Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

We had some trouble in opening a passage, but after some time succeeded in getting to the place where her mother had been pushed by the crowd at some distance from the door of the church. She was looking anxiously in every direction, and when she saw us her face lighted up, and she thanked me with equal simplicity and grace of manner for the service I had rendered her daughter. We conversed together for some minutes, during which I learned that though I had met them twice that day in the same church, it was not the one they usually attended, their home being in another quarter of the city. The daughter had been invited to collect money at S. Roch’s that day, and wishing, for some reason, to be at home by four o’clock, they had returned for the afternoon service, which ends an hour earlier there than anywhere else. This variation from their usual custom had probably caused a misunderstanding about the carriage which should have been at the door, and they felt embarrassed about getting to the Rue St. Dominique, where they resided, as the violent rain prevented them from going on foot. Glad to be able to extricate them from their embarrassment, I at once offered to take them home in my carriage, which was at the door. They accepted the offer with gratitude. Their manners and language would have left no doubt as to their rank, even if I had not met them in society. And I soon learned more than enough to satisfy me on this point.

As soon as we were seated in the carriage the elder of the two ladies said: “I know whom I have to thank for the favor you have done me, madame, for no one can forget the Duchessa di Valenzano who has ever seen her, even but once, and no one can be ignorant of her name, which is in every mouth. But it is not the same with us. Allow me, therefore, to say that I am the Comtesse de Kergy, and this is my daughter Diana, ... who is very happy, I assure you, as well as surprised, at the accident that has brought her in contact with one she has talked incessantly about ever since she had the happiness of seeing you first.”

Her daughter blushed at these words, but did not turn away her eyes, which were fastened on me with a sympathetic expression of charming _naïveté_ that inspired an irresistible attraction towards her in return. The name of Kergy was a well‐known one. I had heard it more than once, and was trying to recall when and where I heard it for the first time, when, as we were crossing the Place du Carrousel, the young Diana, looking at the clock on the Tuileries, suddenly exclaimed:

“It is just going to strike four. We ought to feel greatly obliged to madame, mamma for, had it not been for her, we should have been extremely late, and Gilbert would have been surprised and anxious at our not arriving punctually.”

Gilbert!... This name refreshed my memory. Gilbert de Kergy was the name of the young traveller whom I had once seen at the large dinner‐party. He must be the very person in question.... Before I had time to ask, Mme. de Kergy put an end to my uncertainty on the subject.

“My son,” said she, “has recently made an interesting tour in the Southern States of America, and it is with respect to this journey there is to be a discussion to‐day which we promised to attend. I have given up my large _salon_ for the purpose, on condition (a condition Diana proposed) that the meeting should end with a small collection in behalf of the orphan asylum for which she was soliciting contributions this morning—a work in which she is greatly interested.”

“My husband, who has also travelled a great deal,” I replied, “had, I believe, the pleasure of meeting M. de Kergy on one occasion, and conversing with him.”

“Gilbert has not forgotten the conversation,” exclaimed the young Diana with animation. “He often speaks of it. He told us about you also, madame, and described you so accurately that I knew you at once as soon as I saw you, before any one told me your name.”

I made no reply, and we remained silent till, having crossed the bridge, we approached the Rue St. Dominique, when Diana, suddenly leaning towards her mother, whispered a few words in her ear. Mme. de Kergy began to laugh.

“Really,” said she, “this child takes everything for granted; but you are so kind, I will allow her to repeat aloud what she has just said to me.”

“Well,” said the young girl, “I said the discussion would certainly be interesting, for Gilbert is to take a part in it, as well as several other good speakers, and those who attend will at the close aid in a good work. I added that I should be very much pleased, madame, if you would attend.”

I was by no means prepared for this invitation, and at first did not know what reply to make, but quickly bethought myself that there would be more than an hour before Lorenzo’s return. I knew, moreover, that, even according to his ideas, I should be in very good society, and it could not displease him in the least if I attended a discussion at the Hôtel de Kergy under the auspices of the countess and her daughter. Besides, on my part, I felt a good deal of curiosity, never having attended anything like a public discussion. In short, I decided, without much hesitation, to accept the invitation, and the young Diana clapped her hands with joy. We were just entering the open _porte‐cochère_ of a large court, where we found quite a number of equipages and footmen. The carriage stopped before the steps and in five minutes I was seated between Diana and her mother near a platform at one end of a drawing‐room large enough to contain one hundred and fifty or two hundred persons.

I cannot now give a particular account of this meeting, though it was an event in my life. The principal subject discussed was, I think, the condition of the blacks, not yet emancipated, in the Southern States of America. An American of the North, who could express himself very readily in French, first spoke, and after him a missionary priest, who considered the question from a no less elevated point of view, though quite different from that of the philanthropist, and the discussion had already grown quite animated before it became Gilbert de Kergy’s turn to speak. When he rose, there was a movement in the whole assembly, and his first words excited involuntary attention, which soon grew to intense interest, and for the first time in my life I felt the power of language and the effect that eloquence can produce.

