Nothing could be more refined and charming than that youthful face; doubtless it was Madame de Boisguilbault, and our hero forgot himself altogether as he gazed with deep interest at the features of that woman, whose life and death must have had so vast an influence on the destiny of the recluse.
But it rarely happens that a portrait gives us a just idea of the original; indeed, in the majority of cases one may say that nothing resembles the person so little as his image.
Emile had thought of the marchioness as a pale, melancholy creature; he saw a fashionable beauty, with a proud, sweet smile, with a noble and triumphant bearing. Was she like that before or after her marriage? Or was hers a nature entirely different from what he had supposed?
One thing of which he was certain was that he had before him a most fascinating face, and, as it was impossible for him to look upon the image of youth and beauty without thinking instantly of Gilberte, he began to compare the two types, in which it seemed to him that he discovered points of resemblance. The light was rapidly failing, and, as Emile dared not take a step toward the mysterious study, the outlines of the portrait soon became very indistinct. The white flesh and golden hair, standing forth from the shadow, produced so powerful an illusion upon him, that he thought that he had a portrait of Gilberte before him, and when he could no longer see aught but a sort of mist filled with dancing sparks, he had to make a strong effort of his will to remember that in his first impression, the only reliable one under such circumstances, there had been no thought of a resemblance between Madame de Boisguilbault's face and Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun's.
He left the chalet, and, meeting no one in the park, went on to the château.
The same silence and solitude reigned in the courtyard. He mounted the stairs in the turret, but did not as usual meet Martin coming to announce him in that ceremonious tone from which he never departed, even with the only habitué of the house.
At last he reached the salon, which was always very dark, the blinds being closed night and day; and, seized with a vague alarm, as if death had entered that house in which there was so little life at the best, he ran through the other rooms and at last found Monsieur de Boisguilbault lying on a bed. He was as pale and motionless as a corpse. The last rays of daylight cast a vague and melancholy reflection into the room, and old Martin, whose deafness prevented him from hearing Emile's approach, had every appearance of a statue as he sat at his master's pillow.
Emile darted to the bed and seized the marquis's hand. It was burning; and as the two old men awoke, one from the troubled sleep of fever, the other from the drowsiness of fatigue or inaction, the young man soon satisfied himself that the marquis's indisposition was in itself of little consequence. However, the ravages which two days of illness had wrought in that feeble, worn out frame were most disquieting for the future.
"Ah! you have done well to come!" said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, pressing Emile's hand feebly; "ennui would soon have consumed me if you had abandoned me!"
And Martin, who had not heard his master's words, but seemed to receive his thoughts on the rebound, repeated in a louder voice than he supposed: