The Crystal City Under the Sea (20 page)
“Yes,” he resumed, “I have been harsh and severe; but who can tell how to distinguish between the wilful and the unconscious pursuit of error. I blindly followed the traditions of the Atlantes; but my eyes have been opened at last. Thou hast brought to me the spirit of thy age, stranger; and it is a benevolent spirit. The inexpressible charm which emanates from thy ardent and generous life has conquered .me. Since the day that thou madest thy appearance here, an insensible change has come over me unknown to myself; but it is while listening to you two that the ice in my heart has broken. Thou hast tried, traveller, to make me seize these characteristics of thy modern world: sympathy, altruism, courteous amenities, freedom, without familiarity, and above all, chivalry, and the just and generous place accorded to woman in the family. And thy example has been stronger than all thy words. I listened to my Atlantis, and it seemed as if I heard a new creature speaking. I who gave her life, the only person who has trained her, — I never spoke to her as thou hast done! What graces, what flowers I have bruised or unknowingly neglected in this tender plant. Awkward, clumsy gardener, I still tried, after “ having despotically compelled her to share with me during her early years my voluntary exile, to condemn her to spend the rest of her life in this close conservatory, where she feels suffocated and longs for fresher air. My excuse is, I repeat, that I was blind.
“ Now that I see, Atlantis, I give thee thy liberty. Those of thy race that have erred through inflexibility or obstinacy have not failed in magnanimity.
Thou knowest, my daughter, that if I have been tardy in understanding thee, I am at least prompt in giving thee satisfaction; and, if ever thy old father has seemed to thee hard and cruel, know that underneath the pride, that tradition and habit had fostered in his heart, the most pure affection for thee never ceased to burn. Go then, Atlantis; leave the home of thy fathers under the guidance of this generous stranger.”
Obedient to her father’s command, Atlantis had made a strong effort to control the poignant feelings his words cost her, so that she might not interrupt by word or sign a speech which cut her to the heart. But now she could contain herself no longer.
“Father, father’” cried she, her words cut short by sobs, “ dost thou want to break my heart? I, leave thee? Ah! if ever I ventured to wish to become familiar with the fresh air of the country or the noise of populous cities, it is by thy side that I would like to be; without thee, I should not have cared for these joys. Tell me what thou knowest about them, father; but whatever thou sayest or doest, do not tell me to leave thee!”
“Thou hast but half understood me, my child,” said the old man, with a gentle smile; “ it is not thou who wilt leave me, it is I whose hours are numbered.”
Poor Atlantis sobbed afresh.
“Let us learn to accept the inevitable, my daughter,” continued he, a shade of sternness in his tone, “and not trouble ourselves with vain lamentations in so solemn an hour, the last hour, in which it is given to me to cast a retrospective glance for the last time before collecting myself and resuming—”
“But it is not the last,” interrupted René, impetuously. “ In a few hours, perhaps less, noble Charicles, I hope to welcome the arrival of the friend of whom I told you, — a man profoundly versed in the art of healing, and who will restore you to health. Ah! let us hope so! let us hope that our care and our love will restore to you the desire and the power to live. I never knew my father, Charicles; grant me the happiness of finding one in you; permit me to share Atlantis’s hopes and fears, and spare us the melancholy forebodings of death which afflict us both.”
“It is useless to try to deceive me,” said the old man, affectionately but decidedly. “ Death is beckoning me and I must follow him. All the skill of thy friend could only delay the end for a few short days. While there is time, and the gods grant me clearness of mind, it will be much better to take the measures necessary for repairing the past, and arranging for the future, than losing precious moments in abandoning ourselves to false hopes.”
Charicles paused, exhausted with speaking so long.
