Kavanagh_Nathalie.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
" Bring in the light, and tell Mademoiselle Nathalie that
it is my desire to speak to her instantly."
Mademoiselle Dantin uttered her commands in a sharp,
imperative tone. A timid-looking servant, in conical Norman
cap, and short petticoats of startling fulness, vanished as if to
hear were to obey, and the old schoolmistress stiffly sank back
in her chair, with arms folded on her breast and a frown upon
her brow.
It was a chill Norman evening almost cool enough for
England, and, in the deepening twilight, the room looked well-
nigh dark. Through the narrow panes of a low glass door pen-
etrated a faint gleam of lingering light, and the shadowy out-
lines of a few tall trees were dimly visible in the garden be-
yond. Thus seen, without light or fire, in the gathering gloom
of evening, with pale maps and shadowy globes, long sombre
curtains, and straight-backed chairs, the apartment looked
most comfortless ; but the withered features and rigid figure
of Mademoiselle Dantin made her look by far the most dreary
object it contained.
She was thin, wrinkled, and hard-favored ; she wore no
amiable look, nor was she very amiable in reality ; being dog-
matic and imperious, she rather liked teaching ; it was power
authority, and turned out, moreover, to be as good a way as
any of fastening her own peculiar opinions more strongly
marked than varied on others. But then, as misfortune would
bavo it, she had a decided antipathy to children and young
8 NATHALIE.
girls, so that between her delight in the tuition and her gene
ral aversion for the objects taught an aversion which, as usu-
al, was most heartily returned Mademoiselle Dantin and her
pupils had rather an uncomfortable life of it, and might not
have got on at all, had there happened to be another school and
schoolmistress in the town of Sainville.
Sainville we cannot advise the reader to look for it on tho
map is a quiet little place buried in the very bosom of Nor-
mandy. This province is perhaps the prettiest, and certainly
is the greenest nook in all the pleasant land of France. It has
many low hills, many shallow little valleys, with bright glanc-
ing streams and a clear blue sky ; above all, it has picturesque
old towns of quaint and venerable aspect, that seize on the
imagination with a peculiar and mysterious charm. Dark,
lonely, and rather misanthropic-looking, these quiet places
contrast strikingly with the cheerful verdure and soft pastoral
beauty of the surrounding scenery ; they look like morose her-
mits, who have at least chosen pleasant spots wherein to do
penance. But though their quaintness strikes the eye, and
their monastic gloom awakes the fancy, they are cold and cheer-
less they cannot win the heart ; we feel that there life glides
away in too dull and monotonous a flow ; we look, wonder
linger for a while in narrow, winding streets, with crazy wood-
en houses rising high on either side, and then pass on, feeling
we have left a human prison behind us.
Sainville was one of those little moral islands; it had no
trade, no commerce, no life, and was, moreover, shut out from
the great and busy world by a barrier of aristocratic chateaux
rising on the slope of the surrounding declivities, or enjoying
the shade and silence of the neighboring valleys. In these lux-
urious abodes, life was as gay and pleasant as heart could
wish, and some of the best of French society could make it.
Balls, pla3's, concerts, fishing excursions, and hunting parties,
seemed to be ever renewing for the amusement of the privi-
leged owners and guests of the chateaux. Many a time did the
inhabitants of Sainville, who all belonged to the smaller bour-
geoisie, and who had not wealth, importance, or talent to rise
above their station, comment, with the puritanic severity of
the excluded, on the sin and folly transacted in those abodes
whence ever proceeded the sounds of merriment and pleasure;
and many a time did they grumble more morosely still, when
wakened in the early morning by some gay cavalcade clattering
away along the silent streets.
NATHALIE. V
Tliid exclusion, in which she shared like her fellow citiztus.
had not improved the mind or temper of Mademoiselle Dantin
She had accustomed herself to think of nothing save her school,
its propriety, its ceremonious routine, above all its immaculate
purity ; and on this subject she had grown to be somewhat se-
vere and irritable. She was so in a peculiar degree on the day
when this story opens. This was, however, a day which gene-
rally found and left her in a singular state of good humor, be-
ing neither more nor less than that appointed for the annual
distribution of prizes among her pupils. On the morning of
this eventful ceremony the room had been hung with white
draperies, ornamented with green wreaths. Mademoiselle Dan-
tin opened the proceedings by seating herself on a sort of
throne erected at the upper end of the room, from which deviat-
ed position she looked down triumphantly on the curled heads
and white robes of the pupils, who demurely sat in rows in the
centre of the apartment, whilst their friends and relatives form-
ed a semicircle around them. After making a little speech,
Mademoiselle Dantin. holding an eye-glass in her right hand,
and a paper in her left, senteutiously read aloud the names of
the pupils on whom she had resolved to confer the distinction
of a prize. Each of the girls thus designated then left her
place and walked up to a tight, lively-looking little gentleman,
in a dark wig, the professor of dancing, who sat alone between
two tables, one covered with books, the other with wreaths,
took from his hands the volume adjudged to her, and stooped
to receive the laurel wreath which, with prompt and courteous
grace, he rose to place on her head, whilst delighted papas and
mammas shed tears, and Mademoiselle Dantin looked on and
felt in her glory. When there were no more prizes or wreatlis
to give, Mademoiselle Dantin rose, and the company dispersed,
the children all going home for their holidays. As soon as
every one had departed, the schoolmistress gave prompt orders
for the taking down of hangings and wreaths : in a few mi-
nutes all was over ; the room was empty, the walls were bare,
and the school, instead of being filled with the murmuring hum
of pupils conning over their les.sons, fell into a deep and unna-
tural stillness, destined to last six weeks. But though the
ceremony had passed off in the best possible manner, the tri-
umph of this day was soon clouded by a discover}- which filled
the mind of the schoolmistress with indignant wrath. What
that discovery was will be seen farther on.
A few minutes had elapsed since she had, in a tone of omi
1*
IC NATIIALrE.
nous severity, given, with regard to chc appearance of " Made
moiselle Nathalie," the order recorded in the first lines of this
chapter, when the door of the room where she sat opened, and
Marianne, the servant, entered, bearing a lighted tallow candle
in an old plated candlestick, which she placed on the table be-
fore her mistress.
" Well ?" observed Mademoiselle Dantin. with inquiring
sharpness.
" Mademoiselle Nathalie is not in her rooi..," was the low
reply.
' Not in her room ! and what is she allowed a room of her
own for unless to be in it?" exclaimed the schoolmistress, with
L-tibdued irritation.
" Perhaps she's gone to breathe a little fresh air in the gar
dx^n," timidly suggested Marianne.
" Not at this hour, Marianne," majestically replied Made-
moiselle Dantin ; " no, I will not admit that any member of
my establishment, however faulty in other respects," she feel-
ingly added, ' could, against my well-known rule, be out in the
garden at this hour."
" Shall I go and see. madame?"
" No, Marianne, I cannot allow that ; to allow it would be
to admit such a thing as possible, and this I never will ; look
for her in the class."
Marianne silently left the room, but the door did not close
behind her. For the head and wig of the ' Professor" who
had played so important a part in the morning's ceremony,
suddenly made their appearance in the dai-k aperture, smiled
and nodded at Mademoiselle Dantin with mingled familiarity
and respect, and lisped in a tone of soft entreaty : " May I
come in ?"
" Yes, Monsieur le Chevalier, you may come in," replied
the schoolmistress, half rising from her seat ; her tone was
gracious and mollified, and a faint smile passed over her faded
face. Thus encouraged, the Chevalier, a middle-aged little
man with a thin, sallow visage, quick eyes, and an aquiline
nose, entered the room with erect bearing and elastic tread.
He was proceeding to shut the door with a prompt decision
natural to him, Avhen Mademoiselle Dantin shook her head_
and admonishingly observed :
' The door, 5lonsieur le Chevalier."
" Ah ! yes, the door," he sighed, and left it open.
" Rules must be obeyed," continued the schoolmistress.
KATHAT.IE. . 11
"Yes, rules must be obeyed," answered the CIie\'a]icr, re
pressing a shiver as the keen drauglit came full upon him.
It was a rule in Mademoiselle Dantin's establishment for
no lady to converse with a gentleman, not her father or bro-
ther, in a closed room. The mistress was the first to set the
example, and obey the rule in all its severity. To say the
truth, she generally sat facing the door ; and the male visitor,
whoever he might be, had his back turned to it, so that all the
hardship of this rule could not be said to fall upon her; but
what gentleman would complain, when feminine modesty was
at stake ? assuredly not so devoted a squire of dames as the
Chevalier Theodore de Muranville-Louville.
No mummery ever yet existed without some special adviser
or other in male shape, and what a father confessor might have
been to an abbess and her gentle sisterhood, the Chevalier was
to Mademoiselle Dantin and her fair pupils. He was the only
individual of his sex attached to the establishment, for the
salic law still holds good with regard to the tuition of dancing.
To this law Mademoiselle Dantin, who, if she could, would
have efiaccd the masculine gender from dictionary and gram-
mar, very indignantly submitted. But the gentle blood of the
Chevalier, who, though of an impoverished family, had an au-
thentic claim to the noble names he bore, and his title of
Knight of the Legion of Honor, bestowed upon him for saving
a drowning man, but which many considered a government re-
ward for his invention of a new pas ^ called the Sainville /a.s, a
rumor he rather favored above all, his chivalrous devotednesa
to the fair sex, had conquered the antipathy and subdued the
obdurate heart of the schoolmistress. Woman was indeed
sacred as woman to the gallant little Chevalier ; he cherished
a platonic and universal passion for the whole sex, and rever-
enced a petticoat in its earliest and latest stages ; ho believed
neither in little girls nor in aged dames ; he took oiF his hat to
young ladies of six, and flirted with ladies of sixty, and did
Doth with equal grace. But though thus gentle to tho.c whon^
he called " earthly angels," the Chevalier was to his own sex
stern and somewhat haughty.
Having taken the scat which Mademoiselle Dantin conde-
eceudingly designated, the Chevalier could not but notice the
gloom which ovcrshndowod the features of the fair schoolmis-
tress. In a neat little speech, he immediately expressed his
sympathy with the regret she naturally felt at the temporary
separation between herself and her beloved pupils Mademoi
elle Dantin tossed her head.
12 XATllALIE.
" As if I cared for the little flirts !" she said, almost iudig-
nantly.
The Chevalier looked distressed. Flirts ! there were nc
flirts in his creed.
'' A set of forward coquettes !" continued she.
" Oh ! Madame !" he exclaimed, raising his hands implor.
" And of deceitful minxes, as all girls are," she persisted
The Chevalier was shocked. He gently endeavored to re-
monstrate, and ventured to remind her, " That though women
were tender flowers at every age, they were frail, very frail
rosebuds in their youth."
" Well, then, one of the rosebuds is going to get a nipping,"
retorted Mademoiselle Dantin, looking as dark and chill as a
wintry breeze.
She rang the bell as she spoke, and Marianne promptly
made her appearance.
' Ts Mademoiselle Nathalie coming or not ?" asked the
schoolmistress.
" Yes, madame ; she said she would come directly."
' Pray where did you find her?"
The girl hesitated.
' In the garden, reading," she replied at length.
Mademoiselle Dantin rose.
" Chevalier," she said, with great state, " be good enough
to leave me. I have a duty to perform ; an act of justice and
authority to exercise. I must be alone."
The Chevalier rose, looked dismayed, but retired on tiptoe,
without so much as remonstrating. He knew that Mademoi-
selle Dantin's justice was always administered privately, and
with a strictness of secrecy that, like the Vehmgericht, only
rendered it more awful to the apprehension of the uninitiated.
" What has our pretty southern flower done ?" he poeti-
cally inquired, as Marianne closed the door and followed him
out ; but the girl only shook her head in reply, and seemed
struck with consternation.
As soon as she was alone, Mademoiselle Dantin walked up
to the glass door that led into the garden, and stood there for
a few seconds, peering through the narrow panes with sharp
attention. There was a peculiar smile on her face as she
turned away and resumed her seat. Scarcely had she done
BO when the glass door opened. The schoolmistress heard it
very well, but did not choose to look up ; a light step glided
NATHAMJE. 1,1
m, Btili slio remained motionless and grim, looking straight
before her. It is the culprit that must seek the glance of tho
judge, and not the judge that must look at the culprit. Made-
moiselle Dantin vras a true Normande, litigious in spirit, and
versed in legal knowledge ; besides the rules which she merci-
Icssly imposed on others, she had certain rules for her own
use. which she rigidly obeyed : one of these rules was to give
a judicial form to almost every thing she did.
" Did you wish to speak wath me, madame ?" asked a clear,
cheerful voice at her elbow.
Tlie schoolmistress made no reply, but slowly raised her
head, and turned it with a keen and severe glance in the direc-
tion whence the voice had proceeded. A handsome, slender
girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, very simply attired
in black, but dark-haired, dark-eyed, and with animated fea-
tures of southern symmetry, was standing by her side. This
was Nathalie Montolieu, chief and only resident teacher in the
establishment of Mademoiselle Dantin.
She was scarcely above the middle height of woman, but of
a light and erect figure. Freedom and careless grace marked
her look, her bearing, and her attitude, even whilst she stood
there quietly by the chair of the old schoolmistress. As she
turned slightly to hear Mademoiselle Dantin's expected reply,
with an air too easy to be dignified, but not free from the
quick, impatient pride of youth, the light which fell full on her
wliole person, leaving all dark behind it, gave to the outline of
her graceful figure, and to her clear and well-defined profile a
vivid distinctness, still further heightened by the shadowy
background of the ill-lit room. The brow open and poetic,
with wavy hair braided back ; the dark eyes soft and deep
through all their fire ; the short upper lip and curved chin told
a daughter of the sunny south ; and the innate southern grace
of her half-averted head and listening attitude would have been
the very desire of a sculptor's eye. Yet hers was not the still
beauty of cold art; it had the light from within which is to a
countenance as is tlie lambent flame to the alabaster lamp in
which it burns ; the warm ray which reveals, though it may
not create, its beauty. And in her that ray seemed, from the
ever-varying expression of her mobile features, to burn with a
light as changeful as it was clear. She had not the soothing
and almost divine calm of perfect loveliness. Her beauty
charmed because it was so liumau with the light and bloom of
youth, and all the genial warmth of her ripening years. It waa
J 4 NATHAI,IE.
neither serene nor angcl-like, but fervent and living ; not idealj
though highly poetic.
Indeed, to look upon her as she stood there, to see her in-
telligent forehead and arched eyebrows, to meet her look, gentle
though fearless, and seldom veiled by drooping eyelids, to mark
the flexibility, denoting both courage and a temper easily
moved, of her delicately chiselled features, above all to note
tho light, capricious smile of her sensitive and half-parted lips,
these lips of the south averse to silence, and which express
so quickly and so significantly frankness, impatience, good-
humored raillery, or angry disdain, was to know her as one in
whom blended both the highest and the weakest attributes of
an imaginative and impulsive woman ; from the energy, passion,
and devotion of the heart to the caprice and endless mobility
of temper destined to render life as changeful as an April day.
" Did you wish to speak to me ?" she asked again, in a
quick, impatient tone, which rendered the fulness of her
southern voice and its rapid accent still more apparent.
She glanced down somewhat impatiently as she spoke, and
the life and warm coloring of her whole countenance contrasted
strikingly with the stony look and pale, rigid features of Made-
moiselle Dantin.
" I did wish to speak to you ; I sent for you for that ex-
press pui'pose, and you will soon know why," replied the school-
mistress, in the long, nasal drawl of Normandy : " but first, may
I ask why, against my express rule, you were out in the garden
at this' late hour ?"
" I did not think the rule applied to the holidays," quietly
replied the young girl.
" Then I beg to inform you that it does."
An expression of much annoyance passed over the features
of Nathalie, but she subdued it, and merely said, " Very well,
madame."
" Indeed," resumed Mademoiselle Dantin, ' I think it
strange that you should like the garden at this hour, and I
should feel inclined to make some remarks on the subject, did
I not remember that as a Provenqal, that is to say, a native of
that southern part of France wliich has never been remarkable
for the observance of feminine propriety, you are entitled to in-
dulgence."
A kindling light passed in the dark eyes of the southern
girl, but the schoolmistress never noticed it. and resumed in
the same ceremonious, legal tone :
NATHALIE. 15
" Ma}- 1 ask what you were doing in the garden at this lata
hour ?"
" I was rcadin''"
" Some pernicious romance, of course. Must I ever keep
telling you that it is dangerous and improper to feed your
mind with the absurdities which abound in such works ? Must
I keep assuring you that no character is so ridiculous as that
of a romantic young lady?"
" Romantic !" echoed Nathalie, with a gesture of impa-
tience ; " and what has one in my position to bo romantic
about, madame ? The realities of my life are surely suf&i^ient
to drive all romance away."
' True. Besides, you are so sensible and so prudent.
Will you favor me, however, with the name of the book you
were reading?
" It was a very harmless book."
" Was it a fiction ?"
" An innocent one at least."
" Which was, of course, the reason vfhy you hid it in your
pocket before coming in V said the school-misti-ess, closing up
her thin lips with an ironical smile, and triumphantly straight-
ening her meagre neck.
Nathalie gave her a quick look, dropped her eyes, and smiled
demurely.
" I assure you, madame," she slowly observed, " that the
book is a harmless book. Interesting, however, for the charac-
ter of the hero, though somewhat stern, is original and striking.
I confess I like him ; the whole story is, no doubt, melo-dra-
matic, but "
" How did you get it ?" interrupted Mademoiselle Dantin,
with a sort of sudden jerk in her look and speech, which she
held infallible for the detection of deceit.
' I found it in the garden, where it had been left by one oi
the pupils," quietly answered the young girl.
" One of the pupils ? Good Heavens ! And this is what
goes on in spite of all my vigilance. Give me that book, Mad-
emoiselle 3Iontolieu ; give me that book," she repeated, with a
sort of desperate calmness that seemed to say she was quito
ready to obtain it, no matter what the cost might be.
ISathalie smiled again, this time rather scornfully, but the
book was produced and laid on the table. Mademoiselle Dan-
fin took up the vohune, drew the light nearer, looked, and
laying down the book, gave the young teacher a glance of ?'^
dignant wi*ath.
IT) NATHALfE.
The dangerous fiction was a volume of romantic fairy tales
Nathalie's face beamed with pleasure and mischief as she met
Mademoiselle Dantin's look of exasperation ; but the lady
soon recovered, and merely observed in a sharp key :
" I really wonder, Mademoiselle Montoiieu.you will persist
in losing your time with such foolish reading.''
" I took up the book by chance. I fell on a story which, I
acknowledge it, interested me. The chief character, though
dark, is not without a mysterious power of attraction."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," inquired the schoolmistress, with
slow and dignified amazement, " do you imagine I asked you
to come here in order to hear your opinion of a fairy tale ?
You are guilty of the strangest absurdities ! I suppose ladies
in the south talk in that heedless, flighty manner. Remember
that in Normandy it will not do. I beg, therefore, that you
will if it is indeed possible restrain your southern vivacity
for a few moments. May I ask if you remember the condi-
tions we made when you entered this house three years ago ?"
" I remember. I was to teach French, music, geography."
" I do not speak of that."
" History, arithmetic, &c., for the sum of three hundred
francs a year."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu. you wilfully misunderstand
me."
" Board and lodging included."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu !" exclaimed the schoolmistress,
folding her arras, " will you be so good as to remain silent."
Nathalie looked all innocence, but a furtive smile lurked
around the corners of her mouth.
" If I spoke, madame," she composedly replied, " it was
oecause you asked if I remembered the conditions."
" I alluded to moral conditions ; not to those paltry condi-
tions of money, board, and lodging, on which your mind is
always running."
" And yet, madame, you say I am romantic."
" The moral part which passed between us when you en-
tered this house three years ago," resumed Mademoiselle Dan
tin, without heeding the young teacher's last remark, and
closing her eyes to speak v/ith more effect, "related to the
morality, the propriety, the purity, "
" I think I had better take a scat to hear you," quietly
observed Nathalie, and she took one as she spoke, seating her-
self so as to receive the full benefit of the awful glance the
natiiamk. i?
schoolmistress immediatel}' directed towards her 13ut the
young girl, leaning lier elbow on tlie table, and resting her chin
on the palm of her left hand, eyed her stern mistress without
impertinsnce, though very composedly. Her look, always ex-
pressive, was now particularly so; it said in plain language:
'' I have been called in for a quarrel I know it I am used to
it ; I have tried to avoid it, but since I cannot, go on ; I am
ready."
Mademoiselle Dantin resumed :
" The moral part or series of- moral conditions I hold part
to be quite as correct an expression, but shall use ' series' for
the sake of clearness the series of moral conditions I alluded
to bore reference to the propriety, the purity, the womanly
reserve of your conduct."
^ " In what have I failed ?" asked Nathalie, with an impetu
osity that showed patience did not rank amongst her peculiar
virtues.
" Strict womanly propriety and discretion," continued the
shoolmistress, "were to be your chief attributes. Without
modesty "
A flush crossed the brow of Nathalie ; her voice trembled
as she spoke :
" Your hints are becoming insulting. Madame, beware !" '
" If you had condescended to hear me to tlie end," said
Mademoiselle Dantin, with irritating coolness, " there would
have been no necessity for this uijfeminine burst of temper.
And this reminds me of another remark I wish to make to
you: you are in Normandy, not in Provence; pray remember
it. You must please to drop that rapid and startling mode of
epeecli, to talk a little lower, to laugh less, and to keep your
southern blood and temper rather more under your control.
What may have been only an agreeable vivacity in your native
province, is unladylike and repulsive here."
Nathalie eyed her very quietly.
" You were talking about modesty," she said, in a tone
calm enough for the most phlegmatic Normande.
" I was, and if you will be so good as not to interrupt me
[ mean to give you a definition of that virtue. Modesty 1
.conceive to be the strict guard which a Avoman of principle
keeps over her looks and demeanor with persons of the opposite
Bex. In that reserve you liavc failed."
" IIow 80?" asked Nathalie, whose voice had already lost
some of its calmness.
18 NATHALIE.
' Mademoiselle Montolieu," frigidly observed the sufiool
mistress, " I have begged, I now implore you not to interrupt
me. I will tell you how you have failed : you are vain ; you
think yourself handsome ; you flirt, as w^ell as you can, with
every man you meet. Oh ! you need not give me that basilisk
look ; it is so. Your alluring ways in a certain quarter have
not escaped me. If you were only ambitious, I should not
mind ; but the immodesty of the thing revolts me."
" For heaven's sake, niadame," exclaimed Nathalie, tapping
her foot with uncontrollable impatience, " be so good as to
say at once the ill-natured thing you have been aiming at all
along."
' Mademoiselle Montolieu," reproachfully said the school-
mistress, " have you really no idea of that beautiful feminine
composure which subdues the manifestation of every thing ap-
proaching emotion ? If you would only remember that the
most bitter quarrel can and ought to be conducted like a
logical discussion ; if, instead of speaking in that vehement
way, you had only said quietly, ' Will you be so good, madarae,
as to come to the point?' or something of the kind. Made-
moiselle Montolieu," she feelingly added, " there is a form in
every thing, and your want of form will break my heart."
She looked and felt distressed. If she tormented Nathalie,
the young teacher certainly tormented her almost as much.
They were antipathetic by nature, temperament, and birth ;
theirs was the old quarrel of the northern and southern races,
a quarrel which has endured for ages, and will endure ages
Btill. The schoolmistress kept the teacher because she was
full of intelligence and talent, and much loved by the pupils ;
the teacher remained because she was poor and needed a home.
The Dantin discipline had failed to subdue her vivacity of
spirit and temper : she was still the gay and yet ardent Pro-
vencal girl, with all the fire and impulsiveness of her race.
But though to others she might seem like the beauties of a
kindred land, with
*5
Heart on her lips and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her cUme, and sunny as her skies ;
the unhappy schoolmistress, who felt like the keeper of some
young and half-wild thing, unhesitatingly pronounced her a
proud, passionate, vindictive southern, who would never know
any thing about the beauties of feminine propriety.
After a moody pause, she now abruptly observed :
NATHALIE. 15
" May 1 ask how long you have been acquainted with ouf
neighbor V
"What neiglibor?" inquired Nathalie, with evident sur-
prise.
" Our next-door neighbor. I ask you how Tong you have
been acquainted with him?"
" I have seen him at a distance, but never spoken to him.
I think your question strange."
" No matter. Will you be good enough to be frank for
once, and tell me what you know of our neighbor?"
Nathalie looked irritated beyond measure at this pertina-
city, but she controlled herself, and replied :
" I know nothing of Monsieur de Sainville, save that he
is, as you say, our next-door neighbor, a gentleman of ancient
birth and large property. I have seen him once or twice at a
distance, and should not even know him again ; I care nothing
about him. I scorn your insinuations."
Her face grew flushed as she spoke.
" She scorns my insinuations !" ejaculated the schoolmis-
tress ; " scorns what insinuations ?" she added resignedly.
" I am not aware I made any with regard to Jlonsieur de
Sainville."
Nathalie looked round, to see her better.
' On whom, then," she abruptly said, ' do you accuse me
of practising my powers of seduction ?"
" Your powers of seduction !" iudignantly echoed Made-
moiselk Dantin, who detected the disdainful curl of the lip
with which the words had been uttered ; " I certainly did not
accuse you of practising what you thus unblushingly allude to
on Monsieur de Sainville, a grave, experienced man, on whom
girlish arts or graces are not very likely to take effect. I
was not alluding to him, though of course you did not know
this, but to his nephew, Monsieur Charles Marceau."
" Oh ! his nephew," slowly repeated Nathalie.
" Yes ; but of course you do not know him ; of course you
have never seen or met him, though he lives next door ; of
course you do not linger in the garden in the evening in
order to be seen or admired by him oh, no !"
" I was not prepared," ironically replied Nathalie, " to find
my evening walks thus interpreted ; but let it be a comfort to
you to reflect that the garden wall is high enough in all rea
Bon to protect M. Charles Marceau."
" You need not say that with that triumphant look," re
XO NATHALIE.
turned the schoolmistress, fairly exasperated ; your beauty ia
not quite so dangerous as all that ; as for garden-walls, their
height is of little consequence when servants can be bribed to
convey messages or letters."
" Madame," said Nathalie, in a low tone, " I am not pa-
tient by nature ; I believe you know it ; I warn you that on
some points, and this is one, I will not be patient. I exact
that you unsay what you have said, or give me proof that it
is true."
She spoke in a subdued key, but with more real aiiger and
haughtiness than she had yet displayed.
' Proof," answered Mademoiselle Dantln, with a smile of
conscious triumph ; " pray what do you call this ?"
She drew forth a letter from her pocket as she spoke,
placed it on the table before Nathalie, and significantly laid
the forefinger of her right hand upon it, like one who had all
along been preparing her little coup de theatre, and knew its
value well.
" Nathalie looked surprised, but took up the letter and
read it without any apparent sign of emotion.
" Well," said she, coolly laying it down again, " what about
that letter, madame ?"
Mademoiselle Dantin clasped her hands, turned up her
eyes, and shook her head.
" The next thing," said she, with wrathful calmness, '' will
be that you will declare your right to receive such letters.
Or maybe I do you injustice, maybe you do not see the impro-
priety, because your extreme innocence prevents you from un
derstandlng such matters. Poor little thing ! she reads fairy
tales in the garden."
Nathalie eyed her with a firm, clear glance.
" My innocence," said she, very calmly, " is guarded by
something more powerful and secure than ignorance. I for
one shall not feign to misunderstand that which is as clear as
day. By sight, at lea3t, I know well the person who wrote
this letter ; the nephew of our proud neighbor. I have met
him not once but many times. He has followed me when I
nave gone to see my sister Rose, down in Sainville, and ho
has stood at a distance when I took the pupils for a walk on
the road to Marmont. When I have been in the garden of
this house, he has generally been on the terrace of his uncle's
garden by which it is overlooked. I confess that I have not
given up going to Sainville, or walking into the country, pro
NATHALIE. 2i
tccted by the presence of twenty persons. I have not given
up walking in the garden protected by a substantial wall.
And now, madame, you know as much as I do of the encour-
agement given by me to this M. Charles Marceau, who, after
honoinng me with impertinent attentions, honors me with a
still more impertinent declaration of what I must. I suppose,
oall his love."
" At whicli I dare say you felt very much ofi'ended when
you received it," sneered Mademoiselle Dantin.
' It is no doubt very presumptuous for me to be offended
at any thing," replied Nathalie, with some bitterness, '-but that
is not the question. When I asked for proofs of your accusa-
tions, you produced this letter. You now say, ' When you re-
ceived it :' I beg to say that I received it from your hands for
the first time."
' I found it in your room, in your drawer," said the
schoolmistress, severely.
"And pray," asked Nathalie, angrily, looking up, '-what
took you to my room, or made you look into my drawers?"
For a moment Mademoiselle Dantin seemed embarrassed,
but for a moment only.
' It was my duty," she confidently replied : ' I suspected,
I knew there was something wrong."
' But the letter was sealed ; you broke the seal, and accuse
n'le of having read it first. I do not mean to say that I should
not have read it, but I would have mentioned the matter to
you to complain of the insolent servant who had become the
messenger of this vain and presumptuous young man."
' Admitting that you have not read this letter," inflexibly
resumed the schoolmistress," it is still disgraceful to have
received it. Such a thing never before happened in my estab-
lishment. This letter would never have been addressed to a
strictly modest female. Men, bad as they are, do not act with-
out some encouragement. But there are artful, designing
creatures, ever ready to driw into their nets any silly young
man of family and fortune. I owe it to the character of my
house to suffer no such persons in it. I consent to bury the
past in oblivion," she added, with a magnanimous bend of the
head ; " but on the express and clearly understood condition,
that certain individuals I need not mention by name, will
henceforth observe that purity and reserve which ought to
characterize their sex. Should this timely hint fail in its
effect, a disreputable dismissal must ino.itablybe the conso
22 NATHALIE.
quericc. Such were the remarks I wished to offer to you,
Mademoiselle Montolieu, And now I have a few accounts to
settle, you may retire."
Nathalie rose ; her slender figure was drawn up, her cheeks
crimsoned with shame, then grew pale with indignant anger ;
her dark eyes were dilated and flashed proudly ; her lip curled
with disdain ; ire was in her hearing, her accent, and her look,
as she spoke.
" Madame I " said she, with the passionate vehemence nat-
ural to her, and which she new no longer strove to repress,
" I have resided three years under your roof; I have during
that time been tasked beyond endurance, been daily insulted
and oppressed. Never, however, did you dare to venture so
far as you have ventured to-day. I scorn your insinuations ;
they are false, mean, and you know it well. You threaten to
tarnish my name ; know, then, that strong in the sense of my
own purity, I defy both your power and you."
There was a deep silence. Mademoiselle Dantin changed
color, and from pale turned yellow ; then bit her lips, and said
in a quivering voice :
" Mademoiselle, after this i-asolent speech, I need not ob-
serve that you must cease to belong to my establishment. In
a month you leave."
Nathalie haughtily bent her head in token of assent, turned
away, and opening the glass door, stepped out into the garden
followed by the angry and lowering glance of the schoolmis-
tress.
CHAPTER 11.
The evenine, though chill, was clear. The moon had risen
in the east, and her calm light fell over the narrow garden. A
wide beech-tree spread its sombre yet graceful masses in the
.'ihade, whilst its silvery trunk ancl foremost boughs received
the slanting and tremulous rays of the moon. Beyond rose a
group of slender poplars, distinct and dark on the cloudless
sky, and casting their long line of waving shadow on the green
riward, now of a pale gray hue, in the cool moonlight.
Nathalie was bare-headed and lightly clad, but she did not
heed the cool and penetrating breeze which fanned her fevered
NATHALIE. 23
brow. She had entered the garden because it was the nearest
pUice to which she could escape from Mademoiselle Dantin's
presence ; she now remained in it, regardless of the faint mist
which rose from every group of trees or mass of shrub, and of
the falling dew which made the grass damp beneath her feet.
She walked along, not knowing whither she went, her cheek
still burning, her warm blood still flowing in a more free and
rapid tide, her whole being roused and excited by the spirit of
indignant defiance. Her mind was crowded with tumultuous
thoughts and feelings. The sense of freedom won and tri-
umph achieved predominated. She went on in a sort of dream,
unconscious of any thing around her, exulting recklessly over
her dearly-bought independence. She paused on reaching the
garden wall, and this simple physical barrier subdued at once
her haughty mood. She turned back, and slowly retraced her
steps, with a grave and altered mien. A wooden bench stood
in the deep shadow of the beech-tree, she lingered for awhile
near it, motionless and pensive, and at length sat down, looking
before her in the same abstracted mood.
The garden of Mademoiselle Dantin was a mere grassy
slope, extending at the back of the low and white-walled school-
house. The parlor which Nathalie had left, looked almost
dark, and a solitary light burned upstairs in the sleeping room
of the pupils, for a few still remained in vacation time. She
abstractedly watched their shadows moving to and fro across
the curtains, until the light was suddenly extinguished, and the
whole building relapsed into gloom. Beyond the school, at
some distance from it and on a commanding eminence, stood
the chateau of Sainville, a gray, turreted, lordly-looking man-
sion, embosomed in stately repose, amidst a dark mass of firs
and evergreens, over which the moon now hung mild and pale
in the deep blue sky of evening.
The chateau was, however, by no means a largo edifice.
Although flanked by stone turrets capped with the conical slate
roofs so frequently met with in Normandy, it had evidently
never been intended as a place of feudal strength. The light
and graceful porch, the ornamental facade, belonged to tlie
style of the Reyiaissayicc, and showed it to be what it really
was, an elegant and luxurious abode, no more. But if the
edifice did not lead back the beholder's mind to those far times
when stern barons remained aloof in their fortress holds, it
possessed a charm and stateliness of its own. The days of the
gay and chivalrous Francis the First returned with the light
24 NATHALIK.
aud bx'ulptured balcoules, with the paved court and marble
vases, with the broad lawn, the garden terraces, and the sweep-
ing avenues of the surrounding grounds. It was such a dwell-
ing as the royal lover might, in a fond mood, have bestowed
on l)iana of Poictiers ; a place well suited to the courtly revels
of a period celebrated for its wealth, magnificence, and volup-
tuous art. It had indeed been erected under the reign of that
gay prince by a Sire de Sainville, whose escutcheon, with the
motto, ung f,eul desir, was conspicuously displayed over the
whole building. This " only desire " was said by some to have
been the possession of a certain beautiful damsel ; others as-
serted that it alluded to the remarkable firmness or obstinacy
hereditary in the blood of the Sainvilles. Of this peculiarity
the last descendant of that ancient race, who was also the ac-
tual owner of the chateau, had, according to general report,
given abundant proof. Left alone in extreme youth with a
broken patrimony, and a name taraished by the profligacy and
extravagance of his father, he had gone to foreign lands, en-
gaged in successful speculations, and, after many years of ar-
duous toil, lately returned in the possession of considerable
wealth, with which he had satisfied the creditors of his father,
effaced the stain of bankruptcy from his escutcheon, and repur-
chased his paternal mansion and estates. Little was known of
his character, save the pertinacity of purpose indicated by this
trait. Nathalie had heard him described as a grave and severe
man, of cold and haughty manners. Such he had seemed to
her when she had seen him at a distance. She now gazed on
the small, though handsome chateau as it rose before her in the
moonlight, with a feeling akiu to bitterness. A son of that
house, conscious of superior rank and wealth, had thought fit to
press on her attentions which he would never have presumed
to offer to a woman of a higher station. The consequence to
her of this caprice was to cast her unfriended and alone on a
world of which she knew nothing, save that it was harsh and
severe to the poor.
Passing her hand across her brow, Nathalie endeavored to
banish the gloomy thoughts her position suggested. But she
could not do sc. The mood which had urged her to defy
Mademoiselle Dantin, which had made her rejoice in her liber-
ty, was over. She was free, true ; but she felt she had ex-
changed the imperious rule of one mistress for that of another
more tyrannical still. Poverty. There had been a time when
the meaning of this word was to her like a dream poverty in
NATHALIE. 26
die warm south is divested of half its horrors but she undcr-
etood it now. This had been a hard lesson to learn for one
whose natural temper was as genial and sunny as her own
Provence. Brought up by au old relative in almost un-
restrained liberty, she had suddenly found herself cast, by the
death of that relative, on her own resoui^s. A half-sister,
residing in Sainville, had procured her the situation of teacher
in Mademoiselle Dantin's school. The change from the south
to the north, from freedom to dependence and routine, from
affection to freezing indifference, had thrown a chill upon the
young girl's temper, from which it had never recovered. The
sliade of doubt had fallen on her hopeful faith ; the time was
gone when she could feel in herself the native buoyancy that
subdues apprehension and fear. The more genial the temper,
the more it will dread and feel loneliness, and Nathalie was
alone ; she had no relatives, save her half-sister, a dependant
like herself; no friends, and no money. There were no other
schools in the little town of Sainville. one of the most insignifi-
cant places in all Normandy ; no families she could enter as
governess ; no pupils she could teach, save those who came to
Mademoiselle Dantin's. Her future looked so blank and so
dreary that her heart involuntarily sank within her. " What
on earth shall I do ?" she asked herself, with an inward shud-
der. One moment she thought of making her submission to
the schoolmistress, but her whole pride rose against it. Any
fate seemed preferable to that humiliation.
A low, grating sound near her aroused Nathalie from these
reflections. She started to her feet, and turned round hurried-
ly, with a vague consciousness of the nature of that sound,
and of the spot whence it proceeded. No building intervened
between the chateau of Sainville and the school ; a wall sepa-
rated the wide grounds of the one from the narrow garden of
the other ; the little tenement now occupied by Mademoiselle
Dantin had formerly belonged to the gardener of the la*o
Monsieur de Sainville, and the strip of land attached to it
had been the kitchen garden of the great house. A door of
communication still existed between the two gardens ; it stood
within a few steps of the beech-tree, and, though she knew
that it was always carefully locked on Mademoiselle Dantin's
Bide, Nathalie now felt certain that from it proceeded the
Hounds she had heard.
She turned round it was so : the door was opening slow-
I3' and cautiously ; 'a strnnger, in whom slio had no difficulty
o
26 NATHALIE.
to recognize Charles Marceau, stepped iu, aud, leaving the
door ajar, turned quietly towards her, apparently neitlief
abashed nor discomposed at the audacity of his intrusion.
Nathalie looked at him silently, petrified with amazement.
He returned he^Jook. and like her did not speak, as if willing
to give her time u) recover. Although she had frequently met
him, Nathalie had never yet beheld her admirer so nearly ;
and notwithstanding her anger, surprise, and irritation, she
could not help scanning him with a rapid and scrutinizing
glance.
Charles Marceau was scarcely above the middle height,
v/ith a slight but well-knit frame. He looked upwards of
twenty-five ; he was in reality some years younger, but his
features, though remarkably handsome, were thin, sallow, and
careworn. Nathalie was struck with their sharp decisive out-
lines, as he stood before her on the moonlit sward, his glance
fixed upon her, and his pale countenance, half turned towards
her, rendered more pale by the Sark mass of hair which fell
around it. The look which she gave him lasted but a moment ;
the next she turned away, and was stepping into the path that
led to the school, when, by a sudden and dexterous movement,
the young man anticipated her, and, though scarcely appeax--
ing to do so intentionally, effectually impeded her passage by
standing before her.
" I hope," said he, in a respectful tone, and in a low,
though singularly harmonious voice, " that I have not alarmed
you."
Nathalie had turned to give him a quick, fearless look ; the
silent curl of her lip spoke of a feeling very difi'erent from
fear.
" I see yoa are deeply offended," he resumed, eyeing her at-
tentively ; " be so good "
' Be so good as to let me pass," sharply said Nathalie.
^ But one word, and I depart," he humbly continued. " Did
you receive my letter ?"
" Ay, sir, from the hands of Mademoiselle Dantin."
A slight raising of the eyebrow, a brief projection of the
nether lip, and the word " Indeed !" cooly uttered, were tho
only marks of surprise or annoyance the young man mani"
fested.
" Then I suppose the girl has betrayed me, after all," he
composedly observed, casting an inquiring glance towards Na
thalie.
NATHALIE. 2T
Her color ro^o ; she looked as if she -would give iiim an an-
nihilating reply ; then drew back, turning her head away as il
in scorn of speech. She would have moved on ; once more ho
stepped before her and spoke, but now with downcast look and
beseeching tone.
" Do not pray do not turn away so indignantly. Allow nic
but one word more. Did that letter offend you V
" No questions, sir," said Nathalie, angrily ; " leave me ero
I summon assistance."
Her tone was indignant, though subdued. The young man
met her irritated glance as she stood close by him in the clear
moonlight, pausing ere she once more endeavored to pass by ;
he marked the angry flush which crimsoned her cheek and
brow, and his own countenance expressed more vexation and
surprise than alarm at the threat she had issued.
" Nay, heaven forbid you should be placed under any such
necessity," he somewhat sharply replied ; ' could I have formed
some other method of meeting you, I would never have adopt
ed this. But remember, you seldom go out ; you are always
accompanied ; I may look, but never speak ; if I write, my let-
ters are seized. Was I then to trust to chance, or presump-
tuously hope that, meeting me so often, you would at length
guess why I ever lingered around your path?"
He had begun almost haughtily, but his voice had a low and
harmonious cadence as he concluded.
'' Will you let me pass, or not ?" imperatively asked Natha-
lie.
He bit his lip. but bowed and stepped back a few paces in
silent humility. Nathalie very unceremoniously passed by
him ; he followed, observing, in a low apologetic tone :
" Believe me, but for the tyranny of Mademoiselle Dantin,
I should never
"Go on, sir, go on," exclaimed a shrill and exasperated
voice behind him ; "it is charming to hear you. I am delight-
ed. Mademoiselle Montolieu, to find you so pleasantly engaged."
Charles Marceau turned round hastily. Mademoiselle
Dantin, who had approached, unheard and unseen, was stand-
ing close by him. For a moment, the young man looked dis-
turbed. Nathalie, thougli she knew well the consequences of
this new misfortune, stood ready to meet them, resolute, though
motionless and pale The schoolmistress, her tall and thin
frame drawn up to its fall height, her arms folded acro.ss her
breast, eyed them both with a moody glance, slowly nodding
her head with vindictive triumph.
S8 NATHALIE.
a
Well,*' said she, sharply, ' why don't you go ou '? why
don't you continue your interesting conversation ? I hope 1
don't prevent you."
She did not seem very likely to prevent Charles Marceau
for, turning once more towards Nathalie, he coolly resumed
from where he had left off.
" I should never have presumed to act as I have acted.
This imprudence has injured me ^justly, perhaps in your
good opinion ; yet may I hope that you will forgive me ?"
He looked up into her face, as if anxiously waiting for her
reply. Mademoiselle Dantin, astounded at his coolness, and at
the impertinent disregard with which he seemed to treat her
presence, glared at him in speechless wrath. When she spoke
at length, the whole torrent of her indignation was poured
forth on Nathalie.
"I am delighted," said she, with a short exasperated laugh,
" pleased beyond measure, to perceive that Mademoiselle Mon-
tolieu, that pattern of propriety, that model of virtuous indig-
nation, entertains no great objection to a quiet evening rendez-
vous. By moonlight too ; how sentimental ! They are fond
of the moonlight in the south ; here we think it cool."
Nathalie gave her a kindling look, but did not answer.
" Pray forgive me : I feel it was wrong, very wrong, in-
deed, to penetrate here, without your permission," said Charles
Marceau, addressing Nathalie, but half glancing towards the
schoolmistress.
" I hope," exclaimed Mademoiselle Dantin, in a shrill tone,
I sincerely hope Mademoiselle Montolieu will attempt no use-
less or absurd justification. Mademoiselle Montolieu knows I
am not to be duped. She knows the garden door was not only
locked, but bolted on this side of the wall, and that by some
individual on this side of the wall," she added, raising her
voice, " the bolt must therefore have oeen withdrawn. I con-
sider this as clear a proposition as any in the ' Grammairo
Logique,' or any legal case I ever heard of"
"Madame," said Charles Marceau, turning towards her
with something like hauteur," I pledge you my word that Ma-
demoiselle Montonlieu is free from all blame ; that I alone
am guilty."
The schoolmistress shut her eyes, and turned up her nose,
with a short, disdainful sniff; but she deigned him neither
reply nor answering look. He resumed :
" I hope, therefore, that the innocenee of Mademoisello
Montolieu "
NATIIAUE. 29
"Sparc }Ourself the task of its justikcation, sir," coldly
Interrupted Nathalie. ' I need none, if Mademoiselle Dantin
has overheard all."
" I did," triumphantly answered the schoolmistress, nod-
ding her head, as she spoke, " I heard every word. I hear
every thing in this establishment, Mademoiselle Montolieu."
" Then surely you know I am not to blame," observed Na-
thalie, with some impatience.
' Oh, no ! Of course not at all !" aid Mademoiselle Dan-
tin, gently inclining her head, and eyeing Nathalie, through
her half-shut eyes.
" Do you mean to hint that this gentleman is here with my
connivance V exclaimed Nathalie, with that impetuosity
which always gave so much advantage to her opponent.
" Oh, no !" replied Mademoiselle Dantin, ' by no means.
You admit him ! Impossible ! It was I let him in, cer-
tainly."
Indignation and contempt struggled for mastery in Natha-
lie's expressive countenance. Her head drooped ; she raised
her hand to her forehead. When she spoke, her tone was
altered and low.
" May heaven forgive you ; you are more unjust, aye, and
far more cruel, than I thought you."
This speech did not tend to pacify the schoolmistress, who,
to do her justice, thought the young girl guilty ; perhaps be-
cause she wished to think her so ; and though she had wit-
nessed the meeting at a distance, had only overheard the
observation in which Charles Marceau so unluckily introduced
her name. She now loftily observed :
" You need not give yourself such airs of injured inno-
cence ; a pure-minded woman, who regarded either her health
or her reputation, would never have stayed out in the open air
until this hour."
" I think, madame," interposed Charles Marceau, " that I
already explained "
" 13e so kind as to understand that the month's notice I
gave you this evening is rescinded," continued Madcmoiscllti
Dantin, totally disregarding the young man's attempted expla-
nation. " After your disgraceful conduct, you cannot remain
another night under the shelter of this uncontaminated roof"
" Madame," impatiently observed Charles Marceau, ' havo
I not pledged you my word of honor that I alone am to blame
that this lady is wholly innocent ?"
30 NATHALIb.
He spoke politely still, but with the authoritative surpris
of a superior addressing a person of inferior rank. The school-
mistress eyed him from head to foot, then raised her looi
again until it met his.
' Sir," said she, at length, ' I forgive your presumption,
on account of your extreme youth ; but you will please to re-
member I am mistress of these premises. Be so kind as to
f|uit them instantly."
Without heeding her, the young man turned towards
Nathalie.
' Mademoiselle," said he, in a submissive tone, which con-
trasted with the superciliousness he had displayed towards
the schoolmistress, " words could not express the penitent
sorrow I feel."
" I dare say not," cried Mademoiselle Dantin, with a short,
hysterical laugh.
" Will my presence here be of the least use to you ?'' he
earnestly continued. " Say but a word ; and though this
should expose me to the most bitter mortifications, I shall
remain."
" Remain !" echoed the schoolmistress, with shrill indig-
nation. " Monsieur will remain to protect mademoiselle !
Well, I should like to see that. Remain !"
Not heeding her words more than the breeze which swept
by him, Charles Marceau kept his eyes fixed on Nathalie, si
lently awaiting her reply. The young girl shrugged her
shoulders, and tapped her little foot with evident impatience.
" You may go, sir," she said, in her hasty way. " Your
presence, though quite able to produce mischief, is powerless
for good."
' Oh ! he may go, may he ?" sharply ejaculated Mademoi-
selle Dantin. ' How fortunate mademoiselle permits her
knight to depart ! There is no knowing, however, that I,
though neither young nor pretty, might not have found means
to effect the same marvel."
The young man heeded her not ; he was looking at Natha-
lie, and his gaze had something of offended pride, anger, sad-
ness, and reproach. But his glance fell at length ; he bowed
in silent submission, and folding his arms across his breast,
slowly turned down the path.
The sound of the door, which closed behind him, revealed
that he had left the place. Not satisfied with this evidence.
Mademoiselle Dantin threw a keen look around her. On per-
NATHALIE. 3 1
oeiving tliat he was really gone, she went and bolted the door
carefully, then returned to the spot where Nathalie was still
ptanding.
CHAPTER III.
The young girl did not change her attitude ; she stood or
the sward, erect and calm. The heech-trec threw its dark
shadow behind her, but the clear moonlight fell on her face.
She looked pale, though sedate ; one hand supported her
cheek, the other was rather nervously stripping a neighboring
shrub of its leaves. Her heart, perchance, beat fast within
her as she saw ruin and disgrace so near, but her brow was as
fearless as her look was steady ; her lips were firmly com-
pressed as if she had resolved not to speak inconsiderately,
though by no means to remain silent. She looked not unlike
the mariner who sees the shore on which he must be wrecked
ere long, but who beholds it with unquailing eye and heart
unappalled by danger. As her glance met that of the school-
mistress its resolute meaning roused all her ire ; she eyed her
for awhile with sour sternness.
" You have heard me," she said at length.
''What have I heard?"
" That you must leave to-night."
" Why so ?"
Different as their voices were, they both spoke in the same
iaterjectional and rapid tone, exchanging looks that boded
not peace.
' Why so ?" again asked Nathalie, and she drew herself up
haughtily, as if to rej^el with all her might the expected accu-
sation and insult.
"Because, the schoolmistress steadily replied, "we area
calm phlegmatic race, and decidedly object to moonlight walka
and meetings ; because this is Normandy, not Provence,
where such things are, I suppose, a matter of course."
AVhenever Mademoiselle Dantin wished to rouse the
young girl, she taunted her with her mother's birth. TiiG
urOiV of Nathalie flushed directly.
' You are right, madame," she quickly answered ; ' no,
we are not in Provence : for there men have chivalrous honor
32 NATHALIE.
and women warm, generous hearts, unknown to this land ol
lawyers, lawsuits, and narrow feeling."
" Oh ! you may give me your killing looks," said Mademoi
selle Dantin, shaking her head, " I am not afraid, though 1
have heard that your Provenqal and Basque girls regularly
wear a stiletto, instead of a busk to their stays, like those
shocking Spanish women."
" Madame," replied Nathalie, shrugging her shoulders, after
the French fashion, with disdainful impatience, " we are wan-
dering from the point."
' The point," sharply said the schoolmistress, " is that you
must leave this very night."
" I again ask why ?" inquired Nathalie, eyeing her steadily.
" Because your behavior has been improper, unwomanly,
immodest."
Nathalie's lips quivered, her color rose and died away, until
it settled in a bright burning spot on either cheek. Shame,
indignant anger, proud resentment of wrong were in her bear-
ing and her look. Dignity vainly whispered to turn away
with silent scorn ; Nathalie was too unsophisticated to yield
to its promptings ; if ever she was or seemed dignified, it was
because her mood led her to be so ; but now she recked not
of eflfect ; insult had stung and roused her, as only insult can
sting and rouse ; passion was strong and would speak.
" I am not unwomanly or immodest," she passionately
ci-ied, her dark eyes flashing through tears, her voice broken by
ill-repressed sobs ; " I am not, but you are a very bad and
cruel woman. To dismiss me is nothing, but to ruin my repu-
tation and fair name is abominable. I did not let that young
man in ; I did not know he was coming ; you must, you do
know that."
The most evil are not all pitiless, and Mademoiselle Dan-
tin, who was not a cruel, but an inflexible formalist, perhaps
began to suspect that she had wrongly accused the young girl ;
perhaps her threat of instant dismissal had only been held out
to give rise to an appeal for mercy ; it may even be that some
vague feeling of compassion induced her to relent. Whatever
was the reason, she at least now said something about permit-
ting her to spend the night in the house ; she even hinted
that, provided a proper submission were made to her ofi"ended
majesty, she might be induced not to speak of the meeting sh
bad detected. But Nathalie was in no placable mood ; sh
resented this seeming concession as another implied insuU.
but to be repelled with haughty disdain.
NATHALIE. 33
"Never!" she exclaimed, with true southern energy;
" submit when I am innocent, when I have done no wrong.
Never ! As for spending the night in this house, after the
words you have uttered, I will not. In my country," she add-
ed, emphatically, "we are either at peace or 'at enmity. Now
I tell you that I am not at peace with you, that I will not
sleep beneath your roof."
'She is positively getting blue with anger." cried Mademoi-
selle Dantin. with a bewildered look.
" I have borne with ill-temper," continued Nathalie, " with
petty annoyances, not patiently I am not patient but tvith-
out more than passing anger. I considered that your years "
" My 3'ears !"
" Your early disappointments jad naturally soured your
temper."
" Mademoiselle Montolicu, if by early disappointments you
allude to my not being married "
" I allude to nothing, but I say that when you attack my
honor I will resent it with all my might ; that when you turn
against me the stiletto, called slander, I will not be your guest,
eat your bread, touch your salt, or sleep beneath your roof I
shall spend this night at the inn, and be on my road to Paris
or Provence to-morrow. Say of me all you can say ; I do not,
I will not fear you."
She abruptly turned awa^', and when Mademoiselle Dantin
recovered from the stupor into which this daring speech had
thrown her, Nathalie had almost reached the end of the
garden.
" Good heavens ! what a tongue!" exclaimed the schoolmis-
tress, drawing in a long breath.
She slowly returned to the house which she re-entered by a
Bide door, whilst Nathalie stopped for a while near the glass
door of the parlor. The reaction of passion had come she
was weeping; but the weakness was brief; she shook her tears
away, smiled to herself and entered the " salon," as it waa
called, where a solitary light still burned on the table. Sho
was passing rapidly through the room, when an anxious voice
exclaimed :
'' 3Iadcmoisclle Natlialie, what mean those pearly drops?"
Nathalie turned quickly round and stopped on beholding
the little Chevalier, whom she had not perceived. He briskly
stepped forward and eyed with evident emotion her flushed
f&oe, on which indignant tears still glistened.
2
84 NATHALIE.
" I have been insulted, Chevalier," she said in her rapid
way."
" Insulted by whom ?" he asked, with a frown.
" By a certain neighbor of ours, who imagined, no doubt, 1
had been pleased with impertinent attentions, and by a certain
lady of this house who chose to share this belief"
The Chevalier looked grave. He might in a lady's defence
call out a gentleman, but he could not exactly call out another
lady.
" This must be a mistake," he at length observed ; " mia-
takes will occur even between amiable ladies, especially when
there is southern vivacity on one side and northern prudence
on the other. There must be an {idaircissemcnt."
Nathalie shook her head.
" Chevalier," she said, calmly enough, for her anger was as
brief as it was vehement ; " I grant that Mademoiselle Dantiu
is mistaken ; that if she has tormented me, I have provoked
her ; but no ^claircisscmcnt could now make me stay here.
We agree like fire and water, with this difference that she
cannot quench me. Faulty I may be, but she is not the one
by whom I can be changed. She will do me justice in this
matter later ; I hope and think so ; if not, let it be ; my own
conscience acquits me ; I care little for verdict. I am going
this very night adieu."
The little dancing-master drew back with a step expressive
of dismay.
" Mademoiselle !" he exclaimed ; " going ! No, allow me :
ray feelings will not admit it it cannot be."
He seemed filled with so much consternation that Nathalie
could not repress a smile. He appeared to hesitate ; but at
length decisively observed : " Will Mademoiselle Montolieu
allow me a question : that that gentleman V
His look finished the sentence. She colored a little and
said :
" Well, Chevalier, what about that gentleman ?"
The little dancing-master coughed : it was so delicate a
subject, and he had such a deep, almost painful respect for
female delicacy, of which Mademoiselle Dantin had contributed
to give him the most refined idea.
" Did he venture on language, too too ardent V he ob-
acrved with a frown.
" Oh ! no," quietly replied Nathalie, ' it was much worse."
" Much worse !" echoed the Chevalier, and visions of a kisg
NATHALIE. 33
Stolen from the fair hand of the Provencal jrirl, rendered tho
modest little man mute and abashed with indignation.
" Yes. much worse," decisively replied Nathalie ; " what da
I care about the courtesy or reserve of manner, when the
actions are bold and insulting ? He has followed me, written
to me, and finally contrived a meeting in the garden, all with-
out any encouragement save what he derived from his owu
presumption."
She looked indignant as she spoke.
The Chevalier was no doubt devoted to the ladies, but still
he was a man, and could, in matters of the heart, feel for his
own sex ; he could, as he expi-essed it with a sigh, "sympathize
with the follies and delirium of youthful passion ;' and, pro-
vided that profound respect due to every woman were not in-
fringed, he could tolerate almost any extravagance of conduct.
It was, Iw contended, one of the rights and privileges of the
fair sex, to make men act extravagantly ; and the greater the
folly the deeper the love. He now charitably endeavored to
convince Nathalie of this truth. No doubt her admirer had
been much to blame, but it was all the fault of his bewildering
passion ; he had endeavored to make that passion known by
looks, writing and speech. " And as for his getting in by the
door," feelingly added the dancing-master, ' is it not much
better than scrambling over the wall, as so many, unable to
control their feelings, would have done in his place ? a pro-
ceeding certainly more ofi'cnsivc to a lady's delicacy than that
which he adopted."
Nathalie heard him with a patient smile. She liked the
gentle Chevalier with his old-fashioned courtesy of bygone
times, with his reverence for love, passion and women. Made-
moiselle Dantin invariably drew forth the least amiable points
in her character, but the Chevalier had the power to soften
her down to girlish gentleness and grace. She quietly clasped
her hand upon his arm, and looking down into his face, said
softly :
"You do not think me prudish, do you?"
' No, no," he warmly replied ; " it is the beautiful, the sen-
eitive delicacy of woman."
" No, it is not that," said the young girl, smiling and draw-
ing up her slender figure, ' it is pride ;" and there was pride
in her dark eye, curling lip. and erect bearing.
" But surely not a pride that forbids you to pity the un-
happy passions you have inspired ?" urged the tender-hearted
Chevalier.
36 NATHALIE.
" What passion ? He has seen me a few times, never so
much as spoken to me before to-night ; what passion can he
feel ?"
The ChcTalier, too delicate to speak more openly, shook his
head and sighed in the direction of the looking-glass over the
mantle-shelf Nathalie looked at first unconscious of his
meaning, but as she saw her own image reflected back in the
shadowy depths of the mirror^ she blushed, and smiled at the
compliment.
" Well, I suppose he finds me pretty," she said, resolutely
conquering a little hesitation at speaking so frankly; "but how
can I esteem the man who likes me for my face, without so
much as knowing my heart, mind, or temper ? You would not
act or feel thus."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," seriously replied the Chevalier,
laying his hand upon his heart, and looking down as he spoke,
" must appeal to some less sensitive judge. I cannot, alas f
but confess the power of beauty. I may also venture to hint
to her that there are roy.^teries as yet unrevcaled to her heart ;
that love conveys, in the slightest glimpse, an accurate know-
ledge of the beloved object ; and that a particular friend of mine
onee received from the sight of a foot an impression never to
bo erased."
"A foot !"' exclaimed Nathalie, laughing men-ily, " why how
can this be ?"
But the Chevalier remained quite grave, and assured he?
that in a man of delicate feelings and sensitive heart such a
passion was perfectly natural. As to the particular process by
which the first impression ripened into love, he bashfully de-
clared that speech was powerless to describe it, and, as Nathalie
laughingly insisted, he quietly begged to change the subject.
The young girl perceiving that his modesty was getting alarm-
ed, immediately became serious ; he resumed their previous
conversation by saying :
" Let me also observe, in favor of the unhappy young man
I call eveiy man unhappy who sufi"ers from a lady's dis-
pleasure that his uncle, Monsieur de Sainville, is generally
considered a man of singular coldness and pride; a man whose
haughty will "
Nathalie interrupted him, and said briefly :
' The man, sir, who dares not confess such feelings open-
ly, is not worthy of having them returned. This Monsieur
Marceau sought, for his owu sake, a concealment which haa
rfATHALIS. 37
eeriously injured me. He dared not have acted so -witli a
great lady ; but I was poor and obscure therefore he ventur-
ed. There might have been something like courage in hi?
conduct had I the stern father, uncle, or guardian, of a heroine
of romance to brave ; but I had not. and therefore is his action
paltry. I am alone, undefended, and he showed me that he
knew it."
" No, not alone, not undefended, whilst Theodore ie Meran-
ville-Louville has the breath of life and the heart and arm of a
roan," fervently exclaimed the gallant little dancing-master,
half kneeling at her feet in a transport of chivalrous ardor.
In her surprise Nathalie stepped back. She knew not the
powerful impression her words had produced on the gentla and
generous nature of the Chevalier. He beheld her, a young and
lovely girl, in need of protection, and saw nothing better than
to offer himself with prompt zeal for the defence of her person
and honor. It was not the little man's fault if he came in this
world ages after chivalry had gone out of fashion ; still less his
fault, if nature and fortune, whilst giving him the soul and
illusive name, had denied him the shape and profession of
knight. Nathalie promptly understood him ; she was both
amused and touched, and smiled down on the dancing-master
through gathering tears.
" Rise, Sir Chevalier," she said, holding out her hand to
him, and entering with southern mirth and vivacity into the
spirit of the tone he assumed ; " if ever I need defender or
knight, I will have none save you."
Enraptured at this promise, the Chevalier kissed the tips
of her fingers, and rose with the triumphant mien of a knight
received into the favor of a fair lady, whilst with a smile that
gradually became more arch, she continued :
" But I need not remind a man of your worldly tact, that
the time is gone when ladies sought or accepted the vindica-
tion of their honor from the strong arm of man."
"And why should it be gone 7" he somewhat jealously ex
claimed ; " why should not the strong arm of man, as you so
justly observe, be stretched forth to protect innocence and
beauty ?"
" Because the world is a slanderous world," replied Nathalie
with a serious face, but mirth and mischief in her eyes ; " be
cause it would be sure to say that nothing save the most violent
passion could impel the Chevalier to take, so energetically, tbfl
defenoe of Mademoiselle Montolieu."
S NATHALIE.
" Well, then," he exclaimed, with much entrainemetU
* since you have perceived my folly, I confess it ; yes, I am
your slave." He spoke in a very exited tone, and stood with
folded arms before her.
At first Nathalie remained stunned.
" Is the poor little man actually in love with me ?" she
thought, with dismay ; but her fears vanished when she re*
raembei-ed how eloquently he had pleaded the cause of Charles
Marceau. The truth was, that the too sensitive Chevalier was
in love with every woman he knew, from Mademoiselle Dantin
down to Marianne, and consequently with Nathalie, as well as
the rest ; her unprotected and painful position h:g half-ac-
cepted offer of becoming her knight had fired his brain, and,
for the moment, he certainly felt a most violent passion,
which he was not far from thinking returned. At the same
time, he was somewhat dismayed at the boldness of his avow-
al. Nathalie was too much amused to look angry, and too
kind-hearted to laugh ; she feigned deafness, and said, quietly :
" I need not tell you how injurious to a lady's reputation
any such eclat would be ; therefore, my good knight, I, your
liege lady, lay on you my sovereign commands not to hurt or
molest, in any manner whatsoever, the individual named Charles
Marceau."
" May I not speak to his uncle ?" asked the Chevalier, a
little crest-fallen, for he was not quite the dupe of Nathalie's
deafness.
" By no means ; the uncle has the name of a most disn^
greeable, haughty man I care no more for him than I do for
his nephew."
" But, Mademoiselle, something must be done, what will
you do ?"
' Leave this house to-night," was the calm reply.
" That only makes the matter worse ; I must speak to
Mademoiselle Dantin."
" And what can you say to her that she does not know?
If, finding me alone in the garden with a young man, sho
chooses to believe I brought him there, who shall prevent
her ?"
" I certainly cannot prevent her," replied the dancing-mas-
fcr, with something like dignity, but there is such a thing aa
protesting against an injustice. If Mademoiselle Dantin will
he unjust to a young and unprotected lady, I shall and must
break with her."
NATHALIE. 39
lie spoke very decisively. Nathalie looked at him with
Bonie emotion.
" Monsieur le Chevalier," said she, gently, " yoii were ill
last year." The Chevalier looked very rueful. " You have
not many friends in Sainville,"*hc continued ;" and then ]
believe you had but one."
" Yes," he replied, thoughtfully, rubbing his aquiline nose,
" heaven forbid I should ever forget or deny a lady's favors.
Mademoiselle Dautin certainly showed herself a kind lady ;
the medicines she sent me were rather bitter, but wonderfully
fine, I have no doubt : she also sent me some very excellent
confitures and jellies when I was getting better these were
sweet."
" My friend," kindly said Nathalie, ' you must not break
with a woman who has done this, who would do it again, and
who, if she has a gentle feeling in her breast, has it for you.
Besides, it would be useless nothing shall make me stay
here ; I have been insulted I must go : be quite easy about
me, God is good to all, and kind to the young."
The little Chevalier slapped his forehead distractedly, and
paced the room with hasty steps and agitated air. He felt
grateful for both medicines and jellies ; and the " gentle feel-
ing" of which Nathalie spoke, moved him strangely. He
could not, with any delicacy, inquire into the exact nature of
Mademoiselle Dantin's weakness, and, indeed, felt rather
alarmed at tiie prospect of ascertaining how far it had gone.
JBut touched and grateful as he felt, it was impossible to forget
that he was the sworn knight of another lady now in sore dis-
tress. For a moment his fertile and excited imagination
represented him as standing between two fair dames, one
certainly lovely, and the other intellectual is not intellect
beauty? and not knowing on which side to turn. But at
length he took a truer and calmer view of the subject, smoothed
his wig, composed himself, and magnanimously resolved to
abide where gratitude cast her chains around him.
Nathalie smiled when he announced his resolve with a rue-
ful sigh ; she bade him a clieerful adieu, and gayly assured him
he was none the less her knight. The dancing-master took
her hands within his own an unwonted freedom and looked
at her silently.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," he said at length, in a moved
tone, " you are young, pretty, and very charming, but you have
something far better than all that a good, kind heart. Hap-
40 NATHALIE.
py the man who is to have you, and may God bless him and
you !"
Tears stood in his eyes, and in Nathalie's too, as they
parted. She went up to her room with a light, cheerful heart.
Nothing had occurred to change her position ; but her tempei*
had led her to yield to every impression of the moment, and
her present impressions were light and pleasant. Resting her
curved chin in the palm of her hand, she paced the room up
and down in meditative mood. A smile was on her lips, and
the look of her dark eyes was bright and hopeful.
" I am glad I am going," she thought, " truly glad. This
perverse woman would positively end by making me enjoy a
quarrel. I have enjoyed it I know I have," she added, a lit-
tle ruefully ; " but I dare say all this is for the best : I could
scarcely have left her otherwise, but now I must go, of course ;
and where shall I go, I wonder ?"
She stopped short, and looked grave and disturbed. She
was a stranger in Sainville ; her only friend was her sister,
and she was now at Rouen, with the old aunt under whose
protection she resided. The town inn seemed the only place
open to the young girl. It was a quiet, decent house, where
few travellers ever came, yet the thought of going there was
extremely disagreeable to Nathalie ; she now regretted not
having agreed to spend the night in the school. But this was
a trifling consideration in comparison to another which oifered
itself to her attention under the following startling form :
'' Mademoiselle Dantin will say I contrived a meeting with
that young man in the garden. I did not : but will the world
believe her or me?" She endeavored to chase the thought
away, but it would return, and with it the growing conviction
that her own version of the story would not be that most
favorably received. Disgrace, whether it bo merited or not,
is hard to bear, in youth especially. Nathalie was one of
those impatient spirits who resent injustice in word and feel-
ing. She had never submitted to Mademoiselle Dantin's ty-
ranny ; she now felt indignant and amazed that a chain of
circumstances, over which she seemingly had no power, should
have produced results so galling to her pride and so fatal to
her welfare. She was young and handsome, therefore she was
to be suspected ; poor, therefore unfriended and alone ; inno-
scViC. but not the less disgraced.
" Is this possible ?" she asked of herself with incredulous
surprise. She thought of Charles, but with increased bitter-
KATHAIJE 4]
ncss and indignation, and as the cause of al! her avoc. Why
Jiad he persecuted her with attentions so fat?l, which had tar-
nished her name, and cast on it a stain she would find it so
hard to efface? She found an insult not only in the boldnes*
of his actions, but also in the coolness and composure which
characterized them. She recalled with irritation every parti
cular of this interview. " He is not handsome," she ejaculated
inwardly ; " I looked at him well, and it was not so dark but
what I could see : I like neither his face nor his look ; one is
too old in feeling, and the other too keen and watchful in ex-
pression. His whole conduct was heartless and cruel ; he shall
find himself mistaken if he imagines it has placed me in his
power !"
The mere idea roused her; she also remembered it wa.^
time to act not merely to think of her departure, but to pre-
pare for it. Ere long her drawers were emptied, and their
contents transferred to her trunk. She was cording it up,
when a low, timid knock was heard at the door. Nathalie
knew it was Marianne, the servant. She bade her enter, and,
merely glancing round, resumed her task.
The girl obeyed, closed the door with nervous haste, then
remained standing near it without speaking. She had a good-
natured face, fresh and full ; but her e3'es, of a pale blue, Tad
a startled and bewildered look, as if she were in a state of con-
stant alarm.
"Well, Marianne^ what is it?" asked Nathalie, in her
quick, cheerful way, rising as she spoke to face the girl.
But Marianne, on perceiving the corded trunk, uttered a
faint scream. Nathalie gave her a look of surprise.
" Oh, mademoiselle !" exclaimed Marianne, still short of
breath, " I have done it ! You are going ! I have done it !"
' You, Marianne !" quickly said Nathalie, looking very
vexed. " Do you mean to say you let that young man in ?"
Marianne hung down her head and wrung her hands.
" Answer me," imperatively said Nathalie ; ' did you do it
ornot?"
"I thought there was no harn* " said Marianne, feebly.
" No harm !"
" I mean that you would not bo angry."
This did not mend the matter.
" And pray what made you think so ?" dryly asked Nathalie.
'I thought 1 am sure I do not know but he was bo
handsoni'j."
i'Z MATIIALIE.
" He is not," was the sharp reply ; " but he is very insolen^
Marianne."
" Oh, is he 1" said Marianne, looking rather bewildered. " 1
am very sorry, but I thought that, being so rich and handsome
as I imagined," she added, correcting herself, and so fond
of you too ' Nathalie's lip curled disdainfully " I fancied
I know I ought not to have done it ; but Mademoiselle Dantin
always says I am so wicked, and I suppose I am," she added,
disconsolately.
Nathalie's resentment was as readily appeased as it waa
easy to awaken. She knew Marianne was a poor weak and
nervous creature, whose little original spirit had long been
broken by the redoubtable Mademoiselle Mantin. She believed,
moreover, that she was attached to her, and had probably
thought to serve her by her indiscreet conduct. She now
sought to console her by assuring her of her forgiveness ; but
on hearing this, Marianne began to sob and moan very drearily,
calling all the saints of heaven to witness that she had meant
no harm.
" Very well," rather abruptly said Nathalie, who was more
kind-hearted than patient; " come, Marianne, here is the Jichu
I have cut out for you ; you have nothing to do but to hem it."
u3ut as this recalled to Marianne the many similar kind-
nesses she had received from the young girl, it only added tc
her grief. Nathalie perceiving that she was getting hysterical,
made her sit down, and laying her hand on the girl's shoulder,
kindly looked into her face, whilst she said with some gravity;
" You have cried enough, and tears are of no earthly use.
You did wrong, meaning well ; a common mistake. I have
forgiven you, let us hear no more about it ; indeed, the sooner
you leave this room the better. On reflection, I think it is
quite useless your mistress should know what has passed. She
would not exonerate me, but say we were accomplices ; only
Marianne, if another teacher should come in my place, do not
let young men get into the garden. And now, what was it you
came up here to tell me ?"
" Holy Virgin !" cried Marianne, much startled, " I quite
forget it ! The sight of that trunk "
" What was it ?"
" A message from Mademoiselle Dantin."
" She might have spared herself that trouble," quickly ex-
claimed Nathalie, coloring very much, as she spoke ; " I have
Qo wish to stay, T am quite ready to go ; Marianne, you may
NATHALIE. 43
toll her so," she added, putting on her shawl and tying her
bonnet-strings.
" Oh ! mon Dieu, Mademoiselle," said Marianne, " it was
not that at all, but you are so quick ! just like a milksoup,^
up directly."
' Well, what was it then?"
" Why I believe it is a strange lady below who wishes to
Gpeak to you."
" A lady !" said Nathalie, looking up with much surprise ;
" and wlio is she, Marianne ?"
Marianne did not know. The lady's face was turned from
her when slie answered her mistres&''3 ring, and it was not she
who had let her in. Nathalie felt puzzled to imagine who tho
stranger might be, for she was acquainted with no one in Sain-
ville ; but without losing much time in conjecturing or accept-
ing Marianne's offer of knowing from the other servant, she re-
solved to go down and learn.
She paused for a moment on reaching the door of the par-
lor ; it stood ajar, and a ray of liglit glided from the opening
into the dark corridor. She had thought to hear the stranger's
voice, and thus learn who she was, but if the room had been
vacant it could not have been more silent. With an indefinite
feeling between hope and uneasiness, Nathalie pushed the door
open and entered.
Mademoiselle Dantin was seated, as when we first saw her,
before the table which had been Natlialie's bar of judgment.
She looked discomposed : and an angry spot sat on either of
her sallow cheeks, as she fanned herself indignantly with a
coarse colored pocket-handkerchief At a little distance from
her, with her back to the door, stood a lady, who quickly turned
round on hearing Nathalie enter.
She was tall, erect, and very richly attired ; she looked be-
tween forty and fifty ; she might have appeared, and she per-
haps was, younger, but for the careworn expression of her
countenance. Her features were more regular than pleasing ;
Ihe brow was too low, and tlic upper lip had a haughty curl, yet
the whole face was far from repulsive ; many would have pro-
uounced it handsome.
Natlialie looked at lior and vaguely felt that she had seen
her before, but where or liow, she could not remember.
" Tlie young lady, I presume," said the stranger, giving
Nathalie a keen look, and addressing Mademoiselle Dantin, in
a rich harmonious voice that seemed familiar to the young
44 j^ATHALIE.
girl's car. The schoolmistress gave a short disdainful nod
as the lady turned once more towards Nathalie and ol
served, with an inclination of the head, between pride and
courtesy :
" I am come. Mademoiselle Montolieu, to express my great
regret for the indiscretion of which my son rendered himself
guilty towards you this evening. I regret it exceedingly/' she
added, slightly drawing herself up.
Nathalie bowed silently. She now recognized the speaker
as their neighbor Madame Marceau. The lady continued :
" I am really distressed that a son of our house that my
son should have acted so. I understand too there is a ser-
vant in the case ; it is positively shocking."
She raised a richly-chased vinaigrette to her nose, as li ty
purify the very idea.
"Shocking!" exclaimed Madcmois'elle Dantin, ircfully ; '' it
is more, madame, I " drawing herself up " I call it abomina-
ble ! To bribe my servant ; but I shall teach the bold crea-
ture her place yet," she added, rising to give the bell-rope a
violent pull.
" Not now, madame, not now," said Madame Marceau
waving her right hand with a haughty grace, that did not mis
become her, whilst her left maintained the vinaigrette in its
position ; " not now, I pray. I have no doubt, from what my
son has told me, the girl is guilty ; I should certainly dismiss
her. At the same time, I am sure your ready tact will suggest
to you the impropriety of any such explanation at present.
You may go," she added, directing a stately nod towards Ma-
rianne, who had appeared at the door with her usual bewil-
dered air ; " your mistress does not want you yet. Go. my
good girl, go."
Mademoiselle Dantin was no submissive person, yet some-
how or other she now resumed her seat, and allowed Marianne
to depart in silence. Madame Marceau bore her down com-
pletely. It was not the lady's wealth or station effected this
wonder, for the schoolmistress, to do her justice, never stooped
save where there was some advantage to be derived, and in the
present case there was none ; but though she could not exactly
understand why, she now felt entirely ttirown into the shade.
Madame Marceau's stately person and grand ways, her figure,
full yet graceful her dress of rich silk and ample folds, her
Indian shawl, negligently draped around her, as if it were a
thing of no price, ay, even her bonnet, with the waving plums
NATHALIE. 45
tliat rose and fell with every motion of the wearer's head,
failed not in their effect, and hushed the wrath of the school-
mistress. Being, however, a woman of very great spirit, she
soon rallied, and was preparing for an outbreak of which the
exordium would have been relative to the propriety of some
people giving orders to their own servants, and other people
not going to be trodden upon, when Madame Marceau, per-
ceiving her intention, intei'fered.
' By-and-by, my good Mademoiselle Dantin," said slie,
with a patronizing smile, ' by-and-by ; allow me first to ex-
plain the case to this young lady. I am distressed, extremely
so indeed," she continued, addressing her discourse to Natha-
lie ; " I positively am, at all that has happened. I have been
explaining the whole matter to Mademoiselle Dantin, who now
understands her mistake," the schoolmistress was preparing
for an. indignant denial, but was not permitted to open her
lips, " by-and-by, when I have explained every thing to Ma-
demoiselle Montolicu. At the same time," resumed Madame
Marceau, again addressing Nathalie, ' I have no difficulty in
understanding that for many reasons you may object to re-
main even one day longer beneath her roof Will you accept
of the hospitality which, when I had confided to him what my
son had confided to me, my brother begged of me to offer you?
But pray," she added, very graciously, " receive this proposal
in the same spirit in which it is made, as a favor to be con-
ferred upon us. We really shall not be easy unless you afford
us this opportunity of repairing my son's deplorable indiscre-
tion. Nathalie made no reply; she evidently hesitated. JNIa-
dame Marceau gave an anxious look. " I hope,'' said she,
somewhat uneasily, " the offer is not displeasing. I am sure I
bhould be quite grieved What is it, madame ?"
The latter words came out very sharply, and were ad-
dressed to Mademoiselle Dantin, who, on hearing Madame
Marccau's altered tone and language, had thought proper to
recline back in her chair, close her eyes, and give utterance to
a disdainful " Bah !"
''What is it, madame?" again asked Madame Marccaii,
drawing up her fine figure, and wrapping hei-self with ex-
treme majesty.
" Nothing, madame," shortly replied the schoolmistress.
Madame Marceau eyed her very slowly, then turned once
more towards Nathalie, evidently waiting for her reply.
The young girls resolve was already taken. She did not
4*5 1%'ATHALiL.
think that between tlic Inn or the chateau of Sainville there
was much cause to hesitate; she could, moreover, detect a
great difi'erence in the tone with which Madame Marceau ad-
dressed her, from that in which she spoke to Mademoiselle
Dantin ; the distinction gratified her wounded pride. But
composed as she endeavored to seem, there was a feeling she
could not help betraying, and this feeling was surprise. She
knew that the step Madame Marceau now took was the ver^
last any of the bourgeoise ladies of Sainville wouid have adopted
in similar circumstances. Madame Marceau, who was looking
av her very attentively, smiled with a sort of quiet triumph, that
seemed to say: "Yes, my dear child, it is so; no Y\ti\e parve-
mie would act thus ; but I am a great lady of that old noblesse
which has courtesy and chivalry of feeling still. Our titles
are nothing ; our wealth is gone, but that remains to distin-
guish us for ever from those of plebeian blood and race."
It was thus at least that Nathalie rapidly interpreted the
meaning of the dark and handsome, though haughty face, on
which she now gazed ; but she subdued her momentary sur-
prise and replied, with a gravity and composure unusual to
her:
" Madame, I sincerely thank you for your offer. I will not
say that I accept it, because the circumstances you allude to
with so much regret leave me no other choice ; my motives
are, I trust, of a higher order. The insinuations which Made-
moiselle Dantin has thrown out against me would, I confess it,
seem to be justified by my abrupt departure from her estab-
lishment, where, nevertheless, I have no wish to remain no,
not one hour longer," she added, giving the schoolmistress a
reproachful glance ; " but if I leave her house for yours," she
continuf^d, again addressing Madame Marceau, " her protection
for your protection, I believe that my bitterest enemies, if 1
have indeed any, must needs bo silent ; these, and these only,
are my motives."
She spoke with quiet pride, almost coldly, for she was jeal-
ous of not compromising her dignity.
" Whatever they may be," very graciously replied Madame
Marceau, " I am too happy at the result, not to think them
excellent ; and I feel sure Mademoiselle Dantin shares my
gratification at so agreeable a conclusion of an unpleasant mat-
ter."
Madame !" replied the schoolmistress, darting an angry look
towards her, and speaking in a tone that quivered with anger
NATHALIE. 47
" I might say much, but will confine myself to one remark .
for no consideration would I suffer under my roof, as you soera
inclined to suffer under yours, such things "
' What things ?" asked Madame Marceau.
" Such things as a modest woman does not care to mention.''
Madame Marceau carried her vinaigrette to her nose with
extreme dignity.
" Upon my word, Mademoiselle Dantin," said she, quietly,
" you astonish me. What ideas ! for an instructress of youth
too ; you do astonish me. I believe you are ready. Mademoi-
selle Montolieu," she added, addressing Nathalie. ' Will you
be kind enough to take my arm ? A servant shall come round
for your trunks this evening."
Nathalie silently obeyed, but felt somewhat mortified on re-
collecting that she was leaving only one trunk behind ^er.
They had reached the door, when Madame Marceau turned
round, and coldly observed :
" Good evening, Mademoiselle Dantin. I think it right to
observe to you, that Mademoiselle Montolieu being now under
my protection, I shall consider any remark derogatory to her
as a personal insult to me."
She drew herself up, and turned away. Nathalie followed
her example, but not without first casting a look oyer the gloomy
room, with the globes, the maps, the cheerless hearth, the com-
fortless furniture, the ungracious and withered figure of the
schoolmistress, as she sat rigidly in her chair, and feeling, with
a sense of inexpressible relief, that she was leaving them all
for ever.
A new page in the history of her life was indeed turned
over.
CHAPTER IV.
The chateau of Sainville stood on the brow of an eminence
which overlooked tlie quiet town of Sainville. gathered up be-
low within the shallow compass of a little Norman valley.
A broad road, shaded by trees on either side, wound its wav
up the steep ascent, passed before the narrow door of the
Bchool-house and the iron gateway of the mansion, then ab-
ruptly descended the other .side of the eminence, and extended
48 NATHALIE.
far away into the open country, among yellow stubble-fields
and green meadows, with here and there a solitary dwelling.
Of this prospect, which looked gay and pastoral in the sun-
shine, nothing was visible on the present evening ; the moon
was obscured by light clouds that slowly passed over her disk,
following one another along the gloomy sky, like ships sailing
in the same track, until they vanished in the distant depths of
heaven ; a chill breeze had risen, and its vague murmurs
blended with the rustling sound of the withered leaves which
it swept away from the lonely road.
On leaving the school-house, the two ladies turned away
from the lingering household lights which still burned in the
vale at their feet, and walked along in silence until they reached
an avenue of old and majestic elms on their left. At the end
of that avenue rose the old chateau. The iron gate stood
open ; they entered, walked to the end and ascended a flight
of steps that led to the porch. Their approach seemed to have
been witnessed and expected, for the door noiselessly opened
to admit them. Nathalie caught a glimpse of a tall servant
in black, standing in a respectful attitude in the spacious and
lighted hall, a wide and majestic flight of marble steps with
railings of rich iron filagree extended beyond. They entered.
" Where is my son ?" asked Madame Marceau.
' Monsieur Charles left very shortly after madame."
" Has she asked this that I may know he is gone?" quick-
ly the ught Nathalie. She glanced around ; the air of grandeur
which pervaded all she saw, the obsequious tone and downcast
eyes of the servant, the stately dignity of Madame Marceau
as she crossed the hall with her haughty mien and her rust-
ling robe, showed her how difi"erent was the atmosphere she
was entering from that of the world she had left. She was not
awed, but could scarcely help feeling impressed. They as-
cended the staircase in silence. Madame Marceau paused on
reaching the first floor landing. In a recess stood the dark
bronze statue of a female slave bearing a pale, transparent
lamp, which shed around a soft and subdued light. The elder
lady turned towards her companion, and laying her hand on
the gilt door-handle of a wide folding-door, she observed, in her
rich, full voice, looking down at Nathalie as she spoke, ' I
must beg leave to introduce you to my aunt the Canoness ;
she is very old, a little infirm, and rather deaf I feel confi-
dent she will be charmed to know you. Pray do not feel un-
easy ; she is a very simple person extremely so. Perhaps we
NATHALIE. 49
sLall also see my brother, Monsieur de Sainville ; but pray bo
quite at your ease.''
She spoken so graciously that Nathalie felt vexed at the
trepidation which drew forth so much condescension. Daring
as she was when roused by injustice, the young girl was never-
theless shy with strangers ; she now felt doubly so. What would
the old Canoness, probably a rigid old devotee, think of her ?
How could Monsieur de Sainville, that grave and, if report
spoke truly, morose man, consider the obscure girl who had
attracted his nephew's attention 1 Yet with this feeling of un-
easiness there blended a strong share of curiosity to obtain a
nearer view of one who, whether in good or ill, had excited
much attention since his return to Sainville.
Madame Marceau, who was eyeing Nathalie keenly, ap-
peared far from annoj^ed at what she could read of those feel-
ings in the young girl's veiled countenance. Complacently
patting the hand which rested on her arm, she once more
exhorted her to banish all uneasiness, and opening the door,
she led the way into a large, old-fashioned drawing-room, with
a lofty ceiling and deep windows, now screened by thick crim-
son curtains that fell to the ground. Several large mirrors
gave additional vastncss to the apartment, and reflected in
their shadowy depths the light of a lamp suspended from the
ceiling. In contrast to its soft, pale rays, was the ardent glow
of the wood-fire that burned on the hearth, and shone back
with a deeper and more burning red from the polished surface
of the surrounding furniture. The walls were hung with pic-
tures in heavy gilt frames ; they were chiefly old family por-
traits, and had all the mellow tones of age. There was warmth
and richness in the coloring of the whole room.
Nathalie at first shrank behind Madame Marceau and
scarcely raised her eyes from the floor. She felt as if
Monsieur de Sainville's keen look, of which she had often
heard, were fastened upon her ; when she at length looked up,
blushing and slightly confused, she perceived at the further
end of the apartment a very diminutive old lady, seated in a
deep arm-chair, by the fire-side, and knitting with extreme
rapidity. She did not pause in her occupation or take any
notice of their entrance. With mingled relief and disappoint-
ment, Nathalie perceived that Monsieur de Sainville was not
there. Madame Marceau, still keeping the young girl's arm
within her own, and nodding in her encouraging manner, led
her along the room at a slow and stately pace. As they ad'
50 NATHALIE.
vanced towards the tire-place, the large mirroi' over it reflected
her fine figure, rich attire, and waving plumes ; on the vpholfi
she looked very majestic. They paused on reaching the old
lady's arm-chair, and gently touching the arm of her relative.
Madame Marceau said in a key higher than her usual tones :
" Aunt, dear Aunt Radegonde."
The Canoness slowly raised her head. Nathalie was capti-
vated at once by the look of her mild blue eyes, still deep in
color, and by the kind and benignant smile which played on
her features as she beheld them. A devotee she might be, but
she certainly did not seem a rigid one. Her hair, of a silvery
white, was parted and smoothed beneath a close lace cap ; she
wore a dress of black silk brocade, very full and autique in
fashion, but fitting her extremely well. On her bosom glit-
tered a large gold cross, the sign of the gay and worldly order
to which she belonged. She was evidently very old, but her
neat and slender little figure had not suffered from years, or
lost the nicety of its proportions ; she sat and knitted in a
very erect fashion. Nathalie thought she had never beheld a
being who realized so completely her childish beau ideal of the
benevolent fairy.
" I have brought vou Mademoiselle Montolieu," said Ma-
dame Marceau, again addressing her aunt.
" I am very glad to see her," cheerfully replied the Canon-
ess ; " the poor child looks hot ; well, it is perhaps early to
have a fire ; for my part I think the heat a good thing at all
times ; besides, I am subject to rheumatism, and this old draw-
ing-room is so cold and chill of an evening. Pray take off
your bonnet and shawl, my dear, and sit here by me."
There was in her manner a kindness free from Madame
Marceau's patronizing courtesy as she now took Nathalie's
hand, and with a smile made her sit down on a low luxurious
seat by her side, eyeing her all the time with evident and
naive curiosity. Not satisfied with the imperfect glimpse
which she thus obtained, she rose, and declaring that ' the
poor child was still too warm," she very decisively divested
Nathalie of both bonnet and shawl, and remained silent and
wondering before her. Nathalie was always pretty, but now
the warm fire-light gave so deep a bloom to her cheek, to her
eyes a light so soft, and to the clear outlines of her whole
eountenance so vivid and dazzling a brightness, heightened by
her dark hair and sombre attire, that Aunt Radegonde could
not but look at her with a mute surprise, which soon subsided
NATHALIE. 51
into the smillug complacency the sight of youth and beauty in-
spires in those whoin old age has mellowed, not soured. The
language of her admiring glance was one beauty learns to read
early, and a smile, half-shy, half-pleased, trembled on Natha-
lie's parted lips. The Canoness turned towards her niece, and.
raising herself on tiptoe to reach her ear, she mysteriously
whispered, with a shrewd nod in the direction of Nathalie :
" She is very pretty."
The young girl colored deeply and stooped as if to arrange
her hair. Madame Marceau did not reply. She too looked at
Nathalie with a surprise verging on admiration, but far from
implying pleasure.
' I cannot blame poor Charles so much," continued the Ca-
noness, in the same audible key which she mistook for the
lowest whisper.
" Hush, aunt," said her niece, with imperious tone and dark-
ening brow.
" We shall see whether our critical Armand will find fault
with that face," added the indiscreet Canoness, with visible
triumph.
Nathalie looked very much disconcerted. Armand was the
christian name of Monsieur de Sainville. Madame Marceau
pressed the arm of her aunt, and ."^lightly apologized to the
young girl, reminding her that her relative was, as she had in-
formed her, a little deaf She spoke with a significant look,
and in a loud key.
'Deaf!" echoed Aunt Radegonde, much nettled. "Indeed
I hear as well as most people ; every one is more or less deaf:
the only difiercncc is in the quantity. Then as to what I said,
I do not think it was so oft'ensive that you need have pinched
my arm, llosalie. In my time, young girls liked to be thought
pretty, and when they were prettj^, young neu were very apt
to find it out too."
With a haughty nod, that implied ' take that," to her
niece, the Canoness walked back to her arra-diair, stiffly sat
down, and rapidly knitted away, ei*eet and dignified. Madame
Marceau's lip curled as she looked down at her aunt for a mo-
ment; but her glance soon reverted to Nathalie, whom she
keenly eyed from head to foot, without seeming to notice that
the young girl returned her scrutinizing look. The lady stood
facing her, near the fire-jilacc, bareheaded, but with the Indian
shawl that seemed as a portion of her dignit}!-, still negligently
iraped around her person. Nathalie was struck with th.n rn
52 NATHALIE.
seuiblance her handsome features bore to those of her son ; but
the same sharpness of outline and careworn expression marred
their beauty. The look which she now cast on the young girl
was fixed and moody, but when their eyes suddenly chanced to
meet, she smilded very blandly.
" Aunt," said she, addressing her relative in a most gra-
cious tone ; " would you believe that this terrible old school-
mistress would scarcely let me see mademoiselle !"
" Indeed !" exclaimed Aunt Radegonde, forgetting her re-
sentment. She quickly looked round at Nathalie, suspended
her knitting, cast her head up sideways, in an interrogative
listening sort of fashion, probably rendered imperative and
habitual by her infirmity and short stature, and thus displayed
the profile of a little Gallic nez retrousse^ strongly indicative
of inquisitiveness.
" Mademoiselle Dantin was irritable this evening," quietly
said Nathalie, feeling a reply was expected.
' Is she often so V promptly asked the Canoness.
' Yes, pretty often," answered Nathalie smiling.
"Then you did not like her?"
'' We did vtcii agree : our tempers were different." She
spoke coldly ; she did not love Mademoiselle Dantin, but she
scorned to attack her.
' Ah !" slowly said Aunt Radegonde, who seemed to expect
more. " Indeed !" she ejaculated, after a pause ; but as this
produced nothing, she quietly resumed her knitting.
' There is much to try tlie temper of persons in Mademoi-
selle Dantin's dependent position," charitably observed Madame
Marceau. " She is, I suppose, neither better nor worse than
most individuals of her class. Mademoiselle Montolieu, let mo
hope that you will have some refreshment."
Without waiting for objection or reply, she rang the bell.
Almost immediately a servant entered, bearing a tray covered
with delicacies. Madame Marceau carelessly signed him to
place it on a small table near Nathalie. As soon as he retii-ed,
she politely pressed her guest to take something; when the
young girl complied, to please her, she retired to a low settee,
where she reclined majestically, supported by a pile of cushions,
not exactly looking at Nathalie, but keeping her within view.
But inexperienced as she was, Nathalie had the finesse of a
southern and a woman. She felt that she had been introduced
into that stately drawing-room, with emblazoned ceiling, and
antique furniture, gleaming in the red fire-light, in order to be
NATHALIE. ba
dazzled by the sight of unaccustomed magniflcencc. She had
been a little disconcerted at first ; now she felt quite composed.
How sorry I am," observed Madame Marceau, casting a
gracious look towards her guest, " that my brother. Monsieur
de Sainville, does not spend this evening with us. He would
I am sure have been charmed to see Mademoiselle Montolieu.
Besides," she thoughtfully added, " when one is so happy as to
have a brother, and every one is not so fortunate "
" Have you got a brother, my dear V interrupted her aunt,
addressing "Nathalie with her interrogative air.
" No, madanie ; I have only a sister."
'Does she live in Sainville?" asked the Canoness.
"Generally she does: but now Rose is at Roueii, for a
week."
' Rose ! what a pretty name ! May I ask to know yours ,
there is much meaning in names ; mine is Radegonde, from
Sainte Radegonde, one of our earliest queens. Yours is
Nathalie ! Ah !" And the Canoness became suddenly medita-
tive.
" Nathalie !" carelessly observed Madame Marceau, who had
however been listening with evident attention ; ' Nathalie !
Did we not know a lady of that name at Marseilles, aunt?"
" Marseilles !" echoed Aunt Radegonde, ' why, are you from
the south, my dear V she suddenly asked, as if the idea had
not occurred to her before.
" I am a Provencal."
" I might have known it, by your quick, piquant way of
speaking, so unlike our long nasal Norman accent ; you have
got a touch of the southern tongue, and very pleasant it is
too," she added, smiling.
" Nathalie Montolieu !" abstractedly observed her niece ;
" yes, the name is decidedly southern."
" Montolieu ! is that your other name, my dear ? why Ro-
salie, how can you call tlat a southern name? I am sure,
now you mention it, that it is a Sainville name ; have you for-
gotten the Doeteur Montolieu, who attended on my poor Lu-
cile, and who, when 3'ou became a widow, wished so much to
marry you ?"
Madame Marceau gave her aunt a rapid and indignant
look, while Nathalie quietly observed .
" That Doeteur Montolieu was my father ; he left Sainville
after the death of his first wife, and went to Aries, where he
married my mother."
54 NATHALIE.
Madame Marccau looked thunderstruck at the unoxpectod
revelation, which so suddenly lessened the distance between
herself and the daughter of the man who had formerly aspired
to the honor of her hand. She had been many years away
fi'ora Sainville, and did not so much as know of the doctor's
second marriage. Mademoiselle Dantin bad dryly informed
her, that Nathalie was a Provencal, and pretended to know
no more ; this fact, confirmed by the young girl's southern
accent, had completely misled her. Curious, however, to
know who her guest really was, she had, accordingly to her
usual tactics, when there was a secret in the way, put her aunt
on the track ; the result had far surpassed her wishes and
expectations. Indeed there was now something pitiable in
her consternation ; in the nervous tremor with which she used
her vinaigrette, and in the hurried affectation of pleasantry
with which she treated her aunt's assertion, and strove to
check the torrent of her voluble astonishment at this coinci-
dence.
" Yes, I remember Docteur Montolieu ; a good honest man,
as you say, aunt very strange coincidence extremely so
Mademoiselle Montolieu, I can see you are oppressed with
fatigue ; allow me to show you to your room."
Nathalie rose, but the Canoness would kiss her very affec-
tionately before she went, and holding her hand, ask her how
long her father had been dead ; tell her what a very clever
man he was ; how he had attended her during a long illness,
and hint mysteriously that if Rosalie j^d only wished, she
might now have been her Nathalie's mamma ; to all of
which her haughty niece was compelled to listen with power-
less indignation, until at length, unable to bear more, she hur-
ried the young girl out of the apartment. She smoothed her
brow, and resumed all her composure, as the drawing-room
door closed upon them, and drowned the sounds of Aunt Rad-
cgonde's voice.
Graciously requesting Nathalie to follow her, she led the
way up another flight of the wide staircase. The shadowj
height of the ceilings, the statues and objects of art which
adorned every recess, and the breadth of the stairs, impressed
Nathalie with a certain grandeur of design which belongs to
old mansions. On reaching the second-floor landing, lit liko
the first, they turned into a long and narrow passage or galle-
ry, as the lady called it, with doors on either side. These, as
Madame Marceau informed the young girl, in an impressive
NATHALIE. 55
tone, these were the doors of the sleeping apartmenta of the
chateau ; they had been inhabited in turn by the whole of the
family since the edifice was first erected.
"And this is your room, Mademoiselle Montolieu," she
added, opening the last door, and entering a small octagon
room, hung with blue damask, somewhat faded, and lit by a
crystal lamp suspended from the low ceiling. " We are now
in one of the four turrets of the chateau," she continued, nod-
ding and smiling at the young girl. Her look, tone, and bear-
ing bespoke inward complacency.
'' How fine the view must be !" cried Nathalie, charmed
with her apartment.
" All the views are fine from the chateau of Sainville," re-
plied the stately lady ; ' indeed, I may say, they are cele-
brated. My room is close to yours ; I mention this, lest you
fihould imagine yourself secluded like some chatelaine of old,
in this ' blue room of the western tower,' which has received
more than one real chatelaine. Indeed. I hope you are not
afraid of spirits : it is said to be haunted."'
Then followed a legend of two beautiful sisters, C'onstance
and Adelaide de Sainville, who had successively tenanted this
apartnieut, and both died there in the last century. Constance
had fitted it up as her oratory, and retired to it daily for
meditation and prayer ; she died young, pifi-e and happy.
After her death, it became the sleeping apartment of Ade-
laide, a gay and voluptuous lady, who caused the walls, left
bare by the asceti^Constance, to be hung with soft silken
damask, and introduced the downy couch, the mirror and
crystal lamp, presei'ving only the plain wooden 2^ric-dieu as a
token of her sister's presence. She, too, it seemed, had died
young, but neither resigned nor happy. On the last day of
her life si e caused herself to be attired in all the gorgeous
splendor of the old court costume, surveyed herself in the
mirror, and with many sighs and tears, bade youth and beauty
farewell. Her restless spirit was said to haunt the spot.
Madame Marceau smilingly assui-ed the young girl this was
only an idle report. But though she spoke of the blue room
of the western tower, and of the family legends, with seeming
carelessness, her studied fluency of speech, as she recalled
those associations of the past, betrayed her secret satisfac-
tion and inward pride. She seemed gratified at Nathalie's
attention.
"It is wrong in me." she said, "to be detaining you from
56 NATHALIE.
your rest; good night, Mademoiselle Moutolieu ; may yonz
lirst night's sleej:) under the roof of our house be peaceful and
happy."
She spoke with the stately courtesy of a real chatelaine,
drew the young girl towards her, stooped for she was much
taller imprinted a kiss on her forehead, and glided out of the
room.
It was not until the sound of her steps died away in the
passage, and on the distant staircase, that Nathalie ^elt herself
alone. She sat down on a low couch, and leaning back, looked
around her with naif and childish interest. The bed stood
before her in a deep recess, shrouded by curtains of the clear-
est muslin ; near it stood the wooden jxrie-dieu of the devout
Con.stance, and not far from it, on a low cabinet of carved eb-
ony, the gleaming oral mirror, with its tarnished frame, in
which her more earthly sister surveyed herself before she died.
These reminiscences charmed the romantic mind of Nathalie.
The quaint old china which adorned the mantel-shelf, the pic-
tures of shepherds and shepherdesses in hoops, and even a
discolored mother-of-pearl table and work-bos, gave a new in-
terest to every thing around her ; the sight of her trunk, un-
perceived till then, suddenly recalled her from the past to the
present.
This day ba(! been one of the few eventful days in her quiet
life, and it now returned to her in its minutest incidents, with
the fuss of the morning ; the prize ceremony, at which she
laughed, but which amused and interested^er, in spite of her
laughing ; the breaking up, and the parting from a few pet
pupils, who crowded around her, and gave her many a farewell
kiss. She remembered how, when all was over, she had gone
up to h ?r room, and watched from the window a carriage, which
bore away a gay young creature of sixteen, who was to return
no more to school ; how sad she felt, as that carriage wound
along the dusty road, and vanished in the distance ; how long-
ingly she looked at the unknown regions of happiness and
pleasure that extended beyond those green hills, and felt like
a lady of romance, captive in her solitary bower, guarded by
the Bantin dragon. How she wept a little at her loneliness,
and then dried her tears, and read till dusk, when she went
down to the garden to dream away an hour, until called in fo?
quarrel, reproach, and dismissal. The interview with Charles
Marceau, the scene with Mademoiselle Dantin, the meeting
with the little Chevalier, the sudden appearance of Madams
NATHALIE. 57
Marceau, all came back to her with the vividness of reality,
until at length recurred the most startling remembrance of
all ; she, the poor, dependent girl, was now a guest in the cha
teau of Sainville. She looked around her, and smiled to her
self, then rose, and opened the window, a real Gothic casement,
with lozenge panes in lead casings. The night was dark ; she
could see nothing, save a bright light burning in the turret
facing her. Through the glass panes and thin muslin curtains
appeared the figure of a man, slowly pacing the room up and
down. He looked taller than Charles Marceau, who, moreover,
was not at home. Nathalie's heart beat a little ; for though
the distance was too great for her to distinguish his features,
she felt that she was gazing on the master of Sainville. She
softly closed the window, and after a little fit of musing, ex-
tinguished the lamp, and took possession of the downy bed
which had formerly received the beautiful Adelaide. As the
young girl sank into her voluptuous couch, and, by the faint,
glimmering light which the dying lamp still shed, gazed on the
antique, but not ungraceful, furniture of her apartment, she
asked herself if some Arabian genie had not transported her
there from the bare room she occupied at Mademoiselle Dan-
tin's. None but pleasant visions now flitted before her; every
thing seemed bright and hopeful as a fairy tale ; the sense of
security and rest, after the storms and chances" of the day, was
blended with the pleasurable sensations of her luxurious couch.
As she abandoned herself to this indolent repose, thought
gradually became less distinct ; but her bed faced the window ;
the light still burned in the turret opposite, and every now and
then she caught a glimpse of the dark figure, moving to and fro
in its monotonous promenade. The sight exercised an irre-
sistible and mysterious fascination upon her ; every time tho
figure came within view, her look followed it until it vanished.
At length, opi)ressed with fatigue and sleep, her eyes closed ;
the light still shone opposite, but she heeded it not ; dreams,
hopes, and mysterious imaginings had faded away ; her head
reclined on her pillow ; her hands lay folded on her bosom ;
ebc had fallen into deep and peaceful slumber.
58 NATHALTF
CHAPTER V.
The sun liad risen ; the sky was serene and blue, and the
birds sang on a group of tall poplars near her window, when
Nathalie awoke on the following morning. She rose quickly,
and merely throwing a shawl around her, she hastened to open
the window with childish impatience. Though she prudently
kept in the background, lest she might be seen from the gar-
den, or any part of tlie building, she could still enjoy the cool
morning breeze, and the greater portion of the fine prospect
below her.
It was a calm morning, silent, and somewhat chill ; the
sky, of a pale blue, was still tinged with the gray of early
morn, save in the east, where the soft, rosy light of dawn siill
lingered. The trees, some of them already sere and yellow,
were seen through a hazy mist, that glittered in the long hori-
sontal rays of light ; the freshness of earth and sky told the
earliness of the hour.
Beneath her, Nathalie beheld tlie garden, with its tliree
terraces, the last of which descended to the very edge of the
shallow river that wound along Sainville ; this garden now look-
ed a small space in the midst of the surrounding grounds. Her
glance rested for a while on its gravel walks, trim boxwood
hedges, grassplots, and marble statues ; then wandered over
the grounds, laid out with graceful clumps of trees and groves
of stately pine. At a distance, she beheld a little artificial
lake, with its dark waters, that seemed to lie sleeping in the
solemn shadow of a wide-spreading and melancholy cedar ; far-
ther on, in a still more secluded spot, rose a white temple,
gleaming amidst the dark foliage of surrounding firs. Save
on the side of Mademoiselle Dantin's school, the gardener's art
had succeeded in concealing every trace of a boundary. Natha-
lie could only estimate the extent of the grounds by the land-
scape beyond ; it spread far away on the other side of the wind-
ing road ; and a fair Norman landscape it was, with low, swell-
ing hills, secluded hamlets in green valleys, and silvery streams,
glancing in the morning sun, now gliding visible through fer-
tile plains, or winding far away in dark and overhanging
woods. Nathalie looked long and eagerly.
" This cool Normandy is beautiful, after all," she thought,
whilst her heart filled with admiration and joy. True joy is
XATIIAME. 59
almost always religious ; and it was before that open window,
her hands clasped, her eyes still fixed on the glorious works of
God, the cool breeze fanning her brow, that Nathalie slowly
repeated her morning orisons. The house was still silent; slie
dressed leisurely, with more than nsual care, and hesitated
long between two very simple muslin dresses, one blue, the
other pink ; the pink was chosen as most becoming. During
the progress of her toilet she never looked at the glass : 3Iadc-
moiselle Dantin forbade all such toys of vanity to the teachers
of her establishment, and long habit enabled Nathalie to do
without their aid, but when slie had seen that not one ungrace-
ful fold disfigured the light drapery of her attire, that her hair,
in spite of its becoming negligence, was quite secure, she turn-
ed towards the mirror, and wondered with a smile, " if Adelaide
de Sainville had been so v-ery much more beautiful."
Unlike those heroines who are as unconscious of their own
loveliness as is a lamp of the light it diffuses, Nathalie knew
very well that she was handsome, and often 'rejoiced in the con-
sciousness of her fresh and youthful beauty, which, though it
had failed to soften the morose schoolmistress, rendered her. and
this also she knew, very pleasant and delightful in the eyes of
others. But personal vanity was, after all, her least defect ;
phe had other faults far more serious, far more fatal to herself
and others, and without which this story need never have been
written.
A thin, sallow but smartly-attired femme-de-chambrc, in
fantastic cap and extravagantl}' small apron, disturbed hor re-
flections.
" Mon Dieu !" she observed with the fluency of speech and
elegant precision of accent of the Parisan, ' I hope I have not
disturbed mademoiselle. Madame would bo in despair. Ma-
dame only sent me to know whether madcmQisellc needed my
assistance, and would breakfast in her own room or in the sallo-
a-manger."
She spoke thus with a rapid look that comprised every
thing in the room from the least straggling article of dress
down to Nathalie's solitary trunk. The young girl thanked
her quietly, said she would breakfast below, and followed down
stairs the polite femme-de-chambre, who offered to show her
the way. She found the Canoness and her niece alone in the
dining-room, a wide and cheerful-looking apartment on the
ground floor, witli a large glass door that led into a small quad-
rangular court, beyond which extended the garden. Aunt
50 NATHALIE
Radegonde nodded to Nathalie with smiling -vireleome ; Ma
dame Marceau did not see or appear to see her until she stood
by her side. She then exclaimed:
" Mademoiselle Montolieu !" with an apologetic start, half
rose from her chair, held out the tips of her fingers to Natha-
lie with stately grace, and, sinking back in her seat, " hoped
she had slept well." She hoped with a tone and look that said
every one did sleep well, or ought to sleep well in the chateau
of Sainville. With a smile Nathalie thanked her : " her sleep
was always good.'' " Indeed i" said Sladame Marceau, with a
peculiar look ; perhaps she thought it vulgar, as it no doubt is,
to sleep soundly ; at ail events she drew out and applied the
vinaigrette.
Good breeding and refinement, or rather the externals of
these qualities, are generally considered as wholly precluding
those vulgar manifestations of ill-temper, rudeness, imperti-
nence, and similar feelings, which the unsophisticated display
with such perfect frankness. But it does not thence follow
that the well-bred and refined have not their little spites, little
envious feelings, little assumptions of consequence to gratify ;
indeed they do gratify them very freely ; all the difference lies
in the manner ; for there is a finish, a delicacy of touch in the
polite impertinence of the well-bred which the under-bred may
envy, but must never hope to attain. The slight that can be
conveyed in a glance, in a gracious smile, in a wave of the
hand, is often the ne plus rdtra of art ; what insult is so keen
or so keenly felt as the polite insult which it is impossible to
resent ?
Madame Marceau, without being a very clever woman, had
some talent and proficiency in this amiable accomplishment.
She could put down any one, especially another woman, in
the most gracious, manner. She never was rude ; indeed she
was alwiys studiously polite, courteous and stately, as so great
a lady snould be. Her manner was easy, her speech was fluent,
her voice was soft ; but her grace was onl}'' manner ; her cour-
tesy sprang from jealous pride. When the fortunes of her
family were at their lowest ebb, Rosalie de Sainville had mar-
ried a rich plebeian merchant of Havre, whose speedy ruin and
death left her the bitter regret of a useless oiiesalliance. The
sudden restoration of family dignity effected by her brother,
awoke in all its strength her embittered and long-repressed
pride. In spite of her long line of ancestors she had stilj
something of the parvcmic ; she felt more jealous of her origi
NATHALIE, 61
nal position tlian if she had never descended from it ; others
might aiford to be simple and careless of rank ; she felt that
she could not, especially with Nathalie. Two sins lay at the
young girl's door : she had attracted the attention of Charles
Marceau ; worse still, she was the daughter of a man who, iv
Madame Marceau's fallen fortunes and humbled state, had
without undue presumption, hoped to make her his wife.
The breakfast, at which Monsieur de Sainville did not ap-
pear, was a plain meal. Madame Marceau held bourgeois
abundance in horror ; but it was served in costly Sevres porce-
lain, on silver salvers, with the crest of the SaiuA^illes. Nathalie
bore the studied politeness of her hostess with perfect calm-
ness ; she received the courtesy as genuine, and allowed the
impertinence to drop all harmless at her feet. The repasi^
though thus converted into a sort of tilt avcc amies coiirioiscs,
was quiet enough. The naive curiosity and garrulousness of
the Canoness amused Nathalie, but evidently provoked her
niece, who colored, and bit her lip at every fresh indiscretion
of Aunt Radegonde. As soon as breakfast was over, Madame
Marceau proposed a walk in the garden, to Nathalie, who
readily assented. The Canoness seemed willing to accompany
them, but her niece reminded her, in her kindest tones, " tliat
those early walks always fatigued her so much." Aunt lladc-
gonde yielded, with evident regret.
The garden was laid out in the stately style of Lo'\;
XIV's reign. Broad gravel walks surrounded quaintly-shaped
plots of flowers ; low hedges of box-wood, cut close, with niches
for statues of heathen deities, crossed one another in intricate
windings, or extended into little avenues, ornamented on either
side with long rows of stiff orange-trees, in their green boxes,
and a sparklingjei d^eau rose into the air from a large marble
fish-pond in the middle of the first terrace. Notwithstanding
the monotony of this style of gardening, which made it quite a
relief when they came to a secluded grass-plot, with its solitary
nymph, Nathalie was struck with its antique majesty and gran-
deur of design, both of which at once seemed to carry her back
to the stately age of the magnificent Louis XIV. Madame
Marceau, who paced the broad walks with slow step and erect
majesty of bearing, smiled complacently at her frankly-express-
ad admiration.
'Yes," she carelessly observed, "this old gardening is. an
you say, very characteristic. This garden was designed by the
famous Le Notre. It suits the style of the chateau ; JRenaU'
52 NATHALIE,
iance, as jou know, of course. Ou the spot which the preseul
building occupies, once stood a rude Gothic pile, erected by
Hugo, first sire of Sainville ; for wo never had a title in our
family ; we are the De Saiuvilles no more."
' Like the old Kohans of Brittany," demurely said Nathalie,
quoting the old motto, " Roi ne puis ; Prince ne daigne ; Rohan
je suis."
" Precisely." replied Madame Marceau, much gratified.
" You have quite a knowledge of history, Mademoiselle Mon-
tolieu, and you are right ; titles are the gifts of kings, but what
court favor can bestow blood and race "3"
" 1 wonder where you got your plebeian name of Marceau?"
thought Nathalie, glancing at the proud lady, who continued:
" Armand do Sainville erected, under the reign of Francis
I, the present chateau, on which his scutcheon and motto stil
appear."
"Pray what is the true sense of that motto'?" asked
Nathalie.
Madame Marceau shook her head and smiled.
" A sensitive point. Mademoiselle Montolieu a sensitive
point," she significantly replied. " The vulgar legend, which
you have no doubt heard, says that this only desire was one of
love, but it is not so."
' Indeed !"
" No, Mademoiselle Montolieu, it is not so. The truth is,''
she added, with great candor, " that we are the most obstinate.
tetic race in all Normandy. When we wish for a thing, no
matter what say a horse, a picture, a piece of land, any thing,
in short, we must have it, no matter at Avhat price ; indeed,
we will have it. It is just the same when we .oppose a thing ;
that thing cannot take place ; all our energies go against
it ; we oppose that thing, in short."
'' Extraordinary firmness," said Nathalie, with ill-concealed
irony.
" No, Mademoiselle Montolieu ; I beg your pardon ; no, it
is not firmness," said Madame Marceau, with dignified denial.
" Heaven forbid that I should thus screen our fatal hereditary
failing. No ; it is mere obstinacy, mere haughty will the
will of the De Sainvilles."
" Why, madam, you will make me feel quite timid," ob-
served Nathalie, smiling.
" Nay, nay, I hope not," graciously rejoined the elder
lady ; " I assure you we are far from wishing to inspire such
NATHALIE. 63
feelings ; besides, you must not think that we are merely
obstinate. No, my clear Mademoiselle Montolieu," she add-
ed, bending her dark and searching glance on the young girl's
frank face, '-we can indeed be enemies ; but we must be pro^
voked : and, believe me, to those who confide in us, we can be
friends, true friends."
She familiarly drew Nathalie's arm within her own, and
Boftly laid her handsome hand, all sparkling with jewels, on
the young girl's, as she thus addressed her, with much emo-
tion. The look, tone, and gesture were so significant, that
Nathalie felt as if a reply were expected ; but as she did not
happen^to be in a mood to answer so much condescension
suitably, she remained silent. They had reached by this the
end of the first terrace, and were going to descend a flight of
steps that led to the second, when Madame Marceau, who
kindly attributed the young girl's silence to timidity, paused,
to let her look at the fine prospect over the surrounding
grounds. She listened to her expressions of admiration with
as much complacency as if she had been the exclusive mistress
of all they beheld.
"AVe are making great improvements," said she, speaking,
as usual, in the plural number, and in her own stately way ;
" planting trees, whose growth we shall never see ; but as the
property remains in the family, that is not of much conse-
quence."
" I had always understood," heedlessly observed Nathalie,
" that Monsieur de Sainville was the last of his name."
Madame Marceau bit her lip. but drew herself up with
cool hauteur.
" Monsieur de Sainville may be the last of his name," she
dryly replied ; " but though he has no child, and does not in-
tend marrying, he has a nephew, Mademoiselle Montolieu, who
succeeds, of course, not only to the family property, but, what
is far more important, to the family name. Well. Andre, what
is it?" she added, somewhat sharply.
This question was addressed to a sun-burnt looking man,
a gardener, seemingly, and who now stood before Madame Mar-
ceau in a respectful attitude. " I have taken the liberty of
addressing madamc," said he, in a submissive tone, " in the
hope that madame would be kind enough to intei'cede for me."
" Well, what is it ?" said the lady, smiling encouragingly.
" Oil ! if I only knew it. I assure madame that I should not
complain ; but it is hard to be dismissed for neglect of orders
G'l NATHALIE.
without so much as knowing what order has been neglected
Yet if madame would only speak for me, monsieur would per
haps relent for the sake of my wife and children."
Madame Marceau looked disconcerted for a moment; but
she soon recovered with a cough, and observed, with dignified
gravity :
" Andre, you know us ; we are just, liberal masters, but
we require, we exact obedience. I verily believe we would
sooner forgive dishonesty itself than neglect of orders. I
think I told you so expressly when you entered our service ;
I feel sorry for you, but you must leave."
" But surely, madame will feel how hard it is to ^o this
very day ; to be sure monsieur has been extremely liberal, and
told the steward to give me not only my due, but much more ;
still it is hard to leave one's work unfinished ; there is a whole
plantation that another will only spoil, I am sure. If I could
only have had longer notice, and if monsieur had not been so
strict in saying that I must leave this very day "
" Impossible, Andre," interrupted Madame Marceau ; '-it
is our maxim, our settled principle, rather to pay double
what we owe than to keep a servant with whom we feel dissatis-
fied. You have been treated on that principle ; I feel sorry
for you ; but we cannot break through such rules for any indi-
vidual case."
" But perhaps madame, who knows all about it, will be
good enough to tell me what orders I have neglected," per-
sisted Andre. "I should have asked monsieur himself if he
had not left the chateau so early ; and the steward assured
me monsieur had only said ' neglect of orders.' I should al-
ways feel grateful if madame would only tell me."
Madame Marceau drew herself up with mysterious ma-
" We are not in the habit of giving explanations," said she,
coldly ; " you can go, Andre ; we wish to continue our walk.
Tell your wife to speak to Amanda before she leaves ; Amanda
will, I dare say, have something for her. We v/ish you well,
Andre, but our rules and principles must be carried out."
A wave of the hand told the supplicant that he was dis-
missed.
" Poor fellow !" ejaculated Madame Marceau, as he left
them ; " I really compassionate his case, but some faults are
positively quite unpardonable."
A quick step in the gravel walk behind them caused Ma
NATHALIE.
65
dame Marceaii to look round as she spoke thus. The new
comer was the elegant lady's maid.
" Madame." said she, hastily addressing her mistress.
" Amanda," severely interrupted Madame Marceau, ' hovt
is this ? Have I not made it a particular request that my
morning walk should never be interrupted ? But this is not
the only recent instance of neglect of orders I have discovered.
AVhy it was only this morning I perceived the thing I had ex-
pressly asked you to do had been omitted. Amanda, I may
say, and you probably know it, every one indeed knows it,
that justness mingled with due strictness is our family peculi-
arity. We are kind masters, we pay well, but obeyed we will
be. Amanda, why did you not put the Valenciennes lace
quilling around my morning gown ?"
" I am sure," aemurely said Amanda, " that disrespect of
madame's orders was the last thing I intended ; but I would
not put on the quilling until I had appealed to madame's ex-
cellent taste. For as I was saying, my late mistress, Madame
la Comtesse d'Onesson, would never allow me to put any quill-
ing to her morning gowns. She would not hear of such a
thing, even in her last illness."
'Madame d'Onesson had her way and I have mine," fri-
gidly said Madame Marceau ; " I beg that in future you will
attend to my orders ; there is Andre, whom we have been
compelled to dismiss for similar negligence. It is extraordi-
nary, but really servants do not seem to understand that we
have them to do that which we request to haVe done. And
now. may I know why, in spite of my prohibition, you have
interrupted my walk?"
" Only to give madame this letter," modestly replied
Amanda, respectfully handing a letter to her mistress as she
spoke ; ' and I am sure, if the man who brought it had not
said it was from Monsieur Charles, and very important, I
should never have taken the liberty of breaking through
madame's express rules ; for, as I was saying, we all know that
madame is as strict as she is generous."
Madame Marceau coughed a mollified cough, and slightly
apologizing to Nathalie, she opened and read the letter. Her
countenance darkened as she perused the contents.
"Where is the man who brought this?" she asked, in her
eharpest tones.
" In the hall, waiting for madame's answer."
'Mademoiselle Montolieu, will you excuse me? I find I
86 NATHALIE.
nmst go in. and it would be a sin to ask you to return to th
house on so fine a morning."
Nathalie having declared that she would indeed greatly
prefer continuing her walk, she was left alone. She thought-
fully descended the steps leading to the second terrace, wonder-
ing why the letter from her son had annoyed Madame Marceau
so much, and whether it bore any reference to herself.
She found that this second terrace was laid out in the sama
antique style which distinguished the first. A low wall covered
with ivy, and partly concealed by a semicircle of evergreens,
extended between the flights of steps that led down to the
terrace on either side. Attracted by a low plashing sound,
Nathalie stepped within the space thus inclosed. She found
herself in a narrow grass-plot, with a plain stone fountain in
the centre A clear, slender jet of water rose into the air, and
fell down again into its shallow basin with the sound she had
heard. In a low, broad niche, hollowed out of the ivied wall,
reclined the figure of a sculptured nymph. One arm supported
her head, the other hung down loosely by her side ; her eyes
were closed ; her marble features expressed the serenity of
sleep ; the whole attitude was one of deep repose. A beehive
stood close by. Nathalie paused, and wondered as she looked,
in what consisted the charms of this narrow spot. In its seclu-
sion, and the sense of solitude by which it was accompanied
in the dark and melancholy foliage of those northern trees in
the fair image of sleep, hallowing all around, and seemingly
lulled to its deep slumbers by the low sound of falling waters
and t'le bee's murmuring hum lay that charm, unexplained,
thougn deeply felt.
Another flight of steps led Nathalie to the end of the gar-
den, if garden it might be called, being now a mere grassy slope
bounded by the river, and extending without further barrier
into the grounds. On her left, she beheld at a distance the
wall which divided Monsieur de Sainville's property from Ma-
demoiselle Dantin's garden. On her right she could see nothing
save wide lawns, with groves of spreading beech-trees, dai-k
masses of the pyramidal pine, and the little lake shining in the
distance.
As she walked down to the water's edge, stepping into the
high and waving grass which filled the air with its wild fra-
grance, a whole crowd of tiny winged insects arose on her path.
She paused near the hollow trunk of a decayed willow ; near
her a group of silver-leaved aspens trembled in the sun with a
NATHALIE. 67
low rustling sound ; the water flowed quietly in its pebbly bod;
whilst around was heard the ceaseless hum of the bees from tho
neighboring hive. On the opposite bank, formed by the wide
arch of two large beech-trees, whose spreading shadow slept
over the dark yet transparent waters of the river at her feet,
extended a rural landscape of calm loveliness. A narrow pas-
ture valley, sheltered by green hills ; a herd of cattle grazing
quietly in the cool morning shade ; the light mist fading away
before the early sun ; no human dwelling visible, but every thing
wrapped in the silence and repose of the hour, formed a scene
60 tranquil and so fair that it instantly reminded Nathalie of a
picture by Claude Lorraine which she had seen as a child in an
old chateau of Provence. The absence of all ungraceful ob-
jects the clear, golden-colored light the deep and almost holy
serenity of his favorite scenes marked every thing she now
saw. She was turning away from this lovely prospect with re-
gret, when slie suddenly stopped short, as if rooted to the earth.
Charles Marceau stood before her.
With the exception that this was daj-, and that it was even-
ing when she saw him before, Nathalie might have imagined
this to be the continuation of their former interview. The
young man looked as cool and composed as when in Mademoi-
selle Dantin's garden ; more so, indeed, he could not look. He
stood in the same attitude, witli his face turned towards Natha-
lie. His features, thin, pale, and yet strikingly handsome,
looked thinner and paler from the mass of dark hair which fell
down almost to his shoulders. The expression of the brow and
mouth instantly reminded Nathalie of Madame Marcf au ; but
the eyes, large, clear, and hazel, like her's, had another look.
