“I cannot make such a promise, Olivia,” said I, holding her uplifted arm forcibly. “I will not.”
The words “hated rival,” which showed me that Olivia was actuated more by the spirit of hatred than love, made me reply in as decided a tone as even you could have spoken, my dear general. But I was shocked, and reproached myself with cruelty, when I saw the blood flow from her side: she was terrified. I took the knife from her powerless hand, and she fainted in my arms. I had sufficient presence of mind to reflect that what had happened should be kept as secret as possible; therefore, without summoning Josephine, whose attachment to her mistress I have reason to suspect, I threw open the windows, gave Olivia air and water, and her senses returned: then I despatched my Swiss for a surgeon. I need not speak of my own feelings—no suspense could be more dreadful than that which I endured between the sending for the surgeon and the moment when he gave his opinion. He relieved me at once, by pronouncing it to be a slight flesh wound, that would be of no manner of consequence. Olivia, however, whether from alarm or pain, or from the sight of the blood, fainted three times during the dressing of her side; and though the surgeon assured her that it would be perfectly well in a few days, she was evidently apprehensive that we concealed from her the real danger. At the idea of the approach of death, which now took possession of her imagination, all courage forsook her, and for some time my efforts to support her spirits were ineffectual. She could not dispense with the services of Josephine; and from the moment this French woman entered the room, there was nothing to be heard but exclamations the most violent and noisy. As to assistance, she could give none. At last her exaggerated demonstrations of horror and grief ended with,—“Dieu merci! an moins nous voilà delivrés de ce voyage affreux. Apparemment qu’il ne sera plus question de ce vilain Petersburg pour madame.”
A new train of thoughts was roused by these words in Olivia’s mind; and looking at me, she eagerly inquired why the journey to Petersburg was to be given up, if she was in no danger? I assured her that Josephine spoke at random, that my intentions with regard to the embassy to Russia were unaltered.
“Seulement retardé un peu,” said Josephine, who was intent only upon her own selfish object.—“Sûrement, madame ne voyagera pas dans cet état!”
Olivia started up, and looking at me with terrific wildness in her eyes, “Swear to me,” said she, “swear that you will not deceive me, or I will this instant tear open this wound, and never more suffer it to be closed.”
“Deceive you, Olivia!” cried I, “what deceit can you fear from me?—What is it you require of me?”
“I require from you a promise, a solemn promise, that you will go with me to Russia!”
“I solemnly promise that I will,” said I: “now be tranquil, Olivia, I beseech you.”
The surgeon represented the necessity of keeping herself quiet, and declared that he would not answer for the cure of his patient on any other terms. Satisfied by the solemnity of my promise, Olivia now suffered me to depart. This morning she sends me word that in a few days she shall be ready to leave England. Can you meet me, my dear friend, at L—— Castle? I go down there to-day, to bid adieu to Leonora. From thence I shall proceed to Yarmouth, and embark immediately. Olivia will follow me.
Your obliged