"Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
How does thy rancor poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness."
A few hours of repose restored Luciè's exhausted strength; though the appalling danger from which she had been so providentially rescued, left a far more enduring impression on her mind. The evening of that day was serene and cloudless, and the breeze which floated from the river had nothing of the chilliness so usual at that season. Luciè sat at an open window, her eyes fixed on the curling waves, which glanced brightly beneath the moon, whose silver beams were blended with the lingering rays of twilight. An expression of deep and quiet thought marked her countenance, though the mental suffering she had so recently endured might still be traced in her pale cheek, which was half shaded by the ringlets of jetty hair, that fell profusely around it. Her forehead was reclined on one hand, the other rested on the head of Hero, who sat erect beside her, as if conscious that his late intrepid conduct entitled him to peculiar privileges.
Madame de la Tour was seated at a little distance, removed from the current of evening air which her delicate health would not permit her to inhale, and evidently suffering that extreme lassitude, which usually follows any strong excitement. Both remained silent: each apparently engrossed by thoughts which she cared not to communicate to the other. The silence was at length abruptly broken, by an exclamation from Luciè, of "Father Gilbert!" uttered in an accent so quick and startling, that Mad. de la Tour sprang involuntarily from her musing posture, and even the dog leaped on his feet, and looked inquiringly in her face.
"Poor Hero! I did not mean to disturb you," said Luciè, patting her dumb favorite, and rather embarrassed, that she had unwarily produced so much excitement.
"Father Gilbert!" repeated Mad. de la Tour; "and is he coming hither again?"
"No, I saw him but an instant," said Luciè; "and he has now disappeared behind the wall."
She hesitated, and still kept her eyes fixed on her aunt's face, as if wishing to ask some question, which she yet feared might not be well received.
"What would you say, Luciè?" asked Mad. de la Tour, with a faint smile; "I perceive there is something on your mind, which you would fain unburthen; and why should you hesitate to speak it to me?"
"Perhaps it is an idle curiosity, dear aunt," she replied; "but you asked if father Gilbert was coming hither again, as though he had already been here; and, I confess, I am anxious to learn if I understood you correctly?"
"You did, Luciè; and you will be more surprised when I assure you, that I held a long conference with him this morning: one too, in which you are particularly concerned."