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CTTARLES DALY, 17. G-REYILLE STREET, 
 HAT TOU GARDEN. 
 
MATILDA, 
 
 on, 
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF VIRTUE. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 M. EUGENE SUE. 
 
 ' " life. ■* 
 
 C. ROCHFORD, Esq. 
 
 WITH 
 
 TWENTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS ON STEEL, 
 
 BY 
 
 G. STANDFAST, Esq. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 DALY, 17, GREVILLE STREET, 1 1 ATT ON GARDEN. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Custom has made it necessary, in presenting a new book to the 
 world, for the Author or Translator to say a few words as to the 
 motives which have induced him to undertake so important a 
 task, seeing, if it be dressed in a popular style, much will de- 
 pend upon the tone of morality pervading it, as to the influence 
 it will exercise upon the readers. With respect to the present 
 work, the Translator feels it more requisite since many sincere 
 and well thinking persons have come to the opinion from the 
 perusal, or merely from the reputation, of a few vile and infa- 
 mous works lately published, that all the lighter literature of 
 France is flippant, if not vicious in its character, and immorally 
 degrading in its principles. 
 
 Knowing from a long acquaintance with the contemporaneous 
 literature of that country, that such an opinion is erroneous and 
 exaggerated ; and that many romances exist in that language, as 
 pure and highly toned as any in the world, I have resolved by 
 selecting a few of those preeminently worthy of notice, and trans- 
 lating them with care and accuracy, to endeavour to counteract 
 an idea, founded on prejudice, undoubtedly, though not without 
 a shade of truth for its basis. 
 
 It may be objected to these works, that they contain deline- 
 ations of evil — pictures of guilt — and that, therefore, they are 
 unfit to be submitted to the eyes of the innocent and pure. 
 
 Butin reply to this dogma, it may be urged with confidence — 
 that it is not the delineation of guilt in itself, but the manner and 
 aim of that delineation, which renders the work containing it 
 perilous or evil. 
 
 It appears to me that the fact is simply this — that, where vice 
 is either painted as fair, seductive, fascinating, tricked out with 
 the gaudy colours of a meretricious imagination, described in 
 
 SI W; ; *v-x r? " 603469 
 
iv 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 terms that make the young pulse beat high, the flesh quiver, and 
 the cheek burn ; or yet again, when it is represented as a natural 
 every-day occurrence, as a matter of course, glozed over with 
 sophistical fallacies, or excused by epigrammatic tersenesses, then 
 there is both guilt in the writer, and danger to the reader. When, 
 on the contrary, it is represented as in itself evil and hateful, as 
 bringing with it present agony in the dark struggles of the inward 
 man, and ultimate condemnation from the world without, it be- 
 comes a lesson more or less effective, as it is directed more or less 
 strikingly to the passions and events of every-day life. 
 
 To those persons who can find both pleasure and profit in the 
 pure and elevated fictions of Scott or James — who know that 
 fictitious narratives often contain more real truth, than the mere 
 skeleton outlines of history ; that they dive into the individual 
 heart of man, while the other merely glances over the movements 
 of masses ; that they preserve and embalm the memory of modes, 
 and fashions, and costumes, overlooked by the generalizing pen 
 of the historian — To these I offer Matilda, by Eugene Sue, with 
 confidence, that while it may amuse many and improve some, it 
 can injure no one. 
 
 This novel has established the reputation of Eugene Sue as the 
 most popular writer of the age. The tale abounds with deep, 
 thrilling, and tragic incidents ; it is a hideous but striking picture 
 of French society, true to Nature, though clothed in rich and 
 highly-coloured drapery. The principal male character, Lugarto, 
 represents a Russian nobleman, who married a near relative of 
 the Emperor Napoleon ; and Matilda, the principal heroine, is 
 the beautiful and accomplished Madame * * *. Indeed, every 
 character in the work represent some remarkable personage well 
 known in the Parisian circles ; and the whole is an index of 
 fashionable life and the impurities which spring from it — of so- 
 ciety as it is, not as it should be. 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 PART I.— YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER E 
 / 
 
 THE CAFE LEBŒUF. 
 
 Near the close of December, 1838, there might have been seen (and probably 
 can be at this day,) in the street St. Louis -au-Marais, a modest-looking coffee 
 house, called the café Lebceuf. Opposite to it was the old hotel d'Orbesson, a 
 large and solemn edifice, now used as a lodging-house, although it had been, 
 for many generations, the residence of an ancient and noble family. The 
 President d'Orbesson, its last proprietor, died a few months after the Resto- 
 ration. In October of the same year, the bills, " To be Let," disappeared. 
 An old porter, who had charge of the establishment, left it; and a tenant ap- 
 peared as the occupant of the gloomy building, which boasted only of two 
 stories from court-yard to garden. A large worm-eaten door, flanked by two 
 lodges, that served as offices, opened into the street. 
 
 The hotel d'Orbesson, though now inhabited, seemed as deserted and soli- 
 tary as before. The thick grass still grew over the threshold of the great door, 
 which had never been opened since the arrival of the new tenant, Colonel 
 Ulric. In the populous or elegant portions of Paris, you are almost entirely 
 protected from curiosity and gossip. Every one is too much occupied with 
 his business or his pleasures, to lose his precious time in those fabulous con- 
 jectures, that constant and ill-natured eaves-dropping, which constitute the 
 enjoyment of country places. This exemption does not extend, however, to 
 certain remote quarters of Paris, inhabited for the most part by men of mode- 
 rate income, or retired clerks, who are peculiarly gifted with leisure and a 
 passion for the marvellous, and always afflicted with a potent desire to know 
 what is going on in the street or at other people's houses. This ought to be 
 remarked in praise of these worthy cits, who are so -very fond of drawing upon 
 their imaginations — they are not very particular about the importance of the 
 fact, upon which they love to romanticise after their own fashion. The 
 smallest possible basis seems to prop up the most formidable stories, upon 
 which they live happy and contented for months at a time. If the individual 
 subjected to their scrutiny, persists in not furnishing them with the slightest 
 pretext for scandal, if he surround himself with an impenetrable mystery, 
 the curiosity of the idlers, baffled and suppressed, is exasperated to 
 frenzy. To gratify their favourite passion, they proceed to almost any 
 extremities. 
 
 During the three months while he dwelt in the Marais, Colonel Ulric had 
 succeeded in exciting an unbounded curiosity in the breasts of his neighbours, 
 almost all of whom were in the habit of frequenting the café Lebceuf, situated, 
 as we have said, opposite the hotel. Nothing could be more extraordinary 
 than the habits of the Colonel. His windows were always shut, and he never 
 went out, unless, indeed, in a very secret manner, by a postern gate of the 
 garden, which led into a deserted lane. His servant was a big fellow with a 
 churlish air. Every morning a little side door was opened to receive a 
 basket of provisions — furnished by a restaurateur in the neighbourhood — and 
 closed immediately. Reduced to speculate upon this solitary circumstance, 
 the gossips bribed the purveyor, and endeavoured to conjecture what were 
 the habits and character of the Colonel by an investigation into the contents of 
 the basket. 
 
 In spite of their inventive genius, the loungers at the café Lebœuf could not 
 form any serious hypotheses upon this information. The Colonel appeared to 
 live in a very simple and frugal style. Nevertheless, certain persons of a 
 
2 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 vivid imagination gave out that he might eat his chickens raw. Nothing a* 
 the time, however, was evolved from those insinuations, which did not seem 
 to lack profundity. Last and important observation ! Never had the postman 
 brought a single letter to the hotel d'Orbesson ! No one, for three whole 
 months, had passed the threshold of his habitation. It may well be imagined 
 that plots had been laid to elicit something from the colonel's servant, and to 
 obtain a sly peep into the interior of the mansion- But all such attempts 
 were futile. The neighbours, brought at last to a.kind of military observation, 
 a consta,ntsurveillance, fixed the centre of operations at the caféLebœuf. Atthe 
 head of the gossips were the two brothers Godet, both bachelors, and formerly 
 clerks in the Lottery Office. Ever since the arrival of the colonel, these two 
 old boys had found an object for an existence, which till then had been vapid 
 enough. Wild to discover the mysterious incognito, they every day formed 
 new projects, and made new efforts to solve the living enigma of which they 
 were so enamoured. 
 
 The Widow Lebceuf, hostess of the café, acted as an auxiliary to the two 
 brothers. Intrenched behind her glass jars of cherries, and the silver bowls 
 which adorned her counter, she perpetually aimed her big eyes at the door of 
 the hotel. Astonished, as we may well be, at the perseverance of the gossips, 
 we should recollect that vanity was a mighty spur to their curiosity. Every 
 day they expected to develope some important facts. 
 
 It was, as we said, near the close of December. The clock of the café had 
 just struck twelve. Madam Lebceuf, with her nose flattened against the 
 window pane, was dividing her attention between the snow, which fell in 
 large flakes, and the door of the hotel d'Orbesson. She was surprised that 
 she had not seen the two brothers Godet, those faithful customers, who came 
 every morning regularly to breakfast at her house. At last she saw them pass 
 before the windows. They entered and disencumbered themselves of their 
 snow-covered cloaks. 
 
 " Good gracious! Mr. Godet, senior, what is the matter with your forehead," 
 exclaimed the widow, upon seeing a bandage round the frontal region of her 
 customer. 
 
 Mr. Godet, senior, was a large, bald man, with a florid complexion, a pro- 
 tuberant corporosity, and a pompous, dogmatic countenance. Slightly lifting 
 the black silk bandage which concealed his left eye, he replied with an in- 
 dignant manner, and a bass voice, which would have done honour to a 
 chorister in a cathedral, 
 
 " It is all owing to that monster, Robin des Bois,"* for thus had the gossips 
 of the cafe, ingenuously christened the inhabitant of the hotel d'Orbesson. 
 
 "It is allowing to that monster, Robin des Bois," repeated Mr. Godet, 
 junior, the unfailing echo of his brother. 
 
 " Good heavens ! Tell me, do, directly, how it happened," said Madam 
 Lebceuf, trembling with impatience. 
 
 " Oh, in a very simple way, my dear madam," said the former clerk of the 
 Lottery Office. " We must have done with this adventurer, this vagabond, 
 this vagrant, who crouches in his den like a ferocious beast. Mind ! by 
 calling him a wild beast, I do not mean to impeach his honour or morality on 
 any point. I merely make this simple proposition — if he does no evil and 
 never did it, why does he hide himself like a wild beast ?" 
 
 After this triumphant speech, Mr. Godet, senior, again raised the bandage 
 from his left eye. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, why should he hide himself," echoed the attentive 
 customers. 
 
 "Now, just look at the government," bitterly resumed Mr. Godet, "it 
 knows how to ferret out, discover, and arrest conspirators; but when the 
 safety and tranquillity of peaceable citizens are at stake — bless my heart! 
 there are no more city-sergeants or commissaries of police than among 
 savages." 
 
 " Than among savages !" repeated Mr. Godet, the younger. 
 
 " In the dangerous conjuncture in which we were placed, abandoned to 
 our resources, my dear Madam Lebceuf," resumed Mr. Godet, senior, "what 
 did I do? What ought I to have done? 'Look here,' said I to myself; 
 « Godet, thou art an honest man, thou hast a great duty to perform : do what 
 you ought, come what may, Godet ! There is in thy neighbourhood a vaga- 
 
 * Robin des Bois, (Robin of the Woods,) is the French name for the German opera of 
 Der Freischutz. Robin is a mysterious character, who rolls about magic balis, and eut» 
 up other shines, as one might be expected to do, who plays " the very devil."* 
 
THK CAFK LEBCSUF. 
 
 3 
 
 bond, an adventurer, a vagrant, -who, in the face of a whole street, a whole 
 neighbourhood, dares contumaciously to conceal himself for weeks together, 
 nay, for whole months, without the government daring to put an end to this 
 public scandal 1 m 
 
 " It is, indeed, a scandal," said Madam Lebceuf ; " it is impossible to know 
 what our neighbours are about, if they never show themselves ; one is com- 
 pelled to speak ill of them." 
 
 "It is a shocking scandal," replied Mr. Godet, senior. "I not only say 
 this — I can prove it. It is plain, it is palpable, that this scamp makes game 
 of the opinion of his fellow citizens, by thus refusing to submit to their severe 
 but equitable scrutiny. 1 Man proposes, but God disposes.' " 
 
 Madam Lebceuf, not perceiving the aim of this philosophical quotation, 
 and too impatient to arrive at what had occurred, exclaimed, " It is 
 quite true, Mr. Godet — quite true — but why have you that bandage round 
 your eye ?" 
 
 " In one momant, ;my dear madam. Yesterday I called my brother — my 
 worthy brother ; I said to him, ' Theodore, this intolerable abuse must come 
 to an end. We must know who this adventurer is, should it cost us our lives. 
 I do not dissemble it,' said I to Theodore. ' It is to me a question of health. 
 For the three months that this vagrant has abided here, and that I have been 
 vainly endeavouring to find out who he is and what he does, I have ceased to 
 . exist. I am a prey to discomfort; I have awful dreams; abominable night- 
 mares. I think of nothing but this mysterious stranger. It even deranges 
 my physical functions. It gives me the dyspepsy.' Yes, my beloved madam, 
 is is just as I have the honour to state ; I confide to your sympathizing bosom 
 the fact of a derangement of my digestive organs. ' So,' said I to myself, 
 ' Godet, thou wilt not be such a butcher of thyself as to dig thy grave for the 
 amusement of this adventurer. This secret drives thee to madness. Gode* ! 
 well ! unveil this mystery, and thou wilt deserve to regain that repose whicn 
 this vagrant has so maliciously extracted.' No sooner said than done, uiy 
 dear Madam Lebceuf. Yesterday, at nightfall, I borrowed a ladder of our 
 neighbour, the carpenter; I crossed the street with Theodore; we entered the 
 lane upon which opens the little gate of the garden of Robin des Bois. I 
 placed the ladder against the wall ; I mounted. It was yet light enough to 
 see into the garden and the inside of the house." 
 " Well !" exclaimed Madam Lebceuf. 
 
 " Well, madam, at the moment that I was thrusting forward my head, to 
 peer over the wall, a gun went off." 
 
 "Gracious me! a gun?" cried the widow. 
 
 "A real gun, madam; a veritable attempt upon my individual existence! 
 My hat fell. I felt myself struck in the forehead and eye, smack ! as if pierced 
 by a thousand pins. - And I heard the voice — I should know it among a 
 thousand — the voice of the janissary, of the Seyd, of this Grand Turk, who 
 cried out, with a ferocious and mocking tone, ' Another time, instead of small 
 shot, you shall have a bullet : another time, you shall be shot in the head, and 
 not in the hat!' Behold, Madam Lebceuf, how we are oppressed by the 
 government. They have got so far as to pursue citizens to the tops of the 
 highest walls, and shoot ' them there :' I may say, the very highest walls." 
 
 "But it is assassination!" cried the customers. 
 
 "Ah! the monster of a man!" said Madam Lebceuf. "You must go to 
 the commissary, Mr. Godet : you must have your witnesses." 
 
 "That is just what I said to myself, as I precipitately descended to the 
 ground, my dear Madam Lebceuf. ' Yes,' said I ; ' Godet, you must bestir 
 yourself immediately, and make your complaint to the magistrate. Now you 
 shall see how we are governed.' A quarter of an hour afterward, I went to 
 the commissary. Just at the moment they were lighting his lantern — his lan- 
 tern, absurd emblem ! if it was intended to typify the brightness of this 
 functionary — I brought with me very irrefragable proofs ; my torn hat and my 
 forehead, all black and blue — " 
 
 "Well!' 
 
 " Well, Madam Lebceuf, the commissary told me — he had the impudence 
 to tell me — that I had got no more than I deserved ; and that, were it not for 
 the consideration that I had lived in this quarter for twenty-two years and 
 some months, he would be forced to prosecute me as guilty of a nocturnal 
 attempt upon an inhabited mansion." 
 
 " Horrible !" cried Madam Lebceuf. 
 
 "Thus," resumed Godet senior, with bitter irony, and Ciceronian emphasis, 
 " thus can an adventurer insolently dare to excite the public curiosity by 
 hiding himself in obscurity, and an honest citizen, of good character, be shot 
 b2 
 
4 MATILDA. 
 
 with impunity, because he endeavours to rid himself of that perplexity, in 
 which he is involved by his ignorance of a mystery, vital, perhaps to the pub- 
 lic weal. Listen, Madam Lebœuf," added Mr. Godet, in an oracular tone, 
 and an assumption of all his dignity ; " a great man has said — I don't know 
 who, but it's all the same thing — a great man has said, ' The house of every 
 citizen should be made of glass.' I set the example ; let it be imitated. My 
 house is of glass — a real glass jar : let people stare at it with all their might, 
 and they will there behold me, devoted to the reform of my fellow citizens. 
 They will — " 
 
 Mr. Godet could not terminate his philippic — an overpowering event took 
 the words out of his mouth. A very handsome carriage, blazoned with armo- 
 rial bearings, and drawn by two fine horses, stopped before the grand entrance 
 of the hotel d'Orbesson. The carriage approached slowly; the blinds drawn 
 up showed that it was empty. A chasseur, richly bedecked, dismounted from 
 the seat where he was sitting by the coachman, who was clad in a crimson, 
 furred pelisse. Hardly had the chasseur touched the knocker of the door, 
 when, for the first time for three months, it opened to receive the carriage, 
 and shut immediately. The gossips of the café Lebœuf, stared at it with gaping 
 mouths. Doubtless they were on the point of delivering themselves of most 
 extraordinary comments, when the door was again opened. The carriage 
 rapidly departed, and in it was seen a man, seated at his ease ; he was still 
 young, and of a stalwart figure. He wore the uniform of a Hungarian hus- 
 sar ; white, with a blue collar, and covered with broideries of gold. Around 
 his neck and on his breast glittered crosses and medals of foreign orders. 
 
 " Oh ho ! Robin des Bois is a great lord from a strange country," sung out 
 Mr. Godet senior. 
 
 " He has a handsome enough figure, but a very insolent air," said Madam 
 Lebœuf. 
 
 " Did you see his two stars, one of gold and the other of silver?" said Mr. 
 Godet junior. 
 
 u Ah ! ha, ha! I believe, at the bottom of my heart, in spite of his title of 
 colonel, that this adventurer, this vagrant, this vagabond, is some sort of a 
 retired bankrupt," added Mr. Godet senior, whistling between his teeth. 
 
 " An idea, sir," cried Madam Lebœuf, " He is, maybe, an actor. I have 
 seen, in the Olympic circus, riders dressed up after that fashion." 
 
 " But that magnificient coach," said Mr. Godet : " can that belong to the 
 company ? Besides, people don't act comedies in open day." 
 
 "I rather think," said Madam Lebœuf, "that that ugly man who lives 
 with Robin des Bois, will permit you to go in, now that his master has gone out." 
 
 "You are right, my dear Madam Lebœuf," said Mr. Godet, "you are 
 right ; but under what pretext shall I introduce myself into the house ?" 
 
 " You have only to say you come to make apologies for what passed last 
 evening," timidly remarked Mr. Godet the younger. 
 
 "How! apologies! because he came near putting my eye out? You are 
 crazy, Theodore ; I shall go, on the contrary, and complain of his incivility ; 
 it will be a way to engage him in conversation." 
 
 As he said this, Godet went out and rapped at the little door in the hotel 
 d'Orbesson. The gloomy visage of the Colonel Ulric's servant appearedat the 
 wicket, 
 
 1 1 What do you want ?" said he. 
 " It is I who yesterday got — " 
 
 " You will get more still, if you come back," cried the servant, slapping 
 the wicket in his face. 
 
 The disappointed Godet returned to his accomplices, who continued to in- 
 dulge at the café Lebœuf in the most unheard-of conjectures ; till their inte- 
 resting conversation was arrested by the rumbling of a carriage, which stopped 
 before the hotel d'Orbesson. The colonel re-entered his dwelling; a minute 
 afterward the vehicle which had brought him came out and slowly rolled 
 away. Godet followed it, and endeavoured to enter into conversation with 
 the coachman and chasseur; but could not get one word out of them, either 
 because they did not understand French, or because they did not choose to 
 answer his questions. Mr. Godet and his friends concluded, from their ab- 
 surd silence, that Colonel Ulric was waited upon by mutes ; and this served 
 infinitely to augment the terror which he inspired. Did this carriage belong 
 to him ? It was impossible to resolve this question. 
 
 For the next day, and the day after that, the frequenters of the café Lebœuf 
 waited in vain for the coach. It reappeared no more. Nothing seemed to be 
 changed in the solitary habits of Robin des Bois. The curiosity of the brothers 
 Godet was yet more violently excited; since they had discovered that the Co- 
 
T HE LETTER. 
 
 5 
 
 lonel was young, handsome, and doubtless in a high social position. They no 
 longer lavished upon him the epithets of vagabond and adventurer, but con- 
 tented themselves with calling him Robin des Bois, a cognomen which decided- 
 ly appertained to his very mysterious existence. A new fancy now perplexed 
 the brothers Godet. It was a question with them whether or no the colonel, 
 whom they had never seen, in the street, went out through the little gate on 
 the lane. Two ragamuffins, set upon the watch at each end of the passage, 
 and seeming to be intently engaged in playing at marbles, were secretly 
 charged to observe if any one emerged from the little gate. For three days 
 the urchins remained faithful to their posts ; they saw no one. The brothers 
 Godet, hurried onward by the demon curiosity, which was destined to impel 
 them to many other rash enterprises, had the patience, one after the other, to 
 lie in ambuscade for two whole days at the entrance of the lane, so as to verify 
 the report of the ragamuffins. But they were not a whit more successful. 
 The snow had giving place to a heavy frost, and they could not espy the trace 
 of any footsteps. The customers of the café Lebœuf then triumphantly con- 
 cluded, that if Robin des Bois did not go out by day, he certainly must by 
 night. To satisfy himself on this point, Godet senior had recourse to a stra- 
 tagem, which the last of the Mohegans would surely have employed to discover 
 the traces of the mocassins of a hostile warrior. 
 
 One dark evening, the two brothers scattered before the little gate of the 
 garden, and over the whole surface of the lane, a thick layer of ashes, and re- 
 tired delighted with their ingenuity. It is impossible to describe with what 
 anxiety, with what palpitation, they hastened the next morning at daybreak, 
 to the lane. Their doubts were resolved. Robin des Bois went out at night, 
 his footsteps on the ashes had betrayed him. Convinced of this fact, the bro- 
 thers had only to renew their experiment, to assertain if the colonel's Prome- 
 nades were frequently or seldom taken. They soon ascertained that the colonel 
 went out every evening, whether the weather were fine or rainy. Whither 
 could he go? People, the least inclined to be curious, would have become so 
 under such incitements. The customers of the café Lebœuf held a council ex- 
 traordinary. It was unanimously resolyed, that the brothers Godet, whose 
 courage never failed them, should, on the very first obscure night, lie in wait 
 at the termini of the lane. Thus entrapped, the colonel must inevitably pass 
 by one or the other of these inquisitors, whose duty it should be to dog him 
 with the greatest precaution, through fear of being surprised ; Robin des Bois 
 — to judge from the manner in which he received attempts at scaling his walls 
 —being not very desixious to initiate strangers into the habits of his myste- 
 rious life. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 Ok the morning of the expedition proposed by the two brothers, Madam Le- 
 bœuf, in her impatience, arose much earlier than was her wont ; she walked 
 backward and forward, from her counter to the door, and from her door to 
 the counter, with inexpressible disquiet. Had the brothers Godet succeeded 
 in their enterprize ? Had they incurred any danger I As the customers one 
 after another arrived, the general curiosity increased. One of the gossips, 
 having reflected all night, and put together all that had been previously dis- 
 covered about the colonel, had at first declared that he could be nothing 
 more nor less than a spy of high descent. This luminous idea was victo- 
 riously refuted by an auditor, who ventured to observe, that as Robin des 
 Bois, according to all appearances, went forth only at night, he would find it 
 extremely difficult to follow so honest a trade. The' dogmatical citizen re- 
 sponded to this objection, that the colonel deported himself thus the better to 
 ward off suspicion — which rendered his espionage more dangerous still. In 
 epite of the interest of this discussion, they were far from forgetting the two 
 brothers, but were astonished at their protracted absence : it was mid-day, 
 and neither the one nor the other had appeared. Madam Lebœuf called to 
 mind the narrative of the gun ; dreading some tragical catastrophe, she was 
 about to send one of the small coffee-house boys to learn news of the Mes- 
 sieurs Godet, when those gentlemen entered her presence. They were 
 greeted by a general outcry of curiosity. 
 " Well! well!" 
 
 " Well, we havé heard fine things, responded Mr. Godet, senior, with a 
 sinister manner. 
 
 Not until then was it perceived that the two brothers were as pale as spec- 
 b2 
 
8 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 très. "Was this paleness owing to the fatigues of the night, or to the recol- 
 lection of some great danger? Soon will Godet, the elder, disclose the 
 awful tale. The customers of the Hotel Lebceuf formed a circle round him, 
 and he began thus: 
 
 " I need not inform you, gentlemen, that, having courageously devoted my 
 life to the dissipating of those mysterious shadows, which, I dare to avow it, 
 deeply interest and affoct all honest people, it — " 
 
 " Then don't talk about it," sagely remarked a bystander. 
 
 "How?' 1 said Mr. Godet. 
 
 " Doubtless," answered the customer, "you have been writing it, ' I need 
 not inform you, gentlemen, 1 and then you say the very thing — then — " 
 
 "But it is good, it is good, nevertheless," exclaimed they all, with one 
 voice; "you talk nothing but downright nonsense, Mr. Dumont. Go on, 
 Mi\ Godet, go on ; we are listening to you with all our might." 
 
 " Well, yesterday, about nightfall," continued Godet, " Theodore and my- 
 self placed ourselves in ambush at each end of the lane, fully determined to 
 penetrate this dark mystery. The village clock struck seven — nothing ; eight 
 — nothing; nine — nothing; ten — nothing; eleven — nothing." 
 
 " What zeal ! to wait so long in the cold," exclaimed the audience. 
 
 " You must have wanted a good bowl of hot wine," sighed forth Madamo 
 Lebœuf. 
 
 " 1 was not at all astonished," continued Godet, in a tone of authority. 
 " No, gentlemen, no ; I was not astonished at this delay. I expected it. 
 Said I to myself, ' Godet, if something is to happen. I deem it my duty to in- 
 form you that it will take place at midnight , it is usually the hour of a cer- 
 tain kind of criminal enterprises, that' — but let us not anticipate. It had 
 hardly struck twelve, when i heard a creaking, and the postern gate was un- 
 locked." 
 
 " Ah ! at last," said the audience. 
 
 " How your heart must have beat, Mr. Godet," said the seller of lemonade. 
 " I should certainly have fainted." 
 
 " Nature having endowed me with that courage which every Frenchman 
 possesses, I buttoned up my coat, my dear Madam Lebœuf, and prepared to 
 follow my man. I, however, perceived a slight cold perspiration on my fore- 
 head, which I attributed to the external atmosphere. I heard Bobin des Bois 
 — but no, he is no longer worthy of that name; he ought to have one a thou- 
 sand times more terrible. But don't let us anticipate ; I heard Robin des 
 Bois approach me. He had a strange and frightful footstep— a footstep that 
 I might almost call- tremulous with remorse. I" held my breath, and stood 
 close against the wall : it was so dark that he could not see me. He passed, 
 and I then began to track his footsteps with the perseverance of a hound who 
 
 Eursues his prey, if I may be allowed the expression. Theodore, who had 
 eard him come toward me, came running up, and we followed our man ; or 
 
 rather, our But don't let us anticipate. We walked, and walked, and 
 
 walked. Heavens ! how agitated must the wretch have been, not to have per- 
 ceived that we were at his heels." 
 
 " It almost makes my hair stand on end," said the widow, " when I think 
 that he might have seen you." 
 
 " In that case, madam, I had an answer all ready ; an answer which I had 
 carefully laboured out, for the emergency of any dispute." 
 " What was it ?" 
 
 " It was very simple : the street is free to every one I" exclaimed Godet, 
 with a heroical air. 
 
 " How was he dressed ?" asked Madam Lebœuf. 
 
 " He appeared to be clad in a black cloak and a large hat. At last, after 
 numberless turnings, we came— guess where ? Guess a hundred — a thousand 
 — ten thousand times." 
 
 " We give it up 1" exclaimed the customers of the café, with one voice. 
 
 " Have compassion on us, Mr. Godet," said the hostess. 
 
 After having for a moment enjoyed the general impatience, he exclaimed, 
 ia a sepulchral voice, " We came — ah, gentlemen!" 
 
 "But, tell us." 
 
 " We came to the burial-ground of Père la Chaise." 
 
 " Père la Chaise 1" exclaimed the assembly, in accents of horror and alarm. 
 Madam Lebœuf was so troubled that she was obliged to pour herself out a 
 glass of wine, to recover from her emotion. 
 
 "Ah! what could ho bo going to do at the burial-ground of Père la 
 Chaise?*' exclaimed the widow, after having drunk. 
 
 "You will see, gentlemen, you will see it bat too well. We came to tho 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 7 
 
 gate of the burial-ground ; it was shut, of course, as it should be in a place of 
 rest, so that the peace of every man's tomb may be undisturbed. Then our 
 man, that is to say, the man — for I deny all fellowship, all community, with 
 such a monster — the man, provided, doubtless, with a false key, picklock, or 
 some other horrid instrument of the kind ; the man, I say, opened the gate 
 and closed it after him." 
 
 " Then what did you do?" asked Madam Leboeuf. 
 
 " I and Theodore had the courage to wait for this sacrilegious villain until 
 four o'clock in the morning. During this interval he had, doubtless, been 
 employing his time in horrible profanations, after the manner of the famous 
 melodrama of the ' Vampire.' " 
 
 " A vampire !" cried Madam Leboeuf; " do you believe there are still such 
 things as vampires in the world ? How ! is our opposite neighbor a vam- 
 pire ? A vampire ! What horrible enjoyment !" 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! my dear Madam Lebœuf, 1 am not superstitious 
 enough to believe in such an exaggerated species of vampire as we see in the 
 melodrama ; but I believe that no one steals by night into ehurch-yards, ex- 
 cept from inhuman and unnatural motives, which induces me, until I can 
 find a better name for him, to call Robin des Bois the vampire; and here I 
 am irresistibly compelled to declare, that whoever does not respect the sanc- 
 tuary of the sepulchre, will, sooner or later, descend into it ; for Providence 
 always punishes the guilty," added Mr. Godet, philosophically. 
 
 " There is nothing strange in that, since every one dies sooner or later," 
 added Godet's merciless critic, in an under-tone. 
 
 Godet honored him with a ferocious glance, and concluded in these 
 words : " When the man, whom I do not hesitate to call a vampire, had left 
 the burying-ground of Père la Chaise, we followed him again ; first, because 
 it was on our way, and, secondly, because in the event of a bad accident, 
 three are better than two. At last the vampire returned to the place whence 
 he set out, and entered by the lane into what I hardly dare call his dwelling. 
 He will, doubtless, set out again this evening, to spin out the thread of his 
 mysterious horrors." 
 
 The story of Mr. Godet did not completely satisfy his hearers. This visit 
 to the burial-ground, joined to the brilliant apparition of the colonel in a 
 splendid carriage, furnished a text for inexhaustible comments to the cus- 
 tomers of the café Leboeuf, and still further excited the general curiosity. 
 It was true enough, that, with the exception of the widow, no one positively 
 believed in vampires ; but the singular conduct of the colonel was, neverthe- 
 less, susceptible of the strangest interpretations. 
 
 At the moment when the discussion was the liveliest, a postman entered, 
 and gave a letter to Madam Lebceuf, who, in consideration of the severe 
 cold, graciously condescended to pour out a glass of brandy for him, by way 
 of recompense. This good action had an immediate reward. The postman, 
 taking out of his box a somewhat bulky letter with a black seal, said to the 
 widow : ' ' The neighbor opposite is not a good customer, for I have not car- 
 ried him a letter for three months ; but this is worth several ordinary ones. 
 Ha ! it appears that Colonel Ulric prefers large mouthfuls to fine morsels," 
 added the postman, with a knowing air. 
 
 " Gentlemen! gentlemen! a letter for the vampire," cried Madame Le- 
 bceuf, seizing it and lifting it above her head with an expression of triumph. 
 
 The customers ran up and gathered round the counter. 
 
 " Madam ! madam !" cried the postman, who, fearing a breach of con- 
 fidence, stretched forth his hand to take the letter. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, my boy, we will not do it any harm ; let us only look 
 at the address." 
 
 " Just one look," added Mr. Godet; and seizing the letter, his hands trem- 
 bling with emotion, he placed it carefully upon the marble counter. 
 
 " Another glass of brandy, my boy," said the widow to the postman; 
 " what matters it if you do deliver this letter five minutes later, at its place 
 of destination ?" 
 
 The postman drank a second glass of brandy, without taking his eyes from 
 the letter. 
 
 " Let us see," said the widow, "what is the address?' she read il Mons. le 
 Colonel Ulric, 38 rue St. Louis, Paris." 
 
 "And the seal ?— coat of arms ?" "It is a spotted lozenge," 
 " And the postmark ?"asked another gossip. 
 
 " Paris, noon delivery, and a franc postage on account of the weight,' 
 answered the postman. "Come now, Madam Lebœuf, as you have seen 
 enough, I hope you will give me the letter." 
 
8 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 "One moment my boy, you have a very blue nose to-day; drink another 
 glass of brandy since the weather is so terribly cold." 
 
 " No, I thank you, Madam Lebceuf," said the postman ; w quick, quick, 
 my letter." 
 
 Godet and the customers looked at the wrapper with an anxiety almost 
 amounting to ferocity; they attentively examined the thick, blue, glazed 
 paper, and the fine delicate writing. The widow suddenly applied her broad 
 nose to the letter, and exclaimed, " Oh, it smells of musk — what a horri- 
 ble odour !" 
 
 We must, for the sake of truth, declare that the letter was strongly perfumed 
 with vetyver, but to some people every perfume is musk, and musk is tradi- 
 tionally an abominable odour. All the noses of the customers of the café 
 Lebceuf were applied in succession to the letter. There was but one cry — 
 "It smells of musk." 
 
 " It is a woman's letter," exclaimed Godet, with an air of inspiration, "and 
 a woman who uses perfume." 
 
 " Bah !" cried the widow Lebceuf with a sneer of supreme contempt. 
 
 " And who, besides, does not frank a letter of this importance — a letter of 
 twenty cents postage ?" said another customer. 
 
 " Which all signifies that she is no better than she should be, or, perhaps, 
 worse." rejoined Madam Lebceuf, shrugging her shoulders ; a creature who 
 uses perfumes, who has not even money enough to frank her letters." 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Mr. Godet reflectingly ; " this fine crow-quill hand 
 — the number placed before the name of the street — yes, yes, this letter with- 
 out doubt is from an Englishwoman." 
 
 What possible connexion could there be between a woman who used per- 
 fume, an Englishwoman, and a handsome strange colonel who never went 
 out by day and frequented the churchyards by night ? Such was the sub- 
 stance of the questions propounded by the company in the café, as they bent 
 over the letter, with eyes flaming with eager curiosity. It might certainly be 
 affirmed without judging the human race too severely, that had the gossips of 
 the café Lebceuf been able to drown the poor postman by the force of their 
 will, for the purpose of gaining possession of the precious letter, the messenger 
 with the red collar would have incurred no small risk. The widow could not 
 contain herself ; she had the boldness to lift up a corner of the wrapper in 
 order to obtain some glimpse of what it contained. The postman seized the 
 letter, crying out that the loss of his place and imprisonment would be the 
 consequence of such an abuse of trust. The widow, carried beyond all bounds 
 by the demon of curiosity, held the letter firmly ; and the wrapper would 
 have been torn in the struggle had not one of the company cried out, ' 'Gentle- 
 men, gentlemen, here is some one else! a woman! who seems to be looking 
 for the number of the vampire's den." 
 
 These words had the effect of magic ; the widow let go the letter and.glued 
 her fat face against one of the window panes, whitened by the frost. The 
 postman made his exit in all haste, delighted to have escaped this snare. 
 Madam Lebceuf scratched away with her nails from one of the panes the frost 
 which had collected, and having made an eye -hole, looked from thence into 
 the street. 
 
 "Gentlemen, don't let us show ourselves," said Mr. Godet, "or we shall 
 scare this woman away. Let us imitate our dear Madam Lebceuf; let each 
 man make for himself an eye-hole ; and mum's the word." 
 
 Once upon the watch, the gossips were amply repaid for their long suspense 
 of three months ; events seemed to have crowded together on that day. The 
 postman knocked at the door and delivered up the letter to the colonel's ser- 
 vant, who examined the direction with a suspicious air, and appeared angry. 
 Hardly had the postman disappeared, when the woman, already noticed by 
 our gossips, approached the great door of the hotel ; but finding no knocker 
 there, she directed her steps to the little gate of the pavilion on the left. She 
 was a woman somewhat advanced in years, and she appeared moved ; she 
 wore a black hat and a brown cloak, under which she concealed something. 
 After having rung at the little gate, she paced up and down, instead of waiting 
 for the bell to be answered, doubtless to escape observation. 
 
 The servant of the colonel appeared ; the old woman, after having spoken 
 a few hurried words, handed him a small box of tortoise-shell, incrusted with 
 gold; and vanished after a sign of intelligence to some one whom the gossips 
 of the caté could not see. The servant looked a moment at the box with sur- 
 prise and shut the gate. Mr. Godet, the widow, and their accomplices in this 
 investigation waited with breathless impatience behind the window for the 
 invisible person within. At last there appeared another woman. She waa 
 
INVESTIGATIONS. 
 
 9 
 
 young, not over twenty-five years of age. Her costume was very simple ; a 
 little hat of black velvet, a pelisse of dark gray gros de Naptes, and a Jarge 
 shawl of black cashmere, which fell down to the flounces of her gown. She 
 hid her hands in a muff of martin-skins, out of which peeped the corners of a 
 handkerchief richly trimmed with Valencian lace ; and, to crown all, the pret- 
 tiest possiule little feet seemed to tremble with cold in their black gaiter-boots. 
 The most striking characteristic in the face of this young and remarkably 
 lovely woman, was the contrast between her light flaxen hair and her large 
 dark eyes, and strongly-marked eyelashes of the same hue. Long and luxuri- 
 ous curls, confined by her hat, partially veiled her cheeks. In spite of the 
 cold, which should have heightened her colour, she was very pale, and her 
 features wore an expression of terror. Twice she raised her beautiful eyes, 
 suffused with tears, to heaven ; and when she joined the person who waited 
 for her, her lips parted with a sad smile and displayed teeth of the purest 
 enamel. While passing the café Lebœuf, she hurried faster onward. Mr. 
 Godet could contain himself no longer. He half- opened the door, and saw 
 the two women go to a little carriage with red curtains, which was waiting 
 at the corner of the street St. Louis. They got in and drove off with the cur- 
 tains down. 
 
 " I hope — something new at last, I hope," said Godet, folding his arms and 
 shaking his head with an air of triumph. And the customers began to recap- 
 itulate the events which had accumulated since morning. 
 
 "A letter which smells of musk." 
 
 " An old woman, who brings a tortoise-shell casket, incrusted with gold, 
 and has a frightened look." 
 
 "And, after all a young woman who looks as if she was going to burst 
 into tears," said Madam Lebceuf. 
 
 " Thunder ! what a pretty creature !" said Mr. Godet. 
 
 " She ! she a pretty woman ! why, she has no more beauty than nothing 
 at all !" said Madam Lebceuf, bridling up. 
 
 "I'll bet that is the woman who uses perfumes, and does not frank her let- 
 ters," exclaimed Mr. Godet, after some moments of reflection. 
 
 " The Englishwoman ! But did you not see how she was dressed, Mr. 
 Godet ?" said the widow, elevating her shoulders with an air of overpowering 
 superiority. " She an Englishwoman ! Poh ! there is nothing more easy to 
 recognize than an Englishwoman. You have only to notice the style of her 
 dress. A straw hat, a rose-coloured spencer, a Scotch petticoat, laced boots 
 of pale green, or lemon-colour, and, in nine cases out of ten, red hair, as in the 
 farce of Les Anglaises pour rire. It is a piece which is more than a day old, 
 and of good authority. And I say again, since the world was the world, real 
 Englishwomen were never dressed in any other fashion." 
 
 Unfortunately, the arrival of two individuals, who suddenly entered the 
 café, interrupted the remarks and lessons of the learned hostess upon the 
 natural history of the Englishwomen. The company looked with reinvigour- "* 
 ated curiosity upon the new comers, who were evidently as great strangers 
 in the Marais as the young and lovely woman, whose portrait we have just 
 sketched. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 INVESTIGATIONS. 
 
 The two strangers were young and elegantly dressed. Although it was 
 very cold, neither of them were disfigured by those abominable saclcs which 
 are such bad imitations of the northwesters of English sailors, and called pale- 
 tots by French tailors. 
 
 The younger of the two was light-haired, of a slight and elegant figure, and 
 wore over his dress a surtout of white broadcloth, wadded, and falling loosely 
 about him. The large tie of his black satin cravat was fastened by a turqoise 
 pin ; his pantaloons, tight and of a blue colour, fitted neatly over his boots, 
 chining with brilliant varnish. The elder one was dark-complexioned, and 
 had also the exterior of a man of the world; he wore a bronze- coloured sur- 
 tout, the collar and breast of which were lined with velvet. Eeneath his 
 pantaloons of light gray, appeared a handsome foot in a half-boot of black 
 kersey-mere. A fantastic cravat of brick-red, with broad white stripes, won- 
 derfully became his dark hair and swarthy complexion. 
 
 We give these trivial details, because they account, in some degree, for the 
 •ager and — so to speak — savage curiosity with which the two individuals wer« 
 
10 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 examined by the company assembled in the café Labœuf. The younger of 
 the strangers seemed to be the prey of some overpowering emotion. As he 
 came, he took off his hat, threw himself before a table as if quite overcome, 
 and rested his head on his hands which were gloved in the most exquisite 
 manner. 
 
 "The devil!" said his friend, (whom we shall call Alfred,) "the devil! 
 Gaston, compose yourself; you are deceived, I tell you, — it was not positively 
 she." - 
 
 " Was it not she ?" replied Gaston, quickly raising his head, and smiling 
 with bitterness. "Was it not she? How! Did I not recognize her at a 
 masked ball by nothing but her gait? You wish me to deceive myself. 
 Alfred, you take me for a child. I saw her leave her carriage and get into a 
 blue fiacre with red curtains ; she was with that cursed Madam Blondeau, who 
 carried the casket." 
 
 At these words, spoken in a loud tone of voice, the customers of the café 
 Lebceuf could not restrain a movement, expressive of delight. Mr. Godet 
 said in an under tone to his accomplices, " Do you hear that — the casket 1 the 
 casket! Doubtless, the very one which the x>ld woman jnst delivered to the 
 Vampire's servant. Bravo ! the plot thickens ; it is getting mighty interest- 
 ing. Let us listen. Hand me a newspaper. I will adroitly insinuate myself 
 near to these gentlemen who look like gallants of the first water." Saying 
 this, he drew near the table, at which the young gentlemen were seated. No 
 sooner, however, did they see they were regarded with attention, than they 
 continued their conversation in English, to the no small disappointment of 
 the busybodies. 
 
 "But what was this casket?" said Alfred. 
 
 " A casket that she had given to me, and which my valet was fool enough 
 to entrust to Madam Blondeau, believing that she came from me. This 
 morning, when I returned home, Pierre apprised me of the fine mess he had 
 made. In my astonishment I flew to her house — she w r as gone. I met you on 
 the Pont-Royal, near the pavilion of Flora, and while we were conversing, I 
 saw her, as plainly as I now see you, get into a little blue fiacre, with M~c-am 
 Blondeau." 
 
 "The fiacre departed," said Gaston, "we had scarce time to cross the 
 bridge, while you observed the direction which it took. I ran to find a cab ; 
 I brought it, and we pursued the little fiacre to the entrance of Temple-street, 
 and lost sight of it. For a full hour we hurried from street to street to find it 
 again^it was impossible !" 
 
 " But I ask you again, what do you imagine she could have to do in the 
 Marais, in this solitude ? She does not, you told me, know a soul here. You 
 have deceived yourself, I tell you. But suppose," continued Alfred, at a 
 new movement of impatience from his friend, ' ' suppose that it was she whom 
 you saw; between ourselves, why should it occasion you so much uneasiness! 
 You told me, yesterday, that you wished to break off this tiaison, that your 
 marriage — " 
 
 " Ah ! certainly — yes — I wish to break it off ; but I have a thousand reasons 
 to keep on good terms with her, and it is hateful to me to be thus prevented. 
 That casket contained her letters, and I am miserable to be so deprived of it. 
 It was my plan never to give up those letiers. I do not know what may 
 happen." 
 
 " But how came Pierre to part with the casket ?" 
 
 "_Ah, that infernal Blondeau came and demanded it for me, saying that I 
 was at her mistress's house. Pierre has seen Bloudeau bring me letters a 
 hundred times ; he suspected nothing ; he believed her." 
 
 " She knew, then, that the letters were kept in the casket?" 
 
 " Yes, she gave it to me herself for that purpose. I had the key and the 
 secret to it. It was in a bureau in my bedchamber, which I never locked; 
 and I have entire confidence in Pierre." 
 
 "But, my dear Gaston, there seems to me something very incomprehensible 
 in all this. Instead of carrying off this casket, nobody knows where, why may 
 she not be taking very good care of it at her own house ?" 
 
 •' She would not dare to do so." 
 
 "She would not dare! I hope it is not the jealousy of her husband that 
 frightens her," said Alfred, smiling in spite of himself. 
 
 ". I cannot tell you any more about it," said Gaston, appearing .very much 
 embarrassed, and blushing deeply; " but she has reasons to think this casket 
 is safer anywhere else than in her house." 
 
 Alfred regarded Gaston with astonishment. "That alters the case," said 
 
INVESTIGATIONS. 
 
 11 
 
 he; "tiien I believe you ; but, at the worst, these are only letters returned 
 involuntarily, and I do not see — " 
 
 ""No, it is not all ! for you must know that, besides these letters, there were 
 notes from me and from another womaa, on the subject of this affair. Yes, 
 indeed; a challenge, a most exaggerated piece of gallantry — I know not by 
 what foolish exercise of the worst possible taste, I unhappily allowed myself 
 to be hurried into an act I now abjure. For if she desires — and I confess J 
 have behaved badly enough to cause her to wish it — she can do me a dreadful 
 injury. "I know her wit and the force of her will; you know her influence m 
 society. Ah ! Alfred, with all my pretensions to adroitness, I have behaved 
 like a school boy, like a dolt, and am now at her mercy." 
 
 " Come, come, my dear Gaston, it is quite sufficient to suffer remorse when 
 it comes without anticipating it. No more exaggerations ; you are in the 
 wrong with regard to your conduct toward her, you say; but that is not the 
 question. The question is, to find out whether this bad behaviour can injure 
 you. Well, I do not think it can. She is said to be generous and proud ; you 
 yourself were, at one time, not silent concerning the qualities of her 
 heart; you once maintained that she was incapable of a dark or perfidious 
 action." 
 
 "Ah! you know as well as I do, that such characters, when they suffer 
 wrong, become irritated, and revenge perfidies in the most cruel manner. 
 For two years I have not had the slightest pretext for complaint against her; 
 and, nevertheless, I have given her many causes of jealousy; but she is one 
 of those singular characters who drink their own tears, and receive you always 
 with a serene face. This is often wounding to our self-love ; but, with this 
 exception, I again affirm that I have nothing to reproach her with. If yoxi 
 had not proposed to me this marriage, which would make my fortune amount 
 to one hundred and fifty thousand francs income, without counting expecta- 
 tions, I should have continued this liaison, if not as a very exciting pleasure, 
 at least as an agreeable habit. And then, there was nothing irksome in our 
 intercourse — it suited me. After all, we know what we abandon, but do not 
 know what we shall find." 
 
 " All this, dear Gaston, is admirably reasoned — it is the quintessence of 
 egotism; your whole conduct, up to this time, is redolent of the perfume of 
 self-love ; do not allow yourself to be distracted by vain fears. You wish to 
 break off th« affair ? Well, the taking away of that casket is a strong pretext 
 for quarrelling. With regard to the notes, as you call them, which she may 
 find there, a woman in her position, who respects herself so much, does not 
 hazard a revenge which might ruin her reputation, and subject herself to the 
 charge of having sacrificed herself to — I do not ask to whom — no matter. 
 Once again, Gaston, believe me— it is all for the best." 
 
 " Ah !" cried he. after a moment ^silence, as if struck with a sudden thought, 
 " she is,' perhaps, only gone to the bank of the river to throw the casket into 
 the water." 
 
 " You are mad, Alfred- She would have burnt the letters at home, and all 
 would have been hushed up. Again, I say, she keeps them for a m^icious 
 
 pU " P A*malici<?us purpose !" said Alfred, impatiently shrugging his shoulders. 
 "After a "» what do these letters prove ? That you have not behaved well 
 toward ner ? that you have sacrificed her ? Why, who the devil ever takes the 
 part of a woman who has been sacrificed ? Heap upon a woman of society the 
 most odious ill-usage; treat her pnblicly with the most atrocious cruelty; her 
 intimate friends will noise abroad everywhere, that the wretch has received 
 no more than she deserved ; and the men will envy your insolent brutality, as 
 a pickpocket envies a highwayman." 
 
 " I tell you that you do not know her," replied Gaston. 
 
 Seeing the paleness and agitation of his friend, Alfred said to him in French, 
 "Come, Gaston, compose yourself; we only came into this abominable shop 
 to rest ourselves and drink a glass of water." 
 
 " You are right," said Gaston, looking round, " everything is so dirty here, 
 it seems impossible to obtain even a tolerable glass of water." 
 
 This uncivil expression increased the anger of Madam Lebceuf, and of her 
 customers, who were already furious, at not being able to understand the two 
 young men, since they had been speaking in English. 
 
 Madam, a glass of sugar and water, if you please," said Gaston to the 
 widow. 
 
 The latter, without replying, majestically rung a cracked bell, and cried with 
 a shrill voice. 
 
12 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 "Boitard! Boitard! a glass of sugar and water. " 
 
 " What a frightful odour of frying-pan !" said Gaston, resting his head on 
 his hand; "it is insupportable !" 
 
 " And, besides that, what a frightful combination of mould and old clothes 
 the place is infested with!" continued. Alfred. 
 
 " But, madam, I asked for a glass of water, impatiently exclaimed Gaston. 
 
 " But, sir, it seems to me that I rang for Boitard loud enough !" sharpy 
 responded the widow, as she again sounded the bell. 
 
 " Verily, it is true, Gaston. Madam has rung for Boitard," said Alfred, 
 with much seriousness ; have a little patience. But, by way of fortifying 
 myself against the presence of Boitard, I will, as a precautionary measure, 
 light a cigar." 
 
 Alfred took a cigar from a beautiful little case made of Lima straw, lighted 
 it with an allumette, from a small damasked silver box, and began to smoke. 
 The company in the café were stupified. They knew not how to look upon 
 this audacious innovation. Some coughed ; others gave way to certain ener- 
 getic " hems !" Doubtless, had it not been for the curiosity, which these 
 young gentlemen had excited, from the part which they played in the ad- 
 venture of the casket, the widow and her partisans would have protested 
 against this display of tap-room manners. 
 
 At that moment appeared Boitard, a chubby-cheeked boy, with naked arms, 
 to whom all days of the year were dog days. Upon a scaly plate he bore a 
 decanter, a glass of two thumbs' thickness, and five pieces of sugar in a 
 cracked saucer. 
 
 While Gaston appeared to yield himself to the deepest reflections, Alfred, 
 who, with both his hands in his pockets, regarded the decanter of water with 
 a fierceness, qualified by disgust, suddenly cried out — 
 
 " Boitard ! my dear, there is a spider in your decanter. That is more than 
 we asked for. We are in haste. We should like a simple glass of water with- 
 out a spider, if it be a possible thing." 
 
 Boitard passed his big, red fingers through his hair, scratched his head, 
 looked attentively into the decanter, and actually descried the spider. In- 
 stead of being overcome by the discovery, he shrugged his shoulders, as he 
 turned himself sideways toward the widow and her customers— a movement 
 which seemed to say, " The gentleman seems to be-displeased with his spider." 
 To which the widow and her customers responded by another pantomine, sig- 
 nifying almost, "Ah! good heavens! Don't speak, Boitard I it would be a 
 pity I" 
 
 Boitard, then, once more shrugging his shoulders, took the decanter in his 
 hand; after several fruitless efforts, he inserted his big, abominable digit into 
 the neck, and began fishing after a nc^ fashion. This piscatory enterprise 
 was crowned with perfect success. Boita*d drew forth the spider ; took it 
 delicately between his thumb and forefinger ; crushed it under his foot; re- 
 placed, with imperturbable coolness, the decanter upon the table, and said to 
 Alfred, as if he were correcting the caprice of a spoiled child, 
 
 " Well, sir, I hope that you will not say there are any Riders in the water 
 now !" 
 
 Alfred had contemplated the manoeuvres of Boitard with a profound admi- 
 ration. These last words struck him as sublime. He placed a hundred sous 
 piece in the boy's hand, and said to him, "That is for you; every perfection 
 has its price ; and, in your way, you are, my dear — you are magnificently 
 dirty." 
 
 Boitard looked, by turns, at Alfred, the money, the widow, and the custo- 
 iners, with an air of stupid wonder. GastoA, still plunged in reverie, said, in 
 an under tone, talking to himself, "What to do? What to do? that is the 
 question. Where can that casket be at this moment?" And he advanced 
 his hand mechanically toward the decanter. 
 
 "The devil! Don't touch that, Gaston," said Alfred, and he related the 
 fishing for the spider. Gaston pushed away the plate in horror, and impa- 
 tiently exclaimed, " Let us go; we cannot even drink a glass of water here — 
 my throat is burning, my head is on fire. Come, let us try to discover some 
 place less repulsive." 
 
 These words caused the wrath of the widow to boil over ; and she cried out, 
 addressing herself to Alfred, with great indignation, " I'd have you to know, 
 sir, people don't smoke here as if they were in an ale-house ; do you hear ? 
 And, moreover, sir, I am happy to say to you, in spite of your sneers, that if 
 you do not choose to drink what you are served with here, you have no busi- 
 ness to try to disgust other people." 
 
INVKSTIGATIONS. 
 
 13 
 
 Alfred replied with a serious imperturbability, " 1 assure you, madam, that 
 I have not abused my influence with this gentleman ; I declare to you, that 
 when he reflects solemnly upon what he is about, and exercises his own judg- 
 ment, he never eats spiders." 
 
 "Come, this woman is ridiculous," said Gaston, throwing a louis upon the 
 counter. The widow fiercely pushed back the golden piece, and asseverated, 
 that in her establishment people never paid for what they had not consumed, 
 
 " I have paid this funny fellow for his spider," said Alfred to Gaston. The 
 latter took his louis and the young gentlemen departed. Hardly had they shut 
 the door of the café, when Mr. Godet followed bareheaded, notwithstanding 
 the cold. 
 
 " Your hat, Mr. Godet," said the widow, who guessed the intentions of her 
 customer. " My hat!" said Mr. Godet, " I hav'nt the least need of it. I am 
 a going this moment to bring them back, tied together feet and fists like 
 sheep — the beautiful coxcombs !" 
 
 In two strides he overtook the young gentlemen, and slightly touched the 
 sleeve of Alfred, who inspired him with the most confidence. 
 
 " What do you want, sir?" said the latter, astonished at the grotesque figure 
 of the customer. 
 
 " I desire, sir, to do you an immense service, if I am able to do so — for good 
 citizens should aid one another. I propose that we enter into a league against 
 our common enemy. Now, our common enemy, at this juncture, is Robin 
 des Bois, otherwise called the Vampire." 
 
 Alfred and Gaston stared at Mr. Godet, without understanding a word of 
 his strange language. At length Gaston said to Alfred, " Come, my friend; 
 don't you see that these people are crazy ?" 
 
 " This fellow looks more like a fool than a madman." 
 
 Mr. Godet, fearing least he should lose his prey, did not notice the observa- 
 tion, but added quickly, with a mysterious air : 
 
 "I know everything; you are looking for a young lady, who was in a little 
 blue fiacre with red curtains, accompanied by an older woman. Black hat, 
 brown mantle, grey hair : that is a description of the old one. Light hair, 
 eyebrows and eyes black : that is a description of the young one." 
 
 "It is they!" cried Gaston, throwing off his indifference, and addressing 
 Mr. Godet, who exulted with a malignant joy : " Indeed, sir, I am Interested 
 to learn where those persons have gone, of whom you speak." 
 
 And more than all, to know where they carried the little shell casket, 
 covered with gold; is it not so, sir?'' rejoined Mr. Godet. 
 
 " How came you aware of that?" said Gaston, more and more surprised. 
 
 "I can assure you, upon my honor, that the old woman in question, about 
 an hour ago, before my eyes, gave the casket to the Vampire's servant," said 
 Mr. Godet. 
 
 This news was so unexpected, so surprising, that the two young gentlemen 
 could not believe it. A thousand opposing emotions, disquiet, anger, jea- 
 lousy, vengeance and curiosity, agitated the mind of Gaston. 
 
 "Sir," cried he, growing pale, "you must disclose to me instantly, who is 
 the person whom you have surnamed the Vampire, and where is his dwelling ?" 
 
 " Thunder! you are not displeased, my dear friend,'' said Godet, who was 
 by no means disposed thus early to abandon his victims; "I beg you to ob- 
 serve, gentlemen," shewing his bald head — "I beg you to observe that I am 
 no longer in the spring-time of my years. If you will be so good as to enter 
 the café Lebceuf, we can there converse without freezing." 
 
 " As you please, sir," said Gaston, impatiently retracing his steps toward 
 the café. 
 
 Never did a Roman conqueror, bringing bound at his chariot-wheels the 
 slaves of his victories, feel greater exultation than did Mr. Godet, when he 
 re-entered the café attended by the two young gentlemen. 
 
 He made a sign to the customers, so as to appease their curiosity, and en- 
 sconced himself in a corner of the café. Mr. Godet took very good care not 
 to come directly to the point, touching the name of the colonel. Notwith- 
 standing their impatience, he forced them to listen to all the absurd stories 
 forged by the oldest customers of the café Labceuf. 
 
 Without the precise and self-evident fact, which this absurd gossip had al- 
 ready revealed, Gaston would not have given the slightest credence to his 
 words. He was compelled to listen to the story of the gunshot, the carriage, 
 magnificently harnessed, the colonel's uniform, and, also, of the sacrilegious 
 vigils in the cemetery of Père la Chaise. In the nydst of all this nonsense the 
 young gentlemen were struck with the strange habits of the colonel. 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 " Sir," said Gaston, " I, for the last and twentieth time, ask jou to do me 
 the favoï to inform me where this gentleman lives. All these details are doubt- 
 less exceedingly curious ; but, again I ask you the address of the colonel : 
 give me his address." 
 
 " Follow me, gentlemen, "said Godet, suddenly getting up, with an imposing 
 air. 
 
 He opened the door of the café, protuded his finger, shewed Gaston the little 
 door of the hotel d'Orbesson, and said to him : "There, sir — the dwelling of 
 the Vampire is right before you : behold the wicket." 
 
 Gaston ran across the street without speaking a word. Godet shut the door 
 of the café and exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with great glee and a 
 diabolical satisfaction, 
 
 "It grows warm, gentlemen! it grows warm? Now to our stations — to 
 our stations!" 
 
 Gaston rang the bell violently. The face of the colonel's old domestic ap- 
 peared, not at the door, but at the wicket. The two young gentlemen seemed 
 to make the most pressing demands to be admitted. : to beg — to threaten, 
 even : all was in vain. All Gaston could do was to hand his card through the 
 wicket, upon which he had hastily pencilled a few words. Perceiving that 
 the two young gentlemen spoke with warmth, Mr. Godet partially opened 
 the door of the café, and distinctly heard Gaston say, in an enraged tone, "To- 
 morrow morning, at nine o'clock : there will then be no excuses, I hope.'' 
 
 The two young gentlemen disappeared, marching off with rapid strides. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 On the following morning, at nine o'clock, Gaston's carriage drew up be- 
 fore the Hotel d'Orbesson. The valet rang, the small door opened, and the 
 old servant appeared. 
 
 Gaston and Alfred left the vehicle. 
 
 " Is Colonel Ulric at home?" said Gaston. 
 
 The servant bowed without replying, and preceded the two young men, as 
 they entered the house. r 
 
 Nothing could be sadder or more desolate than the interior of this vast 
 mansion. Several large slabs, in a state of dilapidation, were lying here and 
 there, under the grass in the court. One would have thought they were the 
 sepulchral stones of an abandoned cemetery. All the windows were shut on 
 the outside ; the glass door of the vestibule creaked upon its rusty hinges, and 
 made the sonorous arches of the grand staircase echo mournfully. 
 
 The colonel occupied the ground-floor. The servant conducted the two 
 young men into an immense drawing-room, scarcely half-furnished ; its lofty 
 windows, without curtains, and with diamond panes, opened upon a garden 
 surrounded by high walls, gloomy as the garden of a cloister. 
 
 " The colonel will be here immediately," said the servant, disappearing as 
 he made the announcement. 
 
 The day was dark and disagreeable. The wind came moaning sadly 
 through the half-closed doors. All within this dwelling showed, not misery, 
 not carelessness, but perfect indifference with regard to appearances. 
 
 Alfred and Gaston looked at one another for some time in silence. 
 
 " Since we have entered." said Alfred, shivering with cold, "it seems as 
 though my shoulders were loaded wiih a mantle of frozen lead. There is no 
 fire anywhere. This man must be a genuine Spartan." 
 
 "This man! Who is he?" said Gaston, speaking to himself in an under- 
 tone. 
 
 " She alone will be able to explain to you; but she is to depart this evening, 
 I believe." 
 
 " This evening?" replied Gaston. 
 
 " Ulric?" said Alfred ; " Ulric? that must be a Russian name, or, perhaps, 
 a Prussian, or a German one. 1 went yesterday to the Union Club, hoping to 
 meet there several members of the diplomatic body : in short, I saw there 
 three or four secretaries of legation, or of the embassy. But none knew 
 Colonel Ulric. We have no other way of clearing up the difficulty, than by 
 means of the Russian embassador. But I have not been able to meet him." 
 
 " After all, what does it matter ?" said Gaston. " This man has my secret; 
 she has, without doubt, s-acrificed me for his sake. This is unworthy con- 
 duct^-it is treacherous. I will either kill him, or he shall kill me." 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 15 
 
 " Do not go to work so rashly, my friend ; perhaps the silly person whom 
 we saw yesterday, may be the cause of the evil. Doubtless, all the appear- 
 ances tend to the conclusion that she brought the casket here. But, mark 
 well, that she is not within. It was Madam Blondeau who brought it to the 
 servant. In short, Gaston, I tell you you have too much acquaintance with 
 the ways of the world, and affairs of this sort, to be led like a child: this is a 
 matter of grave importance. Our best course is to accommodate our conduct 
 to the circumstances which may follow." 
 
 " What enrages me," cried Gaston, " is the infidelity of this woman. I 
 believed her incapable, not only of a lie, but even of the slightest dissimula- 
 tion. Never did she even mention, in my presence, the name of this man; 
 and it is in him she has confided. There is in this an odious mystery, which 
 I haste to penetrate." 
 
 " All that this babbler mentioned yesterday, concerning the colonel's life, 
 is so strange," said Alfred — " it is obvious that he is, at least, very eccentric. 
 This miserable place does not by any means indicate the presence of joviality; 
 but for your sad presentiments, I should be delighted to find myself face to 
 face with Robin des Bois — with the Vampire, as the good people call him. 
 But how cold! how cold! If this is the devil, he ought at least to have some 
 regard for those who come to see him, and cast into this place a reflection 
 from his infernal roasting-jack." 
 
 At this moment the servant opened a door, and the colonel entered. 
 
 He was a man of lofty bearing, and very plainly dressed. His age 
 appeared to be about thirty-six, although his brown hair had begun to be 
 slightly gray over the temples. His complexion was tawny ; the wrinkle, 
 which separated his black eyebrows, strong, straight and distinct, gave him a 
 stern and haughty appearance ; although his features, otherwise very regu- 
 lar, might at an earlier age have had a much milder expression. He held in 
 his hand Gaston's card ; casting his eyes upon it, he said in a firm voice, 
 and without any foreign accent, directing his inquiry at once to both the 
 young gentlemen, ^ 
 
 " Count Gaston de Senneville?" 
 
 " Is I , sir," said Gaston ; then pointing to his friend, he added, " the Mar- 
 quis de Baudricourt." 
 
 The colonel again made a slight motion of his head, which he intended to 
 serve as a bow. Looking Gaston steadily in the face, and crossing his hands 
 behind his back, he seemed to expect that he would explain the ebject of his 
 visit. 
 
 In spite of his confidence — in spite of his acquaintance with the world, 
 Gaston was for a moment disconcerted. The stern and bronzed features of 
 the colonel showed no signs of emotion ; one would have supposed he wore a 
 brazen mask. His large gray eyes had a clear, fixed, penetrating look, which, 
 after a while, became insupportable. 
 
 Nothing is more difficult than to break silence of a certain kind. Whether 
 Alfred waited until Gaston should spéak, or Gaston waited until the colonel 
 should speak, all three remained silent for several minutes. It was only then 
 that Gaston perceived how difficult it would be to explain the object of his 
 visit without involving the woman of whom he believed he had reason to 
 complain. 
 
 Thus it often happens : at the moment when he came to explain what he 
 wanted, Gaston was assailed by a thousand reflections concerning what he 
 ought to have done before presenting himself at the house of the colonel. 
 Embarrassment, vexation, anger, sent up the blood to his forehead. Alfred, 
 wishing to close so awkward a scene, said to the colonel, 
 
 " Sir, you are doubtless aware of the object of our visit?" 
 
 " No, sir," said Ulric. 
 
 " It refers, sir, to a box which belongs to me," cried Gaston, " and which 
 was brought to you yesterday by a woman whom you must know ; for she is 
 the emissary of another woman, who certainly has the honor of your ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 " I cannot understand what you mean to say, sir," said the colonel. 
 " Sir!" said Gaston quickly. 
 
 " Sir !" said the colonel, without changing his tone. 
 
 There was a new silence; Gaston bit his lips with mortification. 
 
 Alfred coolly replied, 
 
 " Mr. de Senneville has a great interest, sir, in ascertaining whether a box, 
 that belongs to him, and contains some very important papers, was brought 
 to you yesterday in the afternoon. If you are disposed, sir, to give him your 
 
16 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 word of honor that the box neither is nor has been in your possession, 
 
 Mr. de Senneville will be satisfied." 
 
 I shall declare myself satisfied only if — " 
 
 "My friend, you have hitherto been disposed to take my advice," said 
 Alfred; permit me, then, to explain to the gentleman." 
 
 " The explanation will be very simple, gentlemen," said the colonel, taking 
 several steps toward the door, to show that all further inquiries would be 
 vain ; " I have no reply to make." 
 
 " So, sir," cried Gaston, " you refuse to give me your word that " 
 
 " I refuse, sir, to reply to questions, of which I do not admit the propriety," 
 said the colonel ; and he continued to advance toward the door. 
 
 Gaston and Alfred remained near the window. 
 
 "Sir," said Alfred, scarcely containing himself; "does your movement 
 toward the door signify that this conversation touches you too keenly ?" 
 
 "Too keenly? Perhaps not," said the colonel, putting his hand upon the 
 lock, "but certainly with sufficient keenness. I have nothing further to say 
 or to hear." 
 
 " And, for my part, I declare to you, sir, that I shall not leave this place 
 until you have replied," cried Gaston. " Is this box here, oris it not?" 
 
 " One word, sir, I pray you," said Alfred, who seemed to exhaust all means 
 of conciliating him, " You are a man of the world, sir ; and we who address 
 you are men of the world. We are resolved to procure certain information. 
 The information which we have already procured, satisfies us that the box, 
 about which we are anxious, has been sent, if not to you, sir, at least to one of 
 your people. If you are ignorant of this circumstance, will you oblige us by 
 inquiring of your servant ?" 
 
 " That is of no use, sir." 
 
 "But, then," said Gaston, stamping his foot with violence; "you 
 must " 
 
 " Gaston, one word more," said Alfred; and he added, "Then you refuse 
 us this explanation, sir. You alone remain responsible for the matter in 
 question. We appeal for the last time to your honor, to obtain from you a 
 positive reply. Mr. de Senneville will regret to go beyond the bounds of 
 moderation ; and you belong, sir, to too good society, not to treat politely a 
 demand which has been politely made." 
 
 " I have already had the honor of telling you twice, gentlemen, that I have 
 no answer to give on this' subject," replied the colonel, still c^lm and cool as 
 ever. 
 
 Alfred and Gaston looked at one another with indignation. 
 " It is evident, sir," said Alfred, " that we cannot force you to speak and to 
 explain, but " 
 
 " It is useless to prolong this interview, sir," said Gaston, firmly ; "to refuse 
 a reply is to confess that you have the box in your possession. I have rea- 
 sons for regarding this as an insult; and I demand satisfaction." 
 
 " Very well, sir," said the colonel, opening the door of the drawing-room. 
 
 " This gentleman will come during the day and make the necessary ar- 
 rangements," said Gaston, motioning toward Alfred. 
 
 " It will be useless, sir; we can now choose the hour, the place, the arms," 
 said the colonel. 
 
 " Well, sir, the hour to-morrow morning, at six," said Gaston. 
 
 "At ten o'clock," said the colonel. 
 
 " In the forest of Vincennes, near the pheasantry." 
 
 "In the forest of Vincennes," said the colonel. 
 
 " With regard to the arms," said Gaston ; " choose, sir." 
 
 " It is indifferent to me." 
 
 " The sword, then, sir." 
 
 " The sword, then !" said the colonel, shutting the door upon the two young 
 men, without permitting either his gestures or his voice to betray the least 
 emotion. 
 
 The old servant reconducted the visitors to the door; and d'Orbesson's 
 hotel became once more silent and solitary. 
 
 The customers of the café Lebceuf, on the watch since morning, had seen 
 the two young men enter. When the latter went out to regain their carriage, 
 Mr. Godet, moved by his invincible curiosity, opened the door of the café, 
 stretched his bare head toward Gaston, and said to him, with a mysterious- 
 and yet familiar air: 
 
 "Well, young man, you, who have been in the Capharnaiim of the Vam- 
 pire, can describe to us how the inside of his cave looks. Has he given you 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS. J7 
 
 back the pretty lady's casket ? I hope you have reprimanded him soundly, 
 and conferred upon him more ' kicks than halfpence.' " 
 
 Alfred and Gaston entered their carriage without replying to Mr. Godet'g 
 questions. The valet shut the door, calling to the coachman — " To the hotel !" 
 and the loiterers remained behind, disappointed. 
 
 " Impertinent puppy !" said Mr. Godet. " You were rather more polita 
 yesterday, when it was important to procure my secret from me. No matter ; 
 they were pale ; they looked vexed ; 'tis always so." 
 
 Re-entering the café, Mr. Godet was assailed with many inquiries. He as- 
 eumed an air of importance, and replied : 
 
 " These gentlemen have only had time to give me a few of the details, and 
 thank me for my services. To-morrow morning the whole will be cleared 
 up." 
 
 This announcement, which happened by chance to turn out true, was most 
 acceptable to the loiterers ; they waited for the morrow with impatience. 
 This day v/as indeed destined, to be a great day for the prying ones of the café 
 Lebœuf. 
 
 At eight o'clock the colonel's servant went out alone. He returned about 
 an hour after in a cab, bringing with him two foot soldiers. 
 
 "Whew!" exclaimed Mr. Godet, already at his post of observation. " He 
 went for the guard. It is perhaps to defend his master against the two young 
 men. It appears that the Vampire is not a skeleton." 
 
 "If this were the guard," observed some one, "the soldiers would have 
 their guns and their cartridge-boxes, whereas they have only their sabres. 
 
 "True; but then, what is the object of procuring soldiers at all, if not to 
 lend armed aid to the Vampire ?" 
 
 The discussion was in progress when the door of the hotel opened ; the 
 colonel went out, wrapped in a large cloak, and got into the cab with the 
 soldiers. The vehicle drove off ; the old servant, instead of re-entering the 
 house according to custom, stood for some moments in the doorway, casting 
 uneasy glances in the direction of the vehicle. He then retired, shutting the 
 door roughly. 
 
 These movements did not escape the spies of the café Lebœuf; they did 
 not comprehend any part of the colonel's conduct. Where could he have 
 gone in company with these two soldiers ? The widow observed, that she 
 believed she had seen something like the scabbard of a sword projecting 
 from under the colonel's cloak ; but she dared not affirm it positively. 
 
 " How ! a sword? wait now, wait," said Mr. Godet, rubbing his hands 
 joyously; "you are right; he is perhaps to have a duel with these two pup- 
 pies, to whom I spoke yesterday. Why, this becomes very amusing ; we 
 shall have some fun for our money : bravo !" 
 
 " If they have had a duel," cried the spiteful widow, " I would bet almost 
 everything in my pocket, that the sneering fellow who made such a fuss 
 
 about a miserable spider, has been roughly handled by no matter 
 
 whom." 
 
 " Having never received the least politeness or expression of gratitude from 
 these fops, I shall join you in annoying them, my dear Madam Lebœuf, by 
 every means in my power." 
 
 " However, if there has been a duel, there must have been witnesses." 
 
 " Eh! the soldiers?" 
 
 " Come, then, my dear Madam Lebœuf, the Vampire is a colonel ; he 
 would not take for seconds two private skirmishers. It would be contrary to 
 all the rules of discipline." 
 
 " Ah ! there ! what makes this servant come to the door so often ?" added 
 Mr. Godet, looking through the window. " Since his master went away, he 
 has planted himself in that spot three times. This is not natural ; he is an- 
 noyed about something; he has a disturbed manner. Suppose I go and in- 
 terrogate him?" 
 
 "The moment would be ill-chosen, Mr. Godet," said the widow; "do not 
 expose yourself to the abuse of this miserable old creature." 
 
 "Silence! silence! I hear the sound of a carriage," said Mr. 3odet, again 
 squeezing himself close up to the window. 
 
 In fact, the cab returned with the two soldiers and the colonel. The 
 latter leaped nimbly from the vehicle, said a few words to the soldiers, shook 
 hands with them, and dismissed them. Madam Lebœuf affirmed that she 
 saw a tear start from the eyes of the old servant, when he shut the small door 
 of the hotel after his master. 
 
 Unhappily for the loiterers of the café Lebœuf, these two days, so fruitful ia 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 events, were succeeded by others desperately monotonous. They saw no 
 more letters arrive — no box — no carriage. Every morning the purveyor 
 brought the usual provisions, but nothing further ocçured. 
 
 The ashes, often renewed in the court-yard, gave satisfactory proof that the 
 Vampire continued his nocturnal rounds. Although Mr. Godet no longer 
 evinced any desire to accompany him in person, yet he had no doubt but his 
 visits were always directed towards the Père la Chaise. The only circum- 
 stance which occured to gratify the curiosity of the loiterers was, the appear- 
 ance of the aged woman who brought the box. About two months after the 
 colonel's duel, this woman returned to d' Orbesson's hotel, and handed a very 
 bulky package to the colonel's servant. 
 
 She never afterwards was seen there. 
 
 We shall now give some account of this last visit of Madam Blondeau to 
 Colonel Ulric. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 COLONEL ULRIC. 
 
 The old servant ushered Madam Blondeau into the grand saloon, where 
 two months before, the colonel had received Gaston and Alfred. The phy- 
 siogomy of Stok, for such was the name of the old servant, had lost its crabbed 
 expression. 
 " And how is the colonel, Mr. Stok ?" 
 
 " Always the same, Madam Blondeau; his body is iron, but his head is 
 water ; sometimes the colonel passes whole d?.ys crying like a child. For him 
 to cry — him — if anybody had told me this a year ago, do you see, I should 
 not have believed it. And then, almost every night — " and Stok sighed. 
 
 " Always to the cemetery — just heaven?" 
 
 " Always, Madam Blondeau : it is enough to rend the heart — " 
 "And the rest of the time, Mr. Stok?" 
 
 " He is awake, he despairs ; he walks to and fro in the little paved chamber 
 that he occupies. It is a hundred times colder and damper than the others ; 
 for it is the antechamber of the bath. Well ! they say that he has chosen it 
 on purpose, because it is the worst in the hotel. But, Madam Blondeau, 
 there is something which looks like childishness; and, for all that, tears 
 come into my eyes when I see it." 
 
 "What is it, Mr. Stok?" 
 
 " For the six months that we have lived in this house, my master has, by 
 constantly walking in his little chamber, from the door to the window and 
 from the window to the door, for ever on the same place, fairly worn away 
 the floor with his footsteps." 
 
 " Ah! indeed ! this is horrible ! What a life ! Good Heaven !" 
 
 "Alas ! Madam Blondeau, they say his mind is so firmly set upon one thing 
 that he cares for nothing else, not even cold and hunger. If I did not remind 
 him of the hours for meals, he never would think of eating. During the most 
 severe frosts of winter, he will never have any fire. I can't understand such 
 caprice. Moreover, I can tell you one thing which will astonish you, Ma- 
 dam Blondeau. For thirty years past, every day, my master permits me, 
 according to an old Hungarian custom, just before I leave him, to kiss his 
 hand. We think this a mark of attachment and respect. Well, in spite of . 
 the bitter cold, his poor hand is dry and hot as if burnt up with fever. In 
 spite of all this, he is no worse — he has such an iron constitution. In our 
 campaigns against the Turks, twelve years ago, I have seen him on horseback 
 for twenty and thirty hours at a time, without eating, and he took nothing all 
 the while but a little snow which fell upon his horse's mane, to quench his 
 thirst, and he never complained. If he was wounded, he would smile, but 
 with a smile so soft, so sweet, that, in spite of my fears, I felt happy again. 
 Alas! for one whole year this smile has not brightened his lips. He sees no- 
 body — visits nobody. Only once he went out, and that was to the Russian 
 embassy, to receive an order from his majesty the emperor. Ah ! Madam 
 Blondeau, it was a treat to me to see him in his uniform. He was so 
 handsome with it on, and it reminded me of so many things. I was sur- 
 prised when he told me to bring him his uniform. ' I am going,' he said 'to 
 the embassy, to receive a letter from the emperor ;'* and I understood from 
 that, that he thought it more respectful to go in his uniform. The emperor 
 has always been so good to him, and the colonel loved him so much. Prom 
 that day to this he has never gone out, except to this duel." 
 
COLONBL VLRIC. 
 
 19 
 
 "Ah ! that duel ! that duel! When I think, Mr. Stok, that this unhappy 
 casket was the cause of it !" 
 
 " I was not, Madam Blondeau, downright miserable, because I knew the 
 skill and strength of my master. He has fought with the most famous 
 French masters of fence who ever came into Russia. However, I could not 
 prevent myself from going and looking out at the door; and when I saw him 
 enter with two soldiers, whom he had sent me for to the barrack to be wit- 
 nesses of what took place, my poor old heart bounded with joy. The young 
 man got off with a sword-thrust, which kept him a month in his bed. The 
 evening of the duel, my master said a few words that much surprised me as 
 coming from him ; he was talking to himself, as he often does ; and he mut- 
 tered in a low voice, ' 1 do not hate this man ; except in the strife of battle, 
 the sight of blood has always made me shudder, and yet I have seen my own 
 gush forth with a ferocious joy. I was about to give up the play of simply 
 keeping him off, when a voice bade me to spare his life, and I obeyed. 1 " 
 
 " What voice, Mr. Stok?" 
 
 " I don't know, Madam Blondeau. Sometimes when he is walking to and 
 fro, he stops all of a sudden — seems to listen — presses his hands to his fore- 
 head, and walks again." 
 
 " Poor colonel !" 
 
 " But what an egotist I am, to talk to you about nothing but my master!" 
 said Stok; " and how is the viscountess ?" 
 
 "Madam always remains at Touraine. She suffers much." 
 
 " Ah ! madam Blondeau, during the six years that we have known one ano- 
 ther, what changes have taken place ! what misfortunes !" 
 
 " God grant that there may be an end come to them for my mistress, Mr. 
 Stok. I dare not offer up the same prayer for your master ; but they say that 
 every sorrow has its conclusion." 
 
 " Not such as these, Madam Blondeau ; not such as these," sadly observed 
 Stok, bending down his head. 
 
 " Can I not yet see the colonel ? I wish to deliver this packet to him, and 
 to return this evening by the Touraine coach. I must hasten back to my 
 mistress." 
 
 '*' My master has not yet rung for me. A few moments, more or less, can ■ 
 not be of much consequence," said Stok, in an almost supplicating tone 
 " Oh ! if you could but know how important to my master are a few minutes 
 of sound sleep ! It does him so much good ! He sleeps so little ! He 
 came home again this morning very late." 
 
 "What a life!" said Madam Blondeau, sighing. 
 
 "I would not complain," continued Stok, "if I had to think only of my 
 master; but you cant imagine the annoyance that I suffer from half-a-dozen 
 old imbecile people, who are every day prying into our affairs. There are no 
 tricks which they have not tried to get in here .^they are continually perched 
 like crows on the chairs of the café opposite, to" spy out what we are doing." 
 
 " They are the same, I dare say, who appeared to be on the watch the mo- 
 ment I knocked at the door," said Madam Blondeau. 
 
 " The very same ! However, I gave one of them a good lesson. Nothing 
 could have — " 
 
 At this instant a bell rang. 
 
 " My master calls. Wait for me, I beg of you, Madam Blondeau. i will 
 go and inform my master of your arrival." A quarter of an hour afterward, 
 Madam Blondeau entered the colonel's chamber. The colonel was standing 
 up, clad in a long Turkish dressing-gown, of a dark color. The low window, 
 athwart which could be seen a row of chesnut trees, with black and barren 
 trunks, cast a doubtful light into the apartment. The kind of mournful con- 
 traction, which imparted to the face of the colonel a hard and almost petrified 
 xpression, appeared to relax a little when he saw Madam Blondeau ; his 
 'ooks grew milder. 
 
 " How is Matilda?" said he, with an accent full of sorrow and kindness. 
 
 "Alas! sir, madam is always depressed." And the voice of the poor old 
 woman faltered, and tears filled her eyes. "Pardon me, sir, "said she, "I 
 cannot hear that name pronounced without emotion." 
 
 " I call her thus before you by her maiden name, because you brought her 
 up, and have ever treatedjher with the devotion of a mother." 
 
 " Ah ! sir, I do not deserve this : I am only a servant." 
 
 " To speak so, is to do justice neither to her nor to you. I know what your 
 conduct has been. I also know, that Matilda appi^ciates it as she ought, 
 good and excellent woman that you are. But what have you come for ?" 
 
20 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " Madame wished me to bring you these papers, being unwilling to trust 
 them to the post-office. She also ordered me to say, sir, that she asks no re- 
 ply. You may read this when you please, she said; she knows " 
 
 " Well — well !" said the colonel, mildly, as if anxious to banish a painful re- 
 collection, and he placed the package on the table. 
 
 "And the casket?" he exclaimed, inquiringly. 
 
 "Madame requests you still to retain it under your care. 
 
 In spite of the very kind reception which Madame Blondeau met with from 
 the colonel, it was evident that be labored under the weight of deep anxiety ; 
 scarcely had he pronounced these last words when he fell into a revery. 
 Folding his arms upon his breast, he bowed his head, and began to walk 
 slowly up and down the room, forgetting the presence of Madam Blondeau ; 
 the latter, not daring to utter a single word, soon withdrew. 
 
 The following letter was appended to a voluminous manuscript, which 
 Madam Blondeau brought from Matilda to the colonel. 
 
 Chateau de Marav. 
 
 13th April, 1838. 
 
 I know not, my friend, if, after so long an absence, you will have courage to 
 open this letter. 
 
 I knew, [ loved, oh ! I dearly loved, her whom you mourn : I knew your 
 heart, your character : I knew what you were to her; I knew what she was to 
 you. How could I help feeling that your despair might be for ever incur- 
 able? 
 
 Ulric, my friend, my brother ; you have not a heart on earth more devoted 
 than mine. I have never had any other friend than you. If I had oftener 
 listened to the severe and inflexible voice of your holy friendship, what bitter 
 regrets should I have avoided ! But let me not speak of myself, but of you — 
 of you, with your great and noble heart ; of you, the personification of human 
 goodness. 
 
 You suffer, you suffer, my friend, from a hopeless grief! The farther you 
 plunge into this abyss, the deeper it grows, the more profound the darkness. 
 
 A year after. I learned the terrible catastrophe, I fell upon my knees ; I 
 prayed for her ; I prayed, above all, for you, that you might survive her. 
 
 I did not for a moment think of writing to you, or of seeing you. It is in 
 such calamities that empty consolation is most apt to irritate and exasperate. 
 
 You have left everything, to be near to the cherished remains of Emma, 
 and to lead a life as cold and silent as her tomb. It is both strange and 
 wonderful, my friend, to see how great characters, great in courage, great in 
 affection, sometimes foresee with certainty what their destiny is to be. 
 
 Three years have elapsed since Emma said to you, laughing, 
 
 " Ulric, if you lose me, what will become of you?" I hear you, even 
 now, my friend, reply to her, with a sigh, and without concealing the tears 
 that came into your eyes, 
 
 "I would go wherever you might be laid; I would live in solitude; I 
 would never take consolation. Perhaps I should not have courage to see 
 Matilda again — our friend — our sister." 
 
 These simple words, spoken by any other, would have seemed sad or exag- 
 gerated, spoken by Ulric, they had the effect of overpowering truth. 
 
 Emma and I were drowned in tears, and as much terrified as if the voice 
 of God had at that moment warned us of the future. 
 
 This terrible promise, Ulric, you have fulfilled, as well as others which you 
 made. 
 
 I send you these papers in all confidence, without fear of their being inop- 
 portune. When you shall read this letter, you will have the courage to think 
 of Matilda, who was so often her companion. 
 
 This will not be a proof that you have shaken off despair; alas! you will on 
 the contrary believe, with a sort of cruel joy, that your wounds, already so 
 grievous, bleed afresh, when searching among these pages for all that refers 
 to Emma. 
 
 Perhaps, for a long time, you will not read this ; perhaps you will never 
 read it. Then, my friend, you will commend these papers, as well as the box 
 which you have received, to Stok's keeping. Twogpaonths hence I wish them 
 to be destroyed. 
 
 I wish you to read the writing that I send you; you will know why I for- 
 ward the box. 
 
 An eternal remorse pursues me, Ulric. The meeting might have been fatai 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE M ARAN. 
 
 21 
 
 to you. I have learned all— the duel ! Ah ! as God is my witness, I was 
 ignorant that a living being knew the papers were in your hauds. 
 
 By what fatality has this secret been discovered? By what fatality has it 
 happened that your life — and that of a person whom I cannot accuse, have 
 been endangered ? This I probably never shall know. 
 
 Now, one word about myself, my friend. 
 
 For a long time, for more than a year, I have been very unhappy. To 
 compare my distress with yours would be blasphemy; although life has been 
 burdensome and painful to me. 
 
 When two months ago I came to this retreat, where I shall probably end 
 my days, the remembrance of the past gave rise to feelings of the deepest 
 sorrow. 
 
 I had previously such a season of mental calms, or rather of forgetfulne6S, 
 that the remembrance of former days was odious to me. 
 
 Then I had this strange reflection : We calm our griefs by confiding them 
 to others. Perhaps, in writing this history of my life, I shall get rid of the 
 remembrances which crowd upon my mind: perhaps the silent confession 
 will give me repose. 
 
 I thought that I should find a sort of bitter joy in returning for the last time 
 to old reminiscences, in culling yet some precious flowers, crushed as they 
 may be : in casting the rest to the winds of oblivion, and in pouring out the 
 indignation which, until now, pride has always restrained. 
 
 I have not been deceived in this hope, my friend ; this candid avowal of 
 the manner of my life, of noble actions and pitiful errors, has relieved me : 
 the phantoms which frightened my imagination have vanished. 
 
 In glancing without prejudice over bygone times, in casting up the account 
 of my woes, in calculating coolly what had been the causes of them, scorn 
 took the place of grief ; and a mournful calm succeeded to agitation. I have 
 spoken of good, without pride; of evil, without affected humility; I have 
 neither slandered my enemies nor flattered my friends ; I have spoken merely 
 of their conduct toward me. I have cast over my life a glance, just and se- 
 vere as that of a judge. 
 
 In thought, it was to you-; it was to our friend, to our sister, that I ad- 
 dressed myself. 
 
 I remembered that sometimes you and she said to me — in happier days- 
 read to me some pages of your heart. I remembered that my candor had 
 charmed and frightened you by turns. 
 
 If you read these pages, my friend, you will not love me more, but perhaps 
 your esteem for me will be greater. 
 
 Now my aim is accomplished : my heart mourns, but it mourns in peace, 
 The past warns me of the future. I owe to you the repose which I enjoy. 
 Never would I have confided these secrets to another; but this confidence 
 soothes the saddest of my griefs. 
 
 Adieu! my friend! adieu! my brother! Remember Matilda, when read- 
 ing, in the following pages, two names which shall for ever live in as holy an 
 union in my heart, as they lived in the world : Ulric and Emma. 
 
 Matilda. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE DE MARAN. 
 
 An orphan, I past the years of childhood in the house of my aunt, Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, my father's sister. I was nursed by Madam Blondeau, 
 an excellent woman, who, at the time of my birth, had for a long time been 
 in my aunt's service. My aunt never desired to marry ; she was ugly, very 
 witty, and sarcastic to a fault. Notwithstanding her deformity, her ugliness, 
 and her Liliputian figure, you could scarcely have found a face more impos- 
 ing, or, rather, more haughty, than Mademoiselle de Maran 's. She, no 
 doubt inspired that respectful confidence, which is always commanded by no- 
 bility of demeanor, and an affable dignity of manners ; but her countenance 
 created a kind of fear and defiance. Mademoiselle de Maran had never de- 
 serted my father : while the revolution was at its height, she had emigrated 
 with him to England," after having shared his sorrows and his dangers. 
 Whatever evil my aunt may have done me, I cannot refrain from confessing 
 that she tenderly loved her brother; but the affection of the wicked is 
 attended by cruel consequences, for i ; s said that they cherish one and hate 
 ft hundred more : they love you, but they detest those that have a right to 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 your affection, or to whom you manifest friendship. Such was my aunt's lova 
 for my father. She always governed him by the pride and firmness of her 
 character. He did nothing without consulting her, and the advice which she 
 gave him was always marked with foresight, skill and experience. Hating 
 Napoleon from the commencement of the revolution, intimately acquainted 
 with many members of the English cabinet, anticipating the fall of the em- 
 pire, she persuaded my father, in 1812, to take up his residence near Hart- 
 well, and to pay assiduous court to Louis XVIII. She frequently saw the 
 king herself, and pleased him by the caustic vivacity of her wit, the solidity 
 of her judgment, and the boldness of her discourse. A perfect mistress of 
 Latin, she seasoned her conversation by appropriate quotations; and by flat- 
 tery, exceedingly delicate, because she concealed it beneath a garb of almost 
 cynical severity. Subtle, adroit, penetrating, formidable on account of the 
 sarcastic wickedness, with which she — fearing nobody — assailed everybody. 
 Mademoiselle de Maran took advantage of her ugliness and infirmity, to 
 show her resentment toward both men and women. She exposed herself to 
 ridicule that she might sacrifice others without remorse. She employed with 
 a most dangerous tact, the secrets which she drew from the simple and unsus- 
 pecting, to control, at some later moment the dupes of her cunning. Know- 
 ing each one's vulnerable point, she never recoiled before any ridicule, how- 
 ever severe it was ; begging, for her own part, that they would not spare her. 
 
 She ordinarily affected a certain familiarity of language, which approached 
 to vulgarity. I have heard her say that, having passed a part of her youth at 
 Pontcharlrain, the residence of old Madam de Maurepas, (during the exile 
 of Monsieur de Maurepas in that country) she had contracted a habit of using 
 certain vulgar expressions — a habit very much the fashion under the regency, 
 and which had been continued by some persons even to the end of the reign 
 of Louis XV. You must not be surprised, my friend, to meet here and there 
 in my recital, language, which in our day seems, very shocking. I will not 
 change, anything at all, that I may paint a true likeness of Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. 
 
 Louis XVIII, wh# loved cruelty in epigram and roughness in jesting, was 
 pleased with the conversation of my aunt, and remarked, "One is more at 
 ease with her than with a man, and less embarrassed than with a woman." 
 
 In 1812, my father, the Marquis de Maran, was about forty years of age. 
 Many a time did he wish to marry; but his sister, who feared lest she should 
 lose the influence which she exercised over him, had broken off his diff erent 
 matrimonial projects, either by calumnies adroitly circulated concerning the 
 young ladies, who were proposed to M. de Maran, or by attributing to him a 
 temper so violent and so treacherous, that most fathers did not wish to con- 
 sider even the chances of such a connexion. M. de Maran at length saw my 
 mother ; she was so beautiful, of so charming a nature, so bewitching a spirit, 
 that he became passionately enamoured of her ; enamoured to such a de- 
 gree, that he announced to my aunt at one and the same time, his love and 
 his determination to marry. 
 
 The daughter of an emigrant, the Baron d'Arbois, an old lieutenant-gene- 
 ral of the king's armies, my mother was poor and marvellously lovely. Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran, who was both avaricious and ugly, despised her 
 poverty, and abhorred her beauty. She brought everything to bear — prayers, 
 tears, threats, ridicule, perfidy— to turn my father from his resolve. He was 
 inflexible ; he married my mother. You can, my friend, imagine what must 
 have been the rage, the hatred of my aunt toward her. For the first time in 
 his life, my father shook off" the yoke of his imperious sister. She was a wo- 
 man of cunning and dissembled her resentment. In my father's presence, she 
 was at first coldly polite to her sister-in-law ; by degrees she seemed to grow 
 gentle, and made some evident concessions ; but as she continued to live with 
 M. de Maran, it was not long before she reassumed her first empire. 
 
 The age, the sarcastic and haughty temper of Mademoiselle de Maran sub- 
 dued my mother — a woman of an angelic goodness and sweetness, unequal- 
 led, save by the timidity of her disposition. My father treated her like a 
 spoiled child, and deferred all serious matters to Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 The latter no longer restrained herself; and she, very soon, by the sorrows 
 which she made her suffer, punished her for the fatal union which she had 
 contracted. Mjr father, the best of men, was unhappily of a feeble nature, 
 though full of justice and generosity; he loved his wife, without doubt, but 
 he entertained for his sister as much veneration as attachment, and he consi- 
 dered her the surest, the most precious guide he could have. 
 
 After the first year of my father's marriage, the influence of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran, for a while suspended, became more absolute than ever. My mo- 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE M ARAN. 
 
 23 
 
 ther soon began, with deep grief, to perceive that she had no longer the 
 confidence of my father. Nothing was done without the council or approba- 
 tion of my aunt. Two or three times my mother endeavored to be mistress 
 of her own house, and spoke to her husband of the encroachmenis of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran : the most cruel scenes ensued. My father plainly de- 
 clared to my mother, that he would never consent to sacrifice fraternal 
 affection to a sentiment, earnest and lively indeed, but which had only existed 
 for one or two years ; while the former had begun and should end with his 
 life. From that day, deeply wounded, too proud to complain, too timid to 
 dare to struggle with her sister-in-law, my mother resigned herself, and was 
 completely sacrificed by Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 The events which followed the disasters of 1813, in putting my father in a 
 way to satisfy his ambitious views, still further augmented the influence of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran. Thanks to the relations which he had for a long 
 time been forming with Louis XVIII., according to the advice of his sister, 
 M. de Maran was charged with many very delicate missions near the courts 
 of Vienna and Berlin. He kept his sister advised of the character of these 
 negotiations. She was, indeed, very capable of taking a part in the most im- 
 portant political affairs. 
 
 Her advice was very useful to my father, and the missions that were con- 
 fided to him were followed by the happiest results. In 1814 he was liberally 
 and splendidly recompenced for his services, by a very high station in the cabi- 
 net of Louis XVIII., whom, at a later period, he followed to Ghent, and with 
 whom he returned to France. 
 
 I was born in 1813, while my Father was in Germany. This event which 
 would perhaps have regained for my mother some influence over my father, 
 had he been near her, brought about only a very trivial change in relations, 
 which were already so cold. The more fortune elevated my father, the 
 greater grew the domination of my aunt, and the more painful became the 
 lot of my mother. My father's drawing-room became a political saloon, where 
 Mademoiselle alone did the honors. My mother, a young lady only twenty- 
 eight years of age, had a deep antipathy for state affairs, in which she never 
 could feel any interest. She preferred music and poetry to the dryness of 
 diplomatic discussion, in which she neither wished, nor was able, to take a 
 part. Mademoiselle de Maran, on the contrary, there seemed to be in her 
 sphere. From meeting in the world, at a later period, other political women, 
 I am convinced that they closely resemble one another. They are a bab- 
 bling race, inspired with ambitious passions, as egotistical as men are, and 
 gifted with none of the qualities or graces of women; sterility of mind, cold- 
 ness and feebleness of heart, severity of character, pretentions to wisdom ridi- 
 culously exaggerated, constitute their characteristics ; in a word, political 
 women are a mixture of the schoolmaster and the step-mother; and, whether 
 married or not, always resemble old maids. 
 
 Very soon my mother, on a plea of ill-health, by degrees retired from the 
 world, and this greatly pleased her sister-in4aw. She concentred on me all 
 her tenderness ; she loved me as her only refuge from sorrow, her only conso- 
 lation, her only hope. Her heart was so generous, so good, that she never 
 allowed herself to utter a complaint or a reproach concerning Mademoiselle 
 de Maran. 
 
 My father was elevated to the peerage. One last, one mortal sorrow, was 
 reserved for my mother. She perceived that the tenderness of my father 
 grew feebler and feebler; he granted me but few and stinted caresses, saying 
 with regret, in his pride of belonging to the hereditary peerage, "What a pity 
 that it had not been a boy." Very soon to the coldness of my father 
 toward me, succeeded an entire indifference. My mother could not support 
 this new blow; she languished for a few months longer, and then died. 
 
 I have often and most bitterly wept, while hearing my governess recount 
 to me the last moments of the best of mothers ; her terror which she felt for 
 the future ; her fears were, alas ! too well justified, by seeing me fall into the 
 _ hands of Mademoiselle de Maran. My mother was too conscious of the 
 weakness of my father. She made my governess swear never to leave me ; 
 she also obtained a promise from my father that she should be retained al- 
 ways. " Alas ! I do not forbode too much; my poor Matilda will have no- 
 body but you in the world," said my mother to Blondeau ; "do not desert 
 her." Her last words to my father were severe, pathetic, and solemn : "I die 
 very young ; I have endured much ; I have never uttered a complaint ; I par- 
 don everything ; but remember you will answer to God for the fate of my 
 child." 
 
 About a year after the death of my mother, my father, having attended 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 Monsieur Le Dauphin to the chase, was thrown from his horse. The cons©, 
 quences of that accident were mortal. I lost my father. At four years of age 
 I was left an orphan, bequeathed to the care of my aunt, my nearest relation. 
 Let me be just to Mademoiselle de Maran ; she loved her brother as much as 
 she was capable of loving. Her conduct toward my mother had been 
 prompted by a jealousy that reached the verge of hatred. Mademoiselle de 
 Maran deeply regretted my father's death. Her tears were bitter ; her des- 
 pair, though still was violent. Her character became more morose ; her wit 
 more caustic ; her malice more pitiless. 
 
 I was the perfect image of my mother. Forgetting that I was the child of 
 a much loved brother, my aunt looked upon me only as the daughter of a 
 woman whom she had detested. Thus was I doomed to inherit her arersion 
 for my mother. 
 
 During my childhood, Mademoiselle de Maran was always an object of 
 terror to me ; her long, thin, tawny face, her strangely-marked features, were 
 rendered still harsher by a band of black false hair which partially concealed 
 her forehead. She had thick grey eyebrows, and small twinkling hazel eyes. 
 She always wore a gown of grey silk, and a hat of the same color and mate 
 rial — even at morning in her bed, where she was in the constant habit of 
 taking her breakfast, and of reading and writing, she wore a dressing-gown of 
 the same grey silk as was worn before the revolution. Every day when I had 
 to visit my aunt, I was seized with an involuntary ague, and rny tears suffo- 
 cated me. My poor Blondeau had to exercise all her tenderness to persuade 
 me to go near my aunt. She warned me, that if I continued to exhibit such 
 fear, she would be forced to leave me. At this menace I overcame my ap- 
 prehensions, kept down my tears, and squeezed Blondeau's fingers in my 
 little hands as one prepared for the dreaded interviews. "\Ve had to pass first 
 through a room where my aunt's mffiire d' hotel, a man named Servien, was 
 always in waiting. This man shared, with a little wolf-cur belonging to Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran, my insurmountable aversion. His face was half-covered 
 by an abominable natural red-skin, an enormous mouth, and great hairy 
 hands. He seemed to me, indeed, a genuine ogre. 
 
 When at last the bed-chamber door of Mademoiselle de Maran was opened, 
 T clung to Blondeau's dress, and tremblingly drew near to my aunt's bed. 
 My terror was not without reason; for Felix, the little white wolf-cur with 
 pointed ears, instantly emerged from under the counterpane, and growling, 
 displayed two rows of sharp teeth. Many a time did he bite me till I bled. 
 All the reprimand that my aunt ever gave him was to say, in a voice sweetly 
 harsh, as she cast upon me an angry glance, "Well! well! you little rogue, 
 let the child alone ; you see that she does not want to play with you." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran was very well informed, and kept up an intimate 
 acquaintance with political affairs. I used to find her in her bed, where she 
 was, according to her usual custom, dressed in her gown and hat of grey silk, 
 reading the journals or some huge folio, propped on a reading-desk. She 
 universally received me with a scolding or a sarcasm. These scenes were so 
 constantly repeated — they left so deep an impression upon my mind, that 
 they are still present to me in the minutest details. I lay particular stress 
 upon this, becau.-e the incessant fear which oppressed me during my child- 
 hood, has had a powerful influence on the rest of my life. I still see the 
 chamber of Mademoiselle de Maran. At the farther end of the alcove, hung 
 with deep red damask, there was a large red ivory cross surmounted by a 
 skull of the same material — both strongly relieved against a framework of 
 black velvet. This piety I believe was only a piece of hypocrisy, a sort of 
 tribute to appearances, for I have no recollection of ever having seen my 
 aunt go to mass. Xearly all the window-panes were of stained glass ; there 
 was among others a picture of John the Baptist, which always pursued me in 
 my early dreams. Beneath the secretary of red japan were to be seen, in 
 two glass cases, the father and great grandfather of Felix, the little wolf-cur ; 
 stuffed with superior elegance. The wicked and snarling looks of these two 
 immovable phantoms, with their eyes of brilliant enamel, frightened me 
 even more than their living descendant. There seemed to me something su- 
 pernatural in the sight of these animals in glass, who never stirred, never eat, 
 and always showed their teeth. Many old portraits were hung against the 
 grey wainscot ; one represented my great aunt, formerly abbess of the Ursu- 
 lines de Blois; her face was cold, rigid, and pale as the band of white linen 
 which encircled her forehead and cheeks. The other portraits impressed me 
 no less fiercely. They were those of our ancestors in court or war-dresses, 
 belonging to the times of old. To crown all, the chimney-piece was orna*- 
 mented with two hideous Chinese monsters in grim porcelain. They wex. 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE MARAN. 
 
 25 
 
 always kept in motion by means of a concealed pendulum, which made them 
 roll about their red eyes in a ghastly manner. 
 
 Imagine to yourself, my friend, a poor child of six years old, in the midst of 
 these mysterious prodigies, and you may form some idea of my state of 
 terror. But, alas ! they were but the prelude to many other torments. I was 
 obliged, in spite of the growling and the teeth of Felix, to sit upon my aunt's 
 bed and allow her to kiss me. Mademoiselle de Maran took snuff profusely, 
 and the odor of it was intolerable to me. However, notwithstanding the fear 
 and the aversion with which my aunt inspired me, I was touched with the 
 marks of affection she bestowed upon me. I made unheard-of efforts to 
 overcome my affright, but they were often unsuccessful. I found out subse- 
 quently, (and the conduct of Mademoiselle de Maran too clearly proved her 
 aversion) that she did not force me to submit to her caresses every morning 
 through tenderness, but a desire of amusing herself with my terror. One 
 scene among them made an indelible impression upon me. It will enable 
 you to judge of the character of my aunt. 
 
 One day I was, as usual, carried to her. Either through presentiment, or 
 by chance, she had never appeared more ill-natured. I dared not approach 
 her. I held down my head so low that my long curls fell on my face. Blon- 
 deau at last lifted me on Mademoiselle de Maran's bed. She took me 
 roughly in her arms, and sharply exclaimed : 
 
 " Good gracious ! how stupid this little thing looks, with her large, un- 
 meaning eyes, and her hair straggling over her forehead. Come ! come ! that 
 hair must be cut close, and rounded off like a boy*s." 
 
 Madame Blondeau, who has since related this to me, clasped her hands 
 and cried : 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! Mademoiselle, it will be no better than a murder to cut 
 off Matilda's beautiful flaxen locks ; they reach to her feet." 
 
 14 Exactly so ; it will prevent her from stepping upon them. Let us des- 
 patch — the scissors!" 
 
 "Ah! Mademoiselle," said Blondeau, with tears in her eyes, 44 I entreat 
 you, do not do it. If Mademoiselle will suffer me to say it, this is a sacri- 
 lege — impiety — " 
 
 44 What is that? what is that?" asked my aunt, in that shrill and imperious 
 tone, which made all around her tremble. 
 
 '" Yes, Mademoiselle," continued my governess, choked with emotion; 
 ' ' Madame, the Marchioness, told me never to cut off her daughter's hair. 
 Her's had never been cut in her life — poor lady! She had such beautiful 
 hair! and for that reason she enjoined upon me — before — before she died;' 
 and the excellent woman burst into tears. 
 
 " You are impertinent, and a miserable liar ; my sister-in-law never said 
 6uch a silly thing. The scissors — dispatch !" 
 
 My aunt said those words, my sister-in-law, in so bitter a tone of irony, 
 that I always afterward felt my heart grow hard when I heard her speak 
 those words. My aunt seemed so terribly enraged, that if my life had been 
 in jeopardy I could not have been more frightened. With one hand she 
 drew me to her, grasping my arm in her long, thin fingers, which were as 
 hard as iron, and with the other she took out my comb and unbound by hair, 
 which fell down and covered my shoulders. Fear rendered me dumb ; I had 
 not the strength to scream. 
 
 Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" said Blondeau, falling on her knees, 44 for 
 heaven's sake, don't do that ; some misfortune will befal Matilda : it is against 
 the wishes of her dying mother, Mademoiselle !" 
 
 14 Will you give me the scissors or no? silly brute that you are." 
 
 *' But — good Heavens! good Heavens! Mademoiselle!" 
 
 Without answering her, my aunt rang the bell. Servien appeared. 
 
 44 Servien, bring me your great scissors." 
 
 " Yes, Mademoiselle," said Servien. 
 
 He went out. 
 
 41 Mademoiselle," cried my governess, 44 1 am only a poor servant ; you are 
 mistress here, but I will be killed before I will suffer my darling child's hair 
 to be touched with the scissors." 
 
 And my governess drew near the bed to snatch me from my aunt's arms. 
 Felix, exited by this movement, jumped upon Blondeau, and bit her cheek. 
 
 *' Ah ! the wicked beast !" cried she in her anger; and she seized the dog 
 by the neck, and threw her to the middle of the floor. The beast seDt forth 
 lamentable yells, and I felt my aunt's nails digging into my shoulders. 
 
 "Go away! go away, wretch!" said she to Blondeau. Then, as Servien 
 came in, she said, 
 
26 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 "Put this insolent person out of doors, and come and hold the child 
 while 1 cut off her hair." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, pardon! pardon! I was wrong — I forgot myself ; but take 
 pity on Matilda. Mercy for her beautiful hair — mercy ! Oh ! Mademoiselle ! 
 it was pressed by the finger of her dying mother. It is sacred, it is !" 
 
 " One word more, and I will drive you hence — do you hear ?" said my aunt. 
 
 This threat completely overpowered Blondeau. She knew that my aunt 
 was capable of keeping her word. She feared, more than all things, to leave 
 rne ; she resigned herself to the sacrifice. For all my life shall I remember 
 that scene. It appears childish ; but to me it was most horrible. Servien, 
 with his stained face, held open the scissors. I thought that he wanted to 
 kill me, and I uttered piercing shrieks. 
 
 " Hold her in your arms," said my aunt to the man, "and hold her tight; 
 if she struggles, she will wound herself." 
 
 Alas! I did not think of struggling; I was almost bereft of sense. Blon- 
 deau hid her bloody face ; Servien took me in his big hands. I shut my eyes ; 
 I felt the coldness of the steel upon my neck ; I heard the grating of the scis- 
 sors, and I felt my hair tumbling about me. The execution being over, my 
 aunt said to Servien, laughing with all her might, 
 
 "Now she looks like an ugly little ballad girl ! Come, come; call one of 
 my women to sweep away all this beautiful hair with her broom." 
 
 Blondeau tremblingly asked permission to gather the curls up and keep 
 them. My aunt granted it, and ordered her to take me away. At the mo- 
 ment I was leaving the chamber, Mademoiselle bade me come back, stared at 
 me a moment longer, and exclaimed, bursting into another fit of laughter 
 
 " Goodness ! how very ugly the little thing looks now !'' ° 
 
 The instant we had reached the chamber occupied by Blondeau and myself, 
 the good creature clasped me in her arms and covered me with tears and 
 kisses. I had felt so much horror at the sight of Servien's great scissors, that 
 the catastrophe seemed to me almost a blissful one. 1 did not participate in 
 my governess's worship and admiration for my hair. I confess that I was 
 well enough contented with being able to scamper about the garden without 
 being obliged every instant to put away my hair from my forehead. I was 
 troubled only by the last words of my aunt, ' ' How ugly the little thing is 
 now !" I begged my governess to carry me to a glass. My face there looked 
 so strangely to me that, to the great grief of Blondeau, I began to scream 
 with laughter. 
 
 Since then, I have been able to account for the singular conduct of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran ; she had always felt an antipathy, a profound aversion to 
 everything that was beautiful ; and without any vanity, my friend— or rather 
 in the eyes of my blindly-attached governess — I was lovely when a child. 
 Besides, my aunt had always hated my mother. With regard to this, alas ! I 
 subsequently made many cruel discoveries. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PROTECTOR. 
 
 I was now seven years old. The aversion which Mademoiselle de Maran en- 
 tertained for me, appeared to increase rather than to diminish. She ingeni- 
 ously devised all sorts of petty torments to inflict upon me. 
 
 I had always, up to this time, dined with my governess: now, my aunt in- 
 sisted upon my sitting at her table near her. Her snuff-box disgusted me 
 much, she placed it constantly near my plate. If any dish displeased me, 
 they brought it to me every day; if I could not overcome my dislike, to pun- 
 ; sh me, Mademoiselle de Maran had my plate placed in the corner with 
 Felix, and, notwithstanding my terror of him, I was condemned to look for 
 this food on my knees, and to eat it on my knees. 
 
 My aunt had remarked, that the presence of my good Blondeau gave me 
 the courage to endure everything without crying; she forbade her remaining 
 in the room to serve me. Her maître d' hotel, Servien, had this charge ; and 
 thi3 man inspired me with mortal disgust and terror. 
 
 I have never been able to comprehend how my aunt, notwithstanding her 
 occupations — notwithstanding her really superior mind, could calculate so 
 minutely, and with such perseverance, how to torment a child. She left no- 
 thing to chance. Her conduct toward me was deeply matured and studied. 
 
 Little by little, I inured myself to suffering. It awakened in me a desire 
 for vengeance. I observed, that the mote I cried the more my aunt felt 
 
TUB PROTECTOR. 
 
 27 
 
 satisfied and laugned. After unheaTd-of efforts to constrain my tears, I at 
 length succeeded. It was with great delight that I perceived the astonish- 
 ment, the vexation of my aunt. She redoubled her harshness, and I my 
 courage aud dissimulation. 
 
 I frequently tremble, even now, when I reflect upon the contest thus com- 
 menced between a poor forsaken child, and such a woman as Mademoiselle de 
 Maran — a contest in which I came off* triumphantly, for the malignity of my 
 aunt could not extend beyond a certain limit. Everybody in the house trem- 
 bled before her, and my governess was every day subjected to a thousand little 
 annoyances. It required all the heroic devotion of this excellent woman to 
 surmount the disgust that she felt at this ill-usage. My aunt attempted twice 
 to separate us, but I fell so seriously ill, that she was obliged to give up any 
 further attempt in that respect. 
 
 I do not know whether it was from a settled resolution of my aunt, or from 
 her neglect, that, up to seven years old, Iliad no masters of any kind provided 
 for me. 
 
 My governess had taught me to read and write ; she made me say my 
 prayers, my catechism ; I thus received, thanks to the almost maternal affec 
 tion of this excellent creature, the education which a person of her class would 
 have given to her daughter. 
 
 Children are never deceived as to the sentiments and character of the per- 
 sons who surround them. Their penetration is amazing; when they see they 
 are beloved, they know with incredible ability how to ensure their empire. 
 
 Although timid and silent with Mademoiselle de Maran, I was proportion- 
 ately gay, turbulent and despotic, with my governess. She never resisted 
 even my most extravagant wishes, unless my health might be endangered by 
 the indulgence of them. She idolized me, overwhelmed me with praises of 
 my beauty, my understanding, and my liveliness. 
 
 Thus passed my childhood, between the sarcasms and harsh treatment of 
 my aunt, and the fond flatteries of Blondeau. 
 
 My character could not but be influenced by these opposing modes of treat- 
 ment. I was by turns haughty and humble to excess, beaming with happiness 
 or overwhelmed by discontent, and I felt love and hate to a degree incredible 
 at my age. My aunt's cruelties rendered me almost joyful: because they of- 
 fered me the means of setting her at defiance, and of irritating her by my 
 calmness. 
 
 She revenged herself by persuading me, with infinite art, that I was stupid 
 and ugly. While she was present I restrained by tears, but hastened to my 
 governess, threw myself into her arms, and there sobbed aloud. In order to 
 pacify me, the poor woman lavished upon me the most extravagant enco- 
 miums, and it ended by my believing them. 
 
 Hence, no doubt, arose my proneness to extreme resentments ; hence the 
 unwillingness I have since felt to adopt those mezze termine so frequent in 
 the world. 
 
 Years have not, however, modified in me this singular mode of estimating 
 myself. Instead of choosing a reasonable medium between two exaggera- 
 tions ; instead of considering myself neither wholly inferior nor wholly supe- 
 rior to others, I have existed in perpetual alternations of either insolent assur- 
 ance or painful diffidence. Past triumphs did not prevent my being oppressed 
 by a ridiculous humility, or past humiliations from being vain-glorious, even 
 to disdain. 
 
 From the first word, the first look, I either governed or was governed, and 
 that in even the most ordinary relations of life. I have known persons Avho, 
 and with reason, were generally dreaded; before whom the most confident 
 trembled, and whom I have completely and always overawed; while, on the 
 other hand, persons utterly ignorant, assumed absolute empire over me. ^ 
 
 From the unhappy circumstances attending my earlier education, I could 
 not but retain the habit, the power of dissembling my vexations and my suf- 
 ferings, and of revenging the insults, the ills inflicted upon me, by an ap- 
 pearance of disdainful insensibility. 
 
 I was not, I believe, seven years old, when my education was altogether 
 changed. The events which brought about this revolution have remained 
 indelibly fixed upon my memory. 
 
 I had been abandoned to the care of my aunt, by the advice of my guar- 
 dian, Baron d'Orbeval, a distant relation of my father, and whom I saw very 
 rarely. When he came to see Mademoiselle de Maran, I was sent foi ; they 
 took off" the more than modest pinafore in which my aunt insisted I should 
 always be dressed ; I was then dressed with a little more neatness, and taken 
 before my guardian. 
 
 » 2 
 
29 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 He was a tall, pale man, with a weasel face, wearing a light-colored wig, much 
 corled, and a green silk shade over his eyes ; he was dressed in a douilette, 
 (a sort of over-coat) of puce-colored silk, much worn. He was a councellor 
 in the court of cassation, and sordidly avaricious. 
 
 When I approached him, he used to look at me in a severe manner, and 
 ask me if I had been good : my aunt, in general, took upon herself to answer 
 him, saying that I was willful, stupid, and idle. 
 
 My guardian would then give me a tolerably hard fillip on the cheek, say- 
 ing to me ; 
 
 " Miss Matilda, that is very bad! very bad ! — if this continues, we must 
 send you among the little beggar girls." I would burst into tears, and Blon- 
 deau would take me away. 
 
 About four months had elapsed since I had been presented to my guardian, 
 when one morning I saw a man, apparently still young, enter my room. I 
 had not seen him before. As soon as he came in, Blondeau jumped up, 
 lasped her hands with an expression of surprise and joy, and exclaimed — 
 c'Oh ! Heaven ! It is you, it is you, M. deMortagne?" 
 
 « The latter, without replying to my atmt, took me in his arms, looked at me 
 in silence with eager curiosity, and then, having tenderly embraced me, put 
 me down again, and said, wiping away his tears — " How much she resembles 
 her ! how much she resembles her !" He.remained some time in a sort of 
 revery. 
 
 The face of this stranger seemed so benevolent, notwithstanding the seve- 
 rity of his features; he appeared so strongly affected while looking at me ; his 
 presence seemed to give so much pleasure to Blondeau, that I approached 
 him without fear. 
 
 He was a first cousin of my mother; he had been travelling for several 
 years, and had only just arrived in France. 
 
 The Count de Mortagne was considered a very eccentric man. He had 
 6erved, and very bravely served, during the empire. Since then it was im- 
 possible to aecount for the wandering life he had led. He had travelled in 
 both worlds. He was said to be endowed with prodigious learning, an un- 
 bending disposition, an indomitable courage ; but his almost brutal frank- 
 ness had gained him but few friends. 
 
 He had loved my mother with the affectionate tenderness of a brother. 
 
 He had several times attempted to convince my father of the full value of 
 the treasure which he neglected, to follow the ambitious counsel of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran. My aunt had therefore taken a decided aversion to M. 
 de Mortagne ; but as a member of the family council, and as such, charged 
 with the care of my interests, he sometimes found himself compelled to visit 
 Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 For four years he had been travelling in India. His first visit after arriv- 
 ing in Paris, was to" me. 
 
 He could not cease looking at me, admiring me, praising me. He over- 
 whelmed Blondeau with questions : Was I happy ? Did I receive the edu- 
 cation which I ought to receive ? Who were my masters ? At seven years old 
 I ought to know many things ; I looked so intelligent ! I ought to have made 
 much progress in the education which had been given me. 
 
 My poor governess dared hardly answer him. At last, with many tears, she 
 acknowledged the whole truth ; the little that I knew, she had herself taught 
 me; Mademoiselle de Maran had become more and more severe and unjust 
 toward me. All the little pleasures of my age had been denied me, and what 
 had exasperated Blondeau beyond all, I was never dressed as the daughter of 
 the Marchioness de Maran ought to be. 
 
 Every word my governess uttered increased the indignation of M. de Mor- 
 tagne. He was a man of great stature, but always careless as to dress. Al- 
 though not quite forty years of age, his head was entirely bald ; and what was 
 considered very singular in those days, he wore a long beard, as many persons 
 do at the present day. 
 
 The abruptness of his manners, the military boldness of his conversation, 
 his strange and almost savage physiogomy ; had given him in society the 
 name of The Peasant of the Danube. 
 
 He belonged to the ultra-liberal party of that time, and did not in anywise 
 conceal his political opinions, although some persons, well-disposed toward 
 him, had cautioned him to express himself more moderately. 
 
 When he wished to do so, he concealed the most cutting irony under an ap- 
 pearance of simple good-nature; but, usually, his language was harsh, rude, 
 and almost brutal. 
 
 When my governess had explained to M. de Mortagne the manner in which 
 
THE PROTECTOR. 
 
 29 
 
 I had been brougVt up by my au*. , my cousin's face, tanned by the Indian 
 sun, became purple with anger; he walked up and down the room for some 
 moments, in great agitation ; then, suddenlj snatching me in his arms, he 
 went toward the apartment of Mademoiselle de Maran, exclaiming, "Ah! 
 this is the way in which she treats the child of my poor cousin. I shall say 
 two words.to her about it ; ay, and with my loud voice, too!" 
 
 "But, count," said my governess, following him, and much alarmed. 
 
 " Do not be alarmed, Madame Blondeau; I am not to be intimidated by a 
 trifle ! I have crushed, with my foot, reptiles more dangerous still than Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran;" and he kissed me, saying, " poor little thing, your fate 
 is about to change." 
 
 I shall never forget the joy I felt, when I imagined that my protector was 
 going to avenge the cruelties my aunt had inflicted upon me. In my delight, 
 I put my arms round M. de Mortagne's neck, and thinking to render him an 
 important service, I whispered to him, " It is not my aunt only that is mali- 
 cious, but her dog Feli$ is so too ; you must take very good care of yourself, 
 sir, for he bites very sharp." 
 
 " Should he bite me, my little Matilda, I will throw him out of the win- 
 dow," replied M. de Mortagne, kissing me again. 
 
 It seemed to me, that M. de Mortagne was a perfect hero. For the first 
 time, I felt the ardor of revenge. 
 
 Servienwas, as usual, in the waiting-room, adjacent to the bed-room of his 
 mistress. M. de Mortagne, followed by Madam Blondeau, was about to open 
 the door, when the Maitre d'hotel got up and said, "I do not know, sir, whe- 
 ther my mistress is visible." 
 
 M. de Mortagne, without answering him, pushed him aside with his elbow, 
 and walked into my aunt's room. She was sitting up in her bed, in her cloak 
 and bonnet of grey silk, and as usual, reading the newspapers. 
 
 The entrance of M. de Mortagne was so sudden, and accompanied with so 
 much noise, that Felix, being alarmed, rushed furiously out of his niche, and 
 made a violent attack on my protector's legs. 
 
 "Take care! take care! that is the wicked dog," whispered I to M. de 
 Mortagne. 
 
 " So much for him," said M. de Mortagne, and with one kick, my avenger 
 sent Felix rolling under the bed. 
 
 When my aunt heard the howling of the dog, and being much irritated at 
 the entrance of M. de Mortagne, whom she detested, she cried out harshly, 
 this conduct is unaccountable, sir ! What do you mean by it ? Rushing into 
 my room as if you were taking it by assault ! trampling upon my poor dog! 
 Pray, sir, do you imagine you are in a barrack-yard ?" 
 
 M. de Mortagne has often since related this scene to me. 
 
 He sat himself down, without ceremony, by Mademoiselle de Maran' s bed, 
 holding me upon his knee, and then said . " This is no question, madam, 
 either of dogs or of assaults. I am come to talk about this poor child, whom 
 you are bringing up like a barbarous step-mother — " 
 
 "What do you say? what do you say?" replied my aunt, with a haughty air. 
 " Have you returned from the antipodes, sir, to speak to me in this insolent 
 manner? Because your appearance is that of a frightful savage, and because 
 your reputation for boorishness is perfectly well established and well-merited, 
 it does not follow that I will allow myself to be either insulted or intimidated 
 in my own house : do you understand me, sir ?" 
 
 " And because, madam, you have the happiness of uniting the ugliness and 
 bad disposition of the late Duke of Gevres with the deformity and wit of Esop ; 
 it does not follow, either, that I should submit to your insolence : do you un- 
 derstand me, madam?" replied M. de Mortagne, who had always retorted 
 upon Mademoiselle de Maran coarseness for coarseness. 
 
 My aunt became pale with anger: " Have you a care, sir? when I hate, I 
 hate well ; and when I really hate, I give proofs of it." 
 
 "I know that you have powerful friends and dangerous parasites about 
 you. I require nothing of any one. I fear not any one. I shall, therefore, 
 speak the truth to you. Should it wound you, so much the worse. I have 
 spoken it to many who did not die of it, unfortunately. In a word, thischild 
 has been most shamefully brought up ; her education has been so much neg- 
 lected, that I blush for you. Are you not ashamed to have so cruelly treated 
 the daughter of your brother !" 
 
 These words recalled to my aunt's mind, at the same moment, the love she 
 had borne my father, and her hatred toward my mother. She exclaimed, 
 "And it is because the memory of my brother is sacred to me, that I 
 treat that little one as it suits me to treat her. She is confided to my 
 
 D 3 
 
30 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 oare ; her guardian is the only person to whom I am aceountahle ; therefore, 
 eir, carry your brutalities elsewhere; what is done here is no concern of 
 yours." 
 
 "So much does it concern me, that, as a me Tiber of the family council, I 
 shall this very day demand its convocation : and then we shall inquire whe- 
 ther your niece has, up to the present time, received that education to which 
 she has a right to pretend. 
 
 This menace appeared to produce a great effect on Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 " Come here, little one, and answer me," she said, beckoning me to approach 
 her. 
 
 Instead of obeying her, I pressed close to M. de Mortagne, looking at him 
 with an imploring air. 
 
 " You see that you alarm her horribly with your tenderness," rejoined M. 
 de Mortagne. "It is not this child who must answer: It is you. She has 
 not a single master ! She has hardly learned as much as the children of the 
 lower classes know at her age ! You even refuse Iter clothing befitting her 
 position. And yet you are sufficiently well paid for taking care of her." 
 
 " What does this mean ? I am paid ?" exclaimed my aunt, indignantly. 
 
 " It only means, that you are paid a thousand franks per month, out of the 
 fortune of this poor child, to meet any expenses you may incur for her; and 
 seeing the manner in which she is dressed and instructed, 'tis clear she cannot 
 cost you much more than that per annum. What have you done with the. 
 remainder? If you have pocketed it, you must account for it. Moreover, be 
 assured that I will look to it. Your being wicked and malicious is no proof 
 that you are not miserly." 
 
 " But this is absolutely beyond bearing ! Were it not known that you are 
 more than half mad, sir, this would be enough to have you thrown out of the 
 window. Must I render you an account? What is the meaning of this in- 
 quisitorial impertinence ?" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, tossing and tumb- 
 ling about her bed in a violent rage. 
 
 "I tell you that I am her relation, her adviser; do you understand me'" 
 repliedM. de Mortagne, in a voice of thunder; and as such, I shall cite you 
 to appear before the family council to answer for your conduct. If you refuse 
 to do me justice, and to condemn you, I will take the matter into my own 
 hands, and you and I will settle the affairs tête-à-tête, which will not be par- 
 ticularly agreeable to me. Once for all — you are a monster." 
 
 "Oh! the abominable wretch! he will make me ill with his brutality. 
 To treat an unhappy woman in this manner !" said my aunt, in a doleful 
 tone. 
 
 " It is long since, madam, that you, by the boldness of your machinations, 
 the malice of your insinuations, have made the world forget that pity which 
 it ought to feel for age, for ugliness, and for infirmities. Bah 1 you are no 
 longer a woman." 
 
 "How ! no longer a woman ! I am an unicorn, perhaps ? But, really, you 
 ought to be locked up, sir ! But get away with you — get away with you 1 I 
 do not wish to make a disturbance before my servants. Otherwise — " 
 
 " Otherwise, madam, it would be precisely the same thing ; all you would 
 gain by it would be witnesses. This is my last word: I am now going to call 
 upon every member of the family council, in order to persuade them (and I 
 shall succeed) to take from you this unfortunate child, and place her either at 
 a boarding-school or in a convent." 
 
 "And, in order to perfect this grand work," rejoined Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. speaking ironically, " they will, without doubt, request you to desig- 
 nate the convent she should be sent to ? 'Tis a great pity there are no longer 
 any Jacobines — you would have sent her there at once, would you not ? And 
 in remembrance of your brothers and friends of '93, whose history you so 
 much delighted in, you would call her Mamselle Scipionne, or Mamselle Egal- 
 ité; but what am I saying! Mamselle, indeed? citoyenne, if you please. 
 Unfortunately, those good days are gone by ; and in our day, sir, in all and 
 everything, we consider, sir, and consider severely, sir — do you hear ? the 
 opinions of people who wish to get the better of well-thinking persons." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran accentuated these words in such a way as to make 
 M. de Mortagne comprehend their meaning. 
 
 " Ah ! here we are," exclaimed he ; "I marvelled much you had so long 
 abstained from indulging me with the title of Jacobin or Bonapartist, which, 
 nevertheless, do not run well together. I know that you are perfidious 
 enough to raise a party-question in council, as to my charge against you. I 
 know your ultra relations are in great number in the council. I know that 
 they will blindly, follow your opinion, and it is probable they will, on thiê 
 
THIS FAMILY COUNCIL. 
 
 ©cession, as on every other, make an unfair use of their majority ;" and embra- 
 cing me with tender emotion, M. de Mortagne added, scornfully, "Poor 
 child! poor France!" 
 
 Oh, Heaven! this is at once superb and touching !" exclaimed my aunt, 
 laughing heartily, in her sharp and insolent way. _ "Oh, Heaven! think of 
 the magnificence of this assimulation : ' Poor child ! poor France !' The 
 tender Saint Just used to deal out these pretty pastoral sayings at the club of 
 the Cordeliers, I believe ; but this did not prevent him from cutting peoples' 
 heads off the next morning. Yes, yes; I perceive by your violent rage, sir, 
 that, did it depend on you, you would treat me according to the fashion of 
 these poor friends and brothers; for, truly, notwithstanding your noble birth, 
 you were worthy to be one of them : you were of the party of those gentlemen 
 of the Loire." 
 
 M. de Mortagne told me, afterward, that these cutting and cruel sarcasms 
 of my aunt have put him quite beside himself, and that he reproached him- 
 self for having brutally replied to them : 
 
 " 'Tis true, when I reflect that you murdered my cousin, by the grief you 
 caused her — when I reflect that you have tortured an unhappy child with dia- 
 bolical wickedness — I ask myself, whether that which is morally and physi- 
 cally unnatural, ought not to be placed without the pale and the protection 
 of the laws?" 
 
 " Enough of this insulting language 1 Leave the house, sir, leave the 
 house!" shrieked Mademoiselle de Maran, with such furious vehemence, that 
 when M. de Mortagne, on rising from his seat, wished to set me down, I clung 
 to him with all my strength. He put me into the arms of my governess, who 
 had remained silent and unperceived during this scene. 
 
 We all three left the room together. It would be difficult to depict the 
 anger of my aunt. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE FAMILY COUNCIL, 
 
 Ï did not comprehend much from the conversation which had passed be- 
 tween M. de Mortagne and my aunt. I had only experienced great delight 
 in hearing my protector speak in so firm a manner to Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. 
 
 I foresaw that it would produce some favorable change in my position. 
 The idea of being sent to a convent or a boarding-school, which, in general, 
 is so appalling to children, had a very contrary effect upon me ; my most 
 earnest desire was to be removed from my aunt's house. 
 
 The family council was to deside whether I was to remain under the con- 
 trol of Mademoiselle de Maran. I prayed most fervently that M. de Mor- 
 tagne might succeed in his intentions. The fatal day at length arrived ; my 
 aunt had me dressed very neatly, and took me down into the parlor where all 
 the members of our family had assembled. 
 
 I looked around the room for M. de Mortagne ; he had not yet arrived, 
 My aunt made me sit down between her and M. d'Orbeval, my guardian. 
 
 All out relations appeared to be in dread of Mademoiselle de Maran, and 
 paid her the most obsequious attention. They knew that she possessed great 
 influence. Her drawing-room was the resort of the leading men in the go- 
 vernment. From respect to Louis XVIII., the princes of the royal family 
 showed a marked deference to Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 The Prince de Talleyrand frequently divided his evenings between my aunt 
 and the Princess de Vaudemont. My aunt, with much judgment, used to ob- 
 serve, that this great statesman "could render silence eloquent, elevate wit 
 to genius, and make experience the source of divination." He used frequently 
 to pass an hour tête-à-tête with Mademoiselle de Maran, for she was one of 
 those women whom even the master spirits of the age were glad to consult. 
 
 Children are above all struck with appearances : they cannot comprehend 
 the influence exercised by intrigue and wit. For a long time I could in no 
 wise understand how it was that Mademoiselle de Maran, in defiance of her 
 mean and almost grotesque appearance, should exercise such unbounded 
 sway over persons who were not necessarily compelled to submit to her au- 
 thority. 
 
 When my aunt was seated, the top of her head appeared to be about upon a 
 level with her left shoulder, which was considerably higRer than the right one ; 
 her long feet, upon which she always wore black chamois leather shoes, re- 
 posed upon a very high footstool, which she shared with her favorite, Felix. 
 
31 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Despite her ugliness, despite the perversity of her character, Mademoiselle 
 de Maran every evening s«w her drawing-room filled with the élite of the best 
 society in Paris, and rated soundly those who accidently absented themselves 
 for several days. Her bitter and angry reproaches evinced clearly that it was 
 not affection for the party which made her appreciate their homage, but that 
 her pride was mortified when they stayed away. 
 
 We were all waiting for M. de Mortagne ; he at last arrived. My heart 
 beat with violence. Upon him depended my future destiny. 
 
 I soon observed, that M. de Mortagne was coldly received by my relations. 
 His neglected dress and beard caused many a smile and whisper, although his 
 eccentricities were well known. They well knew the aversion of my aunt to- 
 ward him. They flattered her by ridiculing him. 
 
 After some moments of silence, M. d'Orbeval, my guardian, requested M. 
 de Mortagne to again state his reasons for having convened a family council. 
 
 M. de Mortagne repeated, almost word for word, all that he had said to my 
 aunt, and without being in anyway cautious as to the terms he used ; he con- 
 cluded, by requesting that I should be sent to the Convent des Anglaises, an 
 establishment which was then as much in vogue as that- of the Sacre Cœur 
 was subsequently. 
 
 During this violent accusation, Mademoiselle de Maran remained perfectly 
 motionless. Our relations, who were completely subjugated by her, were 
 dreadfully in fear of her. They several times evinced their indignation at 
 M. de Mortagne's attack upon her, by murmurs and other interruptions ; the 
 looks which they addressed to my aunt, appeared to call upon her to witness 
 that they protested against the brutal language used by my protector. 
 The latter appeared to be perfectly indifferent to these interruptions; 
 he merely shrugged his shoulders, waiting patiently till the interruption had 
 ceased to resume his argument; but did not in any way modify his expres- 
 sions. 
 
 It certainly required much courage to attack Mademoiselle de Maran in the 
 manner he did ; possessing the influence she did, she could easily have found 
 a thousand modes of angering M. de Mortagne, and of revenging herself. 
 Alas ! she proved, but too sensibly, that the hate she bore him was deadly 
 and implacable. 
 
 I was then very young ; but I well remember an incident which, although 
 apparently insignificant, struck me forcibly, and of which I now clearly can 
 judge the full importance. 
 
 During the time that M. de Mortagne was speaking, my aunt betrayed no 
 species of emotion ; she had in her hand a long knitting-needle, which, as he 
 proceeded, she seemed to grasp more tightly between her fleshless fingers. 
 
 Finally, when he exclaimed, that "nothing could be more respectable than 
 ugliness, old age and infirmity — nothing could be more cowardly than to 
 shelter oneself behind these deplorable advantages, and to reply insolently, 
 when required to account for conduct, which had been as cruel as ungrateful" 
 — Mademoiselle de Maran, as if by accident, broke the needle which she held 
 between her fingers ; and I shall never forget the withering look she cast upon 
 M. de Mortagne at that moment. 
 
 My Guardian thought it his duty, in the name of the majority of the family 
 council, to reply to this attack against my aunt, and severely reproved the 
 language used by her antagonist. My protector appeared to pay little atten- 
 tion to this attack, after which, M. d'Orbeval with the most respectful defer- 
 ence, and apparently only as a matter of form, asked Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 whether she considered it necessary in any way to change the system of my 
 education; assuring her, beforehand, that the family council would natur- 
 ally acceed to her determination upon a subject, which she, of course, could 
 better appreciate than any other person. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, without alluding in the slightest degree to the 
 attacks of M. de Mortagne, but with infinite subtlety and address, replied. 
 «' that I was no doubt very backward in my education, that my intellects were 
 not of the finest order, and she had considered it more prudent not to fatigue 
 a mind naturally weak, by giving me lessons which I could not profit by, and 
 •which would only have created a distaste in me for learning; she had there- 
 fore thought it better, in the first instance, to pay a strict attention to my 
 health, which, thanks to Heaven ! was in a very robust state. That I was, 
 now, therefore, in perfect condition to regain the time I had lost, without 
 anything to dread from the fatigue of forced study." She concluded by stating, 
 " that previously to ^he convocation of the family council, she had determin- 
 ed upon my immediately commencing a regular course of study." 
 
 M. de Mortagne had frequently told me, that it was impossible for any one 
 
THE FAMILY COUNCJT,. 
 
 S3 
 
 to have defended herself more adroitly than my aunt then did, or to color her 
 conduct with more specious appearances. She clearly demonstrated, that by 
 economizing greatly during the earlier years of my instruction, she had re- 
 cerved the means of giving me, when I was more capable of benefitting by it, 
 a more complete and extended education. She added, that it was very na* 
 tural that I should become tired of remaining in the same house with an old 
 and infirm person ; but she had promised my father that she would never aban- 
 don me, and therefore she could not conceive that my relations would feel any 
 Uesire that I should enter a convent. 
 
 In order to conciliate every one, and to show that I should have, in future, 
 companion of my own age, my aunt announced to the council, that my 
 ardian, having yielded to her solicitations, had consented to withdraw his 
 ughter from a convent, and to confide her to her care. 
 
 M. d'Orbeval was a widower; his daughter would thus be the companion of 
 my studies, and live under the same roof with me. 
 
 With his habitual abruptness and frankness, M. de Mortagne observed, 
 that by this mode it would be at my expense Mademoiselle d'Orbeval would 
 receive her education. She was poor and her father had, of course, consented 
 to this arrangement from interested motives, and from fear of my aunt, who 
 could either injure him or be of service to him as she pleased. 
 
 M. de Mortagne went on to say, that under any other circumstances, he 
 ehould not have raised any objection to my receiving a private education, or 
 to my pursuing it with my young relation; but that he had the most powerful 
 reasons for believing that the influence of Mademoiselle de Maran could not 
 be otherwise than fatal to me; that she had tortured my infancy, and that she 
 would, most probably destroy my youth. 
 
 A burst of indignation prevented his proceeding. 
 
 M. d'Orbeval exclaimed, that his daughter should never put her foot within 
 the doors of Mademoiselle de Maran ; that it was only for my advantage he 
 had acceded to the proposal which had been made to him ; but finding that 
 his motives were so misinterpreted, he should retract the promise he. had 
 given. However, the whole meeting having joined Mademoiselle de Maran 
 in appeasing M. d'Orbeval, and blaming M. de Mortagne, my guardian at 
 last consented to his daughter's coming. M. de Mortagne, who could notres- 
 train his anger, forgot himself so far, as to declare that there was not a man 
 of courage in the council ; that they were all humbled before the influence of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran. He offered to maintain this opinion sword in hand 
 against any present. There was a general shout of indignation against lum, 
 the men exclaiming that he was a blustering bully, who sought to maintain 
 his opinions by brute force against those of the family council, and that he 
 respected neither sex, nor old age. 
 
 M. de Mortagne was much irritated; he approached me, embraced me ten- 
 derly, and said, " My poor child ! we shall meet again shortly. May God 
 protect you from this wicked woman and her flatterers. They have now the 
 law and a majority on their side. Patience ! patience ! I will still find the 
 means of serving you in spite of them." He kissed me again and again, and 
 then left the room. 
 
 After he had withdrawn, my relations redoubled their expressions of in- 
 dignation, which soon calmed down to an affected feeling of contemptuous 
 pity. 
 
 Those among them who, from their age, might have replied to the provok 
 ing taunts of M. de Mortagne, but who had not done so — not from any wa2t 
 of personal courage, but from fear of my aunt — affirmed that M. de Mor- 
 tagne's brain was turned; and that they were not called upon to notice sud» 
 utter madness. 
 
 Although I sincerely regretted the defeat of my good protector, 1 could not 
 think without delight of the new companion that was promised me ; I re- 
 garded her father, M. d'Orbeval, with less apprehension ; and I ventured 
 even to ask my aunt when I should see my cousin. 
 
 To my great astonishment, Mademoiselle de Maran answered me without 
 anger, and almost in an affectionate tone, that Mademoiselle Ursula d'Or- 
 beval would very shortly arrive. 
 
 This assurance perfectly delighted me. Had I been happier, I might have 
 looked with jealousy on the arrival of my cousin: while, on the contrary, I 
 now considered that it must produce a pleasing change in my position. 
 
 From that day, the conduct of Mademoiselle de Maran toward me was com- 
 pletely changed. In the first place, she procured the best professors in Pari» 
 to instruct me. From a motive which I afterward diseovered, she allowed 
 me to retain Madam Blondeau as governess, although she was far from 
 
34 
 
 II ATI IDA. 
 
 possessing the knowledge necessary to fulfil the duties of such an office, at * 
 time when my education was to be so much more carefully attended to. 
 
 She also gave me a waiting-woman, and instead of allowing me to be 
 dressed in an almost mean, and miserable manner, my aunt had me attired 
 with an elegance and care which were even inconsistent with my years. 
 
 I well remember the joy and surprise I experienced, on finding, as I en- 
 tered one day into my room, an upright looking-glass and a toilette table, or- 
 namented with an abundance of ribbons and laces. 
 
 Instead of constantly scolding me, and expatiating upon my ugliness and 
 my stupidity, my aunt, all at once, began to overpower me with the most ex- 
 aggerated praises upon my beauty, my fine shape, the elegance of my figure, 
 ana my happy disposition ! 
 
 As this abrupt change of manner might have greatly astonished me, Made- 
 moiselle de Maran told me, in confidence, that it would have been very dan- 
 gerous to have imparted to me these charming truths while I had been so in- 
 dolent, when my vanity might have been dangerously excited ; but now that 
 I was studying assiduously, it was, in a manner, rewarding me, to let me 
 know that there was nothing in the world more charming than myself. 
 
 The attendant whom my aunt had given me, repeated the same praises to 
 me ; and, finally, every person in the house, even Servien himself, tried who 
 most could flatter me. 
 
 My faithful Blondeau, with that instinct, that profound sagacity of the 
 heart which devoted affection inspires, was alarmed by this violent change in 
 my aunt's conduct. She, on the contrary, was the first to scold me, to re- 
 proach me for paying too much attention to my dress, neglecting my prayers, 
 and becoming haughty and capricious. 
 
 Notwithstanding my attachment to this excellent woman, I felt shocked at 
 her remonstrances. They appeared to me the more painful, from her having, 
 up to that time, treated me with almost idolatrous fondness. 
 
 I felt my affection toward her cooling ; while, on the contrary, my confi- 
 dence in Julia, my waiting-woman, daily became stronger, who, on her part, 
 omitted no opportunity of irritating me against my governess. 
 
 In spite of the affectionate attentions of Mademoiselle de Maran, I could 
 not surmount the fear and aversion with which she had inspired me. I used 
 every effort to overcome them, thinking that gratitude required I should 
 evince some attachment for her. 
 
 I really made rapid progress in my studies. I applied myself sedulously to 
 learn drawing, music, and the English and Italian languages, that I might 
 not be so much inferior to my cousin, Ursula d'Orbeval, whose arrival my 
 aunt continually postponed. 
 
 My aunt rarely went out. She sent me almost daily to have a drive in her 
 carriage to the Bois de Boulogne, with Julia, fori did not attempt to hide my 
 preference for this girl. During our ride, she kept incessantly remarking to 
 me, that I excited universal admiration, 
 
 In short, about a year after my aunt had begun to pay such particular at- 
 tention to my education, I scarcely felt like the same person. I had gained 
 much information ; my mind was greatly enlarged ; but the seeds of the most 
 direful passions began to take root within me. 
 
 Although an ivory crucifix ornamented the alcove of my aunt, she did not 
 appear to pay an$ outward attention to religious duties. 
 
 She confined herself to sending me to mass to the church of St. Thomas of 
 Aquins, with one of her women. A man servant followed me, bearing a 
 cushion emblazoned with the family arms, for my feet, and a velvet bag, 
 which contained my prayer-book. All this pomp was as ridiculous as it was 
 unsuitable for a child of my age; and I used to hear people say, as I went 
 along, " The doting fondness of Mademoiselle de Maran for her neice amounts 
 almost to folly." 
 
 I at last began to be convinced of the sincerity of this fondness. Everybody 
 said that my aunt idolized me, and that if I did not answer her expectations, 
 she would have to thank her own weakness and indulgence for it. 
 
 Even to this day, many people are convinced that Mademoiselle de Maran 
 always loved me — loved me, indeed, too tenderly. 
 
 There are no creatures in the world more loving, and at the same time 
 cruelly egotistical, than children. 
 
 I felt a barbarous delight in heaping marks of kindness on my new waiting- 
 woman, and particularly when Blondeau was present, in order to spite the 
 latter, as little girls say. 
 
 The unhappy woman, although possessing much good sense, and not allow- 
 ing herself to be irritated by bare envy, could not help suffering dreadfully 
 
THE FAMILY COUNCIL. 
 
 35 
 
 when she found herself overlooked and forgotten by me — she who loved ma 
 with such sincerity. 
 
 My ingratitude toward her, at length, had passed all bounds. 
 
 In proportion as my intelligence expanded, Mademoiselle de Maran in- 
 spired me, if not with affection, at least with curiosity. My mind began to 
 comprehend her raillery, and to be amazed by it; she ridiculed Blondeau — 
 her stiff manners, her remonstrances a« to my coquettishness — and she made 
 me laugh at her sallies. She ridiculed her ignorance, her uncouth expres- 
 sions, and I laughed still more. 
 
 All this was doubtLess wrong — very wrong ; but I was barely eight years 
 old ; and a woman, of really very superior understanding, took advantage of 
 her poweçs to lead me into fatal error. 
 
 I followed her counsel but too well ; I evinced so much coldness toward 
 my governess, that the unhappy woman was so much grieved at it that she 
 fell seriously ill, after having endeavored all she could to re-awake my former 
 attachment to her. 
 
 When I saw her pale, and suffering so severely, I perceived the extent of 
 the fault I had committed; I wept bitterly, and would not again leave her. 
 My aunt, observing my affliction, persuaded me that Blondeau's illness was 
 but acting — a mere feint. This odious interpretation, which I believed, af- 
 forded me an excuse for my ingratitude. 
 
 I 6hall never forget the painful astonishment portrayed in every feature, 
 when my governess saw me return to her, smiling, playful, and ridiculing 
 her illness. She raised her emaciated hands to heaven, and, weeping bit- 
 terly, exclaimed: 
 
 " My God! she, who had her mother's heart ! they have ruinedher, ruined 
 her!" 
 
 From that day the poor woman became more melancholy, more taciturn. 
 Although extremely weak, she insisted upon. getting up ; absent and ab- 
 sorbed, she appeared preoccupied by some fixed idea. The servants almost 
 made sport of her. She, who was formerly so impatient with them, appeared 
 to suffer all their taunts with resignation, or rather with indifference. She 
 rarely spoke to me. 
 
 I remember that, waking one night, T found her with her head hanging 
 over my pillow, her eyes overflowing with tears, looking at me with indiscii- 
 bhble anguish. 
 
 I was alarmed; I pretended to fall asleep again. In the morning I told my 
 aunt what had happened. She said it was a trick of Blondeau's, who had 
 wished to terrify me. I believed Mademoiselle de Maran, and I felt greater 
 ill-will toward my governess. 
 
 New Year's day arrived. The evening before, my aunt, speaking of the 
 New Year's gift for Blondeau, said, " Instead of giving her a dress, or any 
 trinket, you should give her money. Such people love money more than any- 
 thing !" and she gave me five louis for her. 
 
 In former years, my aunt had never given me anything for Blondeau. I 
 was then tenderly attached to her, and was always anxious to make her some 
 little present. I every year, in secret, employed myself in embroidering, as 
 well as I could, some little piece of tapestry for her ; and used all sorts of 
 ■chemes to hide myself, while I wrote her a few lines of tender endearment, 
 with which to surprise her on the occasion. 
 
 It was impossible to conceive the joy, the delight with which Madam Blon- 
 deau received these little gifts, which I always presented to her throwing my 
 arms about her neck, after having said my prayers on New Year's eve. 
 
 Now that I reflect upon it, it appears to me that there was something touch- 
 ingly religious in these testimonies of the affection of a poor orphan, aban- 
 doned, rejected by every one, who, having nothing else to give, had recourse 
 to her own childish fingers to acquit a debt of affection. 
 
 Notwithstanding the inferiority of her position, my governess had too much 
 soul not to be touched, even to tears, with these proofs of my attachment, and 
 which no one had suggested to me. 
 
 Her grief will be readily conceived when, on the New Year's eve in ques- 
 tion, I, with a gay and laughing air, slipped the five louis into her hand. 
 
 She had expected one of my usual gifts ; as I began to draw passably well, 
 she had even ventured to hope that I would give her some proof of my new 
 acquirement. Notwithstanding my manifest ingratitude, she could not for a 
 moment believe it possible, that I should so far have forgotten every feeling 
 of delicacy; therefore, looking at me with as much sorrow as surprise, she 
 returned me the money, saying, " You have made a mistake, Matilda, this 
 
SÔ 
 
 MATILDA- 
 
 is for Julia ; but for me — for me, you have something else, have you not V and 
 here her voice faltered, and she looked at me with uneasiness and alarm. 
 " No, no," said I, " I have nothing else to give you." 
 
 "Yet, informer years—" (and she endeavored to conceal her tears) "in 
 former years, you recollect, in the evening after your prayers, you used to give 
 me — " 
 
 "Ah, yes ! I understand what you would say; but now, you see, I have no 
 time for such things; I am obliged to study. And, besides, people like you 
 love money more than anything.'' 
 
 And then, without embracing her — without giving her the slightest mark of 
 affection, I put the gold into her hand, and ran out of the room gaily, to ex- 
 amine a magnificent ermine cloak, which Mademoiselle de Maran was about 
 to give me. 
 
 On leaving my 'governess, I heard a piteous moan, and the noise of the gold 
 coin falling from her hand upon the floor. 
 
 In my pitiless indifference, in my haste to inspect the present from my 
 aunt, I did not stay a moment ; I did not even turn my head. 
 
 Alas ! my friend, although still young, I have suffered much; I have shed 
 oitter tears ! but Heaven knows, that while in the most violent paroxysms of 
 despair, I have often exclaimed, I ought to bear every ill without complain- 
 ing ; for I inflicted on one of the best of created beings, the most intense pain 
 that the human heart can suffer. 
 
 The same evening, in spite of my indifference, I felt ashamed of myself 
 when I thought of poor Blondeau. I expected she would reproach me for my 
 unkindness ; but, on the contrary, I found her more affectionate than usual, 
 only that she was very pale, and much afflicted. I observed something extra- 
 ordinary in her look. 
 
 She put. me to bed, and kissed me several times with great tenderness; I 
 felt her tears trickling down my cheeks. My better feelings acquired their 
 empire over me ; I threw my arms round her neck, and begged her forgive- 
 ness for having hurt her feelings. 
 
 "I accuse you, my child ? you, my child? never !" she said, weeping and 
 kissing my hair and hands : " never ! poor dear child ! While they permitted 
 you to be so, you were good and excellent : you have been in everything the 
 very picture of your mother. But, do not let us say any more about it. Say 
 your prayers. Pray, also, for your poor governess ; she stands in need that 
 you should pray for her. The prayers of children are like those of ahgels, and 
 God loves them, and grants what they request. 
 
 When I had said my prayers, she kissed me tenderly on the forehead, and 
 said, "And now, my child, good night, good night." 
 
 I remarked that she trembled — that her hands were burning ; and, not- 
 withstanding, her face was of a deadly paleness. 
 
 I went to sleep. I do not know how long I remained so, when I was sud- 
 denly awakened by feeling a heavy pressure. In my alarm I half-opened my 
 eyes. By the light of a night-lamp, I saw my governess — she was standing 
 near my bed — she had awakened me in trying to kiss me. 
 
 Not daring to move, I followed her with my eyes ; her features, usually 
 eo sweet, so calm, had now in them a sinister expression which chilled me 
 with fear. 
 
 She was looking at me, and speaking to me in a low voice, and with a dis- 
 tracted air. 
 
 " Ho, ho !" she said, " I can no longer support this. This monster is ruin- 
 ing my child; she has rendered her indifferent, has taught her to despise me. 
 Matilda no longer loves me. I can no longer be of any service to her : I need 
 not remain here. And I could not bear it, — no, I have suffered too much 
 this day; they have filled the measure to overflowing. Money — tome — ah! 
 I shall go mad — I believe that I am so already. It is time that this should 
 end. One last kiss of that poor little sleeping angel; she prayed for me, and 
 our heavenly Father will forgive me." 
 
 Saying these words, Blondeau kissed my forehead, and then weeping, con- 
 tinued: 
 
 " Adieu ! adieu ! thou shalt never know the harm that thou hast done me, 
 poor little one. It is not thee that I accuse. Oh, no ! it is that monster, 
 who caused thy mother to die of grief, and who wishes to destroy thy soul. 
 Adieu! again aJieu! Oh! those lovely golden locks ! let me kiss them only 
 once more !" a^d I felt her icy lips upon my forehead. 
 
 I had until then kept my eyes closed, although I was awake. I suddenly 
 opened them. I sa* my governess go toward the window, and open it vio- 
 
URSULA. 
 
 37 
 
 Jently. I at once conceived her fatal intention : I rushed toward her, and 
 caught hold of her just at the .noment she was about to precipitate herself 
 from the window. 
 
 The poor woman appeared completely astonished ; my shrieks reached 
 her wandering senses, she threw herself upon her knees, and exclaimed — 
 
 "What was I about to do? Pardon me, O heavenly Father! I was 
 surely mad ; I had forgotten that I had sworn to her dying mother, that I 
 would never abandon her. But I have suffered much, and to-day more 
 than ever; surely it was God himself who sent this angel to prevent me 
 from committing so great a crime. No, no ; I will stay with you, my child ; 
 I will suffer, I will endure everything. 1 will, if it must be so, die of grief ; 
 but I will die near you, and looking at your sweet face, as I promised your 
 mother, who is in heaven and now hears me." 
 
 This dreadful scene made so great an impression upon me — I was so 
 struck with the despair Blondeau had manifested — that the first seeds of 
 ingratitude toward her were uprooted, and for ever. I became as lovingly 
 attentive to her as I had been in former years, to the evident chagrin of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, who at one time expected that she would deprive 
 me of this affectionate and sincerely devoted friend. 
 
 In a short time afterwards, my aunt informed me that my cousin Ursula 
 d'Orbeval, the daughter of my guardian, was about to come to reside with 
 us; adding, that I was much prettier, much cleverer, much better dressed 
 than she could be, and consequently that it would afford me great pleasure 
 to make her sensible of my superiority. 
 
 Thus Mademoiselle de Maran endeavoured to deprive me of every senti- 
 ment of purity. Already the sweet and ingenuous joy of possessing a friend 
 of my own age, was embittered by the after-thought, that I must create in 
 her mind feelings of jealousy, envy, and necessarily of hatred. 
 
 I do not know whether you have remarked, my friend, that my aunt, 
 with a singular sagacity, had, as I may say, formed two epochs of my youth ; 
 until I was eight years old, I had been the victim of terror, privations, and 
 neglect : I was not yet ripe for other projects. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 URSULA. 
 
 A new era was now opening itself before me. Up to this time my feelings 
 were but ill defined ; I feared my aunt, but her wit amused me. Notwith- 
 standing some proofs of coldness and forgetfulness, I loved my governess 
 tenderly ; but there did not exist between us any affinity, either of age or 
 disposition. 
 
 When Ursula d'Orbeval arrived, I was so much alone in the world, and 
 had formed such ecstatic dreams of prominent affection, that I at once felt 
 grateful toward her who was to realise these soft hopes. I completely for- 
 got the perfidious counsels of my aunt; instead of desiring to humiliate 
 Ursula, I only thought of loving her. 
 
 She arrived at the Hotel de Maran the day after New Year's day ; she 
 was a year older than myself. By an extraordinary coincidence, her hair 
 was black and her eyes blue ; my eyes on the contrary were black, and I 
 had light hair. We were about the same height. Ursula's features were 
 far from being regular ; but it is impossible to imagine a more interesting 
 physiognomy, a sweeter or more amiable expression of countenance. 
 
 The first time I saw hir, she was in mourning for her grandmother; her 
 black dress only set off to more advantage the rosy whiteness of her skin ; 
 her whole appearance was so pleasing, that I threw my arms about her neck, 
 calling her my sister. 
 
 I could not help weeping, but they were the sweetest tears I had ever 
 shed. My cousin received my caresses with a touching grace. I led 
 her to my room, where I placed at her disposal all the treasures of my 
 toilette. 
 
 Ursula did not evince either awkward embarrassment or forward assur - 
 ance. She told me, with much emotion, all she desired was my friend- 
 ship; that she was almost an orphan, for her father treated her with great 
 harshness. 
 
 J felt a host of new emotions springing up within me. I immediately 
 
85 MATILDA. 
 
 conceded the happiness to be derived from devoting oneself to a person 
 that one loved, and from protecting and defending her. I felt almost 
 obliged to Ursula for being poor, for being almost friendless, because I was 
 rich ; because my heart was prepared to offer her that affection of which 
 she was deprived. 
 
 As soon as I had a friend to love, I thought myself no longer a child ; I 
 considered myself a great woman, as the little girls say. I became very 
 serious, very thoughtful. I was ashamed of my past love of finery ; I said 
 to Ursula, showing her, at the same time, my handsome dresses, and with 
 supreme disdain — " All these were well enough before I had a friend." 
 
 As my cousin wore mourning, I wished to go into mourning also. Tbis 
 project kept me awake the whole of one night. In the morning, I, with 
 great resolution, entered Mademoiselle de Maran's room. 
 
 * Aunt," said I, " I wish to be dressed in black, as Ursula is, and to wear 
 it as long as she does." 
 
 " You are surely mad, my dear," replied my aunt, evincing much asto- 
 nishment; " Ursula is in mourning, but you have no reason forbeingso." 
 
 "I can wear mourning for my mother," I rejoined, casting down my eyes 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 My aunt laughed very heartily, saying, " Is she not amusing, witi her 
 funeral imaginings ? Why, you wore mourning for your mother seven years 
 ago; and that is quite sufficient." 
 
 " I wore it then without knowing why I wore it," I replied, feeling the 
 tears starting from my eyes, for my aunt's loud laugh had wounded me 
 painfully. 
 
 "Oh, Heaven! what droll ideas this child has!" rejoined Mademoiselle 
 de Maran, laughing still more and chucking me under the chin. "Come, 
 come, little simpleton, this singular caprice shall be indulged; that is, 
 to-day you shall be dressed in black, but not in mourning — you shall have 
 some beautiful silk dresses, while poor Ursula will only have woollen ones — 
 that will enrage her terribly." 
 
 " I wish never to be dressed otherwise than my cousin, aunt." 
 
 "How ! has it already gone so far?" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 fixing upon me her piercing eyes ; " this is even better than I anticipated. 
 Well, well; be calm my dear; when once the mourning is over, you shall 
 always be dressed like two sisters ; you are rich enough to make a present 
 every now and then of a handsome new dress to your cousin, who has not 
 a penny." 
 
 " Aunt, you do not understand me," I replied impatiently; "as Ursula 
 is poor, I wish to be dressed as she is, and not that she should be dressed as 
 I am." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran looked at me again attentively, and then said, 
 with her sarcastic tone, " Bless us ! what is the matter with the girl to-day, 
 that she has such superlative delicacy? It is perfectly affecting! quite a 
 family complaint;" and then she added, speaking to herself, "Well, so 
 much the better;" and again addressing me, continued, " Right, right; you 
 cannot, my dear, treat Ursula too like a sister. It is with much satisfaction 
 I see manifested in you evidences of great sensibility. So much the better; 
 I really did not expect it ; you have surprised my most sanguine hopes." 
 
 I left Mademoiselle de Maran's room with feelings of pride and happiness. 
 I ran immediately to my governess, to inform her of the result of my con- 
 versation with my aunt. 
 
 Blondeau embraced me tenderly, but this time it was with tears of joy ; 
 she said to me, " Your good feelings have now returned to you : I think I 
 hear your poor mother talking to me." 
 
 One would have imagined that some pause would have ensued in Made- 
 moiselle de Maran's wicked schemes against me, but it was not so. Never, 
 on the contrary, did she feal so certain of the blighting influence she 
 meant to cast over both my present and future life. But I was then ig- 
 norant of what I have since learned, and I gave myself up joyfully to the 
 delights of my exaggerated friendship for my cousin ; she returned it with 
 the most affectionate and grateful warmth. 
 
 In a few days after Ursula's arrival at the Hotel de Maran, she was in 
 possession of all my secrets — all my thoughts. I related to her everything 
 that had happened to me, excepting the horrid attempt of my governess to 
 destroy herself. But it was with difficulty that I refrained from telling her 
 that, also. 
 
 Although Ursula was a year older than I was, I was almost as forwardia 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
UBSUIA. 
 
 39 
 
 my studies. Our professors did not fail to prefer my exertions to hers, 
 whether they really deserved the preference, or whether by so conducting 
 themselves they thought to flatter my aunt — without knowing it, they thus 
 rendered themselves accomplices in her secret designs. 
 
 Fearing to wound the self-love of Ursula by my successes, I did all I 
 could to soften the superiority which was awarded me. I found a thousand 
 reasons by which to explain the triumphs I obtained, to my own disadvan- 
 tage; — sometimes it was, that our masters, to please Mademoiselle de Ma- 
 ran, gave me the first place; sometimes, that it was Ursula herself loving 
 me so much, as to make blunders expressly to let me obtain the advantage 
 over her. 
 
 I da not know whether our growing attachment was in opposition to the 
 projects of Mademoiselle de Maran; but she devised a new scheme of tor- 
 menting me more cruelly than ever. Under the pretext of accustoming us 
 to see the world little by little, she every now and then would desire us to 
 come into the drawing-room early in the day. She received company al- 
 ways in the evening; but several of her most intimate acquaintances were 
 in the habit of calling upon her before dinner. 
 
 My chagrin will be easily imagined, when for the first time I heard my 
 aunt talking to strangers in the following terms after pointing to Ursula 
 and me : — 
 
 "Could you believe that my niece, who is a year younger than Miss 
 d'Orbeval, and who began her education much later, has applied herself 
 so earnestly — has made such astonishing progress — that in every branch of 
 _study she has always the first mark? It is perfectly amazing; is it not? 
 Generally, it is poor girls without fortune who study the most assiduously. 
 Here, it is quite the contrary. Matilda is not satisfied with being superior 
 to her cousin in riches and beauty — she wishes, also, to be superior to her 
 in education. Poor dear little girl ! that child is a real treasure ; she is the 
 perfect portrait of her mother." 
 
 And then, Mademoiselle de Maran overwhelmed me with her hypocritical 
 caresses. 
 
 I thought my heart would break. I looked at Ursula with a suppliant air. 
 The moment we were alone, I threw myself weeping into her arms, begging 
 her to pardon the exaggerated praises with which my aunt afflicted me. 
 
 My cousin, who was also much agitated, tried to allay my vexation; she 
 even laughed at it; and proved, by her tenderness, that she was not at all 
 jealous of the advantages I possessed, nor wounded by the reproaches of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 From that time, I did all I could to make Ursula keep the first place : 
 but it was in vain that I made fault after fault — my lessons were always pre- 
 ferred to those of my cousin. One day, I resolved that I would not do any- 
 thing, and that I would not learn a single lesson. By this mode, my com- 
 panion was sure to have a better mark than myself. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran sent for us both into the drawing-room, where we 
 found her with several other persons. After some little uninteresting con- 
 versation, my aunt called me to her, and then, addressing one of her friends, 
 said — 
 
 " I know you will tell me that I am always repeating the same thing; but 
 you must forgive an old woman's dotage, when she is speaking of what she 
 loves tenderly. I see lhat you are laughing already; you guess that I am 
 going to say something about Matilda. Well ; it is certainly true that she 
 has bewitched me, that I dote upon her. It is so, and I cannot help my- 
 self." * ' 
 
 My aunt, said this with an assumed tone of candour, which she always 
 put on when about to utter something particularly malignant. 
 
 " Well, now," she continued, "compare Matilda with Ursula. And, by- 
 the-bye, I must give a lesson to Miss d'Orbeval." Then turning toward my 
 cousin, she said in a severe tone, " Miss d'Orbeval, you are poor; you have 
 the advantage of all your cousin's masters; and you are so idle, that you 
 allow Matilda — that angel of perfection — to fail in her duty, in order to let 
 you gain the first place, which you have not assiduity enough to retain by 
 your own exertions," 
 
 " But, aunt," exclaimed I, " Ursula knew nothing of it." 
 
 "Only seethe good heart of that darling child! What generosity! she 
 even defends her cousin," said my aunt, embracing me. And then con- 
 tinuing her sermon to my cousin, who was blushing with vexation, she saic£ 
 
iO 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 harshly, "Are you not ashamed to permit — to exact, perhaps — such sacri- 
 fices' from this child ?" 
 
 " But, madam," cried poor Ursula, " I assure you that I was ignorant." 
 
 "Very well, very well," said Mademoiselle de Maran; "I know what to 
 think of all this." And she desired us to withdraw, after once more ten- 
 derly embracing me. 
 
 Her caresses disgusted me. I began to hate her again more than ever. 
 I foresaw that her infernal wickedness wished to alienate my fiiend. 
 
 After this scene, I threw myself, sobbing, at Ursula's feet. The poor 
 child thanked me for my assurance of friendship; but I could perceive 
 that for a long time her feelings did not recover the shock they had received, 
 ■which was rendered more poignant, from her being of a prouder and lesi 
 communicative disposition than I was. 
 
 My great fear was, that my cousin should imagine me capable of having 
 said something upon the subject to my aunt, or that I felt flattered by the 
 praises she bestowed upon me. I resolved, therefore, to place myself in 
 open hostility toward Mademoiselle de Maran, and, cost what it might, to 
 irritate her against me, in order to prove to Ursula that I was no traitress, 
 and that I wished to bear my share of my aunt's ill temper. 
 
 The question was, how to strike some great blow. My inapplication, my 
 refusing to study, far from irritating my aunt against me, had drawn upon 
 Ursula the most cruel reproaches. It was necessary to render myself guilty 
 in some other way. 
 
 I cogitated over this great project for a long time. Blondeau has since 
 told me that I appeared grave, pensive, preoccupied. My attendons to 
 Ursula now became more affectionate than ever; but I took every possible 
 precaution that she should not be accused of having been privy to my 
 designs. 
 
 Among other famous projects, I had thought of breaking a magnificent 
 vase of Sevres china, which the king, l.ouis XVIII., had given to my aunt, 
 and which she highly valued. But this did not appear sufficient. ' This act 
 might have been attributed to awkwardness or to imprudence . Something 
 ciearly premeditated — some open, frank, inexcusable piece of mischief, 
 could alone suit my purpose. 
 
 At one time, I thought bravely of setting fire to the drawing-room cur- 
 tains; but the consequences might have become dangerous to Ursula and 
 Blondeau; and this, also, might be attributed to accident. 
 
 While combining these wicked designs, I didnotfeel the slightest scruples 
 of conscience. I thought I was doing something very generous — very 
 heroical. I felt the blood boiling in my veins, and that I was attaining to 
 the sublimity of devotedness. 
 
 I was turning these great projects in my head, when one day, as fate would 
 have it, my eyes fell upon Felix, my aunt's wolf-cur. 
 
 The spiteful animal had frequently bitten me, and I had often vowed to 
 be revenged for it. The evening before, he had flown at Ursula and bitten 
 her also; but I must acknowledge that, had he been the most gentle of the 
 canine species, I should have selected him for my victim ; his great crime 
 was the extravagant attachment Mademoiselle de Maran had for him. 
 
 I knew how angry she was if any of the servants, by accident, made 
 him yelp a little. For a moment, I was coward enough to tremble when 1 
 reflected upon the rage of Mademoiselle de Maran. I thought that she 
 might kill me were I to hurt her dog. But my friendship for Ursula over- 
 balanced every other consideration; I defied all consequences, and followed 
 up my resolution. 
 
 I was alone in my aunt's sitting-room — Felix was comfortably stretched 
 in his velvet niche — I could see his head only — I wished to hurt him, but 
 did not know how to manage it. he was so savage, so cunning ; and, more- 
 over, a kick would not have sufficed, either for my revenge or my projects. 
 
 I cannot now, my friends, while retracing these details, avoid smiling at 
 their puerility. I do not, however, remember ever having felt a more pro- 
 found or more engrossing emotion than that which pervaded me when I 
 was on the point of accomplishing my purpose. 
 
 Since that time I have often taken grave determinations, some of them 
 even culpable ones; but, strange to say, I have never experienced such a 
 feeling of dread, of hesitation, of anticipated remorse, as at the moment of 
 oommitting a childish but wicked prank. 
 
 I acknowledge that it was a barbarous revenge I meditated against Felix; 
 
URSULA, 
 
 41 
 
 my disposition was by no means cruel ; it required all the fervour of my 
 desire to reinstate myself with Ursula, to decide me to undertake such an 
 atrocity. 
 
 I formed the abominable idea of heating a pair of tongs, and when I saw 
 they were perfectly red-hot, I took them and advanced intrepidly toward 
 my enemy. 
 
 As usual, he sprang out of his niche, barking, to catch hold of me ; but I 
 seized him so adroitly with the tongs by one of his pointed ears, that he 
 howled most frightfully, and fell, without having either courage or strength 
 enough to get back to his niche. For a moment, when I saw the ear of the 
 poor animal smoking between the tongs, I had some feelings of remorse; 
 but when I reflected on the happiness of being maltreated by my aunt, and 
 in the presence of Ursula, I stifled every emotion of pity. 
 
 I remained standing heroically with the tongs in my hand, my victim roll- 
 ing in agony at my feet. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran rushed into the room perfectly horror-struck; her 
 mailre d' hotel followed her in almost as great alarm. 
 
 " Good heavens! what is the matter?" she exclaimed, throwing herself 
 down by Felix ; " what is the matter, my poor dog?" 
 
 Then, perceiving that his ear was completely burned, she raised her head 
 and furiously said, " You stupid little thing, could not you take care of 
 him, and prevent his going near the fire ? Servien, Servien — quick — some 
 cold water — some ice." 
 
 And then, with eyes starting with rage — her mouth foaming — forgetting 
 her usual mode of acting, she seized me by the arm, and pinching me until 
 it almost bled, she shrieked out, — " You could not — stupid animal that you 
 are — you could not take care of him ? you worthless creature !" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran's face was so awfully furious — she looked so dia- 
 bolical, that for a moment I was undecided; I might allow her to believe 
 that the burn Felix had received was accidental, but I soon overcame this 
 cowardly weakness. I stepped away from her, and then showing her the 
 tongs, which I still held, I said to her with proud and triumphant dignity, 
 " I heated these tongs in the fire, and with them I burned the ear of 
 Felix." 
 
 The last word had not passed my lips, when I felt the dry and bony fin- 
 gers of my aunt upon my cheek; the blow was so violent that I was nearly 
 falling backward. 
 
 Do not, in turn, smile at me, my friend, for. although the pain was severe 
 — although my terror of my aunt was very great, I, at that moment, thought 
 only of the insult I had received ; I became almost purple with rage, and 
 hardly knowing what I did, with all the strength I could muster, I threw 
 the tongs at Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 Fate served me to my wish — the tongs struck the magnificent vase of 
 Sevres china ; the royal present was broken into a hundred pieces. 
 
 I remember to have heard you, my friend, analyse, with your just and 
 truthful understanding, the emotions you experienced when, during a battle, 
 the involuntary instinct of carnage excited and transported you. Well, my 
 poor little head, when only ten years old, felt, by analogy, the same excite- 
 ment. 
 
 This great victory — a dog maltreated and a vase destroyed — being accom- 
 plished, I hurried, insensible alike to the reproaches or the threats of my 
 aunt, to the parlour, crying out, with all my strength, "Ursula! Ursula.' 
 come and see." 
 
 And then, doubtless, not being able to overcome the violence of the feel.- 
 ings which had agitated me, I fell into a deep swoon. 
 
 Imagine to yourself my joy, on recovering my senses, to find myself lying 
 on my bed; my governess standing by my pillow, my cousin on her knees, 
 holding my hands in hers. 
 
 I cannot express to you the ecstatic delight, the pride I felt, when I re- 
 ■ called my courageous conduct. All I dreaded was to hear that my aunt's 
 anger had abated. 
 
 "Oh! my poor child !" cried Blond eau; "how could you, you who are so 
 good, have the heart to do so much harm to that dog? I know that he is as 
 gpiteful as a demon ; but still it was very cruel of you." 
 
 " And my aunt, my aunt — is she very angry?" I asked, impatiently. 
 
 " Is she angry? Heavenly Father!" ejaculated Blondeau; "she is so 
 angry that she has had an hysterical fit. When she came to herself, tha 
 
 E 3 
 
42 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 first thing she did, wag to order that you should be put upon bread and 
 
 water for ten days." 
 
 " Ah, Ursula!" I exclaimed, throwing my arms round my cousin's neck. 
 
 " But that is not all, Miss," sorrowfully added Blondeau; "your aunt is 
 having a frock made for you of coarse grey linen, with a label upon it, and 
 you are to be taken down to the drawing-room to-morrow with it on, when 
 all the company is there." 
 
 "Ursula! Ursula! you hear; she is going to punish me too !" I cried out, 
 beaming with joy, and embracing my cousin. 
 
 "Ah! now I understand," said my governess; and the excellent woman 
 clasped her hands, looking at me with affectionate tenderness. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FIRST COMMUNION. 
 
 In spite of all her subtlety and of her superior understanding, my aunt 
 could not divine the motive for my revenge against Felix. She thought that 
 I had acted merely from hatred, and from resentment against her dog. 
 
 I felt more and more delighted with the resolution I had shown. Ursula 
 appeared much moved by this extravagant proof of my friendship; the ties 
 of tender affection became more closely knit than ever. 
 
 I found Ursula's character much superior to mine. I was frequently 
 passionate, wilful, and obstinate ; my cousin, on the contrary, was always 
 patient and perfectly calm ; the expression of her eyes, though sometimes 
 veiled in tears, was always soft and pleasing — they never flashed with lively 
 emotions. She appeared destined to suffer. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran seemed gradually to forget the fault I had com- 
 mitted, and upon all occasions continued to exalt me at the expense of my 
 cousin. The latter, comforted no doubt by the proofs of attachment she daily 
 received from me, appeared insensible to my aunt's perfidious conduct. 
 
 One of the most serious events in the life of a young girl just emerging 
 from childhood, my first communion, awakened within me new and serious 
 reflections. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran did not practise any of the exterior ceremonies of 
 religion. There was nothing, either in her language or habits, which re- 
 vealed any sentiment of piety. She made us fulfil this solemn act, merely 
 as a species of social obligation. 
 
 Unfortunately, the priest who was employed to give us religious instruc- 
 tion also fulfilled his heavenly task as though it were one of the forms of 
 his profession. Confining himself to the letter of this holy ceremony, he 
 did not explain its divine spirit to our young minds. From his teaching we 
 were led to consider confession, not as an act of pious and beneficial confi- 
 dence, to which a priest replies by affording consolation and pardon. To 
 us, confession appeared to be a painful and dreadful avowal. 
 
 This priest, who came every day to prepare us for our communion, was 
 the Abbê Dubourg. His manner was morose and harsh, and he always 
 seemed in haste to terminate our conferences. His mode of teaching was 
 dry, cold, and almost disdainful. In the pulpit he was a powerful orator, 
 and had preached two seasons with great success. His most ardent desire 
 was, I believe, to obtain a bishopric. Knowing the powerful influence of 
 my aunt, he had, from calculation, accepted the charge of instructing my 
 cousin and myself; a charge, which he no doubt regarded as unworthy of 
 his knowledge and his eloquence. 
 
 Now that I can compare and appreciate facts, it appears to me that the 
 instruction of the Abbé Dubourg did not differ much from those of other 
 professors of religion ; he gave us lessons upon religion, nothing more. 
 
 Alas .' happy are the young females whose religious education has been 
 developed, fostered by the tenderness of a mother — that sacred intercessor 
 between her children and her God! 
 
 Notwithstanding my early privation, the religious instinct which existed, 
 and which has existed in me, revealed to me, though indistinctly, the holi- 
 ness of the act in which I was about to participate; only, that in my igno- 
 rance, I restricted to my personal feelings that majestic emblem oflered to 
 all humanity. 
 
TIRST COMMTTNIOÎf. 
 
 43 
 
 To approach the altar with Ursula, was, in my eyes, to take God to wit- 
 ness the holy engagement, to be to her a most Christian sister. I therefore 
 concentrated in her that unbounded love, which religion teaches us to feel 
 for all. Our communion was to me the holy and eternal consecration of 
 our friendship. 
 
 I know, O God ! that thy sacred law is for all created beings, and not for 
 me only; but the Lord, in his mercy, will have looked with pity on two 
 orphan children, who, in their ingenuous ardour, sealed the sisterly love 
 they had vowed to each other, by one of the most imposing mysteries of 
 religion. 
 
 From that day, the sacred bond which united us appeared indissoluble. 
 We entered into the most extravagant projects; we were never to leave each 
 other, nevei to marry, but to live as my aunt did. Brightened by friendship, 
 this old monastic life appeared to us a most enviable existence. 
 
 The three or four years following our first communion, passed on without 
 any events of importance. 
 
 My only vexation was, to find that, notwithstanding my entreaties, they 
 would insist upon my being more elegantly dressed than my cousin; and to 
 hear Mademoiselle de Maran say, in Ursula's presence, to the persons who 
 came to visit her ; 
 
 " It is perfectly incredible how a few years change the features. Here, 
 for example, as a child, Matilda was merely pretty; well! as she grows up 
 her beauty becomes so remarkable, that people turn round to look at her. 
 Ursula, on the contrary, who had a charming little face, grows every day 
 plainer; and with that so vulgar a look! so vulgar! while the physiognomy 
 of her cousin has somethingso noble, so distinguished. But, alas! it cannot 
 be helped," added Mademoiselle de Maran, addressing herself to Ursula 
 with hypocritical resignation ; ''we must bow meekly to our fate, and make 
 up our minds to it. Our side of the family have been completely robbed of 
 our share both of grace and beauty. I have some right to speak of it, for 
 am I not as ugly as the seven deadly sins, and as hump-backed as a sack of 
 walnuts? but apropos," continued my aunt, tajking to some of her com- 
 plaisant friends, " do you not think that Ursula's shape is a little irregular, 
 somewhat crooked ? It is hardly perceptible, but still there is something ; 
 don't you think so ? It is a sort of family memento from our great grand- 
 father." 
 
 The friends of Mademoiselle de Maran did not fail to deny this, but very 
 faintly; and my aunt exclaimed: 
 
 " How different from Matilda ! She is shaped like a fairy— straight as an 
 arrow, flexible as the willow ; I do not know a young person who, in the 
 same degree, unites majesty with grace, understanding with beauty. How 
 can we help it, my poor Ursula! but as you have not all these preeminent 
 qualities, you must console yourself, believe me, for your inferiority to your 
 cousin, by admiring her; for admiral ion is the consolation of ugly persons. 
 This will be the more generous on your part, because it is when you are 
 compared with Matilda, that you are found ugly — just like myself; I never 
 appeared so frightful as when in company with a young and lovely woman; 
 but, as I have told you, I consoled myself by admiring her. And, besides, 
 you have a thousand motives for loving Matilda ; your friendship for her 
 charms me, for it proves you are not ungrateful. Has not your cousin been 
 magnificently charitable to you, in giving you a splendid education? With- 
 out her, you never could have had the advantages of such an education. 
 Would your father have been able to give you professors who charge a louis 
 a lesson ? Again, I tell you, you act rightly to love, to bless your cousin. 
 Thanks to her, you may now, from the knowledge and talents you have 
 acquired, make one forget that your face is as disagreeable as hers is ravish- 
 ingly beautiful." 
 
 There could be nothing more perfidious, more odious, or more dangerous, 
 than these comparisons of our advantages and disadvantages; her blame 
 and her praises were alike invidious. 
 
 I have never comprehended that false modesty, which consists in denying 
 that we are beautiful. To be handsome is a fact, altogether independent of 
 our will ; to avow it is not self-pride, it is simply truth. On the contrary, I 
 can understand the most scrupulous, the most diffident reserve, as regards 
 talents or acquired advantages. 
 
 I believe, then, that at sixteen or seventeen years of age I was handsome ; 
 not so handsome as Mademoiselle de Maran pretended to think me, but yet 
 
44 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 sufficiently so, to justify the praises she bestowed upon me, had they no ) 
 been so grossly exaggerated. 
 
 The same may be said of the blame she showered upon my cousin. She 
 was tall, slight — perfectly well made; but what gave an appearance of truth 
 to the malice of my aunt was, that Ursula, like many young persons who 
 grow too fast, stooped a little. From this will be seen, with what art, with 
 what connexion Mademoiselle de Mar an worked out her treacherous plans. 
 
 She had followed up the same system from my infancy. Under a certain 
 point of view, she spoke the truth; but her weapons cut both ways. 
 
 My aunt's design was to wound the vanity of Ursula painfully, and to ex- 
 cite my self-love to a ridiculous extent. 
 
 If false ideas, and even the most evident falsehoods, when incessantly re- 
 peated, at length produce a species of belief, what will be the effect produced 
 by assertions founded apparently in truth? 
 
 My cousin at last actually believed, that she did not possess a single charm, 
 a single accomplishment. If I assured her of the contrary, she thought my 
 words were dictated by a feeling of affectionate pity, and she would say, 
 
 " Dear me ! how good you are, to try to console me in this manner! Eut 
 I do not deceive myself: what Mademoiselle de Maran says is true. You 
 are as handsome as I am ugly ; I have made up my mind to that." 
 
 I do not doubt that my cousin was sincere in what she said. Nothing 
 could then have persuaded me that my aunt had gained her object; that she 
 had succeeded in sowing the bitter seeds of jealousy in that pure and can- 
 did heart. 
 
 But, alas! the future will prove whether it was a crime or not — an inex 
 cusable crime, on the part of Mademoiselle de Maran, who had fathomed 
 the most secret and most gloomy recesses of the human heart — to run even 
 the risk of awakening, in the soul of Ursula, the most baleful, most fero- 
 cious, -and most implacable of human passions — envy. 
 
 The other danger — that of exciting my self-love to an immeasurable de- 
 gree — was less culpable. For in acting thus, my aunt, without knowing it, 
 rendered me great service: she put me on my guard for ever against exag- 
 gerated praise. 
 
 That which renders flattery dangerous is habit — is the feeling that we 
 have been praised with tenderness, with tact, with truth. It is then that the 
 mind gives itself up to the enjoyment of those affectionate words, which 
 recall to us a time gone by, full of confidence, of love, and of sincerity. 
 What irresistibly enchanting power would flattery possess, if it appeared to 
 Le the continuation of a mother's praises ! 
 
 When I spoke to Ursula of the projects we had formed when we were 
 little girls, such as that of never marrying — to which I desired to remain 
 faithful — she would say, smiling scornfully, " It is all very well for me to 
 remain single ; I am poor — without accomplishments. But for you — rich, 
 beautiful, charming, as you are — you will marry: you will be happy! All 
 I ask is, that you will reserve for me a small place in your heart and in 
 your house, that I may witness, and every day endeavour to add to your 
 happiness." 
 
 Alas ! fate sometimes mocks most bitterly at our wishes and our fore- 
 sight. 
 
 I had already attained my seventeenth year. My cousin and I had hardly 
 ever gone beyond the gates of the Hotel de Maran. Sometimes, indeed, we 
 had been taken to the Comic theatre, or to the Italian opera, by my guardian, 
 M. d'Orbeval ; but we had not yet been presented in the world. It was very 
 rarely, indeed, that we were allowed to remain in the drawing-room in the 
 evening. My aunt was much more visited by gentlemen than by ladies; 
 and the presence of young girls is always a restraint upon conversation. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, no doubt thinking of my getting married, re- 
 solved, to her great regret, that she would take me into society at the begin- 
 ning of 1830. She informed us of this determination, adding, as was her 
 custom, something peculiarly disagreeable to Ursula: — 
 
 "It will not be only in my house that you will have to suffer from the 
 comparisons made between you and Matilda, but in large companies — 
 before everybody. Arm yourself with courage, my dear child: your first 
 trial will soon be made. To-morrow morning I shall present you to the 
 lady of the Austrian ambassador ; and, on Wednesday, shall take you to a 
 ball she gives. It is time that you should go into the world. I am old, 
 and my health is bad. I should wish not to die before seeing my dear niece 
 married ; and, above ill, as I wish her to be married." 
 
COM IK OUÏ. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 COMING OUT. 
 
 When Mademoiselle de Maran announced to us that she intended to carry 
 us to the ball at the Austrian embassy, it put both Ursula and myself into 
 a complete flurry. This was very natural; for we had lived so retired a 
 life, that nothing could be more monotonous or more regular than our 
 habits. 
 
 We took our lessons in the morning ; in the afternoon, according to the 
 season, we went out on foot with Madame Blondeau, or in the carriage with 
 Mademoiselle de Maran: then we returned home; and, after changing 
 our dress, sometimes remained in the drawing-room, working, until 
 dinner-time. 
 
 Her friends used to visit her during this time. They were not very nu- 
 merous, and all of them had been companions of my father during his emi- 
 gration. Among them was M. de Versac, one of the principal officers in 
 the king's household, who was a great favourite with us both. He was a 
 man about seventy years of age ; notwithstanding which, it would be diffi- 
 cult to find a man of a more lively wit, more youthful in manner, or more 
 agreeable than he was. His appearance was still very elegant; he was an 
 excellent horseman, and very seldom missed being present at the king's or 
 dauphin's hunting-parties. He had always been particularly kind to me ; 
 and, toTny great satisfaction, had often very good-naturedly taken Ursula's 
 part, when my aunt was out of humour with her. 
 
 M. de Versac had an excellent disposition, but no consistency; the whole 
 object of his life had been to please; and it would have been impossible for 
 him to utter a word that was not gracious and flattering. I do not think he 
 ever pronounced a word that could be considered as even approaching to 
 censure. 
 
 I am now tempted to believe, that this imperturbable politeness covered, 
 if not a profound disdain, at all events, a perfect indifference to everything 
 and every person. But if this sentiment did exist in M. de Versac, it was 
 difficult to discover it through the covering of urbanity — of exquisite ur- 
 banity — in which it was enveloped. I can never picture to myself M. de 
 Versac, unless as smiling or nattering. He had the finest teeth in the world, 
 a very engaging address, and these advantages, perhaps, had been the cause 
 of his dandyism. I can fancy that I still see that face, beaming with noble- 
 ness and affected grace. His silvery hair was arranged with much coquet- 
 tishness ; and when, in the evening, his dress — which was always of an ex- 
 treme elegance for his age— was set off by the blue ribbon and the jewel of 
 the order of St. Esprit, it was impossible to conceive a more perfect type of 
 the ancienne noblesse. He very seldom saw his wife, the Duchess de Versac, 
 who, since the Restoration, had retired to the Abbey de Panthemont, where 
 she passed her time in pious- observances and works of charity. 
 
 You will not be surprised, my friend, that I should have given so minute 
 a description of M. de Versac ; for you are aware that I afterwards became 
 nearly related to him. 
 
 One reason for our liking him so much was, that he gave us such enchant- 
 ing accounts of the balls given at the court and by the Duchess of Berry; 
 and, above all, of the fancy-dress quadrilles. M. de Versac was, par excel- 
 lence, a man of pleasure; he spoke of these fetes, of these amusements of 
 idle and luxurious life, with the most lively interest. 
 
 Among the other persons who formed the morning circle of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran, there was one of the king's ministers. He was one of the best 
 men in the world. He amused us very much, by his absent manner and by 
 his insurmountable drowsiness; for he woulsl frequently fall asleep in broad 
 daylight. 
 
 But what delighted us more than all, was the arrival of Monsieur Bisson, 
 a man of prodigious knowledge, and celebrated throughout Europe. He 
 was considered one of the most eminent members of the Academy of 
 Sciences. He was a tall, thin man— six feet high, at least. His head was 
 very small, with the most good-natured face imaginable. His long neck 
 issued from his white cravat, twisted like a rope, the bow of which was 
 generally seen behind his head. Whatever might be the season, he wore a 
 green spencer, trimmed with Astracan fur, over a black coat with large 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 skirts. No inducement could prevail upon him ts t into a carriage, so 
 fearful was he of being upset ; and in rainy or mifd&y weather, he used 
 sometimes to enter the drawing room in a most pitiable state. Although a 
 man of uncommon wit, knowledge, and goodness of heart, he had one 
 incurable mania; — that of touching everything, putting everything out of its 
 place, and often breaking everything he laid his hands on. My aunt used 
 frequently to get furiously angry with him ; but she was so fond of convers- 
 ing upon the sciences with a man of M. Bisson's reputation, that it always 
 ended by her being pacified. I shall never forget hi6 taking up a beautiful 
 snuff-box, ornamented with a valuable enamel painting, by Petitot, which 
 my aunt had imprudently shown him while they were discussing one of the 
 last reports read before the Academy of Sciences — I think by the Duke de 
 Luynes — upon the Etruscan vases. 
 
 M. Bisson commenced, by turning the preckms box between his fingers ; 
 the conversation became animated. Mademoiselle de Maran was severe in 
 her attacks: rather than give up a point, she would deny the plainest evi- 
 dence. The philosopher, exasperated by some false asseveration of my 
 aunt, exclaimed, striking the chimney-piece impetuously, "I say no! no! 
 no! a thousand times no! and once more, no! madam!" Each negative 
 was accompanied by a tremendous blow given with the snuff-box upon the 
 marble slab. My aunt was only informed .of the destruction of her fragile 
 box, by the cloud of snuff which issued from it, and the splinters of the 
 enamel which were showered upon her. 
 
 "Ah! that horrid destroyer!" exclaimed she, angrily: "what has he 
 broken for me now? as I live, my beautiful Petitot! Oh! the horrid man ! 
 Eor the love of God, sir, be quiet! you are throwing snuff into my eyes! 
 you are blinding me ! Once for all, I forbid you ever again to come into 
 my house : do you understand me ? My Petitot snuff-box ! only the other 
 day it was a rock crystal casket, a casket which cost me fifty louis, if you 
 please, which he broke into a thousand pieces, while gesticulating with his 
 long arms. Leave my house, I implore you, leave my house, I say ! Your 
 scientific conversations cost me too much, without taking into account that 
 you have the indecency to enter my drawing-room as dirty as a thief, and 
 to bring me the mud from every street in Paris." 
 
 " You may say what you please, madam," replied M. Bisson, much put 
 out, " but I will never get into a carriage ; of that I am resolved. I much 
 prefer soiling your carpets to breaking my own neck." And the philosopher 
 said not a word as to the breaking of the snuff-box. 
 
 "Hark you! M. Bison," said my aunt; "leave me in peace: you will really 
 put me beside myself. Do me the friendship to go out of the house, and, 
 above ail, never come back again !" 
 
 "And where would you have me go? it is only half-past two o'clock, and 
 I need not be at the Institute before half-past three," said M. Bisson, throw- 
 ing himself into an arm-chair, and catching hold of a fire-screen, which he 
 began to pull to pieces. 
 
 "How! where would I have you go?" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 much incensed ; " is my house to become an asylum for idle members of the 
 Institute? Oh, Heaven! what is he about? Well! Very well! he is doing 
 all he can to break my fire-screen ! But this is intolerable : so mischievous 
 a man is a complete pest, a real scourge !" and Mademoiselle de Maran was 
 obliged to snatch the screen out of his hand, already almost broken. 
 
 "It is astonishing, that people will not work more solidly in our day! this 
 proceeds from pushing production to such extravagant lengths," said M. 
 Bisson, with a meditative air ; and taking up a small hearth-brush, he began 
 stirring the fire with it, -to the great annoyance of my aunt, who again flew 
 into a tremendous passion. 
 
 Such scenes, frequently repeated, amused us very much; for M. Bisson 
 always came back again after two or three days, entirely forgetful of what 
 had passed, and Mademoiselle de Maran could not long be angry with 
 him. 
 
 After these morning visits, we dined with Mademoiselle de Maran ; she 
 did not like to be restrained in anything, and, therefore, never invited any 
 one. She kept an excellent table ; she was a large eater, and had one fancy 
 with which we were much disgusted. 
 
 Her maitre-d'hotel, Servien, helped her to everything that was put on the 
 table, for she tasted everything; — and often — pardon me these details, my 
 friend— helped herself with her fingers; and then allowed her dog, Felix, 
 now grown very sickly, to eat off her own plate. 
 
COMING OUT. 
 
 47 
 
 The length of time she remained at table was almost t torment tous. 
 We then went into the drawing-room, where we remained until Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran was fast asleep in her arm-chair, a custom which she never 
 failed to indulge in. Her servants had orders never to wake her, and to 
 request visitors, who might by accident come early in the evening, to wait 
 for her in another room. 
 
 Ursula and I then went to our own room about eight o'clock ; and there we 
 chatted, we read, or amused ourselves with music until tea-time. 
 
 We never were present at the evening parties; but'few ladies visited my 
 aunt, and those who did were mostly of her own age. 
 
 You will conceive, my friend, that accustomed as we were to this mono- 
 tonous life, we were not a little dazzled by the perspective of balls and fetes 
 which my aunt had opened to us. 
 
 Our first impression on receiving this information, was a joyous one; but, 
 by degrees, reflection led us to melancholy considerations. 
 
 I was singularly agitated during the whole night that preceded the ball. 
 As the expected day approached, I felt myself more and more sorrowful and 
 depressed. I had never felt the happiness of enjoying the tender cares of a 
 mother : I never regretted it more than at that moment. 
 
 Experience has since proved to me that my instinct did not deceive me ; 
 it is, above all, when we are about entering the world, that the protecting 
 and imposing solicitude of a mother is indispensable. 
 
 Everybody knows that the public appearance of a young girl at balls and 
 fetes, from which the usages of society have, during her education, kept her 
 aloof, encourages and authorises, if I may use the expression, the pretensions 
 of those who may wish to seek her hand. 1 
 
 Whether it be rightly so or not, there is so general a belief in the sagacity 
 of a mother's heart, that certain pretenders, who are either unworthy or 
 little likely to succeed, dread to encounter that maternal penetration, which 
 is at once so careful and so distrustful. 
 
 When, on the contrary, a young girl is an orphan, let the affection of the 
 friends who surround her be what it may, it is believed, it is known, that 
 she is more isolated, less protected; sbe then becomes, particularly should 
 she be rich, a species of prey, or conquest, if you will, to which every ad- 
 venturer thinks he may pretend. 
 
 Without being able fully to comprehend the painful agitation which kept 
 me awake the greater part of the night, I had, as it were, a vague presenti- 
 ment of these considerations; I felt shocked and almost irritated at the 
 idea, that strangers were about to scrutinise me — to pass their comments 
 upon me; to compute my fortune, inquire into my family, and class me in 
 the catalogue of matches either more or less advantageous. It appeared to 
 me, that I should not have felt any of these scruples had I been accom- 
 panied by my mother. 
 
 There was another consideration which annoyed me, I may almost say 
 afflicted me. I was certainly very far from participating in the prejudices 
 of my aunt with regard to my cousin ; but, by dint of hearing Mademoiselle 
 de Maran so repeatedly tell Ursula that she was ugly, and without accom- 
 plishments, I had begun to fear that the world might confirm my aunt's 
 judgment, and that my friend would perceive that she stood low in its 
 estimation. 
 
 I trembled lest, when onçe-launched into the great world, Ursula, not- 
 withstanding the sweetness oPher disposition and her habitual resignation, 
 might envy me the frivolous advantages of which she was deprived, and that 
 her jealousy might perhaps increase to a more bitter feeling. 
 
 Her self-love had never been wounded, excepting in the presence of some 
 few friends. What might be her feelings were she, in general society, to 
 meet with cruel and disdainful indifference! 
 
 I . can assure you, my friend, that this anticipation afflicted me to a great 
 degree, so precious did I consider the love of Ursula. Moreover, without 
 having said a word to her upon the subject, I had thought seriously of dividing 
 my fortune with her. This was not one of those juvenile exaggerations of 
 feeling, as soon forgotten as conceived ; it was a firmly-adopted resolution : 
 and that I might be the more certain of effecting it, I did not mention it to 
 my aunt, being determined to have this gift inserted as the first clause in 
 my marriage contract. 
 
 The ball-day at length arrived. In spite of her ugliness, and of her 
 carelessness as to her own dress, Mademoiselle de Maran possessed exqui- 
 site taste ; her constant habit of criticising others, her hatred of all that wa» 
 
48 
 
 young and beautiful, had rendered her so difficult to please, that what she 
 approved could not be otherwise than perfect. 
 
 She had two beautiful dresses made for Ursula and myself, and precisely 
 similar. I have often wondered, how it was that my aunt was generous 
 enough not to muffle me up in some antiquated garment, and head-dress in 
 bad taste; she might easily have done this, and it would have held me up 
 to public ridicule for a long time. The first impression which the world re- 
 ci ives is often indelible ; but a petty revenge was unworthy of my aunt; her 
 revenge took a higher range. 
 
 Did I not fear to derange the order of events in stating to you here facts 
 which I only ascertained much later, you would perceive that I was, even 
 at that epoch in my life, almost enveloped in the artful snares which the 
 hatred of Mademoiselle de Maran had laid for me, and with a calculating 
 foresight that evinced a very profound and fatal knowledge of the human 
 heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 Ursula and I were talking, all the morning, of the great events which the 
 evening was to produce. I found her much dispirited, having seemingly 
 lost all self-confidence, and determined not to go to the ball. She told me 
 she had been weeping all night, and yet her face was neither pale nor care- 
 worn; but a charming expression of melancholy overspread her features. 
 
 1 see her now, holding down her head, her forehead hid by her dark- 
 brown tresses ; almost sinking to the earth, her hands crossed upon her lap, 
 and sighing piteously. 
 
 "Ursula, Ursula, my sister!" said I to her, tenderly embracing her; 
 " take courage, I implore you; do not allow these terrors to take such hold 
 of you. Am I not with you? as ignorant as you are of this world we are 
 about to enter, and of which, like children, we are, I am sure, more fearful 
 than we need be? No one will notice us, and by degrees we shall get ac- 
 customed to it. Always side by side, it will be a happiness to communicate 
 each other's observations. Well! supposing that we should be a little 
 awkward, a little embarrassed at first; we shall, in our turn, soon have some 
 mischievous remarks to make on others." 
 
 Ursula smiled, and pressing my hands affectionately, replied : 
 
 "Pardon me, Matilda; but you cannot conceive my terror of the world. I 
 feel that I shall never accustom myself to it. This is not childishness ; it is 
 conscience, it is duty: when persons are, like me, poor and without personal 
 advantages, they should not push themselves forward; they should remain 
 in the shade, and not expose themselves to disdain. You, happily, possess 
 all that is necessary to shine, to excel, in the world. Go without me; I will 
 await your return ; I shall be so happy to hear you relate your triumphs. I 
 shall see these magnificent fetes through your eyes — that will suffice me;" 
 and then smiling gracefully, she continued, " I shall be your Cinderella — not 
 the Cinderella of the fairy tale, unhappy and forgotten — but a voluntary 
 Cinderella; happy to see you lovely and admired. Yes; when you shall 
 return from the ball, tired out with pleasure^surfeited with flattery, you 
 will be welcomed by me with a look of tender anxiety, and you shall find 
 repose after your conquests in the serenity of my friendship." 
 
 It was at that moment, my friend, that you should have seen and heard 
 Ursula; and you would have thought her not only lovely, but enchanting, 
 notwithstanding the irregularity of her features. 
 
 Her touching voice had so pure, so soft a tone, her blue eyes were sc 
 sweetly expressive, that she was irresistibly fascinating. 
 
 "Ursula!" I exclaimed, "how is it possible you can feel such want of 
 confidence in yourself, when you can speak, can look as you do now ? I, 
 your sister! I, who have never left you; I, who ought to be accustomed to 
 your voice, to your looks — I think you at this moment lovely; and lovely to 
 such a degree, that, were it possible, I should be jealous of you. You do not 
 know yourself. Believe me, then, in spite of all the malicious remarks of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, in spite of your own misgivings, you are enchant- 
 ing. Think you, that your sister is capable of deceiving you? Come, Ur- 
 sula, my friend, courage; let us mutually sustain each other; let us for 
 once Ue brave, and encounter this great day. We shall, perhaps, laugh at 
 
 I 
 
Til K BALL. 
 
 43 
 
 our silly terrors; but once for all, I tell you, that if you will not accompany 
 me to the ball. I will not go alone." 
 
 " Matilda, I implore you ! do not insist upon it." 
 
 " Ursula, in my turn, I implore you." 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 "Ursula, this is not well of you. You well know my aunt will reprove 
 you; she will say that you refused to go merely to prevent me. You know 
 her; you know how miserable it makes me when I hear her unjustly scold- 
 ing you. Well, then! do you wish to make me suffer? Ursula, my sister ! 
 to refuse me will be to tell me that I am indifferent to your sufferings, and 
 I do not merit that reproach." 
 
 "Matilda! ah! what have you said?" exclaimed my cousin; "now I can 
 hesitate no longer ; I will go with you." 
 
 The nearer the time approached, the more apprehensive I became ; but 
 not for myself so much as for Ursula. Notwithstanding my apparent confi- 
 dence, I did not know whether she would appear to advantage in her ball- 
 dress. That I might form a just idea of her appearance, I avoided going to 
 her room to see her dressing ; and when I was ready, I went down to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 I have no longer any pretensions, my friend ; my youthful beauty, and 
 youth itself, are so far distant from me — I now so little resemble what I then 
 was, that I can speak of Matilda at seventeen years of age, as of a stranger ; 
 moreover, there is courage, modesty, and humility, in saying, " I was once 
 handsome." 
 
 Figure to yourself, then, your friend about ten years ago, in the flower of 
 her youth; her light hair dressed in bandeaux and ornamented with a 
 branch of rose-coloured heath, wearing a frock of plain white crape, trim- 
 med only with three large bouquets of natural heath, similar to those in her 
 hair. The Duchess d'Angouleme had had the extreme goodness to select 
 these rare flowers, imported from the Cape, and kept in her green-house at 
 Meudon, and had sent them to Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 I was particularly well made. M. de Versac paid me a compliment, I 
 believe, as I was drawing on my gloves, on the roundness of my arm. As to 
 my feet and hands, they are the only things of which I may not speak, for 
 they have not changed by years. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran must also have thought that I looked well, per- 
 haps even too well ; for on seeing me, she could not help knitting her brows, 
 notwithstanding her habit of praising me so outrageously. She, however, 
 restrained her feelings, and said to M. de Versac, " Is she not positively 
 charming and beautiful as a star, this dear child?" 
 
 "Fortunately, she has sufficient understanding to permit one to talk of 
 her beauty without fearing the consequences," replied M. de Versac, smiling. 
 Mademoiselle de Maran wore, as usual, a dress of grey silk; but for the first 
 time she had on a very plain cap, ornamented with a bunch of yellow 
 flowers. 
 
 I anxiously awaited Ursula's coming in ; at last she made her appearance. 
 
 Do not think that I exaggerate, my friend, when I tell you that I hardly 
 recognised her, so much more lovely did she appear. Her head-dress was 
 ravishingly beautiful. Her splendid brown hair, separated in the middle of 
 her forehead, fell in large ringlets on each side her face and almost reached 
 her shoulders; her pale cheeks, suffused with a slight rosy tint, her down- 
 cast eyes, her sweet though sorrowful smile, and even her rather languid 
 air, made her appear the personification of pensive melancholy — an expres- 
 sion never to be attained by faces that &re regularly handsome. 
 
 When reading Hamlet, I have always conjured up the remembrance of 
 Ursula, as I saw her on the night of the ball, to represent Ophelia. 
 
 Instead of stooping as she habitually did, my cousin proved, by her grace- 
 ful movements, that her shape was faultless; she only bent forward her 
 head, a little, like a flower swaying on its stalk ; and this gave to her 
 neck a slight but extremely elegant curve, which added still more to 
 the charm of her deportment. In her features was to be traced a 
 mournful feeling which, being gently restrained, appeared to mingle in 
 the gaieties of the world without participating in them. The look of 
 Ursula, almost supplicating, seemed to ask forgiveness for remaining indif- 
 ferent to those pleasures, to which a painful preoccupation rendered her in- 
 sonsbile. I had been accustomed to see Ursula suffering and resigned ; but 
 the night of the ball, she represented, if I may use the expression, deep 
 Buffering and resignation poetized, and decked out for a ball. But, alas! 
 
no 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 epigrammatic sentences will not revenge me for the bitter evils which that 
 false friend brought upon me. Could I imagine so much dissimulation — and 
 yet, no! no! it is not she I must accuse; it is Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 whose treacherous raillery 
 
 But these grievous discoveries will be but too soon brought to light. To 
 return to my story. 
 
 I hastened toward Ursula to take her by the hand, and to congratulate 
 her on her charming appearance. 
 
 M. de Versac exclaimed, " Pray, remain a moment in that position, hold- 
 ing each other's hand! What an adorable contrast! You, Matilda, beau- 
 tiful, ravishing, your face beaming with happiness and grace, you shall be 
 the queen of our festivities; and you, Ursula, the touching image of melan- 
 choly, who smiles while tears suffuse her eyes." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran laughed very heartily, and said to M. de Versac, 
 " Why should you stop while in so poetic a vein, and not pass on to a com- 
 parison between the glorious rose and the humble violet? Come you from 
 the borders of the Tendre and the Lignon, most excellent Alcander? Pray, 
 do not disturb me with your contrasts. The rose has a rent-roll of nearly a 
 hundred thousand francs a year, and the poor violet has not a penny; that 
 is the reason why the one raises her head, and why the other stoops down 
 hers so modestly." 
 
 The comparison of M. de Versac, the cutting remark of Mademoiselle de 
 • Maran, and perhaps, also, the sight of Ursula, whom I had never seen look- 
 ing so handsome, inspired me, for the first time in my life, with a feeling of 
 jealousy which soon changed into anger and self-reproach. 
 
 Not doubting the truth of what my aunt had said, I fancied I might have 
 assumed the air of proud satisfaction which wealth of^en gives; and I envied 
 the interesting modesty of Ursula, which threw over her features so touching 
 a charm. 
 
 Doubtless this evil thought was not of long duration ; doubtless I felt an 
 inward shame on reflecting that 1 had so little generosity as to be jealous 
 of my cousin, of my dearest friend, for the interest which her poverty in- 
 spired. Doubtless, had it not been for the malicious observation made by 
 my aunt, I should never have experienced this feeling of envy, excusable 
 perhaps, because being rich, I envied one who was poor. Nevertheless, this 
 impression left a bitter sting in my bosom. 
 
 Just as we were setting off, M. de Versac said to Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 " How forgetful I have been ! Gontran arrived from England this morning, 
 and I omitted to tell you of it." 
 
 "Your nephew! well, then, we have a partner quite at hand for these 
 young girls." 
 
 I looked at Ursula with astonishment; neither M. de Versac nor Made- 
 moiselle de Maran had ever mentioned the name of their nephew. We were 
 about getting into the carriage, when one of my aunt's most intimate friends 
 begged her to grant him a few moments' conversation upon a very important 
 matter. Mademoiselle de Maran led him into a library. M. de Versac 
 took up the evening paper. 
 
 Under pretext of arranging my head-dress, I went with Ursula into Made- 
 moiselle de Maran's room ; and there throwing myself into "her arms, I 
 frankly avowed to her the jealous feelings I had for a moment entertained, 
 and with tears in my eyes begged her to pardon them. Ursula also was 
 moved even to tears by my frankness, and reassured me by the tenderest 
 protestations. I returned, therefore, to the drawing-room, with my mind 
 perfectly calm and' at ease ; promising myself, even as I had told Ursula, to 
 try not to look like an heiress. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 As 1 entered the first apartment of the embassy, accompanied by Monsieur 
 de Versac, I felt my resolution failing me ; and it required all the gracious 
 kindness of the Austrian ambassadress's reception, to restore in some degree 
 my courage. 
 Mademoiselle de Maran gave her arm to Ursula. 
 
 Now then I was enabled, more than ever, to appreciate the extent of my 
 
THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 51 
 
 aunt's influence; for the most agreeable and fashionable woman of the day 
 could not possibly have been more surrounded and courted, than was Made- 
 moiselle de Maran on this occasion; yet she received attentions the most 
 reverential, homage the most assiduous, with an air of haughtiness, or of 
 patronising affability, that was almost disdainful. 
 
 We moved toward the end of the room, where they were dancing, and 
 Monsieur de Versac, on whose arm I was leaning, pointed out to me differ- 
 ent persons of distinction who were present, and told me their names; 
 when suddenly, as we stopped for a moment near one of the doors of the 
 gallery, I heard the following words exchanged between two persons, neither 
 of whom was in sight at the time : 
 
 " Well ! you know, Lancry has just returned from England. I have just 
 seen him ; he is more brilliant than ever." 
 
 "Indeed! has he come back?" replied the other. "The Duchess de 
 Richeville must be very glad, for she was even more than sorrowful at his 
 departure, poor thing!" 
 
 By a very sudden movement on the part of !YI. de Versac, as if to force a 
 passage for us through the crowd, I perceived, readily enough, that he wish- 
 ed to distract my attention from this conversation, which it was not de- 
 sirable that I should hear, and of which his own nephew, Gontran de Lan- 
 cry, was the hero. I did not, at the time, attach any importance to the 
 incident, and followed M. de Versac as if I had not heard what was passing. 
 
 Before coming to the ball, I had imagined that I should have been embar- 
 rassed by everything; that I should not have known how to bear myself— 
 how to move — nay, even how to look around me ; but, as soon as the first 
 uneasiness had passed away, once in the midst of that society to which 1 
 belonged, I felt myself, not reassured, for that is not the word, but, as it 
 were, in my own proper place. We are rarely, if ever, ill at ease or intimi- 
 dated, except on being brought into a circle very much above, orvery much 
 below, that to which we belong; so that I. very soon recovered my powers 
 of observation. 
 
 As we entered the great gallery, which was occupied by the dancers, I 
 was almost dazzled by the splendour and magnificence of the dresses. 
 Madame de Mirecourt, a friend of my aunt, who was chaperoning a young 
 lady lately married, offered to make room for us by her side ; and Made- 
 moiselle de Maran assenting, Ursula and myself sat down between Made- 
 moiselle de Mirecourt and my aunt. M. de Versac left us to go and find his 
 nephew, whom he was desirous of presenting to us. 
 
 "Well!" said I, in a whisper, to my cousin, "after all this is not very 
 terrible ; don't you find that you gain courage?" 
 
 "No!" answered Ursula, "I cannot overcome my timidity; I actually 
 tremble, and can scarcely see what is going on around me." 
 
 "As for me," said I gaily, and to give her a little courage, "I confess 
 that I think the whole scene charming: what a pity that you cannot enjoy 
 it ! Decidedly, a ball is a very pretty thing." 
 
 As I said these words with a naive expression of pleasure, my aunt, by 
 whose side I was sitting, burst into a violent fit of laughter. Several per- 
 sons who were standing up before us, during the intervals of a waltz, turned 
 about, and Madame de Mirecourt, who was on the other side of Ursula, 
 leaned over, and said to my aunt, 
 
 " What is the matter with you, that you laugh so strangely?" 
 "Who in the world can help it, with a little quiz like this?" said Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, pointing me out to her friend. " If you could only hear 
 what witty wicked observations she is making — it is enough to kill one. 
 Take care of yourself, I advise you, for she carries away a piece at every 
 bite !" Then turning about to me, my aunt added in a lower voice, and in 
 a tone of affectionate reproof, " Be so kind, Mademoiselle, as not to be quite 
 so witty. People will say that it is I who have made you so sarcastic." 
 
 All this was said in a low voice, but in such a manner that all the persons 
 who were round us could hear every word. I looked at my aunt, in the 
 most profound astonishment: and Ursxila, bending down to whisper in my 
 ear, asked me what 1 said so funny to my aunt, and what absurdity had 
 called me forth. 
 
 " None at all!" I replied, "and I do not understand a single word of what 
 she has been saying to me." 
 
 And now, my friend, here is the key of this enigma. My aunt had de- 
 termined to make for me that reputation of being satirical, which you your- 
 self believed, and which was for a long time the strongest cause of j#wr 
 
52 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 prejudice against me; and, thanks to the treacherous speech of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, several persons who had been standing before us be- 
 lieved that they were the objects of my sarcastic wit; one of them, the kind 
 and charming Lady Fitzallan, told me so afterward, herself. 
 
 I was making my first appearance in the world, and for several reasons, 
 which you can understand wa3 cure to be somewhat particularly observed; 
 the remark, therefore, of my aunt, upon my ill-natured witticisms, could 
 not fail to circulate, and, in fact, did circulate in an instant. 
 
 A woman cannot, possibly, gain a more fatal réputation than that of being 
 even most brilliantly satirical — the fools are afraid of her, and slander her ; 
 the clever envy her ; and, worst of all, the generous and good avoid her — so 
 that, within one brief half-hour of my arrival in the ball-room, I had already 
 enemies. Lady Fitzallan has told me since, thatmy ill-natured wit was, for 
 the time, the news of the ball-room. Every one was talking of the bitter, 
 biting irony of Mademoiselle Matilda de Maran ;• for so I was called, in 
 order to distinguish me from my aunt. No one, it is true, had heard one 
 of my sarcasms ; but, nevertheless, as is sure to be the case, the whole world 
 was talking of them. My aunt, however, was resolved to complete her 
 work ; and, during another pause in the waltzing, a few minutes after, she 
 spoke quite loud to Ursula — 
 
 " Good heavens ! my poor child, do throw aside that serious melancholy 
 air of yours: do try to be a little in keeping with your time of life", if you 
 can ; what wild timidity this is !" 
 
 These words of my aunt, heard, as they were, by every one, repeated and 
 made the subject of a hundred comments, established positively as a fact, 
 that I was no less headstrong, satirical, and bitter, than my cousin was timid, 
 sensitive, and given to reflection. You know the world, my friend; you 
 know how rarely it gives up its first impressions ; and you will readily un- 
 derstand all the effect which those few words of my aunt had on my destiny. 
 Alas! must I confess it? my own inexperience, my own vanity, increased 
 yet further the extent of the injury they had done me. At a later day, I 
 bitterly deplored the reputation I had acquired for sarcastic wit; but, at 
 first, I was so weak as to be almost flattered, almost proud of it. I believed 
 already that I was a beauty, and I imagined that irony was, as it were, a 
 pledge for talent. 
 
 As soon as the waltz was ended, M. de Versac came up to my aunt with 
 his nephew, the Viscount Gontran de Lancry. I confess it, I could not 
 avoid being struck almost motionless with surprise at the sight of M. de 
 Lancry. He was about thirty years of age, and it would have been difficult 
 indeed to find a man more perfectly agreeable in his appearance, or one 
 whose person was more pleasing and attractive. You will, 1 think, my friend, 
 be surprised, and that not a little, at the easy unconcern with which I am about 
 to speak to you of M. de Lancry. Even as I write these lines, I am myself 
 almost astonished at finding myself able, so clearly, to recall my first im- 
 pressions, so thoroughly to sever them from the feelings to which they gave 
 place. You can judge of my self-command, or, rather, of the sad state of 
 my affections, even from the cold-blooded calmness with which I proceed to 
 paint to you De Lancry, as I then saw him. 
 
 Alas ! perhaps I may not long maintain this quiet self-controul ; perhaps, 
 ere long, these memories, at the same time too cherished and too painful, 
 will cause my heart to tremble with emotions too sorrowful to be subdued, 
 
 as it will tell of facts But hold! I will endeavour to recall the emotions 
 
 which I then experienced. Smile not if some of the details seem puerile, for 
 I was very young, and in the house of Mademoiselle de Maran I had seen 
 no one who could be compared to M. de Lancry. 
 
 Having been a royal page in his early youth, he had served, and that very 
 valiantly, in the Spanish war ; after this, having been attached as chevalier 
 d'honneur to one of the great embassies, he had abandoned the profession 
 of arms, and, thanks to the kindness of the king, and to the protection of 
 M. de Versac, had been appointed gentleman of the bedchamber to his ma- 
 jesty. My first interview with him at the ball of the Austrian embassy 
 comes back very forcibly upon my memory. There had been a great levee 
 at the castle, and many gentlemen of the court had come to the ball in uni- 
 form ; among the rest, M. de Lancry had been at the Tuileries, and wore his 
 glittering dress of office, with the red ribbon and commander's cross of the 
 legion of honour round his neck, and, beside it, the broad medal of some 
 foreign order'. M. de Lancry did not exceed the middle height of men, but 
 his figure was of rare proportions ; and his features, perfectly chiselled ac- 
 
THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 53 
 
 cording to my aunt's opinion, who in this instance judged hut truly, were 
 those of a young Athenian, kindled with all the animated wit and grace of 
 the Parisian world. It was, she said, the absolute ideal of male beauty? his 
 hair was of a rich soft chestnut, his eyes hazel, his teeth exquisitely regular, 
 his hand and foot such that a woman might have envied them — and, in a 
 word, though he was thirty years old, no one would have taken him to be 
 more than twenty-five. 
 
 These natural advantages, heightened by those honourable decorations 
 which are rarely conceded but to years more advanced than his, and which 
 always appear at least to be the insignia of merit, of course combined to 
 render M. de Lancry more than usually conspicuous. 
 
 As he approached my aunt, she put out her hand, saying, "How do you 
 do to-night, my dear Gontran? Your uncle has but this minute told me of 
 your return from London. Well, what have you been doing with yourself 
 in that dear country?" 
 
 M. de Lancry smiled, drew close to Mademoiselle de Maran, and whis- 
 pered some words to her so low, that i could not even catch the .sounds. 
 
 " Will you be quiet?" said my aunt — "for shame! but happily people 
 may say anything to an old woman like me. I shall only impose upon you 
 the penalty for your impudence of dancing with these litile girls." And 
 turning toward me, she said to M. de Lancry, with an air of dignity" which 
 became no one better than my aunt, when she thought fit to wear it, " My 
 niece, Mademoiselle Matilda de Maran." The gentleman bowed gracefully. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Ursula d'Orbeval, our cousin," added my aunt, with a 
 gesture, so slight as to be hardly perceptible, and yet sufficiently pointed to 
 show that she wished to establish a distinction in my favour between myself 
 and my friend. 
 
 M. de Lancry bowed again, but ; as he did so, I dropped my eyes, for I felt 
 that I was blushing very deepJ-'; and as my hand chanced to be near that of 
 Ursula, I pressed it timidly. 
 
 " Will you do me the honour of dancing the first country dance with me?" 
 said M. de Lancry, addressing the words to me. 
 
 " With pleasure," I replied, casting an uneasy glance toward Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran. He bow<îd his thanks, and turning toward Ursula, "And 
 may I hope, he s"aid, " that you, Mademoiselle, will do me the same favour 
 for the second ?" 
 
 "Certainly, sir," answered Ursula with a sigh; and dropping her head, 
 she darted a melancholy glance toward M. de Lancry, through lier' long 
 lashes. 
 
 But at this moment an extremely pretty woman, glittering with jewels, 
 stepped before us, leaning upon the arm of a young English colonel. She 
 was a dark brunette in complexion, with a figure which, though extremely 
 slender, was exquisitely graceful. She had a proud and even bold expres- 
 sion on her fine features, and her large eyes, of piercing blackness, were 
 placed somewhat too near to her nose, which was keenly aquiline ; but, al- 
 together, she was a veiy striking person. 
 
 "You are exceedingly forgetful of your friends, M. de Lancrv£ she said 
 in a soft, harmonious voice. De Lancry turned round quickly, ana; scarcely 
 able to conceal his embarrassment, answered with a profound inclination, 
 " I do not deserve your reproach, flattering as it is, Madame la Duchesse; 
 for I have only this morning arrived from London, and promise myself the 
 honour of waiting on you -to-morrow." 
 
 How true it is, my friend, that there are certain presentiments which 
 scarce ever err ! The instant I heard M. de Lancry address that woman as 
 Madame la Duchesse, 1 was convinced beyond a doubt that she was that 
 Madame de Richeville, whose name I had heard so rashly coupled to that 
 of De Lancry. The band began at this moment to play the prelude of the 
 country dance. 
 
 "You see how forgiving I can be," said the duchesse to M. de Lancry. 
 " I not only pardon your forgetfulness, but I even tell you in confidence 
 that I am not engaged for this country dance. There! am I not too 
 generous ?" 
 
 M. de Lancry looked at her again, with an expression of astonishment 
 that made him appear as one thunderstruck, and replied with an air of 
 evident constraint, 
 
 "And am not I even too happy, who might have danced this country 
 dance with you, and am about to have the pleasure of dancing it with Made- 
 
 F 3 
 
34 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 moiselle de Maran, whose hand I have this instant had the honour of re- 
 questing." 
 
 Madame de Richeville, thinking that M. de Lancry was talking of my 
 aunt, and that he spoke in jest, burst into a fit of laughter, and cried 
 aloud — 
 
 "What! you have come from England to dance with Mademoiselle de 
 Maran ! Is there, then, an eccentric club in London, and do you wish to 
 distinguish yourself as one of the most dauntless members ?" 
 
 M. de Lancry hastened to interrupt Mademoiselle de Richeville, who 
 was exceedingly short-sighted, and had not perceived that my aunt was 
 present. 
 
 " It is with Mademoiselle Matilda de Maran," he said, howing slightly 
 toward me, and laying some stress on the name Matilda, " that I am to have 
 the honour of dancing immediately." 
 
 "Ah! I understand — they have brought her out then already," said the 
 duchess ; and with the word she raised her little tortoise-shell spy-glass, 
 and examined me with a scrutiny which appeared anything but kindly 
 meant. 
 
 I was in agony. 
 
 My aunt had not missed a word of this conversation, and seeing the eye- 
 glass of the duchess still directed upon me, she seemed to be annoyed, and 
 said to her, without rising from her seat, in a harsh and haughty voice, 
 not my niece charming, duchess ?" 
 
 "Charming, madam," replied the duchess drily, as she lowered her 
 eye-glass ; and drawing near to Mademoiselle de Maran, she dropped 
 her a half courtesy, at the same time extremely graceful and exceedingly 
 dignified. 
 
 I have since that time learned, that my aunt and the duchess detested 
 one another ; and thence I have been able to explain to myself the atten- 
 tion with which the company watched those well-matched and formidable 
 rivals. 
 
 " Well, I am quite delighted, madam," my aunt resumed, "on this dear 
 little girl's account, that you think her charming; the approbation of such a 
 lady as you are, madam, can bring nothing except good fortune to a young 
 person making her entree in the world — it is, as it were, an omen. But 
 notwithstanding, I can scarce believe, madam, that my niece will ever be 
 able to arrive at excellence- such as yours." 
 
 There was indeed, to all appearance, nothing but what was very simple 
 in these words, nothing but what was exceedingly polite — and yet I knew 
 too well the accents of my aunt, not to discover that there was some mali- 
 cious meaning lurking beneath the guise of those fair words. In fact, as I 
 raised my eyes to the face of Madame de Richeville, and of the ladies who 
 stood around us, I could perceive that the former was affecting to be per- 
 fectly at her ease, while everybody else was exceedingly embarrassed. 
 
 You, my friend, must have often met Madame de Richeville in the world, 
 and know unquestionably what people said about her, exaggerating the 
 levity of her conduct even to the extent of the most odious accusations. It 
 was said, that were it not for the illustrious name she bore, were it not for 
 the grandeur and great connexions of her house, and lastly, were it not for 
 her immense fortune, the world would hardly have closed its eyes upon her 
 faults — faults which had long since compelled her husband to insist on a 
 separation. She was, however, perfectly well received in the best society, 
 to which she belonged; with this exception only, that on the reception days 
 at the castle, Madame la Dauphine was thought to manifest her disapproba- 
 tion, by the icy coldness of her manner in addressing her. 
 
 You can understand, therefore, the peculiar bitterness of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran's attack, who now desiring to add a finishing stroke to the advan- 
 tage she had already gained, cried out — "But, heavens! what beautiful 
 rubies you have got there, madam ! Are not they those which belonged to 
 that exemplary dowager Duchess de Richeville? What a pity it is that 
 she cannot see you wear them ! and, above all things, how much pleasure 
 . it must give M. de Richeville, to see you adorned with the gems of his 
 noble mother!" 
 
 To understand all the cruelty of Mademoiselle de Maran's remark, you 
 must know that, according to an accredited rumour, of which I have lately, 
 learned the utter falsity, M. de Richeville had given that set of family jewels 
 to his wife on the occasion of their marriage ; and that, on his separation 
 
THE PRESENTATION. 
 
 55 
 
 from the duchess, he had so much delicacy as not to require them at her . 
 
 hands — a degree of delicacy which she would have little imitated, had she 
 continued to adorn herself with them. 
 
 All those who heard what passed seemed to be overcome by the spite of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran; but Madame de Richeville had so much self-con 
 troul, that she not only dissembled her indignation, but cast a glance fuller 
 of sweetness than of dignity, upon my aunt, as she replied in an affec- 
 tionate tone — 
 
 "You overwhelm me with your goodness, madam; would that I could 
 pro/e to you my gratitude for the marks of interest which you have dis- 
 played toward me 1 And now that I think of it, I can tell you some news 
 that will, I trust, give you much pleasure. One of your friends is about to 
 arrive here from Italy, where he has been for a long time, no person know- 
 ing what had become of him. But I see that you are becoming uneasy, and 
 I will not overstrain your curiosity. Well; after all," continued Madame 
 de Richeville, with an air of kind and courteous confidence — " Well; after 
 all, what will you think, if I tell you that M. de Mortagne will be here in a 
 few days 1 Yes ! I have received tidings of him from Venice. People say 
 that there was a terrible romance connected with his disappearance. Con- 
 fess, madam ; confess, that you are very much surprised, and yet more en- 
 chanted, at this his return !" 
 
 Madame de Richeville launched these last words, keen as the stroke of a 
 dagger, against Mademoiselle de Maran; and then, hearing the music strik- 
 ing up a country dance, she said gaily to M. de Lancry, " I offer you a waltz, 
 to make amends for the country dance which you have refused to dance 
 with me." And turning to the English colonel, on whose arm she was lean- 
 ing, " Let us go up," she said, " into the little gallery. I should like to see 
 this country dance." 
 
 Never before had I seen Mademoiselle de Maran moved. Yet she was 
 agitated much, even at the first words of Madame de Richeville ; but when 
 that lady uttered the sentence, "ilf. de Mortagne will be here in a few days," 
 nfy aunt grew pale as death, and appeared quite overpowered — to the great 
 surprise of those who knew the audacity of her nature, and were ignorant of 
 the hidden meaning of Madame de Richeville's answer. 
 
 The country dance began; and M. de Lancry had the good taste to spare 
 me those compliments which are always so embarrassing to a young girl. 
 He was extremely simple, and, though very merry, I was not the least sati- 
 rical. He spoke to me of Mademoiselle de Maran with affectionate' respect, 
 of M. de "Versac with tenderness. He said that he thought Ursula's expres- 
 sion one of the most interesting he had ever seen, and asked me, what could 
 be the great grief which rendered her so melancholy. It seemed, moreover, 
 that he was a good musician, and we talked about music. I preferred the 
 masters of the German school, he the Italian; and he brought so much gay 
 good-humour into the discussion, that by the end of the country dance I 
 was not afraid of him at all. After he bad led me back to my seat, and had 
 put Ursula in mind of her promise, he moved away to pay his compliments 
 to some other ladies whom he knew. 
 
 "Good Heaven!" said Ursula to me, "how could you dare to talk so 
 so much? I really admired you." 
 
 : Oh!" said I, "I was a good deal afraid at first; but, by degrees, I 
 gamed courage : and then, M. de Lancry appears to be so kind and natural. 
 You will see for yourself." 
 "Oh ! I shall scarcely dare to answer him," said Ursula timidly. • 
 "You are very foolish, then. He thinks you lovely; he told me so' just 
 now ; and perhaps it was that which made me find him so agreeable." 
 
 I was not able to continue my conversation with Ursula any longer, for all 
 the gentlemen who knew my aunt came up to talk with her; and she pre- 
 sented us to all those who were of an age to like dancing ; and Ursula and I 
 were very soon engaged for a great many sets. Indeed, I was so much occu- 
 pied with dancing, that although I wished to do so, I had scarce time to 
 think about the last words of Madame de Richeville concerning M. de Mor- 
 tagne. I had always preserved toward him a lively sentiment of gratitude, 
 for m my childhood he had been my earliest protector ; and yet, for eight or 
 nine years, his name had been scarcely ever mentioned in my aunt's house. 
 I remembered then only, that I had several times heard that no tidings of 
 him had been received : but his mode of life was so strange, and it was 
 known that he had such a rage for travelling, that [ scarcely had thought it 
 surprising. The only thing, indeed, which appeared wonderful to me, was 
 
5« 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 the a-most stunning effect which the news of his return produced on Made- 
 moiselle de Maran. 
 
 From these reflections I was aroused by the sound of a waltz. Among the 
 couples who were soon whirled away in its mazy round, I saw M. de Làncry 
 and the Duchesse de Richeville. She had a lovely figure, and, as he did 
 also, waltzed admirably. The ringlets of her beautiful hair, black as the 
 raven's wing, which she wore very long, floated luxuriantly from her classi- 
 cal head, which was turned somewhat backward as she moved. 
 
 It must have been, that this woman was either excessively strong in her 
 innocence, or profoundly disdainful of the world's censure. which she braved 
 so boldly, after the cruel words of Mademoiselle de Maran, which had so 
 recently awakened, if I may so speak, all the real or imaginary slanders 
 which had been spread everywhere about her conduct. That which sur- 
 prised me most, however, was the expression of M. de Lancry's features 
 during that waltz, for he appeared, by turns, disdainful, irritated, and sar- 
 castic : and when he led Madame de Richeville to her seat, I perceived that 
 she smiled bitterly at something which he whispered to her in a low voice. 
 
 At first, I know not wherefore, I felt as it were a tightness at my heart, as 
 I saw M. de Lancry waltz with Madame de Richeville. I remembered, in- 
 voluntarily, the words which I had heard, and 1 entertained not a doubt 
 but that he loved her. She had an expression of resolution, and of pride, 
 which almost frightened me ; and yet, when I thought that she was the 
 friend of M. de Mortagne, who had protected me — who had been, as Ma- 
 dame Blondeau has since told me, so devoted to my mother — I tried to get 
 over the disagreeable impression which she produced upon me. These 
 thoughts were again cut short by the country dances for which I was en- 
 gaged. My reputation, as satirical, had doubtless reached already several of 
 my partners ; for more than one of them, thinking to please my sarcastic 
 taste, put themselves to a great expense in the epigrammatic line ; while 
 others loaded me with absurd praises ; and others yet, made jokes which Ï 
 could not understand. 
 
 To take it altogether, although several among them were agreeable men, 
 few of them seemed to me to possess that perfect tact with which M. de 
 Lancry was gifted. For, in truth, a man must have both great capacity and 
 great delicacy of intellect to set a young girl at her ease, and to enjoy all 
 that is charming in her conversation. His language must be one of which 
 all the strong points are softened down and modified : and while it is, per- 
 haps, a lack of good taste to praise her beauty, it is always graceful to com- 
 pliment her talent. Her gaiety is far more lovely, when it is not excitèd 
 beyond the limits of a smile; and it is in fact to alarm the exquisite and 
 ingenuous delicacy of her observations, if he reply to them by slander or 
 ill-nature. 
 
 Think me not vain, my friend, if I speak to you thus of the fairest period 
 of our life — our woman life. Our instincts are then so noble and so gener- 
 ous, all our illusions are so radiant, that our characters themselves, that all 
 our thoughts, partake of the elevation of our souls. 
 
 But to return to our ball. I saw that Ursula danced always with the same 
 sad and touching grace. She did not appear to be much amused, but she 
 did not refuse a single dance ; she sighed, however, and seemed to be mak- 
 ing a great sacrifice when she accepted each partner. 
 • Having gone in at last to see the grand show of the supper, and to take a 
 cup.of tea, we left the ball. M. de Lancry, who was also going home, met 
 us again in the saloon ; he called for my aunt's people, and brought us our 
 shawls. 
 
 M. de Versac gave his arm to Ursula; M. de Lancry offered his to Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, who said to him, laughing, " I wish you would not pay 
 me these absurd attentions, Gontran. Am I of a proper figure to accept 
 them ? Give your arm to my niece ; I can take care of myself alone." 
 
 When we had all got into the carriage, my aunt called out to him again — 
 
 " Now, then, Gontran, since you have come back at last, I reckon upon 
 seeing you very often with your uncle; you know that I never allow people 
 to neglect me. By-the-bye, do you know that she has a brazen mask, 
 though it be couleur de rose — that fair duchess of yours ! and that it requires 
 all the fires of hell itself to make her blush ! But what is this that I am 
 saying before these girls? Come, come. Good night, Gontran, and beware; 
 look to yourself, if you do not intend to be very attentive to me. 
 
 M. de Lancry assured my aunt of his earnest desire to obey her, 
 returned to the Hotel de Maran. * 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 57 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE DAY AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 There are certain impressions, as there are certain landscapes, which must 
 be viewed from a distance, if you would have them in all their force. 
 
 The day after the ball, as I collected all my recollections, as I recalled to 
 mind the most minute details, I felt, if I may so speak, the reaction. 
 
 Yet why, my friend, should I conceal it from you? Among all my me- 
 mories, one only was predominant. M. de Lancry waltzing with Madame 
 de Richeville ! The waltz was one of Weber's. 
 
 The air, which was itself melancholy, came back to me incessantly, while 
 I could not recollect that of the country dance, which I had danced with M. 
 de Lancry. The result of all my impressions was almost melancholy. The 
 *mid, notwithstanding its perfect urbanity — notwithstanding its exquisite 
 and beautiful exterior — appeared to me to be in fact an arena, where people 
 dealt each other the most deadly blows, with smiles on the lip, and flowers 
 upon the brow. 
 
 This was but too clearly proved by what I had seen pass between Made- 
 moiselle de Maran and the Duchesse de Richeville. I had listened to words 
 only the most apparently polite, and yet I could not doubt that their sense 
 contained some cruel mystery. 
 
 I had, however, received very great attention; and, to lay aside all falsa 
 modesty, I could not but be aware that I had been considered very pretty ; 
 
 for I had remarked that Mesdemoiselles de B and de P had scarcely 
 
 danced above three or four sets, while Ursula and myself had been fre- 
 quently compelled to refuse. Moreover, I had not failed to hear that sort 
 of murmur, as I passed to and fro the room, which is always so flattering to 
 a woman's vanity. M. de Lancry, beyond all comparison the most brilliant 
 person in the assembly, had been exceedingly marked in his attentions to 
 us ; and yet the impression left upon my mind, by the events of the evening, 
 was sad and almost bitter. 
 
 Nevertheless, I had gained one pleasant thought, or^rather one vague 
 hope, from that gala night. M. de Mortagne was about to return! 
 
 I thought of his return with unmixed satisfaction, for a confused sense 
 that I stood in need of grave and trustworthy advice began to dawn upon 
 me. I not only felt a most sincere aversion to my aunt, but her praises, her 
 advice, her most every- day remarks, inspired me with a sort of distrust and 
 inquietude that ean hardly be described. I was, as it were, in the situation 
 of those wretches who fear the presence of poison in everything that comes 
 to their lips. I loved Ursula with my whole soul; but then she was as 
 young, as inexperienced as myself. 1 had the most perfect confidence in 
 the devotion of Madame Blondeau; but the extent of that admirable wo- 
 man's knowledge, and of her power also, went not beyond the length of an 
 almost blind attachment to my person. 
 
 My guardian, M. d'Orbeval, Ursula's father, was living in Touraine, on a 
 property which he possessed in that province, and, indeed, I now never saw 
 him ; but had I done so, like all the rest of my relations, he was entirely 
 under my aunt's dominion. I could not, therefore, but look to the return 
 of M. de Mortagne as to an event of the most favourable consequence, apart 
 even from the consideration that he had promised to return whenever he 
 could be of any real service to me. 
 
 There was another thing which seemed even to increase my anxiety to 
 see him ; the strange sort of terror, namely, which my aunt had displayed 
 at the mention of his name by Madame de Richeville. 
 
 While my thoughts were thus occupied, Ursula entered my room. We 
 began to talk about the ball ; and I the more readily surmounted the diffi- 
 culty of mentioning the slight sense of jealousy with which she had inspired 
 me, before setting out for the hotel of the ambassadress, since, during, the 
 whole continuance of the ball, I had enjoyed the success of my cousin as if 
 it had been my own. 
 
 " Do you know, my dear Ursula," I said to her with a smile, "that from 
 my bright and joyous expression last night, the world might have fancied 
 I was enjoying my own triumph; while, in reality, it was my pride on your 
 account, that made me so happy. And yet, what does it signify to us? wo 
 know, each of us, all the secrets of the other's heart." 
 
58 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " What do you think of M. de Lancry?" answered my cousin, quite ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 " I think him delightful," I replied, surprised not a little by this sudden 
 question; "yes, delightful — especially when he is not dancing with that 
 haughty Duchesse de Richeville." 
 
 Ursula looked at me fixedly, dropped her eyes to the ground, was silent 
 for a moment, and replied, 
 
 " Do you wish me, Matilda, to tell you what I think?" 
 
 "Yes — oh yes ! tell me quick !" 
 
 "Well, then, I think that Mademoiselle de Maran and M. de Versac 
 would be very glad to marry you to M. de Lancry." 
 
 At first, I started with astonishment; and then, struck by the absurdity of 
 the speech, I burst into laughter. 
 
 " What do you see so absurd in the idea, then, Matildas? Did not M. de 
 Versac present M. de Lancry to Mademoiselle de Maran? Did she not in- 
 stantly beg him to come and visit her very often in the morning? And now, 
 whom else does she receive as morning visitors, I pray you? Five or six 
 only of her most intimate friends ; and to what end could she have made 
 this exception in favour of the Duc de Versac's nephew ?" 
 
 " Do you wish me, Ursula, to tell you what I think?" I answered, 
 using the precise words she had used before. " It is, that M. de Versac 
 and Mademoiselle de Maran would be very glad to marry you to M. de 
 Lancry !" 
 
 It was now Ursula's turn to smile. " What nonsense !" she replied; " so 
 fine a match for a poor "girl like me — with neither rank nor fortune — that is 
 out of the question. No ! no ! you know my wish, my resolution never to 
 marry. I have too much sense, I assure you, to aim at what I can never 
 even hope for; and, besides, if it were in my power to marry M. de Lancry 
 to-morrow, believe me, I would not. Does that surprise you?" she conti- 
 nued; " yet so it is, in truth ! He is too handsome, too elegant, too fashion- 
 able, to suit me. I was not made to fill such a position ; my life must glide 
 away in calm obscurity ; and I look forward to no happiness beyond the 
 witnessing of yours." 
 
 " We shall never agree about the part which you are to play, my sweet 
 Ursula; but you will see. If I may give ear to the whisperings of my heart, 
 you will be happy on your own account. But to return to M. de Lancry; 
 why do you suppose that those dangerous advantages, which he possesses, 
 should be more to my taste than they are to yours?" 
 
 " As to myseif — simply, because, if he were to marry me, M. de Lancry 
 would be, in some sort, taking a wife below his own elevation ! As to you— 
 because, inasmuch as possessing yourself the same dangerous advantages, 
 as you call them, you could not be otherwise, I should think, than enchanted 
 by the prospect of such a marriage." 
 
 " Ursula, you are a little goose. M. de Lancry thinks no more about me 
 than I do about him ; and, moreover, like yourself, I should prefer a less 
 brilliant, and, for that very reason, more secure sphere of happiness." 
 
 " And yet you think M. de Lancry delightful !" 
 
 "Heavens! what a little witch you are! To be sure I do — as delightful 
 as one can think a person she has seen for two hours." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! and especially delightful when he is not dancing with that 
 haughty Duchesse de Richeville." 
 
 I could not help blushing, as I answered, "Yes, cousin mine, it is so ; but 
 I can no more tell you why it is so, than I can explain why I blush at hear- 
 ing you repeat the words I used five minutes since myself." 
 
 " Why is it so? why is it so? and do you wish me to tell you?" answered 
 my cousin sadly; "it is because you are going to fall in love with him!" 
 
 "Again! Ursula, again ! you are absolutely childish!" 
 
 " No! no! Matilda, I am not .childish ; my friendship for you, my dread 
 of being forgotten — my jealousy, if you choose so to call it, of your affec- 
 tions, answer the purpose of that experience which it is impossible for me to 
 possess, and make me sharper-sighted, as to your feelings, than yourself — 
 yourself even ; and yet, Matilda — and yet, I ought to have expected this 
 change in your life. Forgive, then — oh, forgive these silly tears !" and with 
 these words, she threw herself into my arms, weeping convulsively. 
 
 I cannot explain to you, my friend, how deeply I was moved — how fer- 
 vently I responded to this outbreak of Ursula's affections. 1 tried to encou- 
 rage her by every warm, every affectionate assurance. 
 
 " There!" I exclaimed, wiping away a tear from my own eyes; " there 
 
THE DAY AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 not a word more ; I do not want another word to make me hate M. de Latt- 
 ery ! I swear to you — " 
 
 "Silence! Matilda!" Ursula interrupted me, laying her hand softly on 
 my mouth ; " oh, silence ! I have been very foolish — very, very wrong, in- 
 deed, to give way to my first impulse; but it vas too violent to be con- 
 trolled ; my poor heart was full to overflowing — and it has overflowed! and 
 now 1 can conceal from you nothing that I feel for you, or think of you !" 
 
 Here Blondeau interrupted, our conversation, rushing in with a sudden 
 exclamation : 
 
 "Good Lord! Mademoiselle, see what a lovely carriage ! there has never 
 been one like it in our court-yard, I warrant me ; and what a beautiful 
 young gentleman has just stepped out of it! He asked for Mademoiselle de 
 Maran, and lie met M. Bisson upon the threshold, who has broken some- 
 thing, I am quite sure, for he was walking very fast, and had forgotten to 
 take his hat; and he looked quite scared, too, I can tell you.''' 
 
 Ursula looked at me, and I understood the glance in a moment. 'The 
 young gentleman about whom our nurse was talking could be no other than 
 M. de Lancry. 
 
 I was annoyed by this early visit, which, I thought, showed a want of 
 tact; so much so, that I determined not to go down, stairs, in case Made- 
 moiselle de Maran should call for me, on any pretext. But in a moment 
 we heard the rattling of a carriage, and Blondeau, running to the window, 
 cried out, " Ah! now the young gentleman is going away; he has not made 
 a very long visit." 
 
 I felt relieved from a great weight, and almost regretted that I had no 
 opportunity of refusing to go down stairs to Mademoiselle de Maran. A 
 little while before dinner we went to join ray aunt in the drawing-room, 
 where she was sitting all alone, and seemingly very much out of humour. 
 
 " "Well !" she said, as we came in, " you cannot guess the awkwardness of 
 that abominable M. Bisson, who is for ever breaking something or other: 
 but, please God, he shall never set his foot within my doors again." 
 
 " Has M. Bisson broken something again, aunt?" 
 
 "Broken something, indeed! to be sure he has, and it is all the fault of 
 that stupid wretch, Servien," cried my aunt, bursting again into a fresh fit 
 of anger. " I had forbidden him, once for all, to let that odious man ever 
 come into my drawing-room. I was alone in my boudoir, writing a letter, 
 with the door partly open, when, all of a sudden, I heard a sharp whizzing 
 noise, like the buzzing of a shuttle. Not guessing what it could be, I rose, 
 and went into the drawing-room, and what do you think I saw? That 
 wretched M. Bisson, seated in my arm-chair, with my clock in his lap, 
 fiddling about at the inner works with my scissors ; he had broken the main- 
 spring, and that made the whizzing noise which I had heard." 
 
 Mademoiselle de \laran was in such a passion, that she. did not perceive 
 us laughing at her in our sleeves, and went on : " Upon my word ! I could 
 have beaten him, if I had been strong enough. I said to him, ' Have you 
 then sworn to break everything in my house? Can you never keep yourself 
 quiet, odious man that you are?' 'Why,' he answered me, 'what would 
 you have me do while I am waiting for you? I am bored to death when I 
 have nothing to do;' and he spoke so stupidly, and with so much sang-froid, 
 setting the clock down upon the floor, that, upon my word and honour! I 
 could refrain no longer. I flew at him — I pushed him — I. drove him out of 
 the house, and he ran off quite terrified." 
 
 " And without taking his hat, I see," said I to my aunt. " Look ! he has 
 left it here upon this chair." 
 
 " So much the better!" she exclaimed, "so much the better! I wish he 
 would catch a good brain fever, that they might shut him up for a madman, 
 which he is, in spite of all his learning." 
 
 It must have been the fact, that Mademoiselle de Maran was in a dread- 
 ful passion, for she repulsed the caresses of her venerable Felix, who re- 
 turned, growling, to his corner. . 
 
 The sight of Felix recalled the courage of M. de Mortagne to my mind, 
 which I had admired so much in my childhood, when he had dared to beat 
 that odious animal; and, thinking of this, I took courage to ask Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran whether she knew where M. de Mortagne was at that time, 
 and when he was likely to return ? 
 
 I thought my aunt would have blasted me, if she had been able, by a 
 glance of her eye, as she exclaimed, " Is that any concern of yours? How 
 do you presume to ask me such a question ? Do you suppose I trouble my- 
 
€0 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 self about the movements of such a man as that? No! God be praised! 
 whatever that fine duchess may say about it, whose heart is as black as hell 
 itself, it is enough for you to know that he m well off where he is, and tha*t he 
 will long remain there ! do you understand ? accursed Jacobin that he is I" 
 
 I underline these words, my friend, because I absolutely shudder, in my 
 own despite, at the malignant— nay, almost fierce expression which my aunt 
 threw into her pronunciation of them. I involuntarily recollected, as she 
 spoke, how, almost ten years before, she had cast a glance of implacable 
 and utter hatred at M. de Mortagne, actually breaking, in hei passion, a 
 needle which she held in her hand, almost in the place where she was now 
 sitting. 
 
 I could not find a word to say or to answer, so much was I afraid of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran. But after a silence of some moments, she took tip 
 the word again — " Gontran," she said, " came hither to offer me the box of 
 the gentlemen of the bed-chamber at the opera-house for to-morrow night. 
 I have accepted it, and we will go." 
 
 I thought this was a grand opportunity of being very heroical, and of 
 proving my affection for Ursula, by declining this occasion of again meeting 
 M. de Lancry; and I answered, "I am so much tired by the ball, aunt, 
 that I should rather decline going to the opera." 
 
 " You would rather do just that, Miss, which I desire you to do," replied 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, very tartly. 
 
 Ursula looked at me with an imploring glance, and replied, 
 
 " Oh ! if you absolutely desire it, I will go to the opera." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE OPERA. 
 
 The conversation which Ursula had held with me touching the possibility 
 of my marriage to De Lancry, set me to thinking very deeply as soon as 1 
 found myself alone. 
 
 Perhaps, indeed, if it had not been for the remarks of my cousin, I should 
 have been a long time without calling myself to account concerning the im- 
 pression which the nephew of M. de Versac had made upon me. liut now, 
 I questioned myself frankly ; endeavouring to divest myself of that favoura- 
 ble prejudice, which is always left upon our minds by the society of a man 
 who joins, to the attractions of highly-distinguished manners and a fine per- 
 son, the prestige of an historic name. 
 
 I asked myself, if the memory of M. de Lancry affected me in anywise — 
 if I felt any interest in him ; but it occurred to me that I was in a state of 
 absolute indifference as regarded him. 1 was only surprised that I should 
 have experienced an unpleasant feeling at seeing him dance with Madame 
 de Richeville; and, for the very reason that this feeling and the cause of it 
 alike appeared entirely inexplicable, I still persisted, and at last succeeded, 
 in discovering it. The remark of Ursula had put me on the right scent. 
 
 It has always been my opinion, that women have no determined character 
 until they have learned to love. The first impressions, or, if I may so speak, 
 the first interests of love, once brought into play — once thoroughly awakened 
 — arouse, develop, and excite peculiar faculties of the soul, noble, as it 
 may be, or perilous ; which, by degrees, swallow up all the rest, and remain 
 sole masters of the mind. 
 
 Thus, in my own instance, at seventeen, I had no predominating quality, 
 whether of good or evil ; it would have been difficult, I think, to distinguish 
 or define any one trait of my character. 
 
 I was, by turns, humble and haughty to excess, in proportion as I had, 
 during my childhood, been absurdly flattered, or depreciated to the verj 
 verge of insult. I was pious, both naturally and from conviction ; I felt, as 
 it were, an imperious necessity for thanking God for all the blessings thai 
 befel me — a quality which, praiseworthy in the first instance, I carried to 
 an excess that was merely puerile at first, but which, at a later period, 
 reached the verge of fanatical impiety. I was as generous as it was in my 
 power to be; but, to my shame be it confessed, I was never so much in- 
 clined to sympathise with the wretched, as when I felt myself unhappy ; 
 then I was all eagerness to anticipate the wànts of others, and to console 
 their sorrows. Happiness, on the contrary, if it did not absolutely make me 
 
THE OPERA 
 
 61 
 
 selfish, at least absorbed me altogether. It was necessary to call forth my 
 play, in order keenly to arouse my sympathies. Whether of good or ill, my 
 feelings were more durable than they were violent. I pardoned a wrong 
 done me, or an affront offered, but I did not forget it. Not, indeed, that I 
 sought to injure those who had offended me, but that I avenged myself, to 
 my own contentment, by a continued scorn. You therefore see, my friend, 
 that there was as yet nothing marked, nothing determinate or striking in 
 my character. 
 
 Now, from the day when I first met M. de Lancry, a passion of which up 
 to that time I had been completely ignorant began to grow upon me; im- 
 perceptibly at first, and almost intangible, and showing itself originally in 
 a vague dislike to seeing a man whom I hardly knew, waltz with a woman 
 whom I did not know at all. 
 
 Alas ! my friend, I need not tell you that this passion, which was one day 
 destined to enchain all the. rest, and to become the mainspring of my cha- 
 racter, was jealousy! — jealousy, at one time restrained, concealed, stifled 
 and disowned by my pride; at another, confessed, exposed to view, bumble 
 and supplicatory even to the very verge of baseness. Accustomed, from my 
 childhood, to reflect much, and to fall back upon my own resources — having 
 a quick imagination, and rather lively penetration, I was not long in finding 
 an answer to the question which my cousin had proposed — " why it should 
 be more disagreeable to see M. de Lancry dance with the Duchesse de 
 Iticheville than with any other woman ?" 
 
 Yet, I assure you, that although I thought M. de Lancry very agreeable, 
 I yet felt nothing which seemed to me like love — like those unknown emo- 
 tions which we still picture to ourselves to be so sweet, and so serene. 
 
 I thought, moreover, that it might be perhaps the better for me to struggle 
 against that sentiment, if it should chance to arise within me — a sentiment 
 which might render me the most wretched of our sex, for it might be that 
 M. de Lancry would not participate in it — or, if he should, that his views 
 might not be pleasing to his family or my own. 
 
 During all these considerations, too weighty quite for a poor head of se- 
 venteen, 1 regretted more than all the absence of my only friend, M. de 
 Mortagne, in whom I felt that I could repose a sort of instinctive confidence. 
 Unhappily for me, however, those last words of Mademoiselle de Maran 
 banished from my mind all those sweet hopes which Madame de Iticheville 
 had awakened in my mind, by announcing the return of my protector. You 
 will readily comprehend, my friend, that, having once given myself up to 
 these reflections, ever resolute to keep a close watch on the slightest motions 
 of my heart, 1 awaited that evening on which, for a second time, I was to see 
 M. de Lancry, with a sort of restless anxiety. 
 
 We did not reach the opera-house till it was very late; the saloon was 
 entirely filled, and with the most brilliant and distinguished persons ; for 
 Madame la Duchesse de Berry was present at the performance of the " Siege 
 of Corinth." The very moment I entered our box, the first person on whom 
 I cast my eyes was the Duchesse de E.icheville, whom I saw nearly opposite 
 with my aunt's friend, Madame de Mirecourt and her husband, who accom- 
 panied them. 
 
 It is impossible to imagine any one more elegantly dressed, or handsomer, 
 than Madame de Iticheville, Her turban of white gauze, embroidered splen- 
 didly in silver lama-work, set off her dark complexion admirably, and her 
 long ringlets of rich raven hair. She woie a short-sleeved dress of cherry 
 coloured velvet, and, notwithstanding that she had long gloves on, the ex- 
 quisite colour of her arms was clearly visible. She carried in her hand a 
 large bouquet of white roses, which was one of the greatest rarities that can 
 be obtained in the winter season. 
 
 I did all in my power to render myself indifferent to her charms, but all 
 was in vain ; I could not prevent a sense of sadness from coming over me ; 
 the melancholy air of Weber's waltz, to which I had seen her dance as De 
 Lancry's partner, ceased not to form, as it were, an accompaniment to my 
 sad thoughts. 
 
 Soon after our entrance, I observed Madame de Mirecourt lean down to 
 speak to the duchess, who was very short-sighted, unquestionably with the 
 view of directing her attention to us ; and the next moment that lady raised 
 her opera-glass quickly, and locked at me very attentively, but no longer 
 with that air of haughty and malevolent affectation which had struck me 
 in her manner on the previous evening. 
 
 Meanwhile the curtain rose — I am passionately fond of music ; and the 
 
62 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 opera appeared to me so beautiful, and new, that I gazed and listened with 
 the enthusiastic eagerness of a girl fresh from the school-room. 
 
 During the interval of the acts, however, I looked around the house, and 
 saw M. de Lancry present himself in the box of the Duchesse de Berry, 
 which that princess had not yet quitted for her saloon. It occurred to me 
 that her Royal Highness received M. de Lancry" with much distinction ; for 
 she conversed with him some time, and when he was about to withdraw, 
 agreeable to etiquette, she condescended to detain him during some mo- 
 ments longer. 
 
 When he retired from the royal box, I confess that I was curious to see 
 whether he would come to visit us, or pay his respects to the Duchesse de 
 Richeville, in the first instance ; and that, for several minutes, that curiosity- 
 amounted almost to anguish. My heart beat anxiously and quick when 
 I heard the door of our box open, and I doubted not that it was M. de 
 Lancry. 
 
 I was right— it was he ! 
 
