Albert Savarus

* * * * *

As she finished this narrative, Mademoiselle de Watteville’s cheeks were on fire; there was a fever in her blood.  She was crying—­but with rage.  This little novel, inspired by the literary style then in fashion, was the first reading of the kind that Rosalie had ever had the chance of devouring.  Love was depicted in it, if not by a master-hand, at any rate by a man who seemed to give his own impressions; and truth, even if unskilled, could not fail to touch a virgin soul.  Here lay the secret of Rosalie’s terrible agitation, of her fever and her tears; she was jealous of Francesca Colonna.

She never for an instant doubted the sincerity of this poetical flight; Albert had taken pleasure in telling the story of his passion, while changing the names of persons and perhaps of places.  Rosalie was possessed by infernal curiosity.  What woman but would, like her, have wanted to know her rival’s name—­for she too loved!  As she read these pages, to her really contagious, she had said solemnly to herself, “I love him!”—­She loved Albert, and felt in her heart a gnawing desire to fight for him, to snatch him from this unknown rival.  She reflected that she knew nothing of music, and that she was not beautiful.

“He will never love me!” thought she.

This conclusion aggravated her anxiety to know whether she might not be mistaken, whether Albert really loved an Italian Princess, and was loved by her.  In the course of this fateful night, the power of swift decision, which had characterized the famous Watteville, was fully developed in his descendant.  She devised those whimsical schemes, round which hovers the imagination of most young girls when, in the solitude to which some injudicious mothers confine them, they are roused by some tremendous event which the system of repression to which they are subjected could neither foresee nor prevent.  She dreamed of descending by a ladder from the kiosk into the garden of the house occupied by Albert; of taking advantage of the lawyer’s being asleep to look through the window into his private room.  She thought of writing to him, or of bursting the fetters of Besancon society by introducing Albert to the drawing-room of the Hotel de Rupt.  This enterprise, which to the Abbe de Grancey even would have seemed the climax of the impossible, was a mere passing thought.

“Ah!” said she to herself, “my father has a dispute pending as to his land at les Rouxey.  I will go there!  If there is no lawsuit, I will manage to make one, and he shall come into our drawing-room!” she cried, as she sprang out of bed and to the window to look at the fascinating gleam which shone through Albert’s nights.  The clock struck one; he was still asleep.

“I shall see him when he gets up; perhaps he will come to his window.”

At this instant Mademoiselle de Watteville was witness to an incident which promised to place in her power the means of knowing Albert’s secrets.  By the light of the moon she saw a pair of arms stretched out from the kiosk to help Jerome, Albert’s servant, to get across the coping of the wall and step into the little building.  In Jerome’s accomplice Rosalie at once recognized Mariette the lady’s-maid.

“Mariette and Jerome!” said she to herself.  “Mariette, such an ugly girl!  Certainly they must be ashamed of themselves.”

Though Mariette was horribly ugly and six-and-thirty, she had inherited several plots of land.  She had been seventeen years with Madame de Watteville, who valued her highly for her bigotry, her honesty, and long service, and she had no doubt saved money and invested her wages and perquisites.  Hence, earning about ten louis a year, she probably had by this time, including compound interest and her little inheritance, not less than ten thousand francs.

In Jerome’s eyes ten thousand francs could alter the laws of optics; he saw in Mariette a neat figure; he did not perceive the pits and seams which virulent smallpox had left on her flat, parched face; to him the crooked mouth was straight; and ever since Savaron, by taking him into his service, had brought him so near to the Wattevilles’ house, he had laid siege systematically to the maid, who was as prim and sanctimonious as her mistress, and who, like every ugly old maid, was far more exacting than the handsomest.

If the night-scene in the kiosk is thus fully accounted for to all perspicacious readers, it was not so to Rosalie, though she derived from it the most dangerous lesson that can be given, that of a bad example.  A mother brings her daughter up strictly, keeps her under her wing for seventeen years, and then, in one hour, a servant girl destroys the long and painful work, sometimes by a word, often indeed by a gesture!  Rosalie got into bed again, not without considering how she might take advantage of her discovery.

Next morning, as she went to Mass accompanied by Mariette—­her mother was not well—­Rosalie took the maid’s arm, which surprised the country wench not a little.

“Mariette,” said she, “is Jerome in his master’s confidence?”

