“No,” he said gaily, “I don’t think I shall abandon her; and it is not likely, when she sees and hears me, that she can wish to abandon me! Now let us breakfast, and then I will go at once to her.”
In the mean while, Isaura, on her return to her apartment at the wintry nightfall, found a cart stationed at the door, and the Venosta on the threshold, superintending the removal of various articles of furniture—indeed, all such articles as were not absolutely required.
“Oh, Piccola!” she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, “I did not expect thee back so soon. Hush! I have made a famous bargain. I have found a broker to buy these things which we don’t want just at present, and can replace by new and prettier things when the siege is over and we get our money. The broker pays down on the nail and thou wilt not go to bed without supper. There are no ills which are not more supportable after food.”
Isaura smiled faintly, kissed the Venosta’s cheek, and ascended with weary steps to the sitting-room. There she seated herself quietly, looking with abstracted eyes round the bare dismantled space by the light of the single candle.
When the Venosta re-entered, she was followed by the servants, bringing in a daintier meal than they had known for days—a genuine rabbit, potatoes, marrons glaces, a bottle of wine, and a pannier of wood. The fire was soon lighted, the Venosta plying the bellows. It was not till this banquet, of which Isaura, faint as she was, scarcely partook, had been remitted to the two Italian women-servants, and another log been thrown on the hearth, that the Venosta opened the subject which was pressing on her heart. She did this with a joyous smile, taking both Isaura’s hands in her own, and stroking them fondly.
“My child, I have such good news for thee! Thou hast escaped—thou art free!” and then she related all that M. Rameau had said, and finished by producing the copy of Gustave’s unhallowed journal.
When she had read the latter, which she did with compressed lips and varying colour, the girl fell on her knees—not to thank Heaven that she would now escape a union from which her soul so recoiled—not that she was indeed free, but to pray, with tears rolling down her cheeks, that God would yet save to Himself, and to good ends, the soul that she had failed to bring to Him. All previous irritation against Gustave was gone: all had melted into an ineffable compassion.
CHAPTER VII.
When, a little before noon, Gustave was admitted by the servant into Isaura’s salon, its desolate condition, stripped of all its pretty feminine elegancies, struck him with a sense of discomfort to himself which superseded any more remorseful sentiment. The day was intensely cold: the single log on the hearth did not burn; there were only two or three chairs in the room; even the carpet, which had been of gaily coloured Aubusson, was gone. His teeth chattered; and he only replied by a dreary nod to the servant who informed him that Madame Venosta was gone out, and Mademoiselle had not yet quitted her own room.