"Not yet—listen to me. I know not what occasions within me the foreboding that the arrival of Charles de Brévannes here is the certain precursor of great perils and dangers to myself. Your services may, probably, be more needful to me than ever,—you must know all. Yes, you must be made acquainted with the crime of this man; and then you will be able to comprehend that vengeance now becomes a sort of expiation on my part."
Having thus spoken, the princess seated herself beside the fire, while Iris, taking a mantle of velvet lined with ermine, wrapped it carefully and tenderly around her godmother; for, spite of the glowing fire which now blazed on the hearth, the piercing cold of a winter's night made these large chambers dreary and chill.
Madame de Hansfeld remained for several minutes plunged in a deep reverie.
Iris loved Madame de Hansfeld with a sort of tenderness at once respectful, passionate, and savage. It was, indeed, one of those blindly absorbing attachments which appear to shut the heart against every tender feeling, and to infuse an almost ferocity against all human creatures but the one beloved object.
The princess believed she had for ever attached this young girl to her by the profoundest gratitude, having taken her from an early age and entirely brought her up, and in this she was not mistaken. But she was wholly ignorant of the violence of this sentiment, or how completely it had occupied the heart of her young protégée, to the exclusion of all others. And Iris had sedulously concealed from her protectress the fits of jealous fury she experienced at the smallest preference bestowed by her mistress on any other than herself.
Gloomy, taciturn, and imperious, towards the other servants in the princess's establishment, Iris was either feared or detested throughout the Hôtel Lambert. Her position as companion to Madame de Hansfeld enabled her to keep quite aloof, and to devote herself to one fixed and exclusive idea, that of living or dying for her godmother alone. Her incessant regret was the not finding herself sufficiently useful and necessary to Madame de Hansfeld, who, rich, noble, and entirely free to act as she pleased, could easily dispense with the assistance or devotion of her god-daughter.
And, frequently urged by the fatal excitement of her overweening attachment, Iris would even form the most violent and unbounded wishes. In the excess of her wild and ungovernable fondness for her mistress, she would desire to see her wretched and miserable, in order to obtain the unspeakable happiness of consoling and succouring her—of devoting to her each hour of the day and night, the better to prove the full power and extent of her ruling passion.
From this slight sketch of the disposition of Iris, who, of either Bohemian or Moorish origin, had been early deserted by her natural protectors, it will be easily seen that she pursued with implacable hatred not only the enemies of Madame de Hansfeld, but also every person on whom her mistress bestowed marks of favour; and her animosity invariably kept pace with the degree of partiality with which Madame de Hansfeld beheld any acquaintance. Thus aware of the princess's extreme admiration for M. de Morville, she detested him as much—nay, even more, than M. de Brévannes, towards whom she even felt a species of singular gratitude for having inspired her mistress with such deep abhorrence. Almost ere Iris had passed her childhood, she enveloped herself in the veil of impenetrable dissimulation. Never for an instant had Madame de Hansfeld supposed her capable of such wild and frantic impetuosity—such ill-restrained fervour in her affections; and yet the ardent, though misguided girl, pursuing her aim with inflexible energy, and bewildered by her savage jealousy, had already struck at the dearest affections of her protectress's heart.
After reflecting for a considerable time, Madame de Hansfeld, rousing herself from the deep reverie into which she had fallen, made a sign to Iris to draw near to her.
