“‘My dear Genevra, I seldom bestow a thought on matrimony. To say that I never think of marrying, would be an absurdity. All women must think sometimes of that which is most certainly their manifest destiny; but my thoughts dwell but seldom on that subject. Single life presents no terrors to me: and you know actresses scarcely ever have an opportunity of marrying any save a professional character. Inez is an extraordinary instance of virtue and beauty being rewarded; and most fortunate is she in having obtained so generous and fine a gentleman for her future husband.’
“‘Monsieur Belmont told me your beauty and your voice has set all Naples wild,’ she continued. ‘Is it so, dear? But I need not ask; the journals informed me of that fact. And does the applause that greets you in public fully satisfy your heart? Do you never come home to the solitude of your own room, from these grand triumphs, and there, safe from the observation of others, sit and dream, and long for something, you scarce can divine what yourself; and then, do you not feel how brilliant, yet how isolated, are the lives we actresses lead? Have you never felt so?’
“‘Often,’ I replied, staring at her in amazement, at the sympathy of mind there evidently existed between us. ‘Yes, I have often felt so, although I am as yet on the outset of my new career. But I imagined I alone had this misanthropy;—I little thought you shared it; but let us banish all these gloomy reflections, which can do no good, and only tend to sadden us, and speak of something more cheerful; and now I want to ask about Munich, as I never was there. What sort of town is it?’
“‘A very beautiful, delightful place, to those who fancy it. It contains many very splendid buildings, fine gardens, and much good society. I was so constantly engaged in my profession, however, I scarcely noticed what it was; and in truth, since I left you I have been in so many places, that they seem all alike to me, and one town is as agreeable as another.’
“Here our conversation for the moment was suspended, and Blanche, at our hostess’ request, went to take some refreshments after her journey, but I plainly perceived, both from the words and looks of my friend, that there was something wrong at heart; either the gay world had wearied her, or else some disappointed or clandestine love was gnawing at her heart. Which it was, I could not decide; so I trusted to events to develope this mystery.
“Blanche became completely domesticated with us, and we were to each other as sisters; yet she did not confide to me the cause of this concealed sadness. In the meantime, Monsieur de Serval became a regular visiter of mine. I presented him to Blanche,—he seemed pleased with her, yet I perceived that, although he treated her with respectful admiration, his eyes never rested on her with the same expression of love and tenderness as they always did when wandering after me. They say ‘that love begets love.’ To a certain extent I think the saying true; and perhaps the eager admiration of Monsieur de Serval quickened my perception of his merits, and gave him additional interest in my eyes. Be that as it may, my feelings had not as yet shaped themselves into a downright sentiment of love. They were as yet in embryo, quiescent friendship, when a strange and unexpected event turned the current of my destiny.
“I was sitting alone in the little parlor before mentioned. Blanche had a headache, and was in her own room. Monsieur was away somewhere,—he generally spent his evenings out; and Madame Bonni had left the apartment. I sat alone: it was now midsummer; the weather was extremely hot; but I recollect on the evening of which I speak, a brisk north breeze had sprung up at twilight, and blown steadily off the shore for several hours, rendering the air quite chill and cool. The wind sighed drearily around the little cottage, and seemed to dwell momentarily in the tall poplar trees of the garden.
“One wax candle, from its silver candelabra, shed a subdued light around, in its immediate vicinity, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, and the full moon, from a window opposite me, darted long streaks of silver rays along the floor; my book had fallen from my hand, being unable to read by the feeble light, and with my hands folded together in my lap, I was lost in contemplation, when a knock came at the door, and without waiting for permission, it was opened, and Monsieur de Serval entered. He did not look as well as usual, nor was his toilette as carefully made. He scarcely returned my salutation, and drawing a chair near me, seated himself in it, and leaning back, with his small right hand, pushed back from his forehead the glossy waves of his flaxen hair.
“I spoke of several things: the opera, political debates, fashionable literature; he answered abstractedly in monosyllables, and then relapsed into silence. Suddenly starting from his chair, he began pacing the room with rapid strides; his face looked flushed and strange. I had always felt toward him an indefinite fear, arising probably from the magnetic influence of his stern temper, and now the same sensation came creeping over me as I sat, and wonderingly gazed upon the singular behaviour of my visiter. Suddenly pausing in his walk, he came toward me, and again seated himself at my side. He grasped both my hands in his, and bent the stern gaze of his lustrous eyes on mine. I now began to apprehend what was coming, and to tremble.
“‘Genevra,’ said he, in the low, deep tone of impassioned feeling, —and as he said this, he took both my hands in his left hand, and with the other he played with the curls of my hair—‘Genevra, I am about leaving town, perhaps for some months; perhaps from contingency or fatality I may never return to Parthenope. I have come to say farewell. I could, I think, almost feel happy at going, could I for a moment suppose that a heart so pure as yours, would cherish towards a forlorn, unhappy being like myself a single sentiment of kindness or regret. Say, Mademoiselle, may I hope I shall not be forgotten?’