This might be from the eyelids, which drooped rather too much,
or from the nearness and fixedness of the pupils, which now
rendered it dilEcult for Nathalie to meet his glance, and made
her feel not so much that he was looking at her, as that he
looked in the direction in which she stood. In return to his
deep salutation, she gave him a frigid bow. He stood so ex-
actly before her that it was not easy for her to walk on.
" I see you are still deeply offended," said he, in that low and
musical tone wliich, in spite of her- anger, had struck lier on the
preceding evening; "alas ! can penitence for a past error avail
nothing ?"
He ]iaus(Ml. as if expecting an answer. Nathalie, however,
witli serious mien and downcast look, gave him none.
' Pray remember," he continued, "how I stood placed. Wf
68 NATHALIE.
often met: I might look, but never speak; I might write, yel
hope for no reply ; I loved you, but might not tell it."
Nathalie colored, and hastened to interrupt him. " I will
forgive last evening's intrusion," said she, coldly, " on condition
that it is never mentioned again."
" You forgive me," he replied ; " is that all ?"
Nathalie looked up with surprise. She met his look ; it
had now the keen and watchful expression which had already
struck her. Seeing that she did not speak, he continued,
'' We are told to forgive our enemies. Is there, for those
hat love us, no other feeling than forgiveness ?"
" I understand you, sir," said Nathalie, eyeing him with a
firm, clear look ; " but I am not bound to answer a feeling I
never sought, nor to feel gratitude "
" Gratitude !" he interrupted, with something like scorn ;
' who speaks of gratitude ? I detest gratitude it is only fit
for slavish souls, whom benefits can win. It is a feeling I
have never known, and care not to exact least of all from
you you," he added, in a lower tone, " who inspire me with
another ambition, and far other hopes."
Nathalie looked annoj'ed and disdainful.
" I believe," quietly continued Chaflcs Marceau, " that by
speaking thus I impress you unfavorably. Forgive me ; 1
must speak as I feel, and that is within no sphere of conven-
tional or formal rules. You may think me presumptuous, yet
trust me, I do not mistake your present feelings. I will not
say that you hate me, that I am disagreeable to you ; I be-
lieve I am totally indifferent to you, and that, compara-
tively speaking, you care no more for me than for the grass
beneath your feet."
The last words were uttered with much bitterness ; yet, to
Nathalie's surprise, the young man composedly resumed :
" I am content it should be so ; I am content to find you
proud and disdainful, if such is your whim. A hundred times
sooner would I see you thus, than find you yielding a feeble
return to feelings you will never understand until the day ar-
rives when you fully share them."
" And that day, sir," sharply replied Nathalie, who felt
irritated at the tone he had ta:en, " is, I promise you, still fai
distant."
Charles did not seen\ alarmed at this threat. He smiled
again. " Once more," said he, " I must beg of you to forgive
me if my speech is not conf led within conventional limits.
NATHALIE. 69
Nothing is further from my intention than to utter a word
calcuLated to oifend you. If, cold as you are now, I yet ex-
press a belief in your future affection, that belief is not founded
on my own merits. I trust to the depth and fervor of ray
lovo for return."
" We will not argue that point," coldly said Nathalie ;
"Madame Marceau is waiting for me. Be s? good as to
allow me to proceed."
" One moment more, I beseech you," submissively said
Charles Marceau ; " I depart to-day for Paris : many months
must elapse before I behold you again. Whilst 5-our thought
and image remain ever present to me, may 1 hope you will
sometimes remember me ?"
Nathalie, highly indignant at this request, could not re-
press the taunt which rose to her lips.
" Sir," said she, with an ironical smile, destined to punish
his presumption, " you have so much faith and hope at your
command, that yon can well dispense with so paltry an aux-
iliary as memory."
" You are severe," bitterly replied Charles Marceau,
whilst his cheek took a sallower tinge ; ' but," he added, with
a fixed look, which made her color rise, " you cannot and shall
not prevent me from loving you, and that with a passion and
fervor which, could they be revealed by words, would not. per-
haps, leave you quite so calm and cold as I leave you now."
lie turned away without another word or look.
-
CHAPTER yi.
Natitatje remained standing in the same place as if rooted
to the spot by indignant amazement. Her color rose and she
bit her lip, alike vexed and astonished at herself, for having
allowed the young man to proceed so far unchecked.
The incident of the letter recurred to her as particularly
significant : she could not doubt that it was the means Charlen
Marceau had taken to meet her. The concealment of which
he made use showed licr very plainly the light in which hie
family viewed his attachment.
" They need not fear." slie tlionght. with secret scorn ,
70 NATHALIE.
" the poor teacher of Mademoiselle Dantin's school will not
Snd it so hard to live -without the heir of the great Sainvillo
race, who, though so daring with her, can, it seems, be timid
enough with them."
Not caring for a longer walk, she returned to the chateau.
She would willingly have proceeded to her own room at once,
but the Canoness meeting her on the staircase made her enter
the drawing-room ; Madame Marceau was not present. Aunt
Radegonde took her usual place, made the young girl sit
down on the low seat by her side, began to knit, and asked
how she liked the garden.
'' Yes," she thoughtfully observed, when Nathalie had said
how much she liked it: "yes, our old chateau is a pleasant
place; here was I born and bred, and so were Armand and
Rosalie; and here I lived until my poor brother died, when
Armand said at once the place must be sold to help to cover
his fatiier's debts, and passed his word to the creditors to work
out the rest, no matter at what cost. He went away for years,
wo had to go to Havre ; yet I never have understood how
Sainville could be sold."
"And was it sold?" asked Nathalie.
" 1 suppose so ; for other people came and we left ; but they
changed nothing. This room looks just as it looked on the
day when I stood at the door and turned round to take a last
glance."
" How glad you must have been to return," said Nathalie,
touched at her simplicity and frankness.
The Canoness laid her little hand on the young girl's
shoulder, and looked wistfully into her face " My dear child,"
she sadlj' replied, "may you never know how sad the place we
once loved best may become. Sorrowful as I was when I left,
I left not alone ; but I was alone when I returned. I found
nothing but gaiety going on. but it was mirth that saddened
me ; the house was full of company, to me it seemed vacant."
She looked around her, and her eyes filled with tears ; but
age loves not to dwell on sorrowful recollections, the cloud
soon passed away from the cheerful features of the Canoness.
Slie urged Nathalie to speak, and peremptorily forbade her to
call her Madame, which she pronounced much too formal.
" Though, to be sure," she added, drawing herself up, " I
have a right to the title, being a Canoness. I am not made-
moiselle, which would be ridiculous at my age, but Madame
Radegonde de Sainville, and so the servants, whom T keep a1
NATHALIE, 71
a great distance, always call me ; but you, let me sec, do
you miad calling me Marraine ? I might very well be your
godmother. Indeed, I feel almost confident that if your poor
father had married some one of Saiuville, instead of going oif to
Provence for a wife, I should have been your godmother. Well
shall it be Marraine, or is your real godmother still living?"
' No. she was my aunt, and died three yeara age in Prov-
ence."
' And have you no friends in Sainville, Petite ?"
" None, save my sister, who was brought up here," replied
Nathalie, smiling at the familiar name the Canoness had already
found for her.
' But your sister is very fond of you, I am sure," shrewdly
rejoined Aunt liadegonde, with an air of mingled bonhomie
and finesse. ' Oh ! I know what an elder sister is," she added.
as Nathalie smiled in reply. ' When your aunt died in Prov-
ence, and you must have been very young then, for indeed you
are a child still," Nathalie looked a little indignant. our
good sister Hose took the little orphan, and became to her more
like a second mother than like a strange sister ; only I cannot
understand why she let her be at that sour Mademoiselle Dan
tin's?"
" Because Bose is a dependent, like myself," replied Na-
thalie, " and resided with an aunt far more sour than Made-
moiselle Dantin; all she could do was to find me in her school
a situation I was glad to get."
' Depend upon it. Petite, your sister acted for the best ;
yes, your sister Bose is your friend," she eiuphaticallv added.
" She is, indeed ; and though she so often linds fault with
me, I never can foel angry."
' What does she say then ?"
' That I am proud, rebellious, and resentful ; that I lovo
impossibilities and disdain the real."
' Your sister is a little severe," said the Canoness. giving
Nathalie a puzzled look, " but thougli she of course means
well, all this is not quite correct, is it V
' Indeed it i.s," frankly replied Nathalie ; " but then Bose
has a right to be severe ; she is nearly perfect herself."
' It is quite proper you should think so," decisively said
the Canoness ; ' but for my part, I do not dout on perfect
people. I know a person of that sort, one who seldom or ever
does wrong ; but for all that you cannot love that person.
That person, my dear, never scolds, never gets into a passion.
72 NA'lHALIli.
never says a cross word, but just acts ia a quiet, underhand
sort of way that is perfectly chilling. You never know how
you are getting on with that person ; by which I do not mean
to say that person is deceitful. No, but that person is just like
a looking-glass ; look in front as long as you like, it is all very
well ; but attempt to turn round, to peep behind, you see
nothing. You must not imagine, my dear," added the Canon-
ess, after a brief pause, and looking at Nathalie very fixedly,
" that I am talking of any one in this house no," she shrewdly
observed, " that person is far away." This assertion was ut-
tered quite triumphantly.
" That person must be very remarkable," thoughtfully said
Nathalie, attentively looking at Aunt Radegonde as she spoke.
" liemarkable ! well no, not at first sight, at least ; and yet
that person is no common individual."
" You said perfect," quickly rejoined Nathalie.
' Well, perfect was perhaps too strong a word. Yet it is
difficult to find fault with that person : and a person who in
spite of all you can say manages to be always in the right is
very nearly perfect. Only it is a provoking sort of perfection ;
I do not like it," very emphatically added Aunt Radegonde ;
"do you?"
" Not at all," replied Nathalie, quite as heartily.
Here the voice of Madame Marceau was heard on the land-
ing, talking to one of the servants.
Aunt Radegonde looked alarmed, bent down, and exclaimed
in a hurried whisper :
" My dear child, do not let Madame Marceau know I spoke
to you about that person."
"Is Madame Marceau that person?" rapidly thought Na-
thalie, as the lady entered the room ; but the aspect of the ruf-
fled brow, and the sound of the sharp irritated voice as she
recorded the delinquency of some servant, did not give the idea
of one who never spoke a cross word, or never scolded.
" Really," she said, with any thing but a bland voice, " ser-
vants do not seem to appreciate the privilege of living in a
family like this ; they will not obey."
' When we had but one servant " began Aunt Rade-
gonde.
" The dismissal of Andre has produced no efi"ect," quickly
interrupted her niece.
" Andre ! Do you say Andre is dismissed 1"
Madame Marceau majestically seated herself, and senteu-
NATHALIE. 73
tiously replied in answer to the eager look and inquiry of her
aunt, ' that Andre was dismissed."
'Why so V asked the Canoness, looking much chagrined ;
"he is 80 honest and industrious."
' Very true, aunt, but we require obedience in our ser-
vants."
" What order has he neglected? I am sure the poor fellow
will only be too glad to repair his fault."
"We are not in the habit of entering into explanations
with our servants," replied her dignified niece.
" But what has he done, Kosalie?"
Madame Marceau looked mysterious.
" Ay, there it is !" ironically exclaimed Aunt Raiegonde,
rocking herself in her chair ; " the man is sent away, he does
not know why, I do not know why, do not believe you know
why, nobody knows, in short. You call that will, I call if
tyranny. You may tell any one I said so if you like ; if others
are afraid, I warn any one who likes to hear, that I am not."
She spoke loudly and looked defiant.
"Aunt," patronizingly said her niece, '-you surely ought
to be accustomed to the manifestations of our family peculiarity
tvill, though you do not possess so much of it."
" I have as much will as any one," sharply interrupted the
Canoness.
' Be it so," replied Madame Marceau, with a gracious smile
and an Olympic inclination of the head, ' be it so, dear aunt ;
but as I was saying, you ought to be accustomed to the mani-
festations of our family peculiarity will. You know my im-
partiality ; I do not justify this inexorable will ; I deplore it.
But such we are, and all I can say is, I feel truly sorry for
those who unfortunately sufl'er from this peculiarity."
A daughter of the Atrida) could not have lamented with
more solemn dignity the melancholy fatality attending her
race.
" I tell you," testily rejoined Aunt Iladegonde, ' it is not
will, but the despotism and caprice I know of old. There !"
With this last bold defiance she resumed her knitting.
''My good aunt," replied Madame Marceau, becoming more
polite and more cool, " excuse me : energy is not despotism :
justice ia not caprice. These qualities have restored our fami-
ly to its pristine splendor ; they will keep it there. We may
regret that those inflexible virtues should interfere with tho
happiness of any person, howsoever humble that person may
4
74 NATHALE.
be ; we may also regret to be misunderstood, by our own rela
tives especially, but we really cannot help it."'
" I never meant " beaian Aunt Radeo;onde, looliinsj flup
ried.
" Pray, do not mention it ; it is quite immaterial," kindly
interrupted Madame Marceau. And having thus put down
her aunt she turned towards Nathalie, asked how she had liked
the garden : was sure she would like the grounds ; informed
her that the domain of Sainville was mueh admired, and hoped
to have many pleasant walks over it with Mademoiselle Mon-
tolieu. The Canoness joined in the hope, and looked at her
niece, who looked at the wall. But Aunt Radegonde, who
seemed anxious to be restored to favor, persisted.
' Yes," she said. " we shall have many pleasant walks, all
three, or rather all four together ; for Armand will accompany
us, and he talks so well ! Ah ! Petite, you should hear him
and his sister, sometimes !"
" My brother is indeed a man of varied acquirements," con-
descended to observe Madame Marceau, without, however,
looking at her aunt. " I regret that he should be gone to Mar-
mont ; but he is to be home at five. I have no doubt he will
be greatly pleased to become acquainted with Mademoiselle
Montolieu."
" How long is this to last?" impatiently thought Nathalie,
who began to feel heartily wearied of Madame Marceau's pro-
tecting grandeur and strained courtesy.
It lasted the whole day, which appeared to the young girl
one of the longest she had ever spent. Madame Marceau was
not one of those talkers who tire out by their inexhaustible
volubility ; her language was not trite, common-place, or ridi-
culous ; but she had a way of spreading out her wealth, her
state, her lineage, as if these were to be worn at full length,
like the robe and ample train of her grandmother. The little
she said for she did not speak much was all on the theme,
more implied, however, than expressed, of her greatness. If
Nathalie looked out of the window and admired the fine ave-
nue of trees leading to the chateau, she was told of how many
centuries was their growth, and by which of the Sainvilles they
had been planted ; if she glanced at a picture, she was inform-
ed how long it had been in the family, or if it was a portrait,
which of the Sainvilles it represented. In short, the past and
present glory of the Sainville race evidently reigned supreme
ui the lady's thought. Aunt Radegoade knitted assiduously
NATHALIE, 75
and spoke very little. She did indeed let out one or two in-
discreet observations, but a look, and a ' dear aunt/' from her
niece silenced her eftectually.
" What a cheerless day !" she observed towards evening,
and she laid down her knitting with a slight yawn.
" Very cheerless indeed," said Nathalie ; and glad of some
excuse to leave her seat, she rose and went up to one .of the
large and deep windows that looked on the avenue.
It had been raining all the afternoon, and it was raining
still. The sky was dark, dreary, and obscured by gloomy
clouds that cliased each other rapidly along. Gusts of wind
bowed the tall trees of the avenue, and the winding road and
landscape beyond it could be seen only through the torrents of
slanting rain.
" What dreadful weather Armand has for his ride home,"
observed Madame Marceau, in a tone of concern.
" Perhaps he will not come," said the Canoness.
" My dear aunt," replied her niece, in her sententious way,
" we never break a promise ; Armand left word that he would
be home at five, and at five we must expect him. As for the
weatlier, he has been so great a traveller that I really think he
ft- 3ls indifferent to it."
No more was said until the clock struck five.
' That is strange !" said Madame Marceau, with stately sur-
prise.
" Chere Petite," observed Aunt Eadegonde turning towards
N-'ihalie, "you will take cold near that window."
" I am only looking at the clouds," carelessly replied Na-
thalie ; " they run along the sky so fast that they look like liv-
ing things."
She lingered a while longer near the window, before resum-
ing be- seat by the Canoness.
" Oh ! there comes Monsieur de Sainville," said Madame
Marceau, as the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard in the ave-
nue below. She looked at the clock impatiently, and when a
few minutes had elapsed, left the room. There was a brief
silence,
" You willspoil your sightwith that embroidery ; there is no
light," at length observed the Canoness. addressing Nathalie,
whose glance seemed rivetted to her work.
' Thai\k you, I am used to it," she replied in a low and
somewhat flurried tone. A step was heard on the staircase :
she laid down lier work on her lap, then took it up again nei'-
vouslv.
7Q NATHALIE.
The door opened, and Madame Marceau eutered alone. Her
Drew seemed slightly overcast.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," said ehe, addressing the young
girl in a tone which sounded sharp and irritated, through all
its softness and courtesy, " my brother is very anxious to see
you. Would you mind accompanying me to the library."
Nathalie rose in some trepidation.
' Where are you taking her?" asked the Canoness,
" Armand wishes to speak to Mademoiselle Montolieu."
" What does he want with her ?" pettishly inquired Aunt
lladegonde.
" My brother. Monsieur de Salnville, wishes to speak to
Mademoiselle Montolieu, his guest," replied Madame Marceau,
drawing Nathalie's arm within her own, and speaking with one
of her grand airs.
" He could speak to her here," returned the Canoness, who
could be pertinacious enough when she chose ; "and I do not
see why he will have her in the library unless it be to scare
her, as he scares every one," she added, under her breath.
Madame Marceau gave her aunt a look, which made the
little Canoness fidget in her chair.
' lleally, dear aunt," said she with an affected gayety, that
was intended to conceal a good deal of irritation, "one might
think I was leading our young friend to the anh-e of some
ogre. Fortunately," she added, with a keen look at Nathali,
" Mademoiselle Montolieu does not share your apprehensions."
The Canoness looked corrected and penitent, and did not
venture to breathe another syllable, as the two ladies left tho
room.
" I suppose," thought Nathalie, as they silently proceeded
towards the library, " that Monsieur de Sainville is a second
edition of his sister, a tall, fine man, very stately, very court-
eous, and very patronizing."
She glanced at her companion as she came to this conclu-
sion, and the lowering expression of Madame Marceau's brow
led her to believe that this interview was little to the lady's
taste.
The library was situated on the ground-floor, and the
entrance to it faced the door leading to the dining-room. It
was soon reached ; and as Madame Marceau's hand rested on
the bronze door-handle, Nathalie felt the mingled shyness and
curiosity of her years blending with a disagreeable feeling of
uneasiness, caused by the prospect of meeting one of whom.
VATIIAME.
77
whether rightfully or not, she had not been led to conceive a
very favorable opinion. Ilcr companion smiled, and gave her
an encouraging look.
' Pray, Mademoiselle Montolieu," said she, in a low and
emphatic tone, "do not feel any uneasines.s. We arc your
friends ; we mean you well."
She pressed her hand, and opened the door as she apohe.
The library was a wide apartment very simply furnished, with
shelves of books, busts, and a few picture ?. A vase filled with
choice flowers stood on a large table covered with papers ; near it
burned a lamp with a cleari'cheerful light. A large glass door
revealed the garden beyond, with its distant trees now bending
before the autumn blast ; in the dark sky above already shone
a pale and watery moon, ever and anon obscured by passing
clouds. The dreary aspect of nature heightened the air of
warmth and comfort of every thing within.
As the two ladies entered, a gentleman, who was standing
near the fire-place, turned round and advanced to receive them.
Madame Marceau walked up to him, leading Nathalie by the
hand, and addressing him as her "dear Armand," introduced
her companion to him. with great statelincss. She then caused
Nathalie to be seated, stood by her chair, uttering in lier
smooth tones a few common-place remarks, framed a plausible
excuse, and retired, leaving the young girl alone with her
brother.
" This is very childish," thought Nathalie, as she felt her
heart beating rapidly and her cheeks gradually covering over
with a crimson flush ; and she found her emotion tlie more in-
excusable that a look had told her there was nothing so singu-
lar in Monsieur de Sainville's appearance as to excite feelings
of uneasiness or alarm.
The master of Sainvillo did not in the least fulfil the idea
which, from the distant glimpses she had formerly obtained of
him. and still more from her own recent conjectures, the young
girl had formed of his appearance. She had thought to find
a tall, dark man. sallow, harsh-featured, rather handsome, but
of a severe, forbidding aspect, and long past middle ago. But
as he stood by tlie table, near which she sat, eyeing her witli a
,]uict yet penetrating glance, speaking in a rich, harmonious
voice, which seemed the gift of the family, and addressing her
with that indescribable French case which in his ease was
united to great simplicity of manner, she was compelled to
confess that nothinc: could bo more different from what sho
78 NATUALIt:.,
had anticipated or imagined, nothing especially more opi^osed
to the showy but unpleasing Madame Marceau.
Monsieur de Sainville was not much above the usual height,
and of a spare figure, in which there was nothing to strike the
eye. Still less did his countenance seem likely to attract
attention ; it was neither plain nor handsome ; Nathalie was
surprised at seeing only a serious face, intellectual indeed, but
pale and mild, and still further softened by hair of a light
chestnut, and a slight moustache of the same hue. Without
being young, he was still in the prime and vigor of life, and
evidently much younger than his sister.
" And is this Monsieur de Sainville ?" thought Nathalie,
looking at him again with inward disappointment. Yet this
second glance, though it beheld no more than the first, im-
pressed her very differently.
There was something in the settled pallor of the features,
in the breadth and calmness of the brow, in the clear glance
of the dark-blue eyes, in the decisive arch of the nose, in the
firmly-compressed lips and curved chin, and above all, in the
well-defined though not harsh outlines of the whole counte-
nance, which no longer gave Nathalie the idea of gentleness.
The mild expression which had first struck her, now resembled
more a settled and unruffled calm, the result, perhaps, of a dis-
position serene by nature, and not easily disturbed by outward
events, or, as she felt more inclined to think, the only external
sign of a strong and silent will at rest. The whole face forci-
bly reminded her of a medallion of Bonaparte in her possession ;
not in beauty, for Monsieur de Sainville was by no means
handsome ; not in the cast of the features, for his were essen-
tially northern ; but in innate power and marble-like repose.
Indeed that countenance, which had at first seemed so quiet in
character, now looked to Nathalie fraught with meaning, but
with a meaning she vain'y sought to read. She looked and
felt baffled ; like one who beholds an inscription engraved in
unknown cliai-acters on a stone tablet; it is there visible, in-
deed, to the eye, but inscrutable to thought, and though seen,
not the less a mystery.
YvHiilst these thoughts passed rapidly through the young
girl's mind, her host continued to address her; he was regret-
ting, in courteous speech, the business which had prevented
him from meeting her sooner. To her surprise, he was quite
aware of her parentage, and mentioned her father, whom he
remembered, in terms of respect and esteem, that gratified her
NATHALIE. 79
deeply. Indeed he seemed bent ou placing her at hei' ease
When he had succeeded in dispelling her first embarrassment
he gradually dropped into a more business-like manner, polite
still, but which, as Nathalie felt, was destined to lead them to
the real object of this interview.
" Apologies are weak," said he, addressing her with grave
earnestness, " yet I must apologize I must express my deep
regret for what has happened. Until yesterday evenitg I lit-
tle suspected that you had been subjected to annoyance from
a, member of my family ; I should still be as ignorant, had I
not met my nephew, as he left Mademoiselle Dantin's garden.
To Madame Mareeau, his mother, and my sister, I entrusted,
as was most fitting, the task of relieving you from an unplea-
sant and unmerited position. I know this is a delicate sub-
ject perhaps I ought to leave it wholly to JIadame Mareeau ;
but I have a principle, from which I do not lightly swerve,
always to do that myself which I can really do. If I allude,
however, to these circumstances, it is, in the first place, to as-
sure you of my sorrow at the disagreeable consec[uences of
my nephew's imprudence ; in the second, to hope that you
will be so good as to consider this house your home, until a
niore eligible one oifers for your acceptance.'"
He spoke in a brief, business-like tone, yet with a quiet
simplicity, evidently meant to dispel every sense of oblig^ation.
Nathalie did not the less feel bound to thank him ; he quick-
ly interrupted her.
" Nay," said he, politely still, but quite decisively, ' so
commonplace an act of duty requires no acknowledgments."
Nathalie made no reply. A short, eml^arrassed pause suc-
ceeded. Monsieur de Sainville seemed to wish to say some-
thing more, yet he remained silent ; he left his place, returned
to it again, jjut did not speak. Nathalie felt intuitively that
he was looking at her. She glanced up it was so ; but
though his look was both fixed and thoughtful, it caused, her
no embarrassment : this protracted silence became, however,
Bomewhat awkward.
" I fear, sir," said she, half rising from her scat, '-that I am
intruding on 3'our leisure."
" No, no," he quickly replied. ' To tell you the truth," he
fedded, more leisurely, " our conversation is not yet ended."
Nathalie felt and looked uneasy.
'Some matters," he resumed, in his business-like way,
"'require frankness; it is then as, indeed, it almost always is
BO NATHALIE.
--the most honorable, the most easy course to pursue. 1 should
not have troubled you to come here, Mademoiselle Montolieu,
since I could have had the pleasure of seeing you in the pres-
ence of my aunt and sister, had I not felt myself bound to
communicate to you certain facts which you probably do not
know, but which you certainly ought to know. But first I must
assure you that over my nephew and his feelings I claim not
the least authority. You will therefore understand that, so far
as ho is concerned, I do not seek, I do not wish to interfere.
Nor do I presume to inquire into your private feelings ; I only
feel that you are my guest, that it is my duty not to allow you
to be deceived, even indirectly. All I wish to state is, that
my sister has for some time planned a marriage between her
son and a friend of hers. Mademoiselle de Jussac ; that after
agreeing, he has now refused to marry that lady, and that his
mother has declared she will never give her consent with
which the law will not yet allow him to dispense to his mar-
riage with any other woman. She is determined not to yield,
and so is he, for they are much alike in person and in temper ;
if he has, therefore, deceived himself, so far as to state the con-
trary to you, believe me he is 'wholly mistaken. My perfect
knowledge of this, the advantage I have over you in years
and experience, my position as your host, entitle me, perhaps,
to consider myself as standing towards you, for some time at
least, in the relation of guardian and a friend. I have there-
fore entered into these explanations, iu order that you may
know how to guide your actions. You can now weigh the
exact cost of what, at your age, is called the happiness of life,
of what is often only the dream of a day. You will have time
to discriminate the caprice of youth from its sincere feeling.
If you doubt, you can easily look on the past as null ; if your
faith is strong, you can wait, and refuse to let any authority,
any human being stand between your feelings and you."
He ceased. Nathalie had heard him in profound silence.
Reclining back in her chair, with her hands clasped on her
knees, and her eyes fastened on the floor, she had remained as
motionless as a statue. But her color, which came and went,
and the irrepressible working of her features, showed that this
calmness Avas only apparent. Yet when she looked up, and
met Monsieur de Sainville's eye with a glance as clear and
steady, though not so calm as his own, and when, after a brief
pause, she answered him, there was in her whole bearing a
?oinpo3ure and feminine dignity she seldom displayed, and
NATHALIE. 8t
wliioli were perhaps drawn forth by the presence of a stranger,
not of her own sex, perhaps also by the quiet, business-like
manner in which she had been addressed.
' Sir," said she, calmly, "you mean well, kindly, I should
say, and I thank you sincerely ; but allow me to observe, that
this advice, however excellent that these explanations, how-
ever clear, were both unnecessary in my case. That Mad-
ame Marceau should wish to marry her son tn a lady, and that
he should refuse to marry that lady, are family matters of no
moment to me."
Her color deepened, and her eyes kindled with rising pride,
as she concluded. Monsieur de Sainville gave her a look as
searching as it was brief
" Indeed," said he, slowly ; then I confess I no longer
understand in what relation you stand towards my nephew."
" In none whatever," she replied, with laconic haughtiness.
" Monsieur Marceau's attentions were never encouraged by me ;
yet he presumed so far as to write to me, asking for a favorable
reply."
'Did you give him any reply?" quietly asked Monsieur de
Sainville.
" No ! sir," sharply answered Nathalie ; " but desirous, I
suppose, of exacting an answer. Monsieur Marceau found
means of entering the garden of the school. I was requesting
him to retire, when Mademoiselle Dantin came up."
Monsieur de Sainville's calm countenance assumed a pecu-
liar expression : it was not anger, nor yet scorn, but something
between both. It lasted for a moment only ; it had vanislied
when he raised his look towards Nathalie, and said, somewhat
briefly :
" And this was all."
He spoke more as if announcing a fact than as if putting a
question. But Nathalie felt that her silence might be construed
into assent ; she hesitated, and looked embarrassed, conscious
of his fixed and scrutinizing gaze.
" Sir," she said at length, " I do not wish to leave you
under a false impression : in one sense this is not all, for I met
Monsieur Marceau in the garden of this house, this morning,
by chance."
' By chance !" incredulously echoed Monsieur de Saniville.
" By chance on my part, at least," she warmly replied.
Monsieur do Sainville ej'ed her quietly, whilst a subdued
4*
82 NAT HAL tE.
smile, which annoyed Nathalie more than his supposed insina
ation, played for a moment around his severe mouth.
" I assure you," said he, " that I never meant to hint any
thing likely to wound your delicacy ; but that this meeting
was accidental I cannot believe. I regret that even here you
should not have been free from annoyance. I shall see," ho
added with a slight frown, " that it occurs not again."
" I believe," observed Nathalie, with some hesitation,
" that Monsieur Marceau wished to apologize."
Monsieur de Sainville smiled again.
" Permit me to doubt," said he quietly, " that your accept-
ance of an apology was the only result he hoped from this in-
terview."
" Which had no other result, sir," rejoined Nathalie in a
quick,. nettled tone.
" Nor did I imply that it had," he calmly answered.
Still Nathalie felt anxious to explain.
" It had not even that result, having lasted only a few min-
utes. Indeed, Monsieur Marceau left me in a fit of pique, be-
cause," she added, coloring, as she felt this explanation had
been unsolicited, and was perhaps unneeded, " because, in
short, I did not sympathize with that which I really could not
understand."
Monsieur de Sainville stroked his chin, and looked down.
"T regret," said he, after a pause, " having labored under an
impression which has evidently been disagreeable to you ; but
the truth is, I plainly understood that the only obstacle to my
nej)hew's attachment rested with his mother."
Indignant amazement kept Nathalie silent for a few secoixls,
during which her color deepened, xmtil it covered her features
with a burning glow.
" He said so he dared to say so !" she passionately exclaim-
ed ; but tears of anger and shame rose to her eyes, her lips
trembled, and she could say no more.
Monsieur de Sainville waited for several minutes, during
which he allowed Nathalie's excitement to subside, and watched
her attentively.
" I should regret this frankness," he said at length, '-did I
not feel you have a right to know the truth."
He spoke with emphasis. Nathalie turned towards him.
looking, as she felt, touched, and grateful.
" You have been kind, sir," said she, with that spontaneous-
noss which is so well expressed by the untranslatable French
word effusion^ " very kind ; I thank you truly."
NATHALIE. 83
'^ Are you quite sure of that ?" said he eyeing her compos-
edly ; " because, he continued, answering her quick, startled
look, " your countenance is more frank than you imagine ; its
meaning, if I read it rightly a while ago, was that the spirit of
my observations was far from being acceptable to you. Now I
assure you that I was not actuated by the indiscreet wish of
ascertaining anything you might think fit to conceal, but by the
simple desire of doing you justice ; for, indeed," he continued,
after a brief pause, " I may say that the manner in which you
listened to the explanations I then thought myself justified in
offering, -had already convinced me of that which your words
have confirmed ; namely, that my nephew had mistaken his own
hopes for your acquiescence."
There was something in this speech that jarred on Nathalie's
ear. She fancied, in her sensitive pride, that Monsieur de Sain-
villc was i bo much pleased at there being no tie between hi?
nephew and herself Desirous of showing him that she was
quite as ready and anxious as he could be to repudiate the idea,
she said, somewhat proudly :
' May I ask, sir, if Madame Marceau labors under this im-
pression ?"
" It shall be my care to undeceive her," he briefly replied.
' But. sir," continued Nathalie, " I beirin to feel doubts as to
the propriety of accepting even your kind offer."
" Why so ?" he composedly inquired.
" I feel as if my presence here could scarcely be agree-
able."
" And pray how can this be ?" he asked, with a smile.
" Madame Marceau will perhaps be reminded I mean to say
- -indeed, I should not like to be the cause "
She stopped short, bit her lip, and looked vexed at having
begun that which it was not quite easy for her to conclude.
There was a pause, for Monsieur de Sainville took his time
to observe, with that smile, half kindly, half ironical, which had
already annoyed the young girl :
" I believe you allude to my nephew ; but he is now pre-
cisely where it is best for him to be in Paris, prosecuting hia
legal studies. If he is wise, he will remain there."
Still Nathalie seemed willing to raise some objection. Mon-
fiieur de Sainville anticipated her.
" Believe me," said he, gravely, " it shall be my care that
nothing or no one annoys you under this roof"
He said not in plain speech " this is my house, and you are
84 NATHALIE.
my guest;" but his look and mauuer implied it; and Nathalie
felt a strange mixture of pleasure and embarrassment to think
that it was so. She felt that there was kindness in that calm
face, which now looked down upon her, a kindness she knew
not how to acknowledge.
She was little aware that there was no need of acknowledg-
ment ; that the most finished and graceful thanks would not
have been so expressive as the look, half shy, half confident,
which she now turned towards Monsieur de Sainville ; for the
charm of the ingenuous embarrassment of youth is seldom lost
on those of maturer years, nor did it seem to be lost on him,
as he eyed the young girl with a sedate, thoughtful glance ; and
though he did not smile now, his grave features were softened
and relaxed. Nathalie felt intuitively that the interview had
lasted long enough, and she rose from her seat.
" I am sure, sir, that you are very kind," said she, hesitat-
ingly, and coloring at the earnest tone, as well as at the home-
liness of the compliment ; " and I feel truly grateful," she add-
ed, after a pause.
Perhaps as she said this, her manner became constrained,
or it may be that the last word broke the charm ; for as it was
uttered. Monsieur de Sainville's countenance suddenly altered
back to the old expression.
" Pi'ay let there be no undue sense of obligation," said he,
with his cold politeness ; and, perceiving her wish to depart, he
led her out of the room.
CHAPTER VII.
" So tins is Monsieur de Sainville," thought Nathalie, as she
closed the door of tlie library behind her and walked up stairs.
She felt disappointed ; for there was nothing, as she had
expected there would be, singular in her host. She also felt
chilled and repelled. At first she thought this was because he
had questioned her too closely. On reflection she perceived
that he had put only one question to her; what she had said
had been mentioned of her own accord. With haughty sur-
prise she now asked herself why'? Had his frankness been
Buch as to win frankness in return? Nay, for he had told her
exactly what he had wished to mention from the first ; not one
word more. He had laid facts before her, without comment
without advice, without giving her any clue to his own feelings.
How he felt with regard to his nephew's conduct, how he would
view an engagement between Charles Marceau and herself,
were matters of which she was as ignorant now as before she
entered the library. She had said much, but had learned
nothing save that the providential interference of which
Madame Marceau had so freely taken the merit, was in reality
attributable to her brother, a gentleman serious in aspect, in
manner calm, if not cold. She wondered if he was always so,
and if this was all. The Canoness and her niece were both in
the drawing-room, when she entered it, and both looked at her
with evident curiosity. She silently sat down by thearm-chai?
of the elder lady.
" You see, aunt," observed Madame Marceau, with an as-
sumed gayety, that did not in Nathalie's opinion become her
quite so well as the airs de grande dame she so often took ;
" you see that Mademoiselle Montolieu has come back to us
safe and not looking scared."
" Oh ! no ; not yet," shortly answered the Canoness.
" Which implies that she will be so one day. What is
Mademoiselle Montolieu's own opinion?"
She bant an inquiring glance on the young girl as she
spoke ; but Nathalie was not inexpert in the little femiuino
manceuvre of eluding a question : she replied, with a smile :
" Mademoiselle Dantin never could scare me, madamc, from
which I conclude I am invulnerable."
No more was said on the subject.
When dinner-time came, it was Nathalie who helped tho
Canoness down stairs : for though she never confessed it, Aunt
lladegonde was somewhat infirm.
Monsieur de Sainville was already in the dining-room ; he
had not seen his aunt that day, and as she entered leaning on
Nathalie's arm, he came up to her and kissed the little hand,
still white and delicate, which she extended towards him ; she
received this courtesy with cool dignity, merely observing :
" You had bad weather for your ride home, Armand."
'' It was rather wet," he coolly replied.
" Rather wet !" thought Nathalie, who could hear the rain
still pouring down in torrents.
"And a little windy," he added as a keen blast rushed up
the avenue and swept round the old chateau, dying away witb
a moaning sound.
86 NATHALIE.
''I wundel' what be considers really wet and windy weather,"
inwardly pursued Nathalie, who had all the asperity of a chill/
southern against the dreary north.
" But it was not too wet for poor Andre to go," dryly ob-
served Aunt Radegonde, as her nephew led her to the table.
' Oh ! he is gone then !" said he quietly.
" Yes. and I think it a great pity," she observed, drawing
herself up very decisively.
Monsieur de Sainville made no reply.
"A great pity for his family," said the Canoness, with
slight hesitation. " Did you speak, Armand ?" she added after
a pause.
' No aunt, but I agree with you : it is a pity."
" He is hard," thought Nathalie, half indignantly.
The meal was formal and silent. Monsieur de Sainville
spoke little ; Madame Marceau seemed enveloped in her own
dignity ; the Canoness was mute. But when dessert was
brought up and the servants had retired, she turned towards
!ier nephew, near whom she sat, suddenly observing :
" Armand, why did you dismiss that poor Andre ?"
' For neglect of my orders, aunt."
' Because, you see," she continued, in a half apologetic tone,
as if willing to explain her abrupt inquiry, " I know the man
to be so sober, honest, and industrious ; at least, I think so,"
she added, gradually shrinking, like many an advocate, from
the cause of her protege.
" You are quite right, aunt," quietly said Monsieur de
Sainville, "Andre is all that."
" Then, why dismiss him ?" asked the Canoness once more,
quite confident.
" For neglect of my orders, aunt," he answered, exactly in
the same tone as before.
" I understand," sagaciously said Aunt Radegonde, " it
was something very important."
" Only a tree he neglected to fell," carelessly replied her
nephew.
" You dismiss him for that !"
" Not for the order neglected, aunt, but for having neglect-
ed the order."
'' Why not tell him again ?"
" Because I never keep servants to whom I must repeat tho
eame order twice. I waited three days to see whether he would
r not do as I had told him, and waited uselessly. I paid him
NATHALIE. S?
about double what 1 owed him to get rid of him at once. He
will easily find another situation ; I have done him no wrong."
' Ay," said Radegonde in a low tone, " that is how people
have servants who never love them, Armand."
Monsieur de Sainville was reclining back in his chair with
folded arms. Pie looked down at his aunt and smiled a little
ironically.
" Aunt," said he, ' we pay servants to serve, and not to love
us ; and they serve us, not for love, but for wages. There is
no obligation on either side ; it is a contract, a bargain no
more. As for explanations between master and servant, they
will not do ; the servant would only learn to argue, a right he
has given up, instead of obeying ; the master ,in speaking to
the hireling, would forget the man ; in short, we should have
the contemptible and odious characters of rebel and tyrant
face to race ; one of which characters seldom exists, indeed,
unless in presence of the other."
" Come," thought Nathalie, " a few more snch conversa-
tions, and I think I shall begin to understand you."
But as she looked up, she met the keen look of Monsieur
de Sainville, opposite whom she sat. She remembered what
he had told her, concerning the frankness of her face, and with
some trepidation, she resolved to be more on her guard for the
future.
Madame Marceau now opened her lips in sententious
speech.
" Authority, my dear aunt," said she, addressing the Can-
oness, ' cannot be thus cast away. The power to rule is the
test of mind. But few, very few," she emphatically added,
" possess that lofty power."
No one replied ; dinner was over. Monsieur de Sainville
retired to the library ; the ladies went up to the drawing-
room.
Seated on her low seat, for the place by Aunt Kadegonde
DOW seemed hers, with her work lying neglected on her lap,
her look fastened on the burning embers, Nathalie was lulled
into a reverie, by the mingled sound of wind and rain. She
was soon roused by the Canoness, who asked whether she
played or sang, and eagerly requested her to sing something,
when with a smile she replied that she could do both. Ma-
dame Marceau declared she would be charmed to hear her;
she spoke as if Nathalie could neither touch the rnstruracnt,
nor open her lips, without her majestic encouragement.
ee NATHALIE.
Nathalie rose, and silently seated herself before the piauo
her fingers wandered aAvhile over the keys, as she played the
prelude to a gay romance : but something iu the murmurs of
this chill evening awoke the memory of old times ; the strain
changed suddenly, and she sang an old sailor's hymn to the
Virgin, which she had often heard and sung in her native pro-
vince. The human voice is the most spiritual expression of
music, that poetry of sense, and never does it rise so much
above Avhat is earthly, as when giving utterance to religious
melody : the voice of Nathalie was not of the highest quality
or extent, but it was clear, flexible, and expressive ; especially
on this evening, when the memory of early youth, and home,
was with her as she sans. Aunt Radegonde was all attention,
with her head thoughtfully inclined on one side, and her Jcnit-
ting at rest.
" Well," said she, when the strain had ceased, " I should
not have thought you sang religious music."
" What sort of music did you think then_I sang ?" promptly
asked Nathalie.
" Something like yourself, pretty and gay."
" And frivolous," added Nathalie iu a nettled tone. She
looked up as she spoke from the instrument, and in the large
mirror behind it she perceived the figure of Monsieur de Sain-
ville, whose entrance she had not heard. He was standing
near his aunt, and appeared to have been listening.
'Pray sing us something else," said the Canoness.
"We shall be happy to hear Mademoiselle Montolieu
again," observed Madame Marceau, with stately grace.
Nathalie hesitated. She wondered whether Monsieur dc
Saiuville was a judge of music, and whether he would join his
entreaties to those of his aunt and sister ; but he remained
silent, and to all appearance uninterested. After some more
hesitation, the young girl complied with Aunt Radegonde's
request ; she sang an Italian piece, and though her voice was
at first slightly tremulous, she felt that she sang it well.
" My dear child," emphatically said the Canoness, '= you are
a little prodigy."
"Mademoiselle Montolieu sings charmingly," observed
Madame Marceau.
Her brother said nothing, and as Nathalie left the instru-
ment to resume her seat, he began to walk slowly up and down
the room ; an exercise that appeared to be customary to him.
To all appearance the young girl was absorbed by hci
NATHALIE. S5
frork, but in truth lier thoughts -were verj differently engaged.
She felt extremely nettled, in sj^ite of herself, at her host's in
difference.
' How morose he must be, not to like music," she thought,
without acknowledging to herself, that it was his want of ad-
miration for her music, that vexed her; "and Italian musiq
too ! But how indeed could it touch a northern icicle like
him ?"
Monsieur de Sainville stopped short as she came to this
indignant conclusion, with a sort of coincidence to her thought
ihat somewhat startled her; he said briefly:
' Do you not come from the south. Mademoiselle Mon-
lolieu?"
Nathalie assented.
" I thought so. I was once on the MediteiTanean in a
storm, and all the sailors sang that hymn you sang just now.
I had never heard it since then."
He walked up to the end of the room, and as he came back
once more, he again addressed her :
" May I inquire from what part of the south you come 1"
' From Aries, in Provence."
" Aries !" said the Canoness, catching the word ; ' Aries,"
she repeated. " Chere Petite, what is Aries so very celebrated
for ?"
Nathalie knew, but did not care to say.
' Antiquities, I believe," observed Madame Marceau.
" No, it is not antiquities," decisively said the Canoness ;
' Petite, you smile, I am sure you know."
" We have so many good things at Aries," replied Nathalie,
coloring as she caught Monsieur de Sainville's look eyeing her
keenly ; " excellent ham, for instance."
" Petite, I am sure it is not ham."
" Aries is celebrated for the beauty of its women," quiet-
ly observed Monsieur de Sainville ; ' they are held to be be-
yond doubt the handsomest women of France."
He had paused for a moment, and resumed his walk as he
concluded.
' There," cried the Canoness, with great triumph, - I knew
Aries was celebrated for something remarkable. Armaud, da
tell us what these handsome women are like."
She looked shrewdly at Nathalie, who, conscious perhaps
that she was no unfair specimen of Arlesian beauty, blushed
deeply and bent over her work. But there was no need to
blush
90
NATHALIE.
_ " Beauty must be seeu and felt, not described," coldlj
said Monsieur de Sainville.
Aunt Radegonde looked disappointed; Nathalie felt slight-
ed, and thought her host a very disagreeable man ; Madame
Maneau, sitting in lonely majesty on a couch facing her, al-
lowed her lip to curl with a haughty smile. Of all this, Mon-
sieur de Sainville seemed to heed nothing. In passing by the
table he had perceived and immediately taken up a card lying
upon it. He read the name, and looked at his sister very
fixedly. Nathalie had seen that card in the course of the day,
aid been struck to perceive that the name engraved upon it
was that of Madame Marceau de Sainville, as if the owner rs-
pudiated. as much as in her power lay, the plebeian alliance,
and, despite of custom, claimed back the patrician name of
her birth. She now watched her brother with breathless,
though stealthy attention, as he stood with the card in his
hand. He laid it down silently ; she looked triumphant.
" Rosalie," he abruptly asked, " was not your husband re-
lated to tliG celebrated republican General Marceau?"
" There was a very distant relationship," replied she, much
disturbed.
" I congratulate you," he briefly said ; " our military annals
hold not' a name more stainless or more noble ; for he, the
champion of modern freedom, the man of to-day, had yet in-
herited the soul of the past, the spirit of truth and old
chivalric honor. Years ago, passing by Coblentz, I saw the
pyramid beneath which he then lay, not far from the spot
where he fell in his glorious youth. Why have they removed
him ? Those are trophies we should ever leave to the soil of
the foe."*
* Byron who loved true heroism, has bestowcil a noble eulogy on tba
memory of tlie heroic Marceau.
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,
There is a small and simple pyramid.
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ;
Beneatli its base are heroes' ashes hid,
Our enemy's but lot that not forbid
Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid.
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom,
i'alhng lor France, whose rights he battled to resume.
Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career,
His mourners were two lioats, his friends and foes ;
NATHALIE. 91
As lie spoke thus, a flush crossed his pale brow, and for a
moment his calm look kindled.
There was an awkward attempt on the part of Madame
Marceau to look interested and sympathetic, but in spite of all
her efforts her brow was overcast, and Nathalie could see her
biting her lip, like one striving in vain against some bitter
disappointment. Her brother retired early, and she left soon
after him.
As Nathalie was dressing herself on the following morning,
sle chanced to open the upper drawer of the ebony cabinet;
scarcely had she done so when her eye fell on a letter lying
within it. Her first impulse was to draw back, her next to
return to the drawer, take up the letter, read the superscrip-
tion, examine the seal, and, after keeping it some time in her
baud, to replace it exactly where she had found it. She then
closed the drawer, and without thinking of her unbraided hair,
which fell down loosely on her shoulders, she stood motionless,
with her eyes on the floor, her chin resting on the palm of her
hand, her whole attitude expressive of deep thought.
This meditative mood was interrupted by the entrance of
Amanda, who made her appearance with an apologetic curtsey
and her usual inquisitorial look. " Madame had sent her to
see whether she could not assist mademoiselle in her toilet."
Nathalie coldly declined.
But timidity was not one of Amanda's faults. " She felt
convinced that she could do something with mademoiselle's
fine hair She officiously brought a chair forward as she
spoke ; N athalie looked displeased, but suddenly altering her
mind, she seated herself. Amanda's white hands were imme-
diately busy with her dark tresses.
" How delightful !" she enthusiastically exclaimed ; " it is
so long since I had such an opportunity of exercising my
talents. Madame Marceau is the best of mistresses, but she
will let me do nothing with her head ; whereas Madame la
Comtesse d'Onesson made me dress and undress her hair five
And fitly may the stranger, lingering here,
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ;
For he was freedom's champion, one of those,
The few in number, who had not o'erstepped
The charter to chastise, wluch she bestows
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept
The whiteness of his souL and thus men o'er him wept.
Ch'dde Harold, st. 46, 41, Caato TIL
t2 NATHALIE.
or six times a da}-. It was such good practice, and gave ms
such lightness of touch. Does mademoiselle keep her poma-
tum in the upper drawer of that cabinet ?"
" There is nothing in that upper drawer for which I have
the least value," drily replied Nathalie.
' Well, as I was saying," composedly resumed Amanda. " a
woman without hair is like a man without a moustache, no-
thing. Twice did that fatal point, the want of a moustache in
the opposite party, prevent me from marrying very advan-
tageously. Now, tlaough Monsieur Charles is so handsome,
and having lived in the /lew des pais of the French nobles?e,
I ouo;ht to know something about handsome men, he had not
my approbation until he allowed his moustache to grow ; but,
as I was saying, madame's son is as good as he is handsome,
and yet he has a fault ; yes, the greatest fault man can have.
She paused. Nathalie said nothing.
" No man can have a greater fault," decisively continued
Amanda.
Still Nathalie remained silent.
" Well, as I was saying," resumed Amanda, who had always
been saying something she wished to say ; " it is incomprehen-
sible : at his age, at any age. I do not understand women-
haters. Some would say he refuses to marry a charming lady,
young, rich, and handsome, on account of some previous at-
tachment, but those who have a little experience of the world
know that previous attachments are not so strong as all that ;
there must be woman-hating in the case. Now, though other
people may have been disappointed in love, and may feel bitter,
and so forth, and never even look civilly at a woman, which
they might do if they are too grand to talk, though as to talk-
ing, people quite as grand have done it ; now, as I say, that is
no reason why young men, who cannot be supposed to have
gone through the same disappointments, should take up those
shocking principles, and act up to them, and make their mo-
thers unhappy, and cause charming young ladies to be well-
nigh broken-hearted, all because they are women-haters ! If
there was, indeed, a previous attachment in the case, will
mademoiselle look at herself now V added Amanda, breaking
off suddenly.
Nathalie rose, looking at herself in the glass, and frankly
acknowledged Amanda's skill.
'* You are a real artist," she said ; " the back hair is brought
forward in a moat original manner."
NATHALIE. 93
' It is, it is/' enthusiastically cried AniaiiJa. with a kin-
dling glance : " Mademoiselle has the eye of a master. That
tour is my own creation. ' Amanda,' said Madame la Conitessc
d'Onesson to mc, rising, one afternoon, 'I go, in three days, to
the Russian Ambassador's ball ; all Europe will be there. I
must have something novel. Eemcmber that I have spared
your feelings ; I have not appealed, even on urgent occasions,
to the most illustrious professors ; but, entre nous, my child,
your style is monotonous ; I fear you are worn out. Unless
you produce some brilliant composition, I shall be compelled
to consign you to the ordinary duties of the toilet, and submit
to the vulgar prejudice which gives up the head of woman to
the clumsy hands of man.' Let mademoiselle imagine my feel-
ings ! I spent two days in the library, looking over books anJ
engravings ; but I could neither invent nor borrow. I went to
bed in despair ; my reputation was lost. At length an im^pira-
tion came ; I saw this admirable tour, rose and went to ma-
dame's room. Though greatly fatigued from having danced all
night, she rose with angelic sweetness. The effect was so ad-
mirable, that madanr.o embraced me, and presented me with
this ring on the spot. Ah ! if mademoiselle would only be
kind enough to accept of my services occasionally? '
" Provided you do not meddle with my upper drawer," quietly
replied Nathalie.
Amanda smiled demurely. When Nathalie looked in the
evening the letter had vanished. It was then on its way to
Paris, inclosed in an ill-spelt but well worded billet, addressed
by Mademoiselle Amanda to Monsieur Charles, and in which
that lady assured him Mademoiselle Montolieu's indiiference
was only too apparent. A little P. S. likewise informed Mon-
sieur Charles that Mademoiselle Amanda, actuated by the
most disinterested zeal in his cause, had undertaken to dress
Mademoiselle Montolieu'a hair for the express purpose of dis-
posing her heart more in favor of Monsieur Charles.
The morning passed quietly. Nathalie sate in the drawing-
room with the Canoncss and Madame Marceau ; the former was
voluble as usual ; her niece looked unwell, and complained of
a sharp pain in her side. Towards noon the sound of carriage-
wheels was heard in the avenue. Nathalie detected the hasty
look of annoyance Madame Marceau directed towards her.
" Who is it?" asked Aunt Radegonde.
"The De Jus,sac3, I suppose. Mademoiselle Montolieu. I
hope you arc not going to leave the room."
94 NATHALIE.
This was uttered in as faint a tone of entreaty as polite
ness permitted.
" Oh ! no," coolly answered Nathalie, " but I feel too warm
here."
She looked flushed as she rose and retired to one of the
window-recesses. The visitors entered ; the young girl's look
was not once raised from her embroidery, but she felt, if she
did not see, that Madame Marceau had placed herself so as to
keep her in the shade. This was scarcely needed, for the long
drapery of the crimson curtains shrouded her completely from
view. The drawing-room was large ; Madame de Jussac and
her daughters sat with their hostess at the other end of the
apartment ; their conversation reached Nathalie in broken
sentences ; she cared not for it ; she had laid by her work, her
glance was bent on the avenue below, but she saw it not, for
her pride, always watchful, was now roused and indignant.
She looked round ; no one heeded her ; she left the apartment
unperceived. The garden looked so warm and sunny from the
landing window, that instead of going up to her own room, as
she first thought to do, she went down stairs.
The symmetrical gardens loved in the olden time, though
now so long out of fashion, have still a rare charm of their
own. The airy marble balustrade and graceful stone vases
filled with fresh flowers, the broad flight of stately steps, the
smooth gravel walks, trim hedges, green grass-plots and varie-
gated parterres, statues of fawns and laughing nymphs, and
gay fountains sparkling in the sun, have all the cheerfulness
and genial warmth of tiie pleasant south. Here there is ver-
dure without damp, and spreading shade without treacherous
mists or winding alleys of melancholy gloom. The whole as-
pect of the place is light, joyous and sunny ; it speaks of azure
skies, of shelter from the fervid sun of noon, and pleasant
walks on the clear moonlight ; of those days when lovely Italy
from the greatest had become the most pleasant land in all
Christendom ; when gallant cavaliers and fair dames met for
revel and pastime in every gay villa, and wiled the hours away
with dance and song, or, resting 'neath the shade within the
sound and freshness of falling waters, heard and told many a
tale of love and old romance.
The pleasant aspect of the garden of Sainville on this au-
tumn morning, the verdure of all around, the blue serenity of
the sky, the sunny warmth of the hour, charmed Nathalie,
whose mind had all the elasticity of her years. She had nevoi
NATHALIE 95
seen a spot like this in Provence, and yet by a train of subtle
associations it did remind her of Provence and of old familiar
things. This was enough to soothe her ruffled mood ; she
lightly walked along the sunny path, now loitering near a
yoor statue in its sequestered niche, where it had grown green
with the gathered damp of many winters, now looking at the
fountain with its sparkling jet (Veau^ now pausing to admire
a group of pale and bending china asters, or to watch a proud
peacock perched on the top of a marble column rising in the
centre of a grass-plot, and on which it stood like some enchanted
bird of rare plumage, until, by approaching, the young girl
broke the spell, and opening its wings it flew away with a dis-
cordant scream.
It was some time before Nathalie reached the end of the
first terrace. She was descending one of the flights of step.s
that led to the second, when she heard the sound of a footstej)
in the gravel walk behind her. Without reflecting why she
did so, she hastily stepped into the sanctuary of the sleeping
nymph. The sound drew nearer; an erect figure descended
the flight of steps ; it was Monsieur de Sainville. A row ol
yews and evergreens screened Nathalie from observation ; her
dark dress could scarcely be discerned through the gloomy
foliage of the trees near which she stood, but she could soe
whilst thus unseen, and she bent eagerly forward as Monsieui
de Sainville passed close to her retreat. He looked exactly
as on their first interview : calm, grave, and thoughtful. In
stooping to see him better she made a slight noise ; he paused
and threw a quick, penetrating look towards the spot where
she stood : but the glance lasted only a second ; his look was
once more bent on the earth as with folded arms and thought-
ful mien he passed on.
Nathalie breathed more freely. She had felt confident of
being discovei'cd, and had no wish for a lonely meeting with
her severe-looking host. When after some time she left her
retreat, she therefore entered the grounds instead of proceed-
ing to the river side ; but she was not fortunate, for the first
path she took brought her in presence of Monsieur de Sain-
ville, who was slowly walking along in the same direction.
She looked shy and embarrassed ; he greeted her with hia
calm and self-possessed courtesy.
" Do you like the recess where you were a while ago ?" he
suddenly asked after some desultory conversation.
" Yes. very much." hesitatingly answered Nathalie. " So
96 NATHALIE.
he knew I was tliere," she thought, wondering whether he alao
knew she liad been examining him so closely.
'Few like it," lie continued; " indeed, it does not agree
with the cheerful character of all around. The ivy and yews
give the place a dark and melancholy aspect."
Nathalie did not answer, and Monsieur de Sainville spoke
no more. They walked along in silence, and soon reached a
fine lime-tree avenue, which extended from one of the wings of
the chateau into the grounds. As they entered it Nathalie
felt relieved to perceive Madame Marceau and the Canoness
seated on a wooden bench which stood within the cool shadow
of the largest tree. The younger lady eyed Nathalie with a
sort of haughty surprise.
" My dear Armand," said she, addressing her brother with
stately concern, "you have missed seeing Madame de Jussac
and her daughters ; did you not see the carriage V
' I heard it," was the laconic reply.
" I assure you they were quite disappointed."
Monsieur de Sainville looked supremely indifferent.
" They are such charming girls," continued Madame Mar-
ceau ; '-perfect specimens of Norman beauty Adele especial-
ly."
She looked at Nathalie, but addressed her brother.
" Yes. she is good looking," he answered.
" Good looking !" repeated Madame Marceau, looking
vexed ; " I think she is by far the prettiest girl I have ever
seen."
Monsieur de Sainville smiled one of his peculiar smiles.
" I have no wish," he coldly said, " to depreciate Mademoi-
selle de Jussac's attractions, of which, indeed, I am no fair
judge, not happening to admire blue eyes or golden hair."
" But you admired them once, Armand," replied his sister,
with a short irritated laugh.
Monsieur de Sainville eyed her for a moment with a sort of
calm sternness that assorted well with the unmoved yet severe
expression habitual to his countenance. Though the look
lasted for a second only, Madame Marceau had not yet re-
covered from the evident ti-epidation into which it threw her,
when her brother resumed, in his usual tone :
" Beauty is of little worth ; Mademoiselle de Jussac pos-
sesses woman's greatest charm in a gentle, submissive disposi-
tion."
" And that IS woman's greatest charm, is it V thought Na-
thalie, a little nettled.
NATHALIE. 97
"Mademoiselle Montolieu," said Madame Marceau, in a
patronizing tone, " why did you leave the drawing-room so pre
eipitately ? Are you timid V
' Not at all, madame," dryly replied Nathalie ; ' nor gen-
tle," she longed to add, as she detected a half smile on Mon-
sieur de Sainville's countenance, but the temptation was ^^ru-
dently checked.
" Will you not sit down, Petite?" here observed the Cau-
on933. " Amanda said she saw you going into the garden, and
I caused this stool to be brought for you."
She spoke as if she felt the slight the young girl had re-
ceived, and wished to atone for it. Nathalie silently seated
herself by her side. Monsieur do Sainville declined his
sister's offer of a seat on the bench.
' I prefer this," said he, walking up and down the avenue.
' I think you prefer any thing to remaining quiet," impa-
tiently thought Nathalie, whom this monotonous promenade
annoyed considerably.
" Petite," continued the Canoness, seeing the conversation
languish, " will you read us something from the last number
of the Kevue ?"
Nathalie assented, and took the volume.
"What shall I read?" she asked. ' Here is a tale entitled
Mystere."
"Let us hear Mj'stere, by all means, said the Canoness,
with great alacrity, " and mind you do not read too loud on my
account.
Nathalie hesitated to begin ; she was wondering whether
it was Monsieur de Sainville's intention to listen.
" We are quite ready," majestically said Madame Marceau,
nodding to the young girl, who sate on her low stool, with the
book on her lap, one hand keeping it open, whilst the other
supported her inclined brow.
Nathalie smiled a little disdainfully at finding her hesita-
tion thus interpreted, but she complied, and began.
The story was mysterious enough in feeling, for in incident
nothing could be more clear. It professed to relate the fate
and sorrows of a handsome and modest girl, madly in love with
a profligate sharper, and clinging to him still, in spite of his
anworthiness. The only impropriety in the tale was in the
subject, but it annoyed Nathalie to be reading it aloud. When
she came to the most impassioned passages, she skipped freely ;
likewise, whenever Monsieur de Sainville drew near, she read
5
98 NATHALIE.
faster, aud slightly lowered ber voice, to raise it again when ha
had gone by. This she did several times. At length he sud-
denly paused in his walk, to say, in bis cold, polite way :
" Pray, mademoiselle, do not raise your voice on my ae-
count. I bear distinctly when I am farthest, and when you
read in your lowest key."
Nathalie colored, as she perceived her little feminine ma-
noeuvre thus detected. To add to her embarrassment, Aunt
Radegonde observed, with evident wonder :
" What a strange author, Petite ; I never heard such ab-
rupt transitions."
" Nor I," briefly said her nephew, in a tone that convinced
Nathalie he knew very well by whose agency the abrupt tran-
sitions had been effected.
At length, and to her great satisfaction, the story conclud-
ed with an impassioned letter, of which she did not venture to
omit one word, addressed by the tender-hearted heroine to her
fascinating sharper.
"A romantic story, is it not. Mademoiselle Montolieu .^"
carelessly observed Madame Marceau, who bad been half-re-
clining in an attitude of total indifference all the time.
" I think it unnatural, madame," replied Nathalie, closing
the book.
' Oh! you do? How so ?^'
Nathalie hesitated to reply. She felt that the under-cur-
rent of Madame Marceau's bland manner was sharp and irri-
tating. She looked unwell. Was it pain rendered ber thus,
or something relative to Monsieur de Sainville, or perhaps
even to herself?
" How so ?" again said Madame Marceau, as if determined
to make her answer.
"Is it not unnatural, madame," answered Nathalie, " that a
woman, represented as pure aud good, should care for that
worthless man?"
" Oh ! that is only romantic," answered Madame Marceau,
with a cold smile ; " and romantic girls are capable of any fol-
ly. Do not color up so, my dear child ; you are not at all ro-
mantic, I am sure. What struck me as most improbable,"
she sententiously added, " was, that two such persons, stand-
ing at the extremities of the social scale, should meet. But,
though you do not of course think so, novels are so false. Ma-
demoiselle Montolieu. I know you will support me there, Ar-
mand," she added, turning towards her brother, who now stood
near them ; '' you are nn friend of romance."
NATHALIE. 09
Nathalie, who felt greatly offended at the uuwarrunted in-
Binuations Madame Marceau chose to throw out, prepared her-
self to be still more offended at Monsieur de Sainville's reply.
" If by romance you mean the illusions of youth," he quiet-
ly answered, " it is not because I have outlived their day, that*
I quarrel with them."
Madame Marceau looked annoyed.
" My dear Armand," she exclaimed, with a short laugh, " I
beg 3'our pardon ; I thought you were a professed skeptic."
'' The character of skeptic," said he, very coldly, " is not
one I respect, or to which I lay claim."
" Oh ! then I have been mistaken all along," resumed his
sister ; " I thought but no matter ; is there any harm, Ar-
mand, in asking you in what you still believe?"
' In two things, without which this world, evil as it is,
would be much worse, in God and honor."
He spoke gravely, and looked displeased.
"And in nothing else?" ironically inquired Madame Mar-
ceau.
Perhaps he did not hear her perhaps he thought this ca-
techising had been carried far enough ; he did not, at least,
reply ; and Nathalie could see Aunt Radegoude looking unea-
sily at her niece.
"Well," resumed Madame Marceau, somewhat bitterly, "I
suppose we agree on one point at least, Armand, novels are
unreal."
The slight shade of displeasure had completely passed
away from Monsieur de Sainville's brow, when he replied
" Their reality is not that of the every-day world, Rosalie,
and why should it be ? Their task is to deceive, let them
only deceive us well. When real novels are by chance written,
who reads them ? Youth lays them down with all the scorn
of its fervent faith, and age, unless when grown cynical, has
had enough of truth. Fictions are revelations not of truth,
for they are most unreal, but of that which the soul longs to be
true ; they are mirrors not of actual human experience, but of
human dreams and aspirations, of the eternal, though most un-
availing desires of the heart."
" At that rate, that foolish Mystere was too real."
" Real," echoed Monsieur de Sainville, " I think, like
Mademoiselle Moutolieu, that it was a false, unnatural story.
What pure woman could love that vulgar sharper? Either
he is a better man, or she is a worse woman, than we find hero
100 NATHALIE.
represented ; either he, with all his vices, has something ori
ginallj noble, or she, with all her seeming virtue, is corrupt
at heart. There is no surer test of a woman's character than
the man she prefers."
* "I thought caprice was the great guide."
" Not if there is judgment."
" But if there is not judgment." pertinaciously resumed
IMadame Marceau.
" Then, of course, the character is imperfect and hope-
less."
Nathalie thought that he spoke as if weary of the discus-
sion.
' Yes, but where there is judgment," slowly and emphati-
cally said Madame Marceau, " how calm, passionless, and al-
most godlike is the character ; with what magnificent indif
ference does it stand aloof, and survey jvery thing external."
" Is this irony or flattery ?" thought Nathalie, looking up,
and wondering how Monsieur de Sainville would receive this
speech, and the " calm, passionless, godlike," &c. He was
standing near the bench on which his sister sat, but his un-
moved countenance gave no clue to his feelings.
' Those minds are the minds," pursued Madame Mar-
ceau ; "with them no undue feeling can exist, reason reigns
supreme."
' What has reason to reign over, if there is no undue feel-
ing to subdue?" coldly asked her brother.
" Passionless characters are worthless in good or in cril :
their gentleness is inability to feel anger; their virtue inabili-
ty to do wrong. They know not how to hate, because they
kni w not how to love. If there has been no temptation, there
can be no merit ; if there has been no struggle, there can be
no victory."
Nathalie gave him a quick scrutinizing glance, but it was
instantly detected by his look, and there was something in
that cold and somewhat haughty gaze which completely baf-
fled her scrutiny. She was more successful with Madame
Marceau, who vainly endeavored to look unconcerned.
" I am afraid you are not well, Rosalie," said her brother,
addressing her in a low altered tone, after eyeing her for a few
moments, '' a walk would do you good."
Madame Marceau hesitated, but at length rose, and ac-
cepted her brother's offer.
" Will you not accompany us over the grounds, Mademoi
eelle Montolieu?" he asked, turning towards Natha.lie.
NATHALIE. 10 i
Madamo Marccau looked haughty and displeased. Na
thalie decliued, under the plea of remaining with the Can-
oness.
' No," decisively said Aunt Radegonde, " you have not
seen the grounds yet, and you must see them ; but, beforo
you go, you will perhaps arrange my shawl about me. Petite,"
she hurriedly whispered, as Nathalie rose, and wrapped her
up in a vast shawl, ' never refuse any little civility Armani
may offer you ; cold as he looks, he can be the best friend in
the world. They are waiting ; go."
" Why,what sort of a pasha is this host of mine, that so
commonplace an act of politeness is construed into a high
favor," thought Nathalie, as she slowly fallowed Monsieur de
Sainville and his sister. But his quiet, unassuming manner
was by no means that of one who has conferred a favor. Na-
thalie had leisure to contrast it with that of Madame Marceau,
who, as if anxious to impress the young girl with the fact, that
she and her brother could agree as well as jar, now expatiated,
in her lofty way, on divers subjects, all skilfully chosen, as
Nathalie thou2;ht, so as to draw forth no contradiction. But
this was not destined to be a fortunate day with Madame
Marceau.
It was not long before they reached a part of the grounds
where several men were engaged in clearing away a group of
trees, which had been found to injure, instead of improving
the prospect. Several trees lay felled on the grass ; a few
dark yews and a sickly-looking poplar alone remained standing.
' The yews are to remain," said Monsieur de Sainville, ad-
dressing the chief of the workmen, who had approached to re
ceive his orders ; " but that poplar looks unsightly ; I ordered
Ar.dre to fell it several days ago."
" Yes, sir, but Monsieur Charles said it was to stay."
" What !" incredulously exclaimed Monsieur de Sainville.
" Monsieur Charles told him it was to stay, sir," repeated
the man, raising his voice.
There was a brief silence. Nathalie could see a slight
frown contract Monsieur de Sainville's brow, and Madame
3Iarceau turning pale as she beheld it.
" You will fell the poplar-tree, to-morrow," quietly resumed
her brother, and he walked on.
The silence that followed seemed uncomfortable to all.
Nathalie lingered behind. Madame Marceau gave her a
hasty look, and, probably thinking she was out of hearing, ad-
dressed her brother in a low tone :
102 NATHALIE.
' I hope, Arinand, the imprudence of Charles "
" We will not mention it," he interrupted; "let him uoi
act so again."
" I am sure Andre must have misunderstood him."
"I agree with you, that Andre misunderstood him ; and
as he committed a mistake, not a fault, he shall be welcome to
return, if he chooses."
" I am sure he will be quite grateful," said Madame Mar-
ceau, biting her nether lip.
" Why so ! for having been unjustly treated, and abruptly
dismissed. The fact is, Andre never suspected ha was diso-
beying me ; he concluded no one would give such an order
unautliorized by me I concluded no one would presume to
do so."
Bladame Marceau made no answer, and the silence was
not broken, until Monsieur de Sainville turned towards Na-
thalie, and observed :
" May I ask your opinion on a matter that occupios me
just now ?"
Nathalie came up with a half-startled look.
" It is only a gardening question," said he, smiling.
" I am lamentably ignorant of gardening, sir," she hur-
riedly answered ; " I shall utter some solecism."
" And the courage of being mistaken with a good grace is
not the courage of your age ; but experience will teach you
some day to utter a genuine, honest blunder, with suitable
unconcern. In the mean while, pray let me have your opinion.
Shall this grassy plot remain as it is, or shall we enliven it
with a few flowers?"
" I should pronounce in favor of the flowers, sir."
" Why so ?"
" They are so beautiful."
" But of a frivolous, transient beauty. Yet your sugges-
tion shall be adopted. Taste must have its feminine element,
and I have been giving these grounds too dark and severe an
aspect. What is the matter, Rosalie?" said he, addressing
his sister, who, after listening to him with evident irritation,
and frequently applying the vinaigrette, was now turning
away with indignant majesty.
" I feel unwell, Armand," said she, coldly.
" Then let us go in, and take aunt en xxissantP
Madame Marceau retired to her room for the rest of the
day. Wlicn her brother came down to the drawing-rooni in
NATHALIE. - i03
tlie evening, Nathalie felt luucli p'iqued at the mixture of
politeness and indifference with which he treated her presence.
" Did he mean to awe her ? He might find himself mistak-
en !" But alas ! it was only too apparent that to awe her or
produce any effect upon her was the last of Monsieur de Sain-
ville's thoughts. Half out of curiosity, half out of pique, she
ventured to differ from him once or twice, just to see how he
would take it. He took it very well indeed smiled seemed
a little surprised, and a little amused heard her politely, but
without giving her arguments great weight and treated her,
in short, with the good-humored forbearance which a man of
his years and experience might be expected to display towards
a young and somewhat presumptuous girl. In vain she looked
cold, dignified and displeased. Monsieur de Sainville would
not notice her vexation or acknowledge her claims, but pej-
fiisted. in treating her with the most provoking and gentleman-
like courtesy.
" Petite." said the Canoness, when he was gone, " how hot
you look ! Is the room close ?"
Nathalie gave her a searching glance, but there was no
mistaking the innocent simplicity of her look. More than
she said, she evidently did not mean.
' Yes," answered Nathalie, " the room is very close."
The lamp was still unlit when she went up to her room,
but a ray of light from the opposite turret fell on the polished
oak floor. The young girl looked out the light came from
Monsieur de Sainville's window, and she could see him pacing
his room up and down in a regular and monotonous pro-
rrenade.
" He seems restless enough, for one so quiet-looking,'"
thought Nathalie, as she stood by her window, watching him
before she allowed, the curtain which she held back with her
hand to drop once more ; "but impenetrable and mysterious
as he chooses to appear, it shall go hard if I do not learn to
read and understand him yeV
104 NATHALIE.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Made.moisflle Montolieu, liow demure you look to-day,''
said a soft, bland voice behind Nathalie, as she stood on the fol
lowing morning working in the embrasure of the drawing-rooia
window. A fair hand, spaidding with jewels, was lightly laid
on her shoulder. Nathalie turned round, and beheld Madame
Marceau. Her cheek had a hectic tinge, deepened by the
reflection from the crimson curtain near which she stood ; her
eyes were feverish and restless, her lips parched and dry ; but
she smiled down very graciously on the young girl, whose
passive hand she took within her own. " You are not privi-
leged to be grave, like me," she continued ; " you see, ray child,
I have not always met those in whose honor and strong sense
I could trust. I must sometimes misunderstand motives and
actions ; but I have been speaking to Armand this morning :
he has made clear that which seemed obscure there is no
misunderstanding now." She spoke significantly, and pressed
her hand.
Nathalie did not answer. The lady eyed her keenly.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," said she, drawing herself up
with melancholy dignity, " certain positions are dearly bought.
Others can be unwell can heed their sufferings ; we belong
not to ourselves ; we must act a part ; but we are human the
reaction inevitably follows."
" And I fear you were very ill yesterday," said Nathalie.
"111!" sharply echoed the lady; "no, I was only nervous ;
my health is excellent. Aunt," she added, turning towards
the Canoness, " have you been telling Mademoiselle Montolieu
that I am ill ?"
' I, Rosalie ! no : but Armand said yesterday evening he
would send Doctor Laurent to you."
' He is too kind I am quite well," said her niece, whilst ?,
forced smile parted her pale lips.
Aunt Radegonde. laying down her knitting, began a grave
lecture on the danger of neglect; but Madame Marceau angrily
exclaimed,
' I tell you I am not ill, aunt."
The Canoness coughed dubiously, but held her peace.
A week passed away. 3Ionsieur de Sainville was away at
Marmont ; his sister dropped her patronizing tone, and treated
NATHALIE. 105
her young guest with much politeness and consideration. Na-
thalie was beginning, however, to feel a touch of ennui at the
stately routine of her new existence, when one morning she
unexpectedly learned that her sister had returned. She
resolved to call upon her immediately ; but she had promised
to join the Canoness in the drawing-room, and, in passing by,
she entered it to excuse herself
Neither Aunt Radegonde nor Madame Marceau occupied
their usual seats ; but the room was not lonely, for, standing
with his back towards her, Nathalie perceived Monsieur de
Sainville. She had not so much as suspected his return from
Marmont. Her first impulse was to retire; but he looked up.
saw her in one of the large mirrors, and turned round com-
posedly. Though he could scarcely repress a smile as he
detected her look of annoyance, he greeted her with his accus-
tomed politeness. Nathalie looked cold and reserved, and
remained standing; near the door.
' I am fortunate in meeting you thus," said he, quietly
'for I very much wished to speak to you."
Nathalie came forward half-hesitatingly. He wanted hei
to be seated, but she declined, ' she preferred standing." She
did not look shy, but proud, and, though she knew it not, half
offended. Her whole bearing said, " I do not intend thia
interview to last very long."
" I believe you are going out," said Monsieur de Sainville.
" and I do not wish to detain you. I have only one question
to ask : may I hope you will do me the favor of answering it?
You have beer about a week in Sainville: do you like your
sojourn here?''
Nathalie had not anticipated this question. She hesitated,
sought for a proper reply, and found none so suitable as the
plain one, ' very much, sir."
He looked pleased.
" I am gratified to hear you say so, in that frank way, for
to say the truth, 1 feared that at your age, and with the tastes
natural to youth, this house must prove very dull. Do you
think," he added, after a pause, ' you would like to dw^U here
for some length of time?"
Nathalie looked embarrassed.
" I believe I should." she at length replied ;- " but"
" I am not asking you to bind yourself to any thing," inter-
rupted 3Ionsieur de Sainville ; " indeed, the latter question wai
105 NATHALIE.
perhaps premature ; but I am bappy to learn Sainville is nol
disagreeable to you."
With this the conversation ended. Nathalie left the room
wondering what Monsieur de Sainville meant, and so much oc-
cupied with this thought that she wholly forgot her intended
apology to the Canoness, and even passed by Mademoiselle
Dantin's door without remembering that she had once lived
there.
The town of Sainville was irregularly built on a declivity ;
its steep, narrow, and ill-paved streets overhung with high, pro-
jecting houses, most of them built of wood, rendered it one of
the most picturesque and gloomy little places in all Normandy.
It had been an abbey town before the first French revolution,
and a sort of perpetual twilight and monastic silence shrouded
it still. A few dull shops scarcely relieved the monotony of
the well-like streets, with their gaunt old houses rising in dark
outlines against the bright blue sky. When Nathalie had firbt
'come from her gay sunny Provence to this gloomy town of the
north, she had candidly wondered at the human beings who,
without any seeming necessity, could resign themselves to in-
habit this misanthropic-looking spot. Even now, accustomed
to it as she had grown, she found, after leaving the light and
airy old chateau, that the very houses along which she passed
had an air of greater dreariness and enmd than ever.
Madame Lavigne, the aunt of Rose, resided at the other
extremity of the town, in a retired little court, or rather alley,
lying within the deep shadow and sanctified gloom of the old
abbey. Gray, vast, and imposing, it rose facing a row of nar-
row houses, on the other side of the pathway, which had been
used as a passage to a side-door of the edifice, in former times,
when the abbey was in its pride, and devout pilgrims thronged
Sainville at the yearly and gorgeous festivals of its patron saint.
But a neighboring railroad had reduced the little town to com-
plete insignificance ; the faithful had fallen ofi" in zeal and num-
bers ; the side entrance had long been closed up, dust gathered
through years, and carved stone ornaments fallen from a neigh-
boring and half-ruined tower, lay heaped up against the
wooden door ; the long grass grew freely on the worn out, but
now untrodden threshold, and between the damp flags of the
lonely court. E-ooks had made their nests in the ruined tower,
where they cawed all day long, whilst gray swallows skimmed
about at twilight, and twittered beneath the eaves .of the low-
walled and abandoned cloisters. A wild pear-tree, growing in
NATHAMK 107
ilie neglected grounds within, overhung the low roof and nar
row court in which it shed its pale blossoms every spring, and
russet leaves every autumn ; beneath it, in a sheltering angle
of the building, stood a small stone cross and well ; the gift to
the town of some pious burgher, of that age of faith when an
idea of sanctity seems to have been linked with clear and flow-
ing waters. The well-worn steps attested it had once been
greatly frequented, but none, save the inhabitants of the court,
came to it now ; another fountain twice as large, profusely gilt
and bronzed, with a gay nymph instead of the lowly and faith-
ful cross, stood in the neighboring thoroughfare. Little heed-
ing the changes of human caprice or creed, clear and sparkling
as ever, the pure water flowed on, and fell into its little stone
basin with a low cheerful murmur, like a bountiful soul that
gives freely still, in spite of all the neglect and ingratitude of
man.
It was opposite this fountain that the house of Madame
Lavigne stood. Nathalie gave a low knock at the door ; it
opened ere long, and an elderly, morose-looking female ap-
peared on the threshold. Without uttering a word, or opening
the door an inch wider than strict necessity required, she ad-
mitted Nathalie, closed and bolted the door, pointed up a dark
spiral staircase, and entering a low kitchen, in which there
seemed to reign a sort of doll twilight, she resumed her culi-
nary avocations. Nathalie ascended the staircase, paused on
the first-floor landing, and, opening a door before her, entered
without knocking.
The apartment in which she found herselfwas wide and ex-
tremely low ; it was one of those unhealthy entresols now met
with only in old-fashioned houses ; it was scrupulously clean,
but every thing, from the antiquated furniture of dark walnut-
tree wood, the dingy looking-glass over the mantel-shelf, and
the low ceiling, down to the cold bees-waxed floor, had an air
of gloom and discomfort. A doubtful and yellow light seemed
to penetrate slowly through the narrow and discolored panes
of a solitary window, but it won no reflection back from the
dark surface of surrounding objects,' heavy curtains of sombi*e
hue, which fell from the ceiling to the floor in long folds, added
to the austere and meditative gloom of the place. Partly
shrouded by the dark folds of one of those curtains, and seated
within the narrow circle of light which came from the window,
Bppeared a quiet female figure : pale, thin, and motionless, she
bent over her work in subdued harmony with all around her.
108 NATHALIE.
She did not raise lior head, or tarn round on hearing Nathalie
but Uid down her work, carefully put it by, and rose so slowlj
that she had not yet left her place, when the young girl stood
by her side. This was Rose Montolieu, the sister of Nathalie.
It would have been diiEcult to find two beings more differ-
ent than the two sisters as they now stood together, in the dull
light of the narrow window, and exchanged a quiet greeting
Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a figure rounded, though grace-
ful and slender, with the soft bloom of health upon hercheekSj
and the clear light of youth in her eyes, Nathalie looked as gay
and sunny a vision as any to which her own native Provence
ever gave birtli. Not all the chill and gloom of the cold room
could mar that fresh and poetic beauty : the warmth and
brightness of the southern sun were around her still.
But the mournful austerity of the nortliern home in which
her lonely youth had been spent, had fallen early on Rose
Montolieu. She had worked and sewed as a child in the dull
light of that window, and in that dreary-looking room ; the
court below, the bubbling fountain, the ancient abbey, and the
half-ruined tower had daily met her view for years, and for
years the farthest wall of the cloister and an old church-yard
which it inclosed, but where none were buried now, had
bounded her narrow horizon. Unless on Sundays and holy
days, when she heard mass and vespers in the abbey church,
Rose seldom or ever went out. Traces of this sedentary life
were impressed on her whole appearance. She was not ugly,
nor was she handsome, for either would have been striking,
and she I ^oked pale and colorless like a flower reared in the
shade. Stie was tall, rather thin, and she stooped habitually ;
her figure would have been good but for its total want of grace ;
her features were regular, but sallow and deficient in character
or marked expression. The brow indeed told of intelligence,
and the mouth, closed and quiet, of reserve ; but the general
outlines were pale and dim. Flaxen-colored hair and light
blue eyes added to the sickliness of her appearance. This
eflFect was increased by the best point in her face, teeth ot
dazzling whiteness and purity, but which only added to the
wanness of her whole aspect, when her pale lips parted in a
faint smile of rare occurrence. She looked upwards of thirty,
though she was in reality a few years younger. Never waa
the name of Rose bestowed on one whose pallid look was more
likely to suggest a painful contrast to the bloom and beauty it
implies.
NATHALIE 100
She took Nathalie's extended hand, stooped to imprint a
kiss on her forehead, then sat down again and resumed her
work. Nathalie took off her bonnet and scarf, seated herself
bv her sister's side, and was the first to speak.
" Well, Rose, how are you V she asked, in her gay, cheer-
ful tones.
" Very well," slowly answered Eose, and the grave melan-
choly cadence of her low voice contrasted as strikingly with
that of her sister as did her personal appearance. She worked
va silence for a few minutes, then looked up and said, ' I saw
Mademoiselle Dantin yesterday."
"But you do not judge me from her account?" very
quickly returned Nathalie.
" No, I shall judge you from your own."
Rose laid down her work, and looked up as she spoke thus.
This was a trying moment for Nathalie. She respected her
sister more than she loved her, she knew so little of her.
and she felt so differently. She complied nevertheless with
the desire of Rose, and related to her all that had happened
before and since her departure from Mademoiselle Dantin's
school.
" I suppose it could not be helped," thoughtfully said her
sister when she had concluded. " How do you like your pre-,
sent position?"
" Very much indeed, Rose ; it is a pleasant change to live-
in that fine old chateau, with its quaint garden and pleasant
grounds ; to be mistress of my time, and not to be teased by
tiresome Mademoiselle Dantin."
Rose glanced at the limited horizon beyond her narrow
window, then at the room so dark and dreary, and finally at
her handsome sister.
" Yes," she said, in her low tone, ' that place must suit
your fancy well ; but how do you like your hosts ?"
" They are kind, though a little peculiar ; the Canoness is
simple ^d charming ; she calls me Petite, though I could
make two of her. Her niece, the grand lady, was proud and
patronizing at first, but has much improved since she under-
stands that I have no ambitious designs on the heir of the
Sainville race. There is also a certain impertinent and yet
artistic femme-de-chambrc in short, all is wonderfully differ-
3nt from the next-door house."
" And Monsieur de Sainville ?"
' I have seen little of him."
no NArHALIB.
" But what do you think of him ?"
" I do not think of him at all."
She spoke coldly. Rose eyed her with slow surprise.
' What do you think of his nephew ?" she resumed.
' That he is handsome, cool, and confident," replied Na
thalie, smiling.
" You think him handsome ?"
" Yes, indeed ! And you look wonderfully alarmed, Rose."
" Do you love him ?" asked Rose, almost quickly.
" Love him !" echoed Nathalie, much offended.
" I mean, do you think you will like him some day ?"
" Really I cannot tell."
" You make me feel anxious," said Rose, nervously laying
down her work ; " you are so heedless, and that young man
seems to me so unprincipled. Were his intentions ever honor-
able V
' He dared not have had any other ; he dared not, Rose,'
cried Nathalie, almost angrily ; her look kindled, and her
cheek flushed in a moment.
" You defend him."
' I defend myself. Rose !"
Rose fixed her mild, earnest glance on that gay, handsome
face, over which still lingered the flush of wounded pride.
' I will not advise you," she said, " for you do not follow
advice ; but I have seen that Charles Marceau. Handsome
as he is, I like him not. I like not his eye nor his look. Oh !
Nathalie, to the woman he loves, that man, so young in years,
so old in aspect, will bring nothing but sorrow, and to the wo-
man who loves him nothing but tenfold woe. Besides, that
family is so proud ! Oh ! sister, do not love him ; do not,
even were he an angel of light."
" And he is more like an angel of darkness. Come, Rose,
do not loak gi'ave. I am here, he is in Paris ; and as I happen
to be as proud as all the Marceaus and the Be Sainvilles, I
promise you that, even were he an angel of light, thi# danger
ous Charles Marceau shall be nought to me."
Rose looked more easy. There was a pause.
" Bo you like Monsieur de Sainville ?" she resumed, ab-
i5tractedly.
'' What matter. Rose, whether I do or not ? it will not
trDuble him much."
" Bo you like him ?"
Nathalie colored, hesitated. ' No," she at length resolutely
replied.
NATHALIE. 1 1 i
" And why not ?" gravely asked her sister.
" Because I do not like hira."
" But I want to know why."
" Well then because he is disagreeable and proud."
" Do you mean ill-tempered ?"
" No, he rules his temper, as he rules every thing, with tha
iron hand, in the velvet glove."
' Then what do you dislike him for?"
" Dislike is a strong word. I care not for him. He may
be harsh and proud ; it is nought to me."
" Harsh and proud ! this argues little with the noble story
of his youth."
" And pray," asked Nathalie, smiling somewhat ironically,
" what do you see so very noble in the character of one who
devotes the best part of existence to the ambitious task of win-
ning back a lost wealth and position, and who, whilst paying
his father's debts, does not lose the opportunity of making a
very handsome fortune ?"
" Have you lost your old admiration for the heroic, or is
this mere perversity ?" asked Rose, a little indignantly.
' Monsieur de Sainville is only too good to think about you."
" Which is not at all, Rose ; take my word for it."
" I see," quietly said Rose, " he has hurt your pride, or
rather your vanity. Foolish girl ! Do you know he took the
trouble to call on Mademoiselle Dantin and explain this matter
to her ? She told me herself, and confessed she had been much
too hasty. At the same time she said you were the most fiery
and vindictive littlQ thing she had ever met with."
" Which amiable character she no doubt gave to Monsieur
de Sainville," observed Nathalie, coloring and looking vexed.
" 1 am very much obliged to him for calling on my greatest
enemy, and fishing out my faults from her."
" Fishing out your faults," said Rose compassionately ;
' child, what interest can a man of his years and experience
take in the faults, or good points, of a girl of eighteen?"
" Very well," rpolied Nathalie, evidently nettled, " the girl
of eighteen cares little for cither his years or experience ; that
is one comfort."
" Early this morning," continued Rose, ' Desiree told mo a
gentleman wanted me below. I came down ; it was Monsieur
do Sainville, sitting where you are sitting now."
Nathalie remained mute. Her sister resumed :
' He came to me. as your only relative, to apologize and
112 NATHALIE
explain. I told him I feared your sojourn at the chateau
would excite some attention, upon which, though not without
much hesitation, he suggested that you should remain as his
aunt's companion. Still I objected, but when he asked if your
sudden disappearance from the town of Sainville would not
give rise to more disagreeable conjectures, I could not but
confess it : and you unfortunately know too well that I have
no home to offer you. You must stay there a few months at
least."
Nathalie looked very thoughtful.
' Kose," she said at length, " I retract ; he is kind to mo
at least. You called me perverse. Oh ! if you only knew
how I long sometimes to yield reverence and homage. But
enough of this : how is your aunt ?"
" Irrecoverably blind, and she knows it. She is coming
down."
Nathalie did not say how little she desired to meet Ma-
dame Lavigne. She rose, turned towards the window, and
leaning her brow against the glass pane, looked out. The
brightness of the blue noonday sky beyond, seemed to render
the court more dark and dull than usual, yet a streak of sun-
shine from behind the old abbey, gleamed through the thin
foliage of the pear-tree, whilst its light shadow waved to and
fro over the little fountain. Nathalie thought of the warm old
garden of Sainville, and the thought made both court and
fountain look more cold and chill than ever. She glanced at
her sister. Rose was bending once more over her task, silent
and motionless. " And this," thought Nathalie, " is her home,
her life ; and were she to live another century, I verily
believe she would b^ found in that same place ; the patient
slave of that old tyrant."
The door opened, and Madame Lavigne entered, sup-
ported by Desiree, who, near her mistress, looked gentle and
benignant.
It was not age, th'^ugh she was old, that gave so harsh and
repulsive a look to the aunt of Rose. The Ioav brow needed
not the furrows of years to be stern and forbidding; and
wrinkles could scarcely add to the sour expression of the
mouth, with its downward and contemptuous curve: notwith-
standing the dulness of the sightless eyes, the expression of
the whole face was acute and shrew'd ; but it was the shrewd-
ness of cunning, not of intellect. On seeing her enter, Rose
got up, drew a large arm-chair forward, and helped her to be
seated.
rC.ATHALIE 113
" Do cot handle me,'' snappishly cxchtimcd Madaiao Lj-
ngne ; "you know I cannot endure it."
Rose withdrew in silence.
" You might give mc the pillow whilst you were about it,"
said her aunt, in the same ill-tempered tone ; " but that is like
you officious and doing nothing."
Rose took a pillow from a chair, shook it, and placed it
behind her aunt, who only waved her impatiently away.
" Enough," she briefly said, "I hate fondling; I know what
it means. Desiree," she added in a soft civil tone, as the patient
Rose returned to her seat, and resumed her work, " is my chop
ready V
" Not yet," was the reply, more laconic than respectful.
" I shall be glad of it, when it is ready : not that I mean to
hurry you, but I shall be glad of it."
" Of course," returned Desiree, with a disdainful toss of the
head ; but she did not go, or seem in any hurry. She loitered
about the place, wiped away a few particles of dust from the
furniture with her apron, opened the window, closed it again,
and at length condescended to leave the room. Nathalie
turned round to resume her seat: in an instant the features of
the blind woman were alive with a strange expression of min-
gled anger and alarm :
" Who is that? You have got some one with you, Rose.
Who is that?"
Nathalie laughed gayly.
" Oh ! merry little Nathalie, who is always laughing, and
always makes one laugh," said Madame Lavigne, with an attempt
to smile graciously ; '' where is she?"
" Here," replied Nathalie, rising, and approaching her.
"Ay, here she is," continued the blind woman, stretching
out her hand towards the young girl ; " here she is, with that
cheerful voice, which does one good to hear. Oh ! dear child,
if you were my niece, you would amuse mc in my old age, with-
out interested motives. But there is one comfori," she added
after a pause, " I have only an annuity which dies with me ; let
those think the contrary who will."
Nathalie glanced at her sister, but if Rose had been as
devoid of hearing as her aunt was of sight, she could not have
vemained more unmoved.
" I suppose," thought Nathalie. " poor Rose la accustomed
to it."
"Well," said the blind woman, in a slightly impatient taii^j
114 NATHALIE
thougli it was conciliatory still, '-how will my merry little
Nathalie amuse her poor old friend to-day ? Will she sing ono
of the funny Provencal songs, or take off that cross Mademoi-
selle Dantin ? Oh ! I forget that she is at the chateau now,
companion, governess, what is it? Then I suppose it is that
odd Monsieur de Sainville she will take off; come, let us hear."
She assumed a listening attitude ; but Nathalie briefly
replied :
" Monsieur de Sainville is not at all odd ; and as he hap-
pens to be my best friend now, I shall not take him off."
She turned to move away, but the blind woman held her
fast.
" So he is your best friend," she said, with a peculiar smile.
" Ah ! Well, girls of eighteen might choose older men for
their best friends."
Nathalie colored, but did not deign to reply.
" And is that best friend of yours very kind V continued
Madame Lavigne.
" Very kind."
" True: best friends of thirty-five or forty that is his age,
is it not ? are always kind, especially "
" Madame Lavigne," interrupted Nathalie, ' you will please
not to talk so. I will not hear it."
The blind woman laughed a short, sour laugh.
" Little spitfire, that is how you used to go on with poor
Mademoiselle Dantin ; that is how you will go on with the best
friend ere long. Heaven help him, poor man ! Oh ! you need
not tap your foot so impatiently, I know I am teazing you ;
but, child, you are nothing unless you are teazed : I know,
when I could see, yoi^ never looked half so pretty as at those
times. Ah ! I dare say you are smiling now ; but you need
not, you foolish child; the beauty of southern women never
lasts : they are old at twenty-five. Now, if you were like
Rose," she added, after a pause, " pale, ugly "
" Rose is not ugly," angrily interrupted Nathalie ; ' she is
pale ; but if she had only exercise and fresh air, she would be
quite blooming. She has what an aunt of hers never had,
nice, gentle features. Of me you may say what you like ; but
I warn you I will not hear a word against Rose, who has
enough to endure from your tyranny."
She spoke hotly, and her eyes sparkled, half with anger,
half with tears. The ill-tempered spite of Madame Lavigne
against poor Rose, though familiar to her, always inspired her
NATHAl tE. 115
with the same indignant surprise ; for to a generous heart, in-
justice, however old, seems ever new.
The vehement reproaches of the young girl, uttered in a
rapid tone, which rendered her southern accent more apparent,
only drew a sarcastic smile from the blind woman.
" So, I am a tyrant," she said, as if rather flattered by
the imputation. "I am; I know it: from a child I would
have my way. Rose can leave me if she likes, and she re-
mains "
" Because she is too good," roundly interrupted Nathalie.
" Oh ! she is, is she? Well, talking of the best friend has
put you out of temper. Sing me one of the Basque songs,
whilst waiting for that chop, which I think Desiree will never
bring."
Pity for Madame Lavigne's infirmity, and the desire of
lessening the weary burden Rose had to bear, generally induced
Nathalie to endure with good-humored patience the covert
irony concealed under the blind woman's kindness ; but on this
day, instead of complying with the request of Madame La-
vigne, whose side she had left, she turned her flushed face to-
wards the window, and remained obstinately silent.
" So we are offended," said Madame Lavigue, after waiting
awhile ; " we do not like allusions to the best friend. Ah !
well "
The entrance of Desiree, bringing in the long expeotoT.
chop, checked what she was going to add. Rose took the tray
from the servant, placed it on a small table, cut the meat, ar-
ranged every thing, and. having brought the table near to her
aunt's chair, resumed her own seat in silence.
Madame Lavigne ate a few morsels, and frowned.
' It is not done enough," said she, crossly.
This remark having elicited no corresponding observation,
she added, in a sharper tone :
"Did you hear, Rose ? My chop is not done enough.'"'
"Will you have another, aunt?"
" Another, when meat is at the price it is ! Another chop !
Is the girl mad ?"
" Then what is to be done, aunt ?"
" Time to ask, indeed ! What is to be done? You might
Bay what should have been done ?"
Rose made no reply.
Madame Lavigne ate a few morsels more, then laid down
her plate indignantly.
116 iXATHALIi;.
"You have the worst heart in the world." she exclaimed,
with a sort of snarl ; " here I keep telling you that my chop iff
not done enough, which implies that I shall feel miserable foi
the whole day, and you never so much as say you are sorry for
it. Did I adopt and rear you up at my own expense for this,
you ungrateful thing? To punish you, I shall not touch a
morsel more ; I shall not eat another bit to-day. There, take
the plate away ; and ring the bell."
llose complied. The sour-faced Desireo made her ap*
peai'anco.
"Well," said she sharply, "what am I rung up for? I
warn you," she added, turning towards her mistress, " I am
not going to trot up and down at your pleasure. What do
you want ?"
"There, do not be cross," soothingly said Madame La-
vigne ; " but you see, Desiree, the chop was very good, very
good indeed, only not quite done."
"Not done enough?" indignantly echoed the servant
" You dare tell me I do not know how to cook a chop a mut-
ton chop ! Then depend upon it that is the last chop I shall
cook for you."
" My dear Desireo !"
" And we shall see how matters will go on when I am
away. How much more candle will bo burned in tiie week ;
how much more wood it will take to fill the cellar ; with oil for
the lamp, and money for every thing. Go your ways ; another
shall cook your chops soon ; ay, and help to eat them too."
" Desiree !" exclaimed Madame Lavigne, utterly distressed
at this lamentable picture of household ruin, " you must not
go. I cannot afford to let you go. You are the most honest
creature breathing ; I could trust you with every cupboard in
the house."
" Every cupboard !" ironically ejaculated Desiree, " as if
there was what would fatten a mouse in any of your cupboards."
" Give me the chop," submissively said Madame Lavigne ;
" I will eat it."
" Eat it ! Do not ; it would poison you. Ah ! well, my
chops will not trouble you long."
Madame Lavigne wrung her hands.
" Eose ! Nathalie, my dear child !" she exclaimed, " do some-
body give me that chop : I want it ; I have not had my dinner.
There," she added, with a sigh, as Rose complied, and she ate
hastily what was on the plate ; " there, I am sure you cannot
nora plain of me, Desiree."
:ATI1AL1L-. 117
But Deslree was not mollified. People iiiiulit eat lier chops,
or not eat them she did not care. Thank heaven, she was
independent, and need not be any one's servant. She might
sit with her arras folded all day long, if she liked ; ay, and
have a house of her own, too. In vain Madame Lavigne apo-
logized, coaxed, and entreated ; Dcsiree was not to be moved,
and after once more recapitulating her wrongs, and dwelling
with scornful emphasis on the fact of the chop not being done
enough, she left the room, with a sneer at the waste and ruin
to be perpetrated by the blind woman's future servant.
The lamentations of Madame Lavigne were loud and deep.
She hated that old Desiree, she did ; but she could not dc
without her.
' You see what your cruel want of sympathy has done, Rose,
she exclaimed, throwing, as usual, all the blame on her patient
niece. ' You are the cause of it all. That old Desiree is as
sour as vinegar, but I could trust her with untold gold. Go
down to her directly ; she has a stupid sort of liking for you :
and you may tell her, too, that I shall make her a present one
of these days."
Rose left her scat. Nathalie, who now stood ready to de-
part, followed her sister out of the room ; she folttoo indignant
to address Madame Lavigne with even common civility.
" Wait for me here," said Rose, pausing in the passage, and
entering the dark kitchen, where Desiree had retired to brood
over her wrongs.
Rose addressed the servant. Nathalie could not hear what
her sister said, for she spoke in a low tone, and stood turned
away from her ; but she heard Desiree's reply.
" Stay, Mamzelle Rose ! Not L She shall have another
servant soon, and one who will rob her, I hope."
Still Rose urged something, which did not reach Nathalie's
car.
'' A.nd why should I stay,'' sharply asked Desiree, " to please
that selfish old creature ?"
" She has had much to try her," said Rose, gently ; " her
husband beat and ill-used her."
" Served her right," muttered Desiree.
" The son whom she loved robbed and deserted her : and
now she is a blind, infirm, and aged woman."
" And is that a reason why she should torment every one
around her, and make a martyr of you? I am more than a
match for her ; but you so patient, so enduring ! It has often
118 NATlI.VLrE.
made my blood boi] to see how she used you ; aud, believe me^
I have avenged you many a time ; but that is over now."
" Then you will go," said Rose.
"Why should I stay? she hates me in her heart, and you
are so quiet, that you will not miss me much."
" And so," continued Rose, " the face that has been a fa-
miliar one for so many years, shall be replaced by that of a
stranger."
Desiree peered wistfully into her face.
"Will you miss me, then, when I am gone?" she asked,
" will you miss the cross old woman, who never had a kind
word for you, nor for any body else ?"
" I shall miss you. Desiree," was the low reply.
" Then you do care for me, after all ; quiet as you are, you
do care for me. Ah ! Mamzelle Rose, how can this be?"
" Because, God help me, I have had few or none to love,"
exclaimed Rose, in a tone of deep and involuntary sadness.
" Will you stay ?" she added, after a pause.
Desiree looked at her ; then turned away abruptly.
" I shall see," she said, in a rough tone, aud evidently
wishing to close the conversation.
Rose left her without pressing the subject further ; she un-
derstood Desiree, her temper, and her ways, and knew that the
point was won.
" Oh ! Rose, Rose," exclaimed Nathalie, as her sister stood
once more by her side, "is this to live?"
" It is the will of God," replied Ro.'je, in a low tone.
She said this very simply, without false humility or empty
denial of sacrifice, but like one to whom that holy will had be-
come thr daily sanctification of existence. And as she spoke,
a smile of singular sweetness broke over her pale features,
whilst something of the light which illumines the martyr's
glance passed in her eyes ; the lingering and dearly-bought tri-
umph of a spirit nature had made proud, and which will and
faith alone had rendered meek.
Nathalie said nothing, but taking her sister's thin hand, she
reverently raised it to her lips as they parted.
NATHALIE. 119
CHAPTER IX.
Nathalie truly loved her sister ; but, from witnessing such
scenes, she always entered Madame Lavigne's house with re-
gret, and loft it with relief. She now breathed more freely, as
the gloomy door closed behind her ; and when she reached the
old chateau, standing on the brow of the hill, in the clear sun-
light, with its airy turrets rising against the blue sky, when
she entered the broad avenue, with its stately elms, and passed
beneath the majestic portico, Nathalie forgot the doubts and
fears of Rose. " What matter about the future," she thought ;
" it is good to be here !"
She found the Canoncss sitting at the end of the lime-tree
avenue, and engaged in a very close conversation with Aman-
da. She looked pleased, though a little disconcerted, on see-
ing Nathalie. The diacreet fenwie-de-chambre quietly retired.
" Do you feel too tired for a walk over the grounds, this
iwely morning?" said Aunt Radegonde.
' I never feel tired," replied Nathalie, taking her arm, with
a smile.
But the Canoness was not ready yet ; there was an im-
mense shawl to be wrapped round her person, to fall down in
graceful folds, like a theatrical mantle, and sweep the alley
like a train, before she could think of moving a step.
" Amanda is a nice girl," said the Canoness, as they took a
narrow path, with a row of tall trees on one side, and a
smoothly-shaved lawn extending far away on the other, " but
she must be kept at a distance. Take an elderly woman's ad-
vice, child ; never make free with servants."
" I must do like you," said Nathalie, smiling demurely.
" Exactly," answered the Canoness, with a complacent nod.
" Entre nous, Petite, I do pique myself on the art of keeping
subordinates at a distance, without hauteur that would be
unkind but with that sense of dignity which is incumbent on
one who may be said to be the head of the family."
Nathalie glanced down at the insignificant little figure by
her side ; but Aunt Radegonde was quite in earnest, and feel-
ingly lamented the serious responsibility fate had thrown upon
her.
"We are quite alone to day," resumed the Canoness, with
one of her abrupt transitions. " Rosalie is gone to spend a
12C , NATHALIE
few daj-s with the De Jussacs. Armaud is gone also," she
added, after a pause.
" With Madame Marccau ?" quickly said Nathalie.
"No; to Marmont. To say the truth, Petite, he does not
care much ahout the De Jussacs ; but do not say I told you
so ; it is quite a secret. I feel rather tired ; shall we rest
awhile ?"
A bench stood near them, beneath a sycamore ; they sat
d own.
" Then we are quite alone to-day ?" carelessly said Nathalie.
" Quite. Armand does not come home to dinner."
" How often you are deprived of his company ; you must
feel it very much."
The Canoness coughed.
" Of course, of course," she slowly replied.
" And how harassing those frequent journeys must provo
to Monsieur de Sainviile."
" Not at all, Petite. Armand's property is at Marmont,
and he likes to superintend it himself; besides, he is rather
restless."
" Restless, Marraine ! and his manner is so quiet !"
" Quiet !" echoed the Canoness. shaking her head. " Ah,
well !"
She closed her eyes, and pursed up her lips. Nathalie said
nothing ; she was looking thoughtfully at the little lake lying
beneath the old cedar-tree, beyond the lawn before her.
" My dear," suddenly asked the Canoness, " did you say
that Armand was quiet?"
" I only spoke of my impression."
" Ah ! but it is very dangerous to have wrong impressions,
especially about the tempers of people with whom we live ; and
though I am singularly reserved Nature was in a reserved
mood when she fashioned me, Petite and never open my lips
on family matters, I think it proper to set you right in this
point. Armand is not at all quiet, my dear ; he is rather "
She hesitated.
" Irritable ?" suggested Nathalie.
" No ; for It is most difficult to vex him."
" Passionate, perhaps ?"
' He never gets into a passion ; but he is not quiet. Some
think him a little stern ; I do not at all, of course ; but being
hia aunt, it is not likely he would presume to show any thing
of the kind with me. But the other day, when you spoke to
NATHALIE. 121
him in the library, did you not think him rather severe.
Petite?'
And the little Canoness, inclining her head on one side,
looked wonderfully interested.
" Oh, no !" calmly answered Nathalie.
" Ah, well ! I dare say not ; indeed, my dear, if I ask, it is
solely for your benefit. Take it as a rule, that reserved people,
like me, are never inquisitive. Also, if I speak of Armand, it
is merely to enlighten you ; and though you are very reserved,
t can see that you understand me."
' I fear I am very dull, madame, for I assure you I did not
understand "
" I am a little deaf to-day," quickly interrupted the Cano-
ness, " but do not mind repeating. As I was saying, Armand's
cold manner signifies nothing ; he can be very kind, very
generous."
" Kindness and generosity are his characteristics, then,"
said Nathalie, almost involuntarily.
" Yes," hesitatingly replied the Canoness. " You see he
has a very strong sense of duty, iron will, and some pride, and
so But, apropos, this reminds me of what I said yester-
day, about not refusing any little civility Armand might offer
you. I had a motive for that, as I have for every thing I say.
I could see by his manner, he felt friendly towards you. I
learned this morning that my penetration had not deceived
me."
Nathalie looked up inquiringly.
" Yes, this morning, Armand sent me a very respectful
little note, requesting the favor of an interview. I granted it,
of course. He came to my boudoir and in that deferential
manner, with which he always addresses me, he asked my
opinion of you : ' Did I think you were happy here ? Was
not the place too dull for so young a girl almost a child V "
" A child !" exclaimed Nathalie, coloring ; " why, I am
eighteen."
" You only look sixteen ; so it comes to the same."
_ " But to look younger docs not take away actual years,"
quickly said Nathalie.
" Yes, it does," quite as quickly rejoined the Canoness.
* A friend a very particular friend of mine, looks full ten
years younger than her real age ; I contend that she is ten
years younger."
" But that friend of yours is not old."
6
122 :NV.TiiAL,iK.
" She is not very young. But, Petite, take my advice, da
not use the word old : it is not refined. ' An old woman !' can
any thing be more odious : always say, ' elderly,' ' an elderly
lady.' Well, as I was saying, Armand asked me ' if the place
was not too dull for so young a girl, almost a child, and one too
who seemed even more gay and thoughtless than most girls ol
her age.' "
" Thanks to Aunt Radegonde's reserve, I am likely to hear
a very flattering account of myself," thought Nathalie, with a
rising color and somewhat scornful look.
The Canoness continued. " I told him that I thought you
quite happy, but that it would be best to ask you ; that I had
no doubt you would answer truly. ' Quite n.y opinion,' he re-
plied ; ' I saw from the first she was a very artless little thing.'
Chere Petite, I was so pleased. Monsieur de Sainville likes
candor above all things, and detests equivocating people. But
though I had solved his doubts, he was not satisfied ; I could
see better than he could himself what he wished ; men do
not understand those things ; and so I suggested that you
should stay here as my companion : he agreed, provided you
consented. So, Petite, it rests with you now to say, yes or
no." She looked up at the young girl with evident anxiety.
Nathalie's eyes were bent upon the earth. She raised them
at last, and there was something in her look and in the smile
that now parted her lips, which Aunt Radegonde, with all her
penetration, could not fathom.
" You are good, truly good," said she, in a low tone.
" Then you consent ; I am so glad. Come, I feel quite
rested, and as you are never tired, we will go on. Petite, you
look pensive ?" she added, as they resumed their walk.
' Madame "
" How often must I tell you to call me, Marraine."
" Well, then, dear Marraine," said Nathalie, laying her
hand on the arm of the Canoness ;" allow me to ask if Madame
Marceau knows of this ?"
" Madame Marceau !" echoed the Canoness, drawing up
her little figure with an air of ofi'ended dignity ; " and what
has my niece to do with my affairs ! If instead of one com-
panion I chose to have two, ay, or twenty, Rosalie would not
presume to interfere."
Nathalie smiled, and made an apology which immediately
soothed the placable Canoness, who assured her that Madame
Marceau would be quite as much pleased as herself, or Mon
Biour da Sainville.
NATHALIE. 123
" Then Monsieur de Sainville is pleased V'
" Yes, Petite ; he said he did not think I should regret this
plan. ' I am sure I shall not,' I replied ; ' she is a good child ;
I saw it instantly, and my first glance never deceives me.'
' Yes.' said he, ' she has a pleasant face ; and though the old
schoolmistress wished me to believe her of a most violent and
fiery temper, I think for my part she is only a little petu-
lant.' "
" Only a little petulant !" echoed Nathalie, stopping short
in the path with indignant amazement.
' Yes. So you see he has quite a favorable opinion of you :
otherwise you may believe I should never have repeated all
this."
' Indeed, I am much obliged to Monsieur de Sainville," re-
plied Nathalie, speaking very fast. " A child, more gay and
thoughtless than most girls of her age, an artless little thing
with a pleasant face, and only a little petulant ! How flatter-
ing !"
" Yes, Petite, he would not speak so of every one ; for he
is rather bard to please."
' Indeed !"
" Yes, there is beautiful Mademoiselle de Jussac, whom he
scarcely allows to be pretty. When Rosalie talks of her wit
and talent, he says he cannot discover that she has much of
either ; he confesses, howeveg tone, ' that I do not think you can be angry
very long."
" Oh ! Petite," replied the placable Canoness, making Na-
thalie sit down on the cushion at her feet, and eyeing her wist-
fully, as she laid her hand on her shoulder ; " how is it that
when I see a young girl like you, thoughtless, handsome, and
happy, my heart yearns towards her at once ? And if you had
not laughed, I would have given you some good advice."
" To which I shall listen very attentively now," soothingly
Baid Nathalie.
" You will not be the first that has done so." replied the Ca-
noness, with a touch of consequence ; " nor yet the first gay
child that has sat thus at ni}' feet, and looked into my face,"
she added, in a sad and lower tone. Her lips trembled, and
again her eyes grew dim.
" And the advice?" quickly said Nathalie.
Aunt Radegonde was once more consequential and erect.
" It shall be on that point most important, most fatal to wo-
man marriage ! But, perhaps, Petite, you may yet deter'
tnine to lead a life of celibacy, like me ?"
" Is it not good to be prepared for every emergency ?" de-
murely asked Nathalie.
" True, Petite ; well, then, to be methodical, we will divide
that advice under three heads, the man you wish to have, the
man who wishes to have you, and the man you ought to have."
A mischievous smile played on Nathalie's features.
' Could we not blend those three characters into one ?" she
asked, very gravely.
" Impossible !" cried the Canoness, looking shocked at thia
heterodox suggestion ; " why they are three wholly different
individuals. The man you wish to have sees it they s,l-vays
see it, and he becomes a tyrant : they always are tyrants in
such cases. The man who wishes to have you is exacting, jea-
lous, and will fret your life away. But the man you ought to
have has esteem and affection for you, just as you have esteem
NATHALIE.
131
and affection for him. You have esactly the SLme tastes, the
same feelings ; you always agree, you never quarrel nature
made you for one another.''
" Marraine," very quickly said Nathalie, ' I will never have
him ; he is good, honest, an excellent cousin, brother, or uncle,
all whose offices nature has evidently destined him to fulfil, but
I will never have him."
"Who, then, will you have?" asked the Canoness,very gravely.
' Why, if I must choose, one of the other two."
But which of the two ?"
'' The one who likes me," replied Nathalie, after a brief
pause given to reflection ; " I shall rather fancy receiving
incense^'and adoration, being a sort of household divinity."
" Well," said Aunt Radegonde, with a sigh, " I am glad
you did not at least choose the other one, for Jte is the worst of
the three."
"But why is he the worst?" asked Nathalie, amused at the
gravity with which she spoke of those imaginary characters.
" Because you like him, and he knows it. Petite, you do
not know that man : he is proud, exacting, and would find fault
with an nngel of light. Give a woman the beauty of a god-
dess, the wisdom of a sage, the temper of a saint, he will find
fault with her still. If she is plain, she ought to be handsome ;
if she is handsome, beauty is but dross ; if she is spirited, he
calls her shrew ; if gentle, tame ; if she is prudent, he finds
her cold-hearted ; and giddy if she is a little gay."
"Why, what a morose, disagreeable man!" exclaimed
Nathalie, very indignantly ; " and yet, proud as he is," she
added, after a pause, " he too could be made to stoop."
"You do not know him," said the Canoness, shaking her
head : " you do not know him ; how proud, how jealous, how
exacting the love he receives has made him. Let us take an
imaginary case, quite imaginary, you understand."
" Yes, imaginary ; but about him."
" About him and a young girl any young girl."
" Yes, any young girl. Shall she be beautiful ?"
Very beautiful."
' As beautiful I mean as good-looking as your Aunt Ado-
(aide."
" More, Petite, more she shall be the fairest creature eye
ever saw, as gentle and winning as she is lovely."
" What ! is she all this, and does he not love her ?" impa-
tiently exclaimed Nathalie.
132 NATHALIE.
" He does, Petite. Not love Lor ! it would not be in human
nature. Stern, forbidding as he is, he shall never speak to her
in the same voice in which he speaks to others ; he shall never
look at her with the same look . but some are as inexorable in
their love as others in their hatred, and lie^ Petite, is one of
them."
She spoke in a low impressive tone, but Nathalie looked
up at her smilingly.
" If she loves him, and he loves her," she said softly, " where
can the mischief be?"
" Oh ! Petite," sorrowfully replied Aunt Radegonde, " you
are a child, and, child-like, you think that to be young, pretty,
and loving is enough."
" And why is it not enough ?" earnestly asked Nathalie.
" Because much love has made him exacting ; he will bo
over her as an inexorable judge that forgives nothing. '
" But where there is aifection, it is so easy to forgive."
" Not for him not for him."
" Then he is vindictive."
" No ; for he does not avenge the wrong ; but neither doea
he forget it."
" But what does she do to vex him ? She must do some-
thing; what is it?"
" We will suppose any thing," said the Canoness, after a
pause ; " for you do not forget this is quite imaginary."
" Oh ! yes, quite imaginary."
" Well, then, we will suppose that he is called away ; she
remains at home, sorrowful and pining."
I see, I see," interrupted Nathalie, in her impatient way
" he is faithless ; whilst she oh ! she would wait for him for
ever. He is a very bad man. I do not like him at all," sho
added, with great warmth.
The Canoness looked a little disconcerted.
" No, Petite ; it is not exactly so. You see, she loves hira ;
but she is so gentle, so good, that she will sacrifice herself; in
Bhort, it is an old story ; they make her promise to marry
another."
" Then she does not love him !" exclaimed Nathalie.
" Yes, she does ; but she is yielding gentleness itself.
Well, he returns in time to save her ; for he can save her : and
though the man they would give her to is young, handsome, rich;
and enamored, she would far sooner have her old love. Well^
what do you think he does ?"
NATHALIE. 333
''He leaves her to the fate she has chosen," iudignantly
exclaimed Nathalie ; " and he does well."
A flush rose to the brow of the Canoness ; the hand, which
Btill rested on the shoulders of the young girl was hastily with-
drawn.
"You justify him," said she, eyeing her almost sternly;
"you condemn her to misery !" ,
" Misery ! No. She, who was weak to love, shall be weak
to suffer ; she shall marry, be unhappy for a while, and then be
comforted, and forget."
"Oh! you arrange it thus, do you?" replied Aunt Piadc-
gonde, with a sad and somewhat bitter smile ; " but why should
it surprise me? I have always noticed it: the young are
severe, and very hard. Well, then, since you understand all
this so well, tell me what becomes of him."
" He suffers, but does not complain.'
" Suffer ! How can he suffer? Did he not reject her wil-
lingly ?"
" He rejected her, because it was not the woman he want-
ed, but the love of the woman. How could he care for it,
once faith was gone, and her truth was broken ? Do not think
he feels nothing," she added, warming with her subject. " Oh f
he still loves, but with the brooding, vengeful love of the
wronged heart. He bitterly regrets the past, but he repents
nothing ; he would still cast her from him, though his own
heart should break, or, worse, bleed for ever."
She spoke so earnestly, that her eyes grew dim, and her
lips trembled. There was a pause.
" Petite," said the Canoness, in her usual tone, and once
more laying her hand on the young girl's shoulder, whilst she
eyed her thoughtfully, " you grieved me so much awhile ago,
that I thought I should never forgiv-e you, never love yon
again. But now I see you spoke from ignorance ; how should
you know the truth ? You have not lived the years I have
lived, nor seen the sad things I have seen. You give to her
the heartlessness of man, to him the enduring, even though
resentful love of woman. His heart break ! Any man's heart
break ! You simple child, know that it is she who dies of grief,
and he why he lives on. But, oh ! Petite, you may have
your own sorrows, your own trials yet ; do not be so severe."
" But all this is imaginary, is it not?" asked Nathalie, hes-
itatingly.
"Why, you did not think it was real, did you?" quickly
Asked the Canoness.
184 N'ATHALIE
How could I ?"
" No ; of course you could not."
" Well, then, since it is imaginary," said Nathalie, ' what
does it prove ? -He," she smiled as she emphasized the word,
' he is the corner-stone of your edifice ; remove him, the rest
falls to the earth. Now, as he is unreal "
" Petite," interrupted the Canoness, " he is not unreal."
" He is not !'"
" No. Do you remember I once spoke to you of a certain
person ?"
" Whom you called ' that person,' " quickly rejoined Na-
thalie.
' He and that person are much alike ; and the woman for
whom that person will break his heart is not born, and will
never exist."
' You think so," thoughtfully said Nathalie.
" I know it. Nay, more ; I always had the presentiment
no woman could or would love him ; that she would have more
fear than love in her heart. I am not superstitious. Petite,
though I might be so, having had some extraordinary dreams
and presentiments, which ttevcr deceived me ; but in that pre-
sentiment I always believed ; ay, though he was neither fool
nor coward, nor any of those things women hate by instinct, I
always felt he could not win love."
"But why so?"
" Because he was too proud, too unbending, to yield us the
homage nature has made ours by right," replied the Canoness,
drawing up her little figure in all the majesty of feminine
dignity.
Nath ilie's lip curled with a haughty smile.
" Wl at ! is he so proud as that ?" she said, disdainfully.
" I should like to see him humbled ay, thoroughly."
" But you never will, Petite," quickly rejoined the Canoness.
"Why not?" promptly asked Nathalie.
" In the first place, because he will not allow himself to be
humbled ; in the second, because he is no visitor here. You
must not think. Petite," she added, smiling shrewdly at the
momentary disappointment expressed by Nathalie's features.
" that I should be so indiscreet as to describe, in such peculiar
terms, too, a person you could recognize. No ; I am very
reserved ; and take my word for it, you will never recognize
that person' in any of our guests."
Nathalie looked up, and smiled a peculiar smile.
NATHALIE. 13S
" I shall not try," she replied, quietly.
" No, do not ; but profit by my example, and make reserve
your rule of conduct. And, Petite," she earnestly added,
will you not meditate on that other advice I gave on that point
most important, most fatal to woman, marriage ? llemember !
divided under three heads : the man you wish to have (but as
I have shown, the very last you ought to have) ; the man who
wishes to have you ; and the man, mark. Petite, the man
you ought to have."
"But whom I will not have at all," quickly rejoined Na-
thalie. " No, indeed, I cannot," she added, very gravely, and
noticing the Canoness's look of chagrin, " I give you my word
I cannot. He is a good, honest sort of man, a great deal too
good for me ; I know I ought to like him, 7nais c'cst jylus fort
que moi^'' she added, with a very decisive wave of the hand.
The Canoness remonstrated, a little peevishly; "he was,"
she declared, " the only good one of the three." But Nathalie
was rebellious, and would not hear of him.
The contest lasted long, and was not yet over when they
were called to their early and quiet dinner. The subject being
then dropped, was not resumed subsequently.
CHxiPTER X.
Evening was come ; the Canoness had fallen asleep in her
chair by the fire-side, whilst Nathalie loitered about the room,
inspecting and admiring the various treasures of petrified birds'
nests, miniature boxes, fairy-looking baskets, and specimens of
rare old china gathered in the little boudoir. After sleeping
for about an hour, Aunt Radegonde awoke ; to her dismay the
fire had burned out ; the room looked lonely.
" Petite, where are you ?" she exclaimed, in a tone of
chagrin.
The rose-colored curtains opened, and Nathalie stood
Bmiling before her.
" I came here when you fell asleep," she replied.
' When I fell asleep !" exclaimed the Canoness, in a nettled
tone. " I was not sleeping. Petite ; but I do often fall into a
Qieditativc mood after dinner, and I was particularly medi-
136 xVATIIA Z.IE.
tative this evening. What were you doing near that cool
window !" she added, as Nathalie resumed her seat.
" I was watching the wind."
" Watching the wind, Petite ? How strangely you talk i
The wind is invisible."
"Not so invisible but that, like most mysterious people, ho
betrays himself by his deeds ; therefore have I been watching
him whistling round the corner of this turret."
" And what did the wind say 1"
" Wonderful things, no doubt, but Avhich, not being a fairy,
like you, I could not understand ; but I can tell you what he
did: he tossed the chimneys about, knocked down a flowerpot
or two from an upper story ; pleaded in a soft, pitiful voice to
get in at this window, and not being admitted, moaned away
along the avenue, and spitefully smashed one of the branches
of those great trees."
'' Ah ! mon Dieii !" uneasily said the Canoness ; "what a
boiisterous night ! I dislike the wind ; it sounds so very
dreary."
" But it is nothing at all here," observed Nathalie, smiling.
" 1 recollect an old chateau in Provence, something like this,
but standing by the sea-side, and uninhabited, save by an old
housekeeper, who let me roam about at will, for I was a child
then, and something of a favorite with her. There was a long
pjallery a picture gallery once, but then almost bare, and very
areary where the wind seemed to hold his peculiar revels, and
never since have I heard any thing so unearthly. I know not
how it was, but the sound always seemed to come from behind
me. I would walk very slowly along, listening, for sometinles
his windship picked his steps as daintily as any lady, then he
suddenly quickened his pace and I quickened mine as well ; it
seemed a race between us : we reached the door together ; I
darted out without even once looking behind me, and flew down
stairs breathless between pleasure and fear."
" Then you were afraid ?"
" Mortally afraid ; and there was the charm. That gallery
was to me as a ghost story whispered by the fire-side, or a Rad-
cliff romance read with a solitary candle in a lonely bedroom.
The old garden, full of poplars, was nearly as pleasant : it waa
delightful to stand in their deep shadow, listening to the rust-
ling above, and when the breeze became more keen, and swept
down the avenue, to feel it blowing my hair back, and scarcely
allowing me to catch my "breath. Oh ! our Provence is a
NATHALIE. 1.37
p!cr.3ant place ; and how often in 3IademoiselIe Dantiu's dull
Bchool-room have I longed to be away, to stand in that solitary
avenue thick with fallen leaves, for just one short quarter of an
hour, to listen to the wind and the poplars again.
' Petite," said the Canoness, bending forward. " you must
not talk so ; you are getting excited."
" It is the wind," gayly replied Nathalie.
Ah !" thoughtfully observed Aunt Kadegonde, " you are
like my kitten, Minette, who, poor little thing, always gets
frisky in windy weather."
" Am I frisky to-night V asked Nathalie, with flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes.
" Very much so ; and to keep you in proper order, I shall
give you this knitting to finish."
Nathalie took the knitting, which seemed to produce the
desired eflFect of subduing her spirits, for she fell ere long into
a deep reverie, and the quiet prosing of Aunt Kadegonde
reached her ear, but went no farther. About an hour had thus
elapsed when a servant came up with a message from Monsieur
de Sainville, desiring to know whether his aunt would allow
him to wait upon her. Nathalie, absorbed in her knitting,
never stirred or looked up ; the Canoness seemed slightly
flurried.
" Certainly," she quickly answered ; " we shall be very
happy to see Monsieur de Sainville. " You see, Petite,'' she
added, addressing Nathalie, when the servant had retired ;
" how deferential Armand is ; I assure you he would not think
of entering this room without my express permission."
Ere long a step was heard upon the stairs, the door opened,
and Monsieur de Sainville entered. The table had to be re-
moved for him to take a seat between his aunt and Nathalie ;
in spite of all Rose had told, the young girl remained cold
and distant. But this was a fact which did not seem to pro-
duce a very painful impression upon her host ; his discourse in-
deed was almost exclusively directed to his aunt; the subject,
to Nathalie's great disdain, was the result of the crops and
the state of the country ; from this there was a transition tc
the more poetical theme of gardening.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," said Monsieur de Sainville,
suddenly addressing Nathalie, ' I caused some flowers to be
put in the centre of the gras.sy plot, as you suggested ; but
they look very gay near the dark yews ; they are evidently
unsympathetic natures ; have you seen them ? What do you
think of them?"
138 ^rATHALIE.
" I have seen them, sir, and do not like them at all," an-
swered Nathalie.
' Do you think they ought to be removed ?"
" Nay, sir ; I think they will do to stay, and read a good
lesson on the danger of taking and following the advice of the
ignorant."
She spoke as demurely as a nun ; never once looking
towards Monsieur de Sainville to see how he would take this ;
but as she sat opposite Aunt Radcgonde, she could meet her
astonished look. There was a pause. The Canoness seemed
uncomfortable.
' How very high the wind is," she observed at length, by
way of opening the conversation ; ' do you like to Ldten to the
wind, Armand ?"
" The wind. Aunt," he musingly replied. ' Why yes, I be-
lieve I had some such fancy when I was a boy."
" Ah ! well, Petite likes it very much ; she stood listening
to it for a whole hour this evening."
"You liks it?" inquiringly said Monsieur de Sainville,
turning towards Nathalie.
" When I have nothing better to do, I like it well enough,"
she carelessly answered.
" She doats on it," continued the Canoness, without noticing
Nathalie's look of vexation ; for there was something peculiarly
disagreeable to her in being thus made the subject of a conver-
sation addressed to Monsieur de Sainville. " Yes, she does
indeed," resumed Aunt Radegonde, too well pleased with so
easy a topic of discourse to abandon it in haste. " There was
an old chateau by the sea, somewhere in Provence, with a lone-
ly gallery and an ancient garden, where she used to go, and
listen to the wind for hours."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu is romantic," said Monsieur de
Sainville, with his peculiar smile.
" Romantic ! indeed she is. You should have heard her in
the hot-house to-day. She transformed all the flowers into
ladies. gave them names, and described their characters."
" Decidedly romantic," continued her nephew. ' Fortu-
nately," he added, noticing, perhaps, Nathalie's look of in-
creased annoyance, " she has not reached the age when romance
becomes forbidden."
" Oh !" quickly said Nathalie, " I do not wish to avail my-
Kelf of that plea. I ought to know better, of coui'se, since I
atn eighteen," she added, a little hesitatingly, and yet unable
NATHALIE. 139
to resist tlic temptation of letting Monsieur de Sainville becomo
aware of this important fact. She spoke, moreover, in a tone
of quiet dignity destined to inspire him with what, notwith-
standing all his politeness, she greatly doubted that he felt for
her a proper degree of respect.
" Indeed !" said he, very gi-avely, " Eighteen ! Oh ! of
course, that alters the matter completely. Eighteen ! Why,
at that age of mature reason and varied experience, the ro-
mance of life is quite over."
Nathalie colored deeply, but kept her eyes fixed on her
work ; to all appearance it occupied her completely.
" My dear child !" exclaimed the Canoness, in a tone of
dismay, "what can )'0u be thinking of? You are letting down
your stitches as fast as you can."
" Oh, no !" quickly answered Nathalie, ' it is all right."
" All right ! Why, Petite, I saw you dropping the stitches.
Show it to me. There, do you see," she added, as Nathalie
reluctantly surrendered her work. " Ah ! mon Dieu !" she
continued, with evident consternation, " it is all wrong. Pe-
tite ! Petite ! where can your thoughts have been wandering
for the last half-hour V
" Nowhere, indeed," said Nathalie, very quickly ; ' but the
mistake will soon be mended," she added : and taking the work
from the hand of the Canoness. she drew the needles out, and
deliberately unravelled it.
Aunt Rade^onde eyed her with surprise.
The young girl's clear brow was now slightly overcast ; her
cheeks were flushed, her lips compressed ; she looked a not un-
attractive picture of vexation, as she stood on the hearth, hi3r
face half-averted, her hands so zealously engaged in uni*aveling
her previous task, that they threatened not to leave any token
of her mistake.
" Take care. Petite, take care !" soothingly said the Canon-
ess ; " do not go so fast, nor allow yourself to be so easily put
out ; j-ou will, I fear, meet with greater misfortunes in life
than a piece of knitting going wrong. Why, what a strange
girl she is," she added, as Nathalie's half-averted features lit
up with an arch smile ; " there she is laughing ; awhile ago
she looked ready to cry. It must be the wind makes her so
changeable ; she confessed to me it made her as frisky as my
kitten, Minette." This was uttered confidentially, and address-
ed to Monsieur de Sainville.
Nathalie colored to the very temples, and looked far mora
vexed than before.
I'ln NATHALIE.
" Madame," she quickly cried, ' You said tliat "
' I did not."
" But wlaat a very peculiar fact," observed Monsieur da
Sainyille, turning towards Nathalie ; " does the wind indeed af-
fect you in that strange manner, mademoiselle V
Nathalie, who had resumed her scat, laid down her work
on her lap, and looking at the speaker, said, with great gra
vity :
" In what strange manner, sir ?"
' Does it affect your spirits, or I speak, alas, from a prac-
tical knowledge of Minette's disposition your temper ? Pray
excuse the question, but this is an interesting physiological
fact."
Was this meant m earnest, or was it mere trifling ? Nathalie
did not know ; she at all events drew herself up with an air of
offended dignity, but it would not do ; laughter glanced in her
dark eyes, and an irrepressible smile played around the cor-
ners of her mouth compressed in vain.
"No," she demurely replied; " the wind might have affect-
ed me so when I was a child, but of course it cannot do so
now."
" Ah ! of course," said Monsieur de Sainville, smiling ;
'' both feelings and temper have become so calm, so sedate at
the mature age of eighteen."
" My dear child !" exclaimed the Cauoness, in a nervous
tone, " do put by that knitting, or we shall l^ave some new
mishap."
The knitting was dropped as if it burned Nathalie's fin-
gers ; but scarcely was restored to Aunt Radegonde's safe-
keeping when the young girl exclaimed :
" What shall I do ? I cannot endure to sit thus, doing no-
thing."
" You are industrious," said Monsieur de Sainville.
" Industrious ! not at all," exclaimed Nathalie, with a look
and tone implying a perfect disdain for the compliment ; "_ I
cannot endure idleness, simply because it fills me with e?inuV
" You are right, for all that," persisted Monsieur de Sain-
ville, whom Nathalie began to suspect of a desire to teazo her,
a suspicion not wholly displeasing to her childish vanity ;
" depend upon it, enmii was the serpent who tempted Eve,
3ven in Eden."
" Oh ! Eve and the serpent," exclaimed the Canoness, catch-
ing only the last words ; " ah ! what a pity Eve was not mor
reserved."
rCATHALin. 141
" You would have been so," observed her nephew, smiling.
" I cannot tell," cautiously replied Aunt Radegonde ; ' it
is imprudent to boast ; yet I do think I should have been more
reserved. Do you not think you would, Petite?"
Nathalie shook her head dubiously.
" Oh, yes, you would," persisted Aunt Radegonde ; ' do;you
not think she would, Armand?"
' Of course," carelessly replied Monsieur de Sainvillc, who
had taken up the Revue, and was slowly turning over its pages.
" You have too good an opinion of me, madame," said Na-
thalie, addressing the Canoness somewhat coldly ; - I should
have acted exactly as poor Eve."
" Petite, you cannot tell."
' Yes, I can, for I have done it," was the reply, more prompt
than discreet, and perchance Nathalie felt so herself, for she
looked somewhat confused as the incautious admission escaped
her lips.
" Oh !" said the Canoness, very much astonished.
Monsieur de Sainville laid down the book, and turning
slowly on his chair, eyed Nathalie with his calm, penetrating-
gaze.
" You have tasted the forbidden fruit ?" he said at length.
Nathalie hesitated slightly, but she answered " Yes."
" And pray I ask to be instructed what sort of taste
had it?"
" The taste of experience, I suppose bitterness."
" And how did you feel after it ?"
" Hot and feverish."
" Petite !" interposed the Canoness, who seemed vexed at
the freedom of Nathalie's self-accusations ; " how can you com-
pare a childish disobedience, for the purpose of securing some
forbidden delicacy, with the great disobedience of Eve? It
was forbidden knowledge she coveted, you know."
But Nathalie would not avail herself of this excuse, per-
haps because she disdained to do so ; perhaps, because the
slight smile which curled Monsieur de Sainville's lip told her
it would be unavailing.
' And so did I," she answered quickly ; " for good fruit I
had in plenty, and therefore did not value ; but knowledge,
knowledge of good and evil, forbidden knowledge, was rare
and tempting."
" Well," said Monsieur de Sainville, ' you are at least frank
about it; and really," he added, after a pause, "you speak as
if the taste of the apple were still on your lips."
142 . NATHALIE.
" She speaks very heedlessly," stiffly said the aunt.
" Pray," continued Monsieur de Sainville, without heeding
her, " what sort of a shape did the serpent take ?"
Nathalie met his keen look very quietly.
" There was no serpent," she answered, smiling, as sho
thought he looked slightly baffled.
" Oh ! an act of your own free will," he observed, some-
what dryly ; " much better still."
" No serpent ! Then after all, it was not like Eve," put in
the Canoness.
Nathalie did not reply.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," said Monsieur de Sainville,
" you are really cruel. After exciting my aunt's curiosity,
you stop short."
" My curiosity, Armand ; my curiosity. Monsieur de Sain-
ville !" exclaimed the Canoness, laying down her knitting with
evident indignation; "well, if I pride myself on any thing, it
is on not being at all inquisitive."
" I hope you are not in this instance, madame," said
Nathalie, very gravely, " for the whole story is so childish,
that I assure you it will not bear telling."
" Well, but what is it, Petite ?" suddenly asked the Can-
oness, wholly forgetting that she was not inquisitive ; ' was it
a fruit you tasted?"
' Yes, a fruit."
"And what fruit?"
" The solanum."
"Why it is a poisonous berry: did you know that?"
" Yes, I knew it."
" And yet you ate it," said the Canoness with evident
surprise.
" Aunt," interposed her nephew looking up from the Revue,
which he had taken up once more, " do you not see, mademoi-
selle ate that berry because it was poisonous, which certainly
constitutes a great point of resemblance with Eve ?"
Nathalie said nothing. The Canoness resumed.
" What could your motive be, Petite ?"
" Mere childishness ; a whim a fancy."
" A fancy for poisonous berries ?" continued Aunt Rade-
gonde ; ' how very strange !"
" Oh !" hesitatingly replied Nathalie, who now seemed
thoroughly annoyed with the subject, " it was not exactly
because they were poisonous ; but an old sailor who had
XATnALii:. 143
travelled in the east, once described to mo a fruit wluch gre^^
there and which he said procured a most delightful trance. I
foolishly concluded it to be the solanum, which grew in our
garden, a treacherous, luscious-looking fruit ; so the next day
I went "
' And plucked it directly," said Monsieur de Sainvillc.
" Oh ! no," coldly replied Nathalie ; " I took time to con-
cider. I knew the fruit was poisonous ; but then by not
eating too much, I should be safe ; in short," she added with
a penitential sigh, " I did it."
And what was the result ?" asked Monsieur de Sainville.
" A week's thirst, dizziness and fever," answered Nathalie.
with a half-rueful, half-comic look ; ' if I had only enjoyed my
expected treat, I should not have cared much ; but it was all
suffering no pleasure."
"But I hope you felt duly sorry," said the Canoness, very
gravely.
" No ; I was only disappointed."
" But, surely, Petite, you know it was very wrong."
"Wrong! why so? If I had not eaten the berries, then
I should be longing for them to this day ; whereas now all the
berries in this world would not tempt me."
'A shrewd reasoning," remarked Monsieur de Sainville,
" and one which, applied to graver matters, could not fail from
introducing some new principle in ethics."
" Well, Petite," observed the Canoness, admonishingly,
" you must not do so any more ; do you hear ?"
" Aunt," interrupted her nephew, with his peculiar smile,
' you remonstrate iu vain ; Mademoiselle MontoHeu has only
had a taste of the apple, she will return to it 3'et."
Nathalie colored very deeply, but it was not in her natui-e
to be dismayed. She soon rallied, and replied, looking up :
" Not to that apple, at least."
" Oh ! then you do contemplate tasting some other.''
" Perhaps so, I cannot tell." Nathalie spoke with apparent
carelessness, but iu spite of her usual daring, she felt annoyed
and disturbed.
" Mademoiselle," continued her pitiless host, " 3'ou have
forgotten the most interesting part of your story. How old
were you when you ate the berries?"
Nathalie stooped to see if the fire, which was out, wanted
arranging, and made no reply. Her face was crimson when
ehe looked up again ; as sho did so she met the look of Mon
144 NATIIALIIi:.
sleur de Sainville fastened on her v/itli an expression Ibat im
plied he still waited for her reply.
" It was some years ago," she said at length.
" I am sure she was a mere child," officiously observed the
Ganoness.
Monsieur de Sainville smiled.
" I suspect," he remarked, quietly, " that a mere child
would not have thought of any such thing. Mademoiselle
Montolieu had more probably reached the age for making ex-
periments ; thirteen or fourteen, I should say. Ah ! I know
it," he added, as Nathalie gave a slight start.
" Yes, it was about then," she rejoined, carelessly ; but in
different as she strove to appeal', she now devoutly wished in
her heart that Eve's apple and Nathalie Montolieu's berries
had never been mentioned that evening.
Nathalie labored under an infirmity not uncommon to girls
of buoyant spii-its and little discretion or experience ; she did
not know that there are a thousand innocent things that a
woman, especially when young, is expected not to say, under
pain of being thought vain, presuming, and even immodest.
But that mixture of ease, self-possession, and propriety of
bearing which the world requires of youth, is not natural to
it ; it is not even pleasing, because it is premature ; the charm
of the woman sits ill on the inexperienced girl : she has her
own grace, which varies according to temperament, for, after
all, it is only a question of temperament, and she who, in
very lightness of heart, gives utterance to every passing
thought, is not less pure in her daring than she who, in her
shyness, shrinks and blushes before every look. Nathalie was
certainly not more vain than most handsome girls of her age ;
she was not less innocent in her southern vivacity of manner
and freedom of speech than the calm and reserved maidens
of Normandy. At the same time, she might have subdued
both, without any detriment to herself, and she probably
would have done so, but for the harsh censure of Mademoiselle
Dantin. The schoolmistress wished her to talk and laugh less,
and broadly hinted at the impropriety of running up and down
stairs with so much of the unnecessary liveliness displayed by
Nathalie, who could scarcely go quietly across a room, or even
move about, without seeming happier for the exertion. These
ill-tempered remonstrances, joined to taunts of her southern
origin, to which Mademoiselle Dantin charitably attributed
her various failings, only irritated Nathalie, and strengthened
NATHALIE. 145
iier firm resolve not to be improved : proviucial patriotism, and
the spirit of opposition both commanded resistance, and both
were duly obeyed. But this rebellious spirit did not prevent
Nathalie from having a certain fear of opinion that tyrant
of youth. Mademoiselle Dantin she did not mind : she knew
her to be unjust, but she shrank from being thouglit bold or
unfeminine by others ; and it was the dread of thi^ that made
her feel somewhat anxious on this particular evening.
" What had she said?" was her internal soliloquy. " Was
there much harm in it? Why in a sort of pique and vilfiil
daring had she allowed herself to be led from oiie confession
to another, until she had uttered so much Monsieur de Saiu-
ville had no business to hear? What was it to him, the berries
she ate, the experiments she made, and the conclusions she
drew? He, too, drew his own conclusions, evidently ; all tins
mad talk would give him a delightful opinion of her : she bit
her lip and wished it had been her tongue. He looked rather
grave ; she was sure it was about her he was thinking her a
very forward impertinent girl, and regretting that she had
ever become his guest. Well, as to that, he need not trouble
himself she would go soon enough ; for as to staying where
she could not speak her mind freely, it was not to'be thought
of"
This haughty decision closed the reflections of Nathalie,
who, like most proud and haughty persons, always kept by her
a convenient stock of little imaginary quarrels. She now per-
ceived that the room was silent ; for since her last remark no
one had spoken. She sat back on the couch, one arm support-
ing her cheek, her brow clouded, her eyes fixed on the floor,
which her foot tapped with mingled impatience and irritation.
Though Monsieur de Sainville had laid down the Revue, he
did not think fit to speak. The Canoness knitted with her
usual zeal ; she occasionally looked up, as if thinking this
silence awkward. She coughed, by way of opening the con-
versation ; but this efibrt having failed, she relapsed into silence ;
her look, however, still sought her nephew, and wandering
from him to Nathalie, rested at length on the young girl.
'' Mo?i Dieu ! how very strange," she exclaimed, in her
Budcen way, and laying down her knitting as she spoke ; ' I
wonder I did not notice it before."
Both Nathalie and Monsieur de Sainville looked up.
"It is really extraordinary," she continued, '-especially
when one considers that there is no relationship. Do vou
7
146 NATHALIE.
think, Armand, the Montolieus were ever allied to the Saia
villes?" .,..'.
'' No," replied Monsieur de Sainville, with perfect gravity ;
'' I do not think they were."
Nathalie colored, and looked indignant : Aunt Radegonde,
without intending it, humbled her. She knew too well that
Montolieu was not a name likely to be allied to one of the
first names of the province ; and being thoroughly demo-
cratic in feeling, whatever she might be in theory, she proud-
ly resented all social and aristocratic distinctions.
" Did you notice it, Petite ?" resumed the Canoness ; " did
you see it, Armand ? That was why her face seemed so fa-
miliar to me."
"See what, aunt?"
" Why the striking likeness of Mademoiselle Montolieu to
our aunt Adelaide's portrait."
Nathalie started slightly, but she never changed her atti-
tude to look round. The likeness had not passed unheeded
by her. She knew that, in mere beauty, at least, the Proven-
cal girl and the once great lady could have stood side by side:
sisters in loveliness and grace. A half-mocking, half trium-
phant smile trembled on her lips, and for a moment lit up her
changing features. Oh ! youth and beauty, whilst your de-
lightful power is felt and when will it cease ? ^well may the
happy ones who possess you, smile at the unavailing barriers
erected by man's jealous pride. Reconciled to herself and re-
stored to good humor, Nathalie looked up half-curiously, half-
shyly to hear what Monsieur de SainvIUe would say. He
scanned her features narrowly, then looked at the portrait,
eyed her once again, and smiled.
" Yes," said he slowly, " there is a likeness."
There was nothing in the words beyond their plain mean-
ing, but his look was indulgent and very kind ; at least Na-
thalie thought so: she thought that as it rested on her, that
look seemed to say : " My dear child, do not trouble yourself
for any little heedless things you may have said : I shall not
think the worse of you for an evening's nonsense. No doubt,
you are eighteen ; and may fancy yourself very wise ; but,
take my word for it, you are a child yet, and not much wiser
than when you ate the berries."
Did he really mean this, or had she simply imagined it ?
Nathalie did not know, and felt puzzled. She consoled herself
ft'ith the assurance, that it was a matter of no importance to
NATHALIE. 147
her ; that she really did not care. But though she repeated
this to herself often enough, she did not lose the opportunity
of ascertaininir the truth which oifered itself to her on the fol-
lowing day.
She had been taking a long walk with the Canoness in the
garden, and before going in, they had sat down in a recess of
the box-wood hedge. It was a fine evening, mild and hazy, as
Nathalie sat by the Canoness on the old stone bench, still warm
with the heat of the sun, which was slowly passing away from
the garden. She abandoned herself with a vague pleasure to
the dreamy charm of the hour. On their left, embosomed
amongst its dark evergreens, arose the gray old chateau, but it
looked gay and airy, not sombre, in the mellow light, which
softened the hues and outlines of every thing on which it fell :
on their right extended the second terrace, dark, lonely, and
silent, save for the little fountain, which sent forth a low,
pla.shing sound. monotonous, yet soothing to the ear. Whilst
listening to it. Nathalie reclined back in the seat, and watched
the red sunlight gradually fading from the smooth lawn before
her. Thence her glance wandered along the windings of one
of the many paths around them, until it was arrested by a
graceful statue of Diana, rising white and motionless in the
cool green light of a distant recess. The fleet and stately hun-
tress was represented in the act of seizing by its antlers a stag,
overtaken in the chase. Whilst Nathalie gazed thoughtfully
on this copy of a well-known antique, the evening breeze arose,
and brought her from the neighboring plantations the strong
and penetrating odor of the pine-trees. Then, suddenly, the
scene of a long-forgotten episode of her childhood recurred to
her, and an involuntary smile flitted across her features.
" Petite," exclaimed the Canoness, " you are thinking of
something pleasant or amusing ; come do not be selfish and
keep it to yourself"
" Marraine," repr.jd Nathalie, smiling again, and addret^sing
her by the familiar appellation the Canoness had authorized,
but which, in her pride, the young girl would not use before
Monsieur de Sainville on the preceding evening; '-Marraine,
you will laugh, call me romantic, and chide."
'Never mind ; it is a second edition of the berries?"
Almost ; but first, tell me which of the heathen deities
you prefer ?"
" Keally," candidly answered Aunt Radegonde, -I do not
recollect ever thinking about tliem.''
1 48 NATHALIE.
" What ! not tliink of the nymphs in their limpid stroanil
and cool grottoes ? Have you not one there sleeping for ever
in her ivy couch ? Not think of Flora, as fresh and pure as
the first flowers of spring ; of cheerful Pomona, with her basket
ever full of ripe, sunny fruit ; of green-haired Nereids, gliding
along the glassy ocean; or magic Syrens, that haunt the rocks
and depths of the sea, to lure away unwary mariners ? And,
above all, not think of Diana, that proud and virgin huntress
of the deep woods of Greece? Oh! I have, as a child,
thought of them all, of her especially ; often, ay, many a
time ; and this brings me to what you want to know. I could
not help smiling awhile back, because, as I saw that distant
statue, and as the wind rose, and the fragrance of the pine-
trees came to us here, I remembered a summer morning I spent
in a lonely wood a long time ago. I had intentionally strayed
away there, instead of going to school. It was not a very vast
or romantic wood, but I easily converted it into a dark and
solitary Thracian forest, sacred to the goddess. Bow and ar-
rows I had none, but I hunted a few brown squii-rels, who gayly
'eaped from bough to bough, and led me a weary chase. A
little stream, a mere silver thread of water, ran through the
wood ; I sat down on its margin, and imagined it to be one of
those deep fountains of icy chillness, near which Diana and her
nymphs rested from the chase ; at length, fairly overpowered
with fatigue, I fell fast asleep, and thus I was found, brought
home, scolded, and duly punished for my escapade^ by the loss
of all my holidays. This quite banished Diana and her life
of solitary freedom from my thoughts, until just now, when
the whole scene rose before me, as I looked at the statue, and
I saw myself again a child in the wood, where, half-pleased,
half-afraid, I started, and listened to every breeze which
brought me. from some mysterious depths, the wild yet pleas-
ing odor of the pine-tree."
Too indulgent to chide, and j^et not quite able to sympa-
thize with the romantic fancies of the Provencal girl, the
Canoness coughed, and shook her head gently.
"Well," she said at length, "you were quite a child, so
there is not much harm in all this ; besides, we are alone to-
day. Petite."
Nathalie looked up, flushed, in a moment.
''Does that make any difference?" she asked, rather
quickly.
But the Canoness had been meditating all day a homilj
NATHALIE. 14S
on the young girl's UgereU and want of prudent reserve, and
she was quite determined that Nathalie should have the benefit
of it now. It proved rather a tedious homily ; but so gentle in
spirit, and evidently so kindly meant, that Nathalie only
smiled, and never dreamed of taking offence.
" You see, Petite," sententiously observed the Canoness,
" there are certain secrets "
" I have no secrets !" interrupted Nathalie.
" Oh ! Petite."
" None, I assure you, and it is well for me ; I labor, as you
said just now, under an infirmity of speech ; I cannot keep ray
tongue quiet when, as I feel, alas ! always too late, I ought
to do so. I do not like silence : it is unsociable, cheerless, -
and if to talk be a sin "
" It is a weakness, a feminine weakness, men say, but
never believe that, child ; it is a vile calumny."
" I fear I am very weak, for I like it "
" How strange ! I dislike talking."
" Alas ! I do not," replied Nathalie, unable to repress an arch
smile. " Not speak ! why, there are times when I would sooner
talk to the trees and bushes than remain silent. Knowincr
well this fatal indiscretion, I have made it a rule to have no
secrets; there is really not one earthly thing I have to hide.
May I not therefore talk without any other fear than that of
annoying those who may chance to hear me ?"
"Ay, Petite, and if we had been alone last evening;
there, you need not color up so."
' But, madame." objected Nathalie, somewhat proudly ; ' I
do not think I said any thing so very wrong, though I have no
doubt it was indiscreet and foolish enough."
' True, Petite ; but men have such peculiar ideas. In
short, I feared you would injure yourself in the opinion of
Monsieur de Sainville, who cannot laave that deep insight into
female character which I possess. So, to learn what he
thought, as well as to remove any unpleasing impression, 1
spoke to him this morning."
She paused and looked at Nathalie ; the young girl's color
2ame and went, her head drooped slightly on her bosom, her
eyes were fixed upon the earth, and the dark fringe of her eye-
lashes rested almost on her cheek ; she had plucked a twig of
boxwood from the hedge, and was now pulling it slowly to
cieces, leaf by leaf: she looked like a child at fault, and whom
a word can make either penitent or rebellious.
150 NATHALIE.
" Well," coutlnued the Canoness, " I si^oke very delicately,
of course so delicately, that at first he could not make out
what I meant. Oh !' he said, at length, 'you are talking of
Mademoiselle what is her other name besides Montolieu-
Nathalie ay, Mademoiselle Nathalie. Well, aunt, what of
her V ' Why, Arraand, I only wanted to explain to you, that
being so young, gay, and pretty ' pretty !' he interrupted,
'how do you know she is pretty? I looked at her last night,
and she never kept the same face for five minutes at a time, and
I think that her temper is not unlike her face.' You see, Petite,
how he noticed about the knitting. Well, I made the best of
it, and said I knew by my own experience, how to drop one's
stitches would provoke a saint, and so on. He heard me to the
end, smiled, and said, ' Be easy, aunt, there is no harm in the
poor child.' But though it is all right as yet, pray, Petite, be
more prudent another time."
Nathalie did not answer, but her look was no longer fixed
on the earth ; she seemed little pleased, and more rebellious
than penitent.
" And what do I care about Monsieur de Sainville, or his
opinion of me ?" said the silent but sufficiently expressive curl
of her lip.
Aunt Radegonde perceived she had done more harm than
good.
" Petite," she said, gravely, " I begin to think you are not
easy to manage. I did not mean to tell you something ; I see
I must, to reconcile you to Armand, who meant well. What
do you think he added, when he asked me how I knew that
you were pretty ?"
" Really, I cannot tell ; something very flattering, no doubt.
To have no harm in one comprises every thing good, does it
not?"
" Oh, no ! He only said, ' She is more than pretty, aunt ;
she is charming.' "
Did the compliment soothe Nathalie's wounded pride?
No trace of the feeling appeared, at least on her features.
" Why !" exclaimed the Canoness, somewhat surprised, " I
thought you would feel flattered. Petite ! Let me tell you
that Armand is difficult to please, and that I have not heard
him say so of any woman, since his return."
Still Nathalie did not reply. When she spoke at length,
it was to say that the evening was very cool, and that she fel4
chilly.
NATHALIE. 1 5 1
Aunt Ptadcgonde often declared that slie had great experi-
ence and penetration, and, above all, that she understood girls
thoroughly ; but, on this occasion, both acquired knowledge
and native genius were at fault ; and, whether Nathalie was
pleased or not, piqued or flattered, was more than she could
discover.
CHAPTER XL
A WEEK had passed away. Madame Marceau or to give
her the name which, notwithstanding her brother's tacit disap-
probation, she persisted in assuming Madame Marceau de
Sainville had prolonged her visit at the chateau de Jussac,
and, to Nathalie's great satisfaction, did not seem inclined to
return in haste.
The autumn, which now began, was the finest that had for
many years been known in Normandy, and that week was one
of uninterrupted fair weather. The sun rose and set with un-
clouded splendor ; the mornings were clear and sunny ; the
days warm and bright ; the evenings gorgeous and magnificent.
As Monsieur de Sainville was now never at home in the day-
time, Nathalie wandered about the garden and the gi-ounds
with unlimited freedom, and with a sense of enjoyment not
marred or disturbed by the prospect of meeting her severe-
looking host. In a few days, there was not a retired nook in
ihe whole place that had not become as familiar to her as if she
had been born and bred in Sainville. In the intoxication ol
iier delightful freedom, she no longer read or worked ; the
autumn days were brief and few she resolved to enjoy them
to the utmost ; she accordingly visited the solitary green-house
in the morning, the cool retreat of the sleeping nymph at noon,
and she lingered by the pebbly bank of the little river at even-
ing-time, wiien deeper shadows fell on the dark yet transparent
stream, and the red sunshine slowly passed away from the hills
beyond.
Notwithstanding the.se long walks, Nathalie spent tho
greater portion of her time with the Canoness. They sat to-
gether in the lime-tree avenue, and had endless conversations,
which Nathalie, however, never seemed to find tedious ; indeed,
she proved so excellent and attentive a listener, that she great-
1 62 NATHALIE.
ly flattered the simple Canoness, and quite won her heart
They met Monsieur de Sainville at dinner, and he generally
came to spend two or three hours in his aunt's boudoir in the
course of the evening. To Nathalie, he was always strictly
polite ; yet. whether for his own peculiar gratification, or for
the more praiseworthy purpose of trying the youn^ girl's tem-
per and patience, he seldom failed to vex or provoke her in
some way or other before they parted. She retired to her
room greatly offended, woke up somewhat mollified, and went
down to breakfast on the following morning not exactly know
infj how she ought to behave to Monsieur de Sairville. With
out giving her time to reflect, he quietly settled the point,
either by taking it as granted that nothing had occurred to
disturb their mutual harmony, or by uttering some well-timed
remark, which at once restored her to good humor. Nathalie
thus learned practically, that if her host knew how to provoke
feminine anger, he was not inexpert in the more difficult art of
soothing it again. But though he succeeded in pacifying her,
he could not remove the unfavorable impression thus pro-
duced an impression which daily grew stronger in her mind
against him. All that Rose could urge, failed in satisfying
Nathalie that her host behaved well towards her.
On the day fixed for Madame Marceau's return, the two
sisters were seated together in the dull salon of Madame La-
vigne, and discussing this subject somewhat warmly.
'' Is he impertinent ?" asked Rose.
" No, certainly he is not."
" Is he patronizing?"
" No; he may be proud enough of his name, wealth and sta-
tion ; but it is only fair to acknowledge that he never shows it."
' Then what does he do?"
' He treats me like a child, Rose : which I consider a very
unwarrantable freedom."
Her sister could not repress a smile.
' Are you not a child ?" she said.
" A child ! Rose : that is too bad. I see you are just like
him ; but no, for you talk sensibly to me ; he never conde-
scends to do so. He scarcely speaks, yet makes me say things
at which I afterwards bite my tongue. The other evening, oa
going up to my room, I thought what a strange man he was,
and what strange things he had said ; but on examining the
matter, I found his most original remark was, that ennui waa
the serpent which tempted Eve. Yet with his provoking way
JTATIIALIE. 153
of looking, lialf-smiling and putting careless questions, lio had
made me utter one folly after another. I resolved to be on my
guard ; but it was of no use, for the very next evening I al-
lowed myself to be again provoked into the utterance of I
know not how many foolish and impertinent things."
" You could not remain silent !"
" Not when I had begun ; it was like a broken string of
beads whilst you tried to fasten it at one end the beads slip
off at the other. V/hat vexes me most in this is, that he no-
tices me at all. I am no child ; indeed, I could understand
him very well if he would only condescend to treat me like a
sensible person, I shall get angry if you smile so, Rose, but
no, though he can talk admirably, as I perceived yesterday,
when some visitors came, it is not worth while addi-essing a
foolish girl of eighteen in that strain."
' Nathalie," said her sister, very gravely, " there is a th,ug
I cannot understand ; you complain of Monsieur de Sainville,
and yet you confessed awhile ago, you were delighted at the
prospect of spending the winter at the chateau."
" Why, Rose, it is very plain," replied Nathalie, coloring ;
" I do not care about Monsieur de Sainville ; that is why."
Rose eyed her sister seriously.
" How thoughtless you are," she said ; ' if your pride has
already suffered in that house, will it not suffer still more ? I
wish you could have spent the winter here with me."
" Heaven forbid !" quickly exclaimed Nathalie, who colored
immediately at the fervor with which she had spoken.
'' Yes," said Rose, looking round her with a thoughtful look
and a mournful smile ; ' yes, you are young, gay, and this is a
very dreary place. Yet, Nathalie, there are greater misfor-
tunes than a dull home, a dull sister, and a cross aunt ; and
though it is useless, I wish you were farther away from a world,
and from persons a great deal too much above you for your hap-
piness or your pride. How will you feel when you leave your
present home for some school like Mademoiselle Dantin's ?"
" Miserable, no doubt : but, Rose, why trouble my head
about such things, when there is a winter, an age, before me?
Why, before the spring comes round something will have
turned up."
' What ?" asked Rose.
' Oh, never mind what ! something good, of course. Why,
Rose, I am eighteen, a gay heiress just entered into posses-
sion "
J 54 NATHALIE.
"Of what?"
" Of hope, dear Rose, Hope, the fairest lady eye ever saw;
and rich. ay. with castles beyond number. Tell me not I am
poor and friendless ! Why, there is wealth before me I shall
never live to spend, and a friend looks at me from every face I
meet. How can you think to cast me down on this lovely
morning ? Look at that warm sunshine which makes even this
dull hole bright ; at that bright blue sky beyond ; why, eTC-n
the old gray church tower looks gay and airy to-day,"
Rose said nothing.
" I told you," continued her sister, ' that I was an heiress ;
I mistook. Rose"; heiress ! pshaw ! I am queen ; this world
is my realm, my reign has just begun, and every joy of mine
empire shall come and do me homage. God bless them all with
their kind looks and pleasant voices ; and what a long, endless
train they look, Rose."
" Her head has been turned by romances," said Rose, lay-
ing down her work.
Nathalie laughed, and shook her head with joyous grace.
"As if I read romances now !" she said gayly. "What!
*read fiction with truth itself before me ! I should be a child
indeed ! No. no. Rose ; I have a wonderful romance of my
own : each day I turn over a new page, and at the bottom of
none do I yet see written the dark word, Finis."
" You are happy ; but for how long?"
" For ever. Who speaks of the sorrows of life ? Strange,
I feel an inability to suffer. Let those mope and mourn who
will. I say this world is a gay place, and the journey through,
as pleasant a path as ever was trod." *
" And the nettles and the briars?"
" Nettles and briars must be plucked to sting ; and touch
them I will not whilst there are pleasant wayside flowers to
gather. Rose, sorrow is of our own seeking. Some may like
a taste of the bitter cup, by way of change, but I do not yet
feel cloyed of sweetness. Oh ! when one knows how to set
about it, this life is a joyful thing."
" And what is it when youth is passed ?" asked Rose, sadly
But her sisttr only smiled a bright, sunny smile that would
not be dismayed.
" It is no use, Rose," she gayly said ; " it is no use ; it ia
like talking of next spring's troubles. I suppose youth must
fade ; the more is the pity, but I have years of it before mo
yet, and I will hoard up mine as a miser hoards his gold,
NATHALIE.
I feel as if I could remain young for ever ; why then should 1
get old '? You will say others do ; then I will be original, and
strike out a path of my own. Oh ! the glorious times of sim-
ple faith, when travellers set forth to find the fountain of
youth! But they miglit have stayed at home, Rose; for to
keep a young heart is the only secret, and the fountain flows
freely for all."
' And I verily believe," replied Rose, smiling, in spite of
all her efforts to keep grave, " that you will drink of that foun-
tain for ever."
" I told you so ; and just in the same way shall I be rich,
by making all I behold mine in enjoyment. . People possess,
that they may enjoy. I enjoy at once, without giving myself
the trouble of possessing. You may smile. Rose, but I assure
you I am neither proud nor ambitious : the crumbs and mites
that fall from my neighbor's table of happiness will do very
well for me."
" You are a strange child," said Rose, again laying down
her work to look more earnestly at her handsome sister, whose
laughing eyes and animated color made her look even more
than usually handsome ; ' shrewd and wise," she continued,
" even through all your folly and your foolish dreams."
" Do not touch my dreams." observed Nathalie, looking up
quickly ; " they have been my only consolation many a time.
Oh ! the hours I have spent in Mademoiselle Dantin's garden,
under the old beech-tree, in the school, in my room, not reading
novels, as you so sagely fancy, but dreaming ay, to my heart's
content. Why, of the waking visions which haunted me then,
I can still remenibor some with all the vividness of reality,
the imaginary spots, the dreary deserts, the wild adventures,
the perils, escapes, and sudden joys of a deliverance thrill
through me still ; they come back to me even now with the dull
school-room where they had birth : the low murmuring hum of
the pupils conning over their lessons, and the quick pattering
of the winter rain against the window-panes."
" And where was the use of all this 2" asked Rose, very
joldly.
" To make me happy for a few hours," composedly answered
Nathalie, " which was more than any thing around me could
have done."
Rose moved restlessly on her chair, and gave her sister a
dreary look ; when she spoke, her tone was almost ironical.
"I suppose," she said, "you call this imagination?"
156 NATHALIE.
" You may call it so if you like, Rose ; it was happinea*
lo me."
She spoke gently, but Rose did not seem mollified.
' Ay. happiness as real as that of Alnaschar."
Nathalie smiled wistfully.
' I love that story, Rose, and I believe every one lovc3 it.
We are all Alnaschars in our way, and there lies the charm of
Ihe old Arabian tale."
" But will you tell me what remained to you of your imagi-
uary hnppiness?" persisted Rose.
" Not a basket of broken glass, but pleasant remembran-
ces," replied Nathalie, who seemed to take a perverse pleasure
in teazing her sister.
' Oh ! if you only knew how pleasant and easy it is. Rose ;
the school-garden was not very fine, but I could convert it
into any thing. Why, an old moss-grown wall has made
me as pensive as the most time-honored ruins ; a group of
aspens has been to me as a whole forest, a rivulet as a
mighty river. We want from nature but the first few
primitive notes : in us lies the true melody with its endless
variations. I remember an old chateau in Provence that was
to me as a long poem. It stood on the lonely beach within
view of the sea. It was very bare and dreary within what
mattered it to me ? I hung the walls with soft damask and
rarest tapestry. Divine statues looked down in silence from
every niche, and imaginary pictures opened long vistas of
beauty ; clear skies, azure seas, and wild woods, every thing
was there. I filled the hall with the gayest company, a glo-
rious company, that was of every land and all ages, that 1
could summon or dismiss at will. Rose, do not frown, do not
look so severe indeed, our world is too narrow. What avails
i L that we are born and have our being, if we must be shut up
within so limited a sphere ? Why may we not see and know
those we could love and venerate ? Alas ! those that might
have been every thing to us too often belonged to some other
age they were gone before we had birth. Have you never
felt cheated and betrayed out of your due, because that being
remained perforce a stranger ? Oh ! affection should not be
the creature of a day ; the gates of death should not possess
that mysterious power, they should not be that awful barrier
iietween the quick and the dead !" Why is this. Rose? Are
we such miserable creatures, so poor in heart, that there is only
room for those around us, for one little narrow c'rcle !"
NATHALIE. 15?
Her countenance, late so gay, was now grave, her look earn
Slat and thoughtful, her face turned towards Rose, in^}uiringly ;
but her sister coldly answered :
" Your talk is too high-flown for me ; I suppose you will
fall in lore with some dead hero, one day, and quarrel with
Providence, because you cannot have him. I wish you would
confine your speech and feelings to reality."
" Eeality, reality !" impatiently exclaimed Nathalie : " why
reality -is but the dregs of the cup, Rose ; imagination is th6
clear red wine."
'' The bubbling foam would have been a more appropriate
emblem," said Rose, rather ironically.
Nathalie tapped her foot impatiently.
" You may say what you like, Rose," she warmly exclaimed,
' but take imagination from life, and nothing remains. Oh f
reality is too cold and cheerle&s a dame for me. I once saw an
old ruin in the sunshine : the moss, the ivy, the gay yellow
wall flower peeped from every cranny ; a bird was lining its
nest in a hole, and green lizards, glittering like emeralds, came
in and out and basked in the light : the sky was blue beyond,
the sun shone very brightly. Rose, it was the gayest ruin
you ever saw ; just the sort of place that would give one light-
ness of heart, and a wish to sing. I passed by it a few days
later : the sky was dark and dull it had been raining. The
wall-flowers were beaten about by the wind, the moss hung
dripping against the old stones, the ivy clung to them like a
dark pall, bird, lizards, sunshine, all were gone, reality was
there alone. Now, Rose, if one can keep the sunshine of life
for ever over that cold stony ruin, reality, where is the harm !'
" Wait to see, until your first sorrow comes," said Rose,
briefly.
" Rose, you are very unkind ; you do all you can to de-
press me. I am endeavoring to show you some other way to
happiness, besides that which lies through the miserably dull
route you call reality. This room, I suppose, is reality ; Ma-
demoiselle Dantin's horrid school-room was reality ; but I tell
you that my world is far more real, because it is far more beau-
tiful. We need not see beauty to enjoy it. Rose ; it is inward.
A sunbeam, a sound, a word, a breath, awaken or create all that
need be the soul's desire. I have had all sunny Italy in the deep
blue sky of noonday ; the plaintive murmur of the wind in the
branches of a lonely pine has given me the dreary forests oi
the north, with their gigantic trees rising, dark and spectre-
158 NATHALIE
like, through the thick flakes of falling snow, as I once read o!
them in some old book of travels ; a whole pastoral landscape,
with valley, low hills, quiet homesteads, and homeward-going
cattle, has risen before me, with the scent of the new made hay
at evening. Why the other morning, the low ripple of tho
little stream that runs at the bottom of the garden brought
me back the deep and hollow murmur of the sea, with its end-
less waves still breaking on the beach."
" Do you often go on in that way at the chateau ?" in-
quired Rose.
' No, Rose ; for I do not often feel as I feel to-day."
" Yes, I can see something has pleased you, and so you
behold all coideur de rose : what is it?"
" I give you my word I do not know. Rose. But you are
right ; something must have pleased me ; for, indeed, as you
say, every thing wears a most rosy hue. There surely never was
so lovely an autumn morning : the air is soft, jet exquisitely
transparent ; the breeze is genial as a breeze of spring ; that
deep blue sky would almost do for Provence. Oh ! Rose, I
feel very religious to-day ; blessed be He who has given us all
this life and joy !"
The window was open ; Nathalie half-leaned out, her elbow
resting on the window-sill, her cheek supported by the palm
of her hand. The soft morning breeze played around her, and
fanned her cheeks, whose deepened bloom bespoke some in-
ward emotion ; her eyes shone brightly, but with deep softness
in all their fire ; her lips were slightly parted, and her breath
came fast. Rose thought that as she raised her hand to ar-
range her hair, it trembled slightly. She looked excited, but
it was the excitement which soon subsides into languor. Her
sister eyed her again, and, familiar as it was to her, she now
wondered at the young girl's beauty.
^'- Mon Dicu ! what is the matter with you to-day?" she
plowly asked.
Nathalie only smiled.
" Has any thing made you feel glad?"
'' Nothing, that 1 know of Is it a wonder that I should
DC gay ? Thenhere comes one who will do all she can to check
the mood." *
The door opened as the spoke, and Madame Lavigne enter-
ed, supported by Desiree. who left immediately.
" Who was that talking ?" sharply asked the blind woman,
when Rose had helped her to her seat.
NATHALIE. 159
"Guess?" replied Xathalie.
" Oh ! you. Your voice sounds cheerful to-day. What has
pleased you?''
' Nothing, and there is the beauty of it. To be gay with
good reason is no wonder ; but what joy so sweet as namelcsa
joy, unless it be a nameless hope?"
The blind woman smiled her own sour smile.
" So you feel glad ?" she said
" So glad that you cannot put me out of temper."
' We shall see. How is the best friend?"
" Very well."
"Kind still?"
" Very kind."
" Have you quarrelled yet ?"
" Quarrelled ! No "
" Then he is very foolish."
Nathalie looked annoyed, but she scorned lO reply.
" There !' triumphantly cried Madame Lavigne, " you are
already vexed."
" No. I am not."
" Yes, you are ; and. poor child ! well you may be. What !
have you been a whole fortnight in his house, and has he not
given you an opportunity of showing your temper? Mademoi-
selle Dantin knew your worth better than that. I knew you
better than that : we quarrel every time we meet, for you arc
nothing, unless when 3'ou are teazed."
" And how do you know I have not been teazed ?" quickly
asked Nathalie.
" I knew I could make you confess it," said Madame
Lavigne, maliciously.
" I have confessed nothing," cried Nathalie, coloring.
" Yes, you have," replied the blind woman, smiling bitterly;
' your vanity could not resist the bait I laid out for it. Oh !
I know girls, and their ways. But come, child, do not be too
fain, because he notices you a little; you amuse him just now,
but when the novelty is worn off, why your best friend will not
Ecem to know you are in the house."
" You cannot tell," said Nathalie, a little scornfully.
" Yes, I can ; do I not know how these things go on ?
Why, child, do not be foolish ; do not forget you are only hia
aunt's companion, after all."
As her aunt uttered this taunt, Rose looked at her sister.
She could detect an expression of pain and wounded pride
160 NATHALIE.
passing over the features of Nathalie, hut it did not last; and
when she spoke, her tone was composed and cool.
" Madame." she said, ' you quite mistake Monsieur de Sain-
viile ; he is not capricious or selfish, as you seem to think as
such conduct would imply ; he treats me, not as his aunt's
companion, but as his guest."
" Capricious or selfish !" said Madame Lavigne. " Ah ! I
understand a hint about Rose. So your best friend is not
that. And what is your best friend like, child ? Have you
any objection to describe him to me ?"
" None," unhesitatingly replied Nathalie. " He is good,
just, and, though cold, kind. You now know him as well as
I do."
" I do not like perfect characters," snappishly answered
Madame Lavigne.
She looked sour and displeased, and refused to answer,
save by a cool nod, to the cheerful adieu of Nathalie, who was
now preparing to depart.
The young girl was turning towards the door, when it
opened, and admitted no less a personage than Mademoiselle
Dantin, accompanied by the Chevalier. Nathalie started,
colored, and then, in spite of all her efforts, coiild scarcely
keep grave. The schoolmistress closed the door, and eyed her
former teacher with haughty majesty ; the Chevalier looked
both distressed and pleased ; Rose remained calm ; Madame
Lavigne turned her head about, listened keenly, though not a
word was spoken, and appeai'ed to be conscious that something
agreeable to her was at hand.
" What !" she exclaimed, rubbing her hands, " it is that
good, that kind Mademoiselle Dantin come to pay us a visit ;
and the dear Chevalier, too. My dear little Nathalie, I hope
you are not gone. Where are you, mignonne ? Here is Made-
moiselle Dantin, whom you are so fond of"
Mademoiselle Dantin-coughed a short indignant cough, and
looked daggers, first at her sightless friend, then at the Cheva-
lier, who had respectfully approached tlie young girl. A smile
trembled on Nathalie's lip ; she tried to repress it, but in vain
the smile broke forth. Willing to make the best of an
awkward position, she turned towards the schoolmistress, and
uaid, frankly :
'' Is there any reason why we should not be friends ?"
Mademoiselle Dantin shot an angry glance at the Cheva-
lier, then closed her eyes and gently inclined her head towards
her left shoulder.
KATIJALIE. K1
" Friends! &Iie was in a state of fi-iendsbip iyitt the whok
human race."
" I am willing to believe it," said Nathalie, a little imi:a-
tiently; " though we did not part exactly as friends part. I
believe, however, that you labored under an honest mistake.
If jou were severe, I was, to say the least, impatient ; bat
surely this is no reason for mutual and very unavailiiig en-
mity."
"Enmity, Mademoiselle Montolieu !" exclaimed thesehool-
mistress, casting around her a look of astonishment ; " I pro-
test against the word ; it is unnatural in this part of the coun-
try, though I have no doubt that in the unhappy south it is.
alas ! frequent enough."
The eyes of Nathalie lit up indignantly.
" You are unchanged," she said ; " but you are right, quite
right ; ye.s, in the south we hear of enuiity, but it is a
breath, a word; here it is unsj^okon, to lie hidden in the
heart."
Madame Lavignc laughed, and rubbed her' hands with ma-
licious glee.
" Fine day !" she .said ; " rather hot in this room too ! Will
Mademoiselle Dantin and Madem5isellc Montolieu both stay
and dine with a poor invalid 1"
'Stay!" indignantly cried Nathalie; " stay in this room;
no not one second longer."
The Chevalier vainly began a speech about amiable ladies
and the gentleness of the sex. The schoolmistress gave him a
scornful glance; Nathalie had turned away, and the door had
flown open and again closed upon her. She had reached the
door below, and was vainly endeavoring to unlock it, when a
hand arrested her. She turned round ; it was Kose, looking
grave and severe.
" Come in here," said she, pointing to a small and gloomy
parlor, of which the door stood half-open. Nathalie complied,
docile and subdued in an instant.
" Well, Rose," she hesitatingly said, " I know you are not
pleased ; but could I help it ? Surely it was spiteful of her to
gpeak so about the south."
" That was no reason why you should give way to you?
temper."
" But, Rose, I cannot bear it. Do you think," she added,
whilst the pride of race deepened the color on her cheek, " do
you think I have forgotten that theae litigious Normans ai'e
t62 NATHALIE.
descended from the savage barbarians of the north, whilst we
are the children of Greece and Rome?"
" Try and speak sensibl}', child," said Rose, shrugging her
shoulders ; " and pray remember that )'our sister is a genuine
and cool Normande."
" You, Rose," exclaimed Nathalie, whilst her eyes glistened ;
'' Oh ! you are of those that belong to no race and no climo ;
you are a saint, an angel upon earth."
" Angel as I am," decisively said Rose, " I am going to
6cold you."
" Scold ! Rose; I will hear you patiently. Be just, and ac-
knowledge that I have never yet quarrelled with you, or what
you said."
" No, my poor child," replied Rose, who seemed a little
moved, ' and yet I have been severe; you are right: you have
been patient."
' Because I love, I revere you. Rose," cried Nathalie eager-
ly, and pressing her sister's hands as she spoke ; " when I love
I can be patieuf, I can endure ; but from such beings as Mad-
emoiselle Dantin, or your cross old aunt, never."
' Ay, and nothing would content you this morning but to
teaze my aunt."
" I merely refused to gratify her ill-nature, by speaking ill
of Monsieur de Sainville."
* Do you think of him all you said ?" gravely asked Rose.
The two sisters still stood in the little parlor, Nathalie
with her back to the narrow window, whence a pale light de-
scended on the calm features of Rose, who detected, neverthe-
less, tlie deepening color on her sister's cheek.
" If I say that I spoke so for the praiseworthy purpose of
vexing your aunt, you will look grave, Rose, will you not ?" she
at length replied.
Rose did look very grave.
" I do not understand this trifling, Nathalie ; indeed I do
not,'' ihe said, very seriously. " Oh ! if you would only prom-
ise me to be prudent !"
" Ask something I can promise. Rose ; that is impossible,
for it is not in my nature to fear ; and prudence is only fear,
with a wise cloak on."
" Then promise me to remember a very wise thing you
said upstairs."
" A wise thing ! Did you say a wise thing, Rose ? Oh !
for the wonder of having said a wise thing, I will promise any
thing. What was it ?"
NATHALIE 1G3
" TLat sorrow was of our own seeking," gravely answered
her sister.
'' Did I really say that ?" inquired Nathalie, looking a lit-
tle thoughtful ; ' and was that a wise thing ?"
" A true one, at least."
" Well, then, Rose, I shall keep to this wisdom, and duti-
fully avoid all sorrow. I suppose this is your meaning the
best means of accomplishing which is to take all the happiness
this world of ours can afford me."
Rose shook her head and sighed.
" Rose," said her sister, " you are devout, but verily I have
more fai^^^h than you have. I believe in happiness, little as I
have known of it ; I believe in it with my whole soul ay, with
my whole heart," she added, pressing both her hands to her
bosom.
"And T also believe in happiness." answered Rose, in a low
tone ; " but oh ! sister, not in the vain, dreary happiness of
this world."
She, too, had clasped her hands, but as they are clasped in
prayer. When her look met that of her sister, it implied fer-
vent faith the faith of all that the soul can hope of joy here-
after ; even as in the clear look of the younger girl might be
read the deliglitful hopes and divine promises which the earthly
future still holds out to the ardent and impassioned soul of
youth.
As Rose gazed on that radiant face, she felt, perhaps, how
unavailing it was to pour forth the fears and doubts of her
maturer years into the car of a being still so rich in the wealth
of her golden youth. She sighed, but spoke no more, and
merely laid her thin hand on the young girl's shoulder, and
pressed her pale lips on her clear brow in token of adieu.
They parted. As she turned the angle of the court, Na-
thalie looked round, and smiled again at her grave sister, who,
after lingering awhile on the threshold, was silently closing on
herself tlie door of her gloomy home.
164 NATHALIE
CHAPTER XII.
On entering the drawing-room, Nathalie, who had expected
to find only the Canoness, was somewhat disconcerted to per-
ceive Madame Marceau, and a lady, in whom she recognized
Madame de Jussac. After a moment of hesitation she came
forward, for, though her presence was any thing but agreeable
to her, pride would not allow her to draw back or look discon-
certed.
Madame Marceau held out her hand with smiling welcome,
and protested that Mademoiselle Montolieu looked charmingly.
This was addressed to the lady by her side, who, by acquiescing,
showed that she knew who Mademoiselle Montolieu was ; they
had met at Mademoiselle Dantin's school, where, with little
regard to the ceremonial of rank or wealth, Madame de Jussac
had once left her daughters during a temporary absence at
Paris.
Madame de Jussac was a fair and aristocratic lady of mid-
dle age. She had been handsome, and was handsome still,
but of a pale and tranquil sort of beauty, that contrasted strik-
ingly with the dark and anxious face of her friend. She sel-
dom spoke, yet no one thought her silent. When Madame
Marceau addressed her, she answered with a gentle inclination
of the head, a quiet smile that displayed her ivory teeth, or a
slow look of her soft blue eyes, and all this was quite as signi-
ficant as the other lady's full and stately speech. She seemed
as averse to unnecessary motion as to superfluous discourse ;
once she had fairly settled herself on a couch or sofa, she did
not care to leave it, but reclined there for hours, in an attitude
of repose that was not without a certain indolent grace.
Her chief occupation seemed to be to fan herself slowly during
the heat of the day. The first day of her sojourn at Sainville
for she had come to stay a week appeared very dull to
Nathalie. Aunt Radegonde had retired to her room with a bad
headache, and the young girl kept as much as possible out of
i\\e way of the two ladies. After dinner, which was unusually
early, and at which Monsieur de Sainville. being away, did not
appear, Nathalie retired to the deep recess of one of the draw-
ing-room windows, and sat there alone, shrouded from observa-
tion by the crimson curtain. The ladies spoke in a subdued
tone ; but even had their discourse been louder, Nathalie would
NATHALIE. 1 05
not have heeded it. She worked at her embroidery, and occa-
sionally put it down to watch the darkening and stormy-looking
sky. When the sun set in the west, a sudden and lurid light
spread over the whole landscape, and threw its flame-like glow
over the sere foliage of the avenue, and the road and landscape
beyond. It was at this moment that the door opened, and
Amanda entered. At first Nathalie paid no attention to what
she said ; but she suddenly became attentive ; it was Madame
Marceau who was speaking.
' Who could have thought our quiet little river would ever
act so?" she said, in a tone of calm concern. ' An inundation !
I am truly sorry for those poor people. Will they lose all theii
crops ? But what has Monsieur de Sainville to do with this,
Amanda V
" He is in the boat, madame."
" In the boat !" exclaimed Madame Marceau. with sudden
alarm. "Good heavens! what has he to do with the boat?
Surely those people could save their crops without Monsieur
de Sainville risking his life !"
" I believe I may assure madame, there is no danger what-
ever. But the place is so lonsly that there is only one man at
home ; the rest were out far away in the fields ; and Monsieur
do Sainville, perceiving there was no time to lose, very kindly
oS"ered his aid."
" I am astonished !" impatiently said Madame Marceau ;
" surely, my brother might have made their loss good to those
people ; a few stacks of corn can never bo worth all the trouble
he is taking. Is it far up the river? Can we see any thing
from the end of the garden, I wonder ? Ma bonne, shall we go
and try to look on ?"
Madame de Jussac languidly assented. There was a rus-
tling sound of silken robes ; then a door closed softly, and all
was still. Nathalie emerged from her retreat. Amanda, who
had lingered behind tlie two ladies, uttered a faint scream.
" I beg mademoiselle's pardon," she said, recovering at once,
" but I did not know mademoiselle was there ; and when she
came out, looking so pale and frightened "
" What is it ? Are you sure there is no danger ? What ia
jMonsieur de Sainville doing in that boat? How did all this
happen ?"
The young girl spoke in a brief, almost imperative tone.
Amanda eyed her with slight surprise, but composedly replied
that the river liad suddenly overflowed its banks at s')int dis-
16G NATHALIE.
tance up the stream, and carried away the stacks of coru bo
longing to the poor cottagers who lived by the river-side,
Monsieur de Sainville was riding by at the time of the acci-
dent; perceiving the necessity of prompt assistance, he had
immediately dismounted and offered his aid.
" And how do you know this ?'' asked Nathalie.
" I met a woman who was going to Sainville to fetch assist-
ance, and send up another boat."
" A nice messenger ! To lose her time in telling you all
this, instead of going on at once," impatiently exclaimed th
young girl.
She took her scarf lying on a chair, as she spoke, and qwic'k
ly went down to the garden.
She found Madame Marceau and her friend standing by
the water-side, at the end of the third terrace. She drew nnar.
A bend in the river allowed the eye to look up the stream ror
a considerable distance. It was the opposite bank, which was
much lower than that on which the chateau stood, that nad
Buffered. The fields, which Nathalie had seen that very mum-
ing fresh and green, were now covered with a rolling sheec of
dark and heavy water, over which lowered a leaden and sulien-
looking sky ; in the distance she perceived a few dark upots
rising above the stream, these were stacks of corn. Her
heart ached, as she remembered how, a few days before, she
had spent a whole afternoon, sitting in the high grass, ac the
foot of a tree, watching the reapers 'midst the yellow corn,
and listening to their far and joyous singing. A black Lpeck
appeared in the distance it was the boat crossing over to the
submerged bank ; in the taller of the two rowers, Nathalie
thought she could recognize Monsieur de Sainville ; she felt
sure that it was he, when he rose for a moment, and the out-
line of his figure appeared dark and distinct on the gray sky.
The boat approached the nearest stack then there was a
pause, which seemed to Nathalie as if it would never end ; at
last the boat moved once more, but it moved slowly, for it
was heavily laden ; once, in the very middle of the stream,
it stood quite still, and the water looked so dark and threaten-
ing, as it ru.shed by, its swollen tide crested with a thin white
foam, that Nathalie turned pale, and felt as if her heart ceased
to beat ; but the rowers were only pausing for rest the boat
soon moved again ; in a few minutes, it had safely reached
the shore.
Nathalie gave a sigh of relief, and looked at Madame Mar
NATHALIE 16?
coau, woo stood -watching all, through her opera-glass. She
lowered it, and said, very calmly :
" A similar thing occurred last year, T bel.eve. Those peo-
ple might really have been more careful. Armand is so pru-
dent and courageous, that I do not fear for him ; I have
besides been given to understand that the water never rises
above a certain height."
' Indeed !" said Madame do Jussac, with a slight yawn,
and looking as if she longed to be back again on the easy
drawing-room sofa.
Nathalie beheld with astonishment their well-bred ease and
indifference. Any thing resembling a deed to do, an adven-
ture to accomplish, a peril to brave, even though she could
only be a passive looker-on, sent the blood to her heart in a
more rapid tide, and made her whole frame thrill with excite-
ment. The cries and lamentations of the women and chil-
dren, which the wind brought down distinctly to her ear ; the
sight of that frail boat gliding over the heaving and swollen
river ; of the dark sky above, heavy with threatening clouds ;
of the corn, now loosened from the stacks, and carried down
by the rapid stream ; the thought of the impending ruin of so
many families, of the risk run to save their little property, of
the courage displayed in thus seeking danger, and holding life
so cheap, when there was an aim in view, so moved and roused
her, that she could not refrain from clapping her hands when
a boat from Sainville, with easer and bending rowers, cheerinor
as they went, shot past, like an arrow, on its way to the scene
of destruction.
" How cool it is !" said Madame de Jussac, with a slight
shiver.
" I think we shall have a storm, too," observed Madame
Marceau.
And, with mutual and tacit consent, the two ladies turned
homewards. Nathalie never perceived their departure. She
stood on the very brink of the water, half-bending forward, her
hand shading her eyes, her look eagerly following the boat,
which soon joined the other.
The task now proceeded rapidly. The two boats rivalled
in promptitude and zeal ; they cros.sed and recrosscd the water,
aow heavily laden, now light and empty. At length there
came a lull ; all that could be rescued of the corn seemed tc
be stowed in safety ; the waters over the flooded fields flowed
in a dark and even tide, with here and there a wandering sheaf.
!68 NATHALIE.
tossed by an eddy of the stream. One of the boats remained,
to save all that still floated on the surface ; the other slowly
came down the stream, towards the spot where Nathalie stood,
watching its progress. It neared the bank ; stopped by a con-
venient landing-place; Monsieur de Sainville leaped out;
thanked the man, who touched his cap. and rowed back to the
spot whence he had come,
As her host evidently did not see her, it would have been
more proper and discreet for Nathalie to retire than to remain.
But she was inquisitive and naive in her curiosity, like a true
southern, and therefore stayed until Monsieur de Sainville
came up to her. He could not repress a slight exclamation of
wonder on seeing her there, standing by the water's edge, with
her light dress fluttering in the wind, and her anxious face
eagerly turned towards him. She mistook his brief ejaculation
for one of pain, and, stepping forward, said quickly :
" Are you hurt, sir ?"
" Hurt ! No," he replied, with increased surprise ; and his
scrutinizing look said, " What are you doing here ?"
She did not heed it ; but continued :
Is the corn all safe, sir V
" Almost all."
" And was there no accident !"
" None whatever."
" But how tired you must feel !"'
" No, thank you," he quietly replied. ' I was formerly fond
of rowing, and have not lost the habit yet."
' But this was a very dangerous task, was it not ?" con-
tinued Nathalie.
" Not in the least," he answered, with a smile. " But
allow me to say, you did wrong to linger here on this dark
evening."
Nathalie looked round ; she saw that the two ladies, whom
she had quite forgotten, were gone. Behind and around her
stretched a gloomy and threatening sky, which seemed more
gloomy still, as it lay reflected, with its mass of clouds, in the
dark and sullen waters of the swollen river. She turned
quietly towards Monsieur de Sainville, and said simply :
" I never heard them going."
" Then my sister and Madam de Jussac were here. Why
did you remain behind ? Did you not see the storm coming
fast?"
" No ; I was looking at the boats, and never thought of the
sky."
NATIIAI.l!:. 169
" Nor of the rain," said he, looking down at the large drops
which had already stained the stone steps on which they stood ;
for they had turned homewards whilst speaking thus, and were
going up to the second terrace.
" Do you think it will thunder ?'" asked Nathalie, who pre-
ceded him, and now turned round with sudden alarm.
Before he could reply, a flash of lightning crossed the sky
behind her ; she only saw it by the lurid light which passed
over the grave features of Monsieur de Sainville ; but she-
turned very pale, and trembled from head to foot, when the
peal of thunder followed in rapid succession.
" You are afraid of thunder," he said, with some surprise.
"Very much," she replied ; and her pale lips and chattel -
ing teeth showed there was no affectation in the fear.
He gave a quick look around him ; the rain was falling
fost : the sky was deepening in gloom.
" It is useless to think of reaching the house," he
decisively observed ; "will you have the goodness to come this
way ?"
He went down the steps as he spoke ; the stone was already
wet and slippery. He held out his hand to her : she took it
and followed him with silent docility : but when she saw him
entering the grounds, she could not help saying,
' Where are we going sir ?"
" To the pavilion," he quietly replied.
This pavilion was only a little rotunda, or summer-house
of rustic work. The roof was thatched, and the walls were
made of young larch-trees, with the bark on. It stood in a
lonely spot, surrounded by lai-ge and wide-spreading beeches.
Aunt Radegonde had one day pointed it out to Nathalie aa
Armand's favorite retreat ; " he comes there for several hours
every day to smoke," she said ; " for he is kind and considerate,
and knows how I hate the smell of eithe pipe or cigar about
the house." The rain poured down in torrents ; this was no
time to remonstrate or object : Nathalie did neither, but
walked quickly with Monsieur de Sainville along a shady and
covered path. In a few minutes they had reached the place ;
he raised the latch, she entered, he followed her in, and closed
the door behind him. Scarcely were they within, when the
storm burst forth in all its fury ; flash followed flash, and peal
was heard upon peal. Nathalie hid her face in her hands, and
DOW and then looked up with a frightened start ; whilst Mon-
eieur de Sainville calmly assured her that there was little oi
8
170 NATHALIE.
no clanger, that the storm was not so nigh as she thought, and
that the lightning was much more likely to be attracted by
some of the tall trees, than by their little thatched refuge,
The young girl endeavored to seem attentive, but she evi-
dently heeded more the thunder than his arguments ; and
at length, he could not help asking her again, how sho
had remained behind, being so much afraid of the storm as
she was.
" Because I never thought about it," she quietly replied.
As the storm lessened, Nathalie, feeling somewhat ashamed
of her timidity, assumed a composed air, and glanced around
her with a look half-shy and half-curious. The retreat of
Monsieur de Sainville was not encumbered with needless fur-
niture, for there were only two chairs, a small buifet, and a
round table fixed in the centre of the room, all of rustic work.
At one end of the room stood a low chimney, framed in iron ;
over it were suspended large pipes of peculiar shape, and a
gleaming blade half-drawn from its scabbard. Facing the
chimney was a little arched window, opening a gloomy vista
into winding alleys, close thickets, and groups of bushes of the
melancholy-looking pine-tree, now seen through a veil of
white and heavy rain, and by the pale light of rapid lightning
flashes.
Nathalie felt her heart beating with something between
pleasure and fear. As she listened to the vague and moaning
sounds of the storm without, and looked on that wild prospect,
half-wrapped in mysterious gloom, she fancied herself a belated
traveller, lost in some primeval forest solitude. Monsieur de
Sainville fell into her mood, by observing :
" Mademoiselle Nathalie, I hope you like my hermitage.
Pray please your romantic fancy for me ; imagine me the sober
hermit, yourself the damsel of old, reaching this solitary refuge,
after many perilous^vanderiugs. You must be wet and cold,
will you not warm yourself, whilst I produce my hermit's fare?"
She turned round ; a wood fire was kindling on the hearth
with a crackling sound : he drew a chair for her. She sat
down by the fire, for she felt chilly ; in the mean while ho
cpened the buifet, and drew forth a glass, a flask of wine, and
a small wheateu loaf, all of which he placed oo the table before
her.
" Real hermit's fare," he said ; " though I rather suspect
hermits drank water ; but not happening to have a limpid
stream are not those the v/ords? running past my door, I
NATHALIE. 171
must needs be conteut with wine, and have nothing better ts
offer to an unprotected guest."
He poured out some wine as he spoke; she thanked hiin_
but did not touch it ; she was bending over the fire, and looked
cokl and pale ; he eyed her uneasily, said she would certainly
take cold, and urged her to throw off her wet scarf and dry her
feet. There was something of kindly imperativeness in his
manner ; she complied, with silent docility, and took off both
scarf and slippers. Her host helped her to shake the first ;
then, as she knelt on the hearth, and held it to the fire, he took
up one of her slippers and also held it close to the heat, so that
it might dry more quickly. Nathalie looked at him in silent
wonder. " Mon Dieii !" she thought, " what would Madame
Marceau say, if she could see her brother drying my slippers ?"
In her simplicity, the young girl thought that she had
wronged Monsieur de Sainville that he was not so proud as
she had once imagined him to be. In reality, he was much
more so. Besides the personal pride she had justly attributed
to him, her host had the pride of his race and birth in the
highest degree. He was proud of his station, to which he
never alluded of his ancestors, whom he had too much good
taste ever to mention of all, in short, that had made him
Armand de Sainville. But the pride of the old French noblesse
has always gone hand in hand with a chivalrous courtesy of
manner that distinguishes them still. Nathalie need have felt
no surprise on seeing her host thus philosophically attending
on her ; he belonged to that race of gentilho?nmes whose most
aristocratic monarch, Louis XIV, bared his head and bowed
low to the poorest peasant girl who ever crossed his path.
Whilst drying the young g'lrV s pantoiijlc, Monsieur de Sain-
ville eyed it somewhat curiously. Nathalie, like a true French
woman, though simple to an excess in her dress, was very
fastidious about her chaussure. The slipper which he held
was merely of black satin, but so sn)all, so quaintly cut, and so
coquettish, that, though not made of glass, it might have rival-
led the t'iimous jxintou fie of Cinderella. He could not repress
it, smile, as he looked at it, and turned it round on his hand,
'.ike some childish thing. With good-humored reproof, he
asked Nathalie if she seriously thought such flimsy little things
could be of any possible use? She looked rather indignant, on
hearing her favorite slippers thus maligned, and quickly replied,
that, tliough so slight, they were very good and very strong;
upon which he shook his head, and looked skeptical. "
172 NATHALIE.
The scarf soon dried, and so did the slippers ; Nalhalia
quietly put them on, unseen, as she thought, by Monsieur de
Sainviile, who stood at one angle of the fire-place, looking down
abstractedly on the burning embers on the hearth. As she rose,
her hair, heavy with rain, fell down in dishevelled tresses ; she
was impatiently fastening it up again, damp as it was, when be
quietly observed :
" Do let your hair drv. Mademoiselle Nathalie ; it is quite
wet."
' He sees every thing," pettishly thought the young girl ;
but she silently complied, and once more knelt down facing
him. He seemed abstracted ; she wondered what he could be
thinking about, and in wondering looked ; the result of which
was that he immediately caught her eye, and seeing her slightly
confused, asked which of the pipes had attracted her attention.
" This is a very peculiar looking one," evasively replied
Nathalie, too frank to like or freely accept an excuse.
" This is not a pipe," said he, taking it down as he spoke,
" but a pistol."
She started up in alarm ; he smiled and assured her there
was no danger ; but Nathalie looked skeptical and unea.sy ; she
had a vague suspicion that pistols were always loaded, and
always on the point of going off. Ashamed of the fear she
had betrayed, she knelt once more, but could not help thinking
that Monsieur de Sainville must be a strange suspicious man,
to have those deadly weapons around him even in that quiet
summer-house.
" It is a travelling habit I have taken," he calmly said ; " I
assure you it gives a peculiar sense of security and indepen-
dence. *^With just that little instrument in my hand" he
bandied it as he spoke " though not half so formidable look-
ing as 3'onder pipe, it will go hard indeed if I do not remain
my own master. The law is a good thing ; the police is useful,
watchful servants are beyond praise, but that which enables a
man to do without them all is better far."
He replaced the pistol as he spoke ; then perceiving Na-
thalie's glass still full, he urged her to take some of the wine
he had poured out for her.
" You will like it," he quietly observed.
She raised the glass to her "lips, then quickly laid it down
snd looked at her host ; he was smiling, and seemed to enjoy
tier surprise.
' But this is a Provenqal wine," she said with some emotion ;
NATHALIE. 173
" the ciotat muscat, which I never tasted since I came to Nor-
mandy."
" Yes, it is the ciotat; I had some at Aries, and liked it so
well that I ordered a certain quantity of it when I came here.'"
" Aries ! You have been at Aries ?" exclaimed the young
girl, eagerly looking at him, and eyeing hira from head to foot,
as if the mere fact of having been at Aries must have produced
some change in his person.
" Yes, indeed, I have ; I was coming from Bcaucaire."
" Beaucaire !" she interrupted. " You have been at Bcau-
caire, also ? Did you see the great fair?"
" I went there for that purpose, four years ago.''
" Mori Dieu ! that was the very time I went with my poor
aunt How strange we did not meet?"
' Yes," he said, very seriously ; " it is peculiar."
" Was it not a fine fair ? How gay the narrow streets
looked with the signs of blue, red, and yellow cloth crossing
from one side to the other, and the white linen awning over
all ! And then the rich goods displayed at every door ! Car-
pets, costly arms, rich silks, and jewels in heaps, yes, every
thing was there. My auiit told me some of the merchants had
travelled hundreds of miles to exhibit and sell their goods. I
believe tliey were of every nation under the sun. I saw Italians,
Spaniards, and Germans, too, amongst the Europeans ; but I
looked most at the Turks, who seemed so solemn ; the Arme-
nians, who had such wily faces ; and the Greeks, who were so
handsome ! Did you see them ? My aunt said it was the finest
fair that had ever been at Beaucaire ; and though we only came
for a few days, we remained the whole of the first week."
" So did I," said Monsieur de Sainville.
' Then I am quite sure we must have met," exclaimed Na-
thalie, looking delighted ; " of course, we did not know one
another, I was much shorter than I am now, but still we
met at that fair of Beaucaire."
She spoke as if they were old acquaintances, and, indeed,
nothing now could have convinced her that they were not so.
She had spent a week at Beaucaire, four years ago, so had ho ;
the town was small, her walks had been confined to the prin-
cipal streets, so must his have been ; it was evident they had
met, and if they had met, how could they be strangers ?
From that hour the date of their acquaintanceship retrograded
four years. He adopted the same logical reasoning, for he said
with a smile,
1 74 NATHALIE.
' We certainly did meet ; indeed, I seem to recollect no-
ticing a young girl, of fourteen or so, on the boat that took me
to Aries ; and she was decidedly like you," he added, looking
at her fixedl3^
' Was she with an old lady?" demurely asked Nathalie,
" Precisely, with an old lady."
" And had she white muslin on ?"
" I really think she had."
' How strange !" said Nathalie, seeming much amused.
' I see nothing strange in it," he replied, quite gravely ;
' we were at the fair together, and went home by the boat, it
was perfectly natural."
" Yes, it would be, if it did not so happen that I never went
home by the boat at all ;" replied Nathalie, looking very merry
and mischievous.
Monsieur de Sainville looked slightly disconcerted. He
was a grave man, unacquainted with girls ; he had certainly
never expected that any young girl would carry her audacity
so far as to make game of him to his very face. He frowned
slightly, and looked down at her with a displeased mien, but
though her color rose a little, her look still fearlessly met' his.
He could not help smiling, and saying in a good-humored tone,
that he must have been deceived by a casual likeness.
" How did you like Beaucaire, sir?" Nathalie hastened to
ask ; for she was not quite sure she had not gone too far, and
wished to change the subject.
' Not n&lf so well as Aries."
" Then you liked Aries?" she exclaimed, looking at him a
little wistfully, whilst something tremulous was in her tone as
she uttered the name of her native and much-loved city.
" Who would not like that venerable old place, with its
mighty ruins, some of them so fresh that it seems as if the
Romans had left them but yesterday ! With its women, whose
strange beauty is like to none other ; for they have a charm
between eastern fire and classic grace, and when they seem
most calm, there is still something of southern passion in their
look and in their mien."
Oh ! subtle and exquisite indeed is the flattery of the land
and race we love ! Nathalie felt its power in the deepest re-
cesses of her heart. Even as Monsieur de Sainville spoke, a
bright vision slowly rose before her on the dark wall of the
little hermitage : she beheld the broad llhone gliding swiftly
at the foot of a dark and ancient city, crowned with Roman
NATHALIE. 1 75
ruins, and rising in the warm sunlight against the deep blue
southern sky. See beheld it and looked until her eyes became
dimmed with tears. Then the vision faded away : she saw
once more the dark night without ; within, the fire-lit hermit-
age, and Monsieur de Sainville standing before her and look-
ing down at her very kindly.
" I have grieved you," he said.
" Oh ! no, sir. You have made me feel so happy ! Not
since I left Aries have I met any one who had seen it, or cared
to hear about it."
" Poor child !" he compassionately said ; " the change must
have been great indeed, from Provence lo Normandy."
" The home sickness was on me for a whole 3^ear. I could
i.ot sleep, and scarcely eat. The doctor said I must go back
to the south, or die ; but he was mistaken, for, with the bless-
ing of Grod, I got better."
Monsieur de Sainville was not given to questioning ; but
he now seemed in the interrogative mood, for he made many
inquiries concerning the life Nathalie led at Mademoiselle
Dantin's. Her heart was opened, since she felt they had met
at the fair of Beaucaire, and she answered freel}''. A few gra-
phic, but not resentful, touches sketched Mademoiselle Dan-
tin ; the little Chevalier was not forgotten. She also spoke of
her favorite pupils ; of the- grief it was to part from them ; of
her lonely walks in the garden ; of the dreaming hours spent
in her solitary room ; and in all she said, there was girlish
piquancy, blending with a simple and homely grace. He listen-
ed to her, with an occasional smile, that showed he always re-
mained attentive, and yet with a sort of abstraction in his
manner that rendered it very difficult to say how far he really
cared for the ready replies his questions found, how much he
was guided by politeness, and how much by interest.
" Your life must have been dull at that school," he said, at
length. " Did you never go to parties of pleasure, to balls,
or any thing of the kind ?"
" I went to five balls," she replied, with the prompt and ac-
curate memory of one whose pleasures had been few and far
between.
" Do you care about dancing ?"
Slie eyed him wonderingly. Did she care about it ! Well
tliose serious gentlemen, who cared about nothing themselves
did ask strange questions.
" Yes," she answered, " she liked it very much."
176 NATHALIE.
' Better than that Provencal ciotat ?" said he, looking al
. her glass.
Nathalie drank the wine ; but when she laid down her
empty glass on the table, she remembered that Monsieur de
Sainville had tasted nothing. The buffet was open ; her eye
ran hastily over it; there was no second glass, for she was the
first guest he had received in his hermitage, and to whom he
had dispensed hospitality.
Oh ! sir," she said, rather pained, "you needed that wine,
after your fatigue, much more than I did. You look pale and
tired ; I am sure you needed it."
" lie smiled at her earnest tone ; said that he would bor-
row her glass ; and poured himself out some wine. He then
reclined back in his chair, and drank slowly, looking at her all
the time.
" There arc no wines like the southern wines," he said,
pausing once ; '-so light and genial."
She shook her head in a shrewd way, that implied " I be-
lieve so;" and said aloud, "Oh! no; there arc none like
them."
" And I think," he resumed, at the next pause, " that this
Provencal ciotat surpasses every other southern vintage."
" Do you really think so V exclaimed Nathalie, looking
delighted ; " or does it only amuse you to see how foolish I
can be about my poor Provence ?" she added, a little doubt-
fully.
* Mademoiselle Nathalie," said he, quickly, " you are un-
charitable. I give you my word that I think every thing
from Provence both excellent and delightful."
He half-bent forward as he spoke, and there was such un-
usual warmth in his look and tone, that Nathalie blushed
deeply, not knowing whether he did not mean a compliment.
On reflection, she thought this very unlikely, and said, a little
archly :
" The ciotat, especially."
" Yes, of course, the ciotat," he replied, laying down hia
smpty glass, and looking rather abstracted.
" Then why not take more?" she urged ; "you must bo so
iiitigued !"
" You seem quite confident about that."
" I know it was a fatiguing and dangerous task."
" Upon my word, there was no danger."
"What, none at all?" said Nathalie, looking disappointed.
NATHALIE 17?
" To please you, I will admit there was a little. You evi
dently like the perilous."
" I like every thing resembling an adventure," she can-
didly replied ; " every thing unlike the routine of dull, everj--
day life. I liked the distant danger on which I looked with a
beating heart ; the storm itself I liked, even when I feared it
most. I like being here to-night, in this spot, looking so wild
and solitary that one might fancy it lying miles away from a
human dwelling. I like to sit here and watch those gloomy
beeches, shedding their solemn twilight around, to wonder,
and half-shudder, at the mysterious depths beyond ; and when
I am most afraid, to contrast the darkness of the night without,
with the warmth and cheerful light within."
She half-bent over the fire as she spoke thus, with evident
enjoyment of her position. The wood burned brightly on the
hearth ; the night looked dark beyond, but the flame lit every
thing around with its flickering yet vivid glow. A warm ray
illumed the grave features of Monsieur de Sainville, as he sat
on one side of the fire-place, his elbow resting on the low
mantel-shelf, and fell on the animated face and bending pro-
file of the young girl who sat opposite to him. The thunder
and lightning had long ceased ; but the rain still fell heavily,
and the wind moaned away, with a low and lamentable sound,
along the lonely avenues. There was a brief silence.
' Yes, this is indeed a solitary place," said Nathalie, speak-
ing almost under her breath.
" Do you like solitude V asked Monsieur de Sainville.
" I should not like to be alone here," was the frank reply.
" Indeed solitude is too quiet and silent a lady for you, my
child," said he, kindly.
" Mo)i enfant" though by no means implying the same de-
gree of familiarity as the English expression of " my child," is
still significant of an afi'ectionate freedom Nathalie had not
expected from Monsieur de Sainville ; but their acquaintance
had made great progress that evening. She could not help
thinking so, and looking at him a little thoughtfully. He did
not notice it ; for he had risen, and stood near the window,
listening to the rain and wind without.
" It is scarcely raining now," he said, after a pause. " I
think, Mademoiselle Nathalie, it Avill be best for me to go
alone to the chateau, and send a servant to you, with a cloak,
and any thing else you may need."
Nathalie did not object, but she saw Monsieur dc Sainville
178 NATHALIE.
prepare to leave her with any thing but a sense of security.
This lonely spot, with its wild look-out, and the deepening
gloom of night gathering around it, frightened her, she knew
not why. Still she did not like to remonstrate ; but scarcely
had the door closed upon him, than fear overcame shame ; she
left her seat, ran quickly to the door, opened it, and said,
eagerly :
" I would much sooner not wait, sir ; I would much rather
go with you."
" I warn you," said he, coming back, " that it will be per-
haps more of an adventure than even you will like ; I have
already perceived several newly-born islands and various un-
known seas."
" Nathalie bent forward, and cautiously put out her grace-
ful head, for the rain had not quite ceased. The prospect was
by no means cheering. Evening had set in ; over a wide lawn,
covered with pools of water, extended a gray and gloomy sky,
in which the pale moon now shone with a dim and troubled
light ; between earth and heaven floated a thin white mist,
which made the chateau, already at a sufficient distance, seem
more distant still. Nathalie uttered an exclamation of dismay,
He urged her not to make the attempt. She put one foot for-
ward, took a step, and then hesitated. He thought she agreed
to stay, and walked on ; but she hastily descended the wooden
steps, and quickly stood by his side.
" I cannot stay there alone," she said.
" What are you afraid of?"
" Of the wind, of the rain, of everything."
He smiled, but forbore to remonstrate. He helped her to
throw her scarf over her head, gave a dubious glance, which she
detected, at the satin slippers, and offered her his arm. The
wind was keen, and drove the rain full in Nathalie's face ; but
she enjoyed the struggle, laughed, and gayly shook away the
glittering drops from her cheek, to which the breeze gave
heightened bloom. She looked the very realization of that
delightful Louisa, from whose cheek the poet longed to kiss
away the mountain rains. They had not walked far, when a
sudden pause occurred. She looked disconcerted, and stopped ;
he pretended not to see that her slipper had come oflF. They
had not gone on five steps further, when the other slipper
stuck fast in the damp earth. This time he smiled. Nathalie
looked extremely provoked, and pettishly asked "if it was the
clipper's fault if the earth would be damp?" to which ha
NATHALIE. 179
gravely replied, "certainly not." But when this agreeable
incident had occurred a certain number of times, Nathalie lost
patience, declared the slippers might remain behind if they
iiked," and that she could very well walk home without them.
" No, my dear child," said he, with an authoritative kind-
ness, ' you will not do this ; you will go back to the little
hermitage, warm yourself once more, and wait until I send you
all you need."
i- Very well, sir," replied Nathalie, with child-like dccility,
for she was touched at the good-humored and indulgent patience
with which he had borne all her little caprices.
On hearing her ready a^ssent, he praised her for being so
good and docile ; promised to send soon, and proceeded on his
way, whilst she returned alone to the little hermitage.
CHAPTEK XIII.
Nathalie pushed the door open a little, hesitatingly. There
i( a nameless sort of fear no argument can allay. But the place
was as they had left it, quiet and silent. The fire, however,
had burned rather low ; she closed the door, came forward, and
stooped to arrange it. A slight sound made her raise her look
with a start ; the door opened slowly ; a shadow darkened the
floor. In the indistinct light, Nathalie perceived a man's form
standing on the threshold ; she concluded it was Monsieur de
Sainville, who had returned for some unknown reason.
"What has happened, sir?" she asked, rising quickly; but
she imniediately drew back, with a faint scream, for, by the
flickering firelight, she had perceived that it was not Monsieur
de Sainville, but his nephew.
There was something in the sudden way in which Charles
Marceau chose to appear before the lady of his thoughts, that
always jarred disagreeably on her nerves, like an unexpected
shock. She now stood, mute and pale, before hira, with her
hand laid on the table : she needed that support. He drew
near the fire-place, and stooped to look at her.
' Mademoiselle Montolieu !" he exclaimed, in a tone of
great surprise, " I could scarcely have hoped for this."
Nathalie looked, and felt incredulous. It was strange.
., ^..^ ^^^^ . .W,.......,....,. ^V ,,.... ^V..^j,.
180 NATllALIi;.
indeed, be should kuow of bei- presence there ; yet she did net
think he had come in by chance. She eyed him with mistrust;
he stood on the spot lately occupied by bis uncle ; his arm
rested on the mantel-shelf, and supported his head, which wag
partly bowed. She could not see his features ; but she saw that
bis wet hair clung to his pale cheeks ; his clothes looked heavy
with rain. There was a brief silence ; but ere long his low
and melancholy voice addressed her:
" IJelieve me, I needed not this freezing silence to under-
stand that your resentment was unabated. Oh ! it is strange,
it is bitter, that a deep and devoted love should win naught
save such unmitigated aversion !"
He looked up, as he spoke thus, in a moved tone. Nathalie
remained cold and silent. She was romantic enough in her
way ; yet such language found with her no sympathy. This is
no uncommon case ; the key with which we win, or seek to win.
a way to the hearts of others, is not always that which can
unlock our own heart. On seeing her standing before him.
cold and mute, like a marble statue, the young man could not
help exclaiming, almost angrily:
"What have I done? To love you is no crime ! What
have I done to be thus treated?"
" May I inquire what you mean by ' thus treated ?' " she
dryly asked.
" You will not even read a letter, breathing only the most
respectful tenderness. What could you fear from it?"
" Nothing," was the calm reply.
" Then why so cruel as to return it unread ?"
'lor two reasons : the first was, that the manner in which
you sent that letter displeased me ; the second reason was, that
I held myself tacitly bound to Madame Marceau to hold no
communication whatsoever with you."
She spoke with unruffled calmness. He remained moodily
silent. She quietly resumed :
" For the same reason, I shall feel deeply indebted to you,
if you will be so good as to abridge this interview. I need
Burely not say how painful it will be to me if you remain hero
until the arrival of the servant, whom I expect every moment."
" Say rather that every moment of my presence here is
hateful to you," he bitterly replied, for her fearless composure
verging on indifference offended him deeply.
' It is at least unbecoming here, sir," she impatiently au-
Bwered, annoyed at his repeated assertions of her supposed
hr.tred.
XAniALIE. 1H1
" And why unbecoming ?'' be urged in tbo same bittei
tone; "you were here alone with my uncle half an hour oi
more ; why should it be so very unbecoming if I remain a few
minutes with you ?"
" You knew he was here ?" exclaimed Nathalie drawing
back with renewed mistrust.
" Yes, I knew it, he replied, raising his look until it met hera
and remained fastened on her face, fixed and ardent; "yes, I
knew it. I stood outside that window in the rain, looking at
you : there is not a glance, a smile, a motion of yours during
the last half-hour which I have not seen and do not remember.
I strained my ear to catch the sound of your voice, when I saw
your lips moving, but the wind was loud and only once could
I hear ; it was when you laughed. But of course it was quite
natural that I should stand outside, thanking the keen night
air for cooling the fever of my blood ; quite natural that he
who has no such fever to cool, I suppose, should be in here with
you. He. stood where I am standing now; you knelt there
drying your hair before the fire ; he could have touched it by
just stretching out his hand so, yet you did not think it need-
ful to be so very far away from him, or to stand, as you do now.
behind that table, with your look on the door. He spoke
coldly enough, as it seemed to me, yet you smiled, laughed, and
looked joyous. You drank out of that glass ; when you had
done he drank out of it too, and perhaps his lips met the very
place yours had touched. He went out alone, but you followed
him of your own accord ; he offered you his arm, you took it
unhesitatingly ; the ground was wet in many places ; he helped
you over, and you did not shrink from him. I have never so
much- as asked to touch the hem of your robe ; and you turn
from mo with aversion. Why is this ? why must he who cares
not for them, enjoy freedoms, innocent I grant, but denied me,
to whom they would he delightful ?"
He spoke with rapid and jealous passion. A burning blush
of anger and shame settled on Nathalie's cheek ; it deepened
with every word he uttered, with every image he called up.
' Sir !" said she in angry justification, " I am free with
Monsieur de Sainville, because he is my host, and, I believe,
my friend, and also because, as you say, he cares not for those
frecd^oms."
' And how do you know he cares not for them?" exclaimed
Charles Marceau, with all the unreasonableness nnd 7nalad resse
of genuine jealousy ; " do you think he will let you sec it if he
! 82 NATHALIE.
does ? Aro you not beautiful for him as well as for any other
man ? or is there a spell on his eyes that he should not
see it?"
" And if it were so, sir, and if he did see it," exclaimed
Nathalie, speakino; with unrepressed indignation, " I should
still be to him all that you accurately watched and saw this
evening."
"And why so?" gloomily asked Charles, "why so?"
" Because I have faith, unbounded faith in Monsieur do
Sainville's honor." Her eye sparkled as she spoke, her cheeks
were flushed, her lips trembled, and she pressed her cla?ped
hands to her bosom. The young man turned very pale.
" Am I to understand," he asked in a low tone, that you
mean to cast a doubt on my honor ?"
" She turned quickly towards him and replied with some
emotion, "no, sir; heaven forbid !"
There was something so truthful and confidinsr in her face
at that moment, that he did not see it was only the. lingering
trace of her previous emotion, and he conceived a sudden hope.
" Then, since you do not mistrust me," he eagerly said ;
" since you are good enough to have some confidence in me, hear
me, I beseech you."
Nathalie shook her head with decisive denial.
' I have heard enough," she said ; " you have spoken to me
as none ever spoke to me before ; may I never hear such lan-
guage again. Sir.it is not enough to love ; there is such a
thing as loving delicately ; there is such a thing as not utter-
ing language, accusations, and allusions that will make a woman
blush with unmerited shame. I knowj" she added, noticing his
darkening brow, " that this frankness offends you ; yet 1 can
retract nothing of what you have provoked me to say. You are
proud resent it ; and let resentment, if you will, take the place
of anv other feeling I .shall not complain."
He looked at her with anger, in which blended irrepressible
tenderness.
" You need not urge me to hate you," he passionately ex-
claimed ; ' I know very well I ought, and I know I shall do so,
some day ; but I know also, that now, do what I will, I cannot.
Haughty girl! Do you know this? do you know you never
look half so bewitching as when you wear that proud look and
scornfal smile? Do you know that your very pride wins, when
seeming most to repel ; that it has a i^harm which only draws
tao more irresistibly to your feet?"
NATHALIE. 183
But Nathalie was not touched. In vain he pleaded that
his indiscreet language was only the result of passion and of a
momentary and absurd jealousy ; she could not forgi-^e him
the watching at the window ; least of all could she forgive his
construction on what he had seen. He tried to explain, and
made matters worse ; then he fell back on the old theme of his
love, and poured forth protestation on protestation with rapid
and rising eloquence : she heard him with impatience at first,
and then with weariness and enJiui on her face.
" You are not from the south, for you have a hea/t of ice,"
he at length exclaimed, with irrepressible anger ; " I am made
to talk of love to you. Love ! you cannot love."
A rapid blush suffused Nathalie's face.
' You know nothing about it," she replied hastily.
She stood before him, her arms folded on her bossom, her
face turned towards him with a haughty smile ; and as she
thus unhesitatingly vindicated herself from the reproach of
unwomanly heartlessness cast upon her, there was in her look,
in her smile, and in her bearing, a provoking sort of grace, not
free perhaps from unconscious coquetry, but which was cer-
tainly feminine, and. though she knew it not, irresistibly allur-
ing.
He had been pacing the room up and down ; he stopped
short to look at her ; emotion succeeded anger on his features:
he felt the spell ; approached her, and said in a low submissive
tone:
' Be merciful, then ! Teach me how I can make you love
me."
She had not expected he would take her words as a sort of
advance ; his doing so offended her. She said in a distant
tone:
" As I perceive, sir. you have not the generosity to desist
and leave me, do not wonder if I leave you."
But even as she spoke, a sudden change came over the sa-
turnine features of her exacting lover: she saw him start,
change color, and step back hastily, with his look fastened on
the door behind her. She turned quickly round, and saw, not
the expected servant, but the pale and angry face of Monsieur
de Sainville, as he stood on the threshold, holding the half-open
door in his hand.
He closed it ; came forward and sat down by the fireside,
rithout once looking at Nathalie, or removing his menacing
glance from Charles Marceau. But the calmness of his voice.
184 NATHALIE.
tyhen he spoke, contrasted strikingly with the stem moaniug
of his face.
" Charles," said lie, quietly, what has brought you here ?
I thought you were in Paris."
" I have been ill, sir," replied the young man, with a con-
fusion that soon wore oflF.
His uncle eyed him from head to foot with a very cxpres
eive gaze.
' 1 am much better now," continued his nephew ; "but the
doctor advised change of air my native air, and so I came ''
" You were born and bred at Havre," coldly interrupted
his uncle, "and Havre is some ten leagues off; I suppose you
were on your way there, and could not resist the temptation of
seeing your mother en passant. I need not tell you how much
she will value this attention, and be pained at your ill-health "
" Sir," said the young man, coloring, " allow me to say you
have no right to express these doubts. This letter, which I
had written beforehand, for your persual, and which contains
another letter, addressed to me by my medical attendant, ought
not to be needed to convince you of the truth of my asser-
tions."
He produced a sealed letter, and handed it to his uncle as
he spoke. Nathalie could not help trying to divine the expres-
sion of Monsieur de Sainville's features, as he perused his
nephew's epistle by the fire-light ; that expression was easy to
read it was one of unmitigated skepticism.
" Why," said he, looking up from the paper, and glancing
at Charles, " it seems that you are thereatened with consump-
tion, whereupon this wise doctor sends you to Normandy. I
should have suggested the south of France, decidedly. Eut
even this," he added, after a slight pause, " does not explain
why, instead of entering the chateau by the front gate, and
a.sking to see me, you wander about the grounds, on a rainy
night, with a letter for me in your pocket."
" Sir," calmly answered his nephew. " do you forget that
when we parted, I pledged my word not to return without your
permission ?"
" I do not forget it. I assure you," was the dry reply.
' Then cease to wonder at the hesitation I felt in appearing
before you. I left this afternoon the village where I am stay-
ing ; the storm overtook me near Sainville ; I found one of the
smaller gates of these grounds open I entered unseen ; I in-
iended spending the night in this place, and, as I felt anxioua
NATHALIE. 185
fiot to alarm my mother, either to wait bore until you carae
or until I met some servant who might become my messenger
to you."
' .All this is plausible, Charles, too plausible by far."
quietly replied Monsieur de Sainville. '-"VVehavein France
such an institution as tlie post-office, to which you might have
confided your letter. To come here as you came was the very
way to alarm your mother ; to speak to a servant, the very
way to let her know of your presence. You have broken your
word to me, but I do not resent this half so much as your want
of candor in not confessing a feeling which you may as well
know it is your only excuse in my eyes. Why, when I asked
the reason of your return, had you not the frankness to say :
' I came back here, led by a passion which wise men call folly,
but which subdues the reason of the very wisest ; I entered
this place, not by a scarcely possible chance, but because I
knew that she whom I sought was here. I blame 3'ou, Charles,
for shrinking from the avowal of what most men take pride
in, passion, and its follies."
The young man colored deeply at this unexpected reproof;
and Nathalie asked herself if it were indeed the grave, the
cold Monsieur de Sainville who had thus spoken.
" You are severe, sir," exclaimed the young man, with ill-
repressed irritation ; " but ask yourself how I could confide in
one whose native coldness, indifference, and rooted skepticism.
in matters of the heart, I knew so well ?"
A slight hectic flush crossed the pale cheek of Monsieur de
Sainville. Nathalie perhaps ought not to have looked, but look
she did, as if attracted by an irresistible spell ; his glance met
hers, and though he was a grave man, and she but a young
girl, he colored, looked disconcerted, and turned his glance
away ; but he recovered almost immediately, and addressing
his nephew, said, in his most composed tone :
" This at least is a sensible excuse ; but to spare you un-
necessary trouble, to render this explanation more clear and
brief, I may as well inform you that you have little or nothing
to disguise from me ; that, attracted by the sound of voices, I
returned to this place in time to overhear a warm and generous
vindication of my honor drawn forth by accusations which I
did not hear, for which I do not care, but the nature of which
I can, by what followed, guess easily."
Charles Marceau slightly turned pale ; a burning blusi
overspread Nathalie's face.
186 NATHALIE.
" Then you listened," exclaimed the young man.
" Precisely ; I listened ; for a few moments, at least." verj
calmly returned his uncle.
" You ! sir ; you, a gentleman F' and the word was uttered
with indignant emphasis.
" A gentleman, as you say," replied Monsieur de Sainville,
looking him full and firmly in the face.
" Monsieur de Sainville," angrily cried the young man,
'' you told me yourself that in certain matters you would never
interfere; that the authority to which I freely submitted
should never extend to feelings which would render it unbear-
able ; you have upbraided me with breach of my word ; allow
me to ask if you keep yours ?"
Nathalie looked at Monsieur de Sainville with some alarm ;
but he remained quite composed, folded his arms across his
breast, and eyed his nephew with a stern smile.
' Charles," said he, in his most unruffled tones, ' do not
talk so loud when you are in a lady's presence ; and if you can,
speak more sensibly when you speak to a man of the world.
I say this as advice ; the delusion under which you labor,
namely, that I listened to pry into your feelings, and interfere
with your actions, is too absurd for me to resent it. Love
where you like. act as you like ; should your conduct reach a
certain point, I shall know how to throw off the responsibility
of your actions. You have broken your word ; mine is still,
and ever will be, inviolate. No matter what I may think of
what I happened to overhear this evening, rest assured that
your mother's brother will never remember it."
He uttered this with a calmness that deeply disconcerted
the young man ; then turned towards Nathalie, and resumed,
now speaking with the ease of a man of the world, and the
courtesy of a gentleman :
" It was the host and friend of Mademoiselle Montolieu,
who, finding her subjected once more to an intrusion which he
had hoped would never occur again whilst she resided here,
heard enough to convince himself that the conversation was on
her part a most involuntary one, and came forward when it
was his evident duty to interfere."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu is fortunate in such guardian-
ship," bitterly said Charles.
" Yes, sir. Mademoiselle Montolieu is very fortunate, in-
deed." quickly replied Nathalie, going up, involuntarily per-
haps, to Monsieur de Sainville's chair as she spoke, and thence
looking at Charles with a little indignant air.
NATHALIE. 187
The child-like warmth and action made Monsieur de Sain-
ville smile ; he raised his look, eyed her with a slow and silent
gaze, then turned once more towards his nephew, and said, in
a much milder tone:
" I think, Charles, we have had enough of explanations.
For the sake of a passion there is so much to justify, I overlook
the fact that you have broken, or almost broken your word to
me. For the same reason, I will endeavor to forget that you
have presumed to intrude upon a young lady residing under
my roof, consequently under my express protection. But let
such an occurren(?e never take place again."
This Hidden and unexpected leniency surprised the young
girl ; but Charles Marceau looked dark and moody. His uncle
resumed :
' With regard to the authority you have allowed me over
you I need not remind you that it was not of my own seek-
ing you shall be released from it the moment you wish."
He spoke rather more coldly now ; but Charles had once
more become quite cool and collected : he gravely replied,
' I may have spoken hastily, sir, but I do not think I have
expressed that desire."
" I suppose you do not object to return to Paris imme-
diately?"
' I shall do so."
' Then I believe," observed Monsieur de Sainville, rising,-
" that there is no more to say."
" Uncle," said the young man, stepping forward, and, for
the first time addressing his relative thus: "Allow me to say
a few words to Mademoiselle Montolieu, before she goes."
" No, no," hastily said Nathalie, drawing closer to Mon-
sieur de Sainville, as if fearing he would leave her alone with
his nephew ; " you have nothing to say, sir, I have nothing
to hear."
" I meant in the presence of my uncle," said the young man^
looking much mortified.
" Will you not hear what he has to say ?" asked Monsieur
de Sainville.
She hesitated ; but sat down, in token of compliance.
Monsieur de Sainville drew away a few steps ; Charlea
confronted them both.
" Uncle," said he, quietly, ' allow me first to ask you a
question. You know that I love this young lady, who seemed
so indignant at the idea of remaining a few seconds alone with
me: do you believe my affection sincere and true?"
188 NATHALIE.
' And pray," replied Monsieur de Sainville, with haughty
surprise, "how should I know the nature of your affection V
"Because you can distinguish between the truth and tho
mockery of passion,"' replied his nephew, with a fixed look ;
" because, if report speaks true, you once loved, yourself ay.
and loved so deeply, as not to care to love again."
Nathalie's head was resting on her hand ; but she looked
up very suddenly. Monsieur de Sainville saw her not his
face was pale and rigid with astonished passion ; his blue eyes,
generally as calm as the surface of deep, but unstirred waters,
now shone with angry light. He made all effort to be com-
posed, and merely said, in a low tone, " Charles !"
' Yes, sir, I know," returned the young man, " I know I
am recalling the memory of a bitter past ; but you have hum-
bled me you have made me look like a child found at fiiult,
unworthy of serious reproof chid for awhile, and forgiven.
Think of the time when you loved as I love, and wonder not
if I feel reckless."
Monsieur de Sainville looked keenly at Charles. The
wrathful expression of his face gradually subsided, until it
wholly vanished, and yielded to a sort of calm surprise, per-
haps at his nephew's daring, jierhaps at his own easily-moved
anger ; but of a surprise in which there blended at least a
certain degree of admiration.
" I rather like daring," he said, at length ; ' but it is a
sharp weapon to handle. Do not repeat this evening's experi-
ment. Who knows whether it would succeed a second time ?
Yet say what you have to say freely. You seem to think 1
have slighted you, in a manner and in a presence which made
the slight doubly keen ; for what man but wishes to be honored
and esteemed by the woman he admires and loves ? If I have
done so, I have indeed wronged you ; speak out, and prove
it."
He spoke thus himself, with the firm and manly dignity of
one who loved to assert his own strong will ; but made not
himself its slave, nor that of any passion, however subtle the
disguise of right and justice it might wear.
Nathalie looked at him with sympathetic admiration. She
had not that inflexible conscientious judgment, that calm
will, ever ready to act, guide, or restrain, with scarce the seem-
ing of an effort ; but she admired these qualities with the su-
perstitious reverence which the inexperienced mariner feels for
the pilot who guides his barque through foaming breaker and
NATHALIE. 139
Bfconny wave, and leads it thence, with calm eye and ever
steady hand, into the broad still waters. She liked courage
and energy, too ; and could not help casting on Charles Mar-
ceau a glance more kindly than any he had yet won from her.
But the young man seemed already to reperit the bold lan-
guage which had led to all this. He stood before his uncle,
in an attitude between hesitation, doubt, and surprise, half
shunning Monsieur de Sainville's steady glance, and looking
uot unlike a wary archer, who for once has overshot his mark,
and coolly meditates a surer aim.
" Uncle," he slowly said, " I never accused you of wrong-
ing me. I spoke, indeed, under the influence of strong emo-
tion, else I should not have recalled to your memory a painful
past."
" Then he is not so daring after all," thought Nathalie,
rather scornfully, and true to the feminine instinct of admir-
ing courage, whether moral or physical. Yet she wronged the
yaung man. Whatever his faults might be, he was no coward.
But love was not his only aim in life ; he had another mistress
besides Nathalie to please ; one whose favor he prized no less
than hers, and sought not with less patient eagerness Ambi-
tion. His uncle could do much to make that proud lady gra-
cious ; and Charles knew it.
'' Then what do you want of me?" asked Monsieur de Sain-
ville.
He spoke sharply, and looked almost disappointed at this
sudden calming down from audacity to prudence.
" Nothing," respectfully replied his nephew, ' save that
you would help to eiface an impression you have helped to
produce."
"I have agreed to forward your views in life ; but not, I
think, your affairs of the heart," replied Monsieur de Sain-
ville, with ill-concealed irony. " Still, if you think me bound
to do so in justice "
" In generosity," interrupted Charles.
" Or if you think I can serve in such matters, why then be
it so."
" Then since you do not object," composedly said Charles.
" Obiect !" asked his uncle, with a peculiar smilo, " why
Bhould I ?"
" I will request your opinion and advice."
" Opinion and advice!" echoed Monsieur de Sainvillc ; " I
never ask or take, and rarely give cither ; but if you val e
tnino, you are welcome to them."
190 NATHALIE.
He sat dowu as he spoke thus, with evidonl carfclessncsa,
as if the passing interest he had for a moment felt were now
suddenly gone. Nathalie, surprised and hurt that he should
so readily agree to interfere in this matter, gave him a half
offended look, but he did not heed it. He sat back in his
chair, half-reclining, with arms folded, look sedate, and in an
attitude of cold and negligent dignity. He seemed like one
who may lend himself to the common uses of daily life, but
who never forgets that his realm and province lie far beyond,
where ? within himself, perchance.
There was in all this something so indifferent and fo
haughty, that, for a moment, Nathalie thought, almost angrily,
" Why. who. and what is that man, that he should set himself
abjve such things, or make himself so much of a ruler and a
king?"
' Well." said he, very quietly, "you do not speak, Charles ?"
The young man was looking at Nathalie with a half-
entreating, half-watchful look, as if bidding her note the words
he was going to utter the reply they would win.
Monsieur de Sainviile raised his head, followed the direc-
tion of his nephew's look, smiled, resumed his old attitude,
and said, ' I am waiting."
" Why not xce are waiting ; it would be more royal a great
deal," indignantly thought the young girl.
Monsieur de Sainviile noticed her Hushed face, and quietly
asked if she found the room too close. Nathalie, a little dis-
concerted, did not answer. Charles, whose pause was not one
of hesitation, but of thought, now spoke :
' Sir, do you believe in my attachment for Mademoiselle
Montolieu?"
" Certainly," was the calm reply.
" Do you object to that attachment V
' Object to it ! no ; why should I ?"
" Do you approve it ?" He spoke low, but with a fixod
look. Monsieur de Sainviile returned the glance, and said,
very calmly :
' To approve would be to admit that I have a right to ob-
ject. My guardianship over either you or Mademoiselle Mon-
tolieu extends not so far."
" May I know, uncle; in what light you view t'lat attach-
ment ?" placidly urged Charles.
" As a thing that concerns me not," frigidly replied hia
uncle j " my only concern in this matter is to see that Made
NATHALrE. 191
raoiselle Montolieu is not annoyed : you may feel Avliat you
like."
" But you do not object to it T' said Charles, again.
' No." again replied his uncle, smiling, as if he had no diffi-
culty in understanding why Charles persisted in his question.
The young man looked at Nathalie ; there was something
of triumph in his look, which brought a more scornful light to
her eyes. She understood, and resented his meaning.
" Uncle," resumed Charles, once more addressing his rela-
tive, " allow me now to ask your advice. When a man loves a
woman, and is so unfortunate as not to be able to convince her
of his aifection, what can he do ?"
" Persist or desist, just as he chooses," dryly replied Mon-
sieur de Sainville.
" But what do you advise me to do ?" persisted Charles.
" Convince Mademoiselle Montolieu, if you can, Charles ;
and if you cannot, do not torment her."
' But you advise mo to convince her, if I can," urged
Charles.
" By all means," was the unhesitating reply.
' And you do not object to my passion?"
" No," impatiently answered his uncle.
Nathalie colored and looked offended. Charles turned
towards her ; his look was downcast ; iiis voice measured and
low.
" Mademoiselle," said he calmly, " you were good enough
on my uncle's solicitation to agree to listen to me. It may be
long before we meet again : you have refused to hear me
alone : you know what I feel for you ; allow me to ask if I
may hope ?"
Nathalie did not answer. He repeated his question, still
she gave him no reply. A third time he asked.
" May I hope?"
She looked up, and said quietly.
' You may hope, sir, since you call it so, or not hope ^just
as you please. I have nothing to do with -cither feeUng."
" Is this scorn ?" he asked, turning pale.
" No, sir, by no means," she answered with something like
gentleness ; " it is simply that you have asked me a ij^ucstion
you have no riglit to ask."
' Uncle," exclaimed Charles, ' I appeal to you ; k^s my
question fair ?"
' I am no arbiter in this case," replied Monsieur dc Sain-
ville. speaking very coldly.
192 NATHALIE.
' 111 the uanie of justice, sir, I conjure you to answer me :
was that question a fair question '?"
" I think it was a fair question," gravely replied Monsieur
de Sainville, thus adjured.
" I deny it, I deny it," exclaimed Nathalie rising as she
spoke, looking indignantly at Monsieur de Sainville, and
haughtily at his nephew ; " I deny it, and since you will have
the truth, sir, why, you may hear it. I refuse to answer, be-
cause I do not think that words and protestations give a claim
to the attention, which is implied by the fact of answering.
^V^hen a man has proved the truth and courage of his affection,
when though he shall not win love, he may at least compel
esteem and respect, then perhaps, but not till then, he may ask
a plain question, and expect a plain reply. Mind, sir, I do not
accuse yon ; I merely say that I know you not."
Charles said nothing, but he evidently chafed inwardly.
Monsieur de Sainville, who had been observing Nathalie's
changing face with some attention, now observed with a smile
that seemed to imply he was not indifferent to the perverse
pleasure of provoking her a little further :
" Pray do not imagine I meant you were bound to reply,
but allow me to ask if you do not take too rigid and exclusive
a view of so important a question. Proofs ! What man can
give proofs of mere feelings ? What woman is sufficiently im-
partial to test the proofs when given ? Would it not be safer
to go at once on the principle of believing in the affection pro-
fessed ?"
" Sir," said Nathalie turning towards him with a kindling
look, " allow me to say 5-ou evidently do not understand either
this subject or me."
" Indeed !" he interjected, looking rather amused.
" Yes, indeed," she echoed ; ' you seem to think I am
guided by prudence ; I am not, sir ; I am guided by pride."
" Pride is a dangerous guide, Mademoiselle Montolieu,"
he observed with a smile.
" But at least frank and true," she replied, with some energy.
" Sir, men have many ways of vindicating their honor and as-
serting their dignity, woman but one. I am whatever my
station may be a woman, and I will exact as much observance
and respect as any great lady ; neither poverty nor obscure
birth shall make me 'bate one atom of my pride. Monsieur
Marceau is free to carry his affections elsewhere ; if he wishes
to know my mind, he shall bide my pleasure and my time. I
.NATHALIE. 103
will not admit that, for having si^oken to me three times
every time against my will one, of whom I otherwise know
nothing, has a claim to a serious reply, or a right to be heard.
Women are surely not so cheap that such mere attentions
should make a man win or lose them !"
She spoke with all the eloquent rapidity of southern vehe-
mence, without a second's pause or a moment's hesitation.
' I believe, Charles," quietly said Monsieur de Sainville.
that this is decisive."
" Decisive !" echoed the young man, in a tone of subdued
irritation; " how so? If Mademoiselle Montolieu has refused
to say ' hope,' she has not said ' do not hope.' Why. then,
should I not, as you yourself advised me, sir, seek to convince
and change her."
' Provided she permits your attentions," coldly said his
uncle.
"No, no," quickly exclaimed Nathalie; "I do not, I will
not."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," said Charles, in a low tone,
"this is strange and contradictory. You exact proofs, and
then refuse them. Shall I ask if you are capricious ?"
" And shall I ask. sir, if you are free to give those proofs?"
coldly replied Nathalie. " I speak not in a spirit of recrimina-
tion," she added, more gently, as she saw him change color.
" I might have alluded to this before, but I thought it more
just and generous to consider the offer of your affection in
itself, and without reference to circumstances over which you
had no control. But though I reproach you not for that which
is no fault of yours, wonder not if I decline attentions your
mother would oppose or resent, and to accept which would
imply, on my part, either the meanest perfidy or the most
heroic patience, as I chose to deceive or brave her. Perfidious
I never will be ; and patient, sir. you know well enough that
I am not."
The young man did not answer. What could he say ? His
uncle rose, walked up to Nathalie, and laying his hand gently
on her arm, said to his nephew, eyeing him steadily as he
spoke :
" Charles, you love this young girl. I do not blame you ;
and if. spite of all the obstacles which rise against your passion,
you choose to persist, why, then, love on. and run your chance.
Fortune may end by befriending you. But, in the mean time,
do not forget this : through your own imprudence, this same
9
194 NATlIALin.
youug girl has become my guest ; she is under the shield of
juy roof, name, and honor. You have yourself heard her ac
cepting this guardianship, which shall only be to protect, and
never to control her. I shall, therefore, no more permit an in-
trusion on her privacy than if she were my sister or my child.
Feel as you like, and as much as you like ; but confine yourself
to feeling. Should any thing like what has happened this
evening occur again, I warn you that I shall not be so easily
appeased ; but that I shall resent it as much, and precisely in the
same way, as if we were the merest strangers, without one drop
of the same blood." He spoke imperatively, and looked almost
stern ; but, as if repenting this, he resumed, in his usual tone :
" I speak thus to warn, not to threaten. I have faith in your
good sense and honor."
Thus saying, he quietly passed the unresisting arm of
Nathalie within his own, and left the hermitage.
The young man did not reply. His face was pale ; his
lips were compressed. He walked up to the door, and stood
there montionless. His moody and abstracted glance long
followed the two forms, now slowly vanishing in the evening
obscurity.
CHAPTER XIV.
The walk home was silent. The rain had ceased; Mon-
sieur de Sainville led his companion by the terraces ; it was
the longer but also the dryer M^ay. Once when they came to a
pool of water, visible by the faint and trembling moonlight, he
lifted her over it with as little hesitation and as much ease as
if she were a child. She gave him a half-ofi"ended look, but on
seeing how abstracted he looked, and how little he evidently
thought of the cause of her displeasure, she had discretion
enougii to feel that it would be better not to seem offended.
She did not speak until they entered the lime-tree avenue.
" Where are we going, sir ?" she then asked.
' To the library, unless you object. There is a p'-Ivatr
staircase by which you can go up to your own room at once.
It is therefore shorter than to go by the front entrance.''
Nathalie by no means objected. She had now bcou out
NATHALIE. 199
saveral hours ; her long absence would be tbouglit strange ;
tlie sooner she could change her attire and make her appear-
ance, the better.
It was Monsieur de Sainville'3 habit to have CA'cry room
devoted to his separate use lit at a certain hour, whether he
was present or not. ,
He disliked to repeat the same orders evening after even-
ing ; indeed, whenever he took a new servant he gave him a
concise and exact account of his duties ; informing hira that
this account was given once for all, that he consequently hoped
not to be under the necessity of having to repeat it ; and,
thanks to the quiet authority of his manner, the necessity
rarely occurred. It was owing to this peculiarity that Nacha-
lie now found the library quite solitary, but in a brilliant state
of illumination. A large lamp shed its light on the table ; and
waxlights, which had been burning for some time in silver
sconces hanging against the walls, filled the place with their
clear pale ray.
iS^o spot of a room where Monsieur de Sainville chose to be.
was to remain ill inconvenient obscurity. Few men cared so
little for the more delicate luxuries of life, but few, also, made
every thing within their sphere and power so subservient to
their will as he did to his.
"That man turns the very lights into his obedient slaves,"
thought Nathalie, a little indignantly. A rapid look, given
whilst Monsieur de Sainville closed the door, had sufficed her
to observe all this, and to comment upon it inwardly. As he
came forward she remembered, and looked for, the private stair-
case he had mentioned, but looked in vain ; she could only see
two doors, that by which they had just entered, and that which
led to the hall. Sign of other egress there was none. She
looked puzzled and he amused.
-" I see," said he, ' that you are impatient to go ; but we
cannot part thus. You are a little vexed with me. are you not?"
He spoke with a smile which displeased Nathalie, and made
her look as she felt; but he was one to bear a lady's displea-
sure with equal composure and courtesy, and still waited hei
aiiswer. She hesitated then replied with sudden promptness;
' Yes, sir. I am vexed with you."
He looked more amused than alarmed, and said quietly:
' Pray, what have I done V
She remained silent.
' You will not tll me my ofFence V
196 NATHALIE.
No reply.
' What ! not even a bint ?"
She looked up and eyed him very comj^osedly.
" I will tell you, sir," she said, ' if you will only assure mo
that you do not know or guess."
' Mademoiselle Montolieu," he replied, in a tone of feeling
reproach, ' this answer does not sound like yours, for it is not
quite frank ; there is a decided air of Norman and legal ambig-
uousness about it: however, it implies so flattering a belief in
my veracity that I know not how to complain. You are vexed
with me because I spoke as I did, and yet I scarcely regret it;
for had I not spoken so, I should not know with how much
spirit, courage, and frankness, a young girl could assert the
privileges and dignity of her sex.''
He spoke quite seriou.sly now ; he spoke too in words of
praise, rare at any time from his lips, and for the first time
addressed to Nathalie by him. She felt moved, but did not
reply ; he resumed in his old manner :
" Pray let us be friends ; it is unnatural for guardian and
ward to quarrel."
' Unnatural !" said Nathalie, half turning round with a de-
mure smile ; " why all the old plays and tales I ever read ran
on the quarrels of guardians and wards."
" But we will do better."
" Yes, much bettei*. Besides, guardians in those times
ncem to have been peevish and so old."
" Then we are friends ?" he said again, without seeming to
heed this remark.
She smiled and spontaneously held out her hand in token
of reconciliation. He took it, and looked at her, with smiling
kindness, as a father might look at his child.
" Poor little thing !" he said, at length, when she began to
wonder at his silence ; " I dare say you have not many friends
here V
" Two," she answered,
'' Two !" said he, surprised ; " I thought you had only youi
sister."
She too looked surprised.
' And my guardian," she said, half in jest half in earnest
He looked at her ; she colored involuntarily, and without
knowing why ; something like a sudden cloud passed across
his brow ; he did not drop her hand, but his hold relaxed ; she
wished to withdraw it, for she had an uncomfortable sensation
NATHALIE. K*7
of having gone too far ; but he detained it firmly within his,
and said, vei-y seriously :
" Yes, you have two friends."
He let her hand go, went to the library, and touched a
spring ; one of the compartments, which Nathalie had thought
to be filled with books, opened, and disclosed steep and narrow
steps, winding away into deepening gloom. He stood below.,
holding the lamp, whilst she went up ; she was light and agile,
and reached the top of the staircase without one false step ;
there a door, which yielded to her touch, admitted her into the
long passage, at the end of which stood her own room. She
remembered having heard Aunt Radegonde say that the door
facing this led to one of the tui-rets no doubt that of Mon-
sieur de Sainville. This accounted for his being so seldom
met or seen in the other parts of the chateau.
She had soon changed her dress ; but as she smoothed her'
hair, she suddenly missed a narrow velvet, which she wore
bound several times around her head, according to the fashion
of the period. This velvet, a present from Aunt Radegonde,
worn that day for the first time, was, unfortunately, distin-
guished b}^ a little silver edge. She concluded she had left it
in the hermitage.
'' Alioiis F' she impatiently thought; '-I hope to keep all
this quiet; but I suppose that the first servant who goes in
there to-morrow morning will know of my presence, thanks to
that velvet and its silver edge."
She felt provoked, and then pride asked, " Why should she
care ?" and bade her go down quite composedly to the drawing-
room.
Madame Marccau sat in majestic state, with her pile of
cushions behind and around her. and something of haughtiness
in the very way in which her feet rested on a broad stool.
With her shawl, her silks, her sparkling jewels, and her dark
face, on which the light of the lamp now shone full and clear,
she looked like a handsome eastern despot. Nathalie paused
near the door, to look at the haughty lady.
