The following day was as gloomy as might have been expected from the
evening before. Never had I suffered such inexpressible anguish and
distress.
It is useless to say that I went to church alone, as on the preceding
Sunday, but I was not as calm and recollected as I was then. I was now in
a state of irrepressible dissatisfaction with everything and everybody,
myself not excepted, and yet I was very far from being in that humble
disposition of mind which subdues all murmuring, extinguishes resentment,
and throws a calm, serene light on the way one should walk in. I regretted
my hastiness of the evening before, because I realized that a different
course would have been more likely to further my wishes. In short, I felt
I ought to have managed more skilfully, but it never occurred to me I
might have been more patient. I found it difficult, above all, to calm the
excessive irritation caused by the recollection of Lorenzo’s manner
throughout our interview. I compared it with his appearance on the day
when he spoke to me for the first time concerning her.
What tenderness he then manifested! What confidence! What respect even!
Even while uttering her name—alas! with emotion—how manifest it was that,
while desirous of repairing his wrongs towards her, he felt incapable of
any towards me! Not a week had elapsed since that time, and yesterday how
cold, how hard! What implacable and freezing irony! What an incredible
change in his looks and words! Was it really Lorenzo who spoke to me in
such a way? Was it really he who gave me so indifferent and almost
disdainful a look?... No, he was no longer the same. A previous
fascination had recovered its power, and the fatal charm over which I had
so recently triumphed had regained its empire over a heart which I was,
alas! too feeble to retain, because I had no sentiments more profound and
elevated than those of nature to aid me!
As I have already said, I did not try to fathom Faustina’s motives. I
ought, however, to say a few words concerning her, if only through charity
for him whom she had followed, like an angel of darkness, to disturb his
legitimate happiness!
That she had long loved him I do not doubt—loved him with the unbridled
passion that sways all such hearts as hers. She thought he would return to
her. She believed she was preparing for herself a whole life of happiness
by two years of apparent virtue. Mistaken, wounded, and desperate, she had
at first yielded to an impetuous desire of perhaps merely seeing him once
more; perhaps, also, to avenge herself by destroying the happiness that
had defeated her dearest hopes.
She had calculated on the extent of her influence, and had calculated
rightly. But in order to exert it, I was necessary to her design, and she
played with consummate art the scene of our first encounter. She wished to
take a near view of the enemy she hoped to vanquish; she must sound the
heart she wished to smite. Alas! all that was worthy of esteem in that
heart was not perceived by him, and it was natural to underrate a treasure
not appreciated by its owner. What could I do, then? What advantage had I
over her, if, in Lorenzo’s eyes, I was not protected by a sacred,
insurmountable barrier which he respected himself? What was my love in
comparison with her passion? What was my intelligence in comparison with
that which she possessed? My beauty beside the irresistible charm that had
even fascinated me? Finally, my youth itself in comparison with all the
advantages her unscrupulous vanity gave her over me? In fact, I think it
seemed so easy at the first glance to vanquish me that she was almost
disarmed herself. But I also believe she soon discovered something more in
me than all she found so easy to eclipse. She saw I might in time succeed
in acquiring an ascendency over Lorenzo that no human influence could
destroy. She saw I might kindle a flame in his soul it would be impossible
to extinguish—a flame very different from that which either of us could be
the object of. She saw I might lead him into a world where she could no
longer be my rival, and that I wished to do so. She discerned the ardent
though confused desire that was in my heart. In a word, she had on her
side an intuition equal to that which I had on mine. She perceived the
good there was in me, as I had fathomed the evil there was in her, and she
knew she must overpower my good influence, which would render him
invulnerable whom she wished to captivate. She made use of all the weapons
she possessed to conquer me, or rather, alas! to conquer him—weapons
always deadly against hearts without defence. The very esteem she had
heretofore won became a snare to him when her pride, her passion, changed
their calculations—an additional snare, a danger that, combined with
others, would be fatal!...
