"And why does your companion stand in the Rue Saint-Dominique?"
"Then you know all?" said the wretch.
"All that I wish to," said the Count. "Speak out," said he, again clasping his fingers tightly as if they had been a torture-collar. "Speak now, or you will never do so again."
"Well," said the man, "my companion is ordered to ascertain if you were not at the hotel of the Prince de Maulear. Why should I know any thing about it?"
"Ah! this is unworthy," said the Count. "When her passions are concerned nothing restrains this woman."
A painful sigh was the only reply to this exclamation. The Count looked around, and saw Taddeo standing by him, pale and trembling.
IX.—A LETTER.
Leaning over the white shoulders of the charming Marquise de Maulear, we are about to tempt our readers to the commission of a great indiscretion. We will force them to listen to a letter which that lady was writing to her mother the Signora Rovero, to inform the latter of all her secret thoughts, and of what during the last two years had taken place in her household. She sat, one morning, about nine o'clock, in a beautiful boudoir, hung with rose-colored silk, over which were falls of India muslin. This room was on the second floor of the house, and there, with her head on her hand, Aminta wrote, on a small table incrusted with Sevres porcelain, the following letter, exhibiting the most intimate thoughts of her soul:
"My kind mother: Twenty months ago I left Italy and yourself, to accompany the Marquis de Maulear and his excellent father to Paris. Since then my letters have not suffered you to want details of things about which you are so curious, which occurred in the course of my trip from Naples hither, and of my reception by my husband's family. The family of the Marquis, as you already know, is one of the most important of Paris, both from rank, fortune, and nobility, and did not therefore dare to receive with coldness a stranger who came thus to take a place in its bosom. The tender protection of my father-in-law made it a duty to them to seem to me what they really were to him, benevolent, kind, and affectionate. Long ago, I saw that the sentiments they exhibited were not sincere; and I guessed that beneath the affectionate manners of my new family, there was hidden an icy vanity, and want of sympathy with the young woman who had no ancestors, no birth, and almost no fortune, who had thus, as it were, come among them to usurp name, position, and influence, to which no one should pretend who had not a lineage at least as princely as theirs. I soon learned how little faith I should have in their politeness, and the anxiety in my behalf which were exacted by the exigences of society, and above all by the paternal protection of the Prince de Maulear. I was eager to find in the friendship of those with whom I was cast something of that kind reciprocity of sentiments which I was anxious to exhibit to them. The first person to whom I appealed replied to me by cold glances. On this person, dear mother, I relied, not as a substitute for yourself, but as one to advise me in the new life I was about to lead amid a society the customs and language of which I was almost ignorant of. This person was the Countess of Grandmesnil, sister of the Prince, and aunt of my husband. The Countess was passionately fond of my husband, whom she educated, and perhaps was wounded at the idea of his having married without consulting her. This union also put an end to hopes which had long before been formed in relation to a similar connection with that of the Duke d'Harcourt's, one of the first families in France. Mademoiselle de Grandmesnil, therefore, received me with cautious urbanity, repelled my confidence, and made me look on her whom I had considered an affectionate protectress as an enemy. The Marquis was not aware of the Countess's sentiments to me, for when they saw how fond he was, they redoubled their apparent care and attention. I did not, though, remain ignorant of the thorn hidden in the rose. This strange kind of intuition, dear mother, which you have often remarked in me, was made apparent by the most unimportant acts of the Countess, in which she evidently exhibited an expression of her indifference to me, and dissatisfaction at my marriage; I armed myself with courage, and promised to contend with the enemy provided for me by my evil fate. I resolved not to suffer my husband to know any thing of my troubles, nor to suffer the Countess's treatment to diminish my husband's attachment towards the person who had provided for his youth. To recompense me, however, for this want of affection, I had two substitutes—the perpetually increasing love of the Marquis, his tender submission to my smallest wish, and the attachment of the Prince—an enigma he has always refused to explain. Beyond all doubt this reason is powerful and irresistible, for the mention of my father's name made him open his arms, which, as I told you, he at first was determined to close hermetically. Strange must have been those talismanic sounds, changing the deeply-rooted sentiments of an old man's heart, and making him abandon the invariable principles of his mind, so as to induce him to present me, the daughter of a noble of yesterday, as one descended from a person whose virtues had won for him an immortal blessing. I must also tell you that I have seen more than one of the old friends of the Prince stand, as if they were petrified, at hearing him speak thus. I have recounted all those happy scenes, dear mother, merely to compare the past with the present, which presents, alas, a far different aspect. My brilliant sky is obscured—I see in the horizon nothing but clouds. Perhaps I am mistaken, and my too brilliant imagination, against which you have often warned me, fills my mind with too melancholy ideas. Were you but with me, could I but cast myself in your arms, press you to my heart, and imbibe confidence from you! Listen, then, to words I shall confide to this cold paper, read it with the eyes of your soul, and tell me if I am mistaken or menaced with misfortune.
