Arthur

CHAPTER XXI

THE AVOWAL

Madame de Pënâfiel remained very pensive for a few moments, and seemed gazing into vacancy; then, as though she had come to a sudden determination, she said with a familiarity that our three months of intimacy would excuse:

"I believe that you are my friend?"

"A most devoted one, and a very happy one to be able to tell you so, madame," I replied in a mocking way, to which she paid no attention.

"By the word friend I do not mean an acquaintance, a person who really cares nothing for us, a friend in the usual sense of the word; no, I think better of you than that. In the first place you have never uttered a word of gallantry to me, and for that I thank you sincerely; you have spared me that insulting species of courtship, which, I know not why, some persons think they have the right, or, perhaps, the permission, to honour me with." She said this with a sad smile. "You have enough tact, sense, and generosity to understand that a woman who has been the victim of odious calumnies finds nothing more offensive than such idle compliments, which only add fresh insult, because they are apparently authorised by the injurious reports that preceded them.

"I believe your mind is sadly precocious through bitter experiences. I know that, though you are much in the world, you have none of the world's petty hates and jealousies. I think you are neither conceited nor even vain, and that you are one of those honest men who never try to discover any hidden motive for a confession; also that you will take no thought of my behaviour should it seem strange. Besides," she continued, with an air of mournful dignity that impressed me deeply, "as to be taken into a woman's confidence is one of the ways in which an honest man is most honoured, I have no fear of speaking freely to you.

"You are kind and generous; I know that you have often defended me bravely and loyally, and, alas! I am unaccustomed to be so defended. I know how one evening at the Opéra— Oh, yes, I overheard what you said," she continued, as she saw how astonished I was. "That was the reason I took the initiative in having you presented to me, and your reserved manner of accepting my hospitality gave me a high opinion of your dignity. Thus I have every confidence in you, and will consider you a true friend; for I must speak,—I must tell some one," she said, with an accent of despair,—"I must tell you—yes, you—why I am the most unfortunate of women."

She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.

There was that in her words, and in the pitiful look that accompanied them, something so touching, that in spite of my ill temper I was moved to compassion. Instantly, though, returned the evil thought that this was only the rôle she was playing to force me to a declaration. I hastened to say, in a very supercilious manner, that I hoped I was worthy of her confidence, and if my devotion or my advice could be of the least use to her, I was entirely at her service, and other such commonplace and glacial speeches.

As she did not appear to notice the chilly way I received her complaint, I saw only another reason for thinking she was deceiving me, and had scornfully resolved not to be interrupted in her rôle, but to play it to the end, and I was excessively irritated.

Now that I know all, I can understand her inadvertence, but at the time it was a positive and aggravating proof of her duplicity.

She was inattentive, because the relief caused by the disclosure of a long hidden trouble is so exquisite that, overcome by the blessed effusion, we neither know nor care for the impression we produce.

It is only later, when the heart, already lighter, feels refreshed by this divine outpouring, that we look up hopefully, expecting to see in our friend's eyes some sympathetic tears, or some expression of commiseration.

Thus, when two friends meet after a long and painful separation, in the rapture of the first embrace neither thinks of noticing if the other is changed.

Having thus, as it were, broken the ice, Madame de Pënâfiel continued, after passing her hand over her tearful eyes:

"It would be very easy for me to explain the extraordinary confidence I have in you. I know that, although you have often defended me from slander, you have never attempted to reap any advantage from your loyal conduct; then the isolation in which you live, although moving in the gay world, your reserve, your superiority of mind, which is unlike others, and entirely your own, virtues and defects,—everything tends to my accepting you as a sincere and generous friend, to whom I can tell all my sorrows and all I suffer."

Without showing the least feeling, I replied that she could count on my discretion, which was trustworthy, and besides, as I had no one to talk to, it was all the more safe. "For," said I, "we are only indiscreet with our intimate friends, and I cannot reproach myself with having a single one."

"That," said she, "is the very reason why I am encouraged to speak to you as I do. I fancied that you also were alone, that you also had some secret chagrin that you dared not speak of, suffering from your isolated position as I do from mine, for, like you, I have no friends; people hate me, they say wicked things about me, and why? Mon Dieu! have I deserved such treatment? Why is the world so unjust and cruel towards me? Whom have I injured? Oh, if you only knew! If I could tell you all!"

Her complaining seemed so childish and weak, her reticence so ill calculated to excite my curiosity, that, assuming a cheerful manner, I began an apology for the world in general.

"Since you give me permission to speak as a friend, madame, allow me to say that we must not be too fierce in our attacks on society. Ask yourself what we exact from society. Fêtes, excitement, smiles, homage, flowers, and gilded salons. With all these, the greatest possible latitude in regard to morals, and all the liberty we desire. Now, if society gives us all these, and you must admit that it does, has it not done its entire duty? Then why this constant complaining and railing at the poor world, when all we can reproach it with is its prodigality?"

"But you know very well that they are all false. Those smiles, that homage, those attentions, are all lies, you know it! If you receive at home, when the last visitor leaves, you say, 'Well, that is over!' If you go to a brilliant reception, as soon as your foot touches the sill of your own home you say again, 'Well, that is over!'"

"Thank Heaven, madame," I answered, pretending not to understand her, for she appeared surprised at my sudden conversion to mundane pleasures, "I assure you I am never so miserable as to be glad that a fête is over. If I ever say, 'Well, it is over!' on my return, it is because I am fatigued with enjoyment, of which, as I said, the world is only too prodigal. As to what you call its deceit and falsehood, it is perfectly right in not being willing to exchange its graceful and pleasing exterior for one that would be horribly disagreeable. Besides, it does not really lie, it but speaks its own language, a language that we perfectly understand. Society is not selfish and exacting, but you are. Why should you wish to insist upon its changing its charming manners, and adopting your romantic ideas of friendship, of endless love, which would make it stupid, and which it does not care for? Trust yourself to it, enter gaily into its giddy whirl, and it will lighten your burdens, and make your life bright and joyful.

"If it lies about you to-day, what matter? To-morrow's falsehood will obliterate the story of to-day. Do you fancy it even believes its own stories? Does it not worship you? Is it not always at your feet? Why should you attach more importance to its words than it expects you to? 'Please and be pleased' is the world's motto. A very convenient one, and easy to follow. What more can you want?"

Madame de Pënâfiel sat staring at me in amazement, remembering, no doubt, the many serious conversations we had on this subject, and, surprised at the sudden levity I affected, she said:

"But when calm reflection succeeds to the bewildering pleasures of society, and we analyse these delights, how vain and unsatisfying they are. What are we then to do?"

"I am quite in despair, madame, at not being able to answer that question. I enjoy these pleasures that you apparently despise, and hope to enjoy them for a long time yet, and more than any one, for it is in the lightness and the ease with which the world's fetters are broken that their charm consists. 'Pardon the outrageous stupidity of the comparison,' as Lord Falmouth says, but if ever the used-up expression, 'a chain of flowers,' was justified, it was in applying it to the obligations of society, which are as bright, as gay, as frail, and as easy to wear. But it is what the world calls love that charms me most, madame. It is the story of the phoenix who is constantly reincarnated, always more golden, more empurpled, and beautiful than before. Is not everything about this love charming, even its ashes, poor remains of love-letters that give out a perfume even as they are consumed? Is anything more delightful than the fact that in this adorable world love follows the divine law of metempsychosis? For, if to-day it dies of old age, after a month's duration, to-morrow it is born again more exquisite than ever, under another form, or for another form."

Madame de Pënâfiel could not yet understand why I should affect such gaiety, when she had just made me the confidant of her sorrows. I could see by her expression that my heedless and unkind words made a painful impression. At first she supposed I was joking, but, as I continued my speech with such an impertinent air of conviction, she knew not what to think, and, looking me in the face, she said, in a voice that was almost a reproach:

"Then you are perfectly happy!"

"Perfectly, madame, mundane life never appeared to me under the form of a more radiant and seductive vision."

Madame de Pënâfiel gazed at me for some moments with her great astonished eyes, and then said, in a firm and very decided way: "All that is not true; you are not happy; it is impossible that you should be. I know the truth; why will you not admit the truth, and then I could tell you—" Then she hesitated and cast down her eyes as though she were on the point of revealing a secret.

"If it will give you the least satisfaction, madame," I replied, smiling, "I will hasten to declare myself the most unfortunate, melancholy, dismal, sophisticated of mortals, and from henceforth I will go about proclaiming only, Anathema! Fatality!"

After contemplating me for some moments with inexpressible amazement, she said, as though speaking to herself: "Can I have deceived myself? Was I mistaken?" Then continuing, "No, no, it is impossible, if you were as happy and indifferent as you pretend to be, would I not have known it instinctively? Would I have opened my heart to you and exposed my grief? Would I have risked a confession only to have derision in return? No, no, my heart whispered the truth when it said, 'Speak to him, tell him all, he is your friend, a friend who will pity you, for he also is lonely and wretched.'"

Her strange persistence in making me acknowledge some imaginary sorrow, in order to deride me afterwards, astonished and irritated me.

"Madame," I said, "why do you persist in believing me to be so miserable?"

"Why, why?" said she, quite impatiently. "Because there are some confessions that one never makes to the gay and careless; because, to understand the bitterness of certain woes, there must exist some sort of harmony between the soul that bewails its grief, and the one who hears its complaining; because, had I thought you careless, merry, flippant, happy in the enjoyment of the life of frivolity whose charms you were just now vaunting, I never would have dreamed of telling you why I am so wretched, or explaining the secret of a life which must seem fantastic and bizarre. I would never have wished to tell you, as to a devoted and true friend, a brother, indeed, the reason I am so overwhelmed with sorrow."

I had reached such a point of irritation and distrust, that when she said the words "friend, brother," another idea suggested itself to me. Remembering Madame de Pënâfiel's reticence and a thousand other incidents which had passed unnoticed until now, I decided that her nameless sorrow, her disgust for everything, her weariness of the world, resembled very strongly an unrequited passion, and that she was in love, but that her love was not returned. I therefore believed her willing to make me the discreet confidant of her pains and longings.

This last hypothesis woke the most violent and mortal jealousy in my breast, and showed me plainly the extent of my love for Madame de Pënâfiel, as well as the ridiculous rôle I was expected to play if my last supposition were true.

I was about to reply, when, by moving the folds of her dress, she uncovered on the carpet at her feet a medallion, which had probably fallen from the buhl cabinet, when, in order to hide the crucifix (and, perhaps, the medallion as well), she had so suddenly closed its doors. It was a man's portrait, but I could not see the features.

I had no longer the least doubt, all my other imaginings vanished before this evident proof of Madame de Pënâfiel's duplicity; then, tortured by jealousy and wild with anger and wounded pride, I arose, and said, with perfect coolness:

"You are my friend, madame?"

"Oh, a very devoted and sincere one," she replied, with such a joyful look of gratitude.

"Then I can speak freely to you?"

"Speak as you would to a sister," she said to me, as she held out her hand, smiling, and pleased to find that at last we understood each other.

I took her beautiful hand and kissed it; then I continued:

"As to a sister? Well, let it be so, for no doubt, in this amusing comedy, you expect me to take the part of an honourable but stupid brother, who bemoans with his sister her unrequited love."

She looked wildly at me; her hands fell again on her knees; she was unable to utter a word. I continued:

"But we will not speak of that. I wish to tell you, as a friend, the various convictions which, thanks to my knowledge of your frankness, have passed through my mind since I saw you bowed at the foot of the crucifix. As for that charming pantomime, I must say that you were in a most artistic pose. Your eyes raised to heaven, your clasped hands, your tears,—it was a beautiful piece of acting; so, as I had no faith in your grief, but a great deal in your talent for mystification, I waited to see the comedy acted out."

"A comedy!" said she, not seeming to understand my words.

"A mystification, madame, of which I should have been the ridiculous object, had I been weak enough to offer to console you, or to make you any sentimental speeches on the subject of melancholy, misanthropy, lost illusions, and other strange nightmares that were supposed to be wearing my life away."

"This is all very dreadful!" said she, as though stunned by a blow. "I am horrified, and yet I do not understand—"

"Then I must speak more clearly, madame. The confession you wished me to make was to serve as amusement for your friends, when you should tell it in your charmingly malicious way,—like the way you told me about M. de Cernay's offer of marriage."

"But what you are saying is horrible!" she cried, wringing her hands in alarm. "Could you believe—?"

"Yes, I believed it at first, but after your confession of disgust for the world, and a nameless sorrow, which I now can easily understand, I recognised that the second rôle I was to play was even worse than this; for, in the first rôle, I was to force a woman of your rank to play a comedy to puzzle me, and it was so well performed, that I was quite proud to serve in any capacity that would give you an opportunity of exercising your rare talent for serious comedy."

