No, do not smile, Don Aleo, they were not pretended tears. I gave him my hand to console him; I felt that it was wet with tears, and, moved by a thrill of sympathy, I too began to sob.
My poor mother could not stand it. She ran, weeping, to seek my father in his shop.—"It is hateful tyranny," she said, bringing him to where we were. "See those two unhappy children! how can you refuse to make them happy, when you see what they suffer? Do you want to kill your daughter out of respect for an absurd formality? Won't those papers arrive just as surely and be just as satisfactory after they have been married a week? What are you afraid of? Do you take our dear Leoni for an impostor? Can't you see that your insisting on having evidence of his fortune is insulting to him and cruel to Juliette?"
My father, bewildered by these reproaches, and above all else by my tears, swore that he had never dreamed of being so exacting, and that he would do whatever I wished. He kissed me a thousand times and talked to me as people talk to a child of six when they yield to his whims, to be rid of his shrieks. My aunt appeared on the scene and talked less tenderly. She even reproved me in a way that hurt me.—"A virtuous, well-bred young woman," she said, "ought not to show so much impatience to belong to a man."—"It's easy to see," said my mother, altogether out of patience, "that you never had the chance to belong to one."—My father could not endure any lack of consideration for his sister. He leaned toward her view, and remarked that our despair was mere childishness, that a week would soon pass. I was mortally wounded by the suspicion that I was impatient, and I tried to restrain my tears; but Leoni's exerted a magical influence over me, and I could not do it. Thereupon he rose, with moist eyes and glowing cheeks, and with a smile overflowing with hope and affection, went to my aunt, took her hands in one of his, my father's in the other, and fell on his knees, beseeching them not to stand in the way of his happiness any longer. His manner, his tone, his expression had an irresistible power; moreover, it was the first time that my aunt had ever seen a man at her feet. Every trace of resistance was overcome. The banns were published, all the preliminary formalities were gone through; our marriage was appointed for the following week, regardless of the arrival of the papers.
The following day was Mardi Gras. Monsieur Delpech was to give a magnificent party, and Leoni had asked us to dress in Turkish costumes; he made a charming sketch in water-color, which our dress-makers copied almost perfectly. Velvet, embroidered satin and cashmere were not spared. But the quantity and beauty of our jewels were what assured us an indisputable triumph over all the other costumes at the ball. Almost all the contents of my father's shop were made use of; we had nets and aigrettes of diamonds, bouquets beautifully mounted in stones of all colors. My waist, and even my shoes, were embroidered with rare pearls; a rope of pearls, of extraordinary beauty, served me as a girdle and fell to my knees. We had great pipes and daggers studded with sapphires and diamonds. My whole costume was worth at least a million.
Leoni accompanied us, dressed in a superb Turkish costume. He was so handsome and so majestic in that garb that people stood on benches to see him pass. My heart beat violently, I was filled to bursting with a pride that was almost delirium. My own costume was, as you can imagine, the last thing in my mind. Leoni's beauty, his success, his superiority to all the others, the sort of worship that was paid him—and it was all mine, all at my feet! that was enough to intoxicate an older brain than mine. It was the last day of my splendor! By what a world of misery and degradation have I paid for those empty triumphs!
My aunt, dressed as a Jewess, accompanied us, carrying fans and boxes of perfume. Leoni, who was determined to win her friendship, had designed her costume so artistically that he had almost given a touch of poetry to her serious, wrinkled face. She, too, was intoxicated, poor Agathe! Alas! what does a woman's common-sense amount to?
We had been there two or three hours. My mother was dancing and my aunt gossiping with the superannuated females who compose what is called in France the tapestry of a ball-room. Leoni was seated by my side and talking to me in an undertone with a passion of which every word kindled a spark in my blood. Suddenly his voice died on his lips; he became pale as death, as if he had seen a ghost. I followed the direction of his terrified glance and saw, a few steps away, a person the sight of whom was distasteful to myself: it was a young man named Henryet, who had made me an offer of marriage the year before. Although he was rich and of an honorable family, my mother had not deemed him worthy of me, and had dismissed him on the pretext of my extreme youth. But, at the beginning of the following year, he had renewed his offer with much persistence, and it had been currently reported in the city that he was madly in love with me. I had not deigned to take any notice of him, and my mother, who considered him too simple and too ordinary, had put an end to his assiduities rather abruptly. He had manifested more grief than anger, and had started immediately for Paris. Since then my aunt and my young friends had reproached me somewhat for my indifference with respect to him. He was, they said, a most excellent young man, thoroughly educated, and of a noble character. These reproaches had disgusted me. His unexpected appearance in the midst of the happiness I was enjoying with Leoni was most unpleasant to me, and had the effect upon me of a new reproof. I turned my face away and pretended not to have seen him, but the strange glance he bestowed upon me did not escape me. Leoni hastily grasped my arm, and asked me to come and take an ice in the next room; he added that the heat was distressing to him and made him nervous. I believed him, and thought that Henryet's glance expressed nothing more than jealousy. We went into the gallery. There were few people there, and I walked back and forth for some time, leaning on Leoni's arm. He was agitated and preoccupied. I manifested some uneasiness thereat, and he answered that it was not worth talking about; that he simply did not feel perfectly well.
He was beginning to recover himself when I saw that Henryet had followed us. I could not help showing my annoyance.
"Upon my word that man follows us like remorse," I whispered to Leoni. "Is it really a man? I can almost believe that it is a soul in distress returned from the other world."
"What man?" said Leoni, with a start. "What's his name? where is he? what does he want of us? do you know him?"