It was strange, but he began with a brief, brilliant sketch of places that seemed familiar to me; for Lorenzo had visited them, and he had such an aptness for description that I felt as if I had seen them in his company. My first thought was to regret his absence. Why was he not here with me now to listen to this discussion, to become interested in it, and perhaps take a part in it?... I had a vague feeling that this reunion was of a nature to render him as he appeared to me during the first days of our wedded life, when his extensive travels and noble traits made me admire his courage and recognize his genius, the prestige of which was only surpassed in my eyes by that of his tenderness!... But another motive intensified this desire and regret. The boldness, the intelligence, and the adventurous spirit of the young traveller were, of course, traits familiar to me, and which I was happy and proud to recognize; but, alas! the resemblance ceased when, quitting the field of observation and descriptions of nature, and all that memory and intelligence can glean, the orator soared to loftier regions, and linked these facts themselves with questions of a higher nature and wider scope than those of mere earthly interest. He did this with simplicity, earnestness, and consummate ability, and while he was speaking I felt that my mind rose without difficulty to the level of his, and expanded suddenly as if it had wings! It was a moment of keen enjoyment, but likewise of keen suffering; for I felt the difference that the greater or less elevation of the soul can produce in two minds that are equally gifted! I clearly saw what was wanting in Lorenzo’s. I recognized the cause of the something lacking which had so often troubled me, and I felt more intensely and profoundly pained than I had that very morning.

While listening to Gilbert I only thought of Lorenzo, and, if I reluctantly acknowledged the superiority of the former, I felt at the same time that there was nothing to prevent the latter from becoming his equal; for, I again said to myself, Lorenzo was not merely a man of the world, leading a frivolous, aimless life, as might seem from his present habits. Love of labor and love of nature and art do not characterize such a man, and he possessed these traits in a high degree. He had therefore to be merely detached from other influences. This was my task, my duty, and it should also be my happiness; for I had no positive love for the world, whose pleasures I knew so well. No, I did not love it. I loved what was higher and better than that. I felt an immense void within that great things alone could fill. And I seemed to‐day to have entered into the sphere of these great things; but I was there alone, and this was torture. All my actual impressions were therefore centred in an ardent desire to put an end to this solitude by drawing into that higher region him from whom I was at the moment doubly separated.

This was assuredly a pure and legitimate desire, but I did not believe myself capable of obtaining its realization without difficulty, and sufficiently calculating the price I must pay for such a victory and the efforts by which it must often be merited....

While these thoughts were succeeding each other in my mind I almost forgot to listen to the end of the discourse, which terminated the meeting in the midst of the applause of the entire audience. The vast hall of discussion was instantly changed into a _salon_ again, where everybody seemed to be acquainted, and where I found the _élite_ of those I had met in other places. But assembled together for so legitimate an object, they at once inspired me with interest, respect, and a feeling of attraction. It was Paris under quite a new aspect, and it seemed to me, if I had lived in a world like this, I should never have experienced the terrible distress which I have spoken of, and which the various emotions of the day had alone succeeded in dissipating.

The charming young Diana, light and active, had ascended the platform, and was now talking to her brother. Gilbert started with surprise at her first words, and his eyes turned towards the place where I was standing. Then I almost instantly saw them descend from the platform and come towards me. Diana looked triumphant.

“This is my brother Gilbert, madame,” said she, her eyes sparkling. “And it is I who have the honor of presenting him to you, as he seems to have waited for his little sister to do it.”

He addressed me some words of salutation, to which I responded. As he stood near me, I again observed his calm, thoughtful, intelligent face, which had struck me so much the only time I remembered to have seen him before. While speaking a few moments previous his face was animated, and his eyes flashed with a fire that added more than once to the effect of his clear, penetrating voice, which was always well modulated. His gestures also, though not numerous or studied, had a natural grace and the dignity which strength of conviction, joined to brilliant eloquence, gives to the entire form of an orator. His manner was now so simple that I felt perfectly at ease with him, and told him without any hesitation how happy I was at the double good‐fortune that had brought me in contact with his sister, and had resulted in my coming to this meeting where I had been permitted to hear him speak.

“This day will be a memorable one for me as well as for her, madame,” he replied, “and I shall never forget it.”

There was not the least inflection in his voice to make me regard his words as anything more than mere politeness, but their evident sincerity caused me a momentary embarrassment. He seemed to attach too much importance to this meeting, but it passed away. He inspired me with almost as much confidence as if he had been a friend. I compared him with Landolfo, and wondered what effect so different an influence would have on Lorenzo, and I could not help wishing he were his friend also....

I continued silent, and he soon resumed: “The Duca di Valenzano is not here?”

“No; he will be sorry, and I regret it for his sake.”

