A BROKEN BLOSSOM
=A Novel,=
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF “LOVE’S CONFLICT,” ETC., ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
[Illustration: [Logo]]
=London:=
SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO.,
10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.
1879.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE VENETIAN GLASS 1
II. ARTHUR THRALE 36
III. THE SECRET 64
IV. THE DENOUEMENT 89
V. CURED 116
VI. TWO SERPENTS 136
VII. ALL FOR TESSIE 162
VIII. A REVELATION 194
IX. CHARLIE 223
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
A BROKEN BLOSSOM.
CHAPTER I.
THE VENETIAN GLASS.
The _goûter_ was laid in a long narrow room, which evidently had once
been a banqueting hall. Remnants of exquisitely stained glass still
ornamented its windows, although the ravages made in them by time had
been replaced by ordinary white panes. Tall, straight-backed chairs,
carved in black oak, and furnished with green cushions, the embossed
velvet covering of which was both faded and rent, stood at the table for
our accommodation, whilst from the panelling of the walls looked down
upon us an almost obliterated collection of the Baron’s ancestors.
Although the summer sun was shining through the windows, casting rainbow
lights of ruby and violet and amber over the damask tablecloth, and the
roses and clematis were hanging in clusters about the casement, there
was a weird unearthly feeling about this chamber that made me shudder.
An artist would have fallen into raptures over the old oaken floors and
wainscoting; the leash of wolfhounds that lay stretched out blinking in
the sunshine, and watching their master’s eye as for a revelation; the
fragments of stained glass; the blackened ancestors. But to me, the
aspect of the whole place spelt _Ruin_, and I feared lest our host
should read my feelings in my face.
That did not, however, seem likely. There he sat at the head of the
table, dispensing his simple hospitality as though he had been
entertaining crowned heads at a royal banquet. He made no apology for
the repast he offered us. It was the best he had to give, and he
credited us with too much good taste to wish it better. When he pledged
us in the _vin ordinaire_ of the country, poured into the most delicate
of Venetian wineglasses, the slender stems of which were encircled by a
tiny twist of blue and their bowls dotted with specks of gold, he might
have been a prince drinking to his courtiers in a vintage of fabulous
value. Those glasses alone were a marvel in themselves, and, mere
fragmentary remains as they were of a past glory, told tales of what
that glory must have been.
I thought, as I balanced mine between my finger and thumb, what an
exquisite specimen of workmanship it was, and how I should like to
possess it and keep it in my bedroom for my own delectation, to place
the first violets of spring in, or the first lilies of summer. It looked
so much too fragile and precious to be handled for ordinary purposes.
I was thinking thus, when some one spoke to me—the Baron himself,
perhaps—and I was startled into letting the wineglass slip from my hand.
It struck the table and was shivered into a thousand fragments. I
blushed to scarlet. Had the accident happened in the house of an
ordinary host, I should have thought little of it, but to Monsieur le
Baron, who was so poor! I tried to stammer out an apology, but the words
failed on my lips. Mr. Lovett saw my embarrassment, and laughed heartily
at it. I had already commenced to find out that his notions were beyond
his means, and that he did not sympathise very strongly with any ideas
of economy or restriction.
Tessie and Ange looked as concerned as I did. The Baron alone continued
the conversation as if nothing had occurred. But I could not allow the
matter to rest there.
‘Monsieur!’ I said, ‘I am so _very_ sorry. I was only just thinking how
beautiful this little glass was, and how much too delicate to hold
anything except spring flowers.’
‘Then I am sorry also, mademoiselle! But was that the only one of the
pattern you admire? Cannot we find another that will do as well to hold
your blossoms?’
I remonstrated with this proposal, although he made Denise bring the
remainder of her stock of glasses and spread them out upon the table
before us. There they sparkled in their prismatic hues of blue and red
and gold, and their elegant fragile shapes and twisted stems. But I
refused to do more than look at them. I was too clumsy, I averred, to be
the possessor of such delicate things. One such injury to art, as I had
done that day, was enough for me!
The Baron did not press the point, but, as we had finished luncheon, he
unleashed his hounds, and, calling them to follow us, led the way into
the tangled wilderness he called his garden. As we passed the stables
and coachhouse, I perceived that they were shut up and empty. Their
owner had not even the means sufficient to keep a riding-horse for
himself. As I glanced at his noble bearing and pictured the luxury in
which he had probably been reared, I did feel intense pity for his
lonely and impoverished condition.
‘We must not forget the object for which you honoured the château with a
visit,’ he said as we traversed the grounds, which were of some extent,
‘which was to ascertain if any life remains in the poor old organ; but I
must show you my pet first.’
He pushed aside the trailing branches of the bushes as he spoke, and led
the way up to a large cave, or den, surrounded by a palisade of stout
wood. Inside it, running restlessly up and down, was a splendid wolf of
the Piron breed. We girls rather shrunk back as we came in sight of the
animal.
‘You need not be in the slightest degree alarmed, mesdemoiselles,’ said
our host; ‘for the palings are very strong, and “L’Empereur” is
wonderfully tame!’ And, in proof of his assertion, the Baron walked up
to the palisades and stroked the wolf’s head. ‘_Eh bien, mon ami!_’ he
exclaimed, ‘are you glad to see me again? It is some time since I have
paid you a visit, _mon pauvre Empereur_.’
‘Monsieur, where did you get him?’ asked Ange.
‘I shot his mother in the forest, Mademoiselle Ange, two years ago.
Empereur was then a little cub, of perhaps a month or six weeks old. He
was easily caught, and I brought him home and kept him in the château,
until he took to biting the heels of Denise rather too vigorously as she
went about her work, and I was compelled to have this apartment erected
for him out of doors.’
‘He is a strange pet to keep,’ I observed.
‘So several people have told me; but Empereur and I have sympathies in
common. His estates, like mine, have been confiscated; for, since St.
Pucelle has been a town, the wolves have been driven farther and farther
back into the interior of the forest of Piron. Then he is solitary, and
so am I; and his misfortunes make him savage, as mine have done to me;
and we thirst in common, I think, for the blood of our enemies, and
choose the night-time to moan over our wrongs. Is it not so, Empereur?’
concluded the Baron, with a forced laugh, as he thrust his hand again
between the open palings, and rubbed the head of his favourite.
‘And a wolf is your family crest, is it not, monsieur?’ I said, with a
view to cover the Baron’s last remark, which had made us all feel rather
uncomfortable.
‘True, mademoiselle. It was granted to be borne by my ancestor, Godefroi
de Nesselrode, and his descendants, by one of the first Ducs de Nemours.
The Duc and De Nesselrode were riding, unattended and unarmed, when an
assassin made an attempt upon the life of the former. His first shot,
however, failed; and, before he had time to fire a second time, my
ancestor had leapt from his horse and flown at his throat, never leaving
hold until he had strangled him where he lay. As a wolf will invariably
fly at the throat of a man, if it is possible to do so, his princely
master, the Duc de Nemours, was pleased to command that that animal
should be carried as a crest upon the helmets of the De Nesselrodes from
that time forward.’
‘It was a very brave thing for your ancestor to do,’ said Tessie.
‘He could hardly have done anything else,’ replied the Baron, quietly.
‘But would it be agreeable to you now, mesdemoiselles, to try the organ
we have spoken of?’
‘Yes, yes; let us return to the house,’ interposed Mr. Lovett. ‘It is
too hot to stand about, so early in the afternoon.’
The fact is, the old gentleman had made an excellent luncheon, and began
to miss the nap which he invariably took at that hour of the day. So,
his will being law to all of us, we retraced our footsteps to the
château, and were introduced to what had originally been its private
chapel. But what a desecration appeared to have taken place there!
The altar was disrobed and bare, and what ornaments it had possessed had
vanished. Over it hung a crucifix, covered with a layer of dust an inch
in thickness. On one side was erected a little altar to the Virgin. Her
statue still rested there, on a cloth of what had been white silk, now
brown with dirt and age, with the yellow lace hanging from it in
tattered fragments. A dusty wreath of artificial flowers stood before
it, and a little lamp which still held the rancid remains of oil. A row
of oak benches was on either side the altar; but, beyond what I have
mentioned, and a few votive offerings of little value which hung against
the wall, all traces of this place having been one of prayer had
disappeared. As we entered it, Ange gave vent to an exclamation of
dismay.
‘Oh, monsieur! why do you not have this chapel properly cleaned, and
kept in order——?’ But there the child stopped, remembering his poverty.
‘To what intent, mademoiselle?’ he asked her.
