CHAPTER XXXV.
FROM MISS BEATRICE POLES TO MISS EMILY——
"These lines, my dear Emily, will, in all probability, never reach you. It is even very likely that after I have written them I shall destroy them. But I must talk to you; I cannot help myself. My heart is overflowing, and I must turn the stream of its confidence towards you. In whom can I confide, if not in you? Who amongst my travelling companions deserves to be my confidant? MM. Périères, de Morin, and Delange are out of the question. I have no right to inflict such pain, so bitter an awakening on them, nor to deprive them in an instant of their cherished illusions. I cannot say brusquely to them— 'I have made a mistake, gentlemen; I do not love you.'
"As for Madame de Guéran—you know very well, my dear Emily, that to repose confidence in a rival may be dangerous.
"So, in my isolation, I turn to you, and begin. We are at this moment in the country of the Monbuttoos, at the court of King Munza, a man about thirty-five years of age, in the full bloom and vigour of manhood. He is tall, his figure is good, and his splendid features recall the fine old statues of the monarchs of ancient Ethiopia. He is not a negro—do not labour under that delusion—he is a dusky white man—a very handsome man, too, artistically dressed and with a majestic mien. Moreover, he is a man of intelligence, and a very powerful sovereign into the bargain.
"Nevertheless, Munza, who seems to think of nothing but our comfort, and with whom we are on the best possible terms, absolutely refuses to allow us to leave his dominions. What is his reason for that? you will ask. A very simple one. The King, who, up to this time, has never seen any women but his hideous Monbuttoo specimens, destitute of grace and costume alike, no sooner set eyes on two white women, young, agreeable, well made, and good looking, than he fell in love with one of them. Although a savage, he has a heart which is quite as warm as one born in Europe; nay, warmer, perhaps, on account of the climate.
"But again, you will ask, which of the two white women is the chosen one? To whom, to Madame de Guéran or to me, has this handsome Paris awarded the apple? The question is a very natural one, and the answer to it involves a point on which we here are very much divided.
"MM. Delange, de Morin, and Périères, who have been in love with me for some time past, as you know, are naturally anxious that Munza should not enter the lists against them. Consequently, they persist, in all honesty, in treating me as out of the question altogether, and maintaining that the eyes of the King turn towards the Baroness, that all his sighs are for her.
"I know, my dear Emily, exactly what you are going to say—that, though a mistake might be made about the object of a sigh, there can be none about the direction of a look. And then you proceed to enquire towards whom Munza's glances turn?
"Madame de Guéran, my dear friend. I cannot pretend that it is not so, and I owe you the truth at all events. I owe it to myself as well, for these lines will, in all probability, never reach you, but are destined to comfort my own heart alone.