The convent-boarder viewed her protector's dinners with disgust, had a religious aversion for the theatre, and relapsed into melancholy.
"She is dying of love for Lucien," said Herrera to himself; he had wanted to sound the depths of this soul, and know how much could be exacted from it.
So the moment came when the poor child was no longer upheld by moral force, and the body was about to break down. The priest calculated the time with the hideous practical sagacity formerly shown by executioners in the art of torture. He found his protegee in the garden, sitting on a bench under a trellis on which the April sun fell gently; she seemed to be cold and trying to warm herself; her companions looked with interest at her pallor as of a folded plant, her eyes like those of a dying gazelle, her drooping attitude. Esther rose and went to meet the Spaniard with a lassitude that showed how little life there was in her, and, it may be added, how little care to live. This hapless outcast, this wild and wounded swallow, moved Carlos Herrera to compassion for the second time. The gloomy minister, whom God should have employed only to carry out His revenges, received the sick girl with a smile, which expressed, indeed, as much bitterness as sweetness, as much vengeance as charity. Esther, practised in meditation, and used to revulsions of feeling since she had led this almost monastic life, felt on her part, for the second time, distrust of her protector; but, as on the former occasion, his speech reassured her.
"Well, my dear child," said he, "and why have you never spoken to me of Lucien?"
"I promised you," she said, shuddering convulsively from head to foot; "I swore to you that I would never breathe his name."
"And yet you have not ceased to think of him."
"That, monsieur, is the only fault I have committed. I think of him always; and just as you came, I was saying his name to myself."
"Absence is killing you?"
Esther's only answer was to hang her head as the sick do who already scent the breath of the grave.
"If you could see him----?" said he.
"It would be life!" she cried.
"And do you think of him only spiritually?"
"Ah, monsieur, love cannot be dissected!"
"Child of an accursed race! I have done everything to save you; I send you back to your fate.--You shall see him again."
"Why insult my happiness? Can I not love Lucien and be virtuous? Am I not ready to die here for virtue, as I should be ready to die for him? Am I not dying for these two fanaticisms--for virtue, which was to make me worthy of him, and for him who flung me into the embrace of virtue? Yes, and ready to die without seeing him or to live by seeing him. God is my Judge."
The color had mounted to her face, her whiteness had recovered its amber warmth. Esther looked beautiful again.
"The day after that on which you are washed in the waters of baptism you shall see Lucien once more; and if you think you can live in virtue by living for him, you shall part no more."
The priest was obliged to lift up Esther, whose knees failed her; the poor child dropped as if the ground had slipped from under her feet. The Abbe seated her on a bench; and when she could speak again she asked him:
"Why not to-day?"
"Do you want to rob Monseigneur of the triumph of your baptism and conversion? You are too close to Lucien not to be far from God."
"Yes, I was not thinking----"
"You will never be of any religion," said the priest, with a touch of the deepest irony.
"God is good," said she; "He can read my heart."
Conquered by the exquisite artlessness
This palliative, which had no risks for innocence so sincerely regained, soon lost its effect. The convent-boarder viewed her protector's dinners with disgust, had a religious aversion for the theatre, and relapsed into melancholy.
"She is dying of love for Lucien," said Herrera to himself; he had wanted to sound the depths of this soul, and know how much could be exacted from it.
So the moment came when the poor child was no longer upheld by moral force, and the body was about to break down. The priest calculated the time with the hideous practical sagacity formerly shown by executioners in the art of torture. He found his protegee in the garden, sitting on a bench under a trellis on which the April sun fell gently; she seemed to be cold and trying to warm herself; her companions looked with interest at her pallor as of a folded plant, her eyes like those of a dying gazelle, her drooping attitude. Esther rose and went to meet the Spaniard with a lassitude that showed how little life there was in her, and, it may be added, how little care to live. This hapless outcast, this wild and wounded swallow, moved Carlos Herrera to compassion for the second time. The gloomy minister, whom God should have employed only to carry out His revenges, received the sick girl with a smile, which expressed, indeed, as much bitterness as sweetness, as much vengeance as charity. Esther, practised in meditation, and used to revulsions of feeling since she had led this almost monastic life, felt on her part, for the second time, distrust of her protector; but, as on the former occasion, his speech reassured her.
"Well, my dear child," said he, "and why have you never spoken to me of Lucien?"
"I promised you," she said, shuddering convulsively from head to foot; "I swore to you that I would never breathe his name."
"And yet you have not ceased to think of him."
"That, monsieur, is the only fault I have committed. I think of him always; and just as you came, I was saying his name to myself."
"Absence is killing you?"
Esther's only answer was to hang her head as the sick do who already scent the breath of the grave.
"If you could see him----?" said he.
"It would be life!" she cried.
"And do you think of him only spiritually?"
"Ah, monsieur, love cannot be dissected!"
"Child of an accursed race! I have done everything to save you; I send you back to your fate.--You shall see him again."
"Why insult my happiness? Can I not love Lucien and be virtuous? Am I not ready to die here for virtue, as I should be ready to die for him? Am I not dying for these two fanaticisms--for virtue, which was to make me worthy of him, and for him who flung me into the embrace of virtue? Yes, and ready to die without seeing him or to live by seeing him. God is my Judge."
The color had mounted to her face, her whiteness had recovered its amber warmth. Esther looked beautiful again.
"The day after that on which you are washed in the waters of baptism you shall see Lucien once more; and if you think you can live in virtue by living for him, you shall part no more."
The priest was obliged to lift up Esther, whose knees failed her; the poor child dropped as if the ground had slipped from under her feet. The Abbe seated her on a bench; and when she could speak again she asked him:
"Why not to-day?"
"Do you want to rob Monseigneur of the triumph of your baptism and conversion? You are too close to Lucien not to be far from God."
"Yes, I was not thinking----"
"You will never be of any religion," said the priest, with a touch of the deepest irony.
"God is good," said she; "He can read my heart."
Conquered by the exquisite artlessness