"Monsieur," cried Madame de Pënâfiel, rising to her full height, "do you understand that you are speaking to me?" But she suddenly changed her haughty accent, and, clasping her hands, said: "It is enough to make me insane. I beseech you, explain yourself. What is it that you mean? Why should I wish to puzzle you? What rôle did I wish you to perform? Ah, be merciful, and do not blight the only moment of confidence, the only appeal for sympathy that I have given way to for so many long, weary months. If you only knew."

"I know," said I, in the fiercest and most insulting way, as I approached her, so that I might place my foot on the medallion, and crush it,—"I know, madame, that if I were a woman, and a man should scorn my love, I would rather die of shame and despair than to make the first comer, who cared nothing about them, such humiliating confessions, as weak and silly for the one who tells them as they are revolting and wearisome to the one who is obliged to hear them."

"Monsieur, how dare you be so audacious? How dare you to suppose—?"

"This!" said I, pointing with a scornful look at the portrait at her feet; then, pressing my boot on the medallion, I crushed the crystal.

"It is a sacrilege!" cried out Madame de Pënâfiel, quickly stooping to seize the portrait, which she took in her two hands, and turned on me her eyes that were blazing with indignation.

"It may be sacrilege, madame, but I treat your divinity as well as he treats you." Then I bowed myself out.

CHAPTER XXII

CONTRADICTIONS

After this interview, my anger and jealousy were for some hours so furious that the only thing I regretted was not to have been even more cruel and insolent to Madame de Pënâfiel.

By the violence of these transports of rage, I recognised the extent of my love for her,—a love whose depths I had not before sounded.

This medallion that I had discovered was to my eyes sufficient proof of the truth of my last suspicions, and if they were true, why should not those other stories be true, that had distressed me so at first? Now I no longer believed that she had wished to force me into confiding in her so that she might mock at me afterwards. I thought that another refused to requite the love that I would have given my life to obtain.

Then the calm of reason succeeded to the tumultuous excitement of passion; I could think calmly of my real position towards Madame de Pënâfiel. I had never alluded in any way to the great affection I bore her; why, then, should I be astonished at her confession, and the secret I thought I had discovered? How could I have treated her so? A woman, suffering perhaps from an unreturned affection, an incurable love, who was ignorant of my feelings towards her, and, relying on my generosity, came to me, if not for consolation, at least for my sympathy and pity. But my watchful jealousy and my anger were not to be quieted by these wise reflections. Who was that man whose portrait I had meant to crush? I had been in constant attendance on Madame de Pënâfiel for a long time, and I had seen no one that I could suppose to be the object of this unrequited passion that I suspected.

Her grief and her regrets, therefore, had existed for a long time. I understood now many singularities that were never clearly seen before, and that were so variously interpreted by the world, her sudden silences, her ennui, her disdain, her wild outbursts of enthusiasm which some souvenir would evoke, and which, as often as not, ended in fits of regret or despair. There was some object in her coquetry and her constant desire to please, but when could this mysterious personage enjoy the sight of all these charms? I sought the answer to this enigma in vain, though I remembered the reticence of her last conversation, and her embarrassment when, no doubt, she was on the point of telling me her secret sorrow.

But who could be the object of this fervent and unfortunate passion? Of this love that had caused her for the last few weeks a more profound grief than ever before?

Loving Marguerite as I loved her, ought I to attempt to offer her the tenderest of consolations? Might I hope to supplant in her heart this painful souvenir? Would I succeed if I made the attempt, should I dare to try? Tortured by regret and despair, this unhappy woman, who was so noble and refined, had become so susceptible through suffering, and so shy, that, for fear of wounding her sensitive nature, I could not, without the greatest tact, speak to her of a happier future.

And yet, in asking me to bewail her sufferings, had she not with rare delicacy and tact understood that certain great misfortunes invest one with such dignity, such majestic sorrow, that the most devoted, the most loving are compelled to be silent, and to wait until the victim of this royal grief speaks first, as other princes are obliged to do, and says, "Come to me, for my misfortune is great."

What hope could I now have, even supposing Madame de Pënâfiel to have given way to a secret liking for me when she addressed me with such confidence? My language to her had been so brutal, so strange, that it was impossible for me to imagine what the consequences might be.

Sometimes the very excess of my insolence reassured me. My answers had been so insulting, so violent, such a contrast to my former behaviour towards her, not to seem incomprehensible. Knowing her own merit, surrounded by every attention, and constantly flattered, she must have been more astounded than angered by my words, and she is probably still at a loss to discover the key to my conduct.

I am not sure whether this thought was inspired by hope or despair. But though I felt thoroughly ashamed of my impertinence, I ended by persuading myself that the outrageousness of my conduct, far from injuring my prospects, might be of great service to me, and, had I planned it all, I could not have managed it better.

In every love affair, the main thing, I think, is to excite and fill the imagination. To attain this end there is nothing more successful than a contrast. Therefore, it is above all things necessary that the impression you are to make should be essentially different from all those hitherto received, though at some later day, by your devotion and love, you may have to obliterate any bad impression you have made in the beginning.

If a woman has ordinarily but few friends, and is unused to flattery, there is no better way of captivating her mind, and afterwards her heart, than by the most extreme carefulness of her comfort, by the most delicate attentions; her vanity rejoices in these thousand respectful and tender proofs of solicitude, to which she had never been accustomed. It is in this manner we can explain the frequent and wonderful success of men who are no longer young, but who have great refinement and persistence. Such men can completely subjugate young girls, and even young married women.

On the other hand, does a woman fill a high position? is she continually and basely flattered? Then severity and haughtiness often have a powerful effect on her. Some women have to be treated as clever courtiers treat princes, with a certain amount of firmness, even brusqueness. If the rude outspoken language does not please them at first, it surprises, astonishes, and often subjugates them; for it is such a contrast to the commonplace and stupid things they hear every day, from every class of men, that it is frequently far from injuring the man who dares to make use of it. Applying these thoughts to my position, I said to myself: "The hardness and disdain with which I received Madame de Pënâfiel's confidences, my anger at the sight of the portrait she attempted to hide, can easily be attributed to the violence of my love, which she has, no doubt, guessed by this time; now, rages caused by love are always excusable, especially in the eyes of the woman who is loved, and as Marguerite is high-minded and generous, she will understand how miserable I was when I believed her about to entertain me with a tale of her unrequited affection."