 Yet I now felt disturbed and agitated, nor did I da*re to turn my head, 
 when I heard him address Mademoiselle de Maran, and my cousin Ursula, 
 until my aunt, tapping me lightly on the arm, called my attention, saying, 
 
 "Matilda, you do not see M. de Lancry?" 
 
 I turned half round, and felt that I blushed as I bowed to him ; but by 
 degrees I regained my self- possession, and joined in the conversation, as my 
 confusion passed away. M. de Lancry was exceedingly agreeable, and full 
 of brilliancy and wit. He knew all Paris, and all Paris had assembled to 
 that night's performance. I perfectly well remember the least point of the 
 conversation, for M. de Lancry appeared to me in an entirely new light, and 
 one surpassingly to his advantage. 
 
 " Come, Gontran," said Mademoiselle de Maran, " since you go out every- 
 where, help me to make the acquaintance of all the beau monde here, whom 
 I do not know — tell me about them all; for I am, I assure you, quite as 
 much a stranger here, as these young girls. It is more than fifteen years 
 since I have set my foot within the opera-house. I suppose you have all the 
 pea-blossoms of the Bank here, have you not? rich enough to astound all 
 decent people ! That sort of thing, you know, has always its own private 
 box at the opera, while those of our class modestly profit by admissions to 
 the court boxes, which are the best, after all, thank God !" 
 
 " I should be very much puzzled, indeed, madam," replied De Lancry, 
 laughing, "to be your interpreter -general; for, during the four months 
 which I have spent in England, many of the Bank boxes, as you call them, 
 have changed owners. I scarcely know a soul in them, so capricious is the 
 Exchange, and so abruptly does she build up and demolish fortunes." 
 
 " That last blow only is now spared us, of seeing such folks as those rich 
 in perpetuity! If it were so, it would be a pretty example for other male- 
 factors," answered Mademoiselle de Maran. "But tell me; who is that 
 little person, in the second circle, with the rose-coloured berret ! She u 
 quite pretty, is she not?" 
 
 "Extremely pretty," said M. de Lancry. "She and her husband are 
 heroine and hero of a little romance, which, though exceedingly simple, is, 
 I think, quite as touching." And, as he spoke, there was an accent and 
 expression of melancholy in his voice and his features, which, while it sur- 
 prised me not a little, lent a new fascination to his manner. 
 
 "Oh, heavens! Gontran, tell us about it, I beseech you. What is her 
 name — this charming heroine of yours ?" 
 
 "The name of my hero and heroine is not, I must own, the most ro- 
 mantic — a Monsieur and Madame Dupré; that is all!" said De Lancry, 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 " Dupré ! Indeed, I think it a very good name," said my aunt. " Why; 
 is not it worth as much as that of the Duparcs, the Duponts, the Dumonts; 
 or the Dubois ? Come, Gontran, by all means let us have the romance of 
 M. and Madame Dupre !" 
 
 "Picture to yourself, then, madam, that about two years ago — " but here 
 M. de Lancry interrupted himself, and said to my aunt, " But pardon me, 
 for. indeed your ironical smile quite overpowers me. Suffer me, I beg of 
 you, to tell my tale to Mesdemoiselles Matilda and Ursula. I am sure, that 
 so far from laughing at me, they will find much to interest them in my 
 simple little tale." 
 
 I raised my eyes, and meeting the gaze of M. de Lancry fixed on my face, 
 I blushed again, though I know not wherefore ; but my aunt exclaiming, 
 
THE opera: 
 
 f,3 
 
 'Goon! go on! tell your story to these little girls; I will not look at 
 you, and if I laugh at all, it shall be aside ;" 
 
 . He replied, addressing himself tome, "Well, then, mademoiselle, M. and 
 Madame Dupre had made a very happy maniage — " 
 
 "Capital! capital!" interrupted Mademoiselle de Maran; "this begins 
 just like one of the little tales of L'Ami des Enfants,* or one of Berquin's 
 stories. I only just wish to ask you, if it is a late captain of the hussars of 
 the body-guard who is the teller? But proceed, proceed; here is the beau- 
 tiful Princess of Ksernika just coming into her box with her train. You 
 will have finished your tale before the perfume-bearer, the fan-bearer, the 
 opera-glass-bearer, the bouquet-bearer, and the play-bill-bearer, have all per- 
 formed their duties. I fancy, she is a princess who would scarcely be an 
 admirer of the tales of Berquin!" 
 
 "I believe, madam," said M. de Lancry with a wicked smile, "that I can' 
 perfectly appreciate the difference between a tale of Berquin's, and the 
 Princess Ksernika ; but I am now addressing myself to these young ladies, 
 and I have no pardon to beg of them for the naive simplicity of this true 
 story — so I proceed: 
 
 " M. and Madame Dupre were perfectly happy, and enjoyed a competent 
 fortune. It matters not, whether it was owing to the bankruptcy of a cre- 
 ditor, or the breach of trust of a friend, but on a sudden they were ruined 
 utterly. M. Dupre had an old blind mother, whom he loved almost to 
 idolatry, who had given up to him all that she possessed, on condition of 
 living with him and his wife, whom she loved as her own daughter. It was 
 for her, therefore — for her indeed only, that the Dupres first felt the grievous 
 bitterness of the poverty which had befallen them. She had enjoyed all the 
 advantages of wealth so long that they had become almost indispensable to 
 her, and they resolved that she should never know the disaster which had 
 so reduced them. This project her infirmity assisted them amazingly in 
 executing. The trifling relics of their fortune enabled them, for a little 
 while, to meet their expenses ; and, in the mean time, M. Dupre, who tho- 
 roughly understood German and English, made translations for the book- 
 sellers ; and his little wife, who drew admirably, employed herself in de- 
 signing for albums, and even in painting fans. By dint of industry, of pri- 
 vation — and above all, by presence of mind and tact, they continued for two 
 whole years to keep up the deception to their mother, so that, perceiving no 
 alteration in her comforts, she never so much as suspected the misfortune 
 which had overwhelmed her children ; a misfortune which they Would have 
 felt twice as bitterly, had she discovered it, both on account of tlje grief she 
 would have experienced, and the privations she would have insisted on 
 enduring. At last — it is but a few days since — M. Dupre received an 
 enclosure of a hundred thousand francs in a letter, which, some say, in- 
 formed him that it was a restitution on the part of the bankrupt who had 
 ruined him; while others attribute it to the generosity of an anonymous 
 benefactor." 
 
 " Which appears a much more probable solution," said my aunt, "than 
 the repentance of a swindler." 
 
 " Of this, however, there is no doubt, Mademoiselle, that, thanks to this 
 sum, these good and brave-hearted young people, now almost accustomed to 
 their labours, have well-nigh recovered their former independence ; and 
 that their aged mother has never perceived the abyss of misery, the very 
 verge of which she has been coasting." 
 
 " This finishes just as it should — just as it began!" said Mademoiselle d* 
 Maran, " and proves that good conduct is sure to find its reward. And this 
 is why that beautiful Princess Ksernika, when she goes into the presence ai 
 the Lord, will not remain there very long !" 
 
 " You laugh at me, madam," replied M. de Lancry; " nevertheless, I shall 
 have courage to maintain that this little anecdote is.one of those \vhich are 
 the most honourable to our times. Do you not discover," he continued, 
 turning to me, " a rare degree of delicacy in conduct such as this ? The very 
 fact of having so absolute a self-possession, as not only to repress every la- 
 mentation, but to keep down the least allusion to miseries which might 
 overwhelm, while they are concealed from a sense of affectionate solicitude 
 for another's feelings — the very power ot maintaining presence of mind so 
 perfect, strength of soul so remarkable, as in the midst of suffering and sor. 
 
 * A popular and almost universally-known school-book. 
 
64 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 row to preserve that gay and even manner which is the result of care and 
 independence; do not these form a beautiful and touching picture? Two 
 persons, themselves so delicate and young, religiously deceiving that old 
 parent, and by stern dint of labour creating for her, as it were, a little nook 
 of wealth and comfort in the midst of their own cold and barren misery !" 
 
 "Ah! surely that is beautiful — that is most touching," replied Ursula, in 
 tones of great emotion, raising her hand to her eyes. "When we hear of 
 such actions, we no longer regret being poor, since poverty can give birth to 
 deeds and developments of character so noble." 
 
 I was so deeply moved myself, that I could find no words to express my- 
 self, and rejoiced that Ursula had contrived to speak. Monsieur de Lancry 
 had related this little tale — which was indeed simple, but which, from that 
 very quality, possessed an uncommon charm when in the mouth of such a 
 man — with perfect grace of language and of manner. I had looked at him 
 several times during the narration ; and while I perceived that I could dis- 
 cover a fresh attraction in the touching expression of his features, I could 
 not but believe that one capable of appreciating so generously a fine action, 
 must be as capable of imitating as of admiring it. Nor was I less astonished 
 than delighted ; for I had not expected to find so rare a sensibility under the 
 dazzling exterior of a man of the world; so that my heart throbbed pain- 
 fully when I heaid my aunt say to Monsieur de Lancry, 
 
 " My niece Matilda is so satirical, that, for all her sister-Angelica air, she 
 is quite capable of turning your story into ridicule, my poor Gontran, what- 
 ever the rest may think of it." 
 
 I raised my eyes quickly to Monsieur de Lancry, as if to contradict her; 
 but when I met his glance, it was so sorrowful, arid wore so disappointed an 
 expression, that I could well-nigh have wept, from chagrin and vexation. 
 I hardly know how this scene would have ended, had it not been for the 
 arrival of Monsieur de Versac, which preceded a few moments the last rising 
 of the curtain. I experienced a strange agitation, a kind of dizziness, which 
 the power of the music appeared to augment ; every thought which disturbed 
 me being accompanied, as it were, by a harmony, tender by turns, and by 
 turns passionate and pensive, which was but . too much in unison with the 
 state of my heart. 
 
 Music in certain circumstances has strange power over us. It seems to 
 translate to our own apprehension our own thoughts, how secret soever they 
 may be — how confused, nay, sometimes, how guilty — and that, too, in a 
 language so intoxicating and delicious, that we abandon ourselves to its 
 perilous fascination. 
 
 So was it now with me. So, without dreaming, for a moment, of the ob- 
 stacles which might arise against the sentiment now waking so deliciously 
 within me — cradled, as" I may say, by those seductive melodies, I delighted 
 myself by dwelling on every touching word that had fallen from the lips of 
 De Lancry. I suffered myself to be carried away by the admiration of the 
 imaginary character with which my fancy had invested him; yet, even then, 
 vague thoughts of jealousy came to assail me; and through that dream of 
 almost magical excitement, the beautiful dark features of the Duchesse de 
 Richeville seemed to float dizzily before me. 
 
 When the last act was ended, I still listened; I still was absorbed so com- 
 pletely, that my aunt had to call me several times before she could arouse 
 me from my reverie. 
 
 Everybody was already leaving the saloon, when I took the arm of M. de 
 Versac; Ursula leant on M. de Lancry. I was almost mechanically going 
 down the staircase, scarce hearing or seeing anything that was going on 
 around me, when, just as our carriage was announced, I was sensible of a 
 very pleasant but very powerful perfume, and at the same moment the rus- 
 tling of some soft tissue against my dress; while a sweet voice, in tones of 
 affectionate emotion, whispered almost in my ear, 
 
 "Beware! poor child, beware! they are about to marry you. Wait for 
 M. de Mortagne." 
 
 I turned my head round quickly, to discover, if possible, who it was that 
 had spoken to me; but I saw only the cherry-coloured train and the silver- 
 lama turban of the Duchesse de Richeville, who, with M. and Madame 
 Mirecourt, was passing lightly down the staircase just in front of me. 
 
THE CONFESSION, 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 A month had elapsed from the night on which I went with my aunt and 
 M. de Lancry to the opera. He had come regularly — at first every two or 
 three days, but afterward daily, to call .on Mademoiselle de Maran; and, as 
 our intimacy became greater, I discovered in him a thousand qualities of 
 new attraction. It is not possible that any character could be found more 
 even, more unselfish, more delicate in its attentions. His intellect, quick, 
 fanciful and lively, gifted him with so much tact in disguising his soft 
 praises, that he continued to render them acceptable even to me; ever dis- 
 trustful as 1 was of anything that could bear the semblance of flattery, re- 
 membering always my aunt's treacherous exaggerations of the advantages 
 which, she would have it, I possessed. 
 
 Ardent and generous ever, there was no noble cause which M. de Lancry 
 defended not; full of ingenuous modesty, he was annoyed visibly when one 
 so much as hinted at the merit by which he had attained distinction so 
 uncommon at his years ; and as for his success in the world, although that 
 was a subject, of course, but rarely touched on in my presence and that of 
 Ursula, it was yet easy to perceive that he was in nowise intoxicated by it. 
 His conversation, when in the vein, was, if not actually serious, at least 
 instructive; he had travelled much, and travelled, too, with proht. He spoke 
 with rare taste of the fine arts, and had an intimate acquaintance with all 
 the literature of the day. 
 
 When I describe his merits to you at such length, I almost confess that 
 I loved him. Yes, I did love him ! How, indeed, could I help loving him ? 
 Living, as I did with my aunt, almost in solitude — seeing no one but him, 
 and him daily, how could I long resist the charms of manner which rendered 
 him so fascinating? I have already told you, how dull and monotonous was 
 the life which I led at Mademoiselle de Maran's.- As soon, however, as 
 M. de Lancry was associated intimately in our circle, everything was changed ; 
 the hope, the delight of seeing him — the desire of pleasing him — the dread 
 of not succeeding— the memories that thronged upon me in his absence — 
 the long reveries — in a word, the ten thousand indescribable anxieties of 
 that mysterious passion, involved me in continual perturbation, and the 
 time passed away with the speed of the whirlwind. 
 
 I loved him; and I was, by turns, all happiness, or all despair, in that' 
 engrossing passion. All happiness— when in my rare fits of self-confidence, 
 when in the pridé of youth, in the pride of beauty, in the pride of my own 
 heart, I asked myself if Gontran could look in another for all those pledges, 
 all those proofs of happiness, which I believed myself enabled to bestow upon 
 him, if he should ask my hand? Again, I was all despair — when in doubt 
 of myself; distrusting my own beauty; almost distrusting my own heart. 
 I dared not believe that Gontran loved me; nay, persuaded myself even, 
 that he was attached to Madame da Richeville. 
 
 Then would the words, which she had spoken to me at the opera in tones 
 of affection, " Beware ! poor child, beware !" recur with strange emphasis to 
 my.spirit. Discouraged as I was, and downcast, I could not bring myself to 
 hate that woman, interpreting those words of hers as if she had said to me — 
 " Beware ! poor child. It is intended to make up a match between you and 
 Gontran ; you, who have no charms capable of rivetting his affections ; you, 
 who will suffer only the effects of an unrequited passion." 
 
 When, on the other hand, my self-confidence regained its tone, I perceived 
 only in those words of the duchess a sort of covert menace — a sort of prohi- 
 bition, to pretend to a heart which she possessed as her own empire. I was, 
 moreover, overwhelmed more completely by these vague and warring fan- 
 cies, because I had no one to whom 1 could confide them. My guardian, 
 M. d'Orbeval, had recalled Ursula to his presence some time previously, and 
 our separation, although its duration had been as yet but short, was not on 
 that account the less grievous. Especially, at this time, the absence of my 
 cousin seemed to me doubly painful. 
 
 At times, in the midst of my perturbed doubts, I consoled myself by the 
 idea, that Mademoiselle de Maran would have never received M. de Lancry 
 with so marked, so open a display of satisfaction, if this termination had 
 not met her views; and yet neither my aunt nor M de Versac had mada 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 the least allusion to the possibility of a marriage between myself and Da 
 Lancry. 
 
 Atjast, these doubts and troubles were brought to a conclusion. 
 
 ifwas the 15th of February, for I remember the day, the date, and all the 
 circumstances that transpired, as if they had been things of yesterday. It 
 was the 15th of February; I was alone in my aunt's drawing-room, where I 
 expected to find her, but she had left the room, giving orders that if any one 
 should call, he should be told that she was about to return directly. 
 
 I was reading the Meditations of Lamartine, when I heard the door of the 
 apartment open suddenly, and Servien announced M. le Vicomte de Lancry. 
 
 Never before had I been left alone with Gontran, and now I felt myself in 
 a state of terrible embarrassment. 
 
 " They told me, mademoiselle, that your auut was about to return hither 
 in a few minutes, and that she wished any person who might call, to wait 
 for her;" and then" — he hesitated for a few moments, and when he spoke 
 again, it was with an air of some confusion — " and then I did not expect the 
 happiness of finding you b ere; permit me, therefore, to profit by an oppor- 
 tunity so rare and so precious, and let me beseech you to hear me." 
 
 " Sir," I replied, almost stammering with agitation, and my heart beating 
 to such a degree as to be actually painful, " I beg your pardon; I do not, I 
 believe, quite understand ; what can you have to say to me ?" 
 
 Then, in a low and trembling voice, the fascinating harmony of which, 
 never — no, never, will be effaced from my memory, he said, " Suffer me, 
 then, mademoiselle, to speak to you at length, and with the most entire 
 frankness, and be kind enough, I entreat you, to promise even to give me 
 an answer." 
 
 "I will — I will promise you," I replied, much confused, but yet more 
 anxious. 
 
 " Then, mademoiselle," he continued, " T must tell you that my uncle, the 
 Due deVersac, profiting by a secret wnich he has succeeded in discovering — ■ 
 although, I pledge my word to you, I never had revealed it to him — had de^ 
 tef mined to ask your hand, in my behalf, of madam your aunt; but I im- 
 plored him not to do so." 
 
 My heart failed me ; I felt it shudder and stand still within me ! I believe 
 that M. de Lancry was prejudiced to my disadvantage, and it was with weak 
 and faltering accent that I answered, 
 
 "It is unnecessary to give me this information — I assure you, sir!" 
 
 I began, but words were wanting to me, and I broke off abruptly. 
 
 "No, mademoiselle, it is not unnecessary, permit me to tell you; for I 
 could not suffer M. de Versac to make this request on my part from Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, without having myself gained your consent." 
 
 " And it is my consent that you have come to ask?" I cried, without the 
 power to conceal my joy, without the desire even of concealing it. 
 
 At the slight gesture of surprise which escaped Monsieur de Lancry, I 
 almost regretted my precipitation, fearing lest he should interpret it to my 
 disadvantage. I blushed, was confused, and was unable to add a single 
 word. 
 
 After a moment's silence, Gontran replied — "Yes, mademoiselle, it is 
 your consent that I have come to ask, and that not without a hope of ob- 
 taining it. You shall, at least, however, be free in your choice ; for, believe 
 me, I never should have ceased to regret it, had you been exposed to any 
 olicitations that could have annoyed you." 
 "I— I— sir— " 
 
 But Gontran again interrupted me, saying, in accents which, though 
 tender, were serious, almost even solemn, " One word, mademoiselle, one 
 word, before I hear you overwhelm, perhaps, by an irrevocable sentence — not 
 daring and presumptuous expectations, but hopes which, formed in secret, 
 in secret 1 have scarcely dared to cherish! Permit me to lay open to you 
 the whole spirit of my thought. You are an orphan ; you are almost alone 
 in the world; it is my duty, as an upright man of honour, to address you 
 with the same seriousness of language, with which I would approach your 
 mother. You can judge why, under these circumstances, I address myself 
 to you, and not to Mademoiselle de Maran," added Gontran, with a manner - 
 so significant, as to prove that he knew the relations which existed between 
 my aunt and myself; although, from motives of delicacy, he was unwilling 
 to allude to them. 
 
 I was moved deeply by the manner in which Gontran expressed himself; 
 so grave was it, and at the same time so affectionate. 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 C>7 
 
 " I understand you," I replied, " and I thank you." 
 
 "When you shall have heard me out, mademoiselle," he replied, "you 
 will be able to foresee the result of things with as much certainty as if they 
 had already been accomplished. I have, perhaps, but few good qualities; 
 but I have always been both loyal and sincere in the' fulfilment of my 
 slightest promise. I have always resolved, that I would never marry a 
 woman whom I could not love with a devotion the most fervent, the most 
 heartfelt, and at the same time the most respectful — with a love so affec- 
 tionate and holy, that it bears no more comparison to the brief and ephe- 
 meral fancies of our youth, than do the slight and evanescent liaisons to 
 which these last give birth, to the duration of the sweet and sainted state of 
 marriage.' In truth, of all that the world possesses, most high and holy, 
 nothing is, in my eyes, so lovely or romantic as the eternal union of well- 
 assorted spirits; that jpnion, which I have ever dreamed of, as the sweet 
 goal of future wishes; and to make good these wishes, it is needful only to 
 learn to economise the treasures of that bliss, which is as enduring as our 
 own existence. This once accomplished, it is an easy thing to pass a Ufe — • 
 which shall be but one scene of prolonged enchantment — in mutual confi- 
 dence, in tenderness and love, which the genius of the heart, if I so may 
 speak, will soon learn to diversify with new delights. For, once again, 
 there is nothing on earth which embraces more romance than marriage, 
 when they who enjoy it know, indeed, how to love." 
 
 I know not how it was, that at this moment, the idea of Madame de 
 Richeville occurred to my mind, and I could not refrain from replying to 
 De Lan cry — 
 
 " And yet, monsieur, these evanescent liaisons appear to me some- 
 times — " 
 
 " Ah ! mademoiselle," he exclaimed, interrupting me, " who can compare 
 these for an instant to the possession of legitimate and perfect bliss? Be- 
 lieve me, when we once love for life, we speedily discover the nothingness, 
 the utter falsehood of those ephemeral and guilty ties. What charm can 
 they possess, which can compare to the bliss of an affection, sanctioned be- 
 fore man, and blessed by God himself? Shall we the less appreciate the 
 delight of a long evening, passed with a fair and loving woman, because that 
 woman is our own, in the eyes both of earth and Heaven? Shall we the less 
 enjoy her preference, because we have deserved it daily before the face 
 of the world, by tenderness and kind attention? Shall her intelligence, her 
 grace, and her success be the less dear to us, because her eye may dwell 
 upon ours fearlessly, seeming to say to us, ' Enjoy the results which spring 
 from your own inspiration?' If, in the midst of some crowded party, she 
 receives, with-a soft and mysterious smile, speaking to us alone, some sign 
 from us of mute intelligence ; shall that smile be less sweet to us, because it 
 announces an understanding free from guilt? Because the flowers with 
 which she is decorated have been chosen by a beloved and respected hand, 
 shall they have less of splendour or perfume ? If we would travel in far 
 lands, and escape from the din of Paris . to the calm contemplation of the 
 charms of nature, is it quite indispensable that we should steal a daughter 
 from her father, a young wife from her husband, in order to taste the en- 
 chantments of a love journey through regions of poetical delight? Are the 
 bright skies of Italy or Spain veiled from the eyes of all who can look up to 
 them without a blush of guilty consciousness ? Believe me, oh! believe me, 
 there are wells inexhaustible of pure bliss, of-romantic pleasure, upspringing 
 from a union based on love, such as I dream of : for I confess to you, it 
 seems to me a thing impossible, to look upon marriage as a cold connexion 
 between two isolated beings, as a-life of indifference, or, at the best, of cold 
 conventional politeness ! Oh, no ! no !— I would concentrate in that life, all 
 the joys, all the adorations, all the deep powers of my soul. Now, mark my 
 words, now that I perceive and understand the fallaciousnes .of youthful 
 pleasures, they seem to me farther from happiness, than superstition is from 
 pure religion. I know not, mademoiselle, if you have been enabled to un 
 derstand me; I know not, if I have succeeded in conveying to you even a 
 weak idea of my thoughts and my feelings. If I have been so happy as to 
 do so — if, almost contrary to all my hopes, you can permit? me to authorise 
 M. de Versac in requesting, as he desires to do, your hand of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran, believe me, on the faith of an honourable man ! believe me, that, 
 beloved by you, I will in all things be deserving of your love." 
 
 As he gave utterance to these last words, M. de Lancry, who had been 
 sitting in an arm-chair, arose with an air of grave solemnity, that was ex- 
 
68 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 tremely touching, seeming, as to me it did, to indicate the delight of his 
 anxiety. 
 
 I cannot explain to you, my friend, all the emotions ■which this language 
 —to me, at least, so novel and so unexpected — awakened in my heart. It 
 seemed as if a new and more radiant horizon was opening upon my view. I 
 ■was seized, as it were, by a sort of delicious rapture ; inasmuch as the words 
 of Gontran, on the romantic character of a legitimate affection, appeared to 
 spring from, and carry out, a thousand thoughts, which, up to this time, had 
 lain vague and dormant in my bosom. 
 
 The charming picture which he had set before me, of married love, with 
 all the delicacies, the mysteries, and' the excitements of prevailing pas- 
 sion, transported me into a state of hopefulness, ineffable — yet, oh ! how 
 heavenly ! 
 
 I was too deeply happy to hide my joy — nay, to dissemble, in the least, in 
 my reply to his confession. I felt that my cheeks were glowing, and my 
 heart throbbing ; not now with timidity, but rather with a generous and 
 nobhï resolution. I thought that I would rise to the same elevation with the 
 man who had spoken to me "With such complete sincerity; whose words had 
 inspired me with confidence, so full and invincible. 
 
 " I will be neither less frank, nor less loyal, than you have been with 
 me," I answered him. " I am an orphan, and have no account to render, 
 of the choice which I shall make, save to myself, and to my God. I have a 
 deep faith in the truth of the existence of that love, which you have painted 
 so sweetly and so touchingly, because I have myself oftentimes dreamed of 
 the same future." 
 
 "It is true, mademoiselle; it is true! And I may then presume to 
 hope?" 
 
 "I have promised to be frank with you— I will be so. Before I give you, 
 not a hope, but a certainty, suffer me, too, to say -a few words on my senti- 
 ments. Do not imagine that what I am about to say, is the expression of a 
 doubt; which is far, far from my thought! I love my cousin as the most 
 affectionate of sisters. She is entirely portionless, and yet desires to marry 
 according to the dictates of her own heart. To place her in a position 
 where she may choose, as I do, without one touch of interest to bias her de- 
 cision, I wish to insure to her the half of all that I possess ; and should she 
 never marry, I wish to have her always with me. Can you consent that she 
 shall be your sister, likewise?" * 
 
 "Noble heart! noble heart ! Who would not approve a soul so disinter- 
 ested? Approve, said I? nay, who would not admire so pure and generous 
 an affection ? Is it not rather as a pledge of the elevation of all your other 
 sentiments, if any one should dare to doubt them? Besides, do not I also 
 know Mademoiselle Ursula? Am I not also well aware that she is worthy 
 your devoted love?" 
 
 "Truly!" I cried aloud, carried away by the excess of my feelings — 
 " truly «my heart seems to find an echo in the voice of yours. But now one 
 — one last question," I added, dropping my eyes, and paling as I spoke : 
 
 "Madame the Duchess de Richeville " But I stopped short at the first 
 
 words, unable to express myself any further. 
 
 Gontran replied at once : " I understand you, mademoiselle. The scandals 
 of the world have reached even you. Since my return from England — or 
 rather, since the ball at the Austrian ambassadoi's — I swear to you, upon 
 my honour, that I have been occupied by but a single thought : may I say 
 it ? — by but a single person !" 
 
 I gave my hand to Gontran ; but I could not prevent a tear from gliding 
 down each cheek. Oh ! what sweet tears ! 
 
 " If you would have the orphan's hand, it is yours : I give it to you be- 
 fore God!" I answered. 
 
 " Before God, also, I make the oath to deserve it!" replied Gontran, and, 
 falling on his knees, with a demeanour so natural, so charming — I might 
 almost say, so pious, that there appeared no touch of exaggeration in the 
 movement— he raised my hand to his lips. In all my life, I never have ex- 
 perienced an impression at ouce so sweet, so serene, and so triumphant. I 
 clasped my hands forcibly together, and cried in a voice of profound emo- 
 tion, "My God! my God! how can I ever be sufficiently grateful, that thou 
 Jvast made my life so joyous and so lovely !" 
 
 The rolling sound of a carriage in the court-yard announced that Made- 
 moiselle de Maran had returned. 
 
 "Matilda," said Gontran, "you will permit me to make, here at once, and 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 69 
 
 before your face, my request to your aunt; then I may come and pass the 
 evening with you." 
 
 "Oh! yes, yes!" I exclaimed joyously, "you are right. And will you 
 come back to me this very evening?" 
 
 •Mademoiselle de Maran entered the drawing-room at this moment, say- 
 ing, " Well, well ; I warrant me that you will never guess what Ursula has 
 been about in Touraine." 
 
 " No, irMeed, madam." 
 
 " Nor you, Gontran ?" 
 
 " I cannot possibly imagine.' 
 
 " Well, then, I know it: I have just come from M. d'Orbeval's lawyer 
 (who is mine likewise), and there he was engrossing — what do you think? 
 I will give you a hundred— I will give you a thousand guesses." 
 
 " But, aunt — " 
 
 " He was engrossing titles— engrossing deeds of gift for Ursula! for Ur- 
 sula, who is about to be married!" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, bursting 
 into a violent fit of laughter. 
 
 " Ursula going to be married? and without writing to me?" I exclaimed in 
 sorrowful surprise. " In her last letter, she never said a word about it." 
 
 " Wait — wait a moment. After he had opened the carriage-door, Peter 
 just gave me half-a-dozen letters, which I put into my bag without looking 
 at them : perhaps there is one from Ursula for you." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran began to rummage in her bag as she spoke, and 
 drawing out several letters, read their directions. 
 
 " To be sure," she said, " here is one, post-marked ' Tours,' for you." 
 
 " Madam," said M.tle Lancry at this moment to my aunt, " I am about 
 to have the honour of speaking to you on a very grave and important matter. 
 Perhaps I shall commit some offence against etiquette in entering upon, 
 such a subject without more prelude. But I am so happy, so eager to en- 
 joy, at the soonest, the privilege which will perhaps be granted to me, that, 
 with the consent of Mademoiselle Matilda, I venture to ask you for her 
 hand." 
 
 "Heavens!" exclaimed my aunt; " what do you tell- me, Gontran? It 
 comes upon me like a clap of thunder ! I can scarce recover from my sur- 
 prise ! Such a thing as this was never heard of: a marriage settled in this 
 offhand manner !" - 
 
 " You are quite right, madam : if you will only grant us your consent, I 
 can say, from my very heart, that I believe there will never have been a 
 marriage such as this, of all the marriages from the beginning," said Gon- 
 tran, with a sly glance at me. 
 
 " But the truth is, that I am quite astonished. Such things are never 
 managed so, my poor Gontran. The heads of the two families are the per- 
 sons who should make the first overture, with all sorts of preliminary steps 
 and formalities. Eight days are spent at least in these ; then come yet more 
 preambles; and then at leagth they call in the little girl — tell her it is na- 
 tural to suppose that, some day or other, she must be married ; and this 
 being the case, that a young man, uniting in his own person such and such 
 advantages, would be a very proper person for her husband." 
 
 " Well, then, dear aunt," I replied gaily, "just fancy that the eight days, 
 with all the long preliminaries, have passed, and that you have told the little 
 girl that a very proper person has presented himself—" 
 
 " What then ?" my aunt interrupted me. 
 
 " Well, then," said I, taking Mademoiselle de Maran affectionately by the 
 hand, for the first time in my life — " the little girl accepts him with the 
 deepest gratitude." 
 
 I found her hand as cold as ice; and while she held mine fast for a long 
 time, pressing it with her long, emaciated fingers, piercing me through and 
 through with her cold, passionless eye, and at length smiling on me, as she 
 alone could smile, I could not hinder a vague sentiment of terror from 
 creeping over me ; although it was speedily forgotten in what followed. 
 
 " You are determined, then," she said, " to have that abominable rake for 
 your husband, my child? Well, if it be so, let it be! I will not be the one 
 to stand in your way. I .consent, provided that M. d'Orbeval, your guar- 
 dian, and your uncle, Gontran, give their consent." 
 
 " It was his intention, madam, to have made this request of you himself, 
 had I not forestalled him," exclaimed De Lancry in a transport of joy. 
 
 "Ah! dearest aunt, you are a second mother tome!" I cried out, very 
 joyfully embracing her, as I did so, almost with the affection of a daughter. 
 
70 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 "He! he! he!— do you hear this little fool?" replied my aunt, bursting 
 into a fit of harsh and mocking laughter peculiar to herself; " me ! me a 
 second mother!" 
 
 Alas ! I had indeed blasphemed that holiest name of mother, when I 
 applied it to Mademoiselle de Maran, and Heaven was just in punishing 
 me severely. 
 
 At nine o'clock on the same evening, Gontran returned with his uncle, 
 M. de Versac, who announced, with a sort of official gravity, to' my aunt, 
 that the king had been graciously pleased to permit him to make over the 
 reversion of his ducal title and his peerage to De Lancry, on the occasion of 
 his marriage, 
 
 " So that, some day or other, you will be a duchess — certainly not so very 
 disagreeable when it is combined with a yearly income of a hundred thou- 
 sand livres," said Mademoiselle de Maran ; and then she added, " But, as 
 we speak of incomes, I have desired the servants to say that I am not at 
 home this evening. Monsieur de Versac and I have got to talk about con- 
 tracts and such stuff : lovers have nothing to do with such matters; so leave 
 us quietly here, and go away into my library." 
 
 What shall I say to you, my friend? what can I tell you about that 
 evening, which fleeted by so deliciously, filled with fond anticipations and 
 sweet converse, touching the prospects of a future which showed so bril- 
 liantly in its perspective ? Was it within the verge of possibility to combine 
 more numerous or more certain chances of a happy life ? Talents, good 
 looks, attractive manners, delicacy, desert in service, birth, fortune — did 
 not he to whom I was engaged possess all these advantages? 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE- LETTER. 
 
 What was my surprise, when I retired to my own room! I found, in the 
 little closet Wherein I was wont to read, an immense basket filled with jas- 
 mine and heliotrope, my favourite flowers ! It was in the month of Febru- 
 ary ; and it was since the morning only that Gontran had the right, if I may 
 so express myself, of offering me flowers. I could not conceive how, in so 
 short a time, he had been able to collect such a quantity of flowers, even 
 more rare than they were costly, at that season. 
 
 I was deeply touched by this little act of attentive foresight. Blondeau 
 was waiting, and I imparted to her all my happiness, and all my hopes; but 
 after she had listened attentively to what I said, that excellent woman an- 
 swered, 
 
 " Unquestionably, mademoiselle, I think that M. le Vicomte de Lancry is 
 quite as charming a person as you say. Well — one day he will be a duke — 
 a peer of the realm — that too is very possible ; but permit me to observe to 
 you, that before marrying, it is always prudent to make inquiries.' 
 
 What can you mean? inquiries? — do you not suppose that his uncle, 
 M. le Duc de Versac, has answered all the inquiries that my aunt could 
 think of — " 
 
 Blondeau shook her head. 
 
 " The answers of relations, my dear young lady, to such inquiries, are not 
 the most satisfactory. It is not on what we learn from them that we can 
 depend — nor even on what we hear from the world." 
 
 " What is the point at which you meau to arrive?" 
 
 " Listen, mademoiselle; if you will give me leave, I can find means of 
 finding out a great many things by setting the Vicomte's people talking, 
 below stairs." 
 
 " Ah,! that is base — base ! and is it to me that you presume to name so 
 infamous a system of espial? Remember one thing!" I exclaimed indig- 
 nantly — that if you set the slightest value on my regard for you, you will 
 promise me this instant, that you will never put the most trifling question to 
 any of M. de Lancry's people !" 
 
 " But, mademoiselle, it is your aunt, in point of fact, who, after all, has 
 brought about this marriage. .Do you forget, then, all her spiteful actions — 
 all the embittered hate she bore to the marchioness your mother — how she 
 caused her to die of a broken heart? At a moment like this, when you are 
 putting on ties that must last for ever, reflect, I entreat you, dear young 
 
TUE LETTER. 
 
 71 
 
 Jady— pardon me, that I speak to you thus ! I know that I am but a poor 
 woman, yet I love you as if you vere my own child — it is this feeling, and 
 this only, which gives me these ideas superior to my situation, gives me the 
 courage to utter them. Poor, poor young lady — you are so good, so gene- 
 rous, so unsuspicious in your nature, that you feel no distrust nor doubt of 
 any one. And as for Mademoiselle Ursula, in spite of all her sighs, and all 
 her affectation of being a victim ever, I cannot think her frank or sincere !" 
 
 " Listen to me, Blondeau — I know that a kind of jealousy, springing from 
 your affection, leads you to speak unjustly of Mademoiselle d'Orbeval — on 
 that account I pardon it — but, I beg you, suffer no allusion to escape you, 
 to this engagement which I am entering upon, and which is as honourable 
 as it is agreeable to me. I know what I am about — I am no child. It was 
 not Mademoiselle de Maran who proposed this match to me, but I who 
 spoke of it to her ; besides, I feel it here — that if my mother had been yet 
 alive, she would have approved of this my heart's selection." 
 
 " One last remark: if, as you entertain no doubt that they will be, all the 
 details of theVicomte's character will prove worthy to be known and praised, 
 why hesitate — " 
 
 "Listen, Blondeau!" I answered, in a very firm tone. " I cannot prevent 
 you from acting according to your own opinion ; but though it would truly 
 cost me — yes, cost me very dear, to deprive myself of your services, I declare 
 to you, that if you say one word to me on that subject, your fate is decided — 
 I will remove you from my person, and for ever !" 
 
 " Ah! look not at me thus, mademoiselle! Good God! you look at me as 
 you did when, yet a little girl, and set against me by your aunt's bad sug- 
 gestions, you told me that I loved money better than anything in the 
 world !" 
 
 And as she spoke the poor woman burst into tears. 
 
 But I replied to her with vexation and impatience, for her words had dis- 
 turbed my most sweet illusions. I replied almost harshly, " Alas ! I was so 
 happy — so happy — and why need you, with your absurd and hateful prophe- 
 cies, break in upon me, and distract my happiness ?" 
 
 And then, not choosing to give up to any other hands than mine the care 
 of arranging the precious flowers which Gontran had sent me, I took them 
 up, and carried them into my chamber. From that day forth, I have accus- 
 tomed myself to have flowers ever near me, without being aware of their 
 presence, except by a species of drowsy consciousness of their perfume, itself 
 by no means unpleasurable. 
 
 ' By degrees, the impatience which Blondeau's words had caused me passed 
 away before the influence of my sweet memories of the bygone day. And, 
 indeed, so thoroughly had my mind been preoccupied, that I had not even 
 opened Ursula's letter, telling me of her marriage. 
 
 With some other papers that I thought worth keeping, I have preserved 
 that letter. Here it is : 
 
 You will observe, in reading it, that the style is a little ambitious and 
 romantic. I had often complained to her of this fault in her letters, but 
 had failed in inducing her to correct it. You, my friend, who are tho- 
 roughly aware of all the phases of my friendship with Ursula, and all the 
 consequences of her mariiage, will, like myself, be scarcely able to restrain 
 a half-bitter smile as you read these lamentable, tearful lines,' in which she 
 depicts herself, so mournfully, led out a victim to the sacrifice. But times 
 had not then changed, all my illusions were yet fresh about me, and I was 
 cut to the heart by the misfortunes of my Ursula. That you may see the 
 whole at a glance, this letter, written in the most delicate, correct, and even 
 hand, was sealed with an engraved gem, bearing a death's head, on the 
 black wax — a seal which affected Ursula greatly. It ran thus : 
 
 ** Saint Korbet, February 1840. 
 
 " It is done, dearest Matilda. Your wretchedUrsula is sacrificed. She 
 has now but one prospect — to devote her whole life to tears and mourning. 
 It is with difficulty and doubt that through the gloomy clouds which veil the 
 horizon of her future lot, she catches glimpses of the ligh t of consolation, 
 which, she will doubtless owe to your affection. But, heavens ! why should 
 I marvel at this new blow which has befallen me — me, for so long a time, 
 used to suffering and silence ! me, the submissive victim, who have but to 
 bow my head in tears and woe ! 
 
 ** Pardon, my friend — my more than friend, my sister — pardon that I 
 Intrude, blighting thy happiness by the complaints which breathe from my 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 torn soul ! For I have a prophetic sense that thou art — that thou wilt he 
 happy — happy in thy heart's choice — in marrying him thou lovest. So 
 beautiful, so rich , so charming, that thou hast but to appear to conquer. 
 
 " Reverse the picture! behold the hapless Ursula, portionless, void of 
 beauty, destitute of charms, devoted from her very birth to sorrow. "What 
 would you have? it is her destiny! And yet what say I? — no! no!— I am 
 unjust — for have I not met thee upon my pilgrimage ? Hast thou not 
 stretched a hand to the deserted outcast? Does she not owe to thy gene- 
 rosity, to thy touching friendship, the most precious of all gifts, as Made- 
 moiselle de Maran terms it — a brilliant education? 
 
 " Have I not owed — do I not owe to thee, the sweetest, the most cherished 
 sentiment of this sad heart? Alas! if it were not for that — if it were not for 
 the involuntary hope it lends me, I should have perished of despair. Thou 
 wouldst have had now but to lament thy friend. 
 
 " Listen, Matilda. It is a folly, thou wilt say — be it so ! but it is a dole- 
 ful and heart-rending folly, I assure thee. I have presentiments too fatal. 
 But yet, whatever comes of it, I would leave thee a small memorial. £ 
 would give thee my books, and that little ornament of coral which thou 
 knowest. 
 
 " Alas ! I am poor, I have nothing — pardon the trivial present ; at least, 
 it may recall to thee our schooldays of light toil, our innocent and girlish 
 coquetries. Is it not so, Matilda ? Wilt thou not mourn thy friend ? Will 
 not a fleeting memory of her sometimes pass through thy mind, in those 
 proud courtly fetes, of which thou wilt be queen ? 
 
 " I would that I could find my last home here. I have gone often to the 
 humble churchyard of the village, for it has nothing shocking or repulsive in 
 its aspect — it is soft green hillock, surrounded by a hedge of elder, and of 
 hawthorn, which in the spring-time must be all one mass of flowers — here 
 and there stand crosses of rustic wood. How sweet, it were^to me, to rest 
 here, mingled with the ashes of these poor villagers, who sleep in unknown 
 graves! — like them, I should have passed all unappreciated, and almost 
 unseen, through the cold world. 
 
 " Pardon me, my Matilda, for this sad opening of my melancholy letter. 
 But my soul is so deeply pierced by sorrow, that I cannot but leave upon 
 my paper some traces of "the bitternes s which fills my "spirit. 
 
 " But I must tell you what is the cause of these bitter tears — 
 
 M I am about to marry ! , 
 
 "And, oh God! oh God! What a marriage! Farewell my girlish dreams I 
 Farewell my fleeting hopes ! And farewell, above all, that life of fond de- 
 votion, whose every instant I would have passed with thee ! 
 
 " One moment — one brief moment, I thought of struggling against the 
 dreadful and immovable will of my father ; but I perceived, at once, that 
 my life would be soon wasted in the unequal strife — thatl'should be broken 
 in the struggle ; and then — then a more powerful reason rose to my mind, 
 proving that resignation was a duty. Thou shalt know wherefore. 
 
 " Eight days have passed. It was upon the very day when I last wrote 
 to thee, that, without knowing wherefore, I was called to the apartment of 
 my father. Him thou hast never seen except in large companies, or before 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, who has great influence with him — to thee he 
 must have appeared merely grave and precise, and perhaps constrained. 
 Here he is used to govern, to speak his will inflexibly, to be obeyed; here 
 all his features have a different expression — they are stern, almost threat- 
 ening. 
 
 " 1 You have no fortune,' he said to me abruptly; 'you must now think 
 of marrying. I have found a match for you, such as you could not even 
 hope for — a young man with an income of sixty thousand livres, not taking 
 his expectations into view, nor what he may hope to realise hereafter, for he 
 manages his fortune admirably, and understands business very thoroughly. 
 He will be here to morrow with his mother. Take care that you bear your- 
 self so as to be agreeable to him; for if you please him, the marriage is 
 definitively settled. Above all things, be gay and simple ; for M. Secherin 
 is a good-hearted youth, perfectly frank and simple-minded. Consider all 
 that I have said to you. I leave you now, for I must go to my farm of 
 Santaies. In truth, that unfortunate property costs me more than it brings 
 me in, and it is absolutely necessary that you should make a good match, 
 or you.will find yourself in a position a good deal below mediocrity." 
 
 " Without giving me time to reply, my father left me alone. 
 
 ** Oh ! my beloved friend, I know not how to describe to thee the abyss of 
 
THE LITTER. 
 
 n 
 
 misery into which I felt myself plunged by those words, — I who, theu 
 knowest, had always dreamed with thee of that enchanting union of kindred 
 souls which one day, sooner or later, must come together, because, although 
 involuntarily, they are for ever seeking each its fellow, 
 
 " I passed the night in tears. Perchance thou wilt ask me, generous and 
 beloved sister, wherefore I had forgot thy noble promise of dividing with 
 me thy fortune, so as to enable me to marry according to my own choice ; or, 
 should I not find one whom I could love, of keeping me to live thy friend 
 and companion? No ! Matilda, no ! 1 had not forgot thy promise. I knew 
 that thy heart lacked not the greatness — lacked not the true nobility to keep 
 it. This was the cause, the only cause, why I would put it quite beyond thy 
 powers to make so great a sacrifice to our friendship. 
 
 " In thy devotion, admirable as it was unreflecting, thou hadst no thought 
 for the future. Thy fortune, although great, is not so much as to endure 
 division. With the whole of it, thou art a rich heiress— thou mayst promise 
 thyself a brilliant marriage ; dividing it, thou dividest thy chance of happi- 
 ness likewise. 
 
 " Doubtless, to remain with thee for ever was one of the sweetest dreams 
 of my girlhood. But who can say, whether such an arrangement would 
 have been agreeable to thy husband? Good God! I would rather die an 
 hundred deaths, than be the cause of the least misunderstanding between 
 you two ! I submitted myself then, Matilda. I found in friendship strength 
 enough tc support me through that act of self-resignation. Devoting myseif 
 then to you, I shall bless ever the sacrifice I made — believing that I so in- 
 sure your happiness to come. 
 
 "Alas! it has cost me very dear — bitterly did I weep during £ be whole 
 night which preceded my interview with M. Secherin. 
 
 "May I dare to tell, to confess the whole even to tî*^/ A thought of 
 crime interrupted my tears for a little space. My father's house is sur- 
 rounded by a deep moat full of water ; I arose, or< ;ned m y window, mea- 
 sured the height with my eyes : the moon wa? veiled by clouds, it was a 
 gloomy winter night— the wind howled dol^lly; already had I leaned far 
 over the balcony; I said to myself— bettf* even a death of guilt, than such a 
 life as awaits me. A dizziness cam" over me ; I was upon the point of 
 yielding to that desperate impulse when, as I gave one last thought to all 
 that was dear to me— that is to -ay, to thee—that one thought checked me. 
 I yielded ; I am resigned, content to live. 
 
 " Alas ! and will not tj^ 3 ^ ife > which barely even now suffices to resist the 
 sufferings that overwb~ lm me — will it not be consumed quickly by these de- 
 vouring cares? 0* ! ^ could be so — if it could but be so, I should bless 
 God for withdrawing me from this sad snare! I should hail death as my 
 reward for ^ * ne sacrifices which I have had the courage to impose upon 
 myself. 
 
 «< TAe fatal day arrived ; that very morning my father renewed his orders.- 
 Qhi how sternly! and I, with a sorf, of chilling desolation which partook in 
 some degree of indifference — I waited for the moment when I should be 
 presented to M. Secherin. 
 
 "Despite the injunctions, despite the anger of my father, I had not paid 
 the least attention to my dress. Heaven6 ! whence could I have gained the 
 courage to do so? I woie a black frock — too true indication of the thought 
 that weighed upon my heart. My hair fell in long dishevelled curls about 
 my face, which was pallid from despair. My whole figure was so bowed by 
 the burthen of my sorrows, that Mademoiselle de Maran would surely 
 have reproached me, and this time with justice, with being crooked and 
 deformed. 
 
 " It was in vain that my father chid me harshly — ordered me to hold my- 
 self erect, and to put on a smiling aspect. I could not overcome the terrible 
 emotions which assailed me, and scarcely could I muster resolution to turn 
 my head, when M. Secherin and his mother were announced. 
 
 " M . Eloi Secherin is, as my father tells me, engaged in great specula- 
 tions, and is augmenting daily the fortunes which his father left him. I 
 can inform you nothing — no, nothing, either of his appearance or his man- 
 ners ; for I saw them only through a cloud of tears. 
 
 " But M. Eloi Secherin cannot be very difficult to please ; for, after their 
 departure, my father went so far as to congratulate me, and assure me 
 that I had borne myself extremely well — been perfectly natural and un- 
 affected, and that M. Secherin and his mother had left the house enchanted 
 with me. _ 
 
74 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 "I am like some poor prisoner, whose eyes have not gained the power to 
 penetrate the darkness of the chill dungeon that confines her. I really 
 scarce saw either M. Secherin or his mother; I have but a vague and inde- 
 finite idea of them. At best, I heard but a few words which they uttered, 
 and even these mechanically. This very day, the marriage-contract will be 
 signed; to-morrow, or the next day at the farthest, I shall be a wife. 
 
 " When, in a few days' time, thou wilt see me agaÙL in Paris — thou wilt 
 open thine arms to receive a wretched victim, resigned indeed and obedient, 
 but 
 
 " Pardon me ! pardon me ! Matilda, for breaking in upon thy happiness — 
 for a secret presentiment assures me that thou art happy, that he loves thee. 
 Thou art aware of it since the ambassador's soiree. I have already told thee 
 so. Thou, too, wilt love him ; and sure I am, that even in becoming the 
 object of that love, he must in consequence be worthy of it. 
 
 " Happy, happy Matilda ! It is the certainty alone that thou wilt be 
 happy that aids me to endure the wretched life that I am destined to drag 
 out, until the burthen of my woes become too heavy for mortality to bear ! 
 then shall I quit this world of sorrow with but one feeling of regret, for those 
 sweet years which I passed happily with thee. 
 
 "Farewell! farewell for the last time — a sorrowful farewell! One little 
 moment, I dreamed of begging thee upon my knees to come and be present 
 at my marriage, that from thy presence I might gain courage. But I thought 
 better of it; I considered that the sight of thee, by reminding me of all 
 that I must lose through this sad separation, would take away from me the 
 little stocl^ of courage that is left me. Farewell once more. When thou 
 shalt see ag»i n thy wretched Ursula, thou wilt, I am assured, scarce recog- 
 nise her. 
 
 " Farewell, oh ! -e^e thee well ! my spirit fails me from the excess of 
 weeping! I am faint\ Thine from my heart, oh ! from the bottom of my 
 heart, ever, for ever, thin^, « Ursula d'Orbeval." 
 
 When I had finished the peruse 0 f that letter, I was indeed thunderstruck. 
 
 The thought which overcame all i>i ier s was, that Ursula had literally, as 
 she declared, sacrificed herself for me, ^ ar i n g lest she should be an obstacle 
 to my marriage with De Lancry. 
 
 I afterwards reproached my cousin for ha>i n g so little confidence in my 
 affection, or m that of Gontran. There reigned a n her written thoughts, 
 so deep a sadness, a dejection so despairing, thatv was seriously alarmed, 
 fearing that she should fall ill from the excess of grief ^ languor. 
 
 I had but one hope. Somethingmighthave occurred to c*>i ay the marriage. 
 I determined then, to beg Gontran, on the next day to set ou* f or Touraine 
 at once — to entreat my cousin to break off the terrible engagements an( j him- 
 self to assure her that the performance of my promises could in no sor t 
 affect our marriage. 
 
 I passed an anxious and weary night. The next day I awaited with 
 unspeakable sense of excitement Gontran's arrival. He did not hesitate for 
 a moment about setting forth; he understood, he partook of all my fears, 
 my hopes for Ursula, and manifested such true kindness as made me almost 
 adore him. Nothing remained but to acquaint Mademoiselle de Maran of 
 his intentions, and to depart immediately. We were conversing on this 
 interesting subject, when a letter was delivered to me from Tours. 
 
 Ursula was already married! Her letter, received the day before, had 
 been delayed on the road. 
 
 That news appalled me! I was so happy in my love for Gontran, that I 
 the better understood how wretched must be the lot of Ursula. 
 
 My cousin told me that in a few days she should arrive in Paris with 
 her father and her husband, and should pass there the latter portion of the 
 winter. 
 
 I had retired to my own room, intending to write to my cousin, and com- 
 plain of her want of confidence— to console, to encourage, to point out to her 
 those advantages which her grief had, perhaps, prevented her from dis- 
 covering in her marriage; when I found Blondeau in my closet, she told 
 me that a woman who had come to entreat my aid in a work of charity, was 
 solicitous to see me. 
 
 I ordered her to be admitted, and beheld a woman wrapped in a mantle, 
 her features covered by a thick, dark veil. 
 
 Blondeau left us alone together. The woman dropped her cloak, lifted her 
 ▼•il— It was the Duchesse de Richeville. 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 I was so much surprised, I may say so much frightened, at the sight of 
 Madame de Richeville, that I was forced to lean for support T)n the back 
 of an arm-chair, which stood near me. And yet the expression of her fea- 
 tures had nothing threatening in its character, or even angry. She was, in- 
 deed, much altered in appearance, and had grown very thin; and, at tlu's 
 moment, she was herself much agitated, though her looks were full of regard 
 and interest, if not affection. 
 
 She lost no time in speaking, as if to induce me to listen to her, and so to 
 win my confidence. 
 
 " How strange soever you may conceive my visit, mademoiselle," she said, 
 " I think it is in my power to reassure you. I come in the name of our 
 mutual friend, M. de Mortagne." 
 
 "Is he then here, madam?" 
 
 "Alas! he is not; and, although momentarily expected to arrive — even 
 so — I may not tell you one word of his mysterious voyage ; but I know all 
 the interest be feels for you. It is eight years ago, as he was coming from 
 his last interview with Mademoiselle de Maran, that he described the whole 
 tome. The family consultation ! — the scene with your aunt, and how he 
 took you up in his arms, and carried you into the chamber of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran, in spite of the feeble baying of Felix. I go into these details, to 
 show you that this man, this most generous of men, placed in me confidence 
 unlimited. It is in the name of that confidence, then, mademoiselle, that I 
 come to ask for yours." 
 
 "For mine', madam! you ! and for my confidence?" 
 
 I laid so strong a stress on the word you, that Madame de Richeville 
 smiled bitterly, as she replied, " Poor girl ! — so youthful still. And do you 
 believe already the slanders of the world? have they altered, annulled that 
 charming kindness of the heart, which M. de Mortagne foresaw in you, and 
 which your features still express? or why do you receive so coldly, advances 
 dictated only by a desire of promoting your advantage — advances author- 
 ised, if I may so speak, by the man who was one of the best friends of your 
 mother? Tell me — why do you thus receive me?" 
 , It is impossible to describe the insinuating charm contained in every 
 word, every accent of Madame de Richeville's voice; or to depict the look, 
 affectionate at once and melancholy, with which she accompanied those 
 words. Despite the meaningless jealousy which I entertained toward her, 
 I was myself moved, and replied less drily than before, 
 
 " I cannot help wondering at a visit which I had surely no right to ex- 
 pect, not having the honour of madame's acquaintance." 
 
 " A few months since, while we were coming out of the opera-house, did 
 not I say to you these words — ' Poor child, beware !' " 
 
 " I certainly heard those words, madam ; but I knew not to what end 
 they were spoken." 
 
 " You knew not?" replied Madame de Richeville, fixing on me a look so 
 penetrating that 1 felt myself blush deeply. But not wishing, I suppose, to 
 increase my confusion, she continued to speak, her voice and expression, if 
 that were possible, becoming more and more affectionate. 
 
 " Listen to me. In order to give you some cause for believing what I am 
 about to say to you — in order that I may be able to embark on the subject 
 which brings me hither, without the danger of exciting in your mind an 
 after-thought cf suspicion, I must give you some brief explanation of what 
 has taken place before. As long as I can remember anything, M. de Mor- 
 tagne has been my friend. He once rendered me one of those services which 
 can never be recompensed by a generous spirit, except by the devotion of a 
 life ; and when 1 speak of friendship and devotion, I speak of the sacred 
 duties which they comprise, not of mere empty names. I know not in what 
 black and odious colours your aunt has painted me to you; but one day yon 
 will know, that my most deadly enemies have never ventured to deny my 
 courage or devotion to my friends. Hereafter you will, perhaps, learn the mo- 
 tive of my eternal gratitude to M. de Mortagne. I know — I know the interest 
 with wnich you have inspired him ; now then, whatever he loves, I love too. 
 Here, then, is a comprehensible motive, why I too should be interested in 
 
76 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 your welfare. Is it not so? I have, indeed, many bitter enemies kindled 
 against me to tbe utmost; and, of all those, there is not one more impla- 
 cable than your aunt, Mademoiselle de Maran. I know all that she has 
 done to render your childhood miserable; now, too, she is plotting to make 
 you the most wretched of women. You ought to hate her, as bitterly as I do 
 myself: here is another reason for my interest. To rescue you from her 
 base designs, to unveil to your eyes her new treacheries — in short, to prove 
 my friendship and gratitude to M. de Mortagne, by doing toward you as he 
 would have done himself, — these are the potent motives which urge me on 
 in your behalf— sufficient, as I think." 
 
 " Madam," I answered, "I may have had cause, heretofore, to complain 
 of Mademoiselle de Maran's conduct; but within the last few days she has 
 done so much for me, that I ought to forget the little misunderstandings 
 which occurred while I was yet a little girl." 
 
 I laid, intentionally, a strong accent oh the words has done so much for 
 me, in order to give Madame de Richeville clearly to understand that I al- 
 luded to my marriage with Gontran. 
 
 The duchess shook her head mournfully, and said, 
 
 " Done so much for you ! It is, indeed, too true ! never has she done be- 
 fore so much to insure your misery !" 
 
 From that moment I understood the motive of Madame de Richeville's 
 visit. She loved Gontran; his proposed marriage with me had maddened 
 her with jealousy; she was as clever in invention as in dissimulation. The 
 purpose of her coming was to calumniate De Lancry, in order to break off a 
 union which she dreaded. 
 
 The very instant in which this idea struck me, Gontran became dearer to 
 me than ever, since I perceived how keenly the passion of his heart was dis- 
 puted. I was, in fact, almost proud to see a woman so handsome, so high- 
 spirited, so disdainful of the world's censure, haying recourse to disguise, 
 stooping to falsehoods the most shrewd and complicated, in order to come 
 and play before me so base a part of mock humility. 
 
 Determined, then, to meet the conduct of the duchess in this light, 1 an- 
 swered very drily, 
 
 " I repeat, madam, that, of late, I am profoundly and affectionately 
 grateful toward Mademoiselle de Maran for all that she has done for me." 
 
 " It must seem so," Madame.de Richeville answered; "and it is for that 
 reason, and because you would otherwise fall finally into the snare which 
 they have set for you, that I have come to you, unhappy girl that you are. 
 You are abandoned by all — alone in the world: look around you, now that 
 your only friend, your only protector, is afar — to whom can you apply for 
 aid? in whom can you put any trust?" 
 
 " In no one, madam! you speak but too truly. In no one 
 
 " In no one — not even in me- -would you say, Matilda? Oh! that is cruel 
 — be not offended, I beseech you, at my familiarity. I am almost twice your 
 age, and yet it is too true that I know not what to do, what to say, in order 
 to break this icy coldness which freezes you against me. Forgive me, if I 
 have addressed you in terms too affectionate. But, Heaven! in a moment 
 such as this, can I tame down the warm impetus of my heart to the formali- 
 ties of cold convention ?" 
 
 It needed all the prejudice, all the stern jealousy with which I was im- 
 bued, to prevent me from being quite disarmed by the enchanting grace 
 with which the duchess uttered these last words. 
 
 As always happens to a person in such a state of mind as I then was, some 
 particular words either move me deeply, or disgust me, in proportion as they 
 appear more like the utterance of the soul itself. I answered, therefore, to 
 Madame de Richeville, 
 
 " I should be glad, madam, to learn the real object of this visit; for if it 
 has no other one than to awaken ancient griefs between myself and Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, even while I thank you for the interest which you bear 
 me in the name of M. de Mortagne, I have only to reply, that, at present, 
 I have nothing to say but in favour of Mademoiselle de Maran." 
 
 " It must be that you have already undergone much, since, even at the 
 age of seventeen years, you have learned so much self-restraint as to be thus 
 unmoved and self-possessed," said Madame de Richeville, gazing at me 
 with a look of the tenderest melancholy; "or, if not so, your prejudices 
 against me must be invincible indeed." 
 
 Then she went on, as if talking to herself— "What profits it — what profit» 
 it to try? what matters it? and yet it is a duty;" and then again addressing 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 77 
 
 me, she said quickly, " It is a duty, and will be accomplished. They have 
 determined to marry you to M. de Lancry!" 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Maran and the Duc de Versac have certainly con- 
 sented to a resolution formed by myself and M. de Lancry, madam ; and the 
 marriage is decided on," I answered proudly, and triumphing, as it were, in 
 the power of crushing my rpval by these words, which were perhaps scarcely 
 seemly in the mouth of a young girl. 
 
 " And do you know what M. de Lancry is ?" 
 
 "Madam? " 
 
 " Well, I will tell you — I: M. de Lancry is a most fascinating person ; full 
 of accomplishments, of talents, and of courage — of perfect manners, of 
 finished elegance. All this you know already — is it not so, my poor child ? 
 This bright exterior has enchanted you. I blame you not for it. But, under 
 that bright exterior, he conceals a cold and arid heart; a selfishness that 
 nothing can divert from its object ; an insatiable avarice, which seeks to 
 glut itself by a rage for play. Long since, he has wasted his whole fortune ; 
 he is in debt, and that desperately. Oh ! believe me, Matilda, Mademoiselle 
 de Maran has facilitated — has, indeed, brought about this marriage, in order 
 to plunge you into an abyss of misery. Therefore it is, that I conjure you to 
 wait for your true friend, M. de Mortagne. I conjure you, in his name ! It 
 cannot be far distant — await it, ere you complete this engagement. You 
 know not the nature of the man whom you have chosen. Once more, for 
 the last time, I entreat you to wait for the return of M. de Mortagne — wait 
 for it, in the name of your mother!" 
 
 "It is enough, madam!" I exclaimed, indignantly. "I will not endure 
 to hear the name of my mother invoked, to give weight to calumnies to which 
 you are not ashamed to debase yourself. You — you, Madame la Duchesse ! 
 Alas ! madam, what have I ever done to you, that you seek to poison that 
 which I did regard, that which I still regard — God hears the words I utter ! — 
 as the sole happiness, the sole hope of my life? Alas! I shudder even now 
 with dread — for, ultered by any other mouth than yours, it may be that 
 these words would have shaken in some degree the confidence, the admira- 
 tion — yea, the love, which I feel for M. de Lancry." 
 
 " You would, then, have believed these words, had they been uttered by 
 any other than I," replied Madame de Eicheville, looking attentively at my 
 face, and endeavouring, as it seemed, there to read my thoughts; "why 
 should you place less confidence in me than in another?" 
 
 "Why — do you ask me? This, madam, this concerns M. de Lancry, Alone, 
 as I am in the world, certain reports " 
 
 "Ah! wretched, wretched girl !" Madame de Eicheville interrupted me, 
 in accents of surprise, almost of terror; " she thinks me jealous of M. de 
 Lancry. Then all is lost, indeed! You believe this, Matilda ! My God ! my 
 God! bitterly, then, must I have been calumniated, if you can really believe 
 me guilty of such baseness ! In love, myself, with M. de Lancry — you fancy 
 I have come to slander him to you, in order to break off a marriage which 
 would red ice roe to despair ? Say — say — is it this that you believe of me ?" 
 
 " Forgive my answering your question, madam." 
 
 " Is it so?" she replied, with a look of anguish ; " then I will make you a 
 confession, painful as it is — oh ! cruel to me — but what matters it ? it may 
 save you." 
 
 After a long pause of hesitation, Madame de Richeville spoke again ; but 
 when she did so, her voice was strangely altered, and even broken. She 
 blushed deeply, and again turned very pale, and exhibited, both in her face 
 and manner, every sign of embarrassment and confusion. 
 
 " Learn, then, that I, like you, once loved De Lancry ! Yes — like you, I 
 was fascinated by the brilliant charms of his exterior. But, too soon, I dis- 
 covered that when his vanity was once satisfied, nothing remained within 
 but selfishness, indifference, harshness — and cruelty. Yes, cruelty, indeed ! 
 so that, to-day, I know not which has the mastery of my soul, hatred or 
 utter scorn." 
 
 These last words of Madame de Richeville appeared to me so odious, that 
 'osing all control of myself , I exclaimed, 
 
 " And, notwithstanding this, at the ball of the Austrian ambassador — you 
 seem to have forgotten that, madam !" 
 
 Madame de Richeville shrugged her shoulders at my words, with an im- 
 patient motion. 
 
 " Listen to me, then— you shall learn why I so acted at that ball ; and by 
 Bo doing you will know M. de Lancry. It is nearly a year since, that I expe- 
 
78 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 rienced a severe calamity. I was one of the most miserable of women. Oh t 
 may you never know, Matilda, that it is suffering which makes us weak 
 May you never be so unfortunate as to know the perilous fascination that 
 lies in a friendly voice, which pities and consoles us in affliction. 1 trusted 
 to the protestations of M. de Lanery. I loved him truly and devotedly. I 
 was the best, the tenderest of friends to him. I lived, at that time, in al- 
 most absolute retirement; endeavouring only to anticipate his thoughts, his 
 wishes. One day, he came not near me. I became uneasy. I sent to his 
 house. He had set off for London without writing me one word; and giving 
 j\11 the world to understand that he was following to England some opera 
 girl, whom he had established within a few days as my rival. This conduct 
 was so base, so brutal, that my anger fell upon myself. I was indignant at 
 the idea, that I should have been the dupe of such a man. Almost to my 
 astonishment, the haughtiest and most absolute indifference succeeded to a 
 sentiment which, on the previous day, I really deemed immortal. There 
 are some outrages so base, that they call forth, not anger, but compassion, 
 for the miserable wretch who offers them. When I met M. de Lancry at 
 the ball of the ambassador, I saw him for the first time since he sacrificed 
 me so basely. In spite of all his bold and confident assurance, he was em- 
 barrassed — while I felt nothing — nothing but the desire of letting him per- 
 ceive my contempt, by receiving him in the terms of intimate familiarity 
 which are authorised only by ancient friendship. My vengeance went no 
 further. But to a man of M. d« Lancry's character — and, to say, the truth, 
 to men in general — nothing is so cutting as to perceive a smile of scornful 
 indifference on the lips of a victim, whom, in their vanity, they fancy death- 
 stricken by their perjury. 
 
 " I have told you with what interest M. de Mortagne has spoken of you to 
 me; and I was looking at you with affectionate curiosity, when Made- 
 moiselle de Maran thrust herself forward, in order to address to me some 
 barbarous words, of which you could not comprehend the double meaning. 
 I had enough self-command to make her no reply except by informing her 
 of a fact, which I knew would strike her with terror — the arrival of M. de 
 Mortagne, which I knew to a certainty ; he has been the victim of abomin- 
 able machinations. Before long, you will see him." 
 
 " Good heavens! madam," I replied, " what does this mean?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you yet," replied Madame de Richeville, "but he will 
 soon be here. It is on this account that I implore you to wait for him before 
 you complete this wretched marriage. A few words more," added the 
 duchess, perceiving my impatience, " and I leave you ! The very evening 
 of the ball at the embassy, the intentions of your aunt and M. de Versae 
 ceased to be a secret. It was whispered, on all sides, that the duke had 
 recalled his nephew from England in order to avail himself of this proffered 
 rich marriage. When the next day I saw you at the opera, in the box of the 
 Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, I had no longer any doubt on the subject. 
 Your aunt and M. de Versae had purposely confirmed this rumour, by 
 placing you in a great public box at the opera, in close contact with M. de 
 Lancry, in order to prevent any other person from approaching you. Made- 
 moiselle de Maran well knew that another young gentleman— of whom I 
 shall speak to you by and by, and in whom M. de Mortagne" feels a lively- 
 interest — having seen you at the embassy, where you made a deep impres- 
 sion on«him, intended to propose for your hand. I perceived the danger 
 which you ran, and in coming out of the opeia-house I said to you, ' Poor 
 child, beware !' but it was not my intention to limit myself to that barren 
 hint. It was my intention to have told you that which I am now telling 
 you, before M. de Lancry should have made any impression on your heart; 
 for, gifted with the advantages which he undoubtedly possesses, and fa- 
 voured in his suit by your aunt, I felt that he could not fail to please you. 
 Unhappily, the very day following the opera I was taken ill — and then 
 became so much worse, that it was impossible to fulfil my wish. In that 
 extremity, I opened my heart to Madame de Mirecourt, one of my friends 
 who often sees your aunt, and who undertook to speak to you in private, to 
 give you information touching this marriage which they were planning for 
 you, and to entreat you to await the return of M. de Mortagne. Your aunt, 
 it seems, suspected Madame de Mirecourt, whose intimacy with" me she wel 
 knew, and hindered her before seeing you in private. Then, more than 
 ever, I cursed the sufferings which prevented me from seeing you myself. 
 Daily, 1 felt your love for De Lancry must needs be increasing. I wishedto 
 Write you, but feared that your aunt would intercept my letter. I was wf: 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 79 
 
 despair when I thought that, perchance, had you been warnedi n time, you 
 would not have thus ruined all your future hopes. 1 felt so deep an interest 
 in you, that the thought cut me to the heart! But, alas ! even now I see in 
 your coldness, Matilda, that I convince you not. In your distrust of me, 
 you ask yourself, I know, incessantly — what can explain this powerful in- 
 terest in your welfare? My God ! must I again repeat to you, that by 
 endeavouring to save you, I discharge an obligation to M. de Mortagne?" 
 
 " And, at the same time, madam," I replied bitterly, " avenge yourself on 
 M. de Lancry." 
 
 " Avenge myself, Matilda !" answered the duchess mildly ; " and is it 
 absolutely necessary that I must be instigated by such a feeling, before I 
 can entertain affection or compassion for you? Would not the hardest heart 
 break, to behold a poor young thing like you — so beautiful, so interesting — 
 abandoned to your fate, betrayed by a clique of vile egotists — becoming, 
 after all, the victim of your aunt's hatred and M. de Lancry's avarice?" 
 
 " It is too much, madam!" I exclaimed violently, for my pride was 
 wounded. " Am I then altogether so ill-favoured and ungifted, that M. de 
 Lancry can have no motive but my fortune, why he should ask my hand? 
 If he have deceived you — odiously deceived you, if-you will — is that a rea- 
 son why he should not appreciate a heart that is entirely his own? And who 
 tells you, madam, that you loved him, as he deserves to be loved? and who 
 tells you, that all the women put together, whom he has, as you say, basely 
 deceived, ever loved him as deeply as I do ? — and who tells you, I say, that 
 it is not the very greatness and nobleness of his soul that causes him to 
 mark the distance which intervenes between a guilty and illicit love, and an 
 affection consecrated in the eyes of man and God? — and by what right do 
 you — you who confess yourself guilty of a crime — accuse him of cowardice 
 and baseness ? By what right do you dare to set your love in comparison 
 with mine ?" 
 
 " Oh God ! oh God ! to hear such words as these !" exclaimed Madame de 
 Richeville, hiding her face in her hands, with an expression of humiliation 
 and of sorrow which mus.t have moved me, had [ not been so thoroughly 
 indignant. But, alas ! at the moment I could not moderate my language, 
 and I gave way to a cruel wrath, which I regret, even to this moment. 
 Carried away by the desire of avenging Gontran's wrongs, which I believed 
 him to be suffering at her hands, I went on with fluent vehemence — 
 
 " You say that he has no fortune — that he has dissipated all ; the better, 
 I reply, madam, the better ! I am twice happy that I am enabled to give 
 him mine ! He has lost all at play, you tell me — now that he is rich, he will 
 have no more need to fly to that resource. You think that he deceives me ; 
 be satisfied, madam, be satisfied — envy and jealousy will oftentimes mistake 
 their own malicious hopes for foresight! True love is happier — strong in its 
 own devotion, in its own generosity; it certainly foresees the recompense 
 which it deserves, and which it will obtain!" 
 
 Madame de Richeville raised her lovely face, which, to my great surprise, 
 was covered with tears, and absolutely convulsed with passionate grief. 
 
 I confess to you, my friend, that when I beheld that woman, commonly 
 so proud and disdainful, listening calmly and submissively to my reproaches 
 — despite my indignation, I felt emotions which I could repress only by a 
 powerful effort. 
 
 She took my hand, which I had not courage to draw away from her, and 
 said to me very sadly, " It is done, then, Matilda — there is no hope, any 
 more. You are the victim of a false pride — the same false pride which 
 ruined me— which ruins half our sex I I too — when I loved De Lancry — I 
 too said to myself, ' Am I not fairer, am I not more fascinating than my 
 rivals ? They have not had the power to rivet that inconstant heart, to tame 
 that fiery and haughty character, which sports with the most devoted feel- 
 ings. But I— I shall succeed.' Alas! Matilda, I have told you my shame 
 and its punishment ! And imagine not, that I wish to compare myself for 
 one instant with you — that I presume to think that I could^bear off from 
 you the palm of personal beauty ! that I could dream of competing with 
 that rare assemblage of high qualities that mark you. It is that very loveli- 
 ness — those very qualities, which I had well-nigh divined before I knew 
 them, that rendered me more anxious to serve the protégé of M. de Mor- 
 tagne — without considering the bearing of your words, my poor child, you 
 have but now made me too deeply feel the difference between that love 
 which I had to offer to M. de Lancry, and that which you have given to him. 
 Y«ni ore in the right, Matilda. If M. de Lancry could hare been touchy 
 
80 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 by all that there is angelic and adorable in your love for him, you roighî 
 have realised the happiness of which you have but dreamed. But trust 
 me," she continued, dropping her voice almost to a whisper, and casting a 
 glance at me through her tears, which seemed to go directly to my heart — 
 " trust me, however guilty may be the love — whatever may be the nature 
 of a woman who loves and adores sincerely, no man of devoted heart and 
 noble character will respond to the proofs of that deep attachment by 
 insults or by cruelty. Such conduct surely tells of an evil nature! And 
 yet, Matilda, perhaps you are right, without your own knowledge of it. 
 Perhaps you are destined to change completely the character of M. de Lan- 
 cry. Certainly — if grace, beauty, amiability, I had almost said perfection, 
 could work marvels in your favour, you will succeed. But, alas ! believe me, 
 if I had entertained the slightest hope that such a conversiou were even 
 possible, I should have deemed it a crime to disturb your credence, your 
 faith in his love ! After all, it is the future only, that can decide ! Farewell, 
 Matilda, farewell! one day perhaps you will know me better. One day 
 
 Îerhaps, my poor child, you will say to me with bitter penitence, ' Why did 
 doubt your truth !' But, bear me witness, God ! rather would I remain, 
 in your opinion, such as you think me now — a wicked and perfidious woman 
 — than see my prediction realised in your misfortunes. Farewell! once 
 more, farewell ! For the last time — will you not await the return of M. de 
 Mortagne?" 
 
 " Madam," I answered, moved at length by the tears of the duchess, " I 
 entreat you, let us break off this interview. Words have escaped me which 
 I regret — sincerely, oh! how sincerely! At least let them prove to you, by 
 the passion with which I have defended M. de Lancry, that my heart be- 
 longs to him for ever." 
 
 " One more last word, and I. leave you," said Madame de Richeville : 
 '•' that which I am about to say can in no wise alter your resolution ; but I 
 must not suffer you to be in ignorance of the projects of M. de Mortagne, 
 which regard yourself. Before his departure for Italy, thinking of your 
 future life, he had, as I have told you, spoken of a marriage between your- 
 self and the son of one of his best friends, M. Ulrik de Rocïiegune, who was 
 then about twenty years of age, and whose fortune would be considerable. 
 At that time the young man appeared to M. de Mortagne to be a match 
 worthy of you. Now M. de Rochegune, by the death of his father — one of 
 the noblest characters of his times — is the possessor of vast fortunes. He 
 has just returned from a foreign tour, and every one unites in speaking 
 highly of his intellect and qualities : without being handsome, his counte- 
 nance is full of intelligence and character. He saw you at the ambassador's 
 ball, was struck by your beauty, and had it not been for the affectation with 
 which Mademoiselle de Maran paraded your marriage in advance, with 
 M. de Lanery, M. de Rochegune would have sought to be presented to you. 
 Had M. de Mortagne been here, he would have introduced to you his pro- 
 tégé. I tell you this, Matilda, to let you understand that your determination 
 not to await the return of your only friend, before completing your mar- 
 riage, may be the more afflicting to him, that he had views in which he 
 believed your happiness was involved." 
 
 " I wish M. de Mortagne were here, whose goodness I shall never forget, 
 in order that I might answer him that I have made an honourable choi çe, 
 and that no consideration should hinder me from marrying M» de Lancry," 
 I answered, with that inflexible obstinacy of will which is a characteristic 
 of strong love, blinded and heightened at the same time by opposition. 
 
 " Farewell r then, Matilda," said Madame de Richeville, with a p ne- 
 trating accent; "give me, at least, the assurance that you believe in the 
 disinterestedness of my advances ; that will console me somewhat for the 
 grief I feel at having been unable to convince you; tell me that you vvili 
 not preserve an unkind opinion of my motives." 
 
 I was upon the point of answering her, when Blondeau entered the room 
 abruptly. 
 
 Madame de Richeville dropped her veil. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Blondeau, " Mademoiselle de Maran begs that you 
 will go down to her immediately." 
 
 Madame de Richeville made me a modest courtesy, and withdrew. 
 
 And now, my friend, I know beyond the possibility of doubting, that Ma- 
 dame de Richeville was actuated by no odious retrospective feelings, when 
 she thus spoke to me. She felt, in truth, the affectionate compassion which 
 she professed. Her gratitude toward M. de Mortagne, and the interest 
 
THE JUSTIFICATION. 
 
 81 
 
 which ihe felt in my situation, had been the only motives of her ad 
 vance. 
 
 You must know, my friend, that this woman is a strange union of contra 
 dictions. She passes half her life in deploring the faults which she has 
 committed, and that from the bottom of her soul! and without hypocrisy ! 
 Her high position — her proud, haughty character, would render all hypocrisy 
 as impossible, as it would be useless to her. 
 
 No ! she is one of those peculiar creatures, potent for evil as for good. 
 She came from the hands of her Maker pure, noble, great. Education, the 
 world — the life which others have cut out for her, far more than her own 
 evil inclinations, have made her guilty. Still there are in her such coun- 
 tervailing qualities; her intellect is so clear-sighted; her judgment is so 
 superior: her heart has remained so good, her soul so generous, that, ele- 
 vating herself at times from the midst of melancholy recollections and sin- 
 cere repentance, she raises to heaven a glance of supplication, not un- 
 mingled with despair, while she casts to the earth a smile of bitterness and 
 scorn. 
 
 At another time, my friend, I will tell you some admirable traits of con- 
 duct in this woman, who has unquestionably had her errors, but who has 
 been always most unjustly slandered. 1 will tell you, then, of her dreadful 
 marriage, which might have alone sufficed to cast her into the abyss, from 
 which she has emerged, purified by the expiation of her sufferings. 
 
 Judge, therefore, of the remorse which oppresses me, when I remember 
 ihe disdainful harshness with which I met her advances, dictated as they 
 were by the kindest interest: 1 dare not, as yet, say by the most fatal 
 'ore sight. 
 
 Scarcely had Madame de Richeville left me, before I went to seek my 
 aunt, and the first person that I perceived with her was Gontran. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE JUSTIFICATION. 
 
 When I saw M. de Lancry, I could scarce hinder myself from blushing, 
 when I thought of the calumnies to which 1 believed him a victim. 
 
 "I have sent for you, Matilda," said my aunt, "because Gontran here is 
 stunning me with questions about the corbeille* He is asking me wha-t 
 your taste is; what sets of jewels you wish to have. It would be much 
 better that you should tell him than I ; then settle it between you ; here are 
 writing materials." 
 
 And she pointed, as she spoke, to her writing-desk, for we were in the 
 library. 
 
 At the same moment Servien entered, saying to his mistress, 
 " Mademoiselle, M. Bisson is in the drawing-room." 
 
 " And you have left him there alone! He will break everything to 
 pieces !" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, hurrying out to prevent, if possible, 
 some new misdeed of the savan; who, after some time spent in banishment 
 and disfavour, had just recovered her good graces. 
 
 I was alone with Gontran ; but, hesitating whether I should tell him of 
 Madame de llicheville's visit or not, I kept silence. 
 
 " I am very glad that Mademoiselle de Maran has left us," said Gontran, 
 " for I want to speak with you very seriously." 
 
 " About the corbeille!" I replied, smiling. 
 
 " No !" he said with a grave voice, which werrt to my heart. " Yesterday, 
 I spoke to you of the future — of my prospects, of my sentiments. You 
 believed me ; you were willing to confide to me the care of your happiness ; 
 you were so generous as to pledge me your word. Yesterday, in the de- 
 light which that unexpected success caused me, I did not think of speak- 
 ing to you of the past; and yet the past is always an omen either of good or 
 evil for the future. Just now a scruple has occurred to me. You are an 
 orphan ; your aunt is an intimate friend of my uncle, the Duke de Versac ; 
 
 * The corbeille (or basket) is a French marriage present, of jewels, &c, 
 made by the bridegroom's relations to the lady — as the trousseau is the col- 
 lection of dresses, &c, furnished by her own family. 
 
82 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 ehe is full of the most favourable opinions in my behalf. If I have nay 
 faults, any vices, it is not she — it is M. de Versac who will inform you of 
 them. Am I not right? But you have shown yourself so confiding, so true- 
 hearted toward me, that the nobleness of your conduct imposes duties on 
 me. You are alone : you are surrounded by persons who love you, who have 
 unquestionably presented me to your mnst favourable notice. Tt remains, 
 then, for me frankly to enlighten you with regard to my faults — with regard 
 to whatever. there may have been blameable or guilty in my past life. I will 
 do so without exaggerating the evil, and yet with strict severity Thereafter, 
 you will judge if 1 am worthy of you: and even if my misfortune should 
 cause these revelations to destroy the dearest hopes of my life, I shall have 
 at least the consolation of having acted as becomes a man of honour." 
 
 In proportion as M. de Lancry spoke sincerely, so did I feel myself moved 
 with surprise and tenderness. Gontran, by a chance that seemed almost 
 miraculous, had actually met half-way the thoughts which had been excited 
 in my bosom by the words of Madame de Richeville. 
 
 The instinct of his heart had warned him to justify himself beforehand on 
 those points whereon he found himself liable to attack. 
 
 His frankness charmed me, and I awaited his disclosures with more curi- 
 osity than uneasiness. Indeed, I felt myself so completely reassured, that 
 I said to him, smiling, 
 
 " I listen to you ; but if it is a confession, be upon your guard. I may not 
 be able to hear the whole." 
 
 " I swear to you, however, that nothing is more serious," replied Gontran. 
 " Now that I cast back a glance upon the past, now that I have seen you — 
 now, above all, that I have been enabled to compare my impressions of 
 former times with my impressions of the present, my life appears to me in a 
 very different light. Yes! certain thoughts, which have hitherto been con- 
 fused and vague, develop themselves now clearly to my comprehension. 
 1 understand, now, the sort of restlessness, of impatient fretfulness, which 
 has been wont to blight or to cut short those passing and short-lived attach- 
 ments which once seemed so seductive. The farther I advanced in life, the 
 better I began to comprehend the emptiness, the bitterness of such affec- 
 tions. I sought for quiet happiness, for calm, for a repose of the heart, — I 
 found only excitement, agitating and ever painful. The women who had 
 sacrificed their duty in my favour, perhaps, after long struggles, experienced 
 a degree of remorse that often made me curse the happiness they gave me ; 
 while yet I was more disgusted by the effrontery of those who had forgotten 
 how to blush. And yet, I whispered to myself— and yet there must be a 
 happiness all different from this ! 
 
 In my despair of attaining the necessary end, to which all the faculties of 
 my soul were directed, I very shortly broke the idols to which I had but 
 now burnt incense. I experienced a sort of malicious pleasure at making 
 them partake that bitterness of soul, in which they had steeped me to the 
 very lips. Perhaps I carried this feeling to the length of cruelty. Ought I 
 then to accuse myself? I know not — perhaps it would be more just to accuse 
 the ideal which inspired my waking dreams. Yes ! for that it was which 
 rendered me so unjust, so severe to all which did not resemble its perfection. 
 If you should ask the world about me, Matilda, it would tell you, that I 
 have shown myself, in the breaking off some of these amours, selfish, dis- 
 dainful, cruel. That, too, is true. I was dissatisfied with myself. I was 
 impatient to escape the bonds of a false happiness ; wishing to find that 
 true one which ever seemed to escape me. Those ideas which most rarely, 
 or perhaps never occur to us, are oftentimes the simplest. I was very far, 
 then, from imagining, that the unknown goal, which I was struggling so ar- 
 dently to reach, was to be found in married life. Had any one, at that 
 time, so explained to me the aspirations which possessed me, I should have 
 laughed him to scorn. 
 
 " When I saw you, Matilda, a bandage as it were fell from my eyes. Yes, 
 the present reveals to me the meaning of the past ! When I saw you, that 
 which I had formerly dreamed of in darkness, appeared to me in distinct 
 light ! Disdaining guilty thoughts, I then paid homage, if I may so express 
 myself, to that pure sacred sentiment for which my heart, with all its secret 
 instincts, was crying out, and which you only were destined to make me 
 know." 
 
 I remained stupefied with wonder and admiration, when I heard Gontran 
 thus explaining what had gone before. 
 You will remark, my friend, that, by a singular coincidence, he defended 
 
THE JUSTIFICATION. 
 
 83 
 
 himself by the selfsame arguments which I had advanced against Made- 
 moiselle de Richeville's accusations. 
 
 You will perceive, then, how forcibly the arguments of Gontran must 
 have struck me. What woman, already loving a man to infatuation, could 
 fail to believe him when he should say to her, "I love you! I shall love 
 you all the more, in proportion as I have disdained and outraged all that 
 was different of your sex from you! " Tell me, my friend, would there be 
 a more dangerous paradox ? Does it not, in fact, by means of a fatal 
 shrewdness, or rather of a profound knowledge of the human heart, build 
 up, as it were, a pedestal of all the treasons previously committed, to place 
 thereon the goddess of the highest adoration ? 
 
 Is not this paradox, moreover, the more dangerous, when the woman so 
 exalted feels within herself, that she in no respect resembles the women 
 who have been sacrificed to her? and was it not in this position that I was 
 placed with regard to Gontran ? 
 
 Alas ! was it so evil a self-pride, to believe my devotion, my love for him, 
 superior to all the love, all the devotedness, that he had ever met before? 
 
 Gontran appeared to me so completely exculpated of all the accusations 
 of Madame de Richeville, that I perceived I ought not to speak to him of 
 the visit of the duchess. I thought, too, that she might have come to see 
 me, actuated by a real wish to serve me. She was the friend of M. de 
 Mortagne; and this last reason would have sufficed alone to make me 
 keep her secret. 
 
 Gontran watched me for a while with an uneasy air, ignorant what effect 
 his words had produced on me. 
 
 I offered my hand to him, with a smile: " Let us talk now," I said, " of 
 our future prospects." 
 
 He shook his head sadly, and replied, " How good and generous you are ! 
 but I must not as yet say us, in speaking of you and myself. I have yet 
 more confessions to make to you." 
 
 " Well, then, be quick," I answered, " be quick, and confess the whole. 
 Let us see — what is the question now? You have played deep? — have you 
 been a prodigal? — your fortune is squandered? Are these the terrible con- 
 fessions which you have got to make?" And then 1 added, with a smile, 
 " Come, do I not talk to you like an old indulgent grandmamma?" 
 
 " For pity's sake, jest not, Matilda," he answered; "it is too true — fora 
 time I played desperately. Yes! in that resource I sought for emotions 
 which 1 found not elsewhere. Disgusted by the effrontery I met in some of 
 my love affairs — terrified by the remorse of which I was the cause in others — 
 having nothing to attach me to life — having no future to which to look for- 
 ward beyond the coming day — feeling my heart oppressed — blushing alike 
 foi myself and others — desperate of ever finding that happiness which filled 
 my dreams — loving nothing — regretting nothing — I plunged into the gulf of 
 chance ! But the barren excitement of play, its convulsive agonies and 
 sordid hopes, soon wearied me. Playing to gain forgetfulness, and not to 
 win, I certainly lost heavily, and my fortune suffered by it; it was before 
 embarrassed by the great expenses which I was obliged to meet, in order to 
 sustain my rank befittingly in the embassy to which I was attached. Never- 
 theless, at this moment 1 possess " 
 
 "Ah! not a word more!" I exclaimed, with a reproachful voice. "Can 
 you talk to me thus ? Do you imagine that I could consider, for one mo- 
 ment, what you do or do not possess ? Did you, yourself, give a thought 
 to the gift which, had I made it to my cousin, as I proposed, would 
 have reduced my fortune to one half — although her sacrifice rendered it 
 needless?" 
 
 "But yet, Matilda " 
 
 "Let us speak of the corbeille," said I, with a smile; "or, rather, let us 
 talk of things more important still. Let us talk of our future life. When 
 we leave my aunt's house, whither shall we go? Let us see, let us see, sir; 
 have you even so much as asked me in what part of the town I should 
 like to live ? Let me inform you of my taste in the arrangement of our 
 dwelling." 
 
 "Matilda, I should like to see you more serious in matters of interest." 
 
 " You wish to see me serious? Very well," I replied, with an expression 
 of the sincere gratitude which I felt; "very well, suffer me to tell you how 
 seriously happy I was at receiving yesterday, in the depth of winter, that 
 beautiful basket of jasmine and héliotrope. Believe me, this is in truth 
 more serious than mere business matters. In these there is something more 
 
84 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 than, figures -there is a sentiment, a presage. "What did I say ?— a presaga- 
 rather a certainty of future happiness ! Oh, yes ! the heart reveals itself in 
 the smallest things; and the man who has shown so much delicacy on one 
 occasion, will not fail on another. These flowers, which have been the first 
 mark of your feelings, will always remain to my thoughts a symbol of my 
 happiness! Oh! to begin, I shall be very exacting! Every morning I shail 
 insist on having a basket full of flowers; but I must tell you that my heart 
 awakens very early, and that a thought of you will have anticipated the 
 arrival of the bouquet!" 
 
 " It is upon my knees— it is upon my knees that I ought to adore you, 
 Matilda ! How should I fail to devote the whole of my lifetime to your 
 happiness? He must be the most wretched and most base of men, who 
 would not promise before God to render you the happiest of women." 
 
 "Oh! I believe you, Gontran. I have too much trust in my own love, 
 not to place a blind confidence in yours. Why should you deceive me? 
 Gifted as you are, could you not find a thousand other girls who would love 
 you? — not better than I do — there I defy them! but who would have more 
 charms to offer you? I place all trust in what you have told me, Gontran, 
 because I know that you are generous and true. All that you have just told 
 me of your past life, at the risk of displeasing me, at the risk perhaps of los- 
 ing me' for ever, is but a proof to me of your sincerity." 
 
 What shall I tell you more, my friend? The rest of my conversation with 
 M. de Lancry turned on the projects of future life. Our marriage was to be 
 celebrated as soon as the necessary formalities could be accomplished. The 
 king was to affix his signature to the. contract, and Gontran was to take the 
 orders of his majesty upon the subject. 
 
 We conversed with extreme satisfaction about our future arrangements ; 
 about our house ; the seasons which we would pass in Paris, in travelling, 
 or upon our estates. 
 
 Gontran spoke to me of a charming hotel as our residence, situated in the 
 faubourg St. Honoré, and overlooking the Champs Elysées. W T e resolved lo 
 go and see it with Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 He begged me also to learn to ride on horseback, in order that we might 
 take long rides together in the country, and that I might be able to accom- 
 pany him in hunting, of which he was passionately fond. We eveu laid 
 down rules by which to approximate our expenses; and Gontran, who had 
 always been extremely lavish, talked to me very seriously about a reasonable 
 degree of economy. " While he had been a single man," he said, " these 
 ideas of order had never once occurred to hirn ; but now he perceived all the 
 necessity of it." There can be nothing more delightful than this considera- 
 tion of future projects — than these plans for the time to come — now solemn, 
 aud now joyous. My early youth had passed so sadly in the house of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran— I had always lived hitherto so completely as a little 
 child — that I could scarcely believe the happiness that awaited me. 
 
 Two or three days after this conversation, Gontran came to see us one 
 morning — Mademoiselle de Maran, I mean, and myself — in order to take 
 us to look at the hotel in the faubourg St. Honoré, about which he had 
 spoken to me. 
 
 After a few moments' conversation, Mademoiselle de Maran said, speaking 
 of the house which Gontran desired to buy, 
 
 " Stay ! stay ! Is it not the Hotel Roehegune, of which we are talking?" 
 
 "Yes, madam," replied De Lancry, " it is a splendid opportunity. The 
 old Marquis de Roehegune died last year; his son, Abel de Roehegune, on 
 his return from travelling, had made great improvements in it, intending to 
 live there ; but, as he is very feeble, he changed his mind very suddenly, and 
 now wishes to get rid of it." 
 
 "He takes after his family, then," said Mademoiselle de Maran, "for 
 there never was a greater original or a more insupportable person than his 
 father." 
 
 "Yet every one speaks of him with veneration, madam," answered Gon- 
 tran, apparently surprised. 
 
 "Well! well!" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, with a kind of sardonic 
 laugh, "he was a sort of old idiot, a kind of philosopher, a dreamer of 
 dreams, and above all, a mad philanthropist, for ever groping about in the 
 jails and bagnios, where he suffered himself to be plundered by messieurs 
 the thieves, and messieurs the robbers, whom he was for ever embracing, and 
 calling his brothers— God save the mark! which must have been extremely 
 pleasant for his family! In addition to which, this abominable man, when 
 
THE JUSTIFICATION. 
 
 83 
 
 he had just come forth from receiving their Judas kisses, had the further 
 delightful quality of embracing you on the slightest pretext of relationship 
 or friendship; neither more nor less than if you had been one of his dear 
 brothers, the galley-slaves!" 
 
 "But, madam, he has founded, as I understand, an almshouse for the 
 poor on one of his estates." 
 
 "I know it very well — that is another of his abominations!" 
 
 " How so, madam?" asked Gontran. 
 
 " He founded it, in order to obtain the right of tyrannising over a heap of 
 old vagabonds, who were entirely dependent on him. One can have no idea 
 of the contrivances of that horrid man to torture those miserable people. To 
 amuse himself, he made them eat wolves, and bats, and rats ; he beat them 
 to a mummy ; made them work eighteen hours a-day, at all sorts of tasks, 
 from which he derived great profit; so that it was well understood, that this 
 almshouse, as it was called, was in reality a very productive farm, to say 
 nothing of the reputation of charity which it produced him, and which 
 served as a sort of cloak for all kinds of shameful actions." 
 
 Although I had no reason to be particularly interested in the memory of 
 M. de Rochegune, I was yet disgusted by the malignity of my aunt. I gave 
 Gontran a glance which made him understand my feelings, and he seemed 
 no less shocked than I. 
 
 " I think, madam," said he to my aunt, "you must have been misin- 
 formed, and that — " 
 
 " Not at all — not at all," she interrupted him. " I know perfectly well 
 what I say. He was a disagreeable wretch, if I were to judge of him only by 
 his friendships. He had for a disciple a sort of relation of ours, on the side 
 of my sister- in-law — God be thanked for him ! who was worth little more 
 than he : M. de Mortagne !" 
 
 " M. de Mortagne? that old soldier of the empire — that traveller, as ori- 
 ginal as he is indefatigable!" said Gontran. " Indeed, I did not know that 
 he had the honour of belonging to your family." 
 
 " Yes indeed ! we have that honour — at least we had it !" 
 " How, madam, is M. de Mortagne dead?" asked Gontran. 
 " Dead! Great God!" exclaimed I, catching hold of Mademoiselle de 
 Maran's hand in very great anxiety. She looked at me with a rude and 
 ironical expression, and said, laughing in her harsh, hissing manner, 
 
 "Ha — ha — ha! See the emotion of Matilda! Well ! yes, he is dead — it 
 was in doubt for a few days, but now it is certain." 
 
 " Ah, madam," I replied very bitterly, "may you deceive yourself!" 
 " Deceive myself, indeed! Well ! where would be the great harm if this 
 hero of the barrack-room were dead? A Jacobin! — one of those perilous 
 trouble-worlds, who, to promote the march of intellect, as they called it, 
 care not if they march knee-deep in blood !" 
 
 " Madam," said I, " I am a mere woman, and take small account of poli- 
 tical opinions— but so long as I have no proof of the misfortune which you 
 mention, it will be always with an impatient gratitude that I shall look for 
 the arrival of M. de Mortagne — and when I can no longer doubt the fatal 
 news, I shall ever preserve the fondest and most pious veneration for his 
 memory!" 
 
 "Very well, my dear, you can commence this pious preservation of yours 
 as soon as you please, I tell you. But let us talk no more of this man," 
 said Mademoiselle de Maran, with an imperious accent. " Living or dead, 
 I abhor him !" 
 
 Then turning to Gontran — 
 
 " And this son of old Rochegune, what sort of person is he?" 
 
 " He is a man of whom people hardly know how to say enough. He has 
 arrived here but very lately. He has spoken once in the Chamber of Peers, 
 in a very striking manner, it is said, although in a very evil spirit. I have 
 met him a few times in the world, although he goes out but rarely. He 
 had,' while he was in Spain, an adventure, at the same time terrible and ro- 
 mantic, which made a great noise, and in which, to tell the truth, he behaved 
 with all the chivalrous honour and heroical devotion of the old Moors of 
 Grenada. He was left for dead, pierced with I know not how many dagger- 
 wounds. It was his business to save the reputation of a lady, and — " but he 
 interrupted himself with a smile, and added — " but I will not tell it before 
 Mademoiselle M\tilda — I will relate the whole by-and-by to Madame tie 
 Lancry." 
 
86 
 
 MATILDA 
 
 "Heavens!" replied Mademoiselle de Maran; "it is a hero of romance, 
 then, that we are going to see !" 
 
 "Almost, mademoiselle — but I have great doubts whether we shall see 
 him. He. offered at first, with great eagerness, to show us his house, and to 
 place himself at our disposal; but then he corrected himself, saying that he 
 should not be able to do the honours properly himself, and begged me to make 
 you his excuses." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE VISIT. 
 
 When I learned that we were going to the house of M. de Rochegune, I 
 was exceedingly annoyed at the position in which we were about to be 
 placed. It was he of whom Madame de Richeville had spoken to me, to the 
 effect that M. de Mortagne had wished me to marry him. Now, therefore, 
 I reproached myself bitterly for my first breach of confidence toward Gon- 
 tran. If I had told of the interview which had taken place between Madame 
 de Richeville and myself, 1 should have been able to explain to him the 
 sort of dread I had of meeting M. de Rochegune. 
 
 We arrived, and I was very glad to learn that M. de Rochegune was not 
 at home ; the sight of him would, unquestionably, have confused me much. 
 The steward, however, showed us through the house, which seemed per- 
 fectly to suit the taste of M. de Lancry. 
 
 The ground-floor, intended for the chambers of reception, was in perfect 
 taste, and singularly elegant; but we remarked one room, delightfully situ- 
 ated, the walls of which were quite bare, without either hanging or panel- 
 ling. It opened partly upon the garden, and partly on a hothouse. 
 
 " Why is- this room unfurnished, and this only?" asked Gontran. 
 
 " Because M. de Rochegune intended this room for his bride, and wished 
 that she should arrange it to her own taste," replied the steward. 
 
 " M. de Rochegune intended, then, to marry?" asked Gontran. 
 
 "I presume so, Monsieur le Comte; for that is the reason which the archi 
 tect gave me, when I asked him why this room was left unfurnished." 
 
 " See, now," said Gontran, turning to me, " without intending it, M. de 
 Rochegune has been full of foresight; do you not think so? I shall be de- 
 lighted if this room pleases you, for the purpose to which it has been des- 
 tined. If so, we can arrange it at our pleasure." 
 
 "Certainly — it is charming," I replied ; but I could not avoid blushing as 
 I spoke ; and while Gontran was carefully examining all these departments, 
 what Madame de Richeville had told me came vividly upon my mind. 
 While the steward spoke of M. de Rochegune's intended marriage, I could 
 not help reflecting that it was myself, probably, to whom this related. I 
 wish to impress this circumstance on your mind ; because, when you call it 
 to mind hereafter, you will be truck by its strange consequences. 
 
 We went up to the first floor; and, having reached a large ante-chamber, 
 the steward perceived that he had forgotten a key, belonging to an apart- 
 ment arranged as a library, and returned to find it. 
 
 In the mean time, actuated by a harmless curiosity, we entered, with Gon- 
 tran, a little gallery of modern pictures. At the end of this gallery was 4 
 double door, of red velvet ; one of its leaves being open, gave us a sight ot 
 an inner door, which was closed. 
 
 While we were examining the pictures, we had insensibly approached the 
 door, when Gontran stopped short, and said, with an air of surprise, 
 
 " There is some one there ; they are talking aloud within. 1 thought M 
 de Rochegune had gone out." 
 
 Scarcely had M. de Lancry spoken, when some one cried out, in the inner 
 room, in tones which sounded almost like a supplication, "I beseech you, 
 sir, to be silent — we shall be overheard ; there are persons here, and I have 
 given orders that I should be denied." 
 
 " That is the voice of M. de Rochegune, surely," said Gontran. 
 
 "This becomes singularly interesting," replied Mademoiselle de Maran; 
 " we are on the eve of making some terrible discovery. I have no doubt the 
 son is just as bad as the father was." 
 
 "Let us withdraw," said I, quickly, to De Lancry — but we had not Sa» 
 time, for another voice cried out to M. de Rochegune, 
 
THE VISIT. 
 
 ST 
 
 "Some one, then, is there! so much the better, sir; all that I ask is, that 
 I can be heard. Praised be the Providence that sends me witnesses." 
 
 " You will see directly," said Mademoiselle de Maran, drawing yet nearer 
 to the door, "that this is some deposit of money entrusted to the elder De 
 Rochegune, in his character of philanthropist, which the son is denying like 
 a madman." 
 
 "Once more, monsieur, I entreat you," said M. de Rochegune ; "what 
 are you about to do V 
 
 At this moment the door flew open violently — a man rushed out, and 
 cried, on seeing us, " God be praised, here is some one!" 
 
 What was my surprise to recognise M. Dupré, whom Gontran had pointed 
 out to us at the opera-house, telling us the exemplary conduct of this young 
 man, who had concealed his ruin from his kind mother, by dint of constant 
 industry ! The other person was M. de Rochegune ; he was tall, and very 
 pale ; but that which struck me most, in his countenance, was the melan- 
 choly and almost stern expression of his large black eyes. 
 
 Gontran made M. de Rochegune a thousand apologies for our involuntary 
 intrusion; but M. Dupré cried out vehemently, as he saw us, "Ah! mon- 
 sieur and mesdames — it is Heaven that sends you hither, in order that you 
 may, at least, witness my gratitude to my benefactor." 
 
 " Monsieur, I beseech you," said M. de Rochegune, much embarrassed. 
 
 I looked at my aunt. Up to this moment, her features had worn an ex- 
 pression of triumphant mockery. But, at these words, she looked annoyed 
 and spiteful, and sat down in an arm-chair with an ironical smile. 
 
 " Monsieur," continued M. de Rochegune, addressing M. Dupré, " I for- 
 mally command you to be silent ! and that instantly !" 
 
 "To be silent?" exclaimed M. Dupré, with an explosion of gratitude, 
 which might be called furipus — "to be silent! Ah! by Heaven! you ad 
 dress yourself to me well ! No, no ! actions like these are too rare— they 
 do too much honour to the whole human race, that they should not be 
 published — and that loudly, too — and that a hundred times, rather than 
 once !" 
 
 " Madam," said M. de Rochegune to my aunt, " I am indeed mortified. I 
 had ordered myself to be denied to every one. You, only, were to be ad- 
 mitted; and it was my intention to remain in my private study, so that I 
 might not interfere with your visit to the house." 
 
 "And I forced my way in!" cried M. Dupré "A secret presentiment 
 told me that it was you, monsieur. I had heard that you were expected, 
 from hour to hour, to set out on your travels ; but it was only yesterday that 
 I discovered to whom it is that I owe almost the life of my poor mother — 
 and it was necessary that I should see you, at all hazards." 
 
 "Monsieur! monsieur!" said M. de Rochegune, imploringly. 
 
 " Oh! monsieur, monsieur! it will not do to perform good actions thus 
 sullenly — and then to wish to hide yourself afterward. Yes, monsieur, I say, 
 sullenly!" cried M. Dupré, in his generous indignation. " But, fortunately, 
 these ladies are here — they shall be the judges. A bankruptcy had ruined 
 me. Until that day, I had always lived in comfort : that blow was terrible, 
 ■ — less for myself, less even for my wife, than for my mother, who was old 
 and blind. Above everything, madam, it was necessary to conceal from her 
 this evil. By dint of industry, my wife and myself contrived for some time 
 to accomplish this; but at length our strength was exhausted — my poor wife 
 fell ill. We should, perhaps, have perished in our despair, when, one day, 
 madam, I received an enclosure of a hundred thousand francs, with a letter, 
 informing me that it-was a repayment, on the part of the bankrupt, who had 
 taken four hundred thousand from me. You can comprehend my joy — my 
 happiness! My wife — my mother, were now beyond fear of want! Tous, 
 accustomed as we are to work — which we have not, on this account, omitted 
 — this sum is absolute riches. [ told every one that I owed this to the re- 
 morse of the wretch who had robbed me. Persons who knew the man, 
 doubted the fact— and they were right ; Monsieur de Rochegune was the 
 sole performer of this noble action." 
 
 " But, once again, monsieur, you are tiring out these ladies," said M. de 
 Rochegune impatiently. 
 
 " At least, sir," said Mademoiselle de Maran bitterly, who was swaying 
 herself to and fro in her arm-chair with a spitefifl movement — "at least, 
 come to the point of your story." 
 
 " Monsieur," cried Gontran, gaily taking M. Dupré by the hand, " we all 
 league ourselves against Monsieur de Rochegune, whatever he says of it. 
 
83 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Although we are in his house, we will not stir a step from it till you hava 
 told the whole story." 
 
 " To be sure, I will, monsieur,"*answered M. Dupré. M I gee that you 
 are capable of appreciating deeds like this. Restlessly anxious to find out 
 whence came this generous assistance, I examined the letter. I knew not 
 the handwriting — see, now, if Providence did not assist me. One of my 
 friends from the provinces, who is shortly coming up to Paris — Monsieur 
 Eloi Secherin — entrusted me to engage for him a servant from some good 
 family." 
 
 " The husband of Ursula?" cried I. 
 
 " Does madam, then, know Monsieur Secherin?" said M. Duprê, much 
 astonished. 
 
 " Now, for God's sake, go on, my dear sir!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. 
 
 "Yesterday, then," said M. Dupré, "a servant came to wait on me. I 
 asked him for his certificates of character. He showed me several ; the last 
 was from Monsieur le Marquis de Rochegune. On opening it, the hand- 
 writing struck me; I ran for my letter — no more doubts, monsieur — the 
 handwriting was the same ! the same, absolutely — it was impossible to be 
 mistaken. To describe my joy— my emotion, would be impossible. I asked 
 the servant for some information touching his master. • Ah ! sir,' he said to 
 me, ' there could not be a better — a more charitable ; he is the very picture 
 of his father, who did so much good!' ' Why, then,' I asked, 'do you quit 
 his service?' ' Alas ! monsieur, the Marquis is setting out for a long journey, 
 and keeps only two old servants, who accompany him.' I could no longer 
 entertain a doubt ; I told my wife the whole. I left home yesterday, and 
 came hither; Monsieur de Rochegune had gone out. I came back in the 
 evening; he had not returned. At last, this morning, after I had begged in 
 vain to see him, fearing that he might depart, and I could not see him, I 
 forced my way up, despite the porter; and I have had the pleasure of taking 
 my benefactor by the hand. Oh ! at first, he would have denied it ; but he 
 is too unskilled in falsehood." 
 
 " Monsieur !" exclaimed De Rochegune, his embarrassment still increasing. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," replied M. Dupré, "you know not how to lie! I tell 
 you, that you lie miserably ! And when I requested you, in order to con- 
 found you, to write me exactly the same letter which 1 had received with 
 the hundred thousand francs, you did not dare, monsieur — you did not dare 
 doit! Answer that, if you can! You see, madam — you see what he has 
 done for me! You see me, too proud to accept it as a gift, but not as a 
 loan ; for I reckon on repaying it by my own industry. This is the good 
 and noble action which I will relate everywhere. But I am not the less 
 happy at being able to commit monsieur fairly before witnesses ; for, hence- 
 forth, he will be unable to deny it !" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I shall deny it," answered De Rochegune, " for it concerns me 
 much that the real benefactor be known : however grateful, therefore, your 
 thanks might be to me, I cannot accept them. I have, in this action, only 
 obeyed strictly the last injunctions of my father;" and his voice, as he 
 spoke, was sad »ad solemn. 
 
 " Your father, monsieur!" cried M. Dupré. 
 
 " Yes, sir, once more — I have but executed his last wishes!" 
 
 " But I had not the honour of being known to him, monsieur. But you 
 had lost him long before you came so generously to my aid." 
 
 "A few words will explain, monsieur, what I have told you. My father 
 had, in his youth, placed a small sum in one of those societies founded for 
 the benefit of the last survivor. He had completely forgotten having done 
 so. A short time before his death, he received about three hundred thousand 
 francs, which came from that source. A scruple, all the delicacy of which 
 I appreciate, prevented me from profiting by a sum arising from the succes- 
 sive death of so many persons. That sum was destined by him to good 
 deeds. During his life he so spent a part of it. When 1 lost him, he 
 charged me to employ the remainder in the same manner. I learned, mon- 
 sieur, with what pious energy, for two whole years, you struggled against 
 fate; I learned how admirable had been your conduct to your mother: I 
 did, therefore, monsieur, as you perceive, nothing more than obey my 
 father's orders. 1 had intended this to remain secret, like many other of 
 my father's good deeds. Chance has decided otherwise. I confess to you, 
 that 1 regret this the less, since it has given me the pleasure of a personal 
 acquaintance with one whose brave devotion had struck me so forcibly." 
 
THE VISIT. 
 
 89 
 
 And with these words he extended his hand cordially to M. Duprè*. 
 
 I was deliciously agitated, if I may so speak. I remembered with what 
 simple grace M. de Lancry had told me the tale of M. Dupré, at the opera ; 
 so that the thought of Gontran was blended agreeably with all the high and 
 noble thoughts which this scene awakened in my heart. I looked at Gon- 
 tran with emotion, and it seemed to me that he shared with me the admira- 
 tion I felt, both for the beneficiary and the benefactor. 
 " Mademoiselle de Maran had several times smiled ironically. I recognised 
 her wonted spite, in the portrait she had drawn of M. de Rochegune's father 
 — one of the most remarkable and most justly venerated characters of the 
 day ; having rendered himself illustrious by a multitude of actions, lull 
 of enlightened philanthropy, and by the great and noble efforts of his 
 intellect. 
 
 "Monsieur," said Gontran, with perfect amiability, "I am happy that 
 chance has permitted me to see, what 1 already knew by the world's report — 
 that in certain privileged families, and yours is of the number, the noblest 
 qualities are hereditary;" and then turning to Dupré, "It is about two 
 months ago, that I had the honour to relate to these ladies, at the opera, 
 your noble conduct, with all that enthusiasm to which it gave birth. I 
 hardly then hoped that I should have the pleasure to express to yourself that 
 admiration which you so well deserve." 
 
 " It was at the ' Siege of Corinth,' was it not, monsieur?" replied Dupré, 
 with much simplicity, " one night when Mademoiselle la Duchesse de Berry 
 was present at the performance, was it not? It must have been so. It was 
 the first time that my wife and I had been to the opera for two years : we 
 considered it quite a treat." 
 
 "We remarked, monsieur," said Mademoiselle de Mar-an, "«the berret 
 of Madame Dupré, which became her admirably; she looked as pretty 
 as an angelj and had not the least appearance of one who worked for 
 her bread." 
 
 " Perhaps you think, madam, that my wife was dressed above her sta- 
 tion," said M. Dupré, with a melancholy pride. "At that time, madam, I 
 looked upon this money as a restitution of my own. Now that I know it is 
 a loan, 1 shall deprive myself of all superfluities." 
 
 Gontran, annoyed as much as I was by the spiteful remark of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, observed to M. de Rochegune, as if to turn the con- 
 versation — 
 
 " But I had the pleasure of seeing you also at the opera, M. de Roche- 
 gune, and had no idea that you were the mysterious benefactor whose good 
 deeds I was relating to the ladies." 
 
 "Yes, I believe I was at the opera that night," said M. de Rochegune, 
 with an air of embarrassment. I raised my eyes by chance to his, and as I 
 met them, he turned away with a deep blush. 
 
 "Monsieur," said Mademoiselle de Maran, adopting a good-humoured 
 manner which I knew to be the forerunner of some malicious speech, " no- 
 thing that we have seen or heard can astonishjAS. Monsieur your father 
 had accustomed the world to admiration of his great deeds." 
 
 " Madam — " answered M. de Rochegune, bowing with a species of cold and 
 proud impatience, whether it was that he disliked Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 or that his modesty was annoyed by the prolongation of the scene. 
 
 "Pardon me, monsieur; he was an admirable man," said Mademoiselle 
 de Maran. "I was just now telling my niece, that nothing could be more 
 touching than his visits to the prisons, and his kindness to the poor in his 
 hospital. He resembled a St. Vincent de Paule, or something near it." 
 
 " He was simply a good man — he never pretended to anything more, 
 madam," said M. de Rochegune, in a firm and severe tone, which showed 
 that he was not duped by the ironical praises of Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 I was delighted, however, to perceive by the dissatisfied expression of 
 Gontran, that he was as much annoyed as I to hear my aunt talk thus. But 
 the character of Mademoiselle de Maran was too proud ever to yield.; she 
 always, as they say vulgarly, determined to have the last word. 
 
 Taking the arm then of M. de Lancry, she said to M. de Rochegune, 
 
 " Adieu, monsieur ! It is the truth, whatever you may say of it. No simply 
 good man could ever have performed the wondrous action of the tontine.* 
 
 * Tontine is the name by which such societies as that whence M. da 
 Rochegune derived the sum employed in charity are called. 
 
90 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Yes, monsieur, that scruple about the tontine would have, in itself, been 
 enough to make a whole family illustrious. A hundred thousand crowns 
 in charity! — but in old times, after all, it would have been said that none 
 but great misers allowed themselves to make that kind of amende honorable." 
 
 "Pardon me, monsieur," said Gontran, " these ladies have to pay some 
 visits : I will come at some other time to see the house, if you will permit 
 me." 
 
 " It is quite at your service, monsieur," said M. de Rochegune, bowing 
 with a cold air, and scarcely caring to repress his indignation at the last 
 words of my aunt. 
 
 When we were again in the carriage, I could not refrain from saying, 
 
 "Oh, madam, you have been very cruel!" 
 
 "How, cruel?" she exclaimed, bursting into a fit of laughter. " Let me 
 alone ! do you think I can be taken in by such comedies ?" 
 " What comedies ?" 
 
 " Do you ask what comedies ? Why, all this had been settled on, arranged 
 beforehand! We were expected. It is evident that M. Duprë had been 
 desired to come and hold himself ready to utter his shrieks of gratitude. 
 And, in fact, he began to cry like a magpie when he knew that we were 
 near the door. That old blockhead of a steward of course ran away to tell 
 them, under the pretext of seeking the key of the library." 
 
 " Ah, madam, what an idea!" cried Gontran'; "and to what possible 
 end?" 
 
 " Oh, my poor fellow! it is but too plain. If M. de Rochegune over- 
 charges you twenty or thirty thousand francs, you will not dare bargain with 
 a man capable of such noble actions, without considering, that to live in an 
 hotel which has witnessed deeds so noble, brings happiness in itself — that 
 pays ! I would bet, that old Richegune played off many such schemes to 
 gain himself a reputation as a philanthropist, in order to be able, under that 
 plea, to dabble in all sorts of abominable usuries. They say he lent money 
 at exorbitant interest for short periods ; 1 believe it, for my part, for he died 
 worth millions. The proof of what I say is, that people do not make chari- 
 ties of a hundred thousand crowns who have clear consciences. They are 
 fat sinners who give fat dinners to the poor, as the acting curate of my parish 
 of Glatigny, who was no fool, used to say. The deuce ! a hundred thousand 
 crowns in charities ! that is a sop for the devil, as good people say; or, if you 
 like it better, it is the interest of a capital of all sorts of villanies." 
 
 "But, madam," said Gontran impatiently, " you will at least admit that 
 this really could not have been laid out better, wherever it may have come 
 from." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly ! that little Duprë is an exceedingly pretty little 
 creature, upon my word ! with her rose- coloured bonnet. M. de Rochegune 
 evidently thought so, and the blockhead of a husband seems to thank him !" 
 
 "Ah, madam, how very shocking!" exclaimed Gontran. " Besides, M. de 
 Rochegune sets out in a few days." 
 
 " Well, what of that? he sets out, does he? — that only goes to pfove that 
 he is tired of the little citizen," said Mademoiselle de Maran, laughing. 
 
 " Madam, madam !" said M. de Lancry, casting a glance at me, as if to 
 remind my aunt of the impropriety of her words. 
 
 I cannot describe to you, my friend, my sensations at hearing Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran thus spitefully slight, with her envious tongue, all that I 
 most admired. Never before had her dread — her hatred— of everything 
 good, whether physical or moral, been so odiously made manifest. 
 
 At this new proof of her pitiless malignity, 1 resumed the consideration of 
 myself and my own situation. My distrust of my aunt became at every mo- 
 ment stronger, while, at the same time, my blind confidence in Gontran was 
 not diminished. 
 
 But I could not help remembering what Madame de Richeville had said 
 to me — "Distrust this marriage, your aunt promotes it — it must be fatal." 
 
 I also recollected, that the duchess had not deceived me in the qualities 
 which she attributed to M. de Rochegune, whom M. de Mortagne wished 
 me to marry. 
 
 I confess to you, my friend, that for a moment I was shaken by the ap- 
 parent weight of these considerations. My heart trembled, if I so may speak, 
 at finding that my head could not answer them. Instinctively 1 cast my 
 eyes on Gontran, and the sight of his countenance, so mild, so noble, and so 
 ■incere, reassured me. 
 
 It is not Mademoiselle de Maran, it is my own heart which is making thi» 
 
MONSIKOK AND MADAME DE SECH ERIN. 
 
 marriage; and, moreover, because M. de Rochegune has high qualities, is 
 this a cause why Gontran lias them not? Was it not he who first told me 
 this touching story of a noble action as nobly recompensed ? Did he not, 
 but this moment, share my emotions? 
 
 These thoughts soon banished the painful ideas which my aunt's spiteful 
 speeches had occasioned. 
 
 When we got cut of the carriage, one of Mademoiselle de Maran's people 
 told her that " Mademoiselle Ursula— that is to suy," he added, correcting 
 himself, "Madame de Secherin, was waiting in the drawing-room with her 
 husband." 
 
 My cousin had arrived — forgetting my aunt, Gontran, everything, I ran 
 up the staircase rapidly. 
 
 It was tiue — there were Ursula and her husband. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 monsieur and madame de secherin. 
 
 Ursula !" 
 " Matilda !" 
 
 We embraced one another passionately. I expected to find my poor cousin 
 dreadfully changed: what then was my astonishment at seeing her fresher 
 and prettier than ever, although her features were always melancholy, her 
 expression always sad! 
 
 She presented M. Eloi Secherin to me. He was a young man of middle 
 size, very fair, with rather regular features, a high colour, and a joyous, 
 frank expression. 
 
 At first sight, he seemed to me to be one of those men, the vulgarity of 
 whose appearance and language is compensated by the freshness and good- 
 humour of tbeir manners. Nevertheless, I could not conceive how my 
 cousin, in accordance with our notions as young ladies, could have con- 
 tented herself with such a marriage. When I saw M. Secherin, the sacrifice 
 of which Ursula had spoken to me appeared greater than I had thought it. 
 I pitied her deeply for having been obliged to bow to the imperious will of 
 her father. As I embraced Ursula, I pressed her hand ; she understood me, 
 and returned the pressure, turning her eyes toward heaven. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran entered the room with M. de Lancry. Ursula cast 
 a glance at me, which cut me to the heart; she was comparing her husband 
 with Gontran. 
 
 My cousin presented her husband to Mademoiselle de Maran. I fully ex- 
 pected that she would have given free scope to her ironical disposition; but, 
 to my great surprise, she played the good woman, and said to M. Secherin, 
 with great affability, as if to set him at his ease — 
 
 "Well, monsieur, you intend, then, to render our Ursula the happiest of 
 women ! You will make her forget all of us, who love her so dearly. Do 
 you know, that I shall become very jealous of you, to say the least, Monsieur 
 Secherin? Yes, indeed I shall— and first of all, I must tell you one thing: 
 we have the habit here of speaking quite frankly — we live in a united family 
 circle — in halfan-hour you will know us as if we had passed our lives to- 
 gether. As for me, I am a good old woman, constantly repeating the same 
 thing — how much I adore these two children, Ursula and Matilda. Thus, 
 you must understand that when it concerns them, I am never neutral : thus, 
 I love all those who love them. But that out of the question, I scold, I- 
 sulk, I am capricious, I talk, because these are the privileges of old age. 
 And yet — notwithstanding all this, Monsieur Secherin, I know not how it is, 
 but somehow or other, people end by liking me but little." 
 
 M . Secherin was completely duped by this pretended good-nature. I ob- 
 served the confidence with which my aunt's words inspired him, gradually 
 growing upon his frank and cordial face, and his embarrassment and restraint 
 melting away ; and, as she ceased speaking, he cried out joyously, 
 
 " Upon my word, madam, I do not think they ought to like you but little; 
 for my part, I think they ought to like you very much ; and, since we are to 
 speak frankly, I must confess to you that I was devilishly afraid of you. 
 Hut now yout reception has quite set me at my ease." 
 
 "How! you were afraid of me, my dea* Jlonsieur Secherin î and pray 
 why, if you please?' 
 
92 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 In Tain Ursula made sign after sign to her husband ; he would not per- 
 ceive them. 
 
 " Certainly, madam, I was afraid of you," replied M. Secherin, becoming 
 yet more confident; "and I had good reason why." 
 " Good heavens! Monsieur Secherin — but — " 
 
 " Unquestionably, madam. My father-in-law, M. le Baron d'Orbeval, 
 was constantly trumpeting it into my ears — 'Be on your guard, my son-in- 
 law— Mademoiselle de Maran is a very fine lady ! If you should have the 
 misfortune to displease her, you will be ruined for ever. For she has 
 twenty times the wit that you have, and she knows how to use her wit, 
 I promise you!' Well now, madam, do you know how I shall answer my 
 father-in-law ? — for it does not take me very long, I assure you, to measure 
 my goods." 
 
 Ursula blushed to the very brows, when she heard this vulgar expression. 
 Gontran concealed his mirth; but Mademoiselle de Maran said, with an 
 expression of incredible kindness, 
 
 "Monsieur Secherin, pardon me; we promised each other to be frank; 
 did we not?" 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 "Very well! People are not in the habit of saying, even about an old 
 woman, such as I — to measure my goods. Oh! I will pass over nothing, I 
 promise you — I am just such a woman ; besides, we agreed to be frank." 
 
 " See, madam," exclaimed M. Secherin, with an expression of gratitude 
 really touching, " what you are doing now is generous and good; do you 
 see ! 1 thank you for it with all my heart ! Other ladies would have quizzed 
 me; you have the goodness to correct me. Yet, what would you have ? — I 
 am but a provincial, little suited to the fine manners of the capital." 
 
 "Paris! Monsieur Secherin ! Paris! people do not call it the capital," in- 
 terrupted Mademoiselle ds Maran, with an air of perfect gravity. 
 
 "Is it possible, madam? Well, that is strange; ouï Procureur du Roi, 
 and our sub-prefect, always call it the capital." 
 
 " That may be so; it is so called in law-matters, and in geography," con- 
 tinued Mademoiselle de Maran; " but this cannot be said otherwise. You 
 see I am implacable, my poor Monsieur Secherin." 
 
 " Go on, madam — go on, I pray you. I never forget what has been 
 clearly told me once. Well, now, madam, if I had to describe your portrait 
 to my father-in-law, I should say, doubtless, — Mademoiselle de Maran is a 
 great lady, according to her rank and station ; but, in reality, she is a good 
 little lady — frank and even as a fine morning — who carries her heart in her 
 hand, and has, perhaps, even more kind-heartedness than wit. Well, I do 
 not mistake your character much, do I ?" 
 
 " Oh ! in truth, my dear Monsieur Secherin, Lavater was nothing at all, 
 in comparison with you ; you are a Nostradamus, a Cagliostro for foresight 
 and prediction. Hold — I am so well contented with your portrait, that I 
 will not find fault with your words." 
 
 "Oh yes! madam — oh yes! find fault with them, or I shall be vexed; 
 I give you notice." 
 
 " Well, then — no, Monsieur Secherin, I must beg you to excuse me." 
 
 " No, madam ! 1 tell you that I shall be angry if you will not take me up." 
 
 "Well, since you insist upon it absolutely, in order to preserve harmony 
 between us, I would observe to you, that even as a fine morning, and carries 
 her heart in her hand, are rather vulgar phrases." 
 
 " Well, well, I will not say so any more; but, heavens! madam, how good 
 you are ! In fact, I assure you, there is no malice in my composition. You 
 guessed that immediately." 
 
 " Certainly; I guessed your character at once, my good Monsieur Seche- 
 rin. You appear to me the very best of men; and sure I am, that there is 
 not a particle of gall in your nature." 
 
 " Gall in me! no more than there is in a pigeon. What I want, I well 
 know it, is education; and yet, what would you have' I have always been 
 brought up in the provinces. My father was a little shopkeeper ; he began 
 his fortunes by buying up the property of the ' émigré^.' '" 
 
 " With such a beginning as that, he could not fa.il to wespe-,'' s^id Made- 
 moiselle do Maran. " Certainly, the property of the 'eui^grè», *t least, 
 brought good luck to monsieur your father." 
 
 " That is exactly what did happen, madani." 
 
 " I can believe it perfectly, Monsieur Secherin." 
 
 "As for my mother," continued the unhappy victim of my am»t\ f^tet . 
 
MONSIEUR AND MADAME DE SECHERIN. 
 
 93 
 
 mockery; "as for my mother, she is one of the best ofwomai; but &ie has 
 always persisted in keeping her little round cap, and her short petticoat, 
 after the old fashion. She is a good housekeeper, in every sense of the 
 word. You see, then, that I have not beea brought up like a duke, or a 
 peer of the realm, I went through my studies, such as they were, at the 
 College of Tours. At the death of my father, I undertook the management 
 of his fortunes, and in his old deal bureau I found a schedule of sixty-three 
 thousand seven hundred livres yearly income, in lands and personal pro- 
 perty, and that clear of taxes ; without taking into account the stock of the 
 manufactories, which employ five hundred labourers, and are yet unable 
 to supply the demand for my goods. That is what I am, in one word, 
 madam." 
 
 " But, truly, yours is a magnificent position," replied Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. " It is very plain, worthy people always prosper ; and I am sure 
 that it was the property of the ' émigrés,' of whom we spoke just now, that 
 gave rise to the prosperity of monsieur your father." 
 
 " Madam," sail Ursula, who was in agony, "I fear these details — " 
 
 " Be quiet, Ursula : they interest me beyond measure." 
 
 " Doubtless, my dear little beauty, my little business matters must natu- 
 rally inte est our kind relative." 
 
 " Monsieur Secherin, ever true to my system of frankness, I must remark 
 to you, that my dear little beauty should be reserved for the sweetest and 
 most secret intimacy. You profane the mysterious charm of those adorable 
 expressions, by using them thus prodigally." 
 
 "And yet, madam, my father always called my mother, dear little beauty ; 
 and my mother, in turn, used to call him little papa, or great wolf." 
 
 " But observe, my dear Monsieur Secherin, it is not that I object to such 
 tender appellations as dear little beauty, little papa, or even great wolf, taken 
 in themselves; on the contrary, I trust that Ursula, piously faithful to the 
 touching traditional usages of your family, lavishes on you, in secret, those 
 delicious names." 
 
 "What! then you have told, madam, that you called me your great wolf, 
 have you?" said M. de Secherin, turning suddenly to Ursula, and clapping 
 his hands with astonishment. 
 
 " Really, Ursula, and do you actually call Monsieur Secherin your great 
 wolf, already ?" cried my aunt. 
 
 "Yes, madam, she does," replied M. Secherin, proudly; "and she does so 
 without mittens, too." 
 
 "Ah! madam, can you believe it?" said Ursula, tears of vexation and 
 embarrassment coming into her eyes. 
 
 "How?" said M. Secherin — "How? do you forget, that the day but one 
 after our marriage — when I showed you the schedule of my fortune, and 
 said, embracing you as I spoke, ' All this is yours and your great wolf's?' and 
 how you replied, embracing me in your turn, 'Yes; it is all mine and my 
 great wolf's?' Pray remember, it was in the little green-room, which I use 
 for a study." 
 
 It would be impossible to paint the grief and dismay of Ursula, as she 
 heard these words. I was grieved to the heart for her. Gontran smiled in 
 spite of himself. Mademoiselle de Maran was in a state of triumph; but 
 she did not choose to prolong the scene too much, and replied instantly — 
 
 "Hold your tongue! for shame! Monsieur Secherin, you indiscreet 
 wretch! Do people talk about such things as these? Such choice little 
 bits of happiness should be kept religiously to ourselves. These are little 
 coquettish, and mysteriously gallant happinesses, which must not be talked 
 about. Ursula might have called you her great wolf a thousand, and ten 
 thousand times — and she would have killed herself, rather than confess; 
 and she would have done rightly. I tell you, you are an indiscreet wretch ! 
 Ah ! you men ! you men ! we can never let you read in our hearts our most 
 sacred preferences — we can never prove our attachment to you, by the most 
 endearing titles, but you must go directly and boast of them aloud." 
 
 " Well, that is true, madam," said M. Secherin. " I was wrong, and you 
 are right — in the right always. Another lesson, that I have learned already. 
 I will keep my little beauty, and. great ivolf, to ourselves, my wife." 
 
 " You will do well to do so. But now tell me about the properties of the 
 'émigrés,' which monsieur your father bought up, when he was a small 
 shopkeeper. You cannot think how much that interests me. Were these 
 properties considerable?" 
 
 "Yes; th*7 were, madam. Many of them belonged to the family of 
 
94 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Rochegune, before the Revolution; but, on the Restoration, my father sold 
 them back to the old marquis." 
 
 At this name, which was so singularly, andso constantly, recurring during 
 that day, my aunt frowned heavily. 
 
 " Has Monsieur de Rochegune still many rights in your province, mon- 
 sieur?" asked Gontran. 
 
 " Certainly, sir — he has all the rights of a father, as he has all the qualities 
 of one. The almshouse for old men, founded by the late marquis, is two 
 leagues from my house. Ah! madam," said M. Secherin, turning to my 
 aunt, " how much good the late marquis did in the province ! — and that, too, 
 with so little pride. In one word, fancy, madam, that every Sunday, while 
 he was at the Chateau de Rochegune, he went to mass at the almshouse for 
 these old men; that he dined with them; went with them to vespers ; sup- 
 ped with them, slept in their dormitory — always did this once every week — 
 and this is not all, for he followed the coffin of the poor who died, to the 
 grave-yard. This is what may be called doing good with genuine goodness 
 of heart — may it not, madam ?" 
 
 "Yes, doubtless," answered Mademoiselle de Maran ironically; "to go 
 and eat out of the same trencher with those old vagabonds — there is some- 
 thing quite enlivening in the mere idea of it!" 
 
 " You are very right, madam," answered M. Secherin, simply. " It 
 cheered the very hearts of those poor people. But this is nothing yet to 
 what he did, madam !" 
 
 " Heavens ! is there anything more than this fellow-trenchering ?" " 
 
 " Yes, madam. As I was one of the largest manufacturers of the pro- 
 vince, M. le Marquis requested me to order little jobs for these poor old 
 creatures : they did them — but God knows how ! they were good for nothing. 
 The late M. le Marquis paid the prime cost of the material which was lost; 
 and not only that — he insisted on reimbursing me the small sum which I 
 paid them, poor people! nominally for the price of their labour, so that they 
 might believe they earned by their industry the presents which they pro- 
 cured thus." 
 
 " This was indeed a surpassing delicacy," cried Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 "and excellently well judged too! for only think, if these messieurs vaga- 
 bonds had discovered that M. de Rochegune took the liberty of giving them 
 alms out-and-out, they might have taken it into their heads to revolt, to 
 browbeat this impertinent marquis finely, and, profiting by the occasion of 
 his sleeping some night in their dormitory, to — " 
 
 The bitterness with which Mademoiselle Maran ridiculed an action of 
 delicacy, perhaps a little overdone, but which, to say the least, showed the 
 most exquisite kindness of heart, proved how much she was vexed at finding 
 her calumnies so brilliantly confuted. Gontran seemed to share my emo- 
 tion. Ursula, with her eyes downcast, appeared to be in a fit of deep and 
 sorrowful meditation. 
 
 M. de Lancry said to M. Secherin, "I, also, think the conduct of M. 
 Rochegune admirable, monsieur ; and is the almshouse still kept up ?" 
 
 "It is, monsieur, and M. le Marquis does now, in all respects, as his 
 father did before him. When he returned from travelling, he parsed six 
 months in the château, and he regularly went, once a week, to dine and 
 sleep at the almshouse, as his father did." 
 
 " And he deserves, certainly, as well as his father did for it!" said Made- 
 „ moiselle de Maran. " Does he put on the same cap and cassocks too, that 
 the poor people do, on these grand days?" 
 
 "No, madam, he remains dressed just as usual. Oh! he does this as he 
 does everything — quite simply, and without any ostentation. He derives 
 that from his father. It is like his courage — he is as brave as a lion. Look 
 here : seven or eight years ago — he was then only twenty — he and a curious 
 man, M. le Comte de Mortagne, who was the intimate friend of his father, 
 performed a deed which would have made the boldest shrink from under- 
 taking it." 
 
 When she heard the name of M. de Mortagne, the ill-temper of my aunt 
 
 increased. 
 
 " Did you then know M. de Mortagne?" I cried eagerly to M. Secherin. 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle; he was an original who had been to the world's 
 end — an old trooper of the Grand Army, with a beard like a sapper's. He 
 used often to come to see us at the manufactory. My poor father loved him 
 greatly. — But to come to the point of my story. One day he and young 
 Monsieur de Rochegune were hunting the hare on horseback with grey- 
 
THE CONFES8ION. 
 
 9i 
 
 hounds ; they had, therefore, no guns with them, but were merely armed 
 with whips. The hare broke covert from the forest of Rochegune, and took 
 the plain. They found in the open country a poor shepherd covered with 
 blood, and half-dead. 
 
 " Well, well ! I see what is coming," said Mademoiselle de Maran impa- 
 tiently ; some dog, or some dead wolf, had bitten the sheep, and the shep- 
 herd, and these two paladins put it to death! Well, that was glorious, 
 magnificent ! We will say no more about it." 
 
 " No, madam, it was " 
 
 "Very well, very well, my dear Monsieur Secherin, spare us these histo- 
 ries; I have no doubt they possess a sort of terrible beauty, and the recol- 
 lection of them will give me the nightmare to-night. Besides, I see in 
 Ursula's eyes that she is dying to go and have a chat with Matilda." 
 
 I rose, took my cousin by the hand, and led her to my room, leaving 
 Monsieur Secherin with my aunt and Gontran. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Yotj can understand, my friend, what must have been the deep and cruel 
 humiliation of Ursula. She had not only endured the vulgarity of her hus- 
 band, but also the disclosure of the absurdly familiar expressions which he 
 had used to her within a few days of their marriage. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran had been gratified even beyond her hopes. Her 
 false good-nature, by throwing the husband of Ursula off his guard, had 
 shown him in a light almost grotesque; chance had accomplished the rest._ 
 
 I think that I may now remark to you, my friend, without too much anti- 
 cipating the thread of events, that from my childhood Mademoiselle de 
 Maran bad been actuated but by one thought— to excite the jealousy and 
 envy of Ursula against me ; she wished to make, sooner or later, an impla- 
 cable enemy, her whom I loved with the tenderest affection. 
 
 When I was yet a child, she had rated my intelligence, my talents, above 
 those of Ursula. When a young lady, it was my beauty and my fortune 
 that were entirely to eclipse my cousin ; and, to conclude, she made it a 
 point indirectly to show off the distinction, the elegance, the position, and 
 the high birth of Gontran, whom I was about to marry, by drawing out, with 
 a malice almost devilish, the undue openheartedness of Monsieur Secherin, 
 Ursula's husband. 
 
 Alas ! my friend, I believe, that had it not been for the constant efforts of 
 my aunt to possess her of the idea, my cousin would not so often and so 
 bitterly have compared her position with mine; she could not have envied 
 me my few advantages, and we should have lived without rivalship, without 
 jealousy. I shall always believe that the heart of Ursula was naturally good 
 and generous ; the insinuations of my aunt were the causes of all the ill she 
 did me afterwards. 
 
 I went up to my room with Ursula. I had the most entire, the kindest 
 confidence in her sincerity. I saw in her a victim. I remembered the dole- 
 ful, lamentable letter which she had written me; yet, at the same time, I 
 strove in vain to explain to myself the singular familiarities of the expres- 
 sions which she had addressed to her husband, two or three days after that 
 marriage, so dreadful to her apprehensions, that it had led her even to con- 
 template the possibility of suicide. 
 
 If I had for one moment suspected Ursula of dissimulation, if I had 
 dreamed of her contracting that marriage — not, indeed, with pleasure, but 
 on a calculation — I should have understood the strange contradiction be- 
 tween the words and the letter of my cousin ; but, I repeat it, I had deep 
 trust in her, and, confident, I awaited her explanation of the mystery. 
 
 When she entered my room, Ursula fell into an arm-chair, and bid her 
 face in her hands, without uttering a word. 
 
 " Ursula, my friend, my sister!" I exclaimed, casting myself at her knees, 
 and taking her hands in mine. 
 
 " Leave me— leave me !" she said, struggling to disengage herself, and 
 smiling through her tears; " wherefore these words of tenderness? You do 
 not, you cannot feel them." 
 
 * Oh ! Ursula, this is cruel ! — what have I done, what have I said to 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 yoa? Wherefore receive me thus? Oh, my God ! after so long an absence , 
 too." 
 
 " I do not accuse your heart, Matilda, it is generous and good : but it is 
 because it is generous, that it must hate that which is all falsehood and 
 hypocrisy. So, leave me, leave me ! think not that you are obliged to seem 
 to love me." 
 
 " What, Ursula ! what say you ?" 
 
 "Do I not know that you despise me?" cried the unhappy woman, melt- 
 ing into tears, and then rising and hurrying to the window, to wipe them 
 from her eyes. I was stupified; not understanding what Ursula said to me, 
 I ran up to her. 
 
 " But, in the name of Heaven ! explain yourself. .What do you mean to 
 say ? why do you think I should despise you ?" 
 
 " Why ! Matilda, can you ask me now? It is but a fortnight since that I 
 wote you a deploring letter, a letter which described to you the agonies of 
 my heart You, moved by my despair, pitied your friend. You wept over 
 her sacrifices, over the death of her young illusions; and now you have 
 heard that this woman — who looked forward to death alone as an escape 
 from her hapless destiny — that this very woman, three days after this de- 
 tested marriage, lavishes on her husband names the most ridiculously fa- 
 miliar. Again, Matilda, 1 tell you that you do despise or pity me. But no! 
 I will not have pity; I will have disdain, rather; I will have hatred, rather; 
 I will have indifference, rather; but pity, never ! never!" 
 
 And putting her handkerchief to her mouth, Ursula stifled the sobs which 
 sue could not overcome. 
 
 "But you are mad, Ursula; you think not what you say. Remember, 
 then, my letter, and do you not feel my tears trickling down your cheeks?" 
 said I, embracing her. "Do I not see, alas! that you are very wretched? 
 and what does a falsehood of your husband signify, after all, to me ?" 
 
 "A falsehood! no! it was not a falsehood, Matilda. No! those absurdly 
 familiar words — I did use them — do you hear? I did use them." 
 
 "You did use them, Ursula?" 
 
 ''Yes! yes! so leave me ! You see plainly 1 am the most hypocritical, 
 the most false of creatures. I feign despair to win pity for myself, when I 
 am in truth delighted with this marriage; my husband is so rich. Oh, shamel 
 ch, infamy 1" 
 
 And Ursula pressed both her hands forcibly against her forehead. 
 
 " No ! there is no shame," cried I ; "no infamy! Some mystery there is, 
 which I do not understand, but neither infamy nor shame. But what sig- 
 nify, after all, a few words more or less? You are in grief, you weep; well, 
 I will be in grief too — I will weep with you. Behold my tears, my sister ! 
 see how my heart beats ! Tell me, now, only tell me, do you call this con- 
 tempt or pity ?" 
 
 "No, no! Matilda, I believe you. Pardon, oh pardon me! for having 
 doubted for one instant your heart's truth. But it was because [ have — 
 because 1 must necessarily have so many prejudices to overcome in your 
 mind !" 
 
 " Not one!" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Then hear me, my sister, my sweet sister. Your tears, your afflictions, 
 have torn from me my secret. This moment I would tell you nothing — I 
 wished never more to see you; for to live with you, under the suspicion of 
 hypocrisy, indeed seemed to me impossible." 
 
 " Poor Ursula! go on: do I not deserve your confidence?" 
 
 "Yes! oh yes — you alone — oh, Heaven! Now listen : this marriage 
 caused me a despair so deep, that, until the last moment, I thought that 
 some unlooked-for event would occur. Yes ! I was like one of those cri- 
 minals, who know that they must die, that there is no pardon for them, and 
 who yet cannot hinder themselves from expecting this hopeless, this impos- 
 sible pardon. It was the last instinctive hope of happiness which still strug- 
 gled in my soul !" 
 
 "Ursula, Ursula, what you tell me is frightful. Oh, my God ! how you 
 must have suffered !" 
 
 " I obeyed my father! I was anxious to render it impossible for you to 
 complete the generous sacrifice you contemplated. The marriage took 
 : place — my lot once irrevocably fixed, I had but one of two alternatives ■ 
 1 death, or — " 
 
 " Ursula, Ursula, you shall not talk thus ! you terrify me!" 
 
 " Death or a miserable life. One moment I remained stunned, under th« 
 
TUE CONFESSION. 
 
 97 
 
 weight of my frightful prospects. And yet, before despairing altogether, I 
 asked myself, what it was that caused my repugnance to my husband? I 
 answered myself, that it was the vulgarity of his manners, his want of educa- 
 tion — for his heart, I think, is good." 
 
 " Oh, doubtless, Ursula! believe it! believe it! It is generous, it is good. 
 Did you not see, with what sympathy he spoke of the charities of M. de 
 Rochegune ? Heaven ! his language, his manners, will soon adapt them- 
 selves to those of the world." 
 
 " Well, then," said I to myself, " this common language shocks me; those 
 familiarities, almost rough, are repugnant to me. My life, henceforth, must 
 be spent in the society of this man ; I must renounce for ever all the dreams 
 of girlhood; henceforth I must lead another life. Courage! all is accom- 
 plished, all" — and tears drowned the voice of Ursula. " It is the delicacy," 
 she began again, "the necessary delicacy of, my habits, of my tastes, that 
 renders me unhappy. Well ; since 1 cannot raise my husband to my own 
 standard, I will lower myself to his. Yes, this language, which is so revolt- 
 ing to me, I will speak it! these manners, which make me shudder with 
 disgust, I will copy them! Matilda, Matilda, I did so; I flattered this 
 man, as he would be flattered. I pretended to love him, as he would be 
 loved! I repeated his expressions, coarsely familiar as they were — I re- 
 peated them, I say ; but it was with shame and deep humiliation ! Oh, my 
 sister! oh, my sister! you will never know — never — never — what I suffered 
 during that trial, eight days long, which I imposed upon myself. You will 
 never know how frightful is that self-profanation, that lie of the lips, from 
 which the heart starts back in horror! Oh! how many tears, devoured in 
 secret, while I was playing out that sad and bitter play! But see — I can no 
 more — the agony is too great. I can no more ! oh, rather than continue 
 thus to degrade myself, to lie thus — death — death a thousand times!" 
 
 The accents of Ursula were so agonising, so despairing — her air was so 
 wild, her features so disordered, that I was frightened. 
 
 Then I understood her conduct — then I was struck by the courage which 
 she must have possessed to make such a trial. 
 
 "Reassure yourself," I answered her; "my sister, only hear my ad- 
 vice. You deceive yourself, 1 think, when you esteem it necessary to de- 
 scend to the level of your husband. His heart is generous — he idolises 
 you. Try, on the contrary, to raise him to your standard. Did you not see, 
 just now, with what eagerness he gathered up the observations of Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran? Judge, then, what efficacy yours would have! Think of 
 this, Ursula; oh, my sister, think of this! Doubtless, I would have chosen 
 for you a different union ; but, in a word, this is now consummated. Cast 
 not from you the only chance-of happiness !" 
 
 "Happiness! Matilda, happiness for me ! Oh! never!" 
 "Yes, yes! happiness. Your husband is good, frank, and loyal. He is 
 rich, he loves you. His appearance, it is true, is not very striking; his 
 manners, his language, want a finish. What of that? is that irreparable? 
 Heavens ! such things are quickly learned— the example is everything ! and 
 you will be a charming example from which to study. And then, Avould you 
 desire us to aid you? Yes! to render this task of education the easier to 
 you," I continued, smiling, "should you wish Gontran and myself to go 
 and pass some time with you? If you do not intend yet to take a house in 
 Paris, come and stay with us. We have now got a house large enough to 
 offer you a suite of rooms. Well, now, what say you to my project ?" 
 
 " I say, that you are ever the very best of friends — the very tenderest of 
 Bisters!" answered Ursula, clasping me in her arms affectionately. "I say, 
 that when you are by, I forget my sorrows, and that you have the gift of 
 kindling a hope in me again. But, alasl Matilda, it will be hard for me so 
 to delude myself !" 
 
 " I do not ask you to delude yourself — I only tell you to believe in reali- 
 ties. You shall see your husband one year hence ! see, I say now his love 
 for you will have transformed him !" 
 
 " But only see, how selfish grief has made me!'' exclaimed Ursula. " I 
 have never even spoken to you of your happiness. Oh! joa must be very 
 happy !" 
 
 "Oh yes! especially now that you are to share my happiness. Indeed, 
 Ursula, if I knew that you were free from grief, I can dream of no bliss that 
 would equal mine. Gontran is so kind, so devoted; he has a heart so im- 
 
 Îassioned, a character so noble — and then he understands me so well ! Oh, 
 fôe> it here — here, in the security of my heart — that it will be a life-long 
 
 K 
 
93 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 happiness. He inspires me with an unalterable confidence — death only 
 could disturb it! And yet — no, no! "Who can love as I do! who can be as 
 happy as I am — and not die first! No! nothing in the world can rob me of 
 this conviction, that I am the happiest of women, and that this happiness 
 will last as long as I — or, I should say, as long as Gontran lives to bless 
 Hie !" 
 
 And even now, my friend, when those presentiments of my soul have been 
 so cruelly deceived, I recollect that my trust in a happy future was blindly 
 absolute. 
 
 Eight days after the arrival of Ursula, all our family was to be assembled 
 to witness the signing of my marriage contract with M. de Lancry. 
 
 My aunt had prevailed on the mayor of our arrondissement to marry us 
 on the very evening of the ceremony, in order to shield us from the curiosity 
 of the public. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 On the morning appointed for the signing of the contract, I was awakened, 
 as usual, by Blondeau, bringing me the basket of jasmine and heliotrope 
 which, for six weeks, Gontran had sent me every morning. 
 
 I have always attached great importance to what are called small things 
 — delicate, slight attentions, when they are endearing from the continual 
 occupation of the thoughts. Occasions on which affection can be shown by 
 any great and brilliant action are so rare, that it is wiser to employ — if it is 
 permissible to use such a term — the small coins of love. 
 
 Those persons who reserve themselves for great occasions seem to say to 
 you — Drown yourself, cast yourself into the midst of flames, and then you 
 shall know what my love is worth. 
 
 Predestinarian, as I was, in matters of the heart, this basket of flowers 
 sent every morning had a deep meaning to my mind. The memory of Gon- 
 tran's first declaration was attached, as it were, to it; and I thought, with 
 unspeakable pleasure, that henceforth every day would commence with a 
 thought of his approaching presence, in the midst of the flowers I adored. 
 
 Very early in the morning, I went to church with Madame de Blondeau; 
 for as I felt the moment drawing nearer in which I should belong to Gon- 
 tran, I experienced, more than ever, the irrepressible desire of praying — of 
 blessing God — and of submitting my future happiness to the protection of 
 Heaven and of my sainted mother. I experienced a sort of joy, at the same 
 time, serene, confident, and serious. Often during that day my eyes were 
 moistened, I knew not wherefore, with sweet tears. They were the con- 
 sequence of vague feelings of tenderness, involuntary, and continually end- 
 ing in bursts of ineffable and religious gratitude. 
 
 At about four o'clock in the afternoon, Mademoiselle de Maran sent for 
 me to her chamber, which I had not entered for a long time. I cannot tell 
 you, my friend, what I experienced, when I found myself again in that 
 room which recalled to me so vividly the sufferings of my childhood. No- 
 thing was changed therein — there was the same crucifix, the same large 
 stained glass windows, the writing-desk of red lacquered work, the green 
 chiffonnières upon the mantelpiece, and the stuffed ancestors of Felix— each 
 under its glass case — who, it seemed probable, would soon join them. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran was sitting at her writing-desk. I saw upon the 
 leaf of it a little case, a portfolio, a sealed parcel, and a medallion of my 
 aunt, which she was looking at so attentively that she did not perceive my 
 entrance. Her features, always so scornful, wore an expression of severe 
 sadness which I had never seen before ; her thin lips were contracted by 
 that smile of implacable irony which rendered her so formidable ; but she 
 now seemed careworn and downcast. 
 
 I hesitated to address her, but in leaning upon the chimney-piece I 
 moved a candlestick; Mademoiselle de Maran turned her head quickly, 
 and cried, 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 She saw me— let fall the medallion which she held in her hand, and con- 
 tinued for some minutes in deep thought. 
 
 " We are about to part, Matilda," she said, with an accent of softness, 
 which rendered me dumb with surprise " Your early youth has not been 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 happy— has it? You will always look back yyith bitterness on the time you 
 ha'** spent with me." 
 "Madam? " 
 
 " It must be so — I know it." She went on in a low voice, as if she were 
 talking to herself—" You have often found me harsh arid peevish to you. I 
 have neve* been to you what I should have been. No, I well know it. It 
 is certainly on this account, that I feel a sort of grief at losing you. Your 
 young and pretty face cheered this old house a little. I am very old, and as 
 one grows old it is very sad to remain all alone, to wait for their last hour 
 with a little dog only for a companion; and then to die alone— unpitied — 
 unregretted !" 
 
 After a few moments of gloomy silence, she went on, still speaking very 
 softly — " Be generous, Matilda. Do not leave my house with any unkind 
 feeling toward me. That would render my solitude more grievous." 
 
 M ademoiselle de Maran was unquestionably sincere, as she spoke thus to 
 me. The most evil-minded are not exempt from occasional returns of re- 
 morse. Besides, the expression of her features, and her voice itself, be- 
 trayed her agitation — and then, she had no motive for playing this farce 
 before me. 
 
 I was, indeed, much affected by this mark of sensibility — the only one, 
 indeed, that my aunt had ever shown me. I had been rather delighted 
 than surprised, by her consent to my marriage with Gontran. I knew that, 
 in the strict letter of the law, I could have dispensed with her permission; 
 and, without any very great vanity, I felt that my aunt must be satisfied 
 with the power of giving my hand to the nephew of one of her most intimate 
 friends. But, on this occasion, the affectionate regrets of Mademoiselle de 
 Maran really touched me sensibly. 
 
 I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and kissed it, for once, with sincere 
 veneration. She was stooping over me, so that I only saw her forehead. 
 Suddenly she raised herself quickly, and opened her arms to me. To my 
 great surprise, two tears, the only tears which 1 ever saw shed by Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, bedewed her eyelids. I flung myself on my knees before 
 her. She leaned her arms lightly on my shoulders, and said, looking at me 
 affectionately, 
 
 " You have never complained — yet you have never felt the sweetness of a 
 mother's kiss. Up to this moment, I have either cruelly tormented you, or 
 praised you with exaggeration no less cruel. 1 have done evil. I am 
 grieved for it. What would you that I should say more? I shall regret it 
 to the end of my days, which, alas! is not very far off. Happily, your good 
 disposition has risen above all. This is one reproach spared to me — there 
 will remain enough without it. Yes ! my dear little girl, I am so grieved, 
 that, if there were yet time, I should But no — no — and yet " 
 
 Without finishing her sentence, my aunt stooped her head again, as if a 
 new strife had begun within her, between her wish to speak and some other 
 secret influence. 
 
 In spite of myself, I was afraid — as if my future lot, in some sort, de- 
 pended on the words which she hesitated to speak out. She, wishing, per- 
 haps, to strengthen herself in her good resolution, by drawing from me more 
 words of tenderness, said, 
 
 " I am less odious to you now than I was formerly — is it not so ?" 
 
 "Within a moment or two, aunt, I love you — all is forgotten;" and I 
 pressed her hands affectionately in my own. 
 
 "It does me good to hear that; and if I were to do you a great service, 
 which would, perhaps, insure the happiness of all your life — would you love 
 me dearly? would you often say to me, with your sweet, soft voice, ' I love 
 you dearly?' You look at me with wide eyes of astonishment. But an- 
 swer me. I have always been feared, or detested, except by your father — 
 my excellent, kind brother. Ah! he loved me! indeed, loved me! But to 
 him, also, I was always kind and devoted. Yes, I loved him so well, that I 
 thought myself justified in hating all the world besides; and then, I sup- 
 pose, every one has within himself a less or greater share of affection. As 
 for me, I have very little; and what 1 have, was all concentrated in your 
 father. I know not why it is, that, at this hour, your voice, your manner touch 
 me; awaken in me, if not affection, at least, pity ! Repeat to me, then, that 
 you will love me well — that you will love, with all your heart and soul, the 
 friend who saves you from the precipice down which you are on the very 
 verge of plunging? Answer me — answer me: will you devote your life to 
 that friend?" 
 
100 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran spoke the last words with a degree of nervous 
 energy that proved the violence of the internal strife which was distracting 
 her. Without understanding a word that my aunt said, I threw myself into 
 her arms, all terrified, crying, " Have pity on me ! I know not what cala- 
 mity threatens me ! But, if there be one, oh! speak, speak! You are my 
 father's sister — 1 am alone, alone ! I have but you in the wide world ! Who 
 will enlighten me, if it be not you? Oh! speak — for mercy, speak! A 
 calamity, you say — but what? Gontran loves me — I love him as much as 
 I can love ! I have in Ursula the most affectionate of friends. How, then, 
 can I go forth into the world under more happy auspices? You, too, at this 
 same moment, speak to me tenderly. A few brief words from you have 
 effaced for ever all the sad recollections of my childhood. If any hidden 
 peril threatens my destiny, oh ! speak — for pity, speak !" 
 
 " Unhappy child! I know not what voice it is, that tells me, it were a 
 grievous sin to leave you in your error; and that, one day, to divine or 
 human vengeance it must grievously be answered." 
 
 The sentiments to which she was yielding were so generous, and so noble 
 were the thoughts by which she was agitated, that, for a moment, her fea- 
 tures wore an expression that was almost beautiful. I listened, in unspeak- 
 able anxiety, when Servien knocked at the door, and entered, with a letter 
 on a silver salver. My heart beat fearfully: I felt a dread presentiment 
 that this fatal chance, which was interrupting Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 would conceal from my eyes for ever what she was on the point of revealing. 
 
 " What is it?" cried my aunt, with an expression of impatience that was 
 almost painful. 
 
 "A letter, madam," answered Servien, presenting the salver. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran snatched it abruptly, and cried, " Go!" 
 
 I breathed again. I thought that my aunt was about to proceed with her 
 narrative; for the expression of her face had not altered, and she even 
 appeared so much preoccupied, that she cast the letter down upon her desk, 
 without unsealing it. Fate willed that the direction should be turned 
 upward, as it fell — the handwriting caught her eye— she took it hastily, and 
 opened it. 
 
 All hope vanished — that letter appeared to act on her with the force and 
 speed of lightning — her features resumed their wonted expression of irony 
 and harshness. Her frowning eyebrows wore a more malignant aspect than 
 I ever witnessed. One moment she sat like one thunderstruck — then, in a 
 hoarse voice, furiously crushing up the letter, 
 
 " And I — " she exclaimed — "I was just going — Ah! what could have 
 ailed me? I was mad, I believe — this little girl had bewitched me. I was 
 committing the most simple blunders of good-nature, while he — ah ! may 
 hell confound him ! Happily, I have yet the time " 
 
 These words of my aunt, uttered with long pauses of reflective silence, 
 alarmed me. 
 
 " Madam," I said, trembling, "just now you were about to make an im- 
 portant disclosure to me." 
 
 " Just now I was a fool, an idiot — do you understand?" she replied, with 
 a sharp and violent accent. " I believe, God forgive me! I was in the 
 melting mood — Ha, ha, ha! — and this little pup believed it all, never ima- 
 gined that I was quizzing her, with my sensibilities. I am a very melting 
 person, to be sure !" 
 
 " I did believe your emotion, madam — yes, you were moved, you will 
 deny it to no purpose. I saw your tears flow. Ah ! madam, in the name of 
 those tears, which the memory of my father perhaps called forth, leave me 
 not in this state of torturing anxiety. Yield to the generous feeling which 
 led you to open your arms to me. It will be too cruel, madam, to have 
 filled my heart with distrust— distrust the most cruel, because it may attach 
 to any one, and make me suspect those whom I love the best." 
 
 " Really ! does it seem so to you ? Well, so much the better ! it will give 
 you occupation — to find the key to this enigma. It will be a very nice 
 amusement, this — and I will promise to tell you, if you guess rightly." 
 
 " Madam," I said, indignant at the cold smile of my aunt, "you said, just 
 now, yourself, that you must answer it to divine, or human justice, if — " 
 
 " Ha — ha — ha!" cried my aunt, interrupting me with a burst of sardonic 
 laughter. " So— so ! Do you think me with the king's police, or the thun- 
 ders of the Vatican, with your divine and human justice? Do not you see 
 that I was joking? it is very natural that one should be merry on a wed- 
 ding-day ! I know that you are gpmg to tell me about my love tears. N ow, 
 
M. SB MOB.TAGNB. 
 
 101 
 
 my little darling, I ara going to tell you a secret, which may stand you in 
 stead, one of these days, to soften Gontran, in one of those moods from 
 which the best-managed family is never free. Look you — a little grain of 
 snuff in the corner of each eye, and you will weep like Magdalen. Then, 
 such fine eyes as yours must be irresistible when they weep !" 
 "But, madam " 
 
 "Ah ! yes, I had forgotten. I have some things there, which your mother 
 desired, in her will, should be given to you on the day of your marriage. I 
 was going to give them to you just now; but I have thought better of it. I 
 will give them to you this evening, after you are married;" and, as she 
 spoke, she rose and locked her writing-desk. 
 
 " Ah! madam, grant me these at least. You are about to leave me very 
 sad, very much frightened by your cruel silence ; these last proofs of my 
 mother's love will at the least console me." 
 
 " It is impossible," said Mademoiselle de Maran ; " the clause in the will 
 is positive. Once married, I will give them to you. But what ! five o'clock 
 already, and I not dressed? leave me, dear little girl." 
 
 As she said this, my aunt rung for one of her women, wno came in and 
 told her that something had been brought into the drawing-room for me, on 
 the part of M. le Vicomte de Lancry. 
 
 " Go quick: I make no doubt but it is your corbeille," said my aunt ; " and 
 to judge from the taste of Gontran, I doubt, not it will be both beautiful and 
 magnificent." 
 
 I left the room of Mademoiselle de Maran, oppressed with bitter griefs. 
 
 When I considered, what could be this secret which she would have con- 
 fided to me, I recalled to mind a second time what the Duchess de Riche 
 ville had told me. And yet— I had not the least distrust of Gontran. Had 
 not he, himself, gone far beyond all my suspicions, in confessing to me all 
 the ill-deeds of which he could be accused? — Besides, I loved him passion- 
 ately. I had the deepest confidence in him. 
 
 I only felt myself so perfectly assured, so charmed with my prospects of 
 future happiness, because they would be in his charge. It was the same 
 thing with the friendship of Ursula; I believed her to be as devoted, as sin- 
 cere to me, as I knew myself to be to her. 
 
 The cruel uneasiness which Mademoiselle de Maran had poured into my 
 heart, seemed then to hover, as it were, ovér the only true affections that I 
 felt ; threatening them both, and yet attacking neither. 
 
 I found in the drawing-room the corbeille which M. de Lancry had sent 
 me. As my aunt had foreseen, nothing could be richer or more elegant ; 
 diamonds, trinkets, laces, cachemire shawls, stuffs of ail kinds, in exquisite 
 taste and profusion; but I was too sad to enjoy their wondrous beauty. Had 
 they not come from Gontran, I should have scarce looked at them. 
 
 However, by dint of striving to guess the mystery which Mademoiselle de 
 Maran concealed from me, I ended by bringing myself to believe that her 
 emotion, which I had at first thought very sincere, had not been so ; and 
 that her only object had been to torment me, and to make me a cruel 
 adieu ! 
 
 The sight of Gontran, who came a little while before the hour appointed 
 for the fixing of the contract, and his affectionate expressions, in the end 
 altogether reassured me. 
 
 At nine o'clock, my family and that of Gontran were assembled in the 
 grand drawing-room of the Hotel de Maran. 
 
 I was beside my aunt and M. de Versac ; the notary had just come in — ■ 
 when, almost at the same moment, the evident cracking of' whips, and the 
 echoing sound of a carriage entering the court at the full speed of many 
 horse, was distinctly heard by all. 
 
 I looked to my aunt; she turned pale — actually livid. 
 
 A moment afterward, M. de Mortagne stood at the door of the drawing- 
 ïoom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 M. DE MORTAGNE. 
 
 Had it not been for the strongly-marked features of M. de Mortagne, it 
 would have been impossible to recognise him. His beard, his hair had 
 become perfectly white, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes sunk, and their 
 
 K 3 
 
102 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 orbits darkened; his cheeks deeply hollowed— all spoke of long and cruel 
 Bufferings. His dress wa5 as careless as his wont. 
 
 This almost ominous apparition, in the midst of a room glittering with 
 gold, and blazing with lights — filled with men and women, splendidly dressed, 
 presented a strange contrast to the scene. • 
 
 At first, the assembled guests remained mute with astonishment. M. de 
 Mortagne came straight up to me, took both my hands, and looked at me for 
 many moments. The fierce expression of his features passed away : he kissed 
 me affectionately on the forehead, and said, 
 
 'At length, here I am — provided, only, I am yet in time;" and looking 
 at me, even more attentively — "It is her mother, all! the very picture of 
 her poor mother ! Well can I comprehend the hatred of that monster !" 
 
 The first stroke of surprise over, Mademoiselle de Maran recovered her 
 habitual audacity, and cried out resolutely, 
 
 ' What is it you come here to do, monsieur?" 
 
 Without replying in particular to her, M, de Mortagne exclaimed in a voice 
 of thunder, " I come here to convict three persons of unworthy trickery, and 
 base avarice ! Those three — are you, Mademoiselle de Maran ; you, Mon- 
 sieur d'Orbeval ; and you, Monsieur de Versac !" 
 
 My aunt swayed herself to and fro, in her arm-chair ; M. d'Orbeval turned 
 pale with fright; M. de Versac rose ; but his nephew cried out quickly, 
 
 " Monsieur de Mortagne, beware I M. le Duc de Versac is my uncle; to 
 insult him, is to insult me." 
 
 " Your turn will come, Monsieur de Lancry, but not yet. First the eau es, 
 then the consequences !" said M. de Mortagne, coldly. 
 
 I caught the hand of Gontran, and said to him very low, in a voice of 
 supplication, 
 
 " What does it signify to you? I love you; be not angered against M. de 
 Mortagne ; he was the sole protector of my childhood." 
 M. de Mortagne went on — 
 
 " I expect threats and outcries ; all this is very plain. Who would prevent 
 my speaking, fears what I shall speak!" 
 
 "No one fears aught, sir, butyour insults," exclaimed my guardian. 
 
 " When I shall have spoken what I shall speak, I shall be at his orders 
 whom I have offended." 
 
 "But this is an insufferable tyranny," cried Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 " which you shall not inflict upon us, for all your furious airs of braggart, 
 coward, and Ravasse-ton-bras !" 
 
 "In truth, it is intolerable," said M. de Versac; "one cannot conceive 
 such brutality in a man of birth." 
 
 "It is both calumny and defamation," said my guardian. 
 
 " You fear, then, my disclosures, since you would stifle my voice," said 
 M. de Mortagne. " You fear, then, that I may dissuade this wretched girl 
 from the marriage that you would have her to contract?" 
 
 " Monsieur !" cried Gontran, " it is to me, now, to me ! do you hear ! to me ! 
 that you are to speak; and to speak, too, without concealment. So highly 
 honoured, so truly happy, as I am, in the hope of being united to Made- 
 moiselle Matilda; yet, would I renounce, this instant, that dear hope, if 
 there could rest upon her mind the slightest doubt " 
 
 I, in my turn, now interrupted M. de Lancry, by saying to M. de Mortagne, 
 " I am quite sure that your conduct is dictated by the affection which you 
 bear me. I have not forgotten your past kindness; but I entreat you, not a 
 word more. Nothing in all the world can change my resolution." 
 
 "But I, mademoiselle, I will change mine. Yes! cruel as the resolve 
 may be, I will reject your hand thi6 instant, if monsieur do not explain." 
 
 " It is all that I ask," replied M. de Mortagne. 
 
 " This is absurd," cried Mademoiselle de Maran, pale with rage. "But 
 you can have no blood in your veins I no ! not one of you all, to suffer this 
 fellow to dictate to you, just escaped, as he is, from the Bicetre !"* 
 
 " Escaped from the dungeon vaults of Venice — wherein you have kept me 
 * plunged for eight years, by your infernal schemes!" cried M. de Mortagne, 
 
 with a voice of thunder, seizing Mademoiselle de Maran roughly by the arm, 
 and shaking her in furious anger. 
 
 " He will murder me — he is capable of anything !" cried my aunt. 
 
 "And thou, most infernal creature ! of what art not thou capable? Thy 
 
 * Bicetre— the prison of the galley-convicts. 
 
M. DE MORTAGNE. 
 
 103 
 
 treachery — has It not made me suffer a thousand and a thousand deaths? 
 Behold my hair blanched, my brow furrowed up by agony! — eight years of 
 agony ! Hear'st thou ! — Eight years of agony ! and I will have my revenge, 
 it I pursue thee to thy life's end ! An4 yet, I know not why I do not even 
 now rid earth of a monster such as thou!" and with the word, he cast her 
 violently back into her arm-chair. 
 
 The scene was so sudden — the accusation which M. de Mortagne brought 
 against my aunt seemed so extraordinary, that all the persons present were 
 panic-stricken and amazed. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, although dreaded, was so universally detested, 
 that her f riends were not sorry to be the involuntary witnesses of a scene so 
 strangely scandalous. The brow of Mademoiselle de Maran was covered 
 with a cold sweat — she scarcely breathed, but stared at M. de Mortagne 
 with a wild and terrified expression. 
 
 " You know not how I discovered your abominable plot!" he continued, 
 addressing my aunt, and drawing some papers from his pocket — il Do you re- 
 cognise this letter to the Governor of Venice; do you recognise these incen- 
 diary proclamations? 
 
 "All this astonishes you, gentlemen," continued M. de Mortagne, seeing 
 the looks of curiosity that were fixed on these mysterious papers; "you do 
 not understand me yet, that I can readily believe ! Never was plot more 
 malignantly, and, at the same time, more ably conceived. Now, listen, all 
 of you, and learn to know this woman !" 
 
 " It is eight years ago, that I accused her, before all of you who compose 
 the council of my niece's family, of bringing up this unhappy child like a 
 cruel stepmother. I demanded that you should withdraw her from her care. 
 You refused my demand. I was alone, you were many. I submitted! 
 When I was obliged to go hence, I hoped soon to return to Paris, and, with 
 or without your consent, to exercise a supervision over the education of Ma- 
 tilda. The very thoughts of my return filled her aunt with dismay: you 
 shall hear how she hindered it. You tremble, all of you, before this woman. 
 But perchance you will have the courage to admit the blackness of her soul, 
 if any soul there be in that body." 
 
 " And will you endure this? and will you suffer me to be thus insulted?" 
 cried Mademoiselle de Maran, turning toward the audience. 
 
 No one replied a word to her. 
 
 " It is eight years ago," continued M. de Mortagne, "that I set out for 
 Italy. I was to wait at Naples for the young Count of Rochegune, the son of 
 one of my best friends. That youth of generous and ardent soul was to 
 have gone with me, to fight for a time in the cause of the Greeks. I was 
 an entire stranger to the plots which were in being among the secret societies 
 of Italy. I arrived at Venice — for a time I was not disturbed ; but one 
 night the police made a descent on me, seized my papers, all my property, 
 cast me into prison — into secret confinement. I protested my innocence — ■ 
 defied the world to. show the least proof of guilt against me. I was an- 
 swered, that the Austrian Government had received information of my 
 plans — that I was taking an active part in the proceedings of the secret so- 
 cieties. I denied the charge loudly. They produced my trunks, and in 
 one with a false bottom, of which I knew not the existence, found several 
 sealed packages." 
 
 " Any one must be as mad as this man himself," cried Mademoiselle de 
 Maran, "who can listen seriously to such a mass of twattle! As for me, I 
 will hear no more of it!" and she arose as if to withdraw. 
 
 " As you will ; go ! It is not to you that I record these infamous secrets. 
 You have already the secret of them by heart!" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran sat down once more, actually shuddering with 
 rage. 
 
 M. de Mortagne went on: "The packets were opened, and within were 
 found the most incendiary proclamations— an appeal to the lodges of the 
 Carbonari, a plan of insurrection against the Austrian Government, and a 
 number of mysterious letters postmarked Paris, which I was supposed to 
 have read, promising me a convention of all the freemen of Lombardy. The 
 appearances were overpowering; I remained myself thunderstruck by this 
 inexplicable fact. I was questioned as to my opinions; I had not th» 
 cowardice to deny them. I answered that I was devoted to one cause alone — 
 that of holy, and pure, and unsullied freedom! These men could not com- 
 prehend that, because I had the courage to avow opinions sufficient even to 
 destroy me, I ought to be believed, when I swore by my honour that I was 
 
104 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 ignorant of the existence of those perilous papers. I was cast into a dun 
 geon— 1 remained therein eight years. 1 have come forth, as you perceive, 
 decrepit .before my time. - Now, would you learn howl became possessed 
 of these dangerous documents? A short time before I set forth for Italy, 
 Servien, her worthy servant, was sent to one of my men who was to accom- 
 pany me, under the pretence of getting certain foreign goods introduced 
 into Italy, and of thereby realising a great profit. He persuaded him, with- 
 out my knowledge, to have a false bottom made to my trunk, to hide therein 
 the pretended packages of English lace. Once at Venice, a correspondent, 
 he was told, would call upon him for the lace, and give him five-and-twenty 
 guineas for his trouble. The weak wretch, ignorant of the danger, accepted 
 the commission. I set off, and, at neady the same time, there was sent a 
 letter directed to the governor of Venice — 
 
 " ' M. de Mortagne, ancient officer of the empire, well known for the ex- 
 travagance of his revolutionary principles, and his connexion with the an- 
 archists of all countries, will arrive at Venice in the course of the month of 
 May. The proofs of his dangerous designs will be found in the false bottoms 
 of several of his trunks.' 
 
 " Well! is this infamy enough?" said M. de Mortagne, crossing his arms 
 upon his breast, and looking indignantly on Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 She, though astounded for a moment, recovered her audacity, and cried, 
 
 " And what is there in common, sir, between me and your packages of 
 ace, filled with conspiracies? Is it my fault that, finding your revolutionary 
 lots unmasked, you invented an absurd story, which, of course, no one 
 credited? Who will believe that I amused myself with fabricating procla- 
 mations, and that [ made one of my own servants my confidant in such line 
 actions? Come, sir, you are mad — there is not one word of truth in the 
 whole of this— I deny it." 
 
 "You deny it? and will your wretched Servien deny the sworn deposi- 
 tion of my servant, who formally accuses him of having given him the 
 packets?" 
 
 " Your servant !" cried my aunt, bursting into a fit of loud laughter; "here 
 is a pretty sort of evidence, indeed, and likely to be admitted. Like master, 
 like valet, monsieur! Is not^your course, of old, well known? What is 
 there wonderful, that the letter you have just read to us should have been 
 sent to the governor of Venice? Is it because you have never declared 
 yourself the champion of the brethren and friends of all countries? The 
 police here, which has you in surveillance, probably advised the Austrian 
 police, in sisterly fashion, of your projects — that is quite natural — that hap- 
 pens every day. So leave me alone, with your packets of lace stuffed with 
 conspiracies: that is a tale of Mother Goose. You wanted to play the 
 Brutus, the Washington, the Lafayette; and they caged you — that's all! 
 You groan about your grey hairs — what have I got to do with that ? We 
 know, quite well, that the leads* at Venice are not fountains of youth! If, 
 in consequence, your wits have gone astray, as it seems they have, you 
 had better take cold baths, and leave us quiet, for you are not endurable." - 
 _ The cruel sarcasms of Mademoiselle ile Maran, contrary to my expecta- 
 tions, found M. de Mortagne invulnerable. He answered, with perfect sang- 
 froid, " Thanks to the active friendship of Mademoiselle de Richeville, Mon- 
 sieur de Rochegune, and some others of my friends, I am again at liberty. 
 In spite of your shameless audacity, we have sure proofs enough to nail you 
 to the pillory of public opinion— and I will do it." 
 
 " We shall see if you will, monsieur." 
 
 "And you shall not be the only one. I will nail there your accomplices, 
 likewise— those who, from cowardice, selfishness, or avarice, have served 
 your wicked ends. Do you hear, Monsieur de Lancry? Do you hear, Mon- 
 sieur d'Orbeval? Do you hear, Monsieur de Versac?" 
 
 A burst of indignation followed these words of M. de Mortagne ; but he 
 persisted, unabashed. 
 
 "I do not even know, messieurs, ifyour conduct be not yet more detestable 
 than that of Mademoiselle de Maran : at least, she hates me — she hates my 
 niece ; and although hatred is an odious passion, it shows, at least, a certain 
 degree of energy. But, you three have striven, with cowardice, selfishness, 
 and avarice " 
 
 * Cells immediately under the leads, used to torture the prisoners, by in- 
 sufferable heat in summer, as the wells were by cold in winter. 
 
M. DE MORTAGNE. 
 
 105 
 
 " Go on, monsieur— -go on!" cried Gontran, pale with rage. 
 
 " There was a day, doubtless, when you, Monsieur de Versac, said to Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran, 'My nephew is over head in debt; he is a reckless 
 gambler; the world shuts its eyes, as yet, to the scandal of his adventures; 
 but he embarrasses me: if he gets into any bad predicament, I shall be 
 obliged, by appearances, to extricate him. Your niece is very rich; let us 
 arrange this marriage: my nephew's debts will be paid, and I shall have no 
 more trouble.'" 
 
 "Monsieur," said M. de Versac, with perfect urbanity, "1 will pray you 
 to observe, that, what you do me the honour to say, is entirely without foun- 
 dation; and that " 
 
 "Monsieur le Duc," replied M. de Mortagne, "if you had a daughter, 
 whom you loved dearly, would you give her to your nephew? answer — upon 
 your honour !" 
 
 " It does not seem to me, monsieur, that we are on such terms of intimacy, 
 that T should necessarily make you my confidant on this subject!" 
 
 "This evasion is overwhelming for your nephew, sir," replied M. de 
 Mortagne. 
 
 Gontran was on the point of bursting into a fit of rage ; but I restrained 
 him by my entreaties, and M. de Mortagne went on — 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Maran probably reflected on this proposition. Yes, 
 she asked herself, if the gentleman proposed combined all the faults and 
 vices necessary to render her niece — whom she abhors — utterly miserable, 
 Monsieur de Lancry appeared to her gifted with all the qualities requisite 
 to the purpose. She gave her word to Monsieur de Versac — and then com- 
 menced this detestable intrigue. Is there no such thing as human justice? 
 and shall this go unpunished?" cried M. de Mortagne, with noble indigna- 
 tion. " Here is a young orphan girl, isolated from her very infancy, severed 
 from all affection, left to herself, without support — without advice : a man, 
 gifted with fascinations the most attractive, is introduced at every instant of 
 the day; every honourable rival is excluded: she is delivered up to this 
 man — to this man alone — to this man, broken in, long ago, to the intrigues 
 of gallantry. This poor girl, inexperienced, unaccustomed to the cruelties, 
 to the secret malice, of a stepmother — listens, with artless and delighted 
 confidence, to the hypocritical whispers — to the lying promises, of this man. 
 Ignorant of the danger which she is running, she never perceives that she is 
 in love, until that love is rooted in her very soul. The happy child has not 
 a friend — has not a relative, to enlighten her on the dangers she is run- 
 ning — on the position, on the previous conduct, of this man who deceives 
 her !" 
 
 " Enough ! monsieur, enough !" I exclaimed, burning with indignation, 
 for I felt cruelly what must be the sufferings of Gontran. " It is I, I only, 
 who must answer this ! Instead of hiding from me the past, with which you 
 so bitterly reproach him, M. de Lancry, full of loyalty and frankness, was 
 beforehand in giving me that information which otherwise I could not have 
 gained. He said to me, ' I will not deceive you — my youth has been dissi- 
 pated; I have played, I have been a prodigal.' But, when M. de Lancry 
 would have told me of his fortunes, told me how little he possessed now, it 
 was I — I who would not hear him. I have not, then, been deceived into 
 giving my hand to M. de Lancry ; I have a deep trust, an absolute confi- 
 dence in the promises he has made me, in the assurances he has given me, 
 in the future happiness lor which I look at his hands ! And, while bitterly 
 lamenting this sad dispute, I am happy — ay! very happy, to be able here, 
 solemnly and aloud, to declare, that I am proud of the choice I have 
 made." 
 
 M. de Mortagne looked at me, with melancholy surprise. 
 "Matilda! Matilda! poor child, you are deceived — you know not what 
 awaits you !" 
 
 "Monsieur, I shall for ever respect the motives which have dictated your 
 conduct; and I hope, that one day, you will recover from your unjust pre- 
 judices against M. de Lancry." 
 
 Then going to the table, where the contract lay, I signed it hastily, and 
 said to M. de Mortagne, 
 
 " Here is my answer, monsieur;" and I gave the pen to Gontran. 
 
 M. de Mortagne rushed toward me crying, in a voice full of pathos, almost 
 of supplication, 
 
 "Pity her ! you are young — it cannot be, that every noble feeling is eradi- 
 cated from your heart. Mercy for Matilda ! mercy for so much candour, for 
 
106 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 so much truth, for so much generosity ! Do not abuse your influence over 
 her— you know that you cannot make her happy. Is it her fortune that you 
 covet? speak, monsieur ! I am rich." 
 
 At this last offer, which was in itself an insult, Gontran turned pale as 
 ashes with resentment. 
 
 " Sign ! oh, sign !" said I, with a faltering voice, to De Lancry. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I will sign!" he replied with a voice of restrained anger; "not 
 to sign, would be to avow myself guilty— to deserve the insults of this man ! 
 not to sign, would be to confess myself unworthy of you, Matilda!" and 
 Gontran signed the contract. 
 
 " Say, then, what is the truth — that not to sign, would be to renounce the 
 fortune which you covet; for you are unworthy to understand, much less to 
 appreciate, the good qualities of this angel. In two months you will treat 
 her as brutally as you have done your mistresses — if some one takes not 
 order with it !" 
 
 " Gontran!" said I, quite low, to M. de Lancry, "I am your wife! grant 
 me my first request: not a word to M. de Mortagne, I implore you. Put an 
 end to this scene, which is killing me." 
 
 Gontran reflected for some moments, and then said to me with a gloomy 
 air — 
 
 " Be it so, Matilda. You ask much of me; but I grant it to you." 
 
 " The sacrifice is consummated," said M . de Mortagne. " It was so fated ! 
 But come, now, courage. It remains for me, now, more than ever, to watch 
 over you, Matilda. If I can, it remains for me to render less fatal to you, 
 the consequences of your terrible imprudence — to hinder the calamities 
 which I foresee. Be tranquil; wherever you shall be, there will I be — 
 whithersoever you shall go, thither will I go. That monster" — pointing to 
 Mademoiselle de Maran — "has been your evil genius — I will be your guar- 
 dian genius — and here I declare relentless war, merciless, pitiless, against 
 all our enemies, be they who they may! My hair is white; my brow is 
 wrinkled ; but God has left me the energy of heart, and of devotedness ! 
 Alas! poor child! I come late, indeed, in your life; but, I trust, not too 
 late! Farewell! my child ! farewell ! I will sign your contract ; I will take 
 part in your marriage — it is my right; it is my duty. At this moment, more 
 than ever, I claim to perform the duty and the right." 
 
 And, going to the table, he signed the contract with a firm hand. The 
 Toice, the features, of M. de Mortagne, bore such a stamp of authority, that 
 no one spoke. When he. signed, he said, 
 
 "Monsieur d'Orbeval, Monsieur de Versac, Monsieur de Lancry — Ire- 
 tract nothing that I have said — it is true. I maintain, and will maintain, 
 that it is true, here and everywhere. Ten years ago, I would have added — 
 ' I will sustain it, sword in hand !' to-day, I will say no more. My life be- 
 longs to this child — who, I see, has no one left to her in all the world, save I. 
 Smile not disdainfully, young man; the world knows that Monsieur de 
 Mortagne has no fear!" Then, stretching out his right hand, he made, with 
 the fore-finger, a threatening and imperious gesture at De Lancry, saying, 
 " If you repair not your past life — if, by the most grateful affection — if, by 
 an adoration manifested at all moments, you do not render yourself worthy 
 of this angel; it is you, who will have to tremble before me ! Oh ! furious 
 glances have no weight with me. 1 have tamed fiercer things than you." 
 
 And with a firm, slow step, M. de Mortagne withdrew 
 
 Scarce was he gone, when the sort of stupor, which that singular man had 
 spread around, appeared to vanish. Everyone attacked him ; depreciated 
 him; accused him of madness! It was remembered, that, nine years ago, 
 he had made escapades as strange and as wild as this. The interest he had 
 excited for a moment, by relating the treacheries of Mademoiselle de Ma- 
 ran, had grown cold already; and almost all our relations began to rally 
 about my aunt, declaring that they did not believe a word of M. de Mor 
 tagne's fable, touching the cause ot his captivity in Venice. 
 
 A few minutes after his departure, we betook ourselves to the mayoralty. 
 
 Despite the cruel scene which I had witnessed, my blind confidence in M. 
 de Lancry was in nowise weakened. M. de Mortagne and Madame de 
 Bicheville accused him of faults which he had confessed, and for which he 
 had found excuses, and almost a justification, in his love for me. I believed 
 him ; and I felt nothing but irritation against M. de Mortagne, and a re- 
 doubling of my love for Gontran. I went so far even, as to accuse myself of 
 causing the grievous scene which he had encountered; and promised myself 
 to make up to him for it, by infinite devotedness. 
 
M. DE MORTAGNE. 
 
 107 
 
 If you are surprised, my friend, at my persisting in the accomplishment of 
 this marriage, in spite of so many warnings, both vague and definite, it is 
 because you know not the blind and intractable obstinacy of love — which 
 but increases the more for the opposition it encounters. 
 
 If was with a sort of religious zeal that I replied yes, when I was asked ir 
 I took Gontran for my husband. The ceremony ended, we returned to the 
 hoteJ of Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 The morning following, we proceeded to the chapel of the Chamber of , 
 Peers, where the marriage was to take place at nine o'clock. The first per- 
 son I saw, as I entered, was M. de Mortagne. Not having been informed 
 on the previous evening, it had not been in his power to be present at the 
 civil marriage. 
 
 Monseigneur the Bishop of Amiens united us. His address to Gontran 
 was grave, serious, almost severe. It appeared to me that my husband was 
 judged by his past conduct, and I felt almost proud of the sort of conversion 
 which his love for me was about to work in him for the future. When we 
 left the chapel, we entered a drawing-room, which Monsieur the Chancellor 
 had kindly placed at our disposition. I was near the window with Gontran 
 and Mademoiselle de Maran, waiting for M. de Versac, in order to go with 
 him home, when M. de Mortagne advanced toward us. 
 
 I saw the eyes of Gontran sparkle with fury. 
 
 Frightened, I caught him by the arm, saying, " Recollect your promise, 
 Gontran;" but he shook me off, almost harshly, saying, " It is well — I know 
 what I have got to do. Then drawing near to M. de Mortagne, he said, in a 
 hoarse voice, 
 
 " I have endured your insults and your threats, monsieur, so long as I had 
 a reason for enduring them — these reasons exist no longer; and you must 
 give me satisfaction, now that Mademoiselle Matilda is my wife." 
 
 But Mademoiselle de Maran caught Gontran by the arm, her eyes spark- 
 ling with fiendish malignity, and said, pointing to M. de Mortagne, 
 
 "Henceforth, monsieur must be sacred — inviolable in your eyes— do you 
 understand ? Whatever he may say — whatever he may do — you must endure 
 all from him." 
 
 "I must endure all from him?" cried Gontran. "Wherefore so?" 
 
 " Wherefore so?" — and Mademoiselle de Maran, darting at M. de Mor- 
 tagne and myself a glance like that of a viper, said with her hideous smile, 
 " You must endure all from M. de Mortagne, my poor friend Gontran, for a 
 very simple reason — a man cannot fight Tue Father of his Wife !" 
 
 M. de Mortagne stood thunderstruck I — Gontran gazed at her with asto- 
 nishment. I, for a moment or two, did not even understand the hideous 
 bearing of those execrable words of Mademoiselle de Maran. Then — when 
 they shot through my brain, scorching it like a shaft of flame, I only cried 
 out, "O! my mother !" : — and fell fainting. 
 
 Many a year has elapsed since that horrid scene, my friend — many a time 
 have I wept bitterly to think of it — I weep even now as I revert to it. Oh ! 
 my mother! my mother ! — holiest, best of women ! — Oh ! you whose angelic 
 virtue beamed with so pure a splendour, that the fiend who caused your slow 
 agonies never so much as dared attempt to calumniate you living! Oh! 
 my mother! — it was not till your ashes had long been cold in the quiet grave, 
 that sacrilegious hate dared even to profane your memory. 
 
 Such was my childhood— such my first youth up to the period of my mar- 
 riage. My spirit is downcast and overwhelmed. These recollections have 
 so deeply — so variously agitated my mind, that I must pause and collect my- 
 self a little, before I attempt to relate to you the second period of my life. 
 
 83T9 07 PART I. 
 
16» 
 
 MATIIAA* 
 
 PART II. 
 
 MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE RETREAT. 
 
 On leaving the chapel of the Luxembourg, after the celebration of my mar* 
 riage with M. de Lancry, what was my astonishment, on perceiving a car- 
 riage with post-horses attached to it ! Mademoiselle Blondeau was seated in 
 the rumble. M. de Lancry's valet was standing at the coach door. 
 
 " Where are we going, then ?" said I to Gontran. 
 
 "Will you not confide yourself to me?" replied he, smiling. 
 
 I hurried into the carriage, delighted with the reflection that I should no 
 more see Mademoiselle de Maran ; the atrocious and unfounded calumny she 
 had uttered against my mother had completed my aversion to her. It was in 
 vain that Gontran argued, that such calumnies should be treated, not merely 
 as mischievous, but as utter madness ; that odious suspicions, carried to such 
 a length, destroyed themselves ; I felt, that from that time forward it would 
 be impossible for me to hold any intercourse with Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 The carriage drove off at a rapid rate. During the three hours which our 
 journey occupied, Gontran was delicately and gracefully attentive to me ; he 
 spoke but little ; but when he did, his words were full of touching goodness, 
 though at the same time almost gravé and pensive. He doubtless felt, as I 
 did, that the approach to great felicity requires a solemn and earnest medita- 
 tion. There is nothing more serious, more pensive, than happiness, when it 
 is actually within our grasp. 
 
 I was moved, even to tears, when I observed the look of protecting tender- 
 ness with which Gontran frequently observed me. Never, I believe, did I 
 feel my soul more elevated ; never were my aspirations more generous. I 
 reflected with delight on all the great, the pious duties which I should now 
 have to fulfil. I contemplated the future with calm and proud serenity, and 
 waited with religious impatience for the moment when I should be able to 
 prove to M. de Lancry the full value of my heart. 
 
 When I considered, that perhaps by the influence of my affection, I should 
 become indispensable to the happiness of Gontran, I felt for a moment that 
 glorious infatuation, that magnificent pride, which must burn in the bosom 
 of ambitious men. 
 
 We arrived at Chantilly; It was the latter part of April. The half- veiled 
 sun shed a soft and misty light. To my great astonishment our carriage 
 entered the forest ; we drove along the picturesque margin of Queen 
 Blanche's lake, and arrived at the skirts of the woods, which approach the 
 wilderness. 
 
 M. de Lancry handed me out of the carriage, which he sent away with his 
 valet. Madame Blondeau alone remained with us. 
 
 Gontran smiled at my surprise, and offered me his arm. We followed a 
 small path, whicli «as already perfumed with the odors of violets and prim- 
 roses. After walking a few minutes, we arrived at a hawthorn hedge, covered 
 with blossoms, in the centre of which was a rustic wooden door. 
 
 Blondeau opened it, ana we went in. 
 
 I saw a miniature house and a garden, which would both bave stood in the 
 grand saloon of the hotel de Maran. 
 
 Never was there a cottage more coquettishly ornamented, than this sweet 
 place; the roof was formed by steps, on which were placed flower-pots, hid 
 "nmoss; the garden was so completely covered with rose-trees, heliotropes. 
 
TU 3 RRTREAT. 
 
 jasmines, gillyflowers, and small Persian lilacs, that it resembled an immense 
 flower-stand, or rather a gigantic bouquet. 
 
 Our little cottage consisted only of a ground floor ; there was one small 
 sitting room, in which I had the sweet surprise to find my piano, my harp, 
 and the books which 1 had left the evening before at the hotel de Maran. It 
 appeared a perfect miracle ! On the right were two small rooms for me ; on 
 the left, two similar ones for Gontran. At the bottom of the garden was a 
 thatched cabin, containing a room for Blondeau, and the kitchen. 
 
 To describe the unspeakable and fairy-like elegance of this little Eden, 
 would be as impossible as to depict my gratitude toward Gontran, or my 
 almost childish joy, when I reflected that we were about to reside there for 
 some time. 
 
 M. de Lancry laughingly asked Blondeau, whether she should be able to 
 prepare a dinner for us every day. 
 
 Blondeau answered very proudly, that she would astonish us with her cu- 
 linary art : for she alone was to attend upon us, during our stay at the 
 cottage. 
 
 Need I tell you, how fully I appreciated this delicate attention of Gontran ? 
 
 It was hardly three o'clock : 1 took my husband's arm, and we set out for 
 a long walk into the forest. 
 
 The sun had, little by little, dispelled the clouds which had enshrouded 
 him ; the air was embalmed, saturated wifek the odors of the thousand blos- 
 soms of spring; the leaves, — still of a dvlicate green — trembled to the 
 slightest breathings of the wind ; birds of all kinds were warbling and flut- 
 tering from branch to branch of the magnificent trees ; their sweet and joy- 
 ous notes alone disturbing the profound silence of the forest. 
 
 My heart beat violently. I inhaled, with ineffable avidity, all these per- 
 fumes, all these sweet emanations of nature. 
 
 I leaned more heavily on Gontran's arm ; we walked slowly : Jiardly did 
 we, from time to time, exchange a few vague and unmeaning w ords. 
 
 I endeavoured, at one moment, to recall some impressions of my earliest 
 youth, and strange to say, I found it almost impossible. 
 
 The past appeared, to me vague, shrouded ; my recollection seemed to fly 
 from me. 1 have never been able to explain to myself this singular sensa- 
 tion. Was it, that present happiness invaded and absorbed every faculty, to 
 such a degree as to deprive me of my memory ? 
 
 These feelings became at last so powerful, that I half-closed my eyes; I 
 could not move a step farther ; my head fell upon Gontran's shoulder, and I 
 clasped his arm with both my hands. 
 
 Gontran, who doubtless felt the same emotions, stopped, but did not dis- 
 turb this ineffable torpor of my feelings. 
 
 " Pardon me," said I to him, after some minutes' silence, " I am very 
 weak and childish, am I not ? But I cannot overcome it ; so much happi- 
 ness is beyond my strength. Oh ! how happy must you feèl, inspiring me 
 with so much love ?" 
 
 " You are right, Matilda, for to inspire it, is to feel it! It is I who ought 
 to ask your forgiveness for my silence. And yet.not so, for there is a lan- 
 guage even in silence—it expresses more than words can render. Tell me, 
 Matilda, what words could express that which we now feel !" 
 
 " Oh ! 'tis true : it seems to me, also, that words should be withheld, 
 when the soul communes with itself. But," added I, smiling, "you will 
 think this very metaphysical, very ridiculous. See how much reason there is 
 in what you have said. I wish to explain these delightful impressions, and I 
 talk nonsense. Let us continue our walk, and let our hearts discourse 
 silently together." 
 
 The sun was about setting, when we returned to the cottage, which we 
 found almost darkened by the shades of evening, so thickly planted were the 
 trees by which it was surrounded. 
 
 In the saloon we found, with pleasure, a sparkling fire, made of pine cones, 
 which Blondeau had lighted, for the spring evenings were still cold. A neat 
 little dinner-table was laid out near the fire-place. 
 
 Gontran acknowledged, frankly, that he felt well-disposed to do honor to 
 the talents of my governess. She had surpassed herself. Our dinner was 
 very gay ; we waited on ourselves. I tried to anticipate his wishes — he the 
 same with mine ; from this arose a hundred lively discussions, which all ter- 
 minated by his ceding to me. 
 
 After dinner, he opened the door of the parlor, placed a large arm-chair 
 near it, in which I sat down. 
 
HO 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " Only observe what a lovely evenifîg !" said he to me. 
 
 The magnificent moon threw its silvery light upon our garden, and on tho 
 summits of the trees surrounding it. A most solemn silence reigned through- 
 out the forest. Above our heads, the stars glittered in the firmament; 
 around us, the flowers emitted their sweet perfumes. 
 
 Gontran seated himself at my feet. His noble and handsome face was 
 turned toward me ; the pale rays of the moon played upon his forehead and 
 on his brow. He held one of my hands in his, and looked at me with 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Strange contrast of our nature ! At that moment, I believe I attained the 
 apogeum of happiness ; the man I loved with all my soul, was at my feet. 
 The mysterious calm of a most lovely night, added to my enchantment. At 
 this moment, however, an indefinable sadness took possession of my heart. 
 I wept. 
 
 Gontran observed my tears ; soon his eyes were moistened, also. I leaned 
 my throbbing head on his, and our tears were mingled. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! why these tears ? Are we, then, so unfortunately gifted, that 
 the magnitude of certain happiness overwhelms us ? Or, rather, does the 
 involuntary sorrow it inspires, proceed from a presentiment, that its dura- 
 tion is so short ? 
 
 What can I tell you of those happy and brilliant days, which passed so 
 rapidly; of that life of love and solitude, which Heaven was pleased to sur- 
 round with all its splendors ; for the season continued admirably beautiful. 
 
 A sketch of the manner in which we passed our days, will make you com- 
 prehend the bitterness of my regret, when compelled to abandon this 
 enchanting existence. 
 
 Very early, every morning — after admiring the baskets of jasmine and 
 heliotrope, which never failed to be presented to me on my awaking, and 
 which Gontran, himself, delighted to gather tor me in our garden — we took 
 a walk in the forest, treading down, with joy, the high grass sparkling with 
 dew ; inhaling the odors of aromatic plants, and watching the deer, as they 
 retired into the thickest of the wood. 
 
 When the sun began to get high, we returned to breakfast ; and there, the 
 blinds of our little parlor being drawn down, enjoying the freshness of the 
 air and shade, we rested from our morning walk, sometimes taking a siesta 
 during the heat of the day. 
 
 Then I frequently opened my piano, and sang, with Gontran, some duets, 
 or airs to which we attached some tender recollection. At other times we 
 read. Gontran's voice had a most silvery tone ; it was always a new delight 
 to me, to hear bim read one of my favorite poets. These sweet occupations 
 were interrupted with lengthened conversations — with projects for the future, 
 and tender recollections of the past. Then, before dinner, we retired to 
 dress, and with as much coquetry and elegance, as if we were living in a 
 palace filled with company. 
 
 I attached great value to the flatteries of Gontran ; I took delight in dress- 
 ing my own hair, that I might owe to myself alone the praises he bestowed 
 Vipon me. 
 
 Notwithstanding the proofs of Madame Blondeau's talents, M. de Lancry, 
 who frankly avowed his taste for a good table, had sent his chief cook to 
 Chantilly ; and by means of a fourgon* perfectly well organized, our dinner 
 was sent us every day, accompanied by ice and fruit : Blondeau had only to 
 wait upon us. 
 
 Gontran had also horses at Chantilly. After dinner our calèche came for 
 us, and we took long drives in the magnificent alleys of the forest. We re- 
 turned sometimes at night, by moonlight, lulled by delightful reveries. The 
 carriage then was sent away, and Blondeau served our tea. 
 
 Oh 1 what long evenings glided thus happily away ! the door of our parlour 
 remaining open ; and we, enjoying the beauties of those lovely nights, whose 
 silence was only interrupted by the light rustling of the leaves. 
 
 Ob ! how many hours passed thus, while I, listening to the history Gontran 
 gave me of his life, his early youth, the battles fought by his father, one of 
 the heroes of La Vendée, who died bravely in those savage landes of Brittany, 
 fighting for his faith, and for his king. 
 
 With what insatiable curiosity did I question Gontran, on the campaigns 
 he himself had gone through— on the dangers he had encountered. The 
 
 * A fourgon is a sort of covered wagon, used for conveying provisions on 
 
 excursions, hunting parties, &c. 
 
THE RETREAT. 
 
 Ill 
 
 more I enquired into the past, thanks to his confidence, the more was 
 I persuaded of the vanity— of the injustice — of the accusations of Madame 
 de Richeville and M. de Mortagne. 
 
 They had described Gontran to me, as a man of unequal temper; egotist- 
 ical, harsh, deeply blasé, incapable of comprehending the delicacies of an ex- 
 alted and virtuous love. 
 
 What was my joy, my pride ! I had found Gontran full of softness, of kind 
 attentions ; and endowed, above all, with the most perfect fuid most exqui- 
 site tact. 
 
 This happiness lasted for three weeks. 
 
 One evening, while we were taking tea, Gontran said to me, smiling, 
 "Matilda, I have a serious proposal to make to you." 
 " Oh ! tell me what it is— tell me, my friend !" 
 " 'Tis that we should for some time prolong our residence here !" 
 " Gontran— Gontran !" 
 " You accede to it then ?" 
 
 "Do I accede? yes, with joy, with ecstasy! But you quite spoil me, 
 Gontran ; when we return to the world, what regrets ! what sacrifices must 
 we make — and for whom ? for what?" 
 
 " You are right, Matilda," said Gontran, sighing. " For whom ? for what ? 
 Our existence here is so delightful ! and we must leave it, to throw our- 
 selves into that shining gulph which people call the world!" 
 
 " But who compels us to do so, my dear friend ? What is the use of for- 
 tune, if not to live according to our wishes. But no, you say this from 
 kindness to me, Gontran ! you are yet too young, too brilliant, to renounce 
 the world !" 
 
 " Poor child !" said Gontran, smiling sweetly ; "on the contrary, it is you 
 who are too young to be deprived of pleasure, which you have scarcely known. 
 Were this life we lead, and which you now find charming, long continued to 
 you, it would become monotonous." 
 
 "Ah! Gontran, you say that I am beautiful! you would tire then of my 
 beauty ?" 
 
 " Matilda, how little do my words imply this !" 
 
 An unusual noise of footsteps and voices interrupted Gontran ; there were 
 persons talking, outside the hedge. Shortly afterward, some one knocked 
 at the garden-gate. It was eleven o'clock. It alarmed me. 
 
 " I will open the gate," said Gontran to me. 
 
 " Good heaven ! my beloved, take care !" 
 
 " There is nothing to be alarmed at ; this forest is patrolled all night long, 
 by the guards of the Duke of Bourbon." 
 " Who's there?" asked Gontran. 
 " It is I, sir, Germain." 
 
 He was one of M. de Lancry's grooms — my husband opened the gate. 
 " What do yoi^ want?" 
 
 " The Count de Lugarto's chasseur has brought a letter for you, sir ; he 
 came post from Paris : he knew that we were staying with the horses at 
 Chantilly, and came to us there : he desired us to conduct him hither, hav- 
 ing an important letter to deliver to you." 
 
 *' Where is this man?" 
 
 "There, behind the gate, Viscount." 
 
 " Desire him to come in." 
 
 By the light of the lamp hanging in the parlor, I saw a tall man, dressed 
 as a courier. He took off his hat and delivered a letter to Gontran. 
 
 From the moment of this man's arrival, M. de Lancry appeared much an- 
 noyed, almost depressed ; he approached the lamp, opened the letter, and 
 read it rapidly. Twice Gontran knit his brows ; he appeared to me to re- 
 press a movement of impatience, or of anger. After having read the letter, 
 he tore it, and then said to the courier : 
 
 " 'Tis well; tell your master I will see him to morrow at Paris:" then 
 addressing his groom, M. de Lancry added, "Give, orders to Pierre, to bring 
 the travelling-carriage here to-morrow morning. The rest of you will start 
 to-night for Paris, with the calèche and the horses. On arriving at the hotel, 
 tell them to put everything in order, for I shall arrive there during the day." 
 
 The two servants being gone, I said to Gontran, with anxiety, " You ap- 
 pear vexed, dear husband, what is the matter?" 
 
 " Nothing, I assure you, nothing — an important service, which one of my 
 friends, lately arrived from England, Requires at my hands, obliges me to re« 
 turn to Paris sooner than I expeeted." 
 
ÎÎ2 
 
 M à. TILDA. 
 
 " What a pity to leave this retreat !" said 1 to Gontran, unable to restrain 
 nay tears, 
 
 " Come, come," said he gently to me ; " what a child you are, Matilda !" 
 
 " But we shall return here, shall we not ? This small house will he to us 
 a living and sacred remembrance!" 
 
 "Doubtless — doubtless, Matilda: but I must leave you now. We must 
 set off to-morrow, very early ; for I must hasten to Paris. You must have 
 some orders to give to Madame Blondeau. I must take a walk, for I have a 
 slight head-acher' 
 
 " My beloved, permit me to accompany you." 
 
 ** No, no, stay here." 
 
 " I beg you will let me, Gontran — particularly as you are not well." 
 
 u I tell you, again, I prefer to be alone," said M. de Lancry, rather im- 
 patiently, and went toward the garden-gate. I shed tears — they were bitter 
 tears, this time. 
 
 Having retired to my chamber, I waited the return of Gontran. He came 
 back in about an hour, walked for some time in the garden, with an agitated 
 step, and then went into his own room. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 I passed a night of agony, reflecting on the uneasiness, the agitation which 
 M. de Lancry had not been able to conceal. 
 
 At break of day, I rose ; I was painfully affected. I wished to take a last 
 look at this mysterious, and charming retreat, where I had passed such happy 
 days. 
 
 Alas ! was this an omen ? was so much happiness about to vanish, and for 
 ever? The sky, which had been so clear during all this time, was now 
 covered with black clouds ; a cold wind moaned sorrowfully among the large 
 trees of the forest. 
 
 The predisposition of the mind, is a prism which colors all exterior objects, 
 by the reflection at its own gloomy, or brilliant tints. I made a childish ob- 
 servation at the time, but it pierced me to the heart. All the flowers which 
 ornamented our dwelling had been transplanted, and brought thither, as for 
 a rural decoration. Little by little, they had languished, and had faded. 
 Absorbed by happiness, looking at everything through the bright rays which 
 love had thrown around me, I had not perceived the gradual withering of 
 these plants ; but now, under this gloomy sky, thinking of our departure, 
 which so much affected me, I was painfully struck by this, to me, sudden 
 change in their appearance. 
 
 In spite of myself, I drew a vague comparison between the happy days I 
 had just passed, and the existence of these flowers — poor ephemeral flowers ! 
 torn from their native soil, uprooted, and instead of opening every morning 
 fresh and full of life, doomed to die precariously, alter shining for a few 
 hours, and scattering evanescent perfumes. 
 
 I shuddered, when I asked myself, whether the happiness I had enjoyed, 
 was to be as fleeting. I endeavored, however, to escape from these afflicting 
 thoughts: I considered them blasphemous. 
 
 I devoutly gathered some sprigs of heliotrope and jasmine, which I pro- 
 mised myself I would keep for ever. I reflected that, after all, it was folly in 
 me to conjure up painful prognostics out of a state of things, which it de- 
 pended but on myself to change. I determined upon establishing a gardener 
 in our cottage, who should attend to the cultivation of flowers, which then 
 would not fade so rapidly. 
 
 1 returned to the cottage: Gontran appeared more full of thought than on 
 the previous evening. The carriage arrived, and we soon departed. 
 
 M. de Lancry did not utter a word of regret, on abandoning our retreat to 
 the care of his servants ; this pained me. After a few moments silence, 
 Gontran said to me, " Matilda, to-morrow I shall present to you one of my 
 best, and most intimate friends, Lugarto, who has arrived from London. It 
 is to render him an important service, that he has requested me to leave 
 Chantilly. We shall often see Lugarto ; 1 like him much ; I wish you to re- 
 ceive him with kindness." 
 
 " Although M. Lugarto is the cause of our hurried return to Paris;" I 
 
THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 113 
 
 replied, smiling at M. de Lancry, " I promise you to forget this great 
 grievance, and to receive your friend as you desire. But you have never 
 before spoken of him." 
 
 " I was at the same time so happy, and so absorbed by love," rejoined 
 Gontran, affectionately, " that there are many things I did not mention to 
 you. I left Lugarto at London : he is an idle fellow, and writes but seldom. 
 Ijjiad too many charming compensations for his silence, to suffer me to no- 
 tice his forgetfulness." 
 
 " You must be much attached to M. de Lugarto, to make such a sacrifice 
 on his account : we were so happy in our retreat." 
 
 M Yes, yes, without doubt ; but Lugarto formerly rendered me a great 
 service : I will tell you all about it." 
 
 "Oh ! then, my friend, if you are acquitting a debt of gratitude, I will 
 not complain of it again. Moreover, I have a project of my own ; I am 
 about to ask a favour of you, which interests me much." 
 Tell me, what is it ?" 
 
 ." Well ! you must promise me to spend a few days, 'every month, in our 
 cottage at Chantilly." 
 
 Gontran looked at me with astonishment. " But the house does not be- 
 long to me," said he. 
 
 I felt my heart sink within me. " How can this be ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Nothing can be more natural. I had directed my man of business to 
 find me a small house at Chantilly, or in some very retired spot, and to rent 
 it for the season. He found this^ peasant's cabin almost wedged into the 
 forest. I came to see it, and in point of situation it seemed delightful. I 
 sent my architect, who is a good hand at decorations, for you see he has 
 transformed a frightful hut, into a complete Swiss cottage, such as one sees 
 at the opera. This was so much the more fortunate, as the proprietor of 
 this hut and a few acres of land surrounding it, is about to sell it to the Duke 
 de Bourbon : as soon as they have taken away what we have left in the house, 
 it will be pulled down ; I rented it for only four months, and I believe the 
 time will be up in about three weeks more." 
 
 Alas! the words of Gontran cruelly reminded me of the observations I 
 had made that morning, on the artificial brilliancy of the ephemeral flowers 
 of our garden. Without meaning to do so, M. de Lancry had given me great 
 pain. The man of business, the decoration, the hiring of the cottage ; — all 
 these words came one by one to dispel my cherished recollections. I was 
 not foolish enough to think of escaping from all the realities of life, but it 
 appeared to me that this little retreat ought to remain environed by all its 
 poetry, and that without foolish prodigality, it might have been retained for 
 ever. 
 
 I did not accuse Gontran ; absorbed by present happiness, he had perhaps 
 neglected thinking of the future : I reflected, that to woman alone is reserved 
 the worship of the past. 
 
 " Gontran," said I, " I am quite proud of a thought which has just struck 
 me ; and which you, notwithstanding your ingeniously inventive head, have 
 allowed to escape you." 
 
 " Speak, my dear Matilda." 
 
 " We must immediately purchase this house and the small fields that sur- 
 round it, since, fortunately, it is not yet sold to the Duke de Bourbon." 
 
 " You do not recollect, Matilda, the prince will have to pay for the suita- 
 bleness of the property ^ the owner would expect the same terms from us ; 
 and in such cases the pretensions of these people are exorbitant." 
 
 "But then, how much do you think it may be worth ?" 
 
 " How can I tell ? perhaps thirty or forty thousand francs, or even more 
 — for it is impossible to assign a price to a thing merely valuable from its 
 position." 
 
 " How ! would it not cost more than that?" exclaimed I with joy. 
 
 " Child !" said Gontran, tenderly pressing my hand. 
 
 "What are thirty thousand francs, in comparison with " 
 
 " Listen, Matilda !" said Gontran, kindly interrupting me ; "as we are 
 upon this chapter, let us talk reasonably. Domestic matters, it is said, are 
 very dull to talk about, but very necessary ; besides, I wish to know whether 
 the arrangemeuts I have made will suit you." 
 
 " Speak, my dear husband, but I have not yet done with our cottage : we 
 will return to that subject presently." 
 
 Gontran shrugged his shoulders, smiling, looked at me, and continued : 
 44 You fully comprehend, Matilda, that our rank requires that we should keep 
 L 5 
 
114 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 a retinue and house in proportion to our fortune, which will enable you to 
 partake in pleasures suitable to your age." 
 
 " Our cottage is the only house my heart desires." 
 
 " Let us speak seriously, Matilda. I will tell you the arrangements I have 
 made. We shall have a muitre d' hotel — a confidential person, who will serve 
 as steward — a valet for you, one for me, four footmen for the ante-chamber, 
 and " 
 
 *' But, my dear friend, I can assure you, I would much rather reduce the 
 number of these servants and keep our little paradise." 
 
 " Come, be reasonable, We must, first of all, my dear child, talk of ex- 
 penses which are necessary. Our stable will consist of four carriage- horses 
 and a coachman, for you ; for me, two carriage horses and two or three sad- 
 dle-horses, with my English grooms ; two women for your service, besides 
 M. Blondeau ! a cook, and kitchen girl, will complete our household. Par- 
 don me these details, my dear Matilda, but when once this is agreed upon, 
 we need not talk any more about it." 
 
 I am listening to you, and presently will make my observations upon it. 
 
 " We will reside at the hotel Rochegune, during the winter ; then we will 
 take a journey to the Baths, or to Italy, so as to arrive at your estate of Ma- 
 ran by the month of September, for the shooting season; there we will re- 
 main till December, when we will again return to Paris. You shall have, if 
 you wish, one evening in the week to receive company. We will give a 
 dinner party the same day. You shall fix your days for the theatres, and 
 I will provide for you boxes at the académie and Italian opera. And finally, 
 if you think a thousand francs a month sufficient for your toilette, we will 
 fix that sura." 
 
 " My friend? " 
 
 " One more word, and I have done," said Gontran, smiling: "You see 
 that our style of living will be very plain. In our position in society it could 
 not be less. Do not be angry with me, now, if I talk of large, ugly figures. 
 Your income amounts to about one hundred and thirty thousand francs. 
 With what remains of mine, we can calculate upon an income of one hun- 
 dred and sixty thousand francs. But, deducting the purchase of the hotel 
 Rochegune, the unpaid rents, and the savings which we ought rigorously to 
 lay by, for unforseen events, we must not calculate on more than one hun- 
 dred thousand francs. Well, my dear Matilda, it will cost all that, neither 
 more nor less, to keep our house on the footing which I have told you. You 
 see, we have only what may be termed the necessaries of luxury, without 
 anything superfluous ; for all the expenses I have stated, are absolutely in- 
 dispensable. 
 
 "Whatever you do, will always be "perfectly well done, my dear friend — 
 although it appears to me, that one might live very happily without this 
 great display of what you call necessaries ; but whatever pleases you is right. 
 I do not wish to see but with your eyes — to think, but with your thoughts. 
 Only, should I be obliged to retrench upon the amount you allow me to ob- 
 tain it, I will— you understand me — I will have my cottage at Chantilly. 
 That is to me the most indispensable — the most necessary — the least super- 
 ficial of all these expenses. This shall be my extravagance of the heart. 
 We will, every now and then, make a pilgrimage to it. All our suite shall 
 be my poor Blondeau. 
 
 " Come, come, be quiet now ; we will talk of that another time, pretty 
 little obstinate," said Gontran, gayly ; "but I had forgotten! we must 
 send our architect to your chateau of Maran. For the last twenty years it 
 has not been inhabited, but by your man of business ; it must be almost in 
 ruins." 
 
 " Without doubt, and then a chateau is so large. Scold me if you will, 
 my dear friend, but 1 must speak. Your little cottage has quite spoiled me. 
 Oh ! how dull and stupid will spring appear to me in Paris, when compared 
 with our lovely spring in the forest ! «ee how rancorous I am. 1 really 
 cannot forgive you." 
 
 " With regard to Lugarto," said Gontran, " you must excuse some rather 
 cavalier ways he has, which are perhaps rather unusual in high life ; but he 
 has always been so spoiled." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Look you, Matilda, I cannot do better than to give you a portrait of 
 Lugarto ; you will know him when I present him to you. Lugarto is twenty- 
 two, certainly not twenty-three years old ; he is of Brazilian origin. Hi» 
 father, son of a slave of mixed blood, had been aflranchised from his infancy. 
 
THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 115 
 
 This father had been steward to a great Portuguese nobleman, and managed 
 his master's affairs so badly— or so adroitly— that he completely ruined him, 
 and himself acquired the greater part cf his property. This was the founda- 
 tion of a considerable fortune, which afterward became colossal ; for specu- 
 lations and some grants of mines in South America so much augmented his 
 wealth, that, at his death, he left his son more than sixty millions of francs.* 
 The father of Lugarto lived in the colonies with the pomp and depravity 
 of a satrap— utierly vicious— living openly in revolting debauchery, as cow- 
 ardly as he was wicked. It is said, that in a fit of ferocious anger, he ill- 
 treated his wife to such a degree that she died from the consequences of his 
 violence." 
 
 " But such a man is a complete monster !" exclaimed I ; " what a cruel 
 and melancholy inheritance must such a name be. His son is to be pitied, 
 notwithstanding his millions." 
 
 "The more to be pitied," replied Gontran, smiling bitterly, " that his 
 father had set him so frightful an example. Left at fifteen years old, with a 
 kingly fortune, Lugarto grew up amid excesses and adulations of all kinds. 
 When only twenty years old, he felt the loathing and the satiety of age- 
 thanks to the abuse of every pleasure to be procured with gold. Of a frail 
 and delicate temperament, withered before it was developed, there is nothing 
 youthful in him but his years. His face, notwithstanding that his features 
 are agreeable, has something morbid, faded, and repulsive about it, which 
 evinces a premature decay." 
 
 I listened to Gontran with astonishment, while tracing the portrait of Lu- 
 garto. His tone was that of biting sarcasm : he appeared to take pleasure 
 in the melancholy picture he was giving of this man. At one moment, I was 
 on the point of making this observation to Gontran, but some unaccountable 
 scruple prevented me. 
 
 He continued : " Morally speaking, Lugarto is a man of profound depra- 
 vity — without faith, without courage, without benevolence — accustomed to 
 hold men in sovereign contempt : for almost all have vilely flattered his great 
 wealth. By turns, madly prodigal, or sordidly avaricious, his lavish expendi- 
 ture has but one motive — pride; but one aim— ostentation. The most cun- 
 ning lawyer, is not better versed in business than Lugarto : he manages his 
 immense fortune with incredible ability, and he continues to enrich himself, 
 almost daily, by speculations, of themselves dishonorable. A faithful type of 
 his father, the mean rapacity of the slave is in continual conflict with the 
 ridiculous vanity of the freeman ; everything in him, proves this two-fold 
 nature. Though living luxuriously, his expenses are strictly calculated ; and 
 his ostentation, though gaudy, is parsimonious : all— even to the alms he os- 
 tentatiously bestows, without know ing the unfortunate whom he assists, but 
 does not pity — is calculated for effect. Two incurable wounds, embitter, 
 however, the almost imperial opulence of Lugarto — the lowness of his origin, 
 and the consciousness of his want of personal merit. By a manœuvre, in 
 which the only person deceived is himself, he has assumed the title of count, 
 and has made up for himself the most ridiculous armorial bearings. Carried 
 away by adulation, and by pride, they have become his torment. He knows 
 that, to his fortune only, does he owe the attentions which are paid to him : 
 were he poor, to-morrow he would be despised. When these thoughts come 
 over him, his rage against his fate knows no bounds. But Lugarto, like his 
 father, is as cowardly as he is wicked ; and he revenges himself of this pros- 
 erity, so unjustly accumulated upon him, by treating, with the most cruel 
 arshness, all those, who, from their dependence upon him, are compelled to 
 bear his violence : women, even, are not safe from his brutalities. Well : 
 notwithstanding all this — notwithstanding the most odious vices — the world 
 has always welcomed him with smiles — the boldest have not ventured further 
 than to treat him with indifference." 
 
 Not being able to contain myself any longer, I exclaimed : " How can you 
 dare to call a man, like this, your friend ? How could you sacrifice to him 
 our dearest cottage? Really, Gontran, I cannot understand you ?" 
 
 Monsieur de Lancry, recalled to himself by these words, looked at me, ap- 
 parently confused. 
 
 " What did you say, Matilda ?" 
 
 " I ask you, how you can call Monsieur Lugarto your friend? for I will 
 never consent to see so wicked, so odious, a man. And it is for him, you 
 
 * About two millions five hundred thousand pounds sterling. 
 
no 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 have left the retreat where we were so happy ! Gontran, there is something 
 inexplicable in all this." 
 
 M. de Lancry, having overcome his confusion, said to me, smiling, " Listen 
 to a very ambitious comparison, Matilda. Does not the man, who over- 
 comes, and succeeds in taming the tiger and the panther, feel affection for 
 the savage monster he has rendered quiet and obedient? Well: although 
 this poor Lugarto cannot be called a tiger, there is somewhat of this feeling 
 in my friendship for him. Yes : though I have seen him disdainful, mali- 
 cious, and haughty, with other men ; with me he has always been kind, 
 obliging— even devoted. I confess to you, Matilda, I cannot avoid being 
 profoundly sensible to the numerous proofs of affection he has given me ; 
 and, as you can conceive, most disinterestedly. Then, think for a moment, 
 how wretched he must be ! no one loves him ; he has not even a friend. 
 Continually overwhelmed by the fear of being sought after for his fortune, 
 he has chanced to feel that respect and confidence in me, which he has not 
 experienced in others. Tell me, then, Matilda, should not my heart, my 
 vanity — I might almost say my honour — oblige me to receive him kindly?" 
 
 I already knew enough of Gontran's expressive countenance, to observe a 
 species of constraint, while he was explaining the cause of his friendship for 
 Lugarto ; while, on the contrary, he had given way to a candid bitterness, 
 while describing the odious character of thi3 man. 
 
 Without being able to justify my suspicions, I felt there was some mys- 
 tery in this friendship. Gontran's explanations only half convinced me. 
 However, such is the power, the influence, of love, that, by degrees, while 
 thinking of what Gontran had said to me, I saw a new proof of the affection 
 he inspired, in the extraordinary influence he exercised over M. Lugarto. 
 
 Had it been [necessary to excuse myself, in my own eyes, for having been 
 unable to resist the fascinating qualities of Gontran, should I not have ar- 
 gued, that I was compelled to yield this inevitable fatality, since characters 
 the most untractable, the most haughty, had been compelled to acknowledge 
 its influence ? 
 
 What can I say? My affection was so blind, that M. Lugarto himself 
 became, perhaps, less odious to me, when I reflected he had submitted to 
 the irresistible empire of Gontran. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WEDDING VISITS. 
 
 M. de Lancry had taken advantage of our absence, to have the hotel Ro- 
 chegune fitted up ; and we found it ready on our arrival. Although a splen- 
 did house, I could not refrain from feeling melancholy on entering it. In 
 this residence, everything was, as I may say, new to me ; and strangeness 
 has always chilled me. 
 
 -Ursula and her husband were gone. She was to spend the autumn with 
 us, at Maran. ,M. Secherin was to bring her there, and return to accompany 
 her home ; his business not allowing him to be long absent. 
 
 The morning after my arrival, I woke early. I rang for Blondeau, and she 
 came to me. "Well, where are my flowers?" said I, not seeing the basket 
 of jasmine and heliotrope, which she had been accustomed to present to me 
 every morning, since I was betrothed to Gontran. 
 
 " There have not been any brought, madam." 
 
 "That is impossible." 
 
 " I can assure you, madam, that none have been brought. I have just 
 passed through the ante-chamber." 
 
 " Again, I tell you, it cannot be possible. Pray, go back again, my good 
 Blondeau, and look for them." 
 
 She came back without them. 
 
 It was, doubtless, very childish in me ; but tears came into my eyes. 
 Blondeau perceived it, and said to me : " We only arrived here yesterday, 
 madam; it must be from forgetfulness." 
 
 Alas I yes ; it was but forgetfulness ; but this forgetfulness hurt me. In 
 the superstition of my heart, I attached an extreme importance, a meaning, 
 to this daily proof of" Gontran's attention. It was but a trifle itself; it re- 
 quired him only to give an order, and see that it was executed ; and this it 
 
WEDDING VISITS. 
 
 U7 
 
 was, that made me feel the privation so much more sensibly — it might hare 
 been so easily avoided. 
 
 Blondeau, seeing I was in tears, endeavoured to console me. She acknow- 
 ledged to me that the fears she had entertained, as to my happiness, had all 
 been dissipated ; that M. de Lancry appeared so kind and so attentive to 
 me, that it was unreasonable in me to affect myself so deeply for so little. 
 
 1 would never have accused Gontran. I repressed my grief; told Blon- 
 deau she was in the right ; that I was silly, and would think of it no more. 
 
 Then I reflected, that after all, it might be some fault among the servants. 
 I waited for the next morning, with much anguish ; no baskets came. To 
 finish the subject of these flowers : from that day they never appeared again. 
 
 Nothing in the world would have induced me to speak of them to M. de 
 Lancry. After the grief forgetfulness occasions, there can be nothing more 
 painful, more humiliating to the heart, than to complain of such forgetful- 
 ness. 
 
 Although I suffered long and cruelly from a puerility in appearance so tri- 
 fling, I excused Gontran at the expense of my own susceptibility, which I 
 endeavoured to persuade myself was exaggerated and unreasonable. I 
 thanked him for having, at least, placed some interval between his atten- 
 tions and his neglect. . 
 
 How many men are there who, the very day after marriage, replace the 
 thousand attentions and assiduities they had been wont to offer, by a sudden 
 and unthinking carelessness of manner. 
 
 Senseless beings ! in order to escape some sweet constraint — to live, as 
 they are pleased to call it, with freedom, they know not of what ravishing 
 delights they debar themselves for ever! They do not comprehend that mar- 
 riage soon becomes a gross monotonous existence, often intolerable, from the 
 discontinuance of those exquisite attentions. They cannot comprehend, that 
 on attentions, so frivolous in appearance, often depend the happiness and 
 tranquillity of their lives. 
 
 They cannot feel the heart-breaking humiliation which they inflict upon a 
 woman, the first time they compel her to ask herself, whether it is her new 
 title of wife which has caused this abrupt cessation of attendons. They can- 
 not feel the generous resignation with which a wife is gifted, and which 
 teaches her not to draw fatal comparisons between the respectful attentions 
 of people who are nothing to her, and the neglect of him who ought to be 
 sill in all to her. 
 
 Alas! I know that women, who feel so keenly these slight shades of dif- 
 ference, are reproached with attaching an overstrained and ridiculous im- 
 portance to trivialities, to nothings ; and still these nothings suffice almost 
 always to the happiness of women. For these nothings they will blindly de- 
 vote themselves with pride, with joy. For these nothings they will always 
 overlook privations, sorrows, and even great misfortunes, because these no- 
 things prove that they are tenderly beloved ; what wounds them most, and 
 always incurably, is indifference and disdain. 
 
 And further ; when men, in their glorious self-sufficiency, treat as child- 
 ishness, that which is all to us — is it generous in them ? they so wise, so 
 strong, so powerful, to refuse us those attentions which would cost them so 
 little, and which would be to us at least a pretext for loving them to adora- 
 tion ? 
 
 This long digression i3 perhaps necessary, to make you understand how 
 much I must have suffered from the forgetfulness of Gontran. it was the 
 first sorrow he had caused me. 
 
 This day, so unhappy at its commencement, was destined to be painful to 
 me. 
 
 After breakfast, M . de Lancry showed me the list of visits which he had 
 drawn up, and said, " It would have been useless to put down the name of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, for we, of course, must commence our round by 
 calling upon her." 
 
 I looked at M. de Lancry with amazement. " My aunt ? you surely cannot 
 think of it, mv dear friend !" 
 "Why not ?" 
 " I go to see her — I !" 
 
 "But really, Matilda, I do not understand you." 
 " You do not understand me — ah ! Gontran !" 
 
 " I now comprehend you. You are still thinking of that stupid calumny 
 against your mother ? but I thought we had agreed that it was mere mad- 
 ness. We must take people as we find them. Bather than not calumniate 
 
1)8 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 eorae one, your aunt would speak ill of herself. It is a moral infirmity, 
 vrçhich we ought to pity as much as we do a physical one. You look at me 
 as if you were astounded ; though nothing can be plainer. Would you at- 
 tach the slightest importance to the ravings of a madman ? you would not I 
 am sure. Well, then, do as I do — forget the foolish words dictated by the 
 phrenzy of hatred : the sacred memory of your mother is not to be injured 
 by such calumnies." 
 
 I felt heart-broken. At first, I had not strength to utter a single word ; 
 and then, bursting into tears, which since the morning I had restrained, I 
 exclaimed, " Never ! never shall my foot cross the threshhold of Made- 
 demoiselle de Maran's door ! I entreat you, do not insist upon it. I could 
 not do it." 
 
 " Calm yourself, Matilda — calm yourself ; believe that I would not ask 
 anything but what is right, but what is necessary. I do not require that 
 you should often see your aunt, but I wish you to see her now and then." 
 
 " No ! I tell you the sight of that woman would kill me — she horrifies 
 mei" 
 
 " These are exaggerations, my dear Matilda. Reflect well upon this : the 
 world would not be able to comprehend your sudden rupture with a relation, 
 who brought you up, and who had much to do with our marriage — you can 
 comprehend this, Matilda? People will make comments upon it ; all sorts 
 of improbable stories will be told ; they will question your aunt ; and she, 
 being offended at this want of attention on your part, will most probably ex- 
 plain it in her own way. You and I and M. de Mortagne," added Gontran, 
 pronouncing the last name after some effort, "only heard the mad and 
 wicked words of Mademoiselle de Maran : take care not to exasperate her ; 
 she might repeat to others what would otherwise remain a secret confided to 
 us only ; and, notwithstanding her incorruptible purity, destroy the memory 
 of your mother." 
 
 " And it is you — you, Gontran — who propose this to me? What signifies 
 the world to me ? or what care I for the abominable atrocities of Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran ? Do you believe, that should I be asked, I would conceal 
 the reasons which have made me break off all intercourse with her, and for 
 ever ? No ! no ! the severest vengeance which can fail on a calumniator, is 
 to proclaim her calumnies, and thus crush them under their own shame ! 
 Ah ! do not fear, Gontran ; the sacred memory of my mother can brave the 
 vile attacks of Mademoiselle de Maran. Every well-thinking person will 
 approve me, when they know why I will not visit that horrid woman." 
 
 " Matilda, you speak as a tender and devoted child ; this is natural ; but 
 you do not know the world. Believe me, the memory of your mother is as 
 sacred to me as it can be to you ; it is to preserve it pure from every stain, 
 that, in spite of your repugnance I must absolutely insist on your paying 
 some few visits to Mademoiselle de Maran. Again, I tell you, it is neces- 
 sary, indispensable — you understand me?" 
 
 While pronouncing these words, the voice of M. de Lancry, which till 
 then was soft and affectionate, took a more firm expression : he slightly con- 
 tracted his eye-brows. I feared that I had hurt him by my resistance ; I 
 was much afflicted at it ; but what he had asked me to do, and perhaps with 
 reason, appeared to me beyond my strength. " Pardon, pardon, my dear 
 friend — pity my weakness — I cannot do it. I repeat to you, nothing in the 
 world can induce me to see that woman again. In the name of our love, 
 Gontran, do not exact this of me. 1 cannot do it." 
 
 " I assure you, Matilda, that you have strength to do it. It is a sacrifice 
 — a great sacrifice — still I must require it of you." 
 
 " Gontran, for pity's sake !" 
 
 " I tell you it is necessary, and you must do it." 
 
 " Oh, Heaven ! you Know not what it is that " 
 
 M. de Lancry interrupted me with violence, restrained up to that moment : 
 and stamping with his foot, exclaimed, " I know well what it is to have en- 
 dured the disgraceful reproaches, the insolent bravadoes, of Monsieur de 
 Mortagne ! I know what it is to have been almost insulted in the presence 
 of your family and my own 1 I know what it is to have retained my hate and 
 my desire for vengeance ! I know, moreover, what it is not to have forced 
 this man to give me satisfaction— and this out of regard for you. Well ! it 
 is because I know how much all this has cost me, that in return I ask you to 
 do that, which I consider your rigorous duty. Once for all, madam, you will 
 always find me as blindly devoted to your desires, when not injurious to you, 
 as you will find me intractable, when you require me to yield to a caprice." 
 
Mi LUGARTO. -19 
 
 " A caprice ! Gontran. Good heaven ! a caprice !" 
 
 "The exaggeration of a very commendable sentiment prevent you from 
 judging this question sanely." 
 
 " But my heart revolts against it, in spite of myself ; what can I do ?" 
 
 f Since neither reason nor entreaty can influence you," exclaimed M. de 
 Lancry, angrily, " I declare, that if you do not consent to accompany me to 
 Mademoiselle de Maran's, I will find out the residence of M. de Mortagne. 
 I know his courage ; I know that, notwithstanding his resolution not to fight, 
 there are insults which he would not bear : and if you force me to it by your 
 refusal, I " 
 
 " Ah! this is too dreadful, Gontran. I will go with you to Mademoiselle 
 de Maran," said I, weeping, taking my husband's hand between both mine, 
 almost with terror, and as if about to save him from great peril. 
 
 Some one knocked at the door of the room where we were sitting. I re- 
 tired, wiping the tears from my eyes, into my bed-room. 
 
 I heard a servant announce to my husband that the Count de Lugarto was 
 waiting for him, in his own room. 
 
 Gontran came into my room, spoke to me with tenderness, and told me 
 to let him know when he could bring M. Lugarto, whom he wished to pre- 
 sent to me. 
 
 " But I am in tears," said I ; " pray adjourn this visit." 
 
 "Quick, quick," said he, with apparent gaiety; " dry those beautiful 
 eyes, or I will immediately fetch my tamed tiger. While you are recovering 
 yourself, I will allow him to admire our house, and will send presently to 
 know if you can receive us." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 M. LUGARTO. 
 
 I wiped away my tears and waited for this irksome presentation. I did not 
 feel a moment's bitterness against Gontran. I thought he looked at the 
 question in his point of view, and I in mine — I must be in the wrong, for he 
 had said so. I therefore ought to submit to his judgment. 
 
 The very idea of a meeting between M. de Mortagne and M. de Lancry, 
 froze me with horror. At that time, as afterward, when thinking of the cruel 
 sacrifice I was about to make to the will of Gontran, and of what I was 
 about to suffer from the presence of Mademoiselle de Maran, I consoled my- 
 self with the reflection, that my resignation would please my husband. From 
 that time I understood that great — that terrible truth, so true is it that it 
 appears a paradox : " When a woman loves passionately, the most unjust 
 orders, the most barbarous treatment, far from diminishing her affection, 
 heighten it still more ; she piously kisses the hand that strikes her, as 
 martyrs, in their painful ecstasies, thank the Lord for the torments they 
 endure." 
 
 A servant came from M. de Lancry, to ask if I could receive him with M. 
 Lugarto. I requested that they would come to my apartment. A few minutes 
 afterward, Gontran and his friend entered the room. The description my 
 husband had given me of him was perfectly striking. M. Lugarto' s figure 
 was slender, and he was dressed with more fashion than taste. In his fea- 
 tures, although agreeable, remained distinctly visible .the primitive type of 
 his race ; his nose was flattened, his complexion pale and yellow ; his eyes 
 were of a glassy blue, and his hair brown. In his sickly-looking face there 
 was an expression of self-sufficiency, cunning, and malignity, which, from 
 the first moment, revolted me. 
 
 " My dear friend, permit me to present to you M. Lugarto, my best friend." 
 
 I bowed without being able to utter a word. 
 
 " Lancry truly told me, you were very charming ; but I see that his eulo- 
 giums are far below the truth," said M. Lugarto to me, with a sort of pro- 
 tecting and familiar ease. 
 
 I did not answer him. Gontran gave me an impatient look, and hastened 
 to say, smiling at his friend : 
 
 " I, who do not possess the modesty of Madame de Lancry — I, who glory 
 in her successes as if they were my own, I acknowledge to you, my dear Lu. 
 garto, that I feel sensibly your kind opinion." 
 
 "And you have reason to do so, for you know I am not generally enthusi- 
 
EM 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 astic. Therefore, if I swear to you that nothing can be more enchanting 
 than madam, it must be the truth. But I will tell you, and with the same 
 frankness, that it is very dangerous for your friends to see such a treasure." 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Lugarto, pray take care, now you are falling into exagge- 
 rations ; you had begun so well," said Gontran, much embarrassed by my 
 silence. 
 
 I was in positive torments ; however, making an effort to appear calm, I 
 said, with great coldness : 
 
 " You have returned from London, sir." 
 
 "Yes madam, I went to be present at the spring races." 
 
 " You see before you, my dear friend, one of the habitual winners at Epsom, 
 and of the Derby ; Lugarto's race-horses are celebrated throughout England," 
 said Gontran, hastening to keep up the conversation. " Shall you not have 
 some of them brought here for the races in the Bois de Boulogne, and in the 
 Champ de mars ?" 
 
 " Bah! your French horses are not worth the trouble of putting one's self 
 out of the "way to beat them ! and then, you can't bet high enough !" said 
 M. Lugarto, disdainfully. He then turned to me, saying, " The day after to- 
 morrow, there will be a ' matinée dansante' at the English embassy. Go to 
 it, all Paris will be there ; it will be charming, particularly should you be 
 there." 
 
 " I do not know, sir, whether M. de Lancry intends going." 
 
 " You must be a tyrant, my dear friend, if your wife awaits your orders to 
 know where she is to go ;" and then turning to me, M. Lugarto added, 
 " Believe me, with regard to pleasures, act always after your own will, and 
 put our de Lancry here at once in the right way. There is nothing more dis- 
 agreeable than these deuced husbands, when once they are allowed to ac- 
 quire bad habits." 
 
 I looked at Gontran, and I replied to these impertinent vulgarities, uttered 
 with the most ridiculous assurance, by these words : 
 
 "Is the museum open yet, sir?" that I might make M. Lugarto feel, 
 by this sudden change of subject, that I found his pleasantries in bad taste. 
 
 * M. Lugarto being, doubtless, accustomed to a different reception, appeared 
 piqued at it: he said to Gontran — 
 
 " How is this, my dear friend? Madame de Lancry and I are playing at 
 cross purposes. I am talking to her of the tyranny of husbands, and she re- 
 plies by asking me a question about the museum !" 
 
 " To say the truth, my dear Lugarto, you are rather embarrassing ; your 
 conversation dazzles at first a little. You were born an age too late ; you 
 should have been born under the regency. But still, my dear," said Gon- 
 tran to me, " you must not judge Lugarto by his wild words, he is of greater 
 value than they are ; but it is understood that he may say just what he 
 pleases, he has been so much spoiled. Come, come ; I will undertake to 
 make peace between you and Madame de Lancry." 
 
 " I am sorry to have displeased you by my poor jokes," rejoined M. Lu- 
 garto, with a constrained smile, but without calling me mudam ; a famili- 
 arity which appeared habitual to him, and which 1 thought extremely ill- 
 mannered. I was about to say something very hard to him, but I restrained 
 myself, and replied, " It only appeared to me, sir, that you were rather 
 in haste to bring me into the intimacy, which attaches you to M. de 
 Lancry." 
 
 " It is, d'ye »ee, that we are always in haste to enjoy advantages we ar- 
 dently desire ; and I hope you will excuse me, in favour of the motive," said 
 M. Lugarto, smiling convulsively ; and then he gave me a cold and sullen 
 look, which almost frightened me. My instinct told me that I had, in a few 
 short minutes, made an enemy. 
 
 My husband appeared much mortified : wishing once more to renew the 
 conversation, which I had let drop, expressly for the purpose of cutting 
 short an interview, which had become insupportable, Gontran said to M- 
 Lugarto, whose impertinent assurance was in no wise abashed, " Have you 
 seen the conservatory, into which Madame de Lancry's apartment opens. 
 You, who are so great an admirer of flowers, must give us your advice. Will 
 you come with us, Matilda?" 
 
 I was about to refuse ; but I obeyed an imperious sign given me by Gon- 
 tran. I accompanied him iDto the parlour, which communicated with the 
 conservatory. 
 
 " It is horribly arranged," said M. Lugarto, after having examined it. 
 "Your architect does not understand it. It is built over an arch ; the 
 
M. LUSARTO. 
 
 121 
 
 cold passing under it, you can never have a proper temperature. But this 
 is like the French ; they wish to ape opulence, and they are reduced to eco- 
 nomical luxury." 
 
 The blood rose to M. de Lancry's forehead ; but he controlled his feel- 
 ings, and replied, " You are severe upon M. de Rochegune, the former pro- 
 prietor of this house, my dear Lugarto ; for we found this conservatory 
 already built." - f 
 
 "Rochegune? Rochegune?" said M. Lugarto; "I know him well. I 
 met him at Naples, I was then the lover of the Countess Bradini. Roche- 
 gune took her away from me ; but he did not long enjoy his triumph, for by 
 means of certain forged letters — and you know I can counterfeit writing 
 marvellously well — the husband " 
 
 " My dear friend," said I to M. de Lancry, interrupting M. Lugarto, whose 
 barefaced wickedness revolted me, " I find it very hot here — shall we return 
 to the drawing-room ?" 
 
 " Pardon me," said M. de Lugarto ; " I should like ,to take the measure 
 of this hot house with my cane. I wish to send you some magnificent plants 
 from the Brazils, and some other rare plants, which I have sent for to Hol- 
 land. I must see if they will stand here ?" 
 
 " I am much obliged to you, sir ; the flowers which ornament this conser- 
 vatory, are quite sufficient for me." 
 
 " But these flowers are hideous; also, the taste of M. de Rochegune: if 
 one has these things, they ought to be complete. Look ye, J-ancry, for ex- 
 ample : I wanted to send to Holland this winter, to fetch *way some equi- 
 noctial plants— how did I set about it ? I had an immense wagon con- 
 structed, covered, with glass, and arranged as a ho<-house, with a small 
 steam-stove— the whole was so perfectly well got up. that although this wagon 
 came post from the Hague, not one of the par^s of glass which covered it 
 were broken. Two gardeners attended f-is wandering conservatory, in 
 another carriage. It all arrived here as b.r enchantment." 
 
 " The idea, in fact, was very ingenious," said M. de Lancry, " and shows 
 you to have much invention, Lugar*o •'" 
 
 " What would you have ? It « not enough to have money, one must have 
 the wish to employ it proper!/. There are so many people who do not know 
 how to spend well the fortune which they have not." 
 
 " Spend what they have not i you are speaking in enigmas, my dear 
 Lugarto." 
 
 " Ah ! you think so, my dear Lancry ?" 
 
 Gontran and his friend appeared to me to exchange strange looks, during 
 a silence of some seconds. 
 
 My husband was the first to break it, and said, smiling, but with an em- 
 barrassed air, " I understand you— in that sense you are right ; but if you 
 please, we will return to the drawing-room ; I really fear the heat may be 
 injurious to Madame de Lancry." 
 
 M. de Lugarto, having measured the height of the walls, said: "My 
 plants will stand here very well. I will add to them some rare West Indian 
 flowers, with baskets to suspend them in — and then you will, at all events, 
 have a hot-house suitably supplied. Tis true, it is so badly constructed, that 
 all will perish in it ; but I shall be delighted at that, for it will give me the 
 opportunity of renewing your plants so much the more frequently !" 
 
 We returned to the drawing-room. I thought this interminable visit 
 ended, but no such thing. M. de Lancry pointed out to M. Lugarto a toler- 
 ably fine view of Venice, by a modern painter, saying, " You are a connoi- 
 seur ; what do you think of that ?" 
 
 " It is not bad. Did you pay much for it ?" 
 
 " No. ' This painting was included in the sale of the hotel." 
 
 " 'Tis the best way to purchase pictures ; for these riff-raff painters always 
 make you pay double the value of them, when you order them, and they 
 know you are rich. When I was young, I was fool enough to pay them in 
 advance ; and in consequence, it often happened, I could hardly get my pic- 
 ture from them : and then what sort of picture ! The money," once expended, 
 they cared for nothing else. But now, no picture, no money — I only pay 
 them when I am satisfied. If not, I make them retouch it, paint it over 
 and over, until it pleases me — at all events, this way, I am no longer 
 robbed." 
 
 This brutal insolence disgusted me. I couid not help saying, "Ah ! sir, 
 you have revealed to me one of the painful indignities which genius is sub- 
 jected to, and which I had not thought of—and you find artists ?" 
 
122 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 '* Do I not find them ? and some of the most celebrated. They overwhelm 
 me with their insipidities, when 1 go to their studios ; they ask my opinion 
 even upon pictures they are not painting for me, and they pretend to listen 
 to me, to make their court to me. In truth, you can get any thing from 
 this race for a few notes of a thousand francs each. Their tribe is only to be 
 managed with money." 
 
 I could not contain myself any longer. I recollected what Gontran had 
 told me, as to the sensitiveness of M. Lugarto with regard to his birth, and 
 his own want of personal merit ; and I said to M. de Lancry, " Dear me ! 
 what M. Lugarto has just mentioned, reminds me of a very touching story 
 of a great artist and a great nobleman, which the Duke de Versac, your 
 uncle, several times related to me. It was of Greuse and the Duke de Pen- 
 thievre ; did he never tell you of it ?" 
 
 " No ; at all events, I do not recollect it," replied M. de Lancry. 
 
 " Tell us the story then, i have some of Greuse's paintings. It will in- 
 terest me," said M. Lugarto. 
 
 " This is what your uncle told me," said I, addressing myself to Gontran ; 
 "the Duke de Penthievre was a passionate admirer of the arts; he encou- 
 raged them, as a nobleman who could fully comprehend, that high birth il- 
 lustrated by ancient dignities, and genius, are allied ; insomuch that they 
 are two magnificent advantages, which history or Heaven alone can give ; 
 and which all the treasures of the world cannot purchase or replace" I 
 looked at M. JUigarto ; he was reddening with spite. "The Duke de Pen- 
 thievre entertained the most touching friendship toward Greuse. You well 
 know, that the inext^ us tible goodness of that excellent prince was equalled 
 only by the superiority ^ his understanding; when he went to see the first 
 pictures Greuse had painted f or him, and which he remunerated with almost 
 royal liberality, he said to U&» g rea t painter, with that cnann which apper- 
 tains only to the high aristocracy, « My dear Greuse, I fiod your paintings 
 admirable ; but I must beg a favom 0 f you.' 
 
 *' ' Monseigneur, I am at your orders..' 
 
 " 'Well!' said the prince, with a sort «f timid hesitation, as though he 
 asked a boon, * well ! I wish that you would write in your own hand, at the 
 bottom of these pairitings, Given by Greuse to hi s fkikmo the Duke de Pen- 
 thievre. Posterity will know that 1 have been the friend of a great painter.' 
 
 " Acknowledge," said I to Gontran, remarking with joy that my blow had 
 taken effect, and that M. Lugarto could not conceal his vexation, "acknow- 
 ledge that nothing could be more delicate, more charming than the conduct 
 of the prince." 
 
 "Yes, certainly, it is charming," said M. de Lancry, much embarrassed; 
 and making a sign to me to look at Lugarto, who, with eyes cast down, was 
 biting the head of his cane. 
 
 Notwithstanding my desire to please Gontran, I continued : " Does not 
 this, my dear Gontran, exalt at the same time, the great artist capable ox 
 inspiring such a sentiment, and the truly great nobleman, who was thus ca- 
 pable of feeling and expressing such friendship?" 
 
 Gontran endeavored to interrupt me, by several signs ; but I had been too 
 much disgusted by M. de Lugarto, to be able to resist the pleasure of morti- 
 fying him. I had succeeded, I saw, by his pallid face, and by another look 
 of hatred which he suddenly gave me. 
 
 Nevertheless, M. de Lugarto was not long disconcerted ; he again addressed 
 me, with imperturbable assurance. " I did not know that story of the Duke 
 de Penthievre," said he; "it is a very pretty one, but it does not convert 
 me. I prefer rather not to pass for a simpleton, in the opinion of artists, and 
 not to take the trouble of being over-delicate with them. But now I think 
 of it, I have a view of Naples, by Bonnington, which will be a beautiful pen- 
 dant to your view of Venice. I \»11 send it to you with the flowers I promised 
 your wife." 
 
 " My dear Lugarto, I beg you will not — " 
 
 " What nonsense : to be on ceremony, between friends, for a miserable 
 picture — what is the use of it?" 
 
 " Well! I am of your opinion — we should not maVe such a fuss about a 
 picture. Allow me, then, to send you my view of Venice, which will be a 
 -pendant to your view of Naples." 
 
 " Faith, my dear friend, I am caught in my own net. I accept it with so 
 much more pleasure, as it comes from the apartment of Madame de Lancry. 
 Adieu till this evening. My dear friend, I shall see you a moment at the 
 club, shall I not?" 
 
M. LUGARTO. 
 
 123 
 
 " I don't know ; I have several visits to pay, with Madame de Lancry." 
 
 "Yes, yes — I shall see you there. I am sure I shall — you know for what ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I had forgotten, you are right. Therefore, this evening rather 
 late," replied M. de Lancry, rather embarrassed. 
 
 " Without malice," said M. Lugarto to me, holding out his hand. 
 
 Although this English custom was not then much in use, in good society, 
 it shocked me less than the audacity of M. Lugarto. Instead of taking his 
 proffered hand, I replied to him by a very formal courtesy. 
 
 " Decidedly : you will not, then, make peace? Well 1 my dear de Lancry, 
 your wife has given me a declaration of war," continued Lugarto. "Well! 
 she is in the wrong ; for she will end by acknowledging that 1 am better than 
 my reputation. It is a challenge ; take care of yourself, my dear friend, for 
 I may be compelled to pay my court to your wife, to cure her prejudices. 
 You see, I do not intend to act treacherously — 1 give you fair warning." 
 
 " You will always be the maddest fellow of my acquaintance,' said Gontran 
 to him, taking him by the arm and leading him away. 
 
 I was more astonished by the patience of Gontran, than by the insolence of 
 this man. I was endeavouring to imagine what could be the secret of the 
 influence he exercised over Gontran, when the latter returned. His hand- 
 some features were, for the first time that I had witnessed, disfigured by an 
 expression of anger. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! madam," exclaimed he, shutting the door with violence. 
 " I have never before seen you exercise that waywardness of will of which I 
 had heard something. But, it appears to me, that my best friend ought not 
 to have been selected as your victim. Had every word you uttered been cal- 
 culated with the greatest malice, and for a length of time, you could not more 
 cruelly have wounded him. I told you yesterday, in confidence, that Lugarto 
 bitterly regretted that he was not born noble, and that his only merit is tke 
 millions he possesses; and you discuss complacenily, and at length, the ad- 
 vantages of the aristocracy of birth and talents. Notwithstanding his laugh- 
 ing, he has gone away completely furious. I know him well ; he is furious, 
 I tell you !" 
 
 " Is it possible, Gontran, that you defend him? Can you reproach me for 
 having made this man feel how much his manner has disgusted me?" 
 
 " I had forewarned you, madam, that his manners were, perhaps, a little 
 too familiar, and that you would oblige me by excusing them, in favour of 
 the friendship which attaches him to me. I see, with pain, that, in spite of 
 my request, you have done all you could to irritate him ; for I repeat it again, 
 he is much irritated." 
 
 u Pray, let me ask you, of what consequence to you can be the anger of 
 M. de Lugarto?" • 
 
 " It is of consequence that I should not alienate a friend, an intimate 
 friend, whom I like — to whom I am sincerely attached. You hear me, 
 madam Ï" 
 
 " You like this man, you say, Gontran. I would wish to believe you, but 
 I cannot. There is no relation between the nobleness of your sentiments 
 and the coarseness of M. de Lugarto. And again, I know not how it is, but 
 when you speak of the friendship you feel for him, your features are con- 
 tracted, your voice is sharp, and one would say that you were governed by a 
 very different feeling." 
 
 These words, uttered almost at random, seemed to produce a terrible effect 
 a M. de Lancry. He stamped with violence ; and cried out — his lips trem- 
 bling with anger — "What do you mean by that, madam? What do you 
 mean by that ?" 
 
 My heart sank within me. I was terrified. I burst into tears, and said 
 to Gontran, " Pardon ! my dear friend, pardon ! I did not mean to say any- 
 thing to wound your feelings, only I could not comprehend them." 
 
 " There is no question as to your comprehending ; the question is, to obey 
 me without interpreting my words — without scrutinizing my secret senti- 
 ments. If I tell you that M. Lugarto is my friend— if I ask you to treat 
 him as such, you ought to believe me and obey me, without reasoning or 
 reflecting." 
 
 " Do not be angry, Gontran. I will obey you, only let me tell you that it 
 costs me dearly. In this one day, you have asked of me two very cruel sacri- 
 fices — to visit Mademoiselle de Maran, and to admit into our intimacy a man, 
 whose character and manners must inspire aversion to all who do not, like 
 you, excuse M. Lugarto from indulgent friendship. Again, my dear Gontran, 
 do not believe that because the sacrifice I make is painful, I will not redeem 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 my promise. The greater the proof you may require of my devotion to you — 
 the more painful they are to me — the more they will 'attest the ardour of my 
 love. Pardon me, then, dear Gontran, the hesitation I have evinced. Now 
 I will do all you may require of me on this subject." 
 
 M. de Lancry's features had gradually recovered their expression of habit- 
 ual sweetness — only he seemed oppressed. He took my hand, and said to 
 me, with kindness, 
 
 " It is now my turn, Matilda, to ask your pardon for my violence. But, 
 once, for all, believe that I ask nothing which is not indispensable to your 
 happiness — I dare not say to mine." 
 
 " Ah! my dear friend, that is the only reason that you need mention ; it 
 would always be sufficient to decide me." 
 
 They came to announce to Gontran that the carriage was ready. We set 
 out to pay a visit to Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PRINCESS KSERNIKA. 
 
 M. ok Lancry said not a single word to me on our way to Mademoiselle 
 de Maran's : he seemed passive and dejected. As soon as the carriage stopped 
 at the door, my heart failed me ; and I implored Gontran, at least, to delay 
 the visit. He replied to me, by an impatient gesture. 1 observed several 
 carriages in the court of the hotel ; I was almost satisfied ; it seemed to me, 
 that a first interview with my aunt would thus be rendered less painful. 
 What was my surprise on entering the saloon, to find again M. Lugarto! I 
 saw, also, the Princess Ksernika, who had been at the representation of The 
 Sieg.e of Corinth, at the time I accompanied Mademoiselle de Maran to the 
 opera, in the chamberlain's box. 
 
 " Good morning, at last, my dear child," said my aunt, in the most affec- 
 tionate way in the world, as she rose to embrace me. 
 
 I shuddered : I was upon the point of repulsing her. At a look from Gon- 
 tran, I resigned myself. 
 
 " She is more beautiful than ever," said Mademoiselle de Maran, examining 
 me with care. f "Tis simple enough — happiness is so becoming ! And Gon- 
 tran knows better than any one, how to be prodigal in such adornment. Al- 
 low me, my dear princess," continued she, addressing Madame de Ksernika, 
 "to 'present to you Madame de Lancry, my niece, my adopted daughter." 
 The princess rose and said to me, with much grace : " We were beginning, 
 madam, to consider M. de Lancry very selfish ; but he has doubtless, only 
 been blamed so much, because he was envied more " 
 
 I saluted Madame de Ksernika, and seated myself beside her. She was a 
 very handsome woman ; fair, tall and. slender, with a charming air and figure: 
 her features, which were extremely regular, wore, almost always, an expres- 
 sion of haughtiness, petulance or lassitude ; ordinarily, she half-closed her 
 large, blue, languid eyes. This habit, united with a somewhat imperious car- 
 riage of the head, gave her rather a disdainful than a really dignified air. 
 Polish by birth, she spoke our language without the slightest accent, but with 
 an almost Asiatic kind of indolence and languor ; although she was superbly 
 elegant she was still more exquisite in her attire than in her person. I had 
 hardly seated myself beside the princess, when M. Lugarto took a chair be« 
 hind me, and said to me, familiarly : 
 
 " Well— are you still angry with me ? You are really for war ?" And then 
 addressing Madame de KserniUa, he added, with a glance at me : 
 
 " Princess, pray tell her that I improve upon acquaintance ; and that 'tis 
 better to have me for a friend than a foe." 
 
