And this strange, fatal connection between Ivan's death and the fate

that might be awaiting me,--must it not act upon Madame de Fersen's

imagination and excite her interest in me? If she saw but little of me,

did she not know that this reserve on my part was a cruel sacrifice I

imposed upon myself for her sake?

At other times, I acknowledge the weakness, the persistency of Irene's

predictions, in spite of myself, chilled me.

I experienced a sort of vertigo, of fearful attraction, similar to that

which draws you to look down a precipice when you are walking at its

edge.

Unless the weather was too cold or rainy, the nurse brought Irene to me

every day.

By degrees she returned to blooming health.

About a fortnight after our first meeting, she brought me a large

bouquet of roses, telling me her mother sent them, but, unfortunately,

they were not as beautiful as the roses of Khios.

This souvenir of Catherine's overjoyed me, for I had spoken to her with

enthusiasm of those lovely roses.

Every day after that Irene brought me roses; and every day also she told

me, with an air of mystery, without ever making a mistake, what her

mother would do that evening, whether she was going to court, or in

society, or to the theatre.

Thanks to this amiable forethought of Madame de Fersen, I met her very

frequently. I went regularly to her receptions, and, therefore, saw her

almost every evening; but as in society I confined myself to greeting

her most respectfully, exchanging merely a few ceremonious words, our

meetings were unobserved.

Once or twice I called on her of a morning; but by a singular chance, or

rather in consequence of the assiduities with which she was surrounded,

I never found her alone.

Had I asked her for a private interview she would have granted it, but,

true to the plan I had mapped out, I would not ask for it at present.

Besides, a smile, a glance that we mysteriously exchanged in the crowd,

did it not repay me a thousand times for my reserve and my discretion?

Would I not give the most public and most marked attentions for the

slightest favour which should be unknown to the world!

Notwithstanding the daily intercourse which I maintained with Madame de

Fersen through Irene, notwithstanding our exchange of flowers (for each

day I also brought Irene a beautiful bouquet of roses, which her mother

wore at night), not a soul suspected this delightful intimacy.

As a measure of prudence I would meet Irene in turn at the Tuileries, at

the Luxembourg, at Mousseaux, or on the boulevards. I never made use of

my horses to go to these meetings, for fear of attracting attention.

I wrapped myself up in a cloak, and took delight in putting as much

mystery in these meetings as if Madame de Fersen herself had been in

question.

It was perfect folly, but I waited for the hour of meeting with this

child full of candour and innocence with a loving, restless, ardent

impatience; I counted the minutes, the seconds; I feared and hoped by

turns; in fact, I experienced all the irritating and delicious emotions

of the most passionate love.

I commented eagerly on each of Irene's words, to seek, to discover, her

mother's secret thought! And when I fancied I could interpret this

thought in a manner more tender than usual, I returned home with

paradise in my heart.

Inexhaustible treasures of a pure and chaste love! Philosophers,

atheists, or the strong-minded in love will, doubtless, mock me. I

myself, before my sojourn at Khios, would not have understood all its

charm.

I was now more than ever in love.

By the rare versatility of her endowments, Madame de Fersen achieved an

exalted position in society. Calumny itself admired her and praised her

beyond measure, doubtless to give a colour of impartiality, whereby its

accusations became more dangerous.

My interviews with Irene had continued for about three weeks.

One evening at one of Madame de Fersen's receptions, the prince said to

me, in confidence:

"The frivolous and subtle air of Paris is fatal to serious thought; the

trifles of the world gain the mastery over reason. Would you believe it,

Cæsar's wife has become quite indifferent to the interests of the

empire! In a word, can you realise that Madame dc Fersen has become

totally heedless of politics? Can you imagine such a thing?"

I compared this symptom with the signs of impatience and uneasiness

shown by Catherine during my long conversation with Madame de V----, and

I resolved to push further my observations.

The next evening at a ball at the English embassy, at which Madame de

Fersen was present, I again met Madame de V----.

I paid assiduous attentions to her the whole evening, and observed

Madame de Fersen's countenance; it was impassible.

Next day I feared, or rather I hoped, that Irene would not appear at her

accustomed hour, or that she might come perhaps without her bouquet. I

would have considered this change as a mark of resentment or jealousy on

the part of Madame de Fersen; but Irene and the bouquet of roses

appeared as usual.

Piqued by this indifference, and wishing to ascertain if it were real;

desirous, also, of completely misleading public opinion, I continued to

pay the most marked attentions to Madame de V----.

Delighted to have found a means of annoying the minister, and of keeping

him constantly agitated and on the watch, Madame de V---- encouraged me

with all her might.

She called this exhibition of cruel coquetry "heaping fuel upon the

fire."

Now, at the risk of being taken for a log (as Pluvier would have said),

I so skilfully fed the devouring jealousy of the minister that, after

eight or ten days of this kind of courting, Madame de V---- and I found

ourselves horribly compromised; and it was generally recognised and

taken for granted that the reign, or rather the bondage, of the minister

was at an end.

I became aware of the gravity of these absurd rumours by the friendly,

courteous, and gracious tone of the minister, who was too much a man of

the world to appear cold or sulky towards his supposed rival.

This discovery enlightened me as to the folly of my conduct, which not

only might wound Madame de Fersen, if she loved me, but might lower me

irreparably in her estimation. Instinctively I felt that I had pushed

things too far.

These fears were increased by a singular circumstance.

One evening at a concert at Lord P----'s, I had been for some time

chatting with Madame de V----. We were in a small parlour where only a

few persons were gathered. Little by little, these adjourned to the

tea-room, leaving Madame de V---- and myself perfectly alone.

I was preoccupied from a very natural cause; Madame de V---- had just

informed me of the receipt of a letter announcing the arrival of Madame

de Pënâfiel in Rome.

While talking, I happened to look at a mirror, reflecting the door of

the salon. What was my amazement when I saw Madame de Fersen, whose eyes

were fastened on me with a most sorrowful look!

I quickly rose, but she disappeared.

I awaited the morrow with anxiety.

Irene came, as usual, with her bouquet of roses, and told me her mother

was going that night to the Variétés.

I made her twice repeat to me this information, for the choice of the

theatre seemed extraordinary, but, reflecting on the prince's taste for

vaudevilles, I explained it to myself.

I sent to secure a stall, and in the evening went to that theatre.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BEAR AND THE PACHA

Among other plays at the Variétés that evening, they were giving "The

Bear and the Pacha." This was one of M. de Fersen's triumphs at

Constantinople, where he had taken, with great success, the part of

Schaabaham, and he was most eager to see Brunet playing the same part.

Madame de Fersen arrived about nine o'clock, with her husband and the

Duchess of ----. They took their places in a proscenium box, of which

the lattices were half raised.

Catherine saw me, and gave me a gracious bow.

I found her pale and changed.

I have no recollection of the piece they played, and on the fall of the

curtain I went to Madame de Fersen's box.

She was not well. I was looking at her attentively, when the prince

said: "Be our umpire; you rarely see Madame de Fersen, and can better

than any one notice a change; do you not find she has fallen away very

much?"

I said I did not think so; that Madame de Fersen seemed to me in perfect

health. The prince proclaimed me an impudent flatterer, etc.

The curtain rose, and I left the box.

I returned to my seat.

They began "The Bear and the Pacha."

This burlesque did not bring a smile to Madame de Fersen's countenance,

but her husband applauded frantically, and I must confess I shared the

general merriment.

One of those loudest in laughter was a man seated just in front of me,

and of whom I could only see the thick, gray, curly locks.

I had never heard such ringing, joyous laughter,--at times it became

almost convulsive. At these times the man clung with both hands to the

barrier dividing the stalls from the orchestra, and, strengthened by

this prop, gave full scope to his hilarity.

Nothing is more contagious than laughter; the witticisms of the play had

already excited my risible faculties, and, in spite of myself, the wild

uproariousness of this man so affected me that I soon was nothing more

than his echo, and to each of his immoderate bursts I responded with a

no less boisterous explosion of laughter.

In short, I had not noticed that Madame de Fersen had left the theatre.

The curtain fell, and I rose.

The man who had yielded to such boisterous mirth also rose, turned

towards me as he put on his hat, and exclaimed, with a return of joyful

glee: "What a buffoon that Odry is!"

Amazed, I leaned on the back of my stall.

I had recognised the pirate of Porquerolles, the pilot of Malta.

I remained riveted to my seat, which was the end one of the orchestra.

His seat was in front of mine, no one had to pass by us, and the

spectators were slowly filing out.

It was indeed he!

It was his look, his bony, bronzed face, his thick, black eyebrows, his

sharp teeth pointed and divided, as I could see, for he smiled with his

strange smile, as he gazed at me audaciously.

The footlights were lowered, and the theatre became dark.

"It is you!" I cried, at length coming out of my stupor, and as if my

chest had thrown off an enormous weight.

"Yes, certainly 'tis I. You remember me, then? Porquerolles and Malta!

that is the password."

"Wretch!" I exclaimed.

"How, wretch?" he replied, with astounding effrontery. "We had a good

free fight, I hope! If in boarding I stuck a knife in your shoulder, you

answered me with a sharp axe on the head, my good friend! On the other

hand, if your English dogs thrashed the crew of my mystic, I had the

good luck to rip up your lord's yacht on the reefs of La Wardi. Hence we

are even. And now we both meet splitting our sides at 'The Bear and the

Pacha;' and, instead of finding the encounter droll, you get mad. Do you

know that is a pretty low trick, my good friend?"

I must acknowledge that his audacity paralysed me. "But if I were to

have you arrested?" I cried, rising and seizing him by the collar.

The pirate answered imperturbably, without seeking to free himself:

"That would be a fine trick to play. You may reckon besides how easy it

would be to prove to an idiot of a Parisian police commissioner how I

boarded your yacht off Cape Spartel, and how I wrecked her on the rocks

of La Wardi, sou'west by south of the southern coast of the island of

Malta. He'd think you were talking Greek, and would say you were crazy,

my friend. Now, crazy you are not. You are a lad with a good stout fist,

and not afraid of anything. If my life did not belong for the moment to

my bride, to my charming bride," he added mockingly, and emphasising the

word, "I should propose to take up our conversation where we left off on

boarding the yacht. But, my word! my little wife is waiting for me, and

I prefer her conversation to yours."

