George spoke to Fleurange without affectation, and with no appearance of eagerness. He never showed her any attentions excepting acts of politeness he would have shown any one else. He never sought her society, and, if he looked at her and sometimes spoke of her beauty, as every one else did, it was with more reserve and coldness than others. Hence the princess concluded with double satisfaction that George’s thoughts were otherwise absorbed, and, as this accorded with her wishes, she allowed herself the comfort of not doubting it, and returned to the repose of her indolent life.
As to Fleurange, the effect of Count George’s manner was singular. Naturally frank, honest, and courageous, she had an invincible repugnance for all kinds of dissimulation, and for some days, by the very fact of his manifesting two different aspects, he lost in her eyes a part of his dangerous prestige. Which of these two aspects was genuine? Was he acting a part now, or was he acting on the day of his arrival? This very doubt brought pride to the aid of reason, and helped her regain her customary self-control. By degrees the impression of the first day grew fainter, and she almost succeeded in effacing from her memory the scene Count George himself seemed to have so completely forgotten.
Whether it was so or not, the princess, as we have said, ceased following her with anxious eyes, and the young girl, freed from the restraint she felt at first, ventured by degrees to take some part in the general conversation, even when he was present. She soon abandoned herself to the pleasure of intercourse with a mind which inspired her with fresh interest on every subject—to which nothing seemed indifferent or unknown. In this respect he resembled the Marquis Adelardi, but he was more ardent and less sarcastic, and could not, like him, leave an interesting subject to dwell on the backbitings of a clique or the gossip of a salon. They were very intimate, nevertheless, and, without actual similarity, they were sufficiently in harmony to enjoy being always together and never to clash.
They were, however, equally enthusiastic on one subject—that of politics. Elsewhere this would probably have greatly wearied Fleurange, but here it interested her in spite of herself. Count George expressed his sentiments with a certain elevation of tone, and, without always perfectly understanding all that was discussed, she felt excited by the lofty independence of his opinions, his love of liberty, and his tendency to take, everywhere and always, the part of the weak and the oppressed. These are prominent political features which women at once catch without difficulty, and which win their sympathy in every cause or discussion into which they enter. Therefore Fleurange, while listening with silent interest, sometimes felt carried away by ardent sympathy with the charm of his captivating eloquence, the effect of which was as powerful as it was new.
The marquis was no less interested in contemporary history than his friend, and discussed it quite as willingly, unless it was a question concerning his own country. In that case he became silent, and it was almost impossible to sustain the conversation.
Fleurange seldom took any part in the conversation, which in fact was not often directed to her. From the time of Count George’s arrival she had never found herself alone with him. But one evening the princess’ salon was as usual filled with company. Fleurange, seated at a table, was pouring out the tea. This was one of her customary duties. Each one came to ask for a cup, and but few occupied the seats around the table. Among these was the Marquis Adelardi, who, on this occasion, began discoursing with the young artist Livio and Dom Pomponio on ancient and modern art in Italy. Count George drew near and listened for some time in silence, then joined in the conversation. A chair near Fleurange was vacant. He took it, and for some time the discussion was carried on with animation. Fleurange was listening with her elbow on the table and her eyes cast down. She did not say a word, nor did she lose one that was uttered beside her. The conversation passed from Italy to Germany, and they spoke of the school of art there, now beginning to produce some great paintings. Count George suddenly pronounced the name of Julian Steinberg, saying that this artist’s most remarkable production was to be found in Professor Ludwig Dornthal’s gallery at Frankfort.
Fleurange, of course, was aware he knew her friends, but there had never been any occasion for speaking of them, and these names suddenly mentioned before her gave her a thrill. She hastily looked up, and with difficulty repressed the exclamation already on her lips. This movement did not escape the notice of him who caused it. He allowed the conversation to die away. After some moments the others left the table. He alone remained an instant.
“Mademoiselle Gabrielle,” said he, “tell me if I involuntarily vexed you or wounded your feelings just now.—It was by no means intentional—”
Fleurange eagerly interrupted him: “Oh! no, assuredly not”; and these words were followed by an explanation which the young girl gave as fully as she did frankly. Count George thus learned for the first time her relationship to the Dornthals. The subject once commenced soon led to a new and more important revelation. Since the first day, for more than one reason easy to understand, the picture of Cordelia had not been recalled by either. Now, becoming more confidential and rendered more expansive by the charm of awakened remembrances, Fleurange ventured to tell him what an influence on her life his becoming the owner of her father’s last painting had had, and in a tone of emotion she thanked him for the happiness of which he had been the involuntary cause.—
But she soon stopped suddenly: her heart, as on that first day, beat with agitation mingled with alarm; for, while she was speaking, Count George’s eyes, fixed on hers, resumed the expression she had not seen since that day, and once more, as then, she heard him pronounce her name in a tone she had striven to forget.