 I reddened with vexation. I did not dare, for fear of displeasing Gontran, 
 to reply with severity ; I accordingly kept silence. The princess replied, in 
 her langnid voice, looking haughtily over her shoulder at M. Lugaïto : 
 
 "You? It would be very indifferent to me, whether you were friend or 
 foe; for I should no more trust in your friendship, than I should fear your 
 enmity." 
 
 " Come, come, princess ; you are unjust." 
 
 " No ! you know that I do not spoil you ! not I. I am, perhaps, the only 
 person who tells you the truth about yourself. You ought to be much obliged 
 
THE PRINCESS KSERNIKA. 
 
 «25 
 
 to me ; for I do not take the trouble to tell it to everybody. Don't you 
 think, madam," continued the princess, addressing herself to me, " that one 
 must have great consideration for people to be willing to tell them what the 
 rest of the world are afraid to tell them ?" 
 
 " As to that," I replied, " it seems to me that esteem and contempt are ex- 
 pressed in the same way. 
 
 " Interpret that for us," said M. de Lugarto. 
 
 " Well — I believe, sir, that one may express the severest truths, without 
 taking the least account of the person whom one addresses." 
 
 "Is that intended for me ?" rejoined M. de Lugarto, with his impertur- 
 bable assurance. 
 
 " You deserve to be answered yes," said the princess. " Do you know, that 
 I cannot comprehend why men and women all tolerate your audacious and 
 familiar air3 ?" 
 
 " That is my secret, and you shall not know it." 
 
 " You mean to make me believe in some power that is — supernatural, do 
 you not?" 
 " Perhaps." 
 " You are mad !" 
 
 "Am I? Very well. Do you wish me to make you blush, even to the 
 white of your eyes, and then grow paler again than you would wish?" 
 
 That is very stale," replied the princess indolently. " You are going to 
 propose to magnetise me ? And you do not even know, perhaps, what mag- 
 netism is ; for you are no philosopher, science not being purchasable with 
 money." 
 
 M. Lugarto smiled for some moments with a malicious and convulsive 
 smile, that was peculiar to him. I read, in his dull eyes, an expression of 
 malignant fury ; he said slowly, as he fastened a deliberate look upon the 
 princess. " I am as ignorant as a savage, 'tis true ; but there are things 
 which nobody in the world knows but myself, because a great deal of money 
 is required to buy the knowledge." 
 
 " Indeed ?" said the princess, disdainfully. 
 
 ''Ay, indeed! and the most entertaining part of it is, that my knowledge 
 has the air of being nothing; but, like all skilful people, I do much with 
 little. Thus, for example, you have no idea, I dare say, of the results I ob- 
 tain, with a date—the name of a street — and a number/' 
 
 I looked accidentally at the princess : her face was crimson. 
 
 "Thus the 12th December, rue de l'Ouest, No. 17, for example. That 
 does not seem to signify anything," continued M. Lugarto; "and yet, no- 
 thing more is needed to make your cheek pale again, now that you have been 
 blushing, as I predicted." Then he continued, so as to be heard only by her 
 and me. " Pray, take care, princess, you are observed ; do not gaze at me 
 with that fixed and astonished look — 'tis very unbecoming. Your eyes are 
 much finer when they are half- closed," added he, with a cruel irony. 
 
 Madame de Ksernika was, indeed, extremely pale. She seemed fascinated 
 by the revelation which M. Lugarto had just been making to her. At this 
 moment Mademoiselle de Maran was conversing in an under tone with M. 
 de Lancry. Observing the agitation of Madame de Ksernika, she said, 
 " Are you unwell, my dear princess ?" 
 
 " Yes, madam. I have had a shocking head-ache all day," said the poor 
 woman, in a faltering voice, and striving in vain to collect herself. 
 
 " You see, 'tis much better to have me for a friend than an enemy," said 
 M. Lugarto to me in a low voice. Two ladies were just entering; ihe prin- 
 cess was unable to retire, and thus more easily to conceal her agitation. I 
 remained almost terrified at the mysterious power of M. Lugarto. Gontran 
 made me a sign, showing me an empty chair near Mademoiselle de Maran ; 
 I seated myself upon it. My aunt said to me in a low voice. " Do you be- 
 lieve that I put any faith in the head-ache of this fair princess Micomicon ! 
 I will wager that this white negro," continued she, glancing at M. Lugarto, 
 "has been saying something infamous to her — which, however, she well 
 deserves ; for although her husband beats her to plaster, and has already 
 broken her arm, he is very far from being even with her — she owes him at 
 least her other arm and both her legs, if he is disposed to make her pay a 
 limb for each lover. But no matter, the impudence of this M. Lugarto is 
 revolting to me. I have only consented to receive the arch milionaire, in 
 order to have the satisfaction of severely chastizing him." 
 
 Notwithstanding the aversion with which Mademoiselle de Maran inspired 
 me, I could not help feeling obliged to her for this resolution, The two 
 
 M 5 
 
126 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 ladies who had first arrived, conversed a little with Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 Oontran, and M. Lugarto. 
 
 " Pray tell me, M. Lugarto," cried Mademoiselle de Maran, suddenly, 
 without suspending her knitting, in the midst of one of those pauses which 
 so often occur in conversation, " was that your carriage in which I met you 
 the other day ?" 
 
 " Why do you ask that question ?" said M. Lugarto negligently. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, instead of replying to this question, asked ano- 
 ther. She had always told me, that nothing was more impertinent and more 
 disdainful than such a proceeding. " How happened there to be arms upon 
 the panels, then, if it is yours?" 
 
 "They are mine, madam," said M. Lugarto, colouring with vexation ; for 
 his imperturbable audacity was at fault, when his ridiculous pretensions to 
 nobility were attacked. 
 
 " Did you pay a very high price for those arms ?" said Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. 
 
 There was, for a moment, a very embarrassing silence. M. Lugarto com- 
 pressed his lips, and scowled. I looked at Gontran. He could not help 
 smiling bitterly at first; then, upon receiving a look from M. Lugarto, at 
 once angry and imploring, he said eagerly to Mademoiselle de Maran : 
 " Apropos of arms, madam ; would you have the kindness to lend me your 
 d'Hozier ? I have some researches to make upon one of our collateral branches j 
 but now I think of it, could not you " 
 
 " Be quiet with your collateral branches," replied Mademoiselle de Ma- 
 ran ; " you are interrupting an interesting conversation. Indeed, M. Lu- 
 garto, you have been abominably imposed on if you have paid dearly for 
 those arms. I will lay a wager that it is a composition of your coachmaker'g. 
 But, permit me to tell you, it has not common sense. It is always a mis- 
 take to apply to that sort of people for an escutcheon. If you, too, choose 
 to indulge in such a fancy, you should address yourself to a better quarter." 
 
 "But, madam," said M. Lugarto, turning pale with repressed rage — 
 
 " But, sir, I repeat that your coachmaker or his painter, are-blockheads. 
 Who ever heard, in heraldry, of charging metal upon metal. Believe roe, 
 my dear sir, they have been making game of you most outrageously, with 
 their golden stars upon a field argent ; they invented that probably because 
 it looked richer, an<4 recalled ingeniously your heaps of piastres and doub- 
 loons ; to say nothing of the two lions rampant, with which the idiots have 
 bedizened your shield. Do you know that they would produce a superb 
 effect, those lions rampant of yours, if they did not inconveniently happen to 
 belong to the royal house of Aragon ?" 
 
 " But, madam, it is not I who invented these arms. They are those of 
 my family," said M. Lugarto, rising impatiently, and directing a furious 
 glance at Gontran. The latter attempted in vain to interfere in the conver- 
 sation ; Mademoiselle de Maran did not abandon her prey so easily. 
 
 " Ah 1 Heavens ! Heavens ! Really, they are then the arms of your 
 family;" cried my aunt, taking off her spectacles, and clasping her hands 
 with apparent good-nature. " Why did not you tell me so at once ? After 
 all, there is nothing in it that is not perfectly natural. It is probable, you 
 see, that a Lugarto, for some fine deed of amis against the Moors of Spain, 
 may have obtained from a king of Aragon .the signal favour of wearing the 
 lions rampant in his armorial bearings, just as our monarchs have granted 
 the lilies to certain houses of France. 'Tis the same with your golden stars 
 in a field argent ; that is undoubtedly some glorious heraldric mystery which 
 is buried in your family achieves. And I was laughing at it ! Why, now, I 
 really admire your golden stars on their silver field ! It is perhaps in its way 
 as unique and peculiar a piece of blazonry as the cross of Lorraine, the 
 crequier of Cregui, the mascle of Rohan, or the alerion of Montmorency. 
 The origin of your golden stars upon a silver field must be uncommonly 
 curious ! Tell us all about it, my dear sir." 
 
 " Madam, if this be raillery, I think it really is in bad taste," said M. 
 Lugarto, endeavouring to recover his coolness. 
 
 " Not at all, my dear sir, I was never more serious in my life ; for I re- 
 member that you are originally from Brazil — that Brazil belongs to Portugal 
 ■ — Portugal did belong to Spain ; you see, that as we ascend we draw near 
 to the kings of Aragon. But — ah! indeed, there is one trifling circumstance 
 which arrests my progress toward the past. 
 
 " Good, good ! madam, do not trouble yourself with it ; I thank you for 
 all your solicitude," cried M. Lugarto. 
 
THE PRINCESS KUfBNIEA, 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran did not seem to have heard him, and continued: 
 *' Yes, there is but this one little difficulty — 'tis said that your respected 
 grandfather was something like a negro slave, or " 
 
 " Madam, you are abusing " 
 
 " 'Tis that," continued Mademoiselle de Maran, still occupied with her 
 knitting, " which prevents me from representing to myself, your honoured 
 grandfather with a count's coronet upon his head. Attired in this way, he 
 would be, as like as one drop of water to another, to those dreadful savages of 
 Bougainville, who gravely wear the cross of Saint Louis in their noses. Don't 
 you think so ?" 
 
 I shuddered at the almost ferocious expression which the physiognomy of 
 M. Lugarto assumed for a moment ; this expression struck me the more, 
 us, at the same instant, he burst into a forced and nervous fit of laughter. 
 
 " Is not that, really, a droll comparison which I have just invented?" 
 said Mademoiselle de Maran, addressing M. Lutjarto. 
 
 " Very droll, madam, very droll — but confess that I have a well-balanced 
 character." 
 
 " To be sure ! the best in the world ; and I am very sure that you will 
 not bear me the least malice. And, after all, you are right ; nothing can be 
 more innocent than my jests." 
 
 " I bear malice !" said M. Lugarto. "Ah! could you believe it? Stay, 
 I will take Gontran away with me, to laugh quite at our ease at my golden 
 stars in their field argent." 
 
 " While you are about it, laugh at the same time at your lions rampant. 
 That is the most preposterous part of your blazonry. But this is all nonsense," 
 continued she; "keep your arms, my dear sir, keep your arms ; they throw 
 dust in the eyes of the passers-by. 'Tis all that is needed for vulgar eyes ; 
 for your innocent pretensions to nobility never get further than our ante- 
 chambers. As for us, you hav« something better, upon my word, than 
 golden stars upon a silver field, to dazzle, or rather to charm us ; you unite 
 all kinds of qualities of head and heart — all kinds of immense acquirements, 
 and modest merits — so that if you were not worth millions, you would be 
 nevertheless an uncommonly interesting man, and highly valued — I give you 
 my word for it." 
 
 " I feel the full value of your praise, madam, and shall endeavour to re-, 
 quite you ; and to extend, if I can, my gratitude to the persons of your fa- 
 mily and to those who interest you," replied M. Lugarto, with bitterness, 
 and with a furious glance at me. 
 
 " And I shall surely depend upon it, for I am not selfish," replied Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, with a singular smile. 
 
 "Are you coming, Lancry ?" said M. Lugarto to my husband. 
 
 " I shall see you at club this evening, as we agreed," replied Gontran, em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 " Yes ; but I had forgotten one thing — our man from London expects us 
 at three o'clock." 
 
 At these words, M. de Lancry contracted his brows, rose, and said to 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, "Madam, I leave Matilda with you; M. Lugarto 
 reminds me of an engagement which I had forgotten " 
 
 I cast an imploring look toward Gontran ; he avoided it. " Lugarto will 
 take me with him," added he ; " keep the carriage — I shall see you again at 
 dinner." 
 
 The two ladies, who had been mute spectators of this scene between Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran and M. Lugarto, took their departure a few minutes 
 after. I remained alone with Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE DE MARAN. 
 
 My long, and painfully restrained, indignation broke forth at last against 
 this woman, who had dared to calumniate my mother in so atrocious a 
 manner. 
 
 " There is a lesson which that impertinent fellow will not forget soon," 
 said Mademoiselle de Maran. " He will be the more furious, because I 
 gave him— very designedly too — the lesson before the two Countesses d' Au- 
 
125 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 beterre, who have the most malicious tongues I know. This evening-, all 
 Paris will know the story of the golden stars on the field argent." 
 
 " Madam," said I to Mademoiselle de Maran, " you ought to be astonished 
 at seeing me in your house !" 
 
 " Astonished ! and why so, my dear ?" 
 
 This excess of audacity increased my indignation. 
 
 " Listen to me, madam : nothing in the world, but the will of Monsieur 
 de Lancry, could have compelled me to see you again, after the abominable 
 language that you have dared to use concerning my mother. Just now, I 
 was frightened at finding myself alone with you : now I regret it the less, 
 ■ince I can express all the horror with which you inspire me." 
 
 " Matilda! you forget " 
 
 " Madam, 1 remember your cruelties ! I remember the sorrows in which 
 you steeped my childhood and youth 1 Still, I might have pardoned you, 
 in consideration of the happiness I have enjoyed since my marriage — a hap- 
 piness to which you contributed, without doubt, involuntarily." 
 
 " Involuntarily? No! my dear; I knew very well what I was doing: 
 *t is exactly for this, that your ingratitude " 
 
 " My ingratitude ! This raillery is cruel, madam." 
 
 "Yes, yes — your ingratitude!" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, angrily in- 
 terrupting me ; " yes, you are ungrateful, not to have appreciated what I 
 did for you — in preventing your husband, and that miserable Monsieur de 
 Mortagne, from cutting each other's throats I" 
 
 " Was it necessary, madam, to have recourse to a shocking calumny, to 
 prevent this misfortune ? Besides, Gontran hid promised me " 
 
 " A fine promise — which he would not have kept ! Instead of which, he 
 will now respect the man whom he believes to be your father." 
 
 " How !" cried I, " do you dare to believe Monsieur de Lancry capable of 
 putting faith in such an abominable falsehood? Ah! madam, I love my 
 husband well; I feel that my love is able to withstand all trials — even that 
 of his desertion. There is but one occasion in the world, upon which my 
 
 heart would find strength to accuse him : that would be upon the day 
 
 But, no! no! 'tis impossible! impossible! But just now, he repeated 
 to me, that this frightful calumny was destroyed by its very exaggeration." 
 
 " Very well — what do you complain of? If Gontran does not believe it — 
 if M. de Mortagne does not beiieve it, what harm have I done you? 1 
 have, perhaps, prevented an unlucky occurrence, that is all ; leave me 
 alone." 
 
 " Is that all, madam? And yet you saw that I was not able to resist the 
 violence of this horrible blow." 
 
 I could not restrain my tears, in pronouncing these last words. Made- 
 moiselle de Maran rose, came to me, and assumed an almost affectionate 
 tone. 
 
 " Come, come, be calm ; I have doubtless been wrong, my dear. I wished 
 to do good in my own way — I managed badly, because I was not used to it. 
 What would you have ? Upon this occasion, I have, perhaps, acted like a 
 viper who believed himself a leech : but one should give credit, however, to 
 the poor leech for his good intentions." 
 
 This hideous jest was revolting to me. 
 
 " I know you too well, to believe in a good sentiment on your part: your 
 malice is not even content with the present ; but embraces the future, and 
 the past : you did not speak those words, without calculating the result : 
 they conceal some odious after-thought, which will be, perhaps, but too soon 
 revealed." 
 
 " Very well ! what then ?" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, impatiently; 
 " what conclusion do you draw from all this ? What is done, is done : 
 is it not? Gontran chooses that you should continue to visit me; and 
 you will obey him. What good to recriminate on my malice ? I am thus 
 constituted, and too old to change. One of two things is true : either my 
 aversion to you is not extinct, or it is. If it is, you have nothing to fear 
 from me ; and your reproaches are useless. If it is not, all that you say to 
 me, is as if you said nothing. You cannot injure me, and I can injure 
 you : — seek not to struggle with me. I know, and can do many things. 
 You saw how I managed this Lugarto ;— to whom his colossal wealth, and 
 the stupidity of the world, seemed to have given a brevet of audacity and in- 
 solence : now he knows, that when I bite, I bite deeply : and the scar re- 
 mains. He will hate me — that I reckon upon : but at the same time he will 
 fear ine, like fire : for if I become really provoked with him, I shall hunt 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE M ARAN. 
 
 129 
 
 him from saloon to saloon, and hav^no pity upon him. Thus, I have him 
 now in my control — the wretch. Remember, then, my dear, that he will 
 always prefer to make my enemies his own, than to have me at his heels. 
 You understand me, do you not?" added my aunt, with a look of cruel 
 irony; "so I say no more. Only do not provoke me too far, and behave 
 yourself properly." 
 
 I was overwhelmed with terror ; I could not utter a word. What Made- 
 moiselle de Maran said, was but too true ; she alone, could place herself suf- 
 ficiently above the usages of society, to attack M. L.ugarto's vanity so piti- 
 lessly ; and thus to govern him through his fears. I trembled, when I 
 thought of the possibility of I know not what monstrous compact concluded 
 between this man and Mademoiselle de -Maran, a compact founded upon 
 their common wickedness. An invincible presentiment told me, that Gon- 
 tran was subjected, in spite of himself, to the influence of M. Lugarto. To 
 what cause was this influence to be attributed ? Of this I was ignorant. 
 Assailed by these suspicions, I acknowledged, that the threats of Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran were not vain ones. Oh ! it was a frightful moment, in which 
 1 felt myself obliged to restrain my resentment, against the woman who had 
 outraged the memory of my mother. 
 
 "Come, come: I see that we understand each other, do we not?" said 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, with her sardonic smile. " You will go to this 
 morning ball of the English ambassadress ; I shall perhaps go too, to gor- 
 gonize this Lugarto and keep him under my control. Tell me, my dear, 
 don't you think I gave him a pretty specimen of my powers? Examine well 
 his visage of yellow wax-work when he perceives me — that will amuse you 
 and me too. Perhaps I will sacrifice him to you — this arch millionaire ; per- 
 haps on the contrary — but I say nothing. Who lives will see." 
 
 I quitted my aunt in an expressible state of uneasiness ; I recalled her 
 conversation to mind with a kind of terror. On al'l sides I saw nothing but 
 hatred, perils, and concealed perfidy. I should have preferred open threats 
 to the sinister dissimulation of Mademoiselle- de Maran. 
 
 I returned home absorbed by these sorrowful thoughts. In a moment of 
 despair, I thought of M. de Morf.agne ; but, thanks to my aunt, I was un- 
 able even to think of my only protector without a painful remembrance ; 
 without recalling to mind the painful "scenes which had preceded and fol- 
 lowed my marriage. My carriage stopped a moment before entering the 
 court. Mechanically I raised my eyes to the house which was opposite ours, 
 in the second story, through a half-raised curtain, I recognized M. de Mor- 
 tagne seated in an easy chair ; he seemed to me very pate and unwell. He 
 made me rapidly a gesture with the hand, as if to teil me he was watching 
 over me, and then the curtain fell. I had a moment of ineffable hope ; I 
 felt stronger and less terrified, knowing this friend so near me. I doubted 
 not of his assistance in an extreme case. I thanked Providence for the un- 
 expected succour, which it seemed thus to offer me. 
 
 M. de Lancry had not yet come home. I dressed for dinner, recollecting 
 with bitter regret, that in our charming retreat of Chantilly, I took a pleasure 
 in adorning myself, ând that I then always met Gontran radiant and proud of 
 my happiness. Alas ! two days hardly separated me from this enchanting 
 past, and already it seemed to me that months had elapsed since those happy 
 days. 
 
 Seven o'clock struck, and Gontran had not arrived. I did not begin to be 
 seriously uneasy, until eight o'clock. I sent Blondeau to ask M. de Lan- 
 cry's valet if he had given any orders ; he had given none ; he was expected 
 home to dinner. At half-past eight, being unable to conquer my fears, I 
 determined to send one of our servants, on horse-back, to M. Lugarto's, to 
 inquire if M. de Lancry had remained there. I wrote a note to my husband, 
 imploring him for a word to reassure me. M. Lugartp lived in the rue de 
 Varennes. I enjoined the utmost dispatch, and w aited for the return cf nay 
 messenger with painful impatience. A half-hour afterward, Blondeau en- 
 tered. 
 
 "Well?" cried I. 
 
 " The viscount is at M- Lugarto's, madam. He sent word, by John, that 
 he was very well ; and that Madame should be informed that he will not re- 
 turn till very late." 
 
 I was but half r^-assured. In order that Gontran should thus forget me, 
 he must have been seriously engaged. I waited for him. Alas ! I became 
 acquainted, for the first time, with that consuming anxiety, under which 
 one counts the minute» and hours — those transports of hope, caused by the 
 
130 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 slightest noise, and the sad dejection which succeeds them. I had sent poor 
 Blondeau to the porter's lodge, with orders to wate^h for the return of M. dc 
 Lancry, and to come immediately and apprise me of it. Without the events 
 of the day, such anxiety would have been puerile ; but, considering all that 
 had passed, it might, perhaps, be excused. 
 
 At midnight, Gontran had not yet returned. The most insane, the most 
 exaggerated terrors took possession of me. I recalled to mind the sinister 
 looks which M. Lugarto had cast toward Gontran. Without reflecting upon 
 the improbability of my fears, I believed M. de Lancry in danger; ordered 
 my carriage, and told Blondeau to accompany me. 
 
 " My God ! whither would you go, madam ?" 
 
 "To M. Lugarto's door. You will go up stairs to seek M. de Lancry, and 
 tell him that 1 am waiting for him below. I cannot support this uncertainty 
 a moment longer." 
 
 " Madame, pray take courage." 
 
 At this instant, an olmost imperceptible noise reached my ear ; it was the 
 great gate which had been opened and closed again. An inexplicable in- 
 stinct told me that Gontran had just returned. Without reflecting upon 
 what I was doing, I left my chamber, and ran to meet my husband. 1 found 
 him in the saloon, which communicated with his bed-chamber. 
 
 "You are here! thank God J you are here! Has nothing happened to 
 you ?" cried I, in a faltering voice, as I seized his hands. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing ; but let us go to your apartments," said M. de Lan- 
 cry, pointing to his valet, with a look of irritation. I comprehended the im- 
 propriety of such a scene before our servants ; but my first movement had 
 been entirely without reflection. I feared that 1 bad vexed Gontran ; my 
 heart felt oppressed when I found myself alone with him. Then, for the 
 first time, 1 remarked that he seemed very pale and harassed. 
 
 " Good heavens ! Gontran ; what has happened to you ?" I cried. 
 
 " And what do you suppose has happened ? Are you mad ? Is it not all 
 natural — very natural ?" added he, with an air which was almost wild ; and 
 with a sardonic laugh, which terrified me — " What could be more simple? 
 I find, again, one of my best friends — the tiger whom I have tamed, as you 
 know. I present this dear Lugarto to you — he thinks you charming — you 
 treat him with the utmost contempt. He goes to youraunt, who overwhelms 
 him with the most cruel sarcasms. He— whose character is the be>t, the 
 most inoffensive in the world — takes this pleasantry in very good part; he 
 laughs at it, as I am laughing at it now — very gaily. In fact, there could be 
 nothing more entertaining, more delightful, than your sarcasms and those of 
 your aunt. They were, moreover, uncommonly apropos." 
 
 The voice of M. de Lancry was convulsed, interrupted by sudden and ner- 
 vous fits of laughter. He spoke without looking at me, walking about the 
 room in almost delirious agitation. 
 
 "My God! my God! Gontran, you terrify me. In pity, speak, what is 
 the matter?" 
 
 My husband stopped suddenly before me, clasped both his hands over his 
 face, seemed then to recover his senses, and said, with a terrible voice: 
 " The matter ? the matter ? You do not know the man whom you and your 
 aunt so pitilessly derided ! Your infernal aunt finished what you so well be- 
 gan this morning. Ah, Matilda ! Matilda ! what have you done ? Unhappy 
 woman ! may the consequences of your imprudence fall upon me alone 1" 
 added Gontran, in a dejected voice, as he left my chamber. 
 
 I would have followed him — but, with an imperious gesture, he ordered me 
 to remain. 
 
CHAPTER fit 
 
 THE MORNING CALL. 
 
 I passed a cruel night. As soon as it was daylight, 1 sent Blondeau to 
 enquire after M. de Lancry's health. He sent me word that he was per- 
 fectly well. A little before breakfast time, he entered my apartment ; his 
 face was smiling and gentle, as if the scene of the preceding night had not 
 taken place. I was mute with astonishment. He took my hand, kissed 
 it with great tenderness, and said : 
 
 " 'T is a great culprit, who comes to ask your pardon, dearest." 
 
 There was so much gentleness, so much serenity in the voice of Gontran 
 that in spite of myself, I felt almost encouraged. My husband's influence 
 over me was such, that my features always reflected, as it were, the ex- 
 pression of his ; and then, I so ardently desired to see him happy, that 1 
 was ready to accept, with perhaps too great facility, the explanation of his 
 last night's conduct. 
 
 " Of what pardon are you talking ?" said I. 
 
 " ' T is very embarrassing, Matilda, for how can 1 confess — explain to 
 you so great a crime 1" 
 " A crime ? you are jesting. But speak — you are pardoned beforehand." 
 "I know it— you are so kind— and yet I do not deserve this pardon." 
 « What ?" 
 
 " Did I not, yesterday, make you at first weary by my absence, and after- 
 ward almost terrify you by my return ?" 
 M 'T is true — your agitation " 
 
 "Heavens! my sweet Matilda, how dare you say, you have been kind 
 onough to interest yourself in a miserable drunkard ? There — the terrible 
 word is pronounced. Yes, yesterday, Lugarto insisted upon my stopping 
 to dine at his house, with several common, friends ; they orank, I don't 
 know how many, toasts to my happiness and your beauty ; I oould not, I 
 did not wish to refuse. Since my bachelor days, I have, thank God ! 
 abandoned the habit of these English dinners ; so may I dare to make the 
 abominable confession, that I grew a little tipsy, while thinking of you ; 
 You see, I have but exchanged one intoxication for. another. But alas I 
 the first is as beautiful, as the other is shameful. Once more, will you 
 pardon me ?" 
 
 " What, the reproaches that you made to me yesterday, as you came 
 
 in " 
 
 " "What reproaches ?" 
 
 " You told me that my sarcasms and those of my aunt hau irritated 
 Lugarto to the last degree— that his vengeance might be terrible, and 
 that " 
 
 M. de Lancry burst into so hearty a fit of laughter, that I believed in his 
 sincerity : 
 
 " Unhappy Lugarto ! I have made an ape of him, I see. Poor Matilda ! 
 I should laugh the longer, if I had not made you uneasy. But seriously, 
 what terrible vengeance do you suppose that Lugarto ?" 
 
 " But, dearest, yesterday morning you seemed to be vexed with the seve- 
 rity of my replies." 
 
 " Yes, no doubt ; for I repeat, that, in spite of some eccentricities of 
 character, I consider Lugarto oij,e of my best friends. As such, I desire to 
 see him sheltered from the arrows of your wit, my pretty tyrant ; but that 
 would be difficult, and I know it. People will talk of the wit of the M a- 
 rans, as of the wit of tne Mortemarts ; however, 1 beg you to have com- 
 passion upon this poor fellow, if not for his own sake, at least for mine." 
 
 " But yesterday you told me you were afraid of irritating him " 
 
 "No doubt, for then he falls into the depths of despair. He reproaches 
 me with not loving him — with being a bad friend ; in a word they are not 
 reproaches — these I could not endure — but complaints which inspire me 
 with more pity for him." 
 
 " And are you very sure of his friendship ?" I asked Gontran, hesita- 
 tingly. 
 
 " Ihe more sure, that it is so rarely bestowed ; and because he has no 
 reason to affect a sentiment which he does not feel," 
 
132 
 
 I related to Gontran the conversation I haa heard between M. Lugarto 
 and the Princess Ksernika. 
 
 " 'T is a masquerade-jest without domino," said Gontran. " He probably 
 wished to amuse himself with tormenting her, and that is of no consequence 
 with the princess, who is the best of women ; and, by the way, if she make 
 advances to you, respond to them, I beg of you ; for she is a very good 
 friend, when she chooses, — and good friends are rare. Moreover, you will 
 see her this morning at the English embassy." 
 
 " Are we going to that fete, then ? ' said I to M. de Lancry, with an air of 
 chagrin. 
 
 " Why, of course ; the embassadress wrote me a charming letter this 
 morning, telling me she had heard of our return only yesterday evening, 
 and that she depended upon the pleasure of seeing you to-day." 
 
 " Well, well ; so be it, dear," said I, with a sigh. 
 
 " A sigh, Matilda ? Why, you will be charming ! It is a triumph to be 
 beautiful in the morning ; and I am so fond of you — of your enchanting 
 beauty " 
 
 " Alas ! dearest, this beauty belongs to you ; but I am moro proud of it 
 when I adorn myself for you alone." 
 
 Gontran smiled, and said, " I guess still— your visions of love in a cot- 
 tage." 
 
 " Still my dreams of happiness. Yes, Gontran." 
 
 " Well, well ! be handsome— very handsome — handsomer than all the 
 women there ! I ask nothing of you but what is perfectly easy, and we 
 will think of this folly." 
 
 " Really ! oh, really !" cried I, with rapture. 
 
 " Speak low !" said Gontran ; " you must whisper that to my heart, that 
 my reason may not hear you ; for she is very severe, and would say — 
 no." 
 
 Blondeau entered, bringing a square bandbox. 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 " I do not know, madame ; it was left with the porter. It is very light, 
 and must be either flowers or lace." 
 
 I looked at Gontran ; he could not help smiling. I guessed some sur 
 prise. My heart was beating quickly. They were, perhaps, my favourite 
 Hower6 that I was going to see again. With one of those childish thoughts 
 so serious for fatalist-tempers, I said to myself, with the rapidity of thought 
 " If I find a bouquet of heliotrope and jasmine in this box, it will be a good 
 omen— I shall be happy, and this day will be a happy one ; if not, it will be 
 a fatal day to me." 
 
 No sooner had I thus thrown out this kind of defiance to fate, than I re- 
 pented of my temerity. I did not dare to open the box. Gontran.observed 
 that my hand troinbled, that I blushed a great deal. 
 
 « Well, Matilda, what is the matter ?" 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," said I ; and overcoming my emotion, I opened the 
 box. 
 
 Alas ! my heart was painfully oppressed. Hardly oould 1 restrain my 
 tears. 1 found neither jasmines nor heliotropes. The flowers which had 
 been substituted for them were charming, it is true ; 1 had never seen any 
 like them. There was a great bouquet and two clustres of flower." of a 
 vivid purple. In the centre of each, a drop of solid dew, if 1 may so express 
 myself, shone like a diamond. Long leaves, of an emerald green, fringed 
 with crimson, completed this ornament, which was in such perfect taste 
 and, no doubt, of such extreme rarily that I should have been made most 
 happy by it, but for my unhappy wish. 
 
 How good you are !" said I to Gontran, gratefully. 
 
 " They are euphorbias,* very rare plants, and such as are needed to 
 deck a rare beauty," said M. de Lancry, gayly ; " nothing could be prettier, 
 more coquettish, than these two branches of purple flowers in the midst of 
 your beautiful fair hair, beneath a hat of rice-straw." 
 
 We arrived at the embassy. 
 
 The weather wa6 radiant , the toilettes of the ladies were extremely deli- 
 cate. The rays of the bun, broken and softened by the folliage of the plants, 
 nnd the garlands of flowers which adorned the gallery, threw but a gentle 
 light into the vast saloons. Generally, there is nothing more gay, more 
 delightful, than these morning dances — where the sun takes the place of 
 the wax-lights, where the mild atmosphere of spring laden with the per- 
 fume of the garden flowers, replaces the suffocating heat of the winter balls. 
 
 Almost as soon as I arrived, I found myself in the presence of the 
 
 * Euphorbia fidgens. lianas. 
 
TIÏE MORNING CALÏÏ 
 
 ]33 
 
 Duchess de Richoville ; she was hanging on the arm of one of her feraalo 
 friends. I could not help blusking on seeing her. Gontran did not perceive 
 it. 
 
 Madame de Richeville said to him with much grace, " I am going to re- 
 store you to your liberty in spite of yourself, and carry off Madame deLau- 
 cry ; Lord Mungo is keeping two or three places for us in the gallery. Bold 
 and adroit must be or she be, who compels him to surrender them, before 
 our return." 
 
 M. de Lancry, although he appeared highly annoyed, could not help 
 accepting Madame de Richeville's proposition. She took my arm, Gontran 
 offered his to the lady who accompanied the duchess, and we directed our 
 steps to the places reserved by Lord Mungo. He seemed to me, in fact, 
 perfectly capable of preserving and defending them by his immobility ; he 
 was a man of unbounded corpulence. As soon as he perceived us, he made 
 an effort to rise. Madame de Richeville said to me, with a smile, " It was, 
 perhaps, imprudent in me to intrust our places with him ; if he should not 
 be able to restore them to us." 
 
 Thanks to a new effort, however, Lord Mungo arose, and we all three 
 seated ourselves perfectly at our ease. Gontran retired after having given 
 me an expressive look, as he glanced toward Madame de Richeville. At 
 my left was a perfect thicket of camélias, the duchess was at my right ; 
 thus, by turning toward my side, she could talk to me in a low voice with- 
 out being heard by anybody. 
 
 " Mon Dieu !" said she, " I must appear very bold to you, do I not, after 
 what has passed between us 1" 
 
 " M adam !" 
 
 " Be not offended with me ; I wished to speak with you concerning our 
 friend, M. de Mortagne. He has been in great danger." 
 " What say you, madam ?" 
 
 " No doubt ; he has suffered so much '. and then his emotions had agi- 
 tated him so keenly ; he is still suffering, bat he is better." 
 
 " I know it, madam ; yesterday, as I returned to my house " 
 
 " You saw him at the window ? Yes, he has gone to live in the house 
 opposite yours, in order to be nearer to you. If you knew how much he 
 loves you ! all his fears Well ! no — no— let us not talk of that any long- 
 er, continued the duchess at a movement which I made. 1 hope that he 
 and I have both been deceived ; you seem happy. 'T is a conversion which 
 you have wrought — I am not astonished — only 1 did not dare to hope it." 
 
 " I am indeed very happy, madam, just as I foresaw." 
 
 " And I assure you that 1 am very happy at being deceived in my fore- 
 bodings. But I beg you, now that we are almost alone, do not forget, if 
 you have any letters to send to M. do Mootagne, to address them, rue de 
 Grenelle, hotel de Richeville. In case he should be absent some days — in 
 fine, my poor child, whatever happens to you, on whatever occasion it may 
 be, remember that you have in me a very true, a very devoted friend. That 
 seems strange to you, does it not ? All that I ask of you, to put the friend- 
 ship I offer you to the proof ; it will never fail you." 
 
 At this moment, M. Lugarto entered the gallery. Involuntarily, I made 
 a movement of fear, and drew near the duchess. 
 
 " What is the matter, pray ?" said she. 
 
 " I am a little cold, madam : there is much air coming through the gal- 
 lery." 
 
 Madame de Richeville saw, accidentally, M. Lugarto who was conversing 
 with several persons. She ob?erved, as she pointed him out to me : 
 Do you see that man ?" 
 " Yes, madam," said I, trembling. 
 
 " Well ! your aunt is an angel of gentleness, compared to him ! He is the 
 embodiment of pride in baseness, and cowardice in cruelty : still he is re- 
 ceived. Last year he ruined, utterly ruined, an unhappy young woman— a 
 Madame de Berny — who is, at this moment, alone — abandoned by her family, 
 repulsed by all the world ! He behaved toward her in the most brutal the 
 most scandalous, the most cruel*manner. Monsieur de Berny, whether 
 from weakness, or contempt, has taken refuge in a contemptuous indiffer- 
 ence to the lot of his wife. So Monsieur Lugarto goes once more unpun- 
 ished ! Since men are such cowards, it should be for the women, at least, 
 to take vengeance upon Lugarto and his fellows. Nor do I conceive, how 
 such a person is tolerated in society ; or how it is that people will answer 
 him, when he addresses them ; for he is familiar, and his impupence is 
 great." 
 
 I remained silent. I foresaw, that M. Lugarto would come near me. In 
 effect, Madame de Richeville was ttill speaking as he advanced, made me a 
 
134 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 slight salutation, and extended his hand, saying : " Well, you have come to 
 the ball ! You were right to listen to me." 
 
 Seeing that I did not take the hand he offered, he continued, with a sar- 
 donic smile : " We are. then, still at war ? I had, however, reason to sup- 
 pose the contraiy, seeing you wear the flowers which I sent you this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 •' I do not understand you, sir!" I replied. And then addressing Madame 
 de Rlcheville, I asked the name of two pretty women, who came in at that 
 moment. • 
 
 M. Lugarto. without being disconcerted, continued : " You do not under- 
 stand me ? What I say, however, appears clear enough. The flowers you 
 have in your hand and hair, are from my green-house. 'T was I wno sent 
 them to you this morning. You may be sure, at least, that I do not give 
 them to everybody ! Last spring, I gave the same bouquet to pretty little 
 Madame de Berny. It gave her much pleasnre." 
 
 These flowers, for which I had thought myself indebted to Gontran, now 
 inspired me with horror. It was cruel, to think that my husband had ar- 
 ranged with this man to make me accept them. I saw something unlucky 
 in the apparent coincidence of circumstance, between me and the lady of 
 whom Madame de Richeville had first been speaking. I could not repress 
 a movement of anger. In my vexation, I tore some leaves from the bouquet 
 1 held in my hand. 
 
 " Beware !" cried M. Lugarto, showing me a white liquor which oozed 
 from the stalk of the torn leaves ; "your hand is bare ; that substance is 
 very corrosive. These flowers are beautiful ; but the plant which bears them, 
 is very venomous." 
 
 In fact, a drop of this powerful liquid had fallen upon my hand. I felt a 
 slight sensation of pain ; and there remained a small, livid speck upon the 
 skin. There was, doubtless, no reason for being astonished at the known 
 property of the flowers. But, remembering that they came from the man 
 who inspired me with so much terror, it was impossible not to draw sinis- 
 ter auguries, when I reflected, that there seemed something fatal — some- 
 thing mortal, even, in his presents ! Seized with terror, 1 threw the bouquet 
 into the midst of the camélias which stood near me. M. Lugarto smiled, 
 and said : " One would suppose, that you had been bitten by a serpent. 
 .'T is a great pity, that you could not throw as far from you those clusters 
 of the same flowers which deck your beautiful hair ! 1 am delighted, to see 
 you obliged to wear them, in spite of yourself." 
 
 " Oh ! madam !" said 1, in a low voice to Madame de Richeville, " all that 
 Is passing hei-e, seems to me a horrible dream. Take me away, 1 conjure 
 you ! Let us go and find Monsieur de Lancry : 1 wish to retire." 
 
 u 1 am astounded," said the duchess, " are you acquainted with this 
 man V 
 
 " Not 1, madam ; he is an intimate friend of my husband, who introduced 
 him to me ; lie inspires me with as much terror as aversion. Oh ! for pity's 
 sake, take me away !" 
 
 While 1 was talking in a low voice with the duchess, M. Lugarto was re- 
 plying with an absent and haughty air to the eager remarks of some young 
 men, who were great admirers of his luxurious establishment and of his 
 horses. Madame de Richeville remained for a moment silent and absorb- 
 ed, and then said with an accent of profound emotion : " Bless God, my 
 dear child, that he has restored M. de Mortagne to you. 1 hardly know 
 why — this intimacy between your husband and M. Lugarto terrifie* me. 
 ;'ome and look for M. de Lancry ; you are quite pale !" 
 
 " Yes, madam and then— it is childish, but it seems to me as if these 
 -owers which are on my forehead made me dizzy." 
 
 ^ do not know whetfeer M. Lugarto heard me or not ; but leaving the 
 ivsons who surrounded him, he turned towards us at the moment that 
 Madame de Richeville and myself were rising. •' You are going away from 
 this place," sard he to me, " .vill you take my arm V, 
 
 Without making him any reply, I pressed close to Madame de Riche- 
 ville. 
 
 " By the way, Madame la Duchesse," said M. Lugarto, letting his words 
 fall one by one, and watching the effect which they produced, " I have a 
 somewhat insignificant question to address to you : is it long since old 
 Mademoiselle Albin has been to the village of Bory, in Anjou, at farmer 
 
 Anselm's ?" 
 
 Madame de Richeville was astounded — blushed and turned pale alter- 
 nately, as the Princess Ksernika had blushed and grown pale the day be. 
 fore. M. Lugarto looked at me with an air of triumph. Suddenly his fea- 
 tures changed their expression, his impertinent audacity disappeared 
 
THE HOIlNING CALL. 
 
 135 
 
 under a mask of forced humility . he bowed twice, with obsequious polite- 
 ness, to a person whom 1 could not see. 1 turned, it was M. de Rochegune. 
 The latter responded, by a cold bow, to the eager civilities of M. Lugarto, 
 and approached Madame de Richeville. Still overcome by her emotion, the 
 duchess had not been able to utter a word. Madame de Richeville seemed 
 to experience a profound sentiment of joy upon seeing M. de Roehe- 
 gune. 
 
 " How much good your presence docs me," said she ; " I feel better since 
 you are here." 
 
 M. de Rochegune looked at Madame de Richeville with an air of astonish- 
 ment : 
 
 " Good Heavens ! madam ! what is the matter ?" said he. 
 
 " Nothing, a trifle. You know that I believe in presentiments ; Madame 
 de Lancry partakes of my sentiments ; we have just been frightened about 
 nothing ; but, upon seeing you — a man so pre-eminently sober and reason- 
 able, our foolish visions quickly vanished." 
 
 As Madame de Richeville mentioned my name, M. de Rochegune bowed 
 respectfully to me. I had not seen him since the scene of recognition, of 
 which 1 had been witness at the house with my aunt and Gontran. He 
 seemed much changed : a melancholy smile imparted a singularly sad 
 character to a countenance at once gentle and grave. 
 
 " You have, not been long upon your travels, sir ; your friends must have 
 been delighted with your speedy return," said M. Lugarto to M. de Rochegune 
 with an excessive aliability ; " you will allow me, I hope, to pay my respects 
 to you one of these days V 
 
 " 1 should regret your taking the trouble, sir, for I am rarely at home 
 replied M. de Rochegune, in an icy tone. 
 
 " if 1 am not fortunate in my first visit, sir, I may be so in my second ; I 
 am not easily discouraged, when a matter to which I attach much import- 
 ance, is concerned." 
 
 " You are too good, sir ; I fear that you very much exaggerate the value 
 of my acquaintance ; besides, I have here such a very humble lodging, that 
 I am really only able to receive myf?-iends there." 
 
 These last words, spoken very drily, terminated the conversation. M. 
 Lugarto dissembled his vexation, and wishing, no doubt, to be revenged on 
 some one, he said to Madame de Richeville : 
 
 " You will not forget the token I have given you, Madame le Duchesse f 
 When you desire it, I will have the honor of coming to converse with you." 
 
 To my great astonishment and that of M. de Rochegune, Madame de 
 Richeville replied, in a tone of emotion : " To-morrow, if you choose, sir. 
 You will find me at home between four and five." 
 
 " I shall not fail to profit by this good fortune, Madame le Duchesse, said 
 M. Lugarto, bowing profoundly. Then addressing himself to me : " Ah ! 
 madam," said he, " beware ! I denounce M. de Lancry to you as faithless ! 
 I perceive him carrying on a great flirtation with the fair Princess de 
 Ksernika, who is very expeditious, I assure you — for, with her, a caprice 
 takes very quickly the character of passion. Stay : do you see this monster 
 of a de Lancry ? he is so absorbed that he does not recollect even that you 
 are here !" 
 
 In fact, Gontran was crossing a saloon with the Princess Ksernika ; she 
 beld his arm, and he was talking to her in an under tone, with a smile. 
 She cast dowu her eyes, blushed slightly, smiled also, and made a slight 
 movement of impatience. Gontran seemed to persist in his request; she 
 raised her eyes to his, met his look, and instead of avoiding it, it seemed 
 that she took pleasure in dwelling upon it. Then, as if M. de Lancry had 
 just then remembered, or become aware of my presence ; he made a sudden 
 movement, said a word to the princess, with a glance toward me, and the 
 expression of their countenances changed in an instant. All this passed in 
 less time than I can relate it ; for the first time I felt jealousy. Never shall 
 I forget the painful, profound sensation I felt on seeing the princess smiling 
 thus on Gontran. Strange and cruel mystery ! This jealousy took sudden 
 and complete possession of all my faculties ; it seemed to me that, for a 
 long time, I had been habituated to this suffering ! 
 
 In an instant, I experienced its hatreds, its distrusts, its humiliations ! I 
 escaped none of its varied tortures. Alas! jealousy is one of those senti- 
 ments which commence in terrible maturity ; like Minerva, it is born armed 
 at all points. My spirit Was broken, my cheeks were covered with a hectic 
 flush ; Gontran approached, with the princess upon his arm. The latter 
 came toward me with a smiling and candid air. I felt my tears ready to 
 flow ; I could only bow, without replying to certain amiable words whioh 
 one addressed to me. 
 
136 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " M. de Rochegune, will you give me your arm ?" said madame de Riche- 
 ville. " Will you have the kindness to order my carriage ?" 
 
 " You here, M. de Rochegune V said Gontran, extending his hand to the 
 latter, '• I thought you on your journey. I hope you have not quite for- 
 gotten the road to your old house, and that Madame de Lancry may have the 
 pleasure of seeing you often." 
 
 " 1 expect to remain but a very short time in Paris," said M. de Roche- 
 gune ; " but 1 shall not forget your very kind proposal — and 1 shall at least 
 do myself the honor of calling to take leave of Madame de Lancry, if she 
 will grant me that favor !" 
 
 I made a mechanical reply ; Madame de Richeville and M. de Rochegune 
 quitted the gallery. 
 
 " I should like to go away, I am a little unwell." said I to M. de Lancry. 
 
 " Not yet, Matilda ; the princess has made her way through all the crowd 
 to find you :" 
 
 M. Lugarto approached Madame de Ksernika ; it seemed to me that they 
 exchanged a look of intelligence. The princess, so haughty the day before, 
 said to him, with a kind of timid affability : 
 
 " I pardon your malice ; you are a terrible man, at best." She then turned 
 to me and added, seating herself at my side, " I am taking the place of 
 Madame de Richeville, of whom I was really jealous." 
 
 " You are very good, madam, but " 
 
 " I am going to make a tour round the ball-room with Lugarto," said 
 Gontran to me. " 1 will return for you in a moment, if you wish it.' 
 
 M. de Lancry took M. Lugarto's arm, and both retired : I remained with 
 the princess. 
 
 " Do you know," said the princess to me, very gayly, "that you have a 
 charming husband ? I have only known him by reputation ; for, since my 
 appearance in the world, it has alvtays happened, that either he has been 
 away, or I ; but 1 count upon making myself amends this season : in the 
 first place, I begin by telling you that we are already in desperate hirtation, 
 and I am almost sorry tor it, for he seems very dangerous. Ah ! what shall 
 you say, if I should take him away from you V 
 
 The princess might nave talked a long time, without my thinking of 
 reply ng. What she had first said might pass for one of those pleasantries 
 which the world tolerates. Each one of her words, however, inflicted a 
 severe blow upon me. My love for Gontran vves so devoted, so serious, so 
 fervent — that love, in short, upon which my life, my whole destiny reposed, 
 was for me the object of so religious a worship, that even if my jealousy had 
 not been painfully excited, 1 should have been wounded by the lightness 
 with which the princess spoke. There is, in every sincere and profound 
 sentiment which feels its own value, a kind of suspicious austerity, offierce 
 susceptibility, of sacred modesty, which is revolted by the slightest profa- 
 nation. Thus, thinking of my isolation — of my distrustful character — of the 
 misfortunes of my childhood — of the vast hopes I had founded upon my 
 marriage with Gontran, my sentiments will be perhaps comprehended. 
 
 The princess, astonished at my silence, observed, " You seem lost in a 
 revery, madam ; pray, what can you be thinking of ?" 
 
 I was upon the point of telling her candidly the state of my feelings, and 
 of imploring her, in the name of my hdppiness, not to coquet with Gontran ; 
 when I reflected upon the absurdity of such a proceeding. I gave it up the 
 world is so constituted, that it has nothing but contempt or sarcasm for the 
 expression of a legitimate and ingenuous grief. Then my pride was aroused ; 
 words full of gall and bitterness came to my hps ; I strove to inspire my- 
 self with the malice of Mademoiselle de Maran ; I strove, but in vain, to 
 find some cutting repartee. I was too unhappy to be witty. Obliged to 
 reply io a second remonstrance of the princess, I could find nothing to say 
 but this piece of foolishness, which I uttered with a bitter smile . 
 
 " I do not doubt, madam, the power of your charms." 
 
 "Mon Dieu! with what a tragic and sombre air do you tell me that!" 
 replied Madame de Ksernika, laughing outright. " Do you happen to be 
 iealous ? and jealous of your husband, too ? That would be too exquisite." 
 
 " Madam ? " 
 
 " Ah ! do not give way to this ridiculous weakness, at least ; 'twould make 
 me wretched. My triumph would be much less— jealousy would make you 
 lose a great part of your superiority over me. But consider for a moment 
 my pretensions — my vanity ! I dare to enter into a contest with you, 
 armed as you are with so many advantages ! Confess that it is very heroic !" 
 
 I was in agony ; the habit of dissembling my sorrow, the habit I had con- 
 tracted during my sad childhood, was necessary to prevent my weeping 
 bitterly. Alas ! I had not thought so soon to have recourse to this faculty, 
 
THE MORN IN 0 CALL. J3f 
 
 the fruit of the miserable past. All the powers of my mind were employed 
 in this restraint. I felt that I was about to make another foolish reply, and 
 almost in spite of myself, I faltered out these silly words: 
 
 " Are you talking seriously ? madam ?" 
 
 The princess again began to laugh heartily. 
 
 " What ? am I talking seriously !" she continued. " What a boarding- 
 school-girl question ! Why, certainly ; everything I tell you is very serious. 
 I am desperately smitten with M. de Lancry, and you see in me a declared 
 rival, ready to dispute his heart with you in every possible way. Delightful 
 task ! to obtain a charming conquest over a redoubtable adversary !" 
 
 I looked fixedly at Madame de Ksernika,in order to penetrate the bottom 
 of her thoughts. 'T was impossible ; the expression of her features was so 
 fleeting and changeable. By degrees I recovered my coolness, I surmounted 
 m^emotion ; I strove to assume a light and buoyant air. 
 
 " But, madam," I replied, " do you know that you risk much in entering 
 the lists with me ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; and 'tis that I am proud of ; for in short, you are far more 
 beautiful, far younger, far more agreeable than I," said the princess in a 
 mocking voice. 
 
 " This is not the question, madam. That which constitutes my superi- 
 ority is, that I have, unlike you, a reputation to preserve." 
 
 " How so, madam ?" said the princess looking at me with surprise ; 
 "your reputation ! 
 
 . " Oh, madam ! I have mine as you have yours. There are all sorts of 
 them." 
 
 Madame de Ksernika made a movement of vexation. I continued 
 hastily : 
 
 Yours is a reputation of irresistible beauty, established by brilliant, and 
 especially by numerous successes. If, in our contest, you triumph once 
 more, a new conquest will not much augment your glory ; while, if you are 
 
 vanquished judge, then, madam, the question will be by whom ? By 
 
 a poor young woman, without experience, who is just entering the world, 
 and who has the bad taste to contend for her husband, or, if you like it 
 better, for her happiness. 
 
 The princess assumed her haughty manner, and said with much severi- 
 ty, " You are offended, madam ?" 
 
 I saw by these words that my answer had hit the mark ; I felt a bitter 
 joy. " Not at all, madam, for we are jesting. I believe—" 
 
 "Gontran returned with M. Lugarto. 
 
 " Princess," said M. de Lancry, " Mesdames d'Aubeterre and M. de Saint 
 Prix, have just arranged a party to the theatre, and an hotel supper after- 
 ward, for this evening ; would it suit you to join it with Madame de Lan- 
 cry, myself, and Lugarto ?" 
 
 Certainly ! with the greatest pleasure," she replied. 
 
 " This is what we propose," added M. de Lancry. " It will soon be six o' 
 clock — the weather is delightful — we propose a drive in the Bois de Boulog. 
 ne till half-past seven, and then we are to go to see Arnal at the ' Vaude- 
 ville.' " 
 
 " Delightful !" said the princess ; " 't is adopted unanimously, is it not, 
 Madame de Lancry !" 
 
 " I am so unwell," said I, to Gontran, " that I must beg to be excused 
 from this pleasure." 
 
 " Do not think of such a thing !" replied M. de Lancry ; " on the contra 
 it will do you good." 
 
 " Arnal is delightful, in the first piece," said M. Lugarto. 
 
 " I beg it of you !" said I, casting an imploring look at my husband. 
 
 "M. de Lancry, be inexorable," said the princess ; "act the tyrant — cc 
 mand " 
 
 " We should all suffer so much by the absence of Madame cle Lancry 
 said Gontran, with a smile, " that I must needs follow the cruel counsel of 
 the princess. Thus, then," said he, with comic emphasis, " Madame de 
 Lancry, I positively order you to come and pass a charming evening with 
 us." 
 
 " If you insist—" said I, to Gontran. 
 
 •'No doubt — we all insist," added M. Lugarto. 
 
 "'T is agreed," resumed Gontran. I am going to notify Saint Prix and 
 Madame d'Aubeterre, and send immediately to engage the proscenium 
 boxes, and to order supper at Very's." 
 
 «« But now I think of it," said the princess, " Madame de Serigny brought 
 me hither, and I did not order my people here." 
 
 M Nothing is more simple, princess," replied M. Lugarto. " Lancry dis- 
 JV 3 
 
139 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Eoses of his carriage in sending for the tickets— I offer mine to you, and to 
 [adame de Lancry, and Gontran also." 
 
 " Nothing could be better," said my hushand, offering his arm to Ma- 
 dame de Ksernika. " Let us join those ladies ; they are waiting for us." 
 
 M. Lugarto offered me his arm, with a smile of triumph. It was impos- 
 sible for me to refuse it, notwithstanding my repugnance. He said to me, 
 in a low voice, " It makes you unhappy to be adorned with my flowers, to 
 accept my arm, to drive in my carriage. I am very sorry, but it is your 
 own fault ; why do you treat me so badly, that all my intentions to oblige 
 you, seem quite the reverse." 
 
 I made no reply. I traversed those saloons filled with gay and happy 
 people ; the open windows, the garden with all its treasures of flowers and 
 verdure. ï contemplated this delightful picture. I heard the music of the 
 orchestra ; my heart seemed dead within me. The contrast was insup- 
 portable to me. I was much looked at. I heard my own name murmured 
 and that of M. Lugarto; I reddened with shame, thinking that all the 
 world had the same contempt for him that I had. I was miserable, at 
 seeming instinctively connected with this man. It was not so, however, at 
 least, apparently ; men exchanged a cordial salute or a tew obliging words 
 with him ; many ladies smiled upon him as they replied to his salute ; ha 
 stopped a moment in the embrasure of a door. 
 
 The young Marchioness de Serigny, a very fine lady, however, approach- 
 ed M. Lugarto, and said, " I am just going to make a request of you, in 
 the name of a host of pretty women " 
 
 " Well, well ; let us hear what it te about ?" said M. Lugarto. 
 
 " About two charming balls that you must give us this spring, to cele- 
 brate your return ; you understand arranging a fete so well ! It would be 
 delicious." », 
 
 " Yes, yes ; give us some spring balls, M. Lugarto," said several young 
 ladies, joining themselves to Madame de Serigny. 
 
 M. Lugarto turned to me, and said very loud, with his shocking famili- 
 arity, " Come, let us see ! decide : do you say yes or no, that I shall give 
 some balls ? Fix the time, the number, and I obey you — you." 
 
 I was crimson with shame ; all eyes were turned toward me. I remark- 
 ed several malicious smiles ; my heart was oppressed, I could not. speak a 
 word. 
 
 " Lancry, pray answer for your wife," said Lugarto to my husband, who 
 was before us ; "I ask her, if she wishes that I shall give some balls ; she 
 does not say yes or no." 
 
 " Give them by all means," said Gontran ; " I am sure that discretion 
 alone prevents Madame de Lancry from saying yes." 
 
 " Well, then, ladies, since it is agreeable to Madame de Lancry, I shall 
 gi\«e four balls." 
 
 " Two morning balls, and two evening balls, with an illumination in 
 your magnificent garden ; it will be enchanting," said Madame de Serig- 
 ny. 
 
 "Perhaps so," replied M. Lugarto. "I will not be necessary for me to 
 consult a lady of my acquaintance, (and he cast another expressive look 
 towards me,) and one in whom I have the utmost confidence." 
 
 " M. Lugarto, you are always charming," said several ladies. 
 
 " No doubt, when I give balls for you," replied he, insolently. We retired 
 to wait for our carriages. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE SUPPER. 
 
 I was overwhelmed by the impudenee with which M. Lugarto had act- 
 dressell me, and by the indiscreet effrontery with which women of the best 
 and highest society, in their immoderate love of pleasure, begged fetes of a 
 man whom they ought to have treated with contempt. 
 
 The carriage of M. Lugarto came up. 
 
 " Nobody in the world has such horses as these," said the princess. 
 
 "They are dear enough to be magnificent; the pair cost him fifteen 
 thousand francs," said M. de Lancry. 
 
 We set out for the Bois de Boulogne ; M de Saint Prix and Mesdames 
 d'Aubeterre followed in another carriage. Plunged in utter sorrow, I was 
 overwhelmed by the height of the violent emotions of the fete day. The 
 artificial and feverish strength which had sustained me a moment had 
 
THE BUPPEB. 
 
 139 
 
 entirely abandoned ma.' I had in vain promised myself to contend with 
 the princess in wit, spirit, and gaiety ; without abusing myself with any 
 vain pride, I had seen that 1 was able to embarrass her ; but I had no 
 longer the courage to attempt it. I fell into a sort of mournful depression ; 
 I resigned myself. In thought, I consecrated to Gontran the sacrifice that 
 I was making in participating in the joys of this evening, which was to me 
 torturing. I perceived, with a sort of bitter consolation, that even while I 
 was suffering much jealous anguish, my love for Gontran had not experi- 
 enced the slightest diminution. I can compare this impression, I believe, 
 to nothing better than to that of a mother weeping for the errors of a child 
 whom she adores ; she hates his faults, but cherishes him still. 
 
 Oh ! in the invincible love of woman there is a sentiment of magnificent 
 charity, far above the intelligence and the faculties of the vulgar. The 
 more we suffer, the more we desire to save him, who causes our sorrow 
 from suffering ; we put in practice with a pious resignation that gospel 
 precept of divine simplicity : — Do not unto others that which you would 
 not they should do unto you." I remember, that this thought came into 
 my mind at a moment when the princess was laughing very loudly and 
 heartily at a jest of Gontran's, at the ridiculous figure of a man who was 
 just* passing us on horseback. There was such a contrast between my 
 ideas and those which they were expressing, that at first I almost blushed 
 with shame ; afterward came a contrary reaction ; I could not help casting 
 a look of utter contempt upon the princess, as I half-raised myself from 
 the corner of the calèche in which I was reclining. 
 
 Gontran observed it ; he seized a moment when M. Lugarto and Madame 
 de Ksernika were leaning out at one of the windows, to see Monseigneur 
 the Duc de Bourdeux pass, as he was returning from Bagatelle, and he 
 6aid to me impatiently in a very low voice : 
 
 " You do not seem to be ill, but only disagreeable. You will get the re- 
 putation in society of an insupportable character ; 't is ridiculous to the 
 last degree : one exhausts himseli in discovering amusement for you, and 
 you respond by the most contemptuous silence." 
 
 " Gontran, I assure you, that I am unwell." And two tears, restrained 
 for a long time, came into my eyes. 
 
 " Come, come, tears too ! nothing more was needed to complete the pic- 
 ture," said he, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 I hung down my head, I placed my handkerchief upon my lips, I con- 
 cealed my tears. No doubt, Gontran regretted his movement of impa- 
 tience ; for, as I raised my eyes, to show him that I was no longer weeping 
 they met his own. 
 
 Oh ! never ! never shall I forget the look, filled with sadness, and kind- 
 ness, which he cast upon me. Then his features contracted— with a move- 
 ment more rapid than thought ; for a second, his face, which was so beau- 
 tiful, so noble, wore the impression of a terrible despair. I could not re- 
 strain a slight exclamation, so great was my terror. The princess and M. 
 Lugarto, turned quickly. 
 
 My husbands features had resumed their expression of habitual gaiety 
 as he said : 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear Matilda ; I am very clumsy, I have almost crush- 
 ed your pretty foot." 
 
 The hour for the theatre arrived : we repaired thither, with the persons 
 who were to accompany us ; the Mesdames d'Aubeterre, and their uncle 
 M. de Saint Prix. The ladies were, fortunately, insignificant enough, and 
 talked a great deal. The gentlemen were worth about as much. I placed 
 myself in a corner of the box : M. Lugarto took a seat behind me. 
 
 Gontran seemed engrossed by the princess. The latter had the bad 
 taste to draw upon herself, several times, an energetic hush ; so inordinate 
 were her fits of laughter. I answered, by rare monosyllables, to what M. 
 Lugarto said ; I conversed a little with the ladies d'Aubeterre, who sat 
 near me. The buffooneries of the theatre would have perhaps amused me, 
 in another frame of mind ; but they now seemed insupportable. 
 
 Before the last piece, we went away to sup at Yery's. M. de Lancry was 
 seated between the princess, and one of the Countesses d'Aubeterre. I had 
 upon my right, M. Lugarto, on my left, M. de Saint Prix. I hoped to es- 
 cape from the former, by conversing with the latter ; but in vain. M. de 
 Saint Prix was a great gourmand ; h*e took the supper very seriously, and 
 hardly answered me. 
 
 " Lancry is right, you have a very unhappy character ; for you do not 
 know your own friends," said M. Lugarto, in a manner to be heard by me 
 alone ; " but, in time, you will get the better of your unjust prejudices. 
 
 I made no answer, He continued in the same tone . 
 
140 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " I heard your husband inviting M. dc Rochegune to come and see you. 
 I hope you will not often receive that original : he is as tedious, as vain ; 
 and I detest him for my part." 
 
 " You detest him, no doubt, as much as you fear him, sir ; for this morn- 
 ing you were more than polite to him." 
 
 " Ah ! you defend him said he, looking fixedly at me. 
 
 " I depend upon reckoning M. de Ilochegune, in the number of my friends, 
 he is a man of high birth, of rare learning, and a noble heart." 
 
 '• Ah! ah! 'tis just so : 'tis good to know this," said M. Lugarto, with 
 the convulsive smile, which, with hfm, always announced repressed rage. 
 
 I was silent : I was firmly resolved to have a final expiation with M. de 
 Lancry, concerning this man. Several vague presentiments told me, that 
 some perfidious plot was forming, of which Gontran and I were to be the 
 victims. As I recalled the expression of despair, which had a moment con- 
 tracted M. de Lancry's features, I made a thousand contradictory suppo- 
 sitions. I could not reconcile his appearance of gaiety, and his devotion to 
 the princess, with the tender, dejected, almost imploring look which he 
 had cast upon me by stealth. 
 
 This fatal day ended, at length. Alas ! it was doomed to contain, so to 
 speak, in their germ, many future sorrows ! 
 
 # # # # # # # # 
 
 I have just read over these pages, and this reflection seems to me still 
 more correct ; there is not one of the most insignificant events of that day, 
 which had not, at a later period, a cruel development. 
 
 CMAPTEll IX. 
 
 AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 Many days passed. The Princess de Ksernika came to see me. Be- 
 lieving, no doubt, that she would have no advantage over me, in a sarcas- 
 tic conversation, she contented herself with overwhelming me with words 
 of affection. Gontran appeared to be very much devoted to her, when he 
 met her in society. M. Lugarto came, nearly every day, to see my hus- 
 band ; he did not cease to persecute me with his odious presence. In spite 
 of all I could do — in spite ol* the observations which I had made to Gontran 
 — this man very often sent me flowers. He asked my husband for a seat 
 in our opera box, at the end of the season ; in spite of my supplications, he 
 granted it to him. To all my objections, he had but this one reply : " Lu- 
 garto is my intimate friend ; I neither can, nor will, break off a very old 
 connection, to satisfy an antipathy of yours, which is as unjust as it is un- 
 reasonable. Lugarto is disagreeable to you ; be it so ; you only make it 
 too evident to him. I leave you to act your pleasure ; leave me the same 
 liberty in this respect ; only, for propriety's sake, treat him decently before 
 the world." 
 
 I had already discovered that Gontran's will was not to be shaken. I re- 
 signed myself. Fortunately, I parceived a notable change in M. Lugarto's 
 manner to me. Instead of pursuing me with his conversation when he 
 was in society with us, he hardly spoke a word to me. Several times, Gon- 
 tran had obliged me to offer a seat in our box to the Princess de KserniKa. 
 I continued to suffer cruelly from my jealous suspicions. Twenty times I 
 was on the point of speaking to Gontran upon the subject ; I did not dare. 
 I remembered what I had been told of-my mother ; of the calm endurance 
 with which she fell back upon herself, under the weight of her sorrow. I 
 felt myself possessed of the same power. I restrained, I concealed my 
 grief ; I never appeared before M. de Lancry, but with a calm and serene 
 brow. 
 
 At first, I used to interrogate myself every day, almost with terror, in 
 order to learn if my love for Gontran had suffered any diminution ; it was 
 not«o. In the pride of my devotion, I waited with a kind of melancholy 
 faith, until my husband should recognise the nothingness of the affection 
 to which he was sacrificing me without scruple. Moreover, setting aside 
 the apparent attention he paid to Madame de Ksernika, Gontran was affa- 
 ble and kind to me. He did not suspect how much I suffered ; for I found 
 him constantly gay and happy. 
 
 I vainly sought to discover, in his features, that fugitive expression of 
 despair, which had once struck me so forcibly ; and which, for an instant, 
 had induced me to believn that his course of conduct had been prescribed 
 by the mysterious influence of M. Lugarto. I deceived myself, however, in 
 
AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 141 
 
 away from me. Moreover I should have almost considered a complaint, 
 against Gontran as sacrilegious. Generally, one complains only to excusa 
 her reprisals, or to display her resignation. 1 loved Gontran more than 
 ever ; my resignation was so natural, that I never thought of being vain of 
 it. An immense and solitary grief, was gradually accumulating at rny 
 heart. In proportion as this grief took possession of me, I experienced a 
 singular sensation : I felt myself becoming more and more opressed ; as if, 
 little by little, the air was failing me. I feared that there might come a 
 moment, when my soul would overflow : when, in spite of myself, I should 
 utter a first cry of anguish, and implore Gontran to have mercy upon 
 me. 
 
 That moment arrived. 
 
 For some time I had been unwell. One morning, I said to my husband, 
 " Gontran, I demand the fulfilment of a oromise of yours, which is very 
 dear to me." 
 
 " What do you mean, Matilda ?" 
 
 " You gave me reason to hope, that we should pass some time in our 
 cottage at Chantilly. It it now nearly the end of May ; it seens to me, that 
 the pure air of the forest would do me good." 
 
 " What fyou still think of that nonsense ? Why, the old rattle-trap was 
 pulled down a week ago. My agent informed me, that the administrator 
 of the Duc de Bourbon's domains had taken possession of it. That matter 
 is at an end." 
 
 I had hitherto preserved a glimmering of hope ; seeing myself obliged to 
 renounce it, I burst into tears. Gontran seemed annoyed, and said : " Why, 
 really, my dear, you have not common sense, to weep for such a trifle. I 
 have already told you, that although we are rich, our fortune is not sufficient 
 to gratify all your caprices." 
 
 " Caprices ! I have very few, Gontran ; and that one was sacred and holy 
 to me !" 
 
 Once more — what is done is done ! 'Tis impossible to annul the sale ; 
 these are, moreover, nothing but dreams of romance. If one was obliged 
 to purchase all the places where one had been happy one would find him- 
 self, at the end of a certain time, singularly embarrassed by these com- 
 memorative pieces of property, which yield only an income of souvenirs. 
 Unfortunately, in this age of iron, we need other revenues to support us." 
 
 This pleasatry of Gontran's made me very unhappy. I had always be- 
 lieved in his respect for those blessed days ; I could not help replying to 
 him with tears : " Alas ! dearest; this piece of foolish extravagance, as you 
 term it, was a solitary one." 
 
 That is to say, that since that time, you find yourself very unhappy, no 
 doubt ?" 
 
 '•No ! no ! I make no complaint ; only I regret those happy days, when 
 you were entirely mine ; when we^only lived for each other." 
 
 " Since the occasion presents itself," resumed M. de Lancry, after a long 
 silence, " I will improve it, by giving you some advice, by which I hope you 
 will profit. I know not what romantic idea you may have formed of 
 marriage ; but, permit me to tell you what it ought to be, for reasonable 
 people. Like two lovers, or ratuer, like two children, we played at solitary 
 happiness ; at love in a cottage. All exaggeration has its limits ; we have 
 done with all these pastoral joys. We now ought to find in marriage only 
 a sweet intimacy, founded upon reciprocal confidence, and, particularly 
 upon reciprocal liberty ; we belong to the world ; we must five for, and 
 like the world." 
 
 " Gontran, do you recollect your telling me : For me, marriage is love is 
 passion, is a union sanctified by God!' Do you remember your telling me 
 farther : • It would be impossible for me to submit myself to those cold and 
 monstrous relations in which the heart has no share*!" 
 
 " I told you that ! I told you that ! no doubt ! I did so, because I was then 
 persuaded that the dream might be realized ! I spoke in good faith." 
 
 And you were not mistaken, Gontran. Oh ! that hope was no chimera ! 
 for me, at least, nothing is changed — love ! — passion in marriage ! it is, or 
 rather, if you were willing, it should be my life, my happiness always." 
 
 " Women always mistake their realities. You deceive yourself singular- 
 ly ; you are younger than I. Your illusion may endure a little longer than 
 mine ; but, like mine, it will be dissipated. You will find that your roman- 
 tic love must, like everything else, have its limits." 
 
 " Gontran ! for pity's sake, do not blaspheme." 
 
 " All that is but talk ; 'tis better to look-at life as it is : one is all tho 
 happier for it. The proof of it is, that foa some time past you have been ia 
 a miserable frame of mind, while I bave been of a more equable temper. 
 
142 MATILDA. 
 
 Think as I do ; renounce these imaginary idols, and you will attain that 
 placidity, that indulgent temper, which makes marriage a paradise instead 
 of a hell." 
 
 " Oh ! my God ! my God ! to hear this— from you ! from you !" cried 1, 
 burying my head in my hands to stifle my sobs." 
 
 " Come, come ! a scene again. Ah ! what a character !" 
 
 "No ! no ! Gontran, I shall make no scene. Listen ! I will speak frankly 
 to you. Yes ! I must now tell to you what I have been suffering this long 
 time. You are ignorant of it — for, otherwise, you would not make sport of 
 my sorrow. You are so good, so generous -" 
 
 I took M. de Lancry's hand in mine. 
 
 " Well, then, speak, Matilda. If I have tormented you, 'twas without 
 knowing it. If your reproaches are reasonable, I will accuse myself ; you 
 will pardon me, and, in future, I will never do so again — as children say," 
 added he, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 " I expected no more of your heart, dearest. You encourage me ; your 
 gayety dissipates the painful impression which your words caused me but 
 just now. Laugh well, at your poor Matilda," added I, forcing a smile, 
 after a moment's silence. " She is jealous of the Princess de Ksernika. 
 Yes ; your attentions to her make me very unhappy. Since you have been 
 occupied with her, you seem to forget me." 
 
 " Aro these all your reproaches ? And what conclusion do you arrive 
 at ?" 
 
 " That you might make me as happy as in times past, by granting me ono 
 thing, which will cost you nothing." 
 " Very well ; speak !" said he, impatiently. 
 
 " I ghould like to break off our almost intimate connection with the 
 
 Princess ; and, by degrees, cease to see her." 
 
 " This is what you demand of me Î Ah ! you are mad !" 
 " Gontran !" 
 
 •' How !" cried he, in a passion, " I cannot bs courteous — polite, to a lady, 
 without your pursuing me with your jealousy ! How! under pretext of 
 calming your dreams, you require me lo treat with impertinence a person 
 who only merits your consideration — your respect ! You are beside your- 
 self!" 
 
 " Very well — yes— I shall be, if my sufferings are prolonged. Gontran — 
 believe me, my apparent calmness conceals many sorrows ! By the memo- 
 ry of my poor mother, who also suffered so much, I swear to you, that 
 which I have been a long time enduring, is beyond my strength !" 
 
 " And what do you wish me to do ?" cried he, in still greater rage. " Am I 
 responsibe for the dreams which you invent to torment yourself with ?" 
 
 " Bat, if these appearanoes are false, dissipate them, by granting my re- 
 quest." 
 
 " But it is exactly because these appearances are wholly without founda- 
 tion, that I tell you, once more, I cannot coolly insult a lady who is my friend 
 mid yours." 
 
 " But, if it concerns my happiness, Gontran — my repose ?" 
 
 "Listen to me, Matilda," said Gontran, containing himself with difficulty ; 
 " I am right, and will be heard. It is my duty, to do only what I consider 
 just and proper : just as I told you, on the subject of your repugnance to 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, and your objections to receive my intimate friend. 
 You will find me inflexible, where your extravagant caprices are concerned ; 
 that is to say, there will be nothing — understand me — nothing changed, in 
 our relations with the princess !" 
 
 " Thus, then, you will continue to be devoted to her ? Thus, then, in 
 society, all your looks — all your attentions, will be for her ? Thus, then, it 
 will be always your arm she is to take in her walks ? It is to be always she 
 —my God ! always she !" 
 
 "Do you not prefer, that it shall be you ; you— always you— in order that 
 both you and I shall be covered with ridicule ? Ah ! madam, if your man- 
 ners were not so icy — so disdainful, you would be sufficiently surrounded, 
 to find an arm in the place of mine ! There are a thousand innocent coque- 
 tries, perfectly understood by the world, which permit a woman to require 
 from the men about her, those attentions, which her husband cannot render 
 her without being pointed at. But no ! your haughtiness, your disdainful- 
 ness, alienate all the world from you. And after that, you complain of 
 being isolated ! If I did as you do, where should I be? I should be one 
 of those uncomfortable, jealous husbands, who never speak to a lady, nor 
 budge from the ball-room doorways ; and who, a the hour of midnight, stalk 
 forth, like the sceptre in the ballad, to bear away, with gloomy look, their 
 wives from their partners in the dance ! What is the consequence ? Why j 
 
AIT EXPLANATION. 
 
 14» 
 
 these husbands make themselves ridiculous ! So, my dear, both on your 
 account and my own, I am determined never to play a similar part." 
 
 " So :" cried I, bitterly, "it is necessary for me to submit, without a mur- 
 mur, to those strange laws of the world, which declare it supremely im- 
 proper for a husband to pay attention to his wife, or to bestow upon her a 
 portion of the care which he lavishes upon another ? Singular usage ! 
 which consecrates, as it were, the appearances of infidelity as a custom ot 
 good society; which brands, as unpardonably ridiculous, every legitimate 
 and natural expression of feeling ! You shrug your shoulders, Gontran. 
 These reflections of an ulcerated heart excite your pity, do they not ?" 
 
 " Once more, madam : Since we live in the world, for the love of Heaven ! 
 let us live like people of the world. As for me, I am resolved to make no 
 .change in my conduct ; and I desire — I do not like to say I choose — that you 
 should modify yours. 'Tis painful enough to me, to see you respond so un- 
 graciously to the attentions of my best friend ; bu«t I have announced ail 
 hope in that quarter. Fortunately, Lugarto's affection for me is not one to 
 be chilled by a fantasy — by an unreasonable antipathy " 
 
 " And I tell you, tnat you hava not a more mortal enemy than that 
 man !" cried I, " and I tell you, that he is the sole cause of all my sorrow s 
 and your own ! The instinct of my heart does not deceive me ; he exer- 
 cises over you, I know not what mysterious influence. I am ignorant 01 
 its causes ; but it exists — understand me, Gontran — it exists. Many a tima, 
 in spite of your apparent serenity, I have detected upon your features the 
 expression of a sombre despair. These are no longer suspicions ; they are 
 certainties. This man I hate — as you do, yourself, at the bottom of your 
 heart. You know I am in the right ; you partake my hatred !" 
 
 " But this is intolerable ! Ah ! why, madam, do you suppose that I 
 should debase myself, by feigning a friendship which 1 do not feel ?" 
 
 " There is the mystery, Gontran ; and, if I were not afraid Ah ! why 
 
 Should I fear to tell you ? Is not your happiness — my happiness — concerned ? 
 Very well. Yes, this man governs you, in spite of yourself, and you dare not 
 avow to me the cause of his dominion ; and yet, do you know me so little, 
 as to doubt that I could pardon you everything ? Can you have any false 
 shame with regard to me ? In uniting myself with you, did I not mean to 
 share, not only your future destiny, but, if I may so express it, your past life 
 also ? My husband, I am courageous ; I shall find strength — immense re- 
 sources — in my love. You find me weak and irresolute ; you will find me, 
 in the same degree, courageous and determined, when the object is to save 
 you." 
 
 " To save me ! And, pray, from what would you save me ? It is enough to 
 drive a man to distraction !" 
 
 " Good Heaven ! allow me to speak plainly. This man rules you : that is 
 the truth. He has, perhaps, discovered some secret of yours, as he has 01 
 the princess and of Madame de Richeville. How do I know ? You have been 
 a spendthrift. This man has a princely fortune. Perhaps you are under 
 obligations to him." 
 
 " And you dare suppose, that for so wretched a motive, I would conde- 
 scend to affect a friendship I did not feel 1" exclaimed the enraged M. dt 
 Lancry. 
 
 " I believe that, dependent as you are upon the opinion of the world, you 
 would submit to the greatest sacrifices, to make a figure there." 
 
 " Madam ! madam !" cried Gontran, with suppressed rage. 
 
 * You are willing to occasion me the most painful sensations, rather than 
 '.o pass, in the eyes of the world, for a man who is enamored of his wife ! 
 Why, then, should you not be willing to pass for the friend of Monsieur 
 Lugarto — to submit to his pernicious influence, rather than to renounce, 
 perhaps, some portion of the style which surrounbs us V . 
 
 "Madam! madam! beware !" 
 My dear, do not take this for a reproach. You have been accustomed, 
 for a very long Huie, to let your happiness depend on this brilliant display ; 
 perhaps you imagine, that even I should be unable to renounce it without 
 pain. How much are you deceived ! Of what consequence is this luxury 
 to me ? I hate it, if it causes you the least regret. This luxury had no part 
 in that divine bliss, which lasted so short a time for us — which, perhaps, 
 would have lasted still, but for the arrival of this man. How much do we 
 require, to live obscurely in some unknown corner — you, myself, and my 
 poor Blondeau ? And such a life ! would it not be my ideal dream ? Until 
 my marriage, did I not live in solitude, far from these pleasures — which, 
 for me, are weariness — because my haart takes no part in them? My 
 friend, you are moved, I perceive. Ah ! for pitj's sake, listen to her whe 
 tMnks only of your happiness, which she would purchase at the cost of her 
 
Î44 
 
 MATI1DA. 
 
 whole life. Gontran, on my knees — on my knees 1 beseech you, conceal 
 nothing from me ! Confide in me ! Put my love to the proof! Seek, then, 
 a retreat, a consolation, and see if it fails you." 
 
 I clung to the knees of Gontran. His head resting on his breast, his eyes 
 fixed, he seemed profoundly absorbed. Without making me any reply, he 
 uttered a long sigh, an»d buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " Ah ! I see ! I see !" cried I, almost with joy, " I am not mistaken ! Cour . 
 age, my love! courage! Come, I will admit what is impossible. Suppose 
 that, to free yourself from this man. we should ruin ourselves completely • 
 have we not Ursula, my friend, left ? Good Heavens ! I shall goto her with 
 the same confidence, and the same pleasure, that she would have recourse 
 to me. When people love as we love each other — for you love me, in spite 
 of your flirtations with this beautiful princess — are there any dark days ? 
 Remember, then, that affecting story, which you told me so charmingly at 
 the opera. Well ! we will do as did those noble — those courageous young 
 persons." 
 
 Gontran drew himself up hastily, and said to me, with bitter irony : 
 " Truly ! you sketch the picture of a very enviable existence, and one which 
 might well make amends for the loss of a large fortune ! A beautiful life 
 that ! I am a fool, to listen to your dreams. Once for all : you will oblige 
 me by not recurring to this matter. Your suspicions are senseless. I am 
 under no obligation to Lugarto. He once rendered me a service : but not 
 a pecuniary one, in the remotest degree. I am surprised that, with the ro- 
 mantic extravagance of your notions, you do not understand, that gratitude 
 alone has the power to create the indissoluble ties of ardent friendship. 
 In short, let me tell you, that your jealousy is ridiculous ! that your sus- 
 icions, in relation to Lugarto, 'are absurd, and that I am old enough to 
 now how to take care of myself in the world ; and that you had better, 
 for the peace of mind of both of us, take life as it is. You understand 
 me !" 
 
 The turn my mind took was extraordinary. I went rapidly through this 
 train of reasoning. What I seek is the happiness of Gontran. My own 
 happiness should be considered only as a means of attaining this object. 
 If, in sacrificing myself, I secure to him tranquillity — happiness, I ought 
 not tc hesitate. Whatever it may cost, I will comply with his wishes. I 
 am still at a loss to understand, how 1 resigned myself so abruptly to an 
 extremity, which contrasted so strongly with the complaints I had just 
 made to Gontran. At present, it seems to me as if the sudden aiteration 
 was something fike that desperate resolution, which one embraces, with the 
 rapidity of thought, in mortal perils. 
 
 " I understand you, Gontran," said I to him, "and I will obey you. My 
 complaints annoy you ; I will complain no more. If would be troublesome 
 to you to have me to attend to in society 7 . I will ask it of you no longer. 
 You will find diversion in the attentions you pay the princess. I shall re- 
 proach you no more on this subject. It gives you pain to find that I do 
 not understand the sentiment which unites you and M. Lugarto. I will do 
 my best to overcome the aversion with which this man inspires me. Only," 
 added I, unable to repress my tears, " there is a favor which 1 implore of 
 you. Permit me to so into society as little as possible, t cannot overcome 
 this coldness you reproach me with. In spite of myself, my mind revolts 
 at the idea of accepting the attentions of any one but yourself, if they are 
 ever so insignificant. This is, perhaps, weakness, childishness — I confess 
 it — but be generous, forgive me for it. In every other respect I will do all 
 that you ask. Tell me, are you satisfied ? Do you forgive the irritation I 
 have occasioned you ?" said I, trying to smile through my tears. 
 
 " Poor Matilda!" said Gontran, with an emotion which he could not sub- 
 due. " One must be made of bronze to Avithstand so much sweetuess, so 
 much goodness. Perhaps it is I who am in the wrong." 
 
 " No ! no !" said I, innterrupting ; " all that I wanted was to discover, by 
 experiment, what pleased or displeased you : you are right — I was insane. 
 But you must not blame me for it. You see I was unacquainted with your 
 wishes. But reassure yourself, my love ; believe me, this lesson shall not 
 be lost upon idî. Now and for ever, tell me frankly, explicitly, your wishes. 
 I will resign myself to them. But still, tell me if. in spite of all my efforts, 
 I cannat, sometimes — oh ! but very seldom — if I cannot succeed in obeying 
 you — if you are satisfied that it has been beyond my strength— tell me; 
 you will be good, you will be indulgent ! — you will not scold me ?" 
 
 Gontran looked at me with surprise, almost with- uneasiness, lie seized 
 my hand abruptly— he found it icy cold. Indeed, I felt faint. I had made 
 a desperate resolution. It was not the resolution to keep my promise which 
 failed me ; it was the physical strength necessary for this cruel Ecene. Had 
 
TEE NOTE. 
 
 145 
 
 isot ray husband supported me in his arms, I should have fallen. I suffered 
 a sort of painful swimming of the brain. In the evening a burning fever 
 seized me, and for several days I was seriously ill. 
 
 CHAPTER X, 
 
 THE NOTE. 
 
 remained several days quite unwell ; but nevertheless, except our days 
 of seclusion at Chantilly, I reckoned these among the happiest of my life 
 Gontran remained with me, and lavished on me the tenderest attentions 
 My thoughts were sad, but of a sadness not unmixed with pleasure. Some, 
 times I asked myself, of what use life would be to me henceforth ? I was 
 afraid I had exhausted all the happiness which I had a right to expect. 
 Then sincerely, without any affectation, I prayed to God to withdraw me from 
 this world ; then death would have appeared almost beautiful. My husband 
 had become affectionate again, and as attentive as ever. He regretted the 
 pain he had given me. He did not leave my side. I was delivered from 
 the presence of M. Lugarto. My happiness was so great, that I forgot the 
 torments which had occasioned my illness. I almost dreaded the return 
 of health, lest the precious attentions of Gontran should cease ; for in pro- 
 portion as my sufferings were relieved, he became less assiduous. 
 
 While I was contending with these alternations. I marked out for myself 
 a line of conduct, from which I pi*omised faithfully never to swerve. It 
 was one, in every respect, in conformity with the last resolve I had made. 
 It would be untrue to say that this resolve did not cost me much. But there 
 is, in every sacrifice which we make to love, a profound satisfaction which, 
 increases, as it were, in proportion to the very extent of the sacrifice to which, 
 we submit. 
 
 On the very day after that on which I went out for the first time, Blon- 
 deau came into my apartment. She brought me the list of the persons who 
 had been to inquire after my health, and to have their names inscribed at 
 the porter's lodge, during my illness. The Princess de Ksernika, M. de 
 Rochegune, M. Lugarto, were on this list. Mademoiselle de Maran had 
 also sent to my houso, but did not come herself to see me. Never in her 
 life had she been near the house of a person who was ill ; for she had the 
 whim of believing every disease contagious. I was astonished not to find 
 on the list, the name of Madame de Richeville. My dislike to her had, in a 
 measure, disappeared. Not that I had recognized the truth of her predic- 
 tions on the subject of Gontran ; for one of the symptoms of love is a com- 
 plete blindness. But the charm of her manners attracted me in spitè of 
 myself, and I no longer entertained any doubt as to the interest which she 
 took in me. 
 
 " Madam de Richeville has not sent to inquire how I was ?" I asked Blon- 
 deau. 
 
 "No, madam. But " 
 
 I saw, by the expression of Blondeau, that she had something to say to 
 me on the subject of this list, and that she hesitated. 
 
 " What is the matter ? You appear to be embarrassed !" 
 
 "Because, I fear, madam, I shall alarm you." 
 
 " Has it any thing to do with M. de Lancry ?" replied I. 
 
 "No, no : madam. It is an extraordinary adventure which has taken 
 place during your illness. I should not have mentioned it to you, if it did 
 not concern, indirectly to be sure, the excellent M. de Mortagne." 
 
 " Tell it me quick, then !" 
 
 " Well, then, madam. On the day after that on which you were taken ill, 
 in the evening, while you were sunk to sleep, I descended a moment to the 
 servants hall. M. Rene, your valet de chambre, had just given notice that 
 he was about to leave the house." 
 
 " True," said I to Blondeau, " remembering that I had seen in the morn- 
 ing a new servant, whose face had struck me ; for it seemed to me that I 
 knew it before. Bo you know the reason why Rene has left my service ! 
 
 " To return to his own country in Lorraine, he told me." 
 
 " And the man who has taken his place, where does he come from V 
 
 " lie was with some English people. He understands his business. He 
 appears to be an excellent man, and very intelligent. But, madam, this 
 has nothing to do with our adventure, as you will see. In the evening then, 
 «orne one came and told me that I was inquired for at the door of the hotel, 
 o 
 
T48 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 and put into my hand a note, in which was written these words, in the hand* 
 writing of M, de Mortange, which I should recognize among a thousand. 
 
 'My good Mack me Blond eau — Place implicit confidence in the person who will 
 deliver you this vu tie. He will tell you what I wish of you. I have heard of the 
 illness of Matilda. I depend upon hearing from her through you every day. 
 
 Mortagne.' 
 
 " As you may imagine, I did not hesitate for an instant. I went imme- 
 diately down to the door. I found a hack ; the door was ajar. In this 
 carriage was a man, whose features the darkness did not permit me to dis- 
 tinguish. He said, in a tone of emotion, (I could recognize the voice,) 
 * Madame Blondeau, I come on behalf of M. de Mortagne, to inquire after the 
 Viscountess de Lancry.' ' She is very unwell,' said I to the stranger. The 
 physicians fear a bad night '.' ' You will not be surprised at the mysterious 
 manner in which M. de Mortagne inquires, through me, about the state of 
 her health,' added he, « when you have learnt that for your mistress's sake, 
 the name of M. de Mortagne must not be pronounced in her house.* You 
 had not concealed from me," added Blondeau, " the afflicting scene of your 
 marriage contract. It seemed to me very natural that M. de Mortagne 
 should make his inquiries in an indirect manner, and for another reason, 
 also— he was not then in Paris. rf 
 
 " Where, then, is he V said I to Blondeau. 
 
 " This same stranger added, that Monsieur de Montagne was absent from 
 Paris, in consequence of some business of importance in which you were 
 interested ; and that to conduct it successfully, it was necessary for him to 
 surround himself with the greatest mystery." 
 
 " What can be the meaning of this V 
 
 * I do not know, madam. At any rate, it is certain that this stranger 
 observed to me, that he could not continue to ask for me at the door, with- 
 out exciting the curiosity of the servants, which would be indiscreet ; and 
 that, to have frequent and exact information of the state of your health, he 
 begged me, in behalf of Monsieur de Mortagne, to place every day under a 
 large stone at the garden-railing, on the side of the Champs-Elysées, a sort 
 of bulletin, and that he would come and get it in the evening — the spot being 
 at night entirely unfrequented ; that if I could come sometimes myself, he 
 should, on behalf of Monsieur de Mortagne, feel very gratefnl, because he 
 could in this way obtain more minute information. He added, that Monsieur 
 de Mortagne had thought of sending a servant, in the usual manner, to 
 make inquiries, but that this unsatisfactory information would not satisfy 
 his anxiety. He told me finally, that he had also thought ot asking me to 
 write bim by the post under an assumed name, but that this plan was the 
 most dangerous of all." 
 
 " And why so dangerous ?" 
 
 " I do not understand why, madam. He explained himself no farther. 
 He enjoined upon me to tell you, once for all, that if you had occasion, in 
 any matter of importance, to write to Mousieur de Mortagne, you must send 
 your letters to no other person but Madame de Richeville herself who would 
 forward them." 
 
 " This is strange !" said I to Blondeau. " And what did you do V 
 " Exactly what I was requested to do by Monsieur de Mortagne. I wrote a 
 bulletin of your health. Under pretence of taking a walk in the garden 
 before commencing my watch, every evening I placed my letter under the 
 railing, and the stranger came and took it. The day on which you were so 
 very ill, I wrote a few hurried words, and carried them as usual. The next 
 day, I could not get out untl quite late, while you were sleeping. I had 
 better news to give — I was perfectly happy. I wrote a word or two for 
 Monsieur de Mortagne, 1 ran to the grating : the night was durit. The 
 stranger heard me doubtless, for he addressed me in a low tone, ' Madame 
 Blondeau, is it you V ' Yes, sir.' said I. ' In the name of Heaven ! how is 
 she'?' cried he, in a voice which struck me as singularly changed. ' Better, 
 much better tell Monsieur de Mortagne,' answered I. ' I have this moment 
 come out for the first time from the poor lady' s chamber since yesterduy, 
 and I bring you a word of news.' I believe, that on learning this good news, 
 the stranger fell on his knees, for his voice seemed to me a little more 
 hushed as I thought, and I hrard these words pronounced as if by a parson 
 praying : ' My God ! my God ! Blessed be thy name ! she will live ! she will 
 live ;' ' I am going back immediately to my mistress,' said I to the 
 stranger ; « do not let Monsieur de Mortagne be alarmed.' ' Be assured, my 
 good Madame Blondeau, he shall not wait long fur this happy news.' I was 
 on my way back to fne house, when it seemed to me that I heard, iu the 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 M7 
 
 direction of the iron fence, something like suppressed cries— the noise of a 
 ■truggle— * dead sound, like that of a heavy body falling on the ground." 
 "You frighten me. What next ?" 
 
 " I listened again ; I heard nothing. Alarmed, I returned again toward 
 the railing. I listened again. Still nothing. I called in a low tone. No 
 one answered. I thought I had been mistaken : I went into the house." 
 
 " And the next morning ?" said I to Blondeau. 
 
 " The next day, at dusk, I carried my note to the usual place. I waited a 
 long time : no one came, i supposed that Monsieur de Mortagne's mes- 
 senger could not come any sooner. I went back to the house promising 
 myself to go at dawn of day, and see if the note had been as usual taken 
 away." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " Well, madam ! the next morning I found it still there. No one had 
 come for it. £io madam — but what is more nnfortunate still — what alarms 
 me " 
 
 " But speak out !" cried I, observing that Madame Blondeau hesitated. 
 " Ah ! madam !" resumed she, clasping her hands, " judge of my horror, 
 when I observed near the railing, quite a large spot of blood !" 
 " Ah ! this is horrible ! And the note — the note ?" 
 
 " ï left it there still, to see if anybody would come for it. In vain. It was 
 only yesterday, that I took it away. For ten days, no one has been to get 
 the note. It appears then, unfortunately to be true, that it was M. de Mor- 
 tagne's messenger who uttered the cry which I heard !" 
 
 " Alas ! it strikes me as only too probable. And you are sure that you 
 heard a cry, and something like the falling of a body ?" said I to Blondeau. 
 
 " Yes, yes, madam ! and these traces of blood, prove but too well that I 
 was not mistaken !" 
 
 " Listen, Blondeau. M. de Mortagne lives opposite this hotel. You must 
 go, this evening, and inquire if he is in Paris. If not there, I shall go to- 
 morrow to Madame de Richeville ; for I am cruelly anxious. As soou as 
 M. de Lancry comes in, 1 will disclose to him the whole story in order that 
 he may unite his efforts with mine, to clear up the mystery." 
 
 " Madam," said Blondeau, interrupting me, " permit me to observe to 
 you, that it may not perhaps.be prudent to speak of this matter to the 
 riscount. You know, he detests M. de Mortagne ; and the stranger in- 
 formed me that the latter was engaged in business of importance in which 
 you were interested. Alas ! madam, you are now happy ;" added this ex- 
 cellent woman, looking at me with tears in her eyes. " But who knows — 
 perhaps the day may come, when you will need the protection of Monsieur 
 de Mortagne. Would it not be better to speak of this to no one. for fear of 
 making public something which might attrect attention to Monsieur de 
 Mortagne ; and thus, perhaps, interfere with his plans, by interrupting 
 the secrecy with which he judges it necessary to surround himself ? Why 
 should you inform the viscount of this ? After all I have acted without 
 your knowledge. If any one is wrong, it is I. And besides, what harm 
 could there be in sending news of you to one of your relations, and the only 
 one who entertains a sincere affection for you ?" 
 
 In spite of the repugnance I felt to conceal anything from Gontran, I 
 agreed with Blondeau. My uneasiness on the subject of Monsieur Ln- 
 garto's influence over my husband, was as great as before my illness. This 
 man still inspired me with the utmost terror. I thought, that some day 
 both (rontran and myself would be obliged to claim the protection of Mon- 
 sieur de Mortagne. I imagined, that the mysterious conduct of the latter 
 was inended to frustate, or to penetrate, the malicious designs of Monsieur 
 Lugarto. In this point of view, the disappearance of the messinger of Mon- 
 sieur de Mortagne, awakened my fears. 
 
 In the midst of these anxieties, Monsieur de Rochegune was announced. 
 I gave orders to beg him to wait an instant, j gave some directions to Blon- 
 deau, and immediately went in to Monsieur de Rochegune ; thanking Pro. 
 vMencj, vhich had thus given me an opportunity ofhearing from Monsieur 
 de Mortagne — for I was aware of their intimacy. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 Monsieur de Rochgune struck me as very pale. His manner was sadder 
 than usual. 
 
 " As soon, madam, as I learned that you received," said he, " I hastened 
 
148 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 to present myself, to acquit me of a commission from a friend of mine, who 
 would be too happy to consider herself as one of yours." 
 " Of whom are you speaking ?" 
 
 * Of the Duchess de Richeville. Obliged to leave Paris suddenly for Anjou 
 —it was only there that she heard of your illnass, and then through me. 
 She begged me to communicate to you all her wishes for your speedy re- 
 covery. It will therefore be a consolation to her, to be informed of your 
 convalescence." 
 
 " A consolation ! has any disagreeable circumstance occurred to her ?" 
 
 " I fear so. She left suddenly, writing me, that an unexpected misfortune 
 obliged her to leave Paris ; that she was unacquainted with the full extent 
 of the blow which had fallen upon her. Her last letter leaves me still in the 
 same uncertainty, as she only wrote to me to beg me to be the interpreter 
 qf her sentiments to you." 
 
 Instinctively, I recalled the sort of mysterious threat which M. Lugarto 
 had made to Madame de Richeville. A presentiment told me, that this man 
 was no stranger to the misfortune which had driven the Duchess away 
 from Paris. 
 
 " There is another person in whom I take a lively interest," said I to Mon- 
 sieur de Rochegune ; " and who is also one of your friends. Monsieur de 
 Mortagne." 
 
 " He has been absent from Paris for several days. He was still much in- 
 disposed when he left ; for he requires great care, for some time, to restore 
 him to health, which has been so severely attacked." 
 
 " Do you know where Monsieur de Mortagne is ?" 
 
 "No : I regret that I do not, and so much the more that I am, myself, on 
 the point of leaving France ; perhaps, for a very long time. Before my de- 
 parture I should be pleased to have permission to come and receive your 
 orders, in case you have any commission to give me for Naples before I 
 embark.'. 
 
 " You are very obliging, sir ; but I have no occasion to take advantage of 
 your kindness." 
 
 M. de Rochegune remained silent for some moments, with an air of em- 
 barrassment. Twice he raised his eyes toward me, then cast them on the 
 ground. At length, with considerable hesitation, he observed with an air 
 of gravity, and even of solemnity : 
 
 " Madam, do you believe me to be a man of houour ?" 
 
 I looked at Monsieur de Rochegune with astonishment. 
 
 " You are the friend of Monsieur de Mortagne," said I, " and I happen to 
 have had an opportunity of convincing myfeelf that you are worthy of his 
 friendship, Here in this house, the scene of gratitude to which I was 
 witness " 
 
 " Do me the favor, madam, as an act of kindness, to allow me to forget 
 that occasion. Too many bitter recollections are associated with it, for my 
 feelings. I have asked you, whether you consider me a man of honour ? 
 because it is necessary that I should be perfectly well assured of your con- 
 fidence — , Iwho am unknown to you ; I, whom perhaps you will never see 
 again ; thatl may have the courage to say to you what I must." 
 
 " Sir, I feel sure that I may listen to you without any hesitation. 
 
 " I shall then speak with sincerity, madam. One single word only first. 
 JBelieve me, the man, to whom you do the favor to give credit for some no- 
 bleness of heart, is incapable of dissimulation. Were you unacquainted 
 with some of the former circumstances of my life, perhaps the step which I 
 am about to risk, might appear to you offensive and incomprehensible. 
 Fermit me, therefore, to go into a few details." 
 
 " I listen !" 
 
 Monsieur de Rochegune, before proceeding, seemed to collect himselt. 
 His countenance, of which the expression is soft and melancholy, became 
 pensive. He continued, in a voice which was slightly affected by his emo- 
 tion, in spite of the efforts he made to overcome it. 
 
 " It was a favorite project, both of Monsieur de Mortagne, and of my 
 father, to obtain your hand in marriage for myself, madam." 
 
 " Of what use is it, sir, to recall those events ! 1 entreat you " 
 
 "Forgive me, madam, of speaking to you of past events — of projects 
 which have little interest for you ; but, as I have already had the honor to 
 declare to you, it is indispensable. 1 had often heard M. de Mortagne — be- 
 fore his fatal voyage to Italy — observe to my father, how unfortunate your 
 childhood had bsen ; notwithstanding the excellent qualities, which had 
 developed themselves in you. Tne narration the unkind treatment, to 
 which Mademoiselle de Maran subjected you.has a thousand times excited 
 the indignation of my father. I was then very young, but I never shall 
 forget the interest with which your situation inspired me. Up to that time 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 L49 
 
 I had lived with my father, on one of his estates— which is equivalent to 
 saying, that I had constantly before my eyes an example of the noblest 
 virtues. In hearing M. de Mortagne relate some anecdotes of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran, I learned, for the first time in my life that there existed beings 
 who were malicious and perverse. Whenever I saw M. de Mortagne, 1 over- 
 whelmed him with questions concerning you. For me, modam, you were 
 the personification of suffering and of resignation. I departed on a jour- 
 ney of considerable length ; and often, in thinking of my father — of France 
 I bestowed a sad thought on the poor orphan girl, who was abandoned to 
 fcha malicious caprices of a woman without pity. If you knew, madam, fhe 
 invincible hatred which I have always entertained for the abuse of power 
 — if yon knew how invariably I have always taken the part of the weak 
 against the strong ; you would not be surprised to hear me speak thus, ot 
 the profound interest with which you even then inspired, me." 
 " I am much obliged to you, sir, believe me." 
 
 " On my return, I found M. de Mortagne at Fstffh. He came to inform 
 my father and myself of the result of the violent iscene, after which your 
 family council had left you under the care of Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 Then, for the first time, my father disclosed to me projects never to be re- 
 alized. On his return from a campaign in Greece, which I had planned, 
 with M. de Mortagne, he determined to make every effort to enlighten the 
 opinions of your family, so as to withdraw you from the power of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran. You have heard of the odious plot by which our friend 
 was detained in the dungeons of Venice for several years. We supposed him 
 to be lost to us for ever. This generous man had interested us in so lively a 
 manner in your fate, that my father considered himself as fulfilling a sacred 
 duty, in taking M. de Mortagne's place near you. 
 What do you mean, sir ?" 
 
 " My father did everything in his power, to conciliate Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. By a noble illusion of his generous nature, he believed that he 
 could, by the influence of reason and virtue alone, persuade your aunt to 
 change her conduct toward you. He had several interviews with her. He 
 found her inflexible. I cannot describe to you, madam, the regret, the pain, 
 he suffered. He addressed her in language, alternately threatening and 
 suppliant. Nothing could touch her heart." 
 
 " I was never aware of this intercession. I understand now, the sort of 
 aversion which my aunt has often expressed for your father." 
 
 " After some further travels, I lost my father, madam." M. Rochegune 
 was silent for a moment, then stealthily wiped away a tear, and resumed : 
 " While dying, my father enjoined upon me, in the name of the friendship 
 which had united us with M. de Mortagne, never to lose sight of the orphan 
 who had so many titles to the sympathy of our friend. Alas ! madam, I 
 was reduced to forming fruitless wishes for your happiness. In vain I de- 
 sired to be introduced to Mademoiselle de Maran. The name I bore, ex- 
 cluded me. She refused me admittance into her house. You were, at that 
 time, about sixteen, I believe. Several times, attracted by a sort of pious 
 curiosity, with which your position inspired me, I placed myself in your 
 path. Your countenance wore an indescribable expression ot repressed 
 sadness, mingled with painful resignation, which overcame me entirely. 
 You will forgive me, will you not, for the mysterious part I assumed in your 
 life ? The respectful sympathy which I entertained for you, was a sort of 
 pious legacy which my father — which M. de Mortagne, our best friend, had 
 bequeathed to my heart. Unable to make your acquaintance, I often dis- 
 cussed your position with Madame de Richeville. The restless and jealous 
 watchfulness of Mademoiselle de Maran, often prevented some of my friends, 
 and of hers, from having access to you. At the least question relative to 
 your fate, or about her intentions in regard to you, Mademoiselle de Maran 
 changed the conversation, or positively declined answering. A whole year 
 passed in this manner. IreceivedaletterfromM.de Mortagne. After 
 the most unprecedented efforts and attempts, he had succeeded in corrupt- 
 ing one of the keepers, and making his escape from Venice. Obliged by 
 fatigue to stop at Marseilles, he wrote to me, to come to him as soon as 
 possible. I hastened thither. I found him almost dead ; but occupied with 
 one thought only, that of your fortune in life. I informed him, that Madame 
 de Richeville, one of your friends, had in vain attempted to get admitted to 
 you. He inquired if you were well — if you were handsome. I drew your 
 portrait for him. A ray of happiness and of joy lighted up his ghastly face." 
 
 " Admirable friend !" exclaimed I. 
 
 " Yes, madam — you have none warmer, none more devoted. I did not 
 again leave him. Madame de Richeville, setting, perhaps, the rules of pro- 
 priety at defiance, but following the firsi dictates of her friendship, and of 
 O 3 
 
150 
 
 gratitude, which nothing can change, came and passed some time at Mar. 
 seilles. M. de Mortagne was saved. As before, he continued to devote 
 himself, above all things, to your fortune. It was then, that the plan recur- 
 red to him of the union which had been the hope and joy of my father. 
 This hope, which I once thought it possible to realize, is enough to give me 
 — I had almost ventured to say — the right, to beseech you to dispose for 
 ever, of my religious devotion. M. de Mortagne, on his arrival at Paris, 
 was to have a long interview with you. Whether Mademoiselle de Maran 
 gave her consent, or not, he was determined to impart to you his projects. 
 What we wish for, we believe in, madam. The mission seemed to be so 
 beautiful — that of making you forget an unfortunate childhood and youth, 
 —the partial friendship of M. de Mortagne, opened the future to me in so 
 brilliant a light, that I returned to Paris, almost sharing the hopes of my 
 friend. All of a sudden, two startling pieces of intelligence came like 
 thunderbolts to dissipate our beautiful vision : your marriage with M. de 
 Lancry was settled, and M. de Mortagne, too eager to commence his journey, 
 had suffered a dangerous relapse at Lyons. His life was almost despaired 
 of. I hastened to him. The news I announced to him aggravated his ill- 
 ness to such an extent, that he was seized with a burniug fever. This lasted 
 about a month. Business of importance obliged me to precede him to Paris. 
 He arrived there the evening before your marriage : as for myseif, renoun- 
 cing a hope so long cherished, I determined to travel. 1 offered this house 
 for sale, at the very time when 1 had the honor to entertain you there, with 
 M. de Lancry and Mademoiselle de Maran." 
 
 " Allow me a question, sir. Are you aware of the step which Madame de 
 Richeville took, in relation to me, before my marriage ?" 
 
 M. de Rochegune looked at me with surprise ; and replied, in a tone of 
 the greatest sincerity, " I do not know, madam, to what step you refer." 
 
 " Have the goodness to continue, sir," said I to M. de Rochegune. 
 
 I thought, with agony, that he was doubtless going to speak to me of 
 Gontran, as Madame de Richeville had done. Although the conversation 
 of M. de Rochegune had been, thus far, full of delicacy, of moderation and 
 of respect, I should not have allowed the slighest imputation upon M, de 
 
 ll^dhs Rochegune continued : " You see, maaam, from this long intro- 
 duction, your fate has not, for six years, ceased to occupy M. de Mortagne, 
 my father, and myself, (wholly unknown to you, I am aware.) Does then, 
 an interest so lively, so constant, confer upon me the right to tell you a use- 
 ful truth— however painful that truth may be ?" 
 
 " Sir, I know not what you may have to disclose ; but if it involves any 
 reproach of M. de Lancry, it is useless to continue this interview." 
 
 M. de Rochegune regarded me with an astonishment almost sorrowful. 
 
 « i see, madam, I have not the honor to be known by you. From the 
 moment when you gave your hand to M. de Lancry, this choice, so honor- 
 able for him, placed him, in my eyes, among those to whom I should be 
 happy to prove my devotion. One of the reasons which have given me the 
 courage to come to you confidently, is, that what I have to say is of as much 
 importance to M. de Lancry as to you." 
 
 This simple and noble language relieved me of an immense weight ; but it 
 awakened my fears in relation to Gontran. 
 
 " What information do you come to give me. sir ?" I exclaimed. 
 
 After a moment's hasitation, he replied. " Do you see M. Lugarto; often, 
 
 m " Yes! and I should rejoice, in spite of myself, were he not the friend of M. 
 de Lancry." 
 
 * Do you know who this M. Lugarto is l" 
 
 " Alas ! sir, I do." 
 
 " Do you know that M. Lugarto passes his whole time, at present, at the 
 house of Mademoiselle de Maran ?" • . . 4 , . . „ 
 
 " I was not aware of it, sir ; on the contrary, I have heard Mademoiselle 
 de Maran treat him with the most merciless irony." 
 
 « Doubtless, Mademoiselle de Maran treated him in this way, until she 
 discovered that you had not an enemy more dangerous than this man. ' 
 
 It could not but be so," said I, smiling bitterly ; " my aunt almost gave 
 me warning of this new perfidy." 
 
 « But madam, you do not know all the baseness, all the treachery, of this 
 new plot of Mademoiselle de Maran ; you do not knovy the disgraceful 
 - countenance which she lends, by her conversation, to the infamous calum- 
 nies of Monsieur Lugarto." . . A , 
 
 «' What calumnies, sir ? Can any attention be paid to what is said by 
 such a man as this ? and, besides, »vhat can he say i 
 
TUE INTUVIEW 
 
 181 
 
 « Oh, nothing, which he cannot justity— nothing, moreover, which ia not 
 true ; and it is this, which unfortunately renders his slanders more fatal. 
 He says, that M. de Lancry is his intimate friend ; and he proves it, by 
 appearing at all times in his company and yours. He says, that every 
 morning he sends you flowers, with which yoù deck yourself; and this too 
 is true. He says, that the balls which he is about to give, he gives for you. 
 He says, that in presence of the world, you exhibit a coldness for him ; 
 but that this coldness is <m artifice to deceive your husband. He says, in 
 •hort, that you love him, madam !" 
 
 I looked so stupefied at M. de Rochegune, that he supposed I had not 
 heard him, and he continued : 
 
 " Yes, madam ! Monsieur Lugarto says, that you love him ?" 
 
 This accusation struck me as so disgustingly stupid, that I exclaimed, 
 with a sardonic burst of laughter, " I love this man I But this is madness, 
 sir ! Who will ever even admit the possibility of it ? Doubtless, I regret 
 bitterly the intimacy which has grown up between him and my husband. 
 I regret bitterly, to be the object of attentions on his part, which I dislike 
 and detest. But never — good God ! — never have 1 feared that these atten- 
 tions, which I loathe, might be construed in this way." 
 
 M. de Rochegune looked upon me with an expression of mournful com- 
 passion. "Alas! madam," resumed he, after « silence of some length, "it 
 is painful in me to have to convince you of a very disagreeable truth. But 
 your peace of mind; and (shall I say it,) a regard for your honor — yes, the 
 honor of M. de Lancry, makes it my duty to enlighten you." 
 
 " Ah ! sir, speak !" 
 
 "You art very young, madam ; you are proud of the nobleness, of the 
 purity of your sentiments ; you are proud of the love which you entertain, 
 of that with which you inspire the man of your choice ; you are proud, in 
 short, of your happiness, because it is elevated, noble, and legitimate. You 
 despise an infamous calumny. Who will believe it ? you say. Listen, 
 madam. Insterd of believing the world to be what it is — full of scandal — 
 believing in evil, because folly and vulgarity have exactly the degree of in- 
 telligence necessary to repeat, to hawk about a slander ; suppose the world 
 to be an impartial spectator. What does it see ? You, young, beautiful, 
 inexperienced, appearing to be already almost forgotten by your husband ; 
 while he is paying the most devoted attentions to a woman, extremely 
 fashionable, and whose reputation has been often compromised. That is 
 not all. The friend of your husband lives in daily intimacy with you, accom- 
 panying you everywhere ; such is his reputation, that he is known to bo in- 
 capable of interesting himself in a woman without some selfish objet. He 
 openly proclaims, he publishes to all eyes, the preference, (a compulsory 
 one, I have no doubt,) which he receives from you. These unfortunate ap- 
 pearances are exaggerated by the jealously which a woman in your posi- 
 tion, madam, always creates in all other women. Mademoiselle de Maran 
 contnuing the wcrk of malice aud perfidy which she began in your infancy, 
 plays now acother part. It was against her wishes, she says, that you mar- 
 ried M. de Lancry. She always dreaded his want of principle of which he 
 has given a too com incing proof, in addressing himself so openly to Ma- 
 dame de Ksernika. Mademoiselle de Maran says, moreover, that she has 
 represented to M. de Lancry, that he would drive you into some fatal sys- 
 tem of reprisal — that your position is so much the more dangerous, from 
 your seeing so often M. Lugarto ; and that with the exception of a few boy- 
 ish follies, she is unable to deny that this stranger is endowed with most 
 fascinating qualities, and such as are calculated to gain the heart of a 
 woman. This is not all, madam. Prepare yourself for a final blow, more 
 cruel than any of the rest, because it does not attack you alone. Made- 
 moiselle de Maran gives another reason for the regret she feels for your 
 marriage with M. de Lancry. She asserts, that in consequence of the 
 enormous debts contracted by your husband before your marriage, your 
 own fortune is very much embarrassed, and that " 
 
 " You hesitate, sir :" said I to M. de Rochegune, restraining my indig- 
 nation — not against him, but against the authors of the odious plot which 
 now unfolded itself entirely before me ; " continue, continue : I am pre- 
 pared to hear the whole." 
 
 " And I, madam, to disclose the whole ; for, happily, I believe that I 
 have the power to overthrow and defeat such a tissue" of malicious false- 
 hood." 
 
 " Well, sir ?" 
 
 * Well, madam : your aunt has been infamous enough to assert that M. 
 de Lancry, finding his affairs embarrassed, has had recourse to ïfao kind- 
 
MATIIJU. 
 
 ness of M. de Lugarto ; and that he has made himself so dependent upon 
 this man, that he finds himself almost compelled to suffer his attentions *o 
 you." 
 
 " Oh ! my God !" exclaimed I, burying my face in my hands, 
 
 "You are horror-struck, madam! Is it not an abyss of infamy and 
 shame ? You, so noble and so pure — it is with difficulty that you can com- 
 prehend such a tissue of horror. Confide, then, madam, in a man who has 
 never been guilty of a falsehood. Such is the report which circulates 
 about you and M. de Lancry and M. Lugarto. And it is not an idle report 
 without echo — no, no ; unfortunately, it is a conviction founded upon the 
 most unlucky appearances. M. Lugarto has managed with the address of 
 a demon. M. de Lancry — yourself, madam, without being aware of it, have 
 given currency to these detestable calumnies." 
 
 I was annihilated. I was then able to explain to myself the invincible 
 aversion, the instinctive terror, with which the attentions of M. Lugarto 
 had always inspired me. It was then that I realized the full extent of the 
 mischief. My suspicions concerning the nature of the obligations M. do 
 Lancry was under to M, de Lugarto, appeared to me to be justified. In 
 this respect, doubtless, Mademoiselle de Maran did not calumniate. 
 
 " You see, madam," said M. de Rochegune, " it required all the imperious 
 urgency of duty — it required the absence of M. de Mortagne — to decide me 
 to come and inflict this painful blow. At present, permit me to point out to 
 you, what I consider the right course to be pursued in the present emer- 
 gency. You must, without losing a moment, communicate the whole to 
 M. de Lancry ; that he may not doubt its truth, I beseech you, madam, to 
 reveal to him the whole of our interview. As to the mode of putting a stop 
 to these infamous reports — it is very simple. I have not forgotten the in- 
 structions of M. de Mortagne : above all, and before all, the truth, however 
 violent it may be. This is the only way to crush perfidy and falsehood. 
 When you shall have confided everything to M. de Lancry, neither you nor 
 he must alter your manner, in any particular, to M. Lugarto. After a few 
 days, have an invited party at your house ; send invitations to all your ac- 
 quaintances, including M. Lugarto, Mademoiselle de Maran, and myself. 
 I will defer my departure until then ; for I hope to be able to render you a 
 service. Then, madam, on that day, openly — in the face of the whole com- 
 pany—I will accuse M. Lugarto and Mademoiselle de Maran of having 
 grossly calumniated you and M. de Lancry. Mademoiselle de Maran, in 
 spite of her audacity, M. Lugarto, in spite of his impudence, will be over- 
 whelmed by so solemn an accusation. Then, madam, do you and M. do 
 Lancry challenge this man and woman to repeat before you, and before all 
 present, the disgraceful falsehood to which they have given currency ; and 
 to give the proofs of the atrocities which they have asserted. Then, ma- 
 dam, believe me, however prejudiced the world may be, it will be obliged to 
 believe in the shame, in the infamy of those who, electrified by your gene- 
 rous indignation, can only stammer out a cowardly apology." 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! you are right," I exclaimed revived by the noble language 
 and generous counsels of M. de Rochegune. " Yes ! it is an inspiration of 
 Heaven ! may you, who have revealed it to us, enjoy every blessing. The 
 truth must come forth triumphant from such an explanation. I shall do 
 it without mercy or pity. Now, falsehood to falsehood ! 1 will pursue these 
 wretches, until they avow their treache: y before the world, whom they have 
 made their accomplices, and who shall be their judge." 
 
 "Excellent! excellent! madam. Then I shall depart more tranquil, 
 more reassured, as to the future happiness of a person to whom I have 
 made a vow of the most unchangeable devotion." 
 
 " Ah ! sir ; you are the worthy, the noble friend of M. de Mortagne," ex- 
 claimed I, holding out to M. de Rochegune my hand. " In the name of de 
 Lancry — in the name of our eternal gratitude — receive the assurance of a 
 friendship that is not less ardent than your own. By this fearless disclo- 
 sure, you will have saved us from a thousand misfortunes. Oh 1 never can 
 we forget it." 
 
 M. de Rochegune took, respectfully the hand which I offered him, pressed 
 it cordially in his, and said to me with emotion : 
 
 " By the sacred memory of my mother, I have bound myself to be a 
 brother and a most devoted friend to you ! Will you accept my vow ? Do 
 you consider me worthy of this friendship ?" 
 
 " It does too much honor to us both, for me not to accept it, with prida 
 and with joy," I replied. 
 
 Some one knocked at the door. Blondeau came in. 
 
 * What do you want V said I. 
 
THE IKTKBVIEW 
 
 153 
 
 "Madam," replied she, looking at M. de Rochegune, "I have just 
 received a letter, which I am requested to deliver to M. de Rocnegune with- 
 out delay. 
 
 She presented me the letter ; I handed it to M. do Rocheguno. He ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " It.is from M. de Mortagne. I left a message at my house for him, in 
 case he should arrive, advising him that I was at your house. Will you 
 allow me to read this letter ? it may concern you." 
 
 I bowed my head to M. de Rochegune ; he opened the letter and read it. 
 
 " Madam," said Blondeau to me, in an under-tone, pointing to M. de 
 Rochegune ; " 1 recognize his voice — it is he !" 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " This is the person, who came to make the inquiries, on behalf of M. de 
 Mortagne." 
 
 " What is it you say ?" 
 
 " It is as true as that there is a God in heaven ! It is he, madam ; I am 
 sure I am not mistaken. It is his voice, I assure you." 
 
 While Blondeau was speaking, I examined the features of M. de Roche- 
 gune. They assumed, suddenly, an expression of deep anxiety. I could 
 not prevent myself from exclaiming : 
 
 " What is the matter, sir ? Monsieur de Mortagne !" 
 
 " I must rejoin him immediately, madam. We propose to leave Paris for 
 some time. He has found the clue to a most abominable plot, he tells me 
 without explaining himself farther." 
 
 "And this plot — whom does it threaten ?" cried I. 
 
 " Can you ask me ? You, madam ! you!" 
 
 " And Gontran, my husband ?" 
 
 " M. de Mortagne advises you, above all things, not to leave him. If he 
 travel, travel with him. And, above all things, for your safety and for his 
 never to separate from him for a single instant." 
 
 " Good God ! Good God ! Whom does he suspect — from whom have we 
 so much to fear ?" 
 
 "Need I tell you, madam ? From M. Lugarto. The enormous fortune 
 of this man, places immense resources at his disposal. He is as crafty as 
 he is wicked. M. de Mortagne, to disconcert his projects, absented him- 
 self from Paris some time since." 
 
 " But, sir, you leave me in a state of insufferable anxiety!" 
 
 "Look at this letter of M. de Mortagne. He writes hastily, and informs 
 me of some of the particulars. As long as Madame de Richeville continues 
 absent, he will be uuable to let you hear from him ; for, it is only through 
 her that he will be able to write to you. He is fearful that some of your 
 people have been corrupted ; and the least indiscretion on the subject of his 
 plans, might cause their failure. He is obliged, therefore, to act in dark- 
 ness, and silence. Adieu, madam. I leave you, much encouraged ! If M. 
 de Mortagne is of opinion that I can be of service to you, in the explana- 
 tion you are going to demand, I shall do myseli the honor to come and in- 
 form you. If not, persist in the plan which I have marked out for you, 
 That alone can take the evil at the root, and confound the malicious. . . . 
 'But now that I think of it, in order to obviate the objection to my departure, 
 1 will write to M. de Lancry, informing him of all that I have revealed to 
 you, and authorizing him to make use of my letter. Adieu, madam. M. de 
 Mortagne tells me that every moment counts. Take courage! your ene- 
 mies are very implacable." 
 
 " But we number two friends, who are very valuable," said I, to M. de 
 Rochegune, " Adieu, sir ! You have undertaken a noble task. May Heaven 
 aid you!" 
 
 M. de Rochegune left me. 
 
 " It is he, madam, who was attacked and wounded ; I am certain of it," 
 said Blondeau. " Did you observe how pale he was, and the wound, which 
 his hair hardly concealed ?" 
 
 " 1 tell you, you are mistaken." 
 
 " Ah ! madam, his voice is too soft to be forgotten." 
 
 The valet de chambre opened the door, and announced the Count Lu- 
 garto. 
 
 Blondeau left me. I was alone with that man. 
 
154 
 
 MATILDA* 
 
 CHAPTER XTT. 
 
 THE DECLARATION 
 
 When I snw M. Lugarto enter my drawing-room, I was on the point of 
 retiring. But remembering the advice of M. de Itochegune, 1 restrained my 
 intention. M Lugarto, contraiy to his custom, had a thoughtful and em- 
 barrassed air. He must have read in my face, some of the violent emotions 
 which agitated me, and which I had some difficulty in repressing. Seating 
 myself near the window, 1 looked out upon the garden, waiting for him to 
 commence the conversation. 
 
 After a few moments silence, he came and sat beside me, and abruptly 
 observed; " You have been very. ill. I have been anxious about you. It 
 has occasioned me a suffering, of which you can have no idea." 
 
 " I am aware, sir, of the interest you take in me," replied I smiling bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " You still detest me, then !" 
 * Sir !" 
 
 " Ah, why deny it ? But, what have I done ?" 
 
 " I am not obliged to answer such questions, sir." 
 
 " At least, it is usual to inform people what one has against them. Sinco 
 you have been at Paris, I have made every effort to be agreeable to you." 
 " It was trouble thrown away, sir." 
 
 " I have been very sensible of it, and, indeed, you have only returned my 
 assiduity with contempt." 
 
 " You must have seen by that, sir, that your attentions and your assi- 
 duities were not agreeable to me." 
 
 " But why so ? I ask you again. You make me no reply. Was it an 
 insult to you, to bestow upon you attentions which every woman receives, 
 if not with gratitude, at least with pleasure !" 
 
 I raised my eyes upward, as if to call Heaven to witness the execrable 
 duplicity of this man. M. Lugarto made a sign of impatience. He resumed, 
 making an effort to give to his harsh voice a soft and insinuating tone : 
 " Come, now, let us discuss the matter ; be not ill-natured, for I am still 
 your friend, although you have hitherto done everything in your power to 
 vex me. But I do not know how it is — 1 believe you have bewitched me — 
 I, who always have a memory for the injuries I receive, and who always 
 find the means of proving that I remember them, am unable to bear you 
 any malice, and forgive you everything. It must be that you have over me 
 some mysterious inliuence. I was, at one time, totally at. a loss to under- 
 stand this influence— but gradually I discovered — but you will be offended. 
 Indeed I, who am no novice — I, who understand your sex thoroughly, for 
 the first time in my life, hesitate to declare to you . . . Your manner is so 
 cold, so haughty — come ! if you survey me with such an expression, I can- 
 not summon courage to speak." 
 
 I regarded M. Lugarto with a look so haughty, with an expression ot 
 contempt so withering, that, in spite of his boldness, he hesitated for a 
 moment. But immediately blushing, at having allowed himself to be dis- 
 concerted, he resumed : 
 
 " After all, it is very stupid of me. I am informing you of nothing, but ' 
 what you must long ago have guessed. Women are not blind ; they are 
 always the first to perceive the passions they inspire." Well, then, I love 
 you !— yes, I love you passionately !" 
 
 M. de Lugarto uttered these last words in a tone of voice low, and trem- 
 bling with emotion. Warned by M. de Rochegune, I anticipated this inso- 
 lent declaration. My face remained unmoved. M Lugarto expected that 
 I should receive it with a burst of indignatton. He seemed much surprised 
 at my calmness and silence. 
 
 '■ Yes : I love you to idolatry !" resumed he. " I, who have hitherto had 
 only caprices and ephemeral fancies. I feel, in your presence, a longing to 
 attach myself for ever. If you would listen to me, we might arrange our 
 plan of life admirably. At present, my intimacy with you is established, 
 and we might lead a most agreeable life. But you do not answer. Does 
 this offend you ?" 
 " Continue, sir — continue." 
 
 " With what an air you say that ! Perhaps you suppose me incapable of 
 b ing for ever faithful ? You are mistaken ; I have enjoyed life in all its 
 pleasures — to excess, perhaps. I shall be too happy to find repose in calm 
 and t-nder attachment. My character, which I candidly admit, is often 
 
THE DECLARATION. 
 
 153 
 
 detestable, would be thereby much improved. Truly, I am sure, if you were 
 only willing to take the trouble, you might make me a much better man. 
 Come now, try : what harm will it do you ! I will love you so sincerely. 
 Ah ! you do not know what it is to be beloved by a man, who despises all 
 other men. You can do whatever you please with me, and it will be 
 said everywhere, what power Madame de Lan cry has : She has succeeded 
 in attaching, in softening, and in rendering pliant, the most indomitable 
 temper in the world." 
 
 If I had not perceived, by the sinking of my heart, that I had reached a 
 fatal crisis in my life, and that a great danger rolled heavily over Gontran 
 and myself, the incredible vanity of this man, his cynical infatuation — 
 which was ridiculous, almost to the degree of being loathsome — would only 
 have excited in me a smile of pity ; but I was a prey to the most cruel pre 
 sentiments. M. Lugarto filled me with dread. It seemed to me that, not- 
 withstanding his gross impudence, he would not have presumed thus to 
 address me, unless he had supposed that he could do so with impunity. It 
 was for reason, that I said to him, clasping my hands with affright : 
 
 " What has happened, sir, that you dare to address this language to 
 me?" 
 
 " The language I use is, nevertheless, very plain. Mon Dieu : do not be 
 alarmed. I am not exacting. All I demand of you is a little encouragement 
 for the future, and a little confidence for the present. Suffer yourself to be 
 beloved, and leave the rest to me. Only be indulgent enongh to promise 
 me, not to struggle against any sentiment whioh may be awakened in your 
 heart in my favor. Come, now, confess that I have in your eyes the air of 
 a conceited puppy, in addressing you in this strain. I will bet that you are 
 shocked. You are mistaken. Mine is the language of true love. A man 
 who loves sincerely, always feels sure of having his passion returned, sooner 
 or later. What a strange creature you are : Soften this mask of refine- 
 ment : After all, what is it which I ask you to do * Only to allow yourself 
 to be happy. You will see — you will see. At least, answer me— at least 
 . . . Matilda :" 
 
 Calling me by this name, M. de Lugarto approached me, and would have 
 taken my hand. I listened to this ignoble language, and it seemed to me 
 that I was in a dream. 1 was before aware of this man's impudence, and 
 I asked myself, whether I had -not unconsciously deserved the humiliation 
 I suffered. I considered myself heavily punished, for not having shown M . 
 Lugarto plainly enough the aversion I felt for him. But when he attempted 
 to take my hand, shame, resentment, fear, all exasperated me. I rose 
 abruptly : 
 
 " Leave me, sir ! leave me !" I exclaimed. *' Disgust and contempt will 
 sometimes become too strong to be repressed, in spite of our most violent 
 efforts. I tell you, sir, to leave me !" 
 
 ** Are you, then, without any pity — without any pity ?" exclaimed M. Lu- 
 
 fjarto. " Is it an insult to love you ? for I love you. I swear to you, that I 
 ove you. If thus far I have shocked you — I implore your forgiveness ; it 
 is the effect of my bad education. Besides, I have never been accustomed 
 to meet such women as you. I have been spoilt. I confess my manners 
 are bad. With one single word — with^ one single look of affection, you 
 might change me entirely. It would have been so delightful to obey you ! 
 And, besides, I did not know what to think. Seeing you so indifferent to 
 my attentions, I feared you did^not understand their meaning. I was at a 
 loss for some contrivance, by which to give you to understand that it was 
 love. Sometimes, I was tempted to fly ; but I was retained, in spite of my- 
 self, by the charm which surrounds you. If you cannot entertain for me 
 any other sentiment, have, at least, a little pity for me. Tell me what you 
 would command me to do — tell me to remove myself far away from you, 
 and 1 shall find the strength to obey. But, at least, let me have the satis- 
 faction of knowing that I shall some day have credit for this cruel sacri- 
 fice. Answer me — for mercy's sake answer me : Nothing ? nothing ? not 
 a word ? Still the same look of hatred — of implacable contempt! Ah : I 
 am very unfortunate : and yet I am an object of envy," cried M. Lugarto. 
 
 Heal or :i fleeted tears rolled down his livid cheeks, and he buried his face 
 in his hands. If I had not been informed, by M. de Rochegune, of the 
 odious reports which this man had circulated, without being at all touched 
 with the grief which he appeared to feel, I should have believed, at least, in 
 its reality ; but, as I could only recognize in it an insulting hypocrisy, it 
 filled me with horror. 1 advanced toward the door, to leave the room. M. 
 Lugarto perceived my intention, and placed himself before the door. I was 
 alarmed. I returned in a hurried manner, toward the fire-place, with the 
 intention of ringing the bell. 
 
159 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 "Your object is to reauce me to despair," cried he. in a faltering voice, 
 and clasping his hands with the air of a supplicant : " Ah ! tell me — tell me 
 only that you permit me to try to overcome the repugnance you feel forme 
 — I ask nothing more ;" and he fell on his knees 
 
 I pulled the bell with precipitation. Monsieur Lugarto stood up. 
 
 " Ah ! Be it so," cried he, turning suddenly pale with anger. " Nothing 
 moves you — neither prayers, nor tenderness, nor humility ! Be it so — I will 
 employ other means. On your knees — on your knees, proud woman, you 
 shall beg me to have pity on you." 
 
 There was such an expression of confidence and of malice in the tone of 
 his voice, that I trembled with fear. A footman entered : 
 
 " Tell my people they may go," said M. Lugarto with the most perfect 
 coolness, and before I had time to utter a single word. 
 
 Nothing appeared more natural than this order. The footman went out. 
 I was so astounded, that I did not dare to detain him. M. Lugarto, who 
 for a moment had restrained his anger, now lost all control over himself. 
 He became hideous. His eyes were blood-shot. His whole frame trembled 
 convulsively, and his colorless lips contracted with a sort of nervous vibra- 
 tion. I was unable to move a step, and waited with anxiety for some horri- 
 ble disclosure. 
 
 " Ah ! then you are prepared to engage in a struggle with me. But do 
 you know my power ? You saw how, with a single word, I put down that 
 insolent princess. As for your beautiful duchess, you do not know with 
 what tears of blood she atones, to this very hour, for her impertinent inter- 
 ference with my affairs. You do not know that if 1 chose — understand me 
 —if I chose, with a single word I could make you sink upon the ground 
 with terror. Ah ! you imagine that a man of my character, whatever may 
 be his wish, ever wishes in vain. Ah ! you suppose that I do not know how 
 to revenge myself upon those who outrage me with insult and contempt. I 
 shall not pay back contempt with contempt, and insult with insult. I should 
 be a simpleton. Know, then, that — thanks to myself and to your aunt, 
 whom I have found means of enlisting on my side — your reputation is al- 
 ready ruined ; and, whatever you may do, the blow we have inflicted upon 
 it is incurable. The world judges, condemns, and brands with eternal in- 
 famy, for a thousand times more trifling things than this. Learn, then, that 
 it was to complete the probability of my calumnies, and to render them cer- 
 tain, that the princess, at my will, made advances to. your husband ; and 
 that he again, at my will, is unfaithful to you. This is a fact, believed in 
 by everybody ; and the world thinks, that you revenge yourself on your 
 husband by your intimacy with me. And now, I defy you to destroy these 
 reports and these appearances ! Whether you will or not, I shall always be 
 on the spot — always near you. My presence fills you with fear, with horror. 
 So much the better. You have only one way to rid yourself of my persecu. 
 tion. I am satisfied with easy conquests. I prefer to triumph by terror 
 rather than by love. From this time forth I look upon you as a suppliant 
 merely — heart-broken — your beautiful eyes swimming with tears. So much 
 the better — you will be only the more charming !" 
 
 As he pronounced these accm-sed words, his glassy eyes seemed to glitter 
 with savage ferocity. For some moments, I had been listening to him me- 
 chanically, as if I were the sport of some frightful dream — suddenly, I heard 
 a noise in the apartment of my husband. It was his walk ; he was coming 
 toward the drawing room. I clasped my hands, exclaiming, "it is he !" 
 
 M. Lugarto lo ked at me with astonishment. 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 Monsieur de Lancry entered. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE DEFIANCE. 
 
 My first impulse on the entry of Gontran was to rush to meet him, and 
 
 to exclaim, 
 " Save me : Save me :" 
 
 My disordered countenance struck Gontran. Looking at Monsieur Lu- 
 garto, he exclaimed, 
 " What is the matter, Matilda ? in the name of Heaven : what is the 
 
 matter ?" 
 
 M. Lugarto began to laugh violently ; and said to M. de Lancry, " Upon 
 my word— do you know, my dear fellow, that your wife is a most extraor? 
 
TUE DEFIANCE. 
 
 dinary person ? She is one of those who take seriously, what was only meant 
 
 for a practical joke." 
 
 " You are a villain :" cried I, " and I shall deal with you without reserve, 
 în informing my husband of your conduct, I do not expose his life; you 
 would not dare to tight with him, and he a vvould not condescend to right with 
 you." 
 
 " You see how she treats me," said Monsieur Lugarto to M. de Lancry. 
 " Confess, that I have an excellent temper." 
 
 " A truce to jesting, sir," said Gontran. "I see by her agitation, by her 
 paleness, that Madame de Lancry is fearfully disturbed. However great 
 iny friendship for you may be, I cannot allow you to be wanting in a proper 
 respect for my wife." 
 
 " You take it in this way, my dear fellow ? That alters the case," said 
 Monsieur Lugarto. " Let us speak oi it no more. Let us speak of it no 
 more. Let us forget this folly, and think of other matters. What are your 
 plans for the evening ?" 
 
 " You hear him !" said I : " this man ask3 you to overlook his crime, thai 
 he may betray you once more. No : no : Noble and generous Gontran, how- 
 ever much your noble and generous heart may suffer from the disclosure, 
 I shall tell you all. The mask must be torn from this man whom you con- 
 sider your friend. Here, in his presence, you must learn the infamous re- 
 orts which he circulates on your account and mine : You must know that 
 ere, only a moment ago, he declared to me his infamous love : — not in a 
 vain and empty gallantry — it is false : No : no : He spoke first of his love 
 as a suppliant, with tears in his eyes, and a voice smooth and full of hypo- 
 crisy." 
 
 " Sir :" cried Gontran, turning purple with rage, and casting a look of 
 fury at Monsieur Lugarto. 
 
 " But hear her out, my dear follow : 1 tell you, that her indignation is 
 entirely throw away, and that she is making a serious matter of what was 
 meant for- ajest." 
 
 And when he found that I treated his declaration with contempt and 
 disgust, then followed threats of vengeance and the most horrible confes- 
 sions. ' The world believed you, Gontran,' he said, ' to be unfaithful to me ' 
 * The world,' he said, ' believed that I revenged myself for your desertion, 
 by an intrigue with him !' Is that what you said ? Is that what you said, 
 sir ?" 
 
 Monsieur Lugarto smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Monsieur Lugarto, take care !" said Gontran, in a hoarse voice. " Human 
 patience has its limits ; and it is now a long time — a very long time, let me 
 tell you — that my patience has endured." 
 
 Monsieur Lugarto looked down, but said nothing. 
 
 Emboldened by his air of confusion, and hoping to get rid of him for ever 
 by means of this fearful scene, I continued : 
 
 " But this is not all : he has leagued himself with our bitterest enemy — 
 with Mademoiselle de Maran — to publish everywhere, that you, my noble 
 Gontran, endured his presence while you cursed him in your heart ! and 
 that you endured his attentions to me, because — imagine why ? because 
 our fortune was involved in debt, and that you had resource for aid to this 
 man." 
 
 I was for a moment frightened by the expression of rage which flashed in 
 the face of Gontran. 
 
 He got up and seized Monsieur Lugarto by the arm, and said to him in a 
 voice of thunder, 
 
 " Do you hear, sir, what my wife says ? — Do you hear ?" 
 
 " At last, good God ! at last we shall get rid of the demon," said I, clasp- 
 ing my hands. 
 
 Monsieur Lugarto had remained sitting. 
 
 When Gontran came near him, he did not make the slightest motion. He 
 extricated himself calmly from the grasp of Gontran, looked at him steadily, 
 and said, with a sardonic calmness which filled me with consternation, 
 
 " Come, now — my dear fellow ! are you mad ?" 
 
 " I tell you, sir, that these reports that you have circulated, are infamous ! 
 and that I will not allow " 
 
 "You will not allow," slowly articulated Monsieur Lugarto, burs ting into 
 a loud laugh. " Ha ! ha ; ha ! He is charming — on my word — lie will not 
 allow ! Come, now : Perhaps you meant to threaten me, my lord Viscount 
 de Lancry," 
 
 " Yes : yes : Whatever may be the consequences, this time, at least, 
 
158 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " Whatever the consequences may be, viscount V cried Monsieur Lugarto, 
 m a shrill voice, interrupting my husband. " Whatever the consequences 
 may be ? Come, now, repeat that :" 
 
 The agony of Gontran was indescrible. His handsome face became con- 
 torted, and expressed rage, hatred and despair : But it seemed, as if some 
 mysterious influence prevented the expression of these sentiments. 
 
 They, nevertheless, found utterance.— Stamping with his foot, Monsieur de 
 Lancry exclaimed : 
 
 " Well, then : yes : Since you drive me to extremity — yes : \vhatever may 
 be the consequences, I will insult you— I will insult you— do you under- 
 stand ? in the face of the whole world. We will fight ; and I will kill you, 
 or you me. There is no longer room enough in the world for both of us. 
 Life, on these conditions, is insupportable to me : If it were not for fear ot 
 affording you an infernal pleasure, I should long ago have rid myself of a 
 life which I detest." 
 
 These words of Gontran were sofull of despair — they threatened me with 
 a new calamity of so terrible a nature, that I nearly fainted. 
 
 " You will not insult me, and I shall not fight you ;" coldly replied Mon- 
 sieur Lugarto. " As Madame observes — in the first place I should not dare ; 
 in the second place, you would not condescend. . . . But to revert to 
 your ' whatever the consequences may be' — is that a defiance, hey, viscount ! 
 Are you willing that this very instant, and in Madam's presence, I should 
 reveal ?" 
 
 " Stop, oh : IStop : Not one word more :" cried Gontran with difficulty — 
 " for pity's sake — not a syllable :" 
 
 He fell back into his chair — covered his eyes with his hands and exclaim- 
 ed with a choking voice — 
 
 " Great God : Great God f 
 
 I was stupefied. 
 
 " Come now — I have taken a great deal of pains to convince you, my 
 dear and intimate friend, that, after all, I am not the demon which I pass 
 for," Monsieur Lugarto. " What is it I ask ? Only to be allowed to live in 
 peace with you and your wife and to realize the equilateral triangle of the 
 -talians — in all honour, be it understood, for you are a terribly jealous fel- 
 low — a perfect Othello. Let us hear now what it is that you have to com- 
 plain of. I make love to your wife — admitted. Of what consequence is that 
 to you ? She is virtuous : she adores yoti and she detests me. Here are 
 three reasons in one to tranquillize you ; a sort of three headed Cerberus 
 which sufficiently protects your conjugal honor. But, you say, ' The world 
 gossips and supposes you to be perfectly successful with my wife.' Ah, 
 good heaven : let the world gossip — are you not sure of the fidelity of your 
 wife ? Come, Viscount, have a little philosophy, and do not trouble yourself 
 about a few idle words. But the report, though false, is very annojing, you 
 ■will say. That is possible. But of two evils, you know, one mnst chose tho 
 least. And, since what people says annoys you, imagine what they would 
 say were I to gossip about certain things you wot of ! If I were to tell how 
 at London—' " 
 
 " Sir — sir," cried Gontran, in a tone of supplication, 
 
 M. Lugarto turned toward me, with an ironical expression of counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " Here now, you see, is your brilliant giant-killer as supple as a glove. 
 Give him some good advice — you, who are virtue itself— tell him to be 
 reasonable. Como now, I am going to conclude in the vein of a traitor m 
 a melodrama. Viscount de Lancry you are in my power. You can escape 
 only either by assassinating me or by killing yourself. Now I am sure you 
 are much too well tried to have recourse to any such expedient. This 
 settled ; let us proceed. Come, my dear fellow, forget these reveries of your 
 wife, and let us live all three of us in the sweetest intimacy, as heretofore 
 Let the world talk, and let us enjoy life, for it is short enough. However, 
 as I cannot allow myself to be insulted with impunity — as I am bent on 
 having my revenge on this dear creature Matilda, I will punish her : and I 
 condemn her to come with you this very day to celebrate her convalescence. 
 The party shall be small— the Princess de Ksernika and three or four men 
 and women of our acquaintance. This I. mean seriously, my dear fellow ; 
 do you understand ? It must be so. Madnme de Lancry will affect a little 
 reluctance ; but I leave it to you to overcome the scruples of my dear 
 enemy. You will not be at a loss for the most excellent arguments I am 
 sure." 
 
 I regarded Gontran with stupefaction. He did not utter a word. His eyes 
 Were motionless — his head was bowed upon his breast. 
 M. Lugarto rose from his chair, and added : " Tell me now, my friend* 
 
AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 159 
 
 is not this a whimsical scene ! Who would imagine, just at the present 
 moment that in one of the finest houses in the Faubourg St. Honore, in a 
 fine summer's day, one of the incredible scenes was being enacted whica, 
 would make a novelist's fortune ? Such, however, is the fact. Fashionable 
 life is not after all so brosaic as it is generally supposed. Well then, we 
 shall meet soon. We dine at seven o'clock. You will have the trial of a new 
 cook. I had him from the prince Talleyrand. They say he is a wonderful 
 fellow. And, now it occurs to me, dismiss your carnage at dinner. We 
 will go to Tivoli. There is to be a charming ball there. It is said the Duch- 
 ess of Berry is to be present. I count a great deal on appearing there with 
 
 Îour wife and yourself and your charming princess, you faithless monster, 
 t is a bargain. I will take you home, and on our way we will take some 
 ice at Tortoni's. You see now that I ain bent in the most determined man- 
 ner on compromising Matilda, and I make an excellent use of my theatre I 
 think. Now, my friend, you understand all this ? hey ! 
 " Yes, sir," said Gontran in a low tone. 
 
 " I count, then, on you and on my fair enemy. Answer me, then. I told 
 you that was my wish. That is enough, I think." 
 
 " Madam de Lancry and myself will come and dine with you to-day, sir," 
 replied Gontran with an accent of despair. 
 
 Monsieur Lugarto, as he went out gave ine a look of infernal triumph. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 After M. Lugarto's departure, neither Gontran and myself had the 
 courage to utter a single word. I fell into an abyss of gloomy reflections. 
 It was true then. A mysterious, a terrible secret had placed M. de Lancry 
 in the power of M. Lugarto. For the first time, my husband had spoke of 
 suicide. So horrible a thought had never occured to me ! I trembled as I 
 thought of Gontran's determination. It fell like a heavy blow upon my 
 heart, when he exclaimed, speaking to M. Lugarto — '/ should lonô ago have 
 killed myself but for the fear ot affording you an infernal joy,' Alas ! and I ! 
 He forgot, then that I should survive him. I reproached myself because I 
 was of so little account in the life of Gontran. I upbraided myself with 
 having, as it were, not loved him aright. It was not an empty humility of the 
 heart — it was my conscience. Doubtless I had ever been devoted submis- 
 sive, attentive — passionately fond — but doubtless, also, I had made an idle 
 use of these generous sentiments ; since he could die without regretting 
 me. 
 
 From that instant I acquired the bitter conviction, the offspring of an 
 ardent love and of a profound mistrust of myself— That one who is not be- 
 loved is always in fault. I clung with all my might to the conviction, doubt- 
 less a most paradoxical one. I employed all the powers of my mind, all 
 the energies of my heart, in trying to make the position impregnable. It 
 enabled me to accuse myself, and to forgive Gontran. All women, who 
 have ever loved with that sublime blindness, that magnificent annihilation 
 of self, which is the essence of passion, can comprehend with what happi- 
 ness one seizes on the most flimsy excuses for the cruelty of him she adores 
 even when her own self-esteem becomes the sacrifice to this species of 
 restoration. Now that years and misfortunes have matured my judgment, 
 it seems to me that this persevering indulgence should be attributed to the 
 imperious necessity we are under of justifying our choice in our own eyes, 
 even at the expense of our dearest hopes. When Iliad once got into this 
 train of mistrust of myself, I reproached myself also for not having been 
 able to inspire Gontran with sufficient affection for me, to induce him to 
 confide to me the unfortunate secret which M. Lugarto so fatally abused. 
 When I observed how completely Gontran was overwhelmed. I was ready 
 to accuse myself of a crime for having treated M. Lugarto with so much 
 disdain in the first instance, and for not having concealed my aversion with 
 more address, instead of irritating him. Perhaps the man would have con- 
 inued harmless. I was happy, and yet almost terrified, at the suggestion. 
 So unlimited is the force of k.ve! I, so haughty, particularly since I had 
 become Gontran's— I almost regretted having braved with indignity to the 
 most contemptible to the most unprincipled of mankind. 
 
 I am astonished now, when I remember how long Gontran and myself 
 remained silent after this scene. But the words of M. Lugarto proved so 
 incontrovertibly the horrible dependence of Gontran on him, that he could 
 Hot but remain for some time stunned, as it were, by the blow. M. de Lan* 
 
lf>0 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 cry kept his faoc still buried in his hands. I approached him, trembling all 
 •rer. * 
 
 " My dear," said I, 
 
 " What do you .want more ?" cried lie, in a tone of anger. He held up 
 his face, which seemed to me as dark as night, and gave me a look which 
 made me turn pale. " You see now the point to which your severity vour 
 absurd prudery, have brought us. A positive explanation ! You mus*t be 
 satisfied now. My position in relation to Lugarto is, I hope, clear and per- 
 fectly well denned." ^ 
 
 " What do you mean, Gontran ? Was I to listen without indignation 
 to the horrible declaration of this knave ? But my honour ! your 
 honour !" 
 
 " Oh, honour ! Who proposes to you to compromise your honour or 
 mine ? There is a gulf between guilt and innocent coquetry. It you had 
 tiossesed a shade of penetration, you would have seen in the very first words 
 Ï addressed to you on the subject of Lugarto, that he was a man to be con- 
 ciliated. But, no ! in spite of my most urgent warnings, you have made it 
 a point to irritate him more than twenty times. Satiated with pleasure, 
 malicious as he is, he takes a frightful pleasure in opposition, in resistance, 
 A few amiable common-places on your part would have rid you of him. He 
 is now playing the game merely out of temper. Now— now," added M. de 
 Lancry, enraged, " he has been driven to extremity. In spite of myself, I 
 have allowed myself to make use ot abusive language. Now I have been 
 obliged to know that he is making love to you, and I am compelled to be 
 coward enough not to box his ears, and to accompany him and yourself 
 every day in public. This is what you have done, madam." ■ 
 
 "If I !" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! yes ! a thousand times, yes ! Since you were sure of yourself, 
 as sure as I was, you ought to have received his attentions, at least, so far 
 as not violently to reject them. You should have told him graciously and 
 kindly that his attentions endangered your reputation, and that if he wished 
 to make himself agreeable to you, he must begin by obeying you in this par- 
 ticular. He would have listened to you ; for, so long as you did not deprive 
 him of all hope, you would not have exasperated him. Did it belong to me 
 to instruct you what you were to play, under such circumstances ? — Ought 
 
 Jrou not to have shred with m e this task, at once humiliating and ridicu- 
 ous ? — Had you loved me for myself, I should not have had occasion to tell 
 you all this. It is not enough for a woman to be virtuous, and to make a 
 parade of her virtue ;" added he, smiling bitterly ; " she ought never to 
 place her husband in a position from which he cannot retreat without 
 either dishonor or a crime. — Do you understand that, madam ?" 
 " Good God ! Gontran !" 
 
 " You were speaking of pecuniary obligation ; — I would give my life if I 
 was under none other to him — for, understand me, unfortunate woman ! he 
 holds within his hands more than my life — do you hear ? — more than my 
 life. Now do you undersiand ?" 
 
 " I understand ; Good God : I understand. Forgive me, Gontran — be 
 kind. I was just thinking to myself that I had done wrong. You know 
 that before my illness I made a vow to love you for yourself alone. This 
 vow, I will keêp it for ever, my dearest. Our position is horrible. This 
 secret, — I do not ask you what it is ; — but, in short, what are we to do ?" 
 
 " Go, in the first place, to this dinner; and, in the second place, to the 
 ball." 
 
 " Be it so. We will go— we will go. Ah : you will see how much courage 
 I shal) show. I will talk with this man without showing the least aversion. 
 If I must, I will even smile upon him. The world may think of my conduct, 
 what it pleases ; it matters little to me, provided that I have nothing to 
 blush for in the eyes of God, or in yours. Gontran, I have much more re- 
 solution than you imagine. Come, now, lefrus look our position boldly in 
 the face. This man has it in his power to ruin you. I abhor him as much 
 as I love you, Gontran. I am capable of concealing, I assure you, with the 
 greatest ease, the horror with»which he inspires me. But, in short, if ho 
 insists — if he should say to me, tome, — for there i; nothing which this man 
 dare not attempt — ' this secret which might ruin your husband, I will pub- 
 lish it, unless you love me.' " 
 
 Gontran blushed with indignation, and exclaimed, " I would kill him, and 
 myself afterward," 
 
 " The man, then, was right, my friend. A crime or a suicide. Never 
 mind. This is well. In any event, you shall not dio alone. These are the 
 most frightful of the alternatives which may happen to us. Now listen to 
 me. This morning, Monsieur de Rochegune came to bid me farewell. He 
 received, while Itère, a letter from Monsieur de Mortagne. Do not put oa 
 
AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 161 
 
 that look of anger, Gontran. Our position is sad enough, and Monsieur do 
 
 Mortagne, perhaps, our only friend. He knows, 1 am ignorant how, that 
 Monsieur Lugarto has fatal designs upon you and me. He has left Paris, 
 he writes to disconcert them. He has recommended me, above all things, 
 never to leave you, if you travel. All this is, doubtless, extremely vague ; 
 still, it is consoling to think we have friends who watch over our safety." 
 
 " Monsieur de Mortagne must do a great deal, before he will make' mc 
 forget his cowardly insults," exclaimed Gontran. 
 
 " Whatever it may be necessary to do for that purpose, he will do with 
 all his heart, be assured." 
 
 " But, in point ot fact, he was right. He forewarned you that I should 
 make you very unhappy ;" said Gontran, with increasing irritation. " You 
 cannot but acknowledge the justice of his anticipations." 
 
 " Wy friend," said I, trying to smile, " doubtless I entertain a warm friend- 
 ship for Monsieur de Mortagne ; but in this particular I must decide 
 agîiinst him. It is not you ; it is this relentless man who is the cause of my 
 unhappiness. As long as you were free, did you not heap upon me every 
 imaginable felicity ? Before my marriage, was I not indebted to you for 
 some happy days beaming with love and with hope ?" 
 
 " And these hopes have been sadly deceived, have they not ?" 
 
 " Gontran : you know, well enough, that it is not so. Did I not taste of 
 happiness almost ideal, in our retirement at Chantilly ? Who was it who 
 came and tore us away from this Eden ? This odious man : Was not his 
 arrival the signal of our misfortunes ? Do 1 not know that, in paying those 
 attentions to that woman, of whom I was so jealous, you only obeyed the 
 commands of this man ? Was it not necessary to his infernal projects 
 that you should appear to be unfaithful to me ? I repeat it, Gontran, I do 
 not accuse you." 
 
 " You are, nevertheless, still, and in spite of all, a noble and excellent 
 creature :" said Gontran, regarding me with an air of tenderness. Ah : 
 cursed be the day when I listened to the advice of my uncle and your aunt : 
 What a life I have introduced you to, unhappy child : alas : it is frightfuL 
 Sometimes I abhor myself." 
 
 Gontran rushed out of the room as he said these words. 
 
 Misfortune sometimes endows us with great decision ot character. 
 
 I determined to obey the directions of Gontran, and to be affable to M. 
 Lugarto. 
 
 Now, that I am no longer fascinated by my passion for M. de Lancry, nor 
 impressed with the terror with which his friend inspired me. 1 am unable to 
 conceive how I could resign myself to the disgraceful, to the humiliating 
 concession — after *he odious scene which I had gone through in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 But at that time I did not hesitate : it was necessary, above all things, to 
 gain time. 
 
 M. de Mortagne was busy on his pai-t ; perhaps he was in hopes of finding 
 some means of rescuing Gontran from the influence of M. Lugarto, 
 
 We departed for the dinner and ball. The weather was beautiful, I 
 remember one circumstance, trifling, to be sure, but very strange. At the 
 corner of the avenue Marigny, our carriage was obliged to stop for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 A beggar, with a hideous and deformed countenance, approached, and 
 asked charity. 
 
 Gontran did not, I believe, hear him ; the beggar cast upon us a look of 
 anger, and said, with a threatening gesture, as our carriage was starting 
 again, " These rich people are very proud— they are so happy." 
 
 Simultaneously, Gontran and myself exchanged glances, as if to protest 
 against the accusation of happiness. 
 
 Alas ! the error of the beggar, however, was excusable. He saw a young 
 woman with a young man, in a brilliant equipage, provided with all that 
 sort of luxury which the poor mistake for happiness, and which hides often 
 so many sorrows, so many incurable wounds ! Could this beggar guess at 
 the sufferings with which we were overwhelmed ? And this sumptuous 
 ball, to which we were repairing, as if to a place of execution, with a re- 
 pressed and vague terror ! How many melancholy lessons are enveloped in 
 those contrasts of appearances with the reality ! 
 
 We arrived at M. Lugarto's house. 
 
 My despair and sadness had given way to a sort of feverish and fictitious 
 vivacity. 
 
 M. Lugarto received us with a smile on his lips. He triumphed in the 
 pride of his execrable villainy. His house, which I was before acquainted 
 with, was encumbered with every imaginable splendor, but heaped and 
 piled up without taste. In the midst of this chaos of admirable things 
 V 8 
 
163 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 certain marks of economy denoted the instinct of a sordid avarice. Thia 
 
 vast and sumptuous abode, in spite of its large proportions, was completely 
 deficient in elegance, in nobleness, and in grandeur. We found assembled 
 there the persons whom M. Lugarto had already announced to me. From 
 time to time, Hooked at Gontran to give myself courage. M. Lugarto seem- 
 ed surprised at the change in my manner to him. All that I could do was 
 to assume toward him an air of politeness, almost gracious, with which he 
 appeared to be more surprised than pleased. He examined me with atten- 
 tion, as if he almost doubted what he saw. He assumed toward me a man- 
 ner of excessive amiability. Gontran was placed next to the Princess de 
 Ksernika. Anxious and absent, he hardly replied to the coquettish advances 
 of this woman. M. Lugarto said to me in a low tone of voice, as we left the 
 table, " that he was the happiest of men, because I appeared to have given 
 up my unjust prejudices against him ; that he regretted bitterly his violence 
 in the morning ; but that I must excuse it, in consideration of a passion, 
 whose vehemence he was unable to control." Alas ! thought I, as I listened 
 to him, who could have foretold, that three months after my marriage- 
 after a union, which to ray eyes appeared so full of beauty and sanctity — I 
 should be reduced to listen to such language, without the power to express 
 my shame, my disgust, my indignation ! Oh, profanation ! oh, sacrilege ! 
 A passion which I had dreamt of as so noble, so sublime, so pure ! 
 
 After dinner, according to M. Lngarto's plan, we got into his carriage — 
 he and the princess, Gontran and myself, and went to Tivoli. My torture 
 continued. M. Lugarto oifered me his arm ; my husband did the same to 
 the princess. The ball was crowded. Almost all the courtiers, whose places 
 detained them at Paris, were present. I had been ill for some length of 
 time. For several weeks I had not been into company. It was for this 
 reason that certain shades of difference, in the manner with which I was 
 received, as well as M. de Lancry, became insensibly perceptible to me. The 
 men returned his salutations with an air of coldness or absence. Some of 
 the women, whom he addressed, hardly answered him at all. M. Lugarto 
 on the contrary, was received as usual. His countenance was radiant. I 
 thought I perceived that the men regarded him with looks of envy, and that 
 several women pointed me out with contempt. 
 
 The disclosures of M. de Rochegune then occurred to me, and my blood 
 ran cold as I thought of the disgraceful reports, of which Gontran and my- 
 self were at that very moment. probably the object ; the appearances against 
 us were so overwhelming. I was ready to faint with emotion ; and I said to 
 Monsieur Lugarto, in a tone ot entreaty, 
 
 " Our fate is in your hands, sir ! Have pity on us ! Let us leave this 
 garden." 
 
 " Here comes the Duchess de Berry. Gontran cannot do otherwise than 
 go and pay his respects — nor you," said M. Lugarto. 
 
 It was true'. — the princess royal attended that balL She was at that 
 moment entering the ball in which the dancing was going on. J felt a little 
 encouraged. When I was presented to the Duchess de Berry, after my 
 marriage, she had deigned to receive me with that touching grace and cor- 
 diality so peculiar to her 
 
 " Mademoiselle is a prize ; indeed, you are fortunate, beyond your de- 
 serts ;" said she to Gontran, with an expression, partly smiling and partly 
 serious. 
 
 I imagined that her highness, by receiving me in her usual manner, would 
 put down the malicious reports in circulation, and that, from the mer« 
 effect of habit on courtiers, everybody present would model their behaviour 
 toward us after that of her highness. I took the arm of Gontran, and we 
 approached her royal highness. My heart beat as if it would break. Seeing 
 us approach, the persons who surrounded Madame withdrew, enough to 
 make quite a large and empty place between us and the princess. 1 was 
 appalled when I observed the expression of Madame, ordiuarily so benevo- 
 lent, suddenly darken, and become haughty and severe. In spite of his 
 assurance, Monsieur de Lancry trembled slightly. Hardly had he made his 
 bow to Madame, when her royal highness, looking at my husband with a 
 mixture of cold contempt and offended pride, as if she was indignant at our 
 having dared to appear in her presence, turned her back upon us, without 
 uttering a word. 
 
 M. de Lancry turned pale with mortification, and with rage. He excited 
 my pity to such a degree, that it gave me strength to support my own sen- 
 sations. I said to him, in a tone of firmness — 
 
 " You must excuse Madame, my friend. She is always so kind, so generous, 
 that she must have been misled by the calumnies of the world. Come, come 
 ^say nothing of this te Moneieur Lugarto. Let us not afford this new 
 triumph to his malice." 
 
AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 16a 
 
 I almost dragged M. de Lancry along. A crowd of persons, curious to see 
 Madame, had followed her ; this enabled us to conceal our confusion in the 
 crowd, and to rejoin M. Lugarto and the Princess de Ksernilca. 
 
 " Madame seemed to receive you very well," said M. Lugarto, ironically 
 to M. de Lancry. 
 
 " Yes ! yes! perfectly well!" said Gontran, with a forced smile. 
 
 I took the arm of Gontran. His heart was beating so quick and so 
 violently, that I could feel Us pulsations. I saw that it was with difficulty 
 he restrained himself. 
 
 " Do not let me keep you any longer, my dear fellow, from Madame de 
 Kscrnika," said M. Lugarto. 
 
 I pressed close to the side of Gontran. He said to me, in a low tone, " Ono 
 moment longer — take his arm — I beseech you." 
 
 The accent of his voice struck me as very peculiar; he added, aloud, 
 " And I, my dear Lugarto, should be sorry to detain you any longer, from 
 Madame de Lancry. We understand each other perfectly. But were we 
 not to go to Tortoni's, this evening, and get some ice ?" 
 
 " Certainly !" replied M. Lugarto. " I was just thinking of it, my dear 
 fellow ; and I should not, on any account, have excluded you from that 
 part of our evening's performance," added he, with a sardonic smile. 
 
 " Nor I," said Gontran. 
 
 I was in despair. I thought this unhappy evening was ended. All Paris 
 was at Tortoni's. Our presence would furnish a new opportunity for 
 calumny. 
 
 On our way to our carriage, M. Lugarto said to me, in an under tone, " I 
 have not been duped by De Lancry. The Duchess de Berry received him 
 in the most mortifying manner. I discovered this by the beaming coun- 
 tenances of those who accompanied her highness ; for Gontran is as much 
 detested by the men, as you are by the women — thanks to the natural 
 advantages you both possess over them. You see the town and the court 
 and all the old people suppose that we are on the best possible terms. You 
 have nothing farther to fear, therefore, from your reputation .... 
 Allow yourself, then, to be beloved ; you will find that I can render myselt 
 very supportable. Already, this evening, you have been much more gracious 
 to me than usual. Come ! I love you to such excess, that, if you pleased 
 you might deprive me of all the power I possess over your husband." 
 
 I made no reply. We got into the carriage and drove to Tortoni's. Much 
 to my annoyance, Gontran led us to one of the saloons on the first floor. I 
 there recognized several persons who had been witnesses of the con- 
 temptuous reception of my husband by Madame. My confusion was at its 
 height, when I observed that several persons smiled maliciously as they 
 looked at us. 
 
 " At last," said Gontran, " the moment has come." 
 
 Not understanding his meaning, I looked at him. The expression of his 
 face frightened me. I recollect that horrible scene as distinctly as if I was 
 still present at it. Gontran was sitting at my side. Opposite him were M. 
 Lugarto and Madame de Ksernika. 
 
 Suddenly M. de Lancry stood up, and, with a voice loud and trembling: 
 with rage he said to M. Lugarto — 
 
 "M. Lugarto, you are a scoundrel!" 
 
 The latter, stupefied in spite of his audacity, did not know what reply to 
 make. Several gentlemen rose hastily. A perfect silence reigned in the 
 saloon. I was incapable of moving. It seemed to ine that I was in a 
 dream. 
 
 Gontran resumed : " M. Lugarto, you have dared to attack publicly the 
 reputation of Madame de Lancry, and to give out that I have played the 
 part of the complacent husband, because I am under certain obligations to 
 you. I tell you now, in the most public manner, that you are an infamous 
 impostor. Madame de Lancry has always treated you with the contempt 
 you deserved, and you have basely used the intimacy which has existed be- 
 tween us, to give in authority to your cowardly calumnies." 
 
 The first, the only idea which occurred to me was that this man would 
 ruin Gontran by revealing the fatal secret whi;h he possessed. 
 
 " My God ! my God !" cried I, bursting into tears. 
 
 Two or three ladies, whom I knew by having met them in society, came 
 around me. and supported me with touching kindness ; while several men 
 interposed between Gontran and M. Lugarto. 
 
 The latter, as soon as his first consternation was over, seemed to re- 
 double his impudence. I heard him reply to M. de Lancry, with an air of 
 constrained and offended dignity — 
 
 " I am at a loss to understand, sir, the motive of these reproaches. I de- 
 clare here, in the most public manner, that no, one entertains a higher res* 
 
MATILBA. 
 
 pect for Madame de Lancry than I do : I am totally ignorant of the calum- 
 nies you allude to. As to the obligations you may be nnder to me I am 
 not conscious of having disclosed them to any one. Your attack is ao 
 violent — the accusation you make so grave, and, above all so unexpected — 
 for we have just been passing the evening together — that I can only attri- 
 bute it to a passing fancy, which I lament, without being able to account 
 for it." 
 
 " Miserable scoundrel !" cried Gontran, transported beyond all bounds 
 by the affected moderation and the infernal perfidy of M. Lugarto's reply. 
 
 " All the company present," replied the latter, " will understand, I hope, 
 the position .in which this gentleman and myself stand in relation to each 
 other, and that there are insults which one must know how to bear." 
 
 " And that — will you bear that ?" exclaimed Gontran. 
 
 And I heard the noise of a box on the ear. 
 
 There was a moment of tumult, over which predominated the voice of 
 M. Lugarto, who was dragged away, and who exclaimed, with an accent of 
 rage which I shall never forget — 
 
 " Insult for insult, sir ; we are even. To-morrow all Paris shall know 
 how I revenge myself." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A VISIT. 
 
 I passed a dreadful night. 
 
 M. de Lancry had hardly got me home -when I had a violent nervous 
 attaek, which deprived me of all consciousness. I do not remember any- 
 thing that passed during the time it lasted. I recovered from it about four 
 o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 My poor Blondeau was sitting by me, weeping silently. I raised my 
 hands to my forehead as if to collect my thoughts. On calling to mind the 
 scene of the previous evening, I had no doubt that a duel had been the con- 
 sequence. Alas ! this was the slightest of my terrors. M. Lugarto had it 
 in his power to ruin Gontran. This man might perhaps have spoken. 
 
 " Where is M. de Lancry ?" said I. 
 . Blondeau looked at me with compassionate tenderness, and replied : 
 u The Viscount went out this morning, madam ; he afterward returned 
 and is gone out again." 
 
 ' And without being wounded ?" I exclaimed. — A 
 
 Blondeau appeared astonished. " Without being wounded, madam ! not 
 the least in the world— if he had been so, he would not have set out on a 
 journey !" 
 
 " On a journey ! what is that you say ?" 
 
 " The Viscount, when he came in this morning, gave orders to prepare 
 his travelling dressing case, one or two trunks, and he set out, taking his 
 .new valet with him, and left this letter for you, madam." 
 
 " Gone ! gone ! without me ! and the warnings 1 received from M. de 
 Mortagne !" exclaimed 1 ; " there is something fatal in this." 
 
 1 hastily opened Goatran's letter. In a few words he informed me, that 
 ■in cousequence of what had happened the night before, a meeting had taken 
 place between him and M. Lugarto, and that the latter had been slightly 
 wounded. My husband was obliged, as he told me, to absent himself for a 
 few days only, to conclude the important affair which I knew ; he mucli re- 
 gretted being obliged to leave me alone, but that I could fully comprehend 
 how serious and important were the measures he was then undertaking. 
 
 " By which of the Barrières did M. de Lancry leave Paris — what road did 
 he take?" enquired I of Blondeau: for desirous to conform to the express 
 recommendations of M. de Mortagne never to be separated from Gontran, 
 I wished immediately to rejoin him. 
 
 " I do not know, madam." 
 
 " We must send immediately to the Poste aux Chevaux, to know which 
 road M. de Lancry has taken ; with this information, and by inquiring at 
 the post-houses he has passed, I may be able to overtake him ; we will set 
 off instantly, you shall accompany me." 
 
 " Commence a journey in your present state ! that is downright impossi- 
 ble." 
 
 " I tell you it must be so — you do not know how exceedingly important it 
 Is." 
 
 How are we to know whither M. de Lancry has gone ; for he did not 
 
TU« NOTE. 
 
 103 
 
 f?o ejtherin his own carriage, or with post-horses. He sent for a hackney- 
 coach, and got into it with his valet." 
 
 " Good Heaven !" exclaimed I in despair. I could not at all comprehend 
 this abrupt departure of my husband, but I feared it had been occasioned 
 by some perfidious plot of Lugarto's. I sent Blondeau to enquire if the 
 latter was still at Paris : she was told that he was at his house, that his 
 wound was rather serious, and that he would not be able to get out for 
 some days." 
 
 I was a prey to the most dreadful anxiety. I trembled when I reflected 
 that M. de Mortagne appeared to have forseen the absence of Gontran, as 
 he had so expressly recommended me.-aot to leave Gontran. 
 
 It was in vain that Blondeau interrogated the servants who were present 
 at my husband's departure. I could not gather the slightest information 
 from them. 
 
 I passed the remainder of the day and the following night in the most in- 
 describable agony. I could not understand why M. Lugarto had not carried 
 into effect, his threat of ruining de Lancry ; he might, perhaps, have done 
 so. Perhaps, my husband, being compelled precipitately to leave Paris, to 
 escape the consequences of that exposure, had not wished to alarm me. 
 
 I did not know to whom I could address myself, to obtain information on 
 this subject. I determined, whatever it might cost my feelings, to go to 
 Mademoiselle de Maran. She, better than any one, could give me the in- 
 telligence I required, for she collected, with eagerness, the calumnies that 
 were circulated concerning us. 
 
 I was about to set out for my aunt's house, when she was announced. 
 Under any other circumstances, this visit would have been hateful to me, 
 but tlien I almost thanked Heaven for sending Mademoiselle de Maran to 
 me. However when I observed the sneering and satisfied air with which 
 she entered, I repented of my desire to see her. 
 
 " Well, well ! what is the matter then," said my aunt ; " family troubles 
 already, my little dear ? and in your pattern of a family too, so free and 
 easy ? Out of dooi*s they talk of tragedies— which, I am sure, is but farces 
 after all !" 
 
 " I know not what you mean, madam : I am at this moment dreadfully 
 anxious about Gontran. 1 have not seen him since that cruel, scene, which 
 will, at least, have silenced the calumnies of which Gontran and myself 
 were the subject." 
 
 " What are you saying there, my little dear ; you think it produced a 
 good effect, that scene at Tortoni's ; tell me, are you crazy." 
 
 " I believe, madam, that any worthy people, who may have heard Gon- 
 tran prove so clearly the infamy of Lugarto, will no longer allow them- 
 selves to echo those reports, still more ridiculous than they were loathsome. 
 In future, although no one may defend oui' cause, yet no one will dare to 
 attack us." 
 
 " Do not talk to me of proofs ; your husband did not prove anything ; 
 do you really think any person was the dupe of that farce, then ?" 
 " Farce, madam, farce !" 
 
 " Most certainly : could M. Lugarto have replied otherwise to the uncouth 
 attack made on him by Gontran ? Could he, before all the world, have 
 acknowledged that you had felt a preference for him ? So, my little dear, 
 you have had the simplicity to think yourself white as a swan, and your 
 good husband too, because M. Lugarto has admitted your innocence before 
 the lustres at Tortoni's. Why, mere good manners would have obliged him 
 to act thus. He must have been a peasant, a mere counti-y clown to have 
 done otherwise. He is no favorite of mine, for I think this Lugarto as silly 
 as a goose, in all that touches his assumed title, and his stars, or upon a 
 ■field argent ; but I must, with all the world, acknowledge that on this occa- 
 sion he behaved with great reserve, much moderiA'ion and unparalleled 
 diguity. Was it not for your bright eyes, that he allowed himself to ue 
 threatened, abused, and almost knocked down by your husband, without 
 eveu uttering a complaint ; but on the contrary, defending your reputa- 
 tion ? do n't tell me ! why Galaor and Oorandates were monsters of de- 
 bauchery and puppyism, in comparison with this poor Lugarto." 
 
 I. could not find a word, with which to answer Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 I had already too sad an experience of the ill nature of the world, to doubt 
 that the conduct of Gontran and M. de Lugarto, might be interpreted as 
 my aunt had said ; oppressed with vexation, my head drooped upon my 
 chest. 
 
 Proud of her triumph over me, my aunt rejoined, with cruel exultation in 
 her manner : 
 
 " What is still worse for Gontran is. that Lugarto conducted himself 
 bravely in the duel ; he was wounded i hpuor is satisfied, according to the 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 common phrase, and without considering that this handsome and super, 
 eminently rich man might in sweetness, had it so pleased him, have refused 
 to fight with Gontran, seeing that your husband is in the awkward plight 
 of owing to Lugarto an enormous sum — now, between ourselves, it is a sin- 
 gular way of paying debts, to make one pocket a good thrust with a sword, 
 but as Lugarto is satisfied witn that kind of payment, no one has anything 
 to say. It only proves the more, that he loves you furiously ; and even 
 since his wound, I am told, that when he speaks of you, he keeps on cooing 
 like a faithful shepherd, in the most touching and affecting manner in the 
 world." 
 
 " Then it appears, madam, that since that scene Gontran and myself, 
 have fallen still lower in the estimation of the world ;" observed I, with so 
 much calmness that it astonished Mademoiselle de Maran ; " and on the 
 contrary, Lugarto inspires the most touching interest V 
 
 " You have guessed rightly, my dear ; it is just so, neither more nor less ; 
 therefore, you see me so much moved, so dreadfully unhinged. I came to 
 warn you of it, and to tell you, rather too late, perhaps — but it is better to 
 repent late than never, that I am much affected at having consented to 
 
 Ïour marriage with Gontran. Who could ever have suspected this of him Ï 
 >o you know that your de Mortagne, with his crack-brained violence, did 
 not lack a certain sort of judgment ? But all that we could say or do, was 
 of no use ; it was impossible to drive this fine husband out of your little 
 head, my dear ; and then to think that after being married scarcely six 
 months, here you are, with a husband who is despised, ruined, and unfaith- 
 ful! Really, it is enough to break one's heart. I know you will say, the 
 conduct of your unfaitful spouse gives you the right of retaliating your in- 
 juries upon him ; and that this Lugarto, in spite of his yellow waxen face, 
 Iris fits of epilepscy, and his mania for titles, has some agreeable qualities ; 
 it's no matter ; when I am told of your liking for him, am disgusted — I 
 am indignant." 
 " Truly, madam !" 
 
 " Truly ! lout how well you take all I have said to you. It does not affect 
 you in the least." 
 
 *' No, madam ; as you see : I am calm, quite calm ; and above all much 
 flattered by the feelings which dictates the consolations you have offered 
 to me." 
 
 " And you have good reason to be Mattered by it : but I told you when 
 they talked of your liking for Lugarto, I was disgusted ; I said to these 
 slanderous people, you would be most amazed wera you to be informed the 
 how and wherefore, of the liking of that dear countess de Lancry for M. 
 Lugarto ; there is in that young person, a species of courageous abnegation 
 similar to that of the heroic women of antiquity ; a sort of mixture of the 
 virtues of Portia, and the mother ot the Gracchi : what I said there is per- 
 fectly true. Seeing you there so calm, so tranquil, would it be possible to 
 imagine that your husband renders you the most unhappy of womei. ? and 
 that, whether right or wrong, your reputation and his are lost foi ever. 
 But, tell me, now that I think of it do they accuse you unjustly ? how 
 dreadful it must be to you !" 
 
 " Hear me, madam," said I to Mademoiselle de Maran, with a ealmness 
 that perfectly confounded her, " you have come either to enjoy a triumph ; 
 to ascertain whether your prophesies are fulfilled — whether the young wife 
 is an unhappy as the young girl, the child was. Is it not so, madam ?" 
 
 " Go on. I will answer you presently ; it is amazing, how clear-sighted 
 you are !" 
 
 " Well, madam, I am about to wound you most severely ; with one blow, 
 I will avenge myself, of all the harm that you have done, of all the injury 
 you wish to do me." 
 
 " This is astonishing ; you do not alarm me in the least, my little dear." 
 
 " Pray look me stedfastly in the face, madam ; remark my tone of voice, 
 observe particularly the expression of my features ; you, who are so pene- 
 trating, will discover whether I speak the truth or not." 
 
 " To the facts — to the facts," said Mademoiselle de Maran, sharply. 
 
 " Well, madam, 1 love Gontran now, as dearly as I ever loved him — do you 
 hear me — I love him passionately — I love him more than ever, for he is un- 
 happy. This love is my strength, it is my courage, it is my consolation. 
 Thanks to this love, I have overcome — wounded, perhaps, but smiling — the 
 most cruel trials ; and further thanks to this love, I defy the future, with a 
 calm and serene brow." 
 
 There was such an expression of truth in my words — my countenance, 
 reanimated by the force of my convictions, was so radiant, that Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, not being able to conceal her rage, exclaimed : 
 
 «'Tis possible, that which she has said is true ! there are women imbecibl* 
 
THE IKTÏUVIEW 
 
 67 
 
 enough to be thus faseinated by a man ! the steroid fools ! If they were even 
 knocked down with a club, they would still exclaim, with all the languishing 
 voluptuousness of religious votaries, in ecstacies — oh! neavenly sweetness 
 —oh ! ineffable transport !" 
 
 But returning involuntarily to her former habits, Mademoiselle de Maran 
 grasped my arm violently, crying, " You must be either blind, stupid, or 
 mad." 
 
 The anger of my aunt produced a good effect upon me. My love for Gon- 
 trau was clearly understood : it could, it ought to console me under every 
 suffering, since Mademoiselle de Maran was so enraged at seeing that I still 
 felt its influence. 
 
 " You ought to be sent to a madhouse," rejoined my aunt. 
 
 " I love him, madam ; I cannot say more." 
 
 " She will drive me mad !" ejaculated my aunt, " with her chorus to suit 
 all tunes— I love him ! ! ! I love him ! ! ! 1 love him ! ! ! What a beautiful 
 answer! You love him ; but he has deceived you — he owes enormous sums 
 to M. de Lugarto — the very moment he insists on being repaid, you will be 
 reduced to beggary." 
 
 " I will partake that poverty with Gontran, and am — " 
 
 " But he is dishonored in the eyes of all the world." 
 
 " He is not so in mine." 
 
 " But he despises you ; he has allowed your reputation to be compromised 
 by this Lugarto." 
 
 " Gontran is certain of my love." 
 
 " He is so certain, that he does not love you." 
 
 " But I love him, madam." 
 
 I do not know with what peculiar accent I pronounced theso 
 words, but Mademoiselle de Maran stamped her feet, and shrieked out with 
 rage, " The devil himself must have inspired her! This love has turned to 
 madness. She is now incurable." 
 
 " Yes ! oh, yes ! you have said it, madam. It is a madness, but, at all 
 events, a holy and noble madness ! it concentrates all my powers of mind, 
 all the devotion of my soul, on Gontran. Except in him, nothing exists for 
 me. Whatever his life may be — however bitter, painful or humiliating — to 
 share it with him, is my only wish. You are right, I am mad. What is mad- 
 ness, but exaggeration of one sentiment beyond all others. Well, I admit 
 that I am mad ! And like the mad, I have those cherished, odored, infatu- 
 ating recollections, which momentarily return to shine upon the spirit, and 
 transport it to an ideal world. These recollections are of those days of in- 
 effable happiness, which I passed with him, when I was so proud of being 
 young and beautiful, because he loved my youthfulness and beauty. 
 
 " But now he is tired and satiated with your beauty. As to your youth, — 
 a fine advantage that is ! you only have a longer time to suffer." 
 
 " You cannot understand these questions of youth and beauty, madam ; 
 or rather you understand them but too well. It is this that so enrages you. 
 But Heaven is just ; it has willed that you Should know the bitter pangs of 
 envy ; it has reserved for you a dreadful torment, that of seeing me, in spite 
 of all, and always, made happy by the man, who, as you thought, would 
 cause my greatest sufferings. Look madam : were he now to say, ' begone ! 
 I hate you ? he could not tear from out my heart, that treasure of adored 
 remembrances on which I could exist an age. However pitiless, however 
 contemptuous Gontran might become, he could not now obliterate the past 
 —that past, brilliant and dazzling as a fairy dream— that past, in which 
 I could take refuge, were the present to become gloomy and obscure !" 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! is she not astonishing and triumphant with her 
 dear little past ? Don't tell me ! Was it not for your money that he mar- 
 ried you ? Had you been as ugly and as wicked as the seven deadly sins, he 
 would have married you all the same." 
 
 " And therefore, madam, think how happy I must have been— being at 
 once rich, handsome, and devotedly attached." 
 
 " But this is really intolerable. Such a passion is the very obstinacy of 
 frenzy !" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, quite beside herself ; " but at last 
 he will die some day ; he cannot avoid dying, this dear and beautiful 
 adored. How will you then console yourself ? ha ! ha ! I have you there. 
 Answer me that." 
 
 " In this world I will pray for him, in the other I will join him. My life 
 will therefore be spent in prayer and hope." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran rose abruptly and said, " Well ! this must be a 
 wager, a settled matter, a defiance by which I am not duped. You bear up 
 against bad fortuue— you are so proud. You would burst with despair and 
 rage, sooner than shed a tear before me. It is very well, my dear • as you 
 please. You are happy— very happy— superlatively happy, are you not I 
 
168 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Mucn good may it do you. I feel disposed to be compassionate, to 
 your sorrows ; but I find you of so robust a temperament, in all that con- 
 cerns the affections of the heart, that I will not trouble myself farther. It 
 was my duty charitably to inform you of all that was said regarding you, 
 and your most beauteous Alcander. You find all that simple and natural ; 
 nothing could be better. But now, at all events, you must not expect that 
 I shall take up your defence, or pity you in any way. We shall see to what 
 this grand obstinacy will lead." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran left me, boiling with rage. I was delighted with 
 my own firmness, and the sort of revelation of her plans which I owed to 
 this visit. Perhaps, but for the violence of her attack I should not have my 
 own heart so clearly. I should never have dared to ask myself the ques- 
 tions which 1 did. 
 
 There are suppositions so painful and so horrible in themselves, that the 
 mind, as it were by instinct, avoids all question of them ; but when once 
 admitted, once res'olved, it feels happy they were entertained. 
 
 The visit of Mademoiselle de Maran had an effect quite contrary to that 
 she had intended. This discussion conveyed to me still more of the pro- 
 foundness of my devotion for Gontran. Previously to this, I might have 
 doubted myself : I doubted now no longer. I had, without blenching, 
 considered the most dreadful chances which affection might have to en- 
 counter. 
 
 Alas ! this powerful conviction was but too much needed, to resist the 
 fresh attacks with which I was menaced. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE JOU&NEY, 
 
 A new grief now afflicted me, 
 
 My poor Blondeau fell ill. My physician appeared surprised at this 
 sudden indisposition. Without being serious, it kept the excellent woman 
 in a state of unaccountable torpor and somnolency, 
 
 My uneasiness, as to Gontran, increased more and more. I did not know 
 in whom I could confide. I sent to Mada me de Rieheville '. she was still 
 in Anjou ; her servants did not know when she would return. 
 
 M. de Mortagne had not been seen in Paris, since the day on which he 
 addressed to M. de Rochegune at my house. 
 
 With what bitterness did I regret Ursula, my only friend ! If I did not 
 apply to her for advice, I could at least have told her all the sorrows that 
 were agitating me. 
 
 She often wrote to me letters full of melancholy and sorrow. She was 
 not happy ; not that her husband was wanting in attention, in kindness, to 
 her, but he could not understand her, She complained of the monotonous life 
 she led, and looked back with regret to our childhood. 
 
 Since my entrance into the world, I had not formed a friendship with » 
 woman ; for while I acknowledged the generous qualities of Madam de Rich- 
 ville. in spite of myself I could not help experiencing a vas;ue feeling of 
 jealousy — she also had loved Gontran ! 
 
 I thus found myself completely isolated. I was surrounded by people who 
 had recently entered my service ; yearly all my household had been changed ; 
 the woman who had been longest with me, had come only six weeks before. 
 The illness of Blondeau, deprived me of the only trusty person I had about 
 me. 
 
 I bad been three days ignorant of the fate of Gontran. About five o'clock 
 "Fritz, the valet he had taken with him, arrived in one of those cabriolets 
 kept at the post-houses, and brought me a letter from my husband. I was 
 astounded by the information which it gave me. Gontran was ill ; he was 
 expecting me in a house close to Chantilly, where the bearer of the letter 
 would conduct me, 
 
 M. de Lancry desired, that on my receiving the letter, I should set off, 
 post, with Blondeau and Fritz. 
 
 " It is very important to me," added M. de Lancry, "that it should not be 
 known in Paris, that you have come to rejoin me. You will, therefore, .de- 
 sire the servants to tell everybody who may c ill, that you are gone to spend 
 a few days with Madame Secherin. You will please write to this effect, to 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, to my uncle de Versac, and also to the Princess 
 de Ksernika. / entreat you, Matilda, whatever repugnance you may feel in 
 writing to this last named person, do not fail to do so, for it is important 
 the world should be convinced that you are gone to visit Ursula, and not to 
 be near me. I will explain the whole of this mystery to you, which, happily 
 
THE JOT> it NE T. 
 
 169 
 
 will not last long. You may place entire confidence in Fritz, whom 1 send 
 to you; he will conduct you to me near Chantilly; there I expect you, my 
 dear, and good Matilda, Do not fear ! I trust that happy days are still in 
 store for us." 
 
 1 acknowledge to you, my happiness at the thought of again seeing Gon- 
 tran, overbalanced the uneasiness I had felt, with regard to my own health. 
 I gave the necessary orders for setting out immediately. Although I felt a 
 repugnance to questioning servants, I could not help asking Fritz, whether 
 M. de Lancry had fallen ill during his journey, or after his return. 
 
 " I cannot reply to the viscountess's question on this subject," replied 
 Fritz. "In going from Paris,' the viscount left me near Chantilly, in the 
 house where he is waiting for madam ; he left it above three days ago, and 
 returned to it this morning. The viscount appeared fatigued, and. ill ; he 
 ordered me to take a post-chaise, and come to fetch madam." 
 
 A mad hope entered my heart. I thought, for a moment, Gontran had 
 deceived me, in stating that our cottage was destroyed — that he was pre- 
 paring a surprise for me, and that in this retreat, we were to take refuge 
 from the evil slanders of the world I refrained, as I may say, from mar- 
 ling my hopes and cherished recollections, by asking one single question on 
 the subject. 
 
 • As Gontran had recommended to me, I wrote to Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 to M. de Versac, and to Madame de Ksernika, telling them I was going to 
 spend a few days in the country with Ursula ; I gave orders, at home, that 
 the same answer should be given to all persons calling to see me. 
 
 I was vexed that I could not take Blondeau with me ; but I would not 
 say a word to her as to my intention ; notwithstanding her indisposition, 
 she would have insisted on accompanying me. I went to her room to see 
 her ; she scarcely recognized me ; her features seemed much altered. She 
 did not appear to suffer pain ; she was merely overcome by a benumbing 
 torpor. 
 
 I left Paris about six o'clock. The waiting-maid who attended me, with 
 the valet of M. de Lancry, w as a morose-tempered girl, whose countenance 
 displeased me, without my knowing wherefore. 
 
 It was the end of June ; the sky was gloomy, the air heavy, the heat al- 
 most suffocating, and we were theatened with a storm. Notwithstanding 
 the length of the days at this season, at half-past seven o'clock, when we 
 changed horses at Ecouen, it was almost dark. The thunder began to 
 rumble at a distance — the lightning flashed on the horizon. The atmos- 
 phere became still more heavy. 
 
 At this relay, a slight dispute took place between my servant and the pos- 
 tillion, who had driven me to Ecouen. I mention this fact, so unimportant 
 in appearance, merely because it led to matters of more serious conse- 
 quence. 
 
 The postillions had, until then, been paid four francs per post, ™ believe, 
 for I requested them to make great speed ; I don't know why, but at this 
 post, Fritz would not pay more than three. The postillion came to the car- 
 riage-door, to complain of it. I ordered him to be paid what he asked ; 
 adding, that above all, I wished to be driven fast, being in great haste to 
 arrive at my journey's end. 
 
 The postmaster, who was present, during the discussion, recommended 
 the postillions to be very careful when they should get to the brow of the 
 hill near Luzarches, as the descent was dangerous ; the pavement of the 
 road, being almost entirely taken up, as it was about to be renewed. More- 
 over, he said, lanterns were placed about it, to point one the danger. 
 
 We set off from Ecouen. The darkness had increased ; large drops of 
 rain began to fall. I was apprehensive that the loudness of the thunder 
 might frighten the horses, and that some accident might prevent my reach- 
 ing Gontran. Otherwise, I contemplated, with a melancholy calmness, these 
 precursors of the storm. 
 
 Alas ! these grand phenomena of nature, awful and terrible as they may 
 be, are much less alarming than those whispered and cowardly malignities 
 which buz around as. There is so much of majesty in this commotion of 
 the elements, that the soul rises above all fear, and contemplates with reli- 
 gious admiration, the magnificence of the spectacle. 
 
 These thoughts gave me fresh strength. Moreover, was I not going to 
 meet de Lancry ? He was merely indisposed, he told me. I hoped that, by 
 my tender care and a little rest, he would soon be cured. 
 
 I had almost persuaded myself that Gontran was waiting for me, either 
 in eur former dwelling, or in some house he had since taken, where we 
 should remain retired for some length of time. 
 I considered this, so much desired event, as the recompense of my devc- 
 
170 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 tion to Gontran. I thanked heaven for it. I had bo much confidence in th« 
 strength of my attachment, that I no longer doubted Gontran would be 
 happy, when left under the sole influence of my love. 
 
 A short time before arriving at the descent near Luzarches, which had 
 been pointed out as dangerous, my carriage stopped on the summit of a hill, 
 which we had just ascended. It was necessary to lock the wheel. 1 heard, 
 first at some distance, the galloping of a horse, which soon came up with us. 
 I mechanieally looked out of the window. A horseman, coming at full 
 speed, called out, in a panting voice, to Fritz, " You are pursued ; they are 
 in such haste, that they pushed through Ecouen without changing horses. 
 I am not more than a quarter of an hour in advance of them ; they are 
 coming up the hill. I shall go yonder, and give notice that * 
 
 I could not catch the remainder of this sentence ; he then left us, at full 
 speed. Half dead with terror, my first idea was, that it must be M. Lugarto. 
 " Who is pursuing us ? who was that man ?" cried I. Fritz hesitated a 
 moment, and replied : " He is a man to whom M. de Lancry sent me with a 
 letter, at the same time I went to fetch madame. He has doubtless follow- 
 ed the orders he received from the viscount, in hastening to apprise madam 
 that we are pursued. 
 
 " But who can be pusuing us ? Good Heavens !" 
 
 " I cannot imagine," replied Fritz, stooping down on the ground to lis- 
 ten. 
 
 In fact, during one of those moments of profound silence which often 
 occur during a violent storm, we heard the noise of a carriage, still distant, 
 which, -notwithstanding the steepness of the ascent, was approaching 
 rapidly. 
 
 " There they are ! there they are !" cried Fritz in seeming alarm. 
 
 All was explained to me. Doubtless Gontran, fearing M. Lugarto might 
 discover his retreat, or be informed of my departure, had giveu orders to 
 some trusty person to watch his movements. This man had seen M. Lu- 
 garto, (who had watched him on the road,) and was going forward to 
 inform de Lancry that his retreat was discovered, and had informed us as he 
 passed. 
 
 " Heavens ! what shall I do ? what shall I do ?" 
 
 The noise of the carriage approached nearer and nearer, almost to the 
 top of the hill, and had only to descend it to come up with us." 
 
 "Be not alarmed, madame," suddenly said Fritz ; " I have thought of a 
 plan. Postillions, mind your horses, and go full speed, without locking the 
 wheels. You must stop immediately after you have passed the precise 
 spot, where they have put the lanterns which you see down yonder." 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered, when the carriage again moved on. with 
 frightful rapidity. It did not merely run, but bounded down this rapid do- 
 scent. It required great dexterity in the postillion to pass over even the 
 sound part of the road — a kind of passage cleared between great masses of 
 paving stones, which were only visible from three lanterns fixed on some 
 posts. 
 
 This danger past, we stopped. I looked though the glass at the hack of 
 the carriage. Fritz jumped from from his seat, ran to the lanterns, and 
 extinguished them. The postillions, having their backs turned to that part 
 of the road which they had passed, and which was hidden from them by the 
 carriage, could not see what Fritz had done. I understood his intentions. 
 
 The night was so dark, that the persons who pursued us, ignorant of the 
 danger that awaited them, as they had not changed horses at Eco&en, 
 would run blindly upon these heaps of stones, and perhaps, dash their car- 
 riage in pieces. We had descended the hill with sucli rapidity, that the 
 other carriage hardly appeared at the top, when Fritz called out,'" Push on 
 postillions ! ten francs for each of you, if you gallop up the h 11 ! Not with- 
 standing this great temptation, the horses being blown by the violent speed 
 they had already been put to, slowly clambered up the rough acclivity which 
 succeeded the descent. 
 
 With inexpressible anxiety I continued to look through the back window 
 of the carriage. Fritz remained standing on the steps of the rumble to as- 
 certain the result of nis stratagem. The night was still so dark that we 
 could not distinguish the carriage that was pursuing us ; all we could see 
 were two luminous points, its lamps, which came nearer and nearer, 
 and with frightful rapidity was now descending the almost precipitoir 
 hill. 
 
 A flash of lightning momentarily but clearly showed to me, a carriage 
 drawn by two white horses, bounding impetuously along, and then all was 
 dark again. A horrible idea suddenly crossed my mind. Should the unfor- 
 tunate beings who were now approaching almost certain destruction, not 
 
THE JOCKMiiï. 
 
 m 
 
 be in pursuit of us ! ITorrif ed by this idea, I almost involuntarily held out 
 my arms toward them, and cried " Stop !" 
 
 Another flash of lightniug showed me the carriage, dragged on with irre- 
 sistible velocity. It was hardly twenty paces from the heap of stones upon 
 which it must inevitably be dashed. What were my feelings when I thought 
 that I recognized the peculiar shape of a sort of Britzsclika, belonging to M. 
 de Mortagne ; in which he arrived from Italy, at my aunt's house, the day 
 my marriage contract was signed. Gontran had often spoken to me of the 
 singular, but convenient construction of this carriage- 
 Seeing the two luminous points, which indicated its position, suddenly 
 disappear, I uttered a piercing shriek. I covered my eyes> with my hand as 
 if I had occasioned the fatal catastrophe which I dreaded. At this moment 
 our horses, ha ving reached the top of the hill, we had been ascending, and 
 finding themselves on a level road, set off again with renewed impetuo- 
 sity. 
 
 It was m vain I called to the postillions ; the deafening rattle of the 
 w heels drowned my voice ; they did not hear me : I threw myself back in 
 the carriage in despair. 
 
 Little by little, fearing to admit the possibility of M. de Mortagne being 
 the victim of such a dreadful accident, I tried to persuade myself that I 
 had been mistaken. Moreover, perhaps that wa3 not the only carriage of 
 this peculiar form. M. de Mortagne might have sold it, and M. de Lugarto 
 might, perhaps, have purchased it. I thus calmed, or rather assuaged my 
 feelings of alarm. 
 
 I endeavoured to persuade myself that it was the latter who was pursuing 
 me, and that a .providential punishment had attained the man who had 
 done us so much hai*m ; and, besides, I was going to meet Gontran. This 
 hope alone sufficed to reassure me. M. de Lancry, forewarned by the mes- 
 senger who had passed us, would clear up all my doubts upon this sub- 
 ject. 
 
 After having continued our route on the high road for about half an hour. 
 I perceived that we had left the pavement, and had taken a cross road 
 The night was so dark that I could not discover whether we had entered 
 the forest. We went on for some distance, and then the carriage suddenly 
 stopped. The storm still continued. 
 
 I saw a gloomy house, all the shutters of which were closed. Fritz got 
 down from his seat, knocked, and the door was opened. 
 
 My heart beat almost to breaking on thinking 1 was about to see Gon- 
 tran. I quickly entered the house, while the servants were unpacking the 
 carriage. 
 
 An elderly woman, whom I had never seen before, begged me to walk into 
 a small parlor on the ground floor. 
 " Where is M. de Lancry ?" cried I. 
 " The viscount left this letter for madam." 
 " Good heaven ! is not M. de Lancry here ?" 
 
 " The viscount will not return till to morrow evening, which he has no 
 doubt explained to madam in this letter." 
 
 Being much agitated by the absence of Gontran, I took the letter which 
 the woman offerred me, and read these words : 
 
 " Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear Matilda ; I am obliged to leave 
 this on the moment to take advantage of a fortunate circumstance which 
 enables me to settle everything, and for the future to think of nothing but 
 your happiness. Courage ! my beloved and generous wife ; our misfor- 
 tunes are now terminated. Wait for me here. To-morrow evening, at the 
 latest, I shall return. Should the house please you we will remain here, 
 till we can establish ourselves at your chateau at Maran. Adieu ! consola- 
 tion and hope of my life. Pardon the sorrows I have caused you, and still 
 love me a little." 
 
 Although this prolonged absence much annoyed me, I felt reconciled to 
 it, when I reflected that I should see Gontran the following day ; and then 
 what happiness to find that he was realising my fervent wishes. He pro- 
 mised to live with me, alone, in this retreat. 
 
 v I had, for some time past, been so accustomed to mysterious occurrences 
 that I could not be astonished at this new and sudden absence. 
 
 •'Did not a man arrive this evening, on horseback, who brought to M. do 
 Lancry some very urgent news ?" said I, addressing myself to the woman 
 who gave me the note. 
 
 " Call Fritz, instantly," cried 1, in utter astonishment. 
 
 "M. de Lancry ordered Fritz to return to Chantilly with the carriage ; 
 for there is no coach-house here. He is already gone ; h© did not «rwt 
 some into the house." 
 
172 
 
 XATlïiD \. 
 
 " How ! Did not a man, on horseback, arrive to-night from Par's ?" 
 " No, madam." 
 
 What liad become of this messenger ! What had he to communicate to 
 M. de Lattery ? I began to feel uneasy at being ir. a lonely house, with 
 people whom I did not know about me. I, above all, regretted that Blon- 
 deau was not with me. Could it be M. Lugarto who was pursuing me? 
 Admitting this hypothesis, it somewhat calmed me. His carriage must 
 have been so much damaged, that he could not proceed on his journey. 
 But if I were mistaken — if, instead of him, it was M. de Mortag'ne — this 
 thought was frightful ; I would not dwell upon it. 
 
 The woman who received me, asked whether she should not bring me in 
 some supper. 1 had left Paris without dining ; fatigue had overcome me. 
 I determined upon eating something to keep up my strength. The woman 
 left me. 
 
 The room in which I sat, was elegantly furnished ; hung with red drapery, 
 and lit up with numerous wax candles, standing in giltcandelabras. 1 did 
 not dare to hope, that, for along time to come, I should live there in retire- 
 ment, with M. de Lancry. 
 
 A short time afterward, the woman brought in a small table, laid out with 
 much taste, telling me that M. de Lancry himself had ordered the supper 
 for me. I felt gratified by this attention of Contran, and sent away the 
 woman, that I might be alone, and freely meditate on the occurences of the 
 day. 
 
 After having a few spoonfuls of soup, eaten the breast of a fowl, and 
 drank two or three glasses of water, with a little Bordeaux wine in it, for I 
 was very thirsty — you will see, presently, why I enter into these puerile de- 
 tails — I pushed back the table, and drew my arm-chair toward the chimney, 
 although there was no fire on the hearth. 
 
 The storm still howled on sullenly. A violent storm had arisen ; its long 
 and melancholy moanings were distinctly heard. After some time I yield- 
 ed to the moral and physical fatigues I had endured ; My eyes became 
 heavy in spite of myself. Not wishing yet to yield to the influence of sleep, 
 I rose abruptly, made several turns around the room ; and, by accident, at 
 last approached a door, apparently leading to an adjacent room, Was it 
 the wind, or the effect ofmy imagination ? I thought I heard a profound 
 and fearful sigh behind this door. I felt alarmed. 
 
 A vague presentiment of some misfortune stole over me. I saw a bell on 
 one side of the chimney ; 1 ran to it, and pulled it violently — no one answer- 
 ed ; I rang again, and more violently than before — no one came ; a third 
 attempt proved, unsuccessful. 
 
 Terrified at the death like silence which reigned throughout the house, I 
 threw myself into a chair, covering my face with both hands. It then appear- 
 ed to me, that an insurmountable heaviness nailed me to my seat. I felt 
 my le^s become more feeble; an irresistible drowsiness came over me. 
 Fearing that I should fall asleep, and wishing to find a chambermaid, or 
 the person who had brought my supper, I conquered my terrors, took a 
 candle from the table, and advanced resolutely toward the door that opened 
 into the ante-room. 
 
 I took hold of the handle of the door, and felt it move beneath my touch 
 I heard a harsh and grating sound ; some one double-locked the door on 
 the outside. In my sudden alarm, I shook the door, but I could not open 
 it. 
 
 Almost stupefied by terror, and beginning, then to form vague ideas of the 
 most dreadful machinations, I rushed to the window and opened it ; the 
 shutters were also barred on the outside. 
 
 Bewildered, I then darted to the door, behind which I thought I heard a 
 sigh. At that door appeared the Count Lugarto. 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 REVELATIONS. . 
 
 M. Lugarto was very pale — there was an expression of demonical malig- 
 nity in his countenance, such as I had never before observed. 
 
 " All who inhabit this house are devoted to my service. Every outlet is 
 closed — no power on earth can remove you from this place before to- 
 morrow !" such were the first words addressed to me by this man. t 
 
 Seized with a sudden horror I looked wildly at him. without uttering a 
 
EEVEtATTON». 
 
 ira 
 
 word. .SmMenly rushing to one of the window s, I exclaimed, a Do not come 
 near me !" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, seated himself in an arm-chair, and said, 
 " Let us converse quietly. I have many tilings to communicate." He took 
 out a pocket-hook, which lie laid upon the table. " Sit down," said he to 
 me, " for it will occupy some time, and you must be fatigued.' 
 
 " May heaven have mercy on me !" cried I, kneeling upon a chair, and 1 
 addressed a fervent prayer for its protection. 
 
 M. Lugarto turned over the papers in his pocket-book, took out some of 
 them, and said, showing them to me, " These will much astonish you— but 
 let us proceed in due order." 
 
 Strengthened by the pious invocation I had just addressed to Heaven, I 
 rose up and remained standing. I looked with firmness at M. Lugarto, ;<nd 
 replied, " There is a god in Heaven, and I have several friends upon this 
 earth." 
 
 " Doubtless you have, and first of all myself ; but, if you reckon also on 
 M. de Mortagne, you will be deceived ; his carriage was dashed to pieces 
 near Luzarches. He himself remained upon the spot, half-dead. 
 
 " It was true, then ! the carriage that pursued us " 
 
 " Was his ! Fritz is an admirable fellow. I knew well what I was about 
 when I ordered your husband to take him in his service. 
 
 Overwhelmed by this intelligence, I remained speechless for a moment ; 
 but I soon took courage, for I reflected that M. Lugarto could not be in- 
 formed of the fate of M. de Mortagne. 
 
 " You speak falsely, sir !" cried I, " for, admitting that this fatal event has 
 occurred, you could not have had any details of the state in which M. de 
 lAortagne remained. Fritz never left me " 
 
 " Nor was it Fritz who told me. One of the two men whom I had order- 
 ed to follow your carriage, at some distance, after your leaving Paris, 
 brought this good news to me. Without being a soldier, like our dear de 
 Lancry, 1 know the value of a rear-guard. See how well it has served me ! 
 Perceiving that M. de Mortagne was endeavoring to overtake you, one of 
 these men rode forward with great speed, to warn Fritz of it, and then came 
 on to me ; the other follower remained at some little distance from M. de 
 Mortagne's carriage, to observe it. After witnessing the upset of your 
 would-be-deliverer, he saw him dragged half-dead, out of his britzschka, 
 and my faithful servant arrived here about a quarter of an hour after you, 
 leaving his horse at a little distance, that your suspicions might not be 
 awakened. In a word, a certain proof of your having no more reason to 
 hope for the presence of M. de Mortagne, than I have to dread it, is that 
 you see me here quite tranquil, and as they all say, with perfect elbow- 
 room." 
 
 All that M. Lugarto had said was so probable, that I could no longer 
 entertain a hope. I groaned, when thinking of the fatility, that deprived 
 me of the assistance which Providence seemed to have intended for me. 
 
 " Oh ! he is an artful titler, this M. de Mortagne," continued M. Lugarto, 
 "he and that de Rochegune — whom may Hell confound ! — have been track- 
 ing all my steps for the last two months. Hidden in the shade they have 
 overthrown two or three enterprises fn which you were concerned, my most 
 lovely enemy ! They have bribed some of my people, whom I thought incor- 
 ruptible. Fortunately Fritz, some time ago, almost knocked out the brains 
 of this de Rochegune, when he used to dance attendance at your garden- 
 gate, to receive information as to your precious health, during your last ill- 
 ness." 
 
 " It then was he ! Oh, Heaven ! M. de Rochegune— it was he ! What an 
 assasination !" 
 
 " Nonsense ! what do you take me for ? it was merely a scnffle— a knock 
 on the head with a stick — nothing more. De Rochegune took good care not 
 to talk about it ; this philanthropic and virtuous young man, knew, and 1 
 knew it also, that had he lodged any complaints regarding it, he would have 
 been compelled to state his reasons for standing sentinel every night at your 
 garden-gate — it might have compromised you — he could not but be silent. It 
 was on this I had reckoned." 
 
 " As cowardly, as treacherous andcruel!" I exclaimed, clasping my hands 
 with horror. 
 
 " Cpwardly ! no — but nervous — I admit. What would you have ? I have 
 the weakness essentially to cling to life ; that is natural, for I love you, and 
 for you I cherish my existence. Speaking of that, you must consider me 
 either a very raw, or a very cold adorer. 1 have in my power a most lovely 
 woman— undeniably, the most adorable woman in all Paris— and I am 
 Q 3 
 
174 
 
 IS, t TIL DA. 
 
 quietly relating to her my snarp tricks, instead of speaking of my ardent 
 
 Eassion ; but do not be impatient ; I will explain this conduct, which, per- 
 aps, to you may seem but too respectful. You see that clock over the fire- 
 place, do you not ? By it 'tis just half past eleven. Well! before midnight 
 you will be en wrapped in a profound and irresistible slumber ; at midnight 
 then, vou will be in my power. While supping, a short time ago, you swal- 
 lowed an infallible narcotic. Already, even, you must have experienced 
 some symptoms of drowsiness ; and now, while waiting for that happy 
 moment, let us talk. 
 
 I uttered a piercing shriek. I recalled to mind the passing stupor which 
 had assailed me, and which I then attributed to fatigue. 
 
 " Take pity on me !" exclaimed I, falling on my knees. " This is horrible 
 — infamous ! — what have I ever done to you to merit this ! Mercy ! mercy !" 
 
 M. Lugarto burst into a loud laugh, and said, " But madam, what is the 
 matter ? what do you ask from me ? of what do you complain ? Upon my 
 word, it is incredible. Here I am' quietly seated in my arm-chair, a long 
 way off from you, contemplating you with most profound respect ; and to 
 see you there' beseeching, and so dreadfully alarmed, any one would imagine 
 I was beha ving like a Tarquin. Come, come, lovely Lucretia, this is not right 
 of you. Do you know that were I a coxcomb, I might think you were re- 
 proaching me with my reserve, in order to provoke my audacity ?" 
 
 1 questioned, as it were, my every feeling with intense anxiety. I put my 
 hand to my forehead — it was burning — my head felt heavy, and my eye-lids 
 weighed down. At each of these fatal discoveries, I shook with terror. I 
 was on my knees, and wished to rise, but felt my limbs bend under me. 
 
 " But this is not sleep !" I cried ; " it is an agony — a living agony — but it 
 is horrible : Oh ! my God ! my God ! is this an illusion — a dream ? But, 
 no — no — I again feel my strength failing me. A cloud spreads itself be- 
 fore my eyes. God of heaven ! God of justice ! wilt thou not come to help 
 ine !" 
 
 Alas ! whether it was that my imagination, impressed bv the horrid re- 
 velation of M. Lugarto, hastened the effect of the narcotic I had swallowed, 
 or that it was acting naturally, I felt a species of langour and overwhelming 
 heaviness. In spite of myself, I sank into an arm-chair standing near the 
 table upon which my fatal supper had been served. I was seized with s 
 convulsive trembling. I could hardly speak. In my alarm, I made the most 
 supplicating gestures to this monster, which were unheeded. 
 
 I was perfectly sure as to the effect of my poison," resumed Monsieur do 
 Lugarto. " I have already tried it several times. Good — you are now quietly 
 seated — presently you will be altogether incapable of making any move- 
 ment — but you jvill for some time to come, understand all that is said to 
 you. Listen, therefore, to me — it will amuse you." 
 
 1 dirl, in fact, hear ; but, even then, rather imperfectly. It appeared to 
 me, that I was the sport of some terrific dream ; my eyes were fixed. This 
 man appeared to me, then, to be endowed with supernatural power. Dur- 
 ing a moment, he remained silent ; he was looking for some papers. 
 
 The wind roared in the chimney, with redoubled violence. I felt a grow- 
 ing torpor pervading all my faculties ; twice I attempted to rise, to call for 
 help : my strength and my voice failed me. 
 
 " I tell you it is useless," said M. Lugarto, shrugging his shoulders ; " but 
 listen to me ; you are about to know your well-beloved Gontran, and to be 
 informed of the cause of my aversion to him. About two years ago, I dis- 
 covered, at Paris, in a most owly situation, a pearl of grace — a treasure of 
 rich beauty— a noble heart— an enchanting understanding , in a word, a 
 young and adorable girl ; she knew not I was rich. This young girl loved 
 me, but she would in no way transgress the bounds of duty. Stimulated by 
 this resistance, I became so desperately enamored of her— I found her so 
 lovely, so excellent, and so ingenious, that I should have been fool enough 
 to marry her ; for her virtue was of that description which attracts rather 
 than repels. The devil brought me into contact with Gontran de Lancry. 
 1 became intimate with him. I confessed to him my love— my projects. I 
 presented him to this young girl as my most faithful friend. A month after 
 this introduction, he had supplanted me in her affections. He had revealed 
 my name, falsified my intentions, and seduced this child, until then so pure. 
 The unhappy girl committed suicide, on finding Lerself, some short time 
 afterward, abandoned by De Lancry. It was thus your husband acted to- 
 ward me. He blighted— pollutod— killed— the only being, whom I had ever 
 truly loved ! With one blow, did he for ever ulcerate my heart, and my self- 
 love, in thus disdainfully divesting me of a conquest, which I would have 
 purchased at the price of my own hand. This, I can never pardon ; for 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 you could never have fancied the sufferings which this man has caused 
 me." 
 
 M. Lugarto appeared to have thrown off, for a moment, his habitual cold 
 and ironical manner ; for he uttered these last words with deep and bitter 
 emotion. 
 
 " You once, at least, then, have felt a pure and generous sentiment !" ex- 
 claimed I ; " by virtue of that sentiment : that sacred though cruel recol- 
 lection, I implore you to take pity upon me. I feel my strength is failing 
 me." 
 
 M. Lugarto replied to me by a frightful laugh ; and then said, " How 
 very childish you are. All this is very natural. If I make you take a 
 sporific, 'tis that it may take effect. Your lethargy will continue to in- 
 crease till you are fast asleep. But, to return to De Lancry ; although I 
 may have forgotten the young girl, the bitter remembrance that I was sa- 
 crificed to Gontran, still rankles in my heart, and fills it with revenge. If I 
 had had the courage at once to fight de Lancry, I think I should have killed 
 him, so deadly was my hatred ; but, as I have told you, I am nervous. I 
 thought 1 had better bide my time. Revenge can be eaten cold, as the vulgar 
 saying has it ; moreover, I know not what mysterious voice whispered in 
 my ear, that sooner or later, Gontran could not escape me. 1 was in London 
 last year, and he happened to come there, bringing with him the last re- 
 mains of his shattered fortune. He wished to throw a factitious splendor 
 around him, as a bait to catch and marry some rich heiresses. 1 went 
 frankly to him ; began by laughing heartily at the good trick he haa play- 
 ed me, by taking from me that young girl ; he laughed also ; was delighted 
 to find I looked so calmly on the matter, and we again became sworn and 
 intimate friends. His marriage schemes did not appear to thrive ; for 1 
 had spread abroad a rumor of his ruin, and of his interested views, adding, 
 that he laughed, by anticipation, at the heiresses whom he expected to 
 catch in his matrimonial net. The aristoratic pride of the young misses of 
 the three kingdoms, revolted against the secret pretensions of this insolent 
 Prenchman, which I had thus unveiled. 
 
 " In fine, noth withstanding his great name, his wit, his handsome person, 
 all advantages which I abhorred, this dear de Lancry could not succeed in 
 marrying, even an obscure city heiress. But I see, your drowsiness keeps 
 on increasing," added M. Lugarto ; "but it does not overpower your under- 
 tanding. Up to the present time, 't is merely physical heaviness. I shall 
 continue, for I perceive you still understand me. De Lancry, at length, ex- 
 hausted his resources in fortune hunting ; his uncle, the Duc de Yersae, 
 having refused to adv ance him even a penny, he was about to be reduced 
 to sore expedients, when the devil himself inspired him to apply to me ; he 
 borrowed money of me ; from the first day he did so, he was mine for ever. 
 I lent him a thousand pounds so readily, he knew my fortune to be so im- 
 mense, that he accepted it without scruple, and returned to the charge. 1 
 anticipated, even his desires, and lent him a still larger sum. His head 
 was turned with his success ; he thought me an inexhaustible mine. 
 
 " I charitably advised him, and altogether for his interest, once mere to ' 
 make a great display of opulence. People had thought him ruined, out and 
 out; they would see him reappear in greater splendour; he might an- 
 nounce some new inheritance, and could not then fail to catch some 
 wealthy heiress. As to expense, I was there to back him ; and I had an 
 income of three or four millions of francs. Once richly married, he could 
 repay me my advances. It was a sort of speculation, for which I advanced 
 him funds ; and I should not require him to return the money until the 
 profits were realised. 1 appear very stupid in all this, do I m?t ? for it 
 might happen, after all, De Lancry might not marry suitably, and I was in 
 for all I had lent him ; for which by the by, he afterward gave me vouchers' 
 which are here. But it was necessary to the success of certain projects' 
 which I had combined, and rather adroitly too, that I should inspire him 
 with the blindest confidence in my friendship and generosity. You will 
 see my money was well invested. Every time that I had lent him any 
 considerable sum, I had given him a simple order, signed by myself, upon 
 my banker. Pray, mark this well. One day I suddenly leit London, with- 
 out money at that moment, I managed, that upon a certain evening, a 
 Jew should call on him, and propose, upon his signature, to lend him thirty 
 thousand francs. 
 
 " Lancry calculating upon me for the repayment, signed the bond. I 
 was at Brighton, and from thence I watched all hrs movements. My pro- 
 ject was now rife. Gold is a magic wand. Sometime after he had re- 
 ceived this loan, I caused to be proposed to Lancry, an heiress whose in- 
 come exceeded fifty thousand crowns. I knew the relations of this young 
 lady, they had every confidence in me. I guaranteed, on my own fortune., 
 that de Lancry should on his side, brirg a fortune of upward of two million» 
 
176 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 only I requested her relations not to enter into any money questions until my 
 return. From habit, de Lancry always boldly gave out that he was a million- 
 aire. He saw the young lady ; he was well "received, and a day was fixed to 
 regulate all pecuniary arrangements. When it had gone so far, I wrote to da 
 Lancry from Brighton : his answer was a demand for two thousand loais, 
 wherewith to pay the Jew, for the day of payment had arrived. • He could be 
 sent to prison on the bond — the creditor was pitiless. It would, indeed, have 
 been terrible to be'incarcerated, at the very moment he was about to marry 
 such a fortune, and thus see overthrown such brilliant expectations. 
 
 The day preceding that on which the Jew was to be paid, at length arrived. 
 I had calculated every thing. De Lancry was in a state of horrible anxiety. 
 But, oh ! miracle from Heaven ; oh ! blessed manna ! an envelope from me 
 arrived, containing an order for two thousand pounds, upon my banker ; but 
 not accompanied by any letter, advising the remittance, from me. The order 
 contained only the usual words : Good for two thousand pounds sterling. 
 Brighton ; Count de Lugarto. I merely wrote a word to de Lancry, telling 
 him I was about to leave Brighton, and that 1 would let him know shortly 
 where to address me. I had arranged matters so, that the order for the money 
 would arrive in London, in the evening, after banking hours. De Lancry 
 had a valet whom I had recommended to him, and who was devoted to me. 
 De Lancry received the order, put it into a drawer, and went out without 
 taking the key -for order is a thing in which your tender spouse does not par- 
 ticularly shine ; the servant, following my directions, took the order, and re- 
 turned it to me by post. The next morning de Lancry goes to the drawer for 
 the order, and finds there — nothing. He asks his valet what he knows about 
 it ? nothing. The latter played his part admirably : he does not know even 
 what his master means. The Jew arrives, and peremptorily insists on being 
 paid: threatens to apply to the family of Gontran's intended, and thus have 
 the marriage broken oif. Lancry, in this extremity, seeing himself on the 
 
 {>oint of losing his heiress, on account of this accursed order, flies into a vio- 
 ent passion, vociferates most loudly against his ill-luck, and in his rage tells 
 his valet, in whom, moreover, he had every confidence, the atrocious perplex- 
 ity in which he finds himself. My cunning fellow, then, following my in- 
 structions, point by point, uses the following arguments with his master: 
 'The Count de Lugarto sends to my master, the viscount, an order for two 
 thousand louis ; he wished then to lend him two thousand iouis ; now, the 
 viscount has mislaid the order. Where would be the harm if the viscount 
 were to draw up another order?' 'Wretch — a forgery!' ' But as M. Lugarto 
 sent an order to the viscount, and that order is lost, it would be always the 
 same thing. Who would be harmed by it ?' Your dear Gontran, after some 
 scruples of conscience, appeared convinced by this fine rhetoric, and an hour 
 afterward presented to my banker a false order, with my name attached to it. 
 But this appears to wake you up," added M. Lugarto, seeing that I rose 
 with a despairing effort. 
 
 " It is a he ! a base lie !" cried I, with a feeble voice. " Gontran is inca- 
 pabable of such infamy !" but overcome by the exertion, I fell baek into the 
 chair. From this moment, I experienced a sort of mental hallucination, as 
 M. Lugarto went on speaking. It appeared to me, that I saw all he was de- 
 scribing passing before my eyes. The personages appeared and disappeared, 
 as in a dream, with the rapidity of thought. 
 
 " I am so far from lying, when I accuse de Lancry of forgery," rejoined 
 M. Lugarto, showing me a paper, " that here is the order which he forged. 
 I shall continue my story. I have hardly more than will fill up the ten 
 minutes of consciousness which still remain to you. I had some days be- 
 fore confidentially warned my banker, and under a promise of prafound se- 
 crecy, that de Lancry might, abusing my friendship, present some falsa order 
 for payment. But from the respect I felt for the family of this unhappy 
 man, I said, I begged my banker to pay the order without making any dis- 
 turbance about it ; but only to keep the order, with clear proof of the crime 
 committed by M. de Lancry, reserving to myself the right of prosecuting 
 him, if this unworthy friend should not amend his life. 
 
 " What was said, was done. Witnesses, whose testimony could not be 
 doubted, but whose discretion could be calculated upon, saw de Lancry bring 
 the order and put the money in his pocket. _The witnesses, together with 
 my banker, signed a paper detailing all these circumstances — and here it is — 
 in. which I have made every necessary statement for its future use. You see 
 that I h«,ve only to say one word, to get your husband convicted as a forgej 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 —for it would not be difficult tu obtain an order for his being transferred to 
 London." 
 
 I hid my face in my hands with horror. 
 
 " All this explains to you the secret of my power over de Lancry, and 
 other persons. 1 have a kind of policy of my own ; I put them on the scent 
 of all persons upon whom I wish to act ; and it would be singular, if I did 
 not discover in them some tender error, or some sordid action, which de- 
 livers them up to me bound hand and foot. You have seen one proof of my 
 skill in this respect, in the Princess de Ksernika and the Duchess de Riche- 
 ville. But to return to Gontran. Though the Jew who lent the thirty thou- 
 sand francs, was paid, his marriage with the rich heiress did not take place. 
 I withdrew my guarantee without giving any explanation. De Lancry, upon 
 being called by the family to prove that he possessed the fortune he pretended 
 to, could not prove anything — and as might have been expected, their backs 
 were turned upon him, and he became again as poor as Job ; his whole pro- 
 perty consisting of the two hundred thousand francs which he owed me. It 
 was paying rather dear for it, but his very soul belonged to me, as Satan 
 would have said- When Lancry saw he was so completely in my power, he 
 fretted and fumed in an outrageous manner; but what could he do ? Resign 
 himself, under penalty of being branded ! 
 
 " It was at this time that he received a letter from his uncle, proposing 
 that he should marry you. This delighted me ; my vengeance would be 
 twofold, for 1 should then have power over two existences, instead of one 
 only ? That this scheme, conceived by Mademoiselle de Maran and M. de 
 Versac, might succeed, I lent a hundred thousand francs to de Lancry, to be 
 repaid out of your marriage portion, that he might be able to meet any extra 
 expenses he might incur, and thus prevent his failing in such an excellent 
 affair. 
 
 "The marriage took place. I was taken ill in London; but for that, I 
 should have been present at the ceremony, as first-bridegroom's-man. When 
 I recovered, I wrote to de Lancry, who was enjoying his honey-moon at 
 Chantilly. I ordered him to return instantly to Paris. He brought you 
 with him ; I saw you, loved you, and determined that you should be mine. 
 Besides, what I will, I will. I declared to your husband, that I should pay 
 my court to you : he submitted to it, though raging furiously. However. I 
 must say, he calculated on your virtue, and he was right ; and you have, 
 therefore, obliged me to resort to what the world calls grand expedients. 
 You know all the rest, down to the scene that took place at Tortoni's. His 
 violence carried him away ; exasperated by the contemptuous reception of 
 madame, he made that furious sally, that ridiculous bravado, at Tortoni's. 
 At two o'clock he was with me, on his knees, weeping, sobbing, beseeching, 
 imploring mercy for himself and you — the galleys were before him — he could 
 not speak or think of anything but the galleys. I once more allowed my- 
 self to be persuaded, but on these conditions : First, a duel was absolutely 
 necessary, and I was too nervous to fight a real one. It was therefore agreed, 
 it should be understood, that we had fought, having soldiers only as our 
 seconds, it should be understood also, that I had received a sword-wound, 
 not a very dangerous one. I undertook to have the report spread in such a 
 way, that it should be believed, and this was done in such a way, that I 
 now pass for a regular fire-eater. Second, de Lancry was to set off im- 
 mediately for London, where he now is. Before his departure, and with- 
 out giving any reasons for it, I compelled him to write under my dic- 
 tation, the first letter you received, and which decided you to come here, 
 the other letters were, as you will imagine, written by myself — for your hus- 
 band is not the only one who can imitate the handwriting of others, or com- 
 mit forgeries. 
 
 "Let me see — have I forgotten anything? — no — nothing. And now, as a 
 little perception still remains with you, consider well the consequences of your 
 position. For the last two months, the world has been persuaded that you 
 and I are on the best terms possible ; if any one could doubt it, let them 
 judge of it by facts. You came here of your own free will — you wished to 
 conceal this journey from your aunt, from M. de Versac, and from Madame 
 de Ksernika, for you wrote to them that you were going to visit Madame 
 Secherin, in the country. It is believed your husband wounded me in a duel ; 
 it will be thought that you have hastened here immediately after his depar- 
 ture, to console my sufferings — how will you be able to deny it ? what proofs 
 can you produce ? "My forged letters you will say ; but presently, when you 
 are sleeping soundly, 1 will take those letters from you, and will burn theaa. 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 Will you invoke the testimony of your servants ? First of all, they are paid 
 by me : and they will say, moreover — what is th« truth — that they acted by 
 your orders ; for you, alone, gave directions for your leaving Paris. But this 
 is not all — to complete this measure of iniquity, one of your relations, a man 
 of great respectability, hearing no doubt your infamous conduct, sets out 
 to follow you, and so prevent your sacrificing your reputation so wantonly — 
 your passion blinds you so completely, that you, abetted by a lackey, cause 
 this respectable pursuer to fall into an abominable trap, where he, perhaps, 
 has lost his life. Well ! what say you to all this ? I defy the ablest coun- 
 sellor to contradict a tittle of it, and prevent you from being crushed by 
 these appearances, and covered with lasting ignominy. For I have taken 
 sure means that they should know you have not been at all with Madame 
 Secherin, and that you have come here to take a tender and sorrowful fare- 
 well. To-morrow morning — for your sleep will last at least eight or ten 
 hours — I set out for Italy. I leave you to wake up quite at your ease, and to 
 write to Gontran, poste restante at London, to come back and console you, 
 if that amuses him. I shall always carry with m% this precious forgery — 
 this infernal line, by aid of which, your's and Gontran's souls are firmly held. 
 As to the three hundred thousand francs, which is about the sura your hus- 
 band owes me — the bills for which are here — to-morrow morning, after my 
 departure, you will find them torn to pieces at your feet, for I am a gentle- 
 man, and generous — " 
 
 This last infamous threat reanimated the little strength and will which 
 still existed in me. M. Lugarto rose, looked at the time-piece, and said : 
 " In ten minutes you will be senseless!" 
 
 Making a desperate effort to raise myself from the arm-chair, I caught 
 sight of a knife. I cannot now recall correctly the violent thoughts which 
 agitated me at that moment. Whether I wished to escape from the dis- 
 honour which then threatened me, or whether I imagined that a sudden 
 pain, the loss of blood, perhaps, might arouse mc from the frightful state of 
 stupor which benumbed me, I know not. I seized upon the knife, and mus- 
 tered all my energies to plunge it in my bosom ; the blade glanced off and 
 wounded me slightly in the shoulder. This movement was so rapid that M. 
 Lugarto did not perceive it. 
 
 A well-known voice cried out, " Hold ! Matilda !" 
 
 I raised myself quite, with a convulsive movement, and holding out my 
 arms, I made two steps toward M. de Mortagne— for it was he ! 
 
 He came out from a neighbouring room, and rushed toward me. M. de 
 Rochegune, who accompanied him, with cne hand seized M. Lugarto by the 
 collar, and with the other double-locked the door of the room, by which my 
 deliverers had entered. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PUNISHMENT. 
 
 So great was the shock produced upon me by the sight of M. de Mortagne 
 and M. de Rochegune, that 1 came to myself immediately. 
 
 Perhaps, moreover, the slight wound, which I had given myself, had a 
 salutary action, inasmuch as it stood in lieu of a bleeding ; for I felt myself 
 almost in my usual state of health. 
 
 While M. de Mortagne was dressing this wound, M. de Rochegune was 
 taking possession of the papers of M. Lugarto, who had become pale with 
 consternation. 
 
 Then only did I perceive that the face of M. de Mortagne was bruised 
 in many places, and his dress, like that of M. de Rochegune, soiled with 
 mud. 
 
 In my first astonishment, I had scarcely considered how entirely provi- 
 dential was my rescue. When I became more calm, I thanked God for my 
 preservation. I played but a mute part in the scene that followed, although 
 it has remained stamped on my memory in characters indeed indelible. 
 
 So long as it lasted, although M. de Rochegune was a witness rather than 
 an actor, his dark and stern features wore an expression, perhaps, more ter- 
 rible than all the passion of M. de Mortagne. Every time that the fixed 
 and ardent gaze of M. de Rochegune fell on M. Lugarto, it seemed to kin- 
 dle into a light blaze— several times I observed the nervous quivering of his 
 
1HE PUXISHMENT. 
 
 Bands, which he made great efforts to keep quiet — but every time that his 
 keen, clear, gray eye, met that of M, Lugarto, the latter seemed to shrink 
 under a sort of painful fascination. 
 
 Having attended me with the necessary care, M. dr Mortagne seated me in 
 an armed chair, and said to me — ■ 
 
 " Now, my poor child, you are about to be a witness of the judgment and 
 execution of this monster!" and as he spoke, he turned toward M. Lugarto. 
 
 " But, monsieur, what do you purpose to do with me ? You will not take 
 advantage of your strength," cried he, stretching out both his hands in sup- 
 plication. 
 
 " Down on your knees, first of all — down on your knees 1" cried M. de 
 Mortagne, in a terrible voice, and with his powerful hand he seiied Lugarto 
 by the collar, and violently forced him to kneel down upon the floor. 
 
 " But this is a premeditated villainy — an abuse " 
 
 " Silence 1" cried M. de Mortagne. 
 
 « But " 
 
 " One word more ! and I gag you " 
 
 M. Lugarto, overpowered by his terrors, let his head fall upon his breast. 
 
 " Listen, now," said M. de Mortagne — " You are about to write to M. de 
 Lancry, that you send back to him the forgery which might have ruined him. 
 It is necessary that he should think you act of your own accord, in restoring 
 this document to him, and that no person is in your confidence — do you un- 
 derstand me ?" 
 
 Having been downcast for a while, the features of M. Lugarto regained 
 their habitual expression of audacity. Still kneeling, he cast a sidelong 
 glance at M. de Mortagne, and said: 
 
 " You take me for a child, sir; you can, indeed, take these papers from 
 me by force ; but I defy you to make me write, what you desire me to 
 write." 
 
 " Will you not wiite ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You will not ?" 
 
 " Once again, no — ne !" 
 
 M. de Mortagne kept silence, for a moment, casting his eyes about him. 
 " De Rochegune, give me the cord that loops up that curtain : is it 
 strong ?" 
 
 " Very strong," said M. de Rochegune, taking a long silken cord from one 
 of the studs. 
 
 " What are you going to do?" cried M. Lugarto, half rising from the 
 ground. I- 
 M. de Mortagne hurled him back upon his knees. 
 
 " To put this cord about your forehead, and compress it, like a tourniquet 
 — the handle of this knife will answer the purpose capitally — and to go on 
 compressing it, till you give in. It is a capital sort of torture, which I have 
 seen practised in the Indies — thanks to it, the hardiest give in 1" 
 
 " You will not do it," cried M> Lugarto, trembling. " You will not do it. 
 Justice — the law — " 
 
 " I will take the responsibility, as concerns justice : it is important for you 
 to write," said M. de Mortagne, with terrific calmness, making a slip-knot 
 as he spoke, in the silken cord, 
 
 " But I will not suffer you to do it : but — " 
 
 " Look well at me — look at M. de Rochegune ; then look at your own pal- 
 try person, and then see if you can resist us." 
 "But " 
 
 " Oh let us finish it— de Rochegune lay hold of his hands.' 
 
 The countenance of M. Lugarto, became hideous, between rage and ter- 
 ror : I raised my handkerchief to cover my eyes— a short struggle followed, 
 at the end of which, I heard a piercing outcry, and then these words uttered 
 in a trembling voice. 
 
 «* Mercy ! mercy ! I will write." 
 
 " Write then," cried M. de Mortagne. 
 You take advantage of your strength— you are two to one.' 
 
 "Will you write ? will you write ?" 
 
 M. Lugarto submitted, and wrote these lines at M. de Mortagne s dic- 
 tation. 
 
 " I have too long carried on, my dear de Lancry, this miserable joke. I 
 send you back the paper in question ; let this secret, henceforth, be between 
 
180 
 
 MATILDA 
 
 us two. I am much ashamed of all this — 1 Jim just setting out for Italy — 
 adieu— ever yours:' and having written this, M. Lugarto signed it. 
 
 "I hope this is all," he added; "I yield to violence — but patience — 
 patience !" 
 
 " Silence," said M. de' Rochegune, " how much does M. de Lancry owe 
 you?" 
 
 " Here are the obligations of M. de Lancry, in this pocket-book," said M. 
 de Rochegune; " three hundred and twenty thouuand francs." 
 
 M. de Mortagne wrote a few lines on a slip of a paper, handed it to M. 
 Lugarto, and said : " here is a draft on my banker, for the same, payable to 
 your order, at sight. You can collect it by your correspondent." 
 
 And with the words, he tore up the promissory notes of Gontran. 
 
 " But this is infamous — this is an abstraction of documents — but " 
 
 " And that unhappy forgery of Gontran's?" said M. de Mortagne, without 
 answering him. 
 
 " It is here," said M. de Rochegune. 
 
 M. de Mortagne placed it along with the letter Lugarto had just written 
 to M. de Lancry, and put the two into his pocket-book. 
 
 But when Lugarto saw that the means were thus snatched from him of his 
 torturing his victim farther, he uttered a cry of fury, almost like that of a 
 wild beast. 
 
 " This is too infamous — this is mere force — malice — violence." 
 Do you want me, then, to gag you ?" cried M. de Mortagne ; " I forbid 
 you to speak, unless I question you. Write again." 
 " But " 
 
 " De Rochegune, give me the cord." 
 
 M. Lugarto raised his eyes to Heaven, and then obeyed, writing what M. 
 De Mortagne dictated. 
 
 ' I admit that I wrote forged letters to Madame le Vicomtesse de Lancry, 
 counterfeiting her husband's writing. In these letters M. de Lancry re- 
 quested his wife to come to him immediately, at a house situated near Chan- 
 tilly. Madame de Lancry was deceived by this foul stratagem, and set forth 
 on the moment. On her arrival at the place, she found another letter from 
 M. de Lancry, also counterfeited by myself, in which he entreated her not to 
 be alarmed, but to wait for him until the next day. Madame de Lancxy, worn 
 out with fatigue, partook of the supper which I bad caused to be prepared 
 for her. I had caused a narcotic mixture to be introduced into every thing 
 that was set before her ; and when I perceived that it was about to take ef- 
 fect, I had the brutality to present myself to her — to announce to her that 
 she had taken a narcotic, and to point out to her the increasing power of the 
 drug, affecting her more and more every minute — explaining to her, that at 
 midnight, she would be entranced completely, and so in my power. At this 
 horrible threat, Madame de Lancry preferring death to dishonour, collected 
 all the little strength and power that remained to her, seized a knife and 
 stabbed herself. M. de Mortagne and M. de Rochegune, who had introduced 
 themselves into the house, and who from a hiding-place had witnessed all 
 that passed, burst at this moment, into the room. Being as cowardly, as I 
 am cruel ' 
 
 " I will not write that !" said M. Lugarto, throwing down his pen. 
 
 M. de Mortagne gave him a violent slap in the face, with the back of his 
 hand. He attempted to rise, but M. de Mortagne seized him and held him 
 down in his chair forcibly, while he said : 
 
 " I will prove, to your own satisfaction, although you know it perfectly 
 well without this, that you are a miserable dastard. See! I have slapped 
 your face ; I owe you satisfaction for it ! Here, then, are pistols loaded ; 
 it is clear moonlight in the garden ; de Rochegune will be our witness ; 
 come !" 
 
 And he seized Lugarto by the collar, making a step toward the door, while 
 de Rochegune took up the pistols, which he had laid upon the table when he 
 entered. 
 
 M. Lugarto foaming with rage, appeared to be undergoing some strange 
 inward struggle. 
 
 " Now then, come ;" cried M. de Mortagne, endeavouring to drag him out; 
 " I fancy I shall kill you ; for God is just. Come along !" 
 
 M. Lugarto rose, took one step, but his terrors overcame his wish for ven- 
 geance ; he staggered back into his chair, and said with a faltering voice to 
 M. de Mortagne : 
 
 " You are an accomplished duellist ; you would assassinate me — I " 
 
THE fUNISHMENT. 
 
 181 
 
 "Write then, that you arc a coward, or I will break your bones;" cried 
 M. de Mortagne fiercely. 
 
 M. Lugarto bowed his head, took up his pen, and went on writing. 
 
 " Mark a parenthesis now ;" added M. de Mortagne, " ' and such a poI« 
 troon, that having had ray face slapped just this minute by M. de Mortagne :' 
 
 "Will you write, as I order you?" 
 
 M. de Lugarto hesitated, but quickly making up his mind, he wrote : 
 
 ' That having had my face slapped just this minute, by M. de Mortagn*, 
 
 I have not even the heart to accept the satisfaction, which he condescended 
 
 to offer me.' 
 
 " Close the parenthesis ?" 
 
 * I declare and confess the infamies which I am writing, in fear and trem- 
 bling. I declare, also, that I lured M. de Rochegune into a premeditated 
 plan for his destruction, of which Fritz Muller, a man in my pay, was the 
 instrument, as will be proved by the instructions which will be extorted from 
 him by M. de Rochegune.' 
 
 " But," said M. Lagarto ; "since I consent to everything — spare me — " 
 " Will you be silent ? now write ; ' Done, signed, and delivered as the truth, 
 under the dominion of that terror, which cowards, of my kind^ must ever feel 
 in the presence of brave and upright men : Ltcgarto.' " • 
 
 When he had signed his name, Lugarto cast down the pen, and buried his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 " Now listen," continued M. de Mortagne, " to-morrow morning, you will 
 pet out for Italy, and I forbid you, do you hear? I forbid you ever again to 
 set your foot in France, without my permission — I banish you !" 
 
 " This is all folly !" answered M. Lugarto — " after all, I defy your threats 
 — the law will protect me ; I will stay in France just so long as it suits my 
 pleasure !" 
 
 * Listen to me," said M. de Mortagne, drawing himself up to the full 
 height of his tall and stately figure, and pressing his hand so heavily on the 
 shoulder of M. Lugarto, that he was forced to bend beneath the pressure of 
 his powerful grasp. 
 
 " Listen to me ; for these four months past, you have been the evil genius 
 of the most incomparable woman that exists on the earth ; you have done 
 all in your power to blast her reputation ; to degrade her husband. You 
 have used the most shameless treachery to give credit to your defamatory 
 whispers; you have attempted to assassinate M. de Rochegune; you have 
 committed forgery in order to have Madame de Lancry's letters ; you and 
 your accomplices have been, moreover, murderers in design, by entrapping 
 me into a deadly scheme for my slaughter ; you have been a poisoner, in ad- 
 ministering to this wretched woman drugs which would have enabled you to 
 add a new crime to your former atrocities. All these things you have done I 
 Do you hear ! Do you understand me ?" 
 
 The air, the voice, the accent of M. de Mortagne, were so significant that 
 despite all his impudence, M. Lugarto dared not answer him, and he wen»t on 
 speaking with a loftiness of style that increased as he continued his address, 
 pointing to me the while. 
 
 " You know not, then, that I promised her dying mother to watch over her 
 child'a welfare, as though she was mine own ? You know not, that, had it 
 not been for the interest I felt in discovering the secret of your fatal influence 
 over M. de Lancry, I should long since have driven you out of France ; kick- 
 ing you. like a dog, before me ? For you are well aware that when such a 
 man, as I, grows earnest in pursuit of such a wretch as you are, he easilj 
 delivers the world of him; which no court of justice can do! Moreover," 
 cried de Mortagne, losing all command of his indignation ; " are you not be- 
 yond the pale of all law ? Am I not, in truth, too pitiful not to kill you, now, 
 }ike a dog! Have I not the right to do so this instant?" 
 
 " The right !" cried M. Lugarto, terrified by the violence of M. de Mortagne. 
 
 "Yes! the right ! Yes! I have the right to kill you: ay! this instant! 
 Matilda is my near relation. You lured her hither by forged letters ! you 
 were about to commit the most execrable outrage on her : I have the proofs 
 of all this — mark you. When I — her friend, her relation, cousin — surprise 
 you in the fact — snatch up a pistol, and with the muzzle to your skull ;" and 
 jiere, suiting the action to the word, he pressed the pistol which he had taken 
 up, against the forehead of Lugarto : " and blow out your brains ! well ! who 
 would blame me for it? what court would dare condemn me ? Are you not 
 taken in the very fact of crime ? does not your life belong to me, if 1 chooes 
 to take it, wretch ?" 
 
182 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Terrified by the fury of M. de Mortagne, who, carried away by his feelingi 
 more and more, seemed to be himself no longer, but stili held the cocked 
 pistol within a hand's breadth of his head, M. Lugarto clasped his hands in 
 an agony of terror, and could scarce find the voice to cry — 
 
 " Mercy ! mercy ! For the love of God ! take care — it is loaded !" and he 
 let his arms fall down by his side, as if he had lost all sense or feeling. 
 
 M. de Rochegune, himself alarmed by the violence of M. de Mortagne, said 
 tm him — 
 
 " Pity the wretched dog !" 
 
 " Did he pity this unhappy child?" replied.M. de Mortagne. 
 
 " Mercy f oh, my God ! I will set forth, wherever you shall order me ! 1 
 will swear it to you !" murmured Lugarto, in a low faint voice. 
 
 " And dare you to swear here ? It is not on your word that I reckon, but 
 on my own ; and I give you — do you mark me ? my word of honour, as a 
 man, that you shall never set your foot in France again. And that for area- 
 son that you shall very shortly know. Since after all you must be punished 
 for your villainies, and since it does not suit my views to do it in the legal 
 way — since after all, you are a forger, murderer, poisoner — and such are 
 branded with h«t irons — I, also, will brand you — do you hear me ? J will Ï 
 Brand you, nol^on the shoulder, but on the brow; brand you with a T and 
 an F, so that they may be clearly seen, and for ever. By that means, I hope, 
 you will be prevented from yielding to any temptation to return hither!" 
 
 "But this man is the fiend!" exclaimed Lugarto, clasping his hands in 
 agonizing dread, and starting half up from his chair ; " have you not insulted 
 me, humiliated me enough ? My God ! my God ! what more will you dc 
 with me ?" 
 
 "I will brand you on the brow: the blade of this knife, heated red-hot in 
 the flame of the candle, will suffice to render the mark indelible." 
 
 As he said these words, M. de Mortagne seized the knife, with which I had 
 wounded myself, and approached one of the chandeliers. 
 
 M. de Lugarto looked at him in terror, ran to the door— it was locked — re- 
 turned, cast himself at my feet, exclaiming, in a piteous voice : 
 
 " Not that — oh, not that ! Oh ! Madam, pity me ! I have insulted you, J 
 have been cowardly, base, infamous. I will go ! I will go ! I will never re- 
 turn more. But oh ! not that — for pity's sake ! not that !" 
 
 The features of the man were convulsed with fear — he actually wept — he 
 stretched his hands toward de^Mortagne. 
 
 He, cold and impassive, stood quite still, heating the knife-blade at the 
 candle. 
 
 "But you, Monsieur, you will not be so merciless," cried M. Lugarto, ad- 
 dressing himself to M. de Rochegune, " I did cause you to be attacked trea- 
 cherously, I confess it — I repent of it — have pity on me — sue for me. But, 
 in the name of God ! not that — for life ! Only think of that, branded for life 
 on the face — it is too horrible — it is the thought of a fiend !" 
 
 M. de Rochegune slightly shrugged his shoulders, but made him no reply. 
 
 " But you ! madam ! you — you — oh ! my God ! By the memory of your 
 mother, whom you love so dearly — oh ! madam, supplicate him for me !" 
 
 In spite of myself, in spite of all the agonies I had endured at that man's 
 hands, the barbarity of the punishment seemed revolting to me. 
 
 " My friend, my preserver!" I said to M. de Mortagne, "leave him to his 
 remorse — let him go — only let him go!" 
 
 " His remorse," said M. de Mortagne, " do such men feel remorse ? The 
 rage of having his face branded with hot iron, is the sole remorse he can 
 know. Come. Rochegune : the knife is at a white heat — bind his hands !" 
 
 " For Heaven's sake! let him go," I cried. " I will not be present at the 
 infliction of so horrible a torture. My friend, I implore you ! such vengeance 
 is unworthy both yourself and me." 
 
 After a moment, gazing upon Lugarto scornfully, who, between tears and 
 sobs, was murmuring out his prayers for mercy : 
 
 " Thanks to the intercession of that angel ! for this time I spare you." 
 
 " Your hand— oh ! your hand — let me kiss your hand 1" cried M. Lugarto, 
 dragging himself, on his knees, to M. de Mortagne. 
 
 But he drew quickly back, and spurned him with his foot, saying: "But I 
 ■wear to you, if you ever dare to return to France, what I do not now, I will 
 then do. You ought to know me well enough, to be sure that I shrink from 
 nothing. I, with two resolute men, are at any time enough to do it— and I 
 can seize you easily." 
 
THE FAREWELL. 
 
 183 
 
 " I promise you, I will leave France never to return. All is prepared for 
 my departure. My carriage will he here to-morrow. At daybreak I will set 
 off for Italy. Day and night I will travel, till I am out of France. I swear 
 it to you !" he exclaimed, his teeth actually chattering in his head from terror. 
 
 ¥ Matilda, my child, you must be in need of rest," said M. de Mortagne, 
 addressing me ; your lady's maid is there ; you have no more to fear. Come, 
 Rochegune will keep watch over this dog. To-morrow, when you shall be 
 composed a little, we will tell you how we discovered his infamous designs." 
 
 I followed the advice of my friend, retired to the chamber prepared for me, 
 and soon fell into a deep and tranquil slumber. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 The following morning, at my awakening, my first thought was, that I had 
 dreamed a hideous dream ; but the keen pain, which my wounds gave me, 
 recalled to my mind the terrible scene of the past night. 
 
 My first movement was again to return thanks to God, who had saved me 
 and restored Gontran to me. The odious mysteries which had so long afflicted 
 me were now cleared up. I no more feared that now, tranquil and serene, 
 my husband would be all to me that he had been in the first days of our mar- 
 ried life. m 
 
 I attributed to the baneful influence of M. Lugarto, all the anxieties that 
 Gontran had caused me Was it not in obedience to the orders of his evil 
 genius, that he had paid attention to Madame de Ksernika ? 
 
 At tirât, I confess, I was afraid to let my mind dwell on the fatal deed 
 which had put M. de Lancry in the power of Lugarto. 
 
 Nevertheless, wishing to put an end to these doubtful reflections, I resolved 
 to investigate boldly the conduct of Gontran. I strove to palliate his guilt 
 by every argument that I could think of. 
 
 Alas ! my principles were naturally of too firm a character to allow me to 
 find any medium between stern condemnation or an approval which would 
 itself be guilty. 
 
 I condemned Gontran. 
 
 For a moment, I was almost alarmed at finding that this discovery, dread- 
 ful as it was, had not the slightest effect upon my love for M. de Lancry. I 
 was astonished at finding myself capable of loving a man passionately, who 
 could be guilty of such an action. 
 
 I wept his fault bitterly. It was grievous to me to feel myself his superior 
 — to have, not to reproach, but to pardon him the commission of a baseness. 
 This feeling became so keen, so torturing, that, by a strange sort of paradox, 
 which I can hardly explain to myself to-day, I strove hard to convince myself 
 that, had I been in Gontran's situation, I should have done as he did — I, 
 who had been unable to discover one honourable cause for his dishonourable 
 action. 
 
 I know not how I can describe to you my pleasure, when, after deep reflec- 
 tions, each more paradoxical than the other, I succeeded in convincing my- 
 self of this moral partnership in his guilt — with what triumphant happiness 
 I succeeded in proving to myself that I had no right to blame Gontran. 
 
 Doubtless there was, in this singular self-assurance on my part, a kind of 
 retrospective thought of self-sacrifice, and self-denial, of which I had taken 
 no account, but which still guided me in secret. 
 
 When I went down into the drawing-room, I there found M. de Rochegune. 
 He blushed, and told me that M. de Mortagne had gone out to give some or- 
 ders relative to my departure. 
 
 " I was yesterday in so much pain and so much grief, monsieur," said 
 I to him, " that I had scarcely power to express all my gratitude to you. You 
 and M. de Mortagne have been my saviours. Nor do I forget that, during 
 my illness " 
 
 " I conjure you, madam, let us say no more of this. You have permitted 
 me to call myself your friend. 1 have but acted as a friend." 
 
 Ah ! monsieur, how can I ever be sufficiently grateful ! " 
 
 " By permitting me always, madam, to retain that precious title — by per- 
 mitting me always to deserve it." 
 
Î94 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 I know not w'herefore, but at this moment it entered my head, that, know- 
 ing the guilty secret of M. Gontran, M. de Rochegune might think himself 
 perhaps, justified in judging very harshly of my husband. 
 
 By one of those singular coincidences of thought of which there are so 
 many examples, M. Rochegune added, almost at the same moment, "And 
 when 1 pray you, madam, to be permitted to count myself in the number of 
 your friends, I dare to believe that you will not forget how happy I shall 
 always feel to be enumerated among the friends of M. de Lancry."* 
 
 I observed that M. de Rochegune intentionally laid a strong stress on 
 the last words. I thought the assurance they contained so delicately ge- 
 nerous, it replied so nobly to my fears, that I could not help crying out, 
 eagerly, 
 
 " Oh, thanks, monsieur 1 thanks for myself and him !" 
 
 M. de Rochegune, surprised by this movement, looked hard at me. Our 
 eyes met. We understood each other. 
 
 He understood my gratitude, as I understood his kindness towards Gon- 
 tran. A sweet, sad smile played round his lips, and he said : 
 
 " Life has indeed, madam, some noble pleasures. It is too easy to do 
 good, when compared with the pleasure we derive from doing it." 
 
 A silence of some minutes followed these words of M. de Rochegune. I 
 was a good deal confused ; yet, by chance, I raised my eyes to his face ; his 
 looks were wandering and abstracted ; he seemed to be in a deep reverie ; 
 his countenance, usually severe and even haughty, wore an expression of in- 
 effable benevolence ; his black hair scarcely covered the recent scar of a deep 
 flesh wound which he" bore on the forehead, and which I had remarked, when 
 he .came to see me the first time after my illness. 
 
 In spite of myself, my eyes filled with tears, as I thought that I had been 
 the involuntary cause of the attempt to assassinate M. de Rochegune, while 
 he was coming to inquire after my poor Blondeau. Wishing to break the 
 silence, which was becoming awkward, I said : 
 
 " You feel no more pain from the wound which you received ?" 
 
 As he heard my voice, M. de Rochegune started, but answered quickly : 
 
 " I feel no more pain, madam ;" and then, as if the tone of the conversa- 
 tion had been painful to him, he said, in a marked tone — 
 
 " All my fear now is that the wretch Lugarto, although out of France, may 
 avenge himself on M, de Mortagne." 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
 " This morning that man departed. M. de Mortagne thought it advis- 
 able to see him to the carriage, and impose on him a last injunction. ' Re- 
 member,' he said, with a threatening gesture—' I shall remember but too 
 well for your safety,' answered M. Lugarto, ' at whatever distance I may be, 
 I will find means to reach you ;' and then shaking his fist at M. de Mor- 
 tagne, he ordered his postillions to set off at the gallop. Oh ! madam, it 
 was impossible to imagine anything more terrible than the face of this man, 
 as he uttered that last threat. Hatred, vengeance, terror, and rage were 
 painted there in the most frightful blending." 
 
 "Great God!" I exclaimed, "he is capable, even in a foreign land, 
 of plotting some infernal stratagem against M. de Mortagne. That man, 
 in his vast wealth, finds endless means of accomplishing his desperate 
 schemes." 
 
 " I share your fears, madam," replied M. de Rochegune, "and, unfortu- 
 nately, I am obliged to leave M. de Mortagne. Without that, I would have 
 watched over his life, as over that of my father." • 
 
 " Whither then, monsieur, are you going?" 
 
 "To Greece, madam, to war against the Turks. It is a noble and a holy 
 cause ; and moreover, at this moment I want activity, excitement." 
 
 " It is, they say, a fearful war — without mercy or pity," I said to M. de 
 Rochegune, with much interest. 
 
 "It is a war, Inadam, like all other wars," he answered with a melan- 
 choly smile. " We are slain, or slay others ! In this war, however, we die, 
 if w e do fall, for a generous and heroic nation ; and such a death is, in itself, 
 grand and noble." 
 
 "These are too sad presentiments," I answered ; " dwell not upon them. 
 I have the hope — the confidence, indeed, that you will return safe to your 
 friends." 
 
 " 1 have the same conviction, madam. We have not the right to be in- 
 
THE FAREWELL. 
 
 18» 
 
 different to life, so long as we have the least chance of being useful to those 
 whom we love or respect." 
 
 At this moment M. de Mortagne entered, apparently much irritated. 
 
 " I have just learned another villainy of this Lugarto. Your lady's-maid, 
 whom I have been terryfying with questions and threats, admits that she 
 was placed near your person by that villain ; and that, in order to prevent 
 Blondeau from accompanying you — wretch that she is — she put some powder 
 or other, by Lugarto's orders, into her food, which made Blondeau so ill 
 that she was unable to follow you." 
 
 " My dear friend, M. de Rochegune tells me that as he was setting off, 
 M. Lugarto — " 
 
 " Yes 1 yes ! he threatened me. I expected some diabolical plot or other, 
 but I shall be on my guard. All that I wished was to rid you of him ; and 
 in that, I think, I have succeeded. I am sorry, nevertheless, that I did 
 not brand him ; it would have been one safeguard more." 
 
 " And one motive the more, also, for the hatred and the vengeance of this 
 man," said I. 
 
 " Oh 1 if we hesitate for such fears as that," answered M. de Mortagne, 
 " we should never act at all. I know right well with whom I have to con- 
 tend. But now I must tell you how I traced out this abominable machina- 
 tion. Some time after your return from Chantilly, I learned through de 
 Rochegune, the infamous slanders he was circulating about you. I was ill, 
 and unable to go out. The first idea of M. de Rochegune was to go straight 
 to Lugarto, and order him to hold his tongue. He knew him of old ; was 
 aware that he was a great coward, and entertained no doubt but that a vigo- 
 rous threat would intimidate him. I prevailed on him not to do so ; I had 
 written to London to gain some information concerning the life which M. de 
 Lancry had led there before his marriage." 
 
 Here, seeing that the conversation was about to turn upon M. de Lancry, 
 with a feeling of propriety, the exquisite delicacy of which I appreciated 
 duly, M. de Rochegune turned to M. de Mortagne, saying, " I have some 
 orders to give concerning our departure. For a while I will leave you." 
 
 He bowed to me, left the room, and as soon as he was gone, M. de Mor- 
 tagne took up again the thread of his narrative. 
 