“The presence of such a traveller would have been a great honor to us.”

“He was very happy to have an opportunity of conversing with you on one occasion.”

“It was a conversation I have never forgotten. It would have been for my advantage to renew it, but I never go into society—at Paris.”

“And elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere it is a different thing,” said he, smiling. “I am as social while travelling as I am uncivilized at my return.”

“We must not expect, then, to meet you again in Paris; but if you ever go to Italy, may we not hope you will come to see us?”

“If you will allow me to do so,” said he eagerly.

“Yes, certainly. I think I can promise that the well‐known hospitality of the Neapolitans will not be wanting towards the Comte Gilbert de Kergy.”

After a moment’s silence he resumed: “You must have been absent when I was at Naples. That was two years ago.”

“I was not married then, and I am not a Neapolitan.”

“And not an Italian, perhaps.”

“Do you say so on account of the color of my hair? That would be astonishing on the part of so observant a traveller, for you must have noticed that our great masters had almost as many blondes as brunettes for their models. However, I am neither English nor German, as perhaps you are tempted to think. I am a Sicilian.”

“I have never seen in Sicily or anywhere else a person who resembled you.”

These words implied a compliment, and probably such an one as I had never received; and, I need not repeat, I was not fond of compliments. But this was said without the least smile or the slightest look that indicated any desire to flatter or please me. Was not this a more subtle flattery than I had been accustomed to receive?... And did it not awaken unawares the vanity I had long thought rooted out of the bottom of my heart? I can affirm nothing positive as to this, for there is always something lacking in the knowledge of one’s self, however thoroughly we may think we have acquired it. But I am certain it never occurred to me at the time to analyze the effect of this meeting on me. I was wholly absorbed in the regret and hope it awakened.

As I was on the point of leaving, Mme. de Kergy asked permission to call on me with her daughter the next day at four o’clock—a permission I joyfully granted—and Diana accompanied me to the very foot of the steps. I kissed her smiling face, as I took leave, and gave my hand to her brother, who had come with us to help me in getting into the carriage.

XVII.

All the way from the Rue St. Dominique to the Rue de Rivoli I abandoned myself to the pleasant thoughts excited by the events of the day. For within a few hours I had successively experienced the inward sweetness of prayer, the charm of congenial society, and the pleasure of enthusiasm. A new life seemed to be infused into my heart, soul, and mind, which had grown frivolous in the atmosphere of the world, and I felt, as it were, entranced. Those who have felt themselves thus die and rise again to a new life will understand the feeling of joy I experienced. In all the blessings hitherto vouchsafed me, even in the love itself that had been, so to speak, the sun of my happiness, there had been one element wanting, without which everything seemed dark, unsatisfactory, wearisome, and depressing—an element which my soul had an imperious, irresistible, undeniable need of! Yes, I realized this, and while thus taking a clearer view of my state I also felt that this need was reasonable and just, and might be supplied without much difficulty. Was not Lorenzo gifted with a noble nature, and capable of the highest things? Had he not chosen me, and loved me to such a degree as to make me an object of idolatry? Well, I would point out to him the loftier heights he ought to attain. I, in my turn, would open to him a new world!...

Such were the thoughts, aspirations, and dreams my heart was filled with on my way home. As I approached the Rue de Rivoli, however, I began to feel uneasy at being out so much later than I had anticipated, lest Lorenzo should have returned and been anxious about my absence. I was pleased to learn, therefore, on descending from the carriage, that he had not yet come home, and I joyfully ascended the staircase, perfectly satisfied with the way in which I had spent the morning.

I took off my hat, smoothed my hair, and then proceeded to arrange the _salon_ according to his taste and my own. I arranged the flowers, as well as the books and other things, and endeavored to give the room, though in a hotel, an appearance of comfort and elegance that would entice him to remain at home; for I had formed the project of trying to induce him to spend the evening with me. I seemed to have so many things to say to him, and longed to communicate all the impressions I had received! With this object in view I took a bold step, but one that was authorized by the intimacy that existed between us and the friends whose guests we were to have been that day—I sent them an excuse, not only for myself, but my husband, hoping to find means afterwards of overcoming his displeasure, should he manifest any.

Having made these arrangements, I was beginning to wonder at his continued absence when a letter was brought me which served to divert my mind for a time from every other thought. It was a letter from Livia which I had been impatiently awaiting. We had corresponded regularly since our separation, and I had begun to be surprised at a silence of unusual length on her part. It was not dated at Messina, but at Naples, and I read the first page, which was in answer to the contents of my letter, without finding any explanation of this. Finally I came to what follows:

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“I told you in my last letter that I had obtained my father’s consent, but on one condition—that he should have the choice of the monastery I must enter on leaving home. What difference did it make? As to this I was, and am, wholly indifferent. I should make the same vows everywhere, and in them all I should go to God by the same path. In them all I should be separated from the world and united to him alone. And this was all I sought. The convent my father chose is not in Sicily. It is a house known and venerated by every one in Naples. I shall be received on the second of September. Meanwhile, I have come here under Ottavia’s escort, and am staying with our aunt, Donna Clelia, who has established herself here for the winter with her daughters. So everything is arranged, Gina. The future seems plain. I see distinctly before me my life and death, my joys and sorrows, my labors and my duty. I am done with all that is called happiness in the world, as well as with its misfortunes, its trials, its conflicting troubles, its numberless disappointments, and its poignant woes.

