“Captain Barthelma!” cried Laura, in an astonishment which even surpassed that of her abigail.
“Yes—my angel: It is I!” exclaimed the enthusiastic young Italian, as, bounding towards Laura, he caught her in his arms.
His lips were instantaneously fastened to her ripe mouth; and, remembering the night of love and pleasure which she had passed with him, she experienced no vexation at his sudden and most unexpected appearance.
“Can you pardon me for this intrusion?” he demanded, at length loosening her from his embrace, but seating himself closely by her side on the ottoman and taking her hands in his own; “can you pardon me, I ask, adorable woman?” he repeated, gazing upon her in boundless and passionate admiration.
“It seems that it were useless to be offended with you,” she replied, smiling with voluptuous sweetness.
“Oh! then you will not upbraid me—you will not reproach me with having broken the solemn promise that I made you to depart and seek to see you no more in Paris?” he exclaimed. “But even if you were inclined to be angry, Laura, it could not in justice be upon me that your wrath would fall. You must blame your own matchless beauty—you must take all the fault unto yourself. I feel that I cannot live without you. Ever since we parted, my brain has been in a ceaseless ferment—my soul a prey to incessant excitement. By day and by night has your lovely image been before me: by day and by night have I fancied that I heard your voice pouring forth the most eloquent music:—I have dreamt that your lips, breathing odours and bathed with sweets, were pressed to mine:—and your looks, beaming love, and happiness, and joy, have ever been fixed on mine! Oh! my imagination has maintained me in a condition of such pleasing pain that I have been in a species of restless elysium,—a giddy and sometimes agonising whirl, although the scene was paradise! At length I could endure this state no longer: and when at a considerable distance from Paris, on the road to Italy, I suddenly and secretly quitted the service of the Grand Duke——”
“Oh! what madness—what insanity!” exclaimed Laura, grieved that the handsome young Castelcicalan should have made so deep a sacrifice for her—inasmuch as his generous devotion had not only flattered her pride, but also touched her soul.
“It may be madness—it may be insanity,” repeated Lorenzo Barthelma, with impassioned warmth: “but those words must in that case be taken only as other terms for the deepest—sincerest—and most ardent devotion. Were I a beggar on the face of the earth, I should have acted in the same manner; because I should have come to you—I should have thrown myself at your feet—I should have implored you to render me happy,—and in return I should have toiled from morning to night to make up for the deficiency of my means.”
“Generous Lorenzo!” exclaimed Laura, speaking with more sincerity than had characterised her words for years.
“Ah! then you are somewhat touched by my devotion, angelic woman!” cried the handsome young officer, drawing her still more closely towards him, and passing his arm round her slender waist. “But happily I am no pauper—fortunately I am not dependent upon my own exertions. When I was with you before, my adorable Laura, I told you that I possessed a competency; and I then offered to link my destinies with yours for ever. Now my circumstances have materially altered—and I rejoice in the fact! For the French papers of this day contain intelligence of the death of my cousin, the Count of Carignano, at Montoni; and by that unexpected event I have succeeded alike to his title and his princely revenues.”