“I do not know, mademoiselle.”

“Do not play the innocent with me,” said Mademoiselle de Watteville drily.  “You let him kiss you last night under the kiosk; I no longer wonder that you so warmly approved of my mother’s ideas for the improvements she planned.”

Rosalie could feel how Mariette was trembling by the shaking of her arm.

“I wish you no ill,” Rosalie went on.  “Be quite easy; I shall not say a word to my mother, and you can meet Jerome as often as you please.”

“But, mademoiselle,” said Mariette, “it is perfectly respectable; Jerome honestly means to marry me—­”

“But then,” said Rosalie, “why meet at night?”

Mariette was dumfounded, and could make no reply.

“Listen, Mariette; I am in love too!  In secret and without any return.  I am, after all, my father’s and mother’s only child.  You have more to hope for from me than from any one else in the world—­”

“Certainly, mademoiselle, and you may count on us for life or death,” exclaimed Mariette, rejoiced at the unexpected turn of affairs.

“In the first place, silence for silence,” said Rosalie.  “I will not marry Monsieur de Soulas; but one thing I will have, and must have; my help and favor are yours on one condition only.”

“What is that?”

“I must see the letters which Monsieur Savaron sends to the post by Jerome.”

“But what for?” said Mariette in alarm.

“Oh! merely to read them, and you yourself shall post them afterwards.  It will cause a little delay; that is all.”

At this moment they went into church, and each of them, instead of reading the order of Mass, fell into her own train of thought.

“Dear, dear, how many sins are there in all that?” thought Mariette.

Rosalie, whose soul, brain, and heart were completely upset by reading the story, by this time regarded it as history, written for her rival.  By dint of thinking of nothing else, like a child, she ended by believing that the Eastern Review was no doubt forwarded to Albert’s lady-love.

“Oh!” said she to herself, her head buried in her hands in the attitude of a person lost in prayer; “oh! how can I get my father to look through the list of people to whom the Review is sent?”

After breakfast she took a turn in the garden with her father, coaxing and cajoling him, and brought him to the kiosk.

“Do you suppose, my dear little papa, that our Review is ever read abroad?”

“It is but just started—­”

“Well, I will wager that it is.”

“It is hardly possible.”

“Just go and find out, and note the names of any subscribers out of France.”

Two hours later Monsieur de Watteville said to his daughter: 

“I was right; there is not one foreign subscriber as yet.  They hope to get some at Neufchatel, at Berne, and at Geneva.  One copy, is in fact, sent to Italy, but it is not paid for—­to a Milanese lady at her country house at Belgirate, on Lago Maggiore.

“What is her name?”

“The Duchesse d’Argaiolo.”

“Do you know her, papa?”

“I have heard about her.  She was by birth a Princess Soderini, a Florentine, a very great lady, and quite as rich as her husband, who has one of the largest fortunes in Lombardy.  Their villa on the Lago Maggiore is one of the sights of Italy.”

Two days after, Mariette placed the following letter in Mademoiselle de Watteville’s hand:—­

  Albert Savaron to Leopold Hannequin.

“Yes, ’tis so, my dear friend; I am at Besancon, while you thought I was traveling.  I would not tell you anything till success should begin, and now it is dawning.  Yes, my dear Leopold, after so many abortive undertakings, over which I have shed the best of my blood, have wasted so many efforts, spent so much courage, I have made up my mind to do as you have done—­to start on a beaten path, on the highroad, as the longest but the safest.  I can see you jump with surprise in your lawyer’s chair!

“But do not suppose that anything is changed in my personal life, of which you alone in the world know the secret, and that under the reservations she insists on.  I did not tell you, my friend; but I was horribly weary of Paris.  The outcome of the first enterprise, on which I had founded all my hopes, and which came to a bad end in consequence of the utter rascality of my two partners, who combined to cheat and fleece me—­me, though everything was done by my energy—­made me give up the pursuit of a fortune after the loss of three years of my life.  One of these years was spent in the law courts, and perhaps I should have come worse out of the scrape if I had not been made to study law when I was twenty.

“I made up my mind to go into politics solely, to the end that I may some day find my name on a list for promotion to the Senate under the title of Comte Albert Savaron de Savarus, and so revive in France a good name now extinct in Belgium—­though indeed I am neither legitimate nor legitimized.”

“Ah!  I knew it!  He is of noble birth!” exclaimed Rosalie, dropping the letter.

“You know how conscientiously I studied, how faithful and useful I was as an obscure journalist, and how excellent a secretary to the statesman who, on his part, was true to me in 1829.  Flung to the depths once more by the revolution of July just when my name was becoming known, at the very moment when, as Master of Appeals, I was about to find my place as a necessary wheel in the political machine, I committed the blunder of remaining faithful to the fallen, and fighting for them, without them.  Oh! why was I but three-and-thirty, and why did I not apply to you to make me eligible?  I concealed from you all my devotedness and my dangers.  What would you have?  I was full of faith.  We should not have agreed.

“Ten months ago, when you saw me so gay and contented, writing my political articles, I was in despair; I foresaw my fate, at the age of thirty-seven, with two thousand francs for my whole fortune, without the smallest fame, just having failed in a noble undertaking, the founding, namely, of a daily paper answering only to a need of the future instead of appealing to the passions of the moment.  I did not know which way to turn, and I felt my own value!  I wandered about, gloomy and hurt, through the lonely places of Paris—­Paris which had slipped through my fingers —­thinking of my crushed ambitions, but never giving them up.  Oh, what frantic letters I wrote at that time to her, my second conscience, my other self!  Sometimes I would say to myself, ’Why did I sketch so vast a programme of life?  Why demand everything?  Why not wait for happiness while devoting myself to some mechanical employment.’

“I then looked about me for some modest appointment by which I might live.  I was about to get the editorship of a paper under a manager who did not know much about it, a man of wealth and ambition, when I took fright.  ’Would she ever accept as her husband a man who had stooped so low?’ I wondered.

“This reflection made me two-and-twenty again.  But, oh, my dear Leopold, how the soul is worn by these perplexities!  What must not the caged eagles suffer, and imprisoned lions!—­They suffer what Napoleon suffered, not at Saint Helena, but on the Quay of the Tuileries, on the 10th of August, when he saw Louis XVI. defending himself so badly while he could have quelled the insurrection; as he actually did, on the same spot, a little later, in Vendemiaire.  Well, my life has been a torment of that kind, extending over four years.  How many a speech to the Chamber have I not delivered in the deserted alleys of the Bois de Boulogne!  These wasted harangues have at any rate sharpened my tongue and accustomed my mind to formulate its ideas in words.  And while I was undergoing this secret torture, you were getting married, you had paid for your business, you were made law-clerk to the Maire of your district, after gaining a cross for a wound at Saint-Merri.

“Now, listen.  When I was a small boy and tortured cock-chafers, the poor insects had one form of struggle which used almost to put me in a fever.  It was when I saw them making repeated efforts to fly but without getting away, though they could spread their wings.  We used to say, ‘They are marking time.’  Now was this sympathy?  Was it a vision of my own future?—­Oh! to spread my wings and yet be unable to fly!  That has been my predicament since that fine undertaking by which I was disgusted, but which has now made four families rich.

“At last, seven months ago, I determined to make myself a name at the Paris Bar, seeing how many vacancies had been left by the promotion of several lawyers to eminent positions.  But when I remembered the rivalry I had seen among men of the press, and how difficult it is to achieve anything of any kind in Paris, the arena where so many champions meet, I came to a determination painful to myself, but certain in its results, and perhaps quicker than any other.  In the course of our conversations you had given me a picture of the society of Besancon, of the impossibility for a stranger to get on there, to produce the smallest effect, to get into society, or to succeed in any way whatever.  It was there that I determined to set up my flag, thinking, and rightly, that I should meet with no opposition, but find myself alone to canvass for the election.  The people of the Comte will not meet the outsider?  The outsider will meet them!  They refuse to admit him to their drawing-rooms, he will never go there!  He never shows himself anywhere, not even in the streets!  But there is one class that elects the deputies—­the commercial class.  I am going especially to study commercial questions, with which I am already familiar; I will gain their lawsuits, I will effect compromises, I will be the greatest pleader in Besancon.  By and by I will start a Review, in which I will defend the interests of the country, will create them, or preserve them, or resuscitate them.  When I shall have won a sufficient number of votes, my name will come out of the urn.  For a long time the unknown barrister will be treated with contempt, but some circumstance will arise to bring him to the front—­some unpaid defence, or a case which no other pleader will undertake.