 " They wrote me word from London, that M. de Lancry had spent a great 
 deal of money ; and that, according to public report, that money had been 
 lent to him by M. Lugarto. Putting this information together with other 
 circumstances, it was easy to perceive that M. de Lancry was in the power 
 of this man. Without, however, knowing how absolute and how perilous 
 that power had been rendered by the commission of the action of which you 
 are aware, I induced de Rochegune then to keep quiet, and to wait for my 
 recovery. A very faithful man of mine, who has lived with me twenty years, 
 got some of Lugarto's servants to gossip ; and from them I learned that M. 
 de Lancry, when closeted with their master, had been heard frequently to 
 implore him not to destroy him. This information satisfied me that there 
 was something more in question than a mere debt of money ; and I resolved, 
 at whatever cost, to ferret out the secret, and to put you in safety from, the 
 vile doings of Lugarto, who, it seems, knew my affection for you. I very 
 soon found out that I was watched ; for this man, by dint of lavish expendi- 
 ture, has built up for himself a sort of police, by means of which he discovers 
 all sorts of secrets, which he uses or abuses as occasion offers, as you have 
 seen in the case of Mademoiselle de Ksernika and Madame de Richeville. 
 To avert his suspicions, I left Paris. His spies lost all trace of me. That 
 was about the period of your illness. After a few days, I returned to Paris, 
 and established myself in an out-of-the-way quarter of the town, whence I 
 watched all the motions of Lugarto. I know as well as he, that rogues are 
 corruptible ; so as almost all his people have been accomplices in some one 
 or other of his base or shameful actions, it was in my power to bribe some 
 of his servants. So that, ere long, I learned that within a short time he had 
 hired and furnished a lonely house near Chantilly — that in which we now are. 
 I came to assure myself of the fact in person, and reconnoitered the situation 
 of the building. 1 knew that Lugarto had a detestable facility of forging 
 letters. Fearing some trick, I caused you to be warned by de Rochegune, 
 never to quit your husband, judging that Lugarto would choose the oppor- 
 tunity of his absence, to let off some villainous plot against you. The scene 
 occurred at Tortoni's. I went to your house, and was informed that you 
 had gone to visit Ursula, and that your husband had also set out upon % 
 journey. I went to Lugarto's house, and learned that his people answered, 
 
186 MATILDA. 
 
 that he was confined to his bed by a sword- wound, received the same morn- 
 ing. I knew my man. I did not believe much about the sword- wound; 
 and I was struck especially by your separation from Gontran. One hour's 
 delay or hesitation might have ruined all. If you had really gone to Ma- 
 dame Secherin's, there was no danger, so we had nothing to do with that 
 supposition. We resolved, therefore, to come hither at all risks. We should 
 have overtaken you on the steep descent by Luzarches, when this devil of a 
 man caused us to be upset into a heap of paving stones: The shock was 
 horrible. I remained for some minutes stunned and insensible." 
 
 " My good friend ! oh! Heaven 1 and for me — for me always, all these 
 risks are run !" 
 
 "These accidents count for nothing, my dear child, unless when they 
 cause us to arrive too late. This time — -thanks be to Heaven ! it was not so. 
 After a stupor of a few minutes, I came to myself. I had escaped —as had 
 de Rochegune likewise — with a few hard bruises. But our horses were inca- 
 pable of moving — our postillion's leg was broken— our carriage was shattered. 
 We counted our time to a second. On foot, it would require an hour to 
 reach the place : we set out. Happily, at the end of a quarter of an hour, 
 we met the horses, which had carried you, returning. By the intelligence 
 which" we derived from the postillions, there could be no more doubt that it 
 was you. We took — de Rochegune and I — the two saddled post-horses, and 
 started at full gallop. In half an hour, we reached the house. To avoid 
 suspicion, we left our horses at a little distance. All the windows were shut 
 closely, but we could see light through the shutters. We had determined 
 to knock violently at the door, when suddenly a window on the ground floor 
 was thrown open ; it was your maid, who wished, I suppose, to take the 
 fresh air. We could see, in the servant's hall, an old woman and Fritz: 
 one spring carried us, pistol in hand into the hall ; de Rochegune" stood to 
 the door, I to the window. Those wretches fell on their knees, dumb with 
 fear." 
 
 "There must be a wood-house, a cellar somewhere near," said I ; "lead 
 us to them, or we blow out your brains !" "To the right, under the vesti- 
 bule, is the cellar door," said the old woman. 
 
 " Five minutes afterward, Fritz and the two women were safe under lock 
 and key. We entered the ante-chariiber, next to the drawing-room in which 
 you were — we heard voices — it was Lugarto, revealing to you his villainous 
 machinations. These revelations might serve us ; we waited till the moment 
 when you, poor creature, so bravely stabbed yourself." 
 
 " Noble and generous friend!'' I exclaimed, grasping M. de Mortagne's 
 hands in mine. "Ever nigh! ever on the spot I when I can be assisted — 
 rescued !" 
 
 " Ever on the spot — surely," he replied, " without you what interest should 
 I have in life ? But, mark me, my sweet child, this very day we must put 
 this letter, for your husband, into the post-jffice. He will find it in London 
 on his arrival. It will convey to him this unhappy forgery, and will restore 
 to him his liberty. To overthrow this villainous plot of Lugarto's altogether, 
 and to explain your leaving Paris, in order that your husband may have no 
 suspicion of what has passed this night, you must set off directly for the 
 estate of M. de Secherin. Once there, you can write to your husband, that 
 not choosing to remain in Paris without him, you have gone to pass the time 
 of his absence with Ursula. This letter you will direct to your own house, 
 in Paris, where he will find it on his return." 
 
 " But, my good friend, why not tell the whole to Gontran ?" 
 
 "Why not, my child? because, the instant your husb.tnd should dis- 
 cover that you knew the base crime which he has committed, he would hate 
 you ! — he would be forced to blush before you — and he would never forgive 
 you his own fault!" 
 
 '* Can you believe it?" 
 
 " Listen, Matilda: I will make no accusations. I will see in M. de Lan- 
 cry only the man you love. Your generous and holy affection shall be to me 
 his safeguard ; but, in a word, be just — when he saw you wretched, in con- 
 sequence of this odious intimacy, with a man whom he despised, whom he 
 hated as much as you did — had he the courage to make that sad confession 
 to you ? No ! he preferred to let the most apalling calumnies go forth about 
 you, and be credited!" 
 
 "But, to break openly with M. Lugarto, would have been his destruc- 
 tion." 
 
 But would have saved your reputation, hapless woman— innocent as you 
 
THE FAREWELL. 
 
 187 
 
 were of all these villainies. If your husband had not been a miserably eel- 
 fish creature, he would have boldly braved all consequences, rather than let 
 you be villified in the world's eye ! And yet, after the scene at Tortoni's, 
 which did at least show that he retained one spark of generous indignation — 
 did he not once again subscribe to all the requirements of Lugarto ? Did he 
 not leave you, dastardly, to the peril of all his base attempts against you? 
 Ay! Matilda — poor, dear child ! it needs all the respect, all the admiration 
 with which your devotedness inspires me, to prevent me from saying what I 
 think. I will not grieve you farther ; only put faith in my experience — never 
 tell Gontran that you have Iris secret. I repeat it to you — the man who, 
 under such fearful circumstances as you were placed, had not the confidence 
 to intrust you with the whole, would be indeed pitiless, if he knew that you 
 had discovered what he kept so obstinately secret." 
 
 " But again : if, by chance, Gontran should learn that I have stopped at 
 this house ?" 
 
 " Of that, too, I have taken heed. I ever fancied, that, in some new freak , 
 'of wickedness, Lugarto might write the whole to your husband ; though I 
 can see no object in his doing so. Then would this declaration, signed by 
 himself, with my testimony, and that of de Rochegune, suffice to place you 
 beyond the reach of any calumny — for we must think of everything." 
 
 " I will take your advice," said I to M. de Mortagne, with a sigh. " Never- 
 theless, I must own to you, that it gives me much pain to conceal anything 
 from Gontran." 
 
 M. de Mortagne, without answering, took me by both hands, and looked 
 at rne for some moments, without speaking. His face, so strongly marked, 
 and full of stern character, wore now an expression of indescribable sensi- 
 bility. He could not control his tears. You cannot imagine how much I 
 was affected, at seeing tears in the ej es of that man of iron energy and re- 
 solution. 
 
 " Heavens! what is the matter with you, dearest friend?" I crkd, burst- 
 ing, myself, into tears. 
 
 " I do not see you entirely happy for the future, my poor child. Your 
 husband is delivered from a terrible tyranny ; your fortune is restored. M. 
 de Lancry has done you bitter wrc*ng, which he has yet to repent ; and re- 
 pentance makes souls better which are naturally good. And yet I fear, and 
 am not reassured." 
 
 " These are vain terrors, dearest friend. Your tenderness for me is wrongly 
 terrified, believe me." 
 
 "Alas! I trust that I may be mistaken," said M. de Mortagne, shaking 
 his head mournfully. 
 
 " By the way," said I, " this sum which you have paid for us is very large. 
 It is understood, is it not, that we are to repay it ?" 
 
 " Hear me, Matilda. I have about sixty thousand livres annual income. 
 During the years which Mademoiselle de Maran caused me to spend under 
 the leads in Venice, I was obliged to be economical in my own despite. I 
 have few wants I employ almost all my leisure in comforting the good who 
 sorrow in obscurity. I shall have no heirs but you ; so that is but an ad- 
 vance of your inheritance." 
 
 " And yet, my friend 
 
 " Mark me yet farther. Your marriage contract was drawn up so unfairly, 
 that you, who brought the whole fortune, have kept no right or power in 
 reserve ; so that your husband can ruin you, or rob you, at his pleasure. 
 Luckily, here am I. My fortune will save you from want in future." 
 
 " My dear friend, have no fear3. I assure you, Gontran has recovered 
 from his extravagant tastes. He plays no more." 
 
 " The household you kept up at Paris was much too large for your fortunes. 
 I am sure, that, as soon as he finds himself freed from M. Lugarto, M. de 
 Lancry will launch ont again into absurd expenses. You have now clear, 
 after your hotel is paid for, a hundred thousand francs a year. Yet, in five 
 or six years, you may find yourself completely ruined. I know these spend- 
 thrifts!" 
 
 *.' But, my friend " 
 
 "But, my dear child, he was not deterred, or even checked, by the 
 shame of committing a forgery, in order to procure money. What curb, 
 then, will there be on him, when he has nothing to do but to draw out. of 
 your fortune by whole handsful ? Pardon me, Matilda, if I grieve you; but 
 these are severe truths, which must be spoken. I have never shrunk from 
 this duty ; I never will shrink from it. Resist, I conjure you, as much as 
 
193 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 you can, the prodigality of your husband ; hold fast to this resolution for 
 yourself, as for him. I will not speak to him; I will keep my influence for 
 the last. He is violent, passionate, and impatient of reproof ; little for that 
 care I. When your interest shall command me to spealc, speak I will; and 
 speak so as to be heard and listened to; I'll answer for it! And now, fare- 
 well, my child, On the slightest incident, write to me at Paris. Above all, 
 reckon upon me for ever, and upon de Rochegune. As for him, may God 
 preserve him to me ; for he is going into a fearful war, and he is not the man 
 to spare himself. Farewell ! once more, farewell ! I will send Blondeau to 
 you at Madame de Secherin's. One of my men, who accompanied me yes- 
 terday, and has just come up with my carriage, shall follow you. You can 
 take with you, for the present, this woman, whom you brought hither; but 
 as soon as Blondeau arrives, discharge her; and on your return to Paris, 
 make a clear house of all your people, lest any dangerous creature of Lu- 
 garto's should be still Jeft among them. Then re-establish your household 
 only with servants perfectly well recommended." 
 
 1 gave that excellent friend one last embrace, and, with many tears, bade 
 him farewell. I pressed M. de Rochegune's hands affectionately, and set off 
 for Touraine, making myself quite happy in the idea of surorising Ursula 
 with this unexpected visit. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE SECHERIN FAMILY. 
 
 The estate of M. Secherin, on which I was then living with Ursula, was. 
 situated at Rouvrai, in Touraine, on the banks of the Loire. I was obliged 
 to return through Paris, and I stopped there, in order myself to put the let- 
 ter of M. Lugarto to Gontran into the post — that letter, which would over- 
 whelm my husband with delight, and deliver him from the baneful influence 
 under which he had been so long suffering. 
 It was near the end of June. 
 
 I travelled very rapidly ; and, in proportion as I receded from Paris, it 
 seemed that I breathed more freely. The sight of the glowing plains through 
 which I was passing, calmed me and did me good. My heart seemed to ex- 
 pand ; I was about, once more, to behold the friend of my childhood. 
 
 After so many cruel shocks, I was about to taste the tranquil pleasures of 
 the country, and I was enchanted with the prospect of partaking, for a time, 
 the peaceable and simple life of Ursula and her husband. 
 
 For a long time I had received no letter from my cousin. In the last, she 
 nad written to me, she continued to bewail her lot ; but she endured with a 
 -melancholy resignation. 
 
 I knew the high and romantic character of Ursula, and the goodness of 
 her husband ; therefore I was not much alarmed. 
 
 I had not written her a word of all that had for some time so broken up 
 the course of my life. I resolved to make her no confidence on the subject — 
 this was not my secret, it was Gontran's likewise. 
 
 I arrived at Rouvrai, by the light of a beauiiful setting sun, on a lovely 
 summer's evening. I passed on the left hand some large buildings, in which 
 were the manufactories of M. Secherin, and entered a fine avenue of lindens, 
 which led to the dwelling-house. 
 
 Scarce had my carriage reached the middle of the avenue before I disco- 
 vered Ursula. I stopped the horses, sprang out of the carriage — in an in- 
 stant I was in the arms of my cousin. 
 
 "Now is this you? is this indeed you?" she said; "what a sweet sur- 
 prise !" 
 
 "Ursula! yes! it is I— I, your sister. I have come to pass a few days 
 with you, which are at my own disposal, while my husband is in England." 
 
 " What a charming idea you have had, Matilda ; how grateful am 1 for it. 
 What a pity it is that our poor house is so unworthy to receive you." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders with a smile. 
 
 " And your husband, where is he ? how go things with him ?" 
 " Very well," replied Ursula. 
 
 After these first greetings, I looked at my cousin more attentively ; she 
 seemed to me to have grown prettier than ever. 
 " You are happy, I am sure, for you look lovely." 
 
THE SECH.ËRIN FAMILY. 
 
 m 
 
 " Happy?" she answered, with an accent, which became on a sudden very 
 plaintive; "yes, I am happy !" and she controlled a rising sigh. "But it 
 is to you — to you that one should speak of happiness." 
 
 " Yes 1 yes !" I cried, " especially at this moment ; you cannot conceive 
 how charmed I am at seeing you again. You cannot conceive how much 
 enjoyment I expect in these days passed with you." 
 
 I had taken the arm of Ursula while I was speaking, and we were going 
 toward the house, which was large, though old-fashioned. The garden round 
 it, which was laid out symmetrically in squares and quincuples, and in- 
 closed by long alleys of yoke-elms, clipped formally in the old. French style, 
 had a singular air of calm tranquillity, which was, if anything, increased by 
 a glimpse of the broad, quiet, Loire, seen at the end of one of those cool 
 verdant aisles which opened on a terrace. 
 
 " Do you not think this place very provincial, very vulgar ?" said Ursula. 
 " M. Secherin, or his mother, rather, will not consent to the smallest change, 
 under the pretext that everything has been thus since the time of the late 
 M. Secherin, which does not prevent it from being, as you see, quite hideous. 
 And this frightful French garden, too, is it not just like the garden of a con- 
 vent? How sad and gloomy it is." 
 
 "No, indeed; you are unjust to the place, my dear Ursula. I think 
 this garden very fine and very noble ; and then you have, if I am not mis- 
 taken, a terrace on the Loire. Do you count that for nothing ?" 
 
 "Always indulgent, always kind, poor dear Matilda." 
 
 " No, truly ; 1 assure you that everything here delights me. It is so 
 calm, so tranquil." 
 
 " Oh ! as for calmness, there is enough of that. Luckily, we cannot hear 
 the stunning noise of M. Secherin's manufactories." 
 
 " These are the great buildings which 1 saw as I came in, are they not? 
 It must be a magnificent establishment." 
 
 "Magnificent! What? a manufactory ! there can be nothing in the world 
 so gloomy, unless it is the constantly hearing of the miraculous profits of 
 that same manufactory — of the number of workmen it employs — of its im- 
 portance to the country and the like. You will have to submit, my poor 
 Matilda, to listen constantly to such conversations. What a change for you, 
 accustomed to the brilliant world of Paris, of which, alas! I had but a 
 glimpse before burying myself alive here." 
 
 1 laughed at Ursula with a reproachful expression. 
 
 "My sister, my dear sister! I fear that I shall have to scold you very 
 roundly. I am sure that you belie your own sense of happiness. Believe 
 me, the world — that world of which we entertain such glittering ideas — 
 is, when you see it closer, false, giooiny, and malicious. Dow much should 
 1 prefer the peaceable existence which you lead here, to its fallacious glitter." 
 
 Ursula looked at me with astonishment. " You," she said, " you envy my 
 lot ! is it possible then, Matilda, that you can be unhappy ? What has be- 
 fallen you ? Have you concealed anything from me ?" 
 
 "No, my dear Ursula," 1 hastened to reply, "but I assure you that the 
 pleasures of the world occupy indeed, but do not satisfy the heart. You know 
 that even at Mademoiselle de Marun's I was always a bit of a hermit. 1 pre- 
 ferred passing my evenings in our room with you, to staying in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 " How truly 1 recognize your goodness — your habitual delicacy,'' replied 
 Ursula. " You pretend to envy my lot in order to make me think it enviable. 
 But come, let me lead you to your room — you will excuse the modesty of 3 our 
 entertainment." 
 
 We entered the house; everything in it was extremely plain, but kept with 
 the most wonderful neatness. We ascended a great flagged staircase with a 
 balustrade of massive wood-work, leading to a long corridor upon which 
 several doors opened. 
 
 One of these Ursula threw open, and passing through a little antechamber, 
 I found myself in a large room with old-fashioned gray wainscoting. At the 
 farther end was a canopied bedstead with curtains of Persian silk, with red 
 Chinese figures on a white ground. Over the doors and chimney-piece there 
 were panels painted after the taste of Watteau. Trees of bright green, a 
 brilliant azure sky, shepherdesses in rose-coloured petticoats, shepherds in 
 sky-blue coats, with snow-white sheep at their feet, all bedecked with great 
 bows of ribbon. 
 
 I cannot say how much these pastoral sctnes delighted me ; they were, it 
 
190 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 is true, not a little stiif and formal, but the smiling and peaceful calm of the 
 country soothed my agitated mind almost miraculously. Great windows with 
 little diamond panes opened upon the garden, and overlooked the Loire. 
 A wardrobe, and writing-desk of Indian wood inlaid with green and rose- 
 coloured marquetry, and other furniture painted gray, and covered with red 
 and white Persian, completed the decorations of the room. 
 
 Ursula appeared ashamed of the simplicity which delighted me. I thought 
 nothing could be gayer or more lightsome. Two other apartments, orna- 
 mented in the same taste, one of which could be used as a sitting room, com- 
 pleted the suite. 
 
 "Tell me the truth," said Ursula, "shall you not find yourself too poorly 
 accommodated ?" 
 
 " I shall be so comfortable, that if M. de Lancry will only stay here a little 
 while, when he comes to fetch me away, I can tell you that you will have 
 some trouble in getting rid of me." 
 
 " Well, I believe you, my sweet Matilda. All my fear is, that you will 
 soon grow tired of this life, which you so bedeck with your imagination. I 
 am afraid, also, that the society of my mother-in-law, Madame de Secherin, 
 will be insupportable to you." 
 
 " But your husband says she is the best of women." 
 
 " Sons are always indulgent. You will see her. She has not a spark of 
 wit ; is mannerless ; bigotted in the extreme ; obstinate to a degree that 
 would be called firmness of character, if she had as much understanding as 
 she has resolution. Neither her son, nor I, have ever been able to induce her 
 to make the slightest change in the house, to increase the number of our ser- 
 vants, or to improve in any way the establishment. Her eternal strain is, 
 • My poor late husband Secherin, thought it quite well enough as it is.' So 
 you, Matilda, who, I hear, have one of the best and most elegant establish- 
 ments in Paris, must not ridicule us," said Ursula, blushing and quite con- 
 fused, "when you see us waited upon at table by two great awkward country 
 girls of Touraine. It is a rage of my mother-in-law, which nothing can in- 
 duce her to give up." 
 
 I looked at my cousin without having the power to conceal my displeasure 
 and my sorrow. 
 
 " How ! Ursula, do you know me so little as to think I could ever observe 
 such trifles? Do I not think, above everything, of the pleasure of being with 
 you !" 
 
 It struck seven of the clock. 
 
 "I am going to send your lady's maid to you, quickly," said Ursula. 
 " Madame Secherin sups at eight exactly. Yes — sups ! — Nothing can make 
 her alter her gothic customs, and if you were not ready, she would not have 
 the manners to wait for you." 
 
 " I should be in despair, Ursula, to be late. For perhaps your mother-in- 
 law might think my unpunctuahty a mark of disrespect — you know nothing 
 can be more respectable in a family than family habits !" 
 
 Ursula left me., and I was in truth deeply grieved at the fears, and uneasy 
 observations of my cousin — she seemed almost humiliated, not to say spite- 
 ful, at the simplicity of her means of receiving me ; and it really looked as if 
 she thought more of her own vanity than of my comfort. 
 
 I now remember, too, that my cousin, even while she was loudly proclaim- 
 ing her joy and happiness at seeing me again, yet appeared somewhat out 
 of sorts at my arrival. At the time, i attributed her restraint to the foolish 
 causes I have enumerated ; 1 now know the true and wretched cause of her 
 embarrassment. 
 
 I dressed very quickly and as simply as I could, and was ready when Ur- 
 sula knocked at my door. 
 
 " You will excuse my mother-in-law for not having come to welcome you, 
 but she walks with some difficulty, and it would have been very painful to 
 her to come up stairs. My husband has just arrived from the factory, and 
 will join us in the drawing-room forthwith." 
 
 " Come down quickly — for I am determined to make a conquest of your 
 mother-in-law," 1 answered Ursula, laughing. 
 
 " Oh ! you will find that no easy matter — I had enough to do, telling her of 
 your rank, the position of your husband, your elegance, and your wealth ; for 
 she did not appear disposed to be more liberal in her preparations for you, 
 than she would have been for some citizen's wife of our subprelecture. You 
 will excuse this want of education, will you not?" 
 
THE SKCIIERIN FAMILY. 
 
 " On the contrary, instead of finding anything to excuse, that simplicity 
 gives me a yet better opinion of your mother-in-law, my dear Ursula. Deci- 
 dedly, I must contrive to please her." 
 
 We descended the staircase, entered a drawing-room in which the table 
 was laid, and then a parlour in which Madame Secherin was sitting. I re- 
 member the small particulars of the scene, for 1 was struck by the sort of 
 harmony that existed between Madame Secherin, and the objects that sur- 
 rounded her. 
 
 I had so lately been exposed to all sorts of tumultuous agitations, that I 
 naturally found an excessive charm in everything that could bring to my 
 mind ideas of repose and tranquillity. 
 
 The windows and glass doors of that parlour opened upon a boudoir lite- 
 rally enamelled with flowers — a chandelier of rock crystal, carefully covered 
 with white gauze, hung from a large beam which crossed the ceiling — here 
 and there several gilt frames, their only ornament, hung on the dark wain- 
 scoting, containing studies of heads in crayon, drawn by the husband of Ur- 
 sula, while he was at the College of Tours, and presented to his parents on 
 their birth-days, as was testified by long dedications in magnificently flour- 
 ished writing. 
 
 On the marble mantlepiece, stood a clock and candelabras, of gilt bronze, 
 covered like the chandelier with gauze — two brackets of mahogany were 
 placed between the windows, large sofas, and several arm-chairs covered 
 with draperies of white dimity, completed the furniture of that apartment, 
 which was paved with red tiles, brightly polished with wax, and exquisitely 
 clean. Madame Secherin was sitting ->n a couch placed in the recess of one 
 of the open windows, over which hung a thick-clustering mass of rose bushes 
 in full bloom. A large old grey parrot with a red collar, was walking gravely 
 on the threshold of the window. 
 
 Ursula's mother-in-law was spinning with a distaff, to the monotonous 
 sound of her wheel. She was a woman of about seventy years, dressed in a 
 black gown, with a sort of country-cap of lawn, without any trimming, which 
 sat closely round her pale brow and her sunken and wrinkled cheeks. 
 
 At first sight, her countenance appeared merely simple, sweet, and grave ; 
 but, on examining it with more attention, it was easy to distinguish an ex- 
 pression of great firmness ; while her calm eye, deep and observant at the 
 same time, showed along habit of scrutinizing penetration. 
 
 I was persuaded, instantly, that Ursula misjudged her mother-in-law ; and 
 what convinced me, above all, that Madame Secherin was not a vulgar woman, 
 was, that she received me calmly, with a dignified affability which was en- 
 tirely unembarrassed. When I entered the room, she stood up with diffi- 
 culty, leaning on the arm of her couch, and, saluting me affectionately, said — • 
 " You are very kind, madam, to have come to see my daughter-in-law. We 
 will do all that we can, both my son and myself, to render your stay here 
 agreeable." 
 
 " How should it be other than agreeable, madam," I answered, " when I 
 am with a sister whom I love dearly — whose husband I esteem sincerely — 
 and when you receive me with cordiality such as leads me to hope for even 
 more." 
 
 " I feel very much disposed to love you. My son has told me that you are 
 a good and gentle lady ; good people easily love those who are likewise good ; 
 and I hope that you will be pleased with us." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it, madam." 
 
 "We make no pretensions," said Madame Secherin. "We live in the 
 old-fashioned style' ' — placing herself at her spinning-wheel again, as she spoke 
 — "as we did in my husband's time. I have not been able to bring myself 
 to depart from those customs, which were his for so many years." 
 
 " I can perfectly comprehend, madam," I replied, " the religion, if it may 
 be so styled, of memory ; and I admire it. Thus, although the absence of a 
 beloved being is felt the more deeply, there is no bitterness in those regrets ; 
 they are continually soothed by the hope we entertain, of being one day again 
 united to those whose loss we deplore." 
 
 Madame Secherin looked at me for a moment, with an air of interest, and 
 answered — " Good hearts have a mutual intelligence with each other." She 
 sighed, kept silence for a few moments, and then said, as if desirous of 
 changing the subject — 
 
 " These are our habits in Touraine, madam. We breakfast at nine o'clock, 
 dine at two, sup at eight, and are in our beds by ten : for look you, who riae 
 
152 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 early, must to bed betimes. My son is afoot by cock crowing, and cannot, 
 therefore, sit up late." 
 
 Ursula looked at me with an expression almost of supplication, and shrug - 
 ged her shoulders, as she looked toward her mother-in-la.v, tearing, I suppose, 
 that I should be shocked at the simple familiarity with which Madame Se- 
 cherin received me. I was, however, quite on the contrary, charmed with 
 her manner, which, although plain, I thought very lady-like. 
 
 There is nothing more low bred, common-place, or vulgar, than noisy and 
 bustling anxiety to please ; than humble protestations, aud exaggerated re- 
 grets at only being able to receive persona of tht capital, (that style of the 
 sub-prefecture, as Mademoiselle de Maran called it,; in poor provincial 
 fashion. 
 
 At this moment, M. Secherin entered in a hurry, and, appearing delighted 
 to see me, came up with open arms to embrace me. His manner was so 
 natural and cordial, that I offered my two cheeks to him, not without smil- 
 ing, and blushing a little also. 
 
 M. Secherin made the whole parlour echo with the two great kisses he gave 
 me, to the extreme embarrassment of Ursula, who couid not refrain from say- 
 ing to him, in an undertone. 
 
 " Upon my honour, sir, I think you must be mad ! what manners ! Pray, 
 forgive him, Matilda." 
 
 '• What do you mean — how ! what manners ?" said he — " is it because I 
 kiss my cousin heartily on both cheeks ? Upon my word, I am enchanted to 
 see her — and this is my way." 
 
 " Do you not see that Ursula is jealous, my dear cousin ?" I replied laugh- 
 ingly ; but he seemed to reflect for a moment or two on the words of Ursula"; 
 for in a minute he said to me, with an embarrassed, and, indeed, almost sad 
 expression — " After all, my wife is perhaps in the right. I aia doubtless 
 wrong, cousin. Excuse me, but I was so glad to see you, that J did not 
 consider whether it was proper for me to kiss you." 
 
 " I have a great mind to beg you to begin again, my dear cousin, in order 
 to teach Ursula not to scold so unjustly." 
 
 " Really I are you not«**;gry then ?" cried M. Secherin, whose face seemed 
 to expand with pleasure. 
 
 " l)o I look so?" said L 
 
 " How good you are— Heavens ! how good you are ! just like your excel- 
 lent aunt, Mademoiselle de Maran; and, by the way, how is that admirable 
 
 lady?" 
 
 Oh ! very well," I answered, though not without my share of embarrass- 
 ment, exchanging a glance with Ursula. 
 
 " Ah ! mother," M. Secherin w ent on enthusiastically, " you have no no- 
 tion what a line woman Mademoiselle de Maran, the aunt of Madame de 
 Lancry, is. She is ever as a summer's day. In fact, in a word, she is as 
 much like you in character as two drops of water can be. In that respect, 
 mother, she is the very picture of you." 
 
 " So you have always told me, my son, and I believe you." 
 
 "And I shall say so always. Look you, Madame de Lancry can tell you 
 that, the very first time I ever saw her, Mademoiselle de Maran began to talk 
 to me at once just as you w ould have done. She found little faults with me ; 
 she even lectured me somewhat, for saying things which I should not have 
 said ; and that sort of frankness is so rare — is it not, mother?" 
 
 " Old folks owe the lessons of their experience to the young. It is for 
 that reason that a good God leaves them so long upon the earth !" said Ma- 
 dame de Secherin, still, turning her w heel. Then raising her eyes to her 
 son by accident, she said — " Are you going into town, my son. thiseTening?'* 
 
 " No, mother ; w hy should you think I am going into town ? ' 
 
 " You have got your black coat, and w hite neckcloth, and are newly 
 shaved." 
 
 " That is a fancy of my wife's, mother — she told me to go and make my- 
 self fine for Madame de Lancry. I had my biouse on, as I came Irom the 
 manufactory." 
 
 •• Now, Ursula, is this on my account? Ah ! cousin, I shall be quite hurt 
 if you olter your daily customs in the least on toy account, while 1 am with 
 you." 
 
 " Well. You see now little beauty," said M. Secherin, turning to Ursula, 
 " I was right when I told you that it would be all tiie same to Madame de 
 Lancry, whether I dined in my blouse, with a beard of yesterday, or nut." 
 
TIIK SLOHERIN FAMILY, 
 
 " Once more, dear cousin, I should be in despair, if I, oy coming hither, 
 had put you to the slightest inconvenience." 
 
 " Vtry well — it is agreed cousin. I accept your offer, and whatever my 
 wife may say about it, I will remain hereafter in my blouse. You will ex- 
 cuse me, will you not ? I assure you, when we are tired out with a hard day's 
 work, it is very pleasant to be at one's ease." 
 
 " Tl.e truth is, that you weary yourself to death, just as if you had your for- 
 tune still to make my son," said Madame Secherin, with a sjgh, "and yet 
 God blessed the labours of your father." 
 
 " Be quiet, mother. When my property shall amount to a hundred thou- 
 sand livres annual income, clear of the least encumbrance, I will stop the 
 machinery. I have myself said, and my wife thinks, I am not yet quite rich 
 enough ; she would like to have a hundred thousand livres a year, to go and 
 shine in Paris. Well ! she shall have her hundred thousand livres a year. 
 It is so pleasant, so sweet, to think that all the pains I take is giving pleasure 
 to my wife ; to think in a word, that it is in my power to realize all her 
 wishes — and that, to do this, 1 have only got to work. Look you, cousin, 
 this one idea only makes me as happy as a king, while I am working like a 
 negro. This is the reason why I have such black hands. I have no time to 
 play the dandy— no! not I," and M. Secherin burst into a loud laugh, and 
 shewed his great coarse hands, which perfectly justified his jesting. 
 
 Ursula turned crimson between shame and spite, and darted a furious 
 glance at her husband, who looked up at me timidly, and then down at his 
 hands with a disconcerted air. 
 
 "And when that worthy hand," said I offering mine to M. Secherin, " is 
 extended as the pledge of friendship, or of promise to be kept — the friendship 
 which it plights, or the promise which it guarantees, are sacred, 1 well 
 know it." 
 
 This action, and the simple words which my sympathy for this worthy man 
 made me utter — this man, as loyal and devoted as he was unpolished — brought 
 tears to his eyes: he raised the ends of my fingers to his lips almost with 
 veneration. 
 
 His mother stopped short from her work, looked at me steadily, and said 
 in a voice tremulous from emotion — 
 
 "Madam, will you permit me to embrace you— you do but justice to my 
 
 poor son — you only! — " and casting a harsh glance at Ursula, who 
 
 shrugged her shoulders at the speech, she made a movement to rise from her 
 seat. 
 
 " Do not disturb yourself, madam," I said, and stooped down to her. 
 
 She kissed me twice on the forehead ; and when I looked at her again, 
 two big tears were rolling down her venerable cheeks. She wiped them away 
 without saying a word, and again applied herself to the wheel. 
 
 "My poor mother! You will spoil her, if you talk to her of me, thus," 
 said M- Secherin in a low voioe, and evidently much affected. 
 
 All this passed very rapidly. I looked toward Ursula, and I was surprised 
 at the ironical expression, with which she had witnessed this little scene. 
 At this moment, the factory clock of M. Secherin struck eight. 
 
 " Mother, take my arm — let us go to supper — I am dreadfully hungry," 
 6aid M. Secherin to his mother, moving toward her as he spoke. 
 
 "No! no! my son; give your arm to your cousin; my daughter-in-law 
 will help me." 
 
 " Another derangement of domestic comfort, which I will not permit, ma- 
 dam," said I. taking Ursula's arm; are we not all one family?" 
 
 '• Madame de Lancry is right, mother," said M. Secherin, going up to his 
 mother, who, leaning heavily upon him, passed out before us. 
 
 " In good truth, Matilda," said Ursula, in an under tone, and with a half- 
 vexed manner, "you have made a conquest of my mother in-law, as you said 
 you would. This is the first time I ever heard her desire her son to give his 
 arm to any person but herself. Twenty ladies of our relations have been 
 here, and no such thing has ever happened here before. 
 
 " So- much the better; I am very proud of my conquest," said I, smiling, 
 to Ursula, " for I think your mother-in-law a very delightful as well as a very 
 worthy person." 
 
 " Delightful ! My mother-in law ? You think her delightful. Ah ! you 
 are making fun both of her and us." 
 
 " I think her so delightful, that she appears to m« to represent admirably 
 ©he of those vene-able ladies of the old provincial nobility, of whom Made- 
 
101 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 moiselle de Maran was always telling us, you know ; who used to live on theîï 
 own estates without ever coming to Paris or to Court." 
 
 Ursula looked at me with astonishment: she thought that I was in jest, 
 while I-was speaking the mere truth ; for there is nothing so imposing as old 
 age, when it îs simple, thoughtful, venerable, and conscious of its own autho- 
 rity. We sat down to table, and scarcely had we done so, when M. Secherin 
 said, "Mother, the keys to get some wine." 
 
 Ursula blushed anew with anger and confusion, as her stepmother slowly 
 drew from her pocket an immense bunch of keys, and gave them to one of 
 the country girls. 
 
 M. Secherin said grace, and we began supper. The table was excellent, 
 almost delicate, indeed ; everything was served without any attempt at style, 
 bût with admirable neatness. 
 
 " Cousin," said M. Secherin, " you are going to taste some of my mother's 
 pastry," helping me, as he spoke, to some sweet things that were placed be- 
 fore him. "You will see how good it is. No one but my mother can make 
 these tartlets. My only regret is, that little beauty will not learn to make 
 them ; but my little wife will not hear of it." 
 
 "She is very wrong," I replied quite seriously, "cousin, for she shows 
 herself wanting in one of the talents of our family." 
 
 "Ah ! bah! How, so, cousin?" 
 
 " Why, Ursula," said I, " do not you remember how Mademoiselle de Ma- 
 ran used always to tell us, 'that our great aunt de Surgy, and the Countess 
 of Brionne— a princess of the House of Lorraine— I beg you will observe that, 
 M. Secherin— had a rage for preparing curd cakes, flavoured with jasmine, 
 and tartlets of orange jelly with burnt almonds ; and that King Louis XV. 
 thought himself very lucky, when those ladies would give him a share of their 
 culinary labours.' So Mademoiselle de Maran used to say. Once more, do 
 you not recollect it?" 
 
 " Yes, yes !" said Ursula, " but I had forgotten." 
 
 " Tartlets of orange jelly, with burnt almonds— that ought to be very good • 
 I must try that," said Madame Secherin. 
 
 " Well, little beauty, does not this determine you ? See now — since a prin- 
 cess of Lorraine made tartlets, you might do the same." 
 
 " Bxcuse me ; I have no taste for that sort of amusement," replied Ursula 
 neither have I the honour of belonging to the house of Lorraine." 
 
 "But, my mother does not belong to the house of Lorraine, either; but 
 that does not prevent her making cheese-cakes ; therefore, you, too " 
 
 " I took compassion, at this point, of Ursula's impatience, and interrupted 
 her husband by asking him how he was satisfied with the results of his manu- 
 facture. He was delighted at the question, and entered into all sorts of de- 
 tails, which really interested me very much. 
 
 There is always a curious and instructive side to be found, if we choose to 
 look for it, in practical men. Once conversing on ideas relative to facts, 
 which he knew perfectly well, M. Secherin expressed himself with readiness, 
 precision, and if not with eloquence, at least with energy and soul. 
 
 I remember to have asked him, whether he employed many children in his 
 factory ? 
 
 "I employ all that I can catch," he answered with a smile; "and once 
 caught, I never let them go again. I make their parents sign a good and 
 valid deed of surrender: and they must leave them with me, as Ions as pos- 
 sible." r 
 
 " What advantage do you derive from the employment of children ?" 
 
 " What advantage, cousin? that of preventing their parents, who are often 
 harsh and selfish, from overworking the poor little wretches. In my factories, 
 they only do as much as they are able, learn a good trade, become honest and 
 industrious, always having good examples before their eyes— for I keep no 
 bad characters in my employment. It is true that this costs me money, since 
 the poor children do not bring me in as much as I expend on their account ; 
 but that is all one— for they are one of my extravagances— and when I see 
 them happy, stout, and working gaily. upon my word! cousin, I think that 
 I have made a capital investment." 
 
 " 1 a £ mir e y° ur goodness of heart, my dear cousin? so much the more, that 
 I have heard that many of your brother manufacturers— " 
 
 " Work their children to death— is it not so ?" cried M. Secherin, with in- 
 dignation ; " wretches that they are ! Stay, cousin, that puts me in mind %i 
 something that I never told my wife or my mother. For, indeed, it was 
 
THE SECIIEKIN FAMILY. 
 
 195 
 
 hardly worth telling; and it might have made me pass for a braggadocio. 
 But, since we are on the subject, I will tell you the Whole. One day— it was 
 before my marriage — I had gone to Paris to visit a manufactory. What did 
 I see there ? — children thin, sickly, doing more work than men— and for what 
 salary? Heavens! for scarce enough to buy bread. Upon my honour, it 
 disgusted me. I made no second thought about it, but spoke up to the mas- 
 ter of the establishment, who was showing it to me. How can you have the 
 heart, I said, to kill these poor little wretches thus, by a slow fire— for you 
 are killing them, sir; I said. My fellow manufacturer told me, that I was 
 meddling with that which did not concern me, and that he had no need for 
 my observations. I told him that it did concern me ; that 1 was a manufac- 
 turer too, and that the barbarous cupidity of him, and those like him, went 
 far to disgrace an honourable business. He told me to go to the devil. I 
 recommended him to do the like. I am naturally, cousin, as quiet as a lamb ; 
 but when people will stir up my temper, I cannot answer for myself. In 
 short, I do not know how it fell out, but we came to hard words. I am a 
 little too quick with my hands — my gentleman had seen service in the army 
 — so the next day we fought. I had never touched a pistol in my life, but at 
 game I am a good shot : to conclude, I lodged a bullet in the calf of his leg, 
 for he turned his toes out like a dancing master." 
 
 " My son, you fought !" cried Madame Secherin, who had listened to this 
 simple narrative, with all the signs of the deepest anxiety, clasping her hands 
 with a sense, as it were, of fear. 
 
 " There ! I was sure of it " said M. Secherin to me in a low voico ; " mother 
 is going to give me a dressing." # 
 
 Then rising, and going to her, he said, in a tone of respectful tenderness: 
 " Come, mother, I did very wrongly. It was a young man's folly — I never 
 told you of it, thinking that it would make you uneasy." 
 
 "My child, my poor child 1" said Madame Secherin, embracing her son 
 affectionately ; " how cruel pain have you given me !" 
 
 "But — Lord preserve me! mother — it is all over — only think — it is all 
 over!" 
 
 " Your birth is also over, and I thank the Lord daily, that He has given 
 me so good a son ;" said Madame Secherin, with touching simplicity, wiping 
 away a tear. 
 
 This scene, which proved to me that Ursula's husband was as brave, when 
 occasion called for it, as he was energetical, devoted, and sincere — was inter- 
 rupted by one of the two servant girls, who handed a letter to M. Secherin. 
 
 " Ah ! wife," said he to Ursula, " it is from Chopinelle, I suppose he cannot 
 come to pay his respects to-night." 
 
 "Ah! is it one of your neighbours ?" said 1 to Ursula. 
 
 " He is our sub-prefect," she answered, with a blush. 
 
 I was so much surprised to see her blush, that I looked at her fixedly, not 
 with the least idea ot embarrasssing her, but as it were mechanically — when, 
 to my great surprise, she turned crimson. 
 
 "It is exactly that," said M. Secherin; "he cannot come to-night; he 
 has,got circulars to write, for they talk of re-elections. He is a capital fellow, 
 is Chopinelle, and a very handsome man too. Always well dressed, shaves 
 every day, and wears gloves. Have you never met Chopinelle in society, 
 cousin?" 
 
 " I think not," said I, smiling ; " I do not know the name." 
 
 " Nevertheless, he goes into all the tip-top society of Paris, when he is 
 there — does he not, wife? he dines with the ministry, and is quite the pet of 
 the faubourg noble;* is it not so, little beauty?" 
 
 " I think M. Chopinelle boasts," said Ursula, drily. 
 
 " How funnily you say that — you who are always angry when he is contra- 
 dicted, and who listen to him like an oracle !" 
 
 " I think M. Chopinelle is a liar!" said Madame Secherin, very shortly. 
 
 "Take care, mother, take care. You will have a famous quarrel with Ur- 
 sula directly, if you speak ill of her country— for Chopinelle is a Parisian, like 
 herself ; and more than that, is her privileged waltzer, and her companion in 
 her singing — for he has a perfect voice, Chopinelle, has he not, little beauty t 
 a voice as sonorous as an organ pipe. You must sing together, for our cou-, 
 sin, that pretty duet, you know. You know very weli, that duet you were 
 practising so long; that duet from an Italian opera, that concludes in — I." 
 
 * Faubourg noble. The West End ! That part of Pans, where the nobility 
 reside. 
 
196 
 
 MATILDA 
 
 Ursula, desirous, unquestionably, of putting" an end to a conversation 
 which was becoming disagreeable to her, said to her mother-in-law, " My cou- 
 sin is very much tired with her journey. She requires rest." 
 
 " Very right, daughter-in-law. Pardon me, madam," said Madame Sech- 
 erin, turning to me. " My son, say grace !" 
 
 When grace had been said, we returned to the drawing-room. I wished 
 my hosts good-night, and went up stairs with Ursula to my own chamber. 
 
 " To-morrow morning I will come and awake you ; and we will have a chat 
 together," she said to me, with a manner by no means free from embarrass- 
 ment ; " this evening you must be tired. Get some rest, if you can. Good 
 night 1" 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 The next morning, when I got up, I wrote a long letter to Gontran, entreat- 
 ing him to come to me at Rouvrai, as soon as possible. This letter, my hus- 
 band would receive at Paris, on his return from London ; so. that it was 
 possible that I might see him in eight days. Writing thus, for the first time, 
 to Gontran, I experienced a delicious pleasure in this sweet occupation. I 
 had so much to tell him. Every moment, I was on the point of telling him 
 the whole ; but I remembered the advice of M. de Mortagne, and submitted 
 myself in silence. 
 
 My letter written, I waited with strange impatience for Ursula. All the 
 recollections of my childhood and my youth had awakened, while the sorrows, 
 which I had experienced, had ripened and developed, my judgment. I saw, 
 with real grief, that Ursula overlooked the excellent and sterling qualities of 
 her husband. All extravagant as the melancholy mood of Ursula had been, 
 I yet preferred it to the decided, dry and almost contemptuous tone, which 
 she appeared to me to have adopted toward her step-mother and M. Secherin. 
 
 But as I reflected more, I excused Ursula. She was alone, without ad- 
 visers ; and once embarked on a wrong course, she would naturally go more 
 and more astray, daily, for want of friendly and salutary warning. 
 
 Several times I^tbought of the blushes and confusion of my cousin, when 
 her husband had named M. Chopinelle. In the solitary position of Ursula, 
 she had, perhaps, coquetted a little with this man ; and I resolved to speak 
 to her very frankly on the subject ; and to entreat her not to expose herself 
 to domestic disagreement, for a cause so worthless. 
 
 Madame Secherin appeared to me to be a woman of very strong sense ; very 
 firm, very obstinate. She had, I fancied, perhaps, even more influence over 
 her son than Ursula had. And it seemed to me, also, that she entertained 
 some secret sense of anger against her, which she was restraining till a good 
 opportunity should occur for letting it break out. 
 
 Persons of this character, generally prudent, calm, obstinate, of clear- 
 sighted intelligence, of simpie hearts, of austere piety, know nothing either 
 of management or moderation. Their religious impartiality makes them 
 wait for proofs with invincible patience ; but, when once convinced that they 
 have right and justice on their side, they are pitiless, indeed. 
 
 Ursula came into my room, and, after a few phrases of no consequence, 1 
 said to her, " I must scold you, my sistet You are unreasonable. You 
 promised me that you would strive to educate your husband, if I may so 
 speak — to fashion him a little. With a few kind and gracious words, you 
 could accomplish everything ; for I am sure that I, who have no influence 
 over him at all, in a few days could change him greatly for the better." 
 
 " You are accustomed to work miracles. Have you not bewitched my 
 mother-in law? My husband told me, this morning, that she doated on you." 
 
 " Confessing this triumph, which you see — do you think it so difficult to 
 make ourselves beloved ?" . 
 
 " It is not so difficult, my dear Matilda, as it is troublesome. I do not 
 feel the least desire to be loved by Madame Secherin." 
 
 " Listen to me, Ursula. Believe me, you are very much mistaken in the 
 character of your mother-in-law." 
 
 *' You have discovered in her the manners of a great lady. Are you now 
 going to discover that she is a genius ?" 
 
 " A genius ? no ; but she has much penetration : she is incessantly ob« 
 •erving." 
 
THE LOVE-V.JSTTEB. 
 
 197 
 
 " What is there, that she can observe ? I am not afraid of her." 
 " That I believe. Nevertheless, why not humour her ?" 
 " For what purpose ? I should like to see you in my place, my good Ma- 
 tilda." 
 
 " In your place? I should amuse myself very much." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 " Here." 
 
 " But how, I pray you ?" 
 
 " I will tell you : by making myself loved — by trying to work wonders — to 
 change your husband, almost into a fine gentleman — to bring over your 
 mother-in-law to anticipate, and even go beyond, your wishes, in all the im- 
 provements of this house, which you dislike so greatly." 
 
 " That is impossible. You do not know the obstinacy of Madame de Se- 
 cherin, or the dislike of my husband for everything that is constrained or 
 formal." 
 
 " Try always. Even yesterday, how did I manage to put myself on a good 
 footing with her ?" 
 
 " Oh 1 you are so fascinating; you know so well how to hide your disa- 
 greeable impressions. As for me, I do not know how to dissemble : I am too 
 frank. For some months, I remained in the deepest melancholy, in a gloomy 
 state of sadness. My despair has consumed itself in my tears. Now L have 
 become hardened — I have endured so much. My heart is insensible to 
 grief, even ; I rally — I despise — I like that better." 
 
 From the beginning of our conversation, the tone of Ursula had been wiry, 
 abrupt, and rough. 
 
 " My sister," said I ; " you are not in your natural state of mind, you con- 
 ceal from me some secret chagrin." 
 
 " None, I swear to you : I have taken my course. When we have enough 
 fortune to go and live in Paris, I shall go. Until then I live mechanically ; 
 avoiding my girlish dreams, if at any time they rise up before me, in my own 
 despite : — those happy memories ! they remind me but too much of you, and 
 of our dear childish days. Alas 1 Matilda, Matilda, you have spoiled my 
 life." 
 
 After a long silence, Ursula hurst into tears, as if quite suddenly she had 
 given way to emotions hitherto suppressed. 
 
 " Oh, I was very sure," I exclaimed, "that my dearest friend was conceal- 
 ing something from me — that her short bitter words came from her lips, not 
 from her heart." 
 
 " Well, then ; yes, yes, forgive me. Yesterday, after the first joyful emo- 
 tion which I felt at your arrival, an evil feeling took possession of me. I be- 
 came ashamed of what was about me ; I became ashamed of my continual 
 melancholy, I feared to appear ridiculous to you, with my everlasting tears. 
 I thought I would be resolute, careless, ironical — but this part so false, so 
 dissembled, I could not support it. To you, in your presence even, it is im- 
 possible to speak falsely. Your poor Ursula feels this day as keenly, perhaps 
 more keenly, than ever, the ill-assorted match which she has contracted. 
 Yesterday — this morning, when I complained of the dullness of this house, 
 I spoke falsely. What matters to me the frame that incloses my life, when 
 the life itself is blighted. Ah ! Matilda, with a heart which could have com- 
 prehended mine, the hardest, the most miserable life would have seemed 
 happy." 
 
 " Poor Ursula : I love you better thus. I love your tears far better than 
 your ironical tone and chilling smile. But, tell me ; your husband seems to 
 me to strive even to suppress your wishes. Although rich already, does he 
 not labour without rest or relaxation, in order that he may one day satisfy 
 your taste for opulence?" 
 
 " You would speak, would you not, Matilda, of this fortune, which I or- 
 dered him to acquire, in order that I may go and shine in Paris?" said Ur- 
 sula with a bitter smile. " I seem to you very selfish, very avaricious, very 
 vain, do I not 7 " 
 
 " You must be mad, Ursula ; I never said so." 
 
 " No ! no! it is true, Matilda — pardon me. But at the same time I should 
 be grteved if you suspected me of being capable of an avarice so base and 
 shameful. Listen to me, I say: on my arrival here, my husband talked to 
 me of giving up his manufactures, of living at his leisure, of consecrating all 
 hi3 time to me. Shall I confess to you, Matilda, that I was alarmed — per- 
 haps even more on his account than on my own— at this life of leisure which 
 he proposed to share with me ? Our tastes are so different I — there is So little 
 
196 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 sympathy between us ! And then I know, too, how dear it would cost hira 
 to give up the occupations to which he was attached, the habits of activity 
 which had become a second nature to him, which almost involved the question 
 of his health. It wouid have been so impossible for me to recompense that 
 sacrifice, that I would not accept it. Then, in order to render my refusal 
 less painful to his self-esteem, in order to avoid saying — ' this leisure, which 
 you wish to consecrate to me, would be indifferent, or even wearisome' — then 
 I was forced to feign I know not what of avarice, what of unbridled vanity. 
 Then it was that I told him, that, instead of giving me pleasure by abandon- 
 ing his business, he would, on the contrary, please me by persisting until he 
 had acquired a sufficient fortune to enable us to shine in Paris ; a fortune to 
 shine, Matilda ! Matilda, you know me — you know what value I set on lux- 
 ury and splendour ; — and even when my husband should have realized the 
 fortune which he dreams of, alas ! I feel too well that I shall not enjoy it. 
 My life is consuming itself slowly, and wretchedly, my dear sister." 
 
 And with her last words Ursula let fall her head sorrowfully on her bosom 
 — she seemed overwhelmed with a vast weight of affliction. The melancholy 
 expression of her countenance, the languor of her downcast eyes was so well 
 harmonized to her sad words, that, I confess to you, I believed blindly what 
 she told me. 
 
 She even found a way to appear the victim of self-sacrifice to her husband, 
 even while she was forcing him to toil without relaxation to augment a for- 
 tune which was large enough already. 
 
 I carried my blindness to such an extent that I even made myself uneasy 
 about Ursuia'8 presentiments, and set myself to work strenuously to combat 
 them. " But, in a word," I said, " why dream on so dull a prospect? why 
 give up all hope ?" 
 
 Ursula took both my hands in hers, fixed her soft blue eyes, drowned in 
 tears, upon my faee, and murmured in a voice of the deepest emotion — 
 
 " You speak of hope, my sister — alas ! I wrote you word the day after our 
 fatal marriage, what was my hope — it is a poor and humble resting place in 
 the village cemetery — my prospect is eternity !' ' 
 
 And Ursula leaned her head upon my shoulder, and wept bitterly. After 
 a little while, however, she grew calm ; yet had our conversation taken such 
 a course that I did not see by what possible transition I could ask her, if she 
 had not flirted a little with M. Chopinelle. 
 
 Knowing the enthusiastic character of my cousin, and the unoccupied state 
 of her affections, I dreaded on her account the danger of solitude — I thought 
 it would be profitable — nay, that it was necessary, to make her a partaker of 
 my disquietude, and hesitated no longer. 
 
 "Tell me," said I, " Ursula, do you see much company?" 
 
 "A few relations of my husband, and a few merchants of Rouvrai, with 
 whom he has business." 
 
 " But have you no habitual intimacy with any one ?" 
 
 " Yes, with one or two friends of my mother-in-law, sometimes with the 
 deputy King's advocate, and also with our sub-prefect." 
 This Monsieur Chopinelle?" 
 
 " Exactly, who wrote a note last night, you know, to my husband." 
 
 Ursula pronounced these words so naturally, and with so little embarrass- 
 ment, that I believed my suspicions all unfounded. 
 
 " And so you play and sing with him — is he a good musician ?" 
 
 "Detestable! — he sings horribly out of tune. Unluckily, M. Secherin is 
 much attached to him, and from politeness 1 am obliged to undergo — Heaven 
 knows how many duets, and repetitions of duets. Ah I Matilda, do you re- 
 member what we used to say ?" added Ursula, shaking her head mournfully — 
 " ' When it finds voice for two, music is a heavenly, a sacred language, which 
 'should never be profaned.' Judge, then, how I must suffer when I am 
 obliged to sing with this man. I who, like you, used to believe, that it is 
 only with a person tenderly beloved ' that we can share those bursts of soul, 
 those passionate accents, which song only can convey !' " 
 
 I, indeed, well remembered, that in the height of our violent admiration 
 for music we had oftentimes wondered how it could be possible to sing pas- 
 • sionate duets in company with any one but a person whom we loved. So 
 that these last words of Ursula set me completely at rest as regarded her 
 coquetries ; so that I was not afraid to say to her — 
 
 " You will think me very absurd ; for here have I been imagining that your 
 Bub-prefect was making love to you." 
 
 Despite the tears, which were still quivering at the end of her long dark 
 
THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 199 
 
 eye-lashes, Ursula fell into a fit of laughter so noisy and unaffected, that I 
 was put quite out of countenance. 
 
 " M. Chopinelle !" she exclaimed, in the middle of her laughter, "what a 
 ridiculous idea! You do not know what M. Chopinelle is like; but you will 
 see him. Good Heavens ! good heavens ! the idea of M. Chopinelle making 
 love to me !" 
 
 Laughter is certainly contagious ; and, in spite of myself, I joined in my 
 cousin's mirth ; but after our merriment had subsided a little, Ursula said, 
 very sorrowfully, with one of those sudden changes of sentiment which con- 
 stituted her chief charm — 
 
 " Alas ! Matilda, one of the causes of my despair is, that I feel my heart is 
 dead, for ever dead. It has been so grievously worn out by sufferings con- 
 cealed for so long a time, that if this poor heart beats at all, it is thy friend- 
 ship, and that only, which lends it so much life as to flutter faintly. And 
 then, my sister," she continued, with much real dignity of manner, " It is 
 true that my husband wants many of those advantages which awaken passion 
 — that dream of all us women ; but he is kind, sincere, devoted ; and trust 
 me, Matilda, it would be impossible for me to wrong him, as it would be to 
 fall in love with him." 
 
 "True, Ursula, true;" I replied, pressing her hand. "I recognize your 
 heart in your 'words." 
 
 "Moreover," she continued, with a smile so pitiful that it brought tears 
 into my eyes, " I am like those poor sick children, who derive a sort of sad 
 consolation from being pitied; and should I dare to hope for pity, if I were 
 guilty." 
 
 Doubtless I was completely prejudiced in Ursula's favour ; but the most 
 distrustful spirit must have been disarmed, as I was, by the appearances she 
 knew so well to simulate of ingenuous sincerity. She had employed all arms, 
 contemptuous wit, soft sensibility, delicacy, dignity, in order to convince me, 
 and I was convinced. 
 
 At this moment, better informed, I have never been able to feel otherwise than 
 confounded ; struck, I was almost going to say, with a sort of admiration — for 
 even splendid wickedness may excite a kind of wondering admiration — when 
 I think with what wondrous skill that woman knew how to play on every 
 string of the human soul — with what dexterity, with what pliancy she could 
 pass from tears to smiles, from dignity to frankness, from pride to tenderness 
 — all to convince you of a lie ! Attacking, at all points, your intellect, your 
 heart, your vices and your virtues, your sympathies and your aversions, she 
 left not one chord of your mind, or your feelings, unsolicited. 
 
 About three o'clock, while M. Secherin was at his factory, and his mother 
 taking her customary after-dinner nap, I was sitting with Ursula in the draw- 
 ing-room, when M. Chopinelle was announced. 
 
 M. Chopinelle was a young man of a dark complexion, with a round ruddy 
 face, fringed with black whiskers. His figure was stout and square, singu- 
 larly graceless, with enormous hands and feet ; his features were regular 
 enough, although their expression was most ordinary ; this had been sufficient 
 to gain him in the province the name of being handsome. 
 
 In consideration of the season, probably, he wore a straw hat, and a neck- 
 cloth loosely knotted, shepherd-fashion, round his neck. A riding coat of 
 coarse green camlet, with metal buttons, pantaloons with blue stripes, and 
 shoes of gray doe-skin, completed his pastoral attire. 
 
 Scarcely had I caught a glimpse of this vulgar dress, before I was perfectly 
 at my ease about the heart of Ursula. I will add, adapting to myself a small 
 share of the style and manner of Mademoiselle de Maran, that M. Chopinelle, 
 joined to this exterior, copied from that of beau Leandre, struttings of a tri- 
 umphant self-satisfaction, softened down somewhat by a kind of official re- 
 serve and ministerial haughtiness, which made M. the sub-prefect, the very 
 ideal of self-sufficient folly and vulgar incapacity. 
 
 I exchanged a satirical glance with my cousin, who received very coldly the 
 noisy and familiar demonstrations of M. Chopinelle. He, on. the contrary, 
 seemed to me to have entered the room as a self-confident conqueror, as an 
 intimate friend impatiently expected. But, for a moment, he was quite 
 thrown back upon himself by the icy reception which he met with from Ur- 
 sula ; but after reflecting a little with himself, he probably came to the con- 
 clusion that his victorious ardour was a little out of place in the presence of 
 a stranger. He smiled, then, with a peculiar air, which seemed to say to 
 Ursula, " Be perfectly easy ; I will not compromise you ; I will entirely dis- 
 semble our mutual good intelligence." This parade of ridiculous and inso- 
 
200 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 lent stupidity disgusted me beyond measure ; for at that time, I never dreamed 
 that my cousin had given him cause for his conduct. 
 
 " What news i3 there in Rouvrai, M. Chopinelle?" said Ursula, continuing 
 to work quietly at her embroidery. 
 
 " Nothing very important, madam ; except as connected with the adminis- 
 tration," he replied, with a self-important and mysterious air. " A dissolu- 
 tion is talked of: my correspondence, yesterday, prevented me keeping my 
 engagement with our great* Touraine-man. But what would you have ? 
 We must be punctual in public business, before we think of doing the agree- 
 able." 
 
 I looked at Ursula ; she shrugged her shoulders ; the words great Touraine- 
 man could apply to no one but her husband; and I was much disgusted by 
 the familiarity of this coarse witticism. 
 
 M. Chopinelle went on : "You may be sure, madam, that my regrets were 
 not limited to that," with a gracious bow and smile to Ursula, " but state 
 affairs must take the precedence of everything." 
 
 " My dear," said Ursula to me, making a slight movement of her head to- 
 ward her visitor, " M. Chopinelle, sub-prefect of our district." 
 
 " Has madam just arrived here from the Capital?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Madam will find the province dreadfully dull, wearisome, and stupid. 
 To us Parisians, it is a perfect Siberia — a place of exile — as bad almost as 
 being sent at once to the antipodes. You eannot form the least idea, madam, 
 of the sort of people we have in my district. Upon my word, one would fancy 
 himself among the Hurons, to say the least. Fortunately, Madame Secherin 
 has been cast away also on this foreign land, and if madam should remain 
 Here some time, we will get up a little Parisian colony in the midst of these 
 savages of Touraine. I presume you are a musician, madam," added M. 
 Chopinelle. 
 
 Luckily, he tookmpon himself to answer his own question, saying, " It is 
 impossible to doubt it. You have, unquestionably a charming voice. We 
 will transport hither the country of the fine arts. Madame Secherin has a 
 great deal of talent for music — Madame Secherin the younger, be it under- 
 stood ; for her mother-in-law can only sing masses — ha! ha! ha!" and he 
 looked at me, quite proud of his impertinence. 
 
 He perceived that he was not particularly to my taste; so he turned for ap- 
 plause to Ursula, who answered him, very drily, " Monsieur, I think what 
 you have said about my husband's mother, is entirely out of place." 
 
 The astonishment of Chopinelle was extreme. "So ! so !" said he, with a 
 sort of spiteful manner; "you must have something against me, that you 
 receive me thus. One would say that I was a stranger to you." 
 
 " Really, monsieur," said Ursula, with imperturbable coolness, " I do not 
 know what you are talking about ! Let us speak, if you please, of the post- 
 road in the neighbourhood, which you are promising us incessantly." 
 
 M. Chopinelle appeared to me to be touched to the quick. Wishing, un- 
 questionably, to justify the language which he had used to my cousin, he for- 
 got himself even so far as to say, " I do not know whether it is the presence 
 of this lady that intimidates you so much, but you must confess that, in ge- 
 neral, you do not treat me so ceremoniously. I suppose I am not the friend 
 of the family, then, madam? Well ! well ! I will complain to our dear Sech- 
 erin, I promise you !" 
 
 If I had not been misled by the blindest and most foolish confidence in Ur- 
 sula, the ill-temper of this man, always exceedingly ill-bred, must have given 
 rise to infinite suspicions ; yet I saw nothing in M. Chopinelle but a ridicu- 
 lous ass, who wished to profit in my eyes, by that sort of intimacy which the 
 habits of a country life justify, in order to gain the credit of possessing Ursu- 
 la's interest or affections. 
 
 It is to give an idea of the extreme folly and stupidity of this person, that 
 I have quoted a few words of his conversation, which was nothing but a 
 pompous mixture of common-place absurdities, with intolerable pretensions. 
 
 It has always been inexplicable to me, how people can be amused by the 
 folly of fools ; their vulgarity, their drivellings, disgust me— make me melan- 
 choly in scarcely a less degree than the sight of physical infirmities. 
 
 The coldness and dislike, which I could not refrain from manifesting to M. 
 Chopinelle, shortened the duration of his visit. After he was gone, Ursula 
 
 * Gros Tourangeau implies more even than this — great coarse countryman, 
 or the like term of cockney ridicule. 
 
TUB LOVE- LETTER • 
 
 asked me, laughing violently, whether I now thought sne was smitten with 
 the sub-prefect — whether it was possible to meet a man more entirely absurd 
 — and if I was not ashamed of my suspicions on that score ? 
 
 I shared the merriment of Ursula, and certainly did not retain the least 
 dcubt of her sincerity. 
 
 M. Chopinelle did not return for several days, to the great surprise of M. 
 Secherin, who continued to overwhelm his wife with inquiries concerning 
 him, which seemed to annoy him nota little. 
 
 Completely reassured on the subject of Ursula's coquetries, in the course 
 of a few days I made another discovery, which gave me yet greater pleasure. 
 In my presence, the tone of Ursula to her husband was cold, indifferent, 
 sometimes almost scornful. M. Secherin did not, however, seem to notice 
 this, but appeared to be the happiest man in the world ; and sometimes, 
 greatly to Ursula's annoyance, he would mention things which showed them 
 to be on the best possible terms, and that his wife loaded him with proofs of 
 affection. 
 
 Several times he said to my cousin, laughing a-nd shrugging his shoulders : 
 " It is because our cousin is here, that you will not seem to be in love with 
 me." 
 
 In fact, after having for a long time asked myself, why it could be that my 
 cousin dissembled her conduct, when it was conformable to the advice which 
 I had given her, I was convinced at last, that she did so in order to preserve 
 to herself the right of representing that she was the most unfortunate, the 
 most misunderstood, of womankind ; and in order to be able to complain to 
 me of the sort of moral misalliance to which she had been sacrificed. 
 
 This conviction tranquillized my mind greatly, with regard to the future 
 lot of Ursula. 
 
 For the first time, I discovered a sort of melancholy monomania in the 
 exaggerated sadness which she had affected during our first conversation at 
 Rouvrai. I did not, indeed, accuse my cousin of falsehood, but I looked 
 upon her as almost unhappy in being ashamed of her happiness ; and in not 
 daring to confess that, on recognizing the noble and generous qualities of 
 her husband, she had determined wisely not to perceive some of his small 
 vulgarities. Once satisfied that her griefs were but affected, a sort of coque- 
 try with sorrow, I had not the courage to cross Ursula by commenting upon 
 it. 1 believed her, I saw her, to be perfectly happy, and to all the rest I was 
 indifferent. 
 
 I was far, indeed, from regretting the tears which I had given to her 
 imaginary sorrows; but I could not restrain a smile when I thought that 
 the summit of Ursula's felicity, was to be thought the most wretched of 
 beings. The more I observed her, the more I perceived how great was the 
 extent of her influence over her husband. Sometimes I even doubted, 
 whether it was equalled by that of Madame Secherin. 
 
 She still persisted in a forced coldness toward Ursula, which seemed at 
 times to wound her son's feelings. 
 
 About eight or ten days after the scene which I have described, M. Cho- 
 pinelle came to Rouvrai, to dinner, and this time made excuse again of his 
 numerous occupations, to account for his absence. 
 
 M. Secherin received him with evident and joyous cordiality. After supper 
 when night came, instead of playing, as usual, at picquet, with her son, Ma- 
 dame Secherin seated herself at her spinning-wheel. 
 
 My cousin went out to give some orders in 1ns manufactory. The windown 
 were open, for it was a delicious evening. Ursula and M. Chopinelle were 
 sitting on a sofa, behind the chair of Madame Secherin (who seemed to be 
 completely absorbed with her spinning) chatting together. 
 
 Thanks to the faint light of the lamp, the drawing-room was in a sort of 
 misty twilight. I went and seated myself near one of the windows, to look 
 out upon the night, which was pure and starry, and fell, I believe, into a 
 sort of revery, 1 do not know how long I had been buried in my thoughts, 
 when, turning my head mechanically, I saw M. Chopinelle give Ursula alet- 
 ter, which she thrust hastily into the pocket of her apron. 
 
 I was almost entirely hidden in the recess of the window; and my cousin 
 thought, doubtless, that as she could not see me, I could not perceive her 
 motions. I almost imagined that I was dreaming. 
 
 At this moment Madame Secherin, stopping the measured motion of her 
 wheel, said in the most natural voice to Ursula, half-turning her head as she 
 •poke: " Daughter-in-law, pray come and hold this skein, for me to wind." 
 
202 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Ursula now rose and approached her mother-in-law. I can see that scene, 
 as if it were yet before me, 
 
 Ursula wore a dress of white muslin with pink stripes, and an apron of 
 bright blue silk, trimmed with black lace. Standing upright before Madame 
 Secherin, she held the skein of white thread upon her two hands, and as if 
 annoyed by the little task her mother-in-law had imposed upon her, was 
 tapping the floor lightly with her pretty foot. 
 
 Suddenly wiih a movement quick as thought, Madame Secherin plunged 
 her hand into the pocket of Ursula's apron, and seized the letter of M. Cho- 
 pinelle. 
 
 " With traitors it is fair to use treachery" — she cried in a threatening 
 voice — " I saw the whole in that mirror." 
 
 , And she pointed to a mirror placed opposite to her, which must natu- 
 rally have reflected whatever passed behind her chair. 
 
 " Madame !" said Ursula, growing pale. 
 
 *' I have been watching you this long time," said Madame Secherin — " my 
 «on shall know the whole." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 NIGHT BRINGS COUNSEL.* 
 
 This. scene passed so quickly, that I had barely time to approach Madam 
 Secherin and say to her — 
 
 " For God's sake ! madam, speak low, you will be overheard ; your son may 
 return at any moment." 
 
 " I wish he would come quickly," answered that inflexible and determined 
 woman. 
 
 M. Chopinelle was crest-fallen, stupefied. Standing upright by Ursula, he 
 could not utter a syllable. 
 
 " Madam," cried I, " my cousin may have been imprudent, but not crimi- 
 nal." 
 
 " My poor son !" said Madame de Secherin, not answering me, but gazing 
 at the letter which she had captured — " and for this woman he is killing 
 himself with labour — and for this woman he sometimes forgets his mother. 
 But God is no less just than he is good — no ! no ! he is good, and will not 
 suffer the guilty to escape unpunished." 
 
 She rang the bell as she spoke, and a servant answered it. 
 
 "Go, tell my son to come and speak with me instantly; he must be in 
 the factory," she "said, and the servant girl obeyed her. I gazed at. Ursula 
 in speechless wonder, so much did her imperturbable coolness confound me. 
 
 "You are about at rength to be treated as you deserve," said Madame 
 Secherin, indignantly, to Ursula, shewing her the letter as she spoke — " my 
 son shall know the whole." 
 
 Ursula had recovered all her self-composure, and answered her mother-in- 
 law with an air of the most frank and natural astonishment that can be 
 imagined. 
 
 " In truth, madam, I do not understand your reproaches. I do not know 
 to what you allude when you tell me that I shall be treated as I deserve. It 
 seems to me that before accusing me, you had better open that letter — if it 
 is the'letter which causes your anger — and assure yourself of its contents." 
 
 Madame Secherin raised her head quickly, and looked at my cousin in 
 violent surprise. 
 
 " What ! do you dare to say ? — " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Heavens ! madam, nothing can be more simple ; my husband's birth-day 
 is very near at hand. I gave monsieur," pointing to M. Chopinelle, "a 
 commission to execute for me relative to a surprise which I am preparing 
 for M. Secherin. Foreseeing that it might be impossible for M. Chopinelle 
 to speak with me about it in private, and wishing to keep it entirely a secret, 
 I begged him to write me a line on the subject ; this is the great secret — and 
 all that there is in it, madam." 
 
 Relieved from a tremendous weight of anxiety, I cnst myself upon Ursula's 
 neck ; she had' spoken so simply, so naturally, so frankly, that I reproached 
 myself bitterly with having suspected her. 
 
 * A phrase signifying that it is wise to consider before acting or speaking. 
 
t 
 
 NIGHT BRINGS COUNSEL. 203 
 
 Î said to Madame Secherin — "You see, madam, you were mistaken." 
 
 Madame Secherin sat astonished. She looked wildly at the letter which 
 she held in her hands, and seemed unable to believe what she heard. 
 
 " How," she said, speaking to herself, "is it possible that I should have 
 been mistaken to such a degree ? So long, too, as I have been watching 
 them? No ! no!" she cried, quickly breaking the seal of the letter, "the 
 heart of a mother never is so deceived'. Besides, why should I feel such aver- 
 sion for this woman? I am not unjust, not a hater; no — no! she must be 
 guilty, she is guilty !" 
 
 And with the words, she drew near the lamp to read the letter, and began 
 looking for spectacles. The face of my cousin remained perfectly unchanged ; 
 and she said, with a smile, to M. Chopinelle — 
 
 " Well, monsieur, here is an end of our surprise !" 
 
 But the sub-prefect stared at her with a scared and stupid expression ; 
 then suddenly snatched up his hat, and was making in a hurry for the door, 
 when he was met by M. Secherin, who caugiit him by the arm, and cried 
 out, laughing, as he held him back — 
 
 " Why, you are not going yet, Chopinelle ! are you mad ? and my revenge 
 at écarté, which you were to give me ? Come, come ! you do not get off 
 thus." 
 
 " At last, here is my son," cried Madame Secherin, who held the letter 
 6till open, but without having read a word of it ; " all will be now ex- 
 plained." 
 
 M. Secherin had brought M. Chopinelle back with him, and still held him 
 by the arm. 
 
 " Will be explained !" he repeated, " what is it? what will be explained, 
 mother ?" 
 
 " Oh ! husband dear, a terrible adventure," Ursula made haste to answer, 
 gayly. " Only picture to yourself, that M. Chopinelle just now gave me a 
 letter secretly. Good Heavens ! yes — very mysteriously, too — just for all the 
 world ! as if it had been a real declaration of love. Now, should you like to 
 know what this letter is ? Alas ! I suppose I must make up my mind to let 
 you know. It contains some information about a little surprise I was pre- 
 paring for your birth-day, with which I had intrusted M. Chopinelle. 
 As it was very likely that 1 should not get an opportunity of speaking alone 
 to monsieur, 1 requested him to write me, what he would be unable to tell 
 me, so that no one might suspect anything about it. Now, unluckily, the 
 whole has corné out, and I shall have no fun with my surprise." 
 
 " So, so: thaf's all right — the day after to-morrow is St. Benedict's day, 
 doubtless," said M. Secherin. "Ah! my wife, you were spoiling me! and 
 so you took this good fellow, Chopinelle, for your accomplice, did you ? Ha, 
 ha ! Mr. sub-prefect, so you league yourself with my wife, do you?" he ex- 
 claimed, laughing heartily — " So, you two are plotting together to procure, 
 me a surprise, are you ?" 
 
 - "A surprise !" said Madame Secherin, casting a penetrating glance at 
 Ursula, " we shall soon see." • And she began to unfold the letter. 
 
 M. Chopinelle became as pale as ashes; and I, struck by a frightful pre- 
 sentiment of evil, shuddered with dread — for something told me that, by a 
 degree of presence of mind which confounded me, and by her audacious 
 falsehood, Ursula had retarded the awful discovery. 
 
 Seeing the consternation of the sub-prefect, I was convinced that it was 
 undoubtedly a love-letter, and determined to attempt, for the last time, to 
 save Ursula. 1 exclaimed, therefore, trying to hide the alteration of my 
 voice, of which I was but too conscious — 
 
 "You know, cousin Secherin, this sort of surprise must be considered 
 sacred — it ought to be respected." 
 
 " I think so too — so, pray, mother, do not read this letter, but give it back 
 to Ursula, that she and her accomplice may carry out their little villanies. 
 I will pretend to know nothing about them." 
 
 " Give me — give me the letter, madam," exclaimed M. Chopinelle, putting 
 his hand forward to receive it. That hand trembled like a leaf ; I thought 
 that everything was over. 
 
 But at this moment, Ursula, who had scarce turned away her eyes from her 
 mother-in-law, and had constantly been drawing nearer to her, by degrees, 
 with a sullen air, burst into a fit of loud laughter, and snatched the letter, 
 crying out, " My good mother, there shall be no partiality ; neither you, nor 
 any one of them, shall know my surprise before the time." 
 
 "Bravo! bravo! escape now, my little wife; escape now!" cried M. 
 
204 MATILDA. 
 
 Secherin, and Ursula hurried out of the room ; I followed her almost me- 
 chanically, and M. Chopinelle did likewise. 
 
 Once safely out of the drawing room, he wiped his brow, as' if relieved 
 from great anxiety, and said, with a bewildered air, 
 
 " What coolness ! She has saved us ! What a woman ! Heavens ! what a 
 woman I" 
 
 The moment we were alone, my cousin tore the letter into shreds, and 
 thrust the pieces into the pocket of her apron. 
 
 "Ah! Ursula," I said in a reproachful tone, " I tremble yet. How ter- 
 rible a lesson I God grant that it may not be lost !" 
 
 "You may indeed boast yourself on your presence of mind. Had it 
 not been for you, all was discovered. I have not a drop of blood in my 
 veins," cried M. Chopinelle, with a confused and frightened manner. " Ah ! 
 Ursula I what a woman you are !" 
 
 If I had yet had the least doubt, these last words of M. Chopinelle, con- 
 nected with his strange agitation, must have dispelled it. My cousin looked 
 at us both with an affected air of surprise, and said, laughing, 
 
 "And is it possible, my good Matilda, that you are speaking seriously ? 
 If so, what do pou mean with your terrible lessons? What connection can 
 such terrible words have with a discovery so innocent as this, which was on the 
 point of being made? Would not anyone suppose that you were talking 
 of something serious ? Are you, too, going to imagine, with my wise mother- 
 in-law, that it was really a love epistle ?" 
 
 This impudent mockery of assurance frightened me ; and, for the moment, 
 struck me dumb. The sub-prefect, no less thunderstruck than I, looked at 
 me stupidly, and said, like one bewildered, 
 
 " Wonderful ! wonderful ! It is scarce possible to believe that one hears 
 her rightly. Heavens! what a woman !" 
 
 Ursula's laughter still increased, as she exclaimed, " And you, too, M. 
 Chopinelle ! You are disturbed ; you grow pale and shake. You are in ec- 
 stacies at my presence of mind, which you say has hindered everything from 
 being discovered. In truth I am in despair, that the poor commission with 
 which I troubled you, should have produced such terrible emotions.- But 
 do you know that you are exceeding awkward — ihat your bewildered, fright- 
 tened air, is in itself, enough to have justified my mother-in-laws's suspi- 
 cions ! For an embryo statesman, I must say, you have very little self-pos- 
 session ; and that, too, for such nonsense as this was. What would have 
 happened, I should like »to know, if it had related to anything serious ? 
 I have great fears that you will never succeed in politics, my poor Monsieur 
 Chopinelle." 
 
 " How !" I exclaimed, in spite of myself enraged at her effrontery, "sup- 
 pose your husband had opened that letter ?" 
 
 " He would have known what present I am going to give him on his birth- 
 day — our surprise would have failed — that is all." 
 
 And Ursula looked at me steadily and without the symptom of a blush — 
 her features were as composed, and her expression as sweet and smiling, as 
 if she had spoken nothing but the truth. 
 
 We were still standing in the vestibule, when M. Secherin rejoined us, 
 smiling and gay as was his wont. 
 
 Ursula exclaimed, the moment she beheld him : " Your mother is very 
 angry at my childish nonsense, is she not? After all, what I did was very 
 wrong ; for now, that I think of it, I must certainly have seemed afraid of 
 your reading that letter. Tell me, did not your mother see it in that light? 
 I am sure that she did, and she is right too, for appearances seem to be 
 against me !" 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" said M. Secherin, laughing very loudly. "You must 
 be mad, with your appearances. Quite the contrary, I assure you. To my 
 great surprise, my mother, instead of being angry at your taking the letter 
 out of her hands, only looked at me steadily, when you had gone out, with- 
 out saying one word. Then she asked me to give her my arm, and went up 
 to her own chamber. I could not get a single word out of her." 
 
 Ursula shook her head sorrowfully as she made answer : " I was sure of 
 it, my dear husband, I was sure of it. Here is your mother really angry 
 with me. I do not know what I would not do, that this should not have hap 
 pened — that I should have behaved so headstrongly ! I never shall forgive 
 myself for it." 
 
 And a tear sparkled in her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 "Come, come!" said her husband, moved by her seeming grief, "how 
 
NIGHT BRINGS COUNSEL. 
 
 205 
 
 you are going to upset yourself — to grieve yourself for mere nonsense— when 
 1 tell you too, that she did not say a word— there now — be quiet — do 1" 
 
 "Precisely the reason why I am grieved. I am hurt seriously by this — 
 her silence seems to accuse me. She is fancying some neglect on my part." 
 
 M. Chopiuelle made his escape, while her husband was consoling Ursula. 
 I pretended that I had a headache, and made it an excuse for retiring. Ur- 
 sula and her husband accompanied me to my chamber door, and wished me 
 good night. I was left alone ! 
 
 Ursula then was guilty — I could not entertain one doubt of it. My heart 
 was like to burst. I know not that I have ever felt before, or since, the 
 agony which I then experienced. Ursula had been false then — ay ! false 
 from the beginning. 
 
 Her everlasting melancholy — her meditative sadness — her longings for ideal 
 bliss — her scruples, which took the alarm at whatever was not exquisitely 
 delicate — all this was but a mockery — a falsehood ! 
 
 And I had been bewailing myself over her imaginary sufferings, and all the 
 while she was suffering nought. She had sinned— and that, too, without the 
 excuse of passion — without th« excuse of that fascination which a man emi- 
 nently gifted, might have exerted on her senses. 
 
 She had betrayed her duty for a man of whom sire was ashamed — for she 
 ridiculed him — contradicted him with imperturbable assurance. 
 
 During this scene, which might have been her utter ruin, her brow had re- 
 mained unmoved, intrepid — she had charmed the storm into silence when on 
 the eve of bursting ; and that, with a presence of mind, with a coolness, an 
 audacity that made me shudder. 
 
 These discoveries gave me pain beyond all that I can describe. Alas ! to 
 my shame I confess it, perhaps the bitterness with which I saw rny illusions 
 vanish, was rendered keener by the rage which I experienced at finding my- 
 self the dupe of my own good-nature. 
 
 And yet — no ! no ! the more I call to mind what I then felt, the more it 
 seems to me that I was overwhelmed by this one thought — that I had no 
 more a sister ! — that she^in whom I put such trust, was no more worthy to 
 be called my friend. 
 
 I passed a sad and agitated night: When I awoke the next morning, my 
 maid told me that M. Secherin had already been several times to my door, to 
 know if I could admit him. 
 
 A good deal disturbed by this, I dressed myself as quickly as I could, and 
 sent for my cousin. He was not long in coming, but he looked care-worn 
 and sorrowful. 
 
 " What do you wish to say to me," I began, " my dear cousin ?" 
 
 "Something extremely grave, cousin," he answered, "and as you are one 
 of the family, and my wife's best friend, we are not to have any secrets from 
 you. Guess what ha3 happened ? It is as if the roof had fallen down upon 
 me. I never should have dreamed of such a thing — but when old people take 
 a fancy into their heads " 
 
 " I do not understand what you mean, cousin !" 
 
 " Would you ever have believed that my mother could have been very cruel 
 and unjust to my poor wife? Well! she has been so, nevertheless," said 
 he. " Last night, Ursula told me the whole, weeping at her own words. 
 My heart is almost broken. Would you believe, that, when I am not present, 
 my mother treats her with the grossest injustice ? — that she checks her sharply 
 — that she scolds her — while Ursula, like a sweet lamb as she is, bears every- 
 thing without complaining. Last night's scene, however, has brought the 
 matter to a crisis ?" 
 
 "Last night's scene?" 
 
 " Certainly— Ursula has told me everything. My mother's ridiculous sus- 
 picions about Chopinelle and the letter, wounded my wife's feelings more 
 deeply than all else — and with good cause too. For, in a word, as my wife 
 said to me last night, ' You can easily understand, my poor wolf, that so long 
 as it related only to things of small consequence, I could afford to hold my 
 peace — but now, when it concerns a suspicion involving both your honour and 
 my own, I can no longer condemn myself to silence before you. To do so, 
 would be almost to admit that your mother accuses me with injustice !' Now 
 see just what it is," cried M. Secherin, " mother-in-law and daughter-in law 
 are just like fire and water. It is the devil to pay ! — I ought to have expected 
 as much ; and yet, not quite so either — for my poor wife never said a word 
 for herself ; she gave up in everything to my mother. She is good — is admi- 
 rably good ;" and he began to walk to and fro the room in fearful agitation. 
 
203 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 I saw at once, that, fearing to be anticipated by her mother-in-law, Ursula 
 had made a pretended confession to her husband, and profited by her influ- 
 ence over him, to make herself out completely innocent. Greatly indignant 
 as I was at Ursula's conduct, and grieved at the blindness of her husband, I 
 3'et would not say a word that could, by any means, awaken his suspicions, 
 although I endeavoured to calm his irritation against his mother. 
 
 "All this will readily accommodate itself," J. said. " My dear cousin, the 
 heart of a mother is always somewhat suspicious — somewhat jealous. This is 
 the natural fault of true affection." 
 
 " Therefore, I will have none of it. I shall but have to speak very plainly 
 to her. You pretend to say, mother, that Chopinelle lias been making love 
 to my wife, these last three months. Well— it is just three months, to a day, 
 that ray wife has been more affectionate to me than she ever was before. 
 And this is quite true, cousin, too. You can have no idea how Ursula has 
 petted me, and spoiled me, these last three months. It is ' My big wolf '» 
 here .' and * My good dog ' there ! for Ursula does just as your aunt wished 
 me to do: it is but justice to her, to say so. She keeps all these pretty 
 names for me when we are alone. In short, I can only tell you, that never — 
 never have I been so happy as within the last three months ; so gay — so quietly 
 and peacefully contented. This is not a dream — this is not a suspicion ; I feel 
 it— I experience it ; it is reality — truth ! So that, whether my mother says 
 all this, or absolutely nothing, it is all one to me. Ha! ha! ha!" he con- 
 tinued, laughing with blunt sincerity, " my wife in love with Chopinelle ! 
 How can any one conceive so ridiculous an idea^? In truth, it is madness ; 
 and, as Ursula told me to-night, if it had not been for affronting Chopinelle, 
 and setting him against the great road in the neighbourhood, which will be 
 so useful to my manufactory, she would have packed him off long since, with 
 his duets. He bored her to death ; he literally flayed her ears ; for, instead 
 of singing, it seems that he bellows, like the devil with a bad cold in his head 
 — as Ursula says. It always had a good deal that effect on me ; but, as I 
 don't know anything about it, I kept it to myself ; and so did Ursula, for 
 fear of annoying me by ridiculing my most particular friend. I should just 
 like to ask you, where you suppose my mother found the knack of imagining 
 such things ? A great fellow so absurd — such an ass as that ! In truth, he must 
 be very ridiculous, this Chopinelle ; for, in spite of her tears, my poor Ursula 
 made so much fun of him, that we ended by laughing like two children. 
 She is so droll — so merry, my little wife, when she likes it. You can have 
 no idea of it, cousin ; for, when she is before you, she behaves herself, for fear 
 that you should think her in bad taste ; but, between ourselves, there is not 
 such a merry little madcap anywhere. It is for that, I am so much annoyed 
 to see her sorrowful. He must have a heart of stone, who could bear to an- 
 noy her ; and my mother, who is generally so kind, must needs go and take 
 a spite to her. She— she " 
 
 "I dare to say, cousin, that Ursula has nothing with which to reproach 
 herself ; but you" know, old age always is suspicious ; and, moreover, it seems 
 to me, that your mother has hitherto made no complaint against your wife." 
 
 " Certainly, she has not ; but wait a little. „ It is about to happen, now. I 
 understand, now, the secret of my mother's manner last night. She never 
 does anything by halves. That silence is but the presage of a terrible scene. 
 I know my mother: she says nothing, unless she has something to say ; and 
 then shè is terrible indeed." 
 
 "The most united families are never free, cousin, from these discussions; 
 you know it very well ; but these slight storms pass, and are soon forgotten." 
 
 " Doubtless ; but after this, as Ursula was saying, in order to avoid such 
 storms for the future, perhaps it would be better for my mother — better for 
 us, too — to live a little way apart. About two gun-shots hence, there is a very 
 pretty little house to be sold ; I could establish myself very well there, with 
 my wife — leaving this to my mother. In a word, she would be more com- 
 fortable ; for, as Ursula says, it is on my mother's account, that we should do 
 this." 
 
 " Leave your mother, cousin ? Consider what you are about — after so long 
 a time that she has been accustomed to live with you !" 
 
 " Oh I it would not really be leaving her— we should see her every day, and 
 oftener two or three times," than once. And then, you see, Ursula has a very 
 delicate chest, notwithstanding that her health seems so good ; and my mo- 
 ther's hours for meals are so different from those to which my wife has be.en 
 accustomed, that she has the greatest difficulty in the world to adapt herself 
 to them. In the long run, she would fall ill from it. She has struggled 
 
NIGHT BRINGS COUNSEL. 
 
 207 
 
 against it as long as she could, without saying a word to me -about it — poor 
 little thing; but now, at last, she confessed to me that she could not bear it." 
 
 " So, in short, cousin, you are determined, or almost determined, to sepa- 
 rate yourself from your mother. It is a very serious resolution ; and, 1 must 
 say, I think she has been dealt with rather suddenly : yesterday, you had not 
 thought of. such a thing." 
 
 " No ! surely— that is to say, sometimes my wife has talked to me about it, 
 at intervals ; but, last night, she made me understand that it would be tho 
 wisest plan for both parties. And now, I am quite of her opinion — now, that 
 I am sure my mother is unjust to my wife ; — sooner or later, that would havo 
 given rise to coldness hetween us. Do you not think we shall do wisely to 
 act thus, cousin? 'But — oh! first of all' — Ursula said to me, ' above all, 
 consult Matilda, and let us follow her advice.' " 
 
 " Since you ask my advice, I would prevail upon you to be patient some- 
 what longer. Your poor mother has not the least expectation of this sudden 
 separation. It will come upon her like a terrible and sudden blow." 
 
 " Do you really think so, cousin ?" 
 
 " Indeed, 1 do ; and shall you feel nothing ?" 
 
 " Certainly : I should be sadly grieved, if it were the question of leaving 
 my mother for ever. I do not even know, that I could consent to it at all ; 
 but it is only now a question of living two gun-shots off, no farther." 
 
 " Nevertheless, believe me, this resolution will be very painful to her. Do 
 not be in a hurry — believe me — wait and reflect." 
 
 At this moment one of Madame Seeherin's servant girls entered the room, 
 and said, 
 
 " Monsieur, Madame Sechcrin begs you to come to her. She also requests 
 madam to accompany you. She is waiting in the room with three windows." 
 
 " In the room of my late father!" said my cousin, looking at me with a 
 strange mixture of surprise and fear ; " this is very extraordinary ! Since the 
 death of my father she has never used that room except to pray in — to her it 
 is a sort of chapel. Cousin, you cannot conceive the sadness — the fear with 
 which it strikes me. I know my mother — something both terrible and strange 
 is about to happen." 
 
 Exceedingly astonished myself at being thus summoned by Madame Sech- 
 erin, I followed my cousin with a dark presentiment of evil. I have retained 
 a vivid recollection of the family scene that followed ; for it has often seemed 
 to me that similar scenes must have many times occurred, inasmuch as the 
 feelings that were then brought into play, were, and will ever be, deeply and 
 generally human ! The conversation, which I had just had with M. Secherin, 
 proved to me evidently what I had half-guessed already, that Ursula, instead 
 of dreading the vulgarity of her husband, affected to partakeof it, in order to 
 increase her influence over him. 
 
 The cunning wit, the shrewdness of my cousin, really frightened me. 
 
 I was desirous now of quitting Itauvrai hastily — I repented even of coming 
 thither — a secret foreboding told me that this journey would be fatal to my 
 happiness. 
 
 When I began to reflect upon the days of my childhood, and upon the hu- 
 miliations which Mademoiselle de Maran had inflicted upon Ursula on my 
 account, I began to persuade myself that, despite her continual protestations 
 of affection, Ursula must needs be too false, too treacherous, and too self- 
 interested, not to feel likewise deeply envious. 
 
 I had an indefinite feeling, thai she could not have forgiven me the appa- 
 rent advantages I possessed over her ; and that, sooner or later, she would 
 avenge herself upon me. The coolness and audacity which I had seen her 
 display on the previous evening, began now to alarm me on my own behalf. 
 
 A woman so young, so beautiful, so daring, so cunning, so perverted^— 
 seemed to me the. most dangerous being in the world. Blushing at nothing 
 — daring everything — lying with imperturbable effrontery, possessing the 
 strange gift of tears at will, united to the most fascinating smiles — déîightful 
 — full of talent, yet devoid of soul — what might not she undertake? — what 
 could resist her? — in what might .she not succeed ? 
 
 While I was following M. Secherin, I could think only of the exquisite 
 skill with which Ursula had armed her husband against the accusations which 
 his mother was undoubtedly about to make to him ; and, engaged still in 
 this thought, I entered the room with my cousin, in which his mother waited 
 for us. 
 
MATILDA, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE WIF1S AND THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 There was something both mournful and imposing in the appearance of that 
 room which had belonged to the late M. Secherin. His widow, in conse- 
 quence of a half-superstitious feeling of affection, had left the apartment in 
 precisely the same state in which it had been at the death of her husband. 
 Here and there, upon the different articles of furniture, stood phials filled 
 with various kinds of medicine ; while, on a writing-desk, was a half-finished 
 letter, without doubt the last to which M. Secherin had set his hand, covered 
 with a glass shade. 
 
 This room, which had been so long closed, was damp — cold as a funeral 
 vault, and gloomy, for it was hung round with dark draperies ; and the dim 
 light, which scarcely entered through the half-closed blinds, if possible, aug- 
 mented the death-like sadness of this melancholy, chamber ; wherein every- 
 thing appeared to call up to the mind the most painful images of desolation 
 and death-agonies. 
 
 In spite of myself, I shuddered ; my cousin turned very pale, and ap- 
 proached his mother with a sort of religious dread. 
 
 Madame Secherin was dressed, as usual, in black ; but she had substituted 
 a Widow's cap for the peasant's mob, which she usually wore. Her white 
 hair escaped all dishevelled, from under this head-dress ; her gray eyebrows 
 were bent in a deep scowl, her lips painfully contracted ; and her whole 
 countenance, wearing an expression of sadness, of suffering, and of severity, 
 altogether produced an effect on my mind, that long afterward remained im- 
 printed on it deeply. 
 
 Suddenly, as we entered, without uttering a word, Madame Secherin ex- 
 tended her arms to her son. He cast himself into them weeping convulsively, 
 and for some moments held his mother closely clasped to his bosom. 
 
 At last, she said in a voice choked with emotion, *' My son, my poor son, 
 courage !" 
 
 M. Secherin wiped the tears from his eyes as he answered with many signs 
 of emotion. 
 
 "Heavens! mother, why have .you sent for us hither into my father's 
 chamber ? It recals to your mind, and to mine also, moments of cruel suf- 
 fering : it is not wise in you to do so." 
 
 " My son, this place to me is sacred ; you know it. I oftentimes come 
 hither to pray. It is like a holy spot to me. It seems that your sainted 
 father can hear and see me better when I am here." 
 
 Then addressing herself to me — "Madam," she said, "you are an angel 
 of virtue and of kindness. It is, therefore, that I have taken the liberty of 
 calling for you. You entertain feelings ôf friendship for my son ; you know 
 that he is upright and good; you will not abandon us ? You will be for jus- 
 tice, will you not?" And as she spoke, Madame Secherin stretched ou£ her 
 trembling arms toward me. 
 
 " Madam," I said, " I know not wherefore " 
 
 " I am about to tell you all ; and although this wretched woman calls you 
 her sister, you will be just, I am convinced. You can have nothing in com- 
 mon with the guilty." 
 
 M. Secherin looked at me, and made me a sign of intelligence, as if under- 
 standing what his mother was about to say. She took her son's hand into 
 both of her own, looked at me with an expression of deep astonishment, and 
 said to him in a voice that betrayed deep agitation— 
 
 " My son, if a great peril should befall you, you would come to me, would 
 you not ? You would console yourself in my company. I should be to you, 
 as all ,that you had lost. You would never be altogether wretched, while 
 you ha'd me, toward whom to look, should you?" 
 
 "But, mother, wherefore do you say this to me?" 
 
 " Listen — listen ! I tell you this, to prove to you, that the Lord never 
 abandons those who are true and right of heart. Do you hear me ? If base, 
 bad hearts deceive and abuse them — to recompense their sufferings, they find 
 another heart, true and devoted as their own. A mother's heart, for instance ! 
 And, by the aid of that blessing, they forget the guilty who have wronged them. 
 Courage! my poor son, courage !" 
 
 Unquestionably, Madame Secherin perceived, and wished to prepare hej 
 
THE WIFE AND îrfE \tt0THER-IN-IAw". 209 
 
 son, for the cruel blow she was about to strike at his peace, in disclosing to 
 him the treachery of Ursula. 
 
 M. Secherin appeared to me to be growing weary of these preliminaries, 
 and impatient. 
 
 Here, his mother, unable to control her indignation any longer, cried, 
 
 " You must leave her. You must abandon her without seeing her any 
 more ! Do you understand me ? That is what she deserves— but 1 shall still 
 remain to you." 
 
 M But explain yourself, mother !" 
 
 " Well ! my son !" 
 
 " Well ! explain !" 
 
 " My son ! your wife deceives you !" said Madame Secherin, looking at him 
 with a terrified expression, although she spoke tenderly; 
 
 She expected a violent outbreak of passion ; but, what did she think, when 
 she saw her son shrug his shoulders, and reply quietly, 
 
 " Let us say no more about that, mother. I know what you mean. You 
 would speak of Chopinelle ? Well ; between ourselves, that is totally absurd !" 
 
 It is impossible to paint the astonishment of Madame Secherin, as she 
 heard her son thus receive her explanation, which she believed to be over- 
 whelming. Her natural instinct, however, enlightened her instantly, and 
 she exclaimed, " She has anticipated me ! She has anticipated me !" and she 
 hid her head in her hands. 
 
 " Yes !" her son quietly replied; "yes, certainly, she has. My wife told 
 me last night, that you seemed to believe that the letter which Chopinelle 
 had given her, was a love-letter. She anticipated you, so far as to tell me, 
 that you believed that this man loved her ; and that she loved him in return. 
 Well ! what then, mother ! You have been mistaken. You have not seen 
 clearly. Let us say no more about it! Now embrace me ! Only let me say 
 this — if I had been less confident in Ursula's love than I am, this might 
 have caused më a good deal of grief ; and even made me suspect my poor 
 little wife." 
 
 My cousin appeared so entirely satisfied, so blindly persuaded of his wife's 
 truth, that his mother, wishing to strike a decisive blow, foreseeing that all 
 attempts to humour him would be vain, raised herself to her full height, 
 calm, and majestic ; lifted her hands toward Heaven, and cried with a voice 
 like that of one inspired, seeming to come from her very heart : 
 
 By the sacred memory of your father! as truly as God sits in heaven — 
 may I perish otherwise, as a perjured thing, eternally — your wife is faithless 
 to you !" 
 
 The accusation was terrific ! this violent oath had such weight, in the 
 mouth of an austere and pious woman, such as Madame Secherin, that her 
 son, despite his deep trust in Ursula, grew pale as a sheet. 
 
 Immovable, with his eyes fixed and glaring, he stared at his mother with 
 an indescribable expression. I was, in truth, astonished at the character of 
 grief, rage, and despair, which for a moment lent a stamp of almost savage 
 energy to the features of M. Secherin, ordinarily so kind and jovial. 
 
 "The proofs — the proofs of this, mother !" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Proofs ! do you ask me for proofs ! when I have sworn to you — sworn by 
 the holy memory of your father ?" cried Madame Secherin, in a tone of 
 deep grief. 
 
 " My God! my God! is it possible — is it possible!" cried M. Secherin, 
 hiding his face in his hands, as if totally overcome. 
 
 His mother went on to say : " Last night, I had the proof in ray hands, I 
 am sure of it — but that fiend snatched it from me. I was so terrified by her 
 audacity, that I was speechless. And then, I thought that I would again 
 fall back upon myself, and ask my God, what I should do. The whole of last 
 night, I was considering this. I recollected what I had seen : their signs of 
 mutual intelligence, their management, their stratagems. I prayed Heaven 
 to enlighten me. This morning I came hither, I fell upon my knees, I be- 
 sought your sainted father, who sees and hears us, to inspire me. My 
 prayers were heard. I felt so sure — so convinced of that, concerning which 
 I-$have sworn to you — sworn the sacred oath — do you mark me ? You know 
 me well. I would rather die than accuse the innocent, than condemn my 
 soul to all eternity by a sacrilegious perjury . It must be, then, that this was 
 a revelation from on high, which tells me that this wretch is guilty." 
 
 " It is true ! my mother would not commit a sacrilege— she must be sure, 
 and yet — my God ! what must I believe ?" murmured M. Secherin, in a deep 
 
 T 3 
 
210 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 hoarse voice, leaning his forehead on his two clenêhed hands, with a violent 
 gesture of despair. 
 
 His mother raised her eyes to Heaven with an expression of supplicating 
 tenderness ; then drew near to her son, and leaned her venerable hands on 
 his shoulders, and said to him, with an accent of ineffable pity and affection : 
 
 " You must believe your mother, my good child, for God has inspired her. 
 He has, past question, chosen me, in order to break this cruel blow to you, 
 because I only can console you, calm you, cure you. We shall live alone, 
 henceforth, we two, as we were wont to live of old I Ah ! you shall see ! you 
 shall see ! You will scarcely discover the absence of that evil woman. You 
 will find me here — ever here, I shall be with you still more, than I have 
 been heretofore — because, do you see — I perceived that I was not necessary 
 to your happiness, any longer, since she has been here. She! I did not dare 
 to tell you so — but this gave me pain — oh ! great pain ! It is this that in- 
 creased yet more the sadness I have ever felt, since the death of my late hus- 
 band. But now I will try to be gay. I will be gay, in order to distract your 
 sorrow. I will promise you — I am sure of it, I am sure of it — you shall see — 
 you shall see ;" said the poor mother, trying to smile through her tears. " I 
 shall be happy once again to see my son my own — my own unquestioned 
 right. I shall be glad and gay as I was in my early youth. I assure you, 
 that I shall not suffer you to be careworn or lonely, one moment, while you 
 are with me. My eyes are still good. Well Î in the evening, I will read to 
 you, while you are resting from your labours. Then I will pray to God for 
 you beside your bed's head. You will sleep well, guarded by your mother's 
 blessing. We shall lead together a very calm, a very sweet life. I assure 
 you, that I will prove my love to you so deeply— oh ! so deeply, that you will 
 never regret it !" 
 
 . At this moment the door opened, and Ursula entered. I am satisfied that 
 she had been listening to all that passed, and skilfully chosen the moment 
 for her entrance. 
 
 Foreseing the grave trial of strength, which was about to occur, she had 
 prepared herself for it by the extreme coquetry of her attire. 
 
 J think I can see her now, as she entered, calmly smiling and ingenuous — 
 never did she look more lovely ! She wore short sleeves, displaying her bare 
 arms, exquisitely rounded and as white as snow. Her frock, of English mus- 
 lin, with small blue figures on a white ground, rather low in the neck, dis- 
 played her lovely shoulders and the outline of her form, which was now 
 perfection — for since her marriage, she had gained that plumpness which 
 she lacked before. Her rich brown hair, profuse in its luxuriance, was 
 dressed in waving folds over her brow, but fell in innumerable ringlets down 
 her shoulders, and set off exquisitely her fair and rosy face. The long black 
 fringe of her silken lashes half-veiled the light of her large, dark blue eyes ; 
 but, as she entered the door, she cast through them a stolen glance at her 
 husband, and made a graceful little movement of her head, which scarcely 
 could be called a nod. 
 
 So full of languid tenderness was that glance of Ursula, that M. Secherin, 
 despite the tortures which surrounded him, could not prevent himself from 
 blushing, and shuddering, as it were, from the effects of love and admi- 
 ration. 
 
 His face, hitherto darkened by doubt and sadness, lightened up instantly. 
 He fastened his greedy eyes, as if fascinated, upon his wife; and from that 
 moment he seemed completely under the influence of her irresistible and 
 maddening beauty. . 
 
 I repeat it — never in all my life, had I seen Ursula so lovely. 
 
 She appeared utterly ignorant of what was going on, courtesied respect- 
 fully to her mother-in-law, and took a seat not very far from her, on an otto- 
 man — leaned her beautiful arm on the cushion, and crossed her legs one 
 over the other, in such a manner, that her dress discovered the instep of the 
 
 Erettiest little foot in the world, beautifully arched, and exquisitely set off 
 y a morocco slipper, fashioned like a sandal. 
 If, in so grave a moment, I lay any stress on details seemingly so trivial, 
 if I dwell even on Ursula's position in her seat, it is because I am convinced 
 that everything, even to that very position, had been calculated, by my 
 cousin, with a degree of shrewd subtlety and cunning coquetry that defies 
 imagination to exceed it. 
 
 Was it by chance, er the result of quick observation — Ursula was seated 
 precisely in the centre of the sfngle sunbeam, which penetrated into that 
 gloomy chamber through the half-open blinds 1 
 
TUE WIFÉ AMD THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 Never shall I forget that striking contrast. 
 
 Here Ursula sat, splendid in the freshness of her beauty, of her youth, in 
 the most fascinating dress, surrounded, as it were, by a luminous glory, 
 which looked even more brilliant than it was, owing to the dim shadows of 
 the closed chamber. 
 
 Farther off in the shadow was the mother of M. Secherin, disconsolate, 
 clad in deep mourning, pale, despairing, bowed down by sorrow and old 
 age. 
 
 Alas ! when I saw that the victory in the cause now to be tried lay between 
 these two women, the one of whom was trembling on the verge of the grave, 
 the other just entering the threshold of most perfect womanhood, I was 
 seized with dismay and sadness. 
 
 I was to be the witness of one of those fatal struggles common to the ca- 
 reer of all, which put to the touch the most passionate and sacred senti- 
 ments of human life. 
 
 I felt a deep sympathy for ihat poor, aged mother, because she was aged, 
 because she was a mother. My heart was shaken by a sad presentiment. 
 "I bethought me that — at the very moment when she was racking her inge- 
 nuity to find consolations for her son, recounting, with touching simplicity, 
 all the amusements which she could devise to distract his sorrows,, asking 
 him what he should have to regret — at that very moment entered Ursula, 
 beautiful, coquettish, daring, fascinating. 
 
 Fatal chance ! fatal comparison ! which seemed to say to that unhappy 
 man — choose — you must either pass your future life with this woman, sad, 
 austere, pious, withered by years and sorrows, or with this other, most en- 
 chanting, uniting in her person all the fascinations of her whole fascinating 
 sex. 
 
 Doubtless, the motherly instinct of Madame Secherin revealed to her the 
 greatness and the danger of the strife which awaited her. Her face bad 
 hitherto expressed no sentiments but those of tenderness and affection ; but 
 at the sight of Ursula, her brow darkened, her features contracted violently, 
 and bore strong traces of the rage, the scorn, and the hatred, which affected 
 them. Stunned, as it were, by Ursula's audacity, she held her peace for a 
 moment, but then, recovering herself — 
 
 " What do you here?" she said, half-raising herself from her arm-chair, 
 and showing her the door, with an imperious gesture— " Begone ! Begone ! 
 — Hence !" 
 
 Ursula gazed at her mother-in-law for a moment, as if in deep and sin- 
 cere astonishment ; then she interrogated M. Secherin, with another glance, 
 full of submissive sorrow. 
 
 " But mother " said he hesitating. 
 
 " I will have it— she must go ! I will not have her sully, with her pre- 
 sence, this chamber, which to me, at least, is sacred. She is unworthy to 
 remain here — I insist that she shall go hence. My son ! — do you hear me ? 
 — I insist !" 
 
 M. Secherin made a movement of impatience, and said to his mother, 
 "But mother, we do hot condemn people, without hearing them, at least !" 
 
 " You uphold her, then ! you uphold her !" cried Madame Secherin, clasp- 
 ing her hands ; then she repeated, as she let them fall, quite overpowered by 
 her feelings, " He sustains her still !" 
 
 Ursula turned her great eyes, wherein a tear was beginning to sparkle, on 
 her husband, and said to him, in a voice, trembling with agitation, " My 
 God! my God! Husband, what does this mean? And you, madam," she 
 added, turning to her with an air of supplication, " tell me, for God's sake, 
 what I have done to you, to deserve this treatment?" 
 
 " What have you done ? you have blasted the happiness of my son ! you 
 have unworthily, basely, betrayed him ! But he is your dupe no longer. 
 I have enlightened him ; and he feels all the scorn — all the detestation— 
 for yo.u, which you deserve so richly." 
 
 At these words, uttered in a loud and violent voice, Ursula looked at her 
 husband with an expression of the wildest agony, and sinking her head be- 
 tween her hands, cried out, in a reproachful tone, 
 
 " Oh ! my beloved !" 
 
 She buried her face in the cushion of the ottoman, so far, that nothing 
 could be seen of her person, but her beautiful bare shoulders, shaken by a 
 quick, convulsive shudder. 
 
 " Mother !" said M. Secherin, stamping angrily, " why do you say that I 
 feel scorn and detestation for my wife?" 
 
MAiiiDA. 
 
 " Because she deserves it. You well know that she deserves it. Come I 
 come ! my poor son, let us leave her and Madame Secherin made a move, 
 ment as if to rise from her chair. 
 
 " This cannot pass so," said her son ; "it will not do to accuse my wife, 
 without giving me the proofs of what she has committed. Listen, my 
 mother ; the question turns upon the happiness or misery of my whole life. 
 Do you think that I shall consent to sacrifice that very lightly?" 
 
 " Lightly ! lightly 1 my son — when I have sworn to you that this woman 
 is guilty ?" 
 
 " Guilty ! guilty ! yes, it is easy to say that ; but I cannot, for my part, 
 surrender the whole happiness of my life, because you are convinced of a 
 thing." 
 
 "All the happiness of your life — she ! And what am I, then ?" cried Madame 
 Secherin, indignantly. " What am I ?" 
 
 " But, my God ! you are my mother. I respect you — I love you tenderly, 
 devotedly ; but," cried he, with a piercing tone, that told of inward anguish, 
 " I love Ursula too, passionately — I love her as the first, the only woman I 
 have ever loved, and I will never sacrifice her — no ! 1 will never sacrifice her, 
 unless I have proofs that your prejudices are too well founded." 
 
 " Do you accuse me of perjury, unhappy child ?" 
 
 " I accuse you not. You tell me that my wife is guilty. Well, prove it 
 
 to me !" 
 
 At this, Madame Secherin exclaimed, in a terrible voice, " Do you dare 
 to ask me for other proofs, in the face of the oath I have made before God, 
 who hears me — by the sacred memory of your father " 
 
 "In Heaven's name! mother, be not angry with me. I would not, for 
 the world, doubt your words ; yet consider — you may be deceived, yourself, 
 in all good faith— you may be blinded by the dislike which you feel to my 
 wife, and you may take that for a revelation from on high, which may be 
 in reality, but the effect of your prejudice against her. For since we are on 
 this subject, I will tell you, that it is to-day only that I know, you do not 
 like my wife ; and'that now explains many things to me." 
 
 "True ! it is true ! I hate her — yes! I despise her, because she has be- 
 trayed you basely — because she has dishonoured your name — and because I 
 will not suffer a wretch like her to degrade a name which your father and I 
 have always honoured." 
 
 Ursula only suffered a few audible sighs to escape from her. Her husband 
 answered, reddening with anger, " My mother, there is such a thing as abus- 
 ing their position. Once more ! if you have proofs against my wife, produce 
 them. Here she is ; accuse her. If she cannot defend herself — if she be 
 guilty — I will be pitiless to her. But, until then, insult her not ; no ! I 
 will not suffer any one to insult her in my presence." 
 
 " Hearest thou ! he threatens me ! hearest thou, O my God ! — threatens 
 me in the very chamber wherein his father died " 
 
 " Heavens ! my mother ! pardon me, pardon me," cried M. Secherin, 
 throwing himself on his knees at the feet of his mother, and seizing her hand, 
 which she withdrew scornfully. Suddenly my cousin lifted up her charming 
 face, all bedewed with tears. 
 
 I looked at her attentively. For the first time, I perceived what, until 
 then, I had never noticed — that her eyes, although bathed in tears, were 
 neither red nor swollen. They showed, perhaps, even more brilliant than 
 their wont, through the limpid drops which flowed so becomingly, I might 
 almost say so coquettishly, when compared to the bitter and convulsive bursts 
 of unfeigned sorrow. 
 
 I understood, then, only, that it was possible for a person to remain beau- 
 tiful while weeping. The most enchanting features, until then, had ever 
 appeared to me disfigured by that convulsive play of thé muscles produced 
 by violent weeping. At the movement of Ursula, as she raised herself up, 
 her husband turned toward her. 
 
 " My beloved husband!" she said in a firm voice, touching, and at the 
 same time dignified, " never will I be the cause of a disagreement between 
 you and your mother. I have had the misfortune to displease her. I submit 
 myself to my fate. She affirms to you that I am guilty. She attests it 
 to you by a solemn oath. Do her not the xvrong to disbelieve her. Believe 
 her— forget me, as a woman unworthy of your name. Matilda will carry 
 me back to my father. You will remain with your mother, and by youi 
 
THE V/IVK AND 1 HE MOTHEK-1N-UW. 
 
 213 
 
 tenderness, will make up to her for the grief which I have— oh I how invo- 
 luntarily, caused her. 
 
 Madame Secherin looked sternly at her daughter-in-law : 
 " And do you fancy, that you can so repay the wrongs you have done my 
 son ? He might have married a woman worthy of himself. Thanks to you, 
 here he is, alone, fettered for life ! Happily, I remain to him. I will console 
 him for all." 
 
 " Ah ! fear not that, madam— I feel it here !" and Ursula leaned her two 
 hands on her heart ; " your son will soon be free ; he can choose more hap- 
 pily, then." And her voice was as grave and mournful as though her tomb 
 were already open to receive her. 
 
 M. Secherin could not endure the last incident. He burst into tears, fell 
 at his mother's feet, turned round to Ursula, and seizing her hand, covered 
 it with kisses, addressing her in a broken voice — 
 
 " My poor sweet wife — calm yourself — calm yourself. My mother thinks 
 not what she says ; heed her not. Pardon me ; do I accuse you ? Can I live 
 without you? Am I not certain of your heart ?" 
 
 The true and heartfelt grief of this admirable mar. moved me indeed 
 deeply. 1 was disgusted with the base treachery of Ursula, but what could 
 I say? Madame Secherin, when she perceived this quick revulsion in the 
 feelings of lier son, exclaimed — 
 
 " You sacrifice me, then, to this hypocrite ? A few false tears, then, are 
 enough to set her in the right and your mother in the wrong!" 
 
 M. de Secherin sprang to his feet, and answered, though it seemed difficult 
 for him to control his indignation : 
 
 "Do you wish, then, to drive me mad, mother ? For the last time — have 
 you, or have you not, proof against my wife ? You believe that CUopinelle makes 
 his court to her, loves her ? Is it not so? Well ! for me, I believe it not ! 
 You believe that the letter he wrote her yesterday, was a declaration of love ? 
 Well ! for me, I believe it not ! You say that my wife will make me unhappy. 
 Well ! for me, I declare to you that hitherto she has made me the happiest 
 of men ! I have innumerable proofs of Ursula's affection, of her love, of her 
 tenderness ! Now, if she is accused, I want proofs — positive proofs, of her 
 treachery. Never shall I have the courage to sacrifice my happiness to your 
 antipathies !" 
 
 **■ 13 ut, I shai} have the courage to sacrifice the dearest hope of my life to 
 your mother's nappiness, my dearest husband," cried Ursula, with dignified 
 emotion. " My presence here is odious to her. Well, then, it is for me to 
 withdraw hence. Never forget that your mother is your mother! Even from 
 your childhood up, she has loaded you with cares and affection. As for me, 
 it is but a little'year that 1 have loved you. My love, then, cannot be com- 
 pared to her's. If I were so happy as to have consecrated long years to your 
 affection ; I might have then hoped to struggle with success against unjust 
 prejudices — though they come^ from your mother, whom I respect,.whom I 
 love. But, alas ! I have done so little for you, I have so few rights on which 
 to insist, that I will undergo my lot without complaining. Farewell ! farewell ! 
 for ever !" 
 
 Ursula took one step toward the door, covering her face with her hands. 
 Her husband hurried after her, caught her in his arms, brought her back, 
 forced her to sit down, and turning again toward Madame Secherin, cried : 
 
 " You see then, now, my mother, that she is an angel — an angel of Hea- 
 ven's own ! not one complaint, not one reproach ! and you have treated her 
 as the worst of creatures." 
 
 Madame Secherin smiled bitterly. Are you so blind, so mad, as to be- 
 lieve her hypocritical protestations ? Do you not see, that it is her want of 
 power to defend herself that makes her play the victim — that she is willing 
 to go hence even with shame upon her head ?" 
 
 " No, madam. Believe not that," Ursula answered sadly. " I am silent 
 because I respect, because I admire the sentiment which dictates your con- 
 duct. Yes ! madam, in my eyes there is nothing more holy, than the love 
 of a mother for her son. If I dared to compare the love of a wife for her 
 husband, to that holy affection, I would say, that I comprehended all the 
 jealousies — yes ! all the blind devotion which you feel ; because, I myself, 
 am capable of experiencing the same. One word more, madam : from the 
 beginning of this cruel discussion, Matilda, my cousin, my more than sister, 
 has remained silent. You know her virtues — you know her sincerity ; had 
 she believed me guilty, despite all her friendship, despite all the bonds which 
 
214 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 have united us, she would have condemned me. Alas ! madam, I know how 
 much she suffers, at being thus unable to defend me ; but to defend me, is 
 to accuse you — to accuse you, is a species of sacrilege— therefore is she com- 
 pelled to keep silence !" 
 
 " You too! you too ! and do you, too, sustain her?" cried the unhappy 
 mother, clasping her hands with anguish, as she turned toward me — " But 
 no ! no ! that is impossible — speak then — speak out ! let not this guilty 
 wretch be enabled to say that your silence absolves her." 
 
 What could I do ? accuse my cousin — for that, I had not the resolution ! 
 I only answered, then, " Madam, appearances are too often deceitful, and — " 
 
 " You see now, mother, my cousin is convinced of her innocence," cried 
 M. Secherin. 
 
 " What matters that ?" said Ursula, still very sadly. " My cousin may in 
 vain proclaim my innocence— for, between myself and your mother, my be- 
 loved husband, you cannot doubt for a moment. Only, madam," cried Ur- 
 sula, in a voice interrupted by tears, " as I would wish to carry away with me, 
 as the sole consolation of my life, the esteem of the man to whom I would 
 have devoted my life with happiness, had I been permitted to do so — only, 
 madam, allow me to justify myself— will you not ? Permit me to ask you this : 
 can you cite one fact which condemns me ? Allow me this madam — oh ! allow 
 me this !" 
 
 M Certainly — oh ! beyond doubt — you are so full of tact, so cunning, that 
 you have taken care not to be caught by all my surveillance," cried Madame 
 Secherin, almost beyond herself at so assured a falsehood. "Ah, now 1 I 
 suffer for my own weakness 1 If, when I first entertained suspicions, I had 
 revealed them to my son, he could have watched you better. I am old, I am 
 infirm : I had not strength, or address to strive against you. But have you 
 not remained for hours shut up with this M. Chopinelle, under the pretext 
 of singing with him ?" 
 
 " Heavens ! madam I You have come many times into the room wherein I 
 was. My husband, moreover, requested me to sing with his friend." 
 
 " But do you not understand," replied Madame Secherin, " that it is just 
 because I have no certain proof of your guilt ; while, at the same time I am 
 as certain of it as I am of my own existence, that the Good Lord has granted 
 me the courage to take a sacred oath, so to convict you of deceit ! and 
 then, that letter : that letter, yesterday, would have convi^ed you. You 
 wtll knew what you were about, when you risked everything to recover it." 
 
 "Again this letter! There is no meaning in this," said M. Secherin; 
 " turning to my wife's disadvantage a little kindness on her part toward 
 me." 
 
 " Heavens ! I take the Heavens to witness that I am innocent!" cried 
 Ursul?, casting herself at the feet of Madame Secherin. " You see quite 
 plainly, that there is no real proof against me. I submit to all. I will aban- 
 don my husband — I will see him no more. I will quit your house. I will 
 go and live in obscurity, in grief, in regret — but suffer me, at least, to carry 
 with me my honour, and the esteem of my husband. I ask but that — Oh ! 
 but that, to enable me to support the few days that alone remain to me. 
 You are good, generous — it is the blind love which you feel for your son 
 that sets you thus against me. Be only just — have only pity on your poor 
 Ursula, who would so well have loved to call you her mother '." 
 
 And as she spoke, she w ould have raised the hand of her mother-in-law to 
 her lips but Madame Secherin repulsed her harshly, and said, " Touch me 
 not, infamous hypocrite !" 
 
 This, M. Secherin could not endure. He raised his wife gently by the 
 arm, and said to her in a voice trembling with emotion, 
 
 " Rise, Ursula! rise up, my good and honoured wife ! Enough of humili- 
 ation you have borne already. I am the only judge, and I declare you inno- 
 cent. Let them say what they will — let them do what they will — I shall 
 regard you always as the dearest, as the best of women." 
 
 " Wretched man ! This is no longer blindness — it is madness !" exclaimed 
 Madame Secherin. " But, beware ! You will but cover yourself with so deep 
 ridicule, in making yourself the dupe of this woman, that people will cease 
 even to compassionate you." 
 
 These last words of Ursula's mother-in law were a great mistake. They 
 wounded the self-love of M. Secherin to the qukk ; and it was with anger 
 and irritation that he replied, 
 
 "Well — if it be so, I would rather be ridiculous than unjust, treacherous, 
 and malignant." 
 
THE WIFE AND Til B MOT HER - 1 JJ - LAW. 
 
 213 
 
 " For whom no vou intend those words, my son? Answer me !" 
 
 " I shall not explain— this scene has lasted but too long already ! It has 
 caused bitter grief to my wife, to you, to me. Anything that you can now 
 add would be useless. 1 am determined, that I will suffer no more attacks' 
 to be made on this angel of sweetness and of goodness." 
 
 "Do you dare threaten me in your father's house ? Threaten me to sus- 
 tain a wretch who mocks you in her own heart, the while ?" 
 
 " My mother, push me not too far. I repeat it to you. Whatever you 
 may say— whatever you may do— I will always love, always respect my wife, 
 always defend her against whosoever shall attack her !" 
 
 " Against me ? against me, do you mean ? Dare you repeat it— wretched, 
 ungrateful child !" 
 
 " Well, yes ! if you will have it so. Yes ! yes ! even against you, if you 
 attack her unjustly," answered M. Secherin, unable any longer to contain 
 himself. " She wishes only for my happiness — you would render me unhappy, 
 by torturing that which I love best in the wide world." 
 
 Ursula, extended on the ottoman, kept her head hidden in her hands, and 
 wept, profusely. 
 
 The face of Madame Secherin wore a most melancholy expression ; she 
 said, in a firm and strongly accentuated voice, " My son, you know that my 
 will is irrevocable — either that woman shall leave your father's house, or I 
 will— either you shall stay here with me, or go hence with her. Never will 
 I see you more, so long as I live !" 
 
 " My mother " 
 
 " Madam," I cried, "beware — yield not to a first passionate movement." 
 
 " I tell you, my son," exclaimed Madame Secherin, again, " that if you do 
 not abandon this woman on the instant, I will never see you more so long aa 
 I live. You shall go hence both of you — and, as I shall no more have a child, 
 I wiil destroy my will, and leave my personal fortune to the poor!" 
 
 " And do you think, my mother," answered M. Secherin, "that I am such 
 a wretch as- to be swayed by that consideration — to be moved by the love of 
 money?" 
 
 " Yes ! I do, now— for that woman has made you as avaricious, as greedy, 
 as interested as she is herself. To deprive you of your inheritance is one 
 means of punishing you both." 
 
 " And so, my mother, you will drive me out of my father's house, because 
 I will not share your blind hatred against my own wife ?" 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! I drive you out, unnatural son ! I drive you out, that I may 
 not have under my eyes this cursed creature. I drive you out — " and here 
 the voice, the accents, the very features of the hapless mother, entirely changed 
 their expression, and she cried, melting into tears—" I drive you out, oh ! 
 my God! because I could not endure to see you constantly betrayed 1 I drive 
 you out, that you may not see me die of grief, and by your doing." 
 
 These last words were pronounced with so much soul, with a despair so 
 thoroughly maternal, that M. Secherin ran back to his mother, cast himself 
 at her feet, and cried, " Pardon ! Pardon !" 
 
 At this instant Ursula uttered a deep groan, she let her head fall back upon 
 the cushion of the oitoman, her arm hanging down, to the ground — she ap- 
 peared to faint. 
 
 Chance again brought it to pass, that her position was enchanting, full of 
 sweet languid grace. Her cheeks were of the richest hue of health, while 
 from her drooping lids trickled a tear or two pure and transparent as the 
 morning dew. Her breast beat violently — two or three times she raised her 
 hand, as it were, mechanically to her corsage, as if she felt a painful oppres- 
 sion. 
 
 I scarcely believed in the reality of this fainting fit, and yet I could not but 
 run up to her. 
 
 " But you are killing her — see you are killing her !" cried M. Secherin, al- 
 most despairing, and rushing to his wife. The rage of Madame Secherin 
 again burst forth and she said in a voice of furious wrath — 
 
 " She deludes you! This fainting is a farce like all the rest — care not for 
 it — she will soon come to herself, hypocrite that she is !" 
 
 ",Ah this is indeed horrible," cried Monsieur Secherin. " Have you no 
 pity, even ? well ! since you will have it so— we will part — we will part for 
 ever! after those words, I could never bear to look upon you without grief." 
 
 " Unworthy son ! the Lord will punish you by your own sins ! Go I and I 
 curse " 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 "Madam, he is your son !"— and rushing toward her, I stopped the curse 
 as it reached her lips. 
 
 " No ! I will not— I will not curse him. He has lost his reason. God has 
 withdrawn himself from him — let him remain with the vile woman — the pu- 
 nishment is frightful — but he deserves it." 
 
 And the miserable mother left the room; M. Secherin, kneeling by Ursula, 
 covered her face, her hands, her hair, her brow with tears and kisses, calling 
 her name aloud. "But she is dying 1" he cried. " Unlace her corsets — do 
 you not see that she is dying?" 
 
 The end'of this scene was, alas ! as might have been expected ; the nervous 
 fit of Ursula ceased within a few minutes after her mother had retired. As 
 she came to herself again, Ursula burst into tears, and persisted in her reso- 
 lution of returning to her father's house. It would now, she said, be impos- 
 sible for her to remain with her mother-in-law. 
 
 J strove in vain to make her perceive the possibility of a reconciliation — but 
 no ! she chose to sacrifice herself. Before the influence of this scene, to him 
 but too irresistible, M. Secheriu's last doubts gave way. That very evening 
 he announced to his mother, that they would go and live in a neighbouring 
 house, which was at that time for sale. The separation was determined, and 
 arranged definitively. 
 
 At the very moment when M. Secherin had announced this sad news to me, 
 I heard a noise of horses in the yard — I ran to the window, it was my hus- 
 band—it was Gontrau ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE RETURN AND DEPARTURE. 
 
 I fell weeping into the arms of Gontran. Emotions such as these cannot 
 be described. He had come back to me preserved — preserved from the most 
 fearful risk that a man can run. 
 
 I saw his fine features altered, fatigue and recent affliction had left their 
 heavy traces on his countenance. 
 
 He was very kind to me — inexpressibly affectionate ; twenty times he beg- 
 ged my pardon for the involuntary sorrows he had caused me, promising that 
 he would make me forget them by dint of love and attention. . 
 
 I might almost venture to say, that I did not regret those terrible events, 
 which had so bitterly afflicted me during the last few months — so splendid 
 was the contrast between their mournful gloom, and my present situation. 
 That which predominated above all the other feelings, which formed a sort of 
 mass of agreeable emotions, produced by the return of Gontran ; was a sort 
 of deep tranquillity, of entire confidence in the future. It seemed to me that 
 my life had been so sternly tried already, that I could, without exorbitant ex- 
 pectation, look forward to a life of happiness and tranquillity. 
 
 It was strange — before the arrival of Gontran, I was sometimes alarmed 
 when I tried to fancy to myself the feelings which I should experience on his 
 return, when I thought of his desperate and evil action. It was in vain — 
 when unable to excuse him — that I said to myself, I should have done as he 
 has. I nevertheless dreaded my first impression. But when I again saw him, 
 I forgot completely the shameful deed of which he had been guilty. 
 
 I was now engaged chiefly by the desire of concealing from him the terri- 
 ble night which I had passed in the house of M. Lugarto. But 1 was also 
 anxious to see, how M. de Lancry would disguise from me the real motives 
 for his abrupt departure and return. I feared that he would tell falsehoods 
 with too good a grace— that would have rendered me distrustful of him for 
 the rest of his life. 
 
 I understood well the reason, why he had hitherto concealed from me the 
 fatal . secret which existed between himself and M. Lugarto. For this con- 
 fession could not have saved Gontran, and would have subjected me to the 
 most cruel terrors. But he had now to account to me for a long absence, and 
 I did not wish to find him bringing too much imagination into play, in account- 
 ing to me for it My fears were not realized ; Gontran avoided the necessity of 
 falsehood, if I may so speak, by telling me much of the truth. He said that 
 he was under great monetary obligations to M. Lugarto ; and moreover, that 
 the latter had obtained possession of some very important papers, which 
 might have compromised not his own honour only, but that of a noble family. 
 
TUB RETURN AND DEPARTURE. 
 
 •217 
 
 Leaving m« to imagine, though not sayiug so directly, that the letters of a 
 woman were in question. 
 
 M. de Lancry added, that in order to obtain possession of these papers, 
 Which were no longer in the power of M. Lugarto, he had been compelled to 
 go to England, where, after innumerable difficulties, he had afc last obtained 
 and destroyed them. 
 
 Unfortunately, I was so much occupied by thinking of the manner in which 
 Gontran would deceive me, that I never recollected that there were several 
 important events, which I, too, must conceal from him. My husband asked 
 me several times, if I had seen M, Lugarto since the period of his own de- 
 parture ! 
 
 But as M. de Mortagne had desired me to do, I replied, as I had before 
 written to M. de Lancry, that I had set out for Touraine ; preferring Ursula's 
 society to remaining alone in Paris. 
 
 From M. de Lancry's questions, it was easy to perceive that he was at a 
 loss to understand what could have induced M. Lugarto to surrender the 
 forgery, which, up to this time, he had so carefully preserved. My husband 
 wished to discover if it was at my prayers, or through my influence that he 
 had been brought to make this restitution. 
 
 I repented, indeed, many times my being led to conceal anything frmn M. 
 de Lancry; but remembering the advice of M. de Mortagne, and the promise 
 I had made him, I resolved to keep my counsel. 
 
 Doubtless Gontran was afraid of exciting my suspicions by asking me any 
 more leading questions, for he spoke no more of M. Lugarto. 
 
 There was another thing that distressed me. M. Mortagne had paid my 
 husband's debts to M. de Lugarto ; and it appeared to me, that when Gon- 
 tran should propose to pay him, the whole would probably be discovered. 
 But M. de Lancry re-assured me on this point, by observing, that he would 
 pay M. Lugarto at a later date, keeping account of the interest becoming 
 djie. 
 
 These explanations given and receivéd, Gontran appeared to be delivered 
 from a vast weight of anxiety. His countenance expressed a sort of careless 
 confidence which I had not seen there even before his marriage. Nothing 
 could be more natural. Ever since I had known him, he had been subject to 
 the threats of M. Lugarto. 
 
 Alas ! shall I own it ? I was for a moment so unjust toward Providence, 
 as almost to regret the shade of melancholy and of sorrow, which grief had 
 hitherto cast over the lineaments of Gontran. 
 
 Foolishly I imagined, that while unhappy he was more my own. Seeing 
 him so young, so handsome, so gay, so brilliant, and above all, so free from 
 any melancholy pre-occupation, I feared for the future. 
 
 I had already felt the miserable anguish of jealousy ; and yet Gontran, 
 while paying attention to the Princess de Ksernika, had but obeyed the order 
 of Lugarto : and if Gontran was at that time the prey of overpowering wretch- 
 edness — if he were in hourly dread of being dishonoured, and yet could make 
 himself so charming to that woman, what would it have been if his own taste 
 or caprice had led him to her feet ? 
 
 Soon, however, I cast aside these sad reflections, as if they were an outrage 
 on the happiness that awaited me. 
 
 Alas ! these fears were but too prophetic. 
 
 I informed Gontran of the rupture which had taken place between M. Se- 
 cherin and his mother, but without mentioning the cause. Ursula's secret 
 did not belong to me. I attributed them to questions of interest, slight, at 
 first, but gradually growing more serious, the determination of my cousin to 
 live henceforth apart from his mother. 
 
 Gontran appeared to me seriously annoyed at not being able to remain, as 
 he had intended, a few days at Rouvrai. 
 
 The delay, he said, would have sufficed for the execution of certain neces- 
 sary alterations at the castle of Maran — necessary in order to render it habit- 
 able, for it had not been occupied for many years. But the unfortunate 
 quarrel which had broken out between my cousin and her mother-in-law, 
 made it impossible for us to prolong our stay at Rcuvrai. 
 
 In vain, on the next day, finding myself alone for a few minutes with M. 
 Secherin, I wished anew to try to effect a reconciliation between him and 
 his mother ; but he appeared to me even more enraged against her than on. 
 the previous evening. 
 
 Ursula had continued to play her part with all her wonted tact. She had not 
 permitted herself to utter one word of recrimination against her mother-* 
 
218 MATILDA. 
 
 law; she understood, she admired, she said, that affeetion ate jealousy, which led 
 a mother even to require the sacrifice of her daughter-in-law. Her husband 
 had but to say one word and she bowea her head in submission ! — it it must 
 be, she would abandon the husband of her choice, in order to please Madame 
 Secherin. 
 
 The angelic sweetness of Ursula had thus exasperated M. Secherin yei 
 more against his mother ; while she, like all persons of resolute and decided 
 character, showed herself more and more inflexible toward Ursula. 
 
 I went to find Madame Secherin to make her my adieus — but ic was vainly 
 that 1 spoke to her of her son, of the loneliness and solitude, in which she 
 would live hereafter : she would hear nothing but that he should cast off his 
 wife. 
 
 What proved to me, above all, the fatal influence which Ursula had exer- 
 cised over the mind of my cousin, was, that I found him, who had been so good 
 « son, of a heart so generous and noble, almost indifferent to this separation. 
 He said his mother would grow calmer ; and then that he would come and 
 see her every day. He was almost glad that it had taken place now, for 
 soomer or later a separation must infallibly have come to pass. 
 
 The accusation of Madame Secherin was now, in the opinion of her sen 
 a pretext for getting rid of her daughter-in-law, whom she never l*ad been 
 able tWendure, because she loved her son too much ! Yes, cousin, cried M. 
 Secherin, that is the whole of the question — she is jealous because my tnfe 
 loves me too much. 
 
 Alas ! chance reserved for me another and a very cruel blow, which, in 
 its consequences, really appeared to be a spite of fortune. 
 
 The day following his arrival, Gontran had gone out to give some direc- 
 tions concerning our departure, which was to take place in the afternoon. I 
 had profited by the opportunity to have a long conversation with M. Secherin, 
 which took place while we were walking in oue of those avenues of uense and 
 overbowering yoke-elms, in the gardens of which I have spoken. 
 
 My cousin left me, and 1 remained sitting in a meditative mood behind a 
 group of painted stone figures representing a shepherd and shepherdess. 
 These statues, common enough to gardens of the last century, stood at the 
 end of the alley of which I have been speaking, on a square stone pedestal 
 surrounded by four benehes. 
 
 I was placed so that my back was turned to the avenue, and my person 
 was entirely concealed by the height of the monument. 
 
 I know not wherefore— but instead of thinking about Gontran, and my 
 renewed happiness, I was musing on the treachery of Ursula ; for since the 
 scene of the previous evening, she had continually avoided me. 
 
 Suddenly, I heard her voice talking with some one. It drew nearer — a sud- 
 den throbbing of my heart told me it was Gontran to whom she was speaking 
 — I listened— it was right. 
 
 Instead of rising and going to join Ursula and my husband, the base thought 
 crossed my mind of listening to their conversation. Without a reason — 
 without a motive, a gleam of jealousy; quick as the lightning flash, traversed 
 my heart ! I held my breath — I listened keenly. 
 
 Now that I question myself in cool blood," whether I acted thus on the 
 spur of any suspicion, I mu>t reply that I did not. I am forced to admit, 
 that I entertained none : the resolution was taken instantaneously — it was 
 almost involuntary. 
 
 I listened keenly. The gravel, crackling under the feet of Ursula and 
 Gontran, as they walked, prevented me, at first, from hearing what they 
 said distinctly. When they w ere but a few paces distant from me. I caught 
 these words,' uttered by Ursula in her softest and most melancholy tone : 
 
 " So sad is this solitude — for it is indeed to be alone, to remain thus '* 
 
 I could hear no more. Gontran and she, as they reached the end of the 
 alley, turned away, and the sounds of their steps no longer came to my ears. 
 
 There was nothing in the words of Ursula which I had heard, to shock or 
 astonish me. My cousin, faithful to her mania for being thought a w retched 
 and unappreciated woman, was repeating to Gontran, the romantic falsehood 
 which she had repeated to me so often. And then, too, it might not have 
 been herself of whom she was speaking; 
 
 Nevertheless, I felt a blow at my heart, so cutting and so deeply painful, 
 that all my future prospects, which had seemed but a few moments before 
 ao bright and beautiful, were overspread as it were by a dark funereal veil — 
 that I w;:s smitten by a bitter and invincible foreboding. 
 
 Why, I said to myself, should I experience so deep, so painful an emotion, 
 
THE RETURN AND DEPARTURE. 
 
 219 
 
 on overhearing a few unmeaning words ? Do they indeed conceal some 
 treachery — some falsehood ? 
 
 Still under the impression of the cruel scene of the previous evening, I al- 
 most thought I could perceive in the mysterious fear which agitated me, a 
 divine revelation, like that which so fruitlessly enlightened Madame Secherin 
 on the misconduct of my guilty cousin. 
 
 I cannot describe the agony of anxiety with which I waited for the second 
 turn of Gontran and Ursula's walk. One moment, I blushed with shame to 
 think of the base espial to which I was condescending. I even made a move- 
 ment to rise and withdraw, but a fatal curiosity held me back. 
 
 I heard them again drawing near. My heart began to bound so briskly 
 that it seemed as if each pulsation was regulated by the light and measured 
 sound of their footsteps. 
 
 This time it was the voice of Gontran which I heard. Oh ! how well I re- 
 member every note of that clear, softly- pitched voice, with its low, graceful 
 softness — so low that I heard but these words, 
 
 " You remember then. — you say— you remember ? Oh ! you were so " 
 
 The rest of the sentence was lost to me ; they had again turned, and were 
 retiring Alas! in these words of Gontran there was nothing more than in 
 the former that could give me any grounds for suspicion — and yet, when I 
 knew to whom they were addressed, they wounded me. 
 
 What could be the remembrances which he was evoking? What could it 
 be that she remembered ? Then I recollected that about a month before my 
 marriage, Gontran had seen Ursula almost daily at my aunt's — and then — 
 misery of miseries ! I recollected that Ursula had told me, a thousand times, 
 how delightful she thought my husband ; and how she told me that I was 
 the happiest of women, and that happiness like mine had not been made for 
 her. 
 
 Then — misery of miseries ! I bethought me of the humiliation and rage 
 of Ursula, when Mademoiselle de Maran with her devilish malice had drawn 
 out the vulgarity of M. Secherin in Gontran's presence. 
 
 Knowing the treachery, the deep dissimulation, the corruptness of my cousin; 
 had I not, then, good cause to fear her taking vengeance on me for the suf- 
 ferings she had undergone daily at my aunt's hands ? who had probably in- 
 flicted them in the malicious hope of seeing me one day the victim of her 
 barbarous reprisals. 
 
 Doubtless, my aunt with hideous sagacity had guessed, even from the birth 
 of Ursula, the faults and vices which would be so fatal to me me in their de- 
 velopment — for it was clear that our girlish friendship, as well as our relation- 
 ship, would one day draw us closely together. 
 
 These sad reflections were interrupted by their returning steps. Gontran 
 was again speaking, and this time his accent was gay and full of merry ridi? 
 cule. Ursula answered in the same strain, for I heard a burst of her sweet 
 and ringing laughter. 
 
 Gontran replied — " You will see that I am right; you will see. I should 
 like to prove it to you." 
 
 " Take care, cousin," replied Ursula, in a tone of gay and coquettish re- 
 proach. " You are mad — It is a horror to " 
 
 And she — why should she — tell him, so coquettishly, that he was mad? 
 Heaven ! about what could they have been talking ? 
 
 Alas ! I remember that I was so stupidly simple, as to be almost angry 
 that my cousin and my husband were not talking about me. For there is 
 so much childish selfishness in grief — the moment we begin to suffer, we 
 fancy ourselves so interesting — so worthy of pity— that, in unreasonable des- 
 pair, we expect kind sentiments even from those whose actions at the mo- 
 ment wound us. 
 
 Thus, I said bitterly, " How is it, that Gontran and Ursula, who love me 
 so much, are not thinking of me at this moment ? Nothing, however, could 
 be more natural than that they should do so. Nay, more ! it proves, since 
 they are not doing so, that they must needs be occupied by some very strong 
 feelings." 
 
 Alas ! I now blush at these senseless reasonings ; but I begin to understand 
 that grief is never more intense, never more frightful, than when the rea- 
 sonings it inspires are senseless and illogical. 
 
 The steps again drew nigh. I even thought, that Gontran and Ursula 
 walked slower than before — that from time to time they stopped. 
 
 Gontran said, in a soft and suppliant voice, " I beseech you — that — that, at 
 Uast " 
 
220 
 
 MAT il. DA. 
 
 The footstep ceased, and Ursula f eplied, in an accent of strong emotion. 
 
 " You do not think of it — it would be too painful — you know not how many 
 tears I have drowned since. But hold! 1 am becoming madder, even than 
 you are ! You make me say what I would not say — you do not deserve — " 
 and what followed, was spoken in a voice so rapid, and as she walked, so 
 quickly, that I could not detect its meaning. 
 
 I thought I should have fainted ; my situation was too horrible. The most 
 violent :-uspicions rent my heart asunder ; and all for some scraps of con- 
 versation, that had no sense at all, but that with which my unreasonable jea- 
 lousy invested them. 
 
 After these terrors, followed doubts, and then a gleam of hope. Admitting 
 that Ursula was base enough to desire to win Gontran, (and I did not con- 
 sider, then, I wronged her in believing so — for had she not already strayed 
 from her duty, for a vulgar fool?) admitting, said 1, this baseness, — would 
 Gontran — he to whom I have bowed my very life — to whom I have hitherto 
 given so much joy and happiness — would Gontran, — for whom of late 1 have 
 suffered so deeply, find courage in his heart, so to wrong me, and for her ? 
 
 Never! oh, never!— it is impossible! I said. I do not thus escape from 
 one gulf of agony and despair, only to fall back in one deeper still. 
 
 No ! no ! it is impossible. Gontran came hither only yesterday — goes 
 hence to-day. It is impossible, that in an hour's conversation, he should 
 have tried to win, much less that he should have won, this woman ; or that 
 he should dream of deceiving me. 
 
 Ursula is, indeed, most audacious ; but the most shameless woman keeps 
 up a fair exterior. 
 
 And then, again, to these gleams of hope succeeded the most overwhelm- 
 ing doubts. All that Madame de Richeville had said to me of Gontran's 
 light and selfish character, rushed on my soul at once. 
 
 Ursula appeared to me more dangerous and fascinating. If my husband 
 should meet her in Paris, might she not, under the guise of friendship, come 
 constantly even to my house ? 
 
 That idea, and the other fancies which I had for a few moments repressed, 
 now so completely overpowered me, that, without thinking of it, I abruptly 
 unmasked my ambuscade, and coming out suddenly from my hiding-place, I 
 entered the alley 
 
 Ursula and Gontran were very far off, at the other end of the walk, where 
 I saw M. Secherin join them and accompany them toward the house. Now, 
 then, I breathed more freely. I remained some time longer in the garden. 
 
 By a strange and fantastic change of impressions, no sooner had Urjsula with- 
 drawn, and calmness had again entered in my heart, than I was ashamed of 
 my weakness, and reproached myself with not enjoying, quietly, that happiness 
 which Providence was bestovying on me. Was I not going to Maran alone 
 with Gontran? Were not the charming days of the chalet of Chantilly 
 about to be renewed ? Winter was far off. If I feared the coquetry of Ur- 
 sula with my husband, I had the means of keeping her at a distance. At 
 least, should it come to the worst, I thought I would tell my husband the ad- 
 venture of M. Chopinelle, and then he would feel nothing but contempt for 
 Ursula. 
 
 By what fantastic contrast could this fit of infatuated confidence have 
 succeeded to well-founded doubts ? I cannot explain it. 
 
 Before leaving Rouvrai, I went to take leave of Madame Secherin. I found 
 her calm, dignified, resolute. She stretched out her hand to me— I kissed it 
 with pious veneration. 
 
 " This evening," she said, " my son and his wife leave this house. Hereafter, 
 I shall live alone waiting for my son's return. Yes," she said, in reply to my 
 look of surprise, " one day my son will be restored to me. The good God 
 tells me so! He will leave me long enough on earth to see my son very 
 wretched— but long enough, also, to console him." 
 
 I was much struck with the tone — I had almost said of inspiration, with 
 which Madame Secherin pronounced these last words. 
 
 " You are good — you are generous : you, like me, are convinced, I am sure 
 that this woman is a wretch ; but you lacked the courage to accuse her ! 
 Had you taken part with me, she had been lost ! I say not this to reproach 
 you ! on the contrary, I will pray the Lord that she whom you have spared, 
 may not one day cause you much wo !" 
 
 " How! madam?" I exclaimed, feeling my suspicions awakening at her 
 words. 
 
 « I tell you, that with which my gracious God inspire» me— no more," 
 
THE CHATBAU OP MAIAN. 
 
 221 
 
 Alas! her words seemed but too prophetic, particularly when I dwelt on 
 the scene 1 had witnessed in the alley. The moment of departure came ; 
 Ursula embraced me with all her wonted show of affection My cousin bade 
 us adieu, with his usual frank, manly cordiality. 
 
 Nothing, in either Gontran's manner or his words, gave me cause to sui- 
 pect that he parted from Ursula with regret. 
 
 We left that house, which had, on my arrival, been so calm and healthful, 
 but which had, since my coming, been the scene of such terrible dissensions. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE CHATEAU OF MAKASi 
 
 In proportion as we departed from Rouvrai, I felt that the oppression of my 
 spirits was by degrees vanishing. Very soon, I had forgotten almost en- 
 tirely the grievous emotion which had shaken me, in the delirious happiness 
 1 felt at being once more alone with my husband. 
 
 I delighted myself with the prospect of this journey, by calling back to mind 
 the tender words and delicate attentions with which Gontran had loaded me, 
 when, after my marriage, we had departed for Chantilly. 
 
 I discovered, in my own imagination, a strong resemblance between these 
 two epochs of my life. Now, as before, I was setting out with Gontran to 
 enjoy the delights of a long sojourn among the peaceful and delicious soli- 
 tudes of nature. 
 
 This impression of happiness was so deeply fixed in my mind, this hope 
 was so radiant, that they prevailed over all my other fancies. I waited with 
 anxiety for the first words of Gontran. Since we had left Rouvrai, he had 
 been altogether silent. 
 
 I adduced a thousand reasons to explain to my heart, that his first word, 
 when spoken, must needs be full of graciousness and love. I said to myself, 
 almost with satisfaction, that my husband had committed some wrongs to- 
 ward me, with which he must needs reproach himself; and that he would 
 doubtless now atone for them, by those sweet flatteries and exquisite atten- 
 tions, the art of applying which he possessed in so eminent a degree. 
 
 Suddenly, M. de Lancry yawned once or twice, leaned his head against 
 one of the cushions of the carriage, and without saying one word, fell fast 
 asleep, almost in a moment. 
 
 This seeming indifference at first hurt me grievously ; and I could not re- 
 frain from tears, when I contrasted it with the assiduous tenderness of Gon- 
 tran during our previous journey. I asked myself sadly, in what respect I 
 less deserved it now than before. Ought I not, on the contrary, to be dearer 
 to him than ever? Had I not already suffered bitterly for him ? 
 
 Rut reflection followed gravely upon this first angry moment of vexation. 
 
 I was ashamed of myself. I accused myself of selfishness, and of the most 
 ridiculous and romantic exaggeration. What could be simpler, what more 
 natural, than this sleep of Gontran, with which I had been on the point of 
 reproaching him? Ought he to constrain himself to formal rules in my 
 presence ? Did it not, on the contrary, manifest the very confidence and 
 security of his affection ? I dried up my tears, and set myself to watch his 
 features. There were no longer upon them the traces of that fatigue, and 
 those sorrows, which had so sadly altered them. Never had he appeared to 
 me so handsome, so full of that delicate and charming softness which render- 
 ed his features so attractive. One of those half-smiles which always tell of 
 happy and peaceful slumbers, played on his lips, and gave to his mouth a 
 beautiful expression of humorous malice. Twice he moved his lips slightly, 
 as if he were about to speak ; I listened eagerly, but could detect no words. 
 
 As I saw him sleep there, so handsome, calm, and smiling, I felt that I 
 shared myself all the happiness which he now enjoyed. Free from the odious 
 dominion of M. Lugarto — young, rich, idolized by me, could there be any 
 man in the world more happily situated ? Did he not unite, in his own per- 
 son, all the advantages that can be comprised in human happiness ? 
 
 As I dwelt thus on his qualities, I was alarmed for a moment. We were 
 to remain at Maran until the beginning of the winter ; this long prospect of 
 solitude, to me would be charming ; but would it please Gontran ? 
 
 I began to distrust myself — I began to fear that I should lack the means of 
 pleasing my husband. 1 had undergone, already, so much sorrow that I no 
 tj 3 
 
222 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 longer experienced those bursts of gaiety, with which the presence of Gontran 
 used to inspire me. I compared what I was before my marriage, or even 
 during our happy stay at Chantilly, with what I was now, on my arrival at 
 Maran ; and despite myself, I was again seized by my foolish fears. 
 
 I fancied that I had grown ugly ; and then I asked myself, whether I still 
 possessed charms enough to please my husband during the long and lonely 
 days which we were about to spend together. Then, that conversation in the 
 alley, which for the moment I had forgotten, returned to my mind. I began 
 to exaggerate my imperfections — to detract from my advantages — to envy the 
 wit, the manners of Ursula — to envy her the expression of her countenance, 
 by turns animated and coquettish, tender or melancholy, or sweetly naïve. 
 
 Without foolish pride, I knew that I possessed more regular beauty than 
 my cousin. I knew that I had sterling qualities— a frank, good heart — a tried 
 sincerity — an unbounded devotion to my husband; a devotion which had 
 been often tried, and never yet found wanting. I could not doubt, that Ur- 
 sula was a liar, a dissembler, a profound despiser of all that elevated, honour- 
 able souls revere. 
 
 Well ! can you conceive, that when I thought that she, perhaps, pleased 
 Gontran, I began to regret that I did not resemble her. Oh ! sacrilege ! I 
 even went so far as to disdain the virtues which I possessed, and to euvy the 
 virtues which I had not. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! and yet men know not how, by showing peculiar preferences, 
 they debase, oftentimes, the haughtiest and most generous natures. They know 
 not, that when women love passionately, madly, they wish to be loved again, 
 at all times, and that, however virtuous they may be, a blasphemous distrust 
 will at times arise — a distrust of the noblest qualities, as if they were vain 
 and useless, when they perceive themselves sacrificed to women, who possess 
 the seductive qualities of hypocrisy only, and daring, and corruption. 
 
 Then, as ever is the case, after this mood of despair, after these pitiless hu- 
 miliations, which I inflicted on myself, came fits of pride, exactly the opposite 
 — a re-action, as it were, of absurd haughtiness. I asked myself what my cou- 
 sin possessed, that could be compared with my endowments ; what pledges of 
 happiness she could have given to my husband ? But as quickly, I fell back, 
 crushed beneath the weight of this humble thought — what matters it, if he 
 loves her as she is ? 
 
 During the whole journey Gontran was absent, and gloomily silent. I at- 
 tributed his mood to the political changes which were taking place, and to 
 which I did not beiieve him to be so indifferent as he pretended. 
 
 I have forgotten to say, that while on the journey, we heard of the revolu- 
 tion of July. 
 
 Stranger as I was to politics, I felt deep and respectful pity for the good old 
 king, vvho was returning, doubtless for the last time, to a land of exile, far 
 from that France which he loved so well, and which his family had watered 
 with their blood. I had always seen the people happy and tranquil — had seen 
 personal celebrity attain advantages equal at least, if not superior, to those 
 enjoyed by the highest aristocracy. I did not then understand the good or 
 the advantage of that social regeneration, which was promised to arise from 
 the bloody barricades of 1830. 
 
 I was extremely anxious to reach Maran. Blondeau had often told me that 
 my mother spent two summers at Maran, and that she had accompanied her, 
 when I was scarcely two years old. Never, she said, had my mother been so 
 happy as in that solitude, where she was sheltered from the malignity of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, and from the icy indifference of my father. 
 
 I was delighted to know that from that day the Castle had been uninhabited 
 — these recollections so precious in my eyes, seemed to be more complete, 
 more sacrediy preserved by that very fact. 
 
 Blondeau promised to give me a thousand pieces of information, touching 
 the apartments my mother had occupied, and the walks she was wont to take. 
 It was with a religious interest that I approached that habitation which, for 
 so many reasons, I held sacred. It seemed to me that once there, in that 
 place whose everything would speak to.me of my mother, I should be under 
 lier invisible protection— that from the high heaven she would watch over her 
 child— that she would pray the merciful Lord and God to inflict on me no 
 new trials. Many times, 1 had found occasion to admire the delicacy and the 
 tact of Gontran ; and now I felt assured that he would share my enthusiastic 
 veneration for that ancient dwelling of my family. 
 
 When I was leaving Rouvrai, I had written to Blondeau, desiring her to 
 join me instantly at Maran ; and M. de Lancry, as he passed through Paris, 
 
THE CHATEAU OF M ARAN. 
 
 had sent a part of our establishment to the estate, which is situated a few 
 leagues from Vendôme. We arrived there on a fine summer morning. 
 
 A long avenue of immemorial oaks gave access to the court of honour. It 
 was necessary to cross two bridges over a little river butting the walls of the 
 chateau, which uas built of brick and composed of a great corps de logis, 
 with two large wings at right angles to the main building, in the taste of 
 Louis XIII. The last bridge which gave admission to the first court, closed 
 by a railing of ornamented iron-work parallel to the main building, was of 
 stone. 
 
 The vegetation in the neighbourhood of the chateau was magnificent. Oaks, 
 Lombardy poplars, and elms, grew to an enormous size ; and vast tracts of 
 meadow, swept away almost beyond the reach of sight, and were bounded on 
 the far horizon by vast masses of forest. 
 
 The steward, forewarned of our approach by the courier, received us at the 
 wicket, and conducted us to a vast gallery on the ground-floor, which was 
 filled with old family pictures. 
 
 The six windows of this vast apartment opened on the moat filled with run- 
 ning water, which surrounded the castle. Notwithstanding the heat of the 
 summer, it was almost cold in that vast hall ; for the walls were so thick that 
 the embrasures of the windows were six or eight feet in depth. 
 
 impatient to visit the house, I extended my arm to Gontran, and said to 
 him, 
 
 " Come, dearest husband, come quick ; I am impatient to see everything 
 here again, although I remember nothing of it. You have no idea how my 
 heart flutters at the thought of running over all these spots once inhabited by 
 my moiher ; and then 1 must do the honours to you. Oh 1 I am so proud, 
 so happy to have you here. Oh !" added I, with a smile, " I am the chate- 
 laine of the castle, and intend to overpower you with most despotic love." 
 
 Instead of sharing my mirth, Gontran replied with a constrained manner — 
 forcing a smile, and looking about him with a disappointed air: 
 
 " Between ourselves, noble chatelaine, it seems to me that your demesne 
 is somewhat dilapidated, if all the apartments resemble this. It is a pity that 
 our late engagements have hindered me from thinking of sending an architect 
 hither. Not to find fault with you, dearest wife, since you have had nothing 
 else to do, you really ought to have thought of this. You surely knew the 
 deplorable state of the castle." 
 
 My husband had, at first, smiled faintly, but he concluded by speaking to 
 me almost sharply. I looked at him in mingled sorrow and surprise, and said 
 to him softly, 
 
 "But, my dear husband, you must remember, that I was as much agitated 
 as you were by all these griefs and afflictions. It was not wilful neglect : 
 then, you know, I have been very sick ; so that it was impossible for me to 
 attend to these matters. I fancied that " 
 
 "My God! I am not reproaching you," Gontran interrupted me, angrily. 
 "My dear wife, I am only regretting that we have not made the improve- 
 ments which are indispensable to render the house habitable. Now we can- 
 not repair the evil ; thanks to this cursed revolution, there is no possibility of 
 travelling, no going to the watering-places. In fifteen days, likely enough, 
 Europe will be on fire. Paris must be intolerable : we must submit, there- 
 fore, to remain here, and that is why I regret so much to find the place in 
 such bad order." 
 
 " It is for you, especially, that I am grieved, my dear," I answered, "at 
 this want of comfort. As for me, I am so happy to have you here with me, 
 that I shall always feel well, under any circumstances." 
 
 " You are a thousand times the best of creatures, dear. I, also, am charmed 
 to share this peaceful solitude with you. I comprehend all your reasons for 
 liking it. But after all, that is no reason for dispensing with carpets, or with 
 Persian blinds ; for I do not see one at any of the windows, and this castle 
 is just like a lantern." 
 
 " I am truly sorry, dear ; but, believe me, we shall easily find means of re- 
 pairing all this, by sending for workmen to Vendôme. I will take the charge 
 of overlooking and hurrying the works, and thus indulge a sort of self-love. 
 I am determined, that Maran shall be the most delightful residence to you in 
 all the world — only, you must have a little patience with my efforts ! 
 
 "Workmen !" he cried hastily ; " that is all that is wanting to complete 
 the picture ! there is nothing on earth so detestable as workmen — and yet one 
 must submit to it. Well ! well ! it will be sweetly agreeable— a pleasant oc- 
 cupation I shall have of it V A 
 
MATILDA 
 
 " Gontran," I replied, somewhat saddened by this whim of my husband's, 
 " perhaps we are exaggerating the dilapidation of the place. We have only 
 seen this one gallery." 
 
 " Heaven ! and cannot one judge certainly by this pattern ? This is the 
 great hall of honour— the reception-room ! You see at a glance, that the 
 steward has accumulated all the splendours of the mansion here;" and he 
 began to laugh with a forced expression. " But come, my dear, do you re- 
 spect your castle, and try to make the most of it, by aid of your workmen, 
 since we must submit to be bored by them. As for me, I am going to the 
 stables. I would lay my life, they are perfect market houses, without stalls, 
 without loop-boxes — and'l, who have just imported a dozen English horses — 
 it will be charmingly pleasant this I I cannot conceive what your man of 
 business can have been about, suffering the house to fall into such a state of 
 dilapidation." 
 
 " I am afflicted beyond measure, my dear Gontran ; but do not be vexed — 
 only give your orders, and I will have them executed as well as possible." 
 
 My resignation certainly touched M. de Lancry. He regretted his impa- 
 tience, and said kindly, " Once more, dearest, I do not accuse you ; what 
 have you to do with it ? Only if the stables are bad, it will not be very agree- 
 able, since for five or six mortal months, which we have got to pass here, I 
 shall have no one pleasure but my horses and my hunting. By the bye, are 
 we very far from Vendôme ?" 
 
 " About six or eight leauges, I believe, my dear." 
 
 " Better and better ; that will be exceedingly convenient as to our eatables ; 
 we shall have no fresh sea-fish. Nothing more is wanting to show that our 
 table will be miserable. I cannot conceive, for my part, how your family 
 could contrive to live here!" 
 
 " My father never did live much at Maran. My mother only passed some 
 time here, and you know we women content ourselves with moderation." 
 
 " Perfectly at liberty you are, dearest, to feed on thin air and the ideal — as 
 for me, I assure you that, in the country, I become very actual and material. 
 I ask a thousand pardons of your romantic exaltation ; but when one has no 
 other pleasure than the table, one is allowed, I hope, to wish that it should be 
 good. You will, therefore, oblige me very much by ordering your maître 
 d' hotel to take care that we be provisioned as well as possible. I will have, 
 if it is necessary, a wagon, and a pair of stout working-horses, to go and 
 market for us, at Vendôme ; for I, who do not live upon abstractions, look 
 naturally somewhat to the solids ! and now, I am going to the stables." 
 
 And with these words, Gontran departed. Such was our first conversation 
 at my chateau of Maran. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 LIFE AT THE CASTLE. 
 
 Some time after our arrival at Maran, I began to feel myself weak, suffering 
 and languid. For an hour at a time, I was sometimes overpowered by an in- 
 comprehensible uneasiness. 
 
 I very soon discovered, that I had made a sad mistake in fancying that Gon- 
 tran would ever again become to me what he had been during the first months 
 of our marriage. On the contrary, his character appeared to grow harsher by 
 the effects of solitude. Nevertheless, the life which he seemed to lead for 
 himself alone, appeared to please him. 
 
 Often when he was alone with me, he was pensive and abstracted — at these 
 times I was sure he was thinking of Ursula; and again, I sometimes fancied 
 that he was regretting the grief his indifference caused me. If I interrupted 
 him in the middle of his meditations, he answered me with bitterness, or rose 
 and went away without uttering a word, as if I had disturbed him in the mid- 
 dle of some sweet and cherished revery. 
 
 What sometimes gave me a gleam of hope, even amid these trials, was the 
 suddenness of the change in my husband's manner toward me. A gradual 
 and growing coldness would have seemed natural enough, and therefore would 
 have alarmed me more seriously. 
 
 It was a fatal day, on which I came to the conviction that Gontran was m 
 love with me no longer — from that time forth, he no longer thought it neces- 
 sary to use before me, even those decorums of society, and that respect for 
 appearances* which every man owes to every woman, even to his own wife. 
 
LIFE AT *HE CASTLE. 
 
 225 
 
 Henceforth no more sweet attentions ! No more outpourings of the heart I 
 No more— that proved the least desire or anxiety to please me. Some few 
 words on Gontran's new style of life, are here necessary. 
 
 Since our establishment at Maran, he had sent for horses and a pack of 
 hounds, to England. He had hired one of the state-forests, which adjoined 
 our property, in which he hunted three days of the week, and shot the other 
 three. He rested himself on Sundays ; that was the only day he passed with 
 me. Regularly he set out, immediately after breakfast, and 1 did not see him 
 again till he returned from hunting in the evening. We sat down to table, 
 at which he sat long, spoke little, and drank deep— often too deeply to pre- 
 serve his reason. Must I confess it — he was often obliged to his people for 
 assistance, in order to Teach his chamber, which adjoined mine. 
 
 Hitherto, my husband had always been remarkable for the extreme taste 
 and elegance of his attire. Now, that he was alone with me, he neglected 
 himself, as if purposely. He lived only for hunting and the pleasures of the 
 table. Oh 1 shame ! oh ! profanation! As for me, I was no longer anything 
 but one of the conditions, by means of which he was enabled to lead his coarse 
 and sensual existence. For a long time I endured this neglect in silence — 
 this change in his manners which had heretofore been perfection. But now 
 this solitary life, to which I had looked forward so hopefully, was passing 
 away, dim, discoloured, and forlorn. According to my wont, I concealed and 
 controlled my griefs till they overflowed all restraint. The day came, when 
 I could bear no longer. I resolved to speak out — to speak openly to Gontran; 
 
 It was on Saturday. It had blown violently all that day ; and, unquestion- 
 ably, Gontran's sport had been bad, for his yeomen prickers did not sound 
 their accustomed flourish for the return from the chase. I knew, from expe- 
 rience, that on such days my husband was always out of humour. I went 
 half-fearfully to meet him, when I heard the clang of his great jack-boots and 
 spurs, on the paved staircase. 
 
 "Your sport has been bad to-day, dear, I am afraid," said I. 
 
 " Yes ! I am bored to death !" he answered ; and as he spoke he entered 
 my little chamber, in whicli I was fond of sitting, because it had been my 
 mother's. M. de Lancry cast himself down upon a sofa, without saying a 
 a word more to me, looking ill-tempered and care-worn. When I looked at 
 him thus, with his dress covered with mud, his beard unshaved, his hair es- 
 caping in disorder from his hunting-cap, which he still wore on his head, I 
 could, indeed, hardly recognize him, who, to that time, had been a model of 
 neatness and good taste. 
 
 " Ring the bell, dear — and let them give us dinner as soon as possible ; I 
 am extremely hungry," said Gontran ; and, turning himself over on the sofa, 
 he drew a little chair, worked in tapestry, toward him with the point of his 
 booted foot ; and then stretched out his legs upon it, covered with mud, as 
 they were. 
 
 "Ah !" said I, running up to him, " mercy for that chair — it was embroi- 
 dered by my mother. Pray take another foot-stool, I implore you." 
 
 Gontran shrugged up his shoulders, moved to another seat, and said : 
 
 " Heavens ! how strange you are with your fantastic affectations. I would 
 just ask you how it could affect the memory of your mother, my putting my 
 foot on that stool or not ?" 
 
 " I am astonished, husband, that you cannot comprehend the worship of 
 the past — it is often our only consolation in the present 1" 
 
 " Oh ! if you are going to begin with your metaphysics — your sentiment, 
 I have done. The life which I lead, is not much adapted to developing the, 
 intellect!" 
 
 " In truth, Gontran, for some time past, I think that you have been acting 
 more coldly thaijfcou are yourself aware !" 
 
 " God be praiserr for it, then ! I have always had dreams of some months 
 to be spent in a life, purely animal — in which the beast, as they say, should 
 take the preeminence. Well — that sort of life I am now leading, and it suits 
 me to perfection. There is not a single superfluity, even to those of the toi- 
 lette, which I have not laid aside. I was a real Sybarite, and to-day I am a 
 genuine Spartan : a bear, a savage. Upon my word, I find it very convenient 
 to remain thus in the green — to remain dormant, like a chrysalis, until the 
 moment when the fancy shall take me, of transforming myself anew into a 
 gaudy butterfly. But, sing if you please. I want to tell Hébert — he was our 
 maitre d'hotel — to put a bottle of Rhine wine into ice for me. It is a whim. 
 I have not drank any old Rhine wine for a long time — and this which you 
 
V 
 
 226 MATILDA. 
 
 have here is excellent ; it is Johannisberg, yellow as amber. Where did your 
 father get this wine ?" 
 
 " I think, my dear, I have heard Mademoiselle de Maran say that the 
 Emperor of Austria made him a present of it, when he was ambassador at 
 '/ienna ?" 
 
 " Upon my word ! your father did well to forget it here — for it is perfect." 
 I rang the bell — my husband gave his orders, then yawned, and said to me : 
 M Play me now the overture to the Siege of Corinth, while dinner is getting 
 ready!" 
 
 I looked at Gontran sadly; Did he not then remember that this was the 
 opera, during the performance of which, I had been for the first time in his 
 company, in the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber's box ? If he had not forgot- 
 ten the circumstance, his request was a bitter mockery. The tears came into 
 my eyes, and I said mournfully : 
 
 " Pardon me, dearest, I could not to-night play that piece !" 
 
 " Why not ? because I ask you to do so ? Come then, do as you will : play 
 me something else. I ask you to do this, to kill the time till dinner comes." 
 
 " To kill the time, Gontran — does it then hang on you so heavily ?" 
 
 " On me ? by no means. I kill him without having the least grudge in the 
 world against him. I had no idea before, of this excellent monotonous life of 
 the country gentleman. I do not know how long it will continue 10 amuse 
 me — but so far, I find it exquisitely pleasant. Hunting has become a real 
 rage with me. My huntsman is unrivalled. With his assistance, out of ten 
 runs, I kill eight times. I have a splendid shot, in my game keeper. Thomas 
 is a perfect cook. Thanks to some improvements we have now made — the 
 stables are now very tolerable. We are quite established in this old chateau 
 — you are as pretty as an angel. Why then should time sit heavily on my 
 hands?" 
 
 My husband spoke to me with so much sincerity, with so much ease — he 
 seemed to think his conduct so natural and simple, that he did not even sus- 
 pect the pain he was giving me. This greatly softened down the bitterness 
 of my reproachful feelings. 
 
 I looked steadily at Gontran. I said to him, with emotion — " And I, Gon- 
 tran — do you think that I am happy ?" 
 
 Half-stretched upon the sofa, he answered carelessly, tapping his boot with 
 the end of his whip — 
 
 " You ! I believe you, on my word, to be very happy — as happy as you can 
 be with your little devilish character — what should ail you ?" 
 
 "Nothing — oh! nothing! — you are quite right, Gontran. I see you in 
 the morning at breakfast time — then in the evening at dinner time, and some- 
 times for an hour or two on Sundays, when you want me to copy out your 
 hunting-book fairly." 
 
 " Well ! what would you wish more ? must I be continually hung to your 
 side ? Believe me, these eternal tête-a-têtes are the dullest things in the 
 world." 
 
 " I asked you dear, to let me ride with you sometimes — to go out hunting 
 with you." 
 
 "Bah ! bah ! you are too timid, my dear. Besides, there is nothing in the 
 world more in the way than a womau in a huntiiig field. She takes no plea- 
 sure herself, and hinders others. If I had even any one to whose care I could 
 trust you, that would be a different thing — but we have not a sociable neigh- 
 bour ; and besides, you are so wild a little hermit that you will see no one." 
 
 " It would be a great pleasure to me, dear husband,'to ride with you quite 
 alone. 
 
 " But, as I tell you, it is quite impossible. You are too £mtastic, Matilda, 
 and always wishing for impossibilities." 
 
 "Very well; we will say no more about it. I am the most timid woman 
 in the world — and — oh ! yes — I am very happy !" and I raised my handker- 
 chief to my eyes. Gontran had thought the reasons he had given me perfectly 
 natural, and not the least wounding to my feelings ; and now he appeared at 
 least as much surprised as vexed, at seeing that I shed tears. 
 
 " How, then !" he said impatiently, " what it it now? We were talking 
 quite quietly, and all of a sudden you begin cr3'ing — in Heaven's name, for 
 what ? Are you going to make a scene ?" 
 
 " A scene ? no, Gontran — no ! I have nothing to say against you, since you 
 do not perceive the difference between our residence at Maran, and the life we 
 used to live at Chantilly." 
 
 " Ah ! there it is again — Chantilly ! Chantilly again I always Chantilly ! 
 
LIFE AT TIIH CASTLB. 
 
 227 
 
 You have no word but that in your mouth, when you wish to reproach me. 
 But do you know that by dint of this you will make me sick even of the re- 
 collection of that charming honeymoon?" and he began to laugh at his jest. 
 " What would you have, my dear ? That honeymoon lasted as long as 
 honeymoons ever last. The rythra i3 not preserved in the phrase — but the 
 sense is — which is quite as good." 
 
 " Oh ! Gontran ! do not blaspheme the happy recollections, which alonere- 
 xnain to me." 
 
 " Well, then, do not always repeat the same thing to me ; or I will take 
 this mode of punishing you. " Come, let us reason like good friends. Do you 
 ■uppose I married, to pass my whole life at your feet, murmuring and coo- 
 ing sweet nonsense ? You are never content. If we live in the world, you 
 are jealous ; if we live alone, your requirements are endless. This becomes 
 tiresome in the long run," he cried, unable to contain himself any longer. 
 
 " Gontran, you have no pity ! You forget how much I have already suf- 
 fered ; that I have a right to be a little humoured." 
 
 "Oh! my good God ! what a character! What, more recriminations? 
 Come, let us look, at it frankly. You have suffered much, have you ? If it 
 is concerning Lugarto, that you tell me this, you are in the wrong." 
 
 " I in the wrong ?" N 
 
 " Certainly ! I can only repeat to you, what I have told you before on the 
 subject. If you had a shadow of tact, or of address, by means of a few affect- 
 ed rights over him, you would easily have got rid of him without compromising 
 yourself." 
 
 " Without compromising myself ! Good Heaven ! was it my fault ?" 
 
 " Never mind that. Whether it was your fault or not, you have com- 
 promised yourself ; and it is on me, sooner or later, that the ridicule must 
 fall." 
 
 " I shall be despised : I ! " 
 
 " Well, madam, I would rather that it should be on my side, than on yours. 
 Perhaps you think it will be very pleasant to me, when we return to Paris, to 
 be pointed at, as an injured husband ! But in truth, you must be mad — 
 stark, staring mad — to raise such discussions. Come ! let us cut it short. 
 You will make me say something cutting to you — you will burst into re- 
 proaches, into sobs. Now, for my part, I would have you dine in peace, and 
 myself likewise." 
 
 " What you say to me," I replied, after a moment's pause of astonish- 
 ment, "is horrible! It is I, whom you accuse — I, the poor victim of that 
 base man's calumnies ! See, Gontran, I know not what may be my future 
 lot, but for this evening I will not burst into tears or sobs. You shall dine 
 in peace. I have wept so much already, that the source of my tears is dried 
 up. Misfortune gives me judgment. I will make you no reproaches — I will 
 only let you know that I endure — that I submit — but am not insensible to 
 your indifference." 
 
 "Speak then— speak out!" said M. de Lancry, springing to his feet, and 
 walking violently to and fro with great strides. " I have done everything in 
 my power to turn this into a joke, but I cannot escape a scene ! I have had 
 bad sport this morning ; the end of the day is to agree, I see, with its begin- 
 ning. Come, speak ! Let us have an end of it. You know that my sole de- 
 sire is to live in peace and to see you happy." 
 
 " I thank you, Gontran, for being so good as to hear me. Well ! it is 
 agony to me to perceive that since we have come hither, you have never had 
 a kind word for me — never a word coming from the heart — but that you live 
 with me, as if I did not exist at all." 
 
 " But, in the name of Heaven ! what does this jargon signify ? What do 
 you wish me to say to you ? If you are so fnd of hearing gallant speeches, 
 inspire me with the feelings that give rise to them." 
 
 " You are right ; it is long that I have discovered this sad truth : we de- 
 serve nothing but that which we inspire. In spite of your harshness, I love 
 you yet ; therefore you deserve my love. 
 
 " Be reasonable, then," said Gontran, in a passion, "since neither you 
 nor I have the power to change realities ;" and then he added, " really, Ma- 
 tilda, your romantic, sentimental character, will render you the most miser- 
 able of women. Do be reasonable. I have told you, a thousand times, that 
 people do not marry to conjugate the verb I love you, for ever, and through 
 all the tenses: but to have a house — a domestic home— a steady, settled 
 mode of life. People marry, to live without formality or restraint with their 
 wives, as long as it suits them to be at home. It is quite clear, that if the 
 
228 
 
 MATILDA* 
 
 end of marriage were perpetual courtship, it would bo better to remaht aï» 
 ways single." 
 
 " Ah! Gontran, Gontran, what a waking !" 
 
 " You will be obliged to me, one day or other, for setting you right as to 
 those mawkish whimsies. It is necessary to know how to be strict some- 
 times — it is our duty — our male duty — ours, who are called to become one 
 day the heads of families ! It is for us to speak the language of reason — 
 and speak it I will ! Ah, first of all, I am resolute — resolute — not to leave 
 you one of these mad illusions ! Once broken — destroyed thoroughly — you 
 will see how admirably you will accommodate yourself to the realities of life, 
 which will remain to you." 
 
 " That is true, Gontran ; once all my illusions overthrown and uprooted, 
 I shall accommodate myself to the realities of life, which will remain to me. 
 Jost as you say — only it will be for ever !" 
 
 • " Now for it ! Threats of death, now ! How extremely gay ! How charm- 
 ing a style of conversation ! And, after this, you complain of my thinking 
 you mawkish? I return from hunting; instead of finding you agreeable, 
 smiling, happy, I see you sad and gloomy. Confess, at least, it is not exactly 
 the way to make me do the amiable !" 
 
 *■' It is true, my soul is full of despair. I cannot conceal it from you any 
 longer," I replied, bitterly; for the tone of irony and scornful raillery which 
 Gontran had adopted, wounded me yet deeper than his harshness. There 
 can be nothing, I conceive, more irritating than to see tears flow — particularly 
 when we know that we have caused them ; but it is not my fault. I can no 
 longer, as I did, smile at every wound that pierces me." 
 
 " Be it so, then ! I will resign myself to see you always in tears. What 
 would you have me do ? Can I prevent you from choosing to consider your- 
 self the most wretched of women ?" 
 
 " Gontran, be just ! My God ! let us see ? What is my life? what are 
 you to me ? or, rather, what am I to you ? ' Good morning and good night ! 
 — my sport has been good, or has been bad — play me an air upon your piano 
 — have letters written to our tenants who are in arrears !' This is the whole 
 of my life, Gontran. This is my life ; and do you expect me to make you 
 gay — to be merry — joyful ? Is it possible ? Alas ! it was your gobdnes, your 
 love, your affection, which made me gay of old !" 
 
 " At last here comes the dinner," said Gontran, hearing the bell ; " I had 
 much rather go to table than answer you ; for you will end by putting me in 
 a passion, and I should be sorry for that. Arguing with you is like jousting 
 against windmills." 
 
 The servant announced that dinner was upon the table, 
 I " Are you coming ?" said Gontran. 
 
 " Excuse me, dear ; I have no appetite, and do not feel well at all !" ^ 
 
 " That is very pleasant ; and moreover, looks extremely well before your 
 servants. But just as you think best, my dear wife." And he went out to 
 sit down alone to dinner. 
 
 After the departure of my husband, I retired to my own room, and began 
 to cry bitterly, " Everything that I had tried had failed to move him. It was 
 too certain. He did not even suspect the amount of my sufferings — caused 
 by his own neglect. My complaints he attributed to an absurd, romantic sen- 
 timentalism. All hope of bringing him to compassionate my sorrows was now 
 lost to me! In spite of his selfishness, his entire devotion to his own plea- 
 sures, he would not have been absolutely insensible to my complaints, had he 
 been able to comprehend them. If J have ceased to address you with the 
 same tender sentiments as of old, it is that pou no longer inspire me with 
 them. Such, in fact, had been the purport of his answer to me. 
 
 It was one of those overwhelming discoveries which build up, as it were, a 
 wall of brass between us and the possibility of hope. In my affliction, I knew 
 not how to answer him. Alas ! I was scarcely eighteen, and before me I had 
 a life — a whole long life. 
 
 And now, I said to myself, perhaps I am but on the threshold of my sor- 
 rows. I could already draw comparisons. I remembered the agonies of jea- 
 lousy; perhaps I was wrong to complain. The mournful, cold existence 
 which passed at Maran had at least no negatives against which to contend. I 
 had not, at least, to regret happiness which I saw, but could not enjoy. Per- 
 haps I Was yet to count those sad days as the bright spots amid sadder yet to 
 come. I returned then into the depths of my own heart — 1 asked myself if, in 
 uence of all those cruel trials, my love toward Gontran had diminished, 
 
LIFE AT THE CASTLE. 
 
 229 
 
 - This" my last conversation with him, had wounded me so deeply, that I per- 
 ceived that I was in a rare fit of frankness toward myself. Alas ! I dicovered, 
 with a sort of bitter pleasure, that I loved Gontran as well as ever. I have 
 now some difficulty in comprehending the blind obstinacy of the love which 
 I then felt toward him. It must have sprung from the conviction that Gon- 
 tran could, if he chose it, render me happy. This last hope, to which I clung 
 with all my powers, sufficed to keep alive this fatal love. A mixed feeling of 
 pride and defiance convinced me that I was still capable of inspiring Gontran 
 with that passionate sentiment of adoration, which he had once felt for me ; 
 but that I wanted the skill of the heurt, which is needed to render our powers 
 available. 
 
 I thus explained to myself that indomitable love, which in woman survives 
 in spite of the most barbarous disdain. Intoxicating recollections tell us that 
 happiness is there, still there, in a word, in a smile, in a glance of the man 
 we adore ; and we cannot believe that he will not soon — will not perhaps to- 
 morrow — cast upon us that word, that glance, that smile, on which our very 
 lives appear to hang. 
 
 Where love attains to that pitch of feverish excitement — of desperate obsti- 
 nacy, it seems to me that it possesses all the characteristics of the rage for 
 gambling, which I have heard described and analyzed by gamblers. A former 
 gain gives yet a blind assurance of the future. In your own despite your 
 hope increases, every time it is foiled and deceived ; every step taken on that 
 burning, agonizing path, seems to put you almost within grasp of that unat- 
 tainable goal, which you aspire in vain to reach. The more your losses mul- 
 tiply, the more, you say to yourself, do your chances increase likewise of 
 coming off the winner. 
 
 " Luck will be weary," the gambler replies, rakes up his last stake — the 
 gulf of chance devours it— all is lost ! 
 
 II He will grow weary of neglecting me," says the fond doating woman ; 
 redoubles her devotion, lavishes her last proofs of affection, her last stakes of 
 love — and as the gambler dashes himself to atoms against a blind and stupid 
 chance — so does she dash herself against a dull and apathetical indifference. 
 
 Then she has no more left — no more ! her heart is void — she has wasted all 
 her powers of loving — there only remains to her, as to the spendthrift, an 
 everlasting regret for the rich treasures so ingloriously and rashly lavished. 
 
 1 had not yet gone so far — even while I accused, I still loved Gontran. 
 Sometimes, I fancied that he was engaged by thoughts of Ursula \ and then 
 I believe that jealousy increased as it were the transports of my love, instead 
 of cooling them. Jealousy sets the most powerful feeling into action — self- 
 love — pride— fear — and hope. Love, above all, is kept alive by agitation. 
 
 Jealousy does not diminish, but augments rather the force of passion. The 
 more generally he whom you love attracts and fascinates — the more vehe- 
 mently the possession of his love is disputed with you, the greater does his 
 value seem in your eyes. 
 
 I thought that I would make one last trial, and see to what extent. I was 
 still in love with Gontran. Several times, when 1 had thought of the devoted- 
 ness of M. de Mortagne, I thought likewise of M. de Rochegune, and his 
 fervent affection. The very calmness with which I could turn to those re- 
 collections, proved that there could be nothing guilty in them. 
 
 I felt for M. de Rochegune, admiration, respect, sincere gratitude ; a sen- 
 timent akin to that with which M. de Mortagne inspired me— a sentiment 
 full of sweetness and tranquillity. Although his features were not perfectly 
 regular, I saw in them an expression full of dignified nobleness. When I 
 thought of the interest which he took in me, long unknown, of which he had 
 given me so many proofs — when I recollected all the great and good actions 
 he had performed— when I reflected on the compassionate kindness, which 
 in him was united to a chivalrous courage, to an ardent daring character — I 
 perceived that M. de Rochegune possessed a combination of all the rare 
 qualities which should inspire the most lively passion. 
 
 And yet, far from regretting that I could not marry him, I felt, even at 
 that hour, that could I have chosen between him and Gontran — my heart's 
 choice would ever have been with Gontran. 
 
 Alas ! this confession costs me dear ! It must be a symptom of a bad 
 heart. 
 
 In the eyes of equity and reason there was no comparison to be-.drawn be- 
 tween Gontran and M. de Rochegune, so far as concerned actual good quali- 
 ties, or even as to the position which each occupied in the world. 
 
 I did not deceive myself. Gontran was charming to young men, and to 
 
230 
 
 MATILDA: 
 
 women more especially — for his grace, his wit, his gaiety. But men staked 
 their judgment on M. de Rochegune. He commanded that deference— that 
 weighty consideration, which is never accorded but to men cf high position, 
 or yet higher character. I do not speak of his illustrious birth," nor of his 
 brilliant fortune ; although these magnificent advantages, united to the others 
 which he possessed, gave yet more weight to the place which he occupied in 
 the world. 
 
 Yet ! and yet, to my shame, I repeat it! Gontran lost nothing by this 
 comparison. Yes ! to my shame ! I say it — because I believe that an un- 
 worthy love is a proof of an evil, or perverted nature. 
 
 Those passions which we are obliged to excuse, by the admission that 
 assion is blind, are almost always passions disgracefully misplaced. And 
 y persisting in my adoration of a man, from whom I was receiving scorn 
 and insult, I feel that I was guilty of entertaining a love, which was in itself 
 degrading. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A WORK OF CHARITY. 
 
 The meditations into which I fell, after that melancholy conversation with 
 my husband, were not fruitless. I thought that, perhaps the want of a real 
 serious occupation rendered me too susceptible, too liable to violent passions. 
 
 I gave up — I confess it with tears of bitter grief — the convinction I had 
 hitherto entertained, that my love could be the sole and constant occupation 
 of my life. Very soon I went farther, and according to my custom of accusing 
 myself, to excuse Gontran, reproached myself, with having given up my whole 
 life to this affection; and persuaded myself that God was punishing me for 
 the exclusiveness of my idolatry. 
 
 As soon as this idea struck me, I thought that I was saved. The past ap- 
 peared to me in a new light. I comprehended easily how the romantic exag- 
 geration of my feelings must naturally have disgusted Gontran. I comprehend- 
 ed, that a woman could have other duties on earth than loving, or in other 
 words, burning with passion for one adored being. The deathless love which 
 exists in the heart, ought at least to cast its reflection over all those who 
 suffer ; love — like our religious sentiment toward the One and Eternal Being 
 who created the universe — should manifest itself by our benevolence, and pity 
 toward mankind at large. 
 
 The day on which this thought struck me, kindled me, as it were, with a 
 heavenly revelation — I waited with impatience for the return of Gontran. I 
 doubt not that my countenance betrayed my joy, my hopes, for when he saw 
 me, he said — " Heavens ! how joyful you look to-day!" 
 
 " Yes ! my husband, I have made to-day a precious discovery." 
 
 " Ah ! what is that?" 
 
 " I have discovered, that you were quite right in scolding me, and that I 
 was quite wrong, as you reproached me with being — in a word, that my love 
 was misemployed. I have discovered, in short, that it was not enough for me 
 to say to you, ' Gontran I am worthy of you,' but that I ought to have proved 
 it, otherwise than by daily protestations." 
 
 " What do you mean to say, Matilda?" 
 
 " Yes ! my everlasting complaints must have wearied you. I will complain 
 no more, and henceforth you shall no more find me dull or cross when you 
 return home ; but on the contrary, you shall always find me, as now, smiling 
 and happy." 
 
 " So much the better — a thousand times the better ! For what reason shall 
 you be so much changed ?" 
 "Oh ! I have great projects." 
 
 " Great projects ! which will make you happy and smiling ? Quick ! then 
 tell me, quick, what they are ?" 
 
 " You know the little chateau?" (This was rather a large house, which 
 was attached to the chateau de Maran, and which joined the offices, la 
 the time of my grandfather, it had been used to lodge the supernumerary 
 guests, for whom there was not room in the castle.) " You know the little 
 chateau?" I said to Gontran. 
 
 "To be sure — well?" 
 
 " It is utterly useless to us." 
 
A WORK OF CHARITY. 
 
 231 
 
 M How 1 useless ? My kennel is in it— my harness-rooms, and the apart- 
 ments of my hunting-train." 
 
 " When you know the purpose for which I destine the little chateau," said 
 I, smiling, I am sure that you will agree with me, that your kennel, your har- 
 ness-room, and your hunting-train, can be just us well accommodated in the 
 offices, part of which are unoccupied." 
 
 Monsieur de Lancry stared at me in great surprise. "How!" he said — 
 "do you want to turn my people out of the iiltle chateau? You must be 
 jokinej !" 
 
 " No, really — I assure you " 
 
 " Come — come, don't talk any more about that, my dear little wife. It is 
 impossible for me to put my kennel anywhere but in the little chateau ; the 
 old garden connected with it is inclosed, and is a capital walk for the young 
 hounds, and the breeding establishment. The old kennel is very damp, and 
 has but a small dark court. You see, then, that it would be impossible to 
 make any change." 
 
 " Do you know, dearest, I am almost glad that you set so much store on 
 the little chateau, as a part of your amusements? Your share in the charity 
 which I meditate, will be greater than mine ; for you will have made a little 
 sacrifice, while I shall only do myself a pleasure." 
 
 My husband seemed excessively surprised. 
 
 " A charity — a sacrifice ! Come, dearest, do not talk in riddles. What is 
 all this about ?" 
 
 " It is all about an excellent idea which has struck me, and for which, in a 
 few minutes, you will thank me. I want to found in the little chateau, a 
 school for little girls on the ground-floor ; and on the floor above, I will have 
 some beds arranged for poor sick women. Three or four good sisters of cha- 
 rity will be enough to manage our little establishment, which shall be subject 
 to my supreme inspection, and which will procure for us the blessings of all 
 the poor in the country. I will teach their lessons myself to the children ; 
 and they shall have one- half of the garden to play in : the other half shall be 
 given up to the poor convalescent women. Now, will you tell me that your 
 dogs will not do very well in the offices ?" 
 
 Monsieur de Lancry burst into a roar of laughter, which disconcerted me a 
 little ; and then cried out, interrupting himself again to burst out laughing — 
 
 " I think, in truth, that this is a very original idea ; such a one, in short, 
 as no one but yourself would have ever entertained 1" 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " And can you really, in sober earnest, suppose that I could be pestered 
 here with a heap of little beggar children, and have my head split with their 
 peevish squalling, and my eyes shocked by the sight of a scum of -old decrepid 
 women?" 
 
 " But, dearest husband, the little chateau is so far off, that you could 
 neither see nor hear." » 
 
 " Hush ! hush! you are a spoiled child, a little goose," said my husband, 
 with an air of cold-blooded mockery, which shocked me. "Do not let us 
 talk any more of such childish nonsense. Is it possible, that for the love of 
 playing school-mistress, and lady bountiful, you can think of disarranging 
 my hounds, and my people, who are so well accommodated there ?" 
 
 " But, husband " « 
 
 " Tell me, my dear little fanciful, how could such strange whims have got 
 into your little head ? Tell me this, frankly." 
 
 " Dear Gontran !" I replied, feeling the tears rising to my eyes, for I little 
 dreamed of such a reception, or of such sneers. " 1 will tell you how it came 
 into my head. I was thinking that you were quite right, that I ought to have 
 something else to do, than to be always talking of my tenderness for you. I 
 perceived that it was almost impious to think of nothing but my love for you, 
 and that without loving you less, I ought to do all the good that was in my 
 power. I have thought, moreover, that it would be a means of proving my 
 affection to you, for it is the desire of being worthy of you, that inspired me 
 with the idea. That is the way, Gontran, (hat the idea came into my head." 
 
 " Doubtless, the end is very praiseworthy, my dear ; and I can readily 
 understand, that you may want occupation here. But, I confess to you, there 
 are many other modes of amusement which I should prefer to that you have 
 chosen, although 1 am to derive a share of the profit from these charities, to 
 a partnership in which you associate me so generously. Between ourselves, 
 I am your very humble servant, for your philanthropical intentions : but I 
 will choose another way hereafter of attending to my soul's good." 
 
£32 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " But, my dear husband " 
 
 " Really, Matilda, I must beg you to talk no more about it. If 1 did net 
 know your character, I should suppose you were joking." 
 
 " I am speaking quite seriously, Gontran ; and it is seriously, that I im« 
 plore you to grant my request." 
 
 " Seriously, Matilda, are you making fun of me ?" 
 
 " Gontran ! what language ! what a manner of receiving my prayer ! and 
 for what ? because I beg you to take part with me, in a good and useful 
 charity ?" 
 
 Gontran shrugged his shoulders, impatiently, and answered very shortly — 
 " I have done all that is in my power, to look upon this as an imaginative 
 jest: but, since you insist upon my speaking plainly out, 1 will tell you, for 
 the last time, that what you ask me is impossible, Do you understand me ? 
 completely, and absolutely impossible. I hope I speak clearly enough, and 
 that you will avoid even mentioning the subject to me again." 
 
 For the nrst time in my life, I rebelled against the will of M. de Lancry, 
 and answered him very firmly : " I regret very much, that I cannot agree 
 with you on this subject, my dear — but my project is practicable — 1 am very 
 anxious that it shall be executed, and it shall !" 
 
 My husband looked at me with an expression rather of surprise than anger, 
 and replied, smiling, ironically : 
 
 " Pray tell me— 1 am the master here, am I not ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; you are the master. 1 do not dispute your tastes ; for pity's 
 sake, giant me the same liberty with mine !" 
 
 " Stuff ! How can you go on so ? Give you the liberty, indeed, of making 
 ducks and drakes of ten or twelve thousand francs a year, and more tool 
 For you can have no notion into what expenses your fine mania for charity, 
 which you have taken up all on a sudden, will ruin you. But, really, I am a 
 fool to answer you at ail !" 
 
 '• If it is the question of money, which displeases you, my dear, do not con- 
 sider that; I will economize it out of the monthly allowance you make me." 
 
 " But I do not choose that, at all, my dear. I choose that you should he 
 dressed with that elegance which befits our fortune and position in society. 
 Can you suppose that, to give you the pleasure of teaching their A, B, C, to 
 beggar children, and of giving physic to old women, 1 would allow you to be 
 dressed with absurd meanness ? Come, now, my dear Matilda, 1 wish that 
 people should speak of Madame de Lancry, as one of the most charming wo- 
 men in all Paris." 
 
 There was so much selfishness — so much harshness — in the objections which 
 my husband made to my scheme, and so little sympathy with^ttre pious and 
 noble sentiment to which I was obedient, that I was angry. 
 
 For the first time, moreover, I thought that, after all, I was in my own 
 house — in the house of my fathers — and that, without injustice, I might well 
 dispense in charity a very small part of that fortune which my husband was 
 lavishing in all kinds of profusion. After a long silence, then, I replied again 
 to M. de Lancry — 
 
 " You will excuse me, that 1 cannot share your opinions, on the subject of 
 this school, and " 
 
 Gontran stamped his foot passionately on the ground, and without suffering 
 me to proceed, cried out, 
 
 "What! again? What! when I have told you so plainly what I think! 
 So, so ! you have decided, then — perhaps sworn — to put me beside myself ! 
 Did you not hear me ? I tell you that I will not have it — that 1 will not ! 
 How many times must I repeat it ?" 
 
 I could restrain myself no longer, but cried out, in my turn, " And, as for 
 me, I will !" 
 
 " You will I This is something new ! God forgive me — you say that you 
 will ! I believe ! ' ' 
 
 " Yes ! for I am getting tired of suffering, and submitting myself in this 
 manner. This language is new. It surprises you, Gontran; 1 understand 
 that, readily. But, this time, I will not yield. What I ask, is just, is rea- 
 sonable, and^ will obtain it !" 
 
 "Ah ! ah ! you will — you will, aye ? — And pray, how ? if you please, — let 
 us see by what means ? To whom will you apply, to make me do what I do 
 not choose ? Come, answer me. Before coming to extremities — to threats, 
 you have no doubt, assured yourself of the means of arriving at your ends. 
 Once more, answer me !" 
 
 I was panic-stricken. I could not find one word to reply to my husband. 
 
 # 
 
A WORK CHABITT. 
 
 In the first place, a struggle with my husband, not only frightened me, but 
 ■eemed impossible to me. My instinct told me, moreover, that law and cus- 
 tom, were with M. de Lancry, and against me. 
 
 Before giving up this last hope, I resolved to make one more effort, ad- 
 dressing myself to the heart, to the generosity of Gontrau ; 
 
 " Doubtless, I cannot force you to do what I desire, my dear. But I can 
 ask it of you as a favour. Do not misinterpret the words which I am going 
 to address to you, but your refusal obliges me to speak to you thus." And 
 then I added, trembling, I confess it, and blushing with shame : " This house 
 belonged to my father, an* " 
 
 " If this be an indirect method of apprising me, that the greater part of 
 the fortune we enjoy, came from your side," replied Gontran, with impertur- 
 bable gravity and coolness, " the observation is very delicate, and in good 
 taste, doubtless. But it has no effect upon me. I have expected it for a long 
 time. It is the eternal chorus of women, whenever a prudent or firm hus- 
 band opposes their fancies. Well, madam, whether this house did or did not 
 belong to your father — whether the fortune we enjoy did or did not come from 
 your side — matters little. Once for all ! remember that we are married — so 
 that you have given me the sole power — so that to me alone — do you under- 
 stand? to me alone belongs the employment and management of this pro- 
 perty. I alone authorize the expenditures that you may wish to make. I 
 ask you twenty thousand pardons, for entering into these domestic details ; 
 but 1 hope that this will be understood, once for all. It will save you the 
 unpleasant feeling of asking for impossibilities, and me that of refusing them. 
 In truth, if some one did not see to it. you would make a ha3ty end of your 
 fortunes. Six months ago ! it was a hut at Chantilly you wanted to buy, 
 because, forsooth, we had passed a few happy days there." 
 
 "Ah, Gontran'" I exclaimed, no longer able to refrain from weeping, 
 " mercy ! this is too cruel — you arejaitiless ! At least, formerly, your cold- 
 ness succeeded to moments of kindness and affection. But now, nothing — ■ 
 nothing ! not so much even as one word of consolation. Alas ! I understand 
 it but too well. Formerly you were unhappy — the fear of the future made 
 you restless — you too knew what grief was, and that made you compas- 
 sionate." 
 
 " Reproaches! — ever reproaches ! " exclaimed Gontran, raising his eyes to 
 heaven. 
 
 His voice appeared less menacing. I hoped that at last I had moved him. 
 
 " Gontran," I said, " perhaps my reproaches are too bitter — nevertheless 
 be just, reflect. Setting aside, those days of fleeting bliss, say — say, have I 
 not been a most unhappy woman ? Think of my childhood — of my youth 
 passed in sorrow and constraint, I ask but one thing of you ; forget what I 
 am to you, look on me only as a stranger, and say — say if you can — that I do 
 not deserve some pity !" 
 
 And I fell back into an arm-chair, covering my face with my hands, and 
 unable to say one word more. 
 
 "Come, come — be calm!" said M. de Lancry, drawing near, and sitting 
 down beside me. 
 
 " You are a little goose— with a character full of such exalted- and roman- 
 tic notions, that you exaggerate everything into the blackest light. Because 
 for your own interest I refuse to sanction your fantastic projects— generous, 
 if you will, but impossible — you get angry— you put everything in the worst 
 light." 
 
 " Heaven ! if you could only know by what train of thoughts I came to the 
 desire of founding this charity," said I to Gontran, you would easily under- 
 stand my insisting." 
 
 " I understand all, my dear wife ; but come, let U3 talk sense. You are 
 going to lay out a great deal of money in founding your school, and alms- 
 house. It is a noble and pious occupation, which you wish to make for your- 
 self — but is it wise — is it even truly charitable to accustom the poor to the 
 enjoyment of comforts which may be so short-lived?" 
 
 " I assure you, dearest, I should never grow weary of doing good." 
 
 "There are, however, a thousand circumstances under which it might be- 
 come impossible for to do what you desire. For example, it would not be 
 very wonderful, if I were to sell this estate one day or other.' 
 
 " Sell this estate ! my God ! and wherefore ?" 
 
 " It is worth above a million, and does not bring me above twenty thous- 
 sand livres a year, clear of taxes and repairs — the house is inconvenient— 
 the land scattered— and in a word, it is a very dull residence. By selling 
 
 X3 
 
234 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Maran, and placing the money in the stocks, or in the bank of France, it 
 
 would give us fifty thousand livres, instead of the twenty it now brings us!" 
 
 " Sell Maran ! surely, you would not think of it ! It has been so long in 
 our family — my mother lived in it — I " 
 
 " All these chimerical advantages are not worth thirty thousand livres 
 yearly — do you see ?" 
 
 " But, what do we want with so much money ? Can we not live on what 
 we have ?" 
 
 " Child !" answered Gontran, with an expression of scornful compassion, 
 "you know nothing of business ; it is impossible to have too large a reve- 
 nue, you do not know what a house costs. Besides, I want to receive in 
 Paris this winter with so much splendour, as shall show people that the re- 
 volution of July has not crushed us, as they fancy." 
 
 But seriously, dear husband, you do not think of selling Maran ? I en- 
 treat you, for pity ! do it not, I am attached to the place." 
 
 " For that very reason it is better to sell it at once, before you become more 
 accustomed to it." 
 
 " But dearest, I should not wish " 
 
 " Come: we shall begin our quarrels again ! listen to reason. How many 
 times must I tell you that the law gives me absolute— do you mark me ? 
 absolute power over your property. I can buy, sell, and dispose of it as I 
 think good. If I think it for our interest to sell — sell it I shall : and I am 
 so near being convinced of the fact, that I cannot consent to your farming 
 establishments, which might scarcely last six months. This being well un- 
 derstood, I leave you. I must so and see if my pointers have fed well — they 
 have had a hard day's work." 
 
 And M. de Lancry left me alone. 
 
 s — 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI II. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 I was frightened by what my husband said to me, touching his intention to 
 sell Maran, and to increase his expenditure. I felt that I had no power to 
 resist his will. I remembered the warnings of Madame de Richeville, and 
 M. de Mortagne, relative to the extravagance of M. de Lancry ; I trembled, 
 to think that our fortune was entirely at his mercy. His refusal to give me 
 what I asked of him, in order to found a charitable asylum, distressed me ; 
 but I was not discouraged. Unable to do good upon so large a scale, I re- 
 solved to do my best to assist such unfortunate persons as fell in my way, 
 and to seek some distraction from my sorrows in the accomplishment of these 
 pious duties. My poor Blondeau assisted me marvellously ; thanks to the 
 information that she gave me, I was able to alleviate much suffering. God 
 rewarded me ; in place of being bitter and poignant, my grief became melan- 
 choly and contemplative. I experienced a sort of calm, of repose ; I consoled 
 myself for the blunt manners or the indifference of my husband, in thinking 
 of the tears of gratitude that some trifling benefits had deserved. I tooli a 
 pleasure in associating Gontran with these charities. I gave always in his 
 name, and felt a touching emotion, when I heard us united in one common 
 benediction. 
 
 Several days passed in this manner. My husband still led the same life, 
 and did not seem aware of the change that had taken place in me. Once 
 only he said to me: " 1 observe with pleasure that you have given up your 
 follies ; you are right : the more I look into the estate, the more I am con- 
 vinced that I shall do very well in getting rid of it." I had acquired suffi- 
 cient experience of character of Gontran, to give up any attempt to struggle 
 against his will, when I knew that I had no means to make him change it. 
 I only replied, that he was at liberty to do as he thought fit ; but I wrote to 
 M. de Mortagne to inform him of this resolution, and to ask him if I could 
 possibly oppose it. It was about two months since we had quitted Ursula. 
 One morning, after the departure of my husband for the chase, I received by 
 post, a letter from Rouvrai. M. Secherin informed me that in compliance 
 with his promise, Ursula would accompany him very shortly to Maran to 
 pass some time with us. His factory was going on excellently, and his head 
 clerk was quite competent to fill his place during his absence. M. Secherin 
 also said, that he would not leave to Ursula the pleasure of writing to me, and 
 
EMMA, 
 
 235 
 
 nurprising me. A few words from my cousin, added in a postscript, at the 
 foot of the letter, confirmed what her husband had said on that point. Twice 
 I read over this letter, unable to believe my eyes. Nothing, however, could 
 be more natural in appearance ; twenty times we had ;igreed with Ursula, 
 that she should come and pass some time with me ;.but then I believed her 
 my friend, my sister. I recalled to mind the few words I had overheard 
 during the conversation of Ursula and Gontran, which had excited my jea- 
 lousy. 1 trembled to think, that my cousin, while staying with us, would 
 see my husband every day. I persuaded myself, that this journey to Maran 
 was an arrangement concocted with Gontran. My first impulse was to write 
 to Madame Secherin that we were about to quit our estate, and that we could 
 not receive her. But I did not dare to put this determination into practice, 
 without informing my husband of it. I resigned myself to wait his return 
 from the chase. Alas ! at these renewals of jealousy, 1 even looked back with 
 regret to the two months that I had just passed. The cares that had ob- 
 scured them were as nothing compared to those reserved for me, I doubted 
 not if my cousin should come to Maran. 
 
 In the midst of the pre-occupations, I heard all at once the noise of post- 
 horses ; a carriage entered the court of the chateau. Thinking that Ursula, 
 to avoid all chance of a refusal on my part, had, perhaps, determined to arrive 
 simultaneously with her letter, I ran to my window. What was my astonish- 
 ment ! I saw Madame de Richeville descend from the carriage, with a young 
 girl whom I did not know ! For the first time, the sight of the duchess did 
 me good ; it seemed to me, that Heaven had sent me a friend at the moment 
 when one was most necessary. ' Experience had proved to me, that, in com- 
 ing before, to warn me of the faults of Gontran, she had wished to render me 
 an important service. I thought that in the difficult position in which the 
 speedy arrival of Ursula would place me, the advice of the friend of M. de 
 Mortagne might be of immense benefit to me. I was about to descend from 
 my room to meet Madame de Richeville, when she entered. 
 
 I found her so much changed in the space of about three months, during 
 which I had not seen her, that I was unable to repress a movement of sur- 
 
 Srise. She perceived, and said to me with her charming smile. " You would 
 e troubled to recognize me, would you not ? Oh ! I have suffered so much. 
 But, let us talk of yourself — of you," said she, taking my two hands in her 
 own. " Maran was not very much out of my way ; I have made a circuit to 
 see you in passing. And M. de Lancry, where is he?" " Out hunting, ma- 
 dam, for the whole day," said I to Madame de Richeville. Without doubt, 
 from my accent, and the look which accompanied my words, the duchess dis- 
 covered that I joyfully embraced this opportunity of a long conversation with 
 her, and that I had some trying secret to confide to her ; she shook her head 
 mournfully, and looked at me with an expression of touching interest. But, 
 remembering that she was not alone, she said, pointing out to me the young 
 person who accompanied her : 
 
 "Allow me to present to you Mademoiselle de Lostanges, my relation," 
 added Madame de Richeville, after a moment's hesitation : 
 
 I had not yet attentively examined the youug girl. I was at once struck with 
 admiration. Although she was scarcely fourteen years of age, she appeared 
 to be sixteen, so erect, and graceful, and supple was her figure. The azure 
 of her large blue eyes was limpid and transparent ; her nose was small and 
 straight ; her vermillion mouth was of rare perfection ; her ivory forehead 
 and her cheeks of a rosy whiteness, were framed by bands of beautiful flaxen 
 hair, slightly waving, and so thick, in spite of its softness, that they formed 
 behind her head an enormous tress several times twisted round. That ex- 
 quisite face of oval form, slightly elongated, realized the idea of antique 
 beauty. In spite of the extreme youth of Mademoiselle de Lostanges, her 
 features, her expression, her bearing gave an appearance of serious candour, 
 of sweet gravity, and of noble serenity ; which was, at the same time, both 
 imposing and charming. Her look, above all, had about it an angelic gentle- 
 ness which involuntarily brought tears into my eyes. 
 
 Alas 1 alas ! poor Emma ! my sad forebodings did not deceive me. These 
 beings — so perfectly endowed that one would deem them of an essence su- 
 perior to our own — have alone those looks which reflect beforehand, so to 
 speak, the celestial joys into the bosom of which they are sometimes too 
 soon carried. God leaves not long his angels among men. Emma ! Emma ! 
 my friend ! Oh ! thou, my true sister ! thou hearest and thou seest me. Oh 1 
 thou who hast passed as a divine and holy apparition into the soul of thoss 
 who loves thee J 
 
236 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 I was so struck with the beauty of Mademoiselle de Lostanges, that, in 
 turning toward Madame de Richeville, I could not refrain myself from saying 
 to her, in a low voice : 
 . " Heavens ! how beautiful she is ! how beautiful she is !" 
 
 Emma heard me. She drooped her long eyelashes ; her fresh and youth- 
 ful visage was tinted by a rosy blush. 
 
 " Is she not ?" involuntarily replied Madame de Richeville, with an excla- 
 mation of radiant pride. Then she looked at me with an unquiet air, her 
 pale and care-worn face crimsoned for a moment. After some seconds of 
 silence, she said to me : 
 
 " Your excellent Blondeau — is she here ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly." 
 
 " Well, will you then be kind enough to ask for her ? I would have some 
 talk with you ; and, meanwhile, I will confide Emma to her charge, that she 
 may show her your park, which is said to be charming." , 
 
 I rang, and sent for Blondeau ; she shortly took away Mademoiselle de 
 Lostanges, whom Madame de Richeville could not allow to leave her without 
 kissing her on the forehead. 
 
 " Ah ! poor unhappy child !" cried Madame de Richeville, when we were 
 alone — " I have learnt all ; your husband owed money to that infamous 
 Lugarto ; he took advantage of M. de Lancry's dependence on himself, to 
 compromise you outrageously ; there was a duel, in which the wretch was 
 wounded " 
 
 These words of Madame de Richeville proved to me, that she knew nothing, 
 cither of the shameful conduct of Gontran, or of the scenes in the isolated 
 house. I rejoiced in the discretion of M. de Mortagne. It would have been 
 distressing to me to have had to blush for my husband. 
 
 " In truth, madam, M. Lugarto has done us all the evil that he could ; but, 
 thank God, he is now out of France — and yourself, have not you to complain 
 of him also ?" 
 
 " He has caused me the profoundest grief that I have felt in all my life." 
 
 "Madam, pardon — pardon. The interest that you take in me, has, per- 
 haps, been the cause of his hatred toward you ?" 
 
 " Why deny it, my poor child ? It is true. He knew the warm friendship 
 that bound me to M. de Mortagne, and consequently to yourself. He wished 
 to draw me away, and deprive you thus of a friend at the moment when you 
 most needed one." 
 
 " And you have accused me, perchance — me, the involuntary cause of your 
 griefs—" 
 
 " No, no, Matilda! alas! I was so miserable, that I have since, on the 
 contrary, reproached myself that you were so little in my thoughts, in the 
 midst of the misfortune that fell upon me — You see it, Matilda : I am but 
 the shadow of myself — so much have I suffered — so much have I wept !" 
 
 " I dare not ask you — what has caused this frightful sorrow ?" 
 
 " Listen, Matilda ! May this mark of entire confidence, that I am going 
 to give you, stimulate your own. By your paleness— by your sad and sor- 
 rowing smile— I see it, Matilda — you are not happy !" 
 
 I was silent ; but a tear rolled down my cheek. Madame de Bicheville 
 joined her hands together vehemently, lifted her eyes to Heaven, and looked 
 at me, as she shook her head, as if to say, " Alas ! did I not anticipate it ?" 
 After some moments' silence, she resumed : " There is in you, my poor child, 
 I know not what touching charm, that inspires an excessive confidence. Be- 
 fore your marriage, I made to you a sufficiently painful avowal — in the hope 
 that confession, humiliating as it waa to myself, might serve, so to speak, as 
 a guarantee for the counsel and advice that I had given you. What must 
 have happened, has happened, Matilda. Your heart was passionately smitten. 
 You believed me not — you could not believe me. This is no reproach ; on 
 the contrary, it is an excuse that I assign for a blindness, in which 1 have 
 myself participated. In confiding to you what I am about to confide, Ma- 
 tilda, I hope this time to be more happy. You will not hide your troubles 
 from me. I shall be able to serve you." 
 
 " Ah ! madam ! how many times heretofore have I been culpable, cruel, 
 toward you," cried I, moved by the words of Madame de Richeville. 
 
 She replied: " Cruel to me ! — no ; but to yourself, unhappy child. Come, 
 come, do not despair. You see it — it is I, now, who console you, who give 
 you cause for hope." 
 
 " Hope !" said I, sighing. 
 
XMMAt 
 
 The duchess took, tenderly, my hands within her own. " Yes, hope — my 
 counsels will entitle you to it ; but, in order that my counsels should be effii 
 cacious, it is necessary that I should know all. I commence. My example 
 will determine you." 
 
 " Doubt it not, madam. This moment, when I saw you arrive, I thanked 
 God for having sent me — a friend — may I say it ?" 
 
 " Yes ! oh ! yes ! Say it — say a mother : for sorrow has indeed made me 
 old, and my heart is more tenderly than ever devoted to you. Listen to me, 
 then. At that morning dance, at the English embassy, Monsieur Lugarto 
 said to me these words : ' Is it long since Mademoiselle Albin went to the 
 village of Bory, in Anjou, to lodge witli the farmer, Anselme ?' To explain 
 to you how this man had discovered a secret, of the last importance to me, 
 would be altogether impossible. At this unexpected disclosure I stood stu- 
 pified. Monsieur Lugarto demanded an interview for the next day. I 
 granted it ; I was dying to know how far this man was informed of a secret, 
 that, I thought, was well kept. Monsieur Lugarto came. ' You are bring- 
 ing up a young girl, under the name of Emma de Lostanges,' said he to me. 
 It was true — I turned pale. ' Mademoiselle Albin is charged with her educa- 
 tion.' This again was true. ' I know who is the mother — who is the father 
 of this young girl !' added he. Then, after having for an instant enjoyed my 
 dismay, he added, slowly, these last words, with an expression of infernal tri- 
 umph : ' This young girl has been, for three days, at death's door. At this 
 hour, she, perhaps, lives no longer.' Then he left me, saying : ' I shall al- 
 ways treat, as my bitterest enemies, those who are the friends of Mortagne, 
 of Rochegune, or of Matilda. Now, that I know the mystery about the birth 
 of Emma, you may form some idea of my vengeance, whether she die, or live 
 — which is scarcely probable.' My first cry, on emerging from the sort of 
 annihilation into which this revelation had thrown me, was for horses. I set 
 cut for Anjou that very evening. The fiend had not deceived me. Emma 
 was dying." 
 
 " Good Heaven ! madam !" 
 
 Monsieur Lugarto had learned — through Mademoiselle Albin, whom he 
 had gained by bribery — he had learned, I say, the hopeless state of the unfor- 
 tunate Emma, and had availed himself of that disastrous news to withdraw 
 me from Paris. I might have stood in the way of his perfidious projects upon 
 you ; and my presence with Emma might serve as a proof of his denunci- 
 ations. His treachery had been well calculated. I was weeping at the bed- 
 side of the almost expiring Emma ; my husband arrived. We had been 
 tacitly separated for several years ; the behaviour of Monsieur de Richevillc, 
 on this occasion, will give you a knowledge of him. 'This girl is yours,' he 
 said. Alas ! seeing this angel descending to the tomb, crushed by despair, 
 and by remorse for a fault which Heaven was punishing with so terrible a 
 chastisement, I dared not — I would not tell a falsehood. 
 
 " How !" cried I, interrupting Madame de Richeville — " Emma " 
 
 " Emma — is my daughter !" replied the duchess, casting down her eyes in 
 confusion. 
 
 I could not repress a gesture which Madame de Richeville took for a re- 
 proach, and she hastened to add — " Oh! condemn me not, before you have 
 heard me. Without doubt I was guilty, deeply guilty — but if you knew — I 
 will tell you all, and you will pity me, I am sure. After this avowal, M. de 
 Richeville said to me, at the bed-side of that expiring child — ' I have dissi- 
 pated all my fortune. There remains of yours, an income of a hundred thou- 
 sand livres. Give me a million, or otherwise I shall commence a process for 
 separation ; I shall publish this horrible scandal ; I have all the letters which 
 prove that Mademoiselle de Lostanges is your daughter — that she was born 
 during my journey to Italy. This is not ali ; I have also, all the letters that 
 you wrote to M. de Lancry !" 
 
 " Ah ! madam," cried I, with a blush, " it is M. Lugarto alone, who, 
 abusing his influence over my husband, could have forced him to give up 
 those letters." 
 
 I doubt it not. I believe M. de Lancry incapable of voluntarily commit- 
 ting so infamous an action. But what shall I say, Matilda ? Bewildered — 
 half distracted by grief — terrified by the éclat of a process which would dis- 
 honour me — of a process which would give up to the sarcasms of the world, a 
 memory consecrated to my mind — that of the father of Emma !" 
 
 " He no longer lives, Madam ?" 
 
 " No — he has been dead six years," said Madame de Richeville, putting up 
 her hands to her forehead, with painful emotion. She continued—" With so . 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 many reasons for shrinking from the scandal threatened by M. de Richeville 
 if I did not execute his wishes, I consented to all. Like a man of fore- 
 thought," added the duchess, with a bitter smile, "my husband had brought 
 with him one of his men of business ; the deeds were prepared. There, by 
 the bed-side of my daughter, I signed away one-half my fortune. In ex- 
 change for that grant, the letters of M. de Lancry, and those connected with 
 the birth of Emma, were given up to me. Thanks to Heaven ! now my hus- 
 band is disarmed of the means to injure me." 
 
 " Oh ! but it was base," cried I, "to impose such conditions by a death- 
 bed !" 
 
 " At present, Matilda," said the Duchess de Richeville to me, "I have 
 confessed to you the two only crimes that I have ever committed. They have 
 put upon me many adventures ; and, nevertheless, I swear to you, Matilda, 
 before that God, almighty in his goodness, who restored my daughter to me, 
 that I have never deserved all the calumnies which have been heaped upon 
 me ! I do not pretend to deny my guilt — it has been great ; but — if you 
 knew, that — married at scarcely sixteen, to M. de Richeville, I was, after some 
 months of union, contemptuously, brutally sacrificed — and for such creatures ! 
 Oh ! my Goi! During four years, the success that I met with in the world 
 was sufficient to console me for the desertion of my husband. During those 
 four years, intoxicated, or rather stunned, my heart slumbered within me; I 
 loved no one ; but I knew not a moment of ennui. Ry degrees, however, I 
 wearied of these fêtes — of this existence, empty and exciting. My husband 
 had gone to Italy, where he remained two years ; I was alone, and at liberty. 
 A profound melancholy seized upon me ; for the first time, the pleasures 
 of the world sufficed me no more. What shall I say, Matilda ? At that 
 moment, I met in the vorld the father of Emma. A passion, violent, and 
 long struggled against, made me forgetful of my duties. If a crime may 
 be palliated or absolved by the worth of him who causes its commission, my 
 love was, indeed, excusable. He whom I loved, united in himself qualities 
 and charms the most rare. This passion, profound and mutual, lasted six 
 years, almost unknown to the world ; for I passed, on one of my estates, 
 the greater part of my time. Death struck down him, whom I had so dearly 
 loved. 
 
 After this frightful blow, I passed several years in strange alternations, 
 sometimes remaining entire months overwhelmed by despair. Sometimes in 
 a desire to combat the grief that devoured me, I gave myself up with ardour 
 to every pleasure ; I received with a sort of coquetry — empty, innocent I swear 
 to you, but a thousand times more compromising than many real crimes — I 
 received, I say, all homage, all vows ; my heart remained always cold and 
 dead to the emotions of love ; and then when these men, whose attentions I 
 had received with so much indifference, fancying themselves beloved, desired 
 some proofs of a serious affection, I scarcely understood their meaning; I 
 seemed to be waking from a dream ; and their pretensions made me indig- 
 nant. Their spite, their hatred at seeing themselves deceived in the hopes 
 which I had unfortunately encouraged, fomented abominable calumnies, of 
 which I was the victim, and to which you have heard Mademoiselle de Maran 
 make such cruel allusions. Then, seeing myself unjustly attacked, and indig- 
 nant at the wickedness of the world, I sought a refuge in prayer. Unable to 
 do anything without falling into exaggeration, I vowed myself to austerities 
 the most rigorous ; I covered myself with hair-cloth ; I lived whole months 
 in the most profound solitude. But in vain I asked repose from God ; God 
 heard me not. He sawonly impiety in my desperate violent prayers, in those 
 impulses of religion and to which I gave myself up by fits ; and, as if in atone- 
 ment for the slanders that my lightness had provoked, after so many strug- 
 gles, after so many bitter deceptions, I wished to seek a last consolation in 
 love — or rather,.! hoped to bring the past to life again, that past which had 
 been so dear to me. Alas ! here was my greatest crime. I foolishly believed 
 that one might love twice. Instead of preserving in my heart a remembrance 
 invaluable and sacred, I blasphemed that first and only love ! Parodying its 
 raptures, its devoiion, its enthusiasm, I loved ; or rather, I believed that I 
 loved M. de Lancry. I soon perceived my error; I shed bitter tears over this 
 new guilt, so inefficacious for my happiness. I do not wish to justify the odi- 
 ous conduct of M. de Lancry toward me, Matilda ; but perhaps he would have 
 perceived the lukewarmness of my affection, although I had shown him a de- 
 votion without bounds. Every day I felt convinced, with a sickening sadness 
 that one may love but once ; even if the second love should have the vigour of 
 the first, it would always be a repetition, an echo, a reflection. After my 
 
H M M Ai 
 
 239 
 
 rupture with M. de Lancry — last and fatal trial — I returned into the world 
 without interest, thinking continually of my daughter, whom custom did not 
 permit me to have at my side: then I heard of Emma's illness ; a woman 
 in whom I had all faith, Mademoiselle Albin, whom I had given to my child 
 as governess, had been bribed by the offers of M. Lugarto." 
 " What infamy !" 
 
 ** She gave up to him the correspondence that I had always kept up with 
 her, as well as all the letters that had reference to Emma's birth, which I had 
 confided to her ; the frequent voyages of M. de Mortagne, not permitting that 
 excellent friend to take this charge upon himself. When my husband had 
 exacted from me a last concession at the bed-side of my dying daughter, I 
 made a vow — if God deigned to restore her to life— to give up the world for 
 ever, and to pa s the remainder of my days in a retirement, which should have 
 all the characteristics of a religious life. God had pity on me, and spared 
 my Emma. Since that vow, 1 cannot express to you the calm that I have 
 enjoyed." 
 
 " My existence will henceforth be passed between my daughter and the ex- 
 ercise of that religion, whose infinite loftiness I begin to comprehend. I am 
 so happy at this prospect, Matilda; so happy, that I tremble lest some new 
 misfortune should occur to destroy it. Look you: I have been too guilty to 
 have a right to such felicity," added Madame de Richeville, with a profound 
 sigh. 
 
 " Ah ! think not so, madam ! God forgives so much repenfence !" 
 
 " May he hear you, Matilda !" 
 
 " And at present whither go you, madam ?" 
 
 " To Paris. I shall retire into the Convent of Sacré Cœur, where I am 
 going to place Emma. She will pass for an orphan relative of mine. The 
 Superior of the Convent gives up to me a small apartment in that holy abode ; 
 it is there that I shall live henceforward. When Emma is of an age to marry, 
 I shall beg M. de Mortagne, and yourself, Matilda — you, who know the sad 
 secret of her birth — to seek a man sufficiently generous not to render this poor 
 child responsible for the guilt of her mother. I will give up to her the re- 
 mainder of my fortune, witti the exception of a moderate pension. 1 shall 
 consecrate my life henceforward to the expiation of my faults ; and God, 
 perhaps, will listen to the vows which I shall make for the happiness of my 
 daughter." 
 
 There was in the words, in the avowal of Madame de Richeville, so much 
 simplicity ; she announced her resolution so firmly and so sincerely, that I 
 was profoundly moved by it. I was also touched to see her, so beautiful, so 
 young yet — for she was not, at the outside, more than thirty-four or thirty- 
 five— devote herself to so profound a retirement ; and renounce the world, in 
 which she might still have shone, with so many advantages. 
 
 "Ah ! madam !" said I to her, " it cannot be, but that God will look upon 
 you with pity and pardon." 
 
 " He has already been so merciful in restoring me my child, and in endow- 
 ing her so highly ! for you can have no idea of her adorable qualities. If you 
 knew what a heart, what a sou!, what an enchanting spirit ! No ! maternal 
 love does not blind me !" said the duchess, unable to restrain her tears ; " it 
 is impossible to find more excellence, joined to more nobleness, to more right- 
 mindedness ; and then, a stability so boundless and so true. Her soul may 
 be read in her angelic look, and then — but, forgive me ! forgive me ! Matilda. 
 Pardon ! poor mother ; but I find so seldom an opportunity to say, ' My 
 daughter,' that I abuse " 
 
 " Ah ! can you believe it, madam ? Think you, that I do not feel how much 
 the constraint that you put upon yourself must be painful to you ?" 
 
 "Yes! oh! yes! — bitterly painful, Matilda. Above all, when I am alone 
 with Emma ; although I overwhelm her with tenderness ; although she ten- 
 derly loves me ; alas ! she knows it not — she never shall know that I am her 
 mother ! It seems to me, that if she knew it, she would love me in another 
 fashion ; it seems to me that her voice would have another accent, her eyes 
 another look — I am to her but a distant relation, whom she has seldom seen. 
 How would it be if she knew that I am her mother? Sometimes I am on 
 the point of avowing all to her ; but shame restrains me. Never Avili I expose 
 myself to blush before that angel. But again, pardon me, Matilda, for speak- 
 ing to you so much of myself. Now you know my life, you will imitate my 
 confidence. Now, Matilda, let us talk of yourself. 1 conjure you, hide 
 nothing from me. Believe me, the experience of misfortune matures the 
 reason. My counsels may be useful to you." ' 
 
246 
 
 M A", i LB A. 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, I related to Madame de Richeville all the mo- 
 tives which I had for being jealous of Ursula ; my suspicions as to her liason 
 with Monsieur Chopinelle, what I had overheard of her conversation with my 
 husband, and lastly, my fears of the speedy arrival of my cousin. Madame 
 de Richeville said to me — " Matilda, you still love your husband passionately. 
 So much the better ; such a love as yours is a holy and noble thing ; without 
 doubt one suffers, but the heart is full, and that feverish and unquiet heat is 
 better than emptiness and nothingness. Your cousin seems to me a very 
 dangerous person. Formerly, Mademoiselle de Maran was always exalting 
 you at the expense of Ursula with a malice deeply calculated. She knew that 
 women of that character forget nothing, and that with them the wounds of 
 pride are incurable. Ursula will wish to avenge on you the humiliations of 
 her youth, the ridicule of her husband, the ridicule of her first lover. A fa- 
 tality made you a witness to many scenes, at which she blushes ; she will 
 never forget it. Look upon her, then, as your most mortal enemy. You 
 have been perfection to her : the wicked never forget the good that we do 
 them." 
 
 " And, nevertheless, she is coming to protest to me her hypocritical friends 
 'ship ! Never I oh ! never will I allow it!" 
 
 *' Matilda, you know the intractable character of your husband ; if he 
 chooses that you should receive your cousin, you will be compelled to obey 
 him." 
 
 "Oh ! never ! never !" 
 
 " Poor child ! what will you do ?" 
 
 " I will entreat Gontran ; he will see my tears, he will have pity on me, for 
 I am certain that if she come hither I shall fall ill." 
 
 " Monsieur de Lancry will not have pity, Matilda ; for I believe with you, 
 that perhaps this journey has been agreed upon between himself and Ur- 
 sula." 
 
 " You believe then, that he loves her?" 
 
 " As much as he is capable of loving. From what you tell me, I doubt 
 not that your cousin has put on with him a bold and provoking coquetry. 
 Their understanding will be at once established. Without the chance which 
 allowed you to surprise some words of their conversation, your suspicions 
 would not have been awakened." 
 
 "But what to do — my God ! what to do ? with my cousin once here, ma- 
 dam, my misfortune will be inevitable ; Gontran will care only for her, and 
 each moment of my life will be a torture." 
 
 " Do not believe it. If you follow my advice, Ursula will but remain some 
 days with you, during which time she will repulse even the slightest advances 
 of your husband." 
 
 " What do you tell me, madam ?" 
 
 " Listen to me, Matilda. Your cousin, — that woman so melancholy, so ro- 
 mantic — holds, above all, to the influence which she exercises over her hus- 
 band. To insure this influence, nothing costs her too dear. She flatters his 
 vulgarity, shares it, exaggerates it ; that is plain enough. Ursula is proud, 
 avaricious, and poor. She urges her husband to work, that she may soon 
 be in a condition to lead a life of opulence in Paris. Let M. Secherin know 
 to-morrow that Ursula is deceiving him — to-morrow he abandons her, and 
 she becomes poor again without any other resource than her dower. She 
 married to be rich ; and she will sacrifice much, if not all, to preserve her 
 fortune." 
 
 " Ah ! madam, her husband loves her so much — he is so good, so weak !" 
 
 " From what you have told me of him, he must be as determined, as he is 
 honourable and devoted ; such characters never truckle to dishonour, nor de- 
 scend to meanness. He adores his wife r but the moment that he is sure she 
 dishonours him, he will abandon her ; he will be distressed beyond endurance, 
 perhaps, but he will never see her more." 
 
 " Do you advise me, then, to denounce Ursula?" I cried. 
 
 " I advise you, my child, to await your cousin here, and on the day of her 
 arrival to say to her, calmly and firmly : ' Your journey to Maran was ar- 
 ranged with my husband. I am not your dupe ; I declare to you, that I am 
 resolved at all hazards to remove you from my house. I cannot hinder M. de 
 Lancry from letting himself be seduced by your coquetries, but I will not suf- 
 fer you to come here to brave me. You govern M. Secherin completely; i r 
 will therefore be easy for you, within five or six days, to decide him to se: 
 out on the plea of a coldness in our friendship, for which I will very naturall 
 give you an occasion. If you refuse, to-morrow I address myself to your hus- 
 
KM At A.. 
 
 241 
 
 band ; and av«w frankly that, right or wrong, I am jealous <jf you, and beg 
 him to carry you away. Now, let us see if you will accord th<tt to me with 
 a good grace, which 1 can obtain by other means.' Speak to her thus, Ma- 
 tilda," added Madame de Richeville, and I swear to you that she will not 
 hesitate to go. She will fear, with reason, that, the" suspicions of her 
 husband once awakened, he may give up that blind confidence, in whiclf 
 are comprised all the power, all the boldness, and all the future scheme» 
 of your cousin." 
 
 I had attentively listened to Madame de Richeville. What she said to 
 me appeared just and true. A thousand forgotton circumstances, recur- 
 ring to my mind, proved to me that the duchess understood exactly the 
 character of Ursula. I only confessed to her. that I stood in fear of the 
 brazen assurance of which my cousin had given me so many proofs. 
 
 " Then, Matilda, I charge you, above ail things, to enter into no discus- 
 sion with her ; keep strictly to this — ' Go away from my house, or I unmask, 
 you to your husband ' — nothing more, nothing less." 
 
 " Ah ! madam, it is cruel.*' 
 
 " Matilda, no weakness ! all would be lost." 
 
 " Alas ! madam, if Gontran no longer loves me, he will sacrifice me to any 
 other as well as to Ursula/' s ai 4 I, with a sense of oppression. 
 
 " My poor child, we must always in life commence by enjoying all the 
 repose and all the happiness which are within our reach. Ursula out of the 
 way, you will Jpe tranquil until the winter ; this will be so much gained ; 
 once returned to Paris, if you still fear her coquetries, you will have 
 recourse to the same threats. I fancy your generosity shrinks from them — 
 but you will-not come to this extremity. Believe me, the threat that you 
 make to your cousin, will suffice to cause her to renounce her projects of 
 seduction. She will have too much fear of becoming poor again by the de- 
 sertion of her husband, to put you to the necessity of ruining her. Such 
 women as she are incapable of a sacrifice, even when in connection with 
 their own evil passions. 
 
 Madame Blondeau, entering with Emma, put an end to our conversation. 
 
 Emma ran to her mother, and embracing her, presented to her a large 
 bouquet of roses. The walk had heightened her complexion, to the liveliest 
 and most charming colours. She came and sat down a moment on one or" 
 the drawing-room divans, between the duchess and myself. Madame da 
 Richeville placed the bouquet on her knees, took one of Emma's hands in her 
 own, and with the other smoothed the bands of her daughter's fair hair, 
 which the walk had slightly disarranged. In* looking at us all three — that 
 child, her mother, and myself — in comparing our three ages, and three exist- 
 ences, I reflected, alas 1 with bitterness, that I had no longer the confiding 
 security of the young girl, and that I had not yet acquired thai subdued 
 resignation that grief had given to her mother. 
 
 I thought of all the sorrows that I should have yet to undergo, before 
 reaching, like Madame de Richeville, the abandonment of all human hopes. 
 The age of action for a woman, if I may so speak, is especially comprised 
 between fifteen and thirty years. Emma, myself, and Madame de Richeville, 
 we united those three periods of life — the calm, the innocent, and pure ; the 
 stormy turmoil of the passions ; and the depression, which succeeds to them, 
 when the heart, bruised in the struggle, seeks repose in utter quiet. 
 
 Madame de Richeville felt a repugnance to seeing Gontran. At the close 
 of the day she left me. She had received no news from M. de Mortagne ; 
 be had not replied to my letter, informing him of the intention of my hus- 
 band to dispose of Maran. I felt some uneasiness. Madame de Richeville 
 promised me to write immediately after her arrival in Paris, to reassure me 
 on this subject. She recommended me, also, to keep her well advised of all 
 that might occur at Maran after the arrival of Ursula, and to call to my 
 remembrance her own counsels. I parted from this excellent friend with a 
 cruel and heartfelt pang. ( 
 
 In the evening, when Gontran returned from hunting, I informed him ot 
 the visit of Madame de Richeville. He appeared very indignant at it. I 
 then gave him the letter of M. Secherin, which announced the approaching 
 arrival of my cousin. M. de Lancry replied coldly, that he was well satisfied 
 at it, as Ursula would keep me company. Four or five days after my inter- 
 view with Madame de Richeville, Monsieur and Madame Secherin arrived 
 at Maran. 
 
341 
 
 «fATILDA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 UbsulA threw herself upon my neck and embraced me with warmth. I 
 replied coldly to tnese tokens of friendship. My cousin saw not, or pretended 
 not to see, the coolness of my reception. After the first compliments, 
 M. Secherin said to me with a sigh, and looking at his wife : 
 
 " Well, cousin, the day after your departure, we separated from my mother, 
 and left Rouvrai. Alasl yes, you have no idea, cousin, how much it cost my 
 wife. Her very soul was distressed at it, which proves the goodness of her 
 heart ; for, without injustice, mother had been very severe and very unkind 
 towards her. But what will you have ? When once old folks get anything 
 into their heads, there is no getting it out again." 
 
 " You live still but a little way from Rouvrai," said I to him, so as to be 
 able to see your mother, and superintend your factory ?" 
 
 " Yes, undoubtedly, cousin, 1 often see my mother ; she is very well, and 
 as my wife says, I am sure that she prefers this arrangement, now that it is 
 made ; she is much more at liberty, and we also. But she has never been 
 willing to receive Ursula. What will you'have ? it is her fancy. My wife 
 has cried much about it. However, it does not matter; we are not talking 
 of that. Now, my factory goes well by itself; reckoning everything, I have 
 sixty-eight thousand livres income ; and, by my faith, Ursula and I, we wish 
 to enjoy life a little. You do not know our project ?" 
 
 " No truly, my dear cousin." 
 
 "My friend," said Ursula, " You are going to be indiscreet; I entreat 
 you to " 
 
 " Indiscreet with our good cousin !" cried M. Secherin, interrupting his 
 wife, "is that possible? Is she not your sister, your best friend from child- 
 hood ?" And leaning to my ear, M. Secherin whispered me : " You see, 
 cousin, I say you, I no longer thou to my wife." He continued, aloud: 
 " And besides, I am sure that what I am about to propose to our cousin, will 
 give her, as it has given us, real pleasure. In a word, my lady viscountess, 
 at this time of your marriage, you proposed to give up to us a suite of rooms 
 in your hotel, in Paris, of which you did not occupy the whole. Well ! we 
 accept it!" 
 
 I looked at Ursula with as much surprise as indignation ; she seemed not 
 to understand me, and smiled at me affectionately, while M. Secherin 
 continued : 
 
 " Do you remember what it was you said to us, cousin ? ' Come to Paris, 
 we will make but one family — the winter at Paris, the summer at Maran, or 
 at Rouvrai.' Well, these fine projects, which pleased you so much and our- 
 selves also, are about to be realised. We will leave each other no more. 
 Every year I will go to see my mother. I shall leave Ursula with you. I 
 have a dwelling-room fitted up for me at my factory. Now, we are come to 
 ask your hospitality here, until we set out together for Paris. That I may 
 not have my time and my money both unemployed, I shall take an interest 
 in the banking-house of one of my friends — a safe house, as it has stood the 
 test of the revolution of July. This will occupy me during my stay in Paris. 
 Some time hence, however, I must leave you, to make a little journey. It 
 is about a farm, which it is proposed that I should buy, and which I wish to 
 visit. During that time, you and Ursula can arrange everything for our 
 establishment in Paris. So much for us as lodgers, as if we were strangers, 
 eh, cousin ? But, in fact, women understand nothing about business, so I 
 will settle it wi&i M. de Lancry. Well, cousin ; confess that you did not 
 expect this — and that we have managed pretty well to surprise you. 
 
 Monsieur Secherin had but little observation ; he did not notice my. 
 wonder. My position became so much the more awkward, because, in truth, 
 at the time when I had a blind confidence in the friendship of Ursula, 1 had 
 made her this proposal, and begged her to accept it. 
 
 " Interpreting my silence in his own fashion, M. Secherin cried out. 
 
 "Well, well ! you do not retract. I was sure of it; you would not think 
 us capable of supposing it ?" 
 
 " In truth, cousin, I was so far f 'om hrping " 
 
TUE TWO FBIBNDS. 
 
 243 
 
 " That wc should call to mind your offers, my dear Matilda? Oh! that 
 Would have been to do injustice to me first, and then to my husband," said 
 Ursula, in a tone of gentle reproach. 
 
 Not wishing to have a scene, until I had my proposed conversation 
 with her, according to Madame de Richeville's advice, I replied with suffi- 
 cient embarrassment — 
 
 " Without doubt, I did hope for this good fortune, my dear cousin ; but 
 I did not reckon on it as so near, and I am charmed with this readiness on 
 your part." 
 
 ** And I believe you, cousin, because you say so. Oh î I know you — you 
 are not one of those women who say yes, when they mean no. My mother 
 was always repeating tome: 'Madame de Lancry is truth itself; she is 
 honour personified. What she says is Gospel word.' Was it not so, Ursula ?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly, my friend; and your mother in saying that, thought 
 as I did." 
 
 " Yes, truly. Why, look you, cousin, you have no friend — what do I 
 say ? — no sister more devoted to you, than my wife. It is always Matilda 
 here, Matilda there. In fact, and especially since your little journey to 
 Rouvrai, she is, as it were, possessed to come and live with you. You may 
 imagine how that suits me, who only swear by you, not forgetting my cousin 
 Lancry. Oh ! cousin, as they say, the two make the pair. You were born 
 for M. de Lancry, as M. de Lancry was born for you. Just as I without 
 vanity, was born for Ursula, and Ursula was born for me ; but it is absolutely 
 the fact, the great lords are made for great ladies, like yourself," added 
 M. de Secherin, breaking out into a laugh. " Your neat little citizens' 
 daughters, like Ursula, are made for such good citizens as myself." 
 
 " I am not of your opinion, .cousin — there is none of this difference between 
 Ursula and myself. Are we not relations?" said I, seeing that the con- 
 versation was taking an unpleasant turn, and M. de Secherin was deeply 
 wounding the pride of his wife. 
 
 Unfortunately, when my cousin struck upon any idea, it was impossible to 
 take him off from it, so he continued : 
 
 " You do not understand me, cousin ; I do not speak of birth. I know 
 well that my wife's family is noble, and that I am only a good citizen ; but I 
 say that you and your husband — you have in you something superior, some- 
 thing imposing, which neither I nor Ursula have ; and, for my part, I am 
 very glad of it. Yes, very glad of it. Do you think, that if my wife had your 
 air of a proud princess, I should have thou'd her on my wedding day ? Ah ? 
 no : I never should have dared. On the contrary, Ursula, with her charming 
 little mincing air, which I dote upon more and more, put me at my ease at once. 
 I said to her thou, she said thou to me ; and we were in a moment a couple 
 of friends. In fact, between you and her, there is this difference, that " 
 
 "Oh ! I must stop you there," said I to M. Secherin. " Do not try to 
 give us an account of the difference of the impressions that we make ; be cgn- 
 tent to appreciate them. You love Ursula passionately, which is the reason 
 why you have such perfect confidence in her; why you find, with reason, in 
 her a grace and charm the most attractive ; while you find myself dignified 
 and imposing. You have love for her, and you have for me a frank and sin- 
 cere friendship — that is the difference." 
 
 " It is wonderful, how you give a reason for everything !" cried M. Seche- 
 rin. 
 
 " Ah ! apropos of something wonderful. I am about to astonish you. Have 
 not I become a horsewoman ?" 
 " How so ?'' 
 
 "Again, another proof of my husband's devotion," said Ursula. "After 
 your departure, my dearest Matilda, my physician ordered me horse exercise. 
 M. Secherin had the goodness to send to town for a ridingmastcr ; and he has 
 shared my lessons, to be able to accompany me." 
 
 The idea immediately crossed me, that Ursula had learned to ride on horse- 
 back so as to be able — once at Maran — to arrange her tête-a têtes with my 
 husband ; for, sinte our arrival, Gontran had always refused to allow me to 
 take that exercise. 
 
 " And you cannot imagine," resumed my cousin, " with what ardour and 
 what courage Ursula has been learning. What was recommended to her for 
 her health, has become to her a ical pleasure ; she mounts her horse two or 
 three times a day in a meadow adjoining the factory, which seems to have 
 Y 2 
 
244 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 been made for this purpose. She was so fearless, so intrepid, that the mas- 
 ter said he had never seen anyone with such a disposition for it. 
 " Ah ! my dear, you exaggerate ;" said Ursula." 
 
 " I exaggerate ? Well ; 1 11 lay a wager that there is not a horse of Mon- 
 sieur de Lancry's that Ursula cannot ride," cried M. Secherin ; and as for 
 me, I cannot say as much ; nor you either, cousin, for you are scarcely a 
 washerwoman, I think." 
 
 " No.tousin. But it would be very imprudent for Ursula to mount one of 
 Monsieur de Lancry's horses ; not one is broken for a lady — it would be dan- 
 gerous for her." 
 
 " Dangerous ! Ah ! you know her well ! Is she afraid of anything ? Ah Î 
 once on horseback ! — if you saw her, how well she looks, and how her ama- 
 zone becomes her ! how it sets off her figure ! My head turns with only 
 looking at her ! Thou wilt show thy amazone, to our cousin eh ?" 
 
 " You know well, my dear, that they say a habit, and not an amazone," 
 said Ursula, smiling. 
 
 "True, true; thou hast told me : 1 had forgotten it. Oh ! art thou not 
 Mademoiselle dé Maran ? Cousin, is she not ?"• 
 
 " My good Matilda will not grudge me this little reproach, which I make 
 to you, my friend, for she herself recommended me always to let you know 
 what you said rightly or otherwise. Is it not so, sister ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ;" I replied unconsciously. 
 
 " I was overwhelmed. Jealousy, and shall I say it, envy tortured me. I al- 
 ready saw Ursula on horseback by the side of Gontran, coquettish, bold, im- 
 petuous, and both setting out for long rides, and I — I remaining alone ! ' No, 
 no,' I said to myself, trembling with anger, ' it shall not be so. Ursula must 
 go ; I will follow Madame de Richeville's advice.' " 
 
 At the moment that I was giving up to these bitter thoughts, Ursula con- 
 tinued . " Why, it is the dinner hour, my dear Matilda. Will you have the 
 goodness to send for my maid, that we may be shown to our apartments ?" 
 
 "Ah! yes, and make thyself pretty; thou hast brought such charming 
 dresses. Imagine, cousin," said M. de Secherin: "she had so many trunks, 
 and bandboxes, that I was obliged to hire a baggage-waggon at Tours to 
 bring all these effects, including Celestine's — Mademoiselle Celestine, I should 
 say — a lady's maid, such as my wife sent for to Paris. It is true, I must say, 
 that she dresses hair to the very perfection of perfections." 
 
 These preparations for coquetry on the part of Ursula still further increased 
 my suspicions ; I could not avoid saying, with some bitterness, " Good Hea- 
 vens ! Why have you then made so much preparation ? What! to pass a little 
 time with us, who see nobody ! Why, truly ! one would say that you had 
 some fine schemes of conquest ; I know not whom you would fascinate here. 
 This is really very childish," added I, in an altered ^voice, and forcing myself 
 to smile. 
 
 Vrsula answered nothing ; but she pointed out to me M. Secherin, by a 
 coquettish but charming movement of her head, and said, with a candour 
 most marvelously well assumed, " Heaven ! I would fascinate my husband : 
 that is all." 
 
 M. Secherin could not resist the attack. He seized his wife's hand, kissed 
 it tenderly several times, and said: "Is she not sweet, and natural? eh? 
 cousin, -is she not? But she is right. You forgot, then your lessons, when 
 you said to me: ' My dear cousin, it is for her husband, above all, that a 
 wife should adorn herself, and incur expense ; and vice versa, that it is for his 
 wife that a husband should do the same ! Ah ! — ah ! — cousin, we forget not 
 your advice, be assured. So, I shall imitate Ursula, and ask your leave to*ero 
 and make myself as handsome as I can for her ; for you have said, that as 
 soon as a husband is negligent, it is a proof that he is no longer in love with 
 his wife ; and when he is no longer in love with his wife " 
 
 "Everything maybe exaggerated," said I to M. Secherin, interrupting 
 him ; for Gohtran might have come in at any moment, and I should have been 
 deeply humiliated Ursula had been allowed to see with what disdain my 
 husband had, for some time, treated me. I 
 
 I continued then : "There is a certain liberty which accords perfectly with 
 country life — altogether solitary — a full-dress toilette is then almost out of 
 place, almost in bad taste." 
 
 "Ah! Matilda, Matilda"! look at home, then," said Ursula, smiling. 
 " What elegance! I have never sesn you dressed with more coquetry." 
 
TUB TWO F1UBNB». 
 
 MS 
 
 I knew not what to reply. Unwilling to neglect any means of re-animating 
 
 the love of Gontran at Maran, as heretofore, in our little home at Chantilly, 
 I had but one end— that of pleasing him as much as possible, in spite of his 
 disdain. At . this moment, I heard a door open : I recognized the step of 
 Gontran. I blushed with shame. He entered. What was my surprise ! He 
 was dressed with elegance, and the most studied refinement. I was so ac? 
 customed to see him in his miserable accoutrements, that I scarcely recog- 
 nized him. I carefully watched Ursula as my husband entered ; she did not 
 blush. Gontran put on a grace and cordiality that were perfect. His features 
 which, during two months, were scarcely ever relaxed toward me, resumed 
 that enchanting expression that, when he wished it, gave them an irresistible 
 fascination. Ursula and her husband left us some minutes before dinner 
 I could not refrain, myself from saying to Gontran : 
 " You knew, without doubt, that Ursula was here ?" 
 
 "Why? Because 1 have put off my hunting costume, and because I do 
 not put it off when I am alone with you?" 
 
 " Certainly. It may be childish, but it seems to me that what you do for a 
 stranger " 
 
 " What I might do for you — is that it ?" he asked. 
 
 " I imagine, my dear, that I have the same right as my cousin, to be treated 
 by you with some consideration." 
 
 " Allow me, my dear, to call to your notice, that consideration does not 
 consist in a coat made in one mode or another. It is very rational that I 
 should dress myself suitably to receive your cousin. It is not I, who invited 
 her to come here ; it is yourself. I supposed, then, that I was doing what 
 was agreeable to 5 r ou, in receiving her in my best manner, and in paying her 
 that attention which every man owes to the woman whom he has the honour 
 to receive." 
 
 " You did not know, then, that Ursula was coming here this autumn ?" 
 asked I of my husband, endeavouring to read his countenance. He remained 
 impassive, and replied : 
 
 " I was by no means aware of it ; but, after all, now I am delighted with it. 
 Her presence will amuse you, and her husband is the best of men. But 
 what is the matter ? The arrival of the friend of your youth does not give you 
 the pleasure that I should expect." 
 
 " I have reasons for it, my friend. And I fear that the stay of my cousin, 
 here, may not be as long as she wishes it to be, perhaps." 
 
 " Her husband's business will shorten it then ? Has she informed you 
 of it?" 
 
 "No— but " 
 
 " But ? — what do you mean ?" 
 
 " I, myself, will beg Ursula to go." 
 
 " You? and why?" 
 
 "Because — because— — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Because I have reason to be afraid of her presence; because— I am jea- 
 lous of her, Gontran !" 
 
 " Of your cousin ? Bah ! you are crazy, my dear." 
 
 " I am not crazy, Gontran; the instinct of my heart does not deceive me." 
 
 " If this is it, you willmake her stay at Maran extremely pleasant ! — a pro- 
 mising prospect. It is said, that with you one can never have a moment's 
 repose. Ah ! what an unhappy character you have— both for yourself and 
 others?" 
 
 " But, it is not my fault if I have suspicions ; if " 
 
 " But, once more, your suspicious have no common sense ; reflect, that 
 
 you are accusing me without cause, and tormenting yourself without motive." 
 " Is this true ? really true ? Gontran, be generous ! Reassure me— I trem 
 
 bleso — " 
 
 " Poor Matilda 1" said Gontran, with touching dignity, " I will speak to 
 you no more of my love ; you will not perhaps believe me. But I tell you 
 that M. Secherin, our relation, is come to stay with us ; and that I should 
 be a wretch if I dreamed only of abusing in this base way, the hospitality 
 that we offer him." 
 
 I pressed the hand of Gontran within my own. These simple and nobk 
 words gave me a new courage. Ursula and her husband entered again. I 
 found my cousin so pretty, so fresh, so rosy ; her eyes were at once so soft and 
 Y 3 
 
246 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 •o brilliant, her smile so delicate and so malicious, her figure so perfect ; that 
 I threw my eyes upon a mirror placed opposite to me, in order to compare 
 myself with Ursula. Alas ! I remarked with sorrow that I was pale, and 
 that my features were altered, faded, and languished. For some time past, 
 I had been suffering ; I felt always a vague uneasiness and a wretched op- 
 pression, that I attributed to grief, and which increased incessantly. For 
 the first time, I perceived that my face had already lost that first bloom of 
 youthfulness, which rendered the features of Ursula so enchanting. 
 
 The dinner was very gay — thanks to my husband, who threw into it much 
 lest and enjoyment. Ursula was visibly annoyed. She feared to appear too 
 lively in my eyes, and thus lose her credit for being melancholy ; but, on the 
 ether hand, she regretted not being able to show herself to Gontran under a 
 more brilliant aspect. Toward the end of dinner, M. Secherin returned to 
 his unhappy proposition : 
 
 "Cousin," said he, to M. de Lancry, " I wagered, against Madame de 
 Lancry just now, that my wife would be able to ride any one of your horses." 
 
 " What ! madam ! you ride on horseback!", said Gontran, with astonish- 
 ment. "But this is a pleasant circumstance for us, I might almost say for 
 yourself ; for the neighbourhood of Maran is delicious, and I am delighted to 
 be able to offer you this amusement." 
 
 " But, my dear," said I to my husband, "you have no lady's horses — for 
 you know you never would allow me to accompany you hunting. It would 
 be exceedingly imprudent to expose Ursula to " 
 
 " But I have already told you that my wife is an excellent horsewoman," 
 cried M. Secherin, interrupting me. " For two months past she has done 
 nothing but ride." 
 
 "Matilda is right," said Ursula, with resignation; it "would be more 
 prudent to abstain from this exercise." 
 
 "You should feel assured, madam," said Gontran to her, "that I would 
 not, for anything in the world, expose you to danger. Madame de Lancry 
 has never been on horseback in her life ; besides, from prudence, I have 
 determined to deprive myself of the pleasure of taking her with me ; while 
 you, according to what my cousin says " 
 
 "I answer for it; my wife will astonish you," observed M. Secherin. 
 The riding-master of Tours was astonished at her." 
 
 " I have, in fact, a most excellent and very quiet mare," said M. de Lancry ; 
 " she would exactly suit Madame Secherin ; and if my cousin will only place 
 some confidence in me, she need have no fear." 
 
 " I have, without doubt, entire confidence in you, cousin," said Ursula 
 hesitating ; " but, all things considered, I should be sorry to enjoy a plea- 
 sure in which Matilda cannot take part." 
 
 " But you are a baby !" said M. Secherin to his wife. " Because Madame 
 de Lancry does not ride on horseback, she will not prevent your doing so. 
 Am I right, cousin?" 
 
 " Come my dear Matilda," said Gontran to me, " you must finally decide 
 the question ; your supreme wisdom shall be the sole judge. Do you permit, 
 or not, Madame Secherin to ride ? Take care, if you say no ; as you will 
 deprive her, as well as myself, of a very great pleasure. We shall both 
 of us treasure up a mortal enmity — I give you warning." 
 
 " And they would do right, and I should join them," cried M. Secherin 
 laughing outright ; " for you would prevent my wife from appearing in all 
 her beauty. She never looks better than on horseback." 
 
 I could not advance any serious reason, and I therefore stammered a reply: 
 
 "I do not oppose it. It was only from prudence that I remarked to 
 Ursula " 
 
 "Oh! be assured, there will be no danger," said my husband. "I 
 answer for the quietness of Stella : a child might ride her." 
 
 " Since you absolutely wish it, Matilda," said my cousin to me, " I will 
 try ; but, really, I am afraid I shall be so awkward." 
 
 " Oh ! as for that," returned Gontran, with a smile, " I defy you, and I may 
 do so without flattery ; for it is impossible for some certain persons not to do 
 everything with grace and address, — and it is not their fault, if they are 
 charming besides." 
 
 " Bravo! and when shall this party be?" asked M. Secherin. 
 
 " To-morrow. The sunset was magnificent this evening," said Gontran ; 
 " It will be splendid weather. We will mount our horses at one o'clock, 
 and we will have a splendid lady's chase*" 
 
THE CHASE. 247. 
 
 " Ah ! and I, cousin ; and I am too poor a horsewoman to follow the 
 chase — I tell you beforehand." 
 
 " You, my dear Monsieur Secherin — you shall accompany us in a carriage, 
 with Madame de Lancry, one of my keepers, who knows the forest perfectly, 
 shall go on horseback, and will conduct you into the cross-ways, where you 
 will have an excellent view of the hunt passing." 
 
 " Capital 1 Here is a fête — a royal pleasure!" cried M. Secherin. "I, 
 who have never hunted, but with my gamekeeper and his two terriers ! v If it 
 be only fine " 
 
 " I assure you, that it will be superb weather to-morrow ; Madame Secherin 
 desires it so much, that it must be so. To-morrow will be an enchanting 
 day, I answer for it," said Gontran. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 It was impossible for me, during the evening, to speak apart to my 
 cousin ; she shared the apartment of her husband, and two or three 
 times after dinner it seemed to me that she avoided me. I suffered 
 cruelly during the night. To the physical uneasiness which had for some 
 time troubled me, was added an excessive grief. I experienced all the 
 most bitter jealousy. In vain I wished to convince myself of the injustice, 
 of the exaggeration of my suspicions ; in vain I repeated to myself that, 
 perchance, at the bottom of Ursula's conduct, there might only be an inno- 
 cent coquetry ; I could not reassure myself. I made up my mind that, 
 during this cruel day, I would attentively observe my cousin and my 
 husband ; and that on the folfowing day, I would have a serious explanation 
 with her. 
 