"Here, now, gentlemen, we are going to shut up," cried the watchman of

the theatre.

"That's so! and here we are chattering like two magpies. Adieu, young

man, farewell," said the pirate.

And in two strides he disappeared.

I was so dazed that I did not leave the theatre until a second call from

the watchman recalled me to my senses.

When, on my return home, I thought over my stupid amazement at meeting

the pirate of Porquerolles, I charged myself with vacillation, and

reproached myself for not having the rascal arrested; but, as he very

wisely remarked, it would have been most embarrassing to me to prove

forthwith my accusations, and on second thoughts, considering the

difficulties presenting themselves, I concluded that my course of action

was more judicious than I had thought at first.

Nevertheless, I wished to inform M. de Sérigny of the presence of this

wretch in Paris, and of his double crime, which especially interested

England; M. de Sérigny, as Minister of Foreign Affairs, could alone

countenance and favour such steps as might necessarily be taken by Lord

Stuart, then ambassador to France, to gather proofs of the crime, and

obtain the extradition of the culprit.

The next morning, therefore, I wrote a few words to the minister,

requesting the favour of a few minutes' interview.

CHAPTER XIX

THE INTERVIEW

I was preparing, to go to the Luxembourg, where I expected to meet

Irene, when I received a note from Madame de Fersen, asking me to call

on her about two o'clock.

Since her arrival in Paris I had never met her alone.

To what should I attribute the wish she expressed? To her desire to see

me? To her secret vexation at the rumours spread regarding my intimacy

with Madame de V----? Catherine might think these rumours well founded,

since she had surprised me alone with Madame de V---- at the concert at

Lord P----'s house.

I could not say, but I waited for our interview with restless happiness

and irresistible agitation.

I was going to see Catherine once more, to see her alone! At this

thought my heart beat with hope and ecstasy at last; a word from her

would reward me for my self-denial, for the generous sacrifice I had

made, for the assiduous cares to which her beloved child almost owed her

return to health.

From this interview I would draw fresh strength to devote myself still

further; and then, I had so much to say to her! I felt so proud of my

love, so happy to feel my heart still young enough to appreciate the

pure joys which enchanted me; to feel that confidence in the strength,

in the sincerity, of my attachment which enabled me to hope that some

day my love would be reciprocated.

At the appointed hour, I went to Madame de Fersen's.

She received me in a small parlour which she usually occupied, but which

I had not yet seen.

"What a long time since I have seen you!" I cried with effusion as I

held out my hand.

Madame de Fersen coldly gave me hers, and answered:

"I believe I had the pleasure of seeing you last night at the

Variétés, monsieur."

"You call that seeing one another!" I replied, with sad astonishment.

"Ah, I was right when I feared that the 'conversations of the saloon'

would soon be forgotten by you!"

"I shall never forget our pleasant voyage," answered Madame de Fersen,

in the same cold tone. "I am greatly obliged to you for the trouble you

have taken in coming to see me this morning. I wish to thank you a

thousand times, monsieur, for your kindness in yielding to my daughter's

capricious fancies. She is now quite well, and I fear-- I do not wish

any longer to take advantage of your goodness towards her, monsieur."

Madame de Fersen's tone was icy, almost scornful. What she said seemed

so true, so natural, so little influenced by resentment, that I was

thunderstruck. I suffered horribly, and could find no word of reply.

My silence was so marked, that Madame de Fersen found herself obliged to

add, very coldly:

"I doubtless appear to you very ungrateful, monsieur?"

"Madame," I said, with deep emotion, "I do not know how I have deserved

such a reception."

"And what claim have you to a different reception from me?" proudly

inquired Madame de Fersen.

My painful astonishment was at its height; for a moment I deluded

myself, and endeavoured to attribute to jealousy this reception so

different from what I had anticipated, but I repeat, Madame de Fersen's

countenance betrayed no sign of repressed or concealed emotion.

I resolutely took my stand. I could not answer Madame de Fersen's

question without reminding her of my noble and generous conduct towards

her; and unwilling to lower myself by uttering reproaches, I was silent

on that subject, and only said to her, endeavouring to conceal my

emotion:

"The object of the interview you requested is doubtless attained. May I

ask, madame, if you have any further orders to give me?"

"None, monsieur, but I again wish to express my grateful

acknowledgments," said Madame de Fersen, rising.

This harshness shocked me. I was about to answer with some bitterness,

when I became aware of something which I had not yet remarked, and which

renewed a faint hope.

During our short interview, Madame de Fersen had not once raised her

eyes from the embroidery upon which she was working.

Wishing to assure myself of the correctness of my observation, I stayed

on some moments without uttering a word.

Catherine remained with her eyes lowered, instead of inquiring by a look

the meaning of my silent presence.

"Adieu, madame," I said.

"Adieu, monsieur."

And I left without her granting me one single look of compassion or

sorrow.

Her hand alone seemed to tremble slightly on her embroidery as she said

adieu.

I took my departure heartbroken.

I had too great and too conscious a distrust of myself and my deserts to

have the slightest hope of any success with Catherine.

I could not yield to my customary suspicious impulse, for I had implicit

faith in Madame de Fersen's sincerity, and I doubted of ever having

aroused any sentiment in her heart. "She feels no tender affection for

me, and her friendship even has vanished in the glare of brilliant

worldly diversions."

I had been away from her almost always, and the effects and results of

absence are unbounded and varied.

At times it strengthens a woman's secret sympathy, by concentrating her

thoughts on the man who has attracted her, and whose charm is

exaggerated by the distant mirage. A woman finds a proud, sad, and

mysterious delight in the bitterness of her solitary regrets; she scorns

the indifferent ones who occupy a place near her, which she so ardently

wishes to see filled by one precious to her, and she detests those eager

in their attentions because they are base enough to be there while the

preferred one is far away.

Often, however, absence is forgetfulness, for some hearts are like

mirrors, and only reflect objects that are present.

I therefore believed myself entirely forgotten by Madame de Fersen. I

had anticipated the possibility of this cruel predicament, and, if it

gave me deep sorrow, it did not occasion me great surprise.

In the climax of my despair, I made a thousand projects. I determined to

shake off this grief, to give myself up to all life's dissipations, to

seek amorous distraction in some fresh entanglement; but it takes time

and a strong will for a heart deeply smitten to transfer its worship.

When a man knows he is loved, and is in possession of the woman he

loves, he never experiences the slightest remorse at committing an

infidelity; but when he is passionately desirous, and still anxiously

looking for an avowal, faithlessness is an impossibility. He has the

resolution to maintain fidelity only so long as he has not the right to

offer it.

CHAPTER XX

A MISSION

The day after my interview with Madame de Fersen I was sadly

preoccupied, when my servant announced M. de Sérigny.

I was much astonished at his visit, for which, however, he accounted

very graciously, saying that, passing by my door on his way to the

Chambers, he had come in on the chance of saving me the trouble of going

to the Foreign Office for the interview which I had requested.

This alacrity on his part did not at first seem natural to me; but, on

reflection, I thought the rumours current about me and Madame de V----

had induced the minister to do something in excellent taste by showing

himself so considerate.

In a few words I related to him the history of the pirate, and our

singular encounter at the Variétés.

M. de Sérigny said that he was going immediately to confer with the

British ambassador, and that he would consider the means to be used in

order to seize so great a scoundrel.

Our conversation having fallen on travels, M. de Sérigny asked me with

interest about those I had undertaken. He then became very flattering,

insinuating, and amiable; told me he had known my father very well under

the Empire; spoke of him as a man of fine attainments, great

determination, and infinite tact, who had a remarkable knowledge of the

world and of men. He said that the Emperor would assuredly have employed

him outside the military service, by entrusting him with some important

mission, if my father's open and positive character could have submitted

to Napoleon's caprices.

I was endeavouring to fathom the meaning of these flattering remarks,

when M. de Sérigny said to me, with an air of charming good nature:

"Will you permit an old friend of your family to ask you a question? If

it seems to you indiscreet, pray attribute it solely to the interest I

take in your father's name."

"I am listening to you, monsieur, and can only be grateful for the

good-will you show me."

"Well, how is it that, with your education, your name, your fortune and

position, with the experience you have acquired in your numerous

travels, in fact with all your excellent connections, you have never

thought of taking up some serious occupation,--of entering, for

instance, into public affairs?"

"In the first place," I replied to the minister, "I am far from

possessing all the advantages you attribute to me; moreover, I have not

the slightest ambition, and my idle life pleases me hugely."

"But your country?"

"What about my country?"

"Do you not owe it a few years, at least, of your existence?"

"And what would it do with such a gift?"

"Come, come, it is impossible that you deceive yourself to such an

extent, be your modesty ever so great. You know full well that your

success in the world would not be what it is, if you were not of special

value. No man in society is less conspicuous, or more spoken of, than

you. Unless you have a great historic French name, unless you are a

great poet, a celebrated artist, or a great statesman, what is the

hardest thing to acquire in society--you may rely on my extensive

experience--is that indescribable something which causes people to turn

and look at you when your name is announced in a salon. Well, that is a

privilege you enjoy; you are young, and yet you have influence, you have

authority in the world, since people busy themselves very much about

what you do and what you do not do."

These exaggerated flatteries were so transparent that I clearly saw that

M. de Sérigny wished, if I may be pardoned the expression, to work upon

my feelings, to induce me as a point of honour to renounce my flirtation

with Madame de V----. In spite of my sadness, this little comedy amused

me, and I endeavoured to make it last as long as possible, by seeming to

be caught by M. de Sérigny's praises.

"But," said I, with a modest smile, "admitting, monsieur, that which is

merely, I believe, a delusion of your kind nature; admitting, I say,

that I have had some success in the world, and that, relatively to my

years, I am even considered of some account, I do not well see what use

my country could derive from these advantages."

"No one can inform you better than I," replied the minister, with

awkward alacrity, which proved to me that he had expected this question.

