Thinking upon the solitude of a convent life—the austerity of such an existence—I sought my room, where I found the count playing with Raphael’s baby-rattle to amuse him. He came toward me, as if doubtful of his reception after the incident of our last meeting; but forgetting the slight peak I then felt—thinking only of the happiness of seeing him—I smiled and extended my hand.
“You see I have been endeavoring to amuse little Raphael during your absence.”
“For which I am very much obliged;” and not knowing what to say—for his presence, of late, always embarrassed me—I sat down on the sofa, and as the infant began to cry, told Pasiphae to take it away, which she did, and we were left alone, I turned, momentarily, to look from the window on the busy street: an audible sigh fell on my ear, when I turned round, the count was at my feet.
“Genevra! Let me call you by that name,” said he. “Why should I seek to conceal a passion which I know you must have already discovered? why should I hesitate to declare that, of all the women I have ever seen in all the lands I have ever been, I single you out as the fairest, the noblest of all; that when I first saw you in the opera, I was struck with your beauty, and afterwards in that lonely castle, where you led so isolated a life, a personal acquaintance did not dispel that illusion. Now, when I see you struggling against the adverse tide of life—forsaken by your husband,—surrounded by envy, with no happiness save the society of your child,—why will you not let me consecrate to your pleasure a soul which would be only too happy to dedicate itself to you? Why will you evade my sympathy? Why not let me be the sharer of those sorrows which you try to conceal?”
“Oh, count!” I cried, bursting into tears, as he held my hands; “you must not talk thus to me; remember I am a married woman; respect my situation. Whatever may be my sentiments toward you, I must smother them, and you, for my sake, must do the same.”
“I? No, never can I do that! your sweet image is too deeply impressed upon my heart: there shall it remain a sacred solace to me. Oh! why did we not meet before your marriage, when you first made your appearance here? why do we only understand each other when it is too late?”
“Yes; ask the question of fate: in vain have I demanded it. Why do I continually long for a shade which eludes my grasp? Why does solitude ever haunt my footsteps?”
“But I offer you society, happiness; everything on earth that I can command shall be yours. Has not your husband deserted you? what faith do you owe to him? If you returned my love; if you would honor me by your confidence, imagine, my Genevra, what days of happiness might be in store for us.”
“Count!” I exclaimed, clasping both hands before my eyes, “forbear: I pray you forbear. I do like you, I acknowledge it; but this must be our last meeting. This must be the first, last, only expression of my feelings; and I feel I am doing wrong even in saying this. Consider, what happiness could I feel in doing anything that could reflect upon my character, hitherto so unblemished? What joy could I experience in a future clouded with shame? How differently should I regard you from that calm-abiding sentiment of security with which a wife regards her husband? What a tempest of emotions would succeed the happy quiet I have always enjoyed! And can you wish me to change even the uncertain life I now lead for such a scene? Depend upon it, dear count, we are better as we are. The feelings we now entertain for each other are pure; do not let us dim them by guilt.”