"The Chevalier, the Chevalier!" exclaimed Clémence, with her whole face brightening into a merry smile. "No, no, no! You have been deceiving yourself. No, no, Count; the Chevalier d'Evran never has been, never will be, any thing to me but that which he is now; we have had no quarrel, we have had no coldness. It is quite possible, Monsieur de Morseiul, believe me, even for a weak woman like myself to feel friendship and place confidence without love."
She strove in some degree to withdraw the hand that the Count had taken, as if she were about to leave him; but the Count detained it, gently saying, "Stay yet one moment, Clémence; let us yet have but one word more of explanation before we part."
"No," she replied, disengaging her hand, "no; we have had explanations enough. Never wed a woman of whom you have a single doubt, Sir. No, no," she added, with a look slightly triumphant perhaps, somewhat sorrowful, but somewhat playful withal; "no, no! Clémence de Marly has already, perhaps, said somewhat too much already! But one thing I will tell you, Albert of Morseiul--you love her! She sees it, she knows it, and from henceforth she will not doubt it--for a woman does not trust by halves like a man. You love her! You will love her! and, though you have perhaps somewhat humiliated her; though you have made the proud humble and the gay melancholy, it is perhaps no bad lesson for her, and she will now make you sue, before you gain as a previous lover that which you now seem to require some pressing to accept Adieu, Monsieur de Morseiul; there is, I see, somebody coming; adieu."
"Stay yet a moment, Clémence; hear me yet urge something in my defence," exclaimed her lover. But Clémence proceeded down the steps from the rampart, only pausing and turning to say in a tone of greater tenderness and interest,--
"Farewell, Albert, farewell; and for God's sake forget not the warning that I gave you this morning, nor any of the matters so much more worthy of attention than the worthless love of a gay capricious girl."
Thus saying, she hastened on, and passing by the person who was coming forward from the house--and who was merely a servant attached to the Count de Morseiul, as usual hunting out his master to interrupt him at the most inappropriate time--she hurried to a small door to the left of the building, entered, and mounting a back staircase which led towards her own apartments, she sought shelter therein from all the many eyes that were at that time beginning to move about the place; for her face was a tablet on which strong and recent emotion was deeply and legibly written.
Nor had that emotion passed, indeed; but, on the contrary, new and agitating thoughts had been swelling upon her all the way through the gardens, as she returned alone--the memories of one of those short but important lapses of time which change with the power of an enchanter the whole course of our being, which alter feeling and thoughts and hope and expectation, give a different direction to aspiration and effort and ambition, which add wings and a fiery sword to enthusiasm, and, in fact, turn the thread of destiny upon a new track through the labyrinth of life.
There was in the midst of those memories one bright and beautiful spot; but it was mingled with so many contending feelings--there was so much alloy to that pure gold--that, when at length she reached her dressing-room and cast herself into a chair, she became completely overpowered, and, bursting into tears, wept bitterly and long.
The old and faithful attendant whom Albert of Morseiul had seen with her in the forest, and who was indeed far superior to the station which she filled, both by talents, education, and heart, now witnessing the emotion of her young mistress, glided up and took her hand in hers, trying by every quiet attention to tranquillise and soothe her. It was in vain, for a long time, however, that she did so; and when at length Clémence had recovered in some degree her composure, and began to dry her eyes, the attendant asked, eagerly, "Dear, dear child, what is it has grieved you so?"
"I will tell you, Maria; I will tell you in a minute," replied Clémence. "You who have been a sharer of all my thoughts from my infancy--you who were given me as a friend by the dear mother I have lost--you who have preserved for me so much, and have preserved me myself so often--I will tell you all and every thing. I will have no concealment in this from you; for I feel, as if I were a prophet, that terrible and troublous times are coming; that it is my fate to take a deep and painful part therein; and that I shall need one like you to counsel, and advise, and assist, and support me in many a danger, and, for aught I know, in many a calamity."