"People talk a great deal, make a great fuss, over what is called

diplomacy. Now do you know what the great art of diplomacy is?" he

asked, with a good-natured smile.

I shook my head with an air of humility.

"Well, it is simply the art of pleasing. As diplomacy consists in asking

and refusing, he who can please most will always gain his point; while

if he is obliged to refuse, he will make his refusal sufficiently

gracious, to avoid its wounding. Here lies the whole secret."

I had some difficulty in suppressing a great inclination to laugh, for

it struck me that the minister, jealous of my attentions to Madame de

V----, was going to propose to attach me to a foreign embassy, so as to

get rid of me.

This was doubtless the solution of this scene; but I found the situation

so amusing that I determined not to terminate it abruptly.

"I thought," said I, "that the able negotiators of the most fertile

epoch of great treaties and great diplomatic victories, I thought," I

continued, "that such men as D'Avaux, Courtin, Estrade, Ruvigny, and

Lyonne were possessed of other attributes than the simple talent of

pleasing."

"If they did not possess the art of pleasing," said, with some

embarrassment, M. de Sérigny, who seemed ignorant of the historic

traditions of his special department like the true constitutional

minister that he was,--"if they did not possess the art of pleasing,

they made use of some other seduction."

"You are right," I rejoined, "they had gold without limit."

"You see, then," cried the minister, "it is always the same; only in

modern society the art of pleasing has superseded the seduction by

gold."

"In the first place, it is more economical," I said.

"And safer," he rejoined; "for all thrones are not representative. There

are, God be praised! kings in Europe who are absolute kings, and walk

without leading-strings. Well, these kings are men, and, in a word, are

subject like men to sympathies and antipathies. Frequently, the

ambassador that is sent to them, even if he possesses the greatest

genius, the loftiest character, can obtain nothing for his court,--and

why? Simply because he is not pleasing; while, on the contrary, a man of

moderate ability will often obtain by the simple power of his manners,

because he can please, he will obtain, I say, what the man of genius was

not able to obtain."

"This is true, and your system facilitates matters, since men who please

are much more plentiful than men of genius."

"Certainly! Therefore, I am convinced, firmly convinced, that you, for

instance, supposing you wished to enter the diplomatic career, could be

of the greatest service to France; for you not only possess the art of

pleasing, your success in society attests it, but you have also solid

and eminent qualities."

I was right in my surmises; the proposition which I had anticipated,

without doubt, was about to follow the ringing of my praises. Wishing to

lend myself with a good grace to the minister's whim, I replied with a

semblance of modest and confused astonishment:

"How can you think so,--I, monsieur, I, enter so difficult a career? My

ambition has never been crazy enough to aspire to such a future."

"Listen to me," said M. de Sérigny, with a serious and paternal air.

And he made the following disclosure, which seemed to me an abominable

falsehood.

"Your father rendered me a great service." Here the diplomat paused and

sighed heavily, then he raised his eyes to Heaven, repeating: "Yes, yes,

a great service! I could not tell you, my dear M. de ----, how happy I

would consider myself in being able to demonstrate to you, his son, all

my gratitude, since unfortunately I was not able to give proof of it to

himself."

"I was quite ignorant of this circumstance, which my father never

mentioned to me."

"I can well believe it," exclaimed M. de Sérigny, "for I myself can

give you no particulars on this subject. It concerns a third party, and

honour demands my silence. I repeat it," he continued, "I have just

found an opportunity to acknowledge your father's goodness, and to

secure another worthy servant to my country, if, however, you are

disposed to utilise the rare advantages with which you are gifted."

"But I have told you, monsieur, however much I might desire to enter

your honourable career under such happy auspices, I never could believe

my merit equal to this ambition."

"Once again, you do not know yourself, or you do not wish to know

yourself," resumed the minister with some degree of impatience, "and

fortunately your opinion in this matter is not of consequence. As to me,

it is quite evident that, if you wish it, you can fill an important

mission; for you must feel that you are not one of those young beaux,

who, having nothing but their name and their fortune, esteem themselves

very happy when they are appointed attachés to foreign embassies. No,

no, such proposals are not made to such as you. You must enter by the

wide door; you must, above all, have the opportunity to show your full

value. Unfortunately, with us," he added, hesitatingly, "with us, the

necessities, the traditions, of government are so imperative, that

European missions are very much restricted, and at the present moment

they are all filled."

I looked straight at M. de Sérigny. It took all my command over myself

not to burst out laughing. From the turn his proposal had taken, it no

longer seemed a question of exile, but of transportation.

"But you must be aware," said I, preserving my composure, "that, in the

event of this conversation having any sequence, I have not the

ridiculous pretension to aim at one bound at a European mission."

"You must understand one thing," continued the minister, with ever

increasing satisfaction, "missions are more or less important just as

you make them. There are some very insignificant ones in Europe, while

there are some vastly important ones in Asia, for instance. It cannot be

disguised that it is not in Europe, but in the Orient, that the fate of

Europe will in future be decided. The future policy of Europe is in the

East! Europe has her eyes fixed on the East! There is the field of

battle where the great negotiators of our times must be formed! For

instance," said M. de Sérigny, looking steadily at me, "at this very

moment I would like to find a man of good birth, with a keen, subtle

intelligence, agreeable manners, and firm, resolute character, to whom I

could entrust one of the most delicate missions. It is a question of

securing the good-will and support of an important Oriental power,

without arousing the suspicions, the susceptible jealousies, of Russia

and England, our eternal rivals in the East."

"This mission, in fact, seems to me of great importance," I said, with

the most disinterested air in the world.

"Is it not? Well, I may almost venture to say that I could secure that

legation for you, so great is my confidence in your capacity, so much

have I at heart to make some return for your father's kindness."

"Such a mission, to me!" I exclaimed, feigning the utmost astonishment.

M. de Sérigny assumed a deep, mysterious air, and said:

"M. de ----, I am speaking to a man of honour; whether or not you accept

the proposition I have just made, will you give me your word that all

this will remain secret between us?"

"I give you my word, monsieur."

"Well," he continued, not less mysteriously, "under the frivolous

pretext of carrying rich gifts from his Majesty, the King of France, to

the Shah of Persia, the object is to skilfully, adroitly, and forcibly

gain the ascendency over the mind of that Asiatic prince so as to

dispose him to accept favourably, at some later date, overtures of

considerable importance which would hereafter be communicated to the

envoy charged with this weighty negotiation. These interests, I will

allow, are of the highest consequence. The gifts are ready, the

instructions are drawn up, the vessel awaits,--and it is expected you

should leave without delay."

My suppressed merriment was at its height, on hearing the minister

propose to me seriously to start off immediately in order that I might

exercise my powers of pleasing on the Shah of Persia, to further a

mission of the most absurd insignificance, in spite of M. de Sérigny's

efforts to make it appear of vast importance.

The minister waited for my reply with unconcealed anxiety.

I felt a certain remorse at making a man of his age and position play so

foolish a part, and at prolonging this comedy.

This proposition, unacceptable as it was, had aroused in me certain

slumbering ideas. Unhappy in my love for Madame de Fersen, realising

that it would be impossible for me, for some time at least, to entertain

another affection, and dreading inactivity above all, I determined to

utilise, if possible, M. de Sérigny's good-will.

"Monsieur," I said, "although the difference in our ages is great, will

you permit me, in my turn, to speak to you with the fullest, I might say

with the most brutal, freedom?"

"Certainly," said the minister, greatly astonished.

"If the praiseworthy and generous motives that you have set forth,

monsieur, indicate your firm intention to try me in the diplomatic

career, I trust you will not take exception at my endeavouring to give

you a proof of the extent of my penetration?"

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Let us speak freely, M. de Sérigny: you are in love with a charming

woman that we both know; my attentions to her annoy you, and you propose

to get me out of the way by sending me to the Shah of Persia!"

"Monsieur!" cried the minister, in an offended tone.

"Permit me to continue," said I. "There is no need of my leaving to

reassure you. I give you my word of honour that my intercourse with the

lady of whom I have the honour to speak is simply of a friendly nature,

and, with the exception of an innocent and trifling flirtation, nothing

can justify your suspicions."

M. de Sérigny appeared at first greatly irritated; nevertheless he

said, with a forced smile: "After what has passed between us, it is

inevitable either that we cut each other's throat, or become fast

friends."

"Your choice is mine, monsieur."

"My choice is made," said M. de Sérigny, holding out his hand.

There was so much cordiality in his movement, he exercised so great a

self-control to drive back his proud susceptibility and wounded

self-love in the presence of a man of my years, that, deeply touched by

his action, I said:

"If you believe all the good you have said of me, monsieur, you will

attach no importance to this conversation. Attribute only to your high

reputation for wisdom my earnest desire to demonstrate that I could

penetrate your views. Pardon me for being so foolishly proud of my

victory, for it was very flattering to me. As to fancying myself your

rival with a certain charming person, my word must have reassured you

regarding the past and the present. As to the future, there is one

infallible way of setting aside your suspicions,--it is by asking a

favour of you. Bound to you by gratitude, I would be base indeed were I

to endanger your happiness in the slightest degree."

After a few moments of silence, M. de Sérigny said to me, with infinite

good nature: "You speak so frankly, that it is impossible, I see, to

hide one's meaning; one must deny all, or acknowledge all, and I prefer

the last, for you are a man of honour, and very safe. All the same, it

is very odd. Here am I, a man of my age, confiding my _amourettes_ to a

young man who has been very wittily making fun of me, and has said so to

my face, and has so embarrassed me by confiding to me not his, but my

love affairs, that I find myself in the most absurd position possible.

Fortunately, you tell me that I may in some way do you a good turn,

which saves me from being absolutely ridiculous," he added, with perfect

graciousness.

"Well then, monsieur, here is the point in question: although I do not

consider my qualifications sufficient to bewitch the Shah of Persia--"

"Let us say no more about that!" gaily said M. de Sérigny. "You strike

a foe when he is down."

"I will confess your proposal has aroused in me, not ambition, but a

desire to become acquainted with political matters, that I may see if my

mind could some day turn. I do not know whether you find in me now the

same qualifications."