' When will that woman wish me to be her daughter?" sho
thought, remembering what had passed that same evening.
She slowly came foj*ward, and silently took her usual seat.
How much had occurred since he had left that drawing-room a
i'ew hours before ! Madame Marccau was not alone ; her friend
partly reclined on a low couch, where, with her indolent atti-
tude and half-closed eyes, she looked like a languid sultana, as
l9S NATHALIE.
calm and apathetic as the other was active and restless. Tiiej
were engaged in earnest conversation, that is to say, Madame
Marceau spoke, and Madame de Jussac put in a word now and
then. The accident and its consequences, which had appa-
rently extended much farther up the river, occupied them ex-
slusively.
' Deplorable !" exclaimed Madame Marceau ; ' ten families
ruined ; we must, of course, do something for these people."
" Are they Monsieur de Sainville's tenants ?" asked Ma-
dame de Jussac.
' No, they are not on Qiir land; but we are not the less
bound to come to their aid. Mademoiselle Montolieu, Madame
de Jussac says you remained out ; 1 hope you did not get wet.
Ida ckere" she added, without waiting for Nathalie's reply,
' what do you say to a lottery ?"
' Excellent !" was the calm answer.
" Excellent, as you say." From that moment the idea of
the lottery seemed to occupy her exclusively.
Madame de Jussac turned towards Nathalie, and quietly
asked if she had remained out in the rain, and got very wet?
" Not very wet," replied Nathalie, much disturbed.
It did not add to her composure to perceive that Madame
de Jussac's slow, but attentive look, was scanning her change
of dress.
" You must have found a convenient shelter," she observed,
in her languid way ; ' I never saw such heavy rain : you were
surely not out all the time ?"
Nathalie bent over her work, without answering: indeed,
Madame Marceau gave her no time to do so. Her own im-
pression was, that Nathalie had kept away from the drawing-
room through a very proper sense of discretion ; where and
how she had spent that evening, was a minor point, in whicl.
she took not the least interest. She now engaged her inquisi-
tive friend in so close a conversation on the proposed lottery ;
its probable results ; the prizes to be drawn ; the tickets to bo
pxctoed, and other such questions, that Madame de Jussac had
not the opportunity of renewing her inquiries.
About half an hour had elapsed, when the door opened,
and IMousieur de Sainville entered. He took no notice of
Nathalie, and sat at the end of the table farthest from that
n'here she worked, near the two ladies. The ruined families^
the lottery, and Madame de Jussac, were immediately forgot-
ten for " dear Armand, his heroism," and so forth. " Hnd he
got wet? he must be chilly ? could nothing be done?"
.\ATHALIE. !9U
Madame Marceau's Armancl beard her, and replied, witli
evident, though repressed impatience. Nathalie took a mis-
shievous pleasure ia noticing how he fretted internally beneath
his sister's praise, and the word of quiet eulogy which Madame
do Jussac put in now and then.
At length both ladies desisted ; but first Madame Marccau
adroitly dropped the word " lottery."
'A lottery what for?" he promptly asked.
' For those poor ruined families, Armand. As she spoke,
Madame Marceau looked anxiously at her brother. Nathalie,
who had formerly heard him mention this not very elevated
sort of charity in terms of contemptuous pity, expected some
objection, but he only looked thoughtful, and said nothing.
' Yes," gaj'ly continued his sister, interpi-eting his silence
into approval ; " a lottery we must have. Mademoiselle Natha-
lie," on hearing herself thus fiimiliatly addressed, the young
girl perceived that the lady was in high good humor: "Made-
moiselle Nathalie, I claim a purse of your work, at the very
least ; you. ma cMrc^ have already pledged yourself to the con-
tribution of I know not how many charming things ; my aunt
must give us some clicf-cVceiivre in the knitting way. Do not
think to escape, Armand ; you have brought back too many de-
lightful curiosities from 3"our wanderings, not to have a few to
spare for the sake of charity."
'' True ; but I will give you a greater curiosity by far
good advice."
Madame Marceau coughed, and looked annoyed.
Well, Armand," she said, with a constrained smile, - let
us hear this good advice."
" In the first place, how many tickets do 3'ou mean to
issue?"
" Two or three thousand : less will not do."
" How will you dispose of them ?"
" Madame de Jussac has very kindly offered to dispose of
half the number issued."
' But how will you dispose of the other thousand or fifteen
hundred ?"
Madame Marceau's brow darkened : this was a sensitive
point. She had been so long buried in bourgeois obscurity.
and her brother cared so little for society, that her circle of
acquaintance was as yet very narrow. This was a matter in
vhich she could not think of imposing on Madame de Jussac.
'.n whose lips she now detected a smile of careless triumph
200 NATHALIE.
Thanking her brother very little for this exposure, she coldlj
replied,
" I really do not know."
He smiled in a very provoking manner, as if rather pleased
than otherwise at having thrown cold water on his sister's
Bcliemes. Such, at least, was Nathalie's charitable conclusion
as she looked up from her work, and attentively watched his
face. She sat rather in the shade, and he at the other end of
the table, in the circle of light shed by the lamp.
" We must have less tickets, I suppose," said Madame
Marceau, in a vexed tone.
" Impossible," quietly replied her brother ; ' the damage
done, as you say, is great. The produce of the lottery must
be worth offering."
" Which means that I had better give it up," observed tlie
lady, rather indignantly; "is that your 'good advice,' Ar-
mand ?"
' By no means," he replied, smiling again, "I have only
pointed out the difficulty ; I am going to deliver you from it
now. The lottery is evidently insufficient ; but on the day
when it is to take place, throw open the grounds to the good
people of Sainville, not the garden, for to that I have a
decided objection. Give them a little fete champHre, with a
dance on the lawn ; let the price of entrance not be too high,
bourgeois are sparing of their money. Many will come, and
the produce of both fete and lottery will, I am sure, cover all
tho losses these poor people have sustained."
Madame Marceau heard her brother with a triumphant
surprise she took great pains to conceal from the languid look
of her friend. But, spite of all she could do, her haughty face
was flushed, and her dark eyes kindled, as she listened to this
solution of the difficulty. The sister of Monsieur de Sainville
knew she could not be a political lady, on the legitimate side,
at least, like Madame de Jussac, who guided all the intrigues
of the district ; for her friend was a Countess, and she was
unfortunately the widow of a merchant ; besides, her brother,
through whom she might have been something, professed a
profound indifference for every political party. She could not
be a graceful and accomplished lady of the world, for she had
no high connections, and v,'ould not stoop to second-rate ones.
But slie could be a popular lady, the lady of Sainville.
Abroad she had many rivals, but none at home, and like Caesar,
Bho loved where she did rule to rule alone. Tlie suggestions
NATHALIE 201
of hei* brother fell on her ear like the realization of her long-
cherished and ambitious dreams She beheld the fete in auti
eipation ; she saw herself the queen of the day, sailing through
respectful crowds, polite to a select few, gracious to all, and
patronizing bourgeois and shopkeepers to her haughty heart's
content. Nay, she could not help remembering that tho
elections were at hand ; if Armand would only consent to
become a candidate, let himself be elected, and agree to take
his seat as deputy? He could if he would ; then why should
he not ? She fastened her dai'k. stealthy eyes on her brother,
and eagerly scanned that face, so pale and severe, which ever
seemed to baffle tho scrutiny it irresistibly attracted. Why
had he, who by no means professed himself to be a philan-
thropist, been so zealous in saving the paltry crops of still
more paltry Villagers ? Why had he, who despised the sur-
reptitious charity of lotteries, so readily agreed to hers 1 Why
had he, who was so jealous of his privacy and solitude, offered
to open his luxurious and carefully-guarded grounds to the
prying gaze and obtrusive presence of paying guests ? Why
was all this? Was it the result of some deep and secret
scheme ? Did he, v.-ho chose to appear so skeptical and so
indifferent, long in his heart for political power, that passion
of man's noon-day life 1 She scarcely hoped so, and yet it
would be strange indeed if he, still in all the fulness and
vigor of existence, had not even a desire to fulfil or an aim
to pursue. But, far as her thoughts had wandered, the
cautious lady knew how to seem not to have for one instant
forgotten the lottery and the proposed fete.
" Your advice is good, Armand," she smilingly said, " but
expensive."
" This objection was intended to blind Madame do Jussac,
who was to conclude that her friend had been engaged in
economical calculations. Monsieur de Sainville looked sur-
prised.
" I dare say you will not mind either trouble or expcnso
incurred for the sake of a good deed," he replied.
'' I see he is willing to pay, but will not appear in the
matter," she thought. " What if we have the f6te without the
dancing?" she again objected, now speaking aloud.
"By no means," he very quickly said; "without tho
dancing ! Wliy, Rosalie, half the people would not come."
" Oh ! proud brother of mine, you, too. have set yowT heart
en popularity and power?" inwardly exclaimed Madama
9*
202 NATIIALTE.
MarceRu, looking at him Avith secret triumpli, and already
beholding herself in Paris, the centre of a political coterie in
her brother's h6tel, whilst Charles went off as attache d'ani'
bassade with his Excellency, no matter who.
" I give in." she said aloud, as if she had all this time been
engaged in some economical struggle ; " and sincerely thank
my dear brother for his judicious advice."
" Then I shall test your gratitude," he replied, " by re-
questing that you will take on yourself the sole management
of every thing, and for once allow me to drop the character of
host and become your guest."
Madame Marceau dilated with triumpli.
The struggle had been long ; but her brother acknowledged
her power ; there was sweetness in this tardy victory. She
felt happy, elated, and glanced with secret exultation at
Madame de Jussac. who, in her placid way. had already chosen
to drop a few hints concerning Monsieur de Sainville's singu-
lar strength of character. But the lady was not at that mo-
ment looking towards her ; she was amusing herself with
watching Nathalie, opposite whom her sofa lay. On the first
mention of the fete, the young girl had laid down her work on
her lap and listened attentively : but, as the discussion con-
tinued, and the plan matured, she gradually and unconsciously
edgoct her chair round so as to face the speakers. Now she
was sitting with botli her arms resting and folded on the table,
half-bent foi'ward with eager look and parted lips, in an atti-
tude of breathless attention.
" I know who will dance at the fete," said Madame de Jus-
iac, with a smile, thus drawing attention to the young girl.
Nathalie, who had remained wholly unconscious of obsciva-
tion, started, colored, hung down her head, and pretended to
be looking for her work. Vain attempt at composure ! Y/hen
she looked up, her face was radiant, her eyes danced with de-
light, and irrepressible smiles played around her demurely
closed lips.
" ])o you care about dancing?" asked Monsieur de Sain-
ville, looking at her for the first time since his entrance.
' Yes, sir, I like it," she replied, a little mortified to find
he had so soon forgotten their conversation in the hermitage
" Then I promise you that you shall not miss one quadrille,'
observed JIadame Marceau. now in her most amiable mood.
* Come, Oiia cliirc, when shall it be?"
Madame do Jussac, thus addressed, replied cajmly; but
NATHALIE. 203
fiCr friend was in high spirits, and went ou arranging and pro
jccting for an hour and more. Then, however, a sudden silence
fell on the whole party^ Monsieur de Sainville looked grave,
almost moody; Madame Marceau thought him absorbed by
the coming meeting, and she already revelled in the imagined
triumphs of the grarida dame popidaire^ and of the political
woman. Nathalie worked on in silence, and looked vei-y scri
ous, but all the time a bright vision floated before her : shf
saw a gay dance on the green : she heard the merry music
merry even to those who care little for dancing ^of galop,
waltz, and quadrille. Madame de Jussac looked on through
her half closed eyes, and drew her own conclusions from all she
saw. until the party separated at a later hour than usual.
The week which this lady spent at the chateau, was not
productive in incident. Madame Marceau, though affecting
familiarity, and calling her ^tna diere^ ma honne^ and ma belle,
to show that they were old friends they had known one an-
other in childhood was in evident awe of her quiet guest, and
submitted to all her opinions and decisions in matters of
worldly knowledge. Aunt Radegonde, without speaking too
openly, gave broad hints to Nathalie about people who made
one feel chill and uncomfortable. Monsieur de Sainville
looked more cold and haughty than he had ever looked.
Nathalie soon noticed a tacit sort of quarrel was continu-
ally going on between him and his sister's friend. At first,
the lady enveloped him in a soft silken net of the most subtle
courtesy and grace. It was flattery so delicate, that no man
could possibly resent it, and then succeeded a constant instinc-
tive sort of appealing to his opinion and judgment, that was
far more flattering than mere speech ; but in an unlucky hour
Madame de Jussac said something about politics, and confessed
the warm interest she felt in the elder Bourbons. Nathalie
saw. Monsieur de Sainville smile, as if he now understood why
he had been so perseveringly courted, and from that moment
the quarrel began. Of course, it was a polite, well-bred, smil-
mg quarrel ; politics formed the ostensible theme, but perhaps
Dolitics had in reality little to do with it. There might Ijo
SMch. a thing as piqued amour-inopre on one side, and ironical
cesentment on the other.
It was, perhaps, for the charitable purpose of punishing
Monsieur de Sainville. who now scarcely noticed the young
girl, that Madame de Jussac suddenly took a great fancy to
her. and almost exclusively engaged her company ; he certainly
204 NATHALIE.
did not appear to view their intimacy with pleasure ; but Na
thalie, piqued at his coldness, did not care. She was youngj
frank as her years, and she yielded freely to the insinuating
grace which no one knew better how to exercise than Madamo
de Jussac.
At the end of a week the lady left, promising to come back
for the fete. After her departure, matters resumed their old
course at the chateau, Madame Marceau moved about once
more with authoritative air and speech ; Aunt Radegonde was
garrulous and cheerful ; and Nathalie felt that the change gra-
dually vanished from the manner of Monsieur de Sainville.
CHAPTER XV.
For the nest fovtniglit, the chclteau was kept in a constant
state of bustle and preparation by Madame Marceau de Sain-
ville, as she now began to be called. The little town echoed
with her praises, and the rumor of her charity and munificence
spread wherever the tidings of the disaster, which she thus
generously sought to repair, had penetrated.
Whilst she disposed of tickets, gave orders, made pur-
chases, and saw to every thing, Nathalie and the Canoness
worked together in the boudoir or in the garden. Aunt Rade-
gonde, in her zeal, nearly knitted herself ill ; Nathalie was ful-
ly as industrious. This busy fortnight, with its day of plea-
sure still in view, delighted her. The time passed lightly. At
night she dreamt of endless dancing on the lawn ; and all day
long she worked at various articles of fancy work, destined for
the lottery, and of which Madame Marceau provided the ma
terials. To the annoyance of his aunt, " who, not being inqul
sitive, would not have given a pin to know," Monsieur de Sain
ville declined exhibiting his contributions to the general fund
and took it on himself to criticize very freely the various arti
cles manufactured by his aunt and Nathalie. He said the
flimsy counterpane could give no warmth ; censured the cob-
web mittens ; pronounced the opera-caps unbecoming ; and so
much irritated the little Canoness, that she told him roundly
' he could not do so much, were he to try ever so long," a
fact he willingly granted. Nathalie's productions fared still
NATHALIE. 205
worse. He held up her embroidered bag to ridicuk ; declared
that her cicar-case was such aa no man of sense would use ;
but chiefly derided a little round silk purse, with a silver clasp,
which she was knitting, and which was destined to hold a Na
poleon, or the change of one. This he declai-ed it could not.
Nathalie, piqued in her amour-jvojve, insisted that it could
The contest lasted until the purse was finished ; her host theo
tested its merits, in the presence of Nathalie, to whose indeli
ble disgrace it was found totally deficient. Aunt Eadegond*
warmly took the part of her young friend, who, as she always
said, '' was too meek, poor little thing ! to defend herself pro-
perly ;" an sssertion which, though too polite to contradict, her
nephew always heard with his skeptical smile.
At length the great day came, and a lovely day it Avas,
3lear, bright, and sunny. The grounds were not to be tlirown
open until three in the afternoon ; and at three precisely, Na-
thalie ran down to the drawing-room to find the Canoness,
whom she had vainly sought for in her boudoir. She ^opened
and closed the door with a sort of unnecessary vivacity, which
characterized her least motions, and came running in, exclaim-
ing, in a light, cheerful voice :
" Are you here, Marraine ? I am quite ready."
She looked around : the Canoness was sitting in her arm-
chair, dressed in gray silk, and with a profusion of rich faces,
that gave costliness to her otherwise simple attire. She eyed
the young girl from head to foot with a critical glance, and
smiled approvingly. Nathalie was. however, very simply dress-
ed in a clear white muslin, whose light folds fell down to her
feet ; a black lace mantilla, worn at the back of her head, and
falling down on her neck, and black net mittens, half-covering
her bare arms, gave her something of a Spanish air. The Ca-
noness, pleased to see her looking so well, completed her cos-
tume by presenting her with an elegant little fan, to be worn
suspended at the wrist by a slender jet chain.
' Do you know how to use it?" she asked, helping her to
fasten it on.
Nathalie began fanning herself with a.ssumed awkwardness.
' No, Petite, not so ; look at me ;" and taking her own
fan, she used it with slow and stately grace ; for Aunt Rade-
gonde, having lived in the days when fanning was in all its
glory, piqued herself on possessing the traditions of that well
nigh lost art.
" Yes, it is already better," she added, a.*; Nathalie. mad
206 NATIIAI.IS.
another attempt ; ' but you do it too fast try again ; walk up
and down the room, fan yourself, and look as Spanish as you
can."
Nathalie laughed, and complied. She paced the drawing-
room to and fro, assuming that peculiar gait which is said to
characterise the women of Spain, and fanning herself with
southern ease and vivacit}?-. As every now and then she
glanced over her shoulder at the Canoness, with half-mocking,
half-alluring grace, she looked like one of those lovely, but far
too earthly saints, such as the old Spanish masters delighted
to paint from living models, suddenly stepped down, in all the
warm coloring and vividness of life, from her gloomy canva'
and tarnished frame, to bewitch poor mortals from their devo-
tions. All this she did with the coquetry innate in southern
women, a coquetry nothing can subdue most provoking and
yet ever irresistible, because frank, genuine, and without dis-
guise. But Nathalie suddenly stopped short in her promenad-
ing ; she dropped her fan it would have fallen to the floor,
but for the little jet chain and looked transfixed. She had
perceived Monsieur de Sainville, unseen till then, standing in
the embrasure of one of the windows, with a newspaper in his
hand ; lie seemed absorbed in his reading ; probably he had
not noticed her she devoutly hoped so, on remembering how
freely she had been displaying her graces. She gave the Can-
oness a look of silent reproach.
' Petite," suddenly asked Aunt Radegonde, withot heeding
this. " why do you not wear the velvet I gave you ?"
" I have lost it," was the embarrassed reply.
"Lost it! When, and how?^'
' Out on the day of the storm."
* Petite, how could the storm make you lose it?"
"' My hair got wet, and I unfastened it."
" Unfastened your hair in the storm !"
" Was there a silver edging to it ?" asked Monsieur de
Sainville, looking up.
" Yes ; did you find it, Armand?"
"I found such a velvet."
" Where ?" asked his inquisitive aunt.
Nathalie gave him an alarmed look. She knew where the
velvet was lost where she had uselessly looked for it. He
smiled, and said, quietly :
' Aunt, I fear you will be angry, when I tell you that I have
been using your gift to Mademoiselle Montolicu as a book-
. aiarkej". ajid that the silver has become tarnished "
NATHALIE 207
" Using Petite's velvet as a book-markei !" iiidignautly ex
claimed his aunt.
' "Well, if Mademoiselle Montolieu, wishes foi* it -"
" Do you imagine she is going to wear your book-marker?"
hotly interrupted the Ganoness.
'Aunt, I hear the music."
" And you want us to leave you to your politics V she pet-
tishly said.
He silently resumed his reading as they left the room.
" Oh, Marraine !" reproachfully observed Nathalie in the
garden, " how could you make me go on so foolishly whilst
Monsieur de Sainville was there V
" You surely do not think he took any notice of you?" re
plied the Ganoness, innocently looking up into her face.
'Well, but he miGrht," answered Nathalie, coloring a lit-
tie.
Petite, Armand is courteous to women, as a gentleman
should be ; but though he notices character, I acquit him of
caring for either the dress or good looks of young girls. See,
how he never knew that velvet to be yours ! A-propos, where
did you lose it V
But they had crossed the garden, and were entering the
grounds, which were already filled with guests, laughing,
mirth, and music. Nathalie took advantage of this not to re-
' Oh ! moil Dieit ! what a pretty sight 1" she exclaimed,
looking and feeling delighted. ' How gay and cheerful those
many-colored dresses look on the green ! What a lovely af-
ternoon ! Why is there not a fete every day in the year ? It
is so pleasant to enjoy one's self and be happy."
" Petite, what are those white things there beyond ?"
" Awnings, Marraine, snow-white awnings, spreading in
the cool green shade, with here and there a warm sun-ray glid-
ing through. That little tent standing apart is for the refresh-
ments. I ran out just before they opened the gates, to have a
peep : it looked beautiful. Fruits, in all their bloom and
beauty, and of every warm, sunny hue, rose in pyramids, in
wide porcelain baskets, and looked almost too fresh and exqui-
fiits to touch."
" Were there any cakes or creams ?" asked the Ganoness,
who had a spice of gourmandise in her composition.
' I did not mind. Cakes and creams are pretty, but not
poetical."
208 SATflALIE,
They arc a great deal better than poetical, Was there
any nougat? I like it. Let us try at once before it is all
gone. Corao, Petite," she added, Avith an air of Jl/iesse, " let
us go to that pretty tent, take some nought and a cream, and
cat them in some quiet, shady place, far from all this noise and
bustle.
!)
Nathalie gave a wistful look at the dancers under the large
awning ; but there was nothing selfish, even in her most ardent
longing after pleasure, and, without a murmur, she accompa-
nied her old friend.
All the bourgeois of Sainville and the environs had come,
with their wives and daughters, to see the grounds, to criticize
what they saw, and enjoy tliem.selves, in spite of all that.
There were also a few ladies from the surrounding chcltcaux,
and plenty of gentlemen, who thought the young bourgeoises
very pretty, though somewhat prim and sedate.
The place was thronged ; yet, thanks to the admirable in-
stinct of French crowds, there was not the least confusion.
Nathalie and her companion kept somewhat aloof, and followed
a shady path, vehence they could see all that passed on the
lawn. The young girl several times caught a view of Madame
Marceau, who sailed through the crowd with majestic grace,
with a smile for some, a word to others, and to all kind glances.
She felt elated, triumphant ; and looked like a dark, handsome
queen, imperious even in her very blandest courtesy. Nathalie
could not help admiring her, and observing to her companion
that Madame Marceau was a very fine woman.
" Kather too tall," replied the Canoness. " After all, my
dear, it is we, and those like us, that are tite women."
Nathalie smiled archly. She was of that elegant height
to wtiich there is nothing to add, but from which there is also
nothing to take awa3^ Aunt Kadegonde, though decidedly
short, labored under the agreeable delusion that her height
was the standard height of woman, and used the pronoun we
with perfect confidence. They soon reached the tent. The
Canoness selected her favorite dainties, and made a servant
follow them with a tray, until they reached a cool, shady nook,
where they sat down at the foot of a beech, and began, as she
said, '' to enjoy themselves." Nathalie consoled herself by
listening to the music, and now and then catching a glimpse of
the dancers through the trees.
The Canoness liked to enjoy good things slowly. She was
long about the nougat, and longer still about the crcama
NATIIALIH. 209
riiougli Nathalie reniuined patient and cheerful, she could not
lielp giving an occasional look at tiie distant fete, and drawing
to it the attention of Aunt Radegonde.
" Oh ! Marraine !" she exclaimed, admiringly ; " do look al
those dancers there beyond. How well they keep time to the
music, and sink or rise together ! Dancing is beautiful ; I ad-
mire it; I have always admired it; there is sometliing in it
that reminds one of astronomy."
' Astronomy, Petite ?"
" Yes. indeed, for I half believe in the music of the spheres;
and the harmonious motion of sun, earth, moon, and planets,
with their myriads of worlds, always seemed to me like a mag-
nificent dance on a grand scale. Comets are those erratic
dancers whom neither time nor measure can keep quiet, and
fixed stars are holy nuns, who have looked on from afar, and
who, poor things ! must still look on, throughout eternity."
" Well, P&tite, you will be no fixed star by-andby. But is
it not pleasant to be sitting here in the shade, enjoying our
little collation ?''
Too candid to say '-yes," Nathalie smiled, and the Cano-
ness, who had some of the latent selfishness which often ac-
companies a certain species of good-nature, interpreted the
smile as one of unequivocal assent. Their " little collation"
was over, but she felt " meditative ;" and in her vocabulary, to
be meditative signified to be drowsy. They were sitting on a
grassy slope at the foot of a large beech ; she drew nearer to
the trunk of the tree, and leaning against it, prepared to medi-
tate. At first Nathalie felt dismayed. She knew that the re-
flective moods of Aunt Radegonde were long and deep : but it
seemed a hopeless case : and so, with a sigh given to the distant
dancing, she sat down by her old friend, sn*othed and settled
her silk skirts, and encircling her little waist with one arm,
told her to take her shoulder as a pillow. After some coquet-
ting, the Canoness accepted, and laid her head on the firm and
smooth support offered to her ; she looked flushed, and com-
plained of the heat ; Nathalie began fanning her softly ; in less
than a minute Aunt Radegonde was fast asleep.
This spot, though not far from the lawn, was both shady
and retired, and no one came to disturb the two ladies. But
after some minutes had elapsed, a gentleman slowly walked up
the quiet path and paused, unseen and unheard, within a few
paces of the beech-tree. The Canoness still slept peacefully,
but her head had half-glided from the shoulder to the bosom of
210 NATIIALllJ.
the yo'uug girl, who, to support her more conveniently, new
leaned on one elbow, and half reclined on the grassy slope
She still ftmned her old friend, but slowly and abstractedly ;
it was evident that her thoughts were elsewhere ; every now
and then she started slightly as the sounds of the fete reached
her ear, and her right foot, half peeping from the ample folds
of her while dress, beat time to the distant music. As they
both lay there together, in the cool, shady light, with many a
queer depth and many a winding path around and behind
them, he who gazed remembered a long-forgotten tale of his
childhood, and thought that Nathalie looked not unlike the
poor Princess sighing for freedom with all its joys, whilst the
Canoness answered to the loving but jealous little fairy, who
.still kept her bound to her side by some strange magic spell.
' Mademoiselle Nathalie," said Monsieur de Sainville, for
it was he, "I thought you liked dancing?"
Nathalie looked up, colored a little, and rfiising herself
without awakening the Canoness, replied, with 'slight erabar
rassment, " that she liked it," and stooping over Aunt Rade-
gonde, sTie fanned her assiduously. He leaned against a neigh-
boring tree, and began talkiiig to her. Several times he glanced
impatiently at his aunt, and once proposed to waken her. Na-
thalie refused, philosophically declaring "she did not care
about the dancing." He smiled, and began teazing her piti-
lessly. Now he said, how merry the people looked as he passed
through them; then he made her listen to the music, or gravely
requested her to explain the various figures of the dance.
" Confess," he said at length, bending forward to see
her averted face, " confess yor\ wish my aunt would awaken."
' She was sure she did not care a bit ;" but in her vexation
she fanned the Caoness very fast.
" Mori Dieu ! what a breeze !" exclaimed Aunt Iladegonde,
with a sudden start.
Nathalie looked confused ; but he was not minding her.
" Aunt," he seriously said, " how could you be so unkind as
to deprive Mademoiselle Montolieu of the dancing, when she
is so fond of it?"
The conscience of Aunt Radegonde already upbraided her,
and she took this remai'k very ill. With a sudden perverse-
ness of judgment, in which she sometimes indulged, she now^
affected to consider every thing her nephew said as an ofl'ence.
not to herself, but to Nathalie, whom she defended with angry
warmth.
NATHALIE. 2 1 1
" Do not meddle vs-itli Petite, Armand ; she is notbing to
j-ou."
" I beg your pardori; she is my ward."
. " Your ward !"'
'' Yes, indeed, my ward."
"Armand. take my advice, do not meddle with young
srirls you are not always kind to them ; and you, Petite, do
not mind him, he only w\ants to make us quarrel : do not mind
him, but kiss me." ^
She stopped short in the path, for they were going
towards the lawn as she spoke, and giving an indignant look
at her nephew, she turned towards the young girl, who was
preparing to comply with a smile, when Monsieur de Sainville
quietly stepped between her and his aunt, took her arm within
his, and stooping composedly, laid his moustache on the cheek
Aunt Radegonde had destined to the rosy lips of- Nathalie.
" Aunt," said he, with a smile, " the quarrel is not between
you and Petite " the word seemed to slip out unawares, but
between you and me ; and Ve must not quarrel to-day."
A genuine caress from her nephew was so rare, that the
Canoness was immediately pacified. They soon reached the
scene of the fete, and Monsieur de Sainville, though not without
much trouble and seeking on his part, found them convenient
places. There neither loud music, nor crowding dances could
s;ive annoyance ; there the awning and sheltering trees over
head yielded their deepest shade ; and there, too, not the least
important point for Nathalie. the ladies could not only see
the dancing, but be seen themselves. No sooner were they
seated, than numerous gentlemen gathered around Monsieur
de Sainville, who remained standing near them ; and invita-
tions poured thick and fast on the pretty girl who sat by his
aunt. Every time she wrote down on her fan the name of a
new partner, Nathalie could not refrain from giving her host
a triumphant smile, destined to avenge her of all she had en-
dured beneath the beech-tree.
Dancing may be delightful, but it is neither amusing to look
at. nor interesting to describe, unless in extraordinary cases.
We shall not, therefore, expatiate on the dancing, which afford-
ed Natlialie so much delight, that every now and then
in the midst of her enjoyment, she could not help, like an
amused child, looking over her shoulder towards the spot
where she had left her old friend, upon which Aunt Eadc-
jfonde never failed to give her an encouraging nod ; and her
ZV2 NATHALIE.
nephew sometimes paused, iu a couversation, to catch her loo^
and smile. The first time, however, that she returned to her
scat, the Canoness seriously advised her to dance with lesa
spirit and vivacity, " to do it more composedly, in short."
" I cannot," laughingly replied the young girl.
Here she felt some one stooping over her chair, and a kind
voice whispered in her car :
" Do not try : but enjoy vourself as much is you can, my
child." ' ^
"What are you .saying to hei, Armand?" asked the Can-
oness.
Nathalie looked up, but he was gone.
The next time that Nathalie returned to the prudent Aunt
Radegonde, she found her engaged in a close conversation wi(;h
no less a personage than the Chevalier Theodore de Meran-
ville-Louville. The Chevalier had the compassionate nature
of the sex he adored ; he had taken three tickets for the lot-
tery, and purchased a card of admission to the fete. No one,
who now saw him with snow-white* cravat, diamond pin, and,
above all, with an air so gallant and degag/^, could have sus-
pected that these acts of munificence entailed a week's pinch-
ing economy on the kind-hearted dancing-master. He cared
little, so long as appearances modern honor were saved
Amongst the dancci's were some of his pupils ; he wished to
watch their progress, and encourage their eftbrts by his pre-
sence. He did not intend dancing himself: he did not think
it fair. He felt in the case of a fencing-master, who cannot
fight a duel, with his own weapons at least. Unable to obtain
a front seat, he placed himself behind the Canoness he was
not tall, and she was short, which made it convenient. But at
the moment when he was most intent in looking over her head,
a tall gentleman, passing by with hasty strides, pushed him
rather rudely. Aunt liadegonde gave a little scream : the
Chevalier remained aghast. He had been pushed, and pushed
against a lady ! His first impulse for he was an irascible
little man was to rush after the tall gentleman, and chastise
him .on the instant ; but a gentler feeling prevailed : he re-
mained near the Canoness, who graciously assured him she
was not hurt. ' He feared this assurance proceeded only from
her extreme goodness ;" and, as he spoke, he gave the tall gen-
tleman a look that said so plainly, " "We shall meet again, sir,"
that the Canoness, knowing to what dreadful extremities gen-
tlemen jealous of their honor sometimes allowed themselves to
NATHALIE. 213
be oariled, and who, from the ribbon at his button-hole, toot
the dancing-master for an officer retired from active service,
became much alarmed, and exerted herself to soothe his ruffled
spirit. Need we say that the tall gentleman, who always
remained unconscious of the offence he had committed, and
the risk he had run. was forcotten for the fascinatin;:' Can-
oness? Their innocent flirtation had reached its highest point
of flowery speech on one hand, and of graceful complaisance
ou the other. In a moment of entrainement. the Chevalier
had even forgotten his scruples so far as to solicit the Canoness
to favor him with a contre-danse, and she had declined on the
score of being a Canoness ; for, though some Canonesses did
dance, she could not approve of it, when Nathahe came up, and
greeted her old frend with smiling welcome.
This recognition led to an increase of harmonj', flowery
speeches, and general pleasantness. The Chevalier made ten
der inquiries and gave minute information. Moi-al and intel-
lectual cares weighed heavily on Mademoiselle Dantin, but
strength of principle supported her through all. Natlialie,
who felt happy and forgiving, smiled, and said she was glad to
hear it. Days of pleasure pass rapidly ; aud when she saw
the sun sinking in the west, and the dancers and groups on the
lawn thinning gradually, this day seemed to the young girl to
have been as brief and delightful as a dream. The Canoness,
in whose monotonous existence the episode with the Chevalier
formed a very agreeable incident, was beholding with equal
regret the approach of evening, when a cold haughty voice ob-
served by her side :
' Aunt, is it not growing cool ?"
She looked round, and beheld her imperious niece: but the
presence of strangers always infused a strong spirit of inde-
pendence in Aunt Radegonde, who now quietly replied:
" Cool ! Rosalie ; I think it close ;" and she fanned herself
very coolly.
Madame Marceau gave her an astonished look ; b^t she
blandly said :
' My dear aunt, it is absolutely necessary that I should
^pcak to you in private."
" I cannot leave Petite."
' Aunt," observed Madame Marceau, with her grandest
sir, " Mademoiselle Montulieu, or, indeed, any lady, is suffi-
ciently protected by the mere fact of being here the place is
her shield "
il4 natiialit;:.
The Canouess rose, but slie still looked uncomfortable ; tha
polite Chevalier partly relieved her, by promising to remain
at Mademoiselle Montolieu's orders, in return for which he re-
ceived her warm thanks, and one of Madame Marceau's coolest
glances.
When Nathalie returned to her seat, she found Madame
Marceau waiting for her ; her dark face now wore a look of
secret triumph. Without giving the Chevalier time to tpeak,
she said, in her most caressing tone:
'' You must be tired. Petite ; do come and rest, before
dinner."
She drew the arm of the young girl within her own,- and
led her away to the spot where a raised bench, standing be-
neath a separate awning, had occasionally received her during
the course of the day. Madame de Jussac, who had only just
arrived, half lay at one end of the seat, fanning herself with
her air of well-bred ennui ; she welcomed Nathalie very gra-
ciously, and made room for her by her side. Madame Marceau
sat down at the other end of the bench.
" Have you been amused ?" softly asked Madame de Jussac.
" Oh ! very much indeed,'" replied Nathalie, with the glow
of pleasure still on her cheek.
" How well this Spanish sort of thing becomes you !" ad-
miringly said Madame Marceau ; " does it not ma diere V
" Before this evening, I never thought I could like the
Spanish mantilla," quietly replied Madame de Jussac.
The young girl colored, and looked wonderingly from one
to the other lady. Madame Marceau gave her an approving
nod ; Madame de Jussac smiled blandly, and her look said.
" Yes, indeed, you are very charming."
" You liko dancing?" she observed aloud.
' I lovto it !" replied Nathalie with sparkling eyes
" And when will you have another dance in this dull place,
miserably dull for you !" sighed Madame Marceau.
" Miserably dull, madame ! Never since I left Provence
have 1 been so happy, so free from care, as here !"
" What a negative happiness ?" kindly objected Madame
Marceau. " In the summer Sainville can do, but in the win-
ter ! Just imagine, via honne^'' she added, addressing Ma-
dame de Jussac across Nathalie ; " no society, nothing but
newspapers, walks when there is neither snow, rain, nor wind:
an odd game of piquet with my aunt, and my silent brother
walking up and down the drawing-room, evening after evening.''
.N.VTiiAT.ir:
215
' Lamentable !'^ said Madame de Jussae, yawuing slightly.
'' I should like it," quietly observed Nathalie.
" Like it !" sharply echoed Madame Marceau.
" Yes, is there not a dreamy charm, or soothing repose in
such a life ?"
" T beg your pardon ; I thought you liked pleasm-e V
" Whilst it lasts ! but to-morrow this place will seem
empty ; I shall miss the dance, the music, the faces, the
excitement."
" And pleasures should succeed one another too rapidly for
.taction to have time to come. Quite the opinion of Madame
de Meris, who will never allow this depressing reaction to come
near you or her daughters."
Madame de Jussae spoke very quietly, but Nathalie fas-
tened on her such a look of perfect astonishment, that the lady
opened her fine blue eyes very wide, aud half raising herself up,
exclaimed with something approaching vivacity:
" Is this an indiscretion ? It is your fault, Rosalie," she
added, reproachfully glancing at her friend, " you should have
checked me. Mafoi^ taut 2ns 2)our vous." She sank back into
her old attitude with indolent and careless grace.
What did all this mean? Nathalie turned towards Madanie
Marceau : it was getting dai-k, but their looks met.
"Yes," she calmly said, '-you have been a little indiscreet.
ma bonne ; but the mischief done is slight. You must know,
my dear child," she added, taking and softly pressing Nathalie's
hand, "that we do not think the mere fact of having you here, is
a suffici^nt compensation for the painful past. No, we do not
think so. More is due to you. Now it very fortunately hap-
pens, that the Marquise de Meris has asked her sister-in-law,
Madame de Jussae, to find for her daughters a companion, not
a guide or governess, of their own age and temper; one is seven-
teen ; the other eighteen ; they are very gay, high-spirited girls.
You will do admirably. Your sole task, my dear, will be to
amuse yourself as well as you can ; a task that becomes you
charmingly. I do not speak of the other matters : suiSce it to
say, that Madame de Meris has a princely fortune, and spends
it with princely grace. I need not say how grieved we are at
parting with you, but we sacrifice our own feelings to your
good. The manner in which you enjoyed this solitary day of
pleasure proves to us that it would be cruel and selfish to de-
tain you here. We will not do so. You will see Madame de
Meris at dinner this eveninq:. She spends the night hero, and
216 NATIIAME.
is so anxious to have you, that she talks of taking yoa away with
her to-morrow. But I scarcely think we can spare you so soon.''
She spoke quite affectionately. A slight nervous tremor shook
the hand Avhich she still held, but the young girl never opened
her lips.
" Do you know that Madame de Meris has taken a box at
both Operas ?" carelessly said Madame de Jussac.
" Indeed !" observed Madame Marceau, " she is fond of
music ?"
' Passionately !''
' How fortunate ! 3Iademoiselle Montolicu singS" charm-
' Fortunate, indeed! Eliza gives such exquisite little ama-
teur concerts. Uut perhaps Mademoiselle's voice is a soprano?"
she added in a tone of apprehension.
' No ! it is a very fine contralto voice."
Madame de Jussac was delighted. A soprano voice would
have been good ; but a contralto was invaluable. Madame de
Meris had been longing for a contralto. After dwelling a little
longer on this topic, the conversation took another turn ; tho
balls which Madame de Meris gave, those to which she went,
and to which Nathalie would of course accompany her and her
daughters ; tlie company tliey received, the delightful Tues-
days tbey had, the magnificent chateaux they possessed in va-
rious provinces, the splendid and luxuriant life they led, were
all carelessly mentioned in turn. And as Madame de Jussac
explained, Madame Marceau admired, and Nathalie sat pale
?nd silent between both.
" So Madame de Meris is as gay as ever," quietly observed
Monsieur de Sainville, who, whilst they were thus engaged, had
come up, unperceived, and now joined in the conversation.
There was a brief pause. Nathalie started slightly, and
looked up. Madame Marceau cast a rapid and anxious look at
her brother ; he stood facing her at the other end of the seat,
partly leaning over the indolent Madame de Jussac. who merely
turned up her eyes, to observe, languidly :
" Does the fan annoy you ?"
" Not in the least." "
" Ah ! I am glad of it." She resumed her favorite occupa-
tion, one moment interrupted.
The heart of Nathalie was beating fast : her color came and
went ; she trembled visibly. It was well for her that evening
xvas closing in ; but the two ladies, between whom she sat,
NATHALIE. 217
might have braved the light of sun or lamp. The pride of the
one, the composure of the other, defied scrutiny.
" So Madame de Meris is as gay as ever ?" again said
Monsieur de Sainville, speaking in precisely the same tone aa
before.
Madame de Jussac smiled assent.
" You will like her so much, chhre Petite," calmly observed
Madame Marceau, turning to Nathalie.
" Then when she said %ve^ she meant that he knew and ap-
proved this,"' thought Nathalie; whilst a keen pang shot
through her heart.
" She means to spend this winter in Paris, I believe V' he
quietly continued.
" Yes, in Paris," replied Madame ie Jussac, with perfect
tranquillity.
_ " What a delightful change for you, Petite, from dull
Sainville to gay Paris !" exclaimed Madame Marceau.
Nathalie did not reply.
" Are you fond of change ?" asked Monsieur de Sainville.
Nathalie made an eflfort to reply that she liked change very
much.
" Then I suppose you will be glad to see Paris ?" he con-
tinued.
She supposed so.
"How very provoking!" he resumed, with his peculiar
smile. " I am grieved to be the bearer of painful tidings ; but
it is unfortunately too true that you will not see Paris this
winter."
" What ! Is not Madame de Meris going ?" asked Madame
Marceau, thrown off her guard.
" Yes, I believe she is going," was the calm reply.
" Then why may not Mademoiselle Montolieu see Paris this
winter?" inquired his sister once more, quite composed.
" Because Mademoiselle Montolieu will spend this winter
at Sainville."
" You wish it !" exclaimed Madame Marceau, with a fiery
look in the direction of Nathalie.
^ " I protest against Mademoiselle Montolieu having any
voice in this matter," said Monsieur de Sainville, with pro-
voking composure. "What chance has our dull home against
the syren city % Besides, being an interested party, she has
no right to decide in her own case."
" Then you are judge in this matter " bitterly remarked
10
218 NATHALIE.
Madame Marceau, applying her viuaigrette as she spoke
" Judge and jury."
" No ; I merely represent my aunt, who bids Mademoiselle
Montolieu leave at her peril."
Madame Marceau indignantly fanned herself with her
pocket-handkerchief
" My aunt agreed a while ago," she said, shortly.
" Yes ; but she has changed her mind since."
" She will reconsider the matter, Armand."
" I do not think so."
" My aunt is not so selfish as to wish to immure Mademoi-
selle Montolieu in this dull place."
" Selfishness is so ingenious ! My aunt persists in declar-
ing that Mademoiselle Montolieu prefers Sainville to Paris."
" Armand !" exclaimed Madame Marceau, in a tone of
stately surprise, ' you cannot mean to say our aunt dreams of
detaining Mademoiselle Montolieu against her will?"
Without answering his sister. Monsieur de Sainville turned
towards Nathalie, and remarked.^ in his tranquil way:
" Do not trust to the delusive hopes my sister holds out.
My aunt declares you have passed your word to spend the
winter here with her ; she leaves you no other alternative, save
to remain, or break your word by going. As to changing her
fixed resolve, it is out of the question ; -we are a wilful race !"
" Nathalie looked up, and as she did so, she detected the
glance which passed between Madame Marceau and her brother
angry confusion on her side ; calm, inflexible will, on his.
All this tacit plotting, counter-plotting, and polite quarrelling,
was so much out of the young girl's way, so foreign to any thing
which had yet come within her experience, that shp knew not
how to act. She had not the patience and worldly knowledge
that can guide safely through the treacherous breakers of unde-
fined conventionalities, and fearful of compromising her dignity
and her pride, she had for once the wisdom and prudence to
remain silent.
" Armand," observed Madame Marceau, after a pause, and
now speaking very calmly, " has my aunt reflected that Madame
de Meris has also a claim over Mademoiselle Montolieu that
she will be hurt, and, above all, deeply disappointed ?"
" Be quite easy, Rosalie," replied her brother, with slight
Irony ; "I took it on myself to break the matter to Madame
de Meris ; and I am happy to say she bore the painful tidings
with all the fortitude of a woman of the world *'
NATHAI.in. 219
" How cool it is o;ettiur," said Madame de Jussae, witli a
shiver. " Monsieur de Sainville, will you be kind enough to
let me take your arm?"
She rose as she spoke : he silently complied with the lady's
request. Nathalie watched them walking away with a beating
heart. Madame Marceau still sat near her. She was an im-
perious lady ; her will had been thwarted ; what would she not
say, in her anger ? She said nothing, but watched the figures
of her brother and Madame de Jussae, as they slowly vanished
in the winding path they had taken. When they were no longer
to be seen, she rose, with majestic pride, wrapped her fine figure
in her magnificent shawl, and brushed past the young girl, in
haughty silence. Nathalie remained alone. She felt this slight
more keenly perhaps than any thing else ; she could forgive the
scheme for sending her away the proud lady did not know how
little she cared for her son but to punish and slight her
because that scheme happened to be defeated, was cruel and
ungenerous. She had sufi^ered acutely during the last half-
hour, and bowing her face in her hands, she now wept silently.
A sound near her made her raise her head ; she looked up, and
saw Monsieur de Sainville, who had returned, and now sat down
by her side.
CHAPTER XVI.
' You are weeping," said he ; " why so ?"
" I am not weeping," she replied, with slight equivocation.
" But you were : the tears ai-e still on your cheeks. VV^hy
is this ? No reply ! I will tell you why you weep : it is
because you feel you have not been well used ; and, indeed, you
have not."
Nathalie looked at him. His face was severe, but she felt
its severity was not for her.
" My poor child," he resumed, speaking very kindly, " do
not take this to heart ; if my sister knew even what I know,
she would not act thus. I once mentioned her views to you,
and I told her what you told me ; but I perceive she labors
under the impression, that no woman in her senses can remain
indifibrent to the love and admiration of her son."
B20 NATHALIK.
Nathalie smiled scornfully ; he saw it, and continued :
" Without knowing the exact state of youi* feelings, I am,
Devertheless, inclined to believe her mistaken."
There was a pause ; Nathalie did not speak.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," he said, very seriously, " have
you a great objection to tell me what you refused to tell Charles
the other evening ; namely, what you feel for him ?"
She seemed to hesitate.
" I will tell you," she said, at length, " if I may be quite
frank."
" As frank as you wish : it is your friend, not the uncle of
Charles, who listens."
" Sir," she resumed, '' your nephew is handsome, I do not
deny it ; there is talent in his face. I believe him clever ; as
your nephew, he is much higher in station than any man who
will ever think of marrying me ; he probably will have much
wealth, and if he has persecuted me with his intentions, I
cannot but confess to myself, that it must be because he is
much in love "
She stopped short, and colored deeply, as he who looked
sould see, in spite of the obscurity.
" Well ?" he said, with his look still full on her face.
"You will not think what I am going to tell you strange?'
she asked, hesitatingly.
" Strange !" he echoed, a little sadly ; " ray poor child, in
those matters I think nothing strange."
" Well, then," she rejoined, pressing her right hand to her
heart, and speaking very earnestly, " I feel here in a manner I
understand very well, but cannot explain, that I shall never
love, or even like him."
There was a pause.
" Why so ?" he at length asked.
'' Because, without imputing evil to him, I do not think
him good."
" My dear child, are you so romantic as to expect perfec-
tion ?"
" No ; for I am far from being perfect myself"
" Besides," he continued, very seriously, " remember this
great truth the being who loves, is certainly, for the time that
he or she loves, good."
" Sir," said Nathalie, quite as seriously, " do you think that
Monsieur Marceau feels any thing like genuine tenderness oi
affection for me ? Do you think that, if I had the small-pox,
natiialit:. 221
for instaucc, lie would ever care to see me again? Because, if
you think so," slie added, after a brief pause, " I do not."
He said nothing : he was secretly wondering at the intuitive,
but unerring tact with which this seemingly heedless girl had
arrived at the distinction between passion and tenderness.
" I thank you truly for your frankness and confidence," he
observed at length. " If I asked this question, it was, with
your permission, to satisfy my sister, without telling her that
which it would hurt her maternal feelings to hear, that hei
fears were wholly groundless."
" You may do, sir, as you wish."
' And you will speud the winter here?'
She shook her head gravely.
" No, sir ; I have had too clear a proof to-night of what I
suspected, before I had been two days here namely, that I
was not in the house of Madame Marceau, but in that of Mon-
sieur de Saiuvillc ; not with her wnll, but through his."
"And is Mademoiselle Montolieu too proud to allow Mon-
sieur de Sainville the pleasure of considering her his guest ?"
he aiskcd very kindly.
' Oh, no ; not too proud," replied the poor girl, with tears
in her eyes and in her voice ; " it is not fair to call that pride."
She was evidently much depressed. Pier head drooped on
her bosom, her hands lay clasped upon her lap ; she looked
pale in the light of the rising moon. There was sadness even
in her attitude. He remembered her in the joyous mood of the
afternoon, gay, smiling, and bright ; with her eyes sparkling,
and her cheeks flushed from the excitement of the dance : the
contrast pained him.
" What is it then V he asked soothingly.
' The sense of my own dignity, which I am alone to guard,"
slie firmly replied, looking up.
' I respect your scruples ; but if my sister, herself, asks
you to stay, will you not do so V
Nathalie shook her head again.
" I know, sir, that you have a strong will, and that every
one in this house obeys it, but I do not wish it to be exercised
for me." He smiled and did not seem offended at the impu-
tation of wilfulness, far from it ; but he quietly assured her,
that as soon as he could explain the matter to her, Madame
Marceau would of her own accord offer to repair her injustice;
and he pledged his word to the young girl, not to insist on her
remaining unless it happened exactly so. Still Nathalie did
not seem convinced.
222 NATHALIE.
'^ Alions^^ he observed with a dissatisfied smile, "I perceive
Sainville is dull, and Paris irresistible."
' Indeed I do not care for Paris !" quickly replied Natha-
lie, pained at this reproach.
He looked incredulous.
" Upon my word !" she said, with ingenuous earnestness.
" What ! you do not care for a life of pleasure, of balls,
dances, plays, and so forth ?" he inquired with his keen look.
" Indeed, I do not. Besides, there is dancing here also."
'' Then, my child," he remarked, in his usual tone, " do not
think of going with Madame de Meris. She is gay, thought-
less ; unfit to protect any young girl."
" Has she not daughters, sir ?"
" Two, on whom nature has bestowed an excellent safe-
guard, and to whom fortune has moreover granted the protec-
tion of largo dowries."
" I can protect myself." returned Nathalie with some pride.
" From wrong, I believe you ; from annoyance, allow me
to doubt it. Besides, for reasons not oiFensive to you, but
useless to mention, I am convinced that Madame de Meris,
willing to oblige my sister as she is, would very soon regret
having accepted you as the companion of her daughters."
" And why so?" asked Nathalie, rather offended.
" Because," he replied, with a smile, " they are very plain."
' Ah !" she said, a little disconcerted.
" Well." he resumed, "have I convinced you?"
" I have another objection."
" Another !"
" Yes, sir, another. Why should I stay here, and by my
presence, deprive Madame Marccau of her son's society ?"
" I might answer to this, that as you are innocent and as
he is culpable, it is only just he should suffer ; but you woald
raise some other objection. Suffice it then to mention, that
my sister is ambitious for her son ; that she is very glad of a
pretence to keep him away at his studies ; and that to prevent
him from losing his time in the province, she intends spend-
ing part of the winter in Paris, Have you any other objec-
tion ?"
Nathalie looked at him very seriously.
" Sir," she said, " I will abide by your decision, for I have
faith in your judgment and good feeling. But if you had a
'laughter, situated as I am. would you as her father "
" Pray do not use that comparison," he interrupted, looking
NATHALIE. 223
tip and unable to repress a smile, ' I am an old bachelor ; the
fatherly instinct is most imperfectly developed in me ; I give
you my word I have no idea how, as your father, I would, or
ought to behave in such a matter."
" Well, then, if you had a sister," resumed Nathalie,
slightly disconcerted.
" I have a sister," he replied, with some gloom.
" I beg your pardon, I understand," very hastily rejoined
Nathalie, rising as she spoke.
" You impatient child, do you not understand at all," said
he gently, compelling her to resume her seat ; ' you take fire
on a word. Little credit as you give me for feeling, give me
credit for common politeness. I disclaimed your comparison,
because it rested on an impossible relationship. Have you
then forgotten that I am your guardian, and that of your own
accord you once called me your friend ? Why did you not
appeal to the friend and guardian ?"
" And what would his answer have been ?" asked Nathalie,
looking up.
'' Kemain !"
" Then I will," she exclaimed, yielding to an irresistible
impulse, ' for T believe, sir, that you are my friend ; yes, my
friend indeed !"
In a fit of southern fervor she shook his hand and raised
it so that it touched her lips, but she dropped it almost imme-
diately, and rose from the seat pale and frightened at her own
indiscretion. All that Mademoiselle Dantin had ever urged
on feminine propriety rushed back to her mind to alarm her ;
as for any other feeling, save one of pure and grateful emotion,
such as a very child might have felt, her conscience acquitted
her of it, and though she was much mortified, she felt no
Bhame.
Monsieur de Sainville had not moved, and as he sat in the
shade she could not read the expression of his features. There
was a brief and embarrassed pause.
'" I see you wish to go in," he quietly observed, rising, and
taking her arm as he spoke.
Nathalie did not answer, but, looking around her, she per-
ceived that the grounds were almost solitary, and felt somewhat
surprised at not having noticed this before. They walked
home in profound silence. In her first terror of being mis-
construed, she longed to explain, but her pride revolted
against it.
224 NATHALIE.
" No," she thought, " if he has so little tact and delicacj
as not to perceive that I was only foolish, let him think all he
likes."
They had entered the chateau, and stood in the lighted
hall, as she came to this conclusion. She could not resist the
temptation of looking up into his face as they parted. He
seemed so calm and friendly, that a weight was immediately
removed from her mind. She felt that she had not been mis-
understood ; that her fear was an act of injustice to herself,
above all, of injustice to him.
She went up to her room, and abstained from appearing at
the late and large dinner which was to precede the lottery.
She sat near her open window, thinking, when a gentle tap at
her room door roused her from her abstraction. It was Aunt
Radegonde come to fetch her. She began by dwelling patheti-
cally on the shock Nathalie's projected departure had given
her.
' Oh ! Petite," she concluded, with a sigh, "how glad I am
that Armand did interfere ! It is very selfish, of course, for
me to wish you to remain here, and so Rosalie told me ; still I
cannot help it. I cannot help being delighted at your staying,
and am very grateful to Armand, who, for my sake, made it all
right again. Well, are you coming ? the lottery has already
begun."
Nathalie pleaded a headache.
" We shall keep out of the noise in the little back drawing-
room ; the folding-doors have been taken down, and there is a
handsome velvet drapery instead. Armand said it would be
better for us to stay there, and that he would take care of my
tickets for me. You must come. He is quite vexed because
you were not present at the dinner. He sent me up to fetch
you, saying, he knew you would not mind a servant's message,
but that you could not refuse me. He added that he, your
guardian, summoned you to make your appearance below ; and
though I think myself it is rather ridiculous for him to persist
in claiming you as his ward, still he has been so good to-day,
that we must indulge him a little. Just take ofi" that mantilla,
if you like ; your dress will do very well."
Nathalie at length yielded to her arguments, and accompa-
nied her down stairs. Madame Marceau had invited about
forty or fifty select guests, to be present at the drawing of the
letter}'. They were chiefly persons whose political connections
and influence might be useful to her brother in the approaching
NATHALIE. 22S
elections. A few belonged to the provincial aristocracy ; by
far the greater number were of the wealthy bourgeoisie. After
skilfully agitating amongst their inferior brethren in the after-
noon's f^te, she had reserved these for the evening's seductions.
About twenty of the most influential had come to dinner. The
saloon was brilliantly lit up, and as there were many well-
dressed women, it looked gay and pretty ; but Madame Mar-
ceau had done every thing to avoid eclat ; she wished this to
appear what slie repeatedly called it, "a little domestic fetpe
and familiar reunion."
The lottery was already far advanced when the two ladies
entered. At one end of the drawing-room, stood a small table,
with a silver urn, from which a young and pretty girl, the
daughter of the Prefect, gravely drew forth, one after another,
small scrolls of paper, rolled like ancient papyrus manuscripts ;
on each of these scrolls was inscribed the number of a ticket,
to which capricious Fortune sometimes adjudged a prize, and
oftener a blank. Another table, much larger, stood facing this ;
it was covered with the prizes, which the elder sister of the first
young girl graciously distributed to the winners. Both tables
were surrounded by animated groups, talking and laughing
with French vivacity. Nathalie only caught a glimpse of this
scene, through which the Canoncss hurried her.
" It is much pleasanter here, is it not?" she observed, draw-
ing aside the velvet drapery, which fell once more in dark and
heavy folds behind them.
The little saloon had been tastily fitted up as a sort of cool
retreat, which Madame Marceau had destined to her political
tetes-d-tetes ; little anticipating that it would be occupied by
her aunt and Nathalie. It was redolent with the fragrance of
exquisite flowers and shrubs ; a solitary lamp, suspended from
the ceiling, shed around a pale, trembling ray, which scarcely
dispelled the mysterious twilight of the place. Madame Mar-
ceau and her friend sat on a low divan ; Monsieur de Sainville
stood near them. No one else was present. On perceiving
Nathalie, Madame Marceau called up her most gracious smile,
rose, went up to her and took her hand.
' Chere Petite," she said, " you look pale. Are you tired ?
Do you know, I think you are too delicate a great deal for the
excitement of pleasure ?"
" If you had seen her dancing, you would not think so," de^
ciaively interrupted Aimt Rauegonde.
10*
226 WATHALIK.
Madame Marceau gave her aunt a significant look ; but
the Canoness neither took nor understood the hint.
" Indeed, aunt," resumed the lady. Mademoiselle Montolieu
is more delicate than you think ; and I begin to imagine that
the country air is not only quite necessary to her, but that
Paris "
^' I tell you she is not delicate at all," again interrupted
Aunt Radegonde, now speaking rather indignantly.
Madame Marceau saw her aunt would spoil all, if she con-
tinued to dwell on this theme ; she therefore observed, in a
wholly altered tone, and slightly drawing herself up to speak
with suitable dignity :
" Mademoiselle Montolieu, we are friends ; indeed, we have
never ceased to be so. Yes," she continued, lowering her voice,
and speaking with affected discretion, but not so low as not to
be heard from the divan, '' I feel now that we are friends, be-
yond the power of misunderstanding. I am sorry not to have
sought myself the clear explanation which my brother, with his
prompt judgment, perceived to be necessary. I need not tell
you how I admire your resolve, the result of a prudence and
high principle almost above your years. Still less need I tell
you how sincerely I hope our dull house may long be youi
home."
She pressed her hand, beckoned to her friend, and left the
place. Monsieur de Sainville waited until the velvet drapery
had fallen upon them to approach Nathalie, and say, in a low
tone :
" Are you content ?"
" Yes, sir, I am."
He left them.
Monsieur de Sainville had taken an early opportunity to
inform his sister that Nathalie had pledged herself never to be-
come the wife of Charles Marceau. More than this he had not
said ; nor had she asked to know more. Satisfied with this
assurance, and anxious to please her brother, with whom she
felt she had already ventured farther than was either prudent
or expedient, Madame Marceau had immediately exclaimed
' that she felt the greatest regard for Mademoiselle Montolieu.
and would, in her dear Armand's presence, ask her to stay.
To which her dear Armand, without thinking it necessary to in-
form her that she had unconsciously suggested the only
condition on which Nathalie would now remain, had quietly
replied :
i;
NATHALIE. 227
"Indeed, Rosalie, you will please, me very much by do-
ing so."
"Please him! Why had he not said so at once? Was
there any thing she wished more than to please him? But he
was so unkind ; he would not let her know what pleased him !
She guessed sometimes " this was a hint for the elections
" and other times she failed ; all because he was so reserved
with his poor Rosalie."
Before, however, making this concession, Madame Marceau
had prudently dropped a few hints to her friend. She had
feelingly deplored the hardships of certain positions, which, in
violence to the heart's better feelings, often compelled one to
act with seeming unkindness. When a young man of fortune
and family took a fancy to a pretty face, it was very diiEcult to
guess that the individual thus distinguished had sufficient
humility and principle not to be dazzled, and mistake what was
only a passing caprice for a" serious attachment ; and hard to
imagine that, on being jiroperly appealed to, this individual
could solemnly pledge herself never to enter into a secret or
open engagement with the infatuated youth. Madame de
Jussac, who heard her with a smile, assured her that she was
not so much astonished ; she had heard of such things, and
found nothing incredible in the present case. But Madame
Marceau, resolved she should be satisfied that it was really so,
had taken care to make her assist at the explanation, which she
had worded so that it might please both her brother and tlie
mother of her in whom she still hoped to see the futui'e bride
of Charles. For though Nathalie was to spend this winter in
Sainville, Madame Marceau by no means contemplated her
prolonged sojourn as either desirable or proper, and did, not
apprehend the want of a convenient pretence, whenever the
time arrived, for her to go in earnest.
Aunt Radegonde did not look much pleased when her
nephew left them to the seclusion of the little saloon. " He
might have stayed ; but, thank heaven, they could do without
him, and without any one else, too. This was a nice quiet
place; yet, if Nathalie preferred the drawing-room, they would
go in."
Nathalie assured her that she preferred this retired spot ;
they remained ; few came to disturb their seclusion, or paid them
more than passing visits. The Canoness drew the divan near the
drapery, and slightly drawing this aside fastened it, so that whilst
remaining in its deep shadow they could see and hear almost all
228 NATHALIE.
that passed in the drawing-room. Nathalie looked and listened
but she could fix her attention on nothing. Whilst the childish
voice of the young girl near the silver urn read scroll after scroll,
and exclamations of affected triumph, and still more affected
disappointment, greeted her announcements of gain or loss,
her memory wandered back to the incidents of the afternoon.
Now she saw herself lying under the beech-tree ; then she
heard once more the music of the dance, or suddenly found
herself sitting alone with Monsieur de Sainville, and hearing
his melancholy voice say to her, " Strange ! in those matters,
I thing nothing strange." , She looked for him amongst the
guests ; he sat by Madame de Jussac ; not a word of their con-
versation reached her ear ; but though they smiled, she knew
it was not friendly ; in vain the lady seemed to pour forth her
softest blandishments ; something stern in his face, which Na-
thalie knew very well, remained still to show that he disowned
her power. From them, Nathalie's glance wandered to other
groups ; but her head throbbed and burned ; the glaring light
annoyed her ; she soon drew back into the shade, and heard,
without heeding, the remarks of Aunt Radegonde, blending
with the hum of the many conversations in the drawing-room.
A-bout an hour had thus elapsed, when the Canoness ex-
claimed :
" The lottery is over, and here is Armand coming, with
our prizes."
The divan was immediately restored to its former place, as
Monsieur de Sainville entered, followed by a servant, carrying
a small tray, on which appeared the prizes, by no means nu-
merous. The servant placed the tray on a small table near the
divan, and retired.
^' Aunt," said Monsieur de Sainville, opening his pocket-
book, " I took charge of your fifteen tickets I also attended
to my own forty in all. Less prudent than you, I allowed
myself to be victimized to the extent of twenty-five tickets, at
the price of two francs each. Well, aunt, my deliberate con-
clusion is, that of all the cheating transactions I ever witness-
ed, and I have seen a good many, a charitable lottery is the
most barefaced."
" What ! Armand ; was there not fair play?"
" No. I acquit the individuals, but I accuse the system ;
it is founded, from beginning to end, on victimizing, which falla
chiefly on my unfortunate sex. Ladies get up these things, and
seduce their male friends into the purchase of tickets, for which
KATIIALIE. 229
they work prizes, wbicli being all essentially feminine articles,
are useless when won, and therefore return to them as presents;
we pay and do the real charity always deluded into the belief
that we shall get our money's worth they obtain all the
praise."
" Arraand," impatiently said his aunt, " do tell us what we
have got? The first five tickets are for Petite."
" The first five tickets were blanks."
" Poor child !" observed the Canoness, turning towards
Nathalie; "you shall share my better fortune."
" The next ten tickets obtained one prize."
" One ! only one ! and what was it?'*
" A cigar-case. Here it is."
" A cigar-case !" exclaimed Aunt Kadegoude ; ' and what
am I to do with a cigar-case !"
" Any thing you like, aunt, provided you do not oS'er it to
me."
" "Well, Armand, what did your twenty-five tickets get ?"
" Three prizes, essentially feminine, of course, and one of
them my own gift to the lottery. Here is a purse, aunt, which
may not be of much use to you, but which you will value for
the sake of the maker."
He dropped Nathalie's ridiculed purse in his aunt's lap, as
he spoke.
" Have you got nothing for Petite, Armand ?"
" Yes ; "this pair of Chinese slippers ; I can warrant them
genuine, for I brought them from Canton myself."
Nathalie thanked him, and looked delighted.
" What a pity they are so small," said the Canoness, taking
up one of the slippers.
" They are not too small," promptly observed her nephew.
" Indeed they are, Armand."
" I assure you, aunt, they are not."
" How can you tell ?"
" I know they are not too small."
" I never saw any one so dogmatic," impatiently said the
Canoness ; " but I am determined you shall not always have
your way."
Before Nathalie could guess what she was going to do, or
oppose, she put the slipper on the young girl's foot ; she re-
mained mute it fitted.
"Well, aunt?" said Monsieur de Sainviile, with a smile.
MWell what about it?" sharply asked his aunt; '^ Po
S30 NATHALIE.
tite does not want your ugly Chinese things ; take them
back."
She pushed the remaining slipper over to him ; but Natha-
lie quickly snatched it back, on perceiving Monsieur de Sain-
ville extending his hand to take it, and deliberately put it on ;
then looked at her feet with all the admiration of a child for
its new toy.
" Take them off, Petite," said the Canoness : ' ugly things,
with their turned-up toes !"
Nathalie laughed, said they were original, and that she
would wear them. The remonstrances of the Canoness in-
duced her to take them off, but she persisted in keeping them.
Aunt Radegonde, who was either domineered over, or domi-
neering, looked peevish, until she remembered they had not
yet seen the remaining prize. He produced it, a plain brown
silk purse, which he intended keeping, because it was strong
and safe. The Canoness looked triumphant: it was she who
had begun that purse, and Petite who had finished it, " so that
Monsieur Armand, after all his ridiculing, was glad to have
something of their manufacture." Monsieur Armand indulged
his aunt in her triumph, and sat down by her side. She re-
minded him once that he ought to appear in the drawing-
room ; but he quietly replied, " I am not host to-day I am
guest ; I shall stay here : I prefer it."
He remained, and entered into a conversation with his
aunt ; but Nathalie, though usually attentive to his discoui'se,
could not keep her mind fixed upon it now. The fatigue of
the day weighed her down, and the vague sounds from the next
room lulled her to sleep. At first she resisted ; then, spite of
all her efforts, her head became more and more heavy : the lit-
tle saloon, with its flowery recesses, and pale lamp, seemed to
float in a mist before her eyes; at length her lids closed,
and she slept. Once she was half-awakened by the voice of
Monsieur de Sainville, suddenly saying:
" Poor little thing ! she has fallen asleep."
' Shall I awaken her, and take her to her room, Armand ?"
Rsked the voice of his aunt.
" Why so ? she looks very comfortable thus."
" Then help me to put this cushion under her head."
Nathalie felt her head gently raised for a moment ; the next
it had sunk into the soft pillow placed beneath it, and she waa
once more in a deep slumber. She had slept thus for some
time, when she suddenly awoke with the vague, undefined con-
ciousnes.s, that something she knew not wliat had hap
NATHALIE.
231
pened. She looked up with a start: the sounds from the
drawing-room had ceased: all in the little saloon was silent.
The lamp still burned with its clear pale ray ; the velvet dra-
pery was slightly drawn aside, and iu the opening stood the
calm and handsome Madame de Jussac, looking like a vision,
in her white silk dress. Nathalie eyed her with surprise ; for
the lady's languid face now wore a peculiar smile, half of
irony, half of triumph. The young girl looked around her ;
the Canoness was peacefully nodding by her side. Where was
Monsieur de Sainville ? She turned slightly, and beheld him
standing within a few paces of the divan. His face looked
more dark and morose than she had seen it for mz.iaj a day ; it
was at him Madame de Jussac looked ; he returned her glance
with evident hauteur.
"Have they been quarrelling?" thought Nathalie.
" What a charming place to meditate in," said the lady ; ' I
do not wonder that a philosopher, a grave, reflective man, like
you, should find it delightful."
" I suspect there has been more sleep here than medita-
tion," said Madame Marceau, whose dark and smiling face now
appeared over the shoulder of her friend.
' I did not sleep," said the Canoness, wakening up.
Madame de Jussac smiled.
" Neither did your nephew," she said : ' I found him en-
gaged in a deep fit of musing."
" Politics !" observed Madame Marceau, coming iu and
looking very graciously at her brother ; for the influential indi-
vidual^ whom she had that evening sounded, had entered into
her views even more readily than she could in her warmest an-
ticipations have hoped.
Nathalie perceiving that the guests were gone, rose and
entered the front drawing-room ; it was empty. Some of the
lights were out ; most had burned low ; the floor was covered
with fragments of the little scrolls ; a few withered bouquets
lay about ; the whole room wore that disordered aspect so ad-
mirably conveyed in Hogarth's celebrated picture. Nathalie
looked around her, and thought that those late pleasures had
something dreary and hollow in all their gay brilliancy. With-
out seeking to listen, she overheard the close of a conversation
between Madame Marceau and her brother in the little saloon.
" I cannot understand," he said, in a dry, sharp voice, " how
so absurd a rumor was propagated. Not less than five persona
mentioned it to me this evening as a current report. I, a can*
232 NATHALIE.
no -W
didate at the approaching elections ! I, trying to become de
puty: tlie mere idea is ridiculous." -
" Monsieur de Sainville is above politics !" said the soft
i/onical voice of Madame de Jussac.
" Armand," asked his sister, in a low but distinct tone, " do
you mean to say, that if a canditateship is oifered to you, you
will decline it?'"'
" I mean to say, that I shall decline it."
Nathalie heard Madame Marceau rise abruptly, and leave
the little saloon with a quick hurried step. She approached
the table near which the young girl stood ; took up a volume of
engravings, turned over the pages with a trembling hand, then
closed the book and pushed it away with angry haste. Natha-
lie looked at her with evident but unobserved wonder : there
was no mistaking the meaning of the bent brow, flashing eyes
and compressed lips ; resentment, the deeper for its suppres-
sion, was in every haughty and quivering lineament. For a
few minutes she stood there struggling against passion ; at
length her features became somewhat more composed ; a chair
was by her ; she sat down with moody and abstracted glance.
At the very moment when her schemes seemed near their ful-
filment, her brother their supposed instrument stepped in
and blasted them with a few haughty words. Twice in one
evening had her haughty will to vail before his; the first dis-
appointment had seemed light until this second deeper one
gave it new bitterness. She felt baffled, irritated, and ag-
grieved ; for years she had looked up to Monsieur de Sainville
as the hope of her fallen fortunes ; but now, she bitterly asked
herself if, after being the good, he could not become the evil
genius of her destiny.
She made an effort to smooth her brow, and look cheerful
as Madame de Jussac drew near. The legitimist lady had
never been in the secret of her political plans, and she flattered
herself with the belief, that they were too deeply laid to be
divined by her ; to her great relief it was not her whom the
lady addressed, but Nathalie.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," said she, in her soft caressing
voice, " I have been persuading our good Canoness to come
home with me to-morrow : of course you will accompany her ?"
Nathalie was somewhat taken by surprise, but she quietly
assented, Madame Marceau looked up with slight astonish-
ment, soon succeeded by indiff'erence. Her aunt and Nathalie
might go where they liked : other thoughts occupied her.
NATHALIE.
233
^ Come. Petite," said the Canoncss, leaving the little saloon
;i her turn, ' what are you doing here ? Look, it is near one.
Well, what do you want in there 1" she added, as she saw Na-
thalie push the drapery aside ; "the slippers! Why you do
not want to wear them at night ; ugly things !"
Without heeding her the young girl re-entered the little
saloon. Monsieur de Sainvillo sat alone on the divan more
morose than ever. He looked up and his look was not gra-
cious.
"Have you forgotten any thing?" he asked, in a brief
tone.
" The slippers, sir," she replied with a glance of surprise.
He had never addressed her thus before.
" Here they are." He handed them to her quickly, as if
her presence importuned him.
Nathalie took them silently, but when she reached the dra-
pery she suddenly came back. She remembered Madame de
Jussac's invitation, and thought he might be offended about
that.
" Sir," said she, simply, " have I done any thing wrong ?"
He looked at her with evident surprise. She stood before
him with serious, yet child-like grace, and he could not help
thinking, that none save a child would have asked such a ques-
tion.
' You have done nothing wrong," he replied, in his usual
tone ; " but it is late, ray aunt is waiting for you : good night."
CHAPTER XVII.
At an early hour on the following morning, Madame dij
Jussac left, accompanied by the Canoness and her young com-
panion. Her chateau was a few leagues away ; Nathalie had
often heard it mentioned as one of the most elegant and luxu-
rious abodes in the province. She expected to be pleased, and
was only disappointed ; it was essentially a modern abode, and
wealth could not replace the antique charm of Sainville.
The same disappointment awaited her in the pleasures
which the chiiteau afforded ; they were varied and frequent,
but to Nathalie they seemed cold and monotonous. Thanks
234 KATIIALIE
to the evident partiality of Madame de Jussac for her, she
could not complain of neglect ; indeed, she received great and
very flattering attention ; but she received it with indifference,
for during the whole week that the visit lasted, she was a prey
to ennui. " If this is good society," thought she, " I have
enough of it." She found some pleasure, however, in walking
in the garden. There was a high terrace, with marble vases
filled with flowers, that reminded her of Sainville, and from
which the old chateau was visible in the fine weather. She
came there early in the morning, before the Canoness was up,
and was generally joined by Madame de Jussac.
" You are looking for Sainville," said the lady to her, one
morning, when she found her standing by the stone balustrade,
with her look fastened on the horizon ; ' you cannot see it yet,
the mist is too great ; you seem to like Sainville."
' I like it very much."
" Yes. it is a pleasant place."
She took the young girl's arm ; they walked up and down
the lonely terrace ; the lady spoke of Sainville and its inhabit-
ants ; Nathalie listened. The name of Charles Marceau hap-
pened to be mentioned, and Nathalie, with a heedlessness which
she immediately repented, allowed Madame de Jussac to per-
ceive that the intended marriage between the young man and
her daughter was known to her. Madame de Jussac looked
amused.
' So, my dear child," she said, smiling, " you really have
believed that a daughter of mine would one day be Madame
Charles Marceau."
Nathalie looked disconcerted ; Madame de Jussac kindly
assured her she was not in the least offended, though the idea
had certainly amused her. She then proceeded to an analysis
of her friend's son, from which it appeared that Charles was
ignorant and presumptuous, without either the name or posi-
tion which could induce even the most kindly disposed to over-
look those disadvantages.
" Is he not to take the name of De Sainville, and is he not
his uncle's heir ?" asked Nathalie.
Madame de Jussac gave her a penetrating glance, and
asked her, with a smile, if she believed this. Nathalie quietly
assured her that she did : upon which Madame de Jussac com-
posedly replied that she did not think so. She spoke like one
who knew more than she said.
'' The only real claim of Monsieur Charles Marceau on at
xXATHALIE. 235
tention," she resumed, after a pause, ' is that he chances to be
the nephew of a gentleman who might, if he wished, be the first
man of this district, and indeed of the province ; but who, spite
of the haughty inaction to which he condemns himself, is, nev
ertheless, a very remarkable man."
Nathalie heard her with surprise, but she was destined to
be more astonished stiU. Madame de Jussac, with a freedom
from pique and resentment which charmed her listener, pro-
ceeded to draw a highly-colored and somewhat flattering por-
trait of her late host. He was not only the soul of generosity
and honor, not only a man of powerful and varied intellect.
but he was naturally of a most amiable and winning disposi-
tion. Nathalie could not help demurring ; she thought him
cold and severe.
' My dear child," softly said the lady, " you would not
think so if you had seen what I have seen ; namely, Monsieur
de Sainville in love."
Nathalie looked as if she longed to question ; but there was
no need ; Madame de Jussac was willing to speak.
" It was indeed some years ago ; but I assure you that he
was then what he is now ; the difference, if there was any, was
slight. I have some experience ; I have seen many men in
love, but he is the only one who, to my seeming, could love
deeply, passionately even, without looking foolish or ridicu-
lous ; and if you could only guess how rare, how very rare,
that is !"
She said more, but her language was less clear than she
who listened desired ; indeed, she soon completely changed the
subject, and from Monsieur de Sainville passed to Monsieur de
Sainville's political opinions. She deplored that a man of his
birth and talent declined devoting himself to the cause of legit-
imacy, and as Nathalie did not seem much impressed with this
reasoning, she entered into a long and detailed explanation of
the legitimist doctrines, which lasted an hour and a half.
Every morning a similar conversation recurred between them,
with this difference, that the name of Charles Marceau was no
more mentioned, and that the political lectures of Madame de
Jussac became more and more eloquent. Nathalie did not for
one moment imagine that her conversion to legitimacy was the
lady's object, and though expressions, which she did not then
notice, but which she afterwards remembered, led her to think
80 at a later period, her present impression was, that her
hostess had taken a fancy to her, and mentioned politics be-
cause politics were uppermost in her mind.
23G NATHALIE.
The day for their return came at length, and there was
something in Nathalie's face as they neared Sainville, which
struck even the Canoness. The young girl was always looking
out of the carriage-window, admiring every thing which they
passed, and praising all she saw with so much warmth and ani
mation, that Aunt Kadegonde observed with much finesse,
" Ah ! Petite, you want me to think you are delighted to
go home ; you want me to think that you prefer our dull place
to that gay ch&teau de Jussac."
" Indeed I do," very decisively replied Nathalie. But
Aunt Radegonde's penetration was not to be thus deceived,
and she saw, she said, through her young friend's kind-hearted
ruse. It was evening when they reached the chateau ; Mad-
ame Marceau was unwell in her room.
" Then we shall spend the evening together in my boudoir,"
said the Canoness with a little selfisli joy ; " will you wait for
me there, Petite, whilst I go up to Rosalie's room 1 If Ar-
mand should come, tell him he is not to go without seeing me ;
keep him in conversation."
Nathalie went up to the boudoir. She found every thing
familiar and cheerful looking, and felt glad to be come back ;
it seemed as if she had been, not a few days, but a whole
month awa}^. The door opened ; she started, but it was only
Amanda, who came in for some trifling purpose, and seemed
delighted to see mademoiselle once more. Nathalie heard her
abstractedly, and felt relieved when she left. About ten mi-
nutes elapsed, the door opened again ; this time Nathalie did
not look up from her work.
" How industrious you are alread}'," said the voice of Aunt
Radegonde.
Nathalie looked up slowly ; the Canoness was alone. She
had found her niece very unwell ; nothing serious, of course,
still it was very provoking, for it would delay her intended
journey to Paris for a month or six weeks ; such was the doc-
tor's decision. Then followed a long dissertation on illness in
general, and on two or three Tery remarkable illnesses with
which the Canoness had been afflicted, and during which she
had been attended by Doctor Montolieu. Nathalie heard her
with such evident abstraction, that Aunt Radegonde ended
by noticing it.
" I cannot imagine what is the matter witli you to-night,"
she said, a little pettishly ; " you start and jump in a very pe-
culiar way. Are you nervous ? I hope not. for when Rosalie
NATHALIE. 237
is gone we shall have a lonely life of it; and if every sound
fidgets you so, what will you do in the long winter evenings,
without even Armand to come in and talk for an hour ?"
" Will Monsieur de Sainville accompany Madame Marceau ?"
she asked.
" Accompany her, Petite! Why did I not tell you? How
forgetful you are ; I am sure I told you."
" You told me nothing,"' said Nathalie, laying down her
work.
" What! I did not say Armand was gone?"
"Gone! No, Marraine, 3'ou did not."
" Well, he is gone, Petite ; gone for the winter ; gone ro
Spain, I believe. I dare say he will come back next spring, or
nest summer at the latest. Indeed, if you can only get over
your nervousness, w(5 shall have a very quiet and comfortable
winter."
Nathalie Ic-jked thoughtful, and worked on in silence.
The winter set in early. It was as the Canoness had pre-
dicted, extremely quiet. Madame Marceau brooded over her
disappointments in her own room, whence she seldom emerged.
At length she took her departure for Paris, where the elegant
Amanda accompanied her. The Canoness and the young girl
remained alone in the chateau, with the servants ; and never
did solitude weigh so heavily on Nathalie.
Amongst the "wrongs of women," few are really more
heavy and insupportable than the forced inactivity to which
they are condemned in all the life, fire, and energy of youth.
That thirst for pleasure, for which they are so much reproved,
is only the thirst for excitement and action. They are social
prisoners, and, like the enchanted princesses of fairy tales, they
look down from the high and inaccessible tower of their solitude
on the life and action ever going on beneath them, but in which
they must never hope to join. Some, timid and shrinking, love
their sheltering captivity ; by far the greater number hate it
in their hearts, yet, obedient to necessity, grow either apathetic
or resigned : a few, more daring, or rendered reckless, break
through their bonds, and throw themselves into the social
strife ; but for one who wins the shore, how many perish mi-
serably !
Enmd^ in all its dreariness, now fell on Nathalie. She re-
gretted the school of Mademoiselle Dantin. There she had to
struggle and act ; she lived. But here it seemed as if the
shadow of more than monastic stillness had suddenly fallen up-
238 NATHALIE
on her existence. No visitors came to the eliateau, iu the ab-
sence of its master. Once, Madame de Jussac called ; she
looked slightly di.sconcertcd on hearing that Monsieur de Saiu-
ville was gone. Nathalie longed for an invitation similar to
that which she had formerly so little valued ; but Madame de
Jussac left without opening her lips on that subject, and, in-
deed, without vitteriug more than a few smooth phrases. She
returned no more.
In the long winter evenings, when Aunt Radegonde slept,
or indulged in monotonous speech, Nathalie thought of Mon-
sieur de Sainville, and followed him in his southern wanderings
with something like envy. Why was he free as air, whilst she
was condemned to waste her youth, and perhaps all her exist-
ence, in this forced repose? The only thing that did her good
was to take long solitary walks in the garden and grounds. She
came in cold and fatigued, but at least relieved for a while of
the superfluous energy which oppressed her, and made stillness
of mind and body a sort of inexpressible torment. Three
months thus passed away.
Madame Marceau had been gone a few weeks, when, on a
bleak afternoon, Nathalie went out for her daily walk, in spite
of all the remonstrances of the Canoness. She remained out
about two hours, and reentered the house as evening set in.
She proceeded, as usual, to the boudoir of Aunt Radegonde.
The lamp was unlit ; but the wood fire burned with a soft and
subdued glow. The young girl liked this quiet time ; for then
the Canoness slept, and allowed Nathalie to wander away in
her inner world of thought. She now softly closed the door,
came in on tip-toe, went up to the window, allowed the curtains
to fall -in heavy folds, which excluded the glimmering twilight,
listened for a while at the back of AuntRadegonde's arm-chair,
and, concluding from the stillness there that its tenant slept,
quietly glided around it to her place, a low seat, on the other
side of the fire ; then, leaning her forehead on her hand, she
looked at the burning embers, and fell into a deep fit of
musing. She thought of sunny Spain, of barren plains, wild
valleys, and old Moorish cities, where all night long were heard
the sounds of dance and serenade.
" Have you got a head-ache ?" a.sked a well-known voice.
She did not start, look up, or turn round ; she remained
in the same attitude, as if arrested thus by the power of en-
chantment.
" I am sure you are not well, Petite," continued the voice,
now sounding like that of Aunt Radegonde.
NATHALIK. 239
" And I am sure, that though you change j'our voice, and
call me Petite, you are not Marraine !" cried Nathalie, eagerly
bending forward ; but the arm-chair stood in the shade, and
ehe could not see. ' No matter," she impatiently added, ' I
know very well who you are. There ! I see you now !" she
triumphantly exclaimed, as a flickering light arose, and dis-
played the smiling face of Monsieur de Sainville, who now oc-
cupied his aunt's arm-chair, facing Nathalie. The flame also
lit up her features ; she looked more than glad ; she seemed
delighted. He amused himself for a few moments in watching
her changing face, as changing as the wavering light which fell
on it now. * So you are really come back !" she said, rubbing
her little hands with evident glee, and not seeming in the least
to think it necessary to hide the pleasure she felt at Monsieur
de Sainville's return.
' Yes, I am really come back," he replied ; and he did not
look displeased at the evident gratification his return afforded
to the young girl. It was, to say the truth, something new in
his experience, to see a face brightening through his unexpected
presence.
Nathalie shook her head, laughed a gay short laugh, rose
abruptly, walked up and down the room, came back to her seat,
and allowing herself to fall down upon it with negligent grace,
said gayly :
" I am so glad !"
"Glad of what?" he asked, as if willing to indulge himself
for once in the pleasure of this naive flattery.
" Glad that you are come back, sir."
" Indeed ! why so, my child !" he slowly asked.
" Because I am half dead with ennui .'"
" Candid confession !" he exclaimed, looking, and feeling,
perhaps, a little piqued.
" Indeed, sir, it is candid. If cnmii could kill, I should bo
quite dead."
"And how do you know I shall dissipate yours?"
" Oh ! Mon Dieic !" cried Nathalie, looking much dis
mayed, " you are going away again ?"
" No, not this winter, at least."
She looked much relieved.
" So you suffered from e/imn ?" he said.
She shook her head, and gave a rueful sigh. He smiled,
and said, " Poor child !" but his smile was not very compas*
sionatC; as he asked her ' what sort of an ennui it was?"
240 NATHALIE.
" A desperate ennui, sir ; something quite overpowering
that took hold of me in the morning, and did not leave me at
night."
" You found the chateau dull, I suppose ?"
" I found it empty, sir."
" Do you know," he resumed, after a brief pause, " that you
must have good nerves ? You did not seem a bit frightened
scarcely startled, on finding me here so unexpectedly."
" Because I knew your voice at the very first word you ut-
tered ; besides, it did not seem so strange that you should be
there. I was thinking of you, of you and Spain. Oh, sir, do
tell me something about it. Is it a fine country ? Do you
like the Spanish women ? Are they so very pretty ? Did you
see them dance ?"
'' I came back through your Aries," he replied, without an-
swering her rapid questioning.
" Aries ! you came through Aries ! Oh, moii Dieu /"
There was emotion in her voice. Without seeming to heed
it, he rang for the light.
"And how did Aries look?" asked Nathalie, when the ser-
vant was gone.
" I could see no change."
But Nathalie was not content. She questioned him mi-
nutely ; he answered patiently, and gave her every detail she
desired, yet each reply made her look more thoughtful and
more sad. When she had no more to ask, and he no more to
say, she gave a deep sigh, and remained silent. Monsieur de
Sainville now stood near the table, unfastening a little osier
basket which he had brought with him.
" Mademoiselle Nathalie," said he, turning towards her,
"do come and look at something I have brought from my
travels."
She rose and approached, without seeming much interested.
He asked her to guess the contents of the basket. She looked
at it ; turned round it, came back to her place, and shook her
head, and said she did not know. He smiled, and bade her
raise the lid. She promptly obeyed, for her curiosity was
somewhat roused ; to her surprise, she saw nothing but green
moss.
"Look beneath," said he.
She raised the moss, and beneath it, enshrined in another
bed of moss which they perfumed, she perceived a bouquet of
such flowers as the late season afforded. She looked up rather
disappointed.
I\'ATHAL!E. 241
' They are for you," he quietly observed.
" For me, sir !" she exclaimed with a quick searching look.
' Yes ; have you no idea where they come from ?"
" They come from Aries," she replied, in a low tone.
She raised the bunch of flowers from their mossy bed, soft-
ly and silently, without one of the exclamations of pleasure
Monsieur de Sainville had expected ; looked at them for a few
moments, and they seemed as fresh as if newly gathered by the
hand which held them : then bent over them, silently still.
" Well !" he at length observed, " do they look genuine?"
She slowly raised her head, and looked up into his face, as
he stood by her side ; her face was covered with tears.
" Oh, sir," she said, " how shall I thank you ?"
He smiled, a little sadly, at her emotion ; he loved Sain-
ville ; but the fountain from which flew such tears had long
run dry for him.
" If you only knew where I had procured these flowers," he
observed, after a pause.
" What ! are they not from Aries ?"
" Yes, but from what garden of Aries V
Her color came and went ; she gave him a troubled look full
of inquiry, but his face remained impenetrable. At length she
faltered out that " she could not tell she did not know."
" Well, it was only in the garden of a little house that
stands apart somewhere in the suburbs. There is an old stone
bench just by the porch ; and in the garden behind the house
is a little fountain, with laurels around it."
" My aunt's house ! our house ! the house where I was
born !" cried Nathalie. " Oh, mon Dieu !"
She seemed unable to say more.
' Oh, sir !" she at length added, " what have I done that
you should be so very kind to me V
She raised the flowers to her lips, and held out her hand to
him ; he took it and seemed to enjoy her pleasure. But when
this emotion had subsided she questioned him eagerly. By
what chance had he discovered that house; for it was by
chance, of course 1 She remembered mentioning it to him once
still she did not suppose he had taken the trouble to find it
out, for it was not easy to find ! She seemed so confident that
it was all the result of chance that he looked slightly discon-
certed, and allowed her to remain in that belief, which did
not seem, however, to lessen her gratitude in the least. In-
deed, she was renewing her thanks with southern vivacity and
242 NATHALIE.
fervor, when the door opened and Aunt Radegonde entered.
Nathalie eagerly ran up to her, and told her the story of the
bouquet. " How kind it was of Monsieur de Sainville to bring
those flowers to her, and what an extraordinary chance had
made him enter the very house where she and her aunt lived
at Aries." The Canoness heard Nathalie without uttering a
word, and gave her nephew an astonished look, which he did
not seem to heed.
' Yes," she said abstractedly ; " it is very peculiar, as you
say, Petite."
She sat down in her arm-chair and looked musingly at the
fire, whilst Nathalie left the room to put her flowers in water.
Monsieur de Sainville, with his usual restlessness, was walking
up and down the narrow houdoir.
" Aunt," said he, suddenly stopping short before her, "'you
said Mademoiselle Montolieu was '^uite well ; I find her
much thinner, poor little thing !"
' And if she is thin, what about it ?" rather shortly asked
his aunt.
" It is a great deal to me as her guardian."
The Canoness looked greatly provoked, but the entrance of
Nathalie cheeked her reply. During her tempoi-ary absence,
the Canoness had been engaged in giving orders for all the
rooms devoted to her nephew's use to be aired, heated, and pre-
pared, and especially for the dinner to be hurried as much as
possible. Nathalie now brought the tidings that it was nearly
ready.
'"Why should we not dine up here? I like your boudoir,
aunt," said Monsieur de Sainville.
" Oh ! how delightful it would be, Marraine," cried Na-
thalie.
The Canoness smiled at the idea of having a favor to grant.
She pretended to hesitate a good deal and raise numerous ob-
jections, but she at length consented with much graciousness,
The houdoir was far too small ; and yet it was a pleasant meal ;
and when it was over, they had a very pleasant evening sitting
all three around the fire. The ladies questioned Monsieur de
Sainville on his travels, but he seemed to have been very little
interested by what he saw, and consequently had not much to
say on that score.
" Then why did you go, Armand ?" asked his aunt.
" For the pleasure of coming back again, aunt ; by far thfl
most real pleasure of travelling."
NATHALIE. 243
Monsieur de Sainville retired early. His aunt followed
tiim out of the rL-om with an important air, and looked very
important when she returned, in the course of a quarter of an
hour
' Petite," she gravely said ; " do put by your work, I want
to speak to you. Petite," she resumed, as Nathalie complied
with evident surprise ; " reserve is a virtue highly necessary to
women, and chiefly to women like us, in the unmarried state.
Now, when I came in here this evening I found you standing
there, with flowers in one hand, the other hand, my child, was
in that of Armand. Mind, I do not say it was wrong, but it
was not quite reserved."
Nathalie colored deeply, and did not reply at once.
" Marraine," she said at length, " it was an irresistible im-
pulse, foolish perhaps, but certainly innocent. Monsieur de
Sainville has been so kind to me, that I sometimes feel as if 1
were his child and he my father."
" I never knew any thing so absurd !" impatiently exclaim-
ed the Canoness ; ' I perceive I must open your eyes as I have
been opening his. He calls you ' his ward,' or a child,' or
even 'poor little thing.' You speak of him as of an old man.
Now, my dear, if both you and he labor under this great mis-
take, I, a woman of penetration, do not, and I feel it my duty
to enlighten you ; I assure you, therefore, that Armand could
by no means "be your father; just as I have been assuring him
that you are neither a child nor a little girl."
' Oh, Marraine !" cried Nathalie, " how could you speak to
him about any thing of the kind?" She looked irritated and
ashamed.
" Mademoiselle Petite," dryly said the Canoness, '' allow me
to say, that I am not only a woman of penetration, but^ also a
woman of discretion and reserve. Do you imagine I said any
thing improper to my nephew ? Do you imagine I alluded to
the fact which I mentioned to you? No, indeed ; but in an
adroit and delicate manner I introduced your name, and hint-
ed that though you were so childish, you were not a child, but
a young and very pretty gild. He took the hint, and said quite
seriously, ' I know it, x\unt.' "
A rosy blush suiFused the features of Nathalie ; she looked
/ery much discomposed, whilst the Canoness continued in her
usual tone :
"You see. you might have relied on ray discretion, Petite.
Indeed you need not have been so offended at what I said. In
244 NATHALIE.
my time, my dear," she added, glancing at her soft wliite
hands, " a lady's hand was a rare and precious thing to touch ;
and the lover admitted to kiss the tips of his lady's fingers waa
often overpowered by his feelings, the favor was so great.
I know that in modern times relaxations have been intro-
duced, but / cannot approve the principle."
Nathalie looked up, her face was flushed, and when she
spoke, she spoke quickly, and with eager warmth.
" Marraine," she said, " I know not if you have done right
)r wrong in speaking thus ; but this I know, that come
what may I thank you."
She rose, kissed her, and was ^one.
' Docile little creature," thought the Canoness, delighted
at the result of her interference ; " how she will learn in time
to understand the beauties of female celibacy."
Nathalie was then in her room. She had paused in the
act of undressing before her mirror, and now looked with smi-
ling eyes and parted lips at the charming image its depths re-
vealed. Oh ! wise Aunt Radegonde !
CHAPTER XVIII.
Winter, was over ; but the spring was cool, and a bright
wood fire burned on the drawing-room hearth. Though it was
evening, the lamp was still unlit, the firelight almost supplied
its place ; its cheerful and vivid glow extended to the furthest
ex.'i.remity of the room, giving warmth to the old pictures on
the wall, and light to the gleaming mirrors. The windows
with curtains drawn back alone looked dark, yet, beyond them
shone a few pale stars in the depths of the gloomy sky, against
which, more gloomy still, waved the dark trees of the avenue.
On one side of the fire-place, but with her back turned to
it, sat Nathalie on her low chair. One hand supported her
cheek, the other rested on a book which lay open on her lap.
She was slightly bent forward in the attitude of reading, and
the light which fell on the open page, also lit up her clear and
well-defined profile. Monsieur de Sainville, similarly engaged,
eat on the other side of the fire- place, but he faced the fire ;
the flickering light fell in full upon him ; and whereas it gave
a richer warmth and deeper coloring to the young girl's coun
NATIIALIK 243
tcnance, it only seemed to render his grave features more cold
and colorless. They appeared to be alone, and neither spoke.
Tired, perhaps, of the position he was compelled to assume in
order to receive the light of the fire on the page he read, Mon-
sieur de Sainville at length closed the volume and reclined
back in his seat.
" Do you wish for the lamp, sir?" asked Nathalie, in a
low tone, and without looking up from her book ; " shall I rini?
for it ?"
" Thank you," he replied, speaking low like her ; it
would oul}^ cause my sister to awaken ; she likes this evening
sleep."
Was Nathalie mistaken, or was. there indeed something in
the speaker's tone that justified tlie quick look she raised to-
wards him ? but his features no longer received the light from
the fire, and she could not trace their meaning; hers assumed
a surprised and puzzled expression as she glanced from Mon-
sieur de Sainville to a sofa behind him. On this sofa his sis-
ter lay reclining in the more shadowy part of the room ; the
sound of her breathing, quick and oppressed like that of a per-
son in sleep, was heard at a regular interval. Nathalie lis-
tened to it for a Avhile, then rose, stepped softly across the
room, and placed a screen between Madame Marceau and the
fire. As she was turning away from the couch she met Mon-
sieur de Sainville's inquiring look.
' I was afraid the light might awaken her," she simply
said, and resumed her seat.
He gave her a fixed and penetrating look, then once more
took up his book and previous position.
Ever since her return from Paris, that is to say, for two
months, Madame Marceau had been seriously ill ; but this she
pertinaciously refused to acknowledge. In spite of remon-
strance and entreaties, she declared that she only labored un-
der slight indisposition ; though she was compelled to keep
reclining on the sofa all day long, nothing could induce her to
retire to her own room ; she persisted in remaining in the
saloon, in order to see every one who might chance to call.
Visits had never been numerous at the chateau of Sainville,
they became less frequent every day ; Madame de Jussac sel-
dom came ; yet, Madame Marceau, attired with her usual e?^-
gance, still remained in the drawing-room, ready to pay the
honors of that house, of which she considered herself almost
the mistress. The doctor warned, her brother remonstrated,
24C NATHALIE.
both in vain : the sick lady shrank from taking to hei bed
with a feeling that resembled horror ; she seemed to entertain
an instinctive and unconquerable dread of acknowledging, even
thus indirectly, the fatal progress disease had made.
The Canoness acted in a wholly different spirit. No
sooner did the first severe cold give her a touch of rheuma-
tism, than she clothed herself in flannel from head to foot,
discovered that the drawing-room was full of draughts, retired
to her little botcdoi)\ and, having caused every cranny to be
stopped, up, and a huge fire to burn night and day in the
chimney, was in a fair way of being suffocated, when both the
doctor and Monsieur de Sainville fortunately interfered. But
though she submitted very reluctantly to their advice, they
wholly failed in persuading her that it would be possible for
her to leave the boudoir, and not perish of cold. Nathalie's
coaxing entreaties did indeed, once succeed in bringing her
down to the drawing-room, but after an hour's stay she went
up in a shivering fit, declaring with some asperity, that unless
there were a conspiracy against her life, no one would after
this trial, think of asking her to come down again ; which of
course no one did. When she first determined on remaining
in her boudoir, Aunt Radegonde imagined that Nathalie
would be with her constantly ; but Madame Marceau had
since her return conceived so great an affection for the young
girl, that she could not bear to have her out of her sight ; she
now called her "Petite," like her aunt; treated her with a
kind familiarity, wholly free from patronage ; and insisted on
the exclusive possession of her society, to the great chagrin of
Aunt Radegonde, who was thus obliged to be satisfied
with the companionship of Amanda.
The elegant femme-de-chambre, whose life had been spent
with la flcur des j^ois of the French noblesse, felt wounded iu
her artistic pride. Was it because she condescended to receive
a salary, that her talents were to remain idle ? Why she was
losing her lightness and delicacy of touch with every day's in-
action ! This indirect appeal to Madame Marceau's sense of
justice produced an increase in the yearly sum which Made-
moiselle Amanda was in the habit of receiving ; and which in-
crease was considered by this experienced coiffeuse as a very
slight compensation for the inexpressible damage she sustained
in thus doing nothing. To say the truth, she was not quite so
inactive as she chose to appear, since she had succeeded in
persuading Nathalie to accept of her daily services ; by which
NATHALIE. 247
means she had uot ouly kept her hand in, but also relieved
herself of a great superfluity of speech ; lamenting her fate
to the young girl, and appealing to "mademoiselle to know
whether the chateau had not become insufferably dull ?"
The chateau was, indeed, any thing but a gay sojourn ; but
though she was thus secluded from every society, save that of
its owners, Nathalie did not find this monotony wearisome.
A time had been when she would have shrunk with terror and
ennui from so monastic an existence ; but now she found a
soothing charm in its very regularity and tranquil tenqr. She
liked, since Madame Marceau had become kind, without con-
descension, to sit with her, read and play to her, tc secretly
perform for her those little offices which the sick lady
would not, in her pride, acknowledge that she needed, but with
which she could not dispense ; she liked even those dull and
silent evenings by the fireside, whilst Madame Marceau slept,
evenings which, though so quiet, had yet a dreamy charm
of their own.
The room was again silent; the fire was burning iow ;
Monsieur de Sainville stooped to arrange it ; a broad jet of
flame arose, and shed its light on Nathalie and her book ; but,
as if this light annoyed him, he drew back into the shade.
" Mademoiselle Nathalie," said he, in a low tone, " do you
ever go to the garden now?"
Nathalie started slightly ; but, without looking up from
her book, she replied in the same key :
' Not often, sir."
" .1 thought so. In the first place, I never see you there ;
in the second, you have looked pale of late. Pray take a little
exercise ; and pray," he added, after a pause, " do not read
thus by fire-light ; it is bad for the sight."
Nathalie neither answered nor looked up ; but a furtive
smile trembled on her lips.
' I know what you mean," he continued ; " but you are mis-
taken. I was not reading this evening ; I read a page no
more ; nor, to say the truth, do I imagine that you have been
reading much yourself For the last week, I have noticed the
progress of your marker through the philosophical treatise in
your hands ; you have travelled exactly twelve pages, which
makes less than two pages an evening."
Nathalie hastily closed the volume.
' Now," resumed Monsieur de Sainville, " if you were not
so proud, you would long ago have asked me for something to
248 NATHALIE.
read more interesting than that Jansenist Nicole. Since yott
do not seem to be aware of it, I assure you I have a well-
stocked library, and if you will only "
" Armand," feebly said the voice of Madame Marceau,
" why are you in the dark?"
" Lest the lamp should annoy you, Rosalie; we will have
it lit now."
Ho rang the bell as he spoke ; the servant entei-ed ; and
tlie lamp was lit.
" Aiid you actually remained in the dark all this time, on
my account V resumed Madame Marceau, addressing her
brother, who now stood by her couch, in the same languid tone.
" The room was not dark," said he, very briefly.
" Trae ; beside you were always fond of sitting thus by
the fire-side. Do not these evenings remind you of other
evenings long ago, Armand ?"
" Do you feel better?" abruptly asked Monsieivr de Sain-
ville.
" Much better ; these evening slumbers compensate for
my bad nights ; and did I not fear they inconvenienced
you "
" If they did, I could leave the room."
" But it is like your kindness to stay. Dear Armand !"
and Madame Marceau pressed the hand of her brother very
gratefully. " Oh ! and you, too, stayed, chere Petite," she
added, addressing Nathalie in a tone of surprise, and half-raio-
ing herself on one elbow to look at the young girl ; - 1 thought
you wei'e gone to see my poor aunt, whilst I slept."
Monsieur de Sainville looked at his sister ; the light of the
lamp fell on her pale features, over which now lingered a forced
smile that agreed little with the dark, feverish, and yet eager
gleam of her sunken eyes. From her he glanced to Nathalie ;
the same light fell on her countenance : she, too, was pale, but
of the pallor that gives a more delicate and subdued grace.
She had risen on being thus addressed, and now stood opposite
him at the foot of the sick lady's couch, eyeing her with a kind
compassionate glance, and smiling, as she answered, quietly:
" I never imagined you would sleep so long ; but I am truly
glad you did sleep : it will do you so much good."
'Yes, Petite, it will," slowly answered Madame Marceau;
flhe gently drew Nathalie towards her, made her sit down on
the edge of the sofa, and taking her hand, clasped it tenderly
in hers, without seeming aware that by so doing she placed it
NATHALIE. 249
almost in her brother's hand, which she still detained. Mon-
sieur de Sainville, who was eyeing the fire with a fixed and ab-
stracted gaze, never moved or turned round. Nathalie looked
somewhat disconcerted, and rose quickly.
" Had I not better go and see how your aunt is ?" sho
asked.
' Yes, Petite, she will be very glad to see you."
The look of Madame Marceau followed the young girl out
of the room ; her brother never changed his attitude : the ex-
pression of his features was severe, and almost forbidding.
" She is my good angel." sighed his sister. He did not
answer. " Do you not think so, Armand ?" she added after a
pause.
" Think what, Rosalie ?" asked Monsieur de Sainville, slow-
ly turning round, and eyeing her quietly.
" Does that lamp annoy you ?" he added, as she shaded her
eyes with her hand ; " shall I move the screen ?"
" If you please ; the light is painfully bright."
"Well, Rosalie, what were you saying?"
" I was only talking about Mademoiselle IMontolieu."
'And what of her?"
" She is a good child."
"Do you think so?"
" Yes, indeed, Armand, I do," said Madame Marceau, turn^
ing quickly her pale eager face towards her brother.
" Well, so do I," he calmly answered.
There was a pause. Monsieur de Sainville had resumed
his book; Madame Marceau was tossing restlessly on her
couch.
" Armand," she said, at length, " you like frankness, do
you not?"
" I do," was the emphatic reply.
"You will, therefore, not be offended at a plain question?"
" No, Rosalie, certainly not."
" Well, then, Armand. how do you like Mademoiselle Mon-
tolieu?"
" Very much," was the unhesitating reply.
Madame Marceau looked at her brother, and gave a sigh
of relief
" I am so glad so very glad," she said, laying some stress
on the word ' glad,' ' because you see, I feared quite the con-
trary ; indeed, I decidedly thought the contrary. I imagined
that you found her light, frivolous, and capricious ; that you
n*
250 NATHALIE
even thought her more heedless than her youth warrants : that
you, so calm and grave, saw with displeasure those little mani-
festations of temper to which she is subject. I cannot tell you
how glad I am to find that I was mistaken, which I was was
r not?"
" You certainly were mistaken."
'Well, Armand, you always spoke so very coldly to h^r."
" I am of a cold temperament."
" And rather severe. Now, I think the faults of a young
girl ought to be treated with indulgence."
" Quite true," quietly replied Monsieur de Sainville ; " se-
verity toward youth is cruel."
" Besides," resumed his sister. " what are the faults of tem-
per, when the heart is good ?"
" Nothing, indeed."
" Then you think she has faults of temper?" quickly said
Madame Marceau.
" I never said so, Rosalie. You remarked, ' What are
faults of temper, when the heart is good V I replied, ' Noth-
ing, indeed.' "
Madame Marceau pressed her hand to her forehead ; she
looked thoughtful.
" Nothing." she resumed ; " and yet, Armand, in a wife, for
instance, temper is no trifle.''
" Trifle !" seriously said Monsieur de Sainville ; ' it is the
very first thing to be studied."
" Do you think so ?" inquired his sister, with an anxious
look ; " is that your real opinion, Armand ?"
" My conscientious opinion, Rosalie," was the grave reply.
" And beauty. What do you think about beauty ?"
" In what sense do you mean ?"
" Why, beauty in a wife ; do you think it a recommend-
ation ?"
' It is an open question ; I have known men who would not
marry a woman that was too handsome ; others who would
have none but a pretty wife."
" Do you think Petite too handsome?"
" No, certainlv not."
" And yet she is very pretty, Armand ?"
" Precisely ; that is why I do not think her too handsome."'
" Well, I must say I do not admire her unconditionally."
" Nor do I."
" She is very dark."
NATHALIE. 251
" She is decidedly dark."
" And that curl in her lip, what does it mean ?"
" Pride."
You think so ?"
" I am sure of it."
' But pride is a great sin ?" said Madame Marceau, with
ook of concern.
' One of the seven capital sins."
Madame Marceau shook her head and sighed.
" 3Io}i Dicii ! Armand," she gravely said, " you intrude a
painful doubt on my mind ; faults of temper, beauty, and pride,
are dangerous gifts, and form a dangerous dowry."
" Do you think so ?" asked Monsieur de Sainville, with his
peculiar smile.
" You think so, Armand, do you not ?" said his sister, turn-
ing towards him with an inquiring glance.
" Not in the least."
" Then I must have misunderstood you !"
" Quite misunderstood me, Rosalie."
" Then, Armand, what do you think ?" she asked, with some
asperity ; ' but, perhaps," she added, in a smoother tone, " you
object to this question?"
" Not at all, I assure you. You say that temper, beauty,
and pride, are a dangerous dowry; I do not think so: temper
produces a piquant variety ; beauty is pleasant ; pride is irre-
sistibly attractive."
" Well, to be sure, how I did misunderstand you!" observed
Madame Marceau, using her vinaigrette, and speaking with a
short laugh ; " I quite thought you had said temper was the
very first thing to be studied."
{^Precisely, studied ; I did not say avoided. No man has
a right to expect that his wife shall be a mere machine ; let him,
therefore, study her temper."
" And you do not think beauty dangerous?"
"I pity the man that thinks so ; I pity the man who, being
free to choose between two women, equal in other respects, has
not the heart to choose the Landsomer one of the two."
" It would be very generous to take the plain one," ironi-
cally said the lady.
" It would be heroic, if done from a generous motive ; mean
and paltry, if the act of fear."
" And you do not object to pride ?" continued Madame
Marceau.
252 NATHALIE.
"I do not, when it is tempered by gentler foeliugs ; it may
indeed, lead to much that is foolish, but it also saves from
much that is false and wrong."
Madame Marceau did not answer ; she had partly raised
herself on her couch ; a heap of cushions supported her ; she
looked flushed, and fanned herself with her pocket-hand-
kerchief
" I misunderstood, quite misunderstood," she said, very
briefly ; ' it was my fault, no doubt, but still I perceive that I
have been in the dark all along."
Monfieur de Sainville turned quietly round, and eyed his
sister with a grave and earnest glance.
" I think," he quietly observed, " that you nave at least
been questioning me in the dark ; the exact purport of your
questions has so often escaped me. that 1 may have answered
them imperfectly. I am sorry that I did not at first state
plainly what I am going to state now."
His sister said nothing, but she slowly turned round, ajd
eyed him with a fixed and burning look ; he continued, look-
ing at her as he spoke :
" Namely, that although I recognize in no person the right
of questioning me, yet I am perfectly willing to answer any
such questions as it shall please you to address me, and I be-
forehand give you my word that, no matter what the subject
may be, the answers shall be as full and explicit as even you
can desire."
Madame Marceau sank back on her scat, turned very pale,
and app^.ied her vinaigrette. Her brother took no notice of
her emotion, which subsided almost immediately. Far from
seeming to wish to avail herself of the privilege awarded to her,
she hastily exclaimed,
" My dear Armand, what new mistake is this ? Is it pos-
sible you imagine me so indiscreet? I have, indeed, been
mistaken, but very agreeably so. We agree where I thought
we difi'ered, a true source of pleasure to me, for every day
adds to my affection for Petite."
She spoke with some warmth. He rose, and said quietly:
" Then you have no question to ask of me V
" None, Armand ; none," was the hurried reply.
He left the room.
Five minutes had scarcely elapsed, when Nathalie entered.
She looked at Madame Marceau ; the lady was reclining in her
old attitude. The screen shaded her face ; Nathalie could not
JfATHALIE. 255!
ace whether she really slept or not. She concluded that she
did, from her silence. Her step was light, and could scarcely
be beard as she glided across the carpeted floor to resume her
place ; but instead of doing so, she paused near the table,
within the brilliant circle of light shed by the lamp. The
volunje Monsieur de Sainville had been reading attracted her
attention ; she opened it : it was a collection of treatises on
subjects of agriculture, commerce, and political economy. The
young girl turned OA^er a few pages, then laid down the volume,
with that curl of the lip which had attracted the notice of Ma-
dame Marceau. Her own book was lying near it ; she also
took it up ; it opened at the last page she had been reading.
She looked at it with a fixed, abstracted gaze, scarcely the
gaze of one who read ; a faint tinge of color rose to her cheek,
and something like a smile broke over her features. At length,
she closed the volume, and, turning round, beheld the pale face
and glittering eyes of Madame Marceau looking at her over
the screen. She could not repress a start ; for though she
often met that look, rendered more keen and fixed by the
illness of her who gazed, it ever produced in her the same first
impression of uneasiness, an impression which she always
inwardly reproved when it had subsided.
"I thought you were asleep," said she, approaching the
couch.
" No, I was not," was the low reply.
" Do you feel unwell ?" continued Nathalie ; for the sick
lady was ghastly pale.
" I am not well. I was looking at you : what were you
reading V
" Nicole's Moral Essays."
"Do you like it?"
Nathalie smiled demurely.
" No favorite, I see. Come and sit here. Petite, so that I
may see you ; yes, so," she added, as Nathalie sat down on
the edge of her couch ; and the sick lady caressingly took one
of the young girl's hands in both her own, and looked fixedly
at the frank and open face before her. " You are fond of read
ing?" she resumed.
" Very fond indeed."
"And of reading by the fire-light: it is pleasant, is it not?
Well, what are you looking at?" she added, as Nathalie turned
round somewhat abruptly.
"Is not that fire burning low, madamc?"
254 NATHALIB.
' But the room is warm, Petite ; you surely do not feel
:?old, for you look quite flushed."
Nathalie did not reply.
" Armand likes it, too," abstractedly continued Madamo
Marceau ; " as I dare say you have observed," she added, after
a pause.
" No," hesitatingly replied Nathalie; " I had not observed,
I I did not know."
' AVhat ! am I mistaken ? Does he not sit reading there
every evening?"
" I mean, madame, that I did not know Monsieur de Sain-
ville liked it."
" He does, Petite, he does," said the lady, in a low tone ;
' if he did not, woxild he stay here as he stays, evening after
evening?"
Nathalie did wot answer : she scarcely seemed to have heard
Madame Marceau. She still sat on the edge of the couch ; her
'eft hand held by the sick lady, her right supporting her cheek ;
Iier look fastened on the fire, which, notwithstanding her pre-
vious assertion, burned brightly, and seemed not on the point
of dying aivay. She looked as she probably felt, in a dreamy,
abstracted, yet not unhappy mood, the mood in which youth
welcomes its bright fancies and still brighter hopes. The voice
of Madame Blarceau, always rich and harmonious, now striking-
ly so, and yet not without a touch of secret sadness, b/ oke on
her reverie.
" It is a deep charm, that of old associations deep, and
yet sometimes exquisitely painful. I know not why a thought,
or rather a remembrance, of the past has been haunting me
the whole evening, ever since I awoke, and found the lamp un-
lit, and Aruand sitting there reading by the fire-light, and as
I had seen him many a time long ago ; for it is with him an
old and favorite habit."
Nathalie looked up silently, but listened, as if bound by a
spell.
" Years have passed away, but the charm is still unbroken ;
the old habit endures. The hearth, that to others looks joyous
and bright, is to me as a spot haunted for ever by a secret pre-
sence. Is it harsh to wish that the dead should be forgotten,
and effaced from human memory ? Yet, if I could, I would do
this ; and had I the power, the fabled Lethe should yield its
deepest draught, and quench the fever of one wearied spirit."
She no longer seemed to be addressing Nathalie, and -spoke
NATHALIE. 255
m a tone so low, that the young girl could scarcely catch the
last words, though, slightly bending forward, she listened with
eager attention. She looked round, and gave Madame Mar-
ceau a searching but unavailing glance ; the meaning of that
face was not one she could read. There was a long silence.
At length, Nathalie left the couch, drew a chair to the table.
and resumed her book ; but after reading a few pages with fe-
verish haste, she closed the volume and took up her embroid-
ery. It failed, however, in rivetting her attention ; for ere
long, she laid it by, rose from her seat, and went up to one of
the window recesses. After remaining there some time, she
returned to the fireside, and standing on the hearth-rug, looked
long and fixedly at the burning logs of wood. When she
turned round, she again met the look of Madame Mai-ceau, who
seemed to be eyeing her attentively.
" Petite," she softly said, ' you do not look well this eve-
ning. I fear this is a very dull life you lead here. Alas !
what has youth to do with tho^e who have unhappily lost all
sympathy with its feelings. My poor child ! we are too old,
too grave, too sorrowful for you."
' Too sorrowful, madame ?" said Nathalie with a faint smile
but a somewhat wistful and anxious glance.
' Yes, Petite, too sorrowful," gravely replied the lady.
Nathalie looked at her almost inquiringly, but Madame
Marceau averted her glance and spoke no more. She retired
early, supported out of the room by Amanda, and leaving; the
young girl alone as usual.
It was a habit she had taken since the illness of Madame
Marceau ; there was for her a charm, deep, though undefined,
in the solitary possession of that old drawing-room, where no
one ever came after the sick lady had retired. In order to se-
cure herself against intrusion, Nathalie- had even asked and
obtained, that the task of extinguishing the lamp, and of al-
lowing the fire to die slowly away on the hearth, might be left
to her care.
The most sociable minds, those whom the quick animated
converse delights most, often turn to solitude, with feverish and
impassioned longing. There was to Nathalie something pain-
fully oppressive in the constant society of Madame Marceau.
It was not that the lady spoke much, or that her discourse wea-
ried far from it ; she spoke little and seldom, on trite sub-
jects ; but she was there, ever there, with her quick restless look
still following every motion of her young companion ; and
25C NATHALIE.
there came moments when Nathalie longed to be away, when
Bhe thought of dark and lonely places, as a prisoner thinks of
escape and liberty when her spirit literally thirsted for an
hour's communion with solitude. When that hour came at
length, she enjoyed it with a pleasure only the more keen from
being so brief. There was an old arm-chair, vast enough to
contain her entirely ; she ensconced herself in its deep recesses,
extinguished the lamp, buried her head in her hands, and
listened to the dull monotonous sound of the winter rain pat-
tering against the window-panes, or to the spirit-voice of the
wind, now low and deep like a stifled plaint, now rising loud
and wrathful, as if holding angry contest with some foe like it-
self, mysterious and unseen. Sometimes a strange and not
unpleasing fear came over the mind of the young girl: she
looked up chill and shivering; the fire was low, the room looked
vast and indistinct, the ceiling seemed lost in its own height,
the mirrors opened deep vistas into endless and mysterious
chambers, extending far away, all filled with the same solemn
and shadowy gloom. But Nathalie was not superstitious ; thia
obscurity awed but never terrified her ; she was indeed con-
scious of a slight degree of fear, but of a fear which she subdued
and which there was even a certain pleasure in thus subduing.
Gradually the feeling vanished ; she thought no longer of fall-
ling rain or murmuring wind, of shadowy chambers and le-
gendary lore, but she listened invariably to the wonderful and
endless romance, which her own thoughts had framed from the
dreams that haunt the brain and trouble the heart of longing
and ardent youth. And every evening that tale, with its im-
aginary scenes, passions, and characters, became more deep and
thrilling ; but on none did it seem to draw nearer to a close,
as vague and mysterious as the unknown future it shadowed
forth to the dreaming" girl.
But this evening was not spent like the rest : the lamp was
not extinguished, the chair was not drawn fo-rth. Nathalie sat
on the couch where Madame Marceau had been reclining, and
her look wandered slowly over the whole room, as if it were a
place that look beheld for the first time. This quiet salon waa
very old ; it had known many guests masters they might call
themselves, and be called by others, but what were they, save
the guests of a few years, who silently departed one by one, to
be replaced by other guests, whose sojourn was as brief, whose
memory was as speedily forgotten? This had been the scene
of their chief passion vanity and pride ; chief, but not all, fol
KATIIALIE. 257
surely many a story of man's gentler feelings was linked with
that old room, with that silent hearth near which Nathalie no-v?
sat, a lonely and dependent girl. She shaded her eyes with
her hand ; broken words, whose meaning she had divined, hints
which she had been apt to read, had long ago told her a tale
which her own thoughts had since then repeated to her many
a time, seldom so forcibly as now. A picture rose before her,
greeting that inward eye, which may be the torment, as well
as the bliss, of solitude ; and never did limner's art draw outr
lines more distinct, or paint hues more vivid. She saw the old
hearth : the fire burned brightly ; it cast its changing light to
the furthest end of the room it illumed its deepest recesses ;
but above all, it fell on two, a youth and maiden, who both sat
near it. Nathalie knew that pale and severe face, even though
it was younger than now, with fewer lines of care on its brow,
and something more kindly in its glance. And the maiden,
too, she knew ; for her features, though never beheld by actual
sight, were not yet unknown. She knew that serene brow,
shaded by fair clustering hair; those soft blue eyes, those
parted and smiling lips, that neck of swan-like grace ; and
never, as she sat there in the firelight glow, did fairer and
more ideal vision greet a lover's enamored gaze. Nor did he,
who now looked on her, seem cold or unmoved ; words fell from
his lips words which she who looked on could never hear,
strive as she would, but whose meaning she read in the
maiden's downcast look and blushing cheek. Here the dream
ceased abruptly
" I believe I have forgotten my book," said a calm voice.
Nathalie looked up with a sudden start ; it was Monsieur
de Sainville. who had entered unheard, and now stood near the
table on which lay the book he had been reading. He took it
up, opened it, and marked some passages with a pencil. The
perfect seriousness of his manner, as he stood there, wholly
wrapped in his occupation, and without so much as looking to-
wards her, at once restored Nathalie to composure. He at
length closed the book, turned away from the table, but had
not gone away more than a few paces, when he eame back agaiUi
and said :
" Mademoiselle Montoliou, I have a ftivor to ask of you."
Nathalie looked up.
" A favor, sir ?"
" Yes. a favor ; but you must promise beforehand to gi'sni
it."
258 NATHALIE.
'' No promise is needed, sir," she ceremoniously replied ;
" since it must be something quite out of my power for me not
to gratify you."
" Well, then," said he, without seeming to heed her reserved
manner, ' promise me that you will not remain so closely con-
fined to this room as you have done of late. I have noticed
with concern the change in your appearance ; you are now habit-
ually pale, which is not natural to you : you are extremely pale
this evening. Pray be careful ; it is at your age that the
seeds of future disease are often unconsciously sown, that the
health, grace, and bloom of youth are often lost for ever."
" But I assure you, sir," hesitatingly replied Nathalie, " that
I am not ill."
" No, you are not; I know it: but you are preparing for 111
health. When do you leave this room? seldom or ever. I want
your promise, your word, that this shall not continue."
Nathalie did not answer.
" What ! do you refuse V
" No, sir." V
" Then v/ill you give me your word to take a walk to-mor*
row?"
" Very well, sir ; I give you my word that I will."
She spoke in a low tone, without raising her look or chang-
:.ng her attitude; nor did he glance towards her. He stood on
t^e hearth-rug, one elbow leaning on the low marble mantel-
shelf; his look fixed on the mirror, which gave back the whole
room from its furthest extremity to the motionless figure of the
young girl. He eyed her thus somewhat thoughtfully. He was
not in error, when he said that Nathalie was changed ; she had
grown both thin and pale, and as she sat there, the drooping
languor of her attitude struck him forcibly. An anxious ex-
pression overspread his features ; he seemed on the point of ad-
dressing her, when something he saw in the mirror attracted
his attention.
" Come in," said he, so abruptlj', that Nathalie looked up at
once.
He had turned towards the door ; the contraction of hia
brow, though slight, yet announced displeasure, as the door
opened and admitted Amanda.
" Why did you not come in at once ?" he briefly asked.
"I was afraid of disturbing monsieur," replied Amanda,
ever cool and self-possessed.
' Is madarae Marceau unwell ?" inquired Nathalie, rising
NATHALIE. 259
"J^o: madamc was not worso, thank lieaveu. Madame
had only left her vinaigrette, and sent her for it, lest she
should want it in the night."
But the vinaigrette, though sought for every where in and
under the couch, was not to be found.