“Therefore I cannot make use of the word _sacrifice_. It wounds me when I hear it used, for I blush at the little I have to give up in view of the immensity I am to receive! Yes; I blush when I remember it was suffering and humiliation that first made me raise my eyes to Him whom alone we _should_ love, and whom alone I now feel I _can_ love. If I had not been wholly sure of this, I should never have been so bold as to aspire to the union that waits me—the only one here below in which the Bridegroom can satisfy the boundless affection of the heart that gives itself to him!...

“But to return to you, my dear Gina. Are you as happy as I desire you to be, and as you deserve to be? Your last letter was sad; and the calmer and better satisfied I feel about my own lot, the more I think of yours. Whatever happens, my dearest sister, do not forget that we both have but one goal. Your way is longer and more perilous than mine, but the great aim of us both should be to really love God above all things, and, _in him_ and for him, to cherish all the objects of our affection. Yes, even those whom we prefer to all other creatures on earth. I am not using the language of a religious, but simply that of truth and common sense. If this letter reaches you on your return from some gay scene, at a time when you will not feel able to enter into its meaning, you must lay it aside. But if you read it when your mind is calm, and you are at leisure to listen to your inner self, you will understand what your Livia means by writing you in this way. Whatever happens, whether we are near each other or are widely separated, we shall always be united in heart, my dear sister. The convent grates will not separate me from you. Death itself cannot divide us. One thing, and one alone, in the visible or invisible world, can raise a barrier between us and really separate us. And rather than behold this barrier rise, I would, as I have already told you, my beloved sister, rather see you dead. Gina, I love you as tenderly as any one ever loved another. I will pray for you on the second of September (Sunday). Probably when you read this I shall already have left the world. But I shall not have left you, dear sister. I shall be nearer you than when distance alone separated us. Besides, I am at Naples, to which you will soon return, and you will find that the grates will neither hide my face, nor my thoughts, nor my heart, nor my soul from you....

“Gina, let me once more repeat that there is only one way of attaining real happiness—there is only one object worthy of our love. Let me beseech you not to desire any other passionately. But, no; you would not understand me; you would not believe me now....”

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Everything added to the effect of this letter—its date, and the day, the hour, and the moment in which it was received. The deed my sister had accomplished that very day had brought us nearer together, as she said. Had not a breath of the purer air she breathed reached me already and preserved me through the day from the aimless frivolity of my usual life?

“Happiness,” it has been said, “is Christian; pleasure is not.” Had I not profoundly realized the force of this saying for one day? Had I not experienced a happiness as different as possible from the pleasure I enjoyed in the world? And did I not feel desirous this very instant of attaining the one at the expense of the other, and not only of taking a different view of life myself, but of imparting this desire to

“Him who ne’er from me shall separate.”(9)

The day was beginning to decline, and I gradually sank into a short, profound slumber such as is usually attended by confused dreams. In mine most of those who had occupied my thoughts during the day passed successively before me—Livia first, covered with a long white veil, and next to her was the pleasant, smiling face of Diana.... Then I was once more at the Hôtel de Kergy, listening again to some parts of Gilbert’s address. But when I was on the point of calling Lorenzo to hear him also, it no longer seemed to be Gilbert, but Lorenzo himself, on the platform, repeating the same words with an air of mockery, and gazing at me, in return, with the penetrating look so peculiar to him.... Then everything changed, and I found myself at twilight at the fork of a road in the country, and, while I was hesitating which path to take, I saw Gilbert beside me. He was familiar with the way, he said, and offered to be my guide; but I repulsed his arm, and made a violent effort to overtake Lorenzo, whom I suddenly perceived at a distance on the other road.... Then Livia seemed to be beside me, and give me her hand to help me along. Finally I saw Lorenzo just before me again, but he did not look like the same person; he was poorly clad, and his face was pale and altered. I recognized him, however, and sprang forward to overtake him, when I awoke breathless, and with the painful feeling of uneasiness that such sleep generally produces when terminated by such an awakening....

