Chapter XXXVIII: Part I: Awakening (2)

Of French epigrammatists, the most voluminous are Clement Marot and Jean Baptiste Rousseau. The latter has left four books of epigrams which are rarely deficient in point, but often diffuse and cold. Here is one:

They burn my books, you say, they give
Death to the child who only asked to live:
Your own in peace will draw their breath,
They’re sure to die a natural death.

We have seen that French and German are rich in epigrams, but we incline to think our own literature richer still. From Sir John Harrington downwards the line of epigrammatists was unbroken, until it succumbed to the contempt with which the Lake poets regarded a style so repugnant to their own. It might be not uninteresting to trace the growth of this modest flower in our English soil, but we have already overrun the limit we had set ourselves, and the English epigram must wait another opportunity. But one word more. The initial lines of an epigram, which are addressed to curiosity, whether from ignorance or a mistaken love of conciseness, are often omitted, and a clumsy substitute is provided in the _lemma_, or explanatory title. Should this happen to be changed or lost, the poem becomes absurd or unintelligible. Take, for instance, this from the German:

Prythee lend, little Lycon, thine eye to Agathē!
Blind, shalt thou then be Cupid, thy sister Venus be!

This would seem sheer nonsense if we did not know that it was written on two children, who, otherwise lovely, had but one eye apiece. The Greek quatrain from which this couplet was extracted is a perfect epigram, and, needing no introduction, contains in itself both the fact and the thought. Even in the case of an epitaph, honestly designed to be graven on a tomb, the best models require no lemma. It is so, for instance, with Ben Jonson’s lines on the Countess of Pembroke:

Underneath this marble hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Half so good and fair as she,
Time will fling a dart at thee.

FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.

XX.

Notwithstanding the princess’ apparent indifference, she was not so inexperienced as to imagine that Fleurange’s presence in the same house could be wholly exempt from danger to her son at his age and with his temperament. At the same time, anything that would change the actual current of her life would have annoyed her, and what was opposed to her wishes was seldom looked upon as possible. Nevertheless, she carefully watched George for two or three days, and soon felt reassured, and the more so because he was seldom disposed to secrecy with her. Without allowing himself to be directed by his mother, he did not try to conceal his opinions from her, and, even at the risk of sometimes greatly displeasing her, he suffered her to read the depths of his heart without any special effort to baffle her penetration. But this time the result of the princess’ observation was of a nature to reassure her completely.

George spoke to Fleurange without affectation, and with no appearance of eagerness. He never showed her any attentions excepting acts of politeness he would have shown any one else. He never sought her society, and, if he looked at her and sometimes spoke of her beauty, as every one else did, it was with more reserve and coldness than others. Hence the princess concluded with double satisfaction that George’s thoughts were otherwise absorbed, and, as this accorded with her wishes, she allowed herself the comfort of not doubting it, and returned to the repose of her indolent life.

As to Fleurange, the effect of Count George’s manner was singular. Naturally frank, honest, and courageous, she had an invincible repugnance for all kinds of dissimulation, and for some days, by the very fact of his manifesting two different aspects, he lost in her eyes a part of his dangerous prestige. Which of these two aspects was genuine? Was he acting a part now, or was he acting on the day of his arrival? This very doubt brought pride to the aid of reason, and helped her regain her customary self-control. By degrees the impression of the first day grew fainter, and she almost succeeded in effacing from her memory the scene Count George himself seemed to have so completely forgotten.

Whether it was so or not, the princess, as we have said, ceased following her with anxious eyes, and the young girl, freed from the restraint she felt at first, ventured by degrees to take some part in the general conversation, even when he was present. She soon abandoned herself to the pleasure of intercourse with a mind which inspired her with fresh interest on every subject--to which nothing seemed indifferent or unknown. In this respect he resembled the Marquis Adelardi, but he was more ardent and less sarcastic, and could not, like him, leave an interesting subject to dwell on the backbitings of a clique or the gossip of a salon. They were very intimate, nevertheless, and, without actual similarity, they were sufficiently in harmony to enjoy being always together and never to clash.

They were, however, equally enthusiastic on one subject--that of politics. Elsewhere this would probably have greatly wearied Fleurange, but here it interested her in spite of herself. Count George expressed his sentiments with a certain elevation of tone, and, without always perfectly understanding all that was discussed, she felt excited by the lofty independence of his opinions, his love of liberty, and his tendency to take, everywhere and always, the part of the weak and the oppressed. These are prominent political features which women at once catch without difficulty, and which win their sympathy in every cause or discussion into which they enter. Therefore Fleurange, while listening with silent interest, sometimes felt carried away by ardent sympathy with the charm of his captivating eloquence, the effect of which was as powerful as it was new.

The marquis was no less interested in contemporary history than his friend, and discussed it quite as willingly, unless it was a question concerning his own country. In that case he became silent, and it was almost impossible to sustain the conversation.

