As soon as I rose from my place I perceived the young lady who had been
collecting money in the morning not far off. She was going by with her
mother without observing me, and I followed in the crowd that was making
its way to the door. But a pouring rain was falling from the clouds which
were so threatening two hours before, and a great many who were going out
suddenly stopped and came back to remain under shelter during the shower.
In consequence of this I all at once found myself beside the young lady,
who was diligently seeking her mother, from whom she had been separated by
the crowd. She observed me this time, and with a child‐like smile and a
tone of mingled terror and confidence that were equally touching, said:
“Excuse me, madame, but, as you are taller than I, please tell me if you
see my mother—a lady in black with a gray hat.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I see her, and she is looking for you also. I will aid
you in reaching her.”
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.