“Yes—he has two friends with him,” she said to herself: “they are all three in plain clothes—or rather, in mourning—doubtless for the father-in-law of their illustrious master.”
Scarcely had these thoughts flashed through Laura’s brain, when Charles and his two companions stopped—turned round—and gazed up and down the avenue for a few moments: then they interchanged some observations, and pursued their way.
Charles had not noticed Laura;—but she had caught more than a partial glimpse of his face. During the quarter of a minute that her eyes were fixed upon him, she had as it were devoured him with that earnest gaze. It was not love,—no—-and it was not hate; but it was a species of ravenous longing to decypher his thoughts through the medium of his countenance. And she saw that he was pale and pensive—but also strikingly handsome: indeed, at that moment Laura fancied his manly beauty had never before seemed so perfect in her eyes—and it was with difficulty that she repressed the sigh which rose almost to her lips.
A few minutes elapsed—and still the procession of carriages moved on in the broad straight road; and the tide of loungers on foot rolled along the pathway. The distance between Laura and the object of her thoughts was gradually diminishing; and almost immediately her carriage would overtake him and his companions. Again they turned—these three gentlemen—and looked up and down; and this time Laura rapidly scanned Hatfield’s two friends. They were also young men of fine figure and attractive looks: natives of Castelcicala, they had the dark Italian complexion and the fine Italian eyes;—and as they wore moustaches, their appearance was more military than that of Charles. But they were not so handsome as he;—at least Laura thought so—and she was doubtless right.
The critical moment was now at hand: the carriage overtook Hatfield and his Italian companions—and it was just passing them, when Laura perceived that she was suddenly recognised by her husband. He started—stopped short—and kept his eyes fixed upon her, as if doubting their evidence; while his two friends, excited by his strange manner, looked also in the same direction and at the same object; and their gaze was likewise rivetted immediately upon the beauteous woman whose transcendent charms they naturally supposed to have produced such an effect on their companion. With a glance keen and rapid as lightning, Laura perceived that she was the idol of attention on the part of her husband and his two Italian friends, though the latter dreamt not that she was even known by name to Charles Hatfield: and while the eyes of all three were thus intently fixed upon her, her parasol suddenly escaped from her hand and fell within a few paces of the young men,—unobserved by the footman standing behind the carriage.
Of the two Castelcicalan officers, one was taller and more classically handsome than the other: and it was he that now darted forward to snatch up the parasol and restore it to its charming owner. So admirably had Laura managed the dropping of the parasol, that it had all the appearance of an accident to every one who observed the circumstance—save Charles Hatfield: and, quickly as the powder explodes after the match has been applied to it, did the conviction flash to his brain that the occurrence was intentional on the part of Laura. Al the same instant it struck him that never—never before had she appeared so marvellously beautiful—never so transcendently lovely as she now was,—with the flush of a gentle excitement upon her cheeks—her hair dressed in a style that he most admired—her pearly teeth partly revealed between the roses of her lips—her toilette so elegant and chaste, and setting off her splendid form to its greatest advantage—and her attitude so classically graceful, as she leant forward to receive the parasol that the handsome Castelcicalan now restored to her, after having carefully brushed off the dust with his white cambric handkerchief.
A thousand—thousand conflicting thoughts passed through the brain of Charles Hatfield during the few seconds that had elapsed from the escape of the parasol from her hand until its restoration by the Italian:—he saw his wife more beautiful than ever he had conceived her to be even when he was accustomed to worship her image—he remembered the witchery of her ways and the melting music of her voice—the joys he had experienced in her arms on the marriage night rushed to his mind—and as his eyes dwelt perforce upon the rich contours of her bust, he recollected that his head had been pillowed and his hand had wandered voluptuously there!
At the moment that Laura dropped her parasol, the carriage stopped, and she affected to perceive Charles Hatfield for the first time; and for a single instant she appeared struck by surprise and uncertain how to act:—then, immediately afterwards, she averted her eyes from him, and bent them on the handsome Castelcicalan who had sprung forward to recover the parasol. She purposely composed her countenance and modelled her behaviour, so that her husband should be left in a state of utter uncertainty and bewilderment as to what was passing in her mind, at least in regard to himself:—but when the Italian approached the carriage, took off his hat, and with a low bow, presented the parasol which he had so gallantly dusted with his cambric handkerchief, Laura bestowed so sweet a smile and so tender a look on the handsome foreigner, that the direst rage which jealousy can know was excited in a moment in the breast of Charles Hatfield.
A rapid glance—unseen even by her husband himself—made Laura aware of the effect produced upon him by her deportment towards the Castelcicalan; and the joy of a proud triumph filled her heart.
“I thank you, sir,” she said in French to the Italian gentleman;—for she had already learnt more than enough of the language to be enabled to give utterance to that common phrase;—and, as she spoke, she again smiled sweetly, though not in a manner which might be construed into indelicate encouragement.