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Page 66
Monsieur de Lucan asked himself whether he should not inform Julia of the
conduct he had resolved to follow, and of the reasons that had dictated
it; but every shadow of an explanation between them appeared to him
eminently improper and dangerous. Their confidential understanding upon
such a subject would have assumed an air of complicity which was repugnant
to all his sentiments of honor. Despite the terrible light that had
flashed forth, there still remained between them something obscure,
undecided, and unconfessed that he thought best to preserve at any cost.
Far, therefore, from seeking opportunities for some private interview, he
avoided them all from that moment with scrupulous care. Julia seemed
penetrated with the same feeling of reserve, and anxious to the same
degree as himself to avoid any tete-a-tete, while striving to save
appearances; but in that respect she did not dispose of that power of
dissimulation which Lucan owed to his natural and acquired firmness. He
was able, without visible effort, to hide under his habitual air of
gravity the anxieties that consumed him. Julia did not succeed, without an
almost convulsive restraint, in carrying with bold and smiling countenance
the burden of her thought. To the only witness who knew the secret of her
struggles, it was a poignant spectacle to behold the gracious and feverish
animation of which the unhappy child sustained the appearance with so much
difficulty. He saw her sometimes at a distance, like an exhausted
comedienne, retiring to some isolated bench in the garden, and fairly
panting with her hand pressing upon her bosom, as if to keep down her
rebellious heart. He felt then, in spite of all, overcome with immense
pity in presence of so much beauty and so much misery.
Was it only pity?
The attitude, the words, the looks of Clotilde and of Julia's husband were
at the same time, for Monsieur de Lucan, the objects of constant and
uneasy observation. Clotilde had evidently not conceived the slightest
alarm. The gentle serenity of her features remained unaltered. A few
oddities, more or less, in Julia's ways did not constitute a sufficient
novelty to attract her particular attention. Her mind, moreover, was too
far away from the monstrous abysses yawning at her side; she might have
stepped into them and been swallowed up, before she had suspected their
existence.
The blonde, placid, and handsome countenance of the Count de Moras
retained at all times, like Lucan's dark face, a sort of sculptural
firmness. It was, therefore, rather difficult to read upon it the
impressions of a soul which was naturally strong and self-controlling. On
one point, however, that soul had become weak. Monsieur de Lucan was not
ignorant of the fact; he was aware of the count's ardent love for Julia,
and of the sickly susceptibility of his passion.
It seemed unlikely that such a sentiment, if it were seriously set at
defiance, should not betray itself in some violent or at least perceptible
exterior sign. Monsieur de Lucan, in reality, was unable to observe any of
these dreaded symptoms. If he did occasionally surprise a fugitive wrinkle
on his brow, a doubtful intonation, a fugitive or absent glance, he might
believe at most in some return of that vague and chimerical jealousy with
which he knew the count to have been long tormented. Besides, he saw him
carrying into their family circle the same impassive and smiling face, and
he continued to receive from him the same tokens of cordiality. Oppressed,
nevertheless by his legitimate scruples of loyalty and friendship, he had
for one moment the mad temptation of revealing to the count the trial that
was imposed upon them; but while revealing his own heart, would not such a
delicate and cruel confession break the heart of his friend? And,
moreover, would not such a pretended act of loyalty, involving the
betrayal of a woman's secret, be tainted with cowardice and treason?
It was necessary, therefore, amid so many dangers and so much anxiety, to
sustain alone, and to the end, the weight of that trial, more complicated
and more perilous still, perhaps, than Monsieur de Lucan was willing to
admit to himself.
It was to come to an end much sooner than he could possibly have
anticipated.
Clotilde and her husband, accompanied by Monsieur and Madame de Moras,
went one day, in the carriage, to visit the ruins of a covered gallery
which is one of the rarest of druidical antiquities in the country. These
ruins lay at the back of a picturesque little bay, scooped out in the
rocky wall that borders the eastern shore of the peninsula. Their
shapeless masses are strewn over one of those grass-clad spurs that extend
here and there to the foot of the cliff like giant buttresses. They are
reached, despite the steepness of the hill, by an easy winding road that
leads, with long, meandering turns, down to the yellow, sandy beach of the
little bay. Clotilde and Julia made a sketch of the old Celtic temple
while the gentlemen were smoking; then they amused themselves for some
time watching the rising waves spreading upon the sand its fringes of
foam. It was agreed to return to the top of the hill on foot in order to
relieve the horses.
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