Atlantis had taken his hand, over which her silent tears flowed. René, standing by the bed, waited respectfully till the old man gained strength enough to express his thoughts. He felt sure that he had something decisive to say. Had not he said a little while before to his daughter: “Go, follow this generous stranger.” And how could she follow him except as his affianced bride? Evidently he was about to confide her to him, his only child, the last flower of this haughty stock, already so interesting by her strange destiny, rendered more touching still by the imminent loss of her sole relative. Ah! how he longed to comfort the dying man with assurances that his wishes should be piously carried out; that the precious legacy would fall into safe hands; that the orphan would find a family circle, the stranger a home.:
Truth to say, events had developed more rapidly than even he could have wished. When René penetrated into the submarine fortress, attracted by a love that had mastered him, his motive was unquestionably to ingratiate himself with Charicles and his daughter, to make himself acceptable to them, in fact, to arrive step by step at the result he had now reached. He had calculated all the possibilities, all the difficulties of the enterprise, and the event proved he had calculated rightly. The only thing he had not foreseen was the rapidity with which it all came about. Not that he was not in haste, as far as he himself was concerned, to call Atlantis his betrothed wife; that can be understood; but he was not the only person to take into consideration. René had a mother, a mother justly loved and venerated; he knew what plans Madame Caoudal had formed for a long time with regard to his future; he did not shut his eyes to the possibility of her instinctively protesting against a daughter-in-law of such extraordinary origin, even if she had not had at heart his marriage with Hélène. Certainly he reckoned upon overcoming this pardonable opposition; but it would be necessary for him to treat her prejudices with all possible consideration; to prepare her by degrees to become acquainted with both father and daughter, to introduce them to her at the right moment; and, Madame Caoudal and Hélène once conquered (as would infallibly be the case), to risk his petition. The turn things had taken, however, seemed hardly favourable to this arrangement; to await the last hours of Charicles, to close his eyes, and, once the last sad duties to him fulfilled, to regain terra firma with Atlantis, to present the interesting stranger to Madame Caoudal, seemed to him the course to pursue; for where could he take her but to the care of his mother? Ah! he knew her well! She would be kind, helpful, hospitable to the orphan, but accept her as a daughter! No; such a mode of introduction as that would be fatal to future harmony. Ah! if Madame Caoudal could but see her in her own home, converse with the noble Charicles, arrange with him the future of their children,—follow the good old French custom which leaves the parents a free hand in such matters,— he felt the greatest difficulty would be surmounted. But what was the use of conjuring up the impossible? The only thing to be done, now, was to take things as they were; and to endeavour to arm himself with courage and patience and tact in view of probable obstacles.
“What would I not have given, two months ago,” thought he, “for a tithe of the satisfaction I feel now? What price would I not have paid for the situation of things as they now are, with all the ordeals and struggles I have gone through in the attainment of it? No difficulty would have stopped me. Alas! that which makes me anxious now, is not the necessity of toiling and struggling! But how arm oneself against a loving mother, when one is about to disappoint her hopes, and how endure with an intrepid face the contempt which would at first strike my sweet Atlantis?”
As these anxious thoughts revolved in René’s mind, cares which clouded his present joy without, however, in the least altering or modifying his resolution, Charicles bad recovered sufficient strength to renew the interrupted thread of his discourse, to give René his final instructions, and to confer on him the supreme proof of his confidence,—the honour of espousing his daughter, the pearl of the ocean. His features were lighted up with a generous nobility of expression, — he believed, and not unreasonably, that he was offering him a priceless gift. The poor old man would have been much surprised if he had known how preoccupied and agitated was the mind of his adopted son. He, Charicles, the representative of so noble a race, how could he or his be received by no matter what family with coldness or displeasure? Alliance with them, at the most, accepted and not at all solicited! Atlantis merely tolerated and not sought! How could he suspect such a state of things? If René had lifted a corner of the veil, he could not have explained to him the prejudice, the littleness, the want of confidence hidden in the heart of the best of his kind. It was a subject he could not broach.
“Young man,” said Charicles, in a solemn voice, “come near me.” He seized his hand and joined it to that of Atlantis. “I give her to thee,” said he, with dignity; “she is worthy of thee. I have studied thee well. Thou art generous and strong; intelligence lights up thy face; courage shines in thine eyes, and thy mouth knows not how to lie. Thy heart has gone out to my daughter; guard it faithfully for her. Thou wilt soon be her only kindred, be a father to her as well as a husband; she will repay thee a hundredfold for anything thou dost for her.”
