In a moment I saw how things stood, and took a diplomatic course that would have done credit to an old ambassador. For once, and perhaps for the only time in my life, I used tact, and knew in what the special skill of courtiers and men of the world consists.
I have had so many battles to fight since those heedless days, that they have left me no time to distil all the least actions of daily life, and to do everything so that it falls in with those rules of etiquette and good taste which wither the most generous emotions.
“M. le Comte,” I said with an air of mystery, “I should like a few words with you,” and I fell back a pace or two.
He followed my example. Juliette left us together, going away unconcernedly, like a wife who knew that she can learn her husband’s secrets as soon as she chooses to know them.
I told the Count briefly of the death of my traveling companion. The effect produced by my news convinced me that his affection for his young collaborator was cordial enough, and this emboldened me to make reply as I did.
“My wife will be in despair,” cried he; “I shall be obliged to break the news of this unhappy event with great caution.”
“Monsieur,” said I, “I addressed myself to you in the first instance, as in duty bound. I could not, without first informing you, deliver a message to Mme. la Comtesse, a message entrusted to me by an entire stranger; but this commission is a sort of sacred trust, a secret of which I have no power to dispose. From the high idea of your character which he gave me, I felt sure that you would not oppose me in the fulfilment of a dying request. Mme. la Comtesse will be at liberty to break the silence which is imposed upon me.”
At this eulogy, the Count swung his head very amiably, responded with a tolerably involved compliment, and finally left me a free field. We returned to the house. The bell rang, and I was invited to dinner. As we came up to the house, a grave and silent couple, Juliette stole a glance at us. Not a little surprised to find her husband contriving some frivolous excuse for leaving us together, she stopped short, giving me a glance—such a glance as women only can give you. In that look of hers there was the pardonable curiosity of the mistress of the house confronted with a guest dropped down upon her from the skies and innumerable doubts, certainly warranted by the state of my clothes, by my youth and my expression, all singularly at variance; there was all the disdain of the adored mistress, in whose eyes all men save one are as nothing; there were involuntary tremors and alarms; and, above all, the thought that it was tiresome to have an unexpected guest just now, when, no doubt, she had been scheming to enjoy full solitude for her love. This mute eloquence I understood in her eyes, and all the pity and compassion in me made answer in a sad smile. I thought of her, as I had seen her for one moment, in the pride of her beauty; standing in the sunny afternoon in the narrow alley with the flowers on either hand; and as that fair wonderful picture rose before my eyes, I could not repress a sigh.
“Alas, madame, I have just made a very arduous journey—, undertaken solely on your account.”
“Sir!”
“Oh! it is on behalf of one who calls you Juliette that I am come,” I continued. Her face grew white.
“You will not see him today.”
“Is he ill?” she asked, and her voice sank lower.
“Yes. But for pity’s sake, control yourself. … He entrusted me with secrets that concern you, and you may be sure that never messenger could be more discreet nor more devoted than I.”
“What is the matter with him?”
“How if he loved you no longer?”
“Oh! that is impossible!” she cried, and a faint smile, nothing less than frank, broke over her face. Then all at once a kind of shudder ran through her, and she reddened, and she gave me a wild, swift glance as she asked:
“Is he alive?”
Great God! What a terrible phrase! I was too young to bear that tone in her voice; I made no reply, only looked at the unhappy woman in helpless bewilderment.
“Monsieur, monsieur, give me an answer!” she cried.
“Yes, madame.”
“Is it true? Oh! tell me the truth; I can hear the truth. Tell me the truth! Any pain would be less keen than this suspense.”
I answered by two tears wrung from me by that strange tone of hers. She leaned against a tree with a faint, sharp cry.
“Madame, here comes your husband!”
“Have I a husband?” and with those words she fled away out of sight.
“Well,” cried the Count, “dinner is growing cold.—Come, monsieur.”
Thereupon I followed the master of the house into the dining-room. Dinner was served with all the luxury which we have learned to expect in Paris. There were five covers laid, three for the Count and Countess and their little daughter; my own, which should have been his; and another for the canon of Saint-Denis, who said grace, and then asked:
“Why, where can our dear Countess be?”
“Oh! she will be here directly,” said the Count. He had hastily helped us to the soup, and was
