“You know, madame, of course, the Lady Isodore, Monsieur’s—”
Abruptly she paused; and, turning, I saw my husband’s stern gaze fastened on her: she cowered beneath that look; and well she might, for even I could not have met it unabashed.
“Pasiphae, you can go; your young mistress is tired; she needs repose after her long travel.”
Silently she retreated.
“Who is that old woman, dearest? her strange ways surprised me.”
“An old domestic I have retained in my service, though almost useless; come Genevra, your chamber is prepared, and supper arranged in the banqueting hall.”
Thither we went: the apartment was magnificent, and one of the tables set with dainties that might have delighted an epicure; the lamps, shrined in vases of alabaster, shed a sweet, soft light; the hush of stillness and repose reigned within and without; and, more than all, my husband’s accents of tenderness, and the tumult of love that had usurped the place of gentler emotions in my breast, have impressed that scene in indelible traits on my memory.
After supper we returned to the salon, and entertained ourselves, till the clock struck the hour for retiring, with a conversation in which words had all to do, not thoughts: they were differently employed.
Then, at ten o’clock, we retired to our bedchamber; the same old woman stood at the door of the room as I entered: an ominous smile sat on her lips; she opened her mouth, as if to speak; but, perceiving my husband close behind me, she went away without expressing the thoughts which seemed to tremble on the point of utterance.
Then, when the door closed behind us, suffocated with joy, we fell into each other’s arms—let me draw a veil over that night, and pass to other scenes.