Saturday arrived, the day but one before our departure, and I was to take my last drive with Mme. de Kergy. I was suffering from a thousand conflicting emotions, agitated and melancholy, and sorry to be separated from her, and yet happy and impatient to leave Paris, where I now seemed to behold [pg 038] nothing but two large blue eyes following me everywhere. On the other hand, however, a strange, inexplicable regret weighed on my heart when I thought of the world into which I had not yet penetrated, except in imagination, but where I longed to be transplanted with Lorenzo, that our lives might bring forth better fruit. While conversing with Mme. de Kergy such a life seemed less chimerical. I felt my wishes might easily be realized if ... I could not wholly define my thought, but it was there, alive, actual, and poignant, and the recollection of its source added a degree of tenderness to the affectionate farewell I bade Mme. de Kergy when her carriage stopped to leave me at my door. My eyes were filled with tears. I found it difficult to tear myself away. She, on her part, pressed my hand, and, fastening her softest look on me, finally said:
“My dear Ginevra” (I had some time before begged her to call me so), “would it be indiscreet to ask you to come and dine with us to-morrow, and spend your last evening with us?”
“O madame!” I exclaimed with a joy I did not try to conceal, “how happy I should be to come!”
“Then I shall depend on seeing you—both of you; for of course my invitation extends likewise to the Duca di Valenzano.”
I felt my face turn red simply at these words. Alas! why? Because I was at once terrified at the thought of conveying an invitation to Lorenzo which, ten days before, he would have eagerly accepted. Now I felt if he replied in the affirmative, it would be a triumph for me; if in the negative, a painful defeat.
All this rapidly crossed my mind, and made me silent for a moment. Finally I replied:
“I do not know whether my husband has any engagement for to-morrow or not; but as for me, I hope nothing will prevent my coming. At all events, you shall have my reply in a few hours.”
This reply was despatched at a late hour that same evening, and was to this effect: “That important business would oblige my husband to be absent the whole day, and I alone should be able to accept Mme. de Kergy's invitation.”
What it cost me to write this note Mme. de Kergy never imagined. And yet, when I hastily wrote these lines, I had no positive reason for doubting the truth of the excuse assigned for Lorenzo's absence—no reason except the promptings of my own heart, to which I was less able than ever, within a few hours, to impose silence.
But to relate what took place from the time I left Mme. de Kergy till I wrote her the above note: