Читать книгу The Burning Glass - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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Jose Y Gonzaga Pignatelli D'Arragon, Marquis de Mora, was the son of the Comte de Fuentès, Spanish Ambassador at Paris, and one of the most remarkable of the foreigners who were admitted into the exclusive circles of Parisian society.

Before he was twenty, he had been married and widowed, and had been introduced to Paris by his father, then in the full éclat of the Pacte du famille. The young Marquis and his two resplendent companions, the Ambassador's secretaries, the Chevalier Fernando Magellon and the Duc de Villa-Hermosa, soon shone at every fête, salon, and entertainment, both in Paris and at the Court, where the Comte de Fuentès was highly favoured.

M. de Mora, in his first youth, handsome, gallant, highly-placed, made an instant success among the people to whom he was introduced; he became a man of wit, of fashion, interested in the new ideas, admiring the Encyclopedia, a frequenter of those gatherings where philosophy and the questions of the day were discussed.

Men like D'Alembert and Condorcet admitted him to their intimacy; he was a regular visitor in the house in the rue Saint-Dominique, and Mademoiselle de Lespinasse had already discovered an affection for him when he was recalled to his regiment and abruptly left Paris.

Refusing his family's wish for his re-marriage with his cousin, dona Félicité d'Egmont Pignatelli, M. Mora, as soon as he returned to Madrid, fell under the charm of the widowed dona Mariana de Silva, duchesse de Huescar, one of the most cultured and beautiful women of the Spanish capital. This affection was defeated by the family of de Fuentès, who used their influence to have the young colonel sent to Catalonia.

At this time the first great sorrow of his life fell on him in the death of his only son by smallpox.

A melancholy settled on the impetuous, ardent spirit of M. de Mora; his health became weakened; he sought restlessly for distraction, for consolation, and less than two years after his departure, returned to Paris. Young as he was, he had now, like Julie de Lespinasse, entered into a phase of disgust of life, of ironical observation of others, of cynical melancholy. The pleasures that had once so entranced him, and that now could hardly distract him, seemed to him trifling and unworthy.

Neither did the philosophers and the men of learning any longer divert him from contemplating his own empty heart. Like Julie he said >a quoi bon? to everything. Neither the easy love affairs, nor the sentimental friendships then the fashion, appealed to him any longer—he was jaded with both.

It was while in this mood that he again met Julie de Lespinasse, and these two natures, so much alike, these two sensitive, passionate, restless, unsatisfied hearts, united in a flame of ardent passion. The beautiful dawn of a love that made earth a paradise for these two creatures was ended by the recall of the Marquis to his regiment.

They swore eternal fidelity, and he declared that henceforth the one object of his life would be to obtain the consent of his family to their union. He soon returned, escorting his sister, Maria Manuela Pignatelli, who had been married by proxy to his bosom friend, the Duc de Villa Hermosa, still resident at the Spanish Embassy at Paris.

The idyll of the lovers was renewed; their betrothal was believed by their friends to be certain. Both Condorcet and Suard were confidants of Julie's love story—only D'Alembert remained blind, with the blindness of a dogged belief. It was also known, however, that there were almost unsurmountable obstacles to such a marriage; the family who had not considered the Duchesse de Huescar good enough for their heir were not likely to accept Julie de Lespinasse.

The de Fuentès received Julie with all respect, honour, and kindness, but M. de Mora could not get them even to listen to his proposal of an engagement, and the bride, the new Duchesse de Villa Hermosa was Julie's jealous enemy. The lovers, in the strength of their deep attachment, were not daunted, and renewed their secret understanding. But again M. de Mora had to bend to military authority and the wishes of his parents. He was sent back to Spain, despite his protests, and made Brigadier-General, with a post at the Spanish Court.

