Lorenzo accompanied the marchioness to her carriage, and then returned an
instant to inform me she would dine with us that evening, and that he had
invited Lando to join us. He embraced me affectionately before he went
away, looking at me with an expression that caused me a momentary joy, but
which was followed by a feeling of melancholy as profound as if his kiss
had been an adieu.
But though my apprehensions of the evening before were allayed, I could
not get rid of a vague uneasiness impossible to overcome—perhaps the
natural result of the hopes that, on the one hand, had been disappointed
since the previous day, and, on the other, the fears that had been
removed. But my mind was still greatly troubled, and though the atmosphere
around me had apparently become calm and serene, I felt, so to speak, the
earth tremble almost insensibly beneath my feet, and could hear the
rumbling of thunder afar off.
My interview with Donna Faustina lasted so long that I had not been alone
half an hour before Mme. de Kergy and her daughter were announced. This
call, which, under any circumstances, would have given me pleasure, was
particularly salutary at this moment, for it diverted my mind and effected
a complete, beneficial change of impressions. After the somewhat feverish
excitement I had just undergone, it was of especial benefit to see and
converse with these agreeable companions of the evening before. I breathed
more freely, and forgot Donna Faustina while listening to their delightful
conversation. My eyes responded to Diana’s smiling looks, and her mother
inspired me with a mingled attraction and confidence that touched me and
awakened in my soul the dearest, sweetest, and most poignant memories of
the past. Mme. de Kergy perceived this, and likewise noticed, I think, the
traces of recent agitation in my face. She rose, as if fearing it would be
indiscreet to prolong her visit.
“Oh! do not go yet,” I said, taking hold of her hand to detain her.
“But you look fatigued or ill. I do not wish to abuse the permission you
gave me.”
“You do me good, on the contrary. I have a slight headache, it is true,
but it is soothing to talk with you.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, truly.”
“Well, then, let me propose, in my turn, a drive in my carriage. The
weather is fine to‐day. Come and take the air with us. It will do you
good, and afford us great pleasure.”
I felt quite disposed on my part to accept the sympathy manifested by Mme.
de Kergy, and at once accepted her invitation. I took a seat in her
_calèche_, and, after an hour’s drive with her and her daughter, I had not
only recovered from the nervous agitation of the morning, but we had
become fully acquainted, and for the first time in Paris I ceased to feel
myself a stranger.
“What a pity you are going away so soon!” exclaimed Diana.
“Yes, indeed,” said her mother; “for it seems to me you would find some
resources at my house you have not found elsewhere, and we might reveal
Paris under a different—perhaps I may say under a more favorable—aspect
than it generally appears to strangers, even in the fashionable world,
which is, I imagine, nearly the same everywhere.”
I made no reply, for the regret she expressed awoke a similar feeling in
my heart, and aroused all the recollections of the evening before. I once
more felt for an instant an ardent desire to take refuge in a different
sphere. I longed more earnestly than ever to escape from that in which
some vague peril seemed to threaten me. We were, it is true, to leave
Paris, but for what a motive!... What a pitiful aspect the life Lorenzo
wished to escape from took in comparison with the one so different which
Mme. de Kergy had just given me a glimpse of!... The thought of this
contrast embittered the joy I felt in view of our departure.
We agreed, however, as we separated, to meet every day during this last
week, and Mme. de Kergy promised to take me, before my departure, through
various parts of the unknown world of charity in Paris, whose existence
she had revealed to me, that I might, at least, have a less imperfect idea
of it before leaving France.
On my return I found Lando as well as Lorenzo in the drawing‐room, and
learned that, as the weather was fine, they had decided we should dine at
some _café_ I do not now remember, in the Champs Elysées, and afterwards,
instead of returning home, we should take seats under the trees, and
quietly listen in the open air to the music of one of the famous
orchestras. The hotel the Marquise de Villanera stopped at was on the way;
we could call for her, and she would remain with us the rest of the
evening.
This new programme did not displease me. I rather preferred this way of
meeting the marchioness again, instead of the one I anticipated after
Lorenzo told me she would dine with us. In spite of the favorable
impression she produced, this prospect annoyed me. The arrangement now
proposed suited me better. I unhesitatingly assented to it, but could not
help thinking, as I did so, how much I should have preferred passing the
evening alone with him!... I longed for solitude—but shared with him! My
heart was full of things I wished to give utterance to, and it seemed as
if a kind of fatality multiplied obstacles around us, and kept us absorbed
in matters wholly foreign to the sentiments I found it impossible to
awaken during the too brief moments in which we were together. My heart
was filled with these desires and regrets while I was preparing to
accompany him, and they cast a shade over the evening I am giving an
account of.
Lando took a seat in front of us, and our carriage soon drew up at the
door of the marchioness, who followed us in her little _coupé_. She
descended when we arrived at our place of destination, and Lorenzo, as was
proper, gave her his arm. I took Lando’s, and we proceeded towards the
room that had been reserved for us, traversing on our way the principal
coffee‐room, which was filled with people. Every eye turned towards us.
