CHAPTER IV. LOUISE DU TROUFFLE.
Madame du Trouffle paced her room restlessly; she listened to every stroke of the clock, every sound made her tremble.
“He comes not! he comes not!” murmured she; “he received my irony of yesterday in earnest and is exasperated. Alas! am I really an old woman? Have I no longer the power to enchain, to attract? Can it be that I am old and ugly? No, no! I am but thirty-four years of age—that is not old for a married woman, and as to being ugly—”
She interrupted herself, stepped hastily to the glass, and looked long and curiously at her face.
Yes, yes! she must confess her beauty was on the wane. She was more faded than her age would justify. Already was seen around her mouth those yellow, treacherous lines which vanished years imprint upon the face; already her brow was marked with light lines, and silver threads glimmered in her hair.
Louise du Trouffle sighed heavily.
“I was too early married, and then unhappily married; at eighteen I was a mother. All this ages a woman—not the years but the storms of life have marked these fearful lines in my face. Then it is not possible for a man to feel any warm interest in me when he sees a grown-up daughter by my side, who will soon be my rival, and strive with me for the homage of men. This is indeed exasperating. Oh, my God! my God! a day may come in which I may be jealous of my own daughter! May Heaven guard me from that! Grant that I may see her fresh and blooming beauty without rancor; that I may think more of her happiness than my vanity.”
Then, as if she would strengthen her good resolutions, Louise left her room and hastened to the chamber of her daughter.
Camilla lay upon the divan—her slender and beauteous form was wrapped in soft white drapery; her shining, soft dark hair fell around her rosy face and over her naked shoulders, with whose alabaster whiteness it contrasted strongly. Camilla was reading, and so entirely was she occupied with her book that she did not hear her mother enter.
Louise drew softly near the divan, and stood still, lost in admiration at this lovely, enchanting picture, this reposing Hebe.
“Camilla,” said she, fondly, “what are you reading so eagerly?”
Camilla started and looked up suddenly, then laughed aloud.
“Ah, mamma,” said she, in a silver, clear, and soft voice, “how you frightened me! I thought it was my tyrannical governess already returned from her walk, and that she had surprised me with this book.”
“Without doubt she forbade you to read it,” said her mother, gravely, stretching out her hand for the book, but Camilla drew it back suddenly.
“Yes, certainly, Madame Brunnen forbade me to read this book; but that is no reason, mamma, why you should take it away from me. It is to be hoped you will not play the stern tyrant against your poor Camilla.”
“I wish to know what you are reading, Camilla.”
“Well, then, Voltaire’s ‘Pucelle d’ Orleans,’ and I assure you, mamma, I am extremely pleased with it.”
“Madame Brunnen was right to forbid you to read this book, and I also forbid it.”
“And if I refuse to obey, mamma?”
“I will force you to obedience,” cried her mother, sternly.
“Did any one succeed in forcing you to obey your mother?” said Camilla, in a transport of rage. “Did your mother give her consent to your elopement with the garden-boy? You chose your own path in life, and I will choose mine. I will no longer bear to be treated as a child—I am thirteen years old; you were not older when you had the affair with the garden-boy, and were forced to confide yourself to my father. Why do you wish in treat me as a little child, and keep me in leading-strings, when I am a grown-up girl?”
“You are no grown-up girl, Camilla,” cried her mother; “if you were, you would not dare to speak to your mother as you have done: you would know that it was unseemly, and that, above all other things, you should show reverence and obedience to your mother. No, Camilla, God be thanked! you are but a foolish child, and therefore I forgive you.”
Louise drew near her daughter and tried to clasp her tenderly in her arms, but Camilla struggled roughly against it.
“You shall not call me a child,” said she, rudely. “I will no longer bear it! it angers me! and if you repeat it, mamma, I will declare to every one that I am sixteen years old!”
“And why will you say that, Camilla?”
Camilla looked up with a cunning smile.
“Why?” she repeated, “ah! you think I do not know why I must always remain a child? It is because you wish to remain a young woman—therefore you declare to all the world that I am but twelve years old! But no one believes you, mamma, not one believes you. The world laughs at you, but you do not see it—you think you are younger when you call me a child. I say to you I will not endure it! I will be a lady—I will adorn myself and go into society. I will not remain in the school-room with a governess while you are sparkling in the saloon and enchanting your followers by your beauty. I will also have my worshippers, who pay court to me; I will write and receive love-letters as other maidens do; I will carry on my own little love-affairs as all other girls do; as you did, from the time you were twelve years old, and still do!”
