We might now end this story, and lay down our pen, without attempting to describe the joy of the family when, as night came on, they saw the two absent ones return, and each one divined from their looks the nature of the conversation which tonight [pg 754] had detained them so long on the banks of the river. But towards the end of an evening so happy, Mademoiselle Josephine unintentionally made an exclamation it may not be useless to add:
“See! see!” she cried, in the exultation of her happiness, mingled with secret pride at her penetration, “how right I was in thinking Count George!—” She stopped confounded, suddenly recalling all past precautions, and fearing she had been imprudent in neglecting them.
But Fleurange unhesitatingly exclaimed: “Go on, dear mademoiselle, go on without any fear, and boldly pronounce a name I now neither shrink from nor seek to hear.” And, as she spoke, the remembrance of his past tortures crossed Clement's memory, giving him a keener sense of his present happiness. She asked him, in a calm tone, “Is he still in exile, or has he been pardoned?”
Clement replied with a smile: “No, he has not been pardoned; he is still undergoing his sentence to the full extent.” After a moment's silence, he added: “I had a letter from Adelardi this very morning which speaks of him.—Would you like to read it?”
At an affirmative nod from her, he took out his pocket-book to find the letter. As he opened it, a little sprig of myrtle fell out. Fleurange immediately recognized it. “What! you still keep that?” said she, blushing.
Clement made no reply. He looked at it with emotion; it was a part of a carefully hoarded treasure, and for a long time the only joy of his hidden love! “Never, no never!” murmured he. “That was my reply that evening, Gabrielle, when you promised me a beautiful bride. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, for I had said the same words an hour before, and the coincidence struck me.”
“What can we think of it, now you are really the fiancée I dreamed of as impossible?”
“That our presentiments are often illusory—and our sentiments also, Clement,” added she, turning towards him her eyes veiled with tears which seemed to implore his pardon.
We will not say what Clement's reply was; only, that it made them both completely forget Adelardi's letter. We will, however, lay it before our readers, who may be less indifferent to its contents than he to whom it was addressed was for the moment. It was dated at Florence. The marquis, whose visits at Rosenheim had become annual, announced his speedy arrival, after which he continued: