Thus saying, he turned toward Madame de Lagny, who by this time had some lights on the table before her, and addressed to her all those ceremonious politenesses which no one knew better how to display, when not moved by passion, than the Duc de Rohan.
In the mean time, Edward and Lucette remained at the darker side of the room; but, had it been the broadest daylight, their natural feelings would have suffered little restraint. The contrast of Edward's love and tenderness with the cold harshness of her own relations made all her affections cling closer round him than ever, and she hung upon his breast and mingled kisses with his, while the tears covered her cheeks and sobs interrupted her words. "Oh, Edward," she said, "I wish to Heaven that I were indeed but the grandchild of good Clement Tournon, of Rochelle, as you once thought me! We might be very happy then."
Mingled with his words of politeness to Madame de Lagny, the duke had been giving some orders to his own attendants; and at length he said, "Now, young gentleman, it is time to depart. Madame is ready."
One last, long embrace, and Edward advanced to the side of the duke. He did not venture to look at Lucette again, but followed Rohan and Madame de Lagny closely into the outer hall, thence through a small court and a place d'armes, in each of which were a number of soldiers fully armed, and then by a covered way to the water-gate, to which point the small boat had by this time been brought round. There was still a faint light upon the river; but a lantern had been placed lighted in the bow of the boat, and in a few minutes the old lady and her young companion were landed on the other side. One of the boatmen lighted them up to the carriage, and Edward, after bestowing a piece of money upon the man, took his seat beside Madame de Lagny, who gave orders to proceed toward Nantes, stopping, however, at the first auberge where any thing like tolerable accommodation could be found.
"Ah, poor Monsieur de Rohan!" she said, with perhaps not the most compassionate feelings in the world. "He is much to be pitied; and, indeed, he ought to feel, as he said, that some love in marriage is a very good ingredient. He ought to know it by experience; for his own good-for-nothing dame cares not, and never did care, for him; and it is the common phrase in Paris that she has so large a heart she can find room in it for everybody except her husband. Why, I know at least ten lovers she has had besides the Duc de Candale, who is more her slave than her lover, and who"——
Just at that moment, the horses having been put to, the coachman gave a sharp crack of his the whip, the coach a tremendous jolt, and Madame de Lagny brought her story to an end, somewhat to the relief of her young companion.
CHAPTER XXII.
For the first time in life—and it was very early to begin—Edward Langdale felt that loneliness of heart which parting for an indefinite time from one we dearly love produces in all but the very light or the very hard. He had never loved before; he had never even thought of love; but now he loved truly and well. He might not indeed have loved even now, for he and Lucette were both so young that the idea might not have come into the mind of either; but their love had been a growth rather than a passion; and, as the reader skilled in such mysteries must have seen, it had been watered and trained and nourished by all those accidents which raise affection from a small germ to a beautiful flower. First, she had nursed him so tenderly that he could not but feel grateful to her; then she had been cast upon his care in dangers and difficulties of many kinds, so that deep interest in her had sprung up. Then, again, she was so beautiful, in her first fresh youth, that he could not but admire what he protected and cherished. Then she was so innocent, so gentle, so ductile, and yet so good in every thought, that he could not but esteem and reverence what he admired. Then had come his turn of nursing, and the interest became warmer, more tender; and at length, when the mere thought of stating, in order to account for their companionship, that they sought to be married first entered the mind of each, it let a world of light into their hearts, and the whole was pointed, directed, confirmed, by the sudden ceremony which bound them together. They had promised at the altar to love each other forever, and they felt that they could keep their word.
But Edward, as he rolled along by the side of Madame de Lagny, could not help asking himself painful questions: "I shall love her ever," he said to himself; "but she is so young, so very young,—a mere child! Will her love last through a long separation? will not her feelings change with changing years? does she even love me now as I love her?"