“Well, my dear Leopold, I packed up my books in eleven cases, I bought such law-books as might prove useful, and I sent everything off, furniture and all, by carrier to Besancon.  I collected my diplomas, and I went to bid you good-bye.  The mail coach dropped me at Besancon, where, in three days’ time, I chose a little set of rooms looking out over some gardens.  I sumptuously arranged the mysterious private room where I spend my nights and days, and where the portrait of my divinity reigns—­of her to whom my life is dedicate, who fills it wholly, who is the mainspring of my efforts, the secret of my courage, the cause of my talents.  Then, as soon as the furniture and books had come, I engaged an intelligent man-servant, and there I sat for five months like a hibernating marmot.

“My name had, however, been entered on the list of lawyers in the town.  At last I was called one day to defend an unhappy wretch at the Assizes, no doubt in order to hear me speak for once!  One of the most influential merchants of Besancon was on the jury; he had a difficult task to fulfil; I did my utmost for the man, and my success was absolute and complete.  My client was innocent; I very dramatically secured the arrest of the real criminals, who had come forward as witnesses.  In short, the Court and the public were united in their admiration.  I managed to save the examining magistrate’s pride by pointing out the impossibility of detecting a plot so skilfully planned.

“Then I had to fight a case for my merchant, and won his suit.  The Cathedral Chapter next chose me to defend a tremendous action against the town, which had been going on for four years; I won that.  Thus, after three trials, I had become the most famous advocate of Franche-Comte.

“But I bury my life in the deepest mystery, and so hide my aims.  I have adopted habits which prevent my accepting any invitations.  I am only to be consulted between six and eight in the morning; I go to bed after my dinner, and work at night.  The Vicar-General, a man of parts, and very influential, who placed the Chapter’s case in my hands after they had lost it in the lower Court, of course professed their gratitude.  ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ’I will win your suit, but I want no fee; I want more’ (start of alarm on the Abbe’s part).  ’You must know that I am a great loser by putting myself forward in antagonism to the town.  I came here only to leave the place as deputy.  I mean to engage only in commercial cases, because commercial men return the members; they will distrust me if I defend “the priests”—­for to them you are simply priests.  If I undertake your defence, it is because I was, in 1828, private secretary to such a Minister’ (again a start of surprise on the part of my Abbe), ’and Master of Appeals, under the name of Albert de Savarus’ (another start).  ’I have remained faithful to monarchical opinions; but, as you have not the majority of votes in Besancon, I must gain votes among the citizens.  So the fee I ask of you is the votes you may be able secretly to secure for me at the opportune moment.  Let us each keep our own counsel, and I will defend, for nothing, every case to which a priest of this diocese may be a party.  Not a word about my previous life, and we will be true to each other.’

“When he came to thank me afterwards, he gave me a note for five hundred francs, and said in my ear, ’The votes are a bargain all the same.’—­I have in the course of five interviews made a friend, I think, of this Vicar-General.

“Now I am overwhelmed with business, and I undertake no cases but those brought to me by merchants, saying that commercial questions are my specialty.  This line of conduct attaches business men to me, and allows me to make friends with influential persons.  So all goes well.  Within a few months I shall have found a house to purchase in Besancon, so as to secure a qualification.  I count on your lending me the necessary capital for this investment.  If I should die, if I should fail, the loss would be too small to be any consideration between you and me.  You will get the interest out of the rental, and I shall take good care to look out for something cheap, so that you may lose nothing by this mortgage, which is indispensable.

“Oh! my dear Leopold, no gambler with the last remains of his fortune in his pocket, bent on staking it at the Cercle des Etrangers for the last time one night, when he must come away rich or ruined, ever felt such a perpetual ringing in his ears, such a nervous moisture on his palms, such a fevered tumult in his brain, such inward qualms in his body as I go through every day now that I am playing my last card in the game of ambition.  Alas! my dear and only friend, for nearly ten years now I have been struggling.  This battle with men and things, in which I have unceasingly poured out my strength and energy, and so constantly worn the springs of desire, has, so to speak, undermined my vitality.  With all the appearance of a strong man of good health, I feel myself a wreck.  Every day carries with it a shred of my inmost life.  At every fresh effort I feel that I should never be able to begin again.  I have no power, no vigor left but for happiness; and if it should never come to crown my head with roses, the me that is really me would cease to exist, I should be a ruined thing.  I should wish for nothing more in the world.  I should want to cease from living.  You know that power and fame, the vast moral empire that I crave, is but secondary; it is to me only a means to happiness, the pedestal for my idol.