‘Oh, because—because—it _has_ been so beautiful!’ she replied. ‘Papa,
what would we not give to have this chapel carried down into St.
Pucelle, and to use it for our services, instead of the schoolroom? Does
it not seem ten thousand pities that it should be wasted like this?’
Mr. Lovett had already ensconced himself on the corner of one of the
benches, and put two cushions at his back, preparatory to passing into
the land of dreams.
‘A great pity, my little maid,’ he answered, sleepily. ‘But I am not
sure how De Nesselrode would approve of your carrying it off,
nevertheless.’ And then he gave two huge yawns, and closed his eyes.
‘It will all be restored some day,’ I said cheerily, ‘and made more
beautiful, perhaps, than it was before.’
‘Do you think so, mademoiselle?’ inquired the Baron of me.
‘I hope so, monsieur. And what a fine organ! If its tone is only as good
as its appearance, we shall have a treat.’
‘It has not been touched for years,’ he said, as he opened it, ‘until I
told Denise to dust it for you this morning.’
Tessie seated herself at the instrument, and commenced to play some
passages from the ‘Stabat Mater,’ whilst I worked the bellows for her.
The organ had been left to the tender mercies of so many winters, that
its tone left a good deal to be desired. Still, it was a very fine
instrument, and only required a few fires and regular practice to bring
it once more into working order. I was wondering to myself what this
visit would lead to, and if Tessie would receive an invitation to come
up to the château and play the organ, until she had played herself into
the owner’s heart, when I found that the owner had crept round to the
back of the instrument, and was standing beside the bellows and myself.
Ange was busily engaged setting the Virgin’s altar in order, and dusting
the ornaments with her pocket-handkerchief; Mr. Lovett was slumbering
blissfully on the oaken seat, and the notes of the ‘Mater Dolorosa’ were
still pealing out from under Tessie’s skilful fingers.
As far as what we said or did was concerned, the Baron de Nesselrode and
I might have been quite alone, and now was the opportunity, I thought,
to put in a word for the future of my sweet Tessie and the man who stood
beside me.
But it was he who commenced the conversation.
‘Mademoiselle, why do you think that this ruined chapel will some day be
restored?’
‘Because I believe that when you _can_ do it, you _will_.’
‘But will that opportunity ever arise?’
‘That I cannot say, Monsieur; neither have I the right to inquire.
Only—I have been told——’
‘_What?_’
‘That you will not always be as you are now.’
I said the words timidly, but directly they had left my lips they
sounded terribly bold, and I coloured under the conviction that they
were so.
‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ I added; ‘I should not have said that. I feel I
have entrenched on your private affairs.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, mademoiselle. I have ruined myself. The
story is patent to all. It is also true that by a long course of
privation I may regain my former position. But it is not at all likely.’
‘Why not?’
In my interest and surprise I overlooked the fact that this question was
entrenching still more upon his private affairs than the former remark
had been.
‘Because I think I shall return to Paris. I am sick and tired of the
life I lead here, and am ready to sacrifice my future itself in order to
break through the chains that keep me a prisoner in St. Pucelle.’
‘Oh no! monsieur, you must be patient! You must not do that!’
What made me speak to this stranger in so unaccountable a manner?
Some sudden thought of Tessie, and that she would be left to pine in
solitude in St. Pucelle, whilst the Baron was recklessly throwing away
his last chances of respectability and honour in Paris, had put them
into my mind and made me forget myself. I expected that my companion
would be offended at my audacity, but he did not even look surprised.
‘Why should I not do so?’ he answered quietly; ‘I live only for myself.
No one cares what becomes of my future! It is mine to do as I will with;
and this life is too intolerable to be endured for one’s self alone.’
‘You may not always be alone,’ I said, thinking of the fair-haired woman
divided from us only by the organ.
The Baron laughed incredulously.
‘This is a pretty château, is it not, to bring a young lady home to,
mademoiselle, and ask her to live upon roses? They smell sweet enough as
they adorn your bosom, but you would not find them very satisfying as
your daily food.’
At that I laughed also.
‘No, indeed! Still, monsieur——’
‘I wait the commands of mademoiselle——’
‘Even if no one cares what becomes of your future, you have the honour
and glory of the past in your keeping.’
He made no answer to this remark, and when I ventured to look up in his
face I saw that he was biting his lips.
