This question led to a reply which momentarily deprived Fleurange of the power of thinking of anything else.
“Steinberg,” the professor said, “look at my niece, and tell me if you can see the resemblance spoken of.”
The young artist turned toward Fleurange, and looked at her with an attention that, till now, had been exclusively absorbed by his fair neighbor. All at once he exclaimed: “Yes, certainly; I remember, and I see Count George was right. That is truly Cordelia herself before us!”
Every eye was turned toward Fleurange, and it was her turn to blush. But why did she thus tremble from head to foot? What were the mingled remembrances, sweet and poignant, that were suddenly recalled by the name of Cordelia? Of course it was natural that she should be affected by hearing her father’s last work mentioned—that picture connected with so many painful associations. On the other hand, it was that same picture which enabled her uncle to find her, and now, appreciating more than ever the extent of this happiness, it was perhaps natural that the name of her unknown benefactor, suddenly pronounced in her presence, should inspire this lively and inexpressible emotion—but was this all?
However that might be, she remained the rest of the evening troubled and absorbed in the same thought. She had not, then, been deceived. It was really the stranger she had seen in the studio who now owned the picture, for he not only knew she served her father as a model, but said the likeness was perfect. And his name was Count George! Count? Then he was a man of high rank? What was his other name? Where did he reside? And was he still in this city?
Fleurange wished to give utterance to these questions, but an invincible
embarrassment restrained her, and the evening passed without being able to bring the conversation back to this subject. This curiosity aroused, but only imperfectly satisfied, left a kind of uneasiness which she reproached herself for as a fault and a want of gratitude, when, before falling asleep that night, she recalled all that had signalized the day when for the first time she celebrated in the midst of her own relatives the great and memorable festival of Christmas.
VI.
Four months had passed away, and spring had returned. It was now the eve of Clara’s marriage and Hansfelt’s departure, and these two events diversely preoccupied all who lived in the Old Mansion. Fleurange was leaning over her balcony, allowing her thoughts to wander at will, but this reverie was by no means melancholy. She felt very happy in spite of the ideas which vaguely crossed her mind at times, like phantoms she could not grasp. The vernal air caressed her cheeks, and the sun gaily lighted up the old furniture in her chamber. She looked complacently around, and gave herself Up to a sweet and overpowering sensation of comfort. All at once, without any apparent cause, without any particular reason for this new impression, a piercing and bitter thought replaced all these delicious reveries: “If I had to leave this place for ever, as I have left all the others!” she said to herself with sudden anguish, and for some moments she could not repress the fearful thought. She covered her eyes with her hand, and endeavored to shake off the kind of nightmare which had seized her. She was still in this attitude when she heard a voice under her balcony, the sound of which was more disagreeable to her than any other.
“If I were a poet,” said the voice, “or if I only knew some of their effusions, it would be a suitable time to quote Shakespeare: