Lucienne rose too, and hearing some one say in indifferent tones, “I hope he is in no real danger,” supposed that it was she herself who spoke.
“No; I think it has been stopped in time,” answered Château-Foix not very reassuringly. There was a talk after that in Lucienne’s ears about final arrangements, and of seeing her at Madame Gaumont’s house, whither she was to go to-morrow. Then came good-bye, and a kiss which now she hardly felt. At last the door shut, and she was left alone.
She sat there without moving, her hands locked together in her lap, suffering horribly. The flame which Louis de Saint-Ermay had lighted still burnt for him alone; wanting in depth as she might be, the girl was not of those who, after the first awakening of love, care not very greatly to whom they dedicate the flame. The emergence of the lover in Gilbert only terrified her; she did not take it for a tribute. Six months ago, in this very room, she had known another embrace; had sat on this very sofa, with her head on Louis’ shoulder, trying to reconcile herself to the bitter sacrifice which they must make for the sake of honour, and of the man who had a right to hold her in his arms. And almost impossible though the sacrifice had seemed at times, Lucienne had never lifted a finger to bring Saint-Ermay back. She was capable of renunciation—if only she had some one to help her. Her mistress, whom she adored, had been her support; it was the Princess’s strength that had upheld her all these six months. Lucienne had confided to Madame Elisabeth the whole episode, and the Princess, seeing that Lucienne was anxious to do right, had comforted and counselled her, and kept her on those heights which are more easy of first attainment than of permanent occupation. It never occurred to either of them—so binding did they consider a betrothal—that, putting aside the suffering caused to Lucienne and to her lover, the girl would be doing the Marquis a wrong to marry him when her heart could never be his. Meanwhile Lucienne was faithful to the course that she had laid down for herself, and she had never seen Louis alone again; indeed, as there was now no properly constituted court, they met seldom under any circumstances. The last encounter had been on the memorable day of the invasion of the mob, when he had made a rampart of his body for her safety. And to be so close to him for so long had transformed that day of terror—at least in memory—from an ordeal to a regretted joy.
Lucienne did not move even when the door was quietly opened, and a voice said gently, “My child, has Monsieur le Marquis gone?” and when, receiving no answer, the speaker came into the room—a clear-complexioned lady of twenty-eight or thereabouts, with a carriage at once dignified and graceful—Madame Philippine-Marie-Hélène-Elisabeth de France, the King’s sister. Lucienne rose mechanically as she came towards her, and turned on her mistress a pale, strained face. The Princess, with a long look at her, took the girl by the hands, and Lucienne without a word of explanation broke out: “Madame, give me some of your strength! Oh, I promise you, I promise you I will be brave——”
“I know you will,” said Madame Elisabeth gently, sitting down on the sofa and drawing Lucienne down with her. “And you do not need my strength. You have plenty of your own, and you will know better how to use it by and by. Dear little one,” she went on, kissing her on the forehead, “you have made me very happy to-day, and M. de Château-Foix, he is happy too. England is not far away, and we shall know that you are in safe keeping until . . . until happier days come for France.”
Lucienne hardly seemed to heed her words. She was staring straight in front of her as she leant forward with her hands clasped. “I will tell you what happened,” she said in slow, dry tones. “He was very kind to me, and he was very strong, so that it was rest to be with him.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Somehow or other I knew that it was different from anything before, and I knew that he loved me, and I was afraid. But I was almost glad to be afraid, too; for I thought that perhaps one day he might make me forget, and make me love him. And then he is so good; he spoke of Louis—of the Vicomte de Saint-Ermay—taking me to England, and I told him that the Vicomte could not leave the King, and that he must not ask him, for again I was afraid, but that was a different kind of fear. And then—and then——” She turned to the Princess. “How can I tell you? He said that M. de Saint-Ermay was involved in some political scheme, and I thought my heart would have stopped beating, for from the way he spoke I saw that it means danger—perhaps worse—to Louis. In that moment I knew that I should never be able to tell myself that all which passed in the winter had been but a girl’s fancy, for I knew—God forgive me—I knew that I loved Louis, so that I could die for him, and that whatever happened I was his altogether . . . always!” She stopped, and turned a frightened look on her companion, and then with a cry, “What have I said! what have I said!” she burst into a passion of weeping.
At Lucienne’s last words Madame Elisabeth had raised her hand in silent protest, for she could not find words before what seemed to her one of pain’s mysteries—unhappy love, ashamed at its own articulate confession. Every trace of self, of private sorrow or of remembrance of personal danger had left the Princess, for hers was one of those rare natures which can really identify themselves with another’s grief. To all who suffered her love and her pity went out unasked, but for those of her own family, and for those who for special reasons claimed her affection, she was more than ready to be spent and offered. On Lucienne in particular she had lavished all the affection of her tender and generous heart. But at this moment the Princess felt instinctively that she was going to fail Lucienne, and the knowledge was very bitter to her. Lucienne was looking to her for understanding, and she could not give it. The suffering, as suffering, called out her sympathy, but its nature was incomprehensible. The saints see with clearness that what the world calls suffering is not always misery, and that what the world calls happiness is not always joy, and are separated by this knowledge from the society in which they live far more effectually than by convent walls. And since Madame Elisabeth de France was a saint, it was her ideals, and not the fact that she had never known the force of human passion, which made her feel that she could hardly stop to be sorry for the girl whom she loved as her own daughter. She saw Lucienne’s way so plainly.
Yet because she was very human, she dared not take the girl again into her arms, lest the words which she must speak should die upon her lips. It was possibly the last time that she should see Lucienne—for she never had any illusion as to the extremity of the danger which threatened the Royal Family, although for her brother’s sake she kept up the appearance of a brave heart. Immeasurable love and pity shone in her face as she looked at the bowed head. At last she put out her hands and took Lucienne’s into her own. Lucienne remembered to her last day what the woman who was her best friend found to say to her in the crisis of her life. There was no word of blame, no word of duty, no hint that she feared for the future.
“My child,” said the Princess very gently, “the pain will not always be as it is now, and in the future there will be things to comfort you—perhaps the love of children. And remember always that it is only to the highly favoured that there comes the possibility of so great a sacrifice as yours.”