Sometimes, arguing in another way, I thought I might be mistaken, and that, after all, Madame de Pënâfiel was not in love with any one else. Then my old suspicions returned, and I wondered why I should ever have dismissed them. This portrait was only one of the accessories of the comedy I accused her of acting. Then, as I had but a poor and mean opinion of myself, which was not improved by the realisation of my latest conduct, it was, I believed, impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should have any sympathy for me, so I tried to explain her apparent confidence by assigning her the meanest motives.

This aroused my anger more than ever, and I applauded my insolence.

In the midst of this uncertainty and anxiety this restless and agonising fever, I received the following note from Madame de Pënâfiel:

"I am waiting for you. Come—you must—come immediately.

M."

It was nine o'clock, I started off instantly almost wild with joy. She had sent for me. I might still hope.

CHAPTER XXIII

MARGUERITE

On entering the room, I was overcome with astonishment at finding Madame de Pënâfiel in almost the same attitude as when I left her.

Her face was deadly pale, fearful to see; it was like a marble mask.

This sickly paleness that had so suddenly changed her appearance, this expression of grief and resignation, touched me so deeply that all my reasonings and all my miserable suspicions vanished in an instant; it seemed as though I loved her for the first time with the most confiding and sincere love. I had no thought, even of asking her forgiveness for all that was hateful in my behaviour towards her.

I had no thoughts to waste on the miserable past. By I know not what magic, all I thought of now was how to console her for some dreadful grief of which I knew nothing. I was about to throw myself at her knees, when she said, in such an altered voice that I scarcely recognised it, although she attempted to give it an accent of firmness:

"I have sent for you, because I wished to see you for the last time, I wished to ask you the meaning of the strange words you said to me this morning,—that is, if you can explain them to yourself; I wished to tell you—"

Here her pale lips contracted tremulously, with that involuntary movement one feels when with tearful eyes an attempt is made to prevent sobbing. "I wished—" said Madame de Pënâfiel in a faint voice. Then as she could say no more, as she was weeping, she hid her head in her hands, and I only heard these words pronounced in a stifled voice, "Ah, poor unhappy woman that I am!"

"Oh, pardon—pardon, Marguerite!" I exclaimed, falling at her feet; "but do you not know how I love you—how I love you!"

"You love me?"

"Wildly, madly!"

"He loves me! He dares to say that he loves me!" she said, with indignation.

"This morning the secret of my soul was twenty times on my lips; but when I saw how unhappy you were—when I listened to your confession—"

"Well!"

"Well! I believed, yes, I believed, that it was love for another, a love that was not returned, scorned perhaps, and that such unrequited love was the cause of all the grief which you said was without cause and unreasonable."

"You believed that,—you!" and she raised her eyes to heaven.

"Yes, I believed it; and then I became wild with hate and despair, for every one of your confessions was a wound, an insult, an agony to me,—to me who loved you so fondly."

"You could believe that,—you!" repeated Marguerite, gazing on me with painful emotion, while two tears trickled slowly down her pale cheeks.

"Yes, and I believe it still."

"You believe it still. But you must think me infamous. Do you not know?"

"I know," I cried out, interrupting her, "I know that I love you to distraction. I know that another man causes you such suffering as I feel for you. Well, then, such thoughts have made me desperate, and I am going away."

"You are going away?"

"Yes, this very night. I did not dare to see you again. I need all my courage, and I will have it."

"You are going to leave me! But mon Dieu! mon Dieu!—and I!"—cried out Marguerite, and she joined her hands in a gesture that was both suppliant and despairing, and then fell on her knees before a chair that stood near by.

How can I ever tell the joy that was awakened in me by that last word of Marguerite's, "and I!"

It was not simply an avowal of love that I heard, but the agonising cry of her broken heart, which no longer had any hope but in my affection.

Although I still believed her to be under the influence of an unrequited passion, I had not the courage to renew the scene I had witnessed in the morning. Still I could not refrain from saying, sadly:

"And that portrait?"

"Here it is," she replied, handing me the medallion, whose crystal was half broken off.

When I held the portrait between my hands I endured for a moment the bitterest anguish; I dared not look at the face, fearing to see the likeness of some one that I knew. When I had overcome this childish terror, I looked at it. It was the face of a stranger! I saw a noble and handsome face whose expression was both mild and severe; the hair was brown, the eyes blue, the whole physiognomy expressed refinement and grace; the costume was very simple, the only decoration being a broad orange ribbon with white edges, and a golden medal worn on the left side of the coat.

"And whose portrait is this?" said I, sadly, to Marguerite.

"It is the portrait of the man I most loved and respected,—M. de Pënâfiel."

She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.

Then I understood it all, and believed that I should die of shame and remorse.

This one word tore the veil from the past, and showed me the frightful injustice of my suspicions.

"Ah, how you must despise and hate me!" I cried out in my distress. She gave no answer, but held out her hand that I knelt before and kissed with as much veneration as love.

After some time Marguerite became calm. Never in my life can I forget the first look she gave me when she raised her tear-stained face towards mine; in that look there was reproach, pardon, and pity.

"You have been very cruel, or else out of your mind," said she, after a long silence, "but I cannot be angry with you. I should have told you everything; twenty times at least, I have tried to do so, but I was afraid, you were so ironical and cold, your sudden and extraordinary conversion to the pleasures of the world,—everything repelled me."

"Ah, I believe it, I believe it, how can you ever pardon me? But, yes; you will forgive me when I tell you how much I have suffered by this frightful suspicion. Ah, if you knew how unjust and hateful grief can make a man! If you knew what it was to say, 'I love her to distraction, I idolise her, there is not a charm of her mind, her soul, or her person that I do not appreciate and admire, she is for me all in all,—and yet another—' ah, can you not see how such an idea is enough to set one wild, to make a man wish to die? Think of it, and you will have pity on me,—you will excuse because you will understand my rages, which I scarcely am ashamed of because I was wild from suffering."

"Did I not pardon you when I said to you, 'Return,' after that frightful morning?" said she, with the greatest gentleness.

"Oh, my life, my whole life shall be spent in expiation of this hour of folly. Marguerite, I swear that in me you will have the most devoted friend, the kindest brother; let me only come and worship you, let me come each day to contemplate in you the treasures of nobility, candour, and goodness that for an instant I misunderstood. You shall see that I am worthy of your confidence."

"Oh, now I believe you, and you shall know everything. I will tell you all, I will tell you what I have never dared to confide to any other; and yet you must not think that I am about to tell you any extraordinary secret. Nothing is simpler than what you are going to hear. It is only the proof of the saying, 'If the world can always discover false and guilty sentiments, it never believes there are any sentiments that are natural, true, and generous.'"

"Ah, what shame, what remorse must it ever be to me to have shared such stupid and malicious prejudices! Why did I not listen to the inward voice that said to me, 'Believe, have faith in her?' With what noble exultation could I now have said, 'I alone was able to understand her pure and generous nature!'"

"Comfort yourself, my friend, for I will teach you how to understand me. Does not that show that I have more confidence in you than you have in yourself? If I am willing to tell you all, does it not prove that you are the only person whose good opinion I care for? So if I desire to explain to you the apparent singularity of my life, which has been so misunderstood, it is because I wish, I hope, in the future to be able to give utterance to every thought in your hearing. This avowal requires some knowledge of the past; listen to me, then, my story will be short because it is true.

"I was a very rich heiress, free to choose whom I wished, spoiled by the homage that was paid as much to my fortune as to myself. At eighteen I had never loved any one. On a voyage I made to Italy, with M. and Madame de Blémur, I met M. de Pënâfiel. Though he was still young, he was the Spanish ambassador to Naples at a time when political troubles were very complicated; this will show you what a superior man he was. When, in addition, he was handsome,"—here she showed me the portrait,—"with charming manners, high principles, an extremely noble character, perfect taste, superior education, appreciative sense of all the arts, an illustrious name and a large fortune, you will be able to know his worth. I met him, I appreciated him, I loved him. The incidents of our marriage were very simple, for all interests were united. Only, soon after our first interview, he begged me to tell him if I authorised him to ask for my hand, as, knowing that I was entirely free in my choice, he wished to spare me any advances that my uncle might have to make in his name. I told him very innocently the great joy his proposal was to me, but I besought him to give up a career that would necessarily keep him always at a distance from France, and to promise not to live in Spain. His answer was noble and prompt. 'I will sacrifice cheerfully my dreams of ambition,' he said, 'but not the interests of my country. When my mission here is accomplished, I will return to Spain to thank the king for his confidence in me, and render him an account of what I hope to be a successful negotiation; then I will belong entirely to you and do as you think best.' It was thus that he acted. He obtained all that his government had wished, went to Madrid to make his adieux to the king, returned, and we were married. I shall not speak again of our happiness, but I will now tell you that it was perfect and mutual. However, as in the eyes of the world the arrangements had been so suitable, the world would never admit that it had been a love match, but insisted that it was simply a marriage of convenience."

"That is true, at least it is what I have always been given to understand; indeed, it is generally believed that, while you and M. de Pënâfiel were always the best of friends, your existence was, as often happens, quite apart from his."

"How false! What an absurdity! but it must have been believed, for our happiness was so simple and natural that the world, not understanding true love, could not give us credit for it. Besides, we liked to make a sort of mystery of our felicity, so how could society, accustomed as it is to scandal, suppose for an instant that a young wife and a charming husband of equal position and birth could go the length of adoring and wishing to live for one another? Alas! though, nothing was ever more true."

"Now, at last, all is explained clearly to my mind. Do you remember the absurd and malicious interpretation of that race and the story about Ismaël?"

"Of course I do."

"Very well; your marriage was interpreted with about as much truth. As nothing was more evident than the irreproachableness of your conduct, slander arranged for you a mysterious subterranean life. I assure you it is astonishing to listen to. They even told of disguises and a little far away house in the suburbs."

"If I was not so sad, I would smile with you, my friend, at all these wicked falsehoods, but I have got to a period in my souvenirs when all is so cruel, so distressing," and she held out her hand to me, "that I have hardly courage enough to speak of it. After three years of complete and passionate happiness,—after—"

Marguerite could say no more, she burst into tears, and it was some moments before she continued.

"Yes, yes, I know," said I to her as I knelt before her, "I know how admirable and devoted you were all that dreadful time. Now that I have looked into your soul, now that I know who it was that filled it, and fills it still with his souvenir, I understand how agonising such an eternal separation must be to you."

After a few moments of silence Marguerite began again: "Thanks, thanks, for understanding me thus. Mon Dieu! Since that dreadful moment this is the first time that my grief is not unbearable, my tears not bitter, for I can relieve my heart by speaking of my sorrows. I can tell how much I loved and how much I have suffered. Alas! while in the midst of so much felicity I needed no friend to talk about it, but since,—oh, since all this affliction has come to me I have been so lonely! If you only knew what a life I have led! Obliged to hide my grief, my sad regrets, as I used to hide my delights! To whom could I tell them? Who was there to console me? The world sometimes has pity for a guilty love, but for a sacred sorrow like mine it has nothing but abuse, for it is either ridiculous or a lie. Weep thus for one's husband! Regret him so bitterly! Live only in the remembrance of one who was so dear! Who ever would believe that? And then why should I speak of it? And to whom? My relations were quite too worldly to understand my grief; and then I had been so selfish in my happy days that I had never tried to make friends. He—he alone was all I cared for. To whom would I have cared to tell how happy I was? To him, and to him alone! Besides, with all the carelessness of boundless felicity, I never even thought that misfortune could come near me."

"Alas, poor friend, how miserable you must have been! To suffer alone is so frightful!"

"Yes, yes, I have suffered, believe me. Sometimes, through a timidity of which I am ashamed, I was afraid of being alone. In the darkness and silence my grief would almost overpower me. It grew upon me that at times I was terrified, and then I took refuge in society. I detested it, but I needed its noise and excitement to take my mind off thoughts that were strained to such a point that I feared for my reason. When this strain was over and I was calm once more, I railed at the vain joys of the world for having caused me to forget my grief. I lamented my cowardice, and thus my days passed in constant moods of contradiction. This is not all. I knew that my sorrows were the cause of slanderous tales, and yet I neither would nor could justify myself. Oh, if you only knew how cruel it is to have nothing but the truth as a defence,—the truth which, in your eyes, is so sacred, so venerated, that it would seem a profanation to tell it to the incredulous and careless."

Marguerite again wept silently. She continued, after a pause: "Now you can understand my disdain for every one and everything. Soured by my trouble, I became irritable and capricious, and as no one understood the cause, I was called fantastic. The people that surrounded me seemed vulgar when compared to the one whose souvenir shall always be sacred; and so they said I was scornful or deceitful. The useless coquetry that I was reproached with, and to which they assigned the worst motives, was but another tribute to his memory. I wore these beautiful clothes because he loved to see me wear them. All these beautiful surroundings, these flowers, this half-light in which he used to veil my features, alas! they were all so many precious souvenirs. Finally, those scientific smatterings that people chose to call pretentious were only sad reflections of past days, for, being a savant himself, he loved to talk to me of his various attainments.

"What more can I say, my friend? Living alone, the manner of my living seems too ostentatious, and so I am called haughty and vain, and yet it is because this house was his home that I keep it up as he did. Now you know the secret of my life. Before I met you I cared very little whether the world approved of me or not. I was called a vain, extravagant flirt. What did it matter? I cared nothing for their odious tales; they were perfectly uninteresting to me; but since I have learned to appreciate all your good qualities, and have seen how easily you were influenced by the world's ill-natured opinion of me, I set such price on your esteem, your affection, that I could not bear to have you judge me as others do. And besides, you have often generously undertaken to defend me, and I wished to prove to you that your natural instincts were noble and just. And now I have still a painful confession to make to you."

"Marguerite, I implore you—"

"Yes," she continued, blushing, "I have struggled against it a long time. This morning, when you found me so wretched, so forlorn, I had been praying God for strength to resist the need I felt of rehabilitating myself in your sight."

"Why, oh, why? Am I not worthy of your confidence?"

"Yes, yes, you are; you always will be. I believe it, but I reproached myself bitterly that I was not so sure of the purity of my motives, the sincerity of my regrets, to remain indifferent as to the effect the world's calumnies might have on you, for I tremble for the future."

Here there are many pages missing in the "Journal."

CHAPTER XXIV

DAYS OF SUNSHINE

There are but few persons, I imagine, who have not created for themselves a sort of intimate language, which they use to separate and classify the different emotions and events of their lives. It was thus that I gave the name of "days of sunshine" to those few fortunate hours that brightened my existence, which were fixed in my memory in such vivid colours that even the remembrance of them sufficed to cheer the dullest days of my after life.

At such times, when, by a turn of her wheel, fortune seems to amuse herself by raising a man to the very height of his fondest desire, on such "days of sunshine" everything that happens to us is not only just as we would wish, but the environment is such that our senses are doubly gratified.

And who is there that has not had his day of sunshine once at least in his life? One of those days when everything is beautiful and splendid, when the soul is filled with an ineffable sense of satisfaction, and Nature herself seems to contribute to our felicity? When if a long-cherished friend said, in a trembling voice: "To-night!" the night was so beautiful, the heavens so clear, the woods beautiful in their fresh foliage, the flowers glistening, the air saturated with perfume, and everything that you gazed on was smiling and peaceful.

No shadow of sadness came to obscure your luminous aureole. Is it needful to say how such rare and divine harmony delighted you? New and happily turned expressions came spontaneously to your lips; your lively wit sparkled in a thousand graceful pleasantries; when that is silent your heart murmurs ineffable tenderness. You feel yourself to be so brave, so proud, so gifted, that to your dazzled eyes the future is boundless, the perspective illimitable and glorious, and you say to yourself, "No misfortune can come to me while I am under the guidance of the radiant genius who shelters me with his golden wings."

Since Marguerite had declared her love, a love so long and sadly struggled against by every souvenir of her past happiness, my incurable distrust had succumbed, at least for the time being, to the most intoxicating proofs of her affection.

There never were happier or more beautiful days than those that followed this avowal.

Almost every evening, on returning home, I had written in my journal a memento of these charming days.

Therefore it is with tender and respectful emotion that in writing this memoir I transcribe these fragments which were written during one of the most delightful periods of my life.

I

APRIL, 18—.

I have been fortunate enough to-day to spare Marguerite a moment's annoyance, but poor Candid is dead.

I have just seen him die. Brave, noble horse! I loved him well!

George does not weep for him, he is in a stupid despair; he said to me in English, with a horrified look as he pointed to the expiring beast: "Ah, monsieur, to die like that! and never to have run against any one, never to have run a race!"

Poor Candid! his end was peaceful, he went down on his knees, then he fell over, two or three times he raised his noble head and opened his great bright eyes,—then he half closed them, gave a sigh, and was dead.

I never loved a horse so well, nor will I ever care for another one as I did for him, he was so intelligent and beautiful, he had so much energy and adroitness, besides being perfectly intrepid! He never balked at anything; was there an obstacle at the sight of which another horse would have hesitated, he came up to it proud, calm, and brave, and leaped over it as though it were play.

And then he looked so free and joyous under the bridle, one would have said that the valiant animal was under no restraint, but wore the bit as an ornament.

Poor Candid! his courage was my pride! Confiding in his strength, I dared to face dangers that otherwise would have affrighted me.

Trusting in his speed and stubborn energy, I accepted every wager. Poor Candid! it was his speed and stubborn energy that were the causes of his death.

He was the only horse I owned that could have done what he did, what very few would have attempted; he accomplished his task valiantly and gained me a smile from Marguerite.

Poor Candid! I did not know to what risk I exposed him, and now—I do not know whether I should have the courage to do it again. This is the cause of Candid's death:

This morning we went with Don Luiz to see the Château of ——, that Marguerite wishes to purchase; this château is at a distance of three leagues and a half from Paris. In visiting the apartments I gave my arm to Marguerite, and we were followed by Don Luiz and the overseer of the château.

When we were in the library, we noticed a very fine portrait of a lady of the seventeenth century; the hands were adorable in their delicacy and beauty of form.

They were so adorable that they resembled Marguerite's.

She denied it; so I begged her to take off her glove and let us compare her hands with those of the portrait. They were strikingly alike. How could I see such beautiful hands without kissing them?

We heard Don Luiz's step, and we continued our examination of the library.

After seeing the château we returned to Paris. As Marguerite felt tired, she asked me to come and spend a quiet evening with her. I promised to do so.

When I arrived there I found her pale and sad; she was evidently quite overcome.

"What is the matter?" said I to her.

"You will laugh at me,"—she had tears in her eyes,—"but I have lost a bracelet that belonged to my mother; I had it on this morning. You know how I prize it, and will understand how grieved I am. I have sought for it everywhere. It is nowhere—nowhere!"

