I went up to my chamber, not only startled at the vividness of the
impression I had received, but decided as to my course. The words
_falsehood_ and _treachery_ that came to my mind produced a powerful
effect on me, and would, perhaps, have had the same effect on every woman
who happened to be in a similar position, if she had the courage to call
things in this way by their right names. It is pleasant and delightful to
inspire and to experience those profound emotions sung by poets and
exalted by writers of fiction, but it is not noble to be false. No poet
has ever said so, no writer of fiction has ventured to insinuate it. Now,
it is this falsity, so essential a feature in all these little dramas of
the heart (real or fictitious), which ought, it seems to me, to disgust
even those who do not act from any higher motive than those of the world.
As for me, the mere thought that it would henceforth be impossible to
speak of Gilbert’s friendship without falsehood, and, at Lorenzo’s return,
that I should not have the same right as before to look him in the
face—this thought, I say, was sufficient to inspire me at this moment with
so much determination that I thought my irresolution at an end. It seemed
as if I should have but little difficulty in accomplishing the task from
which I no longer endeavored to escape. But in the evening, when, at a
late hour, Gilbert arrived, I was somewhat moved at perceiving my outward
calmness and animation made him suppose I acquiesced in his wishes; for,
after looking at me an instant, he seemed suddenly relieved from a lively
apprehension, and his eyes flashed with joy.
There was considerable company in the drawing‐room that evening, and
consequently a good deal of noise. They had a kind of rehearsal of what
was to take place the following evening. My cousins were at the piano with
the baron and Lando. Leslie, at a distance, was gazing at Stella, who,
under the pretext of looking over a volume of Dante, in order to select
something to recite, was seated apart, silent and absorbed. There was no
one on the terrace, and I proceeded in that direction. I felt that
Gilbert’s eyes followed me; but he hesitated about joining me. I likewise
felt some hesitation, but, fearing I might again become irresolute, and
wishing at once to make it impossible to yield to the danger, I looked up,
and motioned for him to follow me. In an instant he was at my side, and,
as I remained silent, he said in an agitated tone:
“I hope you have pardoned me, madame.”