"During the early portion of my residence in Paris, I lived amid a whirlwind of pleasures, balls, and entertainments, which soon resulted in satiety and lassitude. The attention I attracted, the homage paid to me, flattered my vanity, and pleased me; for they seemed to increase the Marquis's love, and to make me more precious to him. After the winter came a calmer season, and I welcomed it gladly, thinking the Marquis and myself, to a degree, would live for each other, and that this feverish, agitated and turbulent life, would be followed by a period of more happiness. Three months passed away in that kind of retirement in which those inhabitants of Paris, who do not leave the city, indulge. The Prince left us to visit his estates in another part of France, and the Marquis and myself were alone. The Countess, it is true, was with us; but her society, instead of adding to our pleasures, was as annoying as possible. Accustomed during my whole life to out-door existence, to long excursions in the picturesque vicinity of our villa, I was sometimes anxious to take morning strolls in the beautiful gardens of Paris. The Countess said to my husband, one day, that a woman of my age should not go out without him. As the Marquis often rode, an exercise with which I am not familiar, and as he had friends to see, and political business to attend to, I was unable to go out but rarely. Then I will say he offered me his arm anxiously, but this exercise neither satisfied my taste, nor the demands of health. There was also a perpetual objection to dramatic performances, of which I was very fond; Henri did not like them. The Countess, also, from religious scruples, was opposed to them, and by various little and ingeniously contrived excuses, I was utterly deprived of this innocent amusement. My toilette was also a subject of perpetual comment. The Countess said that I exaggerated the fashions, that I looked foreign, and that the court was opposed to innovations in the toilette, or again that the court preferred the severe forms of dress. A young and brilliant princess, though, gives tone to her court, and by her elegance, luxury and taste, procures a support for crowds of the Parisian work-people. Henri, over whom his aunt has never ceased to exercise the same influence she did in childhood, while he wished to support my ideas, really supported hers. I saw with regret that the chief defect of the Marquis was weakness of character, and perpetual controversies about little matters produced a state of feeling between us, which subsequently required a kind of effort for us to overcome. This, however, dear mother, is nothing; for I have not come to the really painful point of my confessions. The gay season has returned, and the principal people of Paris have returned to their hotels. I liked to see Henri jealous, because this passion was, in my opinion, an assurance of his love. Henri, who during the early period of our marriage, would not have left me alone for the world, now confides me exclusively to the care of his father. The first time this took place, his absence was a plausible excuse. He does not now even seek a pretext; a whim, an appointment, are sufficient motives for him to leave me. Whither does he go? How does he occupy himself? This is the subject of my uneasiness and torment—yet he loves me, he says, but a heart like mine, dear mother, is not easily deceived. He does not love me as he used to. A magnificent ball was given during the last month, by the Neapolitan Ambassador, the Duke of Palma, who married the famous Felina. Henri left the Prince and myself, as soon as we came to the rooms; the whole night nearly passed away without our seeing him. At last, however, he returned, pale and exhausted. The Prince, who was unacquainted with what had transpired at Sorrento, between his son and Monte-Leone, introduced me to him, and asked me to receive him at our hotel. I hesitated whether I should consent or not; when the Marquis, with an air which lacerated my very heart, asked the Count to visit me, assuring him that he would always be welcome.