When I saw Mario again, therefore, I thanked him affectionately for his
generosity, but declared I would not accept the restoration of the
inheritance I had renounced at the time of my marriage with the Duca di
Valenzano. Livia had done the same on entering the convent. Mario was, and
should remain, my father’s only heir. I was determined not to allow any
change in this arrangement. I had great difficulty in overcoming his
resistance; and when I could not help remarking that the sacrifices which
awaited me would cost me but little, he stopped me by saying I had not yet
made the trial, and insisted I should take no immediate resolution with
regard to the matter.
“Very well,” said I, “if it is your wish, we will discuss the point at a
later day. Let us confine our attention for the moment to what is of much
more importance. You know very well we cannot long remain ignorant where
Lorenzo is, and as soon as we know I shall go to him.”
“Go to him?”
“Do you doubt it?”
Mario looked at me with surprise, and was silent for an instant. Then he
said:
“Sister, Lorenzo’s conduct has been so notorious that, notwithstanding the
solicitude I acknowledge he manifested for you at our last interview, no
one would be astonished at your remaining among your friends and availing
yourself of the means he has used to deliver you from the consequences of
his folly.”
“Accept this beautiful villa, which he wishes to except from the sale of
his property?... Surround myself with the comforts you have together
provided me with, and leave him—him!—alone, poor, struggling against the
difficulties of beginning a new life?... Really, Mario, if you believe I
would consent to this, it is a proof that, though you are less severe than
you once were to your poor little sister, you are not altogether just to
her.”
Mario took my hand, and kissed it with emotion.
“Pardon me, Ginevra; I confess I did not think you were so generous or so
courageous!”
Courageous!... I was not so much so as he thought. A hope had risen in my
heart which would have rendered poverty itself easy to endure, and even in
such a case I should not have been an object of pity. But here there was
no question of poverty. My sight was clearer than that of Mario or Lando,
and I was, in fact, more sensible than either of my two advisers. It was
only a question, at most, of a temporary embarrassment. Lorenzo’s land,
the valuable objects accumulated in his different houses, and the sale of
all my diamonds, would suffice, and more than suffice, to fill the pit dug
by his extravagance, however deep it might be. Besides, his talents alone,
as soon as he chose to turn them to account, excluded all fear of actual
poverty. The mere name of _Lorenzo_ with which he signed all his
productions had long been familiar to the art‐world, and consequently he
would not be obliged to strive for a position.
It was merely a question, therefore, of the relinquishment of all this
display, this magnificence, this overwhelming profusion of superfluities,
and all the luxuries of life that now surrounded me. Ah! I did not dare
tell them what I thought of such _sacrifices_! I did not dare speak of my
indifference, which greatly facilitated their task, however, and still
less did I dare reveal the cause, for fear of being accused of madness,
and that at a time when they should have considered it a proof of the
beneficial effects of supernatural influences on ordinary life. I
contented myself, therefore, with merely explaining the reason why my
situation seemed to me by no means desperate. They were relieved to see me
take things in such a way, and from that moment the necessary changes, so
painful, in their estimation, were undertaken without any delay, though
without haste, without fear, without concealment, and all the so‐called
great sacrifices began to be accomplished.
It would be difficult to render an account of all I experienced during the
following days and weeks. All I can say is that I felt as if my shackles
and barriers one by one were removed, and at every step I breathed a purer
air!... Does this mean I had become a saint, aspiring to heroic sacrifices
and utter renunciation? Assuredly not. I repeat it, I could have no
illusion of this kind. I clearly comprehended that this catastrophe, which
seemed so terrible to others, which Lorenzo considered beyond my strength
to bear, and would have thrown him into an excess of despair, only tore
off the brilliant exterior of my life. But I had often experienced a
confused, persistent desire at various times and places to be freed from
this outer husk, and I now began to understand a thousand things that
heretofore had been inexplicable in the bottom of my soul.
The magnificence that surrounded me belonged, however, to my station, and
all this display was not without reason or excuse; but I felt it impeded
my course, and, as a pious, profound soul(180) has said of happiness
itself, in striving to attain the true end, it only served to _lengthen
the way_!
There was, then, neither courage nor resignation in this case. I was
reasonable and satisfied, as every human being is who in an exchange feels
he has gained a thousand times more than he has lost! The only anxiety I
now felt was to discover the place to which Lorenzo had betaken himself. I
did not in the least believe he had gone either to the Levant or America,
but every means seemed to have been used by him to defeat our efforts to
discover him. One of the two boats that left Messina the night of his
departure was to touch at Marseilles on the way. Reflection and instinct
both assured me he had proceeded no further, but from that place had gone
where he could most easily resume his labors and begin his new life. In
this respect Rome or Paris would have equally suited him, but it seemed
improbable he had returned to Italy. It was therefore to Paris I directed
my search, and I wrote Mme. de Kergy to aid me in finding him.
Perhaps I should have hesitated had Gilbert been at home; but he was
absent, absent for a year, and before his return I should have time to
reflect on the course I ought to pursue, perhaps ask the advice of his
mother herself, to whom, meanwhile, I made known my present situation, my
wishes, my projects, and the extreme anxiety to which I hoped with her
assistance to put an end.
It was not long before I received a reply, and it was much more favorable
than I had ventured to hope. Her large, affectionate heart seemed not only
to comprehend fully what I had merely given her an outline of, but to have
penetrated to the bottom of mine, and divined even what I had not
attempted to say. I felt I had in her a powerful support. Her inquiries
were promptly and successfully made, and the result was what I had
foreseen. Lorenzo was really in Paris, in an obscure corner of the
Faubourg Saint‐Germain. He had narrow quarters adjoining a large studio,
where he had already begun to work. “His celebrity is too great for him to
remain long concealed,” wrote Mme. de Kergy; “besides, the very thing he
is aiming at would prevent all possibility of his remaining long
incognito. Several of his friends have already found him out and called to
see him, but he has only consented to receive one of them, whose counsels
and assistance are indispensable. This gentleman is also a friend of ours.
I have learned through him that as soon as your husband gets under way in
his work, he intends to enter into communication with those he has left,
and probably with you, my dear Ginevra; but he persists in his intention
of remaining by himself, and not allowing you to share his lot. He thinks
he has arranged everything so you can continue to live very nearly the
same as before, with the exception of his presence, which, he says, he has
done nothing to make you desire. You will have some difficulty in
overcoming his obstinacy in this respect; you will find it hard to induce
one who is so sensible of his wrongs towards you to accept the heavy
burden of gratitude. All the sacrifices he imposes on himself will cost
him far less than to consent to those you are so ready to make for him.
Men are all so. Be patient, therefore; be prudent, and have sufficient
thoughtfulness and feeling to manifest your generosity in such a way that
he will perceive it as little as possible....”
It was the easier to follow Mme. de Kergy’s advice that the course she
wished me to pursue would be strictly sincere. I wrote him, therefore,
without affectation or restraint, what my heart dictated, but I wrote in
vain; my first and second letters remained unanswered. The third drew
forth a reply, but it contained a refusal of my wishes which betrayed all
the motives indicated by my aged friend. Alas! to make others accept
forgiveness is often a thousand times more difficult than to obtain it
ourselves!
I was not discouraged, however. I made preparations for my departure, as
if he had sent for me, and I awaited impatiently the time, without the
least doubt as to its arrival, determined to find some means of hastening
it, should the delay be too much prolonged.