“Well, farewell till we meet again,” said Monsieur de Serval, abruptly, after a moment’s pause.
“Farewell, monsieur.”
We shook hands, and he departed. I watched from my window, and saw his close travelling carriage rolled into the court-yard. Guilo placed numerous packages, boxes of cigars, and comfites on the front seat; then my husband entered it, his hat slouched over his eyes, and enveloped in his great coat. Guilo mounted behind; the postillion huzza’d, and they rattled away down the valley road.
I did not miss him; his society was no longer necessary to my very existence. We could live apart for days, weeks, months, without the same regrets and longings we should have experienced during the first months of married life. During his absence I busied myself in household affairs, rode on horseback, played and sang, and endeavored to kill time as fast as possible. I was very young, and my tastes and habits still bordered closely on girlhood—I might almost say childhood. Pasiphae, with her weird-like countenance, as she sat over the fire in the banqueting hall on those chilly autumnal nights, and told me strange ghost stories, often laughed at the childish alarm I showed at her tales. She was my confidante, and, in fact, only friend, in that wild region. To her I confided all my thoughts, my griefs, and fears, and hopes. She sympathized with, but could not advise me.
The week of his absence passed quietly away: nothing of moment occurred worth relating, and I was sitting in my salon reading a romance, when Pasiphae entered, saying Guilo had arrived in advance of his master, and announced that Monsieur de Serval would be with me within half an hour. Upon the delivery of his message I consulted my mirror. Pasiphae declared herself satisfied with my appearance. I remember with vivid distinctness the dress I wore: it was a dark, deep crimson velvet, made high in the neck, and long sleeves concealed my arms: the rich, heavy folds of the robe swept the floor; a Grecian head-dress of lama lace formed my coiffure, and my hair fell in long ringlets to my waist.
“Ah, my lady; I never saw you look so beautiful,” said the faithful creature, in an ecstacy of delight; for the slightest thing will throw an Italian into a fit of enthusiasm. “That head-dress is so charming, and the robe so handsome! Ah, if fine dress only made people happy, it would be worth wishing for.”
“Pasiphae, I think I heard monsieur’s carriage driving into the court-yard. See if it is him.”
As I spoke, I heard voices and heavy steps in the hall, and before she could reach the door, it was opened hastily, and my husband entered, followed by a figure so wrapped up in coats and shawls, that I could scarcely discern what it was. Pasiphae hastened to relieve this muffled form of its encumbrances, after disburdening my husband: and when the stranger, stepping toward me, bowed,—the first glance at his face told me that I beheld the stranger of the opera. The same beautiful eyes were bent upon me, and the low deep tones of his voice struck my ear as he said:
“Madame, I am happy to make the acquaintance of the wife of my friend.”
I felt the blood rush to my brow, my neck, my very hands, as I tremblingly replied: