Backward she fell from my supporting arms on her pillow: slower and slower came her breath; more fixed grew her eyes; her hands grasped convulsively at the bed clothes. I heard a rattling sound from her throat; then the eyelids remained half closed, the mouth half open; the hands released their hold, and the physician, bending over her, said,—“Madame, she is dead!”
I burst into tears, and fled from the chamber of death to my own room, and there wept long and bitterly, both for her and for myself.
Pasiphae told me, some days after, that the corpse had been buried in a cemetery two miles from the castle,—that M. de Serval had gone to the room and looked at the dead, and she saw, or fancied she saw, him shed tears. The old woman, now her insane charge was dead,—so strong is habit,—really seemed to regret the loss, and continually talked of her. For myself, I felt wretched, and wept at early dawn, at bright noon, and again when dark night came on. I thought of my husband: I regretted his behaviour; and notwithstanding all, I wished—oh, I don’t know what I wished; but one thing I know is certain, that death, had he come then, would not have found me unwilling to go.
For two weeks after Isodore’s death, I remained alone in my apartments. The communication between them and monsieur’s having been, by my order, closed, lest he might intrude upon me. I neglected my dress, and my long ringlets hung in wild disorder around my face. I wore a black dress, as if in mourning, for my soul was mourning; and thus attired, and thus lonely, I sat opposite a mirror, in which I beheld myself,—not the joyous bride of six months ago, but pale, dejected, and melancholy; and thus I sat and mused to no purpose, when my waist was clasped by a well known hand, and a mouth, whose kisses I can never forget, imprinted one on my cheek, as Rinaldo’s voice murmured in my ear:
“Genevra, I am miserable, living thus without you. Let the past be forgotten and forgiven: let us love each other as we did before this sad affair. You cannot so quickly have learned to hate me, have you?”
I hesitated a moment, I confess: then love triumphed over every other feeling, and throwing myself into his arms, we fervently kissed each other, and he promised to lead a better life. Of that, however, from what I now comprehended of my husband’s character and habits, I had little hope; for any habit, when once confirmed, be it rouéism, gambling, or drinking, obtains such fascinating influence over the mind, that it is rarely, if ever, relinquished. Still I endeavored to cherish a fondness, which I felt his outlandish behavior would soon oblige me to abandon.
The novelty of possession had now worn off, and he began to wish for other society than mine; accordingly he resumed his acquaintance with the neighboring nobility, and frequently the banqueting hall resounded with their boisterous conviviality to a late hour of night. Then my husband would be carried in the arms of his grooms in a state of drunkenness to bed, while his guests were borne off in a similar condition to theirs. At first, when I gently reproached him with his excesses, he seemed grieved, listened to me quietly, and answered sorrowfully, that he knew he did wrong; but soon this gentleness changed to roughness, and if I spoke reprovingly, he sternly bade me be silent, and not presume to admonish him, of what he was the best judge of. Thus in alternations of coldness, reproaches, quarrels, and reconciliations, a year of married life passed away.
As I became more estranged from him, I missed the gayeties and pleasures of Naples, which his affections had for a few months compensated me for the loss of. I often thought of Blanche, of my teacher, and the kind Madame Bonni. Monsieur Belmont had heard nothing of Blanche, though within the year, inquiry had often been made by him concerning her. My kind hostess had not forgotten me, and her love was often sent; my teacher’s letters I carefully treasured, and read each one with double care; they seemed like tidings of life: for the quiet chateau, the rustic neighborhood, could scarcely be designated by that name; and my regular existence, systematic as a clock, partook largely of lifeless monotony. Rinaldo, it is true, made amends to bacchus for my dullness, for night after night found him at the gaming table, playing high, or carousing with his noisy companions. When, sometimes, I saw him excited with wine, I could with difficulty realize that it was the same refined man, whose sweet voice, and gentle ways had won my virgin heart, on the beautiful shores of Parthenope. Guilo, my husband’s valet, said that although his master had always lived high and been very gay, yet, during the first months of our marriage, he had behaved much better than formerly, and the worthy domestic appeared astonished to see him return to his old habits; but he did not reflect, that the object for which this good behavior was cultivated was attained, and there was no longer any need of playing a part.
I sometimes took long walks through that fair valley, and among the lofty hills which majestically surrounded it. I amused and entertained myself with the observation of nature, in its many different, yet all beautiful modifications; I saw the birds, as they floated on the wing; I saw the waving of the foliage of the forest trees, and the clouds as they moved through the dewy atmosphere, for an eternal mist ever hung over those mountains and that valley. The shepherds tended their flocks there, and thither in harvest and vintage time came the pretty village girls, and the hardy mountaineers, to gather the fruitful grape. Sometimes sitting beneath some lofty tree, I reflected on the sottishness of the heart, which, the more it possesses, the more it wants; I wondered if there was any such thing as happiness, in what it consisted, and where to be found; and then I wondered if it was exemplified by the epicurean belief, that happiness must consist in banishing from the mind all painful thoughts, and wholly surrendering oneself, spiritually and bodily, to pleasure: or if the doctrine of the stoics was true, that happiness or misery, pleasure or pain, was a principle of the mind, and could not be affected by external objects; that if the mind was properly tutored, it would be incapable of any other feeling than that of rational, quiet contentment; it would be insensible to the cares and sorrows of life, regarding all things with the proud eyes of ethereal, idealized philosophy. I inclined towards the stoics, and resolved, if possible, so to school my mind, that no earthly disappointment should surprise or vex me; but, unfortunately, it is much easier to make resolves, than to keep them.