 Gontran was not deceived in his expectations ; the day was radiant, and a 
 replendent October sun announced one of those latter days of autumn, 
 almost as fair as those of summer. At noon, we set off for the rendezvous of 
 the chase. M. de Lancry had put his attendants into full livery ; from the 
 windows of the chateau we had seen them set off with the dogs, to the echo- 
 ing sound of the horns. An open carriage, with four horses, approached the 
 steps : I entered it with M. Secherin. I insist upon these puerile details 
 of opulence for two reasons only : in the first place, because I saw from ths 
 expression of Ursula's countenance, that she equally admired and envied 
 this luxury ; and secondly, because this preparation for a fête contrasted 
 painfully with my own sorrow. 
 
 I waited with impatience the appearance of Ursula. I was curious to 
 know, if she had so excellent a seat on her horse as her husband represented ; 
 I hoped that it were otherwise. I desired that something might occur to her, not 
 exactly a dangerous accident, but some mischance, such as would render her 
 ridiculous in the eyes of Gontran, and punish her for her presumption. Alas! 
 I had not this miserable satisfaction. When my cousin joined us on horse- 
 back with my husband, I was compelled to acknowledge her more beautiful 
 than I had ever seen her. By the way, I never could understand how 
 jealousy should deny or misrepresent the advantages of a rival ; for my own 
 part, on the contrary, I have always been inclined to exaggerate them. But, 
 without exaggeration, Ursula was so perfectly elegant and graceful on her 
 horse, that I was on the point of crying with spite. 
 
 •I see her still : her riding-habit of dark-blue cloth, whose skirt almost 
 swept the ground, fitted tightly in the waist and sleeves ; it showed off to 
 perfection her rounded figure. 
 
 She wore a man's hat, with a plain collar turned over a little cravat of cherry- 
 colored satin. Her sweet face, so fresh and blooming, borrowed from this 
 costume a roguish and decided air, which became her wonderfully ; her 
 beautiful brown hair, set off her dimpled cheeks. Never had I seen her 
 eyes of a purer blue ; one would have said, that the heaven itself found in 
 them a mirror. The mare that she rode with such ease as to surprise me, 
 was a bright bay, whose glossy coat sparkled in the sun, and whose long 
 black mane and tail undulated and fluttered in the wind, she seemed pleased 
 to carry so light a weight, and moved with so easy a step, that she scarcely 
 glanced \long the turf. 
 
248 
 
 Contran was on a thorough-bred horse, black as ebony. He wow a co*t 
 in the fashion of his livery, of light blue, with a collar of orange velvet, and 
 buttons of silver, ornamented in silver gilt. Tne belt for his hunting sword, 
 partly silver and partly gilt, bound in his graceful figure, and his cap of black 
 velvet, exposing his features, gave a higher charm to their beauty and ex- 
 pression. The finished appearance of Gontran struck me the more, because, 
 for hunting, he was always dressed in the most slovenly manner. My cousin 
 wished to approach the carriage to speak to me. Her mare, without doubt, 
 frightened by my parasol, refused to advance. I confess it to my shame, I 
 ■was delighted at this mishap, which threw Ursula's horsemanship into the 
 shade ; but, to my great astonishment, if I dare not say alarm, she knitted 
 her pretty eyebrows, raised" her riding- whip, and began boldly to chastise 
 her horse. 
 
 "Take tare! madam, do not strike Stella, Bhe is very skittish!" cried 
 Gontran, frightened at the audacity of Ursula. 
 
 " Do not be obstinate, my little wife, I implore you !" my cousin called 
 out as he stretched out his two clasped bands toward her. 
 
 But she, herself — her cheeks purpled, her nostrils dilated, her eyes spark- 
 ling with anger, her rosy lips arched with a scornful smile, paid no heed to 
 these warnings. She inflicted resolutely another chastisement upon Stella, 
 who reared so violently, that I uttered a cry of horror. Ursula, without ap- 
 pearing in the least degree intimidated, leaning over the shoulder of Stella, 
 laying her whip upon her, and all with a movement so natural, that she did 
 not seem to run any risk of danger. 
 
 "Bravo ! cousin! capital !" cried Gontran, unable to conceal his admira- 
 tion. " What coolness ! what courage !" 
 
 Still further excited by this approbation, Ursula determined to overcome 
 the obstinacy of her mare, and to compel her to approach the carriage. A 
 few more strokes of her whip, laid on with a firm hand, gained the point with 
 Stella, after a new struggle of some moments, ^during which she plunged in- 
 stead of prancing. Ursula— whose figure, rounded, elegant, and delicate, 
 undulated with the suppleness of a snake — accommodated herself with so 
 much grace to the caprieious movements of her horse, that she did not lose 
 her seat for a moment. Thi3 incident, which I hoped to see turned against 
 my cousin, seemed only to lend her a new charm ; she subdued the fiery 
 animal, and forced her to remain at the side of the carriage. Then, bend- 
 ing herself lightly upon her saddle, Ursula, proud and smiling, patted the 
 muscular neck of Stella with her little white hand, which she had coquet- 
 tishly ungloved. She enjoyed her triumph, and threw a brilliant look upon 
 Gontran, as if to say, that it was his presence that had given her so much 
 courage. 
 
 "Well, cousin!" said M. Secherin, " what did I tell you? Is she not 
 bold ? Confess that she is a real page." 
 
 " In truth, madam," exclaimed Gontran, approaching with considerable 
 emotion, " I can but think of your intrepidity and your grace. One forgets 
 the danger that you run in the admiration that you excite." 
 
 " Oh ! it is amusing to ride on horseback ! ' said Ursula, with naivette. 
 And addressing herself to me : " How can you deprive yourself of this en- 
 chanting pleasure 1 For us women, above all, what happiness to be able, in 
 spite of our feebleness, to master, tame, and rule a being, that would kill us 
 a thousand times, if we did not oppose address to force, and intelligent will 
 to its animal obstinacy.*' 
 
 "This is about the history of your denominatiou in general," said Gon- 
 tran, with a smile ; " and you subdue us men pretty nearly after the same 
 principle, and by the same means. But, Heavens ! what is the matter wkh 
 you, my dear?" said M. de Lancry, to myself, as he remarked the alteratfon 
 in my features — the triumph of Ursula and the admiration of Gontran, so 
 plainly shown, having caused me a severe pang. 
 
 " It is nothing, my dear— only the example of Ursula encourages me ; 
 and beginning from to-morrow, I have determined absolutely to ride on 
 horseback." 
 
 " But you have never tried, my dear, and then I do not think you have the 
 requisite qualifications ; you are too timid.*' 
 
 " I tell you that I will ride, even if I should be killed on the spot," 
 cried i. 
 
 " Well, well ! we will of it," said Gontran ; " but come away to the ren- 
 dezvous of the hunt, for it is already late.' 1 
 " Cousin, I am at your service." 
 
TUB. C rî A £ S, 
 
 240 
 
 "We shall see each other again presently: adieu 1 Matilda." said Ursala, 
 making me a sign with her hand. 
 
 " Do not be imprudent, my good little wife ; M. de Lancry, I commend 
 her to you," exclaimed M. Secherin. 
 
 " Be assured, my dear cousin," added my husband, " when one is so light, 
 so skilful, and so bold, there is never any risk." 
 
 Ursula and Gontran set off at a Jiand gallop, side by side, upon the green 
 sward which extended down the alley, wherein our carriage was moving 
 along. For some time we accompanied them. I followed them with my 
 eyes as long as I could; but they quickly disappeared in a winding-path, 
 through which the calèche could not pass, and I lost sigh'c of them. 
 
 All these details will seem puerile to those who know not the innumerable 
 
 angs of jealousy, and the sharp wounds of offended self-love. This scene, 
 
 owever, in appearance so insignificant, so completely overwhelmed me, that 
 I was on the point of committing an infamous action, in denouncing to M. 
 Secherin the conduct of Ursula, and making him participate in my suspicions 
 of his wife. Shame, happily, kept back this terrible avowal, which was on 
 my lips. If my cousin had had the least penetration, he would have divined 
 the cause of my agitation, and my disquietude. I was distracted in my 
 answers to him, and occasionally fell into profound reveries, scarcely inter- 
 rupted by the baying of the pack ; which, from time to time, traversed the 
 broad alleys leading to the open spots in which we were placed to see it pas», 
 under escort of one of the servants of M. de Lancry. What produced upon 
 me a deep, fatal, and strange impression, was to see Gontran and Ursula ap- 
 pear from time to time at the end of some shady path, and always side by 
 side. The distant and melancholy sound of the horns which were re-echoed 
 through the lofty and deeply shadowed woods, and the loud baying of the 
 pack, seemed to me ominous and fearful. Alas ! sad impressions on th» 
 spirit, veil with a sombre hue the gayest objects, and seek gloomy presa^CT 
 in that which causes universal joy and excitement. M. Secherin was so 
 transported with the moving spectacle which he had before his eyes, that he 
 did not notice my state of langour and distress j the uneasiness which I had 
 felt for some time increased more and more. I experienced frequent tremors, 
 new to me, and which I attributed to a nervous affection. My head was 
 heavy, sad, and weak. 
 
 We had just arrived and halted at an open spot in the forest— Ursula and 
 Gontran advanced rapidly up one of the- side alleys. I thought they were 
 about to rejoin us, and I leaned forward from the carriage. They were, in 
 fact, soon near us : as she swiftly passed and saluted me with her hand ; " I 
 am mad ! I am intoxicated with this hunting !" 
 
 And, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling and bold, she give a stroke with 
 her whip to her mare, to qnicken her pace. 
 
 ? The stag will not hold out now more than half an hour," cned Gontran 
 to us ; " the dogs run admirably— he is about to break cover." 
 
 And leaning forward over his horse's shoulder, he came up with Ursula, 
 who had for a moment outstripped him, and the two disappeared again. 
 
 " How she is amused ! Heavens I how she is amused !" said M. Secherin 
 with delight. " But, cousiu, what does M. Gontran mean by the words, • he 
 is about to break cover ?"' - _ 
 
 I had heard my husband speak of hunting sufficiently often to enable me 
 to reply to the question of M. Secherin. 
 
 " It means, that the luckless animal, hard pressed in the wood, is going to 
 take the plain ; it is his last chance of safety ; after which his throat will be 
 cut without pity." 
 
 I was in such a nervous state, I had so long repressed my tears, that, seiz- 
 ing this absurd opportunity to abandon myself to a fit of sensibility, I burst 
 into* flood of tears. M. Secherin looked at me with an astonished air, and 
 said with feeling, " Why ! how is it, that the death of a stag saddens you so 
 much ? you, who should be accustomed to these things. Come, cousin, 
 be reasonable I perhaps, after all, the poor victim may escape its unhappy 
 
 Those who have suffered much from inward sorrow, constrained and for- 
 cibly hidden, will not smile with scorn, when I say, that in replying to the 
 last words of M. Secherin, I made a sort of allusion to my own individual 
 fate ; thereby enabling myself to vent, without being understood, some por- 
 tion of the grief which oppressed me. It is absurd, bitterly absurd. Alas ! 
 I know it — happy are they who know it not — that the most poignant suffer* 
 
250 
 
 KATILB-A. 
 
 ing is sometimes grotesque in its expression ; and this, in my opinion, is tha 
 height of moral torture. 
 
 I replied accordingly, in tears, to M. Secherin : " No, no : the victim will 
 not be able to escape ; what can it do ? Struggle, you may say ; but it must 
 have force to struggle, and it is now powerless. This has lasted long ; it 
 his but to resign itself, to stretch out its neck to the knife, and die. Yet 
 life has seemed fair to it. Moreover, who would dream of dying under this 
 glorious sun ? with the noi3e of these flourishes of the horns and the joyous 
 cries of the hunters, who would think of dying ? For whom is this fête a 
 scene of mourning ? for the victim only. It will weep, and they will laugh 
 at its tears, and they will kill it without pity !— without pity !" 
 
 " It is a fact," said M. Secherin almost moved, " that the poor beasts do 
 weep at the moment of their death. But hearken, cousin, it is said, also, that 
 before dying, the stags sometimes defend themselves bravely ; and that even 
 in death' the victim has at least the pleasure of avenging itself." 
 
 In my absence of mind, replying to my own thoughts in place of answering 
 to M. Secherin, I dried up my tears, looked fixedly at him, and said to him 
 with a bitter smile : "Oh ! is it not so? Vengeance ! vengeance ! not to die 
 feeble, despised, mocked, insulted ! in our turn to make those shed tears who 
 have laughed at our sorrows, oh ! is it not so ? Vengeance ! vengeance ! 
 above everything ! To punish insult ; cowardly and miserable insult ; insult 
 which they know will go unpunished — which they expect to go unpunished, 
 because honour and the loftiness of a noble heart forbids an ignoble accusa- 
 tion. Oh ! but there must be an end to this ! is it not so ? Yes I you are 
 right, vengeance !" 
 
 " Why ! mercy ! cousin exclaimed M. Secherin, with difficulty repressing 
 his inclination to laugh. "How! would you then insult a stag, so that he 
 should think of avenging himself?" 
 
 W looked at ML Secherin ; at first I did not understand him, but very soon 
 I came to myself, and said, " Forgive me, my dear cousin , in truth, I was 
 mad ; you are right, my sensibility got the better of me." 
 
 " Just as I thought ; my cousin was speaking of this poor stag as of a 
 human being. But, come; we are going to move on again. Do you not 
 hear the noise of a horn? Surely, this hunting is a pleasure for a king!" 
 
 The carriage moved on. I took advantage of this movement to abandon 
 myself to the most bitter reflections. I pictured to myself Gontran and 
 Ursula close to each other, letting their horses walk slowly, to take breath 
 after a long gallop ; traversing perhaps those endless alleys, tapestried with 
 verdure, and covered by the trees tinged with the richest colours of autumn. 
 Happy and loving, they might be enjoying ardently this mild and brilliant 
 day — this royal luxury, this life of fêtes — thinking of a future more intoxica- 
 ting still, whispering to each other the tender .words of love, and exchanging 
 long and burning looks. Perhaps even — the forest is so thick and retired 
 — Gontran might be leaning toward Ursula ; he might embrace her supple 
 figure with his amorous arm, and breathe upon her glowing cheek, still 
 animated by exercise. 
 
 " Oh, rage ! oh, grief! oh, torture !" thought I; and I — I — am here, broken, 
 jaded, forgotten, mocked — for they mock, they laugh at me— at me, who am 
 riding in peace with the husband whom they deceive and outrage ! And it is I 
 — it is I, who gave to this man. poor and almost dishonoured, the chateau in 
 which he makes love to my rival ; the luxury with which he dazzles her, the 
 pleasures with which he intoxicates her ! Oh ! but this is frightful ! fright- 
 ful ! This cannot last. I am weary with being stupidly wretched, and I will 
 be so no longer ! Here, I have by my side this husband, so good and so ho- 
 nourable, whom they scoff at, whom they outrage. ' Let me enlighten him. 
 It would not be alone to denounce perfidy and corruption ; it would be to 
 prevent honour and loyalty itself from being longer duped by treason." Once 
 again the fatal avowal came to my lips, and once again I recoiled from the 
 declaration. 
 
 At the end of half an hour, Gontran sent one of his people to tell us, that 
 the stag had been taken in a pond, but that the road to it was so bad, that 
 carriages could not pass ; he begged us to return to the chateau, where he 
 would rejoin us with Madame Secherin. "»Ve arrived at Maran, whither we 
 preceded Ursula and Gontran only a few minutes. After changing our dresses 
 for dinner, were-entered the drawing-room. I found there my cousin, her 
 husband, and Gontran. At table, the conversation turned upon the day's 
 hunt. Gontran praised, in the highest terms, the courage and address ci 
 
THE CHASE. 
 
 251 
 
 Ursula ; who declared, that she had never known such exquisite enjoyment. 
 My cousin was much gayer than the evening before ; she seemed to concern 
 herself but little to preserve, in my eyes, her air of melancholy. She accepted 
 readily some toasts to my health that Gontran proposed, and drank, without 
 much pressing, several glasses of champagne, to the great admiration of M. 
 Secherin ; who continued to exclaim, " My wife is a very devil !" 
 
 For the first time, in noticing the animation, the gaity, and the excite- 
 ment of my cousin, I felt convinced how much there was in her nature, bold 
 and indomitable ! Up to this time, she had appeared to me to be playing a 
 deep part. Her audacious falsehoods had always been enveloped in hypo- 
 critical forms ; and it was, while raising to Heaven her blue eyes bathed with 
 tears in the most melancholy manner, that she disproved proof itself. But 
 seeing her at table so joyous, so resolute— and in hearing her saliies, so 
 quick, so unexpected, and often so happy, 1 felt that she was more dangerous 
 than ever. 
 
 My husband did not conceal the admiration which she inspired. A sort of 
 contest of wit took place between herself and him, in which Gontran was often 
 foiled. He seemed almost fascinated, and overruled by the superior power 
 of that woman, who several times struck him dumb by a word of biting irony. 
 It will appear strange and incredible, but I absolutely suffered from the kind 
 of mocking superiority with which Ursula replied to my husband. 
 
 I was almost confounded with surprise at seeing this transformation in my 
 cousin. M. Secherin himself rémarked to me in a low tone, that he had never 
 given his wife credit for so much wit. 
 
 Now let me explain this change. There are certain natures which are never 
 completely revealed, until they find themselves exactly in their own place. 
 Thus was Ursula essentially born for a life of luxury, of splendour, of fêtes, and 
 of unbridled pleasures. A century sooner, she would have been one of those 
 clever and abandoned women, who were the queens of the orgies of the re- 
 gency. For the first time, perhaps, since her marriage, she found herself in 
 a position analogous to her tastes ; and doubtless her real character developed 
 itself without her being aware of it. After dinner, the quartering of the stag 
 was to take place by torch-light in the court-yard of the chateau, Gontran 
 having deferred this bloody spectacle in honour of Madame Secherin. 
 
 About nine o'clock, the prickers sounded the call. We went out upon the 
 terrace that overlooked the principal court, and which lies before the windows 
 of the room which we had just quitted. The torches, carried by footmen, in 
 full livery, threw a crimson light upon the buildings, of which one portion 
 was completely in shade. This seemed ominous to me. The pack of hounds, 
 hungry, impatient, and scarcely restrained by the whips of the huntsmen, 
 bayed ferociously ; their fierce eyes gleaming in the obscurity. In the middle 
 of the court, the head-pricker of M. de Lancry, having withdrawn the skin 
 of the stag from the offal and bones of the animal, took the head by the horns, 
 and shook it rapidly before the dogs. Still restrained, the pack uttered fero- 
 cious bowlings, until the moment when they were allowed to throw them- 
 selves upon the bloody remains, while the horns were loudly sounded. Then 
 began a fierce contest among those eighty dogs, rushing one upon the other, 
 g owling, biting, disputing, and tearing the bloody morsels of the stag. This 
 spectacle and noise disgusted me ; I re-entered the saloon, the windows of 
 which looked upon the terrace. M. Secherin had gone down to see the quar- 
 tering more closely. I felt myself overcome — more than ever overcome, by 
 a pain entirely physical ; and, for the first time, I asked myself what could 
 be the cause of it. 
 
 I threw myself upon a chair, placed near a window, that was half-hidden 
 by curtains. I was mechanically watching the light from the last torches flicker 
 and go out — for the quartering was ended — when I saWUrsula and Gontran 
 stop for an instant before the window. Gontran encircled the waist of Ur- 
 sula with one of his arms, and approached his lips to my cousin's cheek, in 
 spite of a slight resistance that she offered. Never shall I forget what I ex- 
 perienced at that moment ! for, by a strange fatality, the most fearful pang 
 that I had ever felt, revealed to me, so to say, the most intense delight that 
 I had ever known. I know not how it happened, that the shock which I re- 
 ceived, was so violent, — and that yet, at the same instant a strange sensation, 
 which went directly to my heart, cleared up at onee the cause of my late un- 
 easiness. I felt that I was about to be a mother ! This double effect of intoxi- 
 cating delight, and of overpowering evil, was so strong, that, for a moment, 
 I believed that my head was wandering. 
 
 In my delirium, I got up mechanically— I ran through the saloon — I shut 
 
MATILDA.* 
 
 myself in my chamber, and throwing myself upon my knees, I could only 
 give utterance to these words : 
 
 " Oh I God ! thou hast heard me ! Henceforward, I can no more be mi- 
 serable. At the moment that I was about to die of grief, thou hast sent me a 
 hope ineffable." 
 
 I had not noticed Blondeau, who was in my alcove. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! — what is the matter, madam ?" cried she. 
 
 Without answering her, I pointed to my room door, and said, " I would 
 be alone. Shut the door — leave me — go, and say that I would be alone. 
 
 Blondeau went out, and infoimed Mi de Lan cry that I was disposed, and 
 that I wished to be alone. 
 
 In fact, I remained alone to meditate. 
 
 I could no longer doubt the infidelity of my husband— and, I was a mo- 
 ther! 
 
 END OF PART II 
 
MATILDA 
 
 PART III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A MOTHER. 
 
 Never shall I forget the overwhelming emotions of that night — a night, 
 which I passed in a sort of rational delirium— if such an expression may be 
 used. Sometimes I walked, with long steps, across my chamber ; some- 
 times 1 stopped suddenly, to kneel and pray with fervour; then 1 gave up to 
 bursts of silly joy — notions of boundless happiness, and calm and majestic 
 pride. I was a mother! I was a mother! At this intoxicating thought, fits 
 of idolatrous tenderness came over me, toward the being I carried in my 
 bosom. I could not believe snch happiness to be real ! 1 pressed my hands 
 closely to my bosom, to assure myself that 1 was actually alive. It seemed to 
 me, that every pulsation of my heart was answered by another, soft and light, 
 that came from the heart of my child. My child! my child ! I could not 
 allow myself to pronounce these blessed and charming words. In my high- 
 wrought enthusiasm, I called it, 1 devoured it wi'h caresses — I was almost out 
 of my senses. 1 kissed my hands — I laughed at these puerile demonstrations, 
 and, an instant afterward, I was drowned in tears: but such tears were worth 
 the shedding. 
 
 It was, I believe, two or three o'clock in the morning. It seemed to me 
 that my happiness required air and space ; and that I was anxious to stand 
 face to face with Heaven, the better to express to God my religious gratitude. 
 I opened my window it was the end of autumn ; the night was as fine and as 
 pure, as the day had been radiant ; there was not the slightest noise to be 
 heard , all was shady and mysterious ; the depths of the firmament were sown 
 with millions of shining stars. The moon rose behind a hill covered with 
 great woods ; all was bathed in its clear light — the meadows, the forest, the 
 prairie, and the castle. 
 
 Suddenly, a gentle breeze sprung up, increasing and increasing in strength, 
 and passing through the air like a heavy sigh — then all was silent as before. 
 I read an omen in this remarkable murmur which troubled the solitude for a 
 moment, and made the calm that succeeded it more profound than ever. It 
 appeared to me, that my last sorrow had left my heart ; and that, thenceforth, 
 my life would flow on in happiness and peace. Enjoying for the first time, the 
 proud consciousness of being a mother, and of living in a slate of double exis- 
 tence, I supposed that my trials were for ever past. I blushed at the idea 
 that I had annoyed myself with grievances which could affect me alone. 
 
 In recalling the fatal intoxication of this evening, on which I learned both 
 the certainty of Gontran's- infidelity, and the fact that I was a mother, I was 
 astonished at the deep serenity that took the place of heart-rending emotions, 
 which, until then, had cruelly disturbed me. I could entertain no doubt that 
 Gontran had deceived me; yet I felt towards him an infinite clemency, and a 
 boundless indulgence. My husband had yielded to a transient taste ; this was 
 a weakness — a fault; but he was the father of my child: and it was to him 
 I owed the new and neavenly sensations which I now enjoyed. These 
 thoughts aroused in my soul an inexpressible tenderness and devotion ; and 
 respect, and gratitude, which left me neither inclination nor courage to accuse 
 Gontran of his past errors. As for the future, oh ! I had no solicitude about 
 the future then ! The revelation which I was about to make to my husband, 
 assured me — I shall not say of his love, his anxious attentions, his warm in- 
 
 7, 
 
254 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 terest,but of a tender, religious veneration, which would be permanent. Tes, 
 this was more than a hope, more than a mere presentiment, which guaranteed 
 liie a future, compared with which those few days of happiness passed at 
 Chantilly, and always so regretted, would appear even tasteless and cold. 
 Yes; I had a profound, at/solute, and clear trust in my future happiness, which 
 had its source in the most sacred part of my inner feeling. At this moment, 
 when God was blessing and consecrating my love, to doubt concerning the 
 future would have beeen to blaspheme. 
 
 From that time, I felt for tJidula a sort of compassionat*3isdain — of pro- 
 tecting pity. 1 could no longer honour her with my jealousy ; 1 could not con- 
 descend even to hate her. Moving in a sphere so elevated, I had such a con- 
 viction of my immense superitft-ity over Ursula, that it seemed impossible to 
 institute the least comparison between her and myself. For the first time, tor 
 many a long day, a smile came to my lips, when remembering that I had for- 
 merly envied the grace with which she mounted on hoiseback ; 'and that I had 
 also been jealous of her brilliant wit. At this recollection, 1 involuntarily 
 shrugged my shoulders. In my lofty and generous pride, I took pity upon 
 this poor woman, who, after all, perhaps, was unable to resist the tenderness 
 with which she regaided Gontran — a tenderness of which I myself knew 
 the irresistible power. 
 
 Heavens! I said to myself, what an awakening she will have after this 
 dream of a few days! Then I recalled our infancy, our childhood, and our 
 former friendship. Happiness makes us so compassionate, that I was actually 
 concerned for my cousin. I resolved to request my husband to tell her, with 
 as much delicacy as possible, that she could not remain with us any longer. 
 I would not abuse my triumph by cruelty. 
 
 It would be impossible for me to explain the complete revolution which ma- 
 ternity had effected in my most trifling thoughts. Grave ideas, serious almost 
 to severity, had grown up within me, even in the space of a night ; as if God 
 had prepared the spirit and heart of the mother, for the celestial duties which 
 devolved upon her in relation to her child. Although, until then, I had been 
 feeble, timid, and resigned; I suddenly felt myself strong, resolute, and courage- 
 ous : the hand of God sustained>me. An entirely new horizon presented itself be- 
 fore me ; the limits of my existence seemed to be evinced by the infinite hopes 
 which belonged to me as a mother. In the simple words— to bring up my 
 child — there was a world of new sensations. By and by the day appeared. 
 My first proceeding was to inform my husband of the truth, and, by this 
 unexpected avowal, to change his coldness into adoration : then I thought of 
 temporizing a little, and delaying the moment of my triumph, that 1 might relish 
 it tiie more. I experienced a sort of joy in saying to myself, " By one word 1 
 can make Gontran more passionately in love with me than he has ever been ; 
 yes, Gontran, who yesterday forgot me for another woman !" Confident with 
 regard to what would happen, 1 gratified myself by summoningup the remem- 
 brance of my most unhappy days. 1 behaved like people" who, being miracu- 
 lously delivered from some great danger, contemplate for the last tim,?, with 
 mingled joy and terror, the gulf which might have swallowed them, or the 
 rock on which they might have split. 
 
 A deep and refreshing sleep surprised me in the midst of these thoughts. 
 1 awoke slowly. 1 found my poor Blondeau at my pillow, very much disturb- 
 ed and sad ; my griefs had not escaped her notice : but, however great my 
 confidence in her may have been, I never went so far as to accuse Gontran in 
 her presence. My countenance was radiant with joy too bright to be natural, 
 and Blondeau, when she saw me, cried out in surprise: 
 
 " Bless me ! madam, what can have made you so happy ? Yesterday 1 
 left you so much depressed, that I passed the whole night in te.irs and 
 prayer?' 
 
 " Something has happened, my good Blondeau, which will make you too 
 become foolish with joy when you know it. But go, quickly, and find M. de 
 Lancry : go !" 
 
 " The viscount has already sent me to inquire for you. madam ; and so have 
 Monsieur and Madame Secherin. 1 said that you had passed a very misera- 
 ble night : monsieur seemed distressed.'' 
 
 " Well, go— go quickly ! and find him. I shall dispel his fears." 
 
 Blondeau went. Expecting every moment te se Gontran approach, my 
 heart beat more and more strongly ;*I was greatly agitated. My husband ap- 
 peared. 1 threw myself into his arms, drowned in tears, and without being 
 able to speak a word. 
 
 Gontran was deceived he took my tears for tears of sorrow. Believing, 
 doubtless, that I had seen him embrace Ursula, and that 1 was in despair, he 
 spoke to me with embarrassment. 
 
A MOTHER. 
 
 " Put no faith in appearances, 1 pray you ; do not weep, do not !" 
 
 " But it is for joy that 1 am weeping, Gontran ! it w for joy ! Look at me 
 well; was I crying?" 
 
 " Indeed !" replied my husband, " there is a smile, an air of expanded 
 happiness over your features. What does this mean, Matilda ?" 
 
 " It means that 1 know all, and that I pardon all you have done. Yes, my 
 beloved Gontran ; yes, yesterday, upon the balcony I saw your arm encircle 
 Ursula's waist; 1 saw your lips kiss her cheek. Well, I pardon you ; do you 
 hear? 1 pardon you, because you will accuse yourself more bitterly than 
 eyer 1 would have done ; because you will always, upon your knees, upon 
 both your knees, say to me: pardon, pardon !" 
 
 " But hear me, Matilda !" 
 
 " Do you not understand me, Gontran? Do you not divine what 1 say ? 
 No? you look at me with terror ; you suppose that I jest ; perhaps, that 1 am 
 mad ? But in my turn, I ask pardon ; and pardon, also, of thee, oh God ! 
 for it is a sin not to speak of such happiness with a severe gravity. Gontran !" 
 cried I, taking my husband's hand; "kneel with me; God has blessed our 
 union ; I am a mother!" 
 
 Oh ! I was not deceived in my expectation ! Gontran's features expressed 
 the sweetest surprise, the deepest joy. There was a moment of silence ; he 
 caught me in his arms with the most lively tenderness. Tears — tears — the 
 only tears that 1 had seen him shed, ûowed'from his eyes ; he looked at me 
 with love, with adoration — nay, even with respect! 
 
 " Oh !'' cried he, taking my ' two hands in his, " you are right, Matilda ; it 
 is upon my knees! upon both my knees, that I come to ask your pardon. 
 Noble woman ! generous heart ! angelic creature ! And I have offended you ? 
 — you, who were always so resigned, so mild. Oh ! once more, pardon ! 
 pardon!" 
 
 " Did I not tell you, Gontran, my well-beloved, that you would ask 
 my pardon ? But alas ! I feel that I cannot grant it. 1 should then 
 be obliged to remember the offence ; but, in truth, 1 have forgotten it." 
 
 " Oh ! Matilda ! Matilda! I have been very much to blame!" cried Gontran, 
 bending his head mournfully ; " but, believe me it has been owing to levity 
 and want of thought ; my heart — my love — my veneration were with you — 
 always with you ! Now, new duties dictate a new line of conduct ; you shall 
 see ; oh! you shall see, my love, how worthy l,shall be of the happiness that 
 has come to us. How sacred you will be to me, Matilda! Matilda !" added 
 he, kissing my hands with enthusiasm ; " oh ! how this moment enlightens 
 me ! 1 have never, till now, felt your value ; and how unworthy I have been 
 of such a wife! I swear to you Matilda, I love you now more passionately, 
 peihaps, than during those fine days at Chantilly, which you always look back 
 upon with wishes for their return, poor woman! Now 1 say, as you do— if you 
 cannot pardon my offence, because you have forgotten it, 1 cannot ask pardon, 
 because I cannot believe it possible that I have ever offended." 
 
 "Oh! Gontran! Gontran! what a heart you have ! what language How 
 grateful I am to you ! Oh ! my God ! give me strength to bear such overwhelm- 
 ing happiness !" 
 
 "Yes, yes, Matilda; 1, your friend, your lover, have "not changed; but, 
 thanks to you, I was myself, so happy, that 1 did not think of the happiness 
 which 1 ought continually to confer upon you, just as we do not think of 
 thanking God for life when it flows smoothly on. And then, if I was some- 
 times whimsical and capricious, you ought to have found fault with me, my 
 good angel, my well-beloved; yes, 1 was like a spoiled child, whom its mo- 
 ther, from her extreme tenderness, never chided. For the greatest faults she 
 
 has only smiles and sweet remonstrances, and then No," he continued, 
 
 witn a touching grace, "no, I do not wish to excuse myself, to soften my errors ; 
 it would be wicked. 1 am too egotistical, too stern, too indifferent, too faithless, 
 — that is, I have been ; I have for some time only half known the most adora- 
 ble character existing in the world. Oh! Matilda, I do not fear to paint the 
 past in dark colors ; the future will be bright.'' 
 
 "Speak no more of this, Gontran; let us speak of it — our child. What 
 will be your plans ? What joy! What felicity? If it be a boy, how hand- 
 some he will be : if it be a girl, she shall be a beauty. He shall have your 
 eyes ; she shall have your smile ; and such beautiful brown hair, cheeks so 
 rosy, a neck so white, and little dimpled shoulders. Oh! Gontran, 1 rave— I 
 am crazy. 1 never expect all this to be realized." 
 
 " Tell me," replied he tenderly," which do you prefer, to stay here for some 
 time, or go and establish ourselves in Paris? Speak, Matilda, command me ; 
 J have now no will of my own.'' 
 
 ('. Now is the very time my husband, when you must have a will for your- 
 
25b 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 self and for me: for 1 am going to be wholly absorbed m a single thought ; 
 my child. Beyond this idea, 1 shall be good for nothing.'' 
 
 Since then you Jeave me at liberty to do so, 1 shall reflect upon the best 
 course, my good Matilda; and 1 shall tell you my decision," 
 
 What you do will be done well, my husband ; among other considerations, 
 will there not be these ? Will you trot consult economy ? for now we must be 
 prudent. We are no longer alone; we must think from this moment of saving 
 money for our dear child ; and at the present time money is so much esteemed, 
 that the possession of it increases the chance of happiness. Let us see, my 
 husband, how can we reduce our establishment?" 
 
 " Let us think of that Matilda ; you are right. What happiness to exchange 
 frivolous and useless luxury for a touching foresight in behalf of the being 
 who is dearer to us than the world. Oh ! never could riches confer such hap- 
 piness !" 
 
 "Hold! my husband, when 1 think that everyone of my privations 
 would increase the well-being of my infant,— 1 am afraid of becoming avari- 
 cious.'' 
 
 " Dear and tender wife, be at rest. 1 feel as you do all the duties that are 
 now imposed on us. 1 shall attend to each of them. Like you, Matilda, 1 
 have undergone a change," added Gontran, with an accent of inimitable grac* 
 and tenderness. 
 
 My husband then spoke sincerely ; 1 knew his countenance too well, to mis- 
 take the touching expression of truthfulness with which it was invested. 
 When he expressed to me his regret at having annoyed and distressed me, he 
 spoke the truth : the hardest heart, the most pitile'ss characters, have often 
 excellent seasons of repentance. For this strong reason, Gontran was capable 
 of being generous, because he was not wicked ; he was spoiled by too much 
 admiration. Indeed, 1 am certain that my husband then felt towards me as 
 at the moment of our marriage. So strong was 1 in the conviction, it seemed 
 to me so natural that the passing regard which my husband entertained for 
 Ursula, should be dissipated suddenly, by the revelation which 1 had made to 
 him; that without the least hesitation, without the least embarrassment, 1 said 
 to Gontran: 
 
 *• Now, my husband, how are we to get rid of Ursula ?'' At this ingenuous 
 question, "Gontran looked at me, blushing with surprise. " It surprises you to 
 hear me speak thus of my cousin," said 1, smiling ; " yet nothing is more 
 simple. 1 do not retain any animosity, any jealousy : I have no time for that ; 
 1 am too happy ! She has played the coquette with you— you have been 
 favorably impressed by her attentions ; 1 forgive all that. This arises from 
 the giddiness of youth, which you will now remember, my tender friend : I 
 desire only that you, who have so much tact and wit, would find some means 
 of removing Ursula, without hurting her feelings by any severity of language 
 or manner ; for, in spite of me, 1 cannot refrain from pitying her: some time, 
 perhaps, she might chance to believe that you love her." 
 
 Gontran looked at me in silence: he seemed scarcely to believe what he 
 heard After a brief interval, he cried : 
 
 " Always great ! always generous ; Ah ! I would be the most guilty of men, 
 if I were ever to forget your conduct in this affair. Yes, you are right, Matilda, 
 I shall expiate these y r outhful follies as I ought. Your cousin must go— and 
 go as soon as possible ; not that 1 doubt my resolution, but because the 
 sight of her will become painful to y r ou as soon as your enthusiasm is gone!" 
 
 " You ppeak truly, my husband , you know me better than I know myself. 
 If you knew what I have suffered on her account — but hold, Gontran, let ns 
 speak no more of that, all 1 s forgotten. It will be very easy for Ursula to 
 persuade her husband to leave Maran : he has no will but hers. But," 1 
 added, with some hesitation, '* how will you be able to lead Ursula to this reso- 
 lution. ?" 
 
 " Nothing can be more simple. I will tell her all, with frankness and 
 candor." 
 
 " You will tell her " 
 
 " I will tell her that she and I have been foolish ; that we have run grave 
 risks ; that she has endangered the tranquillity of the best of men ; that I have 
 endangered the peace of the most tender and adorable of women, I will 'ell 
 her that our imprudence has alarmed you; that for nodiing in the world would 
 I cause you the slightest annoyance ; in short, 1 will request her to persuade 
 her husband to leave the place.'* 
 
 For a moment I preserved silence ; in spite of my faith in Gontran's 
 love, and in my superiority over Ursula, it was painful to think that my 
 husband was to have another secret interview with my cousin. Alas ! at this 
 
A MOTH F. R. 
 
 257 
 
 thought, all my feeling of jealousy returned. I said to Gontran with emotion 
 " Must you then ask an interview with Ursula, in order to persuade her to 
 depart ?" 
 
 "Doubtless," • 
 
 "Well, I confess to you, Gontran, the idea seems a cruel one to me." 
 " Then," replied he smiling, " I must have more courage than you. How 
 can it bf done otherwise, my poor Matilda." 
 " I know rot." 
 
 *■ I dare not propose, that you, yourself, should speak on the subject to your 
 cousin." 
 
 " No ; that would be awkward, I feel that it would. Such a reommenda 
 tion from me, would humble her, bitterly : and. I cannot forget that she has 
 been my friend — my sister." 
 
 " What is to be done, then ? 1 would write to her, but that is dangerous 
 and, then, there are a thousand things that Can be said, that cannot be 
 written ; there are objections, which a viva voce conference can settle; 
 although they might remain as valid as ever, after along correspondence." 
 
 After musinur for some time, Gontran exclaimed, all radiant with joy : " Oh, 
 Matilda, Matilda ! what a capital idea! Would you have a double proof of my 
 fidelity, and ot my anxiety to make you forget the annoyance, of which 1 
 have been the cause?" * 
 
 " How is it to be given ?" 
 
 "Concealed somewhere, where you can see and hear everything, be a witness 
 to the interview, at which your jealousy is alarmed." 
 * Gontran, what do you say ? Ah ! this proves * 
 
 "Nothing that ought to alarm you. For the last time, Matilda, my beloved 
 angel, I wish to tell you all, and trust you with all : to be as candid as you 
 are generous. Pardon me if I shock you. 1 shall take courage; for this 
 frank avowal will put an end, I am sure, to your exaggerated fears : you 
 shall see, that I have been more imprudent and thoughtless than guilty. 
 You shall see, that if Ursula has been coquettish with me; that if on my side 
 I have transgressed the bounds of common gallantry, she has not to blush for 
 a grave ana irreparable fault. Yesterday I did by way of pleasantry, throw 
 my arm round her waist, and I attempted to embrace her ; this was a degree 
 of levity, deserving of blame, 1 am aware; but she might, perhaps excuse it 
 on the score of relationship.'' 
 
 " And at Rouvray, Gontran ?" - • 
 
 "At Rouvray, as here, I paid Ursula-such compliments as are addressed to 
 all women. I said to her, that she was charming ; that it would give us much 
 pleasure, if she could pay us a long visit. She received these gallantries 
 coquettishly, but in a laughing way, and without thinking more seriously 
 about the matter than its insignificance deserved, I assure you. This is all the 
 confession. Matilda, pardon ! again, 1 say, pardon!'' 
 
 " I thank you rather for an avowal, which completesmy confidence. It is 
 far better to know the truth, however painful it may be, than to be worried by 
 phantoms, often more alarming than realities." 
 
 "Moreover, Matilda, I now swear to you, upon my honour, by all that is 
 dearest to me in the world— in short, by yourself! that during this interview 
 I shall approacn your cousin with a heart f ull of you, of yourgoodness, of your 
 generosity ; that Î shall not utter a word without thinking of the tears I have 
 made you shed, noble and angelic créature that you are! I swear to you, that this 
 passing fancy, which I have confessed to you, has vanished before the interests 
 which nowbinds us in bondsmore firmly thanever. Matilda, Matilda, I would be 
 the worst of men, if the condition in which you now are, did not secure for 
 you my most devoted attentions ! Trust me ;" do not object to our present 
 plan. 1 am proud to know, at least how to expiate the faults which I have 
 committed!" 
 
 "Oh, 1 believe you, 1 believe you! My well-beloved Gontran. I Save 
 myself to your guidance; yes, 1 shall have" courage for this trial." 
 
 " Thanks, oh, thanks, Matilda, for permitting me to justify myself thus 
 But I do not wish you to have the least doubt: love, is suspicious, I know. 
 In spite of you, there may, perhaps, be some lingering thought that I have 
 yielded to Ursula, and that " 
 
 "Ah, Gontran, you judge me too harshly !" 
 
 " No, no, my poor Matilda, leave me to settle it. Th« more candid, open 
 and unsuspected, my explanation appears, the better you will be satisfied. 
 Hear me, then. Tell Blondeau to ask your cousin to come here. You will 
 say in the cabinet in your recess ; this glass-door between us, a fold of the 
 curtain raised, you can see and hear everything. Your cousin will com©; X 
 z 3 
 
I5S 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 shall tell her that you have gone out, that you wish her to excuse you, and to 
 meet you in the park pavilion. For some minutes I shall retain her here; 
 then she will go out to search for you, and you can leave your hiding-place." 
 
 " Then I will fall upon mykn^, Gontran; and 1 will thank you a thousand 
 times for having restored to me in one day, the happiness which 1 believed 1 
 had lost for ever.'' > 
 
 Then, as my husband requested, Blondeau went to seek Ursula. 1 entered 
 one of the cabinets in the recess, with a beating heart. Gontran's tender as- 
 surances, his candour — all tended to prevent me from having the least fear- 
 and yet for a moment, 1 hesitated. It seemed to me, that 1 played an un 
 worthy part, in thus witnessing the interview without being seen. 1 confess 
 that my irresolution vanished less in the hope of seeing my rival humbled, 
 than in the ardent and restless desire of witnessing a scene so strange — so 
 new, to a woman. 
 
 1 heard the plaintive and melancholy tone of Ursula; 1 waited to see her 
 'drowned in tears when my husband should disclose to her his intention. 
 Judging of the love she must have felt for Gontran, by the love which 1 felt 
 for him myself, I foresaw that this scene would be a cruel one for my cousin. 
 Whether from weakness or generosity, 1 could not help pitying her. 1 was even 
 afraid that Gontran, moved by my secret presence, would be too severe toward 
 her. What a revelation for this poor^nfortunate woman who loved him so 
 much, and who certainly believed herself as well beloved in return! Even at 
 this hour 1 am convinced that my husband was then sincere in his détermina 
 tion to sacrifice a passing caprice to the holy and serious affection which 1 
 deserved as his wife. A single fear harasded me : Ursula was socunning, so adroit ; 
 she knew how to give her voice, and her very tears a power so seductive, that, 
 perhaps, my husband's resolution might not he able to withstand her touching 
 grief. 
 
 These reflections occurred t o me more rapidly than ordinary thouphts. 1 
 waited to hear the light step3 of Ursula : they were audible. 1 then retired to 
 my hiding-place. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 Ursula, appeared surprised at not seeing me, as she entered my chamber. 
 Her countenance was smiling and gay; Gontran's expression on the contrary, 
 was cold and reserved. He stood near the chimney corner, and leaned upon it. 
 
 Ursula, shitting the door, said to him, "How came you here? Where 
 is Matilda?" 
 
 " She was obliged to go down for an instant, to attend to the solicitations of 
 one of her poor pensioners: she begs you to excuse her; and she wishes you to 
 join her directly in the park-pavilion.*" 
 
 Ursula at first appeared astonished at the cold reception my husband gave 
 her; then she smiled, making him a profound bow, with an ironical air, as she 
 said; "I thank you, sir, for having informed me where I may meet the 
 'Viscountess de Lancry ; I am sorry to have interrupted your grave medi- 
 tations." Ursula made a step toward the door. 
 
 " One word, I pray you,"' said Gontran. 
 
 Ursula, who was leaving the room, stopped ; and turning her head round 
 slowly, cast upon Gontran along look, full of malice and coquetry, and raised 
 her pretty finger with a threatening air, as she said to him; "Let it be one 
 word, then; no more ! I know how dangerous it is to listen to you— more so, 
 perhaps, than it is to look at you. Let us see! quickly! this word, my 
 handsome, my gloomy cousin." 
 
 "What 1 have to say to you, madam, is grave and serious." 
 
 " Indeed .' sir, is it grave and serious? Well, I am delighted : it will contrast 
 with your folly and habitual giddiness. Let us see — speak, I am listening,'* 
 
 "When I saw you at Rouvray," said Gontran, "two months ago, I could 
 not conceal from you the fact, that 1 thought you à charming woman." 
 
 " That is very true, dear cousin ; and I remember, that in a certain elm-tree 
 avenue, you even mmde me a proposal — and an exceedingly impertinent one, 
 to which I replied as I ought — by laughing at you. Let us see — go on — your 
 gravity, sententious and ceremonious as it is, amusesand puzzles me infinitely. 
 What are you coming to?" 
 
 Gontran cast a glance of satisfaction toward the cabinet-door, where I was 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 259 
 
 hid, and replied: "On jour arrival here, 1 told you what great pleasure 
 it gave m e to see you asra.n.'' 
 
 " What happiness, my dear, handsome, cousin — what happiness, if you 
 piease ; — your little words, alas ! are engraved'here in characters that cannot 
 be eflkce l'," said Ursula, pressing her ha^d upon her heart and looking at my 
 husband ironically. 
 
 Gontran appeared almost thwarted by this sarcasm ; knitting his brows 
 slightly, he proceeded, with a firm tone : " I am delighted, madam, that you 
 are in a pleasant mood ; the task I have to accomplish, will be less arduous.'' 
 
 "Let us see: quick — quick! I am on burning coals, my dear cousin; 
 1 burn to know the end of all this, and what good will result from this solemn 
 
 recapiiulation of our what shall I call this intimacy of ours? Love? 
 
 No, indeed ! you have far too little to inspire me with such a sentiment ; let us, 
 then, call it coquetry— that, I believe, is the word. Am 1 right? " 
 
 " Let it be so, madam," replied Gontran, " I shall continue, then, the reca- 
 pitulation of our of our coquetry. On your arrival at Maran, I told you 
 
 what happiness I enjoyed at seeing you again, and how much I desired that 
 your stay here might be prolonged.'' 
 
 " That is very true, sweet cousin ; but yesterday wë planned a charming 
 hunting party ; you grumbled a little— very tenderly it is true— because 1 
 seemed to prefer the noise of trumpets, ta, your amorous declarations ; and I 
 confess, to my shame, that 1 deserved your reproaches ; for me, there was 
 nothing more ravishing— more novel especially, than the trumpetclang which 
 resounded through the woods.'' 
 
 " And doubtless a declaration had not for you the same charm of novelty. 
 The avowal is ingenuous " said Gontran, smiling. 
 
 Ursula looked fixedly at my husband, and with a gesture which indicated 
 haughty pride, shook her bold forehead and waved the long masses of her 
 brown air She then replied with a smile which conveyed irony, if not scorn, 
 " My dear cousin, 1 am scarcely eighteen, and I have often been told that I 
 am charming. You will pardon me, then, for being surfeited with declarations. 
 For a long time, my ear has been accustomed to the chirping of vulgar 
 flattery ! and, unhappily, you have not awaked in my soul sensations as little 
 known as they are ravishing. 1 have no doubt but you are an excellent 
 Pygmalion ; yet Galatea was accustomed to restraint, as well as spirited 
 action, before your all-powerful glance condescended to fall upon a poor 
 provincial like me.'' 
 
 My astonishment was at its height. " It was Ursula who thus expressed 
 herself— she who had been formerly so tearful, always speaking of her early 
 gra\e. It w as Ursula who spoke to Gontran in this contemptuous language — 
 to him, whose conquests had been so numerous — to him, the most select 
 of gentlemen — to him, who was adored by the most fashionable of women, 
 Gontran appeared to be not less surprised than myself at this bantering 
 language. Nevertheless, I saw, with joy, that he had not deceived me. He 
 had been light and imprudent in Ursula's presence, bu» he had been preserved 
 from any sentiment more deeply seated than the cold coquetry of my cousin. 
 
 Ursula resumed, in the same tone of irony : " What is the matter, my dear 
 cousin ? you seem abashed " 
 
 " It is, madam, because I have never seen you so scornful." 
 
 " That, sir, is because I have never seen you so solemn." 
 
 "You are right," said Gontran, smiling; we are talking of follies and 
 gallantries of no consequence, exchanged between a man and woman of the 
 world ; and I assume indeed, an air of authority quite ridiculous. Well, then 
 my pretty cousin, you remember that yesterday morning I had so little control 
 over myself as to embrace your elegant figure, and imprint a kiss upon your 
 fresh and rosy cheek. Well, I come to ask your forgiveness for this boldness — 
 to ask you to forget this folly. I yielded to a transient enthusiasm. I had, 
 for the moment, confounded the familiarity of a relative with a sentiment more 
 tender, and I come * 
 
 Ursula interrupted my husband by a burst of laughter, and exclaimed : 
 
 " You come to ask my pardon ; but there is, indeed, no cause, my dear 
 cousin ; your virtuous candeur has given you a false alarm. I swear to you, 
 your audacity has been very innocent: for your mouth kissed not this ' fresh 
 and rosy cheek,' but the trimming of my bonnet. As for the ' charming 
 figure' you embraced, a little against my inclination, the first gentleman vvhc 
 waltzes with me shall, of course, be entitled to the same privilege in the ball- 
 room. I cannot see that you received any encouragement, which ought U 
 cause you remorse, on account of the manner in which you received it 
 last evening. I did not play the offended prude, because it would have shovrt 
 
matilda. 
 
 bad taste. In such a case, the best course for an honest woman is, to b« 
 resigned and silent." 
 
 Of course, Gontran's love was wounded by this railery ; for, forgetting my 
 presence, he cried with vexation, " How! madam ; your silence was that of 
 indignation— indifference' " 
 
 Here, my dear cousin, let me recall, alas ! even the minute details of the sad 
 «onsequences of your audacity '' 
 
 " Where were they ? " 
 
 "I had my hand upon the rails of the balcony, and, in drawing it back, 
 I tore the lace off my handkerchief.'' 
 
 " That proves," said Gontran, with impatience, " that you have an excellent 
 memory, madam." 
 
 "It does not prove anything in favour of my memory, cousin ; but it proves 
 the angelic purity of my sentiments, to which you will oblige me by giving 
 your consideration." 
 
 " Madam." 
 
 "Doubtless Let us see! seriously, if my silence had been that of excite- 
 ment— if I had loved you — should I have remarked that circumstance about 
 the handkerchief? Should I have waited until your lips kissed my cheeks, 
 and until your arm pressed my waist, in order to be satisfied with regard to 
 one of those sudden, silent, and profound emotions which intoxicate women 
 and lead men astray ? Ah ! mercy ! scarcely would } our hand have touched 
 mine, when a sensation — electric, rapid as lightning — would have overturned 
 my reason and my senses ! Almost without knowing it, without thinking it, 
 spite of myself, 1 should have fallen into your arms ; and I should have awaked 
 without remembering anything — but still fainting, under a delirious and inex- 
 plicable emotion, which no language can possibly convey." 
 
 Oh! misery ! misery! never shall I forget the tone of emotion with which 
 Ursula uttered these last words — never shall I forget the blush which, for an 
 instant, lighted up her countenance, like the reflection of a crimson light — 
 never shall I forget the look, at the same time vague, burning and voluptuous, 
 which she raised to Heaven, as if she felt what she attempted to describe! 
 Misery! misery !— never shall I forget with what ardent admiration Gontran 
 looked at her for some minutes— for she was beautiful, oh! veiy beautiful 
 Her beauty was certainly not chaste and pure ; but sensual — such beauty, in 
 fact, as is said to exercise a sway over man. Misery! misery ! I saw in Gon- 
 tran's features grief and anger. He was evidently on the brink of a precipice. 
 He was in despair because he had not inspired Ursula with the sentiments 
 which she so eloquently described. My terror of this woman increased : 1 was 
 on the point of leaving my hiding-place to break up the interview ; but carried 
 away by an eager curiosity, and an anxiety to hear Gontran's reply, I 
 remained motionless. 
 
 _ My husband appeared to be fascinated by Ursula's look ; he then con- 
 tinued, in a bitter tone: "Indeed, madam, your theory is a complete one: 
 happy the man who shall put it into practice. I am glad to find from what 
 you have said, that I have been less faithless to my wife than I supposed. 
 I sincerely congratulate myself; while, at the same* time, I thank you for 
 having openly indulged in a little coquetry with me." 
 
 Ursula burst into anew fit of laughter,' and replied : " Heavens with what 
 a downcast and solemn air you speak to me of iconjugal fidelity ! One would 
 suppose you experienced remorse for a good action, and that you were sorry 
 at not finding yourself more guilty.'' 
 
 "True, my dear cousin, I did believe myself less innocent; and I also 
 supposed that you were more ingenuous." 
 
 " Hold ! you are decidedly in a fury." 
 
 " No, you are mistaken : I swear you are." 
 
 " I say you are in a perfect fury ! Ah ! my dear cousin, you supposed that 
 you were making a conquest, because you seemed to succeed in gratifying my 
 fancies. I presume — indeed, I am sure,'' she added, laughing more violently 
 than ever, " that you believed me mortally smitten before my marriage ; then 
 again on your presentation to Matilda, and subsequently, on your visit to 
 Rouvray ; and you of course imagined that I haà* but one aim, one thought — 
 the idea of rejoining you here or at Paris. You were, moreover, probably 
 uuder^the impression, that, in order to pay my addresses to you, and obtain 
 the happiness of long interviews", I bravely learned to ride on horseback at the 
 risk of breaking my neck— and all to render myself worthy of a look from 
 you, or induce you to exclaim inwardly: 'Poor little thing! what devotion! 
 what courage Ah ! these women ] these women ! When one of these devils 
 resolves to fascinate, she invariably succeeds!' As for that matter, my poor 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 eousin, you are not entirely wrong; fori believe 1 have completely fascinated 
 you, although I have not thought proper to exert my power." 
 
 " I see that there are others who may be charged with vanity as well as my- 
 self, 'said Gontran, his annoyance evidently increasing. 
 
 f* How !'' resumed Ursula, with renewed gaiety, " do you think that there 
 is any vanity in pretending to the conquest of your heart ? Such an avowal 
 is indeed amusing, when it comes from one who proposes to instruct me in 
 modesty. Well '. I confess, although 1 am quite conscious of having fascinated 
 you, it is a matter of which I am not in the least proud." 
 
 " Then you think that I am very much in love with you ?" 
 
 " I believe you are more in love with me to-day than you were yesterday 
 and that jou will be more in love with me to-morrow than you are to-day." 
 
 " And in what is this ever increasing passion to end my charming 
 prophetess ?" 
 
 "As far as I am concerned, in a hearty laugh. You may, possibly, be 
 thrown into despair. You ought to know this by experience, seigneur Don 
 Juan ; if tb£re be a genuine passion on one side, there is usually indifference 
 or contempron the other. — There is, then, you must perceive, one thing which 
 must for ever prevent me from returning your love, and which does you an 
 irreparable injury in my eyes : that one thing is simply — your love." 
 
 " You manage a paradox admirab.v, madam, and vou have my admiration.'' 
 
 " What seems to you a paradox is very simple. We are so little accustomed 
 to hear genuine truth that it is apt to appear paradoxical. At the risk, then, 
 of passing for a fool, I tell you that you love me ; not only because I am 
 young and pretty, but because your pride and vanity are hurt by the dis- 
 covery, notwithstanding your former successes, that I do not yield to your 
 powerful attractions." 
 
 " Madam," cried Gontran, " pray let us change the subject.* 
 
 " You are right, cousin, we have wandered from our subject; where were 
 we, then ? Ah ! yes— you were huaibly begging my pardon for haying had the 
 audacity to kiss the trimming of my bonnet, and for having taken precisely 
 the same liberty with my person as was accorded to the least remembered of 
 my waltzers during the past year." 
 
 Instead of replying to Ursula, Gontran w as silent for a moment, and then 
 said, with a constrained smile; "There are doubtless, madam, combined in 
 your character, some very rare qualities : you have certainly a ripht to be dis- 
 dainful, if you please ; out it is impossible to guess with what unheard-of 
 perfections— with what supreme advantages he must be endowed, who would 
 aspire to the amazing felicity of pleasing you." 
 
 " Do you know, my cousin, that you are very fantastical?" 
 
 " How is that?" 
 
 " This very moment, you earnestly entreated me not to discuss you any 
 more ; and here you are beginning to talk about yourself again, in fine style !" 
 "I ? no such thing." 
 
 " You ask me, with a most transparent air of irony, what supernatural gifts 
 should be yours, to please me ? Is not that equivalent to an intimation, that 
 you do not please me at all — possessed, as you are, of irresistible charms? 
 Well — you perceive, if I answer you, as I did just now, you will reproach me 
 for changing a serious dissertation into amorous speeches." 
 
 " No, no : we will resume that conversation. Eut, tell me — I am curious to 
 know the ideal of whom you dreamed." 
 
 " My ideal ! and why, my poor cousin? Descriptions of heroes dreamed 
 of by young girls, are always prepared beforehand : they always say just what 
 they do not wish to say, and they admire the exact opposite of their dreams. 
 However, there is a preliminary condition, on which I should positively 
 "insist : the man of my choice should be entirely free — in one word, a 
 bachelor." 
 
 " And why include married men in these severe ostracisms ?" 
 
 " First, because I will not condescend to reign over a divided heart ; the e is 
 always something ridiculous in the behaviour of a married gallant. He is an 
 amphibions being, who partakes of the character of a scholar in vacation, and 
 the father of a rebellious family ; then, he is generally so stupid: to me, a 
 married gallant always seems as anomalous to a married priest." 
 
 " The portrait, madam, is by no means, flattering," said Gontran, hardly 
 "being able to contain himself. 
 
 "Yourself, for exanj^le," continued Ursula: "yourself, my dear cousin. 
 You have lost al 1 your old attractions; and even [as a bachelor you would be 
 <f rather too much -a little too much for me; yes. certainly you would. For, 
 after all, what are you— my amiable, very intellectual' great lord— with « 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 charming person, and most elegant manners ! Between ourselves my love 
 must have either higher or lower aims." 
 
 " Indeed ; my cousin, to-day you talk in enigmas i~ 
 
 " Indeed ! my cousin, to-day you have very little understanding ? It is a 
 fact ; I must have either a slave, or a master. You could he neither one nor 
 the other. You have neither that entire devotion which interests, nor that 
 lofty superiority which subdues, l'or a simple, good, inoffensive creature, 
 for instance, who adored me with the blind worship of a savage for his idol, 
 I should feel a kind of confiding fondness ; that sort of affectionate compas- 
 sion, that one experiences for a trembling, submissive dog, who always keeps 
 his eyes fixed beseechingly on your countenance: who ticks the hand that 
 strikes him, and who is always too happy to come back familiarly to lie at your 
 footstool, when, either through auger or caprice you have rudely driven him 
 away? But, if I even should meet with one of those men, who, by I know 
 not what mysterious power, rules one like a despot at the very first glance, 
 with what humble, what tender submission, would I bend before him ! With 
 what idolatry, would I, imperious as 1 am, become in turn the ad^jper ! How 
 would 1 dedicate my rights, my will ; my life even, to him ! On my knees, 
 - always on my knees before my sovereign, before my divinity ! joy, grief, hope, 
 despair, all would emanate from him ; to him all would return. That he 
 might only deign to call me his Venus, I would be humble, resigned, abject, 
 sinful; for who knows, who can say, that jealousy in such a love, would not 
 amount to frenzy, to ferocity?. Hold! at this thought, oh! at this thought, 
 how 1 tremble!" 
 
 In uttering these last words, with a low voice. Ursula cast down her eyes 
 and appeared meditative. 
 Gontran was astounded 
 I was alarmed. 
 
 After a few moments' silence, Ursula passed her hand across her brow, as 
 if to chase away the ideas which appeared (•> have saddened and absorbed her: 
 and, smiling, said to my husband, "You see plainly, then, that you can 
 neither be my slave nor my master. "We can only be friends, and even that 
 will be difficult ; you are too much a man of the world to pardon me your 
 unlucky declarations and ill success. Taking all these things into considera- 
 tion, there is but little chance that we shall not be implacable enemies. Do 
 you not think this a very original conclusion?' Who would have said our 
 conversation would have takeu this turn ?" 
 
 " Beyond contradiction, madam,'* maliciously replied Gontran, as if he had 
 not yet recovered from the effect of this strange conversation — " beyond con- 
 tradiction, that is very original. But may 1 ask you, why you have chosen* 
 to devote so much time to us ?'* 
 
 With that, susceptibility to various impressions, which characterized her, 
 she began anew to laugh heartily, as she looked at Gontran with astonish- 
 ment ; and exclaimed : 
 
 "Indeed! have you become downright silly ? Does your passion for me 
 already disturb your reason ? How ! do you wish to be the incessant aim and 
 object of my thoughts? You imagine, that my journey here had no other 
 end than to tell you — I love you, But, rest assured— that it was never to 
 yourself, but to my dear Matilda, 1 intended to devote the time 1 should spend 
 at Maran. Heaven! how strangely you appear! How very singular men 
 are ! Had I avowed to you that I had, for a long time, entertained a design of 
 enticing you away from your wife, you would naturally have been very indig- 
 nant; but now my conduct contradicts all this, and you see me scrupulously 
 respecting the sacred laws of that friendship which you have yourself in- 
 voked." 
 
 " Madam !" 
 
 " Come, come, do not suppose that 1 wish to make myself out better than I 
 am. My good behaviour is chiefly owing to my dislike of married men in 
 general, and my little penchant for you, in particular. I undoubtedly love 
 Matilda, with all my heart ; but if an irresistible power had drawn me to you, 
 I should, in spiteof myself, have betrayed the confidence of my best friend. 
 Besides," continued Ursula, smiling with that sarcastic expression which im- 
 parted to her physiognomy so insolent and disdainful a character, " I offer 
 equal chances of combat; I am likewise vulnerable. I have a husband also; 
 let them entice him from me. It is but fair. But enough of follies like this, 
 my dear cousin. Now let us talk reason. What is it^frat you have to tell me, 
 and why do you keep me here ? Matilda may be impatiently expecting me.** 
 Gontran seemed much provoked at Ursula's raillery: he answered sharply, 
 " It was of- Matilda herself that I desired to speak to you. Though I am 
 
TUP. INTERVIEW. 
 
 usa 
 
 one of those amphibious beings, so very ridiculous, whom people call hus- 
 bands, my wife feels for me a deep, sincere, unchangeable affection." 
 
 " She is very right, and evinces the best possible taste. I do not carp at 
 husbands as I do at lovers ; apart from their pretensions, they are possessed 
 of all sorts of agreeabilities— conjugal ones, I mean; and you, yourself, 
 cousin, have personally all the attractions requisite to please your wife." 
 
 " And I desire, madam, to continue to please my wife ; and I should be most 
 unhappy to occasion her any violent soitow: she is young enough, and blind 
 enouch, to love me so passionately that she considers my love her life. But as 
 she does not possess that overweening self-confidence which would make her 
 think that people must always worship her ; as she is, above all, gifted with 
 the most charming modesty, she dreads certain very dangerous comparisons;* 
 and, though I am, I confess it humbly, now sighing under your disdam, yet 
 she much fears " 
 
 Urs-ula interrupted Gontran- "All these periphrases simply signify that 
 Matilda is jealous of me — do theyrrot? This, then, is the great secret! 
 what fine folly !" 
 
 " I have the honor to assure you, madam, that nothing could be more 
 serious. Matilda's repose is, above all thin; s, dear to me." 
 
 1 am persuaded of it, #nd you can, it seems to me, appease her better than 
 any one else can, my dear cousin. As-for me, I should be wretched to cause 
 her the slightest sorrow, it would be unpardonable; I should have neither the 
 pleasure of remorse nor the remorse of pleasure." 
 
 " Unhappily, madam, Matilda has more than suspicions, she has certainty ; 
 yesterday, after the game on the terrace, she saw " 
 
 " Saw you kiss my bonnet; this is delightful! I am overjoyed! 1 have just 
 cause for exercising some slight vengeance upon her, so as to teacher not to 
 trust in appearances. Let us leave her a day or two in her error and when 
 at last we undeceive her, I will say, ' Now you see, naughty cousin, that you 
 must never believe in what you see.' " 
 
 "Notundecive Matilda, madam? "Why, the poor child will expire. You 
 know not the nobleness, the angelic uprightness of her soul ; you know not 
 with how holy a fervor she loves me. Matilda is not one of those coldly 
 sarcastic women, who, because they are themselves destitute of feeling, affect 
 to despise sentiments which they are incapable of conceiving or appreciating. 
 No, no! Matilda is not one of those — " 
 
 "Of those abominable women, of those monsters of perfidy, who have the 
 impudence not to desire for a lover the hushand oftheir most intimate friend ;" 
 said Ursula, interrupting my husband, and beginning to laugh loudly once 
 more. Gontran seemed in torment; Ursula continued: " Good heavens! 
 How very amusing you are ! and how naturally your eulogy of poor Matilda 
 comes in aid of your anger at my insensibility ! Nothing was wanting at last, 
 but my disdain, to bring to your lips, you know, the pr*aise of your wife !" 
 
 "You are right, madam, 1 ' said Gontran ; almost beside himself with her sar- 
 casms; "I have, perhaps, never better known how to prize her adorable 
 heart, than while discovering " 
 
 " To how terrible a heart, you wish to sacrifice it ! Is it that, my dear 
 cousin? I dearly love to finish your sentences, we so perfectly understand 
 one another,. Seriously, therAs abundant reason for your preferring Matilda 
 to me ; first, your marital fidelity will preserve me from your amorous entrea- 
 ties ; and then my cousin is worth a thousand like me. Is she not more 
 beautiful than I am? Are not her excellences as numerous as myrfhlts? 
 Will there not always be a vast distance between us ? Is she not, on account 
 of her very devotion, of her virtues, fatally destined to feel the sincerest, 
 the most constant of passions, and never to inspire them? while I ! mine, 
 alas ! must be the fearful misforturje to inspire " 
 
 " Without ever feeling them ! Is it not so, madam ?' ' cried Gontran. " Ah . 
 you are right. In truth, you are an infernal woman, you make even me fear 
 you." 
 
 Ursula shrugged her shoulders. "Yes: I am aninfernal woman, to those 
 who will neither be my slaves, nor my tyrants, to them, if they are foolish or 
 presumptuous enough to love me, I will be merciless; I will satirize them, I 
 will place them in the most absurd positions, perhaps in the most cruel ; ac- 
 cording to my caprice! The more obstinately they persisted in their love for 
 me, the more would I make them the subject of my jests." 
 
 "Stop, cousin!' said Gontran, to put an end to a conversation which an- 
 noyed him ; " you display so much vigor of intellect, so much force of cha- 
 racter, that I am less and less embarrassed in imparting what I wished to say 
 to you." 
 
 ** And what is it you have to say to me ?" 
 
234 
 
 MAIILIM. 
 
 " Between relations, as between friends, there are certain matters which wo 
 can frankly avow. I have told you that Matilda was jealous of you, that she 
 dreaded your presence, and that " Gontran hesitated. 
 
 "And that it would greatly tranquillize her, were I to abridge my sojourn 
 here ?" 
 
 U Excuse me, cousin, but " 
 
 " Heavens ! nothing can be more easily arranged. "Why did you not tell me 
 so at once ? Poor, dear Matilda ! I regret, after all, to leave her so soon ; and 
 then I regret your hunting parties, which have entertained me much ; perhaps 
 I might have regretted yourself, had you not spoken to me of love. It is a 
 pity, but there is no argument against jealousy. I will allow myself only a 
 & few days for preparation, and to warn my husband of this sudden change of 
 resolution. I will do it; but do you really wish it, my cousin ?'' said Ursula, 
 cordially extending her hand to Gontran. 
 
 " I do not wish it, but I confess to you that I never expected to hear such 
 language, and such ideas from you ; I believe that I am dreaming." 
 
 Ursula replied with that ironical smile of hers : " For a young woman, who. 
 after'leaving the hotel de Maran; came to abide at a country house, you-think 
 me very strange, do you not? You cannot comprehend it? You do not recog- 
 nize the poor victim, the strange female, who indited such tearful elegies to 
 poor Matilda, that theymade her weep ! And she was* right; for I wept myself, 
 when I wrote them ; and even now I weep at times 
 
 " You ; you weep ''' 
 
 " Certainly, when the wind is easterly, and there is something in the ^iir 
 which makes you feel, somehow or other , as if you wanted to hang yourself 
 as Mademoiselle de Maran elegantly observes." 
 
 " Alway^changeable, always foolish,'' said Gontran. 
 
 "Am I not a very strange sort of a woman? I talk of everything, without 
 knowing anything ; I speak of the emotions of the heart, without feeling them. 
 I havé all kinds of moods, without having any fixed one;-l am everything 
 by times, and nothing long; 1 am saucy, jesting, incoherent. Nevertheless, 
 cousin, you do not know that of me, which I desire to leave unknown ; in bad 
 things as in good, you are a thousand leagues from the reality. Of this alone 
 can you be certain. I am always what 1 am determined to be. Thus,; for 
 example ; I have more expression than beauty, more faults than good qualities, 
 more pertness than wit; I have an ordinary fortune, a ridiculous name, Ma- 
 dame Secherin, Madame Secherin ! Well, in spite of all that, 1 reSolve to be 
 this very winter, the woman most courted, the most fashionable in all Paris — 
 to keep the most recherche house, and to turn all heads after having finished 
 your own. Now, farewell, cousin, 1 shall set about persuading my husband 
 to be off as soon as possible. We will undertake a litile journey between this and 
 winter. 1 will go and rejoin Matilda in the park. 1 will conceal from her this 
 sapient conversation. Poor woman! 1 pity her, poor divinity. Alas! when 
 one knows how to speak only the language of angels, one runs a great risk 
 of finding one's self, here below ,-quite without a parallel. Alter all, 1 prefer 
 my lot to hers, although she has the unqualified happiness to have you for her 
 lord and master!" added Ursula with an ironical smile. She went out, 
 making a slight obeisance to Gontran, and with an air of the utmost malice, 
 blew him a kiss from the end of her fingers* And then 1 heard my cousin, 
 as she retired, singing, in her clear and ringing tones, an air from Der 
 Freyschutz. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FEARS. 
 
 If I had for an jnstant doubted the sudden change that maternity had 
 wrought in my mind, by maturing it all at once, and by revealing co it a new 
 world ; the terrors which awoke within me after the conversation of Ursula 
 ind my husband, would have been sufficient to convince me of the incredible 
 transformation. If I can be pardoned a common comparison — a wonderful 
 instinct taught the poor mother, who watched over her brood, that the black 
 epeck, hardly perceptible on the cleai azure of the sky, was the ferocious 
 vulture— its most mortal enemy ! So, after the conversation which I have just 
 related, I was conscious of the truth of a new and dreadful calamity, from the 
 very circumstance which ought, so far as appearances went, to have consoled 
 me. My cousin did not love my husband, she even laughed disdainfully , at 
 tho gallantries which afflicted me so much. With a revolting eli'iontery sko 
 
PBaRS 
 
 had shown herself to him as she was— perhaps worse than she was. With a 
 splendid mpudence, she had avowed that she could be the abject slave of tha 
 man who would subdue her ; the haughty mistress of the man who adored her, 
 and an unpitying coquetje to those who would not crouch at her knees, 
 or proudly trample her under their feet! She had, moreover, said to Gontran 
 that she could never love him, because the love of a married man was 
 ridiculous— because he loved her; and moreover, twice had she uttered this 
 insolent defiance : In spite of yourself y ou will always love me. Before I was 
 a mother, I would have emerged from my hiding-place, radiant with happiness 
 and confidence ; 1 would have fallen on my knees and exclaimed : " I thank 
 thee, my God, that thou hast caused this perfidious, bold woman, to show 
 herself without disguise— to display all the baseness, all the malice of her soul! 
 For one moment, my husband was won from his allegiance by her seductive 
 beauties ; but now he knows her ; now he entertains for her no other senti- 
 ments lhan contempt and horror." Any man, and Gontran more than any, 
 must have discovered her revolting pride while she so disdainfully addressed 
 him. 
 
 What could Gontran — so handsome, so fascinating ; spoiled by so much 
 success, so much adoration — not only love, but be entirely absorbed by, a 
 woman who dared to say to him : " I do not love you, I never will; and yet I 
 defy you not to love me,? 1 Yes : once more would I have blessed God had 
 peace and content taken up their long abode in my heart. But, alas ! I have 
 already said that, I know not by what intuition, I had, in one night, acquired 
 mournful wisdom, a despairing certainty of judgment which years alone can 
 impart. I firmly believe that, this prescience had been all at once bestowed 
 uuon me, that I might be able to guard the future of my child. Alas! I was 
 still young; 1 had not grown weary of contemplating the woes of the human 
 spirit ; I had no supernatural power by which to break the web of dreadful 
 thoughts. I trusted in good even to blindness ; I had no idea of those 
 depraved passions which, instead of seeking for what is pure, noble, healthful 
 and attainable, are shamelessly excited by the power of corruption — of impu- 
 dence — of the unattainable. Could I suspect that a man, because a vain 
 woman had told him, " I do not love you, and I never will love you," would 
 for that very reason, adore that woman to madness? No! no! had I been 
 told that the human heart was capable of these enormities, I should have 
 denied it — I should have deemed it blasphemy ! By what mystery, then, 
 could I, until that time so happily ignorant of grief, by what mystery then 
 Ï guess, how was I conscious — yes, physically conscious, of so dreadful a 
 wound to my heart, as that Gontran at that moment loved this woman ? not 
 only more than he had loved his former mistresses, not only more than he 
 loved me — bnt more than he ever would have loved me? What secret voice 
 warned me that this fatal passion would be the sole, the last passion of his? 
 What voice said to me that the most careless, the most false of men, when 
 they chance to love and, above all, to love without hope a profligate woman 
 love with a frightful intensity? Now did I perceive that Ursula, by her wicked 
 arts, had brought into play my husband's most active passions, by saying 
 to him: " You are handsome, you are accustomed to please; nevertheless, I 
 laugh at you and you still love me; and that love will furnish me with a 
 topic of inexhaustible ridicule, and prove to you an inexhaustible sorrow." 
 
 And this was not enough for the woman. As if she desired to kindle 
 and increase Gontran' s love by exciting his jealousy, she had chosen to avow 
 to him that she was not always so cold, contemptuous, sarcastic, as she had 
 been to him ! And behold ! behold ! with what passionate ardour she had 
 painted to him the overwhelming emotion, which would extinguish her reason 
 at the bare approach of the man she could love. At these words, uttered, 
 as they were, with a melting and sensual tone, behold ! how her eyes were 
 downcast ! how her cheeks burned! And when she spoke of the man who 
 would play the tyrant over her, with how humble and submissive a grace she 
 bowed her charming head ! How did she seem to kneel before him, with clasped 
 hands, imploring one smile from her master, as she fixed upon him those big, 
 blue eyes, swiming with Iangour and sadness, and love! Alas nothing more 
 was requisite than the fascination of this powerful, this irresistable woman' to 
 convince me, her rival, me a mother, me who had a horror for such 'as her 
 — that, at that minute, not only Gontran, but any other man, would have been 
 desperately enamoured of Ursula — so potent was the spell of her beauty i 
 No ! I had not been deceived by those fearful forebodings! Lonely and feeble 
 being— poor and disconsolate mother that I was — though 1 could not avoid, I 
 could ptrhaps conjecture the evils that threatened me. 
 
 I nearly fainted, when T left the cabinet in which I had been concealed. I 
 found Gontran seated on a fauteuil, his eyes fixed, his arms crossed on his 
 2 A 
 
266 
 
 MA.TJI.DA. 
 
 breast, in an attitude of the deepest reflec&on. I was compelled lightly to touch 
 his shoulder to recall him to himself. He quickly turned his bead, and spoke 
 only these words, with a deep and thoughtful expression; "What a woman 1 
 Oh ! she must begone, Matilda, she must begone ! ' 
 
 These words confirmed my suspicions. Tn the mouth of Gontrau, who was 
 always master of himself, they had a dreadful significance; he either loved that 
 woman, or he feared lest he should love her. An idea, which I at first hailed 
 as a divine inspiration, impelled me to reveal to Gontrau what I knew of 
 Ursula's intrigue with M. Chopinelle; who, doubtless had been marked in the 
 category of her slaves. At first I doubted not that vexation, at having failed 
 where so contemptible a person had succeeded, would inspire Gontran with an 
 unconquerable repugnance to Ursula : perhaps he attached so much value to 
 the conquest of Ursula, because he considered himself her first love. I wanted 
 also to inform my husband with what falsehood, witn what treachery Ursula 
 had brought about a rupture between M. Secherin and his mother. I was 
 about to say all this, but I hesitated ; I asked myself, if these disclosures would 
 not still further irritate Gontran's passsion ? if his vanity would not be more 
 excitd by his vexation at having been less favored than so absurd provincial ? 
 And then, if he thought that no one had been more fortunate than himself, 
 he might believe Ursula virtuous, in spite yf the bold theories she had uttered 
 and resign himself more easily to her indifference for himself. But still I 
 tried that this belief would but lend new attractions to my cousin. 
 
 Agitated by so many perplexing thoughts, I resigned myself to the inspi- 
 ration of the moment. Gontran had again fallen into a reveire, I took his hand 
 and pressed it tenderly as I said to him : 
 
 " Thanks ! thanks ! my noble Gontran, you have spoken truly. Ursula will 
 at length depart, and we shall be happy and tranquil again." 
 
 Gontran smiled bitterly and replied, " You ought to be very happy, to see 
 me;treated thus by Ursula ; it will quiet you, I hope.'' 
 
 Not wishing to reveal my anxiety to Gontran, 1 said to him, " Surely, my 
 friend, I am tranquillized. But I do not see in what manner my cousin has 
 treated you badly. She jests, always." 
 
 " Jests ? And even if she only jested with me, does she not treat me with the 
 utmost contempt ? In all my life — no, not in all my life, have I been so 
 insolently played with! I stood there like a fool, without speaking a word! 
 what audacity ! what impudence! " 
 
 " But, Gontran, it seemed to me that Ursula said nothing more cruel to you 
 than that she would never love you, and that she forbade you to love her." 
 
 " Well, is there nothing in that ? '* 
 
 " There is nothing in it if you love me, Gontran. Your tenderness for me 
 prevents your loving her, and it is therefore a matter of indifference to you 
 that she does not love you." 
 
 " Doubtless, doubtless you are right. My poor Matilda, I love you. Oh, 
 yes! I love you. You are gc;d, generous, kind ! You have heart, elevation, 
 grandeur of soul, while your cousin, I ask of you, what is there, after all, 
 pleasing about her ? A laughing face, an elegant shape, 1 grant you, with the 
 prettiest little foot, and large eyes, sometimes bold and sometimes languid, an 
 impertinent address, a g'eat fund of impudence, but no heart or soul. 
 Besides, she is extremely false and affected The more I think of it, the less 
 able am 1 to recover from my surprise. You must have observed this in her, 
 she always appears so melancholy and so geutle. Faith ! 1 have seen some 
 handsome and some dissipated women in my day, but 1 never saw her like 
 before. I am amazed! - How I should love to subdue, to conquer such a 
 character! With what pleasure would I return disdain for disdain, sarcasm 
 for sarcasm!" involuntarily exclaimed my husband. 
 
 I hid my face in my hands, and burst into tears, without saying a word. I 
 could no longer doubt it: Ursula was right. Gontran was so absorbed in his 
 own thoughts, that he did not discover my tears 
 
 "Oh ! I can well understand how pitiless a man would become, after he had 
 mastered one of these haughty and insolent characters. Then, with what 
 delight would he humiliate and even abuse, for they would richly deserve it, 
 creatures, until now so proud.'' Here he endeavoured to force a laugh. " But 
 these pretensions are enough to make o^ie die with laughter, Madame 
 JSecherin! It is she, Madame Secherin, who resolves to be so fashionable ! to 
 have the best house in Paris, and to laugh at all the world! Ha! ha ! ha! 
 upon my word, it is very diverting. Don't you think so ? But what is the 
 matter? You weep, Matilda." 
 
 " Ah, Gontran ! this interview will be a fatal one." 
 
 "What is it you s*y ?" 
 
FEARS, 
 
 2C7 
 
 M There is not a word uttered by Ursula, which has not left some ange 
 some bitterness in your heart." 
 
 " Anger ! bitterness ! What! because Madame Secherin told me I had not 
 the happiness to please her? Ah! my belo\ed one, what are you thinking 
 about ? For what do you take me ? I am not very vain, but I cannot think 
 that my meriis have undergone any serious depreciation, in consequence of 
 the disdain of Madame Secherin. A capital piece of buffoonery, indeed, are 
 her efforts to make me in love with her, Mv dear Matilda, I make my con- 
 fession to you. You see, that what I tell you is true. I found Ursula gentle 
 enough, and I was drawn on by gallantry a little farther than 1 could have 
 wished. But it was nothing more than a bit of lively caprice on my part. 
 There is nothing in this woman ! nothing, absolutely nothing. In love with 
 her! what, I? I truly pity the wretches who are so silly as to wear her 
 chains ! In love with her? That would be torture! With such a character? 
 In love with her? I !" Then Gontran, suddenly turning round, said to me, 
 with an expression which seemed constrained and forced, " I in love with her! 
 as if I had not always at my side one who is a thousand times better than she 
 — as if I bad not the sweetest, the most devoted of women ! an angel of purity 
 and goodness ! Poor Matilda ! how could you for an instant dread the com- 
 parison? you! you!'' and he once more fell into a reverie. His last praises 
 caused me much pain. They recalled to my mind those hateful words of Ur- 
 sula, — " It was requisite that I should manifest my disdain, to make you boast 
 of your wife." My cousin was right ; the praises which Gontran had lavished 
 upon me were elicited by his vexation. In placing me above my cousin, he 
 thought more of wounding her than of soothing me. 
 
 " It is most important to us," said I to my husband, "that Ursula should 
 depart from Maran in a very few days; she can easily persuade M. Secherin 
 to go." 
 
 " Doubtless — she must go, and the sooner the better." 
 
 " My dear," said I to Gontran, after a moment's silence, " allow me to 
 speak to you in all frankness," 
 " I hear you, my dear." 
 
 " Do you not deem it strange, that this conversation, which ought to have 
 entirely satisfied me, since it justifies you in my eyes, should produce upon 
 you and me exactly contrary effects ?" 
 
 " How is that? I do not understand you." 
 
 "Ursula said that she did not love you — that she would never love you: 
 that your gallantries were thrown away, and that she would be gone as soon 
 as possible. Nevertheless, you see, that I weep, while you can scarcely con- 
 ceal your agitation." 
 
 "Ah! good heaven!" said Gontran, "It is plain enough. You weep be- 
 cause you weep for nothing : I am agitaied, because there is something in all 
 this which wounds my self love. But what can you infer from that? Will 
 you become Ursula's echo, and, like her, assert that I am, or that I will be in 
 love with her? It is absurd. I was annoyed by her, only because I am not 
 accustomed to such ridicule— that is all. There are a thousand ways of saying 
 the same thing. She should simply have said to me — ' 1 have coquetted with 
 you a little ; let us forget it: let us continue good friends : if my presenee ex- 
 cites Matilda's jealousy, I will go away. Nothing could have been better. 
 But of what possible use was her profession of principles— and such principles? 
 Of what use was it to tell me, so insolently, that, although she did not love 
 me, she might love others ? Why did she express, in so passionate a manner 
 — to say nothing more of it — the intoxication which she would feel on such an 
 occasion ? Incomprehensible woman ! At that very moment, she manifested 
 real emotion. In truth, I am at a loss what to think. She is an enigma — 
 that creature — an enigma. Some one, besides myself, must amuse himself 
 with finding out the solution. I am not ambitious of that pleasure. To crown 
 all, she has an iron will. She wanted to learn how to ride on horseback, and 
 she rides perfectly well: she has taken it into her head to be a fashionable 
 woman next winter, and she will prove her capacity of becoming so : she will 
 do every thing that she undertakes." 
 
 "Just now you thought exactly the contrary, my dear: you said that her 
 pretensions to all this were absurd." 
 
 " Ah ! my dear, if you will always criticize my slightest expressions, it will 
 become insupportable," said my husband, beating the floor with his foot," I 
 speak to you in all confidence, in, all sincerity : don't scrutinize my language 
 for more than I say." 
 
 I regarded Gontran with sorrowful surprise. " My dear, I will make but 
 one remark. Since your interview with Ursula, you have talked incessantly 
 about her; you have not wasted a thought upon our child." 
 
268 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 My husband pressed bis hand on his brow, and exclaimed with emotion : 
 " Ab ! tbat is true — that is true — I am much to blame. Pardon me, Matilda ; 
 your last words bave recalled me to my duty, to my love ; they have calmed 
 me, and soothed the foolish and absurd pains of my self-love. Yes, pardon me 
 this last outbreak of pride. In truth, I confess, that I was a little piqued, 
 that I had not made the least possible impression upon Ursula Do you know 
 why ? So that the sacrifice I would have made for you, mi^ht have seemed 
 greater. Believe me — nothing will be easier for me, than to forget this devilish 
 woman. You are right, my beloved angel ! our child — let us think of our 
 child I With that sweet trust, and my love for you— a love in which you can 
 henceforth implicitly confide — happiness will be for ever restored to us ! Par- 
 don me, for having taken to heart Ursula's sarcasms ; but it was because she 
 jested with me before you, and I could not hide it from you. Matilda, I am 
 more proud than ever "since I have belonged to you. Nevermind; after all, 
 you love me as much as of old, do you not ? We will no more think of that 
 ridiculous scene, except to make a jest of it. Come, come: let us talk of our 
 child: these sweet cares shall be our refuge from all evil thoughts." 
 
 The arrival of one of the tenants, who came to speak to my husband, put an 
 end to this conversation Gontran went out. My first impulse was to be de- 
 Jighted with the sweet words which he had spoken with all his habitual grace ; 
 but it seemed to me that his accents were nervous and constrained, that his 
 looks did not accord with his language. One would have supposed that he 
 either wished to deceive himself, or to quiet me by his expressions of tender- 
 ness. At the same time, there was something touching and affecting in his 
 tones. The more I reflected about the impression which Ursula h ad made upon 
 him, the more imminent did his danger appear. A few days before, I would 
 have wept, and then resorted to timid and useless complaints ; but, summoned 
 as I was to new duties, I resolved to change my behaviour completely. I well 
 knew thatl had much to apprehend from the violence of my grief ; its re-action 
 might be fatal to my offspring. I promised myself to be silent hereafter ; not 
 to^?ex myself with trifles; to fortify myself against my susceptibility ;— to 
 harden myself to moral sufferings, and to become, if I may so express myself, 
 extremely frugal 'of my sorrowa. Present circumstances would subject these 
 new determinations to a rude trial. I dried my tears. I coolly contemplated 
 my position. 
 
 From that moment, that I might not be crushed under the ruins of my hopes, 
 T looked boldly upon life under its most sombre colors. I did not deceive my- 
 self as to the cause of this courageous resolution ; I possessed a treasure of 
 happiness and of hope, which nothing in the world could ever take away. 
 Whatever might be the future, my child remained to me ; for I had a profound 
 and immovable conviction, that God had sent me this supreme consolation in 
 my woes, as a religious recompense for my devotion to my duty. This blind 
 faith in the divine protection, prevented me from having the least serious ap- 
 prehension as to the future life of the little being who redoubled my own, and 
 who caused me to forget so many of my woes. I traced for myself a plan of 
 conduct, with the firm resolution never to deviate from it. Eight days woultt 
 be sufficient for Ursula to persuade her husband to leave Maran ; if, at the end 
 of eightdays, she was not gone, I should then be convinced tbat her affected 
 disdain was bilt a perfidious act of coquetry. I resolved to follow the advice of 
 Madame de Eicherville. Once more alone with Gontran, I hoped by my 
 tenderness, by the interest with which the condition I was in ought to inspire 
 him— I hoped, I say, to banish Ursula from his thoughts. However, if his 
 love for her increased, from the very obstacles he encountered ; if, after having 
 contended with the influence of that woman with all my love, my devotion, I 
 was forced at last to yield, I would at least succumb with digniiy ; my child 
 would be left to me, and I should live for it alone. It is impossible to describe 
 the quiet, the confidence, which this resolution imparted. I no longer experi- 
 enced, as in days past, those vague fears and griefs without aim or end. If, 
 at a former period, I had lost the love of Gontran, nothing would have been 
 left me but overwhelming despair ; nothing but a miserable and abjectless life ; 
 nothing but pale memories, which would, by their solemn contrast, render the 
 present more miserable. I fell on my knees, and thanked God that he had 
 not suffered me to slumber in so fatal a confidence. Without any thought of 
 condescending to play the part of a spy, I resolved to watch every thing closely 
 and to overlook nothing which would enlighten my understauding. 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE M A RAN. 
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 MADEMOISELLE DE MABAN. 
 
 Ok the day following this scene, what was my astonishment, to receive a 
 rery short note from Mademoiselle de Maran ! She announced to me that 
 she should arrive almost at the same time with her letter, and would herself 
 inform me of the cause of her visit. One would really have thought that this 
 woman, warned by some secret instinct of the new vexations which over- 
 whelmed me, was coming ;for the express purpose of enjoying my torments. 
 Had 1 known less of Mademoiselle de Maran, J should have been astonished 
 at the audacity of her conduct ; particularly after having, the very last time 
 I saw her, so little disguised her feelings of hatred toward me. Her meeting 
 with Ursula also alarmed me. If she had malignantly hoped, foreseen, calcu- 
 lated, that sooner or later, Ursula — being, as 1 may say, connected with every 
 incident of my early life — should one day prove hostile to me, she would be 
 gratified at what had just occurred, and might become a useful ally to my 
 cousin. It was with bitterness I reflected, that the world is so constituted 
 that we are obliged to receive and welcome to our houses, our most mortal 
 enemies, under the plea of a relationship or connection, which renders their 
 animosity still more odious. I told Gontran of the approaching arrival of my 
 aunt; he received the news almost with indifference. I could not feel so calm 
 about it. Such a journey was so foreign to the habits of Mademoiselle de Ma- 
 ran, who had never quitted Paris during fifteen years, that I suspected it must 
 have been induced by some weighty motive. 
 
 At two o'clock my aunt came, accompanied by Servien, one of her maid 
 servants, and avalet, who served her as a courier. She was also attended by 
 a wolf-dog, the successor to Felix. We went out to the front steps of the cha- 
 teau, to receive Mademoiselle de Maran. She stepped from her carriage with 
 tolerable activity, and did not appear changed in any way. She still wore her 
 red silk gown and bonnet. Notwithstanding my sorrowful forebodings, I 
 could not help smiling with surprise, on seeing my aunt's hood decorated with 
 a tri-colored bow. Servien's hat was also ornamented with an enormous tri- 
 colored cockade. My aunt perceived my astonishment, and, on entering the 
 drawing-room, exclaimed, " 1 suppose that you are quite dumfounded, that I 
 have not j et pitched the tune of the Marseïïoise, ca ira, or the Parisienne ; or 
 some other plaint, patriotical, demagogical, emblematical, or Orleanatical, 
 which are quite as good as the other bucolies of the republic. Tell me then, 
 citizen or citizeness, do I not remind you ot one of those knitteresses or con- 
 queresses of July, with my tri-colored ribbons? Now, do I not? You think 
 perhaps, that I am come to announce to y ou my marriage with M. deLafayette, 
 and that it is to take place on the first sans culottiJe of Frimaire, before the 
 altar of our country ? Well, you are perfectly in error. See there, they are 
 beneath my feet — these beautiful tri-colored ribbons ; there they are in the 
 fire !" said my aunt, tearing the bow from her head, and throwing it into the 
 fire, after having stamped upon it with most comic rage. 
 
 " Bravo! madame/' said Gontran, laughing heartily! "bravo!'' I thought 
 you had ratted from our party." 
 
 "How! ratted? do you pretend to make game of me, M. deLancry? Be 
 persuaded, if I have consented to prank myself out in these execrable colors — 
 which stink of the mob, the empire, and the guillotine— it was that I might 
 travel quietly." 
 
 " And did not your royalty revolt at this concession, madame?" said Gontran. 
 
 " What has my royahsm to do with such a case? Is it necessary to look so 
 narrowly into our means of safety, when they serve us well? Would I, in 
 the times of citizen Cartouche, and citizen Mandrin, have missed taking a safe 
 conduct from those gentlemen in order to pass through their gangs in safety? 
 Well ! this abominable cockade and this passport, stamped with a foolish 
 gallic cock, which looks to me like a very fat citizen of Maine, are merely safe 
 conducts. I use them, but I despise them ; do you comprehend me ? 
 
 " Perfectly, madam ; but to what good chance do we owe your welcome 
 visit?" 
 
 " Imagine to yourself, my jpoor boy, that they are about to try — that is to 
 say, condemn, these unfortunate ministers. There are commotions every day 
 in Paris > they are talking of Pillaging the hotels of the nobility, going to per- 
 form a second *93. I have stowed my plate in a hiding-place, which Belzebub 
 himself could not find out : I have brought my diamonds and five thousand 
 louis in the false bottom of the carriage, and I came here to wait the issue of 
 2 A 3 
 
2-7» 
 
 SKA TILDA. 
 
 events. If things should become quiet, I shall return to Paris ; If not, I shall 
 
 again emigrate to England; hut, at the present moment, there is no staying 
 there. All the friends who visited me are frightened, and have flown ; and 
 really it was time. Some of them have followed that good old king and Ma- 
 dame la Dauphine : the others are in Vendee, waiting for Madame and, Heaven 
 be thanked ! they will, for a long time to come, cut out work enough for these 
 new blues: others, in fine, have made a regular run, either to Italy or Ger- 
 many, as in the time of our first revolution. I 'faith ! I was moping myself to 
 death in Paris, when, by way of change, a horrible fright came over me ; this 
 it is which has procured me the happiness of coming to embrace you, my dear 
 children. I like so much to contemplate a happy couple — it makes my heart 
 joyous. I say to myself on seeing you, ' It is owing to me, that these two 
 hearts, made only for each other, are united in such rosy charms- Ha! ha! 
 ha ! but only see the effect of the country air, I already talk in eulogies. 
 Where are your oaten pipes, handsome Sylvander? I should like to sing 
 your happiness to the mellifluous tones to the double flute of the Shepherd of 
 Arcadia," 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran's gaiety alarmed me ; her shrill and mocking laugh 
 always forboded some new malignity. 
 
 On entering the room, my aunt had, according to her usual habit, put on 
 her spectacles although she was not going either to read or work ; bu* 
 they served, as it were, to conceal her looks, under the shelter of their 
 glasses. She could make her observations upon every one, without being 
 remarked. 
 
 I perceived, while she was chatting with us, that she was attentively scan- 
 ning both Gontran's countenance and my own- 
 
 "And Ursula,'' asked Mademoiselle de Maran, "have you any news from 
 her ?" 
 
 She has been here, madam, for several days, with ier husband.** 
 replied I. 
 
 " Can it be possible ! why, then we are quite a family party — only think, 
 how opportunely I have arrived ! But where is she, the dear gi/1?" 
 
 " She is taking a walk with Monsieur de Secherin, and will, I trust, soon 
 return," said Gontran. 
 
 " Taking a walk with her husband!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 " and 1 find you here, with your wife, Gontran ? Surely, this is the pro- 
 mised land for married couples ; this is perfectly extravagant, and not to be 
 believed : it really is a patriarchal mode of life, and prodigiously affecting! 
 She is taking a walk alone, with her husband! How very good of her ! for 
 he is as stupid as a goose, and has as much conversation as an ostrich. But, 
 tell me, my children, do they continue mutually to bestow upon each other the 
 delicate and tendera ppelations of pretty deai\ and dear wol/V* 
 
 " You will find Ursula much changed, madame,* said I to Mademoiselle de 
 Maran with a bitter smile. 
 
 •'Changed! is she not pretty, as she used to be?" 
 
 " Yes, madame, she is as lovely as ever ; but her character is more developed, 
 she is much less melancholy than formerly." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! I laugh in spite of myself," said Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 and when I think how much my partiality for you, Matilda, used to blind me, 
 Do you recollect how I us^d, on all occasions, to scold Ursula! how ugly I 
 thought her? I may tell you this now, my children Well, it was a horrible 
 iujustice, for, on the contrary, I alU-the time thought her very clever and 
 pretty; and I even— for one may say so much before a husband, because hus- 
 bands say even worse things, when their wives are not present — I really 
 thought that Ursula had more expressive features, more grace, than you, Ma- 
 tilda: and notwithstanding, it was from love to you, and to praise you at the 
 expense of your cousin, that I told these horrid lies. Was I deceitful; eh? or 
 rather, was is not too good? For when aflection carries me away, I am capa- 
 ble of doing anything. But now, do not, my dear girl, imagine from all this 
 that you are not, at least, as handsome as Ursula. You are, without doubt, a 
 thousand times more so. She cannot vie with you as to regularity of features 
 but she has that indescribable something, that piquancy, that engaging man- 
 ner, which turns the heads of those wicked, good-for-nothing fellows." And 
 laughing violently, she pointed to Gontran; then bent down close to my ear, 
 and laughingly whispered; " Tell me, are you not jealous of that li/tle devil 
 Ursula? Do not trust those prim and innocent creatures, who smile like a re- 
 pentant Magdalen with the glancing eye of a Venus Aphroditus." • 
 
 Had my aunt calculated every word she uttered, with the most meditated 
 malignity, she could not have wounded me more cruelly. 
 
 This viroumstance induced me to believe, that çhanoe sometimes faroq* 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE M A RAN. 
 
 271 
 
 e^il-disposed persons, as well as those of generous character. Both the one 
 and the other are sometimes favoured hy a strange fatality. 
 
 Gontran was almost as much confounded as myself, hy the ill-timed plea- 
 santries of Mademoiselle de Maran. He could only manage to stammer out, 
 with a forced smile, "Do you think it possible tfeut I could be unfaithful to 
 my dear Matilda ? Are we not, as you have said, a very model for happy 
 couples ?' 
 
 " Don't you perceive that I'm only joking, you naughty libertine ? I should 
 he glad to learn, that you could be unfaithful to her! In the country, it would 
 be inexcusable. In Paris, it is quite another affair. The excitement of society, 
 opportunity, and what not, as, for example, the beautiful Princess de Kser- 
 mka; but here, oh, fie! fie! poor, dear little girl! you who have always been 
 so good toward Gontran, and more especially with regard to that abominable 
 Lugano." 
 
 The colour left my cheeks; Gontran drew himself up, as if he had been 
 bitten by a serpent: "Pray, madame, do not let us say a word more about 
 that ; do not bring to my recollection so painful a scene." 
 
 "How! ought I not to speak about it, you ungrateful fellow! I tell you 
 I will speak of it; I will repeat it again and again ! Where will you find, I 
 should like to know, another woman, who, to get into the graces of her hus- 
 band's creditor, would risk the loss of her own reputation? I call it absolutely 
 sublime, whatever you think of it, my dear friend !" 
 
 " Madame !" said Gontran, " it is an infamous calumny ; and I proclaimed 
 it loudly in the presence of that wretch!" 
 
 "Good Heaven! I know full well it is a calumny, my poor children ! I 
 know that Matilda is as innocent and pure, as the young swan just issuing 
 fi om its white egg-shell ; but ' r 
 
 I saw what Mademoiselle de Maran was aiming at, and I interrupted her; 
 and said to her, with a firmness which astonished her as much as it did Gon- 
 tran, "You have done us, madam, the honor of coming to see us. We could 
 not have ex pected to have been favoured with this visit. We shall always be 
 most happy to receive you. We shall never forget that this house once belong- 
 ed to your brother ; we will do all in our power to welcome you ; but we may 
 be pernfittPd to hope, madam, that you will not make it your business while 
 you remain here, to call up recollections, which are painful, both to my hus- 
 band and myself! ' 
 
 " But, my dear " 
 
 " But, madam," replied I in a louder tone, once more interrupting Made- 
 moiselle de Maran. " Since you appear to have forgotten the reason which 
 ought to have prevented any further intimacy between yourself and me, we 
 certainly have a right to expect that not a word more will be said regarding 
 those odious calumnies, of which you make yourself the echo. I think this 
 is not asking too great a sacrifice on your part*. If you will do us this favor, 
 madam, we shall feel very grateful ; and you will perhaps experience some 
 pleasure, in seeing those united and happy, whom you — doubtless involunta- 
 rily—would have rendered discontented and unhappy." 
 
 My calmness and self-possession had a singular and almost unlooked-for 
 effect, on both Mademoiselle and Gontran. 
 
 After remaining silent for some moments, my aunt, looking at Gontran 
 ironically, rejoined, " How is this, my poor viscount? it is now Matiida who 
 says we. Has the lance \ielded its authority to the distaff?" 
 
 " Matilda speaks a little on my account, and much more on her own. 
 I unite with her, in begging that you will be kind enough to forget 
 occurrences which give us pain; but I cannot permit myself to impose 
 conditions as to your re sidence with us," added Gontran, looking at me 
 severely. 
 
 Although I did pot expect to hear my husband almost take the part of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran against mé, I did not allow myself to be abashed; 
 but felt satisfied at the firmness of the language I had used, and which almost 
 surprised myself. 
 
 " I only place conditions upon my own presence here, madam. , I have had 
 the honor to tell you that I shall always remember you are my father's 
 6ister, and that you are here in M. de Lancry's house. If I felt it, unfortu- 
 nately, impossible to submit quietly to those pi easantiies of yours, I should 
 beg of you to excuse my leaving you : Monsieur de Lancry would take 
 
 I had expressed my self with so much resolution, that Mademoiselle de Maran 
 exclaimed, " Beally, she would be capable of doiog as she says ; but I np 
 
 should instantly set out for 
 
 Paris.' 
 
273 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 longer understand your wife, Gontran, she is so changed. What can the mat- 
 ter be.*' 
 
 "The matter is, that I have suffered quite enough, madam, and I am re- 
 solved hereafter to avoid every vexation that I can escape." 
 
 " Bless me ! and no had taste either. You wish to coddle . yourself 
 up comfortably, and take care of yourself, my dear : so it appears to me." 
 
 " Yes, madam ; it is necessary that I be careful of mj-self as you say." 
 
 Notwithstanding the vexations he had endured, Gontran gave me a tender 
 look, which told me that he understood me. Mademoiselle de Maran ironi- 
 cally replied ; " Well, my dear girl, we will draw up a programme of subjects 
 which I am interdicted from approaching. First, Lugarto, and the calumnies 
 relating to the aforesaid. Second, Your husband's infidelity to you with the 
 beautiful Princess de Ksernika. Third, All comparisons which might induce 
 the belief that I find Ursula more lively and engaging than yourself. And 
 lastly, all allusions to any marked attention, which, in the common order of 
 things, that wicked wretch, Gontran, might be tempted to pay Ursula, to 
 the detriment of that simple fool, Secherin, who— but this between our- 
 selves—will lose nothing by waiting. But see : here they come, and in the 
 nick of time.'' 
 
 M. Secherin at this moment entered the room with his wife. " See, see,'* 
 said he; " here is that good Mademoiselle de Maran." 
 
 "Myself, in flesh and blood, my good Monsieur Secherin; and I was 
 just this moment talking of you. Good morning, Ursula— good morning, 
 my dear girl," said Mademoiselle * de Maran, rising and kissing Ursula's 
 forehead. " 1 am so happy to see you all together. This is as 1 anticipa- 
 ted — to see you living as two sisters, and leaving one another as seldom as 
 possible." 
 
 " And even not parted at all if that might be," said M. Secherin. " There 
 is nothing like living in one family. Isn't that true, Mademoiselle de 
 Maran? you ean understand that — you who are the cream of good women.'' 
 
 " Ah ! Monsieur Secherin, let me warn you that I shall take to scolding you 
 again, if you continue to call me cream, First of all, it offends my modesty, 
 and it will compromise me as one of the aristocracy. You are mighty good 
 with your cream, Monsieur Secherin. After the glorious days of July, which 
 established equality, fraternity, and liberty, do you think that such dis- 
 tinctions still exist ? Call me simply good woman, but not cream, or I shall 
 rebel." 
 
 " Well, good woman be it then : but you are a famously good woman — so 
 good,'' added M. Secherin, becoming serious all at once — " so good, that 
 you remind me of my poor mother, as my poor mother reminded me of 
 you." 
 
 " This comparison is a eulogium upon me, your mother, and, above all, on 
 your own judicious penetration, my good Monsieur Secherin. But, have you 
 had the misfortune to lose your mother ?'' 
 
 "No, no, thank God! but strange things have happened since I saw you." 
 
 " Really ; well, now, tell me about it. You know what interest I feel in 
 everything that concerns you. What has happened, then, my poor dear Mon- 
 sieur Secherin ?" 
 
 It was in vain that Ursula, fearing the indiscretion of her husband, made 
 sign on sign to him: he did not peiceive them, and continued: Oh dear! 
 yes ! mamma and we are separated.' 
 
 " Impossible ! my poor, dear child! you have separated from your mamma 
 — and for what ? Good Heaven !" 
 
 "Because mamma had taken a dislike to Ursula, and chose to think that 
 darling dear permitted Chopinelle, our sub prefect — who, by the way, was 
 turned out by the revolution of July — to make love to her." 
 
 The countenance of Mademoiselle de Maran — which, until then, had worn a 
 comic and ironical expression — became, all at once, dignified and severe. She 
 said to M. Secherin, " To doubt the virtue of Ursula, would be to doubt the 
 morality of the education and the solidity of the principles which I gave her. 
 Your mother, Monsieur Secherin, must have been cruelly prejudiced againts 
 Ursula, to have believed such an enormity. You know that'my attachment 
 does not mislead me. Well, then 1 will be your guaranty for Ursula's good 
 conduct. Whatever the appearances against her may be, nevei believe in these 
 appearances ; for the dear child loves you much more than she allows vou to 
 believe." 
 
 "Ah! madam! as I always said, you pour balm into my heart!" 
 exclaimed M. Secherin ; " never in my life did 1 doubt Ursula. I giv8 
 you my word of honour, I did not ; but if I had doubted her, what, 
 you say would have removed all my doubts, as deep-rooted as they might be,' 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE JtfABUlT.. 
 
 273 
 
 * Madam," said Ursula, " you are too good, too indulgent." 
 
 " Not at all; I am just. I only render homage to true merit. It makes me 
 so happy to see you thus united. You can have no idea how it delights me to 
 •ee^wo such charming couples agreeing so well together. What pleases me 
 the most in this re-union, is to think that all this is nothing to what it will he. 
 The future will hind you more closely together ; that is to say, you will end by 
 forming a family so united and confounded, that no one will be able to tell 
 which is which ! it will become a species of commonality, a confraternity in 
 the taste of Melimelo, of Otaheite, or the golden age, where no one possesses 
 anything but which belongs to another I do you not think so, my good M. 
 Secherin ?" 
 
 " It is quite true, madam,'* said he laughing ; " only I fear my wife and I 
 Will be the greatest gainers by that bargain." 
 
 "Don't talk to me with your mock modesty, about being greater gainers. 
 Between friends, such trifles ought nat to be considered ; besides which, will 
 not both parties bring in something ? are you not like brother and sister with 
 Matilda? If Gontran considers your wife as his, does not your wife like 
 6011 tran as much as you? What are you prating, then, about being 
 gainers." 
 
 " You are right, perfectly right, madam," cried M. Secherin, gaily; " to put 
 one's heart and one's affection en commandite, in such a partnership, as we say 
 in business, is to put all that one can put into it ; and that gives one an equal 
 share in the division of happiness." 
 
 " Do you hear him?" said Mademoiselle de Maran to us, clapping her hands, 
 "do you hear him? How delightful is his comparison, his partnership and 
 commandite? It must be Ursula who inspires you to say such clever things ! 
 It is surprising what influence a good young woman exercises! how it polishes 
 a man, how it gives him manner ! Doubtless, my good M. Secherin, you already 
 possessed good qualities when you were married, but still you were wanting 
 in that — what shall I say — delicacy, that refinement, that dignity of expression 
 which you now possess to a marvellous degree. You are really not the same 
 man : your roughness, your primitive frankness, are now tempered by an 
 urbanity, replete with gracefulness and ease. But mind; dont become vain 
 about it, for you have nothing to do with it." 
 
 " How! madam?" 
 
 "Certainly not; if you are so it is no fault of the eglantine when it be- 
 comes a rose-bush. You are neither more nor less than the work of this 
 charming little gardener who stands here. She has grafted yon, my good M 
 Secherin ; she has grafted you." 
 
 " Faith ! the comparison is a very just one," exclaimed M. Secherin; " she 
 has grafted me — I am grafted." 
 
 " To be sure ! and moreover, with a double shot, my dear sir," said Made- 
 moiselle de Maran, looking at Ursula with so expressive a smile, that I con- 
 ceived there must be some double meaning in Mademoiselle de Maran's joke. 
 
 "After all," said M. Secherin, very innocently, "perhaps you are only 
 «raghing at me? but do you think that I am really altered for the better ?" 
 
 " My good M. Secheriu," said my aunt, seriously, " I have, perhaps, but 
 one good qnality in the world, and that is veracity. I may almost say brutal 
 veracity. Why should I say this to you, if I did not think so? Did I mince 
 the matter with you, when I had occasion to find fault with your manner of 
 speaking." 
 
 " No, no ! that's very true. Well, then, in fact, I do believe you— 
 and I will believe you — because, if I am altered for the better, it is owing to 
 Ursula, as you said; but really 1 had never, myself, perceived any change 
 at all." 
 
 " This charming and retiring modesty, only proves more strongly the truth of 
 what I have advanced, my good M. Secherin ; but I must say no more, or I 
 shall make Ursula vain, both of herself and you. And uow, 1 leave you; I 
 must ask Matilda to show me to my room, for 1 am rather fatigued with my 
 journey, without taking into account the horrid nausea which these abomi- 
 nable tricoloured ribbons gave me. Fortunately, this rural calmness— the 
 sight of those I have made happy, must restore me. Well ; 1 leave you, one 
 and all, to the enjoyment of your loves, for 1 am jabbering like a magpie that 
 bas lost its nest " 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 CHAPTER V , 
 
 REMEMBRANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 The real motive for Mademoiselle de Maran's visit, I in vain endeavoured 
 to divine. I tried to persuade myself, that it had no other cause than the one 
 she had stated ; and, as a proof of it, the newspapers we received from Paris 
 mentioned that rather serious disturbances had taken place in that city. 
 Nevertheless, the terror of my aunt appeared to me exaggerated. If I admitted 
 for a moment that other reasons might have brought her to Maran, I was, in 
 spite of myself alarmed. Her presence then appeared to threaten me with 
 some new misfortune. 
 
 I attentively observed my husband. He appeared absent, pensive, and pre- 
 occupied. Ursula had several times caref ully avoided remaining alone with 
 me. I felt great anxiety for her departure. 
 
 I did not know whether she had prepared the way, or had induced her hus- 
 band to think of leaving Maran. 1 spoke to Gontran respecting it several 
 times. He told me, that my cousin had assured him she was compelled to act 
 >vith much discretion: that the sudden breaking up of an arrangement, so long 
 agreed upon, must have an awkward appearance; but that she hoped to man- 
 age it in a few days. 
 
 I had not wished to acquaint either Ursula or my aunt with the delicate 
 position in which I found myself. This was a happiness 1 wished to keep 
 entirely to myself, and that it should remain a secret as long as possible. 
 
 My aunt continued to make game of M. Secherin, but appeared attentively 
 to watch Ursula and my husband. She faithfully kept her promise, and 
 spoke no more of the past, or of anything that could recall painful recollec- 
 tions to my mind. She doubtless knew I had sufficient firmness to act as 1 
 said I would, and leave Maran, rather than be subject to her perfidious 
 mockery. 
 
 She had too much sagacity — too much penetration, not to perceive a remark- 
 able change in the manner of Gontran. He, formerly so lively, so brilliant, 
 so animated ; had become pensive, absent ; sometimes harsh and impatient, 
 and then sullen and oppressed. My uneasiness augmented daily. 1 feared 
 that what 1 had foreseeu was fast approaching: that his inclination for my 
 cousin being thwarted, and irritated by her affected indifference, it would as- 
 sume the character of a passion. 
 
 I again observed, that his features had assumed that sorrowful nervous 
 smile, which had not clouded them since he had escaped the influence of M . 
 Lugarto. I several times surprised him walking in the park with hurried 
 steps, and once I observed he had been weeping. He rarely spoke harshly to 
 me ; on the contary he frequently treated me with more than usual tender- 
 ness. Alas! by these shows of kindness, I felt convinced that he was suffering. 
 
 Whenever Ursula remained alone with Gontran and myself, she affected an 
 extragavant gaiety, which increased the depression of my husband. She 
 exhibited the same mocking depravity which she had shown in her interview 
 with Gontran ; but when M. de Secherin was present, instead of adopting 
 these sentiments as her own she attributed them to some lmaginai-y being, 
 some unknown heroine of romance, some demoniacal character, of whose 
 existence she seemed to delight to dream. 
 
 I cannot deny that in these conversations, Ursula continued to display an 
 infinity of wit, and to how herself really superior to Gontran. What I felt with 
 regard to her, was strange, inexplicable. I hated her, at the same time, for 
 having secured the affections of my husband, and for wickedly laughing at 
 the torments he endured. 
 
 Had she appeared to participate the affection of Gontran, I should have been 
 wretchedly unhappy, doubtless more unhappy than in seeing her disdain him; 
 but I should perhaps, have been much less alarmed. Ursula's perpetual 
 irony proved that she herself felt nothing— that she had complete dominion 
 over M. de Lancry ; and it was this influence which, above all, I dreaded. 
 
 Some time after the arrival of Mademoiselle de Maran, I was awakened one 
 morning very early, by the sound of carriage wheels. After listening for 
 some time and hearing nothing farther, I thought I had been mistaken, and 
 went to sleep again. 
 
 When Blondeau came into my room, I asked her if she had heard any- 
 thing? she told me, she also heard the noise of a carriage but there was 
 nothing strange in that, for M. Secherin had quitted the chateau at four 
 o'plpok. 
 
REMEMBRANCE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 r;5 
 
 " With Ursula ?" exclaimed I. 
 
 "No, madam," replied Blondeau ; " M. Secherin's servant told me 
 that his master was going away very early, that he might arrive in 
 the course of to-ni'ght, at Saint Chaînant, where he is going upon business." 
 
 This made me very uneasy ; and I sent to Ursula, to request her to come to 
 me. In a lew minutes she entered my room. 
 
 " Your husband has left Maran without you," I Exclaimed. 
 
 " Dear me ! with whatan angry air you speak to me, my dearMatilda; what 
 is there so astonishing in this departurei'" 
 
 " What is there astonishing ?" cried I, surprised at her great audacity. 
 
 " Certainly— nothing can be more simple. Last night, after retiring to our 
 room, my husbaud was talking to me as usual of his business ; all at once he 
 remembered, while looking through his pocket-bcok, that a sale of land was 
 about to take place at Saint Chaînant, some of which lies contiguous to ours, 
 and for that reason he desires to purchase it. He would not disturb any one 
 last night, but this morning, by daybreak, he sent for post horses, and de- 
 sired me to make his apologies to you. He will be absent only a short time, 
 and he will take advantage of this opportunity to visit his property in the neigh- 
 borhood of Saint diamant.'' 
 
 I felt indignant at this conduct : Ursula had, doubtless, purposely permitted 
 so natural an opportunity for leaving us to escape; she must, then, have some 
 design on Gontran: my suspicions became more and more confirmed. I 
 had so long constrained my feelings, that I could not dissemble any farther ; 
 did not think myself bound to hide from her that I was present m the room, 
 during her conversation with Gontran. I said to her : " What interest 
 can you now have in remaining here ? it must be very powerful, since 
 you have not taken advantage of your husband's journey, to leave Maran." 
 
 Ursula, faithful to her system of falsehood, did not yet lift her mask ; but 
 replied to me, with an expression of sorrowful astonishment: " Tell me, 
 i once more beg, Matilda, what is the matter with you? I really know not 
 what to think of it. You speak coldly to me, and of my leaving Maran, as if 
 my presence here annoyed you : what does all this mean ?" 
 
 " It means that, eight days ago, I heard your conversation with my hus- 
 band ; yes, I was in one of the closets of the alcove ; 1 had told Gontran 
 how much his attention to you grieved me, and he at once proposed to me that 
 he should request you to leave Maran." I could not prevent niyseif from pro- 
 nouncing these last words with triumphant pride. 
 
 Ursula knitted her brows slightly, and smiled bitterly. "Your husband 
 knew, then, you were there, during ôur interview ?" 
 
 " He did not know it — can you now understand ? Do you understand why 
 I should be astonished, that, after having promised my husband you should 
 leave Maran, you still continue to remain here, notwithstanding M. Sechei-in's 
 departure." 
 
 " Well, then! since you were there, I am, between ourselves, delighted at it, 
 my dear Matilda! you are satisfied, I hope?" 
 Satisfied?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly. You perceived how harshly I treated your wickcJ, faith- 
 less husband ! he will, I think, no longer desire to be so. Did I not show my- 
 self an excellent friend? Did I not even go so far as to depict myself in the 
 most odious light, that I might change to coldness, to hate, perhaps, the love 
 he pretended to have for me ?" 
 
 " t Au & y° u think to impose upon me by that falsehood?" 
 
 " Falsehood ! Were you not there ? do you not recollect with what disdain 
 I treated him? You were there ! Who would have thought that the recon> 
 pence of my virtuous conduct was so near at hand ! Indeed, Ma ilda, 1 cant 
 not believe in so foi-tunate a chance, so providental— as my m^other-in-law 
 would say ;" and Ursula burst into a loud laugh. This lime, at all events 
 my cousin was spiteful as well as ironical. 
 
 " Hear me, Ursula," said I, " this is no time for raillery; the conversation 
 I am about to have with you, will be a very serious one ; it will, without doubt, 
 be the last which we shall have together;" 
 
 " I doubt it much," cried Ursula, imperiously; "for it is I who have to 
 complain of the disloyal conduct of yourself and of your husbaud." 
 
 " What do you mean to say ?" 
 
 " In hiding yourself, and playing the spy upon an interview, which I 
 thought a secret one, you committed an abuse of confidence ; you made me 
 then your sport. Do you know I might wish to ie\enge myself. 
 
 " These proud words, Ursula, please me much more than the soft melan- 
 choly, of which I have been too long the dupe: I know, at least that I hava 
 an enemy. Well— so be it. 4 
 
276 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " I have no wish to bp your enemy. Von have been guilty of an unworthy 
 action toward me, and I have tt Id you that I may wish to revenge myself; 
 th at is all." 
 
 " But have you not, since first you came into this house, made it your task 
 to sow disunion in it ?" 
 
 "With what can you reproach me ? Can I prevent your husband's inclina- 
 tion for me? Can I do better than to ral'y him, than to deprive him of all 
 hope : than to promise him to leave the house, because both you and he desire 
 it?" 
 
 " Why did you not go this morning, then ; was it not an excellent opportu- 
 nity? I tell you, that you had wished to deprive him of all hope, instead of 
 making a display of — 1 know not what, metaphysical and immodest sentiments 
 — instead of saying to him, " 1 will never love you, but I could love others 
 passionately," had you said simply, ' I will not transgress my duty, your wife 
 is my friend, my sister — I will not wrong her, nor will I wrong my husbaud ;' 
 such language would have been noble and worthy of you, instead of being a 
 perfidious calculation." 
 
 " You will, I trust, permit me to be the judge, as to the propriety or mean- 
 ing of my own words; jealousy is a bad counsellor, and 1 think that it mis- 
 leads you.'' 
 
 "It makes me see more clearly." 
 
 "You are too much interested in the question, Matilda, to judge rationally ; 
 by speaking to your husband as I have spoken, 1 dejuived him of all hope : 
 men believe not in our principles, they do in our indifference." 
 
 " I doubt not your experience on this subject, Ursula; but there is an in- 
 fallable means of breaking off a liking, and that is, absence" 
 
 " Where it does not augment it !" 
 
 " Then it is from indifference to my husband, that you remain here ?" 
 
 " Absolutely ] I have declared to him, that I felt almost a dislike to him. 
 You heard it, yourself. What do you require more ?" 
 
 " Well, then, admitting that my suspicions, my fears have been exaggerated 
 was it not yonr bounden duty to have put an end to them, by not prolonging 
 your residence here ?" 
 
 " It is impossible to turn people out of doors with more urbanity; yet, I 
 shall take upon myself to make you a few observations : you must feel, after 
 the promise I had given to your husband, that if I this morning allowed M. 
 Secherin to depart without accompanying him — it was because serious consi- 
 derations obliged me to act thus.'' 
 
 " And was my happiness, my tranquillity of life, which you come so 
 wickedly to trouble — was that not a consideration?" 
 
 " I am delighted to find, Matilda, that you think so much of your own com- 
 fort; you will not, therefore, consider it particularly strange that 1 should 
 think a little of mine. 1 have twice indirectly spoken of our departure to my 
 husband; but his surprise was so great, that I felt he would not be able to 
 account to himself for this abrupt change in my determinations, without some 
 suspicson arising in his mind; either, he would believe that I was flying from 
 your husband because I feared I might participate his love, or he would think 
 that your jealousy had urged forward my depar ure. Either way, you see, 
 his doubts would be awakened, his confidence would be shaken, and I acknow- 
 ledge to you, I desire, as much as you can do, to live tranquilly." 
 
 " Ursula — Ursula — take care ! it is only mocking me to give me such reasons 
 as these.'' 
 
 " They are excellent ones for me, I promise you. It required all the 
 authority of the language of truth to prevent my husband from giving credit 
 to the visions of his mother, with regard to M. "Chopinelle ; I have no desiie 
 to see a renewal of such scenes. 
 
 i " Notwithstanding all I feel against you," exclaimed I, " I would not ha' « 
 dared to make any allusion to your conduct in that ciircumstance ; but as yon 
 yourself speak of it without shame, I will tell you, that it is precisely because 
 I know that you were guilty of a fault, which nothing could excuse, that I 
 have a right to suspect and fear you, where such a man as M. de Lancry is 
 concerned." 
 " Matilda!" 
 
 " It is because 1 was a witness to all that passed at Rouvrai, that I have the 
 presentiment, the certainty, that your apparent indifference for my husband 
 hides some artful scheme.'' 
 
 Ursula indignantly shrugged her shoulders. " Good heavens ! 1 know lull 
 well that you believed the absurd calumnies of my mother-in-law, but it is 
 now too late to renew them- You had an admirable opportunity of accusing 
 
REMEMBRANCE OP CHILDHOOD. 
 
 277 
 
 me, when, before my husband, and before his mother, I invoked your testi- 
 mony in support of my innocence." 
 
 "Dare you speak thus, Ursula? was it not pity, was it not a generous re- 
 collection of our former friendship which kept me silent ? Ah ! how truly did 
 she say, ' May you never repent the support you are affording to that guilty 
 woman!' But do not let us recur to the past. For the last time I ask you 
 and if necessary, I beseech you, not to prolong your stay here. After what 
 has passed beween us, our intercourse must be painful. Pray, rejoin your 
 husband. You are, you say, indifferent for G outran ! Who can retain you ? 
 Your disposition is such, that you can be happy any wkere ; I have never done 
 you an" injury ; do not obstinately prolong my torments.'' 
 
 " It would grieve me much to torment you ; but I again tell you that I can- 
 not, for a vain fancy, for a caprice on your part, adventure upon a foolish step, 
 which might compromise my future prospects," replied Ursula, with the most 
 imperturbable coolness. 
 
 " I think, that in all this you calculate erroneously," said I to my cousin, 
 surmounting my emotion. " You wish to await the return of your husband?" 
 
 " I desire to do so." 
 
 " Well, as you please ! but whether right or wrong, I am jealous of you.' 
 " You are wrong, very wrong." 
 
 " It may be so, but I am jealous ; your refusal to remove from Maran in- 
 crease that jealousy still more : the return of M. Secherin will not quiet my 
 uneasiness. I may hide the cause of it from him, but he will at last guess at 
 it. Reflect well upon this. The day of the hunting-party, it requiréd all the 
 self-possession I could muster; and your husband's attention was diverted 
 from me, or he would have discovered my secret. You, therefore, must 
 perceive, that by remaining here, you incur a danger greater than the one you 
 fear." 
 
 " How can I help it? If I am lost by any act of yours, I shall, resign my- 
 self to my fate ; but I shall never he mad or stupid enough to ruin myself by 
 my own deed." 
 
 u Perhaps, Ursula, perhaps. Take good care " 
 
 " Do you threaten me ? And with what do you threaten me?" 
 
 " 1 do not threaten you— but I warn you, that on this question hang my 
 happiness, my fate, my .ife ! I shall exert every energy ; I will leave nothing 
 undone to preserve that which you wish, perhaps, to wrest from me." 
 
 " You — capable of a cowardly accusation ? I do not believe it ; I defy you 
 to it." 
 
 " You are right in defying me, Ursula; you know that I am incapable of 
 such an action ; but, without any cowardly accusation, I may address myself 
 to your husband's goodness of heart. 1 may avow my fears to him, admit- 
 ting that I know they are senseless and unfounded, but that they wound me 
 grievously ; that they cannot compromise you ; it may, perhaps, awaken your 
 husband's suspicions; but then it is you who have willed it to be so." 
 
 " In that case, I should know how to defend, or revenge myself." 
 
 " Listen attentively to me, Ursula ! 1 swear to you by the memory of my 
 mother, that if you persist in remaining here, in spite of me, I will not hesitate 
 to go to any extremity, however disastrous it may be. A secret presentiment 
 tells me, that one of the most fatal questions of my life is being agitated at this 
 moment : I warn you that a great change has taken place in my character. 
 It has become as firm and resolute, as it was weak and timid. Do not push 
 me to extremities. 1 do not ask anything that is not possible, that is not 
 feasible." _ 
 
 " It appears to me, that I am the best judge of that. I know my husband 
 better than you can do." 
 
 " You purposely exaggerate his susceptibility: I have seen the influence you 
 have over him. You will not make me believe, that the man whose confidence 
 in you was so blind as to believe your fable regarding the letter from M. 
 Chopinelle — that the man who was not shaken in his faith by the awful oath 
 pronounced by his mother — you will not, I repeat, make me believe that this 
 man, who lives only for you, and by you, will have the slightest suspicion 
 when he sees you coming to rejoin him, and when you tell him that you would 
 feel too unhappy when absent from him." 
 
 " He would consider that a ridiculous exaggeration." 
 
 "It is one of those exagérations which devoted and generous hearts like 
 his admit more willingly, being themselves capable of experiencing them. 
 Your faintest wishes are absolute orders to him. Were you to tell him, we 
 will suppose, that you wish to take a journey into Italy : he will believe it, 
 <md hasten to grati fy your wish . " 
 
 e .i A thousand thanks, for the good opinion you have of my ability," said 
 
378 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Ursula, with a sardonic smile ; " unfortunately, I believe you exaggerate my 
 talents. Be pacified, however. "When my husband returns, I will remain here 
 only long enough to bring about our departure in a natural and proper man- 
 ner. Till then, in my turn, let me beg of you to insist on nothing farther 
 and to accord me your hospitality for that time." 
 
 "This is really infamous!" cried I, with indignation. "My life is to be 
 rendered wretched, then, because your will must have scope P 
 
 " Let reason resume its power, forget these senseless suspicions ; and then 
 these phantoms will disappear, and your mind will once more enjoy tran- 
 quillity.'' 
 
 " That is to say, forget you are in pain, and then you will no % longer 
 suffer !" 
 
 " Believe me, Matilda, nothing can be more painful to me than this discus- 
 sion, and that " 
 
 "Well!" cried I, interrupting my cousin ; "since there must be a trial of 
 strength between us, I accept the combat. You^make use of every means in 
 your power to attack me in that which is dearest to me : I shall employ every 
 means in mine to defend myself. Your pretended indifference to my husband; 
 is a mere trick of skillful coquettishness , which cannot deceive me. You wish 
 to please him. Up to the present time, I have never mentioned your shame- 
 ful adventure at Rouvrai : I shall no longer remain silent. If he were tempted 
 to forget me, for a moment, for you ; me, who have always given him proofs 
 of my affection and ray devotion — he would then compare us, and see to what 
 description of Woman he has sacrificed me.*' 
 
 "Matilda! Matilda! in your turn, take care!'' cried Ursula; and her eyes 
 seemed to sparkle with anger. " Take care what you say to him ? Never in 
 my life, would I forgive such a calumny! Do you* understand me? Do not 
 exasperate me !" 
 
 "I was not mistaken!" exclaimed I: "My husband is not indifferent to 
 you, then, since you fear his being informed of that adventure!'' 
 
 " I value the esteem of your husband, as I do that of all persons of respect- 
 ability; and it is abominable in you to wish to deprive me of it!" rejoined 
 Ursula, in a tone of outraged dignity. 
 
 " You value his esteem ? and you have not hesitated, barefacedly, to avow 
 the most corrupt principles! You have not hesitated to rail at all that is holy 
 and sacred in the world ! No ! No ! 1 am more and more convinced, that your 
 cuunittgness of instinct has whispered to you, that, being incapable of pleas- 
 ing by generous and noble qualities, you could only astound his imagination 
 by some extraordinary and singular affectation ; but, as soon as he shall be 
 informed that all this frame-work of meretricious pretension is set up merely 
 to offer him a heart, which M. Chopinelle has hitherto fully occupied — " 
 
 " Matilda! again I say, take care! Do not provoke me too far!" 
 
 '■■ Oh ! now that 1 know you, I can no longer fear you ! The delusion that 
 1 laboured under with regard to you, might have rendered you dangerous — 
 but that is happily dispelled !" 
 
 " Well, then," exclaimed ray cousin, no longer endeavouring to conceal the 
 bad feelings which agitated her, " since your delusion is dispelled — since you 
 know me — since you mistrust me, I have no longer any motives for concilia- 
 tion. It has cost me dearly to dissemble with you, for a long— long time. 
 You have unmasked me, say you ; look at me, then steadfastly in the face!" 
 
 I was terrified at the fearful expression of audacity and wickedness, which 
 were all at once exhihited.in the features of Ursula. 
 
 " For many years this mask has incommoded me,' 1 rejoined Ursula. 
 
 " For many years ? What do you mean, Ursuia?" 
 
 "Ah! tl at surprises you You believed me a devoted friend— a sister, did 
 you? most ingenuous and candid woman!" and she contemptuously shrugged 
 her shoulders. 
 
 " Can it be possible !" 
 
 " You forget, then, all you have made me suffer — you, I say ! even from my 
 childhood?" 
 "I! I!" 
 
 "You, Matilda! You must consider me as very insensible, very docile, or 
 very stupid, to believe I had for g otren our younger days. You know not, then 
 how much hate and envy my ulcerated heart has stored up, since the fatal 
 chance which brought me near you!" 
 
 '• And I. I blessed that day, because 1 thought it gave a sister to me." 
 
 " You ought to have cursed it, rather— for it then gave you a victim, and 
 •ubsequently an enemy." 
 
 " A victim ! an enemy ! Gracions Heaven ! what have I done to you?'* 
 
 " Was it not in your name — was it not to your pride, that 1 was daily sacri- 
 
REMEMRHANCK OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 t79 
 
 fic*d? You do not remember, then, how severely and on every occasion, I 
 was humiliated, wounded, despised on your account. No ! there is no torture, 
 to which self love could be subjected, which has not been inflicted upon me — 
 and always by comparing me with you ! When a child, my education was a 
 bounty, which I owed to your charity! If any article of dress was given to 
 me . it was an alms thrown to me at your expense! This was not all— praise, 
 flatteries and rewards were always and everywhere showered upon you; while 
 reproaches, punishments, harsh treatment where my portion ! And you be 
 lieve that I can have forgotten all this? and that there are not wounds which 
 leave indelible scars ? And you believe that you have now the right to reproach 
 me witb_a fault, and to threaten me?" 
 
 "Oh* my God! my God!" exclaimed I, hiding my face in my hands; 
 "the diabolical foresight of Mademoiselle de Maran has not deceived her; 
 she knew in what a soul she sowed the seeds of envy !" 
 
 "What does it signify to me!" rejoined Ursula, with renewed violence; 
 " what does it signify to me by whose hand I am stricken ! I think only of 
 the blow I have received. Have I not always suffered, and more keenly too, 
 because I was abased that you might be exalted? Punished, while a child; 
 contemned when a young girl ; such was my lot, while I remained with you. 
 When they talked of our being married, you could pretend — you! to wed a 
 man of exalted rank and fortune. I, on the coutrary, must consider myself 
 but too happy to take some poor and vulgar individual You were so rich! 
 you were so beautiful ! you possessed so many adorable qualities ! while I, on 
 the contrary, was poor, foolish, and bereft of every grace which made you 
 so beloved ! And, moreover, what they predicted, actually happened ; you 
 married a young nobleman, a man of talent and charming manners— I, a 
 ridiculous and vulgar man of business. Oh ! never, never shall I forget that 
 moment, when before you, then beaming with pride and happiness, looking 
 at your noble bridegroom, they insulted and jeered the man whose name I 
 blushed to bear! Oh! that comparison was a terrible aud final blow to me! 
 Thus, once more was I sacrificed — immolated to you and your insolent happi- 
 ness, which, for so long a time, had crushed me.'' 
 
 " This is too horrible !" I exclaimed ; " but you know full well that I was 
 not to blame for the perfidious conduct of my aunt. You know full well, that 
 even during my childhood, I exposed myself to punishment that I might 
 share the hardships you endured. You know full well, that in after years, it 
 was not my fault that you did not marry a man of your own choice." 
 
 "You offered me one-half your fortune, you would say — did 1 accept it? 
 Who, then, tells me that I have not my pride, as you have yours? Who tells 
 you that I have not been still more soured by your eternal affectation of 
 generosity and of pity?" 
 
 " Why, then, you must have always hated me ! and these assurances of 
 friendship which you have lavished, until now, have been merely falsehoods — 
 I may say blasphemies ! What! nom our very childhood, has this odious hate 
 been fermenting in your bosom ? and you have been able to dissemble until 
 now. Coidd nothing soften yoi»? neither my sisterly affection, nor the hatred 
 which Mademoiselle de Maran bore toward me ? How is it possible that, with 
 your understanding, you did not see that it was her fixed purpose io humiliate 
 you by praising me, in order to excite your jealousy, your envy, that she might 
 render you one day my enemy? Ah! Ursula, Ursula! could she but hear 
 you, how happy would she be to find that you are thus serving her, as the 
 blind instrument of her hatred!" 
 
 " You need not blame Mademoiselle de Maran so much," cried Ursula, im 
 patiently; "all she has done has been to develop the feeling of envy which 
 existed in me: I was born jealous and envious, as jou were bom faithful and 
 generous ; had we changed places, in spite of all the wicked combinations of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, she could never have awakened in your breast an 
 ardent jealousy against me." 
 
 " But, since you acknowledge that 1 am faithful and generous, why do you 
 hate me ? What have I done to you " 
 
 " It is precisely because you are faithful and generous that I hate you. I 
 hate you still, because I have always been humiliated on your account ; I hate 
 ou because you enjoy all the happiness I envy. I hate you, because I have 
 een compelled to blush before you. We are alone— I may therefore say alt I 
 wish with impunity. Well, then, that which has rilled my cup of rage against 
 you to ovei flowing, was that you should be acquainted with that ridiculous 
 intrigue ; and thai you should have seen me treated with such sovereign con- 
 tempt by my husband's mother." 
 
 " But, that intrigue did exist— you merited that contempt. 
 
 " And it is precisely that which exasperates me— were you to tell me that 1 
 
280 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 am as ugly and as hump-backed as Mademoiselle de Maran, it would not In 
 any way offend me." 
 "But " 
 
 " But— I do not wish to make myself appear Letter than I am.' 1 do not 
 wish to discuss the point. I do not say that I am right in feeling thus — 1 say 
 that I feel thus. Chance has willed that either by you, or on your account, J 
 have been wounded where I waa most sensitive — you were the cause of it, and 
 I hate you. This is, perhaps, not logical, but it is real. This language seems 
 to astonish you You know not, Matilda, how singularly sorrow and isolation 
 develop the intellect. From these two harsh and cruei masters I first learned 
 the science of dissimulation. 1 was humiliated on your account; what could 
 I do to harm you? Nothing. I waited, I observed; the extragavant praises 
 lavished upon you, filled me with a violent desire to compensate by art, by 
 hypocritical grate, by the most studied coquetry, for those advantages in which 
 I was deficient, and which were so much admired in you. When I was 
 fifteen years of age, I thought you beautiful, much more beautiful than I was : 
 not being able to vie with you in beauty, I promised myself one day to dis- 
 pute 1 the palm with you by my expressive features, by grace, and fashionable 
 appearance. Your beauty was of a chaste and serene description ; I wished to 
 be inviting — provoking; but the moment had not arrived. 
 
 " One day, I cried with rage while thinking of the brilliant future which 
 awaited you, and on the sorrowful fate reserved to me. By accident, I cast 
 my eyes upon a looking-glass, and I perceived that tea--s became me almost as 
 well as laughing and boisterous hilarity. I therefoee resolved to become, far 
 a while, sorrowful, melancholy, sentimental. You were rich, I was poor ; you 
 were lauded to the skies, I wbs borne down with contempt; nothing would 
 appear more natural or more interesting than the part I intended to play- 
 that of a resigned victim. I married, and so did you ; you had all the requi- 
 sites for selecting, and you did select a delightful husband. The same good 
 fortune still follows you after marriage; beautiful, rich, young, titled enjoy- 
 ing a reputation without stain, an idol of the world, which has no admiration 
 but for your beauty, no praise but for your virtues, you cannot form a wish, 
 ere it is realized : this is your life. Is this happiness enough ?" added Ursula, 
 with an expression of anger and envy, which convinced me that she truly 
 thought me the happiest of women. 
 
 I was, for a moment, on the point of undeceiving. her, thinking thus to dis- 
 arm her. I wished to tell her the anguish I had suffered during the first 
 months of our marriage; the calumnies of which I had been the victim. But 
 it appeared to me, that it would be cowardly to do so, and I merely said: 
 " It is, then, because you think me very happy, that hate me so bitterly?" 
 
 " Yes, just so. When I compare your existence with my own, I envy you, 
 I suffer. Why is there this distinction between us ? Why is it, that there is 
 not advantage which you do not enjoy ? not a quality, not a virtue, for which 
 you are not admired? I had forseen it, and your aunt has unceasingly 
 repeated it to me, since her arrival here ; at Paris, in the society which you 
 frequent, they know only you, they swear on^r by you. You are, at once, the 
 woman most in vogue, and most respected. Every body cites you as the model 
 of grace and elegance, and no one can reproach you with a fault, not even 
 coquettishness ; and that in the most calumniating world, the most difficult to 
 please. While I, on the contrary, I live in the country, with an obscure mer- 
 chant, whom I cannot influence except by affecting vulgarities, which are 
 revolting to my tastes and former habits. And this is not all : you muft, for- 
 sooth, come to prcbe the disgraceful wounds of an existence already but too 
 cruel! and then, immediately on our arrival, bo^h my husband and his mo- 
 ther must stun me with your praises, as Mademoiselle de Maran did formerly. 
 Oh ! you are, doubtless, an incomparable woman ; but your insolent happiness 
 may not always prove invulnerable!" 
 
 Anger and jealousy had, at that moment, such dominion over Ursula, that 
 she did not perceive the sort of stupor into which I was thrown. In hearing 
 her speak thus, of my ''insolent happiness,'' I at once comprehended words 
 which Mademoiselle de Maran had often repeated to me, " I am faithful to our 
 agreement; I do not say a word about those Lugarto horrors to your cousin : 
 on the contrary; I tell her incessantly that you have always been the happiest 
 of women; that your fate is envied by all, and that the good as well as the 
 wicked have but one feeling toward you, and that is adoration." 
 
 I was no longer surprised. With her accustomed perfidy, Mademoiselle 
 de Maran had done all she could to exasperate the jealousy of my cousin, by 
 drawing a picture of my life in colors as glowing, as they had, in truth, been 
 dark and gloomy. 
 
 Seeing Ursula so unworthily irritated at my supposed happiness, I reflected 
 
RETURNING AFFECTION. 
 
 2S1 
 
 how joyful she would be, could she but penetrate my real misfortunes ; and I 
 felt, less than ever, disposed to give her that satisfaction. 
 
 " This is, then, the secret of your hatred ! at least you have acknowledged it. 
 What are now your designs? Do you intend to take my husband from me ? 
 Is that the revenge you mean to take upon me ?" 
 
 " Situated as we now are, you cannot calculate, I presume, upon my impart- 
 ing my projects to you?" replied Ursula, haughtily. 
 
 " As it is not difficult for me to guess at them, I will tell you my irrevocable 
 determination. I am going to write to your husband to return here in all 
 haste ; upon his arrival I shall avow my suspicions, which I shall still be 
 
 Ï leased to call unfounded, and I shall entreat him to take you home ; hereafter, 
 shall consider you my most dangerous enemy. I have no longer any reason 
 for screening you; I shall, therefore, not conceal from my husband, what passed 
 at Kouvrai, between you and M. Chopinelle." 
 
 " You wish for war, Matilda? Well then, war ! All means are good, when 
 they are successful 1 hope to prove it to you.'' 
 And Ursula left me to myself. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 RETURNING AFFECTION 
 
 After Ursula had left the room, my first impulse was to go to searcn of my 
 husband, for the purpose of acquainting him with the conversation I had just 
 had with my cousin. Unfortunately, G outran had gone out early in the 
 morning sporting 
 
 I desired Blondeau to let me know when he returned. The breakfast bell 
 rang, but Gontran had not come in. I found Mademoiselle de Maran in the 
 parlor ; she asked me where my cousin was. I replied, that I suppose she 
 was in her own room. We sent to call her, but she was not there. The morn- 
 ing was very fine, and I imagined that she might Le walking in the park. 
 The bell was rung a second time, but she did not make her appearance. 
 
 All at once an idea struck me that she might have gone to meet Gontran ; but 
 the servant told me that my husband had gone out on a pony with one of his 
 gamekeepers and his dogs to shoot in the marshes. 
 
 This quieted me ; and I sat down to breakfast with my aunt. She did not 
 spare me, but kept continually making spiteful remarks on the absence of 
 Ursula and my husband. 
 
 My mind was so fully occupied, that her perfidious insinuation, which, 
 under any other circumstances would have annoyed me considerably, wero 
 almost unheeded. 
 
 On leaving the table, I pretended that I had letters to write before the arri- 
 val of the post, and that I should go to my own room. I left Mademoiselle 
 de Maran occupied with her knitting. 
 
 The clock struck two; neither Ursula nor Gontran had returned. I sent 
 for Blondeau, and desired her to ascertain, from Ursula'smaid, if her mistress 
 had given her any orders. Blondeau came back, and told me that Madame 
 Secherin had taken a book from the library, and had gone out to walk. 
 
 I traversed the parkin every direction, but could not see anything of Ursula; 
 a small door leading into the forest was open : my cousin must have gone out 
 that way. She had perhaps, the evening before, arranged to meet Gontran. 
 This idea alarmed me. I attached great importance to Ursula's not seeing my 
 husband till after I had spoken to him. 
 
 My heart sank within me as I returned to the chateau. Mac^ioiselle de 
 Maran told me that she began to be seriously uneasy about Ursula ; that I 
 ought to send some of the servants to search for her, as she might perhaps 
 have missed her way. Just at that moment, my cousin came in. 
 
 She saluted me with as much cordiality as though the scene which had 
 passed between us in the morning had not taken place. Her color heightened, 
 her eyes were sparkling ; there was an air of ptide and triumph exhibited in 
 every feature. 
 
 Her silk boots, nearly covered with dust, showed that she had walked some 
 distance ; the strings of her straw hat, which was lined with crimson silk, were 
 untied, and floated on her shouldeis ; and the long tresses of her brown hair 
 rather out of curl descended to her neck. She held in one hand a large bunch 
 of wild flowers. She told Mademoiselle de Maran and me that she had gone 
 out of the park, and had nearly lost herself in the forest; >jut, finding the 
 weather beautiful, shs had wished to take advantage of or vf the last fino 
 2 B 2 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 daysof autumn, and had amused herself by gathering flowers ; she did not 
 think of retracing her steps until she had walked at least a good league. 
 She had met with a wood-cutler, who had shown her the way back to the 
 chateau. 
 
 This recital, uttered in a plain and natural manner, dispelled my justly- 
 awakened misgivings. I believed Ursula much the more readily, because, 
 about half an hour after her return, and just as our letters were brought by the 
 post, the game-keeper, who had accompanied my husband, was sent by 
 him to tell me, that his sporting had been prolonged more than he had 
 expected; but that 1 need not be uneasy, as he would return in the evening to 
 dinner. 
 
 I questioned the game-keeper, who told me he had been with my husband all 
 the morning, and had left him about half an hour before at the spring road, 
 where he was still shooting. These particulars quite reassured me. 
 
 I thought it so important to see my husband before he met with Ursula, that 
 I again requested Blondeau to be on the look-out for his arrval, and to bring 
 him to my room ; telling him that I had to speak with him on the most im- 
 portant matters. Having given this order, I returned to the drawing-room. 
 
 I found Mademoiselle de Maran reading, with much attention, some letters 
 which had arrived for her from Paris. I do not know whether she perceived 
 that I had entered the room or not ; but she did not take her eyes off the letter 
 she was reading, and cried out every now and then, with apparent astonish- 
 ment — "Good Heavens! who could ever nave believed it? why, they would 
 have administered the sacrament to her without confession — what will all this 
 come to? Must I inform him of it, or must I conceal it from him ? It is 
 really dreadful!" 
 
 Out of patience wifh these continued exclamations, and not supposing that 
 my aunt did not see me come into the room, I said to her — "Have you good 
 news from Paris, madam ?" But she, without answering me, or appearing to 
 have heard what I said, continued talking to herself: " What scandal this will 
 create ! but on the other side, how can it be prevented ? How fortunate it is 
 that I should be here to put all this to rights !" 
 
 These last words of my aunt aroused my fears, and set me thinking. I could 
 not conceive their import ; but a secret presentiment warned me, that hei arri- 
 val at Maran was connected with some treacherous designs, and that her fears 
 of the Paris revolutionists were a mere pretext. 
 
 I drew close to her, and this time repeated in a tone so loud, that she couid 
 no longer feign not to have heard me—" Have you good news from Paris 
 madam ?" She started, as if surprised; and replied — " How ! were you there ? 
 did you hear what I said ?'• 
 
 " I heard what you said, but I could not understand anything that I 
 heard.'' 
 
 " So much the better— so much the better — the time is not yet come. Oh ? 
 my God ! my God! can it be possible?" she exclaimed, raising her hands to 
 heaven. 
 
 " You seem much agitated, madam : I will leave you." 
 " Agitated ! I believe you. There is good cause for agitation. You will learn 
 the reason but too soon." 
 
 " That may then interest me, madam.'' 
 
 " Interest you— interest you ? Yes, more than you may think ! Alas ! 
 you see me as'ounded by it — as it were, all upset by it ; but I cannot 
 yet believe it. No, no; it cannot be: you are incapable of such a thing.'' 
 
 "Incapable of what, madam? is this some fresh uneasiness you wish to 
 cause me ? Pray explain yourself." 
 
 " Explain^myself ! can I possibly do that in the absence of your husband ? 
 We must « for him ; and then I don't know if I dane ! Tell me, is he still 
 as violent as he was said to be before his marriage ? If so, we must be famously 
 cautious." 
 
 I looked at my aunt with firmness. " I should have been greacfy surprised, 
 madam, if your arrival had not been signalized by somï painful occur- 
 ence. I am resigned to every thing, and I place my trust in the heart of my 
 husband." 
 
 "Oh! well — if that's the case, so much the better. I may then abridge my 
 oratorical precautions. You are perfectly right to place your trust in the heart 
 of your husband— it is a very ingenious idea ; but notwithstanding all that. I 
 would have you beware of his first impulse upon hearing it ; and, above all, 
 take care not to be. alone with him ; for, alas ! poor child ! I am very weak 
 and very old, and I couJdnot defend you.'' 
 
 "Defend me! against whom?" 
 
 "Against your husband! for, in spita of myself, I cannot help thinking that 
 
RETU RHINO AFFECTION. 
 
 283 
 
 Prince de Ksemika has often beaten the lovely Princess da Kseruika, Ms wife, 
 to a mnmray, for much less than this."- 
 
 " I see with pleasure, madam, by these exaggerations, that you are putting 
 a sorry joke upon me." 
 
 "A joke! Heaven preserve me! You will soon find that nothing can he 
 more serious ! All that I can do— all that I ought to do, as a near relation, is 
 to interpose, should things be carried too far.'' 
 
 I knew my aunt too well, to hope that she would explain herself, or put an 
 end io these mysterious inuendoes! I therefore answered, with a calmnies 
 which much mortified her : " Deign to excuse my leaving you, madam ; for I 
 must go and dress for dinner." 
 
 " Go ! go ! my dear ; and make yourself as lovely as possible. That some- 
 times disarms the most furions. The beautiful Princess de Ksernika under- 
 stood this thoroughly ; and never failed to do so. She always pranked "herself 
 out most brilliantly," when she wish to avert the conjugal storm. She made 
 her appearance with a triumphant and flaunting air ; and by thus decorating 
 herself so bravely, she avoided having more than one limb broken at a time, 
 
 y this dear and worthy prince. 
 
 I left the room, without stopping to hear the terminaaon of these odious 
 pleasantries of Mademoiselle de Maran. I went up stairs to my own apart- 
 ment, to await Gontran. On his return from shooting, he came to me immedi- 
 ately, as I had requested. 
 
 I was struck with bis radiant and joyful look ; — he, whom I had observed 
 for many days, so pensive and melancholy. On coming into my room, he 
 embraced me tenderly, and said, " Pardon ! a thousand pardons, my dear 
 Matilda ! for hsving, perhaps, made you uneasy ; but I allowed myself, like a 
 child, to be carried away by the pleasures of the chase; and, as usual, calcu- 
 lated upon your indulgence." 
 
 These apologies from my husband surprised me; for a long time he had 
 not made me any. " I am delighted," said I, " that your sport has been so 
 interesting. You appear less thoughtful than for some days past." 
 
 " Nothing can be more simple ; you know that sometimes the veriest trifles 
 
 Îroduce great effect upon us. This morning, when I went out upon my pony, 
 was in abadhumor, I commenced my sport almost mechanically, and with- 
 out exper encing any satisfaction. The sky was visited by fogs. Suddenly, a 
 brilliant ray pierced through the clonds ; nature seemed to lighten up, to smile. 
 I know not why — but I brightened, also, with the sun's appearance, for I had 
 been morose ; and, allât once, I became gay andhappy. Happy and gay, as at 
 the age of twenty — happy and gay, as on the day when you first said, ' I love 
 you !' Look above, and compare, if you would still, like me, preserve the re- 
 membrance of that happy day!" 
 
 It was true. I had never in my life seen my husband's countenance bear a 
 more striking or a more indescribable look of happiness ; and I replied to 
 him, without being able to conceal my surprise," Trtvy, your features seem 
 radiant with joy, and recall to mind most brilliant dayo." 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied he, passionately ; my happiness is immense; ils splen- 
 dour overwhelms me ; it radiates on all around me. Were my life depending 
 on it, I could not hide the happiness I feel." 
 
 " Blessed be that ray of sunshine, dearest Gontran, since it has had the 
 power to change you thus." 
 
 Gontran looked smilingly upon me. " I cannot avoid confessing all to 
 you,'' saM he. " It is not merely that ray of sunshine, which has worked so 
 great a change in me; there was also a ray of moral sunshine, which helped 
 to dissipate my gloominess of soul. Is it then necessary that I should tell 
 you, my own beloved angel! that it was your adored idea that brought about 
 this miracle?" 
 "And was it really so, my Gontran? tell me.'' 
 
 " I asked myself, why it was that my gloomy melancholy thus contrasted 
 with the brilliancy of nature. I asked myself, whether I did not possess all 
 that rendered life adorable ; if I did not owe all this to a beloved woman, the 
 most beautiful, the best, the most generous, of all created beings that ever de- 
 voted themselves to make man happy But this, said I, is not all; a new 
 pledge of love, a new bond, is about to unite us still more closely. And yet I 
 am gloomy, I am sorrowful, and I do not with delight enjoy each moment of 
 such an existence as this. Then it appeared to me, Matilda; 1 awoke at once 
 from an oppressive dream, !" 
 
 " Oh, Gontran, Gontran ! can this be true ?" 
 . " Oh, yes ; I speak the truth : happiness renders us so confiding, so sincere. 
 Once in the right path your dear remembrance had opened to me, T did not 
 fear, Matilda, to investigate the primary causo of that senseless gloom, which 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 iiad again overwhelmed me lor some days. There was still another, though a 
 trivial cause. Shall I avow it to you? Yes, I will have the courage to acknow- 
 ledge it. I was fool enough to feel annoyed by the incessant railleries of your 
 cousin. Yes; like a schoolboy, like a country lout, 1 felt a rancorous spite at 
 her schoffing at my declarations. I saw in it a blow, not to my love, for you 
 possess that wholly, but to my self-love Happily, when thinking of Matilda,' 
 and the little angel which is to bless our future years, 1 chased away those evil 
 thoughts ; and I return to you, more tender, more captivated, more passion- 
 ately fond, than ever." And my husband kissed my hands with an enchanting 
 grace. 
 
 I thought it was a dream. I could not believe what I had heard was real. 
 What sudden change in Gontran's mind had produced this wonderful effect? 
 His words seemed natural and sincere. He invoked the thought of our child 
 with so serious an emotion. I could not think that he spoke falsely. And what 
 could be his object? 
 
 His unexpected happiness, joined to the various emotions of the day, so 
 overpowered me, that I sank into an arm-chair. I placed my head upon my 
 hands, and leaning forward to collect my anxious thoughts, after a short 
 silence, I said to Gontran, " Let me entreat your pardon now, my dear hus- 
 band, if I do not seem to respond to your enchanting kindness ; but although 
 so pleasing, my surprise is too profound to allow me, at the moment, to find 
 words capable, of expressing all my gratitude.'' 
 
 I felt greatly embarrassed. 1 believed in the returning affection of my hus- 
 band. I could not decide whether I ought to impart to him the conversation 
 that had taken place with Ursula, her cruel confessions, and the threats she 
 had uttered in regard to himself. . 
 
 By way of ascertaining his feelings on this subject, I said to him : " By the 
 by, M. Secherin left Maran this morning; were you aware of it, dear 
 Gontran?" 
 
 " I knew of it. Why did not his wife accompany him ? It would have been 
 an excellent opportunity for her to fulfil her promise,'' observed Gontran, in a 
 most natural tone. " She ought to have done," added he, in a reproachful 
 tone, "out of a regard for you, since I told her that yonr peace of mind de- 
 pended almost on her leaving us." 
 
 " Perhaps," said I, endeavouring to smile, the better to conceal my emotion 
 " perhaps she now repents having shown herself so cruel towards you as to 
 have rejected your attentions. Perhaps her disdain was a mere affectation." 
 
 " Oh, then so much the worse for her," said Gontran, gayly, to me. " She 
 has allowed the devil's quarter of an hour to slip by, as the saying is, and now 
 it is too late. My guardian angel is now with me, and she has too much 
 beauty and too much goodness, not to preserve and defend me from all witch- 
 craft.'' 
 
 "You are now very confident, my dear Gontran," said I, still smiling 
 but my cousin is very subtle, very seducing, and your poor Matilda " 
 
 "Oh, my poor Matilda!" said Gontran, with an accent full of tenderness; 
 " my poor Matilda is a little scoffer. Instead of putting on that humble and 
 resigned air, she ought to perceive, that from this moment she is my sovereign 
 mistress. Look you; I do believe, between out selves, that this poor Matilda 
 has some supernatural intelligence within, I know not what good and invisible 
 genii, who, with a breath, can change a storm to calm, sorrow to peace and 
 serene nappiness. She has merely made a sign to them, and my soul is inun- 
 dated with felicity. My poor Matilda reminds me, in fine, of those fairies 
 who long hide their power, to reveal it some day in all its majesty and splen- 
 dour ; and I should apprehend, hereafter, to become too much her slave, if to 
 obey her were not to reign. But! leave you, my lovely guardian angel; deck 
 yourself out in most becoming garments ; make yourself lovely ; that we may- 
 by an exchange of looks and glances at your cousin, say to each other, "That 
 poor Ursula!''' 
 
 Gontran kissed my forehead, and leftf me in a state bordering on enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 RUMOURS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Now that I reflect, in cold blood, on my husband's words, I do no under- 
 stand how I could have put any confidence in their sincerity ; or how Gon- 
 tran's return, so abrupt, so affectionate, and, at the same time, so strange, I 
 
RUMOURS OR TH WORLD. 
 
 285 
 
 might even say, fabulously explained, should not have awakened my sus- 
 picion. 
 
 But at that time I was ignorant, that the most passionate protestations are 
 often but veils for perfidy and treason. 
 
 And, moreover, I was so happy and so eager to discover some good feels 
 ings yet existent in my husband's heart, that 1 gave myself up blindly to this 
 unexpected happiness. I reckoned alone. on my own shrewdness and pene- 
 tration, for the discovery of Ursula's intentions. 
 
 Dinner passed very gayly. Mademoiselle de Maran made not the least illu- 
 sion in reference to the indirect threat which she had offered me. Ursula over- 
 powered me with attentions. On his part, too, Gontran was so full of little 
 courtesies, and so affectionate toward me, that my aunt several times joked 
 him about it. 
 
 When dinner was ended, my cousin said to me, "Ah, how happy you m ast 
 be, to pass the summer and a portion of the winter in the country.'' 
 
 "Well, well," replied Madamoiselle de Maran, 41 it seems to me that it is a 
 happiness of which you too have your share. For surely it must be a great 
 pleasure to that excellent man M. Secherin, to know that you are here en- 
 joying yourself to the utmost, It was so kind of him also to take the trouble 
 to bring you hither." 
 
 " Doubtless, madame," said Ursula ; "but we cannot always have what we 
 desire. In this case, as soon as my husband returns hither (and I have just 
 written to hurry him in doing so), his business will oblige him to go to Paris, 
 and I shall naturally accompany him thither.'" 
 
 " Good heaveus!" cried my aunt; " this is quite a new whim, this. Before 
 his departure, he said that you might remain here until the month of January, 
 and that you need not return to Paris but with Gontran and Matilda." 
 
 "Yes, madam ; but one of his correspondents at Paris, whose letter I have 
 received (for I open all my husband's letters during his absence,'' said Ursula, 
 with a smile), informs me, that his presence is indispensably necessary for the 
 establishment of a banking-house, in which M. Secherin has become a "partner, 
 as he told you. So that 1 have but four or five days now to spend with you, 
 my dear Matilda. Once in Paris, our circles of society will be entirely differ- 
 ent. I, the humble banker's wife ; you, the brilliant Viscountess de Lancry : 
 we shall see each other but rarely. It will be, in fact, almost a total 
 separation." 
 
 •« But I thought you were going to live together in Paris, and to keep up this 
 beautiful model of a united and joint-stock establishment, ' said Mademoiselle 
 de Maran. " Are all these fine resolutions again altered ?" 
 
 " Unfortunately, they were but school-girls' dreams, impossible to be re 
 alized, madadame,'( said Ursula, smiling ; "and although I confess that it i - 
 not without reluctance that I consent to abandon these hopes, I nevertheless 
 submit.'' 
 
 " Therefore, you must frankly confess," said my husband, gayly, "that the 
 picture 1 made you of the only suite of rooms which we can give up to you 
 did not tempt you very much." 
 
 " You are very unjust, my dear cousin ; we could have accommodated our- 
 selves with much less than ynu offered us, in order to enjoy the socic:y of our 
 dear relatives. But the faubourg St. Honore is so far from my husband's 
 place of business, that it would not suit him at all to live there." 
 
 Dinner being now at an end, we rose from the table. Gontran gave his arm 
 to Mademoiselle de Maran, and passed out before Ursula and myself. 
 
 The latter, as she entered the drawing-room, said to me, in alow voice: 
 . " This is the way 1 revenge myself: are you satisfied?" 
 
 When the servants had carried round the coffee, Mademoiselle de Maran 
 assumed a very grave and solemn air, and said : 
 
 " Now that we are alone, and in a family partv, we ean talk with open 
 hearts." 
 
 And as she said this, she drew from her pocket several letters, which she had 
 that morning received from Paris, and cast a glance toward me, full of ironical 
 and bitter spite. 
 
 " What is that that you are going to tell us, madame?'' said Gontran. 
 
 " You shall know ; but first of all you must promise me to bo calm, and not 
 allow yourself to be carried away by any sudden passion. But now that I 
 think of it, go and see that no one has remained in the dining-room." 
 
 Ursula ran, opened the door, and returned. 
 
 " There is no one there, madame.'' 
 
 " But, once more-, what is the use of all these precautions?" asked Gontran. 
 " Bonaparte used to say, that people all wash their dirty linen within doors. 
 Examine the phrase in reference (o the sentiment it contains, and it is full of 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 good sense. But before I begin," said Mademoiselle de Maran, turning to 
 Ursula, " I must explain to you, my nearest, the reason of the apparent con. 
 tradiction between what I am about to say, and what I have already told you." 
 " How so, madame ?" 
 
 "I had agreed with Matilda, not to mention the horrible slanders of which 
 she had been the victim, or the frightful griefs which poisoned the first months 
 of ber marriage. Up to this time, therefore, I have represented your cousin to 
 you as the most perfectly happy of created beings. Alas! there is nothing in 
 all this — absolutely nothing! On the contrary, you will now see and perceive, 
 that since she has been married — except a little portion of the honeymoon — 
 the whole life of our poor Matilda has been nothing but one long scene of 
 agony— and that is but a trifle compared to that which fate has in store for 
 her in future '." 
 
 While Mademoiselle de Maran was thus speaking, Ursula gazed in my face 
 with an expression of surprise which increased every moment. Had I not been 
 so often deceived by her hypocrisy, I should almost have believed that she 
 looked at me with feelings of real interest. 
 
 " But once for all, madam — what is all this about?" said Gontran im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " My poor Gontran !" she answered, "you will know it but too soon — for it 
 concerns you in the first degree; and concerns you when it is too late ! — for 
 the evil I conceive to be irremediable. But, first of all, you must give me 
 your word of honor as a gentleman, not to believe above half of what I shall 
 tell you ; and to gvie their due weight to circumstances and to slanders. After 
 all, it was 1 who brought up your wife ; and for my sake as well as hers, you 
 must not be in too urgent a hurry to judge unfavorably from appearances. 
 Let us consider — let us weigh well the arguments for and against, and after that 
 we will make up our minds." 
 
 It was impossible for me to guess the end at which Mademoiselle de Maran 
 was aiming; but I had so perfect a confidence in my own uprightness, that I 
 was not the least uneasy; although.! expected some malicious wickedness from 
 her lips. 
 
 " Since it relates to me, madam," said I, "I will request you to abridge 
 these preliminaries and come directly to the fact." 
 
 "Come ! I like this — your generous impatience re-assures me, and I regard/it 
 as a good omen. Well then, M. de Lancry, do you know what is the rumour — 
 or rather what is much more unpleasant — the conviction of those persons of 
 our class, whom the revolution has not driven out of Paris?" 
 
 " No, madam, 1 do not." 
 
 "Then I will. tell you — they are convinced — in fact they know, that before 
 going to Rouval to visit her cousin, your wife went clandestinely to pass a 
 night in M. Lugario's country-house ; and that it is perfectly understood, that 
 the handsome Âlcander of the stars, or the field argent, was there alone like- 
 wise — which may pass very well for a nocturnal assignation." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Mara darted at me, with these words, a glance malig- 
 nant as that of the viper when about to strike ! I turned pale at her spiteful 
 words. 
 
 " Dear ! dear !" she exclaimed, " see this poor little darling ! She is quite 
 overpowered alreadv ! Ah! good Heavens! now I regret bitterly that I men- 
 tioned it ! But, at the same time, she seemed so confident of herself. Ursula — 
 quick ! give her some salts : here is my smelling bottle !" 
 
 Ursula drew near to me, with a protectingair of half triumphant pity. But 
 I repulsed her ; quietly saying, that I required nothing. This first blow was 
 indeed terrible ! I was not in the least prepared for it and I was for the mo- 
 ment dumb. My husband, who, for one second, had turned crimson, either 
 with anger or astonishment recovered himself instantly, burst into a violent fit 
 of laughter, and cried out : " What! Mademoiselle de Maran ! you, too ? Do 
 you give in to such scandals ? 1 am not at all surprised, that my poor Matilda 
 should be astounded at such things. Who could dream of hearing such wicked 
 folly ?» 
 
 I eagerly considered, in my own mind, the means of exculpating myself, 
 and at the same time keeping Gontran's secret. Mademoiselle de Maran 
 seemed very much astonished by Gontran's indifference, as he heard this accu- 
 sation. 
 
 " But wait a little, you bad fellow, before you laugh so— wait till I tell you 
 all the facts which are circulated. It is said, first of all, that your wife passed 
 be night in the house of Monsieur Lugarto. Now some people insist, and 
 Relieve firmly, that she did so willingly, and for love ! This seems to me 
 rather a forced opinion, since it would make my niece out a most worthless 
 ireature. Others, on the contrary, assert that this dear little creature went, in 
 
HUMOURS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 '2S7 
 
 all virtue and all honor, to redeem— God knows at what ransom - some paper 
 or other, which might have destroyed your character, my dear Gontran ! There- 
 fore let me observe, my children," that, in all this matter, I am neither mora 
 nor less, than as innocent as the nymph, Echo." 
 
 I could no longer doubt that M. Lugarto had kept his word. To avenge 
 himself, he had written, either to Mademoiselle de Maran, or to some of her 
 acquaintances, several versions of the events of that fatal night, which would 
 suffice to ruin my reputation, or dishonor Gontran. 
 
 Falsehood and trutn vere so fatally confounded, so perfidously commingled 
 in this atrocious calumny ; that the world, with its wonted indifference and ill- 
 nature, would naturally receive it without examination. 
 
 I scarcely dared lift my eyes to Gontran, so fully did I expect some violent 
 outbreak of passion on his part ; aud my astonishment v\ as equalled only by 
 the disappointment of Mademoiselle de Maran, when my husband conquering 
 a new and brief expression of strong feeling, shrugged up his shoulders, and 
 replied with the most perfect sang froid: 
 
 " When it comes to this, madam, it ceases to be calumny, it becomes mere 
 folly. And in truth, the times in which we live are too grave, for people to 
 amuse themselves by putting forth such stupid absurdities.' 
 
 " What! " cried my aunt, " is it thus that you take these news ?— a plague on 
 your philosophy !'' 
 
 " One can be a philosopher very cheaply, madam," replied Gontran ; " if we 
 can gain that title by setting at nought stupid rumors, which lack even that 
 degree of consistency necessary to constitute them calumnies J Matilda ought 
 not to care the least about such idiotcy. In two words, I will tell you the sad 
 circumstances — owing to which, the name of M. Lugarto, may have unhappily 
 been brought in contact with that of Madame de Lancry. That man basely 
 abused the intimacy of his friendship with me, in order to attempt to injure 
 the reputation of Madame de Lancry. I answered that baseness as I ought, 
 by giving him the lie, and boxing his ears before twenty persons. A meet- 
 ing took place, in which I gave him a sword-thrust ; and, on the follow- 
 ing day, I set off for England, whither I was called by matters of weighty 
 business. 
 
 " Immediately on my departure, Matilda left Paris, to come to her cousin's 
 house, where she proposed to pass the time of my absence. When I returned 
 from London, 1 rejoined her there, and brought her hither. This, madam, is 
 the whole truth. As to the ridiculous inventions which people have given 
 themselves the trouble to circulate, and to which you think it necessary to call 
 our attention, I repeat it to you, I should not have considered it worth while 
 to give them the lie ; I should never have thought about them for an instant, if 
 Matilda had not been such a child as to appear annoyed for a minute or two. 
 In this, hower, she is excusable. She has barely entered the world ; her pure 
 and ingenuous soul is yet liable to the impression of miseries, which hereafter 
 will excite but her disgust." Then addressing me, Gontran said, with an accent 
 of the tenderest affection — " Pardon me, my poor Matilda! my unhappy con- 
 nection with Lugarto gives you much uneasiness ; hut this, I trust, will be the 
 last of it.'' 
 
 I was moved, indeed, very deeply, by the simple and dignified language of 
 Gontran. Since the beginning of the conversation, the face of my cousin had 
 appeared singularly abstracted ; indeed, its whole expression seemed- to be 
 aitered. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, despite her assurance, was disconcerted; she 
 looked from me to Ursula, from Ursula to my husband, to see if she could 
 penetrate the causes of Gontran's indifference, or moderation— modera- 
 tion which scarce astonished so much as it affected me ; for my husband 
 must naturally have been wounded by some of Mademoiselle de Maran' s 
 remarks. 
 
 After this silent watch, which she maintained for several seconds, my aunt 
 began again, with a reflective air : 
 
 " You are right, Gontran ; you do not allow yourself to be hurrried away. 
 You will perceive, that all I ask in the world is the power of being able to dis 
 believe every word of what 1 read in my letters, and to answer, by giving them 
 the lie direct. But on the other hand, what says the proverb ? ' There is never 
 smoke without fire!' Well, let us see ! Between us, what could have created 
 this atrocious slander ? How can we suppose that grave aud serious people 
 who write to me — should amuse themselves in inventing this night-journey of 
 Matilda to M. Lugarto's, if there had been no truth at all therein? After all, 
 you must know better than any one — in the first place, whether M. Lugarto 
 ever had in his possession the means of dishonoring you; secondly, whether 
 he is a person likely to have deprived himself of his only means of injuring you, 
 
2S3 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 for the mere pleasure of doing a good action ? As for me, I confess, I look 
 upon it as somewhat problematical, hypothetical— not to say quite absurd — to 
 think of a creature of his kind, perpetually snarling and doing evil, acting in 
 that manner." 
 
 The infernal spite of Mademoiselle de Maran was new, perhaps, serving 
 her purpose, even though she knew it not. It was impossible that she could 
 have more fiercely provoked the suspicions of Gontran, touching the sur- 
 render of the forgery, which M. Lugarto must seem to him to have made 
 voluntarily. . 
 
 Although my husband could not raise this question with me— thinking 
 as he did that Ï was completely ignorant of his base conduct— 1 had always 
 remarked that he must discern something mysterious in its return to him by 
 M. Lugarto. 
 
 " Did Mademoiselle de Maran then know all ?" This question I could 
 not at that moment answer. Nevertheless, I now expected to hear a violent 
 outbreak from Gontran. I was, therefore, almost frightened, when 1 
 saw that he listened to Mademoiselle de Maran with the same careless 
 quiet ; that he shrugged his shoulders as she ceased to speak, and an- 
 swered—' 
 
 " This, indeed, can be regarded hardly in the light either of a slander, or a 
 folly. It falls into the romantic, into the supernatural. Is this all, madam ? 
 Do your correspondents tell you notning further ? It is a pity that they should 
 stop in so beautiful a path." 
 
 " Certainly not. This is not all ?'' cried my aunt, no longer able to contain 
 her rage. " I told you that all the most respectable people were convinced. I 
 will tell you now what will be the consequences of this conviction. They will 
 be charmingly agreeable to you doubtless, l'or, although you look upon them 
 as romantic and supernatural, they will not hinder yourself and your wife ■ 
 from being pointed at wherever you go, and from not receiving one bow in 
 return for ten that you shall make ! Does this astonish you ? You will, per- 
 haps, say now, that this is magic ; nothing, however, can possibly be more 
 simple. I will explain this to you, always according to my humble judgment. 
 People will either believe that your wife has sacrificed her honor to preserve 
 yours, and so you will pass for a miserably poor devil— or, they will believe 
 that she yielded to her passion for Lugarto, and, therefore, will regard her as 
 infamous, without taking into consideration, that, even in this view of the 
 case, they will still look upon you as the basest of men ; seeing that you tole- 
 rated this passion, either because you owed money to the villians, or, because, 
 as your wife brought you all the fortune you enjoy, y ou judged it most politic 
 and economical to shut your eyes to her conduct." 
 
 " Truly, madam ; will they belie ve aH this ?" said Gontran. 
 
 " To be sure they will ; this is what all good people do believe now— all inof- 
 fensive people — in short, all your friends !'* 
 
 " And what do our enemies believe, madam?" 
 
 "Ah! ah! ah! --your enemies ! That is a very different matter! Your 
 enemies believe that you and Matilda understand yourselves as well as two 
 thieves at a fair. They say, ' If there had been but one guilty person in the 
 family, whether theman or the woman, there would have been a split between 
 them. An honorable woman does not continue to live with a dishonored man. 
 She may sacrifice her honor, perhaps, to save that of her husband ; but the 
 sacrifice once made, she disowns him. If she continues to live with him. 
 she becomes his accomplice. On the other hand, no honorable man lives with 
 a wife who has degraded him. If he has no fortune, he lives in the utmost 
 want, rather than suffer it to be suspected that he lives with an adultress from 
 mean and in terres ted motives' This, I say, is the conclusion to which your 
 enemies will come- -those slanderous and unmannered tongues — when they 
 see that you remain on so good terms together. They will beliere that you 
 have the most infamous toleration, each for the other's vices." 
 
 " In a word- in a word, madam, I can guess the whole truth now," I replied ; 
 " madam, your hatred has carried you a little too far ! You have betrayed 
 yourself in your own despite ? Praise be to God, who has revealed the secret 
 enmities which beset us!" 
 
 " How— how is this ?'' cried Mademoiselle de Maran ; " this poor little thing 
 is mad." 
 
 "Gontran! Gontran! I have been asking myself, on what account my 
 father's sister could possibly have come hither ? She tells you now herself. 
 Yes, madam, I now understand the whole You wish, by your calumnies, to 
 awaken terrible discussions between us, and so to sever usj In truth, madam, 
 that would hav > been a grand triumph for you. We have been married hardly 
 
RUMOUBS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 23V 
 
 a year, and a separation would infallibly destroy either myself or Gontran ; 
 
 for it would give authority to the basest rumours." 
 
 The contraction of Mademoiselle de Maran's eyebrows proved to me that 
 
 my blow had taken effect. She began therefore, as was her custom, to laugh 
 violently, in order to conceal her rage. 
 
 " Ha! ha ! ha ! How amusing she is with her suppositions — the dear little 
 thing! But, little fool that you are, do you think that I am talking to you 
 in my own name ? I came as a good and sincere relation— do not forget this, 
 I beseech you— to teil you, my dear children, to be on your guard. This is 
 what is actually believed. It ; s not a mere rumour — a piece of gossip — an 
 invention — it is the conviction of serious and grave persons, whose word 
 has the greatest weight in society. How will the world interpret your con- 
 duct thus, since it is impossible to take this conviction away from it? since 
 you are dishonored — if not both, at least one or the other of you — I come as 
 a good and sincere relation." 
 
 Gontran here interrupted Mademoiselle de Marap, by saying to her : 
 " It seems to me, Madam, that the world will have a much easier and 
 more natural mode of accounting for the fact — that Madame de Lancryand 
 myself continue to live together — by believing simply that we live together 
 as honorable people generally do — that, having nothing with which to re- 
 proach one another, we utterly despise these atrocious calumnies ; and 
 that we have too much good sense to give up our happiness, in consequence 
 of the first hateful scandal we encounter. This explanation, too, would have 
 the advantage of being the only one, at the same time, possible and true — 
 which, to my thinking, is no small advantage. To resume, madam ; I par- 
 take in no degree, the suspicions, or mistrusts of Matilda. The poor thing 
 has suffered already so deeply by pitiless slanders, that in her blind resent- 
 ment, she may for a moment, have confounded you with them. She is 
 mistaken, I doubt not ; speaking to us as you do, you but yield to the in- 
 terest with which we inspire you. Complete then your kindness, and give 
 us your advice as to what we must do in order to convince our friends, that 
 they are but the dupes of empty slander, and to convict our enemies of in- 
 famy." 
 
 " My good nephew," said Mademoiselle de Maran, furiously, "I give 
 advice no longer — the hour for that is passed ; but I divine and predict. 
 Listen to me, then— if you are curious about the present and the future, listen 
 to me, then. In your nice little establishment, the one of you is the dupe 
 and victim, the other the cheat and executioner. A rupture will become 
 necessary to you at last, and that even earlier than you imagine, because, 
 at last the victim will rebel ! But this separation, my dear children, will be 
 too late — much too late! The world has got into the way of looking upon 
 you as two accomplices! It will continue to despise you. This separation, 
 therefore which might once have saved the reputation of one or the other of 
 you, will now be but a new charge against you. People will take you then 
 for a pair of rogues so desperately wicked, that you cannot contrive to live 
 together. This appears very funny to you. unquestionably ; and I am, in 
 your opinion, doubtless, a mad woman. Well ! you will come and tell me 
 one day whether I am mistaken: one word more, and then we will let the 
 matter drop. This horrible revolution so terrified and scattered all my 
 friends, that I have seen very few persons, and knew little or nothing about 
 this. When, however, some whispers began to reach my ears, I begged 
 your uncle, M. de Versac, and M. de Blancourt, two of my oldest friends, to 
 be on the watch — to inquire, and to write me word what they should hear 
 said, or should know to have been said. Here are the letters, read them ; you 
 will see if I have invented anything. Now, not a word more on the subject. 
 Let us make up a whist party, if you please. If Matilda is too much tired, 
 "ve will make a dumby with you and Ursula. All this turns out admirably 
 well — you are well satisfied, and I submit cheerfully, my good nephew. So 
 much the better— I am very glad of it, I feel proud of it ; I glorify myself 
 like a proud peacock '—for, tell me, what do you suppose I desire? — your 
 happiness only ! Well then, the more the world despises you the happier you 
 are. That gives me an admirable opportunity of laboring for your hap- 
 piness — does it not so? Now, then, ring the bell, and call for cards." 
 
 I returned to my own room, leaving Ursula, my husband, and Made- 
 moiselle de Maran to piny their rubber. That occupation would oblige 
 them at least, to remain silent after the occurrence of so painful a scene. 
 
 2 C 
 
MATILDA, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HAPPINESS AND HOPE. 
 
 I was in extreme perplexity. I knew not whether the calm of Gontraa 
 was real or affected. I was again on the point, in spite of the advice of M. 
 de Mortagne, to disclose every thing to my husband concerning that fatal 
 night. But I thought that it was, perhaps, owing to his anxiety to quiet my 
 suspicions respecting that unfortunate forgery, that he appeared so indifferent 
 to the attacks of Mademoiselle de Maran. Aware of the infernal malice of 
 my aunt, I could not conceal from myself, that we had much to fear from 
 the enmity of society. The cold manner in which Gontran had been received 
 a few months before, seemed almost to justify the predictions of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran. I was anxious to know whether Gontran would visit me before 
 retiring. I wished to tell how much I was rejoiced at the departure of Ursula. 
 I attributed the resolution of my cousin, less to any generous feeling, than 
 to the fear that I would inform her husband of my suspicions — as I had al- 
 ready threatened — and thus excite his mistrust for the future. In this parti- 
 cular, I recognized the wisdom of Madame de Richeville's advice. 
 
 At about eleven o'clock, Gontran rapped at my door, and entered. I 
 studied his features with considerable solicitude, so much did I fear to dis- 
 cover there a threatening expression. It was not so. His countenance ex- 
 pressed more than its habitual tenderness and affection. 
 
 " Oh, my love !" I exclaimed, " how malicious Mademoiselle de Maran is 
 — to come here with the odious purpose of fomenting a quarrel between us, by 
 reporting to us the most abominable calumnies !" 
 
 " Without positively believing — as you seem to do — that such was the ob- 
 ject of your aunt's journey, I think that she was weary of having no one to 
 torment ; and, knowing beforehand the contents of the letters from my uncle 
 and M. deBlancourt, she came to sow seeds of djscord between us. You are 
 right, Matilda ; Mademoiselle de Maran is more malicious than I thought. 
 Henceforth there will be no necessity for us to see her." 
 
 " Oh, my dearest, how kind you are ! if you knew what pleasure that pro- 
 mise afforded me I I have always had a presentiment that Mademoiselle- de 
 Maran would be the cause of our sorrows." 
 
 " Fortunately, in this attempt to injure us, she has been of real benefit, 
 unconscious to herself." 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
 " I have read the letters of my uncle and M. de Blancourt. It is evident 
 that the most false and injurious reports are in circulation respecting us. 
 Malice has taken advantage of a few simple facts, and has terribly distorted 
 them. Thus, because I went to England after some papers which might 
 compromise a third person, it has been reported that Lugarto had documents 
 in his possession which would dishonour me. I do not wish to investigate 
 any farther what could give rise to the absurd report concerning that night 
 which you spent in the house of Lugarto. I know the horror with which he 
 inspired you ; but I am insane ; it is an insult to you to dwell a moment 
 upon such slanders. This malice" of Mademoiselle de Maran will serve to in- 
 form us of what our enemies say. This disclosure must effect some change 
 in our projects. It is, therefore, my opinion — if you will consent to it — that 
 we should postpone, for a long time, our return to Paris ; not go there before 
 a year or fifteen months — and, in the meantime, remain here. Political 
 events will be an excellent excuse for our absence. I know Paris and its 
 society. In six months we shall be forgotten. Within a year, all these 
 miserable calumnies will have diftd away. If, on the contrary, we should 
 visit Paris within a few weeks, according to our first intention, we should 
 plunge into the very midst of that universal clamour, which would astonish 
 you less if you knew society better. You are beautiful and virtuous ; you 
 love me, and have chosen me, which alone is sufficient to excite all the hatred 
 and jealousy that will not fail to seize upon any thing mysterious in my past 
 relations with Lugarto. If I were alone, I should desipse these contemptible 
 reports; but lam responsible for your happiness; and I should be the 
 most culpable of men, if I did not act in such a manner as to save you from 
 new sorrows, where you have already suffered so much on my account. Th« 
 wisest and the most prudent course which we can adopt is, to postpone in- 
 definitely our return to Paris. What say you, Matilda? Are you of my opi- 
 nion ? I beseech you to reply." 
 
HAPPINESS AND HOPE. 291 
 
 *' And how can I do so ?" I exclaimed, in a transport of joy, impossible 
 to describe. " Can I answer you, when my heart is beating with surprise 
 and happiness ? Do you wish, Gontran, to drive me mad with joy? It is 
 too much felicity, for one day, to find your tenderness restored ; to have 
 the certainty of remaining with you here for a long time, instead of returning 
 to Paris— I repeat— it is too great a rapture. I did not solicit so much:" 
 and I could not restrain tears of joy. 
 
 " Poor little one!" said Gontran to me; " your surprise is a cruel re- 
 proach, and I deserve it too well. I have so long deprived you of happiness, 
 that you weep with joy at the assurance of my love, and the certainty of re- 
 maining here for a length of time. It is truly awful, when the thought 
 assails me, that I could have mistaken you for a moment, beloved angel! 
 Why is it, that instead of enjoying the exquisite delicacy of your mind, the 
 adorable kindness of your soul, I have allowed my own heart to harden, while 
 I was surrendering myself to a stupid and brutal existence ? Is it a dream, 
 or is it a reality ? say, my good guardian angel ! Tell me that we fell asleep 
 at Chantilly and awoke at Maran !" 
 
 " Speak thus — continue to speak with your sweet enchanting voice," said 
 I to my husband, clasping my hands in ecstasy — " speak thus again ; you 
 know not how much good those tender words do me ! What a salutary balm 
 they pour into my heart ! It seemed to me, Gontran, that our child shud- 
 dered with joy — yes, with joy and grief ! The poor little being will share all 
 — will henceforth feel all ! Therefore I thank you, upon my knees, for it and 
 for myself — I thank you for the happiness which you have caused us !" 
 
 I passed the days which succeeded that conversation in one constant en- 
 chantment with Gontran. It is impossible for a man to be more affectionate 
 and attentive than my husband was. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, seeing that her wicked projects were almost 
 baffled, did not conceal her displeasure : and spoke of her departure, pretend- 
 ing to be comforted by the last news from Paris. Ursula expected her bus- 
 band every moment. According to her promise, she had written to him, to 
 ask of him to accompany her to Paris, instead of sojourning at Maran, as it 
 had been agreed upon between them. 
 
 From the day when she heard Mademoiselle de Maran speak of the calum- 
 nies we had to fear, I observed a singular change in the manners of my cousin 
 toward me and Gontran. She was more and more satirical and haughty 
 toward my husband. For myself, during the few fortunate days while we 
 were alone together, she was uneasy, confused ; and looked toward me with 
 an expression of interest, which I could not comprehend. I often saw that 
 she was on the point of speaking to me with freedom, as if she had some se- 
 cret to confide — and then, she would suddenly check herself. I, moreover 
 avoided a private interview as much as possible. I spent my mornings with 
 Gontran. After breakfast, we took long rides in our carriage, during which 
 we exchanged but few words. We dined, and Mademoiselle de Maran's 
 game of whist occupied the evening. Now, since the past has enlightened 
 me, I recollect circumstances which I hardly observed then, because I could 
 not explain their bearing. Although my husband displayed toward me the 
 most perfect kindness after his sudden return, he seemed abstracted and 
 plunged in reveries. At times he showed extraordinary absence of mind ; 
 at other times he appeared under the influence of some great surprise, which 
 seemed almost painful — as if he had sought in vain for the solution of some 
 mystery. These impulses of joy which had at first so much astonished me, 
 seemed to have disappeared. Often I saw his features darken with a melan- 
 choly expression. I spoke to him of my surprise, and he replied to me with 
 kindness : "Itis because I am thinking of the sorrows which I have caused yon." 
 
 Although those symptoms should have appeared to me very singular, I gave 
 myself but little uneasiness respecting them. Gontran displayed the great- 
 est attention and kindness. He spoke to me constantly of the necessity of 
 remaining at Maran, for one year at least ; as much to afford time for the re- 
 
 {>orts to sink in oblivion, as for the purposes of economy, which our future 
 ife would demand. I repeat it, I could not then be disturbed concerning 
 the singular abstraction of Gontran, and I feared to displease him by ques- 
 tions on that subject. Doubtless, impelled by an instinct which inclined her 
 to love my enemies, Mademoiselle de Maran seemed to cherish a great affec- 
 tion for Ursula. They often took long walks together. My aunt evidently 
 believed that Gontran had been attentive to Ursula; her perfidious jests 
 addressed to Secherin, had proved it to me. But the marks of affection which 
 Gontran exhibited toward me. and the indifference of Ursula to him, seemed 
 
2g2 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 to dispel her suspicions. Gontran had selected certain hours to accompany 
 me on some musical instrument, as formerly. In short, except the incon- 
 venience of having two persons near us who were my enemies, I had never, 
 since the charming days at Chantilly, been more completely happy. That 
 condition of restraint was, however, about to cease. I was soon to be left 
 alone with Gontran and our babe. The last letter which Ursula had received 
 from M. Secherin, to whom she wrote every other day, informed her that he 
 Would arrive on the 13th of December. I never shall forget that date. The 
 day finally came. Although M. Secherin was usually very punctual in reply- 
 ing to his wife's letters, she had received no news from him for three days. 
 She was by no means disturbed by his silence ; she saw in it a new proof of 
 the proposed arrival of her husband, who would have informed her had he 
 changed his mind. I was sitting at the piano with Gontran. Blondeau came 
 to ask me if I would receive a visit from Ursula. My husband anticipated 
 a refusal, which I intended to give, by saying to me, " She leaves to-day ; 
 it is a mere formality of politeness— I will return soon." Although the in- 
 terview would be extremely disagreeable to me I did not hesitate to follow 
 the advice of my husband. Ursula entered, and we remained together. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 Ursula was sad and serious. 
 
 " After what has passed between us." said she to me, " I believe it to be my 
 duty not to depart, without seeing and conversing with you for a mo- 
 ment. My husband will arrive this morning ; in an hour hence, perhaps 
 even a final explanation will be impossible." 
 
 " An explanation ! what good will it do? It is useless." 
 
 " Perhaps, for you, it is," said Ursula. " You have nothing to reproach 
 yourself with, in your conduct towards me : while I — I confess it with 
 shame — have been guiity of gross injustice to you." 
 
 I looked upon Ursula with suspicion : I expected from her no return of sen- 
 timent, but hypocrisy. But I had so often been her dupe, that I no longer 
 feared that I shoud be as weak and confiding as before. One thing, however, 
 astonished me ; my cousin did not affect that melancholy and plaintive tone 
 which she ordinarily employed as one of her most irresistible attractions. Her 
 demeanour was cold and calm. 
 
 "You have, indeed, wronged me," said I; "but I do not wish to recall 
 your conduct, at the instant you are leaving us. All ties, and friendship be- 
 tween us, are severed ; we will hereafter be strangers to each other. I may, 
 perhaps, at some future day, forget the misery you have caused me." 
 
 "Do not mistake my motives, in this final interview," said Ursula; " I do 
 not come to ask you to forget my avowal of the envy with which you always 
 inspired me ; nor that instinctive aversion to you, which was the consequence." 
 
 " Then, why this interview?" 
 
 " Listen to me, Matilda. You have already seen me under very different 
 aspects; one day, a woman beseeching, complaining, misunderstood, as you 
 say ; and another day, haughty, ironical, insolently coquettish, and advancing 
 the most cynical theories ; now condescending to flatter the most vulgar 
 tastes of my husband, and rendering him, after all, as happy as he can be, and 
 as he wishes to be; and then deceiving him without remorse, and making 
 use of the most treacherous hypocrisy to separate him from his mother, who 
 detested me. Well, these moods of my conduct, various as they are, are 
 nothing, compared to the mysteries of my soul ; for I there combine quite as 
 many contrasts : thus, I have an immoderate love of luxury, eclat, and eleg- 
 ance ; I carry my passion for display to such a degree, that — and I confess it 
 with shame — I would have married the most infirm old man to satisfy it. 
 Nevertheless, I had the courageous patience to go and bury myself in a pro- 
 vince — there to lead a miserable country life — that my husband might have 
 time to increase his fortune, and thus enable me to expatiate at Paris, in 
 that sumptuous style of living, of which I had always dreamed, and for which 
 I would have sacrificed any thing. I love to rule imperiously : and there are 
 certain conquests, almost brutal in their kind, which I adore. I am false 
 — deceitful— both by nature and by design ; and sometimes I have fits of ir- 
 rational frankness. In truth, I am at once capable of much evil and much 
 
XE PENT AN CE. 
 
 298 
 
 good. Oh t do not smile in 80 incredulous and contemptuous a manner! 
 Yes, Matilda, of much good. At this very moment, I can give you a proof of 
 it. Doubtless, this good is mixed up with much evil, like everything else 
 that is human. But now, I believe, that the good predominates, and you 
 Bhall judge of it. Eight days since, we had a long interview, and I confessed 
 to you the jealousy with which you inspired me. Yes, I envied you most en- 
 tirely : young, beautiful, rich, intellectual — imparting an irresistible charm 
 to virtue and to dignity, and fascinating by those very qualities which 
 usually repel. I never saw auy one more perfect than you." 
 "This is flattery." 
 
 "Oh ! it is not flattery ! Matilda. I have been a witness to the power of 
 your fascinations. I have seen you take more pains and lavish more attentions 
 to please one poor, old country dame, than would "have been requisite to turn 
 the heads of twenty fops ; for you have that inestimable treasure, the co- 
 quetry of virtue, in as great perfection as other women have the coquetry of 
 vice. In fine, you have always possessed, as you still possess, all those advan- 
 tages in which I am deficient. Eight days ago, Matilda, I envied you those 
 advantages, because I believe that you felt an insolent happiness in them 
 —but to day " 
 
 " Well, to-day !" said I to Ursula. 
 
 " To-day, I know that you are unhappy. Yes ; I know that you are the 
 most wretched of women, and I have no longer the courage to envy you 
 those rare and brilliant qualities. This is a contradiction which you will 
 explain as you are able." 
 
 " Your habitual penetration is at fault," said I to Ursula ; " for, in truth, 
 for eight days past, while I have seemed so deserving of your pity, I have 
 never been more happy. Never did my husband show me more attention 
 and tenderness." 
 
 "We will talk, by and by, of those attentions and tendernesses," said 
 Ursula, with a singular expression. " Let us speak first of the cause which has 
 changed my hatred and jealousy to pity. If you will permit me, I will tell 
 you frankly: Mademoiselle de Maran — I know not for what object, except to 
 excite my envy still more — was pleased to exaggerate your happiness in my 
 eyes, even to the very day when she informed you, in my presence, of the 
 calumnies to which you were subjected. All the time that I seemed to parti- 
 cipate in her malice, I remained convinced of one thing : that you were the 
 most upright and noble woman in the world, and that notwithstanding, your 
 reputation, if not entirely lost, was compromised for ever!" 
 
 " You are mistaken ; truth always comes to light at last." 
 
 "Alas! Matilda, do not deceive yourself ! Falsehood is so mingled with 
 truth in those events which elicit the unjust judgment of the world, that it 
 is extremely difficult to overthrow it. In a matter of doubt, society does not 
 withhold its sentence — it condemns ! Thus, I repeat to you, I am too cruelly 
 revenged for the advantages which I envied." 
 
 I was indignant at the kind of commiseration which Ursula affected ; her 
 praises were revolting to me. Although what she said to me had but too 
 much an appearance of truth, I did not wish to acknowledge it to her. 
 
 " I fully conceive," said I to my cousin, " that it is highly desirable to you 
 to believe that singular reparation of human justice, which tarnishes the 
 reputation of respectable women. But do not be too hasty in your triumph ; 
 although you hope the contrary, sooner or later, all are judged according to 
 their merits. You may, therefore, dispense with your pity. As to my quali- 
 ties, you presume that they will meet such a recompense, and such an end 
 that your praises are but so many sarcasms." 
 
 Ursula rejoined, with an imperturbable calmness ; " It is precisely because 
 these qualities are so badly recompensed, that I praise them unrestrictedly 
 — you may believe this. As to envying them, I take good care not to do 
 that — they would embarrass me too much," added she, with that smile which 
 was so peculiar to her. " I have not seen more of the world than you have," 
 she rejoined, "but by reflection, I know it better than you will ever know 
 it, whatever you may say. I am convinced, then, that your reputation has 
 received a mortal blow, in spite of your most brilliant virtue." 
 
 " Madam !" 
 
 " Do not take this repetition as an outrage, Matilda ! no, no. And look 
 you," rejoined Ursula after a moment's silence, " you believe me the most 
 false, and most lying of women ; thus, instead of being touched with what I am 
 about to say to you, you will again consider me a hypocrite ; but no matter 
 —at this moment I am speaking for myself and not for you. Well ! how that 
 2 c 3 
 
294 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 I am made acquainted with the horrible grief you have endured— now that I 
 know those which still await you — truly — oh ! truly, Matilda ! I have repented 
 — profoundly repented of the injurj which I had intended. I do not dare to 
 Bay — have inflicted on you." 
 
 While pronouncing these last words, the voice of my cousin trembled with 
 emotion. I would have credited her remorse, but I knew her to be so false 
 — so good an actress, that I smiled bitterly, and pushed away the hand which 
 sought to take hold of mine." 
 
 " Matilda! do you believe me?" 
 
 " No — although your tears will doubtless soon come to your assistance to 
 convince me." 
 
 "My tears — no, Matilda — no ! this time 1 shall not weep — for my grief is 
 so profound, so sincere, that to make you believe in it, feigned tears will 
 not be requisite." 
 
 " Confounded by the boldness of this avowal, I looked at my cousin with 
 surprise. Yes, I will own, I will acknowledge, even if I should be considered 
 stupid— mad— that after so many delusions had been dissipated, after so much 
 deception — I felt moved, touched, in spite of all that had occurred, with the 
 expression of Ursula's countenance at that moment, and with the unspeak- 
 able sweetness of her affectionate looks. This expression struck me the 
 more forcibly, because it did not in any way resemble the habitual affectation 
 of my cousin. I believed then, and I now still believe, that she spoke under 
 the influence of a real feeling. I endeavoured, however, with all my strength, 
 to resist the species of fascination. 
 
 " Oh ! you are the most dangerous of women !" I exclaimed, "leave me ! 
 leave me! If indeed real, your regrets are vain ; they can no wise extenuate 
 the frightful wrongs you have done me ! You have desired to destroy my 
 happiness. I have not been the dupe of the part you have been pleased to 
 
 act toward my husband ; and if he did not entertain for you a con " The 
 
 word appeared too harsh to me, I wished rot to utter it. Ursula completed it. 
 
 "Contempt! you would say, Matilda! Say on — say on. I can — I 
 ought to listen to all that you now " 
 
 " Well ! had it depended only upon you, you would have seduced my hus- 
 band from his allegiance. You would have inflicted the severest injury upon 
 a woman who always wished your welfare, and whom you found already so un- 
 happy — so undeservedly unhappy ! even admitting that your feelings are now 
 sincere." 
 
 " Yes, they are sincere," rejoined Ursula; "yes, in that interview, at which 
 you were present, without my being aware of it, I fully calculated that, instead 
 of extinguishing the passion of your husband, I, on the contrary, irritated it. 
 as much by my affected indifference as by my raillery and my disdain." 
 
 "The passion!" said I, contemptuously shrugging my shoulders; "he 
 entertain a passion for you ! Say, then, an inclination — a passing fancy !" 
 
 " I say the passion, Matilda, because it is a passion of which I am now 
 speaking — do you understand me ? — because a passion is the subject." 
 
 " A passion ! Dare you still say this ? What ! even now ?" 
 
 " Do not believe that I desire in any way to wound your self-love. I 
 wish to render you a service, Matilda ! to make amends, in part, for the 
 injury I have done you — and, Heaven be thanked ! it is still time to do so." 
 The tone of voice in which Ursula spoke was so authoritative, that, in spite of 
 myself, I silently listened to her. 
 
 "Yes," she rejoined, "I knew that I was irritating the passion of your 
 husband. This exultation, on my part, ought to reassure you as to the 
 feelings which I bore towards him, but not as to what he then felt toward me, 
 nor what he still feels for me." 
 
 "Oh, this is shameful!" exclaimed I ; "what odious calumny! This, 
 then, is the farewell you will take? On quitting me, you desire to leave my 
 heart a prey to the most frightful suspicion !" 
 
 " Matilda, in pity to yourself, allow me to conclude what I was about to 
 say. My husband may arrive in this moment or the next, and then all further 
 conversation will be impossible." 
 
 " In pity to myself?" 
 
 " Yes, yes— in pity to yourself, unhappy woman ! Hear me ! and believe 
 that I am yielding to a generous impulse which may one day, perhaps, rf- 
 ford me consolation for many wicked actions. Hear me then ; if not for your 
 own sake, be it then for the sake, at least, of the future welfare of your child!" 
 
 "What! do you know that?" cried I, astounded, for I had confided 
 this secret to Contran only. 
 
REPENTANCE. 
 
 205 
 
 ** Yes, yes; I know it," replied Ursula, "and this reason above all, 
 while it increases my remorse, has determined me to act as I am acting." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, Ursula, with downcast eyes, her voice much 
 agitated, continued : " You well remember the angry conversation which we 
 had together?" 
 
 " Yes, yes : well, what of that?" I exclaimed with anguish, for my heart 
 contracted, with I know not what hateful presentiment, on thinking that my 
 husband had imparted a secret to this woman which was only known 
 between ourselves. 
 
 " I do not wish to recriminate," continued Ursula, with increasing emo- 
 tion, " but at all events, if in that interview I frankly avowed to you the envy 
 with which you had always inspired me, you, Matilda, treated me most piti- 
 lessly. You reproached me with a shameful and base intrigue which 1 will 
 never acknowledge ; you reproached me with my perfidies; and I, at that 
 moment, thought you the most happy among women. At that moment, I 
 swear to you, I was ignorant of all that you had suffered ; for — remember 
 well, Matilda, that it was only in the evening — only in the evening of that day 
 that I learned, through Mademoiselle de Maran, a part of your misfortunes." 
 
 ."Speak! in the name of Heaven — speak! Well, after our interview, 
 what happened ? But — yes — I recollect, you went to walk in the forest." 
 
 " Pardon, Matilda, pardon ! I went there to meet your husband ; he was 
 waiting for me in an uninhabited cottage, where he had requested me to meet 
 him." 
 
 This confession was so unexpected, so full of horror, that, at first I could not 
 believe it. My last hope depended on its falsehood. To believe it, would 
 be to adopt the fatal assurance, that, for the last eight days, Gontran's con- 
 duct toward me was one continued tissue of guile and falsehood ! To 
 believe it, I must acknowledge to myself, that ail the tenderness he had 
 evinced toward me, was but to conceal his intrigue with Ursula." 
 
 I could not — I would not, yield up my belief to so hateful a truth ! 
 Beside myself with agony, I cried out, " You calumniate Gontran, he 
 spent that day shooting ; one of his people came from him to tell me so." 
 
 " Yes ! that man repeated to you what his master had instructed him to say." 
 
 " It was not true, then ?— that man lied ?" 
 
 " Yes ! yes! pardon, Matilda ! Led away by the hatred which I bore you, 
 wishing to revenge myself upon you by taking your husband from you — I 
 became guilty." 
 
 " I tell you that I do not believe you ! I tell you that you invent this 
 calumny, to strike me with a fatal blow !" 
 
 " I have the courage to inform you of this truth, Matilda ! however dis- 
 graceful it may be to me, and however painful it may be to you." 
 
 " My God 1 my God ! thou hearest her 1" exclaimed I, raising my hands 
 to Heaven. 
 
 " Pardon, Matilda! for when afterward I was apprised of how unhappy 
 you had been — when afterward I heard from Gontran, you were about to be- 
 come a mother — poor unhappy woman ! that completely disarmed me. I 
 felt a horror of my crime, when I reflected that I had yielded not to love, 
 but to a vile hatred — an execrable feeling of revenge !" 
 
 " My God! my God!" cried I, in overwhelming grief, " deprive me of 
 my reason ! make me mad ! or take my life. 1 can no longer — I will no 
 longer suffer these horrid torments." 
 
 " Matilda! Matilda 1 pardon! I swear to you, at that moment I did not 
 suspect all the claims you have to interest— to the most tender pity : but, I 
 must have the courage to tell you all. Well, I did not then suspect the 
 odious indifference of your husband to you. No, I could not believe that 
 his love for me, could render him so false, so unjust, so cruel, as he must be 
 toward you : for, alas ! you do not know his projects." 
 
 " But this is frightful !" exclaimed I ; " she runs to her dishonour, and 
 then comes to accuse my husband ! What can this woman be ? What 
 can he be himself? What am I myself? What is this life ? Is it a dream ? 
 Is it a horrible reality ? And you — you who are standing there before me 
 — you who are now looking at me, whoever you may be — answer me : where 
 am I ? Which is the truth ? Which is the lie ? How is it possible that the 
 affection which Gontran has lavished upon me, for the last eight days, was 
 a mere snare — an- insulting falsehood ! To what end could such a snare be 
 laid for me ? as you were about to leave this place — as you are going to 
 leave it. Oh ! this is a chaos in which my head turns round, and is eom- 
 pletely lost. I rave ! my God ! I rave ! take pity on me — enlighten me. Ur- 
 
296 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 ■ula, look here — am I sufficiently humbled ; am I sufficiently wretched ? 
 See me at your feet, Ursula — at your feet !" 
 
 " Rise, Matilda, in the name of Heaven ! it is I — I who should sue to you 
 for pardon." 
 
 " I pardon you — I pardon you — but at least tell me the truth^-the whole 
 truth, however horrible it may be. I am a mother. I have not now onlv 
 myself to care for : giving way to this grief, I shall kill my child. I tell 
 you I will no longer suffer — I will not. If Gontran has so shamefully de- 
 ceived me, all hope of recovering his love is gone for ever ! Well, I would 
 make up my mind to it ; I would never see him more ; I would remain here 
 alone ; and when I have my child, I might again be happy. Therefore, Ur- 
 sula, have no fears — tell me all — do you hear ? absolutely all I your frank- 
 ness may save my life. Speak ! Ursula, speak ! a certainty, for the love of God, 
 however dreadful it may be — a certainty! death is better than this agony !" 
 
 " Poor woman ! poor, unhappy woman !" said Ursula, concealing with her 
 hands her face, bathed in tears. 
 
 *' Yes ; unhappy, most unhappy ! is it not so ? You no longer envy me 
 now, do you ? To persecute me further, would be barbarity. You see, it 
 is impossible to be more unhappy ; it is as you desired. Is not your 
 aversion sufficiently appeased?" 
 
 " Matilda— ah ! I am too mueh revenged. This is horrible ! horrible. Un- 
 fortunately, I can do nothing for the past ; but I can for the future ! Listen 
 to me attentively : Here is a letter that Gontran wrote to me, and here is my 
 answer; I sincerely desire to deliver it to him. It may not extenuate the 
 wrongs I have inflicted, but it proves, at least, that I desire to repair them. 
 In this reply, I exhibit myself in such odious colours, that, notwithstanding 
 my regret at having injured you, I have, till now, hesitated to forward to 
 Gontran letters so disgraceful to myself. Here they are." 
 
 And Ursula handed me a sealed package, which I took mechanically. 
 
 " Now for one last word, Matilda. I could have hidden from you this cruel 
 confession, gone to Paris, and left you in complete blindness ; but when you 
 read your husband's letter, you will learn his projects for the future ; and 
 that he entertains toward me an unbridled passion, whose consequences 
 have made me wretched. I have, till now, spoken to you of the wrongs 
 which I have inflicte-d ; now see how it is that I hope in part to repair them. 
 "With the letter he wrote to me, you will abash your husband ; he will cast 
 himself at your feet and implore a pardon. With the answer that I wrote, you 
 can show him that there remains no hope of his ever seeing me again — 
 moreover, you can revenge yourself for the past, and provide for the future. 
 If I give you even a shadow of jealousy send to M. Secherin, the letter which 
 I have written to Gontran ; if you desire to revenge yourself for the past, send 
 these writings immediately to my husband, and it will leave him no doubt of 
 the extent of my fault. I know him — as blind as his goodness and confidence 
 are, he will be merciless to me when he is certain I have betrayed him. He 
 will repudiate me, my father will never receive me ; I shall be bereft of re- 
 sources, and from the dream of opulence, that I was about to realize, I shall 
 fall into a gulf of misery. And you know not, Matilda, what misery may 
 urge me to do. And then," continued Ursula, in a tone of voice nearly so- 
 lemn, " there must have been something fatal, something providential in 
 what has happened. 1 shall never write again ; I. am too cautious an adept 
 to do anything which can compromise me. The fault that I committed could 
 have remained hidden, at. least, it could not have been proved ; nevertheless, 
 I wrote a letter which might ruin me, and I came voluntarily to confide in 
 you. Nothing forced me — you see, then, to put myself in your power — 
 nothing except my remorse for the past, my good resolutions for the fu- 
 ture, and my blind confidence in your justice. Nothing could have driven me 
 to act thus, except one of those strange inexplicable contradictions in my 
 nature, of which I spoke to you, and which you ridiculed, Matilda." 
 
 I remained stupefied, holding the package in my hands. Such wickedness, 
 such insolence, mingled perhaps with a species of generosity and greatness, 
 seemed incomprehensible to me. I then asked myself, and I now still ask my- 
 self — whether the confession which Ursula had just made to me, was calculated 
 with demoniacal perfidy, or if it were really dictated by a tardy interest in me? 
 Did she affect to throw herself upon my discretion, in order to increase my 
 grief to its very acme, by informing me of the infidelity of my husband ? 
 or was it that she sincerely wished to give me, for the future, a certain 
 warning against herself and Gontran ? 
 
 I looked at my cousin with as much terror, as I felt surprise and mistrust 
 of her. 
 
THE CHASTISEMENT. 
 
 297 
 
 All at once the tramp of horses was heard in the court-yard. My bed- 
 room was on the ground-floor. Ursula ran to the window, drew aside one 
 of the curtains, and looked into the court-yard ; and then said, with a sim- 
 plicity so touching, that I could not avoid being softened by it: " Matilda, 
 my husband's carriage is now entering the yard — you can now tell him all, 
 and avenge yourself of the harm which I have done you." . 
 
 We remained silent for some moments — my door was opened — Ursula 
 appeared petrified, and started back. 
 
 It was not her husband who entered the room ; it was his mother, 
 Madame Sechcrin ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CHASTISEMEIST. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Madame Secherin certainly showed, under the circumstances, a superhu- 
 man strength. Until then, I had been in the habit of seeing her walk pain- 
 fully — bent as she was with old age and infirmities; she now advanced 
 into the middle of the room with a firm, deliberate, and almost spirited step. 
 The wrinkles seemed almost to have disappeared from her brow, to make way 
 for a kind of threatening satisfaction, or thundering triumph, which im- 
 parted majesty and terror to her countenance. One would have supposed 
 she had been charged with a mission of divine vengeance, and that she was 
 elevated for the moment to a degree of dignified emotion, which fitted her 
 for the task. In her proud and lofty bearing, in her fearful smile, and in 
 her bitter look — were to be seen the outraged feelings of a mother who 
 idolized her son. The mother, agonized by the conduct of a guilty wife, 
 came, in her cruel joy, to make dreadful reprisals ! 
 
 At the sight of this pale woman, in her long black robes, I was so 
 frightened, that I entirely forgot what had happened between Ursula and me. 
 I remained silent, and, like my cousin, fascinated by the presence of her 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 The latter cried with a choking voice, raising her eyes to Heaven : 
 
 " My God ! My God ! leave me nut to myself ! give me, if it be thy will, 
 strength sufficient to accomplish thy purpose now ! Excess of joy is excess 
 of joy, as excess of grief is excess of grief." And, as if she had yielded 
 to a violent emotion, Madame Secherin grasped with her wrinkled hand the 
 arm of a chair. Then, almost transfixing Ursula with her gaze, she said : 
 
 " I told you unhappy woman ! that God unmasked the wicked, and 
 crushed them sooner or later." 
 
 Then turning towards me, she added : 
 
 "I told you, that one day you would be punished by this woman for the 
 culpable pity which you extended toward her. I told you — I did indeed— 
 that my son would return to me, and that he wouldreturn to ask consolation 1" 
 
 And she crossed her arms, throwing back her head with an expression of 
 frightful pride. Gontran entered, followed by Mademoiselle de Maran, and a 
 man with whom I was unacquainted. 
 
 " May I be informed madam, what procures us the honour of your visit, and 
 who this gentleman is ? He has been conducted to my apartment by one of 
 my servants, and I understand him to say that he appears here on your 
 behalf," said M. de Lancry. 
 
 " This gentleman is my son's first clerk ; as I could not travel alone, my 
 son requested him to accompany me." Then addressing the man, she said : 
 
 " Firmin, we depart in an hour ; you may go : shut the door." 
 
 Gontran looked at me with an air of surprise. The clerk went away. 
 We remained — my husband, Mademoiselle de Maran, Madame Secherin, 
 Ursula, and myself. Gontran and my aunt knew nothing of this interview 
 until now, and they saw that some grave business was about to be trans- 
 acted. Madame Secherin said to my aunt, 
 
 " You are one of the family, madam ?" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran measured Ursula's mother-in-law with her eye, " 
 without replying ; and she looked at me as if she would inquire who this 
 woman was. 
 
 " Madame Secherin," said I ; and I added, introducing my aunt to 
 Ursula's mother-in-law, " Mademoiselle de Maran." 
 
 Madame Secherin, remembering the eulogiums that her son — completely 
 deceived with regard to my aunt's character — had always given her, ad- 
 vanced toward her and said : 
 
S98 MATILDA. 
 
 " You, also, are one of us, madam ; you espouse the cause of the good 
 against the wicked. My son has often told me that you are like myself, 
 simple, candid, and an enemy to all hypocrisy. Your presence is useful here. 
 We cannot have too many judges on an occasion where there are so many 
 culprits." 
 
 4< Although I do not wholly comprehend you, my dear madam, with 
 reference to the judges and the culprits," said my aunt, " I certainly shall 
 not lose so good an opportunity of declaring to you that you have the most 
 precious son in the world ; not to say that his remarks concerning me, and 
 my ingenuous simplicity, prove that he has penetration, as well as judgment. 
 I dare hope, in return, that what he has told us of you is as weil founded. 
 Nothing then remains for us, but to congratulate one another and our present 
 meeting." 
 
 Madame Secherin looked attentively at Mademoiselle de Maran. Whether 
 from a habit ~of observation, or sagacity, or the instinct of her maternal 
 heart, or that my aunt's smile had betrayed her irony, Ursula's mother-in- 
 law, after a moment of silence, replied to my aunt, shaking the first finger 
 of her right hand as she raised her head : 
 
 " No ! no ! I see. You are not — you will never be one of us — your look is 
 wicked ! My son is deceived with regard to you as he is with regard to others." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran burst into a fit of laughter, and cried : 
 
 " My dear madam, you look like a furious sort of sibyl — a pythoness, with 
 your old-world denunciations. Only permit me to observe, simply this : 
 since I have enjoyed the honour of speaking to your son, these denunciations 
 of yours are somewhat impolite ; for, according to your account, I do not 
 belong to the category of good people." 
 
 " I know not what a sibyl is, madam, but I know when I am sneered at," 
 said Madame Secherin, loftily. 
 
 " I shall do myself the pleasure of recalling to you, my dear madam, that 
 the sibyl of Cumse was a sort of witch ; who foretold the future with devilish 
 grimaces, and all sorts of strange gestures." 
 
 My husband, frightened by Ursula's paleness, without discontinuing his 
 gaze, cried, addressing Madame Secherin — 
 
 " Madam, may I ask once more what it is that procures me the honour of 
 this visit ? Madame de Lancry appears much annoyed ; your daughter in-law 
 also seems moved. You have sent for me to appear before you instantly. 
 What has happened ? Have the goodness to explain." 
 
 " Oh ! you shall know, sir, you shall know ;" said Madame Secherin. 
 
 I was in torment ; I felt that this woman had some overwhelming proof of 
 Ursula's wickedness ; but she was in no hurry to produce it. She seemed 
 to taste her vengeance, and enjoy the horrible anguish of my cousin. 
 
 The latter, in spite of her habitual coolness and boldness, seemed terrified. 
 
 She felt that all her powers would be unequal to the task of convincing her 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 I confess that, notwithstanding my reasons for hating Ursula, I could not 
 help pitying her, when I thought that she was going to be ruined at the 
 moment when remorse for her fault was, perhaps, about to inspire her with 
 a generous sentiment. 
 
 Madame Secherin slowly drew from her pocket a package, exactly like that 
 which my cousin intended to have given me. 
 
 This observation was sufficient to show me, that both these packages 
 must have formed a part of the letter-paper that had been sent into Ur- 
 sula's apartment, and that this paper was blue. It must be evident why I 
 insist upon such particularity in my details. 
 
 "Do you know this letter 9 " said Madame Secherin, with a loud voice, 
 showing Ursula the envelope. Then she added, with austere dignity, rais- 
 ing the fore finger of her right hand to Heaven, " See, if the hand of God is 
 not here ; The proof of your first crime was a letter which you impudently 
 stole from me. The proof of your second crime is also a letter ; but 
 this time you sent it to my son — the Lord having struck you with madness, 
 as a punishment for your sins." 
 
 Ursula did not answer a word. Pale as death, she rushed toward me, 
 seized the package which had been given me, and which I still held in my 
 hand : she broke the seal, opened it, cast a rapid glance over it--then let it 
 fall upon the floor, bending her head upon her bosom, under a mournful 
 weight of conscious guilt ! 
 
 Victim of a fatal mistake ! the unhappy woman had misdirected the letter ! 
 
THE CHASTISEMENT, 
 
 299 
 
 She had sent to her husband Gontran's letter, and the reply that she had 
 made to it — she had handed me the letter intended for M. Secherin. 
 
 " I tell you that the hand of God is here 1" continued Madame Secherin : 
 " I say it is the Lord's will that you— so deceitful and so cunning, should be 
 unmasked, ruined by your own mistake ! you have put on one letter the name 
 and address intended for another. This simple error has made it clear to 
 my poor son what you are. He has seen, that at Rouvrai I was inspired by 
 God, when I said — ' I swear this woman is guilty; send her away, even 
 though ihe proofs of her infamy should escape you.' Was I not right? I 
 passed for a fool in exacting from my son without sufficient reasons, what 
 seemed to him a foolish sacrifice ; but God has taken care to justify me, and 
 to prove that maternal instincts are infallible." 
 
 There, was, in fact, so strange a fatality in this revelation, that for a 
 moment we were utterly stupefied. Mademoiselle de Maran broke the 
 silence, and said, in a sharp voice, to Ursula's mother-in-law ; 
 
 " For the love of Heaven ! — all the little secrets of which you know so 
 well — my dear madam, explain this fine confusion of letters ; favour us with 
 your moral reflections, and tell us what all this proves." 
 
 " Impious, wicked and unmannerly old age, always gives an injurious ex- 
 ample," replied Madame Secherin, looking fixedly at Mademoiselle de Maran 
 — and adding, with a severe tone : " Now, that 1 know you have brought 
 up these two young women, I am not astonished at the perverseness of this 
 wretch!" pointing to Ursula; "but I am astonished at the virtues of her 
 cousin," pointing to me. 
 
 M What is this ? what is this ?" cried Mademoiselle de Maran. " Ah ! my 
 good lady, you are probably Heaven's female agent; but that is no reason 
 why you should be so pitiless to this poor world. What would you say, now, 
 if I were to reproach you, for having educated monsieur, your son, in so 
 pleasant a fashion, that he deserves what has happened to him ? Tell me this ! 
 and do you really make me responsible for the little inconveniences and mis- 
 haps of his married life ?" 
 
 "Madam, if you please, let us finish this debate," said Gontran, to 
 Madame Secherin. " It is not to be supposed that I can know what you 
 want." 
 
 " I wish sir, to have you read to your own wife this letter which you wrote 
 to my son's wife." 
 
 She handed me a letter. 
 
 " I wish you, sir, also to read the reply this woman sent you ; for — God is 
 just ! this creature must be as much detested by him who shares her crime, 
 as by the man she has so shamefully outraged." 
 
 She handed a letter to Gontran. 
 
 " I wish you, sir, to read to this adulteress the letter she wrote to my son." 
 
 Then Madame Secherin, who was always calm, crossed her arms, and 
 looked at us in silence. 
 
 My husband was thunderstruck ! he saw the horrors of Ursula's position, 
 and, above all, how I must be affected by this unexpected discovery. Ursula, 
 in a state of stupor, seemed to see and hear nothing. 
 
 This scene had assumed so grave a character, that Mademoiselle de 
 Maran forgot, for a moment, her wicked irony, and seemed seriously 
 attentive. 
 
 I was in a sort of feverish excitement, that gave me a ficticious strength ; 
 but I felt that I could not long endure my feelings, and that perhaps I 
 should faint away, before the fatal mystery could be disclosed. 
 
 While Ursula was buried in her reflections, and Gontran was reading 
 Ursula's reply to him — which the miserable woman supposed she had sent 
 to me— I myself perused my husband's letter, which had elicited my cousin's 
 reply. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 M. DE LANCEY TO UESULA. 
 
 " No, no, Ursula ! I cannot obey you. Your conduct is inexplicable. My 
 feelings are such, when I look back to the unexpected happiness you con- 
 ferred on me, that I must write to you, since I have no opportunity of en- 
 joying a personal interview. It was prudence, doubtless, that induced you 
 to avoid every opportunity of meeting me alone before your departure I 
 
300 » 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 hardly know whether Ï am asleep or awake. Do I dream ? Perhaps you will 
 assist me in unfolding the mystery. 
 
 " Who can help being happy and proud, when he has secured the love of a 
 woman whom he warmly admires ? And yet, the day after that day, when I 
 ought to have been all cheerfulness, I was mournfully sad ; and your incom- 
 prehensible conduct served only to increase my melancholy. I repeat to you, 
 Ursula, strange thoughts pass through my mind. I am terrified by a secret 
 and profound agitation that torments me. I have a presentiment that the 
 greatest event of my life is about to take place. My passion for you is un- 
 changeable—it is fatal ! because it is without limit and without end. It 
 is unchangeable -and fatal, because I love you a thousand times more than 
 you love me in return ! You are the first woman who ever obtained control 
 over me 1 In your presence, I feel my inferiority. You told me that you 
 desired either a tyrant or a slave. Well, you have a slave ! — a blind, con- 
 tented, subdued slave ! 
 
 " I am ashamed to speak to you thus ; and I tell you these things, be- 
 cause I hope that such admissions will disarm your pitiless irony, which pur- 
 sued me even amid the happiness you were pleased to confer upon me. Yes — 
 it seemed to me that then I was yours, but that you were not mine. There 
 was neither love, nor pleasure, nor remorse, in your looks ; but there was 
 an indescribable expression of hateful triumph, of insolent domination, 
 and cruel sarcasm ! Oh ! Ursula ! if I believed in a devil — if I believed 
 that he traffics in souls — as they say he does — I would give him your look 
 of proud disdain, when he sees an unhappy wretch fall into his power, sud- 
 denly and for ever, through the influence of an infernal charm ! 
 
 " This comparison appears to you silly and absurd — you sneer at it, per- 
 haps. Pitiless raillery ! You believe that I jest ! yet this comparison is 
 serious — it is based upon truth. It explains, as far as explanation is pos- 
 sible, a sensation which is real and yet indefinable. Yes— from that day, 
 my soul has not been mine own ; it does not now belong to me 1 Angel or 
 devil, it is yours ! What will you do with it ? 
 
 " This is senseless stupid language ; ytt it seems to me that my heart no 
 longer beats in my bosom, but in yours. Hold I I am terrified to find, that, 
 until now, I have never loved ! Do not mistake this for flattery, Ursula. If 
 I wished to flatter you, I would not employ such bitter and mournful ex- 
 pressions. They cannot give you a very favourable impression of me. They 
 are tiresome and fanciful ; and they inform you only of what you know, for 
 you are perfectly conscious of your unlimited power over me. 
 
 " No, no : I tell you that, until now, I have never loved. I have ever be- 
 lieved, and I still believe, that the man who experiences the only true 
 passion of life, must be conscious of feelings similar to those of women ; 
 inasmuch as they are more tender, and timid, and submissive, and confiding. 
 Such are my feelings toward you, Ursula ; and such feelings I never 
 experienced before. A veteran in love would make no such confession. It 
 gives you an immense advantage over me. But why should I struggle to 
 maintain my independence ? What good would it do to strive against my 
 love 1 You now regard me with a different eye, since the long interview to 
 which my wife listened. You regard me, indeed with indifference ; conse- 
 quently my inward conflict, whether successful or unsuccessful, can have no 
 effect upon you. On that day, you rallied me with pitiless severity ; and 
 yet it was then that my fancy for you assumed all the characteristics of un- 
 bridled passion. Can you explain this ? 
 
 " Why was I not allured by your softer accomplishments, rather than by 
 your bold and headlong principles — the sparkling irony of your wit, and the 
 burning eloquence with which you paint so voluptuously the rush of emotion 
 in a woman's heart, on meeting the man she loves ? Now, Ursula, this is a 
 horrible thought! you must tell me all. Do you know why love leaves me so 
 unhappy, so disturbed, so vexed ? Why does it not give me the ascendency 
 over you — the power which it always gives ! Why —I repeat the inquiry — am 
 
 I devoted to you, while you do not reciprocate my love ? Because — oh ! it 
 
 is misery to believe it, and misery to write it because — it seems to me that 
 
 you have not yielded to the intoxication of passion, or even to the thraldom 
 of sense. It might be said that you have yielded, not to me, but to some 
 mysterious influence, which estranges you from me. 
 
 " Qh 1 you shall never know what fearful regrets you have left me — what 
 burning desires, what radient and foolish hopes ! The woman who inspire» 
 all that is exalted in love, has been mine without being mine ! I enjoy every 
 privilege, and yet I enjoy none ! She behaves so disdainfully to me, that I 
 
M. OR LANCRY TO URSOLA. 
 
 301 
 
 cannot help regarding her treatment as bitterly humiliating. What was I 
 then — nay, what am I in your eyes ? Have I been to 'you a subject for sport? 
 If you never loved me why these favours ? Did you wish nie to discover that 
 I was so little in your estimation, that you could, with impunity, grant me 
 everything one day, and forget me the next, without even considering yourself 
 bound to blush ? No, no: there never was a Roman empress, who proved 
 more boldly by her crushing disdain, that a slave was not a man. 
 
 " Since that day I have in vain endeavoured to read in your countenance 
 any signs of tender recollection. Does this arise from insensibility, dissimu- 
 lation, or prudence ? Your features betray nothing — absolutely nothing but 
 haughty raillery or indifference. Why should you treat me thus ? Am I 
 not your lover ? Nay, am I not more ? Are you resolved, by an infernal and 
 unheard-of coquetry, not even to leave me in doubt — but to make me regret 
 all, even to madness ? 
 
 " By Heaven ! matters cannot continue thus ! I have no faith in myself — 
 only in my desperate love. Those intoxicating emotions, of which you speak 
 in such burning language— ah ! do you feel them toward me, Ursula? I 
 would inspire you with all the fire of passion ! Oh ! how beautiful you 
 would be, under such an inspiration. At this single hope, my blood boils, 
 my brain swima ! Ursula! Ursula! for your love, I would count no sacrifice 
 too great — not even — I almost dare say it — not even the sacrifice of honour. 
 And while I observe that your voluptuous and exciting charms exalt love even 
 to frenzy, your bold and sparkling wit ravishes, and governs, and leads me 
 captive for ever ! 
 
 " If you loved — oh ! if you loved, would there be in the world a mistress 
 more enchanting? Of course, it would be madness to suppose that by the 
 influence of love, you— who are so untractable, contemptuous, and inde- 
 pendent could become submissive, tender, and devoted in the ordinary sense! 
 but you might become submissive, tender, and devoted, consistently with the 
 charms which belong only to you ; and in a higher and nobler sense. I 
 would not have you possessed of such submission, tenderness, and devotion 
 as some women compel their lords to receive — if not with hate, at least with 
 disdain or indifference, because these qualities are a part of their weak and 
 contemptible nature. 
 
 " What pleasure can it afford me, that the lamb should be gentle and 
 timid in my presence ? Does it deserve any credit for that ? Such is its na- 
 ture. But let the panther come with soft caresses, and crouch at my feet ; 
 and then— oh ! then, I am happy, and proud, and unspeakably triumphant ! 
 
 " Ursula ! Ursula ! I feel it here : in the quick pulsations of my heart : you 
 will love me as I would be loved. Oh ! I shall learn how to compel you to 
 love me. Yes, desperate love exacts a return by the strength of its devotion; 
 it will exact it even from you ! Do not mistake this for blind and ridiculous 
 presumption. I draw this assurance from the very depth of my passion ! 
 Sometimes, I hope that even now you are not indifferent to me : I imagine 
 that your affected coldness is intended to deceive my wife more completely, 
 and to impress her with a blind confidence in the pretended return of my 
 affection toward her. But no ; you would have spoken some words, we would 
 have understood one another by some secret sign : now the truth is, that 
 since the day — at once so cruel and so charming — to which I have alluded, 
 you have taken care to avoid permitting me the private interview I so much 
 desired. Who knows whether I shall even be able to send you this letter ? 
 
 " Strange, incomprehensible woman ! if by some distant allusion, I speak 
 of our amour, you reply with a sarcasm! Nay, what is still more strange, 
 although you know that my wife doubts you, hates you ; yet, since the day on 
 which you injured her most deeply, you appear to regard her with a touch- 
 ing interest. Is this remorse ? No: you are too proud to repent ; and then, 
 alas ! remorse for what ? One such fault ? is it indeed a fault ? and yet does 
 it not appear that your only aim now is to make me regret my conduct, and 
 adore Matilda? 
 
 " Observing your unaccountable coldness, I pretended to watch over Ma- 
 tilda with the most tender care ; as much for the purpose of lulling her 
 suspicions, as of awakening your jealousy. Instead of being alarmed or 
 piqued at this, you have seemed perfectly satisfied and in no degree envious, 
 This is madness. Who are you ? What would you have me be ? Are you my 
 good or my evil genius ? You sometimes terrify me by leading me to supposa 
 that you exert some fatal influence over my life. No, no : pardon ! I retrac 4 , 
 Ursula, be not offended by this letter. You are one of those superior v/otar-?, 
 (0 whom it is safe to Bay anything. 
 
S02 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 "The incoherence of these thoughts, my Ursula, must show you the con- 
 fusion of my poor brain : my conflicting ideas jar against one another: a 
 thousand phantoms present themselves before my imagination. My wits and 
 my heart are in a doubtful condition, because I cannot discover your real feel- 
 ings toward me. This state of doubt is horrible. If it continue — if you do 
 not satisfy my doubting thoughts, I shall scarcely have sufficient strength and 
 resolution left to feign a tenderness which I ought to feign for the sake 
 of removing Matilda's suspicions, and preventing that burst of revenge that 
 would ruin you. Happily, the absence of mind into which I am plunged by 
 so many conflicting thoughts, passes in my wife's eyes for amorous reveries 
 concerning herself : a few days must elapse, and then all will be discovered. 
 You do not know me, Ursula. You do not know the obstinacy of my nature. 
 I did not myself understand my character before feeling that strength of 
 resolution with which you inspired me. I shall not renounce the hope of 
 being loved by you, even after having tried every expedient within the reach 
 of man, and failed in all. No : never shall I admit into my mind the possibility 
 of relinquishing this hope ; a secret voice whispers that I shall ultimately suc- 
 ceed ! 
 
 " These are my plans : do not attempt to thwart them ; it is beyond your 
 power. You leave in a few days for Paris. Under the pretext of certain 
 calumnies which have been made known to us by Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 I have persuaded my wife to remain at Maran for the winter. Five days after 
 your departure, I shall rejoin you at Paris ; affairs which affect my interest, 
 will be a sufficient excuse to Matilda for my undertaking the journey. Once 
 in Paris, I shall certainly prolong my stay ; my wife's delicate situation will 
 prevent her from rejoining me ; besides, if she wished it I would not permit 
 her : never have I felt so untractable and pitiless as I do now. I would be 
 cruel in every thing but my love to you. My fear, lest Matilda should be 
 prompted by jealousy to ruin you in the eyes of your husband, induces me to 
 affect what I do not feel toward her. 
 
 " Now, Ursula, one remark more in support of what I have said to you : 
 sincere and deep love inspires unheard-of delicacy. Until now a shadow of 
 pain or regret has never come across my habits of gallantry. But I swear 
 to you, I now find it a hateful task to address my wife with tender expres- 
 sions which live only on the lips ; they seem a sort of blasphemy against 
 the sincerity of my passion for you. Matilda must be blind, indeed, not to 
 perceive how much the part I play in her presence rebels against my true 
 feelings. But there will soon be an end of this. I go to rejoin you in Paris ; 
 our relationship will permit me to see you daily without awakening your hus- 
 band's suspicions. Then, Ursula, I shall make love to you with all my 
 might, and be firmly resolved to obtain your affection in return. Exact from 
 me all sacrifices, possible and impossible : I shall gladly submit. Sacrifices 
 will cost me nothing compared with my gain, and I shall not regret them; 
 every thing now, except yourself, has no existence as far as I am concerned ! 
 This is terrible to say, but it is true. My reason and resolution cannot over- 
 come the conviction You, you, Ursula ! nothing but you — always you. Oh 1 
 for my part I say, let us burst the feeble bonds that separate us ; let us hide 
 our love in some distant country. Ursula, be not held back by pity ! Let 
 my love be successful, or unsuccessful, the lot of my wife must be the same. 
 Even were she possessed of higher qualities and perfections than she can at 
 present boast, I feel that every sentiment of love for her has been extinguished 
 in my heart. 
 
 " You are now the ideal — the dream of my soul — of my affections — of my 
 sense — and of my life ! Judge, then, whether Matilda can outweigh your 
 influence, if you love me — or console me, if you do not. 
 
 " Once more, Ursula, you — you — unconditionally, (I do not admit a 
 doubt on the subject— I do not wish to admit one, because I am unwilling to 
 look into the bottomless abyss before me, if — but no, no!) in short, you 
 love me. Ah ! Ursula ! it must be that you have loved me. Accident has 
 not given you my soul in vain I I live only for you — only for you — you have 
 been destined for me ! Whatever you have said, and whatever you have done, 
 we must henceforth and for ever be one. I shall not shrink from any means 
 — you hear me— from any means, in order to gain you. It shall be so, be- 
 cause fate wills it. Adieu I angel or devil ! I shall share your heaven or 
 your hell! G." 
 
 I shall speak, by and by, of the deep and sudden reaction, which the read- 
 ing of this letter produced in my mind. 
 
URSULA TO GONTRAN. 
 
 303 
 
 While I was perusing it, Gontran read the reply which Ursula had written 
 to him, and whieh she had intended to give me, at the close of my interview 
 with her. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 URSULA TO GONTRAN. 
 
 "I am at least very generous — I send back your letter: it has afforded me 
 much amusement, as a melange of diffidence and impertinence — of blindness 
 and second-sight — of devotion and egotism — of tenderness and inhumanity, 
 altogether ludicrous. It is neither great, nor charming, nor witty, (although 
 you certainly do possess wit ;) but, as all this is natural, I shall even say, 
 that with a horrible ingenuousness, you have persuaded me. 
 
 " I believe, then, in your passion ; yes — I believe that you are in love for 
 the first time : I believe you would give the whole world to gain my heart. I 
 believe you capable of the most insane exertions — of the blackest deeds, in 
 order to attain your purpose. I believe in short, that you are truly devoted 
 to me : but this is not to say that I am grateful, my poor cousin ! 
 
 "Without pretending to the diabolical qualifications, with which, in your 
 amazing pride, you have invested me — as if it were necessary forsooth to 
 have recourse to the occult sciences, in order to be worthy or even capable of 
 fascinating you — I am satisfied that I exert a strong influence over you ; if 
 you are determined that this influence shall be fatal — of course, it must be 
 so. The result depends entirely upon yourself. 
 
 " I, also, believe that I am to blame, for having irresistibly turned your 
 head. 
 
 " You have not, by any means, inspired me with a desire to possess virtues, 
 if they are now wanting in me ; or with a desire to show them, if I possess 
 them. These virginal gems are buried in the depths of my heart, like pearls 
 in the bottom of the sea Such treasures are never obtained by those who 
 remain on the surface of the waves by which they are tossed. They lie in 
 the solitary and mysterious caves, which the short-sighted never penetrate. 
 
 '•* We are, then, perfectly agreed on several points, my dear cousin ; but we 
 invariably differ on the most important of all. You are convinced that by 
 the strength of your love, you can compel me to love you : now I declare to 
 you, as strongly as ever, that I shall not love you, and that your strength of 
 attachment will end by making me hate you. The love which one inspires, 
 is usually in an inverse ratio to that which one feels. You ought at least 
 to know your A, B, C, Signor Don Juan. 
 
 " If passion did render you as stupid as a school-boy, you might have seen 
 a deep truth in the passage of your letter, which was penned merely as the 
 passing whim of your wounded vanity. ' There never was a Roman Em' 
 press, who proved more boldly, by her haughty disdain, that a slave was not 
 a man. 
 
 " I have emphasized these words ; they deserve to be conspicuous. You 
 have divined rightly this time : the sentence signifies, in other words, that 
 revenge is not love. Do you comprehend the enigma ? Can you now guess 
 the motives of my strange conduct? No? Not yet? Then you are certainly 
 not in a sagacious mood. I touch upon a theme too high for you ; my only 
 hope in making such a confession is, that it may induce you to hate me. It 
 is, unfortunately, too late now for me to make you appear respectable ; were 
 I able to do this, I could surely extinguish your foolish passion. After I had 
 come to Maran, and even entertained some thoughts of profiting by Matil- 
 da's invitation to occupy a part of your house at Paris, my plan was suddenly 
 changed to that of making you fall extravagantly in love with me ; — observe 
 extravagantly in love — and to make you serve my purposes by your silly 
 amour. I shall give you my reasons forthwith : I combine in my character 
 all the qualities necessary to fascinate you. From the beginning, I did not 
 love you. I felt myself too much your superior ; and fun her, I supposed that 
 the best means of fascinating you — a man surfeited with success — was to 
 treat you contemptuously, thus hurting your pride; and to convince you 
 that, although indifferent to your claims, I might be induced to yield to 
 those of another. 
 
 " This admirable plot, so exquisitely conducted, has succeeded according to 
 my anticipations. 
 
 " At llouvrai, on the very morning of your arrival at my house, you mad8 
 
304 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 to me a declaration, as sudden as it was impertinent. I replied as was ne- 
 cessary for the furtherance of my design. Thereupon, you renewed your 
 tender protestations ; I replied, showing you that I was not the least wounded 
 by Cupid's darts. In the spirit of contradiction, you fell more passionately 
 in love than ever. All this is easily understood. For several days I aug- 
 mented your love, not by reciprocating it, but by railing at it, and present- 
 ing myself to you under fascinating aspects, and effecting a sarcasm and 
 boldness of thought, which would have disgusted any man of an elevated 
 soul. I could hardly credit the progress I made in your heart by these 
 miserable expedients. Had I entertained a high opinion of you, the facility 
 of my success would have destroyed it. Remember this, the next time, 
 Signor don Juan — that ordinarily, women of my temperament show their 
 love in proportion to the difficulty they find in eliciting a return. They de- 
 spise easy success ; difficulty is congenial to them ; obstacles charm them ; 
 they eagerly seek what appears impossible. In a word, profit by this advice : 
 if you ever again meet one of my calibre, the only means of winning her is 
 apparent indifference. 
 
 " You and I resemble one another, my cousin, too much. This prevented 
 you from pleasing me. (I hope I am sufficiently humble, although I have 
 ventured to compare myself to you.) Our nature is to yield to the law of 
 attraction by contraries. While you continue in this normal road, as the 
 learned M. Bisson has told us, you will succeed. Perhaps, the reason why 
 Matilda adores you is, that she is as pure as you are the reverse. But when 
 you address me, you address one — in theory at least— as fully initiated as 
 yourself ; consequently you miss your aim ; you lose your advantages, and I 
 laugh at you. The augurs could not look at themselves without laughing : 
 the same cause makes your love afford me incredible sport. Take care ! a 
 knave who becomes a dupe, is duped a thousand times more ridiculously 
 than an honest man. That is to say, my dear cousin, let us return to the 
 subject of your astonishment. 
 
 *' One day, suddenly, and without a motive, (at least in your eyes) you 
 were mine, without my being yours, as you express it. From that moment, 
 you have always found me cold, contemptuous, and as indifferent to the 
 past as though nothing had happened. You express astonishment at this 
 sudden indifference ; you exclaim— a demon ! a fatality ! You ask me if I 
 have not loved you — if I have not at least felt a lively caprice in your favour. 
 I answer, no: you are charming, doubtless, but I have unfortunately very 
 bad taste. 1 How !' you will say ; ' have you never felt for me either passion, 
 or love, or the slightest inclination ? and— you — no, no you continue, no, 
 'it is impossible !' 
 
 " You forget, my dear cousin, that there are passions of all kinds, and that 
 love is not the most violent of them. You do not know that, to gratify her 
 hatred and vengeance, a woman, such as I, dares do what she never would 
 do if she were under the influence of love, or even if she felt a tender caprice. 
 In the latter case she would obey a coquettish instinct, which would tell her 
 that a triumph too easily obtained, extinguishes a passing fancy. But if, on 
 the contrary, she loves passionately, oh ! she never reasons. Love — true and 
 heart-felt love, would inspire her with the most exquisite delicacy. If she 
 yielded, she would yield to a sort of chaste and modest intoxication of her 
 spirit. In her blind submission, she would not be conscious of her fault 
 until it was committed : then she would feel remorse, and shame, and a 
 bitter as well as voluptuous sentiment. In short, her feelings would be such 
 as do honour to the noblest of our sex ; for sincere love often elevates the 
 most abandoned hearts to the level of purer ones. 
 
 *' ' What mystery is this ? What are your feelings toward me ?' you next 
 inquire. 
 
 "Listen; Since I have been able to analyze my own impressions, and 
 render to myself an account of good and evil, I have hated your wife ! I 
 hated her because, since we first met, not a day or an hour has elapsed, in 
 which I have not been obliged to make sacrifices on her account ; and in 
 which she has not mortified me by her superior advantages. Never did envy 
 or jealousy rise to such a height. In order that the blow should fall with 
 certainty, I resolved to select carefully the point in which she was most vul- 
 nerable. I resolved to charm you away from her ; not because I loved — no, 
 indeed ; but because she adored you! 
 
 " Several days after the interview, to which Matilda listened without my 
 knowing it, I had a long conversation with her. She heaped reproaches upon 
 me ; she even threatened me. By her disdain — and now I may say, by her 
 
URSULA TO GONTRAN. 
 
 just disdain, she exasperated my most depraved feelings, ifou gave me an 
 opportunity of meeting you : I hastened the moment that was to secure at 
 once my vengeance and my power over you! for then — but no, no : you shall 
 never know what odious designs I meditated ; you would love me too much, 
 and I am disposed to relieve myself of the burden. Now, you remember 
 that on the evening of that day of unrivalled happiness, as you deemed it, 
 Mademoiselle de Maran received letters from Paris, and apprised you, in my 
 presence, of all the abominable calumnies under which Matilda's character 
 fay. In spite of Mademoiselle de Maran's wicked exaggerations, I very 
 quickly perceived that Matilda's reputation wa3 horribly injured in the eyes 
 of the world. Chance thus informed me of the welcome fact, that the woman 
 whose happiness I had envied from my in £ ancy, was now the most wretched 
 of mortals. 
 
 " Until then she had lived only to virtue and to you. She had ever been 
 worthy of all love and all respect ; yet her good names was now ruined, and 
 you had deserted her for me — for me ! This was too much. Now, what 
 inspired me with the interest and pity which suddenly succeeded to the 
 hatred I bore Matilda ? Was this a noble and virtuous sentiment ? Was it 
 not rather the result of a conviction that your wife, having for ever been de- 
 prived of happiness, could no longer be to me an object of envy ? or may it 
 not have arisen from the thorough acquaintaince I had obtained with your 
 character, and the certainty that Matilda's future must consequently be mi- 
 serable ? Yes ; it was the last consideration that disarmed me. My ven- 
 geance was more than satisfied when I contemplated the future which you 
 had prepared for your wife, your love for me being at the same time unre- 
 turned. Excuse me, my cousin ; I confess that I have indeed purposely 
 fascinated you, and yet that you have loved me in vain. 
 
 " As far as poor Matilda is concerned, I unfortunately cannot remedy what 
 is past ; but I can avoid inflicting any similar injuries for the future. I am 
 so singular a person, that from the moment in which I began to pity her. I 
 should have deemed it a crime to afford her any further cause for jealousy, 
 by receiving your attentions. This is the reason of my sudden coldness ; 
 this is the reason why you should renounce the silly hope of changing the 
 panther into a sheep — of partaking my heaven or my hell ! Heavens ! my 
 dear cousin, I am neither a panther, nor an angel, nor a devil ! I know 
 nothing either of heaven or of hell. I am simply a poor woman who does 
 not love you ; and I perform so much the more easily my promise of re- 
 storing you to the friend of my childhood, since the sacrifice is very agree- 
 able ; insomuch, that my devotedness may almost pass for selfishness. 
 
 " You will excuse me from bursting the bonds that unite me to the best 
 man in the world, in order to go and hide our love in a distant land ! It is 
 hardly necessary to go so far, to hide what has no existence ! I, moreover, 
 abdicate with perfect composure the entire sovereignty of your soul ! a 
 thousand thanks for the fine kingdom which you so graciously otfer for my 
 acceptance. I would prefer living as a slave in the pleasant shade of a green 
 oasis, to reigning as a queen on a dry and barren desert. Do not, above all, 
 forget, I conjure you, to spare me those proofs of devotedness — those un- 
 heard-of sacrifices with which you threaten me, and of which I am very un- 
 worthv. You would restrain me infinitely from weaving my meshes for my 
 future tyrant ; for I perceive that I urn destined to worship some mysterious 
 ideal, with a passion as immutable and as fatal as that which you feel toward 
 me ! But where has this mysterious despot of all my future being been 
 hitherto concealed ? Of this Ï am ignorant : but one thing is certain — your 
 doleful aspect would scare him ! Do not, I beseech you, reckon upon your 
 intimacy with my husband, if you come to see me at Paris : you may regret 
 the folly of pursuing me thither. In order to explain to M. Secherin my 
 sudden departure, I shall be obliged to confess that you have been a little 
 too attentive to me lately, and that for the sake of Matilda's peace, as well as 
 a regard for your own, I have judged it proper to leave Maran. 
 
 " You see, then, that your cousinship will not by any means render you a 
 welcome guest at our establishment. Stay with Matilda. You speak of a 
 good and evil genius. If you have — I shall not say generosity, but even the 
 instinct of self-preservation — you will return to her. It is she who shall be 
 your good angel. If, in spite of my perfect indifference toward you, you 
 show any obstinacy in your resolution to gain my heart, I shall be, without 
 your wishing it, an evil spirit, haunting you everywhere. I believe that you 
 love me passionately, but with a hopeless passion, the lover always has virtue 
 on his side ; if he had no scruple about means, he could not be without hope. 
 2 D 3 
 
305 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Now, for Matilda's sake, as well as for the sake of my tranquillity (under- 
 stand, I pray you, this word in the following prosaic sense — freedom from the 
 importunity of a troublesome person,) I am anxious to convince you of the 
 absolute folly of attempting to continue our intimacy. All my fear is, that 
 you will still have some hope. In spite of your apparent humiliation, you 
 have a great deal of self-love, which is so much the more dangerous, as you 
 can justify it to all except me. You do not, perhaps, believe this. One never 
 admits exceptions injurious to his argument. 
 
 " Although I tell you that you do not please me, yet you are capable of per- 
 suading yourself that I quarrel with you in a sudden and abrupt way, in order 
 to escape a sentiment of which I am afraid, and of which I foresee the power. 
 Most dangerous man ! Ah ! my cousin ! my cousin !— if you permit yourself 
 to be caught by one of these baits which your offended pride will certainly 
 offer to you, you will be ruined for ever ! The more I assure you of my dis- 
 dain and aversion, the more you would believe yourself dreadful and dreaded ! 
 According to this axiom — ' let us keep at a distance only from dangerous peo- 
 ple:' as if tiresome persons were not among the number. Take care! take 
 care ! all your advantages would not then save you from everlasting ridicule. 
 I would be pitiless ! I would take Matilda's case in hand ; I would avenge her 
 by tormenting you — I would feign pity, for the sake of avenging her ! 1 would 
 even pretend to be touched by a love both profound and constant; I would 
 make you false promises, and amuse myself at your expense in the most cruel 
 style. 
 
 "Once for all, distrust me from the moment when I shall appear to feel 
 toward you anything else than perfect indifference. Forget me then, my cousin, 
 for one who is a thousand times better than I am. Return to Matilda; hers 
 is a heart of gold ; hers is a soul which belongs neither to this age, nor to this 
 world. 
 
 " Now that, by a strange contradiction, she interests me as much by her 
 misfortune, as she mortified me by her happiness ; I can say that her nature 
 is so excellent and generous — so much disposed to credit good and discredit 
 evil, in consequence of her own innate nobleness, that a little attention to ap- 
 earances is alone necessary to render her completely happy. Incapable of 
 elieving in a falsehood, such pure souls have the ingenuous confidence of 
 children ! So little, so very little, is necessary to excite their simple and 
 honest joy, that he must be a monster who would afflict them. You have 
 observed this. For the last eight days you have prudently pretended to re- 
 turn to her affections : how her charming countenance became radiant with 
 happiness! And then, she is a mother ! Sir, above all, you have had the 
 odious impudence to write to me, saying — My wife's delicate situation will 
 prevent her from rejoining me in Paris! Hold ! INI. de Lancry. I am capa- 
 ble of very wicked actions, and therefore am very guilty; I know not what 
 sins I may commit in time to come : but never, I swear, to reproach myself 
 with having used language so vile as that I have just quoted. You are the 
 most ungrateful, the most selfish — yes ! the most selfish — the most unfeeling 
 of men ! for passion depraves you instead of ennobling you. This, however, 
 is natural : a degraded passion never can elevate the heart. Beware of your 
 vanity, which perhaps may suggest to you that Lovelace and Don Juan were 
 no better than you ; and that you may understand me as styling you — adora' 
 ble villain ! You would deceive yourself egregiously. For my own part, I 
 am a female Don Juan, and I know what Don Juanism ought to be. I am 
 even ashamed to see the passions I inspire, discover themselves by such vile 
 effects. Line the sorcerer of the German Count, I am terrified by the monster 
 I have produced, especially when it invites me, with earnest cries, to be its 
 companion. 
 
 " Forget me then, my cousin. Once more, if you are obstinate in your 
 foolish love, I predict to you the most unhappy end ; and you will make me 
 believe in those divine rewards and punishments of which my odious mother- 
 in-law was continually talking. 
 
 "For one so guilty as you are, I should be a suitable punishment; yet, as 
 an inquiry into divine vengeance is somewhat serious for one of my age, I 
 should be infinitely obliged by your avoiding me ; while it would afford me 
 sincere pleasure to see you amend, and become the most honest and faithful 
 of husbands, as you are already the most adored of men, Matilda being your 
 wife. 
 
 " Adieu ! adieu ! and for ever adieu ! Remember, above all, that there can 
 never be any love-affairs betw een us without infamous treachery to the noblest 
 of women ! You have been my accomplice, never my lover." 
 
Ma SKCHKRIN TO URSULA. 
 
 307 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 M. SECHERIN TO URSULA. 
 
 Madame Secherin, observing from our dejection that Gontran and I had 
 perused the two letters, read a third from her son to Ursula, uttering the 
 words as slowly, as if to make my cousin's punishment last the longer. 
 
 " I shall not speak to you of my past life. Ursula ; I despise you more than 
 I hate you. God has punished me for not having listened to the counsels of 
 my poor mother. But she remains to me ; yes, she still remains to me, and 
 since I have her I shall harbour no regrets. On the contrary, I thank Hea- 
 ven for having delivered me from a monster of perfidy and corruption such 
 as you. I curse myself at the thought that for you, Heavens ! for pou, I 
 have afflicted, nay almost abandoned, the best of mothers. But my tender- 
 ness shall atone for the grief I have caused her: she shall pardon me — she 
 has pardoned me. When a woman so dangerous and abominable as yon are, 
 enters a family, it is necessary to be on the watch. I may inform you of one 
 thing that will disturb your boasted equanimity. On the same day on which, 
 by the will of God, I received the letter that showed the black-heartedness 
 of your soul, I destroyed the legal instrument by which my whole fortune 
 was secured to you after my death. You love luxury so dearly — you are now 
 to be poor : so much the better — so much the better ; it is the only kind of dis- 
 tress you are capable of feeling. Your dowry of sixty thousand francs is de- 
 posited in the hands of a Parisian notary. Your father will also drive you 
 from his presence, for I have sent him a copy of your abominable letter. Fi- 
 nally, I may remark — and this will be the severest blow of all — that I do not 
 suffer in the very least on account of your infamy ; you hear, I do not suffer 
 in the least I No, no ; it is so odious, that I feel no other sentiment than 
 horror. I find happiness, aye, great happiness, in being separated from you. 
 My good and excellent mother will tell you so. This will be your last chas- 
 tisement from me. " Sechhrin." 
 
 After reading this letter, Madame Secherin fixed upon Ursula one of her 
 implacable looks. Ursula awoke from the stupor into which she had fallen 
 at the opening of the scene; and rising with an imperious, lofty, and proud 
 look, accompanied by a bitter and disdainful smile, she said to Madame Sech- 
 erin — 
 
 " You triumph, do you not ? blind and senseless woman ! you rejoice, while 
 your son's heart is mortally wounded !" 
 
 " He does not even think of you now," said Madame Secherin. " He has 
 written to you the truth : God have pity on you!" 
 
 " But I, for my part, do not believe what is contained in this letter," re- 
 plied Ursula : " a man like him cannot forget a woman like me. Know, that 
 if I wished — listen now in your turn — if I wished it, he would be at my feet 
 again to-morrow, begging me, with clasped hands, to return to him. But I 
 do not wish it. Destiny has been crushing me from the moment when I yield- 
 ed to a generous but foolish sentiment of pity toward the woman I have hated 
 and outraged. I was endeavouring to repair the evil of which I had been the 
 cause. Well : I shall struggle against destiny single-handed ! A day will 
 come when your son, in despair at having lost me, will curse you for not hav- 
 ing agreed to pardon me. And that day is not very distant, madame !" 
 
 " Do you hear her ? the wretch ! '' cried Madame Secherin, joining her hands 
 with horror. " Regret you '.—you ! — see, — see — what infernal pride !" 
 
 Ursula shrugged her shoulders with an expression of pity. 
 
 "You do not know, then, what I was — what I would have been to him ; for 
 he was simple, and devoted, and good, and I amuse myself by making him 
 happy, as I would a child. You yourself have heard him say how great was 
 his happiness, and that I was every thing to him ! You rejoice, little dream- 
 ing that he will weep ; that he is now shedding perhaps tt ars of blood over a 
 past which will always be to him like a vision — like the ideal of human felicity. 
 Blinded to my faults by his love — to my conduct by his confidence, he spent a 
 peaceful and joyous life : that life will now be a desolation. You ought to 
 be satisfied, now that I am poor, and abandoned by all — even by my father. 
 You are now avenged, Matilda, and you also sir," said Ursula, addressing 
 Gontran : " you, Matilda, whose friendship I have betrayed — you, sir, at whose 
 
308 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 love I have laughed. But to your triumph there is one thing wanting. You 
 do not see me undone — crushed under the blows of an inevitable fate. This 
 is a pleasure which I do not mean to afford you. I have resolution ; I have 
 energy. I have found myself placed in a critical position, and my decision 
 now shall determine the character of my entire future. .One good sentiment 
 would perhaps have led to a second, Fate has willed it otherwise. Well, I 
 am eighteen : I have an iron character, and a spirit flexible in one sense. I 
 can bend before the storm without being broken. 1 am handsome and I am 
 brave — God have mercy on me!" said Ursula, closing with this impious 
 sarcasm. 
 
 Madame Secherin remained silent, terrified in the presence of this bold 
 woman. 
 
 Gontran gazed on her : and in his gaze there was anguish mingled with ad- 
 miration. 
 
 Suddenly, Mademoiselle de Maran rose, and pretending to wipe her eyes, 
 cried : 
 
 " Indeed ! no ! no ! it shall not be said that I was insensible to the suffer- 
 ings of this poor dear child; I am quite moved by her angelic resignation; 
 she could not confess her faults with more candour, or with a greater dispo- 
 sition to repent. Hold ! your severity grieves me ; it is even disgusting. I shall 
 take her to Paris with me, and to my house — dear little creature that she 
 is ! and that even this very day, for she cannot stay here any longer. Sh<» 
 would infect you, — honest people that you are !" 
 
 "You dare support her!" cried Madame Secherin, indignantly — "you 
 dare offer her an asylum !" 
 
 " And why not, if you please ? Am I to be hoodwinked by yourlamentations 
 of Jeremiah, upon the desolation of abomination ,? Perhaps Christianity is 
 threatened in this world with a speedy end ; because, forsooth, monsieur, 
 your son, has had a little trouble in his establishment. Is that any reason 
 for screaming like an osprey in the presence of this poor Ursula, and condemn- 
 ing her without pity ? For you, who pique yourself so much on your religion, 
 this is scarcely charitable, my good lady !" 
 
 Madame Secherin raised her eyes to heaven, and said with a grave and so- 
 lemn voice : 
 
 " My God ! have pity upon this woman. Her grave is open, her end is near, 
 and yet she blasphemes !" Then she added in an imposing tone, and with so 
 much authority that Mademoiselle de Maran was for a moment astonished, 
 " You support vice ; you insult the tears of honest people ; you deny God ! 
 But, patience ! on the bed of death you will be agonized at the thought of the 
 mischief you have done, and the punishment that awaits you. You are so 
 wicked and so impious, that you shall not be able to find a priest, who will 
 pray for your soul !" 
 
 After a moment of silence, Mademoiselle de Maran cried out, with her sharp 
 voice : 
 
 " Ah ! ah Î ah ! her excommunications are really droll ! you are apparently 
 familiar with the thunders of the Vatican, also, my dear lady, are you not? 
 A moment ago you were invoking Heaven and Providence against me : pro- 
 ceed. Without making any reflections, I must say, that you appear to me 
 in a light amusingly vulgar. You cannot talk a little scandal, or gossip with 
 your friends, without introducing these lofty topics. But depend upon it, I 
 shall have a little quarter of an hour to repent in, and a little crown to pay 
 for a mass when the time shall come for consulting my eternal interests." 
 
 On the same evening, Mademoiselle de Maran went to Paris, taking Ur- 
 sula along with her. 
 
 Madame Secherin rejoined her son. 
 
 Gontran and myself remained alone at Maran. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 Two days elapsed without my seeing M. de Lancry. The arrival and depar- 
 ture of Madame Secherin having induced our domestics to suppose that some 
 grave discussion had taken place between me and my husband, they believed 
 it their duty to be silent and reserved in their different departments. They 
 spoke to one another only in whispers. One would have supposed that there 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 had been a death in the house. It is impossible to picture the melancholy 
 aspect of this great chateau, silent, sombre, and deserted as it was, while 
 Gontran inhabited the one wing, and I the other. I wished to be alone, in 
 order to prepare myself for the interview about to take place between my 
 husband and myself. During these two days, a deep and complete revolution 
 was effected within me. It was one of those moral phenomena which we find 
 it so difficult to explain ; and I confess that I do not even now fully compre- 
 hend it. It was my duty to speak to my husband with perfect freedom. 
 This event was the most important of my life ; its effects must endure to my 
 dying day. The smallest details of this interview are still graven on my me- 
 mory. It was Sunday. After hearing mass in the village church, and re- 
 maining for a long time in prayer, I returned home. The weather was 
 gloomy and mournful : when I entered the chateau, the snow began to fall. 
 My parlour clock struck ten. The parlour itself was small and very simple. 
 Its two windows opened upon the park ; on the right and left of the chimney, 
 were the portraits of my father and mother ; and on my writing-table a me- 
 dallion miniature of Gontran With regard to this miniature I may remark, 
 what I afterwards discovered, that it had been presented to my husband by 
 Madame de Iticheville. 
 
 To give his wife a portrait executed for the gratification of a mistress, is one 
 of those ignominious indignities which men can permit themselves to offer, 
 without even suspecting anything hateful or insulting in such a proceeding. 
 
 At the side of my work-table, a small rose-wood book case contained my 
 chosen volumes, and between the two windows stood my piano. 
 
 Passing before a glass, I looked at myself. I was horribly pale and hag- 
 gard. My cheek-bones, alwavs a little prominent, were tinged with a hectic 
 hue brighter than usual, which bore witness of the fever that had burned 
 within me for two days. My countenance was much excited and even ani- 
 mated ; but my lips were blue, and my hands cold as ice. I wore an evening 
 dress, although it was in the morning. My hair was smoothed down under 
 a bandeau. I had not the least thought of arranging it more elaborately. I 
 contemplated, with a kind of gloomy joy, the ravages which vexation had 
 made upon my features ; and I compared myself with Ursula, so fresh and 
 rosy. 
 
 Half- past ten struck on the old. clock of the chateau. My husband entered 
 my apartment. He had also been cruelly changed within two days, he was 
 extremely pale. Watching and weeping had perhaps reddened his eyes. He 
 seemed borne down by a mental burden ; his face was almost terrible to 
 look at. 
 
 " I shall make no attempt at denial," said he quickly ; "the wrongs I have 
 committed against you are very great. You ought to detest me. Be it so ; 
 detest me." 
 
 " Hear me, I pray you, Gontran ; our relative position shall be determined 
 to-day. I am bound to tell you, with perfect freedom, the result of my medi- 
 tations, and my unalterable resolution." 
 
 " I hear you." 
 
 " During these days which I have passed alone, all the events which have 
 taken place since I first knew you, have passed through my mind in a way I 
 cannot explain ; and they prompt me to speak to you as I am about to do. 
 I am perfectly satisfied when I contemplate them either en masse, or in de- 
 tail. I have considered them near at hand, and viewed them from afar. In 
 fact, the manner in which I have conducted this investigation astonishes my- 
 self. In looking back upon the pnst, I have remembered without any foolish 
 pride, that my devotion to you never ceased for an instant— that it required 
 prodigies of tenderness on my part to preserve my love intact and pure, in 
 spite of your disdain. Some rare complaints excepted, which intolerable 
 grief wrung from me, I have always suffered with resignation. At the least 
 appearance of feeling on your part, I dried my tears ; I came to you with a 
 smile on my lips, and I again indulged hopes of happiness which have so 
 often been deceived. 
 
 " That is true ; but it is not generous in you, to place my faults and your 
 virtues side by side on such an occasion as the present," said Gontran, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " If I speak to you thus, Gontran, it is not because I would commend my- 
 ■elf for having acted thus ; on the contrary, I blame myself for it." 
 " How ! do you regret ?" 
 
 " I regret having done just what was necessary to render myself wretched, 
 
310 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 without rendering you happy ; perhaps you would even have been less cruel 
 to me, had my conduct been different." 
 " What do you mean to say ? Explain." 
 
 " It may appear strange to you ; but the result of my reflections has been, 
 that I accuse myself, and absolve you." 
 "Absolve me! me?" 
 
 " Absolve you ! you ! I no longer degrade myself, Gontran ; I have never 
 been to you a noble companion, never shown a consciousness of dignity and 
 firmness sufficient to make myself respected. I have been your base slave ; 
 and I have had only the negative qualities of slavery — blind submission, 
 stupid resignation, and inert endurance. Being such, you have thought pro- 
 per to treat me as you have treated me, and to show me neither mercy nor 
 pity." 
 
 " I do not comprehend your purpose in thus acquitting me ?" said Gontran 
 distrustfully. 
 
 " I might tell you, that it is to prevent you from suffering so much, as 
 you otherwise would, from the avowal I am about to make to you; but I 
 should speak falsely in saying so. Though I have no wish to hurt your feel- 
 ings unreasonably,! indeed care very little now whether you suffer or not, 
 from what I am about to tell you." 
 
 My husband appeared struck by my expression of cold indifference. 
 
 " Your language is new to me, Matilda." 
 
 "It must be as new as the sentiment that dictates it ; as new as the avowal 
 I make to you." 
 
 " In pity, explain !" 
 
 " After casting the long glance, to which I have alluded, over the past, I 
 made a discovery — a frightful discovery, I assure you ; It is, that my suffer- 
 ings — although so real and so grievous— were caused by objects scarce worthy 
 of interest ; that my continual lamentations were more fastidious than touch- 
 ing ; and that my eternal tears necessarily and naturally rendered you impa- 
 tient, exciting your anger but rarely you pity." 
 
 " Do you sneer at me, Matilda ? to jest now would be cruel." 
 
 I took my husband by the hand, and, leading him to the glass, there 
 showed him my haggard countenance, and said: 
 
 " To change me so greatly, my sufferings must have been great — must 
 they not, Gontran ? Well, judge then what I felt, when truth compelled mo 
 to admit that my griefs were scarce worthy of pity ; and that when I used to 
 say, * To-morrow I shall recount them to an impartial judge,' you would 
 have been right had you said to me, ' It is your own fault.' Do you sup- 
 pose, that in the face of such a conviction I have the courage to jest, Gon- 
 tran ?" 
 
 " Have you this conviction, Matilda?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have indeed. To-morrow, were the world to know one by one 
 the tortures I have endured, people would say, shrugging their shoulders 
 with contempt, ' The wretched, heartless creature! with her complaints and 
 her continual groaning ! she has only got what she deserves ; one cannot, I 
 suppose, be an honest woman and unfortunate without being intolerable. 
 After all, her character is at once so feeble, contemptible, complaining, and 
 susceptible, that it almost excuses her husband's harshness. Certes, Ursula 
 is very perfidious, very bold, very corrupt ; but it is easy to see why M. de 
 Lancry prefers her a thousand times to Matilda. Ursula has at least a 
 charming piquancy ; the alternatives of good and evil, which keep the spirit 
 and the heart awake, are to be found in her. Matilda, on the contrary, is a 
 perpetual example of doleful and monotonous resignation; she has every vir- 
 tue, it is true — no one dreams of denying that — but she scarcely knows how 
 to make virtue amiable. In a word, she is a woman cursed with the greatest 
 of all faults — she loves — yet knows not how to make herself beloved in re- 
 turn.' This is what the world would say, Gontran : this is what it would 
 have a right to say, according to its view of the case. Some compassionate 
 souls would perhaps pity me, and recommend me to adopt this course in 
 living with you—' To love nobly — suffer— and be resigned.' Yes, these would 
 perhaps pity me, but they would only pity me ; and between pity and sym- 
 pathy there is a vast gulf." 
 
 " What language ! Matilda." 
 
 " Do you still believe that I jest, Gontran, when I tell you, that after all 
 the tears which 1 have shed, even the wretched consolation is taken from ma 
 of believing myself worthy of interest?" 
 
 " And who has impressed you with so fatal an idea ?" cried Gontran. 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 3n 
 
 *' Truth — cold and inflexible truth ! But the heart must be widowed and 
 deserted, ere its faithful voice can obtain audience." 
 " What do you say ? your heart !" 
 
 " My heart is widowed and deserted, since I no longer love you, Gontran ; 
 and it is only since 1 have ceased to love you, that I have been able to 
 judge your conduct and my own impartially." 
 
 " You no longer love me ?" cried he. 
 
 " No! it is therefore that I can look at everything without prejudice ; it is 
 therefore that I have no fear of afflicting you when I make these avowals. 
 Had any one told me, that the surpassing love with which I loved you, and 
 which had resisted so many rude trials, would one day diminish, I should 
 have exclaimed, ' blasphemy!' and yet it is extinguished!" 
 
 "Matilda! Matilda!" 
 
 " It was completely extinguished during the few minutes I spent in read- 
 ing the letter you wrote to Ursula. I do not reproach you, Gontran ; I have 
 no longer aright to do so. In destroying such a heart as mine was — I say 
 it without vanity — you are sufficiently punished. I neither hope nor fear 
 that my sentiments toward you shall ever be changed. I know myself suffi- 
 ciently well to see, that I ought to do nothing by halves. It would, perhaps, 
 have been wisdom, to love you (less and not to abhor you so suddenly. I 
 know it ; but I cannot mend matters now. It is impossible to struggle suc- 
 cessfully against disappointment. I do not explain these things ; I only 
 feel them. Doubtless my tears have, for a long time, been undermining my 
 love for you without my knowing it ; and now, a violent shock has uprooted 
 it altogether ! Your letter to Ursula showed me, clearly, that all my hopes 
 were blasted ; that my love must give way, or be wasted in striving after an 
 impossibility. This is all I can say, for it is all I know about the matter-— 
 as soon as I read this letter, a slow, but deep, and almost physical coldness, 
 paralyzed my heart. An illustration may explain to you my feelings. I was 
 not annihilated by an impetuous tempest, setting my contrary passions 
 against each other — a swelling storm, tossing everything in its vortex : no, 
 no ; now at least, that the storm has passed away — although all has suffered 
 cruelly, all has not been destroyed. What I felt, was a silent and increasing 
 coldness, which froze and annihilated my love. Something came over my 
 heart, like those noiseless floods that rise, and continue to rise, until every- 
 thing has been swallowed up and covered by their frightful surface, present- 
 ing only to the terrified observer an immense waste, on which no sounds are 
 heard, and where nothing — nothing floats !" 
 
 Being at first astonished, my husband replied, with concentrated rage — 
 
 " The very suddenness of your disenchantment shows that it is not sin- 
 cere. Certainly, I have my faults— I have done you great wrong ; but I do 
 not deserve such treatment as this." 
 
 "That has happened which could not fail to happen, Gontran. I ex- 
 pected it : your self-love revolts at the thought that I can no longer love you, 
 and that I do not love you even now. I was even aware that the sudden- 
 ness of my disenchantment— as you term it- might mislead you. You do 
 mislead yourself, Gontran ; I am never mistaken in my own impressions." 
 
 My husband shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " You also believed that you should always love me— you have told me so 
 yourself — you believe now that your love is extinguished. It will be the 
 same with regard to your resentment ; it will have its time and be extin- 
 guished also," he added, with imperturbable confidence. 
 
 " Your comparison is not just, Gontran I should always have loved you, I 
 am sure, if you had not done everything to destroy my iove. I tell you with 
 the same frankness, that now, were you to make" every possible exertion to 
 conquer my profound indifference, you could not succeed." 
 
 " But, indeed, these faults of mine arose merely from giddiness. There- 
 was only one instance of infidelity ; and there is nota woman, who, after the 
 first transport of passion arising from her wounded vanity, would not forgive 
 one such fault." 
 
 " I do not answer by contradicting you. I do not pretend that all women 
 think, or ought to think as I do. I am wrong, doubtless ; it is the misfor- 
 tune of my destiny to be always accused : or, rather, it is a fault of my cha~ 
 racter that I am always misunderstood or misinterpreted !" 
 
 " But once more ; if it is only the letter that I wrote to your cousin that 
 causes your estrangement from me, it is unfounded." 
 
 " I do not wish to blame you for what is past, Gontran ; only, since you 
 speak of this letter, I ask you to recall its language ; and you will remember 
 
S12 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 that there was not an expression in it, which could fail to give a mortal blow 
 to the hopes of the most obstinately sanguine. You have wounded me in- 
 curably as a woman, as a wife, and as a mother ! This is not all ; that pas- 
 sion — to the name of which you have sacrificed me without hesitation, and 
 without pity — has been, is, and will be, the only true passion of your life. 
 You will see my prediction verified. I confess to you, without false humility, 
 or rather, with pride, I have none of the qualifications necessary to struggle 
 with advantage against Ursula, if, in spite of her promises, she should con- 
 tinue to fascinate you. I have now no compensation of affection to offer you, 
 if she should continue to treat you with disdain. You will excuse my free- 
 dom ; it no longer costs me pain to speak to you thus. I loved you so much 
 — I was so throughly blinded with regard to certain circumstances of your' 
 life, that, unable to excuse them, I concluded by persuading myself that, had 
 I been in your position, I should have been equally culpable. Now that my 
 illusions are dissipated, your conduct appears to me in the true light of day ; 
 and even if I were to forget your errors — your infidelity, as you say, it would 
 be impossible for me to love a man whom I could no longer esteem." 
 " Matilda ! what does this mean ?" 
 
 " Before my marriage — before I had yielded to the fascination of the most 
 foolish passion, I might have known what I have since discovered, that I 
 ought not to have married you." 
 
 " Once more, madam, what do you know which could prevent you from 
 esteeming me ? for I do not suppose that a man is dishonest, because he 
 happens to fall irresistibly in love with a woman who is unworthy of him, 
 even admitting what you say to be true." 
 
 After the greatest hesitation, I related to Gontran the whole scene in M. 
 Lugarto's solitary house, and the manner in which M. de Mortagne and M. 
 de Rochegune had compelled this man to restore the document which Gon- 
 tran had forged. 
 
 My husband was terrified. During the short recital he did not utter a 
 word. Sucn were the terms on which I then was with him, that I had no 
 scruples about convincing Gontran that I was acquainted with the matter. 
 There could no longer be such secrets and such understandings between us. 
 I was determined openly to establish my position with regard to my husband. 
 
 If my generosity came too late, I was resolved not to appear a dupe. 
 From the dark glances he cast upon me from time to time, as he walked in 
 agitation across the room, I saw that, according to M. de Mortagne's anticipa- 
 tions, my husband would never forgive me my knowledge of that fatal action. 
 
 After having walked up and down for some minutes in great agitation, 
 Gontran sat down in an arm chair and hid his head in his hands.. I pitied 
 him. 
 
 " I no longer love you," said I. " You have been very guilty, but I do 
 not the less on that account bear your name. You are the father of my 
 child ; that is to say, although you have for ever lost a heart burning with 
 the holiest love, there still remains to you, in the eyes of the world, a wife; 
 and that wife will never fail in the duties toward you, which her position 
 imposes. Apparently, then, our relations will in no way be changed. Were 
 it not for the calumnies of which we are the victims, I should have demanded 
 from you a separation on good terms : but what would Mademoiselle Marau 
 say to that? We should only, I believe, ruin ourselves both by such conduct. 
 It will, therefore, be best for us to live at present as we do live; afterward, 
 we shall act according to circumstances." 
 
 " Let it be so," said Gontran suddenly. " I shall make no effort to in- 
 duce you to abandon your plan. Henceforth, we shall live apart, and I shall 
 rid you of my odious presence. You do not forget an injury : you are right." 
 
 " I assure you that now I have completely forgotten it, and that I would 
 not avenge myself if I could. The effect continues ; the causes are now 
 indifferent to me." 
 
 After a moment of silence, Gontran cried : 
 
 " But no, no! it is impossible ! so much coldness cannot have succeeded 
 to so much devotedness ; you cannot treat me with so much cruelty ; — above 
 all, at a moment " 
 
 " When you have need of consolation, perhaps,'' said I to Gontran. " I 
 assure you it is not jealousy that prevents me from consoling you, but a re- 
 spect for human nature I see too clearly that your love will be fatal to you, 
 not to be alarmed. Whatever misery may accumulate~upon you, you will 
 find me ready to pity, although 1 cannot love you." 
 
 "After all," cried Gontran, rising suddenly, " I am mad to be annoyed by 
 
LOVB'S DESPAIR. 
 
 313 
 
 this affair. How do you say, madam : our position is henceforth to be that 
 of parties entirely separate ? You no longer love me— let it be so. We can 
 live very well in one household without 'ove. My presence is disagreeable 
 to you ;. I will avoid intrusion. You shall live on your side, — I on mine. I 
 do not in the very least oppose your plan," 
 
 " Gontran, there remains only one very delicate fïoint for me to enter 
 upon. I desire that two-thirds of my fortune may be so settled that our 
 child may inherit the sum." 
 
 Let that be my care, madam ; I shall see to it." 
 
 " I believe it to be my duty to anticipate you, as you are completely ig- 
 norant of such matters. I am anxious that this should be done in the most 
 regular manner possible, and I shall take counsel of M. de Mortagne." 
 
 " I shall never have any connection with that man, madam." 
 
 " I do not require that you should any farther than this. You will have 
 the goodness to furnish me, at least, with proof that my intentions shall be 
 carried into effect. If M. de Mortagne finds that the instrument is regular 
 and sufficient, I do not ask anything further." 
 
 " All this, madam, cannot be done as you desire. Our child's fortune 
 interests me as much as "it does you. It is my province, and mine alone, to 
 make provision for it. I shall do what seems to me necessary ; and you 
 need not attempt to exercise any control over affairs which belong exclu- 
 sively to me." 
 
 •'You will not even guarantee me what I ask, Gontran?" 
 
 " No, madam." 
 
 " I shall then take care to use all possible means to attain my end." 
 
 " Do so, madam ; you are at liberty." 
 
 Such was the close of this interview with my husband. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 love's despair. 
 
 Some days after that interview, M. de Lancry sent his valet-de-chambre, in 
 whom he placed all confidence, to Paris. After this man's departure, my 
 husband received a letter from him nearly every day. I waited for M. de 
 Mortagne' s reply with as much impatience as anxiety. This was the second 
 time I had written to him. I did not comprehend the causes of his silence. 
 My life continued to pass away in mournful sadness. I was sometimes as- 
 tonished that indifference could so suddenly take the place of love. It was, 
 however, quite natural. Violent and deep sentiments cannot pass into the 
 empty modes of cold formality. They live for ever, or they are extinguished 
 as they are lighted — suddenly — after having long sustained the most cruel 
 attacks. Yes, these sentiments fall and die all at once, like the warrior who 
 perceives, only as he expires, that he is covered with wounds, and that he 
 has lost all his blood in the combat. 
 
 One other thing surprised me ; and I did not know whether I ought to be 
 proud or ashamed of it. Disaffection had frozen my heart ; but the circum- 
 stances of my life had been grievous to bear. Was this courage ? or was it 
 indifference ? I soon understood the secret of my conduct. 
 
 I consoled myself for not loving M. de Lancry, by thinking, that all the 
 powers of my soul would soon be concentrated in a single bein^. Did my 
 heart still deceive me? Was this merely continuing to love Gontran, by 
 idolizing his child? I could not blame myself. Maternal love filled my 
 whole breast. That alone gave me firmness : for when, unfortunately, I 
 thought that the divine hope kindled within me by Heaven was but a hope — 
 when I bethought me what a heart- bereavement mine would be if this hope 
 were blasted— oh ! then I was giddy in my despair ; I turned my eyes from 
 the dark abyss, to repose them on the radiant future, of which the prospect 
 alone rendered life endurable. 
 
 Winter came, with its cold gloom, its sad storms, and its evenings, which 
 the sweet intimacy of a domestic fireside shortened not to me. At break- 
 fast and dinner I exchanged a few words with Gontran occasionally; then he 
 would go to his apartments and I to mine ! 
 
 His habits were completely changed. He no longer hunted; but in spite 
 of the rigour of the season, he went out into the forest almost every day, on 
 foot. He there spent much time, returning with scrupulous exactness at 
 
SI 4 
 
 WATILDA. 
 
 the post hour. Then he would go out again, and not return often until late 
 at night. At other times he remained for two or three days shut up in his 
 apartments. His features began to change frightfully ; his cheeks became 
 hollow; his eyes sunken ; and his fitful smile, contracting his lips, produced 
 such a dolorous expression of countenance, and such a look of mortified de- 
 spondency, as I have never seen. 
 
 " At the post-hour, his anxiety was so great that he usually went for his 
 letters instead of sending for them. I one clay saw him receive a letter, and 
 look at it for some time timidly, as though he dreaded opening it ; then he 
 read it eagerly, and tore it in pieces, trampling it under foot with rage. 
 Twice he made preparations for his departure ; but he as often delayed it. 
 One evening I was in my parlour with Blondeau, opening a box of baby- 
 dresses which I had ordered from England. Suddenly Gontran entered, 
 pale, overcome, and almost mad ; crying, with a heart-rending tone, " Ma- 
 tilda! I can no longer " But seeing Blondeau, he stopped short and 
 
 disappeared. I went after him ; he was shut up in his apartment, and 
 although I waited a long time at the door, he would not admit me. 
 
 Another day he laid aside his ordinary garments, and, dressing himself 
 very elegantly, entered my apartment, and said, "with an air almost of 
 madness : 
 
 " How do you do ? Am I very much changed ? In a word, can I no 
 longer please you? Can I not please you as much as formerly?" 
 
 I looked at him with surprise. He cried violently, stamping lus foot, " I 
 ask you if I am much changed — do you hear me?" 
 
 Terror succeeded my astonishment at this question, and the manner in 
 which it was put. He seemed almost insane. I knew not how to reply. He 
 went away in fury, dashing to pieces a china-cup that lay on the table. 
 
 In short, what am I not obliged to confess ? Blondeau found, through 
 our maitre d'hôtel, that M. de Lancry sometimes ordered strong liquors to 
 be brought to him, on which he became intoxicated. Of this I could no 
 longer entertain a doubt. His excesses, his anger mounting to fury, and 
 his strange peculiarities, showed me that Gontran was the prey of a violent 
 passion, and that he sometimes sought, in the intoxicating cup, that forget- 
 fulness which gave him an interval of repose. My pity satisfied me that 
 love had for ever left my heart. His unhappiness grieved me ; but I felt 
 no jealousy. My chief regret was that I could do nothing for Gontran, 
 since my consolation would produce any effect but a good one. I had, for 
 some time, neither dared nor wished to enter upon such a subject with him, 
 but now I watched an opportunity. 
 
 One day the courier arrived a little earlier than usual, and Gontran's let- 
 ters were brought into his library, where I found him looking for a book. 
 
 He broke the seal with emotion, read, became pale, and let the letter fall, 
 while he covered-his brow with his two hands. 
 
 I approached him, very much moved. 
 
 " Gontran," said I, " you suffermuch." 
 
 He started, suddenly raising his head. He wept ! His whole appearance 
 indicated the deepest grief. 
 
 " Yes, I suffer,'' said he, with bitterness ; " what matters that to you ?" 
 
 " Hear me, my husband," said I, taking his burning thin hand. " There 
 are griefs which can now move my pity." 
 
 " Your pity ! yours ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and for the very reason that I no longer love you, I can— I ought 
 to console you as a friend. You suffer ; I do not require to ask the cause, 
 which has produced so great a change in your appearance." 
 
 "Well — yes," cried he, in spite of himself, "why should I feel any 
 constraint in your presence now? Yes, I love her passionately! Yes, I 
 love her as a child would, as a madman would ! Yes, I love her as no one 
 ever loved before ! And yet her disdain is so pitiless ! that is the reason 
 why she is lost to me ; and she will not even permit me to repair the mis- 
 fortune I have caused her. For now my honour is concerned in her protec- 
 tion, and— but— hold ! pardon! it is to you— to you, my wife! that I am 
 speaking thus." 
 
 " And you may speak to me, Gontran ; you do not tell me anything new. 
 I can no longer have any doubt about the passion that consumes you— a 
 fatal, fatal passion ! which has cost me my happiness already, and which 
 brings you nothing but disappointment." 
 
 " Oh ! yes — fatal ! very fatal ! You know not what tears it has cost me — 
 what hidden despair, what powerless rage, what foolish or criminal résolu» 
 
love's despair. 
 
 315 
 
 tiom ! You know not that I have sought an ignoble forgetfulness in the 
 drunkard's bowl. Oh ! this infernal woman knew well with what love she 
 inspired me — what infamous and horrible love ! to which I have already 
 sacrificed you— even you ! Hold ! I am miserable, or rather — I am mad ! 
 And yet, in spite of me, this love increases every day : twice have I been on 
 the eve of rejoining her. But I have not dared. So intractable is this 
 woman, that a false step would ruin all. And yet, in spite of me, I en- 
 tertain a glimmering of hope. But hold! pardon again! I wound you— I 
 anger you." 
 
 " I can now hear it all— I swear to you, Gontran. For you and for me, 
 this is a sad compensation for what we have both lost." 
 
 "Oh ! I know it— I know it ! I can no longer expect your love ! I must 
 renounce, it, but be not pitiless; let me pour out my heart in your presence. 
 Now that you do not love me, this cannot hurt you. Oh ! Matilda, I am so 
 unhappy that this avowal almost avenges your wrongs. Oh! if you only 
 knew what it is to suffer a silent and concentrated grief 1" 
 
 " I do know it, Gontran." 
 
 " Twenty times have I been on the point of casting myself on my knees, 
 of confessing all to you, and demanding at least your pity. But all my past 
 errors appeared to come up before me : I was ashamed of myself — I did not 
 dare. In silence I have devoured my tears. Yes, I have wept — you see I 
 have. I am weak ! I weep like a child." 
 
 He wept again ; then, drying his tears, he exclaimed — "This woman has 
 no pity ! she does not remember that I have sacrificed everything for her — 
 you, noble, generous creature, as noble and generous as she is perverse and 
 infamous. But she does not dream that my blindness may have an end. 
 What does she say ? Why that her infernal pride is flattered by seeing me 
 at her feet. She does not know, then, that as soon as the illusion is dissi- 
 pated, I shall feel toward her only contempt and hatred. Oh ! her vanity 
 may yet receive a cruel blow in seeing me return to you — to you whom she 
 always envied, as she told me." 
 
 " All return to our past condition is impossible, Gontran ; you must re- 
 nounce all hope of striking this blow, which you think would be so much 
 felt by Ursula's pride." 
 
 " Well, despise me, Matilda ; but I cannot conceal the fact, that since 
 you spoke these words, which sounded so cruelly, coming from you — I do 
 not love you — I have felt for the first time what I lost in losing you. Yes ; 
 and what renders my vexation more dreadful still, is the thought that I am 
 no longer able to say — ' I have always near me a noble and generous heart 
 that forgets and pardons, and to which I always return with confidence, be- 
 cause its goodness is inexhaustible.' " 
 
 " Yes : my heart was once toward you what you describe : oh ! indeed it 
 was, Gontran." 
 
 " But that heart is still mine. You do yourself injustice, Matilda, A 
 love like yours leaves in the heart unchangeable effects. It may languish for 
 some time, but it appears again more brightly than ever. Do not drive me 
 to despair, Matilda : aid me to conquer this abominable passion! I swear 
 to you, I never had more respect for all that is great and elevated in your 
 heart. Oh ! what would this woman's rage be. were she to believe us happy, 
 united, tenderly interested in one another ! What a mortal blow would her 
 pride receive ! Oh ! Matilda ! let us be pitiless toward her ; let us go to 
 Paris and affect greater devotedness than ever. She would then taste the 
 anguish she has made us endure!" 
 
 His strange proposition proved to me Gontran's hallucination, and how 
 blind and personal passion always is. He could not then have intended to 
 wound me, and yet he proposed that I should play an odious part, and all 
 to excite Ursula' s jealousy ! 
 
 " At any other time," said I to îny husband, " these words would havebeen 
 horrible ! to-day, they make me smile sadly. Alas ! love rules over you so 
 completely, that you do not perceive in your proposed return to me, a new 
 proof of the irresistible influence Ursula exerts over you." 
 
 Yet this is fearful !" cried he. " If this woman is never to love me — if 
 she is to laugh at my sufferings— if her disdain is not a coquettish intrigue; 
 why can I not renounce the hope of being one day loved by her ? Why do I 
 find a bitter pleasure in the agonies she causes me ? Why, in short, do I adore 
 her, although I know her dissimulation— know that she "is perfidious and in- 
 different to my love ?" 
 
315 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " My God !" cried I, joining my hands, " thy will is all powerful. Thou 
 hast punished Gontran, by making him endure all that he made me suffer." 
 " What do you mean to say, Matilda?" 
 
 "You perceive, Gontran, there is something providential in all this! When 
 I felt for you a blind and obstinate passion, I said to myself, « If Gontran no 
 longer loves me, why do I retain the deep-rooted hope of making him love 
 me? Why hope to conquer his indifference, his harshness?' Like you, » 
 I asked myself these questions, Gontran; like you,. I found a sort of 
 bitter pleasure in this disappointment ; like you, I met your new disdain 
 every day with desperate boldness ; like you, doubtless, I passed long nights, 
 inquiring of my soul the cause of this mournful mystery!" 
 
 " Oh ! is there anything more terrible than to be dragged along by an irre- 
 sistible sentiment !" cried Gontran, so much absorbed in self that he forgot 
 I had spoken to him. " Oh ! is it not frightful," continued he, " to see rea- 
 son, and inclination, and duty, and honour, powerless — by struggling to re- 
 move this fatal delusion !" 
 
 " You paint, in terrible colours, the evils which you have wreaked on me, 
 Gontran. But for my part, in losing you — notwithstanding your disdain — I 
 obeyed the voice of duty : mine was an extravagant but noble love. In 
 loving this woman while she despises you, you yield to a guilty fancy : yours 
 is nothing better than a strong criminal affection." 
 
 For an instant he was struck ; but his indomitable selfishness manifested 
 itself anew, and he cried — 
 
 *' By Heaven ! there is a gulf between your character and mine, You are 
 a poor, young woman, feeble and without energy — you know nothing of life 
 and human passion : that is not my case. After all, it shall not be said that 
 a provincial girl of eighteen — unknown, without standing, and now without 
 character, and abandoned by all, shall trifle with me in this way. She avoids 
 me ; she will not see me again ; in short, she fears me ! oh ! I understand it. 
 This insolent and haughty woman is afraid to meet her master ! Vanity does 
 not blind me ; she tries to deceive herself. She is so cunning that in her let- 
 ter, for the sake of removing all suspicion of my influence over her, she attri- 
 butes to my self-love the just confidence which her conduct naturally produces 
 in my heart. She speaks thus: ' Your pride must not suppose that I fly from 
 you because I fear you !' There ! there ! I was certainly in despair too soon, 
 She fears me ! then she loves me of course ! Love renders me as dull as a 
 schoolboy. Oh! Matilda, you will be avenged!" 
 
 I interrupted my husband ; 
 
 "Hear me, Gontran ; — you have lately seen me unhappy. Although the 
 cause of this unhappiness was an outrage committed against me, I have been 
 able for a moment to bear with the pains I have felt, and forget that you have 
 caused them. Hope now springs up again in your heart ; you express it so 
 strongly that it would be unworthy of me to say another word by way of con- 
 solation." 
 
 " Matilda, pardon me! Heavens ! I am mad!" 
 
 " Since I rétain my reason, then, I give you my last advice. Ursula is 
 more cunning than you are ; you are falling into the clumsy snare she has 
 spread for you." 
 
 " A snare ! What snare?" 
 
 " If she had not left you some hope, you would perhaps have forgotten her ; 
 but by making you suppose that she flies from you lest she should love you too 
 much, she has preserved a kind of influence over you, and thus struck me a 
 last blow without giving me room to complain, since she ceased to see you, 
 according to her promise." 
 
 " This is attributing an odious motive to generous conduct," cried M. de 
 Lancry. 
 
 This reproach disgusted me. 
 
 " And what, then, has this woman's generosity been ? After having injured 
 me in what I held dearest, she has said : ' I have not loved your husband, but 
 I have made him my accomplice in an act of infamous treachery. I now re- 
 pent of it, and I swear I shall never see him again !' What a sacrifice ! After 
 having done me all the mischief possible, she renounces a man whom 6he 
 never loved ! 
 
 " But by confessing her fault, she placed her destiny in your hands, ma- 
 dam ! and you have seen that she did not exaggerate the inflexible severity 
 of her husband !" 
 
 " Did she not know, sir, that I was incapable of ruining her? Had I not 
 given her a thousand proofs of my goodness and weakness ? Cease, then, to 
 
love's DESPAIR. 
 
 317 
 
 extol what you call the generosity of this woman. She injured me for the 
 present, and she could do nothing to atone for the injuries of the past !" 
 
 Indignant at M. de Lancry's selfishness, Ï rose to leave the room; but he 
 eame to me with confusion, and took my hand. 
 
 " Pardon me," said he mournfully, " pardon me ! I am now ashamed of my 
 words. I feel, alas ! how they wound you! It was so kind in you, to listen 
 to me. Pardon me ! I again beg it of you, But I am so unhappy, that I find 
 myself without strength in the struggle. My energies are prostrated i I have 
 no longer the power to resolve upon any course. Every day I abandon the 
 resolution formed during the night-watches. This unhappy thought is pre- 
 sent — always present and unvarying : I cannot escape it. Oh! this is a hor- 
 rible position ! What is to be done ? Heavens ! what is to be done ?" 
 
 And this man, hardened and unprincipled though he was, wept afresh. 
 This shameful weakness, moved rather my indignation than my pity. 
 
 " What is to be done ?" said I — " what is to be done ? — do you ask me ? 
 To see your prostration, your powerless regrets, your easy resignation to a 
 criminal fancy, any one would suppose you were invincibly compelled to act 
 as you do !" 
 
 " I tell you, this influence is irresistible, Matilda." 
 
 " I tell you, for my part, that I consider this but a base excuse. What 
 is to be done? you say. Conduct yourself like an honest man — aman of heart ! 
 Listen Gontran. I am no longer blind with regard to you. The moment is 
 come for speaking with blunt freedom : my future, and yours, and that of our 
 child, must depend on the resolution you take to-day ! You married without 
 loving me ; you have committed a dishonourable deed ; you have rendered 
 me the most unhappy of women ; and you nourish a disgraceful passion!" 
 
 " More reproaches ! Have pity upon me, in your turn, Matilda." 
 
 " If I recall this melancholy catalogue of errors, it is to establish your posi- 
 tion and mine, and to answer your question — ' What is to be done ?' I proceed 
 to tell you. To-day, from the present moment, you can begin to act so as to 
 make your future honoured and happy. To-morrow, perhaps, it will be too 
 late." 
 
 Yes : watch over me, console me, come to my aid. Matilda, you can en- 
 tertain only noble ideas : I will follow your advice." 
 
 " You are young, and courageous ; you have wit and health. You are so 
 fortunate, that the proof of that fatal error which might have destroyed you, 
 is annihilated ; you are so fortunate in the circumstance — the true and the 
 false are so confounded in the world's calumnies, that honest people will 
 hesitate to pronounce against you. Change your mode of life ; become useful ; 
 act prudently ; and the opinion of the world will yet be on your side." 
 
 " But how? By what means ?" 
 
 " Until now, aside from your military services, your life has been useless 
 and dissipated. Give it a serious purpose ; serve your country ; employ your- 
 self. Are there no honourable paths for you to enter upon ? Have you not 
 been a soldier — a diplomatist?" 
 
 " I would neither ask, nor accept any employment from the present govern- 
 ment." 
 
 " Be it so ; you are right. This susceptibility is comprehensible. By your 
 position — by your gratitude to a family that has heaped favours upon you and 
 yours, and to which my parents also have always been devoted, you belong to 
 the party that represents the rights and hopes of the royal family : well at- 
 tach yourself officially to its brave defenders." 
 
 " Do you then advise me to go to Vendée?" 
 
 " I do not counsel you to take a part in the civil war. There are induce- 
 ments to it which I understand, and excuse and admire, perhaps, but which 
 I would not wish to see you share. Is there no other way of serving this 
 party?" 
 
 " I know of none." 
 
 " Let me see— in the chamber, for example, is there no good place to be 
 filled among the royalists ?" 
 
 " In the chamber? you cannot think of such a thing! What chances are 
 there elsewhere ?" 
 
 " If you wished it you might find many. The lands we possess here, and 
 the recollection of my family, would favour, I am sure, your election. Take 
 hold of this hope. Henceforth let your thoughts tend to this end. Your wit 
 is easy and brilliant ? give your talents that solidity which they now lack. 
 You would represent your country ; study its laws, and its government — com- 
 plete then, by serious self-instruction, the advantages that practice and a 
 2 K 3 
 
SIS 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 knowledge f the world have given you. There are under us farmers, tenant*, 
 and persons of every sort, on whom an election depends. Exert over them 
 the charm which you can wield at will ; inform yourself of their interests, of 
 their wants, and make yourself their real friend. Hitherto, they have sees 
 in you only the gentleman of leisure, indifferent to the great questions that 
 agitate the country. Show them that you are capable of acting on a different 
 line of principles : show them that one may be of ancient family ; that he 
 may defend thj principles which he believes salutary— the rights which he be- 
 lieves divine ; and yet espouse the pious and noble cause of the working men, 
 who suffer and defend their country. Spend the long winter nights in useful 
 study. Go over our estates every day ; be good, just, affable, and you will make 
 interest with the people. Allow me to carry out that project, which you once 
 so harshly refused. By the force of kindness, and service, you will render 
 yourself necessary ; and one day you will, doubtless, be recompensed for your 
 c ires and toils by the vote of the district. Give your life this aim, Gontran ; 
 thus shall you combat and overcome the shameful passion which degrades and 
 enervates you. To encourage you in this glorious path, you will have near 
 you — no longer, indeed, a heart warmed with the most passionate love— but 
 you will have, at least, a sincere friend, who will assist you in every effort and 
 every worthy resolution ; who will bless you for being good and brave ; and 
 then you will be able to say that this self-imposed task has not only rescued 
 you from a miserable bondage, but has elevated the name which your child 
 shall bear. Alas ! Gontran. perhaps when I see you so changed, and good, 
 and happy, and contented ; this sad heart — now cold and dead toward you — 
 may revive by one of those miracles with which Heaven sometimes rewards 
 valiant resolutions. If, on the contrary, the blow which smote it has been 
 mortal, then my grave friendship, the education of our child, the opinion of 
 the world, your renown, and a worthy ambition, will occupy your life suffici- 
 ently, to make you regret less bitterly the loss of that romantic married love, 
 of which you used to speak." 
 
 " It is not in me ! there are circumstances which have destroyed this hope. 
 Moreover, our happy days are over !" 
 
 " They were too happy, Gontran. One of your errors was to make me, at 
 first, too happy, while you knew that such felicity could not continue. My 
 error was, to trust in the continuance of this good fortune. When disputes 
 arose, I never had the courage to defend myself resolutely. My delicacy 
 degenerated into absurd susceptibility ; I knew only how to suffer. It was 
 necessary that my illusion should be dispelled completely, in order to bring 
 me to myself and to reason. Perhaps, the firm and rational language which 
 I employ in conversation to-day, might have produced noble desires in your 
 heart and stifled your hateful plans. I might have elevated you in your own 
 eyes and mine ; but I believed what you said to me, and the deception was 
 terrible ! During the struggle between my love and your disdain, my rea- 
 son was obscured and weakened ; but I feel that it is now firm, and that it 
 has been enlarged and elevated by the consciousness of new duties which 
 nature imposes. Now I see, and judge, and speak differently." 
 
 " Differently 1 yes, differently indeed," said Gontran, who had listened 
 to me with increasing surprise, which prevented him from interrupting me, 
 "How! Matilda! How! Is it you that I hear? You? always so feeble, 
 so resigned ?" 
 
 "Answer me, Gontran : will you again speak to me with tears these words 
 so unworthy of you, ' What is to be done to conquer the senseless passion 
 that besets me?' " 
 
 " No, no ;" cried M. de Lancry, " no ! you shall be, as you always were, 
 my good angel ! Y<>ur noble and severe language has opened up to me, an 
 entirely new prospect. Yes, yes: I will struggle — I will conquer this pas- 
 sion. I shall have a double aim in view — a double recompense to hope for 
 to regain my position in your eyes and in those of the world, and to recon- 
 quer'the noble heart I have lost. Oh ! noblest woman among the noble, 
 when I compare this worthy and elevated language with all the impudent 
 charlatanry of Ursula — when I compare the pure and salutary emotion it 
 causes me — the generous ideas it awakens in me, with the bitter feelings 
 that her ironical and haughty spirit always left me, I cannot conceive how 
 up to this time, I have so misunderstod and sacrificed you. Oh ! Matilda! 
 to give me courase, to strengthen me in my resolution ; let me believe that 
 this passing deadness of your heart will soon cease ! This new life shared 
 with you will be so sweet to me. It will be tender and loving as of old !" 
 
 "That, Gontran, is impossible! I repeat, Gontran, that you shall find in 
 
THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 319 
 
 me all the support and affection that duty imposes ; I can promise no more. 
 Our marriage of love has.passed away ; our marriage of convenience suc- 
 ceeds : this will be a calm and mournful relationship, hut full of earnestness 
 and sincerity. I do not wish to boast. Gontran ; but I wish you to reflect 
 upon all that has passed between us, and you will confess that I have con- 
 ducted myself with propriety." 
 
 " Like the most generous of women — it is true ! true a thousand times ! 
 Wonted possession of prosperity renders us so exacting, that I do not feel 
 contented even with more than I deserve." 
 
 " Courage ! courage ! Gontran. Life may still be dear to you. Noble 
 ambition — serious occupation, glorious triumphs, will console. Perhaps 
 even the day will come when you shall have no room for regrets. Perhaps 
 I shall be the only one to know the difference between the present and the 
 past— a difference which distresses you to-day. You may commence a new 
 existence : courage ! courage ! If you find yourself unhappy, think of those 
 who are still more miserable than yourself." \ 
 
 " Yes, yes — courage ! Matilda ! you shall see it ; I will be worthy of you. 
 From this day, as you have said, I commence a new life. You have awa- 
 kened in my heart a laudable ambition ; in a word, I take your advice. Be- 
 sides, I cannot help reproaching myself for remaining an indifferent specta- 
 tor of this revolution, and avoiding even the expression of my opinions in 
 favour of a family to which I owe everything. This was almost baseness. 
 Oh ! thanks to you for having made me ashamed of myself !" 
 
 I confess this interview gave me some hope. I thanked God for his 
 guidance. The more I reflected on the counsels and hopes I had extended 
 to Gontran, the more satisfied I was with my own conduct. If ambition 
 could take root in his soul, it would soon stifle his passion for Ursula. 
 
 Gontran — with his talents and his knowledge of mankind — once identified 
 with certain political opinions, might certainly soon attain a creditable po- 
 sition among the eminent statesmen of his time. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 The day after the conversation that had inspired me with so much hope, and 
 during which Gontran had manifested so generous a resolution, I did not 
 see my husband. 
 
 About two o'clock the weather was very fine, although cold. I sent to 
 inquire whether M. de Lancry would take an airing with me in the carriage. 
 Blondeau came to tell me that he was very much engaged, and regretted 
 that he could not go. I supposed that the natural ardour of his character 
 had prompted him to enter already upon the labours which were to be for 
 him so useful a diversion. I went to ride alone. 
 
 The pale wintry sun did me good. My broken heart expanded. In spite 
 of me, a very vague and distant hope still eheered my future. Although I 
 no longer loved my husband— although his presence was often painful on 
 account of the cruel recollection it suggested, I could not help thinking it 
 possible, that in time to come I might be happier than I had expected. If 
 M. de Lancry could succeed, by labour and resolution, in overcoming his 
 passion for Ursula, and in substituting for it a noble ambition, then he 
 would be saved, and saved for me ! Once among men of his stamp, ambi- 
 tion would leave little room for tender sentiments. Perhaps, then, taking 
 into account my resignation and devotion, Gontran would seek and obtain 
 possession of my heart, and become once more happy. Alas ! these thoughts 
 proved to me only the weakness of our resolutions and the instability of our 
 impressions. 
 
 As I had told my husband, I certainly did not love him ; and yet, at the 
 slightest hopeDf seeing him become what he had been before, it seemed as 
 though I felt again my former love ! I wished to believe in the lethargy 
 rather than in the death of my affection. After a long drive I returned home : 
 it was almost night. 
 
 Approaching the chateau, I was very much astonished at seeing Blondeau 
 coming to meet me down the avenue that led to the park. She made a 
 signal to the coachman : the carriage stopped. I was struck by the sad and 
 unquiet expression of the good woman's face» 
 
320 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " Get up beside me," said I, " I will carry you back.*' 
 " I was going to ask that favour, madam." 
 
 " Heavens what is the matter?" said I to her ; "you are pale — agitated. 
 Something extraordinary has certainly happened." 
 " Pray, madam, do not be alarmed !" 
 " But what is it ? You terrify me !" 
 
 *' I am come beforehand, madam, because I feared that at the chatea» they 
 might apprise you too suddenly of the matter." 
 " But speak ! what has happened ?" 
 
 "Calm yourself, madam — calm yourself. This is something that will as- 
 tonish you very much : but there is no cause for grief, if you are reasonable. 
 It will perhaps be for the better : you will be more tranquil." 
 
 " More tranquil ! explain." 
 
 "A letter which M. le Vicomte has sent you, madam, will doubtless 
 explain." 
 
 " A letter ? where is it ?" 
 
 " Here, madam, but it is dark ; you can't read it." 
 " But what did M. de Lancry say to you ?" 
 
 " Madam, this is what has occurred. Scarcely had you gone out, when 
 Germain, whom M. le Vicomte sent to Paris some time ago, and who wrote 
 to his master every day, arrived at the chateau from town. He immediately 
 demanded an interview with the vicomte. Scarcely had he been with Mon- 
 sieur five minutes " 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " I assure you, madam," said Blondeau, hesitating, and looking at me 
 with mournful compassion. " it is perhaps better thus. The departure " 
 
 "A departure? M. de Lancry gone !" cried I, clasping my hands. 
 
 " And Heaven grant that he may never return !" said Blondeau impetu- 
 ously, unable to restrain herself, " for you would die with grief, my poor 
 lady!" 
 
 Without answering Blondeau, I hurried home, to read M. de Lancry'» 
 letter. 
 Here it is : 
 
 " Makan. 3 o'clock. 
 
 " You will guess, without trouble, the cause of my sudden departure. It 
 is useless for me to dissemble in my present position. You see that there 
 are fatalities which one cannot, without madness, attempt to resist. 
 
 " My presence would henceforth be insupportable to you ; and yours would 
 recall the faults which I neither can, nor wish to deny. Your virtues and my 
 vices are of such a nature, that we cannot hope to live in this sort of negative 
 intimacy which is barely sufficient to preserve matrimonial appearances. 
 
 " Your regrets after our marriage always translated themselves, in my 
 mind, into reproaches, and your patient virtue always recalled my faults. I 
 then became soured; and we shall now only ruin ourselves both by a recon- 
 ciliation. 
 
 " I leave you at perfect liberty, satisfied that you will know how to manage 
 matters suitably. I ask a like privilege from you. My resolution is irrevo- 
 cably taken, and you would strive in vain to change it. 
 
 " I think that twenty-five thousand francs a year will be sufficient for 
 you. Whether you remain at Maran, as I advise you to do, or go to Paris, 
 this allowance shall be punctually paid. 
 
 " Give me an account of your health, from time to time; and if you have 
 any objections to the financial arrangements I have made, write to me, and 
 I will endeavour to arrange all to please you. 
 
 " I was deceived, as you were, by my good resolution of yesterday. This 
 was a weakness. I had not my senses ; I acted and spoke like a man des- 
 titute of energy. The current bears me away; I shut my eyes, and abandon 
 myself to it. Whatever you may say, there are circumstances in which re- 
 solution is powerless. G. de L." 
 
 The sudden departure of my husband, and the reading of his letter, caused 
 me so terrible a shock, that I suddenly felt an awfully excruciating pain, 
 which froze my blood in my veins, and frightened me as I never had been 
 frightened before. I fainted away with pain and terror. Now, as then, 1 
 say — my curse upon you, Gontran ! you killed my unborn child ! 
 
 Of the time I passed unconsciously, I can give no account. Blondeau 
 did not leave me a day, nor cen a night. She told me, that when I learned 
 the frightful result of my sudden alarm, my reason fled. I shrieked with 
 
turn will. 
 
 321 
 
 delirious laughter. Th a paroxysm lasted until my strength was completely 
 exhausted. Then I fell into a sort of torpor — of inert indifference. During 
 this period I never spoke a word, and did not seem to hear what was said to 
 me. I remained in this condition about two months, before recovering ray 
 reason. When I came to myself, I insisted that Blondeau should tell me 
 what had passed ; all, as far back as Gontran's departure — all, up to the 
 revolution which this departure had caused me— all, in short, up to the terri- 
 ble moment in which But my pen stops — my hand trembles: all my 
 
 frame shudders again, at the remembrance of this crisis! Oh! my child ! 
 my child ! 
 
 Oh ! my curse upon you, Gontran ! — my blackest curse ! Even at this hour, 
 my despair breaks out in groans. Oh ! curse you ! curse you ! You have 
 broken, without pity, the last— the only link that could bind me to life. 
 Curse you ! Gontran ! you have taken away the only pretext, which one day 
 might have permitted me to pardon your crimes against me. May you be 
 blighted ! — blighted for ever ! 
 
 I several times have asked myself, whether Gontran's sudden departure, of 
 itself, caused the fatal event which was to decide my life ; or whether I ought 
 to attribute this fatal calamity, to the violent grief which I had endured for 
 some months before. 
 
 Long afterward I blushed at my weakness, and was unwilling to admit 
 that the latter cause had any thing to do in producing my misfortune: it was, 
 nevertheless, true. In spite of my husband's shameful treachery, in spite of 
 his letter to Ursula, in spite of his avowal and my indignation — although I 
 had at last told him I no longer loved him — shame! disgrace to me! — I 
 loved him — I loved him still ; even after the overwhelming calamity caused 
 by his departure — the premature death of my child ! 
 
 Now, that the illusion is dissipated for ever — now, that I see the truth only 
 in the past — it is evident, that even in the midst of my agonies, which I be- 
 lieved the most desperate, a secret and vague hope sustained me, without my 
 knowing it. Gontran's abandonment made me feel what his presence had 
 been to me. In vain did I know that he loved Ursula — in vain did he avow 
 this foolish and irresistible passion ! he was still near me, at least ; and, 
 thanks to my care and tenderness, I could dream of a change for good in his 
 heart ; and, cruel and pitiless though he was, he was still near me, and I 
 preferred suffering by his presence, to enduring his absence. A terrible and 
 implacable remorse, will henceforward pursue me through my life. An unwor- 
 thy love cost me the life of my child ! 
 
 If, what my false lips said, had been true — if, forgetting and despising a 
 man without faith, I had placed all my future in maternal love, I should hava 
 borne the desertion of my husband with calm dignity. It was not so. The 
 manner in which my being was rent asunder by Gontran's departure, showed 
 me how strongly my heart's fibres had been attached to him. But his infa- 
 mous desertion, by tearing up the last living and bleeding roots of my affec- 
 tion, annihilated it ! alas ! too late ! but for ever ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 During my illness, the following letters from Madame de Richeviile, arrived 
 at Maran. 
 
 Blondeau, seeing that they were sealed with black, gave them to me only 
 when I was out of danger. Fearing that their contents were fatal, she would 
 not expose me to a degree of emotion which, perhaps, might be dangerous. 
 The good and devoted woman's presentiments were correct. 
 
 " Paris, 2 o'clock. January, 1831. 
 
 u I write you a few words in haste, my dear Matilda to apprise you of a 
 very mournful event. 
 
 " I have this moment learned, that M. de Mortagne was yesterday badly 
 wounded in a duel. They say (but I can scarcely believe it) that our unfor- 
 tunate friend, with whose character and loyalty you are acquainted, was the 
 aggressor. 
 
 " The surgeons cannot yet £ive any hope. The first dressing will not be 
 
322 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 taken off till evening. I fancy, although I can scarce assign a reason that ~\ 
 de Mortagne's duel may only be the result of some odious conspiracy. 
 
 " I immediately went myself, to learn the truth. Seated in my carriage, 
 I waited at the gate of the house, (in which he lives alone, as you know,) until 
 my footman should return. Two men, tall and well dressed, but vulgar in 
 their appearance, arrived without doubt, also for the purpose of inquiring for 
 M. de Mortagne. Before entering, the one passed in advance of the other, 
 and they both made some grotesque bows that perfectly amazed me. After 
 remaining for an instant in the house, they came out and stood for a minute 
 before the door, looking around on one side and the other. Then one of them, 
 the tallest, (I shall never forget his base and sinister expression, his copper- 
 coloured face, covered with thick whiskers of a fiery red, and illumined by 
 two small eyes of a clear gray,) then the tallest of the two men said to the 
 other, laughing fiercely : 
 
 " ' I tell you, that lead under the arm is just as good as lead in the brain. 
 However, I meant it for his head ! But, although I am a dead shot forty paces, 
 my eye winked before the look of that man : I never saw such a look. It was 
 this that deranged my aim.' ' It matters little, however, provided the shot 
 is surely good V replied the other with strong and peculiar accent ; 'in that 
 case,' added he, * a bargain made is a bargain kept. He has only his word, 
 and ' 
 
 " I heard no more : the two men went away, and I cannot tell you how 
 much this conversation disturbed me. Who are these men ? What quarrel 
 could have existed between M. de Mortagne and such beings '! What do 
 these words mean ? ' A bargain made is a bargain kept !' ' He has only his 
 word!' ' Provided the shot is surely good !' that is, of course, to say — pro- 
 vided it is mortal. How is this mystery to be explained? 
 
 " 8 o'clock, P.M. 
 
 ** M. de Mortagne is in the same state. They have ordered the most rig- 
 orous silence to be preserved. I begged M. de St. Pierre, who was one of 
 his seconds, to come to my house, as I wished to tell him what I had overheard 
 from these two men. He was as much struck as I was at the words. The 
 red-whiskered man had been M. de Mortagne's adversary in the duel. 
 
 " These are the details which M. de St. Pierre gave me regarding the duel : 
 
 " M. de Mortagne went to his house on Friday evening, to tell him he had 
 had an altercation with a man whom he did not know ; but whom he had often 
 met for some time past at the café de Paris, where he was in the habit of din- 
 ing. This man and his companion always made a point of sitting at a table 
 near him, when it was at all possible. Once seated where they could be over- 
 heard by M. de Mortagne, they began to speak of the Emperor in the most 
 coarse and contemptuous terms. You know, my dear Matilda, the kind of 
 idolatrous worship that M. de Mortagne pays Napoleon : you can conceive, 
 then, what his feelings must have been during these conversations, which 
 wounded him by slandering the object of his most lively sympathies. 
 
 " On Friday last, he went to dine as usual : scarcely was he seated at his 
 table, when the two unknown individuals arrived ; the same scene was re- 
 newed, and the same conversation. Our unfortunate friend had the more 
 difficulty in restraining himself, since it appeared to him that the strangers 
 made signs to one another, and looked at him. However, he preserved suffi- 
 cient command of himself to rise and leave the house without speaking a word, 
 as he had no substantial motive for aggression. The two neighbours were 
 perfectly at liberty to state their opinions, provided they did not directly ad- 
 dress him. 
 
 " After his withdrawal, M. de Mortagne went to the French comedy; the 
 audience was small ; he took a box. In a few minutes the two strangers 
 were at his side, and began anew their conversation exactly where they had 
 left off in the café. M. de Mortagne supposed, that there was an insult in- 
 tended by this obstinate course of annoyance. He unhappily lost patience ; 
 his warmth of character carried him beyond the limits of strict propriety ; and 
 he said to the red-whiskered man, that none but a poltroon would dare speak 
 thus of the Emperor. 
 
 '•This man, instead of replying to M. de Mortagne, redoubled his attacks 
 upon Napoleon, continuing to address his companion. Our unfortunate 
 friend, enraged, forgot himself so far as to seize violently the stranger's arm, 
 and inquire whether he had not heard his remark. 
 
 ** The stranger cried sharply—' You have called me a poltroon : you have 
 laid hands upon me ; I have not said a word to you ; you are the aggressor ; 
 
TUE WILL. 
 
 889 
 
 you must give me satisfaction I This is my address : to-morrow morning my 
 eecond will call upon you.' He gave his card to M. de Mortagne. 
 
 " On the card was written — le Capitaine le Blanc. On the very evening 
 of the altercation, M. de Mortagne went to M. de St. Pierre's house and coif 
 fessed to him that he had done wrong ; but that he had not been able to ab- 
 stain from defending the memory of the man he most admired in the world. 
 He begged M. de St. Pierre to meet the Capitaine le Blanc's second on his 
 behalf ; adding that he was ready to give every satisfaction. 
 
 " Next day, at. eight o'clock in the morning, Capitaine le Blanc's second, 
 an Italian, who called himself the Chevalier Peretti, had an interview with 
 M. de St. Pierre ; and claimed the choice of weapons for Capitaine le Blanc, 
 who wished to fight with pistols, at twenty paces ; and demanded the privi- 
 lege, as the insulted party, of firing first. 
 
 " M. de St. Pierre, wishing to make the chances equal, insisted that the 
 combatants should fire together ; but the Capitaine's second refused consent. 
 Unfortunately, M. de Mortagne was the aggressor, without provocation. M. 
 de St. Pierre was therefore, compelled, he told me, to accept the conditions 
 proposed. 
 
 " When M. de Mortagne learned the disagreeable result of this interview, 
 he appeared thoughtful and absent. He gave M. de St. Pierre a key before he 
 went away, requesting him to send to their address the papers which he should 
 find in a box he pointed to — that is. should the result be fatal 
 
 " M. de St. Pierre, knowing M. de Mortagne's courage, which had dis- 
 played itself in similar circumstances before, attributed the sort of weight 
 which oppressed him before the combat to an ominous presentiment. Our 
 friend regretted, several times, that he had lost command of himself so far 
 as to insult this man, as if the Emperor's memory could not defend itself. 
 He repeated, more than once, these words : ' It might have been pardonable 
 — although scarcely even then — if my life had belonged to myself alone ; but, 
 at this moment, to conduct myself as I have done, is mere folly ; indeed, 
 almost crime.' 
 
 " At noon, M. de Mortagne and his two seconds, the Capitaine le Blanc 
 and his two seconds, arrived in the forest of Ville d'Avray. All was regular, 
 and according to agreement. The two opponents placed themselves at a 
 distance of twenty paces. M. de Mortagne drew up his tall figure, and 
 taking his pistol in his right hand, he crossed his arms upon his bosom ; 
 casting an eye so firm and piercing upon the Capitaine le Blanc, that he was 
 obliged to look toward the ground ; and M. de St Pierre distinctly saw his 
 wrist tremble. However, his shot was, alas ! nearly fatal. M. de Mortagne 
 wheeled around, and fell upon his knees, with his right hand pressed against 
 his left side. Then he turned away, crying 'my poor child!' You see ho 
 thought of you, Matilda. 
 
 " His seconds brought him home almost expiring, in their arms. The 
 ball had entered his breast. He was conveyed with the greatest care to 
 Paris; and since yesterday, fortunately, his state, although alarming, has not 
 been such as to preclude hope. 
 
 " Such, my dear Matilda, is the recital which M. de St. Pierre has given me. 
 
 " After the fearful words which I overheard from M. de Mortagne's ad- 
 versaries, had been stated to M. de St. Pierre, he thought with me, that 
 doubtless these men had arranged their obstinate, and yet insufficient pro- 
 vocation, in such a way as to provoke M. de Mortagne to depart from his 
 habitual calmness. He supposed that he had been placed by an impudent 
 aggression at the mercy of these assassins, one of whom appeared only too 
 confident in his skill. 
 
 "But what is the mysterious motive of this terrible vengeance? Doubt- 
 less, these wretches are the instruments in some dreadful plot ! 
 
 " This moment I have received intelligence of M. de Mortagne. He is no 
 better ; there are, he says, matters of grave importance to be communicated 
 to me. I shall not neglect this sad and pious duty. I leave you now soon 
 to return again, my dear child." 
 
 " Paris, 11 o'clock P. M. 
 
 " I went to the house of our friend, Matilda. Let us thank God, and pray 
 to him ; there still remains some hope. He will live — oh ! he will live for 
 the happiness of his friends and the chastisement of his enemies ! for the 
 words I have heard have put him in the way of a horrible discovery ! 
 
 " What an abyss of infamy ! But let us first speak of you. His first 
 word was Matilda ! his first words to beg me to tell you, that pressing dutiea 
 
324 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 had so absorbed him, as to prevent him from consecrating to you some days, 
 as he intended, after the scene at the lonely house ! (He has confided to me, 
 as a friend, all the details of that horrible night ! you shall soon see why.) 
 
 The political crisis which led to the revolution of this past year, and the 
 triumph of a cause which M. de Mortagne had warmly espoused, may give 
 you an idea of the interests which occupied M. de Mortagne's attention, to 
 the exclusion of all others, during some months. 
 
 " He has received the letter you wrote him, concerning the prodigalities 
 of your husband. According to custom, he intended replying either by 
 cheering you, or giving you valuable counsel ; but he was obliged to attend 
 to some consultations with his agents ; and he was unable to procure till 
 yesterday — and even then with great difficulty — a copy of the marriage- 
 contract. Alas ! my poor child ! you have been the victim of a plot as 
 perfidious as complete. You can dispose of nothing; your husband can 
 spend all, and leave only misery to her who so generously enriched him. 
 
 " ' But let Matilda take comfort,' said M. de Mortagne ; ' whatever hap- 
 pens, whether I live or die, her future, and that of her child, will be safe, 
 and protected from the dissipation of her husband.' 
 
 " I have told him all — unhappy child ! both your just cause of jealousy, 
 and your husband's harshness. He sees no possible means of liberating 
 you from this tyranny. I scarce dare write these words, for I know your 
 tender blindness; in short, according to him, the only plan is a separation! 
 And you are not yet one year married 1 Unhappy child I 
 
 " Listen, my friend, reflect, habituate yourself to this thought, that it 
 may not alarm you unnecessarily. Doubtless, loneliness is painful 1 but 
 it is surely preferable to eternal vexation. 
 
 " In short, if, as I doubt not, God preserves to us M. de Mortagne, he 
 will go himself, and, in your husband's presence, give you the advice 
 which he begs me to give you. 
 
 " I now come to the suspicions that have occurred to him concerning 
 the words I overheard. Do you know whom he accuses — but with the 
 moderation of a just and loyal soul ? It is the devil ! who appeared resolved 
 in his rage upon your destruction — in short, M. Lugarto ! It was to make 
 me understand the cause of that rage, that he related to me the scene in 
 the lonely house, and" the threats of vengeance that the monster uttered as 
 he departed. He has only kept his word too well 1 Hired assassins, under 
 his direction, have watched M. de Mortagne ; and, executing their master's 
 infernal instructions, have exasperated our unfortunate friend, by insulting 
 in his presence the memory of one he venerated. 
 
 " M.de Mortagne's attack being admitted, and the choice of the mode of 
 combat left necessarily to his adversary, he could do no more than expose 
 his unarmed person to the assassins hired by M. Lugarto. Notwithstanding 
 this very natural explanation of a fact otherwise inexplicable ; notwithstand- 
 ing his contempt for this man, M. de Mortagne was unwilling to believe 
 him capable of such infamous and bloody conduct. With the rude frank- 
 ness of his character, he admitted only realities — actual proofs — where sus- 
 picion involved a man in the imputation of a crime, even more execrable 
 perhaps than assassination, because it was committed with impunity. Yes, 
 he consented to " 
 
 This letter from Madame de Richeville was interrupted. A note accom- 
 panying a large packet sealed in black, was thus composed, and written with 
 an unsteady hand, by the same lady. 
 
 " 1 o'clock in the morning. 
 " I have scarcely remaining strength to write these terrible words — He is 
 dead] Suffocation carried him off. Nor is this all— I fear that he became 
 deranged from terror! The frightful news had scarcely been announced to 
 me, when some unknown person brought me a box. Emma opened it in my 
 presence. What, think you, did it contain ? A bouquet of those poisonous 
 flowers which, during the past year, you carried to the morning assembly, 
 and which had been sent to you from your unknown — by M. Lugarto, the 
 devil in human form ! The bouquet is bound with a black ribbon. Do you 
 understand this terrible allegory ? Does it not indicate at once the hand 
 that struck the blow? and does it not threaten us with new vengeance 2 If 
 so, my God ! have mercy on Emma! have mercy on my poor child! Strike 
 me, if thou wilt, but spare her ! Matilda, ta.ke care ! There is an infernal 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 323 
 
 genius near us. Our friend is perhaps his first victim. Adieu! I hare no 
 strength to tell you a thousand tender things. 
 
 "Verneuil de Richeville." 
 
 A sealed packet to my address accompanied this letter. It contained the 
 last will of M. de Mortagne — by which he left me all his property — and the 
 revelation of a sacred mystery which must remain buried in the depths of my 
 heart. 
 
 I need not tell you how I regretted the departed. The only strong and 
 friendly hand, which could save me from a threatening abyss, was now cold 
 in death ! all support failed me at once. Fate seemed to do its worst with me. 
 
 I found myself suddenly alone— with my heart empty and desolate, and 
 my soul full of bitterness and hate. 
 
 In my impious rebellion against the destiny which God had doubtless im- 
 posed on me as a trial — weary of being a victim without any reward for my 
 past virtuous resignation, I at last concluded to return evil for evil. 
 
 Thou wilt never pardon me, my God ! May my errors fall on the head of 
 the man who cast me upon this stormy and desperate path ! No pity — none 
 — none for him ! He has plunged me from Heaven into Hell ! he has torn 
 from me my last hope ! 
 
 Hate I— undying hate to him who destroyed my child 1 
 
 END OF PART III» 
 
PART IV. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 It is with deep distrust that I approach the narrative touching this period of 
 
 my life. 
 
 "While I was retracing the events which occurred in succession, between my 
 childhood and my marriage, and thence up to my cruel abandonment by M. 
 de Lancry when he set out to rejoin Ursula, in Paris, I could give myself up 
 freely to all my recollections, as one by one they were awakened, and to all the 
 impressions which came therefrom. Here I had nothing to conceal — nothing 
 to disguise — even from my own eyes. Sincerity was easy to me. 
 
 I had but to reproach myself with the undue exaggeration of generous gra- 
 titude. I had admitted, to M. de Lancry, that I was myself aware that my 
 past sufferings deserved no compassion, supposing, even, that the world could 
 know them ; since, in my conduct toward him, I had been utterly deficient 
 both in energy and dignity. 
 
 I had always submitted blindly; always resigned myself like a coward to 
 my fate. I had learned only how to weep, how to endure ; and endurance is 
 no more a virtue than tears are language. 
 
 To endure for a noble cau c e, is in itself great and noble. Humbly to put up 
 with scorn and insolence from an unworthy being, is but a shameful weakness, 
 which may indeed excite a sort of cold compassion, but may not aspire to 
 awake lively interest. 
 
 This discovery was a painful lesson to me ; for it taught me that, by so 
 many sorrows, I had not even gained the right to be pitied. Reflection and 
 experience taught me that, in the sight of the world, or at least of the majority 
 of men, Ursula, with all her vices and exciting fascinations, would be likely 
 to kindle love, while I was merely gaining a sort of faint esteem, or of half- 
 contemptuous compassion. At least, however, I was supported by the con- 
 solatory knowledge that I had never failed in my duties ; and from this sen- 
 timent I derived a kind of bitter scorn, with which I avenged myself, as it 
 were, of the world's judgment, and the desertion of my husband. 
 
 I knew not how to explain my wonder, when on recovering from my long 
 illness, I found myself alone, weeping, my infant dead before it had beheld 
 the light of life. 
 
 The tragical end of M. de Mortagne, my sole protector, rendered my deso- 
 lation more complete. During the winter, I bore my sorrows with cold and 
 careless resignation ; but when in spring-time, the days began to wax fair and 
 lovely, and the first flowers to bud, the sight of these things filled me with bit- 
 terness and sorrow. The gloom of winter seemed to suit well my mood of 
 desolation ; but when all nature shone forth in the glory of its second birth — 
 when every thing began to live and love— when I could feel the genial air per- 
 fumed with odours from the opening flowers — when I could hear the joyous 
 carols of the birds, from the fresh green leaves — my melancholy seemed to 
 grow upon me. 
 
 The sight of nature, so peaceable and smiling, to me was odious, it made 
 me feel that the faculty of loving and being loved again, was dead within me. 
 To what good end for me did the sunny days beam forth from skies of 
 azure ? To what good end for me were the starry nights, all redolent of cool- 
 ness, and perfume, and mystery? Often I was, as it were, a prey to fits of 
 despair -of impotent and senseless anger, when I bethought me, that, had 
 my infant lived, my life would have been more fair than ever; for misty 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 327 
 
 dreams had come across me of the unearthly sweetness of a mother's love. 
 Contemptuous, and cruel, and unworthy as had been M. de Lancry's conduct 
 toward me, it could not have sent its bitter sting to mar the heavenly bliss 
 which I should have attained. Then I perceived the curses of our woman- 
 life — that when we have once lost the existence of the heart, we cannot refill 
 the void by an existence of ambitious action. It seems to be a strange in« 
 justice, that to men are opened a thousand consolations for that which is to 
 them but a passing heart-ache — to men, whose faculties for loving are not de- 
 veloped to one-hundredth part of what our female passions attain daily ; for 
 it has become almost a proverb, that what is to them but the diversion of an 
 hour, is to us the aim and business of a lifetime. 
 
 In spite of my husband's odious treachery toward me, I never fell into the 
 sophistry of believing that one act of treason could justify another. But it 
 was self-respect that made me feel this truth, and not regard for M. de Lan- 
 cry. I felt, therefore, that, while in the world's eye I might have found some 
 palliation — had I sought the indulgence of a guilty love — nothing on earth 
 could be baser or more shameful than such a vengeance ; while, at the same 
 time, I believed that the very source of affection was dried up within me. 
 
 I was, sometimes, even alarmed by the emotions of hatred and malignity 
 which at times stirred me. The memory of Ursula filled me with horror, and, 
 at the same time kindled in my soul frantic desires of vengeance ! 
 
 Again, let me instance one of the false and capricious incidents of a woman's 
 position. A man may satiate his fury on his enemy ; challenge him, slay him 
 in the face of all men, ;md thus do himself a kind of fearful justice— a woman, 
 however injured by another woman, wounded by her in the tenderest and 
 most sacred spot, can but devour her heart in empty lamentation ! * 
 
 Strange it is, once again: that we, who so deeply suffer by the wrongs of 
 love, are not permitted to avenge ourselves boldly and openly. The world 
 may say that our vengeance is contempt— contempt ! what was my contempfc 
 to Ursula, who had drunk the cup of shame to the very dregs ? 
 
 By and-by, to these fierce resentments there succeeded a dull and calm in- 
 difference. Thus passed my life away— prayer, and the care of my poor de- 
 pendants, were, though I blush to confess it, but passing consolation. The 
 good which I did, though it employed my heart, lacked power to satisfy it. 
 Often my poor Blondeau entreated me to change my residence, to travel ; but 
 I had neither the inclination nor the strength to do so — all that surrounded 
 me recalled to my mind the bitterest recollections ; yet still, though ener- 
 vated and despairing, I remained at home. Days, weeks, and months passed 
 thus, in lethargic torpor, both of will and thought. 
 
 I led the life of a recluse : all M. de Lancry's people had, long since, re- 
 joined him. My household was composed of Blondeau, of two women, and 
 an old valet- de-chambre who had been in M. de Mortagne's service. 
 
 I walked much and often, in order to weary myself out by bodily fatigue ; 
 when I returned, I sat down, mechanically, to some tapestry work. It was 
 impossible for me to occupy myself with music, for my nerves were now so 
 easily excited, that the sound of a piano gave me the most violent shuddering 
 spasms, and threw me into fits of weeping. 
 
 Madame de Richeville often wrote to me. When she learned the fact that 
 my husband had joined Ursula in Paris, she had even proposed to come for 
 me to Maran ; although it would have cost her very dear to separate herself 
 from Emma, and to leave her at the Sacré-Cœur, where she was finishing her 
 education. I thanked this excellent friend for her offer, but entreated her not 
 to leave her daughter, and never again to speak to me of Ursula or M. de 
 Lancry ; I wished to be entirely ignorant of their conduct. 
 
 Madame de Richeville's letters were full of tenderness and affection. Re- 
 specting, because she understood, my grief, she besought me at all hazards 
 to come to her at Paris ; but at that period I had an invincible repugnance to 
 the society of the world. 
 
 I knew, through my man of business, that M. de Lancry was ruining me. 
 He had absolute power over me, for we were married with a community of 
 interests, and he could therefore- legally waste all my fortune. 
 
 I confess, that these business matters found me exceedingly indifferent — 
 the income which he allowed me sufficed for all my wants. Moreover, Ma- 
 dame de Richeville informed me that M. de Mortagne, dying sc suddenly as 
 
 * It is perhaps scarcely necessary to say, that these, and all the foregoing 
 arguments, are utterly adverse to the creed of the translator, and valuable 
 Only as indicating French opinions. 
 
 I 
 
323 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 he did, had been unable to dispose of all bis property in my favour, to the 
 exclusion of my husband ; but that he had made over to her a considerable 
 sum intended for my support and that of my child, in case I should be com- 
 pletely ruined by my husband. Alas ! that child was no more — thenceforth 
 what recked I of the future ? 
 
 More than two years passed thus, with that monotonous rapidity which is 
 ever the result of uniform and regular habits. After a time, 1 ceased indeed 
 to suffer; but it was because I felt nothing — neither joy nor sorrow. 
 
 Perhaps I should have remained yet longer in that state of apathy — in that 
 lethargic sleep of all the faculties, had not the following letter from Madame 
 ie Richeville, aroused me to the absolute necessity of returning to Paris. 
 
 • " Paris, Oct. 20th, 1834. 
 
 " I am compelled, my dear Matilda, in spite of your orders to the contrary, 
 to write to you about M. de Lancry. Yesterday one of my friends, by the 
 greatest chance, learned that your husband is engaged in negociating the sale 
 of Maran. The person who wished to purchase it, stated his offer, I believe, 
 to be twenty or thirty thousand froncs. I know how much you are attached 
 to that property, because it belonged to your mother ; and perhaps, also, be- 
 cause it was there that you so deeply suffered. I thought, therefore, that I 
 should do well— after consulting M. de Rochegune, who has returned hither 
 within the month — to send my man of business to M. de Lancry, who does 
 not know him, to offer him a larger sum than he had been offered previously. 
 Your husband has accepted it ; the deed of sale is prepared, but your presence 
 in Paris is indispensable. Your contract of marriage was so drawn up, that 
 you can hold no property in your own name. Many formalities are therefore 
 necessary, to insure to you the possession of this estate — even under a feigned 
 name — so that your husband may not have the power to squander it in his 
 prodigality. If the arrangements we have made should meet your wishes, 
 vou can so invest, very favourably, the sum which M. de Mortagne deposited 
 in my hands on that ever fatal night, when 
 
 " Pardon me these tedious details of husiness, my dear child ; but you 
 anderstand — do you not ? how important all this is for you. And I am 
 nappy at the chance which has given me the means of saving you from new 
 regrets and sorrows. 
 
 " A journey to Paris is, therefore, absolutely necessary. It will, perhaps, 
 tend to arouse you from the sad melancholy which you suffer. Poor child ! 
 your letters make me almost despair — can it be that your grief is indeed in- 
 curable ? must we abandon you to this fatal and inactive state of sorrow ? — 
 Why bury yourself so obstinately in your dark thoughts ? 
 
 "Better than anyone can I comprehend your retirement from the world 
 — but is there no medium between utter solitude and the whirl of gay society ? 
 I dare not speak to you of my happiness, or cite my life as an example to 
 defend the taste which I would awaken in you, for a life rendered pleasant 
 by a few intimate associates. My Emma is with me — and you would reply, 
 with justice, that therefore I cannot be otherwise than happy. 
 
 " It seems to me, however, that the exclusion in which you live, cannot 
 but exacerbate your noble spirit, if anything could make it lose its angelic 
 qualities. Therefore I say, again, come — come and join us. 
 
 " Since the education of Emma has been completed, and I have left the 
 Sacré Cœur, I have formed the most charming intimacy with women a little 
 older than myself ; for I have now submitted myself very quietly to the lot 
 of an old woman ; which has disarmed many of those who might have other- 
 wise supposed me still ambitious. I stay at home every night, and I am 
 obliged to be inflexible, indeed, to prevent my little drawing-room from 
 being completely overrun. You are often talked of among us ; for the con- 
 duct of your husband is so openly scandalous, and such is the effrontery of 
 that horrible woman, while your resignation is so noble, so courageous, that 
 there is but one voice concerning you — a voice of pity and of admiration. 
 
 " The revolution has so completely overthrown and broken up society, if I 
 may so speak, into little circles, that no great house is open ! This is less 
 from hostility to the government, about which there is very little stir, than 
 from the impossibility of reuniting a society from these scattered fractions. 
 
 " After the restoration, the court, its duties, its connections, its ambition, 
 its intrigues — all tended to render our world unanimous. Now, there is no 
 connecting link ; every one lives, apparently, according to his own tastes, 
 his own fancies ; and of this, in place of large assemblies, little coteries are 
 
THE LETTER' 
 
 329 
 
 the result. The Sardinian and Austrian ambassadors are the only centres 
 to which the dissevered fragments of our old society are attracted. 
 
 "Do not be surprised, my dearest child, that I expatiate on these trifles, 
 so childish in appearance, as connected with the grave determination which 
 I am urging you to take. 
 
 " If the world now, were what it was four years ago ; if there were still a 
 court, I should comprehend vpur reluctance to enter it again. Women of 
 your character blush for those who have outraged them ; so that the shame- 
 less conduct of M. de Lancry would impose on you the necessity of solitude ; 
 for, as you wrote to me yourself, ' A woman either suffers from the desertion 
 of her husband, or she suffers not. In either of these alternatives, it is as 
 unbecoming to her to display her indifference, as her grief.' But once more, 
 my dear child, I do not ask you to go out into the world ; my usual society, 
 in which there is so much anxiety to see you, is composed, at the most, of 
 fifteen or twenty persons, and nearly all them are my relations or connections. 
 
 " I will now introduce you to some of the number, which shall be my last 
 argument in favour of your coming to us. You will meet, nearly every even- 
 ing, the excellent Prince d'Hericourt and his wife. Both these most admi- 
 rable persons have won, by dint of magnanimity and Worth, the world's 
 pardon, for a life of affection and tenderness, which never has been over- 
 shadowed by the slightest storm-cloud. The first revolution ruined them ; 
 the last stripped them of their hereditary dignities, and of the offices which 
 constituted all their fortune. Having again become poor, they have en- 
 countered their misfortunes with so much constancy and courage, that they 
 are now as much respected in calamity as they were formerly in the midst of 
 wealth and prosperity. 
 
 " I assure you, Matilda, that the sight of these two old persons, so serenely 
 tranquil as they are, would calm your sense of anguish, and give you courage 
 to support your griefs more firmly. 
 
 " Two days ago, I went to visit the princess in the morning. She and her 
 husband occupy a small house near the barrière des Monceaux ; induced to 
 select that quarter for their residence, by the quiet solitude, by the enjoy- 
 ment of a pretty garden ; and, above all, by the moderation of the price. I 
 can hardly explain to you the feelings of veneration with which I entered 
 that modest dwelling.* 
 
 " Nothing can be more simple than the arrangement and furniture of the 
 small rooms ; but a few old and magnificent family portraits— a few royal 
 presents made to the prince while ambassador extraordinary at various 
 courts, gave to the humble habitation a character of greatness, nobly and 
 undeservedly fallen, which brought tears to my eyes. 
 
 " I thought bitterly that the prince and princess, accustomed to a life of 
 splendour, are, perhaps, in their old age, undergoing real sufferings ; and 
 yet no complaint is ever heard from their lips — no bitter exclamation against 
 their evil fortune. 
 
 " I could not hinder myself from letting the princess discover something 
 of my admiration. But with a simplicity in itself almost sublime, she 
 answered me, ' My dear Amelia, the secret of what you call our courageous 
 resignation, is extremely simple. We think of those who are yet more un- 
 fortunate than we are — we think of how my husband and myself might have 
 been separated in our times of trial — and, above all, we think of our poor old 
 king and his children, and we thank God that he has spared us the suffer- 
 ings which might have been laid upon us.' 
 
 " Matilda, I know how much sympathy and interest your sufferings call 
 forth — I will not tell you to compare your hideous griefs to theirs, or to 
 imitate their stoical resignation : but I will say to you once more — ' Come, 
 come to usl' It is, indeed, almost a consolation to have such persons to 
 love. Think of this, my poor child, and consider, when, after days of me- 
 lancholy solitude, you seek in vain for the forgetfulness of sleep, what con- 
 solation you can find ? none, surely. If, on the contrary, you had before 
 your eyes a scene as affecting as that which I have been labouring to describe, 
 should you not be led to think yourself less wretched? Why should it not 
 be with the maladies of the mind, as it is with those of the body ? If a pure 
 and salubrious air can re-establish the health of our physical natures, why 
 should not the sickness of the soul be alleviated by an atmosphere of generous 
 and elevated sentiments ? 
 
 " I know that you are kind and charitable ; but in proportion as you are 
 modest, so do you lay less weight on your good deeds, until charity has D8» 
 tome to you no longer an alleviation of your chagrin. 
 
 2 F 3 
 
830 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 '* Once more, come to us ; we will soon win you from your griefs ; for you 
 will find with me, my cousin, that amiable and witty Countess, A. de Se- 
 mur; quick, brilliant, versatile, and, above all, pitiless to everything base or 
 treacherous. She delights in paradox— can you guess why ? She loves it 
 for the power it gives her of exalting everything generous in the opinion of 
 all persons ; but yet more for the opportunity it furnishes of sacrificing, with- 
 out pity, everything that she can find mean, or ridiculous, or absurb. 
 
 "Do you remember, at your first entrance into the world, to have seen, at 
 the ball of Madame, the Austrian ambassadress, a foreigner, Lady Flora 
 Fitzallan ? She has, at all events, not forgotten you. I see her very often, 
 and she is constantly talking of you. On that day, she was admiring the 
 expression of ingenuous wonder which was imprinted on your lovely features, 
 when she was told that you had the most severe and caustic wit, and the 
 most malicious character that can be imagined. You have since explained 
 to me that this was one of Mademoiselle de Maran's first calumnies. Lady 
 Flora was struck dumb with surprise — almost, indeed with fear, as she has 
 since told me — at learning that a face so candid and so naive in its outward 
 seeming, should be the mask of so much malice. You may be sure that I 
 very quickly undeceived her. She thanked me most eagerly for doing so. 
 It would have been grievous to her to believe that beauty and simplicity 
 should be so utterly deceitful. You will be charmed with Lady Flora ; and 
 as for Lord Fitzallan, he is a finished model of an English Lord — sincerity 
 and truth combined with dignity of bearing 
 
 " You must have met, at various times, the Marchioness of Serigny, and 
 her daughter, the Duchess of Grandval. If you have not — in order to be 
 acquainted with them, picture to yourself the most perfect grace, joined to 
 the most distinguished manners, and to a sort of native elegance. For in 
 that family, beauty, and dignity, and good taste, are the hereditary appanage 
 of the female line. These constitute the privileges of their Salic law. 
 
 " Among the men, you will often see at my house, M. the ambassador of 
 ***, one of my oldest, and most valued friends — a man of great heart, rare 
 courage, admirable common sense, and high reasoning powers — a man who 
 has distinguished himself in arms, and who is upright and good, because he 
 is brave and energetic. I beg you to understand that I do, at times, see 
 others than grave and serious persons. You know how fond I am of con- 
 trasts, so that I can promise to show you sometimes, the pea-blossom of the 
 day — one of my nephews, Gaston de Senneville. It is impossible for any 
 one to be better looking, better tempered, more perfectly well brought up, 
 and at the same time more inoffensive, not to say insignificant. He is one of 
 those nice young men, who march at the head of the adorers of all fashion- 
 able women, like the Coryphaeus of the antique tragic chorus ; so that I, 
 who am no longer a woman of fashion, was astonished to find him coming 
 so often to my house. He has confessed to me, however, that in the first 
 place, he likes me better than any kinswoman he has in the world ; and se- 
 condly, that the customs of my house lead him to acquire a consistency of 
 character, and a habit of serious reflection, which his age would not permit 
 him to find elsewhere, and which he deems a great advantage to him. He 
 has, besides, the good taste to be in no wise exclusive, and to display his neat 
 person and excellent manners in all societies. It follows of course, without 
 saying it, that he goes to what is called the New Court, and it is he who 
 keeps up the current news of that society, in which they say some of the 
 women — though strangely enough brought up — are very charming, and the 
 men generally indescribable. This sort of harmless gossip amuses us ex- 
 ceedingly ; and, moreover, it is always well that in every family there should 
 be some one member, devoted to the powers that be : one can never tell what 
 may happen next, and it is never amiss to be attached, by some tie or other, 
 to the government of the day. 
 
 "But look you, I am beginning to grow wearisome in my details ; and I 
 will speak but two words of one of our best friends, who is the very soul of 
 our little society. I told you, en passant, that M. de Rochegune had re- 
 turned, but without entering into particulars. I will now repair the omission. 
 In the first place, I should have scarce known him, so much is he burned by 
 the suns of the Levant. After having fought as long as the war lasted, for 
 the Greeks against the Turks, he went, from curiosity, to fight with the Cir- 
 cassians under the Russian flag— from curiosity alone. It is impossible to 
 relate anything more charmingly than he does the strange and wild details of 
 those campaigns. He has gained all that, in my opinion, he wanted pre- 
 viously — that is to say, a self-confidence, a firmness of manner, and a readiness 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 331 
 
 of speech, which relieve the dignity of a character, which I always thought 
 too noble to be so timid and reserved. This newly acquired brilliancy was, 
 as you can readily imagine, sadly depressed by the lamentable death of M. de 
 Mortagne. We often talk of that inestimable lost friend ; but now that he 
 is gone, we have in M. de Kochegune a sincere and steady friend. He is in 
 truth aman of extraordinary moral courage — no consideration checks his bold 
 frankness ; he dares to say and do what no other person dares. The Countess 
 A. de Semur says of him very justly — that it is impossible for any one to bi 
 more independently honourable ! He frequently speaks in the Chamber o; 
 Peers, where his cutting and plain-spoken words spare neither friends no* 
 foes, when in the discussion of great principles, which are above both me, 
 and measures. Although so young, great account is made of him already, fo 
 his influence is nearly as great as his independence. 
 
 • "Now then, my dear Matilda, my task is nearly fulfilled. I have essayed 
 to depict to you the persons, in the midst of whom you shall live, if you will ; 
 and who wait, not to love you, but to tell you, that they have loved you long 
 already. Believe me, in the same proportion as the world at large is slan- 
 derous and malignant, so are there limited and chosen groups of intimates, 
 kind and devoted towards those who compose them. 
 
 " My dear child, I have already told you that I have sinned — I confess it — 
 but the world did not stop with reproving what errors I had committed, but 
 went on to invent the most hideous calumnies about me. My name — my 
 family — my connections— my fortune and my character, barely sufficed to 
 prevail against the general outcry raised against me. Now, ever since I have 
 retired from the noisy world — ever since years, misfortunes, reason and re- 
 ligion have contributed to give me that solidity of principles, that regularity 
 of habits, which I did not possess before, I have found nothing but indul- 
 gence, sympathy, and interest, in all those around me. 
 
 " I need not, I fancy, tell you, after I have named the persons who form 
 my habitual circle, that they compose the very élite of the best society ; and 
 that their earnest and attentive kindness absolves me, as it were, from the 
 consequences of past faults. The Prince and Princess d'Hericourt, above all 
 others, are persons, whose whole life has been marked by so bright a purity — 
 the authority of whose approbation is so weighty, that on their praises or 
 reproof depends much of the consideration we meet in the world. In one 
 word, the Prince d'Hericourt represents everything that is most honour- 
 able, delicate, elevated and courageous. Although he now lives somewhat 
 retired, to the honour of society be it spoken, he has, perhaps, even greater 
 influence over it, than he possessed before the calamities which have afflicted 
 him, and which he bore so nobly. You will judge, hence, how happy I must 
 be ; and how proud, likewise, of the good opinion of this venerable couple. 
 
 "And to conclude, I must tell you what fills my whole heart with gratitude 
 and joy ; Emma is loved by all as she deserves to be loved. It may well be that 
 the secrets of her birth is known, although she passes for an orphan, of whom I 
 have taken charge. But the delicate reserve which is kept up on this topic, is 
 the surest proof of the forgiving toleration which I meet on all sides. You re- 
 member—do you not— how beautiful my Emma was ? Well, if a mother's 
 partiality does not deceive me, she has become yet fairer. And then, the 
 education which she received under my eyes at the Sacré Cœur, has deve- 
 loped, has ripened all the excellent natural qualities with which she was en- 
 dowed. Two or three times a week, I have her with me — all my friends are 
 enchanted ; but, in a word, you shall see her ! 
 
 " You shall see her, do I say? Alas! Matilda, will you see her? — will 
 you renounce the solitary and disconsolate life in which you have consumed 
 so many of your brightest years? It might be imagined that your sad seclu- 
 sion was adopted as an expiation — but, good Heaven ! of what ? — an expia- 
 tion of the wrongs which you suffered at the hands of others ? But I am almost 
 reassured ; the causes why you should now return to Paris are so serious, that 
 it would be actual madness in you to hesitate. For the very reason that you 
 cling to Maran, you must at least provide for yourself the means of possess- 
 ing it. 
 
 "I scarcely dare to hope that the last consideration, which I am about to 
 name to you, may prove an inducement to determine you. Nevertheless, I 
 will try. You know that I now live in a house on the rue De Lille. At the 
 end of the garden of this house, there stands a delightful detached building, 
 formerly occupied by the dowager Marchioness de Montai. She has left it 
 — it is in perfect order — will you take it ? I do not think that your establish- 
 ment will be larger than her's was ; at all events, a portion of my offices ia 
 
S?2 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 entirely useless to me : I put it readily at your disposal. The garden is very 
 large, and when you choose, you will be completly secluded in your pavilion. 
 If you wish to see nobody, you shall see nobody. But I, at least, and Emma, 
 •will be. near you ; and believe me, my dear child, it is always a source of con- 
 solation to know that we have near us fond and devoted hearts. 
 
 "Matilda — reflect well on what I have proposed to you. I can imagine 
 your reluctance to come to Paris — to live here alone. At your age, in your 
 position, that would be impossible ; on the other hand, you cannot think of 
 living with your aunt, for your base cousin lives in her house. My plan, 
 while perfectly becoming and proper, will leave you at the same time in per- 
 fect liberty. 
 
 " I have become altogether an old woman. You know that, whenever I 
 have chosen, I have always made people depend on me. I can therefore be a 
 very useful chaperone to you, thanks to this half-community of honours. 
 One word more, Matilda; I would never have asked you to come and join 
 me, if I had not so established and strengthened my new position in the 
 world, that I can offer you both aid and protection. If the choice, the guar- 
 anties, and above all, the authority of my relations, did not now shelter m« 
 completely from all calumny, I would not have taken it upon me to act, al- 
 most, a mother's part toward you. You comprehend me, do you not, my 
 sweet child ? This confession should not astonish you— I have made others 
 yet more humiliating to my vanity. 
 
 " Believe me, then, when I tell you that if you come to me, you can do so 
 in all security and confidence. Emma has this moment come in — she begs 
 me to recall her to your recollection, and to tell you that she thinks of you 
 very often ; and, without knowing you very well, loves you as much as you 
 love me. These are her own words — they are so sweet to my heart, that I 
 should hesitate to repeat them, while I say to you— Come, come; you are 
 loved as tenderly, as you are expected eagerly. 
 
 " A thousand most affectionate loves — 
 
 " Verneu de Richeville." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ROTJVRAI. 
 
 When I had read this letter, its effect on me was decisive. Except that which 
 related to matters of business, and to the purchase of Maran, Madame de 
 Richeville did little more than take up again the thread of a correspondence 
 which we had maintained during the last two years. But the tears came in- 
 to my eyes as I read the last passage of her letter, wherein she dwelt upon 
 the sort of reestablishment which she owed to her change of conduct, in 
 order to convince me that she was worthy now to play the almost motherly 
 part which she proposed to me. Even, if my journey to Paris had not been 
 a thing of the last necessity, I believe I should have accepted Madame de 
 Richeville's offer ; had it only been to avoid hurting her feelings by a refusal, 
 which she might have easily misconstrued. 
 
 I will confess, moreover, that the interesting picture which she drew of the 
 intimacy in which she lived with persons whom I had always heard celebrated 
 for their character and talents, had some effect on the formation of my reso- 
 lution. 
 
 When I was on the point of entering upon a new course of life, I certainly 
 experienced some regret, at leaving the places where I had undergone so 
 much ; for, of late, I had found a sort of pleasant, careless indifference 
 growing over me, like a salutary sleep, in the tranquillity which had succeeded 
 to my violent excitements. How could I tell, what might befall me in the 
 future ? 
 
 The fear of meeting Ursula or M. de Lancry at Paris, had nothing to do 
 with my determination of living in seclusion. It is true, indeed, that I feit 
 the deepest scorn for M. de Lancry, the most bitter abhorrence for Ursula; 
 but I had still sufficient confidence in my dignity, to be sure that, were I to 
 meet them face to face, my brow would not turn pale, in spite of all their 
 audacity. 
 
 From the moment when my husband had deserted me, I looked upon myself 
 as separated from him for ever— in fact at least, if not by legal right. And it 
 was this position, very embarrassing at best for a young woman, joined to 
 my reluctance to live alone in Paris, that had contributed to prolong my resU 
 
&>9 
 
ROUVKAI. 
 
 333 
 
 denee at Maran. Now, therefore, Madame de Richeville's offer that I should 
 dwell with her, removed all my scruples. 
 
 I gave Blondeau notice, that I was about to quit Maran, in order to go to 
 Paris and live with the duchess ; and she, while she packed up all things in 
 haste, lest I should change my resolution, shed tears of grateful joy. 
 
 It was the end of autumn, when I left Maran. Though it was necessary 
 for me to pass through Rouvrai, I hardly knew whether I should stop, or 
 not, to visit Madam Secherin ; of whom, or of her son, I had received no 
 tidings since that fatal day on which she had arrived at Maran, to inform 
 Ursula that her husband, indignant at her shameful conduct, separated 
 himself from her for ever ! 
 
 I much dreaded this visit— I felt as if it might open anew, both in my 
 bosom and that of those unhappy persons, the scars of wounds partially 
 healed already. But, on the other hand, I could not endure to be thought 
 indifferent to the sorrows of a man so good and upright. While I was hesi- 
 tating yet, I found that I was almost within sight of M. Secherin's manu- 
 factory. I called to the postillion to drive at a foot's-pace, wishing to take 
 counsel with myself for a few minutes ; when suddenly I saw M. .Secherin 
 issue from a hollow way, which insected the high road. 
 
 He perceived me, stopped short, looked at me for a few minutes with a 
 wild and haggard expression, and then, hiding his face in his hands, returned 
 abruptly into the road from which he had just before come forth. M. Se- 
 cherin was lamentably altered. He had recognized me, and I could no longer 
 avoid paying a visit to his mother. I ordered them to drive up to the house. 
 Blondeau waited for my return, in the carriage, at the end of the avenue of 
 lindens in which I had met Ursula at my last visit. 
 
 I went on alone, keenly struck by the air of desolate neglect which reigned 
 through the garden, kept of old with so much care and adornment. Weeds 
 and parasitic plants had almost blocked up the alleys; the old trees — formerly 
 trimmed so symmetrically — being no longer pruned, shut out the view of the 
 broad Loire and the smiling landscape. No trace of flowers could be dis- 
 cerned in the deserted parterres — the dead leaves rustled mournfully beneath 
 my feet— the gray and rainy sky of an autumnal morning, added a duller 
 gloom to a scene which required no such heightening. 
 
 At the end of the valley of yoke-elms, in which I had overheard Gontran's 
 first declaration to my cousin, I saw the group of figures of painted stone, 
 half-overthrown and broken. In the vestibule I found one of the servant 
 girls, whom I remembered to have seen before at Rouvrai, and she informed 
 me that Madame Secherin was in the drawing-room. I passed through the 
 ante-chamber and the dining-parlour — they were as cold as ice, and the tiled 
 floors, once so neatly waxed and reddened, were stained with green mould, 
 and soiled with humidity. Everything seemed worn out, and ruined. How 
 sad a change in the habits of the good old lady, whom I had ever seen so 
 vigorous in the performance of her domestic duties — so jealous of the most 
 precise cleanliness of her dwelling ! 
 
 The doors were open ; and with my light and noiseless steps, I reached 
 the drawing-room in which Madame Secherin was sitting, without awakening 
 her attention. She was still seated at her spinning-wheel, and wore, as of 
 old, her black dress, and mob cap of white linen. Her old gray parrot, half- 
 torpid with the cold, was slumbering on his perch. A few withered twigs of 
 vine, stripped of their leaves, and swaying to and fro to every breath of air, 
 might be seen through the latticed windows, which were all dimmed with 
 foggy moisture, hanging from a neglected trellice. Two blackened logs 
 burnt sullenly among the gray ashes on the hearth — the window curtains, 
 and the draperies of the furniture, once white as snow, were now all yellow 
 from the wood-smoke. In one word, all the house, which, by its splendid 
 cleanliness, had once almost encroached upon the bounds of luxury, now 
 showed the melancholy, sordid carelessness of age, which seemed to say — " to 
 what end so much care, for so brief an existence ?" 
 
 As I recalled to my mind the gaiety, the animation, which the presence of 
 a young and lovely woman had for a time shed over this sad dwelling, a 
 thoughj^truck me, at which I shuddered. If M. Secherin still cherished 
 memories of Ursula : if, in despite the irreparable wrongs she had heaped 
 upon him, he still compared the present with the past ! how truly wretched 
 must be the tenor of his life ! 
 
 My heart throbbed in my breast so painfully, that I paused at the door 
 of the drawing-room. As I examined more attentively the pale and austere 
 face of Madame Secherin, I was astonished at the multiplicity of wrinkles 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 which grief had ploughed in her features. Twice the measured movement 
 of her wheel grew slower, like the pendulum of a clock gradually running 
 down ; her head sunk down upon her breast, her fixed and blood-shot eyea 
 gazed forward, seeing nothing — one of those tears, so unusual to the aged, 
 moistened her red and burning lids — then making a quick, sudden move- 
 ment, as if she had awakened with a start, she set her wheel again in mo- 
 tion, with a sort of feverish rapidity. Not wishing to remain any longer thus 
 unseen, I moved the key lightly in the lock. Madame Secherin raised her 
 head, saw me, and pushing her wheel back to a distance with her foot, 
 stretched out her two arms to me, without uttering a word. I kissed her 
 venerable hands, and seated myself close beside her. After a silence of some 
 minutes, she exclaimed, suddenly : 
 
 *.' Ah ! I am very wretched ! The most wretched of creatures ! But tell it 
 not to my son ! He knows nothing of it !" 
 
 "I have just met him," answered I ; "he appears to roe to be sadly 
 changed." 
 
 " The poor boy can scarcely be recognized for himself. Grief is destroying 
 him! He still thinks of that base woman !" she added, with an air almost 
 of fierceness ; and then continued, " and yet she never did him but èvil — 
 while I ! I ! — Good God ! I have loved him ever, as the son of my agony ! 
 Yes ; and notwithstanding this, he still thinks of her — still thinks of her 
 more affectionately, even then he does of me !" 
 
 " I hope you are mistaken," I replied to her; "undoubtedly, my cousin 
 is more absorbed by the grief of having been so unworthily deceived, than 
 by the recollection of " 
 
 "Mention not her detested name !" she cried, interrupting me with vio- 
 lence ; " mention it not — for pity's sake ! You wish to console me ? But I 
 do not abuse myself — no ! no ! It is not indignation that my son expe- 
 riences ! Indignation storms ! lightens ! seeks those with whom to curse 
 the guilty cause ! Moreover, after indignation, comes scorn ! and, later 
 still, forgetfulness ! Yet, this unhappy boy forgets not ! No ! he forgets 
 not anything !" 
 
 "Wait: wait yet awhile. I doubc not that my cousin has reached the 
 point of scorn already — forgetfulness will follow soon. Believe me ; if he is 
 deeply grieved — it is because, to a noble heart, it is painful to despise !" 
 
 Madame Secherin shook her head sadly, and said to me, "Alas ! you are, 
 too, mistaken. Would to God that he could despise her! But I have 
 guessed the truth !" 
 
 " What do you sav ?" 
 
 " The truth ! I have guessed it ! He is ashamed of it, likew ise— and 
 shuns me— keeps himself in seclusion. During the first part of his sorrow, I 
 could well understand that he would be alone. I said to myself, that from 
 tenderness to me, he could not bear that I should see what he suffered — for, 
 indeed, you cannot conceive what grief he has undergone !" 
 
 " He has suffered, then, very terribly?" 
 
 " Indeed, he has! I have seen him whole days — whole days ' — io you 
 understand me ? and whole nights ! tossing upon his bed — weeping fierce, 
 fiery tears — and interrupting his sobs, only to burst into fits of frantic rage ; 
 to utter shrieks and groans of agony and despair, which he could still only by 
 biting the sheets in h'i6 fury. I think I can see him, even now, oh God of 
 Heaven! clinching his hands, tossing his arms about; not recognizing my 
 voice even, but in his delirium calling fiercely on that woman! calling 
 her! — wretch that she was! when he had no eyes for me, who was there — 
 praying — weeping beside his pillow. Heavens ! how many nights have I 
 passed so, kneeling beside his bed ; bathed in his tears and in my own ; ter- 
 rified, lest at any moment he might lose his reason in those fits of fury ! 
 With what anguish did I await that he should recognize me. Then," said 
 the wretched mother, raising her handkerchief to her eyes, " then — for he is 
 good and affectionate as a young child — when he came back to his senses, 
 he would embrace me ; would beseech my pardon for afflicting me ; for being 
 unable to control his anguish. Therefore, at first, I despaired not. If some- 
 times he replied to me shortly or hastily, when I wished to encourage him, I 
 said to myself, ' by-and-by, he will recover.' I did my best in the endeavour 
 to console him, to calm him, to amuse him ; but I could not succeed. I 
 sought in the town for the most interesting books ; despite the weakness of 
 my eyes, I tried to read to him. He did not listen to them. I prepared for 
 him the dishes which he used to love — he would not eat them. I strove to 
 bring his friends hither, he received them so coldly, that they had not the 
 
R OUVRA I. 
 
 339 
 
 courage to return. Notwithstanding my years, I offered to travel with him. 
 He refused. Although this house is consecrated in my eyes, and though I 
 wish to die here, as my husband died— fearing that these recollections might 
 recall to his mind too many grievous reflections, I have proposed to him to 
 dwell elsewhere. All availed nothing ! He refused ; still refuses, as he re- 
 fuses everything that his mother has to offer him !" , 
 
 There was such a pathos in those plain and simple lamentations, and I 
 perceived that the life of Madame Secherin must be so very grievous, when I 
 considered the insurmountable regrets of her sod, that I could but press her 
 hands sadly in my own, and fix on her a look of deep sorrow. 
 
 " I have always been patient with him," she continued. " I said to my- 
 self, ' his grief for that odious woman cannot last for ever.' I prayed the 
 ever-merciful Lord, to touch my son with grace, and restore him to me. I 
 offered masses to his guardian saint. Alas ! all was in vain ! The more I 
 strove to do, the more was I convinced that I was nothing — that I could be 
 nothing to my son I" and her voice, as she spoke, was broken with sobs ; " yet 
 I have never dared to tell him so. He was already so unhappy, that I still 
 waited. Sometimes, in order to please me, he has affected a less sad expres- 
 sion. Once, the poor fellow smiled on me ; but it was worse than his sorrow, 
 and I burst into tears — so melancholy was that soft, sweet smile— and I pro- 
 mised myself, that I would never again seek to put such constraint on him. 
 Before God ! who hears me, I swear to you, that I have never reproached him 
 with his grief. Only, gradually, I am growing more and more discouraged, 
 and overpowered. Seeing him careless of everything, I have become myself 
 careless of everything, likewise. I have let things go, as they would them- 
 selves. In this house all is neglected ; the grass grows everywhere in our 
 garden, as it will soon grow green upon the grave of a poor old woman, who 
 is no longer good for aught upon the earth, since she can console her son no 
 longer." 
 
 This desperation was so painfully contrasted with the firmness which I 
 had always seen before, in the manner of Madame Secherin, that I was 
 afraid. This gradual weakening of her mind, seemed to exhibit a strange 
 correspondent weakening of her body. I tried to console her, speaking of 
 my own example. 
 
 " Doubtless," I said, " these two years must have seemed cruelly long to 
 you; but consider, that even the longest grief consumes itself in the end. 
 The more violent the regrets of your son, the nearer his deliverance is ap- 
 proaching. I too, dear mother, have felt much grief ; I have not only lost 
 the man to whom I had consecrated my whole life, but I have lost my child ; 
 and with it all the hopes of happiness thai I can ever dream of. Well ! even 
 to these sad tortures there has succeeded a sort of tranquillity. A sad tran- 
 quillity, indeed ; but one which may be almost said to resemble happiness, 
 when compared to the torments I have undergone. Courage ! then ! courage, 
 dearest mother ; I doubt not, that even now you are drawing nigh to the 
 termination of your sorrows. As your son is, so am I — the victim of this 
 bad woman. An icy scorn has already taken the place, with me, of hatred. 
 The hour is not far off in which your son will feel as I do." 
 
 Madame Secherin shook her head, sadly ; and replied to me, with a de- 
 gree of calm, good sense, which I must say alarmed me. " It is by no means 
 a parallel case ! Your husband was of your own rank and standing. To 
 you, he was a man neither superior nor interior to those whom you were 
 used to see. This, therefore, renders it less intolerable in your case ; while 
 my poor boy never knew a woman, who, in exterior at least, could compare 
 with this wretch !" 
 
 Then finding once again a flash of her ancient energy, Madame Secherin 
 exclaimed: " But she — vile wanton — in her unblushing pride, seems to have 
 calculated but too truly, when, with the boldness of the fiend himself, she 
 told me that women, like herself/were not forgotten ; and that my son would 
 regret her for ever — would bewail her with tears of blood ! Oh, my God ! 
 my God ! thy will is impenetrable ! great, indeed, must be our faith, not to 
 despair of thy justice ! She must, indeed, love her child dearly, who loves on, 
 knowing all her affection useless!" 
 
 Madame Secherin returned, again and again, to this thought, which ap- 
 peared so frightful ; and it was all in vain that I strove to turn her from it. 
 "Believe it not," I said ; "without you, without your incessant care, the 
 life of your son would have been a thousand times more fearful than it is." 
 
 " How can that be ? he could not regret this woman more than he now 
 regrets her," replied Madame Secherin, with stubborn obstinacy ■''•Yesl 
 
33b 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 it is bo— for were he not so wretched, I should call him a bad and ungrateful 
 son." 
 
 "Ah ! madam " 
 
 "I should say that he remains with me only from regard to appearances ; 
 and because, in the first moment of his rage, he swore never to pardon this 
 base wretch. Oh J I have suffered cruelly without complaining of it. Within 
 the last two years, I have endured much in silence Formerly he believed in 
 the virtue of this woman. Then I could understand his preferring her to me. 
 But, after what has passed — to think that she should still possess his heart 
 — that does, indeed, offend — does, indeed, enrage me !" 
 
 " You are, perhaps, mistaken yet," I answered her. "We may still ex- 
 perience anger for a long time, and hatred against those who deceive us, 
 without being, on that account, subject to their influence. Generous hearts 
 are, above all others, liable to these lasting sentiments — treachery inflicts 
 pain on them, deep in proportion, as their confidence was unlimited." 
 
 "Blessed be your arrival here," said Madame Secherin, wiping her eyes ; 
 " I have been enabled to say that to you, which I could not have uttered to 
 any other living being. For the last two years, my heart has been full of 
 bitterness. Please God ! That it may not overflow, and that my son may 
 not learn the anguish he has caused me. Nevertheless, it must break out in 
 the end — there must cornea moment when I shall be able to contain myself 
 no longer !" 
 
 "Ah! Heaven forbid," cried I ; "were that to be the case, what would 
 be your life, and what his?" 
 
 " I shall grow weary in the end — not of devoting myself to him — no ! the 
 few days that I have left belong to him ; but I shall grow weary in the end 
 of seeing him suffer, as if he were alone, and abandoned by all. I shall grow 
 weary in the end of seeing, that the base recollection of a wanton woman is 
 effacing from my son's heart the gratitude which he owes me ! Tell me, then 
 — tell me," she exclaimed, her anger and her grief increasing as she spoke, 
 " is it not terrible to see our son perishing by a slow fire, and not to know 
 how to save him, when it is to that end only that God has left us on the earth ?" 
 
 This rapid conversation showed me, that the life of Monsieur Secherin and 
 his mother was more horrible than I had suspected. At this moment, I 
 saw M. Secherin pass slowly before the window, stop for a moment, look at 
 me, and again retire. 
 
 I thought he was coming to join us, but it was not so. Fancying that he 
 might wish to speak with me in private, I sought some pretext for going out 
 to meet him, when suddenly his mother said to me: 
 
 " Undoubtedly, my son wished to speak with you, but now he has lost the 
 courage to do so. I see he is walking yonder, slowly, in the yoke-elm alley." 
 
 I took the opportunity, saying, " If you will permit me, I will go to him 
 — you know he had ever some confidence in me ; perhaps I shall be able to 
 restore to him his courage— perhaps I may assist him in shaking off this 
 insurmountable sadness." 
 
 Madame Secherin stretched out her hand to me, but shook her head sadly 
 as she did so. 
 
 "Always generous," she said, " always kind." 
 
 "At least," replied I, "always ready to sympathize with the sufferings 
 which I have shared myself." 
 
 I found M. Secherin walking in the same alley, in which I had formerly 
 heard M. de Lancry's first avowal of love for Ursula. As I drew near to my 
 cousin, I was yet more struck, than I had been before, by the change which 
 I discovered in his features. Alas ! why should it be, that misfortune and 
 despair alone, should have the power to set a stamp of dignity on the most 
 ordinary features ! while happiness and joy nevefseem to ennoble them. 
 
 The face of M. Secherin, once so florid, s,p joyous, and so smiling, was now 
 as pale as marble, and almost frightfully emaciated. His hollow eyes, red- 
 dened by constant tears, gleamed with a feverish fire ; his features wore an 
 expression of fierce grief, which gave to them a character of elevation, which 
 I never could have conceived in them. 
 
 When he saw me he shuddered, turned his eyes up toward heaven, and 
 cried in a dull and stifled voice — 
 
 " She injured you too — you too, cruelly V* 
 
 " Yes ! very cruelly, my cousin, very cruelly !" I answered ; " but I have 
 courage. I, like you, have been betrayed, abandoned — but at this hour I de- 
 spise, I forget, those who have insulted me. Tranquillity has again taken 
 possession of my heart j yet, unlike you, I have no mother to console me." 
 
BCUVRAf. 
 
 337 
 
 M. Secherin answered me nothing— he stalked close up to me with un« 
 equal strides, stopped suddenly before me, folding his arms over his heart, 
 and exclaimed, in a burst of rage, while his eyes sparkled with excitement, 
 * I have not yet killed your husband ! I must seem very cowardly to you — 
 do I not? But patience ! patience!" he continued, resuming his dark and 
 sullen air. " My poor old mother cannot live for ever!" 
 
 And with these words he again began to walk to and fro in silence. These 
 words explained to me much that had before seemed inexplicable in the 
 conduct of M. Secherin. In spite of his good temper, he was a man of 
 courage ; he waited doubtless for his mother's death in order to exact a bloody 
 retribution ! I loved M. de Lancry, it is true, no longer; yet the idea of this 
 duel struck me with horror, and I answered, " Your mother will live so long, 
 that your regrets will grow weaker, and that you will leave the punishment 
 of the guilty to their God and Maker." 
 
 M. Secherin burst into a fit of savage laughter, before he answered : 
 " Leave my revenge to God ! Ah !" he continued, dropping his voice as he 
 spoke, and speaking in a tone that made me shudder — " Do you know, that 
 sometimes I think she lives too long for my vengeance 1" 
 
 •' Oh, this is terrible?" I exclaimed ; "you — you, who have ever been so 
 good a son !" 
 
 " I am no longer a good son !" he answered, his rage still increasing. 
 " I am no longer anything but a madman, who pass one half my life in call- 
 ing on a shameless wanton ! the other in cursing her — in dreaming upon ven- 
 geance. Can you believe it ? — there are even moments when I feel capable 
 of abandoning my mother, although I know that, to do it, would be her 
 death-stroke !" 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Yes ! I am capable of anything — when I think that your husband might 
 die before me — that Ursula might think me a coward — think that I dare not 
 fight!" 
 
 1 looked at M. Secherin in mute astonishment. His fear of seeming cow- 
 ardly in the eyes of Ursula, proved how tremendous must be the strength, 
 even now, of his passion for her. 
 
 " You must forget Ursula — she is unworthy even of a single thought." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders — " You too," he said, "you too then are like 
 my mother. Forget her, do you say ? forget her ? Why, then, not tell my 
 heart to beat no longer — my blood to flow no longer through my veins ia 
 streams of fire — my memory of all things to evanish !" 
 
 " But think what a wretch this woman is." 
 
 " Yet she is adored — wretch as she is — adored! Did not your husband 
 leave you for her — you, who are worth ten thousand such as she ?" exclaimed 
 M. Secherin, almost brutally. 
 
 One moment — I confess it — I remained without an answer. It must be 
 indeed the fact, that Ursula possessed extraordinary powers of fascination — 
 when two men, of characters so different as M. de Lancry and M. Secherin, 
 were furiously in love with her ! My cousin went on with a dark and gloomy 
 brow — "Forget her! forget her ! and why should I forget her? Up to the 
 day when she forgot her duty, who ever did for me what she did ?" 
 
 " Your mother, surely " 
 
 " My mother !— oh ! my mother is only my mother, and my wife was — my 
 wife!" he cried, passionately. "The time which I spent with Ursula will 
 ever be the fairest of my life. She, who was so much above me in intellect 
 and education — she, who lowered herself to my level ! And then so beautiful 
 — so beautiful ! Oh ! the long nights which I have spent foaming with rage, 
 raving her name in our deserted chamber ! Forget her — but you know not, 
 perhaps, that I loved her as much for her maddening beauty, as for her 
 dazzling wit. Forget her ! and for what ? — to live tête-a-tête with my mother ? 
 truly, a pleasant compensation !" 
 
 " But what you say now is positively frightful. Do you think that it must 
 not be painful, beyond all things, to her, to see how impotent are her best 
 consolations ?" 
 
 " My mother ! why, what can she desire more ? She is happy — contented. 
 I have abandoned Ursula to her fate. I swore, by the memory of my father, 
 never to look upon her more — never to pardon her! and, cost me what it 
 may, my promise shall be kept ! But why should my mother dispute with 
 me the poor solace of a tear — a tear which I conceal from her, so far as I 
 can? And yet — " and, as he spoke, the big drops burst out from his eyes, 
 and rolled down his cheeks. He seated himself on the stone bench, sobbing 
 convulsively. Terrified by this fearful love, I remained silent. 
 2 G 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 " See, now ! I am ridiculous — wild— mad !" My cousin took up the word 
 once more, wiping his eyes as he spoke. " I know it— but, what would you 
 have ? my feelings are too strong for me. Despise me — I deserve it— for I 
 love her still !" 
 
 " You love her still?" 
 
 " Yes ! it is shameful— is it not? It is disgusting — but I love her now as 
 much as I have ever loved her !" 
 " Good God ! can it be possible ?" 
 
 " Ay ! it is in vain that I try to reason — it is in vain that I say to myself, 
 that her conduct with your husband was a thousand times more base, than 
 if she had given way to passion. It is in vain that I tell myself, she must 
 have been corrupt indeed to give herself up as she did. Now, mark me ! 
 had it not been for my mother, twenty times would I have gone to M. de 
 Lancry, and I would have slain him, or he should have slain me. If I had 
 killed him, I would have thrown myself at the feet of Ursula, and forgiven 
 her all — and sure I am that, by indulgence, by kindness, and by love, I could 
 have brought her back to the paths of virtue. For, loolc you ! no one knows 
 her as I know her," he said, again wiping his eyes ; " it isherhead, and not 
 her heart, that is to blame." 
 
 " Cousin, I love not to attack the absent ; but your wife has done me so 
 much wrong, that I must speak to you of her, as I think— far less for the 
 purpose of dwelling on the past, than of leading you to conquer an unworthy 
 passion. Ursula is as false, as she is malicious : for ten whole years, she 
 hated me, and yet, for ten whole years, she ever treated me with hypocritie 
 tenderness." 
 
 " But, after all, she did not love your husband," cried he, without reply- 
 ing to my words. " Had it not been for my mother, I could have profited by 
 her confession, to break off that intrigue in the beginning. But women are 
 ever implacable in their anger. My mother has never been able to furget 
 that I once sacrificed her to Ursula. Oh ! she remembers it well ; and, h-td 
 it been the question, whether I must lose the whole happiness of my life — 
 whether I must die of grief, and she likewise — still, for the satisfaction of 
 her vengeance, I must swear never to pardon Ursula." 
 
 " But the life which you are leading must be a very hell !" 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is a hell ! Before my mother I restrain myself ; but I suffer 
 almost martyrdom. At other times, I curse myself for my insensibility to 
 her efforts at consoling me — I feel all the grief which I cause her, but I have 
 no power to help it — so weak am I — so cowardly, and so base A hell, did 
 you say ? yes indeed, it is a hell ! And yet, my poor mother is the very best 
 of women ; while I — I am but a wretch myself — and yet, in truth, I love 
 her — yes, love her tenderly; and, notwithstanding that, I am aware that I 
 afflict her — that I wound her incessantly. Oh, heaven ! accursed be the lot 
 which united me to Ursula ! I should have married a woman of my own class. 
 Never" would my life, and the life of my good mother, have been thus poi- 
 soned. If you knew what is the existence which I lead— my God ! if you 
 only knew it ! I do not take the least interest in my business ; I know not 
 how my fortunes are going on. I have taken a man of business for my 
 agent, on purpose that I need not meddle with it. What is the use, to me, 
 of money, now ? It was for her that I sought wea t th. She knew it. she 
 could have made me do all that she would. I am sure that I could have 
 found the means to double my fortune, because it would have given her 
 pleasure; and it was recompense enough to see her lovely features light up 
 with brilliant happiness— to have her thank me with her own sweet smile." 
 
 Then, thrusting his two clenched fists into his eyes — " Her smile — her ex- 
 pression ! no, never ! never shall I see them more ! I have deserved it all — 
 I had not the courage to forgive her, I listened to the pitiless hatred of my 
 mother: I was not then a man ; I acted like an infant — like an idiot !" 
 
 Then, after walking to and fro, with agitated steps, for a few minutes, he 
 said — " Pardon me, my cousin. Alas ! you see the life, which, for two years 
 past, I have been leading with my mother in this house, cold and quiet as 
 the tomb. Through the long day I walk, still walk, I know not whither. I 
 return home to dine, and, while the meal is going on, I look at the spot 
 where she used to sit. After that, I stay with my mother ; and by turns, 
 we read aloud, each to the other: when it is my turn, I read mechanically ; 
 without hearing, without understanding what I do read. At eleven o'clock 
 my mother prays aloud, and we retire. Then 1 betake myself to our cham- 
 ber — wnich I cannot prevail on myself to give up — then commence agonies of 
 
ROCVKAI. 
 
 sleepless grief; then, as on the very day when she forsook me, I endure all 
 the torments of desperate and frenzied jealousy — when I think " 
 
 Then, without finishing his sentence, M. Secherin drew himself up to his 
 full height, stamped his foot fiercely on the ground, and raising his hands to- 
 ward heaven, "Oh ! I will kill that man! I will kill him!" he exclaimed, 
 and began again to stride vehemently to and fro. At this moment, one of 
 the servants girls of Madame Secherin came to request us, from her, to return 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 "My son," said she, as soon as we entered, " your cousin is probably in 
 haste to return to Paris. We must not detain her." 
 
 " That is indeed the truth," said I ; "it is a very important matter, and one 
 which will not permit any delay. Had it not been for that, 1 should have re- 
 quested your hospitality for a few days." 
 
 "You, at least, have spoken to him sensibly, I doubt not," said Madame 
 Secherin, pointing to her son. 
 
 " I have spoken to him of you. madam — and it is impossible that any son 
 should be more affectionate or respectful — pray believe me." 
 
 *' I believe you readily — for I have no desire-but for his good." - 
 
 " He knows it, madam," I replied, making a little sign to M. Secherin, 
 as I spoke, in order to induce him to address some kind words to his mo- 
 ther. His coldness frightened me; and I began to fear that Madame Se- 
 cherin would take advantage of my presence, to make him some reproaches, 
 which she had been so long repressing. 
 
 M. Secherin approached his mother, took her hand, and kissed it tenderly, 
 saying — " Pardon me, my dear mother ; you know that for some time past I 
 have been suffering very deeply. It is this which has made my conduct ap- 
 
 Eear somewhat uneven. I have made my confession to my cousin — she has 
 een scolding me for it soundly," he added, with a melancholy smile, " and 
 I will endeavour to behave more discreetly in future." 
 
 " I presume that will cost you a great effort," said his mother, sternly. 
 I feared terribly that what I apprehended was now about to happen ; for Ma- 
 dame Secherin, feeling herself wounded in my presence, in her tenderest point 
 of maternal dignity, could no longer pass in silence her son's fatal passion, or 
 the grief which it had so long entailed upon her. I cast a supplicating glance 
 toward M. Secherin, to implore him to moderate his feelings ; but he, too, 
 had been for a long time gradually growing soured. My presence had 
 awakened the smart of their wounds anew. I shuddered, as I felt that I 
 might but too probably be the involuntary cause of an afflicting scene. 
 
 M. Secherin, however, stooped his head, without answering a word to his 
 mother, who went on, still raising her voice as she spoke : 
 
 " It should be the part of a good son to love his mother above everything." 
 " Whatever it may have cost me, I have done all that is in my power to 
 prove to you my submission, my dear mother," her son answered coldly: " I 
 can now do no more." 
 
 " This, then, is the life which this wretch has made for us. This wretch, 
 whom he still regrets !" exclaimed Madame Secherin. " It is in your power, 
 at least, not to regret a vile wanton !" she repeated yet more violently. 
 
 Terrified by the turn which the conversation seemed to be taking, I said 
 hastily — 
 
 " Alas ! madam ! he loved her so dearly !" 
 
 " He is capable of still loving her — still, even ! — a degraded love makes 
 men commit every kind of baseness." 
 
 The eyes of my cousin flashed like fire, as he exclaimed : " It is not only a 
 degraded love that makes men commit baseness, my mother. . Now, once for 
 all, I have been restraining myself long — I have been suffering long — I must 
 now speak to the end " 
 
 " And I, also !" cried his mother angrily. " I, too, have suffered long — it 
 is too long, indeed, that you have forgotten the duties you owe me. I repeat 
 it to you — I do, that your unworthy sorrows are so many proofs of baseness 
 — are so many insults against your mother !" 
 
 " Cousin !" cried I, for I saw that he could restrain himself no longer • 
 
 ** The noblest sentiments — the noblest duties — at times also make men 
 commit base actions ! Do you hear, mother ?" 
 
 " What would he say ?" 
 
 " Not a word more ?" said I to M. Secherin ; and I added in alow voice 
 — " Would you then kill your mother by letting ber imagine, so near her last 
 hour, that you are about to run the risk of a duel ? " 
 
 " It is true ! — it is true ! I am mad — I am a wicked son, to reply thus to 
 her ; my regrets seem to insult her, because she loves me so tenderly." Then* 
 
340 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 kneeling down before his mother, he took her hand, and kissed it, saying — 
 " Pardon me, my mother ! I was wrong to talk to you thus. 
 
 " A mother ought to pardon everything," she answered, with a deep sigh ; 
 and then, kissed her son on the forehead, looking at me with an expression 
 of wild sorrow, 
 
 "And a son ought to endure everything," replied M. Secherin, in a low 
 voice ; and his eye likewise wandered to mine, to call me as a witness to hi« 
 sorrows. 
 
 I quitted Rouvrai in a fit of the deepest melancholy. I could not conceive 
 anything in the world more painful than the position of that mother and that 
 son ; always face to face with each other — she mourning over the insane pas- 
 sion of her son — he constantly regretting the lost love of that guilty woman. 
 
 I could not restrain a gesture of fierce indignation, when I reflected that 
 my husband was lost to me for ever — that my child was dead — that my life 
 was spirit-broken — that a pious mother and a generous son felt that their in- 
 tercourse, once so affectionate and tender, was now embittered, and for ever — 
 and all this, because Ursula had envied and hated me in her childhood! 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE RETURN, 
 
 Two months after my departure from Maran, I was established in Paris, in 
 the small house which Madame de Richeville had offered me. 
 
 I cannot but inquire of myself, even yet, by what means I could have suc- 
 ceeded in inspiring this excellent woman with the affection which she has 
 never ceased to bear me, and of which she gave me new proofs, the very 
 moment I returned to Paris. For it was with the tenderest— the most ma- 
 ternal interest, that she watched over my smallest wishes, that she laboured 
 to spare me the most trifling causes of vexation. 
 
 When I thought of the base calumnies of which she had been the victim, I 
 could not but wonder at the terms of intimate acquaintance on which she 
 lived with persons, who certainly represented the most select of the best com- 
 pany in Paris ; and who even passed, to use a common-place expression, for 
 being not a little stiff necked. 
 
 This change in the opinion of the world, in Madame de Richeville's case, 
 ought not to have caused me much astonishment. For persons of the strict- 
 est morals, are more or less indulgent to the past errors of one who seeks 
 their countenance, in proportion as her present life is more or less irre- 
 proachable. 
 
 Justly proud of the kind of worldly conversion, which their salutary influ- 
 ence has effected, they defend and support their neophytes with all the gener- 
 ous ardour of proselytism. 
 
 Madame de Richeville had, therefore, won all those who had formerly sin- 
 cerely pitied her misfortunes, and deplored her faults, to be her sincere friends. 
 Thanks to. the last sacrifices which her husband had compelled her to make, 
 her house was indeed very comfortable ; but not so splendid, that the eager- 
 ness shown by all persons to be admitted to it, could be attributed to any 
 cause, other than her extreme grace in doing its honours. 
 
 The portraits which she had made of several persons who formed her familiat 
 circle, were striking in the extreme. By chance, I had an opportunity of 
 judging of this, on the very day of my arrival in Paris. 
 
 My carriage had broken down at Etampes, and, delayed by the accident, I 
 did not reach Paris, quite contrary to my expectation, until 10 o'clock in the 
 evening. . No longer expecting me on that day, she had admitted her friends 
 as usual : so that to my great astonishment, when my carriage stopped under 
 the peristyle, I found Madame de Richeville there, accompanied by the Prince 
 d'Hericourt, My courier, who had preceded me by about half-an-hour, had 
 announced my approach, and Madame de Richeville had come down to meet 
 me the sooner. 
 
 I found at her house, that evening, the Princess d'Hericourt, and Mesdames 
 de Semur and de Grandval, who received me with the greatest affability and 
 kindness that can be imagined. It is absolutely necessary to have lived in 
 the society which I wish to describe, in order to comprehend their mode of 
 receiving me — at the same time reserved and full of kindness. The history of 
 
TH& RETURN. 
 
 3il 
 
 wy sorrows was well known ; but with the delicacy of extreme discretion, 
 they spared me all allusion to those evils, which they all wished me to forget. 
 
 To explain exactly in what consisted these shades of conduct, so slight and 
 delicate as they were, would be almost impossible ; and yet, by means of these 
 nothings, their greeting seemed the result only of a sincere and kind anxiety, 
 instead of bearing the stamp of a forced and indiscreet compassion. 
 
 So long as the hereditary good manners and knowledge of the world pos- 
 sessed by our ancient aristocracy, exist, there will never be, in Europe, any 
 society capable of comparison with our best society, for that exquisite tact 
 and that good taste, which appear to be prerogatives attached to the French 
 intellect. Therefore it is, that never, while I live, shall I forget the words of 
 the venerable Princess d'Hericourt, when I was presented to her on that even- 
 ing, by the Duchess de Richeville. 
 • " Although I have the pleasure of beholding you to-day, for the first time, 
 madam," she said to me, " I know you well ; and permit me to say, that I 
 have loved you since I have heard our dear Amelia (this was Madame de 
 Richeville's christian name,) speak of you. Myself and her other friends, who 
 are yours also, have all been persuading her to hurry your return to Paris. 
 At your age — an old grandmother may so speak to you — at your age, solitude 
 is very dangerous. As soon as we isolate ourselves entirely from all society, 
 so soon do we begin to suspect the world of selfishness and insensibility. 
 But I assure you it is not so ! I have ever seen the noblest and most touching 
 sympathies elicited by the sight of noble and touching misfortunes !" 
 
 "And I, madam," said the Countess de Semur to me, very gravely, and 
 with her wonted manner of vivacious cordiality, " even if I should be accused 
 of paradox, as I very often am, I must confess that I should be almost glad 
 to know that you were at the far-end of Touraine — for, in truth, you were 
 our ideal. When we wished to console ourselves that we could not see you, 
 we used to say, that the ideal was dreamed of, but never seen — while now, 
 if we were about to lose you, we should love you the more, and regret your 
 loss so much the more deeply." 
 
 Here, when I attempted modestly to disclaim these exaggerated praises, 
 the Princess d'Hericourt took me by the hand, and said, in a voice of deep 
 emotion: "Will you, I pray you, madam, believe that there are other things 
 which may be admired in a young woman, besides her beauty, her grace, and 
 her wit — and you will then perceive the difference that exists between dange- 
 rous flattery, and real homage paid to real merit." 
 
 After these singularly striking compliments, I drew near to Emma. She 
 was dressed in a very simple white frock — the massive bands of her superb 
 hair, gracefully waving over her brow, defined the outlines of her sweet oval 
 face, of the purest white and pink that can be conceived. I thought her 
 beauty positively dazzling. When she had visited me at Maran, she was 
 about fourteen ; since that time, two years had passed, and brought perfec- 
 tion to her figure — slight and erect as that of the antique Diana. 
 
 I make this mythological comparison, because the features of Emma, like 
 her slightest gestures, were stamped with a serious, chaste, and reflective 
 grace, which would have been called majesty, if that term had been applica- 
 ble to a young girl of sixteen, with great azure eyes, and a fresh smile full 
 of young and childish grace. 
 
 This evening, as was her custom, Emma was making tea, and offering it to 
 every one with little marks of forethought, which struck me as exquisitively 
 touching. Thus, in presenting a cup of tea to the Princess d'Hericourt, she 
 took the opportunity of kissing the hand of the princess, just as she touched 
 the saucer ; and then, again, remembering that Madame de Semur was not 
 fond of strong tea, she had the presence of mind to weaken it. If I dwell on 
 these seemingly childish details, it is because Emma performed the actions 
 with that delicate tact, which hindered them from seeming childish. 
 
 Never, shall I forget the melancholy smile of Madame de Richeville, and 
 the glance which she turned upon me, as Emma said to her in her low soft- 
 toned'voice, " May Lgive you some tea, madam ?" 
 
 Alas ! that cold and distant word, madam, seemed to hurt the unhappy 
 mother — she was, however, forced to submit herself. In the world's eyes, 
 her daughter was to her but Mademoiselle de Lostanges, an orphan, and 
 a distant relative. 
 
 After a few days, when Emma gave me her confidence, I could admire the 
 treasures of that ingenious soul. Her heart was so sincere, so right minded, 
 so at variance with every thing that could seem to disagree with its natural 
 2 G 3 
 
342 
 
 MATILBA. 
 
 elevation, that there were certain faults and vices which it must have heen 
 impossible for Emma to comprehend. 
 
 Crimes were, in her eyes, consequences without cause— horrible accidents 1 
 The odious calculations, the disorganized principles which lead to the com- 
 mission of a baseness, or a crime, were beyond her understanding ; strangely 
 and wonderfully bounded as it was, withirî the range of all evil passions. 
 Emma was an exception, as rare in her kind, as were Ursula and Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran in theirs. 
 
 It was long ere I could discover the cause of the dreamlike sorrow, which 
 appeared to augment Emma's melancholy air and expression. The poor 
 child regretted still the mother, whom they told her she had lost while in the 
 cradle. Her gratitude toward Madame de Richeville was sincere and tender ; 
 but Emma reckoned thus, in the calm innocence of her simple heart. 
 
 " If a distant relation is so kind to me, what would my mother have been,' 
 had she lived?" 
 
 Having discovered the secret of Emma's sadness, I took good care not mention 
 it to Madame de Richeville. It would have been dealing her a cruel blow, 
 had I done so. In her adoration of her daughter, she might, perhaps, eveu 
 have been tempted to disclose to her the secret of her birth ; and I dared not 
 look forward to the terrible confusion which such a disclosure would have 
 wrought in Emma's sentiments as regarded Madame de Richeville. How 
 terrible a strife would have been awakened in the soul of that young girl ! so 
 proudly virtuous — so startlish at the very thought of crime ; when she should 
 hear that her mother was but too guilty, and that her birth— poor child 1 her 
 own — was but the consequence of a deep sin. 
 
 Emma was frankness itself ; and yet, though I did not by any means want 
 quickness, I could see that there was something about her mysterious, which 
 I could not understand. Strange to say, I was convinced that she had a 
 secret — and yet knew not, herself, what that secret was. I saw her to be in- 
 capable of concealing the most trifling of her impressions. She had not 
 spoken of her dreamlike sadness, touching the memory of her mother, to 
 Madame de Richeville, only because she felt that such a confession would 
 have neen painful to her, who had shielded her with maternal care. I fore- 
 saw, then, that Emma concealed something from me, not through falsehood, 
 but through pure ignorance —because she could no more explain or define, 
 than I could myself, certain fantastical points of her conduct which had 
 struck me. 
 
 Thus, when winter came and she saw the first snow fall, she turned pale as 
 that snow itself ; shuddered, and said in a dolorous tone — " Alas ! the 
 snow !" I was alone with her, and asked her wherefore that painful cry ? She 
 answered, " I know not wherefore ; but it seemed to pain me, when I spoke, 
 to see the snow fall ; now I care nothing for it." 
 
 I asked her, whether the thought of the poor wretches, who might be suf- 
 fering in that snow, had anything to do with her exclamations ? She an- 
 swered me simply, ' No ; that she pitied them deeply, but at the moment 
 had not thought about them. At the sight of the snow, her heart had been 
 impressed painfully, she knew not wherefore ; but that the impression had 
 already passed away.' 
 
 Another time before her mother and myself, there was some mention made, 
 I know not what, of swallows. Emma's eyes filled with tears ; and she said 
 to us, with a sweet smile, " I know not why it is— but when I hear speak of 
 swallows, I feel a softly sweet sensation, and have an inclination to weep." 
 
 To conclude my reminiscences, one day, while some troops were passing 
 the house, to the sound of clarions — Emma rose to her feet, erect, with a 
 kindled eye, bright cheek, and haughty air, and listened to the martial notes 
 with an expression, bearing the stamp of sudden heroism. 
 
 The clarions passed, the sound died away. Emma, looking round her in 
 astonishment, fell, blushing and confused into the arms of Madame de Ri- 
 cheville, and taking her hand, laid it on her bosom with enchanting grace, 
 as she said — " Pardon me ! I am very foolish, but I could not refrain from 
 doing so ; — feel how my heart beats." 
 
 And, in truth, her heart did beat as though it would have bounded from 
 her bosom. What then was this mystery ? what was the secret cause of 
 these agitations, of these wild emotions ? Alas ! at a later period I disco- 
 vered it — but at this moment, Emma was as ignorant of it as' I was. 
 
 With the exception of these involuntary, unforeseen movements of he* 
 ■pirit, every thought of that pure and ingenious soul, could be read as dia- 
 
THE RETURN. 
 
 ttoctly as though it had been reflected on the most lucid crystal. Such at 
 this time was Emma. 
 
 By degrees it will be seen how her character expanded in its lovely igno- 
 rance — like flowers which know not the sweetness of the parfumes which 
 they spread around them, or of the tints of the colours which aiversify their 
 petals. 
 
 While • I was yet at Maran, I had implored Madame de Richeville not to 
 write me one- word concerning Ursula or M. de Lancry ; I then shunned 
 every mention of their odious names. But now at Paris, surrounded by new 
 friends, I was bolder. Madame de Richeville had been well informed, by 
 persons who were thoroughly acquainted with my husband's conduct ; and 
 through her I soon learned, that Mademoiselle de Maran was redoubling her 
 calumnies and bitterness against me. As soon as she had brought Ursula 
 to town, she gave her apartments in her own house ; putting it forth every- 
 where, that my jealousy, no less violent than it was ungrounded, had brought 
 about the separation of M. Secherin and his wife ; and that I had, in fact, 
 denounced my cousin to her husband ; giving, as the sole proof of her mis- 
 conduct, some triwal acts of imprudence. 
 
 My aunt went on to say, that this procedure was the more intolerable on 
 my part — since my intrigue with M. Lugarto left me no right to complain of 
 my husband's infidelity, or to find fault with the conduct of other women. 
 And lastly, that M. de Lancry, already alienated from me by the violence of 
 my temper, having discovered that during his absence in England I had car- 
 ried my audacity so far as to pass a night in the house of M. Lugarto, had 
 abandoned me. Mademoiselle de Maran likewise said, that notwithstanding 
 the affection she bore me, she could not but confess that M. de Lancry was 
 in the right ; and that she esteemed it her duty to defend her poor Ursula, 
 against the slanders whieh I had heaped on her— the victim of my jealousies 
 and crimes. 
 
 These falsehoods, absurd as they were, could not have failed to become 
 dangerous likewise, had not Madame de Richeville, in order to forewarn her 
 friends against such infamous reports, recounted to them the whole scene 
 which had occurred in the lonely house of M. Lugarto, as she had heard it 
 from M. de Mortagne on his death- bed. 
 
 These disclosures, with the past life of M. de Lancry, and the present con- 
 duct of Ursula, sufficed to defend me against the base accusations of my 
 aunt. The revolution of July, by dividing and scattering the legitimist so- 
 ciety, had depopulated the drawing-rooms of Mademoiselle de Maran. For 
 in truth, she had only owed the attentions paid her since the restoration, to 
 the dread which she inspired, and to the powerful enmities, and no less pow- 
 erful protections, which she could excite or extend at her pleasure. 
 
 When there was nothing to be feared, nor hoped for at her hands, people 
 began to weary of her — for her malignity increased with her increasing years. 
 Her home offered now no inducements, no pleasures; her economy had 
 degenerated into avarice, so that by degrees she found herself left wholly 
 alone. 
 
 The annoyance which she felt at this, was the real cause of her visit to 
 Maran. To console herself for her other vexations, she came to do me all 
 the evil in her power. 
 
 In taking sides with Ursula against her mother-in-law, and in proposing 
 to conduct her to Paris, she had obeyed, in the first instance, her instinctive 
 hatred against me ; and secondly, when she learned the power of Ursula's 
 new fascinations, she resolved to profit by my cousin's charms to give a new 
 attraction to her drawing-rooms. 
 
 She knew the world, perhaps, better than any other person in it — she an- 
 nounced everywhere that Ursula was separated from her husband. Now, 
 there is always an irresistible desire among men to attempt the conquest of 
 a young and lovely woman, left in a solitary and independent situation ; so 
 that ere long Mademoiselle de Maran's house was no longer lonely : and 
 Ursula, prettier and more daringly coquettish than she had ever been before, 
 was constantly surrounded by a numerous crowd of courtiers. M. de Lancry, 
 informed of every thing that was going on by a confidential man, whom he 
 had sent to Paris, was now almost beside himself with jealousy. It was then 
 that he deserted me, and set off to rejoin Ursula. 
 
 What I have now to say will appear, at first, almost incredibly disgraceful 
 —unhappily, as I have advanced in life, I have too often been the witness of 
 similar acts of meanness. Let every one ask his own memory, and he wi/i 
 speedily discover that the facts I am about to record are neither exaggerated 
 
344 
 
 MATILDA 
 
 nor impossible ; and that on the contrary, they are more remarkable for tî»e 
 sort of strange delicacy which environed them, than for the baseness from 
 which they sprung. 
 
 Ursula was passionately fond of extravagance — of splendour, pleasures, fêtes ; 
 but in the house of Mademoiselle de Maran, she found none of these splendid 
 delights. My aunt, who was rich enough to live in noble style, was farther 
 than ever from thinking of giving balls, taking boxes at the great theatres, 
 or keeping up her house in a style more elegant or extended than she had 
 done before. 
 
 M. de Lancry, when he came to Paris, found Ursula carrying on a sort of 
 privileged flirtation, with two or three men of my aunt's society. Despite" 
 his blind and frantic passion, he was too well acquainted with the sex in 
 general, and with particular women, also, not to have guessed the tastes of 
 Ursula. 
 
 From respect both to himself and her, he could not offer to satisfy her 
 taste for luxury and expense ; for it was well known that her dowry consisted 
 of but sixty thousand francs ; and, had the source of her extravagance been 
 ouce known, she would have soon found herself driven ignominiously out of 
 that society, in which she so much wished to shine. 
 
 De Lancry, whether with, or without the connivance of my aunt— for that 
 I have never been able to discover— found a very ingenious mode of effecting 
 his end, by giving, namely, to his mistress the highest position in the world ; 
 and that not only without stripping her of any character, but rather sur- 
 rounding her with the sympathies of a fashionable clique, at the head of 
 which was Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 Had it not been, however, for the hatred which she bore me, my aunt 
 doubtless would have refused, indignantly, to play the shameful part of ac- 
 complice, which she adopted in this infamous transaction. 
 
 As to the manner in which I became acquainted with the following details, 
 it is connected with a new train of mysterious circumstances ; which proved 
 that, most unhappily for me, the evil genius of M. Lugarto was yet circling 
 around me and around all that was, from hour to hour, becoming-dearer to m«, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TIIK LETTER. 
 
 About three months after my arrival, Blondeau handed me a little packet, 
 which a messenger had brought. I opened it, and grew pale with affright, 
 when I discovered a bouquet of those venomous crimson flowers, which M. 
 Lugarto had formerly sent to me, and which had since been to me a symbol 
 of his ill-will. Madame de Richeville had received a similar bouquet, on the 
 day of M. de Mortagne's death. With the flowers was a letter, written by 
 my husband to one of his friends, whose name I did not know, since the en- 
 velop had been destroyed. How could M. Lugarto, who, as I imagined, was 
 absent from Paris, have intercepted M. de Lancry's correspondence ? I was 
 not able to guess ; but I was not surprised that this man — possessed as he 
 was of an immense fortune — should succeed in corrupting domestics, or 
 having creatures of his own in the houses of persons, whose movements he 
 was watching. 
 
 As to the object of this communication, there could be no doubt. Unac- 
 quainted with my indifference toward M. de Lancry, M. Lugarto thought 
 that he should wound me to the quick, by unveiling the mysteries of the 
 conduct of my husband and Ursula. Though this intention was not abso- 
 lutely fulfilled, this letter, as was easily to be supposed, conjured up many 
 painful remembrances ; yet this new perfidy of M. Lugarto bore some better 
 fruits. My husband's letter was as follows : 
 
 " Paris, January, 1835. 
 
 "I thank you for your letter, my dear friend. Bline may "well astonish 
 you ; for a month has elapsed since you wrote to ask of me that intelligence 
 to which it alluded, and added these words: 'What ha3 become of you ? 
 Can I believe what I hear about you in this desert of mine? Is it true that 
 you are the favoured lover of the most fashionable woman in Paris ? — a wo- 
 man, who, by the power of her wit and beauty, has succeeded in making the 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 345 
 
 world forget that she was once called by the vulgar name of Secherin ? Is it 
 true, that Mademoiselle de Maran, the aunt of your wife, your Euridice, is on 
 the road to ruin ? that she is spending her money like mad ; that the splen- 
 dour of her entertainments, and the extravagance of her establishment, is the 
 world's talk ? I should think such dissipation, at her age, rather out of season.' 
 
 " I answered at length, one part of your questions ; I will now go on, for 
 at this moment ray heart is overflowing with gall and bitterness. You are 
 cr_e of those tried men, to whom all secrets may be confided, and who can 
 comprehend all things. You have sunk two enormous inheritances in the 
 hells of Paris ; you have killed three men in duels ; you have survived a hor- 
 rible wound, which you gave yourself in an attempt to blow out your brains. 
 Now, superior to such nonsense, as you say, you live like a philosopher, 
 • thinking and dreaming in an old house, at the far end of Brittany, happy in 
 looking out upon your sand-banks, and listening to the roar of the sea as it 
 dashes over them.' This shows that you have stability of character, and a 
 rare experience of human weakness. You will not be surprised, therefore, at 
 the secrets which remain to be imparted. I am surrounded by people so 
 childish, or so envious, that I would kill myself rather than allow them to 
 suspect what I suffer; it would make them too happy. You will, perhaps, 
 despise me, stoic that you are ! No matter ; I can endure no longer, with- 
 out complaining to some one of my torment and my happiness, for my happi- 
 ness is nothing but torment. Besides, I derived great solace from writing 
 my former letter ; I go on, since you say that you can give me no further 
 counsel till you know the end of my story. 
 
 " Consumed by jealousy when I learned that Ursula was in Paris sur- 
 rounded by worshippers, and desiring, with all my heart, to regain my rights, 
 in despite of the J i t tie hope that remained after the letter which she had writ- 
 ten to me, and which fell into her husband's hands, I quitted Maran. I 
 abandoned my wife and came hither. I found Ursula as beautiful, as capri- 
 cious, and as fond as ever. When I wanted to speaji to her of my past good 
 fortune, she overpowered me with sarcasm : but I contained myself, for I 
 had my plans. Mademoiselle de Maran, my wife's aunt, welcomed me with 
 cordiality. I have told you of her hatred to Matilda, which will assist you in 
 comprehending what follows. I understand Ursula. She has a wild love 
 of extravagance and pleasure, and would sacrifice much to its gratification ; 
 but I was well aware that, notwithstanding her poverty, the boldness of her 
 principles, and the impudence of her character; she was, from a strange ad- 
 mixture of pride and independence, incapable of certain meannesses. The 
 best method, therefore, of forcing myself upon her — of ruling her as much 
 as she could be ruled — was to give her the means of indulging in that splen- 
 did career, which has been the dream of her whole life ; and that, too, with- 
 out exciting her sensibilities, which are often startled at a shadow. 
 
 " To understand the resolve which I then made, you must call to mind, 
 that I never vacillated between the expenditure of any sum of money, how- 
 ever large, and the gratification of any desire, however extravagant. 1 must 
 also impress you with the fact that I loved, and still love Ursula, with all 
 the ardour, with all the fury of a passion irritated, excited, and — worse than 
 all — unsatisfied. This, then, was the predicament in which I was placed. 
 1 was to render myself indispensible to Ursula, by surrounding her with all 
 delights, with all imaginable splendours, without offending her delicacy ; 
 and in such a way, that the world should never penetrate the mystery. The 
 avarice of Maflemoiselle de Maran, her hatred to my wife, whom she was 
 overjoyed to see ruined, ministered to my wishes. 
 
 " One day, in Ursula's presence, I asked Mademoiselle de Maran, in 
 whose house she was living, what were her annual expenses for her house, 
 stable, &c. She answered me, forty thousand francs. I cried out that she 
 was robbed — she never received anybody, her carriages were horrible ; and 
 that — with a sum like that — if she would trust to me and follow my advice, 
 I would undertake to keep up the best establishment possible. 
 
 " ' How is that ?' said she. 
 
 " ' Give me forty thousand francs ; don't trouble yourself about it, and I 
 will take the charge of your expenses for one year. You shall see in what 
 style 1 will make you live ; only, if you adopt my proposition, you must go 
 and spend some months in the country, to give me time to make the requi- 
 site alterations in your hotel; and that without any extraordinary disburse- 
 ments, for I will bring it within the forty thousand francs a year.' 
 
 " Ursula looked at me. It seemed as if she discovered my thoughts, for a 
 smile (oh ! if, if you could only see her smile !) rewarded me for my ingenious 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 stratagem. She understood me, of course. Ursula would enjoy all the 
 luxuries that I pretended to furnish with the forty thousand francs of Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran ; — the latter, laughing with ail her"* might, acceded to 
 my proposal, (she always laughs when about to commit some outrageous 
 piece of treachery.) Fifteen days after our agreement, Mademoiselle de 
 Marah and Ursula were established at Auteuil, in an enchanting house, 
 which an Englishman, tired of his sojourn, had, I may say, let to me for no- 
 thing. I had always a genius for impromptus, when money was not wanting. 
 
 " It is useless for me to tell you how much I expended in the arrange- 
 ment of the house of Auteuil, which I visited every day. It was really a fairy 
 cottage. In the meantime, proceedings at the hotel in Paris advanced 
 rapidly. I commenced the reform on the stables. I replaced the old- 
 fashioned carriages of Mademoiselle de Maran, by the prettiest equipages in 
 Paris. Knowing how fond Ursula was of exercise on horseback, I persuaded 
 Mademoiselle de Maran to let a small apartment at her hotel, then unoccu- 
 pied, to my uncle, the Duke de Versac, who was completely ruined by the 
 revolution of July ; he thus acted as chaperon to Ursula in her equestrian 
 excursions with me, and attended her abroad, when Mademoiselle de Maran 
 herself could not accompany her. 
 
 " Thanks to my activity, by the commencement of the winter, the hotel de 
 Maran was transformed into a perfect palace. A magnificent suite of rooms 
 on the ground-floor were reserved for reception. The apartments of Ursula, 
 the temple of my cherished idol, were a marvel of luxury and elegance. I 
 filled them with the rarest furniture — precious porcelain vases, admirable 
 draperies, and paintings by the old masters. People said that Mademoiselle 
 de Maran was mad ; for the enormous expense which I lavished on her es- 
 tablishment was, of course, attributed to her. She did not contradict it ; 
 neither did I, for a thousand reasons that you may easily imagine. In the 
 course of the winter Mademoiselle de Maran gave some superb balls ; during 
 Lent a few excellent concerts ; and, on the return of spring, several soirees 
 champêtres in her immense garden, in which I had wrought wonders. 
 
 " The hotel Maran became the most fashionable mansion in Paris. Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran had a box at the opera, and one at the comic theatre — 
 all through the power of those eternal forty thousand francs, which she an- 
 nually gave me. When I handed her the accounts at the end of the^year, 
 she burst into a hearty fit of laughter ; declared that I was a magician, and 
 entreated me to continue to be her steward. I had expended more than ten 
 thousand louis. It is superfluous to tell you, that Ursula was the queen of 
 these fêtes given for her, and almost by her ; for she did the honours with 
 exquisite grace and unequalled dignity. She became a finished musician. 
 At the concerts, she displayed talent of the first order. Very soon everybody 
 began to talk about her— her bold and brilliant wit— her lively and sarcastic 
 gaiety — and, above all, her most audacious coquetry, which put me to the 
 torture, and lighted all the fires of jealousy in my heart. 
 
 " Even Mademoiselle de Maran yielded to this woman's fascinating influence; 
 indeed, all who approached her, were, in a manner, bewitched. Among 
 women, she was always pleasant, flattering and insinuating; among men 
 fantastic, provoking, aud coldly indifferent, by turns. By such management 
 she came to be regarded as a living enigma, and she could do anything, how- 
 ever hazardous and daring, without being in the least danger of suffering for 
 her conduct. 
 
 " Strange inconsistency ! this woman, who did not at all scruple to enjoy 
 the luxuries with which I provided her, in Mademoiselle de Blaran's name, 
 and at the greatest expense, treated me with the greatest harshness— with 
 the most insulting contempt, because I once offered her some jewels to wear 
 at an approaching fete. 
 
 " On reflection, however, this did not astonish me. Ursula is full of tact: 
 it is known that she is poor ; and less personal luxury would be deemed 
 sufficient for her. Accordingly, she has adopted a style peculiar to herself, 
 combining perfect simplicity with extreme elegance. She has a charming 
 neck, and beautifully white arms, so fresh, and so exquisitely rounded, that 
 there is positive coquetry in her refusing to wear necklaces and bracelets. 
 
 " Her evening dress was always of white crape, wonderfully rich, and in 
 admirable taste ; she wore a natural flower in her beautiful hair, and a 
 bouquet in her bosom ; but these were her only ornaments. In the morn- 
 ing, she wore a little capote, and an exceedingly plain dress, with a large 
 cashmere shawl. You see that a dowry of sixty thousand francs ought to 
 last her for a long time. Amid the magnificence which surrounds her, she 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 BCems as proud and as happy in doing the honours, as though she were the 
 mistress of the house, instead of being merely a substitute ; for this singular 
 woman less enjoys the possession of luxury than the enjoyment of it. This 
 distinction may appear, to you, subtle ; were you to know Ursula, you would 
 find it correct. 
 
 " Notwithstanding my devotedness and my sacrifices, I am often unhappy. 
 I am conscious of being necessary to Ursula: I am sure she would not wil- 
 lingly renounce her power over me. But what a power it is. 
 
 " After our first interview after the letter which she wrote to me, that was 
 discovered by her husband, she ought to have been very much confused. 
 Notwithstanding what you are pleased to call my libertinism, she was much 
 more embarrassed than I. This would not surprise you, were you familiar 
 with her temper — the flexibleness, audacity, and superiority of her mind. 
 
 " 1 Do you, really, entertain the opinions which you wrote?' said I to her. 
 
 " She began laughing — she always laughs — and answered : 'Are you one of 
 those blind individuals, who always confound the present with the past? 
 Cannot that which was true yesterday be false to-day? Do not disturb 
 yourself by trying to find out, whether what I wrote to you under circum- 
 stances entirely different from those which now exist, was, or wa3 not, m/ 
 true sentiments. You love me, you say ? Act, then, as if I loved you ; or, 
 as if I seemed to love you. To force me to feign an emotion which I do not 
 feel, would be still less flattering than to inspire me with one which I avow. 
 If I loved you sincerely, your heart would be gratified ; if I affected to lo>ve 
 you, your pride would triumph. At all events, the part which you have to 
 play is pleasant enough, I trust.' 
 
 " V\ T hat to reply to such paradoxes, such absurdities ! above all, when 
 those absurdities are murmured in your ear by a mouth of coral with teeth of 
 pearl — by fresh, sensual and crimsoned lips, whose corners are slightly sha- 
 dowed by an almost imperceptible down ! — what to reply when those words 
 were accompanied by a deep, ardent, and voluptuous look ! — oh ! you know 
 not the magnetic power of those two large blue eyes, under their long lashes 
 and faintly-pencilled eyebrows of ebony, darting passion, when they will, 
 into the recesses of your soul, or maliciously freezing you by their mocking 
 disdain ! — no, no ! such eyes as those were never seen before. 
 
 " I did not shrink from any sacrifice. I entered upon a life of perpetual 
 agitation, for this woman is incomprehensible ; I cannot tell in what light 
 she regards me. She seems to feel an irresistible passion, to which she 
 yields with a kind of tender vexation. It is impossible for me to tell you 
 what she is, especially in these moments of infatuation and freedom ; as im- 
 possible as it would be to paint her burning langour, when, yielding to her 
 passion for me, she curses me with an enchanting and passionate grace. 
 
 " At this thought my heart beats, my blood boils, my cheeks burn ! and 
 yet this intrigue has lasted for more than two years, although I am almost 
 confident she has deceived me ; although during these two years I have not, 
 perhaps, enjoyed a single month of complete happiness — for this evasive 
 creature avoids me constantly, and sneers at me, and hurls me from heaven 
 to hell ! leaving me amid frightful doubts, which she dissipates the next day 
 by a look or a smile. 
 
 " Oh ! you cannot imagine what it is to live in these everlasting alterna- 
 tives of hope and despair — of joy and tears — of anger and love — of mistrust 
 and blindness ! You cannot conceive with what infernal art this woman can 
 administer, by drops, the nectar with which she would intoxicate me. 
 Figure to yourself a miserable man, with dry lips, receiving by.drops, and at 
 long intervals, the limpid fresh water which is to slake his thirst. Oh ! tell 
 me, tell me ! would not this be rather to render this thirst insatiable and 
 more burning still ? Tell me ! would not this make him die of rage? Yet 
 such is my case ; I am unceasingly devoured by love. Ursula never yields 
 me enough to satisfy my passion, but always euough to irritate it, and thus 
 render its tyranny more despotic still. 
 
 " Oh ! the infernal creature ! she knows well that burning remembrances 
 of the past produce ardent hopes of the future, and that what is unsatisfied 
 lasts for ever. 
 
 " Such is the weakness of my degradation, of my shame.- Such, also, is 
 the secret of my senseless and delirious joy, when Ursula condescends to act 
 toward me as a woman, and not as an insolent and disdainful devil. Yet she 
 still persuades me — or rather I persuade myself — that, notwithstanding her 
 savage caprices, Ursula loves me to distraction ; and that her strange con- 
 duct is intended to prevent me from suspecting her love — a love revolting to 
 
 347 
 
S48 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 her pride. I believe her object in feigning inconstancy and disdain, ia to re. 
 tain possession of my heart ; because she thinks I would, perhaps, be satis- 
 fied, if I had no more doubt with regard to the sincerity of her affection. I see 
 a proof of violent passion in what formerly appeared ta be revolting and ua- 
 worthy conduct. But then, in my suspicious hours, I take it for granted that 
 she does not love me — that she merely tolerates me, because I find means of 
 flattering her tastes and fancies. 
 
 "Is not this frightful? Oh! the miserable creature! She knows well 
 that these irritating doubts of mine constitute the strength of her position ! 
 she knows it well !" 
 
 " Could I believe myself ingenuously and stupidly loved, as I have been 
 by my wife and by others, indifference and disgust would follow ; yet, if I 
 supposed myself impudently trifled with, I would abandon her without hesi- 
 tation. Curse her ! Who can enlighten me ? What is your own opinion ? 
 And yet I do not ask ; it is I alone who can judge of it. If I am incapable 
 of judging, you will not succeed better than I can. 
 
 " Another thing which is painful to me is, the struggle of my pride and my 
 self-love. Mademoiselle de Maran avoids, with care, all which might, in the eyes 
 of the world, appear to be a culpable toleration on her part. I have re-sold 
 the house which I bought of M. de Rochegune, and I am now lodged tolera- 
 bly near the hotel de Maran, at Auteuil. I have also a lodging, so that my 
 apparent rights do not go beyond the limits of ordinary intimacy. As to Ur- 
 sula, in society, she conducts herself toward me precisely as she does to all 
 other men who pay her attention ; and many of my friends have still to ask, 
 whether I am the favoured one or not. 
 
 "At one moment, I feel indignant that a happiness which costs me so 
 dearly should remain concealed ; and I then feel young enough to think of 
 compromising Ursula; — at another, fearing to be betrayed, and to pass with 
 the world for a deceived simpleton, I contribute to distract public opinion, by 
 pointing out my rivals. 
 
 "Another of the tortures of this unworthy and consuming passion is, that 
 I cannot know with certainty whether Ursula is false to me ! I have had her 
 followed. Perhaps she perceived if, fur nothing was discovered ; and 
 therefore my doubts are not removed. 1 believe more in her address than 
 in her virtue. 
 
 " Another frightful consequence of such amours as this, is, that the deceit 
 — the baseness one has been guilty of, are so many ties the more to chain you 
 to your fatal idol ! Sometimes I feel indignant that Ursula does not give me 
 sufficient credit for the evil I have done to others — the griefs I have occasi- 
 oned—for the money which I have lavished away by handfuls — or the for- 
 tune of my wife, who lives alone and unhappy. But these reflections do not 
 move my pity ; I have enough of my own unhappiness, without thinking on 
 that of others ; and then it is a question of mere money, after all, and I 
 have never known the value of money. My only terror arises from the 
 thought of what I shall become when this fortune is wholly dissipated. Will 
 Ursula choose to accommodate herself to Mademoiselle de Maran's house, 
 when on a more limited scale ? — for the latter will never leave her ; she is 
 getting old, and she acknowledges the horror she has for solitude. Nothing 
 in the world oould now induce her to separate from Ursula. But me ! — me ! 
 — what will become of me ? 
 
 " To dispel these fatal thoughts, I will cite you an example of my per- 
 severance, and my care to anticipate the most frivolous caprices of this 
 woman. 
 
 " About two months ago, she was sullen toward me : never had I been so 
 unhappy, that is to say, more passionately loving. This was the cause : 
 Ursula having had a fancy to ask a comedy at the hotel de Maran, a theatre 
 had been constructed as if by enchantment : Ursula had given proof of in- 
 credible talent in the part of Célisnéne, in the Misanthrope ; and by one of 
 those contrasts which she delights in, she afterwards played one of Made- 
 moiselle Dejazet's parts in a very light and rather indecent farce. On wit- 
 nessing these performances one must have become madly in love with Ursula, 
 had he not been so already. 
 
 " Everybody was perfectly astounded ; the most prejudiced were obliged 
 to admit that, after Mademoiselle Mars, no one could have played Célisnené 
 with so much grace ; such delicacy, wit, and above all ; with such good ton, 
 as to the little farce, Ursula had, to say the least of it, rivalled Dejazet as to 
 artfulness and libertine effrontery ; in fact, her success in these two pieces, 
 so different in character, was positively amazing. 
 
THE LWTTEA. 
 
 319 
 
 ? Transported with love and pride, I went to add my praises to that of the 
 trowd which surrounded her ; can you imagine her reply ? She told me, 
 With hei usual insolence and petulance—' When a woman of the world un- 
 dertaker, to act a part in a play, her lover ought to be the last to congratulate 
 her for oeing so perfect an actress.' 
 
 " And then, for several days she was sullen, and would not speak to me. 
 
 During this time, she compromised herself rather seriously with Lord C 
 
 a v<>ry amiable and fashionable man. On that occasion, I was upon the point 
 of breaking off with Ursula. A caprice of this strange creature, by involving 
 me in one of those extravagant expenditures which she made her study to 
 incite, placed me once more under her yoke, more madly fond than ever. 
 
 "You must know, that I had caused to be constructed in the centre of the 
 garden attached to the hotel de Maran, a large Swiss chalet;* in the spring 
 it served as a ball-room. In the interior, its walls were lined with rustic fir, 
 ornamented with incrustations of foreign wood, of a pale green colour, re- 
 presenting garlands of vine leaves. 
 
 " I one day entered the chalet, gloomy and sorrowful. Ursula was there, 
 
 with Mademoiselle de Maran and Lord C . Interrupting the conversation 
 
 which was going on, Ursula pointed to the walls of the pavilion, and said : 
 
 " ' Dear me ! how beautiful it would be to have these walls all lined with 
 natural flowers? Were the interior of the chalet so tapestried, how adorable 
 it would be ! — what a pity that this should be only a fairy dream.' 
 
 " Lord C and Mademoiselle de Maran both affirmed, that such an idea 
 
 could not be realized. Ursula gave me one of those looks, the power of 
 which she so well understood, and went on talking on other matters. I com- 
 prehended her. 
 
 "The following day, the entire walls of the chalet had disappeared under 
 a complete tapestry of natural flowers ; lattices of willow, closely woven, had 
 been covered with jasmines, white pinks, and white roses, so closely pressed 
 together, and so systematically arranged, that this mass of flowers formed a 
 very even groundwork, upon which larger bouquets of red roses were regu- 
 larly distributed and attached by bows of sky-blue ribbons, such as are seen 
 in tapestry work. 
 
 " It is impossible to state to you the money, the cares, the exertions which 
 it cost me to collect, in twenty-four hours, this enormous quantity of flow- 
 ers ; for there was, perhaps, about one hundred feet of wainscoting to com- 
 pletely cover. 
 
 " Ursula deigned to show herself sensible to this attention ; she pardoned 
 me the torments she had made me suffer, and I was once more the most for- 
 tunate of men. 
 
 " Another time, one evening being in the country at Auteuil, the moon 
 shining most magnificently, we were talking of the overture to a new opera, 
 by Auber, then very much in vogue ; some persons praised its harmony as 
 being at once melodious and scientific. Ursula, who always takes pleasure 
 in defying me to anything, said, looking at me, ' What a pity that this de- 
 licious music cannot, with this gentle gale, reach us from Paris, murmuring 
 among these garden trees.' 
 
 " It was then ten o'clock. I left the company for a moment. I returned 
 and managed to detain Ursula and Mademoiselle de Maran till near midnight. 
 All of a sudden we heard this overture in the distance, played by a full or- 
 chestra, and reaching us, as Ursula had desired, upon the gentle gale, mur- 
 muring among the garden tree&. 
 
 " This may appear to you as marvellous. Nothing could be more simple, 
 Ursula had scarcely uttered her words, before I had dispatched two of my 
 servants to Paris ; they arrived there in twenty minutes. One of them, for 
 a considerable sum of money, prevailed upon the leader of the orchestra to 
 come, with all his band, to Auteuil ; the other busied himself in procuring 
 private carriages, and had them ready at the door of the theatre, with post- 
 horses, that he might rapidly convey the musicians and their instruments. 
 The opera had been sufficiently studied to enable them to play it without their 
 music books. The performance at the theatre was finished by eleven o'clock : 
 in one hour afterward, the whole orchestra was established at Auteuil, hidden 
 by a clump of trees ; and thus was realized Ursula's caprice. 
 
 " This time I received scarcely thanks. I had so habituated her to this 
 species of surprise, that she was satiated with the prodigies I effected by the 
 power of gold. 
 
 * A Swis cottage beautifully constructed of wood. 
 2 H 
 
350 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 M Exasperated by so much insolence, ingratitude and harshness, I ventured 
 to recriminate ; to speak of the sacrifices of all kinds I had made; of my 
 wife, whom I had abandoned ; of her fortune, which I had dissipated. Ur- 
 sula, assuming airs of icy haughtiness and crushing contempt, asked me what 
 I meant to say? whether I was a man of such bad taste, as to reproach her 
 with a bouquet or a serannde ?— making allusion to the tapestry of flowers, 
 and the invisible orchestra. As to my other sacrifices, she could not at all 
 comprehend them. Mademoiselle de Maran, tired of living alone, and see- 
 ing her isolated position, had proposed to her, Ursula, to come and live in 
 the hotel de Maran with her, and to assist her in doing the honours of the 
 house. This house was very delightful to her, no doubt ; thanks to the well 
 directed economy I had used in regulating the expenses of Mademoiselle de 
 Maran ; but as to herself, what personal obligation could she have incurred 
 toward me ? Had she not expressed to me her profound indignation, when, 
 upon one occasion, I had dared to offer her some jewelry ? 
 
 " All this was perfectly true. By one of those inexplicable contrasts, so 
 numerous in the character of Ursula, she would have blushed to receive a dia- 
 mond ; and yet she did not hesitate to do the honours of a house of which, 
 she knew I secretly supplied the enormous expenditure ; and she did not 
 hesitate, with a malignant joy, to throw me into the most extravagant, the 
 most useless prodigalities. 
 
 " In short, when I had become desperately furious at seeing myself thus 
 treated, and I reproached her with being my evil genius, Ursula laughed 
 heartily ; and replied, audaciously, ' I always told you to beware of me when- 
 ever I appeared to feel for you anything but indifference or disdain ; for that 
 I might, one day, take it into my head to avenge Matilda. Now, what I then 
 predicted to you has occurred: I avenge Matilda I? 
 
 ** The next day, a tender word from her effaced the recollection of her dis- 
 dain. 
 
 " In vain I strive to attribute my inconceivable conduct to one of those in- 
 fatuations of which we have seen such numerous examples ; in spite of myself, 
 I believe that it has been so ordered by fate. I am becoming superstitious — 
 I tell you that this woman is my fate ! 
 
 " There is something melancholy even in her joy ! something supernatural 
 in her fascination ! 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Maran sometimes says to me, 1 I have never been attached 
 to any one ; no one has been able to govern me ; and now, I cannot live 
 without this woman. I know that she is as malicious as a devil, but that is 
 no matter ; it seems to me that the fire of her large fclue eyes illuminates 
 everything around me.' Mademoiselle de Maran is right ; her eyes sparkle 
 with an extraordinary brilliancy ; one would say, that the light which shines 
 through them proceeds from some internal fire. Well, I must conclude , for 
 you arelaughing at me, and accuse me of believing in the devil. 
 
 " Adieu : my head is in a blaze : this retrospect of past years has on me 
 the effect of a powerful dream. 
 
 <e What think you of all this ? Answer me, counsel me, and pity me ! 
 
 G. de Lancry." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A MEETING. 
 
 When I had finished reading this letter, I hardly know which had the great- 
 est sway over my mind — indignation, or contempt and pity for M. de Lancry. 
 If I had preserved any sentiments, either of regret for what had passed, or of 
 hatred against my husband, I should either have been cruelly avenged, or 
 bitterly afflicted. 
 
 I could not, at all events, suppress a bitter smile, when I thought of the 
 sacrifices which my husband was continually making for a woman who treated 
 him with contempt ; while he had treated me with the utmost harshness, 
 when I asked him to move the kennel of his hounds, and to allow me a small 
 sum of money for a useful charity. 
 
 That, however, which struck me the most, in his letter, was the kind of 
 fright and superstitious weakness, which were discoverable in all the latter 
 lines. Bad dispositions — haughty spirits — are always wont to attribute their 
 excesses, or their crimes, to some fatality — to some supernatural cause- 
 rather than to the infirmity and perverseness of their own natures. 
 
A MEETING. 
 
 Moreover, this feature was worthy of especial observation. This man, so 
 brilliant at all previous times — so insolently happy, in his own conceit — so 
 scornfu\ of the tears which he made others shed — so coldly selfish — so blest 
 by his success with women — now showed himself, in the course of this 
 amour, as humble, as much mocked, and as ridiculous, as the tutor in a 
 farce ! this very man — young, handsome, rich, and witty ! In truth the pu- 
 nishment of Providence takes many forms, said I ; what will it take with 
 Ursula ? 
 
 I could no longer entertain a doubt, but that M. de Lancry was rushing, 
 headlong, into ruin. He now possessed only the price of the estates at Maran, 
 which I had secretly bought in. That portion of our inheritance from M. de 
 Mortagne, which had become our common property, was about likewise to be 
 swallowed up. Indifferent as I had been, to all the considerations of mere 
 money since the death of my child, I was yet cruelly wounded, when I thought 
 that my property was thus nourishing the extravagance of Mademoiselle de 
 Maran, and the mad caprices of my cousin. 
 
 Unluckily, my marriage contract had been so drawn up, that I could in no- 
 wise resist the absurd prodigality of my husband. My only procedure would 
 have been, to sue out a bill of separation ; — but for nothing in the world 
 would I have carried matters to that extremity, or submitted to have my 
 name mixed up with disclosures so revolting. 1 have always entertained a 
 deep sense of modesty, in my grief ; scarcely, in fact, had I confided mine to 
 Madame de Richeville. How, then, could I bear to make the public the con- 
 fidants of my misery ! I submitted, therefore, to endure that which 1 could 
 not alter. The moderation of all my tastes and habits, moreover, rendered 
 this sacrifice less painful than it would otherwise have been to me. 
 
 The promises of Madame de Richeville, had, in no respect, misled me. 
 Her cares, her friendship, and the good-natured attention of the persons 
 whom I saw with her so often, went far to efface the last remaining traces of 
 my old sadness. And in the end, I enjoyed a calm widely different from that 
 of annihilation — a repose which was not lethargy ; if it were not happiness, 
 it was at least, the utter absence of all suffering. 
 
 This state of transition was to me full of charms. It seemed to resemble 
 that state of sweet and pleasant torpor, or that vague and dreamlike sense 
 which succeeds so often to dangerous maladies. 
 
 A single proof, due to the merest accident convinced me that my cure was 
 perfect. Once, while I was driving in the carriage with Madame de Riche- 
 ville, toward the bois de Boulogne, I saw two women, accompanied by 
 several men, dart by us rapidly on horseback. They were Ursula and the 
 Princess de Ksernika, the Duke de Versac, M. de Lancry, Lord C, and 
 three others, with whose names I was not acquainted. 
 
 My cousin backed, with her customary grace and boldness, the little mare, 
 Stella, which had belonged to us. Our carriage was going at a foot's pace. 
 Ursula and my husband recognized me instantly, and my cousin, with rare 
 effrontery, pointed. out M. de Lancry to me, smiling insultingly as she did so. 
 My husband turned very red, and pretended not to see me. 
 
 The cavalcade swept by. Madame de Richeville watched me closely. My 
 heart throhbed painfully, but this impression rapidly passed away. As we 
 drove back to Paris, we saw Ursula with the Princess de Ksernika, and the 
 Duke de Versac, returning from the bois de Boulogne in a beautiful calèche 
 with four horses. The servants wore the livery of Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 M. de Lancry followed them in a tilbury. At this new trial, Madame de 
 Richeville again looked at me, but I only smiled. 
 
 " Come," she said : " 1 believe, now, you are completely cured." 
 
 It was, as well as I remember, on a Tuesday. I had taken a box at the 
 opera, for that evening, with Madame de Richeville ; and she had offered 
 seats to the Prince and Princess d'Hericourt. We had been there but a little 
 while, when, by a singular chance Ursula and Mademoiselle de Maran came 
 into a box on the same tier with ours. I had insisted that Madame de Riche- 
 ville, in spite of her refusals, should place herself in front with the Princess 
 d'Hericourt ; so that, being hidden in the shadow, I could observe the follow- 
 ing scene without being myself noticed. 
 
 My cousin, according to her wont, was dressed with the most perfect sim- 
 plicity. She wore a white dress ; a scarf of the thinnest gauze hung like a 
 snowy mist over her lovely shoulders, which, in the blaze of light, looked as 
 brilliant and as smooth as marble. Two cherry-coloured camélias were in- 
 twined gracefully in her suberb brown hair, which hung in tresses quite down 
 to her bosom, whereon reposed another bunch of flowers, similar to those in 
 
MATILDk. 
 
 her head-dress. Such was the whole of her attiie. I have never, at any 
 time, suffered myself to be blinded by jealousy. I thought Ursula prettier 
 than ever. Her features, and, indeed, her whole air and expression had as- 
 sumed a shadow of dignity, or I might .even say of haughtiness, which 
 seemed to compensate, in some degree, for the freedom of her glance, and 
 the licence of her speech ; for I am told, that with men, especially, she 
 adopted, at times, a boldness of speech that was almost incredible. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, who remained constant to her gray silk dress, to 
 her plait of black hair, and her cap adorned with marigolds, was greatly 
 changed, and grown very old. Her eyes alone appeared to me to have pre- 
 served all their serpent-like keenness, and gleamed fiercely from under their 
 thick gray eyebrows. 
 
 During the interval of the acts, Mademoiselle de Maran's box was con- 
 stantly filled with visitors of the very best and most elegant society in Paris. 
 I saw Ursula, therefore, in the very fullest tide of her triumph and success. 
 She had become — what she always boasted that she would be — the most fa- 
 shionable woman in Paris. She had gained her ends ; and for those ends, 
 she indeed seemed to have been born. The fire of her eyes, the grace and 
 animation of her gestures ; her fresh and girlish tones of sweet laughter, her 
 haughty air, altered at times to little flights of coquettish merriment — 
 all showing a long habit of seeking to please, and to be remarked by men. 
 
 Among the men, who visited Ursula, I saw M. Gaston de Senneville, the 
 very pea-blossom of the day, as Madame de Richeville, his aunt, called him. 
 My cousin seemed to receive him with particular distinction ; while another 
 visitor, of graver character— I believe it was the chargé d'affaires from 
 Saxony — was conversing with Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 Several times M. de Senneville took her opera-glass familiarly out of the 
 hand of Ursula ; spoke to her in a whisper, burst into fits of laughter at her 
 speeches, leaned over her to look at persons whom she pointed out to him, 
 and, in a word, affected that air of close intimacy, which young men are so 
 fond of adopting toward fashionable women. 
 
 In her turn, my cousin doubled her coquettish graces ; and wishing to let 
 him smell tke perfumes of the enormous bouquet which she carried in her 
 hand, leaned back toward him, turning her beautiful figure half-round, 
 while he seemed to inhale with ecstacy those charming odours. Although 
 this unusual preference on the part of Ursula was not, strictly speaking, in 
 good taste, I must admit that it would have been impossible for her to mix 
 with the action more charms, or more seductive fascination. 
 
 By chance, almost at the same moment, I cast my eyes toward a box 
 nearly opposite to that of Mademoiselle de Maran ; and then I beheld, 
 through the opened lattice, the pale and convulsed face of my husband. 
 Standing in the gallery without, he was unquestionably watching Ursula, 
 whose attitude and manner were singularly calculated to awaken his sus- 
 picion. 
 
 After a few moments, M. de Lancry disappeared, and came, in his turn, to 
 make his bow to Mademoiselle de Maran. Being much younger than the 
 Saxon chargé, M. de Senneville was obliged to give up his place to my hus- 
 band, which he did, not without snatching some flowers from Ursula's bou- 
 quet, and adorning his button-hole with them, smiling triumphantly as he 
 did so. M. de Lancry seemed to be in agony, as he exchanged a few words 
 with Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 After the departure of M. de Senneville, Ursula had taken up her opera- 
 glass abruptly, without saying one word to M. de Lancry, and continued to 
 gaze steadfastly over the whole house. Twice my husband spoke to her; 
 she pretended not to hear him, so that he was compelled to touch her arm 
 gently, to draw her attention. She shook hands with him indifferently, an- 
 swered without any interest, and began again to stare about her. M. de 
 Lancry could not restrain a gesture of impatient anger, and then began to 
 talk with Mademoiselle de Maran, and the Saxon charge. 
 
 In the morning, thanks to the rapidity with which Ursula had passed me, 
 I had scarcely remarked M. de Lancry. But I now looked more attentively 
 at his face, emaciated, harassed, bearing the deep imprint of the jealousies 
 and sorrows, which his letter has described. He could do longer have been 
 recognised, as in other days, for the light, brilliant man, who loved nothing 
 — gay and brilliant, because he was strong in his confidence of pleasing. 
 He was gloomy and restless, uneasy, yet submissive; because he now loved 
 deeply, and found himself the butt of that raillery which he formerly used 
 toward others. 
 
A MEETING. 
 
 359 
 
 When Ursula was tired of looking round the house, M. de Lancry again 
 epoke to her, but this time with a sort of sad timidity. I knew so well the 
 countenance of that woman, that I could read in her imperious bearing, and 
 in the smile of mockery which curled the corners of her lips, something that 
 told me she was answering with sarcastic wit, the indirect reproaches of my 
 husband. 
 
 At. length, M. de Versac entered the box ; the curtain rose, and this 
 scene, so painful to M. de Lancry, ceased with the first notes of the or- 
 chestra. 
 
 A violent sense of indignation passed through my heart, as I thought of 
 the hideous despair to which M. de Secherin was yielding— insensible to the 
 pious consolations of his mother, wearing his life away in solitude ; while his 
 wife, gay and happy, was abandoning herself to her taste for gallantry and 
 pleasure. 
 
 These observations I made, if I may so express it, concealed in the dark, 
 background of the box ; for Madame de Richeville and the Princess d'Heri- 
 court, easily divining the nature of my thoughts, had conversed almost in- 
 cessantly, in order that they might not interrupt me. 
 
 The prince had left the box, so that I could give myself up altogether to 
 my gloomy reflections. This evening was, though painful, far indeed from 
 being useless to me. It proved to me that I now entertained a sort of pity, 
 mingled with disdain, toward M. de Lancry, which would have moved me, 
 in the case of any stranger placed in a false and painful position. 
 
 By slow degrees, my thoughts resumed their tranquillity. The sufferings 
 of M. de Lancry reminded me of what I had suffered. I returned thanks to 
 Heaven, that it had relieved me from these terrible anxieties, even by dry- 
 ing up within me the very source of love — for I fancied that I could now find 
 a guarantee for my future happiness, in my very certainty that I should neve? 
 more feel that passion. 
 
 A few days after my arrival at Paris, M. de Rochegune had gone out of 
 town to one of his estates, whither some business had called him. He re- 
 turned in a short time after the meeting, I have described, with my cousin 
 at the Italian opera. 
 
 The memory of M. de Rochegune had remained in my mind, intimately 
 associated with that of M. de Mortagne. Deeply devoted to my interests, of 
 a grave character, and noted for his enlightened philanthropy, he was in the 
 habit of receiving so much general deference, that I had accustomed myself 
 to regard him as a man of ripe years ; for he possessed all the solid and fixed 
 qualities of such a one. 
 
 In the very outbreak of my afflictions, while the fascination of my hus- 
 band was yet strong upon me ; thinking that it would never be in my power 
 to marry M. de Rochegune, I had confessed to myself, almost with a sense of 
 shame, that I could never have fallen in love with him — so little could his 
 stern excellence bear away the palm from the seductive graces of M. de 
 Lancry. 
 
 Madame de Richeville, when she spoke to me sometimes of M. de Roche- 
 gune, had told me that, from the time of his return from the Levant, he had 
 gained by mingling with the world an air of steady firmness, in all respects 
 befiting the independence and nobleness of his character ; instead of the 
 cold reserve which had formerly obscured half his good qualities. Impatient, 
 therefore, to renew my acquaintance with M. de Rochegune, almost as much 
 from curiosity as from grateful regard, I was delighted when I heard of his 
 return to Paris. 
 
 One evening I 'went to Madame de Richeville's house, through a little 
 glass gallery, which I had caused to be built, in order to communicate with 
 her more readily. 
 
 I cannot explain why it is, but there are certainly some privileged drawing- 
 rooms, of which the arrangement and proportions seem to invite chattiness 
 and intimacy. That of Madame de Richeville, was one of this number. I 
 have passed, therein, so many pleasant evenings, that I cannot resist the 
 pleasure of drawing a slight sketch of it. The memory of beloved places 
 adds volumes to the truth of our recollections. 
 
 An antechamber, adorned with fine old pictures, gave access to the draw- 
 ing-room, in which Madame de Richeville sat continually. It was hung 
 with green damask, a material admirably suited to the purpose; with the 
 corrvjces, the casings of the doors, and the furniture carved in gilt wood, 
 work, after the best style of Louis XIV. 
 
 a h 3 
 
S54 
 
 MATILDA 
 
 In the chimney-corner was a large ottoman, which, on this evening, Ma- 
 dame de Richeville shared with the Prince d'Heric-ourt, a fine stately old 
 man, with hair as white as snow, and an expression full of worth, serenity 
 and calmness. On the other side of the fireplace sat the princess ; her pale 
 and sweet face, denoting at the same time dignity ami mildness of character. 
 She wore her own gray hair, curled under her cap with a sort of aged co- 
 quetry — if I may so express it ; and as she conversed with Madame de 
 Semur, she looked from time to time toward her husband, with a glance of 
 tender, satisfied affection. The sight of these two old persons, who had 
 passed, side by side, firmly and nobly through the most disastrous times, 
 supported by theii'mutual affection, and touching now upon the end of their 
 career — with heads erect, smiles on their lips, and thoughts turned to Heaven 
 — has ever seemed to me extremely touching. 
 
 Madame de Semur, sitting near the princess, presented in her person a 
 striking contrast to the aged lady. She was a woman of scarce forty years ; 
 the expression of whose features, noble at once and lively, seemed as it were 
 an enigma. She had the most strongly marked air of the world, combined 
 with the keenest vivacity— the most brilliant and ready wit. To conclude 
 the picture, Emma was sitting, at her tapestry work, near a tea-table placed 
 between the windows. 
 
 The whole scene must be lighted up, to convey a true impression, with se- 
 veral lamps of old Chinese porcelain ; the bright rays of which, partially 
 dimmed by shades, brought out in chiar oscuro, the gilding of the white 
 wood-work, the rich frames of the pictures, the bronze ornaments of the 
 furniture, the paintings on the large Sevres vases, and the gay colours of 
 the flowers which they contained. The merry fire-light must be poured in 
 dancing gleams over the soft purple carpets — the whole atmosphere of the 
 warm and comfortable drawing-room must be perfumed slightly by the 
 fragrance of Essence de Bouquet — an English odour, of which Madame de 
 Richeville was passionately fond, and which to this hour I can never smell, 
 without the memories of those long-gone days starting up instantly before 
 me : — for, at all times, certain perfumes and certain melodies, have a strange 
 power of quickening my recollections. With all these accessories, a clear 
 idea may be formed of that delightful asylum, consecrated ever to the pro- 
 longed and pleasant conversation of friendship the most intimate and well 
 chosen. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE NARRATIVE. 
 
 When I entered the drawing-room I have described, Emma rose to offer me 
 what she called my seat — it was a little low arm-chair, which the dear child 
 had observed that I preferred. I kissed her forehead, as if to thank hefr for 
 this act of forethought, and respectfully pressed the hand of the Prince 
 d'Hericourt. 
 
 " What a pity it is you have come in so late, my dear Matilda," said Ma- 
 dame de Richeville ; " the prince has been relating to us the chivalric deeds 
 of one of our friends, which has interested us very deeply." 
 
 " Whose deeds were they ?" said I. 
 
 " M. de Rochegune's," replied Madame de Semur; "he is an absolute 
 Cid. He deserves an especial place in the modern library of romance." 
 
 " Well ! well !" said the prince, smiling good-naturedly, " at the risk of 
 passing for an old gossip, I will tell the story of my Cid over again, for Ma- 
 dame de Lancry. I am sure she will be pleased with it." 
 
 " I shall also," replied Madame de Semur. " Just now I was affected in 
 spite of myself ; but this time I will be on my guard and make fun of your 
 hero, for there is nothing in the world so disagreeable as to have to admire 
 one person so much." 
 
 " Do you hear her ?" said Madame de Richeville, lauphing: " and in a 
 moment she will deny that she dotes on paradox." 
 
 " That is very plain, I am sure," answered Madame de Semur ; " when 
 we come to ourselves from these fits of enthusiasm, we feel just like citizens' 
 wives, coming back from court. So, prince, pray begin your story of this 
 fine action, that I may be able to laugh at it'at my leisure." 
 
 " I unite," said I, "with Madame de Semur, in praying you to repeat 
 this story— very sure that this complaisance will cost you nothing. Men, 
 
THE NARRATIVE. 
 
 famous for success with the ladies, always like, people say, to talk of deeds 
 of gallantry." 
 
 "Oh! I understand you," returned the prince, smiling ; " I understand 
 you very well — you are paying me these pretty compliments to hinder me 
 from saying what I think about you. But let me find a good chance, and I 
 will be inexorable. You may flatter my self-love, as much as you please, 
 but I will not spare your modesty. But now, as you wish it, I will repeat 
 the story I was telling these ladies." 
 
 "You know, I presume," continued the prince, "that M. de Rochegune 
 fought so gallantly in the cause of the Greeks, that he was appointed colonel 
 of one of their three regiments of cavalry — which, however, he had raised 
 and equipped at his own expense ; and to which, with affecting memory of 
 his old friendship, he has given the uniform of the regiment of hussars, to 
 which M. de Mortagne belonged, under the empire. That uniform is, I 
 believe, white and gold, with blue facings. If I dwell loner upon these de- 
 tails, it is to prepare you for another proof of recollection, as affecting as this, 
 united to a bearing so truly great and noble,, that Madame de Semur, too, 
 will be obliged to admire it, and that without regret." 
 
 " We shall see ! we shall see ! for I shall listen to you, prince, with all 
 sorts of startling suspicions. I give you fair notice. We judge the pleader 
 by the cause he advocates." 
 
 " Let me try, then, to gain mine," said the prince, laughing as he went 
 on: "The independence of Greece acknowledged and confirmed, de 
 Rochegune travelled into Russia, at the time when that power was engaged 
 in war with the Circassians. Curious to witness these operations, and ad- 
 mirably well received by the emperor, he served one campaign as a spectator, 
 or volunteer rather, in the Caucasus. Grievously wounded in a charge of 
 cavalry, in which he had greatly distinguished himself, his horse was killed 
 under him. Fainting from loss of blood, he was unable to extricate himself, 
 and was left senseless on tbewfield of battle. When he recovered his senses, 
 it was a moment of terror; — he was alone, in the midst of a vast and wild 
 steppe, which the moon scarcely lighted with her pale rays. The snow was 
 falling slowly, and he was himself almost buried under its frozen masses, 
 when he revived from his swoon." 
 
 " It was indeed horrible!" said Madame de Richeville ; "that desert, 
 covered with snow, had the effect upon his mind of an enormous winding- 
 sheet. M. de Rochegune told me that such was his first awakening thought ; 
 — for he told me the manner of his wound, although he concealed from me 
 all that followed of this romantic adventure." 
 
 "I believe that well," said the princess; "it is too creditable to him, 
 that he should think of relating it." 
 
 " I only learned it, myself, yesterday," said the prince, " from an aid-de- 
 camp of the emperor, who served in that campaign with M. de Rochegune ; 
 and from him it is that I learned all the particulars. Our friend was alone, 
 at night, in the wildest solitude, paralyzed by cold and the pain of his 
 wounds, almost without strength to cast aside the snow which was gradually 
 covering him. Suddenly, he heard the dull trampling of a troop of horse. 
 He knew not whether they were friends or foes ; but, preferring death to so 
 terrible a position, he called, as loudly as he could, to some scattered horse- 
 men of the vanguard, who were fortunately passing near him. They heard 
 him — drew near — and he was saved. These horse belonged to a body of 
 Don Cossacks, whom the movements of the war had placed for the moment 
 in the rear guard of the army. These irregular Cossacks, as wild as ihe 
 steeds which carried them, implicitly obeyed the old hetman who led them. 
 Rochegune was led to the chief of the horde, who took him up behind him, 
 on his horse, after he had temporarily dressed his wounds. This hetman, 
 as the aid-de-camp informed me, was a sort of patriarchal warrior, whose 
 countenance and carriage were both worthy of the heroes of antiquity. Ro- 
 chegune owed him his life. From that day forth he contracted a friendship 
 for him, as though they had been brothers in arms. He left the staff of the 
 army, in which he would have endured fewer privations, and followed thence- 
 forth the adventurous and painful life of the hetman's cavalry, who served as 
 the skirmishers and forlorn hope of the army ; who never slept under tents, 
 but on the bare ground, and sometimes on the snow itself. This is not all, 
 however ; they run the more danger, that they, like the Tartars against 
 whom they are fighting, neither give nor take quarter — massacring, without 
 mercy, old men, women,. and children." 
 
 " Pardon, prince, if I interrupt you," said Madame de Semur, smiling ; 
 
MA/ILDA. 
 
 '* but I was sure, that in listening to the gallant deeds of your protégé the 
 
 second time over, I should find something less worthy of my admiration. 
 Just think one moment : for the love of adventure, he allies himself to a 
 band of robbers and cut-throats ; and, from gratitude, remains a witness of 
 their atrocities." 
 
 The prince laughed, and replied, "It is precisely, madam, by means of 
 these atrocities which M. de Rochegune witnessed, that I expect to arouse 
 your sympathies in his behalf." 
 
 " How can that be?" 
 
 " It is, I admit, something wonderful." 
 
 " Come, prince, go on with your story ; for we know no more about it 
 than Madame de Lancry, since it was just here that you broke off before." 
 
 The prince continued: "M. de Rochegune, perfectly determined never to 
 leave the hetman, until such a time as he should be able to repay him by a 
 service equal to that which be had received, was not obliged to wait long for 
 an opportunity. I forgot to say that the hetman had two sons, who served 
 as privates in his troop, whom he loved as a wolf loves its whelps ; whom he 
 plunged, without a thought, into the wildest perils, and whom — the action 
 ended — he clasped to his bosom with some such show of tenderness as would 
 beseem a wild beast. The natural intrepidity of de Rochegune, and the af- 
 fection of the hetman, whose perils and privations he shared to the utmost, 
 gained him great influence over the savage hordes. A reconnoisance of out- 
 posts, composed of a few horse, among whom were the hetman's sons, fell 
 into an ambuscade, posted on the bank of a torrent ; almost all the Cossacks 
 were massacred, and the waters bore down to the bet man's camp those of 
 the bodies that were not shattered against the rocks." 
 
 "Ah ! that is horrible !" cried Madame de Semur : " one would suppose 
 it a page from some modern romance — the first attempt of some young girl, 
 blushing at her own " 
 
 "Listen to the conclusion," said the prince. "When he heard of this 
 calamity, the old hetman remained astounded — almost insensible. At this 
 moment, an aid-de-camp of the field-marshal — the officer of whom I have 
 spoken to you — came up with orders to the hetman, to move, with his ca- 
 valry, upon a point which he designated. The old hetman replied mecha- 
 nically, with a mere motion of his hand ; but, full of confidence in the old 
 soldier, and in haste to carry other orders, the aid-de-camp never dreamed 
 that it would be necessary to look to the execution of the manœuvre just 
 ordered. He gallopped off to another post. De Rochegune, though young, 
 thoroughly understands the art of war. Perceiving the importance of the 
 movement, which should have been executed with the speed of lightning, he 
 was astonished at the immoveable aspect of the hetman. He spoke to him 
 — reminded him of the orders he had received — but coiild not elicit one word 
 from him. Every moment of delay compromised the safety of the army, 
 and endangered the life of the hetman — for his neglect of orders deserved 
 death. To waken him from the stupor into which be had fallen, on hearing 
 of his sons' massacre, de Rochegune took a bold step : he cried to the het- 
 man — ' To horse ! to horse!' The old man shook his head without answer- 
 ing. ' It is to the rescue of your sons !' exclaimed our friend. A gleam 
 shot from the old man's eye: 'My sons!' he cried, 'where are they?' 
 ' Follow me; you shall see them,' returned de Rochegune, springing upon 
 his horse, and leading toward the point designated by the aid-de-camp. 
 * My sons ! my sons!' shouted the aged chief, mounting and putting his 
 horse to its speed to overtake de Rochegune, who was outstripping him. 
 The Cossacks hastily follow on their chief's track — the mass of cavalry 
 wavers, but de Rochegune leads and directs it, the old hetman at his heels, 
 exclaiming still, My sons ! my sons!' De Rochegune replied, 'Follow! 
 ^ollow me /' The enemy's lines are in view — ' Thy sons are there ! cried de 
 Rochegune, pointing the hostile ranks out to the hetman. The old man ut- 
 tered a wild cry of fury, and burst upon the enemy. It was a frightful hand- 
 to-hand encounter ; but once in the middle of the fire, the old warrior re- 
 gained all his composure. De Rochegune kept near him in the fight — told 
 him, in two words, what had happened. The old man, once himself again, 
 fought with his wonted bravery. By a strange chance, while charging a 
 mass of the Circassian horsemen, who were retreating slowly, de Rochegune 
 broke them, and forced them to abandon a baggage-horse, on which were 
 two fettered prisoners " 
 
 " The sons of the old hetman," exclaimed Madame de Richeville ; ** Hea- 
 ven ! what a happy chance 1" 
 
AURRATIVE. 
 
 557 
 
 " Exactly so, madam," rep'ned the prince ; " they were riddled with wounds 
 — the enemy had spared them only, of all who had fallen within the ambus- 
 cade, and was keeping them as hostages. You can imagine de Rochegunc'a 
 joy, as he led the sons to their father. He, at the sight, folded his arms upon 
 his breast, bent his knee to the earth, and kissed de Rochegune's hand. To 
 understand the full signification of that act of homage, you must know that 
 it is to an emperor, only, the chief of the hordes pay the like ; and, moreover, 
 among barbarous tribes, it is a thing unheard of for an old man to kneel to a 
 young one." 
 
 " ' J saved your life /' — said the old man — ' you have preserved my honour ! 
 — I (here/ore ought to sane your life again to be quits with you. But in 
 addition to this, you have given me back my sons— how shall I ever repay you 
 that obligation V The following are the very words of our friend, as the 
 aid-de-camp related them to me, who had been sent to compliment the het- 
 man, on the brilliant charge of his Cossacks — 4 Thou, and thy sons,' replied 
 de Rochegune, ' swear to me to spare henceforth, for ever, all women, chil- 
 dren, and old men, who may fall into your hands — saying to them — live, in 
 the name of ' " but here the prince broke off abruptly. 
 
 ". In the name of whom ?" we all cried at once. 
 
 The prince smiled, as he answered, " That is not my secret. It is enough 
 to know that the hetmau and his children took that oath — and kept it. The 
 name which de Rochegune had pronounced to them was so far from being 
 forgotten by the horde — as the Russian officer told me, who served to the 
 end of that campaign — that even last year, when the war was ended, it was 
 as sacred to the hetman, as the oath which our gallant and generous country- 
 man-imposed upon him." 
 
 " This is, indeed, worthy," said Madame de Semur, "of the high days of 
 chivalry— and to complete the romance — the name is doubtless, that of 
 some proud beauty, who — " 
 
 " Permit me to interrupt you," said the prince, with a serious air, in order 
 to assure you that this name deserved — and ever will deserve, to be pro- 
 nounced with as much interest as respect. I surrender our knight errant to 
 your raillery — but I must sue for mercy in behalf of this mysterious name, 
 which you know — " 
 
 " Which I know ?" exclaimed Madame de Semur. 
 
 "Yes, madam ; and which you have spoken twenty times ; for it is that of 
 a person whom you love — in a word, it is a name admirably suited in all re- 
 spects to be the symbol of a generous action, and de Rochegune could not 
 have paid a worthier homage to her who bears it." 
 
 "Ah! prince, this is very cruel of you," said Madame de Richeville ; 
 "come, tell us." 
 
 " It is impossible, madam. Yourself even, will approve of my silence, when 
 you shall hear it. I would not rob de Rochegune of the pleasure of telling it 
 to you in person." 
 
 '•But before that time comes, we shall die of curiosity," said Madame de 
 Semur — "come, prince, let yourself be coaxed to our side. To determine 
 you, I will admit that I think the conduct of M. de Rochegune, admirable. 
 His method of recalling the hetman to his senses by the exclamation — ' Fol- 
 low me — I know where are your sons' — could have been conceived only by 
 a noble spirit, itself capable of feeling with how loud a voice deep affections 
 can at times speak to the human heart." 
 
 "And his idea of availing himself of the gratitude which he had aroused, to 
 force the claims of mercy upon those barbarians," said the Princess d'Heri- 
 court — "was not this fine?" 
 
 "Very fine, and very noble," the prince answered ; "and it will appear, 
 if not finer, at least more touching, when you shall know the name " 
 
 " Ah ! prince, how cruel you are !" said Madame de Semur : " we admire 
 it enough without this excitment of suspense ; can nothing move you ?" 
 
 " Hold ! madam," said the prince, " I hear a carriage entering the court- 
 yard ; perhaps chance sends to my assistance the hero of my tale— apply 
 to him." 
 
 " Blessed be luck ! if it is, indeed, M. de Rochegune," cried Madame de 
 Semur ; " for. it goes so constantly amiss, that, for once, at least, it ought 
 
 At these words, her speech was cut short by the entrance of M. de Roche- 
 gune himself. The suns of the Levant had so bronzed his face, and the 
 expression of his features was so much altered, that I should not have recog- 
 ni*ed him. The dark hue of his complexion made his large gray eyes seem 
 
am 
 
 MATILDA* 
 
 to shoot a more dazzling spark from under his black eyebrows. His facs, 
 shaved close, with the exception of a pair of dark mustaches, which relieved 
 the bright red of his lips, and the perfect whiteness of his teeth, gave him a 
 marked eastern aspect. His strongly-marked features could not, however, 
 have been easily forgotten. Hia tall and well-proportioned figure ; his dark 
 garments ; the air of chivalry and worth with which he bore, erect and 
 haughty, his sun-burned brow ; and his dark mustaches, gave him the air of 
 one of the proud and valiant cavaliers painted by Van Dyck or Velasquez. 
 His firm bearing had no resemblance to the impudence of braggarts, but seem- 
 ed to tell of a calm, bold character, at once intelligent and energetical; while, 
 in the curl of his lips — slighfly curved — it might be seen that bitter sarcasm 
 could, sometimes replace the generous kindness of his smile. 
 
 Delighted by the return of M. de Rochegune, I told him all my feelings, 
 very frankly, and he seemed to partake in them ; but, suddenly, while we 
 were talking of the past, a shade of grief passed over his bold features. I 
 easily conjectured that a thought of M. de Mortagne had crossed him; but 
 he considered that neither the time, nor the place, were suited to the mention 
 of that cherished friend. 
 
 " Do you know," said Madame Richeville to him, "that you are, at least, 
 a very finished dissembler?" 
 
 " How so, duchess ?" 
 
 " Certainly you are. You told me how you were wounded — how near you 
 were to perishing in the snow ; how you were saved — but there you stopped — 
 you never told me a word of a certain old hetman." 
 
 " Never a word of the inestimable service you rendered him in the preser- 
 vation of his honour," said Madame de Semur. 
 
 " In restoring his two sons to him," added the princess. 
 
 " And in making him, and his two sons, swear never again to murder wo- 
 men, children, or old people," said Madame de Semur ; " but to set them at 
 liberty, in the name of " 
 
 "Now comes the mystery," said Madame de Richeville; "this cruel _ 
 prince will not tell us, in whose name you succeeded in softening the ferocity 
 of those barbarians." 
 
 All these reproaches had followed, one so quickly on the others, that M. de 
 Rochegune had not been able to reply. But, when he did so, without affect- 
 ing any awkward, false modesty, he said, plainly and frankly — 
 
 " All that is quite true. But allow me, prince, to ask you, how you heard 
 of it ?" 
 
 " Do not tell him, until he has divulged to us the mysterious name," cried 
 Madame de Richeville. 
 
 "See how he blushes," added Madame de Semur. 
 
 M. de Rochegune did indeed blush deeply : but instead of defending him- 
 self, he avowed it. 
 
 " Yes :" he said, smiling, " Ido blush, because I cannot hinder myself from 
 blushing with gratitude, when I hear that name mentioned, which has al- 
 ways brought me bliss ; which has been my guide — my protector — and my 
 counsellor, in all the gravest circumstances of my life. Since I first pro- 
 nounced that name, it has become to me a talisman : I worship it with 
 the blindest idolatry. This morning, even, they tell me that I made a good 
 speech in the Chamber of Peers. Well ! it is because I mentally invoked 
 that name. I was sure of it." 
 
 " But," said Madame de Richeville, "yet the more earnestly, on account 
 of all these miracles, are we dying to hear this name," 
 
 " What you have now said," added Madame de Semur, "renders us but 
 the more impatient." 
 
 "Will you speak!" cried Madame de Ricneville. "First of all, we shall 
 torment ourselves to death, until this mystery is cleared up. And then the 
 prince has told us, that we knew, all of us, the owner of the name — that we 
 loved her. Come now, tell us, or we shall lose our wits." 
 
 " I should be deeply grieved, indeed, madam," said M. de Rochegune, 
 "that you should imagine me afraid to speak, and even repeat 'that name. 
 The sentiment which dictated it, is too honourable, that I should not boast 
 myself of it — always — everywhere — and aloud! But I am sure the prince 
 thinks with me at this moment, I must not gratify your curiosity. If he is 
 against me, I give up." 
 
 " I should have been glad if you had given me leave to speak," said the 
 prince, smiling ; " then I should have revenged myself on " 
 
THE NAKRATIVE. 
 
 359 
 
 "Ay I on whom?" cried Madame de Semur, gaily, as she saw that the 
 prince hesitated. 
 
 "On you, madam," he answered, gaily, " by forcing you to admire, yet 
 more, that which you only praised with regret. But I am high-minded. I 
 agree with M. de Rochegune." 
 
 " Oh ! this is frightful ; you see they have a mutual understanding," said 
 Madame de Richeville. " Well then, we must wait for your good pleasure ; 
 but you shall not get off so without gratifying our curiosity, de Rochegune. 
 You must gratify it in a different manner." 
 
 " I am at your orders, madam." 
 
 " Well then, if you are at my orders, you shall make me, for a keepsake, 
 a sketch of the old hetman, in Emma's album." 
 
 Emma, before even M. de Rochegune had replied, rose joyously from her 
 seat, her cheeks kindling with a delicate blush, and drew near to a table on 
 which lay all the materials for water-colour drawing. 
 
 " And to punish him for his discretion, he shall sing us his Albanian song 
 of ' the swallows,' " added the princess. 
 
 " Emma will accompany him," said the duchess, " and Madame de Lancry 
 will be charmed to hear him." 
 
 Emma went to open the piano with quick and joyful eagerness. 
 
 " Make haste, thou mysterious man," said Madame de Richeville ; " let 
 us make acquaintance with the face of your hetman, whom I love without 
 knowing him." 
 
 " And sing us your song of ' the swallows,' which I love, because I do know 
 it;" put in Madame de Richeville. 4 
 
 " With which shall he begin, dear princess?" asked Madame de Richeville. 
 
 " With the song — because we hear it, long after he has ceased to sing : so 
 does its simple and affecting melody ring through the depths of the heart." 
 
 Emma sat down to the piano ; and M. de Rochegune began to sing — it 
 was an Albanian air, which he had noted down himself, and the words of 
 which he had translated; — nothing can be imagined sweeter or more plain- 
 tive than that wild lay. I had never before heard M. de Rochegune's voice : 
 it was at once powerful and thrilling. 
 
 The song pleased me so much, that I asked him to sing it over again. 
 Without waiting to be pressed, he did so, with the best grace in the world — 
 Emma accompanied him marvellously well. 
 
 The first part of his task so successfully accomplished, M. de Rochegune 
 now applied himself to the second ; and, in half an hour, had produced a 
 masterly sketch in Sepia, of the hetman of the Cossacks, whose rude face was 
 enhanced by a dress singularly picturesque. 
 
 I was, however, less astonished by the remarkable talents of M. de Roche- 
 gune — although I knew not before that he possessed them-^than by the 
 graceful ease with which he accommodated himself to the wishes of the 
 company. 
 
 I thought it at once most agreeable and most strange, that this intrepid 
 soldier, this eloquent orator, this evangelical Christian — for he most reli- 
 giously adhered to his philantrophical institutions on his estate — should have 
 found time to unite accomplishments so pleasing, to qualities so rare and 
 eminent. 
 
 It has always seemed to me, moreover, that the world is greatly indebted to 
 men, who, mighty in their intelligence, and strong in their valour, condescend 
 to make themselves simply and generally amiable. 
 
 I was* not, moreover, the only one who felt thus ; for, although M. de 
 Rochegune constantly and ineffectually endeavoured to bring other persons 
 into notice ; it was clear, from a thousand trivial shades, from a thousand no- 
 things, that he was valued by the world for his superiority, just in proportion 
 as he strove to make every one forget it. 
 
 I shall always remember that evening, so pleasantly passed in converse on 
 the arts, on poetry, on journeys, and so soon ended — thanks to the familiarity 
 of that intercourse, which substituted plain good humour to ambition, and a 
 desire of pleasing, to vain-glorious rivalry. 
 
 While Madame de Richeville was wishing the Princess d'Hericourt good 
 evening, M. de Rochegune asked me, if I was ever at home in the morning, 
 and if I would do him the favour of admitting him. 
 
 " Although the favour, which you ask at my hands, is so truly trifling, I 
 have a great mind to insist on a condition before granting it. I am much 
 more obstinate than Madame de Richeville ; and should be very sorry to 
 wait until to-morrow, before hearing the mysterious name, to honour which 
 you perform deeds so noble." 
 
860 
 
 MATILDA 
 
 " And I, madam, could not tell it, even in the presence of your best 
 friends ; not on account of them — for they, I doubt not, would have applauded- 
 me ; but on account of you." 
 
 " Of me 1 and wherefore ?" 
 
 " Because," replied M. de Rochegune, speaking with the most natural air 
 in the world, and as if he had been talking of the simplest matter — " Because 
 that name was yours — because that name was Matilda." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 Still under the influence of the disclosures which M. de Rochegune had 
 made me so suddenly, I returned to my own house, uneasy and annoyed ; 
 — feeling as if he had made me an abrupt declaration of his love. 
 
 My embarrassment was not caused by the whims of a false prudishness, 
 but by the dread of seeing my future intercourse with M. de Rochegune 
 stripped of its loyal and fraternal character. Instead of giving me pleasure, 
 under such circumstances, it would have been formal and annoying to me ; 
 from the cold air of reserve which it would have forced him to assume. 
 
 Nevertheless, after some reflection, I reassured myself, as I recalled to mind 
 the words of the venerable Prince d'Hericourt. Well knowing the reference 
 to me, he had concealed my name, from respect to my modesty ; but, at the 
 same time, he had praised so openly M. de Rochegune's conduct- in the 
 matter, and he, too, had spoken with so much ease and frankness, that my 
 scruples were ere long appeased. 
 
 Moreover I could not bring myself to believe that M. de Rochegune would 
 treat me lightly ; — our relations had, more than once, assumed a character of 
 extreme delicacy, and never had such an idea struck me. He had rendered 
 me two very important services. First, in the early days of my marriage ; 
 when he came to inform me of the infamous calumnies which M. Lugarto 
 was circulating, at my expense, and endeavouring to accredit by his public 
 attentions to me: secondly, in aiding M. de Mortagne to rescue me from the 
 infamous stratagem, by which that base man had lured me into danger. 
 
 On both these occasions, M. de Rochegune had borne himself with the 
 most delicate reserve. Never had he so much as alluded to the hope he once 
 entertained, of winning my heart, or of the sentiments which he had felt for 
 me. 
 
 A short time after the fatal night spent in the house of M. Lugarto, he had 
 set out for Greece ; and after that, for Russia. During the murderous cam- 
 paign in which he was engaged, he had maintained a sort of worship of my 
 name — of my memory — scarce knowing whether he should ever again behold 
 me. Could I, then, be offended at this proof of his attachment — fantastical 
 as it was, and, at the same time, high and noble ? 
 
 It was with the greater ease, too, that I forgave M. de Rochegune this 
 love — of which I had, for an instant only, suspected him — because I believed 
 myself incapable of any tender sentiment toward him. I had, of late, dis- 
 covered his possession of most agreeable accomplishments. I was sincerely 
 grateful tor all the services which he had rendered me: but still I could not 
 but feel the enormous difference between the affectionate friendship I bore 
 him, and the love I had formerly experienced for M. de Lancry. 
 
 Accustomed, as I was, ever to analyze my most transient impressions, I 
 Asked myself if it was not painful to me, at twenty years of age. to renounce 
 all thought of loving— not more from the solidity of my feelings, than from 
 the impotence of my dead heart. But on the contrary, I thought I could 
 discover, in that cold impuisance, the guaranties of my future happiness. 
 
 Since my return to Paris, I had been completely happy. The limited and 
 choice society, in which I found myself placed, loaded me with attentions, and 
 with kindness. I had Madame de Richeville, I had Emma, whom to love. 
 I had, therefore, in these, sufficient occuptation for my heart, that I should 
 not regret the absence of such lively sentiments. 
 
 I have forgot to say that, remaining at home as I did every morning, I was 
 often in the habit of receiving Madame de Richeville's friends, who had re- 
 cently become, mine also ; so iAuc Un- on ssion of M. de Rochegune was not 
 an accidental circumstanr 
 
 I waited for him impatiently ; but he did not c ..me until a day had inter- 
 
AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 381 
 
 vened from that on which I saw him for the first time after his return. I 
 was alone when he came ; he put out his hand and said, very sadly—" I was 
 unable to talk with you, the day before yesterday, of our unfortunate friend, 
 although we were in the house of one of those persons, who loved him the 
 best in the world. But you must have perceived, as I did, that it was no 
 time to speak of that sad event. Ah ! if you only knew what I have lost in 
 him !" 
 
 And a tear, which he did not offer to conceal, rolled down his cheek as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " I, too, have lamented— still lament him— Oh! how bitterly !" replied I, 
 painfully moved, " when I think that, even dying, his last thought was of me ! 
 Alas ! it was a frightful death — a fearful vengeance !" 
 
 M . de Rochegune knit his brow sternly as he answered, and that gloomily, 
 " I have employed all means, in vain, to learn where was that wretch, Lu- 
 garto, at the time ; and to find out the instruments of his cowardly assassi- 
 nation. For, like Madame de Richeville, I too am convinced on the subject 
 of this duel, and its frightful issue. No one here has been able to give me 
 any information on the matter. I have heard merely, that he was some- 
 where in America, or the Brazils." 
 
 I then told M. de Rochegune of the strange incident, which had put me in 
 possession of Monsieur de Lancry's letters to some unknown personage. 
 
 The fact seemed to strike him ; and he said, that he would take measures 
 to discover, if possible, whether Lugarto was now actually in Paris. 
 
 " But do you think that he would ever dare to return to Paris ?" 
 
 " I fear it. He is too cowardly to fight me ; and I confess, that I should 
 shrink from the performance of the terrible threat which M. de Mortagne 
 made him." 
 
 " He would have shrunk from such an extremity himself," said I. 
 
 " I do not know — he had a character of iron. But what will increase Lu- 
 garto's audacity is, that there is no proof of his crimes. He might throw 
 himself on the protection of the law, and defy you to the scandal of bringing 
 an action againt him for abduction." 
 
 " Never would I consent to it," cned I : "it would be necessary to 
 awaken too many questions too disgraceful to the name I bear. This sad 
 past is now as a painful dream to me— all that it recalls to my mind 
 alarms me." 
 
 " You are right. Leave to us the care of watching over you — forget the 
 past. Oh ! we shall soon be able to chase its recollections from you by our 
 cares, our affection. Mortagne has left you as a legacy to Madame de 
 Richeville, to me, to all those, in a word, who have souls capable of gene- 
 rous feeling. We will try to be to you what he was while upon earth — to 
 prove to you, that there are yet some good hearts in the world. Poor lady ! 
 you have so sadly suffered — you have met so few beings but the base and 
 sordid, that you can hardly wish for'more, I fancy, than to believe us, and 
 to let us love you — is it not so, indeed ?" 
 
 I cannot express the frank and affecting cordiality with which M. de 
 Rochegune uttered these last words, 
 
 " How good you are," replied I ; " how much gratitude do I not already 
 owe you ! Have you not ever executed the promises which you made to M. 
 de Montagne ? do you not remember, some three years ago?" 
 
 " Oh ! do not talk, I entreat you, of what you owe to me ; for do not I 
 owe to you many sweet and delightful thoughts?" 
 
 I could not hinder a slight expression of embarrassment from appear- 
 ing in my features. M. de Rochegune perceived it, and said to me with a 
 serious smile — 
 
 " Hold ! an illustration will make my meaning plain to you. I should be 
 hurt, if you were to take this for gallantry. You love good pictures, do you 
 not ? beautiful statues and fine music ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " You can understand persons passing whole hours in the contemplation 
 of the Transfiguration, the Penseroso, or the Virgin and her Child?"' 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 " You comprehend how we can listen with rapture, nay, with gratitudv. 
 to Mozart, Gluck, or Beethoven ? You must confess, in short, must you n*.. 
 that we may reasonably ask the most divine enjoyments, the highest inspira 
 tions, from the master-pieces of the arts?" 
 
 " Yes ; but what is all this to the purpose ?" 
 
 " W^ll : as for me, I have asked all this divine enjoyment, all this high 
 V 2 1 
 
362 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 inspiration, from an adorable master-piece of nature's handiwork froii an 
 ideal creation of benevolence, of grace and of nobleness. I asked and ob- 
 tained them. The last wish of my father, the desire of M. de Mortagne, my 
 respectful sympathy with your sorrows, have all contributed to increase the 
 devoted worship which I have consecrated to you. You have become, as it 
 were, an intermediate being between humanity and divinity. Ever since I 
 have known you, it is to you that I ascribe all my best instincts ; for it is 
 from you that they come. The blending of your name, of your memory, 
 with a few generous actions was not intended as a flattery, offered, but a 
 debt paid to you." 
 
 "You have, however, other recoilectiens besides that to inspire you," 
 said I, hoping to change the tone of this conversation, which was beginning 
 to embarrass me ; " the admirable man, who brought you up to sentiments 
 so noble." 
 
 " My father ? — he had foreseen, early, what you would be. He had hoped 
 that we should one day be united," answered M. de Rochegune, gravely. 
 " To think of him, is to think of you. His memory, august and holy, 
 shields the attachment which I feei for you. Therefore, be reassured — above 
 all, think not that I am uttering words of gallantry to you — that Î am 
 dreaming of what people vulgarly call making love to you. Making love to 
 you, is what no one does to women such as you. As soon as we know such 
 women, we do love them — love them as they ought to be loved — that is what 
 I have done for you." 
 
 " Monsieur de Rochegune " 
 
 "This confession ought not to affront you — ought not even to surprise 
 
 you " 
 
 "But yet " 
 
 " Hear me. As soon as you shall know what I would be to you — what I 
 would that you should be to me, you will thank me for my confession." 
 
 "Indeed, monsieur, I " I answered, unable to help smiliDg at his 
 
 vivacity. 
 
 "And it may be, even, that you will be happy at it." 
 
 " Happy?" 
 
 " And proud, also ." 
 
 " Proud too ? How charming ! I will listen to you." 
 
 " Nothing is plainer. You are a brave, high-minded woman, as jealous 
 of your honour as a man is of his own. You are incapable of going astray, 
 not more from the rooted strength of your principles, than from the fact, 
 that to sin, in you, would, like a cowardly reprisal, be some faint excuse for 
 your husband's baseness. Is not this true ?" 
 
 " It is true. I have never, for a moment, thought differently." 
 
 " You see, then, that in part, at least, I partake the elevation of your 
 sentiments — I understand, because I do partake them. But you are scarcely 
 twenty years old ; you have a solitary life — without a family, before you, 
 without ties or kindred. For the present, Madame de Richeviile suffices 
 you. You are in a state of transition ; you mistake the cessation cf suffering 
 for happiness. This negative state of existence cannot last ; your heart will 
 awaken — you will again love !" 
 
 Here I interrupted M. de Rochegune. " Thus far," I said, " you have 
 spoken with too much truth and reason, to suffer me to seem to argue with 
 your last words. I shall never love again— one fatal passion has killed the 
 power of loving in my heart." 
 
 "Killed the power of loving in your heart!" he exclaimed "why, you 
 have never loved at all !" 
 
 " What ! I never loved ?" 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 " Come, M. de Rochegune, let us talk seriously, or we shall get into the 
 paradoxical nonsense of Madame de Semur." 
 
 " I am talking quite seriously. I repeat to you, that you have never 
 loved." 
 
 " But, monsieur " 
 
 " But, madam. Providence never could intend that it should be in the 
 power of the first mere chance-comer, to awaken or extinguish — and that, 
 too, for ever — in such a heart as yours, the most divine — the most eternal 
 of our sentiments ; that which demands the employment of the rarest and 
 most sublime faculties of the soul !" 
 
 I looked at M. de Rochegune >n astonishment, and replied — " What do 
 
AM OLD FRIEND. 
 
 you mean ? How ! have I never loved ?— how, or whence, came that 
 wretched sinking of my heart — that death of all my hopes ? 
 
 " Fou have mistaken the paralysis of grief for the death of the heart — can 
 the heart die?— can we renounce all hope, at the very moment when we 
 have nothing to regret?" 
 
 " Nothing to regret, monsieur ?" 
 
 " No ! you have much to deplore, but, happily, nothing to regret. Thus 
 is the future outspread before you, without the limits of a visible horizon 1" 
 " The future 1" 
 
 "Surely the future — wherefore not? What closes it against you? II 
 you should tell me that a passion, noble, and grand, and deep, and repaid 
 nobly, may leave eternal regrets in the soul, and shut out hope for ever, if 
 broken off abrubtly by some divine event — then I will believe you. Yes ! 
 such regrets may be eternal, because their source is pure — eternal, because, 
 instead of struggling to smother them, we piously and affectionately cherish 
 them — eternal, because we find in them that bitter pleasure, which springs 
 from lost happiness, because that very happiness is gone and irrecoverable. 
 But does this pious constancy to past recollections, prove that love is in- 
 deed dead in the heart ? Far from it. It proves that it never burned there- 
 in more purely — more ardently. Tell me, then, have you felt aught like 
 this ? No ! surely not 1 You, who have undergone sufferings so frightful, 
 you have fled with a sense of terror from the recollections of those sufferings ; 
 you have thanked God, that he has delivered you from your executioner — 
 unhappy woman that you are !" 
 
 " True ! it is true ! Far from delighting myself with these fatal recollec- 
 tions, I ever shunned them. But however fatal — however shamefully mis- 
 placed my love may have been, I teli you that I did love— otherwise never 
 would I have married M. de Lancry!" 
 
 " Good Heaven ! but are there not surprises of the heart, even as there 
 are surprises of the senses ? The attractive exterior of your husband, his 
 soft and hypocritic words, your natural desire to escape the guardianship of 
 your aunt, your ingenious confidence, in a man whom you believed loyal and 
 sincere, your native generosity, the total impossibility of your forming any 
 comparisons — all drove you into a marriage unworthy of yourself. Once 
 married — once unworthy— you mistook your blind obedience to your hus- 
 band's power, your brave observance of your duties, for the noble devoted- 
 ness of love. You were virtuous and resigned — you believed yourself pas- 
 sionately enamoured !" 
 
 " But have I not endured the tortures of jealousy !" 
 
 " Everything seems to mislead you. Starting at first on a false principle, 
 you have deceived yourself with regard to jealousy, as you have with regard 
 to love." 
 
 '■ Deceived myself, say you?" 
 
 " It was the ingratitude of your husband, rather than his infidelity, that 
 awoke your anger." 
 
 " Why should I not have loved M. de Lancry?" 
 " Because he was unworthy of you." 
 
 "Do you think, then, that we can never love but those who are worthy 
 of us." 
 
 " I think that you, Matilda de Maran, could never love — really love — but 
 one who is worthy of you." 
 
 " Look, then, at M. Secherin ; he is as worthy as his wife is base. She 
 has betrayed him shamefully ; still he adores her " 
 
 " I am not talking of M. Secherin. I do not generalize ; I particularize. 
 I say that you, you could not really love any but a man worthy of you." 
 
 " But why should this be true of me — of me, rather than any other !" 
 
 M Because with you, as with the saints in heaven, love — I repeat it — must 
 be a sublime interchange of the noblest sentiments." 
 
 " Your arguments are specious ; and you bring my vanity to aid you in 
 the argument," said I to M. de Rochegune: " still I am not convinced." 
 
 " You will be so." 
 
 " But wherefore would you force on me this conviction — that my heart was 
 taken unawares ; that I have never yet loved : and that I must yet love some 
 worthy of me ?" 
 
 " I would force it upon you, to lead you to be happy and proud too, in the 
 confession I make to you. I have said it." 
 " Explain yourself." 
 
 " When I prove to you, that you have never, that you could never love any 
 
I 
 
 Mi MATILDA. 
 
 one but a man worthy of you ; I bring you, necessarily, to the confession, 
 that you will one day love." 
 
 " 1 cannot confess that. What tells you, in the first place, that I shall 
 ever find a man worthy of me V — and, after that, what tells you, if I do, that 
 I shall love him ?" 
 
 "Every thing tells me so. It is one of the natural consequences of your 
 osition. But your character, your principles, are such, that when you do 
 ve, it will be necessary for you not merely to dare avow that love boldly to 
 the world, but to be proud of it likewise." 
 " Such love as that is rare '' 
 
 " And men worthy to awaken it, yet rarer. I tell you, therefore, that when- 
 tver you shall meet one of these men, you will necessarily love him. The 
 emptiness of your heart, the pride of being so loved, the mysterious influences 
 ivhich bring together kindred souls " 
 
 " But teil me of the man." 
 
 " The man, if you choose it, shall be myself." 
 
 " You?" 
 
 " Even so. I say this, because I think myself worthy of you " 
 " Coming from any other than you," 1 replied, gravely, to M. de Roche- 
 gune, extending my hand to him, " this avowal would be the very height of 
 madness; but you — I can trust you — and you are right: I am happy and 
 proud at your avowal." 
 
 " I told you that you would be so," he answered, with incredible sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 " I will imitate your frankness," I replied to M. de Rochegune : "it is 
 possible that my heart may awaken. If 1 ever should entertain for you such 
 sentiments as you describe — such sentiments of love as both you and I might 
 be proud of — 1 promise you, I will give myself up to it with happiness — with 
 security. But, alas ! can the holiest, the purest love, be safe from the calum-. 
 nies of the world ?" 
 
 " I will not set myself up as the world's champion, but I believe that the 
 greater part of the wrongs it commits are chargeable, either on the weakness 
 or the falsehood of those who complain of it. They who have sore consciences, 
 lack courage ; they on the other h*nd, who entertain feelings of whicli they 
 are proud, which they dare proclaim in the face of all, why should they seek 
 to hide them ? To do so is to commit a baseness — to deserve calumny. Hav- 
 ing nothing with which to reproach ourselves, why have recourse to deception 
 or concealment, which ever accompany misconduct? Why, in a word, should 
 not virtue have its sphere of audacity, as well as vice ? why should a woman 
 such as you, and a man such as I, for instance, hesitate to display openly, 
 before society, our pure and virtuous love, as much as Ursula and your hus- 
 band displayed their adulterous passion ? The world admires boldness and 
 resolution. Well, then, let the virtuous be as bold and resolute as the cor- 
 rupt. Their courage equal, the world will prefer the virtuous. I will 
 avouch it !" 
 
 I was delighted with the expression of noble arrogance that animated the 
 features of M. de Rochegune. 
 
 "You are right!" 1 exclaimed, carried away in my own despite by the 
 flow of his generous thoughts ; " it would be glorious to bring down calumny 
 to the admission of it£ own impotence, by overstepping, openly, the terms 
 which its covert malignity would hardly dare apply." 
 
 After a moment or two spent in reflection, I again addressed M. de Roche- 
 gune. », :'*mj^> - 
 
 " I am going to give you a proof of my frankness and my confidence, by 
 asking you a strange question : Why did you not speak to ine thus three 
 years since ?" 
 
 " Because, three years ago, I was too young, and wanted confidence in my- 
 self too much, to dare to speak to you so. Mortagne was aware of my love. 
 He strongly counselled me to quit France — to travel— to ennoble my life, by 
 devoting it to some noble cause, until I should have acquired sufficient power 
 over myself to separate the gold from the dross, as he said — so to purify that 
 love that I might come and offer it to you without ablush." 
 
 " And if, on your arrival, you had found me resigned to the desertion of 
 my husband, and loving worthily a heart worthy of my own." 
 
 " Elevated and disinterested sentiments, are liable to be tried by severe 
 misunderstandings, most painful to self-love. Under such circumstances. I 
 ohould have told you what I tell you now— offered you that which 1 now offer 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 3tT5 
 
 —and that, too, before the person whom you loved ; for, being loved by you, 
 he would have been capable of comprehending me." 
 " And if I had loved a man unworthy of me ?" 
 
 "That could not be; there are moral, even as well as there are physical 
 .mpossibilities. I repeat it to you, you could never love in such a way that 
 you would have to blush for it." 
 
 " But if this impossibility had happened, obstinate man that you are ?" 
 
 After gazing at me steadily for a minute, in perfect silence, M. de Roche- 
 gune said to me, with a solemn expression, which gave great weight to his 
 words. 
 
 " I SHOULD HAVE DOUBTED MYSELF 1" 
 
 Such was the singular first conversation that I held in private with M. de 
 Rochegune. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 It was a good while before I was sensible of the counter current, if I may so 
 speak, to my conversation with M. de Rochegune. He had so much sincerity 
 and frankness in his manner, that I brought into my intercourse with him, 
 none of that reserve with which his confession might otherwise have inspired 
 me. 
 
 I continued to see him every evening, at the house of Madame de Riche- 
 ville, which he still regularly frequented, with the otherfriends of the duchess. 
 I also frequently saw him in the morning. 
 
 I had so much confidence in him and in myself, that I abandoned myself, 
 without fear or restraint, to the pleasure of this growing affection. I did not 
 attempt to conceal it. I was proud — yes, I believe it— actually proud of the 
 marks of attachment which M. de Rochegune manifested for me, and of the 
 noble influence which, ignorant of it myself, I had exerted on his life. 
 
 I enjoyed the success which daily added to his reputation. He seldom 
 spoke in the House of Peers, but his eloquence had an electric force on every 
 noble soul. The influence of his words was greater, because he was wholly 
 independent. He belonged to no party — or, rather, he belonged to all, in 
 whatever element they had of great or noble. An avowed partizan of every- 
 thing just, humane, elevated, truly patriotic — he was pitiless toward all 
 cowardice, selfishness and hypocrisy. Attached to no leader, he had made 
 himself an anomalous position — barren of all advantage to himself — wonder- 
 fully fruitful in the sublime truths which he spread abroad, through all 
 France, all Europe. 
 
 So far indeed had the renown of his name, and his exalted character, ex- 
 tended, that one of the northern sovereigns, who had resisted all the repre- 
 sentations of French diplomacy, touching some concession which was claimed 
 from him, caused a letter to be transmitted to M. de Rochegune, informing 
 him that, although personally unacquainted with him, he felt much pleasure 
 in yielding to the consideration of his name, and the services he had rendered 
 to humanity, that point which he had hitherto refused. 
 
 It seems to me, that there was quite as much of high-minded esteem as of 
 excellent benevolence in the monarch, who, never having entertained any re- 
 lations with M. de Rochegune, (himself a stranger to the question at issue) 
 and knowing his disinterested avoidance of public office, nevertheless found 
 the means of making him play a part so important in the affairs of his 
 country — thus granting to the sole influence of his character the most im- 
 portant concessions. 
 
 Never shall I forget the joy of M. de Rochegune, when he came to give 
 me these affecting tidings ; nor the touching manner in which he sought to 
 persuade me, that, deriving frnm me all his noblest inspirations, it was to 
 me alone that this distinguished favour, of which he was so justly proud, was 
 owing. 
 
 Although entirely unexpected, the favour charmed the friends of M. de 
 Rochegune much more than it surprised them. His enlightened philantro- 
 phy, his oratorical talent, the service he had seen, his varied and deep eru- 
 dition, all conspired to render him a very eminent person. 
 
 Almost all strangers of distinction, whether of rank or learning, esteemed 
 it a great privilege to be admitted to Madame de Richeville's circle ; and it 
 is easy to imagine that the duchess's friends were a little inclined to make a 
 
3*5 7 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 lion of M. de Rochegune, who had contrived to awaken sympathies so high 
 and nattering. 
 
 Nevertheless, once intimately known, no one possessed in so high a degree, 
 as he did, the art of throwing into shade his universally admitted superiority, 
 by means of a charming simplicity, a sweet and attractive graciousness of 
 manner. 
 
 His preference for me — and, why should I not mention it ? — my preference 
 for him — for the affection which existed between us had nothing that should 
 make me blush — seemed so natural, and were so openly avowed in Madame 
 de Richeville's circle, that every one would have scrupled, if I may so express 
 myself, to deprive M. de Rochegune of the pleasure of sitting next to me, or 
 offering me his arm ; and this good-natured toleration on the part of persons 
 of known strictness, proved to the satisfaction of all present, that our attach- 
 ment was purely honourable. 
 
 I had the warmest friendship for Madame de Richeville, and she daily 
 loaded me with fresh proofs of regard. I loved Emma, as I should have 
 loved a younger sister Never in my life was I so happy. 
 
 I passed almost every evening -with Madame de Richeville, except on the 
 days when I had my box at the comic opera ; and on some others, when I 
 staid at home to indulge in quiet meditation. . 
 
 In the morning, I walked out, paid visits to my intimate friends, or prac- 
 tised at the piano forte. And so much did I enjoy the absolute tranquillity 
 of this new mode of life, that I several times refused to go to balls to which 
 I was invited. 
 
 An incident, such as perhaps never occurred elsewhere in society, displayed, 
 in a new light, M. de Rochegune's character, eccentric as it was already. 
 To understand what I am about to relate, it is necessary to know — what I 
 very naturally omitted to state before — that M. Gaston de Senneville, Ma- 
 dame de Richeville's nephew, had paid me great attention: thinking, that 
 the evident marks M de Rochegune gave of his affections toward me, and 
 the scarcely slighter marks of affection which I gave him, proved that there 
 was only a fraternal regard existing between us, which left him every pros- 
 pect of success in inspiring me with a tenderer feeling. 
 
 He was very young ; not, I believe, above twenty. Madame de Richeville 
 always received him very kindly; though, indeed, be was but a type of 
 nonentity combined with elegance — of utter insignificance with perfect grace. 
 Having, moreover, excellent manners, he supplied the want of intelligence 
 by such precocious knowledge of the world, that his exquisitely studied airs 
 made almost an absurd contrast to his pretty and almost childish face. 
 
 After infant phenomenons, and little girls, who play the great lady — I 
 know nothing more lamentable than young men who, instead of the gaiety 
 and unquestionable boldness natural to their years, affect to possess a 
 serious demeanour, and a profound disdain of all that is frank, lively, and 
 entertaining. Certainly, however, I must admit that this exaggerated cere- 
 moniousness is more tolerable, than the careless and almost coarse famili- 
 arity, so much adopted by many men in good society ; so that it was only in 
 our strictest intimacy, that M.idame de Richeville and I laughed at the staid 
 and formal inanity of her nephew. 
 
 I had received him with so much the more familiarity, that I believed him 
 wholly free from all pretension ; nor had he ever paid me any attention, be- 
 yond that homage, which every well-bred man ought to offer to every lady. 
 But in our days, good manners are becoming so rare, and men affect to pay 
 so little respect to women, that the smallest signs of interest, are now almost 
 thought to compromise us ;— so that, what only passed for a proper sense of 
 consideration in the small circle of Madame de Richeville, would certainly 
 have passed for very marked and particular attentions, in larger and more 
 mixed societies. 
 
 It required the occurrence of the scene I am about to mention, to enlighten 
 me as to the designs which were attributed to M. de Senneville, or which 
 he attributed to himself, without my having the least suspicion of them. . 
 
 One morning, Madame de Richeville came into my room, and, after kiss- 
 ing me, exclaime'd — 
 
 " You see me here, almost mad with joy You have become, on a sudden, 
 an inconceivable heroine. You are loved — you are admired, beyond the 
 powers of imagination ! you are about to be repaid for all that you have suf- 
 fered. What if I were to say, the world has become good — that it does you 
 justice? I have actually become an optimist." 
 
 Madame de Richeville seemed so much excited, that I began to laugh at 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 367 
 
 her: "Explain," said I to her — "explain how, without knowing anything 
 about it, I should have become so incredibly, so inconceivably a heroine." 
 
 " I will tell you the whole ; and make you blush — oh ! blush to the full 
 extent of your powers of blushing, for praise has not been spared you. But 
 the most delightful thing of the whole is, that it was a folly of my nephew, 
 Gaston de Sennevrlle, which inspired M. de Rochegune with the most elo- 
 quent words — and — but I will tell you the whole. You know that last night, 
 by accident, I shut my doors, and went to Madame de Longpré's Thursday 
 evening. I could not avoid it. It was an age since I had been there. Ou* 
 good prince and princess had been reproaching themselves on the same score, 
 and I had agreed with them, the day before yesterday, to carry them to her 
 house. Well ; last night we all three went to Madame de Longprô's. She 
 is a woman, whose character I cannot pretend to admire ; with all her intel- 
 lect she lacks courage, and would allow the most intimate of those whom 
 she calls her most intimate friends, to be abominably torn to pieces in her 
 presence, without taking further notice than to say, ' Ah ! Heavens ! do you ! 
 you tell me so ? 1 never could have believed that / Can it be true ? Oh I I 
 think that must be exaggerated !' The Prince d'Hericourt now goes out so 
 little into the world, that his arrival at Madame de- Longpré's was looked 
 upon quite as an event. You cannot imagine, my dear Matilda, the imposing 
 effect produced by his presence, and how suddenly it altered the whole tone 
 of the party, even at the moment of our entrance. When we came in, the 
 conversation was so loud and noisy that it was hardly possible to hear the 
 announcement, but when the Prince d'Hericourt's name was heard, all the 
 men, and even some of the younger women, rose to him." 
 
 " I am of your opinion," said I to Madame de Richeville, "with regard 
 to such homage paid to a man, now perhaps somewhat shorn of his past 
 splendour, who has, in spite of this, raised to its highest dignity, one of the 
 noblest names of all France. Such things do reconcile us to the world." 
 
 " Do they not ? —wait, however, till I have done, and you will be yet more 
 astonished. I need not tell you that Madame de Longpré receives all Paris. 
 Her house is indeed curious, because you meet in it all the celebrities (real 
 or assumed) of all opinions, and of all societies. After the arrival of the 
 prince and his wife, Madame de Longpré, — who, it must be admitted, does 
 the honours of her house admirably — instead of encouraging, as she generally 
 does, a spirit of slander and ill-nature, elevated the conversation to a tone 
 suitable to that of her new guests. A few moments afterward, M. de 
 Rochegune arrived. His speech of the day before yesterday in the Chamber 
 of Peers, had excited much attention. All eyes were turned upon him. The 
 prince offered him his hand and received him with that gracious cordiality, 
 which, coming from him, may be looked upon as a precious distinction. 
 Other persons came in, and among them my dear nephew, Gaston de Sen- 
 neville, with a superlative tie l and a sublime bouquet in his button hole ; 
 introducing himself with an air of agonizing ease, and studied grace, which 
 always make you laugh " 
 
 "And give you the horrors !" 
 
 " Of course, they do. I am a very good relation, and they are enough to 
 drive one to desperation. There was then a great crowd of people at Ma- 
 dame de Longpré's — I must tell you who they were — you will soon know why. 
 First, there were Madame de Ksernika and her savage of a husband ; that 
 delighted me — again, you will soon know why! Then, there was the Aus- 
 trian ambassadress, and that also delighted me, for another reason ; because 
 there is nothing delicate or elevated that ever escapes her notice. There was 
 also— he came' in at the same time with us— that great statesman, of whom 
 M. de Talleyrand said so happily — ' He is imposing, in his own repose !' " 
 
 " Impossible to describe him better," answered I ; "but are you not also 
 delighted by the picture which the Prince d'Hericourt drew of him the other 
 day ? — As if in direct contrast to all other men, he has the rare power of 
 making himself beloved by his masculine firmness, respected by his exquisite 
 grace, attractive by his most serious qualifications, and popular from his 
 high birth.' " 
 
 " I think this picture likewise extremely striking " said Madame de 
 Richeville, "though still far from the original ; for it is as difficult to give 
 all the shades of a noble character, as all the expressions of a fine face. 
 What more shall I say ? All the élite of Paris were assembled at Madame 
 de Longpré's, and I was delighted to see all the great world witnesses of 
 the scene which I am about to relate to you." 
 
 " Go on, then, for I am dying of impatience." 
 
368 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Madame de Richeville resumed her narrative. M M. de Rochegune was 
 conversing near the chimney-piece, with Madame de Longpré. People were 
 talking about the last concert at the conservatoire, at which we two were 
 together ; and some one asked me if you were a good musician. ' Certainly, 
 she is,' I replied; '.and it is very unlucky for Madame de Lancry's friends 
 that her timidity is insurmountable, which deprives them of the pleasure of 
 hearing her ; for she has an excellent method and perfect taste.' ' The first 
 time I ever heard Madame de Lancry speak,' said M. de Rochegune, ' I was 
 sure that she must sing admirably. The tones of her voice are so musical, 
 that singing is not an acquired art, but rather a sort of language natural to 
 her.' Madame de Ksernika, who has, of course, never forgiven you for the 
 wrong which she once meant to do you, smiled with a malicious glance, and 
 said, in a soft, sweet voice to M. de Rochegune, unquestionably wishing to 
 put him out of countenance — ' You are a great admirer of Madame de Lancry, 
 are you not?' 'Yes, madam; but perhaps I love her even more tenderly, 
 than I admire her highly ;' in a voice so firm, and with a tone so frank, so 
 respectful, and so full of feeling, that, notwithstanding its singularity, thi3 
 public avowal appeared the most natural thing in the world." 
 
 " No one can be more perfectly convinced than I am, of M . de Roche- 
 gune's sincerity," said I to Madame de Richeville, blushing as I spoke ; 
 "or that before you and -your friends his attachment to me is frankly ad- 
 mitted — to that I do not object — but before persons whose good-will, to say 
 the least of it, is questionable " 
 
 " You are unjust, my dear Matilda," she interrupted me; "the end of 
 my story will prove that our friend acted quite wisely. Madame de 
 Ksernika repeated the word, tenderly, laying a peculiar stress on it, so as 
 to be heard clearly, and said to M. de Rochegune affectedly, and evidently 
 wishing to be ill natured — ' That is extremely indiscreet of you — do you 
 know ? — it is a sort of declaration that might very easily come back to Ma-, 
 dame de Lancry's ears.' 'Well, madam; and do you imagine that I 
 have not, long ago, myself declared to Madame de Lancry that I love her 
 passionately ?' Madame de Ksernika assumed ah expression of surprise — 
 of startled timidity ; dropped her eyes, with an affectation of injured mo- 
 desty ; raised them, dropped them again more modestly than before ; 
 and at last said — ' I am in despair, monsieur, that I should, by a joke, have 
 elicited an answer which may have fearful consequences to Madame de 
 Lancry's reputation ; and ' M. de Rochegune did not suffer her to con- 
 tinue her speech, but said to her very simply, ' And why, madam, should the 
 reputation of Madame de Lancry suffer by what I have said ? Ought one 
 not to be proud of the admirarion, and the love, which he feels for l.er ? 
 Ought one not to glory in the power of being sensible of all that is best and 
 noblest? Ought one to dissemble his enthusiasm, because it is a young and 
 charming woman, who is the possessor of a soul so high and magnanimous ?' 
 • Certainly not monsieur,' replied Madame de Ksernika, with her spiteful 
 smile, except that this enthusiasm might lead ill-natured persons to suppose, 
 that the lady who inspires it is not insensible' — ' That is exactly what I de- 
 sire — that ill-natured people, above all others, should be the first convinced 
 that Madame de Lancry is by no means insensible of the enthusiasm with 
 which she inspires me,' answered M. de Rochegune, with a glance of severe 
 disdain. ' Ill-natured people, truly ! If, by accident, madam, you should 
 know any of them, do me the kindness to inform them, that Madame de 
 Lancry perfectly well knows the sincere love with which she has inspired me ; 
 that she feels the strongest attachment to me ; that 1 see her every day, and 
 that I know no happiness comparable to that arising from this delicious in- 
 timacy.' M. de Rochegune, by thus firmly and undauntedly justifying a sort 
 of intimacy, which the insinuations of Madame de Ksernika would have left 
 in a sort of suspicious twilight, completely overthrew the mischievous machi- 
 nery of this bad woman. Quite disconcerted, she now called to her aid my 
 nephew, Gaston de Senneville, who, it appears, has declared himself your 
 adorer, and left it to be understood that you received his adoration kindly." 
 
 " Good Heaven ! M. de Senneville never uttered a single word that could 
 lead me to suspect such a thing ! — and I — why, I never " 
 
 " Good God ! my dear child, I know it perfectly," said Madame de Riche- 
 ville, interrupting me, " and you are about to see how my nephew was pun- 
 ished for his insolence. The frank speech of M. de Rochegune had already 
 rendered him very ill at ease, as you may imagine. He turned quite red ; 
 and Madame de Ksernika, looking at him with an air of mockery, said, 
 ' Well, M, de Senneville, what do you think ©f the discretion of these ideas 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 of M. Je Rochegune ?' My unfortunate nephew does not shine brilliantly in 
 impromptu speaking j he was obliged, however, to say something, or to pass 
 •for a fool. You will see that he did not gain much by breaking silence. He 
 replied, then, to Madame de Ksernika, in a pedantic tone: ' I think, madam, 
 that M. de Rochegune lays very little stress on mystery in love matters, and 
 I cannot agree with him. There is something so charming in that soft ob- 
 scurity which in that tender twilight which we we ' and there he 
 
 stopped ; it was impossible for Gaston to get any farther. His voice faltered, 
 every eye was fixed upon him, he stammered — coughed ; M. de Rochegune 
 took compassion on him, and answered him, at first, with a sort of almost 
 paternal affability, though he afterward grew something warmer with his sub- 
 ject : ' I assure you, my dear M. de Senneville, that I know all the value of 
 shadows and mystery— as, for example, to a questionable style of beauty, to a 
 base treachery, or to a false and lying love ! Rut, do you see, when it con- 
 cerns lovliness, as pure and dazzling as that of a fine antique statue, just 
 kindled into life by the first sunbeams — I mean that for Madame de Lancry' 
 — he added parenthetically, with a sneering smile at Madame de Ksernika— 
 ' when it concerns a sentiment, which gives both happiness and honourable 
 pride to those who share it — I mean that for my own love — then there can be 
 no sun too dazzling, no sky too brilliant, no voice too sonorous, no adoration 
 too far echoed, to bring such beauty and such love into light and fame. Then, 
 when I compare enjoyments, tasted with a proud conscience, with a brow 
 erect, and an unwavering eye; to pleasures snatched in darkness, amid shame 
 and apprehension ; I ask myself, Who hasever yet compared the eagle to the 
 owl, the soldier to the cut-throat ; honour to infamy, things avowed boldly 
 to things concealed basely ; words spoken boldly to thoughts smothered fear- 
 fully ? and I ask you, madam, if, at this moment, I must not feel a thousand 
 times more happy, at being able to pronounce aloud the name of the woman 
 I love, than I should, were I forced either to falter it forth with blushes or 
 profane it with unblushing impudence.' " 
 
 " Never," continued Madame de Richeville, becoming more and more ex- 
 cited — " never, my dear Matilda, could you imagine the expression which 
 animated the fine features of de Rochegune, as he spoke thus. The fire of 
 his glance, the puissant energy, the high authority of every gesture — his ac- 
 cents deep, and passionate, and thrilling — his attitude, at the same time, so 
 calm and so imperious. How shall I make you comprehend it ? The im- 
 pression which he produced was electrical — all those who were spectators of 
 the scene, Gaston, Madame de Ksernika herself, partook of M. de Roche- 
 gune's chivalry, during one of those moments so rare and so fleeting, in 
 which all souls, strung to one chord of generous elevation, respond nobly to 
 a burst of noble eloquence. Rut this was not all ; for, as the first sensation 
 was beginning to subside, the Prince d'Hericourt, as if to give a consumating 
 touch to the words of M. de Rochegune — the Prince d'Hericourt, whose 
 voice, you know, bears such authority with it, in all questions of principle or 
 honour, cried out, taking M. de Rochegune's hand in both his own : — ' Well 
 done, my friend, well done. Let it be, if but for once, proclaimed in the 
 world's face, that there are loves, so elevated and so honourable, that those 
 who entertain them may take upright people for their confidants. Re sure 
 that society will admit this love of yours as loyally, and on as pure a footing, 
 as you have set it forth. It is for you alone, and for a young lady — whose 
 name I pronounce ever with the respectful interest it merits — to revive, in our 
 days, one of holy and high affections which raise noble souls even to the sphere 
 of heroism.' ' You speak but the truth, my husband,' added the venerable 
 Princess d'Hericourt. 'This poor young lady, who has undergone wrongs 
 so cruel, will then, at least, know, that if the world was powerless to shield her 
 from those frightful sufferings, it has given her credit at least for the courage 
 and the pious resignation she has displayed ; and that it testifies its sympathy, 
 by sanctioning the consolations which she derives from a sentiment, deemed 
 moïe than honourable by persons of the strictest principles.' ' Let us hope, 
 also, that what is here spoken,' said the prince, in a voice full of grave au- 
 thority, ' will find an echo far and near ; that these words will reach those 
 even, who fancy that society has neither the power nor the energy to chas- 
 tise the b£se excesses of which human justice takes no cognizance. For 
 once, at least — and oh ! may the example produce fruit hereafter — for 
 once, at least, let the public voice blight a vile man, and punish his un- 
 worthy deeds, by decreeing against him, as it were, a moral divorce. 
 Let this voice cry aloud to the noble but unhappy wife of that man. To 
 him, who has steeped you to the very lips in injury and insults— to him, 
 
370 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 who has abandoned you but to debase himself by a life of the moit insolent 
 and open degradation — to him, madam, you owe nothing ! nothing except 
 the duty of preserving his name spotless ; and this only, because that name 
 is henceforth your own. Your heart is almost broken, hapless lady ! after 
 long years of suffering and tears, you have found consolation in an attach- 
 ment as delicate as it is devoted. Neither God nor man can blame you for this. 
 The sentiment is upright, pure, and noble ; the world applauds it — calumny 
 even spares it ! ' Once more, my friend, honour and glory unto you !' added 
 the prince, again pressing the hand of M. de Rochegune in his own. 
 ' Henceforth, at least, hearts rendered wretched, owing to their separation 
 by man's laws, will be permitted to seek happiness in a feeling at which 
 they will not have to blush. To them will your example Le as a lantern 
 and a shield. If the world should believe them, they will quote your name, 
 and calumny will hide her head.' " 
 
 "Good heavens!" I replied to Madame de Richeville, wiping the tears 
 from my eyes, for I was deeply agitated, " how much I regret that these 
 words were spoken about me, so that I must not say how admirable I con- 
 ceive this language." 
 
 " And yet, my dear Matilda, I but give you poorly the effect of it — sure 
 am I, that I weaken it in my repetition. And then how can 1 describe to 
 you the countenance of the prince — the noble passion which reddened even 
 his brow beneath his locks of snow, as he stigmatized the vile conduct of 
 your husband ; or the ineffable sweetness of expression, with which he 
 spoke of you. Once more, my child, I must give up all hope of conveying 
 to you a true image of this scene, for you know that the prince and princess 
 are respected almost as the personifications of honour, cf high birth, of dig- 
 nity, and even of religion. Conceive then, if you can, the imposing weight 
 of such a scene, witnessed by all the elite of Paris — and then blame, if you 
 have the courage, M. de Rochegune for his indiscretion !" 
 
 " I cannot," ! replied; " for to that very indiscretion do I owe one of 
 the sweetest moments of my life." 
 
 " Do you not," she replied ; do you not? I was sure you would say so !" 
 
 " If it had not been you, who are telling me these things, my dearest 
 friend, I should have had much difficulty in believing what I hear — so far 
 does this scene appear removed from our manners, from the customs of 
 our day." 
 
 " But., at the same time, Matilda, do you think that the prince, and prin- 
 cess, that M. de Rochegune, have much in common with our day? I will 
 not speak of you, my dearest child, for you would chide me ; but do you 
 think that many men are to be met now-a-days, of loyalty so clearly proven, 
 that they should place you higher, if I may so speak, in the scale of public 
 estimation, by an avowal which, from the mouth of any other, would have 
 destroyed your reputation? The chivalric weight of this man's character is 
 such, and the confidence which he inspires so great, that persons who repre- 
 sent all that society has of the most eminent and most exalted, consecrate 
 his love for a woman who is not his wife — so clearly does it comprehend the 
 sublimity of that love! Ah! Matilda! Matilda!" said Madame de Riche- 
 ville, in accents of kindness, mingled with remorse, which touched me to 
 the soul ; " never have I more clearly felt the difference between yourself 
 and me ! — never have I more bitterly regretted the sins which I have com? 
 noitted!" 
 
