Vera obeyed without reply; she took the petition, and went to a table in one of the deep embrasures of the windows, before which a gilt trellis covered with a vine formed a genuine screen. As soon as she was seated in this place where she could not be seen, she eagerly opened the petition, and glanced over it before beginning the letter. This glance was sufficient to justify the suspicion just excited. A deadly paleness came over her face; her features, generally so calm, were suddenly transformed by a violent explosion of anger and hatred. She crushed the paper, and remained motionless on the chair into which she had fallen, incapable of acting, thinking, or realizing where she was and what she had to do.
At length she returned to herself, and made an effort to collect her thoughts. The moments were passing away; the empress would be astonished at the time it took to accomplish her wishes. She therefore took up her pen, but had scarcely written a few words with a trembling hand, when a noise, unusual at that hour, was heard in the court—the sound of a drum, and the guards shouldering arms. Vera rose with surprise, and looked out of the window. The emperor had arrived in his sledge, alone and without any escort, according to his custom, though this was not his usual time of coming. Shortly after, the doors of the salon were thrown open—a signal for Vera to leave the room. She tore up the note, put the petition in her pocket, and, while the empress was advancing to meet her husband, the lady of honor disappeared through a side door, and hurried to her room next the empress' apartment.
A whole hour passed away, she could not tell how. She had been able to control and generally to effectually disguise the strong feelings which pique had not suppressed—feelings which gave her assurance of some day overcoming all obstacles. And then, what were these obstacles? It was not long since George, her chosen husband from childhood, plainly testified the attraction he felt for her, and seemed as much as she to regard the union arranged in their infancy as the realization of his wishes. It is true a cloud had since passed across that brilliant horizon, and, when she met George again, he was not the same.—Why was it so?—She had often sought the reason, but all she was able to ascertain was that a young girl, an obscure demoiselle de compagnie in his mother's service, fascinated him for a while, and some one had whispered the name of Gabrielle, but the haughty Vera was not disturbed by so trifling an affair. The future was hers, and she was awaiting it without any fear, when the news of George's crime and misfortune came like a thunderbolt, enabling her to estimate the depth of her affection for him by the very liveliness of her grief. From that time she had but one thought—to prevail over the emperor, obtain George's pardon, and win him back to herself. Her first repulse did not destroy all hope of success. But while her influence, her passion, and her efforts were still without any result, another—and what a rival! (for Vera, in spite of her pride, was not so vain or so stupid as not to recognize the redoubtable charm against which she had to struggle)—another, young, as beautiful as herself, and even more so, had eclipsed in an instant, by an heroic act, all her own devotedness had even dreamed of, and gone beyond the limits which she dare not cross! How could she doubt George's feelings when the young lady she had just seen appeared in his prison. How could she thwart her? What was to be done? Besides, who was this girl who suddenly appeared in their midst—who had the air of an angel, but whom she hated as if she were a demon? All at once an idea flashed into her mind. “Can this be Gabrielle?” she exclaimed aloud. But before Vera had time to dwell on this idea, and calm the fresh agitation which it caused, the sound of the little bell interrupted her painful reverie. She rose, but with some surprise, for she had not heard the usual signal of the emperor's departure, and she was very seldom admitted when he was present. But her hesitation was only momentary, for the bell again hastily repeated [pg 604] the summons. Vera hastened to answer it, but, confused at the sight of the emperor, she stopped at the door, and bowed profoundly. The empress, with mingled kindness and impatience, exclaimed:
“Why do you not come in, Vera? The emperor wishes to speak to you, and you are making him wait!”
LVI.
While all we have just related was occurring at the palace, the Marquis Adelardi was on his way to the fortress, considering as he went what it was advisable to say to George. After much reflection, he resolved not to announce Fleurange's arrival till he knew the result of her interview with the empress. He must not torture George in his misfortunes with vague hopes; above all, he must avoid arousing expectations that might prove vain. This would delay the communication but little, for the young girl's audience was the same day, and on the morrow he could act with a complete knowledge of the case.
Strong apprehensions were mingled with these thoughts as he reflected, on the new position in which his friend now stood. His fate was decided, the prolonged excitement of the trial was over, and the time come for him to resign himself to his lot. In what disposition should he find him? With a nature ardent and impetuous, but at the same time delicate, sensitive to the least restraint, and excessively fond of the comforts of life, how would he endure the horrors of this new prospect—he whose very object in his studies, and in the gratification of his tastes and passions, was only enjoyment? Pleasure by means of his intelligence, his affections, his intellect, and his senses—such had been the sole motive of his actions, even the best; and, in the dangerous risks that led to his destruction, he had rather sought to satisfy a thirst for a new sensation than the realization of a chimerical though generous scheme. How would he, for whom the words duty, sacrifice, and restraint had no meaning, now bear up in the presence not of danger, but of misfortune under so merciless a form?
The marquis asked himself these questions with an anxiety founded perhaps on some resemblance between his own nature and that of him whom he comprehended so thoroughly. Both were men of the world: one more refined and cultivated, more captivating; the other with more acuteness, more sagacity, and more judgment. Both were generous and noble, and, apart from the political entanglements that had misled them one after the other, incapable of a base action unworthy of their noble birth. But there exists in the human soul a chord whose tone is the echo of the divine voice; this chord gave out no sound in these men, otherwise accomplished; or, if not voiceless with the elder of the two, at least, according to the expression of the great poet of his country, inert and feeble from “silence too prolonged.” This mysterious and hidden chord never resounds very loudly, it is true, and the tumult of the world with its passions, pleasures, wit, talent, and glory, often deadens its tone and prevents its being heard; but when the silent hour of adversity comes, then it awakes to a sweet, powerful harmony which sometimes transforms the soul it fills. At such a time its want is felt, and excites a horror, the cause of which is not comprehended by those who experience it.
George was not confined in a dungeon, but in a narrow cell lighted only by a high grated window. There was nothing in it but a bed, a table, and two straw-bottomed chairs. In his former visits, the marquis had found his friend sad, but always calm, courageous, and, as it were, contemptuous of the danger of his position. Though grown pale and thin, his features hitherto retained their lofty, noble character, and the disorder of his hair and even of his garments did not at all detract from the aristocratic appearance which, in the very best sense of the word, characterized his whole person. But this was no longer the case. He could not have been more changed by a long illness, or the inroads of time, than he was since they last met. Seated beside his table in an attitude of deep dejection, he hardly raised his head at his friend's entrance. After pressing his hand, the latter remained some moments too much affected himself to break the mournful silence. George waited till the warden who ushered the visitor in had left the cell.
“You have come at last, Adelardi,” said he at length, with an altered voice. “I have been surprised not to see you since—since everything was decided.”