“Alas! that is not so. I wish it were.”
“Marriage is a mere lottery at best,” said the count, thoughtfully. “I have always viewed it in that light, and my observation of its unhappy results, has deterred me from choosing a wife. Some frequently draw prizes; most get blanks. You, dear lady, have unfortunately—” He paused, and did not complete the sentence, probably fearing to wound my feelings; for so strange it is, though you may despise your husband, yet to hear him depreciated, will wound.
“In a month from now, I shall probably be at Epirus. I only feel happy in continual motion: travelling, war, politics—something to excite. Onward, seems to be my watchword; onward, as we on our little planet continually whirl round, and other worlds follow us, unceasing, eternal, in the sublime organization of nature.”
I had never seen my guest so animated before; his eyes sparkled, his alabaster face lit up with the warm glow of feeling and enthusiasm. The announcement of his intended departure, somewhat surprised me, as we had expected to retain him for several weeks.
“We shall regret your departure, count,” said I, trying to force a smile, but it was a sad one. “Monsieur de Serval intimated that we were to have the pleasure of your society for some time to come.” As I spoke, my eyes met his, and their expression of intense interest riveted mine: those beautiful, sad eyes,—those eyes of love, of ingenuousness, of truth and fidelity. He sighed, and withdrew them, and I resumed my contemplation of the carpet of the salon.
A long, loud laugh, from the apartment where my husband was revelling, startled me. I thought I heard footsteps coming, and not wishing to see him in his present condition, I rose to return to my room.
“Good night, dear lady,” said the count. “Remember me in your prayers, for I need them.” Glance met glance, but I tore mine away, and I felt, as I sought my repose, that my fluttering heart, and crimsoned cheek, told sad tales against me.
Rinaldo was ill next day from excitement, and his friends in much the same condition. Monsieur D’Artagnan, and Monsieur Porthos, were men of middle age, corpulent and lazy; high livers, high drinkers, fond of all sorts of rural sports, and all sorts of amusements. They generally favored, or rather bored, me with their compliments and society every day after dinner, when Rinaldo usually lounged about a little while, ere he and they disappeared together, to arrange their plans for the evening. The count spent hours and hours with me, reading, singing, conversing, receiving and imparting information. These consolations, these sympathies, between a married woman and a handsome male friend, are dangerous. The loneliness of heart, the isolation a woman who has been slighted in her affections feels, strongly induces her to love the society, and the self-deluding friendship of an interesting man. This friendship soon becomes love, and then—where are they?