The congratulation of the family at their success was speedily changed to chagrin, for the Marquis resigned from the army, put his affairs in order, and despite all the efforts of his friends, made every preparation to return to Paris and Julie de Lespinasse. The ill-health that he had given as a reason for his resignation, proved to be but too real an excuse: the very day was fixed for his departure when his lingering malady reached a violent crisis. A long and terrible fever was followed by a succession of fainting fits, and as soon as he had gained a little strength, his doctors ordered him at once to Valencia, whose exquisite climate, they declared, offered him his one chance of complete recovery. With despair in his heart he was forced to take this advice, and was conducted to the residence of the younger brother of the Duc de Villa Hermosa, in Valencia. During this, to him, painful exile, his one consolation was the correspondence with Julie de Lespinasse, who, in her turn, lived only for his letters. Encouraged by the extraordinary improvement of his health in the delicious air of Valencia, the impatience of M. de Mora soon broke through the restraints imposed on him by his doctors, and the prudence counselled by his friends. Resisting their endeavours with a violence almost cruel, he returned to Paris and resumed his place among those fascinating companions he had twice been forced to abandon. He was more than ever sought after, admired, flattered, and praised; with something of the ardour of his first youth he returned to the gaieties of the Court, the reunions with the thinkers and wits, the dinners, the suppers, the fêtes, the opera. But all this was because his love for Julie illuminated everything for him, because he was in her company every day and almost all day, and because all his energies were bent on accomplishing their marriage. When he was obliged to go to Fontainebleau on a summons from the Court, he wrote to Julie every morning and every evening. During his ten days' absence she received twenty-two letters. This life, this emotion, the heavy air of Paris, soon undermined the frail health of M. de Mora. He had several fresh attacks when his life was considered in danger, and though in his happiness he affected to treat these with indifference, they caused the heart of Julie to faint with fear. Finally, he was ordered to take the waters at Bagnères, and the lovers were again separated. But this was as nothing compared to what was before them. The Comte de Fuentès, with finances exhausted by his costly sojourn at Versailles, and his wife falling into a state of health even more precarious than that of her son, obtained leave to return for a time to Madrid, and commanded that M. de Mora should accompany him when he had completed the season at Bagnères. The condition of Madame de Fuentès making a refusal on the part of her son impossible, Julie had to prepare herself for an indefinite separation.

M. de Mora, however, coloured the future with a rosy hue. He had no fears on the score of his health, the eternal hopefulness characteristic of his malady re-assuring him on that point, and he resolved to use this obligatory return to Madrid to strain every effort to obtain the consent of his family to his union with Julie and to return to Paris only as her promised husband.

Both this project and the state of his health Julie regarded with something near despair; her tempestuous nature, to which moderation was impossible, and which had been fiercely awakened by passion to the full extent of sensitiveness, suffered agonies of fear and apprehension, melancholy and grief. She struggled to be resigned, to believe in the future, that the love of M. de Mora so tenderly painted for her, and in no way did she endeavour to prevent his departure. This was fixed for July, and during the few weeks that remained to her before the dreadful hour of separation, she was denied even the pleasure of his company, since he was obliged to remain at Bagnères. To add to her distress, she had to conceal her emotion from M. D'Alembert and from most of her friends; her spiritual loneliness was not the least of her griefs, and her health, never strong, began to give way beneath the burden of her agitation and sorrow.

It was precisely at this moment that she had met M. de Guibert at the fête of M. Watelet.

The news from Bagnères had been better than usual, the May day enchanting, and, in a desperate effort at distraction, she had gone to 'le Moulin Joli,' hoping to find among scenes that at one time she had found so fascinating, some relief from the perpetual grief that gnawed at her heart. But she had been unable to mingle with the company formerly so dear to her; her wandering apart had caused her meeting with M. de Guibert and that conversation that had for a short while dissipated her melancholy. A month had passed, mostly in seclusion for Julie, and she had not seen M. de Guibert again, nor had she thought much of him, her mind being entirely occupied by M. de Mora.

It was for him she was waiting this afternoon in her little salon, seated at the cylinder desk of satinwood, on which her elbows rested, her elegant head drooping in her hand. She wore a robe and petticoat of fine white muslin, scattered with little bunches of pale flowers; over this a negligé of striped crimson and white linen, sleeves from elbow to wrist of ruffled lace, the same at her bosom, and a band of narrow black ribbon, which was sewn with tiny silk flowers, round her neck. A fine gold watch and two little hearts, one of gold and one of crystal filled with hair was fastened at her waist by a fine steel chain; she wore also a chatelaine, the various little objects being of ivory and silver, in green leather cases. Her hair was powdered, dressed close to her head, with tiny roll curls above the ears, and covered on the top with a small lace cap.

In the folds of the fichu that crossed her bosom was a small, closely-tied bunch of jasmine. Exquisite care had disguised the ravages of the disease that had stolen her freshness; her face showed of the frail pallor due to artificial whitening; her large and expressive dark eyes were improved by the delicate pencilling of her sweeping brows; her lips were touched with pale carmine. Her whole appearance had that elegant and delicious finish of a woman who, though too sensible to be vain and not fortunate enough to be beautiful, is too fastidious to be careless. Julie though, as always, without jewellery—she possessed none but the merest trifles, a pair of steel buckles, a pair of paste buckles, a necklace of red wooden beads, two silver brooches, such things as these were her sole treasures—wore an expensive gown, and in every detail was the great lady. The dark eyes, heavy with sleeplessness and unshed tears, stared at the books on the shelves in front of her. They were all her familiar friends and had often proved her greatest comfort.