My heart throbbed.... I found it difficult at first to recall what had occupied my mind before I fell asleep. I soon came to myself, however, and was able to account for the utter darkness that surrounded me. I hastened to ring the bell and, when a light was brought, I looked at the clock with a surprise that gave way to anxiety. At that instant I heard the bell that announced Lorenzo’s return at last. I heard him enter the ante‐chamber, and I ran to open the drawing‐room door myself. But I stopped short. It was not Lorenzo; it was Landolfo Landini, and he was alone. I drew back with a terrified look without daring to ask a question. But he smiled, as he closed the door behind him, and, taking my hand, said: “Do not be alarmed, my dear cousin, I beg. Nothing in particular has happened to Lorenzo—nothing, at least, which you are not prepared to hear after what occurred last night.”

I breathed once more.... I know not what other fear crossed my mind, but I said with tolerable calmness:

“That means he has been playing again, or at least betting at the races, and has lost?”

“Yes, cousin, frightfully. There—I ought not to have told you, but I see no reason for concealing it from you; and as I have this opportunity of speaking privately to you, I will profit by it to give you another piece of advice more serious than any I have yet given you. Immediately make use of all the influence you still have over him to persuade him to leave Paris. There is some fatality about this place, as far as he is concerned. He is more prudent everywhere else, and will become so here once more. The fever he has been seized with again must absolutely be broken up. The deuce!” continued he, “two or three more relapses like this would lead to consequences that would test all your courage, _ma belle duchesse_, and bring you, as well as him, to extremities you are ill fitted to bear. That is what I am most anxious about, you will allow me to say; for, without making you the shadow of a declaration, I find you so beautiful, so good, and so adorable that the mere thought of you some day....”

“Keep to the point, Lando, if you please,” said I with an impatient air. “Where is Lorenzo? Why did he not return with you, and why have you come to tell me what he would probably tell me himself?”

“Tell you himself? He will take care not to do that. I have already told you I am betraying his confidence, but it is for his good as well as yours. It is best for you to know that the sum he has lost today surpasses the resources he has on hand, and in order to make the necessary arrangements to pay at once the debt he has incurred, he is obliged to write to his agent at Naples or Sicily. He went directly to the club for this purpose, and commissioned me to tell you it was for nothing of importance, and beg you to attend the dinner‐party without him, and present his excuses to your friends. He will join you in the evening.”

Everything now seemed easily arranged according to my wishes, and of itself, as it were.

“That is very fortunate,” said I eagerly, telling him of the excuse I had sent for us both. “Therefore, Lando, go back to the club, I beg; or rather, I will write Lorenzo myself that he can arrange his affairs at his leisure, and return when he pleases to dine with me. I shall wait till he comes.”

I hastily seized my pen to write him, but Lando resumed:

“Oh! as to that, cousin, you will only waste your trouble; for seeing how late it was, and that he could not possibly be here in season to accompany you, he accepted an invitation to dine with an acquaintance of his (and yours also, I suppose) whom he met at the races to‐day.”

“An acquaintance of his?...” I repeated, my heart filling with a keen anguish that made me turn pale without knowing why.

Lando perceived it. “Do not be alarmed,” said he, smiling. “It is not Mme. de B——, though she was at the races also, and made a fruitless effort to divert Lorenzo’s mind from what was going on. Really, in your place,” continued he with his usual levity, “I should regret she did not succeed. That would have been much better than ... Come, ... do not frown. I am joking. To be serious, Lorenzo is not going to dine with her to‐day, but with a lady from Milan who has just arrived, and whom you doubtless know. It is Donna Faustina Reali, the Marquise de Villanera!...”

Faustina Reali!... This name seemed to justify the strange presentiment I had just had, and I was tempted to exclaim with Hamlet,

“O my prophetic soul!”

thou hast not deceived me!... I had at that moment a sudden intuition of the past, the present, and the future. I saw clearly before me a life in which I should no longer be able to influence Lorenzo, or even to guide myself!...

I controlled my agitation, however, by a powerful effort, and Lando soon left me, renewing his first injunctions, and persuaded he had fully reassured me on other points. I gave him my hand with a smile as he left the room, and as soon as I found myself alone I covered my face with my hands, and exclaimed:

“O my dreams! my pleasant dreams! Where have they vanished?”

XVIII.

Faustina Reali!... That was the never‐to‐be‐forgotten name I had read on the card Lorenzo snatched so violently from my hands at Naples! I had never seen it again, never heard it pronounced, but I remembered only too well the expression of my husband’s face when he saw it, and the way in which he tore up the card on which it was written!...

I endeavored to lead the conversation at another time back to this circumstance, but at once desisted, frightened at the manner in which he imposed silence on me, and a certain impression of both mystery and danger remained associated with the name.

As soon as I became calmer, however, I acknowledged that I really knew nothing, absolutely nothing, to cause the violent emotion I had just experienced. It had an imaginary cause, then, and might simply be owing to my mind, so recently lost in vague dreams, and perhaps a little too high‐ flown, being suddenly recalled to a painful and unpleasant, as well as very commonplace reality. I had imagined I was going to transform, as by the stroke of a wand, my husband’s habits, tastes, occupations—nay, his entire life—but was brought to my senses by learning he had just lost an enormous sum at the races, and his mind, for the moment, was absorbed in the necessary complications for paying the debt. I had planned spending several hours alone with him that evening, during which, away from the bustle of the world, I would give him a minute account of my recent impressions, and tell him of all the wishes, projects, and ardent desires of which he was the object. I would rouse a nobler pride in his soul, and appeal to a thousand sentiments that were dormant, but not extinct; and I believe I expected to see them awakened at the mere sound of my voice!... Instead of this, ... I was alone, and he was with another.... And what other?... Who was this Faustina, whose name had so suddenly appeared in my life, and who, at the very hour when I was aiming at so pure and elevated an influence over him, came thus, like an evil genius, to thrust herself between us?... I reminded myself in vain that Lorenzo had no idea of the plans I had, unbeknown to him, formed for the evening, but supposed me at this very moment to be with my friends, where he had promised to join me; but nothing could calm the sudden agitation of my heart, nothing could check the flood of thoughts that sprang from my anxiety, jealousy, and misconceptions, and my excitement became more intense in proportion to the lateness of the hour. Would he never come?...

And what would he say when he should arrive?... I was sure he would try to conceal his interview with Donna Faustina, and perhaps I ought to hide my knowledge of that as well as everything else, and feign ignorance of all that had occurred, in order not to betray Lando’s indiscretion.... But what should I do when his eyes, so accustomed to interpret every expression of my face, should be fastened on me? How could I practise any dissimulation with him? It was not, indeed, my place to do anything of the kind. I had no cause to blush or be intimidated. And should he discover, after all, that I was not deceived, so much the better; and should he be displeased, so much the worse for Lando.

I had arrived at this point in my reflections when I heard the bell ringing loudly in the next room. Then there was a quick step, which this time was really his, and Lorenzo entered the room. He was pale and appeared excited, but said in a sufficiently calm tone:

“I have just come from M——’s, where I supposed I should find you; but I learned that, in sending my apology, you also excused yourself, and I did not remain an instant. What is the matter, Ginevra?... Are you ill?... Why did you not go? Why did you remain at home alone in this way?”

His expression was singular. It was at once affectionate and troubled. He looked earnestly at me, as he gave me his hand, and put back my hair in order to see my face more distinctly.

My cheeks were burning. The traces of the tears I had shed were visible, and, with his scrutinizing eyes upon me, I felt it hardly possible to restrain those that still filled my own.... He took my head between his two hands, and held it a moment against his breast in silence. The throbbing of his heart perhaps equalled that of mine. I was touched, speechless and disarmed, and less than ever in a condition to dissimulate anything, when he suddenly said:

“Why have you been crying, Ginevra? I must know.”

Raising my still tearful eyes towards him, and looking confidingly in his face, I replied: “I have been crying, Lorenzo, because I heard Donna Faustina is here, and that you had gone to see her.”

He started, and, though accustomed to the variations of his mobile face, I was struck with the effect my words had produced. His face reddened, then turned paler than before, and for some moments he was incapable of making any reply, and even seemed to forget my proximity. He seated himself beside the table, and remained silent. I looked at him with amazement and anxiety. At length he said:

“Who has told you anything about Donna Faustina, and what do you know of her?”

“No one has told me anything about her, and all I know of her you have told me yourself by the very emotion you show at her name.”

He was again silent for a moment, and then resumed in his usual tone, as if he had triumphed over all hesitation:

“Well, Ginevra, even if you had not known of her being in Paris, or had never heard of her name or existence, I had resolved to speak to you about her this very evening. Listen to me. It is not, after all, a long story.”

He had perfectly recovered his self‐control, and yet he continued with some effort:

“It is not for you to be jealous of her, Ginevra. It is she who has reason to be jealous of you. She has done you no wrong; whereas, without suspecting it, you have done her a great and irreparable injury.”

I opened my eyes with surprise.

“It is not necessary to tell you when and where I met her for the first time, but perhaps it is right I should acknowledge that I was inspired with a passion for her such as a man willingly imagines he can never feel but once in his life.”

I could not repress a start.

“Wait, Ginevra; hear me to the end. She was married and virtuous. I left her, ... but I had just learned she was free, and was about to go to see her when I was called to Sicily by the lawsuit on which my property depends. You know the rest.... The sight of you effaced the impressions of the past. I was still free—free from any promise that bound me to her, though perhaps she was expecting me to return to Milan....”

“You forgot her, and offered me your hand?...” I exclaimed with mingled pity and almost reproach.

He replied with some emotion:

“Yes, Ginevra, and without any scruple; for after passing a month in your vicinity, I felt I loved her no longer, and _at that time_ ... I did not know she loved me.”

