“‘Monsieur de Serval,’ I said, finding he made no effort to rise, ‘recollect yourself, I beg of you. Come, seat yourself here on the sofa, and let us talk quietly. Why should you rage and storm thus? What is it disquiets you? You say you love me; but surely love is a gentle feeling. Where is the necessity of these tempestuous emotions? These bursts of passion alarm me. Be composed, and tell me why you are miserable and unhappy, as you just said you were. Explain your grief; and at least let me endeavor to console you.’
“My quiet manner served to soothe him. He rose from his knees, and sat reclining on the sofa, still holding my hands in his, while I wiped the perspiration from his agitated countenance. I was not exactly in love with him then, but my disposition always prompted me to compassionate the sorrowful. He appeared to be unhappy, and I would have given much to have known, shared, and alleviated his sorrow.
“‘You never heard, I suppose,’ he began, ‘anything of my private history?’
“‘No,’ I hesitatingly replied, ‘I never did.’
“‘You are not used to equivocating; I see that, Genevra. I am certain that you have heard from envious tongues, every thing that is bad concerning me,—that I am a roué; a gambler; a worthless, reckless man of fashion. My faults I do not pretend to conceal. Not to acknowledge an error, is only worthy of a knave or a fool. I trust I am not either. Sit nearer me;—let me hold your hand and see my eyes riding on the balls of yours. Now I will begin. I will go back in imagination—thank God I am not obliged to do it in reality—to childhood.’
CHAPTER VII.
“My father was descended from an ancient and noble family; one of the most aristocratic in France. Our family chateau was in Normandy; there we spent the principal part of the year, with the exception of visits to Paris at distant intervals of time.
“Our chateau was beautifully and romantically situated on a gentle plain. From its fine grounds I have often watched the sun decline behind the distant mountains, which bordered on the east our valley-home; on the west a gentle river glided by: along its flowery banks, oft, when a child, have I, my two brothers, and little sister, played. I shall never see its quiet waters more,—nor would I: they would revive too many painful associations. Yet sometimes in fancy I transport myself back to its loved shores; and again I see Francois, Pierre, myself, and Lelia, all animated by the same childish love of fun, playing hide and seek, or running races.
“Francois was the eldest, myself next, then Pierre, then our sweet sister Lelia. My beloved mother, to whose memory I have ever retained, through all my dissipations and frivolities, so great a veneration, was in declining health. She was a tall, beautiful blonde; her gentle face was the index to her soul,—all purity, sweetness and sincerity; were I to live a thousand years, never could I forget my mother’s amiability, her true nobility of soul. I was her favorite child, her ‘dear Rinaldo.’ At my birth, in a fit of romantic admiration of the fabulous Rinaldo, of Italian story, she named me after him, and with woman’s romance, fondly pictured to herself the great deeds I should one day perform. In emulation of this poetical demi-god, what would not children become were they to realize their parents’ wishes and expectations.