A few days after the date of the last chapter, Colonel Morley returned to
Paris. He had dined with Graham at Greenwich, had met him afterwards in
society, and paid him a farewell visit on the day before the Colonel's
departure; but the name of Isaura Cicogna had not again been uttered by
either. Morley was surprised that his wife did not question him minutely
as to the mode in which he had executed her delicate commission, and the
manner as well as words with which Graham had replied to his
"ventilations." But his Lizzy cut him short when he began his recital:
"I don't want to hear anything more about the man. He has thrown away a
prize richer than his ambition will ever gain, even if it gained him a
throne."
"That it can't gain him in the old country. The people are loyal to the
present dynasty, whatever you may be told to the contrary."
"Don't be so horribly literal, Frank; that subject is done with. How was
the Duchess of ------ dressed?"
But when the Colonel had retired to what the French call the _cabinet de
traivail_--and which he more accurately termed his "smoke den"--and there
indulged in the cigar which, despite his American citizenship, was
forbidden in the drawing-room of the tyrant who ruled his life, Mrs.
Morley took from her desk a letter received three days before, and
brooded over it intently, studying every word. When she had thus
reperused it, her tears fell upon the page. "Poor Isaura!" she muttered
--"poor Isaura! I know she loves him--and how deeply a nature like hers
can love! But I must break it to her. If I did not, she would remain
nursing a vain dream, and refuse every chance of real happiness for the
sake of nursing it." Then she mechanically folded up the letter--I need
not say it was from Graham Vane--restored it to the desk, and remained
musing till the Colonel looked in at the door and said peremptorily,
"Very late--come to bed."
The next day Madame Savarin called on Isaura.
"_Chere enfant_," said she, "I have bad news for you. Poor Gustave is
very ill--an attack of the lungs and fever; you know how delicate he is."
"I am sincerely grieved," said Isaura, in earnest tender tones; "it must
be a very sudden attack: he was here last Thursday."
"The malady only declared itself yesterday morning, but surely you must
have observed how ill he has been looking for several days past? It
pained me to see him."
"I did not notice any change in him," said Isaura, somewhat conscience-
stricken. Wrapt in her own happy thoughts, she would not have noticed
change in faces yet more familiar to her than that of her young admirer.
"Isaura," said Madame Savarin, "I suspect there are moral causes for our
friend's failing health. Why should I disguise my meaning? You know
well how madly he is in love with you, and have you denied him hope?"
"I like M. Rameau as a friend; I admire him--at times I pity him."
"Pity is akin to love."
"I doubt the truth of that saying, at all events as you apply it now.
I could not love M. Rameau; I never gave him cause to think I could."
"I wish for both your sakes that you could make me a different answer;
for his sake, because, knowing his faults and failings, I am persuaded
that they would vanish in a companionship so pure, so elevating as yours:
you could make him not only so much happier but so much better a man.
Hush! let me go on, let me come to yourself,--I say for your sake I wish
it. Your pursuits, your ambition, are akin to his; you should not marry
one who could not sympathise with you in these. If you did, he might
either restrict the exercise of your genius or be chafed at its display.
The only authoress I ever knew whose married lot was serenely happy to
the last, was the greatest of English poetesses married to a great
English poet. You cannot, you ought not, to devote yourself to the
splendid career to which your genius irresistibly impels you, without
that counsel, that support, that protection, which a husband alone can
give. My dear child, as the wife myself of a man of letters, and
familiarised to all the gossip, all the scandal, to which they who give
their names to the public are exposed, I declare that if I had a daughter
who inherited Savarin's talents, and was ambitious of attaining to his
renown, I would rather shut her up in a convent than let her publish a
book that was in every one's hands until she had sheltered her name under
that of a husband; and if I say this of my child, with a father so wise
in the world's ways, and so popularly respected as my _bon homme_, what
must I feel to be essential to your safety, poor stranger in our land!
poor solitary orphan! with no other advice or guardian than the singing
mistress whom you touchingly call '_Madre_!' I see how I distress and
pain you--I cannot help it. Listen! The other evening Savarin came back
from his favourite cafe in a state of excitement that made me think he
came to announce a revolution. It was about you; he stormed, he wept--
actually wept--my philosophical laughing Savarin. He had just heard of
that atrocious wager made by a Russian barbarian. Every one praised you
for the contempt with which you had treated the savage's insolence. But
that you should have been submitted to such an insult without one male
friend who had the right to resent and chastise it,--you cannot think how
Savarin was chafed and galled. You know how he admires, but you cannot
guess how he reveres you; and since then he says to me every day: 'That
girl must not remain single. Better marry any man who has a heart to
defend a wife's honour and the nerve to fire a pistol: every Frenchman
has those qualifications!'"
Here Isaura could no longer restrain her emotions; she burst into sobs so
vehement, so convulsive, that Madame Savarin became alarmed; but when she
attempted to embrace and soothe her, Isaura recoiled with a visible
shudder, and gasping out, "Cruel, cruel!" turned to the door, and rushed
to her own room.
A few minutes afterwards a maid entered the salon with a message to
Madame Savarin that Mademoiselle was so unwell that she must beg Madame
to excuse her return to the salon.
Later in the day Mrs. Morley called, but Isaura would not see her.
Meanwhile poor Rameau was stretched on his sick-bed, and in sharp
struggle between life and death. It is difficult to disentangle, one by
one, all the threads in a nature so complex as Rameau's; but if we may
hazard a conjecture, the grief of disappointed love was not the immediate
cause of his illness, and yet it had much to do with it. The goad of
Isaura's refusal had driven him into seeking distraction in excesses
which a stronger frame could not have courted with impunity. The man was
thoroughly Parisian in many things, but especially in impatience of any
trouble. Did love trouble him--love could be drowned in absinthe; and
too much absinthe may be a more immediate cause of congested lungs than
the love which the absinthe had lulled to sleep.
His bedside was not watched by hirelings. When first taken thus ill--too
ill to attend to his editorial duties--information was conveyed to the
publisher of the Sens Commun, and in consequence of that information,
Victor de Mauleon came to see the sick man. By his bed he found Savarin,
who had called, as it were by chance, and seen the doctor, who had
said, "It is grave. He must be well nursed." Savarin whispered to De
Mauleon, "Shall we call in a professional nurse, or a _soeur de
charite_?"
De Mauleon replied, also in a whisper, "Somebody told me that the man had
a mother."
It was true--Savarin had forgotten it. Rameau never mentioned his
parents--he was not proud of them.
They belonged to a lower class of the bourgeoisie, retired shopkeepers,
and a Red Republican is sworn to hate of the bourgeoisie, high or low;
while a beautiful young author pushing his way into the Chaussee d'Antin
does not proclaim to the world that his parents had sold hosiery in the
Rue St. Denis.
Nevertheless Savarin knew that Rameau had such parents still living, and
took the hint. Two hours afterwards Rameau was leaning his burning
forehead on his mother's breast.
The next morning the doctor said to the mother, "You are worth ten of me.
If you can stay here we shall pull him through."
"Stay here!--my own boy!" cried indignantly the poor mother.