If I speak of her now in this way, it is not to gratify a resentment long
since extinguished. Neither is it to palliate Lorenzo’s offences against
me and against God. It is solely to explain their secret cause, and to
repeat once more that human love, even the most tender, is a frail
foundation of that happiness in which God has no part; and honor likewise,
even the highest and most unimpeachable, is a feeble guarantee of a
fidelity of which God is not the bond, the witness, and the judge!...
I saw Lorenzo barely for a moment in the morning. I clearly perceived he
wished to make me forget what had passed between us the evening before,
but I did not see the least shade of regret. It was evident, on the
contrary, that he thought himself magnanimous in overlooking my
reproaches, and felt no concern at having merited them. In short, we
seemed to have changed _rôles_. As for me, I suffered so much on account
of the outburst I had indulged in that it would have been easy to call
forth acknowledgments that would have atoned for it. They only waited for
the least word of affection, but not one did he utter. Lando came for him
before two o’clock, and they went away together, leaving me with a sad,
heavy heart. I was not to see him again till my return from the Hôtel de
Kergy. Where would he pass the time meanwhile?... Would it really be in
Lando’s company? And was the business they had to settle really such as to
render it impossible for him to spend this last evening with me?... Would
it not have been a thousand times better to have remained silent, and, as
this was really our last day, and we were to leave on the next, would it
not have been wiser in me to have spent it wholly with him, ... even if
that included her?... Had I not committed an irreparable folly in yielding
to this explosion of unmistakable anger? This was indubitable, but it was
too late to remedy it. The die was cast. Lorenzo was gone! I passed the
afternoon, like that of the Sunday before, at church, but was pursued by a
thousand distractions which I had not now the strength to resist. On the
contrary, I took pleasure in dwelling on them, and my mind wandered
without any effort on my part to prevent it. I neglected, on the very day
of my life when I had the most need of light, courage, and assistance, to
have recourse to the only Source whence they are to be obtained, and I
returned home without having uttered a prayer.
Two hours later I was at the Hôtel de Kergy, and in the same room where
just a week before I had felt such lively emotion and conceived such
delightful hopes! But, ah! what a contrast between my feelings on that
occasion and those of to‐day! I seemed to have lived as many years since
as there had been days!...
Mme. de Kergy advanced to meet me as I entered, and I saw she noticed the
change in my face the moment she looked at me. I did not know how to feign
what I did not feel, and she had had too much experience not to perceive I
had undergone some pain or chagrin since the evening before. She asked me
no questions, however, but, on the contrary, began to speak of something
foreign to myself; and this did me good. I soon felt my painful emotions
diminish by degrees, and a change once more in the atmosphere around me,
as when one passes from one clime to another.
The guests were but few in number, and all friends of the family. Diana,
prettier than ever, and so lively as to excite my envy, was delighted to
see me, but did not observe the cloud on my brow; and if she had, she
would have been incapable of fathoming the cause. She hastened to point
out the various guests who had arrived.
“They are all friends,” said she; “for mother said you were coming to get
a little respite from society.”
Mme. de Kergy presented them to me one by one, and among the persons
introduced were several of celebrity, whom I regarded with all the
interest a first meeting adds to renown. But I saw nothing of Diana’s
brother among those present, and was beginning to wonder if I should never
see him again, when, just as dinner was ready, he made his appearance. He
bowed to me at a distance, appearing to have forgotten it was his place to
escort me to the table. A sign from his mother seemed to bring him to
himself, and he offered me his arm with some confusion, though without any
awkwardness. But after taking a seat beside me, he remained for some
moments without speaking, and then addressed his conversation to others
instead of me. I saw he was for some reason embarrassed, and I was
confused myself; for such things are contagious. He soon recovered his
accustomed ease, however, and when he finally addressed me it was with a
simplicity that set me, on my part, entirely at ease. His conversation
surprised and pleased me, and I felt I conversed better with him than any
one else. There was nothing trifling in what he said, and, above all, he
refrained from everything like a compliment, direct or indirect, and even
from every subject that might lead either to me or himself. Women
generally like nothing so much as a style of conversation that shows the
effect they produce, so it was not astonishing it had been employed with
me as well as with others. But this language had always embarrassed and
displeased me, and I now felt proportionately pleased with the unusual way
in which I was addressed—a way that seemed to raise me in my own
estimation. And yet he did not try to absorb my attention, but gave others
an opportunity of taking part in the conversation.
It soon became general, and I stopped to listen. I had then the pleasure—a
new one for me—of witnessing a kind of game in which thoughts and opinions
fly from one to another, wit mingles with gravity, and the intellect is
brightened by contact with the brilliancy of others. Gilbert was not the
only one in this circle who knew how to interest without fatiguing, and
excite, not by ridicule, but by a better kind of wit, the hearty, cordial
laugh that wounds neither the absent nor the present!
What struck me especially was the interest and almost deference with which
a man of well‐known eloquence, whose opinions had weight with every one,
endeavored to draw forth the opinions of others. It might have been said
he listened even better than he talked.
Thus during the whole time we were at table, and the evening that
followed, I realized the true meaning of the word _conversation_ in a
country where it originated, in the social world where it was coined, and
in the language which is, of all mediums, the most delicate, the most
perfect, and the most universal.
In spite of myself, I felt my sadness gradually vanish, and my laugh more
than once mingled freely in the merriment of others. I saw that Mme. de
Kergy observed this with pleasure, and a benevolent smile increased the
habitual sweetness of her expression. She was a woman whose unvarying
serenity was the result of great suffering, and who now sought nothing in
this world but the happiness of others; to whose pains she was as fully
alive as she was full of profound compassion.
She wore mourning, not only for her husband, but a number of children, of
whom Gilbert and Diana were the sole survivors. But far from centring her
affection on them, she seemed to have given to all who were young the love
she had cherished for those who were gone, and the vacant places they had
left in her maternal heart. I could not help regarding her with
astonishment, for I belonged to a country where it is more common to die
of grief than to learn how to live under its burden. I returned Mme. de
Kergy’s smile, and for an hour felt gay and almost happy. But by degrees
the burden, removed for an instant, fell back on my heart. The reality of
my troubles, and the thought of bidding farewell to this delightful circle
of friends, filled me with a melancholy it was impossible to repress. The
regret that weighed on my heart was for a moment as profound as that we
feel for our country when we fear never to behold it again.
I remained seated in an arm‐chair near the fire‐place, and fell into a
revery which was favored by Diana, who was at the piano. She was at that
moment playing with consummate skill an air of Chopin’s which seemed to
give expression to my very thoughts....
I awoke from my long revery, and felt a blush mount to my very forehead
when, raising my eyes, I found Gilbert’s fixed on mine.... And mine were
veiled with tears! I hastily brushed them away, stammering with confusion
that Chopin’s music always affected my nerves, and then, leaving my seat,
I approached the piano, where Diana continued to play one air after
another.... Gilbert remained with a pensive manner in the place where I
left him, looking at me from a distance, and trying, perhaps, to
conjecture the cause of my emotion.
But the approaching separation was sufficient to account for this. I was
that very evening to bid a long farewell to these new friends, whom
perhaps I should never meet again in this world! And when the hour came,
and Mme. de Kergy clasped me for the last time in her arms, I made no
effort to restrain my tears. Diana wept also, and, throwing her arms
around my neck, said:
“Oh! do not forget me. I love you so much!”
Her mother added with a tearful voice:
“May God watch over you wherever you go, my dear Ginevra! I shall follow
you in spirit with as much interest as if I had known you always!...”
Gilbert offered me his arm, and conducted me to the carriage without
uttering a word; but as I was on the point of entering it he said:
“Those you leave behind are greatly to be pitied, madame.”
“And I am much more so,” I replied, my tears continuing to flow without
restraint.
He remained silent an instant, and then said:
“As for me, madame, I may hope to see you again, for I shall go to Naples,
... _if I dare_.”
“And why should you not dare? You know well we shall expect you and
welcome you as a friend.”
He made no reply, but after helping me into the carriage, and I had given
him my hand, as I bade him adieu, he answered in a low tone: “_Au
revoir!_”