In a Glass Darkly J. Sheridan Le Fanu (intellectual books to read .TXT) 📖

epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Arabian Nights, which emits, no matter how concealed, a light that betrays it.”

“I know the story,” said the young lady. “The light betrayed it, not in the sun, but in darkness. Is there so little light in these rooms, Monsieur, that a poor glowworm can show so brightly. I thought we were in a luminous atmosphere, wherever a certain countess moved?”

Here was an awkward speech! How was I to answer? This lady might be, as they say some ladies are, a lover of mischief, or an intimate of the Countess de St. Alyre. Cautiously, therefore, I inquired,

“What countess?”

“If you know me, you must know that she is my dearest friend. Is she not beautiful?”

“How can I answer, there are so many countesses.”

“Everyone who knows me, knows who my best beloved friend is. You don’t know me?”

“That is cruel. I can scarcely believe I am mistaken.”

“With whom were you walking, just now?” she asked.

“A gentleman, a friend,” I answered.

“I saw him, of course, a friend; but I think I know him, and should like to be certain. Is he not a certain marquis?”

Here was another question that was extremely awkward.

“There are so many people here, and one may walk, at one time, with one, and at another with a different one, that⁠—”

“That an unscrupulous person has no difficulty in evading a simple question like mine. Know then, once for all, that nothing disgusts a person of spirit so much as suspicion. You, Monsieur, are a gentleman of discretion. I shall respect you accordingly.”

“Mademoiselle would despise me, were I to violate a confidence.”

“But you don’t deceive me. You imitate your friend’s diplomacy. I hate diplomacy. It means fraud and cowardice. Don’t you think I know him. The gentleman with the cross of white ribbon on his breast. I know the Marquis d’Harmonville perfectly. You see to what good purpose your ingenuity has been expended.”

“To that conjecture I can answer neither yes nor no.”

“You need not. But what was your motive in mortifying a lady?”

“It is the last thing on earth I should do.”

“You affected to know me, and you don’t; through caprice or listlessness or curiosity you wished to converse, not with a lady, but with a costume. You admired, and you pretend to mistake me for another. But who is quite perfect? Is truth any longer to be found on earth?”

“Mademoiselle has formed a mistaken opinion of me.”

“And you also of me; you find me less foolish than you supposed. I know perfectly whom you intend amusing with compliments and melancholy declamation, and whom, with that amiable purpose, you have been seeking.”

“Tell me whom you mean,” I entreated.

“Upon one condition.”

“What is that?”

“That you will confess if I name the lady.”

“You describe my object unfairly.” I objected. “I can’t admit that I proposed speaking to any lady in the tone you describe.”

“Well, I shan’t insist on that; only if I name the lady, you will promise to admit that I am right.”

“Must I promise?”

“Certainly not, there is no compulsion; but your promise is the only condition on which I will speak to you again.”

I hesitated for a moment; but how could she possibly tell? The Countess would scarcely have admitted this little romance to anyone; and the mask in the La Vallière costume could not possibly know who the masked domino beside her was.

“I consent,” I said, “I promise.”

“You must promise on the honour of a gentleman.”

“Well, I do; on the honour of a gentleman.”

“Then this lady is the Countess de St. Alyre.” I was unspeakably surprised; I was disconcerted; but I remembered my promise, and said⁠—

“The Countess de St. Alyre is, unquestionably, the lady to whom I hoped for an introduction tonight; but I beg to assure you also on the honour of a gentleman, that she has not the faintest imaginable suspicion that I was seeking such an honour, nor, in all probability, does she remember that such a person as I exists. I had the honour to render her and the Count a trifling service, too trifling, I fear, to have earned more than an hour’s recollection.”

“The world is not so ungrateful as you suppose; or if it be, there are, nevertheless, a few hearts that redeem it. I can answer for the Countess de St. Alyre, she never forgets a kindness. She does not show all she feels; for she is unhappy, and cannot.”

“Unhappy! I feared, indeed, that might be. But for all the rest that you are good enough to suppose, it is but a flattering dream.”

“I told you that I am the Countess’s friend, and being so I must know something of her character; also, there are confidences between us, and I may know more than you think, of those trifling services of which you suppose the recollection is so transitory.”

I was becoming more and more interested. I was as wicked as other young men, and the heinousness of such a pursuit was as nothing, now that self-love and all the passions that mingle in such a romance, were roused. The image of the beautiful Countess had now again quite superseded the pretty counterpart of La Vallière, who was before me. I would have given a great deal to hear, in solemn earnest, that she did remember the champion who, for her sake, had thrown himself before the sabre of an enraged dragoon, with only a cudgel in his hand, and conquered.

“You say the Countess is unhappy,” said I. “What causes her unhappiness?”

“Many things. Her husband is old, jealous, and tyrannical. Is not that enough? Even when relieved from his society, she is lonely.”

“But you are her friend?” I suggested.

“And you think one friend enough?” she answered; “she has one alone, to whom she can open her heart.”

“Is there room for another friend?”

“Try.”

“How can I find a way?”

“She will aid you.”

“How?”

She answered by a question. “Have you secured rooms in either of the hotels of Versailles?”

“No, I could not. I am lodged in the Dragon Volant, which stands at the verge of the grounds of the Château de la