' Mon Dieu .'" observed Amanda, with great simplicity,
" I should not wonder if it were in madame's room after all."
Another fruitless search convinced the fcmme cle chamhre
that such was the case, and with a neat little apology for her
intrusion, she left the room. From the moment of her en-
trance Monsieur de Sainville had resumed his book, and he
did not look up, either during the search, or after Amanda's
ileparture. Nathalie, who felt slightly embarrassed by the
continuance of his presence, resumed the search which was
not, however, very sincere for the missing vinaigrette.
" Do not give yourself useless trouble," said Monsieur dc
Sainville, quietly looking up, " I now remember, that when I
left my sister's room before coming down here to look for this
book, I saw that vinaigrette lying on her dressing-table.
Amanda will see it the first thing on going in."
Nathalie gave him a quick look of surprise, but his counte-
nance was perfectly calm and composed : he closed his book
and continued
" I hope you will not forget your promise."
' No, sir, I shall not."
He bade her good evening, then suddenly came back, and
observed :
" But pray do not take too long a walk, Mademoiselle Mon-
tolieu ; you are not very strong ; besides, it is air, not fatigue,
tl-.at you want."
lie was gone ; the door closed behind him ; his receding
step was heard, then ceased ; but Nathalie did not move from
the spot where she stood, wrapped in a dream-like trance.
She pressed her hand to her forehead, and sought to recall the
picture his entrance had broken ; but the outlines were indis-
tinct and dim the hues had faded away. Instead of the
youth, she saw the serious, yet kind face which had looked on
her awhile ago ; the maiden who had seemed so fair, was now
a pale vision, as colorless and dim as the past of which she
formed a part. On that loveliness, erewhilo so bright, had
fallen the dark Lethe-likc shadow of forgctfulness and the
grave.
260 NATHALIE.
CHAPTER XIX.
The following morn'mg was mild and sunny, and no soonci
had Nathalie entered the drawing-room, than Madame Mar-
ceau said so, and urged her to take a walk. " It would do her
80 much good.''
Nathalie assented with some surprise at the unusual atten^
tion. Scarcely had she left the room, when Monsieur de Sain-
ville received a message from his sister, who wished to speak to
him. AVhen he came, she apologized in a tone of concern,
" for interfering with his moi'ning walk, for she knew this was
his hour ; but she wished to speak to him on a matter of inte-
rest ;" and again she apologized - for preventing his morning
walk."
" As I am going to Marmont, it is of no consequence," said
he, taking a seat and assuming a listening attitude.
But the communication Madame Marceau had to make to
her brother will appear afterwards.
Before proceeding to the garden, Nathalie called on her
old friend. She found her disconsolate and shivering by the
fire-side.
" What a mild, sunny morning !" cheerfully said Nathalie.
" Mild ! All the mild weather was gone for ever. The
world was getting older every day, and as for the sun "
Nathalie interrupted her by drawing back the curtain, and
the sun poured in a light so radiant, and a warmth so genial
and penetrating, that the Canoness, fairly beaten on that point,
retrenched herself within the position, " that the "^vorld was
grawing older and older every day.''
Nathalie placed on the little table, by Aunt Radegonde's
arm-chair, a vase full of fresh spring flowers ; mute yet elo-
quent protests of the ever-renewed life and freshness of na-
ture.
" They will die," said the Canoness ; ' every thing must
die ; it is not only older the world gets, but more dismal every
day."
Nathalie began to sing a gay Provencal song, gay, yet
not without a touch of old romance. The sounds stirred the
emulation of Aunt Radegonde's canary, which raised its voice
in loud and angry rivalry. Amused at the contest, Nathalie
yuickened her singing ; but the faster she sang, the faster did
NATHALIE. 26'
tlic canaiy pour forth his notes in brilliant succession, until at
length the Provencal song was finished, and, in his own esteem,
the bird remained victor.
" There !" cried Nathalie, turning her flushed face and
sparkling eyes towards the Canoness ; " the sunshine, the flow-
ers, the very bird himself bears witness against you."
" Oh ! Petite, it is you, who are better than sunshine^
flowers, or bird in a house," the Canoness observed ; and the
unnatural gloom which had of late overcast her features, gra-
dually left them as she looked at the young girl, with her
brow so clear, her look so hopeful, her smile so bright, and
around her linsrerinfir still all the delightful warmth and radi-
ance of her years. She would have added, ' happy ae who
shall have so gay and cheerful a creature !" had she not felt
checked by the memory of her anti-matrimonial exhortations
" And the book, Marraine 1" coaxingly said Nathalie.
" Yes, I have looked for it, and there it is ou the table. It
was Armand's copy once, and he was very fond of it, as I told
you ; but it puzzles me to think why you care for such dry
reading."
" I have long wished to read it," said Nathalie, eagerly
slipping a small duodecimo into her pocket.
" Well, you may have it ; I should not lend you a novel ;
but maxims can do you no harm."
The face of the Canoness fell when she perceived that the
young girl was not going to stay ; but she was comforted
when Nathalie kissed her, and promised to call in the evening.
The morning was lovely, the garden looked green and
beautiful, and, as Nathalie ran lightly down the gravel-walks,
she wondered in her heart if Aunt Ptadegonde spoke truly : if
the world was indeed growing old ! To her it had never seemed
so fresh and young as on that spring morning. After wan-
dering a long time over the garden and the grounds, she came
to the green-house. It was Monsieur de Sainville's favorite
resort, but the hour for his walk was past ; Nathalie, there-
fore, lingered there without fear of meeting him.
After admiring, leisurely, the fresh and fragrant flowers
gathered together, she sat down on the low stone seat afi"orded
by the embrasure of the arched window. It had been parti}'
opened to admit the genial breath of noon-day to the flowers
and plants within ; an almond-tree growing outside intercepted
the sunbeams, and threw its light waving shadow on the fea-
tures of Nathalie, as she reclined back, looking idl}' out. watch-
262 NATHALIE.
jng the shadows that passed swiftly over the waving grass, and
listening to the low voice of the wind passing through tho
rustling branches of the neighboring pine-trees.
She had not been long thus when she suddenly remembered
the book she had taken away. She quickly took it out, and
looked eagerly over every page ; now pausing long over some
passage, now passing on hastily, and still looking graver as
she read. The volume which she thus perused on that spring
morning was not one of those tales of love or wild romance,
the delight of youth, and often, too, of maturer years, but one
of the most dreary and mournful records ever yielded by the
history and experience of a human heart, the Maxims of La
Rochefoucauld. A few of the maxims were underlined ; three
of those thus desitrnated struck Nathalie :
o
" A man may love like a madman, not like a fool."
" Tliere are few women whose merit outlives their beauty "
" True love is hke spu'its : spoken of by all ; seen by few."'
"What! still reading Nicole?" said the voice of Monsieur
de Sainville.
Nathalie looked up ; he stood smiling before her. She co-
lored ; hastily jumped down from her seat, and in her haste
dropped the book. He picked it up, and immediately looked
up into her face, with a glance both searching and surprised.
" La Rochefoucauld ! you read La Rochefoucauld ! And
the copy looks well worn, a favorite author, no doubt. Oh !
you true daughter of Eve ! could you not wait for such bitter
fruit ?"
There was slight bitterness in his tone as he spoke thus,
turning over the pages of the volume. Something ho saw
struck him.
"Where did you get this book, child?" he asked, in a
wholly altered tone.
" From Madame de Sainville. sir."
" My aunt ! A strange relic for her to keep, and a strange
book to lend to you." He very deliberately put the volume
into his pocket, looked up, and steadily eyeing Nathalie, said,
in a tone between jest and earnest :
" I confiscate La Rochefoucauld. Though this copy has
not been in my hands for years, it is nevertheless my proper-
ty ; besides, I do not wish you to read it. For heaven's sake,
keep to all that girls delight in: leave La Rochefouca-ild to
NATHALIE. 263
graver heads, older minds, and sadder hearts. Keep, I pray,
to novels and poetry, the proper food of eighteen."
A disdainful smile curled Nathalie's lip, as she replied :
' Novels, poetry, and so forth, are the sweetmeats, the hon-
bona fit for us poor girls of eighteen ! How flattering !''
" You crave strong food 1 Be satisfied, you shall have it
soon. much too soon."
She did not answer. He continued :
" I have deprived you of your book : allow me then to send
you something from my library this afternoon."
" Novels and poetry ?" demurely asked Nathalie.
" Yes ; novels and poetry. Do you imagine I never read
either 1 Why, the intellectual repast must always have a des-
sert."
" And the dessert is, of course, fit for a girl of eighteen !"
observed Nathalie, in a quick, nettled tone.
" Nay, as to that, you may have all, if you like. Do you
incline towards political economy, or take any interest in agri-
culture ? Are you pleased with statistics ? Pray choose. I
regret not to possess any interesting works on history, or some
amusing books of travel ; but I have little faith in historical
lore, and have ti'avelled too much myself to care aibout the
travelling experiences of others. My books are thus either
very grave or very light. Which do you prefer ?"
" Which ever you please, sir. Some interesting discussion
on the manufacturing systei;^ ; or on the best method of fiitten-
ing cattle ; or on the present plan of cultivating land in small
farms ; any thing, in short, equally instructive, elevating, or
delightful."
" You are resentful. Seriously, did you like La Rochefou-
cauld so very much ?"
Nathalie shrugged her shoulders carelessly ; " she did not
know ; she had not read much."
" Did you wish to read more V
She felt perfectly indifi'erent on that subject.
" I am glad to hear you say so. This book, true in somo
respects, false in others, could only taint the freshness of your
mind. Had I simply warned you against it. you would have
sat up all night, sooner than leave it unread. I took it into
custod}' at once ; for I know that you have too daring and in-
quiring a spirit to be deterred by trifles ; witness the adven
tare of the berries."
She did not reply She stood before him, witli blushing
26i NATHALIE.
and lialf-avcrted face ; oue baud supporting her cheek, the other
stripping a fine laurel of its leaves. He stood between her
and the door, and seemed to enjoy her embarrassment. There
was a brief silence.
" What are you doing to my poor laurel ?" he suddenly
exclaimed.
Nathalie started, turned round, and seeing the floor cov-
ered with the leaves of the injured shrub, she looked up, with
a frightened glance, into Monsieur de Sainville's face. He
assumed a displeased air ; and she tried to look remorseful.
' Do you use shrubs thus ?" he asked j " if so, how shall T
protect mine ?"'
" Lock the door, sir."
She glided past him, and stepped out as she spoke.
' Judicious advice, which cannot too soon be followed," he
replied, following her out, and locking the door of the green-
house.
Nathalie looked disconcerted, as he composedly walked by
her side. In her first moment of confusion, she had not taken
the path leading to the chateau, but a sheltered avenue of firs,
in a contrary direction. The ground was bare of grass, but
the fallen, foliage of the firs rendered it as soft and warm as
a carpet; golden gleams lit up the dark trunks and darker
masses of those northern trees, in harmony with the chilliness
latent in the air of a spring morning. Seeing that her compan-
ion did not speak, Nathalie resolutely opened the conversation
by alluding to the beauty of the weather, that fertile topic in
doubtful climates. He smiled, but did not answer.
" There is something very pleasant in the quiet freshness of
Normandy," she continued.
" You like Normandy ?" said he, with a keen, inquiring
glance ; " you, a native of the south, accustomed to a warm
sun, and its deeper dyes ; you admire our green little prov-
ince, so calm, so common-place V
Nathalie looked surprised at this slighting tone.
" I understand," he resumed, interpreting the expression
of her countenance with his usual ease ; " why do I stay in a
place about which I seem to care so little ? Well if I remain
here, it is not precisely because I like Normandy, or even
Sainville, though both are endeared to me by family recollec-
tions ; it is because I know, my child, that it is good for the
home of man to be like his happiness, common-place and
calm. Have you read enough of La Rochefoucauld to agree
with mo there V
NATHALIE. 265
Nathalie did not choose to answer the latter remark.
" Normandy is beautiful," she said ; " yet I should prefer a
purer sky and a warmer sun.''
' You like the south : so do I ; but not to reside in. That
endless revel of nature, with skies ever blue, and air ever balm,
enervates the soul. Man is not himself, when he has nothing
against which he may strive. Life is not, or should not be, a
day of summer sunshine, to be spent in voluptuous enjoyment.
Have you never, in imagination, contrasted a soft southern
climate with the desolate north, with icy seas blending at the
norizon with skies scarcely less black? Have you not thought
of those solitary and rock-bound shores, of those wild and bar-
ren regions seen through the falling snow ; where the sun looks
pale and dim as the moon of our temperate regions, where a
plant can hardly grow, and man can scarcely dwell, but which
have a solemn and melancholy charm that lives in the memory,
when the verdant earth, the serene sky, and azure seas of the
south are forgotten 1"
He spoke with a fervor verging on enthusiasm.
Nathalie eyed him wistfully.
" It must be very cold there, sir," she said, with a slight
shiver ; " I like the sun the sun of the south, I mean."
" That is to say, not the sun of our poor Normandy."
Nathalie did not answer.
" Now, seriously," he continued, " what is there amiss with
our province ? Its verdure is noted ; it is a green, pleasant
nook enough; and if the sky is sometimes overcast, there are
plenty of dwellings to give shelter. Take Sainville, for in-
stance ; you like Sainville, do you not ?" he abruptly added.
" Yes, sir," she replied, somewhat coldly ; " I like it."
" But not too much, evidently. Is it the chateau you
object to ?"
" No, sir ; the chateau is very fine."
" You speak quite coolly ; what is thei*e amiss in that poor
chateau V
" Nothing, sir."
" And what have you to say to the garden, or to the
grounds ?"
" Nothing, sir."
" Nothing ! Oh ! my child, do not say that. Like Sain-
ville, I want you to like it."
He spoke with so much warmth, that he stopped short
12
266 .NATHALIE.
He took her hand, and looked down at hei* eagerly. Sli
turned very pale, and trembled visibly. He smiled.
"Do not look so frightened," said he, gently ; "but come
in here : I want to speak to you."
A spell seemed on Nathalie : she yielded like a child, as
he made her enter the recess of the sleeping nymph, which
they were just then passing by. On seeing where they were,
he stopped short, released her, and cast a gloomy look around
him.
" Oh ! Petite, Petite !" he bitterly said, " what brought us
here?"
" Is not this a pretty place ?" asked Nathalie endeavoring
to look composed.
At first he did not reply.
" You like it !" he said at length ; " do not ; the shadow of
death is on it a shadow nothing can remove. Look at that
nymph ! Hers is no earthly sleep it is the sleep of the
funereal genius I once saw on an ancient tombstone in Italy,
and whose brow, though wreathed with flowers, looked oppressed
with something more heavy than mere slumber. You like the
sun. When does it penetrate through those yews and cy-
presses fit trees for what is little better than a tomb ?"
He spoke with impatient bitterness. There was a long
pause, broken by no sound save the low splash of the fountain.
Nathalie looked at Monsieur de Sainville, at the nymph in her
ivied niche ; she listened to the low murmurs of the falling
waters, and seemed to be eagerly seeking, from all she saw and
heard, the key of some half-divined mystery.
" Yes, I like this place," she observed, at length.
" It does not sadden or oppress you?"
"No; why should it?"
"True; why should it? And yet the eternal splash of
that fountain is strangely monotonous, and the breath it sends
upon the air is very chill. See, your hair is covered with
spray."
" I find it cooling to the brow, and pleasant to the ear."
" But it will end by depressing you at length."
" I am not easily depressed."
" No, poor child ! I dare say you have made the best of
the little happiness that came in your way."
He was looking at her kindly, yet sadly.
^' It is so difficult to be miser,able for a long time," she said.
" Yet you had your troubles ?"
NATHALIE. 26?
" Hopo upheld me with a nameless trust in some unknown
good still to come."
" It was not hope : it was the freshness of your years ; the
inexperience of youth, which knows not life for what it is : a
weary burden a dark captivity."
' I do not believe that, at all !" cried Nathalie ; " it is too
hard to believe," she added, coloring at the vivacity with
which she had spoken.
" Ay, hard, indeed but too true."
" But surely, sir," said Nathalie very earnestly, " there is
such a thing as happiness ?"
He did not reply.
" However brief it may be," she continue'd, hesitatingly.
" And what happiness can be called genuine, that does not
endure ? From the moment we know it must end with life, is
not the longest happiness miserably brief? Oh ! that thought
that all must die aud every thing perish ! Like the skeleton
guest of Egypt's ancient banquets, it haunts every mortal
festivity."
He spoke sorrowfully. Nathalie eyed him wistfully.
" AVhy should one look at that skeleton, or think of death ?"
she asked in a low soft tone. " It is of itself so hard to believe
in, so easy to forget. Oh ! when the sun shines so brightly,
when the air is so pure, the sky so blue, the whole earth so
fair, may not one sometimes imagine, looking at that beautiful
universe, of which, however insignificant, we yet form a part,
why should it not endure thus for ever?"
She looked at him ; he drew her arm within his.
" My poor little thing," said he, " death will overtake you
as it overtakes us all ; with years that pass like days, and
treacherous stealthy steps that fall on the ear unheeded and
unheard. Fresh and fair as you are now, you too must share
the fate of earth's most glorious and most lovely things ; you
too must pass away, and fade, and die."
The low and mournful cadence of his voice thrilled through
the heart of Nathalie. She looked up into his face with a
fixed glance and parted lips, in a sort of a serious and rapt
attention. Far from saddening her, his words had only brought
a deeper hue to her cheeks and a softer light to her eyes ; there
seemed to be for her joy, and no gloom in the mournful images
he had called up. She smiled to herself, like one who beholds
some fair inward vision.
" No matter," said she, pressing her hands to her bosom,
2G8
NATllALJE.
whilst the smile still lingered on her lips ; " no matter ; thorn
is happiness still !"
_ " I hope so," he replied in his usual tone. ' But you are
shivering; it must be this chill place.''
He led her away; they ascended the flight of steps in
silence ; he paused before a sunny bench on the first terrace.
" Let us sit here," he said, " and continue our argument.
Why do you not like Sainville ?"
'I never said I did not like it, sir," replied Nathalie,
startled at this abrupt remark.
" But you spoke very coldly. Look at it ! Does not the
old chateau look warm and bright in the sunshine, with the
blue sky beyond 1 If you were to live here long, would you
always be regretting Provence? Believe me, torget Aries ;
and like Sainville."
" I like Sainville, sir." She spoke so low that the words
were well nigh inaudible. They both sat on the bench ; he
stooped to hear her better, when a discreet cough in the neigh-
boring alley announced the approach of Amanda.
A mutual impulse made them rise. Nathalie became
crimson. _ Monsieur de Sainville looked pale and angry. The
lady's maid came up with a thick shawl on her arm. " Madame,
fearing lest mademoiselle should take cold on this chill morn-
ing, had told her to bring her this."
"Rosalie is thoughtful," quietly observed Monsieur de
Sainville ; " and now that you have that shawl, will you not
take another turn around the garden ?"
_ He took her arm as he spoke ; but Nathalie disengaged it
quickly. She colored, hesitated, stammered, and at length re-
plied that she felt tired and would rather go in. He did not
seem quite pleased, but raised no objection. He went in
through the library. She entered the chateau by the front
entrance, and immediately proceeded to the drawing-room.
" Have you had an agreeable walk V asked Madame Mar-
ceau. She had half-raised herself on one elbow to look at Nathalie.
The shawl had fallen back, and no longer concealed her figure,
once so full and stately, now shrunk and wasted by disease.'
The curtains of the drawing-room shut out the clear light as
usual, but their crimson hue fell in vain on her pale features,
render^ed more pale by the feverish glitter of her sunken eyes
" Yes, madame, a very agreeable walk," replied Nathalie.
' But solitary. What a pity !"
'I met Monsieur de Sainville," said Nathalie in a low
tone.
c
NATHALIK. 26S
" Indeed ! I thought him at Marmont. Where did you
meet him 1"
" In the green-house."
" His favorite resort : yours, too, I suppose ?"
" By no means," drily replied the young girl.
" Well, Petite, do not put on that serious face. Just \a^
by your work, and let me look at you. Ay, so. I have a
question to ask; what did Armand say to you?"
She again raised herself on one elbow. Nathalie colored
deeply, and looked disturbed ; but she did not reply.
' I thought so !" indignantly exclaimed the lady, sinking
back on the couch. " Well," she sharply added, " you do not
answer !"
" I might refuse to answer," said Nathalie, rather haughti-
ly ; " but it is not worth while. Monsieur de Sainvillc spoke
to me only on the most general subjects."
"And on none in particular?"
" Oh ! yes," negligently replied Nathalie ; " on the north,
the south, and so on."
" What do you mean by so on ?" asked Madame Marceau,
with a short laugh.
Nathalie looked up. so flushed and irritated, that the lady
softened down immediately.
" Petite," she said, " you are vexed. I will make no apolo-
gies ; but put your hand here," she took her hand and laid it
on her heart, as she spoke, ' and here," she added, making
her feel her hot and throbbing wrist ; " then ask yourself if the
fever, which wastes life at that rate, leaves the mind calm, and
the temper smooth?"
" You have a strong fever ; let me send for the doctor," ex-
claimed Nathalie, appeased at once.
" I am not ill ; mine is a fever of mind no doctor's art can
appease. I was very absurd awhile ago ; but when I learned
you had met Armand, I concluded he had been repeating to
you what passed between him and me, just before he went to
the garden."
" I am not in Monsieur de Sainville's confidence," gravely
replied Nathalie.
" But if what passed between us was about you 1"
" About me !" exclaimed Nathalie.
" Come, I see he has been discreet. So much the better.
Men mar where they meddle. Do not look so disturbed ; I
cannot explain myself for a few days yet. This much I can
270 NATHALIE.
tell you: Armand makes me miserable. We ucvcr quarrel :
but we are always jarring. But why should I complain ? Ha
is to me what he has been to every one to himself first of all
inexorable. I am ambitious ; it is in our race. Yes," she
added, with her old pride rising, "ambition and will are in the
blood of the Sainvilles. Have I not that for which I may well
be aspiring ? You have seen my son ; he is young, handsome,
and full of talent. Think you he would not make a fit repre-
sentative of the old family honors? Come, be frank," she
added, with a peneti-ating glance ; " do you not think ho
would V
Nathalie looked embarrassed, in spite of herself.
" Child," returned Madame Marceau, smiling, "why do you
blush ? What mother can resent that which she herself feels
sodeeplj^? We will have no explanations," she added, per-
ceiving that Nathalie looked disturbed : " I proceed. Do you
not think my son would bear the old name with all due honor?
You do ; but his uncle, but my brother," she added, with much
bitterness, " does not."
Nathalie had too long suspected this, to look surprised.
" You do not seem astonished," suspiciously said the lady ;
" then he has told you after all ! Come, confess it."
" Madame," replied Nathalie, in an accent that carried con-
viction with it, " he has never even hinted this to me,"
" Forgive me, Petite ; I am strangely sensitive on this point.
But to return. Do you think my ambition, hope, dream, call
it what you will, so extravagant? Could not that which has
been done for the most noble families of France, be done for
ours ? We should have no Rohans, no Richelieus, if the salio
system had been carried out. Did not the niece of the great
Cardinal marry her music-master ? and the last daughter of
the Rohans fall in love with Chabot, the cadet of Gascony, and
by marrying him, perpetuate a name otherwise doomed to ex-
tinction ? But reason, example, and argument have proved
unavailing; he has refused absolutely refused. And on what
plea ? why, on the plea that the name he has, by so much sa-
crifice and labor, saved from disgrace, shall not be periled
Bgain !"
She ceased. A crimson spot burned on her pale cheek ; she
looked feverish and excited. Nathalie, who had heard her with
deep attention, now said, quietly :
" But how can Monsieur de Sainville pi-event his name from
hieing periled again? If he should marry, for instance?'
NATUALTE. 27 J
Madame Marceau turned slowly round on her couclij looked
at the young girl's attentive face, smiled, turned back again,
and muttered to herself, " Marry ! Armand marry ! Petite,'
she resumed, in her usual tone, ' you surprise me ! I thought
every one knew my brother would not marry. You may ima-
gine that if I did not know this, as I know it, I should ncner
have hinted to him the propriety of my son assuming a name
which would have been the exclusive right of his own children.
And so," she added, turning round again, and giving the young
girl a fixed and piercing gaze, " so you really did not know, or
even suspect, that Armand would never marry ?"
Nathalie did not answer.
" How strange !" continued the lady, laughing, and seeming
much amused ; ' excuse me, Petite ; but the idea of Armand
marrying, is to me so peculiar. Very." She laughed again.
''And so," she resumed, when this mirthful fit was over, " sn
you never noticed his constrained politeness to us poor women !
So you never noticed how he sneers at our little follies ; how
impatient he is of our weakness : how little he cares to disguise
his real opinion of us namely, that w^e are weak, frivolous,
inconstant, incapable of real or high feeling toys to be trifled
with in a light or idle hour: no more? And so you never
noticed how he mocks at love and marriage, and so forth ; and
yet you have been here a whole winter, Petite V
Nathalie remained silent.
" You see," said Madame Marceau, " it was my knowledge
of this solemn vow and when was Armand ever known to
break his word that made me hope. But when I mentioned
this to him this morning, he destroyed that hope at once, by
merely saying, " No, I must be the last of the name." But I
must and will be just : Armand spoke very kindly of Charles,
more kindly thaji I could have expected. ' Of course,' he said,
' he shall be my heir ; let this comfort you, Rosalie. I hope
he has too much good sense to care about the name of De Sain-
ville ; at all events, I know a way to render the disappointment
less bitter. I have been a cold, stern uncle till now, but I
may befriend him in a manner he little expects.' But how
pale and languid you look. Petite ! I fear you are not well ;
you are too much shut up you want long walks, like this
morning. I hope you will continue to like Sainville : we want
you to like it. Let me tell you that you are a great favorite.
Ah ! if you knew the plans we have been making to prolong
your sojourn here?"
275
NATHALIE.
Nathalie rose abruptly ; she turned pale anil flushed by
turns ; she fastened a searching and burning look on the sick
lady.
" Madame," she exclaimed, " do you mean to say that Mon-
sieur de Sainville meant "
" Do you expect me to tell you that ?" gayly interrupted
the lady, with a playful wave of the hand ; " no, Petite, woman
as I am, I can keep a secret."
Nathalie sat down, but she soon rose again ; she looked
disturbed and anxious. Madame Marceau laughed, and asked
if she did not think herself the victim of some deeply-laid
scheme 1 In vain the young girl sought to ascertain any thing
positive ; she only received hints as vague and delusive as the
gleams of light that dance on the changing wave. She felt
dazzled, but never enlightened.
This lasted the whole day, for Madame Marceau would not
allow her to leave her. Towards evening she fell into her
usual slumber. Nathalie sat near her, alone. The lamp was
not lit ; but the curtains had been drawn back from the cen-
tral window, whose wide arch framed a quiet picture of the
summits of dark trees, that seen thus, looked like the outskirts
of some forest solitude. Above, in the blue silent sky, hung
the moon, the motive lamp of nature's wide temple suspended
there throughout eternity. The room was still; a soft pale
light fell on the floor : the evening was mild the fire burned
low, with a faint smouldering light. Nathalie felt oppressed
and weary ; she turned towards the quiet scene which the
window revealed it looked a calm, peaceful region there,
delusive she knew, for it was only the dusty road that spread
beyond, and yet even that delusion soothed her. The words
of David, " Oh ! that I had the wings of a dove, that I might
flee away, and be at rest," came back to her heart. For while
a dream bore her away on its swift pinions ; the freshness of
dark places seemed to fall on her wearied spirit ; the cool drink
of some icy fountain wave, to soothe her inward fever. She
rose softly, and glanced towards Madame Marceau. The invalid
did not move; her breathing remained regular and low: she
complained of restless nights, but her evening sleep was always
heavy and deep. Nathalie had all day been longing to go
up to Aunt Radegonde ; she now thought she could escape
unheard, and return before she had been missed. She glided
softly towards the door, opened it, closed it noiselessly, and
found herself face to face with Monsieur de Sainville, on the
landing. She wanted to pass him ; he detained her.
NATHALIE. 273
"Why did you not come down to dinner?'' he asked.
" Madame Marceau made me dine with her."
'What is the matter? Your voice does not sound as
usual ; has there been any thing to trouble or annoy you ?"
His tone was brief, his look keen and penetrating ; she
averted her face without replying.
' Let me know what it is, I beseech you."
His voice was unusually kind and soothing. Tears trem-
bled on the lashes of her downcast eyes.
" Let me know it, I beseech you," he said again, owering
his voice so that no passing servant might overhear his tones.
Before Nathalie could reply, the drawing-room door opened,
and Madame Marceau appeared, with her pale face and glitter-
ing eyes on the threshold. The subdued light of the lamp,
held by the marble slave, shone on their three faces.
" Petite," said she, in a brief abrupt tone, taking Nathalie's
arm as she spoke, "why did you leave me? you know I have a
horror of remaining alone ever since I am ill."
"And you are ill, very ill to night," observed her brother,
with something between anger and pity on his countenance, as
he watched her agitated face and trembling frame, " come in,
Rosalie."
He made her release her hold of Nathalie, took her arm
and led her into the drawing-room, closing the door behind
him. Nathalie went up to the boudoir of the Canoness.
" Oh. Petite ! how glad I am you are come," eagerly said
Aunt Radegonde ; " I have been so dull, but now I shall be all
right again ; for you know what I said this morning : you are
better than sunshine, flowers, or bird in the house."
The young girl smiled faintly, but silently sat down on a
low stool at the feet of her old friend. Five minutes elapsed ;
she did not open her lips. The Canoness stooped, made her
raise hei face so that it met her own attentive gaze, and
exclaimed,
" How pale you are !"
" I have a bad head-ache."
There was another silence.
" Marraine," suddenly observed Nathalie, " is it true that
Monsieur de Sainville has taken a vow never to marry?"
Her look was riveted on the features of Aunt Kadegonde.
She dropped her knitting and turned very pale; her feature*
worked, her lips trembled, and her eyes dimmed with tears.
21*
274 NATHALIE.
" Yes," she replied in a broken tone, ' he has taken a voyi
never to marry."
N.athalie rose much disturbed ; her features were scarcely
less agitated than those of Aunt Radegonde. She walked up
and dovfn the room with hasty and uneven steps : at length
she panned near the chair of the Canoness, and gently laying
her hand on the arm of her old friend, she said, in a remorseful
tone,
' I have been cruel, forgive me."
*' My dear child, you could not know all that such a question
called up."
" Yes, yen, I know it," exclaimed the young girl, in a
broken tone ; ' I know it but too well."
The Canoraess wheeled back her chair to see her better.
" Petite," she said, ' you mistake ; you know nothing."
" Nothing !' bitterly replied Nathalie, and she clasped her
hands, and again walked up and down the room.
" Petite, what do you know?"
Nathalie shool; her head without replying. A hectic flush
overspread the fegUires of Aunt Radegonde.
" You must teW me. you must," she exclaimed with unusual
warmth.
"And where .s'lall I find the words that will not grieve
you?" asked NathiMe with deep sadness. "How shall I say
that I know the r.ad story of one whose image is in this room,
who was lovely, and destined to happiness, and who suffered so
much through another, who is also dear to you."
'" He is not, ho is not !" passionately cried the Canoness ;
" I have never forgiven him in my heart ; I never will forgive
him. I hate myself sometimes for residing under his roof and
eating his bread ; yes, I hate myself, I do."
Nathalie eyed Aer with a troubled look. There is some-
thing strange and impressive in the impotent wrath of age,
that last lingeiing spark of a dying fire. On seeing the
gentle Canoness so strangely moved, the young girl began to
understand the strength and depth of the resentful feeling which
had slumbered all along.
" Do you know," continued the Canoness, in the same ex-
cited tone, " that she was dear to me as mine own child ; that
she was a poor motherless orphan ; the daughter of a loved
and only sister ; that I brought her up here in this house, and
that for sixteen years she never left me. That she was beau-
tiful as the day, and the gentlest creature that ever lived ; tliat
NATHALtE. 275
to see her was to love her, and that but for one hard
heart she might be with ns still, a joy to all, a blessing
to me. You weep ; you feel for her. God bless your kind
heart ; say, was not hers a hard fate ? He came back in
time ; her father relented, but he would not ; his pride that
pride which will bring down a judgment on him yet would
not let him relent or forgive. , He allowed her to be married
to another almost before his eyes. She died of a broken
heart ; he lived on calm, prosperous, and happy."
" The color had repeatedly changed on Nathalie's cheek aa
she listened to Aunt Radegonde. Her hands were nervously
clasped together ; her look was feverish ; in a voice she vainly
strove to render calm, she said, " How do you know he is
happy? how do you know he does not suffer ?"
The Canoness gave her a dreary look.
" To suffer, he should have a heart, and it is not a heart he
has. but a stone. I always warned my poor child not to like
him ; but youth is rash, and she would not be warned. She
might have found many another suitor, for she was very lovely.
That portrait is her very image. Look at her ! My Aunt
Adelaide was beautiful, no doubt, but never half so beautiful
as my own Lucille. She never had that fine silken hair my
hand has smoothed and caressed so often ; she never had those
soft blue eyes that have looked up into mine with a smile,
many, oh ! many a time."
She ceased ; her tears were falling fast. Nathalie looked
at the two portraits : at the dark and at the fair beauty ; at
the face that had the coloring, rich, warm, and yet soft, of some
old Venetian master ; at the other calm countenance, with the
lovely, but pale outlines of a Raffaelle head. She compared
them : Adelaide de Sainville looked very beautiful, but when
she turned from her to the serene face, it seemed as if that be-
witching, but still earthly beauty faded away as mortal and
perishable, before the pure and ideal loveliness of Aunt Rade-
goude's lost niece.
" Oh, Marraine P' she exclaimed, in a low tone, " if ho does
not suffer, remember, and regret, why that vow ?"
" Pride, child, pride. Once deceived by woman, he will
not be deceived a second time."
" Hush," quickly said Nathalie.
Her ear had detected the well-known step ; the door opened,
Monsieur de Sainville entered. The Canoness looked discon-
certed ; Nathalie agitated. He eyed them keenly from the
276 NATHALIE.
threshold of the room ; closed the door deliberately ; came
forward and excused himself in his customary calm tone, for
not having warned his aunt of his visit.
" It is no matter, Armand no matter," she replied ; bu
her voice quivered, and her hands trembled as she resumed hei
knitting.
Her nephew glanced from her to Nathalie. The young
girl had risen ; she avoided his look, took up a book lying on
the table, turned over a few pages, closed it, and left the rooir
without speaking.
" Aunt," abruptly asked Monsieur de Sainville, "what is the
matter with Mademoiselle Montolicu V
" She has a bad head-ache."
" Nothing else ?"
His look was piercing; but the Cauoness calml} replied:
" No, Armand, nothing else that I know of."
" There is something going on to-day in this house, which
I cannot understand," he said impatiently. '' "What is it ?
You look surprised. Well, I dare say you know nothing
about it. Listen to this, however : Petite is unwell ; she
wants a walk, make her you can if you wish take one to-
morrow."
" Certainly, Armand," answered the Canoness, with much
alacrity, for she felt this concern in one whom she loved,
soothing and complimentary. As a sort of a^nende Jionorahh
for the harsh feelings she had been cherishing against him, she
added, " and I am very much obliged to you, Armand, for the
interest you take in Petite."
A peculiar smile played around the pale firm lips of Mon-
sieur de Sainville as he received these thanks, and looked down
at the little but erect figure of his aunt.
" Petite !" he echoed, " what tempted you to call her so ;
she is not short?"
" No, certainly ; but there is something slight and airy
about her. She is not one of those women, for instance, who
fill a room ; a sort of woman I never could endure," emphati-
cally added the Canoness.
" Petite," as you call her, " is certainly not one of those
ample ladies ; but she can fill a room with noise. Was it not
her I heard singing here this morning, or Amanda, perhaps V
" Amanda !" indignantly exclaimed his aunt ; " do you
imagine, Armand, I would allow my niece's /e?7i??ie de chambn
to sing in my room, in my presence ?"
KATHALIE. 277
" I thought you liked that girl," replied her nephew, eye
iag her fixedly .; " she is a good deal with you."
' But I keep hei' at a distance,- at a great distance," em
phatieally said his aunt.
" Then it was Mademoiselle Montolieu who sang ?"
" Yes, she was as merry as a bird this morning ; but this
evening she scarcely opened her lips."
' She is not well ; I saw it at once," returned Monsieur de
Sainrille, with a brief expression of anxiety. " I hope you will
tell her to take a walk to-morrow morning."
" Be quite easy, Armand," said the Canoness, with a shrewd
nod ; " I shall tell her to walk up and down by the river side ;
there is a fine breeze there."
"A great deal too fine," quickly replied her nephew ; " be-
sides there are workmen engaged there now ; it would annoy
her."
" Then I shall make her promise to keep to the first terrace,
where the sun is so warm.'-
" Let her choose her own walk, aunt." he said, somewhat
impatiently, " she will enjoy it more."
There was a pause ; Monsieur de Sainville bade his aunt
good night, walked to the door, and suddenly came back ; he
drew La Rochefoucauld from his pocket, and put it on the ta-
ble.
" I found Mademoiselle Montolieu reading this book this
morning," he said briefly ; " I took it from her ; it seemed a
pity that the freshness of so young a mind should be tarnished
Oy such bitter lore. Why did you not lend hex some tale, os
novel, aunt?"
" A tale, a novel ! Armand ; and to a young girl ?"
" Why not?" he composedly asked ; '-I suppose that no taie
or novel in your possession would be unfit for her reading 1
And I believe it is for youth those books are most proper."
" That is not my creed," firmly said the Canoness.
" Aunt, novels are very harshly treated ; they are simply a
want of our imaginative faculties, which must and will be sat-
isfied. Youth must have romances, or, what is far more dan-
gerous, it will make to itself romances of its own. But that
is not the question ; I return this book to you because it ia
from you it was had ; it was mine formfirly, but I do not value
it now. A])7-opos" he carelessly added, " you may induce
Mademoiselle Montolieu to prolong her walk, by telling her
that a fine azelia has arrived this afternoonj and is now in the
green-house."
278 Nathalie.
' An azelia !" cried the Canoness ; well, then, I think 1
shall venture out with Petite to see the azelia."
" No, pray do not," very quickly said her nephew ; " there
is still a very keen breeze out."
And when he again stood near the door, he turned round to
say, very seriously,
'' Aunt, promise me that you will not go out to-morrow."
The Canoness gave the required promise.
' He is kind, after all," she thought, when her nephew was
gone, and willing to gratify him at once, she rang the bell.
Amanda made her appearance.
" I wish to see Mademoiselle Montolieu," said the Can-
oness, in a distant tone, suggested by the recent conversation.
" I am sorry to inform madame, that Mademoiselle Monto-
lieu, being troubled with a bad headache, has retired to her
room "
" Then I must see her when she comes down to-morrow
iiorning. Mademoiselle Montolieu is my companion, and I
must say I think the way in which my neice usurps her socie-
ty is quite preposterous. I never can see her. I shall expect
to see her to-morrow morning ; I have an important communi-
cation to make to her. It is quite necessary Mademoiselle
Montolieu should take exercise, and there is something in the
green-house she is expected to go and look at. I must have a
conversation with Mademoiselle Montolieu on that subject."
And with a dignified wave of the hand Amanda was dis-
Kiissed.
----
CHAPTER XX.
Artists have the privilege of forgetfulness, and Made-
moiselle Amanda was, to use her own expression, " oblivious."
Thus, though she saw Nathalie on the following morning,
and spoke for a full half-hour on various subjects connected
with her art and the dulness of the chateau, she wholly for-
got to deliver the message of the Canoness ; through which
piece of obliviousness the blossoms of the azelia bloomed,
withered, and fell unseen by Nathalie.
No sooner did the young girl come down to the drawing-
NATHALIE. 279
room, than Madame Marceau declared she looked pale and un
well. ' It was the dulness and seclusion of her existence was
the cause of this. She wanted change. Why not go and spenc'
the day, the whole day, with her sister?"
Nathalie declined ; but the lady was importunate : she
yielded. In another half-hour she was standing in the quiet
court at the door of Madame Lavigne's dwelling. The place
looked even more silent and lonely than usual in this soft
April morning, gray, humid, free from sunshine, but calm and
mild, with the last lingering chillness of winter melting away
before the genial breath of spring
Rose was sitting alone. She greeted her sister quietly,
but with a long earnest look she had often fastened on her of
late. Nathalie shunned her glance, and took up the other end
of the sheet Rose was hemming. But her portion of the task
soon lay neglected on her lap : she reclined back in her chair,
one hand supporting her cheek, her head slightly averted, her
look fixed on the old tower opposite ; she looked pale and
thoughtful.
'^What is the matter with you?" suddenly asked Rose.
" It is the weather," slowly replied Nathalie, bending once
more over her work. " I feel dreamy. There is in this cloudy
sky, in this humid atmosphere, in this fine rain that scarcely
moistens the earth on which it softly falls, in the mildness of
the air, telling us spring has returned, something which quite
unnerves my southern nature. I feel subdued, passive, and
like one in a dream, but without the wish to waken ; every
thing looks vague and scarcely real ; thoughts come and lead
me on I know pot whither, nor how. If. I were walking in the
garden now, I should go on without caring to stop ; but sitting
as I am here, looking at that old tower, and watching those
cawing rooks, I feel as if I could remain thus all day long."
" You were- not thus when you first went to Sainville !"
ejaculated Rose.
" Perhaps not. I lived with children at Mademoiselle
Dantin's ; but it now seems as if I had passed the boundary
of real life. I remember that time as something years ago,
far away in the past."
' Your life is too dull," returned Rose, anxiously.
" I do not find it so. I am getting a nun, like you, Rose;
and I like the silence, I had -well-nigh said, the solitude, of my
convent."
" You must leave the chateau," urged Rose ; " the object
280 NATHALIE.
you had in remaining there is accomplished ; you must leave
it and seek some more active life."
" Leave, and fight alone this world's hard battles, Rose !"
said Nathalie, with a mournful smile ; " strange counsel, and
not counsel for me. I am daring, but not courageous. I can
be bold when the peril is far away ; but place me on the shore
of life's stormy sea, show me the frail barque that is to carry
me off, and my heart sinks with fear within me. The time
when I longed for independence is gone. What is it but an-
other name for selfishness ? I know nothing more miserable,
Why should people be for ever, anxious to have their own way,
when it would be so much more easy to yield to some safer
hand, close one's eyes, and thus go down the stream?"
Rose looked up as her sister spoke thus ; she seemed in
clined to reply, but checked the temptation ; they both worked
on in a silence which was not broken until the entrance of
Madame Lavigne. The blind woman was even more than usu-
ally cross ; nothing could please her : Nathalie failed in restor-
ing her to good humor, although she several times endeavored
to do so in the course of the day. She once rose to arrange
her pillow, but scarcely had her hand touched it when Madame
Lavigne turned round on her, exclaiming with a sort of snarl :
" Do not; you know I hate fondling."
She looked any thing but an object to fondle ; but Natha-
lie was in a pacific mood, and only gave her a look of gentle
pity.
" Well, what are you standing there for?" snappishly asked
Madame Lavigne, turning towards her with a frown ; " have
you got nothing to say?"
" Nothing, I am afraid, that would amuse you."
" Oh ! what a gentle creature we are to-day ! how softly
we speak with that little low voice. ' Nothing, I am afraid,
that would amuse you,' she added, mimicking her ; " what if
we talk about the best friend : will that rouse and vex you ?"
" Why should it vex me, madame ?"
" Oh ! you know."
" Indeed, I do not."
" It will not vex you, if I say he is harsh and bad."
" I shall conclude that you are mistaken : he is kind wd
good."
" He is a despot."
"Not in the least; he is just and good to all."
" And to you !" said Madame Lavigne, sneering.
NATHALIE. 281
" He is very good to ino," seriously replied Nathalie.
" Do not teL me that : I know those Sainvilles ; they ai-e
flint and steel. I knew him when he was a youth, and peopia
called him Monsieur Armand ; he then looked sour and dark
I dare say he looks so still."
"Did you see him, then?" asked Nathalie.
'' I sat at mass, near him and his pretty cousin, every Sun-
day for two years."
" What was she like how did she look ?"
A sour and disagreeable expression gradually settled oa
the features of Madame Lavigne. Her head was sunk on her
ch^st ; she shook it slowly, and laughed to herself a low sylla-
bic " Ha-ha !"
" "Was she very handsome ?" reiterated Nathalie, drawing
nearer to the blind woman's chair.
Rose laid down her work, and eyed them both.
Madame Lavigne raised her head, and turned it towards
the young girl, as if she still could see with her dull sightless
orbs.
" She was beautiful !" she said, emphatically, " but not at
all like you ; she was like an angel, and you are more like a
wicked spirit, or a salamander."
" Was she not very pale ?"
" Ay, as pale as a fresh-blown rose ; but with all that, she
was the most delicate creature eye ever saw a sylph, in short.
But young, pretty, and delicate as she was, she died ; whilst
old, ugly, and blind, Madame Lavigne has lived on."
" Is it now very long ago ?" resumed Nathalie.
" Some fifteen years. Oh ! she was a lovely creature !"
Strange power of a matchless beauty ! death had stepped
in : years had elapsed, but time had not yet effaced the mem-
ory of that ideal loveliness which thus seemed to live and to
endure beyond the grave. Nathalie asked no further ques-
iions : indeed, she spoke no more.
" Go," impatiently exclaimed the blind woman, waving th
young girl away ; " you have become dull and moping thia
time back : there is not a bit of spirit left in you. I suppose
you are turning lackadaisical and sentimental."
Rose looked at her sister, but Nathalie's face was averted
from her, and she could not trace its expression.
Towards twilight the young girl left. Rose accompanied
her to the door. They were alone in the dark passage ; the
eider sister looked at the other with a fixed and earnest glan^*
ES2 NATHALIE.
"My poor child!" said she, in a low tone, ''you arc not
well, that I can see. Come to me oftener."
Nathalie did not reply ; she twined her arms around the
neck of Rose, kissed her, and was gone ; but Rose felt thai
tears, not her own, had remained on her cheek.
In the well-lit hall of the chateau Nathalie met Amanda.
The femtnc-de-ckamhre stepped forward, and said, with a sub"
dued smile, and downcast look :
'' Shall I have the pleasure of accompanying mademoiselle
to her room ?"
" And for what reason ?" inquired Nathalie, much sur-
prised.
' I thought that mademoiselle might like me to assist her
in her toilet."
Nathalie thought that Mademoiselle Amanda was very im-
pertinent ; but she merely replied that she did not intend
changing her dress, and accordingly went up alone to her room.
She lingered there long ; to go down to the drawing-room, and
meet Madame Marceau and her brother was disagreeable to
her ; she could not even endure the idea of visiting Aunt Rade-
gonde, in her lonely boudoir ; she wished to be alone alone
with her thoughts. A heaviness of spirit, a sense of coming
evil, was over her ; she reasoned, and endeavored to chase it
away, but it was importunate, and would return : there was no
remedy for it, but to submit to yield to the feeling, and let it
have sway. She did so, and the passing weakness relieved her.
At nine she resolved on going down ; she would greatly have
preferred remaining in her room, but it would have looked sin-
gular. She paused near the drawing-room door ; a regular and
monotonous step paced the floor it was Monsieur de Sain-
ville ; she thought he would have retired by this : but whether
he was there or not, she must go in. She entered, closed the
door behind her, advanced a few steps, then remained rooted
to the spot on which she stood. Seated near his mother she
had beheld the dark and handsome Charles Marceau.
That strange, heart-sickening dread, which is experienced
in the great crisis of existence, came over Nathalie. She felt
like one who has fong toiled up an arduous way, through some
rocky steep, who stands on the crowning summit with at least
a glimpse of the promised land in view ; but whom an iron
grasp suddenly snatches away, and pitilessly drags down again
to the dark valleys, where the fair vision is shut out for ever
by gloomy and rugged rock. " Oh !" she thought, with a pass-
NATHALIE. 283
ing feeling of des2)air, " the moment dreaded so long is come at
last." But she remained calm outwardly, for she saw that all
were looking at her, from Madame Marceau, on her couch, tc
Monsieur de Sainville, now standing motionless, like her, in
the centre of the room. Charles rose, and bowed ; Nathalie
inclined her head and came foi-ward ; Monsieur de Sainville
resumed his promenade ; his sister coldly greeted the young
girl. No one spoke.
She sat down, and took her work-basket. She looked at
Madame Marceau ; the lady averted her cold and severe face :
at Monsieur de Sainville ; he walked up and down the room,
and looked neither right nor left* at Charles Marceau ; he
alone seemed perfectly composed, and he alone looked at her.
She worked for about a quarter of an hour ; but she felt like
one in a dream, for still she heard the monotonous pace on one
side, and on the other met the fixed and watchful look, when-
ever she raised her glance. She abruptly laid down her task,
and retired to her room.
She had foreseen it would come to this. Why should she
remain for ever in that house ? And yet it now seemed very
hard and bitter to go.^ " And must I go, indeed T' she asked
herself, with her brow leaning on her hand ; and conscience
and pride gave but one reply : " Depart ! You have no right
to stay here, to be the cause of useless strife ; depart !" She
struggled, and finally yielded. She would leave on the follow-
ing morning, early, without seeing any one. But would not
this look as if she had run away ? She would be missed ; ser-
vants would be questioned ; and it would all seem very strange.
She at length resolved on writing to Monsieur de Sainville ;
but when the note a short one lay sealed upon her desk, she
asked herself how he would receive it. To leave it in her room
was useless to give it to a servant was precisely what she
most wished to avoid. In her perplexity, she almost thought
of going down to the library and asking Monsieur de Sainville
to grant her an interview ; but the idea was quickly rejected
for another which it had suggested.
Nathalie had not resided so long in the chateau without
knowing the daily habits of its master. He was an early riser,
and went down to the library every morning. The young girl
intended being gone by that time ; a letter placed there for
him, lying on the table, in some conspicaous spot, would there-
fore meet his view at once, and long before her departure could
have been discovered by any one else. She knew her host too
284 NATHALIE.
well not to feel certain that he would immediately take such
steps as would check indiscreet or disagreeable conjectures.
This was, therefore, the course she resolved on adopting. She
extinguished her light, aiad sat down near the window, waiting
until a light should appear in the opposite turret. She waited
long ; but it came at length, and with it appeared Monsieur de
Sainville's figure, seen through the muslin curtain. Nathalie
did not wait for more. She took a letter, opened the door,
paused, and listened. The house was perfectly still. She walked
softly along the corridor since her illness, Madame Marceau
had removed to a lower apartment and, when she had reached
the head of the staircase, looked down over the banister. A
faint circle of light glimmered at the bottom of its dark depths ;
she knew this must be the lamp in the hall, dying away ; it
was as she thought. The last servant had retired to rest, no
one would see or disturb her. Her step was light ; her satin
slippers made no sound, and fell noiselessly on each step of
polished oak. She had gone down as far the first floor landing,
when she suddenly stopped short. Madame SIarceau's door,
which faced the drawing-room, stood ajar, and a faint streak of
light glided out on the otherwise dark landing. Whilst Nathe-
lie hesitated, and wondered whether she ought to proceed or
to retrace her steps, she heard Madame Marceau's voice ex-
claiming :
" Charles, do not blame me ! What I saw made me desper-
ate. Do not blame me ! I meant well ; and all for your good.
Do not break my heart do not !"
Her son made some low reply, which did not reach Nathalie's
ear.
" And I tell you," passionately answered his mother, " that
though I should die, this shall not be ! She she it shall not
be it shall not be !"
Her voice rose louder with every word. Nathalie heard
the young man leave his seat, and close the door. The landing
relapsed into sudden darkness and silence. The young girl
paused for a moment, then softly glided down. She reached
the hall, which was still partly lit by the faint, lurid light of
the dying lamp, without having awakened one echo in the now
silent house. To add to her good fortune, she found the library
door ajar; she entered, and closed it softly after her.
Notwithstanding his predilection for cold climates, Mon-
sieur de Sainville did not seem averse to a good fire, for the
remains of what had evidently been a bright one, still burned
A'ATIIALIE. '283
yn the hearth. But it only shed a warm, soft light, that did
not dispel the shadowy gloom of the apartment ; there was no
clear, vivid flame, to give distinctness to every object; Natha-
lie could merely see her way. She reached the table, placed
her letter on a book, and rejoicing at her success, was turning
towards the door, when she perceived Monsieur de Sainville
standing near her. He had come by the private staircase, and
entered unheard. She remained petrified. Even by that
doubtful light she could detect the surprised expression of
his countenance. This was a circumstance so perfectly unex-
pected by her, that Nathalie lost all her presence of mind, and
stood motionless and mute. He quietly stooped on the hearth,
applied a match to the embers, and in a second had lit one of
the waxlights in the sconces on either side of the mirror over
the mantel-piece.
" You came to look at my books !" he said with a smile.
" Well, you will find, as I said, poems, and even novels, amoucst
them."
He spoke in a light, jesting tone, as if it were perfectly na-
tural for him to find her at this hour in an apartment which
was his so exclusively; but though he probably did so in order
to dispel her embarrassment, Nathalie could see his keen, rapid
look wandering restlessly from her to' the table. She could
also see, in the mirror before her, that she was very pale, and
she felt herself trembling.
' Sir," she began in a faltering tone, ' I feel how sur-
prised "
" No, I was not much surprised," he interrupted ; ' my
first impression was that nothing but a ghost or spirit could
move so softly ; it not being, however, the witching time of mid-
night, I concluded that Mademoiselle Amanda, who has rather
a literary turn, had come here for an hour's reading ; but she
does not wear that simple brown dress, by which I perceived
it mus* be you."
Mademoiselle Amanda was, indeed, twice as smart as Nath-
alie, who had persisted in retaining the simple, quaker-like
costume she wore at Mademoiselle Dantin's ; her motive, it
must be confessed, being far more akin to pride than to the
lowlv virtue of humility. Far from displeasing, the allusion
of her host rather gratified her, or rather would have gratified
her, if she could have thought of any thing save her present
awkward predicament.
'' Sir," she resumed, a little more composedly, ' I know
YOU must wonder -"
286
^'ATHALIE.
" Wonder no ! I wondci- at nothing."
" Allow me, sir ; it must look strange, but 1 did not coma
here at this hour without having a motive for doing so. There
was a letter " She looked at the table, covered with pa-
pers, and could not see her epistle.
" You put it on that Encyclopedia,^' said be, quietly. Ho
stepped forward, took up the letter, glanced at the name writ
ten on the back, broke the seal, and read it deliberately.
' So," said he, looking up with a steady glance, at Nathalie,
" you warn me that you are going ; thank me for my hospi-
tality, many kindnesses, and so forth. Pray, may I ask you
why you have resolved on this precipitate departure V
" Because your nephew has returned, sir," gravely replied
Nathalie.
" Be easy, then ; unless I am much mistaken, he will leave
to-morrow. He came without my permission, and shall depart
through my order."
He looked stern and forbidding.
" You remain, of course ?" he added, after awhile.
" No, sir," she seriously answered, ' I have taken the re-
solve to leave Sainville." She spoke with some emphasis.
_" Taken the resolve to leave Sainville !" he echoed, with a
smile, as if he scarcely held this to be serious. " My child,
never ' take a resolve ;' next to a vow it is the most foolish
thing I know." He spoke slowly, uttering word by word.
Nathalie looked at him with startling suddenness.
" Foolish ! you think a vow foolish !" she exclaimed. Eao-e-
inquiry was in her fixed look and parted lips.
" Foolish and absurd," he deliberately answered ; " but
what interest do you feel in this ? Have you been taking a
vow, that you look so startled ? Believe me : break your
vow, on the principle that, as to take it was foolish, to keep it
would be sinful."
" You do not think a vow binding ?" asked Nathalie in a
low tone.
" Not unless when it happnns to be a promise. Was
yours a promise ?"
' No ; at least I do not think so." She spoke hesitatingly
but her face was radiant with joy.
" Come," he said, with a smile, and looking at her atten-
tively ; " I see I have been a good casuist, and removed your
Bcruples ; and now tell me what cloud has been on you these
two days, that you have remained either invisible or m-ito 1"
KATllAUn. 2Sf
She colored deeply, but did not reply.
" I had a bad headache," she answered at length.
He smiled rather skeptically, but merely said :
' Is it gone V
His look and tone made her at once recover her composure,
and she very coolly replied :
" Oh ! dear, no !"
He did not insist, but negligently taking up her letter,
observed :
" Of course this is non-avenu ; you remain 1 "What ! you
ook doubtful ? Did I not tell you Charles was going away to-
aiorrow ?
He spoke with stern brevity. Few persons would have
3ared to interfere in a matter on which Monsieur de Sainville
Iiad once pronounced ; yet it was this Nathalie now ventured
to do.
" Madame Marceau is very ill, sir," she urged appealingly.
" She is, and therefore I did not order Charles to leave the
house immediately."
' Order !" she had not thought he could be so severe and
imperious as this one word proved him. He looked at her at-
tentively, then said with some abruptness :
" You understand the nature of a contract, do you not V
" Yes, sir, I do;"
" Well, then, a contract has been passed between Charles
and me. For the sake of certain advantages I need not detail,
he has, of his own free will, agreed to obey me on all points save
one ; it was I who stipulated that on that point he should bo
his own master. Had he preferred total independence, ho
might have had it ; nor would I have allowed my sister's son to
struggle unaided through the world, but he chose to place his
neck under the yoke in order to ascend more rapidly. I warn-
ed him that I would have entire submission or none ; he con-
sented ; yet, has already violated the contract twice. It is now
broken for ever."
All this was very clear and logical, and because it wan
so logical, Nathalie, who ever acted from impulse, thought it.
hard.
' Confess that you think me despotic?" said Monsieur de
Sainville.
" No, sir," replied Nathalie, a little confused, " it is only
justice."
" But a sort of justice you do not like V
283 NATHALli:.
'' Madame Marceau is very ill, sir."
" Do you imagine she wishes for his presence here ? Do you
imagine he consulted her feelings when he returned?"
" She may be angry with him, sir ; but she cannot but be
deeply grieved at your anger."
" He has broken the contract ; it cannot be helped."
'' Madame Marceau is very ill. sir."
" I am afraid she is."
" The shock may injure her."
He said nothing.
"Yes, indeed, it may injure her very much," she persisted.
" Do you mean to say that I ought to forgive Charles this
second disobedience?"
' Yes, sir, I do."
' Then ask me."
He spoke in a low tone : his arms folded on his breast ; his
look was downcast, and did not once seek hers.
Nathalie thought her ear must have deceived her, and eyed
iiim with a perplexed glance.
" You will not?" said he, turning towards her ; "you are
too proud to prefer a request?"
" No, sir, but " she paused.
" I see, I must explain myself," he resumed ; " have yon
never read that legend of the perturbed spirit that must be
questioned before it can speak ? Suppose that we take another
version of the legend : that it is a spirit that must be asked a
boon by some pure mortal before it can grant it?"
" But, sir," said Nathalie seriously, " there are no spirits
in this case."
" How do you know 1 What do you know about spirits and
their ways ? Why should not men be possessed now by them,
as in the time when the Gospel was preached?"
" Those were evil spirits, sir."
" Ay, and they have not yet left this earth ; they daily go
forth amongst us and tenant many a human frame. Child, are
not our evil passions spirits that need some pure intiuence to
cast them forth? Is not will, tyranny ; is not pride the sin of
Satan ?"
Still Nathalie hesitated. She did not understand why
Monsieur de Sainville wished to be asked that which he now
seemed willing to yield.
" Then, I suppose, sir," she hesitatingly observed, "you would
grant a request?"
NATIIALIE. 289
" Why do you wish to know, and yet have not courage to
brave the spirits whose existence you denied?"
' Monsieur de Sainville," said Nathalie, somewhat piqued,
" I ask you to forgive your nephew."
" See what a little daring can do," he replied with a smile ;
'the evil spirit retires subdued; the boon is granted. What
would my proud sister say if she knew that the young girl,
whom her son must not hope to marry with her consent, has
saved that son from a grievous fall ? And yet this is rather
awkward," he added after a pause ; " for though she knows
nothing yet, I have already told Charles it was all over be-
tween us. I must retract, I suppose. Well, we will not talk
of this just now. I have a question to ask you."
" Sir," said Nathalie, uneasily glancing at the clock, " it .s
late ; had I not better go?"
" Why so ? I shall not detain you long ; and you surely do
not think there is any harm in talking here with me a few mo-
ments ?"
He spoke very seriously, and she quite as seriously replied :
" No, sir."
"I have only a brief question to put: You meant to leave
Sainville; what were your intentions for the future?"
He slowly turned round as if to see her better whilst she
delivered the expected reply. Nathalie felt somewhat embar-
rassed. She had looked on that momentous subject with all
the delightful vagueness of years ; the future to her was some
undefined good in store ; a broad realm of which she was sove-
reign lady ; which she had but to enter, win and possess.
' I had no intentions for the future," she at length replied,
" but the world was before me ; I am young ; I could work,
strive, and if needs be, endure." She spoke earnestly, and
therefore was no little piqued to perceive her host looking down
at her with a skeptical yet not unkind smile:
" Oh ! wise daring of youth !" he returned ; " you are
eighteen ; that is to say, just more than a child ; and you talk
of trying your fortunes, without doubt, without fear 1"
" I have no fortunes to try ; I simply meant to live."
" And living in our pleasant, social state is in itself a sin-
gular share of good fortune. Have you any idea of the
struggles a woman, especially, must go through, in order to
earn her daily bread ? And you, so proud, so heedless, so con-
fiding, so frank, you actually contemplated that destiny !
And how you would have trusted and been deceived," he
13
290 NATHALIE.
added, eyeing her compassionately ; " by women especially ,
You are credulous by nature ; do not look so indignant ; I give
you my word I have a sincere respect for a certain sort of ig-
norance, credulous, as I said, and trusting ; consequently,
easily imposed upon."
' Really, sir," said Nathalie, coloring, and looking almost
offended, " all this is not very flattering."
" Is it not ? Would you have preferred hearing me address
you in this strain ? ' Mademoiselle Montolieu, I admire your
resolve to enter at once into the great social strife. I feel con-
fident so enterprising and prudent a young lady will emerge
triumphantly from every difficulty. Your shrewdness and
sagacity render it of course impossible that man should ever
deceive or woman outwit you.' Come, would you have pre-
ferred this?"
" No, sir ; but surely there is such a thing as not being
outwitted, nor yet outwitting."
" The medium course ; no ; believe me, that is rare rare !
it is impossible."
" Then I wonder how many people you have outwitted in
your time?" promptly thought Nathalie.
" You may as well say it aloud," he observed, with a smile,
' Well, I have outwitted a good many, no doubt ; but do not
draw wrong conclusions ; I am no disciple of Machiavel. I
give you my word," he emphatically added, " that I have never
deceived, save where an attempt to deceive me had first been
made; then, of course, it was self-defence as legitimate as it
was easy."
, Nathalie gave him a curious and astonished look.
" I see," he continued, " that you are longing to know how
this easy art is managed ; I will tell you, because, even when
you know it, it is an art you will never learn ; otherwise, 1
should not open my lips. This great art is, to let the indi-
vidual who attempts to deceive me believe that he or she has
succeeded no more. You look disappointed ^you think, is
this all ? You had imagined subtle plans and deep counter-
Bcheming. No, believe me, all that is shallow, tedious and
useless ; deceivers are always prepared for either counter-
schemes or entire success : they are, moreover, weak and vain,
like other mortals ; they believe in the success of their wit,
when they do not find it opposed by scheming; the thing they
are least prepared for is, that their plans should be detected,
and yet not met by other plans. You see, there is nothing
very heinous in my system I deceive passively."
NATHALIE. 29 i
" Since it is so easy, sir, why should I not try?"
" Because you would fail. You cannot deceive, evcii
passively."
"This is not deceiving it is only not allowing one's sol/
to be seen throuc;h."
" Precisely : it is the art of being opaque."
He did not add, " and you are transparent ;" but she felt
it was implied.
" Then I shall always be imposed upon?"
" Very often, I fear."
" And it is foolish to be deceived easily ?"
" Why so ? It is not by talent that people deceive, nor by
talent that they oppose deceit; this is not a question of mind,
but of character. A fool may lay a scheme that shall impose
on a genius, yet he is still a fool, and the genius is a genius.
If I mention all this," he continued, after a pause, " it is to
satisfy, not to serve you ^you will be deceived as easily as if I
had never spoken."
" Sir," said Nathalie, rather piqued at these repeated asser-
tions, "I do not trust every one as you seem to think."
' Do you not ? I had imagined you were in a state of uni-
versal faith."
" Oh ! dear, no !" quite coolly.
" In whom, then, do you trust? What! no reply? This
looks serious. I shall begin by myself; do you trust me?"
He spoke in that light tone beneath which he often con-
veyed some graver meaning ; but the look he bent upon her
was singularly keen and penetrating.
Nathalie looked grave, or, as it is so well expressed by the
French word, recueillie.
" Yes, sir, I do," she slowly answered.
" But in a vague way, no more ? '
He still spoke inquiringly. She looked up.
'' Entirely," was her reply
There was a pause.
" I can see you mean it," he said at length ; " there is faith
in your look, in your voice. Yet see how imprudent you are !
Why on earth should you trust me ? How can you actually
know that I deserve your confidence?"
" And when one knows," she quickly said, " where is the
trust ?"
She instantly repented the words, and colored deeply ; but
though she almost fancied that a faint tinge of color rose to
29)1 NATHAI.ir:.
her host's pale cheek, he neither looked round nor seemed to
have heard her, as he stood there, leaning against the table,
and facing the dark fireplace. But he had heard her, never-
theless, for he said, quietly :
" You have given an excellent definition of ' trust ;' far too
good, indeed, for one who meant to go forth, and brave the
struggles of life. My poor child, dream no more of leaving
Sainville. When you talk of that so calmly, I seem to see a
child indeed smiling on a plank, tossed by a raging sea. Be
lieve me, it is good to be here : it is good to be sheltered by the
substantial walls and broad roof of my old chateau ; it is good to
sit in quiet by the hearth of domestic peace, and ihence listen to
the din and strife of the storm without ; to have no other con-
cern with those wild sounds, save that they lull you to a repose
more sweet and deep ; to see and hear the waves breaking
around you, and to feel that the dark tide will never even
reach or wet your feet. Trust me, child ; I am an old pilot :
the struggles of my existence began when you were yet sleep-
ing peacefully in your cradle. You have scarcely felt the first
keen breezes, and you are daring and hopeful still. But I,
who have weathered many a storm, and gained at last this safe
refuge, I would keep you here, and save you from years of toil,
destined, perchance, to end in dismal wreck. Remain, my
child, remain !"
They stood not far asunder. He gently laid his hand
upon her head, and looked down into her flushed and listening
face with serious and afi"ectionate tenderness.
She looked as agitated as he seemed calm. Her heart
beat so fast, that she feared he must end by hearing its tumul-
tuous throbbings. Hope, and a joy almost delirious, were with
her for a moment; for she said to herself that she had found .
that safer hand to which she longed to trust her barque that*
same morning. He was silent now ; but she still seemed to
hear his low, kind voice saying, " Remain, my child, remain !"
She heard no other sounds ; but he did. He heard the hur-
ried footsteps overhead, the sudden opening of a door, the vio-
lent ringing of a bell ; and removing his hand from Nathalie's
head, he exclaimed:
" What has happened ?"
The sounds came from his sister's room, which was exactly
over the library ; he knew it, looked disturbed, and went to the
door ; then suddenly came back, as Nathalie was going to fol
low him.
NATHALIE. 293
" Do not go," said he ; " I have granted you a request
grant me this. Remain here until I return. I have more to
pay. You do not refuse, do you ?"
" No, sir." But she spoke hesitatingly.
" You look timid. Are you afraid to remain here alone,
my child ? I am only going to see what it is ; I shall soon be
back."
He led her to a chair, made her sit down, and assuring her,
with a smile, that he should not be long away, left her.
CHAPTER XXI.
She remained alone.
Scarcely had the door closed on Monsieur do Sainville,
when she heard him briefly inquiring :
" Charles, what is the matter ?"
" My mother is ill, sir," answered the young man's voice in
the hall.
' What has made her so ?"
There was no reply.
" Charles, what has made your mother ill ? She seemed
no worse than usual when she went up to her room. Have you
been talking to her ?" he added, after a pause.
" Yes, sir, I have."
" And what have you been saying to her?"
" Only what you were kind enough to tell me," replied the
young man with some bitterness.
Monsieur de Sainville did not answer, but Nathalie heard
him ordering a servant to ride off for the doctor ; then his step
ascended the staircase, ere long she heard it iu the room
above, but in a few moments all was still. There was a long
silence, unbroken save by a low, monotonous sound, the ^und
of speech. Sometimes she thought it rose almost to altercation,
at other times it wholly ceased. At length she heard the
^tep of Monsieur de Sainville again ; she thought he was com-
ing down, and, bending forward, listened eagerly : no ; he was
merely pacing his sister's room to and fro. She sank back on
her seat with an impatient and disappointed sigh, and looking
abstractedly around her. The fire was out, the solitary wax-
294 NATHALIE.
light burned with u palfc flickering ray lost in that wido room
The bust looked white, spectre-like, and yet living ; for a mo-
ment the young girl almost imagined that the cynical, though
strangely intellectual head of Voltaire smiled down sarcastical-
ly at her from its cornice, whilst the serene and ideal face of
Fenelon gazed on her with gentle reproach ; the one deriding,
the other mildly reproving the folly of her thoughts. A small
volume lay open on a table before her, she took it up ; it was
the imitation of Jesus Christ, open at the sixth chapter of the
first book ; she read the chapter through. Of what did it treat?
Of the vanity of inordinate affections ; of dying to the flesh ;
of the perishable nature of all human feelings ; of the peace
which dwells in a passionless heart. She laid it down impa-
tiently. The book of human skepticism and that of religious
faith La Rochefoucauld and Thomas a Kempis still told the
same story.
He had said that he would soon return, but an hour elaps-
ed and yet he came not ; at length the door opened, he enter-
ed. He looked grave and moody ; a cloud passed over his
brow as he saw Nathalie.
" You remained?" he said, as if he had not expected to
find her there.
" Yes, sir ; you made me promise to stay."
He neither looked at her nor spoke.
" To hear something you had to say," she continued.
He merely said " Ah !" abstractedly, and began walking
up and down the room. Nathalie eyed him with mute surprise.
" How is Madame Marceau, sir ?" she asked, after a pause
of wonder.
He evidently did not hear her ; she had to repeat her ques-
tion. He looked up at her and smiled somewhat bitterly.
" Very ill, indeed,'' he at length replied ; " very ill, indeed.
Worse, I believe, than she herself imagines ; else " he broke
off, and once more paced the room up and down.
Nathalie rose to leave ; he perceived it, walked up to her,
took her hand, and looking down at her with some emotion, said :
" You wish to go I do not detain you I have nothing to
say You came too late : The evil spirit I asked you to con-
jure and subdue has turned round, and, before taking flight,
cast on me the spell of Guddcn silence. It might have been
well for me had I been less harsh had I not driven matters
to a crisis : but it is too late to repent. I thought myself wise,
prudent and clear-aighted, when I was blind and foolish ; I
Nathalie. ' 295
thought I could control time, circumstance, and the will ot
those around me ; and I have lived to be baffled. For myself
I care not ; but I grieve for you. I thought I could make
your path smooth and pleasant : that I could spare you trouble
and fainting of the heart in your little journey, and now, I find
that it is not so ; that the course I thought to shape for you
must be of your own choosing ; that if you wish to reach that
shore where happiness awaits you, you must walk to it as Peter
walked over the stormy flood through faith : But alas ! alone,
and without the helping band. God knows I foriake you not
willingly ; but every man is jealous of his honor, and never yet
has there been a stain on mine. Just I will be, no matter at
what cost. Good night ; but no ; we cannot part thus. Tell
me once again that you have faith in me. You hesitate : do
you wish to retract ?"
" I retract nothing."
" But you look bewildered ; -well you may the test is too
severe."
" Severe as it will be, I care not."
He eyed her wistfully.
" Take care," he said ; " every man has his weakness, which
is to him as his vulnerable heel to Achilles ; and mine is to be
trusted in blindly. That you cannot do."
' Why not ?" she asked, looking up with flushed face and
kindling glance ; " why not ?"
" What ! even though that which I cannot and will not
deny, which will grieve and wound you, should be brought up
and laid before you ? What even then ?"
There was a brief pause ; he eyed her keenly.
" Yes," she said, " even then."
" Promise."
" I promise."
A sudden change came over him ; a flush rose to his brow ;
nis look lit, his lip trembled. He drew her towards him, and
looked down into her burning face ; then stooped eagerly to
draw back, release her, and turn pale the next moment.
" Good night," said he, in a wholly altered tone ; " it is late,
I detain you not ; rest well, you will need it good night."
She left him, and went up to her room. The door stood
half open ; but though she had closed it carefully on leaving,
she now heeded not this ; there seemed a veil upon her eyes,
and a mist on her thoughts. She paced the narrow room up
and down with feverish haste, and asked herself one ceaseless
question :
296 NATHALIE,
'= What did lie mean ? What did he mean when he told
me to promise when he drew me towards him, and looked
down into my face so eagerly? what did he mean then V
Her brow throbbed and burned ; her veins seemed running
fire, and her head swam for a moment. The atmosphere of
the room felt gtifling ; she opened her window, leaned her
burning brow against the iron bar of thj little balcony, and
offered it to the cool night air.
There is a calm and solemn beauty in the aspect of the
night, which soothes down the fevered and over-wrought spirit
to its own deep and holy repose ; the scenes we gaze on daily
then borrow from the hour a shadowy and mysterious loveli-
ness. To behold in gloom that which we have never seen but
in the free and open light of day, is to enter on a new and un-
knov/n world, where all looks strange, indistinct, and vast.
As Nathalie gazed on the scene below her, she felt in her
something of that secret communion which never wholly ceases
between nature and the human heart. The moon shone dimly
with a vague and doubtful light, ever and anon obscured by
dark and swiftly-passing clouds. It had been raining, as she
could feel by the humid freshness of the air ; a few drops still
fell with the murmuring gusts of wind that swept along the
garden avenues, and slowly died away in their distant recesses.
The tall and shadowy lime-trees of the avenue waved in dark
masses against the gloomy sky ; sometimes the whole garden
lay wrapped in silent obscurity, until the breeze rose, and with
many vague murmurs, swept the clouds away, and the moon
dimly shining, revealed the contrast of the dark 7Ja?-^erres, with
their white gravel-walks, and some pale and solitary statue
faintly gleaming through the gloom of its niche.
The silence and freshness of the hour gradually calmed
Nathalie ; her brow no longer throbbed and burned, and her
pulse ceased to beat feverishly. The slight delirium which
had agitated her vanished ; she abandoned herself to thought,
in a mood now chastened and subdued, when a sound below
arrested her attention. She eagerly bent over the balcony^
and looked, but all she could see was, that two figures emerged
tlirough the glass door from the library. They paused awhile,
in low converse, on the stone steps which led into the garden ;
then one of the figures re-entered the apartment ; the other
remained standing for full five minutes in the same spot, with-
out so much as changing its attitude. Nathalie thought she
recognized Monsieur de Sainville ; but who was the other '?
NATHALIE. 297
some servant; his nephew, perhaps! What could they be
doing there at that hour ?
Monsieur de Sainville for she now knew that it was he-
moved on, and entered one of the walks. For some time she
could distinguish his receding figure ; finally it vanisked. It
was a full half-hour before he re-appeared, coming ai a slow
pace along a walk exactly opposite her. The moon now shone
bright and clear ; the lights fell full on his face. Nathalie
could see every feature as distinctly as by day ; at first, his
folded arms and downcast glance made her feel doubtful she
might well have been deceived ; but when he suddenly paused,
and looked up, she could not doubt it was sadness, yes, deep
sadness every grave feature betrayed. He paced the alley to
and fro ; she watched, with feverish interest, the moment of his
return, but every time his countenance met her look, it wore
the same mournful meaning. Why was he sad ? Was the
memory of old times with him ? Did it haunt him still, when
years, and the impassable barrier of the grave, both bade him
to forget? One moment she felt saddened ; but the next, a
voice whispered in her heart ; " You are young and beautiful ;
you know it ; he knows it, too why, then, need you care for
the past V
A low knock at the door disturbed her ; she went and
found Amanda standing in the dark corridor, with a light in
her hand.
" How fortunate that mademoiselle is not yet undressed,"
she exclaimed ; " Madame so much wishes to speak to made-
moiselle."
" To speak to me !" said Nathalie, much surprised. Aman-
da quietly assented.
Nathalie thoughtfully followed her down stairs. " How is
Madame Marceau now ?" she asked, as they reached the first
floor-landing.
" Much better. Dr. Laurent has given her a composing
draught."
' Will mademoiselle wait here, whilst I go in ?" whispered
Amanda.
She handed the light she held to Nathalie, who entered
the drawing-room ; Amanda opened the door of Madame Mar-
ceau's room. She did not close it, and the sound of voices
within reached Nathalie's ear.
" Charles," said the feverish voice of Madame Marceau,
^ remember you have given me your word !"
13*
198 NATHALIE.
." Be content," he replied rather impatiently : " 1 will nol
breathe a word you would wish unsaid."
He came out and entered the drawing-room as he spoke.
" May I speak to you ?" he asked in his low musical tones,
and approaching the spot where Nathalie stood.
She coldly assented. The short dialogue she had chanced
to overhear, gave her little relish for a conversation which it
seemed was to be subject to the proud lady's restrictions.
" Did my sudden return offend you ?" he asked.
" Offend me, sir ? Why should it ?"
' True ; what is it to you?"
He looked at her ; the resigned expression of her counte-
nance stung him more deeply than anger.
" So !" he exclaimed, " you are still pitiless ? still inexor
able V
She could not repress a haughty smile.
" Inexorable, sir ! This implies resentment ; I feel none.
The harm you may once have done me, has long been repaired
by other members of your family."
" I understand, my uncle ; and is it for his sake you are
so good as not to hate me ?"
Their looks met ; there was little love on either side.
" Sir." calmly answered Nathalie, " I must remove this mis-
take of yours once for all. I give you my word that I have
never hated you, that I do not hate you, and that were we
both to live until the end of time, nothing should ever induce
me to hate you."
Charles Marceau eyed her from head to foot, with a look
and smile that lived for years in the memory of the young
girl ; but he said in his bland voice,
' Your goodness overpowers me ; but I shall try, nay, I
shall seek opportunities, to deserve it, believe me I shall."
Nathalie involuntarily shrank from him.
" I hope," she began, but her voice faltered
' You hope," softly echoed Charles.
" I mean to say "
" You mean to say," he kindly repeated
' I mean to say, sir," she impetuously exclaimed, " thai
such affection as yours takes the shape of persecution."
" You amaze me !" he replied with imperturbable coolness.
'* Persecution ! How could I suspect any thing of the kind,
when you so very kindly assured me of your perfect indiffer-
ence 1"
NATHALIE. 299
The temper of the Sainville race, to use a favorite expres-
sion of Madame Marceau, was not a gentle temper, but no ono
could deny that it was self-possessed. That almost unruffled
and aristocratic smoothness of manner which, with every dif-
ference of character, nevertheless marked Monsieur de Sain-
ville, his sister, and her son, had often struck Nathalie, and
))ecause it was precisely that which she herself wanted, it awed
and subdued her vehement nature. What had she to fear
from Charles Marceau's resentment ? Nothing that she knew
of; yet as she saw him standing there before her, and gazed
at his pale handsome face, and felt his oblique look upon her,
she trembled and turned pale. He looked at her, smiled,
quietly said he could see she was in no mood to listen to him,
and left the room. Almost immediately Amanda's head ap-
peared through the half-open door, and she signed Nathalie to
follow her.
She found Madame Marceau sitting, or rather reclining,
in a deep arm-chair near the bed ; a night-lamp burned with a
dim and subdued light on a low table near her ; the room
looked indistinct, and wellnigh dark. Nathalie approached
the arm-chair ; it was a high-backed sombre-looking thing,
framed by that dark background, the sick lady's face looked
ghastly pale, and her sunken eyes shone with unnatural fire.
The young girl asked how she felt.
" Much better. Petite ; much better. Petite."
She spoke fast and feverishly. Nathalie looked at her ; she
had not undressed ; her toilet was, as usual, elaborate and
rich, the result of all skilful Amanda's art, but Nathalie felt
ne mortal hand cculd now efi'ace the signet of death from that
brow.
" Come and sit here by me," said the lady, " I disturbed
you, but I could not help it ; I could not wait until morning,
come and sit here by me."
The young girl complied, and asked how she had chanced
to be taken ill so suddenly.
" Never mind. Petite ; let us come to the point : what
have you decided?"
As she spoke, she took her hand, and fastened on her face
an eager and burning look.
" Decided ! madame ?"
" Yes ; what have you decided V
" Decided about what ?"
'' About my son, of course."
300 NATHALIE.
Your son !"
"Good heavens! why do you repeat my words so? Did
you not see Charles this evening ? Do you not know he i?
come back come back to remain V
" This hint was not needed," cried Nathalie, coloring deep'
ly, and rising as she spoke.
" What do you mean?" abruptly asked Madame Marceau.
" I do not understand you. Do you mean to say that Armand
has never hinted this to you? That when he returned to the
library, where you waited so long, he never told you?"
Nathalie quickly turned round. How did Madame Mar-
ceau know she had been in the library? that she had waited
there for his return ? Had he told her ? "Why so ? What
did it mean ? She felt and looked bewildered.
" Told me what?" she asked, at length. The lady did not
reply, buc looked slightly embarrassed. " Told me what ?"
resumed Nathalie ; " that as your son remains, I had best
leave? Was it that?"
"Leave !" echoed the lady, smiling; "how could you ima-
ji'lne any thina; so ungracious ? Fie ! leave ! no remain."
*" -111
" Remain ! madame ; remain !
" Yes ; remain."
" But how can that be ?"
Madame Marceau gently made her resume her seat, laid
her hand on Nathalie's shoulder, and smiled in her face.
" As my son's wife," she softly said.
She bent and pressed her hot, feverish lips on the young
girl',s brow.
Nathalie felt and looked like one who has received a sudden
unseen blow.
" Foi heaven's sake, Petite," observed Madame Marceau,
taking out her vinaigrette, "let us not have a scene ; my nervea
are weak. Armand might have told you, and spared ma
this."
" He knows it ! he knows it !" cried Nathalie, seizing the
lady's arm, and fastening a burning look full in her face.
" Knows it ! of course. Did not Charles ask his consent,
and did he not give it most readily ? Do not look incredulous.
Petite ; it is so upon my word, it is so. It was this evening,
whilst you were sitting below, waiting for him he sat there,
just where you are sitting now, by me Charles put it to him,
in plain speech : ' Uncle,' he said, ' do you give your consent ?'
' I do.' ' Full and free V ' Full and free.' ' I can ask Made
NATHALIE. 301
moiselle Montolieu to marry mo V ' You can.' ' And if she
consents, j-ou raise no objection?' 'None; wliy should I?'
' Even if she agrees to a speedy union, you still consent ?' ' I
still consent.' ' You will not urge youth, want of fortune, or
prudential considerations V ' I shall urge nothing. I am
rich ; neither you nor your wife need feel anxious about the
future; I give to this marriage the freest, fullest consent man
can give.' Upon my word. Petite, you look as if you did not
believe me ; but go down to the library I can hear him there
still go down, ask him, and see If he denies one word of it
see if he does."
Nathalie did not reply; but shj dropped the lady's arm,
and sank back on her seat, mute and pale. Madame Marceau
resignedly applied her vinaigrette.
"I know," she said, in a melancholy tone, "those things
never go ofi without some emotion ; but pray, be collected, my
dear child. Here comes Charles."
Nathalie looked up slowly. The young man stood before
her, in a grave, attentive attitude. She looked from him to
the pale countenance and sunken eyes of his mother ; both
faces had but one meaning ; they were waiting ; still Nathalie
did not speak.
" May I know Mademoiselle Montolieu's reply ?" at length
asked the young man.
She said nothing. She seemed to be struggling against
some inward thought ; to seek to comprehend some perplexing
and baffling mystery. Madame Marceau quietly took her
hand, and signing her son to approach, placed that passive
hand in his ; but scarcely bad his hot and eager fingers closed
on it, than Nathalie withdrew it, roused at once.
" This cannot be," she said in a low tone.
" Come, do not be childish, Petite. I consent ; my brother
Armand, Monsieur de Sainville, consents ; he consents, I tell
you, be consents"
" And approves," softly added Charles.
" And approves," eagerly echoed his mother.
" Warmly approves the object of my choice," continued the
young man, with an impertinent self-congratulation, which
even at that moment stung Nathalie.
" Of course," gayly replied Madame Marceau ; " do you re-
member what he said when he came home after so many years?
Charles, marry whom you like, but for heaven's sake give mfl
a pretty niece."
S02 NATHALIE.
" Yes, I remember," slowly replied her son. looking at
Nathalie as he spoke.
" And where could even he, so hard, so difficult to please,
Qnd a more charming niece?" said Madame Marceau, in a
caressing tone.
Every hue from the deepest crimson to the palest white
passed over Nathalie's cheek, as Madame Marceau spoke thus,
in a slow measured tone, that let word by word fall on the ear.
She rose, and said briefly. " Let those who like, give their
consent: I withhold mine."
Madame Marceau was going to speak ; her son checked her
with a look.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu has decided too hastily," he said,
in a peculiar tone ; " she must be allowed time to reflect."
He left the room. There was a long silence. Nathalie
had not moved ; she stood in the same spot, her look fastened
on the floor, her hands clasped together. Madame Marceau
eyed her very attentively.
" Petite," she at length said in her kindest tones, " come
and sit here by me ; let us understand each other."
" Madame," replied Nathalie, without looking up, " there is
nothing to understand. What I have said is said ; expla-
nations are useless."
" Then you refuse to come and sit here."
She did not answer, but looked troubled.
' Will you, or will you not ?" asked the lady. " I shall
know how to interpret the refusal."
Nathalie complied silently, she resumed her seat ; her look
ras averted from that of Madame Marceau. But the lady
raised herself up, entwining one arm around the young girl's
neck, and placing the other hand on her shoulder, compelled
her to look round, so that their eyes met.
" So," said she, patting her playfully on the neck, " so,
Petite, for we two are going to have a friendly chat."
Nathalie instinctively endeavored to draw back, but the
arm which held her, held her firmly.
" No, Petite," continued Madame Marceau, shaking her
head with a smile, " not yet ! Why our friendly causerie is
not yet begun ! So you will not have ray poor boy ; you must
have some reason."
" No. madame, none," was the quick reply.
" No reason ! Look at what I have already gained !"
" I mean no particular reason."
NATHALIE. 303
" Therefore a general cue ?" No reply. " The general
reason is, after all, I suspect a particular one ; you will not tell,
but I am resolved to know. I must guess."
Nathalie endeavored to rise, to disengage herself from
Madame Marceau, but the sick lady's grasp, though light, was
firm as steel. She held Nathalie literally fastened to her chair.
" You foolish child," said she with a soft low laugh ; " your
confidante I must and will be. Only tell me if I guess well.
Your reason is " she paused and smiled as Nathalie's
color faded away before her look " pride," she added quietly,
whilst the young girl breathed freely.
" You see," calmly resumed Madame Marceau, '-you might
as well have confided in me at once. I am not blind. Women
may deceive men, but never one another. No woman can
keep a secret from another woman. There is a freemasonry
between us all, is there not. Petite ?"
" I suppose so, madame," was the faint reply.
" I am sure of it. Besides, is not observation the mother
of discovery % Then know, that having observed much since
my return from Paris, I have discovered a great deal. Amongst
other things, that you are too proud to enter a family in which
you imagine you are received only in compliance with the
wishes of an impassioned young man. Now, Petite, I might
prove to you that this is a mistake, that we desired, and long
ago approved unconditionally, what has been mentioned to-
day ; but as you object to explanation, and as I have ascer-
tained your ' reason ;' why let the matter rest "
She released her as she spoke ; but Nathalie, though free,
did not move now. /
" Who desired, who apprbved long ago ?" she asked with a
fixed look.
" We did. Petite."
" Madame, whom do you mean by we ?"
" The uncle and mother of Charles, of course."
" You said, ' this evening,' awhile back ; you said ' this
svening' !"
" Yes, it was this evening Charles asked his uncle's con
eent. But loe had spoken of this often before."
Nathalie rose and paced the room up and down ; then sud
denly coming back to the lady's chair, she feverishly asked :
' Was it this he meant, when he asked me the other day, to
like Sainville ?"
" I dare say it was," composedly replied Madame Marceau,
304 NATHALIE.
" Was it tliis he meant, when ho said this evening : remain
my child, remain ?"
" I dare say it was."
" But why not speak more clearly ?"
Madame Marceau smiled.
" Armand was always mysterious. It is one of his weak-
nesses to think no one can read him. But in all this he has
not acted like a wary man of business ; he has trifled and de-
layed ; and I, ignorant woman as I am, know this is not wise.
The truth is, often as we have talked the matter over and
settled every thing "
" Settled every thing ; settled !" interrupted Nathalie, in
a broken tone; " I have been strangely used ! Am I not flesh
and blood ? Have I no feeling, no heart, that I am thus dis-
posed of?"
She was very pale, and trembled from head to foot ; her
eyes flashed indignantly, her blanched lips quivered.
"Does it make you indignant, that I should seek in.you a
daughter, and my brother a niece ?"
" A niece ! You may tell your brother, madame, that I de-
cline the honor ; or rather I shall tell him so myself"
" Oh ! you will !" cried Madame Marceau with a withering
look ; " you need not. Petite. He knows it ; he let me see he
knew you would refuse ; he let me see he knew your motives
too."
"What if he did?" said Nathalie, turning round ; "what
if he did : it is for you and your son to care not for me !"
" What do you mean by saying it is for me and my son to
care ?" asked Madame Marceau, turning very pale and speak-
ing very low.
" What I say."
" You confess it ! you dare to confess it !" cried she, rising
and crimsoning with sudden passion, " and you taunt me with
it too ! Shameless girl !" She trembled with resentment.
" Well, why not go on ?" she added, in a quick broken tone.
" Tell me all I can bear it I understand the wisdom of
waiting now before or after the funeral Eh !"
Nathalie stepped back ; she thought her delirious. But
Madame Marceau followed her and grasped her arm firmly.
" How dare you," she exclaimed again, " how dare you
confess such a thing ? Other women shrink and blush and
yoti .... go !"
She dropped her arm as a thing she had held coo long
IVATHALIE. 303
Nathalie turned white and red alternately, and looked as if she
would sink into the earth ; but making an effort, she said :
' What do you mean? I told your brother six months ago,
that I never could love your son no more ! What did he say
to you ? What do you mean ?"
Madame Marceau eyed her fixedly; as she looked, a
change came over her features. She turned away, and walked
up and down the room with a steady step a thing she had not
done for weeks but fever made her strong. She gave the
young girl one or two quick guarded glances, but she did not
reply. Nathalie walked up to her.
" What did he say, what do you mean?" she asked.
' Nothing I have been hasty cruel ; but I was excited ;
I am excitable to-night. He told me let me see Yes, that
you could not like Charles that was it no more ; do not
imagine he said more. There, be content it is late ; good
night."
She turned away ; but Nathalie followed her and caught
hold of her garment.
'' Madame, what do you mean ?"
' Mean ! nothing !"
"What did he say?"
Madame Marceau looked very grave.
" My brother," she said, " is a grave man, little accustomed
to women or young girls. I have noticed how embarrassed he
often felt in the proper regulation of his behavior towards
you ; but, touchy as you are, you have no reason to complain
of the host, of the man of the world, above all, of the man of
honor."
" I do not complain, I ask a question."
" And look dreadfully suspicious too ? Do you imagine we
had no other subjects of conversation than you or your motives
for refusing Charles ? Do not imagine he said any thing parti-
cular ? I tell you he is a man of honor."
" And why do you tell me that ?"
" Because you might imagine "
" Imaa;ine what V
" Nothing I feel very fatigued. Good night.''
She kissed her ; but Nathalie did not move.
" Imagine what ?" she repeated.
' You foolish child ! I tell you he told me nothing."
Told you nothing what had he to tell ?"
" Be satisfied, I tell you ; he is a man of strict honor.*'
30(i NATHALIE.
" Who doubts it ? I do uot ; I will not doubt it," passioD
ately cried Nathalie.
" I hope not, Mademoiselle Montolieu," very seriously re*
plied Madame Mareeaii, resuming her seat as she spoke. " It
is going on to two. Does it not strike you it is time this
should cease ? Good night. My nerves have been tried long
enough. I must say 1 think it was unkind of Armand to
leave this to me, in order to spare his own feelings. Very un-
kind. But the truth is, he did not know, I believe, how to
break the tidings to you, and he certainly has a great horror
of scenes, and woman's tears."
" Madame," said Nathalie, pressing her hand to her brow,
as if to compel thought to remain calm, " it is clear he has
spoken more freely than you confess. What is it ?"
" You urge me to a breach of confidence."
" I ask to know what I have a right to know"
" A right then I will not utter a word."
" If you will not tell me, he shall."
She made a step forward.
" Stay !" cried Madame Marceau, with sudden alarm.
" Stay ! are you mad 1 Will nothing cool your hot southern
blood?"
" Speak," cried Nathalie, turning round upon her; "speak,
and do nirt torture me any longer."
" Torture you ! You certainly use strange and picturesque
expressions? Am I an inquisitor? Is it uot to spare your
feelings that I do not speak ; that I do not wish you to see
Armand ? It is a delicate thing for him, for any man, to read
the feelings of a young girl, and tell her with his own lips
what he has read. I know I have said too much, but if you
will promise to be calm and patient "
" I will, I will," replied Nathalie, in a subdued tone ; " 1
will ; but speak, for heaven's sake speak." She resumea her
Beat, and spoke as if to wait even one second were utterly in-
tolerable.
Madame Marceau eyed hrr compassionately, and said with
evident hesitation :
" Poor little thing ! Nothing so peculiar was said. There
were only vague hints about the odd fancies of young girls,
fancies on which it was good to close one's eyes, nay, even to
indulge."
" He said this !" ejaculated Nathalie, pressing her hand to
her brow.
NATHALIE. 307
" Hinted, Petite ! hinted. Indeed he spoke most kindly,
most compassionately. ' Time,' he asserted, ' must be left tc
do its own work.' I saw he was pained, for your sake, at any
little weaknesses he might have detected."
" Weaknesses, my weaknesses !" exclaimed Nathalie. ' It
is false ! I have not been forward, or unwomanly ? It is
false."
" Petite, you are growing very unreasonable. He said, em-
phatically, that your weaknesses were essentially womanly."
Nathalie did not heed her. She had risen from her seat,
and was agitatedly pacing the room up and down, pressing
both her hands to her bosom, as if to stay its tumultuous
throbbmgs. Her brow was contracted, her look fixed, her
breath came fast through her pale and parted lips.
" God help me !" she exclaimed, in a low tone ; " God help
me !"
" Petite, you are getting excited. Must I tell you again,
that Armand is the soul of delicacy and honor."
" Honor !" echoed Nathalie ; " God save me from man, and
the false thing called man's honor."
She stopped short in the centre of the room, with upraised
look and clasped hands ; whilst tears not of those which re-
lieve, but of those which are wrung from the heart's bitterest
agony slowly rolled down her cheeks.
Madame Marceau watched her with sufficiont calmness ;
yet she looked faint and pale, and repeatedly used her vin-
aigrette.
"Petite," she said, "do not afflict yourself ; I see Armand
was greatly mistaken. But you can. prove it to him ; not by
saying so, delicacy forbids it, but by quietly agreeing to
marry Charles. Shall I call him? Yes."
She raised her voice ; the door opened ; her son entered,
and came up to Nathalie. She did not allow either to speak,
but said, quickly :
" Charles, the poor child is still much agitated ; but you
may trust to me. It is all right. Petite, calm yourself It
is a trying moment ; but such things must be. With all your
heedlessness, you have much penetration and good sense. Ap-
ply both to the present case. You need it. Ah ! Petite,
when you have my experience, my knowledge of life ; when
you have reflected on human nature, and looked, considered,
and compared "
Charles frowned, and gave bis mother a keen look ; Nathalie,
308 NATHALIE.
awakening as from a dream, eyed Madame Marceau witli a
perplexed air, as she continued, with unmoved composure and
undiminished fluenc}' of speech :
' Yes, when you have reflected on human nature, looked,
considered, and compared, you must come to the same painful
conclusions at which I have, alas ! arrived But do not fear ;
my afl'ection, my experience, shall watch over you ; and now
it is really late. Good ni.cht, Petite ; good night."
Nathalie did not answer. Madame Marceau's speech had
given the fever of heart and brain time to cool. Diverted for
a moment, thought had returned, but not alone ; for with it
came doubt, suspicion, and tardy penitence. All the time
Madame Marceau spoke, she had eyed her keenly, but without
seeking to fathom the meaning of her discourse. She was read-
ing the lines of her brow, the restless look of her eyes, the un-
steady motion of her lips ; and it seemed as if a voice rose
in her soul, and cried out, " She is false ! she is false !"
" Good night, Petite," repeated Madame Marceau.
" Stay," said her son, " can I know "
' You shall not torment her," hastily interrupted bin
mother.
" I am grieved " began Nathalie.
' There ! you have grieved her !" indignantly said- the
lady.
" Maddme, I do not complain," resumed Nathalie.
" You are an angel ! But I am not going to see your feel-
ings tried and wounded. Good night !"
" Do you, or do you not consent ?" asked Charles, impa-
tiently addressing the young girl.
His mother vainly strove to interfere.
" No, sir," had fallen from Nathalie's lips.
" No !" echoed Charles ; and an angry light passed ovei
his dark features.
" Quite right," said his mother ; " I admire your strong
sense of feminine dignity. Petite. I had told you, sir. it was
all right."
" Madame," interrupted Nathalie, with much decision, " I
beg to state I have never given any thing like consent."
" You have not !"
" No, madam ; I have not."
" Petite," said the lady, with a bitter smile ; " I see Armand
was right ; that I was mistaken ; that the freemasonry of
women is nonsense after all."
INATHALIE. 309
The stiug went home, but pierced deeper ilian Madame
Marceau thought.
" You mistake, madame," replied Nathalie, in a low tone :
"one woman cannot deceive another woman."
"Explain yourself!" said Madame Marceau, with impera-
tive calmness, the calmness of suppressed passion.
Nathalie did not reply.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," rosumed the lady, laying some
stress on the plebeian name, " you are not sufficiently versed in
the science of good breeding to know that there is a polite way
of expressing doubt. I believe you mentioned something about
four intention to leave ; there was something of the kind."
She spoke as of occurrences the most remote ; applied her
^'inaigrette, and wrapped her shawl around her. It was as if
bhe had brought the young girl from Mademoiselle Dantin's
only the preceding evening, so completely had her old manner
returned.
" Madame," quietly said Nathalie, ' do not think I shall
leave this house without seeing and speaking to Monsieur de
Sainville."
The lady's composure vanislied at once.
" Do you mean to breed strife between my brother and me ?'
she sharply asked.
" And what has he to do with this ?" no less sharply asked
her son. " Let him let any man dare to stand between me
and the woman I love !"
Madame Marceau glanced from her son to Nathalie. She
breathed hard, and clasped her hands firmly together. There
was something like despair in the forced calmness of her look.
" Charles," she said, in a low tone, "are you mad or blind?
Leave us ; I must reason with this foolish girl, leave us !"
" I 'have long enough been kept in the dark," he replied,
without moving ; I will know more. Why did you write to
me to come without delay, to lose no time ?"
" Heaven help me !" cried Madame Marceau, with a passion
that brought a j3ush to her very brow ; " heaven help me ; be-
tween you both ! . . . . And here he is !" she added, as a step
was heard on the stairs. " Do your worst.''
Monsieur de Sainville entered. He gave a keen, rapid
glance around him, then came forward, and paused before the
ohair of his sister.
" Rosalie," said he, severely, " you had given me your word
that you would not excite yourself to-night ; you had given ma
310 NATHALIE
your word that Mademoiselle Montolieu would not be disturbed
to-night."
" And I broke it !" replied his sister, with a look of defiance
" How kind, Armand, to remind me of that ! Mademoiselle
Montolieu," she added," turning towards her, " you will not
leave without an explanation, you who are so mortally offended
with my brother for noticing your little peculiarities of feeling
" What is the meaning of this ?" sternly asked Monsieur de
Sainville, glancing from his sister to Nathalie, who changed
color ; " Mademoiselle Montolieu mortally offended wiih me !
Why so ? For noting her peculiarities of feeling, too ! What
peculiarities'?"
" Peculiarities, indeed !" bitterly echoed Madame Marceau ;
" peculiarities which I have long noticed peculiarities ill be-
coming the maiden selected to become my daughter, and your
niece."
" The selection was none of mine," dryly replied Monsieur
de Sainville, without seeming to notice the sudden paleness
and burning flush which, as his sister spoke, had succeeded
each other on the young girl's cheek.
" You gave your consent ; deny it if you can you gave
your consent, Armand."
" I had no earthly right to withhold it ; Charles was his
own master."
"But you did not object no, not one objection did you
raise : you know you did not. Far from it ; you approved
you found nothing to object to in Mademoiselle Montolieu for
your niece."
She spoke triumphantly ; he did not reply at once.
There was a pause. Charles, Nathalie. Madame Marceau
all three looked at Monsieur de Sainville, and those three
looks had but one expression ardent curiosity and expectation.
He only looked at his sister, with severe compassion in every
feature.
" Rosalie," said he, " you place me in a singularly difficult
position ; yet such is my faith in Mademoiselle Montolieu's
candor and good sense, that I do not hesitate to declare that,
bad I been called upon to select a wife for Charles, which I
have not, and have never been, she is the very last person I
should have chosen for him."
There was another pause, or rather a dead silence. Charles
Marceau stepped one pace forward to look at his uncle ; ill-
NATHALIE. 311
suppressed resentment lit up every dark feature. His mother
was mortally pale ; she applied her vinaigrette, and looked aa
if she needed its use.
" Are you offended ?" asked Monsieur de Saniville, address-
ing Nathalie, who, with her face averted from him, and buried
in her hands, now sat on a chair weeping silently.
She slowly turned round, on hearing his kind and low
voice ; raised her face, but not her eyes, and answered, almost
inaudibly, " No, sir." And every feature looked transformed ;
and it was as if the halo of some radiant happiness had fallen
around her.
" Why nbt also favor us with your motives, Armand ?" ask-
ed his sister.^ with a burning glance.
" If Mademoiselle Montolieu desires it," said he, very
coolly, " I shall, indeed, be quite ready to do so."
" No, no," she quickly replied, whilst a crimson hue passed
over her features ; ' I am convinced, sir, you meant nothing
offensive : that is enough."
" Yes," bitterly said Madame Marceau, " that is enough ;
for I see I have led to a most agreeable explanation : but it i.
not over yet no, it is not over yet."
' Rosalie," observed her brother with something like kind-
ness. ' let us drop the subject."
His sister did not reply ; the hand which held the vinai-
grette shook violent!}'-, but her e3'e was unquailing and uneon-
quered ; resolve, will, and defiance were in her mien.
" I will not let it drop," said she, in a broken and husky
tone : " I will not. "VVe shall see if you and she are ever to
be in the right ; if I am to be to my face accused of falsehood
and treachery ; I will have an explanation a clear explana-
tion."
' Madame," interposed Nathalie, in a low tone, " I grant,
that I misunderstood you."
" Then perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what
extraordinary construction you put on my words ! I ask to be
instructed I want to know. Mademoiselle Montolieu ; will
you, then, I say, be good enough to tell me what construction
you put upon my words ?"
" I repeat, madame. that I misunderstood you what more
can I say?"
"And is it my fault if you misunderstood me?" feverishly
exclaimed the sick lady ; " did I not, over and over again, be-
seech you to bo calm? Did I not repeatedly tell you, you
312 NATHALIE.
were quite wrong ; that you, that any woman that any one
might trust to my brother's sense of honor V
Monsieur de Sainville looked \ip.
" And what can have been said affecting my honor V he
imperatively asked.
" No matter what, Armand ; enough to make her doubt it,''
replied his sister, who had arrived at such a state of exasper-
ation, that she cared not how deep she fell, provided she drag
ged down Nathalie with her.
' She never doubted it," briefly said Monsieur de Sainville,
steadily eyeing Nathalie as he spoke. The young girl shrank
from his glaneo. " She never doubted it," he repeated.
'No, of course not," cried his sister, feeling that her ven-
geance had come. " no, of course not, Armand ; whilst I kept
remonstrating with her, urging her to reflection, to confidence
in your honor, she did not exclaim, ' God save me from the
false thing called man's honor !' Oh, no, it is I misunderstood,
I who invented it of course."
Monsieur de Sainville did not heed her; he was looking at
Nathalie, who had sunk back on her seat speechless, and
though she bit her lip until the blood came deadly pale.
Monsieur de Sainville rose and paced the room, not agitatedly;
he had never seemed more sedate, but yet as if striving against
some inward emotion, probably wrath, for his eyes had an
angry gleam, and his lips slight nervous twitchings. He at
length came and paused before Nathalie ; she trembled visibly.
Madame Marceau eyed her with a fiery look, Charles with a
lowering glance.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu did you utter those words ?"
She did not answer.
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," ho repeated in a deeper and
more thrilling accent, ' did you or did you not utter those
words V
There was something almost beseeching in his tone ; some-
thing that pierced her heart with the most exquisite sorrow.
She felt like the the faithless disciple after he had denied hia
Divine Master, and, like him, turning her head away, she wept
bitterly.
What reply could have been more eloquent than this si-
lence. He stood there a while longer, eyeing her with a stern
smile, then silently turned away.
" There was a promise which you made a few hours ago,"
he resumed after a pause.
NA'iriAHE. 313
" Yes, sir," she replied in a low tone.
" I release you from it," he calmly said.
Nathalie looked up ; her very brow had colored : her lips
trembled with indignant resentment : but the marble mantel-
piece against which he now leaned, was not more cold and un-
moved than Monsieur de Sainville.
" Oh, mo7i Dieu ! how sorry, how very sorry, I am," sooth-
ingly exclaimed Madame Marceau. " Is it possible that I should
have done so much mischief? My dear Armand, let me remon-
strate with you. If Mademoiselle Montolieu has been too has-
ty, yet pray remember that she is still my future daughter.
your future niece."
" What ! she has consented !" he exclaimed with an invol-
untary start.
His look was suddenly riveted on Nathalie. She did not
shrink from it ; far from it ; she met his eye steadily ; but the
glance that sought hers was one that repelled scrutiny ; her
look was deep, brief, and searching, but she felt, and felt truly,
that it was baffled.
Nathalie turned away with a troubled look ; she was evi-
dently much agitated, and abstractedly pressed her hands to-
gether ; but suddenly her emotion subsided, and her glance was
steady, her voice was firm, as she addressed Madame Marceau.
" Madame," she said with something like dignity, ' I ap-
preciate the generosity of feeling which, in spite of all that
has passed, induces you to consider the relation you contem-
plated between us as unbroken."
" Then after all you consent," exclaimed the lady, looking
more astonished than pleased at the effect her generosity had
prod iced.
' I ask for time to reflect," said Nathalie in a low tone.
" You have had time enough," imperatively said the lady.
But without heeding her speech, her son came forward ; he
had remained apart silent, his eyes downcast, his arms folded,
apparently unmoved, yet losing nothing of all that passed from
the lowest word to the most trifling gesture ; pausing before
Nathalie, he said in his low voice,
" I grant it."
The tone was courteous, but when Nathalie looked up and
met his eye, v/hen she also met the look of Monsieur de Sain-
ville, she felt that whatever her final answer might be. she had
given the young man a claim over her, and taken one of those
Bteps that are not retraced in the journey of life.
14
314 NATHALIE.
Nor did Charles Marccau seem unaware of the ground hi
had won back. His tone, as we have said, was courteous, his
attitude deferential, yet through both pierced the secret con-
sciousness that the haughty beauty, who had rejected him twice
within a few hours, had now stepped down from her pedestal to
be wooed, won, and perchance slighted in her turn, like any
other mortal maiden.
CHAPTER XXII.
There is something beautiful and touching in tie custom
prevalent in Catholic countries, of leaving the churches open
from morning until a late evening hour ; so that all may enter
them freely for devotion and prayer.
No doubt, prayer, as an attribute of the spirit, may be ex-
ercised every where. There is no need of holy shrines or con-
secrated walls to usher man into the divine presence ; and the
glorious and magnificent works of God call the soul far more
eloquently to religious worship than all the pomp and pride
with which man ever arrayed the perishable fabric of his tem-
ples. Yet the link which binds us to the house of prayer is
both deep and holy ; it is felt in the sunny village church, as
well as in the solemn cathedral, with legendary fanes faintly
gleaming through gathering gloom. The spot where human
beings have knelt in worship, where they have poured forth
their souls in prayer, and yearned towards a purer existence, i*
sanctified to man for evermore. We cannot behold unmoved
the place which has witnessed so much human joy, and, per-
chance, also, so much human sorrow ; the sanctuary which i*e-
mained ever open to the weary pilgrims of humanity, a si-
lent and isolated refuge amidst the strife and turmoil of life.
A few days after the incidents recorded in the last chapter,
Rose Montolieu left the house of her aunt at twilight, and
turning round the angle of the narrow court, entered the old
abbey, through a low side-door, which yielded to her touch,
swung noiselessly on its hinges, and silently closed behind her.
The interior aspect of the church was simple, and even severe.
The walls were bare, and the whole of the edifice was imper-
fectly lit ; tall pillars sprang up to the arched roof, and vanished
NATHALIE. 315
in its deepening obscurity ; the distant altar was dimly visible
at the end of the long nave, where only a few poor women now
knelt in prayer, for this was not the hour of any religious sservice.
Hose took her usual place, in the sheltering obscuiity of a
massive pillar ; there she sat, her forehead buried in her hands,
not praying in actual language, but yielding up her soul to
communion with God. This was the only mystic and imagina-
tive feature of her piety, or, indeed, of her character ; both of
which, were essentially practical and severe. JSaihalie loved
her sister, and respected her deeply ; yet she could not conceal
from herself that Rose was not winning, amiable or gentle.
The sight of her goodness strengthened the soul, because it was
from a heroic soul that it sprang ; it left the heart unmoved,
because, to say the truth, in that goodnesci the heart had no
part. But what surprised Nathalie stiii more was that her
sister, with her fervent faith and deep piety, was j-et painfully
skeptical on other subjects. In vain did she seek to hide how
deeply she doubted of all that the human heart most desires to
be true, of virtue, devotedness, love, and friendship, and,
above all, of earthly happiness, her doubt could not be con-
cealed ; its shadow always fell like a sudden and death-like
chill on the light and life of her young sister's heart.
Faith in heaven does not necessarily imply skepticism in
human nature, or in things of earth. We may believe in the
divine, and not deny humanity ; we may, but some minds and
Rose was of these cannot. Their religion springs from the
longing love of the ideal, from the weariness of earth, from the
deep and still unsatisfied aspirations towards excellence. This
piety, though fervent, true, and zealous, is little liked or ap-
proved. The world naturally prefers cheerful piety that gentle
offspring of hearts, happy by nature, or whom sorrow only chas-
tens : wiio, indeed, would not love it 1 Rut can all feel it equally ?
Are there not too many to whom religion is essentially a
refuge, who cling to it as shipwrecked mariners cling to a last
plank of safety, who obey its behests, and fulfil its duties faith-
I'ully ; but who fail in the charm that renders either the faith
or tlie disciple attractive, who love little, and are still less
loved? Can these be gay, happy, and free givers of the
charities of life? Yet how harsh, how severe, is the world to
them ! It upbraids them with not being that which they could
not possibly be ; it calls their faith cheerless, gloomy, and de-
sponding ; and it never asks itself how, unless through a miracle,
sweet waters could flow from the source of an embittered heart !
B16 NATHALIE.
Yes, it is true, their faith is indeed more akin to despaii
than to hope; and this is vhy they must believe; not to be-
lieve would be for them to perish irretrievably. Through their
own folly, misfortune, or too clearsightedness, they have lost
earth : be merciful envy them not heaven.
Eose remained about an hour thus ; she then left her seat,
turned down one of the aisles, and passed by a retired chapel
with a solitary lamp burning before its silent shrine. It was
the chapel of the Virgin, whose pale sepulchral image rose
over the altar. Pure and humble, with downcast eyes, and
hands meekly folded on her bosom, she seemed to have just
heard the salutation of the angels, and to be still replying :
' Behold ti,e handmaiden of the Lord." White vases filled
with such white flowers as the season afforded, were the only
ornaments of the altar ; shrubs, with blossoms of the same
chaste and virgin hue, were placed in a semicircle at its base ;
a low iron railing inclosed the shrine. Near that railing now
knelt a woman, whose bowed head, clasped hand, and motion
less attitude seemed to betoken earnest prayer.
The lamp which burned before the shrine was, according to
the general custom, suspended by a long iron chain from the
lofty roof: its light fell almost entirely within the inclosed
area, and only one tremulous ray descended to the spot occu-
pied by the stranger. Yet there was something in her figure,
though shrouded by sombre outward garments, that seemed fa-
miliar to the eye of Rose, who involuntarily lingered near the
spot. After awhile the stranger lifted up her head and leaned
back, though still kneeling, with her look fixed on the altar ;
her veil was thrown back, and her countenance appeared fully
revealed.
It was, as Rose had suspected, Nathalie ; ay, Nathalie, but
such as she had never yet seen her ; sad, wan, and broken down
by grief, with a troubled look and eyes dimmed by weeping.
She was deadly pale, and the tears which still glistened on her
cheek told, not less than her despairing and helpless attitude,
of the vain struggle between the soul's prayer and the heart's
passionate sorrow.
Rose eyed her sister with deep sadness, then stepped for-
ward and lightly placed her hand on Nathalie's shoulder The
young girl started, rose precipitately and drew her veil down ;
but she made no resistance when her sister took her arm within
her own and led her away. They left the church by the front
entrance, and neither spoke until they emerged from its sha
NATHALIE. i 1 7
dowy gloom iuto the moonlit space beyond. Rose paused on
the first of the wide flight of steps ; she was going to speak,
Nathalie checked her.
" I cannot stay. I am in a great hurry. I cannot."
They descended silently. At the bottom of the steps ex-
tended an open space with a row of trees on either side, and
several wooden benches standing in the shade ; mothers brought
their children there in the day-time, but the spot was silent
and lonely now. Rose arrested her sister as she was hurriedly
walking on.
" We will sit here awhile," said she, pointing to one of the
benches.
" But I cannot, Rose ; I am in a great hurry."
' Why did you not call itf?"
" Madame Marceau is worse, much worse ; let me go."
" AVhy were you weeping in the chapel ?" persisted Rose.
Her sister did not answer, but Rose, who still held her arm
could feel her trembling.
' What has happened ?" asked Rose.
' Nothing," replied Nathalie, avoiding her sister's searching
glance ; " the night air is chill. Let me go."
" The air is clear and mild ; if you object to sitting we can
walk up and down ; but we shall not part thus."
There was a pause.
" Be it so," at length said Nathalie, in a wholly altered
tone ; ' yes, as well now as later ; yes, we will sit down and you
shall hear me."
They seated themselves on a bench as she spoke; Nathalie
raised her veil, and looking at her sister with a pale, deter-
mined face, she said, briefly :
" Rose, first know this namely, that my resolve is taken ;
that much as I love and respect you, not all you can urge or
entreat shall prevail against my will."
' And what is that will?" asked Rose, seeing that she paused.
" I am going to marry."
Rose remained speechless ; she took both her sister's hands
in her own, and eyed her attentively ; their looks met, but Na-
thalie's face remained unaltered : the pale brow, fixed glance,
and compressed lip, still told the same resolute will she had so
clearly expressed, but they told no more. Neither the blush
of the willing bride, nor the trembling fear of the unwilling
one, were there.
" To marry whom ?" at length asked Rose.
?.18 NATHALIE.
" T!ie son of Madame Marceau."
' To marry him, Nathalie ! what do you mean ?"
' What I say, Hose."
'Do you mean to say you are going to marry the nephevt
of Monsieur de Sainville?" asked Rose, slightly bending
forward.
Natlialie jircssed her hand to her brow, but she calmly
replied :
" Yes, Rose, I mean it."
There was a pause.
''Where is Monsieur Marceau?" (j^uietly asked Rose.
" At Sainville."
" Has he been long there ?"
" A few days."
" And he has asked you to marry him ?"
" Yes, Rose, he has."
" And you are actually going to marry him?"
" I already told you so."
" You amaze me. Marry him !"
" For heaven's sake, Rose, do not be always repeating it."
" Does Madame Marceau consent?" continued Rose, with-
out heeding this.
" Yes, slie consents."
" And Monsieur de Sainville !" said Rose, slowly looking
up at Nathalie.
" And pray what has Monsieur de Sainville to do with
this?" asked Nathalie, biting her lip, but steadily meeting her
sister's glance.
" Has Ae consented?" calmly inquired Rose.
" Who cares about his consent ?" angrily exclaimed Na-
thalie ; " I do not Rose, mind I do not."
" Then he has refused !" quickly said Rose.
Her sister smiled bitterly.
" Refused ! Oh ! Rose, you do not know him. Why, this
i.s a matter that does not concern him ; to refuse would be to
meddle, to interfere ; and he is too wise to do either."
" And you will be his niece ?" resumed Rose, in a low tone
Nathalie rose abruptly.
" Why not ?" she feverishly exclaimed ; " why not why
does it surprise you, Rose? What do you mean by being so
surprised?"
Rose did not answer the question; but she eyed her sister
Bteadily, as she said, in her lowest, but most distinct tones :
NATHALIE. 31.1
"Do you love Monsieur Marceau?"
There was a pause.
I suppose I do," at length replied Nathalie.
' Speak plainly : do you love hira V Her voice rose ; but
that of Nathalie sank, as she replied :
' Why marry him, if I did not ?"
They stood together in the pale moonlight; the elder sister
lending a fixed and searching look on the younger one.
" I ask you, Nathalie, if you love that man ?" repeated Rosa
with increasing earnestness.
"Rose," answered Nathalie, after a pause, '-love is a strong
word. Do women always marry for love do they not rather
marr3% in order to secure a position and a home?"
" How worldly you have become !" ejaculated Rose : ' a
position and a home ! Have you made conditions for either ?
No then what home, what position will you have, if Monsieur
Je Sainville marries V
" He will not," said Nathalie, abruptly looking up.
" How do you know?"
" His sister told me so," slowly replied the young girl.
" Is she your only authority ?"
' He will not marry, Rose. He had, years ago, a disap-
pointment no matter what he will not marry."
'A disappointment years ago!" echoed Rose; '-what of
that ! Are you such a child, as to think that would influence
him still? What is a first love? a breath, a dream; if it is
thus even for women, what is it for men ?
" He love again ! Impossible, Rose he is a stone."
' I did not speak of love ; it is not likely a man of his age
would yield to that childish passion : men seldom marry for
love after twenty-five they cease to care, and believe in it, and
yet they marry."
" Why, then, did he not marr}' ?" asked Nathalie.
" Probably because be was devoted to a task which fore-
bade him thinking of marriage. That task is over now ; do
you imagine he is going to devote himself to a cheerless and
solitary life ? His sister may do all she can to have it so ; but
if she fails if he does marry, what position will you hold in
Sainville, as his niece, or rather as the wife of a nephew, no
longer his heir !"
" Rose, you are pitiless," exclaimed Nathalie, in a broken
tone ; ' he married, and I residing at Sainville as the wife 0/
)ds nephew ! Oh ! you are pitiless !"
320 NATHALIE.
" If you loved your future lausband," inflexibly aaid Rosftj
" the prospect of a lost inheritance would not move you so."
' Love i and why on earth should I love ?" bitterly ex-
claimed Nathalie. " Men do not love, you say, and I believe
it ; why then should women ? To consume their heart in de-
desires for ever unfulfilled. Oh ! Rose, you have too often
warned me against this folly."
Rose laid her hand on her sister's arm.
" I will tell you why a woman should love her husband,"
she said calmly, ' it is lest she should love another man. You
think me cold and severe ; perhaps I am so; the sorrows of a
love-sick girl [ might not pity much ; I know how quickly they
pass away. But, oh ! Nathalie, I could pity, deeply pity, the
woman striving against a guilty passion. Alas ! how easily
does the love that is permitted yield to weariness and time, but
how fatal and enduring is the love that is forbidden ; a fire ever
hid, yet ever burning in the heart. But you say. perhaps, ' I
will not love thus.' Do not deceive yourself; you are not cold
or calm ; mere domesticity will not charm you ; if you do not
love your husband, you will love some other."
" I will not," angrily cried Nathalie ; " I will not ; you in-
sult me. Rose."
" T never said you would yield to your feelings, and sin ; but
do not mistake human freedom ; our actions alone are ours, not,
alas ! our passions and our desires. Will can conquer love or
hate ; but it cannot annihilate them ; either may perish, but
not through us, Nathalie ; not through us. Oh ! they are re-
lentless enemies, with whom there is no truce and no peace ;
who feed on the inward strife they themselves create. Brethren
they will not be ; nothing can they be save pitiless tyrants or
rebellious slaves. And have you ever imagined what it is to
belong to one man and to love another? to strive daily, hourly,
against a passion that might have been perfectly innocent, but
which one fatal error in your life has rendered for ever guilty?
I grant that you subdue that passion ; do you know at what
cost the bitter victory is won ? Do you know what sort of a
feeling it is to subdue one's own heart, and feel its life-stringa
breaking? You have heard of martyrs ! know that there are
martyrs of the soul, whose agony the eye of God has alone
beheld. Have you the faith, the fervor, the strength to endure
that martyrdom ? Oh ! Nathalie, that struggle has unfathomed
depths of bitterness, and you will have to drink of those bit-
ter waters to the very dregs ; your fate is before you; choose !'
NATHALIE. 32i
" I will marry liira !" said Nathalie, in a low and resoluta
tone ; and she looked ujd, and met her sister's glance unshrink*
ingly-
" You will marry him ?" sorrowfully echoed Rose.
" Rose," calmly replied her sister, " you have said many
true things, but omitted others quite as true. Passions btrira
not only against us, but amongst themselves ; strong are lovo
and hate, but pride is mightier far ; she can conquer both, and
lay them, struggling and rebellious if you will, but subdued,
nay, prostrate, beneath her feet. Think of that, and fear not
for me."
She spoke with subdued energy, but with the energy of
will, not that of emotion ; no flush rose to her brow, no light
kindled in her eyes, the very tones of her voice were equal
and low, as she stood there, calm and pale in the moonlight,
it was as if some icy spell had fallen on that once fiery and
vehement nature.
" I will pray for you," said Rose, who saw that, for the
present, at least, remonstrance was wholly useless.
And thus they parted.
Rose was in the room of her aunt on the following morning,
when Desiree opened the door, and said briefly :
" Your sister is below ; she wants to speak to you."
" I should like to know what your sister wants with you at
this hour?" peevishly asked Madame Lavigne, with whom,
since she had ceased to be merry, Nathalie had suddenly fallen
into disgrace. " You shall certainly not go until I am settled ;
it is very selfish of your sister to call at this hour."
It was a full half hour before she would allow Rose to
depart ; now she wanted a cushion, now she wished for the
table to be drawn towards her, now there was an order to be
given to Desiree ; but at length she could find no further
excuse for detaining her, and, not without a sharp recommen-
dation not to be long away, she permitted her niece to go
down.
As Rose paused near the door previous to opening it, she
heard the sound of a hurried step within, pacing the room up
and down ; then there was a pause ; her sister had stopped
short, no doubt to listen. She opened : Nathalie was standing
in the centre of the room with her eyes fastened on the door.
"Thank God! you are come," she quickly said "Ohl
Rose, how could you keep me waiting so long?"
