"Wallenstein, the Duke of Friedland, was one—the Count Merodé another."
"Merodé—ah, frightful!" said Gabrielle with a shudder. "What could he know of love?"
"It was once said that he loved you, and that your rejection drove him to those excesses which have made him and his regiment a European proverb."
"He—the wretched libertine—who is said to have three wives shut up at his castle in the Black Forest of Thuringia! He—a horror to his own kinsman as to his enemies! How could you speak of him, Ernestine? oh, how unlike him whose image, as if by fascination, fills up my whole mind. Sister, I admire, not alone his handsome figure or fine military eye; but his bold and manly spirit, his free and gallant bearing. When we return to Vienna, I will go to a convent, sister; I think I have the vocation of which you once used to speak. It has left you, and come to me. My heart swells with pride when I see him, Ernestine. How his tall eagle's-plume overtops all others here! (I am sure I have got the vocation, sister.) He jests and laughs so kindly, and I jest in return, to hide the deadly secret that preys upon my spirit; for until she is beloved a woman cannot love. Oh, Ernestine—Ernestine! do not think me mad or immodest; but kiss me, dear sister, for I assure you I am neither; I am still your dear little sister—the same Gabrielle. How happy you must be to have some one who loves you! There are times when jestingly he kisses my hand because we are cousins; and, as his kinswoman, in his brave heart he loves me like a little sister. But, oh! he knows not the swell of passion excited by his voice, by his approach, by his touch, and how the kiss he prints in play upon my hand sinks into my inmost heart, and makes it tremulous with joy. But he passes away to others, and then the darkness, the gloom, and desolation again sink over me."
"It is an infatuation!"
"Kiss me, Ernestine—for you have been a mother to me since my poor mother died. Kiss me, dear sister, for I am indeed very miserable!"
It seemed as if the lofty spirit of Ernestine was stung by the strange avowal of poor Gabrielle, and she wept with her; but her tears were those of pride and mortification.
Lovers never dream that others can discern their passion; and thin though the disguise may be that usually veils it, so admirably had Gabrielle concealed her secret thoughts, that none could have suspected them, and honest Ian least of all.
Time rolled on, and the month of March was passing away.
Daily I could perceive how the secret I had heard was preying upon the mind of Gabrielle, and blanching her thin, wan cheek. She lived without hope—without a future to look forward to; and when Ian spoke with joy of his return home at the close of the war (now soon expected by a treaty of which a whisper reached us), I saw that his thoughtless words sunk like iron into the poor girl's soul.