“To reach the goal and die, like the runner of antiquity!  To see fortune and death stand on the threshold hand in hand!  To win the beloved woman just when love is extinct!  To lose the faculty of enjoyment after earning the right to be happy!—­Of how many men has this been the fate!

“But there surely is a moment when Tantalus rebels, crosses his arms, and defies hell, throwing up his part of the eternal dupe.  That is what I shall come to if anything should thwart my plan; if, after stooping to the dust of provincial life, prowling like a starving tiger round these tradesmen, these electors, to secure their votes; if, after wrangling in these squalid cases, and giving them my time—­the time I might have spent on Lago Maggiore, seeing the waters she sees, basking in her gaze, hearing her voice —­if, after all, I failed to scale the tribune and conquer the glory that should surround the name that is to succeed to that of Argaiolo!  Nay, more than this, Leopold; there are days when I feel a heady languor; deep disgust surges up from the depths of my soul, especially when, abandoned to long day-dreams, I have lost myself in anticipation of the joys of blissful love!  May it not be that our desire has only a certain modicum of power, and that it perishes, perhaps, of a too lavish effusion of its essence?  For, after all, at this present, my life is fair, illuminated by faith, work, and love.

“Farewell, my friend; I send love to your children, and beg you to
remember me to your excellent wife.—­Yours,
“ALBERT.”

Rosalie read this letter twice through, and its general purport was stamped on her heart.  She suddenly saw the whole of Albert’s previous existence, for her quick intelligence threw light on all the details, and enabled her to take it all in.  By adding this information to the little novel published in the Review, she now fully understood Albert.  Of course, she exaggerated the greatness, remarkable as it was, of this lofty soul and potent will, and her love for Albert thenceforth became a passion, its violence enhanced by all the strength of her youth, the weariness of her solitude, and the unspent energy of her character.  Love is in a young girl the effect of a natural law; but when her craving for affection is centered in an exceptional man, it is mingled with the enthusiasm which overflows in a youthful heart.  Thus Mademoiselle de Watteville had in a few days reached a morbid and very dangerous stage of enamored infatuation.  The Baroness was much pleased with her daughter, who, being under the spell of her absorbing thoughts, never resisted her will, seemed to be devoted to feminine occupations, and realized her mother’s ideal of a docile daughter.

The lawyer was now engaged in Court two or three times a week.  Though he was overwhelmed with business, he found time to attend the trials, call on the litigious merchants, and conduct the Review; keeping up his personal mystery, from the conviction that the more covert and hidden was his influence, the more real it would be.  But he neglected no means of success, reading up the list of electors of Besancon, and finding out their interests, their characters, their various friendships and antipathies.  Did ever a Cardinal hoping to be made Pope give himself more trouble?

One evening Mariette, on coming to dress Rosalie for an evening party, handed to her, not without many groans over this treachery, a letter of which the address made Mademoiselle de Watteville shiver and redden and turn pale again as she read the address: 

  To Madame la Duchesse d’Argaiolo
  (nee Princesse Soderini)
    At Belgirate,
      Lago Maggiore, Italy.

In her eyes this direction blazed as the words Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, did in the eyes of Belshazzar.  After concealing the letter, Rosalie went downstairs to accompany her mother to Madame de Chavoncourt’s; and as long as the endless evening lasted, she was tormented by remorse and scruples.  She had already felt shame at having violated the secrecy of Albert’s letter to Leopold; she had several times asked herself whether, if he knew of her crime, infamous inasmuch as it necessarily goes unpunished, the high-minded Albert could esteem her.  Her conscience answered an uncompromising “No.”

She had expiated her sin by self-imposed penances; she fasted, she mortified herself by remaining on her knees, her arms outstretched for hours, and repeating prayers all the time.  She had compelled Mariette to similar sets of repentance; her passion was mingled with genuine asceticism, and was all the more dangerous.