Whether he would have replied to me I know not, but at that moment the
notes of the organ ceased, the bellows gave a great squeak, and Ange
came laughing to ask us if she had not already made a great improvement
in the appearance of the chapel.
‘If Monsieur le Baron will only let me repair the altar-cloth and clean
the ornaments it will make the whole place look different. And the organ
sounds lovely, Tessie! I wish you could have heard it yourself from a
little distance. Has it not been a pleasure to you to touch an organ
again? You have never had an opportunity of playing on one since we were
last in Brussels.’
‘Yes, I have enjoyed it greatly,’ replied Tessie. ‘The notes are a
little stiff from damp and disuse, and I do not think you worked the
bellows very regularly, Hilda; but otherwise we have nothing like this
in St. Pucelle. I only wish I could carry it away in my pocket.’
‘If it is really a pleasure to you to use the instrument, mademoiselle,
I trust you will regard it as your own,’ said the Baron, ‘and play on it
as often as may be convenient to yourself. The key of the chapel is
always left in the hands of Denise, and I will give her orders to see
that it is kept in a fit state for your accommodation.’
‘Oh, that will be delightful!’ cried Ange, who was much more
enthusiastically disposed than her sister; ‘and I may have charge of the
rest of it, may I not, monsieur—and keep the altar dressed with flowers,
as I do for papa on Sundays?’
‘Anything that Mademoiselle Ange chooses to do, she will find me
grateful for,’ replied the Baron. ‘And Mademoiselle Marsh, too, I hope
this is not the last time she will honour the château with her
presence.’
‘Oh! I will come when Tessie does,’ I answered, laughing, ‘to blow the
bellows, though I have not incurred much gratitude for the exertions I
have undergone on her behalf to-day.’
‘Mademoiselle Lovett says nothing herself,’ remarked De Nesselrode.
‘Because it depends so entirely upon papa,’ replied Tessie, blushing;
‘and he has so many engagements in the parish and otherwise, that I do
not know when he may be able to bring us up to the château again.’
And then we all remembered the difficulties that lay in the way of three
young, unmarried ladies making any practical use of an organ that stood
in the residence of an unprotected bachelor.
‘Papa _must_ bring us up; we will _make_ him!’ exclaimed Ange, as she
unceremoniously squatted upon her sleeping father’s knee and kissed him
back to consciousness. ‘Papa! wake up! You’ve been asleep a great deal
too long—and tell us how soon you will bring us to the château again to
play upon this lovely organ.’
‘Eh! eh! what?’ said Mr. Lovett, as he started up and realised where he
was. ‘Why, you little puss! you are enough to frighten a man into a fit.
What is it you want? Is it time to go home?’
‘Pretty nearly, papa, and quite time for you to wake up and make
yourself agreeable. Monsieur le Baron says we may practise on his organ
every day; but you will have to bring us to the château. Will you come
to-morrow again?’
‘No, no, no! How can I come to-morrow? It is Saturday, and I shall have
my sermon to think over and prepare, and a dozen other things to do,’
replied Mr. Lovett, taking the girl’s words seriously. ‘Besides, it is
such a hill to climb! My breath is too short to accomplish it often. If
you want to run about the château as if it belonged to you, you must get
some old woman to chaperon you—Mrs. Carolus, for instance, or Mrs.
Petherton.’
‘Or Miss Markham. I’m sure she is old enough,’ interposed Ange, with a
most unusual degree of acrimony for her.
‘Miss Markham is an unmarried lady, my dear: she would be of no more use
in satisfying the exigencies of etiquette than yourself. However, we
will talk over this scheme later, for it is really time that we were
moving homewards now. Baron, we have to thank you for your excellent
hospitality, and to hope you will soon give us the opportunity to return
it. I shall see you this evening, perhaps, if you have nothing better to
do.’
‘Without fail, monsieur,’ replied the Baron, warmly; and then, when we
girls had reassumed our walking attire, he accompanied us to the
entrance of the château, and bid us farewell, with numerous entreaties
that we would not allow many days to elapse before we came back to play
upon the old organ again.
As we walked home together, Mr. Lovett informed us that the Baron de
Nesselrode reminded him powerfully of the great friend and patron of his
earlier days—the noble poet, of whom, _par excellence_, England has
reason to be proud, Lord Amor.