I saw that Lando’s vanity was more gratified than mine by the observations
that reached our ears. I looked at Lorenzo; he too seemed to be proud of
the effect produced by the one leaning on his arm, and for the first time
did not appear to notice the flattering murmur of which I was the object.
I noticed this, and it did not increase my good‐humor. But after we
arrived at the little dining‐room that was ours for the time, Faustina
seemed wholly occupied with me. We took off our bonnets, and while I was
silently admiring her magnificent tresses, which made her resemble some
antique statue, she went into open ecstasy about my “golden hair,” my
form, and my features; but while she was thus going on, evidently
supposing it was not displeasing to me, Lorenzo stopped her.
“Take care, marchioness,” said he, smiling, “you do not know Ginevra. Do
not take another step in that direction. No one can venture on that ground
_but myself alone_.”
He uttered these last words with an accent that made my heart beat and
rendered Faustina silent. An expression flashed from her blue eyes quicker
than the sharpest lightning, and seemed to give them a terrible
brilliancy. However, she soon resumed her playfulness and graceful ease of
manner. Like most Italian ladies, she had that naturalness, that total
absence of affectation, which often gives to their conversation an
originality without parallel, and makes all wit which is less spontaneous
than theirs seem factitious and almost defective. It has an inexpressible
charm which fascinates, enchants, sets every one at ease, and gives to
their very coquetry an appearance of artlessness.
We were full of liveliness and gayety at the table. Never was a dinner
more agreeable. Donna Faustina had an uncommon talent for relating things
without appearing to try to win attention. She could mimic other women
without any appearance of malice, and even sound their praises with an
earnestness that made her more charming than those of whom she was
speaking. Sometimes, too, she would change her tone, and, after making the
room ring with our laughter, she would entertain us with some serious
account which displayed a powerful, cultivated mind, with all her
exuberant gayety. In short, when she was present, nothing was thought of
but her, and even those whom she wittingly or unwittingly threw into the
shade could not deny the charm by which they were eclipsed.
It was, however, with some surprise I recalled after dinner the
conversation that had affected me so strongly some hours before, and I
asked myself if this was the melancholy, forsaken woman whose fate had
moved me to tears.
She seemed to have almost read my thoughts; for, as we were returning to
the open air, she left Lorenzo’s arm, and came to take mine.
“Ginevra,” said she in a low voice, “you find me gay and happy as a child
this evening. It is because I no longer feel alone. I have found, not only
friends, but a sister!... I am filled with love and gratitude to you.”
The Champs Elysées were illuminated. We could see each other as distinctly
as by daylight. She seemed much affected and sincere. Perhaps she spoke
the truth at that moment.... Perhaps she had only looked deep enough into
her own heart to feel persuaded that the romantic friendship she wished to
make me believe in was real. However this may be, the illusion did not
last long either for her, or Lorenzo, or myself.
The music was delightful, and I listened to it for some time in silence.
Faustina had taken a seat at my right hand. Lorenzo sat next her, and
Lando beside me.
“Bravo! Cousin Ginevra,” said the latter in a low tone as soon as the
first piece was ended. “Thank heaven, your influence is still all it ought
to be!... I am delighted, but not surprised!”
So many things had occupied my mind since my last conversation with him
that I was at a loss to know what he referred to.
“You have persuaded Lorenzo to leave Paris?”
“No; he proposed going of his own accord.”
“Indeed! When was that?”
“Last evening.”
“And when are you to leave?”
“Next Monday.”
“A whole week! It is a long time.... In spite of my personal regret to
lose you, I wish your departure could take place sooner.”
“And I also,” I murmured without knowing why, for at that moment I was not
at all preoccupied with the cause of Lando’s anxiety.
“Endeavor, at least, to make him pass every evening like this. Your friend
is pleasing; she amuses him, and may be able to divert him from other
things.”
“Lando, stop!” I exclaimed with a vehemence I could not repress. He
uttered a slight exclamation of surprise, and I hastily continued, lest he
might have comprehended me:
“Yes, be quiet, I beg, while they are playing the _Marche du Prophète_. I
wish to hear it undisturbed.”
But I did not listen to the _Marche du Prophète_. I only listened to—I
only heard—the voices beside me. Lorenzo and his companion at first
continued to converse in an animated manner on subjects apparently
indifferent, but concerning people and places I was entirely ignorant
of.... Recollections of the past were recalled which I knew nothing about.
A long silence soon intervened, and when at last they resumed the
conversation, it was in so low a tone I was unable to follow it.
Lorenzo and Lando returned on foot, and I took Donna Faustina home. Before
separating we embraced each other once more, saying _au revoir_; but after
leaving her I thought without any regret that before another week I should
bid her a long farewell, and perhaps even then I should not have been
sorry were it for ever.