“Charicles,” said René, with a firm voice, “I receive, with love and gratitude, the glorious gift you have made me. Heaven grant that our care of you may prolong your days, but, when the hour comes that you must leave us, depart in peace! Your daughter shall be served and protected as she ought to be, — I can add nothing to that. You have said, better than I could have expressed it, that my heart is hers, my life belongs to her, and will be consecrated to making her happy. May I succeed in doing so.”
Silent and thoughtful, the young girl listened without joining in the conversation of which she was the subject. Her unaffected looks expressed deep joy and absolute confidence. She had no more idea of possible difficulties in the way of her happiness than her father had; and if she had, the proud consciousness of her worth would have been sufficient to banish uneasiness on that score. But she was far from imagining anything of the kind. It was not for nothing that her life had been spent at the bottom of the sea. It would hardly have been worth while to have been brought up in such a retreat, if she had brought to the threshold of married life the paltry cares and artificial preoccupation which too often come in its train. Marriage portion, relations, wedding presents and other accessories, which so often take up the principal place at weddings, had, one may be sure, no place in her thoughts, any more than the question as to whether she was making a grand match and René a mediocre one.. By and by, no doubt, she would know something of it all, and would learn to treat, with becoming seriousness, the trifles which take up so large a place in society. For the present she was ignorant of them, and René could enjoy with confidence the feeling that the interest he inspired in his fiancée was not influenced by any of these considerations. In the eyes of Atlantis there were only three living beings; her father, René and herself, and the outside world was nothing to her. It was enough for her that she was betrothed, and she was free to listen devoutly to the solemn words pronounced by her father.
“Dear daughter,” resumed Charicles, in a voice still clear, but manifestly weaker, “he whom from this time forward I shall call my son has taught me that, in the country where he lives, though a father holds the right of disposing his daughter in marriage, his power is always tempered with gentleness; the young girl i§ allowed to give her opinion! That custom surprises me much; but, in regard to thy future condition, I do not shrink from conforming to it. Say, Atlantis, what is thy mind on the subject of the husband I have chosen for thee?”
“My heart is full of joy,” the young girl unhesitatingly replied; “ and it blesses thee, father. I am ignorant of many things, but of one thing I am certain, and that is that I would have chosen him among any to whom thou couldst have united me. I say this frankly, Rend, for, unknown to yourself, you have more than once allowed a doubt about me to be perceptible. Confess,” said she, with a malicious twinkle in her eyes, “that you are not altogether without fear that my choice may be the effect of chance; the love I give you might have been given to any one who instead of you had knocked at our door. Undeceive yourself. Like that Miranda, whose history you have told me, I have never seen any one else, it is true; but is not my father the most beautiful, the most perfect of men, and, if you have borne comparison with him, does not that prove that you ought to be superior to all others? Besides, René, henceforth it is no longer the question between us of the relative value of either of us. What does it matter to us if there are men and women, in the world worth more than we. We are one, that is enough.”
“My child,” said Charicles, charmed, “wisdom and grace speak by thy mouth. But is it true, my son, has this child penetrated thy secret thoughts?”
“It is perfectly true,” said René, surprised and delighted; “such fears have crossed my mind. Thy daughter’s perfections and my inferior merits must be my excuse. But, believe me, Atlantis, after what you have just said, all my fears are set at rest. I also bless thee, Charicles, for having given me such a bride. Never man before had one so good and pure.”
“And I bless the gods for having reserved for me so happy an end,” said the old man; “and I pray them to give you a long and happy life. But I must not, in the contemplation of your joy, allow my strength to wear away before putting in order material affairs.
Listen to my last instructions!”
He collected himself for an instant, and then, in a voice that was only a gasp, said:
“ I do not wish to have any tomb but the bed on which I lie, — on which my ancestors have given up the ghost, and where the glorious line of the inhabitants of Atlantide is now about to be closed. My son René, I beg thee to accept, in the name of thy wife, the jewels that thou wilt find in the ivory chest at the head of my bed. They constitute a dowry worthy of the daughter of the Atlantes, and thou wilt be able to carry them away without being overburdened. And, when I have ceased to live, you will go. I wish it.”