Читать книгу Comedies and Errors - Harland Henry - Страница 12

Table of Contents

And then, for what seemed to him an eternity, he never once encountered her. Morning and afternoon, day after day, he roamed the park of Bellefontaine from end to end, in all directions, but never once caught sight of so much as the flutter of her garments. And the result was that he began to grow seriously sentimental. “Im wunderschônen Monat Mai!” It was June, to be sure; but the meteorological influences were, for that, only the more potent. He remembered her shining eyes now as not merely whimsical and ardent, but as pensive, appealing, tender; he remembered her face as a face seen in starlight, ethereal and mystic; and her voice as low music far away. He recalled their last meeting as a treasure he had possessed and lost; he blamed himself for the frivolity of his talk and manner, and for the ineffectual impression of him this must have left upon her. Perpetually thinking of her, he was perpetually sighing, perpetually suffering strange, sudden, half painful, half delicious commotions in the tissues of his heart. Every morning he rose with a replenished fund of hope: this day at last would produce her. Every night he went to bed pitying himself as bankrupt of hope. And all the while, though he pined to talk of her, a curious bashfulness withheld him; so that, between him and Hilary, for quite a fortnight she was not mentioned. It was Hilary who broke the silence.

“Why so pale and wan?” Hilary asked him. “Will, when looking well won’t move her, looking ill prevail?”

“Oh, I am seriously love-sick,” cried Ferdinand Augustus, welcoming the subject. “I went in for a sensation, and I’ve got a real emotion.”

“Poor youth! And she won’t look at you, I suppose?” was Hilary’s method of commiseration.

“I have not seen her for a mortal fortnight. She has completely vanished. And for the first time in my life I’m seriously in love.”

“You’re incapable of being seriously in love,” said Hilary.

“I had always thought so myself,” admitted Ferdinand Augustus. “The most I had ever felt for any woman was a sort of mere lukewarm desire, a sort of mere meaningless titillation. But this woman is different. She’s as different to other women as wine is different to toast-and-water. She has the feu-sacré. She’s done something to the very inmost soul of me; she’s laid it bare, and set it quivering and yearning. She’s made herself indispensable to me; I can’t live without her. Ah, you don’t know what she’s like. She’s like some strange, beautiful, burning spirit. Oh, for an hour with her I’d give my kingdom. To touch her hand—to look into those eyes of hers—to hear her speak to me! I tell you squarely, if she’d have me, I’d throw up the whole scheme of my existence, I’d fly with her to the uttermost ends of the earth. But she has totally disappeared, and I can do nothing to recover her without betraying my identity; and that would spoil everything. I want her to love me for myself, believing me to be a plain man, like you or anybody. If she knew who I am, how could I ever be sure?”

“You are in a bad way,” said Hilary, looking at him with amusement. “And yet, I’m gratified to see it. Her hair is not so red as I could wish, but, after all, it’s reddish; and you appear to be genuinely aflame. It will do you no end of good; it will make a man of you—a plain man, like me or anybody. But your impatience is not reasoned. A fortnight? You have not met her for a fortnight? My dear, to a plain man (like me or anybody) a fortnight’s nothing. It’s just an appetiser. Watch and wait, and you’ll meet her before you know it. And now, if you will excuse me, I have business in another quarter of the palace.”

Ferdinand Augustus, left to himself, went down into the garden. It was a wonderful summer’s evening, made indeed (if I may steal a phrase from Hilary) of perfumed velvet. The sun had set an hour since, but the western sky was still splendid, like a dark banner, with sombre reds and purples; and in the east hung the full moon, so brilliant, so apposite, as to seem somehow almost like a piece of premeditated decoration. The waters of the fountains flashed silverly in its light; glossy leaves gave back dim reflections; here and there, embowered among the trees, white statues gleamed ghost-like. Away in the park somewhere, innumerable frogs were croaking, croaking; subdued by distance, the sound gained a quality that was plaintive and unearthly. The long façade of the palace lay obscure in shadow; only at the far end, in the Queen’s apartments, were the windows alight. But, quite close at hand, the moon caught a corner of the terrace; and here, presently, Ferdinand Augustus became aware of a human figure. A woman was standing alone by the balustrade, gazing out into the wondrous night. Ferdinand Augustus’s heart began to pound; and it was a full minute before he could command himself sufficiently to move or speak.

At last, however, he approached her. “Good evening,” he said, looking up from the pathway.

She glanced down at him, leaning upon the balustrade. “Oh, how do you do?” She smiled her surprise. She was in evening dress, a white robe embroidered with pearls, and she wore a tiara of pearls in her hair. She had a light cloak thrown over her shoulders, a little cape trimmed with swan’s-down. “Heavens!” thought Ferdinand Augustus. “How magnificent she is!”

“It’s a hundred years since I have seen you,” he said.

“Oh, is it so long as that? I should have imagined it was something like a fortnight. Time passes quickly.”

“That is a question of psychology. But now at last I find you when I least expect you.”

“I have slipped out for a moment,” she explained, “to enjoy this beautiful prospect. One has no such view from the Queen’s end of the terrace. One cannot see the moon.”

“I cannot see the moon from where I am standing,” said he.

“No, because you have turned your back upon it,” said she.

“I have chosen between two visions. If you were to authorise me to join you, aloft there, I could see both.”

“I have no power to authorise you,” she laughed, “the terrace is not my property. But if you choose to take the risks——”

“Oh,” he cried, “you are good, you are kind.” And in an instant he had joined her on the terrace, and his heart was fluttering wildly with its sense of her nearness to him. He could not speak.

“Well, now you can see the moon. Is it all your fancy painted?” she asked, with her whimsical smile. Her face was exquisitely pale in the moonlight, her eyes glowed. Her voice was very soft.

His heart was fluttering wildly, poignantly. “Oh,” he began, but broke off. His breath trembled. “I cannot speak,” he said.

She arched her eyebrows; “Then we have made some mistake. This will never be you, in that case.”

“Oh, yes, it is I. It is the other fellow, the gabbler, who is not myself,” he contrived to tell her.

“You lead a double life, like the villain in the play?” she suggested.

“You must have your laugh at my expense; have it, and welcome. But I know what I know,” he said.

“What do you know?” she asked quickly.

“I know that I am in love with you,” he answered.

“Oh, only that,” she said, with an air of relief.

“Only that. But that is a great deal. I know that I love you—oh, yes, unutterably. If you could see yourself! You are absolutely unique among women. I would never have believed it possible for any woman to make me feel what you have made me feel. I have never spoken like this to any woman in all my life. Oh, you may laugh. It is the truth, upon my word of honour. If you could look into your eyes—yes, even when you are laughing at me! I can see your wonderful burning spirit shining deep, deep in your eyes. You do not dream how different you are to other women. You are a wonderful burning poem. They are platitudes. Oh, I love you unutterably. There has not been an hour since I last saw you that I have not thought of you, loved you, longed for you. And now here you stand, you yourself, beside me! If you could see into my heart, if you could see what I feel!”

She looked at the moon, with a strange little smile, and was silent.

“Will you not speak to me?” he cried.

“What would you have me say?” she asked, still looking away.

“Oh, you know, you know what I would have you say.”

“I am afraid you will not like the only thing I can say.” She turned, and met his eyes. “I am a married woman, and—I am in love with my husband.”

Ferdinand Augustus stood aghast. “Oh, my God!” he groaned.

“Yes, though he has given me little enough reason to do so, I have fallen in love with him,” she went on pitilessly. “So you must get over your fancy for me. After all, I am a total stranger to you. You do not even know my name.”

“Will you tell me your name?” asked Ferdinand humbly. “It will be something to remember.”

“My name is Marguerite.”

“Marguerite! Marguerite!” He repeated it caressingly. “It is a beautiful name. But it is also the name of the Queen.”

“I am the only person named Marguerite in the Queen’s court,” said she.

“What!” cried Ferdinand Augustus.

“Oh, it is a wise husband who knows his own wife,” laughed she.

And then. … But I think I have told enough.