Fleurange seldom took any part in the conversation, which in fact was not often directed to her. From the time of Count George’s arrival she had never found herself alone with him. But one evening the princess’ salon was as usual filled with company. Fleurange, seated at a table, was pouring out the tea. This was one of her customary duties. Each one came to ask for a cup, and but few occupied the seats around the table. Among these was the Marquis Adelardi, who, on this occasion, began discoursing with the young artist Livio and Dom Pomponio on ancient and modern art in Italy. Count George drew near and listened for some time in silence, then joined in the conversation. A chair near Fleurange was vacant. He took it, and for some time the discussion was carried on with animation. Fleurange was listening with her elbow on the table and her eyes cast down. She did not say a word, nor did she lose one that was uttered beside her. The conversation passed from Italy to Germany, and they spoke of the school of art there, now beginning to produce some great paintings. Count George suddenly pronounced the name of Julian Steinberg, saying that this artist’s most remarkable production was to be found in Professor Ludwig Dornthal’s gallery at Frankfort.

Fleurange, of course, was aware he knew her friends, but there had never been any occasion for speaking of them, and these names suddenly mentioned before her gave her a thrill. She hastily looked up, and with difficulty repressed the exclamation already on her lips. This movement did not escape the notice of him who caused it. He allowed the conversation to die away. After some moments the others left the table. He alone remained an instant.

“Mademoiselle Gabrielle,” said he, “tell me if I involuntarily vexed you or wounded your feelings just now.--It was by no means intentional--”

Fleurange eagerly interrupted him: “Oh! no, assuredly not”; and these words were followed by an explanation which the young girl gave as fully as she did frankly. Count George thus learned for the first time her relationship to the Dornthals. The subject once commenced soon led to a new and more important revelation. Since the first day, for more than one reason easy to understand, the picture of Cordelia had not been recalled by either. Now, becoming more confidential and rendered more expansive by the charm of awakened remembrances, Fleurange ventured to tell him what an influence on her life his becoming the owner of her father’s last painting had had, and in a tone of emotion she thanked him for the happiness of which he had been the involuntary cause.--

But she soon stopped suddenly: her heart, as on that first day, beat with agitation mingled with alarm; for, while she was speaking, Count George’s eyes, fixed on hers, resumed the expression she had not seen since that day, and once more, as then, she heard him pronounce her name in a tone she had striven to forget.

“Fleurange!--Oh! is not what you have told me wonderful? What! this Cordelia has transformed your life as it has mine? Tell me if this is not a proof of the destiny we should not seek to avoid?”

Such were the words he articulated in a low tone; but he stopped in his turn. Fleurange’s deep blush changed into a frightful paleness.

We have remarked that the word duty resounded in this young girl’s soul in a tone singularly correct and powerful. The words she had just heard caused rather the striking of a signal of alarm than the dangerous emotion they were calculated to produce. She remained silent an instant, during which George gazed at her motionless and incapable of uttering a word.--At length she succeeded in calming the involuntary agitation of her heart, and, raising her beautiful eyes, calm and grave, she looked at him with an air of proud dignity which would have suited a queen had the most obscure of her subjects forgotten the distance that separated them.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said she, “I appeal to your better self: is this the language you should address a poor orphan who is under your mother’s protection and in her _service_?”

The profound respect in the eyes that lowered before hers was a sufficient reparation for Fleurange. But the tenderness and sorrow mingled with this respect made his mute response perhaps more dangerous for her to whom it was addressed than the ardent words that preceded it. She rose immediately, nevertheless, without adding another word, and left the salon to appear no more that evening.

XXI.

Count George remained longer than he was aware of in the place where Fleurange left him. At last he felt a light touch on his shoulder. It was Adelardi who thus disturbed his reverie.

“What are you thinking about, George?” said he. “You could not be more absorbed in contemplating that tea-cup, if it were one of the magic vases you told us about, the other day, from which your countrymen turn out prophetic symbols.”[104]

The count looked up, smiling: “Your comparison is not inapplicable,” said he, “for it was precisely of the future I was thinking. Yes, I would like to know my fortune, and, if I had any faith in the charm to which you allude, I would immediately have recourse to it.”

He rose as he spoke and glanced around the room. The salon was brilliant and full of company. His mother, even more elegantly attired than usual, seemed to be regarding with satisfaction the numerous groups of stylish ladies, men of all ages, and notabilities from all lands gathered around her. Nothing justified the wearied look of him who should have aided in doing the honors of the evening, still less the following words:

“What an insupportable crowd! If you have had enough of it, Adelardi, as I have, let us go to my room and smoke a cigar in peace.”

“Agreed on the last point. As to the other, it is your humor for divination that makes you regard things in such a light.--Come,” he continued when they were established, one in an arm-chair and the other on a _dormeuse_, in the apartment where we once accompanied Fleurange--“come, George, without being a fortune-teller, shall I try to predict the future you are seeking to know?”

George lighted his cigar, and, after smoking a few moments in silence, he said: “You are no fortune-teller, Adelardi, I am aware, but you would not be an Italian without a certain talent for divination. Come, I am willing: try your skill. You know you have long had the right of saying anything to me.”

