When Fleurange came to the latter, she stopped. She feared the princess might have retired without waiting for or needing her. But not so: her son was still with her. She could distinctly hear the sound of their voices. Owing to the vernal mildness of the evening, all the windows were open, and, instead of entering, Fleurange passed out on the terrace to await the conclusion of their conversation. And, moreover, it had not yet struck ten—the hour appointed for her return.
But she had scarcely gone out before she regretted it, for she could not help hearing, not only their voices, but their very words. She was about to return when she was stopped, and rooted as it were to the ground, by a word which her ear caught, and which gave her a thrill. That word was Cordelia; and almost immediately after she heard her own name—her name, not that of Gabrielle, the only one by which she was known, but the name of her childhood, the name unknown to every one at Florence except him who now uttered it—and in such a tone!
“Fleurange!” said Count George. “Yes, mother, this name which just escaped me in speaking of her; this name as strange as her beauty, and which, like the charm she is endowed with, belongs to no one else in the world, was the one her father called her by the first time I ever saw her—a thousand times more charming than the Cordelia of which she was the original—”
Fleurange heard nothing more.—For some moments she felt ready to faint, and it was only a resolute effort of her will that kept her from falling to the ground, overcome by surprise and emotion. Was it really the count she heard speaking? and could it be his mother to whom he was talking? What madness led him to brave the princess by using such language—her whom the slightest contradiction often threw into a violent state of impatience and anger—her who could not endure the least opposition from any one? What would she say? What reply was Fleurange about to hear?
She no longer thought of stirring. She felt incapable of deciding whether it were well or ill to remain; she had but one wish—to hear the princess’ reply, and to act in consequence. Perhaps, after hearing it, she would leave the place where she stood, never to appear before her again; who could tell? Already a confused idea entered her mind of leaving the palace and returning through the streets, alone and on foot—night though it was—to the Steinbergs.
After a long silence the princess spoke, but her trembling and subdued voice, to Fleurange’s great surprise, betrayed no signs of anger. The effect was only the more profound on her who now stood quivering with silent expectation.
“Then, George, you wish to cause me the greatest mortification it is possible for a son to cause his mother—you wish to violate the promise on which I relied with so much faith and confidence?”
“Mother, I have already told you I never made any promise.”
“Enough, George. I like your frankness. Do not spoil it now by prevarication. If you made her no promise, you made me one which you have not kept—me, your mother. This is sufficient, I think, to merit my reproaches.”
“Mother—!” And George rose with an impatient air, and turned as if to go out.