He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though I continued silent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated with perseverance, he waited with patience.
“Justine Marie is a good girl,” said he, “docile and amiable—not quick, but you will like her.”
“I think not. I think she must not come here.” Such was my speech.
“Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there is something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul Carlos. Tell him the grief.”
His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards him. “Do you know Marie Justine?” said he again.
The name repronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did not prostrate—no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat through my veins, recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nights of heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely as he had long twined his life in mine—far as had progressed and near as was achieved our minds’ and affections’ assimilation—the very suggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only with a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve, an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide the flame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.
“I want to tell you something,” I said; “I want to tell you all.”
“Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you if I do not? Who is your friend if not Emanuel? Speak!”
I spoke. All escaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast I narrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went back to the night in the park. I mentioned the medicated draught, why it was given, its goading effect, how it had torn rest from under my head, shaken me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure of a vivid yet solemn fancy—a summer-night solitude on turf, under trees, near a deep, cool lakelet. I told the scene realized—the crowd, the masques, the music, the lamps, the splendours, the guns booming afar, the bells sounding on high. All I had encountered I detailed—all I had recognized, heard, and seen; how I had beheld and watched himself; how I listened, how much heard, what conjectured; the whole history, in brief, summoned to his confidence, rushed thither truthful, literal, ardent, bitter.
Still as I narrated, instead of checking, he incited me to proceed; he spurred me by the gesture, the smile, the half-word. Before I had half done, he held both my hands, he consulted my eyes with a most piercing glance. There was something in his face which tended neither to calm nor to put me down; he forgot his own doctrine, he forsook his own system of repression when I most challenged its exercise. I think I deserved strong reproof; but when have we our deserts? I merited severity; he looked indulgence. To my very self I seemed imperious and unreasonable, for I forbade Justine Marie my door and roof; he smiled, betraying delight. Warm, jealous, and haughty, I knew not till now that my nature had such a mood. He gathered me near his heart. I was full of faults; he took them and me all home. For the moment of utmost mutiny he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressed my ear,—
“Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on earth.”
We walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight—such moonlight as fell on Eden—shining through the shades of the great garden, and haply gilding a path glorious for a step divine, a presence nameless. Once in their lives some men and women go back to these first fresh days of our great sire and mother, taste that grand morning’s dew, bathe in its sunrise.
In the course of the walk I was told how Justine Marie Sauveur had always been regarded with the affection proper to a daughter—how, with M. Paul’s consent, she had been affianced for months to one Heinrich Mühler, a wealthy young German merchant, and was to be married in the course of a year. Some of M. Emanuel’s relations and connections would, indeed, it seems, have liked him to marry her, with a