Léon Hennique Novel

June, August, October. And all might have faded with time, as it had before, amid the aimless passing of the months—the Marquis de Cluses grown contemplative, drifting in his habitual solitude, occupied with the running of his estate, growing unaccustomed to Laure’s presence, returning again to seductive literature and Louis XIV memorabilia—had the regular flow of letters not, one day, come to a bitter halt.

He wrote to his granddaughter—not a single syllable returned in reply. He continued to write, letter upon letter, day after day—still nothing. He dispatched a servant to Paris: “Mademoiselle is unwell—bronchitis, nothing more than bronchitis.”

Agénor remained anxious, restrained his impatience with effort, and grew pale with worry.

“And that absurd Hamelin, giving no sign she’s even alive!”

One week—an eternity. Each minute crept by, immeasurably slow.

“Must I go to these Prahecqs, risking their frosty reception!”

Not even the gardens of Juvigny, nor its sweeping park, could draw the master’s mind from his anxiety.

The messenger brought further news: “Mademoiselle is no better.” Some unforeseen complication had likely arisen. “The chief maid reports hearing Mademoiselle coughing at night, from her rooms.” “Monsieur le Vicomte and his lady have this very morning cancelled a gala.”

The Marquis de Cluses came completely undone. He was found collapsed in a corridor, sobbing without restraint. He moaned incessantly and uttered bizarre, senseless threats. He called out for Thérèse, swearing to a manservant that he would never forgive Monsieur de Prahecq—for taking Laure, for being a Bonapartist. In fits of walking rage, he paced the length of every room he inhabited.

A brief note from Miss Hamelin came, however, one Sunday:

Monsieur,

Come at once. Laure calls for you. Put aside your reluctance, put aside the aversion your son-in-law inspires—Laure is not at all well.

She’d been coughing for a month; no one worried—people catch colds all the time, don’t they? How were we to know? … And now she lies abed, grown thin, throwing us into dreadful anguish. “My poor grandfather! I need grandfather! Oh! If only I had my grandfather with me! If only Monsieur de Prahecq and mother had not made him angry!” She speaks solely of you, Monsieur: “To think that he believes I’ve forgotten him, that he must love me a bit less, because I no longer have the strength to tell him about myself!”

Alas! Monsieur le Marquis, I would have been more than willing to write to you myself. I had thought of it, I wished to do so; but our sweet angel, in her innocence of the ills that God sends, in her devotion to you, begged me to keep silent, to bring you anguish only when it could no longer be avoided…

Agénor glanced at his watch.

“Not a moment to spare!”

He ordered the team yoked.

“Mademoiselle de Prahecq is ill.”

He dressed in haste, packed his wallet, and departed the château.

“Be at the station in an hour.”

He glowed with a feigned vitality, seemed to regain composure, yet sat like a paralytic in the rear of his coupé—utterly still, consumed by intent, his very soul straining toward Paris. A childish, unhealthy, terrifying joy overtook him at the thought of soon seeing Laure again—his Laure—even in her failing condition.

As the express train sped away, he remained oblivious to everything: the chill of changing carriages, the memory of his recent actions, even the ribbons of shadow and sunlight crossing the golden plain. It was Laure—always Laure—who consumed his thoughts, in the compartment he had insisted be his alone:

“Lord, you have taken from me my mother, my father, Thérèse, the faithful Robiquet, all those whose souls walked in tandem with mine. Lord, you had consoled me, returned Thérèse to me in a child as good as she was, her mirror image. And this child is practically no more, on her way to join you! And your hand continues to pummel me, I who am hardly wicked!”

The Marquis, awash in tears, wiped his face and sank deeper into himself:

“O sovereign might, grave justice that leads us along mysterious ways, through multiple incarnations, to the triumph of spirit over matter. Could it be to chastise me for my revolts, for my hesitation to approve, to understand you, that you take from me yet again the creature who was the pride of my better self?… Yet I had suffered! I suffer!… If I have proved unworthy of heaven, no fault is beyond redemption… Thérèse, I loved her… Laure, I love her, I respect her… My God! Might it not be to deliver them, to save her from too long a life, from perilous ordeals, that she died once before, and now suffers anew in her youthful tresses, in her slender form like a flower scarcely bloomed? Might it not be that from its inception, this soul was like a star destined to be extinguished, a fleeting lesson, a secret exemplar in which, in your infinite wisdom serving some unknowable purpose, you brought together the most exquisite ways of being?…”

Agénor sank still deeper, his thoughts fixed on the image of his granddaughter.

