DISCOVERY
Madame de Hansfeld, continuing to write to M. de Morville under an
assumed name, had received several replies. One morning (some days after
M. de Hansfeld had saved the life of Bertha de Brévannes' father) Iris,
returning from the post-office, brought her mistress a letter.
The heart of the princess beat with joy as she recognised the writing of
M. de Morville.
The letter was couched in these terms:--
"This is the sixth time I have written to my mysterious friend, whose
consolations are so sweet and precious to me, and come so opportunely
and gratefully to support me in the sadness into which an unhappy
affection plunges me, that I hardly know how adequately to thank the
tender interest thus developed. There is for me a singular charm in
confidences so vague, and yet so exact, made to an unknown individual,
who appreciates the state of my heart with such infinite delicacy. I
have been struck with what you tell me as to _the happiness of loving
even without hope, even as one loves God for God's sake, and of finding
in the sole devotion to the adored object a pure and unutterable
felicity._ Your thoughts on the subject are in all cases so like my own,
and that even in their most incomprehensible shadowings, that, by dint
of being astonished at them, there has occurred to me an idea, which is
foolish, impossible, mad. That idea is that----But no, I dare not even
write it to you, at least not before I have avowed to you another of my
beliefs. I am firmly convinced, that two persons passionately enamoured
of each other must have, as respects love, certain ideas absolutely
similar; thus, in consequence of all my ridiculous imaginings, I am weak
enough to conclude that you may be the woman I love so hopelessly, and
who at a ball at the Opera said to me these words,--_Faust_ and _Childe
Harold_. That evening will never be banished from my memory."
As she read this passage, Madame de Hansfeld trembled and blushed deeply
with surprise, delight, and confusion; and then continued reading with a
palpitating heart:--
"Pardon me this absurd hope; if I am wrong, these words will be to you
quite incomprehensible, if I am not deceived, it may yet suit you to
agree that I have not guessed, and then you will reply to me that I am
in error, and our correspondence will continue as it has done.
"Now by what presentiment--by what instinct have I been led to believe
that these letters were written to me by you? I know not. Doubtless the
presence of the beloved one manifests itself in all things and every
where, even despite mystery apparently the most impenetrable. If we
distinguish amongst a thousand voices the one adored, why should we not
similarly recognise the mind, the thought of the woman we love? If I am
not mistaken, this phenomenon is more easily explicable by the
sincerity, than by the sagacity, of my love. Then, I implore you do not
refuse me the only consolation which remains to _me_. I was nearly
writing--_to us_. Think what happiness we might then anticipate from our
correspondence, and, also, what absolute, blind confidence my singular
discovery must give us both! Would it not say as much in favour of your
love as of mine? You have not written me a word by which I could detect
you, and yet I have discovered you. Oh! I beseech you reply to me! Yes,
we may be still happy in spite of the insurmountable barrier which
separates us. Believing I was not beloved by you, I have carefully
avoided you, in the fear of still more increasing the chagrins of a
passion already so unhappy; but if you participate it, why refuse me the
happiness of frequently meeting you, though we remain in the eyes of the
world strangers to each other? I have sworn not to cease to love you,
that would be impossible; but I have sworn, even if you should
reciprocate my love, never to attempt to urge you beyond the sacred
bounds of your duties, and never to visit at your abode. Remaining
faithful, as I would, to this oath, where should we do wrong? what
should we have to fear? Are you not as much bound by your love as I am
by my word,--a word from which I shall never be released until the
day when _I may aspire to your hand?_
"But why enter on such details, if my heart has deceived me, if you are
not you? One other word, if I have rightly guessed, I swear to you, on
my honour, no one in the world has breathed a syllable to me which could
make me suspect that it was you who wrote to me: this discovery is one
of those miracles of love which are deemed impossible only by the
impious and atheistical.
"L. de M."
After she had concluded this letter, Paula was, if we may use the
expression, overwhelmed. This amazing proof of divination in love
perplexed and delighted her at the same time. Must not that love be,
indeed, surpassing in order to arrive at such a pitch of penetration?
Madame de Hansfeld justly believed De Morville incapable of a falsehood,
and therefore gave herself up in all secure reliance to the intoxication
of this letter, which she read many times with intense delight.
The princess involuntarily felt a shudder at the passage in which M. de
Morville said so frankly, that he should be released from his oath when
she became a widow.
For the first time in her life, Madame de Hansfeld had a thought which
horrified her, and with which she reproached herself as a crime.
* * * * *
She sought, we may say, a refuge in those exalted sentiments with which
De Morville's love inspired her, and, like him, saw a future of
happiness in a pure and unknown attachment; at least it escaped from the
coarse malignity of the world, and would keep hidden in the shade all
its delicacy, all its bloom, all its perfume.
To write to De Morville frequently, see him occasionally, and know
herself beloved by him, to repeat to him incessantly that she loved him,
never to have to blush for this affection so passionately shared, what
brilliant what dazzling hopes!
A light knock which she heard at her door recalled Madame de Hansfeld to
herself, she shut up De Morville's letter in a secret drawer, and
said,--
"Come in."
The door opened, and the Prince de Hansfeld entered his wife's
apartment.