Margaret, on leaving me this evening, whispered in my ear: “Dear, will our fair Roman be insensible? The aspirant belongs to the very first quality of nature’s noblemen.”
Good-by, dear Kate; pray much!
August 6, 1869.
Picciola is at this moment at the miraculous Grotto. Impossible to turn my thoughts away from this child; I see her everywhere. Nevertheless, I cannot complain of any want of distractions; we are out continually. Three days ago M. de Verlhiac (the doctor) gave us a princely reception in his divor. What life! what gayety! Marcella is very pensive and seeks to be alone. Margaret raves about the doctor, and will have him at all our parties; Anna can no longer do without him, my mother likes his conversation, the gentlemen seize upon the slightest pretext for going to the Blue Nest—the name given by Margaret to the dismantled manor of M. de V. You see, dear Kate, all is for the best. Your advice is not, however, useless to me. Oh! how well you have realized what Marcella is to me. But I am not so selfish as to place my affection in the way of her happiness, and I shall know how to make the sacrifice. M. de V. requested an interview with me yesterday. I had remained alone with my mother, who feared to take so long a drive, and it was in her presence that I received our new neighbor. He appeared greatly embarrassed—he, who is so fearless! At last, after a great deal of circumlocution, he related how he had become acquainted with our dear Italians; how much he felt interested in the pretty invalid, whom he had attended with truly paternal solicitude; how the desire had arisen in his heart to become the father of this attractive young creature; and how we had unknowingly destroyed the fragile edifice of his dreams by carrying away from him Mme. de Clissey and her daughter. Their sojourn of last winter had convinced him that without this union he could not be happy. Marcella had answered his proposal by a refusal, which he does not know how to explain.
My mother looked at me, and M. de V. continued: “I know not, madame, whether I am mistaken, but I am persuaded that you have some influence on this determination which crushes my life. Madame de C. does not wish to separate from you.” I was much moved by this confidence, and so much the more because my mother, who had formerly been acquainted with the mother of the good doctor, had told me that morning that she looked forward to this union with pleasure. I promised to do my duty. This conversation lasted three hours. M. de V. is really a remarkable man, and I cannot understand Marcella’s singular behavior. Margaret advises me to speak to her about it; but I think it more prudent to wait. The pretty little Anna unconsciously enlightened me somewhat. This morning, in my room, she was caressing her mother and saying: “Why, then, are you so cold to this good doctor, who likes you so much and who is so like papa? If you knew how affectionately he kisses me!” Marcella blushed and spoke of something else.
Dear Kate, my heart is full; M. de V. has only one dream after that of marrying my friend, which is to settle at Naples. It would then be a permanent separation! “You are in your spring-time, my daughter,” my mother said to me; “beware of the autumn! The lightest breath then carries away by degrees our happiness and our hopes.”
God guard you, dearest!
August 9, 1869.
The doctor has become our habitual companion. He loves poetry, “this choice language, dear to youth and to those whose hearts have remained young”—another connecting link with Marcella. “But they are made for each other,” says Margaret. This southerner shivers at the most delicate breeze of the north. “Good friend, what will you do in winter?” exclaims Anna on seeing him hermetically enfolded in a mantle lined with fur when he arrives of an evening. “Dear, I shall do as the swallows do.” “Bah! you will not go to Athens.” “And why not, if you will go with me?” “Oh! I do not travel without my mother.”
This fragment of conversation shows you that M. de V. is always driving at the same point. Every one rivals the other in extolling the loyalty, the learning, the distinction of the doctor. He must be immensely rich, for he throws gold with open hands among our poor, builds up cottages, gives work to all. Gertrude says: “There is in this man an apostle and a Sister of Charity.” Marcella never utters a word about our dear neighbor, but appears to suffer when others speak of him. Yesterday Margaret wanted to get my mother to promise that we should spend the summer of 1870 in England. “Will you not come also, monsieur?” The handsome countenance of the doctor darkened, and he answered briefly: “Who can promise?” “Oh! do promise, good friend,” exclaimed Anna; “you told me you wished not to leave me!” “Anna, will you water my verbenas?” tranquilly asked Marcella. The child bounded into the garden.