“Shall I read that letter, shall I not?” she asked herself, while listening to the Chavoncourt girls.  One was sixteen, the other seventeen and a half.  Rosalie looked upon her two friends as mere children because they were not secretly in love.—­“If I read it,” she finally decided, after hesitating for an hour between Yes and No, “it shall, at any rate, be the last.  Since I have gone so far as to see what he wrote to his friend, why should I not know what he says to her?  If it is a horrible crime, is it not a proof of love?  Oh, Albert! am I not your wife?”

When Rosalie was in bed she opened the letter, dated from day to day, so as to give the Duchess a faithful picture of Albert’s life and feelings.

“25th.

“My dear Soul, all is well.  To my other conquests I have just added an invaluable one:  I have done a service to one of the most influential men who work the elections.  Like the critics, who make other men’s reputations but can never make their own, he makes deputies though he never can become one.  The worthy man wanted to show his gratitude without loosening his purse-strings by saying to me, ’Would you care to sit in the Chamber?  I can get you returned as deputy.’

  “‘If I ever make up my mind to enter on a political career,’
  replied I hypocritically, ’it would be to devote myself to the
  Comte, which I love, and where I am appreciated.’

  “‘Well,’ he said, ’we will persuade you, and through you we shall
  have weight in the Chamber, for you will distinguish yourself
  there.’

“And so, my beloved angel, say what you will, my perseverance will be rewarded.  Ere long I shall, from the high place of the French Tribune, come before my country, before Europe.  My name will be flung to you by the hundred voices of the French press.

“Yes, as you tell me, I was old when I came to Besancon, and Besancon has aged me more; but, like Sixtus V., I shall be young again the day after my election.  I shall enter on my true life, my own sphere.  Shall we not then stand in the same line?  Count Savaron de Savarus, Ambassador I know not where, may surely marry a Princess Soderini, the widow of the Duc d’Argaiolo!  Triumph restores the youth of men who have been preserved by incessant struggles.  Oh, my Life! with what gladness did I fly from my library to my private room, to tell your portrait of this progress before writing to you!  Yes, the votes I can command, those of the Vicar-General, of the persons I can oblige, and of this client, make my election already sure.

“26th.

“We have entered on the twelfth year since that blest evening when, by a look, the beautiful Duchess sealed the promises made by the exile Francesca.  You, dear, are thirty-two, I am thirty-five; the dear Duke is seventy-seven—­that is to say, ten years more than yours and mine put together, and he still keeps well!  My patience is almost as great as my love, and indeed I need a few years yet to rise to the level of your name.  As you see, I am in good spirits to-day, I can laugh; that is the effect of hope.  Sadness or gladness, it all comes to me through you.  The hope of success always carries me back to the day following that one on which I saw you for the first time, when my life became one with yours as the earth turns to the light. Qual pianto are these eleven years, for this is the 26th of December, the anniversary of my arrival at your villa on the Lake of Geneva.  For eleven years have I been crying to you, while you shine like a star set too high for man to reach it.

“27th.

“No, dearest, do not go to Milan; stay at Belgirate.  Milan terrifies me.  I do not like that odious Milanese fashion of chatting at the Scala every evening with a dozen persons, among whom it is hard if no one says something sweet.  To me solitude is like the lump of amber in whose heart an insect lives for ever in unchanging beauty.  Thus the heart and soul of a woman remains pure and unaltered in the form of their first youth.  Is it the Tedeschi that you regret?

“28th.

“Is your statue never to be finished?  I should wish to have you in marble, in painting, in miniature, in every possible form, to beguile my impatience.  I still am waiting for the view of Belgirate from the south, and that of the balcony; these are all that I now lack.  I am so extremely busy that to-day I can only write you nothing—­but that nothing is everything.  Was it not of nothing that God made the world?  That nothing is a word, God’s word:  I love you!

“30th.

“Ah!  I have received your journal.  Thanks for your punctuality.  —­So you found great pleasure in seeing all the details of our first acquaintance thus set down?  Alas! even while disguising them I was sorely afraid of offending you.  We had no stories, and a Review without stories is a beauty without hair.  Not being inventive by nature, and in sheer despair, I took the only poetry in my soul, the only adventure in my memory, and pitched it in the key in which it would bear telling; nor did I ever cease to think of you while writing the only literary production that will ever come from my heart, I cannot say from my pen.  Did not the transformation of your fierce Sormano into Gina make you laugh?