“Well, to begin--but first allow me to ask why you have kept a curtain over that picture since your return?”

“Do you remember what that painting represents?”

“Certainly, it represents Cordelia at the feet of King Lear, who is asleep.”

“Did you ever examine it carefully?”

“Yes, George, very carefully, so that--here, I can spare you the trouble of answering the question I just asked. I know now why you conceal it.”

“Let us hear.”

“You cover it for fear people will be struck with the resemblance of Cordelia to the original.”

George did not immediately reply. “If you have guessed aright,” said he at length, “should I be obliged to acknowledge it?”

“Yes, in the game we are playing. There must be mutual frankness, or we must give it up.”

“Well, Adelardi, let us go on, since we have commenced.”

“I am willing and, even at the risk of offending you, I shall now go to the bottom of the subject. I acknowledge that till now you have succeeded in concealing the feelings that for the time control you. I think I am the only one who has discovered them, unless perhaps the one who has inspired them.--But I am not certain on this point. I cannot fully read that young girl’s character.”

“It is, in fact, a character which men like us, Adelardi, seldom have an opportunity of studying.”

“I acknowledge it, and that is why your impressible nature has been taken by surprise and received a lasting impression. Moreover, in spite of the conclusions that might be drawn from that painting, your meeting here was accidental. You had not the least idea in the world of finding your Cordelia under your roof otherwise than on canvas.”

“Now you are no longer divining, for you learned that from me.”

“Yes, but I believed you, which another of less experience perhaps would not have done. And then, this unforeseen and surprising meeting lent to your previous fascination somewhat of an aspect of fatality.”

George blushed a little as he recalled what he had said to Fleurange some minutes before, but did not interrupt him.

“Fatality,” pursued Adelardi, “signifies something irresistible; irresistible means that, without hesitation, without scruple, without remorse, you are going to abuse the ascendency you only know too well how to exercise.”

“Go on,” said Count George.

“Well, George, sermons from me would be quite out of place, and I would not venture on one to you; but, at the risk of your finding it strange from my lips, I must tell you that, to ensnare a noble creature like her, or even blemish by a word the halo of goodness and purity that surrounds her, would be infamy in my eyes.”

“And you think me capable of such infamy, Adelardi? I have reason to thank you.”

“Come, George, swear that you are not thinking of it.”

“Of what?”

“Of her.”

“Of her? I cannot swear that. But I am astonished that the respect you feel for her in spite of yourself--an unusual thing, indeed--you think me incapable of.”

“Then what are you thinking of, George?”

George made no reply, and, after a moment’s silence, the marquis resumed in a graver tone:

“My dear friend, being forty years old--that is, nearly fifteen years older than you--I think I may be allowed to say that, if in a choice between infamy and folly, folly is preferable, it would be well to reflect that the least follies are the shortest, and the worst of all are those which are irreparable.”

“We are forgetting our _rôles_, Adelardi. I have no avowals or revelations to make you. You undertook not to tell me what I ought to do, but to predict what I shall do.”

“Well, here is my horoscope, dictated, I acknowledge, as much by what I desire as by my penetration. You will escape from this folly, and keep the promise you have made.”

George’s brow grew dark. “A promise my mother doubtless commissioned you to remind me of?”

“No; I speak to you as a friend, and quite spontaneously. If it were at your mother’s request, I should certainly have no hesitation about acknowledging it.”

“She certainly reminds me often enough of it herself. This supposed promise has long been a settled fact with her.”

“Supposed?”

“Yes, supposed, for it is a subject on which I never said anything positive.”

“Nothing? Come, George, be honest, or let us stop.”

“No, let us go on. I sometimes feel the need of opening my heart. Well, I acknowledge that, when I met Vera de Liningen for the first time two years ago, I was struck with her beauty and still more charmed with her wit, and had I then remained in her neighborhood I might have found it difficult to give her up. In that case my fate would doubtless have been decided by this time. I should have submitted to the yoke, and not only be married, but perhaps have the honor of a position at court, clothed in some of those dignities to which the husband of a favorite maid of honor might aspire.”

“Well, my dear friend, considering that this maid of honor is rich, noble, and one of the fairest ladies at court, and that you were then somewhat dazzled, and she made no secret of her preference for you, I do not see that this result would have been a very fearful one.”

“No, I acknowledge it. If I had never left St. Petersburg, perhaps I should have found happiness there on these terms. Now, whether fortunate or unfortunate, I do not know, but, having breathed a different atmosphere, I could no longer live in that. A thousand feelings, a thousand sympathies, a thousand opinions, which I have insensibly acquired would make me regard the gilded chain of a court life as the worst of slaveries. This alone would have sufficed to check the words on my lips which Vera perhaps expected to hear, but which she knows well I never uttered. As to the conjectures of the world, what do I care for them?”

“You acknowledge, however, that that is not the only cause of the rupture?”

