“Oh, is he not handsome!”
“Yes, very; I always thought him fine looking.”
Blanche evidently did not wish to speak further about him; and with that strange intuition with which woman divines woman, I surmised that it was from something of a secret partiality.
Madame Bonni was waiting tea when we reached home.
“My two nightingales, where have you been to? I have been waiting an hour for you; and the French manager has called to see you. He stayed sometime, but finding you did not come, went away, saying he should call in the morning. He has something particular to say to you.”
“We have been taking a long walk toward Posillippo and Virgil’s tomb, which detained us longer than we had intended,” said I, not wishing to tell her our real adventure.
“Ah! have you? Did you go within it?—is it not an interesting sight?”
“No, we did not extend our walk so far as to reach it; but some day, soon, I intend visiting it for that purpose.”
My thoughts reverted to Monsieur de Serval, and wondering and wishing he were back again with me, I spent the evening in my room, leaving Blanche to entertain our kind hostess.
When alone, I always thought of my lover, as lovers generally do, I believe. I admired and loved him, but this love was so sudden, so incomprehensible;—men seldom court women on the instant of acquaintance, propose and marry them, especially actresses. Then I recalled what Madame Bonni and rumor had said of his character; his extravagance and bad conduct: but then had he not frankly, and with sincere contrition, admitted his faults, and promised amendment in future? What could be sadder, more touching than that history itself? related so charmingly, in his graceful way. His childhood had been soured by a bold, bad woman, and subsequently thrown upon the sea of life, like a bark without a pilot or rudder to steer it. Temptations, in their most attractive forms, had beset him, and he had done only as other men would have done, not even as bad as that. Much allowance should be made for his youth and beauty, and lonely position in life. But my excuses for my lover were endless. I cannot follow them all. When love amounts to infatuation, it is useless to reason; and it was foolish for me to attempt it. I wished he were with me;—I counted the hours and days as they passed.