The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 5 of 6

"Of course I should! Who else should I have thought of in any hour of need or sorrow but you, M. Germain?"

"Thanks, thanks! Your words fall like healing drops upon my heart, and console me for all I have suffered."

"But how shall I attempt to describe to you what I felt while reading that – oh, it is a dreadful word to utter! – that will, each word of which breathed only care and solicitude for my future welfare? And yet these tender, touching proofs of your sincere regard were to have been concealed from me till your death. Surely it was not strange that conduct so generous and delicate should at once have converted my feelings towards you into those of an affection sincere and fervent as your own for me. That is easily understood, is it not, M. Germain?"

The large dark eyes of Rigolette were fixed on Germain with an expression so earnest and tender, her sweet voice pronounced the simple confession of her love in a tone so touchingly true to nature, that Germain, who had never for one instant flattered himself with having awakened so warm an interest in the heart of the grisette, gazed on her for an instant in utter inability to believe the words he heard; then, as the bright beaming look he encountered conveyed the truth to his mind, his colour varied from deepest red to deadly pale, he cried out in a voice quivering with emotion:

"Can it be? Do I hear aright? Ah, repeat those dear words that I may feel convinced of their reality."

"Why should I hesitate to assure you again and again that when I learned your kind consideration for me, and remembered how miserable and wretched you were, I no longer felt for you the calm feelings of friendship? And certainly, M. Germain," added Rigolette, smilingly, while a rosy blush mantled her intelligent features, "if I had a friend now I wished to see well married, I should be very sorry indeed to recommend her choosing you, because, because – "

"You would marry me yourself!" exclaimed the delighted young man.

"You compel me to tell you so myself, since you will not ask it of me."

"Can this be possible?"

"It is not from not having put you in the direct path more than once to make you understand. But you will not take a hint, and so, sir, I am compelled to confess the thing myself. It is wrong, perhaps; but, as there is no one but yourself to reprove my boldness, I have less fear; and then," added Rigolette, in a more serious tone, and with tender emotion, "you just now appeared to me so greatly overcome, so despairing, that I could no longer repress my feelings; and I had vanity enough to believe that this avowal, frankly made and from my heart, would prevent you from being unhappy in future. I said to myself, 'Until now I had been able to amuse or comfort him – ' Ah, mon Dieu! what is the matter?" exclaimed Rigolette, seeing Germain conceal his face in his hands. "Is not this cruel?" she added; "whatever I do, whatever I say, you are still as wretched as ever, and that is being too unkind – too selfish; it is as if it were you only who suffered from sorrows!"

"Alas, what misery is mine!" exclaimed Germain, with despair; "you love me when I am no longer worthy of you."

"Not worthy of me? Why, how can you talk so absurdly? It is just as if I said that I was not formerly worthy of your friendship because I had been in prison; for, after all, I have been a prisoner also; but am I the less an honest girl?"

"But you were in prison because you were a poor forsaken girl; whilst I – alas, what a difference!"

"Well, then, as to prison, we shall neither of us ever have anything to reproach each other with. It is I who am the more ambitious of the two; for, in my position, I have no right to think of any person but a workman for my husband. I was a foundling, and have nothing but my small apartment and my good spirits, and yet I come and boldly offer myself to you as a wife."

"Alas, formerly such a destiny would have been the dream – the happiness of my life! But now I am under the odium of an infamous accusation; and should I take advantage of your excessive generosity, your commiseration, which no doubt misleads you? No, no!"

"But," exclaimed Rigolette, with pained impatience, "I tell you that it is not pity I feel for you, it is love! I think of you only; I no longer sleep or eat. Your sad and gentle countenance follows me everywhere. Can that be pity only? Now, when you speak to me, your voice, your look, go to my very heart. There are a thousand things in you now which please me, and which I had not before marked. I like your face, I like your eyes, your appearance, your disposition, your good heart. Is that pity? Why, after having loved you as a friend, do I love you as a lover? I cannot say. Why was I light and gay when I liked you as a friend? Why am I quite a different being now I love you as a lover? I do not know. Why have I been so slow in finding you at once handsome and good, – in loving you at once with eyes and heart? I cannot say – or rather, yes – I can; it is because I have discovered how much you love me without having told me of it, – how generous and devoted you were. Then love mounted from my heart to my eyes, as a tear does when the heart is softened."

"Really, I seem to be in a dream when I hear you speak thus!"

"And I never could have believed that I could have told you all this, but your despair has forced me to it. Well, sir, now you know I love you as my friend, my lover – as my husband! Will you still call it pity?"

The generous scruples of Germain were overcome in an instant before this plain and devoted confession, a hopeful joy prevailed over his painful reflections.

"You love me?" he cried; "I believe you; your accent, your look, – everything proclaims it! I will not ask how I have merited such happiness, but I abandon myself to it blindly; my life, my whole life, will not suffice to pay my debt to you! Oh, I have greatly suffered already, but this moment effaces all!"

"Then you will be comforted at last? Oh, I was sure I should contrive to do so!" cried Rigolette, in a transport of joy.

"And it is in the midst of the horrors of a prison, and when all conspires to overwhelm me, that such happiness – "

Germain could not conclude. This thought reminded him of the reality of his position. His scruples, for a moment lost sight of, returned more severe than ever, and he said, with despair:

"But I am a prisoner – I am accused of robbery; I shall be sentenced – dishonoured, perhaps! And I cannot accept of your generous sacrifice – profit by your noble excitement. Oh, no, no; I am not such a villain as that!"

"What do you say?"

"I may be sentenced to several years' imprisonment."

"Well," replied Rigolette, with calmness and firmness, "they shall see that I am an honest girl, and they will not refuse to marry us in the prison chapel."

"But I may be put in prison at a distance from Paris."

"Once your wife, I will follow you and settle in the city where you may be. I shall find work there, and can see you every day."

"But I shall be disgraced in the eyes of all."

"You love me better than any one – don't you?"

"Can you ask me such a question?"

"Then of what consequence is it? So far from considering you as disgraced in my eyes, I shall consider you as the victim of your own kind heart."

"But the world will accuse, condemn, calumniate your choice."

"The world! Are not you the world to me – I to you? So let it say as it may!"

"Well, quitting prison at length, my life will be precarious – miserable. Repulsed on all sides, I may, perhaps, find no employment, and then it is appalling to think! But if this corruption which besets me should seize on me in spite of myself, what a future for you!"

"You will never grow corrupted. No; for now you know that I love you, this thought will give you the power of resisting bad examples. You will reflect that if all repulse you when you quit your prison, your wife will receive you with love and gratitude, assured, as she will be, that you will still be an honest man. This language astonishes you, does it not? It astonishes even myself. I do not know whence I derive all I say to you; from the bottom of my soul, assuredly – and that must convince you! That is, if you do not reject an offer made you most unreservedly, if you do not desire to reject the love of a poor girl who has only – "

Germain interrupted Rigolette with impassioned voice:

"Yes, indeed – I do accept – I do accept! Yes, I feel it. I am assured it is sometimes cowardly to refuse certain sacrifices; it is to avow oneself unworthy of them. I accept them, noble, brave girl!"

"Really, really – are you really in earnest?"

"I swear to you; and you have, too, said something which greatly struck me, and gives me the courage I want."

"Delightful! And what did I say?"

"That, for your sake, I should in future continue an honest man. Yes, in this thought I shall find strength to resist the detestable influences which surround me. I shall brave contagion, and know how to keep worthy of your love the heart which belongs to you."

"Oh, Germain, how happy I am! If I have ever done anything for you, how you recompense me now!"

"And then, observe, although you excuse my fault I shall never forget it. My future task will be double: to expiate the past and deserve the happiness I owe to you. For that I will do my best, and, as poor as I may be, the opportunity will not fail me, I am sure."

"Alas! that is true; for we always find persons more unfortunate than ourselves."

"And if we have no money, why – "

"We give our tears, as I did for the poor Morels."

"And that is holy alms. 'Charity of the soul is quite equal to that which bestows bread.'"

"You accept, then, and will never retract?"