As she told me this, I remembered confusedly having seen, when Marguerite took off her glove, something that shone brilliantly, and which fell to the floor just as I was kissing her hand in the library, but, being so enchanted by the kiss, I paid no attention to anything else.

"I am so foolishly superstitious about the possession of that bracelet," said Marguerite, "that I will be dreadfully unhappy if it is really lost, but what hope can I have? Have I any? Ah, pardon, my friend, for my showing such sorrow for anything which does not concern you, but if you only knew how much that bracelet meant to me— Ah, what a sad night I shall spend, how unhappy I shall be!"

There flashed through my mind one of those ideas that come to us when we are desperately in love. I had a very fast race-horse,—it was Candid; it was three leagues and a half from Paris to the Château of ——; the night was fine, the moon shone clear, the road was a splendid one. I wished to spare Marguerite not only a night, but an hour, even a few moments of grief, by finding out in the least time possible if the bracelet had been left in the library of ——, even at the risk of killing my horse.

"Pardon for my selfishness," said I to Marguerite, "but your distress and the loss you have sustained have reminded me that I foolishly left the key in the lock of a little chest which contains important papers. I have every confidence in my valet de chambre, but others besides he might enter my room. Permit me, then, to write a note, that I will send back by the carriage, to tell him to get the key, and bring it to me."

I wrote the following words:

"George is to saddle Candid instantly, he must go to the Château de —— and ask the overseer if he has not found a bracelet in the library. When George gets this note it will be ten o'clock, by eleven o'clock you must either bring the bracelet or the answer to the Hôtel de Pënâfiel."

The letter was sent.

It was rather more than three leagues and a half to the Château de —— from Paris. He would have to travel seven leagues in an hour. Such a thing was possible with a horse like Candid, but it was a hundred to one that it would ruin him. Until ten o'clock I had sufficient control over myself to amuse Marguerite and take her mind off her loss.

Eleven o'clock struck, George had not returned. At five minutes past eleven a valet de chambre came in, bringing on a waiter a small package, which he presented to me.

It was Marguerite's bracelet.

I cannot express the transports of joy with which I received it.

"You will pardon me," I said to Marguerite, "the tardiness of my servants. Not knowing the value you set on that bracelet, I stole it from you, but seeing your extreme annoyance, I pretended that I had forgotten my key, and wrote to my valet de chambre to send me a little package that he would find in my coffer."

"Oh, I have found it, I have found it! I forgive you!" cried Marguerite, in a transport of joy; then, holding out her hand, she added: "Ah, how kind you are to have taken pity on my weakness, and how I thank you for having sent to your house for the bracelet, in order to save me a few moments' distress."

I admit that, in spite of Marguerite's joy and gratitude, I was horribly anxious when, at half-past eleven, I quitted the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. At midnight, my anxiety was all over. Poor Candid! He had just expired, I told George, by way of explanation, that I had laid a wager for three hundred louis that Candid could go to —— and back by night in an hour.

II

APRIL, 18—.

I met Marguerite in the Champs Élysées. She spoke of horses, and said to me: "Why do you not make Candid run oftener? They say he is so fast, so handsome, and that you are so fond of him,—oh, so fond, that I am almost jealous," she added, laughing.

At this moment M. de Cernay, who, like myself, was on horseback, rode up to the side of Madame de Pënâfiel's carriage. He bowed to her, and said to me:

"Is this true that I hear? Is Candid dead?"

Marguerite looked at me with amazement.

"He is dead," said I to M. de Cernay.

"That is what I was told, but it does not surprise me,—to travel more than seven leagues at night, in an hour and four minutes! No matter how full-blooded a horse was, it would be hard for him to stand such a trial as that, and when he was not in condition! And your wager was for three hundred louis, I believe?"

"Yes, three hundred louis."

"Well, between us, you have done a foolish thing, for I have seen you refuse more than that for him, and very properly, too, for you would never get such a horse for five hundred louis. I tell you this because he is dead now," he added, with great simplicity.

"A horse's reputation, then, seems to be like that of a great man," I said, laughing, "jealousy prevents him from being appreciated while he is alive."

Marguerite's expressive look almost repaid me for the loss of Candid.

III

APRIL, 18—.

What a bewildering day! It has been so filled with happy hours that I fondly listen to their distant echoes in my heart.

It has been a radiantly beautiful day. As we had agreed upon yesterday, I met Marguerite in the Bois; her face, which is still rather pale, seemed to bloom afresh in the sunlight. She was on foot, and before joining her I followed her at some distance in the Alley of the Acacias. Nothing could be more elegant than her walk, or than her figure, whose suppleness and grace was only half hidden by the shawl that was wrapped around her. I also watched for some time her little feet, as, at each step, they raised the flowing edge of her dress.

I joined her, and she blushed deeply when she saw me. I am more than ever convinced of the value of this symptom. As soon as it ceases, as soon as the sight of the beloved one no longer causes the blood to rush from the heart to the face, real love, ardent and young, has disappeared; a weak and chilly affection has come in its place; indifference and forgetfulness are not far off.

I gave her my arm. As she scarcely touched it, I begged her to lean on it more.

The air was pure and mild, the turf was beginning to look green, the violets to blossom. We spoke very little at first. From time to time she turned her face up to mine, and looked smilingly at me, while her large eyes seemed to swim in clear crystal; then her nostrils would dilate, as she said, eagerly, "Oh, how good it is to breathe thus the springtime and happiness!"

When we saw the Heights of Calvary we talked about the country, the great forests, the fields, and the beautiful and vast treasures of nature. Our conversation was often interrupted by long pauses. After one of these, she said to me: "I wish you could come to Brittany; we would take long, long walks together, and I would plant you in our woods, so that later, when I was all alone, I should gather in a rich harvest of tender recollections."

I replied that I had nothing to tell her in return for such charming flattery, and I was really glad it was so, for nothing is more tiresome than those persons who repay you instantly, by returning a pretty compliment or delicate attention, as though they wished to rid themselves at any price of an intolerable debt. We met several men and women of our acquaintance on foot as we were. After they had passed us and we had exchanged bows, we laughingly declared that we would like to know what they were saying about us.

While telling of our walk, I wish to say that Marguerite told me that Paris was becoming odious to her; that she had formed a fine project, but would not disclose it to me until the first of May. Impossible to make her tell any more.

