The Princess Catherine was lying on a couch, her head propped up by several cushions, and her feet covered with a cashmere shawl. In spite of her age and ill health, which had changed the outlines of her face and form, beauty and grace had not disappeared without leaving on her person traces much less fleeting than beauty itself. Fleurange, looking at her face by the light of a lamp suspended from the ceiling, could not help admiring her noble brow, and the expressiveness as well as the still remarkable delicacy of her features. Suddenly, as she thus sat contemplating her with more attention than ever before, it seemed as if the face before her awoke some indistinct remembrance—but before she could grasp the idea that suddenly came into her mind, the princess opened her eyes. Seeing Fleurange beside her, she smiled, and extended her beautiful hand.
“You here, Gabrielle?” she said. “So much the better.”
“I was told you wanted me.”
“No; but I am very glad you are here.”
Fleurange bent down, and kissed the hand she held with an impulse more affectionate than she had ever felt towards her before. The princess seemed touched, and pressed her hand in return without speaking. Then she went to sleep again. Fleurange remained with her eyes fastened on her a long time, then she too lay down on a couch at the other end of the cabin, to pass away the few hours that yet remained before their arrival at Leghorn, which would be about daybreak.
At that time, long before the era of railways, the route from Leghorn to Florence, a long and dusty one, was not always traversed in a single day, and our travellers stopped at Pisa for the night. The princess no longer felt any interest in the places she had visited so many times. She had only one wish, and that was—to rest, and, once rested, to resume the journey. But it was quite otherwise with Fleurange. Pisa was her birthplace. In Pisa lay buried the mother she never knew. Here her father brought her during the few happy days they passed together. How many vicissitudes her young life had passed through since that time! How many sorrows and joys she had experienced! How many ties she had formed and broken! And with what interest she already dwelt on the past at an age when others are only thinking of the future! As soon as it was light, long before the princess awoke, Fleurange went to pray beside her mother’s grave. Then she directed her steps towards the Campo Santo, around which she slowly walked. Of all the places she visited with her father, this was the one of which she retained the most vivid recollection. The paintings of the Campo Santo are like a poem which it is impossible to understand if ignorant of the language in which it is written. This language she learned from her father, and had not been allowed to forget it in her uncle’s house. She remembered that her cousin, without ever having visited this spot, was as familiar with all the paintings as herself. “How much poor Clement would enjoy all these beauties of nature and art, and these scenes of historic interest!” she said to herself. “How much he would enjoy Italy!”
She might have added that, like many of his countrymen, he already knew and loved
“The land where the lemon-trees bloom,”
without ever having seen it. Many Germans have loved it with a profound and material passion, fatal when satisfied by violent possession, but reciprocated and fruitful when the forced and hated union was broken and gave place to voluntary and acceptable alliance.
Leaving the Campo Santo, Fleurange went into the church, the wonderful Cathedral of Pisa, which cannot be compared to any other; for, if there are any finer, it is doubted or forgotten as soon as this is entered. Here Fleurange heard Mass, after which she remained a long time on her knees, praying, thinking of all those she loved, and looking around: and all this without losing her spirit of devotion. This may appear strange to those who wish to confine the soul’s impulse towards God within narrow and rigid limits. It is nevertheless certain that, in a simple and upright heart, a good will, a more ardent love of the eternal goodness, the resolutions so properly called a firm purpose of amendment, all these effects of prayer often spring from what does not naturally seem destined to produce them. In those lands where religion and the arts go hand in hand, and where the inspiration which guides the painter and the architect is the same that draws the believer to the foot of the altar, it often happens that a glance at a fresco or painting aids the soul more than a sermon in its upward flight, and in accomplishing the very act for which it is prostrate before God.