Jacqueline listened, stupefied, to this unexpected
outburst, so unlike her cousin’s usual language;
but the charm was broken by its ending with the tremendously
long name of Enguerrand, which always made her laugh,
it was in such perfect harmony with the feudal pretensions
of the Monredons and the Talbruns.
“How solemn and eloquent and obscure you are,
my dear,” she answered. “You speak
like a sibyl. But one thing I see, and that is
that you are not so perfectly happy as you would have
us believe, seeing that you feel the need of consolations.
Then, why do you wish me to follow your example?”
“Fred is not Monsieur de Talbrun,” said
the young wife, for the moment forgetting herself.
“Do you mean to say—”
“I meant nothing, except that if you married
Fred you would have had the advantage of first knowing
him.”
“Ah! that’s your fixed idea. But
I am getting to know Monsieur de Cymier pretty well.”
“You have betrayed yourself,” cried Giselle,
with indignation. “Monsieur de Cymier!”
“Monsieur de Cymier is coming to our house on
Saturday evening, and I must get up a Spanish song
that Madame Strahlberg has taught me, to charm his
ears and those of other people. Oh! I can
do it very well. Won’t you come and hear
me play the castanets, if Monsieur Enguerrand can spare
you? There is a young Polish pianist who is to
play our accompaniment. Ah, there is nothing
like a Polish pianist to play Chopin! He is charming,
poor young man! an exile, and in poverty; but he is
cared for by those ladies, who take him everywhere.
That is the sort of life I should like—the
life of Madame Strahlberg—to be a young
widow, free to do what I pleased.”
“She may be a widow—but some say
she is divorced.”
“Oh! is it you who repeat such naughty scandals,
Giselle? Where shall charity take refuge in this
world if not in your heart? I am going—your
seriousness may be catching. Kiss me before I
go.”
“No,” said Madame de Talbrun, turning
her head away.
After this she asked herself whether she ought not
to discourage Fred. She could not resolve on doing
so, yet she could not tell him what was false; but
by eluding the truth with that ability which kind-hearted
women can always show when they try to avoid inflicting
pain, she succeeded in leaving the young man hope
enough to stimulate his ambition.
FRED ASKS A QUESTION
Time, whatever may be said of it by the calendars,
is not to be measured by days, weeks, and months in
all cases; expectation, hope, happiness and grief
have very different ways of counting hours, and we
know from our own experience that some are as short
as a minute, and others as long as a century.
The love or the suffering of those who can tell just
how long they have suffered, or just how long they
have been in love, is only moderate and reasonable.
