“Are you very upset—unhappy?”
asked Maurice.
“No, oh no; I don’t suffer much, but of
course I am a little disturbed. I am like a reflection.
Esperance’s happiness elates, her sorrow depresses
me. I love her purely as an idealist. I would
like Count Albert to look like the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche,
and still keep the noble soul that we know he possesses.
If your cousin should die, I truly believe that I
would die. My life would be without aim, without
soul; bereft of light, the reflection would vanish.”
They walked slowly down to the beach to join Albert
and the girls. The night had broken soft and
limpid, full of stars, full of dreams. They sat
down on the sand, silently admiring the prospect.
The waves broke regularly as if scanning the poem
of silence. A fresh scent rose from the rocks
which were clothed with sea moss. Far away a dog
was barking. The young people were silent, united
in a mood of wonder before the depths and lights of
the night.
On the fifteenth of September the girls had to tear
themselves away from their quiet retreat at Belle-Isle,
and leave Penhouet and all else to travel with Mlle.
Frahender, Jean and Maurice to the Chateau de Montjoie.
When they arrived there, at ten in the evening, Esperance
recognised the Duke in the distance as soon as the
carriage stopped. He was looking out of one of
the great windows above the terrace. He was,
in fact, awaiting the coming of Esperance. But
he pretended not to have seen the carriage and continued
to gaze up at the stars. Esperance trembled and
her lips were icy cold. Albert had also seen
the Duke, and was not deceived by his attitude.
He had resolved to be calm, but a sullen, unbidden
anger arose within him.
When the housekeeper had installed the two girls in
a tower of the Chateau, she left with them a little
Breton peasant girl.
“She will be devoted to your service,”
she said. “Her name is Jeanette. Her
room is above yours and, when you ring this bell, she
will wait upon you at once.”
Esperance threw herself on her bed, still dressed,
for her heart was overflowing.
“Ah! why, why is Albert so trusting? Why
did he let me come here? Would it not have been
better to have run the risk of offending the Duchess?”
And when Genevieve tried to reason with her, “I
am suffering, little sister,” she replied, “I
am so unhappy; for the sight of the Duke at the window
distressed me. I tremble at the idea of seeing
him again, and yet I long for the time when I can
give him my hand.”
“But this is serious,” said Genevieve.
“I thought you had recovered from all that nonsense,
or rather, I thought you would be less affected.”
She helped Esperance to undress. The poor child
let her do so without a word.