At four o'clock the old Chevalier Don Luiz rejoined us, and we all three continued our walk for awhile. Madame de Pënâfiel and I each had some visits to make and so I left her. That night she was to go to a ball, and we agreed that I should go to see her at ten o'clock to have the first glimpse of her toilet, of which she made a great mystery.

On leaving Marguerite I called on Madame de ——. Our happiness is already very well known. Formerly, people would speak very freely about Madame de Pënâfiel in my presence; now no one ever pronounces her name before me, or, if they do so, it is always accompanied with the most exaggerated praise. I noticed this for the first time at Madame de ——'s.

One of her friends who has just arrived from Italy, and is ignorant of the latest liaisons in society, said to her, after having received information about several ladies of his acquaintance: "And what about Madame de Pënâfiel? I hope you have got some good story to tell me about her. Come, tell us who is the fortunate or unfortunate man of the hour? Tell me all about it. You owe that much to a man who arrives from the antipodes and knows nothing of what is going on; besides, unless I have some information I shall make some terrible blunders."

"But you are crazy," replied Madame de ——, blushing deeply, and glancing towards me; "you know how I perfectly detest such gossip, especially when it is about one of my best friends; for my affection for Marguerite dates from our childhood." She said this very meaningly.

"One of your best friends! Ah, that is charming, ah, yes," replied this stupid man, who understood nothing. "One of your best friends, 'tis very good! But then, you know they say, 'Who loves well chastises well,' and you used to tell me hundreds of entertaining tales about her, each one more spiteful than the other."

Madame de ——'s embarrassment was so great that I took pity on her.

"Then I am not the only one that you have attempted to draw into that trap," I said to her, laughing.

"A trap?" said the newcomer.

"A trap, monsieur," I answered, "a trap baited with malice, into which even I, who am one of Madame de Pënâfiel's sincerest and most devoted friends, had almost fallen."

"Ah, do you believe me capable of such treachery?" replied Madame de ——, smiling, but not understanding my meaning.

"Certainly, madame, I think you are, for it is an excellent way of discovering our friends' partisans; you pretend to have heard some dreadful scandal concerning an intimate friend, and, according to the way your acquaintances defend or attack the truth of your statement, you can judge of their kindly or inimical feelings; so that afterwards, when your friend hears their protestations of affection, she will be able to accept them at their true value."

"Ah, you are terribly indiscreet," said Madame de ——, with the pretence of a smile. The newcomer from Italy was quite astounded. Another visitor entering, I went out.

At ten o'clock I went to Marguerite's. I hoped I should have to wait for her, for I find it delightful to be for awhile alone, and dreamily enjoy the quiet of a salon in which the beloved one passes so much of her life, and then to see it suddenly illumined by her presence. But I had not this pleasure, for she was already there and waiting for me. This victory that I had won over the important and pleasing duties of the toilet, this delicate and unusual attention of being ready to receive me, gave me the greatest delight.

Marguerite was adorable. She wore a dress of pale green moire, trimmed with lace and bows of rose-coloured ribbon, from the centre of which blossomed great pink roses. One of these flowers was in the corsage, and another one in her hair. She brought me one of her bracelets to fasten for her, which I did, but not without imprinting a kiss on that beautiful arm so white and round.

I wished her to tell me her great secret of the first of May, but she said that this springtime of hope must still remain a mystery.

I told her about my morning visit to Madame ——, and we both laughed at it; but Marguerite said she was too happy now to care for the falsehoods that were said of her. Then we spoke of a very beautiful foreigner, who had made a great sensation in society, and she thanked me gaily for having shown so much attention to that charming person.

"And why should you thank me for that?" I asked.

"Because when a man flirts with other women, it is a sure sign that he is absolutely certain of the heart of the one woman he loves. Thus, you see, I am very proud to have inspired such confidence, and such security."

At eleven o'clock she ordered her carriage.

As I was expressing my gratitude at this opportunity of being entirely alone, Marguerite answered: "This is nothing; wait until my first of May."

I went for a short visit to the Opéra. It was very brilliant. I found M. de Cernay in our box. What he calls my good fortune continues to annoy him; for he never forgets to tell me how pleased he is to see her so seriously attached to me; it was sure to happen one day or another. Besides, she must be tired of leading such a life of excitement. Her craze for Ismaël was but a piece of folly; her inclination for M. de Merteuil was only a caprice; her other mysterious but well-known adventures were simply to satisfy a wild imagination, while the affection she had for me was quite another thing.

According to my custom, I obstinately denied my good fortune, whereupon M. de Cernay accused me of dissimulation, of trying to hide what all Paris was aware of. He finished by predicting that, if I persisted in remaining so secretive, I would never have a friend in the world. This prediction really caused me serious annoyance.

I went to Madame de ——'s ball to join Marguerite. On entering the salons I had not to go far to find her. Who can explain that instinct, that strange faculty, thanks to which an instant and a single look suffice for a man to discover in a crowded room, among hundreds of other men and women, the person of all others he desires to meet?

Marguerite was conversing with Madame de ——, when I discovered her. She received me with a perfect graciousness and a marked preference, although she was surrounded by several others. I speak of this peculiarity, because most women who have special interest in some particular man think they show a great deal of tact in receiving the one they care for most with affected indifference or even positive rudeness.

Madame de —— is very lively, intelligent, and gay, of a frank and sensible disposition, indulgent, but not commonplace, and very fierce and disagreeable, when any of her absent friends are attacked. Marguerite and I are fortunate enough to be favourites of hers. They sat down on a small sofa, and I taking a chair behind them, we made a thousand amusing remarks about every one and everything. Finally we spoke of pictures, and Madame de —— said to me:

"I know that you have a charming collection of paintings. Why do you not give us a supper some evening and invite some of our friends, so that we can all admire your marvels?"

"With the greatest pleasure," I replied. "But it must be understood that I will not invite any of the husbands; they spoil everything, like a man in a ballet."

"Quite the contrary," she said to me, "it will be very entertaining, for in many liaisons there is as much tiresome stupidity and jealousy as in conjugal life. Many husbands are very amiable, and the only thing against them is that they are husbands." After having discussed the question for some time, we agreed to invite a reasonable proportion of both husbands and lovers.

It was getting late. Marguerite begged her cousin, Don Luiz, to call the carriage. While she was waiting for it, I threw her cloak over her beautiful shoulders, and said, in a low voice, "At eleven o'clock, to-morrow?"

She blushed deeply, and softly pressed my hand when I gave her the fan.

I understood what it meant.