“Have you not said so? have you not bade me go? am I not obeying you?”
“Yes, you are obeying me. I meant what I said: but stay yet awhile; I have something to say. I——,” overpowered by my own sadness, my head sank upon his shoulder, and with my hands pressed to my eyes, the tears forced their way through them. Suddenly he encircled me with his arms, and bowing that proud yet noble head on mine, smoothed the ringlets from my brow.
“My beautiful Genevra—you will let me call you mine, will you not?” I bowed acquiescence;—I could not speak. “Since you refuse my love, decline my visits, I shall write you: you will not refuse me that pleasure, will you?”
“No,” I stammered.
“To-morrow then, a letter shall explain. Farewell, now,—farewell, beautiful one.”
He went toward the door. I stood motionless. As he turned half round before opening the door, I involuntarily stepped toward him. He extended his arms,—I rushed into them, and clung convulsively to him, as a drowning man catches at a straw.
“My God! how hard it is,” he ejaculated, as he tore himself away, and the echo of his footsteps died away on my ear. I still grasped at air, as if seeking him, and it was some moments before I could convince myself that he was really gone. Then I went to the windows, pushed back the curtains, admitted air and light, and sought to cool my burning forehead,—to recall my scattered thoughts,—but neither air nor light brought me relief. Objects were dim; nothing appeared as it had in the morning. The sound of voices and carts in the streets below sounded strange and unnatural. One only thought haunted me, dwelt in my mind, lingered in my ears,—he was gone—I had sent him away. I knew I had acted honorably, uprightly; that I had shown myself to be virtuous and high principled; but I was miserable,—utterly wretched. I recalled his winning ways, his lofty mind, his handsome person: I imagined my destiny united to his,—imagined myself his wife:—I could be his on no other terms. Then I revelled in ideal happiness,—then no invidious fate stood between us, but I stood lawfully by his side;—then I was happy.
Thus pre-occupied, agitated and desponding, I sat till dusk had thrown a veil over the fair city. I did not notice, but dreamed on, and was only aroused from my meditations by the entrance of Pasiphae with lights.
The next morning, more dead than alive, I went to rehearsal. The performance was tedious—the theatre cold. I hurried through, glad to escape from the tiresome scene, and returned home, where Pasiphae handed me a letter. In haste and confusion I opened it. It was from the count:—