“Ask me any question, propose to me any doubts,” answered the Count, “and I will reply truly, upon my honour.”
“Then tell me,” said Pauline,—— But just as she was about to proceed, she felt some difficulty in proposing her doubts. She had a thousand times before convinced herself they were very serious and well founded; but all jealous suspicions look so very foolish in black and white, or what is quite as good, in plain language, though they may seem very respectable when seen through the twilight of passion, that Pauline knew not very well how to give utterance to hers. “Then tell me,” said Pauline, with no small hesitation—“then tell me, what was the reason you would suffer no one to open your hunting coat, when you were wounded in the forest—no, not even to staunch the bleeding of the side?”
“There was a reason, certainly,” replied De Blenau, not very well perceiving the connexion between his hunting-coat and Pauline’s coldness; “there was a reason certainly; but how in the name of Heaven does that affect you, Pauline?”
“You shall see by my next question,” answered she. “Have you or have you not received a letter, privately conveyed to you from a lady? and has not Mademoiselle de Hauteford visited you secretly during your illness?”
It was now De Blenau’s turn to become embarrassed; he faltered, and looked confused, and for a moment his cheek, which had hitherto been pale with the loss of blood, became of the deepest crimson, while he replied, “I did not know that I was so watched.”
“It is enough, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Pauline rising, her doubts almost aggravated to certainties. “To justify myself, Sir, I will tell you that you have not been watched. Pauline de Beaumont would consider that man unworthy of her affection, whose conduct would require watching. What I know, has come to my ears by mere accident. In fact,” and her voice trembled the more, perhaps, that she strove to preserve its steadiness—“in fact, I have become acquainted with a painful truth through my too great kindness for you, in sending my own servant to inquire after your health, and not to watch you, Monsieur de Blenau.”
“Stop, stop, Pauline! in pity, stop,” cried De Blenau, seeing her about to depart. “Your questions place me in the most embarrassing of situations. But, on my soul, I have never suffered a thought to stray from you, and you yourself will one day do me justice. But at present, on this point, I am bound by every principle of duty and honour, not to attempt an exculpation.”
“None is necessary, Monsieur de Blenau,” replied Pauline. “It is much better to understand each other at once. I have no right to any control over you. You are of course free, and at liberty to follow the bent of your own inclinations. Adieu! I shall always wish your welfare.” And she was quitting the apartment, but De Blenau still detained her, though she gently strove to withdraw her hand.
“Yet one moment, Pauline,” said he. “You were once kind, you were once generous, you have more than once assured me of your affection. Now, tell me, did you bestow that affection on a man destitute of honour? on a man who would sully his fame by pledging his faith to what was false?” Pauline’s hand remained in his without an effort, and he went on. “I now pledge you my faith, and give you my honour, however strange it may appear that a lady should visit me in private, I have never loved or sought any but yourself. Pauline, do you doubt me now?”
Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and she did not reply, but there was a slight motion in the hand he held, as if it would fain have returned his pressure had she dared. “I could,” he continued, “within an hour obtain permission to explain it all. But oh, Pauline, how much happier would it make me to find, that you trust alone to my word, that you put full confidence in a heart that loves you!”