Part 10 (1/2)
”Non, vraiment, I did not know it,” said Louise, laughingly.
”You did not know it?” asked Henry, wonderingly. ”Well, what did you suppose?”
”I thought,” she said, carelessly--”I thought that Prince Henry had overcome or forgotten his little folly of the carnival.”
”And then?”
”Then I determined to follow his example. Then I preached a long sermon to my foolish eyes--they were misty with tears. Listen, I said to them: 'You foolish things you have no reason to weep; you should always look bright and dazzling, even if you never see Prince Henry again. Really, the absence of the prince has been most fortunate for you. You might have whispered all kinds of foolish things to my weak heart. The prince is young, handsome, and amiable, and it amuses him to win the love of fair ladies. Had you seen him more frequently, it is possible he might have succeeded with poor Louise, and the little flirtation we carried on together would have resulted in earnest love on my part. That would have been a great misfortune. Laugh and look joyous, beautiful eyes, you have saved me from an unrequited love. You should not weep, but rejoice. Look around and find another suitor, who would, perhaps, love me so fondly that he could not forget me in a few days; whose love I might return with ardor.' This, my prince, is the sermon I preached to my eyes when they grew dim with tears.”
”And was your sermon effective?” said the prince, with pale, trembling lips. ”Did your eyes, those obedient slaves, look around and find another lover?”
”Ah! your highness, how can you doubt it? My eyes are indeed my slaves, and must obey. Yes, they looked and found the happiness they sought.”
”What happiness,” asked Henry, apparently quite tranquil, but he pressed his hand nervously on the chair that stood by him--”what happiness did your eyes find?”
Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. ”The happiness,” she said, and against her will her voice trembled and faltered--”the happiness that a true, earnest love alone can give--which I have received joyously into my heart as a gift from G.o.d.”
The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a wild, despairing expression, and his hands clasped the chair more firmly.
”I do not understand your holy, pious words. What do they mean? What do you wish to say?”
”They mean that I now love so truly and so earnestly that I have promised to become the wife of the man I love,” said Louise, with forced gayety.
The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his hands as if to curse the one who had wounded him so painfully.
”If this is true,” he said, in a deep, hollow voice--”if this is true, I despise, I hate you, and they are right who call you a heartless coquette.”
”Ah, my prince, you insult me,” cried Louise.
”I insult you!” he said, with a wild laugh; ”verily, I believe this woman has the effrontery to reproach me--I who believed in and defended her against every accusation--I that had the courage to love and trust, when all others distrusted and despised her. Yes, madame, I loved you: I saw in you a G.o.ddess, where others saw only a coquette. I adored you as an innocent sacrifice to envy and malice; I saw a martyr's crown upon your brow, and wished to change it for the myrtle-crown of marriage.
And my love and hopes are dust and ashes; it is enough to drive me mad--enough to stifle me with rage and shame.” Carried away by pa.s.sion, the prince ran wildly through the saloon, gasping for air, struggling for composure, and now and then uttering words of imprecation and despair.
Louise waited, in silence and resignation, the end of this stormy crisis. She questioned her heart if this bitter hour was not sufficient atonement for all her faults and follies; if the agony she now suffered did not wipe out and extirpate the past.
The prince still paced the room violently. Suddenly, as if a new thought had seized him, he remained standing in the middle of the saloon, and looked at Louise with a strangely altered countenance. She had forgotten for a moment the part she was condemned to play, and leaned, pale and sad, against the window.
Perhaps he heard her sorrowful sighs--perhaps he saw her tears as they rolled one by one from her eyes, and fell like pearls upon her small white hands.
Anger disappeared from his face, his brow cleared, and as he approached Louise his eyes sparkled with another and milder fire.
”Louise,” he said, softly, and his voice, which had before raged like a stormy wind, was now mild and tender--”Louise, I have divined your purpose--I know all now. At first, I did not understand your words; in my folly and jealousy I misconceived your meaning; you only wished to try me, to see if my love was armed and strong, if it was as bold and faithful as I have sworn it to be. Well, I stood the test badly, was weak and faint-hearted; but forgive me--forgive me, Louise, and strengthen my heart by confidence and faith in me.”
He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it.
”Must I repeat to your highness what I have said before? I do not understand you. What do you mean?”
”Ah,” said the prince, ”you are again my naughty, sportive Louise. Well, then, I will explain. Did you not say that you now love so truly, that you have promised to become the wife of the man you love?”
”Yes, I said that, your highness.”
”And I,” said the prince, seizing both her hands and gazing at her ardently--”I was so short-sighted, so ungrateful, as not to understand you. The many sorrows and vexations I suffer away from you have dimmed my eyes and prevented me from seeing what is written with golden letters upon your smiling lips and beaming eyes. Ah, Louise, I thank you for your precious words, at last you are captured, at last you have resolved to become the wife of him who adores you. I thank you, Louise, I thank you, and I swear that no earthly pomp or power could make me as proud and happy as this a.s.surance of your love.”