" What has happened ?" asked Rose.
14*
322 NATHALIK.
" Nothing, Rose. Why do you always think something
has been happening?"
" But you have not come without a purpose."
" No, Rose ; the truth is," she hesitatingly added, " I am
not very well. Could I stay here with you for a few days ?"
Rose looked at her with sorrowful seriousness.
" You are not well, Nathalie ; but it is your soul, not your
body, that is ailing. Oh ! child, you know not how to tel!
untruths, and this one is too absurd. What change has come
since last night ? Why do you wish to be here ?"
" Because, God help me ! there is no other home for me,"
exclaimed Nathalie, in a despairing tone, that went to tha
heart of her sister ; but she said quietly :
" And Sainville !"
" Sainville !" echoed Nathalie, " ay, it has been my home.
would it never had ! Oh ! fatal, very fatal, has been to me the
hospitality of that house !"
And again she walked up and down the room, not weeping,
but wringing her hands. The composure she had maintained
on the preceding evening had now wholly vanished.
" What, then, becomes of your marriage with Charles
Marceau V asked Rose, eyeing her fixedly.
Nathalie suddenly stood still.
" If there is love or mercy in your soul," she passionately
cried, " never speak of that marriage. never couple that name
with mine."
" Have you quarrelled with him ?" inquired Rose.
" Quarrelled ! and with him ? No," almost disdainfully
replied Nathalie.
" Then it is something between you and his mother ?"
persisted Rose.
Her sister shook her head with impatient denial.
" Or with Monsieur de Sainville?" continued Rose.
Nathalie turned round, as if something had stung her.
' It is not," she cried, angrily ; " it is not. With him !
Why, what has he to do with all this ? -Why do you always,
why does every one always taunt me with his name ? I cannot
understand it ; I do not know what is meant by it ; I will not
s,lIow it. Rose."
Her dark eyes lit, and her lips trembled, as she spoke.
" You have given me no answer," she added, after a pause ;
" ('an I, or can I not, stay here ? It will not be for long."
" Ynu can stay," replied Rose.
NATHALIE. 323
" And what will your aunt say?"
" I cannot tell. She will be vexed, exasperated, perhaps."
" Then 1 will not come here, to be the source of trouble to
fou," sadly said Nathalie.
" But you shall come and stay,'' persisted her sister.
' Have I no right in the house, where my youth has been
spent and wasted for so many years ? You shall stay, Nathalie."
The young girl seemed to breathe more freely ; but as she
sat down, and looked around her, her eyes filled with tears.
" There was a time," she said, in a low tone, " when I pitiecl
you. Rose, for being buried in this living tomb ; for then 1
rejoiced in the life and light of another dwelling: but now I
am glad to come and share with you, in the shadow and gloom
of this place ; and it almost seems as if either could not be too
heavy or too dark for me."
' That it is all over between you and Charles Marceau, I
can see," said Rose, walking up to her sister, and laying her
hand on her shoulder ; ' yet you say that you have not quar-
relled. How is this ?"
The head of Nathalie drooped on her bosom.
" How cau I tell you!" she replied at length; " there is
such a thing as a sudden awakening ; and if I have awakened,
will you reprove me, Rose V
" No, assuredly ; but what did he say ?"
" Of whom are you speaking ?" asked Nathalie, evidently
troubled.
" Of Charles Marceau, of course."
" He said nothing ; because, to tell you the truth, he knows
nothing."
Rose stepped back, in some surprise.
" Does he still consider you as his affianced wife ?" she
uuickly asked.
Nathalie hesitated ; but she at length answered :
No."
' But you contradict yourself, Nathalie."
" I do not. Rose. I had asked for time to reflect ; he
granted it ; but though my resolve was fixed, my actual reply
was not yet given, when we spoke together last night; there-
fore he knows nothing."
" And does any- one at the chateau know that you have
left?"
" They must know it now."
'' But you left by stealth, without explanation ! Oh I
Nathalie."
S24 NATHALIE.
"How did I know I could stay bcre with you, Kosel
Besides, I can write now."
She rose, brought forward writing materials, and an old
mahogany desk, wrote a few lines, and was folding up her
letter, when Rose quietly said :
" Let me see what you have written, Nathalie."
The young girl silently handed her the note.
" So," said Rose, after glancing over it, " you merely tell
Madame Marceau that you are staying for a few days with me.
Oh ! Nathalie, why not say frankly, ' I leave, because I cannot
marry your son.' "
" I shall tell her so in a few days." replied Nathalie, in a
low tone.
" Tell her now."
" I will not, I will not. Rose," replied Nathalie, speaking
calmly, but with a sudden change of look and tone that re
minded her sister of the preceding evening.
"And why so?"
" I will not," again said Nathalie.
Rose saw it would be useless to remonstrate. She tool
the letter, folded it up, and said, quietly :
" I shall take it."
Nathalie looked confounded almost alarmed.
" Do not. Rose, do not," she quickly exclaimed.
" I cannot send Desiree, my aunt would not allow it ; but
I can go myself," very calmly replied Rose, who now looked
fully as determined as Nathalie to consult her own will.
No more was said ; but as Rose, after going up to her own
room, came down again, and stood in the dark passage, in the
act of opening the street-door, the sound of a light step behind
her made her look round. It was Nathalie ; she was standing
at the head of the staircase, with its gloom behind her, and
her brown dress falling down to her feet : even in that dull
light, which scarcely revealed the outlines of her figure, she
looked anxious and pale.
" Rose," said she in a low tone, " do not see Madame Mar-
ceau ; it is better not."
" Do you think so ?" calmly said Rose.
" Yes, indeed, I do ; pray see no one."
' Do not make yourself uneasy," quietly answered her sis-
ter, as she went out and closed the door.
An hour had elapsed, yet Rose returned not; at length
Nathalie, who sat anxiously by the window, beheld her enter-
ing the narrow court. Her heart sank within her, and in spite
NATHALIE. 325
of all her efTorts to look and remain calm, a marble pallor
overspread her features, as, after a few minutes, Kose entered
the room. Neither spoke. Nathalie silently looked up at her
sister, who did not seem to heed the glance. The face of Rose
wore its usual expression, and she took up her work and saJ
down in her place in entire silence.
Nathalie rose, walked to the other end of the room, sud-
denly came back to her sister, and said in a low breathless
tone,
"Well, Rose?"
Rose looked up very calmly.
"AVhat is it?" she asked.
" Have you nothing to tell me ?"
" Little or nothing."
" Did you see Madame Marceau ?"
'' Yes, I saw her."
Nathalie's countenance fell.
"Who was with her?" she quickly asked.
" No one," laconically replied Rose.
" What did she say ?" hesitatingly resumed Nathalie after
a pause.
" She read your letter, and uttered a few smooth unmean-
ing phrases, no more."
" And ihat was all?" said Nathalie, seeming much relieved.
" No," gravely replied Rose, " that was not all. As I
reached the gate her son overtook me ; he had just left hia
mother, and seen your letter."
" Well, what did he want ?" calmly asked Nathalie, as he?
sister paused and looked up into her face.
"I will repeat his own words. ' Pray tell Mademoiselle
Montolieu,' said he quietly, ' that I am only too happy to wait
for her reply, however long it may be deferred.' "
" He said that," exclaimed Nathalie, with something like
scorn.
" Yes, Nathalie, he said that ; but do not deceive ytrurself ;
if that man loved you once, he does not love you now."
Nathalie gave her sister a startled look.
' What do you mean ?" she said in a faltering tone.
" That Monsieur Marceau does not love you."
" Then why show himself so submissive, so hum hie, Rose?'*
asked Nathalie in a low voice.
" I cannot tell ; but soft as was his tone, humb'le as was hi*
speech, there was still something sinister in his eye as he spoke
and uttered your name."
826 NATHALIE.
" But wlij should he wish to marry me, if not for lovo V
urged Nathalie, who was very pale, though she spoke so calmly.
" Perchance for hatred," replied Rose ; " I have heard oi
such things. Nay, for all I know, he may have many motives."
She ceased. Nathalie had grasped her arm, as if for sup-
port ; she was deadlypale, and her quivering lips told the in-
tensity of her emotion.
" Rose," she said in a low tone, dropping her glance and
commanding her agitation as she spoke, " we have had enough
of this."
" Yes," sorrowfully answered Rose, laying down her work
to look at her, " I tliink we have."
CHAPTER XXIII.
A VEHY graphic account might easily be given of the wrath
of Madame Lavigne, on learning that Nathalie had come to
stay for some time in her house ; but as mere ill-temper has
in itself nothing peculiarly attractive, it is sufficient to state,
that the aunt of Rose was highly indignant with her niece, and
declared Nathalie should not remain.
" You may have it so," calmly said Rose, " for this house
is certainly your house ; but if Nathalie leaves it, I leave it
also."
The blind woman heard her with silent wonder. That
quiet decided voice told her Rose meant what she said, and as
she desired nothing less than the departure of her niece, she
felt compelled to submit ; but indemnified herself by indulging
in double her usual amount of grumbling. She was the more
vexed that Nathalie, though the cause of all this strife, said
not a word to please or conciliate her. She listened to all her
complaints and reproaches in unmoved silence, assisting Rose
in her work, and never once raising her eyes from it. Thus
the day passed.
At nine. Rose left her seat, folded up her work, and said :
" We must go to bed."
They proceeded up a steep staircase to the little room, oc-
cupied by Rose. It was meanly and scantily furnished ; a
narrow bed, a chair, a small deal table, and a crucifix, were al)
NATH-VLIE. 327
tbis nunlike cell contained. Rose laid down the light sha
held, saying :
" I am going to my aunt's room ; I shall soon return, but
do not wait for me."
She glided out of the room, and was gone.
Nathalie began to undress, but other thoughts came to
her ; she sat down on the chair, and buried her forehead in
her hands. The whole house was silent, save in the nest
room, where she could hear, as a low indistinct sound, the ill-
tempered scolding of Madame Lavigne, and the quiet leplicvS
of the patient Rose. But she heard without listening ; the
two voices came to her as in a dream.
" You are weeping," at length said a voice. It was Rose.
Nathalie looked up ; she was pale, but her eyes were
tearless.
" No, I am not weeping," was her brief reply, " why should
I weep?"
Rose did not answer. She went up to the window, drew
down the curtain, then came back again, and stopping before
her sister, said briefly :
" You have a proud and haughty heart, Nathalie ; know
you not such pride is sinful 1 1 have watched you all day
long, not soliciting the confidence you would not grant ; and I
have seen you inflicting on yourself the most acute misery, in
order to look indiiferent and calm."
" I am calm," interrupted Nathalie, rising as she spoke.
"Calm!" echoed her sister, eyeing her fixedly: "why
then are you so pale? why is your look so troubled, your
smile so dreary ? Oh ! Nathalie ! Nathalie ! did you think
to deceive me ?"
Nathalie looked up : her brow, late so pale, became flushed,
her lips trembled.
" What do you mean. Rose V' she asked.
" I mean that I know all : I mean that I know "
" You know nothing," cried Nathalie, interrupting her, " it
is not true ; no one would believe you ; ask mo nothing, I will
confess nothing ; you know nothing. Rose."
Her sister did not reply, but she looked at her with a
glance, as sad as it was penetrating.
" Oh ! Rose ! do not look at me so," exclaimed the young
girl averting her flushed face, and clasping her trembling
hands, " do not with that keen searching look. You are
like Madame Marceau now ; say something, do not look so
eilently."
S28 NATHALIE.
" What sliall I say ?" gently asked Eose.
" No, no, say nothing," replied her sister ; " be merciful ,
not a word, a hint, or rather a whisper, and do not look so ; it
tortures me."
She buried her face in her hands and sat down on the edge
of the bed, her whole frame shaking with the intensity of her
emotion. Rose eyed her with deep sorrow ; her features had
lost their habitual calmness ; she walked up and down the
room, with evident agitation ; at length she stopped before her
sister, sat down by her side, and drawing her towards her,
said in a low and compassionate tone :
"Alas! poor child, woman's sorrows hare fallen on you
early, very early."
Nathalie tried to look calm, to feel calm; but she had
struggled with her feelings too long, and laying her head on
the shoulder of Rose, she wept long and bitterly. Her sister
soothed her with a tenderness she had not anticipated. She
spoke to her gently, without reproach or useless argument ;
compassionately as a mother might speak to a sorrowing child.
She asked no questions, but her kind caresses did more than
inquiries ; at first Nathalie spoke only in broken confessions ;
but gradually she became more frank and unreserved : half
confidence was not in her character ; she should tell all or no-
thing. Rose heard her sadly, but without surprise.
" I knew it long ago," she said, " before you, perhaps ; but
what availed it ? What warnings have ever warded off the
love of youth ? I saw he had taken on your imagination the
dangerous hold no man ever takes in vain on the mind of wo-
man a hold the more dangerous and secure, that he did not
seem to seek it. But I hoped time would show you that all
this was folly ; that his coldness or his pride, would end by
repelling you."
" Oh ! Rose," exclaimed Nathalie, in a low tone, " it was
that pride charmed and undid me ; that pride which never
verges into haughtiness, which does not repel, yet seeks not to
win, subdues irresistibly. It is a strange thing for a woman
to feel that she may be fair and young in vain ! strange ay,
and dangerous."
" But surely you knew from the first he was one it was
hard, if not impossible, to win !"
" Rose, did you ever read the fairy tale of a proud princess,
who could not love, unless where she was not loved, and
ff-hose haughty heart bled only until it broke with mingled
pride and grief?"
NATHALIE. 329
" Oh f child, I understand it less and less : there aro
ni;\nj imperfections in his character, and you never seemed
blind to them !"
" Blind ! no, for I was always seeking for them as eagerly
as if I had been a secret enemy set to watch for and seek them
out. Perilous search, which I in my folly thought so harm-
less ! How little risk I should have run had he been perfect ;
how soon I should have wearied of seeing him always do that
which was right, admired him of course, and thought of some-
thing else. Though he does not, it is true, do wrong, yet his
impulses and feelings arc not always what they should be : but
then his judgment rules them with a sway of iron. I soon
learned that he who looked so calm was not so ; that he was a
perpetual contradiction : proud, he yet forbears to wound the
pride of others ; passionate, he never utters an angi-y word.
The language of worldly wisdom is ever on his lips, and his
life is filled with traits of the most romantic generosity. But
though I gradually discovered all this, I could never under-
stand him thoroughly ; for he is harsh, severe, and as impla-
cable to others as he is to himself, which is saying no little.
One cannot know him long, without feeling that there is a 'per-
petual warfare carried on within him. Cold as he seems, ho
has to strive against himself to remain so. You feel it, and
you watch anxiously, to see which of the two principles shall
conquer in-the coming contest : shall passion prevail, or shall
will 1 Oh ! Rose, he is a book to read on for ever, without
wearying. You are lured on, you know not how, nor why ;
gtill baffled, yet not repelled, and there is the charm there is
the danger."
" But, child, he is so cold," gently said Rose; " he is inca-
pable of love, for instance."
" No, Rose."
"No?"
" No, he loved years ago. It is a long story ; she was his
cousin, very beautiful and faithless ; he proved harsh and
pitiless. His aunt says she died of grief Oh ! why did his
aunt and Madame de Jussac tell me so much ? Why was ho
from that day linked in my mind with the most kindly feeling
in humanity ! AVhy could I no longer think him all harsh-
ness and severity ? He had loved once ; I could read how
deeply, by the very sternness of his resentment. Had he
loved since then? Would he ever love again? How was he
when he loved? how did he seem? how did he feel? Thosa
oo
rCATHALIE.
thoughts haunted and troubled my heart long before 1 kne-w
why. His aunt had also said no woman could love him ; this
made me wonder if it were true. Had she loved him ? if not,
why die of grief? Had he loved her truly? I thought so ;
yet who could tell? Did that marble repose, which I read on
his brow, dwell also in his heart ? Was all as still there as it
looked to the outward eye ? Was he one of those iron men
for there are such whom a being, pure as an angel, loving aa
a woman, fair as a lily, yet not too pure and fair to cherish ;
something peerless, and yet quite human was he one of those
w;iom such a being would have failed to win ? in whose lives wo-
men act no part, but bloom and wither in a day, like brief sum-
mer flowers ? I thought so sometimes ; at others I doubted.
I knew it was in that chateau of Sainville he had loved. The
thought pursued me ; the shadow of that love, which ended in
bitterness and grief, was over that dwelling, and its old gar-
den : it often saddened me, as I thought, for her sake. There
was a bench near the river where he would sit, until the stars
grew dim. Had he sat there with her on cool summer even-
ings long ago ? There were flowers, in the green-house which
he loved ; was any thing of her memory connected with them?
Had she tended those same flowers less pure, less lovely than
herself; and did he love them still, for something of her sake ?
How had he felt, when he first returned to this home of his
youth and earthly affection ? Had he been drawn back there
by the mysterious instinct that attracts us towards the spot
that beheld our first joys and our first sorrows? Had a vision
risen before him as he crossed that threshold, beautiful still,
in spite of broken faith, of years elapsed, and of the dark sha-
doTr of an early grave 1 or had he beheld all again unmoved ?
Had time done its work, and eifaced her memory from his
heart, as well as from the old garden where I never found one
lingering trace of her being, where all vestige of her had
passed away, like the mark of her light foot-prints from the
earth ? And then came the thought : ' I, too, am young ; and,
unless I have been much deceived, well nigh as fair as she onco
was : and this house, for some time at least, is my home. Must
my fate be like hers ? Have youth and beauty no better, no hap-
pier destiny? Is all over with a few brief years ; and when
the gates of death have closed upon us, are we to be forgotten,
as she is now 1 Must the spots we most loved, which are filled
with the glorious and fervent dreams of our youth, know us no
more ? and oh ! far sadder thought, shall the hearts where we
^ NATHALIE. 331
had made our inward home, shall these, too, forget us, or
remember us merely as the pale, scarcely earthly creations of
a long-forgotten dream ?' "
" Hush !" gently said Kose, "you are feverish, hush !"
" Rose, let m.s speak; I have been silent long; it will dc
me good. I am not ill, as you think. Never was life more
keenly awake within me than it is now. I hear with acute
distinctness, and see with dazzling vividness. Nor is the in-
ward sense less wakeful. Thoughts crowd to me, and language
comes all clear as noonday light ; let me speak."
" Then answer me this question," resumed Rose ; " how
could this deep interest in a stranger fail to enlighten you?"
Nathalie shook her head sadly.
"It did not," she replied ; '-because I was simple, credu-
lous, and ignorant; I had no actual experience, and books had
taught me nothing. How is it. Rose, that you always read in
books of the love a woman receives, and so seldom of that
which she feels 1 I had dreamed of those things as girls will
dream ; I had imagined myself beloved ; I h'ad not reflected
that I would probably love in my turn. I had beheld a lover
sighing at my feet ; it never occurred to me that I might love
in vain ; because those dreams were all of vanity and not one
of them came from the heart. I would have been on my guard
with Charles Marceau, who loved me ; but Monsieur de Sain-
ville was so indifi'erent and so cold that I never dreamed of
being on my guard with him. I exercised not the least in-
fluence over him, and he, without seeking it, ruled me com-
pletely. I secretly made him my judge. I sought to do that
which he would approve, to avoid that which he might censure.
I learned to read praise or blame in his look ; and how often,
when I was on the point of doing or saying some foolish thing,
has that look checked and subdued me."
" But there was a time when he was indifi'erent to you."
persisted Rose.
"Ay, a time that now seems vague and indistinct, like a
L team."
" You disliked him very much at first."
Nathalie did not answer. She still sat on the edge of
the bed, near her sister, one arm passed around the neck, and
her head half reclining against the shoulder of Rose. Her
eyelids drooped, a faint, rosy hue spread over her pale features,
and her lips trembled with a half-formed smile ; the smile of
the girl who feels how much wiser she is in knowledge of the
heart than the older woman.
332 NATHALIE. ^
" You disliked him at first," reiterated Rose.
" How do you know, Rose V' was the low rtply.
" How ! Why you told me so ; besides you vare always
abusing him."
" And you defended him, Rose."
'= Did you abuse him to hear him defended ?" asked Rose,
with a sudden suspicion. " Oh ! Nathalie ! I thought you
frank, incapable of deceit!"
" Rose, be not angry. It was not you I wished to deceive,
but myself. Are you a woman, and do you not understand the
mysterious instinct and ceaseless desire to conceal some things
for ever in the depths of the heart?"
Whatever Rose might think, she knew at least this was no
time to chide. Nathalie resumed :
"It always seemed so hopeless, Rose, that it was not hard
to deceive myself; because my heart could have no hope, I fool-
ishly thought it could have no desires."
" And he was besides so high above you," added Rose.
" It was not that," exclaimed Nathalie, looking up with a
sudden flush of pride. " I could have the heart to love a king,
were' he worthy of it."
" But what was it drew you towards him?"
" No one thing in particular, Rose. Love is not one, but a
silent and secret gathering of many things unto the heart."
" Still there must have been something : what was it ?"
' Power, perhaps ; that art which he possesses of swaying
whatever comes within his sphere ; of making others lay them-
selves bare before him, whilst he himself remains silent, almost
unmoved, and still keeping his own secret. Perchance it was
this sort of mystery that attracted mc It exercises a peculiar
fascination on all ; even his simple and artless aunt feels it ;
she has spoken of him to me repeatedly, as ' that person,'
never daring to mention him more openly; never suspecting
that I saw more in what she told me than she herself, good sim-
ple creature, could perceive. I sometimes think there was a
conspiracy, not of man but of destiny, to draw me towards
him, and,*whether I would or not, to compel me to love. His
aunt, his sister, Madame de Jussac, and even that foolish
Amanda, could not speak without dropping vague hints, which
made me look on him as a living enigma, guessed by many,
read by none. When I came here, you always spoke of him
first; your aunt taunted me with his name, his name which I
could never hear or utter without a secret thrill, I will not say
K ATM A LIE
333
if joy, but of something far deeper, between pleasure and
jain. Thus it camo to pass, that I tliought of him much at
first, constantly afterwards, and that I ceased to wonder at a
thought so continuous. Alas ! it was an old story,- girlhood's
folly ending in woman's love. I now see that the life I led in
that old chateau was dangerously dull : what had I to think of
or to do, sstve to dream my youth away ? Oh ! let Jjlame ever
fall lightly on her who feels outward life so cold and so cheer-
less, that she must needs make her heart and its visionary
world her home. Are we denied reality, and shall we not even
dream 1 What heart of stone first framed that law ? What
heart, more senseless still, first obeyed it ? I said that the life
I led there was dangerously dull ; outwardly it was, but never
was my inward life more full, more active, more vivid. In
those dreams, which wove awondcrful romance from the flight-
est threads of reality, I often beheld one unlike any I had seen
before, serious, cold, and impenetrable ; I gave him no naine,
not even in my thoughts, but I placed him in imaginary perils,
and strove to guess how he would brave and conjure them by
the mere force of his will. I saw him oppressed, but uncon-
quered ; ruined, scorned, but haughty and defiant still. And
then, when flite and misfortune had done their worst, I placed
a woman on his path ; I did not make her fair, or seek to ask
myself what was her aspect, but I put faith, love, and rever-
ence for him in her heart ; and she sat by the place near which
he was to pass, not seeking or alluring, but patient, modest,
and womanlike. Oh, Rose ! how is it that as I speak, that
day-dream thrills through my heart 1 How is it that I sec her
there watching his coming, and thinking ' will he let me be
something to him ; will he let me soothe him in his sorrow, and
walk through life by his side, his patient, faithful shadow?'
Vain hope ! He draws near as proud, as unsubdued as ever ;
wrapped ii: his own thoughts, he sees her not, and passes on. He
sees her not, though she has sat there for many a day, patiently
waiting his expected coming ! Hose, I have dreamed that
dream over and over, and wondered why I was charmed by its
bitterness. Sometimes it changed; sometimes he saw her,
paused, and spoke : My poor child,' he wondering said, ' what
are you doing here 1 many have passed by ; for whom are you
waiting thus alone when the night is closing in?' Seeing tlint
ehe made no reply, he guessed the truth, and remonstrated witli
her with gentle kindness. ' What ! waiting for me ! Oh,
girl! what blindness has seized you? You wish to (^'nnsolo
S34 NATHALIE.
me, and how do yoii know that I have any sorrow to sootbo?
Look at me well : do I seem one of those who uoed a woman's
ministering love ? Love ? I have no faith in it ! it is a folly, a
delusion, a dream ; and if you are young and beautiful, what is
it to me ! What do I care for loveliness, and for the freshness
of early years ? What even for the unsought love which lives
in your heart ? Do I not know that youth and beauty fade ?
that love, like all which is born, must die ? Be reasonable ;
think of some other, forget me. And if she, unhappy girl,
persists in her folly, if she vows that love, that her love, is no
dream, that it will live through life and endure beyond the
grave, he only smiles with the sadness a truer knowledge
gives, and bidding her a kind and cold farewell, he leaves her
there alone with her despairing grief. And if all this was a
dream, that sorrow, Rose, was at least real, for a day cam.e
when, wilfully blind as I was, I yet confessed to myself that he
was that man, and I, alas ! that desolate, unloved girl for whom
I wept.
" Oh ! Rose, you do not, cannot know the strange feeling it
is to love one, who not only cannot love you, but who refuses
to believe in love. Sometimes I said to myself: ' he is not so
skeptical as he seems ; yes. I can read lingering regret in all
his doubting ; yes, if he could, he would gladly return to the
divine fountain we drink of in youth ; yes, he would love and
live again. That he believes in God and honor I know well ;
and that there is much of noble feeling in his soul, and of
high goodness in his heart, I know better still Could that
weak, faithless woman win all the love he had to bestow? All ?
And her image rose before me, and I asked myself if she had
been so very 'air ? Alas ! she had. How often have I gazed
at her portrait, and felt jealous of that beauty which had passed
away from earth, in all its dazzling freshness, to haunt him
still beyond the grave, and made every other woman look pale
and dim in his sight ! For who could tell whether death had
not, with strange power, restored his love to her, even as it had
given her that gift of eternal youth and loveliness which time
would have so ruthlessly faded ? Other women might be fiiir ;
what matter ? their beauty would fode ; hers endured. Oh I
there are strange contradictions in the human heart ! He had
cast her from him ; but this did not prove he did not love her.
Might she not have become to him as the memory of Eden
became to sinful and sorrowing Eve ? a green oasis lost for
ever, but clothed with an immortal beauty that made all the
perishable gardens of earth soem as dreary deserts !
XATIIALIU. 635
* Oil ! Ros(!, do you think me mad, or do you undcrstaud
mc ? Can you guess that the thoughts, the doubts, which tor-
ture love are also those which feed it ? Had I been sure of
any thing, hope might have perished at once ; vanity or pride
might have cured mo. But I knew nothing. I was tossed on
a sea of uncertainty, beyond which, on a distant shore, smiled
a hope, oh ! how fair, that beckoned and lured me on through
every doubt and danger. I resisted ; I called pride to my aid ;
I said I would not love one who cared not for me ; but again
I became weak, and declaring it was too late, I closed my eyes
and surrendered myself to the stream. There was a strange
and perilous pleasure in feeling myself carried down by that
rapid current, without knowing whether it would lead me to
the blest haven of rest, or wreck me for ever on the rocky shore
of despair. And thus deluded by the syren Hope, and far
more by my own heart, still blind to the severe truth before
me, I gave myself np to the most delirious dream my youth
had yet known. If the delirium was guilty, bitter has been
the awakeping. Bitter was the day on which I felt, ' beautiful
I may be, but not for him ; I can charm other looks, many
perchance, but not his.' Oh ! Rose, there lies the depth of my
despair, there is the ever-renewing source of my bitter sorrow ,
for if I were plain, I might have fed my heart witli thoughts
of how I could have won him had Grod made me fair ; but now
I feel that youth and beauty have both been mine in vain. Oh !
why is this ? Why have I not the nameless grace which is not
beauty, but possesses a power far beyond, the charm that
would have subdued his proud heart, and, whether he would or
not, have made it mine ? Why could his least word make me
blush and tremble, whilst he remained unmoved though I was
near ? Oh ! worthless is the loveliness unseen by the eye of
those we love. Oh ! sister, sister, pity me !"
She wept, and for awhile her half-stifled sobs broke on the
silence of the narrow room ; but she soon became hushed again ;
it was Rose who spoke next.
" Alas !" said she, in a sorrowful tone, " I have turned over
another page of the old story of woman's wasted love and j'outh.
I knew it, but still it is hard to watch a being daily growing
up in purity and grace, and to know from the first, what the
end will be."
She seemed to address her own thoughts, and not Nathalie.
There was a pause.
" Did you then know what the end would be ?" at length
aaked her sister.
33G IVATUALIE.
" I did, child. Tlie beginning of the story may vai'y ; the
end is still the same : disappointment."
" But did you know how it would end in this case ?"
" Any one could have known it. You such a child, he go
grave and severe ; any one could have known it."
' Who can tell 1 who knows ?" murmured Nathalie, in a
!ow tone.
" What !" incredulously exclaimed Rose.
" Who knows !" repeated her sister.
" Oh ! child ! do not deceive yourself." gently urged Rose,
' do not. Believe me, I have seen him little, but I can tell you
this : A man like him will never love one so young."
Nathalie raised her head from the shoulder of Rose, and
shook it gently, wliilst her lips parted with a smile of sadness,
half blending with triumjjh.
" You cannot tell. Rose," she said, " you cannot tell ; you
have not sat in the same room with him, evening after even-
ing. You have not learned to divine the hidden sense of his
coldest tones, and to read the meaning of his calmest glances.
You have not blushed over a page your eye saw, but did not
read because 3?'ou felt that another's look was reading far more
surely every passing thought and feeling on your brow. You
have not rebelled at length against this inquisition, and looked
up to brave the smile, kind, yet conscious, that still seemed tc
say : ' No maiden's heart is a mystery to me.' "
" What ! does he love you then !" interrupted Rose.
" Alas ! I do not, I dare not say so," despondingly replied
her sister, " to like and love are vastly different. I think he
iiked me, a liking that might perhaps have ripened into love,
but he is severe, and I was weighed, found wanting, and re
jeeted, not in word, but in deed."
" But awhile ago you spoke of his utter indifference."
' Rose, the heart has two creeds : Despair and hope, often
equally wide of truth. It believes either, in that which it most
dreads, or in that which it passionately desires to be true.
Sometimes I say to myself: ' I am mad : he care for me ! Oh
folly !' and at other times hope whispers to my heart : ' Why
not V and she bids me remember gentle words, kind smiles,
and lingering looks, that all rush back to me with a strange
bewildering meaning. I feel those remembrances are too in-
toxicating to be true, and yet too vivid to be merely the dreams
ef a longing heart. More I might have known, but you will
wonder perhaps when I tell you, I would not. I thought of
NATHALIE. 337
him constant!}^, and sbunncil his presence. I have hidden in
the garden when I kne^y him to be there ; I have lingered in
the gloom of the staircase lest I should meet him. Daring I
may be, but I am not of those who court a man's notice, and
go half way to meet the love they most longed for. Like the
imaginary maiden of my dream, I may sit by the road-side and
wait in silent hope, but though I should die of grief, I will not
move one step to meet or utter one word to arrest him. Some-
times I thought he was almost vexed : at other times I fancied
this reserve, which was not shyness, piqued, but did not dis-
please him."
" Did he seek to meet you ?" asked Kose.
" No. He was my host, and never forgot it ; but when we
did meet he seemed to me a little nettled, and perhaps offended
at the opportunities I seized to shorten our meetings. It was
not prudery, far less mistrust ; but I had a mortal fear of be-
traying myself in a way I should ever repent. Generous in
some things he may be, but not in all. I have seen in him a
strange desire to hide as carefully what he feels as to discover
what is felt by others. If he ever loves, the woman must lay
her heart bare before him, and be content with glimpses of his
own. Now to this I would not submit ; if he saw my folly, he
should also see that I was neither forward nor unwomanly. I
kept aloof from him ; a plan his sister favored. Rose, Mad-
ame Marceau read my heart, its hopes, its wishes, but she never
read its pride, or she had not fancied I needed watching. So
foreign was such a thought to me, that at the time I never sus-
pected I was suspected. Thus passed the winter ; I saw him
daily, never alone ; but the heart makes its own solitude.
When his sister slept, or feigned to sleep, when we both sat
near the hearth, reading silently, was it with him as with me,
and did his thoughts wander from the unread page into that
visionary world which had become my second life ? Alas ! to
this hour I cannot teU. Was he not a serious man, too grave
for the thoughts that might haunt a dreaming girl ? Oh !
Rose, I fear that when women are deceived in men, it is often
I do not say always because they judge of them as of them-
Belves, and attribute to them feelings and phantasies that
belong to the restless heart of woman alone ; but as I said,
thus passed the winter. Spring came ; and one morning, when
my hopes were as pure and fresh as that lovely spring time,
Madame Marceau told me her brother had taken a resolve, a
sort of vow, never to marry ; his aunt confirmed it. A chiU
15
338 NATHALIE.
fell on iny heart, yet, strauge to say, I doubted. I asked iny
self ' do meu keep those vows which women so often break '^
Who knows whether he, proud and cold as he looks, may not
yet be glad to break his V Little time had I to think of this,
for the very next day Charles Marceau returned. I had a pre-
sentiment that he would be fatal to me, and I resolved to leave
at once. I met Monsieur de Sainville by chance in the library.
I could scarcely repeat what he said, and yet at the time I
thought, do men speak thus to a woman for whom they care
not V In spite of my reserve I let him see how deep was my
faith in him, and he seemed pleased to be thus trusted, and
exacted and obtained a promise implying still deeper trust.
Oh ! that I had kept to this faith ! Rose, how shall I tell you
the rest ? You know me ; you know that I am credulous and
easily deceived by art alas ! another knows it too but you
do not know that woman. She asked me to marry her son ;
he came in to tell us his uncle had consented, and this latter
consent stung me so deeply that I forgot to ask myself how
that proud woman could have thought of me for her daughter,
unless through the fear of a danger that would have been the
realization of all my dreams. Then, when I was thus dis-
turbed, did she for the first time let me see that she under-
stood me.
" How can I tell you the look of her searching eyes, when
she said, with a smile, that no woman could deceive another.
My heart lay, indeed, bare before her, to bandle and pierce ;
and what quivering nerve did she fail to touch, in order to
win me over to her purpose? Rose, do you think there
is aught so cruel as one woman can be to another woman ?
She spoke vaguely in hints that stung me one by one : ' it was
not mere consent, it was approbation her brother had given ;
he had long desired this marriage ; they had talked it over ;
but he had urged delay, because he saw my weakness, and
pitied it ; but I need not fear, he was a man of honor.'
Most artfully did she blend that which was false with that
which I knew to be true. In an unhappy moment, she wrung
from me a bitter doubt of his honor ; but the next instant my
faith had returned. I remembered his words, his looks ; they
were not those which reluctant pity yields. I understood hia
reserve ; it was not coldness, it was delicacy that had kept him
silent. Would I have had him become the rival of his owii
nephew, of his dying sister's son ?
" He came in ; and before his calm look and plain speech,
NATHALIE. o')2
Ler falsehood stocd revealed. A thrill of happiness went
through my whole frame, when he denied having given mora
than a passive consent to the projected marriage ; when
he declared I was the last woman he would have chosen for his
nephew's wife. Oh ! Rose, for one moment the cup of hap-
piness was oifered to my lip, and I drank eagerly of its
rapturous flow ; but how soon did her cruel hand snatch
it from me. Though by so doing, she confirmed the proof oi
her treachery, she repeated every word I had heedlessly
uttered. He remained indifferent until she came to that slur
on his honor. My heart failed me ; his look, his mien, all
I knew of him, told me my doom was sealed for ever. Perhaps
you think it was grief I felt then ; ay, keen, poignant grief,
but strangely mixed with a proud and bitter resentment.
If he loved, he was too pitiless ; if he did not love, what right
had he to show himself so haughty and exacting? He had
never wooed me, why did he now treat me like one rejected?
This thought was like death, oh ! more bitter by far. What
is death ? the pang of a moment : wounded love and pride
bleed daily. And my pride was roused within me ; I felt in a
mood to do myself some mortal injury, in order to inflict
on him one keen, sharp sorrow ; to marry his nephew, be
miserable for my whole existence, and add to the story of his
life another regret, and, perchance, a second and surer vow. I
thought I saw where I could wound him, and I resolved to
utter in his presence the words that should doom me, to
see how he would feel ; whether he would start, or color,
or turn pale, or betray, ay, even faintly, but I could have seen
it, that those words afiected him.
" Madame Marceau spoke of me as ' her daughter.' ' Then
she has consented ?' he involuntarily exclaimed, and fastened
his look on me to read the reply in mine eyes. I bade
my brow be clear, my look be steady, ray whole aspect to
bespeak calmness. I seemed not startled like one who has
heard an untruth, but as composed as one who has heard
a fact. Oh ! Rose, how I triumphed for one moment ! Ho
started, and either the changeful light deceived me, or he
turned pale. I triumphed ; yes, though I had resolved to seal
my own fate though my heart was breaking, I triumphed "
for I thought that his heart, though so proud and haughty
was yet touched to the quick, and, in its turn, had felt the
bitter sting of love scorned and rejected."
The eyes of Nathalie kindled ; her cheeks were flushed,
B40 NATHALIE.
her lips compressed, as if the passion of that moment lived
once more withjn her as she spoke.
" Well ?" said Rose, interested. The countenance of her
sister fell.
" Alas !" she replied, with deep sadness, " he had not
startled, trembled, or turned pale ; he had only changed
his attitude it was only the doubtful light of the obscured
room that deceived me, as it foil on his features. In vain
I looked, in vain I tried to detect again on his features that
passing emotion : he had petrified himself. Now, if I chose,
was the moment of my expected vengeance. Oh ! Rose, what
I felt then ! I bowed my head, and half closed my eyes like
one who crosses a precipice, and who will not look on either
side, because to look is to perish irretrievably. I would not
grant him the triumph of hearing me once more refuse
Charles ; I had no longer the cruel courage of dooming
myself to misery : I chose a medium course, and asked for
time to reflect. Perhaps, in the secret folly of my heart,
I thought to give him time to repent. Folly, indeed : that
same day he left for a whole fortnight, without seeking to see
me. I was in the salon with his sister ; and pitiless as are all
of that race, she bade me listen to the receding sound of his
horse's hoofs. I did listen, and that sound, which was as the
knell of my departed hopes, still seems to ring in my eai.
Had tliat man ever cared for me? I knew not then, I know
not now; but this I know that my heart failed me, and my
last hope perished from that hour. For three days I was
calm enough. Charles Marceau was away ; to become his
wife did not seem so dreadful a fate. But on the fourth day
he returned ; and then I knew it was not indifference I felt for
him, but something almost akin to hatred. How I detested
his dark, handsome face, and his voice of unbroken smooth-
ness. I believe he saw it, for he tormented me to his heart's
content ; his look never left me : there was ever some double
meaning in his speech, and yet. with all this, there was also a
Btrange sort of love, of desire to please, of involuntary homage,
which irritated me more than all It was a day such as I have
never spent. 'Wilt thou marry that man?' ceasingly said a
voice within me ; ' wilt thou chain thyself for life to one whom
thou loathest?' In vain I strove not to hear or to heed ; to
call in pride to quell that tumult in my soul, I could neither
silence the cry of conscience, nor win peace. Towards even-
ing I left the chateau, and went to the abbey-church. 1
natiialit:. 341
lliouglit thfit there I should be more free to think and decidC'.
that some holy influence would subdue the strife within me.
I knelt where you saw me, but besought in vain for courage lo
accomplish what I still persisted in considering my destiny :
in vain 1 called wounded pride to my aid, the holy silence ol
that place still reproved me. I felt indignant at my own
weakness. I resolved to take a vow of marrying the man 1
iiatod. for the sake of punishing, perhaps, the man I loved."
' Did you take that vow ?" asked Rose.
" No ; I dared not. But I made m3'sclf an omen by whicii,
come what would, I resolved to abide. Oh, Rose ! I am no
fatalist, but to feel deeply, is to deliver up heart and soul to
every passing superstition : I said to myself, he is gone for a
whole fortnight, it is impossible he should return, and because
it is impossible, I will make that the condition of my vow. li
he does not return, and I know that he will not, I will agree
to-morrow to marry his nephew ; if he does come back, it is a
sign that I must not persist ; that come what will, Charles
Marceau must be nought to me. Alas ! it is thus the heart
ever makes its own fatality."
Rose eyed her sister with mournful severity.
* Is it thus you understand prayer?" she said. Oh ! Na-
thalie, prayer is not what you deem, mere traffic with heaven.
It is communion with the infinite and the divine; it is not a
clinging to earth, but a raising of the spirit towards all eternal
things."
' Rose," sorrowfully replied her sister, ' you may feel it
thus, but let those who pray for their sorrow to be removed
hold another creed. The erring child can surely ask for its
burden of misery to be lightened, and have we not a Father
full of tenderness ? Tell me not that the weak prayer of the
sinner is not heard as well as the pure aspiration of the just.
There is in the despair of a breaking heart, though ever so
guilty, a voice that will rise from earth and pierce the verj'
depths of heaven ! How do you know that, as I knelt there,
ray soul darkened by earthly shadows, this secret sorrow did
not yet meet with mercy 1 What passed between us I need
not tell you. I know now that all you said of a guilty love
was meant as a solemn warning. You are pitiless. Rose ; can
you imagine the torture you inflicted upon me ? You said he
flight marry, and I asked myself, ' why not V I strove to look
as if calculating the chance of a lost inheritance, but I had far
other thoughts, far other feelings. I was imagining Iiow he
342 NATHALIE.
would look and speak with the woman he might love for 1
felt that he would love her and I was calling that woman
blessed, and already envying her with all the might and passion
of a jealous heart. And then, as if my cup of bitterness were
not yet brimful, came the torturing thought that I might have
beeij that woman ; it was but a chance, but had I not cast it
from me, it might have been mine. I betrayed nothing of
what I felt ; even to myself I would not have acknowledged it.
We parted. I returned to the chateau ; but when I reached
the gate, I paused ; I could not cross that threshold over which
as Dante over the entrance of the awful city I seemed to
see written the fatal fiat, ' leave all hope behind.'
" I walked on ; the evening was clear and mild, and the
road, save where some belated peasant returned from his labor,
lonely. The moon was high ; on my right were narrow fields,
skirted with a wood, which rose dark and indistinct against
the pale blue sky ; and on my left, a plain, sloping down to
the valley, in which the river flowed silently. In the deepest
shade I could see the low cottages, that seemed to be stepping
into the water, with their whitewashed walls and moss-grown
roofs ; and my heart smote me as I thought, ' Oh ! that one of
these had been my home, and not the proud chateau of Sain-
ville.' The cool breeze, the quietness of that evening time,
soothed, however, the secret fever of my soul. I contin-
ued to walk on ; I wished to fatigue ray body. I succeeded,
and was at length compelled to pause and rest. There is a
group of aspens that grows by the roadside ; I sat down on a
mound of earth near it. The breeze rose, and stirred the
branches above me, and, with the low, rustling sound, came
back those remembrances, against which I was striving cease-
lessly, and striving still in vain. How often had that sound
greeted my ear in Sainville, by that same quiet stream ! I re-
membered one evening, beautiful and calm like this, when I
stood with him and his aunt by the river side. He was speak-
ing to her ; I had remained a few paces behind them : he sud-
denly turned to address me, and his look, his tone, the gliding
stream, the rustling aspen-tree, the quiet landscape beyond,
all rushed back to me in one moment. Oh ! that the past were
not the past, I thought ; that the dreary present were yet an
unknown future smiling before me-. I bowed ray head, not to
weep, but I felt faint, heart-sick and weary. A distant sound
aroused rae ; a horseman was coming along the road, at a slow
pace. I raised my head, but without daring to look round.
NATHAHK. 343
riic sound drew nearer : it was he; I &aw him, for the light of
the moon fell full upon his face, as he rode slowly by, within a
few paces of me. I was not sitting in the shade ; yet his look
did not once seek me ; it was fixed on the horizon before him,
and there it remained, and fell not on her who, her pride all
subdued, waited his half-expected greeting with a beating
heart.
'' Here was the sign I had asked for, and here, oh, strange
are the presentiments of the heart ! was also the fulfilment of
my old day-dream. I sitting by the road-side and he passing
on. I looked after him as he receded in the distance, and 1
thought, it has come to this ; he cares so little for me, that
when we meet by chance, he either does not recognize me, or if
he does, feigns not to see me. What folly once made me think,
that because I had a heart I had also the privilege of feeling?
Why has God given woman a heart to love ? Why must she
who loves most truly pine away in silence, whilst man, to whom
love is but a pastime, alone can speak 1 He is deeply oftended ;
I have lost. I will not say his aff'ection, which I never had, but
his friendship and esteem, yet under pain of the grossest mis-
constructions I must not seek to recover either. Why, since
those laws of opinion are so stringent, why cannot some things
be said without words ? why is there no language from heart
to heart, as rapid, silent, and as truthful as the thought that
springs within us ? Why, above all, am I so miserable, when
so very little happiness would have done for me ! I was
neitlier proud nor ambitious. One winter evening as I was
with his aunt, he came and joined us ; he sat by her side, I, on
my low stool, was thus in some sort at the feet of both. He
spoke of his travels, of many a distant scene, of foreign lands
which he had visited. I listened in rapt and silent attention,
for I felt in my heart as if I could have been content to pass
thus through life, sitting at his feet and listening to his teach-
ing. But as I remembered my love's humility, pride was once
more roused within me, and I almost hated him in my heart.
" I returned to the chateau, and went up to my room to
prepare for the morrow's departure. Childish as you will think
it, I would not have dared to disobey that sign of my own
choosing. My room was dark, but a light fell on the floor ;
that light I knew it well ; it came from a window facing mine.
How often, vain and credulous girl, had I watched it, standing
hidden in the shade, smiling at the folly of my dreams, and
yet still dreaming on. But now I would not : that time was
S4'l NATHA.LIE.
over ; I tliouglit of it with secret sorrow, my hand was on tlia
curtain to shut out even that glimpse : what arrested it, what
kept me, in spite of anger and struggling pride, rooted to the
spot? The old spell was on me. A thin curtain fell between
him and the window, but I could see his figure passing to and
fro : he was very restless ; his step was uneven ; once he stop-
ped short in the centre of the room, and remained there mo-
tionless full five minutes; then he sat down, but he could not
stay, and soon rose once more. Never before had I seen him
thus. A joy in which blended a sense of acute pain came over
mo. Ho was unhappy, restless at least. Had I any part in
this? He had not retired to rest when I left the window.
What conclusions I drew from his seeming agitation ! what
visions I welcomed ! In vain had I sufiered, in vain been
taught by sorrow, oh, dreams, dreams of the heart ! are ye then
eternal? I did not sleep until morning, yet it was early when
I woke. In the clear daylight I derided the dreams I had
been indulging, and again called pride to my aid. I was soon
dressed and ready ; I would see no one : I had a horror of all
explanations I wished, if possible, he should think I was
ignorant of his return. I left ; it was easy : a servant met me
near the gate, and seemed surprised to see me out at this early
hour, but even he did not speak not a voice was raised, not a
word was spoken to detain me in that house, to me so fatal. I
felt bitter, unhappy, and slighted, and yet by a strange contra-
diction, I felt also that I would not, even if I could, have torii
out from the book of my destiny the pages on which fate had
written the story of my love. Oh ! Rose, I am very weak after
all ; my resentment is dying fast away : the harshness seems
to vanish, and all the kindness to return. Unhappy as it has
made me, I see I cannot repent this feeling ; it has changed
my being ; it has made me better it has given me life which
I knew not till then. I was a child before, I am a woman now.
Be it so ; sorrow shall purify me still further. I will give
myself a higher motive of action than I have had till now I
will suffer, and love on, though without a ray of hope."
' And you will make him the idol of your heart, and give
him the place that should belong to Grod alone?" said Rose,
with mournful severity.
" You are right," sadly replied Nathalie, after a brief silence ;
" but, oh ! Rose, since I may not forget, what can I do ?"
She spoke so submissivelj^, and yet, so despairingly, that
NATHALIE. 345
Lur sister had not the heart to chido. She pressed her to her
bosom, and merelv said :
" Pray."
CHAPTER XXIV.
There was nothing querulous or complaining in the char-
acter of Nathalie She was not patient : she might often revolt
against her fate, but she disdained to lament it. Her nature
was too fiery and too vehement ever to vei'ge into the weakness
of repining.
She had poured out her heart to Rose, because it was then
full even to overflowing ; the confidence had relieved her, but
having once told her sister all with the most unreserved free-
dom, she thought this sufiicient, and did not so much as dream
of again renewing the subject. Rose was surprised ; she had
not expected this. She watched her sister anxiously. Nathalio
was certainly pale and did not seem in good health ; but her
features were more serious than sad. When she rose in the
morning, she had the worn look of one who has spent a sleepless
night ; yet her eyes never seemed dimmed by weeping, nor did
her pale cheeks bear any trace of tears. This faculty of sub-
duing the external signs of sorrow alarmed Rose. It revealed
a strength of character she had not suspected, but it also made
her fear that what she had considered as a mere girlish passion,
was one of those deeper feelings whose ill-repressed fever wastes
the pure freshness of youth and poisons the source of a whole
existence. On the third day she asked Nathalie when she
intended to give Madame Marceau her final answer.
'' When the ten days I asked for are elapsed," briefly replied
Nathalie, evidently not disposed to continue the conversation
on this subject.
This proud and obstinate silence ended by alarming Rose.
She resolved to break through it.
" Nathalie," said she to her one morning, " that pride of
yours will kill you. You sufier, but are too haughty to com-
plain."
" Be easy," returned Nathalie, with a gesture not free from
disdain, '' and fear not for my health. Take my word for it,
Rose, it is only the mentally and physically weak some sorrowi
15*
346 NATHALIE.
kill. Those who have strength to feel, have strength to endurs
to suffer, and live on."
" But why be so proud ?" urged Kose.
" I am not proud," calmly replied her sister, ' but I am no
love-sick maiden. I am simply an unloved woman who has no
right to complain, who will endure silently, wrap courage like
a mantle around her, and say, ' none shall see that I sorrow.' "
" But I see it," returned Rose, " you have lifted the veil
from your heart and cannot drop it again ; and if you had
never raised that veil, I should not the less have seen through
it. Look at that book which, to please me, you have promised
to read ; it is still turned down at the same page ; look at that
task which you took in hand before yesterday ; it is not half
done ; yet you are of an active disposition, and were fond of
reading once."
" Yes, once. Rose."
"Why not now?"
" Because books, ay even the most cscellent, could not now
take me out of myself or be my spirit's home. I have reached
that time of life when dreams end and reality opens ; when the
mind grows weary of always imagining, and wishes to live for
truth. I know you think me too fond of day-dreams and ro-
mances : you would not think so could you know how I long,
how I thirst for truth and reality."
She spoke in a feverish tone, and pressed her hand to her
forehead. Rose bent over her, and laid her hand on Nathalie's
shoulder.
" You long for truth," said she, " turn towards divine
truths."
There was a brief silence. Nathalie at length looked up
into her sister's face, now calmly bending over her ; the young
girl's eyes were tearless, but deeply mournful.
" Rose," she very sadly replied, " I know what you mean,
even as you knew what I meant. But the truth for which I
long is not, alas, the truth towards which you bid me turn.
What will you think of me when I tell you that my soul, my
heart, my very flesh cleave to this earth ; that, do what I will,
I cannot tear them away. I know the divine Master to whose
feet you would lead me ; I have heard him saying ' Come unto
me all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' I
have struggled against my yearning heart and its unavailing
wishes ; I have raised my soul in prayer, and besought for aid
throughout the silent night, and my burden has not been taken
from me, and I have never won repose."
NATHALIE. 34?
' Is there no comfort in Christian resignation : in saying
this is the will of God?"
Rose spoke with serious gentleness ; but Nathalie smiled
somewhat bitterly.
'' There are different natures," she said, at length ; " some
are submissive, like yours, Eose ; but mine is not, and has
never been. When did I bear sorrow patiently? I am young,
impulsive, and energetic ; life now flows in me in its fullest
and strongest tide, and that is why I suffer keenly. If I were
weak or passive, I should either die or forget ; the latter most
probably : but being as I am, I cannot do either. I must live,
remember, and suffer still ; for I am of those rebellious spirits
who think they were made for happiness."
" Do you doubt the goodness of God, the justice of his pro-
vidence ?" gravely asked Rose.
" No, that would be impious and foolish ; but to acknow-
ledge that God is good, that his providence is just, does not
remove the bitterness of my sorrow. Religion and reason both
tell me ' suffer patiently ;' but there is a voice in my heart
which revolts against this, which cries out incessantly : ' Why,
oh ! why must I suffer V "
" Oh ! Nathalie,'' very sorrowfully said her sister ; ' you
have dreamed too much, you have read too many of those books
which waste for ever the divine freshness of the heart."
Nathalie shook her head, and smiled.
" How strangely you talk," she replied, " one might think
love had been invented by novels and novelists. Would it not
exist without them? Is it not something more than a human
creation ? Oh, Rose ! that you, in many things so wise, should
yet not see that the heart is, and ever must be, its own most
impassioned and most dangerous romance that love is no
weakness, but a most divine thing!"
" Idolater ! Idolater !" sadly murmured Rose.
" I am no idolater : love is divine."
" But, Nathalie, is not passion, which is but the fever of
love, too often confounded with love itself; and what is the
purest affection but the dream of youth's brief years ?"
" Then what was the heart given us for, Rose?"
" Not for an idol. Shall we for ever hear of the heart and
hear so little of the soul ? It is beautiful to see two human
beings loving one another with truth and tenderness ; but when
I behold idolaters kneeling to clay as fragile as their own, I
turn away my glance with sorrow, and wish them a purer wor-
ship."
S48 n-atiialit:.
" But you would make life too cold," replied Nathalie. ' 1
have suffered from a mind too restless, from a heart too easer
in its longings, yet I would not change my sorrows for so placid
and passionless an existence as that you would have us lead."
"And is there then no deep feeling, save one?" asked Rose,
whilst a faint tinge of color rose to her pale cheek ; ' is there
no such feeling as duty, no such passion as the passion of its
accomplishment ?"
" Oh, Rose !" said Nathalie, looking up into her sister's
face, " you are perfect ; but to bo as you are, bearing all, feel-
ing nothing, would be a living death to me ; I can suffer, if it
needs must be so, but at least let me live. Believe me, we are
not calm ; calmness is not human ; life is a running stream,
forced repose breeds stagnation. Hide it as we will, we carry
within us the germ of restless longings ; a fever of the heart
which nothing can satiate or appease. Vague desires for some
undefined good haunt even our happiest moments. If there
are some who have never felt this, over whose joy a shade of
sadness has never come, even in its very fulness ; who have
endured sorrow without the bitterness of one moment's despair,
may I never meet them ; they are not human, they have no
heart."
She spoke with passionate eagerness.
" Oh, child !" sorrowfully said her sister, "what p, fever
you would make of life ; life is a running stream indeed, but
one that bears us to the divine repose of the grave."
" The repose of the grave !" echoed Nathalie ; " do you then
believe in that unnatural calm, which is all we actually know
of death ? I do not, Rose, I do not. No, I do not think that
life's fitful story ends with six feet of earth, and that beneath
that coli stone, the heart lies still. There are, there must be
feelings and passions that conquer even death, and snatch its
triumph from the grave. Who has come back to tell us how
much exactly it is that dies, how much that lives ? The toul,
you will say ! I ask who told you that the heart would pefish ?
It cannot be merely the principle of life that survives ; it must
be life itself. Rose, life exalted, purified if you will ; but life
with the same feelings and burning thoughts that formed a
part of its being here below."
" xYnd you thus feed yourself with thoughts of the eternity
of your feelings," sorrowfully leplied Rose; " and you think
that your love, that perishable dream, endures for ever. Be-
lieve me and yet no, you will not believe me it lasts but a
day."
nATHALIB. 345
" You say this to comfort rne," said Nathalie, Jooking tip ;
'strange comfort ! Do not tell me that I shall ever be cured,
do not -weaken my faith in the truth of what I feel. I know
sorrow is painful, but to think that our sorrow, though now so
deep, shall pass away, that a time will come when we shall
smile at the past, may be true, but it is too bitter. Are we so
weak, that our griefs are of as frail and perishable a nature as
our being? I will not believe it; I will have faith in the
eternity of sorrow, that I may have faith in the eternity of its
source ; I will believe that what loves and suffers in me is not
the perishable clay, but the immortal spirit."
' Idolater, idolater," again murmured Rose, ' do you thinK
I do not see how all your thoughts are with him ?"
The head of Nathalie drooped, and her cheeks flushed.
" You see much, Rose," she replied, in a low tone, " but
not all ; you do not, cannot know the pictures that haunt me.
When I close my eyes thus, with my brow leaning on my hand,
visions are before me. I see myself sitting at noon in the
lime-tree avenue ; the shade is so thick that no ray of sun can
pierce it ; the whole avenue is filled with a cool, green light,
which makes the sunny landscape beyond look like one long
line of golden and dazzling light passing behind the trunks of
the lime-trees Why, will you say, do I remember this 1 be-
cause as I sit there reading he has passed by ; he has not
stopped to speak ; I have not raised my eyes from the book,
yet the memory of that moment lives in me still. And it is
so with all in which he ever had a part. I remember every word
of our first interview ; every incident of that first evening in
the drawing-room, when the regular fall of his footsteps on the
floor blended with the sound of the wind and rain without, and
I secretly wondered what sort of a man he was. I never
knew until nw what memory really is ; for it is thus with me
all day long, and all through the watches of the night. I am
ever haunted by pictures of the past, by looks, smiles, and
kind words, that shall never return for me. I see fireside
scenes at twilight time, ere the lamp is lit, and when the rud-
dy light falls on the hearth ; garden scenes, with all the
warmth, the brightness of summer's noon-day. have come back ;
and 60 strong and vivid is the impression thus received, thai
when I look up, when 1 see this cold room, so chill and dreary,
with nothing but the monotonous ticking of the clock to break
on its silence, I often ask myself is this the dream? was that
Che reality ?"
NATHALIK.
Rose made no reply ; the conversation dropped, and was
not renewed.
On the eve of that tenth day which was to be that of
Nathalie's final answer, Amanda very unexpectedly called.
Madame Marceau, she said, was much worse, and wished to see
mademoiselle immediately. Indeed, the femme-de-cliambre
hinted pretty clearly that her mistress, who now kept her
room, was well nigh in a dying condition. Nathalie felt infi-
nitely shocked, and did not hesitate to comply with the request.
At first she was somewhat disturbed by the thought of meeting
either Monsieur de Sainville or his nephew, but on their way
to the r.haleau, Amanda informed her that both were away.
" What ! whilst Madame Marceau is so ill ?" exclaimed
Nathalie, with much surprise.
" Yes, is it not extraordinary !" exclaimed Amaida, with a
vivacity which showed that her own curiosity was roused, " but
it was madame's wish, quite her wish ; this morning she sent
Monsieur Charles away, and this afternoon as I was in her
room, she did not give monsieur any peace until he had pro-
mised to go, and, in spite of the storm which is threatening, I
saw him ride away as I came out."
Nathalie made no reply; she began to understand why
Madame Marceau had sent away her son and her brother, and
this made her feel anxious respecting the result of their inter-
view. If she suppressed all resentment of the past, she could
not, however, forget that she who now sent for her, had been
the cause of all her woe. Absorbed by these reflections, she
silently proceeded up the road leading from the little town to
the chateau. It was a gloomy evening, with a dark threaten-
ing sky lowering over the whole of the surrounding landscape.
Low thunder muttered in the distance ; not a breath of air
stirred the leaves or branches of the trees which shaded the
road on either side ; all nature had that breathless stillness
, which forebodes the coming of the storm.
Immediately on arriving, Nathalie was ushered into the
bed-room of Madame Marceau. It was almost dark ; the cur-
tains carefully excluded every lingering ray of daylight ; a
pale wax-light burned on a low table at the further end of the
room. At first all seemed gloom to Nathalie's sight, but as
her eye became accustomed to the doubtful light of the apart-
ment, she gradually discerned from behind the sombre damask
curtains of the bed, the pale face of Madame Marceau. It
was not a week since she had left, yet was she struck with the
NATHALIE. 351
gkistly cliange a few days had already made. " She is iudeed
dying," thought Nathalie, as she hesitatingly came forward.
' Oh ! it ia you !" feverishly exclaimed Madame Marceau,
attempting to raise herself up, but failing in the effort: the
nurse had to help her. She accepted her aid with evident
impatience, and without thanks, briefly said, " leave us."
They remained alone. Nathalie had not yet spoken. The
sight of Madame Marceau recalled too vividly all that had
passed. At she sat there at the foot of the bed, she felt that
she gazed on the same pitiless face which had sealed her des-
tiny. To resent the ill worked by one now so near the end of
all earthly good or evil seemed cruel ; but the wound still bled
inwardly, and not to feel it was not in her power,
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," said the lady, after a brief si-
lence, " may I know your final decision ; will you or will you
not marry my son ?"
" No, madame, I will not," replied Nathalie, in a low and
deliberate tone.
" You will not," bitterly echoed Madame Marceau ; " and
it required ten days to come to this decision !"
Nathalie did not answer. Her conscience told her that her
conduct had not been quite justifiable, and she neither sought
nor wished to excuse it.
" Well !" sharply exclaimed the lady, " what else have you
to say?"
" Nothing else, madame."
" So you think to insult us with impunity ; presumptuous
girl?"
A frown had gathered over her brow; but Nathalie met
her look steadily.
' To decline an affection I never sought is not insult," she
eery firmly replied.
" Oh ! Nathalie, Nathalie !" bitterly exclaimed the lady,
'' insult would be nothing ; it is wrong, actual wrong, that you
have worked to me and mine. You have been the wreck of all
my hopes for the future ; all. I had bent my mind on a rich
and brilliant marriage for Charles ; he would have agreed, but
for his absurd passion for you."
" Since that absurd passion is hopeless. Monsieur Marceau
will now enter into your views," coldly said Nathalie.
" Yes," replied the lady, with increased bitterness, ' ha
will ; but what woman will be flattered at the prospect of
marrying a man you have refused ?"
852 NATHALIE
Nathalie colored, but she suppressed Ler indignant anger
and merely said :
' This fear is one you need not have, madame ; no one
shall know from me that I ever had the opportunity of giving
any such refusal."
" But it will be suspected and discovered ultimately. It
will be reported that you spent a whole winter here, that you
left when my son came back, and left of your own accord !
At first it will only be whispered, then rumored, and known
at length all through Sainville, all over the province ; such
news travels fast."
" It is my intention to leave both Sainville and Normandy
speedily," Nathalie calmly replied ; " when I am gone, the mat-
ter will soon be forgotten."
" Leave !" joyfully exclaimed Madame Marceau; " but no,"
she added with sudden doubt, "you do not mean it sincerely."
" And why not, madame 1" gravely asked Nathalie.
" Then leave now. if you are indeed sincere," urged Ma-
dame Marceau, with a fixed glance.
' I shall do so when means and a fit opportunity offer,'^ was
the calm reply.
" I will give you the means and afi'ord you the opj^ortuni-
ty," eagerly said Madame Marceau.
" You, madame?" exclaimed Nathalie, with much surprise.
" Yes," she replied, in a brief and feverish tone; " I had al-
ready thought of this : I foresaw your refusal : I also foresaw
that Sainville and Normandy would become disagreeable to
you : I settled it all beforehand. The sooner you leave the
better, of course; do not look so astonished ! I tell you, you
can leave this very evening if you like ; that is to say, if you
are sincere."
She paused, out of breath at the rapidity with which she
had spoken, but her glittering eyes remained fixed on the as-
tonished countenance of the young girl.
" And if I were to leave," said Nathalie, after a pause,
" where should I go to V
' To the south ; you are from the south : you must like the
south : it is much more beautiful than this cold Normandy ol
ours. Besides, I have a friend in the south, a lady to whom 1
have already written about you, who wants a companion, who
will love you, and whom you cannot fail to like."
Seeing how far Madame Marceau's plans had extended,
Nathalie now thought fit to check this.
riATHALlE. 353
"I thank you, madaine, for your kindness and foresight,"
slie said, very coldly, " but I cannot agree to this."
Madame Marceau bit her lip.
" Why so ?" she asked.
' Because I will never again enter any family as compaii'
ion."
"Oh! there is no family there; my friend has neither
brother nor son ;" said Madame Marceau, now speaking with
unrestrained bitterness.
Nathalie colored deeply, but forbore to reply.
" Well, do you consent or decline ?" resumed the sick lady.
" I decline."
Well as she habitually controlled the workings of her fea-
tures, Madame Marceau coixld not now conceal the bitter dis-
appointment she experienced.
" Then you were not sincere," she exclaimed, " and you
only spoke of leaving, in order to get all this out of me."
" I had no such intention," replied Nathalie, a little indig-
nantly, " and if I spoke of leaving, it is because it is my firm,
irrevocable intention to leave."
The last words were uttered with a sorrowful decision, that
forbade Madame Marceau to doubt their truth. She seemed
to reflect, then said suddenly :
" I believe you are sincere, and therefore I feel you cannot
decline what I am going to propose : namely, to leave Sain-
ville, settle where you like, and receive in exchange for this
compliance a yearly settlement from me. Mind, I propose this
for my own advantage, not for yours : have no scruples of deli-
cacy, but coDiply from a sense of honor, of reparation due for
the mischief you have involuntarily caused. If you comply,
leave Sainville, and hold no communication with it, reveal your
abode to none, or at least bind your sister she is religious
to a promise of secresy. There is yet hope that this deplorable
affair may either remain unknown or at least be speedily for-
gotten."
She spoke with feverish earnestness ; Nathalie heard her
with increasing astonishment. After a brief silence, during
which the burning look of the sick woman never once left her,
she replied :
" Madame, this cannot be !"
" You refuse 1 You actually refuse ?" indignantly exclaim-
ed the lady.
'' Yea, madame, I indeed refuse."
554 NATHALIE.
' And why so ? pray, why so ?"
" Because I cannot accept "
" Have I not told you it was to oblige me ?"
" Madame, I deeply regret it ; but it is impossible !"
" You refuse ?"
" I am extremely sorry "
" Do you or do you not accept V Her voice rose, her fea
tures became more dark and angry.
'' I do not," calmly answered Nathalie.
" But you shall not refuse," passionately cried the lady.
' I say you shall not ; I say you must go, and no one shall
know where you go. I am not rich, but I will settle on you
all I have irrevocably, if you will only pledge yourself to go."
Nathalie could not repress a feeling of pity.
" Madame," she gently said, " I cannot, indeed, comply with
your request; yet I promise you to leave Sainville speedily, and
I conjure you to think of other things in this solemn moment."
"So you think I am dying, do you?" replied Madame
Marceau, with a bitter laugh ; " and you are kind enough to
tell me so ! But do you think," she added, with a withering
look, " that I cannot guess the secret of your obstinate re-
sistance? I have watched you day by day; watched you when
you suspected it least. Foolish girl ! did you think to deceive
a woman, and that woman a mother? Yes, I know you," she
continued, as Nathalie's sudden pallor showed her that she had
struck home, ' I know your hopes and ambitious desires ; but
never, save as my son's wife, shall you become mistress of
Sainville."
' And never thus," exclaimed Nathalie, suddenly roused by
this taunt ; " never thus, madame !"
" You love my brother ! deny it if you can, if you dare !
you love him !"
A sudden blush overspread Nathalie's face, but rising from
her seat, she said with a firm look :
" I feel no shame ; I deny nothing."
" Forward girl!" bitterly continued Madame Marceau, "you
confess it ; you confess that you love a man who might be your
father, who cares not, who has never cared for you !"
" Nay, who has loved me ; who, in spite of himself, loves
me still," exclaimed Nathalie, carried away by an irresistible
impulse, and speaking with all the passionate fervor of the
heart's ardent faith.
Madame Marceau looked at her like one stupefied.
NATHALIE. 555
" You say so, you dare to say so," she at length observed ;
" my brother love .you my brother marry you ? Well. I shall
ask hira."
" Madame, you cannot mean it ?" cried Nathalie, with sud'
den terror.
" I beg your pardon ; I do mean it."
" No, you cannot be so cruel, so treacherous," exclaimed
Nathalie, with trembling agitation.
" Comply with my request and I am silent," suddenly re-
joined the lady.
" Never," replied Nathalie, with much energy, " never ,
say, repeat what you will, I care not ; I stand strong and se-
cure in the sense of my own purity. I spoke in a moment of
folly, but I said the truth : you know it ; he knows it better
still. If he judges me ill, God forgive him ; my conscience
acquits me."
The head of Madame Marceau sank back on her pillow ;
she was very pale ; her lips quivered ; her hands trembled.
Nathalie, much alarmed, rang the bell ; the nurse entered, gave
a rapid glance to the patient, then turned to Nathalie.
" What have you been doing to her 1" she exclaimed, almost
angrily.
" Nothing," replied Nathalie, in a faltering tone.
The woman no longer heeded her : she was seeking to re-
store Madame Marceau, who had fainted away ; in a few
minutes she succeeded. Nathalie, guessing her aspect would
do the patient little good, had retired to a dark and distant
part of the room.
" I feel better now," said Madame Marceau, calmly enough,
in reply to an inquiry of the nurse ; " but what step is that on
the staircase?" she uneasily added. The door opened as she
spoke, and Monsieur de Sainville entered.
Nathalie had half-prepared herself for this moment. She
had thought that if she met Monsieur de Sainville by the bed-
side of his dying sister, she could see him with calmness and
unconcern, and now she found that it was not so, that what the
brain wills the heart may not always obey, that her cheek
deepened in color, and that her whole frame trembled as though
mortality did not exist, and threw not its shadow over the
longest and most enduring love.
Without seeing her, he advanced towards his sister. In
spite of her weakness, Madame Marceau half raised herself up
to exclaim :
356 NATHALIE.
" Arniand, Armand ! is that you . Why did you co/iie
back?"
" I thought it best with a storm threatening, and you so
unwell."
Madame Marceau sank baok on her pillow.
" It is a fatality," she muttered, with something like de-
spair ; " do what I will, it still ends thus, and fools say there is
no destiny."
" What is the matter, Rosalie ?" kindly asked her brother ;
" why does my return trouble you thus?"
She made no reply ; she was gradually resuming her self-
possession, and turning towards the obscure spot of the room
where Nathalie still stood, she calmly said :
" Petite, I will not detain you any longer ; there is a storm
threatening : your poor sister would feel uneasy. Good bye."
For one moment Monsieur de Sainville looked discom-
posed, as his glance suddenly fell on Nathalie, who came for-
ward without looking at him, but he soon checked the mo-
mentary feeling, and quietly observed :
The storm has come, Rosalie, and it was lest yon should
feel uneasy that I came up."
A lightning flash quickly followed by a loud peal of thun-
der, confirmed the assertion.
Madame Marceau glanced from her brother, who had taken
a seat at the foot of her bed, to Nathalie, who stood near her
head. Their looks were averted : were their hearts asunder?
" It is a fatality !" she muttered again.
She said no more, she looked pale, faint, and exhausted.
Nathalie remained in the same attitude for a few minutes, then
left the room. On the landing she met the doctor, whc entered
the sick room while she opened the door of the salon. A small
lamp lurned on the table; but no one was there; yot a seat
and a.book showed it had recently been occupied; by Monsieur
de Saiuvrille, most probably. Nathalie turned away, troubled
at heart, and walked to one of the windows ; she drew back
the curtain and looked with unquailing glance on the storm,
now at the height of its wrath The sky was of a deadly dark-
ness, ever and anon traversed by lurid lightning: the avenue^
the road, the landscape beyond appeared illumed for a second;
then suddenly vanished into deeper gloom, whilst the full thun*
dor seemed to shake the house to its very foundations.
Half an hour had thus elapsed when Amanda came in
8ho was weeping and sank down in a seat.
XATIIAI.IE. 337
' Good God !'' cried Nathalie, turning very pale, "wbcit
is it?"
" My dear mistress !" exclaimed Amanda.
" "Well !" breathlessly cried the youDg girl.
" Alas ! the doctor scarcely hopes she will outlive this dread-
ful night ; I thouHit I would come and tell mademoiselle, whoso
deep sensibility I know so well. I must now go and prepare
Madame la Chanoinesse, who will soon be my only mistress,
unless, indeed, monsieur or his nephew should marry ; the for-
mer is much the more likely of the two, for Monsieur Charles
is rather young. As to monsieur having taken any resolve or
pow, I think, for my part, that those vows were made to be
broken, and that though gentlemen may be worn en -haters, yet
(vhen it comes to the point, they generally find there is no de-
cent living without women ; and indeed since every thing is for
the best "
A peal of thunder interrupted what she was going to add.
She trembled and turned pale.
" Good heavens !" she cried, ' is not this awful?"
" I do not mind the storm," said Nathalie, ' but I remem-
ber that Madame de Sainville does ; you had better go to her."
Amanda, who thought a rickety turret much less secure
than a drawing-room, inclosed in a niass of solid masonry,
very reluctantly complied.
Nathalie once more remained alone. She was deeply agi-
tated. Her old fear of the storm had vanished. A power
mightier far than that of lightning or tempest was now be-
neath that roof ; the storm without would pass away and leave a
serener sky : the power within would not depart until its task
were done, not until the light which now burned so feebly were
quenched for ever. The most impressive sermons have been
preached on the vanity of this world, and all it contains, but
what sermon is so powerful as the thought, presence, or sight
of death ? All that Rose had ever urged to her in her mourn-
ful wisdom recurred to the memory of the young girl. What
was love, when life was so brief? Strange as it seemed, and
as it must ever seem when the tide of life flows full within us,
she too would die. She remembered the words she had
heard not so long ago, " Fresh and fair as you are now, you too
must share the fate of earth's most glorious and most lovely
things ; you too must pass away, and fade, and die." But
alas ! oven now as then, the sense of the words seemed to fall
heavily on her car. whilst the look, the tone, with which tliey
358 NATHALIE.
had been uttered, lived once more within her, and sent their
impassioned thrill through her beating heart.
Anxious to banish these thoughts, she looked out once
more. The storm had ceased ; an occasional flash of pale light
cing revealed the dark depths of the sky, and the low mut-
tering thunder was still heard in the distance, like a conquer-
ed foe sullenly retiring. Heavy rain had succeeded to the
Btorm ; it poured down in torrents with a low rushing sound,
that seemed to Nathalie like the distant voice of that dark
flood, whose waves must bear us all to the last journey's un
known bourne.
A strange sense of awe came over her. Sorrow she could
not feel, but a solemn hush fell on her feelings : she felt that
death was in the house. She left the window and sat in the
arm-chair, the same where, on many a winter evening, she had
indulged in those wild reveries which were not of the imagi-
nation alone, but of the far wilder, and more dangerous ro-
mance of the heart. Thus she remained for several hours.
At eleven the door opened and the doctor entered ; he softly
came forward, shook his head, took a seat, folded his hands,
sighed, and looked attentively at Nathalie. He was a short, cor-
pulent little man, with a good-humored and even jocund face,
ill adapted to express- gravity or sorrow. Nathalie, unable to
understand the meaning of his presence, looked at him with
surprise and alarm.
" Sir," she said at length.
" Yes," he interrupted ; ' very sad, very ; but not unex-
pected, which is a great source of consolation. I foretold it
ten days ago."
Nathalie looked at him again ; he shook his head and
closed his eyes. She turned pale, and felt so faint, that she
was compelled to cling to the arm of her chair for support. It
was all over then : she had expected this, but not so speedily.
It seemed most strange that the being with whom she had
spoken but a few hours back, should now be nothing so far aa
this world was concerned. Was this, then, the result of all
the scheming which to the end had filled that worldly heart ?
The doctor, perceiving that the young girl looked more
shocked than grieved, resumed :
" There is another great source of consolation : the unhap-
py lady remained wholly unconscious of her approaching fate."
" Wholly unconscious !" thought Nathalie, with something
Uke contempt, for, apart from all religious feeling, though she
c
NATHALIE. 350
was bj no means void of it, she thought it cowardly thus
to die.
And yet this is the end which the world considers fortu-
nate ! Strange good fortune, which consists in being cheated
into death. There must truly be great, nay, awful degrada-
tion abroad, when this cowardly death is envied : there must
be a singular unconsciousness of the rights of the soul, of tho
duties of life, of the dignity that pertains to human beings.
" Yes, a great source of consolation," resumed the doctor ;
but, as I said, I predicted it ; from the night I was called
up suddenly, I knew, and told Monsieur de Sainville how it
would be."
Nathalie looked up ; she remembered Monsieur de Sain-
ville's sadness in the garden at night ; this, then, explained it.
" I conclude that so orderly a lady left all her aflairs in a
proper state," continued the doctor, whom few things annoyed
80 much as a patient dying with affairs unsettled. ' It is
certainly a great source of consolation that her brother was
here to see that all was right; and another source of consola-
tion, that her son was away, since his feelings were spared a
painful and certainly unnecessary shock."
Oh, sorrow ! chastener and purifier of the heart, you too
have rights unacknowledged and wrongfully withheld ; for do
we not escape from you as from a foe we dare not brave, nor
even attempt to subdue ?
A good deal more the doctor said, but he at length per-
ceived that Nathalie had ceased to heed him. He retired;
again she remained alone, until Amanda came to ask if she
would not, since it was much too late to think of returning
home, take some rest in her own room. When the young girl
inquired after the Canoness, she was told that Aunt liade-
gonde knew nothing as yet, which of course rendered it more
advisable that they should not meet for the present.
Nathalie went up to her turret-chamber ; how little sht
had thought on leaving it, ever to sleep there again. She re-
membered Madame Marceau's exclamation : " it is a fatality,"
and in the passing superstition of her heart, she asked herself
if a mysterious destiny did not indeed draw her back to the
abode where real life had first dawned before her.
No light came from the opposite turret ; yet through all the
awe and solemnity of the hour, the young girl could not forget
that she slept, or more properly rested, beneath- the same roof
with Madame Marceau's brother.
3130
NATHALIE.
CHAPTER XXV.
The death of her uieec greatly affected tlio poor Canoucss.
As she knew nothing of Nathalie's motives or feelings, she
greatly wondered and complained when the young girl left her
on the following day, and was extremely urgent in beseeching
her to return after the funeral. With this request Nathalie
would certainly not have complied, but for the fact that both
Monsieur de Sainville and his nephew wore away for a fort-
night; such being the case, she consented.
On the evening of the day appointed for her return to Ma-
dame Lavigne's, E,ose, after leaving her aunt, and entering her
own room, found Nathalie sitting there alone.
' I did not know you were come back," she said.
Nathalie did not reply, but looked up slowly: something
In her whole aspect struck Rose so much, that she suddenly
stopped short, in order to look at her more attentively. The
young girl seemed to have been preparing to undress, for her
unbraided hair fell in thick waves around her ; but she had
not proceeded further in her task, and she now sat back in
her chair, with her hands clasped on her knees ; the neglected
wick of the tallow candle burning on the table near her,
showed that she had long been there. She looked up at her
sister with an abstracted gaze.
" Yes, I am come back," she slowly replied, and again re-
lapsed into her reverie.
Rose gave her a wondering look, but busied herself about
the room. Nathalie did not move ; five minutes elapsed ; Rose
looked at her sister repeatedly, but without succeeding in
meeting her gaze, which was fastened on the floor. Stopping
phort before her, she at length said, in her low, grave voice"
" Child, what is the matter ?"
" Nothing," replied Nathalie, and she rose quickly.
But laying her hand on the shoulder of her sister. Rose
calmly continued : " You cannot deceive me, what is it V
She eyed her fixedly, as they stood side by side, in the
centre of the narrow room. The eyelids of Nathalie drooped,
but her lips parted, not with a smile, for it was scarcely so de-
finite, but with an expression that conveyed so much ; that
told so plainly the pure joy of a pure and happy heart, that
Rose felt confirmed.
NATHALIE. 361
" Are 3' ou glad, and -will you not tell me wliy ?" she asked,
with something like reproach.
Nathalie turned quickly towards her, and by an instinctive
impulse pressed her lips to the hand that rested on her shoul-
der, but she did not speak. After waiting for a while. Rose
made a motion to withdraw ; her sister detained her.
' I am glad, Rose," she said in a low and hesitating tone,
' because I think, indeed, I know, that he has not ceased to
esteem me."
She looked up to see how Rose would receive this ; her
sister was looking at her somewhat sadly.
" Poor child !" said she, in a pitying tone, " is it because
that harsh, proud man has not been quite so harsh, quite so
proud, that when I came in, you looked so happy ?"
She sighed as she spoke. Nathalie averted her face, but
even through the falling hair that partly veiled her cheek.
Rose could see that she blushed deeply. She bent down and
fixed her calm, penetrating glance so that it met the young
girl's eyes, but though Nathalie's look was frank, it could not
always be easily fathomed, and now it completely baffled the
scrutiny of Rose.
The young girl probably felt this, for, without shrinking
from her sister's glance, she smiled a little archly.
" Have you any objection to tell me what has happened
since we met ?" asked Rose.
" No, Rose, I have not ;" yet she spoke hesitatingly.
Her sister seated herself on the edge of the bed, signed her
to take a place near her, and assumed a listening attitude.
" It is a long story," said Nathalie.
" Never mind."
"Listen ! there is the abbey clock striking ten ; it is late."
" Not too late to hear you."
" But your aunt will be angry."
" We can talk low."
She waited ; but Nathalie did not speak. Rose perceived
it would be necessary to question.
" Did you see Monsieur de Sainville 1" she resumed.
" Yes, I saw him ; both he and his nephew returned to-day,
I believe they had not long been in the house, and I was pre-
paring to go, when Amanda came to ask me if I would ob-
ject meeting them in the library. I concluded that Charles
Mareeau, being ignorant of my definite reply, wished to hear
it ; but why his uncle should have any thing to do with this,
16
362 NATHALIE.
vexed and surprised me. Yet not seeming to wish to avoid the
interview, I complied. They were both in the library both
in deep mourning, which made them look strange. They rose
to receive me. Monsieur de Sainville did not sit down again.
Charles obsequiously drew a chair for me. I sat down. I felt
very faint and heartsick. My resolve was taken ; but expla-
nations are only favorable to the calm and the self-possessed ;
taught by the past, I feared. There was a pause. Monsieur
de Sainville was the first to speak ; he addressed me in his
'^oldest and gravest tone, and apologized for his presence.
" ' An express request of my sister on the last evening of
her life,' said he, ' a request with which I have promised to
comply, but into the nature of which it is needless for mc to
enter, renders it advisable that I should assist at this explana-
tion between you and my nephew, so that no possible doubt of
its results shall remain on my mind. I trust you will be kind
enough to take my word for this, and to believe that a sense
of duty, and not my own choice, has induced me to overcome
my personal reluctance in this matter.'
" ' Allow me to observe, sir,' blandly remarked Charles,
' that your presence is a renewed testimony of your former
sanction, and therefore highly welcome. May I hope that
Mademoiselle Montolieu participates in the same feeling ?'
" If it was his intention to put me out of temper from the
very beginning, Charles Marceau certainly succeeded. Irri-
tated at the tone he took, I abruptly requested to be favored
with the knowledge of his precise object in soliciting this inter-
view.
" He seemed slightly embarrassed.
" ' I must trust to your candor,' he at length replied, ' not
to misconstrue me : but I believe you will agree with me that
the recent death of my dear mother renders delay both advisa-
ble and becoming.'
" ' Delay ! What delay ?' I exclaimed, in alarm.
" ' I know.' he resumed, without answering, ' that there are
objections to it ; but I think it is a mark of respect we both
owe to her memory.'
" ' Will you be good enough, sir,' I said, trembling from
head to foot as I spoke, ' to tell me what you mean V
" His eyes were bent upon the floor ; his -whole mien was
embarrassed ; looking up at length he replied very gravely :
" ' I feel that I am in a most difficult position, since the
point I am obliged to urge is one likely to prejudice me ia
NATHALIE, 363
your opinion ; and yet allow me to say that I liave little fear
but that reflection will convince you a proper regard for the
memory of the dead does not imply indifference for the living.'
" He spoke with great composure, and met my look very
steadily; a moment I felt myself bewildered and asked myself
under what dream I labored, but I soon recovered.
" ' I exact no explanations,' I warmly exclaimed ; 'What do
you mean by that strange language ? Do you or do you not
imply that ther3 has been a contract between us, for the fulfil-
ment of which contract you ask delay? Or is this a mere de-
lusion of my senses?'
" ' I understand your incredulity,' he said, in a penitent
tone, ' but pray do not misinterpret my motives. With regard
to the delay, my feelings '
" ' Good heavens !' I interrupted, losing all patience, ' who
cares about you or your feelings ? The question is, has there
or has there not been a contract, bond, promise ? call it what
you will ?'
" ' You doubt my word, my honor, my fulfilment of a sacred
promise,' he answered, looking at me with grave reproof 'Nay,
you do not know me. Here, in the presence of my respected
uncle, I renew that promise. You surely will not be skeptical
after this V
" I saw he would not explain or speak to the point ; that I
must myself do so. This was no time to hesitate. Command-
ing my temper as well as I could, I replied :
"' Sir, wilfully or not that God alone knows you most
certainly misunderstand me. I claim not a promise you never
gave; I object not to what you are pleased to call the delay of
its fulfilment. An union between us, has, indeed, been con-
templated ; but I have never agreed to it ; and I may now add
that it shall never take place.'
' ' And can resentment carry you thus far !' exclaimed ho
in a low and gentle tone.
" I am sure I turned pale ; this calm, smooth persistency
alarmed me.
" ' I have no resentment,' I replied ; he shook his head with
gentle denial ; ' but I beg to repeat most distinctly, that there
is not and never has been any engagement between us.'
" ' If resentment is not, indeed, your motive,' he said, very
seriously, ' allow me to say this is a strange way of breaking a
voluntary engagement, and one which I should most certainly
have been the last person to press unduly upon you.'
354 NATHALIE.
" I felt something like terror ; he was growing more and
more composed in his falsehood ; entering, I suppose, into the
spirit of the part which, heaven knows for what purpose, he waa
acting.
"' But there is no engagement between us !' I indignantly
exclaimed.
" ' You say it is not resentment V he calmly pursued, ' what
then is it V
" I remained silent.
" ' Difference of fortune and station V he inquired, with the
smile I had learned to read, and which now seemed destined to
remind me how little in my heart I had respected that social
barrier.
" I did not reply.
"' Or a want of mutual sympathies V he continued with hi?
smooth irony.
" I rose for I would bear no more and turned towards
him, burning with powerless anger. ' Sir !' I said, ' I repeat
once more, that the engagement to which you allude has never
existed. If you choose to persist in asserting this, I must re-
tire : it is not in my power to give you honor and truth.'
" His look kindled, but only for a moment.
" ' Before you retire. Mademoiselle Montolieu,' said Mon-
sieur de Sainville, interfering for the first time, 'may I request
to know, so that there need be no further doubt or misap-
prehension, whether you absolutely decline to marry my
nephew V
" Charles Marceau checked the reply I was going to utter,
by observing in his smoothest tones ; ' Before Mademoiselle
Montolieu pronounce.^ this definite answer, concerning the na-
ture of which I do not think,sir, you feel much doubt, allow me
to remark, in the spirit of common fairness, that she really has
not done herself justice. She can give for breaking her en-
gagement a motive much more valid than the motives I sug-
gested. A motive indeed which justifies her to herself, and
iibove all to me.'
I had already vaguely suspected that Charles Marceau,
like his mother, knew the truth. I felt, I saw it now. Our
looks met ; his glance was dark, full of vindictive triumph ; I
neither moved nor spoke, but a sense of sudden faintness came
over me. I know not whether he changed his mind or whether
this was but a plan to torment me, but after a pause he con
tinued :
NATHALIE. 365
"'Mademoiselle Montolieu's motive is one that would jus*
tify every other lady in her case caprice.'
" I felt in my heart Monsieur de Sainville was not ono
whom such mere trifling of words could deceive ; he, however,
merely said, turning towards me :
" ' May I solicit your reply V
" Oh ! how difficult it had now become to reply ; I looked
at Charles to see what I had to hope or fear from him ; but
never had his features been more perfectly impenetrable to my
gaze. There was a security in his calmness that alarmed me.
A host of tumultuous thoughts crowded to my mind. I had
no faith in the generosity or honor of Charles Marceau.
Wounded as he was in his vanity and pride, might he not taunt
me with my fatal love even in the presence of his uncle ?
Would I or rather could I deny it 1 All this passed within
me with the rapidity of thought. I did not answer ; I felt hot
and flushed ; I turned towards the glass door near which I was
standing: I looked out on the garden, but saw nothing; my
brow was throbbing violently, the room was silent and hushed,
they were waiting for my reply. I felt I must speak. I half-
turned round ; Charles Marceau was standing near me.
" ' The room is close,' said he in his soft low voice, ' I fear
"J
you feel unwell ; you want air.'
" He opened the glass door. We now both stood in its deep
embrasure ; the curtain by accident or design had fallen ho as
to screen us partly from view ; the room is large ; Monsieur
de Sainville was standing at the further extremity, he could
see us but imperfectly, and words spoken in a low tone would
not I know reach his ear. In a second my resolve was taken.
I turned towards Charles Marceau, determined to know the
worst.
'' ' I do not nnderstand you,' said I, briefly.
" ' Perhaps not,' he replied, with a cold smile.
" ' I do not think that, in your heart, you wish to marry
me.'
" He said nothing. I continued : ' I spare you, by taking
on myself all the blame.'
" ' And by placing mo in the enviable position of a rejected
Buitor ; you are too good,' he answered, with much bitterness.
"I began to understand his conduct; but I continued:
Answer frankly, if you can ; do you, or do you not, wish iixf
tliis marriage V
"'I do not,' he deliberately replied.
366 NATHALIE.
" ' Then what do you want V
" He eyed me fixedly, but with a look that told me nothing
" ' Act as you lilce,' he at length said.
" ' And if I were to consent V
" ' I understand the condescension, but might not. perhaps,
value it now so much as formerly.'
" ' You mean, it would be your turn to reject V
' He bowed politely.
" ' How will you act, if I persist in declining V
" He assumed a look of surprise.
" ' Really, Mademoiselle,' said he, blandly, 'I protest against
this question; it implies a doubt of your entire freedom. If
you choose to reject me, I beg, I entreat you will do so.'
' His voice, his tone, were almost frank, but in his eye I
read the menace, ' Dare to do it.'
" ' I understand,' said I, bitterly.
" ' Yes,' he quietly replied, ' I think we understand one
another.'
" I knew what he meant, and indignantly motioned him to
leave me. He glided away, apparently unmoved. Assuming
a calmness I did not feel, I turned round, and once more ap-
proached the table near which I had previously been sitting.
Monsieur de Sainville stood exactly in the same attitude ; his
look fixed, his arms folded : he slightly turned towards me aa
I hesitatingly began :
" ' Sir, I think,' but here I paused. Pity me. Rose ; I had
resolved to declare my rejection of Charles Marceau most un-
equivocally, but as I came to do it I remembered his implied
menace, and my heart failed me. What I felt was no sin, but
I shrank with poignant shame from hearing it revealed ; and,
good heavens ! revealed by his lips. Instead of the refusal I
had intended, I faltered out, as a medium course, ' I think, sir,
I may leave it to Monsieur Marceau to reply.'
" I could not help looking up. They both stood before me.
A gleam of triumph shone over Charles Marceau's dark fea-
tures ; he eyed me from head to foot, and his exulting look
seemed to say. ' So, proud girl, you are humbled at length.'
I was humbled ; and, alas ! I felt it far too deeply, not to avoid
the look of mingled sorrow and surprise Monsieur de Sainville
quickly cast upon me.
" ' Mademoiselle,' said Charles, bowing with a courtesy
which only added to, but did not for one moment veil, the con-
pcious triumph he did not so much as care to subdue, ' I shall
NATHALIE. 367
know how to repay the generous confidence you have placed in
me. Allow me, therefore, sir,' he added, addressing his uncle,
' to inform you that happy as I should have been to become
' ' Stop i'' exclaimed his uncle, in a voice which, though
low, commanded obedience ; ' it is only fair, before you pro-
ceed, to ask Mademoiselle Montolieu whether her ambigvious
reply meant that she was ready to be accepted or refused, at
your will, that she was willing to be your rejected bride or
your wife V
" He frowned, and spoke sternly. I --eemed to awaken
from a dream on the edge of a precipice.
' ' No, no !' I cried, with sudden desperation, ' I Jid not
mean that ; I meant that Monsieur Marceau knew my firm re-
solve never to be aught to him ; a resolve I would sooner not
have repeated, but by which, come what will, I abide.'
''You abide by it !' he exclaimed, biting his nether lip,
ani turning pale with repressed anger.
" ' I abide by it.' I stood near the table, leaning on it
with one hand, trembling from head to foot, but prepared for
the worst ; not to deny, but to endure. I soon perceived, how-
ever, that I knew him not, and that the words I feared would
never pass his lips.
' ' Be it so,' he coldly said ; ' though the manner in which
this has been effected is little calculated to please ; the result
is, to me, highly satisfactory. I suppose we now stand mutu-
ally free, mutually released from a bond which ought never to
have been contracted, which we should have both detested in
our hearts, but which a sense of honor would never have allow-
ed me to break first.'
" ' Sir !' I exclaimed, much irritated, ' must I again repeat
that there never has been a bond between us.'
" He smiled a smile which was of the lips alone, in
which the eyes had no part, but he said nothing, as if a sense
of delicacy forbad him to contradict me.
'" And I think,' severely said his uncle, 'that this recrimi-
nation is most unbecoming.'
" ' Recrimination ! sir,' echoed Charles, with apparent sur-
prise, ' I protest I never honored or esteemed Mademoiselle
Montolieu so much as I do now, for her frank and open rejec-
tion of me ; never.'
" He spoke too emphatically not to mean more than he
said.
368 NATHALIE.
" ' Euougli,' impatiently said Monsieur de Sainville, who
did not seem to relish more than I did the turn the conversa-
tion was taking ; ' I suppose all this is over now.'
" Yes, sir, quite over,' replied his nephew, ' and allow me
to observe, that though Mademoiselle Montolieu's rejection of
rae might seem to have been dictated by levity, I do not by
any means insinuate that it was. Far from it ; I am perfectly
satisfied with her conduct, which I understand and appre-
ciate.' ^
" I was turning away ; I stopped short as he concluded,
and confronted him with glowing cheek and kindling look.
"'But I do not understand you, sir,' said I ; whilst my
voice, in spite of all I could do, trembled.
" He^looked down and smiled ; both look and smile said
plainly : Of course, denial is the usual formality.
'' ' Be it so,' he politely replied. ' I am quite willing to let
the matter rest ; be it so.'
" Alas ! what covild I say ; burning and angry tears rose
to my eyes, but I did not speak. Monsieur de Sainville, who
was pacing the room up and down with mingled impatience
and abstraction, now turned towards the spot where his nephew
stood, and, walking up to him, briefly asked :
" ' What do you mean V
" I thought even then that had I been Charles Marceau, I
should not have liked to meet that angry look ; but he answer-
ed carelessly,
' ' Nothing, sir.'
" ' I ask you again what you mean ?'
" This time he spoke sternly. Charles looked up.
" ' Excuse me, sir,' said he, with a haughty smile, ' but wil-
ling as I might be to comply, there is much that Mademoiselle
Montolieu would object to hear so indiscreetly mentioned ;
that confidence which exists between two persons cannot always
be extended to a third.'
" I was stung, exasperated, roused to passion. You would
have borne it all with angel ineekness. Rose, but either I am
ill-tempered, or destined to be ever provoked, for I confess
that I felt desperately angry.
" ' There has been no confidence,' I cried, indignantly, 'and
I have nothing to fear from what you may say.'
" He gave me any thing but a friendly look, but control-
ling himself, he replied, with an assumption of gentlemanly
candor,
NATHALIE. 363
" ' You are quite riglit ; you have notliing to fear from me ;
for be assured that nothing shall induce me to utter a word
that might -^vound or offend you ; I shall be silent ; ay, silent
as the grave.'
"Rose, would it not have provoked a saint? But I said
nothing. I felt my utter helplessness ; I was only passionate ;
he was calm and artful. But I was neither alone nor unde-
fended.
" ' Since you persist in throwing out insinuations against
Mademoiselle Montolieu,' said Monsieur de Sainville, ' I must
also persist in requesting to know your meaning ?'
" ' I throw out no insinuations against her,' coldly an.swered
Charles ; ' delicacy and pride forbid me to speak more openly.
I challenge her, in justice to me, to declare that I am justified
in feeling gratified and relieved at her rejection.'
" ' I ask you once more, what you mean V said Monsieur de
Sainville, without giving me time to reply.
'"There are bounds even to your authority, sir,' answerc^.
Charles, elated, I suppose, at the advantage I gave him by my
silence.
' ' Good heavens !' angrily cried his uncle, ' do you not un^
derstand that I speak not here as one having authority, as
uncle or guardian, but as man to man V
" ' Then, as man to man,' replied his nephew, with equal
anger, ' I refuse to answer ; and as man to man, I ask what
right you have to question me thus ? What is it to you if
Mademoiselle Montolieu breaks her engagement to me, and if
I think her justified in so doing?'
" ' There never was, there never has been any engagement
between us,' I exclaimed, indignant at his persisting in that
untruth.
He turned round, dark and threatening.
" ' You need not disclaim it so indignantly,' he said with his
most evil look, ' for you may as well know this engagement
would never have led to a marriage you dreaded and I did not
envy.'
" I did not answer ; Monsieur de Sainville came to the spot
where I stood ; h did not look at me, but kept his glance
steadily fixed on his nephew.
" ' You have asked,' he said, with a seriousness free from
anger, why I interfere between you and this young girl, and
had she, indeed, ever stood to you in the relation of future
irife, nothing should now induce me to interfere ; but besides
16*
370 NATHALIE.
her own emphatic assertions, I have the express declaration of
your late mother I know, in short, that she is not and ha?
never been tinder any engagement to you.'
"'Admitting this for the sake of argument,' coldly said
Charles, ' I am at a loss to conceive the reason of this inter-
ference.'
" ' She has been my guest,' replied Monsieur de Sainvillo
with unmoved gravity ; 'it is my duty to protect her from
slights and unsupported accusations.'
" ' And this, sir, is your only reason V coldly said Charles.
" ' By no means,' calmly answered his uncle. ' You seem to
wish to know more ; you are welcome to the knowledge : 1
intend asking her to become my wife. This, I suppose, ex-
plains sufficiently the interest I take in her fair name.'
" He spoke in his coldest tone. I neither moved nor spoke ;
I felt like'one in a dream ; Monsieur de Sainville's face was
turned from me, but I confronted Charles Marceau. He had
turned deadly pale : anger and shame struggled on his features ;
never had I seen him so like his mother as he looked then.
For awhile he remained confounded, but he at length observed
with deep bitterness
" ' It is very strange, sir, that you should wonder at the
reluctance I expressed with regard to a union which would
not, I imagine, have been very agreeable to you.'
" ' I am glad to learn that it was merely reluctance a per-
fectly justifiable feeling you expressed,' very calmly said his
uncle.
" ' Sir,' answered Charles, turning towards him, and speak-
ing in a low and measured tone, ' you have taken advantage of
your superior position, and of the opportunities daily inter-
course afforded you, to deprive me of the affections of a wornan
I loved. Perhaps you now exult in the conviction of having
supplanted a younger and less experienced man ; perhaps she
now rejoices in the belief of being at last rid of an affection
sincere whilst it lasted, and with which she trifled most heart-
lessly ; but this I can say : if I know aught of your temper
and character, she will not find in you the submission she
exacted from me ; if I know aught of her, you will soon grow
weary of gratifying her vanity and caprice : to time, therefore,
I can intrust my vengeance and her punishment.'
" ' You say i have supplanted you,' replied his uncle, with
something like disdain ; ' know tliat the woman who would have
bad so much as a day's affection for you could never have been
NATHALIE. 371
but a stranger to rue. With regard to your predictions,' ho
added, after a slight pause, ' you can know nothing of a future
which is still a mystery to me/
' ' And about which you feel much doubt,' bitterly observed
Charles.
" No one replied. Monsieur de Sainville neither moved
nor looked towards me. A burning blush overspread my fea
tures ; the glass door still stood open, I turned towards it and
stepped out without looking behind me. I walked on. I be-
lieve the sun was setting in the west, and that a golden glow
filled the long lime-tree avenue ; but I saw not either earth or
sky ; my head felt light and dizzy ; I knew not on what I trod :
a rushing sound was in my ears ; my veins ran fire ; I felt con-
scious of nothing save the quickened pulsations of my beating
heart. When 1 stopped at length, I found myself near the re-
cess of the sleeping nymph ; that spot against which he had
once warned me, and where he had said the shadow of death
I knew what shadow he meant still lingered. This place was
on my path ; nothing could be more natural than for me to find
myself there, yet a strange pang shot through my heart. Am
I growing superstitious ? Is the belief in signs and omens
superstition? Are there certain moments of excitement when
revelations unheeded in our calmer moods are felt acutely ? I
know not. Yet though I felt thus, I entered as if an instinct I
could not control always brought me to this spot. I sat down
on the stone bench ; the coolness of the falling waters did me
good. I stayed there until the sun had set; as I then rose and
turned away to go, I stopped short much vexed. Monsieur de
Sainville entered. I did not like this ; for I felt in my heart
that I had not come there to be followed ; whether he perceived
this, I know not. He addressed me with his usual composure ;
indeed rather coldly than otherwise. Having gone up to his
aunt's boudoir, and learnt from her that it was my intention to
go this same evening, and at the same time having ascertained
that I was not gone, he had concluded I was in the garden, and
wishing to speak to me, had come there for that purpose. There
is something particularly chilling in such methodical explana-
tions. I could not well refuse to hear him, but I felt that I
stood on the grass-plat before him as cool and indifferent as the
nymph in her niche. He looked abstracted for a few moments,
then said :
" ' I found my aunt disconoslate at the idea of your depar-
ture ; she is greatly attached to you.'
372 NATHALIE.
" ' Yes, sir,' I replied, a little surprised, ' I believe slic is."
" ' And I believe,' he continued, ' that you are attached to
her.'
" ' 0, yes, of course.'
" ' Ay, you have a kind heart, and affections easily won.'
" ' Not so easily, sir,' I answered, a little sharply ; for in
my present mood I took this as a hint, and therefore a sort of
insult.
" ' Surely,' said he, looking at me with some surprise, there
is nothing offensive in that V
" I did not answer.
" 'I alluded to it,' he continued, 'because I hope to induce
you to remain in Sainville with my aunt.'
" ' It is quite impossible,' I quickly replied.
" ' Why so V he urged ; ' is it your former objection that
still subsists ? Know then that Charles is gone and will not
return in haste.' I had thought as much, yet it shocked me to
hear this. I dare say he guessed what I felt, for he quickly
added :
' ' We did not part in anger. Unless when he allows
rarely, it must be confessed his temper to overcome his pru-
dence, Charles is a very sensible young man. On learning the
substance of the last conversation I had with his poor mother,
he became quite resigned to his destiny.'
" I inwardly concluded, and I believe I was not far short
of the truth, that Madame Marceau, seeing the failure of all
her schemes, had thrown herself on her brother's mercy, and
that her son had therefore sufficient motive of resignation.
' Thus you see,' continued Monsieur de Sainville, ' this objection
is quite removed.'
" ' I cannot stay, sir,' I said, annoyed at his persistency.
" ' But if you leave,' he resumed, ' think how dreary it will
be for my poor aunt, when I am away, as I often shall be ;
think how lonely the garden will become ! Who will go to
look at the flowers in the greenhouse, or sit in the lime-tree
avenue ? Why, the staircase itself will miss your step, ever
quick and impatient like yourself.'
" He spoke in a low and kind tone ; but I was not disposed
CO be mollified, so I coldly answered :
" ' Madame de Sainville can find some other companion.'
'* ' None she would love half so well. Have I persuaded
you?' I shook my head.
" ' Pray v/hat is your objection V I did not answer.
NATHALIE. 373
" ' Surely,' he continued, ' it cannot be the presence of on?
well nigh old enough to be your father?'
" ' And cold enough,' I thought, but I carelessly said :
" ' Oh dear, no !'
" ' Besides,' he resumed, ' I shall be so little at home. I
have projected a long expedition : first, to Italy, which I have
never seen ; then along the Mediterranean, which I scarcely
know ; and thence to Spain, which I want to see again. What
do you say to this itineraire V
" He looked at me, but I was on my guard, and could meet
his look very composedly.
" ' Charming !' I replied, convinced that he spoke thus for
the kind purpose of vexing m^, and resolved to show him ii
was not exactly in his power to do so.
" ' Is that all you have to say V he asked, after a pause.
" ' I can add the usual wish : bo7t voyage.^
" ' Indeed !' said he, and looked slightly piqued.
"'But you will remain here with my aunt?' he added.
"'No, sir.'
' No ! Why so ?*
" ' Because I will not.'
" ' True woman's reason, and yet I know you like Sainvill
in your heart.'
" ' Indeed I do not,' I cried, almost angrily.
" He smiled, and resumed his advantage at once.
"'And what has this poor dwelling ever done to you?' he
asked.
" I did not reply, but I made a motion to pass by him he
had stood at the entrance of the semicircle all this time. He
did not move to let me go, but detained me, and said, in a low
and altered tone :
" ' Will you hear me ?' "
Nathalie paused in her recital, and her sister could feel her
trembling slightly.
" Are you chiU. ?" she asked ; " why do you shiver so ?"
" Because, Rose, that moment seems to live over again as I
Bpeak, and then I trembled from head to foot. He said again :
' Will you hear me ?' but I did not reply ; I could not speak ;
my heart was beating fast ; it did not seem with fear, nor was
it yet with hope. He asked me again if I would hear him,
and again I remained silent.
" ' Oh ! child, child !' he exclaimed in a tone of reproach,
you must surely feel that we cannot part thus. Do yon
874 NATHALIE.
already know your power, that you trifle with me so ? Is it
resentment or caprice? or are you, indeed, unconscious ! know
you so little what woman ever knows so well V "
" Well ?" in'|uiringly said Rose, as her sister had paused
again.
" Oh ! Rose, why repeat what one so staid and grave would
only deem folly ?"
" Did you answer him ?" asked Rose, without heeding the
objection.
"No, I did not."
" And what did he say V
A deeper color overspread the features of the yjung girl,
whose head still rested on her sister's shoulder. She hesitated
slightly, and lowered her voice, as she replied :
" He told me that he loved me ; not once, or twice, did he
say so, but over and over again ; ay, many a time. His look,
his voice, his very tones, were changed. As the thrilling and
impassioned accents rang in my ear, I felt as if the pulses of
my heart for a moment stood still ; I knew not whether I
breathed or lived ; but it seemed as if the outward world had
vanished, as if I stood in some new and unknown region,
unconscious of all things, save one rapturous thought. We
stood in that quiet spot, asunder, though face to face ; he spoke,
I listened 5 the mooa had made her way to the midway heavens;
every thing around was touched with a soft pale light ; the
dark cypresses rose against the deep blue sky, and their low
whispering sound blended with the miirmur of the falling
waters. Surely deep joy resembles sorrow, for as I stood
there, a sudden sense of the instability of all earthly things
came over me, and in the folly and delirium of ray heart, I
prayed that this moment might last for ever."
' Was this all?" said Rose ; " did he say no more ?"
" He said much more, Rose, much about the past, and
there being no further misunderstanding between us. Oh !
how kindly and tenderly he spoke. And when he ceased, he
laid his hand upon my head, g3ntly, and yet firmly, as if by
the act he were claiming an i making me his for ever. I
looked up ; there was no denial on my lips, none in my heart,
and yet I felt subdued by a power to which I blindly yielded,
and which I as blindly loved. Oh ! Rose, this was very
unlike your rebellious sister. How could I once have believed
what is yet most true ; that I should live to be charmed by
this sen.se of yielding and dependence ?"
NATHALIE. 375
"What else did he say V asked Kose, as Nathalie paused
again.
There was a brief silence.
" Never mind what he said, Rose. Ah! me, I fear love's
language was never made to be repeated. "What has been the
mutual and impassioned delight of two hearts, leaves a third
cold and unmoved. I dare not tell you all he said, all I heard
and listened to with averted look and beating neart. You
would surely think me very foolish, nor perchance deem him
over wise; yet I will tell you this, Rose, because it is the joy
and the delight of my being to hear even my own lips repeat it ;
he loves me ; yes, he loves me. Think of me what you will. I
will confess to you. Rose, that as I stood there, whilst he spoke
to me thus, I felt with a strange joy I cannot define, that she,
for whose sake he had ever shunned this spot she, whose
image had once risen before him, between us, and checked the
vei'y words on his lips, she, the beautiful, the lovely maiden,
the passion of his youth, had faded from his memory, and lay
forgotten in her gi'ave, whilst I alone was loved and remem-
bered. Oh ! yes, he loves me with passion, honor, truth, and
tenderness, all blending in one deep and holy feeling. Did I
ever say he was cold? Then believe it not, or rather believe
me when I tell you that the coldness of his years may be in
his look, and on his brow, but oh ! Rose, not in his heart.
There the warmth, the sacred fire of youth are living and
fervent still. You sigh! Do not chide; do not breathe
a word to dispel a dream if it is indeed a dream so delight-
ful and so pure. I am young, and in youth life is sweet ; I
have wondered how it ever could be called sad ; I have rejoiced
in the consciousness of existence with that light, buoyant
feeling and nameless joy which rise in the heart when we are
in the first spring and freshness of our years ; but I have
lived to learn that to love and be loved is a deeper joy, and a
happiness more exquisite still. Say that I am foolish, if you
will, but do not seek to undeceive me ; I would not believe you.
Rose, indeed I would not. A boundless and holy faith lives in
my heart. I did not feel saddened on bidding him farewell,
this evening, even though I knew we should not soon meet
again. Had he been going on some distant journey, I should
not have felt it, in the fulness of my joy. Time exists no
more for me ; I feel as if sorrow, separation, and all that the
heart dreads, were powerless now. Rose, I stand on a rock;
which all this world's grief and sorrows will assail in vain."
376 NATHALIE.
Tears of emotion dimmed her eyes as ste spoke. If Kosa
doubted ; if she thought that this fire of passion would die
away, like every fire of earth ; if she thought that the anchor
of faith, on which her sister leaned so securely, would in th^-
end prove a broken reed, she was merciful, and said nothing.
CHAPTEPt XXVI.
The life and light of a happy heart had now fallen on the
gloomy dwelling of Madame Lavigne. Nathalie abandoned
herself to happiness, with a childish delight, which Rose sigh-
ed to see, but which, in spite of her sighing, charmed her, as
all that is natural and genial must ever charm. Even Ma-
dame Lavigne acknowledged the secret power of this sudden
change, and something like a smile came over her sour features
as the young Provencal girl moved about the house with all the
former lightness and buoyancy of her temper, singing snatches
of those Provencal songs which had found favor in the blind
woman's ear, and filling that cheerless abode with all the joy
and gayety of her heart.
" Do you not long to be rid of all this noise ?" she suddenly
asked, addressing her ungracious hostess on the afternoon fol-
lowing her return from the chateau.
" My dear little Nathalie," soothingly observed the blind
woman.^ to whom this noise was a real blessing, "you must
never mind what I say when I am a little put out ; stay hero
as long as you like ; you know how fond I am of you."
Here the door opened, and Desiree looked in.
" A servant brought these from Madame de Sainvillc for
Mademoiselle Montolieu," she said.
And as she spoke, she extended her hand, which held a
small but exquisite bouquet of flowers.
Nathalie threw down her task, and eagerly sprang forward
to receive it.
" What ! these?'''' sharply asked Madame Lavigne ; " do you
imagine. Rose, that if I allow your sister to be here, it is to
be pestered with foolish messages from those people at the
chateau ?"
" It is only flowers, aunt," quietly answered Rose.
NATHALIE. 377
'Lcfc uiG smell them, then," replied her aunt, -vrith evideni
mistrust.
Nathalie very reluctantly handed the bouquet to her.
Madame Lavigne took it, held it a while before her face, then
threw it down contemptuously, exclaiming :
" I hate flowers !"
' You are very ill-natured," angrily cried Nathalie, picking
up the bouquet, which had suffered from the fall ; " my poor
flowers !" she added with evident chagrin.
The blind woman laughed.
"J^/i, hon Bimr she said, with her ill-natured smile,
"how fond we have become all at once of that foolish old
Canoness ! But what on earth tempts her to send you her
flowers, now? she never thought of that before."
Rose looked up with a half smile at her sister, whose
blushing face was now bending over the flowers, as if to inhale
their fragrance.
The Canoness still kept to her room ; the flowers were
evidently not of garden growth. Rose had often understood
from Nathalie that no profane band was ever allowed to touch
Monsieur de Sainville's greenhouse plants ; it was not hard for
her to guess from whom, though sent in the name of the Cano-
ness, the flowers really came.
To Madame Lavigne's indignation a similar bouquet came
every morning for Nathalie.
On the fifth day the flowers were accompanied by a note
from the Canoness, expressing her great chagrin at not seeing
her young friend, and hoping that as Monsieur de Sainvillo
was out for the day, she might enjoy the pleasure of her com-
pany. Nathalie silently handed the note to her sister, with
whom she was then sitting alone.
" I suppose you intend to go ?" said Rose.
" Yes, I shall go this afternoon," replied Nathalie, without
meeting her look.
" Oh ! how glad I am you are come. Petite," said the Cano-
ness, as Nathalie entered her boudoir in the early part of the
game afternoon.
She did indeed look glad, and Nathalie too was pleased ;
pleased to see her kind old friend, and to enter that house
which she now considered as her future home. She sat down
in her old place at the feet of the Canoness, listened with un-
wearied patience to her lamentations on the dull life she led,
consoled her gently when she spoke of her late niece, and
?i78 NATHALIE
Snally succeeded in restoring her to something like her forniei
state of mind.
"All! Petite," sighed the Canoness, as they sat togethcf
after dinner, " if you would only not be so perverse, if you
would only remain here with me. Armand is very kind, cer
tainly, but still it is not all. Now, about those flowers : he
knew I wished to send you some, and took the trouble of
gathering them himself every day ; then, when ho went away
this morning, he came up merely to advise me to ask you to
come over, because he said it would please and do me so much
good ; then, as he knows how dull I must feel, he comes and
sits with me every evening."
" Doas he talk much ?" asked Nathalie.
" No, Petite, but he makes me talk ; and knowing there is
no_ subject I like half so well, he says, ' Come, aunt, say some-
thing about Petite.' "
" About me !" cried Nathalie, with a startled look.
" Yes, Petite, but you need not mind it ; it is only done to
please me. He scarcely listens, but just smiles now and then
at some of your odd sayings. He tries to look interested and
amused, but you understand, child, that I have too much pene-
tration to be so easily deceived."
The Canoness drew herself up very consequentially ; Na-
thalie smiled archly. Towards dusk. Aunt lladegonde began
to feel " meditative." Nathalie encouraged her in the mood.
'' Her eyes were fatigued with working," she said. " She would
not ring for the lamp, but sit and meditate too by the fireside."
And so it was ; in five minutes the Canoness had dropped into
her deepest reflections, whilst Nathalie, sitting on a low couch
facing her, listened eagerly for a sound that came not. It
came at length : the tramp of the distant horse the clatter of
hoofs in the avenue the well-known step on the staircase.
She hesitated a moment, then sprang from her seat to the
window. The rose-colored curtains closed on her as Monsieur
de Sainville entered. The fire burned bright and clear. She
could see his face, the rapid look he threw around him, the
brief disappointment which clouded his brow as he paused for
a moment in the centre of the room. But he came forward,
sat on the couch she had left, took up a book lying on the
table, and began reading very attentively by the firelight.
He had made little or no noise, and his aunt did not waken.
His composure piqued Nathalie ; she waited a while, then soft-
ly came forward, and laid her hand on the page he was read'
NATHALIE. 379
mg. He never looKed up, but quietly said, " Pray, do not ; it
ia an interesting passage."
'' Then you saw me, after all !" she exclaimed, in a vexed
tone.
He raised his eyes, smiled, and making her sit down on the
couch by his side, laid his hand on her head, and looked into
her face.
" My poor child," he said, " you cannot deceive even in
little things. You hid yourself, and left your fan lying here
on the couch ; the first thing I saw was the firelight shining
on its little jet chain."
" And how did you know it was my fan ? I never nsed it
but once on the day of the fefe. I brought it to-night to show
Marraine that it was not, as she imagined, lost."
He did not answer her question, but said: " You liked that
fete, I believe ?"
" I never danced with so much pleasure."
"And you like dancing?"
She laughed, in a way that said, "I believe so;" then
suddenly became grave, and said " she was not so very fond of
dancing, after all. She liked it, of course, but could very well
live without it." Ho smiled,
' Would she give it up if he were to ask her ?"
" Yes, she would."
" My poor little thicg !" he kindly said, " you surely do not
think me so selfish? I have not forgotten your wistful face
when I found you lying with my aunt beneath the beech-tree,
nor yet your joyous look when you danced away so gayly. Be
assured, neither/efe. dance, nor pleasure shall fail you."
In spite of her ready acquiescence with his supposed wish,
Nathalie now felt and looked charmed.
" Would he indeed take her to balls, and should there be
fetes in Sainville ? She did not mean charity fetes, but other
fetes ? How delightful !"
" So, Petite," he replied, '' you really thought that fete was
given for charity's sake ? Oh ! how deep you are ! how much
penetration you have, as my aunt would say ?"
He eyed her with an amused glance and smoothed away
the hair from her clear brow. At first she looked at him with
quiet wonder, but remembering the hints Madame Marceau had
(brmerly dropped, she smiled archly and said, with a signifi-
cant nod :
" Ah ! I remember, it was about the time of the elections."
380 NATHALIE.
" Why you are getting quite shrewd ! The elections ! Yea
So my sister thought too. Poor woman ! she fancied my train
filled with political schemes, when the dreams of youth were
wakening once more in my heart ! She thought me so prudent
and so wise ! But Madame de Jussac saw deeper ; she guess-
ed and let me see it that the fete Rosalie thought destined
to lead me to the Chamber, was only given after all to procure
a day's pleasure to a young and merry little girl."
" For nye !" exclaimed Nathalie bewildered, " for me tha^
fete which cost so much to which so many people came that
fete was given for me ?"
" Why not. Petite ?"
He bent forward to watch her fiico by the changing firelight,
and evidently enjoyed the pleased wonder expressed by her
eager look and parted lips.
" And the flowers, the flowers you brought from Aries,"
she eagerly exclaimed, " did you go into the old house by
chance? I do not think so now !"
He met her inquiring look with a smile a smile that said
much. " He loved me even then !"' she quickly thought, and
he who read her face so easily, replied in a low but audible
tone :
" Yes, Petite, even then."
She bowed her head and clasped her hands. '-God help
me !" she exclaimed, " God help me ! some misfortune must be
near. I feel too happy !"
I' Too happy !" he echoed, with sudden sadness ; " Petite,
Petite, there is not half enough happiness in this world. That
which endures is cold and tame ; that which is delightful is,
alas ! so brief"
He drew her towards him and held her fast, as if she were
that happiness, delightful though fleeting, he longed to detain
her thus for ever.
But his aunt awoke he released her.
The Canoness promptly rang the bell, and said ^'-she hated
darkness." When the servant who brought the light was gone,
Monsieur de Sainville rose and lightly placing his hand on Na-
thalie's shoulder, said calmly :
" Aunt, you see this young girl V
" Yes," replied the Canoness, with profound astonishment.
my sight is still good, Armand, I see Petite."
" Ay, Petite," said he, smiling, " that is a pretty name^
Runt, you have fixed upon ; I have often thought so."
NATHALIE. 381
The Canouess, wiio was still tryiag to find out why her ue
phew had ask&d her if she saw Nathalie, looked puzzled and
did Dot answer.
" Well, then," resumed Monsieur de Sainville, " when you
see her you also see my future wife !"
The knitting, which had already suspended its operations.
now fairly dropped from Aunt Radegonde's fingers.
" OA, mon Dieu /" she exclaimed, and then looked from
her rephew to Nathalie with utter amazement. ' But it is not
true, Petite, is it?" she added after a long pause.
" Is it true V asked Monsieur de Sainville of Nathalie.
She still sat motionless in the same attitude m the bright
light of the ardent fire ; but when he spoke she rose slowly and
seriously, and held out her hand to him. He clasped it firmly
within his and silently looked down upon her with a smile of
mingled pride and afi'ectiou.
"Yes, aunt,'' he repeated, "you see my future wife."
" It is impossible, Armand : impossible !" said the Canoness,
in a low and agitated tone.
" Impossible, aunt," he asked, looking up, ' why so 1"
" Because you do not, cannot think of marriage, Armand."
Her voice trembled, but she spoke emphatically.
There was a pause. Nathalie slightly turned pale. Mon-
sieur do Sainville colored, and scarcely repressed a movement
of impatience, but leaving the side of Nathalie, he went up to
his aunt, took her hand in his, and said in his mildest tones :
" Forgive me, aunt ; I should not have told you this so ab-
ruptly ; but the past is past for ever. I thought you had un-
derstood this long ago, and forgotten what it is only needless
pain to remember."
The Canoness did not reply ; tears were flowing down her
cheeks, and fell down on her clasped hands. She shook hor
head and murmured :
" Forgotten, Armand ; forgotten ! The lover forgois his
mistress, the wife her husband ; but the woman who has had
or reared a child never forgets it."
Her nephew allowed her emotion to subside before he said
gently :
" Aunt, will you not embrace your niece?"
But Nathalie did not advance to receive the expected kiss.
DOT did the Canoness look up or offer to give it,
"Niece," she echoed with a deep sadness; "ay, I had a
Diece once !"
382 NATHALIE.
She spoke almost inaudibly ; pcbaps Monsieur de Salnville
did not heai- her, for he continued :
"Why do you not look up, auut? You are surely not
afraid of the face of your new relative V
The Canoness slowly raised her mild blue eyes, and fast
ened a mournful glance on the bright face and graceful form
of the young girl ; she detected the proud and admiring look
which her nephew cast on his betrothed as he epoke, a lo'-k
that said how far from indifferent he was to each charm and
grace of her who stood by his side.
" Yes, she is young and pretty," sadly said Aunt Eade-
gonde; "young and pretty, Armand, I grant it ; but another
was so once."
Monsieur de Sainville looked displeased, turned away, and
paced the narrow boudoir with an impatient step.
"Aunt," said he, stopping once more near to his aunt's
chair, "you mean no unkindness ; but surely Mademoiselle
Montolieu is entitled to something more from you."
The Canoness started slightly : a struggle between her own
secret feelings, and her habitual respect for her nephew's will,
was evidently taking place within her : " Petite knows that 1
love her dearly," she said at length, " and therefore she knows
that I wish her every happiness."
" And you are of course glad that she is to become my
wife ?" persisted her nephew.
The Canoness stopped to pick up her knitting ; if she had
heard what Monsieur de Sainville said, she did not reply. Ere
long she rose ; she wanted something in the next room, she
said. It was some time before she returned.
A deep silence succeeded her departure. Nathalie had re-
sumed her seat ; Monsieur de Sainville was walking up and
down the room ; he suddenly stopped short, looked at Nathalie,
and said :
"What are you looking at?"
" Nothing," she quickly replied.
"Petite," said he gravely, "how often must I tell you that
deceit is not your forte. If you did not wish me to see that
you were looking at this portrait you should not have kept
your eyes fastened upon it, as if a spell forbade you to remove
them. What charm do you find in it?"
" It is very beautiful, is it not ?" she hesitatingly replied,
and turned round to look at him, as she spoke. His face was
serious but very calm.