There was the Voyage d'Italie in many volumes, by the engraver, Charles Cochin, all the works of Voltaire, the dramatic poems of Philippe Quinalt, Moresi's French and English Dictionary, the Letters of Madame de Sévigné, The Cours d'Études du Prince de Parma, The Bibliothèque de Campagne, the Caractères of Theophrastus, and Robertson's History of Charles V. and Richardson's Clarissa Harlow, both in English, and the last almost the gospel of Julie, so akin to her peculiar temperament was the mingled passion and sentiment, swooning delicacies and crude violences, the refined emotions, the tempests of feeling, the distracting intricacies of the melancholy tragedy of this extraordinary romance.

Her distracted gaze fell on the gilt lettering of the title now, and her slender hands went to select one of the forty volumes in which the English novel was set forth, when the door gently opened, and M. de Mora stood within the room. Julie rose, and held out her hands without a word. She had contrived to send away the docile and unsuspecting D'Alembert, and her lackey had had orders to admit M. de Mora and no one else. The young Spaniard kissed her hands, then sank on to the Utrecht velvet ottoman which stood just inside the door facing the windows. He was very breathless and smiled without being able to speak. Julie sat down beside him, still holding his hands, which were cold and damp, in hers; she bent forward and warmly kissed his hollow cheek.

'Julie!' he gasped. 'Julie!'

His gaze continued to rest on her with an intensity of affection that seemed half-pleading and was wholly touching.

'You came up the stairs too fast,' murmured Julie. 'Mon Dieu! how this illness frightens me!'

M. de Mora had now recovered his voice, but it was rough and continually broken by coughs. He paused, too, now and then, as if the act of speaking distressed him, and no colour returned to his pallid face.

'The doctors did not want to let me come to-day,' he said, using perfect French. 'Ciel! do they want to kill me? I could not have lived any longer without seeing you.'

'You should not have come!' cried Julie. 'The shaking of the carriage has hurt you.'

He shook his head.

'Indeed, I am better. Why should we talk of it now? Look at me and tell me if you love me!'

'If I love you!' exclaimed Julie, with a sob in her voice. 'But I will get you some wine—something—'

Grasping her two hands, he held her down on the ottoman.

'Do not leave me—I want you—just you, Julie.'

She made no attempt to move, she gazed at him with her soul in her eyes. He had been an extremely handsome man of the pronounced Southern type; slight, supremely elegant, of a beautiful carriage, with a clear, olive skin, aquiline features, a full mouth and magnificent eyes under sweeping brows; thick hair, naturally waving, of so dense a black as to defy powder and pomade. Only a slight heaviness in the nostrils of the hawk-like nose, a hint of coarseness in the lips, prevented the face from having been beautiful, and it had been lit by a fire, a changing expression, a light, an eagerness more attractive than perfections of line and colour.

Most of this penetrating charm was now gone. He was thin to emaciation, he stooped slightly, and his chest was noticeably narrowed.

His traits were equally disfigured: an unhealthy paleness overspread his hollow face, his forehead was bedewed with damp, his lips were dry and colourless; the gleaming black hair did not need so much powder now, for it was thickly sprinkled with gray.

Only his eyes, in their dark fire, remained unchanged; the sweeping lashes were almost unnaturally long and thick, and this one beauty redeemed his ruined countenance. Always magnificent and precise in his dress, he was still attired with rich, if sombre, splendour.

His dark blue velvet coat was heavily embroidered with gold, his waistcoat was of embroidery, his black silk stock fastened with a diamond brooch, his hair waved, rolled and powdered, and fastened by a sapphire blue ribbon. The flatness of his chest and the thinness of his hands were disguised by full ruffles of Spanish lace; he was perfumed with an odour of sandalwood, shaved to the blood, and powdered.

'You are not better!' cried Julie at length. Mon Dieu, but this is frightful—'

'Hush, you must not say these things,' he replied faintly, but smiling. 'Where are those good friends of mine, the little dog and the paroquet?'

'I sent the dog out with D'Alembert,' said Julie. 'And did you not notice the paroquet in the antechamber? I put him there that his voice might not deafen you.'

These words were hardly finished before a slight convulsion passed over her face, and she quickly buried it in the crimson cushions, and burst into tears.