“No, if there has been a rupture: that motive was not indeed, or is not, the only one.”

“I really suspected it, and I could not tell you which of the two motives I deplore the most.”

“Truly, Adelardi,” said George impatiently, “I cannot help thinking your great solicitude very singular. You once told me the manner of contracting marriage in Italy made you decide to remain a bachelor, and now you are as scandalized at seeing me choose the lady of my taste with some disregard of received notions, as the Marquis Trombelli himself could be!”

Adelardi smiled.

“That is not all, and what I have to say is still stronger. I am neither pleased nor satisfied with the political _régime_ under which it has pleased Providence to give me birth, and it is you, Adelardi, you! who are astonished at this and annoyed!--I might ask you, in my turn, why you do not return to Milan, like a loyal subject, to enjoy the paternal government under which you would be permitted to live?”

The expression of sprightly good-humor that characterized the marquis’ physiognomy suddenly changed to one grave and almost sombre.

“Stop, George,” said he in an agitated voice.

“Pardon me, Adelardi, but truly there are subjects on which I cannot conceive why we should not agree.”

Adelardi remained some minutes without speaking, then with an apparent effort resumed:

“Listen, George. I have a most sincere friendship for you, and you would not doubt it if you knew what it costs me to prolong the subject to which our conversation has led, but perhaps it will not be unprofitable for you to listen to me. Allow me to say a few words on a subject you know I generally avoid, having sufficient control over myself to be silent on certain points, but not enough to speak of them with coolness. When I was young, younger than you now are, I was carried away with an enthusiasm only known to those whose country is enslaved. Yes,” he continued with an emotion quite unusual with him, “a country, prosperous, glorious, honored, and powerful, doubtless merits a devotion no noble heart can refuse; but to feel this devotion transformed into a wild and painful passion, one must see his country crushed and humiliated. It must be trodden under foot in the dust, and its name effaced from every memory--refused the very right of bearing a name, and even of existence!”

“Ah! I easily comprehend such a sorrow, Adelardi,” cried George with an accent of earnest sympathy.--“I understand it but too well. But Italy is not the only down-trodden country in Europe, and the chance which binds a man to such a land does not oblige him to participate in its excesses, nor forbid him, I imagine, from deploring them!”

“I will reply to that presently, George. But let me finish what I was saying, for this conversation will never be renewed. Under the influence of this passion, as well as others, alas! of my age, rank, and country, I yielded to the folly of a culpable course, or at least I gave reason for suspicion, and, like many others of more worth than I, and a great many whom I surpass, I suffered, as you know, imprisonment, confiscation, and exile, one after the other. I do not regret these trials, for when we cannot serve our country there is a certain pleasure in suffering for it, but what I regret is having merited them.”

“Merited?”

“Yes, certainly, for I belonged for a time to one of those secret societies which are our ruin. Like many others, I naturally thought myself excusable--the impulse to which I yielded seemed so powerful! the aim proposed, so noble! Well, George--” The marquis stopped a moment, and then continued with evident pain, but earnestly: “Well, I tell you there is neither courage, nor honor, nor virtue, nor loyalty, nor probity, nor anything that can render a man worthy of respect, or even of esteem--nothing, I say, that can resist the empoisoned atmosphere of those accursed places. My punishment was tardy, for my denunciation only took place after I left, but I was justly punished for entering them!”

George, affected and surprised, made no attempt to interrupt him.

“The most satisfactory act of my life,” pursued Adelardi, “an act that required more courage than to confront death in any other way, was to leave openly, with contempt and horror, those with whom I found myself for a moment thus connected!”

While he was talking, he traversed the room in an agitated manner.

“Since that time,” he continued more calmly, “I have incurred several dangers unnecessary to mention, and suffered in various ways you are aware of. Now, I live here away from my native city, separated from my relatives, and convinced that the day which will change the fate of Italy will never dawn in my time, though I am certain the day will come, and especially certain its most dangerous enemies are not its rulers--not even its most rigid rulers--but those false and perfidious men who are called its friends, its heroes, and sometimes its martyrs!”

The marquis now took his seat beside George, and, pressing his hand, said: “This is quite enough concerning myself. Let us come back to you, whose position, you will acknowledge, it would be absurd to compare with mine.”

“I do acknowledge it; and yet, Adelardi, you would regenerate your country, and I would transform mine.”

“Yes; but in spite of all the defects you say tarnish his reign, history will represent your sovereign, you may be sure, as one of the most noble and most sympathetic representatives of that supreme power so difficult to wield.”

“Well, that is precisely what discourages me. To realize my dreams, the successor of Alexander I. must have all his virtues and not one of his defects. You will acknowledge this is not what the future seems to promise.”

“Let us not begin to draw up his horoscope, but rather listen to my final counsel. In spite of your dreams, your aspirations, your opinions, and your lofty sympathies, I am persuaded nothing will ever induce you to take part in any culpable enterprise in your country. Yes, George, believe a reformed conspirator: avoid all contact with those who, less scrupulous than you in their deeds, make use of nearly the same language, and be sure that, when we come to suffer condemnation, it is infinitely disagreeable to feel it is merrited by foolish imprudence, and that we are the victims of no one but ourselves.”

Their long conversation had widely digressed from the point they started from. It was now too late to resume it. But the Marquis Adelardi resolved to return to it another time, and obtain George’s entire confidence. He fully comprehended his present danger, and regarded it as a duty imposed by friendship to aid him in resisting it. But, in spite of the acuteness of his discernment, he did not foresee that she who was the source of this danger would know better than any one else how to dispel it.

XXII.

While this conversation was taking place, Fleurange was in her well-known seat at the top of the stone steps, looking out on the moonlit court and the long shadows of the pillars under the portico, listening to the murmur of the fountain, the only noise that disturbed the silence of the night, and breathing the vague odor of orange blossoms that embalmed the air.

Several months had elapsed since the day of George’s arrival--the day when the vague dreams in the depths of her soul seemed for a moment transformed into reality, but only to vanish, however, as quickly as they appeared. Now she was agitated and troubled anew, but differently and more profoundly than the first time.

What was she thinking of under the influence of this agitation and trouble?--Why did her eyes wander so pensively around when the night was so brilliant, and in her ears still vibrated the words which, in spite of herself, made her heart beat with triumphant joy?--Shall we tell what she was thinking of? And the place to which, by one of the inexplicable caprices of the imagination not under the control of the will, her thoughts had now flown? Was it to the Cascine where, the evening before, Count George on horseback lingered so long beside his mother’s _calèche_? Was it to one of the galleries where more than once he had pointed out beauties concealed from superficial observers, but so well understood by her to whom they were revealed? Or was it to the very salon they had just left, and was she now thinking of that last glance from which she turned away her own? No; the place to which her memory now reverted was the garden of the Old Mansion--the hour she recalled was the last she passed there! The moonlight was as brilliant that night, the air as mild, and the flowers as odorous, but the word ‘farewell’ seemed everywhere, written and changed the beauty of the evening into sadness. Farewell, without hope and for ever! echoed the transcendent splendor of this night in Italy in sadder accents--Farewell!--once more, farewell! yes, farewell!

She must tear herself away from this spot only too dear! and break the charm only too dangerous! This was clearly evident.

An instant, only an instant, she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the happiness she must for ever renounce. She allowed her imagination to depict it--such as it might be were it not forbidden--and then, with a clearness and sincerity in which no exultation mingled, she acknowledged she would purchase it at the price of every sacrifice except that which her conscience forbade her make. Yes, to live near George without remorse to become his wife with the consent of his mother, seemingly so impossible--to purchase such a destiny, she felt nothing would seem formidable--she would joyfully welcome poverty, the severest labor, even death itself!

Many people of experience will smile at such language, and declare these are imaginary sacrifices that, under the influence of passion, the young are very willing to make, but which, luckily, are but rarely put to the test. We admit it, and, without stopping any longer to consider the improbable future which Fleurange thus invoked, we can also bear witness that in view of these imaginary trials she bravely prepared herself to make the sacrifice actually before her. And these same people of experience will acknowledge this was the most difficult of all. First, because it was real and not imaginary, and also because it is always easier to make great sacrifices for the sake of love than to renounce love itself, which renders them so light and sometimes so sweet!

Yes, she must no longer hesitate; she must once more break the rejoined thread of her life--and what a painful rending of the heartstrings this time! She must go away, and never to return. After what had just occurred, there was no longer any possible illusion or security. By remaining, she would be false to every obligation, gratitude, and her position with regard to the princess, imposed upon her. Yes, she must go, but how--on what pretext? Alas! and her _brothers_--must she renounce the sweet satisfaction of aiding them, a joy the generosity of the princess had so kindly promoted? This last remembrance confirmed her resolution. Certainly, after so many benefits, she must not in return cause her any mortification and grief, no, not even displeasure and anxiety. She must leave at whatever cost, and without allowing the princess to suspect the motive of her departure; and yet she must obtain her consent. This was the great difficulty, for she foresaw a lively resistance.

“What shall I do?--what shall I do?” repeated poor Fleurange with perplexity. “O my God, my God! thou wilt aid me, for what I seek is the means of accomplishing thy will: what I desire is to know it.”

While the young girl was thus thinking, struggling, and praying, the hours flew. Once she left her seat in the window, but, feeling unable to sleep, only exchanged her evening dress for a morning one, then, without observing the lateness of the hour, returned to her seat, and again took up the thread of her reflections. Suddenly she heard steps in the corridor leading to the private staircase, and in a moment there was a sharp knock at her door. It instantly opened. It was Barbara.

“What!” she said with an air of surprise. “You still up at this late hour?”

“Yes,” said Fleurange, “I was not sleepy, and--”

Barbara interrupted her:

“So much the better, for the princess is ill and wants you immediately. Come, quick, quick, mademoiselle, for you know I am so frightened when she has these attacks that I lose my wits.”

Fleurange was at the head of the stairs before Barbara finished speaking, and, in a minute more, at the princess’ bedside. It was evidently one of the severe and painful attacks to which she was subject--and the first since her return. Fleurange at once bethought herself of Dr. Leblanc’s minute directions, and her whole manner was transformed. Instead of waiting and obeying, she at once resumed the direction: every one obeyed her, and her quiet firmness soon calmed the fright which prevailed among all the servants of the house when illness, and illness under so frightful a form, invaded the luxurious rooms to which they were accustomed. George himself was not exempt. He was the first to hasten to his mother’s bedside, and now he was supporting her head, which was thrown back, and endeavoring to hold her hands, which quivered convulsively, but, unaccustomed to such a spectacle, he was trembling in spite of himself. His habitual courage seemed here of no avail.

Fleurange perceived it, and motioned for him to give her his place, or rather, she took it without his being able to prevent her. He remained motionless beside her, while with wonderful courage and skill she was mastering the fearful paroxysm.

“Speak to her again,” said George. “When she hears your voice, or you place your hand on hers, she grows calmer at once.”

“Be quiet,” replied Fleurange, “and leave her to me. Do not remain here, I beg of you.”

At this injunction, George left the bedside, but not the chamber. He remained in an obscure corner, leaning against the wall, watching his mother’s altered face by the light of the shaded lamp. All traces of remaining beauty, preserved by the most skilful arts of the toilet, had suddenly disappeared. In an hour she had grown ten years older. Frightful convulsions contracted her features, and her eyes, staring wildly around, seemed to be regarding with an air of reproach all the objects accumulated for her comfort, but now so powerless to aid her.

This spectacle made George shudder. He was regarded not only as a man of acknowledged bravery, but as one whose courage was almost rash. He had braved death a thousand times without sufficient motive, and confronted perils from the very love of danger itself. But this kind of courage has nothing in common with that which enables the eye to look calmly on suffering and death--not of an heroic kind which rouses our enthusiasm, but such as we witness on all beds of sickness, and which awaits us!

Thus beheld, the spectacle excited George’s horror. He turned away with the repugnance of a nature delicate and noble, but perverted by selfish indulgence, and which at all times was more capable of brilliant proofs of devotedness than of obscure sacrifices. Notwithstanding his tender affection for his mother, it is very probable he would not long have endured the painful impression he received, if the dim light which obscured everything had not enabled him to discern the movements and features of her who so efficaciously replaced him at the bedside. He therefore remained where he was, contemplating Fleurange’s calm and simple attitude with admiration. She had already dismissed several women whose services were superfluous, and by degrees re-established order and tranquillity around her. Barbara was still going to and fro, bustling about and giving proofs of her good-will, but unable to disguise the terror she could never overcome when she saw her mistress a prey to these severe attacks. On this account, she did not feel in the least displeased at Fleurange’s intervention, and it was with secret joy she now heard the order for her to retire.

“It is nearly four o’clock,” said Fleurange, looking at the magnificent clock opposite. “She is a little calmer: go and lie down, Barbara.”

“And you, mademoiselle?”

“I? I shall remain here. I shall not stir till seven o’clock. Then the physician will return. After his visit I shall go to bed, and you can take my place.”

This calm and precise order was not one which Barbara wished to hear the second time. She hastened to place an arm-chair near the young girl, and a table with the remedies she might need, and went out without suspecting Fleurange was not entirely alone with her sick mistress.

George hesitated for an instant: to leave Fleurange to watch alone seemed almost cruel; to remain unbeknown to her, almost treacherous. He therefore decided to leave the obscure corner he occupied, and softly approached the bed.

Fleurange, hearing his footsteps, turned quickly around, and began to tremble. The slight noise he made was sufficient to awaken the patient, which caused a renewal of her sufferings, and the spasm from which she had but just rallied became more violent than ever. For some moments George’s presence and aid were not useless, but while she preserved her coolness he lost his, and seemed unable to endure the sight of the suffering he could not lessen.

“Mother! my poor mother!” he cried with anguish, “look at me! give me one look!”

“Try to be calm,” whispered Fleurange, and she added, almost in his ear: “Do not say a word, not one--there must be calmness, and absolute silence.”

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” murmured the sick woman with agitation.

Fleurange put her arm under her mistress’ head, and supported it with one hand, while she pressed her icy hands with the other.

“O Gabrielle! do not leave me! never leave me,” continued the princess in an unnatural tone.

Fleurange buried her face in the pillow against which she was leaning, while another voice whispered beside her: “Oh! no, never.”

After a moment she raised her head. “Leave us now, Monsieur le Comte. I beg you to go.”

There was an irresistible authority in her tone, but George hesitated an instant. She repeated, “I beg you to go,” and he obeyed without reply as if she had uttered a command.

When he left the sick-room, he felt relieved like one to whom restraint--even the most trifling--is insupportable. Feeling the need of fresh air, he passed through the salon and went out on the terrace.

