three times across her wrinkled forehead, and appeared to be reflecting deeply. The recollection of times that were no more and that she regretted imparted an expression of emotion to her face. I did not speak lest I should disturb her in her thoughts, and the silence lasted for some minutes. At last she broke it.
“'They are Henri's-my dear Henri's very eyes; the same humid and brilliant gaze, the same carriage of the head, the same sweet and proud physiognomy; one would think it were he. You cannot imagine the extent of this likeness, Monsieur Theodore; when I see you I cannot believe that Henri is dead; I think that he has only been on a long journey, and has now at last come back. You have given me much pleasure and much pain, Theodore; pleasure by reminding me of my poor Henri, and pain by showing me how great has been my loss; sometimes I have taken you for his phantom. I cannot reconcile myself to the idea that you are going to leave us; it seems to me like losing my Henri once more.'
“I told her that if it were really possible for me to remain longer I should do so with pleasure, but that my stay had already been prolonged far beyond the limits it should have had; besides, I quite expected to return, and I should retain memories of the mansion far too agreeable to forget it so quickly.
“'However sorry I may be at your departure, Monsieur Theodore,' she resumed, pursuing her own train of thought, 'there is some one here who will feel it more than I. You understand whom I mean without my telling you. I do not know what we shall do with Rosette when you are gone; but this old place is very dull. Alcibiades is always hunting, and for a young girl like her the society of a poor, infirm woman like me is not very diverting.'”
“'If anyone should have regrets, it is not you, madame, nor Rosette, but I; you are losing little, I much; you will easily discover society more charming than mine, but it is more than doubtful whether I shall ever be able to replace Rosette's and yours.'
“'I do not wish to pick a quarrel with your modesty, my dear sir, but I know what I know, and what I say is fact. It will probably be a long time before we see Madame Rosette in a good humor again, for at present her smiles and tears depend only on you. Her mourning is about to end, and it would be a pity if she laid aside her gaiety with her last black dress; it would be a very bad example, and quite contrary to natural laws. This is a thing which you could prevent without much trouble, and which you will prevent, no doubt,' said the old lady, laying great emphasis on the last words.
“'Unquestionably I will do all in my power that your dear niece may not lose her charming gaiety, since you suppose me to have such influence over her. Nevertheless, I scarcely see what method I can adopt.'
“'Oh! really, you scarcely see! What are your handsome eyes for? I did not know that you were so shortsighted. Rosette is free; she has an income of eighty thousand livres wholly under her own control, and women twice as ugly as she is are often considered pretty. You are young, handsome, and, as I imagine, unmarried; it appears to me to be the simplest thing in the world, unless you have an unsurmountable horror of Rosette, which it is difficult to believe-'
“Which is not and could not be the case, for her soul is as excellent as her person, and she is one of those who might be ugly without our noticing it or wishing them otherwise…”
“'She might be ugly with impunity and she is charming. That is to be doubly in the right; I have no doubt of what you say, but she has taken the wisest course. So far as she is concerned I would willingly answer for it that there are a thousand whom she hates more than you, and that if she were asked several times she would perhaps end by confessing that you do not altogether displease her. You have a ring on your finger which would suit her perfectly, for your hand is nearly as small as hers, and I am almost sure that she would accept it with pleasure.'
“The good lady stopped for a few moments to see what effect her words would produce on me, and I do not know whether she had reason to be satisfied with the expression of my face. I was cruelly embarrassed and did not know what to reply. From the beginning of the conversation I had perceived the tendency of all her insinuations; and, although I almost expected what she had just said, I was quite surprised and confused by it; I could not but refuse; but what valid motives could I give for such a refusal? I had none, except that I was a woman: an excellent motive it is true, but precisely the only one that I was unwilling to state.
“I could hardly fall back upon stern and ridiculous parents; all the parents in the world would have accepted such a union with enthusiasm. Had Rosette not been what she was, good, fair and well-born, the eighty thousand livres a year would have removed all difficulty. To say that I did not love her would have been neither true nor honorable, for I did really love her very much and more than any woman loves a woman. I was too young to pretend that I was engaged in another quarter. What I thought it best to do was to let it be understood that being a younger son the interests of my house required me to enter the Maltese Order, and did not permit to think of matrimony, a circumstance which had caused me all the sorrow in the world since I had seen Rosette.
“This reply was not worth much, and I was perfectly sensible of the fact. The old lady was not deceived by it, and did not regard it as definite; she thought that I had spoken in this way to gain time for reflection and for consulting my parents. Indeed, such a union was so advantageous for me, and one so little to be expected, that it would not have been possible for me to refuse it even though I had felt little or no love for Rosette; it was a piece of good fortune that was not to be slighted.
“I do not know whether the aunt made this overture at the instance of her niece, but I am inclined to believe that Rosette had nothing to do with it; she loved me too simply and too eagerly to think of anything else but the immediate possession of me, and marriage would assuredly have been the last of the means that she would have employed. The dowager, who had not failed to remark our intimacy, and doubtless thought it much greater than it was, had contrived the whole of this plan in her head in order to keep me near her, and as far as possible replace her dear son. Henri, who had been killed in the army, and to whom, as she considered, I bear so striking a likeness. She had been pleased by this idea and had taken advantage of the moment of solitude to come to an explanation with me. I saw by her mien that she did not look upon herself as beaten, and that she intended to return soon to the charge — at which I felt extremely annoyed.
“That same night Rosette, on her part, made a last attempt which had such serious results that I must give you a separate account of it, and cannot relate it in this letter, which is already swelled to an extravagant size. You will see to what singular adventures I was predestined, and how heaven had cut me out beforehand to be a heroine of romance; I am not quite sure, though, what moral could be drawn from it all, — but existences are not like fables, each chapter has not a rhymed sentence at the end. Very often the meaning of life is that it is not death. That is all. Good-bye, dear, I kiss you on your lovely eyes. You will shortly receive the continuation of my triumphant biography.”
XIII
“Theodore, Rosalind, for I know not by what name to call you, — I have only just seen you and I am writing to you.-Would that I knew your woman's name I it must be pleasant as honey, and hover sweeter and more harmonious than poetry on the lips! Never could I have dared to tell you this, and yet I should have died for lack of saying it. What I have suffered no one knows nor can know, nor could I myself give any but a faint idea of it; words will not express such anguish; I should appear to have turned my phrases carefully, to have striven to say new and singular things, and to be indulging in the most extravagant exaggeration when merely depicting what I have experienced with the help of unsatisfying images.
“O Rosalind! I love you, I worship you; why is there not a word more expressive than that! I have never loved, I have never worshipped any one save you; I prostrate myself, I humble myself before you, and I would fain compel all creation to bend the knee before my idol; you are more to me than the whole of nature, more than myself, more than God, — nay, it seems strange to me that God does not descend from heaven to become your slave. Where you are not all is desolate, all is dead, all is dark; you alone people the world for me; you are life, sunshine-you are everything. Your smile makes the day, and your sadness the night; the spheres follow the movements of your body, and the celestial harmonies are guided by you, O my cherished queen! O my glorious and real dream! You are clothed with splendor, and swim ceaselessly in radiant effluence.
“I have known you scarcely three months, but I have long loved you. Before seeing you, I languished for love of you; I called you, sought for you, and despaired of ever meeting with you in my path, for I knew that I could never love any other woman. How many times have you appeared to me, — at the window of the mysterious mansion leaning in melancholy fashion on your elbow in the balcony and casting the petals of some flower to the