"Ah, M. le comte, M. le comte!" said M. de Sérigny, shaking his finger

at me menacingly.

"Admitting it then, all that I would ask of your kindness would be that,

in the event of your needing hereafter a private secretary, you will

admit me for a few hours each day in your study. In this capacity, I

will place myself entirely at your service, and you may entrust me with

such papers as you think you may hand to a safe, trustworthy man. After

this trial, I shall really know whether I have any aptitude for

business; and later, if I thought I could fill successfully a modest

diplomatic mission, I would then remind you of the debt you still owe my

father."

"Another epigram!" said M. de Sérigny; "but what matters! And really

now, do these tiresome duties not frighten you? Will you have the

courage to come and work with me daily for three or four hours in my

study?"

"I will have the courage."

"Perhaps you will not believe that your proposal comes most opportunely;

and yet every one is aware that my private secretary has just been

appointed to the legation at Florence. I do not offer you the position,

but I offer you the share he had in my work."

"And I accept with all my heart, and most gratefully." Touched by his

kindness, and wishing to dispel the annoyance he might still feel at the

advantage I had attained over him in this interview, I continued: "Look

at the eccentricities of the human mind, and how by contrary ways one

reaches the same end. You came to me with two very firmly set ideas: you

wished to get out of your way a rival whom you feared, and to attach to

the service of your country a man whose worth, you say, you discerned. I

firmly declined your offers; and yet, not by the power of your will, but

by mine, you obtain the desired end; for now I can no longer be a

subject of jealousy to you, and I am going to share your work. After

that," I exclaimed, "who will dare to say that I have tricked you? Come,

come, M. de Sérigny, I am compelled to acknowledge that you are vastly

above your reputation, and what I called my victory is no more than a

fortunate defeat."

I made an appointment for the following day with the minister, and we

parted.

CHAPTER XXI

DIPLOMACY

When M. de Sérigny had left me, I fell back into the bitter thoughts

from which this interview had drawn me.

In spite of my efforts to drive away all thought of Madame de Fersen, I

could not succeed. I suffered greatly, but my grief, though deep, had a

certain charm which I had not previously known.

I was conscious of having conducted myself nobly towards Catherine, of

not deserving her severe disapproval, and this comforting consciousness

gave me a proud and courageous resignation.

I have always faced boldly the most cruel phases of my life. No hope was

left to me of ever gaining Madame de Fersen's love. I therefore gathered

religiously in my heart and memory the slightest traces of this

ineffable love, as one gathers the sacred and precious remnants of a

departed being, to come daily and contemplate them with dreamy sadness,

and ask of them the melancholy charm of memory.

Not wishing, however, to be prostrated, and hoping to find some

distraction in work, I went assiduously to M. de Sérigny's study.

He was truly an excellent man.

He showed himself full of kindness to me. Having doubtless assured

himself of my scrupulous discretion, he soon gave me a flattering mark

of his confidence in me, by entrusting me to make a clear and concise

summing up of his diplomatic correspondence. This brief was to be handed

daily to the king.

This work, it is true, appeared of much greater importance than it

really was, since there was at that time no great political question

pending in Europe. Almost all these despatches, written mostly in very

faint ink, and very poor French, contained only vague and trifling

particulars about foreign courts, particulars which had frequently even

been discounted in the public print.

I convinced myself of that which I had always surmised, that in modern

times, and with a representative government like ours, diplomacy which

may be called current is almost nothing; the vital questions of nations

are fought on fields of battle, in the Chambers, or in congresses.

Most of the time (I speak only of representative governments) diplomatic

positions are mere sinecures which ministers use as a means of action or

corruption, by disposing of them by political expediency.

I was all the more struck by the futility of the correspondence under my

eyes, because my father had formerly made me almost go through a whole

course of political law, and I had studied with him the most famous

negotiators of the latter half of the seventeenth century. My

great-great-grandfather having filled certain missions conjointly with

Messieurs d'Avaux, de Lyonne, and Courtin, we had at Serval a duplicate

of his despatches and theirs, and I must confess that the reading of

these documents had made me very fastidious.

M. Sérigny himself was a man of second-rate ability; but he had enough

tact, shrewdness, and perspicacity to enable him to respond to the

modest requirements of his position. When he fought the Opposition in

the Chambers, he could extinguish, drown, the most heated discussion

with the clear flow of his abundant words, cold and monotonous as a

waterfall.

From the constitutional point of view M. de Sérigny could just as well

have been Minister of Marine, of Justice, or of Finances as Minister of

Foreign Affairs, but from the real, special point of view of these

ministries, he was incapable of filling any.

I kept to myself my opinion of M. de Sérigny. He had been kind to me,

and I was not Pommerive. Far from it, I defended my minister with all my

might.

My duties amused me a good deal, for the very reason that their futility

contrasted in a flagrant manner with their supposed importance.

The knowledge of these facts aroused in me charitable sentiments; I

became very tolerant of that pitiless and affected self-importance,

thanks to which most of our diplomatic agents always deceive the public

on the value and the necessity of their position.

Without this prestige, they would cease to exist.

If I have never had the whim to become the associate or the dupe of a

juggler, neither have I been malicious enough, when I fancied I had

discovered his tricks, to proclaim it aloud, thus depriving the poor

devil of his audience; for I never could picture to myself the future of

a juggler deprived of his trade. I would, therefore, advise poor parents

who destine their sons to a diplomatic career to be wise enough, to have

sufficient foresight, to make them also learn some good solid trade

which may some day be a useful resource should unexpected accidents

deprive them of their first career.

This is not a brutal paradox. The essential specialty of our diplomats,

consisting in worthily representing France, that is, in having a grand

house and retinue at the expense of the state, in leading a luxurious,

worldly, and amusing life, in receiving and writing insignificant

despatches, it is difficult to imagine how these fine qualities could be

employed when no longer exercising the profession which required them.

My new position with M. de Sérigny soon became known, and gave me

singular authority in the world. People knew that I had not sought a

place, in devoting myself assiduously to the work on which I was

engaged, and they naturally concluded that my apprenticeship must lead

to high destinies.

Circumstances occurred which contributed to these exaggerated rumours.

It was at a ball at the Duchesse de Berri's.

M. de Sérigny was laid up with the gout, and therefore could not be

present. Lord Stuart, the British ambassador, who had earnestly urged

our government to take the most active steps to discover the pirate of

Porquerolles, came up to tell me that they were on the tracks of the

wretch, hoped soon to reach him, and asked me for further particulars of

the affair. He took my arm, and we had a half-hour's talk in the recess

of a window.

This was enough to make people believe that I was far advanced in what

is benignantly called "secrets of state."

This was not all: about eleven o'clock I was going to leave the ball

just at the moment the king was taking his departure.

I had had the honour to be presented to him; he stopped in front of me,

and said, with his customary gracious affability:

"I read your reports every day. I am pleased with them, they interest

me; they are very satisfying, and, thanks to you, I have the harvest

without the trouble of reaping."

"The king overwhelms me," I said to his majesty, "and his approbation is

a favour which imposes new duties; and I will endeavour to prove myself

worthy of them."

Instead of leaving the ball, the king seated himself on a sofa near at

hand, and said to me:

"But tell me, what is all this I hear from Lord Stuart? It is very

extraordinary, and sounds like a romance."

When the king seated himself while speaking to me, the persons who

accompanied him held themselves discreetly aside.

I related to the king the history of the pirate of Porquerolles; he

listened with interest, put several questions to me, thanked me very

graciously, and withdrew.

When the king had left, I became the centre of attraction; they could

make nothing out of it. His majesty was leaving, he happens to meet me,

and thereupon he remains a quarter of an hour in particular conversation

with me.

Decidedly, I must be a man of the highest importance.

I know that nothing is more ridiculous than to appear to take pride in

such a success, and I prepared to quit the ball, when I saw Madame de

Fersen coming towards me. I had not seen her for some time, and she

seemed so changed, so fallen away, that I was shocked.

I saluted her without waiting for her, and retired, though she looked

entreatingly at me, and she was evidently coming towards me with the

intention of speaking to me.

The next day I received a letter from her.

She begged me in touching terms to come and see her, apologising for her

ingratitude, and making some gracious allusions to the past.

My first impulse was to go to Catherine at once.

I reflected, however, that this meeting was not likely to change the

fate of my love. I remembered the harshness with which Madame de Fersen

had behaved, and foolishly fancied my dignity required that I should not

yield to the first advance.

I wrote a very cold and polite letter, apologising for not going to her

as she requested, and said she could not fail to understand my reasons.

To this she made no answer.

I concluded that she had not a very great desire to see me since she did

not insist. I therefore congratulated myself on the course I had taken.

I soon heard that the prince had been called back to Russia by his

court, and was surprised, I must confess, that his wife did not

accompany him.

As to Madame de V----, I had implored her, for the sake of the

friendship she professed for me, to cease tormenting so cruelly M. de

Sérigny, declaring I would no longer lend myself to her coquettish

manœuvres; that, moreover, she was compromising herself frightfully,

and that sooner or later she would find herself ill-received in society.

She answered that I spoke like a Quaker, but for the joke of the thing

she was going to live without a shade of coquetry.

One month after this glorious determination she came to express her

gratitude to me, saying that, though this new life was deadly wearisome,

it had made a tremendous sensation, and wagers were laid as to whether

she would persist in her conversion or not. As to the minister, she

said, since he had passed from the stupidity of jealous irritation to

the stupidity of blind adoration, she neither gained nor lost in no

longer tormenting him.

Consequently, the rumours which had been current about Madame de V----

and myself soon ceased, and I was accused of having deserted her.

I could not avoid smiling sometimes when I observed the obsequiousness

of those around me, for I continued, as I may say, in sheer idleness my

work at M. de Sérigny's.

Cernay, whom I sometimes met, concealed his envy under the semblance of

the most exaggerated admiration. "You are a very able man," he said;

"you should have, and you will have, all kinds of success. You are now a

statesman, intimate with ministers and ambassadors. The king even takes

notice of you; you are considered, my good fellow, and you can have all

you wish for, for you have such tact! if you will excuse the word, such

cunning!"

