“Oh! do not be alarmed,” said he. “I have not the slightest intention of
asking you to receive her. I remember too well the sentiments you
expressed on this point at Paris. No, I wish instead to let you know I am
going to escort her to Milan myself, and shall remain there till after the
Carnavalone.”(83)
My heart gave a violent bound. I could not utter a word, but the surprise
that rendered me dumb enabled me to be calm, and, when I finally recovered
my voice, I said:
“You are at liberty to go where you please, Lorenzo. It is a liberty,
moreover, you have always had, and have already made use of, and I cannot
conceive why _this time_ (I emphasized these words) you feel obliged to
tell me the precise object of your journey.”
“Because I wish to be frank with you this time, and I should have been so
before had I not remembered your reproaches, and wished to spare you the
occasion of renewing them. Besides, I no longer have it in my power to
prevent your jealousy, or forbid the conjectures you think proper to
indulge in.”
“Lorenzo!” I said almost in a scream, and I was on the point of giving
utterance to all that filled my heart to overflowing when, with the stern,
imperious accent he knew how to assume, though without rudeness or the
least violence, he stopped me.
“Not another word, Ginevra; not one, I beg, out of love for yourself. Do
not destroy your future happiness in a moment of anger! There are some
things I _will not_ listen to, and which, for your own interest as well as
mine, I forbid your saying!”
I had no chance to reply, for he took my hand before I could prevent it,
and said:
“_Au revoir_, Ginevra. I hope, at my return, to find you as calm and
reasonable as I desire.”
He kissed my hand and left the room.
The state in which he left me cannot be described. I need not say how
incapable I was of reflection, of effort, or any struggle whatever against
the feelings it was natural I should have. I felt outraged as it seemed to
me no woman had ever been. My mind lost its clearness, my judgment was
impaired, and for some hours I was wild.
After Lorenzo’s departure, it seemed impossible to remain alone. I could
not endure inaction and repose for an instant. I ordered my carriage for a
drive—not, as usual, with Stella and in a direction where I should find
solitude, but, on the contrary, where I was most sure of meeting a crowd.
I smilingly returned the numerous salutations I received, and, instead of
appearing troubled or downcast, I looked around with eager interest, as if
hoping to find some means of escaping from myself and leaving my troubles
forever behind me.
I returned home as late as possible, and found Stella awaiting me. She had
been disappointed at my not calling for her, and had come to ascertain the
reason. Finding I had gone out, she was surprised I had forgotten her, but
was still more so when I told her I should go to the ball at the French
ambassador’s that evening. I seldom went anywhere alone, and it was only
the day before I had told her decidedly I should never attend another
ball. Her eyes were fastened on me with a look of sympathy, as she said:
“Poor Ginevra!”
I begged her in a hasty, irritated manner not to waste any pity on me, and
then added:
“To‐morrow, if you like, we will talk about it; but not to‐day, I beg. Let
us give our whole thoughts to the ball. You will go, I hope.”
“Yes, if you have really decided to go.”
“That is right. Good‐by till this evening, then.”
Thus dismissed, she left me, and I summoned my waiting‐maid to do what I
had never required before. I ordered everything I was to wear to be spread
out before me. I examined my diamonds and pearls, and gave the most minute
directions about the way I intended to wear them. I then began my toilet,
though long before the time, and was as long about it as possible. So many
women, thought I, seem to take infinite pleasure in creating a sensation
when they enter a ball‐room, receiving compliments and homage on all
sides, why should I not try this means of diversion as well as other
people? I am beautiful, there is no doubt; very beautiful, they say. Why
should I not endeavor to excite admiration? Why not become vain and
coquettish in my turn?
In a word, the hour had arrived spoken of in the first part of this story,
as the reader will recollect—the hour when, for the first and only time
after my mother’s death and the tragical end of Flavio Aldini, the lively
vanity of girlhood, roused by irritation, jealousy, and grief, broke
through the restraint which an ineffaceable remembrance and the grace of
God had imposed upon it, and for once I saw what I should doubtless have
been without the divine, mysterious influence that warred within me
against myself. I had corresponded to this grace, it is true, by my
sincere, determined will, but my volition had now become feeble and
uncertain, and I set out for the ball after thus carefully preparing in
advance the draught of vanity I wished to become intoxicated with.
I had the satisfaction I desired in all its plenitude. I was handsome,
stylish, and elegantly dressed; and yet all this is not the chief cause of
a lady’s success in society. Let those who think so be persuaded of their
error. People accord to these gifts a certain respectful admiration, but
such a success as I obtained that evening—brilliant, demonstrative, and
universal—does not depend on the beauty a person is endowed with, but on
the wish to please she manifests, and this is why the victory is sometimes
so strangely awarded!... I was changed in no respect, except in the
disposition with which I attended the ball, and yet I did not seem to be
the same person. I was surrounded as I had never been before. I excited a
kind of enthusiasm. I received compliments that evening I had never
listened to before. And when, contrary to my usual custom, I announced my
intention to dance, everybody contended for my hand. But, as the evening
advanced, I grew weary of it all, and began to feel my factitious,
feverish gayety subside. When I rose to waltz for the last time, it was
with an effort, and, after my partner led me back to my seat, my smile
vanished, and a cold sense of my wretchedness came over me with unpitying
grasp. “All is useless,” a secret, sorrowful voice seemed to say; “you
must awaken to the reality of your sufferings....”
At that moment I heard beside me a familiar, half‐forgotten voice—calm,
sonorous, and sweet, but now somewhat sarcastic:
“I cannot aspire to the honor of dancing with the Duchessa di Valenzano,
but I hope she will not refuse to recognize me.”
I eagerly turned around, and there beside me I saw the person who uttered
these words was Gilbert de Kergy.