Part 24 (1/2)
”I am not such a child!” exclaimed Aline, rising with a vexed air; ”I know what I have seen. They were talking a long time together in the drawing-room last evening, and I am sure they were speaking of me.”
Madame de Bergenheim burst into laughter, which increased her sister-in-law's vexation, for she was less and less disposed to be treated like a young girl.
”Poor Aline!” said the Baroness, at last; ”they were talking about the fifth portrait; Monsieur de Gerfaut can not find the name of the original among the old papers, and he thinks he did not belong to the family. You know, that old face with the gray beard, near the door.”
The young girl bent her head, like a child who sees her naughty sister throw down her castle of cards.
”And how do you know?” said she, after a moment's reflection. ”You were at the piano. How could you hear at the other end of the room what Monsieur de Gerfaut was saying?”
It was Clemence's turn to hang her head, for it seemed to her that the girl had suspected the constant attention which, under an affectation of indifference, never allowed her to lose one of Octave's words. As usual, she concealed her embarra.s.sment by redoubling her sarcasm.
”Very likely,” said she, ”I was mistaken, and you may be right after all. What day shall we have the honor of saluting Madame la Vicomtesse de Gerfaut?”
”I foolishly told you what I imagined, and you at once make fun of me,”
said Aline, whose round face lengthened at each word, and pa.s.sed from rose-color to scarlet; ”is it my fault that my brother said this?”
”I do not think it was necessary for him to speak of it, for you to think a great deal about the matter.”
”Very well; must one not think of something?”
”But one should be careful of one's thoughts; it is not proper for a young girl to think of any man,” replied Clemence, with an accent of severity which would have made her aunt recognize with pride the pure blood of the Corandeuils.
”I think it is more proper for a young girl to do so than for a married woman.”
At this unexpected retort, Madame de Bergenheim lost countenance and sat speechless before the young maiden, like a pupil who has just been punished by his teacher.
”Where the devil did the little serpent get that idea?” thought Gerfaut, who was very ill at ease between the two wardrobes where he was concealed.
Seeing that her sister-in-law did not reply to her, Aline took this silence from confusion for an expression of bad temper, and at once became angry in her turn.
”You are very cross to-day,” said she; ”good-by, I do not want your books.”
She threw the volumes of Waverley upon the sofa, picked up her watering-pot and went out, closing the door with a loud bang. Madame de Bergenheim sat motionless with a pensive, gloomy air, as if the young girl's remark had changed her into a statue.
”Shall I enter?” said Octave to himself, leaving his niche and putting his hand upon the door-k.n.o.b. ”This little simpleton has done me an infinite wrong with her silly speeches. I am sure that she is cruising with full sails set upon the stormy sea of remorse, and that those two rosebuds she is gazing at now seem to her like her husband's eyes.”
Before the poet could make up his mind what to do, the Baroness arose and left the room, closing the door almost as noisily as her sister-in-law had done.
Gerfaut went downstairs, cursing, from the very depths of his heart, boarding-school misses and sixteen-year-old hearts. After walking up and down the library for a few moments, he left it and started to return to his room. As he pa.s.sed the drawing-room, loud music reached his ear; chromatic fireworks, scales running with the rapidity of the cataract of Niagara, extraordinary arpeggios, hammering in the ba.s.s with a petulance and frenzy which proved that the 'furie francaise' is not the exclusive right of the stronger s.e.x. In this jumble of grave, wild, and sad notes, Gerfaut recognized, by the clearness of touch and brilliancy of some of the pa.s.sages, that this improvisation could not come from Aline's unpractised fingers. He understood that the piano must be at this moment Madame de Bergenheim's confidant, and that she was pouring out the contradictory emotions in which she had indulged for several days; for, to a heart deprived of another heart in which to confide its joys and woes, music is a friend that listens and replies.
Gerfaut listened for some time in silence, with his head leaning against the drawing-room door. Clemence wandered through vague melodies without fixing upon any one in particular. At last a thought seemed to captivate her. After playing the first measures of the romance from Saul, she resumed the motive with more precision, and when she had finished the ritornello she began to sing, in a soft, veiled voice,
”a.s.sisa al pie d'un salice--”
Gerfaut had heard her sing this several times, in society, but never with this depth of expression. She sang before strangers with her lips; now it all came from her heart. At the third verse, when he believed her to be exalted by her singing and the pa.s.sion exhaled in this exquisite song, the poet softly entered, judging it to be a favorable moment, and enough agitated himself to believe in the contagion of his agitation.
The first sight which met his eyes was Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stretched out in her armchair, head thrown back, arms drooping and letting escape by way of accompaniment a whistling, crackling, nasal melody. The old maid's spectacles hanging on the end of her nose had singularly compromised the harmony of her false front. The 'Gazette de France' had fallen from her hands and decorated the back of Constance, who, as usual, was lying at her mistress's feet.
”Horrible old witch!” said Gerfaut to himself. ”Decidedly, the Fates are against me to-day.” However, as both mistress and dog were sleeping soundly, he closed the door and tiptoed across the floor.