"What do you mean?"

"Come, now, don't play the innocent. At that ball at the Tuileries,

where you had in turn two interviews at once so remarkable and so much

remarked, the one with Lord Stuart and the other with the king, who

remained in conversation some time with you, instead of taking his

departure in accordance with his expressed desire, what did you do, you

shrewd fellow? Instead of doing as so many others who would have

foolishly remained to strut after receiving such distinction, you

quickly disappeared. That was shrewdness, or rather genius, and your

absence created a prodigious effect."

"The cause of this disappearance was very simple, my dear De Cernay; I

had a frightful headache, and wanted to get home."

"Nonsense," said Cernay, with charming naïveté; "you cannot make me

believe that any one has the headache when the king has been talking

with him for an hour."

A fortnight had passed since I had last met Madame de Fersen at the

Tuileries ball, when one of my business agents came to me one morning

with an air of consternation.

It was a question of preventing a disastrous failure, by which I might

lose about fifty thousand dollars, which had been invested in one of the

most esteemed business houses at Havre.

The failure had not yet been declared, but it was imminent, and was

already suspected.

My agent therefore proposed that I should at once start with him, and go

to rescue my funds from this house.

The amount was so considerable, that I did not hesitate one moment about

going to Havre.

A power of attorney, however wide its scope, could never provide for all

the eventualities that might occur; under such circumstances, the

presence of the interested party is often of the greatest consequence.

I wrote a few lines to M. de Sérigny, telling him that an affair of the

greatest importance had called me to Havre, and I left orders with my

people to forward my letters to that town.

Two hours later I was on the road.

We were approaching the last relay before reaching Havre, when I heard

the hurried tramp of horses galloping behind us, the sharp cracking of a

whip, and a voice not unknown to me crying out, "Stop! Stop!"

My postilions looked at me inquiringly. I made them a sign to stop, and,

suddenly, I saw at the door of my carriage Madame de Fersen's courier,

whose horse was covered with foam and torn by spurs.

This man was so breathless from his rapid race that he could only utter

these words in handing me a letter:

[ILLUSTRATION]

"M. le comte, this is a letter from the princess. I have gained four

hours upon M. le comte. I could do no more."

The letter just contained these words:

"My daughter is dying--is dying--and my sole hope is in you."

"You must turn back," I cried to the postilions, "return to the stage.

And you," I said to the courier, "can you gallop all the way back to

Paris, and have horses ready for me at the stages?"

"Certainly, M. le comte."

"Then mount, and be off."

The good fellow turned back at full speed on the road to Paris.

"But, monsieur," said my man of business, in dismay, "you cannot go back

to Paris; here we are just at Havre."

I looked at him in astonishment.

"Why not?"

"But this failure, monsieur," he exclaimed; "an hour may lose all, and

fifty thousand dollars are at stake!"

I had entirely forgotten the purport of my journey.

"You are right," said I. "You are not more than a mile from Havre;

oblige me by walking that distance, and arrange matters as best you

can."

I had the carriage door opened.

"But, monsieur, once more, it is impossible," resumed the astounded man;

"without you I can do nothing. I do not even have your power of

attorney. Without you my presence is utterly useless. Come at least as

far as Havre; we shall go to a notary, you will give me a power of

attorney, and then--"

I was boiling with impatience. "Monsieur," said I, hastily, "you will go

on to Havre without me, or you will return to Paris with me. The door is

open; you can get down, or remain."

"But, monsieur--"

"Close the door, and off for Paris!" I exclaimed.

The agent at once left the carriage, saying to me, with an air of

despair, "As you please, monsieur. I shall have nothing to reproach

myself with. You may as well look upon these fifty thousand dollars as

lost. Send me, at least, your power of attorney, registered, etc."

I did not hear the rest. The horses had started at full speed.

In my whole life, I had never travelled with such velocity.

At Versailles, I gave orders to stop in Paris a little way, before

reaching Madame de Fersen's door.

When I arrived, I saw the street was strewn with straw.

Reflecting that I might possibly have to remain at Madame de Fersen's,

and not wishing to have it known, I instructed my servant to take my

carriage home, and tell my people that I had remained at Havre, and

would return by the steamer.

I entered the mansion.

CHAPTER XXII

IRENE

The slightest details of this dreadful scene are still present to my

mind.

Midnight struck as I entered the antechamber of Madame de Fersen's

apartment.

It was dark, and I found none of her people about. This seemed to me

very strange. Led by a dim light, I crossed several rooms, only one of

which was faintly lighted; my heart shrank with terror.

As I reached a half-open door, stifled sobs greeted my ear.

Noiselessly I pushed the door open.

Gracious heavens! what a picture!

Irene's cot, placed next to her mother's bed, occupied the end of the

room facing the door.

Kneeling by the bedside, Catherine held one of the child's hands in

hers.

I could not see the face of the unfortunate mother, only from time to

time a sudden, convulsive movement shook her frame.

At the left side was Frank, the great painter, Hélène's husband.

Seated on a low chair, he sketched Irene's dying countenance.

A harrowing remembrance, which, no doubt, Madame de Fersen wished to

preserve.

Frank, by means of a shade, had so arranged the lamp that the full light

fell on Irene's face.

The rest of the apartment was plunged into almost total darkness.

A tall man, in a fur-lined coat, stood at the foot of the cot. His hair

was white; his prominent bald forehead shone like old ivory; a ray of

bright light brought out his sharply marked profile.

This was Doctor Ralph, Madame de Fersen's medical attendant.

He seemed watching with an anxious eye the slightest change in Irene's

face.

In a dark corner of the room the nurse was seated, leaning her head

against the wall, and scarcely able to smother her sobs.

As I entered, her sobbing became so uncontrollable that, holding her

handkerchief to her mouth, she left the room.

I, also, was weeping bitterly at the sight of that angelic, childish

face, so tender, so resigned, which, in spite of approaching death,

preserved a character of sublime serenity.

Brilliantly lighted, her pale face stood out vividly against the white

pillows; her beautiful black locks fell in disorder, covering her

forehead; her large eyes half closed, and encircled by dark rings,

showed under the heavy lids her half-extinct pupils. From her pretty

half-open mouth, from her lips, formerly so roseate, and now so

discoloured, came forth a panting breath, and often a feeble plaintive

murmur. This poor little face, formerly so plump, so fresh and

childlike, was already becoming livid.

From time to time the unhappy child moved her hands restlessly into

space, or turned her head heavily on her pillows, with a deep sigh. Then

she again became frightfully still.

Frank's face, which I had not seen for two years, wore an expression of

heart-breaking sadness.

He, also, could not repress his tears every time he glanced at the face

of the dying child.

The calmness, the silence of this scene, which I seized at one glance,

made such an impression upon me that for an instant I stood rooted to

the threshold.

Madame de Fersen turned towards the clock, then shook her head, with a

gesture of despair.

I understood, she was beginning to lose faith in me.

I pushed the door open.

Catherine saw me; in an instant she was at my side, and drawing me to

the cot, she said, in a heartrending tone, "Save her! have pity on me,

and save her!"

Madame de Fersen's voice was low and broken; her beautiful face was

tear-stained and worn; yet under this appearance of weakness one felt

the superhuman energy which always sustains a mother, so long as her

child needs her.

"One moment," said Doctor Ralph, in a low, solemn voice. "This is our

last hope, let us not take too great a risk."

The unhappy woman hid her face in her hands.

"I have told you, madame," said the doctor, showing a vial containing a

dark liquid, "this potion will restore this child to consciousness, will

light up the faint spark of intelligence which still remains, perhaps.

Then the sight of the person who exercises on her so strange an

influence may work a miracle, for, alas! madame, nothing but a miracle

can bring your child back to life."

"I know it, I know it," said Catherine, choking back her tears, "I am

prepared for the worst. But, tell me, the potion,--what effect will it

have?"

"I can answer for its immediate effects; but not for the consequences

that may follow."

"What is to be done? _Mon Dieu!_ what is to be done?" cried Catherine,

in accents of anguish.

"Do not hesitate, madame," I said; "since all hope is gone, accept the

only chance that remains!"

"I am of the same opinion, do not hesitate, madame," said Frank, who

shared our emotion.

"Proceed, monsieur," whispered Madame de Fersen, in an accent of

desperate determination; and she knelt down by her child's cot.

Her lips moved in prayer.

She, Frank, and I fixed upon the doctor sorrowing and apprehensive

looks.

He alone was calm, as with slow and silent steps he approached Irene's

bedside.

At the sight of his tall figure, his austere countenance, his long white

hair, his peculiar garb, one might have supposed him a man gifted with

some occult power, ready to perform by a potion some mysterious charm.

He poured into a golden spoon a few drops of the liquid contained in the

vial.

Madame de Fersen took it, and approached the spoon to the child's lips.

But her hand trembled to such an extent that the liquid was spilled.

"I am afraid," said she, with a frightened look.

She gave back the spoon to the doctor. He filled it once more, and with

a firm hand put it to Irene's lips.

The child swallowed it without reluctance.

It is impossible to express the intense alarm, the mortal anguish, with

which we watched the effects of the potion.

The doctor himself, eagerly bending over the bed, watched Irene's face

with anxious eyes.

Soon the potion began to work.

By degrees, Irene began moving her arms and hands, and her cheeks

assumed a faint tinge of colour. Several times she quickly turned her

head on her pillow, moaned piteously, closed her eyes, and then opened

them.

The lamp was in front of her, and the bright light seemed painful, for

she covered her eyes with her hands.

"She sees! she sees!" cried the doctor, with an alacrity that seemed to

us of good omen.

"She is saved!" exclaimed Catherine, clasping her hands, as if in thanks

to Heaven.

"No rash expectation, madame!" said Doctor Ralph, austerely and almost

harshly. "I have already told you this semblance of life is deceptive.

It is like galvanism which gives motion to a dead body, and a breath may

snap the invisible cord which binds this child to life." Then, turning

to me, he added: "It will be your turn, monsieur, presently to endeavour

to strengthen that feeble thread. I solemnly declare, if that child

lives, which, alas! I scarcely dare to hope, it is to you she will owe

it, for known science does not work such miracles."