‘Amor was the most misunderstood and misjudged of all God’s creatures,’
he said warmly. ‘He was afflicted with so mighty a genius and so keen a
sensitiveness, that his mind could scarcely be said to be in a normal
condition; and added to that, he possessed a temperament which left him
open to every sort of temptation. I perceive much of his character
reproduced in Armand de Nesselrode. Without possessing Amor’s genius,
which does not appear once in a century, he has yet a very poetical and
imaginative brain, which in his enforced solitude is likely to produce a
morbid condition of thought. We must induce him to mix amongst us as
much as possible.’
‘It is a pity he has not more love for reading, or else more companions
of his own age,’ I observed. ‘Utter idleness is certain to make a man
fall back upon vice for amusement.’
My trustee glanced at me keenly. Did he imagine I could possibly know
more of the Baron’s habits than he did?
‘There is not much opportunity for the practice of vice in St. Pucelle,
my dear,’ he observed.
‘Is there not, sir? Then St. Pucelle must be a very uncommon sort of
place. But, if all one hears is true, the Baron’s great failing has been
the love of gambling: and that form of vice is feasible wherever a pack
of cards is to be procured.’
I fancied I had made Mr. Lovett quite angry by my insinuation against
his friend.
‘That is a hard judgment, my dear Hilda—harder than I like to hear
proceed from the mouth of so young a woman. You must not think because
poor De Nesselrode may occasionally while away the weary hours of his
exile by a game of cards, that he has therefore necessarily not
abandoned the fatal habit of gambling. There is no harm in a game of
cards. I sometimes indulge in one myself; and I should be glad to hear
you speak a little more charitably of your neighbours, my dear Hilda.’
You are too young to be suspicious. Whatever our friends’ faults may be,
let us remember our own, and preserve a generous silence.’
I felt very small under this clerical rebuke, particularly as the girls
were regarding their father as if he were a Solomon called to judgment,
and proportionately disposed to censure my boldness.
‘I did not intend to be uncharitable,’ I answered humbly; ‘and perhaps
my experience of life has made me suspicious. But, at all events, I may
say that I think it would be safer, under the circumstances, for the
Baron to abandon cards altogether, even as a game.’
‘He is the best judge of his own affairs,’ replied Mr. Lovett, curtly;
and then we started a pleasanter topic, and dropped the one in hand.
At the usual hour in the evening, Armand de Nesselrode came. We heard
his voice in the _salle_, although we did not see him, as the girls said
it was their father’s particular desire that he should not be disturbed
after we had risen from the dinner-table, and left him to the enjoyment
of his wine and cigar and the conversation of any friend who might look
in upon him. But on this evening I felt particularly curious to learn
what was going on in the _salle_. I could distinguish the gentlemen’s
voices as they laughed and talked with one another; but I wanted to see
what they were about. The new-born interest I had conceived in the
Baron’s future prospects had much to do with my curiosity; because I
thought, until I had some proof that he still practised it, I should
never have the audacity to speak to him openly about giving up the
amusement that had been his ruin.
So by-and-by I yawned, and rising, told Tessie and Ange that the day’s
expedition had tired me, and I should go to bed; at which announcement
they laughed, and called me lazy, but raised no objection to the plan;
and I reached my chamber, without either having offered to accompany me.
Madame Marmoret called after me, in her coarse voice, to know if I
intended coming down again that evening; but I would not answer her.
Madame and I were foes, although there had never been an open rupture
between us. I disliked her insolence and familiarity too much to be
civil to her; and she hated me because I took no notice of her rudeness.
It was ten o’clock as I entered my bedroom. The dear old carriage-clock
was ticking away upon the mantelpiece to tell me so. I wrapped myself in
a dark waterproof cloak, and throwing the hood over my head, passed
through the French windows at the end of the corridor that led out into
the garden, from which a door in the wall opened upon the road.
For a few moments I lingered at the flowerbeds, picking a blossom here
and there, for fear the girls might follow me, and suspect the motive of
my absence; but no one came. So, plucking up my courage, I gently opened
the garden-door, and crept noiselessly up the wooden steps that led to
the _salle_. One window, half hidden by clustering tendrils of vine,
abutted on the platform at the head of the steps, and through it the
whole of the _salle_ was visible.
It was as I had thought and feared. Mr. Lovett and the Baron were seated
opposite to each other, with the green-shaded lamp between them, and
their hands full of cards. The table was strewn with counters of various
colours, and two or three little piles of money stood at my trustee’s
elbow. Even as I stood and gazed at them, afraid to breathe lest my
presence should be discovered, I saw the Baron lose again, and add
another coin to the heap on the other side the table, at which Mr.
