All the unreasonableness, the madness almost, of her former thoughts, all that had seemed impossible, was in an instant transformed into a sudden, unforeseen, and dangerous reality! What had she just heard? What did he say? What! The thought of her had followed him for a year; he had endeavored to banish it, but had not succeeded; and now he had returned decided to make every effort to find her again—to behold her once more whose image had been constantly present in his mind!
Yes, he said all this!—And what she heard was the counterpart of what she herself had felt and struggled against.—Poor Fleurange! was it joy her pale and troubled face expressed? Was it a transport of pride, or of tenderness, that caused her heart to beat so painfully? Was it happiness that made her shed such a torrent of tears?
Oh! no, the words so sweet to hear when it is lawful to listen; the happiness of being loved when one loves—one of the greatest in the world; the words so readily understood because they express what one has so deeply felt; all that sometimes suddenly illumines a life like the light of the sun, had just fallen on hers with the brightness, instantaneousness, and danger of a thunderbolt!
XIX.
Count George de Walden possessed every exterior quality that could please or fascinate, and, though it would not have been wise to regard his chivalric air and the nobleness of his features and manners as the sure indices of a soul exempt from egoism, it was impossible not to be struck by his appearance, and difficult to forget him after he was once seen. The lively impression he made on Fleurange’s memory was not therefore so strange as might appear, and there were more excuses for it than she found herself. What was much more surprising was that, notwithstanding the charm with which she was endowed, the impression was reciprocal, and, at the end of a year, was not effaced.
We must not, of course, compare the simple, confused, and involuntary feelings of a young girl with those of such a man as Count George. Under the semblance of Cordelia, Fleurange had been constantly before his eyes as well as in his imagination. He passionately desired to behold her again. He resolved to find her without examining his intentions as to the project, and this tenacious preoccupation influenced more than he would have acknowledged the decision he recently made in spite of his almost pledged word.
Nevertheless, without being very scrupulous, the Count de Walden would have thought twice before allowing himself to make such a declaration to his mother’s companion as that with which he greeted her. But he by no means expected to find in the Gabrielle sometimes mentioned in his mother’s letters her whose singular name had remained imprinted on his memory, as well as her wonderful beauty, and the first moment of surprise deprived him of the faculty of reflection. Then, seeing the young girl’s sweet face blush and turn pale, seeing her charming eyes full of alarm, he uttered in spite of himself the words he would perhaps have been better able to suppress if she herself had been more successful at concealment.
But, as we have said, all this was quicker than thought. Five minutes had not elapsed from the moment of his sudden appearance before the princess, breathless with joy and haste, fell pale with emotion into her son’s arms. George led her to her chaise longue, and knelt beside her, and, while she was asking him—embracing him at every word—sometimes why he had returned so soon, and sometimes why he had kept them waiting for him so long, by degrees he entirely regained his self-control. When, after a long hour’s conversation, he found himself once more alone, he asked himself if the vision he beheld at his arrival was a reality or a dream of his imagination, and then, if he were pleased or not, that it had appeared to him beneath his mother’s roof.
During this time Fleurange also regained her self-possession, though slowly, and her first sensation was a kind of terror. “O dear friends! why did I leave you?” she cried, with a feeling analogous to that of one in the midst of a tempest, longing for the security of land. She felt the need of protection even more than at Paris with want staring her in the face, and more than ever did her isolation and weakness make her afraid. She wiped away her tears, folded her hands, and endeavored to reflect calmly, but it was beyond her power to be calmed yet. Her surprise and agitation had been, this time, too violent. In spite of all her efforts, the accents still ringing in her ears filled her with an acute, almost painful joy, which pierced her heart like a sword.
“No, no, I must not dwell on it,” she said, clasping her forehead with her hands as if to stay the current of her thoughts.