“How unlike the Florence of sun and bright sky, how unlike the brilliant city of dissipation and pleasure!” said Norwood; “and so it is with individuals: we are just what light and shadow make us! Now listen to me.” He then related the whole story of his first meeting with Lola, down to the moment of D'Esmonde's revelation. “I know well,” said he, “there may be a dozen ways to look on the affair besides that which I have chosen. I might dispute the marriage; I might disavow the whole proceeding; I might, naturally enough, leave such a woman to her fate,—she never could be anything to me; but I cannot relinquish the opportunity of a reckoning with this Russian. The insolence of his wealth gives all the venom to this outrage, and I 'll shoot him! All the splendor of his riches can avail him but little now. And, except some more gold upon his coffin, and a richer pall to cover it, he has no advantage over me, ruined and beggared as I am. As to my scores with the world at large, I am about quits. They cheated me when I was a young, unsuspecting boy, trusting and believing every one. I repaid them, as my own time came. Men understand this thoroughly, but women never do. The moment you cease to be their dupe, they hate you. As to my debts, they gave me little trouble when living, they 're not likely to disturb my rest in the churchyard; and as for friends, there is not one alive to whom I could send a last word of affection; and yet—you'll scarcely believe it—with all this I 'd like to live; although if you ask me why, I couldn't tell it Perhaps it is this,” cried he, after a pause; “the yelping pack that cried me down in my absence will do so now without fear or restraint The stories of me that once were whispered will now be told aloud. Slander and calumny can go abroad without a dread of consequences. But even that is a poor thing to live for!”
The Frenchman's philosophy had taught him but few sympathies with such gloomy ideas, and he tried in every way to rally his friend; but Norwood's mind was full of very different sorrows from those he had dwelt upon. It was the canker of a disappointed, abortive life was eating into his heart A fair fortune squandered, a noble name tarnished, a high position sacrificed, and now an ignominious quarrel to close his career,—these were the reflections which, far more embittering than all his words, now tortured and agonized him.
“Come,” said he, suddenly, “we had better move forward. It is getting nigh daybreak, and our Prince will soon be retiring to his room.”
They now drove rapidly on for some time, and at last reached the gate, where the porter, at once recognizing Mor-lache's carriage and livery, admitted them without a word.
“You 'll have to wait for me here, Count,” said Norwood, when they stopped at the door. “I 'll contrive not to keep you long; but this part of the matter I must do alone.” The bell had scarcely done ringing when the door was opened. “The Prince is still at table?” said Norwood, half in assertion, half in inquiry; and then, with a gesture to the servant to show the way, he overawed all scruples about admitting him. “Is he alone?” said the Viscount, as they went along.
“No, sir. The Countess is with him.”
“Say that a person on most pressing business is here, and must speak with him at once.”
“The Prince always requires the name, sir. I dare not address him without it.”
“Say that I am come from Morlache's,——that I have something to deliver into his own hands.”
Norwood placed the casket on the table as he spoke. The servant retired, and speedily returned, requesting Norwood to follow him. As the door was flung open, Norwood heard voices; he stopped and hesitated. Either an impulse of passion or some change of purpose worked within him; for, as he stood, he grasped the edge of the door, and swayed to and fro for some seconds.