XXII.
While this conversation was taking place, Fleurange was in her well-known seat at the top of the stone steps, looking out on the moonlit court and the long shadows of the pillars under the portico, listening to the murmur of the fountain, the only noise that disturbed the silence of the night, and breathing the vague odor of orange blossoms that embalmed the air.
Several months had elapsed since the day of George’s arrival—the day when the vague dreams in the depths of her soul seemed for a moment transformed into reality, but only to vanish, however, as quickly as they appeared. Now she was agitated and troubled anew, but differently and more profoundly than the first time.
What was she thinking of under the influence of this agitation and trouble?—Why did her eyes wander so pensively around when the night was so brilliant, and in her ears still vibrated the words which, in spite of herself, made her heart beat with triumphant joy?—Shall we tell what she was thinking of? And the place to which, by one of the inexplicable caprices of the imagination not under the control of the will, her thoughts had now flown? Was it to the Cascine where, the evening before, Count George on horseback lingered so long beside his mother’s calèche? Was it to one of the galleries where more than once he had pointed out beauties concealed from superficial observers, but so well understood by her to whom they were revealed? Or was it to the very salon they had just left, and was she now thinking of that last glance from which she turned away her own? No; the place to which her memory now reverted was the garden of the Old Mansion—the hour she recalled was the last she passed there! The moonlight was as brilliant that night, the air as mild, and the flowers as odorous, but the word ‘farewell’ seemed everywhere, written and changed the beauty of the evening into sadness. Farewell, without hope and for ever! echoed the transcendent splendor of this night in Italy in sadder accents—Farewell!—once more, farewell! yes, farewell!
She must tear herself away from this spot only too dear! and break the charm only too dangerous! This was clearly evident.
An instant, only an instant, she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the happiness she must for ever renounce. She allowed her imagination to depict it—such as it might be were it not forbidden—and then, with a clearness and sincerity in which no exultation mingled, she acknowledged she would purchase it at the price of every sacrifice except that which her conscience forbade her make. Yes, to live near George without remorse to become his wife with the consent of his mother, seemingly so impossible—to purchase such a destiny, she felt nothing would seem formidable—she would joyfully welcome poverty, the severest labor, even death itself!
Many people of experience will smile at such language, and declare these are imaginary sacrifices that, under the influence of passion, the young are very willing to make, but which, luckily, are but rarely put to the test. We admit it, and, without stopping any longer to consider the improbable future which Fleurange thus invoked, we can also bear witness that in view of these imaginary trials she bravely prepared herself to make the sacrifice actually before her. And these same people of experience will acknowledge this was the most difficult of all. First, because it was real and not imaginary, and also because it is always easier to make great sacrifices for the sake of love than to renounce love itself, which renders them so light and sometimes so sweet!
Yes, she must no longer hesitate; she must once more break the rejoined thread of her life—and what a painful rending of the heartstrings this time! She must go away, and never to return. After what had just occurred, there was no longer any possible illusion or security. By remaining, she would be false to every obligation, gratitude, and her position with regard to the princess, imposed upon her. Yes, she must go, but how—on what pretext? Alas! and her brothers—must she renounce the sweet satisfaction of aiding them, a joy the generosity of the princess had so kindly promoted? This last remembrance confirmed her resolution. Certainly, after so many benefits, she must not in return cause her any mortification and grief, no, not even displeasure and anxiety. She must leave at whatever cost, and without allowing the princess to suspect the motive of her departure; and yet she must obtain her consent. This was the great difficulty, for she foresaw a lively resistance.
“What shall I do?—what shall I do?” repeated poor Fleurange with perplexity. “O my God, my God! thou wilt aid me, for what I seek is the means of accomplishing thy will: what I desire is to know it.”
While the young girl was thus thinking, struggling, and praying, the hours flew. Once she left her seat in the window, but, feeling unable to sleep, only exchanged her evening dress for a morning one, then, without observing the lateness of the hour, returned to her seat, and again took up the thread of her reflections. Suddenly she heard steps in the corridor leading to the private staircase, and in a moment there was a sharp knock at her door. It instantly opened. It was Barbara.