At those words the lady in the mask turned away, and seemed to weep.
I vowed myself the willing slave of the Countess. “But,” I added, “you told me she would soon be here.”
“That is, if nothing unforeseen should happen; but with the eye of the Count de St. Alyre in the house, and open, it is seldom safe to stir.”
“Does she wish to see me?” I asked, with a tender hesitation.
“First, say have you really thought of her, more than once, since the adventure of the Belle Étoile.”
“She never leaves my thoughts; day and night her beautiful eyes haunt me; her sweet voice is always in my ear.”
“Mine is said to resemble hers,” said the mask.
“So it does,” I answered. “But it is only a resemblance.”
“Oh! then mine is better?”
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I did not say that. Yours is a sweet voice, but I fancy a little higher.”
“A little shriller, you would say,” answered the De la Vallière, I fancied a good deal vexed.
“No, not shriller: your voice is not shrill, it is beautifully sweet; but not so pathetically sweet as her.”
“That is prejudice, Monsieur; it is not true.”
I bowed; I could not contradict a lady.
“I see, Monsieur, you laugh at me; you think me vain, because I claim in some points to be equal to the Countess de St. Alyre. I challenge you to say, my hand, at least, is less beautiful than hers.” As she thus spoke, she drew her glove off, and extended her hand, back upward, in the moonlight.
The lady seemed really nettled. It was undignified and irritating; for in this uninteresting competition the precious moments were flying, and my interview leading apparently to nothing.
“You will admit, then, that my hand is as beautiful as hers?”
“I cannot admit it, Mademoiselle,” said I, with the honesty of irritation. “I will not enter into comparisons, but the Countess de St. Alyre is, in all respects, the most beautiful lady I ever beheld.”
The masque laughed coldly, and then, more and more softly, said, with a sigh, “I will prove all I say.” And as she spoke she removed the mask: and the Countess de St. Alyre, smiling, confused, bashful, more beautiful than ever, stood before me!
“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “How monstrously stupid I have been. And it was to Madame la Comtesse that I spoke for so long in the salon!” I gazed on her in silence. And with a low sweet laugh of good nature she extended her hand. I took it, and carried it to my lips.
“No, you must not do that,” she said, quietly, “we are not old enough friends yet. I find, although you were mistaken, that you do remember the Countess of the Belle Étoile, and that you are a champion true and fearless. Had you yielded to the claims just now pressed upon you by the rivalry of Mademoiselle de la Vallière, in her mask, the Countess de St. Alyre should never have trusted or seen you more. I now am sure that you are true, as well as brave. You now know that I have not forgotten you; and, also, that if you would risk your life for me, I, too, would brave some danger, rather than lose my friend forever. I have but a few moments more. Will you come here again tomorrow night, at a quarter past eleven? I will be here at that moment; you must exercise the most scrupulous care to prevent suspicion that you have come here, Monsieur. You owe that to me.”
She spoke these last words with the most solemn entreaty.
I vowed again and again, that I would die rather than permit the least rashness to endanger the secret which made all the interest and value of my life.
She was looking, I thought, more and more beautiful every moment. My enthusiasm expanded in proportion.
“You must come tomorrow night by a different route,” she said; “and if you come again, we can change it once more. At the other side of the château there is a little churchyard, with a ruined chapel. The neighbours are afraid to pass it by night. The road is deserted there, and a stile opens a way into these grounds. Cross it and you can find a covert of thickets, to within fifty steps of this spot.”
I promised, of course, to observe her instructions implicitly.
“I have lived for more than a year in an agony of irresolution. I have decided at last. I have lived a melancholy life; a lonelier life than is passed in the cloister. I have had no one to confide in; no one to advise me; no one to save me from the horrors of my existence. I have found a brave and prompt friend at last. Shall I ever forget the heroic tableau of the hall of the Belle Étoile? Have you—have you really kept the rose I gave you, as we parted? Yes—you swear it. You need not; I trust you. Richard, how often have I in solitude repeated your name, learned from my servant. Richard, my hero! Oh! Richard! Oh, my king! I love you.”
I would have folded her to my heart—thrown myself at her feet. But this beautiful and—shall I say it—inconsistent woman repelled me.
“No, we must not waste our moments in extravagances. Understand my case. There is no such thing as indifference in the married state. Not to love one’s husband,” she continued, “is to hate him. The Count, ridiculous in all else, is formidable in his jealousy. In mercy, then, to me, observe caution. Affect to all you speak to, the most complete ignorance of all the people in the Château de la Carque; and, if anyone in your presence mentions the Count or Countess de St. Alyre, be sure you say you never saw either. I shall have more to say to you tomorrow night. I have reasons that I cannot now explain, for all I do, and all I postpone. Farewell. Go! Leave me.”
She waved
