“Every cloud that spreads above,
And veileth love, itself is love.”
LONG as it had been before Gerard dared to awaken the slumbering echoes of memory by touching his beloved instrument, it was only the first step which proved difficult. That taken, he knew not how to enjoy sufficiently a solace so delicious. Many times in the day did the gloomy tower resound with the tones of sweet melodies, sometimes remembered, sometimes improvised.
He had passed now beyond that fearful shrinking from his art which, in the days of his first sorrow, he described to Prosper―perhaps the emotions dreaded then were even longed for now. There were themes and associations, however, which he still sedulously avoided; especially everything that could recall his unfinished oratorio― “Moses the Deliverer.”
One evening, during the twilight, he played melody after melody, as if in a dream. At last he glided into a light, airy, fanciful piece, of which he had not thought for years. It was exquisitely beautiful, perhaps more full of genius than anything he had since composed; even Gustave was arrested, fascinated―he asked the name. “Tom Lace,” Gerard murmured in reply. But the memories awakened rose suddenly like a tide, and veiling his face in his hands, he wept.
Gustave came gently to his side. “M. Gerard,” he said, “do you know how long it is today since I entered this place?”
Gerard tried to grow calm again. “No, indeed, Gustave,” he said. “No, indeed; I can’t tell. There is nothing here to mark time. Though you may well remind me that when you go on, day after day, bearing all so uncomplainingly, I ought to be ashamed of these tears. But, Gustave, you have never―loved.”
“That may be, M. Gerard. Were it otherwise, I suppose I should not tell you with so much composure that this day I have been in the Bastille three calendar months.”
Gerard sighed. “Ah! how long must this last―how long? I thought my death would have broken your chain s ere now. But deliverance seems no nearer today than when you first came.”
“Deliverance, of that kind, seems a good deal farther off. Life, not death, is before you, M. Gerard. And since we may look forward to days to come, we can dare to talk of days gone by. Bear with me now, for I am going to reproach you. Granted that when I met you last summer in the house of M. Gebelin de Court, I spoke to you with bitterness, even with cruelty; was not what I told you of sufficient importance to have made you desire and seek more precise information?”
Gerard trembled, and his color came and went rapidly. “I did,” he said, faintly. “But to approach the Rue Béthizy was―impossible.”
“That comes of being a genius. An ordinary man, without music in his soul, would have known how to save him himself months of misery. But had you no other mean of gaining information about us?”
“Yes, and I used them. I sought the kind old priest your godfather, but heard that he too was at rest; cut off, as it appeared, during a journey taken about your family affairs, and by the same malignant fever that―Gustave, if indeed you have any message, any word, for me, I pray you tell it now. It will give me strength and comfort such as you dream not.” He rose and stood facing Gustave, with flushed cheek and throbbing heart.
“I have a message for you, from dying lips, but not from those of my sister Griselle,” Gustave answered; and it was the first time that name had thrilled the air of the gloomy prison. “Sit down, M. Gerard, and listen. Be patient with me, for I have a confession to make, as well as a message to deliver. The day we met at M. Gebelin’s my heart was bitter against you. Prosper had just come to my mother’s shop―you may be sure, after the past, I would not have sought him out; in fact, I was ashamed to face him. But he watched for me, spoke to me, and talked of you. In fine, he told me you were about to marry a young lady of noble birth, Mademoiselle Zélie de Lioncourt.”
“False, foul slander!” Gerard cried passionately. “But what matters all that now? Let it be―and tell me what I long to hear.”
“Patience, M. Gerard; the confession comes before the message. I dare say M. Prosper himself believed what he told me, because he wished it true. I at least believed him. I determined to save a sister, whom I dearly loved, from being the dupe and the plaything of one I believed a hypocrite and traitor. One pain, I thought, is less hard to bear than ten thousand. Forgive me, M. Gerard; I know better now.”
“But then―then― she was beyond all pain,” said Gerard with deep emotion.
“She was not. I told you my sister was dead, and I said the truth, but―”
“Oh, Gustave! must I think that she had heard―that she believed that cruel lie?” cried Gerard, and covering his face with his hands he groaned aloud.
“Have patience, dear friend, have patience. No; you must not think that she believes that.”
“Believes? Oh, if we but knew that they who are gone from us still believe, feel, love―if we had but hope of meeting beyond the grave!”
“There is hope of meeting on this side of the grave,” said Gustave, in a slow, deliberate voice, though the hand he laid upon Gerard’s was cold and trembling. “Listen, M. Gerard―I had two sisters.”
Gerard flung his hand aside and gazed into his face, all his soul in his eyes.
Again Gustave spoke slowly, and in low constrained tones, “My little sister Valérie sleeps in Pére la Chaise. Griselle lives still―and loves you.”
He was barely strong enough to sustain the weight of Gerard, who fell fainting into his arms. “Have I been hasty, after all?” he thought as he laid his unconscious burden down. “O God, help me to save him―for Griselle!”