Chapter IX: After-Thoughts

Throughout the evening the extravagant gayety of the merry party continued. At supper, people did not return to their sober senses; dancing went on far into the night, and there was as little want of healths and other incitements to drinking as at noon. Amid a great deal of boisterous mirth, the last good-nights were exchanged after midnight, and the guests conducted to their various apartments. Alide was tripping through the silent hall, when she heard her name uttered in a suppressed voice, and, turning round, she saw her mother standing at her own door, beckoning to her to come in. She obeyed swiftly and noiselessly: preoccupied with joyous thoughts, she did not remark the serious, almost sad, expression of her mother's face.

"I have a word to say to you before you sleep," said Madame Duroc, seating herself on a couch and motioning Alide to a low bench at her feet. "I am afraid I must give you pain," she went on, gently caressing the golden little head at her knees. "I had thought to keep you still a child for awhile yet with me; but no, to-night I must speak to you as a woman, and let you know the grave significance of a life that has already begun in earnest. Alide, your conduct to-day has been very displeasing to me: beyond the limits of decorum and of courtesy to your old friends, you have evinced your preference for this young man Goethe, who has ingratiated himself so suddenly into your father's heart and into our family circle. It is now only a little over a month that you have known him; you are not giddy or thoughtless like some of your companions, but you are infatuated by the charm of his appearance and address. A word is sufficient, my child, for one so sensible and docile as you. Let this day be the last that you distinguish this stranger by so much kindness. Your fancy has been kindled, your imagination excited; but go to your room, examine yourself duly, pray to your heavenly Father for guidance and discretion, and try to stifle at once so vain a sentiment before it develops into something that may occasion a life-trouble."

She paused, but Alide did not stir or speak: she was conscious of a strange sort of double existence as she sat with her head buried in her mother's lap; she was the happy, fortunate Alide, Goethe's beloved, and she was the wayward child to be reproved and guided by the warning words of her elders. Seeing her so still, Madame Duroc was alarmed lest the effect of a reprimand had been too harsh upon such a sensitive temperament.

"Alide," she whispered, tenderly, "do not be so much overcome. I have only spoken now because I did not wish to leave it too late; nothing is lost as yet."

"Oh, mamma," said Alide, upturning suddenly a face neither blushing nor tearful, but smiling, trustful, and composed, "you are very, very good to me, but you do not understand: it is not shame that I feel, it is pride and joy and happiness. I love him!"

"My child, you do not know what you are saying!" cried Madame Duroc; "you do not know what those words mean. You cannot realize what disgrace it is for one of our sex to take the initiative in such a matter as this. You have not recognized his power, my poor, confiding child; the whole world is open to one of his force and genius. He will despise the choicest gifts your simple heart can proffer him; he will----"

"Oh, mamma, hush!" interrupted Alide, springing to her feet. "It is you who do not know him, who do not know me: we are already betrothed."

"Betrothed!" exclaimed Madame Duroc, sinking back in her seat.

"Do not be angry, dear, good mamma," said Alide, kneeling before her and taking both her hands affectionately. "He was to tell you himself to-morrow. We had arranged it all, and I should not have spoken now, but I could not help it. It is much better to avoid from the beginning all misunderstandings and mistakes, is it not?"

Madame Duroc made no answer, but silently folded her daughter to her breast, and kissed repeatedly the soft white brow. "Since it is thus," she said, at last, "may you be blessed!" And Alide felt a scalding tear drop upon her cheek.

"Ah, you are harassed after a tiresome day, dear mamma," said she, caressingly. "It is late now; I wish I could have waited till to-morrow to tell you; it is not possible in this dim room, at this melancholy hour, to realize so much light and joy cast on one's whole life. Oh, mamma, what a noble son you will see in him to-morrow, in the cheerful daylight! and how you will rejoice with me in my beautiful destiny!"

An hour later, Alide was sleeping profoundly and dreamlessly after the excitements of this wonderful white day. But Frau Duroc's pillow was stained with tears pressed painfully from wakeful eyes. Her mind was possessed with gloomy forebodings: the mother-heart was yearning in the darkness after the darling of the nest, so suddenly and irrevocably flown.

As for Goethe, he, like Alide, outwearied by such strong emotions, had fallen at once into a deep, refreshing slumber; but scarcely had he slept thus for a few hours when he was awakened by a heat and tumult in his blood. Stretched out, defenseless as he was, his imagination now presented to him the liveliest forms. Excited by love and passion, wine and dancing, his thoughts raged in confusion, and his feelings were tortured into a state of despair. He was thoroughly, keenly awake,--what apparition was this standing by his bedside? The French girl, Lucinda, clad in black, with night-black hair, glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and passionate gestures, slowly receding from him. His lips were still afire from her ardent kiss, her shrill imprecation rang painfully in his ears, "Woe upon woe for ever and ever!" as she pointed with her long thin finger opposite to her, where stood Alide, pale, motionless, with her fair, disheveled locks waving about her white-robed form, outstretching her arms towards him in piteous supplication, feeling the consequences of the curse, and yet ignorant of their cause. Between these two, he lay trembling in every limb, as little able to ward off the spiritual effects of the adventure as to avoid the evil-boding kiss. Yes, he had harmed irretrievably the dearest of beings,--the spell had not been broken; far from having freed himself from the curse, it was flung back from his lips into his heart. He sprang up in bed, and looked wildly about him. The illusion vanished, but he could not calm the fever of his blood, that boiled and throbbed in his veins. The myriad possible results of his passion presented themselves to him in such sombre colors as utterly to preclude the chance of sleep or repose for the remainder of the night. He saw this exquisite maiden whom he loved so tenderly, ruined, deflowered, dead. Could it be possible, he mused, that despite the energy of will, the passionate vitality, the comprehensive intellect with which Fate had endowed him, she nevertheless had made him her creature, her football, to such a degree as to impel him along to this preordained end, notwithstanding his most resolute efforts towards the opposite direction? And why had this innocent, beautiful girl, formed so perfectly for happiness, been selected as the victim? Or again, what purpose was he destined to accomplish so lofty and so necessary that such elements as these, the life, the love, the happiness of human souls like his own, should be cast into his hands, to mould as he pleased? Bah! that was the privilege of the gods: to what blasphemy were his reckless thoughts leading him?

Fortunately, daylight peeping in through a chink of the shutter, and the sun stepping forth and vanquishing all the powers of night, put an end to his mad fancies. He was soon in the open air, and refreshed if not restored. The sight of Alide, the feeling of her love, the cheerfulness of everything around him, all reproved him, that in the midst of the happiest days he could harbor such dismal night-birds in his bosom.