“Thin!… She has grown terribly thin.”

The ill-fated man shook his head and slumped forward, making no effort to imagine recovery.

“Let me only reach her in time!”

Already he felt the urge—the formidable urge—to reach the Prahecqs’, embrace Laure, revive her spirit.

“She would cope with it better!”

And the train sped on, rattling; the tormented Marquis’s thoughts burned hotter, feeding on themselves.

Finally, they began to outstrip him.

Then something unheard-of occurred: he felt a subtle emanation slip from his brow, from his heart, whose luminous, fugitive trail he observed above fields, waterways, and valleys, through mountains, woodlands, hamlets, citadels, and cities.

His eyes were wide open, unblinking; he had become someone else, yet remained conscious. His flesh quivered; his soul sailed with the wind; his will obliterated space.

And suddenly he found himself in a chamber, in an unremarkable blue chamber, where flowered wallpaper grew sickly, where muslin curtains were suspended, where tasteless furniture stood unmoved, the furniture of those concerned only with comfort.

Here, upright by the fireplace, Monsieur de Prahecq, with his moustache, pallid; there, two youths: a girl and a boy, frightened. Grouped at the bed’s foot, Miss Hamelin, a sister of the church, and the Viscountess Berthe. And, upon the bed, with purplish mouth, hair in braids, frail, with a pinched nose, white with that special whiteness taken on by wax, bones, ivory, and certain fabrics, a face the size of a fist, a wasted, delicate face, which the eyes had wholly invaded.

“Laure!”

“Grandfather?”

“My angel, my little dove…”

“O-oh!” she sighed, transported with joy, “I was so afraid I would die far from you!… You are here… I am happy… so happy!”

Monsieur de Prahecq went to stand by his wife; the two youths held tightly to one another.

“You don’t blame me for writing no more?”

The apparition—a spectral presence known only to Laure—silently affirmed he held no blame.

“She… she believes she sees her grandfather!” whispered Miss Hamelin.

Laure continued:

“I fell ill in such a curious way, you know!”

Her face lit up with a smile.

“My hands began to tremble, like those of a dear old lady… the hands of someone who has seen sixty years…”

She imitated a wavering voice:

“My head felt so heavy… so very heavy.”

She tried to raise herself onto her elbows, but collapsed again, coughing. A flush of rose spread across her trembling features. Once more she attempted to sit up, but couldn’t; her mouth bloomed with colour, her eyes radiant with happiness.

“Well then!… Our château… Agathe, Jérôme… the animals, the garden, my dahlias… Did winter spare everything? Your collections… Tell me everything…”

“Laure, my little Laure,” Madame de Prahecq pleaded, “no more chattering now, you mustn’t wear yourself out… The doctor said you were to rest.”

“But you see,” said Laure, “my grandfather…”

A cough interrupted—deep, cavernous, persistent, tearing at her insides.

“Oh my God… oh my God…”

And the dying began—that twilight state where thoughts flicker faintly, the brief calm that death allows to precede it. Each word she spoke bubbled with a dark froth tinged with red.

“Listen, grandfather…”

She shivered.

“I wish… I wish Miss Hamelin—we owe her this…”

The governess broke into sobs.

“…no longer live hand to mouth… at the mercy of those who cannot see her worth…”

“Yes,” whispered the Marquis de Cluses into the stillness—the faintest breath.

Laure responded:

“I wish… for you to give generously… more than generously… to the church at Juvigny… to the poor… to the servants who raised me at your side.”

“Yes, yes,” came the same hush. “What else?”

“What else?… I’m trying to recall… Yesterday, before I received the sacrament… so many intentions troubled me… And now…”

She fell silent, her smile faded, her enormous eyes closed.

“Mother… Jeanne… Louis…”

Everyone present wept, trembling. The Viscount de Prahecq stood distraught, unsettled at being forgotten. A fly buzzed nearby. Laure’s breath grew faint.

“Grandfather…”

Silence.

“Since I’ve been confined to bed… not an hour… not a single minute… have I failed to think of you… of your kindness… Do you remember the pony… Toby? Do you remember our evenings… at the harpsichord? And the letter… the letter… my departure…”

One by one, Madame de Prahecq, the Viscount, Louis, Jeanne, and Mademoiselle Hamelin leaned in to kiss the dying girl.

“I love you, grandfather…”

The fly wheeled about, buzzing tirelessly above Laure.

“Grandfather…”

Everyone knelt.

“Jesus,” said the nun, “we ask you to receive the soul of your servant, so that having left this world, she may live purely for you, and gain through your mercy forgiveness for the sins that human weakness may cause.”

Laure was gone, her mouth stirring over bloodied spittle⁽¹⁷¹⁾..

“Jesus,” the sister continued, “you are the resurrection…”

But Laure had departed. The fly darted across her temple.

And while rivers, woods, villages, cities, and mountains receded—returning to that train whose coal smoke scattered across countless passing scenes—the luminous thread, the connecting beam by which the Marquis de Cluses had perfected himself, pulsed once more.

He flailed his limbs; his soul surged back, imprisoned; his blood burned hotter, swelling through him. And now truly whole—shaped of intangible spirit and solid flesh—and as memory still blazed within him, he stamped his heel, seized with fury at Laure’s death, obsessed with his torment. He cursed himself as heartless, vile, monstrous—for not dying then and there, for failing to collapse in that moment with her, from rage, from horror, from the full burden of misery he now bore.

“With what divine permission, through what surrender of vital forces, had he—unworthy, against all reason—been allowed to witness his granddaughter’s death?…” What did it matter! He had seen enough miracles not to be astonished. He believed mankind brimmed with hidden powers.

Railway stops passed by; voices rose from platforms; a town name called out beside the soot-stained cars, dreary and low. On and on they travelled, the same thunderous rhythm, the same billows of smoke, the same trembling motion. And before the Marquis de Cluses, always hovering, always returning, was the deathbed vision—the scene that had bestowed on him the most loving words, the deepest truth.

“I was so afraid I’d die without you near!”

“Dear Laure!… How eagerly she awaited me!… How she shivered with joy knowing I was by her side!”

“You’re not angry with me for having stopped writing?”

“To think such a thing at that final hour!… Mercy, bliss, blessing from above!”

“Listen…”

“So kind-hearted was this child, she forgot no one—she strove to prove her goodness to the very end!”

“Grandfather…”

“A profound, ethereal joy—when she singled me out, her soul, Thérèse’s soul, rising to her lips…”

“Do you remember our evenings together? The harpsichord?”

“Yes. And I pine for you, I fall to my knees; I’ll kiss the places your fingers once danced.”

“I love you, grandfather…”

Agénor stifled his cries, clenched his wrists.

“No… impossible!… I must be dreaming… Laure cannot be dead!… I’ll find her well, recovered… They’ll give her back to me… I’ll take her home… She is mine… her thoughts, her consoling eyes, her mouth that never spoke anything but love…”

He rubbed his forehead, gestured wildly, muttered in delirium:

“There’s no justice!… No kindness!… Only chance, nothing but chance!… God? A myth… Happiness? Just self-absorption!”

He poured out nonsense, reddened with shame for it, wept more, and calmed himself through tears.

Then came sighs—great, heaving sighs; his head felt hollow. Then a craving for anger, a true anger aimed at Monsieur de Prahecq, blaming him for not securing Laure’s care in time.

Then the train slowed: Paris.

All eyes turned toward the Marquis de Cluses—his inflamed lids, his swollen face—as he crossed the station and flagged down a carriage.

He gave the Prahecq address. The streets teemed with life. He passed: thoroughfares, boutiques, hotels, squares, monuments, the boulevard, the Louvre, the Seine, the Quai d’Orsay. His carriage stopped at a pair of swinging doors—he flinched, collected himself, paid the driver, turned, trembling with anguish.

And in the doorway’s centre—as passers-by brushed past him, as a cart clattered behind—he saw Laure. Laure radiant with divine brilliance, serene. Laure—almost Thérèse—Laure and Thérèse fused in one extraordinary being, their charm magnified, interwoven, sublime.

“Don’t go in!… There’s only pain waiting for you there. Not one of them understands you! What use is the body I’ve left behind?”

Was it the air speaking, the sun’s warmth, the intangible? Quiet joy rose in the Marquis de Cluses, chasing off all grief and unrest.

“Gentle soul, with minor faults, with longings so close to our own!”

He listened—transformed.

“For one last time, I’m allowed to be what I was: your guide, your support, the one you loved.”

The vision grew dim.

“Agénor…”

She faded from view.

He turned and walked away, his stride long and deliberate.

“Hosanna! God has reunited him with Laure, with Thérèse… They live on!”

And he was so moved, so uplifted, gradually unburdened, so faithful, so trusting, that he began to browse the shopfronts, spotted and purchased a branched candlestick, three pedestals, decorative urns, bronzes, and seventeenth-century marble pieces—and, growing hungry, stepped into an eating house.