"Let me see if I have copied it rightly."
For it was all in my writing. I handed him the paper, or, if you will,
the snare, and I watched him while he read as follows:
"He who is to win my heart, my dear, must be harsh and unbending with
men, but gentle with women. His eagle eye must have power to quell with
a single glance the least approach to ridicule. He will have a pitying
smile for those who would jeer at sacred things, above all, at
that poetry of the heart, without which life would be but a dreary
commonplace. I have the greatest scorn for those who would rob us of
the living fountain of religious beliefs, so rich in solace. His faith,
therefore, should have the simplicity of a child, though united to the
firm conviction of an intelligent man, who has examined the foundations
of his creed. His fresh and original way of looking at things must be
entirely free from affectation or desire to show off. His words will
be few and fit, and his mind so richly stored, that he cannot possibly
become a bore to himself any more than to others.
"All his thoughts must have a high and chivalrous character, without
alloy of self-seeking; while his actions should be marked by a total
absence of interested or sordid motives. Any weak points he may have
will arise from the very elevation of his views above those of the
common herd, for in every respect I would have him superior to his age.
Ever mindful of the delicate attentions due to the weak, he will be
gentle to all women, but not prone lightly to fall in love with any; for
love will seem to him too serious to turn into a game.
"Thus it might happen that he would spend his life in ignorance of
true love, while all the time possessing those qualities most fitted
to inspire it. But if ever he find the ideal woman who has haunted his
waking dreams, if he meet with a nature capable of understanding his
own, one who could fill his soul and pour sunlight over his life, could
shine as a star through the mists of this chill and gloomy world, lend
fresh charm to existence, and draw music from the hitherto silent chords
of his being--needless to say, he would recognize and welcome his good
fortune.
"And she, too, would be happy. Never, by word or look, would he wound
the tender heart which abandoned itself to him, with the blind trust of
a child reposing in its mother's arms. For were the vision shattered, it
would be the wreck of her inner life. To the mighty waters of love she
would confide her all!
"The man I picture must belong, in expression, in attitude, in gait, in
his way of performing alike the smallest and the greatest actions, to
that race of the truly great who are always simple and natural. He need
not be good-looking, but his hands must be beautiful. His upper lip will
curl with a careless, ironic smile for the general public, whilst he
reserves for those he loves the heavenly, radiant glance in which he
puts his soul."
"Will mademoiselle allow me," he said in Spanish, in a voice full of
agitation, "to keep this writing in memory of her? This is the last
lesson I shall have the honor of giving her, and that which I have just
received in these words may serve me for an abiding rule of life. I
left Spain, a fugitive and penniless, but I have to-day received from
my family a sum sufficient for my needs. You will allow me to send some
poor Spaniard in my place."
In other words, he seemed to me to say, "This little game must stop." He
rose with an air of marvelous dignity, and left me quite upset by such
unheard-of delicacy in a man of his class. He went downstairs and asked
to speak with my father.
At dinner my father said to me with a smile:
"Louise, you have been learning Spanish from an ex-minister and a man
condemned to death."
"The Duc de Soria," I said.
"Duke!" replied my father. "No, he is not that any longer; he takes the
title now of Baron de Macumer from a property which still remains to him
in Sardinia. He is something of an original, I think."
"Don't brand with that word, which with you always implies some mockery
and scorn, a man who is your equal, and who, I believe, has a noble
nature."
"Baronne de Macumer?" exclaimed my father, with a laughing glance at me.
Pride kept my eyes fixed on the table.
"But," said my mother, "Henarez must have met the Spanish ambassador on
the steps?"
"Yes," replied my father, "the ambassador asked me if I was conspiring
against the King, his master; but he greeted the ex-grandee of Spain
with much deference, and placed his services at his disposal."
All this, dear, Mme. de l'Estorade, happened a fortnight ago, and it
is a fortnight now since I have seen the man who loves me, for that he
loves me there is not a doubt. What is he about? If only I were a fly,
or a mouse, or a sparrow! I want to see him alone, myself unseen, at his
house. Only think, a man exists, to whom I can say, "Go and die for me!"
And he is so made that he would go, at least I think so. Anyhow, there
is in Paris a man who occupies my thoughts, and whose glance pours
sunshine into my soul. Is not such a man an enemy, whom I ought to
trample under foot? What? There is a man who has become necessary to
me--a man without whom I don't know how to live! You married, and I--in
love! Four little months, and those two doves, whose wings erst bore
them so high, have fluttered down upon the flat stretches of real life!
Sunday.
Yesterday, at the Italian Opera, I could feel some one was looking at
me; my eyes were drawn, as by a magnet, to two wells of fire, gleaming
like carbuncles in a dim corner of the orchestra. Henarez never moved
his eyes from me. The wretch had discovered the one spot from which
he could see me--and there he was. I don't know what he may be as a
politician, but for love he has a genius.
Behold, my fair Renee, where our business now stands,
as the great Corneille has said.