“Poor Gabrielle! This is evidently a generous, spontaneous impulse, worthy of her. But,” continued he, in quite a different accent, in which trembled an indignation he repressed with difficulty, “I cannot comprehend how this—how Count George can unhesitatingly consent to the conditions proposed, for really I can never believe them rigorously imposed by the emperor, still less that they could be accepted if he appreciates as he ought the sentiments which I should suppose would prevent him from accepting them.”
The marquis hesitated a moment, and then said: “Here, Dornthal, time presses; it is better you should know everything without delay.” And he gave him George's letter.
As Clement read it, contempt and anger were so clearly displayed in his face that the marquis was confounded at the flash of indignation with which he crushed the letter and threw it on the table. “That is exactly what I should have expected from the man you told me of yesterday. Poor Gabrielle!” he continued, in a voice trembling with emotion and tenderness, “it is thus that the precious treasures of thy heart have been lavished and wasted!”
He leaned on the table, and hid his face in his hands. For some instants there was a silence neither sought to break. At length Clement returned to himself. “Once more pardon me, M. le Marquis. I really do not know what you will think of me after the weakness I have shown before you. But no matter, it is not a question of myself, but of her. There is one point I recommend to you which there is no need of insisting upon: she must remain ignorant of the contents of this letter. She must never know—never, do you understand?—what kind of a love she thought worthy of hers.”
The marquis looked at him with astonishment. “And it is you, Dornthal, who are so anxious as to your cousin's remembrance of Count George!”
This total absence of vulgar triumph and selfish hope added another notable surprise to those of the morning. [pg 746] Clement neither noticed Adelardi's tone nor the kind, affectionate expression of regard which accompanied the words he had just uttered.
“I wish her to suffer as little as possible,” said he briefly; “that is my only aim and thought.”
He rose to go out. The marquis pressed his hand with a cordiality he rarely manifested, and after Clement's departure he remained a long time thoughtful. Perhaps at that moment he was thinking how much more satisfaction there was in meeting and studying such a noble heart than most of those whose acquaintance he had hitherto sought and cultivated with so much eagerness.
LXI.
At Clement's return, he learned that his cousin had asked for him several times. He immediately went up to the room she occupied. His emotion at seeing her again, though less sudden than that he had just experienced, was deeper than he anticipated, for he was unprepared for the change wrought within so short a time. She was, however, as calm and resolute as the night before, though she had passed through what might be called the agony of sacrifice—that hour of inexpressible suffering, not when the sacrifice of one's self is decided upon, not even that in which it is consummated, but the intermediate hour in which repugnance still struggles against the will. It was this hour endured by our common Master in the order of his sufferings after he took upon himself our likeness.