“But why, dear Claude,” demanded Pauline eagerly, forgetting coldness, and pride, and suspicion, in the memory his words called up, “why did you not tell me? why did you not let me know that it was you?”
“Because if I had been discovered,” answered the Count, “it might have cost me my life, years of imprisonment in the Bastille, or worse—the destruction of her I loved? The slightest cry of surprise from you might have betrayed me.”
“But how did you escape, without your journey being known?” demanded Pauline; “they say in Languedoc, that the Cardinal has bribed the evil spirits of the air to be his spies on men’s actions.”
“It is difficult indeed to say how he acquires his information,” replied De Blenau; “but, however, I passed undiscovered. It was thus it happened: I had gone as a volunteer to the siege of Perpignan, or rather, as one of the Arrière-ban of Languedoc, which was led by the young and gallant Duc d’Enghien, to whom, after a long resistance, that city delivered its keys. As soon as the place had surrendered, I asked permission to absent myself for a few days. His Highness granted it immediately, and I set out.—For what think you, Pauline? what, but to visit that spot, round which all the hopes of my heart, all the dreams of my imagination, had hovered for many a year.—But to proceed, taking the two first stages of my journey towards Paris, I suddenly changed my course, and embarking on the Rhone, descended as far as the Chateau de Beaumont. You remember, that my page, Henry La Mothe, is the son of your mother’s fermier, old La Mothe, and doubtless know full well his house among the oaks, on the borders of the great wood. It was here I took up my abode, and formed a thousand plans of seeing you undiscovered. At length, fortune favoured me. Oh! how my heart beat as, standing by one of the trees in the long avenue, Henry first pointed out to me two figures coming slowly down the path from the Chateau—yourself and your mother,—and as, approaching towards me, they gradually grew more and more distinct, my impatience almost overpowered me, and I believe I should have started forward to meet you, had not Henry reminded me of the danger. You passed close by.—O Pauline! I had indulged many a waking dream. I had let fancy deck you in a thousand imaginary charms—but at that moment, I found all I had imagined, or dreamed, a thousand times excelled. I found the beautiful girl, that had been torn from me so many years before, grown into woman’s most surpassing loveliness; and the charms which fancy and memory had scattered from their united stores, faded away before the reality, like stars on the rising of the sun. But this was not enough. I watched my opportunity. I saw you, as you walked alone on the terrace, by the side of the glittering Rhone,—I spoke to you,—I heard the tones of a voice to be remembered for many an after hour, and placing the pledge of my affection on your hand, I tore myself away.”
De Blenau paused. Insensibly, whilst he was speaking, Pauline had suffered his arm again to glide round her waist. Her hand somehow became clasped in his, and as he told the tale of his affection, the tears of many a mingled emotion rolled over the dark lashes of her eye, and chasing one another down her cheek, fell upon the lip of her lover, as he pressed a kiss upon the warm sunny spot which those drops bedewed.
De Blenau saw that those tears were not tears of sorrow, and had love been with him an art, he probably would have sought no farther; for in the whole economy of life, but more especially in that soft passion Love, holds good the homely maxim, to let well alone. But De Blenau was not satisfied; and like a foolish youth, he teased Pauline to know why she had at first received him coldly. In good truth, she had by this time forgotten all about it; but as she was obliged to answer, she soon again conjured up all her doubts and suspicions. She hesitated, drew her hand from that of the Count, blushed deeper and deeper, and twice began to speak without ending her sentence.
“I know not what to think,” said she at length, “De Blenau: I would fain believe you to be all you seem,—I would fain reject every doubt of what you say.”
Her coldness, her hesitation, her embarrassment, alarmed De Blenau’s fears, and he too began to be suspicious.
“On what can you rest a doubt?” demanded he, with a look of bitter mortification; and perceiving that she still paused, he added sadly, but coldly, “Mademoiselle de Beaumont, you are unkind. Can it be that you are attached to another? Say, am I so unhappy?”
“No, De Blenau, no!” replied Pauline, struggling for firmness: “but answer me one question, explain to me but this one thing, and I am satisfied.”