His brow grew dark. He stopped an instant, and then rapidly continued:

“At a later day I ascertained, ... I had reason to believe, ... beyond a doubt, that the feeling she had succeeded in hiding from me existed really, profoundly, ... and that she had suffered.... Ginevra! in the intoxication of my new happiness I could not feel any regret, but I acknowledge I had a moment of remorse. Yes; I never wished to hear her name again, never to see her or hear anything that would recall her.... I was almost irritated at Naples at finding her card among those left on your arrival there.... I was angry with her, poor Faustina, when I should have been grateful as well as you.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was at Naples, which she happened to be passing through, that the news of our marriage reached her. And when we arrived just after, she wished to show, by leaving her card, that she should henceforth only consider herself my friend and yours. But at that time I did not regard it in this way, and I was unjust as well as ungrateful.”

“And now, Lorenzo?” I said with many commingled feelings I could not have defined.

“Now, Ginevra, I think she was generous, and it would be well for you to be so in your turn. She wishes to know you, and I come to ask you to receive her to‐morrow.... You hesitate!... I do not suppose, however,” said he a little loftily, as he frowned, “that you think me capable of making such a proposition to my wife, if the Marquise de Villanera had not a spotless reputation, and I were not certain that there is no reason why you should not grant her the favor I beg.”

Lorenzo was perfectly sincere at the moment he uttered these words. But as I write the account of that day by the light of events that followed, I do not feel the same assurance I did at the time he was talking. All he then affirmed was true; but he did not tell me everything. He did not, for instance, explain how he happened to learn, at a time when he had better have never known them, the sentiments that had hitherto been concealed from him. Still less did he tell me the effect this revelation produced on him. But with regard to this he doubtless did not deceive me any more than he did himself. Meanwhile, it was not possible to give more heed to a vague, inexplicable presentiment it would have been impossible to justify, than to what he said. I therefore consented, without any further hesitation, to the interview he proposed, and gave him my hand. He kissed it and held it lightly in his; then gave me a new proof of his confidence as well as unexpected satisfaction by the following words:

“This interview, Ginevra, will not commit you to any great extent at the most, as, for many reasons it would be useless to give you, I wish, if not too great a disappointment for you, to leave Paris—sooner than we intended. We will go in a week.”

He saw the ray of joy that flashed from my eyes, and looked at me with an air of surprise. I was afraid of compromising poor Lando by betraying my knowledge of the danger that rendered this departure so opportune. I was also afraid he would regard it as a new proof of the jealous distrust he had just allayed, and hastened to speak of Livia’s letter and my desire to return to Naples, where I had just learned I should find my sister. He accepted this explanation, and the day full of so many different causes of excitement ended more tranquilly than I had anticipated two hours before. It was difficult, however, when I once more found myself alone, to collect my troubled thoughts. A confused crowd of new impressions had replaced those of the morning. The projects inspired by the lofty eloquence of Gilbert de Kergy all at once seemed chimerical. My hopes had fled beyond recall. And yet I could not account for my apprehension. Anxiety, a vague anxiety, persistently prevailed over everything. I only succeeded in regaining my calmness at last by two considerations: we were to leave Paris, and it was Lorenzo himself who proposed our departure.

XIX.

The following day, for some reason or other I did not explain to myself, I gave unusual attention to my toilet. I generally read while my waiting‐ maid was arranging my hair according to her own fancy, but that day I turned more than once towards the mirror. I observed with pleasure the golden lustre of my hair in the morning sunlight, and suggested myself the addition of a bow of ribbon of the same color as my belt. After I was dressed I gave, before leaving my room, a scrutinizing look in a large glass where I could see myself from head to foot. It seemed to me I was becomingly attired, and I felt pleased.

My satisfaction was confirmed by an exclamation that escaped Lorenzo as soon as he caught sight of me. He was already seated at the breakfast‐ table, which stood at one end of the room.

“You are charming this morning, Ginevra!” said he, smiling. He then grew thoughtful. After remaining silent a few moments, he resumed, perhaps to divert my mind from another thought he supposed it occupied with:

“I was sorry to leave you alone so long yesterday. How did you while away the time during the long afternoon?”

If he had asked this question the evening before at the imaginary _tête‐à‐tête_ I had planned, what a minute, animated account should I have given him! How readily the thoughts which then occupied my mind would have sprung to my lips! He regarded me as a child, but I was no longer one; and beholding me all at once in the new aspect of an energetic, courageous woman, capable of aiding him with a firm hand in ascending to higher regions, he would have been surprised and touched; the passing gleam that sometimes manifested itself in his eyes would perhaps have been less transient this time, and I should have succeeded in kindling a flame of which this light was a mere emblem!... Lorenzo, if you had only been willing! If you had only listened to me then, entered into my feelings, and read my heart, what a life ours might have been!... Ah! happiness and goodness are more closely allied in this world than is usually supposed. If virtue sometimes does not escape misfortune, it is sure there is no happiness without it! But the impetus by which I hoped to attain my aim at a single bound had been suddenly checked, and I no longer remembered now what I longed to say the evening before, or the motive I then had in view. I therefore answered my husband’s question with the utmost coolness without interrupting my breakfast:

“I went to S. Roch’s. It rained in torrents, and, finding the Comtesse de Kergy and her daughter at the door without any carriage, I took them home.”