 " How can you dare to say so?" I exclaimed. " Is it your object to mix 
 some taint of bitterness with these praises, of which I am so little worthy ? 
 What have I done, in the name of Heaven ! to entitle' me to this sympathy, 
 which I owe solely to your constant and protecting friendship ? Have you 
 not brought into play every talent of your inventive wit, to give value to my 
 sole good quality — negative as it is at best — my quality of self-submission ? 
 Good Heavens ! is it then so difficult to suffer? Have I even struggled ? — 
 have I even proved my love by one trait of devotion ? No ! I think, indeed, _ 
 that I should have -done so but opportunity has been wanting. I have 
 never shown myself to possess one of those energetic characters, which sacri- 
 fice themselves boldly to sublime calamities — which hesitate not between 
 their own happiness, and that of beings who deserve the interest and sympa- 
 thy of the feeling and the virtuous. No ! no ! I have but loved with the 
 tame submission of the slave — loved a man all unworthy . of me — and hence, 
 my sufferings have lost all claim to majesty. Do not compare me to your- 
 self, who have so valiantly reconquered the position which you. had lost. 
 Against what fascination have I striven ? Even this love, of which I am 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 371 
 
 proud— I confess it — what has it cost me to excite it ? — Nothing ! I had but 
 to suffer myself passively to lie loved. It is no false modesty of mine, that 
 gives me these convictions ; but I assure you, my best friend, that I have 
 yet to comprehend the passion with which I have inspired M. de Roche- 
 gune. Assuredly, I feel noble instincts within my bosom ; but it is not 
 these recent feelings which M. de Rochegune loves. In a word, dearest 
 friend, others may set high value on the delicacy, on the purity of his love ; 
 but this very delicacy — this very purity — they cost me nothing. I have not 
 even to contend against warmer sentiments. If I compare the feelings I 
 now entertain toward M. de Rochegune, with those I formerly entertained 
 toward M. de Lancry— both before my marriage, and during the brief blessed 
 days that followed it — how wondrous is the contrast. At the bottom of all 
 my feelings, then, how happy they might be soever, there was always some- 
 thing of embarrassment, of disquiet. With M. de Rochegune, my attach- 
 ment partakes of this in nothing. When he is with me, I enjoy a pleasure, 
 but at the same time a serenity, that is inexpressible. Instead of quicken- 
 ing its pulsations, my heart seems to beat more calmly than in its wonted 
 mood. The presence, the conversation, the declarations, even, of that 
 valued friend, agitate me not. My soul expands, as it always does, with ad- 
 miration of all that is good and noble ; at reading a fine book, in looking at 
 a noble sight, at hearing of a heroic action." 
 
 Madame de Richeville looked at me, at first, in astonishment ; then shook 
 her head slowly, and smiled sadly. 
 
 " AU I desire, Matilda, is that this calm may last. I know you well ; 
 and even if your principles were not what they are, your love is now placed 
 so high before the face of men, that you would die rather than lose, much 
 more, profane it." 
 
 " If I must tell yon all," I answered with a blush, " I am sometimes 
 even frightened that I do not possess more romantic warmth, more enthu- 
 siasm for M. de Rochegune, though no one values more than I his exalted 
 qualities. It is said, that the most strong and lively love, is not that which 
 springs up suddenly, like the ephemeral plants, which burst the bud, grow 
 up, and die in a single day; but that which, inch by inch, shoots its invisi- 
 ble roots into the depths of the heart — that which grows silently, while we 
 the least suspect it, because its growth is imperceptible. Well, it is there- 
 fore, that I sometimes fear my calm attachment toward M. de Roche»une, 
 lest it should hide the seeds of a stronger passion, at whose increasing 
 warmth I may soon have to shudder. Then, my best friend, if that should 
 be the case, and I resist its encroachments — then, if I triumph, I shall lie 
 worthy of your praises— of that homage, which the world is disposed to ac- 
 cord to me. But now, virtue is all too easy to me, that I should pride my- 
 telf on being virtuous " 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Some few days after the conversation which I have just related, I received 
 the two following letters, written by M. de Lancry, to the same mysterious 
 person, of whom I have spoken. 
 
 They came to me in the same secret manner as before, and were again ac- 
 companied by a bunch of the poisonous scarlet flowers, which I looked upon 
 as a souvenir of M. Lugarto. 
 
 M. de Lancry to * * * 
 
 Paris, May, 1834. 
 " Everything at once overwhelms me. It is enough to drive me mad with 
 shame and fury. Now, then, the world has taken it into its head to be- 
 come moral, and to put me under the ban of certain prudish and straight- 
 laced coteries. 
 
 " I should have set utterly at nought all such absurdly virtuous philippics, 
 had they not, as it would seem, in some degree reacted on this woman, who 
 appears to have been born for my misfortune ; and whom, nevertheless, I 
 cannot prevent myself from loving more madly now than ever. When you 
 shall read this in your heath-clad solitudes, you will ask yourself, I am sure, 
 if we have fallen back again on the times of Amadis and Galaor. 
 
 " I do not know whether you ever met, of old, a Marquis de Roçheguue — 
 
«72 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 an exceedingly eccentric person ; very rich, as philanthropical as hi* fathe? 
 was before him ; extravagantly romantic — wandering about everywhere to 
 seek for wars, like a true knight-errant ; brave, and moreover, not destitute 
 of talent, and speaking in the Chamber of Peers, to-day against his friends — • 
 to-morrow in favour of his enemies — if friend or enemy clash with his princi- 
 ples. Beyond this, a man, utterly inelegant, knowing neither how to enjoy, 
 or make the most of his fortune — for he has about three hundred thousand 
 livres income, and hardly spends sixty — as they tell me. It is asserted, that 
 he spends vast sums in charity— but in the greatest secrecy. As to his coun- 
 tenance, it is decidedly marked, but harsh and disagreeable. Nevertheless, 
 women are so odd, that in Italy, Spain, and even in Paris, he has had so 
 many adventures, that he might boast as much success, at least, in lighter 
 matters, as in the graver style, of which he is ambitious. 
 
 " After a journey of two or three years, he came back this winter to Paris. 
 His features are blackened incredibly by the suns of the Levant ; and this 
 charming peculiarity, added to thick brown mustaches, to something 
 haughty in his air, something harsh and abrupt in his manners, gives him 
 the appearance of an Italian bravo. But with its usual absurdity, the world 
 — always gaping after something new — has taken up as its idol, this philo- 
 sophic-Quixote, this lawyer- soldier, this miser-millionaire, and at this mo- 
 ment swears by him only. 
 
 " If you inquire of me — why I lay myself out so carefully on this picture ? 
 I reply, simply, because M. de Rochegune is my wife's lover. Do not think 
 this a barefaced assertion ? when I speak thus, I only echo the voices of the 
 most upright and even religious people, who have taken this exquisite and 
 affecting love, under their most especial patronage ! Yes ! they have pro- 
 claimed Madame de Lancry free from all claims of mine ; subjecting to this 
 one condition only, this little private divorce, that she shall preserve my 
 name spotless from reproach. This reservation made, she is then authorized 
 perfectly to enjoy, in peace and in broad day, all the chaste pleasures of a 
 platonic love with M. de Rochegune : on the ground that I am a vile wretch, 
 who have deserted my wife, to live in open and barefaced effrontery with my 
 mistress. 
 
 " Who do you suppose it is that has thus played the part of public prose- 
 cutor, in behalf of my outraged consort, before the bar of good society ? 
 Who, but the old Prince d'Hericourt, the pure and honourable man, the 
 g'reat lord, pur excellence. You will admit that he plays a very strange part 
 in this ; the rather, that his moral indictment was produced by a new act of 
 eccentricity of M. de Rochegune, who, one fine day, thought it delightful to 
 declare aloud, before all Paris, how passionately he loved my wife, and 
 how perfectly she responded to his love ! — in all virtue and honour — be it 
 understood. 
 
 " Thereupon, the old prince and princess (the latter an angelic devotee, 
 you must know,) began to cry bravo ! and to congratulate de Rochegune ou 
 his frankness. In short, such was the enthusiasm, or fantastic absurdity of 
 the scene rather, that a lady, a great friend of mine, confessed to me, while 
 making great fun of herself for it — that for a moment she could not herself 
 avoid yielding to the general feeling of intoxication. 
 
 " You well know, that in Paris, fashion is everything. Now, therefore, 
 the only rage is what is called the chivalric loyalty of M. de Rochegune. 
 The women are all going mad for him — the men are either jealous, or afraid 
 of him. Madame de Lancry is quoted everywhere as a model of virtuous 
 love ; and, for the present half-hour, platonic affection and its innocent con- 
 eolations are alone in vogue. 
 
 " In spite of all this platonic love, I am sometimes very much tempted to 
 look upon M. de Rochegune as the greatest roué in existence. Nothing 
 could be more convenient than this new method of conducting an intrigue. 
 One could attach himself to a woman, the most openly, and the most virtu- 
 ously in the world, and laugh under the shelter of this safe and chaste 
 mantle, at blockheads and good souls ! 
 
 " Yet — no 1 no ! I am sure of my wife ; and she is either strangely altered, 
 or my name has always remained spotless. On his side, too, de Rochegune 
 is sufficiently eccentric to find something exciting in this ethereal love, the 
 immaterial nature of which will last — as long as it can ! 
 
 " Once more, 1 should scoff at all this, if the harsh and affectedly precise 
 words of old Prince d'Hericourt had not produced evil consequences to my- 
 self. I cannot deny it, he is a sort of oracle, very much thought of and lis- 
 tened to. He has denounced, what he has called, the baseness of my con- 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 373 
 
 duct to my wife, and said that society ought to avenge Madame de Lancry's 
 wrongs by showing me the cold shoulder. Unfortunately, these words have 
 found an echo. Rivals who envied me, fools with whose self-love I have 
 interfered, young women whom I have slighted, ugly women whom I have 
 scorned — all seized with avidity this charming proposal of the prince's, and, 
 within a few days I perceive that I am received in the world with stern si- 
 lence — and icy politeness — a thousand times more cutting than impertinence, 
 because I can neither inquire into its cause, nor resent it. 
 
 " If Prince d'Hericourt were not an old man, I should have gone at once 
 to the bottom of this miserable league, and challenged him ; but it cannot 
 be even thought of. It is true, Rochegune remains open to me ; twenty 
 times I have been tempted to fight him, but I am afraid of ridicule — people 
 might fancy that jealousy was the cause of the duel. Yet I should dearfy 
 like to kill this man, for I detest him ; he has always been the butt of my 
 bitterest hatred ; he was the friend of de Mortagne, who lives for me to hate 
 no longer. Before my marriage I found him insufferably annoying, by his 
 affectations of recent charities, and mysterious benefits ; but at least he bore 
 not that imperious air, that insolent attitude, which he now affects. 
 
 " The other day I met him : we were both on horseback. The blood 
 mounted to my face : I hoped that he would not bow to me, and, perhaps, 
 I should have been mad enough to pick a quarrel with him. Curses on it ! 
 — he did bow to me ! — but his very bow was one of those nameless, formless, 
 insults, which we feel to the very quick, but of which we cannot complain. 
 I fancied that I could read on his hard impressive features, in his grave and 
 piercing glance, that he bowed to me only as to the man whose name Ma- 
 dame de Lancry bore ; or, perhaps, even to the husband of his mistress ; 
 for, in sooth, I am a precious fool, to believe in woman's virtue. But, no ! 
 I say no ! again — sometimes, as if in spite of myself, I could wish to think 
 her guilty. I fancy that I should breathe more easily — but I cannot reckon 
 on her weakness permitting her to err. She lacks energy even to sin. She 
 may weep — lament — but never revenge — never ! Sometimes, when I reflect 
 on it, I would rather believe in her virtue ; although I have no love for her, 
 it might be more painful than I imagine, to believe her guilty. It would be 
 a wound to my self-love. 
 
 " What most annoys me — most irritates me now, is, to perceive that no- 
 body considers this Rochegune ridiculous. In these circumstances, which 
 give so much room for ridicule, twenty others in his place would have been 
 hooted. What shall we say, then, of the world's wickedness, and spite? — 
 or rather, what power must not this man have, who plays with fire, and suc- 
 ceeds where any but he would fail ? How has he managed to revive again, 
 if it be but for ten days, this feeble and worn-out dream of platonic love, fit 
 only for children, school-girls, and old dotards ? No ! no ! it is impossible 
 that he can be playing this game sincerely. 
 
 " And yet, if it be the act of a roué, do" you not think this man yet more 
 astonishing ? To choose for his dupes, for his accomplices and defenders, 
 such people as the Prince d' Hericourt and his wife 1 Is not this admirable ? 
 This man is indeed, an enigma — but be he what he may, I hate him. Oh 1 
 I hate him unto death ; and, above all, of late ! — yet why, I know not. It 
 is, as it were, a dark presentiment, that he will one day injure me — that he 
 will wound me in the tenderest point ! After all, wherefore should I write 
 to you thus flightily ? I write to get rid of my bile ;— to blow off the up- 
 surging bitterness of my soul ! Well ! since — directly or indirectly — this 
 man has brought about the cold reception which the world now gives me, 
 Ursula has become unmanageable. I do not know, whether it is that she 
 feels humiliated, by the humiliations heaped upon me : I do not know whe- 
 ther it is that her self-love is wounded for me, or for herself ; but she ha3 
 dared to tell me, that I deserve this treatment by my odious conduct to my 
 wife. - She has dared to tell me ' that society does well to brand me thus ; 
 and that it ought, yet oftener, to inflict that sort of punishment on vices, or 
 on crimes, which set the laws of the land at defiance.' 
 
 " 'But,' I exclaimed, astonished at her audacity, ' are not you attacked 
 as I am? insulted as I am?' 
 
 " 'And, do you hear me complain of ife?' she answered me. ' The world 
 is just ; I chose— at whatever cost — (and oh, my God ! at what a cost has it 
 been ! — to be a woman of the first fashion — to shine brightest in the world 
 of Paris — to be the idol of its fêtes : all this I have been ! The world be- 
 lieves, that it was from love of you, I took you from your wife : for that, the 
 world thinks me odious. It is right ! but did it know, that I never loved 
 2 k 
 
374 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 you, it would think me more odious far, and far more infamous — and again, 
 the world would be in the right !' 
 
 " I ask you — is it not enough to make me kill her with my own hands ? 
 But she has so long inured me to her sullen fits — to her caprices, that I 
 should not have paid much regard to her ill- temper, if, for some time past, 
 it had not taken a new type of dull and obstinate silence. 
 
 " 1 do not dare confess, even to you, the follies of which I have been 
 guilty, in the hope of drawing her out of the state of melancholy stupor into 
 which she seems to have fallen. All has proved in vain. Now she refuses, 
 even to come down into the drawing-room to Mademoiselle de Maran. She, 
 who is strangely subject to the fascination of this woman, is as powerless as 
 I, to divest her from it. Ursula receives her sometimes with indifference — 
 sometimes with disdain. She passes whole days in her room, reading, or 
 musing. Her maid, who is a creature of mine, tells me that her mistress is 
 unquestionably under the influence of some deep sorrow — that sometimes 
 she scarcely knows her for the woman she was — that she passes hours toge- 
 ther walking athwart the room in strange agitation — then, that she seems 
 overwhelmed with anguish, and buries her head in her hands. 
 
 " She is much changed too — she has lost that rosy colour, which rendered 
 her complexion almost superhuman. She grows thin, losing that slight vo- 
 luptuous roundness, which lent so many charms to her tall slender figure. 
 Her eyes are sunken — for a month, I have not once seen on her lips that 
 bold and mocking smile, at once so formidable and so fascinating. 
 
 " From what caprice I know not, she often chooses to remain in total dark- 
 ness : at those times she will see no one. When I first discovered these 
 signs of melancholy, to which I could assign no cause, I hoped that grief 
 might perhaps soften the inflexibility of her character. So long as she was 
 gay and happy, I lavished on her gold to the satisfaction of her wildest 
 dreams ; now, melancholy and heart-sick, I would have striven to console 
 her by the treasures of delicate and passionate love — treasures, which I have 
 been hoarding long, but which I dared not offer her, so did I dread her 
 cutting raillery. 
 
 " I said to myself— Now is the moment, when I shall, perchance, sway her 
 to my wishes, by the power of the deepest devotion. Yet — no ! no ! — still 
 she escapes me. On my knees — on my knees before her — for this woman 
 makes me weep like the veriest child — 1 cried ; but I cried in vain ! 
 
 " ' Tell me, for pity's sake — what is it that afflicts you? Tell me, that I 
 may hope somewhat to console you; and you shall see what unheard-of re- 
 sources you will find in my heart. You have sometimes appeared surprised 
 at the wonders I have wrought, to gratify your most extraordinary wishes — 
 they then were nothing ; in truth, nothing to the wonders of affection with 
 which your confidence would inspire me, or the hope, even, that I could 
 save you a moment's sorrow.' 
 
 " Oh ! believe me, what I then said, weeping at the feet of this woman, I 
 felt — I experienced what, until that moment, I had never so much as dreamed 
 of — a sincere grief, a frightful sinking of the heart, caused merely by the 
 sight of Ursula's sorrow. I was ignorant of the cause of her grief ; but it 
 was she who suffered, and therefore I suffered likewise— it was a continual 
 outgushing, if 1 may so speak, of my spirit toward hers. 
 
 " I tell you that, this time, I was sincere. My prayers flowed from the 
 bottom of my heart; my sobs came from my very soul ; my tears were hot 
 and scalding as the tears of utter despair. In spite of all, this woman 
 remained dumb, indifferent, gloomy, as if she had neither heard nor 
 heeded me. 
 
 " Has this strange woman, then, become mad, or idiotic? Can she not 
 see how I love her? or does she not understand what it is to have won a 
 heart on which she may reckon, and for ever? Does she not know how rare 
 it is for any one to inspire a passion, such as I now feel consuming me? 
 Does she not know, that how criminal soever my love for her may be, it is 
 still a crime to cast that love to the winds? Does she not give one thought, 
 then, to the future ? Does she not think that one day, her youth, her 
 beauty, will be but an empty recollection, and that she will then be but too 
 happy to find this affection permanent, which she affects now to disdain ?— 
 this affection, which must be everlasting, because it has resisted her caprice, 
 her ingratitude, her scorn I Ah ! This becomes too terrible to bear. I 
 grow mad— mad with rage, against myself and her ! I cannot write further 
 —fury and torture blind me 1" 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 37P 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE, 
 if. DE LANCRY TO * * * 
 
 "Paris, 
 
 " As it was impossible for me yesterday to continue my letter, I have re- 
 sumed it to day. To record the new events which have taken place, I hope 
 to be able to arrange my thoughts as I write ; for at present, my head is a 
 cfeaos in which they boil without order or regularity. 
 
 " Let me recapitulate some facts and my own recollections. Yesterday, 
 after having dropped my pen, I went to visit Ursula. I was informed that 
 she was indisposed, and would receive none of her acquaintance. I pre- 
 sented myself three times, in order to gain admittance, but was repulsed, 
 and found it impossible to enter the door of her apartments. I returned 
 there this morning, when, to my great surprise, Mademoiselle de Maran 
 told me, quite moved, (that woman moved !) that Ursula had that moment 
 informed her that she was desirous of leaving the hotel de Maran, and of 
 henceforth living alone. Without listening to her further observations, I ran 
 to see Ursula, and her chamber-maid attempted to prevent me from entering 
 her room ; but I forced my way to her parrour, and found her, arranging 
 some papers in her secretary. 
 
 " ' Is this true ?' I exclaimed in my amazement, without informing her to 
 what I alluded. 
 
 " She looked at me in a melancholy and abstracted manner, and replied — 
 " ' What do you want?' 
 
 " * Mademoiselle de Maran has informed me that you were about to leave 
 this hotel — that is impossible!' 
 
 " She shrugged her shoulders, and without discontinuing the arrangement 
 of her papers, said : — 
 
 " ' It is possible, since it is so.' 
 
 " ' It shall not be,' exclaimed I, in a passion ; ' I forbid you ; I will not 
 permit it.' 
 
 " ' îfou forbid me ? It shall not be ? And what right have you to speak in 
 this manner?' she replied. 
 
 " ' Whether my rights are legal or not, I have rights over you, and I will 
 enforce them.' 
 
 " ' How will you enforce them ?' 
 
 " ' I tell you, that I do not choose that you shall leave this house ; and if 
 you do, I will follow you wherever you go,' I exclaimed. 4 Hear me, Ur- 
 sula ; do not drive me to desperation. I will explain to you, in two words, 
 why you and myself cannot be separated. I have sacrificed for your sake my 
 own wife. I am dishonoured in the world. You see, then, that it is impos- 
 sible for us to part. Fate has bound us together for life. Whatever my 
 destiny shall be, you must share it — you hear me, do you?' said I, gnashing 
 my teeth in rage, for the imperturbable phlegm with which she listened to 
 me lashed me into a phrenzy. 
 
 " She replied, glancing into my very heart, and audaciously meeting my 
 gaze— 
 
 " 'And I will tell you, in two words, why we shall have nothing to do with 
 «ach other. No person in the world has any right to control me. I shall 
 leave this house, whenever I please ; and if you presume to follow me — al- 
 though' no proceeding could be more brutal — I will apply to those who have 
 a right to protect me against your pursuit.' 
 
 " ' You will apply to the authorities — to the police, doubtless,' said I, with 
 a convulsive burst of laughter ; and as I gazed about me in surprise, I saw 
 upon the sofa a black satin domino. A flash of jealousy now passed through 
 my mind. I remembered that the carnival was the day preceeding, and 
 showing the domino to her, I said, ' Ha ! last night you went to the opera 
 ball, in spite of your assumed illness — in spite of your affected melancholy.' 
 
 " 'Yes, I did go to the opera ball last night, in spite of my assumed ill- 
 ness — in spite of my affected melancholy,' she replied; 'and that will prove 
 to you, I hope, that my desire to go there must have been very strong.' 
 
 " ' I see, I understand the whole of it,' Lexclaimed ; ' you are in love with 
 some one ; you have an intrigue upon your hands — a lover ; but, by hell ! the 
 man you wish to join shall not estape alive from my hands. And, to com- 
 
376 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 mence, I will remain here — I will not move from this place,' I exclaim&s, 
 taking: a seat upon the sofa. 
 
 *' ' Make yourself entirely at home, sir,' said she to me; and apparently 
 unconscious of my presence, she continued her operations. 
 
 4< Her coolness, indifference, impudence, exasperated me beyond measure. 
 I tore from her hands the papers, and threw them into the middle of the 
 room. 
 
 " She looked at me with undisturbed sang froid, shrugged lier shoulders, 
 and moved toward the door. I seized her arm rudely : 
 
 " ' You shall not go out,' I said ; ' you shall not move, until you tell me 
 why you went to the ball last night, without intimating your intention to me 
 — for there is no disguising your sickness ; you are pale, and much changed 
 in your appearance. Unhappy woman !' I exclaimed, unable to hide my 
 emotion and tears at the sight of her emaciated face, ' what imperious motive 
 could draw you to that ball ? — answer me.' 
 
 " Without saying a word, she gently disengaged herself from my grasp ; 
 and as I stood before her to prevent her exit, she quietly seated herself in an 
 arm-chair, and leaning her elbow upon its arms, rested her chin upon her 
 hand, and remained immovable and silent. I knew her intractable disposition 
 ■ — mildness and entreaty could move her no more than threats and violence. 
 The resolution which she had just taken was so sudden, it frustrated so en- 
 tirely all my hopes, that I wished to make a final appeal, to soften her feel- 
 ings. I addressed her in that language, which the most overmastering love 
 — the most sincere devotion — the most hopeless despair, alone can suggest ; 
 prayers, tears, sobs, supplications, made no impression upon her marble 
 heart. Wishing, at all events, to break her exasperating silence, I then went 
 so far as to add insults and reproaches ! but nothing — nothing could draw 
 from her a word. She was like a statue ; she did not even hear me ; her 
 mind was elsewhere ; her stare was strange, wandering, and apparently fol- 
 lowed her thoughts into space. Twice, a sad and feeble smile visited her 
 lips, and she moved her head slightly, as if she was responding to some re- 
 flection of her own mind. 
 
 " At last, in absolute despair, I went down to Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 This invariably selfish woman, could see nothing in the determination of Ur- 
 sula, but what concerned herself personally. She exclaimed, in a sort of 
 selfish pique, that after the departure of Ursula, the hotel de Maran would be 
 left entirely deserted ; that she had been accustomed to Ursula's wit and 
 lively disposition, and could not endure the thought of losing her; that she 
 was always frightened by solitude ; and entreated me to unite my efforts 
 with her's, to change the determination of Ursula, as if that was not my 
 strongest desire on earth. In spite of her grasping avarice, Mademoiselle 
 de Maran exclaimed, ' That she would make any sacrifices to retain Ursula ! 
 that if the forty thousand francs, which she had given me, was not sufficient 
 to make her house pleasant, she would give me more e ; in short, all that was 
 necessary, even if she was obliged to expend her capital ! That she had such 
 a short time to live, that she could afford the extravagance.' 
 
 " I have entered into these details, to show you, that Ursula had influence 
 enough to overcome, even, the extreme avarice of Mademoiselle de Maran. who 
 had thus far shamefully abused my prodigality ; and had hardly allowed me 
 sufficient money to sustain the establishment, which she had promised to do. 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Maran and myself now went to Ursula's room together. 
 She entreated her not to go. She exhausted all the resources of her intellect 
 and her suavity, to change her determination. But Ursula was inflexible; 
 and Mademoiselle de Maran wept, (think of fier weeping 1) and exclaimed, 
 amid her tears : ' That the situation of an old woman, abandoned to the 
 tender mercies of menials and hirelings, was, indeed, awful ! that she had 
 made so many enemies, that when Ursula left, no one would call to see her ! 
 that the revolution of July had dispersed all the relatives upon whom she 
 could rely !' Still Ursula remained unmoved. 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Maran, finally, became excessively enraged ; she ad- 
 dressed violent reproaches, spoke of her ingratitude and wickedness. Ursula 
 smiled, but opened not her lips. We asked her how she would live ? She 
 said, ' That she had still thirty thousand francs left from her dowry, and that 
 was sufficient for heifrsupport.' 
 
 " Such is the painful situation in which I am now placed. I know Ursula's 
 character so thoroughly, tihat I am convinced that nothing but a miracle can 
 change her determination. For two whole hours I was unable to draw from 
 ner a single word. I have tortured my mind in vain, to ascertain the cause 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 377 
 
 of this sudden resolution. My efforts have been as futile, as they were to 
 fathom the cause of that melancholy and despondency, to which she has been 
 for some time the victim. It cannot be remorse for her guilt. At first, I 
 suspected that she cherished for some one a profound passion ; but, although 
 I have seen her flirt with several gentlemen of her acquaintance, and have 
 often doubted her fidelity, my doubts never became certainties ; for nothing 
 in her intercourse with these gentlemen, indicated anything like a passion. 
 Toward them, as toward me, she was fickle, capricious, and singularly 
 haughty ; but I never saw her sad or thoughtful, as she has been for 
 month past. 
 
 " An idea presents itself to my mind, at this very moment. Yes ! why 
 should it not be ? Do not laugh at me contemptuously 1 why should not 
 Ursula's regrets spring from having caused me to squander more than half 
 of my fortune ! 
 
 " That which has always sustained me in my love, in spite of her capricious 
 and haughty disposition, is the conviction, that she cherishes for me a love 
 much stronger than she is willing to admit ; concealing the depth of her pas- 
 sion out of pride, and through fear that I shall perceive the influence which I 
 have over her : thinking that she can most effectually rule me, by alternate 
 tenderness and indifference. 
 
 " In leaving Mademoiselle de Maran's so suddenly, without disclosing to 
 me her intention to depart, why should not Ursula wish to demonstrate to 
 me that she loves me for my sake alone, by renouncing all the splendour 
 which I have lavished upon her? Subdued, finally, by so many proofs of 
 love, is not the disposition of that eccentric female likely to spurn the luxury 
 which first won her ? Perhaps, she is dreaming of a quiet and retired life 
 in seme remote corner of France, or some foreign country ? If it were so — 
 if it were so, I should expire with joy ! She has entirely changed my tastes 
 and my habits. I now hate society as much as I formerly adored it. My 
 only wish is, to pass my days in solitud* which her presence only should 
 relieve, where she should be entirely devoted to me, where every moment of 
 her life should be mine. Do not look upon these words as vain or exagge- 
 rated. This intrigue has already existed for two years, and I love Ursula 
 more ardently — more desperately, than on the day of its commencement. I 
 know myself, I know the resources of her mind, so piquant, so original, so 
 fruitful ; her beauty so enticing and so faultless, that she is perennially new. 
 Who would covet a harem that might take such a being to his bosom ? When 
 I had exhausted the delights peculiar to the honey-moon in the society of 
 my wife, all my anticipated raptures fled away ; no passion nor excitement 
 was left to vary the monotony, to relieve the tax upon my satiated tenderness. 
 But such intercourse with Ursula would be one incessant intoxication of 
 delight. 
 
 "No! no! every thing is now clear to my mind. After hiding her passion 
 for so long a period, Ursula can no longer dissemble it, and her love has, at 
 length, burst forth. Is it possible, probable, natural, that a female, however 
 corrupt, can remain insensible — can resist so much tenderness ? 
 
 " Pride does not blind me. I have made to you the most humiliating con- 
 fessions, so that I may be excused in a little self-praise: I am young, I "have 
 been very successful, I am not deficient in knowledge of the world, nor am I 
 destitute of wit. I have been loved — passionately loved by women who, in 
 the estimation of society, are worth as much as Ursula. To commence — by 
 my wife, by Madame de Richeville. Why, then, should not Ursula return 
 my love ? She says that it is in vain for her to attempt it ; for the very 
 reason that I love her so much, she is indifferent to me. Such are mere para- 
 doxes ; she is conscious that she is subdued by her passion, but she is un- 
 willing to own it. 
 
 " But that black domino 1 perhaps she may be jealous of me. I remember 
 now having told her, a few days since, that 1 designed to attend the ball 
 during the carnival. The events of yesterday prevented me. Ursula knew 
 nothing of the change in my plan ; she wished, probably, to watch me ; she 
 indulges occasionally in such sly manoeuvres. 
 
 " I am rejoiced that I have written to you. I feel better and calmeras I 
 conclude, than I did as I commenced my letter. My hopes revive. The more 
 I dwell upon it, the more firmly am I convinced, that the obstinate secrecy 
 of Ursula respecting her projects, and the cause of her despondency, are 
 auspicious omens for me. She feared probably that her replies might reveal 
 her secret ; her assumed absence of mind answered her purposes perfectly. 
 After an intrigue which has lasted for two years — disturbed- occasionally, by 
 2 k 3 
 
S78 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 jealousy and coldness— I must think, a man is not abandoned in this man- 
 ner without some powerful motive. After the immense sacrifices which I 
 have made to her, such conduct would be unnatural and barbarous. What, 
 in short, obliged her to come to Paris ? Her husband loved her sufficiently 
 to receive her back again, after the scene of Maran. I have even sus- 
 pected, that she might now return to her husband, her character is so ex- 
 ceedingly singular. But, no, no : it is impossible ! Without undue vanity, 
 I think I should not suffer in comparison with M. Secherin. I now re- 
 member certain remarks which produced but little impression upon me, 
 when I forgot myself so far as to insult her. I could read in her eyes nei- 
 ther anger nor hatred — nothing but perfect indifference. Now Ursula is 
 too violent and too haughty, not to have been affected by the insult — a 
 powerful reason alone could have restrained the outburst of her feelings. 
 Now what can that reason be, but her love for me? Was not my anger 
 even a proof of love ? Yes ! once more I must tell you, how much I am 
 rejoiced in having written to you. In thinking thus aloud and with confi- 
 dence, in following one reason up to another, and assigning results to their 
 appropriate causes, I have forgotten my despondency, and have reached al- 
 most the realization of my hopes. I close this letter in haste; answer me 
 by every mail. My first three letters are still unanswered. I do not, how- 
 ever, much regret it, for you will be able to judge more clearly of my po- 
 sition, by having all the facts before you. Your long experience in the 
 workl, your great impartiality, and your clear and penetrating mind, will 
 «nable you to appreciate my position precisely; to give me serious advice, 
 and to inform me whether, in your opinion, my conclusion is correct. All 
 depends upon that; my future life hangs upon this last determination of 
 Ursula. She at first frightened me ; but I now see her from such a point 
 of view, that a thousand delightful hopes are reflected. You may think that 
 they are very weak ; but do not, I pray you, destroy my illusions, without 
 giving me excellent reasons therefore; for you will find that I adhere ta 
 this last hope, with the greatest tenacity, and " 
 
 " Four o'clock. 
 
 "A curse on her, and on myself! Yes, on her ! I have this moment re- 
 ceived a note from Mademoiselle de Maran, informing me that Ursula has 
 left the hotel, and that no one knows whither she has gone. She informed 
 Mademoiselle de Maran by means of a note, that she would never see her 
 again. Is it not horrible ! What shall I do? alas! my presentiments ! my 
 foolish and insane hope! I see all clearly now, but I will be revenged. 
 Answer me, do answer ma : how wretched I am ! Furies and hell ! I will 
 be avenged 1 
 
 " G. de Lancry." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE MASQUERADE BALL. 
 
 The letter, by means of which M. de Lancry informed one of his friends 
 of the sudden disappearance of Ursula, completes in a striking manner the 
 history of the fatal loves of my husband and my cousin. I had just finished 
 what I was reading when M. de Rochegune entered my room. I had not 
 *seen him yesterday : having spent the entire day in a pious pilgrimage with 
 Bljndeau, I had passed the evening in the society of my melancholy thoughts 
 alone. 
 
 " Well," said he, giving me his hand, " how do you feel ? were you cou- 
 rageous yesterday ?" _ 
 
 " Courageous? yes, I did not fear that I should be carried away by the 
 regrets with which the loss of our excellent friend inspired me. Yet, I con- 
 fess, that a thought almost painful mingled with my sorrow, because it re- 
 sembled ingratitude." 
 
 " How so?" 
 
 " I thought that I should still have more lamented M. de Mortagne, had 1 
 not known you." 
 
 " I could address the same reproach to myself, Matilda, for I have com- 
 forted myself by determining to love her whom my friend loved — to protect 
 ber whom he protected : such thoughts are not faithless to his memory— 
 
THE MASQUERADE BALL. 
 
 379 
 
 only at times I said to myself, he would have been proud and happy at the 
 sight of our happiness." 
 
 " What a defender should we have found in him !" 
 
 "Do we need any ? does not the world admit the sincerity of our love ? — 
 the world which has such slight faith in pure and interested sentiments — 
 our love ! if you but knew I he charm contained in those words, for you 
 love me, Matilda, you love me." 
 
 " Yes, yes: I love you, and sometimes I ask myself, by what insensible 
 transformation, love sprung from the deep friendship which I always enter- 
 tained for you." 
 
 " Hear me, Matilda ! do you wish to make me happy ?" 
 
 " Speak ! speak !" 
 
 " Question your heart aloud ; let me know how much you love me, at this 
 day, at this hour: tell me all that is in it, good impressions and bad, with 
 the most positive frankness. I will impart the same confidence to you." 
 
 •' I think the idea a. charming one; I should rejoice, now and then, to ox- 
 plain the extent of my love." 
 
 " It would be displaying to each other, from time to time, the increase of 
 our treasures — the delights of the millionaire." 
 
 "Yes, and I think also, my dear friend, it would some day enlighten us 
 with regard to some dangers, of which, through weakness or false delicacy, 
 we might choose to be ignorant ; and we ought to exercise toward ourselves 
 the most implacable severity, when we think of the noble guarantee which 
 waits on our love." 
 
 " Yes; hearts less courageous than ours would, perhaps, regret the position 
 we have attained. But it is the same with certain positions as with threat- 
 ened thrones — they cannot be abdicated without shame; the more we have 
 to struggle, the more honourable will our struggle be." 
 
 " Say, also, the greater our happiness. The Prince d'Hericourt was re- 
 lating an anecdote the other day, which struck me particularly — I will soon 
 tell you of &n analogy which I discerned in it. Charged with a mission, 
 which was the more difficult, as he had to defend the best of causes against 
 diplomatists of the most finished skill ; instead of resorting to chicane, he 
 followed, merely, the impulses of his noble character, and acted with such 
 remarkable frankness, that his adversaries were completely baffled, and his 
 mission resulted in the greatest success. And thus, he said to me, it is with 
 life. Irreproachable conduct is not only the most honourable, but the most 
 secure, the most advantageous, and the most ingenuous — one might say, if 
 it were even all a subject of calculation." 
 
 "That is what he would call the cunning of an honourable man," said M. 
 de Rochegune smiling. " I agree with him, but let me see the application 
 of this generous theory." 
 
 " In a moment — but I must first inform you that I have disposed of your 
 leisure for to-day." 
 
 " Indeed ? what a pleasant surprise !" 
 
 " It is now three o'clock ; I have some purchases of ancient bronzes to 
 make, upon which I wish to consult your taste. The weather is very fine, 
 we will walk, and I will take your arm." 
 
 " It is çharming, and " 
 
 "Wait, that is not all : this evening I shall meet you at Madame de 
 Richeville's, where you are to dine as well as myself; and we will go from 
 thence to the concert with her, Emma, M. de Sèmur, the Duchess de 
 Grandval and her husband; we will then come here and take tea, for I am 
 going to consecrate this little house, and I have confided the secret to you 
 alone." 
 
 " Now, Matilda, I confess to my shame that I am almost indifferent to 
 the application of the theory of the noble prince." 
 
 " You must yet hear Hie further : I have the strongest wish to see the pic- 
 tures in the old gallery. You speak of painting like a poet; I do not mean 
 that remark for a sarcasm, but an expression of praise, and I anticipate much 
 delight in making the excursion in your company." 
 
 " No more than I do in yours; for I have always thought that it was 
 necessary to be in love and to be loved, in order to appreciate all the 
 beauty of great master-pieces of art ; they are then seen through a medium 
 of golden light, which makes them dazzle divinely — we shall need several 
 days to do them full justice." 
 
 "I hope so, my friend, for we must be slow. lia you see me with my 
 
380 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 arm in your's, pausing in admiration before some creation of Raphael or 
 Titian ? What an inexhaustible topic for long and sweet conversation !" 
 
 "Yes; for your mind is keenly alive to impressions, and you possess an 
 exquisite sense of the beautiful." 
 
 "And you, my friend, by what art 1 know not, always discover the 
 means of applying everything we behold to our love. I am sure that in our 
 pleasant walks through the galleries, you will prove to ine that Raphael, 
 Titian, Veronese, produced those works with express reference to our af- 
 fection — selfish man !" 
 
 " Yes, genius grants its bounties, to each and to all ; it answers every 
 thought, as God answers every prayer." 
 
 " You will not be embarrassed in justifying yourself; I believe that even 
 I could aid you. Now, here is the application of the Prince d'Hericourt's 
 theory. Do you think that we could execute so many charming projects — 
 that we could live from day to day without trouble or scruples, in this easy 
 and delightful intimacy of every day, and of every instant, if our love were 
 any different from what it actually is ?" 
 
 "Oh! my friend," said I, unable to restrain a tear of joy, "woman 
 alone can feel the tender and excessive gratitude which is due to him, whose 
 delicacy knows how to save her from the sharne, and the remorse of love!" 
 
 "And one must be loved by you, Matilda, to understand that there may 
 exist celestial delights, in which the soul seems to swell with a passionate 
 adoration; — that there are, in short, enjoyments so pure and etherial, that 
 they dissolve all our sublunary instincts, in the exalted ecstacy to which 
 they elevate us. I believe, now, in the delight of a union of souls." 
 
 " What increases my happiness in our love," said I to M. de Rochegune, 
 
 is, that it is exposed to no dangers — the fluctuations of ordinary passion ; 
 the elevated sphere in which it floats, lifts it above all the perils of satiety. 
 Why should it not last for ever ?" 
 
 " For ever ! yes, for ever ! for you have truly said, there is no mortal ele- 
 ment in it: You have truly said, that the precious liberty which we enjoy 
 is a delightful recompense. If you could but imagine all the rapture I ex- 
 perience in such a life — if you could know all the plans which I form !" 
 
 " You can form no idea of the projects in which I indulge; I am some- 
 times thrown into confusion, because they are so inseparably blended with 
 your future." 
 
 " That future belongs to you — let this then no longer confuse you, Ma- 
 tilda." 
 
 " My confusion is the embarrassment of wealth. I have a thousand de- 
 .igns, and I hesitate at none. You do not know of how many romances you 
 Are the hero. For this year, however, I have determined upon a jaunt to 
 Italy; we will travel with Madame de Richeville. The Prince and Prin- 
 cess d'Hericourt will join us at Florence, on their return from Goritz." 
 
 M. de Rochegune looked at me with much surprise, and added, smiling, 
 " I know not why I should be astonished, I desired nothing else in the world 
 — yoyi have anticipated me, which is quite natural." 
 
 " Quite natural !" 
 
 " Yes ; even at exciting your laughter at my metaphysics, I shall contend, 
 that, from such sentiment, such projects naturally spring; the more exalted 
 the sentiment is, the more frequent and normal these mysterious sympathies 
 of the will become ; — excuse me for that word." 
 
 " 1 will excuse you, on account of your theory; although very extrava- 
 gant, it pleases me much. Thus, then, my proposed journey to Italy " 
 
 " Charms me, I can have no greater pleasure than to travel with you over 
 that paradise of promise — over that home of the arts." 
 
 " Perhaps we could then settle for some time in that country — one winter 
 at Naples or at Rome; — what do you think of it? Madame de Richeville 
 would be delighted by such a residence." 
 
 " I say nothing, Matilda: I wish for nothing: I think of nothing; you 
 have my life — you may dispose of it." 
 
 " Well, then, we will spend a winter at Naples ; and when we return 
 from Italy, we can pass through Germany, so as to see the beauties of the 
 Rhine, in all the beauty of spring. Perhaps we may sojourn for some time 
 in one of those old castles, which command a view of that beautiful stream." 
 
 " That is another of your ideas, which would surprise me, if I was not 
 already aware of the sympathy between us. Tlie same idea occurred to my 
 own mind on my return* from Rouen. I hired the chateau at Aremberg. It 
 
THE MASQUERADE BALL; 
 
 3S1 
 
 is delightfully situated, and I spent three months in it. You will recognize 
 the place, I am sure, where you dwelt so long with me in fancy. What a 
 delightful prospect is before us, in the intimacy of travel. We shall still be 
 nearer to each other. We shall exchange daily our impressions — our joys — 
 our reveries — even our sadness." 
 " Our sadness?" 
 
 " Yes — the wishes of my father might have been realized." 
 
 " Be reasonable, my friend. Ought we not to give thanks to Heaven for 
 the unexpected happiness which it grants us?" 
 
 " Oh! Matilda! there is no bitterness in that regret; it is one which is 
 full of melancholy. Imagine a man perfectly happy upon earth — yet dream- 
 ing the happiness of heaven." 
 
 " But how far we have wandered from an examination of our hearts. I 
 will not excuse you from the confessional." 
 
 " Well, Matilda, what do you feel for me at this moment ? I listen to you 
 with as proud an attention as a poet would to the recital of his lays; for, in 
 a word, your love is my own work." 
 
 After a few moments of reflection, during which I examined my own mind 
 with great fidelity, I replied to M. de Rochegune : u There is a very great 
 difference between what i feel for you nqw, and the emotions which I felt 
 some lime since. I cannot explain myself, without resorting to a compa- 
 rison. You just alluded, in your conversation about your travels, to a ro- 
 mantic castle on the banks of the Rhine. Well — when I am a traveller, if 
 a situation, at once romantic and picturesque, arrests my admiration, my 
 thoughts rest upon it with delight. I say to myself, How sweet it would be 
 to spend my life in the midst of a vast solitude, enlivened only by the beau- 
 ties of nature, the dark outlines of the mountains, the smiling meadows, the 
 mysterious twilight of the woods, the clearness of the waters, the romantic 
 spectacle of the lofty towers — I admire the whole. But the contemplation is 
 not without its bitterness; for there is mingled with it a wish, that by some 
 caprice of destiny, all this natural magnificence should belong to me solely. 
 Let me but live "for ever in this Eden: — when my admiration becomes ex- 
 clusive — when these beauties become mine — I become proud of them — I deck 
 myself with them. Then the chateau really becomes mine." 
 
 " Excellent, Matilda. May the security, the certainty, of the possession, 
 recompense you for the want of that magnificence which would be worthy 
 of you." 
 
 " Oh ! my security is perfect, my friend ; and I am certain that my con- 
 fidence is not misplaced. I aever shall be jealous of you ; for you never 
 can feel for another woman, the affections which you experience toward 
 me." 
 
 " Neither those or any others, I assure you." 
 
 " My friend, let ns speak of what is probable and possible. There are 
 the promises of eternal fidelity, which only can be given by a woman's 
 heart, and which a woman alone can be certain of fulfilling." 
 
 " Hear me, Matilda. I do not wish to exaggerate my feelings. Not only 
 have I spoken to you with sincerity, but I am happily able to mention one 
 fact, in proof of what-i have alleged." 
 
 " Indeed ; what is it?" 
 
 " Seriously, Matilda — since I have been assured that you love me, there 
 exists no other woman in the world for me ; you are the standard to w hich 
 I apply every other being, and all become indifferent to me. I have the 
 proof of it — a proof quite recent." 
 
 " Gome, come — the proof," I said : " full confidence. I wish ta see 
 whether I have as little reason to be jealous, as you pretend," said I, 
 smiling. 
 
 " The day before yesterday, when we left Madame de Richeville's, w here 
 we passed the evening together, I found a small billetdoux, when I returned 
 nearly in these words: — 'A very unfortunate person, who has some claim 
 upon your consideration, begs you to grant her a moment's conversation : 
 and she ca^i meet you upon no other occasion, than at the opera ball this 
 evening.' " 
 
 At these words of M. de Rochegune, I know not what foolish — what fatal 
 thought passed through my mind î M. de Lancry, in the letter which Ï had 
 just read, spoke of reproaches addressed to Ursula, on account of some mas- 
 querade ball, which she had visited secretly. I imagined, that my cousin 
 was the heroine of the adventure which M. de Rochegune was about lo re« 
 
332 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 late to me. My excitement was so great, that I exclaimed, " At the opera 
 ball the night before last !" 
 
 M. de Rochegune attributed this exclamation to some other cause than 
 the real one. 
 
 " It may seem to you strange, Matilda ; but have yon forgotten that 
 Thursday night was the night of the carnival? I regarded this appointment 
 of an interview as quite singular. My first impulse was, not to go; but I 
 changed my mind, after reflecting that some person in serious misfortune 
 might not dare to reveal her sorrow, except under the protection of a mask. 
 I forgot to tell you, that I was to be waited for from twelve till four in the 
 morning. That proof of patience almost confirmed my suspicions. I there- 
 fore went to the ball; but unfortunately for the rendezvous, I was accosted 
 by Madame de Longpré, whom I did not recognize until after a quarter of 
 an hour's conversation ; then by another lady, very gay, very amusing, 
 whom I could not recognize at all; and whose talk I should have enjoyed 
 highly, had I not supposed that some one was waiting for me with great 
 anxiety. At length, I arrived before the clock at halt-past two." 
 
 " Well, what happened ?" said I, to M. de Rochegune, attempting to dis- 
 guise my anxiety. 
 
 " As I was standing under the clock, I saw a female in a black satin 
 domino; her head was sunk upon her breast. Absorbed in profound medi- 
 tation, she probably did not peiceive me. Wishing to ascertain if this was 
 the individual with whom I had the appointment, I went to her and said, 
 ' if you are waiting for any one, Madam, he is at the same time very happy 
 and very culapble.' The domino shuddered; raised her head quickly and 
 said in an agitated voice, 'I pray you, sir, let us leave the saloon.' There 
 was a great crowd, and it was several minutes before we were able to 
 pass through it, the movements of which brought me near enough to the 
 stranger, while giving her my arm, to perceive that her breast was beating 
 violently." 
 
 "And was the lady tall?" 
 
 " A little taller than you, Matilda ; very slender, and seemed to possess a 
 charming figure. To escape from the crowd, we ascended the corridor to 
 the second boxes. The female trembled ! I proposed to take a seat. ' No .' 
 no 1' she exclaimed, in an agitated voice, and pressing my arm con- 
 vulsively, ' it is the first time that I have been able to lean upon this noble 
 arm, and it will be the last — let us walk.' " 
 
 "But, what did she say to you? what did she want?" 
 
 "To speak to me, about you." 
 
 " About me ?" 
 
 "With profound admiration." 
 
 "She wished to speak to you of me — of me!" I exclaimed, almost per- 
 suaded that the mysterious domino was no other than Ursula. 
 
 "Yes; to speak of you, in terms of admiration, which I envied. Never 
 has your heart, your mind, or your misfortunes, been praised with more 
 touching eloquence. I was delighted while listening to the female. I was 
 charmed by the passionate admiration with which she spoke of our love 
 and our happiness. Truly, Matilda, to understand the nature of those sen- 
 timents, she must have been almost capable of experiencing them." 
 
 " Do you believe so, my friend ?" 
 
 " I have no doubt of it. What shall I tell you ? having once commenced 
 the conversation, under the protection, under the charm of your name, I 
 anticipated with regret the moment when it would conclude. I never met 
 a lady with a more active and appreciating mind. After having expressed 
 her admiration of our love, she went on with sarcasms against those who 
 were envious of it. I am much deceived, if that woman is not endowed 
 with a character of severe energy : for, by a singular contrast, her voice — 
 which was sweet and melodious in speaking of you, became sharp and im- 
 perious when she spoke of our enemies. I never shall forget the descrip- 
 tion which she gave of your husband, and your infernal cousin !" 
 
 " Did she speak to you about Ursula?" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Por a long time, and with great indignation and contempt. She cut up 
 Ursula and M. de Lancry without mercy. Your cousin was, I think, 
 treated with more severity than your husband ; she seemed to take a fe- 
 rocious joy in upbraiding the shameful conduct of that woman. Her sa- 
 irical mind lashed Mademoiselle de Maran with a force, a brilliancy, and a 
 power which carried me away. In former times — and this is the point at which 
 
AWAKENING. 
 
 389 
 
 I desire to arrive — in former times, I should have been captivated with her 
 bold, and almost impudent style, when she attacked vice— with her sensibility 
 and feeling, when she praised what was noble and beautiful. Well, these 
 contrasts affected me powerfully, at the time, but have left no impression be- 
 hind them. I am but little curious, even indifferent ; whereas, formerly I 
 should have exerted all my faculties to penetrate the real character of that 
 mysterious creature. But it is quite natural, Matilda ; every thing which 
 does not concern you, inspires me with antipathy. You have rendered me 
 very fastidious ; you have, as it may be said, purified my taste, and raised me 
 above the earth." 
 
 " And the lady— do you believe her to be beautiful and young ?" 
 
 V I do not know whether she is beautiful or not ; but the sweetness of her 
 voice, the perfection of her form, the suppleness of her walk, incline me to 
 believe that she is young. What do I say? I do not doubt it. I forgot 
 that I saw her hand ; and if I had not seen yours, I should have believed hers 
 the prettiest hand in the world ; but, at any rate, its whiteness, its round and 
 polished outlines, announced youth certainly." 
 
 "And how did the conversation conclude? what did the woman want at 
 last?" 
 
 " ' She wished to have,' she said, ' the only conversation which it was 
 possible for her to have with me ; to judge for herself, whether what had been 
 said about me was true, and to express to me the vows which she had offered 
 up for our happiness ; and finally' — but you will laugh at me and my un- 
 known, and you will have good reasons for doing so." 
 
 " Speak ! speak ! I pray you." 
 
 " In the first place, Matilda, I must inform you that I was surprised ; for 
 I did not expect such a singular proof of admiration." 
 
 " Speak ! speak ! I assure you that I will not laugh." 
 
 " Well : at the time of parting, the unknown gave me her hand cordially. 
 I took it, — but truly, it is as ridiculous to repeat the folly as to be guilty of it." 
 
 " I wish to know all." 
 
 " Prepare, then, to laugh. . The unknown carried my hand to her lips, 
 under her mask, with a movement of timid submission and passionate ea- 
 gerness, which filled me with surprise. Her head was inclined downward — 
 a tear fell upon my hand — and the black domino suddenly disappeared in 
 the crowd." 
 
 Under some trifling pretext, I postponed until the next day the walk which 
 I proposed to take with M. de Rochegune, and remained alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AWAKENING. 
 
 I was on the point of revealing to M. de Rochegune, who the mysterious 
 domino actually was, that he had met at the opera ; but fearing to act in- 
 considerately, I wished to give myself time for reflection. 1 knew thoroughly 
 the heart and character of M. de Rochegune. He must necessarily feel for 
 Ursula, great aversion and dislike ; and yet that woman's powers of fasci- 
 nation were almost irresistible. I had fatal proof of it. By skilfully speak- 
 ing in my praise, she had succeeded in securing a favourable hearing from M. 
 de Rochegune, and in pleasing, interesting, and strongly exciting his curiosity. 
 I was not sure that I could destroy all these impressions by naming my cou- 
 sin ; and by suffering him to remain in ignorance of her name, he would pro- 
 bably forget the mysterious interview. In his letter to a friend, unknown to 
 me, M. de Lancry had spoken of the despondency in which Ursula was 
 plunged, and of the extraordinary change which had "taken place in her habits. 
 She who had been formerly so trifling and careless, had now determined to 
 leave the gay and brilliant society of the hotel de Maran, and she had ful- 
 filled her resolution. In putting these facts in connection with the adven- 
 ture at the opera house, I asked myself, whether a violent and impetuous 
 passion for M. de Rochegune, whom she knew by sight, and of whom every 
 lady spoke, had not assailed the heart of Ursula. I recollected the passage 
 in her insolent letter to my husband, in which she described, with such burn 
 ing eloquence, the love which she might perhaps, one day feel, for a. man 
 who could rule her despotically. In short, the woman had already been fatal 
 to me in my dearest affections ; — would she not persevere in her hatred, and 
 
384 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 injure me still more ? I did not suspect the fidelity of M. de Itochegune. 
 I did not disparage myself in a spirit of false humility ; but I foresaw, 
 vaguely, the dawn of some new misfortune— some unexpected calamity. 
 
 I was not mistaken. That misfortune happened— that blow struck me ; 
 if not from the hand of Ursula, at least from her influence, which has always 
 proved fatal to me. What remains to me to enter on, is a psychological in- 
 quisition, so intricate, that I had to summon my most secret recollections to 
 bring together the almost invisible links of the chain, which brought on one 
 of the most important — one of the most painful events of my life. I have 
 promised to disclose — even shameful weakness, even unpardonable errors ; 
 and I will not falter from a confession, however distressing— from an ex- 
 planation, however singular it may appear. 
 
 Can you imagine what struck me the most in the interview between 
 Ursula and M. de Rochegune ? Can you tell what thrilled me with the deep- 
 est sensation — what overpowered all my thoughts — what filled me with con- 
 fusion — what caused the first blush which coloured my brow, the first shame 
 which entered my heart — what made me distrust myself, my courage, my 
 virtue — my claims to the high esteem which was entertained for me ? 
 It was the kiss which Ursula gave to the hand of M. de Rochegune. 
 It may appear extravagant, impossible, deplorable ! I know it — for at this 
 very moment, when I am writing in solitude, I cast down my eyes, as if my 
 shame and confusion were visible to every one. Yes ; when M. de Roche- 
 gune spoke of that kiss, my cheeks became crimson. I felt as if an electri- 
 cal spark had passed into me ; — a strange emotion, at once evident and pain- 
 ful, affected me with the most singular shuddering; all the blood in my 
 system rushed to my heart, in spite of myself, while M. de Rochegune was 
 speaking: I could not remove my eyes from his hand, as if I detected there 
 the mark of the burning kiss which Ursula had imprinted upon it. For the 
 first time, I perceived — or rather, I was pleased to observe — that his hand 
 was of perfect beauty ; for the first time, I felt a pang of jealousy, of which 
 I dared not trace the cause nor the consequence. However trifling these 
 emotions may seem, I was frightened at them, as symptoms. If my love had 
 been as pure, as ethereal, as I had thought it, that kiss would not have made 
 such an impression on me. This new proof of the antipathy of Ursula might 
 have made me indignant, but it could not have trouhled me. Alas ! I do 
 not intend to say that, unless that circumstance in the interview between M. 
 de Rochegune and Ursula had happened, I should have for ever escaped 
 from such emotions. Perhaps I only anticipated the fatal moment, when I 
 was fully to perceive the vanity of all my noble aspirations — the weakness of 
 my character — the tendency of guilty love ! but I assure you, by all that I 
 suffered, it was a distressing revelation to me. 
 
 Tiiose who have for a long time implicitly relied upon themselves, on that 
 stability and elevation of their principles, which raise them far above the 
 common levels, can appreciate my grief. 
 
 I was not deceived — as a spark suffices to kindle a conflagration, that im- 
 pression was sufficient to enlighten me as to the nature of my love. What 
 would then my life henceforth be ? If I should prove courageous enough to 
 restrain my criminal inclinations, what struggles, what hidden torments, what 
 burning tears, what shame would devour me in silence ! What torture would 
 that intimacy be to me, which thus far had been so sweet 1 what care must I 
 take to guard constantly the unhappy secret, which an infection of the voice 
 — a glance might betray ! Must I destroy — must I tarnish by fear, by re- 
 verse, an affection which had thus far been so confiding, so pure, so holy ? 
 
 And then, to fill the cup of my bitterness and misery, she was the cause of 
 profaning my love. " No, no," I exclaimed; " I would rather a thousand 
 times to die, than be guilty of this final baseness. Should I be base enough 
 to yield, I should not only justify my husband in abandoning me, but also 
 shamefully abuse my venerable benefactor." When I was alone, deserted, 
 brokeh down by despair ; friends had arisen to me, and sustained me ; 
 lavished on me attention and devotion ; nay, were the more inclined to com- 
 miserate my past misfortunes on seeing my preference for a man who was 
 worthy of me. These friends nad said to me, " You have suffered much ; 
 your heart has been broken ; but have coffrage, hope for better days. The 
 tender friendship which we show you is not enough for one who has been so 
 long deprived of all the sweets of affection ; a sentiment stronger, but as 
 pure as it is ardent, will engross your soul ; we have for you, and the man 
 you love, so complete a confidence, that we shall regard that love as your 
 safeguard. " 
 
AWAKENING. 
 
 333 
 
 And I — am I unworthy of that confidence ? if I were unknown in the world, 
 I might be infamous enough to abuse it. Under the protection of such 
 austere guaranties, if I should have the baseness to conceal a culpable love, 
 would not such conduct sink me even below Ursula ? She at least has the 
 audacity to own her guilt ; she tramples upon the laws of society, whereas I 
 should but add hypocrisy to other ignominy. " No, no ;" I exclaimed 
 again, " I would rather die a thousand deaths than sink so low." Such was 
 the future prospect which this thought, rapid and burning as lightning, dis- 
 closed to my view. At first, I rebelled against these conclusions— I wished 
 to drive them from my mind ; but they returned thither with redoubled 
 power. I could not avoid thinking of the features of M. de Rochegune, of 
 the graces of his person — I, who had hitherto been indifferent to these advan- 
 tages — I, who had only admired him for his character and his moral qualities. 
 
 I cannot understand, even now, how the slight incident to which I have 
 alluded should have produced so strong an excitement. These thoughts must 
 have necessarily been, for a long time, smothered in my bosom ; and nothing 
 could have been wanting, but an occasion to draw them forth. 1 cannot de- 
 scribe my fears in contemplating the future — my gloomy anticipations, my 
 vague terror. I must confess all. In my despair, I regretted being so highly 
 esteemed by the world ; for I could not fall without appearing doubly culpable. 
 
 Yes ; many a time I envied those who were held in less consideration. 
 Should I then fail in my duties, said I, the judgment of the world would be 
 less severe ; — the shameful conduct of my husband would excuse me. What 
 shall I do ? said I to myself ; what must I do ? — fly, abandon him whom I 
 love ? would it not be to isolate myself again, to surrender myself to tears 
 and despair ? No, no: I cannot endure the suffering. Can I leave also my 
 good and devoted friends ? Can 1 leave him whom I love with so much 
 passion — so much idolatry ? Was it then with this love, as with all others, 
 which reveal their irresistible power at the first touch of sorrow ? The first 
 time it cost me tears, I felt for the first time its immensity. I wished to 
 know whether my tears had actually a sufficient cause, whether my imagin- 
 ation had not exaggerated my sentiments. If, at the next interview with M. 
 de Rochegune I perceived any change in my impressions, I should be com- 
 forted. 
 
 About six o'clock I went to see Madame de Richeville. M. de Rochegune 
 was to dine with me there, and we were afterward to go to the concert. 
 
 " Well, my dear Matilda," said the duchess to me, " have you improved 
 this delightfully cold day to make your purchases ? What does M. de Ro- 
 chegune think of the ancient bronzes ? He is so much of a connoisseur, that 
 I have perfect confidence in his taste." 
 
 For the first time, I felt that I blushed while speaking of him ; but I en- 
 deavoured to reply in a firm voice — 
 
 " I have not been out ; I have had a slight headache." 
 
 Madame de Richeville smiled, pointed her finger at me, and said, " The 
 idle one has forgotten herself in her fine talk witnher friend, and the bronzes 
 have been sacrificed." 
 
 " No, I assure you that I " 
 
 " Between us you are right ; it is certainly difficult to tear yourself away 
 from the charms of an agreeable conversation. I hope, however, you did not 
 keep him too late. The concert commences with a symphony from Beeth- 
 ovén, and I should be sorry to lose it." 
 
 " M. de Rochegune left me very early." 
 
 " He must have had some important business, then, if he did not spend 
 the entire morning with you. Indeed, my dear Matilda, I sometimes fancy 
 that I am dreaming, when I think that such an intimacy exists between 
 a lady of twenty and a gentleman of thirty, and that the scandal-mongers 
 dare not breathe a word against you — for this good trait remains in the 
 world, that people are enthusiastic for anything that is new, There are very 
 few people, however, who have such qualities as yourself and M. de Roche- 
 gune, with which to silence calumnies." 
 
 These words of Madme de Richeville, which would have been very agreeable 
 to me on the previous day, now renewed my embarrassment and blushes ; 
 but, fortunately for me, my hostess soon changed the subject, and did not 
 discover my emotion." 
 
 " Men of heart and honour are very rare. I cannot avoid the reflection, 
 when I think that one of these days Emma must be married." 
 
 " What do you fear, my friend 1 Does she expect to find a man worthy 
 of her V 2 l 
 
5S6 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " If maternal love does not blind me, she expects nothing at present ; but, 
 alas ! to deserve is not to obtain." 
 
 " Only think how beautiful she is, and how wonderfully endowed." 
 
 "Yes; but her birth !" said the duchess ; "I shall probably be obliged 
 to find a husband for her in a class beneath our own. The fear does not 
 proceed from my pride, but from my affection. There are a thousand deli' 
 cacies of manner, prescriptive and almost general within our sphere, which 
 we can find nowhere else. The more the character of Emma developes 
 itself, the more am I convinced, that it would be impossible for her to en- 
 dure certain manners and certain usages. Yet I am almost sorry that she is 
 gifted with such an exquisite susceptibility ; she is a perfect sensitive plant. 
 But since our conversation has turned to that dear child, I must mention 
 to you one fact which I have hitherto concealed." 
 
 I looked toward Madame de Richeville with surprise. 
 
 44 Perhaps I am mistaken ; since the remark which I have made does not 
 seem to strike you, Matilda, who are particularly interested in it." 
 " Me ? explain youself, I beseech you." 
 
 ". Well, then," added Madame de Richeville, with some hesitation, " have 
 you not perceived, for some time past, a slight change in the conduct ot 
 Emma toward you ?" 
 
 44 No, indeed — or rather yes ; for it seems to me that she has been more 
 tender of late, more obliging to me ; and, perhaps, I have not mentioned 
 tc you a little childish speech which proves her warm attachment.- About 
 eight or ten days ago, observing her thoughtful, as she often is now, I said 
 to her, 'What are you thinking about, Emma,?' 4 1 am thinking that I 
 should like to be called Matilda,* she replied. 4 Why so ? is not Emma a 
 charming name?' 4 Yes, but I prefer Matilda.' 4 But for what reason?' 
 said I. 4 1 prefer that name because it is yours.' I think that the dear 
 child spoke truly, for her sincerity has always been of the most unques- 
 tionable character. 
 
 44 You are right, Matilda ; I have indeed studied her attentively ; frank- 
 ness is with her perfectly spontaneous, which explains to me many of 
 Emma's singularities. The poor child does not know how to dissemble, she 
 relates every thing that enters her mind ; she almost thinks aloud, and the 
 tendency of the feeling which she expresses seems to be almost unknown to 
 her. I sometimes think that it may be a weakness of judgment." 
 
 44 How can you jndulge such a thought, when Emma astonishes yourself 
 and your friends by her facility in acquiring knowledge, and the charming 
 grace with which she answers questions that are put to her ? I, who have 
 often carried my self-examination to excess, find, that to unveil with perfect 
 frankness all the impressions which the mind receives, is an attribute of a 
 soul of angelic beauty alone. Do you not often discover greatness of mind, 
 in a refusal to ask itself the aim and reason of thoughts ?" 
 
 44 Yes ; you are right, you comfort me ; your heart understands her, you 
 love her like a sister, and the poor child cherishes for you the same feelings. 
 You cannot imagine the admiration which she feels for you. She asked me 
 to allow her to imitate you, to dress her hair in the same fashion which you 
 use. That did not surprise me, for you arrange your hair in the most be- 
 coming style ; and she asked me to allow her, so far as it may be becoming 
 in a young lady, to follow your manner of dressing." 
 
 44 Dear Emma! she loves me so much, and you have accustomed her to" 
 extol, in such a high degree, what you call my advantages ; that in her sim- 
 plicity she thinks she can express her admiration in no other manner than 
 in imitating me." 
 
 " You are right, my dear Matilda; but there is one thought which strikes 
 me : it is that " 
 
 At that moment Emma entered the parlour, and Madame de Iticheville 
 made me a sign to remain attentive. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE CONCERT. 
 
 Emma approached Madame de Richeville, who kissed her upon the fore- 
 head ; then, as was usual with her, after having embraced her mother, she 
 came toward me ; — but, all at onoe, she stopped, as if struck by some sud- 
 
THE CONCERT. 
 
 3H- 
 
 den thought ; her lovely face and alabaster neck were suffused witfh a lifeljr 
 colour. For a moment she cast upon me a 100k from her large eyes, whose 
 expression was indescribable ; then she lowered them beneath he*r long eye- 
 lashes, and her countenance assumed a colouring mere lively still. Her 
 mother indicated to me, by a sign, that she wished me to take notice of 
 Emma. The latter after a moment's silence, placed both her hands upon 
 her heart, and said, with an accent of charming frankness : 
 
 " Heavens ! how my heart beats !" and then added, while looking at her 
 mother, " I do not know why I am unable to avoid blushing at the sight 
 of Madame de Lancry ; 1 feel so agitated, that I must pause an instant be- 
 fore I can embrace her." 
 
 And then, as if she had triumphed over an internal struggle which was de- 
 picted on her features, she cast herself upon my neck, saying, with a most 
 bewitching grace : 
 
 " Ah ! happily, it is over now, though for a moment it is truly painful." 
 
 Madame de Richeville gave me another glance, and said to Emma : 
 
 " But now, my child, what do you experience ? What is this agitation ?" 
 
 " I do not know," said she, shaking her pretty head, with an air of an- 
 gelic innocence. " I arrived so joyfully ; but, all at once, at the sight of 
 Madame de Lancry my heart beat painfully ; but this feeling has rapidly 
 passed away, and all my happiness has returned on embracing her." 
 
 With that, Emma give me another embrace. 
 
 " And since what time, my dear child, have you experienced these sensa- 
 tions ?" said I, pressing both her hands in mine. 
 
 " I do not know : they came by degrees ; and that which I do not under- 
 stand is, that every day, both my pain and pleasure increase. Yet, no," 
 she added, as if interrogating herself ; "no ; it is more than pleasure that I 
 experience, now that thè pain has subsided, which your presence first 
 caused me." 
 
 "How is that?" demanded her mother, interested, like myself, in the 
 last observation." 
 
 " It is," said she, hesitating, " as if I had the consciousness of having 
 done a good action — as if I had triumphed over a wicked thought." 
 " But what is this wicked thought?" said I. 
 
 " I do not know — I do not believe I ever had it," she answered ; " but 
 yet it appears as though the wrong were the same." 
 
 Madame de Richeville and myself still looked at each other in silence. 
 Madame de Semur and the Duke and Duchesse de Grandval were succes- 
 sively announced. The conversation became general. M. de Rochegune, 
 w.ho was the only one now expected, soon arrived. After shaking hands 
 with Madame de Richeville, he approached me. Involuntarily, my first 
 thought was, to refuse the hand which he extended to me. Observing his 
 astonishment, I hastened to accept it. 
 
 I do not know whether he found mine burning or cold ; — I do not know 
 whether he noticed my blushes, and the slight trembling by which I was 
 agitated ;— I do not know whether he guessed the motions which afflicted 
 me ; — but he retained my hand within his own, for perhaps a second longer 
 ttian was benefitting, and I withdrew it hastily. 
 
 " How do you do ? — have you got rid of your nervous headache ?" he asked, 
 with a feling of interest. 
 
 " I thank'you, sir, a thousand times ; I continue to feel some pain." 
 
 My answer excited new astonishment in M. de Rochegune. Our intimacy 
 had been so openly acknowledged in the small circle of Madame de Richeville, 
 that I never addressed him as sir, nor did he ever call me madam. 
 
 For the first time, I was confused at this proof of intimacy. Dinner was 
 announced. M. de Grandval offered his arm to Madame de Richeville. M. 
 de Rochegune offered his to me. I said to him, almost in a tone of reproach, 
 and in a low voice : 
 
 " And Madame de Sémur ?" 
 
 It was too late. Madame de Sémur, passing before us, had taken, in a 
 lively manner, the arm of Emma. Now that I recall to mind, one by one, 
 all these awkward incidente, or rather all these involuntary confessions," I can 
 only attribute them to my cruel confusion — to my absolute want of dissimu- 
 lation. Without believing myself guilty, I had already lost my serenity of 
 conscience. I felt a repugnance to enjoy the pleasing privileges of which I 
 considered myself less worthy. 
 
 If reflection had not already quickly convinced me of the effect of my hn* 
 
388 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 prudence, the expression of M. de Rochegune's countenance, the intonation 
 of his voice, as he sat beside me at the table, would have informed me of it. 
 
 " What, in the name of Heaven ! was the matter with you a little while 
 ago," he said to me, in a sad and soft voice. 
 
 These words recalled me to myself. For the first time, I understood the 
 necessity of dissembling ; — at all events, willing to forego, until a later mo- 
 ment, the justification of my late answer, I replied to M. deRochegune, with 
 a smile : 
 
 " Nothing was the matter with me. It was mere childishness, which I will 
 explain to you ; besides, I am suffering somewhat from my nervous headache ; 
 but I feel that it will soon pass over." 
 
 Encouraged by these words, M. de Rochegune entered into conversation 
 with his usual spirit. I entirely recovered myself. The only thing which 
 struck me as singular, was the frequent looks which Emma cast toward me. 
 She appeared desirous of penetrating the very depth of my thoughts. At 
 first, I returned her look with a smile ; but her features remained as impas- 
 sible as a mask of marble ; — her look became so steady and penetrating, that, 
 feeling uneasily, I endeavoured to avoid it. I was on the point of again 
 yielding to my feelings — foolishly believing that Emma had conjectured the 
 thoughts which agitated me ; but, with a renewed effort — with a renewed 
 exertion of the will, I elevated myself above such impressions. Then, to this 
 constrained effort, there succeeded a species of enthusiasm which I could not 
 resist ; instead of feeling ashamed at the emotion which I first experienced in 
 the presence of M. de Rochegune, I blindly surrendered myself to it. On 
 my cheeks I felt a slight feverish heat ; my reserve was completely dissipated. 
 I became very talkative, and frequently Madame de Richeville and our friends 
 made remarks upon my liveliness, which even astonished myself. The din- 
 ner was very amusing. Almost immediately after it was over, we set out for 
 the concert. This time I very courageously accepted the arm of M. de Roche- 
 gune. I made a firm resolution. I desired to make a decisive proof, by pass- 
 ing the entire evening with M. de Rochegune. I did not change, in the 
 least, degree, my habits of familiarity. 1 was unwilling yet to question any 
 new impressions that I might experience toward him. For once, well con- 
 vinced that my fears were well founded, I would then enter into a firm resolve. 
 
 We arrived at the concert. I was placed in the front seat, between Ma- 
 dame de Richeville and Madame de Grandval ; the gentlemen of our party 
 were behind us. I do not know whether my conquered and subdued emo- 
 tions, joined to a kind of nervous irritation which I found in myself, predis- 
 posed me more strongly than usual to the enjoyment of music ; but 1 expe- 
 rienced a most unspeakable ecstacy, and my intoxicated soul was swept 
 away in the waves of that harmony, by which I was swayed. Above all, I re- 
 member how, by an odd coincidence, everything concurred to enrapture me 
 still more. 
 
 Rubini was singing most charminglyhis air, in the somnambula. Madame 
 de Richeville, in a transport of involuntary admiration, seized my hand, say- 
 ing to me, 
 
 " Heavens ? how sublime that is !" 
 
 Behind me was placed M. de Rochegune. He was partly leaning forward, 
 that he might better hear Rubini. His breath — which I lightly felt on my 
 bare shoulder, and in the curls of my hair — caused a sudden thrill to pass 
 through me ; and further, while listening to those songs which were so 
 deeply passionate, I inhaled the penetrating perfume of a magnificent bou- 
 quet of roses and stephanotis — the cherished gift of a beloved friend. 
 
 No, no — never, during my life, shall I forget that moment of perfect hap- 
 piness. To have beside one her best friend — to enjoy the presence of the 
 man who is adored — to be lulled by the most enchanting sounds, and ine- 
 briated by frje perfume of flowers, received from the lover's hands ; — is not 
 this enough to steep the senses in the very intoxication of pleasure ? 
 
 I will not shrink from any avowal. I have confessed it. 
 
 I recollect, with a kind of voluptuous anguish, that, until then, I had never 
 éxperienced the like. Never had the presence of M. de Rochegune so vio- 
 lently agitated me, or caused so delicious an emotion. I remember, in fact, 
 the change which influenced my love — a change so guilty, as to give to all 
 my feelings, but lately so sweet and serene — a keenness so bitter and con- 
 suming, as both to charm and terrify me at the same moment. Yes ; at that 
 instant, I, who had ever been without vanity, felt most proud of my beauty. 
 My countenance must have betrayed me ; for, after Rubini had finished, and 
 Madame de Richeville and myself had leaned back by the side of M. de Roche- 
 
THE CONCERT. 
 
 gune, the duchess, after contemplating me a moment, in silence ; said, in a 
 low voice, to our friend — 
 
 " Look at Matilda ; I never saw her look so beautiful." 
 
 He fastened his eyes upon mine, with an air both of astonishment and rap- 
 ture ; shivered slightly, and, by an expressive sign of the head, assented to 
 the admiration of Madame de Richeville. 
 
 " Do you, indeed," said I to the latter, "think me beautiful now? I 
 should be delighted, if it were so," I added, looking at M. de Rochegune, 
 steadily : " I never shall be happier, to be thought beautiful." 
 
 M. de Rochegune surveyed me with equal steadiness, for a second. It is 
 impossible to describe the electric power of that look, which agitated the in- 
 most fibres of my heart. During the short space in which I gave way to my 
 thoughts, I experienced intoxication, faintness, ecstacies, and fears, which 
 banished from my mind the present, the past, and the future. Yes ; in that 
 gaze of a second, which answered to my own, I saw kindled, in an instant, 
 the fires of the most ardent passion. 
 
 The concert recommenced. M. de Rochegune leaned forward, as if oppress- 
 ed, and rested his forehead upon both hands. I frequently turned my head 
 round to notice him, and found him always in the same position. 
 
 The concert ended. It was agreed that we should take tea at my house, and 
 I invited some persons of our society, whom I met at the concert. 
 
 I returned in the carriage with Madame de Richeville, Emma, and M. de 
 Rochegune — the latter was very taciturn, and lost in thought. I asked Em- 
 ma if the music had given her pleasure : 
 
 "No.it gave me pain; 1 suffered much," said she in a low voice — "it 
 was with the greatest difficulty that I avoided weeping. It appears to me, 
 that singing transforms itself into a harmony of heart-breaking sadness to me." 
 
 We reached my house. 
 
 In passing before the glass, I was struck with the appearance of my face. 
 Why should I not confess this vanity ? as Madame de Richeville had told me, 
 I was more beautiful than ever. I recollect that 1 wore a dress of light-blue 
 watered silk, trimmed with lace and carnation ribbons ; camellias, of the 
 same colour, were placed in my fair hair, the long locks of which floated down 
 almost to my shoulders. 
 
 During the hasty glance which I took of my person, it seemed to me that 
 my figure was more elastic, my eye more brilliant, my complexion more 
 transparent, my lips more rosy, my gait more majestic. I felt that I was 
 ruled and animated by some superior power. I entertained views of happi- 
 ness which were almost ideal, when I encountered the anxious and tender 
 gaze of M. de Rochegune. 
 
 I was entranced in admiration of his noble countenance. I was surprised 
 that I had never before observed his personal advantages ; — for beauty is to 
 man what grace is to woman ; each of his glances penetrated into my soul, 
 and filled it with confusion. I could no longer deceive myself ; this fatal 
 experiment revealed to me all the extent — all the depth — of my passion. 
 
 The evening passed away like a dream. Singular to relate, in spite of the 
 pre-occupation of my mind, I performed admirably the duties incumbent 
 upon me as hostess. When she left me, Madame de Richeville kissed me, 
 and told me, " I will repeat to you, what I have before told you — that your 
 face never appeared more charming." Notwithstanding my tender affection 
 for Madame de Richeville, I was glad to see her depart. I felt that the ar- 
 tificial spirits which had thus far sustained me, were now abandoning me. 
 
 As soon as the duchess had left me, exhausted with the emotions of the 
 day, I felt that I was fainting ; and soon fell almost senseless, into the arms 
 of poor Blondeau. The trial through which I had passed, convinced me, 
 that my pure and sentimental love was a dream — a chimera. Had the weak- 
 ness of my character, or the ardour of youth put to flight these delightful 
 illusions ? Or is such love, in fact, one of those Utopian — one of those fatal 
 surfaces — which hide an abyss ? I knew not. Had not other women pre- 
 served a just and prudent medium between indifference and passion ? Were 
 their natures firm enough — their souls so elevated — that they could smother 
 the timid and bashful whisper of desire ? — I knew not. Is, in short, platonic 
 love possible, between two persons, who adore each other with all the ardour 
 and reverence of youth ? I hope so ; — I believe so. I would rather entertain 
 doubts respecting myself, even respecting, others, than surrender entirely a 
 moral and consolatory idealty. The rapidity with which bad thoughts in- 
 vaded my soul, frightened me ; and the lurid light they threw over the calm 
 attachment which I had cherished but the day before, alarmed me. 
 
 2 h 3 . 1 
 
190 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 How sullen and cold my past happiness appeared to me ?— with what in- 
 ^atitude did I spurn from me the elevated delights which I had enjoyed. 
 Tnat sudden change is still an inexplicable problem to me. Even if I had 
 forgotten ray duties toward M. de Rochegune — said I to myself — his words 
 could not be more affectionate, his kindness more charming — his attentions 
 more delicate. Can there, then, be in guilt, and the remorse which it pro- 
 duces, a fatal attraction ? Can there be, in the violent agitations of a trou- 
 bled conscience, a fascinating charm ? Or, do we believe that we cannot 
 *.ive an absolute proof of our love, excepting by sacrificing to it virtue, peace 
 et mind, and the repose of life ? 
 
 I was still bitterly humiliated by the thought, that our affection was, per- 
 haps, profaned by myself alone ; and that M. de Rochegune had probably 
 sufficient strength of mind to overcome his passions — to prefer a happiness, 
 pure and holy, to the anguish of a culpable love, which might prove morti- 
 fying and ephemeral — yes, mortifying and ephemeral ; — for the consciousness 
 of a first fault carries with it the horrible penalty, of destroying all self-con- 
 fidence and self-respect. If we have once broken the most noble resolutions, 
 why shall we not break them again ? If we at first believed in the power of 
 the soul over the senses — but were deceived — why should we not be again 
 deceived, as to the constancy of the passion to which we surrender ourselves ? 
 Once more — there is nothing more horrible, than the idea of that successive 
 legradation, which the first departure from virtue drags after it ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 You may be astonished, that I should reason in the same manner as if I 
 had been already culpable ; — it is because I foresaw, that if M. de Roche- 
 gune was as weak as myself, I should not have sufficient strength to resist 
 my inclinations. The moral consequences of this venial fault were also the 
 same ; I could see but little difference between the conviction that I should 
 become guilty, and the remorse which follows actual shame. I could rely 
 upon nothing but the delicacy and honour of M. de Rochegune ; I had, 
 therefore, determined to conceal from him all the novel emotions, of which 
 I was the victim. I felt, that if I was once suspected, I was lost. 
 
 I expected to see M. de Rochegune the day following the concert. He 
 came about two o'clock, very affectionately, and begged of me to exclude all 
 visitors. I observed that he was pale and dejected, and there was an in- 
 describable languor in his countenance, which I had never observed before. 
 Some decisive movement was necessary upon my part. I felt that my whole 
 destiny depended upon the firmness of my resolution. I summoned all my 
 strength, all my powers of dissimulation, in order to compose my features, 
 and to appear careless and gay. 
 
 I hastened to say to M. de Rochegune, in a very lively manner, " You 
 must have found me exceedingly tedious, yesterday morning, did you not ? 
 After requesting your arm for a walk, I sent you away — confess, that 1 am 
 Very capricious." 
 
 M. de Rochegune was silent for a moment, and then said to me : 
 
 " Matilda ! do you believe in my honour?" 
 
 " Good Heavens ! what a grave preface, my friend." 
 
 " Grave, very grave, and it should be so." 
 
 " And why ?" 
 
 After another pause, he proceeded : " Matilda, I never told a falsehood. 
 Yesterday I promised to confide to you all my thoughts, good or bad. I did 
 not then think that I should so soon be compelled to keep my promise." 
 
 *' Indeed, my friend, you almost frighten me— what is this sudden change ?" 
 
 "Matilda! it seems to me like a dream! To explain what I feel, is im- 
 possible. 1 yield, I know not, to what fatal charm, which, since yesterday, 
 has overcome my firmest resolutions, and my most fixed principles. I am 
 not the same man, nor you the same woman !" 
 
 " What can you mean ?" 
 
 " Since yesterday, you appear to me different from what you ever appeared 
 before." 
 
 "I ! I do not understand you," said I, endeavouring to smile ; " I^annot 
 conceive why I appear to you in so different an aspect, since yesterday." 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 391 
 
 *' I have in vain attempted to explain the cause of the transformation. I 
 have been unable to do it. I have in vain asked myself, why your presence 
 yesterday produced an emotion which I have never felt before. Your coun- 
 tenance was not even the same ; for Madame de Richeville remarked it, as 
 well as myself, and told you that you never appeared so charming before, 
 which was true. Your expression, which is usually so calm, so mild, and so 
 serene, was by turns full of excitement or of languor; your voice was more 
 thrilling, your complexion more animated, your smile more enchanting; and 
 I thought I perceived a shiver as I breathed upon your shoulder. You were 
 surrounded by a magnetic atmosphere, which attracted and overpowered me. 
 No, no ; it cannot be an illusion — you were, and are now, more beautiful 
 than you ever were before ; or rather, your loveliness has received an addi- 
 tional charm." 
 
 " You are certainly much more poetical than usual, my friend, and you 
 seem desirous of trying me with new flatteries. My dress was, probably, 
 more becoming yesterday, which explains all the mystery of the change. 
 There is certainly no change in the sentiments, as a friend and sister, which 
 I feel toward you." 
 
 " My sister ! my sister ! I never loved you as a sister — I have told you so 
 before. Only thus far I have had courage — thus far I have had a will of my 
 own — thus far I have supposed I could love, with impunity, a woman like 
 you. Until now, I have supposed that the intimacy in which we lived, could 
 be sufficient for me. I have believed that the sublimity of an ideal love, and 
 the admiration with which it inspired me, would raise me above all less 
 ethereal instincts. But, Matilda, I no longer possess that courage — I no 
 longer hold to that doctrine ; resolutions, vows, promises, are all forgotten 
 — my passions, so long restrained, have overpowered my will. I confess it, 
 I confess it, Matilda, I alone am culpable ; but I beseech you to have pity 
 upon me, for my burning and passionate love has disordered my reason." 
 
 I trembled at the danger to which 1 was exposed. In revealing to me his 
 own emotions, M. de Rochegune had also revealed my own. I could scarcely 
 contain a secret feeling of pride and happiness, at knowing that I was so 
 passionately adored. I soon, however, gathered my courage — I felt myself 
 strong, in beholding M. de Rochegune so weak. I said to myself, that it 
 would be a beautiful act of benevolence to elevate again that noble soul to 
 its former height, and to save both him and myself. I only feared the influ- 
 ence of my feelings, so long as he participated in them. 
 
 After a few moments silence, I replied to him in an affectionate tone, yet 
 calm and serious : 
 
 " Pardon me, my friend, for replying to you at first so pertly. You have 
 given me, in this confession, a touching proof of confidence, for which I thank 
 you ;" and I gave him my hand, with dignity. The reserve of my language 
 struck him. I continued : 
 
 " Although there is, perhaps, some exaggeration in what you [have told 
 me, I am not surprised at it — I have expected it." 
 
 " You, Matilda !" 
 
 " Yes, my friend. Remember our conversation of yesterday— did you not 
 tell me, ' the intimacy in which we live, is only to be guarded by our sacri- 
 fices ; the greater they are, the greater will our merit be.' " 
 
 "Matilda!" he exclaimed with excitement, "speak not of the past, an 
 abyss yawns between yesterday and to-day !" 
 
 "Then, my friend," continued I, smiling, "like the fairy in the legend, 
 Ï will throw an invisible bridge over that abyss — I will take you by the hand, 
 and will lead you back into the celestial regions of purity, where, as in past 
 days, our souls will rise, proud of their elevation." 
 
 In spite of the smile upon my lips, my heart was grieved. M. de Roche- 
 gune appeared painfully affected by my words. He remained silent for a 
 moment, and then continued, with a sadness that was almost fearful: 
 
 " You are right, Matilda, the past has been as you describe it; I did en- 
 tertain that noble faith, those generous aspirations : 1 did love you thus. 
 My character was energetic, my will firm, my word sacred, my heart brave, 
 But some incomprehensible phenomenon has changed the whole. I cannot 
 understand it— yet it is true. Even yesterday, I was telling you of the hap- 
 piness which I enjoyed ; I could almost see the best wishes of my father 
 realized. To day, my ambition has been changed into frenzy ; but that 
 ambition has not sunk me in my own esteem — it has elevated me." 
 
 " What do you mean, my friend? would it aot be to profane our love, 
 to " 
 
392 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 He did not allow me to conclude ; but said, in a grave and thoughtful 
 tone, — " To profane it ? oh, no, Matilda ! do not suspect in what I say to 
 you, any of that subtlety by which the hypocrite would disguise a culpable 
 love. I o»ly express to you the ardent desires of youth ; I express also, the 
 most noble wish which God hath implanted in the heart of mortals — the wish 
 for lasting happiness by the domestic fireside. In one word, Matilda, I 
 shall worship you more as a wife, than as a mistress, You are, at the same 
 time, so beautiful and pure, that the passion which you inspire, becomes 
 chaste and serious ; your thoughts sanctify everything : — they would even 
 give, to a culpable love, the sacred character of conjugal affection." 
 
 " Well, my friend, I entreat you, by the sentiment which you entertain 
 for me, to moderate your enthusiasm." 
 
 " No, no ! the happiness which 1 enjoy does not satisfy me — because it is 
 incomplete. It is not the liberty of seeing you which I crave ; but I de- 
 Bire to spend my whole life with you, to be bound to you by indissoluble 
 ties ; I desire the right of revealing to you the full extent of my devotion, of 
 being indebted -to you for all my happiness." 
 
 " But have you not always been to me a friend of unequalled kindness and 
 devotion ?" 
 
 " And what is that compared to a life in which we could enjoy all the 
 gifts which God bestows on those he loves ? — in which we could learn from 
 admiration to worship ? — in which the moral would increase the charms of 
 the physical beauty ? — for if God intended that a noble soul should inhabit 
 a noble form, in order that these two charms should be united ; to separate 
 them, would be to wrong nature." 
 
 " What language !" 
 
 " It differs much from my language of yesterday ; but I spoke the truth 
 then, and I speak it now." 
 
 " But the change is sudden ?" 
 
 "It confounds me, overwhelms me, Matilda: to explain it, I must resort, 
 to the common illustration — that the last drop of water causes the cup to 
 overflow. The most trifling circumstance decides the most important events, 
 when the hour arrives. To-morrow, the accent of your voice, the pressure of 
 your hand, might have set free the full violence of my restrained passion. When 
 I spoke to you of sacrifices yesterday, Matilda, I did not use a vain expression 
 — but heroism has its limits ; and one fixed thought is now ever present 
 to my mind. It is of living with you, in the depths of some solitude ; for 
 
 to me, the pleasures of the world are vanity. Matilda, if you would " 
 
 but he interrupted himself, fearing that he had said too much. 
 
 I understood him too well — I had myself the same wish. But it was ne- 
 cessary that my lips should longer continue to belie my thoughts — to dis- 
 guise the impulses which I felt in the bottom of my soul. It was necessary, 
 for the same end, to answer him with cold and severe words. 
 
 " Indeed, my friend," I replied, "I find you much altered. Is it you, 
 who propose to me to trample under foot all the proprieties of life, all its 
 duties ? to prove to our friends, that their confidence has been misplaced ? 
 Think of the sarcasms that they would aim at us. Would it not be, in fact, 
 to make them the accomplices of our guilt, after they have relied upon our 
 principles and our honour ? Now, be frank, and answer me : If I should 
 consent to fly with you, what would the Prince d'Hericourt and his wife, 
 who have so nobly protected us, think ?" 
 
 This question seemed to embarrass M. de Rochegune ; he hesitated for a 
 moment to reply, and I was sorry that I had proposed it ; for, it seemed to 
 me, alas ! to admit of no answer. 
 
 During this conversation, in spite of the apparent reserve of my words, I 
 was conscious, from my inward agitation, that I was more in love than ever ; 
 and I was even more passionately in love than M. de Rochegune himself. 
 My passion drew nearer a paroxysm every instant, and I was on the point of 
 saying to him, " let us fly," when he continued sadly. 
 
 " I have never been guilty of a falsehood, Matilda ; nor will I, on this oc- 
 casion. If you will consent to go with me, I will disclose the whole to the 
 priace." 
 
 " And what reproaches would not he have a right to address you ?" 
 
 " After all, who cares," said M. de Rochegune, with a painful expressions, 
 " for the opinion of the prince, or the world ?" 
 
 " Will you dare to brave it ? When we renounce society, do we not coa« 
 demn ourselves ? Do we not virtually surrender its esteem ?" 
 
 " What more can be required ? Could we not have acted less nobly ? C»uli 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 393 
 
 we not have abused the confidence bestowed upon us ? It is not difficult to 
 deceive those who are prepared to be deceived beforehand." 
 
 " Both you and myself are incapable of such infamy." 
 ' I know it. Should we have courage to renounce the high position to 
 which we have elevated ourselves ? Have we not always proved ourselves 
 worthy of it ? A shameful fall would be a voluntary abdication ; we should 
 sacrifice to our own enjoyment, the admiration of the world. There is nei- 
 ther shame nor treachery in this — I would say it to the face of any one." 
 
 "Alas! my friend," said I, interrupting him, "should we avoid being 
 guilty, by publicly confessing our guilt ? That would not be a generous cou- 
 rage, but a gross breach of all propriety : should we fall, we should be com- 
 pelled to fly like criminals." 
 
 " If that happy time should ever arrive, it would be the proudest day of 
 my life." 
 
 " Can you speak in this manner of my shame and dishonour ?" 
 
 " Dishonour ! Are you not free ? Has he not virtually divorced you ? Is 
 there any resemblance between your situation and that of other women ?" 
 
 " No ! at this day and at this hour, I cannot be compared with any other ; 
 but, should I forget my duties, I should to-morrow resemble a thousand 
 other females, who avenge themselves upon the deceit of their husband, by 
 deceiving him in their turn. Shall I, too, fall from the summit of human 
 elevation to the depths of contempt?" 
 
 "And will not that contempt secure your own happiness, and avenge you? 
 He who lives for the world may fear it, but he who lives for himself, in soli- 
 tude, is above the world. Friends, pride, ambition, duty, I have forgotten 
 all. I live for one thought, for one desire ; you — and you only." 
 
 " What ! your life, your future, the unfortunate people depending upon 
 you, your country, to whom your eloquence is so often serviceable?" 
 
 M. de Rochegune shrugged his shoulders : " Politics are nothing but 
 chimeras ; — as for my beneficiaries, I can administer to them from my retreat. 
 We will be as an unseen Providence to them ; they will lose nothing : such 
 love as ours will increase our benevolence. You look at me with surprise. 
 Matilda, you are astonished to hear me speak in this manner, who was for- 
 merly anxious for what I now despise." 
 
 " I am both surprised and rejoiced." 
 
 " What do you say?" 
 
 " This sudden change in my thoughts proves that my influence over you is 
 increasing. I was formerly proud of that influence ; it inspired you with the 
 noblest actions ; — but I blush for the incentives which it gives to actions un- 
 worthy of us." 
 
 "And why do you say so? Who can say that some illustrious example of 
 devotion may not spring from our tumultuous passions ? I know not what 
 the future has in reserve, but God did not create us in vain. Yes ; and our 
 apparent fall will conceal some mysterious purpose. Two souls like ours 
 cannot meet in a true and deathless love, without having some influence up- 
 on mankind. Yes ; a voice, which has never deceived, now whispers that, 
 in spite of reproaches and banishment from our friends, they will be drawn 
 back to us by a chain of events, and become more devoted to us, because we 
 shall be worthier of them." 
 
 " In what manner ?" 
 
 " I know not, but I am sure of it. I tell you, that whatever appearances 
 may be, our love will be as pure and elevated as heretofore : the future will 
 prove it." 
 
 The accent and countenance of M. de Rochegune expressed full confidence 
 in what he uttered. I felt almost persuaded that a brilliant destiny was in 
 reserve for our love, and that, in spite of my determination to remain cold 
 and sullen, I must give way to my excitement ; and I exclaimed : — 
 
 " Yes, yes, I believe you; it seems to me that you interpret the inmost 
 thoughts of my heart." 
 
 " Matilda !" he exclaimed, falling upon his knee and taking my hand in 
 his, with a gesture of passionate love ; " come, my friend, let us fly : my 
 love — my angel — my wife !" 
 
 These words, and the enraptured looks of M. de Rochegune, restored me 
 to myself. I drew back suddenly. 
 
 " Matilda," he exclaimed, hiding his face in his hands, " pardon me ; I 
 am mad." 
 
 A few moments sufficed to control my emotion. I told him, in as cool a 
 
- 
 
 894 MATILDA. 
 
 manaer as I could, " You are indeed mad, to believe that I should expose 
 myself to blush both for you and for myself." 
 
 He cast upon me a disconsolate look, and exclaimed, in a distressing tone — 
 
 ** Alas ! you do not love me as I love you !" 
 
 *' I confess it." 
 
 If I had the strength not to undeceive him— not to own to him that I 
 shared his inordinate passion — his ideas, just or unjust, elevated or ignoble 
 —it was because, at that very moment, I was adopting the resolution to fly 
 with him, if, after a final and desperate struggle, I could not overcome this 
 fatal passion. 
 
 To reserve to myself full liberty to act, it was necessary that I should 
 move from him all hope, and render him my auxiliary, unknown to himself, 
 in the struggle which 1 wished to attempt. 
 
 " I do not love you !" said I to him. " Can you address to me so cruel a 
 reproach ? Is it not because I fondly love you, that I have the courage to 
 save both you and myself from eternal remorse ?" 
 
 He arose, and commenced walking to and fro in great agitation, wiping the 
 tears from his eyes. I had still a hard trial before me. Some locks of his 
 hair having been displaced, I saw, on his forehead, the scar of that wound 
 which he had formerly received in coming to inquire for me, when he was 
 caught by M. Lugarto's stratagem. The sight of that scar, recalling to my 
 mind the long years of M. de Rochegune's devotion, rendered it still more 
 painful for me to hide from him the emotions which I felt. He stopped 
 suddenly before me, and said : 
 
 " Matilda, do you believe that it is possible for me to hide from our friends 
 the emotions which agitate me ?" 
 
 " I think that, by reflecting upon the cruel consequences which " 
 
 He interrupted me : " Reflection ! the will has no power to conceal so 
 powerful a feeling. Will not our friends also observe, every instant, a re- 
 straint — an affected reserve — which will contrast too strongly with our 
 habitual intercourse ?" 
 
 " It may be so, my friend ; but by commanding your feeling, this pass- 
 ing excitement will die away. You are so resolute, that you will overcome 
 this insane passion." 
 
 " It is because my character is firm and resolute, Matilda, that I feel still 
 more powerfully the sentiment which subdues me ; but it is also because I 
 am firm and resolute — " and then he hesitated. 
 
 " Speak, my friend, speak!" > 
 
 " Well, it is because I am resolute, that I shall have strength enough to 
 adopt the only resolve which can save us both :" then, his lips contracted by 
 despair he said in an agitated voice, " 1 shall have strength to separate my- 
 self from you." 
 
 This blow was so terrible— I was so unprepared for it, that I exclaimed, 
 clasping my hands : 
 
 " Part from me! — no, that cannot be ! Good God! you cannot entertain 
 the thought!" 
 
 " Rut what then shall I do, unhappy woman ? To cease visiting you ? — 
 that would create a thousand suspicions ; would provoke inquiries from our 
 friends, which will be the more urgent, as we ought not to conceal anything 
 from them. To live with you as heretofore, is impossible to me. 1 will, 
 therefore, under the pretence of a journey " 
 
 " You shall not go — I will not permit you ! I do love you; and have trea- 
 sured in you all my hope — all my futurity ! It is impossible for you to 
 abandon me thus. There cannot be such cruelty in your heart." 
 
 "Rut what can J do?" 
 
 " I know not ; but for heaven's sake ! — in the name of your father's me- 
 mory, do not desert me ! I could not survive it ! I have been so wretched, 
 that 1 have no strength left for new sorrows !" 
 
 " Hear me, Matilda. You do not believe me capable of threatening you 
 with a departure, in order to compel you to follow me. I never speak nor 
 act inconsiderately. After having considered everything, I see no other al- 
 ternative. I will then depart, and may God help us !" 
 
 "Heavens! you frighten me !" I exclaimed, struck with the desponding 
 expression of his countenance. 
 
 He understood my meaning, and replied : " My thoughts upon the sub- 
 
 {'ect of suicide will never alter ; it is a cowardly act, and I am incapable of 
 •eing a coward. It is because I cannot commit self-murder, that I shall 
 
A VISIT. 
 
 3§5 
 
 kenceforth be the most wretched of mankind !" and again, sobbing vio- 
 lently, he concealed his face in his hands. 
 
 Overcome by his tears, I was on the point of confessing to him every- 
 thing ; renouncing the last struggle, and telling him how much I loved him, 
 when, after a moment's silence, Be raised his head and said : 
 
 " We are mad ! to think of deciding, in one hour, the destiny of our whole 
 lives, Matilda 1 Not a word more — we are under the influence of too strong 
 excitement to continue tfiis conversation. I will depart to day, and will re- 
 turn in a fortnight, with my own mind unchanged. I assure you of it. But 
 as for you, leisure will be afforded you to consider maturely, the proposition 
 which I have just made. I will return then, to consecrate to you my whole 
 life, or to part with you for ever ! I will not write to you. I will leave you 
 alone to commune with your own soul. All my hope is, that the past will 
 speak to you of me, and that the future will speak to you for me.'' Then 
 giving me his hand, in a most solemn manner, he told me in a voice trem- 
 bling with emotion, " We will meet once more, in a fortnight 1" 
 
 I pressed his hand, repeating, " In a fortnight!" and he disappeared. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A VISIT. 
 
 After the departure of M. de Rochegune, I melted into tears. I reproached 
 myself for my apparent insensibility. 1 feared that I had plunged him into 
 despair, and had perhaps driven him from me for ever. 
 
 I regretted bitterly that I had not followed my first impulse, which 
 prompted me to abandon everything and follow him. If he should desert 
 me, would the cold and heartless esteem of the world compensate me for the 
 loss of that love, in which I had concentrated all the hopes — all the hap- 
 piness of my life? In the midst of these distressing perplexities, I asked 
 myself, whether it was not more through pride, than through principle, that 
 I resisted ? I endeavoured to convince myself that it was, in order to have a 
 pretext for yielding to the wishes of M. de Roch-egunc. 
 
 Then I reflected with rapture on the life which I could enjoy with him. 
 The strength of his character, his talents, his exquisite tenderness, all fore- 
 told the most joyful existence for me. I perceived, more and more, the 
 truth of M. de Rochegune's former remarks. Had not my love for M. de 
 Lancry been a surprise of the heart ? I had no serious reason for loving 
 him before my marriage. His pleasing person, the graces of his wit had 
 won me. In my determination to marry him, notwithstanding the prudent 
 council of Madame de Richeville and M. de Mortagne, there was more of 
 thoughtlessness, more of a disposition to escape from Mademoiselle de 
 Màran, than of matured love. Afterward, when the wrongs of my husband 
 toward me became intolerable, I continued to love him from the mere effect 
 of habit, through heroic endurance and self- denial ; and more particularly 
 in consequence of that almost irresistible influence, which the first man she 
 loves always exercises over a young girl. In my sorrow, I detested the word 
 love ; I used to blush at it as at a criminal thought ; and yet, in cherishing 
 that love for my husband, I fulfilled a sacred duty, At length, when driven 
 to despair by his final treason, which cost me the life of my child, I es- 
 caped fron the tyranny of M. de Lancry, and I only retained for him a cold 
 contempt. 
 
 What a difference, on the contrary, was there in my love for M. de Ro- 
 chegune ! His generous devotion to me — the admiration which his dis- 
 tinguished qualities inspired, had, at once, almost unknown to myself, 
 planted in my heart the deep roots of that love. When I found myself 
 morally free, he gave me new and touching proofs of the most constant, and 
 most elevated affection. To my admiration for him — a severe and controll- 
 ing sentiment — was united a warm and tender friendship, which was fol- 
 lowed by pure and ideal love, and, finally, by burning passion. The gradual 
 changes of the sentiment insured its permanency. 
 
 Like all great, predominating, and lasting things, that love had a deep 
 and solid foundation. As the oak — which the lightning rends, but does not 
 uproot — that love had imperceptibly grown ; the storm might scatter its 
 leaves, but never could tear it from the earth, whence it sprung: — in one 
 word, such was the difference between those two loves. In loving my hus» 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 band, în devoting myself to him with the blindest self-denial, I had expc* 
 rienced a sort of shame ; I had been the most wretched of women. While 
 resigning myself with courage, my sufferings had excited but little sympa- 
 thy ; my resignation appeared soulless. On the coutrary, I was happy and 
 proud of my love for M. de Rochegune ; the world approved of me ; I fek 
 elevated by that sentiment, which the most inflexible morality sanctioned. 
 At times, these reflections seemed omnipotent in M. de Rochegune's favour 
 — at times I derived from it new strength to resist his entreaties. Our 
 position seemed to me so exalted, that I could not make up my mind to re- 
 linquish it. But I was obliged to contrast the delights of a solitary life, 
 with the sacrifices which the crown of purity that had been yielded to me, 
 the sovereignty of virtue which I enjoyed, and the majesty of my self-denial, 
 demanded. It seemed to me, at such times, insane to prefer a lofty palace 
 of marble and gold — living there alone — to a delightful retreat, where I 
 might hide a contented love in verdure and flowers. 
 
 Alas ! women alone can understand these terrible struggles between pas- 
 sion and duty. Men are never subjected to them. The only alternatives 
 with them are, to obtain, or to relinquish : whereas, it is after painful anx- 
 iety — after distressing torments only, that we grant what we so strongly de- 
 sire to grant. Men feel a similar anguish when their own honour is con- 
 cerned—never when ours is at stake. 
 
 M. de Rochegune was a perfect ideal specimen of courage, tenderness, 
 and chivalrous constancy. Yet, even he had not, for a moment, hesitated 
 between his love and the abandonment of his friends — between his passion 
 and rny shame. 
 
 These resolves — alternately weak and strong — lasted for several days. 
 The departure of M. de Rochegune overwhelmed me, and deprived me of a 
 great portion of my moral strength. His absence gave me a painful fore- 
 taste of the misery of my life, deprived of him. I even went so far as to give 
 up, at last, that idea. I would have consented to anything, rather than have 
 lost him. I only hoped to obtain from him a promise, that he would attempt 
 to continue with me the same intercourse which we had enjoyed before ! to 
 endeavour to restrain his ardour, should we be obliged to relinquish, for a 
 period, the pleasure of our habitual intimacy, Having no alternative, but 
 to lose him for ever, or to follow him, what could I resolve ? Should I give 
 up to despair the being who had always proved himself so devoted — the 
 being whom I adored ; when, with one word — one single word, which, while 
 giving to him a life of joy, should realize the ideas I had formed for my own 
 bliss ? No, never ! I was now on the point of writing to him — " Return- 
 let us fly." Hours, days, nights, passed away while I continued in this 
 undetermined state of mind. My courage grew weaker — a fatal symptom — 
 love grew strong ; I dared no longer question my heart, so confident was I 
 that it would reply in favour of M. de Rochegune. He had given to Ma- 
 dame de Richeville a very plausible reason for his" departure ; informing her, 
 that some important business called him to one of his estates. In order to 
 seclude myself, I pretended to be afflicted with a violent head-ache. 
 
 One day, Madame de Richeville, whom I had called upon as usual, told 
 me that Emma, who had been indisposed for a few days, wa3 now quite ill. 
 Madame de Richeville was, therefore, more absorbed than ordinarily. I 
 asked permission to see her, but as she was at that time asleep ; I did not 
 wish to wake her. I sent Blondeau several times to inquire about her, The 
 day passed away quietly. On the morrow, at an early hour, Madame de 
 Richeville entered my room. I was struck by the change of her features. 
 " Good heaven ! what is the matter with you ?" said I to her. 
 
 " Emma gives me great uneasiness ; I have watched all night by her side. 
 She has just fallen asleep, and I have improved that moment to come and 
 weep with you," she exclaimed, unable to restrain her tears, "fori dare 
 not weep in her presence :" and the poor mother began to sob. 
 
 " But comfort yourself," said I to her; "Emma's indisposition cannot 
 be serious. What does the physician say ? there is not a more able or can- 
 did man " 
 
 " It is precisely because he is able and candid, that his confession of his 
 ignorance of Emma's disorder frightens me. He can find no cause for the 
 languor which more and more, overpowers the unfortunate child. He dis- 
 covers, that she has a low and nervous fever ; and confesses, that at. any 
 moment a violent crisis may oecur." 
 
 " But is she in pain ?" 
 
 V No, she says she is not ; but perhaps it is through fear of alarming me.'* 
 
A VISIT. 
 
 397 
 
 " But what were her symptoms last night ? Why are you more anxious this 
 
 morning? 
 
 " She has been in a great state of agitation all night. Last evening, when 
 I went to her room, she was better ; her face was pale but calm : she was not 
 asleep. I proposed to read to her from M. de Lamartine'â Meditations. She 
 thanked me eagerly, and after having listened to me, said, with that artless 
 grace which belongs to her alone, ' Oh ! what sweetness in those admirable 
 lines ! thank you, thank you, I feel better : it seems to me that I am less op- 
 
 Eressed. But since the language of the soul does me so much good, it must 
 e my soul that is ill.' »» 
 
 " Poor child !" said I, to Madame de Richeville : " the remark was 
 strange." 
 
 " Very strange, Matilda. And these words have awakened within me a 
 terrible fear." 
 
 " And what fear is that ?" 
 
 " During the whole night, an anxious thought has pursued me. When 
 Emma's agitation returned with her fever — when several times her brilliant 
 eye was fastened upon mine, it seemed to me, Matilda, that I could discover 
 a silent reproach there." 
 
 " But explain yourself, my friend ; I do not understand you." 
 
 " Without being able to ascertain how she had become informed of that 
 fatal secret, I trembled from the fear that she suspects me to be her mother. 
 Oh ! Matilda, her soul is so innocent, that I am afraid the blow would be 
 mortal !" 
 
 I looked at Madame de Richeville with surprise ; the idea made a great 
 impression upon me, as it solved, at once, the thoughtfulness and despond- 
 ency of Emma. I did not doubt, myself, that the disclosure of the mystery 
 would be fatal to the young girl— who felt an insurmountable horror for all 
 criminal and shameful actions. That angelic and precious ignorance had been 
 carefully guarded by her mother. The lessons which Emma had derived 
 from the conversations of the friends of Madame de Richeville, had still more 
 exalted her excessive delicacy* 
 
 With what an awful pang such a discovery would pierce the mind of Em- 
 ma ! What a frightful struggle would commence between the extreme sus- 
 ceptibility of her principles, and her warm attachment to Madame de Riche- 
 ville, on learning that she had a mother, only to be forced to despise her ! 
 
 " Well," said the duchess, with anguish, " are not my fears well-founded, 
 Matilda? It is indeed awful!" she exclaimed with despair; "she knows 
 all, she knows all— I shall no longer dare to look in her face without shame ! 
 Oh ! it is a terrible punishment— to blush before my child ! The wrath of God 
 is not yet satisfied ; I am very far from having yet drained my cup of bitter- 
 ness!" she exclaimed with anguish. 
 
 " Do not believe that," said I to her. " Although I share your fears, I 
 know the character of Emma, and the effect which such a revelation would 
 produce. I think she may have some suspicions, but no certainty." 
 
 " Matilda, you wish to comfort me ; for Heaven's sake ! speak frankly." 
 
 " My poor friend, I address myself to your reason. You know, like myself, 
 the heart of Emma : we have lately analyzed that frankness which she shows 
 in all the impressions which strike her, without even foreseeing their tend- 
 ency. Can you believe that it would be possible for her to conceal a secret of 
 so much importance — to hide the agitation which it would cause ? But I go 
 farther; it might be, that the instinct of her heart has alone awakened vague 
 suspicions which she cannot explain.'' 
 
 " But never mind — for although the danger is distant, it is very threaten- 
 ing," exclaimed Madame de Richeville. " If that secret had been only known 
 to you and myself, and M. de Rochegune, I should have no fear : but my 
 husband, that infamous Lugarto, and the base woman who sold to him the 
 secret, all possess it ; and at any time the blow may fall upon me." 
 
 " Do not anticipate misfortune, my friend. You may think me much of 
 an optimist, but 1 am under the conviction that such suspicion must needs 
 awaken gradually in the mind of Emma : our safety perhaps depends upon 
 this. It will doubtless be necessary to raise with care the veil which covers 
 her birth : and thus avoid a sudden disclosure, which I confess would be 
 dangerous to her." 
 
 *' Matilda, you are my guardian angel. Your words, filled with both affec- 
 tion and reason, reach at once the mind and the heart. I believe that your 
 advice is most excellent. Yes, it may be possible, with great circumspection, 
 to prepare the way for that revelation, and to moderate its effect. Then, Oh 
 2 M 
 
3Q3 
 
 M ATI LB A< 
 
 then, I should be too delighted to be able to say to her, ' my daughter 1' But 
 no, no : such felicity is not in reserve for me," added the duchess, sadly ; 
 " it would be too great a boon. I must expiate the guilt of Emma's birth." 
 
 " But have you not already expiated it by your repentance — redeemed it by 
 your exemplary life?" 
 
 " My fear is, that I have adopted too blindly your opinion ; I am too much 
 interested in believing it. As soon as M. de Rochegune returns, we will con- 
 verse with him respecting it. If he shares your opinion, we will think of the 
 means of making the truth known to Emma. Kind, most kind and sincere 
 friend," exclaimed Madame de Kicheville, pressing my hands in hers; "you 
 well deserve all the happiness which you, at length, enjoy. But, speaking of 
 happiness; although in the misfortunes of the wicked there can be no hap- 
 piness to you, do you know what has happened to Mademoiselle de Maran ?" 
 
 " No ; what is it?" 
 
 " She has for several days been attacked with paralysis. She was already 
 inconsolable at the disappearance of your wicked cousin, and this last blow 
 must be very severe. Besides, she is so universally detested, that no one 
 visits her. No one shows the slightest politeness to her ; hardly ever does 
 any one inquire for her ; and she is entirely abandoned to the care of her 
 servants." 
 
 " I pity her, for her principal and oldest servant was the terror of my youth," 
 said I. " It seems to me that I yet see that sinister face, rendered still 
 more repulsive by a red birth-stain." 
 
 " As for your cousin, it is believed that she has left Paris. All searches 
 after her by your husband have proved fruitless, and it is said that he ha8 
 abandoned himself to gambling, as a distraction from grief caused by the de- 
 sertion of Ursula." 
 
 I was about to relate to Madame de Richeville the adventure of the ball, 
 and to inform her of the reasons which induced me to believe that M. de 
 Rochegune had met Ursula there : but as my present irresolution was con- 
 nected with that adventure, and as I was unwilling to allude to it, or to take 
 counsel from any one but myself, I did not mention the subject. " What 
 have you heard about M. de Lancry ?" I asked. 
 
 " He, at first, suspected that Ursula had returned to her husband, and he 
 immediately started for Rouvrai secretly ; and he ascertained that the odious 
 woman has not returned to M. de Secherin. Every one says that she has fled 
 secretly to Italy, to meet Lord C***, who was very attentive to her last 
 winter ; which appears to me probable enough, as Lord C*** is very rich." 
 
 I desired to believe in the absence of Ursula ; but in spite of myself, a sad 
 presentiment told me that my cousin was not far off. I did not fear her at- 
 tractions upon M. de Rochegune. I feared her rage, when she discovered 
 that she was despised by him, which must necessarily happen, should she have 
 the audacity to make herself known. 
 
 " I hope that you are well informed, and that Ursula has, indeed, left 
 Paris," said I to the duchess ; " but let us go and see Emma. I shall waitin 
 your room until she is awake. To-day, I must take your place near her, 
 particularly for the night, if she still suffers." 
 
 " No, no, my dear Matilda ; you are yourself indisposed." 
 
 " I feel much better, already. If you wish to relieve me entirely, allow me 
 to share with you the cares which you lavish upon thatdear child. You know 
 that I am not deficient in observation. I will study, watch, and examine 
 Emma very closely ; which may be of advantage in case we should find a dis- 
 closure necessary." 
 
 " I was sure you would find the best reasons in the world, for forcing me to 
 accept this new proof of your kindness. I will take you at your word, with 
 happiness." 
 
 " My friend, do not speak of my kindness ; you confuse me. What do I 
 not owe to you ? How shall I ever repay it ?" 
 " Matilda !" 
 
 " When I think that previous to my marriage, when you were unacquainted 
 with me, you bestowed upon me a mother's kindness — that I received you 
 with harshness — that I even dared to insult your praiseworthy motives — Oh, 
 my friend ! I never can forgive myself for misunderstanding you then ; it 
 will be to me a cause of everlasting rwmorse." 
 
 "And for me also, poor dear child I for if you had listened to me, you 
 would have been to-day, Madame de Rochegune. I know that fate has so 
 decreed it ; that you are almost in possession of that destiny which M. de 
 Mortagne and myself had always anticipated for you. Hut, my noble and 
 courageous Matilda, I also know the immense difference which exists between 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 399 
 
 the love your duty imposes, and the enchanting life you might have led with 
 M. de Rochegune. Now that you appreciate him, as well as myself — better 
 than myself," added she smiling, " confess that he is, above all others, the 
 man for intimacy; and it is only in that manner that one can become ac- 
 quainted with all the charms of dis character ; for it is only in intimacy that 
 he consents to display his wonderful powers. Can there be conversation more 
 touching than his — learning, at once, more universal and modest than his ? 
 What varied talents, and above all, what a character he possesses ! Can 
 there be a more mild, a more equable, a more cheerful disposition than his — 
 that cheerfulness which expresses more the serenity of a noble soul ? In 
 short, what resources there are in his mind ! Before your return, I have many 
 times passed whole hours with him and Emma, and he always left us more 
 astonished at the end of his conversation than we were at the commencement. 
 One might pass days, years with him, without experiencing — I do not say a 
 moment of ennui — but any dimunition of the interest and the charm which 
 he inspires. Besides, I must confess, that in these long evenings, he con- 
 stantly spoke of you ; and said to us, gaily,—' I never converse better than 
 with you ; for you share my admiration of Madame de Lancry ; and as she 
 is almost always present to my mind, you comprehend my thoughts — we 
 speak, as I might say, the same language.' " 
 
 " Just like him," said I to her, blushing ; "and just like you, also my 
 friend, who speak always the language of kindness and friendship : but let us 
 go and see Emma," I added, for I could scarcely conceal my emotion. 
 
 " Come; I hope that she is awake," said Madame de Richeville. 
 
 I followed her, quite agitated with the strange felicity with which she 
 had just described to me, in such glowing colours, the happiness I might 
 have enjoyed in the society of M. de Rochegune. 
 
 One of the servants of Madame de Richeville told her, that Emma was still 
 asleep. As this repose might be very salutary, we would not disturb it. 
 
 I had been for some time in Madame de Richeville's room, when a valet, 
 who had recently entered my service, came to inform me that aman who had 
 important business to communicate, was waiting for me, knowing that I was 
 visiting the Duchess de Richeville. 
 
 " It is probably some one of your agents," said the duchess to me. " I will 
 inform you when Emma wakes." 
 
 I returned to my room. Judge of my surprise — my terror ! In my draw- 
 ing-room, seated near the chimney, reading, was M. de Lancry, my husband ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 I stood motionless at the door of the saloon, one hand resting on a chair 
 to support myself, and with the other striving to repress the beating of my 
 heart. 
 
 M. de Lancry rose, quietly laid his book on the table, placed himself in 
 front of the fire-place, and, by a motion of his hand, invited me to approach. 
 The expression of his countenance was harsh, sardonic — yet betrayed an ex- 
 pression of secret joy. I dared not advance ; I even doubted whether I were 
 awake ; but presently M. de Lancry stepped toward me. 
 
 " This," said he, endeavouring to take my hand, " is a strange reception, 
 after so long an absence." 
 
 I resisted the familiarity, and he smiled contemptuously, saying, " Come ; 
 give me your hand. What ! will you not ? Am I so disagreeable to you, 
 my love ?" 
 
 These words excited my anger and awakened my courage, and I advanced 
 with a firm step into the middle of the room. " What do you want, mon- 
 sieur ?" said I. 
 
 " Oh," replied he, " I want many things, but it will take a long time to 
 explain them: pray, be seated." 
 " Monsieur !" said I, in surprise. 
 
 " As you please," he continued, taking a chair ; " stand, if you prefer it." 
 
 After reflecting a moment in silence, he raised his head and said, 
 
 " Will you not acknowledge, my dear, that I am a convenient husband, 
 
 and one who exacts very little " 
 
 " You cannot have come here, sir," I interrupted," to banter me in this 
 
400 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 pitiful manner ! You, no doubt have à serious motive in forcing oa tat «0 
 
 disagreeable an interview — at least, sir, make it as brief as possible." 
 
 " Perhaps," said he, "you are expecting M. de Rochegune ?" 
 
 I felt the colour rise to my very temples, but I made no reply. 
 
 " I shall be delighted to see him," he continued, " and he will be not less 
 happy to meet me. Indeed, that is the advantage of having our positions so 
 clearly defined — these virtuous and platonic relations ! no one is exposed to 
 embarrassment, neither the wife, the lover, nor the husband." Then, cast- 
 ing a look around the apartment, he added, " How delightfully you are es- 
 tablished here 1 Everything is so quiet and secret !" 
 
 " Once more, monsieur," said I, " I ask you to inform me why you have 
 sought this interview?" 
 
 For a moment M. de Lancry looked at me attentively, without speaking. 
 " You are very beautiful," he said, at length, " and your fate as a deserted 
 wife agrees with you marvellously. You play your part well, too ! You be- 
 tray no emotion, you utter no reproach ; a hasty glance of contempt is all 
 that my presence can draw from you — and yet I have been absent from you 
 three years !" 
 
 " Since it is so, sir," I replied, " you may believe I am in haste to finish 
 an interview that has neither a claim, nor an object." 
 
 " I perfectly understand your haste," said he, "although it is but little 
 flattering to myself, and as little kind, or conjugal— for, after all, my dear 
 lady, you are my wife. I beg you not to forget that circumstance, however 
 insignificant it may appear to you." 
 
 "Thank Heaven !" cried I, " I had really forgotten it. Your presence was 
 necessary to recall it to my mind." 
 
 "And my absence," he answered, " will efface it anew from your remem- 
 brance, will it not ? It is very well. I understand your silence. It Î3 as 
 good an answer as any other. But madam, fortunately, I have not the same 
 faculty of forgetfulness ; I remember perfectly well that I am your husband, 
 and I have come to ask your forgiveness for having so long neglected you — " 
 
 " It is needless," said I, "to ask forgiveness for a desertion which I do 
 not lament, and which I have never regretted." 
 
 " You are right," he replied ; " but my apology serves to acquit my own 
 conscience, and introduces the subject of a favour which I have come to so- 
 licit from you." 
 
 " I hear you, sir," said I, "but as yet I comprehend nothing: you speak 
 in enigmas." 
 
 " Indeed !" said he, with a look of malicious irony ; " do I really speak in 
 enigmas ? Well 1 here is an explanation of one of them. I cannot live lon- 
 ger without you, and 1 beg you to put an end to the period of our separation. 
 You perhaps think 1 am jesting?" he added, after a pause. 
 
 " 1 have nothing to reply to you," said I. 
 
 " But, madam," he continued, " I assure you I am quite serious." 
 
 " And I assure you, monsieur," I rejoined, " that this conversation has al- 
 ready continued too long. It is absurd to pretend that you have come to my 
 house merely to annoy me with such trivial " 
 
 " Your house!" cried he sarcastically; "and how is it your house? Come! 
 come ! you are getting a little beside yourself : it would be yielding a great 
 deal if, as master of our household and its dependencies, by the title universal 
 — mark that — the title universal, I permitted you to say our house ; for you 
 are now in my house." 
 
 " But, monsieur " 
 
 " But, madam, have you read our Civil Code ? — ah ! you have not ! You 
 have done very wrong ; for if you had read that, you would have better under- 
 stood my legal rights." 
 
 Beginning, now, to comprehend the purpose of this odious visit, I coloured 
 with anger as I replied, " It is money that you wish, is it not ?" 
 
 " Madam," said he, his face contracting with r»ge, in return, "madam ! 
 beware " 
 
 " And the sum you require is to be the price of your absence?" I con- 
 tinued : " I now regret, sir, more than ever, that you have impoverished me ; 
 for I have not money enough in my possession to purchase so inestimable a 
 boon "' 
 
 " Ah, you now speak in sarcasms !" cried he, with increasing rage ;"but," 
 he added fiercely " know that you are in my power : that I am here in my own 
 house : that you are my wife — do you hear ? — my wife for ever ! that I can dis- 
 pose of you ; that I can do with you as J please : that you have not one word 
 
TUB INTERVIEW. 
 
 * 401 
 
 to say here : that I have the law on my side, and that to-morrow, or to-day, 
 I can establish myself in this house, or carry you to another." 
 
 " I perceive," said I, "that you wish to alarm me with your threats ; and, 
 at least, your terms are well chosen, for the thought of what you threaten 
 would be worse than death — the thought that I should be condemned to pass 
 the rest of my life with you ! But you do not seem to be aware, that your 
 conduct has been so infamous that you have forfeited the legal rights of which 
 you boast?" 
 
 " Ah, really ! I have lost my rights over you V 
 
 " Monsieur," I continued, " as your visit can have no other object than to 
 obtain money from me, and as, unfortunately, you have already deprived me 
 of everything, but the bare necessaries of life, it is needless to prolong this 
 conference." 
 
 " Hold !" cried he, with a stern composure, even more terrifying than his 
 rage ; " if I were yet capable of pity, you, poor fool ! would inspire me with 
 it. Mark me ! I have had enough of this babbling. In speaking of the in- 
 famy of my conduct, you referred to my love for Ursula, and my relations 
 with her, did you not ? Very well. I am by law entitled to have, if I please, 
 ten mistresses ; provided I do not introduce them under the conjugal roof — 
 and I defy you to prove that Ursula has ever set foot in my house." 
 
 " The question is not as to Ursula alone !" 
 
 " Ah, you wish to speak of VI my indiscretions ? I will repeat to you, what 
 I said on another occasion, apropos to your fancy for a hospital, that, by law, 
 the right to dispose of our property, rests solely in me. Whether I use that 
 right wisely or unwisely, no person has the power to control me : I am re- 
 sponsible to no one. Now, I hope my rights and my position are clearly ex- 
 plained." 
 
 " Very clearly, and " 
 
 " It is my wish that^ou should return, and henceforth remain with me. I 
 will give you eight-and-forty hours to make your preparation. This is 
 Friday ; on Sunday morning, I will come for you. I could take you with 
 me this evening — nay, this very moment — but that would not be consistent 
 with my other arrangements. In the meantime, as you might take a sudden 
 fancy to go from here before Sunday, I shall leave some one on whom I can 
 depend, to keep an eye on you, so that I may know where to find you. As 
 for your platcnic lover, you will tell him, from me, that I can dispense with 
 his visits ; unless he should desire to visit me, personally, and then— then — 
 the result does not concern you." 
 
 "You speak with delightful candour," said I, "and I will endeavour to 
 reply with equal frankness. Make yourself easy on one subject. I shall not 
 take the trouble to fly from this house, nor will I ever voluntarily leave it 
 with you. If I am compelled to go hence, it will be by force alone. No one 
 but a magistrate can order such force to be employed ; and when justice 
 shall mediate between you and me, the question will speedily be decided." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are a very acute lawyer, madam, but I greatly fear 
 that you may lose your first cause. You wish to say, that you will demand 
 a separation ? I have thought of that, too ; but there is this difficulty for 
 you : that which might make a wife desire a separation, will not always suf- 
 fice to obtain it. Let us see — we will arrange the pleadings : you would say 
 to me, Ursula, I should reply, Rochegune. Public opinion would accuse me 
 — it would accuse you, also ; and it would send us back more firmly married 
 than before ; thus you perceive the equality of our positions." 
 
 " Nay, sir, do not aggravate injury by such comparisons." 
 
 " Indeed I must — it is so amusing ! Observe : if an old man in his dotage, 
 his bigot of a wife, or a nun in the guise of Madame de Richeville, should 
 attest to the honesty and propriety of your communications with Rochegune, 
 you imagine that your case would be made good. Very well. I, on my part, 
 will claim to be a very hero of Platonism ; and, on an emergency, Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran and her friends will come in a mass, and testify to the angelic 
 purity of my relations with Ursula. On my word, it would be an amusing 
 trial ! but all this is for the future. As to the present, pending the result 
 of this trial, a magistrate, otherwise denominated a police-officer, will require 
 you to repair immediately to your husband's residence— you dear little wan- 
 dering lamb !" 
 
 " I do not believe that !" 
 
 " Bah ! and with that answer — with the omnipotent argument of your in- 
 credulity — you await the magistrate?" 
 " My argument and answer are far more simple : I shall place before tho 
 
 2 m 3 
 
402 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 magistrate the proofs of your criminal communication with Madame Se- 
 cherin, and of your infamous disposition of my property." 
 
 " The proofs, say you ? Umph ? The oath, probably, of the Prince 
 d'Hericourt, or an affidavit from the beautiful and penitent duchess ?" 
 
 " Better proofs than those." 
 
 "Ah ! a complaint from poor Monsieur Secherin, or from the mother, • a 
 lady of the family of Providence,' as Mademoiselle de Maran calls her." 
 
 " Be cautious of what you say," cried I ; " there may be something pro- 
 vidential in the sad destiny of that family — " (for I could not repress the 
 recollection of the deadly threat with which M. Secherin had menaced M. 
 de Lancry) — 
 
 " There sJiould be something providential there," answered de Lancry; 
 for poor M. Secherin appears to me singularly predestined " 
 
 "Sir," said I, interrupting him in turn, " I am uncertain whether to be 
 most angered or disgusted ; but this scene must be concluded. The proofs, 
 in virtue of which I shall demand, provisionally, a retirement to the convent 
 of the Sucre Cœur, while the trial of our separation is in progress " 
 
 " The proofs, Madam ? — well; and what are they ?" 
 
 " The proofs are letters, written by your own hand, to one of your friends 
 in Brittany, concerning your intrigue with Ursula." 
 
 As I pronounced these words, M. de Lancry entirely lost his self-possession. 
 Anger, shame, rage and hatred convulsed his features ; and, seizing me vio- 
 lently in his arms, he cried fiercely : 
 
 " Wo ! wo to you, if you have read those letters !" 
 
 My courage now rose to the highest point, and disengaging myself from 
 his brutal embrace, I replied: 
 " I have read those letters !" 
 
 " You have read them ! Where are they ? where are they, I say !" 
 " In my possession." # 
 
 " Ha!" he exclaimed, looking around, as if to discover where they could 
 be secreted, "this is an infamous piece of treachery, and he shall answer 
 it with his life !" Then, clasping his hand on his forehead, and stamping 
 with his foot, he continued, " Do not again say that you have read those 
 letters : if you do, I will not answer for myself " 
 
 At this moment I rang the bell violently, and my footman entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Wait in the antechamber a moment," said I, " I shall want you pre- 
 sently." 
 
 These words recalled M. de Lancry to himself. He took a few hurried 
 steps across the floor, and then approached me, saying, "How came you in 
 possession of those letters? By heaven ! I will know, and on the instant !" 
 
 "It concerns you little to know how I obtained them," said I, calmly; 
 " it is sufficient that you know I have them ; and that, if you compel me, I 
 shall make use of them." 
 
 "Yes!" cried he bitterly, "and, doubtless, you have already done so! 
 you have exhibited them everywhere among your friends, to show how Ur- 
 sula has abused and distressed me, have you not ? What a triumph for you 
 and your silly friends ! how you and they must have laughed at my tor- 
 tures ? Was it not ridiculous ? — to ruin myself for a woman who despised 
 me! Tell me," he added, with a convulsive laugh, "how many copies of 
 these letters have you and Rochegune made ? How many are now in cir- 
 culation ?" 
 
 " I have the misfortune and the disgrace to bear your name," I answered, 
 disgusted at this unworthy imputation : " that fate is sufficiently humi- 
 liating ; you need not aggravate it, by suspecting me of an act of which I am 
 incapable." 
 
 " This is no answer: who sent you those letters? how long have you had 
 them ?" 
 
 " On refloetion, I see no reason for not informing you. The first two were 
 brought to me in a parcel containing a bouquet of flowers, similar to those 
 that M. Lugarto once offered me in your behalf; and I, therefore, have rea- 
 son to suppose that he sent those letters. How he obtained them, I know 
 not. The other letters, I received through the post." 
 
 " I no longer doubt," said he, " that Lugarto is secretly here. My in- 
 former did not deceive me ; he must have seen him. As for the others, I 
 sent them to the post by one of my servants, in whom I have entire confi- 
 dence ; and, what is more, the person to whom they, were addressed, ha» 
 replied as if she had received them." 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 403 
 
 ** This would, not be the first time," said I, " that M. Lugarto ha» coun- 
 terfeited your writing, and bribed your servants." 
 
 " Yes, yes, that is it!" he muttered ; " but why does he hide himself ? 
 Oh ! if I could find him ! As to his motive— if it was to augment to hatred 
 the aversion which I already feel toward you, he has succeeded — do you hear ? 
 succeeded even beyond his wishes. Death and hell ! — to think that you 1 
 you ! should have looked into my very heart, and read my most secret 
 thoughts, and should now avow it ! But you do not consider, that my detes- 
 tation of you will augment in proportion to the advantage you may gain over 
 me, by reason of these letters. Ha 1 those letters ! — bring them to me ! Do 
 you hear ? Bring them to me this moment ?" 
 
 u< Your threats, sir," said I, " will make me guard them more carefully 
 than ever !" 
 
 "Hold! Matilda! Do not push me to extremity. Since you have read 
 the letters, you must have seen that my soul is steeped in hatred — yet that 
 is gentleness itself— compared to what you are now likely to witness. Once 
 more, I warn you — do not drive me to " 
 
 " Let us live — as of late we have done— separately ; and these letters shall 
 remain in oblivion." 
 
 " I tell you, it is necessary that you should live with me — more necessary 
 than ever before !" 
 
 " And I tell you that I shall employ all possible means, to save myself 
 from so terriole a calamity !" 
 
 *' Matilda! you are a fool! In spite of these letters, you will, in the first 
 instance, be compelled to await, with me, and in my own house, the result 
 of the trial." 
 
 " We shall see, monsieur, whether, with this presumptive evidence against 
 you, I cannot be permitted to retire to a provisional asylum ; — to a convent, 
 for example. In any event, I shall submit to my destiny." 
 
 " This is your final decision ?" 
 
 " This is my final decision. However, for your sake, as well as my own 
 — for I confess that I shrink from exposing the vileness of your past life — 
 I will make one suggestion. Your persisting in your present demand, can 
 be nothing hut a threat ; or, a means of forcing me to consent to something 
 for your own interest — perhaps, you wish me to relinquish the annuity which 
 you first sanctioned, and have subsequently reduced. If that is it— to spare 
 you the shame of the odious part you are playing, I consent " 
 
 " If you should load me with gold, it would not relieve my present em- 
 barrassment. No ! I will never renounce my rights over you ; and, but for 
 the emergency in which I am now placed, it should not be the day after to- 
 morrow, but this very hour that I would force you to go with me !" 
 
 " What intemperate folly is this!" cried I. "It is impossible that we 
 should ever be reconciled. You, yourself, know this. You abhor me, al- 
 most as much as I despise you. What, then, would you have ? There is 
 some terrible mystery in this— but, thank God ! 1 am no longer defenceless : 
 I have friends, now, who know how to protect me !" 
 
 At this moment the clock struck three. 
 
 " Three o'clock already !" exclaimed he, impatiently : " I must go, then. 
 For the last time, do you refuse to go with me, the day after to-morrow?" 
 " I do." 
 
 " I warn you ! — beware !" 
 
 " I refuse ; and I will yield to nothing but force." 
 
 " You are indifferent to the disturbance and scandal of such a proceeding ?" 
 " I do not know what you mean to do with me ; and I believe you capable 
 of anything." 
 
 "Yes! yes!" answered he wildly ; " I shall be capable of anything and 
 everything, to compel you to go with me; for, it is of more consequence to 
 me than life itself !" Then, as if fearing he had said too much, he smiled 
 bitterly, and added: " It is, at least, of as much consequence as my hap- 
 piness, my tranquillity, sweet Matilda ; for many happy days are yet in 
 
 store for us : therefore, on Sunday, at noon " And he rushed from the 
 
 room- 
 
 After his departure, the factitious and feverish excitement, which had 
 hitherto sustained me, failed me entirely ; and for a time I stood in a stupor, 
 without the power to collect even my thoughts ; for this terrible scene had 
 entirely disordered them, and it required some moments of tranquillity, to 
 enable me to estimate the force of M. de Lancry's threats, and his power • 
 of carrying them into execution. As to his motives for seeking a recon- 
 
404 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 ciliation with me, 1 could not divine them ; but I was not the less «ertaln 
 that they were evil. Nevertheless, I was but little disturbed by that con- 
 sideration ; for it was ray unalterable resolution not to live with him. The 
 question remained, whether he could compel me to do so. 
 
 My counsellors had often urgently entreated me to demand a separation, 
 not doubting the facility of obtaining it ; but hitherto, I had shrunk from 
 the scandal of such a proceeding ; yet, it had never entered into their 
 thoughts nor mine, that M. de Lancry would have the hardihood to insist 
 on our reunion. It seemed to me impossible that, while such letters as I 
 possessed were in existence, I should be forced to reside, even temporarily, 
 with M. de Lancry. Still, I had seen so many instances of the injustice 
 which the technicalities of the law metes out to females, that I was not en- 
 tirely confident in my own position. I therefore wrote immediately to an 
 eminent lawyer, who had superintended the affairs of Madame de Richeville, 
 begging him to come and confer with me as soon as possible. 
 
 After deliberating on the interview that had just taken place, I saw that 
 its result was rather fortunate than otherwise ; for it terminated all uncer- 
 tainty as to my relations with M. de Rochegune. M. de Lancry had just 
 shown himself under an aspect so repulsive ; he had so entirely forfeited all 
 claim to my consideration and respect ; that I was indignant at the very 
 thought of his conduct being, for a moment, placed in comparison with my 
 own : and there was now between us so wide a gulf of separation, that I 
 wondered at, and contemned my previous scruples. 
 
 The course which I had to pursue, and which I now resolved to pursue, 
 was perfectly clear : namely, to sue for a separation from M. de Lancry ; 
 and, that obtained, to follow the wishes of my heart — seek some quiet re- 
 treat, await M. de Rochegune, and devote to him the remainder of my life. 
 A legal separation is a kind of divorce ; and I should thereafter consider 
 myself entirely free from any restraint concerning my marriage. It would, 
 doubtless have been more heroic in me to continue in the path of self-denial 
 to which I had hitherto condemned myself; but it seemed very silly to carry 
 my notions of duty to that extent. 
 
 I should never, of my own accord, have sought a separation ; and probably, 
 left to myself, I should for ever have retained my scruples : but M. de 
 Lancry had placed me in my present position, which, although it had ex- 
 posed me to false imputations, I nevertheless welcomed with joy on account 
 of the new relations to which it would lead with M. de Rochegune; for to 
 him I would now devote the bright future, which I should otherwise have 
 sacrificed. 
 
 On no former occasion was my spirit more firm, more clear, more decided, 
 than after this violent scene ; nor ever did I before form a more prompt re- 
 solution. I overlooked nothing, and I shrank from no obstacle in the trial 
 before me. I fancied myself compelled to live with M. de Lancry until the 
 termination of the suit, and I felt confident of enduring that ordeal with 
 firmness, sustained as I was, by the certainty of the happiness that would 
 follow it. 
 
 Nay, I went farther than this. I 'imagined my cause to be lost, and M. 
 de Lancry to be the ma^er of my fate. But, even then, the wrong to myself 
 would be so flagrant — public opinion, confirmed by such a verdict., would be 
 so outrageously unjust — that I would never consider myself bound by its de- 
 cisions. I would confide my hopes and my life to the tenderness of M. tie 
 Rochegune. Without hesitation — without fear, before my God and under 
 his protection, I would appeal from the judgment of men to his supreme 
 tribunal, the last refuge and the last hope of the oppressed. 
 
 Being firm in my resolve — as well to engage myself irrevocably with M. 
 de Rochegune, as to seek his counsel and support, under these grave cir- 
 cumstances, I hastily wrote him these words : 
 
 " Come to me ; come quickly, my dear friend ! This time, it shall be for 
 ever ! I am always yours : my very life belongs to you." 
 
 I called Blondeau, and said to her, " Go to the hotel Rochegune ; give 
 this letter to the steward, and tell him, from me, to dispatch it to his master 
 by a courier." 
 
 Blondeau had hardly left the room, when one of Madame de Richeville's 
 women entered, alarmed, and in tears. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake! madam," cried she, "come with me! Made- 
 moiselle Emma is dying, and Madame de Richeville in a state of delirium !" 
 
A CONSULTATION. 
 
 403 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A CONSULTATION. 
 
 How dreadful a spectacle presented itself to my sight ! 
 
 The minutest details of that scene are indelibly engraved on my memory. 
 The hangings of Emma's chamber were of white muslin, as were also the 
 curtains and draperies of her bed, and the half-closed shutters admitted but 
 a feeble light into the apartment. It was difficult to distinguish the pale 
 and angelic face of Emma, surrounded as it was in the plaits of her blond 
 hair, and enveloped in a veil of snowy whiteness ; her large eyes, almost 
 devoid of meaning, were nearly hidden by her long eye-lashes, which threw 
 a shadowy transparency on her cheeks, hollowed by disease ; at times, her 
 lips moved feebly, and her hands were crossed over her bosom. I had not 
 seen her for two days, and I was shocked at the change she had undergone. 
 Madame de Richeville was leaning over her bed, and held her in a convulsive 
 embrace, covering with tears and kisses her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead, 
 and her hair. One of her women, choking with sobs, leaned on the bed and 
 held a cup in her hand. 
 
 "Good Heaven! what is the. matter?" cried I, running to Madame de 
 Richeville, and kneeling by her side. 
 
 She made no answer, but redoubled her caresses. 
 
 I took Emma's hand : it was hot and dry, and her hard breathing seemed 
 to denote that she was in great pain, and this symptom chiefly alarmed Ma- 
 dame de Richeville. 
 
 " Have you sent for the physician ?" said I, in a low voice to the maid. 
 
 "Oh, no ! madam !" she replied ; " the aitack of Mademoiselle was so 
 alarming, that we did not know what we were doing." 
 
 " Give me the cup then," said I, " and go immediately for M. 
 Gérard." 
 
 The girl disappeared in a moment ; and meantime, Madame de Richeville, 
 amid sobs and tears, cried out: "Emma! Emma! my child! you don't 
 hear me ! Oh, God ! she does not even see me ! My child ! I beseech you 
 to drink this!" Then, turning to take the cup, she saw me "Ah!" she 
 continued, pointing toward Emma, with a look of despair, " I foresaw this so 
 truly ! She is lost — lost — and I shall not survive her !" 
 
 " Hush ! my dear madam ;" said I, " for her sake and your own !" 
 
 " She will take nothing from my hand ! and perhaps this might save her !" 
 and so saying, she put a spoon toward the lips of the girl, who gently turned 
 away her head. " I told you so !" continued Madame de Richeville ; " she 
 knows all — she despises me — she hates me ! Oh ! my God ! she will die 
 cursing her mother !" and, completely losing her reason, Madame de Riche- 
 ville wrung her hands in despair — her sobs became convulsive, until they 
 suddenly ceased — her tears stopped, and she fell down in a nervous fit. The 
 women bore her out, and I remained with Emma. Almost at the same mo- 
 ment Doctor Gerard arrived. 
 
 He had already learned from the maid, that Emma had been greatly agi- 
 tated during the night. In the morning, she was a little drowsy ; recovering 
 from that, she looked steadily and for a long time at Madame de Richeville ; 
 she then uttered some unintelligible words during the delirium consequent 
 on the increase of the fever ; and after this, fell into a state of insensibility, 
 in which she now lay. 
 
 The doctor approached the bed, looked attentively at Emma, and listened 
 to her breathing. I watched his countenance, and observed that he looked 
 grave and anxious — presently he said to me : 
 
 "Madam, I wish to speak with you alone, for a moment, since Madame 
 de Richeville unfortunately is in no condition to listen to me." 
 
 I made a sign, and the attendants withdrew. 
 
 "What is the matter, doctor ?" 
 
 " She is in great danger." 
 
 " In the name of Heaven ! is there no hope?" 
 
 "I am afraid not. Science is too weak to combat moral causes which 
 produce physical reactions. It is in vain to strive with the effects of disease 
 when the scat of the malady is beyond our reach. Considering, therefore, 
 the alarming state of Mademoiselle— I ought — it is necessary——" 
 
 "Doctor," said L perceiving his hesitation, " I am the most intimât» 
 
4 0<3 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 friend of Madame de Richeville : I love Emma &s a sister ; and I can an- 
 swer any question " 
 
 " For that reason, madam, I begged you to send out the women : what I 
 wish to say is very confidential." After a pause he continued: "I have 
 given attention to Mademoiselle. both at the Sacre Cœur, and in this house. 
 Her character has appeared to me to be romantic, her imagination vivid, 
 her mind susceptible, and ,her ingenuousness perfect : I think I am not de- 
 ceived in her." 
 
 " You are not, indeed : with Madame de Richeville and myself, she is al- 
 ways frank, and expresses herself with almost involuntary freedom, although 
 she is decided " 
 
 " That is what Madame de Richeville has often told me ; and this assu- 
 rance, coming from one who knows Mademoiselle so intimately, suffices to 
 remove certain suspicions which I have entertained, and which I regret I 
 did not sooner communicate to you." 
 
 " How is that ?" 
 
 " I will presently tell you. In my opinion, the cause of her disease is al- 
 together mental ; she has, for a long time, been subject to frequent reveries 
 and fits of langour ; but these symptoms have been serious for only a few 
 weeks ; dangerous for but a few days, and eminently alarming only since 
 yesterday. Now, what I have yet to say, madam, is a very delicate matter ; 
 yet it is a matter of life and death to this child." 
 
 " Say on— say on." 
 
 '* Madam, you, who see her every day, who live in intimacy with her — 
 have you no reason to suspect her of a desire — of a thwarted hope ?" 
 " No, Sir ; none whatever. Why do you think so?" 
 
 "The symptoms of her disease have all the character of those ailments 
 caused by the disappointments of the heart. I have often been on the 
 point of expressing my doubts to you— but the duchess and yourself have 
 so frequently spoken of her extraordinary frankness, that you in part ex- 
 pelled the belief from my mind." 
 
 After a little reflection, and remembering nothing that could justify the 
 doctor's suspicions, I replied : 
 
 " I cannot think that Emma has been thwarted in love, and I am sur- 
 prised that you should entertain such an idea ; .especially, if you knew, as 
 I do, that Emma's ingenuousness and simplicity are almost infantine. If 
 she were affected by such a passion, it would be impossible for her to hide it 
 from Madame de Richeville and myself." 
 
 " And yet, madam, this infantine ingenuousness and simplicity, far from 
 removing my convictions, greatly confirms them. I will explain. It is pos- 
 sible that she is herself ignorant of her own passion. In recollecting her 
 confidential communications with you, madam, can you not recall some 
 circumstances, insignificant in themselves, which, interpreted in the light 
 I suggest, might explain this mystery?" 
 
 " No ; the more I reflect, the less does such a thing seem possible. Yet, 
 without explaining myself entirely on a secret which is not my own, and 
 asking your indulgence for my reserve ; I ought to tell you, that Madame de 
 Richeville and myself have feared that Emma has made a discovery of great 
 importance to herself— a discovery relative to her family — and that the poor 
 child ha3 been greatly afflicted by it." 
 
 The doctor seemed to be greatly embarrassed. What I had just told him 
 seemed to make no impression on him ; he bent down his head with an air 
 of doubt, stepped again to Emma's bedside, listened to her breathing, which 
 'seemed to be a little less painful, felt her pulse, and said : 
 
 " She is ill, very ill : her disease is mental, and a mental remedy can 
 alone be of service to her. There are wonderful instances on record, of per- 
 sons recalled to life merely by the presence of those whom the patient longed 
 to see ; and — I will not disguise it from you, madam — some experiment of 
 that sort is indispensible to save the life of this young lady." 
 
 " You terrify me !" 
 
 " Nevertheless, madam, it is but too true-; and I must say even more, if 
 it is necessary, to convince you of her danger. Indeed, nothing but that 
 consideration would induce me to make the singular disclosure which I have 
 yet to make." 
 
 " What disclosure? I must entreat you, sir, to keep me no longer in this 
 suspense." 
 
 " Some person — to me unknown — left at my house this morning, a parcel, 
 containing ten bank notes of a thousand francs each ; and this letter, which. 
 
A CONSULTATION. 
 
 however embarrassing such a proceeding may prove, I must read to you ; it 
 is in these words : 
 
 * This sum of ten thousand francs is presented to you, on condition that 
 you inform Madame de Lancry, that Mademoiselle Emma de Lostauges, is 
 dying for love of the Marquis de Rochegune.' " 
 
 It is with certain mental, as with certain physical excitements ; a sudden 
 blow strikes us, we fall, and for a time are lost in that total unconsciousness ; 
 then, our first sensation, after a partial recovery, is vague remembrance of 
 great and imminent peril. Thus it was with me, on receiving this astound- 
 ing intelligence : I became instantly insensible to all surrounding objects. 
 The darkness of the room prevented the physician from perceiving how 
 greatly I was affected, and he went on to say : 
 
 " I need not tell you, madam, that I immediately sent the ten thousand 
 francs to the treasurer of the hospital. I then reflected, that I might per- 
 haps render an important service by revealing to Madame de Richeville, or 
 yourself, a fact, or at least a strong suspicion, which I have for some time 
 entertained ; together with the reasons which have hitherto induced me to 
 conceal it. I arrived at my conclusions, solely from my communications 
 with Mademoiselle Emma, not from any knowledge of, or acquaintance with, 
 the object of her attachment, for I know M. de Rochegune only by name ; 
 and I give you my word that if I had not received this letter, I should never- 
 theless have this morning communicated my fears, or rather my convictions, 
 to the duchess, when I found the young lady in this alarming situation. 
 Now, madam, do you think that the object of this unconscious, or thwarted 
 passion, is M. de Rochegune ? Does she often see him ?" 
 
 " Almost every day." 
 
 " And do you think he reciprocates her affection, or that he is aware of 
 its existence ?" 
 
 " I think not — I think not — " then, after a moment's pause, I added, in 
 an altered tone, " This child's life, you say, is in danger, and some hidden 
 passion is the cause?" 
 
 " I believe so, Madam, on my honour ; and I believe the young lady has 
 but one chance of recovery — which is, to be assured that her love for M. de 
 Rochegune is reciprocated by him." 
 
 " I am deeply interested in the child's healtn — and — I have to beg of you 
 one favour, of the utmost importance " 
 
 " Speak it, madam." 
 
 " Give me the letter, and promise that you will tell no one — no one — that 
 you ever received it." 
 
 The doctor reflected a moment, as if to assure himself that he was not 
 acting hastily, and replied : 
 
 " I should have nothing with which to reproach myself : the poor will 
 have the benefit of the money ; my conscience approves the disolosure I have 
 made to you ; I see no good reason why I should refuse to give the letter 
 and the promise." 
 
 " I heartily thank you." 
 
 "Consider, madam," added tha doctor, approaching Emma's bedside — 
 " consider, that you now take on yonrself a grave responsibility. I have 
 just seen the duchess, and she is at this moment in no condition to think or 
 act for her young kinswoman. The fate of the young lady is in your hands, 
 and whatever you have to do for her, you must do at once, and with great 
 caution: her fever is diminishing," he added, feeling her pulse; "she is a 
 little more tranquil. Therefore, if she can understand you— if her senses are 
 not yet entirely gone — there is a hope of saving her." 
 
 " You are right I" cried I, bitterly ; " it is a grave responsibility that now 
 rests on me " 
 
 " I think," interrupted the doctor, " that I see a tear on her eyelid, which 
 is a favourable symptom. In order that she may understand you, speak, at 
 first indirectly, of M. de Rochegune : observe carefully, the effect which his 
 name will produce on her ; watch her countenance " 
 
 " Yes — yes — I will observe." 
 
 " If his name produce any emotion, no matter how slight, you may sug- 
 gest the hope of her soon seeing him. Is he here?" 
 " No ; he has been absent several days." 
 
 "Indeed! and it is several days, since Mademoiselle has been growing 
 worse : his absence must have caused this crisis. You can speak, then, of 
 his approaching return— of his pleasure at seeing her again. It may be, 
 
«3 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 that he is aware of her passion, and partakes it : at any rate, the first care 
 is to save her." 
 
 " Yes — yes — we must save her," said I, mechanically, 
 
 " If your words should produce any unexpected result, you might, per- 
 haps, suggest a remote hope of her marrying M. de Rochegune : if there be 
 any obstacle to such a union, she may discover that at a later period, and 
 with less risk than at present : — for this crisis will not return." 
 
 "Are you sure of that?" 
 
 '* There is no doubt of it. If by this means she should be restored to life, 
 Bhe can remain in hope until her health is established. Happiness is a 
 marvellous medicine ! in mental maladies, it operates like magic. Do not 
 despond, madam. I dare not fully assure you of the result, but be of good 
 courage : your responsibility is great, but no one can discharge, better than 
 you, a task of such difficulty and delicacy. You are the friend of Madame 
 de Richeville — almost a sister to Emma — and the means of recalling her to 
 life could not be intrusted to one more capable and more devoted. I will 
 return in the evening;" and, after writing some prescriptions, he departed. 
 
 At the same time, one of Madame de Richeville's women came to inform 
 me, that the duchess still remained in a state of great nervous excitement. 
 I told her that Emma had fallen asleep, and she might return to her mis- 
 tress. 
 
 And now I was left alone— alone with this unhappy child— who, inno- 
 cently and unconsciously, had inflicted on me the severest blow that I was 
 capable of receiving. 
 
 I now understood certain things, hitherto inexplicable, in the conversation 
 and conduct of Emma. A thousand recollections crowded upon me. For 
 example, she manifested great emotion on seeing a snow-storm ; and the 
 snow was once nearly being M. de Rochegune's winding-sheet. I remem- 
 bered, too, that she had recently shown evidences of jealousy toward my- 
 self ; and the fact, that she had at first betrayed such a feeling, and after- 
 ward overcome it, seemed to prove the force of her affection. 
 
 Besides, was not such an attachment, on her part, probable? — nay, ine- 
 vitable ? To be constantly in company with such a man as M. de Roche- 
 gune, and daily to hear him praised and admired — how could she help 
 loving him ? At one moment, I bitterly accused Madame de Richeville of 
 imprudence — the poor unhappy mother ! Again I denounced M. Lugarto, 
 with all possible execration — " Oh !" thought I, " he is revenging himself 
 for the wrong he has already done me 1 and he has taken his revenge in a 
 manner cruelly atrocious!" 
 
 " But how could he who never saw Emma, have discovered a secret which 
 was unknown to Madame de Richeville and myself ?— a secret that Doctor 
 
 has Lugarto corrupted them ? Besides, if these servants were disposed to 
 be dishonest, how should they have read the secrets of Emma better than 
 her mother and myself ? 
 
 The more I reflected, the more I was bewildered. I was constantly oc- 
 cupied with my own attachment ; Madame de Richeville herself took a lively 
 interest in it ; some remark or action must naturally have apprised us of 
 Emma's passion ; yet, in fact, such a thought was a thousand le&gues off 
 from our wildest imagination. 
 
 Could Emma have had a confidante among Madame de Richeville's wo- 
 men ? Such a thing would be inconsistent with her character ; and the 
 women all seemed to be devoted to the duchess — but were they, in fact, thus 
 devoted ? Gold is a powerful corrupter, and M, Lugarto was very rich. 
 
 These reflections appeared calm, cold, and almost puerile, under the cir- 
 cumstances in which I was placed : but they did not prevent me from being, 
 at the same time, assailed by the most painful fears for Emma. 
 
 As the eye of heaven comprehends every thing at once, so my thoughts 
 comprised, in one mental glance, a world of misery, and all the accessories 
 of despair^from causes the most sçrious, to effects the most insignificant. 
 Previously, I could not have believed that such an astonishing annihilation 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE DISCLOSURE. 
 
 Gérard only suspected ? 
 
THB DISCLOSURE. 
 
 409 
 
 ef my hopes was possible. It seemed to be supernatural : it was like 
 counteracting a miracle : the reality was so palpable — I could not credit my 
 senses. Against the evidence of facts, I brought reasons which appeared as 
 conclusive, and as irresistible as the laws of nature. 
 
 "No ! no!" said I, " Emma must not love M. de Rochegune ; such a 
 passion would cause her death, or my lasting misery ; and, I do not wish her 
 to die — nor will I be miserable for ever! It is impossible forme to relinquish 
 my own hopes, and return to M. de Lancry — it cannot be that I am destined 
 to attain so nearly to happiness, and then to see it thus snatched from my 
 grasp — I cannot abandon myself to a future so terrible— so wretched." 
 
 The realization of such misery seemed to me like a horrible dream ; such 
 an accumulation of woe upon the head of one created being, seemed beyond 
 the power of human endurance. Heaven could not so have decreed it ; it 
 was condemning too easily, and too surely, an immortal soul. I rebelled 
 against the merciless cruelty of such a fate. I asked, what I had done to 
 merit such a fearful retribution? and a voice — whence I know not — a voice 
 severe, yet paternal, thus answered me : 
 
 "And this child, this beautiful creature, who lies in agony before you, 
 what has she done ? yet she is dying. Her soul is so pure that she is ig- 
 norant, even of the love which is destroying her ; she has revealed it to no 
 one ; she has languished, she has suffered, but she has not complained — she 
 never will complain, and yet — she is dying. 
 
 " Like the flowers which wither when the sun is obscured, and do not 
 know that there is a sun, she lacks the love which gives life to her, and she 
 withers away. She seeks no sophistry to justify her love ; she is* young and 
 free ; she loves one young and free like herself ; her passion is in confor- 
 mity with the laws both of God and man ; she is only sixteen, and yet — she 
 is dying. 
 
 " Close your eyes, poor child ! your young love shall be buried with you. 
 Fear nothing— the world is as ignorant of your passion as you are : when 
 people shall see those little hands, pale and attenuated, crossed on your 
 breast, they will say, that your instinctive sensitiveness sought to hide your 
 very thoughts in your bosom — as if they could read them through the pure 
 transparency of your soul ! Sleep ! sleep your last sleep, poor child !" 
 
 I found myself melting in my own despite. I looked at the dying girl: 
 night was approaching, and her beautiful face, pale as alabaster, seemed ra- 
 diant with light in the midst of the shades that enveloped it. She slept 
 lightly, and the expression of her countenance was full of suffering, patience, 
 and resignation. 
 
 " Oh God ! oh God !" I cried, falling on my knees, " she is indeed very 
 miserable ; but at least, she is ignorant of the cause of her sorrow, and she 
 will die without regret ; and I — I shall not live in hopeless despair !" 
 
 Then, reflecting what a horrible picture was shadowed forth by those 
 words, I checked my sobs and asked pardon of Emma for conceiving it. In 
 my remorse for having entertained a thought so unworthy, I rose to a heroic 
 resolution. Again I heard the mysterious voice, and its tones thrilled the 
 most generous emotions of my soul : 
 
 "Be of good courage, poor lady ! your cross is indeed heavy, but take one 
 step more and you will gain the summit of your Calvary. Then, from the 
 height of your sublime sacrifice — like your Saviour, from the elevation of his 
 cross, placed between men and God — you will contemplate below you this 
 child whom you will have saved, and her mother also will bless you. As for 
 the man so worthy of you, who also loves you so worthily, you will say, while 
 hiding yOur tears, if he knew 
 
 " Take courage ! it needs resolution more than human to assume volun- 
 tarily the bloody crown of an unknown martyr — but what an ineffable balm 
 will the consolations of your conscience shed on your wounds ! 
 
 " You do no not know, lady, what it is to gain, by virtue of sacrifices, the 
 right to weep over your own fate. 
 
 " You know not the sweetness of those holy and fruitful tears : you know 
 not the holy voluptuousness of grief. You know not what one can at once 
 endure and enjoy in saying, while the heart is breaking, the eyes drowned in 
 tears, and the lips quivering with sobs — / am miserable, dreadfully miser- 
 able ! but at least, they are happy — they for whom I suffer so much ! 
 
 " Be proud of that love to which you have sacrificed yourself ; be proud of 
 it ! it is your first — your only love I See with what sentiments it inspires you! 
 How different are your thoughts now, from the jealousy you formerly enter- 
 tained toward Ursula ! 
 
 2 M 
 
410 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " What moves you in Emma's behalf ? the most elevated and touching 
 aspirations. She dies for the love of one who is dear to you ; and you are 
 about to force her to acknowledge her passion. You are about to sacrifice, 
 for her, your very heaven ; and yet you feel toward Emma, nothing but pity 
 and tenderness ! 
 
 " Yes, Matilda ! your lover assures you that your passion is noble, and 
 from it will spring a season of sublime examples of glorious devotedness ! 
 
 " You once submitted passively to suffer in an unworthy cause, but the 
 hour has now come for you both to suffer and to act in a cause the most holy. 
 Guard well your crown of virtue ; be true to yourself, and to those who love 
 you; sacrifice yourself for a child as innocent and pure as the angels; save 
 her from death ; toil for her happiness. Be of good cheer ; the eye* of God 
 is on you, and he will smile on you throughout eternity !" 
 
 Still, while I was thus urged to resist my own culpable inclinations, and to 
 reject the unworthy suggestions of my own heart, I strove, on the other hand, 
 to shut my eyes to all argument. 
 
 I was weary of my misery. 
 
 Why should I extend to this poor child a hope which M. de Rochegune 
 can never ratify ? It is I whom he loves, and his passion is as deep and im- 
 perishable as my own ; this terrible sacrifice, therefore, so disastrous to me, 
 would be of no service to Emma. 
 
 In the midst of these reflections, Emma made a slight movement, turned 
 her head feebly toward me, and looked at me with a deep sigh. I remember 
 that look still — so sweet, so sad, and so resigned ! It seemed to implore my 
 compassion — it asked for life, for happiness. 
 
 After looking at me for a moment, she closed her eyes, a slight colour over- 
 spread her features, and two big tears rolled down her cheeks. 
 
 " Emma!" said I, tenderly, " what is the matter, my child? are you in 
 pain ?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered feebly, without opening her eyes ; " I love you — yet 
 your presence makes me unhappy ; do not be angry with me— the dying need 
 pity." 
 
 " What do you say, my poor child ? Do»pt have such thoughts ; you only 
 afflict me. and your friend, Madame de Richeville." 
 
 " I know very wellthat I shall die — God told me so in a dream." 
 " What dream?" 
 
 " A very strange one : I dare not tell it to you." 
 " I beseech you, do tell me !" 
 
 " I dreamed I was dying, and I felt within me a power that would raise 
 me to heaven; then I thought I heard a voice, saying, ' must she die? must 
 she indeed die ?' " 
 
 " And to whom did this voice speak, my child ?" 
 
 "Oh! it was the fever that suggested such thoughts — they are very fool- 
 ish." 
 
 " But to whom did the voice say, must s/«e die ?" 
 
 "To a lady — a lady whose face Ï did not see," answered Emma, hastily. 
 I understood her meaning ; she sought to deceive me ; it was myself that 
 she had seen in her dream. 
 
 ''And the lady " said I. 
 
 " She made no reply ; and then the voice said, " Emma, you must die ?" 
 Then, probably, reproaching herself for the impression which she might have 
 taken against me, and returning to her natural manner, she opened her eyes, 
 and looked at me with such fondness and such ingenuous regret, that I could 
 not restrain my tears. 
 
 Emma leaned toward me, took my hand in hers, and raised it to her lips, 
 which were very cold ; then pressing it on her bosom, she said, " It seems to 
 me that your hand warms my heart — it is all the time frozen." 
 
 " You love me then, Emma?" 
 
 "Yes, now After my second mother, there is nothing in the world I 
 
 love so much as you." 
 
 " Is there no one that you love more than me ?" 
 
 " No one. I could wish to be like you in everything — to be yourself." 
 " And yet sometimes you hate me," said I, quickly. 
 
 She pressed my hand again to her heart, and I felt its feeble pulsations 
 quicken, as she answered, with a deep sigh — 
 
 " How you pain me by saying that ! I protest that I love you. Sometime* 
 I feel emotions on seeing you, that I cannot repress ; but I have found out 
 the cause," and she tried to smile again. 
 
THE DISCLOSURE. 
 
 411 
 
 " Indeed! what is it ?" 
 
 " Something in my heart, which tells me that in my heedlessness, I have 
 sometimes given you pain ! and when I have done 30, I have felt such re- 
 morse that I was afraid to approach you ; but your kindness would soon dis- 
 pel my fear, and 1 woidd throw myself into your arms as before." 
 
 Why should I not have been subdued in listening to Emma, as she was 
 forcing herself to explain the jealousy which she condemned, and of the na- 
 ture of which she was still ignorant? 
 
 " You believe me, do you not ?" she added. " I affirm that I do not hate 
 you, and on the eve of standing in the presence of God, I could not speak 
 falsely." 
 
 " You speak constantly of dying, my child," said I ; " are you not unhappy 
 at the thought of leaving those you love — of leaving life ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" she said, " very unhappy to leave you and Madame de Riche- 
 ville ; but life, no I I do not regret losing that !" 
 
 " And why ?" 
 
 " Because — without reason — without one single reason, I am always miser- 
 able : everything grows gloomy around me ; all my aspirations are wrecked 
 on some invisible obstacle." 
 
 " But, before you were thus unhappy." 
 
 " Oh! before that," cried she, clasping her hands, and raised her eyes to 
 heaven ; " before that, I wished to live always ! Time flew with me, like a 
 vision of joy — my thoughts were so light — I was so happy — so happy that 
 everything about me was radiant with sunshine and hope. I believed, even, 
 that I should discover my mother, although I knew she was dead." 
 
 " And were you equally happy at the convent?" 
 
 " I was happy in a different way at the convent. I enjoyed, there, the friend- 
 ship of my companions, the kindness of Madame de Richeville ; the joy and 
 the sorrow I experienced there, I could understand : but the other happiness 
 was brighter, more glowing, and I felt, without comprehending it ; as I do, 
 also, the misery hy which it is followed !" 
 
 " But, perhaps it was the hope of leaving the convent that made you so 
 contented there ?" 
 
 " No. I regretted leaving my companions ; and I saw Madame de Riche- 
 ville there as I do here." 
 
 " Try to recollect at what time the happiness commenced which so changed 
 the tenor of your life — which gave an object to your existence — which sur- 
 rounded you — did it not? — with such light and joy." 
 
 "Oh! yes! yes! it did indeed ! I felt " 
 
 ' This happiness commenced, " continued I, trembling with emotion — 
 " commenced, did it not, after the return — of — M. de Rochegune to Paris — ■ 
 when you saw him every day ?" 
 
 Emma looked at me with an expression of ingenuous rapture ; — her heart 
 beat violently ; and she exclaimed, with a burst of joy, that comprised at 
 once surprise, recognition, and ecstacy — 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! that is it ! My God ! that is it !" 
 
 "And your unhappiness" — I almost shrieked — "did it commence soon 
 after my arrival ?" 
 
 Despair must have given to my face and my words an expression of re- 
 proach both terrible and cruel ; for Emma half-raised herself from the bed, 
 threw herself into my arms, hid her streaming eyes in my bosom, and cried 
 — " forgive me ! forgive me !" 
 
 She embraced me for a moment with convulsive force, but the next instant 
 I perceived that she was fainting. I replaced her, in great haste and terror, 
 and ran for a smelling-bottle. A mortal paleness overspread her countenance, 
 her cheeks were livid, and her hands as cold as marble. 
 
 The salts which I held to her face did not reanimate her ; I placed my hand 
 on her heart, but it had ceased to beat. I placed my cheek to her half-open- 
 ed lips, but I could feel no breath : I thought she was dead ! It was a 
 dreadful moment '. I fell on my knees, crying — 
 
 " Forgive me ! oh God ! forgive me ! Restore her to life ! I have pro- 
 mised to sacrifice myself for her ; — to do everything ki my power for her hap- 
 piness, as if she were my sister — my child. I vow to thee, Father in Heaven ! 
 that I will make this sacrifice, if it should cost me my life ! Oh ! grant that 
 I may not have killed her ! Oh ! Heaven ! let her not die from any act of 
 mine !" 
 
 After a few dreadful moments, during which I watched, to discover in 
 Emma the least motion, or the slightest breath, God heard nay prayer ! She 
 
412 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 sighed faintly ; her blood, checked for an instant, resumed its circulation, and 
 
 Bhe was alive again. 
 
 I had devoted myself! — for me, all was consummated, all was finished ! 
 
 It behoved me, now, to bury my love in my heart as in a sepulchre ; to 
 enlighten this poor child, and to endeavour to restore her to life by means of 
 hope. I could no longer doubt that she was dying of love and jealousy. 
 
 But he — he for whom she would have died — how could I detach him from 
 myself? — how could I interest him in Emma's fondness and bring him to re- 
 ciprocate it ? 
 
 At this crisis, ray senses almost failed ; yet, at whatever pain to myself, I 
 was now to inform Emma of what alone could save her ; and — above all things 
 — she must be saved. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE RECOVERY. 
 
 The physician had left me a cordial of great power, recommending me to use 
 it, if necessary, to sustain and restore temporarily Emma's mental strength 
 and tranquillity. Deeming the present a fit occasion, I gave her some of it 
 in a spoon, and she swallowed it mechanically. 
 
 After a few minutes, a faint blush tinged Emma's cheek, and she opened 
 her eyes like one just aroused from a dream. Wishing to prevent a recur- 
 rence of the thoughts that had brought on her swoon, and resolved to bring 
 this painful scene to a conclusion, I cried, gaily, " Wake up, wake up, you 
 sleepy child ! M. de Rochegune has just arrived, and is now with Madame 
 de Richeville!" 
 
 I had hardly pronounced the name of M. de Rochegune, when Emma's 
 heart began to throb with a violence that greatly alarmed me. She regarded 
 me with a look full of surprise and delight, but without the least confusion. 
 
 " Has M. de Rochegune returned ?" murmured she. 
 
 " Yes, yes ;" I replied, in a broken and excited tone, conscious that each 
 word I uttered destroyed one of my long-cherished hopes — " yes, he comes 
 with plans of great interest to you — plans which he and I have concerted : 
 I loved him with all the fondness that you now feel, but we could not hither- 
 to speak on the subject to you — there were obstacles — great obstacles — it is 
 necessary, now, that you should understand his intentions : yes — we thought 
 only of you — and you thought that I was thinking only of him — and that he 
 thought of no one but me. This is the reason that you felt toward me those 
 emotions of dislike, which, however, you did not yourself comprehend. It 
 was jealousy, my child, and a jealousy the most unjust ; for M. de Rochegune 
 loves you as passionately as you love him, although he has never disclosed it 
 to you : yes ! he loves you — he loves you ; you need not now fear for your- 
 self nor for him — the obstacles that existed are all removed. He has de- 
 manded your hand in marriage, from your second mother, and she has given 
 him her consent. Henceforth you will pass your life with him — but you 
 must make haste to regain your health — you must get back again your rosy 
 cheeks ! Emma ! ah, Emma ! you wont speak of dying now !" 
 
 It would be vain to attempt a description of the thousand gradations and 
 changes that Emma's feelings and countenance underwent while I was speak- 
 ing : surprise— joy — fear — rapture — succeeded each other with inconceivable 
 rapidity. 
 
 Nevertheless, I had foreseen that, in this decisive proceeding, my precau- 
 tions, exaggerations, and concealments, would not at once effect the great 
 change which had been principally anticipated as the effect of my heroic dis- 
 closure. 
 
 Emma was saved. But at first I could not realize it: the shock was terri- 
 ble : and for a time I was in mortal agony. 
 
 An increase of delirium succeeded Emma's sudden return to reason, during 
 which she uttered many disconnected sentences. She often repeated my 
 name, following it with words like these — "forgive me, my tutelary angel !" 
 But through a strange oblivion, or rather, perhaps, from instinctive delicacy, 
 she did not once pronounce the name of M. de Rochegune. This crisis, 
 however, terminated favourably ; — not in a swoon, but in a quiet slumber. 
 
 The physician arrived at the moment when she fell asleep. It was now 
 my turn to be crushed and overpowered by accumulated misery. 
 
 "Well, madam ?" said the doctor, inquiringly, and with anxiety. 
 
m 
 
 THE BECOYBRY. 413 
 
 I made no reply, but endeavouring to conceal my tears with my hands, I 
 motioned to approach the bed. He did so, and after regarding her for a few 
 moments, he exclaimed, joyously : 
 
 ** She is safe ! You have explained it all to her, of course ! Madam, it is 
 a miracle ; it is a positive resurrection ! It is wonderful ! See ; she now 
 sleeps naturally — and yet, but a few hours ago, she was in a delirious fever. 
 How did you disclose this to her ?" 
 
 I informed him, in the briefest possible terms, of what I had done, omit- 
 ting only what related to myself. When I told him in what manner I had 
 deceived Emma, as to M. de Rochegune's return, he at first looked alarmed, 
 but afterward he reassured me on this point by saying : 
 
 " You had more courage, madam, and more discretion, than I should have 
 had. The child was doomed, and nothing but a violent reaction could have 
 saved her. Prudence, alone, would never have produced this result; and 
 now, for her, hope is the only road to health. And now, to complete this 
 good work, it is of the last importance that you should be present when she 
 awakes. She will at first think, that she has been dreaming this story of her 
 happiness ; and it will be necessary for you to repeat it in the same manner 
 as before : above all, you must take care that she does not suspect you of 
 deceiving her ; a relapse would in that case occur that must necessarily kill 
 her. M. de Rochegune is not here -but he must be sent for, and in such a 
 way, that he will come with all speed." 
 
 I now remembered the letter I had sent, enjoining him to come to me in 
 haste, and I replied : 
 
 " He has already been sent for : he will doubtless be here the day after to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Sent for already, and by you ?" exclaimed the doctor. 
 
 Struck by the tone of his remark, I said quietly, " No one else could have 
 sent for him in relation to this affair." 
 
 " That is very true," said he ; " well, it is fortunate, and we will take 
 courage for the sequel." 
 
 " I am afraid my strength will fail me." 
 
 " You will recover it, madam, in reflecting that if you do not, all will yet 
 be lost ; without your farther aid, this miraculous restoration will be of no 
 avail.; — for observe: when the young lady wakes, she would ask the maids 
 for Madame de Richeville, they could not be in the secret, and all would be 
 prematurely discovered." 
 
 " How is the duchess?" 
 
 " I have just seen her ; the sedative I previously ordered has thrown her 
 into a quiet sleep. She was sinking under excitement and fatigue; but there 
 is now no danger in that quarter ; and you need not, hereafter, fear to inform 
 her of what has passed between you and Emma." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I would rather not ! I beg you to let that rest a secret with our- 
 selves." 
 
 " I promise it, at your request. But when Emma is quite recovered, how 
 ean you prevent her from speaking to Madame de Richeville of M. de Hoche- 
 gune and of the marriage ? When she is entirely well, her hopes might in- 
 deed be gradually disappointed, but until " 
 
 " Hold !" cried I, interrupting him. " I have but one fear— and that is, 
 that God will not long grant me my reason. You know not, doctor, you can- 
 not know what I have this day endured. My brain will not — doctor ! — what 
 are the symptoms of madness ! — is it when the veins above^ the temples throb 
 as if they would burst ?— mine throb so now !" 
 
 *• Madam ! " 
 
 " Is it when the power of thought seems to vacillate and flicker like the 
 flame of an expiring lamp? — I feel thus at this moment, doctor !" 
 
 Doctor Gérard afterward told me, that for a while, on this occasion, he 
 feared I should go mad ; and, knowing what he did of the precedent circum- 
 stances, he was greatly apprehensive that 1 should never be able to complete 
 my work of devotion. 
 
 "Madam!" said he, "be quiet; compose yourself ; rest on my arm. 
 Come, I will open one of the windows ; the evening is magnificent, and a 
 little fresh air will be of great service to Emma." ' 
 
 He accordingly opened the window that overlooked the garden. It was 
 near the end of March ; the air was mild, it was the beginning of sprirg, 
 and the moon shone brilliantly, surrounded by a myriad of stars. 
 
 I eagerly inhaled the fresh air, exposed my burning forehead to the cool 
 breeze, and by degrees I grew more tranquil. I raised my eyes to Heaven 
 2 N a 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 with resignation mingled with bitterness and woe. While thus regarding 
 the immensity of the firmament, the mysterious communication between my 
 self and heaven, seemed to be re-established ; and I thought I heard ajain 
 the voice which had before addressed me. 
 
 " Take courage !" it said ; " take courage, noble lady ! You have ele- 
 vated yourself to the highest point of devotion; your suffering is holy and 
 sublime — but you shall suffer no more. Do not, however, leave your work 
 incomplete. Trust in God — He will inspire you — He will give you strength 
 to overcome all the obstacles which now seem insurmountable : He never 
 deserts the faithful in heart. With those whom he loves, they who suffer 
 the most are the most beloved. His spirit guides them — His countenance 
 cheers them — his strength sustains them." 
 
 These thoughts inspired me anew ; they were to my crushed spirit, what 
 the cool breeze was to my burning forehead. 
 
 " You feel yourself better, madam, do you not?" inquired the doctor, 
 after a long silence. 
 
 His voice seemed to be agitated. The moon shone full on his grave fea- 
 tures, and two large tears coursed down his cheeks. 
 
 "What is the matter, doctor?" said I. 
 
 He looked at me steadily for a moment, and then said, in a tremulous 
 tone. 
 
 " You have enjoined me to secrecy, madam, and you have my promise ; 
 but there are no secrets there !" and he raised his finger toward heaven. 
 
 Could Doctor Gérard have learned, from public rumour, my attachment 
 to M. de Rochegune? Has he learned it since this morning? I asked my- 
 self these questions, but I could find no answer. He was a man who 
 mingled but little with the world, and who gave little heed to its reports 
 and its scandals. It was, therefore, very possible that he, in fact, knew 
 nothing of the causes which rendered this sacrifice so dreadful to me. 
 
 After a few directions, as to the treatment of Emma, he took his depar- 
 ture, and I remained alone with her, watching her slumber. 
 
 After three hours of profound sleep, Emma awoke. If, to have saved 
 this poor child from death, was a sufficient consolation to me for what I had 
 suffered, I ought now to have been satisfied ; for, during this brief slumber, 
 a change had taken place, so extraordinary, that she could scarcely be re- 
 cognized. Hope had restored her life. She knew, or at least she believed, 
 that she was beloved as passionately as she loved. But here a new thought 
 presented itself: I trembled to think of the fatal consequences which might 
 ensue from the deception I had felt it necessary to practise : but I shut my 
 eyes to the result, and put my trust in heaven. As soon as Emma awoke, 
 she seemed to strive to collect her thoughts, and said, 
 
 " Is it true ? My God ! is it true ? It was you " 
 
 "Yes, yes! it was I who told you; and what I said is true. You ]otre 
 M. de Rochegune, and he loves you. We will speak of your happiness 
 presently. How do you feel now?" 
 
 " I am weak; but I now wish to live, as a little while ago I wished to die;" 
 
 " You are happy, then?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! I see now that it was M. de Rochegune who gave me the hap 
 piness that I could not understand. I feel, that hereafter I shall have no 
 more of those moods in which I loved you less — " She here interrupted 
 herself, and buried her face in her hands for a moment, and then continued 
 — " It is strange how clear a light your disclosure has shed on the past ! I 
 remarked that when he joined us, my pleasure greatly increased, and yet I 
 did not attribute the effect to him. All that he said, I remembered — the 
 songs that he sang, I learned immediately. It seemed to me, that I had 
 witiiin me an echo to his spirit. When I heard him praised, it gave me as 
 much happfriess as if I had been praised. When I accompanied him on 
 the piano, I was conscious of playing better than usual. When he conversed 
 with me, instead of being intimidated, my thoughts and words flowed more 
 freely than ever." 
 
 " And why did you never tell this to Madame de Richeville or myself?" 
 
 "True! true! why did I not?" said she, as if trying to find a reason. 
 " I believe it was, because these tilings were precisely so from the first day 
 I saw M. de Rochegune. I did not suppose it could be otherwise; it seemed 
 so natural that I did not speak of it. To be happy with him — was like 
 living, breathing, seeing, thinking— in short, I was like one who should en 
 joy the blessings of God, without knowing that there is a God. Formerly, 
 when my joy was disturbed by a fear or a recollection, I could not disguise 
 
THE RECOVERY. 
 
 4ti 
 
 my sadness. I understand, now, why I shed involuntary tears when I saw 
 the snowfall; it was because M. de Ttochegune was once nearly perishing 
 In the snow." 
 
 " Before I arrived," said I, " he sometimes spoke of me to Madame de 
 Richevilie, did lie not V 
 
 "Oh, constantly! he always spoke of you as the most accomplished of 
 ladies, and one whom he loved best. That is the reason I loved you so 
 much before I saw you. And since I have had the happiness to know you, 
 M. de Rochegune has waited with such impatience for your return but — " 
 
 " Say on; tell me all, my child ; — you may now." 
 
 " When I saw you so often near him, I began to grow thoughtful and 
 sad; — oh ! I wished to die !" then, checking herself, she added, " but what 
 avails it to recall these past troubles? that prolonged unconsciousness, of 
 which I ought to be ashamed ? I beg you, leave me to forget that, and be 
 as kind and generous to me as ever," 
 
 " Yes, yes 1 let us forget — let us forget the past 1 it is my greatest 
 desire !" 
 
 " But lady ! dear lady ! I owe my life to you !" 
 "Then, in turn, you can do much, very much for me." 
 " Tell me how." 
 
 " By giving ine your entire — your unreserved confidence ; in listening to 
 my advice, following my counsels, and, above all, in believing that I wish 
 your happiness." 
 
 "I know this; I faithfully believe it ; and I as faithfully promise to do 
 what you request." 
 
 " Listen then. Your marriage with M. de Rochegune will take place 
 very soon — perhaps even sooner than you could have hoped. Those obsta- 
 cles to which I referred, and which were once of some consequence, will 
 easily be removed : but — you have suffered so much — you are still so feeble 
 — that you must not think of seeing him for several days: to see him now 
 might cause you some dangerous excitement." 
 
 " On, no"! no Î no S it would entirely cure me !" 
 
 " But, my dear child — think of the effect upon him — if he should find you 
 so changed : you must bear in mind, that it is only since his departure that 
 your disease has made such terrible progress." 
 
 " That is too true! When he went away, it was like a fatal blowto me: 
 it was as if everything about me was dark and hopeless. I closed my eyes, 
 and prayed heaven to keep me in his remembrance : and, in my distress, 
 God sent a good angel to watch me." And she kissed my hand tenderly as 
 she spoke thus: 
 
 " Trust yourself, then, to my guidance," I answered ; "and, above all, do 
 not cause M. de Rochegune any unhappiness." 
 " I ! Good heavens !" 
 
 " When he perceives in your face, the traces of your suffering, he will re- 
 proach himself with having caused it by his silence. I therefore do not 
 wish you to see him until you have entirely recovered, and are as gay and 
 pretty as before. There is another very important thing, which you must 
 bear in mind : Madame de Richevilie, greatly desires your union with M. 
 de Rochegune ; yet, not knowing precisely your sentiments toward him, 
 and considering that you are so young, she has determined not to inform 
 you of her projects, but has confided them to me, with a special charge, to 
 keep them concealed from you. Nevertheless, in order to make you happy, 
 and at the same time to communicate that which I was sure would benefit 
 your health, I have committed the great fault of breaking my promise. 
 Now, my dear child, you at least, must give me no occasion to repent my 
 indiscretion; and you must, therefore, never reveal to the duchess what I 
 have told you. She will carry out her intentions with regard to you, but 
 you must not appear to understand any more than she herself communi- 
 cates: I do not ask you to say anything that is untrue, but only to say 
 nothing. In this way, Madame de Richevilie cannot reproach me with 
 having betrayed her secret, nor, above all, with having deprived her of the 
 pleasure of first announcing to you a marriage so consonant to her wishes 
 and your own." 
 
 " I will do what you desire, " replied Emma, "although it will be the 
 first time that I ever knowingly practised dissimulation : my wish to obey 
 yon compels me to be so far imprudent." 
 
 "But this is not all," said l f trying to smile ; " I must require of yoa 
 (till farther dissimulation.' 
 
416 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 " What must it be ?" 
 
 *' M. de Rochegnne loves you — loves you tenderly — but he dares not de- 
 clare it to you before ascertaining from Madame de Richeville, whether she 
 or you have any objections to a marriage that he so ardently desires. It 
 will, therefore, be necessary, when you are in company with M. de Roche- 
 gune, to appear quite ignorant of his intentions — and — afterward — when you 
 are married — you must never reveal to him what I have this day communi- 
 cated to you. You can easily see how mortifying it would be to me, should 
 he be aware that I had made his declaration of love to you — for him, and in 
 anticipation of him — and without his authority." 
 
 " Oh, yes !" she replied, with entire simplicity, " I appreciate your mo- 
 tives — and then you and I shall have a secret of our own, shall we not?" 
 
 ** And yet," said I, " you must not change your manner toward M. de 
 Rochegune." 
 
 " But now that I know I love him, and that he loves me, how can I dis- 
 guise it ?" 
 
 " You must not appear to disguise anything from him. Do as you have 
 done : act naturally and wiihout restraint, and in that way you will most 
 surely continue to please him. If any circumstances should occur which I 
 cannot foresee — which should cause me to be absent occasionally — and in 
 the meantime you should desire my advice while Madame de Richeville is 
 unfolding her projects to you — you can write to me by my maid, Blondeau, 
 whom I will send to you from time to time, and I will answer you by the 
 same means." 
 
 " Without acquainting Madame de Richeville ?" said Emma, with sur- 
 prise, as if this secrecy were repugnant to her hguest and ingenuous spirit. 
 
 " Yon forget, my child, that Madame de Richtville knows nothing, and 
 must know nothing, of what I have already said, and what we propose to 
 do ; and you surely know me well enough, to believe that I would ask of 
 yon nothing wrong.*' 
 
 "Oh, yes! But are you going away 7 I wish to talk with you every 
 moment of that which is now my life. Are you really going — and for a 
 long time ?" 
 
 " No — I think not " 
 
 " Oh ! no : you will not — you cannot leave your poor Emma, who owes 
 you so much ? But, tell me : how can a few words have thus changed the 
 I aspect and the reality of the past ?" 
 
 " Do not seek for the cause of your happiness, my child ; but thank God, 
 who has vouchsafed it." 
 
 Soon after this, Emma again sank to sleep; and I, overcome with fatigue 
 and excitement, fell also into a slumber. 
 
 The next day, about noon, I was awakened by Blondeau, who gave me 
 a note from M. de Rochegnne, saying: 
 
 " The marquis was not at Rochegune, but at his estate, near Fontaine- 
 bleau. The letter was taken to him thither, and he has just arrived here." 
 
 I opened the note with a trembling hand, and read these words: 
 
 ' Our destiny is accomplished ! There are joys so sudden and so pro- 
 found, that we can respond to them with nothing but prayer. When I >•«?• 
 ceived your letter, I fell on my knees and wept. When shall I see you /' 
 
 I answered, in haste : 
 
 " I win receive you at one." 
 
 And, at one o'clock, M. de Rochegune entered my saloon. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 On entering my apartment, the first movement of M. de Rochegune was, 
 to throw himself at my feet; he then took my hands, and covered them with 
 tears of happiness ; he, generally so much master of himself, appeared to be 
 absolutely mad with joy. Never had I seen his features, as I may say, 
 lighted up with that internal radiance which is communicated by intense and 
 unexpected happiness. 
 
 My eyes were dry and burning. I had exhausted all my tears. I felt as- 
 tounded. I could not determine what answer I should give to M. de Ro- 
 
THE RETURN. 
 
 417 
 
 chegune, when he should ask me to account for the sudden overthrow of all 
 his happiness. 
 
 His first emotion having subsided, he looked at me steadfastly ; and it was 
 only then that he perceived the ravages which grief had left upon my features. 
 After having for a moment examined them with an expression of touching 
 interest, he sorrowfully said to me, " I see it ; this resolution has cost you 
 dearly. I can conceive it. I am proud of having triumphed in this struggle. 
 Oh ! by how much tenderness will I cause you to forget these tears — the 
 last that you shall ever shed, Matilda!" 
 
 " I wished to " 
 
 "Oh! no!" said he interrupting me with the volubility of happiness , 
 "do not say a word — do not speak to me. Allow me to contemplate you; 
 to admire you with the jealousy — with the savage covetonsness of the miser, 
 for the treasure which he at last possesses. Let me take large draughts of 
 this intoxicating idea — that this woman, who is before me — this woman, is 
 my own ; she, the ideal wife of my dreams of infancy and youth ! Allow 
 me to say to myself: she whom men, whom circumstances, whom her own 
 will appeared to separate for ever from me— she is there — she belongs to 
 me. Oli! I did not believe it! Yonder? No, I will believe it only now, 
 that you may not lose any of the raptures you have caused; and yet some- 
 times I have felt that the irresistible power of our love destined us to hap- 
 piness — that it was merely a question of time. At one time I feared your 
 scruples ; another, on the contrary, 1 yielded to the most delightful antici 
 pations ; and, oh ! these days, which I have passed at such a distance from 
 you— in such suspense — with such mortal dread before me — they have been 
 terrible ! You cannot imagine the horrible, the senseless ideas which have 
 crossed my mind, when I reflected that, in a few short days, I might be 
 compelled to say to you, 'Adieu, Matilda! and adieu forever!' Oh! I wish 
 you to remain ignorant of what I have suffered. You would reproach your- 
 self too bitterly for having rendered me unhappy." 
 
 " Believe me, I shall always feel remorse when thinking of the grief I 
 have occasioned you," I replied, mechanically. 
 
 " But now I am not generous, Matilda. I do not tell you that, although 
 in my solitude I had frightful days of doubt, I also had some rays of en- 
 chanting hope. It was during one of these moments that I delighted myself 
 — and with the delight of a child — in drawing a sketch of a delicious re- 
 treat which I dreamed of for us at Castellamare. Since you love Italy so 
 much, around us shall be flowers — above our heads, those venerable trees — . 
 at our feet, the sea — Vesuvius on the horizon ? What say you of this frame- 
 work for our love ?" 
 
 "My friend, I " 
 
 " Pardon, pardon, Matilda ! It is true that I talk wildly. Have we not a 
 thousand considerations more serious than these? — a thousand resolutions to 
 form ? What shall we say to our friends? Shall I set out before or alter 
 you ? Who will you lake as chaperon for this journey ? Oh, heaven! my 
 poor head, generally so clear, now turns with the prospect of so much fe- 
 licity. It is not my fault, if I am now so giddy ; it is a whirlwind of hap- 
 piness which throws me at your feet. But, heavens! what a mournful — 
 troubled look, Matilda! That you should not feel so boisterously happy as I 
 do, is well ; but, at least, allow me to perceive a smile upon yojr lips — a 
 glance of affection in your eyes.- — In truih, Matilda, the more I look at you 
 
 but I have never seen you wear a look so gloomy — almost ominous ! 
 
 What have you to impart to me?" 
 
 " Oh ! some very gloomy — very inauspicious events I" 
 
 "I do not understand you. What can have happened? Your letter — did 
 it not say to me, ' Come, come?" 
 
 " Enough ! pray do not — for pity's sake ! do not remind me of that 
 letter!" 
 
 " Not remind you of that letter! and why not?" 
 
 ** Since I dispatched that letter to you," I replied, casting down my eyes 
 to avoid his looks, "I have seen M. de Lancry.'' 
 " Your husband I Where did this happen?" 
 "In my own house here." 
 
 " Here! Did he dare to come hither ? and for what? Doubtless for some 
 new iniquity — but what care we for your husband. You are for ever and 
 ever separated from him ! What influence can be now exercise upon our 
 actions? You have for him the hatred and contempt, which he so well hat 
 
418 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 merited. What signifies his coming here ? It is only a new prool of hi« 
 baseness — that is all !" 
 
 I felt my heart die within me. /The moment had arrived for striking a 
 decisive blow, to destroy at once not only de Rochegune's present hopes, 
 but all his future too : with one word to annihilate the love he bore me. 
 Without this, my sacrifice would be useless. In order that he should marry 
 Emma, it was necessary he should no longer love me — that he should net 
 retain the slightest hope of being beloved by me. 
 
 Oh, my God ! I implored thee to sustain me ; and, thanks to thee, I 
 had the courage. 
 
 " But, once more, Matilda," rejoined M. de Rochegune, " what can your 
 husband's visits signify ? Perhaps you have allowed yourself to be intimi- 
 dated by his threats. 
 
 " His threats ! — It would have pleased me better, had he threatened me." 
 
 " How ! what can you mean ?" 
 
 " He, on the contrary, came to me trembling, and unhappy — with words 
 full of tenderness and repentance." 
 
 "And could you believe in his hypocritical protestations? Have you, 
 then, felt any scruples awakened within you ? Can you have been the dupe 
 of this miserable comedy ?" 
 
 u I can assure you that M. de Lancry spoke sincerely ; with all the deli- 
 cacy, all the respect imaginable, he avowed his past faults ; his avowal was 
 made with such generous frankness, that, without excusing him, one might, 
 perhaps, pardon them." 
 
 M. de Rochegune looked at me with astonishment. The measured be- 
 nevolence with which I spoke of my husband, confounded him. Then, 
 shaking his head, he said to me, in a touching and mournful voice — " Come, 
 come, I comprehend ; your generous soul believes in this repentance, im- 
 possible as it may be, that you may no longer have reasons for hatred, 
 Well, I can feel as you do, that now we ought no longer either to hate or 
 to despise ; let us forget : forgetfulness is the disdain, the revenge, of happy 
 hearts." 
 
 " It was not only to express his deep regret at having so mistaken me, 
 that my husband came to me ; he told me — he pretended— that as we were 
 not separated by any — legal act — I ought to " 
 
 M. de Rochegune hastily interrupted me. Alas ! to complete the measure 
 of my regret, the idea which I had entertained, struck him also ; and he 
 exclaimed — " Well, so much the better ! After all, he is right ; your posi- 
 tion and my own will thus be better defined ; the separation from bed and 
 board, is almost equivalent to a divorce; you will be thus for ever rid of 
 your husband." Then he paused a moment, and said, " Now I compre- 
 hend your melancholy ; you rightly fear the scandal of a law-suit — not for 
 yourself ; for you can but be a gainer, by having your conduct made evident 
 to all the world ; but you think that the shameful conduct of the man whose 
 name you bear, will be disgracefully exposed, in these sorrowful proceed- 
 ings. That is true ; but in the end, justice must have its sway. You have 
 sacrificed yourself long enough ; reflect that this formality, once complied 
 with, your future liberty is legally assured. The last doubt which you might 
 still have entertained as to your moral right, will thus be dissipated." 
 
 My torments became intolerable : I collected all my strength, and said to 
 M. de Rochegune, in a distinct, but agitated tone, " It is impossible for me 
 to allow you to continue in this error. I wrote to you a letter ; in that letter 
 I requested you to return to me ; that I accepted the future which you of- 
 fered me. That letter had scarcely left the house, when M. de Lancry pre- 
 sented himself before me." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " Then I confess to you — touched by his remorse — his tenderness — hia 
 misfortunes — his protestations — moved by the recollection of former days — 
 in spite of myself, I — I — promised him that I would never leave him more." 
 
 I had ejaculated these words as though they burned my lips, without 
 daring to look at M. de Rochegune, and with indescribable trepidation. 
 After some seconds, alarmed at his not speaking, I raised my head, He 
 appeared as if listening to my words, not with wonder or despair, but with 
 an agitated curiosity. When I had done speaking, he said, very coldly, " I 
 have perfectly understood all you have said to me. I know that you are in- 
 capable of inventing so fearful a mockery, at such a serious moment ; — your 
 voice is trembling, your features are convulsed, your emotion is alarming ; 
 
THE RETURN. 
 
 419 
 
 —and yet, my dear Matilda, you must perceive from the expression of my 
 countenance, that I do not believe one word that you have uttered." 
 ** You do not believe ?" 
 
 " It is impossible for me to believe it, because it cannot be— because it is 
 not so." 
 
 " I feel, that a soul like yours, must consider such a weakness as impos- 
 sible ; but " 
 
 " I do not analyze — I draw no comparisons. I tell you plainly that this 
 cannot be— that this is not so. All that renders me uneasy, is your agita- 
 tion — your paleness. As to the cause which has induced you to hold this 
 language, I cannot now divine it, but I shall do so hereafter." 
 
 " Ought I not to feel emotion — to be trembling, and in despair — when, a 
 victim to a sentiment which I cannot surmount, I thus return your love ?" 
 
 M. de Rochegune shrugged his shoulders, and said to me, with a calmness 
 which quite disconcerted me, '.' You must necessarily have very powerful 
 motives, Matilda, to make such an avowal to me. Happily, my faith in you 
 is proof against all this. I have sufficiently studied my own heart, to know 
 that of others, and, above all, yours. It is sufficient for me to remember 
 what you said to me a thousand times, before my late departure : these were 
 not mere words ; they were truths, which you then felt and uttered." 
 
 " But 
 
 "But, my dear Matilda, in the short space of four-and-twenty hours, a 
 woman, such as you, does not degrade herself. The proof that I believe you 
 incapable of such conduct, is, that I am, at this moment, in the same state 
 of mind, in which I came to you. I do not believe one word of this fable of 
 your husband's visit. You despise him — you hate him, full as much, and 
 even more, than you have ever hated him — this is the truth." 
 "You believe me capable of uttering a falsehood?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly — for a great and glorious purpose ; and I am certain, that 
 under this, there is hidden some mysterious sacrifice ; yes — some noble, 
 some exalted purpose, without doubt ; — for, to adventure what you now are 
 risking, there must be some surpassing compensation ! But, fortunately, 
 you are not alone in this world, Matilda ; the care of your happiness belongs 
 to me ; it is my province to watch over my treasure. I will defend you, even, 
 against yourself. My clear-sightedness is generally admitted. Before four- 
 and-twenty hours, your secret will be discovered." 
 
 I was at the same time delighted, even to tears, and alarmed to find that 
 my secret was suspected. It was absolutely necessary, however, and at any 
 price, to detach M. de Rochegune from me ; to deprive him of every hope ; 
 and, above all, to prevent him from thinking that I was sacrificing myself 
 for any other person. 
 
 If I had only attributed my return to M. de Lancry, to the observances of 
 society, or to compassion, — M. de Rochegune would have always believed 
 himself beloved by me, and this would have rendered my design, as to his 
 marrying Emma, still more impossible. It was necessary, then, that I 
 should have the courage to feign a passionate love for M. de Lancry, in or- 
 der to remove from M. de Rochegune's mind every species of illusion re- 
 garding me. 
 
 My position was at once cruel and difficult, because Emma was in ques- 
 tion, that unhappy child, to whom I owed the fulfilment of the promises 
 which I had given her. 
 
 My conduct was, therefore, marked out with the plainest, though the 
 most frightful precision. To annihilate the love which M. de Rochegune 
 had felt for me — and, his heart, once free, to lead him on to suspect and 
 perceive Emma's love for him: — this was the only way I could render my 
 sacrifice great and advantageous. Emma would be happy ; M. de Rochegune 
 would be happy also ; — for he could not fail duly to appreciate her angelic 
 character — and I, at least, should enjoy a melancholy consolation. 
 
 If, on the other hand, I should not succeed, my sterile sacrifice would 
 cause the misery of two persons, whom I loved better than all the world. 
 Alas 1 these reflections sufficiently proved, that my only chance of success, 
 was to feign for M. de Lancry a passion as odious as it was inexplicable. I 
 therefore said to M. de Rochegune : 
 
 " Your incredulity does not astonish me ; my conduct must appear so 
 highly culpable in your eyes, that you can hardly deem it possible. Pardon 
 me, if I once more revart to the past. When last you left me, you were full 
 of sorrow, agitated ; and again, when in your solitude you passed alternately 
 
420 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 from confidence to despair : you admitted, however, the possibility of a se- 
 paration — which you had even yourself proposed to me." 
 
 "Without doubt; and, notwithstanding your letter, which so urgently 
 requested my return, had I found you still irresolute — even changed as to 
 the resolution you had taken, 1 might have understood it. I should have 
 calculated that time, and my influence over you, would lead you back to the 
 fulfilment of your promise. But that I should be mad enough to believe 
 that you, Matilda — that you, during my absence, should once more, and so 
 suddenly, have become enamored of M. de Lancry — I could rather believe 
 you capable of having twenty lovers, than of committing such a baseness !" 
 
 " And why then, should it be termed a baseness ? Is he not my hus- 
 band ? If he regrets the vexations he has caused me, is it not generous, on 
 my part, to pardon him ! and finally, you have seen that notwithstanding 
 my inclination, my affection for you, I have always remained obstinately 
 faithful to my duties. This was because I loved you only as a brother, be- 
 cause you merely inspired me with a lively friendship — my first love was 
 smouldering, not extinguished, and in this consisted all my virtue." 
 
 M. de Rochegune was highly superior to most men, both as to disposition 
 and the admirable qualities he possessed; but notwithstanding, he, like the 
 vulgar herd of men, put more credence in the last argument I had ad- 
 vanced ; or rather he felt it more keenly than the other, because it deeply 
 wounded his self-love. 
 
 " I should as soon have thought of doubting my own father!" exclaimed 
 he, shrinking with ungovernable horror. " Can it be you ? you ! who are 
 thus speaking? But we have seen : — yes, there have been instances of such 
 irresistible fascination, of such overpowering and fatal passions, that angels 
 of goodness, and purity, have been for ever chained by them to men utterly 
 depraved and infamous ! But, no ! no!" he continued, with a burst of noble 
 indignation : "no ! there is no such thing as fascination, no fatality — these 
 are words invented by weakness, cowardice, or shame. I tell you that I do 
 not believe you ! you no longer love : you can no longer love this man, unless 
 you are as perverse — as lost as he !" 
 
 He spoke the truth. I understood, I admired his noble anger ; but to 
 keep up the semblance of the painful part which I was acting, I was con- 
 strained to defend my feigned love for M. de Lancry, and M. de Lancry 
 himself. 
 
 Oh ! how gratefully did I thank heaven, that it had given me the 
 strength to conceal from M. de Rochegune, the ardent and passionate love 
 -which I had so long entertained, and which I still felt for him I Could he 
 have guessed it — had I acknowledged this to him— how could I, without 
 sinking with confusion, have told him, that the presence of M. de Lancry 
 had awakened within me a new passion for him ? Oh ! no, no ! M. de Ro- 
 chegune would not have credited such a baseness, and I could never have 
 endeavoured to persuade him of it. 
 
 He walked agitatedly up and down the room ; — he suffered visibly. I 
 hastened to abridge this painful scene. 
 
 " You are unjust," said I to him, "to accuse me of perversity, because 
 an affection, fatally bestowed, if you will, but after all legitimate, has been 
 revived within me. Did I not remain for years together under the spell 
 which my husband cast around me. Have I not sacrificed all that I pos- 
 sessed to this man, whose presence — yes, I must avow it — whose presence 
 exercises an irresistible dominion over me ? Up to the very moment of my 
 again beholding him, I had been firm, courageous even ; but as soon as 1 
 beheld him repentant at my feet, and his eyes met mine — oh ! then, dig- 
 nity, courage, grief, — all was forgotten, and I ran, with joy, to clasp my 
 chains again." 
 
 " This is horrible ! there is a want of all modesty in acknowledging such 
 a disgraceful influence. You must be mad ! I do not believe you — I will 
 not believe you." 
 
 " And yet, if any one ought to believe me, it is you, for I speak to you 
 without the least concealment ; I do not attempt to colour this renewed af- 
 fection by any false appearances. I might say to you, as I shall say to our 
 friends ; that pity for the misfortunes, the remorse of my husband — that 
 even an exaggeration of my duties may cause me to act thus ; but as to you, 
 I tell you that which is ; to you I speak the truth, however shameful it may 
 be. Well, then } tell you, that I love him! yes, with a love I dare not de- 
 fine. Be that as it may be— but I love him — 'tis fatal — 'tis involuntary— 
 but so it if '» 
 
THE RETURN. 
 
 42] 
 
 " Still this is infamous, madam ; still I love you, and you have told me 
 that you love me." 
 
 *' And who now says 1 do not love you ? Was it you or I who wished to 
 profane the purity of the ties which unite us ? Was it not you ? And be- 
 cause, in a moment of weakness, of compassion, I imprudently wrote to you 
 the word come, was this an irrevocable promise ? Did you not yourself tell 
 me, that if on your return from your travels you had not found me separated 
 from my husband, you should loyally have declared to me your attachment 
 for me ? This is our present position, nothing has changed. My affection 
 for you is still as devoted, as pure, as fraternal as before. And, after all, who 
 has the right to condemn me? Our friends themselves, austere as they may 
 he, cannot but applaud me for having forgotten the wrongs my husband has 
 inflicted on me, and having returned to him, when I found him unhappy and 
 forsaken." 
 
 " Well! at least persist in saying that — there is still time to do so — and 
 you will not drive me for ever from you. Say that humanity dictates your 
 conduct ; and I shall understand that humanity is so constituted, that an 
 extravagant ambition will sometimes take advantage of even the most ad- 
 mirable self-devotion. I will believe that noble souls can by some fatal 
 error, sacrifice all to their desire for admiration — to their rage for heroism. 
 Say, that it is from a feeling of austere pity you return to your husband ; I 
 will believe you — you would always be to me the woman, of all women, her 
 to whom I have devoted my whole life. What would you more ? You pos- 
 sess the exaggeration of virtue — as so many others do the exaggeration of 
 vice. But, out of pity to yourself and me, do not tell me that irresistible 
 affection throws you into the arms of this man — do not continue to distress 
 me with the words ' he is my husband he is no longer so ! His ignoble 
 conduct has placed a barrier between you which is insurmountable. You 
 may feel pity for him— clemency, kindness ; and, in short, every sentiment 
 excepting love." 
 
 " And that is, nevertheless, the only, or, rather, the 'most powerful senti- 
 ment which draws me back to him !" exclaimed I, in order to close at once 
 this cruel scene. " Yes ; though you may despise me for it, in him I love 
 the man, who first taught my heart to palpitate with emotion ;— in him, I love 
 my husband — in him, I love my lover. Yes, my lover ; and 't is for that I 
 will return to him !" 
 
 M. de Rochegune hid his face in his hands, and remained silent for a long 
 time. He then said in a low voice, as though listening to his own thoughts, 
 " This is most strange ; I have always said so, but I could never have be- 
 lieved it — it was necessary to see all that I have seen." 
 
 " What is the matter ?" cried I, alarmed at his wild looks ; " what is the 
 matter?" 
 
 " A singular phenomena is passing within me, Matilda," said he, and then 
 continued, speaking to himself : " Yes, yes ; my hopes — my convictions, give 
 way slowly, one by one. They fall like the dead leaves from the tree— with- 
 out being torn from it. At each wound I receive, instead of experiencing 
 sharp pain, a cold numbness comes over me — instead of being excited by vio- 
 lent paroxysms of anger or despair, I feel a bitter disdain, combined with 
 affecting compassion. All my past life, which I had deemed not subjected 
 to change, flies from me, lessens and disappears. Well ! I have taken for 
 imperishable marble, snow which melts with the sun's first rays. Again, I 
 say, this is most wonderful ! It was but now, when thinking I might be 
 obliged to renounce for ever this truly adored woman, the bare supposition 
 appeared to me a deep abyss, which I could not contemplate without giddi- 
 ness. And now how changed it is 1 Instead of that grand though terrify- 
 ing abyss, 1 see before me but a slough, from which I hasten to withdraw my 
 eyes. And yet it is I — it is truly I, myself: I to whom this love has been 
 the pole, the fixed, the one idea ; — I, who for ten years have not passed a 
 day, an hour, without bestowing a thought upon this love! — I, whom this 
 love sustained, and carried forward, to attempt and accomplish such great 
 good deeds:— I, who only yesterday wept like a child : — I, who but now ex- 
 perienced one of those intense, unutterable feelings of joy, almost divine, be- 
 cause I thought I had attained the almost unhoped for goal of my desire. 
 And now ! what is there left for me ? Nothing— absolutely nothing!— a mere 
 void! In vain I seek the site of that gigantic and sublime edifice, which, till 
 then, I had raised up in my soul with such holy ardour. What remains of it ? 
 thought by thought, recollection bv recollection — all has faded ; a breath has 
 2 © 
 
422 
 
 MATILDAt 
 
 sufficed to cause its disappearance, and it has disappeared without leaving 
 even a river, a tree, a fragment. Tell me, Matilda— tell me ! is not this most 
 étrange ?" 
 
 Oh ! nothing could be more terrible, than to hear him thus analyze the over- 
 throw of all his hopes, and his belief in me ! I was once again on the point 
 of telling him, how much I had deceived him, how much I loved him ! Must 
 I avow this baseness ; it was the disdainful resignation of myself by M. de 
 Rochegune, that caused this passing weakness'. And yet, this disdain on his 
 part, was forwarding my designs. His despair might have renewed my 
 strength, by proving that I was still beloved — and it was necessary that he 
 should no longer love me. 
 
 Addressing himself to me, he continued : " It would be incomprehensible, 
 in any other person but myself :— but my disposition is such, that the most 
 subtle, the most rapid poison, is not more mortal than my contempt, when it 
 once attacks my affections, be they as strong and long-lived as they may." 
 Then, rising abruptly, he said, " after all, humanity is but humanity, gold 
 and clay knocked together. I ought to take pity on your aberration, by 
 thinking of the qualities which compensate for it. I ought not to scatter to 
 the winds ten years of holy and inspired affections — ten years of idolatry, of 
 worship ! But I cannot — I know myself, and I am absolute in all — I cannot 
 regard you but as a divinity, or as one of the common herd of women. While 
 you were elevated on your pedestal, I adored you; but now, that you have 
 descended from it disgracefully — now you are to me like all other women, 
 and I abjure my former adoration." 
 
 " Thus," said I to him, with bitterness, "had I listened to you, when you 
 entreated me to forget my duties, contempt, no doubt, would have repaid 
 my sacrifice. Perhaps, at this very moment, you would already have abjured 
 your former adoration, for I should then, also, have disgracefully descended 
 from my pedestal. I yield to a legitimate inclination, and you despise me 
 for it. But had I yielded to a guilty one ?" 
 
 This reflection appeared to touch him — he remained thoughtful. He then 
 exclaimed, with ill-suppressed violence, " I told you, long since, that should 
 I ever doubt you, I should doubt myself. Well ! that hour has now arrived. 
 I doubt both myself and you ! Yes— woe to you ! w ho have overthrown all 
 my ideas of good and evil. Woe be to you ! who can inspire aversion, by 
 accomplishing a sacred duty- Woe be to you ! who can become perverted, 
 while obeying a lawful love '. Yes ! 1 less despise the hypocrisy of vice, than 
 your immodest virtue !" and saying this, he rushed out of the room. 
 
 All was now ended — he despised me, he hated me From this moment, 
 my sacrifice was fully accomplished. 
 
 I felt that his heart was lost to me. He had cruelly obliged me to be pre- 
 sent, and to witness the last throbs of his expiring love and esteem for me ; 
 I had no longer any doubt his heart was void. Who was to occupy it ? 
 
 At this moment a diabolical idea presented itself to my imagination. "And 
 Ursula," exclaimed I, "were she now to assay her seductions upon him? 
 Now, that he is free, soured ; now that he believes in the existence of evil, 
 since he doubts me ! Is he not precisely in that frame of mind, in which he 
 would be most accessible to the fatal influence of that woman ?" 
 
 And Emma, that child to whom I have promised his love— Emma, who, 
 without that love, will die; could she even contend with Ursula ? above all, 
 should Ursula love passionately ! And I — I should reluctantly, yet volun- 
 tarily have renounced my love — to see this hateful woman" occupy the heart 
 of M. de Rochegune ! 
 
 Events followed each other so closely, that I own I had not for an instant 
 thought of the interview which had taken place, between Ursula and M. de 
 Rochegune, at the ball at the opera house. 
 
 Had this idea struck me before, I should, perhaps, have had the cruelty to 
 sacrifice Emma, rather than to risk seeing Ursula beloved by M. de Roche- 
 gune. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 LEAVE TAKING. 
 
 Having come to a determination, I wrote to M. de Lancry, that after hav- 
 ing mutarely reflected upon the wish he had expressed to me, I willingly con- 
 sented to return to live with him. I feared that he might employ some legal 
 
LEAVE TAKING. 
 
 421 
 
 violence, and thus compromise all my projects, by raising douhts as to my 
 anxiety to rejoin him. 
 
 After the departure of M. de Rochegune, I went to see Madame de Riche- 
 ville and Emma. The latter wss much better. The doctor considered her 
 recovery as certain. The duchess, who was quite well, thanked me, with 
 much feeling, for the attention I had paid to her daughter. 
 
 When I abruptly announced to Madame de Richeville my desire tc return 
 to M. de Lancry — a desire which I attributed to the pity which his misfor- 
 tunes and his repentance had inspired— the duchess thought me crazy ; and 
 did all she could, by her arguments, her entreaties, and even her reproaches, 
 to dissuade me from it ; — but nothing could shake my purpose. The Prince 
 d'Hericourt, and his wife, joined my friend, to demonstrate to me the ab- 
 surdity of my conduct. I asked them whether I should forfeit their esteem ? 
 They told me that I should not ; that it was a praiseworthy exaggeration of 
 duty without doubt ; but that it would be a fatal example, and that it would 
 be deplorable to witness such an instance of self-devotion, lavished upon vice 
 and corruption. 
 
 It was in vain that I pretended the unhappiness, and the repentance of my 
 husband ; they replied, that his unhappiness was well deserved, that his re- 
 pentance was in no way proved. Many years of irreproachable conduct would 
 hardly have sufficed to merit the proof of blind attachment which I was about 
 to give him. 
 
 I felt more forcibly, than either of them, the truth of their remonstrances ; 
 but there were too many interests at stake to allow me to hesitate an instant 
 in the course I had traced out. 
 
 I nevertheless perceived, with much regret, that the prince and his wife 
 felt less friendly toward me. I suffered much in their judgment : they thought 
 me feeble, and wanting in proper dignity. They really felt sorry, and with 
 reason, that I should renounce their protecting intimacy, which had been so 
 great a consolation to me, for the purpose of living with a man whom they 
 despised, and hated for all the injuries he had done me ; and from whom 
 they had, as I may say, morally separated me. In short, they regretted 
 having felt so much interest for sorrows which I myself appeared so soon to 
 have forgotten. I told these friends— at the same time so just and so severe 
 — that pity only reconciled me to M. de Lancry. Alas ! it was only in the eyes 
 of the man whom I most loved and respected in the world, that I had been 
 obliged to feign a degrading love for my husband. 
 
 In vain the duchess requested me to remain with her, and continue to 
 occupy my pavillion, even should she be obliged to overcome the aversion 
 she naturally felt to being in M. de Lancry's neighbourhood ; I refused : my 
 manner of living with my husband would be too closely watched, and my de- 
 ception would have been soon discovered. 
 
 I cannot describe to you the sorrow, the despair of Madame de Richeville. 
 In the frankness of her friendship, in the violence of her grief, she reproached 
 me very cruelly. I received her accusations without reply, for they proved 
 tlie extent of her affection for me, and in her eyes I deserved her reproaches. 
 
 For the first time in my life, I experienced that bitter consolation which 
 one feels when her actions are misunderstood, and censured, and can say to 
 herself — with one word, I could change all this blame to admiration. It ap- 
 peared to me meritoriously great, to accomplish thus alone, accused by all 
 around me, an action which all would have admired. 
 
 •Alone, and in the difficult position in which I was placed, I had to induce 
 M. de Rochegune to marry Emma, in spite of the intrigues and seductions 
 which Ursula would naturally bring into play, if she loved M. de Rochegune. 
 
 I will not conceal the fact, that my ardent desire for the ultimate success 
 of this undertaking, the exalted feeling caused by a generous conviction, 
 strengthened my nerves, excited all my energy, and prevented me from being 
 crushed by the sacrifice I had made. 
 
 Oh! it was at this moment that I felt more forcibly than ever, the enor- 
 mous difference which existed between my love for M. de Rochegune, and 
 that I had formely felt for M. de Lancry. 
 
 Heretofore I had been oppressed, overwhelmed ; I had known only how to 
 suffer, without having the energy to act. Now, on the contrary, I suffered 
 fully as much, but I determined that my sufferings should not be fruitless ; 
 this time my tears should be productive— even in my sorrows I wished to 
 prove worthy of the man whom I adored. 
 
 Oh ! how proud was I of this love, of this pearl of my heart preserved with- 
 out a stain ! If my resolution sometimes vacillated, I recalled to mind the 
 
424 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 words with which God here inspired me, while sitting by Emma's bed : Dib 
 he but know. " Yes," said t, mentally, " were I to-morrow to reveal all 
 this to M. de Rochegune, would he not be at my feet ? — would not his love 
 return with greater force than ever?" 
 
 But as I cherished his remembrance more than ever, I had some moment» 
 of great anguish — of dreadful despair. 
 
 I then recalled to mind, that which the divine voice had said to me during 
 that fatal night : couiage, unhappy woman I thou knowefi not what it is to 
 have acquired, by force of sacrifices, the right of weeping ovkr thy- 
 self. And, in fact, those tears afforded me a melancholy enjoyment. 
 
 I reflected also, that if I should succeed in my projects, and Emma's hap- 
 piness should be once insured, M. de Rochegune would not remain insensi- 
 ble to her love — so lively, so ingenuous — and would appreciate it by 
 participating in it. What would then prevent my being legally separated 
 from my husband ; and, returning to live with Madame de Richeville, re- 
 lating all that had occurred to M. de Rochegune, then the husband of 
 Emma ? Sure of him and of myself, I could, without fear, reveal this mys- 
 tery to him ; and prove that I had never ceased to be worthy of him, and 
 that he owed to me the happiness which he enjoyed with Emma. What a 
 sweet recompense would this be to me, for all the sorrows I had silently en- 
 dured ! How peaceful and how happy would be my life then, passed in the 
 society of those I love so dearly ! 
 
 I expected M . de Lancry on the following Sunday. 
 
 Before my departure, I went to see Emma once more: she was alone. 
 During our short conversation, I renewed to her all the recommendations 
 which I had given to her, with regard to the secrecy she was to observe to- 
 ward M. de Rochegune and Madame de Richeville. I promised to write 
 to her by Blondeau, and recommended her to answer me by the same 
 channel. 
 
 When she was informed of my intended return to live with my husband, 
 the poor child, in spite of her sincere attachment to me, could not restrain 
 an involuntarily emotion of joy. I did not accuse her heart of this, but the 
 instinct of her love. 
 
 I promised her, that I would often go to see her, being determined to keep 
 this promise, so necessarily to my designs. 
 
 On Sunday morning, M. de Lancry came for me, as he had announced he 
 should. 
 
 I had omitted to say, that since Ursula had abandoned him, my husband, 
 no doubt absorbed by his poignant feelings, had carried the neglect of his 
 clothes and of his person to an almost beggarly carelessness. His feature* 
 were wasted by grief, by watching, and latterly, by excesses of all kin a, 
 which he had endeavoured to deaden his mad and unquestionable passsi 
 — his eyes were red, his face bloated, his beard unshaved, his hair not dees 
 his voice rough and harsh ; everything about him seemed the personihV 
 of vice, and almost of misery. I soon afterward ascertained that this u»»» 
 was real. 
 
 And this was the man whom, a few years before, I had seen surrounded 
 by all the brilliancy of elegance and success ! 
 
 He said to me, as he entered the room, " I congratulate you, madam, on 
 your obedience, although it appears to me that this sudden submission, on 
 your part, hides some afterthought. But it matters not ; do not think you 
 can play with me — I shall prove to you, that what I will — I will." 
 
 " When shall we depart, sir ?" 
 
 " Instantly, madam, instantly. But have you not a tender leave to take 
 of your intimate friend ?" said he, with irony : " have you not a few tears to 
 exchange? Do not let me incommode you. I have five minutes at your 
 service for these very tender salutations." 
 
 " I have taken leave of Madame de Richeville, this morning, sir ; more- 
 over, I hope soon to see her again." 
 
 ** As to that, you may see whom you please— you will have full liberty — 
 unless, indeed, hereafter I should change my mind." 
 
 " When you wish, sir, I will follow." 
 
 " One moment : I must warn you, my dear, that the apartment I inhabit 
 is not a brilliant one ; it is merely a lodging I have taken since I discharged 
 my household, for reasons which you will guess without much trouble. I 
 have not hail time to think of its interior^ details ; and I tell you, beforehand, 
 that you will not be so well lodged there," as you are here." 
 
 " I shall be satisfied, sir, with that which satisfies you, provided I have 
 
LEAVE TAKING. 
 
 425 
 
 but a room for myself, and one contiguous to it for Blondeau— I can send 
 here for any furniture I may require," 
 
 " And I shall sell the rest ; for I must acknowledge to you, madam, that 
 I am singularly hampered. This surprises you — it is true, notwithstanding. 
 You now know the sufferings of my heart ; I have, therefore, nothing to 
 conceal from you. Well ! latterly, to shake off thought, I have played — 
 played deeply — and I have lost considerably— you, have, no doubt, saved up 
 some money ?" 
 
 It appears to me, sir, that we might talk of these affairs at another 
 moment. 
 
 " You are perfectly right, madam ; will you accept my arm ?" 
 
 I got into a hackney-coach with M . de Lan cry. Blondeau followed me in 
 another with some luggage. I ordered my footman to come in the evening, 
 to bring me divers articles I wanted. 
 
 When we had got into the carriage, M. de Lancry said to me, " I have re- 
 tained one servant. It may be an extravagance, but the lad is attached to 
 me ; he will suffice for us— with your Madame Blondeau. As I shall never 
 dine at home, you can send for your meals to a neighbouring eating-house ; 
 the porteress of the house will assist Blondeau in taking care of the apart- 
 ments." 
 
 " It is now about six years ago, sir, that we retured from Chantilly. You 
 then stated to me, as you do now, the household we were about to have. 
 The times are changed since then." 
 
 " Much changed, madam ; and this proves the truth of the maxim, that 
 days follow each other, but do not resemble. But, really, you appear to me 
 to be in an epigrammatic vein — the blood of the Marans shows itself : but 
 as you please ; I am a good fellow — not always however. But here we are." 
 
 We stopped before an old house in the rue de Bourgone. We went 
 across a court-yard, which was damp and gloomy. When we had ascended 
 to the second story, a door was opened to us by M de Lancry 's valet ; — the 
 same man who had accompanied me, on that fatal night, to the solitary 
 house beyond Chantilly. This man's countenance was perfectly sinister and 
 hideous. 
 
 A small antechamber, encumbered with trunks, in great disorder led to a 
 parlour meanly furnished ; on the right, was my husband's room ; mine was 
 to the left, with a sort of closet for Blondeau. Such was the apartment I 
 was about to share with M. de Lancry. 
 
 The papering of the room was dirty ; there were no curtains to the win- 
 dows, the woodwork was smoked, the uncarpeted floor was almost muddy — 
 the daylight scarcely penetrated into the gloomy court yard. At first, my 
 heart felt fearfully oppressed, and afterward I felt afraid. 
 
 This apartment appeared to me deserted, isolated ; I looked around me 
 with apprehension. My poor Blondeau did not quit my side, but pressed 
 against me, trembling with fear. 
 
 " You find this lodging rather mean, undoubtedly," said M. de Lancry to 
 me, ironically ; " but the day for hotels is passed, my dear ; we ate all our 
 white bread up first." 
 
 " I can accommodate myself to anything, sir. I shall only require some 
 indispensible repairs to be made here." 
 
 "At your perfect convenience. I shall not reproach you here, as I did at 
 Maran, as to the insupportable noise made by workmen ; for I go out very 
 early in the morning, and return late at night ; — sometimes not at all. You 
 will, therefore, do just as you please." 
 
 " Then, sir, I shall ask you to keep my footman ; he can sleep in the 
 antechamber. He is a trustworthy man. This house is strange to me, and 
 I am very timid." 
 
 " If you have the means of paying your servant, arrange it as you will. 
 Fritz sleeps up stairs." Blondeau left us. 
 
 " Now, madam, I must declare to you, with that frankness which ought 
 to exist between husband and wife, that all my property now, consists of 
 about three thousand crowns. You have diamonds and jewels, upon which 
 we must raise money. I have, until last year, paid you an income of twenty 
 thousand francs. You cannot have expended the whole of that ; for, at 
 Maran, you led a hermit's life." 
 
 " But, sir." said I, much alarmed, " it is impossible you can be reduced 
 to such extremity as this." 
 
 " When Ursula disappeared, there remained to me about two hundred and 
 fifty thousand francs of our fortune. Almost as much from the despair I lelt, 
 10 3 
 
426 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 as to divert ray attention, I tempted fortune. I played— and as I have told 
 you, I played most unfortunately— since I lost all I had. This being once 
 clearly tmderstood, we need speak no farther on the subject. I never think 
 of the money I have spent with pleasure ; and still less so of that I have 
 lost by play." 
 
 "But, then, sir!" exclaimed I, "is it to share this .horrible existence, 
 that you have compelled me to return to you ? In what can I be useful to 
 you? You say you are never at home ? What is then your aim ?" cried 
 I, with terror, and almost regretting that I had voluntarily delivered myself 
 into M. de Lancry's hands. 
 
 These regrets were, however, too late and superfluous. I was necessarily 
 obliged to encounter all the consequences of thit step ; to remain, during 
 some time, chained to the destiny of this man, or to renounce the projects, 
 which alone could give me strength to support my fate. 
 
 I could never permit myself to complain to any one, or to ask counsel or 
 assistance from any friend whatever. In the eyes of all, I had come freely, 
 of my own accord, to seek M. de Lancry. AU I could do, was to appear 
 happy and satisfied with the lot I had chosen. 
 
 My husband replied to the questions I had asked him, in the following 
 terms : " You ask me, my dear wife, what is my aim, in requesting you to 
 return to me : first, that of enjoying your amiable society — and then— and 
 then — it is no business of yours !" 
 
 " Then, sir, your projects must be very odious, if you cannot avow them." 
 
 " My projects have nothing in common with this question. I have the right 
 to keep you in my house, and I will keep you here. As to any return of your 
 desire to escape out of my hands— whether at this time or later — under the 
 fabulous pretext of a separation, I would request you, for your amusement, 
 to meditate as to this subject, upon a consultation of which this is a copy. It 
 is drawn up by some of the most celebrated lawyers in this city, and cost 
 me a good fifty louis, may it please you. In my position, it was a folly to ex- 
 pend this sum ; but I could not pay too dearly for the assurance that Ï shouid 
 pass my life with you." He handed me the paper. " Your* will see that, on 
 the question, as to whether you have the slightest chance of obtaining a sepa- 
 ration, the three most learned counsel have unanimously declared — no! 
 but they believed they could affirm, that no tribunal would even grant a 
 process on your demand for a separation, if it couid be formally proved that 
 you, of your own free will, had returned to the conjugal domicile. Such a 
 step, on your part, would be regarded as a genera! amnesty for the past, 
 however serious my wrongs toward you may have been. Not expecting, I 
 must acknowledge, to find you so accommodating, I contented myself with the 
 opinion of my three counsel ; and I was about to essay another and last at- 
 tempt at conciliation — of which I felt all the importance — before sending an 
 usher of the court to you. Judge, then, of my astonishment — my delight, 
 when I received from you this charming little note ; by which you tell me, that, 
 having maturely reflected, you saw no reason for being any longer separated 
 from me." 
 
 I could not restrain an expression of despair, when thinking of this fatal 
 imprudence. This expression did not escape M. de Lancry. 
 
 " I perceive you had not thought of this," continued he. "You regret 
 this unlucky little square of paper, glazed and perfumed," said he, with cruel 
 irony, showing me my letter, " which rivets your chain for ever ! and which, 
 I much fear, will not be of roses. I am now going to diess myself for to- 
 day ; and, what is unusual with me, I wish to appear quite handsome:" 
 and M. de Lancry left me stupified and alarmed. 
 
 I had thought I had committed myself only for the present : but I had ir- 
 revocably fixed my future fate ! 
 
 I thus saw destroyed, for ever, my hope of returning, at a future day, to live 
 with Madame de Richeville — to enjoy, at last, the reward of so many sacri- 
 fices, by explaining to M. de Rocheguue the motives of my conduct. This 
 moment was a frightful one. 
 
 What M. de Lancry had told me was but too true — that fatal letter had un- 
 done me, or it remained as a terrible presumption against me. What reason 
 could I offer to obtain a separation in future, when my husband had in his 
 possession a written proof of my free and voluntary submission to his wishes' 
 
 Alas ! it was thus that the iron circle of my position, shut me in and bound 
 me on all sides. 
 
 Another blow came — if not to overwhelm me still more, yet to prove at least, 
 that my fears regarding Ursula were well founded. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE; 
 
 427 
 
 In the evening, while I and my poor Blondeau were making some prepa- 
 rations to pass, without too much alarm, the first night of our residence in 
 this lugubrious apartment, a letter was brought to me, of which the following 
 is a copy : 
 
 M Madam — One of your best friends, who, for some time past, has felt 
 great pleasure in keeping you informed of your husband 's most secret thoughts, 
 desires to be the first to acquaint you, that it was Ursula who commanded 
 M. de Lancry to recall you to his house, in order to break off your intimacy 
 with M. de Rochegune, of whom she is passionately enamoured. 
 
 *' Ursula has not seen your husband ; she has written to him, that the only 
 means he had of making her consent to grant him further interviews, was to 
 take you home again, and to keep you there. Be it understood, these pro- 
 mises of Ursula are vain ; and that poor de Lancry is ignorant that he is 
 thus marvellously serving Ursula's passion, by separating you from de Roche- 
 gune. 
 
 " There have been seen in the hands of Ursula, the original of a consultation, 
 signed by three celebrated counsellors, and the copy of a letter from you, in 
 which you announce, in the most gracious manner in the world, that you are 
 ready to return to live with M. de Lancry. 
 
 "This news, joined to the opinion given to you by the doctor, singularly 
 complicates the question. From all this must result — 
 
 " 1st. That Emma will die of grief, which cannot fail to be rather afflict- 
 ing to Madame de Richeville and you, as you will uselessly have sacrificed 
 yourself. 
 
 " 2nd. That de Rochegune will succumb to the seduction of your friend, 
 Ursula, and which will not be a matter of indifference to you. 
 
 " 3rd. And that you can never again leave your husband, even when he 
 shall discover that Ursula has made afool of him. Other motives for retain- 
 ing yoc will then be given him. This ought to alarm you, also, if you have 
 the gift of seeing into futurity." 
 
 I could not doubt it ; this letter was from M. Lugarto. 
 Such were the obstacles I had to surmount — such were the dangers I had 
 to encounter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 When I had more calmly and reasonably examined my position, I felt that 
 it was not so desponding as I had thought. 
 
 Being now acquainted with the real motive for M. de Lancry's having in- 
 sisted upon my return to him, I felt more easy. The anonymous letter, which 
 was doubtless the work of M. Lugarto, showed me the future, under a myste- 
 rious menacing aspect : but my mind was too much occupied by the present, 
 to allow me to dwell upon fears for the future. 
 
 I did injustice to the character of M. de Rochegune, by supposing him ca- 
 pable of forming even the most ephemeral connection with Ursula. That 
 woman had caused me too much grief, he felt too much hatred and aversion 
 toward her. 
 
 To bring about the marriage of Emma, was an almost insurmountable diffi- 
 culty ; and particularly, as it was necessary to conceal from M. de Roche- 
 gune, that I knew anything bf the passion of that poor child. I, however, 
 looked forward with confidence, and relied upon the inspiration which had 
 already sustained and guided me. 
 
 I had no idea of the miserable life to which I was condemned, by the dis- 
 orderly conduct of M. de Lancry. I appreciated, more fully than ever, the 
 foresight of M. de Mortagne. My estate at Maran had been repurchased, 
 under the name of Madame de Richeville. That property secured to me 
 much more than was necessary for my expenses. 
 
 One consequence of my singular position was, that I was obliged to submit 
 to share the same inconveniences as my husband ; for, apparently, T pos- 
 sessed nothing of my own. I do not exaggerate, in saying that 1 resigned 
 myself to this life— almost of poverty— with tolerable indifference. I considered 
 it a trial— an experiment. 
 
 Thanks to the care of Blondeau, my gloomy apartment was rendered ha- 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 bitable. I seldom saw M. de Ltncry. By occasional fits of boisterous gaiety, 
 or of gloomy depression, I could divine that Ursula had either encouraged or 
 destroyed the hopes he had formed. I hoped, that from the time she no 
 longer commanded him to keep me with him, he would consent to a sepa- 
 ration. 
 
 My forced residence with my husband did not, therefore, much increase 
 my sorrows. They turned entirely on the loss of M. de Rochegune's affec- 
 tion, and my fears for the future fate of Emma. 
 
 Two days after my installation in my new abode, Madame de llicheville 
 came to see me, having had the precaution to assure herself of the absence 
 of M. de Lancry. She burst înto tears on perceiving the poverty of my 
 apartment. She told me that this poverty explained to her the reason of 
 my sacrifice. Emma's health was rapidly improving ; her mother enter- 
 tained no longer any doubt of her recovery. 
 
 I tremblingly asked Madame de Richeville if she had heard any news of 
 M. de Rochegune ; up to that time she had not received any. Foreseeing 
 his grief, she had sent to inquire after his health, and was informed that he 
 was rather indisposed. 
 
 Madame de Richeville informed me that my conduct was variously judged 
 of in the world. Some blamed me dreadfully ; others lauded me beyond 
 measure. I acknowledge, that ; in this circumstance, my own feelings % suf 
 need to balance all these different opinions. 
 
 On the following day, I received this letter from M. de Rochegune : 
 
 Paris, 
 
 " I have been unjust, brutal and cruel toward you, because I was full of 
 vanity. Pride is the foundation of all our evil feelings. You felt for another 
 what you did not feel for me. My self-love took the alarm — -my good sense 
 was obscured. In your husband, I did not see a man either worthy or un- 
 worthy of your love — I saw only a rival. 
 
 " All this is logical. I descended from the sphere of elevated sentiments, 
 and fell into that of low and jealous feelings. Paradox had taken the place 
 of reason ; could I for ever remain in that sphere ? No ! platonic love is 
 impossible between two younsr persons ; — sooner or later, one or the other 
 must succumb. It is a dangerous snare — it appears full of charms and 
 grandeur. If your ill-extinguished love for your husband had not sustained 
 your virtue, you would have fallen as I did. When the heart is captivated, 
 it is impossible to escape the contagion of desire. 
 
 " I have reflected deeply. 1 made myself you, in order to judge you in an 
 absolutely moral point of view. You are irreproachable. This is a cruel 
 
 J)osition for me, for I am not permitted, if. I may so express myself, even to 
 eel regret. To devote my life to you — to hide our happiness in solitude — 
 because great passions are always fond of solitude. Thus, to me the future 
 would have been complete and magnificent. What now remains to me? 
 Nothing ! neither the brother's nor the lover's love. Since I perceived the 
 woman in you, the sister has disappeared. 
 
 " The woman, by an abrupt preference, gave evidence of her repugnance 
 — the woman no longer exists for me. To overcome or out-face a repugnance, 
 has always been to me as impossible, as to forget I had inspired it. 
 
 " It is with impressions as with days ; we cannot say that they have not 
 existed. I can no more again become your brother than I can retrograde 
 to the age of twenty ; our position is destroyed — destroyed for ever. 
 
 " Your return to your husband has destroyed all equilibrium, overthrown 
 all foresight. Had this return occurred when I was still your brother, it 
 would not have produced the slightest change between us : I should have 
 blamed or approved your conduct disinterestedly. 
 
 " I am thirty years of age. I believe that I have loved you since I was 
 eighteen, and I have proved it to you. But the past is fatal for bad as well 
 as good remembrance. If my affection for you has died after this successive 
 transformation, the memory of it will always remain with me. One ought 
 religiously to honour those who no longer exist. Yes ; that which I expe- 
 rience toward you at this moment, is the melancholy and sacred worship 
 which we have for those whom we survive. 
 
 " My regrets are eternal— once reduced to dust, our remains form Un- 
 changeable ashes — such is, such will ever be the immutability of my senti- 
 ments for you. I do not reproach you, Matilda ; we do sot reproach persons 
 for dying— we pity them. 
 
 " These images are lugubrious ; I employ them, that you may conipre- 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 head the past is not to me gloomy, odious, or insupportable. It is froien 
 like the sepulchre : It is dead ! It is not forgotten, it is killed ! 
 
 " My future life must thus be miserable. I waver between twenty differ- 
 ent plans, without resolving upon any. Your loss has thrown down all the 
 edifice of my existence. It has to be set up again. Age draws on ; — I am 
 tired of the road. 
 
 u I had, however, thought that I was near its end. I now must still walk 
 on, and in such a sterile and endless desert !" 
 
 " Paris. 
 
 " Yesterday I had a fit of fury and of hatred, which I was determined to 
 satiate. I was mad. I went out with the intention of insulting your hus- 
 band and killing him. 
 
 " I say this, because I felt the positive conviction that I should kill him 
 — there are presentiments which do not deceive— and then afterward this 
 conviction terrified me ; I feared to become an assassin. 
 
 " As a proof that I am completely dissevered from you, and that I shall 
 never forget that you have preferred a perverse, wicked, and miserable being 
 to me, is, that I reflected, that by killing your husband, and your becoming 
 a widow by this act of mine, I placed an insurmountable barrier between 
 you and myself. 
 
 " This though/ 1 would not, of itself, have stayed my arm a moment. Were 
 you free to-morrow, I would refuse the remnant of a life, which you have 
 twice thrown at the feet of this man. Never — never!" 
 
 Of these two letters from M. de Rochegune, the last was most painful to 
 me. 
 
 It showed me how sure and dreadful had been the blow I had given ! 
 Never had he expressed to me in so energetic, so harsh a manner, that com- 
 plete disseverance which even time could never influence. 
 
 This resentment appeared to me to assist me greatly in my projects for 
 Emma; it, at all events, destroyed every obstacle, of which I might have 
 been the pretext. 
 
 Ursula still caused me some vague apprehensions. But, I asked myself 
 once more, how M. de Rochegune, who knew her, could for a moment listen 
 to her ? Would he not receive her advances with the utmost contempt ? 
 I was absorbed in these meditations when I received the following letter 
 from M. Lugarto, or one of his emissaries, for I did not know the hand- 
 writing. It is unnecessary to say how much it terrified me. 
 
 PARIS. 
 
 "The unknown friend, to whom you owe already very much intelligence — 
 at once agreeable and valuable regarding the private life of your husband 
 will continue his task with so much the more pleasure, that events appear 
 to follow up his wishes, and become daily more and more interesting to 
 yourself. 
 
 " You are now about to be informed of all that regards Ursula ; because 
 in this phantasmagoria you will presently see appear the form of M. de. Ro- 
 chegune, and there is reason to believe that this apparition will please you 
 infinitely. 
 
 " And first : as to what became of Ursula after her disappearance from 
 the hotel de Maran. All that will be concealed from you, will be the par- 
 ticular indication of the present retreat of your charming cousin, because 
 it is superfluous that you should be informed of it. She lives in one of the 
 most retired and distant suburbs of Paris. 
 
 " For the last two years, Ursula has had a waiting maid, who is pro- 
 foundly attached to her, and in whom she has the most unbounded confi- 
 dence. Mademoiselle Zephyrine, that is her name, had been commissioned 
 by her mistress some time before Lent ball, to seek out and rent, in some 
 very retired quarter, a humble lodging ; or, if it could be found, a small and 
 isolated house. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Zephyrine, who is a young girl, full of intelligence and 
 xeal, and faithful, above all — found, at the bottom of a court, through which 
 there is no thoroughfare, and leading from a deserted street in one of the 
 least frequented suburbs of Paris, a complete trappist's cell. Two days 
 after the mid-Lent ball, your lovely rival abandoning all that she possessed 
 in the hotel de Maran, privately took her departure in a hackney coach, with 
 Mademoiselle Zephyrine, and reached her cenobitical retreat, from which 
 6he never departed during fifteen days. During those fifteen days M. da 
 
430 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Lancry was employed in hunting through every corner of Pans, and its 
 environs, without being able to discover his faithless fugitive. 
 
 "You. shall now have placed before your eyes, some fragments of the 
 most serious thoughts of Ursula, written by her in an album, which has a 
 lock, and of which, however, she alone has a key. 
 
 " You will conclude, from this indiscretion, without greatly deceiving 
 yourself, that Mademoiselle Zephyrine, during her mistress's walks, finds 
 some means of opening this album ; of copying what seems most interest- 
 ing, and of communicating these particulars to her invisible master, who 
 feels great pleasure in imparting them to you. 
 
 " The commencement of these fragments of Ursula's journal was written 
 two years' since ; the last words of them but a few days ago. It is not 
 doubted that these notes will cause you sweet and salutary emotions." 
 
 Ursula's journal. 
 
 "This evening I have had a moment's triumph. I saw Matilda at the 
 Italian Opera; her husband came there to rejoin me. 1 treated him un- 
 kindly : she must have perceived it. To take Gontran from her was re- 
 venge ; to humble him before her, was a pleasure. M. de Senneville is 
 considered in the world as irresistible. Ke is one of those men upon whom 
 one always has designs when one does not know them. I found his elegance 
 foolishly serious ; he must put on his cravat with solemnity, and his sleeves 
 with meditation. His warbling conversation is as charming as it is tedious ; 
 for though he chirps deliciously, it is always on the same subject : his 
 greatest defect, in my eyes, is that of being too pretty; this does not con- 
 stitute a handsome man; and, therefore, M. de Lancry never pleased me. 
 There are merely insipid common-place faces, which nature throws disdain- 
 fully into her moulds, and then marks them in packets — Pketty, No. 1: 
 not giving herself the trouble to bestow on each a separate and original seal. 
 
 Lord C is much better, more accentuated ; but his air is too completely 
 
 English, as is that of almost all his countrymen. It is a mixture of arro- 
 gance and embarrassment ; jof haughtiness and awkwardness ; and their 
 moral qualities are like their physical ones — they have no skin ; one would 
 say that they feel everything through their flannel." 
 
 " Where shall I find that rough, impervious and impassioned man, who, 
 with his robust hand, shall press me as a reed ? How do I despise this 
 Gontran ! his attentions are base servitudes, his devotion a disgraceful me- 
 nial drudgery- His love is that of a lackej, who fears to be discharged. 
 What can be expected from a wretch who robs his wife ? for 'tis to rob her 
 — meanly to rob her — to ruin himself for me. And she — oh ! how I hate 
 her! She does not look unhappy ; and I believe it, fool that I am ! for I 
 have nd her of her husband." 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Maran told me to-day of a saying of the late Duchess 
 
 de la F , which was singularly appropriate. On one occasion, when the 
 
 conversation turned upon Madame de P , who, before the revolution, 
 
 was said to have received more than kindly the adoration of the Prince de , 
 
 the Duchess of de la F exclaimed, 1 officers of the royal guard compro- 
 mise you — clergymen are unbecoming — lawyers are ridiculous, and no more : 
 but princes of the blood royal, or financiers, a womau who respects herself 
 would never think of.' 
 
 "To inspire certain persons is very flattering; to disdain them, is still 
 more flattering." 
 
 "M. de Volanges, one of my new admirers, has taken upon himself to 
 reproach me with what he calls my coquetry ; bitterly complaining, that for 
 two months past, I have received him in the most pleasing manner. Can 
 there be anything in the world more ridiculous than such recrimination ? 
 Here is a man, who finds fault with me because I have received him for 
 several weeks with favour, with kindness, and even with preference. Is not 
 the mere acceptance of his attentions a very generous acknowledgment of 
 them? Is it not doing a thousand times more than tenderness? Jiy be- 
 coming so indignant against our bad faith — by speaking of what they so gro- 
 tesquely call their rights — the men who have paid their court to us are as 
 simply wicked as those robbers who consider that they themselves have 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 43 J 
 
 been really robbed, when, by prodigies of patient skill, they find the> hav« 
 broken open an empty coffer." 
 
 " I have always considered men as our implacable enemies, both in theory 
 and practice. There is hatred in their mad, passionate love : as soon as 
 passion exists, hatred exists also. The husband of Matilda idolizes me, but 
 he execrates me ; — he submits to my yoke, but trembles with anger. He 
 loves me, because he cannot do otherwise than love me. I torture him with- 
 out pity, because I know the secret of my dominion over him, and that that 
 secret is despicable. And farther still, my hostility to Matilda is excessive. 
 I however experience a certain degree of satisfaction in reflecting, that I am 
 pitiless toward the man who has rendered her so unhappy." 
 
 " If we disdain their vows, the men detest us — if we listen to them, they de- 
 spise us. They never pardon either our virtue or weakness. When they 
 think of paying court to us, they set to work with a whole brain of oifcoua 
 after-thoughts ; — there is first vanity, falsehood, jealousy ; and afterward 
 come mistrust, hypocrisy ; and, above all, the hateful fear of unsuccess. On 
 their part, it is not love ; it is scarcely an inclination, a caprice ; but, above 
 everything, it is the pride of turning an innocent heart to evil, or of tri- 
 umphing over their rivals. There is not, perhaps, one man who, having paid 
 attention to the beauty the most in vogue during the season, would not pre- 
 fer to appear successful in the eyes of all, than to be really so upon condi- 
 tion of its remaining a profound secret. They are much more satisfied with 
 the apparent sacrifice of our reputation, than with the unknown sacrifice of 
 our principles. In an equal, or rather relative position, how many men are 
 there who would risk for a woman that which a woman risks in committing 
 an error? As I have read in a modern work, ' If a guilty connection could 
 Vie easily discovered, and punished by a fine which would take away one 
 fourth of the fortune of the man beloved, would the man be found who would 
 expose himself to the danger of being loved so dearly ? ' 
 
 " I harden myself, therefore, in reflecting that we never inflict on men a 
 greater injury than they would inflict on us." 
 
 ** The countenance of this actor particularly struck me. He made me 
 understand the sudden bursts of passion. He was resolute, violent, uncon- 
 trollable. He performed his part with savage energy and loftiness. When 
 he took that woman by the shoulders — when, with his powerful hand, he 
 threw her upon her knees, he was superb. His brow was threatening, his 
 jealousy was inexorable ; and then his manly voice, thougn rough, had a 
 profound vibration almost lion-like. That malicious Princess de Ksernika 
 was with me in the stage-box ; she cried out, mockingly, that he ap- 
 peared to roar. The simpleton ! she would, no doubt, have had the lion 
 coo." 
 
 " In his love scene, that actor had one moment of admirably powerful ex- 
 pression. He did not stealthily snatch the kiss he took from the young- 
 girl — he ravished it in a masterly manner, with audacity, and with almost 
 brutal transport." 
 
 " On coming out of the theatre, as I was loud in my praises of Stephen 
 —that is the name of the actor — while the Princess de Ksernika was attack- 
 ing him as ably as she could, poor woman, must not M. de Lancry take it 
 into his head to observe to me, though in the most respectful manner, it is 
 true, that I had defended Stephen rather warmly ? I looked at him fixedly 
 with one of my black looks ; he saw the fault he had committed, but it was 
 too late. I then give him one of my sweetest smiles, and leaning coquet- 
 tishly upon his arm, I whispered to him softly — very softly — that I should 
 write to Stephen the next morning to give me lessons in declamation, as the 
 desire to study acting had suddenly seized upon me. I am not going, as 
 may well be imagined, to do anything of the kind The husband of Matilda, 
 perfectly astounded with this cruel intimation, was so much moved by it as to 
 call out, with mortified surprise, ' This new caprice is certainly very sin- 
 gular!' I smiled more sweetly than before; and predicted that he would 
 himself go the next morning, to take a box for me to see Stephen play again 
 in the same piece ; and that I wished to have a small theatre immediately 
 constructed in the garden of the hotel de Maran." 
 
432 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " That these orders will be executed I unfortunately do not doubt ; this 
 Gontran is so cowardly and so much a fool, that he never gives me the va- 
 riety of a refusal, or tells me that any thing I ask is impossible. He is like 
 my mare Stella— she is so well broken, that her docility irritates me. I beat 
 her from rage, that I have not any cause to beat her ! ' ' 
 
 " M. de Lancry's architect has been with me to lay before me •several 
 plans of theatres. I did not find them sufficiently splendid ; I want some- 
 thing that will recall, in smaller proportions, the theatre at the palace of 
 Versailles ; and above all, that it should be built immediately. The pillow 
 is a good counsellor : a little while ago I told the husband of Matilda, that 
 instead of hiring a box for me for to-morrow night only, at the theatre where 
 Stephen acts, he must take it for six months— to have the right of fitting it 
 up properly, for this small theatre of the boulevards is horribly dirty. Well, 
 I think of going there now and then. The furniture, looking-glass, and 
 hangings, will all be in their places by to-morrow. Gontran has thirty-six 
 hours to do it in — he, the man of magnificent surprises 1 it is more time 
 than he can require." 
 
 " I have just returned from the embassy, This ball was marvcllousy fine ; 
 I never looked more beautiful, and yet I was almost killed by ennui. How 
 insipid and monotonous are the attentions with which they overwhelm me ! 
 And then, to say to one's self, I have but to express my will, and all these 
 creatures now apparently so tenderly devoted to their mistresses or their 
 wives, would leave them and fly to me — such facility is perfectly repulsive. 
 To give piquancy or excitement to an amour, there should be principles to 
 overcome or obstacles to surmount. Alas ! I am reduced to obstacles ; but I 
 am too much the vogue, and the men are too grossly, too easily rendered 
 unfaithful to their loves, for me to meet with any. Oh ! if I could only find 
 one being insensible to my seductions, what glory would it be to triumph 
 over him." 
 
 " This thought has put me out of humour ; my court has perceived it — Ï 
 was nervous, irritable. My ill-nature spared neither sex ; I quarrelled right 
 and left, and said ill-natured things which much amused Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. She decidedly doats upon me, but mutual hatred for Matilda, has 
 completely soldered us together. And besides, I amuse her — she grows old, 
 and has a horror of solitude, to which her malignity will necessarily consign 
 her. It concerns me but little to think that I may one day abandon her, 
 should fate call me elsewhere." 
 
 " The husband of Matilda has surpassed himself ; I found my box magni- 
 ficently fitted up ; the back part of it was occupied by an immense flower- 
 stand, (a useful precaution at this theatre.) But to what purpose ? I shall 
 never put my foot again into that theatre. My illusions are destroyed — the 
 second time I saw this play, Stephen, who had at first so struck me — so 
 much affected me, appeared to me detestable, ugly, and vulgar ; what had 
 become then of my judgment and my eyes ? But still I do not regret 
 my first impression, so different from the second — it gave me the idea of 
 having a theatre, and I am delighted at the thought of performing in a 
 play." 
 
 " I have just played Célimené. My little theatre is quite beautiful. Ac- 
 cording to our audience, I recited well, and played with dignity. It is very 
 amusing. It appears that in Mademoiselle Dejazet's part in the farce, I 
 turned all their heads, by my piquancy and effrontery. How stupid and vain 
 men are ! When they are delighted to see a woman evince an impudent 
 boldness, they imagine that this affectation of shamelessness is addressed 
 to them, and that they may profit by it. They do not understand, then, in 
 their stupid fancy, that the more one ventures to do before them, the less do 
 we account them. After this little piece, the husband of Matilda approached 
 me, with a self-sufficient air, thinking, perchance, that my selection of this 
 part was a declaration of principles, which he might take advantage of. 
 I received him in such a manner, that he left me, confused and abashed." 
 
 "The life I lead here is sometimes intolerable, from its nothingness and 
 ennui. And yet, in the eyes of all, and even in my own, there is not an ex- 
 istence more fortunate than mine. I have, at length, enjoyed that luxury— 
 
CORRESPONDENCE* 
 
 -133 
 
 that renown for elegance — which I so much coveted. I am a woman of 
 fashion, in the most extended acceptation of the term. I reign supreme over 
 a fraction of the best society of Paris ; the most amiable among men are at 
 my feet ; my rivals fear and execrate me ; I am sufficiently superior to them 
 to be alw ays très bonne femme, very obliging toward them, and I give the 
 finishing blow to their despair, by profoundly disdaining the lover whom they 
 envy me, and by defying them to attempt to subvert a fidelity which I laugh 
 at. Like the usurping conquerers, I have alone made myself what I am. 
 Of a name, almost ridiculous, I have made a symbol of elegance and distinc- 
 tion. They copy my mode of dress, my repartees are recited ; they envy me 
 my successes ; my preference gives a man fashion ; my derision sinks him 
 for ever. ! When I make my appearance in a ball-room, all the women, 
 with an eager hand, keep their adorers fast in leash, and I see only looks of 
 hatred and of jealousy. I hear around me nothing but acrimonious whispers, 
 or angry reproaches. But, should only a flower fall from my nosegay, all 
 these adorera break their leading-strings, and simultaneously rush forward 
 to pick it up, to the great mortification of an infinity of fine ladies, who in 
 vain endeavour to recall these bewildered ingrates. All this is delightful ; 
 and yet, something is wanting to me •, or, rather, all is wanting. I do not 
 love ; I have never loved. Oh ! how I wish I could love." 
 
 " I, one day, thought I felt one of those silent, but profound emotions, 
 which announce the storm of passions, as the first rollings of the thunder 
 announce the tempest. But, alas ! this hope was also vain. How ridicu- 
 lously bombastic is my comparison ! And yet, a man like the one whom I 
 remember, would have understood how I desired to be loved, and I would 
 have abandoned all for him. Doubtless, I should have lived in misery, in 
 abjection, in tears ; he might have beaten, betrayed me, driven me from him ; 
 but, at least, I should have loved — I should have had some moments of 
 sublime passion — I should have felt myself raised in my own esteem." 
 
 " Raised! Is it, then, a secret instinct, which informs me that grief, like 
 fire, purifies ? Can it, then, be a return to virtue that I seek for, in such a 
 passion? No, no! I have no remorse 1 I should not — I will not feel it. 
 Once, once, I felt pity for Matilda. I was as good, as generous toward her, 
 as my nature would permit, and I was cruelly punished for it. 
 
 " How can I do otherwise than hate M. de Lancry ? Sometimes, in spite 
 of myself — but this is on my melancholy days — 1 feel blushes of shame rising 
 to my forehead, in thinking that it is from his odious ingratitude to his wife, 
 that I owe the splendid life I lead. In vain I endeavour to make a compro- 
 mise with my conscience ; in vain, I say to myself, that nothing can be more 
 immaterial than the pleasures I enjcr. In vain J. have treated the husband 
 of Matilda as a miserable wretch, from the day he offered me more than flow- 
 ers or serenades. Oh ! there are cups, of which to drink, is gail and bitter- 
 ness!" 
 
 " At last, I am stricken to the heart ; — yes, to the heart ! I will write down 
 this date. From this day forward, whether happy or unhappy, my life of love 
 commences. At last, I have found the man I have so often figured in my 
 dreams. He did not see me ; he only passed me. I know not even his name, 
 nor what he is ; but be he the first or last of men, I feel that I shall love him ; 
 I feel that I do love him— that I am his alone. What a proud and noble 
 countenance I — a step at once so light and manly ! — and that bronzed com- 
 plexion, and those red lips, and those black eyelashes, and those large grey 
 eyes ! And when such eyes as those deign but to look on you, you should 
 kneel down, exclaiming: 'Command me, lord ! here is your slave I' But 
 this unknown — who can he be?" 
 