KATHALIE. 383
" Yes, extremely beautiful," he replied; ' and the originalj
of whom I see you kuow something, was one of the loveliest
creatures this earth ever knew. A poet once called her a
flower ; indeed she was one, but too frail, too weak, not to be
swayed by every breeze."
" One of the loveliest creatures this earth ever knew !"
echoed Nathalie in her thoughts ; " and it is true," she added,
inwardly again glancing at the portrait which seemed to be
smiling down on her in its eternal and serene loveliness.
Monsieur de Sainville sat down by her side.
" Petite," said he, in a low tone, ' you should not look at
that portrait only ; there is another in this room, less angel-
like no doubt, far more human, but, in my belief, far more
beautiful. Come, look at my Aunt Adelaide ; she is dark, but
frankness, truth, and courage are on her brow. There is pride
in the carl of her lip, in the arch of her "neck, but soul and ten-
derness in her eyes. She would not say she loved a man, and
yet agree to marry another, whilst he was away trusting in her
faith. If she loved however imperfect might be the object
of her love however harsh and exacting he might have shown
himself yet would she remain true, and love him, not as a
passionless being, but as a woman ; not as if he were a friend
or brother, but as a woman loves her lover or her husband.
Come, would she not V
" Yes," slowly replied Nathalie. There was a pause.
" Which do you like best ?" she asked abruptly, turning
round.
" The last, Petite, the last," he replied, smiling at the ques-
tion, and yet his voice sounded true.
" Tell me all about it," she said, after a while.
" It is a brief story. Lucile was my aunt's favorite niece,
and my cousin. We were brought up together and betrothed.
During my absence she agreed to marry a husband of her
father's selection. When I came back she repented her weak-
ness and offered to break her engagement I refused."
" Why so V
" Why !" he echoed with some surprise, " because no woman
whose love is true will break through a sacred engagement.
Besides, what man of delicacy cares to wed her who has been
the betrothed of another?"
" A delicacy women must not feel of course," thought Na-
thalie, with some bitterness. But she said nothing, and Mon-
eieur de Sainville was too confident of the privileges of his sex
384 NAi-UALir:.
to dream that sucli a tbouglit might offer Itself to the young
girl.
'What was she like?" she resumed after a pause.
" Who, my cousin ? Why, what tempts you to talk about
her?"
"Do you object?" she quickly asked.
" Really no," he composedly replied ; ' but there is her
portrait, a striking likeness."
" What was she like in feeling, temper, and character?"
' A charming, gentle creature, who never had a will of her
own who yielded to me in every thing."
" You liked that of course."
" No, Petite ; for she yielded to every one, and divided
submission is like divided affection worthless."
" But she grieved deeply, did she not ?" asked Nathalie,
whom a painful curiosity still impelled to learn more.
Monsieur de Sainville looked slightly moved.
" Well, perhaps she did ; but not to the extent that has
been said," he at length replied. " She had always been deli-
cate, and her mother was consumptive ; this accounts for her
early death. But have we not enough of this, Petite ?
' Only one question more : is it not for her sake you shun
the recess of the sleeping nymph?"
" Oh, you daughter of Eve," he said, with a sigh and a
wistful look, " Lucile is dead in my heart. It is not her spirit,
poor girl, that haunts the spot she once loved, the spot where I
have met her so often, but the pale and dreary ghost of a dead
affection."
A sudden terror entered the heart of Nathalie. " Shall I
too die in your heart? Shall I too die there some day?" she
quickly asked, her eyes filling with tears.
" God forbid, my poor child," he replied very earnestly ; " I
will not think of death in any shape for you."
She looked up joyous at once. A stop was put to the con-
versation by the entrance of Aunt Radegonde. Monsieur de
Sainville was sitting near Nathalie ; he had laid his arm on
the back of the couch, and was in the act of stooping to speak
to her, when his aunt entered. He did not look up or cha^ige
his attitude, but Nathalie detected the troubled and dreary
look with which the Canoness eyed them both as she paused
near the door.
Aunt Radegonde resumed her place, her knitting, talked on
various subjects, addressed her nephew, then Nathalie, but
NATHALIE . 385
though she strove to be both cheerful and conversational, sha
was so evidently' ill at ease, that instead of remaining until
Nathalie's departure, Monsieur de Sainville, taking pity on his
aunt, left the boudoir at an early hour. The conversation
ceased entirely when he was gone. Nathalie sat near the ta-
bic, her elbow leaning upon it. and the hand which supported
her head also shading her eyes. At length she rose, walked up
to the Canoness, sat down on the stool at her feet, placed both
her clasped hands on the lap of her old friend, and wistfully
looking up into her face, inquired, with great earnestness : '
_ " Marraine, are you indeed sorry at what Monsieur de
Sainville has told you ? Are you sorry to be my aunt, indeed ?"
Aunt Radegonde looked down at her, laid her two little
hands on the young girl's dark hair, and gazing into her eyes
as if she would read her very soul, she answered, with another
question :
" Do you love him ?"
Their looks met : the doubt, sadness, and regret of age in
one glance ; the hope, the fervor, the love of youth in the
other.
''With my whole heart, with my whole soul," answered
Nathalie, in a low tone, but with an earnestness that deepened
her color on her cheek.
" Oh I inon Dieu !" mournfully exclaimed the Canoness ;
" it is a fatality a fatality !" she repeated.
" What is a fatality?" asked Nathalie.
"Did I not warn you?" pursued Aunt Radegonde, "did
you not know the past ? Was not that enough to warn you ?
Alas, no, for you love him !"
"Why alas?" asked Nathalie with a smile.
The Canoness did not reply, but looked at her with such
deep sadness that the eyes of Nathalie filled with tears.
"I see," she exclaimed, in a low tone, "I see you do not
wish me to become your niece."
She made a motion to rise ; Aunt Radegonde detained
her.
" Petite," she said, " it is because I love you I wish this
wore not to be ; but it is beyond remedy now ; the will of God
be done."
There was a brief silence.
" I understand," at length observed Nathalie ; " you thiiilj
he does not love me?"
" I do not say that," very gravely replied the Canoness.
17
386 NATHALIE.
' Then wliat do you think ?" impatiently asked the ycun^
girl.
" Oh ! Petite," was the sorrowful reply, " those who have
lived long like me know many sad and bitter things ; they
know thai youth and beauty are brief gifts, and that short ia
the life of the longest love."
" But his love will last,' said Nathalie, in a low tone, " for
he is wise, and cares little for youth or beauty."
" You do not believe what you say ; no, not a word of it ;'"
almost angrily cried the Canoness.
" And why not ?" asked Nathalie, coloring deeply.
" Not care for beauty V bitterly continued Aunt E,ade
gonde ; " why then was she so lovely, and you ? but why need
I tell you that which you surely know, and which he too, trust
him, knows well !"
" How can you tell ?" asked Nathalie.
" How T' exclaimed the Canoness, somewhat nettled, " why
by observation of course ! You surely do not think I do not
observe, or that all this has surprised me so very much ?"
" What have you observed ?" inquired the young girl.
" Oh ! many, many things ; I have seen him looking at
you when you could not notice it, and when no doubt he
thought I was minding my knitting. I have seen him lay
down his paper or his book to follow you about the room with
his glance ; I have seen him smile at your impatient answers,
and look pleased when he saw how he could with a word make
your face change and light up at his will. Yes, Petite, I saw
it all ; often did it remind me of .the times when he and Lucile
were young together often ; and yet, I confess, I never sus-
pected he wished to marry you."
Nathalie's color came and went repeatedly as she listened
to Aunt Radegonde ; she knew not whether to be glad or
sorrowful ; so strangely was the joy which she felt mingled
with an acute sense of pain.
" Well," resumed the Canoness, with a sigh, " what is done
is done ; he loves you, you love him ; and all you have to do
is to be very careful."
" How so ?" asked Nathalie, looking up, with a smile.
' Petite, he is a strange man, exacting and severe, re
member that."
" I am neither submissive nor gentle, and he knows it,"
said Nathalie, rather haughtily.
NATHALIE. 387
"Yield to him, yield to him; it is best," urged the Can-
OHess, anxiously.
But this well-meant advice was very ill-timed. Nathalie
was of those who yield from impulse, and never from motives
of expediency.
" I submit to and obey no man," she replied, very decisively.
The Canoness looked at her with evident uneasiness, but
forbore to urge the point ; her thoughts had reverted to the
feelings of surprise created in her by her nephew's announce-
ment.
" Who would have thought he would have cared about
you?" she thoughtfully observed ; " who above all could have
imagined you, so young, so gay, could like him ! It is a
mystery all a profound mystery."
The Canoness solemnly shook her head, but Nathalie
smiled to herself It was a mystery, and one which charmed
and provoked her. Why did she love him? She scarcely
knew. Why did he love her? She knew not at all, and
would have given any thing to know.
The conversation languished, and soon ceased entirely.
Nathalie left early. It was a clear moonlight night, and she
declined the escort of a servant. Scarcely, however, had the
iron gate closed upon her, when she was overtaken by Monsieur
de Sainville.
" Going alone, along this solitary road, at this hour ?" he
reprovingly said, as he took her arm within his.
" I am not afraid," replied Nathalie.
" No, I dare say not. Fear and timidity are not much in
your character."
" And yet Marraine wants me to be afraid of you.''
"Why so?"
" She says it is dangerous to vex you."
" Will you be afraid ?" he asked, with a keen look.
No, indeed !"
"Do not, Petite; do not."
" Make yourself easy," she decisively replied.
He smiled at her tone. They walked on in silence. She
a.sked him to leave her, when they had reached the entrance of
the town. He acceded to her wish. They stood at an angle
cf the lonely road. He requested her to turn to the light, so
that he might see her.
"Why so?" she asked.
" Because I am going away to-morrow, for a fortnight."
388 NATHALIE.
" And my poor face might be forgotten in those two weeks."
But she complied with his request The moonlight fell
full on his features, as well as on hers.
"Where are you going ?" she asked, " to Marmont?"
" No, much further ; to Paris."
To Paris !" she echoed, in a tone of chagrin.
" Yes, indeed ; and as I may be detained longer, it is quite
needful, you see, to look at you well."
He spoke in a light tone, and yet Nathalie thought she
could detect the accent of regret in his voice. Why should he
not be sorry, even at this brief separation, when she felt that
tears trembled in her eyes ? He had taken both her hands in
his, and was looking at her fixedly. There was affection, yes,
she felt in her heart, true and deep affection, in his gaze ; not
indeed romantic adoration, but that deeper feeling which unites
the cherishing love of the father to the lover's tenderness.
She felt that she was for him no divinity to be worshipped,
but a being to be loved, protected, and screened from ill. She
said to herself this was the love she preferred, but had it been
of a most opposite nature, she would have said the same thing
Btill.
" Good night, my child, take care of yourself," said he
gently ; and with this quiet adieu they parted.
Nathalie walked on a few steps, then stood still.
" Yes, he loves me," she said to herself, as if this were a
recent discovery ; " he loves me, I feel it ; but oh ! that I only
knew why, and for how long ?"
The unavailing and tormenting wish pursued her still.
Oh ! to look into his heart, but for one second ; to read there
the source and secret of her power ; to know the spell which
bound him ; the nameless charm which had attracted him first,
and would bewitch him for ever.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Three weeks passed away, Monsieur de Sainvllle did not
return ; but his letters were neither cold nor few ; Nathalie
felt almost content.
On the close of the last day of the third week, she went to
^ATIIALIE. 389
the chateau. The evening was warm, bright, and still; a
golden mellow liglit pervaded earth and sky. She stopped
near the iron gate, to glance admiringly at the landscape be-
neath. A beggar woman passing by, took advantage of the
pause, to couie up and tell her a long story of misfortune.
Perhaps it was true, and perhaps it was not, but Nathalie be-
lieved every word of it, and immediately put her hand into her
pocket. There was no money there.
" How sorry I am," she exclaimed, with evident regret.
The woman, taking this as an excuse not to give, repeated
her lamentable recital.
' Mon Dien I I would give any thing for my purse," sor-
rowfully exclaimed Nathalie.
A brown silk purse fell with a clinking sound in the dust
at her feet. She uttered a faint cry, looked up eagerly, and
beheld Monsieur de Sainville, who had ridden up, unheard,
bending from his saddle with a smile. She clapped her hands.
" I am so glad," she exclaimed joyously ; her eyes danced
with pleasure.
" No wonder, you were longing for a purse, and lo ! there
drops down one at your feet ! Let me tell you, purses, and well-
filled ones especially, are not always to be had for the wishing."
She laughed, picked up the purse, opened it, emptied the
contents of one end of it into the beggar-woman's hand, and
tossed it back to its owner. He weighed it in his hand.
" It feels lighter. Petite."
" Yes, purses were made to be emptied."
" My experience says they must be filled first."
" You said a fortnight, and it is three weeks to-day," ob-
served Nathalie, without heeding his remark, or the loud bene-
dictions of the departing beggar-woman.
" You welcome me with a reproach," he said ; but he knew
in his heart that such reproaches are a welcome. And was
there not true joyous welcome in the flushed cheeks and laugh-
ing eyes that now looked up into his face ?
'Petite," he added, with a smile, "you have stipulated that
a certain circumstance shall remain a profound secret to every
human being with the exception of my discreet aunt. But if
we go in together, and you keep looking up with that smiling,
treacherous face, I fear much that the great mystery, and of
course not a soul in the chateau suspects any thing of the
kind, will be betrayed. Had you not, therefore, better go in
first?"
390
NATHALIE.
Nathalie drew herself up with an offended air. She did
not know what Monsieur de Sainville meant. Sljc was not
going to the chateau at all. She was taking a walk in the
countr}^ and begging to be remembered to Madame de Sain-
ville, she bade him good evening, and congratulated him on his
.safe return.
He saw her depart with a secure smile that piqued her.
She pretended to walk on, then suddenly retraced her steps
along the high wall that inclosed the garden and grounds of
the chateau, until she came to a side-door, of which Aunt Kade-
gonde had given her a key, which she now put in with a smile
at her ruse j but for once the door resisted ; it was bolted with-
in. She tried again ; the bolt was withdrawn, the door opened,
and there stood Monsieur de Sainville smiling at her vexation.
'Well, what about it?" she rather sharply said.
" Nothing," he quietly replied.
She condescended to enter, take his arm, and walk down
one of the alleys with him.
He had soon appeased her. This evening time was so
pleasant, and he seemed in so genial and happy a mood. He
was full of projects for the future. Of pleasant excursions to
the south of France; of home pleasures, not less delightful:
besides, was he not going to resign the empire of the green-
house to her, and to build her an aviary ?
"All of which will help to empty your purse," said Natha-
lie, looking delighted, however.
"Wise remark! Ajjropos : do you often dispense charity
so freely as this evening? Do you know how much you gave
the lady in the ragged cloak ?"
" I neither know nor care how much it was ; I am sure she
needed it. Her husband was killed in Algiers ; her eldest son
died of fever; her daughter is blind; her three younger chil-
dren are lying ill at home with the measles ; and she herself is
lame^ as you could see."
" I saw. Petite, that she went off very nimbly ; but no mat-
ter, I am glad it was my purse suffered, not your little purse,
my child."
" Oh. but I have got money in my little purse !" said
Nathalie, rather nettled.
" Indeed !"
"Yes, indeed! I was very economical at Mademoiselle
Dantin's.and I saved three hundred and thirty-five francs."
Monsieur do Sainville looked down at the possessor of three
NATHALIE. 391
hundred and thirty-five francs witli a kind smile, and again
said " Indeed !"
" Yes, indeed ! Do not think, however, you will make nie
fancy you consider it so much ; I know you do not. But
what need I care ? This garden is very pleasant ; the grounds
are lovely ; the chateau is a rare old place ; and poor girl as I
am now, they will all be mine some day. I like the thought
that every thing is to come to me through you : it seems plea-
sant to be mistress, because you are master."
" And it is kind and frank of you to say so, Petite," said
he, stopping short to look at her.
" The most agreeable thought of all," she continued, with-
out heeding this, " is that you will go away so often."
" What ?"
' Yes, it will be so pleasant when you return."
She spoke unhesitatingly, for though she was shy enough
of a caress, she was not so of speech, as free and open as her
heart. He took both her hands, and stood holding them in
his, and looking down at her with evident emotion.
" Petite," said he, " you have, thank heaven, too little expe-
rience to know the delightful flattery of such language. You
do not know there is nothing so delightful in this world as the
happy smiling face that welcomes our return' because alas
there is nothing so rare. Oh ! Petite, my child, my dar-
ling, always greet me with that face which looked up into mine
this evening."
He stooped and kissed her brow, and that with so much
tenderness of the heart, so little of the lover's passion, that
Bhe forgave the caress. She felt very happy ; she said so, add-
ing, with a smile :
" And this will last for ever, will it not ?"
His face became obscured ; he did not answer.
" It will last for ever ?" she repeated inquiringly.
" For ever !" he echoed ; " what has bi'ought up that un-
lucky word, Petite ?"
But she asked again if it would not last for ever?
" What is there lasts for ever in this world ?" he answer-
jd, after a pause.
" By for ever, I mean as long as life."
" And, child-like, call our miserable little existence eter-
nity ! Do you remember the day on which you said you did
not see why life should not endure for ever V
' Yes, but that is not the question. Will you love me for
ever ?"
392 NATHALIE.
He siiently smoothed away the hair from her brow a ca
rcss familiar to him. She repeated her question to him with
an anxious look. He smiled, and asked, " If for ever was not
a very long time?"
But she shook her head : " She would have an answer."
" And vows too, he supposed."
" No, she did not care for vows ; she only wanted a plain
answei to a plain question."
"You shall have your wish," he replied, rather sadly.
'But, oh ! why do you long for the sad knowledge of good and
evil? Without the apple looks fair and tempting, witlv.n it i?
bitter as ashes."
"What do you call the knowledge of good i.nd evil?'
gravely asked Nathalie.
" Every thing connected with our perishable nature, ani
its affections more frail, more perishable still."
She colored, and said, " She was sure that was a very great
mistake. She knew that love or affection was much, yes, much
more enduring than life." She spoke decisively, but lookeo
doubtful and anxious. He said nothing.
" Why do you not believe this?" she at length abruptly
asked.
" Because experience has told me another tale. I have no^
seen that aifection more endurinsr than life."
' What matter, provided it exists ; provided we two feci
it, for we shall, shall we not?"
" Undoubtedly, Petite : we two shall prove exceptions to
the whole human race."
There was raillery in his tone, but sadness in his look. He
turned pale.
' How long will you love me ?" she asked.
" As long as I can. Petite. May that be for ever !"
" I understand," she said bitterly. " Your love is weak :
you know it, and you are too honorable to deceive."
She bowed her head, for tears had gathered in her eyes.
" My dear child," said ho, in his gentlest and kindest
tones ; " why, after making me tell you such bitter truths, are
you so unjust? If I tell you I do not know hoT long my
love will last, it is by no means because I think it will be
brief, but because I really do not know ; such is the condition
of humanity. May it last for ever ! Many ways of happiness
have been discovered by man, but all agree there is none so
pleasant as loving and being loved. I pretend not to wisdom
KAtllALIE. 393
above my race ; let this happiness but be mine, and I am con
tent ; believe me, I shall do all I can to preserve it. Alas '
Petite ; -who knows if it is not your heart that satiety shall
first enter? You look incredulous and indignant. Then
question me no more ; keep your curious restless mind quiet,
you little daughter of Eve ; it may all be as you say. Be-
sides, do not sages declare that when love takes flight, sober
friendship, who has no such airy wings, comes and settles
down in his place ?"
Nathalie smiled disdainfully. .
" I scorn such a hope," she said, indignantly ; ' friendship
after love I I would as soon have winter after spring ! Be-
sides, how can one have faith in a feeling that rests on the ruin
of another feeling ?"
" It may not be wise to say so," replied Mfflsieur de Sain-
ville, " and yet I agree with you there. No ; when love is
dead I would have him buried, not resuscitated under so cold
a guise."
" But why must love die ?" she despondingly asked.
" Because, I suppose, of humanity's imperfections. But,
child, why trouble your little head with such things 1 In all
conscience, have you not time enough for doubt and sorrow 1
Love is the creed of youth, and faith the daily bread of thai
religion of the heart. Deem your love immortal if you will,
you shall not find mine less fervent or true for all his mortality.
The freshness of morning is around you still, and you stand on
the dawn of your long summer's day. Imagine it endless ; and
though it be but a dream, I, who have almost passed the noon-
day's heat, will not quarrel with the child-like faith. Be happy
in your ignorance, my knowledge shall not deprive me of all
joy. The thought of evening's setting sun need not mar the
gladness of present hours. Is life unavoidably embittered by
the thought of death ? Is there no happiness but that which
is eternal ?"
" I wish we had the same faith," sorrowfully said Nathalie,
I wish that our feelings were more in unison ; I wish do not
misunderstand me if I say so that we were not divided by so
many years ; and the sad knowledge which it seems they give ;
I wish that I were an older woman, or you a younger man."
She hesitated a little, and looked up to see if he were not
offended, but he only smiled :
" You an older woman and I a younger man ! Well, child^
you have curious fancies. What a demure little lady of thirty
17*
S94 NATHALIE.
you would make ; and yet see mj bad taste I prefer yotl
thus. I would even, if this were a power given to mortal man
fix you for ever, as I see you at this moment, and enchant you
into a vision of that perpetual youth which becomes you so well.
I was made to be old and grave, but nature fashioned you in
tho morning, and verily one cannot look at you without seeing
that the freshness of the early hour lingers around you still.
Oh ! wish not to grow old ; time will overtake you but too
soon.. As for the other wish, of my being a younger man ; let
me tell you, that if I had seen you in my youth, I should not
have loved you."
" You would not ?" said Nathalie, much surprised.
" No, indeed I would not."
" And why so ?" she asked, a little nettled.
" Because you are not the beau ideal of my youth."
" Pray, what was the heait ideal of your youth V
" A very different woman from you, my little Nathalie ; for
she was fair and gentle as a lily ; a sinless being, scarcely tread-
ing this earth of ours."
" Would you love this angel lady now ?"
" Love a being so cold and so unearthly ? No."
Every feature of Nathalie beamed as she heard this decisive
reply. But she assumed a grave air.
"It seems," she said, "that I am very faulty."
" You are very human."
"And not ideal?"
" Not in the least. What is an ideal woman ? The pale
sickly creation of some mad youth, or still more crazy poet : a
shilling snow-wreath."
" And what am I ?"
" A streak of sunshine to gladden the sight and warm the
heart; but no, I will not be poetical ; you are simply a being
of our perishable earth, with a temper like an April day, but a
heart of the most honest and true."
A blush of pleasure stole over Nathalie's cheek, and she
turned her head away with a smile, but she soon looked round
gain.
" You like me thus ?" she said.
" Precisely ; I love you thus."
" A little ?"
" Very much, Petite."
" And you will love me for ever, will you not?"
She had come back again to the old point with the caressing
NA niALIE. 395
persistency of a child that will not be denied. He looked at
her ; she tried to seem indifferent, but her heart was in his
answer ; he felt it, and for that moment also felt as if he could
turn believer in her creed of love's eternity.
" Yes, for ever," he answered.
Her face lit up, and she smiled joyously ; but checking tho
feeling, she said, with a wistful look :
" You only say that to please me."
" Indeed I do not," he replied, bending a fond glance over
her flushed face as he felt in his heart how delightful it was tc
be thus loved ; " no, indeed I do not, for I verily believe, my
poor child, that could I cease to feel for thee as I do now, my
heart, unable to leave oiF, or shut thee out, would surely find
some other better way of loving thee still."
A radiant smile played on Nathalie's parted lips.
" Let the future shift for itself," she said, in a low feverish
tone ; " I feel here that you must always love me."
' She pressed her clasped hands to her beating heart, and
bowed her face before his look. An irresistible impulse made
him strain her more closely to him, and calling her ' his mis-
tress, his wife, his child ; all that was delightful, dear, and
precious ;" vow in impassioned language to love her for ever.
They went in. The sun had set ; evening was closing in
around them with its soft gray light. Nathalie heeded it not ;
for in her heart there shone a light more warm, fervent, and
bright than earthly day ever gave. She was that whole even-
ing so enchanting and bewitching, that her grave lover for once
forgot his prudence and worldly knowledge ; he yielded indeed
so freely to the spells cast around him, that his aunt, who look-
ed on with silent wonder, warningly whispered to Nathalie as
they parted :
" Take care. Petite, it is not natural to see Armand so ; take
care."
" Be quite easy," said Nathalie, with a delighted glance.
Indeed she looked so joyous on returning home, that Rose
could not help asking her what was the matter.
" The matter is, that I am a great deal too happy. Rose, a
great deal too happy ;" she kissed her sister fervently as she
epoke.
But when she next met Monsieur de Sainville, Nathalie
was much chagrined to perceive that his momentary weakness
had wholly vanished. He was kind and aifectionate ; but be
was once more the serious self-possessed man of experience,
396
vatiialif;.
who condescended to be in love with the heedless girl ol
eighteen. The gravity of his tenderness vexed and discon-
certed her : she .tried to bring hack the mood in which they
had parted, and failed. She felt indignant: the result was a
little quarrel their first as lovers. For three days she would
not go to the chateau. On the evening of the third day she
sat with her sister in their little room, when Kose, taking up
from the table the flowers Nathalie had received that same
morning, reproved her for leaving them there to wither.
' I forgot them, Rose," she replied ; "besides, what matter?
According to his own confession his love is as perishable and
will fade as soon as his gifts."
Rose was untying the flowers; a letter hidden amongst
thorn fell down on the floor at her feet. Nathalie saw .it,
snatched it up with the quickness of thought, broke the seal,
and drew near the light to read. The letter was long. When
she had concluded she held it awhile in her hand, then gave it
to Rose, saying, without looking at her :
'I have done him wrong; you must read this his justi-
fication."
Rose silently took the letter ; it was as follows
" Nathalie, do not doubt my aff"ection. You torment your
self and give me much pain, very uselessly. Recollect that when
I have said ' I love you,' I have said all in three words
pages could express no more.
' ' We are so difi'erent !' you despondingly said the other
evening. But is not love the child of contradictions? Do you
imagine I could have loved a woman of years nearer to mine,
like me rid of illusions and hope ? Indeed, I could not. Our
individual experience must necessarily have been similar ; our
looks, after meeting with sadness and mistrust, would not
have sought to meet again. But in you I seek and still find
what is lost to me for ever, and what is, therefore, so dear
the faith and freshness of youth.
" From the moment that you entered this house, I felt that
a change I could not define had nevertheless taken place in all
around me.
" I believe that many cold and severe-looking men like me,
are not so averse to the society of women as they are con-
sidered to be. I certainly have not had during the course of
an active and unsettled life much leisure to indulge in female
society, which is essentially a luxury, as it implies a wonderful
loss of time, and as constant attention is needed in order not
RATIIALIE. 397
to yield to its cnervatiDg' influence ; but I have alwaj-s looked
forward with pleasure to the time when I should be yf'ith. my
sister and aunt. The pleasure w*ich men take in the society
of women may be selfish, but it is very real. It is soothing
after the vexing storms of life to sink down into domestic re-
pose and become the centre of a peaceful home. The antici-
pation pleased me, especially as I had not run the risk always
a dangerous one of marriage. But when I returned to
France, when I summoned my aunt and sister to Sainville, I
found that this destiny was not to be mine. In our first inter-
view I saw that my poor aunt could neither forget nor forgive
the past, and I required no second meeting to perceive that
the proud and worldly woman who still called me brother, was
not, however, the once kind and affectionate sister of my
youth. Time had done its work with both I could not blame
them ; was I myself unchanged ? Did I not see very Avell that
my coldness and severity repelled every one around me ?
Nevertheless, I felt disappointed ; ennui soon overtook me ; I
resolved to travel over Europe. I had pi'ojected a long expe-
dition when the indiscretion and insolence of Charles com-
pelled me to offer you a home in Sainville. I say compelled,
because it seemed to me that I could not in honor do less. At
first I felt annoyed. ' What on earth shall I do with this
girl V I thought, for I have my idea of responsibilities, and
when her son was concerned, I would not trust Madame Mar-
ceau. Wishing to explain all and put you on your guard, I
resolved to see you alone. I felt also some curiosity to find
out what sort of a being you were. Thanks to my wandering
life, and to the seclusion in which we keep our unmarried
women, I had only obtained very unsatisfactory glimpses of a
few childish creatures. It is a great pity it should be thus,
for surely there is nothing in this world half so charming as a
young girl, when in the first freshness of her j-ears, feelings,
and purity, she stands on the threshold of life, innocent and
fearless, with the curious glance of an eager and long-captive
bird, wondering where and how far it shall wing its flight. I
could scarcely keep grave during our first interview. You
were so very peculiar scmuch on the defensive so quick to
detect imaginary slights, and yet so ingenuous and so easily
moved by the least kindness. I saw that life was teaching
you her hard lesson, but that even this bitter knowledge
could not subdue native pride, or impart acquired prudence
True originality is never destroyed ; it is, and remains a
S38 watkalie.
part of our being. But what struck me most then and after
wards, was the simplicity and fearlessness of your bearing,
You were frank and daring even with me. In vain, in order
to try you, I onee or twice made myself stern and grave.
You seemed to see intuitively through the disguise, and
wearied me out by your patience.
' Indeed, Petite, the more I saw you, the more you charmed
rac. I liked that look which seemed to imply that with a per-
fect consciousness of youth and beauty, you disclaimed the
praise and flattery those adventitious charms so easily win ; I
iiked you to be so frank and daring : I liked your light, plea-
sant voice, and cheerful smile. When I saw you at a distance,
lightly running down some garden path, and seeming to enjoy
so fuUy the freshness and verdure around you, I thought it a
pity that the old house and garden should ever lose the grace-
ful visions which had unexpectedly dawned upon both. My
heart yearned towards you long before I would, even to my-
self, acknowledge why ; but little power has the so-called wis-
dom of man over that which passes in his heart. When I
caught my ear listening for your step, and look abstractedly
watching your every movement, I said to myself : ' she is
young and pretty, and the sight of youth and beauty is plea-
sant ; but she is such a mere child, that I could never love her
seriously.' But the strange mixture of the child's audacity
and of the maiden's shyness which then characterized your
bearing towards me, of alternate confidence and shrinking,
charmed me more irresistibly every time we met, and I took
care it should be often. For now you sought, now you shun-
ned me, with all the frankness and nalveU of a child. You
watched me with a sort of curious glance that amused me ; you
seemed puEzled to make me out, interested too. I thought it
was some girlish fancy, and allowed myself to be pleased with
it whilst I forbore to examine too cautiously why it pleased
me. ' Not through love,' I said to myself, and yet I still de-
layed fixing the day for my intended journey. Oh ! how grave
men, who deem themselves wise, can, in some things, be de-
ceived like mere children.
" Do you remember the week Madame Marceau spent at
the chateau of Jussac ? Do you remember that the second
.iay after she left. I said to my aunt, ' I am going to Marmont,
and shall probably stay a fortnight away V You laid down
your work on your lap and looked up suddenly not at me, but
I could see you well with an expression of so much annoy-
NATHALIE 309
Rnce and regret, that I could not mistake or misunderstand it
One second only did it last, but I saw it and felt its meaning
deeply. Nathalie, was I not a sufficiently kind brother and a
reasonably good nephew? I had drawn my aunt and sister from
an obscure poverty to restore them to the wealth and station
of their birth. Little merit was there in that, but still I had
done it. Well, then, I can assure you that I might have pro-
posed crossing the Atlantic or talked of a pedestrian excursion
to China, without either aunt or sister wearing on their fea-
tures that simple expression of regret. But you, a stranger,
you whom I scarcely noticed, you missed and regretted me.
Instead of remaining at Marmont, I returned the next day ; I
was curious to see how you would look. You were in the gar-
den with my aunt at the end of the lime-tree avenue. You
sat on a low stool at the foot of a tree against which you partly
leaned. Your work lay neglected on your lap, your hands were
clasped upon it ; I fancied you looked thoughtful. It was a
bright evening ; the warm light of the setting sun lit up the
whole avenue, but it fell with a deeper glow on the spot where
you sat. As I saw you there, with the dark tree behind you,
with your white robe that fell ai-ound you in all the modest
grace of woman's garment, with your downcast look and clasp-
ed hands, I thought of an old engraving of RaiFaelle's ' Vierge
au Palmier ' I had seen years ago in the course of my northern
wanderings. It had caught my fancy by its southern grace,
and often, though I never met with it again, did the charming
figure rise in clear outlines before me. Little did I suspect
that more delightful and living vision would one day greet me
in my own home. I came along the avenue ; you looked up
quickly, almost joyously, I could not tell whether you blushed
or not, but for a moment it seemed as if the warm sunlight had
fallen with a deeper and rosier glow upon your features, and lit
up your eyes with a brighter radiance. I sat down near my
aunt ; you did not move away ; I spoke, coldly enough, I dare
say, but all the time there were strange tumultuous feelings in
my heart ; I felt, I knew that I loved you, and I said to my-
self that the child who then sat at my feet so quiet and uncon-
scious, should one day be my wife and mistress of all around
her. I am not of a temper to fear or hesitate ; I knew you as
well then as I do now. What about the diiference of years ! I
felt I could, because I would, make you forget it ; you were
young, impressible, in the first freshness and fervor of your
feelings ; love is an easy lesson then. I resolved that you
400 NATHALIE.
should love me in spite of years, coldness, and severity. It is
an old saying that no Sainville ever attempted that which he
did not achieve. It was not faith in the legend that led me,
but a far surer knowledge. None had ever loved in vain but
those who know not how to love.
" You were very charming and provoking ; easily irritated,
but also easily soothed. I watched the progress of an affection
of which you were yourself unconscious. I knew even before
you told me, that you did not like Charles, and so far as re-
garded him, I therefore felt no scruples. Nor did I think it
wrong to keep you in this state of doubt, ftir more delightful
than certain knowledge. That evening when, as we sat alone in
the garden, you took my hand and raised it to your lips lips
far too pure, my child, for such homage thanking me so inno-
cently for a friendship and generosity that existed only in your
imagination, I had not the heart to undeceive you ; to tell you
that I already loved you with a selfish and jealous affection ; that
I wanted you for myself, and myself only, and that I wished to
keep you here until the day came when I might at length take
you unto myself, and gather you unto my heart for ever. And
yet I was not without doubts and secret fears. That same
evening you fell asleep in the little saloon ; my aunt too chose
to meditate, as she calls it. I remained and watched you there
as you slept, but not, perhaps, with th*e thoughts you imagine,
Petite. You did indeed look very pretty so, with your head
pillowed on the cushion, and your clasped hands ; but I did
not think of that. I only thought that thus seen in the doubt-
ful light of that quiet place, and in all the repose of deepest
slumber, you looked barely fifteen. Never had I seen you so
childish in aspect. It grieved me. What folly was I on the
brink of committing ? Was this the boasted wisdom of Ar-
mand de Sainville ? A passion for a child ? I was anxiously
bending to read more clearly the lines of the face of her to
whom I was trusting the venture of my heart, when Madame
de Jussac raised the drapery and smiled in fancied triumph at
my folly. She little knew that at that same moment I was
debating the question, ' Shall I or shall I not give her up,
-ivhilst it is time yet V
_ " Give you up ! alas, how could I ? How could I relin-
quish her who, though gifted with grace and beauty, had yet
no deeper art to win me back from sudden coldness than to
Btep up to me like a little child, and say, 'have I done wrong?"
Oh ! ray child, those artless ways have put me to sore triaU
NATHALIE. 401
As you then looked np into my face, and as 1 saw clearly v/hai
was still dim and imperfect to you that j^ou loved me it waa
Liard to resist the temptation of imprinting on your clear brow
u kiss which might have been more fervent, perhaps, than that
of a father, and yet, believe me, not less pure.
" Madame de Jussac thinking to convert me to legitimacy,
through you, I suppose Carried you oflF. I took the opportu-
nity to leave. I wanted to reflect and think then act. I
could not stay long away ; and time had weighed so heavily on
me whilst we were apart, and I moreover saw you so pale on
returning, that I resolved to make no more such trials. A
change came over you, then. You wrapped yourself up in
your woman's pride ; not repelling, but disdaining to seek. I
guessed why, and when I perceived the change a word or look
could produce, I asked myself what other girl of eighteen
would blush, smile, and look more lovely, because I was near.
Oh ! it is a dangerous thing for a man to meet daily a woman
by whom he knows himself loved; dangerous even if she be
plain, and perilous indeed when nature has made her lovely.
" There must assuredly be something very pleasant in the
memory of that time, since I have thus allowed myself to be led
on. Surely I need say no more, and your fears and doubt.s
are allayed ? I have shown you how and why I love you ; 1
am of no inconstant temper ; but though I have never been the
first to change towards those whom I once loved, I know that
vows have no power over the heart. They can bind us to
duties, not, alas ! to feelings. "Would you charm me for ever,
then be for ever what you are to-day. Mind, I speak not of
beauty, but of that soft yet subtle spell which I felt in our first
meeting, when you stood before me modest, fearless, and met
my look with a frankness so bewitching, and, forgive me for
saying it, so rare in woman. Oh ! Nathalie, do not break that
spell by doubt or mistrust. When we wish to drink of some
pure draught, and to behold ourselves as wo once have been,
we do not seek the troubled stream which has made its way
among the haunts of men, but the young, pui'e, and clear waters
hidden in the quiet valley, and which have, as yet, only reflect-
ed the serene summer sky. You are to me that pleasant and
cooling draught ; my soul, long parched with this world's tur-
moil and fever, turns towards you, and delights in your purity
and freshness. For heaven's sake, do not seek to be too wise,
or to taste too early of the bitter cup of experience. Oh ! if
you can, keep your soul as fresh as the pure bloom on youi
cheek."
IC2 NATHALIE.
Rose, after having attentively read this letter, folded it up
and silently handed it to her sister.
" Well," said Nathalie, eagerly looking up into her face,
" he loves me, does he not ?"
" Yes, he loves you."
" Then why look so grave ?"
" Because, alas ! this grave, wise Monsieur de Sainvilh
loves you so unwisely."
Rose spoke sadly ; but a bright triumphant smile lit up tho
features of Nathalie.
" Unwisely !" she echoed ; ' let him. Rose. Yes, let him,
60 sedate and so grave, submit to this folly of the heart? Come,
what else do you object to ?"
' To his loving you with so much passion, and therefore
witri so little reason," replied Rose, with unaltered seriousness.
' Passion ! what do you know about passion, Rose? And
yet you know many things. How can you tell that he loves
me thus? What was it in his letter made you think so?"
" Every thing. Oh ! child, he does not love you as a man
should love his wife, as the future companion of his existence,
the future mother of his children, but as a man loves his mis-
tress. Do not look so indignant ! I feel quite confident that
you will be his legal wife ; but will you be his wife in the true
and holy sense of that wcrd? He is fond of you ; he will be
prodigal of gifts to her he loves ; it will be his delight to be
near her and feel that she is his ; to provoke her she is easily
provoked and soothe her again, an art which he seemingly
possesses, and is well conscious of possessing ; he will have kind
words and kinder caresses. But she will only be his toy, his
plaything ; the charm of his light hours, not his companion and
friend. Not her with whom he would take the great journey
of immortality ; the being to guide in the path of right ; to
check from wrong. What does he mean by asking you to re-
main as you are? Does not the mind grow old? Lie not
life's saddest knowledge and most bitter thoughts often hid
beneath the clear brow of youth ? Must not the truest heart
lose its first purity and early freshness long before it may cease
to beat ? And I who thought that he would love you with a
quiet, fatherly affection ! But time it seems has not that pow-
er over the heart, its passions, feelings, and desires, which I
fancied. The folly of youth can survive the teaching of expe-
rience, and passion be strong, despite all the might and wisdom
of years."
NATHALIE. '103
"Ob! Rose," exclaimed her sister, '-your words delight
find torture me. His plaything! that was cruel ; yet you are
compelled to confess that he loves me yes, ' despite all the
might and wisdom of years.' "
" Does that please you 1 Be content, then ; for I believe
his love to be deeper than he hinted, than you believe, than he
himself suspects. I had heard that when men like him gave
themselves up to passion, they yielded to it more blindly than
in youth ; but 1 hoped that he was not of those. There must
indeed be a strange spell on him, since he loves your very faults.
He is blind now. Oh ! Nathalie, give him not reason to waken
as from a dream of folly."
Nathalie smiled at her sister with a bright trusting smile,
which made her look very lovely, and yet it was not the .niile
of conscious youth and beauty.
" I have no spell save love," she said, " but that is a good
one. Oh, Rose ! I will love him so very much, and so very
faithfully, that, faulty as I am, he must needs love me for ever.
He likes me so ; ask me not to change."
"Is he your conscience?" asked Rose, with mournful se-
verity. " Oh ! my child, my child : I fear for you. For, after
folly, comes injustice. Why does he encourage you in your
faults? Inexperience is not a merit ; the fault of giving hasty
replies ought not to be attractive to a wise man. You are
capable of ardent afi'ection, of devotedness, courage, and, if need
were, heroism ; for you are a brave little creature. For him,
no danger would scare, no misery would make you faint-hearted.
You can love fervently let him prize that. You may lose
your beauty, your freshness of feeling, your piquant vivacity,
you will not lose your generous nature and warm heart. Do
not persist in your faults and weaknesses to please him ; he will
be the first to quarrel with them. He will ask you to be
gentle, submissive, and quiet. He is stern and severe ; he will
complain of your rebellious temper nay, who knows even
whether that very liveliness which now so much charms, will
not end by wearying him? Well, what is it?" she added,
seeing that Nathalie buried her face in her hands, and burst
into a flood of passionate tears.
" Oh ! Rose, you are pitiless !" exclaimed the young girl,
looking up, her whole face flushed and agitated, her eyes glis-
tening, her lips trembling with emotion ; " yes, pitiless ! else how
could you even hint that he might end by wearying of me ! God
help me ! All who have any afi'ection for me, utter the same doubts,
404 N iTIIAI.lE.
and tell mc tlic same bitter story about love aud life. I* is
all disappointment, folly, and regret. This is very cruel. Tho
faith of youth should not be so pitilessly blighted ; experience
can do it no greater wrong than thus to depress it. Give mo,
if you can, the cold wisdom that comes with years ; and, if you
cannot, oh.! let me remain foolish if you will, but hopeful and
trusting."
She paced the room up and down with much emotion, then
suddenly stopped short, shook away her tears, and smiled.
' Why, how foolish I am !" she said, laughing at her folly ;
" how very foolish ! You are good, Rose ; 3'ou mean well ;
but what do you know about all this ? If, from mere words
written on a cold page, you already think that he loves me too
well, what would you say if you had seen him bending a face,
flushed and agitated with emotion, over her whom he calls his
own Petite ? If you had heard him, in a voice tremulous with
ill-repressed feeling, telling her how much, how very much he
loved her ? Oh ! Hose ; you could then no more doubt him
than I do," she added, after a pause, and speaking in her fervent
and thrilling tones of triumphant faith.
She looked so proudly handsome, standing thus in the
centre of the ill-lit room, with the light of youth's fervent
hope in her eyes, and its radiant smile on her lips, that Rose
forgot her wisdom, and exclaimed admiringly :
" I wish he saw you now."
Nathalie laughed, and shook her head.
" I know what you mean. Rose ; but it is not that I trust
to, it is not that. Listen," she added, taking her sister's
hand, and pressing it to her heart ; " I feel here a love which
can subdue all his indifference and all his pride. Let him love
me as he likes : as friend, companion, mistress, or wife, I care
not ; but he shall, he must love on. I tell you I know his
love is deep and true ; besides," she added, laying her fore-
finger on her forehead, and speaking in a lower tone, " I ahall
trf "
"What?" cried Rose.
" Nothing," replied Natlialie, with a smile.
NATHALIE. 405
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Nathalie was meditating experiments always dangerous
things ; in her case doubly dangerous. Her first experiment
was viery mild. She laughingly repeated to Monsieur de
Sainville the substance of the remarks made by Rose. He
did not seem offended, but was evidently annoyed. He
frowned and fidgetted on his seat.
" Your sister means well," said he, ' and she is verj' pro-
perly anxious about your happiness ; but she is completely in
error. Women neither know nor understand the sort of affec-
tion a man feels ; it is that mistake which often makes them
and their husbands so very wretched. They have on that
subject the most extraordinary scruples and whims which it is
possible to conceive. Be wiser than your sex. Ask not too
curiously how and why you are loved! Love is not a theme to
be demonstrated. All that a woman has a right to require of
a man is that he should feel a true and honorable affection ;
but to wish to know according to what exact manner and mea-
sure he loves her, is to carry the Evelike spirit of analysis and
inquiry rather fai-."
" But Rose says that my quick temper will vex and weary
you," urged Nathalie, with a keen look.
" Oh ! does she ?" he replied, stroking her hair, with a
smile.
He said no more ; but Nathalie did not like his smile ; it
was kind, but perfectly secure. She thought it implied a quiet
consciousness of that superior mind and will, which give to the
possessor the power of subduing temper, and enforcing obe-
dience ; a power she had so often seen exercised by Monsieur
de Sainville on all around him. She felt nettled at the securi-
ty he manifested. " Does he imagine," she thought, " that he
can sway me as he likes, and that I shall not so much as have
the power of disturbing that unruffled calmness of his ?"
She found a dangerous pleasure in the idea of convincing
Monsieur de Sainville that such was not the case ; that when
ehe was concerned, he was not quite so much master of his feel-
ings as he seemed to imagine. For a while indeed she confined
herself to the wish, and matters went on very smoothly ; but
courtships are proverbially stormy, and though that of Mon-
sieur de Sainville was at first made up of dew and sunshine
406 NATHALIE.
morning storms are rare yet as it progressed and reached its
noon, the clouds which -had long been threatening, suddenly
broke forth.
Monsieur do Sainville had been romantic in youth, but he
was so no longer. He loved Nathalie more than she thought,
more than he would have cared to confess, but not, to say the
truth, very poetically. He beheld in her no divinity, but a
most enchanting mortal ; no ideal being, but a delightful girl,
whose youth, beauty, vivacity, and warm heart were a sufficient-
ly charming reality not to need the illusions of fancy. The
affectionate familiarity of his addresses showed exactly the na-
ture of his feelings, and also made Nathalie feel that her sis-
ter's definition of his love was on the whole sufficiently cor-
rect.
He evidently looked forward with mingled impatience and
pleasure to the time when she should be his wife. Every thing
in Sainville now bore a reference to her presence, taste and
habits. He even spoke once or twice of her attire, and pleased
himself with the idea " that strings of pearls would look very
well in her hair." That he loved her very much ; that he was
charmed at the prospect of having her ever near him ; that he
wished to gratify and indulge her as far as his power went ;
that he felt proud of her grace and beauty, was clear to Na-
thalie, but this was not all she had hoped for. She had hoped
that the affection he felt for her would change Monsieur de
Sainville in many things, whereas, with all his kindness and
affection to her, he evidently remained unaltered in every other
respect. She felt that though she had entered within the circle
in which it was his pleasure to seclude himself, she had not the
power of drawing him forth, or of summoning any other by
her side ; it had opened for her, but it had also closed again.
And yet love was said to be all-powerful. Had he passed the
age when its spells work ? bitter, yet inevitable thought ! She
once fancied " all would be right if I only knew him well. He
is a mystery of which I have just read the first few pages, no
more." She often gazed on his calm countenance still striving
to read the true meaning of its pale and marble-like repose.
Once when he caught her eager look fastened on him, he seized
her hands, held them firmly in one of his, threw back his hair,
bent forward, and, compelling her to look him full in the face,
more closely perhaps than observation strictly needed, he said
quietly,
" Look and satisfy yourself once for all ; for you have been
examining me very curiously of late, Petite."
NATHALIE. 407
" Ob, sir," sliG thought,, but she did not say so, "lot rac
know you once for all, and you shall not catch me looking
again so readily."
Thinking the opportunity good, howerer, she began ques-
tioning him on various subjects. Amongst other things, she
wished to know why he had delayed explanation so long.
" Not through caprice or unbecoming vanity," he replied,
" but because at my years a bitter knowledge has replaced the
impatience of youth; because I have learned to know that the
hope of happiness is often the ti'uest happiness we can pos-
sess ; that the purest joy is never so pure as its desire. Po you
remember that day when we met in the green-house, and after-
wards walked together ? When we came to the recess of the
sleeping nymph, the words that should have revealed all were
on my lips ; they remained unuttered. Why so ? We stood
on that spot where, many years before, I had spoken of love
to Lucile ; her image pale, lovely, and frail, rose before me.
You were young and fair like her ; like her would you too
prove a weak and faithless woman 2 For a moment only a
moment, Petite T gave you up, and ridiculed the weaknes.'j
which seemed on the verge of deluding me again. Should I,
in my manhood's maturer years, be mocked by the phantom
of a passion which I had sworn to be only a phantom, even in
the fervor of my youth ? Compassion for my sick sister, who
had set her heart on having Charles heir of my wealth and
name, had previously kept me silent, and made me delay im-
prudently. At first I thought she saw nothing but women
have a strange tact for detecting those things. I once gave
her an opportunity of learning the truth from me ; she shrank
from it with terror. When she sent for Charles, I resolved to
show no mercy, but she forestalled me, by declaring that she
wished you to marry her son. I could not in honor seek to
supplant my own nephew ; besides, I felt quite confident you
would refuse him. I knew, moreover, you would not have long
to wait ; after you had left the library, the doctor confirmed
the belief I felt much saddened. It was not for the intrigu-
ing Madame Marceau that I mourned, but for Rosalie, the
Bister of my youth. I confess that her perfidy a perfidy to
which you fell victim, my poor, candid child enabled me to
bear her loss with due philosophy ; and yet, in her last hours,
she either repented or despaired, for she told me all. and vnade
me promise never to abandon her son."
" What do you call all ?" quickly asked Nathalie.
403 NATHALIE.
" Her various and very useless schemes."
" And nothing else ?"
" Why yes, Petite ; she added that you had confessed to
her a sort of liking for her brother."
Nathalie colored deeply.
" Then why," she asked, a little indignantly, " that disa^.
greeable interview with her son?"
" Impossible to help it. He declared to me you were
actually his betrothed ; his plan was to have this understood,
and then reject you. For I believe that he ended by hating
you very cordially. It was necessary to prove to him that I
knew such was not the case, and to defeat at once his kind
scheme. You had been very cruelly used, my poor child, and
I wished to avenge you."
" On whom?" asked Nathalie, smiling.
" On every one ; ah, even on Amanda, if she had presumed
to be impertinent. What ! did she, indeed ?" he added, no-
ticing the expression which came over Nathalie's features.
" Oh, no."
" But your look says yes."
' No ; only I remember the evening when she came for the
vinaigrette."
" You mean when she came to see what had brought Mon-
sieur de Sainville back to the room where Mademoiselle Mon-
tolieu was sitting alone. My poor child, Amanda was not to
blame. Do you think Madame Marceau said to her, ' you shall
be a spy on my brother, and on this young girl with whom he
is in love.' No, verily. She said, ' Amanda, I have left my
vinaigrette below.' The thing lay on the table opposite Aman-
da, but she understood the duties of her place too well to see
it. She went down, looked about, went up again, and declared
that both monsieur and mademoiselle had aided her in her use-
less search. The mistress learned what she wished to know ;
the attendant told what she had been sent to discover ; the
thing was over. Of course the vinaigrette was discovered at
once, with many exclamations of surprise that it should not
have been seen before. What, if for this, and other little
services, the mistress chose to make her femnie-de-chambre a
present 1 Had she not a perfect right to do so ?"
His careless tone could not hide the sarcasm lurking be-
neath it.
" How do you know all this ?" asked Nathalie, looking up
Into his face with sorrowful surprise.
NATHALIE. 409
" Very simply ; I have not lived so many years amongst
!ncn and women without knowing the ways of deceit, great and
email. I also know that there is this much virtue left in
humanity : what is done remorselessly is rarely confessed in
open speech. But surely you do not feel any resentment for
that poor Amanda, who was naturally anxious not to lose a
good place. You have, I am sure, forgiven my unhappy sister
her treachery, forgive also the helpless agent.'"
" Very well," abstractedly said Nathalie, who was no longer
thinking about Amanda ; " are you forgiving ?" she suddenly
added.
" Not remarkabl3^ so," replied Monsieur de Sainville, with
a peculiar smile.
" And yet you seem to take every little treachei-y so much
as a matter of course."
" Habit," he laconically an-swered.
" Then you are not forgiving?''
" Neither forgiving nor forgetful, Petite."
'' Then you are vindictive ?"
" Not precisely; since, if I never have yet to my knowledge
forgotten an insult, I cannot say, however, that I have revenged
a wrong."
" Because you are so generous," said she, brightening.
He shook hiS head in token of denial, but she persisted,
" It must be generosity."
" And why not disdain, Petite ?" he asked quietly.
Her countenance fell.
" My poor child," he gently resumed, " you think in your
candor, that people still love and hate in this world. Well,
they do. but how rarely. Hatred ! there is not energy enough
left for it in our civilized society. You, with your warm south-
ern blood, might experience the feeling, but the mass know
nothing of it ; they give themselves up to petty spites, and
contemptible animosities. Moralists talk of passions ; there
are no passions now save the meaner ones ; the others perished
ages back. But we will not speak of ^11 this."
Nathalie gave him a mournful look. Was this his creed ?
And yet he did not look sad. No passions ! then there were
deep feelings !
" 0/i, mon Dicit /" she involuntary exclaimed. " what is
Ufo ?"
Some of the skeptics v/ho hold Monsieur de Sainville's creed
18
410 NATHALIE.
Bay a "jest ;" but he took a nobler and more courageous view
and gravely answered : " A duty."
Hard, however, is that lesson when it first falls in all its
reality upon the ear of ardent youth. If not long before, Na-
thalie had been called upon to give the definitioa she now
asked of her lover, she would, in the fervor of her love and of
her hopeful nature, have replied : " A delight."
Ay, a delight ; for enchanting and delicious are the pro
mises of passion, and Eden itself never seemed more fair to
newly awakened Eve than the lovely scenes and glimpses life
had opened to the enraptured gaze of Nathalie. The trance
is generally brief ; the next phase is the despairing doubt, suc-
ceeded by disgust of all things, or the calm resignation which
teaches to endure patiently ; but this was a bitter lesson the
young girl had never expected to learn from her lover, and
which Monsieur de Sainville had been far from wishing to
teach. His evident skepticism depressed her greatly.
' I was not always thus," he resumed, " I, too, have had
the faith and divine dreams of youth. We all of us, more or
less, enter active life in the spirit of knight-errantry ; to strug-
gle, subdue, and win. Oh ! the glorious hopes that usher us
in ; the dreams, the visions that enchant this first journey, the
sylvan shades, the summer bowers, the adventurous wilds, and
caverns deep these, too, have their charm of danger that lie
before us ! But, alas ! the dreary time when we see the path
we must tread as it really is ; a barren waste. Then, indeed,
for dangers to brave, and a struggle to win !"
" And this is life !" said Nathalie, with deep sadness.
" The life of many ; not of all ; your's, Petite, shall know
nothing of all this. The sun shall gladden, and the shade
shelter you still ; yes, when you wish."
He spoke affectionately, and Nathalie understood the im-
plied promise of happiness. But she could not chase away the
thought :
" Oh ! why is he so skeptical ? why have I no power over
him for good'.'"
He had left her, and she was sitting at the feet of Aunt
iladegonde, as she again felt this ever-renewing desire.
" Do you know, child, a thing I have observed of late ?"
eaid the Canoness, with the suddenness familiar to persons of
slow perception when they happen to be struck with something.
"No," abstractedly said Nathalie, "what is it?"
"Why, Arraand is so much changed."
NATHALIE. 41 1
' How SO V asked Nathalie, looking up, with immediate
interest.
" I can scarcely tell, and yet he seems changed, since the
death of our poor Rosalie. He does not seem so cold and so
severe as he was ; there is about hira something more gentle,
and more kind. He was very much attached to Rosalie. It ia
her death that has affected him thus."'
" But are you sure, quite sure of it V asked Nathalie, in &
low tone.
" My dear child, you are very simple. Does my penetration
ever deceive me ? Well, what is it?" she asked, as Nathalie
rooc, and twining her arms around her neck, kissed her repeat-
edly ; " you are a dear child, no doubt, but why do you kiss
me?"
" Because you have made me so happy," replied Nathalie,
who felt enchanted.
But the very next day destroyed the hopeful dreams in
which she had already been indulging. She found Aunt Radc-
gonde in a very discontented mood.
"It was the old story again," she said, pettishly. " Ar-
mand, after being so good and indulgent, that he forgave, with-
out even a word, the foolish gardener who had allowed his
finest and most expensive plants to die away, was now dismissing
Jean, a poor lad of eighteen, no one so much as knew why."
" Is Monsieur de Sainville quite determined V asked Na-
thalie.
'' Of course he is, Petite ; I tell you he is in one of those
moods, when neither heaven nor earth could move him. I saw
it in his face ; and you know if I am ever deceived in those
matters. It is the story of Andre over again, only that this
time there is no mistake, and that Jean must go."
Nathalie looked thoughtful, and slightly excited. She was
meditating an experiment destined to test her power, or rather
her influence, over Monsieur de Sainville. She soon found a
pretence to leave Aunt Radegonde in the garden, where they
were then both sitting, and lightly ran up the lime-tree aA'^enuc,
leading to the library. She met Monsieur de Sainville in tho
let of coming out.
" Where were you running so fast ?" he asked, stopping her.
" To look for you,"' she quickly replied.
" Indeed," he answered, looking pleased, and drawing lier
arm within his.
"Yes, I want to ask you for something."
812 NATHALIE.
' Ah ! otherwise you would not come running for me
Pray, what is it ?"
" A favor."
" Wonderful ! A favor ? Can your pride actually stoou
thus far ?"_ _ ^
" Yes, if you will grant it."
" It must be something very unreasonable, or utterly im
possible, if I refuse."
She stopped short, and looked up at him fixedly. There
was nothing like refusal in the pleased and yet surprised ex-
pression of his face. She smiled, and said, after a pause :
" Forgive poor Jean."
The brow of Monsieur de Sainville became suddenly over-
cast.
" That," said he, gravely, " is unfortunately impossible." -
' Impossible !" she exclaimed.
" Would I refuse you, otherwise ?"
' Then you refuse me ?"
' I must."
" She colored, and made a movement to leave her position
by his side, but restraining herself, she said :
" He is a civil lad."
He did not reply.
' And his mother is a very poor widow."
" And you have been very kind to her," he said. " I know
where her cottage stands ; I know that you have gone in there,
often ; never empty-handed, and ye\ you are not rich, Petite."
" Those who are rich, do not always give most," she replied,
with some asperity.
" Is that a hint to me ? Well, if I have been remiss, you
shall be my almoner ; people will apply more readily to you,
than to me, for natm-e has bestowed on you the face of one to
whom it is a joy to give."
" And to ask," replied Nathalie, with significance, that
showed she was not to be diverted from her object.
" Ask me for any thing else," he said, soothingly ; " ask me
to give any thing you like to Jean's mother."
He spoke in a tone so earnest, that it struck her.
' Why do you dismiss him?" she asked.
' He has failed in his duty."
" Di.=;obeyed, I suppose ; for that I believe is what you
aovor forgive."
" No it wne not lisobcdienca."
NATHALIE. 413
" Well then, wliat did lie do ?"
" Take my word for it. that lad has deserved to lose his
place."
" Forgive him, for my sake 1"
She spoke in her softest and most winning tones ; and
looked up into his face with a beseeching glance. He seemed
embarrassed, but replied :
" I assure you it grieves me to refuse you this "
' Then you will not forgive him ?"
" I cannot."
'' And you will not say why you dismiss him ?"
He remained silent.
Nathalie drew away from him Avith flushed cheeks and
kindling glance.
' You are a tyrant !" she exclaimed.
He turned very pale ; with him the sign of deepest anger.
But she heeded it not. she heeded not the darkening frown and
compi-essed lips ; she was thoroughly angered and reckless,
and entered the house in her most indignant mood, re-
solved to leave it that very instant. In the hall she met Jean,
the dismissed servant ; acting on the impulse of the moment,
as usual, she emptied her purse it was not a very heavy one
into his hand, and said, in a quick, excited tone, ' This is foi
your mother, Jean ; I am very sorry you are going."
He looked very much disconcerted.
" Mademoiselle is truly good," he said, hesitatingly, " and
I am sure she has always been so kind to my mother, that I
feel but I can assure mademoiselle, monsieur was quite mis-
taken when he thought the remark he overheard me making to
Andrt was intended as disrespectful to her."
_ " A remark about me !" exclaimed Nathalie, much sur-
prised.
" I thought mademoiselle knew," answered Jean, luokmg
much more disconcerted than before.
" I am sorry to have been the cause of your dismissal,"
she quietly answered, and slowly returned to the garden.
This then explained why Monsieur de Sainville had refused
her request as well as an explanation, which could not but hurt
her feelings ; and she had called him a tyrant ! She felt she
could not be happy until she had asked him to forgive her.
She found him walking with his aunt in the garden. He
looked grave, almost stern, and took no notice of her approach.
Nathalie detected the anxious glance which the Canoness cast
on thera both. " AVhat shall I say to him ?" she thought.
H4 NATHALIE.
Aunt lladcgondc lingered behind, and signed Nathalie to
Bome to her.
"Petite," she whispered anxiously, "what has happened?
I have not seen him looking so no, not for years."
But Nathalie had seen him thus before. Yes, on the day
when Madame Marceau repeated to him that doubt on his
honor, which she had uttered in a moment of despair, ho
looked thus.
She gave the Canoness no reply ; there was a fear at her
heart which she would not confess, even to herself, and yet her
look anxiously followed Monsieur de Sainville, who walked on
before them, without once looking round.
" Go and speak to him," whispered the Canoness.
" And say, like a naughty child : I shall do it no more,"
disdainfully replied Nathalie. "No, Marraine, I cannot do
that."
" Do something. Petite. I am sure you were in the wrong,
by your look. Go and walk by him."
" And wait until his lordship chooses to look down on his
handmaiden ! No."
"Then go and take his arm. You are so reserved with
him usually, that he must be desperately angry indeed if he
does not consider this a great favor."
Nathalie could not repress a smile, but this, being the most
daring counsel, pleased her best ; she accordingly walked^ on
and vei-y deliberately took the arm of Monsieur de Sainville.
His anger was probably of the deepest dye, for though he sub-
mitted to this advance, suggested by the feminine diplomacy
of his aunt, who anxiously watched the result, he neither
turned nor looked towards Nathalie. Offended in her turn,
she made a motion to withdraw, but he quickly detained her.
She gave him a furtive glance ; he looked as morose as ever,
but she smiled to herself and thought, " You may look as crosa
as you like ; but you are not so very angry after all."
" I have been very hasty," she said very demurely, " will
yovi forgive me ?"
She looked up; not one of his stern features had relaxed,
nor did he seem in the least mollified by her concession.
' For what are you apologizing ?" he coldly asked._
" For my inconsiderate language," replied Nathalie, some-
what surprised at his continued gravity. He did not answer ;
iihe resumed : " I am aware that I was wholly in the wrong.
I know your motive for dismissing Jean and refusing to forgive
him, as well as if you were to tell me."
NATHALIE. 415
The countcnauce of Monsieur de Sainville darkened con-
siderably.
" I understand," said he, frigidly, " you apologize because
it is proved to you that you were in the wrong."
" And if it were not proved to me that I was in the wrong,
how could I apologize ?" asked Nathalie, who was getting im-
patient.
" You could if you only entertained for me a feeling you
evidently do not entertain ; confidence in my justice and
honor."
He spoke with so much severity, and had evidently been
so deeply hurt by her conduct, that Nathalie could not restrain
her tears. He seemed touched by her emotion, and immedi-
ately said in a.gentler tone :
" Do not think me ofi"ended at a few hasty words, however
harsh, uttered in a moment of passion. You have a quick
temper, I can forgive that ; I will bear any thing from you save
mistrust ; that I seldom suffer from any one, and never where
I love as I love you, with all the strength and energy of my
nature."
He spoke vehemently, as if carried away by the impulse of
the moment, and with a force of passion that made the hearj
of Nathalie beat rapturously. She forgot her mistrust and his
anger ; she only saw and felt that he loved her as she longed
to be loved. ' Oh !" she thought inwardly, ' I did well to
provoke him, since it has led to this."
Aunt Radegonde now came up ; she looktd at them both
anxiously ; the traces of tears still lingered on Nathalie's
cheek.
" Armand," uneasily said the Canoness, ' she is a child, a
mere child, do not forget it."
"Without answering her, Monsieur de Sainville looked at
Nathalie and smiled.
" I must surely be a domestic tyrant," he said, in a low
key, " else would my good aunt recommend you to my tender
mercies in this flattering tone?"
" No, you are no tyrant," quickly replied Nathalie ; '' I
shall never forgive myself that odious word."
' Forgive yourself, but do not mistrust me again."
" Never !" she exclaimed, placing her hand in his, and feel-
ing, as she did so, that she had never loved him so truly and so
fervently as at that moment. It seemed as if her old love had
all at once returned ; not the troubled, exacting feeling which
116 NATHALIE.
had of late filled licr heart, but the mingled affection and rev
erence with which she had formerly regarded hira and which
had made her say to her sister : " I could pass thus through
life, sitting at his feet and listening to his teaching."
The Canoness in her well-meant zeal contributed to destroy
this good impression.
" Oh, Petite !" she exclaimed, as soon as they were alono,
' how glad I am it is all over, and how anxious I felt ! Not
"or years had I seen him look so. I know his face better than
you do. What can you have done to vex him ? Never do it
again; no, for heaven's sake, do not !"
Nathalie smiled without answering.
Aunt Radegonde resumed, " I remember well, it was just
so he looked on the day he broke with Lucilc. Oh ! he is a
harsh man. Do not provoke him. My poor child bad always
more fear than love for him in her heart."
" But I have not !" exclaimed Nathalie, with something
like pride, " I love and do not fear."
" Be not too confident, you foolish child," almost angrily
said the Canoness ; ' and if, as I believe, you do love him, why
then do not provoke and lose him for ever."
Nathalie smiled without answering. Her look said : " You
warn and threaten me in vain. Pie loves me, I know it; he
shall bear with me, ay, and his judgment shall yield to my ca-
price many a time."
It was plain Aunt Badegonde iindei-stood, for she shook
ner head, and gave the young girl a look of sorrowful reproach
as she merely said: "Petite!"
CHAPTER XXIX.
Nathalie had discovered that she possessed the power of
vexing Monsieur de Sainville, and she made good use of the
discovery. It was by no means vanity that led her to act thus ;
but a sort of tormenting and experimental curiosity which was,
indeed, her Eve-like and besetting sin. She felt, moreover, in
indulging her caprices, the dangerous pleasure youth finds in a
peril braved and overcome the pleasure which, when she wan-
dered as a child on the outskirts of the Pvrences. had madg
NATHALIE. 417
bcr follow a narrow ledge of rock by a precipice, in preference
to the smooth and open road, even though her heart beat all
the time with secret fear. In the same spirit, she now wan-
dered amongst the rocky recesses and dangerous parts of her
lover's temper, proceeding to the very verge of his displeasure,
then, as if frightened at her own daring, su.ddeDly retreating,
soon to return again, lured on by an irresistible temptation.
Monsieur de Sainville had too much penetration not to see
through her design ; but as Nathalie forbore from manifesting
those doubts of his honor which he resented so keenly, he was
only amused by her hasty and pettish ways ; he felt like the
possessor of a beautiful wild bird, who philosophically endures
the creature's wilfulness for the sake of its bright plumage and
delightful song nay, who will even indulge it in its farthest
flight, knowing well the charm to lure it back and subdue at
once all its wildness and pride.
Indeed, this variable temper, which would have alarmed
another man, only rendei-ed Nathalie more seductive to Mon-
sieur de Sainville. He had from the first been charmed by the
truth and vivacity with which she yielded to every impulse and
impression of the moment ; and the charm was on him still, for
it is one over which time and habit have little power. Once
or twice, indeed, he asked himself how this changeful April
humor of mingled storm and sunshine, so delightful for the
pleasure day of courtship, would answer for the long sober
journey of marriage ; but the doubt never lasted beyond a mo-
ment ; he knew that his betrothed loved him with her whole
heart, and he knew also that his will was one not easily resisted.
" When the moment comes," he thought, '' I can subdue her
temper, which will be only right ; but to break it, and with it
all her light, innocent vivacity, would be odious." This com
fortable r-^flection enabled Monsieur de Sainville to bear with
great equanimity and good humor the trials to which Nathalie
put his patience ; and here, accordingly, is the place to men-
tion a contradiction in the character of the young girl which it
might have puzzled any metaphysician to account for : she
would have been in despair had she succeeded in offending
Monsieur de Sainville, but she felt sadly vexed to have failed ;
the more so as an odd and significant smile in which he in-
dulged now and then, disconcerted her greatly. She was on
the verge of submitting quietly and giving up the point, when
the opportunity she had sought for in vain offered itself unex-
pectedly.
18*
JIS XATHALIB.
The recent death of his sister had prevented Monsieur da
8ainville from pressing Nathalie on the subject of their mar-
riage, but when a sufficient time had elapsed to justify a quiet
ceremony, he gravely asked her to fix a day. She cooly replied
there was no hurry ; he urged the point she still said there
was no hurry ; he remonstrated she remained unmoved ; he
insisted she refused. Monsieur de Sainville was not accus-
tomed to contradiction ; he felt much surprised, annoyed, and
offended at the persistent refusals of Nathalie. As she would
not explain herself, he attributed her conduct to coquetry and
caprice. Unused to obstacles he could not surmount, he now
felt it strange and provoking that the whim of a girl, even
though she was the being he most loved should stand between
him and his will. Nay, the fact of her being his future wife,
rather increased than lessened her offence.
Rose felt equally annoyed at her sister's obstinacy, and re-
peatedly urged her to lay by her objections and scruples.
" Your present position is awkward and unbecoming," she
8aid, very seriously.
" I do not care about that." was the impatient answer ; " I
only wish I could delay this marriage for ever."
"Why so?" very gravely asked her sister.
' Because, since it seems agreed by every one that love is
only a sort of dream, a fever, heaven knows what, I would, if
I could, prolong its brief existence, and awaken as late as pos-
sible, Rose."
Rose vainly endeavored to remove this feeling ; her sister
reminded her of all she had formerly said about the brevity
and delusions of passion.
" Well, then," replied Rose, with sudden decision, " do
better still, since you are convinced his love will not last: that
it is only passion and caprice have drawn him towards you, give
him up ; have the courage to relinquish him at once !"
Nathalie turned pale.
" Oh ! Rose," she said bitterly, " you are, indeed, pitiless ;
do you not see I cannot do that ; that I love him ; that come
what will, my being has now become linked with his?"
" Then marry him now and relieve him relieve yourself
from a painful position."
" A little longer. Rose ; a little longer.'
" Oh ! child, if you care for his love, be wise, and seek to
keep it by some other method than coquetry or caprice."
" Alas ! it is not coquetry or caprice." sorrowfully replied
NATHALIE 415
Nathalie, " it is fear, a fear that makes me very unhappy.
Oh ! why is he so skeptical? Why did he let me see it? Why
did he not deceive me ? Happy are the deceived women ;
happy if they only knew it ! It is true I questioned him, for
there is a ceaseless tormenting sort of desire in our hearts tc
know that which is to make us wretched, and I dare say I
questioned him closely. I wanted to know, but then I did not
imagine how could I ? that the truth was so very bitter.
There is a pitiless frankness and honesty -about him; he will
tell the truth, however harsh and cruel it may be ; if you do
not wish to know it, do not ask ; if you ask, do not expect he
will deceive you. I believe he is truly attached to me ; I can-
not but believe it, and yet he will not take the engagement of
loving me for ever as he does now. He will always have a
true affection for me, he says ; but that is not what I a.sk, and
he declares that the feeling I mean is independent of the will.
I know that my refusal to fix the time of our marriage has of-
fended him deeply, and yet I can not help it. When he is
cold and distant now, I can say to myself: 'it is anger ;' but
when he is cold after I have become his wife, I shall say, ' it is
indifference.' Better, ten times better, his anger than his
indifference. Rose."
Thus Nathalie reasoned, and accordingly persisted in her
conduct ; but in the meanwhile a very painful feeling of es-
trangement had arisen between her and Monsieur de Sainville :
they met coldly and very rarely alone, for they no longer took
advantage of the opportunities which the good-natured Canon-
ess had willingly afforded them ; neither, indeed, felt happy,
yet neither would take the first step that might lead to a recon-
ciliation, which, from there being no open breach, had become
very difficult. The arguments of Rose at length induced Na-
thalie to promise her sister that whenever Monsieur de Sain-
ville might mention the subject of their marriage again, she
would consent without objection ; but he unfortunately could
not know this, and as his pride still suffered from the repulses
he had sustained, he maintained on that point a proud and
haughty silence. Nathalie felt deeply offended, she construed
his reserve into an open and direct insult, and bitterly declared
it was meant to mortify her and give her a lesson. In order
to show how much she resented this supposed intention, she
chose for visiting Aunt Radegonde the days and hours when
fihe knew Monsieur de Sainville to be away or engaged ; left at
the time of his return, and avoided him so studiously that they
420 NATHALIE.
were once ten days without meeting. Such had been the case,
and Monsieur de Sainville was away as usual, when she called
on Aunt Radegonde one afternoon. She found her sitting
alone at the end of the lime-tree avenue, looking sad and
thoughtful.
"I begin to think," said the Canoness, very drearily, "that
this marriage will never take place, and that you will never
come back here, Petite ; matters are not going on well between
you and Arraand ; ijo, not at all well. Do you know I begin
to think it was a mistake all along, and that you now begin to
find out you never liked him as much as you thought."
'' Oh ! no," sorrowfully said Nathalie : " no, Marraine, the
mistake is not there ; it is lie cares less and less for me every
day ; I, alas ! like hira but too well, ay, and more than ever.'
She buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly.
" My child, my poor child !" exclaimed the Canoness, much
distressed, " do not cry so, I am sure it is only a mistake."
" And why should there be a mistake at all V said tht
voice of Monsieur de Sainville.
Nathalie looked up with sudden terror, and turned very
pale, as she beheld him standing before her. He looked grave,
and had evidently overheard her. She did not reply.
" Why should there be a mistake at all? " he repeated, jit-
ting down by her side.
She did not answer or look towards him ; a burning bmsh
was gradually settling over her features. She felt mortified,
vexed, and yet happy, for she knew that the cloud was at length
broken.
' Yes," eagerly said the Canoness, " why should there be a
mistake at all ? Why not have that which would remove all
such mistakes a wedding, for instance," she shrewdly added,
after a pause ; " it would be a good remedy, Petite."
Nathalie did not reply.
" Petite rejects the remedy," quietly observed Monsieur de
Sainville.
" Indeed she does not," quickly rejoined his aunt. " It is
very strange in you Armand, to say, that. I am sure Petite
is too sensible not to feel, not to know in short, Petite will
leave the matter for me as the head of the family to settle, will
she not ?" she added in her most coaxing tones.
Nathalie remained silent ; her pride was undergoing a se
rere trial. If "Monsieur de Sainville had not overheard her.
she would not have felt it, but she had said she liked him better
NATHALIE. 42 1
than ever, and now, whiclicver way slie acted, slie felt con-
demned to appear weak or capricious. He was looking at he?
calmly and attentively. His aunt was going to repeat her
question : he prevented her.
" No, aunt, this privilege belong,s to rac."
' But, Armand," she said, a little stiffly, " I think that aa
head of the house "
" Be kind enough to wave 3-our right for once," he replied,
very seriously.
" Well, for once I do not mind ; but you understand, Ar-
mand, that when the head of the house happens to be a woman,
those matters are generally left to her."
" Yes, aunt, I understand," he answered, a little impatient-
ly. He addressed the Canoness, but kept looking at Nathalie,
The young girl understood this look, and she resolved to
efface by the gravity of her consent, whatever sense of triumph
in him, or mortification in her, it might create.
" It shall now be as you like," she said, very seriously, and
meeting his look as she spoke.
There was a brief silence. Aunt Radegonde vainly com-
pressed her lips- to conceal her smile of triumph ; for it was one
of her weaknesses to imagine every favorable event in which
she was even slightly concerned as the result of the most deep-
ly-laid schemes and diplomacy on her part.
" It would have been a broken match without rne and my
managing," she shrewdly thought ; and again looking at them
both, she smiled openly ; but a cloud soon came over her
cheerful face. They sat side by side indeed, but with glance.'?
which if not averted from one another, were certainly not likely
to meet ; Monsieur de Sainville was looking at the sky before
him ; Nathalie's eyes were bent upon the ground at her feet ;
neither spoke, and yet, though the Canone,ss knew it not, they
might then be as near and understand one another as well aa
in utter solitude. " It is an explanation they want," thought she.
" Mo7i Dieu .'" she suddenly exclaimed aloud, " I have
forgotten my knitting ; only think of that, Armand ; only
think of that, Petite !"
She rose as she spoke thus, and alas ! left them alone.
It was evening : the sun was setting fast ; the blue of
heaven was deepening at the zenith ; but from the western
horizon a flood of golden light poured over the garden and the
surrounding grounds. The first days of summer had come,
and the trees were all in their verdure and beauty ; but in tie
122 NATHALIE.
warm light wliicli now fell upon tliem. they seemed to have
borrowed some of the rich hues of autumn ; even the dark
masses of evergreens in the background had caught a rosy
flush from the setting sun, and the stately cedar rose against
the blue sky, unstirred by a breath from heaven. Every
thing spoke harmony, loveliness, and peace.
Monsieur de Sainville looked thoughtful.
" What is he going to say ?' thought Nathalie, who felt her
heart beating fast. It was now a long time since they had met
thus alone. Nathalie was in a mood when the affections, and
the affections alone, are easily swayed. With a few kind words
her lover might have obtained any concession from her ; she
felt tired of rebellion ; it would have gladdened her to submit,
but to submit because her heart longed for it, certainly not
because it was expedient, or even just. Unfortunately
Monsieur de Sainville neither saw nor suspected this He
concluded, as most men would have concluded in his place,
that his coldness had given the young girl a somewhat severe
but upon the whole a salutary lesson, and that for their mutual
happiness it would be proper to keep this up a little longer.
The temper of his future bride had of late given him some
uneasiness. He began to think that he had been too indulgent ;
that he had mistaken her ; that she was not so easily swayed
as he had first imagined ; above all, that their married life
would require a greater display of will on his part than he had
anticipated. Monsieur de Sainville liked to rule, but not to
command. He wished his authority to be so well established,
that whilst rebellion remained out of the question every
appearance of subjection should be carefully avoided. He
would by no means deprive Nathalie of the wild grace which
freedom gives a grace which became her so well that it
-seemei her own peculiarity. Nay; he even liked her to resist
his will, provided she ended by yielding. He wished his yoke
to seem as light as it was firm in reality. But for this, it was
necessary Natiialie should understand him plainly ; at the
same time this was not a thing easily put in words ; therefore
he hesitated. He spoke at length. The young girl had been
abandoning herself to the soothing charm of the hour then
" Quiet as a nun
Breathless with admiration."
The divine peace of earth and sky seemed to have entered
her heart. She felt as if this were the time for a happy
NATIIALtE. 423
fcconeiliation, and -wondered how he would address her after a
tacit quarrel of three "weeks ; and how he would excuse his
coldness, and seek to soothe her wounded pride. He did
neither ; in gentle, though firm language, he proved to her
that she had been nmch in the wrong ; that they had both
been unhappy ; that such misunderstandings would render any
married life miserable ; that there was only one safe cure for
such cases authority on the side of the husband, and submis-
sion on that of the wife. Nathalie looked up incredulously
into his face.
" Surely I have misunderstood you," she said ; " you do
not mean to say a woman must obey her husband !'"
" I assure you such is my opinion," he seriously replied.
" Would you expect your wife to obey you?"' she promptly
asked.
" Under certain restrictions, I should."
He spoke without the least hesitation. Yet Nathalie
looked up into his face with lingering doubt. ' This is only a
trial," she thought. He resumed :
" I do not understand by obedience a servile submission
which it would be as degrading to exact as to yield ; but that
trust and confidence which induces a woman to" submit, not
blindly, but willingly, to the guidance of him to whom she has
confided her destiny."
" I might agree with you if he were her father," coldlv said
Nathalie,
" A woman's husband ought to have all the authority of a
father," gravely replied Monsieur de Sainville.
' And of a master, it would seem," bitterly exclaimed
Nathalie, who on this subject had all the rebellious feelings
of her sex.
" I am sorry you take this view of the subject," he calmly
resumed. " I had hoped to convince you of the soundness
of my views. You cannot but acknowledge that we have not
of late been quite happy. No married life carried on in this
spirit would be endurable. And why ? Because you have
refused to yield, when it would have been right to do so. Was
I not justified in dismissing Jean, without forgiving him at
your request, or entering into a painful explanation ? Was I
not equally justified in urging an immediate union, when delay
led to such unpleasant consequences ? You, unfortunately,
had not confidence enough in me to recognize or admit this ;
there is but one possible remedy your promise to yield to mo
for the future."
424 rfATHALIE.
" And why should I yield?" impetuously asked Nathalie
who felt much irritated at his coldness.
' Remember," he continued without answering, " that I
ppeak not of servile submission, but of a noble feeling of
confidence. It is impossible you .should think I wish to play
the tyrant with you. But remember the difference of our
dispositions and our years. I love you with the authority and
tenderness of a father. You are very young, and very heedless ;
you must be both my wife and my child."
" I will not," exclaimed Nathalie, stung by this promise of
paternal affection. " I will not be your daughter, or yield you
the obedience of one. I feel myself your equal ; as such I will
be treated."
He waited until she was less excited, then said, with a
coolness that only seemed to increase as she lost her compo-
sure :
" I do not question our equality, I merely say that our po-
sitions will be different. What is the feeling that constitutes
a happy marriage? Faith on either side : in man, as an entire
faith in the love and truth of her he has chosen ; in woman, as
a boundless trust in the honor of her husband. I ask you to
have that trust in me. You cannot imagine that under the
pretence of authority I shall seek to interfere with every detail
of your existence. If you do, indeed, you think me a tyrant in
your heart, however much you may deny it with your lips. All
I want is to be your guide and friend. Domestic strife is the
bane of marriage ; let us avoid it. Promise when our wills are
at variance, that yours will yield to mine, not because I am
your superior, but because my years and experience enable mc
to judge and decide better than you can."
All this might be very reasonable, but logic always chilled
Nathalie. Unfortunately, those who loved her best never
seemed aware that she thought with her heart. Monsieur de
Sainville's cold language fell on her warm southern feelings
,ike the icy breeze of some northern shore. " Oh, no," she
thought, with a swelling heart, as her hopes of a happy recon-
ciliation were thus dispelled. ' No, he never has loved me, or
he would not now speak so coldly !" and tears which she could
not repress dimmed her eyes.
Monsieur de Sainville completely misunderstood her emo
tion. He thought she was yielding, but deploring at the same
time the necessity of being obliged to yield.
' Is it possible," he asked, a little impatiently, '" that the
J7/1THALIB. 425
prospect of yielding up your will to mine now and tben -foril
would be no more can ghock yoi\ so much ?"
Nathalie gave him a look of sorrowful reproach.
"I am not thinking of that," she sadly said, "bat 1 am
thinking that after being to me more distant than the merest
stranger for three weeks, this cold wisdom is all you find to
say now. Oh !" added she, in a low and beseeching tone, " ii
you do indeed wish me to obey you, ask me in some other way
to do so, and I may perhaps subdue my pride so far ; but do not
try to prove to me that I must, that it is a duty ; that if I
refuse, all happiness is gone. Oh ! the heart has arguments
worth all your logic. Say it is something you desire, and I
will grant it without caring what or why."
Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke.
Monsieur de Sainville neither replied nor turned towards
her, and yet he was not unmoved. Had he at that moment fol-
lowed the impulse of his heart, he would have spoken very
tenderly, nor uttered another word about that promise of obe-
dience which it had cost him more to mention than Nathalie,
from his calm manner, imagined. But he knew that if he now
yielded to this impulse, it would be to repent it for ever, and
he therefore firmly resisted it. Besides, in his cold and rigid
honesty he would have scrupled to avail himself of a moment's
yielding tenderness. " Poor child !" he thought, " she has a
kind and affectionate heart ; and yet I must wait until by-and-
bye to tell her how dearly I prize it. For her own good, I
must first convince her that it is right and necessary I should
have a proper control over that stubborn little will and that
flighty temper of hers.
" My dear child," said he, aloud, a little more kindly, but
quite as coldly as before, " you mistake me ; this is no matter
of feeling; I do not appeal to your heart, but to your judg-
ment ; I do not wish to influence, I wish to convince you."
Nathalie smiled bitterly. He spoke kindly, but she felt
chilled and repelled ; all her best feelings seemed thrown back
upon her as weak and worthless things.
" Of what do you wish to convince me V^ she asked, iii a
low tone.
" That for the sake of our mutual happiness it will be jus!
that you should sometimes I shall rarely claim the right
obey me."
Much in life depends upon a word. In spite of his unal*
lered coldness and inflexible tone, Nathalie might have yielded,
fe25 NATHALIE.
but the word " obey " revolted her as a gratuitous insult, llei
color rose, her look lost all at once its usual softness, and her
very lips trembled with indignation as she cried vehemently,
' I will not obey you."
" Then you mistrust me," said he, with a frown. " You
have no confidence in my justice ; none in my honor. You
think I would make an unworthy use of my power."
' I neither know nor care," disdainfully replied Nathalie,
who now felt perfectly reckless ; " but I declare to you that I
will not obey you, or promise to do so."
She rose as she epoke thus with equal decision and energy.
Monsieur de Sainville saw at once that his advantage was
gone, but he would not stoop to compromise or utter a word to
win back what he had lost. Theoretically, love may be all the
pure gold of devotion ; practically, it is alloyed with the meaner
metal of other passions. In Monsieur de Sainville's case, it
blended with pride and inflexible will. Pie rose also.
' Nathalie," said he, with a sort of angry calmness, which
she knew well, " the happiness of our whole existence is at
stake. I ask you once more, will you become my wife, and
promise to obey me?"
Nathalie loved him, but she too was passionate and proud,
Her color deepened as she replied, in broken tones :
' I understand you. and I reject 3'our conditions. I will
not become your wife if I may not be such without obeying
you I release you from a tie which has of late become a bur-
den to you ; which perhaps was always so. Let us part ; we
^re not fit for one another. You do not love me. You never
loved me truly ; and I feel I could not long love one who
seeks not a wife but a slave."
Monsieur de Sainville became extremely pale ; of that
livid pallor which indicates repressed anger ; but he said, in
his coldest tones :
" Be it so."
He turned away as he spoke, without giving her time to
recover, answer, or retract. She stood in the same spot, mo-
tionless as a statue, and well nigh as pale, listening to the
sound of his receding steps on the gravel of the lime-tree ave-
nue. At length the sound ceased ; the library door had closed
upon him.
Until then Nathalie did not seem to have the full con-
sciousness of what had really happened ; but that sound sent
a, strange pang through her heart ; and all at once the thought
NATHALIE. 427
that every thing was over, broke on her with a force so terrible
and so awful, that it seemed to crush her. She sank down on
the bench the same on which they had both sat a few minutes
back conscious of nothing save his last words : " Be it so."
She bowed her head in her hands, and felt like those on
whom the irrevocable sentence has been passed.
How long or how short a time she remained thus, Nathalie
did not know. She was roused by a voice observing, close
to her :
" Petite, why on earth do you stay here ? The dew is
falling."
The words reached her ear, but their meaning seemed
vague and indistinct, like something heard in a dream. Yet
she looked up. Evening was closing in; the lime-trees cast
their deep shadow around her; the air was gray a.nd chill;
Aunt Eadegonde stood before her. Even in this indistinct
light, the Cauoness was struck with the young girl's pallor and
altered features.
' 0/i, onon Dieu !" she agitatedly exclaimed ; " what has
happened ? Why are you here alone ? Where is Armand ?"
Nathalie looked at her drearily. " Where is Armand ?"
Oh, who would ever ask that question of her again, and when
would she reply, " He is here," or " He is coming !"
" Petite !" beseechingly exclaimed the Canoness, " Oh ! tell
me what it is that has happened ?"
Nathalie did not reply ; she rose with an eifort, put on her
bonnet and scarf, which lay on the bench, then bent down, ki/-.s-
sd the Canoness, and, in a low tone, dropped the woras,
' Good bye."
" No, not good bye ; not good byQ," cried Aunt Kadegonde,
very much agitated ; '' it is only good night ; you go early, be-
cause your sister wants you ; you will come back to-morrow ;
the day is fixed, I know. Come, Petite, do not be foolish ; do
not talk so "
" Good bye," again said Nathalie, in a low tone.
The poor Canoness sank down on the seat lately occupied
by the young girl.
" I knew it," she cried ; " yes, I knew it from the first.
What has his love ever brought, save misery? Oh ! he is a
hard-hearted tyrant. God forgive him ; God forgive him ; 1
cannot." _ ^
She said no more, but burst into tears. Nathalie kissed
her once more, and wished to turn away, but the Canonesa
pressed her to her besom, and wept again.
428 NATHALIE.
' You will come and see me," she said.
Natiialie shook her head, and disengaged herself from her
embrace without answering. Yet, before going, she gave one
look to the scenes of so many joys and such bitter grief. Every
thing looked vague and indistinct in the twilight, and the low
sound of the little fountain alone disturbed the deep silence.
Aunt Radegonde was sitting on the bench in a sorrowful and
desolate attitude ; her pale figure and wistful look ever came
back to Nathalie, with the memory of that hour of sorrow.
She had passed through the garden, crossed the court, and
entered the house. As she reached the passage leading to the
hall, the library door opened, and Monsieur de Sainville camo
out. Nathalie recognized him by the light of the lamp, which
fell full on his features. She could not retrace her steps with-
out being heard, and therefore remained standing where she
was, in the deep shadow of the staircase ; but instead of going
up to the drawing-room, as she thought he would, Monsieur de
Sainville came pi'ccisely to the spot where she stood. He did
not see her until they stood face to face. All the blood in
Nathalie's frame rushed tumultuously to her heart ; but she
neither moved nor spoke. He, as pale, silent, and yet as agi-
tated as the young girl, stood equally irresolute. At first, he
seemed inclined to move on, but he suddenly changed his re-
solve ; and, taking both her hands in his, drew her forward to
the light, and looked at her fixedly. Before she could recover
from the surprise into which this sudden act had thrown her,
he had dropped her hands, opened the door leading to iht
court, and was gone.
For a few minutes, Nathalie remained motionless on the
spot where he had left her. She remembered the evening
when he had told her that he wanted to look at her, because
he was going away for a fortnight ; but then his look was not
so sad, so grave, nor, alas ! so brief,
Rose was in her room undressing when her sister entered
It. One look at Nathalie's pale face told her all that had hap-
pened. She had long foreseen this, yet the shock made her
turn pale, and drew from her an exclamation of sorrow ; but
she asked no explanation.
" I will tell you all some day," said Nathalie, in a low tone.
" Be merciful, and do not question me now."
She sat down on a chair, and buried her face in her hands.
She remained there for several hours, and would not go to bed
until near daylight. When she at length laid down by the
NATHALin. 429
side of her sister, Rose half-raised herself on one elbow, and
watched her anxiously. She was motionless, but evidently not
asleep ; the dull morning light added to the waxen pallor of
her features ; her hands lay folded on her bosom ; her eyes
were closed, but no tears stole from beneath the sealed eye-
lids. She never spoke once, nor did Rose address her: for
the sorrow that will not reveal itself in words, language has
no consolation.
Nathalie rose with her sister. It was early still, as the
deep quietness of heaven and earth revealed. She opened the
window, and unclosed the shutters, and sat down, leaning her
brow against the iron bar of the little balcony. The rosy
light of the rising sun fell on the old abbey and on the little
churchyard beyond ; the breeze was cool and pure ; there was
something holy in this quiet time. But its repose was lost osi
the young girl. Oh ! how often will troubled human hearts
quarrel witla the eternal peace and loveliness of nature.
" You will get cold, if you sit thus in your nightdress,"
said Rose, closing the window as she spoke thus, chiefly for
the purpose of extracting some reply ; but Nathalie gave her
none. She merely drew her chair near the table, and. with a
pencil, began writing a few hurried lines on a slip of paper.
Scarcely, however, was this done, when she tore what she had
written, almost angrily ; rose, walked up and down the room,
and slowly returned to her seat to write once more. She fold-
ed up the slip of paper in the shape of a note, held it for i
few minutes between her fingers, and at length, with evident
effort, handed it to her sister, who now stood dressed before
her.
" Rose," said she, in a low, steady voice, but without look-
ing at her, " you will take this immediately, you know where
and to whom. See no one save the person for whom this
is destined."
" Very well," replied Rose, " I shall do so."
She looked compassionately at her sister, but Nathalie
avoided the glance with evident pain.
An hour elapsed before Rose entered once more the house
of Madame Lavigne But that she always looked thus, one
would have said that Rose now looked very grave and sad.
She slowly ascended the staircase leading to her room. She
seemed to know without inquiry that there, and there only, she
would find her sister. She was there, indeed, dressed now, but
sitting in llie same place and almost in the same attituda
430 NATHALIE.
She looked up as Rose entered ; their eyes met, but neither
tspoke.
" Well," at length said Nathalie, speaking with evident
effort ; "you have been there, Rose, have you not?"
" Yes, I have been there."
" And you you I mean you gave the letter. What !
did you leave it?" she added, with sudden terror as Rose did
not reply. " Rose, you cannot have left it ; it was not sealed."
Rose did not answer ; but with averted look, silently
handed a slip of paper to her sister ; it fell from Nathalie's
hand ; for on opening it, she recognized what she herself had
written. Her head drooped on her bosom, and she clasped
her hands, as she exclaimed in a low tone :
"Returned! To what other humiliation am I reserved?
And returned unread, no doubt ?" she added, with an inquir-
ing and wistful glance at her sister. " Well, no matter, do not
turn away your head or look so sad, my poor Rose. I have
often heard him say the time has long gone by when women
died of grief"
Rose seemed strangely moved, but did not answer.
" But he shall, but he must hear me," exclaimed Nathalie,
with a burst of sudden and despairing grief. " I am not proud,
I care nothing about pride ; where there is love, there is no
pride. I have a right to be heard ; yesterday I was his
affianced wife, it cannot be that I am nothing to him to-day.
Let him, lei the world say what they like I say it is love and
not the word of mayor or blessing of priest that makes mar-
riage. He will not read my letter he shall hear me. If he
will not see me, I will wait for him by the road-side ; I know
well the road he takes, and I care not how long I wait, no\
who sees me, but come what will, I say he shall hear me."
" Hush ! do not talk so," said Rose ; " your letter was not
returned."
' Not returned ! Why then did you bring it back ? Ah !
I understand," she agitatedly added, " you came from me and
were therefore refused admittance. Well, you are right. Rose,
it was foolish in me to talk so. No, I shall not trouble him
with my presence or with my words."
Rose turned towards her with an expression of deep sad-
ness ; their looks met once more. A sudden terror seemed to
S3ize on Nathalie, for she rose and clasped her hands.
" Rose," she cried, " do not look thus and be so silent. No.
it is not true ; I am sure he is not gone. I am sure he is
NATHALIE. 43]
not, Oh ! tell me thai he will come back, sister ; be merciful,
tell nte something."
Her voice saak down to a low and despairing tone, soon
broken by convulsive sobs.
' Alas ! my poor child," sadly replied Rose, " would I
might have spared you this bitter trial ; but it is the will of
God."
She handed her another letter as she spoke.
Nathalie took it ; she was very pale, and as she held it
unopened for a while, her hand shook visibly. With an ef-
fort, she broke the seal, but a mist was on her eyes ; the
characters looked illegible and dim. She handed the letter
to her sister, and said, in a low tone :
" Read it to me, Rose ; you read another letter once, not
so very long ago. but rather different fi'om this, I dare say."
Rose read. The letter was from Monsieur de Sainville ;i
last farewell letter calm, indulgent, and very kind. He laid
no blame to Nathalie, and took some to himself ' It was not. '
he wrote, " merely on account of what had passed between
them on a previous day that they parted, but because they had
loved most unwisely. Our natures," he pursued, '-could
never have harmonized. You would have thought me cold
and indifferent, and I should have wearied of those doubts
and unexpressed reproaches. I once thought the great
difference between us favorable to our mutual affection ; 1
have lived to expiate this bitter mistake. Believe me, my
dear ^hild, it is far better to part now than to discover our
error later. Harsh, yet true philosophy ! To say we shall
not both suffer would be folly. Suffer we must, for we both
love, and must for a long time love still. But time, as you
too will live to know, cures many wounds. I leave to-morrow
early ; we shall not meet again, for a long time, at least.
Perhaps your feelings are very bitter against me ; yet I have
a favor to ask, and by the memory of a happier time, I con-
jure you to grant it : do not foi'sake my poor aunt. Twice
have I involuntarily been to her the cause of the same bitter
sorrow ; do not, I beseech you, abandon her. It will be long,
very long, years perhaps, before my presence need disturb you
in that house which I had once thought would be your own
home.
" I know not how you will receive this request, for I know
not how you think of me, resentfully, I dare say. Do you
magine, then, that this separation is not to me also the source
132 NATHALIE.
of bitter paui 1 And yet I have a consolation whicli, if 1 un-
derstand your character rightly, will be denied you. For,
whereas you will do all you can to cast me from your heart, I
shall still cherish the memory of the past, and of every thing
which, from the first, made you dear. I have always loved
you with a truer affection than you imagined ; I call it truer,
because I feel even now, that though it may change in nature,
it cannot change in sincerity."
Rose ceased. Her sister looked up.
' Rose," she said, " there is more, I am sure, turn over the
page ; there must be something else a postscript : look."
Rose silently handed her the letter. There was nothing-
else, save the word " farewell," which, in pity to her feelings.
Rose had not read aloud. Nathalie glanced over the paper,
put it by, and sat down near the table, in a listless and dreary
attitude. Her sister stood before her, eyeing her with the sad-
ness always inspired by the con.sciousness of unavailing sym
pathy.
" What can I do for you, my poor child ?" she gently
asked.
' Nothinc:, Rose, save to leave me alone for a while ; I will
soon go down."
Rose silently complied. After a while Nathalie took up
the letter again, read it, and remained tearless. This was no
time for the luxury of weeping ; she had wept before, happy
tears, in which hope and gleams of joy blended with sadness ;
but this foolish time was over now ; the hour for real sorrow
Lad come at last.
It was a genial morning, of summer's earliest and most
lovely days. The sun shone brightly; its warmth was tem-
pered by the fresh and pleasant breeze which came in to her,
through the open window. A few children played in the
churchyard beyond, the sound of their laughter rose pleasantly
on the ear ; the rooks cawed and wheeled around the old tower
opposite ; a servant maid in her high Norman cap and clatter-
ing sabots, sang in the court below, as she filled her pitcher of
water from the fountain ; Nathalie saw and heard all this
drearily ; a load of misery was at her heart. She wondered
how the sky could be so bright and blue, when the sunshine
of life was departed. How others could laugh and sing, when
the delight of her existence had vanished for ever. She read
the letter again ; not once, or twice, but over and over. She
dwelt on each word, and she was ingenious in giving it tho
NATHALIE. 433
most painful meaning so that its sting might enter her heart
more surely ; that she might quaff her cup to its bitterest
dreg, and not be cheated out of one drop of her woe. For
when she saw how miserable she was, she remembered how
happy she might have been.
" I am nothing, it seems, but the merest stranger to liim
now," she thought, with a swelling heart, " but I might hav(
been hi. wife, and I would have made him love me truly. I
should hav^ r?ont my life with him, been the mistress of his
household, the sharer of his joys, and of his sorrows, if he had
any. He would have left me occasionally, but I should have
liked it. How pleasant to wait and watch for his return, and
feel gladdened by the sound of his step; how much more plea-
sant still to meet his smile, and listen to his greeting !" She
broke off, for she had been forgetting herself, and losing the
truth in a dream. "And now," she thought, despairingly,
' it is all over, and even the hope of this must never return.
And my own folly has done it all. Had I the shadow of a
wish to quarrel with him for power ? Why did I not speak,
when we met last night, and he looked the farewell he per-
chance did not know how to utter? He was mine, then, and
for that moment. Why did I let him go so silently? Why
was my foolish heart so full, that words arose to my lips, antl
only died away unuttered?"
She bowed her head, and for the first time wept long and
bitterly.
The moi.ning was over when Nathalie went down stairs.
Desiree was ill, and Rose had to attend to household matters.
The blind woman sat alone in her usual place ; she reclined in
her arm-chair, with her head thrown back, and her sightless
eyes turned towards the light, which appeared to her like a
faint white gleam ; her hands lay folded on her knees slie
looked fretful.
" I wonder what you have been doing up-stairs all this
time ?" she peevishly asked.
Without answering, Nathalie took the seat usually occu-
pied by Rose, and continued her sister's interrupted task ; but
it soon dropped from her hands, and this the blind woman'h
acute ear detected.
' You are not sewing," she said ; " I do not hear the sound
of your needle and thread."
Nathalie did not reply. She was thinking that her old
existence had begun anew. For a while she had entered the
19
434 NATHALIE.
charmed island of promise wliich had so long receded before her.
She had rejoiced in its beauty and tasted the sweetness of its
waters ; but now she was cast back on the dreary and deso-
late shore of her former existence. Hope had once lured lier
on ; despair was her guide and companion now. The love she
had given so willingly was rudely rejected ; the love for which
she longed was sternly withheld. She might thirst in vain
along the dreary desert of life, no hand for which she cared
would bring the cup of living waters to quench her spirit's
burning thirst ; she might feel weak and sinking, no protect-
ing arni would sustain her in that wearisome jouriey; she
might droop and weep, no bosom would be her haven of rest.
To render her fate more bitter, she was gifted with memory ;
she could remember that a happier destiny had once awaited
her ; that she v/ho was now an exile, had been blessed with
home and native land. Then came the ever-tormenting
thought, ' that by her own hand had this bitter fate been
wrou2;ht. She might have avoided it she knew him his
sternness and his iron will ^the struggle between passion and
resentful severity which had opened his existence as a man :
but at her cost this time had the bitter victory been won.
" You will neither talk nor work ; you are abominably self-
ish," exclaimed Madame Lavigne, indignantly.
Nathalie said nothing. She scarcely heard her.
" Give me a cushion to put behind my back," said the blind
woman, exasperated at her silence.
Nathalie rose and complied apathetically. In returning
to her seat she chanced to cast an abstracted glance at the
mirror. She paused, wondering at the strange image it re-
voaled. Oh ! this was not the light-hearted and blooming
maiden, with look so free, and smile so hopeful, whom she re-
membered seeing there but yesterday ; that pale, mournful
face, listless look, and drooping figure, belonged to some other.
She now beheld a suffering woman, young still in form and
feature, but with years of sorrow on her brow.
NATHALIE. 43:
CHx\.PTER XXX.
Frivolou-s and capricious in temper, like a true daugliter
of the south, Nathalie was not frivolous at heart. What sho
felt, she felt passionately, whether in good or ill ; but even her
deepest feelings were subject to the sudden changes of her tem-
per. She always felt as much in the main, but she often felt
differently.
At first she had been bitter in her reproaches and self-accu-
sations. It was her own folly had done it all ; she might, had
she been wise, have been the happiest of women. But grad-
ually other feelings came to her ; she no longer thought that
she was alone to blame.
Had Monsieur de Sainvillo ever truly loved one he could
so readily relinquish ? He knew her with all her faults, her
waywardness, and caprice ; could he not have been more for-
bearing ? He could ! she resentfully felt it ; but he had been
as stern and relentless with her as if she were something to
cru.sh and subdue, and not one to love and cherish. He had
seized on the words uttered in a moment of passion ; and yet
he acknowledged to her that it was not by those words that
they were parted. It would have been soothing to her pride
though a most bitter thought if she could have imagined that
this separation was her own act, and hers only. He took care
to inform her that it was not so ; and she was reduced to feel
glad that he had not received and read the submissive and de-
spairing letter Avhich she had written to him, after a night of
misery. How would he have received it ? With the pity and
contempt which she knew that he felt for weakness.
Bat what stuug her most deeply, was his promise of con-
tinued affection. If he had only spoken vindictively, yes, even
with hatred, she could have forgiven him ; for in the depth of
his anger she would also have read the depth of his self-in-
flicted wound, But never, alas ! was lover's farewell more
calm or less impassioned.
Many days elapsed before Nathalie could be induced to sec
Aunt Radegonde in that dwelling where ^he had been so happy
and so wretched. The gentle Canoness visited her once or
twice, but she was effectually scared away by the ill-temperc-d
growling of Madame Lavignc.
436 NATHALIE.
" My dear child," she whispered to Nathalie in the door-
way, ' how can you live with that dreadful woman ? Do you
think she is really blind ? I can assure you I have my sus-
picions on that subject, and you know my penetration. Oh !
do, Petite, do come back to live with me."
Nathalie shook her head, and replied in a low tone, that
this was impossible.
" Well then, come and see me," urged the poor Canoness ;
" I am dying of ennui in that great chateau ; even Amanda
has left me, though I oifered to raise her wages if she would
only stay. The girl declared that she could not, that the peo-
ple here were so arrier^^ so void of ideas, it was impossible to
consort with them. Think, Petite, how I must feel it, and do
come and see me sometimes. I have come here twice, but
really I cannot come again, for that dreadful blind woman
looked and I am sure she sees as if she would turn me out
the next time. Oh ! do come."
Nathalie promised to call on her old friend ; but some time
elapsed ere she kept her word. On a bright summer evening
she at length left the dull house in the court, and went up to
the chateau. She walked slowly, for a heavy and unconquera-
ble sadness was at her heart. The little town had formerly
been surrounded by a wall ; a few broken portions of it still
remained, and at the extremity of the steep street which verged
into the road leading to the chateau stood the arch of an old
ruined gateway. It was near that very spot they had parted
one evening, when by the clear moonlight she had read in his
glance such deep, and as she then thought, unconquerable
aifecti^n. She paused, hesitatingly, near the spot ; Lad there
been another path she would have taken it. It is a dreary
thing to see with a changed heart the unchanged places where
we have left a portion of our former existence, and which, alas !
are too often the only things that keep faithfully the dreams
and hopes of our past. Nathalie did not look around her ; she
kept her eyes fixed on the old gate ; on the burning horizon,
which seemed to pass behind it like a line of glowing fire ; on
the west, where the setting sun shot forth long slanting rays
of dazzling light that streamed along the winding road and
passed beneath the arch, giving a mellower tint to the stones
embrowned by age and overrun with clustering ivy. The air
was pure and still ,- not a breath moved the creeping plants,
which sprang thick and luxuriant from every dark cranny of
the ruin ; and the slender grasses growing betwixt the highest
^'ATIIAL1E. 437
stones rose stralglit and still on the blue sky unstiiTed by the
faintest breeze. But in vain did Nathalie seek to fix her look
on the splendor of the setting sun, or on the serene beauty of
the evening sky. In vain did she seek to avoid glancing at the
spot -where they had both lingered together. Her heart would
throb and her eyes turn towa,i-ds it as she passed it by. A
peasant youth and a pretty Norman girl were now standing
there conversing in low whispered tones. A jealous par^g shot
through Nathalie's heart, and she involuntarily paused to look
at them for a moment. " What had they come there for V
she thought ; " were there no other places where lovers might
meet and talk of love, hope and happiness all things lost to
her for ever ?"
The Canoness was sitting alone in the drawing-room. She
uttered an exclamation of joy as Nathalie entered, but it was
soon checked by the young girl's pale aspect and desolate look.
" Pauvre Petite !" said she, kissing Nathalie, and taking both
her hands in her own, whilst tears gathered in her eyes ; " it
was very kind in you to come. Yes, very kind indeed ; for it
is plain you do not like it. Oh ! can I ever forgive Armand?"
" Let us talk of something else," quickly interrupted Natha-
lie.
But in spite of their mutual efforts, the conversation
ever returned to this theme, and at length Nathalie ceased to
check it.
Who knows but that as she sat there at the feet of her old
friend, in her old attitude, with her head bowed and resting on
her hands, she did not feel a strange and bitter pleasure in
hearing mentioned that name, which, in spite of resentment
and pride, still troubled and haunted her heart?
At first the Canoness was very indignant and prodigal of
accusations; but when her long-repressed anger was thus dis-
burtheued, she softened gradually, and, without justifying her
nephew, she spoke of him with less asperity.
" You see, Petite," she observed, with a sigh, " he is a cold,
reasonable man, whom passion will never blind. If he was so
in youth, is it astonishing he should be so still? We spoko
long together on the evening before he went. I said many bit-
ter things ; he heard me very patiently, and replied, that he
understood my anger, and that as it proceeded from love for
you, he only liked me the better for it."
' ' She shall always be dear to me as my own child,' he said.
' I once had other hopes ; but it may not be. You must hava
1138 NATHALIK.
hei- here with you, aunt ; the close air of that court where her
sister lives would ruin her health. If she looks pule and ill,
procure her diversions, whether she will or not. A little
travelling would do you both good. Why should you not go
together to Provence ; we have some friends there, and Petite
would like to see her native Aries once more.'
" ' Then you love her still, Armand V I could not help
saying.
" ' As my own child,' he said again. He spoke so seriously,
that I asked perhaps it was scarcely right ' how he would
like to see you married to another?' "
" What did he say ?" inquired Nathalie, suddenly looking up.
" Nothing at first ; but to judge by his moody look and
compressed lips, it seemed no very pleasent idea. ' She will
not think of that just yet,' he at length replied ; and when she
does tliink of it, I have no doubt that I shall have grown equal-
ly reconciled to what is now inevitable.'"
" Inevitable !" bitterly said Nathalie.
" My dear child," nervously observed the Canoness, " I am
very sorry to have repeated all this ; for, to tell you the truth,
Armand made me give my word of honor that it would remain
a secret between us, and that I would induce you to come here
on my own account without so much as mentioning his name.
Of course I should have kept the secret (you know my re-
serve), if it had not unfortunately slipped out. Indeed, Petite,
3'ou must not be too angry with Armand. He is still very
much attached to you. There is nothing he desires more than
for you to remain here. My belief is, that he contemplate?
ultimately adopting you as his daughter, a much wiser plan
than the old one. Ind.eed I always thought it strange so
prudent a man should have thought of marrying a mere child ;
but I suppose the wisest have their moments of folly. JEntre
nous, Petite, I think your excitable little head deceived you ;
and that you never really loved him. I need not tell you that if
you agree to this, you will be doing Charles no wrong. From the
first I saw, with my usual penetration, that his uncle did not
like him much ; whereas you were always quite a pet of his.
Oh ! Petite, it will be much more pleasant thus. As for
marrying, I am convinced you never will. I shall find so
many good arguments, that I really must end by convincing
you of the beauties of female celibacy. And when we are all
three together "
" Do not mention it," almost indignantly interrupted Na-
thalie ; ' such a thing is impossible."
NATHALIE. 4o9
"And why so, Petite?" quietly asked the Canouess ; ' ]
tell you Armand is as fond of you as if you were his own
child. He has said so ; and he never tells an untruth. Of
course when love which makes all the mischief in this world
is out of the question, there will be no more quarrelling."
Oh, poignant truth ! which Nathalie felt in the deepest
recesses of her heart. Yes, indeed, when love was gone, they
might both live in peace under the same roof which was once
to have sheltered them, not as two, but as one, made such by
what in her faith Nathalie held as the divine sacrament oi
marriage.
She resented the language of the Canoness as cruel and
unfeeling ; yet reflection assured her that it was not so, and
that if Aunt Radegonde spoke thus calmly, it was because
what then passed in Nathalie's heart was, and had ever been
to her, as an unheard and unspoken language.
The young girl went home that evening with another
torturing thought in her heart. Monsieur de Sainville still
felt much kindness and affection for her, but an affection
which she resented more than indifference. For love has
many nice and jealous distinctions; it will have all or nothing,
and scorns a part where it gives the whole. The thought that
she had never been loved save as a pleasant and piquant com-
panion, to be still retained even when the project of making
her a wife had been abandoned, was a source of ceaseless
torment, for it robbed her even of the past, that last refuge of
the unhappy.
For the first time since his departure, she spoke openly to
Rose. They were sitting upstairs in that little room which
Jiad once heard such different confessions. Nathalie told her
sister all ; the cause of their separation, his harshness, what
Aunt Radegonde had mentioned, and her own bitter and
b aruing resentment.
' I will never forgive him ; no, not even in my heart," she
passionately exclaimed. " What his aunt once told me is true,
Rose ; that man has a heart of stone. Woe and misery to the
women who love such men !"
' Alas ! why do you not say woe to the women who love at
all ?" sadly replied Rose. " My poor child, women are idola-
ters ; why, then, should they not suffer? Their adoration is a
fallen angel worshipping earthly idols within sight of heaven.
But one woman have I known happy in her love, and she died
week ago. She was poor, plain, and no longer young, but
t40 NATHALIE.
she must have been happy, for she was truly loved. Whei.
her relatives came to claim the little she had left, her husband
meekly submitted, and asked to keep nothing of what she had
brought him save the pillow on which her head had first rested
beneath his roof Oh ! pure and faithful must have been the
heart, who, when she died, a wan, faded woman, after years of
toil, saw her as fresh and as lovely as on the bridal day !"
" Oh ! you may well call her happy, Rose," said Nathalie,
with much bitterness.
' But it was a poor earthly happiness after all," replied
Rose ; ' see how pitilessly it was cut short by death. Oh !
Nathalie, set not your heart too much on things of this world ;
one grave shall receive the loved and the unloved, and when
earth has covered them over, who shall tell the difference ?"
Rose was standing near the window, in the moonlight, as
she spoke thus. The tallow light they had brought up had
burned away in its socket whilst they talked together, but a
clear summer moon gave light enough to their narrow room.
Nathalie sat, half-undressed, on the edge of the bed ; she look-
ed at her sister, and wondei'ed whether it was the wan light
now falling on her features that made her look so pale,
" Rose !" she suddenly exclaimed, " are you well ?"
" Yes, pretty well."
But her voice was languishing and low. A thought which
in her happiness, and in the subsequent misery, had never
come to Nathalie, now suddenly smote her heart. She remem-
bered signs long unheeded, or scarcely understood at the time,
and for a while she forgot all about the past or present of her
love.
" Rose," she anxiously said, " I feel sure you are not well."
" I have not been quite well of late," was the calm reply.
" OA, vion Dieu /" cried Nathalie, in an agitated tone, '-and
I neve- noticed it. How cruelly selfish I have bean, Rose."
She left her place, kissed her sister and wept.
" But child, I am not so very ill," said Rose, smiling faintly.
" Oh, Rose ! it is not merely of your illness, I think, but
also of my ingratitude in not noticing it before."
She seemed, and was really grieved, and Rose did not seek
to comfort ber. She thought that any diversion to her feel
ings, however painful, would be beneficial to her sister, and
therefore allowed her to upbraid herself freely. But the diver-
sion was brief Rose, whose health had really been failing,
partly recovered, and Nathalie became accustomed to the slight
KATIIALIE. 441
Signs of ill-health which remained behind. It seemed natural
for Rose to be so pale, and to speak in that subdued tone.
In the meanwhile it was agreed that Nathalie should re-
main with her sister. Rose wished it ; she thought she could
best combat the young girl's melancholy she might indeed
elsewhere, but the readiness with which Nathalie acceded to
her desire, ought to have shown her the dangerous pleasure
her sister was likely to find in this excessive retirement. To
Rose this life was natural and congenial ; she had submitted
to it in the spirit of a martyr, and because it had purified and
exalted her nature : she concluded it would do the same for
Nathalie. But slie had only dreams, vain shadows of the heart,
to conquer, and her sister had its most burning reality a deep,
impassioned love to subdue. Religion and duty had been
enough for the elder sister, but more was needed for Nathalie.
She should have gone forth to seek forgetfulness, have entered
into some of the active struggles of existence, have known want
and care ; and these stern guides might, perhaps, have led her
through many a rugged path to the feet of peace. She knew
this, and shrank from it with dread ; she did not wish to forget,
to be cured ; she feared the solitude and indi9"erence of the
heart, which prudence told her to seek. She loved to brood
over the sorrow which had become part of her being. At
another freer and happier period of her existence, she would
have considered it a most miserable destiny to be condemned
to live with Madame Lavigne and Rose in this dreary solitude;
but now the case was altered. Nathalie no longer felt alone ;
thft past went with her wherever she moved ; it wrapt her
within its mournful shadow ; it was not in Madame Lavigne'f-
house that she lived, but in a haunted world, for which she
would have dreaded the open light of day. She had come to
the dangerous point of loving the fever which fed and con-
sumed her being.
Now that Nathalie had once more lost her gayety, her pre-
sence was any thing but acceptable to the blind aunt of Rose.
She complained ; her niece resisted firmly and gently. She
only wanted her sister to remain a few months with her, and
when summer was over, she would find her another home. Ma-
dame Lavigne grumbled, but the purpose of Rose was not to
be changed. Nathalie remained passive and indifferent. She
saw that to Rose these contests were rendered painless by
habit, and she herself became so much accustomed to Madame
Lavigne's eternal reproaches, that they fell unheeded on hei
19*
442 NATHALIE.
ear, and made no more impression upon it than the monotonous
voice of falling waters to those who live within their ceaseless
and rushing sound. In her better moments, Nathalie strug-
gled against the torpor in all things save one, into which she
was gradually sinking. She tried to live to reality, instead of
leading a false and charmed life ; but the silent house, with
only tlie ticking of the clock, and the monotonous grumbling
of Madame Lavigne to break on its stillness, with its dull sub-
dued light and cheerless aspect, led her back almost inevitably
to the land of the dreamy past. She even began to love her
prison ; like a nun accustomed to the deep shadow of the cloirf-
ter, she shrank from the glare of day, and found both protec-
tion and freedom in the very routine which now shrouded her
existence.
Thus passed away the summer.
Abstracted and wrapped in her own thoughts as she was,
Nathalie saw that her sister was gradually though visibly de-
clining. Even Madame Lavigne became conscious of this fact,
and listened uneasily to tlio sliort and painful breathing of her
niece.
" How does she look?" she once asked of Nathalie.
"Very pale and thin."
"But not very ill?" rejoined Madame Lavigne; "she has
always been so, you know."
' Rose looks ill, madame."
" But why should she look ill 1 she has enough to eat and
drink, surely ? I stint her in nothing. Is it air she wants,
let her go out and take plenty of exercise. But the truth of it
is she is not ill at all, and this is only your foolish imagining."
" I imagine nothing," gravely replied Nathalie, " but I see,
and cannot help remembering that Rose's mother was con-
sumptive."
' But she is not," angrily cried the blind woman. " You
cruel girl, how dare you say so of your own sister? Do you
mean to say that Rose is going to die ? Good heavens !" she ad-
ded, wringing her hands with sudden distress, " what shall I do
then alone in this house, with that old tyrant Desiree?"
Nathalie gave her an indignant look, which fell harmlessly
on the blind aunt of Rose.
From that time the young girl watched her sister with a
degree of sorrowful interest which partly made her forget the
other feelings of her heart. "Whether Rose was conscious of
her state or not, Nathalie could not tell ; she looked more
NATHAiMK. 443
thoughtful than was her wont, and there was an increase of
gentleness in her manner, but when her aunt, in a sudden lit
of aflfection, or rather fear, offered to send for a doctor, sho
merely replied : ' It is useless," and it was hard to tell wheth-
er she spoke thus from the feeling that there was no actual
danger, or from the knowledge that the time for warding off
danger was already passed. Nathalie did not long remain in
doubt on this point. On a dull autumn day, with a cheerless
gray sky, that made the dark room where they sat alone work-
ing together, seem more dreary and comfortless than of wont,
Rose suddenly addressed her sister, who looked, as she had too
often looked of late, pale and sad.
" Nathalie," she said, laying down her work to look at her
sister, ' I had hoped better things of you ; at first you strug-
gled more courageousl}'."
Nathalie, startled at the abruptness of this address for
there was one subject on which they never spoke looked up
uneasily and did not answer. Rose continued :
' Adversity has taught you in vain. Oh ! foolish child, in
what book did you ever read that happiness was the end of life,
and girlish love the idol of a woman's heart ?"
' In none," slowly answered Nathalie.
" And yet you act as if you had not only read this, but seen
it. Every useless feeling is guilty, and be it love or resentment
that now fills your heart, it is your duty to tear it hence."
" Rose ! Rose !" almost passionately exclaimed Nathalie,
" it is you that talk as they talk in books, coldly and dispas-
sionately. May I not ask how you should decide on this, ym
who have never loved?"
" True, I have not," replied Rose ; " but may I not have
im-xgined what love could be ?"
' You !" cried Nathalie, looking up. She saw a faint blush
mantling her sister's pale cheeks, and her eyes fast filling with
tears.
" Did you think then," said Rose, with deep and sudden
Badness, " that because I was plain and unlovely, I could not
dream of what love might be ? Did you think then that be-
cause I seemed reasonable and calm, I had not a woman's
heart?"
Nathalie was too much surprised to reply.
" Nathalie," continued her sister, after a pause, ' I do not
think I have very long to live. I believe you know it. I have
at least noticed the watchful and uneasy glance which you havo
144 NATUAL!K.
often fastened on me of late. Before I leave you, let me be
seech you once more to rule your heart and its feelings. Life
is brief; bear it in a noble and courageous spirit. I will not
say, take example from me, because our positions have been
essentially different ; but I will say, hear me, and learn that
every heart has its own sorrows. No doubt you, like every
one, think me cold ; whatever I may be, cold I am not ; but
youth is the key that unlocks after-life, and mine was very
cheerless. Yet I too, calm as I seem now, have had my dreams,
and dreams which would make the wildest romance I ever read
seem poor and tame." .
" I thought you did not read romances," said Nathalie,
more astonished than ever.
" Not within your remembrance, I dare say ; but years ago,
when I was young, I read many ; for then I lived in a land of
unreality, of which they formed a part. No one ever suspected
it; I was called apathetic, and reproved as cold. This was the
misfortune of my life ; I could not make myself understood. I
felt it, and sought to undeceive no one. AVho would have
believed one so pale, so plain, so inexpressive in person and
feature, had a Iieart to feel? You know how my youth was
spent in this house with my aunt. Her temper has always
been what it is Slie so effectually checked every thing like a
free and happy feeling, that in the end reserve became a habit,
through which I could not break. My most acute sensations
have never betrayed tliemselves externally, and when I have
suflFered, I have suffered doubly. But, at the time of which I
speak, I was happy in my heart's imaginings. All around me
was harsh, stern, and displeasing ; but I made myself a home
and world of my own, wherein I moved and had my real being ;
where many loved me as I have never been loved, and greeted
me with kind voices such as I never heard. Towards these
imaginary beings I turned all the vague yearnings of my heart ;
but, alas ! that heart, human-like, would not be thus deceived ;
it longed for truth ; my soul soon sickened at the emptiness of
its own creations ; it turned away from them with bitterness
and grief Yet there were days when, repelled by every thing
outward, I came back penitent and weary to my visionary home ;
when I recalled once more the ideal beings I had loved of yore ;
when I held myself blessed, though it were but for an hour, to
quench ray longing thirst at that fount of deceiving waters.
This sounds strange, Nathalie, and yet you hear in mine the
history of many a human heart. But there is a difference
NATHALIE. . 445
between my destiny and that of others, at least amongst those
I have known. If they dreamed like me, they saw their dreams
either broken or fulfilled ; they drank from the cup of know-
ledge full draughts of bitterness or bliss ; they passed the
threshold of life and trod along its lovely or its rugged paths ;
and whether they were blessed or doomed, they at least accom-
plished their destiny. But with me it vas not thus. I was
haunted by visions which tortured me because it would never
be in my power to test either their hollowness or truth. The
knowledge, the actual experience, for which I thirsted so ar-
dently was denied me for ever. Others passed on before me
and engaged in the strife of existence ; I sat an exile at the
doar, passive, listless, and unheeded. I could not be said to
live ; I glided down the stream of life without more power to
direct my course than the barque which is sent adrift. No
one seemed to wonder at this. Young girls came and told me
their secrets, and let me understand it was because they saw I
had no secrets of my own. They were right ; I had no such
secrets ; I was excluded from existence. I sometimes asked
myself if it would be always thus ? I knew that it would, and
my heart sank from this fate ; from the cheerless relative who
was my only stay, and the gloomy dwelling my only home.