It was already daylight. He walked a few steps, inhaling the perfume of the flowers with which the terrace was filled, then stopped a long time, leaning on the balustrade with his arms folded, looking at the clear sky growing radiant under the first touches of Aurora. Without asking himself the reason, he was eager to shake off the effects of the spectacle he had just witnessed.

And yet George had a great deal of heart, whether this word signifies tenderness or courage. It would have been extremely unjust to doubt it, but he felt a constant need of finding in exterior objects the gratification of his faculty of enjoyment--developed to the utmost degree of delicacy, which made him equally susceptible of contrary impressions. This faculty was neither low nor vulgar in its tendency. What attracted George was genuine beauty, which alone gave a charm to the interests of the world. Vice under an ignoble aspect was as repugnant to him as ugliness. In his eyes, the aspect, the only aspect, of sickness, pain, and death was repulsive. He was absolutely ignorant of the mysterious and divine power which sometimes transforms them to the spiritual eye and makes it look beyond the exterior circumstances of life. Such freedom, such independence of external influences, were unknown to him who attached so much importance to liberty and independence! And when it is thus, there is in the soul, however generous, a hidden germ of weakness and egoism which we are surprised to see suddenly manifested at a later period, even in those who display the most lofty sentiments and give proofs of the most impetuous courage.

XXIII.

The following days were marked by the progress, the crisis, and finally by the decline of the princess’ malady. The effect of care and suitable remedies was soon manifest and convalescence established. But this was the most trying time for those in attendance, and a time when Fleurange’s presence was more necessary than ever. She had directed everything from the first with intelligent devotedness. They had all yielded without any difficulty to her authority--even the invalid herself, incapable of resisting her. But the latter now resumed, with her strength, the exercise of an obstinate and whimsical disposition. It was precisely during a similar phase of her previous illness that her young companion acquired the favor she enjoyed. Fleurange felt it would have been a thousand times easier to have left her when she was nearly unconscious, than at a time when she was so indispensable that her services were in constant requisition. She alone could relieve her from the exertion of writing a letter or receiving a visit. She alone knew how to arrange her books and flowers, and the thousand trifles that surrounded her, in a way to please her critical eye and capricious taste. And, above all, it was owing to her that the evenings passed away without _ennui_ while the princess was forbidden by the physician to receive any company except her most intimate friends. This was the time Fleurange was called upon to read. There was a charm in her voice and accent which the cultivated taste of the princess never wearied of.

“Really, Gabrielle,” said she, one evening, after the young girl had ended one of the passages she had selected--“really, it is an exquisite pleasure to hear you read. Come, George, attend to what we are doing, if you please. Lay aside that review in which you are so absorbed, and come nearer. She has just read me Dante’s sonnet,

‘Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare
La Donna mia,’[105]

in a way really worth listening to.”

There was a moment’s silence. A large screen veiled the light from the princess’ eyes, which were still weak. Fleurange was seated on the other side of this rampart. She blushed, for she was quite well aware it was not on the book, in which he pretended to be absorbed, the young man’s eyes were fastened while she was reading the sonnet she had just finished.

“I have not been as inattentive as you suppose, mother,” said George at length. “Besides, these lines would attract my attention under any circumstances:

‘E da per gli occhi una dolcezza al core
Ch’ intender non la puo chi non la prova.’”[106]

George had approached the table, and the expression of his eyes did not allow Fleurange to mistake the application of these lines.

Alas! for a month she had been forced to accept--let us use the right word--to enjoy the presence of him whom she had resolved to fly from, and been obliged for the time to lay aside all consideration of her own position in view of the duties which had devolved on her towards the princess. But her resolution had not for an instant faltered. Every day the sacrifice would doubtless be more painful, but consequently the more necessary. What she only waited for now was the propitious moment, and the means of accomplishing it.

The Princess Catherine was now really convalescent, and able to bear the displeasure Fleurange felt obliged to cause her. Therefore, the same evening the little scene we have just related took place, she resolved not to yield another day to the considerations that had hitherto restrained her. To remain any longer where she was would henceforth be deliberate treachery.

What she had nearly decided upon was to confide everything to Dr. Leblanc, who was now fulfilling a promise made the year before at the Old Mansion and visiting her friends at Heidelberg. He understood her position with respect to the princess better than any one else, and would know how to aid her in giving it up. He, better than any one, could arrange everything for her return among her relatives without betraying the motive she was so anxious to conceal. But it was painful to decide on speaking of George even to him. The letter was commenced but not yet finished, and the hour of delay was passing.

She laid the book on the table and was absorbed in silent reflection. The princess was dwelling on the thoughts suggested by the reading, and her son, as he answered her at random, sought to read the expression of the downcast eyes that so carefully avoided his.

At that moment an unexpected message surprised them all. The princess’ valet de chambre, who was the porter, wished to inform Mademoiselle Gabrielle there was a young gentleman in the hall who requested to see her.

“A young gentleman?” exclaimed the princess and her son at the same time, and with no less astonishment than Fleurange.

