"That is exactly what I mean," the Princess assented eagerly. "We come, then, to a law of nature, which we must accept like other laws, although they are by no means flattering, nay, downright humiliating to our pride. Perhaps, however, on the other hand, the danger of an error and of the consequent conflict is not quite so great in the case in point, since the curiously-veiled radiance of the glorious eyes of that fair child seems to imply that she has already more than a mere vague foreboding of that passion--that she has already loved, perhaps loved unhappily, and would, consequently, not have to make these bitter experiences, which teach us to be wise, and quiet, and resigned, one after the other, in actual wedlock. But who is to give us the guarantee that the last supposition is correct? I could tell you a curious story, if you care to hear it."
"You simply owe me the story, my gracious Princess, as a proof of our joint theory."
"Well, it is fortunately not a long story, and the rest of the company have given us up, anyhow. Listen, then."
Alexandra's eyes had been examining the large chamber; they were quite alone in it now, for all the others were crowding with merry laughter round the magician's table. She leaned forward in her chair; Bertram courteously, approached his own, and she began with a lowered voice, keeping her black eyes under the half closed lids steadily fixed upon him:--
"The scene is Paris; the time some two years ago; the heroine is a friend of mine, a lady belonging to the highest society in France, whose fate had been similar to my own in one respect only: she too had married at sixteen, and been shortly after left a childless widow. Claudine--I give you her Christian name alone, for the other is unimportant to us--was not only, of course, much more beautiful than I, in fact, extraordinarily beautiful and much more gifted; she was also for good--and, as I may add without boasting, for evil--a much greater, more energetic creature. Not that I have anything very bad to say of dear Claudine, or, at least, nothing worse than has been said of many a woman who could not, perhaps, claim such weighty 'extenuating circumstances.' Her mother had, for reasons of her own, persuaded her into this marriage, which had turned out singularly unhappy. Her husband, although allowing for the difference of sex, he was scarcely older than she herself at the time of the marriage--he was then two-and-twenty--had, though so young, already managed to be acknowledged as one of the completest roués of all Paris, in spite of the keen rivalry of his high-born compeers. He had seen in the innocent young girl only an additional mistress whom, after a brief period, one could neglect with the greater impunity, since one could feel sure of her, and since she, moreover, in spite of, or perhaps, rather because of, her pride, did not seem to belong to those troublesome women who make 'scenes.' And indeed, after she had realised what, from another side, was made clear to her, they had but one 'scene,' but a terrible one, a recurrence of which was both impossible and unnecessary. He thoroughly understood her then--and she had proved a hundred times the stronger of the two. He was allowed to continue his own way of living, on the one condition that he did not concern himself in the least about hers. And hers? Well, I told you hers was a passionate nature, and she was an unhappy wife; that combination can yield nothing but unhappiness. Fortunately for her, she was speedily set free from the worst impulse, the one which had poisoned and warped her passionate nature; for her husband died. She was free once more, and vowed to remain free. Not that she did not mean to marry again; in the circles where she lived, she could only by a second marriage escape from the bondage of those relationships into which one is forced as into a new fashion, abominable though you may think either. Her second marriage was but to guarantee her a clear position in the world; the other guarantees for peace and for freedom she thought she bore within herself. And so she made her choice.
"At this period of the story I became intimate with Claudine, whose acquaintance I had previously but hurriedly made when travelling. It was in Trouville. You know how swiftly people become intimate in a watering-place. She introduced to me the victor in the endless row of suitors for her hand. After careful examination I could not altogether agree with her choice. In most points, it is true, he answered the requirements of the programme. He was no longer young--fifty-one, or -two; held a high command in the army, and brought her as dower a not inglorious past. He had led a wild and wandering life, and been the hero of a thousand adventures, but there was not the slightest stain upon his name--at least not in the eyes of society. Moreover, though not an intellectual man,--which she would have disliked in the long run,--he was one of those who are able to captivate even the most fastidious company, by their quick perception, their lively temperament, and their varied and abundant experience, upon which they can, aided by an excellent memory and natural eloquence, draw at all times. All this was, as I said, excellent as far as it went; but one thing I thought very hazardous--it seemed by no means impossible to me that he should still be capable of a serious, passionate attachment, and--this comes, almost to the same thing--still capable of inspiring it. Now, either lay assuredly beyond the programme which my friend had sketched out for herself.
"I told Claudine of my fears. She endeavoured to argue me out of them thus: 'What you think to be real and direct light,' she would say, 'is nothing but the reflection of the sun that set long ago upon glacial Alpine summits. It looks beautiful, and people cry, Ah! and Oh! when they see it; and for their sake I would not willingly miss it. But one cannot be warmed by it, or set on fire by it! My dear child, with all that blaze you could not make your kettle boil, far less rekindle the bitter and bare embers of a heart like mine!'
"As far as the gentleman was concerned, Claudine might be right. At least the somewhat boastful and exaggerated gallantry with which he laid his homage at her feet corresponded, as far as I could judge, exactly with her prediction. But how greatly she had been mistaken about herself the immediate future was to show.
"There were delays before the marriage could be concluded. Both Claudine and her friend had to free themselves from certain tender bonds. That required tact, management, caution. Moreover, she had become entangled in a law-suit with the family of her first husband, which, for some reason or other, might end badly for her, if it became known that she was contemplating a second marriage. Enough, absolute secrecy regarding their relations and intentions was requisite for some considerable time, and they had both taken their measures accordingly. Claudine had retired from society, and lived in deepest seclusion near Paris, on the estate of a widowed sister of her friend's--she, of course, being in the secret. Her friend went to see her when he could--which was not often the case. The requirements of the service were just then peculiarly exacting, and it was not possible for him to indulge in frequent absences, which anyhow, in the case of a man whom society did not care to miss, and whose doings society carefully controlled, would have caused remarks. The situation became even more critical when, in spite of all precaution, Claudine's place of sojourn had after a little been discovered, and when she saw herself watched by her foes at every turn. At last they scarcely dared to write to each other, dreading lest by treason on the part of bribed domestics a letter should be intercepted or purloined. It became absolutely indispensible to employ a thoroughly trustworthy go-between, on whom, at the same time, it should be impossible that suspicion could fall, and her friend found one--found him in the person of a young officer in his regiment, the son of an old companion in arms who had fallen in the last campaign--a young officer whom he loved like his own son, and who was likewise devoted to his chief in most loyal love. The youth had soon an opportunity of indeed proving that love and loyalty."
Alexandra drew a long breath, as though she were fatigued by the rapid low-voiced utterance. In her deep black eyes which now, after a quick survey of the still untenanted chamber, she turned upon Bertram again, there was an uneasy light, and the soft voice quivered as she went on, now speaking even quicker and lower than before, so that Bertram could scarcely follow her--