Lucile Part 25

How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be destroy'd?

'Tis a warm human one that must fill up the void.

Through many a heart runs the rent in the fable; But who to discover a Curtius is able?

XVII.

Back she came from her long hiding-place, at the source Of the sunrise; where, fair in their fabulous course, Run the rivers of Eden: an exile again, To the cities of Europe--the scenes, and the men, And the life, and the ways, she had left: still oppress'd With the same hungry heart, and unpeaceable breast.

The same, to the same things! The world she had quitted With a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon flitted Through the salons and clubs, to the great satisfaction Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction.

The enchanting Lucile, the gay Countess, once more, To her old friend, the World, had reopen'd her door; The World came, and shook hands, and was pleased and amused With what the World then went away and abused.

From the woman's fair fame it in naught could detract: 'Twas the woman's free genius it vex'd and attack'd With a sneer at her freedom of action and speech.

But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not reach The lone heart they aim'd at. Her tears fell beyond The world's limit, to feel that the world could respond To that heart's deepest, innermost yearning, in naught, 'Twas no longer this earth's idle inmates she sought: The wit of the woman sufficed to engage In the woman's gay court the first men of the age.

Some had genius; and all, wealth of mind to confer On the world: but that wealth was not lavish'd for her.

For the genius of man, though so human indeed, When call'd out to man's help by some great human need, The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses To use what it h.o.a.rds for mankind's n.o.bler uses.

Genius touches the world at but one point alone Of that s.p.a.cious circ.u.mference, never quite known To the world; all the infinite number of lines That radiate thither a mere point combines, But one only,--some central affection apart From the reach of the world, in which Genius is Heart, And love, life's fine centre, includes heart and mind, And therefore it was that Lucile sigh'd to find Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken, When they stoop'd themselves to it, as mere clever men; Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are unfurl'd Worlds new-fas.h.i.+oned for man, as mere men of the world.

And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight Of the sunset of youth, with her face from the light, And watch'd her own shadow grow long at her feet, As though stretch'd out, the shade of some OTHER to meet, The woman felt homeless and childless: in scorn She seem'd mock'd by the voices of children unborn; And when from these sombre reflections away She turn'd, with a sigh, to that gay world, more gay For her presence within it, she knew herself friendless; That her path led from peace, and that path appear'd endless!

That even her beauty had been but a snare, And her wit sharpen'd only the edge of despair.

XVIII.

With a face all transfigured and flush'd by surprise, Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep searching eyes She look'd into his own. Not a word that she said, Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betray'd.

She seem'd to smile through him, at something beyond: When she answer'd his questions, she seem'd to respond To some voice in herself. With no trouble descried, To each troubled inquiry she calmly replied.

Not so he. At the sight of that face back again To his mind came the ghost of a long-stifled pain, A remember'd resentment, half check'd by a wild And relentful regret like a motherless child Softly seeking admittance, with plaintive appeal, To the heart which resisted its entrance.

Lucile And himself thus, however, with freedom allow'd To old friends, talking still side by side, left the crowd By the crowd un.o.bserved. Not unnoticed, however, By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never Seen her husband's new friend.

She had follow'd by chance, Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance Which the Duke, when he witness'd their meeting, had turn'd On Lucile and Lord Alfred; and, scared, she discern'd On his feature the shade of a gloom so profound That she shudder'd instinctively. Deaf to the sound Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers He replied not, but murmur'd, "Lucile de Nevers Once again then? so be it!" In the mind of that man, At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the plan Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone (To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of thought By which all his nature to tumult was wrought.

XIX.

"So!" he thought, "they meet thus: and reweave the old charm!

And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm, And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me!

Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be Loved by one--her own rival--more fair and more young?"

The serpent rose in him; a serpent which, stung, Sought to sting.

Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by, In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts touch'd. Meanwhile The muse of this story, convinced that they need her, To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader.

XX.

The Duke with that sort of aggressive false praise Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly With the man he is minded to hang by and by), Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect In the face of Matilda the growing effect Of the words he had dropp'd. There's no weapon that slays Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise.

Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen: and now Each was silent, preoccupied; thoughtful.

You know There are moments when silence, prolong'd and unbroken, More expressive may be than all words ever spoken.

It is when the heart has an instinct of what In the heart of another is pa.s.sing. And that In the heart of Matilda, what was it? Whence came To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame?

What weighed down her head?

All your eye could discover Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew.

She, however, broke silence, the first of the two.

The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell Of a silence which suited his purpose so well.

She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose blossom Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her bosom.

"This poor flower," she said, "seems it not out of place In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile grace?"

She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the while, And continued on his side the silence. He knew This would force his companion their talk to renew At the point that he wish'd; and Matilda divined The significant pause with new trouble of mind.

She lifted one moment her head; but her look Encounter'd the ardent regard of the Duke, And dropp'd back on her flowret abash'd. Then, still seeking The a.s.surance she fancied she show'd him by speaking, She conceived herself safe in adopting again The theme she should most have avoided just then.

XXI.

"Duke," she said,... and she felt, as she spoke, her cheek burn'd, "You know, then, this... lady?"

"Too well!" he return'd.

MATILDA.

True; you drew with emotion her portrait just now.

LUVOIS.

With emotion?

MATILDA.

Yes, yes! you described her, I know, As possess'd of a charm all unrivall'd.

LUVOIS.

Alas!

You mistook me completely! You, madam, surpa.s.s This lady as moonlight does lamplight; as youth Surpa.s.ses its best imitations; as truth The fairest of falsehood surpa.s.ses; as nature Surpa.s.ses art's masterpiece; ay, as the creature Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpa.s.ses All the charms got by heart at the world's looking-gla.s.ses!

"Yet you said,"--she continued with some trepidation, "That you quite comprehended"... a slight hesitation Shook the sentence,... "a pa.s.sion so strong as"...

LUVOIS.

"True, true!

But not in a man that had once look'd at you.

Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or"...

Hush, hus.h.!.+"

She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush.

"Between man and woman these things differ so!

It may be that the world pardons... (how should I know?) In you what it visits on us; or 'tis true, It may be that we women are better than you."

LUVOIS.

Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more you mistake.

The world, in its judgment, some difference may make 'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects Its social enchantments; but not as affects The one sentiment which it were easy to prove, Is the sole law we look to the moment we love.

MATILDA.

That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe.

Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear I have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress Or account for the feelings which sway it.