TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DE ST. GEORGES.
XVI.—MADEMOISELLE CREPINEAU'S LOVER.
About the end of May, 1819, on one of those bright sunny days which bring out the blossoms of the lilac, make invalids strong, and young girls healthy, the Duchess of Palma was sitting in the garden of her hotel, in the same place and under the same tree in which we saw her take refuge, to conceal her sorrow and tears, a few months before, on the evening of the brilliant festival when all the principal personages of our story met. A general languor and oppression with complete weakness, the ordinary consequences of her unhappy attempt to commit suicide, had ensued. The deep distress which gnawed at her heart added moral to physical tortures. The Duke of Palma at last perceived the deep indifference of La Felina towards him, and without divining the cause, said that having married without love, all his cares and tenderness had not sufficed to win her heart. He therefore said, that he should be a fool to devote himself any longer to her, and to consecrate his life to a woman to whom, notwithstanding the prejudices of the world, he had given his title and name, without having, as yet, received the most trifling acknowledgment in return!
Yet young, immensely rich, volatile and handsome, it was probable that the Duke would not look in vain for some one to console him for the severity of his Duchess. Like many other persons in Paris, the Duke lived en garçon with two houses, two establishments, and, morally speaking, two wives. His second wife was a celebrated danseuse of the Royal Academy of Music, Mlle. G., known as a very agreeably thin woman, and arms rather larger than the true academic proportions—which, however, enabled her to entwine her partner, with an undulous grace that highly excited the old habitués of the opera. The reign of Louis XVIII. was also emphatically the reign of the danseuses. Princes, marshals, generals, and nobles, selected their mistresses in the seraglio of the opera. The reign of these ladies was, however, almost emphyteotic, that is to say, permanent, and often resulted in the consecration of illegitimate pleasures. MM. de Lauraguais, de Conti, de Letoriers, and others, would have laughed at this. The external life of the Duke was full of attention to the Duchess, with whom he dined regularly. He never, however, breakfasted at the embassy, nor was he there except at his regular receptions. The pious people who had been so shocked at his marriage, took care to say that the Duchess's conduct was the sole cause of her husband's misbehavior. There was nothing, though, in the world to sustain this; for no one had the slightest idea of the secret liaison of Monte-Leone and the embassadress. That was a transient affair, and the shores of the Lago di Como alone had been witnesses of it. Some excuse, however, was indispensably necessary for him.
La Felina, as isolated as ever, then sat in a beautiful garden which overlooked the Champs Elysées, on the morning we have described. Her face was pale and wearied, and her eyes red from want of sleep. With her head resting on her chest, she seemed a prey to the greatest sorrow. Just then they came to tell her of the visit of Taddeo Rovero.
"At last," said she, gladly, "I will know all."
Taddeo was close behind the servant who had announced him. He could not repress his surprise, when he saw how changed the Duchess was. The latter saw it and said, "You did not expect, signor, to see an old and ugly woman instead of her you once thought, so beautiful. I have, however, suffered a great deal during the three months you have been away. Without meaning to reproach you, let me say it is three months since I saw you."
"Ah! Signora, to me you may assume any guise you please; for neither my eyes, nor heart, distinguish any alteration."
"So much the better," said the Duchess with a smile, "for you are perhaps the only person who think me as beautiful as once was. It is something to be thought beautiful when we are not. What, though, is come over you? Why have you been so long in Italy?"
"Alas! Signora, bad inducements took me from Paris and from yourself."