Part 9 (1/2)
”Rosine,” said he, ”what is the matter with you?”
She did not answer.
It was one of those glorious, calm evenings in the month of June, whose secret harmonies infuse such sweetness into the sunset. The air was clear, the stillness perfect, so that far away in the park they could hear the voices of some children, which added a kind of melody to the sublimity of the scene.
”You do not answer me?” the Colonel said to his wife.
”My husband----” said the Countess, who broke off, started a little, and with a blush stopped to ask him, ”What am I to say when I speak of M.
Ferraud?”
”Call him your husband, my poor child,” replied the Colonel, in a kind voice. ”Is he not the father of your children?”
”Well, then,” she said, ”if he should ask what I came here for, if he finds out that I came here, alone, with a stranger, what am I to say to him? Listen, monsieur,” she went on, a.s.suming a dignified att.i.tude, ”decide my fate, I am resigned to anything--”
”My dear,” said the Colonel, taking possession of his wife's hands, ”I have made up my mind to sacrifice myself entirely for your happiness--”
”That is impossible!” she exclaimed, with a sudden spasmodic movement.
”Remember that you would have to renounce your ident.i.ty, and in an authenticated form.”
”What?” said the Colonel. ”Is not my word enough for you?”
The word ”authenticated” fell on the old man's heart, and roused involuntary distrust. He looked at his wife in a way that made her color, she cast down her eyes, and he feared that he might find himself compelled to despise her. The Countess was afraid lest she had scared the shy modesty, the stern honesty, of a man whose generous temper and primitive virtues were known to her. Though these feelings had brought the clouds to her brow, they immediately recovered their harmony. This was the way of it. A child's cry was heard in the distance.
”Jules, leave your sister in peace,” the Countess called out.
”What, are your children here?” said Chabert.
”Yes, but I told them not to trouble you.”
The old soldier understood the delicacy, the womanly tact of so gracious a precaution, and took the Countess' hand to kiss it.
”But let them come,” said he.
The little girl ran up to complain of her brother.
”Mamma!”
”Mamma!”
”It was Jules--”
”It was her--”
Their little hands were held out to their mother, and the two childish voices mingled; it was an unexpected and charming picture.
”Poor little things!” cried the Countess, no longer restraining her tears, ”I shall have to leave them. To whom will the law a.s.sign them? A mother's heart cannot be divided; I want them, I want them.”
”Are you making mamma cry?” said Jules, looking fiercely at the Colonel.