“Silence, Camilla! or I will make you feel that you are still a child!” cried Louise, raising her arm threateningly and approaching the divan.
“Would you strike me, mother?” said she, with trembling lips. “I counsel you not to do it. Raise your hand once more against me, but think of the consequences. I will run away! I will fly to my poor, dear father, whom you, unhappy one, have made a drunkard! I will remain with him—he loves me tenderly. If I were with him, he would no longer drink.”
“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Louise, with tears gushing from her eyes; “it is he who has planted this hate in her heart—he has been the cause of all my wretchedness! She loves her father who has done nothing for her, and she hates her mother who has shown her nothing but love.” With a loud cry of agony, she clasped her hands over her face and wept bitterly.
Camilla drew close to her, grasped her hands and pulled them forcibly from her face, then looked in her eyes passionately and scornfully. Camilla was indeed no longer a child. She stood erect, pale, and fiercely excited, opposite to her mother. Understanding and intellect flashed from her dark eyes. There were lines around her mouth which betrayed a passion and a power with which childhood has nothing to do.
“You say you have shown me nothing but love,” said Camilla, in a cold and cutting tone. “Mother, what love have you shown me? You made my father wretched, and my childish years were spent under the curse of a most unhappy marriage. I have seen my father weep while you were laughing merrily—I have seen him drunk and lying like a beast at my feet, while you were in our gay saloon receiving and entertaining guests with cool unconcern. You say you have shown me nothing but love. You never loved me, mother, never! Had you loved me, you would have taken pity with my future—you would not have given me a step-father while I had a poor, dear father, who had nothing in the wide world but me, me alone! You think perhaps, mother, that I am not unhappy; while I am giddy and play foolish pranks, you believe me to be happy and contented. Ah, mother, I have an inward horror and prophetic fear of the future which never leaves me; it seems to me that evil spirits surround me—as if they enchanted me with strange, alluring songs. I know they will work my destruction, but I cannot withstand them—I must listen, I must succumb to them. I would gladly be different—be better. I desire to be a virtuous and modest girl, but alas, alas, I cannot escape from this magic circle to which my mother has condemned me! I have lived too fast, experienced too much—I am no longer a child—I am an experienced woman. The world and the things of the world call me with a thousand alluring voices, and I shall be lost as my mother was lost! I am her most unhappy daughter, and her blood is in my heart!” Almost insensible, crushed by excitement and passion, Camilla sank to the earth.
Her mother looked at her with cold and tearless eyes; her hair seemed to stand erect, and a cold, dead hand seemed placed upon her heart and almost stilled its beatings. “I have deserved this,” murmured she; “God punishes the levity of my youth through my own child.” She bowed down to her daughter and raised her softly in her arms.
“Come, my child,” she said, tenderly, “we will forget this hour—we will strive to live in love and harmony with each other. You are right! You are no longer a child, and I will think of introducing you to the world.”
“And you will dismiss Madame Brunnen,” said Camilla, gayly. “Oh, mamma, you have no idea how she tortures and martyrs me with her Argus-eyes, and watches me day and night. Will you not dismiss her, mamma, and take no other governess?”
“I will think of it,” said her mother, sadly. But now a servant entered and announced Count Ranuzi. Madame du Trouffle blushed, and directed the servant to conduct him to the parlor.
Camilla looked at her roguishly, and said: “If you really think me a grown-up girl, take me with you to the parlor.”
Madame du Trouffle refused. “You are not properly dressed, and besides, I have important business with the count.”
Camilla turned her back scornfully, and her mother left the room; Camilla returned to the sofa and Madame du Trouffle entered the saloon. In the levity and frivolity of their hearts they had both forgotten this sad scene in the drama of a demoralized family life; such scenes had been too often repeated to make any lasting impression.
Madame du Trouffle found Count Ranuzi awaiting her. He came forward with such a joyous greeting, that she was flattered, and gave him her hand with a gracious smile. She said triumphantly to herself that the power of her charms was not subdued, since the handsome and much admired Ranuzi was surely captivated by them.
The count had pleaded yesterday for an interview, and he had done this with so mysterious and melancholy a mien, that the gay and sportive Louise had called him the Knight of Toggenberg, and had asked him plaintively if he was coming to die at her feet.
“Possibly,” he answered, with grave earnestness—“possibly, if you are cruel enough to refuse the request I prefer.”
These words had occupied the thoughts of this vain coquette during the whole night; she was convinced that Ranuzi, ravished by her beauty, wished to make her a declaration, and she had been hesitating whether to reject or encourage him. As he advanced so gracefully and smilingly to meet her, she resolved to encourage him and make him forget the mockery of yesterday.
