Book IV
I
In a magnificent salon of the Hôtel Royal—a few days later—the Baroness Valerie von Warnow was pacing restlessly backwards and forwards. She had, by Giraldi’s advice, sent this morning to the General’s house to announce her arrival the evening before, adding that she was unfortunately too much fatigued to present herself in person, but hoped in the course of a few days, if not the next day, to make up for her delay.
“You must not expose yourself to the affront of being refused admittance,” Giraldi had said: “I have every ground for suspecting that he has laid himself out more than ever for his favourite part of the knight with the helmet of Mambrinus; but virtuous fools are as little to be depended upon as other fools; possibly the unhoped-for happiness of seeing his mauvais sujet of a son at last betrothed may have softened him, and it will please him to act a part of magnanimity and forgiveness. We shall hear how he takes your message, and we can take our measures and make our arrangements accordingly.”
Valerie knew too well that her brother acted no part, that he always was what he seemed; and that if he ever forgave her, it would not be in consequence of a momentary impulse, but from the conviction that she could live no longer without his forgiveness, and that she deserved it if the deepest remorse, the most ardent wish to atone, as far as was possible for the past, entitled her to it. But that day would never come; today, as ever, he would reject with cold politeness her attempt at a reconciliation, would answer her through Sidonie that he regretted to hear of her indisposition and hoped it would soon pass off, so that she might as speedily as possible be able to resume her journey to Warnow, which he trusted might be a prosperous one.
And only five minutes ago the answer had come; not in Sidonie’s stiff, formal hand, but in a small, graceful writing, the very sight of which did Valerie good, even before, with eyes fixed and expectant, which at last filled with tears, she read:
“Dear Aunt—We are so glad that you are here at last! Papa, who sends you his best love, has another meeting to attend this morning—the War Office is like a beehive just now—but we, that is Aunt Sidonie and I, will call upon you at , if convenient to you, to ask you how you are, and I especially to make acquaintance at last with a dear relation, whom I have never seen, and whom I have often longed to see.
“Dear, good child!” sobbed Valerie; “I have to thank you for his yielding, I am sure! I can see it in your dear, loving words!”
She kissed the letter again and again. “Oh, if you knew how thankful I am to you, if I could tell you so on my knees as before God. Be my good angel. You do not know how much I need a good angel, with his pure, strong hand to save me from this fearful slavery. But you will not be able to save me if you would. What could you do against him? Your innocence, your goodness, your wisdom—even your courage, and you must be both wise and courageous to have braved and coaxed this from that obstinate, unapproachable man—he would throw it all into the dust, and tread it under his cruel feet, as he has thrown and trampled me in the dust.”
She wandered thus through the spacious room, now throwing herself into an armchair because her limbs threatened to fail her, and the next moment springing up and hurrying to the window to look at a carriage which had just stopped before the hotel; then again stepping before one of the large mirrors, and eagerly and anxiously examining her countenance; it must not betray her excitement when he came in—a quiver of the mouth, an unwonted degree of colour or of pallor in her cheeks, a brighter glance, a fainter light in her eyes—he saw and remarked everything, he had the key of her soul. How gladly would she have received the dear writer alone, how gladly would she at least have concealed the letter from him. But she dared not do even that; now less than ever, when her lips must say yes, while her heart cried no; when her lips must smile while hell raged in her bosom; when she must and would practise the lesson that had been taught her.
She rang the bell and desired the servant who waited in the anteroom, which connected her rooms and Giraldi’s, to beg the Signor to come to her for a minute. She gave the order in the most careless tone. The man, a young Frenchman, whom Giraldi had engaged in Rome, had only been a few weeks in her service; but he had no doubt been at least as long in Giraldi’s pay as his predecessors.
Hardly a minute had elapsed when she heard his step in the anteroom; he was today, as ever, ready to fulfil her slightest wish. She passed her hand once more hastily over her brow and eyes, and tried whether her voice sounded natural. “Dear friend, I have—” François opened the door to him at that moment. “Dear friend, I have already received an answer from my niece, so extremely kind that it can only be a trap.”
She had handed him the letter, which he appeared only to glance at, though he would know it by heart a year hence, as Valerie said to herself, and now, returning