 " What is this invisible and mysterious power which I obey ? This man 
 has not addressed a word to me. He did not even look upon me ; and yet 
 I feel myself humbled — overpowered. My profound anguish tells me that 
 my fate is accomplished." 
 
 " There can be nothing less romantic than was my meeting with this un- 
 known. I was crossing the Tuileries on foot. When I got into one of the 
 walk», I saw before me a man walking slowly. His figure and his air had 
 already struck me as remarkable ; he turned round, as though he had inad- 
 vwtently taken a wrong directioa, Then, oh ! then, on noticing his aspect, 
 3? 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 I could n«t avoid stopping. He did not perceive me, but walked on. AU 
 though no^onger there, I still gazed after him." 
 
 '"Who is this ? — who is this man ? I have never met him in society; but 
 that does not concern me — I know that he exists. Shall I ever again behold 
 him ? Yes, yes ; otherwise I never should have met him. He exists, and 
 this explains and justifies my contempt for all other men— yes, for all ! Those 
 men who have imagined that they had some claim upon me, are they not 
 those on whom I have showered disdain and outrage ? Have they ever gained 
 — I will not say empire — but the slightest influence over my heart— my soul — 
 my understanding ? Is not a studied carelessness the acme of indifference 
 and insult ? The husband of Matilda has said it, and has proved it : a man 
 is not a slave." 
 
 "Oh! eternal misery! It is the lover of Matilda; it is the Marquis de 
 Rochegune — the singular and remarkable man of whom all the world is speak- 
 ing — who has arrived within the last few days, and with whom I was so anx- 
 ious to become acquainted. It is he ! it is he ! He loves Matilda; she loves 
 him ! Oh ! when I said that I had a reason, that I had a right, to hate that 
 woman ! This is then the secret of that implacable hatred which I have felt 
 for her, even from her infancy ! My instinct told me that she would one day 
 love the man, to love whom would become my fate !" 
 
 " She loves him ! She ! but she is unworthy of him. Has she not loved 
 — passionately loved, her insipid and miserable Gontran ? Oh, how proud 
 am I ! — I, that have never loved till now ! How proud am I, that I have felt 
 I never ought to love till I could see my master — my sovereign ! And I com- 
 plained ; but it is on my knees, on both my knees, I ought to thank my fate, 
 which, until now, has rendered me insensible to love!" 
 
 " I hold myself in horror, and all that now surrounds me. Now do I feel 
 that I am a wretched, a degraded creature. Never will such a man even cast 
 down his eyes upon me. It is now that I can measure the depth of the abyss 
 of filthiness and infamy into which I have fallen. I shall never be able to 
 wash away this stain. With what stupid paradoxes have I lulled my spirit ? 
 To consider myself worthy of him ! — I ! what profanation ! Should 1 ever 
 dare to look upon him ? — to speak to him ? To speak to him ! why, I should 
 die with shame! Ah! now I can understand what timidity is, or, rather, 
 shame !" 
 
 "I will no longer remain in the house of Mademoiselle de Maran. This 
 elegance disgusts me. I wish to hide myself from all eyes. To enjoy these 
 luxuries, I have sold myself, like an infamous! creature. The unfortunates, 
 whom want has conducted to their ruin, are angels in comparison to me. I 
 hate the light of day; it appears that, in the dark, I do not so bitterly feel 
 my ignominy. How much he loves her ! How much she loves him ! What 
 generosity ! What softness ! What courage ! What a blaze of honour — of 
 patriotism — of chivalric loyalty — surrounds the noble name of this man ! 
 With the mere thought of it, my eyes are dazzled ! And Matilda, how much 
 she is beloved ! how much her conduct is approved ! how much is she admired 
 for loving him so much ! How magnificent the union of two such souls as 
 theirs ! Their love, how grand and pure ! And that Gontran, that Gontran, 
 who mocks at them ! — is he capable of understanding them ? Heaven be 
 thanked! he cannot comprehend them." 
 
 " I am mad ! Concealed in a carriage, I went again, and spent two hours 
 before his house, hoping to see him come out — to see him — only to see him ! 
 For all the world, I would not expose myself to meet his eye in public. I 
 should die of terror and of shame. I could not even stammer out a word. 
 For a month past I have abandoned all society. I rarely even go down to 
 Mademoiselle de Maran's room, where I am, however, very certain not to meet 
 him*. I watched for a long time at his door ; he went out on foot. I follow- 
 ed him in the coach, where I remained concealed. He went to Matilda's 
 house ; he remained thexe till six o'clock. How happy must she be ! I have 
 no longer strength to envy or to hate her. I can only suffer. In spite of my- 
 self, I am obliged to acknowledge that they are worthy of each other." 
 
 " Weep ! weep ! unhappy woman ! weep tears of blood and anger ! Away I 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 435 
 
 and die despairing. Above all, tell no one of thy insane passion— insult and 
 derision would suiely be thy portion. 
 
 " Oh ! had I but sooner met this man, how different would have been my 
 life ! It would then have been as pure and honourable, as it has been guilty 
 and dissolute. At all events, it shall not continue to be so. He shall never 
 know me — he shall never know 1 love him ; but the first flame he has lighted 
 up within me will have purified my life. I have this day taken measures to 
 leave the hotel de Maran. I will abandon everything. I will be poor. 1 will sup- 
 port myself by the labour of my hands, or I will die ! but I will be free, and 
 worthy to think of him — to think of him 1 Oh ! that will require the observ- 
 ance of great duties." 
 
 "All my energies are awakened; to-morrow I will abandon this house — 
 but this night 1 will speak to him ! Yes ! I will have so much courage. An 
 idea has struck me — it is the mid-Lent ball at the opera. I will give him a 
 rendezvous. My letter shall be so conceived, that he will think it regards 
 some timid and unfortunate person. I am certain he will come. Shall I 
 have the courage to accost him ? I know not. At this sole reflection, all my 
 fears — my doubts, return. Ah! I am a coward. I fear, I tremble 1 with 
 what emotion shall I one day re-peruse the lines lam now writing. It seems 
 to me, that on this mute paper, in these rapid notes, I shall find my almost 
 living thoughts. How happy am I, thus to be able to preserve a visible trace 
 of that which passes in my mind this day — this hour !" 
 
 " I have spoken to him — gracious Heaven ! I have spoken to him ! He felt 
 the beatings of my heart. My lips have timorously kissed his hand — his 
 noble hand ! my tears have moistened it. He was pleased to answer me with 
 kindness. The favour of a sovereign was never received with a more fervent 
 gratitude ; never were royal words heard, and devoured with a more eager and 
 trembling attention ; my mask restored my courage : without it, I could not 
 have uttered a single word. I was in a high state of fever ; my cheeks were 
 crimsoned. He took pleasure in listening to me, because I praised Matilda. 
 These praises seared my lips ; but I became eloquent — to praise her still 
 more highly. I saw him smile with bitter contempt and aversion, when I 
 pronounced my own name. To please him still more, I indignantly branded 
 with infamy, the whole of my past conduct ; and I could not find expressions 
 sufficiently bitter for my accusation. Oh ! how keenly did I feel this despair- 
 ing bitterness ; never before, had I so painfully perceived the immeasurable 
 distance whichjhe past had placed between me and this majestic .man," 
 
 "And then, while I was lauding her whom he most cherished, and uttering 
 imprecations against her whom I detested, he appeared so happy. Oh ! had 
 he, at that moment, told me to love Matilda, I believe I should have loved 
 her. And he — what qualities he possesses! what wit! what grace! what 
 genius ! what lofty thoughts ! His fearless spirit applies to objects, which 
 require the possession of rare and difficult virtues — that adventurous au 
 dacity — that presumptory energy, which others apply to easy and vulgar vices; 
 be made me comprehend the most pure and most holy exaltations of the mind • 
 he conferred upon me a high nobility of soul, as a monarch who dispenses 
 chivalric dignities." 
 
 " I have abandoned the hotel de Maran. I shall never again see M. de 
 Lancry. I have at last withdrawn myself from that atmosphere of shame 
 and degradation, which suffocated me. I would not now exchange my humble 
 dwelling for all the palaces in the world." 
 
 " M. de Rochegune will never see me, I shall never again hear his voice. 
 Never shall he know that he has spoken with kindness and benevolence to the 
 woman, whom he despises— whom he detests more than any being in the 
 world. And yet, I shall always be as passionately faithful to him, as lovingly 
 devoted, as if he had permitted me to love him. Oh ! yes, yes ! I can un- 
 derstand the purity of their loves, better, perhaps, than Matilda can under- 
 stand it. Yes ! I should now, perhaps, be more capable than she is, of the 
 sacrifices which such a love demands. With her, a virtuous resolution is 
 only the consequence of her principles. To fail in it, would merely be a de- 
 reliction from her duty. I — 1 henceforward, shall never fail ; because prin- 
 ciple, honour, chastity, and modesty, have all been revealed, have been con* 
 
436 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 ferred upon me by this man ; and that it would beAe, and not virtue, whom 
 I must so forget." 
 
 " I am terrified by the ravages which this passion is making within me ; 
 my mind wanders — the most gloomy projects float though my heated brain. 
 Oh ! did he but know my love, lie would pity me. Yes ; I am sure that 
 he would love me — that he would prefer me to Matilda. After all, what 
 influence has he exercised upon that woman ? None 1 She was good and 
 pure — she has remained good and pure. But I — I was depraved and lost; 
 and because I have seen him — and because he has spoken some few words 
 of kindness and of goodness to me — and because I love him — I have be- 
 come as pure — as good — as is Matilda. And who can tell, whether she has 
 continued pure? Oh t had she committed but one fault, how much prouder 
 would he be of his influence over me. Of the virtuous Matilda he would 
 have made merely a guilty woman ; and me though guilty, he would have 
 rendered virtuous ! Would not that be much more great? would it not have 
 been worthy of his loftiness of soul ? He who loves all that is generous and 
 noble — would he be insensible to the transformation he had produced ?" 
 
 "Yes, it Is true; he has transformed me; he has taught me to feel re- 
 morse, which I had hitherto not known. My conduct toward my husband 
 appears to me in all its horrors. My heart is broken, when I think of that 
 generous and devoted being, who loved me with so much idolatry, and 
 whom I abandoned for a man I despised." 
 
 "Formerly, I should not have hesitated a moment in adopting the reso- 
 lution which I have now taken. Well 1 during two days I have struggled ; 
 oh ! how painfully have I struggled 1 but the interests of my love have con- 
 quered. This love has now become my life. It is not egotism — it is not 
 cruelty — it is the instinct of self-preservation. I have a certain means of 
 separating M. de Rochegune from Matilda. I will write to Gontran, with- 
 out telling him where I am — I will promise to see him again, if he will 
 prevail upon Matilda to return to live with him. I know, that by this step, 
 I run the risk of carrying these passions to extremities — of, perhaps, com- 
 pelling them to fly together, to escape M. de Lancry ; but I cannot be more 
 wretciied than I am. I can lose nothing by this measure — I may gain 
 everything. 
 
 "Gontran will not dare to refuse my request; my influence over him is 
 absolute: of this I am positive. But when Matilda shall once more be in 
 the power of M. de Lancry, what have I then to do? Shall I dare to meet 
 the look of him, whose verj^dea fills my soul with consternation, with 
 trouble and delight? Does he not passionately love Matilda? If he should 
 only si»spect that I have been the cause of her returning to her husband — 
 what horror; what hatred would he feel toward mel Well: he could not 
 hate me then more than he hates me now 1 Oh 1 'tis an abyss ! but no mat- 
 ter: I now risk my last, my only hope !" 
 
 " What a miracle 1 Can it be a dream ? It is scarcely four days since 
 I wrote to M. de Lancry, and I have received from him, to the address 
 which Zephyrine had given him, not only the assurance that Matilda would 
 live with him henceforward, but, moreover, a letter from herself, in which 
 she freely and voluntarily takes the determination which I had considered 
 would have cost her more than life. Once more, can it be a dream ? I 
 sent Zephyrine, who is acquainted with one of M. de Rochegune's servants 
 to make enquiries." 
 
 "Zephyrine has just returned. I tremble! I am alarmed! There is 
 happiness so sudden — so overwhelming— that one can hardly credit it — it 
 terrifies one ! 
 
 " For four days, M. de Rochegune, absorbed by violent grief, has not 
 been to see Matilda. She has once more become madly in love with her 
 husband ; all the world speak of it; Can it be possible ? Oh 1 no ! I cannot 
 yet believe it. Should it be so — oh ! should it be so — my fondest hopes may 
 stilt be realized!" 
 
THE ltBNDKZYOUfl. 
 
 «7 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 AtTER reading these fragments, which allowed me to dive into the most te- 
 cret thoughts of Ursula, I remained for a short time so bewildered, that I 
 could not continue the reading of M. Lugarto's letter. 
 
 I was struck with the sincerity — the violence of my cousin's passion for 
 M. de Rochegune. Was this, indeed, the same woman who, in the first 
 passages of this journal, had penned so many bold and shameless confes- 
 sions? According to my usual habit of exaggerating all my fears, I severely 
 felt several of the observations made by Ursula. What she said of the sa- 
 lutary influence M. de Rochegune had experienced over her, appeared to 
 me but too true. Perhaps he might feel much interested in the marvellous 
 change which he had operated. 
 
 However odious and paradoxical might be the comparison which Ursula 
 had made, in saying that I had loved M. de Lancry, while on the con- 
 trary, she had never loved him ; in saying, also, that she had never loved at 
 all till she had seen M. de Rochegune ; I found some truth in this mode 
 of reasoning, placing myself in her position, who, up to that moment, had 
 never professed any principle, and for whom certain faults had not existed, 
 so much had been her criminal indifférence for all her duties. 
 
 My anxiety redoubled, when I reflected that my conduct toward M. de 
 Rochegune must have produced in his mind a mistrust and scepticism as to 
 all faith in woman. 
 
 After having been so deceived, being thrown into a sea of painful and 
 bitter doubt, would he not become, more accessible to the fascinations of 
 Ursula 1 Would he not see in a connection with her a species of revenge 
 against me, who had rendered him so wretched ? a sort of cutting raillery 
 against fate, which had so mocked his dearest expectations ? 
 
 Wishing to ascertain precisely all that awaited me, I continued the pe- 
 rusal of M. de Lugarto's letter, which went on thus : 
 
 " Here end the fragments of Ursula's journal, which your unknown friend 
 deems necessary to give you knowledge of; what Ursula may have added to 
 them since your voluntary return to yonr husband, consists merely of re- 
 flections — of thoughts, more or less ardent, on the subject of her love. 
 
 "From what is known of her projects, she is now occupied in finding 
 out the means to obtain a rendezvous with M. de Rochegune. As she 
 loves passionately, as you may have remarked — as there is always an irre- 
 sistible fascination in true love — as Rochegune is furious against you in par- 
 ticular and against all virtuous women in general ; your dear cousin, who is 
 no fool, understands that her hour is come, and that, her consolations will 
 arrive at an excellent moment ; and it is therefore she exclaims, ' My fond" 
 est hopes may still be realized.* 
 
 " Men are such -animals, that de Rochegune will necessarily allow him- 
 self to be caught in the nets of your cousin — ha! ha! You see that this is 
 becoming highly comic ; all the heroic sacrifices which have been imposed 
 upon you by the disclosure of Dr. Gerard, will terminate to the great ad- 
 vantage and satisfaction of Madame Ursula. With regard to that revelation 
 of the love of Emma — a love which, according to the eternal usage of all 
 lovers, had precisely escaped the suspicion of Madame de Richeville, of M. 
 de Rochegune and your own ; seeing that the persons the most interested in 
 knowing the existence of a feeling are necessarily those who are most com- 
 pletely ignorant of it — with regard to this love, as I before said, It had not 
 completely escaped the notice of one of your friends; he spoke of it as a 
 vague idea; it was a ray of light. True or false, this revelation combined 
 with the malady of Emma, must have dreadfully tormented you in your 
 love, and have thrown the apple of discord between you, Emma, and per- 
 haps Madame de Richeville. A good pait of these predictions has been 
 verified. 
 
 " Now then, let us sum up. I shall, therefore, speak in my own name, 
 for you must have recognized me by the interest I manifested toward you. 
 jLet us now consider the comparative strength and weakness of your 
 position. 
 
 "lean do all against you — you can do nothing against me. At every 
 issue where you think you can escape ine, you will find me barring your 
 passage, and implacable. 
 
 . 2 V 3 
 
438 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " Consider this : If, dismayed at finding your motives thus penetrated, if, 
 dreading the influence which Ursula may attain over M. de Rochegune, 
 you should avow to the latter the reasons for your sacrifice ; first, Emma 
 dies — that rs as clear as daylight ; second, you cannot escape from your 
 husband to join your platonic friend, until the death of Gontran : legally, 
 your letter prevents you from ever hoping for a separation. As to escaping 
 secretly, you are watched ; your husband would be informed of it on the 
 instant, and excellent reasons have latterVy been given him for never leaving 
 you. 
 
 " What say,you to the inextricable labyrinth into which you have thrown 
 yourself? But stay: I will set before you a comparison, the appropriate- 
 ness of which you will certainly acknowledge. 
 
 " It appears to me, that at the moment of reading these lines, you will 
 figure to yourself that you are like a little fly, fallen into the centre of a 
 spider's web ; every effort that it makes to break through the murderous 
 netting, serves but to entangle it still more. To complete the horror of its 
 position, in the midst of this infernal web, it perceives the hideous spider, 
 which, steeped in murder, remains immoveable ; — its red eyes gloating upon 
 its victim, and delighting in its mortal struggles before devouring it." 
 
 At this passage of that execrable letter, I could not avoid uttering a 
 shriek of terror, so just did this comparison appear to me ; so truly did 1 
 feel myself encircled and constrained by some invisible and fatal power ! 
 Any palpable danger, however formidable it might have been, would have 
 less terrified me than these hidden and mysterious machinations, by which 
 I was threatened, and of which experience had already revealed the danger. 
 
 I went on with the letter, fearing at each moment that it would drive me 
 mad, so much was I terrified. 
 
 " Do you know, dear Matilda, that I should be a great writer, without 
 suspecting it, imprecisely at the passage of this letter, you should have felt 
 one of those terrors such as formerly used to seize me, when a youth, while 
 reading some of the horrible positions in Ann' Ratcliffe's romances ? Ha ! 
 ha ! that is not impossible, however, for probably you are reading this alone 
 in that melancholy and gloomy apartment of the rue de Bourgogne, which 
 I have visited, be it understood, before you came to occupy it. To give you 
 a proof of what I now advance, examine well the wainscoting to the left of 
 the chimney piece. Well, have you looked at it?" 
 
 I stopped reading, and meditatively looked toward the wainscoting; and 
 although I could not perceive anything which should have alarmed me, I 
 trembled on recalling to my mind the lonely house. I then continued read- 
 ing, with a horrible palpitation of my heart. I 
 
 " Now, approach the chimney ; push with all your strength against the 
 wood-work adjoining it, and you will see something which will surprise you." 
 
 Terrified and amazed, I called Blondeau. " Gracious heavens ! madam !" 
 cried she, " what is the matter with you?" Without being able to reply 
 to her, I pointed to the panel in the wainscoting, with a terrified look. 
 
 "But again, madam, what is the matter with you? you quite frighten 
 me." 
 
 Encouraged by her presence, I pushed against the moulding of the wain- 
 scot, it gave way. I screamed aloud. Blondeau, as frightened as myself, 
 did the same. The wood-work moved by a secret spring, gently opened. I 
 saw a recess, large enough to contain one person. A pipe, communicating 
 with the flue of the chimney, admitted sufficient air for a person to breathe. 
 
 " My good Heavens, madam ! what can all this mean?'' screamed Blon- 
 deau, turning pale. 
 
 "Silence! silence! Shut it up again, and say not a word to any one 
 about it." She closed the panel, and I continued reading the letter, doubt- 
 ful whether I was awake or dreaming. 
 
 " Well ! you have seen my hiding-place ? you must have been pretty well 
 frightened ! Imagine then, how many such I have around you, if I so rea- 
 dily make this one known to you. Come now, you may be tranquil ; I have 
 no others — believe it Do you understand me — believe it, for it will help 
 yohi to sleep quietly— it is true. This is a new juke, played in the hope of 
 giving you terrific dreams — some nightmare, that shall be enough to frighten 
 you to death. You will now imagine to yourself, that this house which be- 
 longs to me — is nothing but traps and counter-traps, as at the opera-house, 
 or in the novels of Ducre Dumesnil. What is delightful in the matter is, 
 that should you take it into your head to ask your husband to change your 
 lodgings, he would treat you as a visionary — ha ! ha 5 you will have some 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 439 
 
 beautiful nights 1 How sweetly will this assist you to repose after your 
 diurnal sorrows ! I advise you to make your faithful Blondeau mount guard 
 over you. Yes — but the soporific— do you recollect the soporific ? ha ! ha ! 
 you will be afraid to touch anything that is brought you, from your humble 
 restaurateur's — who, perhaps, is also one of my faithful ones. By-the-bye, 
 what a falling off, for a woman who had one of the first establishments in 
 Paris ! You must acknowledge, however, that the power which money gives 
 us, is a delightful thing. Were I Satan, in propria persona, I could not 
 torment you more. You will now be assailed by cdhstant terrors ; your 
 sleep will be disturbed by horrible dreams during the day — you will be ha- 
 rassed by the diabolical complexity of your position. Finally, night nor day 
 will you enjoy a single moments of reposes-added to which, the future is 
 charged with clouds, so dark, so black, so stormy, that your forebodings 
 cannot but be direful. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 " All this, at least, is not rose-coloured — but, also, you must acknowledge, 
 I have skilfully availed myself of all my chances ! Besides this, hatred, and 
 the thirst for vengeance, doubles the facilities. And, in all conscience, it is 
 a little your own fault. Do you remember that night, when, in your pre- 
 sence, I was insulted, beaten — when I begged for pardon on my knees, with 
 clasped hands ? You might well expect I should revenge myself, and I am 
 now beginning ! 
 
 " But, now I have gained experience, I only play upon a certainty; and, 
 above all, I am always lucky. Look at Mortagne — I was five hundred 
 leagues off, when he must go and quarrel with a bully, whom I had no 
 more seen than Eve or Adam, and who shoots him out of my way ! Truly, 
 such things happen to no one but me. 
 
 ** At this moment, even, I defy you to produce this letter against me! 
 Will you apply to the laws? In the first place, I am not in Paris; and 
 then, where is the substance of the offence ? A pure little love affair, more 
 or less platonic, with which justice has no right to interfere : and, notwith- 
 standing — how droll it is ! these little love affairs are full of tears, despairs, 
 and, perhaps, murders and suicides, and I know not what. 
 
 " Whereupon, a good and peaceful night do I wish to you — the sweet 
 slumber of an infant, sleeping upon its mother's breast ! 
 
 '* An Unknown Feiend, or a Known 
 
 " Enemy — at your own choice." 
 
 ' The perusal of this letter left me in a state of painful excitement — my 
 ideas buzzed about my brain, without finding any issue. 
 
 With demoniacal sagacity, M. Lugarto replied, in advance, to all my 
 objections — awakened all my fears. On thinking that Ursula might capti- 
 vate M. de Rochegune, my despair knew no bounds. If Emma must be 
 last, exclaimed I, may I not, at least, be the victim of an useless sacrifice ! 
 At one moment, I was on the point of communicating everything to M. de 
 Rochegune ; I was about to write to him, when that divine voice which al- 
 ways came to aid my vacillating resolution, said to me—' Courage, courage ! 
 do not allow thyself to be cast down — turn thy eyes away from the abyss 
 which a monster has displayed before thee, only to cause a frightful giddi- 
 ness, and to shake thy noble resolutions. Look not at thy feet, but raise 
 thine eyes to heaven ! Place thy trust in God— he will not fail thee ! If 
 the man whom thou hast believed worthy of thee, were capable of yielding to 
 the seductions of Ursula, could'st thou regret his heart? could'st thou envy 
 that woman ? If Emma die from seeing that another is preferred to her, 
 let it not be thou that inflicteth the fatal blow : remain true to her, and 
 thou mayest console her. Should'st thou not succeed — should she succumb, 
 do not forget her mother, who has been to thee almost a mother. As to 
 the mysterious manner of this monster, let that not terrify thee ; drive away 
 all vain fears— be courageous, strong, look steadily forward ; and see how 
 he can harm thee, and thou wilt despise his vengeance. Once more, cou- 
 rage ; yet one step more — perhaps the recompense of so many sacrifices is 
 not far distant.' 
 
 Thus, as always, my resolution returned, after a passing discouragement. 
 I determined upon awaiting the course of events ; and to still encourage 
 Emma's hopes, and protect myself, by every possible means, from the dan- 
 gerous snares and circumventions of M. Lugarto. 
 
 1 made Blondeau sleep in my room. I examined the wainscoting, and I 
 reassured myself a little by the reflection, that had this man intended to 
 
440 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 take advantage of any of these machinations he would not have warned me 
 of them. He, doubtless, only wished to occasion me unceasing alarms. 
 
 I seldom saw M. de Lancry — his gloomy air, his impatient and irritable 
 humour, proved that Ursula did not keep the promises she had made to him ; 
 but that sue had sufficient art still to lead him on, to induce him to retain 
 me with him. 
 
 Without informing him of the letter from M. Lugarto, I showed him the 
 recess in the wainscoting — he shrugged his shoulders, and made me this 
 incredible answer, and with a sardonic air which quite alarmed me ; " It i* 
 some good citizen's wife who has no doubt had this secret cupboard built to 
 hide her provisions from the voracity of her servants." 
 
 About a fortnight after I received the letter above cited from M. Lugarto, 
 he addressed me the following note : 
 
 Paris, 4 o'clock. 
 
 " I did not wish to tell you anything, before being perfectly assured of 
 the fact. Rochegune has, to-morrow, a rendezvous with Ursula ; not ac 
 her house, but on the outer boulevard — for a beginning, this is more decent* 
 
 " This rendezvous is at nine o'clock; they are to meet on the boulevard 
 to the left of the Fontainebleau gate, and to the left as you go out of the 
 said gate." 
 
 Overcome by this intelligence — which, however, I could not still believe 
 — the next morning I got into a hackney-coach afid went to the stated place. 
 I saw Ursula, who was waiting — a few minutes afterward M. de Rochegune 
 arrived ; he offered her his arm, and both of them disappeared in a cross- 
 street which came out on the boulevard. 
 
 I had neither the strength nor the will to follow them. I returned home 
 in indescribable despair. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 9 
 
 About six weeks had elapsed, since I discovered the interview of Ursula 
 with M. de Rochegune. I waited for the latter in the park of Monceaux, 
 where I had met him on a former occasion. He had entreated me to be 
 there on that morning, as he had something very important to tell me. 
 Our conversation was to have reference to important facts, which had trans- 
 pired during a considerable interval. In learning these occurrences, and 
 especially those which our conversation brought to light, you will understand 
 why I pass over intermediate events, to come more quickly to those passages, 
 which console me for many of my afflictions, and which I cannot, even at 
 this distant hour, recall without sentiments of melancholy happiness. 
 
 M. de Rochegune was several minutes before me at the place of meet- 
 ing. "You are most good and amiable to come," said he; " there is no 
 one in the world, but yourself, whom I can consult about what occurs to 
 me." 
 
 " And Ursula, by-the-bye, " said I. 
 
 He made a gesture of disdainful impatience, and replied : " Always en 
 gaged in the same absurd pursuit. She has, I am told, again passed the 
 whole night in a hackney-coach outside of my door." 
 
 "And does not this love move you ?" He shrugged his shoulders. 
 "Ah!" continued I, " I still shudder when I call to mind, that only six 
 weeks ago, I saw you meet her at the place she had appointed, take her 
 arm, and disappear with her." 
 
 " Are you not aware of the cunning of that woman ? She knows that your 
 name is a talisman, by the use of which I can always be affected. The first 
 time she wrote to me, and -signed herself the 'Unknown one of the Opera,' sig- 
 nifying that she had several matters of the utmost importance to communi- 
 cate to me, about you. I hastened to the rendezvous ; judge of my disagree- 
 able surprise, when I recognized the woman who had caused you so many 
 sorrows. I so poorly dissembled the repugnance with which she inspired 
 me, that she trembled and grew pale ; then recovering herself, she asked my 
 pardon for having disturbed me to no purpose. She could not a£ that time 
 impart to me the information with regard to yourself, which si. î had pro- 
 mised ; hut, if I would return there the day after the morrow, she would, to 
 •ome extent, satisfy me. I do not know, whether by design or not, but she 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 441 
 
 had led me to suspect, by certain ambiguous givinga out, that your rejoining 
 your husband was owing to some mysterious cause. Then, Matilda, 1 had, 
 in spite of myself, preserved some glimmerings of hope ; so I consented to 
 see your cousin once more, that I might have the secret which she, perhaps, 
 possessed." 
 
 " I comprehend her aim, my friend. The first blow had been given ; you 
 had already almost overcome your repugnance to her ; she relied upon her 
 addresses, and her wit, to make indifference glide into love." 
 
 " She was by no means deficient in skill ; but you do not yet know every- 
 thing." 
 
 " How is that?" 
 
 " Please to hear me. The second and third interviews were as futile as 
 the first ; but, by delaying every time to furnish me with that intelligence, 
 which concerned both you and myself, as she said, your cousin always con- 
 trived to recur to that cruel truth;— that you were now more than ever at- 
 tached to your husband. The knowledge which she had, both of him and 
 you, gave too much appearance of truth to her asseverations ; if it had been 
 possible for me to have kept up the least allusion on the subject, Ursula 
 would have banished it for ever. I know not why this last shock, foreseen 
 as it had been, afflicted me severely and revived all my anger against you ; 
 but I ought to do your cousin the justice to say, that she never spoke of you, 
 except with great respect." 
 
 " She knew that you would not put up with any other language." 
 
 M. de Rochegune looked at me in a strange manner, and resumed, after a 
 few moments silence ; " Perhaps ; — I was so unhappy ; all the wounds of my 
 heart began to bleed afresh." 
 
 " How ! would you have suffered Ursula to defame me ? — you, my friend ? 
 I do not believe it." 
 
 " All that is passed now, Matilda. I can confess to you my weakness, my 
 cowardice." 
 
 " Explain yourself, pray." 
 
 " Well f when, after our last interview, she had persuaded me of your re- 
 novated passion for your husband, I experienced a sensation, almost of 
 hatred, toward you ! While comparing you — you who are so pure, with Ur- 
 sula, profligate as she is, I said to myself ; may be, if I had loved this woman, 
 notwithstanding her depravity, she would have caused me less grief than 
 Matilda." 
 
 " Ah ! my friend, what blasphemy !" 
 
 " I must display the whole truth to you; it will be my punishment . I 
 was in the midst of the indignation, which your desertion had created, when 
 I again reasoned with myself. After all, the wrong Ursula has inflicted on 
 Matilda is at an end, since the latter now dotes on her husband more pas- 
 sionately than ever. Does she not pardon Ursula at the same time that she 
 pardons M. de Lancry ? Why should I be more harsh than Matilda, her- 
 self, is ?" 
 
 " How! could you abuse yourself with such paradoxes !" 
 
 " Despair is a bad counsellor, Matilda. What can I say ? While in that 
 wicked mood, I spoke, with a kind of hateful satisfaction, some kind words 
 to that woman, your most mortal enemy. I gratified myself by remember- 
 ing the elasticity, the brilliancy of her wit." 
 
 *'And Ursula, 1 dare say, responded to your confidence ?" said I, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " Happily, I found her stupid." 
 " Ursula !" 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What ! she ? so fascinating ? — so engaging ? — so spiritual ? — so ma- 
 nœuvering? — is it possible ?" 
 
 " I repeat to you, Matilda, I found her stupid. There was no longer that 
 shadow on her spirit, which struck me at the opera ; she stammered forth 
 some disconnected phrases. Nothing could be more heavy or dflh, than her 
 conversation, after it ceased to refer to you. She wanted to launch out in 
 grand dissertations on impassioned love, and the chances of constancy and 
 virtue, which were as disgusting as they were ridiculous in her mouth. 
 What could be more maladroit than this absurd string of fine maxims, from 
 a woman in her position ? It n;ade me angry, when I should, perhaps, in 
 the bad humour 1 was in, have been diverted by those cynical, paradoxical, 
 insolent, and mocking sallie^ >f wit, which she can so well execute. I was 
 in one of those fits of bitter discouragement, which makes you doubt all 
 
442 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 things that are generous and great, and was possessed with a desire to tram- 
 ple under foot all you have venerated. Why may I not now confess it to 
 you ? for the peril is past." 
 
 " Well 1" said I to "him, shuddering at these reminiscences. 
 
 "Well, Matilda, I confess it with all shame At that moment the auda- 
 cious and perverse words of Ursula might have had a fatal and power- 
 ful influence upon me- And who can tell the consequences of a first imprea- 
 sion ? But I should have encountered a sort of charming devil of wit, and 
 gentleness, mixed with effrontery ; a pretty woman, attractive and unscrupu- 
 lous ; and not with a species of psalm-singing, country beneficiary, uttering 
 virtuous proverbs, with red eyes, pallid skin, and a die-away, parched up 
 physiognomy." 
 
 " And did not this complete revolution in the manners and character of 
 Ursula, affect you in the least ?" 
 
 " Not the least in the world, my dear Matilda. This sudden change was 
 either real or feigned ; if it were true, it was a demonstration of love — but it 
 is not very flattering to excite even an earnest passion in the breast of Ma- 
 dame Ursula Secherin. If this vexation, this embarrassment were feigned, it 
 was an ignoble hypocrisy. No, 1 repent it, the only chance for your cousin 
 would have been, boldly to show herself just what she is — a type of impu- 
 dence and perversity. Then, perhaps, while still irritated by a grievous de- 
 ception — drawn on by an aggravated curiosity, seeking for sad contrast ; I 
 might have wished to ponder over this corrupted heart, as one runs through 
 a bad book for recreation. But, when this opportunity once failed, all was 
 over with that creature — I now blush for my folly. I became myself again ; 
 and I now always entertain for her the aversion which she deserves — more 
 than otherwise, for her atrocious malice toward yourself." 
 
 " My friend, in this there is a lesson, a dreadful punishment. That woman 
 might have been dangerous to you— even to you, had she remained faithful 
 to the odious principles, which have always guided her ; but she was, for the 
 first time, impressed with shame for her past life ; she tried to stammer forth 
 a noble language — a language which was perhaps sincere, but which in her 
 mouth lost all its virtue. Alas ! unhappy woman ! how she would suffer, 
 could she understand the frightful severity of this lesson." 
 
 "Are you going to pity her?" said M. de Rochegune to me in a tone of 
 reproach. 
 
 "Pity her? No! But I have suffered so much, that I cannot think of 
 those who suffer without emotion." 
 
 " I am moved to pity less easily than you are, Matilda. If that woman 
 suffers, her chastisement is well deserved ; I would do nothing to aggravate 
 it, but, upon my soul, I would do nothing to soften it. Twice since has she 
 written to ask a new interview. I have uniformly refused. Now she tries 
 to make opportunities by stationing herself in my street. I cannot hinder her 
 from doing so. But let us change the subject, I beg of you. The memory 
 of these sins still make me sad, and dark thoughts come to the unhappy, they 
 say, as gold comes to the rich," added he, with a deep sigh. 
 
 "Are you then always unhappy, my friend?" 
 
 " Do you ask me ? do you know what sort of a life I lead ? Do you know 
 what I suffer — what I endure ? But let us forget, let us forget the past ; it 
 is dead, dead with the Matilda of other days. The longer I ljve, the juster 
 do I find that fatal comparison. Oh ! yes, I am very wretched. At this 
 hour, nothing binds me to life. My days creep away in despairing monotony. 
 But why should we speak of that ? Let us speak of the subject which 
 brought me here." After a few moments silence, M. ile Rochegune resumed: 
 
 " What I have to say to you, Matilda, is serious, very serious ; I have 
 always hesitated to speak to you about it — and I do even now — but to 
 you alone can I confide this secret — a secret which, I fear is not wholly 
 mine." 
 
 In hearyjg these words, I feared lest I should betray myself, since, for 
 many days past, I had anticipated this confidence. The better to ward off 
 the suspicions of M. de Rochegune, I interrupted him, saying. " I must 
 also speak to you on a subject, serious enough, in which 1 am almost di- 
 rectly interested — for it refers to our best friend." 
 
 He made a gesture of surprise, and said : " How is this ? Explain your- 
 self, Matilda." 
 
 " Oh ! Heavens !" answered I, with as great an air of indifference as I 
 could assume, " it refers to this : yesterday M. de Lancry told me, that a 
 natural sou of a certain northern sovereign, was about to arrive in Paris : he 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 143 
 
 is very handsome and very rich : he has, they say, fhe best character and the 
 most charming manners in the world. He will, as a matter of course, be 
 presented to Madame de Richeville, — and, if he happens to be pleased with 
 Emma, and he is worthy of the treasure, it seems to me, that this will be an 
 excellent opportunity to marry this dear child. Don't you think so ?" I con- 
 fess that I invented this falsehood, with an assurance that astonished me. 
 M. de Rochegune appeared struck with what I had said, and answered with 
 some embarrassment : " Do you not believe that Emma has, up to this period, 
 manifested any preference?" 
 
 "As long as I lived with herself and her mother, I remarked nothing of the 
 kind ! And did you, at that pefiod ?" 
 
 " Oh ! certainly not — no !" replied he. 
 
 There was in his reply a tone of conviction, which was very precious to me. 
 
 " And have you not since that time, Matilda, observed anything singular 
 in Emma's behaviour ?" 
 
 "Nothing — absolutely nothing— my friend. But, you know, that I now, 
 unhappily for me, visit Madame de Kicheville much less than I did. Can 
 you have observed in Emma, any preference of this sort?" asked I, with an 
 astonished air. 
 
 M. de Rochegune appeared to put a violent constraint upon himself, and 
 said : " After all, I am foolish to have any scruples on the subject. I would 
 not, by reason of false modesty, in any future day, cause unhappiness to our 
 friend." 
 
 " In truth, I do not understand you." 
 
 " Matilda, since I lost you, I have every day visited the house of Madame 
 de Richeville — often twice in the same day. In my visiting, I found a cruel 
 pleasure in talking of you. The duchess had the kindness to receive me, at 
 hours, when her doors are habitually shut. Emma, who very rarely leaves 
 her mother, joined in our conversations. This poor child regrets your loss, 
 as much as we do. She was always so well accustomed to hear me speak of 
 you, as I have always spoken, that I have nothing to hide from her. Many 
 times have I discovered her looks fixed upon me, with a singular fixedness. 
 It at first appeared to me very strange, but 1 soon ceased to think about it. 
 Once I entered without being announced. She was alone in the drawing-room 
 with her mother; she screamed feebly, and blushed purple. ' Emma, I have 
 frightened you,' said I to her, smiling. 'No! oh, no!' said she. 'Stop — 
 see how my heart beats — you will perceive that it is not fright !' And, tak- 
 ing my hand with a charming simplicity, she placed it on her side. Her 
 heart did, indeed, beat violently." 
 
 " I am well aware of that ; her first impulses are always exceedingly in- 
 genuous. But what was there strange in that ?" 
 
 M. de Rochegune seemed to be very much surprised ; he doubtless thought 
 he had put me on the track of discovery. 
 
 " Of course, there was nothing strange in that, precisely — though that mo- 
 tion — that sudden blush ?" 
 
 " You know— she is a child — she might have been afraid !" 
 
 " Certainly: she might have been afraid. Nevertheless, th'i3 circumstance 
 made me more observant. I watched, and I remarked, for instance, her sud- 
 den blushing ; from the moment I entered her mother's house, the kind of 
 contemplation with which she continually regarded me. As long as I was 
 the only one who witnessed these singularities, 1 attached only a relative im- 
 portance to them : but when I made evening visits to her mother's house, 
 Emma, to my great astonishment, exhibited toward me, and often in the 
 presence of strangers, such very significant preferences, that they embarrassed 
 me. This occurrence, at least, determined me to confide the matter to you. 
 The day before yesterday, as I was about to leave Madame de Kicheville's 
 house, I found Emma at the door of the hall, waiting. She said to me with 
 a mysterious air, as she handed me a small portfolio, ' To-day is the anni- 
 versary of my birth : see what I have made for you. Don't speak of it to 
 Madame de Richeville: it is nay secret.' " 
 
 " And what was there in this portfolio?'' 
 
 " My portrait, painted by herself in water-colours-; its resemblance was 
 very striking, though it was done from recollection. Understand, dear Ma- 
 tilda, 1 do not deceive myself as to those appearances, significant as they ap- 
 pear : it is a piece of childishness : but I owe it to Madame de Richeville, to 
 myself, to Emma, whose admirable qualities I fully appreciate, to put an end 
 to this folly ; and it is on this topic, that I desired to consult you." 
 
 " I believe, indeed, that there is nothing in it but the foolish excHement of 
 
444 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 * gay girl ; so, my friend, if you will listen to my advice, before this excite- 
 ment can end in a more reflective and deeper sentiment, you will resign your- 
 self to make a little journey. Perhaps this will oppose your projects, but 
 you are too much of a friend to Madame de Richeville to hesitate : your ab- 
 sence will calm the imagination of our poor Emma. While you are absent, 
 I will seize the occasion to speak to Madame de Richeville of this young 
 stranger ; if he is as agreeable as they say, if he is presented to Emma as her 
 future husband, there is every reason to believe she will receive him as such. 
 Then the sentiment, which she has for you, will find its level ; for I think 
 that it is nothing more than a very lively friendship, somewhat exaggerated 
 by her fancy. What think you of my advice ?" 
 
 " It seems to me very reasonable ; and, although it will cost me somethi 
 to follow it, I will follow it." 
 
 " What have you to regret here ?" 
 
 " Everything and nothing. Now the least untoward event is painful to me, 
 and then I find a mournful charm, in dwelling in those places where I have 
 loved you. I have a sad pleasure, in talking to my friends about you. I 
 confess, it grieves me to renounce, even for a short time, these last consola- 
 tions." 
 
 " I understand you, my friend — but can you hesitate ? Think how im- 
 pressible Emma is ! Reflect on the fatal consequences of an attachment like 
 hers, if it becomes serious ! Poor, unhappy child 1 What will be her lot ? 
 But your absence, with perhaps the hopes of an approaching marriage, will 
 suffice to cure her of this passing fancy ; and then I will talk to her — she has 
 entire confidence in me. I repeat it, my friend, you must make this sacrifice, 
 however painful it may be — you must depart." 
 
 " You are right! the repose, the future happiness of Emma, perhaps de- 
 pend on my absence. Can I hesitate, when I think of all that I owe to her 
 mother, of all the interest with which this child herself inspires me? Is there 
 a more angelic creature — one more entitled to be happy ? What does she not 
 deserve !" 
 
 " My friend, she is indeed a real treasure, and it may happen that, before 
 your return, your good wishes will be realized. If all matters can be made 
 agreeable, with regard to her marriage, it can take place in two or three 
 months, at farthest. Them you will come back, and your friends will try to 
 alleviate that existence, which is so sad and wearisome." 
 
 " Is it not, indeed, her own ? What is left for me? Where are my ties — 
 what is my future now ? Ah, Matilda ! relations and friends, dear as they 
 may be, can never replace that sentiment, which was my whole life ! The 
 successes, of which I was so proud, now possess no charms for me ; you are 
 at the bottom of all my ambition, all my pride." And he added, endeavour- 
 ing to smile : " In this respect, I am like those poor women, who have the 
 habit of making themselves beautiful and amiable for their lovers. They 
 have nothing beyond that — they ask themselves, of what other use is beauty 
 and dress?" 
 
 " Until a new love imparts to them a new desire to be pretty and charming," 
 said I, smiling. 
 
 "You know very well," said he, mournfully, "that all true affection is 
 over for me — how can any other bring joy ? I am thirty years old, and I 
 have, perhaps, a long life before me, which must be passed away in this dull, 
 and icy indifference. Then questionings— what can I do? what can I guess? 
 — are insupportable to me. I would accept of, I know not what future, pro- 
 vided that it could be certain — provided I could be spared the sterile toil of 
 thinking of the morrow! Sometimes, I envy the mechanical existence 
 of the cloister ; that mute and passive obedience, which relieves you of aU 
 volition as to what you must do." 
 
 " Can you speak thus ?— you, who are young and free ?" 
 
 " And it is just that freedom which frightens me. I vainly seek to rid 
 myself of the apathy which enthralls me. These are useless agitations." 
 
 Twenty times was I on the point of saying to M. de Rochegune, " Marry 
 Emma : she loves you : your existence will thên have an aim, an end." But 
 I feared to compromise, by too much haste, the success of that labour, which 
 had cost me so many tears, so much care. 1 said to him, " Perhaps your 
 journey will, of itself, be sufficient to relieve you of this temporary stupor. 
 Rely upon me. I will write to you the result of my observations, touching 
 Emma, and I hope soon to inform you that your absence has had that effect 
 which we hope." 
 
 On the. morning of the day after I had had this conversation with M. de 
 
AFFAIRS OP TUE HEART 
 
 415 
 
 Rochegune, Emma wrote me a letter, which resumed, so to speak, our cor- 
 respondence; which had ceased, while I was living with Madame de Riche* 
 ▼illfc. 
 
 Emma to Madame de Lancry. 
 
 " I have obeyed your counsels, my saviour and guardian-angel. I will now 
 recount to you all that has transpired since my last letter. 
 
 " You tell me that very soon he will no longer have any reason to conceal 
 his love from me, and I believe you ; I have always been most prone to be- 
 lieve you, so much have you revealed to me I As you have counselled me thus, 
 I have never concealed any of my impressions, I was happy to look upon 
 him ; I did look upon him. When his eyes met mine, I did not turn my eyes 
 away, and he could read in them all the joy which his presence afforded me. 
 I do not know if you will approve of such conduct; it is perhaps, somewhat 
 odd — but I presented him with the portrait I had made of him — as a sou- 
 venir, you know. Not, however, that I expected to give him any great pleasure 
 by presenting him with his own likeness ; but because I deemed that he 
 would discern in that, a token that his image was ever present with me — 
 and, I know not why, but from the moment I had finished the portrait, it 
 seemed to me that it no longer belonged to me, that I had no longer a right 
 to keep it, that I ought to give it up to him. And then I was so proud of my 
 work — if you only knew how much it looked like him— I toiled much at it 
 when you did not see me — no resemblance could be . more striking. After 
 the picture was once begun, any time that I wished to see him, I had only 
 to shut my eyes and he appeared to me : — yes, it was a real apparition. 
 
 " M. de Rochegune is always very sad when he speaks of you — he is like 
 Madame de Richeville and myself ; we cannot console ourselves for your 
 departure so accustomed were we to the sweet habit of seeing you every day. 
 I can easily discern that he loves me : he treats me no longer as a little girl. 
 The day before yesterday, when I gave him the portrait, he looked upon me 
 with an emotion which brought the tears to my eyes. Oh ! when I reflect 
 that for six weeks I was in such an agony ! You had disclosed to me how 
 great was the woe, of which I was ready to die — and it was yourself that 
 cured me 1 I often cast myself on my knees to bless you, to pray to you as 
 to a saint. By one word, you saved me, and that word was his name. 
 
 " There is one question, which I constantly ask myself. How have I de- 
 served that he should love me— how could he choose me from all those among 
 whom his choice is free ? Does it not seem to you a most happy, and at the 
 same time, a most unhoped for good fortune for your Emma ? I should like 
 to know, if I loved him before he loved me. Oh, yes ! I loved him first — 
 had it been otherwise, it would have been ingratitude in me. 
 
 " Do not chide me, nor think me importunate ; but do you imagine that 
 he will be obliged to keep silent much longer ? When will he tell me that 
 he loves me ? You told me in your last letter, that it might be very soon. 
 But periods of time may be different to you and to me. 
 
 "Come, my good guardian-angel, I will be patient; I will put no more 
 indiscreet questions. Besides, now that I have let him see that I love him, 
 it will be selfishness in me to be impatient. Adieu ! adieu ! You perceive 
 that I scrupulously follow your advice. Come and see us ; you know that 
 you are always most beloved by Madame de Richeville, by him, and by your 
 Emma." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AFFAIRS OF THE HEART. 
 
 M. de Rochegune had written a line to Bfadame de Richeville to advise 
 her of his absence, occasioned, as he said, by affairs of importance. 
 
 On the morning of his' departure, I informed Emma ihat she must make 
 up her mind not to see M. de Rochegune, perhaps for a long time ; since the 
 family reasons which had made him so long defer the offer of his hand, had 
 become more serious. I at last informed the poor child, that M. de Roche- 
 gune was so unhappy at leaving her, that he could not come to bid her 
 adieu. As I anticipated, Emma was most sadly grieved at this unforseen 
 blow, which had come so suddenly to break down her hopes, or at least to 
 2 Q 
 
446 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 put them off for an indefinite period ; but it was my duty to risk much to 
 assure her happiness, Without being as alarming as they had formerly 
 been, several of the symptoms of Emma's old malady developed themselves 
 afresh. She subsided into a dull and heavy grief. Her sorrow, of the cause 
 of which she was now conscious, underwent a reaction of a milder, but a 
 deeper character. I had been obliged to admit Doctor Gerard to my con- 
 fidence, for I was anxious lest I should too dangerously compromise Emma's 
 health. He approved of my design, kept my secret from Madame de Riche- 
 ville, and gave her promise of a change in the malady of her daughter. 
 
 I had often written to M. de Rochegune, to keep him informed of the 
 progress of events. I did not conceal from him that the situation of Emma 
 gave me more and more uneasiness. At length, M. Gerard, having informed 
 me that there would be danger in prolonging the anguish of the young lady, 
 I implored him to return ; his presence alone being capable of producing a 
 *alutary change. He answered me in these words : 
 
 " I will be in Paris to-morrow night. What you have communicated is 
 truly deplorable. I am, unhappily, incapacitated from repairing the evil 
 which I have caused. Emma is an angel of goodness, of beauty, of candour 
 and of grace. She deserves a heart which belongs to her alone. If I had 
 never in my life met you, it might yet be possible for me to love her ; — her 
 love would have been my dearest possession. But to marry her through 
 pity ! is it worthy of her ? is it worthy of me ? All my hope is, that you 
 have deceived yourself as to the danger which she incurs. In any event, I 
 shall come. And her mother! my best friend! I know not what fatality 
 pursues me. R." 
 
 Some hours after M. de Rochegune's return, M. Gerard, whose skill and 
 character he highly honoured, called at his house, and, as I requested, in- 
 formed him of the truly alarming condition of his fair patient. To make M. 
 de Rochegune comprehend the full seriousness of the crisis, M. Gerard had 
 only to make him acquainted with the reasons which he had deduced from 
 the first sickness of Emma; — the same cause had again produced the same 
 effects. 
 
 " Well," said he to me, with a mournful accent, " I have just left M. 
 Gerard. This poor child's life is in danger ?" 
 
 "Alas ! yes ! I entreated the doctor, whose sincerity you know, to go and 
 tell you how it was, not doubting that his words would be more eloquent 
 than all arguments." 
 
 " What he has told me is most distressing. Unhappily, I can only de- 
 plore its existence. I repeat to you, my dear Matilda, I know of no one 
 better or more attractive than Emma. You know me well enough to believe 
 that her birth would be no obstacle. I render due justice to her excellent 
 qualities, but I love her not ! I can never love her !" 
 
 " Doubtless, my friend, that is to be deplored ; but all hope is not yet 
 absolutely lost. I have only thus far caused you to contemplate, in a vague 
 manner, the possibility of a marriage, in case of its becoming the only 
 chance of safety for Emma. This may happen to-morrow — and then I think 
 this marriage will become a duty." 
 
 "A duty!" 
 
 " Yes ! for you, whose soul is generous and great." 
 
 " It would be a duty, neither for me nor for any one else, Matilda," said 
 he to me, with a firmness which frightened me. " I lament for what has 
 occurred, but I can do nothing." 
 
 " You can do nothing, when a word " 
 
 " To speak that word, I must love." 
 
 " But she loves you ! she is dying ! Can that consideration avail nothing." 
 
 "And what have I done to awaken or encourage that love? Is it my 
 fault that the imagination of this unhappy child is excited beyond reason ?" 
 
 " Is it her fault, if, by seeing you every day, and listening to your praises, 
 love has, by degrees, been developed in her heart? Is there not cruelty in 
 affecting an indifference which you do not feel ? No ! no ! for the love of 
 Emma ought to make you proud !" 
 
 " I should be proud of it — yes — I should be proud of it were I worthy 
 of it." % 
 
 ■ " Why are you unworthy ?" 
 
 " Because I do not reciprocate that love— because I never can !" 
 
 " You do not reciprocate it now, it is true — but who will answer for the 
 future ? Think of what you told me, previous to your departure, when you 
 epoke tome of the disgust which you suffered? This sad mood of mind 
 
AFFAIRS OF THE HEART. 
 
 447 
 
 eannot but be increased : your love for me can avail nothing more during 
 this life ; and, as for myself, why should I hide the truth from you? every 
 day rivets the bonds which attach me to M. de Lancry ; as much as he can, 
 he repairs past wrongs; thus, you see, my friend, that our dreams in former 
 days have ended as dreams always do. Thus, while you say that you will 
 ever preserve for me that melancholy remembrance, which even survives the 
 departed, 1 will always entertain for you the most affectionate regard, the 
 deepest esteem ; but now our two lives must run in different currents, and 
 every day will separate us more. What a future is there reserved for you 1" 
 " The future is most sad ! you know it." 
 
 " And it is such a future that you hesitate to engage — to sacrifice, if you 
 will — when that sacrifice involves the life of Emma." 
 
 " It is better for her to die than to be bound to a withered heart." 
 
 " But who can say, that the generous warmth of this young heart will not 
 revivify the soul that you have deemed for ever torpid?" 
 
 " It is impossible ! Matilda, I am sure of it ! I should never love " 
 
 Then !" exclaimed I, with bitterness, "then, Emma must die ! it is so 
 destined. After all, what is lost "but the existence of a creature of God ? 
 Emma, it is true, combines in herself the most charming and rarest qualities. 
 She is but sixteen ; she is amiable, lovely ; she wishes to die ; — she will die ; 
 and he who, by his disdainful indifference, will cause her death, will doubt- 
 less sacrifice this young girl to the impulse of some heroical ambiiion— some 
 grand passion, or, at least, to the attraction of some life of adventure, which 
 may arouse him from his lethargy. No ! no, it is to ennui — to a dull and 
 cowardly apathy, that he will sacrifice this adorable being — the daughter of 
 his best friend !" 
 
 " You are warm, Matilda." 
 
 " Did M. de Mortagne still live, would he not use the same language? I 
 appeal to your integrity : what would he counsel you to do ?" 
 
 M. de Itochegune made no reply, and looked down with a mournful ex- 
 pression ; but he seemed struck by my words. 
 
 " His advice was sacred to you — you would not have doubted. Ah! my 
 friend ! call to mind what you said to me one day, when the instincts of 
 your heart revealed to you that our love would manifest some glorious ex- 
 ample of devotion. You foresaw, probably, what would happen, at this 
 hour. My friend, be generous ! be not unmerciful !" 
 
 "Matilda, say frankly, would M. de Mortagne have thus advised me? 
 Do you, yourself, advise me to marry Emma out of pity ? At this price, she 
 will refuse my hand." 
 
 " Can it indeed be you who ask me such a question 1 And, supposing 
 you were to yield to pity, would you ever suffer Emma to know the truth ? 
 No ! no ! I know your heart ! Rather than wound her, you would deceive 
 her by a touching falsehood — she is so proud. You are right — she would die 
 a thousand times, rather than owe this union to your pity." 
 
 "But it is madness. Does she not know how I love you— how much I 
 regret you? Has she not, always, heard me speak of you in the most tender 
 language ?" 
 
 " You know the rectitude and candour of her soul. She has seen, in our 
 love, but the attachment of brother and sister. Was I not married I Was 
 not this word an insurmountable barrier between us ?" 
 
 " And you would, with pleasure, see me marry Emma?" 
 
 " I should be happy in this marriage, because it would give back life to 
 Emma? — because it offers to you numberless chances of happiness— because 
 it will confer unhoped-for happiness on my best friend. I should rejoice in 
 this marriage, because it would tear you away from that apathy, which you 
 have not the strength to overcome : because you will, by degrees, recuperate 
 under the vivyfying (influence of this pure love ; because you will find a 
 thousand charms in domestic bliss. Your life will have new objects ; new 
 ties may, perhaps, bind you to it still more closely. In the hope of keeping 
 alive the illustrious name which you have inherited from your father, a noble, 
 a generous ambition will be born in your mind — and then," added I, with- 
 out the power of restraining my tears, " my friend, you believe that you 
 are unhappy — you must compel yourself to forget your dearest hopes ; for, 
 when we are, at last, compelled to relinquish all that might have rendered 
 us happy on earth — what is left to us, but the sweet consolation of making 
 others as happy as we, ourselves, might have been ? Behold this poor, 
 young girl ! so transported by a dream of lofty delight — of a happiness so 
 unreasonable — that she is dying ! dying, for. having only dared to indulge in 
 
448 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 this blissful dream 1 and you, by a word, can restore her to life— you can 
 realize her dream. Tell me, my friend, who, excepting God, could perform a 
 more powerful deed — could confer so magnificent a boon ? Is it not like 
 Bharing the Divine Essence, to create such perfect rapture? Is it not to 
 attain the highest enjoyment of which man is capable ? Oh ! how stupid a 
 monster was he who said, that revenge is the pastime of the gods." 
 
 ■' Matilda, leave me !" said M. de Rochegune, visibly affected; "these 
 transports are dangerous — we yield to them, only at the expense of reason." 
 
 " Of reason ! And does not the most austere reason accord with the voice 
 of your heart, if you will but listen to it ? My friend, you are moved — I see 
 it. Ah ! be generous : let not our sad loves be succeeded by the eternal re- 
 morse of having caused the death of Emma. Let not mine be the fearful 
 regret of having destroyed the beauty of your soul, by the sorrows I have 
 caused you. Oh! no, no ! far from that, let us show that our affection has 
 but rendered us better. For that I will forgive all that it has made me 
 suffer ; and you will make this unhappy child forget all she has suffered for 
 you." 
 
 " But I should be insane, I should be guilty, to allow myself to be carried 
 away by the emotion which your language occasions ; and you will, one day, 
 Matilda, repent the ills which my weakness will have brought upon me." 
 
 " No, no, my friend ; yield, oh ! yield to this noble impulse of your 
 heart ; and one day, holding in your hand the hand of Emma— one day — 
 a smile on your lips, serenity on your brow, and joy in your heart — you will 
 say to me : ' Matilda, your language was that of a kind and sincere friend: 
 thanks to you, I am very happy. And then, to myself," I added, not being 
 able to conceal my tears, and to suppress a painful emotion, ** to myself — " 
 
 "What is the matter, Matilda?" exclaimed M. de Rochegune, regard- 
 ing me with anxiety. I understood all the danger of my involuntary ten- 
 derness ; one suspicion of M. de Rochegune would hav.e lost all. 
 
 " Nothing, my friend," said I, endeavouring to smile ; " I was moved in 
 thinking of the felicity which you would enjoy with Emma. Hearken to my 
 wishes and to my advice. Bye-and-by, as I told you — when I am also happy 
 — enjoying like you all the charms of domestic life, I will whisper to ynu — 
 Naughty friend ! I was obliged to force you to do this !" 
 
 " Ah ! Matilda, be cautious for Emma, more than for myself. After all, I 
 have nothing now to risk. My exi»tence cannot be more desolate than it is— 
 but this child, good Heavens ! some day or other, how will she be unde- 
 ceived !" 
 
 " But this child loves you without hope — loves you even unto death ! Her 
 life can never become more desolate than it now is." 
 "Ah, Matilda, they will be sad nuptials." 
 
 " To Emma they will be those of a queen. Your promise, my friend, your 
 promise !" 
 " Matilda !" 
 
 " In the name of .your father — in the name of the friend whom we have 
 lost, and who would have joined his prayers to mine !" 
 " Do you wish it ?" 
 " I implore it." 
 
 " Let the fate of the child then be accomplished !" 
 
 " Oh, bless you for the best, the most generous of men ! Ah ! you know 
 not, you know not how surpassingly sweet are the tears which you now cause 
 me to shed;" I exclaimed. 
 
 By so many mournful sacrifices was thy happiness, oh ! my Emma, se- 
 cured. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PROPOSAL. 
 
 What can I say more ? The promise of M. de Rochegune was sacred. With 
 his usual delicacy, he comprehended the necessity of letting Emma believe 
 that he had long loved her. I took it upon myself to make his proposals to 
 Madame de Richeville. I hurried to see her— but, before opening the sub- 
 ject, had an interview with Emma. I forbear to express her surprise, her 
 joy, her intoxication, when I informed her both of the return of M. de Roche- 
 gune and the proposal of marriage which I had come to communicate to Ma- 
 dame de Richeville. The dear child pron ised me to appear very much atto- 
 
THII Ph^POSAL. 
 
 M? 
 
 nished when the duchess told her the good news. My little deception would 
 not then be discovered, either by her or by M. de Rochegune. 
 I went to Madame de Richeville. 
 
 " I have come to see Emma ; she is very much better," I remarked. Ma- 
 dame de Kicheville sadly shook her head. 
 
 " I have heard," said she, " that Emma conceals from m% some secret sor- 
 row. M. Gerard seeks in vain for the cause of her languishing illness. It 
 must be that the unhappy child nourishes some deep and hidden sorrow, 
 which is killing her. In vain I question her. Often am I disturbed with the 
 thought that she knows the mystery of her birth ; and yet, nothing convinces 
 me that my fears are well grounded on this subject." 
 
 " Has not the doctor told you that Emma was affected with a nervous 
 malady ? You know that the cause of these affections is often as inexplicable 
 as the rapidity of their course." 
 
 " Alas ! nothing is likewise more rapid than their relapses. Only fifteen 
 days ago, Emma was perfectly well ; and now, what uneasiness does she not 
 cause me ?" 
 
 " All your friends have partaken of your anxiety — all rejoice in the hope 
 that you ought to entertain. Among these, I need not mention to you M. 
 de Rochegune. I saw him this morning." 
 
 " Has he arrived ?" 
 
 " Yes, he has confided to me a very important resolution. It was to reflect 
 upon this more deliberately that he went and passed some days in solitude. 
 His life, as you ought to know, is now quite Unsettled." 
 
 " Ah ! Matilda, you ought not to be reproached ; you have but obeyed the 
 imperious voice of duty. M. de Rocheguue is indeed quite unhappy." 
 
 " He has been very much so — but now it i3 otherwise. You know him — 
 know the firmness of his character — he will not expend his strength upon the 
 impossible : he has the courage to look upon the future as he ought. He 
 now feels for me nothing more than a calm attachment, for his love could 
 not resist the rude shock to which I subjected it ; he has often said so to you 
 himself." 
 
 " Yes— I will not conceal it from you, Matilda. He has often said to me, 
 with despair, that your return to your husband had slain his affection. That 
 the Matilda of other days, was like one dead to him." 
 
 " My friend, M. de Rochegune rarely utters such vain words. In that, as 
 in all other circumstances, he is serene. He is completely alienated from 
 me. The proof of that — I am going to surprise you — is his desire to be mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " He ? to marry ? it is impossible !" 
 The only obj-ect of his absence, as I told you, was to obtain leisure to re- 
 flect on this serious determination. He will shortly arrive at middle age. 
 He is. isolated ; the future disturbs him — appears to him as gloomy as a de- 
 sert. He no longer loves me : as he told you, that sentiment is dead within 
 him, and he does not falsify. From the very reason that I once occupied a 
 large space in his existence, and that I do so no longer, he feels the want of 
 creating durable ties ; and he would seek for happiness, in the pure affec- 
 tions of a family." 
 
 " For him ! — him to marry!" repeated Madame de Richeville, with sur- 
 prise : " and it is to you — to you that he has imparted this confidence?" 
 
 " I am ever his friend : ought he not to inform me of so important a pro- 
 ject?" 
 
 " Doubtless, Matilda: but to consult you on such a matter — you, whom 
 he loved so dearly, seems almost cruel !" 
 
 " I discern in this confidence, not cruelty but affection. As for him, I have 
 coolly contemplated his position. What can he do henceforth ? Do you not 
 deem it natural that he should turn his thoughts to the future ? Will not the 
 woman of his choice be very happy ? You are familiar with the goodness of 
 his heart, the nobleness of his character ; and, if he wishes to marry, those 
 good qualities will insure the felicity of his wife." 
 
 "Oh ! I do not doubt it ! All ties, all duties, are sacred to him." 
 
 " Why, then, are you surprised at his desire to marry ?" 
 
 " Ah 1 Matilda ! there is no woman worthy of him !" 
 
 " I do not altogether coincide with you, my friend; but I believe that M. 
 de Rochegune, on account of these rare qualities, will find it as difficult to 
 marry, as — as Emma, for instance." 
 
 "Ah ! Matilda ; I could wish that my thoughts were not, as they are, 
 preoccupied with that subject." 
 
 2 Q 3 
 
450 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " Comfort yourself with the assurance, that you will not long be troubled 
 with the care of finding a husband for her." 
 " Alas I you know all my fears about it." 
 
 " You will take me for an insane person ; but I will say of her, what you 
 Aave just said of M. de Rochegunc — there is no man worthy of her — I mean 
 there is but one — and that is M. de Ilochegune." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " M. de Rochegune." 
 " M. de Rochegune?" 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " M. de Rochegune ! M. de Rochegune ! Indeed, my poor Matilda, yoa 
 are crazy ! ' ' 
 
 " Not so crazy, perhaps." 
 " M. de Rochegune !" 
 
 " Yes ! what is there so astonishing about it ? Do you think hitn a man 
 to disquiet himself concerning the birth of Emma? j3o you believe him ca- 
 pable of thinking of her fortune ?" 
 
 " No ! but never can he think — never has he thought of Emma !" 
 
 "But suppose that he does think of her?" 
 
 " He ! it is impossible !" 
 
 " Suppose it was so — would you not be happy — very happy ?" 
 " What a question Î But of what use are these dreams ?" 
 " But if they are not dreams ?" 
 ** How?" 
 
 " And if M. de Rochegune, impressed with all her adorable qualities, which 
 he has for a long time appreciated, is captivated with her ; not, perhaps, with 
 a violent, rapturous passion; but with a serious, earnest love, which only 
 needs marriage to ripen into passion. If M. de Rochegune should ask her 
 hand of you, would you give it to him?" 
 
 " Matilda ! Matilda ! this is the first time you have caused me a sentiment 
 of sorrow. Emma would not give me the uneasiness that she now does — but 
 this mournful pleasantry " 
 
 " By the memory of my mother, my friend, What I tell you, is true! M. de 
 Rochegune has entreated me to ask of you the hand of Emma ; and, if she 
 consents, he asks that the marriage may take place as soon as possible." 
 
 These words were uttered under an invocation so sacred to me, that Ma- 
 dame de Richeville was forced to believe me. I will not attempt to paint 
 her joy, her astonishment, redoubled as it was, by the rapture of Emma, who, 
 to the last, faithfully preserved my secret. 
 
 All was accomplished. I will confess, that so long as I had a single doubt 
 as to the happy issue of my plans — my fears, my uncertainties, my anguish, 
 sufficed to distract my mind ; but, having arrived at the house, having made 
 the proposal, 1 was, for a moment, in the depths of despair. My effort was 
 over : Emma would be happy. M. de Rochegune would be happy — but I 1 — 
 1 1 I will tell all. So long as M. de Rochegune looked upon his marriage 
 with Emma, as a sort of sacrifice— so long as I saw that he was, in spite of 
 himself, under the influence of my remembrance, I felt a kind of melancholy 
 satisfaction ; my devotion cost me less. But when, by degrees, he yielded 
 to the irresistible charm of that child — when he saw himself, so to speak, 
 born again and revivified under her smile— when he discovered the treasures 
 of her angelic soul — when he said to me, with a blush, that there was but 
 one woman in the world capable of consoling him for my loss, and that, that 
 woman was Emma — when he said to me, that the happiness for which he was 
 indebted to me, would make him one day forget the griefs I had occasioned 
 — then, I confess, that 1 had many bitter — nay, most wretched thoughts. I 
 was ashamed of them. I knew their unworthiness, but I could not escape 
 from them. 
 
 Very soon, this marriage was the talk of all Paris. Some saw in it a proof 
 of vexation or inconstancy on the part of M. de Rochegune ; others, a bold 
 stroke of Madame de Richeville, who had arrived at her object by finesse and 
 management. Many, at last, affirmed that M. de Rochegune, possessed with 
 a rage for notoriety, had considered nothing in this union but its originality ; 
 for it was not supposable, that any man with a rent-roll of one hundred 
 thousand crowns, would bestow it upon a poor orphan-girl, without some sort 
 of hidden design. The marriage was to take place at Rochegune, as soon M 
 the formalities would permit. 
 
▲ MARRIAGE. 
 
 4 5 J 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A MARKIAGE. 
 
 I have not spoken of my inner life during this period. The fatal commu- 
 nications of M. Lugarto had entirely ceased. I had grown familiar with my 
 first fears. Blondeau slept in my chamber. As 1 ate very little, and as I 
 always apprehended some treachery, she herself prepared my repasts, with 
 the utmost precaution. I made them close in a solid manner the wainscot, 
 which might serve as a lurking-place. Doubtless, my heroical resolution 
 may create a smile. I bought a very sharp poniard, which was always placed 
 near my bed. For some time after the receipt of the letter from M. Lugarto, 
 I had horrible dreams ; but, by degrees, they vanished. I habituated myself 
 to a position, which had at, first seemed frightful and nearly intolerable. I 
 rarely saw M. de Lancry. He had lost all hope of finding Ursula again, in 
 spite of the submission with which he had obeyed her orders, with regard to 
 myself. If I had insisted upon my husband's consenting to a separation, 
 he would not, perhaps, have refused ; but, for a thousand reasons that can 
 be understood, I was not only obliged to remain for a time longer in that 
 
 Ïosition, but to seem to embrace it with joy. My life was very monotonous, 
 saw Madame de Richeville and Emma, nearly every day. I received no one 
 at my house. In the day, I designed, I embroidered; then I went to walk 
 in the park of Monceaux, or to visit the good Prince d' Hericourt and his wife, 
 who had proved their friendship for me, and always kincfly chided me for my 
 foolish love, and falsely-bestowed devotion. I awaited, with impatience, the 
 marriage of M. de Rochegune. Then I counted upon retiring to Maran, 
 which Madame de Richeville had bought in her name. I had also conffded 
 to her keeping the diamonds which were left to me by my mother. I deemed 
 them worth a hundred thousand crowns. My husband had always tried to 
 make me give them up to him. I had always resisted, resolving to make 
 them some day the price of our legal separation. If he acceded, as I believed 
 he would, it would be then very easy for me to say, and make people believe, 
 that M. de Lancry was tired of the life which we led, and that I had been 
 once more the dupe of my devotion. People would probably not interest 
 themselves in the fate of a victim, so stupid as I j but I would console my- 
 self, by severing, at last my horrible chain. One fact, insignificant enough 
 in itself, made me take a resolution, which subsequently led to fatal conse- 
 quences. For a considerable period, nothing had caused me to suspect the 
 fatal influence of M. Lugarto ; when, one day, I thought I perceived some 
 disorder in the arrangement of a large number of letters, which I had locked 
 up in a tortoise-shell casket, the key of which I always carried about. Not 
 one letter was missing, but it seemed to me that the casket had been opened 
 in my absence. I could not for an instant, doubt the fidelity of Blondeau ; 
 and, although I had no reason to suspect my other domestic— nevertheless, 
 reflecting upo/r the power of the gold of M. Lugarto, and his resources of cor- 
 ruption, I resolved to keep about me all papers of importance. In this 
 number, there was my correspondence with Emma — a correspondence which 
 showed the part I had taken in the marriage, as well as many letters from 
 M. de Rochegune, in which he spoke to me of Emma's illness ; of his sorrow, 
 that he was only able to deplore it, since he could not espouse her, except 
 from pity, &c. &c. It was not possible for me to confide these letters to M. 
 de Rochegune, or to Madame de Richeville ; for a chance might reveal to 
 them, what I had so much interest in concealing ; they both were, however, 
 as much as I, objects of M. Lugarto's hatred; and the papers were not, in 
 this view, in more safety with them than with me. I did not know with whom 
 to intrust them, when I thought of M. de Senneville. I had seen him often 
 at his aunt's house ; he had been represented to me as a man of honour, safe 
 and secret. I prayed him to keep this deposit for me. It was agreed with 
 him, that whenever I should have any papers to add to those which 1 had 
 sent, Blondeau would go to his house and deposit them in the casket, the 
 key of which she had. M. de Senneville offered with the best possible grace, 
 to render me this small service. I so much feared the espionage of M. Lu- 
 garto, and the terrible use he would make of that correspondence, if hj nad 
 known where to seize upon it, that I begged M. de Senneville to come to my 
 house once in the evening, so that he could bring the casket without being 
 discovered. M. de Senneville had the tact, not to allude to the attentions 
 which he had formerly paid me. He saw that it would be in very bad tast>;, 
 
MATILDA, 
 
 to renew his pretensions in consequence of the obligation which I had thus 
 incurred. 
 
 I received a letter from M . de Rochegune a few days after his departure to 
 his estate, where his marriage was solemnized. 
 
 Rochegune, 20th October, 1836. 
 
 " Emma is my wife : to you, noble and sincere friend, must I render thanks 
 for my good fortune. It is your work ; your prophecies are realized ; 1 new 
 walk, in life, with a footstep free and sure. The horizon grows clear before 
 me ; from day to day, it becomes more pure. Your counsel has bound me at 
 once to existence by sacred ties. To have bonds like these, is to have duties ; 
 and the accomplishment of a duty has always been, to me, a serious pleasure. 
 I write to you, because my marriage ought to be regarded as an event in your 
 life : the farther 1 leave behind me the time wheu you overthrew all my hopes, 
 the more does reason resume its empire over me — the more is my spirit freed 
 from the base contemplations which obscured it — the more do I congratulate 
 myself for having followed your advice. You it was, whom I loved more 
 than all others in the world— you it is, and you it will be, whom I shaQ, 
 henceforth, most religiously esteem. To you, I owe a happiness of which I 
 have never before conceived — the happiness of living in another ; or, rather, 
 of causing another to live, because I live only for her. 
 
 " I feel for Emma a purely disinterested affection : she is so identified, so 
 assimilated with me — I am conscious of exercising so direct — not to say vital 
 — an influence over her, that I am at the same time, happy, proud, and rest- 
 less, in the part I have to perform. Nothing can be more affecting, more 
 charming, than the simple ecstacy with which she sometimes contemplates 
 the life that I have created for her. You were right, Matilda ; her happiness 
 has rendered me happy ; her love has made me almost a lover. Why should 
 I conceal it from you '/ I no longer feel the love which I felt for you ; — it 
 has been destroyed, entirely, at one blow ; — it has expired, without decay, 
 and without agony ; — it has been blasted, in its grandeur and its strength. I 
 have often said to you, that the dead do not awake in their graves ; if, by a 
 miracle, they leave the sepulchre, they are such as they were when they de- 
 scended into its cold gloom. Thus it is with my love for you — should it mi- 
 raculously revive, it will live again only as it was when the arrow pierced its 
 heart. No, no — thanks be to Heaven ! happily for myself, for you, and for 
 Emma, the sentiment with which she animates me is not made of the ruins 
 of yours and mine ; it is a young and virgin sentiment, which she, alone, 
 would have made me experience— for her love does not resemble that of any 
 other woman, and it is only a love like hers that can produce a similar love. 
 I cannot advance a step in the generous path in which you persuaded me to 
 walk, without saying to you, ' Matilda, you were right without recalling 
 those noble, and saint-like words — ' When we were forced to renounce that 
 which constituted our felicity on earth ; what is left to us, but to console 
 Ourselves by rendering others as happy as we, ourselves, desired to be ?' 
 
 " I am sometimes, even as you told me, tempted to believe myself a littl& 
 deity, when I contemplate the delight of those around me. I cannot paint 
 to you the deep joy of the good duchess. She can hardly yet believe in this 
 marriage. She sometimes gazes upon me with eyes suffused with tears, and 
 says — ' Is it indeed, true ? Is it not a dream ? have you transported my child 
 into your paradise V And then, sometimes, in spite of me, she becomes sad ; 
 and exclaims with dread — ' This happiness is too perfect ; — what misfortune 
 threatens us ?' I comfort her as well as I can ; but she is superstitious, as 
 all persons are who hare suffered great sorrows. Had it not been for you, and 
 your admonitions, that won me from the dull apathy in which I was buried, 
 I, myself, should have become a fatalist. 
 
 " We have been considering whether it would be opportune to reveal bo 
 Emma the secret of her birth : I think not — her delicacy and sensibility are 
 such, that I fear lest such a revelation would prove to her a source of con- 
 tinual sorrow, by occasioning a grievous contest, between those principles 
 which would make her accuse her mother, and the tenderness which would 
 suggest a defence. If fate wills that she shall, by-and-bye, learn the secret, 
 it will be a great calamity, I am sure ; but why should we anticipate it ? 
 
 " We shall remain at Rochegune until the month of February or March. 
 Emma desires it. I cannot express to you our regrets, in thinking that we 
 shall not see one another. You know, alas ! by whom the obstacles are 
 made. I console myself by trusting that you are happy. I know you : 
 poverty would be to you an affair of little moment, and you would even be 
 
A MARRIAGE. 
 
 capable of rinding charms in it, if you had not to attribute it to your hus- 
 band's misconduct. 
 
 " Now that I am writing, I ought to tell you, that when I pronounced 
 the word which united me for ever to Emma, I felt a sensation of poignant 
 grief. This marriage was a final step, by which I should be irrevocably se- 
 parated from you. Until then, though I had cherished no hope whatsoever 
 — though you did not belong to yourself, much less to me, I had remained 
 free. This sorrowful emotion was soon effaced ; I became happy in the pre- 
 sent. I do not say that I regret not, that I shall not always regret the past ; 
 but I have most precious hopes for the future. I should be suspicious of 
 my love for Emma, were it more ardent than it now is. Such as it is, it is 
 sufficient for the joy — the delight of that adorable child ; and it must, ne- 
 cessarily, increase always. • 
 
 "That which impresses me most in Emma, is a sense of justice and rec- 
 titude ; a moral elevation, by which I am much reminded of the salient 
 points of your own character. And besides — with a child-like imitation, 
 which has its source in her attachment to you — she has assumed many of 
 your habits, your manner of dressing your hair, and even certain inflections 
 of your voice. 
 
 "Farewell! most tenderly farewell ! It seems to me, now that our po- 
 sitions are equalized, and that the sweet and calm affection which I felt for 
 you of old, has revived again — it is perhaps even calmer than it was, for I 
 used vaguely to apprehend the tumults of an impassioned love for you — 
 now these flickering fires have sunk into cinders, which can never be re- 
 illumined. 
 
 " Farewell ! and thanks once more, Matilda ! had it not been for you, I 
 should not only have caused the death of that dear one whom I now so ten- 
 derly love, but I should have passed a wretched, barren, and "it might have 
 been, degraded existence ; for I never think without a shudder, that there 
 was a time when I regretted not to discover in your detestable cousin her 
 habitual coldness and insolence. Had she appeared to me as I wished — led 
 astray by despair which would have forced me to yield to her fatal fascina- 
 tions, I might, perhaps, have been linked to that lost soul ! I might perhaps 
 have employed for evil purposes the energy and the faculties, which God has 
 endowed me with for nobler ends. 
 
 " You know, that the farther removed we are from danger, the more able 
 are we to contemplate it with coolness, the more easily can we judge of its 
 extent. Well, I confess to you that my danger was imminent, very immi- 
 nent ; and that I was preserved from it only by the absurd preoccupation 
 of that woman, which hindered her from discovering in the impatience with 
 which I listened to her virtuous homilies, my desire to hear her speak ano- 
 ther language. Matilda, there is nothing more to be dreaded, nothing less 
 easily to be subdued, than the deviations of a man from good, when he has 
 a right to disown and despise that which he thinks he has formerly revçx- 
 enced. I recoil from the consideration of what would have been the resiM 
 of the approximation of Ursula's character to mine ; under the circumstances, 
 if I had been ever subjected to the influence of the fiendish genius of that 
 woman, I know not to what lengths we might have proceeded. How far 
 am I from my angel-wife ! Poor darling ! she could never believe that there 
 could be an Ursula ; but when we are resting securely in a safe haven, we 
 love to look back upon the tempests we have braved. I love to call to mind 
 the ominous clouds with which my future might have been darkened, be- 
 cause it now lives before me, like a summer landscape, smiling and at 
 peace : I love to summon before me the fatal lineaments of Ursula, as Ï 
 cradle upon my heart my pure and sinless bride." 
 
 I was at this passage of M. de Rochegune's letter, when I heard a loud 
 noise in the anteroom of my sleeping apartment, and suddenly M. Secherin, 
 pale and agitated, stood before me. 
 
 " In the name of, heaven ! come! come!" he cried, "she is dying! she 
 wishes to see you!" 
 
 "Who? who is dying ?" said I, greatly alarmed, hoping that it could 
 not be Ursula, in spite of the wrongs she had done me. 
 
 " I tell you that Ursula is dying ! dying ; and I am not there ! But come 
 now ; by every minute of delay, I lose a minute of her life." 
 
 "Ursula! Ursula!" I exclaimed, clasping my hands in stupor and 
 affright. 
 
 " Ah 1 you are merciless ! As for me, I come at her entreaty; you must 
 come also — you ! I tell you she is dyin^ ! that her minutes are numbered, 
 
454 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 and I am not there ! " repeated the wretched man, endeavouring to draw 
 
 me along with him. 
 
 I hastily put on my bat and shawl, and followed him mechanically. A 
 hackney-coach was in waiting ; we got in, and it rapidly drove off. 
 
 M. Secherin — pale and wasted, his eyes blood-shot, his features contracted 
 by spasms of anguish and despair — hardly seemed to be conscious of my 
 presence ; he spoke some disconnected words, and thought of nothing ex- 
 cept of urging the coachman to drive faster by all kinds of promises. 
 
 "But when did you learn this fatal news?" said I ; "is her situation, 
 indeed, utterly remediless? Is there no hope ?" 
 
 He stared steadily at me : " Hope ! with the dose of poison she has taken 
 — hope !" cried he, with a burst of convulsive laughter. 
 
 " Has she poisoned herself? Ursula poisoned herself!" 
 
 Without replying, he seized my hand violently, and said in a hollow voice 
 — " And I cannot kill your husband but once '" 
 
 " Think not of vengeance ! think how to save the unfortunate creature — 
 if, haply, there is yet time. And your mother ?" 
 
 " My mother!" cried he, " my mother is here! My God ! we shall not 
 arrive in time — Ursula will be d«ad — you will see that she will be dead !" 
 
 " But how did you learn this fatal news ?" 
 
 " By a letter — only a few lines from her ! If I wished to see her for the 
 last time, she wrote me, I must hasten to Paris. My mother — unrelenting 
 as she always is— oh ! this coachman ! how he creeps along — she will be 
 dead'" 
 
 "Well! your mother," said I, endeavouring to distract his mind from 
 its anguish. 
 
 " Oh ! my mother," he replied in a quick, husky voice, in a kind of fear- 
 ful half-delirium — " my mother said directly, ' It is a farce she is playing to 
 obtain her pardon — a farce !' The letter smelt of death ! I was not de- 
 ceived. I hurried from Rouvrai — mother has followed me — A farce ! you 
 will see — you will see — if you can recognize her dying face. And then, the 
 last wishes of the dying — they are sacred — sacred. Ah ! we draw near. If 
 she is only a'ive now—to pardon my severity — no, not my severity, my 
 weakness — for it was weakness that made me yield to my mother's hatred of 
 her. And see what has happened — see what has happened ! The poor 
 creature was guilty of a single fault: instead of being indulgent — instead of 
 being kind — instead of bringing her back to goodness, by generosity — she 
 was driven away, with infamy ! she was cursed ! Then, how could it be 
 otherwise ? She was confirmed in evil— she was lost altogether. And then 
 at last — for she always had a good heart — at last, remorse overtakes her — 
 she attemps her own life — she poisons herself— and then it is said — 'Bah! 
 farce ! farce !' See what my mother's hatred has done i See what I have 
 done by my weakness !" 
 
 ^'But the physicians— what do they think?" 
 
 The physicians !" added he, with that convulsive smile, and that ago- 
 nized expression which frightened me — " the physicians do not say as my mo- 
 ther did — It is a farce ! They have said she is a dead woman 1 And then 
 I cried out to my mother — ' Well ! you are contented now J Do you hear? 
 — She is a dead woman !' Ah ! we have arrived at last — here is the place ?" 
 
 The carriage stopped. M. Secherin rapidly descended ; I followed him ia 
 haste. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Afteh traversing a little uncultivated garden, full of weeds, brambles and 
 stones, we came first to a sort of antechamber, and then to a large room — 
 dark, damp, solemn, and furnished with a parsimony which betokened 
 distress. 
 There lay Ursula— dying ! 
 
 An old woman, of a repulsive aspect, and clothed in tatters, acted as sick- 
 nurse. My cousin, as soon as she saw me, made a sign to her to leave the 
 room. 
 
 How mournful a spectacle ! 
 
 Theri lai- Ursula, in a robe of black, extended upon a sofa ; a large shawl 
 
DEATH. 
 
 5£| 
 
 eofefed her feet and knees. She seemed to shiver with cold. Will* one 
 hand she convulsively clutched the cushion, which supported her heavy 
 head ; with her other hand, she pushed away from her |>a.le and icy brow, 
 the scattered tresses of her beautiful brown hair. Her face, fi îg ht fully thin, 
 was livid; her great blue eyes were nearly rayless. 
 
 When she saw me, her looks brightened a little, a mournful smile flick- 
 ered over her discoloured lips; she clasped her hands with an expression of 
 deep gratitude, 
 
 " Matilda !" she said, in a feeble voice. " You are most generous ; I ex- 
 pected this. I would be alone with you, for a few moments." 
 
 " Again I again !" cried her husband, who had flung himself on his knees 
 beside her, and was sobbing violently — " I will never leave you again, now !" 
 
 Ursula turned upon him a beseeching glance. 
 
 "Ah! her smile! her sweet and beautiful smile !" cried M. Scchcrin, 
 looking upon his wife, with heart-breaking sorrow — "look, though she is 
 dying, yet I know that smile ; it is the same with which she used to greet 
 me, in the old, blessed days — I have found her again — and she is dying — 
 dying !" 
 
 " I pray you, my love, leave me for a few minutes, alone with Matilda — 
 my last moments shall be yours, that I may ask pardon of you, as I do of 
 her, for the evil I have done you — as him " 
 
 " My cousin, I implore you," said I. | 
 
 " I have not time to ask many more favours of you," said Ursma, trying 
 to smile upon her husband ; " I pray you, do not refuse me this." 
 
 He rose quickly and went out, hiding his face in his hands. 
 
 " Matilda," said Ursula, as, with a painful effort, she handed me a key, 
 " in the secretary, in my chamber, you will find a package of papers, of 
 letters— I desire them all to be burned. Their discovery would render still 
 more wretched the excellent man whom I have so unworthily afflicted. The 
 effect of the poison was too rapid ; I could not accomplish this task myself, 
 before the arrival of my husband." 
 
 " Your wishes shall be executed," said I, turning away my head, so that 
 she might not see my tears. 
 
 " Matilda," said she, after a moment's silence, " I die for M, de Roche- 
 gune — I can tell you that without wounding your feelings, since you do not 
 love him." 
 
 " Great God ! in this terrible moment, have other thoughts," cried I : 
 " do you not know that he is married ?" 
 
 " It was for that reason that I no longer wished to live. Although he had 
 always despised me, although he had refused to see me again after the two 
 last interviews which I had with him — still a vague hope sustained me. 
 Fool that I was ! But, when I learned that he was married to an angel 
 whom he loved, I was convinced of what I ought to have known sooner — 
 that, for me, there_was nothing left but to die ?" 
 
 "Ah ! Ursula! you have done a wrong, both to yourself and others." 
 
 "Yes ! but then, I suffered so much! Oh! if you only knew, when he 
 came to the two meetings I had appointed, to speak about yourself — with 
 what disdain, with what aversion, he, at first, overwhelmed me ! To elevate 
 myself a little in his eyes, by disclosing the influence which he already exer- 
 cised over my heart, all the high thoughts that I owed to him — I wanted to 
 prove to him that, thanks to him, I had become worthy of comprehending 
 all pure and virtuous sentiments. Wo to me ! wo to me ! language failed 
 me — it was impossible for me to express the new and noble ideas which had 
 sprung to life in my soul. In my distress — in my terror — in my wildness— I, 
 who was always so bold — I hesitated, I stammered; a word, a look from 
 him, approving of the change that was manifest in me, would have encou- 
 raged me : he would have read, in my heart, that he occupied it wholly — 
 that he had transformed it. But he froze me with his cold and ironical air 
 — I could only utter some broken syllables ; yet I never had been more sin- 
 cere — never had I been inspired with such lofty instincts. Alas! I was un- 
 worthy to speak in so noble a language ! Oh ! Matilda, if grief be an expi- 
 ation, you will pardon me ; for I suffered much on that day." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I believe you, unhappy woman ! you must have suffered 
 much." 
 
 "But that is not all — you do not know what renders my death most 
 terrible." 
 
 "Good Heaven! speak, speak!" 
 
 "Yes, you, at least, should know that— and you will pity me. When I 
 
456 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 had taken the poison— wh,en all was over — when I had to do nothing mora 
 than die — God, in his dreadful vengeance, suddenly revealed to me the on\j 
 means by which I could have expiated my faults, and merited the sympathy 
 of him for whom I die, and the esteem of all." 
 
 "•How is that 9 but, even now — is there not time ?" 
 
 " No ! no ! there is not time ! I feel that my end approaches : and it is 
 that — oh ! it is that which makes my death so frightful!" cried the wretched 
 creature, with a burst of tears. 
 
 " Ursula ! Ursula ! be calm — you are so young ! all hope is not lost, per- 
 haps. God will have mercy, for your good resolutions !" 
 
 "Oh, life! life now — that life which I have so wickedly sacrificed 1 my 
 God ! it is not for myself that I implore it of Thee !" cried she, clasping her 
 hands ; " it is for that good man whom I have so cruelly wronged — and I 
 vow to Thee, oh, my God ! that, by my devotion, my submission, I will make 
 him forget the sorrows I have caused him !" 
 Ursula ! what say you? this remorse — " 
 
 " Do you not understand me ? Instead of ending my days by a useless 
 crime, I should have become repentant — should have cast myself at my 
 husband's feet — at the feet of his mother ; neither could have remained in- 
 sensible to a true repentance. I should have passed the rest of my days in 
 making them happy — and I could have done so— I could, I am sure of it : 
 and, some #ay, after a very long time, when I should have proved that I had 
 become faithful and good, I might, perhaps, have dared to say to him, whose 
 influence had rendered me so — ' I was an unworthy and miserable being ; 
 I loved you — you never knew it — but that unknown love gave me virtues 
 which I had not before. There is in you something so great, that to love 
 you, even in secret, is to wish to become worthy of you. Since thoughts of 
 you came to purify my heart, all around me love me and bless me.' But, 
 wo to me ! it is too late !" she cried, " you see it is too late !" 
 
 "Ah, this is horrible!" I exclaimed: "indeed, indeed this reinstatement 
 would have been beautiful and grand " 
 
 "Oh! would it not! would it not! How grand and beautiful it would 
 have been!" replied Ursula, with fervour. "You know me, Matilda — you 
 know my strength of will, my energy. That strength of will, that energy I 
 would have applied to good : I would have been capable of ail acts of devo- 
 tion, of heroism. To restore to my husband a quiet and happy life ; to merit 
 the austere esteem of M. de Rochegune ; and he would have accorded it to 
 me — to me who, thanks to him, would have ascended from something so low 
 to something so high." 
 
 " Poor, poor Ursula!" said I, with deploring sympathy. 
 
 " Oh, how generous you are to pity me, Matilda ! Is it not horrible to 
 die — so young, with such a future before my eyes — to die abandoned, de- 
 spised — detested by all — when I might have lived so loved and respected ! 
 Is it not horrible! and a dreadful retribution from Heaven !" 
 
 The unhappy creature, exhausted by her emotions, could not go on — her 
 voice changed — she sunk through weakness. From the commencement of 
 this interview, my aversion to Ursula nearly vanished, through the pity with 
 which she had inspired me. The love which she felt for M. de Rochegune 
 had something in it so touching, so ennobling; it manifested itself by so 
 elevated a trust in her own regeneration, that I could not but lament with 
 her, the fatality which debarred her from expiating her sins. 
 
 Frightened, at seeing her in my arms almost without sensation, I called to 
 ner hushand, who came in, almost beside himself with grief. Ursula breathed 
 with difficulty. Her face was contracted with an expression of desperate 
 pain. The crisis passed off a little, but already was her countenance dis- 
 torted by the approach of death. She feebly moved her hands before her, as 
 if she would drive away some horrid apparition. At length she opened her 
 eyes, and said, in a failing voice — 
 
 " Matilda, you pardon me the evil I have done you ?" ; 
 
 " Yes, yes ! I pardon you 1 And God will pardon you, also, on account 
 of your last thoughts." 
 
 "My husband, where are you? I know not, but it seems to me that 
 my sight grows dim;" said she, seeking for her husband wiih a wandering 
 look. 
 
 " Ursula ! Ursula ! I do not want yon to die ! It was not I who drove 
 you away without pity. Oh ! do not accuse me ! — do not accuse me ! It 
 was my mother who was so unmerciful! — it was my mother I " cried he itt 
 anguish—" it was my mother ! Wo to me ! Wo to her !" 
 
DEATH. 
 
 •57 
 
 Hardly were these fatal words uttered, when Madame Secherin appeared 
 at the door, which her son had left open. The appearance of this austere, 
 woman was, as it always was, pale, immoveable, threatening. She quietly 
 drew nigh, with a sort of formidable majesty. 
 
 " An impious son has dared to curse his mother ;" said she, in a loud and 
 angry tone. 
 
 "Madam, have pity on her," cried I : " Ursula is dying." 
 
 " Her death is worthy of her life— she dies by her own criminal act." 
 
 ** Mercy ! madam, mercy !" said Ursula, clasping her hands, and half- 
 rising in her couch, notwithstanding her weakness. 
 
 ** There is no mercy for you," replied Madame Secherin. 
 
 Drawing herself up to her full height, she accompanied these words with a 
 gesture — a tone — a look so terrible, that her son was struck dumb with stupor 
 and fear, as if divine vengeance had come visibly before him in the person of 
 his mother." 
 
 "Mercy!'' said Ursula again, " mercy 1" 
 
 " Had you any mercy upon me, when I entreated you to take pity on 
 my son?" 
 " Oh, I repent, I repent !" 
 " It is too late !" 
 
 "Oh, pardon me! your son has pardoned me! Matilda has pardoned 
 mel" 
 
 " There is no pardon for the adultress !" 
 " Oh, my God !" 
 
 " There is no pardon for the reprobate !" 
 " JVIercy !" 
 
 " There is no pardon for the suicide !" 
 
 "Ah ! I am accursed," said Ursula, falling nearly lifelessly upon the sofa. 
 M. Secherin who had recovered from his first stupour, cried in a voice full 
 of indignation : 
 
 " Mother, mother, you are torturing her to death ! God will have pity 
 on her !" 
 
 " Torturé ! think of your torture, and mine j how long have they en- 
 dured ?" 
 
 " But she repents, mother, she repents !" 
 
 " She dreads the punishment of her sins ; that is her repentance." 
 "Yes ! it is a farce — a farce. Is it not, mother?" 
 
 "Yes! a farce— yes — thi3 vain remorse is a sacrilegious farce — a farce 
 played on the very brink of the tomb which yawns for her." Then ad- 
 dressing her, she said, with increasing indignation — " Through your horrors 
 of eternal punishment, for the last few houTs you are repentant — you ! 
 During these long years, this wretched man, shut up in the dismal solitude 
 to which you consigned him, has not passed a day — an hour — without shed- 
 ding tears of blood. You repent for a single day — and. for three long years, 
 I, who had none but him — I, who lived but for him — I have seen, I have 
 partaken of his torture ; for a mother suffers all the pangs for which she 
 cannot console her child ! And, because you now cry mercy — shall all these 
 torments be forgotten ? How, some have lived in worldly joys, and adul- 
 terous pleasures, while others have lived in tears and solitary despair. 
 And, because the unworthy cause of all this misery curses the past which 
 appals her — shall the executioner and the victim become equal before the 
 Lord ? No, no ! there is no mercy for you on earth — no mercy for you in 
 Heaven !" 
 
 M. Secherin was about to reply. Ursula took his hand, and with difficulty 
 turning her head towards her rnother-in-law, exclaimed : "Alas! madam, 
 what can I do more than repent? Can I subdue my terrors? Have I done 
 wrong — oh I my God ! in wishing to ask pardon of those I have wronged be- 
 fore I die ? What can a miserable creature do, whom all have forsaken on 
 earth, if in eternity she may not offer the sacrifice of repentance — all that 
 she has to offer — the deep sincerity of remorse ? I have done much wrong, 
 madam, to you and to your son, who is the best of men — and to Matiida, 
 who was a sister to me. My life has been very guilty — my death is criminal 
 — I am cursed by you — my father will hear of my death without regret— the 
 world will say that I am justly punished !" 
 
 "Yes, justly punished!" repeated Madame Secherin in a deep voice, 
 somewhat changed. 
 
 " I do not say this to complain — only madam, you who are so severe, yet 
 vùthal so just — think, when I was yet a very little child, I was confided to 
 2 R 
 
458 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 the most wicked of women. Oh ! for j ity's sake ! reflect, that during ray 
 childhood and youth, this woman i..jrtured the worst passions of my nature 
 — hatred, jealousy, and hypocrisy." 
 
 " Your cousin was also brought up by that abominable woman ; — compare 
 her life with yours !" 
 
 Ursula did not give me time to reply, but answered sweetly, while her hus- 
 band listened to her with a sort of heart-broken adoration. 
 
 "My nature was as bad as Matilda's was good; for that reason I should 
 have had noble examples — severe instruction. Perhaps my faults sprung 
 from my fatal education — for I think that I could have been better than I 
 have been," said she, giving me a sad look of intelligence. She then conti- 
 nued. " Ah 1 if I could only have lived, not by a vain repentance, would I 
 have repaired the evil I have done — but it is too late — too late ! It is true, 
 madam — it is the will of Heaven, that I should end a guilty life by a guilty 
 death. No one will pray for me, except the two beings whom I have most 
 injured in all the world." 
 
 The features of Madame Secherin appeared to lose something of their 
 rigid expression. Instead of looking at Ursula so angrily, she contem- 
 plated her for a few moments with a solemn attention — perhaps moved, in^ 
 spite of herself, by the aspect of the wretched woman, whom she had last* 
 seen in the flower of youth and beauty, in the flush of pride and audacity, 
 and whom she now found struggling with so terrible an agony. 
 
 Ursula could not endure the fixed and penetrating looks of her mother, 
 who stood erect and silent above her. She took the hand of her husband, 
 who could hardly stifle his sobs, and said in a voice that grew more and more 
 feeble. 
 
 " My presence and my sins have sometimes created a temporary coldness 
 between your mother and yourself — my husband. This is my most sorrowful 
 regret — I implore you to deliver me at least from that. I shall die less un- 
 happy, if I can be sure that you will yield her that consolation, which yon 
 have of late neglected. And then, when she sees you once more the good 
 and tender son which you were of yore — as you would always have been 
 without me ; perhaps your mother will feel some compassion, when she 
 thinks of one, whom she believed she never could pardon ; — of one who 
 would have looked upon her last hour with less dread, could her venerable 
 hands have blessed me. My husband, in this awful moment — give me this 
 sacred promise — I entreat you." 
 
 " Oh, I swear it ! I swear it !" said M. Secherin, wild with grief. 
 
 "But this unhappy creature must not die in this way," suddenly ex- 
 claimed Madame Secherin, whose features, at length, expressed a pity which 
 had been long suppressed. " She must not die without prayer, and without 
 a priest." 
 
 " The church casts out suicides from her bosom — I have not dared to de- 
 mand a priest," said Ursula, in a low and trembling voice. 
 
 Madame Secherin kneeled down softly by the side of her daughter-in- 
 law ; — the tears trickled down her wrinkled cheeks ; — she clasped her hands, 
 and cried — " Lord ! Lord ! her repentance is as great as her sin. 1 can no 
 longer hate her. Do, thou, pardon her, Lord, as I db !" 
 
 " Mother 1 mother! for my life — all my life — I swear it," said her son; 
 and unable to speak farther, he covered with tears and kisses the hands of 
 his mother. 
 
 The face of Ursula grew bright, for an instant, with surprise and joy. 
 She exclaimed : " Oh, my God ! thou will take pity on me, for she has 
 pardoned me." 
 
 " And I will bless you, poor unhappy woman, and I will pray for you ; for 
 they have destroyed — yes, I wish to believe, I do believe, that your heart 
 would have been good, had it not been perverted so early." And Madame 
 Secherin took the head of Ursula between her trembling hands, and kissed 
 her forehead. 
 
 " Oh ! suffer me, once, for the first and last time, to call you mother ! — 
 at this hour, that word is precious to my lips. I think that it will sweeten 
 the bitterness of death." 
 
 " Yes — I am your mother — my heart, at last bleeds for you !" cried Ma- 
 dame Secherin, with deep emotion : " I, too, have my regrets — and there is 
 no more time. Perhaps, I should have shown myself less inflexible. I 
 should have treated you like a daughter, and not have closed to you for 
 ever the way of safety, by too great severity." 
 
 " Oh ! my mother ! you have saved my soul from despair 1 In my last 
 
DEATH. 
 
 459 
 
 hour— oh ! mother ! I leave you your son— most worthy of your tenderness," 
 ■aid Ursula. 
 
 " Oh, yes — yes — here I swear— my life, my whole life shall be divided 
 between your dear memory, and my veneration for ray mother !" cried M. 
 Secherin, — " but God will not suffer you to die ; he will grant you time to 
 atone for your faults— to make me happy ; he will have pity on me, who have 
 suffered so much, and my poor mother who has also suffered so much. Now, 
 that you are her daughter— that she has pardoned you — now that we can all 
 be happy together — God no longer wills you to die. Is it not so, mother ?" 
 
 Ursula's strength was exhausted. The last shock was too great. " Mo- 
 ther !" exclaimed she, in a dying voice, " I pray you, support my head— 
 upon your bosom." 
 
 Madame Secherin leaned over the couch — slightly raised Ursula's should- 
 ers, and held her in her arms. 
 
 " My husband— your hand. Matilda — yours." Alàs ! her poor emaciated 
 hand, was icy cold ; it had not the strength to clasp mine. Ursula conti- 
 nued, growing more and more feeble : " Now, farewell ! for ever farewell I 
 Pardon me my offences ! Mother — Husband — Matilda — pray for me !" 
 
 " My daughter ! — my daughter ! — I bless you !" said Madame Secherin, 
 in a solemn voice, placing her hands upon the brow of Ursula. 
 
 Ursula was dead. 
 
 M. Secherin, after transports of furious despair, fell into a state of per- 
 fect insensibility. He appeared to see nothing — to hear nothing ; he went 
 about mechanically without uttering a word. I assisted Madame Secherin 
 in rendering the last duties to the dead. We passed the night in prayer 
 beside her coffin. 
 
 The father of Ursula never desired to see her again, after she had left her 
 husband ; he had, for a long time, been sojourning in Germany. Wishing, 
 through fear of scandal, to keep this hapless event a secret, and not knowing 
 to whom to apply respecting the sad formalities, I prayed Doctor Gerard, 
 whose discretion I had already tried, to discharge this painful duty. As Ur- 
 sula had entreated, I burned all the papers which I found in her secretary. 
 By the size of the package, I thought that it must contain the leaves of the 
 album in which my cousin had written some details of her life, and of which 
 M. Lugarto had sent me a copy, obtained, doubtless, through the treachery 
 of Ursula's maid-servant. That woman, the creature of M. Lugarto, had 
 abandoned Ursula, before or since she poisoned herself, 1 know not which. 
 
 Happily for M. Secherin, he remained in a state of utter forgetfulness — 
 an absolute stranger to all that was passing around him. His mother led 
 him to his wife's chamber : he sat down upon the bed, his arms folded, his 
 eyes fixed, and thus he remained for a long time, silent and motionless. 
 
 Many times during the night, while his mother and I were at prayer, he 
 came and kneeled down beside us ; but he seemed to imitate us mechani- 
 cally, and not to understand what we were doing ; his looks were always 
 down-cast, and he went back to his chamber without speaking a word. 
 Toward morning, overcome by fatigue and watching, he slumbered in an 
 arm-chair. The church, perhaps with an extreme rigor, refused to receive 
 Ursula's body, and it was carried directly to the sepulchre. I did not leave 
 the sad abode until all had been accomplished. 
 
 In all my life — oh ! not in all my life shall I forget the heart-rending pic- 
 ture. It was in the middle of autumn. The morning was damp and shrouded 
 in mist. For the last time, Madame Secherin and I went to pray beside 
 the little coffin, exposed in a kind of ante-chamber, on the ground-floor, 
 gloomy and decayed, which opened on the small uncultivated garden. There 
 was no priest, nor chapel, nor holy-water ; nothing veiled the horrid naked- 
 ness of death. All around was deep silence, broken only by the sighs of the 
 wind as it whistled through the trees, whose yellow leaves, tossed down by 
 sudden gusts, fell almost at our feet. Alas, in spite of the mournful solem- 
 nity of this scene, I could not help reflecting, that the last time I had seen 
 Ursula before this, was at a fête, where I beheld her glittering in youth and 
 beauty, dazzling with her wit, grace and accomplishments — environed by 
 flattery. 
 
 Blondeau, whom I had sent to watch, came and informed us that the fu- 
 neral vehicle had arrived. I could not restrain my sobs — I piously kissed 
 the coffin, and, with Madame Secherin and Blondeau, went into the inner 
 apartment. We heard a confused noise of footsteps — some harsh voices — 
 which were in a moment hushed— then a hasty, measured tread, and, after- 
 ward, the rumbling sound of a carriage which roilect slowly away. 
 
ifiO 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Ï wished to cast a last farewell look upon the remains of poor Ursula. I 
 raised the corner of a window-curtain — I saw the hearse going forth alone- 
 all alone— no soul accompanied it. It disappeared— and that was all. There 
 was one horrible moment. The dull sound of the funeral vehicle seemed to 
 echo in the very recesses of M. Secherin's heart. He awoke from his apathy 
 —looked wildly about him— and then, recalling the fearful truth, fell into the 
 arms of his mother, with a piercing cry. 
 
 No priest breathed a prayer over the open grave which awaited this unfor- 
 tunate creature, and which soon closed over her for ever. 
 
 Unhappy Ursula ! unhappy victim of the devilish malice of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran — who had perverted and ruined a noble and strong nature, so as to 
 make sure of a fitting instrument of her hatred toward me. Poor Ursula ! 
 yes, notwithstanding all her errors, she was possessed of some generous in- 
 stincts : a soul capable of feeling so lofty an affection could never have been 
 hopelessly corrupt. Oh, yes ! it was a dreadful misfortune for her to conceive 
 a thought of regeneration, when it was too late to accomplish it. Yes, Ur- 
 sula would have walked, with her habitual perseverance and firmness, in that 
 honourable and elevated path ; she would have applied to good ends, all the 
 charm of her fascination, all the energy of her character. The unhappy wo- 
 man truly said — " It is, indeed, a manifestation of the divine will and ven- 
 geance, when such a future shines brilliantly before our eyes, as the grave 
 waits to ingulf us forever !" 
 
 That day, before returning to my house, I entered the church of St. Thomas 
 Aquinas; I went to the sacristy; I there happily found a priest; I prayed 
 him to say a mass for the repose of the soul of Ursula, and I assisted in the 
 holy office. 
 
 Alas, as I went out of the church, my eyes were again filled with tears at 
 the sight of the font, where Ursula and myself, while we were children, took 
 the holy water. In that church, she had taken her first communion with me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 M. Sechfrin returned to Rouvrai with his mother. Both of them came to 
 see me ere they went ; my cousin, still plunged as deep as ever in the gloom 
 of absolute despair, spoke little ; but as she bade me adieu, he said in a low 
 voice, and with an air of fierce uneasiness — 
 
 " Now ! now ! — if no one kills your hushand, before my mother dies ! Ah ! 
 it is long — long to wait for vengeance !" 
 
 He gave me no time to answer him, but went directly and gave his arm to 
 Madame Secherin. All ins hate now was concentrated on my husband — how 
 should it have been otherwise ? Ursula had rejoined him at Paris — in the eyes 
 of the world, as well as in those of M. Secherin, M. de Lancry was the author 
 of my cousin's ruin. 
 
 I have forgotten to say, that my husband was absent on a journey of some 
 days duration ; he did not return until the second day after the death of Ur- 
 sula. I had no idea how his views would stand with regard to myself, when 
 he should hear of this horrible event. 
 
 1 could form no plan — henceforth, for ever, I was in his power. My volun- 
 tary return to him had riveted my chains for ever ; yet his last hopes, de- 
 stroyed by the suicide of Ursula — what interest could he have in keeping me 
 with him longer? 
 
 I reckoned, however, on one last means which I believed infallible, for the 
 recovery of my freedom, 
 
 Two days after that awful catastrophe. M. de Lancry entered my room one 
 morning. 
 
 " Well," he said, " you must be delighted— you are revenged !" 
 " How so, monsieur ?" 
 
 " Your deadliest enemy— Ursula— is she not dead ? That must have been 
 a glorious day for you " 
 
 " I closed her eyes piously, monsieur. Her repentance made me forget all 
 my " 
 
 " Oh ! surely !" — he interrupted me, with a bitter smile — "surely! this 
 pardoning of injuries is very edifying ; and your cousin had given you »© 
 much cause as to render it magnanimous likewise." 
 
BEGRET8. 
 
 I was astonished, even terrified, to hear my husband speak thus of a woman 
 for whom he had sacrificed everything. His features, far from the expression 
 of despair, revealed — shall I dare to say it— a sort of gloom : but my astonish- 
 ment was not yet at its height. Truly, the human heart is a terrible abyss. 
 After having walked to and fro in silence for some moments, he began again, 
 with savage irony at first, increasing gradually into savage exultation : 
 
 " Dead ! — dead at twenty-five ! — dead in the very zenith of her vouth and 
 beauty ! — I, too, am well avenged !" 
 
 " Good God!" I exclaimed in disgust: " this is too horrible I she injured 
 no one but me — and I — I wept over her " 
 
 " You wept over her, did you? That does great honour to your generous 
 sensibility, madam ; and proves, moreover, that the grief you affected at my 
 infidelity was all exaggerated I" 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur " 
 
 "But I — I who know what that accursed woman made me suffer — I who 
 do not profess your generosity — I say— Ursula is dead— so much the better ! 
 I am set free from an evil genius. She will belong no more to me — nor to 
 any other. I shall have no more to endure the atrocious agonies of that 
 jealousy, which I dared not express — so strangely did that woman over- 
 awe me — so much did I stand in awe of her cruel sarcasms I I shall no lon- 
 ger be tormented by that one fixed, burning agonizing thought — 'where is 
 she? what is she doing V I shall no longer writhe in those fits of frenzied 
 despair, in which, since my entire ruin, I have said to myself, she is now 
 laughing at me, with some rich and happy rival— at" this very hour, in the 
 lap of luxury and bliss, she is perhaps mocking the idiot, who for her reduced 
 himself to want. Ursula is dead ! I am, then, liberated from an entangle- 
 ment, eternal, odious, and implacable, as though I had defied my destiny to 
 frame it. Yes! for I loved that woman, as I loved gambling — ay ! gambling ! 
 To me she was an exhaustless source of emotions — pleasurably and unnatu- 
 rally poignant. Fear, rage, hope, hatred, pride, and ecstacies of pride after 
 those days of expectations ; — and hope fifty times rendered hopeless ! It 
 was like play, I tell you — as men stake large sums on a single card, so I 
 staked heaps of gold on a single smile! and, as in play, never did the rare 
 joy of winning half compensate the agony, the madness of loving! Ursula 
 is dead ! and 1 am free at last. At last, in my own eyes, a fool no longer. I 
 may one day regret not the loss of her fascinating qualities — but that she 
 ever fascinated me at all. Ursula is dead — dead ! For years — for years I 
 have not felt such an expansion of my soul! There is an end, then, of that 
 mysterious, that inexplicable power, which bowed me, broke me, crushed me 
 — made me, at will, a slave, a dastard, and an idiot ! Ursula is dead! I am 
 free— free ! I shall be never more the senseless and obedient slave of that 
 iron will, against which I — firm as I am, and resolute — had neither energy 
 nor power to struggle. I shall despise myself no more for the weakness I 
 abhorred, yet could not cast aside. Ursula is dead ! It is extinguished, then 
 for evermore extinguished ; that pitiless glance which enchained me, leaving 
 me but the power to execute, in slavish degradation, her most immoderate 
 commands. She is dead ! I shall hear no more her proud and scornful tones 
 — for the accursed creature was but the incarnation of all railleries and in- 
 sults! When, by her insults, she had lashed every wound of my self love 
 and pride, till it was quivering and bleeding — when, alone even, I was writh- 
 ing under the awful anguish of that moral shock ; methought I could still 
 hear her insolent mocking, her imprecations from afar. She is dead ! — at 
 last ! — dead ! Blessed be God ! who sends her down to hell — for she forces 
 us to believe in God, by making us believe in the devil!" 
 
 I had not, literally, strength to say a single word, for my terror had in- 
 creased in proportion to the bursts of savage and ferocious joy which swayed 
 M. de Lancry. 
 
 "^Such then was the end of his fatal passion ! — such the regrets which this 
 •»-»r-eched woman was destined to leave after her ! For some time longer, M. 
 de Lancry strode to and fro in violent agitation ! then stopping suddenly be- 
 fore me — " And who was the rich, happy man — or the happy, rich man, with 
 whom she was living, when death found her ?" 
 " She died, monsieur, poor and deserted." 
 
 " It is because she chose then to be poor. For money was not scarce with 
 me when she left me. Why since our separation has she sent letters to me, 
 making appointments which she has never kept?" said my husband, speak- 
 ing to himself ; then, turning to me with a disdainful smile, he added : 
 
 " Doubtless you mean to play the generous enemy, in order to keep up to 
 
 2 b 3 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 the life your part of the superior woman ! — the sublime woman 1 Well 1 to 
 render your generosity yet more meritorious, I am willing to tell you, that 
 Ursula hated you so deadly that it was at her instigation I ordered you to 
 return to me." 
 
 " The motive then which imposed this obligation on you, monsieur, ex- 
 isting now to longer, you will now doubtless suffer me to live alone. Odious 
 as she was to you, you had then still a reason for keeping me with you, while 
 now " 
 
 " Now I have another reason for keeping you," he replied abruptly, with 
 a spiteful smile. 
 
 I imagined I understood what he intended to arrive at. He had several 
 times spoken to me of my diamonds ; entirely resolved to give up a part of 
 them to him, if he would give me my liberty, with sufficient guaranties— 
 that it is to say, with a legal separation ; I thought it prudent, notwith- 
 standing, rather to let him come to the demand on his own side, than to 
 make an offer on mine. 
 
 " I do not understand you, monsieur," said I—" on what account you can 
 desire to retain me any longer. Just now, when you were enumerating 
 your causes of anger against Ursula, you forgot to mention that your un- 
 happy love for her had rendered you most barbarous to me. I do not re- 
 proach you, monsieur ; I prefer this indifference, which gives me cause to 
 hope that you will make no serious opposition to a separation." 
 
 V You deceive yourself, madam ; I refuse to set you free, precisely on ac- 
 count of my indifference to you. Ay 1 of my indifference — to use no 
 stronger term !" 
 
 " Hatred, you would doubtless say, monsieur." 
 
 " Well ! madam, if you like it 1 Yes ! hatred ! — at the point to which we 
 have come, it is just as well that you should know all. Yes, madam, I do 
 hate you, now — does that surprise you ? Well, listen. You shall now learn 
 what I am, what you are ; then you will make me no more absurd requests 
 — you will nourish no more chimerical ideas. Let us come to facts. You 
 brought me a noble fortune — you were an angel in sweetness, resignation, 
 virtue— I married you— without any love for you. It is the point now to 
 speak frankly." 
 
 " It is a long time, monsieur, that you have ceased to dissemble — but to 
 what tends all this ?" 
 
 " You shall know," he said, interrupting me ; "1 married you, as I say, 
 without loving you — you were a rich heiress — I played my part of making 
 myself such a paragon, as men always make themselves in such cases» 
 You believe me, because you chose to believe me. Our honey-moon over — 
 it lasted as long as it could last. Love passed thus ; I retained for you a 
 sort of mild compassion. You were good, submissive, resigned ; you were 
 always crying about nothing ; that was not very gay— but it was moving — 
 and touched me sometimes so sincerely, that, during the persecutions of 
 Lugarto, I risked everything to deliver you from that faithless friend. At a 
 later period, during your constant jealousy of Ursula — the interesting state 
 in which you were at that time, your tears, your deep sorrow, your love, 
 till as strong as ever— all these conspired to move me. You have yourself 
 ecu, that I had some returns to good and kindly feelings — even some 
 virtuous resolutions. But then ,you were still rich— but then you were al- 
 wavs bumble, always tender and loving." 
 
 " It is yourself, monsieur, who did everything to annihilate, both those 
 riches, and that love !" 
 
 " And in consequence you arc now neither rich nor loving. That is pre- 
 cisely the point at which I desire to arrive. The times, then, are changed — 
 of your fortune there remains not a vestige. Whether that is your fault or 
 mine, matters nothing — there stands the fact — you are ruined ! This is not 
 all : you are not only ruined, but you do not love me, and do love another — 
 not only you do love another, but you detest me ; and you have hounded V 
 together ali the prudes of your acquaintance against me! Now, frankly, 
 what are you to me now ? — a woman, poor, hostile, of a reputation at least 
 doubtful. Your beauty remains to you, it is true — but I would not do you 
 the wrong of affixing a price to that. Now, madam, on the terms between 
 us, 1 ask you what you can reasonably look for from me — if, as must be the 
 case, you make your considerations with reference to the qualities of people ?" 
 
 " You are perfectly logical and clear. I will conclude, if you please, the 
 exposition of your situation with regard to me. If I were only poor, but 
 submissive, and devoted to your slightest wish, you would perhaps do me 
 
SECRETS. 
 
 463 
 
 the favour of being perfectly indifferent to me. But since chance has taaght 
 me your utter baseness, since I have earned the right of openly despising 
 you, hate has replaced indifference." 
 
 " You make deductions, and reason admirably well, madam ; I could not 
 have said it better myself. Yes ! although ruined, you would have won from 
 me, perhaps interest — probably compassion — certainly indifference. But to 
 do so, you must have remained ever loving and resigned." 
 
 " You are generous, monsieur." 
 
 " No, madam ! but I am very original. I never was in love with you — be 
 it so — but I liked to feel myself adored by you. Platonic, or not platonic, 
 your affair with Rochegune, and above all, your choice of that man, whom I 
 detest, gave a violent wound to my self-pride. That wound has rankled to 
 such a degree as co cause my violent hatred. You will tell me that Roche- 
 gune has outrageously deceived you. His marriage proves it, if you did 
 not ; but this does not avenge me, and there remains a terrible account to 
 be reckoned with you, madam." 
 
 " I am obliged to you for this confidence, monsieur ; it is as mucn as to 
 tell me, that there is no treatment for which I may not look at your hands." 
 
 " Nearly so, madam." 
 
 "Then, monsieur, the most delicate questions may be asked plainly. Ac- 
 cording to your rights, you sold all the furniture of the little dwelling I oc- 
 cupied at Madame de Richeville's —my plate and pictures. This money you 
 have squandered, I presume, for since I have been here, I have lived on 
 some small savings I still had, which are now all gone. Will you inform 
 me what are your plans for our future support, monsieur ?" 
 
 " No, madam?" 
 
 " You, however, still persist in keeping me with you?'' 
 ** Still, madam." 
 
 " Notwithstanding the death of Ursula ?" 
 ''Notwithstanding the death of Ursula." 
 "And what, monsieur, will be the means of my subsistence?" 
 " I will provide means." 
 
 " You will provide means ! How so, monsieur?" 
 " Does that concern you, madam ?" 
 
 " It concerns me much, monsieur ! There are certain resources which I 
 will never share with you — those of infamy " 
 
 " Madam 1 — but I will contain myself— to talk to me thus, at this mo- 
 ment, you must be mad " 
 
 " I am not mad, monsieur, x am now obliged to say to you nearly what 
 I said on our first interview, at my house." 
 
 " If it has been said before — to what end, madam ?" 
 
 " I wish to try, at least, monsieur, to deliver myself from the horrible 
 chain which weighs me to the earth — that is very natural. You have in- 
 quired of me what has become of my diamonds ?" 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 " And those diamonds are worth " 
 
 "About fifty thousand crowns." 
 
 " Well, monsieur, half that sum shall be yours, if you will consent to a 
 separation by the forms of law ; the rest will be enough — " 
 
 " I am about to return, madam, to what I have said before, like yourself. 
 I will not have half the value of your diamonds, and I will keep you with 
 me " 
 
 " But, monsieur, I can offer you nothing more. I must live, too " 
 
 " Even if you should offer me fifty thousand crowns, I would refuse them." 
 A terrible idea occurred to me at this moment. 
 
 " Monsieur, you have, as well as I, had many proofs of the presence of 
 M. Lugarto in Paris." 
 " What next, madam ?" 
 
 " You have a thousand motives for hating this man ; I know it — but you 
 love money— almost as much as you detest me, monsieur." 
 " What next, madam ?" 
 
 " That man is rich, monsieur. Like you, he hates me ! like you, he has 
 a terrible account to reckon with me!" 
 " What next, madam ?" 
 
 " Reduced as you are, to aosoiute distress, if you refuse the sum I offer 
 you, it must be that you have other expectations." 
 " What next, madam ?" 
 
464 
 
 MATILDfc* 
 
 Maddened by this atrocious cold bloodedness— by my indignation, and 
 
 my fears, I cried out : 
 
 " Well, monsieur, I believe you capable of anything toward me, if M. 
 Lugarto were to pay you for keeping me with you — to pay you a higher 
 price than I can give you to let me go free." 
 
 M. de Lancry fixed a long, cold, cruel gaze upon me ;'but not a feature of 
 his face betrayed a sign of emotion. 
 
 " You are not absolutely without a certain sort of quick-sightedness, 
 madam, and I pity you. It is a fatal gift. It gives the means of foreseeing 
 calamities, not of avoiding them. I will, therefore, confess it to you, it 
 may be that your fears are by no means exaggerated. But what can you 
 do ? In order to give you an idea of the state of passive obedience to which 
 you are reduced, suppose that to-morrow morning a travelling Berlin should 
 stop at your door — that I should offer you my arm — hand you into the car- 
 riage — ordering you to leave your eternal Blondeau behind " 
 
 " I should refuse to go, monsieur, or to separate myself from a woman 
 whose fidelity I know to be the proof " 
 
 "You would refuse ? Well, ail the same for that !• — the law which would 
 have compelled you to follow me hither to the rue de Bourgogne, will also 
 oblige you to follow me whithersoever I may choose to order you. We will 
 continue my hypothesis — we set out — five or six posts from here we find one 
 of my old friends or enemies, just which you please to call him ; I choose 
 to make him my travelling companion. What have you got to say to that ? 
 Does the law prescribe the number or the choice of my friends ? Does the 
 law interfere with my forgiving wrongs done to me ? I mention this in 
 case, for instance, it should chance to be Lugarto. You are frightened — 
 you have not a word to say — that is plain enough. I proceed with my hy- 
 pothesis — we leave France, and go to live in a superb villa which Lugarto 
 owns at Florence. Again, what objection can you make ? none 1 It suits 
 me to live in a foreign country — you must follow me — follow me whitherso- 
 ever I choose to carry you ; will the law take account of your antipathies ? 
 You see, then, that you are mad to talk about your will. You are forbidden 
 to have any will — you can but obey mine, which is your fate, thanks to the 
 hatred of your aunt. And observe now the fatality. It has just happened, 
 at the very moment when Mademoiselle de Maran, owing to her age and 
 infirmities, can pursue you no longer with the same bitterness of enmity, 
 you have set yourself to work to exasperate me and irritate me against you ! 
 You say, madam, that I love money ; and that I am capable of anything, 
 if I am well paid. That is perfectly true — extravagance has this good — or 
 bad — quality, that it is immortal. I should take just as much delight now 
 in leading a splendid life, as if I were but just entering the world. Play, 
 horses, women, good living, luxury — I still love them all with the ardour of 
 a boy of eighteen ; with an ardour the more devouring, that my passion for 
 your accursed cousin seduced me from enjoying the luxuries with which I 
 surrounded her. It was a festival, which I was giving, but in which I could 
 take no part. In a word, he would put me now in a position to sacrifice 
 largely to my cherished idols — not here, but elsewhere, for I detest Paris. 
 In a word, he who should put no bounds to his generosity, but the condi- 
 tion of dragging you about in my train — to him would I reply — ' Yes ! 
 yes! and a thousand times — yes! even if it were Lugarto.' All this as- 
 tonishes you a little — ponder upon this language at your leisure — consult 
 even your lawyers on the subject, if you please, and you will find, that 
 should that be the prospect fate has in reserve for you, you have only to 
 submit yourself thereto. It is impossible, 1 think, to deal with you more 
 frankly than I do. In one word, and in order to leave you a pleasant train 
 of reflections, I will add, that it is highly possible, that the aforesaid tra- 
 velling schemes may be very quickly realized — perhaps — the day after-to- 
 morrow." 
 
 And with these words, M. de Lancry went out and left me alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 st. clara's day. 
 
 My conversation with M. de Lancry, and the terror which his threats pro- 
 duced on me, without doubt brought on an attack, the secds#of which wew 
 lying dormant in my constitution. 
 
st. Clara's dat. 
 
 465 
 
 For some time past I had been suffering from a low fever, long neglected. 
 Events had occurred in such quick succession, and I had been compelled to 
 take in them a part so active — all my faculties had been so violently over- 
 excited, from the first illness of Emma to her marriage, and the death of 
 Ursula ; that I had not, if I may ao express myself, had the time to be sick. 
 
 Moreover, in proportion as my self-sacrifice had been great — whatever it 
 might perhaps have seemed for me in the eyes of heaven — it had but been 
 — it was but the more painful. It was natural, that sooner or later I must 
 suffer the consequences of these sorrows. I already felt that a heavy illness 
 was darkly overhanging me. I had said, even to my poor Blondeau, who 
 was wondering at my courage — " Do not begin to rejoice yet ; the moment 
 I cease to have most exciting occupations, I feel that I shall have a violent 
 reaction both physical and moral. Up to this moment I have been sus- 
 tained by my energies alone — I fear that this artificial strength will fail me 
 suddenly-" 
 
 I was not disappointed ; only the shock was not brought on by (he cessa- 
 tion of uneasiness, but by my last conversation with M. de Lancry. 
 
 In it was the explanation of a passage in one of M. Lugarto's letters, in 
 which he wrote, that he would create imperious reasons why my husband 
 should not give me up, and that I had yet much to dread in future. 
 
 M. de Lancry was without means. M. Lugarto, unquestionably, had of- 
 fered him large sums to induce him to take me with him. I dare not tell 
 you all the horrors which I imagined, knowing the debasement of M. de 
 Lancry, his love of gold, his hatred of me, and above all, the atrocious 
 wretchedness of M. Lugarto, who, for so long a time, had persecuted me 
 with his vengeance. I have no doubt, that these new terrors caused a last 
 agitation of my mind, which was too powerful for my strength to resist. 
 
 Scarcely had M. de Lancry left me before I fell into strong convulsions, 
 followed by a violent brain fever. I was, by what Blondeau and good Dr. 
 Gerard told me, fifteen days in a hopeless state. M. de Lancry disappeared 
 the next day but one after that on which I had fallen ill, leaving a letter, 
 in which he informed me chiefly that my illness had changed all his projects, 
 and that he had gone to travel in Italy. This proof of cruel insensibility 
 neither surprised nor afflicted me. 
 
 My poor Blondeau had written to inform Madame de Richeville of the 
 melancholy state in which I was lying. That excellent friend returned im- 
 mediately to Paris, with Emma and M. de Rochegune. It had been impos- 
 sible to think of moving me from my little lodging in the rue de Bourgogne. 
 Madame de Richeville took up her quarters there with me, until such time 
 as should enable me to remove with her to Maran, there to pass the time 
 necessary for my complete recovery. 
 
 Every day, Emma passed several hours with me until I was completely 
 well again. I have no wish to record the kind attention by which I was 
 surrounded, or the extreme devotion by which Emma endeavoured to show 
 her gratitude for the services I had fortunately rendered her. My brain 
 ferer had changed its type to that of another, of a complicated order, the 
 recovery from which was so slow and tedious, that it was not until four 
 months had passed, and the winter was nearly at an end. 
 
 Toward the middle of the summer of 1837, I was then living upon that 
 estate; and if my health was not yet completely re-established, at least it 
 could not be said that I was an invalid. I continued extremely pale, very 
 weak, and with much tendency to nervous irritation. Doctor Gerard had 
 pronounced it absolutely indispensable to my recovery, that I should pass 
 the following autumn and winter in the South. I had returned to Maran 
 with very painful recollections ; I had suffered there so deeply. But ever 
 since my recovery, Madame de Richeville had lived with me there. M. de 
 Rochegune and Emma came to join us later in the season, and their kind 
 affections all tended to soften down the bitterness of the thoughts which 
 from time to time assailed me. 
 
 It required, however, all my courage, all my strength, and all my resigna- 
 tion, to subdue the sad impression which the affectionate attachment of M. 
 de Rochegune for Emma sometimes, in my own despite, produced upon me. 
 'i nis marriage had been the aim of all my efforts. I should have been the 
 most unhappy of women had it not been accomplished ; yet I could not 
 avoid experiencing the bitterest and most cruel affections. 
 
 Alas ! soured by so many sorrows, I was perhaps losing some of the na- 
 tural elevation of my mind. The light of Emma's happiness and that of 
 Madame 'de Richeville to which I had so much contributed, charmed me 
 
466 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 unquestionably, but it made me think -o of the unhappy life to which I 
 ■was myself reduced. 
 
 I could not refrain, oftentimes, from .nstitudng comparisons between my 
 own state, and that of the happy people around me — not that I was jealous 
 of them, oh ! my God ! no — but that I wept over my own misery — yes ! my 
 own misery; for though dead to all outward seeming, my passion was not 
 the less deep. I loved — -1 still loved M. de Rochegune. 
 
 We were to celebrate, by a family party at Maran, St. Clara's day — the 
 birth day of Madame de Richeville ; on the 12th of August, 1837- 
 
 It will appear shortly, why it is that I cannot forget either that day, or 
 that date. 
 
 It was eleven o'clock in the morning — the sun was shining very brightly 
 — I was walking in one of the most sheltered alleys of the park, which joined 
 that wing of the chateau in which were situated the apartments of Madame 
 de Richeville. The duchess did not rise till it was very late. I waited only 
 for Emma, who was to have gone with me to pay her compliments to her 
 mother, and to carry her a bouquet of roses and jessamines, her two favour- 
 ite flowers, which we proposed to gather with our own wands. 
 
 I saw M. de Rochegune coming to meet me; I put out my hand — " How 
 beautiful a day for the birthday of our dear friend;" said I with a smile, 
 showing him my nosegay. " Is Emma's bouquet as handsome as this ?" 
 
 " She completed hers, by plundering one of the baskets in the little border. 
 There could be nothing prettier than to see her plunging herself in the 
 thick clusters of the rose bushes du Roi, all dripping, as they were, with 
 dew !" 
 
 " I hope you composed a beautiful madrigal for her on that topic — and 
 yet — not so either — the carnation of her cheeks is so delicate, that it would 
 be a sin to compare her to a rose du Rai. It would be the same as calling 
 her complexion ruddy instead of rosy — a tea-rose of Bengal — if you please ; 
 that would then be the only comparison that could do her justice." 
 
 " And you, my poor Matilda," he replied, looking at me with deep inter - 
 est, " to what shall we ever again be able to compare you, but to a pure 
 white lily? — when will your paleness ever be relieved by the least tinge of 
 the rose ?" 
 
 " Dr. Gerard reckons much upon my visit to the South, to re-establish me 
 completely, and I reckon on it too, my friend." 
 
 He looked at me attentively while I was speaking, and said to me, shaking 
 his head sadly — 
 
 " And must you be the only one among us, who is not happy : — you to 
 whom we all owe the happiness which we enjoy ?" 
 
 " What an idea, my good friend ! Is not my paleness natural after a long 
 illness?" 
 
 " Matilda, it will not do. It is evident that your husband afflicts you — 
 you never receive letters from him." 
 . " M. de Lancry is never a very regular correspondent — and the mails from 
 Italy are never very regular, as I hear." 
 
 "Ah! Matilda, Matilda! I must fallback to the same point. How," 
 added he with a sigh — " how is it possible that he could have left you at the 
 moment when you felt so dangerously ill. There is no possible business of 
 sufficient weight to excuse such conduct." 
 
 " My friend, I repeat to you again — it concerned a large credit, of which 
 he had long given up all hopes, and which, in our actual position, was ex- 
 cessively important. I say, our position, because, according to the advice 
 of yourself and Madame de Richeville, I concealed from him that this es- 
 tate had been preserved, ftaring that his ancient habits of extravagance 
 might return upon him. When we once see him perfectly corrected by ad- 
 versity, I will confess to him that we have it still. At present he is entirely 
 ignorant of the fact ; and it is therefore quite natural that he should apply 
 himself actively to this business." 
 
 M. de Rochegune shook his head incredulously ; I doubtless told my 
 falsehood with a bad grace. But I could think of no other method of ac- 
 counting for my nusband's departure ; while, to allow him to penetrate the 
 truth of my position with regard to my husband, would have but put him 
 on the track of my self-devotion to Emma ; — the thing which I wished at 
 all risks to avoid, now that I had given up the wise idea of recalling the 
 whole affair to M. de Rochegune. 
 
 "I must believe you," replied M. de Rochegune, with a sigh. "You 
 always answer me thus when I speak to you of M. de Lancry ; but, I know 
 
ST. CLARA'S DAY j 
 
 46? 
 
 not why it is, there always appears to me to be more mystery in his conduct 
 toward you. I cannot but fear that you are not happy. No ! you are not 
 happy. You must have t>~en the dupe of your own good heart, as your hus- 
 band was, perhaps, the dupe of his own good resolutions. During some 
 time, I admit that he may have repented sincerely ; but his old habits must 
 have gained the upper hand, and he has preferred leading I know not what 
 life of adventure, to living in obscurity with you, Moreover — but stay, Ma- 
 tilda, I will not speak what I think — I suppose I am mistaken, and should 
 only grieve you." 
 
 " You are right, my dear friend, let us speak of this no more — do not be 
 in the least degree uneasy. It is only sometimes — through M. de Lancry's 
 habitual dislike to writing — that I get a little disgusted at not hearing from 
 him. That makes me a little sad just now ; and to drive away these dis- 
 agreeable thoughts, let us speak of yourself and Emma, and of all your 
 plans." 
 
 " Speak of ourselves, is speaking still of you, so much do we owe to you. 
 As for me, never has my life been calmer, sweeter, more serene — and then, 
 Emma, too, is happy— and with so little effort ! Sometimes, poor child, I 
 almost reproach myself with doing so little for her. I am almost embar- 
 rassed to see her so easily satisfied and contented." 
 
 " Speaking so modestly, as you do, of the happiness which you confer, you 
 are like the great poets, who think it very simple to achieve magnificent 
 works with perfect facility ; and who are astonished at the great influence 
 of works, which cost them so little." 
 
 " No : I assure you, Matilda, I appear to give all, and, in reality, I re- 
 ceive much more than I give. I am very happy : I am not conscious of the 
 net of living. If, by any chance, I step out of this delicious state of calm 
 and confident security, to make any plans for the future, it is only to return 
 to it with new pleasure. What shall 1 say more ? This life has not, per- 
 haps, the grandeur, the enthusiasm, or the sublime transports of passion ; 
 but it is peaceful and tranquil. After the life which I once dreamed of 
 sharing with you, I know of none more agreeable than that which I now 
 lead. During the early period of my married life, I sometimes used to wish 
 that a warmer sentiment had unfolded itself within me. Now, I should 
 regret it. It would deprive my attachments for Emma of that character 
 which renders it unlike any other." 
 
 " You are right, my dear friend, once more. The sort of exclusive wor- 
 ship which Emma cherishes for you, puts it out of your sphere to offer her 
 any return of gallantry. Let your modesty be alarmed by this confession — 
 but the gods, good as they may be, love not in the same way that they are 
 loved." 
 
 " Oh ! Matilda," he replied, smiling — " I feel the touch of Mademoiselle 
 de Maran's claw, under the veil of that sneering apotheosis." 
 
 " I esteem you too much to exaggerate my praises. Confess that there is 
 some truth in what I say to you, and that my confession is as just as a com- 
 parison can be." 
 
 " I do not deny Emma's foolish idolatry for me — I must be blind, as well 
 as ungrateful, to do so. I deny only that I am deserving of it, or rather — 
 stay, I am going to surprise you. I accept the comparison just as it stands 
 — especially on account of my apotheosis /" 
 
 "That is very happy," I answered with a smile. 
 
 " I accept it, not as flattering words of praise, but as a just reproach, full 
 of reason and of truth." 
 
 " Let me understand you, my friend, as to this blame, which was, I as- 
 sure you, far indeed from my thoughts." 
 
 M. de Rochegune answered, seriously — " You judge of my heart more cor- 
 rectly than I do myself. The vague reproaches which I have been making 
 myself on the score of not doing enough for Emma, have no other reason 
 than the sort of apotheosis of which you have spoken, and to which I have 
 lent myself. I have suffered myself to be loved, 1 have lived too much like 
 a sultan. I am too much like those false gods, who by dint of being ad- 
 mired, have ended by believing in their own divinity, and by persuading 
 themselves that they have done poor mortals a great favour in permitting 
 themselves to be idolized. Seriously, Matilda, you have «nlightened me ; per- 
 haps you have saved Emma many tears. Some day or other she might 
 have discovered, or fancied, in the indolence of my happiness, either selfish- 
 ness or coldness ; and I should suffer everlasting anguish, even to cause 
 one moment's grief to a being so angelic." 
 
468 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 *' It is I, now, who ought to reproach you with being as spiteful as Made* 
 moiselle de Maran," said I, smiling. "I made an observation to you, not 
 as a compliment but as a simple truth, and you manufactured out of it a 
 sarcasm against yourself." 
 
 " By thè way, speaking of Mademoiselle de Maran, do you know that her 
 paralysis is now almost entire ?" said M. de Rochegune. " My old valet de 
 chambre, Stok, on what account I have not the least idea, went some time 
 since to see Servier, your aunt's old maître d' hotel. It seems that all her 
 servants treat her abominably, but she is obliged to endure it — raving all the 
 while, for no one takes the slightest interest in her." 
 
 Our conversation was interrupted by Emma, who came in with a bouquet 
 of roses in one hand, and several letters which she presented to her husband, 
 in the other. 
 
 " The courier has just arrived. Here are your letters, dearest." 
 
 M. de Rochegune said to her, as he put the letters into his pocket, " Is 
 Madame de Richeville ready to receive us, my dear Emma ?" 
 
 "Oh! yes," said Emma, "she has been conversing for half an hour, or 
 more, with the good Abbé Dampierre " 
 
 " Your curé, my lady of the castle," said M. de Rochegune to me. 
 
 " And he is the worthiest, and the poorest of all the curates in the coun- 
 try," said I ; " you can form no idea of his charity — of his purely evangeli- 
 cal character." 
 
 " And how simply and nobly he preaches !" said Emma. " Last Sunday, 
 at church, I was in perfect admiration. All that he said was within the 
 comprehension of his parishioners, and yet the sermon might have been de- 
 livered before the king and his court." 
 
 " That is because there is, really, nothing more imposing than simplicity," 
 said M. de Rochegune. " I do not know a man of sounder reason, or more 
 accurate judgment, than the Abbé Dampierre. What Emma says is very 
 true. His language would be striking anywhere, ^et he has no suspicion of 
 it. He is completely ignorant of his own great' qualities. He is one of 
 those men, on whom I set the highest esteem. The union of greatness and 
 modesty is so rare — it is like grace and beauty, when combined with modesty. 
 Let it be perfectly understood, Emma, that this is not meant for you ; our 
 sister Matilda would never forgive me. She is jealous of all praises addressed 
 to you, by any one but herself." 
 
 While M. de Rochegune was speaking, Emma never took her eyes off him. 
 It was not love, it was a passionate and constant adoration — she did not live 
 in herself, but in him. Almost always, after these moments of ecstatic con- 
 templation, during which she appeared to inhale long draughts of happiness, 
 she used to glance at me with a look of ineffable gratitude. 
 
 When M. de Rochegune had spoken, she took his hand, and said, with an 
 enchanting accent — " Our sister Matilda is right — it is she only, who flatters 
 me deliciously." 
 
 " Indeed ! better than I ?" 
 
 " Why, certainly ; you, dearest, you speak to me about myself — she speaks 
 to me about you ; and is it not being praised beyond expression, when I am 
 told that you love me ?" 
 
 " I admit this, in the understanding that, when Matilda tells me that you 
 love me, she is also praising me beyond expression." 
 
 Emma shook her pretty blond head, and said, with a smile — "Ah! it is 
 not the same thing — nothing is simpler than to live ; yet people never wish 
 you joy of living, unless when you are very happy." 
 
 We passed a charming morning with Madame de Richeville. I invited 
 the Abbé Dampierre to dine with us, in order to celebrate our little family 
 festival. 
 
 It was three o'clock, when M. de Rochegune knocked at my door. I was 
 surprised at his exceeding paleness, and the gloomy expression of his counte- 
 nance. He held in his hand an open letter. 
 
 " Matilda, I have letters from Italy. I beg you to read this and he 
 pointed out a passage in the letter, which he presented to me, 1 read therein 
 as follows : 
 
 " On my arrival at Naples, the general topic of conversation was the ex- 
 traordinary extravagances which M. Lugarto had committed in that town ; — 
 of the extent of his debaucheries, and his abominable crimes — some of which 
 were so loudly bruited, that the king had banished him from his dominions, 
 witnout the slightest remonstrance on the part of the Brasilian minister, who 
 perfectly well knew the character and deserts of his countryman ; — who, for 
 that matter, is thoroughly and justly execrated, by every person of his own 
 
THE ABBE DAMPÎER RE, 
 
 469 
 
 nation. This did not astonish me at all, for I knew Lugarto of old ; but 
 what staggered me — what, indeed, I should not have believed, if our ambas- 
 sador had not assured me of it — is, that the intimate friend, and boon com- 
 panion of Lugarto is the Viscount de Lancry; who formerly fought with him 
 on a very grave subject of dispute, as I was told, for I was not in Paris at 
 the time. It is said that M. de Lancry is completely ruined, and wholly de- 
 pendent on his old enemy. They left Naples in a steamer, chartered by 
 Lugarto ; and, it is said, there was but one voice in all the town, at their de- 
 parture, wishing for a combination of all possible accidents which might 
 occur to render their voyage fatal I" 
 
 I suffered the letter to fall upon my knees, without daring to look at M. 
 de Rochegune. "Ah ! Matilda," he said, in accents of deep reproach, "you 
 have deceived me. The intimacy of M . de Lancry wkh that monster tells 
 me even more than I could have dreamed of." 
 
 " I must confess it — yes ! I have wished to conceal it from you. As you 
 guessed — the good resolutions of my husband did not last. His return was 
 sincere, but he grew tired of that obscure and peaceful life I now believe, as 
 you do, that the reason he gave for his departure to Italy, was but a pretext." 
 
 " And his connection with the monster, who formerly pursued you with 
 such deadly hate — how will you term that?" 
 
 Alas ! I dared not — I could not tell him the recent proofs which I had 
 received of Lugarto's obstinate and undying enmity, so much were the events 
 involved connected with my self-sacrifice to Emma. 
 
 I made him no reply. 
 
 " So, then," exclaimed M. de Rochegune, with an uncontrollable burst 
 of mournful indignation — " it was for such a man as this, that you sacrificed 
 me— it was for such a man as this that you refused the happiness I offered 
 you, when I undertook to " 
 
 I cut him short in a tone so firm, that it imposed silence on him instantly. 
 " Not a word on that subject ! It is not you — not you, ihat should dare, now, 
 to express so much as a single regret for what has passed away. It would 
 be horribly wicked to Emma, who makes you so happy ; to me it would be 
 insulting. Whether my husband henceforth treats me well or ill, is not the 
 question now. If the attachment 1 feel for him were to vanish to-morrow, 
 I would die a thousand deaths rather than forget my duty : I swear it to you, 
 by the memory of my mother. As for you, you are incapable of ever suffer- 
 ing this unhappy child to suppose that you regret having married her. You 
 know her character — think of it — you would kill her ; she would die of de- 
 spair " 
 
 " Ah ! this is hideous !" he exclaimed, hiding his head in his hands, and 
 rushing violently out of the room. 
 
 I was less terrified, even at learning the reunion of M. de Lancry and M. 
 Lugarto, than at the effect the news had produced on M. de Rochegune. I 
 believed him, indeed, to be incapable of allowing Emma to suspect that he 
 regretted marrying her; but yet I trembled, lest he might accidentally be- 
 tray himself. 
 
 Alas ! that day which had begun so happily advanced with fatal passages. 
 And oh, how wretchedly it ended ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE ABBE DAM PI ERRE. 
 
 M. de Rochegunr was sufficiently the master of himself, to prevent the 
 emotions which distracted him from being so much as even suspected. 
 
 We had assembled, after dinner, in the little summer parlour — the Abbé 
 Dampierre, Madame de Richeville, Emma, and myself. 
 
 The Abbé Dampierre was an old man, with white hair, and an imposing 
 countenance ; his voice, at once full and sonorous, gave a character of weight 
 to his slightest words. 
 
 I think I can see the scene still before me. 
 
 At the end of the parlour sat Madame de Richeville, on an ottoman, with 
 the Abbé beside her ; I was separated from Emma by the table, on which the 
 servants were setting the coffee-things. M. de Rochegune had just gone out 
 to answer some letters; for the mail from Tours passed at nine o'clock in the 
 evening toward Paris, so that there was time to answer by the same day's 
 post letters received that morning. 
 
 2 s 
 
4-0 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Stok, M. de Rochegune's old valet de chambre, entered, and said to Em- 
 ma—offering her a letter on a salver : 
 
 " A -letter that came with those of monsieur's this morning, and which he 
 forgot to give to Madame la Marquise." 
 
 "Â letter for me?" said Emma, laughing. " It is the first that I have re- 
 ceived since I have been here. A Paris letter too," she added, looking at 
 the envelope. It must certainly have been among those which I brought 
 this morning to M. de Rochegune, and I must bave overlooked it." 
 
 " Quick ; let us see who is your correspondent, my dear child," said Ma- 
 dame de Richeville, smiling. 
 
 " With your permission, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Emma. The Abbé Dam- 
 pierre bowed. Emma broke the seal of the letter, read the first line, and said 
 "it is an application for charity." 
 
 "Read it aloud, my dear," said Madame de Richeville, "we will join in 
 your eharity." 
 
 Emma then read as follows : 
 
 Madam : 
 
 It is a wretch who applies to you in confidence, and hopes that you will 
 listen to the prayer of a wretched woman, who fell a victim to her weakness, 
 and to her own heart, and who has no excuse to offer, save the violence of the 
 guilty passion which carried her away, 
 
 Emma stopped short, looked at Madame de Richeville, and the Abbé. The 
 latter shrugged his shoulders and replied, " Can there possibly be a worse 
 excuse? It is like complaining of the ravages of a conflagration after kind- 
 ling the fire ourselves. Do not you think so, Madame la Duchesse ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Monsieur l'Abbé," replied Madame de Richeville, a good deal 
 embarrassed ; for notwithstanding her expiation of her faults, she had al- 
 ways retained a painful susceptibility touching her conduct— then addressing 
 herself to Emma, she said, " Proceed, my dear." 
 
 Emma went on. 
 
 My parents married me, very young, to a man who has made my whole 
 life wretched. His faults, and his cruel treatment, were' the sole cause of my 
 misconduct } I dareswear.it to you, before God. 
 
 " Oh 1" cried the abbé, indignantly, " to call God to witness her shame I 
 what sacrilege !" 
 
 "That is true, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Emma, modestly; "how can any 
 one dare to make such an avowal ? and, moreover, can anything in the world 
 excuse such misconduct?" she asked of Madame de Richeville ! "Itseems 
 to me that if my husband did me wrong, instead of imitating him, I should 
 endeavour to bring him back to me by tenderness and resignation — and then, 
 at least, one could pray God to pardon him his faults, and the prayers of true 
 hearts are always heard." 
 
 "Ah, madam," said the abbé, showing his emotion in his voice and man- 
 ner, addressing himself to Madame de Richeville, and pointing to Emma — 
 " this is your work — these are the fruits of the education you have given 
 her." 
 
 Madame de Richeville blushed and made him no reply. But her look told 
 me how painful was this conversation. I felt the same myself, but knew not 
 how to bring it to a close. Emma read on : 
 
 My husband has abandoned me these four years, madam, and since then I 
 hnow not what has become of him. £ hardly dare, madam, to write these 
 words so great is my embarrassment. It is for a wretched little creature 
 just born, which is not his daughter, that I venture to beseech your charity. 
 
 "Ah 1 this infamous," cried the abbé. 
 
 Emma replied not a word ; but she made a gesture so contemptuous, and 
 so full of scorn, as she cast the letter on the ground at her feet, that her si- 
 lence, and the severe expression of her countenance, were as expressive as 
 the severest words. 
 
 Never — oh ! my God ! — never shall I forget the agonies which Madame de 
 Richeville could conceal no longer— her shame, her blushes. Her eyes met 
 mine ; she indicated Emma to me by a glance, and I understood her. The 
 miserable mother felt that she was herself condemned by her daughter, in 
 
THE ABBE DAMtlEKRK. 
 
 consequence of the very principles of excellence which she had herself in- 
 stilled into her. 
 
 Madame de Richeville could not hinder herself from saying, indirectly, a 
 few words in her own defence. 
 
 " My dear," she said, sadly. " you should have a little pity for the guilty. 
 Perhaps this unhappy mother, hlameable as she may be, is still to be pitied." 
 
 " Madam," said the Abbé Dampierre, in a firm voice, " I am a priest ; I 
 am an old man ; do you permit me to speak to' you in all sincerity?" 
 
 " To be sure, Monsieur l'Abbé; I will pray you so to do," her confusion ' 
 increasing as she spoke. 
 
 " Well, madam ; it is to be regretted that persons like you, and other ladies, 
 who might use the influence of their own examples — their own blameless lives 
 — to condemn vice severely, are two often indulgent toit, through a false sen- 
 timent of pity. In truth, madam, is it just to grant to disgraceful and de- 
 served misfortune, as much interest as to noble and touching calamities ?" 
 
 " Monsieur l'Abbé is perfectly correct," said I, alarmed at the turn the 
 conversation was taking. " Pick up that letter, Emma; we will make some 
 inquiries about the woman. It may be a trick to gain our charity ; say no 
 more of it now." 
 
 " I will finish the letter, nevertheless," said Emma, simply ; "but I con- 
 fess, that what M. l'Abbé has just said, completely deprives me of all in- 
 terest in this woman. How can she dare to blame her husband, when she 
 degrades herself, perhaps, even more than he does?" 
 
 " You are very severe, Emma," said her unhappy mother, endeavouring to 
 conceal a tear, which rushed into her eyes. Emma replied to her with a smile 
 of exceeding candour : 
 
 " That is true : you have brought me up with ideas so noble — the example 
 you have given me is such — that I cannot hinder myself from feeling an in- 
 surmountable repugnance to everything that is low or criminal. How many 
 times have you told me, that virtue is to women what courage is to men. I 
 detest cowardice !" and again she read as follows: 
 
 Although unfortunate, I have not deserved my lot. My education — my 
 birth — seemed to predict a different destiny for me. I dare to hope that these 
 considerations will move you in my favour ; and, at all events, madam, my 
 child— my poor little girl — ought not to be, cannot be held responsible for 
 the guilt of its mother. Jf I deserve blame, my child deserves pity. If the 
 world has the right to stigmatize me for misconduct, I should have the right 
 to accuse those of insensibility, who will not compassionate my child. 
 
 The Abbé Dampierre could not restrain a gesture of noble passion, as he 
 exclaimed. " Unhappily, this wretch merely repeats what all who are like 
 her say — all that she cites in her behalf, ought to be cited for her condemn- 
 ation !" 
 
 " Her education, above all, certainly goes to render her unpardonable," 
 said Emma to Madame de Richeville; "do not you think so? Might not. 
 those very true words, which you have so often repeated to me, and which I 
 have not forgotten, be applied to this woman ? ' Formerly, it was said, No' 
 bility is an obligation to virtue; now, the same remark should be applied to 
 education. Faults increase in magnitude, in proportion to the degree of the 
 mind's culture.' Such were your words." 
 
 " Madam, the duchess was right to a nicety," said the abbé; "but that is 
 not all. Observe how vice always betrays itself, by the absurdity of its vile 
 and hypocritical language. In crying out — as she does in this letter, ' My 
 child ought not to be responsible for her mother's faults ' — this woman ima- 
 gines that she is absolved from one of the greatest curses that afflict huma- 
 nity : that of stamping for ever, with the brand of universal reprobation, an 
 unhappy and innocent being." 
 
 " Ah ! it is horrible !" exclaimed Madame de Richeville, looking despair- 
 ingly at me. The Abbé Dampierre, believing that the exclamation of the 
 duchess was called forth by her approbation of his discourse, continued, 
 warmly : 
 
 "And T have not said enough ; for I cast the same cursing stamp of guilt 
 upon the mother who kills her child, and on her who devons it to a life of 
 suffering and shame." 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur !" exclaimed Madame de Richeville. 
 
 " Yes, madam ; a criminal wife is necessarily a bad mother^-for is she not 
 aware of the terrible moral and social necessity which exists for rendering 
 
472 
 
 MATILDA* 
 
 the child answerable for the mother's guilt ? Does she not know that it is 
 out of the pale of common law — that it has neither family nor name — that 
 its lips may never pronounce that cherished name of mother — or that, if in- 
 deed it know the guilty secret of its birth, it is only to be compelled, despit* 
 itself, to despise those whom God intended it to cherish and to honour ?'' 
 
 "Oh! yes!" said Emma; "it is fearfnl. A mother, who exposes her 
 child to the risk of one day despising her — does she not make it curse the 
 existence which it only owes to a crime ? To be compelled to despise a 
 mother ! my God ! death would be ten times less terrible !" 
 
 " Oh! Emma!" I exclaimed; but she looked at me in ingenuous aston- 
 ishment, and added, " What do you mean, my dearest friend?" 
 
 Madame de Richeville, who had been on the point of betraying herself, 
 continued her emotion, but turned very pale. 
 
 " In truth, my dear child," I said to Emma ; "you throw too much warmth 
 into this discussion. Moreover, these are disagreeable ideas ; let us talk of 
 something else. I think, as you do, that the mariner in which your charity 
 is asked in this letter, should scarcely interest you. The evening is mag- 
 nificent ; I feel that I have a litte headache coming on — let us go and take a 
 walk in the park." 
 
 But Emma, by some strange fatality, seemed obstinately bent on reading 
 this letter to the end. I feared that my insisting would appear too singular, 
 even if I should succeed in hindering her ; and besides, a glance from Ma- 
 dame de Richeville, who had completely recovered her composure, reassured 
 me. 
 
 "There are but a few more lines," she said; " it will be finished in- 
 stantly ;" and, as she spoke, she again read: 
 
 You, more than, any one, madam, should compassionate my calamity, or 
 rather that of my child. 
 
 " Why I ? — why should I, more than any one else, be interested in this 
 woman ?" 
 
 "Leave it!" I almost screamed; " leave it unread, my dearest girl ! I 
 tell you the woman must be mad !" and compelled, by a sort of inexplica- 
 ble presentiment of evil, I sprang forward to take the letter from the hand of 
 Emma. But it was too late. She had already perused it to the end ; and 
 her eyes, still rivetted upon that fatal paper, seemed marvellously and terri- 
 bly dilated. Her lips quivered convulsively, she turned as pale as death ; — 
 then, with a motion quick as thought, she cast herself at the feet of Madame 
 de Richeville, exclaiming in a voice of anguish : 
 
 " If you be my mother, oh ! pardon me ! pardon me ! curse me not !" 
 
 To paint that scene would be impossible. The duchess, thunderstruck by 
 those words, sat like a statue, pale, dumb, motionless. 
 
 The Abbé Dampierre raised himself suddenly, and clasped his hands with 
 an expression of agony. Emma, sobbing and speechless, buried her face in 
 her mother's lap.« After a few minutes of the deepest silence, Madame de 
 Richeville, moving her daughter aside gently, and taking her by the hand, 
 raised her to her feet ; stood up herself, and addressed the Abbé Dampierre 
 with a tone, exquisitely blending dignity with resignation. 
 
 " My father 1 J have merited ail the reproaches which you have uttered 
 against guilty mothers. Emma is my daughter. During long years I have 
 striven to expiate my sin ; but the Lord has this day seen good to inflict on 
 me a grievous chastisement. His will be done ! — I despair not of his infinite 
 mercy!" 
 
 The Abbé Dampierre replied, in a voice which testified how seriously he 
 was afflicted : 
 
 " The truth, madam, is for all. The duty of a servant of the Lord, is to 
 cause it to be heard by all here below ; but God alone condemns and ab- 
 solves. You have said it, madam — His mercy is infinite ! At the day ot 
 judgment out atonement will be counted to us !" 
 
 And with these words, bowing respectfully, the abbé left the room. 
 
 The other words contained in this infernal letter, were as follows : 
 
 Yon, more than any one, madam, should compassionate my calamity, or 
 rather that of ,..y child; for you are the natural, daughter of Madame de 
 Richeville. I will give you proofs if you relieve me. Be so kind as to send 
 whatever succour you may think ft to give me, by an order on the post- 
 office at Paris, to be left till called for ; Madame Jenny Picrron, mother of 
 Mademoiselle Albin, who knows the fecret of your birth. 
 
THK ABBE DAMPIERRE, 
 
 473 
 
 Was this letter really written by the person designated, or was it not a 
 new and accursed machination of Lugarto ? This was a point which at that 
 moment, neither I nor Madame de Richeville could unravel. 
 
 When I recovered time for recollection, I thought that, after the exclama- 
 tion of Emma, I ought to have prevented Madame de Richeville from the 
 irrevocable admission, by declaring that the letter was a lie ! But the sus- 
 picion, once awakened in the mind of Emma, could never have been lulled 
 again, and the doubt would have been probably as painful as the certainty. 
 
 The nearer I draw to the close of these sad memoranda, the darker do 
 events become. 
 
 I sometimes feel as if my courage would fail me. 
 
 All that remains for me to relate is so recent, that I have no longer the 
 strength to dwell upon the facts as I have done when they related to times 
 long past. I have never shrunk from inquiring closely into my own sorrows ; 
 I sought — I found in that a sort of bitter pleasure. To me, often misunder- 
 stood — to me, who never have complained, this narrative has been as an out- 
 burst of tears long and with pain suppressed. 
 
 But when I have to paint the bitter anguish of those whom I love so dearly, 
 my heart throbs with reluctance, my pen trembles in my hand, unwilling 
 to proceed. 
 
 The day which succeeded to this cruel scene, Emma said these words to 
 me — which pointed out to me the terrible position in which she must thence- 
 forth, and for ever, stand with Madame de Richeville. 
 
 " Never shall I forgive myself for speaking of my mother, as I did, before 
 her very face." 
 
 Madame de Richeville, too, while talking with me of her fears respecting 
 Emma's discovery of the secret of her birth, had often said : 
 
 " Life would be horrible to me, from the moment when I should have to 
 blush in Emma's presence." 
 
 Now only conceive the state of that wretched mother's mind, when chance 
 had brought about the conversation in which her crime had found so ener- 
 getical a condemnation in the presence, ay ! and from the very lips of her 
 own daughter ! 
 
 Conceive, too, the remorse of Emma, who now reproached herself inces- 
 santly as the accuser of her mother ; conceive the- constant struggle between 
 her attachmeut to Madame de Richeville, and the inexorable severity of the 
 principles which she had herself instilled into that daughter's bosom. 
 
 Doubtless, in the end, the love of Emma for her mother would have won 
 the day ; but the poor child was never destined to find consolation for the 
 bitter words she had addressed involuntarily to her mother. 
 
 Alas ! I received the confidence of those two high souls both wounded 
 unto death. 
 
 Emma would say to me at one time — " My mother's goodness cuts me to 
 the very soul ! the very manner, too, in which she insists on it that she re- 
 tains no recollection of that fatal conversation, proves to me that she never 
 ceases to bear it in mind. I have dealt her heart a wound which must be 
 incurable." 
 
 In her turn, Madame de Richeville would say, " Emma does everthing in 
 the world to convince me, that she does not despise me ; but the character 
 of her mind is too elevated, the influence of her education is too firmly 
 stamped, to allow her — in spite even of her love, her kind devotion for me — 
 to forget the inexorable, yet too great condemnation which she poured out 
 upon my conduct ; to forget the indignant eloquence with which the Abbé 
 Dampierre so righteously pronounced judgment on all like me !" 
 
 All reasonings were useless to reassure these two unhappy beings, the 
 very keenness of whose feelings were but the consequences of the exceeding 
 delicacy of their organization. What restraint, now— what distrust, what 
 sadness, what involuntary, coldness arising from those after-thoughts, were 
 now cast over their relations, so calm and soothing heretofore. 
 
 How many times were the silent scornful regrets of the one or other of 
 these two victims to atrocious villany, misconstrued mutually into tacit re- 
 proaches. Alas 1 when countenances have once contracted an habitual 
 gloom, who can detect the cause which overclouds them ? 
 
 Under these circumstances, so difficult and painful, I had full opportunity 
 to appreciate the strength of M. de Rochegune's character, and the good» 
 ness of his heart. In his high reason, and clear, calm intellect, he found 
 inexhaustible resources to alleviate and undeceive these startling and ua« 
 quiet doubts. 
 
 f ' 3 g 3 ■ ." '* "T v- ~*z . 1 
 
474 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 His tenderness and attention to Emma were redoubled, when he saw her 
 under the influence of these cruel pre-occupations. By dint of eloquence 
 and perseverance, he contrived at last to render less torturing the conse- 
 quences of that fatal blow, by repeating to Emma and Madame de Riche- 
 ville, the very arguments which he had used on the night of the discovery. 
 
 " The proof, madam, of the fact that the expiation of certain faults, how- 
 ever great, may yet be complete, is this : that I, whose principles no one 
 can call in question — that I, who hold the religion of honour as sacred as 
 any man alive — that I, who carry the observance of all duties even to the 
 extreme of scruples — that I, I say, asked eagerly, end received with pride 
 and happiness, the hand of Emma, whom I knew to be your daughter. As 
 regards, then, your own happiness and that of your daughter — as regards, 
 then, the opinion of the world — you have no more reason to regret her birth, 
 than she has to reproach you with it. For the rest, the inflexible Abbé 
 Dampierre, himself has told you, that the mercy of the Lord is infinite ; 
 and that, in the day of judgment, he will keep count of all our atonements." 
 
 Autumn was drawing nigh. The weather was'extremely cold and rainy. 
 My health was not re-established ; — on the contrary, I had experienced a 
 slight relapse. I could not endure, however, to leave my friends at this 
 moment, notwithstanding the pressing, and I might almost say imperative, 
 advice of Dr. Gerard, who took the kindest interest in my welfare. 
 
 Seeing that his advice was not followed, he wrote to Madame de Riche- 
 ville, that my health could neve» '*t restored ; ant iat my chest would, in 
 all likelihood, be formidably attacked, if I would not go to pass the autumn 
 and winter in the South. 
 
 I was compelled, at length, to yield to the urgency of my friends. Emma 
 and her husband proposed to reside for a few months at Rochegune. Ma- 
 dame de Richeville was about to return to Paris — for, despite herself — de- 
 spite all the reasonings of M. de Rochegune — despite all the assurances of 
 Emma, that unhappy mother continually suffered in the presence of her 
 daughter — in the same way that Emma could not overcome her secret dread 
 of having wounded the heart of her mother. 
 
 The duchess said, as she bade me farewell, " I knew it not, Matilda ; but 
 the justice of Heaven could not be satisfied ; it was necessary that it should 
 smite me with a grievous punishment. Could there be one more terrible — 
 more truly providential ? Can any one conceive a position more agonizing 
 than that of a mother inexorably judged and condemned, before her own 
 daughter, by the voice of an aged and venerable priest ? — of a mother who 
 hears her own child repeat the same just denunciation ? Oh ! that the ven- 
 geance of heaven may be satisfied with what I have suffered — with what I 
 shall suffer until the end of my life ! and that it may not reserve for me 
 another blow, more fatal than all that have gone before it !'' 
 
 Alas ! I understood her ; and, alas 1 again, that her sad presentiments 
 did not deceive her ! 
 
 My friends left me ; the last I embraced was Emma. Alas! it was for 
 the last time ! Never was I to see her more — ah ! never — never ! 
 
 I set forth for Hyeres with Blondeau and a single footman. I took up 
 my residence in that village, in the beginning of October, and it was about 
 that time that I received the following letter from M. de Lancry ; — it was 
 post-marked "Cadiz." 
 
 " I hear that you are still in delicate health. Make haste, I beg of you ; 
 make haste to get well. I will come and fetch you, as soon as you are 
 strong enough to travel. You do not know what a surprise I am planning 
 for you. Your illness suddenly changed all my plans, a year ago ; but you 
 shall lose nothing by waiting. I naturally am very anxious about all that 
 interests you. I am regularly informed of all your proceedings. I know 
 that you are at Hyéres, or will be there very shortly. Perhaps I will come 
 thither to rejoin you. 
 
 " My travelling companion desires me to give you a thousand remem- 
 brances from him, and to ask you— whether a letter was not received at Ma- 
 ran, at the Duchess de Richeville's house, (not to say at your house, for I 
 now know that the duchess holds only in your name,) whether I say a letter 
 was not received at Maran, from Paris, on the 12th of August— on the 12th 
 of August, St. Clara's day. Happy patroness of the lovely repentant 
 duchess ! 
 
 " In that letter, addressed to the Marchioness ue Rochegune, a poor 
 
THE CASKET. 
 
 475 
 
 woman asked charity in behalf of her natural child My travelling com- 
 panion, who is everywhere at one time, and who knmvs that poor woman, 
 advised her to write on that day, thinking that St. Clara's day would proba- 
 bly be kept a little; and that the request for succour arriving at that time 
 and perhaps in the "middle of a very numerous and very pious company — 
 would be all the better received, and create all the more effect by the disclo- 
 sure at the end of it; it was a chance the more, at least. 
 
 "My travelling companion also begs to know — whether the curate of 
 Maran was not present at the reading of the letter in question ; which, by 
 an oversight, was not given to the little Marchioness de Rochegune until 
 after dinner. 
 
 " We ask you these questions — which we could answer just as well our- 
 selves — to show you, that we are perfectly well aware of everything you do ; 
 and that we have as much a regular train of operations, as an obstinate de- 
 termination of following them up. 
 
 " We lead here lives like that of Sardanapalus. You — you alone — you we 
 miss terribly ; so that I sigh ardently for the day when I shall again see you, 
 lovely, and young, and in perfectly re-established health. While I await 
 that happy moment, I try to banish my regrets." 
 
 What I had suspected was then true. The discovery of Emma's birth, 
 and the pretended prayer for aid, was but a new villainy of M. Lugarto. 
 It was no longer to be doubted ; nor that, in order to be so well informed as 
 he was, this man must have had some creature of his own, either about me, 
 or the Duchess de Richeville, or M. de Rochegune. 
 
 I passed the winter alone, and very sadly— receiving from time to time, 
 letters from Madame de Richeville or M. de Rochegune. The latter did not 
 attempt to conceal from me, that the effect of the sudden blow which had 
 struck Emma, still continued; but that he hoped, by strict care, to bring 
 about her complete restoration. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE CASKET. 
 
 The spring of 1838 arrived. I had been above six weeks, without receiving 
 news from my friends ; and I was beginning to grow seriously uneasy, when 
 M. de Rochegune wrote me these words : 
 
 "Emma is dead! — I am her murderer! — these were her last words: 
 ' You loved Matilda — you married me from pity only— my happiness I owe 
 to her !' It is not regret, which shall endure for a whole life, that she has 
 left to me. It is remorse ! horrible remorse ! that she has left to me. Yes ! 
 1 am her murderer ! Yes ! I cannot have shown her all the affection she 
 deserved. Yes ! I must have suffered her to penetrate my thoughts. One 
 day or other, she must have suspected my love for you! Must have ima- 
 gined, unhappy child, that my marriage with her did not suffice to my hap- 
 piness — that idea must have killed her ! It js beyond a doubt. The grief 
 which the disclosure of her birth had caused her, was passing rapidly away. 
 I could perceive her gradual recovery. Suddenly, a frightful relapse oc- 
 curred ! In one month that angel was taken from me ! My mind is gone ! 
 I am mad with anguish and despair !" 
 
 You can Imagine the poignant and terrific shock which I felt, as I read 
 these words. 
 
 I could not explain to myself, how Emma could have discovered M* de 
 Rochegune's love for me — still less, how she could have imagined that he 
 had married herifrom pity only — or how he should accuse himself of her 
 death. This mystery, too, will one day be revealed to me. 
 
 I left Hyeres, reached Paris, and flew to the house of Madame de Riche- 
 ville. I expected to find her mourning disconsolately, I found her firm, 
 submissive, piously self- resigned. She had accepted that sad loss, as a me- 
 rited chastisement, inflicted on her from above. She said to me, with acool- 
 ness more terrible to me than the convulsions of despair, " God is just ! he 
 has smitten me through my child, the living proof of my crime !" 
 
 She was as pale as marble ; and by one of those phenomena, which not 
 unfrequently happen in moments of great anguish, her hair had turned white 
 in a single month. She had made her final arrangements to retire to the 
 
476 
 
 MATILDA, 
 
 Sacré Cœur, and there await in penitence the end of her days. She would 
 positively see no one, but the Princess d'Hericourt and myself. 
 
 M. de Rochegune had departed a few days after the death of Emma ; and 
 no one knew whither he had gone. Madame de Richeville insisted on at- 
 tributing the death of her child, to the frightful shock, which the discovery 
 of the secret of her birth had brought upon her. From that time forth, she 
 told me she had altered singularly. Her health, though greatly shaken, had, 
 she admitted, for a time, improved — when, about a month before her death, 
 she had been suddenly seized by violent convulsions, and an increase of me- 
 lancholy, which no one knew to what cause to attribute it. From that time 
 her life had appeared to be but one slow and protracted agony ; and when 
 she died, it seemed to be a release. 
 
 During this mournful narrative, Madame de Richeville never said a word 
 to me, that should lead me to suspect that Emma had discovered her hus- 
 band's love to me, or that she knew he had married her only from pity. 
 About a month after this sad event, Madame de Richeville retired to the 
 Sacré Cœur, aftèr having employed all that remained to her of her fortune, 
 in religious foundations, with the exception of a moderate annuity, which 
 she paid for her maintenance, to the ladies of the convent. 
 
 Thanks to the air of the South, my health was now completely re-esta- 
 blished, and I determined that I would not again quit Paris, or leave Ma- 
 dame de Richeville utterly alone, during the commencement of her sojourn 
 in the sad retreat, to which she had devoted the remainder of her days. 
 
 She was much pleased at the resolution I had taken, of remaining some 
 time with her ; and to save me the annoyance of making a new establish- 
 ment, proposed to me to occupy her house, the use of which still belonged to 
 her for a year. I shall explain why I enter into these details. 
 
 I accepted this offer. Her men of business had retained sufficient powers 
 to enable them to complete the last disposition of her fortunes. M. Gaston 
 de Senneville had some joint interests, with her, in the succession to some 
 unclaimed property; and having obligingly offered her his services in certain 
 transactions, he had to represent her in several family councils ; and Ma- 
 dame de Richeville feeling incompetent to attend to business, accepted his 
 offer. Being, however, determined to see and receive no person but myself 
 and Monsieur and Madame d'Hericourt, she urgently requested me to act 
 between herself and M. de Senneville, when he should have instructions to 
 ask, or signatures to obtain. 
 
 On this account, I received M. de Senneville sometimes in the morning. 
 He still kept charge of the letters which I had intrusted to him ; and two or 
 three times I sent Blondeau, to add some letters to those already in the cas- 
 ket, the key of which, I sent by her each time ; now fearing, more than ever, 
 the villainies of Lugarto. About the month of December, M. de Roche- 
 gune wrote me word, that after travelling for a considerable time, in the 
 hope of deadening his feelings, he had returned to Paris ; but that he iacked 
 the courage to see Madame de Richeville or myself- He had rented a soli- 
 tary house in the Marais, under a fictitious name, in order to be completely 
 unsuspected. But he sent me his address, in case either I or Madame de 
 Richeville, should absolutely require his assistance. 
 
 I so much respected his solitude and his grief, that I would not even an- 
 swer his letter — but I soon learned from Madame de Richeville, that he had 
 obtained special permission to enter the cemetery of Pere la Chaise at night, 
 wherein the remains of Emma had been lodged, in the family vault of de 
 Rochegune. 
 
 I sometimes sent Blondeau, to make inquiries as to the health of M. de 
 Rochegune, from Stok, his confidential servant. His despair still bore the 
 same unaltered character. Once only had he left the house by day, and 
 then in order to keep an old and perpetual engagement, entered into with 
 the officers, who, like himself, had fought for the Independence of Greece, 
 at the head of the troops they commanded. Thither he went, according to 
 agreement, in full uniform, to that solemn meeting, where he had informed 
 the guests that he had arrived directly from his estates, and was returning 
 to them forthwith. 
 
 One of the last days of the year, I went to see Madame de Richeville, and 
 was sorry to find her even sadder than usual. 
 
 " I am," she said, " the cause of an unworthy calumny. My nephew, 
 Gaston, is a wretch whom I will never see again so long as I live. Yester- 
 day, the Princess d'Hericourt came to see me. She learned by chance that 
 M. de Senneville is giving an infamous meaning to the interviews you have 
 
THE CASKET, 
 
 477 
 
 been so kind as to grant him on my business. He pretends that the retired 
 life you have led for some time past, was consecrated entirely to him, and 
 that he went and lived with you in the South. He dares to affirm, that Ma- 
 dame Blondeau carries to him your letters, and receives his in return ; and 
 pretends even that he has shown her to his friends, who, he affirms, have 
 seen her time after time come to him from you. He adds, moreover, that 
 on your account he hesitates about concluding a very excellent marriage, 
 which is proposed to him." 
 
 It was unnecessary that I should tell Madame de Richeville, that I had 
 not even heard of M. de Senneville during my abode at Hyères ; but I ex- 
 plained to her a part of the reasons which had formerly obliged me to intrust 
 a deposit of some importance to the charge of M. de Senneville, and how 
 Blondeau had been in the habit of going sometimes to his house. 
 
 As I, and even more than I, the duchess was indignant at this ignoble 
 breach of confidence. My part was soon decided. I sent Blondeau the nest 
 morning to the house of M. de Senneville, with orders to bring back my cas- 
 ket. If M. de Senneville, was not at home, she was to request his confiden- 
 tial valet to give it to her. The man, who knew her perfectly, made no diffi- 
 culty about it, but gave it to her. 
 
 I got into my carriage with Blondeau, to carry the casket myself to M. de 
 Rochegune ; considering — though unhappily too late — that I had nothing now 
 to fear, even should chance reveal to him the contents of the letters. While 
 on the way, I reflected that M. de Rochegune wishing to keep his residence 
 a secret, it would be more prudent to go to him in a hackney-coach. Lest 
 the indiscretion of my servants, who might recognize Stok, should give him 
 any uneasiness, I took a hackney-coach, and sent away my own carriage ; — 
 we reached the Marais. 
 
 J thought it would give me a sad sort of pleasure, even to see the house in 
 which M. de Rochegune lived. We left the hackney-coach at the corner of 
 the rue St. Louis, and I walked with Blondeau, who carried the casket to 
 Stok. While she was discharging this commission, I examined, anxiously, 
 the exterior of that gloomy dwelling — its deserted air of desolation shocked 
 me. I was appalled to think of the hours of despair which must pass so tedi- 
 ously with him in that deserted house. 
 
 Blondeau delivered the casket to Stok, brought me some news of M. de 
 Rochegune, and we returned home. I went to make my adieu to Madame 
 de Richeville. Notwithstanding the grief which our separation caused us, 
 she had advised me, and I had determined to put an end — by going that very 
 morning to Maran — to the odious reports which the miserable folly of M. de 
 Senneville had produced. 
 
 Some days after my arrival, Madame de Richeville informed me of events, 
 the consequences of which might have been very serious to me. This is a 
 passage extracted from her letter : 
 
 " My nephew Gaston has been in so great danger, that, despite my indig- 
 nation, I could not refuse to go and see him, as he informed me he had a very 
 important confession to make to me. I found him in great suffering, having 
 been run through the body by M. de Rochegune, the effects of which wound 
 he will probably feel all his life. He confessed to me frankly, that yielding 
 to a wretched sentiment of vanity and pride, he had shamefully abused your 
 confidential matters of business with him, in order to destroy your reputation ; 
 and that his visit to you at the South, was a falsehood like all the rest. 
 
 " He entreated me, in case his wound should be mortal, to ask your pardon 
 in his behalf ; saying, that he had perceived and repented of the cowardice 
 of his falsehoods. And he tried to make out some title to your indulgence, 
 in the absolute discretion he has maintained concerning M. de Rochegune. 
 This is nearly the account he gave me of a scene, which might have had con- 
 sequences yet more fatal : 
 
 " ' I learned,' said Gaston to me, ' when I returned to my own house, that 
 my valet de chambre had given up to Madame Blondeau, the deposit which 
 her mistress had intrusted to me. I was mortified, nay, deeply wounded at 
 this procedure. I hurried to Madame de Lancry's — she had just gone out — 
 I was returning to my own house, when I saw her by mere chance, get out 
 of her own carriage with Madame Blondeau, and get into a hackney-coach. 
 This appearance of mystery, struck me with curiosity ; and I was going t» 
 follow it, when I met M. de Baudricotirt, a friend of mine, who has returned 
 very lately from the United States, where he has been remaining for some time. 
 Like many other persons, he had attached credit to my slanders of Madame de 
 
478 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Lancry — I disguised part of the truth from him, and persuaded him to assist 
 me in recovering the track of Madame de Lancry, which I had lost. Several 
 fantastic accidents, which it is unnecessary to relate to you, gave me the full 
 assurance that the casket had been deposited in the rue St. Louis, in the Ma- 
 rais, at the house of a certain Colonel Ulric. 
 
 " ' I confess to you, that stung by the consciousness of my bad action, 
 vaguely jealous of the unknown person to whom Madame de Lancry had 
 granted the confidence which she had withdrawn from me, and fearing, lastly, 
 to appear in a mean light in the eyes of M. de Baudricourt — who believed 
 the claims I asserted myself to possess over Madame de Lancry — I determined 
 to compel the restitution of the casket from this Colonel Ulric. I obtained 
 an interview with him, by the greatest exertions only. I was accompanied 
 by M. de Baudricort. 
 
 " ' Conceive my astonishment, at recognizing M. de Rochegune in the per- 
 son to whom I was introduced, as Colonel Ulric. My friend had never seen 
 him. I behaved then, as I think a gentleman should. . M. de Rochegune 
 knew me perfectly well, but did not appear to recognize me. My first sur- 
 prise over, I did the same toward him. He gave himself out to b*e Colonel 
 Ulric — I therefore thought it good taste, to take him as Colonel Ulric. M. 
 de Rochegune refused to give me up the letters, and our conference terminated 
 by an appointment to meet at Vincennes. 
 
 " ' Wishing, as much as possible, to humour the mystery with which M. 
 de Rochegune had surrounded himself, I took care to get for my second wit- 
 ness, Major-General Hartman, recently arrived from Vienna. M. de Roche- 
 gune had sent for two old soldiers, from a barrack in the neighbourhood, to 
 act as his seconds ; thus, both before, and during the duel, he remained 
 Colonel Ulric, in the eyes of all, and his secret was perfectly preserved.' " 
 
 " This is what my nephew told me, my dear Matilda, beseeching me to 
 intercede with you in his behalf, and to point out to you, his deep discretion 
 in this matter. Under that consideration, I am obliged to admit, that my 
 nephew Gaston has behaved like a gallant man, neither more nor less. But 
 tins in no respect, extenuates the baseness of his conduct toward you. Never 
 while I SVe, will I again see him. I give you these details, to encourage 
 you ; if, by any accident, you should hear this duel mentioned." 
 
 I have just finished reading this long narrative of my life, from my mar- 
 riage, until this day, the 10th of April, 1839. 
 
 Now, I am undecided. Shall 1 send these sad pages to him for whom I 
 have written thein ? Has the time arrived, in which I may be restored to 
 my right standing in his opinion? Is it the time to confess to him, how 
 much I have loved him ? How much I love him still ? Is not this confession 
 a crime ? 
 
 A crime ? No. What matters it, whether he knows that I love him ? That 
 I never have loved any* other ? 1 am certain now, of never becoming unwor- 
 thy either of myself or of him. 
 
 Moreover, I know not what to-morrow may bring forth to me. The day 
 before yesterday, I received a few lines from M. de Lancry, announcing his 
 return immediately. He may compel me to go with him, to quit France for 
 ever. What can I do ? I have consulted several lawyers — no means are left 
 to me of escaping from the power of M. de Lancry, if he choose to exert it. 
 
 If I should be reduced to this necessity — at least, let the man whom I love 
 — whom I esteem most in the world, know these my secret thoughts. He 
 will know that I have never been unworthy of him — he will know that I have 
 bravely sacrificed myself to the happiness of those whom I loved. Whatever 
 lot attend me, at least, I shall meet the candid judgment of my friends. 
 
 Were it not for the ominious presentiments which the threat of M. de Lan- 
 cry' s arrival has called forth in my mind, I should feel most happy, that I 
 have possessed the courage necessary to the achievement of these pages. 
 
 The long retrospect which I have taken of my life, has calmed me — has given 
 me, if not pride, at least, confidence in my character and in my energies. I 
 have taken fair account of my struggles — of my sufferings. I have not dis- 
 sembled the evil I have committed — I have not exaggerated the good I may 
 have done. 
 
 This severe analysis, this impartial inquiry into my life, has awakened in 
 me very piercing recollections ; but they left a perfect calm in my conscience. 
 This will be my sole consolation, this my sole refuge, if new evils should' 
 threaten to overwhelm me. 
 
THE CAFE LEBIEUF. 
 
 479 
 
 Such has been my life hitherto. 
 
 It will be clearly seen by him who reads thus far, that the detestable fore- 
 eight of Mademoiselle de Maran, has never failed her. She delegated to Ur- 
 sula and M. de Lancry, the prosecution of her hatred. All the woes of my 
 life have sprung from one or the other of these two beings. 
 
 Had she granted my hand to M. de Rochegune, who requested it — follow- 
 ing the advice of M. de Mortagne — Mademoiselle de Maran would have in- 
 sured the happiness of my life. That marriage was rejected — and my aunt 
 rendered me, as it were, an accomplice in her hatred, by inducing me to 
 urge my marriage with M. de Lancry. 
 
 End of the Memoiks of Matilda. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE CAFE LEBŒUF. 
 
 About a month had passed, since Madame Blondeau had brought the me- 
 moirs of Matilda to Colonel Ulric, to whom we shall henceforth restore his 
 proper title, of M. de Rochegune. 
 
 The cafe Lebœuf still presented, as usual, its bottles of preserved cherries, 
 and its bowls of silver plate, to the admiration of the passers-by, through its 
 windows. The hotel d Orbesson still looked as solitary as ever. Its sole 
 inhabitant, successfully styled Robin of the Woods, and the Vampire, by the 
 brothers Godet, had not yet passed the threshold of its doors, at least by day- 
 light. From time to time, the repulsive face of Stok showed itself at the 
 wicket-door. All the windows of the dwelling-house remained continually 
 closed. Madame Lebœuf, the brothers Godet, and the other frequenters of 
 the café, had ended by concluding a truce with the unknown enemy, as they 
 now called him: that is to say, they had abandoned their «ystcm of espial, a 
 sacrifice so much the more meritorious, because nothing new had transpired 
 since the visit of Madame Blondeau to M. de Rochegune. Every morning, 
 the brothers Godet came punctually, to take their cup of coffee, and augment 
 the respectable circle collected around the counter of Madame Lebœuf. On 
 the 13th of May, 1839— a fine spring morning— the two brothers, contrary to 
 their usual custom, arrived at the café two hours later than the others. 
 This serious alteration in their habit, had been caused by a polite invitation, 
 on the part of Madame Lebœuf ; who, within the last few days, had. given 
 them notice of a dejeuner dinatoire,* w*hich, from time to time, she was 
 wont to offer, as a stroke of policy, to her habitual guests. 
 
 Prepared for this gastronomical solemnity, by a long walk in the Jardin 
 des Plantes, the brothers Godet arrived at the café Lebœuf, admirably dis- 
 posed to do large honour to this treat of the hostess. At the distance of a 
 few steps from the establishment, M. Godet the elder, halted — put his um- 
 brella under his arm, raised his hat, wiped his forehead, and, with his power- 
 ful bass voice, said to his brother, in an imposing manner : " I will not con- 
 ceal from you, Theodore — the fine fresh air, thi3 walk, the glorious weather, 
 the spectacle of nature from the four corners of the world, which I have just 
 ceased to contemplate in the Jardin des Plantes, comprising their animals, 
 from the fowls of the air down' to the most venomous reptiles — all this has 
 given to me almost wolfish appetite." 
 
 " I am not surprised at that, my brother," replied M. Godet, the younger, 
 timidly ; " we rose early, and, as the romance says, while men where yet 
 virtuous, they loved to see the dawn." 
 
 At this moment, the two brothers were passing by the great door of the 
 hotel d' Orbesson. Godet the elder, cast a sarcastic glance at that side, and 
 said to his brother, with an expression of blood-thirsty irony : " If virtuous 
 persons love to look upon the dawn, sure am I that he who dwells in that 
 house, has rarely looked upon it breaking — the fair dawn." 
 
 The phrase was cutting. Theodore caught its import, and said softly 
 to his brother: " Be on thy guard, Godet, sometimes stonewalls have ears." 
 
 " If walls have ears, France has her laws !" exclaimed Godet the elder, in 
 a voice of thunder, addressing, with fierce emphasis, the great gate of the 
 
 * Dejeuner dinatoire, a late breakfast, after the manner of a dinner, coa- 
 •isting of hot-made dishes, sauces, wines, &c 
 
480 
 
 S4 ATI L DA. 
 
 hotel d'Orbesson, and casting' at it a glance of passionate defiance. " Yes," 
 he continued, " France has laws ! a constitutional government, and a muni» 
 cipal guard, which protect peaceable citizens, and watch, with an open and 
 paternal eye, over the individuals who lurk sullenly in darkness, to plot— 
 what, I know not — but that he is a plotter, I am certain — a dark plotter !" 
 
 " Godet — Godet — calm thyself, I conjure thee," said Theodore, terrified 
 by the audacity of his brother. 
 
 " Let him, if he choose — let him, I say, cause me to be massacred by his 
 bravos," said Godet the elder : " but let him feign the dead man, as long as 
 hè pleases — I will maintain him to be a plotter !" 
 
 After this energetical and valiant protestation, the two brothers entered 
 the café of Madame Leboeuf. Here commenced a series of surprises the 
 most appalling to them, that can be conceived. First, instead of the in- 
 genuous Boitard, that admirable fisher of spiders in decanters, they saw a 
 great lean man, with black beard and hair, and a most sinister visage, who 
 asked them, with a hoarse voice : " What shall I help you to ?" 
 
 Godet the elder, looked at his brother in surprise ; then recollecting him- 
 self, and supposing that Boitard was naturally engaged in the preparations 
 for the banquet, he replied, with a patronizing voice and manner: "My 
 good friend, we have come to the breakfast." 
 
 " What breakfast?" 
 
 Godet the elder, feeling himself on his own ground, instead of replying 
 to this absurd question, asked : " Where is the dear Madame Leboeuf?" 
 " Who's that— Madame Lebceuf ?" 
 
 " He is an absolute savage," said Godet, the elder, to Theodore ; and, 
 without answering a word more, he turned toward the back shop, wherein 
 the breakfast was to be served. 
 
 The substitute of Boitard seized the peaceable lottery-clerk violently by the 
 arm, and said to him — 
 
 •' Whither are you going then, that way ? You cannot pass." 
 
 Godet the elder turned crimson but restraining his rage, he replied, in 
 
 a tone of majestic contempt — 
 
 " My good friend, your play is horse-play, real horse-play ! but you are a 
 new hand here: you don't know that, if I were to say one word to Madame 
 Leboeuf " 
 
 "Ah ! ten thousand thunderbolts ! there is no Madame Lebceuf about the 
 place. Sit down here, and you will be served with what there is ; but you 
 won't go in there." 
 
 M. Godet had again sslf-command to controul his indignation, and he re- 
 plied, with a voice which he tried to render calm — 
 
 " Once, and for the Jast time, I state to you, that I am one of the mem- 
 bers of the breakfast party which is in preparation there within ; and I 
 charge you — yes, I charge you distinctly and aloud — immediately summon 
 your mistress." 
 
 " Look here, my jolly fellow ! if you were not an old fellow, this would 
 just get you sewed up with kicks in the belly," said the brutal individual, 
 turning his back upon M. Godet, the elder. 
 
 He, notwithstanding the supplications of his brother, could now contain 
 himself no longer. 
 
 " It costs me very dear — it tortures me, to debase myself so far as to com- 
 mit myself with a hireling ; but I cannot resist the desire of informing you 
 that you are an insolent scamp — that you ought to be the king of scamps!" 
 
 The waiter turned upon them so sharply, and with a gesture so threaten- 
 ing, that the two Godets give back a step, simultaneously ; but they, never- 
 theless, kept a defensive attitude, presenting their umbrella at their adver- 
 sary, as a soldier brings his bayonet to the charge. Notwithstanding this 
 movement, the waiter still advanced, threateningly. 
 
 " Do you wish me to make a hassoc of you, to kneel on ?" said the wretch, 
 making an offensive allusion to the complete nudity of the elder Godet's 
 bald scalp. 
 
 " Insolent malefactor ! is their nothing sacred in your eyes ?" cried M. 
 Godet, giving back a step again. At this noise, a new personage came upon 
 the scene — a middle-aged man, short and thick-set, bearded, red-faced, wear- 
 ing a round jacket, and a cap of otter skin. 
 
 " What is the matter now, John ?" said he to the waiter. 
 
 " M. Saunier, here are two nice customers, who insist on going in there 
 by force 5 they swear they belong to a breakfast party, and are asking for a 
 Madame Lebceuf; they must have been drinking." 
 
THB CAFE LEBŒUF. 
 
 481 
 
 "There is no one drunk here but yourself, rude person," said the elder 
 Oodet, slightly reassured by the presence of M. Saunier. 
 
 But M. Saunier said, almost as roughly as the waiter — 
 
 V Madame Lebœuf is no longer here. She has sold out to me. I don't 
 give a breakfast." 
 
 Had any one announced to M. Godet the actual resurrection of Napoleon, 
 it would not so have thunderstricken him, as did the news of the sudden re- 
 treat of Madame Lebœuf. 
 
 " But, Monsieur," he exclaimed, "this is entirely inadmissible — this falls 
 into the fabulous. I must have the honour to inform you that yesterday 
 evening, at three-quarters of an hour after eight o'clock, Madame Leboe 
 again reiterated to me the invitation which she had given me for " 
 
 " I tell you that Madame Lebœuf gave up to me her interest in this 
 her moveables, her baggage — in short, everything except her govr 
 caps, of which neither John nor I could make any use : and that 
 evening, she took herself off, at ten o'clock." 
 
 " It is, nevertheless, quite as extraordinary, monsieur, that, conîm^ n». 
 very much inclined for breakfast, we " 
 
 " To what will you be helped ? I have no time to gossip. John, wait upon 
 these gentlemen." 
 
 And, with these words, M. Saunier entered the back shop, of which he 
 shut the door, carefully. 
 
 " Well, help us to whatever you please — some milk, a bavaroise*-^-! don't 
 care what," said M. Godet the elder, with a bewildered air, letting himself 
 fall upon a bench, and raising his hands to heaven. 
 
 " There is no bavaroise," said John. 
 
 " How ! is it possible ? no bavarpise ! so, so: well, give us coffee with hot 
 milk," said Godet, with a deep sigh. 
 
 " There is no coffee with hot milk, either." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " There is nothing but chocolate in cakes, coffee in grains* brandy cherries, 
 and sugared water!" 
 
 " But this is alarming — dreadful ! People don't open coffee-houses when 
 they can only offer to consumers such psovender as this 1" cried Godet the 
 elder. 
 
 "Thunder of Heaven! ^t't consume, then! What difference does it 
 make to us, whether v Z consume, or no ?" 
 
 These last word* appeared to make a lively impression on the elder 
 Godet ; he cast a glance of keen intelligence on his brother, and said to 
 John : 
 
 " Well, give us a cake of chocolate, a glass of sugared water, and some 
 bread." 
 
 Evidently John was an absolute stranger to the first principles of his pro- 
 fession. He brought the sugar in a cup, the chocolate in a bit of old news- 
 paper, and the water in a bottle. At the sight of these enormities, the Godets 
 exchanged glances of astonishment — almost of terror. 
 
 A few faithful and habitual guests, invited like the brothers, to the break- 
 fast of Madame Lebœuf, soon learned from them the sudden disappearance 
 of the hostess, and who were the savages — that was the expression of M. 
 Godet the elder — who had taken the place of the widow, always so attentive 
 to her customers, and of her faithful and inoffensive Boitard. 
 
 The Messrs. Godet, and the friends, while munching their cakes of choco- 
 late, abandoned themselves to the most fabulous suppositions, touching the 
 disappearance of the widow, and the apparition of her strange successors. 
 Some leaned to the idea of an. abduction, perpetrated by an Englishman, or 
 an American. As Theodore sagely observed, that the age and personal ap- 
 pearance of Madame Lebœuf, would seem to give the lie direct to this sup- 
 position ; an ex-reporter of the Ambigu, profoundedly versed in the deepest 
 mysteries of the human heart, thought himself bound to observe, that 
 neither the age> nor the personal appearance of Madame Lebœuf could be 
 considered obstacles to her abduction ; since it was a known fact, that many 
 most amazingly rich milords carried their tastes to the most lamentable 
 pitch of depravity. Little flattering as was this conclusion to Madame 
 Lebœuf, it brought over a considerable majority ; but conjectures even failed 
 when they began to ask — who could be the successor of the worthy widow ? 
 Every thing in their conduct seemed mysterious. In the first place, they 
 
 * A Bavaroise is tea, sweetened with syrup of capilaire, instead of sugar. 
 
 2T 
 
482 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 seemed to care little about their consumers. Why then keep a coffee- 
 house?" 
 
 John the Brutal, constantly looked out into the street, and his eyes were 
 never turned from the two doors of the vampire's house. The old servant 
 Stok opened the wicket to the caterer ; John instantly left the door, went to 
 find his master, brought him, and pointing to Stok — 
 
 "He is there still, notwithstanding " 
 
 ■ " His soul, then, must be rivetted to his body !" answered Saunier. 
 
 The wicket gate closed, and Stok disappeared. A few hours later, a very 
 ill-looking man came hastily into the café, and said to John : 
 
 " Attention ! I am but a minute or two a-head of her. He was right when 
 he said she would come !" 
 
 "I believe you; the mousetrap is excellently well set," said John. 
 " Simon is at the little gate in the alley — they cannot escape us." 
 
 The two speakers, and the customers, who had not lost a word of this con- 
 versation, gazed earnestly through the windows. 
 
 "Theodore! Theodore !" cried Godet, the elder: "quick! quick! it is 
 the same old woman who brought the casket to the vampire about four 
 months ago, and a month since, a letter doubtless. How frightened she 
 looks !" 
 
 It was indeed Madame Blondeau — pale and trembling with agitation. 
 
 She rang, and was received by the faithful Stok, and admitted into the 
 interior of the hotel d'Orbesson. 
 
 " Good !" said the companion of John. " What o'clock ?" 
 
 John pulled out his watch. " She went in there at, twenty minutes after 
 twelve." 
 
 " Enough," said the man. " I return to the hotel Meurice, where they 
 alighted this morning at ten:" and he left the café. 
 John hurried precipitately into the back shop. 
 
 When the fierce curiosity of the guests of the café Lebœuf is considered — 
 when it is remembered, that for several months this curiosity had been kept 
 alive only on the most meagre diet, it will be readily understood by how 
 raging a fever the Godets and their company were attacked, when the myste- 
 rious intrigue, which they fancied at an end, broke out again ; renewed and 
 complicated, more by the strange interest apparently taken in it by the new 
 possessors of the café Lebœuf. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE HOTEL DE M ARAN. 
 
 While the new proprietors and the ancient guests of the café Lebœuf, kept 
 their eyes rivetted on the doors of the house inhabited by M. de Rochegune, 
 we will conduct the reader to the hotel de Maran, wherein still dwelt the 
 aunt of M. de Lancry. 
 
 Night was drawing near. A table abundantly and magnificently covered, 
 was laid for dinner, in a large servant's room, exceedingly well lighted, imme- 
 diately adjoining the great dining-room. 
 
 Servien, the maitre d'hotel, presided at the dinner table ; two lady's maids, 
 two footmen, the eook, and two or three of their acquaintances, were feast- 
 ing at the expense of Mademoiselle de Maran, who had been for several 
 months confined to her bed by paralysis, which merely allowed her to move 
 her left arm. As it has been already stated in the memoirs of Madame de 
 Lancry, Mademoiselle de Maran, hated by every one, and deserted by all 
 the world, was abandoned entirely to the mercy of her servants. 
 
 " To your good health, Monsieur Servien," said the cook ; " all honour to 
 all lords ! You are the oldest of us all in the house — you are." 
 
 The man with the birth-stain, rose and said, with a singularly ironical air : 
 
 "To the health of our good. mistress, may she live long - , just as she is, to 
 make us happy !" 
 
 His toast was received with bursts of laughter by all the guests. 
 
 "By-the-by ! that puts me in mind," said' the cook, "that I forgot her 
 tapioca soup — ah ! but," he added, " she must eat turtle soup— that will do 
 just as well— and it will be a change for her. There is some left in the 
 tureen." 
 
 At this moment a bell rang violently in the room— but no one stirred. 
 
^ii HOTKL DE M ARAN. 
 
 483 
 
 "Good! she i» ^ust beginning her chimes to be answered instantly— that 
 will amuse us ;" said Mademoiselle Julie, first lady's, maid to Mademoiselle 
 Imuran. 
 
 The bell rang a second time. 
 
 M This is intolerable ; I thought she had been quieted," said Mademoiselle 
 Julie ; " we cannot dine in peace. This is not very amiable of y'ou Monsieur 
 Servien ; you promised us to break the wires once for all, so that we couW 
 have a little peace — but you never think of it." 
 
 " The fact is," said the cook, " that she is become a ringer — a finish 
 ringer — as good a ringer as the best of them." 
 
 Three or four violent peals of the bell, seemed to confirm this assertion. a> 
 the cook. 
 
 " Positively there is nothing else left ' ; * " «° : d Servien. "You are 
 right, Mademoiselle Julie ; we must bre&i tne *«.es, and then we shall 
 have some rest." 
 
 " We can leave her a little hand-bell to amuse herself with," said Made- 
 moiselle Julie ; " the doors well closed, we shall not hear it." 
 
 " Yes ; but madam will send fora locksmith," said a footman, who wanted 
 to be thought clever ; " he will soon mend the wires, and then " 
 
 " Upon my word! you have not rid of our village yet, M. Goujon," 
 said Mademoiselle Julie. " I wonder who will hear her? with her lock- 
 smith ! She will order some one to go, perhaps you will say ? Well ! no one 
 will go — and we will tell her " 
 
 " We will tell her that there is an epidemic which has carried off all the 
 locksmiths," said M. Servien. 
 
 This sally made the guests laugh to such a degree, that the peals of Made- 
 moiselle de Maran's bell, which had gone up in a crescendo furioso, were 
 completely smothered for some moments ; but when the mirth had abated 
 somewhat, a dull chiming was heard, again audible amid the din. 
 
 " There is no way of enduring this," said Mademoiselle Julie. 
 
 " Oh ! she is a ringer— a capital ringer she is !" said the cook. 
 
 " It is now that she is gnashing her teeth prettily, and wriggling about in 
 her bed for rage, like a demoniac," said Goujon. 
 
 " Yes ; wriggling indeed," said Servien — " I defy her to wriggle — she 
 cannot even stir in her bed. It is her left hand only that she can wag." 
 
 " Well ! she makes up for it bravely with her left hand," said the cook. 
 " Listen I listen ! do you hear her bacchanalian fits ? Well 1 well ! I stick 
 to what I said, she is a rare ringer." 
 
 "Yes; but it is enough to drive one mad," said Mademoiselle Julie. 
 " Oh 1 now that I think of it, just take the library steps ; the' bell wire 
 passes through here, we can cut it, and then we shall be quiet." 
 
 The guests applauded this brilliant idea of the lady's maid all the more, 
 because the ringing of Mademoiselle de Maran became convulsive, incessant, 
 and interrupted only by short intervals of repose, which Mademoiselle Julie, 
 who figured herself a little on her musical talents, called the stops of the 
 organ. 
 
 Goujon brought the ladder ; Servien intrusted to him a pair of pincers for 
 opening champagne bottles ; the wire was cut in the midst of a formidable 
 jingling, and the noise stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Heavens! what a figure she must cut in her hat of Carmelite silk," 
 said Mademoiselle Julie, roaring with laughter. " I would not be near her 
 just now for something — she would bite me, surely !" 
 
 " And that is a bite that would be venomous," said the cook. 
 
 " But why is it that Madam persists in wearing a silk hat, and a puce 
 gown in bed, since it is more than two months that she has not risen at 
 all ?" asked Goujon. 
 
 "It is a vow she has made to the devil," said M . Servien, with a serio- 
 comic air. 
 
 "The fact is, that if the devil is her godfather, she is assuredly his god- 
 child," said Mademoiselle Julie. "Malicious, I fancy she is malicious! 
 She never tormented us, when she was well. Oh, no ! not in the least ! 
 She never played the skin-flint with us. Oh, no ! nor treated us like brutes ! 
 Oh! not at all. Well! it is our turn now !" 
 
 "What makes her furious," added M. Servien, "is it that she cannot 
 write to Monsieur Luchet, her man of business, that great fat snob, to whom 
 she was always complaining of us ? She may well c rder me to write for him 
 to come. No such fool as that am I !" 
 
MATILDA.. 
 
 " Daddy Fabré, the porter, sent him about his business eight days ago," 
 said Goujon. 
 
 " I had given him a hint to do so, in case he should come of his own ac- 
 cord, this M. Luchet, confounded intriguer that he is. You must perceive, 
 my children, that madam is quite capable of having him installed here per- 
 manently. All then would be up with us ; instead of sitting here com- 
 fortably in the offices of the dining - room, with a capital dinner of two, 
 courses, w; should have to go down to the kitchen offices. We should not 
 have half the pleasures we enjoy." 
 
 " Tell me now, M. Servien," said Mademoiselle Julie, " why should we 
 not tell her the same thing about M. Luchet, as about the locksmith — that 
 he is dead ? — that there has been an epidemic which has killed all the men 
 of business too ?" 
 
 " By Jove 1 there could be no denial to it ; we should be in peace then. 
 And, on the other side, we could tell M. Luchet that madam does not wish 
 to see him any more, and there would be an end to it. If he should write, 
 as I know his handwriting, I would not deliver his letters — and there would 
 be an end of that, too !" 
 
 " Yes I but we must take good care of madam's dear friends, who might, 
 perhaps, tell her that there is no truth in these epidemics," said Mademoi- 
 selle Julie, with a malicious smile. 
 
 "As to that, who comes to visit her ?" said M. Goujon. " For the last 
 two months I have been here, no one has come to see her but the old sa van, 
 who never combs his hair." 
 
 " The Bisson ! the breakall !" said Servien ; "he is the only one who re- 
 mains faithful. He has been here at least three times since the house was 
 shut up, and has always been told madam was worse. Ah ! what a differ- 
 ence since the time of Madame Ursula — balls ! concerts ! dinners I How 
 they kept up then ! They danced, and sung, and dined so much, that there 
 remained to me out of it all a pretty little farm in Beauce." 
 
 "Ah! so much for economy," said Mademoiselle Julie. " But, really, it 
 is enough to break one's heart to think of that poor Madame Ursula." 
 
 " If I had to pity any one, I should rather pity Madame la Viscomtesse, 
 madam's niece, whom she tormented so barbarously when she was little," 
 said M. Servien. 
 
 " As to that, you would gain a great deal," said Mademoiselle Julie, " by 
 pitying Madame la Viscomtesse. Did you not see how madam disputed 
 with her physician, Dr. Gerard, because he spoke well of Madame de Lan- 
 cry 1 Madam abused M. Gerard to such a degree, that he declared he would 
 never enter her doors again." 
 
 "And to punish her, instead of going the next day for Dr. Verteuil," 
 said Servien, " I did not go at all. Bah ! a physician would have been a bore 
 to us." 
 
 " Tell me," said Mademoiselle Julie, " is a physician of any use to a per- 
 son who is paralytic ?" 
 
 " It is not a sickness, paralysis," said Goujon. " They don't move — they 
 don't move, that's all. It is the same as being very quiet — very quiet, that's 
 all!" 
 
 " To be sure," replied Julie ; " and then, it was not worth the trouble of 
 having a physician, on account of the few things that Dr. Gerard used to 
 order. Little bottles with orange flower — little make-believe drugs, just to 
 amuse her." 
 
 "The fact is, that for the fifteen days she has been without a physician, 
 Bhe has been just as well as while she had one," said M. Servien. "It 
 may last a long time yet. Hunchbacks always die hard — they are like cats. 
 We shall always have enough to pay our expenses. I have long been in the 
 custom of giving receipts to madam's farmers. I take just enough to pre- 
 vent us from wanting anything ; the rest I put into madam's coffers." 
 
 " As to that, we are very well here — very well," said Mademoiselle 
 Julie ; " only we ought to take a little boy to wait on us at table, for it is a 
 bore to have to get up every moment." 
 
 " That's just it," said the cook ; " I would dress the dishes — my kitchen- 
 maid would give the things to the urchin, and then we should dine olf hot 
 dishes." 
 
 "Adopted!" said Servien. By-the-bye," he continued, " since the death 
 of her last dog, madam is at me every day to buy her another." 
 
 " Ahl I will have no more dogs here. I will have no more dogs here. I 
 have been long enough waiting on animals," cried Mademoiselle Julie. 
 
 " Besides, it was not to have another, that I finished the last." 
 
THE HOTEL OB MARAN. 
 
 " So ! so ! so 1 it was you, then, who was the cause of his choking ?" said 
 Servien. 
 
 " Of course, always— the spiteful, cross old beast was a perfect curse." 
 
 "Decidedly, then — no dog?" inquired Servien. 
 
 "No, no! n> dogl" repeated the company, in chorus. 
 
 " Adopted I said the maitie d'hotel. " I will tell her, they have been car. 
 lied off by the same epidemic, which has swept off the locksmiths, the men 
 of business, and the physicians." 
 
 This witticism made the guests, who were now at their dessert, laugh 
 very heartily. 
 
 " Look you, how i s this, pray ? there is no Cyprus wine — this is a very 
 pretty dessert," said Mademoiselle Julie. 
 
 Monsieur Servien looked at the table. " I thought I had taken a bottle 
 from madam's room," he said. 
 
 " What a habit it is, to keep her Cyprus wine in the cupboard of her great 
 dressing-table, while all the other wines are in the store-room or the cellar." 
 
 " It is a notion she has — don't talk to me about it. It moves my pity," 
 said Servien. Then he rose from his seat, saying, " I will go and get some." 
 
 " I say, Monsieur Servien, let us take her soup at the same time— it will 
 be killing two birds with one stone," said Mademoiselle Julie. 
 
 " You are right. What o'clock is it ? — nine o'clock — she wanted it at 
 half-past eight — only half an hour too late." 
 
 The cook carelessly poured the remains of the turtle soup into* a china 
 plate. Servien took a napkin, spread it upon a waiter, made Mademoiselle 
 Julie go before him carrying a taper, and crossed the three drawing-rooms, 
 which separated the dining-room from Mademoiselle de Maran's bed- 
 chamber. 
 
 Night had completely set in. 
 
 " Take care, I beg you, Monsieur Servien — take care that she does not 
 devour you, when you go to carry her the soup ;" said Mademoiselle Julie, 
 laughing, and opening the door. 
 
 The interior of the room was such as it has been described by Madame de 
 Lancry in her memoirs. On the chimney-pieces, Chinese images of green 
 porcelain, with red eyes always in motion — on the old writing desk of Japan- 
 work, three generations of stuffed-dogs — and grave pictures of characters of 
 past ages standing out of the dark wainscoting. 
 
 By the feeble light of the taper which Mademoiselle Julie carried, the 
 yellow billious face of Mademoiselle de Maran might be discovered, as she 
 sat in her bed, propped up by a great cushion, at the bottom ot an alcove 
 hung with dark crimson damask. She always wore the eternal dress of grey 
 ailk ; the same mantelet, the same tour of false black hair, half-covering her 
 flat forehead, which receded like that of a viper. Her sunken eyes, however, 
 were bright and keen as ever ; and at the moment when Servien came in, 
 they were sparkling with unutterable fury. 
 
 The position of this woman was the more hideous, that her paralysis only 
 permitted the use of her neck, and her left arm below the elbow* The rest 
 ot her body was completely lifeless. 
 
 The imprecations which she began to vomit forth against Servien and 
 Mademoiselle Julie, were accompanied only by a feeble swinging of the head, 
 and some convulsive shakings of the left hand. 
 
 "Wretch!" she shrieked, foaming with fury. " Frightful scoundrel ! Is 
 it my death then, that you wish for ! — robber and assassin that you are ?" 
 
 Servien approached the bed with imperturbable self-possession,, to set down 
 the waiter on it. 
 
 This silence redoubled the exasperation of Mademoiselle de Maran, who 
 cried out : 
 
 " Begone ! Get out ! I discharge you ! Never let me see you again !" 
 Servien turned on his heel, made a sign to Mademoiselle Julie, and re- 
 turned to the door. 
 
 " But the Cyprus wine ?" cried she, in a whisper. 
 ** Never mind; she will call me back." 
 
 " Servien ! Servien ! Julie ! Will you not come to me ? Oh 1 wretches ! 
 wretches I they have conspired to destroy me by a slow fire !" 
 
 Servien wheeled round again, and came back, with the same slow and 
 solemn step, with his waiter. 
 
 Mademoiselle perceived the necessity of keeping down her rage. 
 
 " What o'clock is if ? At what time did I order my tapioca?" 
 
 2 T 3 
 
4S6 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " I -waited for Madcm to ring," said Servien, placing the waiter on tbe 
 bed, 
 
 " Madam generally rings for light," said Mademoiselle Julie, ingenuously; 
 Mademoiselle de Maran raised her eyes to heaven, and said, in a smo- 
 thered voice : 
 
 " They will kill me ! they will kill me ! I shall die of rage ! How ? Dia 
 I not ring? — ring for half an hour, till lhad almost broken my arm?"— she 
 shrieked, with an explosion of fury that no words can describe. 
 
 "Did madam ring?" asked Servien. 
 
 " Madam, perhaps, fancied she rung," said Mademoiselle Julie. 
 
 " Fancied I rung ! Do you hear the stupid brute ? the wretched liar ? 
 Fancied I rung ; I tell you I rung half it hour, hard enough to break every- 
 thing—she-devil that you are !" 
 
 " That is it," said Servien; "in ringing so violently, madam unquestion- 
 ably broke the wires, and we heard nothing of it." 
 
 " And whose fault is it, that I broke the wire, you animal ? Is is not 
 yours ? For above half an hour, I have been in the dark ; and you know 
 that I have the horrors in the dark. Well ! come now, light the candles ; 
 instead of standing there, gaping to catch jackdaws, you great stupid she- 
 bittern, that you are !" 
 
 Instead of obeying, Mademoiselle Julie took up the corner of her apron, 
 pretending to cry ; ran to the door, and disappeared, exclaiming, in a voice 
 interrupted by fits of sobbing — 
 
 " 1 cannot accustom myself to be treated in this manner — hi — hi — hi — " 
 
 " Julie ! Julie ! wili you come hither ? Ah ! the wretch," exclaimed Ma- 
 demoiselle de Maran; " I will not have her stay a moment longer in the 
 house. I will not have her here ! Discharge her! Kick her out of the door ! 
 — not to-night, but this instant ! Do you hear me, Servien ?" 
 
 "Yes, madam; but be calm — tranquillize yourself." And, after having 
 placed the waiter on a bed-table which he set before Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 he went to the closet to get a bottle of Cyprus wine. He was closing the 
 cupboard, when he heard a noise as of a plate broken upon the floor, and the 
 voice of Mademoiselle de Maran, in a new fit of fury : 
 
 "Servien ! Servien !" 
 
 " What is it, madam ?" 
 
 '* Tell me — do you wish to poison me ? Oh ! it is dreadful ! What soup 
 is that?" 
 
 " What is this ? Madam has thrown it into the middle of the room ! and 
 the plate too ! Here it is, all over the carpet !" 
 
 " You give me turtle soup ? Turtle soup to a sick woman ! You want to 
 kill me, infamous cheat that you are !" 
 
 Servien — imagining, probably, that his friends were becoming impatient 
 for him — left the room under the same pretext as Mademoiselle Julie, saying, 
 in a grieved and heartfelt tone of sadness : 
 
 " It is a hard thing for an old and faithful servant, to hear himself called 
 such names ; it cuts me too deeply, to hear madam speak thus to me. I 
 had rather go away." And he disappeared, closing the door respectfully 
 behind him. 
 
 " Servien ! Servien ! will you come back ? Ah ! my God ! what is that 
 bottle he is carrying away with him ? Servien ! Oh dear, it is my Cyprus 
 wine. Servien ! ah, the infernal thieves ! the wretches ! I choke with 
 rage!" 
 
 She seized the bell-rope, with a painful effort ; but soon cast it from her, 
 crying, "It is broken, they will not come. Ah ! what shall I do ? Alone — 
 alone — no one to deliver me from this scum of the earth. They iusult me, 
 they torture me, they plunder me — and I can do nothing. Alone— old — 
 impotent— deserted by every one ! 
 
 " If I should discharge these, and hire others, it would be still the same. 
 I have no one to support me — no one to take my part. Ah ! my God ! how 
 wretched I am ! At my age, sick, deprived even of the commonest cares ! 
 I eat nothing in the world hut a little wretched soup, and even that, I can- 
 not get. Oh ! my God ! my God ! that I should be suffering with hunger, 
 in my own house, in the midst of my servants. Oh ! it is horrid — horrid 
 Servien — Servien ! Nothing ! they will not come. Is there no justice then, 
 left upon the earth or in Heaven ? Oh ! what barbarity is this ! Oh ! what 
 atrocity ! Oh ! it is too atrocious ! Even the lowest woman of the lowest 
 common people, when she falls sick, has a family to take care of her. But 
 I— no one I no one 1 I am reduced to the very impotence of rjige— to foar* 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 487 
 
 Rt the mouth with fury I and thus it is, day after day! Servien ! Servien. 
 It a?ails not to call — they will not hear me 1 Oh ! the wretches ! My God 
 — what shall I do ? I will cry help — and fire — yes ! yes ! perhaps they will 
 then come !" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran then began to scream with a broken and quaver, 
 ing voice, " Help ! fire 1 fire;" 
 
 Her voice, weakened already by her exertions and her rage, did not reach 
 the ears of her people— all continued silent. 
 
 The hideous face of Mademoiselle de Maran grew now positively livid with, 
 terror— the pale light of the candle was scarcely sufficient to scatter the ob- 
 scurity which reigned throughout the vast old-fashioned chamber. Like aL 
 base and bad conscience- stricken persons, Mademoiselle de Maran was terri- 
 fied by darkness. 
 
 " Help !" she repeated, in a languid tone, " help ! fire !" 
 
 After a moment of deep silence, she again ejaculated, in absolute despair ; 
 
 "They do not come — I shall burn — I shall die— they will let me die and 
 burn 1 Ah! my God ! Die ! It is terrible to die — to die thus alone — with 
 not a person near you but varlets, who but wait for your last breath, to pil- 
 lage you! To die ! to die! and afterward— afterward ! Oh, no ! afterward 
 there is nothing — there is nothing !" 
 
 At this moment— her eyes, bewildered with terror, were arrested by the 
 portrait of one of her ancestresses, who had once been abbess of the Ursu- 
 lines, at Blois. This face, pale, and almost sepulchral, and strangely set off 
 by its black wood seemed to start from its frame. Mademoiselle de Maran 
 felt all her fears redoubling. Her solitary position and the sight of the nun, 
 combined to give her for the moment some fleeting fancies of religion, which 
 her odious selfishness soon rendered unavailing. 
 
 " My God ! have pity on me !" — she exclaimed: ** I will become religious 
 — I will pray — I will have an almoner — a confessor — he shall never leave me 
 — he shall take care of me — he shall rid me of these scoundrel servants — he 
 shall defend me — he will be society for me — yes ! I will swear it to thee, oh ! 
 my God. But how shall I get him— this priest ? — who will send for him ? — 
 It is in vain to tell these wretches — these villains who disobey my orders. It 
 is a fortnight since I have been asking for the doctor — they strive with each 
 other who shall best disobey me — and to whom shall I complain ? who will 
 defend me ? I am alone — always alone ! I believe it, that every one hates 
 me — who will come, then, to a poor old suffering wretched woman? It was 
 well so long as I gave them fêtes ; so long even as I could hurt them : now 
 they fear me no longer — they detest me — they avenge themselves for the inju- 
 ries I have done them — ah I it is terrible. But — hush ! — I hear a noise — a 
 carriage — a carriage stops before my gate— my God ! what happiness ! — but 
 they will let no one in — they will send it away — no ! no ! it remains — they 
 have shut the door again ! I am saved ! If it should be the physician to 
 whom I have so long been waiting — steps — yes ! — yes 1 — I hear steps ! It is 
 some one ! my God ! my God — It is some one !" 
 
 In truth, the sound of hurried footsteps did come up to the door, and 
 Madame de Lancry, throwing it violently open, rushed into the ro_om of 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, followed by Servien. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 "Matilda! it is the good God, who sends you!" cried Mademoiselle de 
 Maran — " come to my help I" 
 
 " It is I, madam," answered Madame de Lancry quite exhausted, and 
 running up to her aunt's bed. " It is I, who come to beseech you to save 
 me— my husband will be here directly — save me, for pity save me!" 
 
 Servien disappeared. 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! I will save you, my child — but we will never quit each other 
 any more !" cried Mademoiselle de Maran ; "you shall see — you shall see — 
 I will be as good to you as I used to be malicious ! But you will not aban- 
 don your poor old aunt to her executioners — you will not — will you î If I 
 could throw myself upon my knees before you, I would do so — to îrrplore 
 you ! Whatever you would have me, I will do — I swear it to you ! But do 
 uot leave me alone— you know not to how horrible a life I am condemned !" 
 
MATILI>A< 
 
 In spite of her terror, Matilda could not; help being struck by these words, 
 and by the accent of despair in which Mademoiselle de Maran uttered 
 them. 
 
 " Madam," she replied precipitately, "my moments are precious to me. 
 I come to ask you, what you seem anxious about for yourself? You are 
 my nearest kinswoman ; perhaps they will not refuse to let me remain 
 with you." 
 
 " Can it indeed be true ? My God !" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Maran, 
 overpowered with joy and astonishment. " Do you wish to remain with me ?" 
 
 " Yes 1 yes ! madam !" exclaimed the miserable woman — " everything, 
 rather than Oh ! it is too horrible !" 
 
 Then, she continued, after a moment's pause— 
 
 " But, he has the law— he has the strength with him. Oh ! I will kill my- 
 self rather— yes ! I will kill myself rather than follow him !" 
 
 "Nol no! do not follow him! remain with me, Matilda; — my fortune, 
 all my fortune, belonged to you this long time past. I intended it for you, 
 it is true —very true. But I will give the whole of it up to you now ; while 
 I am living — the whole of it, if you will not leave me !" 
 
 The terror which had taken possession of Matilda, was so absolute, that 
 she was not shocked at Mademoiselle de Maran's proposal. She dreamed 
 only of escaping from her husband. 
 
 " But he may force me to accompany him — as he has done already," she 
 cried. 
 
 " No — no — no — he cannot. We will have lawyers, do you see — the best — 
 we will not care what it costs us. We will put in our plea— we will care 
 nothing — nothing — for expenses, so that I keep my sweet niece near me — 
 my beloved child ! for you are indeed almost my child — the daughter of my 
 brother, whom I loved so dearly." 
 
 " But in one hour, madam, within one hour, perhaps, my husband will be 
 here. The day before yesterday he came to Maran, to seize me ; I refused to 
 accompany him — he went to find the mayor, and then I was obliged to ac- 
 company M. de Lancry. As soon as we arrived here, at the hotel Meurice, 
 with Blondeau, whom he permitted me to bring with us, he told me to wait 
 —that we should stay but twelve hours in Paris — as long as should be neces- 
 sary to get our passports in due form, and to obtain the powers which the 
 law gives him. He insists on having in his own hands, the means necessary 
 to compel me, in case I should refuse, to follow him." 
 
 " Well, then, my child, you must hide yourself here. He will not know 
 that you have come." 
 
 " Every step that I take is watched, madam ; he has told me, himself, 
 that I cannot escape from him — that he shall know where to recover me. 
 Nevertheless, the moment he left me, I flew to the Duchess de Richeville, 
 who advised me to come hither, to yield to nothing but force ; and when the 
 magistrates come, to implore them to let me remain with you, my nearest 
 kinswoman, until I may be able to prove the infamy of M. de Lancry' s con- 
 duct toward me." 
 
 " She is right ! that good — that excellent duchess ! She is entirely right — 
 the magistrates can never refuse you that. What ! tear a niece from her 
 aunt? No! no! you shall never quit me. How generous that will be of 
 you — how noble ! after all the evils that have been done to you — you are so 
 good— you have a mind so noble! And then it is so noble to forgive — and 
 again I am so unhappy. Fancy to yourself, my dear child, that I am the vie- 
 tim of these miserable slaves who surround me. Listen to what a pitch they 
 have carried their cruelties : I had a dog — a poor dog— which loved me ; the 
 only creature in the world that did not hate me. In my solitude it was my 
 only joy, my only consolation ; with him I was not utterly alone. Well, they 
 had the barbarity to kill him. Yes ! I am sure of it. They poisoned him — 
 for since his death, I have ordered them to buy me another, and they have 
 not obeyed me. Is that credible ? — it nevertheless is so. Picture to your- 
 self a person here, refusing to obey me — and yet what is it to them, whether 
 I have a dog or no ? But to whom could I complain ? They do not let a 
 soul come near me. But when you shall be here, they will respect me— you 
 will awe them — you will compel them to obey my commands — you will com- 
 pel them to respect your poor infirm aunt — will you not ?" 
 
 'i Silence !" said Matilda, suddenly. " A carriage — it is he ! it is he !" 
 
 "No! nol" said Mademoiselle de Maran ; "the carriage passes by: but 
 what would he do to you, this monster ? — for he is a monster, do you know ? 
 never could you say too much ill of him ! Ah I if you knew him as I know 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 4H9 
 
 him. Ah ! now I repent sadly, that I ever consented to your marriage with 
 him ; but your head was set upon it, you poor little thing. Ah J it will be 
 the grief of my whole life that I gave you to such a thief — a forger — a robber. 
 Ah ! I could cry for it — yes I could cry tears of blood. But what does he 
 want with you now, this wretch ? Has he not already squandered your for- 
 tune?" 
 
 " What does he want, madam ? he wants to sell me to M. Lugarto," cried 
 Madame de Lancry, terrified. 
 
 " Ah I Matilda, that is abominable 1" 
 
 " I tell you, that for money, this man is capable of doing anything," cried 
 Matilda : " he is a most infamous wicked man. To satisfy the hatred which 
 that fiend bears — hatred which he himself now partakes, my husband would 
 not recoil from any crime. As he came hither, he made me his confidant in 
 horrible revelations, telling me that no one heard him ; that if I spoke of 
 them he would deny them; that no one would believe me. And yet, madam, 
 such is the law which men have made, that it will force me to accompany 
 this man, who leads me but to my own dishonor — but to death — for I will 
 kill myself, rather than remain in the power of these two men ! If I kill my- 
 self, God will take pity on me. But — listen — listen — this time — oh ! this 
 time — it is, indeed, a carriage which is stopping here !" cried Matilda, ter- 
 rified. 
 
 " It is, indeed, my child, a carriage which has stopped. But perhaps it 
 may be the physician whom I am waiting for : a most infamous, wicked 
 man ; for they have also had the atrocity to refuse to get me the physician 
 for whom I sent them." 
 
 " No ! no ! it is he I — ah ! it is he ! He must have caused me to be 
 followed ; he must have discovered where I was — he told me so ! he told me 
 so!" 
 
 " My God ! there may be something to be done yet. I will send Servien 
 to bring some lawyers immediately. At all events, dear little girl, resist, 
 resist to the last ; yield to nothing but force. Ah ! if my people were but 
 devoted to me, I would have him thrown out of the window. Wretch ! 
 monster that he is ! who comes to tear from me my dearest child !" 
 
 Matilda was not mistaken ; M. de Lancry entered the room of Mademoi- 
 selle de Maran. Although he had grown very fat, his figure was still grace- 
 ful ; he was dressed with ultra taste and nicety — almost effeminately. Not- 
 withstanding his fatness, his face was haggard ; his eyes were sunken, blink- 
 ing, and surrounded by dark circles ; his face once so full of fresh life, and 
 intellect, and gay good-humour, had now a character of soft purring ferocity. 
 The bloodiest and most effeminate emperors of old Rome must have worn 
 some such an aspect — both sickening and disgusting. His voice, formerly so 
 proud and insolent, had become honeyed ; a soft and affected lisp rendered 
 it yet more disgusting. 
 
 He advanced to the bed of Mademoiselle de Maran, took her hand and 
 kissed it. 
 
 " What charming fortune this day brings together the happy couple whom 
 you united ?" 
 
 " Let me alone, with your soft flute-like voice, and your affectations," 
 said Mademoiselle de Maran. " you frighten me ; you are like a tiger play- 
 ing the sentimental. Why do you come hither to torment this poor woman ? 
 First, I can tell you, she wishes to remain here with me — with her dear aunt 
 — do you understand ? I am her father's sister, and you shall not take her 
 away, I promise you !" 
 
 " Is it indeed so, my beautiful, well-beloved?" said he, addressing Ma- 
 tilda with an air of mincing coxcombry, both cruel and full of mockery ; 
 *« you must be very much afraid of me, truly ;" and he sat down in an arn». 
 chair, near the alcove of Mademoiselle de Maran's bed. 
 
 " Monsieur, you shall not take me hence living," said Matilda, shud- 
 dering. 
 
 " You hear her, I hope, vile man ! This dear child— it is not I who force 
 her to say, ' You shall not take me hence living ;' so go about your busi- 
 ness ! go about your business ! and leave us in peace as we are, together." 
 
 "Good heavens! — good heavens!" said M. de Lancry, continuing to 
 mince and give himself all manners of airs ; " will you never be reasonable, 
 beautiful angel ? Will you never understand that you are mine, my beau- 
 tiful sweet wife ? — that you belong to me, soul and body ? What is the use 
 of lessons to you ? The day before yesterday, I arrived at Maran ; you re- 
 fused to follow me, my adorable ; you obliged me to send for Monsieur, the 
 
4g0 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Mayor. Well; what came of it?— that excellent public officer, assisted bf 
 the police magistrate, proved to you, as clear as day, that you were obliged 
 to accompany me whither I should choose to take yon, my sweet love. How 
 can I give up so many charms? You are prettier than ever; you have a 
 complexion the most brilliant, the purest imaginable." 
 
 "Ta! ta! ta!" said Mademoiselle de Maran; " your village mayor wai 
 a blockhead — an ass ! You shall see the value of your fine municipal in 
 wooden shoes ! At Paris that will not go so ; we will have good advocates 
 — good judges ; they will soon bring about a proper representation, and you 
 will leave us alone then." 
 
 '.' Do you think so, best aunt of mine ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; do you suppose that they would abandon an unhappy young- 
 woman to the hands of a devil ? Come, now — if that were the case, there 
 must needs be no more justice upon earth." 
 
 " Upon my word ! all this has been looked to," said M. de Lancry, very 
 sweetly ; " everything is not roses in this world. I have got just here in my 
 pocket, my good aunt, the wherewithal to set you right. By her flight this 
 morning, my adorable love served me to my very wish. I had foreseen it. 
 As I passed through Paris this morning, I had an interview with the Prefect 
 of Police. Yes, my beautiful well-beloved! once here, you were immedi- 
 ately followed, not only by the people of M. le Prefect, but by others no less 
 skilful ; so that it is quite well known, that when you arrived, you sent off 
 your faithful Iîlondeau to one Colonel Ulric, otherwise called M. de Roche- 
 gune. It is known that she arrived there at one o'clock, and remained until 
 a quarter before two. It is known, that when you left the hotel Meurice, 
 where we alighted, my lovely angel went directly to the Sacré Cœur, and 
 thence came hither. Whereupon, I immediately sent orders to the hotel 
 Meurice, that my travelling carriage should be brought hither ; for I told 
 you beforehand, my love ! we have but twelve hours to remain in Paris. 
 The meantime I employed in procuring the necessary passports, my fair 
 angel ! and obtaining an order from M. le President of the Tribunal of first 
 recourse ; which order enjoins it on the authorities to lend me aid and as- 
 sistance, in case my lawful wife should adopt the foolish idea of struggling 
 against the will of her husband — I should not wish to say her master. Do 
 you wish, my adored ! to cast your eyes over this paper ? Do not tear it — 
 for you will only give me the trouble of getting another." 
 
 "Come, come ;" cried Mademoiselle de Maran, while Matilda mechani- 
 cally ran over the deed; "is this possible ? You do not know of what she 
 accuses you ? This alone would be sufficient to produce a separation ; for it 
 is the height of infamy. Yes, she asserts that you are about to carry her off 
 to find again that abominable white negro, Lugarto.'' 
 
 " Truly ? the poor little darling ! has she guessed that too ? Yes, cer- 
 fo^iy -oh, yes, she is not mistaken. That excellent and devoted friend is 
 waiting for us at Nice — we start this evening. Fritz, whom Matilda knows, 
 is to be our courier. We take no one with us. I shall always be too happy 
 to wait, in person, on my beautiful well-beloved ! so she will leave her Ma- 
 dame Blondeau here." 
 
 During the last few minutes, Matilda had appeared absolutely indifferent 
 to all that was going on around her. Suddenly, without saying a word, 
 she bowed her head, dropped on her knees, and began to pray fervently. 
 
 good God, who is now her sole resource, and He will not abandon her. Do 
 you believe that He will suffer the consummation of such abominable infamy ? 
 — that she should again see such a man?" 
 
 " I assure you, my most lovely aunt, he is caîuminated — my adored will 
 be enabled to judge of him. Once arrived at Nice, we all there start for 
 Sicily — a very wild and very picturesque country, wherein Lugarto proposes to 
 establish himself for a time. While we were living at Naples, we went 
 to visit a sort of Venetian Castle, situated a few leagues distant from Mes- 
 sina, in a delightful solitude, among deep and inaccessible ravines. There 
 we shall live— I, Matilda, and Lugarto ; and we shall lead the most delight- 
 ful life in the world. In that desert place, one is as free from all restraint as 
 at Otaheite — we will get up for ourselves, there, a little private Caprea." 
 
 Suddenly, Matilda arose— erect, proud, haughty— her eyes sparkling, her 
 cheeks flushing ; and, in a firm, clear voice, she said to Mademoiselle de 
 Marari • God will not abandon me !— no ! I feel it— He will not abandon 
 me, as human justice has done. He has read the truth in my heart— what . 
 ever happens, lie will pardon me ftttd» whatever happens, also— be thou ac 
 
 Maran ; " she is praying to the 
 
A DUEL. 
 
 491 
 
 cursed !" she said, in solemn tones, to Mademoiselle de Maran, "be thou 
 accursed ! thou, who hast confided to this man the life of thine own brother'* 
 daughter — knowing that man to be a monster !" 
 
 " Matilda !" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Maran, in a voice of supplication. 
 
 " It is the will of God !" exclaimed Madame de Lancry, with increasing 
 fervour, " It is the will of God, that, by a strange chain of events, you hava 
 before your eyes, at this hour, the picture of the horrible evil you have done. 
 For you, the day of atonement is commencing. You are abandoned by all — 
 given up to the cruelty of your own servants. Thus shall you die — aban- 
 doned by all — accursed by all. Ursula, whom you ruined — Ursula, who, 
 owing to you, passed from crime to crime, until she closed her sad career by 
 suicide — cursed you ! M. de Mortagne, dying beneath the blow of an assassin, 
 cursed you I For had you not married me to this man, M. Lugarto would 
 not have pursued M. de Mortagne with his undying hatred." 
 
 " My God! my child, I am in despair! I am the most miserable of 
 creatures." 
 
 " It is twenty years ago — upon that bed of agony whereon you now are 
 lying — that you caused me to shed my first tears, caused me my first terrors, 
 by cutting off the hair which my mother had touched and hallowed with her 
 benediction. This day you see me compelled to aecompany this man. The 
 laws, and force, both condemn me to it. To accompany him ! You under- 
 stand all the horrors which that word comprises ! Think of the ills that 
 you have heaped upon me, from my childhood to this hour — think of all 
 that can yet befall me, most horrible ; and, if you hear it said hereafter, 
 that I, your brother's daughter, have slain myself to escape infamy, let 
 my blood be upon your head, as that of Ursula is— and be accursed!" 
 
 " Matilda ! mercy, mercy ! you terrify me," said Mademoiselle de Maran. 
 
 Ten o'clock struck, and the sound of a carriage with post horses, was 
 heard, stopping in the street. 
 
 " Matilda ! abandon me, if you will ; but accompany not your husband — 
 he is capable of anything." 
 
 " He is the husband you have chosen for me, madam ! and the laws order 
 that I should go with him," exclaimed Matilda. 
 
 Then, turning to M. de Lanory, she said to him, in a tone which, despite 
 himself, made him shudder — 
 
 " Monsieur, I am ready." » 
 
 M. de Lancry had expected a desperate resistance. He was astonished at 
 the almost alarming quiet of Matilda's manner, Nevertheless, he rose, with 
 a smile, and offered her his arm 
 
 Madame de Lancry repelled him, with a gesture full of dignity and con- 
 tempt. 
 
 At this moment, Servien entered the room, and said to M. de Lancry — 
 " Monsieur le Vicomte, the carriage has come, and the gentlemen — they 
 are waiting for you in the drawing-room." 
 " What gentlemen ?" 
 
 "Three gentlemen who came in the ber'iin, from the hotel Meurice. 
 Fritz, the courier, has gone on in advance, to order relays of horses." 
 
 " What the deuce does he mean by his three gentlemen ?" said M. de 
 Lancry, negligently. 
 
 At the moment when he was in the act of moving toward the door, a strong 
 hand thrust Servien aside; and M. Secherin appeared in the opening, pale 
 as a spectre ! 
 
 He was dressed in the deepest mourning:. 
 
 " My mother is dead ! I have come to kill you !" cried M. Secherin in a 
 voice of thunder. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A DUEL. 
 
 When he saw M. Secherin, M. de Lancry turned as pale as death " Very 
 well — monsieur," he said in an altered voice, "we will meet by-and-by 
 then, turning to Matilda; "Come," he said, "madam, come." 
 
 " You do not leave this house, except to fight with me !" cried M. Secherin, 
 barring his exit with his person. 
 
 " M. Secherin, you are mad," said M. de Lancry, continuing to advsMMs* 
 upon him 
 
492 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 " Monsieur le Vicomte — one step more, and I slap you in the face befcre 
 your wife." 
 
 Crime renders men cowardly. Gontran had once been brave ; now he waa 
 only cruel. 
 
 *' Servien," he said, " rid me of this man ; let them turn him out of doors." 
 
 "Servien! Servien 1 I forbid you to touch him I" shrieked Mademoiselle 
 de Maran. "This hateful Monsieur de Lancry wants to carry off my poor 
 niece ; this excellent Monsieur Secherin wants to kill him. He has all sorts 
 of excellent reasons for doing so I For the love of God ! let him do it, let 
 him do it !" 
 
 Whether Servien had some old spite against M. de Lancry, or merely 
 wished to make his mistress forget his impertinence in the early part of the 
 evening ; he withdrew quietly without uttering a word. 
 
 Matilda sunk into an arm chair, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 M. de Lancry, now furious, attempted to force his passage ; M. Secherin, 
 with a vigorous hand, seized him by the collar, and dung him violently back 
 into the room. 
 
 M. de Lancry caught his foot in the carpet, and fell headlong. As he 
 arose, he cast a rapid glance around him, to see if he could find anything 
 that would serve him for a weapon. He found nothing. 
 
 This insult awoke in him, at length, some spark of his former courage ; — 
 his haggard face reddened slightly. 
 
 " You shall pay dearly for this brutality, clown that you are!" 
 
 " Clown, if you will ; but I have come to kill you as soon as may be, and I 
 shall kill you !" 
 
 " Well, then, the day after to-morrow — send me your seconds, they shall 
 arrange it with mine — to-night and to-morrow do not belong to me." 
 
 "If it were light, I would drag you to the ground this instant — but — but 
 I must wait until to-morrow morning. Happily the nights are short— my 
 seconds, my arms are there ! You shall not hence but to fight with me." 
 
 "Monsieur!" cried M. de Lancry, "this scene is disgraceful! before 
 women." 
 
 "That is true;" said M. Secherin, who, standing immovably in the door 
 of Mademoiselle de Maran's chamber, had held this wordy strife with Gon- 
 tran ; and, in less time than it requires to write it, he seized him by the col- 
 lar, dragged him out, shut the door after him ; and in an instant the two 
 'were standing in the first drawing-room, in the presence of M. Secherin's 
 seconds. 
 
 This new outrage put the finishing stroke to M. de Lancry's fury. He 
 rushed with his fists clenched, upon M. Secherin — the foam-flakes on his lip, 
 and the fire in his eye. 
 
 " Do you, again, dare to lay hands on me ?" 
 
 "Yes! viscount, and I will do more than that !" and with the words, M. 
 Secherin seized the delicate wrists of M. de Lancry, in his strong, large hands, 
 and shook them as if he would have broken them. Then bringing himself 
 so close to the face of M. de Lancry, that the latter could feel his breath, he 
 offered him the deadliest insult that one man can offer to another. 
 
 " Perhaps you will fight now !" he said. 
 
 M. de Lancry actually roared — roared terribly with rage and shame. M. 
 Secherin hurled him back, placed himself between him and the door, snatched 
 the cane from one of his seconds, and cried, shaking it at M. de Lancry. 
 " If you make one step to leave this room, I will break you, as if you were 
 upon the wheel, with blows 1" 
 
 Gontran, seeing that it was impossible foT him to contend in physical 
 strength with M. Secherin — bit his very fists with rage. 
 
 " Men of honor !" he cried, looking toward the witnê&ses, in a voice 
 choaked with fury. " Men of honor, accomplices to such a ruffian-like pro- 
 ceeding — such a premeditated plot!" 
 
 " It is an old debt — you should not have refused to fight him to-morrow," 
 said a great bald man, one of whose cheeks was furrowed with a long deep 
 Bear, in a phlegmatic tone — " It is your own fault — you forced Secherin to 
 employ hard measures. Long enough has he waited for the reparation of the 
 wrong yon have done him. He who owes — pays his debt, and is silent." 
 
 " But, seconds — monsieurr— seconds. I must have time to get seconds," 
 said Gontran. 
 
 " Your travelling carriage is below — we will go down and get into it to- 
 gether — inasmuch as you do not seem too catholic to me, although they tell 
 me you have served. You have acquaintances here — we will find two of youi 
 
THE DUEL. 
 
 friends come back and pick up Secherin here, and then to the road ; at the 
 first stage out of Paris, we will wait for daybreak. We shall easily find some 
 corner of a lonely field, or some hollow way, which will suit our purpose." 
 
 " If not," said M. Secherin, who was stalking to and fro like a wolf in a 
 cage, " I will not leave you for a second ; and go whither you may, thither 
 will I go ;— thus will I care for you." 
 
 " One word more, monsieur," said M. de Lancry, quivering with rage, to 
 the second of M. Secherin ; " how did you learn that 1 was here ?" 
 
 " That is not bad ! Three days ago, the day but one after his mother's 
 death, Secherin came and told me what was to do ; and my comrade, Peter 
 Leblanc, here, who, like me, has served in the 12th dragoons ; we are neigh- 
 bors of M. Secherin, in the country. We found that M. Secherin, was right 
 — but to kill you, it was necessary to find you ; — we set off from Rouvrai for 
 Paris. As we passed near Maran, the idea came into M. Secherin's mind to 
 call there for information, knowing that your wife was there. We found that 
 you had just set off with Madame de Lancry : we followed on your track from 
 stage to stage, till we reached Berny. There, very quietly, we waited for your 
 return postilions ; they told us that they had taken you to the hotel Meurice ; 
 we went to the hotel Meurice — you had gone out. Five or six times we came 
 back — you were always out ! tired of that sort of fun, we sat down to wait for 
 you. At half- past nine o'clock, the master of the hotel said to us, ' Gentle- 
 men, if it is absolutely necessary for you to see the Viscount de Lancry, his 
 carriage is going to take him up in the Faubourg St. Germain; get into it — 
 thus you will be sure to find him.' The advice was good ; we took it, and 
 here we are. This is enough to prove that there is One on high, who is not 
 
 ill satisfied that worthy people should settle their account with . I will 
 
 say the rest to your seconds, if I do not forget it, when I see you at work — 
 you and M. Secherin." 
 
 During this narration, the rage of de Lancry was at its height; his infa- 
 mous designs against Matilda might be frustrated. He had no longer any 
 hope of escaping M. Secherin. He determined to fight him as soon as possi- 
 ble. Moreover, his courage had returned under the insults M. Secherin had 
 heaped upon him — and there was still the chance of his killing M. Secherin. 
 
 Gontran had fought several duels with good fortune ; he was a capital shot, 
 and fenced admirably well. He addressed himself to the witness of his ene- 
 my, and said : 
 
 "Monsieur, I consent to everything. We will go and find two of my 
 friends — only, I presume before going 1 can make my adieu to my wife," he 
 added, with a sinister smile. 
 
 " Perhaps he means to escape by some secret staircase," said M. Secherin ; 
 " wherefore, Peter Leblanc, go and keep watch at the great gate." 
 
 M. de Lancry smothered his rage at this last insult, and rushed violently 
 into Mademoiselle de Maran's bed-chamber. 
 
 " Well, madam !" he said to his wife, " now you are happy ! now you are 
 about to be a widow very soon — at least you hope so." 
 
 Matilda answered not a word. 
 
 "Yes ! yes ! we hope so! to be sure we hope so !" cried Mademoiselle de 
 Maran. " Bravely am I about to put up prayers for this worthy M. Secherin." 
 
 After having gazed for some moments upon his wife, with an expression of 
 ferocious hatred, M. de Lancry said to her, " It may be that I shall die, but 
 I shall be avenged. Lugarto remains for you. He will find means to reach 
 you, as he reached M. de Mortagne— as he reached Madame de Richeville — 
 as he will reach M. de Rochegune, through you, and by you ! But if I am 
 not killed — oh 1 tremble! tremble 1 you shall be crushed !" 
 
 He left the room ; those were his last words to Matilda. She, too, imme- 
 diately left the hotel de Maran, in spite of the despairing supplications of her 
 aunt, and went to await the issue of the duel, in the company of Madame de 
 Richeville. 
 
 Two gentlemen of M. de Lancry's acquaintance, aroused in the middle of 
 the night, and acquainted with the urgency and importance of the meeting, 
 consented to serve as witnesses. They set off for Saint Denis. They waited 
 there in an inn for the rising of the sun. At daybreak the duel took place 
 in the ditch of the ancient fortification. 
 
 At M. Secherin's first shot M. de Lancry fell ! he died, cursing Ursula, and 
 accusing her as the cause of his death. 
 
MATILDA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 CONSLUSION. 
 
 Madame de Lancry, informed of the event of the duel by a letter from 
 one of the seconds, passed the first six months of her mourning in Sacra 
 Ceeur, with Madame de Richeville. 
 
 When he heard of the death of M. de Lancry, M. de Rochegune, as a mat- 
 ter of propriety, travelled for several months in Italy. Enlightened by the 
 memoirs of Matilda, as to her sentiments toward him — as to the admirable 
 sacrifice she had made — he nevertheless carried away with him a mixture of 
 remorse, to cast a shadow over his brilliant hopes for a happy future. He 
 still accused himself of the death of Emma. 
 
 Matilda discovered this sad mystery. Before her marriage, Emma had 
 made a portrait of M. de Rochegune, from memory, and given it to him. At 
 a later period, the portrait was given back to her by her husband, accom- 
 panied by the little portfolio which contained the miniature. Madame de 
 Richeville had collected everything that remained to her of her daughter, with 
 pious veneration ; but never, since the death of Emma, had she had the cou- 
 rage to cast her eyes upon those sacred relics. One day she told Matilda to 
 look among them for a medallion representing Emma when a child. In per- 
 forming this request, Madame de Lancry opened the portfolio, containing 
 the picture of M. de Rochegune, painted by Emma. She there found con- 
 cealed two letters, one of which ran thus : 
 
 " You are deceived; Matilda is your husband's mistress! You know the 
 handwriting of M. de Rochegune ; read this note, which an unknown friend 
 sends to you." 
 
 " The second letter was the following, which is already known to the reader,' 
 having been written by M. de Rochegune to Madame de Lancry, when she 
 requested him to return to Emma : 
 
 ' I shall be in Paris in the course of to-morrow night. What you tell mc 
 is terrible ; and, unluckily, I cannot repair the evil I have unintentionally 
 done. Emma is an angel of goodness, cf beauty, of candor, and of grace. 
 She deserves a heart that belongs to her only. If I had never met you in my 
 life— if it were possible for me to love any one but you — her love would have 
 been to me the most precious treasure. But love for pity's sake! is it 
 worthy of her? is it worthy of myself? All my hopes turn upon the point, 
 that you may be mistaken as to the danger of this unhappy child. In all 
 events, I come. But her mother — our mother — our best friend — oh ! I know 
 not what fatality pursues me !' 
 
 Reflecting on the atrocious meaning which this letter was made to near in 
 the eyes of Emma — of the suspicions which it awakened in her mind — of the 
 appearances thus misinterpreted — reflecting on the grief which this unhappy 
 young woman had undergone, in discovering the secret of her birth — we shall 
 easily understand how she was stricken by a mortal blow; and how, resign- 
 ing herself to her mute despair, the miserable wretch would not communicate 
 to a human being the last grief which was killing her ! It was easily seen, 
 from the creases almost cut through, and the worn-out state of the whole let- 
 ter, that Emma had read and re-read it often, and had drunk in the fatal 
 poison it contained, as it were, drop by drop. 
 
 Matilda, feeling, however, certain that she had this letter in her own pos- 
 session-, hunted for it, among her correspondence. She found it there, in- 
 deed ; but on comparing the two copies carefully, she found that the note so 
 villainously sent to Emma was a forgery. The writing of M. de Rochegune 
 had been counterfeited with infernal skill. 
 
 This is the explanation of the fact. When Madame de Lancry persuaded 
 M. de Rochegune to marry, she was living with her husband in the apart- 
 ments of the rue de Bourgogne. The valet of Gontran, being in Lugarto's 
 pay, (for he was at that time in Paris,) secretly obtained possession of the 
 ca.iket, by that scoundrel's orders, having forced the lock of Madame de 
 Lancry'.s writing-desk, during her temporary absence. The rest is but too 
 easily understood. Lugarto had a marvellous facility of counterfeiting all 
 handwriting; and the opening of the casket, the key of which Madame de 
 Lancry always carried about her person, was but the sport of a moment to 
 him. In the certain foresight that M. de Rochegune's marriage would take 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 495 
 
 place, the selection of that particular letter showed the work of a hand accus- 
 tomed to work surely. At a later period, Madame dc Lancry, having enter- 
 tained some suspicions, the casket was confided to M. de Senneville; and 
 thanks to that late precaution, others of Matilda's letters, scarcely less dan- 
 gerous, escaped Lugarto. 
 
 After the discovery of this foul conspiracy, Matilda sent the two letters to 
 M. de Iiochegune. He then discovered the whole truth, and was" thus de- 
 livered from the remorse which had so keenly afflicted him ; he felt no longer 
 aught save sad regrets and sincere pity, when thinking on all that Emma 
 must have undergone during her slow agcny. 
 
 Fifteen months after the death of her husband, Matilda married M. de 
 Rochegune. It is useless to speak of the deep happiness, the holy rapture 
 which hallowed that marriage. It is more easy to imagine, than to describe, 
 the divine prospect of felicity which opened on Matilda, after the years of 
 grief which she had so bravely, so religiously endured. 
 
 Nearly at the same time, a small lonely house, situated between Luzarches 
 and the forest of Chantilly, was pulled down. This house had been for a long 
 time uninhabited. In a hiding-place, not far from the chimney in the bed- 
 chamber, precisely similar to that which Matilda had discovered, with so 
 much terror, in the rue de Bourgogne, was found the skeleton of a man. 
 That skeleton was all that remained of Lugarto. When M. de Lancry 
 went to fetch his wife from the hotel de Maran, he had given his accomplice 
 the rendezvous in that little house, to which he intended to convey Matilda, 
 without giving her notice thereof. 
 
 Fritz, Gontran's courier, was to announce to Lugarto the arrival of his master 
 and Matilda, by the crack of his whip, and was then to pass on to Chantilly, 
 and there await the arrival of the carriage at the post-house, whither it would 
 be sent to put up for the night. The duel with M. Secherin had upset ail 
 his schemes ; but Fritz, knowing nothing about it, and believing that the ber- 
 lin was behind him, ordered the relays, passed by the lonely house, gave the 
 signal agreed upon, and hurried on toward Chantilly. Hearing the signal, 
 Lugarto entered the hiding-place in the bed-chamber, supposing his host and 
 hostess on the point of arriving, since his presence in that bouse, was not to 
 be suspected by Matilda. It pleased Providence, that a spring within the 
 panel would not work when Lugarto tried to leave his hiding-place. Tired 
 at finding that Gontran did not arrive to set him free, he cried for help — but, 
 alone, in that solitary house, his cries were useless. The next day the cou- 
 rier returned, and knocked at the door, but no one answered him. Already 
 weary at the non-arrival of the carriage at Chantilly, he returned to Paris, 
 and there learned the death of M. de Lancry. 
 
 As for Lugarto, his life had for some time past been so mysterious, that his 
 disappearance seemed quite natural to the people he employed. 
 
 The horrible extent of the evil this man effected, can hardly be wondered 
 at, when we look to the vast resources he found, both in almost universal bri- 
 bery, end in the sort of secret police with which he surrounded every person 
 vvhom he hated. To this atrocious wretch, saturated with all pleasures, wea- 
 ried of them all by turns, crime had become both a necessity and a pleasure. 
 Much money, some well concealed abodes in Paris, and his astonishing tact 
 in counterfeiting all hand-writings, enabled him to strike mortal, or at least 
 incurable blows at M. de Mortagne, Emma, Madame de Richeville, M. de 
 Rochegune, and Matilda. 
 
 We will now turn our eyes away from the monstrous horrors which M. de 
 Lancry and Lugarto had meditated for the future. When two such spirits 
 hunt in couples, no consequences can be deemed surprising. 
 
 M. Secherin, after he had slain Gontran, travelled abroad, perpetually haunt- 
 ed by the memory of Ursula. The death of M. de Lancry had avenged, but 
 it could not console him. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Maran, become entirely paralytic, and almost entirely 
 Mind, continued absolutely abandoned to the cruel despotism of Servien, who 
 suffered no one to approach her. The latter part of her life was one conti- 
 nued series of incessant tortures. The sketch given of it above scarcely con- 
 veys a slight idea of its terrible reality. Had it not been for the resolute and 
 immovable will of M. de Rochegune, Matilda would have endeavored to alle- 
 viate the painful position of her aunt ; but he was inflexible. 
 
 Madame de Richeville gave herself up to the strictest and most gloomy aus- 
 terities. Her health, long wasted, by incurable sorrows, did not endure much 
 longer. She learned, at last, the sublime self-sacrifice which Matilda made of 
 her owa happiness to Emma. 
 
4% 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 ■ 
 
 M. de Senneville caused the guilty levity of his pretences and falsehoods to 
 be forgotten irt thré sincere and manly confession of his faults, and of the 
 deep and devoted respect he ever showed to Matilda and M. de Rochegune. 
 
 To conclude — so that no one of the characters who have figured in this long 
 narrative may be consigned to oblivion — we will state, that the widow Lebœuf 
 returned to enthrone herself in state, within a few days after her disappear- 
 ance, behind the counter of her café, in the rue St. Louis ; and that she still 
 retained her faithful Boitard as her waiter, and the brothers Godet as the 
 most valuable of her habitual customers. M. de Lancry and Lugarto had 
 given a large sum to the widow, to surrender her establishment to them for 
 a few days, in order to their maintenance of their secret police. 
 
 The neighbourhood of the hotel d'Orbesson, occupied by M. de Rochegune, 
 rendered their surveillance continually necessary, in case, driven to despair by 
 extremities, Matilda might have thought of seeking for a refuge there. 
 
 Madame Lebœuf delighted herself by enveloping her brief absence in a veil 
 of the densest mystery. That mystery continues, up to this very hour, the 
 inexhaustible topic of conversation among the brothers Godet, and the other 
 guests of the café Lebœuf. Last of all, after the departure of Colonel Ulric, 
 the old hotel was changed into a manufactory of chemical productions. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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