“A young gentleman?” repeated she. “Did you ask his name?” Yes, the valet de chambre had asked, but had forgotten, and stammered out some name as unintelligible as unknown to Fleurange. She rose. “I will see who it can be,” said she.

George had already arisen, and the princess exclaimed: “Gabrielle must not go down alone at this hour. Rogues often find their way in, in this manner, at night.--Last evening, before dark, an unknown person entered a shop, and while the owner’s back was turned--” The princess became unnecessarily nervous over this slight incident.

“If you will allow me,” said George, “I will ascertain who it is. Trust to me, and await here the information I will bring you.”

Fleurange made no objection. She knew no one and expected no one, and was sure there was some mistake.

George was not gone more than ten minutes from the room. When he reappeared, his face was lit up with an expression of joy.

“It is really a young gentleman,” he said, “and it was really you he asked for, mademoiselle. And I, for my part, was also happy to shake hands with Julian Steinberg. It was he. He has just arrived at Florence with his wife.”

“Julian!--Julian and Clara!” cried Fleurange, overjoyed. She sprang up at once, forgetting the princess and George, and everything except the unexpected pleasure of seeing these beloved faces again.

Count George stopped her: “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, Steinberg only wished to know when his wife could see you. I took the liberty of telling him that my carriage, which is at the door, would take you at once to the hotel where they are stopping, and he has gone to tell her she will have the pleasure of seeing you this very evening.”

“Oh! how kind you are,” cried Fleurange, beside herself. “How many thanks I owe you!”

But she bethought herself that the princess did not like anything of which she did not take the initiative, and under no circumstances did she ever forget herself. Before the shade that began to gather on her brow could be perceived, Fleurange approached her.

“Monsieur le Comte is very kind,” said she; “but I should do better to wait till morning, should I not, princess? It is only nine o’clock, and you need me at least an hour longer.”

The princess was already partly mollified by these words, and completely so by the grace with which her son protested he should be angry if she did not clearly prove to him that she thought him capable of replacing Mademoiselle Gabrielle at least for an hour.

“Come, mother, you can endure to hear me read in my turn, can you not? I readily acknowledge my powers are not equal to what we have just had. But, if the contrast is disagreeable to you, it will not be the first time we have passed an hour together to our mutual satisfaction, and that I have been able to make my conversation acceptable to you.”

These words, uttered with a caressing grace as he knelt at his mother’s side, appealed directly to the weakest point in her maternal heart. The princess idolized her son. He was the joy and pride of her life. But though full of deference and affection, he was constantly eluding her. This woman, so imperious towards all others, felt she had scarcely any authority over her son, and endeavored to acquire an ascendency over him by all the persuasiveness and skill she possessed, as if this ascendency were not her natural right. Since George returned last he had been more reserved than usual. Hitherto he had been able to frustrate all her efforts to obtain his entire confidence, to which he sometimes yielded, and which amply atoned for the long intervals of reserve so painful to her.

On this occasion she caressingly passed her hand over her son’s beautiful hair, and smilingly replied: “Naughty boy, you know well what to depend upon.” Then turning to Fleurange: “Go. I am quite willing you should go and welcome your cousin. I can for the present do without you. Go, but come back in an hour. I shall expect you at ten,” she added, looking at the clock.

The permission was not very graciously accorded, but Fleurange did not profit by it the less eagerly. She did not leave the room, however, without an involuntary look of gratitude at him who had so well divined her wish, and so successfully seconded it.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[104] This allusion refers to a playful superstition practised in Russia on New Year’s Eve. It consists in pouring melted wax into a basin of cold water, and drawing predictions from the figures thus produced.

[105]
“So gentle and so modest doth appear
My Lady.”
--_Vita Nuova_, Charles Eliot Norton’s Translation.

[106]
“She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes
Which none can understand who doth not prove.”
--_Ibid._

HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.

FOURTH AND LAST ARTICLE.

THE MIDDLE AGES.

It has been asserted by women in the present day that the state needs salvation and reform, and that through their use of the political franchise this end will be mainly accomplished. Perhaps they think that no state was ever in such danger before, and that they themselves are the pioneers of an order of things entirely new, under unprecedented circumstances. They should study history to see whether they really are without predecessors. What would they say to Genevieve, the shepherdess of Nanterre, the heroine of the sixth century, the woman of whom St. Germanus said, while giving her the veil of virginity and the honorary title of deaconess, “This woman will one day be a joy and an example even to men”? What would they say to her bravery and daring when, during the siege of Paris by the barbarian and heathen Franks (it was before their conversion by Queen Clotildis), Genevieve alone encouraged the affrighted peasantry, and promised relief to the threatened city? She had supplies transported by means of river-boats to the besieged, and for ten years, while the ever-renewed alarms of desultory attacks from the Franks continued, she succeeded in sparing Paris the horrors of a famine. When the barbarian chief, Childeric, at last entered the town, Genevieve interceded so successfully in behalf of the inhabitants that none of them were molested.