"God alone can work them," said Frank, in a solemn voice.

"Or certain mysterious and magnetic influences which one must concede

without understanding them," added the doctor.

The stimulus of the potion upon Irene became more and more apparent. Two

or three times she sighed deeply, held forth her arms, and then

murmured, in a feeble voice: "Mother! Arthur!"

"Now," said the doctor, "take one of the child's hands in yours,

monsieur, and let the other be in her mother's; come as close to her as

possible, and call her, softly, slowly, so that the sound may have time

to reach her feeble hearing."

I took hold of one of Irene's hands, her mother held the other.

Her hand was cold and moist.

I leaned over Irene. Her big eyes, looking still larger since her

illness, wandered around as if in search of some one.

"Irene--Irene--I am here," I said, in a low voice.

"Irene--my child--your mother is here also," said Catherine, with an

accent of passionate and fearful anxiety impossible to describe.

At first the child did not seem to hear us.

"Irene--it is your friend--it is Arthur and your mother. Do you not hear

her?"

"Your mother--_mon Dieu!_ your mother is near you!" repeated Catherine.

This time the child's look no longer wandered. She moved her head

suddenly, as if a sound from afar had reached her.

"How is her hand?" inquired the doctor, in a whisper.

"Still cold," I answered.

"Still cold," rejoined the mother.

"That is bad, you are not yet _en rapport_,--continue."

"Irene--dear child--angel--do you hear me? It is I--Arthur," I

whispered.

Irene raised her eyes, and met mine fastened on her.

I had often heard magnetic attraction spoken of, and this time I

experienced its action and reaction.

I fixed an eager and despairing glance upon Irene. By degrees, as if her

eyes took life from mine, they lost their dullness, they became clear,

bright, beaming with intelligence.

On her countenance, returning to life, I could follow the progress of

her thoughts, of her awakening mind.

She threw out her arms, and an angelic smile lighted on her lips.

Too weak to raise her head, she sought her mother with her glance.

Catherine bent over the bed, still holding, as I did, one of Irene's

hands.

After looking at us for a moment, the child gently brought together her

mother's hand and mine; her eyes suffused with tears, and she wept

freely.

When my hand touched Catherine's, my heart received an electric shock.

For a moment I heard no more, I saw no more. I held Catherine's and

Irene's hands in mine, and became unconscious of the contact.

It seemed to me that a flood of electricity surrounded us, and blended

us in one.

This impression was deep, inexplicable, almost painful. When I regained

consciousness, I heard the doctor exclaiming, "She has shed tears! she

is saved!"

"You have given her back to me," said Catherine, falling on her knees

before me.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GROVE

This healing crisis saved Irene.

During the month of convalescence I left her neither by day nor by

night.

In the early days of spring, Doctor Ralph urged Madame de Fersen to go

to the country with her daughter, and recommended the vicinity of

Fontainebleau.

Madame de Fersen having seen a very pretty cottage, called the Grove,

had secured it, and the necessary repairs having been made, it was

decided we should take up our residence there the first days of May.

If my continuous abode at Madame de Fersen's house had been known, it

would have provoked the most odious comments. Consequently, the morning

after the crisis, which had proved so favourable to Irene, I told her

mother that she must forbid access to her apartment to every one, with

the exception of the doctor, the nurse, and one of her maids, on whose

discretion she could rely.

I had occupied during Irene's illness a vacant entresol, of which the

windows opened on an uninhabited piece of ground, thus my return to

Paris and my presence at Catherine's house was unknown to every one.

Madame de Fersen took to Fontainebleau only the same people who had been

in attendance on her during her little girl's illness, the nurse and two

maids. The rest of the household remained in Paris.

She asked me to follow her to the Grove in two days.

She took her departure.

The next morning I received from her most detailed instructions about

finding my way to the small park gate at the Grove.

At the appointed hour I was at that gate; I knocked, and it was opened.

The sun was about setting, but it still threw some warm rays across the

green lacework and violet clusters of an arbour of _glycynia_, under

which Catherine was waiting for me with Irene, whose hand she was

holding.

Was it intentional, or was it mere chance? I know not, but like the day

when for the first time I saw her on board the Russian frigate,

Catherine wore a gauzy white gown and a lace head-dress ornamented with

a spray of red geranium.

The trials through which she had passed had made her fall away, but she

was still beautiful, and even more lovely than beautiful. Her figure, as

heretofore, was elegant and stately; her countenance noble, gracious,

and pensive; her large, soft eyes of a perfect blue were fringed with

long, dark lashes; the heavy tresses of her jet black hair framed her

brow, lofty and sad, and her face paled by sorrow.

Irene, like her mother, was dressed in white; her long dark hair was

tied with ribbons and fell to her waist, and her lovely face, though

still pensive and sad, showed scarcely any traces of her recent

sufferings.

Catherine's first impulse was to take her child in her arms, and,

placing her in mine, she said, with great emotion, "Is she not now your

Irene also?"

And amid her tears her eyes shone with joy and gratitude.

There are emotions which one cannot attempt to describe, for they are as

vast as the infinite.

This first outburst of happiness passed, Madame de Fersen said to me,

"Now I must show you to your apartment."

I offered Catherine my arm, Irene took my hand, and allowed them to lead

me.

For some time we kept silent.

After following a long avenue, rapidly becoming dark as the sun sank

below the horizon, we came to a clearing on the outskirts of the wood.

"Here is your cottage," said Madame de Fersen.

My cottage was a sort of Swiss chalet, half hidden in a mass of pink

acacias, of linden-trees and lilacs. It was built on the edge of a small

lake, on a foundation of great boulders of that flinty rock found in the

neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. This structure having been erected as a

point of observation, every advantage had been taken to make the most of

its charming position.

A thick carpet of periwinkles, of ivy, of moss, and wild strawberry

covered almost entirely the whitish rocks, and from each cranny sprouted

a tuft of iris, of rhododendron, or heather.

On the other side of the lake a beautiful lawn, surrounded by the woods,

rose in a gentle incline up to the front of the house occupied by Madame

de Fersen, and which might be seen from a distance.

The sight was limited on all sides by a ring of verdure, formed by the

thick woods surrounding the high walls of the park, and hiding them

completely.

One might have wished more variety in the prospect; but as our life at

the Grove was to be surrounded by the most profound mystery, this

extensive and impenetrable barrier of leafage was very precious.

After a few minutes we reached the foot of the steps leading to the

cottage. Madame de Fersen drew a small key from her belt and opened the

front door.

At a glance I saw that she had been the presiding genius in the

arrangement of the two rooms. Everything was of excessive but elegant

simplicity. I found flowers on every side; also a piano, a painter's

easel, and some books which she had heard me mention as my favourites.

Pointing out to me an ebony cabinet frame with doors richly inlaid with

mother-of-pearl, Madame de Fersen asked me to open it. On one side I

found the exquisite sketch which Frank had made of the dying Irene, and

on the other side a recent portrait of Irene also painted by Frank.

I took Catherine's hand and carried it to my lips, with a feeling of

inexpressible gratitude.

She herself pressed her hand to my lip with an impulse full of

tenderness. She then turned and passionately embraced her child.

I closed the panel, still more touched by this mark of Catherine's

remembrance, for I had expressed to her my views regarding portraits

exposed to the gaze of all.

When we left the cottage, the purple and gold of the dying sun was

mirrored in the bosom of the lake. The acacias were dropping their

roseate and fragrant petals. No sound was heard; on all sides the

horizon was bounded by dark masses of verdure; we found ourselves in the

midst of the most profound solitude, the most peaceful, the most

mysterious.

Impressed by the sight of this sad and touching picture, Catherine

leaned on the balcony of the chalet, and remained a few minutes plunged

in reverie.

Irene sat at her feet, and began to gather roses and honeysuckle to make

a bouquet.

I leaned against the door, and could not help feeling a pang of anguish

as I looked upon Madame de Fersen.

I was going to pass long days near this woman, so passionately loved,

and delicacy forbade my speaking one word of this deep and ardent love,

which circumstances recently had combined to increase.

I knew not if I was beloved, or, rather, I despaired of being loved; it

seemed to me that fate, which had brought Madame de Fersen and me

together, by the death-bed of her child, during a month of terrible

anguish, had been too tragic to end in so tender a sentiment.

I was absorbed in these sad thoughts, when Madame de Fersen made a quick

movement, as if she were aroused from a dream, and said to me, "Pardon

me, but it is so long since I breathed air so fragrant and invigorating

that I selfishly enjoy this lovely nature."

Irene divided her bouquet in two, gave one half to her mother, the other

to me, and we then started towards the house.

We reached it after a long walk, for the park was very extensive.

CHAPTER XXIV

DAYS OF SUNSHINE

THE GROVE, 10th May, 18--.[6]

It is eleven o'clock; I have just left Madame de Fersen. Here am I in

the chalet, which, henceforward, I am to occupy near her!

I experience a strange emotion.

Events have succeeded each other with such rapidity, my heart has been

torn by such conflicting passions, that I feel the necessity of

reviewing my memories, my desires, and my hopes.

I therefore resume my journal, interrupted after my departure from

Khios.

My thoughts press so confusedly upon my brain that I hope to clear them

by writing. I act like those who, unable to make a mental calculation,

are obliged to have recourse to pencil and paper.

What for me will be the end of this love? Doctor Ralph has formally

declared to Madame de Fersen that, for a long time yet, my presence is

indispensable to Irene's perfect recovery, and that, for two or three

months longer, it was absolutely necessary to soothe the child's

imagination, and not give her the slightest shock or the least sorrow,

these emotions being the more dangerous for her in that they were so

profoundly concentrated.

Doctor Ralph attributes the attraction which I have for Irene to

magnetic and mysterious affinities and he cites many examples, both

among human beings and animals. He is unable, however, to offer any

explanation of this. As I said, this attraction places me in a singular

position.

The effect of my presence or absence upon this child is a proven and

undeniable fact. For the past year Irene has had three or four attacks,

sometimes slight, others serious and almost fatal, whose sole origin was

her grief at not seeing me, and, above all, at not seeing me near her

mother; for the nurse has since told me that even our meetings at the

Tuileries did not quite satisfy Irene, who pined for the time spent on

board the frigate.

My presence, therefore, is, one may say, the tie that binds Irene to

life.

Were it not for my love, my passion for Catherine, were it not for the

deep interest her child inspires in me, this imperious obligation to

remain ever at Irene's side would be both painful and embarrassing.

But I worship her mother! When I compare other passions which I have

experienced to that which she inspires, I find this the truest of all;

and, seeing her daily, brought near her by the most startling and

mysterious circumstances, most apt to bring the most passive love to a

point of exaltation, I still must be silent; Catherine for me must be

sacred as a sister, as a friend!

Can I, in the name of my past devotedness, in the name of the fatal

influence I exercise over Irene, approach Catherine, professing my love,

and expressing my hopes?

It would be base, it would be despicable.

And if the unhappy mother were to think--oh, Heaven!--that I demanded

her love as the price for my presence near her child!

Ah, this thought is horrible!

My resolution is taken, irrevocably taken.

Never shall a word of love pass my lips.

THE GROVE, 11th May, 18--.

My best deeds bring me bad luck,--one reason the more for keeping

silent.

This morning the newspapers were brought in.

Madame de Fersen opened one, and began to read.

All at once she ceased to read, I saw her shiver and blush deeply; then,

with an expression of dumb surprise, lowering her hands to her knees,

she shook her head, as if she were saying, "Is this really possible!"

Looking at me with eyes filled with tears, she quickly rose, and left

the room.

Not knowing what might have caused this keen emotion, I picked up the

newspaper, and the following lines soon explained to me Madame de

Fersen's dismay.

"It is well known that a month ago the firm ---- & Co. failed for a sum

amounting to several millions. The head of the firm secretly embarked

for the United States. A few creditors, warned by alarming rumours as to

the solvency of the firm, were in time to withdraw a portion of their

funds. M. Dumont, business agent of M. le Comte de ----, involved in

this bankruptcy to the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand francs,

has not been equally fortunate; although he had come to Havre to ward

off this disaster, he was not provided with the necessary papers, and as

the bankruptcy was considered fraudulent, he laid his complaint before

the district attorney, but in view of the assets amounting to scarcely

eighty thousand francs, the numerous creditors of the firm ---- must

look upon their funds as lost."

Madame de Fersen knew of my hurried departure for Havre, for her courier

had overtaken me before I reached that town. I had returned immediately,

and the date of my return coincided with that of the bankruptcy. It was

therefore evident to Catherine that my eagerness to return to the dying

Irene was the sole cause of the severe loss I had sustained. Thus now,

more than ever, should I appear to demand a reward for my sacrifices.

While mechanically skimming the newspaper, beneath the article which I

have quoted, I came upon the following paragraph, which also concerned

me.

The paper which I was reading was a semi-official journal, and might be

considered well informed.

"Many changes are imminent in our _corps diplomatique._ Among those

mentioned as likely to be called to a prominent position in foreign

affairs is M. le Comte Arthur de ----, who, though still young, has

strong claims to this favour on account of his travels, his researches,

and the conscientious work to which he has devoted himself for some time

past, as chief secretary of his Excellency the Minister of Foreign

Affairs. These particulars, for whose accuracy we can vouch, prove

clearly that when high birth and the advantages of fortune accompany an

eminent and recognised capacity, everything may be expected from the

favours of the king's ministry."

This article evidently emanated from the office of M. de Sérigny, who

thought, perhaps, that it would give me pleasure if, during my absence,

he asked the king some favour for me.

I must confess, this piece of news left me indifferent, and I went in

search of Catherine.

I found her in an avenue of the park.

"I know all," she said, holding out her hand. "Another sacrifice," she

continued, raising her eyes to heaven. "And I, what have I done for

him?"

These words went to my heart, and produced so great, so sweet an

emotion, that, in spite of myself, my hopes once more were aroused, but,

controlling my thoughts, and wishing to change the subject, I said:

"Do you not congratulate me on my future successes?"

She looked at me in amazement.

"What successes?"

"Have you not read to-day's paper?"

"Yes, I have. But of what success are you speaking?"

"They say in this paper that very soon I shall be called to a very

important position at the Foreign Office."

Catherine, without appearing to have heard me, replied:

"Will you make me a promise?"

"What is it?"

"I shall send Irene to you to the chalet, but I do not wish to see you

to-day. You will not be vexed with me?" she said, sadly, to me, holding

out her hand.

"No, certainly not," I said, much surprised, however, at this sudden

determination.

THE GROVE, 13th May, 18--.

How long is it since this journal was interrupted? I know not. I cannot

remember.

Besides, what do I know now? What do I remember?

All that has happened, is it not a dream, a dream so dazzling that I ask

myself where is the limit of reality? Where ends the dream? Where

commences the awakening?

Dream, memory, awakening! These are vain words, and faded, which I used

before this day.

I wish now for new words to describe what I had never before felt.

Not only does it seem to me impossible to use the words of other days to

describe my feelings of to-day, it seems to me a blasphemy, a

profanation.

Am I not the dupe of a delusion? Is it I, my own self, who is writing

this at the Grove, in the chalet?

Yes, yes, it is my own self. I am looking at the clock which points to

the hour of five. I see the lake reflecting the rays of the sun. I hear

the trees rustling in the breeze. I scent the fragrance of the flowers,

and in the distance I see her dwelling,--hers.

It is not, then, a dream?

Let me see, let me gather my thoughts, let me go back step by step to

the source of that torrent of happiness which intoxicates me.

What day is this? I know not. Ah, yes, it is Sunday. She went to mass

this morning, and there she wept, she wept abundantly.

Blessed be those precious tears!

But when did we receive those papers? Ah, here they are,--it was the day

before yesterday.

The day before yesterday! 'Tis strange! If years had passed since that

day it would not seem to me further away!

Between the past of yesterday, which was almost indifferent to us, and

the present to-day, which is all in all to us, is there not the distance

of centuries?

Yes, it was the day before yesterday that Catherine begged me to leave

her to herself.

I obeyed her wishes, but felt very sad.

Irene came to play on the steps of the chalet.

The dinner bell sounded.

Instead of appearing at table, as usual, Catherine sent word begging me

to dine by myself, for she was suffering.

In the evening the air was sultry. Catherine came down to the parlours.

I found her looking very pale.

"I am stifling," she said, "I am restless, nervous, agitated, the

weather is so stormy."

She then asked me to give her my arm, as she was going to walk in the

park. Contrary to her custom, she requested Madame Paul, Irene's nurse,

to follow us with the little girl.

We followed the winding avenue of the woods, and soon came upon the

arbour, covered with _glycynia_, where she had waited for me with Irene

the first day of my arrival at the Grove.

I know not whether it was emotion, or fatigue, or indisposition, but

Catherine complained of feeling tired, and seated herself on a bench.

The sun had just set; the sky was covered with clouds, gilded by the

last rays of the sun. Almost continuously the entire hemisphere was

illumined with vivid flashes of summer lightning, which Irene watched

with a curious and tranquil air.

Catherine did not speak, and seemed deeply absorbed.

Twilight had begun to darken the woods, when Irene, who was resting on

her nurse's lap, fell asleep.

"Madame," said Madame Paul, "Mlle. Irene is falling asleep, and the

doctor was very particular that she should not be exposed to the damp

evening air."

"Let us go home," said Catherine, as she rose.

She felt so weak that she leaned on my arm with her whole weight.

We walked a few steps, but very slowly; Madame Paul was in front with

Irene.

Suddenly I felt Catherine giving way, and she said, in a broken voice,

"I cannot take another step, I am prostrated."

"Just make an effort," I said to her, "to reach the chalet, which is

close at hand, and you can rest on the bench at the door."

"But, Irene!" she exclaimed, anxiously.

A turn in the road hid the nurse, who was already some way in advance.

I supported Catherine, and a few seconds later she was seated at the

entrance of the chalet.

The threatening clouds had dispersed; at our feet we saw the lake

reflecting the stars as they made their appearance; the perfume of

flowers, rendered more acute by the warm and sultry weather, permeated

the atmosphere; there was not a breath of air, not a sound.

The night was so soft, so balmy and clear, that in the uncertain light I

could perfectly distinguish Catherine's features. My whole being seemed

concentrated in my heart, which was beating violently.

Like Catherine, I felt overpowered, unnerved, by the warm, perfumed air

which surrounded us.

Madame de Fersen was seated, resting on cushions, her head leaning on

her hands.

The calm was so intense that I could hear Catherine's panting breath. I

fell into a deep reverie, at once sad and blissful.

Never, perhaps, would I have a more favourable opportunity to unbosom

myself to Catherine; but my scruples, and the dread of seeming to ask

reward for a service rendered, kept me silent.

Suddenly she exclaimed:

"I implore you, do not leave me to my thoughts; let me hear your voice.

Tell me all you wish, but speak to me; in the name of Heaven, speak to

me!"

"What shall I say?" I replied, submissively.

"What matters!" she cried, clasping her hands in supplication; "what

matters! only speak to me, drive from me the thoughts which possess me,

have pity, or, rather, be pitiless,--accuse me, overwhelm me, tell me I

am a thankless, selfish woman, base enough not to have the courage to be

grateful," she continued, with increasing excitement, as if a secret

long suppressed was now escaping her. "Do not soften your reproaches,

for you cannot tell how deeply your resignation wounds me, you cannot

tell how I long to find you less generous. For what can be said of a

woman who meets a true, discreet friend, and for six months permits him

to surround her with the most delicate, most assiduous, and respectful

attentions, sees him devote himself to the least whims of her poor,

suffering child, and who, one day, in all thanklessness, and for the

idlest and most puerile of motives, coldly dismisses this friend? And

this is not all. When this woman, in a terrible dilemma, again has need

of him,--for she knows he alone can save her child's life,--she

forthwith recalls him, well aware that she can demand everything from

the self-denial of this brave heart; and he, sacrificing all, instantly

returns to draw this child from the very jaws of death!"

"Hold, I pray you! Let us not recall these sad memories, let us only

think of our present happiness," said I.

But Catherine appeared not to hear me, and continued with an ever

increasing excitement which alarmed me:

"This friend, so good, so noble, has he ever attempted by a single word

to speak of his admirable conduct? He has been the protecting genius of

this woman and her child when both were suffering; and when he has saved

them,--for to save the child is to save the mother,--he goes, proudly,

silent, and reserved, happy doubtless in the good he has done, but

seeming to fear the thanklessness or disdain the gratitude he has

inspired."

Catherine's voice was growing more and more broken and gasping. I was

almost frenzied by her words, but they seemed to me drawn from her by

feverish excitation, and contrasted so forcibly with her habitual

reserve that I feared her reason, until now so strong and clear, had

yielded to the tardy reaction of the terrible experiences which had

shaken her for the past six weeks.

"Catherine, Catherine!" I exclaimed. "You are too passionately devoted

to your child for me ever to have doubted of your gratitude,--my

dearest, most precious reward."

Catherine heard my reply, for she alluded to my words as she continued

in a still more passionate accent:

"Oh, yes, yes; tell me, then, that the intoxicating, invincible

sentiment that invades me at this moment is gratitude; tell me that

nothing is more sacred, more holy and legitimate, than what I feel. A

woman has certainly the right to devote her life to him who has restored

her child to her, more especially when he, as generous as he is

considerate, has never attempted to say one word of his hopes;

therefore, is it not for her--for her--to come to him, and ask with joy,

with pride, How can I ever reward so much love?"

"By returning it!" I exclaimed.

"By confessing that I have always returned it," said Catherine, in a

subdued voice.

And her hands languorously fell into mine.

THE GROVE, 16th May, 18--.

Woe! Woe!

Since yesterday I have not seen her. Doctor Ralph arrived last night. He

found her in great danger. He attributed this devouring fever, this

terrible delirium, to reaction from the anguish which the unfortunate

woman had repressed during her child's illness.

He does not know all.

Ah, her remorse must be terrible! How she must suffer, and I am not

there, by her side,--and I cannot be there.

Ah, yes, I love her, I love her with all my strength. This intoxicating

memory, which yesterday made me almost frenzied with love, to-day I

curse it!

The sight of Irene hurts me. This morning the child came towards me, and

I repulsed her. She is fateful to her mother, as, perhaps, she will be

fateful to myself.

Doctor Ralph has just left me; there is no change for the better.

I observed a strange difference in him. This morning, on his arrival, he

gave me his hand as usual cordially; the austere expression of his face

generally assumed a look of benevolence on meeting me. This evening I

gave him my hand, he did not grasp it. His glance seemed to me severe,

interrogative. After having briefly informed me of the state of

Catherine's health, he coldly left the room.

Can Catherine have betrayed herself in the wanderings of fever?

This thought is dreadful. Happily, there is near her no one but Irene's

nurse and Doctor Ralph.

But what matter! what matter! This nurse is only a servant, and this

doctor is but a stranger! And is she, so proud, because heretofore she

had a right to be so, condemned henceforth to blush before these people!

If she has spoken, she is not aware of it, perhaps may never know it,

but they know it, they, perhaps, have her secret and mine.

If with a word one could annihilate two persons at once, I believe I

would utter that word.

THE GROVE, 17th May, 18--.

What is to be done, what will become of us, if Catherine so rapidly gets

worse? Doctor Ralph will no longer take the sole responsibility, he will

call in some consulting physicians, and then--

I cannot continue to write, my sobs stifle me.

This morning something very strange happened.

When the doctor announced to me that Catherine was worse, I came back

here in the chalet; I wished to write down what I felt, for I cannot and

will not confide to any one my joys and sorrows; so, when my heart

overflows with grief or happiness, it is a great relief to me silently

to confide to this journal.

When I heard of Catherine's renewed danger, my sufferings were so great

that I wished to write, that is, to pour out my anguish.

This was impossible. I could only trace with a trembling hand the few

lines at the head of this page, but was soon interrupted by my tears.

Then I went out into the park.

There, for the first time, I regretted--oh, bitterly regretted--that I

possessed neither religious faith nor hope.

I might have prayed for Catherine.

There is certainly nothing more heartrending than to recognise the utter

futility of addressing prayers to Heaven for a beloved being whom you

fear to lose. In prayer you have some minutes of hope, you are

fulfilling a duty, your sorrow at least has a language, which you

believe is not quite barren.

But not to be able to say to any human or superhuman power, "Save her!"

It is terrible.

I so painfully felt this helplessness, that in despair I fell on my

knees, without having consciousness to whom my prayer was addressed. But

firmly convinced, in that momentary hallucination, that my voice would

be heard, I cried aloud: "Save her! Save her!" Then, in spite of myself,

I experienced a glimmer of hope, I felt the consciousness of a duty

fulfilled.

Later I blushed for what I called my weakness, my puerility.

Since my mind could not grasp, could not believe, the assertions which

constitute the various human religions, what God was I imploring?

What power had succeeded in tearing from me this prayer, this last cry,

this the last utterance of despair?

The crisis which the doctor feared did not take place.

Catherine is no better, but she is not worse, and yet her delirium

continues.

Doctor Ralph's coldness towards me is still excessive.

Since her mother's illness, Irene has given frequent proofs of

tenderness and feeling, which, though childlike, are serious and

resolute like her character.

This morning she said to me: "My mother suffers very much, does she

not?"

"Very much, my poor Irene."

"When a child is suffering, her mother comes to suffer in her stead, so

that the little one may not suffer any more, is it not so?" she

inquired, gravely.

Astonished at this reasoning, I looked at her attentively without

replying. She continued:

"I wish to suffer in my mother's place, take me to the doctor."

This childish trait, which, under other circumstances, would have made

me smile, gave me a heart pang, and I kissed Irene to conceal my tears.

THE GROVE, 17th May, 18--.

There is hope; the delirium ceases; an alarming prostration has

followed. Doctor Ralph dreaded the heat of her fevered blood. Now he

fears excessive languor, heart failure.

Her consciousness has returned. Her first utterance was her child's

name.

The nurse told me that the doctor had not yet allowed Irene to go near

her mother.

Twenty times have I been on the point of asking Madame Paul if Catherine

had inquired after me, but I dared not.

THE GROVE, 18th May, 18--.

To-day, for the first time, Doctor Ralph permitted the nurse to take

Irene to her mother.

I waited with anxious and irritable impatience for the moment when I

would see Irene, hoping from her to have some particulars about her

mother, perhaps a word, a remembrance, from Catherine.

Once returned to consciousness, I know not what course Madame de Fersen

will take towards me.

During the paroxysm of remorseful despair which follows a first fault, a

woman often hates the man to whom she has succumbed; she overwhelms him

with reproaches as violent as her regrets, as vehement as her sorrow; it

is on him alone the sole responsibility weighs for their guilt; she is

not his accomplice, but his victim.

If her soul has remained pure, notwithstanding that for a moment she was

involuntarily led astray, she takes the sincere resolution never again

to see the man who has seduced her, and to have to weep over one sole

betrayal, one sole defeat.

To this resolution she at first remains faithful.

She seeks, not to excuse, but to redeem her error, by the rigorous

fulfilment of her duties; but the remembrance of her fault is there,

ever there.

The more noble the heart, the more austere the conscience, so will the

remorse be the more implacable. Then, alas! she suffers terribly, the

poor creature, for she stands alone, and is compelled in secret to

devour her tears, while to the world she still wears a smile.

Sometimes, again, she becomes frightened at her isolation, at that

wordless concentration of her grief, and she resigns herself to ask for

comfort and strength of the man who is the cause of her fall. She then

implores him, for the sake of her remorse, to forget a moment of

madness, and to be for her no more than the truest of friends, the

confidant of the sorrows he has brought upon her. But, alas! almost

always the unhappy woman has still more tears to shed.

Man, with the coarser instincts of his sex, does not realise the sublime

struggle which woman endures between love and duty. The incessant

torture, the menacing terrors aroused in her by the remembrance of

outraged religion and family honour, these dreadful tortures are treated

by man as ridiculous whims, as childish scruples, or the absurd

influence of the confessional.

If the struggle is prolonged, if the unhappy woman passes her life in

efforts to conceal a sorrow caused by her dishonour, and valiantly

resists the commission of a second fault, the man is irritated, and

revolts against these pruderies which wound his self-love and his eager

and brutal passion to the quick; for one last time he reviles her

virtue, her sorrows, and her courage by saying to this miserable woman

that her return to high principles is somewhat tardy. Frenzied by a base

desire for revenge, he at once rushes with his cynical nature to make a

notorious display of some other intrigue.

He has been loved, he is still beloved! A virtuous and beautiful woman

has jeopardised, for his sake, her happiness, her future, and that of

her children! while he basely recoils from the least sacrifice.

How comes it that this man is so worthless, and yet so worshipped?

Because woman loves man more for the qualities she attributes to him,

and with which her sensitive nature adorns him, than for those he really

possesses.

If, on the contrary, by a rare exception, a man realises all that is

saintly and beautiful in this remorse, if he endeavours to comfort the

sorrow of which he is the origin, the woman's gentleness and resignation

may prove for her another pitfall.

Catherine,--will she be pursued by incessant remorse?

Like those women who, from an insatiable yearning for sympathy, or, with

the chastity of sorrow, conceal their woes, and make only a display of

their joys, will Catherine leave me in ignorance of the anguish she

suffers?

Knowing her as I do, I believe, after I have seen Irene, and gathered

from her the substance of her conversation with her mother, I shall be

able to divine Catherine's sentiments towards me.

Hence I look forward with eager impatience to the child's visit.

Heaven be praised! I see her running, holding in her hand a bouquet of

roses.

My heart did not deceive me; Catherine sends it to me.

She forgives me my happiness.

[Footnote 6: Arthur, according to his custom, introduces here some

fragments from his journal, interrupted after leaving Khios, and

doubtless, resumed on his arrival at the Grove. The preceding chapters

are intended to fill the gap separating the two periods, during which

time Arthur appears to have neglected to keep his memorandum.]