The mystery of the young lord’s silence ceased to occupy the first place in local gossip, now that a more exciting theme had been provided, but it held its place in Virginie’s mind and was seldom out of her thoughts.
“Would it not be a great joy to you to see him again?” she said to Alba.
“I should be glad of it, mother; but the time is so short it matters little whether I see him here or not.”
“You never loved him, Alba.”
“I loved him with my whole soul; I loved him too well. I would have died for love of him.”
She had died for love of him, the mother thought.
“And yet you do not care to see him again?”
“I am satisfied to wait until we meet in heaven.”
The spark was dead; it was useless trying to blow the cold ashes into a flame. Virginie devoured her heart in uncomplaining silence. If Alba’s reproach was merited, if her love had been at fault, tainted in its origin with egotism and cowardice, then it was meet that she should suffer and expiate the sin.
But Hermann, meantime, was on his way to Gondriac. He had not been killed or wounded or faithless; he had been confined at Vincennes by order of the emperor, in hopes that solitude might help him to see the folly of this intended marriage, and bend his stubborn fancy to the reasonable will of his imperial master. The experiment had failed. The emperor was dethroned, a captive now himself, and M. de Gondriac was free and speeding on the wings of love to claim the reward of his fidelity.