“Thank God,” I replied, “I have no cause to distress myself about any of those dear to me, and the personal grief that I experienced just now was dispelled by the sound of your voice, by the sweet words you have spoken. But how does it happen that having such a sister as you, Bernard should never have mentioned it?”
“Bernard is absorbed by an affection of which I am not in the least jealous, and that I very well understand, for madame is a tender sister to me. But did you not come with him, and how is it that I find you here alone and unannounced?”
“Bernard went on before me.”
“Ah! I understand. Well, let us leave them together a little longer; they have so much to say to each other, and their attachment is so noble, so fraternal, and of such long standing. But come by the fire in the library, for it is rather chilly here.”
I saw that she did not think it proper to remain with me in the dark, and I followed her regretfully. I feared to see her face, for her voice deluded me into the belief that my immortal nymph was stopping to converse in common language with me, on details that concerned the world of the living.
There was a fire and light in the library, and I could then see her features, which were marvelously beautiful and which in a vague fashion recalled those that I had thought well fixed in my mind. But while scrutinizing them as closely as politeness would permit, I realized that the three images of the Naiad, the phantom and that of Mademoiselle d’Aillane were so confused in my mind, that it was impossible for me to separate them so as to render to each one the admiration that was its due. It was the same type, of that I was very sure; but I could no longer decide what constituted the difference, and I perceived with fear this uncertainty of my memory in regard to the sublime apparition. I had brooded over it too much. I had put too much faith in seeing it again. It no longer appeared to me save through a cloud.
And then, after several moments, I forgot my anguish in the sole contemplation of Mademoiselle d’Aillane, beautiful as the purest and most elegant of Diana’s nymphs, and as frankly affectionate with me as a child who confides in a sympathetic face. There was, so to speak, a shining purity about her, an adorable expansion of heart without the least thought of coquetry; and no trace whatever of the always rather reserved manners that a young girl of quality was in the habit of observing when conversing with a bourgeois. It seemed as if I were a relative, a friend of her childhood with whom she was renewing her acquaintance after a separation of several years. Her limpid gaze was not at all like the concentrated fire of Madame d’Ionis. It was a serene light like that of the stars. Impressionable and nervous as I had become in consequence of so many exciting vigils, I felt rejuvenated, rested, and deliciously refreshed under this benign influence. She conversed without art, and without pretention, but with a natural distinction and clearness of judgment which evinced a moral education far above what was then regarded as sufficient for women of her rank. She had none of their prejudices, and it was with angelic good faith and even with a certain generous childish enthusiasm that she accepted the conquests of the philosophical mind that was drawing us, without our knowledge, towards a new era.
But above all she possessed an irresistible charm of sweetness, and I at once succumbed to its influence without a struggle. Without remembering that in the secrecy of my soul, I had pronounced a sort of monastic vow which consecrated me to the worship of an impalpable ideal.
She spoke openly of the joys and sorrows of her family, of the part that I had played in the events of these latter days, and of the gratitude that she considered she owed me for the way in which I had spoken to Bernard of her father’s honor.
“Since you know all these things then, you ought to appreciate all it has cost me to take sides against you.”