Possibly Ranuzi read this in her glance, but he did not regard it; he had attained his aim—the interview which he desired. “Madame,” said he, “I come to make honorable amends, and to plead at your feet for pardon.” He bowed on one knee, and looked up beseechingly.
Louise found that his languishing and at the same time glowing eyes were very beautiful, and she was entirely ready to be gracious, although she did not know the offence. “Stand up, count,” said she, “and let us talk reasonably together. What have you done, and for what must I forgive you?”
“You annihilate me with your magnanimity,” sighed Ranuzi. “You are so truly noble as to have forgotten my boldness of yesterday, and you choose to forget that the poor, imprisoned soldier, intoxicated by your beauty, carried away by your grace and amiability, has dared to love you and to confess it. But I swear to you, madame, I will never repeat this offence. The graceful mockery and keen wit with which you punished me yesterday has deeply moved me, and I assure you, madame, you have had more influence over me than any prude with her most eloquent sermon on virtue could have done. I have seen my crime, and never again will my lips dare to confess what lives and glows in my heart.” He took her hand and kissed it most respectfully.
Louise was strangely surprised, and it seemed to her not at all necessary for the count to preserve so inviolable a silence as to his love; but she was obliged to appear pleased, and she did this with facility and grace.
“I thank you,” she said, gayly, “that you have freed me from a lover whom, as the wife of Major du Trouffle, I should have been compelled to banish from my house. Now I dare give a pleasant, kindly welcome, to Count Ranuzi, and be ready at all times to serve him gladly.”
Ranuzi looked steadily at her. “Will you truly do this?” said he, sighing—“will you interest yourself for a poor prisoner, who has no one to hear and sympathize in his sorrows?”
Louise gave him her hand. “Confide in me, sir count,” said she, with an impulse of her better nature; “make known your sorrows, and be assured that I will take an interest in them. You are so prudent and reasonable as not to be my lover, and I will be your friend. Here is my hand—I offer you my friendship; will you accept, it?”
“Will I accept it?” said he, rapturously; “you offer me life, and ask if I will accept it!”
Louise smiled softly. She found that Ranuzi declared his friendship in almost as glowing terms as he had confessed his love. “So then,” said she, “you have sorrows that you dare not name?”
“Yes, but they are not my own individual griefs I suffer, but it is for another.”
“That sounds mysterious. For whom do you suffer?”
“For a poor prisoner, who, far from the world, far from the haunts of men, languishes in wretchedness and chains—whom not only men but God has forgotten, for He will not even send His minister Death to release him. I cannot, I dare not say more—it is not my secret, and I have sworn to disclose it to but one person.”
“And this person—”
“Is the Princess Amelia of Prussia,” said Ranuzi. Louise shrank back, and looked searchingly at the count. “A sister of the king! And you say that your secret relates to a poor prisoner?”
“I said so. Oh, my noble, magnanimous friend, do not ask me to say more; I dare not, but I entreat you to help me. I must speak with the princess. You are her confidante and friend, you alone can obtain me an interview.”
“It is impossible! impossible!” cried Madame du Trouffle, rising up and pacing the room hastily. Ranuzi followed her with his eyes, observed every movement, and read in her countenance every emotion of her soul.
“I will succeed,” said he to himself, and proud triumph swelled his heart.
Louise drew near and stood before him.
“Listen,” said she, gravely; “it is a daring, a dangerous enterprise in which you wish to entangle me—doubly dangerous for me, as the king suspects me, and he would never forgive it if he should learn that I had dared to act against his commands, and to assist the Princess Amelia to save an unhappy wretch whom he had irretrievably condemned. I know well who this prisoner is, but do not call his name—it is dangerous to speak it, even to think it. I be long not to the confidantes of the princess in this matter, and I do not desire it. Speak no more of the prisoner, but of yourself. You wish to be presented to the princess. Why not apply to Baron Pollnitz?”
“I have not gold enough to bribe him; and, besides that, he is a babbler, and purchasable. To-morrow he would betray me.”
“You are right; and he could not obtain you a secret interview. One of the maids of honor must always be present, and the princess is surrounded by many spies. But there is a means, and it lies in my hands. Listen!”
Louise bowed and whispered.
Ranuzi’s face sparkled with triumph.
“To-morrow, then,” said he, as he withdrew.
“To-morrow,” said Louise, “expect me at the castle gate, and be punctual.”