The house M. Ludwig Dornthal inhabited is probably no longer standing. Modern improvements have swept away, one by one, those old houses in all our cities to which time had given an aspect too much at variance with the tastes and requirements of a new generation. Even at the period in which our story opens—that is, in 1824—the house of which we are speaking already began to be pointed out as the Old Mansion—the name, par excellence, by which it was known in the city. But, as it was spacious and commodious, its situation quiet and retired, and it had a large garden which all the windows on one side overlooked, it was admirably adapted to the professor’s studious habits. The picturesque color it had acquired with age was also quite to his taste, and, above all, as it was here Ludwig Dornthal passed the first years of his married life, and where his children were born, nothing in the world would have induced him to leave it, and on this point they were all agreed. The Old Mansion was dear to those who inhabited it, as well as to all who frequented it, and every one, like Fleurange, uttered more or less fervently these words, which are always vainly repeated in this world when our faculties are all for an instant in a state of happy equilibrium: “It is good for us to be here: let us set up our tabernacle, and here remain.” This impression, it may be supposed, was not wholly owing to the exterior aspect of the Old Mansion. There was a harmony between it and its occupants; and, with various results, this effect is produced almost everywhere. Inanimate objects seem to imbibe and communicate something of the life that passes around them, and this language, though silent, is, to those who heed it, a source of genuine revelation.
When Fleurange entered the drawing-room, she perceived her Uncle Ludwig was rather impatiently awaiting her, for the moment she appeared he advanced, and, taking her by the hand, led her to the other end of the apartment, where stood a gentleman whose features bore some resemblance to his own; but with so different an expression, that the likeness, which at first was apparent, grew less and less as the two brothers were better known.
“This is our sister Margaret’s daughter,” said Ludwig to the banker. “She is doubly your niece now, for I have adopted her as my child.”
M. Heinrich Dornthal bowed and cordially embraced the young girl, but he could not resist saying: “Another daughter, when you have three already, is a great addition.”
This cool and unpleasant remark disconcerted Fleurange, and she had not recovered from her painful sensation of embarrassment when a young man of rather a fine figure approached and offered her his arm. Fleurange looked at him with an air of astonishment. She had never been to a large dinner-party, and knew nothing of the usages common to all countries on such an occasion. She slightly retreated, and, opening her large eyes, said: “Who are you, monsieur, and where do you wish to conduct me?”
This question and movement caused a general smile around her, in which she saw her Uncle Ludwig join, and with that simplicity which was her greatest charm she began to laugh herself, and so innocently, that he who had involuntarily caused this little scene exclaimed half aloud: “This is truly the most charming piece of rusticity I ever met with;” and then, bowing to her with mock gravity, and an air at once gallant and bantering, he said:
“Mademoiselle, my name is Felix Dornthal: I have the honor of being your cousin, and I offer you my arm to conduct you to the dining-room; but I acknowledge there would have been more propriety in first making us acquainted with each other.”
Fleurange, blushing and smiling, accepted the arm offered her, and, once seated at table beside this new cousin, and freed from the embarrassment of this little incident, she looked around and began to enjoy her novel position.
Was it really her own self, who recently felt so isolated? She who had stood face to face with want and abandonment? Could she be the same person now, surrounded by numerous relatives, a member of a large family, feeling herself beloved by all, and loving all in return—yes, all, excepting the cousin seated beside her, who caused her involuntary confusion; and yet he had just said some words to her in Italian, pronounced with so pure an accent that she experienced a lively sensation of surprise and joy, for Italy was her native land—her own country almost, left only a few months previous for the first time. But her cousin’s words embodied a compliment to which she did not know how to reply, and when she raised her eyes toward him she met a look that disconcerted her still more. She therefore only uttered a few words in return, and then silently resumed her examination of the company, beginning with her Uncle Ludwig. As to him, she thought she had never seen a nobler and sweeter face. It was impossible not to be struck by the contrast in this respect between him and his wife, which must have been even more striking in their youth than now. While she was dwelling on this thought, she met her aunt’s eye resting on her for a moment, and
saw her smile. That look and smile seemed to answer her, and give a clue to the mystery, for they revealed the traits that constitute the indestructible bond of genuine sympathy. Beauty adds nothing to such characteristics, or at least only a charm the heart disregards, and which even the eye soon ceases to dwell on, for they who are capable of loving a soul soon love the form, whatever it may be, in which it is clothed.