Lucile Part 3

Love, eh?

What a question! Of course.

JOHN.

WERE you really in love With Madame de Nevers?

ALFRED.

What; Lucile? No, by Jove, Never REALLY.

JOHN.

She's pretty?

ALFRED.

Decidedly so.

At least, so she was, some ten summers ago.

As soft, and as sallow as Autumn--with hair Neither black, nor yet brown, but that tinge which the air Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting sun.

Eyes--the wistful gazelle's; the fine foot of a fairy; And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave,--white and airy; A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows.

Something in her there was, set you thinking of those Strange backgrounds of Raphael... that hectic and deep Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep.

JOHN.

Coquette?

ALFRED.

Not at all. 'Twas her one fault. Not she!

I had loved her the better, had she less loved me.

The heart of a man's like that delicate weed Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed, Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract.

'Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact.

JOHN.

Women change so.

ALFRED.

Of course.

JOHN.

And, unless rumor errs, I believe, that last year, the Comtesse de Nevers*

Was at Baden the rage--held an absolute court Of devoted adorers, and really made sport Of her subjects.

* O Shakespeare! how couldst thou ask "What's in a name?"

'Tis the devil's in it, when a bard has to frame English rhymes for alliance with names that are French: And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I trench All too far on that license which critics refuse, With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse.

Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a line, 'Twixt my British-born verse and my French heroine, Since, however auspiciously wedded they be, There is many a pair that yet cannot agree, Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, Whom necessity, not inclination, unites.

ALFRED.

Indeed!

JOHN.

When she broke off with you Her engagement, her heart did not break with it?

ALFRED.

Pooh!

Pray would you have had her dress always in black, And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack?

Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken.

JOHN.

Most likely. How was it?

ALFRED.

The tale is soon spoken.

She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next?

She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd.

I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I.

If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry.

I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd.

At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd.

She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason.

I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason.

In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see, Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she By whom to that crisis the matter was brought.

She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse, And declare myself uncomprehended. And so We parted. The rest of the story you know.

JOHN.

No, indeed.

ALFRED.

Well, we parted. Of course we could not Continue to meet, as before, in one spot.

You conceive it was awkward? Even Don Ferdinando Can do, you remember, no more than he can do.

I think that I acted exceedingly well, Considering the time when this rupture befell, For Paris was charming just then. It deranged All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed-- Wrote for Naples, then vacant--obtain'd it--and so Join'd my new post at once; but scarce reach'd it, when lo!

My first news from Paris informs me Lucile Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel.

I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret; I ask to renew the engagement.

JOHN.