“You ask after my health.  Well, it is better than in Paris.  Though I work enormously, the peacefulness of the surroundings has its effect on the mind.  What really tries and ages me, dear angel, is the anguish of mortified vanity, the perpetual friction of Paris life, the struggle of rival ambitions.  This peace is a balm.

“If you could imagine the pleasure your letter gives me!—­the long, kind letter in which you tell me the most trivial incidents of your life.  No! you women can never know to what a degree a true lover is interested in these trifles.  It was an immense pleasure to see the pattern of your new dress.  Can it be a matter of indifference to me to know what you wear?  If your lofty brow is knit?  If our writers amuse you?  If Canalis’ songs delight you?  I read the books you read.  Even to your boating on the lake every incident touched me.  Your letter is as lovely, as sweet as your soul!  Oh! flower of heaven, perpetually adored, could I have lived without those dear letters, which for eleven years have upheld me in my difficult path like a light, like a perfume, like a steady chant, like some divine nourishment, like everything which can soothe and comfort life.

  “Do not fail me!  If you knew what anxiety I suffer the day before
  they are due, or the pain a day’s delay can give me!  Is she ill? 
  Is he?  I am midway between hell and paradise.

“O mia cara diva, keep up your music, exercise your voice, practise.  I am enchanted with the coincidence of employments and hours by which, though separated by the Alps, we live by precisely the same rule.  The thought charms me and gives me courage.  The first time I undertook to plead here—­I forget to tell you this—­I fancied that you were listening to me, and I suddenly felt the flash of inspiration which lifts the poet above mankind.  If I am returned to the Chamber—­oh! you must come to Paris to be present at my first appearance there!

“30th, Evening.

“Good heavens, how I love you!  Alas!  I have intrusted too much to my love and my hopes.  An accident which should sink that overloaded bark would end my life.  For three years now I have not seen you, and at the thought of going to Belgirate my heart beats so wildly that I am forced to stop.—­To see you, to hear that girlish caressing voice!  To embrace in my gaze that ivory skin, glistening under the candlelight, and through which I can read your noble mind!  To admire your fingers playing on the keys, to drink in your whole soul in a look, in the tone of an Oime or an Alberto!  To walk by the blossoming orange-trees, to live a few months in the bosom of that glorious scenery!—­That is life.  What folly it is to run after power, a name, fortune!  But at Belgirate there is everything; there is poetry, there is glory!  I ought to have made myself your steward, or, as that dear tyrant whom we cannot hate proposed to me, live there as cavaliere servente, only our passion was too fierce to allow of it.

“Farewell, my angel, forgive me my next fit of sadness in consideration of this cheerful mood; it has come as a beam of light from the torch of Hope, which has hitherto seemed to me a Will-o’-the-wisp.”

“How he loves her!” cried Rosalie, dropping the letter, which seemed heavy in her hand.  “After eleven years to write like this!”

“Mariette,” said Mademoiselle de Watteville to her maid next morning, “go and post this letter.  Tell Jerome that I know all I wish to know, and that he is to serve Monsieur Albert faithfully.  We will confess our sins, you and I, without saying to whom the letters belonged, nor to whom they were going.  I was in the wrong; I alone am guilty.”

“Mademoiselle has been crying?” said Mariette.

“Yes, but I do not want that my mother should perceive it; give me some very cold water.”

In the midst of the storms of her passion Rosalie often listened to the voice of conscience.  Touched by the beautiful fidelity of these two hearts, she had just said her prayers, telling herself that there was nothing left to her but to be resigned, and to respect the happiness of two beings worthy of each other, submissive to fate, looking to God for everything, without allowing themselves any criminal acts or wishes.  She felt a better woman, and had a certain sense of satisfaction after coming to this resolution, inspired by the natural rectitude of youth.  And she was confirmed in it by a girl’s idea:  She was sacrificing herself for him.

“She does not know how to love,” thought she.  “Ah! if it were I—­I would give up everything to a man who loved me so.—­To be loved!  —­When, by whom shall I be loved?  That little Monsieur de Soulas only loves my money; if I were poor, he would not even look at me.”

“Rosalie, my child, what are you thinking about?  You are working beyond the outline,” said the Baroness to her daughter, who was making worsted-work slippers for the Baron.