He placed his finger on the hair bracelet which she constantly wore.
“Ah! my bracelet!” cried Hildegarde, with a look of surprise, “if you wish for it, certainly; in fact it is better.” She held her arm towards the door of her room, that the light from the candle might fall on it, and Hamilton thought he saw tears in her eyes as she endeavoured to unclasp it.
“I only value it because you appear so attached to it,” he said, half apologetically. “Before it comes into my possession, however, you must tell me whose hair I am about to guard so carefully for the rest of my life; not Mademoiselle Hortense’s I hope.”
“No,” said Hildegarde, holding it towards him.
“Tell me whose hair it is!” he cried eagerly, for Madame Rosenberg’s heavy step and the jingling of her large keys became every moment more audible. As she approached the staircase, he again repeated, “Whose hair?” but Hildegarde, instead of answering, sprang into her room just as a long ray of light from her mother’s candle reached the spot where they stood. Madame Rosenberg found Hamilton’s door shut, and Hildegarde on her knees beside her bed, with her head buried in her hands.
And Hamilton never suspected that the bracelet he examined so long and earnestly that night was made of his own hair, obtained at the time he had been wounded in the head, by the fall from, or rather with, his horse.
The whole family were assembled at an early hour the next morning to witness his departure. Madame Rosenberg unreservedly applied her handkerchief to her eyes; her father looked grave; the two little boys, half frightened at the unusual solemnity of the breakfast table, whispered and nudged each other, while Hildegarde, pale as the wife of Seneca, was apparently the only unmoved person present.
Hamilton took leave of all the workmen and servants, shook hands with Mr. Eisenmann, was kissed in the most maternal manner on both cheeks by Madame Rosenberg, embraced the little boys, and held Hildegarde’s hand in his just long enough to cause a transient blush to pass over her features and make her look like herself.
After he had driven off, he turned round in the carriage to take a last look, and it seemed to him as if her beautiful features had turned to marble, so cold and statue-like were they. Madame Rosenberg was returning into the house, talking to her cook; the old man was gayly playing with the children; Hildegarde stood alone, motionless, on the spot where he had left her.
“Is that indifference?” thought Hamilton.