I saw Lorenzo barely for a moment in the morning. I clearly perceived he wished to make me forget what had passed between us the evening before, but I did not see the least shade of regret. It was evident, on the contrary, that he thought himself magnanimous in overlooking my reproaches, and felt no concern at having merited them. In short, we seemed to have changed rôles. As for me, I suffered so much on account of the outburst I had indulged in that it would have been easy to call forth acknowledgments that would have atoned for it. They only waited for the least word of affection, but not one did he utter. Lando came for him before two o'clock, and they went away together, leaving me with [pg 195] a sad, heavy heart. I was not to see him again till my return from the Hôtel de Kergy. Where would he pass the time meanwhile?... Would it really be in Lando's company? And was the business they had to settle really such as to render it impossible for him to spend this last evening with me?... Would it not have been a thousand times better to have remained silent, and, as this was really our last day, and we were to leave on the next, would it not have been wiser in me to have spent it wholly with him, ... even if that included her?... Had I not committed an irreparable folly in yielding to this explosion of unmistakable anger? This was indubitable, but it was too late to remedy it. The die was cast. Lorenzo was gone! I passed the afternoon, like that of the Sunday before, at church, but was pursued by a thousand distractions which I had not now the strength to resist. On the contrary, I took pleasure in dwelling on them, and my mind wandered without any effort on my part to prevent it. I neglected, on the very day of my life when I had the most need of light, courage, and assistance, to have recourse to the only Source whence they are to be obtained, and I returned home without having uttered a prayer.
Two hours later I was at the Hôtel de Kergy, and in the same room where just a week before I had felt such lively emotion and conceived such delightful hopes! But, ah! what a contrast between my feelings on that occasion and those of to-day! I seemed to have lived as many years since as there had been days!...
Mme. de Kergy advanced to meet me as I entered, and I saw she noticed the change in my face the moment she looked at me. I did not know how to feign what I did not feel, and she had had too much experience not to perceive I had undergone some pain or chagrin since the evening before. She asked me no questions, however, but, on the contrary, began to speak of something foreign to myself; and this did me good. I soon felt my painful emotions diminish by degrees, and a change once more in the atmosphere around me, as when one passes from one clime to another.
The guests were but few in number, and all friends of the family. Diana, prettier than ever, and so lively as to excite my envy, was delighted to see me, but did not observe the cloud on my brow; and if she had, she would have been incapable of fathoming the cause. She hastened to point out the various guests who had arrived.
“They are all friends,” said she; “for mother said you were coming to get a little respite from society.”
Mme. de Kergy presented them to me one by one, and among the persons introduced were several of celebrity, whom I regarded with all the interest a first meeting adds to renown. But I saw nothing of Diana's brother among those present, and was beginning to wonder if I should never see him again, when, just as dinner was ready, he made his appearance. He bowed to me at a distance, appearing to have forgotten it was his place to escort me to the table. A sign from his mother seemed to bring him to himself, and he offered me his arm with some confusion, though without any awkwardness. But after taking a seat beside me, he remained for some moments without speaking, and then addressed his conversation to others instead of me. I saw he was for [pg 196] some reason embarrassed, and I was confused myself; for such things are contagious. He soon recovered his accustomed ease, however, and when he finally addressed me it was with a simplicity that set me, on my part, entirely at ease. His conversation surprised and pleased me, and I felt I conversed better with him than any one else. There was nothing trifling in what he said, and, above all, he refrained from everything like a compliment, direct or indirect, and even from every subject that might lead either to me or himself. Women generally like nothing so much as a style of conversation that shows the effect they produce, so it was not astonishing it had been employed with me as well as with others. But this language had always embarrassed and displeased me, and I now felt proportionately pleased with the unusual way in which I was addressed—a way that seemed to raise me in my own estimation. And yet he did not try to absorb my attention, but gave others an opportunity of taking part in the conversation.
It soon became general, and I stopped to listen. I had then the pleasure—a new one for me—of witnessing a kind of game in which thoughts and opinions fly from one to another, wit mingles with gravity, and the intellect is brightened by contact with the brilliancy of others. Gilbert was not the only one in this circle who knew how to interest without fatiguing, and excite, not by ridicule, but by a better kind of wit, the hearty, cordial laugh that wounds neither the absent nor the present!
What struck me especially was the interest and almost deference with which a man of well-known eloquence, whose opinions had weight with every one, endeavored to draw forth the opinions of others. It might have been said he listened even better than he talked.
Thus during the whole time we were at table, and the evening that followed, I realized the true meaning of the word conversation in a country where it originated, in the social world where it was coined, and in the language which is, of all mediums, the most delicate, the most perfect, and the most universal.
In spite of myself, I felt my sadness gradually vanish, and my laugh more than once mingled freely in the merriment of others. I saw that Mme. de Kergy observed this with pleasure, and a benevolent smile increased the habitual sweetness of her expression. She was a woman whose unvarying serenity was the result of great suffering, and who now sought nothing in this world but the happiness of others; to whose pains she was as fully alive as she was full of profound compassion.