Part 23 (1/2)

Maurice and General van Berger supported Albert, who had lost his self-reliance and was a little crestfallen.

”Yes; I have been tortured again by some sort of repugnance,” said Esperance. ”I know that I should devote myself to loving that man.

But....”

”That will make for the happiness of all who love you.”

”Yes, but it will be like condemning myself to death.”

Genevieve s.h.i.+vered and grew silent, while pressing Esperance close to her side to give her courage. Her friend's confidences troubled her sadly. She also saw the shade of sorrow hovering over this pure face.

She was on the point of encouraging Esperance to refuse the union which would no doubt be proposed for her, but the recollection of the Duke haunted her. Was not this man more to be feared than death itself?

”These are silly notions that crowd your brain with presentiments and nightmares. You must rouse your energy, my darling, and chase everything that threatens to hurt your life.”

”I swear to you, Genevieve, that I make superhuman efforts; but no one is master of his thoughts. They are so impulsive and rapid that they seem to escape the control of the will.”

”Nevertheless we can deprive them of power!”

”Alas!... But I do not want to sadden you. Look! Maurice is getting anxious. Ah! you are going to be really happy, you are. I feel it.

True happiness is always found where love is equal.”

Maurice could not resist crying out, at sight of the two girls, ”How grave you both look! What were you talking about that you should spoil your beauty with furrows?”

The Count looked straight at Esperance and she could not prevent herself from blus.h.i.+ng.

”My G.o.d, have pity on me,” she thought. ”Help me to love this man.”

After fifteen days of long walks, which grew longer every day, and constant care, Albert became completely cured. They had a party at the farm house to celebrate his recovery, with the garrison doctor for the only outside guest.

The portrait of the Count that Maurice had done proved to be quite a remarkable picture--life-like and natural. It was placed on the mantel-piece in Mme. Styvens's room, where she found it when she returned after lunch. It was accompanied by a very simple letter, but a very sincere one, recalling the courage of the young Count and n.o.bly expressing the grat.i.tude of all. It was written and signed by the philosopher, Mme. Darbois and Maurice. The beautiful portrait, so delicately presented, was a source of happy comfort to this lonely woman.

The next day the Countess had a long talk with her son. He was sitting at her feet.

”Reflect very carefully,” she said to him, ”reflect very carefully. I believe that that child, whom I love, whom I find absolutely charming, will not willingly renounce her art. However, I am ready to do all I can to persuade her to accede to our desire and leave a career which would be an endless source of worry and suffering for you, my dear son.”

”Mama, do not trouble her too much. She is honest and loyal, and I have nothing to fear for the honour of my name.”

And before his mother could speak he went on: ”I am jealous, it is true, but what happiness is not willing to pay for itself with a little pain? Then, perhaps, she will understand. I love her so much, dear, dear mother.”

She took the head of the dearly loved son in her hands, and looking deep in his eyes, said fervently--”Dear G.o.d! May happiness reward so great a love!”

The young Count returned with his mother to the farm where Francois Darbois and his wife waited for them by agreement. After a quarter of an hour's conversation, Esperance was asked to come to her parents.

She was in her room. Her heart beat as if it would break. She had been warned by Maurice of her family's interview with the Countess.

Genevieve was with her, extolling the advantages of such a union, at the same time exalting the real goodness of the Count.

”Think also of your father, who at last will be able to realize his dream of becoming a member of the Academy. You know as well as I do that he has every chance of being elected, but he will never present himself as long as you are on the stage. You know the straightlaced, old-fas.h.i.+oned ways of that a.s.sembly....”

”But most of them are poets and dramatic writers,” replied Esperance.

”Why should my father care to belong to the Academy at all?”