“If you are in truth going to St. Petersburg,” he said, “I will bid you adieu now. If not—au revoir.”
“I am going. Yes, Edouard, I am. I cannot bear this country longer. My heart is being torn to pieces. All my affections are outraged. Yes, I am going;—perhaps on Monday;—perhaps on Monday week. But I go in truth. My brother, adieu.” Then she got up, and putting a hand on each of his shoulders, lifted up her face to be kissed. He embraced her in the manner proposed, and turned to leave her. But before he went she made to him one other petition, holding him by the arm as she did so. “Edouard, you can lend me twenty napoleons till I am at St. Petersburg?”
“No, Sophie; no.”
“Not lend your sister twenty napoleons!”
“No, Sophie. I never lend money. It is a rule.”
“Will you give me five? I am so poor. I have almost nothing.”
“Things are not so bad with you as that, I hope?”
“Ah, yes; they are very bad. Since I have been in this accursed city—now, this time, what have I got? Nothing—nothing. She was to be all in all to me—and she has given me nothing! It is very bad to be so poor. Say that you will give me five napoleons;—O my brother!” She was still hanging by his arm, and, as she did so, she looked up into his face with tears in her eyes. As he regarded her, bending down his face over hers, a slight smile came upon his countenance. Then he put his hand into his pocket, and taking out his purse, handed to her five sovereigns.
“Only five?” she said.
“Only five,” he answered.
“A thousand thanks, O my brother.” Then she kissed him again, and after that he went. She accompanied him to the top of the stairs, and from thence showered blessings on his head, till she heard the lock of the door closed behind him. When he was altogether gone she unlocked an inner drawer in her desk, and, taking out an uncompleted rouleau of gold, added her brother’s sovereigns thereto. The sum he had given her was exactly wanted to make up the required number of twenty-five. She counted them half-a-dozen times, to be quite sure, and then rolled them carefully in paper, and sealed the little packet at each end. “Ah,” she said, speaking to herself, “they are very nice. Nothing else English is nice, but only these.” There were many rolls of money there before her in the drawer of the desk;—some ten, perhaps, or twelve. These she took out one after another, passing them lovingly through her fingers, looking at the little seals at the ends of each, weighing them in her hand as though to make sure that no wrong had been done to them in her absence, standing them up one against another to see that they were of the same length. We may be quite sure that Sophie Gordeloup brought no sovereigns with her to England when she came over with Lady Ongar after the earl’s death, and that the hoard before her contained simply the plunder which she had collected during this her latest visit to the “accursed” country which she was going to leave.
But before she started she was resolved to make one more attempt upon that mine of wealth which, but a few weeks ago, had seemed to be open before her. She had learned from the servants in Bolton Street that Lady Ongar was with Lady Clavering, at Clavering Park, and she addressed a letter to her there. This letter she wrote in English, and she threw into her appeal all the pathos of which she was capable.—
Mount Street, October, 186‒.
Dearest Julie—I do not think you would wish me to go away from this country forever—forever, without one word of farewell to her I love so fondly. Yes; I have loved you with all my heart—and now I am going away—forever. Shall we not meet each other once, and have one embrace? No trouble will be too much to me for that. No journey will be too long. Only say, Sophie, come to your Julie.
I must go, because I am so poor. Yes; I cannot live longer here without having the means. I am not ashamed to say to my Julie, who is rich, that I am poor. No; nor would I be ashamed to wait on my Julie like a slave if she would let me. My Julie was angry with me, because of my brother! Was it my fault that he came upon us in our little retreat, where we was so happy? Oh, no. I told him not to come. I knew his coming was for nothing—nothing at all. I knew where was the heart of my Julie!—my poor Julie! But he was not worth that heart, and the pearl was thrown before a pig. But my brother—! Ah, he has ruined me. Why am I separated from my Julie but for him? Well; I can go away, and in my own countries there are those who will not wish to be separated from Sophie Gordeloup.
May I now tell my Julie in what condition is her poor friend? She will remember how it was that my feet brought me to England—to England, to which I had said farewell forever—to England, where people must be rich like my Julie before they can eat and drink. I thought nothing then but of my Julie. I stopped not on the road to make merchandise—what you call a bargain—about my coming. No; I came at once, leaving all things—my little affairs—in confusion, because my Julie wanted me to come! It was in the winter. Oh, that winter! My poor bones shall never forget it. They are racked