Lovett laughed, and exclaimed:
‘_A la bonne fortune, mon cher._ Try again! It only requires
perseverance to turn the shadiest luck.’
As I crept back to my bedchamber and prepared myself for rest, I felt
very sick and miserable. I knew the world was full of wickedness and
sorrow, but I never seemed so fully to have realised it as I did that
night; and I wished—oh, so truly!—that I were safe with _her_ wherever
she might be, and had finished the bitter task of learning the lesson of
life. If I missed her at one time more than another, it was at such
moments as these, when I felt confused and stupefied under the shock of
discovering more sin and misery in the world than I had thought it
capable of containing, and had no bosom to fly to for comfort and
reassurance.
I hoped that neither Tessie nor Ange would ask to see me again that
evening. I wanted to go to bed, and lose in sleep, if possible, the
uncomfortable feelings that had taken possession of me. After which, I
was not over-pleased, as may be supposed, to hear Madame Marmoret’s
voice demanding admittance at my door.
‘You cannot come in, Madame, indeed! It is impossible! I am just about
to step into my bed.’
‘_Eh bien!_ It is no concern of mine. Step into your bed, if it pleases
you to do so. But I wish I had not taken the trouble to follow you
upstairs, which I should not have done, except for the entreaties of
Monsieur le Baron. In my day, a young woman was pleased to be taken
notice of, especially if she did not deserve it; but ’tis all the same
to me. I will go downstairs again, and tell Monsieur le Baron that you
refuse me the entrance to your chamber.’
‘Monsieur le Baron!’ I repeated in surprise. ‘What on earth has he to do
with your being here?’
‘Ah, I thought I would arouse your curiosity! We may be extremely modest
and reserved, and not have a civil word to throw at our inferiors; but
the name of a Baron is at all times better than that of a commoner, and
likely to command more attention—is it not so?’
‘Madame Marmoret, if you have a message of any importance for me, please
to deliver it at once, and let me go to rest.’
‘It is no message, then, but a packet, which I have been charged to
deliver into your hands; and if you will not take it, I will just lay it
in your doorway, and the first foot that comes past may smash it to
pieces!’
Aggravated at the woman’s impertinence, and curious to learn what a
packet from the Baron could possibly contain for me, I opened the door,
and received a small parcel carefully enveloped with paper.
‘Is there no message to be taken back again?’ demanded Madame Marmoret,
grinning like a wicked old witch at me.
‘None. I have no idea what the packet can hold.’
‘Ah, you wish me to believe that, mademoiselle, of course! and when I
was paid to deliver it, too! Well, I’ve done my duty, and you can do
yours.’
And, with these words and a harsh laugh, Madame took her way downstairs
again.
I carried the parcel eagerly to the light, and took off its manifold
wrappings, when it disclosed an exquisitely-moulded Venetian vase of the
most costly workmanship, and far superior to anything which we had seen
at the Château des Roses that day. At first I could not believe that it
was intended for me instead of Tessie; but a little card that fell out
of the bowl reassured me. On it, beneath the printed words, ‘Armand de
Nesselrode,’ was written, ‘_Pour les fleurs de Mademoiselle Hilda_.’
I felt very much pleased. As an acquisition alone, the Venetian vase
would have delighted me; because I possessed a cultivated taste, and
took keen interest in all specimens of art, ancient and modern.
It would stand on my mantelshelf, and be ‘a joy for ever,’ with its
fragile loveliness and perfect grace of form.
But far above the value of his little gift, I hailed the evident
goodwill of the giver. He had not taken my frank remarks in bad part. My
vase was a proof that he was not offended with me. What opportunities,
then, might I not hope to gain in the future, to warn him from pursuing
the path which my own eyes had told me he still trod!
Before Madame had delivered my parcel, I was afraid lest the illegal
means by which I had gained my knowledge might for ever prevent my
making use of it. Now I felt no fear about it.
The Baron de Nesselrode had paved the way for me. He could not complain
if I took advantage of his kindness to return it. He had given me a
present, and he should receive one in return. If ever I were on the
brink of offending him by my good advice, I would plead my little vase
as an excuse for trying to return the kindness he had shown me in the
only coin I possessed.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]