While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of
his now affectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure
as, certainly, I had never felt. I envied no
girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife her
husband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering
friend. If he would but prove reliable, and he
looked reliable, what, beyond his friendship,
could I ever covet? But, if all melted like a
dream, as once before had happened—?
“Qu’est-ce donc? What is it?”
said he, as this thought threw its weight on my heart,
its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and
after a moment’s pause, and a thoughtful smile,
he showed me how an equal fear—lest I should
weary of him, a man of moods so difficult and fitful—had
haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.
On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me.
I ventured a word of re-assurance. That word
was not only tolerated; its repetition was courted.
I grew quite happy—strangely happy—in
making him secure, content, tranquil. Yesterday,
I could not have believed that earth held, or life
afforded, moments like the few I was now passing.
Countless times it had been my lot to watch apprehended
sorrow close darkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness
take form, find place, and grow more real as the seconds
sped, was indeed a new experience.
“Lucy,” said M. Paul, speaking low, and
still holding my hand, “did you see a picture
in the boudoir of the old house?”
“I did; a picture painted on a panel.”
“The portrait of a nun?”
“Yes.”
“You heard her history?”
“Yes.”
“You remember what we saw that night in the
berceau?”
“I shall never forget it.”
“You did not connect the two ideas; that would
be folly?”
“I thought of the apparition when I saw the
portrait,” said I; which was true enough.
“You did not, nor will you fancy,” pursued
he, “that a saint in heaven perturbs herself
with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarely
superstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset
you?”
“I know not what to think of this matter; but
I believe a perfectly natural solution of this seeming
mystery will one day be arrived at.”
“Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good-living
woman—much less a pure, happy spirit-would
trouble amity like ours n’est-il pas vrai?”
Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and
abrupt, calling out that I was wanted. Her mother
was going into town to call on some English family,
who had applied for a prospectus: my services
were needed as interpreter. The interruption
was not unseasonable: sufficient for the day
is always the evil; for this hour, its good sufficed.
Yet I should have liked to ask M. Paul whether the
“morbid fancies,” against which he warned
me, wrought in his own brain.
THE APPLE OF DISCORD.
