She returned to her chair, and threw herself in it sidewise, as a child might do, with her cheek resting against the back, one knee drawn up, her hands folded, her eyelids closed. As she lay thus she looked like a type of lovely and innocent weariness. “Why was I born?” she repeated in a whisper. Her thoughts strayed back along the vista of her seven and twenty years: from the distance she saw the figure of a little girl, with bright hair and laughing eyes, come tripping onwards, inquisitive, observant, quick-witted, stout-hearted; fond of her own way, and ready to take her own part; but good-humored always and tolerant of others. Onward comes the child, growing taller as it advances, beginning now to realize its loneliness in the world, sometimes meditating gravely thereon, but never losing courage; beginning also to realize its own superior gifts, and exercising them experimentally, for the pleasure of the use, and not always with too much heed for the effect on others. Still forward she comes, with a step somewhat less frolicsome, with eyes that look more penetratingly ... a mind that harbors ambitious thoughts; a face that can conceal as well as express; a confidence in herself and in her fortune: worldly wisdom already, at seventeen years. That great, broad book of the world—of human life and character—with its profundity, its insanity, its pathos, its absurdity, its veins of good, its masses of evil,—the girl Perdita has studied it all, and no mother no loving friend, has been beside her, to direct her studies, to interpret her discoveries, to correct her errors.... Who is this antique figure who now walks beside her, to whose formal and laborious gait she endeavors to accommodate her own: this gray-haired man of more than thrice her age, with his habits, his prejudices, his limitations, his ailments? Is this her husband?—the lord and master of that brilliant, buoyant creature? Ah, Perdita, are you his wife? Do you love him, honor him, obey him? Are he and his possessions the final embodiment and satisfaction of your ambitious dreams? Can you do without love—you, who have never tried what love is? It is ill being prudent before experience, and wise before instruction. Why are your lips so persuasive, your eyes so winning, your touch so caressing?—Why are you so lovely, Perdita?... Why were you born?
But still the young wife passes onward, with little misgiving and less regret. There is a great deal of splendor and luxury around her, and she easily makes herself their nucleus and culmination. Famous men pay court to her; wise men listen to her conversation; women criticise and try to imitate her. In the brilliant society of her day and place she is a figure and a topic. Musicians dedicate their compositions to her; poets immortalize her in their rhymes of a season. She is the heroine of a hundred anecdotes, but of not a single romance: very intrepid and adventurous, but with the coldness as well as the sparkle of ice. “Can’t make her out,” said Lord Fitz Hardinge, who was said to have come to Paris especially to be presented to her. “Don’t see how she keeps it up—a woman of her complexion, too. Egad! I have it! The Marquis must be Cupid in disguise!” This mot was repeated until it reached Perdita’s ears. “A woman’s complexion changes with her company,” she said; “and as to the Marquis, my husband, it is better to be a disguised Cupid than a make-believe one.” As his Lordship’s excesses had somewhat worn upon his constitution, this shaft struck deep and resisted all efforts to extract it. People seldom attacked the Marquise Desmoines more than once.
Meanwhile, Perdita is still sitting in the same position in her chair, one knee drawn up, her hands clasped and her eyelids closed. What vision does she behold now? A handsome room, with polished floor, the walls bright with pictured panels bordered with gold; candles set in burnished sconces: the door opens and her husband enters, leaning on the arm of a tall young man. The stranger is plainly dressed, but his form and bearing are noble: and his face, relieved by the black hair around it, prints itself on her mind, never to be forgotten—so intense and vivid does it seem with life and meaning, yet so composed and clear. A new feeling, strange and sweet, creeps in gentle undulations along Perdita’s nerves, and settles in her heart. He sits beside her, and they converse, easily and with mutual pleasure and comprehension; his voice, grave and genial, makes music in her ears; his dark direct glance meets hers—absorbs and mingles with it. She draws fuller breath; this atmosphere, in which she has never lived before, gives her for the first time real life: she understands what she is, and what is possible for her. The Enchanted Prince has awakened the Sleeping Beauty.
