Читать книгу Paula Monti; or, The Hôtel Lambert - Эжен Сю - Страница 8

"Upon your arrival at Paris, madame," said M. de Morville to Madame de Hansfeld, "before occupying the spacious Hôtel Lambert in the Isle St. Louis, you resided for some time in the Rue St. Guillaume; you are not, perhaps, aware that the adjoining house belonged to my mother."

"No, sir, I was not aware of it."

"Permit me to enter into some details, puerile, perhaps, but yet indispensable. In my mother's house, a small window, wholly concealed by the leaves of the ivy, looked on to your garden; it was from that window that I first perceived you, madame, and without your suspecting it, for no one could imagine that any eye could penetrate the shady and retired walk which you frequented."

Madame de Hansfeld seemed to recall her recollections of the place and answered,—

"I certainly recollect the wall covered with ivy, but I did not know there was a window there."

"Forgive my indiscretion, madame; I have bitterly suffered for it."

"Explain yourself, sir."

"Closely attending upon my sick mother, I rarely quitted the house, my only pleasure was to gaze daily from that window, and the hope of seeing you kept me whole hours there. At last you came, sometimes your steps were slow, sometimes rapid, and you frequently threw yourself as if in agony on a marble seat, or stood motionless with your head buried in your hands. Alas, how often, when after these reveries you raised your head, was your countenance bathed in tears!"

At these words M. de Morville's voice faltered with emotion.

Madame de Hansfeld replied austerely,—

"We are not speaking, sir, of any moments of weakness you may have witnessed, but of a secret you are about to communicate."

M. de Morville regarded the princess with a sorrowful air, and continued,—

"After some few days,—forgive my presumption, madame,—I fancied I had penetrated the cause of your grief."

"Your penetration seems very great, sir."

"I was then suffering from the same cause (at least as I think) as that which at that moment tormented you. This was the secret I believed I had discovered."

"Surely, sir, you are not speaking seriously? and yet any attempt at pleasantry would be most unseasonable."

"I speak most seriously, madame."

"And so then," said Madame de Hansfeld, with a contemptuous smile, "you imagine I am a prey to grief, and that you have discovered the cause of it?"

"There are symptoms which are infallible."

"The outward marks of every kind of sorrow are the same, sir."

"Ah, madame, there is but one mode of lamenting the person we love."

"Is this mentioned in confidence? is this an allusion to your own regrets?"

"Alas! I, madame, have no more regrets; you have made me forget them all."

"I do not comprehend your meaning, sir; I expected you were about to tell me an important secret, and yet to the present moment——"

"One other word, madame. A sentiment that I believed unalterable, a long-cherished remembrance, spite of myself, was gradually effaced from my heart. In vain did I blame my weakness: in vain did I foresee to what this love would expose me. The charm was too powerful. I yielded before it. I had but one thought, one desire, one pleasure—that of seeing you. From constantly contemplating your features, I fancied I could read in them, so often overclouded with sorrow and melancholy, that despair, sometimes mute, sometimes so expressive, which the absence or loss of one dear to us invariably occasions."

Madame de Hansfeld shuddered, but remained silent.