“I am glad you did. There is no family more respected, and Kergy is one of the most intelligent of travellers.”

“Yes, so I should suppose. I have heard him speak of his travels. There was a meeting at the Hôtel de Kergy yesterday at four o’clock, which I was invited to attend, and he made an address.”

“And spoke very ably, I have no doubt. I have heard him, and can judge.”

“You have heard him?”

“Yes, a fortnight ago.... Though scarcely acquainted, we are the founders and chief supporters of a review devoted to art and scientific subjects, the acting committee of which summoned a meeting of its members to draw up some resolution, and at this meeting he spoke.”

“He is very eloquent, is he not?”

“Very eloquent indeed, but, on the whole, visionary.”

“Visionary?”

“Yes, visionary, and sometimes incomprehensible even. He soars to such vague heights that no one can follow him. But in spite of this, he is a fellow of great talent, and has a noble nature, I should think.”

Lorenzo rose while speaking, and drew a memorandum‐book from his pocket:

“I will write down the address of the Hôtel de Kergy, that I may not forget to leave my card.”

“Mme. de Kergy and her daughter,” said I, “are coming to see me to‐day about four o’clock.”

He was silent a moment, and then said:

“And till that time?”

“Till then,” I replied, turning red, “I shall be at home and alone.”

“Very well,” rejoined he, taking up a newspaper, while I silently went to a seat near the open window.

I compared the conversation which had just taken place with the one I imagined the evening before. I remembered the effect of the very name of her whose visit I was now expecting, and I felt inclined to both laugh and cry. In a word, I was nervous and agitated, and doubtless manifested my uneasiness and irritation more than I wished.

Lorenzo raised his eyes, and looked at me a moment.

“What are you thinking of, Ginevra?”

“Are you quite sure,” said I abruptly, “that this Donna Faustina is not a _jettatrice_?”

He rose and somewhat impatiently threw his paper on the table. But quickly overcoming himself, he said calmly:

“Do you find any evidence in what I related last evening that she ever brought ill‐luck to any one?”

“If it is not she,” I exclaimed quickly, “I hope, at least, you do not think....”

I was about to add, “that it is I,” but I stopped on seeing the cloud that came over his face.

“Come, Ginevra,” said he, “you are really too childish! You are joking, doubtless, but no one knows better than you how to point a jest. But you shall tell me yourself what you think of the Marquise de Villanera after seeing her. As for me, I am going away. It is not necessary to have a third party when she comes. I will go meanwhile to see Kergy. But,” added he, as he was leaving the room, “as you have consented to receive her, remember I depend on your doing so politely.”

He went away, leaving me in a frame of mind by no means serene. I felt angry with him, and at the same time dissatisfied with myself. Everything went contrary to what I had hoped, and I awaited my visitor with a mixture of anguish and ill‐humor.

I felt a kind of uneasiness analogous to that experienced when there is thunder in the air. I tried to apply myself to something, but, finding this impossible, I ended by returning to the window, where, book in hand, I rose from time to time to see what was going on in the street or the garden of the Tuileries.

At length, about two o’clock, I saw a small _coupé_ coming around the corner from the Rue St. Florentin. I had seen an endless number pass while I stood there, but I watched this one without a shadow of doubt as to the direction it would take. It was but a moment, indeed, before I saw it stop at the door of the hotel. We were not, to be sure, the only occupants, but it never occurred to me that the person in the carriage would ask for any one but myself. I returned to the drawing‐room, therefore, and had taken the seat I usually occupied when I received callers, when the Marquise de Villanera was announced in a loud voice.

I rose to meet her. There was a moment’s silence, doubtless caused by an equal degree of curiosity on both sides. It was only for an instant that passed like a flash, but nevertheless each of us had scanned the other from head to foot.

At the first glance she did not seem young. I was not twenty years old myself then, and I judged as one is apt to at that age. In reality, she was not thirty. She was tall and fine‐looking. Her form was noble and graceful, her features delicate and regular, her hair and eyebrows black as jet, her complexion absolutely devoid of color, and her eyes of a lively blue. This somewhat too bright a color gave a cold, hard look to her eyes, but their expression changed as soon as she began to speak, and became sweet, caressing, beseeching, irresistible. She was dressed in black, apparently with extreme simplicity, but in reality with extreme care.

I had not time to wonder how I should break this silence. It was she who spoke first, and her very first words removed the timidity and embarrassment that rendered this interview still more painful. What she said I am really unable to remember, and I cannot comprehend now the effect of her words; but I know they wrought a complete transformation in the feelings I experienced the evening before at the very mention of her name!