The days that follow are like no other days, before or since. He is a poet, but what poetry ever equaled their companionship? The world, with its follies, its emptiness, its formulas, its delusions, seems to stand aside to let them pass.... One day they have ridden out with a cavalcade, bound on an expedition of pleasure to some distant chateau. Riding onward, she and he, and drawn insensibly together, they pass fleetly along woodland paths, through dancing shade and sunlight, leaving the others behind, or in advance, perhaps; they have little thought but of each other. Light is Perdita’s heart; no shadow has darkened it since that first meeting. The passing moments have filled the capacity of sensation, leaving no room for reflection or forecast; she has never even said to herself, “This is friendship,” or “This is love;” enough that it is delight, growth, harmony, beauty: that it lets her know how sweet it is to be a woman. At last, as they ride on, the pinnacles of the chateau taper upward above the trees; anon, before them opens a sweep of lawn, which they cross, and alight at the broad steps that lead up to the door. They are the first to arrive; for half an hour, perhaps, they will have the house to themselves, save for the servants who are preparing the collation below-stairs.
They stroll through the airy rooms, with merry and gentle talk, until at length they enter a hall where, over the chimney-piece, is suspended a pair of antique rapiers. Perdita takes down one of these, and putting herself in posture of offense, bids her companion take the other and defend himself. He complies, and, for a few moments, laughingly parries and pretends to return her thrusts. All at once, as she presses him, his foot slips on the polished floor, and ere he can recover himself he feels his point touch her breast....
At this point of the vision, Perdita slightly changes her position in her chair, and a flush reddens her cheek. She breathes unevenly and her lips move. Ah, that summer noon, so distant now, when she found herself resting in his arms, her riding-habit stained with red blood—his face, his voice, so near, so tender: his touch so gentle! She had looked into his eyes, and laughed softly, in mere joy. Blessed sword! that by drawing her blood had revealed their hearts to each other. But ah! why was the wound not mortal? Was not the wound that it symbolized so? Why had she not died during those few minutes—too few—that had gone by before the sound of voices and horses’ hoofs announced the arrival of the party? Had anything that had happened since been worth the trouble of living through it? True, she had hoped; but hope is but the mask of despair, sooner or later to be cast aside. Before her wound was healed, the love which it had discovered had withdrawn itself, never to return. There had been some talk about honor, obligation, duty, prudence—to which she had assented with her lips, while all the rest of her rebelled; for it had not been sin that she contemplated, but only to let her heart love and be loved. Then, a farewell: and afterward a dreary blankness, amidst which she moved hardened, witty, cynical, unreconciled, until these latter days, which were bitterer and more disastrous than the first. Why was she born?
Enough of visions! Perdita rose to her feet, and gazed about her. Luxury and beauty surrounded her, as they had always done; but the darkness and wilderness that were within her turned all to ugliness and mockery. There was a terrible simplicity in her situation; a fatal lack of resources and alternatives. She walked across the room: something seemed to tread behind her; she turned quickly, but nothing was there. The sense of being dogged—pursued—still remained however. What was it?—fate? She smiled; then shivered nervously, and stood twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. Fate.... The idea fascinated her. Was her fate so near? and what was it like? Let it appear and declare itself! After a while she began to walk again, but now meditating profoundly. Once she stopped before the fire, and gazed fixedly at the burning coals: then moved away once more, not pacing up and down, but wandering irregularly about the room, knotting and untying her handkerchief; sometimes, in her pre-occupation, almost stumbling against a chair or table. Meanwhile, her usually varying expression had assumed a certain fixedness, and there was a vertical wrinkle between her brows, which seemed not to be caused by drawing her brows together, but to have marked itself there by some other means.
At last she stopped, passing her hands across her eyes and over her hair, which she seemed surprised to find hanging about her shoulders. She twisted it up into place again, adjusted her dress, and after pausing a moment as if to recover the thread of her thoughts, went to a cabinet at the side of the room, and looked attentively at the objects which it contained. They were mostly curiosities and works of art, such as a carved ivory cup, a box of Indian enamel, a vase of Venetian glass, figures in Dresden porcelain, a Chinese idol of silver, an antique locket of wrought gold. From among these objects Perdita selected a small, quaintly-fashioned lamp of pure crystal; it was of Persian manufacture, and bore some figures or letters of enigmatic purport, perhaps having reference to the tenets of the ancient fire-worshippers. She examined this lamp curiously, wiping away the dust with her handkerchief, and assuring herself that it contained no crack or imperfection. Finally she placed it upon the table near the fire; and having rung the bell, bade the servant summon Madame Cabot.
“Madame,” said the Marquise, when the old lady appeared, “I am expecting some one to call here this evening,—Monsieur Fillmore.”
“Yes, Madame la Marquise.”