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.”