‘There I differ from you completely,’ replied she. ‘All your reflections and reminiscences, give them as fine names as you will, are nothing but sighings and repinings for what cannot come back again; and such things only injure the temper, and spoil the complexion, whereas—— But what are you laughing at?’
‘I was smiling at your remark, which has only a feminine application.’
‘How teasing you are! I declare I ‘ll argue no more with you. Do you want to hear my story?’
‘Of all things; I ‘m greatly interested in it.’
‘Well, then, you must not interrupt me any more. Now, where was I? You actually made me forget where I stopped.’
‘You were just at the point where they set out, Philip and his friend, for the Holy Land.’
‘You must not expect from me any spirit-stirring narrative of the events in Palestine. Indeed, I’m not aware if the Chronique de Flandre, from which I take my tale, says anything very particular about Philip de Bouvigne’s performances. Of course they were in accordance with his former reputation: he killed his Saracens, like a true knight—that there can be no doubt of. As for Henri de Bethune, before the year was over he was badly wounded, and left on the field of battle, where some said he expired soon after, others averring that he was carried away to slavery. Be that as it might, Philip continued his career with all the enthusiasm of a warrior and a devotee, a worthy son of the Church, and a brave soldier—unfortunately, however, forgetting the poor countess he had left behind him, pining away her youth at the barred casements of the old château; straining her eyes from day to day along the narrow causeway that led to the castle, and where no charger’s hoof re-echoed, as of old, to tell of the coming of her lord. Very bad treatment, you ‘ll confess; and so, with your permission, we’ll keep her company for a little while. Madame la Comtesse de Bouvigne, as some widows will do, only become the prettier from desertion. Her traits of beauty mellowed by a tender melancholy, without being marked too deeply by grief, assumed an imaginative character, or what men mistake for it.’
‘Indeed!’ said I, catching at the confession.
‘Well, I’m sure it is so,’ replied she. ‘In the great majority of cases you are totally ignorant of what is passing in a woman’s mind. The girl that seemed all animation to-day may have an air of deep depression to-morrow, and of downright wildness the next, simply by changing her coiffure from ringlets to braids, and from a bandeau to a state of dishevelled disorder. A little flattery of yourselves, artfully and well done, and you are quite prepared to believe anything. In any case, the countess was very pretty and very lonely.
‘In those good days when gentlemen left home, there were neither theatres nor concerts to amuse their poor neglected wives; they had no operas nor balls nor soirées nor promenades. No; their only resource was to work away at some huge piece of landscape embroidery, which, begun in childhood, occupied a whole life, and transmitted a considerable labour of background and foliage to the next generation. The only pleasant people in those times, it seems to me, were the jongleurs and the pilgrims; they went about the world fulfilling the destinies of newspapers; they chronicled the little events of the day—births, marriages, deaths, etc.—and must have been a great comfort on a winter’s evening.