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Page 55
"Keep your apologies to yourself!" she said, in a hoarse voice, opening
her eyes wide at the same time. "I have no need of your apologies any
more than of your lessons! Your lessons! What have I done to deserve such
a humiliation? I cannot understand. What is there more innocent than my
words, and what do you expect me to tell you? Is it my fault if I am here
alone with you! if I am compelled to speak to you?--if I know not what to
say? Why am I exposed to such things? Why ask me more than I can do? It
is presuming too much on my strength! It is enough--it is a thousand
times too much already--to be compelled to act such a comedy as I am
compelled to act every day. God knows I am tired of it!"
Lucan found it difficult to overcome the painful surprise that had seized
him.
"Julia," he said at last, "you were kind enough to tell me that we were
friends; I believed you. Is it not true, then?"
"No!"
After launching that word with somber energy, she wrapped up her head
and face in her hood and vail, and remained during the rest of the way
plunged into a silence which Monsieur de Lucan did not attempt to disturb.
CHAPTER VI.
A DISILLUSION.
After a few hours of painful sleep, Monsieur de Lucan rose the next day,
his brain laden with cares.
The resumption of hostilities, which had been clearly signified to him
foreboded surely fresh troubles for his peace and fresh anguish for
Clotilde's happiness. Was he, then, about returning to those odious
agitations which had so long harassed his existence, and this time without
any hopes of escape? How, indeed, was it possible not to despair of that
untamable nature which age and reason, which so much attention and
affection had left unmoved in her prejudices and her hatred? How was it
possible to understand, and, above all, ever to overcome the quixotic
sentiment, or rather the mania which had taken possession of that
concentrated soul, and which was smoldering in it, ever ready to break
forth in furious outbursts?
Clotilde and Julia had not yet made their appearance. Lucan went to take
a walk in the garden, to breathe once more the peace of his beloved
solitude, pending the anticipated storms. At the extremity of an alley of
evergreens, he discovered the Count de Moras, his arm resting on the
pedestal of an old statue, and his eyes fixed on the ground.
Monsieur de Moras had never been a dreamer, but since his arrival at the
chateau, he had, on more than one occasion, manifested to Lucan a
melancholy state of mind quite foreign to his natural disposition. Lucan
had felt alarmed; nevertheless, as he did not himself like any one to
intrude upon his confidence, he had abstained from questioning him.
They shook hands as they met.
"You came home late last night?" inquired the count.
"At about three o'clock."
"Oh! _povero! Apropos_, thanks for your kindness to Julia. How did she
behave to you?"
"Why--well enough," said Lucan--"a little peculiar, as usual."
"Oh! peculiar of course!"
He smiled rather sadly, took Monsieur de Lucan's arm, and leading him
through the meandering paths of the garden:
"_Voyons, mon cher_," he said in a suppressed voice, "between you and me,
what is Julia?"
"How, my friend?"
"Yes, what sort of a woman is my wife? If you know, do tell me, I beg of
you."
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