You complain, Nathalie, but I tell yoTi that a sorrow, a real
sorrow, would have been bliss to me, for to suffer would have
been to live. I grew sick at heart and longed for death. I
was not very devout in those days, and thought not, as I think
now, of the Christian's immortality. Death then, seemed a
mournful and Le*.he-like repose, a divine and lovely mystery ;
I looked not beyond that untroubled sleep in the cool bosom
of the green earth beneath the blue sky. I prayed to die with
the same ardent prayers I had once put forth for happiness and
earthly-love. I did not say to the Almighty : ' Take my life,'
but I yearned for repose ; and every passionate wish, whether
embodied in words or not, is still the heart's truest, deepest
prayer."
She paused. Nathalie, leaning back in her chair, with her
hands clasped upon her knees, was looking sad and amazed at all
she heard.
" You would not have thought this of me," said Rose, with
a mournful smile, " of me, your calm, apathetic sister ; nor am I
now what I was then. I speak of feelings that have long and
wholly vanished. Sorrow works its own cure. No human lieart
waa ever framed for ceaseless repining. Mine left me ; I re-
145 . NATHALIE.
member the day and the hour. I sat alone in this room, near
this window; it was evening, day faded fast, and a few pale stars
shone from the depths of the blue sky above the abl^ey. Mj
heart was very full. I knelt down and prayed in broken and
inarticulate ejaculations. ' Why am I alone ? Why does
nothing care for me? Others are loved why am I not?
Oh ! God, since I am useless in this world since woman's
destiny is denied me have mercy on me let me die.' My
tears flowed fast and I sought not to check them. I know not
what day it was-^sorae saint's festival, I suppose, for as I wept,
the old colored church-window before me was lit up with the
mellow light of many lamps within, doubtless for some evening
service, and the organ pealed forth with a solemn strain, and
soft voices, blending in religious harmony, rose sweet and clear
in. the silence of evening. My rebellious heart melted within
me I remembered a sermon I had heard as a child on the text
of ' Take up your cross and follow me.' A dim revelation of
the truth came to my pining spirit ; I saw and felt my sin ; I
confessed it before God. It was not my fate that was grievous,
it was I who was weak and shrinking. My destiny was that of
thousands : they suffered patiently ; I asked to die. I had
erred greatly ; I had considered happiness the end of life ; it is
aot, nor is suifering ; those who say so blaspheme the goodness
of God who has been prodigal of all joyful gifts. Yet there is
much of sorrow here below, and were all pure bliss, man would
still find vexation and trouble in his ov/n unquiet heart. The
end of life is duty. Wc all hear this, but we never know it
until the truth is reached through tears and sorrow. Oh ! why
may not one bitter experience do for all ? Why must human-
ity age after age be learning over again the same bitter and
never-known lesson ? From that time I entered on a new ex-
istence. I consecrated myself to the endurance of my lonely
fate with a severe and holy joy. The cup was bitter still, but
I now quaffed it with a fixed and upward look. When I saw
other women happy wives and blessed mothers, when I remem-
bered my own solitude with a pang I could not always repress,
I tore the envious feelings from my heart and laid them pros-
trate at my feet ; and I learned that thus to subdue and triumph
was to live."
There was a brief silence.
" Mon Dieii !" at kngth said Nathalie, " is it all true ? You
astonish me greatly, Rose. I could not have thought you felt
such things. Did your trouble go away so readily ? Pid you
suffer and repine no more ?"
NATHALIE. 44?
It was some time before Rose answered.
" No," she at length replied, " I cannot deceive you, Na
thalie ; no, my trouble did not go thus away, and I did not at
once cease to repine or teach my heart to submit. Resignation
is a slow journeyer, but a long abiding guest. She visited me
late ; for I confess to you that one longing was at first only re-
placed by another. The object had changed, but I was still
pursued by the same desire for real practical life. I am no
mystic ; mere religious feeling could never content me. It is
good to sit like Mary at the feet of the Lord, but I had more
of the spirit of Martha in me. Oh ! that I had only been born
in times of peril and strife; in the days of tlie early Church,
and of the triumphant martyrs. It is hard to submit to a quiet,
obscure, and apparently useless life ; and yet thia I had to do.
It had pleased Providence to give me to perform those homely
duties for which the world has no flattering voice, and of which
no records are kept. To stay near this harsh aunt who daily
reproached me for the bread I eat, and yet who wanted me,
was my duty ; I resolved that it should also be my sanctifica-
tion and sacrifice. Nathalie, is your religious faith spiritual, is
it more than mere form 1 If it is, know that you can never be
all unhappy ; that there is no destiny so miserable, but faith
can soothe and purify; none so mean but it may raise and en-
noble to the dignity of the holiest martyrdom."
She ceased, and the f;\int flush of her cheek, the transient
light in her eyes, showed the secret enthusiasm of her nature.
Nathalie was astonished and still more moved.
" I respect, I admire you," she said, " I understand you for
the first time. But no. I do not understand you. Why, you
have been as great a dreamer as ever I was, and yet you were
so severe for my slightest fancies."
' Because, I knew to what they led," replied Rose, looking
up; '-besides, it was a habit I had taken, and I was not merely
severe to you ; I was as much so to myself Long before we
met, I had adopted as a cure for all my follies a strange reme-
dy. I had decreed that I should be my own judge, and that
from my own lips should fall the sentence of my condem-
nation. Thus I made it a rule to deride and stigmatize the
folly of my heart. I found a cruel pleasure in destroying my
own illusions one by one ; in seeing them fade before my cold,
reasoning arguments, as the last flowers of the year before the
breath of winter. Natlialie, be wise, check your dreams in
time; wait not until the re-action arrives ; wait not to know
148 NATHAL .E.
the bitter joy of being your own most cherished hopca' de
stroyer."
" Oh ! Eose," involuntarily exclaimed Nathalie, ' is there
not something very dreadful in this suicide of the heart ?"
" Sad, but not dreadful," said Rose, with a compassionate
glance, " it is a suicide which one outlives, my poor child, and
to show you this, it is, that I have said so much, and recalled
feelings that are now for me like dim shadows of the past.
May you too thus struggle and win."
Nathalie looked at her sister as she once more bent over
her task ; she thought of the living death she Lad endured for
years ; her heart failed her at the prospect of such a dismal
victory, and an irrepressible voice exclaimec vvithin her in an-
swer to the wish of Rose :
' Nay, God forbid !"
CHAPTER XXXI.
Autumn had come, and Nathalie wa;. ctill the guest of
Madame Lavigne. Rose was now so weak chat even her aunt
perceived it was necessary for the young gi.l to stay, and she
was the first to say ;
'' Nathalie, you must not go.
A doctor had been called in, but he declared it was an he-
reditary, and therefore hopeless, case. He had attended the
mother of Rose, and he said to Madame Lavigne, in the pres-
ence of Nathalie and Desiree :
" She will die like your sister, quietly and without much
pain. She is too weak to suffer."
Madame Lavigne heard him with a sort of apathetic terror.
She thought how lonely the house would be when her patient
niece was gone ; and what worild become of her, when she was
left blind and helpless, at the mercy of the tyrannic Desiree.
The old servant listened, and said not a word, but for the
whole of that- day her face was troubled and very sad.
Nathalie was also present. She heard the doctor's sentence
with a sickening heart. She had always loved her sister, but
never so much as since the time of her own sorrows, for grief
has a strange power in binding us to other hearts. Of late, too,
^A^IALIE. 445
since they had lived beneath the same roof, since they had
spoken together in closer communion of spirit, her attachment
had deepened. A change had also taken place in Rose with
regard to Nathalie ; her look rested more kindly upon her ;
her voice took gentler tones when she addressed her ; the
coldness and severity in her character, which had so often
repelled the young girl, now seemed to fade away gradually
before the approach of death, like the harsher features of a
landscape, which are subdued into softness and harmony by
the shades of evening.
A few days before her end they sat together in their little
room, where Rose had of late remained almost exclusively. It
was a calm autumn evening, full of serenity and repose. The
tower of the old abbey rose in dark and distinct outlines on
the blue sky ; the colony of rooks cawed and wheeled round it
in circling flight, before they settled down to their night's rest.
Beyond tlie abbey extended the abandoned cloisters, and the
lonely churchyard, with low gray tomb-stones sunk into the
earth, and a few dark cypresses, rising tall and motionless, in
the stillness of evening. The sun had set, but a rosy flush
still lingered in the west, blending softly with shades of va-
pory gray, which melted in their turn into the deepening blue
of the upper sky.
" It will be fine to-morrow," said Rose.
She was leaning back in her chair, which faced the window.
Her look was fastened on the sky ; her countenance was calm.
Nathalie sat near her, looking at her sister, and holding one
of her hands within her own.
"How do you know it will be fine to-morrow ?" she asked.
" Look at those red streaks in the sky. Besides, the air is
so clear and still. Listen, and you will hear the lowing of the
distant cattle. How faint it sounds ! The herds are comino:
back from pasture. Yes, it will surely be fine to-morrow."
The heart of Nathalie grew sad within her. Slie had sel-
dom or ever heard her sister allude to the beauties of nature
before her illness, but since then, the dying girl seemed to love
such themes. The freshness of the summer mornings, the
warmth and life of fervid noonday, the fading loveliness of
eve, were for ever haunting her sick bed. Although Rose
knew well her state, and never expressed the least regret for
life, Nathalie sometimes feared her sister was not quite so re-
signed, as she had first thought her to be. When Rose spoke
thus of what would so soon be lost to her for ever, the young
450 NATHALIE
girl gently endeavored to divert her thoughts. She now ob
served :
"Madame Lavigne wishes to know whether there is anj
thing you would like to night ?"
"She is very kind, but I wish for nothing. Look at that
.arge, brilliant star, Nathalie. Does it not seem to rise slowly
before us as if it knew of its own beauty? Is there not
something of the spirit of life in its light, so tremulous and
yet so clear?"
"It is very beautiful," answered Nathalie ; " but I fear you
will take cold, Rose." She rose to close the window as she
spoke.
" Do not," replied Rose, arresting her with her pale thin
hand ; " there is no chillncss in the air, and the sight of all
(his beauty docs me good."
Nathalie resumed her scat. There was a brief silence.
" You may close the window now," at length said Rose.
" The room is almost dark; shall I get a light?"
" Not yet. My poor aunt being blind herself, cannot en-
dure others to have light burning. I do not wish to vex he-
for the little while I have yet to live."
Nathalie turned her head away.
' Oh ! Rose," she said at length, " why speak thus ? You
cannot know."
" But you do know," gravely replied Rose, " and knowing,
should not seek to deceive me."
Nathalie did not answer. Her sister continued, " You see
that I am well aware of every thing ; we can thei-efore talk
quite frankly ; and there is a question I have long wished to
ask you : what will you do when I am gone ?"
" God knows," answered Nathalie, in a low tone.
" Will you stay here with my poor aunt, who has sc gr-eat a
horror of being left alone with Deslree?"
Nathalie shook her head.
" You will not," pursued Rose, "' and I cannot blame you ;
it were, indeed, a living death But what will you do, my poor
shild ?"
" Trust to Providence."
There was a pause.
' It is strange," at length said Rose, " but it seems to me
as If you did not speak with your usual frankness. Answer
me truly have you any plan settled in your own mind V
She bent forward as she spoke, to look at her sister, whose
troubled and averted look confirmed her suspicion.
NATHALIK 451
" What is it, Nathalie ?" she gravely asked.
" You talk of settled plan I have none, Hose, but when
Mademoiselle Dantin called the other day, she asked me if i
would return to her school after the vacation ?"
*' Did you consent 2"
" No, I did not."
" But you wish for it. Why so ?"
" It is as good a place as another, and she has offered iue
an increase of salary."
Kose looked at her fixedly.
" And these," she said at length, ' these arc your motives
for going back to that school, so near that house which was
once to have been yours? Oh, Nathalie! do you think me
blind ? Do you think me unable to read your heart and its en-
during resentment. Oh ! you are indeed a true daughter of
the south proud and vindictive."
A flush rose to Nathalie's brow.
" Yes, Rose," she said, with subdued vehemence, " you
speak truly ; .1 feel it is my mother's southern blood, and hers
only, that flows in my veins. And in the south, if we know
how to love, we also know how to hate. lie once said I had
energy enough for the feeling. I will show him he was a
pi-ophet. He said he would be years away, do not believe it,
Hose : do not believe it. He will return soon, perchance ; soon
enough, at least, for my purpose. He shall see me the depend
entof a tj^annical mistress, and he shall say to himself that he
might have spared me that fate, for which I care not, but which,
if what his aunt has told me be true, it will grieve and torment
him to see. We cannot be so near without meeting ; I shall
neither seek nor avoid it. but I know that it will be so. He
took one last look when we parted ; I was pale and sorrow-
stricken, then ; but I am not so now ; pride has come to my
aid, and when we meet again, there will be enough left for re-
gret, in the beauty that once pleased his e3'e. He will suffer, I
know he will ; let him ; I, too, have suffered. He will feel
that though thus ever near, we are for ever separated ; let him ;
I, too, have felt it, There will arise in his heart a ceaseless re-
gret for something lost ; an unavailing wish that the past
might be effaced. Let the regret and desire rise; I, too, have
known them."
Her brow was knit, her look fixed, her lips" were firmly
compressed, and for a while her pale face lit up with something
of the deadly beauty given to the Medusa,
a52 NATHAMK
' You see, Rose," sue resumed, more calmly, " that I aw,
as 3'ou say, vindictive ; but mine is the passing vengeance ol
mere feeling."
" What becomes of your vengeance, if he is indifferent and
cold ?" asked Hose.
" He cannot, he cannot," vehemently replied the young
girl ; " he cannot bo so. Indifferent ! I defy him."
" And if he repents ; if he asks you to forgive the past?"
' He will not do so, Rose ; but if he did, I should refuse
him, as inexorably as ever he uttered refusal."
Rose looked at her with gentle seriousness.
" My poor child," she said, " can you indeed hold those
feelings, whilst living, as you do, in the very sight and pre-
sence of death. Look at me ; think of what I am, of what I
shall be ere long, and confess that the feelings of your heart
belong to the perishable, not to the divine, part of your nature.
You have received your sorrow as a curse, and it was sent only
as a chastening trial."
" Oh! Rose, give me your faith," sadly replied JNathalie,
" and I will forswear my feelings, and confess that ray fate is
just. But how can I, when I see you so good, so meek, so
noble, condemned from childhood to passive sufferings ? I was
rebellious, but you, Rose, needed no trial. What has your
wasted youth led to ?"
Rose laid her hand lightly on her sister's arm.
" Nathalie," she said very earnestly, ' know this : none,
vio, none have ever suffered in vain. The silent tears which
the lonely night beheld, were not in vain ; the inward, and
still unknown strife, was not in vain ; not even the dreams of
my youth, or the sorrows of your love have been vain. We are
linked to one another, here, below, by a chain so fine, that
mortal eye can never see it ; so strong, that mortal strength
can never break it. If the sorrow we have known has given
us a more kindly feeling towards the suffering ; if it has only
drawn forth one gentle word more, can it be said to have been
in vain V
" Oh ! Rose," gloomily said Nathalie, ' life is more than
a duty, at that rate ; it is an eternal sacrifice."
" And why not ?" asked Rose, with a kindly look ; " why
not? Yes, a. sacrifice. There are many paths ; the goal is one.
Some they are happy are called upon to struggle for truth
and right, in the sight of God and man ; to endure the weari-
ness, the burning heat of the noonday sun, until the evening's
NATHALIE. ^ 4,^.)
well-eanifed rest is won at length. Oh ! great and glorious ia
their fate a fate angels might envy. Others, less h-nown, less
tried, more happy, according to human weakness, accomplish
humble duties, and follow only the cool, shady paths of life.
Tiioy toil and suffer, too, but the pure halo of a divine peace is
around them still. To a third class, whom the Almighty
knows as less gifted to act, less fit to soothe the woes and cares
of others, another fate is given. Theirs," she added, and her
voice grew tremulous and low, " is to pass through life in the
vain longing for doing better things ; in stagnant quietness
when the soul's passion is action ; their sacrifice is that of will,
and they, too, have their reward, and enter at last into the end
and consummation of all things God."
But though the soul of Rose, long purified by i.ith, could
rise thus high, that of Nathalie, darkened by earthly shadows,
could not follow.
" And is this," she asked, looking at her sister, " the re-
ward promised to virtue?"
" And why should virtue seek a reward V' returned the in-
exorable Rose. " Above all. why should it hope for what was
never promised an earthly reward? AVho first invented that
sinful lie? Ci'osses, sorrows, and untold agonies of spirit, these
are its proper rewards ; let it seek none other. But you look
half terrified. My child, do not misunderstand me. All is
not misery ; there is joy in the brave endurance of sorrow ;
there is happiness in adoration, not in the cold lip-worship, but
in the fervent adoration of the silent heart ; and there is a di-
vine peace in prayer. For what is prayer ? Communion with
God and humanity ; with the great Being whose infinitude is
beyond mortal comprehension ; with the frail finite creatures
who suffer here below in their narrow space. I can see you
pity me ; but when ... have known all these feelings, is it pos-
Bible I should think myself quite unhappy ?"
" Do you regret life ''" asked Nathalie.
" No ; that were difficult," replied Rose, with a touch ot
sadness ; " nature is weak, and according to her, I have not
been quite happy. But my sorrows have led to this much good :
that though I am young and see the light of life fading from
me fast, I fear not death. Can the solitary lamp which burn-
ed unheeded tlirough the long and weary night, see witli terror
the dawn which tells the coming of a purer day. We hear of
the shadow of the valley of death ; we should hear of the sha-
dow of the valley of life: for life is indeed a glcomy valley, full
54 N-ATIIALIE
of doubt, and still shrouded in dark mists. We descend ihi-d
it we kocTw not how; obscurity and dismay beset the path wo
must tread; we journey we know not whither, unless through
faith ; but as we ascend, tlic air becomes more pure, the sky
more clear ; and when we stand on the crowning rock, light
reigns above, and darkness at our feet."
She spoke with fervent earnestness.
" I envy you your living faith," said Nathalie, eyeing her
mournfully; "I am not happy, I feel as if I should never
again be happy in this life ; but I would not leave the dark
valley yet, and my whole soul would sink with terror at the
prospect of death."
" But you shall not die yet. my poor child," affectionately
said Rose, turning towards her sister with a faint smile; " it
is natural for you to feel thus. The flesh is weak in youth.
Faith comes with sorrowing years, and when we leave it& early
hours behind us, life grows less dear. Oh ! why at any age is
death made so very awful ? Why were the scythe, the skeleton,
the grim visage, given as attributes to this gentle deliverer ?
I would have him an angel, calm, pitying and sad, but beautiful,
and no king of terrors. A deliverer he is, for does he not
sever the subtle yet heavy chain which links the spirit to the
flesh, life to clay ? Nathalie, do you remember that passage
in the service of the Mass, when, after the Hosanna has been
sung, the choir raise their voices and sing: Benedictus qui
venit in nomine domini " Blessed be he who cometh in the
name of the Lord?" From my earliest years these words pro-
duced a strange impression on me. As a child I wondered
what glorious messenger from heaven was thus solemnly greet-
ed by those of earth. I thought of winged angels visiting
patriarchs of the desert ; of spirits in white robes with diadems
made of the eternal stars. Oh, Nathalie ! even such a pure
messei ger is death to me now. He comes, the bearer of
glorious tidings, the herald of the Eternal, and I too say,
' Blessed be he who cometh in the name of the Lord.' "
Rose bowed her head and uttered the last words in a low
tone, as if it were something inward, and not mere external
sense, that spoke within her The moon had risen from
behind the abbey-tower, and now threw its pale ray on her
calm features and bending profile. As she sat there, in an
attitude of monumental stillness, Nathalie gazed on her with
an awe which is not that we feel for the dying or the dead.
Rose belonged to neither : the barque was not yet bearing bei
NATHALIE.
453
away over that dark flood which leads to the better land ; but
she stood on the very brink of the breaking waves, and her
clear glance seemed already to behold the unknown shore
beyond. It was this awed Nathalie. To her that other world
of which Rose spoke so calmly, was shrouded in mists. She
believed, but human faith is weak, and she had too long made
her home among the dreams and hopes of earth, not to dread
bidding them a last farewell.
Three days after this Rose died.
It was a calm twilight ; she had laid down on her bed to
rest a while ; Nathalie sat at the foot of her couch ; au uncon-
querable sadness had been over her since the morning, when
Rose had given a strange lingering look at the rising sun, ana
then turned away with something like sudden pain. Toward.?
evening Nathalie had said to her :
" Do look at that beautiful sunset."
" No." replied her sister, in a low tone, ' it is better not,"
and she steadily kept her look aA-erted until the last golden
gleam had faded away from the walls of the little room. Then
she turned and looked at the gray sky, and smiled perchance
at this last victory. It was soon after this that she lay down :
she felt drowsy, she said, and wearied, sleep would do her good.
She spoke for a few minutes more to her sister, then slowly
fell asleep. She woke no more, and Nathalie never knew at
what moment, whilst she watched there by her sister, sleep had
ceased, and death begun.
" She is sleeping," whispei-ed Desir.'e, when Nathalie, at
length alarmed, called her up ; " she was alwa3'-s quiet very
quiet, Mademoiselle Nathalie : one never heard her about the
place, she is a very quiet girl."
Bat when she saw what sort of a repose had fallen on the
quiet Rose, she hid her face in her hands, and wept by that
bed of death.
Like a shadow Rose had moved through life, and like a
shadow she noiselessly passed away from it when her time was
come.
Nathalie had not expected to hear this event announced,
but neither had she anticipated the strange, heart-sickening
melancholy which now took possession of her.
The degrees of sorrow are many, but all lead to the same
bourne by the same beaten path. To have suffered once is to
suffer for ever ; the faculty, like thought, is varied and infinite ;
let it chanse as it will, it dies not, unless with our being
456 NATHALIK.
Once struck, tliat mouruful chord vibrates unceasingly in fho
human heart, until hushed and snapped asunder by death. It
may seem lulled to silence, but listen, and you will hear its
distant murmurs low and deep, like the sullen voice of many
waters. It is the stream, which once let loose, may not cease
to flow, the mouruful lament which, once awakened, is to sletj*
no more.
In our first sorrow we know not this. We mourn over a
faded hope, as over the wreck of a whole existence ; we defy
future grief; all is absorbed by the one poignant pain of the
present. But when the second sorrow has come, why does it
not rest until the first is roused and awakened? Is there
between the many griefs of man a link of mysterious bi'other-
hood ? Are they kindred, children of the same parent, watchers
in the same mournful vigil, doomed to call one another through
out the whole weary night, and to break for ever the longing
soul's repose? It would seem so. Time appeared to heal the
wound ; it only hid the shaft, it only buried the poisoned sting
still further in the depths of the aching heart. See how
living is the pain you thought gone, dead and buried ! Like
Lazarus, it slept ; behold it now. breaking the bonds and cere-
ments of the grave, and rising from its ghastly shroud into
sudden resurrection and awful life ! It comes as you saw it
last when you deemed it dead, with its train of hopes sere
and withered, like falling autumn leaves, with its unutterable
agony of spirit, with all the bitterness of its last parting pangs.
It comes to sicken and appal with the vision of the former
years, bright and blooming once, pale and dreary now. It is
not that the sorrow is sufi"ered over again in all its anguish, or
that the cup is quaffed once more in all its bitterness ; but the
dull, undying pain is often worse than the sharp pang that
gave it birth ; the dregs are more bitter than the full cup of
grief, some sorrows are better endured than remembered ;
better by far the strife, the exquisite agony of passion, than the
heart-sickening memory of its wreck and ruin.
Nathalie found it so. She had felt the loss of her parents
with the brief acuteness of childhood's grief; but her love liad
been her first real sorrow ; she had not, however, suffered inces-
santly who does? there had been moments of ease, almost
of happiness, when she either forgot or hoped vaguely, but the
death of Hose awoke her grief in all its first passionate
strength. Yet what afiinity was there between the two sor-
rows ? Why did the shadow of her unhappy love darken the
NATHALIE. 457
peace of that deatli-bed ? She had thought the last sorrow
could kill the first ; she now found they went hand in hand,
and gave each other new strength. Love is life ; it shrinks
from death with terror and dismay, and if Nathalie was un-
happy, she had not yet reached the depth of despair which
welcomes the thought of annihilation. She believed in immoi--
tality, but with the dim, imperfect state of the heart whoso
divinity is of earth. She stood alone on a shore dreary and
barren, but she remembered the green valleys through which
she had passed ; she hoped to return there again, and she
shrank from the dark sea which led to the belter land, for
death to her, ay, even a calm death, like that of Rose, jvas inex-
pressibly awful.
Her heart was perhaps chastened, but it was also wrung
and dismayed. What was human love when the destinies of
the beings who loved were so brief? Could the illness of a few
weeks and a sharp pang be the end of a feeling that had seemed
eternal ? Did love die with life ? or did the sacred flame
burn on even when the mortal shrine which had been its home
was broken and decayed, mere dust and ashes? She knew not,
and it was because she doubted, that her heart sank within her;
and this doubt, ere long, became the most bitter and torment-
ing part of her grief For grief is of a complex nature ; it is
no simple regret for a certain good denied. That is the feeling
of the childlike and the ignorant ; that was the sorrow of the
ancients earnest and deep but not the sorrow of modern
times. We pay the penalty of feelings more refined, and there-
fore more easily wounded. That vague weariness of spirit which
leads to suicide, was to them an unknown thing. They knew
love with passion, jealousy, despair, and desire ; but with them
love was only love, no more. They had passions, not feelings;
ardent wishes and no vague hopes. They loved or hated life,
but never wearied of it without cause. The lover might die of
grief, but the grief was simple, natural, and true. This was
because they lived in a comparative state of youth and inno-
cence, not that innocence implying the absence of what we term
sin, but that which means a simple observance of nature's laws
and feelings. When the ancients lost that childlike simplicity,
they perished in art, poetry, character, and power. They were
the infancy of humanity, immortal, glorious children, sublime
iu their way, but children still, for to them the real, the actual,
was every thing. The spirituality, the idealism of modern timea
Jvould have been to them as an unknown tongue. They never
20
458 NATHALIE.
could have understood us, but we understand tliem, because
we have all more or less passed through that phase of life,
which to them was all existence.
Whether for good or ill we at least are different. One
sorrow seems to wed us to all the sorrows of humanity. There
is a secret link between even the disappointments of the heart,
and the disappointments of the social strife called life. To
women and their altered position is owing this vague and
almost querulous sorrow. They are the living embodiment of
the most heavy social wrongs, and their secret disconteiit swell."
the voice of general murmur.
Nathalie was of no metaphysical turn. She felt acutely
without seeking to analyze her feelings. She had that genial
southern nature which rejoices in the sunshine, but which also
droops in the shade. She longed for happiness; she knew
not how to suffer patiently. She was young, beautiful, warm-
hearted, and she felt that her fate was hard. She submitted,
but without resignation. At the same time she neither sought
nor wjshed to forget. Instinct, far more than reason, told her
that her love had become a portion of her being, and that
should she ever cast it away from her, she would never be
again what she once had been. The slave may break his chain,
but cannot effiice the mark of the burning brand. To drink
of Lethe's oblivion is not to be renovated in all the purity and
divine freshness of youth. Nathalie felt this, and she preferred
the draught of bitter but living water, to the chill of that death-
like cup. Her love to her was her life ; she shrank with terror
from the thought that it could die ; that she had welcomed no
glorious and immortal guest, bat the frail, perishable sojourner
of a day ; a thing made of clay, food for the grave.
When Rose had once told her that her sorrow would soon
pass away, she had felt the deep, unutterable desolation of spirit
of the worshipper whose idol is laid low and who sees the
sanctuary stripped and bare. She called her sister cruel in
her heart; she felt as she felt once in reading that awful dream
of the German poet, to whom a voice cried out from the depths
of the deep, " There is no God." She rejected this mournful
atheism ; she clung to her faith with all the fervent adoration
of youth ; to think that she could forget, be happy, and love
again, was to her no consolation, but a source of most desolat-
ing grief; for it said that love was no god, but an idol.
She resolved in her pride that with her at least it should
QOt be so; that the feelings which had made her suffer so
NATHAME. 459
keenly, should be kept pure and unsullied ; that it should last
as long as life and be as a portion of her being; that time
might fade the bloom on her cheek and whiten the dark hair
on her brow, but that over her heart, and its feelings it should
have no power. She had heard that age had the fatal gift of
chilling the warm blood of youth, that years could weaken the
most impassioned feelings, that death triumphed over love ;
but she scorned the belief, she cast it from her with all the ro-
mantic disdain of her years. For, though her worship might
be misplaced, she too was religious.
CHAPTER XXXII.
NoTwiiHSTAN'DiNG the entreaties of Madame Lavigne that
she would stay with her, Nathalie returned to the establish-
ment of Mademoiselle Dantin a few weeks after the death of
Rose.
She had been a year away, and three teachers had replaced
her and failed in conciliating the favor of the severe school-
mistress. One objected to having her letters opened, and left
in consequence ; a second was dismissed as too quiet ; and a
third for having failed in the respect due to Mademoiselle Dan-
tin, who thus learned practically, that impatient as Nathalie
was, she was upon the whole more forbearing than her succes-
sors. She asked her to return, scarcely hoping that she would
do so, and was equally pleased and surprised at the ready con-
sent of the young girl a consent of which it is scarcely neces-
sary to say, she never suspected the real motive.
At first the Chevalier felt delighted at the return of " his
southern flower ;" but, alas ! a change had come over the blos-
som : it was not blighted, but chilled by the cold northern
breeze of silent sorrow. The Chevalier soon perceived with
dismay that Nathalie no longer cared for her knight. His ad-
miration and old-fashioned gallantry wearied her. She thought
him very kind, no doubt, but rather foolish, and was in no
3iood to humor him as of yore. Mademoiselle Dantin, who
had always been a little jealous, approved of this change. In-
deed Nathalie daily rose in her good opiuion ; she conde-
scended to subdue the manifestations of her temper in her
460 NATHALIE.
favor. To what slio still had to endure, Natlialio felt perfectly
indifferent. Grief i.s a good armor against the arrows of slights
and sharp words. This apathetic spirit of patience had at first
provoked Mademoiselle Dantiu. She saw in it the result of a
deeply laid scheme to insult her, and hinted as much to Natha-
lie, who oulj shrugged her shoulders in reply. Mademoiselle
Dantin soon recognized her mistake ; she also saw that Natha-
lie was wholly altered, and that the mischief was beyond
remedy. The piquant quarrels which had shed so agreeable a
variety over her former existence, were gone for ever. Her
only consolation under this trying dispensation was, that by
once more availing herself of the services of her former
teacher, she had obtained a sudden and very unexpected influ-
ence at the chateau.
The Canoness having totally failed in inducing Nathalie to
come and live with her after the death of Rose, had at first
been greatly hurt and offended. But gradually her anger
eooled, and with her usual kindness she resolved to do all she
could to alleviate the young girl's position. She began by
sending her flowers, at which the schoolmistress sneered ; then
a basket of fruit came directed to Mademoiselle Dantin, who
condescended to accept it ; and finally Madame la Chanoinesse
Radegonde de Sainville requested the pleasure of Mademoi-
selle Dantin's company one Sunday evening, which pleasure
the schoolmistress very readily granted. Outwardly she ap-
peared very little flattered by these attentions and advances ;
but her inward self-congratulations were great. Few things
could have plensed her more than to be a guest at the great
house, and to sit stiffly in a high-backed chair facing the little
Canoness. over whom, after a month's acquaintance, she tyran-
nized to her heart's content. In exchange for the pleasure she
thus received, she showed herself very willing to relieve
Nathalie as much as possible from the duties imposed upon
her; for though she would not on any account have confessed
it, Mademoiselle Dantin perfectly understood the motives
which had induced the Canoness to seek her acquaintance.
But Nathalie obstinately refused to avail herself of the
schoolmistress's leniency. She felt secretly irritated at the
well-meant efforts of the Canoness. which only increased the
fever they were meant to soothe. The flowers only reminded
her of a lost and happy time ; she would not grieve Aunt Ila-
degonde by a refusal, bat she gave them to the children with-
out so much as bestowing a glance upon them. The fruit
TfATHALIE. 46'!
wbioli came from the place of which she was once to have been
mistress, she would not touch, and nothinc; could induce her to
avail herself of the relaxation of toil the Canoness had ingeni-
ously obtained for her from Mademoiselle Dautin. She had
come to the school to lead a life of privation and suffering, and
suffer she would. She was up early and toiled late ; her dress
had never been more rigidly simple ; the Canoness wished to
make her a few presents, Nathalie persisted in declining them.
" But, Petite, I am tired of seeing you always in that
brown dress," once said Aunt lladegonde, with slight impa-
tience.
' That brown dress is, however, exactly suited to Mademoi
selle Dantin's teacher," replied Nathalie, with great pride.
" Oh ! if you were his wife," involuntarily exclaimed the
Canoness, " what would he have thought too costly or too rare
for you ?"
" Never speak so, never," cried Nathalie, almost angrily.
" Very well. Petite," meekly replied Aunt lladegonde, but
it was a subject that ever recurred between them.
Of the indulgences offered by Mademoiselle Dantin, that
of visiting her old friend was the only one Nathalie had
accepted. She did not come often, and seldom unless in the
evening, when school was over. It is true that Aunt Rade-
gonde had begged hard for those visits, but it cannot be denied
that not merely to please her had Nathalie complied ; it gave
her a tormenting sort of pleasure to sit where she had sat so
often ; see every place and object she knew so well ; to brood
over the past so full, delightful, and rapid, and compare it to
the slow, dreary, present, and blank future of her lot. Yet it was
riot every spot she could thus venture to behold again. Aunt
Radegonde once sent her to the library for a book ; it was a
winter twilight ; and as Nathalie opened the door and entered,
there was something so chill and desolate in the aspect of that
solitary room, with its shadowy light, blank fireplace, unread
books, vacant table, and unoccupied chair, that she turned
away with a sickening heart, and ever afterwards shunned that
place. Thus, in the routine of her old existence, in dreams of
the past and silent endurance of the present, was the greater
portion of the winter spent by Nathalie.
Contrary to the prediction the young girl had made when
speaking to Rose, Monsieur de Sainville did not return. Ho
was travelling over the south of Europe, and wrote occasion^
ally to his aunt, who regularly read liis letters to Nathalie.
462 NATHALIT!.
In the first, he spoke kindly and affectionately of the young
girl, but latterly he ceased to mention her name ; and as his
wanderings extended further, his letters became more rare,
and every time more brief. At length, he remained two
months without writing, or giving his aunt any clue to his
place of sojourn.
On a chill February morning, Nathalie was suddenly sum-
moned from her class to the room of Mademoiselle Dantin,
who was confined to her bed by an attack of rheumatism,
caught by watching the previous evening in tt e garden, in
order to ascertain that one of the servants had net introduced
some strange man within these sacred precincts. She averred
having heard the intruder clambering away over the wall, and
the satisfaction of not having been mistaken in her conjectures
somewhat consoled her for the otherwise unpleasant result
of her vigil. Nathalie found her buried under a heap of
blankets : the tip of her sharp nose just emerging from beneath
the bed-clothes.
" You want to speak to me, madame," said Nathalie, without
sitting down.
" Yes, my dear child," Madame Dantin had become very
affectionate of late, " I want to speak to you ; but pray be
seated."
Nathalie complied, silently.
Madenioiyelle Dantin cpughed, by way of opening tho
conversation.
" You are aware," she observed at length, " that it has long
been my intention to retire from the scholastic life?"
" Yes, madame, I am aware of it."
" Well, I do not mind informing you that I believe the
moment to do so has finally arrived. Of course I am not going
to let so prosperous an establishment as the only school in
Sainville my rivals have always failed, and gone away deeply
in debt ^go, as it were, for nothing. In justice to my pupils,
I feel that I must not do so. Madame Ledru, a lady of
llouen, has accordingly opened negotiations with me on that
miportant subject. The negotiations have been progressing
for the last three months, unfavorably at first, I confess, but
very satisfactory of late. Madame Ledru was rather inclined
towards what I may call the Talleyrand school of diplomacy,
but I so plainly showed her that finessing and soft words were
alike lost upon me, that she has frankly confessed herself con-
quered. In short, we are as near agreeing as we shall probably
NATHALIE 463
ever be. I need not say my first stipulation was, that all the
teachers should be retained in their present employ."
Nathalie bent her head in silent acquiescence. She felt
perfectly indifferent to the contemplated change.
" Tliis is not all," resumed Mademoiselle Dantin, after a
slight pause. " Madame Ledru, after objecting to the purchase
of this house and its adjacent garden, has nevertheless agreed
to take them both at my very moderate valuation. I must
confess that Madame Ledru was rather reluctant to do so at
first, that she attempted to evade the point, but I was so
resolute that she gave it up in despair, and offered me a certain
sura if I would dispose of this house and garden to some other
person ; but I, conceiving that her objections were futile and
fantastic, held firmly, and accordingly carried the point."
Nathalie heard her with evident impatience.
" Madame," said she, listening, ' I fear my pupils arc taking
advantage of my absence to neglect their studies."
" My dear child," sententiously replied the schoolmistress ;
"youth requires relaxation." This was so unusual a sentiment
for Mademoiselle Dantin to utter, that Nathalie wondered
whether rheumatism had any effect on the brain.
" JBut, madame " she exclaimed.
" I know what I am saying," interrupted Mademoiselle
Dantin. " Yes, Mademoiselle Montolieu, youth requires re-
laxation ; an hour's idleness will do the pupils a wonderful
deal of good. Besides," she philosophically added, " it is no
use of mincing the matter, I want you for that space of time,
during which the pupils must manage as best they can without
you."
Nathalie, who bad risen, resumed her seat.
' Well, as I was saying," continued the schoolmistress, who
liked, as she said, ' a logical sequence,' " I carried the point ;
but it does not follow that if I can oblige Madame Ledru
I shall not do so. Far from it. The truth is, that a far more
eligible opportunity of disposing of this house and garden baa
offered itself to me this very morning ; an opportunity which,
if I allow it to escape me now, may never return ; and yet,
how am I to avail myself of it I ask you that. Mademoiselle
Montolieu, with these dreadful rheumatic pains that do not
leave me one moment's ease ; but I heard the fellow scrambling
over the broken glass on the top of the wall, which is always
sort of consolation : I tried to get up a while ago, and I can
assure you that it was as much as I could do to get in again
464 NATHALIE.
E have, however, great hopes in your talents for business,
which, if they equal your other talents," she added, with a
gracious smile, "cannot fail from accomplishing the desired
object."
' My talents for business, madame !" exclaimed Nathalie.
" Oh, it is so easy," coaxingly observed Mademoiselle
Dautin ; " and at the same time it will be excellent practice
for you on some future occasion of your own ; your marriage
settlement, for instance ; but with regard to this particular
case you will allow me to give you a few instructions, suggest-
ed by my experience. In the first place, and as you are in a
highly advantageous position, do not compromise it. Be care-
less, indifferent. 'Sell this house? Why, you dc not care
about selling it at all ;' you are pressed ; you yield , you are
asked the price : ' Ten thousand francs.' The purchaser ob-
jects ; they always do. You point out the house is large and
convenient ; that the garden is beautifully laid out ; that the
beech-tree is celebrated for its beauty, and that there is even a
legend about it ; that the poplars are fine ; in short, it is a
cheap concern at ten thousand. Well, the purchaser yields,
and then you suddenly remember that you cannot sell the
house at all ; that it is pi'omised to Madame Ledru ; that she
will be dreadfully disappointed ; indeed, that no earthly sum
will induce you to break your engagement to her."
" Oh, then there is to be no agreement after all !" very
seriously said Nathalie, with something of her old spirit o
mischief.
" No agreement !" exclaimed Mademoiselle Dantin aghast
"Why, Mademoiselle Montolieu, what is all this diplomacy for
but to render the agreement more secure ? No agreement ?
Ah ! if you only had a little experience of such matters, you
would know that a business negotiation is very like a marriage,
never more secure than when it is nearly broken off. But to
resume. Nothing is, of course, to induce you to break your
word to Madame Ledru ; but you think it highly probable thai
for the moderate sum of one thousand francs, this lady maj
consent to wave her right. I believe I have been sufficientlj
explicit. I must trust the rest to your native tact, and know-
lodge of the purchaser's temper and peculiarities."
Nathalie looked up, suddenly rou.sed.
" This may also serve to guide you," continued Mademoi-
selle Dantin. handing her an open letter as she spoke.
Nathalie rose and took it. She did not read the brief con-
NATHALIE. 463
tents, but she saw the handwriting and name, and she felt as
if a mist fell on her eyes, and the floor shook beneath her feet.
'' You see," continued the voice of Mademoiselle Dantin,
" our neighbor is a close man of business. He has long wished
for this property, which is indeed a portion of the old Sainville
estate : I may even saj^ that he has made some overtures to me
on that subject, but 1 was not going to sell myself out for him,
or indeed for any body. Now, however, having learned, I sup-
pose, that it is my intention to retire, ho shrewdly concludes
this is a proper time for driving a good bargain (an old man of
business, you see) ; and no sooner is he returned to Sainville
(he came the day before yesterday) than he writes to me about
.it. Ah ! if it were not for these rheumatics ! but it ..annot be
helped : besides, you may really do as well. You now under-
, stand why I sent for you. Monsieur de Sainville is to come
at ten, and I want you to treat with him. or rather open the
negotiation. I do not at all expect they will be of the Talley-
rand school ; but I have a strong impression that he will
attempt a Bonaparte coup-de-main, and I Avould therefore have
you on your guard."
" See him !" ejaculated Nathalie ; ' nay, madame, it M'ould
not be right, it would not be proper."
"Mademoiselle Montolieu," said the schoolmistress, with a
prim smile, " you know how I respect such scruples, yet allow
me to sa}', you now go to the other extreme. In the first place,
business can be transacted with any one ; in the second place,
Monsieur de Sainville is very different from his nephew."
Nathalie looked up with astonishment. It seemed strange
no one should ever imagine what Monsieur de Sainville had
once been to her. She pressed her hand to her forehead with-
out answering. Mademoiselle Dantin looked at her with a very
dissatisfied air.
" Really," she observed, with much asperity, " I cannot ima-
gine what you find improper in what I suggest, Mademoiselle
Montolieu. I believe I have as strict notions as any younf
lady on the delicacy and reserve becoming persons of the op-
posite sex. Yet I should feel no hesitation in meeting Mon-
sieur de Sainville on any business matter ; otherwise I mi^rht
labor under some slight difiidence ; and it strikes me as very
extraordinary that you should object. Am I to understand,"
she added, with an alarmed air, " that Monsieur de Sainville ia
not one to be trusted with a tcte-d-tcte? You certainly know
him better than I do."
20*
166 NATHALIE.
' Oh, madanie !" exclaimed Nathalie, " I do not mean that^
You might see him assuredly ; but how can I ?"
" If you allude to the fact of my being your elder," very
sharply replied the schoolmistress, " I beg to assure you that
it is one of the delusions of youth to imagine this fact makea
such a difference to men. But I must confess I am concerned
to hear such a character of Monsieur de Sainville."
" Good heavens^madame !" interrupted Nathalie coloring
with impatience and vexation, " is it possible you should ima,-
gine any thing so absurd ?"
" I see no absurdity in it," replied Mademoiselle Dantin,
raising herself up in bed with a dignified air, which was in-
creased by the white and peaked night-cap, not unlike a helmet,,
which she wore ; " and indeed I begin to understand "
Here the door opened, and Marianne, still startled as of old,
announced that Monsieur de Sainville was below.
" Come, my dear child," said the schoolmistress, whose
scruples this announcement immediately banished, " do be
sensible ; and remember that Monsieur de Sainville is a grave
man quite incapable of any thing indecorous. I should not
insist, but for this rheumatism, which will keep me here heaven
knows how long."
" No, I cannot. indeed I cannot !" exclaimed Nathalie,
averting her flushed and troubled face.
" Then I shall go myself," exclaimed the schoolmistress, in
high dudgeon, " and we shall see if Monsieur de Sainville will
dare to misbehave himself with me."
Nathalie paced the room with irresolute steps, but as
Mademoiselle Dantin was pi-eparing to rise, the young girl
suddenly stopped near her bed. and said, arresting her with a
gesture :
" You need not. madame, I will meet him."
Her face was pale, her voice was low, but there was firmness
and resolve in both.
" You know that you are to ask ten thousand francs, and a
thousand francs for Madanie Ledru." urged the schoolmistress,
as she was turning away.
' Yes. madame, I know."
" Stay another moment, Mademoiselle Montolieu, I wish to
give you some further instructions. This house, you are aware,
is very valuable. Monsieur de Sainville may intend pulling it
down, but he cannot conscientiously hope to get the property
for less on that account. Indeed, I may say this circumstanco
NATHALIE. 467
rather increases its value, since this house, having been in-
habited by my late lamented father, my filial feelings will bo
greatly outraged at its being touched ; I shall therefore apart
from the value of the property, and the damages of Madame
Ledru expect a handsome consideration. You understand."
" Yes, madame, I understand," calmly replied Nathalie ;
she had, indeed, heard every word ; but whilst the school-
mistress spoke, her look remained fastened on a small mirror
before her. A far deeper feeling than vanity made her look at
the image which its depths revealed, and wonder if the keen
look she was going to meet, would find her much changed.
Nathalie might have felt quite easy: a little paler she was, but.
upon the whole, her beauty had not sufiered. There was too
much wounded pride in all her sorrow for it to afi"ect the springs
of life : her grief had been deep, but never despairing.
This same pride which had made her endure so much in
uncomplaining silence, now forbade her to avoid this meeting.
She did not think he would imagine she had sought it ; she
would show him she did not dread it. He had chosen to part
from her without anger, he should see that she, too, could be
dispassionate, indifi"erent, and calm. Notwithstanding this final
resolve, she paused on reaching the door of the saloon, and a
strange oppressive feeling came over her ; but she remembered
the past, called resentment to her aid, and entered. She closed
the door, then stood still, outwardly calm, but with a beating
heart.
Monsieur de Sainville sat near the table, facing the glass
door. The dull light fell on his features ; Nathalie did not feel
that he looked paler he had always been pale but more rigid
and severe. He rose, and slowly turned round; but as his look
fell on the quiet figure of Nathalie, standing in the gloom of
the apartrtient, he suddenly remained motionless. His counte-
nance did not so much express surprise as incredulity.
" He came back before yesterday, and did not even know I
was here," thought Nathalie, with a slight degree of bitterness.
He did not so much as bow to her, but she coldly inclined her
head, and said, as she came forward.
" Mademoiselle Dantin is very sorry, sir, that a slight indis-
position should prevent her from meeting you."
' Another day will do as well," he replied, taking up his hat.
" Mademoiselle Dantin," continued Nathalie, ' fearing that
her indisposition is likely to continue, has authorized me to
hear your proposals, and, to some extent, to treat in her name."
468 NATHALIE.
Monsieur de Sainville slowly looked up and ejed Ibc young
girl very fixedly ; but the cold, haughty glance that met his
said, in language not to be misunderstood, ' we are strangers."
The possibility of objection on his part did not, indeed,
seem to occur to her. She took a seat as she spoke, placed a
quire of paper on the table, and drew forward the inkstand as
if for the purpose of taking notes of Monsieur de Sainville's
remarks. For a moment there was a slight degree of hesita
tion in his manner, but it vanished almost immediately, and,
with composure equal to that of Nathalie, he resumed his scat
and said, quietly,
" Having understood that Mademoiselle Dantin intends
retiring, I concluded she would no longer have the same objec-
tion to part with her property which she formerly manifested.
Are you aware whether it is so ?"
" Yes, sir, it is so."
" Pray, what exact value docs Mademoiselle Dantin set on
her property ?"
' Ten thousand francs," quietly said Nathalie.
' Ten thousand francs !" he quickly echoed ; " this is surely
some mistake ?"
" No mistake, sir ; Mademoiselle Dantin's worda were clear,
and I paid them all the attention necessary in such matters."
" You are quite sure of it ?" he said, with a fixed look.
'' Quite sure," she answered with undiminished composure.
" But the property is not worth five," he exclaimed, with a
decision that justified Mademoiselle Dantin's provisions of a
Bonaparte coup-dc-inain.
Nathalie shook her head.
" The property is very valuable, sir," she seriously replied ;
' the house for instance "
" Is only fit to be pulled down." he interrupted.
"But the garden is large."
" A mere strip," he somewhat contemptuously replied.
" The beech-tree is very fine."
" Decaying fast, I assure you ; only fit to be cut down and
sold as very indifferent timbei*."
" The poplars are good," rejoined Nathalie, who was growing
piqued.
" Yes. but quite young, and of the worthless fatigata
species."
His manner was so decisive and cool that it irritated Na-
thalie. She rose and said, quickly,
NATHALrE 469
'' Very Avell. sir, I shall mention to Mademoiselle Dantin
iLat you think nothing on all her .property worth purchasing."
She spoke with some of her old hastiness.
"I beg your pardon," he said, more coolly still, '-you quite
mistake my meaning. On the house, beech, and poplars, I sec
indeed no value, for they are valueless ; but the land itself is
worth somethins;."
" Is it, really ?"' cried Nathalie, with ill-suppressed resent-
ment.
" Yes, certainly, worth the sum I offered. At the same
time, as it is only natural Mademoiselle Dantin should attach
some sort of value to the house and trees, I am willing to add
another thousand francs. In short, to give her six thousand
francs for the whole, provided only I may enter into possession
within a month. It will take some time to prepare and lay out
this place for next summer."
" Then he means to remain in Sainville,'' thought Nathalie,
and the thought occupied her so much that she forgot to reply.
" Do you think Mademoiselle Dantin will accede to these
conditions ?" he resumed, after a pause.
" Perhaps so," carelessly replied Nathalie.
" I should like an answer before I leave," he continued,
drawing forth his watch. " and I have an appointment at eleven."
" She declines, sir, she declines," said Nathalie, indignantly ;
" six thousand francs for a property like this ! I do not know
whether I shall insult Mademoiselle Dantin by mentioning the
proposal."
He smiled coldlJ^
" I assure you," he said, "you may venture on repeating it.
A worthless house "
" It is not worthless to her," interrupted Nathalie, coloring ;
' It is no stately building, but she has lived in it for many years ;
lier father lived here before her ; she objects, sir, to having it
destroyed ; strongly objects."
"For how much will she wave that objection?"
" Sir !"
" I am afraid I do not express myself very clearly ; my mean-
ing is, for what sum will Mademoiselle Dantin consent to put
by her feelings and resign herself to see this house levelled to
to the earth ?"
" Are feelings bought and sold ?" asked Nathalie, with
something like disdain.
" I believe it is no rare occurrence," he calmly replied, with
470 NATHAME.
*
that peculiar smile which she knew so well. ' But if Mademoi
selle Dantin does really object to having this house destroyed
I am surprised the objection did not occur at once to so clear-
minded a person. She surely never imagined I was buying
her rickety house for the purpose of allowing it to stand."
" And why not ?" sharply asked Nathalie.
Without seeming to notice her evident irritation, he con-
tinued :
" Are you quite sure that in her instructions there was not
some sort of clause with regard to this some sum named aa
an equivalent for her wounded feelings?" He fastened a keen,
penetrating glance on her, as he spoke ; she colored deeply, in
spite of herself, at this instance of his old clear-sightedness ;
but she merely replied :
" Mademoiselle Dantin is willing to part with her property,
sir, otherwise she would not have affixed any value to it."
" And I believe the sum you mentioned was that of ten
thousand francs."
' Yes, sir : ten thousand francs."
" Which I cannot think of giving," he replied, rising
as he spoke. ' You will perhaps be good enough to men-
tion to Mademoiselle Dantin what has passed between us.
She may be induced to reflect, and alter her resolve."
He bowed politely, and left her. As strangers they had
met ; as strangers they parted. For a few seconds Nathalie
did not move; she remained standing in the same spot, and
with her eyes fastened on the door which had closed behind
him.
" Heart of stone !" she said, at length, and burning . tears
of resentment and pride fell down from her eyelashes on her
cheek-
Nathalie was going up to her room for the night, when Ma-
rianne handed her a letter which had been brought for her
from the chateau.
She knew the handwriting and seal, yet she felt no.emotion.
She went up stairs quietly, laid both the letter and the light
which she carried on a table, and busied herself about the
room. Full five minutes elapsed before she returned to the
spot where it lay.
" 1 had forgotten it," she said to herself ; for pride has its
cwn cherished deceits.
She broke the seal open, and read :
" Nathalie, what a mere child you are ! Is it possible you
NATHALIE. 471
thouglit to deceive me, and do you imagine I wished to deceive
j^ou 1 I did not think to see you at Mademoiselle Dantin's,
ibr I did not know you were there ; but when you thus sudden-
ly stood before mc, I felt like the father of a lost and wayward
child, who longs to efface the memory of past severity with a
caress and a kiss. I will not say you chilled that is not in your
power but you repi*essed that mood. I saw' that your resent
ment had not abated ; that you would be cold and haughty ; I
humored you. One soon gets into the spirit of the past ; but
believe me, it is an easy and common accomplishment, unwor-
thy of your native frankness and my experience. Several times
I resolved to compel you as I believe I could to break
through this distant bearing ; but upon the whole, I thought it
better not. You wished to impose this trial upon yourself and
me ; you had perhaps the right to do so. But I do not writs
to speak of this.
' I once wrote to you that we had loved unwisely : I do
not unsay the words, but I add that we parted more unwisely
still. I have tried to unlove you, and found that what might
once have been easy enough had become a hard lesson to learn.
Oh ! different indeed is the love which springs in the fervid
heat of youth from that which entwines itself around the heart
of man "in his maturer years. The one is mere passion, but
the other is even as the "blood that flows in his veins : the staff
of his life, the condition of his being. Happy are those who
pass through that first delirious phase, and never know the ty-
rannic power of the second. Where there is judgment and
will, passion can be made an obedient slave, but love is ever
master. When we parted I remembered another such separa-
tion linked with the story of my youth, and thought that after
one brief pang I should grow calm again. I found that years
had passed over me since then ; that the habits of my mind
had changed ; that the elasticity of my first feelings had A^an-
ished. I saw that the love I had thought to subdue so easily,
would long be a living fire in my heart. I vainly sought to for-
get those many trifles which had once made you so dear and
attracted me so irresistibly. I was haunted by the very tones
of your gay, girlish voice, by your cheerful smile and frank
look. When I strove to banish your image, it only followed
me more importunately ; I went from place to place, but it was
ever before me like a living presence : it looked at m with sad,
reproachful eyes ; for in those day-dreams I saw you not as
you are unchanged in aspect but pale, drooping, and eor-
172 NATHALIE.
rowful : I could flot escape it wherever I might go. For hirb
who lores there is no solitude.
'' When I saw how it was with me, I resolved to come
back here, firmly determined not to feign an indifference I did
not feel, but to ask you at once to forget the past, and become
my wife. I arrived the other evening without sending word or
token, hoping to find you in that place where I had seen you so
often, and which, I also hoped, you would leave no more. That
you were not there, was the first proof I got of your resent-
ment. Harsh I may have been, yet mine has not been the sin
no woman forgives : I have not ceased to love. You never had
been dearer to me than on the day wo parted, and I have loved
you since then more truly than ever.
" I write thus because it is true, not to move you. If your
own heart does not impel you to reconciliation and forgetful-
ness of the past, I wish not for either. Its arguments, as you
once said, are worth all my logic. For this same reason I have
not asked you for an interview. I do not wish you to yield in
a moment of emotion, and repent it ever afterwards. I am not
changed, Nathalie ; you can see it by this confession ; I am the
same as ever ; if you think I was once too severe and exacting,
do not deceive yourself, for I do not wish to deceive you : I
shall be so still.
" How will you act? I cannot tell. You have a generous
heart and a resentful temper. I ask you frankly and honestly
to forget ; you cannot doubt my sincerity ; and because you
cannot doubt it, I do not and will not seek to influence your
feelings. Reflect and decide ; whatever your decision may be,
I promise you beforehand not to seek to change it. If you re-
fuse, I shall understand that by too much severity I have alien-
ated your affection, and submit to that solitude to which my
peculiar temper and character perhaps condemn me."
Nathalie laid this letter down and paced her room with un-
even and irresolute steps. He loved her still ; but that, per-
haps, she had never doubted. She felt not only that he loved
her, but that he had missed her deeply, and longed to have her
back again. Yes, he would have a cold, solitary life of it with-
out the gay and graceful girl who had once shed the sunshine
of her presence in his home ; he would miss her as woman,
companion, mistress, and wife. For she often felt that his
love was a mixture of many feelings, that he loved her beauty
girlish grace, and piquant temper, and yet that, with all this
there lingered a deeper and holier feeling for her in his heart
KATIIALIE.
47b
AM this she knew, and, therefore, that he should return to her
did not astonish her so very much.
But she felt wounded to find that he was, as he said him-
self, unchanged. Well might he say so ! In every word^ he
traced she read even more than his old haughtiness and pride.
lie came back to her, indeed, but in no submissive or suppli-
ant mood did he return. Not thus haughtily had he wooed
her when he first spoke of love ! He had then stooped to ar-
gument and impassioned entreaty, and yet he knew very well
that she loved him in her heart, and that little eloquence was
needed to win the boon he sought. Why was he so reserved
and so cautious now?
" It is pride, cold haughty pride," she exclaimed inwardly,
" he will not seek to influence, because he will not beseech for
that which he most desires ; he would have no interview Dc-
cause he feared to betray himself Be it so ; 1 shall show
him that my pride is as strong and as unbending as his can
ever be."
She took up his letter and read it once more. Her heart
failed her as she perused the beginniag, but she gathered cour-
age with the close. Still she hesitated, but at length her re-
solve was taken. She wrote a few words at the bottom of
Monsieur de Sainville's letter, sealed it up, and went down.
She met the servant in the passage.
" Marianne," said she, " can you take this letter for mc to
the chateau early to-morrow morning ?"
" I can take it to-night," replied Marianne.
" And why not to-morrow ?" asked Nathalie, with a strange
feeling of hesitation.
" it will be much more convenient for me to-night," simply
replied Marianne.
" Oh ! very well," said Nathalie, in a low tone.
" Are you ill, mademoiselle ?" asked the girl with some
surprise, " your voice is trembling so."
She brought forward the light she held, so that its ray fell
on the pale and troubled face of Nathalie.
" No," quickly answered Nathalie, " I am not ill ; you are
right ; go to-night go quickly."
She told her to go quickly, and yet the letter lingered in
her hand. The girl had to take it of her own accord. Scarcely
had she reached the door when Nathalie called her back. Had
6ho altered her mind 1 No. She merely bade her not to be
long away, and promised to wait for her by the half-open door.
In less than five minutes the girl returned.
i74 NATHALIE.
' I gave it to a servant, who took it up instantly," she said
' Thank you, Marianne."
Nathalie returned to her room. She sat down on a chair
and remained there pale and motionless, her eyes fixed on tho
fioor, her hands clasped on her kness for several hours. Did
she regret or repent the final step she had taken ? it wei-e hard
to tell ; yet this can be said, had the letter been in her posses-
ftion once more, she would assuredly have sent it.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Three days passed away.
Monsieur de Sainville sent no other letter to Nathalie ; but
she learned that on the day after receiving her answer, he had
called on Mademoiselle Dantin, and failed in coming to an
agreement with he.
" I never saw so sharp a man," angrily exclaimed Made-
moiselle Dantin : " no matter what you say, he has something
ready for it. But his Buonaparte coup-de-7nain did not suc-
ceed with me, I assure you. Mademoiselle Montolieu."
Love disappointments evidently did not influence Mon-
sieur de Sainville, or impair his talents in matters of business.
Nathalie repented less than ever.
On the morning of the fourth day she received a note from
the Canoness, informing her that her nephew had once more
departed on his travels, and begging her to call in the course of
the erening. Mademoiselle Dantin, whom this intelligence
greatly irritated, and who was not, therefore, in the best of
tempers with the chateau, gave no very gracious consent, and
observed with some asperity :
" I hope, at least. Mademoiselle Montolieu, that you will
be so good as to be in at eight."
Natlialie quietly assented. Thanks to the obstacles which
her kind mistress raised one after the other ; she could not
call on her old friend until near seven.
' Oh ! Petite," reproachfully said the Canoness, as she en-
tered the drawing-room, ' I thought you would not come."
" I could not be here earlier."
She sat down as she spoke, and rested her head on one
NATHALIE. 475
hand, whilst the other hung listlessly by her side : she looked
neither right nor left.
" Are you ill ?" asked the Canoncss, who was eyeing her
wistfully.
' I have a head-ache."
' And yet you came ; that was kind, Petite, I dare say you
guess how dreary I feel alone, in this great house."
" Then you are alone V. asked Nathalie, looking up.
" Why. of course," replied the Canoness, " since Armaud is
gone."
" He is gone, then ?" ejaculated Nathalie.
" Did I not write that he was V
" Yes, you did."
" Well, then, why do you ask ?"
" Because 1 had understood he meant to reside for son^o
t lue in Sainville."
' Well, I dare say he changed his mind," replied the Can-
oness, after a pause. " You see. Petite, this is no pleasant
place to him. It is not to me. Oh ! when you have my
years, you will learn that every place is haunted, and none so
much as the place where we lived in youth."
Nathalie looked around her. Did it require length of
days to acquire that bitter knowledge 1 This place was haunted
for her too. Had she not dreamed there the thrilling and de-
lightful dreams of youth dreams too quickly faded ; flowers
withered whilst yet in their early spring?
" No," resumed the Canoness, " it is no pleasant place to
him ; I saw he felt it when he came back here the other even-
ing. Yes, the past rose before him then."
She looked at Nathalie with some significance ; but a bit-
ter smile flitted across the features of the young girl.
" No doubt," she said, ' Monsieur de Sainville must be re-
minded here of many things, of his early love, for instance."
" Oh ! Petite," replied the Canoness, with sorrowful re-
proach, "you say what in your heart you do not believe.
Think of her ! who thinks of her in this wide world save me ?
Not the husband, who instead of a childless, unloving bride,
has a wife and and many children round him now. Not he
whom she loved, and who rejected her so sternly ! For be-
tween her memory and him there is, as you kllow full well, the
memory of a second and far deeper love."
" Deeper !" echoed Nathalie.
Ay, deeper ; I say not so to justify him, for ray heart is
i76 NATHALIE.
sore against Armand. There were two young girls, one gen-
tle and winning, the other spirited and warm-hearted ; but
both. I may say it, though you are one, both beautiful, pure,
and good, and very dear to me. He loved and sought thera
both, and what was the end ? It was natural he should seek
Lucile ; they had been brought up together. But you ! good
heavens ! was there no other woman he could fix upon ? Ha
had travelled far and wide ; he had been years away ; Ife was
rich ; many, ay many of the women he must have met would
have had him gladly. Could he not marry some prudent maid
or widow of thirty ? Why should he fall in love with you, pre-
cisely you, whom I had fixed upon to remain here with me ?
Why did he come evening after evening to the boudoir to
teaze and torment you as one does with a bird, at whose peck-
ing and vexation one only laughs ? Why did he for ever keep
coming to the garden after us, so that wo could never be five
minutes alone % Why did he make you fall in love with him 1
It still puzzles me to know how he did that, since from that
moment all went wrong. When I spoke you answered at ran-
dom ; when he spoke I knew he was talking for you all the
time, for he was fond of you in his way, and would think of no-
thing else ; in short I had nothing else to do but to sleep or
leave the room. Still it was not tliat I minded, for I saw you
were both happy."
" He was not," interrupted Nathalie.
" Yes he was," pettishly said the Canoness ; " I know him
better than you do. It was one thing when you were away,
and one thing when you were by. Then he no longer looked
as he almost always looks wrapped up within himself, think-
ing to himself, and talking to himself; no, there was some-
thing open and friendly about him then. Ah ! Petite, the
woman who l^as made a man unselfish, has achieved a mi-
racle."
She eyed the young girl wistfully ; but Nathalie remained
cold and unmoved.
" He could not forget you even at the last," pursued tho
Canoness ; " he was anxious about you ; he wished you to be
here with me."
" To live in this house, in his house ! to eat his bread !"
indignantly exclaimed Nathalie.
' He meant to remain years away."
'Had he meant to be away for an eternity, the house was
none the less his : I could not have lived in it. Those walla
NATHALIE. 477
would not have sheltered, they would have stifled lue. Oh !
Marraine ! I love 3'ou much, else I had never crossed this
threshold again. I have never done so without pain. I have
never sat here in this old familiar place without a secret sick-
ening of the heart : never."
"Resentful girl !" said the Canoness, chidingly, "What if
he were sorry ?"
" He is not."
" I say he is. Do you know him as I do ? Are you his
aunt ? Can you remember the time when he was horn ? Have
you my powers of observation ? He is sorr}-, and it serves
him well," added the Canoness very bitterly. ' I saw it when
he came home the other evening. 'You are alone, aunt?' he
said, and gave a strange, rueful look around, but never men-
tioned your name. I watched him, he scarcely spoke, but kept
glancing about the room very restlessly, as if seeking some-
thing. Once he stooped and picked up the velvet clasp I wear
around my neck ; you wore one like it once ; he held it up and
looked at it silently in his hand, but he never said : ' Is it
hers V ' I am so glad you have found it,' I cried ; ho kept
looking at it, and never gave it me. ' It dropped from my
neck,' I continued. He laid it down soon enough then. After
a while he got up and walked up and down the room ; his old
habit, you know, and every time there was a sound below of
opening and closing doors, I could see him pause and listen :
but he never said : ' Do you expect her?' or ' Is she coming?'
As he was going away for the evening, he bent over the vase
of flowers on that table, and said carelessly : ' Where did you
get these V ' Oh, they came from the greenhouse, of course.'
I replied. ' Then you went there today V ' Went there in
this cold weather, Arniand ?' ' Then who gathered them ?' he
asked impatiently. ' A servant, to be sure.' He looked dis-
appointed, but st'll he would not utter your name. The whole
of the next day he remained at home ; he was tired he said,
but he was expecting you, for he never left me. I have learned
since he had forbade the servants to say he had returned. In
the course of the evening he looked up at me once or twice ; I
thought he was going to speak, but he did not and I said
ncthin^.'
The Canoness paused, and again looked"^ the young gin.
A slight emotion passed over the features of Nathalie, but she
eaid calmly : ' I grant that he is sorry ; I should not have
denied it; indeed, why deceive you? He has a.?kfd nic tc
So-rot the past and become his wife "
678 NATHALIE.
The Cauoness looked confounded.
" He has !" she at length exclaimed, " and ^vhat answer (113
you give ?"
" That to forget is not to forgive !"
" You refused ?" cried the Canoness, in a tone of angry re
proach. " Oh, Petite ! I thought you loved me ! You refused
when all might have been made right ; when you might have
been married to him, and we could have lived all three to-
gether so comfortably."
Nathalie did not answer.
" If I had only guessed it, I would not have allowed it,"
dismally continued Aunt Radegonde. " Surely I have a right
to interfere; but who thinks of me? who cares for me?"
" Prav," she added, with a very melancholy groan, " when was
it?" "
' On Monday ; he wrote to me."
" It was like his pride ; he should have seen you, and not
left you until 3'ou said ' yes.' "
" But he would not. nor would I consent," replied Nathalie,
with a smile at her self-inflicted wound.
" Did you write back to him on Monday evening ?" asked
the Canoness.
" Yes, on Monday evening," quietly replied Nathalie.
" Then that was the letter he received whilst here with me,"
thoughtfully resumed the Canoness.
" What did he say? how did he look?" exclaimed Natha-
lie, laying her hand on the arm of the Canoness, and fastening
a burning look upon her.
" Say, child," replied Aunt Radegonde, a little startled..
" why. if he had said any thing, I should have known."
' Well, but how did he look ?" urged Nathalie.
" Why, as usual."
' Not grieved not sorry."
" How can I tell, Petite ? He seldom shows any thing of
the sort, and my penetration was not in the least on the alert
about that letter ; I thought it came from Mademoiselle Dan-
tin. When the servant brought it in, he just glanced at it, aa
he took it from the plate, and laid it down then without seem-
ing in any great hurry to open it. Yet, I remember now, he
looked rather tl^ughtful as he stood before me on the hearth
within reach of ine table. Well, he did take it up and read it
at length, and stood for a while with it in his hand."
" How did he look then ?"
" As usual He quietly folded it up."
NATIIALrE. 479
" Without lookinii; at it ao;ain?" exclaimed Nathalio
" Yes, Petite ; well, he folded it up, and put it into his
pocket-book, and that waa all."
' And that was all !" echoed Nathalie, falling back into her
old attitude, and relaxing her hold of the Canoness's arm.
" Not one doubt that sight might have deceived him ; not one
despairing feeling to make him say, ' this cannot be true,' not
even an exclamation or a look of regret. Oh ! if he believed
it so readily, he never loved me."
" He did love you, he does love you still, foolish child,"
ruefully said the Canoness, " and since he loved you bo well a.'?
to conquer his pride, he would have made you a very happy
woman. Oh ! the pleasant evenings we should have had all
three by the fireside ; but through your obstinacy," she added,
rocking herself in her chair, " all this is upset ; I am, of course,
to remain alone; I who might have had so delightful an old
age ; he will live and die an old bachelor, alone ; and you will
live and die an old maid, like Mademoiselle Dantin alone, of
course."
Be it so," replied Nathalie, with something like energy :
be it so, I can endure that fate ; solitude may sadden, but
shall not terrify me. I have shown him at least that his
wealth and rank could not bribe the poor teacher.''
The Canoness shook her head and coughed dryly.
' Foolish child," she said again, " do you know Armand so
little, as not to be aware that he has a very good opinion of
himself? What man has not ? Why, it would not so much
as enter his head that a woman did not marry him for love !
Besides, he knows you so well. Oh ! foolish, foolish child !"
She shook her head and groaned. Nathalie looked up at
her hesitatingly.
" What do you mean by saying he knows me so well ?" she
asked at length.
'' I mean that he knows your character. Shortly after
that evening when he told me he was going to marry you. I
asked him why he had set his mind on so young a girl !
' Because I love her,' he carelessly replied ; he was never very
fond of answering questions. ' Well, but why do you love her,
Armand V I persisted, for though I am not inquisitive, I
wished to know. ' Because slie is young, pretty, and charm-
ing,' he answered. I said I was sure he had some better
reason. ' Well, then,' he said, ' it is because ^he has such a
good, generous heart.' ' How do you know V I askcJ, to try
480
NATHALIE.
liim. ' How ! why by her look, her smile, her voice ; by her
very way of speaking, by her step if you like. Be content,
aunt, I am never mistaken in character, and I know exactly
what sort of a bride I am wooing. She charms me because she
is very pretty, and I am not of those whom beauty terrifies. She
provokes me with her changeable temper, but I like to be thus
provoked, and feel in myself enough power to rule.' "
_" He said tliat?" interrupted Nathalie, with great indig-
nation.
'Yes, Petite, but let me go on," replied the Canoness,
looking at the clock. " ' She makes me love her,' he continued,
'because she has such a very warm, guileless nature. It is
lilic a summer's day of her own Provence rather hot, but
how bright and genial ! Indeed, aunt, though you look so
doubtful, she shall be happy and have her way'in almost every
thing. Yes, she shall feed, comfort and cherish as many
protegees as she likes, and fill the house with pets if she chooses.
No doubt she will be imposed upon every day never to be
made wiser, there is no cure for a kind heart and no doubt
both proUg^es and pets will be wonderful pests, but in all that
can gladden her poor child ! she is easily gladdened in all
that can make her cheerful face wear a more cheerful look, she
shall have her way.' Well, Petite, what is the matter ?"
suddenly added the Canoness, as she saw Nathalie bury her
("ace in her hands and weep bitterly.
" Oh ! aunt," she cried, looking up and rising as she spoke,
' do you think I have no heart 1 do not. pray do not torment
me so ! Do not tell me how kindly he loved me once. I know
it, let me forget it. Why have you spoken thus the whole
evening ? Why do you keep telling me he regrets me 1 Did
I not, too, feel something on coming in here this evening ? Did
I not say to myself: ' this is the place he left a few hours back,
and where the warmth and breath of his presence still linger ?'
I am proud, resentful, I have rejected him ; but I am made
of flesh and blood, I have a woman's heart, and when I think
of him and say to myself, ' it is past, it is quite over ; he is
gone again, perchance for years,' that heart feels as if it were
well-nigh breaking."
She spoke with passionate vehemence, and many broken
sobs. The Canoness was strangely moved ; her features
worked ; she rose from her seat and clasped her hands ; they
trembled visibly ; indeed, she shook from head to foot.
" Petite." she said in a broken tone, '-it is true he has gone;
NATHALIE. 481
but I never said he would be so long away. He may come
back sooner, much sooner than one thinks there is no knowing.
It wants a quarter to eight ; that used to be his time ; I do not
say he will come to-night, and yet who knows?"
She ceased. Nathalie no longer heeded her. She had
turned suddenly, arrested in a listening attitude towards the
entrance of the drawing-room :' a well-known step was on the
stairs ; the door opened ; he entered.
The pause of sudden surprise as he saw her told her but
too plainly that he was not privy to his aunt's scheme.
" I shall never forgive you, never," cried Nathalie, turning
towards Aunt Radegonde. He looked at her pale indignant
face as she spoke and understood it all.
"You have deceived me," continued the young girl, with
rising anger. "I trusted you and you brought me here."
She uttered the last word with an indignant scorn that amazed
and terrified the Canoness, little prepared for so abrupt a
change of mood.
" Petite," she deprecatingly said, " I meant well ; how did
I know there had been an explanation ? Oh ! do not go," she
added, seizing the young girl's hand, and seeking still more to
detain her by her appealing look.
" Pray let me go," replied Nathalie, in the coldest tones, but
speaking with subdued irritation.
" No," resolutely persisted the Canoness, " you must not
go ; shall she, Armand ?"
She turned to her nephew, as if imploring for aid.
Monsieur de Sainville, who had slowly come forward, now
looked up and said deliberately :
" And why should not Mademoiselle Montolieu be perfectly
free to stay or depart at her pleasure ?"
His aunt looked confounded.
" Why, above all." he resumed, " sliould you appeal to me,
aunt, when you know it is only because I enter this room she
wishes to leave it ?"
" Oh, Armand !" reproachfully replied his aunt, " could you
find nothing but that to say?"
He did not answer, but the contraction of his brow, the
rigid compression of his pale firm lips, the resolute meaning
of his fixed glance, told not of humble or beseeching mood.
"And so you will go?" sorrowfully said Aunt Radegonde,
dd Iressin/i- Nathalie, whose hand she had relinquished.
21
182 NATHALIE.
" Be satisfied, aunt," observed her nephew, with some slight
decree of bitterness, ' I shall soon leave Sainville."
Nathalie suddenly stopped short in the act of putting on
her shawl, and raised her flushed face.
" If you mean to say, sir," she exclaimed, " that your ab-
sence will induce me ever to enter this house again you are
mistaken."
"There!" cried the Canoness, in a tone of despair, "you
have done it, Armand; matters were not bad enough; you
have done it, when you might so easily have asked her to for-
got the past."
" I have asked her," said Monsieur de Sainville. in a tone
which implied, " I will not ask again."
' Come, Petite, he asks you to forget," eagerly said the
Canoness, with a slight perversion of the truth ; " do answer
something."
" I have answered," coldly replied Nathalie, and her look
said: "Nothing shall make me unsay that answer."
The Canoness indignantly sank down in her arm-chair,
whilst she glanced from her nephew to Nathalie, as they stood
facing one another, but with averted glances, on the hearth be-
fore her.
" Oh ! you are well matched," she angrily exclaimed, "for
you are both as proud and relentless as Lucifer himself!"
One impulse made Monsieur de Sainville and the young
girl look up as the Canoness spoke thus. For the first time
their eyes met ; a change came over his features, and she
slightly turned pale.
' You, Armand," continued the Canoness, " would break
any woman's heart, and your own along with it that is, if you
had a heart to break sooner than give in; and you, Maderaoi-
sellf Nathalie, you would cry your eyes out, and die with
griet, sooner than say : ' I am sorry.' "
" Aunt," coldly said her nephew, " the time has long gone
by when men's hearts broke, and ladies dimmed their eyes
with weeping. If women do suflFer from these things, they
take care to lose none of their beauty. Sorrow falls very
lightly on them."
Nathalie paused in the act of turning away to look at him
with a somewhat haughty smile. She understood the implied
reproach, and triumphed in it.
" And why not?" she asked, "why should not sorrow fall
lightly on them?"
NATHALIE. 483
" Nay," lie replied, with a smile as cold as hers was haughty
" I do not complain ; it also renders self-reproach more light."
" 0/i, 111071 Dieu !" mournfully exclaimed the Canoness, " it
is getting worse and worse!"
"Aunt," quietly replied the nephew, "you mistake this
case ; the question is simply that, for reasons which then
seemed to me very powerful, I thought it would be wise, for
Mademoiselle Montolieu's sake, especially, to break our mutual
engagement. I say for her sake especially, because the
thought of her happiness was my most powerful motive."
" An instance of forethought I shall never forget," emphati-
cally said Nathalie.
' So you have been kind enough to declare," replied Mon-
sieur de Sainville. " But to resume. I have thought since
then that I might have been mistaken ; I have frankly said so
to Mademoiselle Montolieu; she has declined taking this view
of the subject ; it was her right ; I do not complain. This,
aunt, is the case ; this, and no more."
" Oh, this is the case, is it V mournfully said Aunt Rade-
gonde, in whom this freezing explanation desti-oyed every
hope.
" I believe," replied her nephew, glancing towards Natha-
lie, " I have stated the case fairly."
" Very fairly," she composedly replied.
The Canoness glanced from one to the other with inexpres
sible sorrow.
" O/i, mon Dieu .'" she said very sadly. '' it has come to
this ! You two who were to pass through life as one, you now
speak so coldly ! not even as enemies, but as distant strangers.
And yet you wgre once fond of one another. I have seen you,
Armand, restless until she came. I have seen you. Petite, un-
happy because you thought you had vexed him. And now,
mon Dieu ! now !" Sbe bowed her head, and her eyes filled
with tears. Monsieur de Sainville looked disturbed, and be-
gan walking up and down the room ; Nathalie repeatedly
changed color, and stood for a while irresolute ; she was ab-
ruptly turning away from Aunt Radegonde's chair, when Mon-
sieur do Sainville suddenly stopped in his promenade, and
.stood still on the hearth before her. For a few seconds they
eyed each other in mutual silence.
" Will you, or will you not ?" he at length briefly asked.
He spoke with no lover's look, and in no lover's tone;
but with that strange mixture of anger and tenderness to
484 NATHALIE.
which the deepest feelings are often stirred in the human
heart.
Had he put the same question in a gentle or guarded
speech, denial would instantly have risen to Nathalie's lips ;
but now she could not reply ; she could only tremble and turn
pale. There was more than entreaty in his vehement tone
and fixed look ; these told of a love deep and unconquered
still ; a love against which pride and will had long struggled^
and alike struggled in vain.
" Yes, she will, she will," eagerly cried the Canoness, bend-
ing forward ; " she will, Armand."
Nathalie looked up ; a reply was on her lips ; the Canoness
hastened to check it by reiterating :
" Indeed she will, Armand."
"Aunt, he replied, you mean well ; but you do not under-
stand either Nathalie or me. She is not one to be cheated
out of consent ; nor am I one," he added, after a pause, " to be
satisfied with consent thus obtained. I have asked a plain
question ; she will give a plain reply."
" As plain as you wish," began Nathalie.
' No, Petite, no." interrupted the Canoness, alarmed at
the pale severity which the young girl's features sudd-cnly as-
sumed ; " no. do not."
" Nay, let her," observed Monsieur de Sainville, with some
bitterness, " I know her ; she is a true woman, resentful and
unforgiving."
'' Resentment ?" replied Nathalie, in her coldest tones. " I
have no resentment. And as for forgiveness, I have not, thank
heaven, endured such sorrow as to render it difiicult."
" He raised his look slowly until it met hers.
" I understand you and your meaning," he answered ; " but
do not think to deceive me. I seek not to deceive you. I say
frankly, I have sufi'ered. You may look at me if you like, and
ask yourself why a few months have left those traces on my
brow ? Refuse again if you wish, but stoop not to feign an
indiff'erence you do not feel."
Nathalie had heard him with resolutely-averted look, as it
resolved not to heed whatever he might say. When he bade,
her look at him, she involuntarily raised her glance. He looked
pale and care-worn. For a moment she eyed him with calm
composure, but suddenly she trembled, and her eyes filled
with tears ; she shook them away almost immediately, as if
ashamed and indignant at the weakness.
NATHALIE. 485
' I will not yield,"' she passionately cried , ' no, I -will not
^brget 01" forgive that which I shall remember and resent whilst
piemory and life are left me. You are right in one thing at
least : no, I am not indifferent ; no, I am not cold ; I am, as
you say, a resentful, unforgiving woman, who has been wronged,
and who feels it deeply. You harshly rejected me. I could
not go and say, ' love me still.' I was at your mercy, &nd you
made me feel it. I have endured the slight which only a wo-
man can receive ; I will have a woman's pride, yes, suffer as I
may, and come what will."
She did not give herself time to reflect, thint, or regret,
but abruptly turned away, and left the room as she spoke.
' Stay, Petite, stay," cried the Canoness, rising eagerly.
But neither did Nathalie heed her, nor would -her nephew
allow her to follow. He laid his hand on the arm of Aunt Ra-
degonde, and his grasp was firm as steel. He did not release
her until the door below closed on Nathalie, then indeed he let
her go. and began pacing the room up and down, precisely as
usual.
" Then it is all over," despairingly thought the Canoness.
" Heaven help me !" she inwardly added ; " of what was only
separation, I have made a desperate quarrel. Heaven help me !"
After walking up and down the room for about an hour.
Monsieur de Sainville stopped short, and turned towards hi?
aunt, with face so dark, and brow so severe, that the little Ca-
noness trembled visibly. The sight of her terror recalled him
to himself, for though he felt angry, he knew not how much he
showed it, and was far from wishing to vent his anger upon
this harmless, well-meaning creature.
" Aunt," said he, more gently than he had intended, ' be
not alarmed, I am not going to reproach. You did very wrong,
but you meant well. It is scarcely your fault if I once more
made a fool of myself. The mere act of loving implies folly
and weakness, yet the greatest folly was not that which took
place to-night : it was that which first led me to feel affection
for a vain and heartless girl."
" Oh, Armand !" interrupted the Canoness, unable to bear
this.
" I know you love her, yet she is what I say. She thinks
herself proud, when she is far more resentful than proud, and
more vain than either. Had she ceased to love me, I might
admire her ; but she has not ; she loves me still to this very
moment ; and she has not the courage, the honesty, to be truo
(86 NATUALIE.
to lier love. She tried, in vain, to brave or most my louk. I
believe she hesitated for a few moments, but the womanly
weakness was promptly subdued ; she looked at me unsteadily
even then, turned away, and was gone. Poor child ! she is ap
plauding herself now. She does not know that as the door
closed upon her, her triumph ceased, for at that moment my
heart banished and shut her out for ever."
" The Canoness clasped her hands and wept. She had
heard that inexorable voice once before. She knew again the
very tones in which the irrevocable sentence of Lucile had been
uttered.
" I mention this," resumed her nephew, after a brief pause,
' because it is my express wish that such an attempt as you
made this evening shall never be made again. Little regard
as I now feel for her, I should be reluctant to inflict on any
woman a severe, though merited, mortification. I do not wish
to see. meet, or hear her. I would rather that her name should
not be mentioned to me. It would not grieve me, but it would
not be agreeable. I wish to forget her like one that has never
existed. She has lost my esteem, and I do not feel very proud
of ever having loved her. If it had been only a passing caprice,
a fancy for a pretty face, I could forgive myself the weak-
ness ; but it was a deeper feeling. She has wounded me as
none save herself could wound, for to none have I yielded the
same power. But I have no right to complain. I knew before-
hand that the man who lays bare his heart to a woman must
expect to see it pierced, and handled as the bird or insect given
up to a cruel child. I had faith in her, thought her better and
more generous 'than others. I have paid the penalty of my
trust. Aunt, if those tears are for me, do not shed them. I
need them not ; I have been ill, I am well again. If they arc
for her, you may spare them. Lucile was too weak to suifer ;
she is too vain."
He bade her good night, and left her.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Difference of character is said to conduce to aflectioa
Persons of similar disposition on the contrary resemble parallel
NATHALIE. 487
lines ; they placidly take tho journey of life at the same time,
but not together ; they follow the same track and never meet.
Monsieur de Sainville and Nathalie had been mutually attracted
by the great difference in their natures. Her frankness had
delighted him ; she had been irresistibly drawn towards him
by what she conceived to be the mystery a mystery which
existed chieily in her imagination of his character. But,
different as they were, they had many points of contact. Both
were proud, exacting, and somewhat jealous. Both were inder
pendent in thought, speech and action, caring little for this
world's opinion, and seeking not to win its esteem. Both.
above all, whatever they wished, felt, or did, wished, felt, and
did it entirely ; the one with all the activity of his brain, and
the force of his will ; the other with all the impulsiveness of
her temper and the warmth of her heart.
But here ceased the natural similarity, and began that ficti
tious resemblance which ever takes place between those whom
one deep feeling unites, and whom one roof shelters. This
similarity had extended far enough to do mischief, and unfor-
tunately not far enough to do good. Monsieur de Sainville
had indulged in some of Nathalie's perversity of temper ; the
shade of hh skepticism and coldness had fallen on her genial
warmth. Nathalie received and accepted more than her share
in this unhappy exchange. She had often admired her lover's
cold firmness ; she forgot that it was tempered by judgment
and a deep sense of duty. She did not acknowledge to herself
that she wished to imitate him, and yet it was so ; and when
she rejected him so inexorably, there was in her heart the secret
thought of compelling him to admire and esteem her whom h*
had ver held and treated like a child. When she learned fi-om
the Canoness who soon called on her, and whom she ques-
tioned closely how different a result her " firmness" had
obtained ; how she had sunk instead of rising in her lover's
opinion ; how he detected the weakness of a wilful and pas-
sionate temper in what she had considered energy and strength
of character, she remained thunderstruck. For it was too true
that she had but one thought whether in good or in evil to
be something to him still.
This, however, had not been her only motive for acting as
she had acted. She had been stung to the quick by the cold
haughtiness of Monsieur de Sainville's submission, or rather
return to her. She was necessary to his happiness, but could
he have done without her, he evidently would. She remem
183 NATHALIE.
bered the words of his letter, " I once wrote to you that we
had loved unwisely ; I do not unsay the words." " Be it so,'
she thought, "yes, even though the wound should sink as deep
in nie, as I now see it will in him."
The first taste of vengeance is sweet, but the dregs are
unutterably bitter ; and, daughter of the south as she way,
Nathalie found it so.
Monsieur de Sainville fell ill. Let not the sentimental
reader imagine that his love-sorrows had any thing to do with
his illness. It was a dangerous fever then prevalent in the
district ; it seized him like many others, and like many others
there came for him a day when the doctor shook his head and
said :
" There is no hope."
" Mademoiselle Nathalie," said the little Chevalier to her
one evening, " I suppose you know Monsieur de Sainville has
got the fever, and lies in a hopeless state."
She had not so much as heard of his illness. The class
was over: she was standing near the window working by the
fading light of dusk. She did not faint or scream, she scarcely
turned pale. She merely laid down her work, ran up to
Mademoiselle Dantin's room, opened the drawer in which she
knew that the key of the garden door was kept, took it, ran
down to the garden, opened the door, and entered the grounds
of Sainville. She had rapidly calculated that to go in openly
would breed the inevitable delay of servants and messages ;
and what she wanted was to be in at once. Of Mademoiselle
Dantin's probable wrath she did not so much as think. She
entered the chateau unseen ; ran up to the drawing-room, and
appeared before the Canoness as pale and sudden as an appa-
rition.
" You, Petite !" cried Aunt Radegonde, clasping her hands.
" Marraine," quickly said Natahlie, going up to her, " is it
true ? is there no hope ?"
" Little hope. Petite, very little," sadly replied the Canoness,
" Marraine," said Nathalie, turning very pale but speaking
(irmly, " I must see him ; but first tell me this, does he know
ho is so ill?"
" Oh yes, he asked the doctor, who, knowing he would not
like to be deceived, told him at once."
" What did he say ?"
" He merely said ' indeed !' and looked thoughtful."
*' He did not ask to see me ? he did not utter ray name ?
NATHALIE. 483
The Caiioness shook her head.
' Marraine," said Nathalie, whilst tears ilowsj down her
cheeks, "I must see him: he is not so ill the doctor is mis-
taken, but yet I must see him. Tell him so."
" Petite, I dare not."
' Marraine, you must. Tell him it is not she who was once
to have been his bride, his wife, that now asks this boon, but
the poor girl whom he sheltered under his roof, whom he called
his ward, and treated like his child. Tell him that, and he will
not refuse."
" Poor little thing," compassionately replied the Canoness,
"Do you imagine that will touch him much?"
" Try, Marraine, try ; I beseech you, try. Believe me, he
cannot refuse."
" "Well. Petite, wait here and I shall see."
" Marraine," said Nathalie, following her to the door. " l**^
me go up with you."
" No, no, you must not," cried the Canoness, much alarme?
" Marraine, let me, pray let me."
" I tell you no ; he would be very angry."
"He need not know it. Let me only stand outside tho
door, and listen, whilst you speak to him. If he consents I cao
go in ; if not why then I shall retire silently."
The Canoness still refused ; but Nathalie besought her so
ardently, and promised so solemnly not to attempt entering the
room unless Monsieur de Sainville agreed to see her, that Aunt
Radegonde at length yielded. They went up to the little turret
which Monsieur de Sainville occupied. The Canoness entered
the room, and left the door ajar, so that a ray of light trom the
dim night l?mp within glided to the dark corridor, where
Nathalie stooa mute and pale in waiting. After ashina: her
nephew how he felt. Aunt Radegonde mentioned the name of
Nathalie, and said :
' She has been inquiring after you, Armand ; she is very
anxious about you."
He did not answer.
" Armand," resumed his aunt, in a tremulous tone, " why
should you not see the poor child ?"
" Aunt, allow me to ask you why I should see her?"
" To forgive her, Armand."
" I assure you that I have long ago forgiven her. It is not
her fault if she is heartless, any more than it was the fault of
Lucile to be weak. I wish Mademoiselle Montolieu all tho
21*
19(1 NATHALIE.
happiness which can fall to the lot of a human being ; but I ob
ject to seeing her ; she reminds me of a period of my life ta
which I look back with annoyance and regret ; of which I feel
indeed that I have no reason to be proud."
' But if she were in the house, Armand ?"
" Aunt, if she were at the door of this room I would not seo
her."
Ho spoke impatiently, and, as if tired of the subject, not aa
if suspecting the presence of Nathalie. His aunt did not ven-
ture to add another word.
After a while she rose, and went to the door.
There was no need to remind the young girl of her promise
not to enter. Every word uttered by Monsieur de Sainville
had reached her ear, as she stood there, listening with bowed
head and clasped hands, like the culprit on whom the severe
Judge passes the irrevocable sentence. When Aunt Rade-
gonde's sad face appeared at the door, Nathalie silently signed
her to close it, then noiselessly glided down the narrow stair-
case. She left the chateau without heeding the wondering
glances of servants who had not seen her enter; she went down
one of the garden-walks, she took the path leading to the door ;
it stood, as she had left it, half-open, and only too ready to let
her depart, and close on her for ever. There she paused. She
looked back, her eyes blinded by tears, on the spot of which she
was once to have been mistress, but from which she was now so
sternly banished. Slie could see the faint light burning in the
turret-chamber of Monsieur de Sainville, and she looked and
lingered still Oh, for the spell that could arrest her steps
there ; or, better still, that could lead her back to all she had
left and lost Faith, Hope, and Love ! Like the first woman,
she bade adieu to what had once been the Eden of her life.
But Eve, at least, was not rejected by him who had sinned like
her, and Nathalie felt in her heart that she had not sinned
alone. He who had shared her fall shared her exile, and when
she went forth banished, she left him not behind her.
She at length turned away, locked the door, and replaced
the key in the spot where she had found it. She had been
about half-an-hour away. No one had noticed her absence.
and it was never known.
In spite of the doctor's predictions. Monsieur do Sainville
recovered.
In persisting to remain near his abode, Nathalie had only
thought of punishing him ; with her usual want of reflection
NATHALIE. 491
slio did not consider that she would also punish herself. She
soon learned that she had chosen a bitter and ever-renewing
torment. The passion Charles Marceau had formerly felt for
her had prevented any one from suspecting her engagement
with Monsieur de Sainville. which, according to her wish, had
been kept strictly secret. No one, therefore, felt any reserve
in mentioning his name to her. She heard it daily ; seldom
with affection or praise. His severity, harshness, and morose
temper, were ever commented upon, and bitterly censured, in
her presence and hearing. Mademoiselle Dantin spoke of him
with undisguised acrimony ; the pupils, as of a severe, for-
bidding man ; the gentle Chevalier himself had his word of
censure, and pitied that charming lady, Madame la Clianonesse
de Sainville, for having so sour-looking a nephew. And whilst
strangers spoke thus freely of him who had once been the hope,
centre, and end of her existence, Nathalie looked calm, and
betrayed not the fever which his name ever awoke in her
heart.
They met sometimes, but generally at a distance. Once,
however, they were near enough for their looks to meet.
Monsieur de Sainville gave her a cold glance, and rode on.
Her look had been brief, but long enough to let her see that he
was greatly changed : it was not, however, that he looked sad
or unwell ; by no means ; but he looked gloomy, misanthropic,
and stern. And such, indeed, he had become, according to
Aunt Radegonde. He had always been a severe master, but
he was now tyrannic ; a strict landlord, but now, alas ! he was
pitiless. No fault or remission, however slight either might
be found mercy in his eyes.
" I am afraid of him," the Canoness once acknowledged to
the young girl, whom she occasionally visited. " Yes, I, his
aunt, am actually afraid of him. Petite ; he has grown so severe
and sarcastic, even with me, and even about my poor knitting !
Every word he utters is bitter and relentless."
Nathalie heard her with an aching heart. No severer
punishment could have fallen upon her. It had once been hei
ambition to make her lover a better man. She now found
that, powerless as she had been for good, she was not so for
evil. Oh ! bitter, indeed, is the thought of inflicting evil,
moral evil. on the being we love ! " And I have done this !"
she thought, " I have done this ! He once asked me to con-
jure the evil spirit of Will and Pride, and I have brought them
down in legions around him, with Harshness, Despotism, and
492 NATHALIE.
Tyranny, and their spirits, too, in endless train." She wepl
bitterly. Nor was she mistaken. She had, indeed, done much
harm. Monsieur de Sainville was pitiless to others, because
he could not forgive himself the mistake and weakness, for
such he now deemed them, which had ever placed him in her
power. And this also Nathalie knew. She had heard him
say so ; she could not forget the words, they were for ever
ringing in her ears, the fiat of her new destiny. ^ " I object to
seeing her ; she reminds me of a period of my life to which I
look back with annoyance and regret, of which I feel, indeed,
that I have no reason to be proud." It had come to this
between them ! Her health, which had resisted his absence,
sank under the torment of his return. Once she resolved to
leave the school, and seek some distant home, but her heart
failed her when the moment came. It was misery to stay, and
deeper misery to go. But no one, not even Aunt Radegonde,
ever knew what she sufi"ered. Pride supported her externally,
but pride, alas ! had lost its once boasted power over her heart
and its sorrowing recollections.
One Sunday afternoon, in the early days of spring, she sat
with Mademoiselle Dantin, the Chevalier, and some other
persons, in the dull parlor described in the first pages of this
story. The conversation had fallen on Monsieur de Sainville.
Never had he been more unmercifully treated. Often had
Nathalie accused those who spoke thus of exaggeration, but
she could not do so now, for they gave facts. The little
Chevalier was more than usually indignant.
" H( is a misanthrope," he sententiously said ; " he has an
unnatural horror of the fair sex. Mademoiselle Beaumont told
me that she met him a few days back, and asked him to direct
her, having then lost her way, but he repHed that he knew
nothing about the place she was going to ; and he said so without
so much as looking at her, or behaving with common civility."
Mademoiselle Dantin smiled scornfully. She knew much
worse than that. Monsieur de Sainville was a dreadful miser,
a hard, stingy man. There was a poor widow, whose lease of
land he had obstinately refused to renew, because a rich farmer
had offered him a higher rental.
" Well, do you know," quietly said a sedate bourgeois of
Sainville, " I think that cannot be true. At least I know a
story that contradicts it entirely. Monsieur de Sainville was
addressed the other day in a very rude manner, it must be
confessed, by a peasant lad. He told him to hold his peace ;
NATHALIE. 492
the lad laughed. Monsieur de Sainville, without more ado,,
struck him with his whip. The mother raised a great outcry ;
be smiled very scornfully, threw her a handful of silver, and
rode on."
" This cannot be true," indignantly said Nathalie ; ' it
cannot."
" I saw it," quietly said the bourgeois.
"There!" triumphantly exclaimed Mademoiselle Dantin;'
" did you ever hear of such a tyrant 1 I hate Monsieur do
Sainville, and so does every one."
" No one ever comes to the chateau," observed the Cheva-
lier : " no ladies are ever admitted there, it seoms. I do pity
that charming Canoness, and you, Mademoiselle Montolieii."
But Nathalie was gone. She was in her room pacing it
with hasty and agitated steps, weeping wildly with impassioned
and distracted grief The cup her own hand had poured out
for herself, was full, and conscience sternly said : " You shall
drink it." Here was her power over Armand de Sainville
here her dearly prized and more dearly earned vengeance. He,
the proud gentleman, so jealous of his delicacy and honor ; he
had struck a child, and added insult to injury. She had not
the consolation of knowing that the whole story was a gross
exaggeration ; that the blow was an accident, and the handful
of money a single silver coin ; she believed it, for evening after
evening she had heard such tales, and most of them, as she
knew too well, were no exaggerations, but bitter truths. " God
help me i" she now exclaimed inwardly. " God help me ! J
have been a weak and faithless woman ; I knew not that te
love was a holy trust and a religious faith. I gave myself up
to all the follies of passion, but the woman's true tendemesa
was not in my heart. If I wished for a lover's idolatry, why
not have Charles Marceau ? With a few kind words I could
have kept him as a slave at my feet. But if I wished for se-
rious, for higher affection, oh ! why be not content with that
which I won ? Why weary it out with caprices ? Why reject
it when it returned to me, spite of all my follies ? Well may
he call and think me heartless ! Well may he feel ashamed of
having ever loved me ! Well may he shut himself up and lead
a gloomy and solitary life, when th* being to whom he opened
his heart, instead of gentle forgiveness, only thought of how
ehe might inflict a deeper wound !"
She sat down near her open window, oppressed with carj
and grief She thought of Kose, who had predicted this sor-
i94 NATHALIE
row, and warned her against the poisoned jug of vengeance
' Oh ! that she were here to give her good counsel now." She
leaned her hrow upon her hand ; heavy with weeping, her eyes
involuntarily closed. Was what followed a mere deam ; tho
continuation of some previous thought or real corumunioii.
with the dead ? She thought that she saw herself in the littlo
churchyard of Sainville, standing near her sister's tomb, when
Hose suddenly appeared before her, sitting calmly at the head
of her own grave, and looking at her with gentle seriousness.
But as is usual in dreams, Nathalie felt neither alarmed nor
astonished at the apparition. She spoke to Rose, and told
her all her sorrows ; but without telling her, however, the se-
cret desire of her heart, and yet Rose, unheeding the rest, an-
swered that desire, and said to her with a smile: " Try."
' I dare not, Rose ; I dare not."
But still her sister smiled, and said : " Try."
And her voice was so distinct and clear that Nathalie
Keemed to hear it still when she awoke with a sudden start.
She looked around her ; the little room was silent ; the sun
was setting in the west with a full refulgent glow which daz-
zled the eyes of the young girl. Her brain swam, and her
heart beat tumultuously. Was it a dream or a revelation ?
Nathalie was not superstitious, she was too much of a southern
to be mystical ; no secret weakness inclined her to put faith
in the supernatural. Yet for once she would believe ; for
once she would not heed reasoning, argument, or cold logic ;
for on;e, too, she would not pause, hesitate, or think ; she
would not take time to reflect, and perchance repent She
left the house at once, entered the avenue of the chateau,
passed by the servant who admitted her without a word, and
whilst he still asked if she did not wish to see the Canoness,
she opened the library door and closed it behind her. Then
for the first time did her heart fail her, and did she feel what
she had done.
He sat near one of the windows reading ; he did not hear
the door open and close again ; he did not see her until she
.-4ood facing him and her shadow darkened the floor before
him. He slowly raised his head, looked at her fixedly, and
his face darkened as he looked.
" You wish to speak to me," said he, rising ; his tone was
polite and chilling.
Nathalie at first could not answer ; she stood before him
pale and mute.
Nathalie. 403
" I suppose it is my aunt you want,'' he observed, with
felight impatience.
' No, sir, I came here to speak to you."
He offered her a seat, and resumed his. His face an-
nounced the inflexible determination of one prepared to listen,
but firmly resolved not to yield. Nathalie's heart failed her.
" Sir," she said at length, in a faltering tone, " your aunt
has often asked me to return to her as her companion ; sho
said it was your wish that I should reside here with her ; may
I do so now?"
He gave her a keen surprised look, and coldly replied :
" How fond you must be of my aunt, Mademoiselle Mou-
tolieu !"
" May it be so?" asked Nathalie.
He frowned, and seemed much disturbed.
' You put me in a strange position," he at length replied ;
" allow me to inform you, lest you should be laboring under
some mistake, that Sainville is and shall always be my place
of residence. If any person has, therefore, given you to un-
derstand that I am going away for an indefinite period, that
person has deceived you."
" No one has given me to understand this," said Nathalie,
with a settled calmness that bespoke the resignation to endure
much.
He looked cmbarrased. There was a pause. She re-
sumed ;
" May it be so?" Her tone was beseeching and low. Her
persistency seemed to provoke him.
" Your conduct is strange and indiscreet," he said at length.
" You will compel me to very disagreeable frankness !"
" Pray speak freely," she quietly replied.
'^ Well, then, allow me to ask how we can both reside in tho
same house ?"
Strange question from his lips ! She pressed her hand to
her brow ; she saw herself again in that same library one even-
ing ; she heard his voice again saying : " Remain my child,
remain !" and looking up, she n;et his cold altered face, and
chilling glance.
" Sir," she answered, very calmly, " do not imagine I shall
Beck to encroach upon you. Do not fear that I shall seek to
meet you, for I know that you would not now as you once did,
like it. But even if we should chance to meet, you are so in-
difi'ercnt to me now, that it sui-ely cannot affect you ; besides
f96 NATHALIE.
vou need not speak ; I know your face, its changes, its mean
mg. I know when to venture, when to draw back. A time
may come when you will be indifferent and not care whether I
am by, and then if chance should bring us together, I may not
be quite powerless to cheer or divert j'our thoughts. Heaven
knows I speak in no presumptuous spirit, and therefore though
you now smile so coldly, I feel no hesitation and no shame in
saying, that I long to do something that will lighten your
cheerless solitude. Do not think for one moment I imagine you
regret me ; but do not tell me your are happy ; I would not
believe you. I have been a little sad of late, but there are
days when I feel that I am still very young. I have not lost
all the gayety of my years, that gayety which could once please
or at least make you smile. For your sake I will bring it all
back, for jour sake I will be cheerful and gay. Oh ! let me."
" Mademoiselle Montolieu," he coldly asked, ' do you wish
to come here as my aunt's companion, or as mine?"
" I understand the taunt," said she, turning pale, " but I
do not deny it, Sir. I speak not to him whose wife I was once
to have been that is past I speak to Monsieur de Sainville,
my host, guardian, friend; my shield from ill when there were
none else to shield me ; my adviser when I was erring ; severe
sometimes, and yet kind in his severity. I seek not to recall
the memory of a time when feverish passion troubled and de-
luded ; when meetings ever seemed too brief, too few ; when
days sped fast like hours, or lingered slow like years ; when
doubt was torture, and hope enchantment. But I would recall
those first few weeks when I was nothing to you, save a friend-
less girl to protect ; when you were my kind indulgent host
no more ; wh"'n we met without having sought it and spoke
freely ; when we parted without fearing the morrow ; when
time had the same calm, even flow from day to day. Oh ! I
like to think there has been between vis some other bond be-
sides the troubled, exacting feeling that embittered existence ;
that wo were friends once ! Why were we ever more, or rather
why were we ever less ? We are in the very same spot where
first we met and spoke. Oh ! that v/hat has passed since then,
were a dream ! that some charm might carry us back to that
hour ! that you were again the host who questioned, and I the
thoughtless girl who replied so heedlessly, and often made you
smile !"
Sobs impeded her utterance. The memory, the bitter
regret of friendship, affection, esteem, and confidence gone for
NATHALIE. 497
ever, were uiDon her they filled her desolate heart even to
overflowing. He remained silent and unmoved.
' I regret," he at length observed, " to draw a nice distinc-
tion that has escaped you. I was your friend, and ever meant
to be such ; but there was, there could be no friendship between
a man of my age and feelings, and a young girl of your years
and temper. The feeling I had for you bore no resemblance
to friendship ; you know what that feeling was, how it fared,
what it has become."
She bowed her head and clasped her hands ; love had long
been wrecked, but friendship could not perish ; it had never
even existed.
" Sir," she replied, in a subdued tone, " there is a feeling I
thought little of till now, but which you cannot check ; grati-
tude. I will be grateful to him who stretched out a hand to
save me from disgrace ; to hira who protected me against his
own sister and nephew, though, as it seems now, caring nothing
for me ; to him who was far more generous and disinterested
than I ever thought."
'And how do you know he was disinterested?" he bitterly
asked. ' How do you know that from the first moment you
stood here before him, a young and lovely girl, the singleness of
purpose, the generosity you speak of, did not vanish ?"
Strange confession of a bygone love ! She looked up quick-
ly, a flush rose to her brow, but his cold smile recalled her to
the present, and a sharp pang crossed her heart.
" Then since you leave me no other claim," she cried almost
passionately, ' let me plead by the evil I have done, the pain I
have inflicted. I have hurt, I have wounded you deeply ; yes,
deeply, and, in spite of all your pride, you know it. Not in
the name of friendship which never was, of love which soon de-
parted, but of sorrow and sufi"ering which abide, do I beseech
you now."
" You have courage," he said, looking at her fixedly, " and
generosity too, I have no doubt ; but both are useless in this
case. It is not my aunt's companion you wish to be ; it is
mine. Do you think the world would not soon notice this ?
Do you think it would not soon construe into the most evil
5ense the fact of a man of my age having for his companion
rind friend a young girl like you ?"
He spoke in a tone of one who has raised an unanswerable
objection, but she quickly replied :
" Well then, let her not be your companion or your friend ;
let her be your child."
i98 ^ATHALIE.
But his temper, wliich he had evidently been restraining
forsook him as her pertinacity increased.
" Mademoiselle." he shortly replied, " I once told you I had
the fatherly instinct most imperfectly developed. I have not
improved since then."
" And yet you then called me your child," she sadly au'
Bwered.
" Just as I called you ' Petite,' and many a foolish name
besides."
Her eyes filled with tears. She remembered those names
of endearment, ay, to the very low and lingering tones in
which they were uttered ; tones which rushed back to her naw
as he spoke in a voice so cold and altered.
" I was not asking for a father's affection," she resumed,
'what claim have I to it? but for the shelter of a father's
name. You once would not have disdained to give mo that
name as your wife, and I have done nothing wrong, nothing
unworthy since then."
He did not reply, but his face darkened visibly.
She continued
' You need not tell me that you will not care for me. I
know and can bear it. Many a child through fault or folly is
shut out from its fathers heart. I shall fancy myself one of
these, and move silently about the house until I am at last for-
given and i-estored to favor. I was proud once, too proud ;
but now I speak from the fulness of my heart let me be your
child, vour daughter."
'' A nice father I should make," he ironically said ; " very
kind, indulgent and amiable."
There was hesitation in his very irony. A ray of sudden
hope entered her heart.
Let me, let me," she urged. " I shall be more patient as
a daughter than I have been as a mistress, than I might have
been as wife. You ai-e harsh, you say, I care not ; I will bear
all, but let me be your daughter."
" Foolish, foolish girl !" he bitterly exclaimed ; " how can
you be my daughter 1 Have you forgotten you were once to
be my wife?"
' Forgotten it ! no ; but I am not the idolater I once was.
I do not think now there is but one way of loving; the mist
of passion has fallen from my eyes, but believe me, affection,
undying affection, is still true and fervent in my heart. You
know I speak not thui to win back what was lost. You know
NATHALIE. 499
I do not. Look at me ! I am no unblushing woman come tc
Bue for love withheld. You know I am not. Therefore, I say
again, let me be your daughter, your child, live here with you.
Let the world wonder ; it knows your honor ; it will not dara
suspect.
Perhaps I may feel awkward at first a* the memory of the
past rises before me, but I shall know how to subdue this false
and sinful shame. I shall forget the words of fondness and
passion which once greeted my ear, to think only that you liked
to call me your child, and perhaps never loved me better, when
you called me so. I shall forget that once I blushed, trembled,
and shunned a caress, for now it is I who shall seek my father,
ind sit down by his side if he will let me. Oh ! let me be your
child, let me be your daughter."
She covered her face with her hands, and sank down on her
knees before him, bowed, and weeping. At length she looked
up ; though his pale face seemed slightly moved, his look was
stern and unrelenting still. But a faith, such as she had never
known before, was in Nathalie's heart. She believed and
hoped, both fervently and far too deeply to be so easily dis-
mayed. She took his unresisting hands, she joined them on
her head, she laid her head upon his knee, she said again :
" Let me be your child."
' My child ! my child, indeed !" he exclaimed in a broken
tone.
She raised her glance, smiling rapturously through her
tears ; he stooped and lifted her up ; his arms were around
jier, and held her fast; he gathered her to his heart ; he kissed
her many a time. She felt that he trembled ; that tears not all
her own were on her cheek ; that the cold, stern man was melt-
ed ; that pure love had triumphed ; that faith had won. And
as she twined her arms around his neck, and laid her he'u,d on
his shoulder, with all the abandonment of a daughter's holiest
love a joy far deeper, because far more pure than any she had
yet known, thrilled through the heart that now beat near his.
" God bless you, my dear child," he said at length, looking
tenderly in her eyes, ''you have a kind heart."
" Then you do mean it, you do mean it," she joyously ex-
claimed, " I am to be your child indeed."
."Poor little thing ! What precious boon is this?"
" A precious boon to me. Do you imagine I do not mean
to consider myself your child 1 Indeed I will revere and obey
you as a father ; nay, I will even ask you for any thing I may
Deed. Yes, without shame."
500 NATHALIE.
He looked mucli moved, but did not answer.
" I feel so happy," she continued, her cheeks deepening in
color as she spoke. " Oh ! this moment ought to last for an
eternity. I long to suspend time, life, and being ; but you look
sad and grave ! Oh, onoii Dieu ! I have a dread that if I leave
you, and only go out of the room, you will repent, grow stern
again, and reject me."
He only smiled.
" Monsieur de Sainville!" she exclaimed, with sudden ter-
ror, "give me your word that you will not retract."
"My child," he replied, "I will promise all you like; but
do not call me Monsieur de Sainville."
' And how then must I call you ?" she asked, with a de-
lighted glance, for she expected that his reply would be " Youi
father."
" Armand," he quietly answered.
Nathalie trembled, and averted her look.
" Armand ! Armand !" she echoed, in a faltering tone, " what
daughter calls her father by his name ?"
There was a brief silence.
" And what wife does not call her husband thus?" heat
length replied. " Do not look so startled !" he added, detaining
her as she attempted to leave him ; "but hear me out. I know
you did not dream of this in coming here, but what matter?
Our old love is gone, you will say ; well, be it so. Yours was
more the romance of youth than true love, and whilst loving
you, I fear I cared too much for your youth and delightful
beauty. I look cold, but I am not ; and, alas ! have never been
indifferent to such things. But now, my child, your love is
true, now mine is pure,"
But Nathalie was weeping ; fear was at her heart ; she
clung close to him as if he had urged separation, not re-union.
" Oh ! let me be your child," she said imploringly.
" Petite, you talk like a child ; I shall make a confiding and
indulging husband, but, believe me, an exacting and too jealous
a father. I will have you love no other as you once loved me.
I will share your affection with no living man. Remember
that !" and for a moment he pressed her closer to him, with a
sort of violence.
" Oh ! I shall not marry, of course," said Nathalie, coloring,
and speaking very eagerly.
"And do you imagine," he gravely replied, " that apart from
eyery other consideration, I shall be so selfish as to accept tho
NATHALIE. 501
fiacvifice of jour existence? shall you alone be excluded from
the destiny of woman? Shall you alone have no fixed position,
no true home, no future, no husband to protect you, no children
to love and caress? What father would doom his child to so
cheerless a destiny ?"
But still she wept, and urged her pleading, and asked to
be 'only his child.'
" It shall be so if you wish it," he replied, whilst a change
came over his features. ' Yes, you shall be my adopted child,
live with me, call me father, and bear my name. But do not
deceive yourself, after this first moment of emotion, our inter-
course must perforce grow cold and constrained. You are not
of my blood or race : I have not known you as a child, and seen
you growing up to what you are now. You were a woman when
first we met, as a woman I have loved you, and that first im-
pression I can never wholly efi'ace. Believe me, the perfect
freedom, the confidence, the unrestrained caress these may
not exist between us, these never do exist, save between those
whom one blood unites. And yet, as I said, if you wish it, it
shall be so, but I feel that this actual moment, so pure, so
delightful once over, will never return again. You weep ;
am I grieving you, poor child ! Well, if it must be, you need
not speak ; leave me quietly, silently ; I shall understand If
not, remain thus : my child my wife."
He told her to leave him, but an irresistible impulse made
him only hold her more fast. He bent over her ; his voice was
moved and low ; her hands lay clasped upon his shoulder, and
her face lay hidden upon them. He heard, he felt her weeping,
but she did not move ; he thought she consented ; a blessing
passed his lips ; he stooped to kiss her cheek, but she shunned
the embrace ; she slowly raised her head from his shoulder,
yet di i not raise her look ; she disengaged herself from the
arms that encircled her, and gently drew away from Monsieur
de Sainville, until she stood free before him. He did not seek
to detain her he did not speak, but watched her silently and
with a strange pang at his heart. She laid her folded hands
on her bosom, and stood looking at him quietly.
" Monsieur de Sainville," said she, in a tremulous tone, " I
do not think I am worth very much, and yet if you care for me,
you may have me. I do not think I am a great prize to win,
but if you do indeed value me, here I am."
He looked glad, wondering, but she knew the privileges of
her sex too well not to reverse the sign he had chosen not to
b02 NATH,vLIE.
leave his side when she gave iierself for life not to withhold
as aflaanced bride the familiar caress freely yielded as daughter
and child.
He took the hand which she held out to him. He vowed to
love her through life with fidelity, tenderness and truth ; to
protect and cherish her with all the watchful care of a father,
all the love of a husband.
" And I, Armand," said she, looking up seriously into his
face, " I vow to love, honor, and obey you, not by word of lip
alone before the mayor or the priest, but with my whole heart,
and in every action of my daily life "
This was their second betrothal The promise of eternal
affection she had once required now came unsought ; the obedi-
ence he had once exacted was now yielded unasked. The
thought struck them both ; their looks met.
" The new love is more faithful and less exacting than the
old, my child," said he, a little sadly.
But a glow rose to her cheeks.
" No, no. do not say that," she fervently exclaimed. " I
cannot at least sever myself from a past with all its errors so
dear and delightful. I would not have that past effaced ; that
love dead and forgotten ; my heart clings to both as to a part
of my being. Speak not of a new love ; there is but one ; a
stream of living water that never ceased to flow; that is fresh
and springing still. What is altered ? do we speak, look, feel
differently ? See ! I sit by your side as I sat before, many a
time ; that face at which I now look is not less kind than of
yore. If there bo a change, tell it me not; my eyes and heart
are blind ; I neither see nor feel it. Breathe not a doubt, not
one. I feel in a divine dream ; waken me not. Let me float
down the current of destiny : let nie read the book of life
slowly, page by page. If there be sorrow, faithlessness, and
weariness of the heart in store for me, I shall at least have
been happy for a few years ; I shall have had my ray of sun-
shine, and many, God help them ! see only the same bleak and
desolate sky from the beginning to the end of their journey
speak not of change; I tell you there is none."
" Do you mean to say you are not improved ?"
She looked at him with a smile.
" Not a bit. And you?" she added, after a pause.
" My poor child, I have no wish to deceive you. I certain-
ly have not improved."
" To tell you the truth. I know it all ; the whole town is full
NATHALIE. 503
of stories concerning your amiabilit}'. You pass for a sort of
Blue Beard, shut up in your chateau."
" Yes, I have grown morose."
" I saw it in your face the moment I entered tlie room ;
yes, very morose, but I shall cheer you."
" And bitter, Petite."
"But I am so amiable ! You look skeptical ? Well, I have
not been very amiable of late, but I will tell you why ; one of
your evil spirits the spirit of cold pride has been with me
It is gone now, gone for ever. I have been trying to be you,
and have made myself very wretched. I must be myself back
again there is no remedy for it I must be once more the
foolish girl who quarrelled with Mademoiselle Dantin, and who
very nearly quarrelled with you the first time she entered this
quiet library. She is very faulty ; I know that, and yet she has
her good points too. When she is perverse, bear with her. and
when she is foolishly-trusting, chill not her faith with cold les-
sons, for it is in her nature she must go on, deceived if you
will, but still hoping and believing."
At first he did not reply, but he made her turn her fluslied
face to the fading light, and looked at her attentively.
' Petite," he said, "you have a curious charm. By what
secret spell have you wound yourself around my heart I need
not tell you it is not very tender, or yielding by nature so
that it almost seems I cannot help liking you still, no matter
what you do ? I loved another woman once, very beautiful,
very gentle, very winning, but she never had that power over
me, and when I chose to cease loving her, she could not make
me love on. Why is this?"
Nathalie smiled with a smile so bright and radiant, spite of
that dusky room, that like Una's angel face, it made for a
moment
A sunshine in the shady place.
"Because," she replied, " I love with my whole soul, with
my whole heart that is the secret ; you know it there Ue8
the charm."
504 NATHALIE.
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Canoness sat alone in her boudoir. She had been
reading in her prayer-book, but it now lay closed on the table
near her. She wept slowly ; tears come not in old age with the
same rapid gush with which they flow in youth. She felt sad
and lonely. Her deafness had increased of late, and as she
sat facing the window with her back to the door, she did not
know that any one had entered, until her nephew stood by her
chair. He took her hand, kissed it, and sat down by her side.
Their intercourse had been cold and constrained of late ; she
felt this proof of returning aflfection, for her voice trembled a
little as she said :
" How kind of you to come, Armand ! I felt so dull."
" Your life is dull, aunt ; you want some one a companion."
The Canoness shook her head ; her face became obscured.
' She wanted no companion."
" Yes, aunt, you do ; and I have found one for you."
" Indeed," she shortly replied.
" Yes, you will be charmed with the person I have chosen
for you."
" I can choose for myself"
" Very well ; I shall send word that she need not come."
He stretched his hands towards the bell-rope ; his aunt de-
tained him.
" Stay, Armand," she hesitatingly observed, " one must not
send such a message; besides, what sort of a person is she?"
" A very agreeable person, aunt."
At the word agreeable, the Canoness took her attentive at-
titude, coughed, and fidgeted in her chair.
"Young?" she asked, pretending to look straight before her,
but casting a stealthy glance at her nephew.
" Not twenty, I believe."
"Good-looking?" she asked, with the same look.
" She is very pretty."
" I will not have her !" decisively exclaimed the Canoness ;
'' I will not have her !"
"But aunt "
" It is no us&, Armand ; I will not have her ; not for
'vorlds !"
" My dear aunt !"
NATHALIE. 505
" Not for worlds !" again exclaimed the Canoness, who
seemed to be getting excited.
" But why so, aunt ?"
" You are very inquisitive, Armand."
" I only want to know your reason for refusing."
" Well, then, I refuse because because it is no business
of yours, Armand," was her abrupt conclusion.
' Aunt, see this person. She has a charming face, a thing
you like."
" So do you," muttered the Canoness.
" Her society would delight you."
" And you also, no doubt," she observed, in the same tone.
" She would walk with you in the garden."
" Or meet monsieur, my nephew, there." This was uttered
sotto voce.
" And spend the evening with you in this pretty boudoir."
' Which would be much prettier than now, of course," dryly
replied the Canoness, speaking aloud, for she was getting irri-
tated.
" In short," calmly said Monsieur de Sainville, " it is so de-
sirable a scheme that you will surely consent."
His aunt turned upon him indignantly.
" Armand," said she, drawing herself up, folding her arms,
and sitting erect in her arm-chair, " am I or am I not a woman
of penetration ?"
" My good aunt !"
" No coaxing ; am I or am I not a woman of penetration ?"
" I never denied it, aunt ; what about it ?"
'' Only this, Armand ; the next time you lay your schemes,
and think to make me the instrument ; don't do it quite so
openly. Do not, Armand," she feelingly added.
Monsieur de SainvilLe gravely inquired her meaning. But
she shook her head, shut her eyes, and pursed up her lips.
^ She know, but was not going to tell him ; not she."
" I see, aunt, you are prejudiced against this poor girl."
The Canoness reclined back in her chair, and smiled iron
ically.
" How unjust ! she has quite an affection for you."
" An affection !" Aunt Radegonde looked indignant.
" She has no greater desire than to spend the remaftidcr of
her days with you."
Aunt Radegonde looked confounded.
. ' She said she knew you needed her company "
22
506 NATHALIE.
" Company ! her company ! Impertinent little thing ?"
" Yes, she seemed quite confident about it."
The Canoness laid her folded Iiands on her knees, and
turned her head from right to left, with a bewildered look.
" Little intrigante /" she exclaimed. More she could not
say; she was, to use a French expression, '' suffoqu^e.''^
" Indeed," quietly continued her nephew, " her kindly feel-
ing towards you quite won my heart."
" Won his heart !" The Canoness looked at him with silent
reproach.
'' Oh ! Nathalie. Petite, my good child, ray dear li'tle thing,"
she sadly said. ' I knew you were forgotten. I did not know
you would be so soon replaced."
Two large tears trickled down her cheeks. Monsieur do
Sainville looked a little moved.
" Aunt," said he quietly, " look behind you."
The Canoness slowly turned round, and uttered a faint cry :
in the shadow of the room behind her chair stood Nathalie,
looking at her and laughing and crying, as she looked both at
once. The poor Canoness remained mute ; but the young girl
stepped quickly round the chair, knelt on the floor, kissed the
hands of her old friend, and passing her arms around her,
clasped her slender little waist.
" Yes, Marraine." she said, laughing, but her eyes and
cheeks still glittering with recent tears, ' here is the imperti-
nent little thing; the little intrigante! Well, why do you
not send her away about her business at once ?"
The Canoness shook away the tears that would gather in
her eyes ; she laid one hand on either shoulder of the young
girl, stooped and kissed her heartily ; her face beamed with
joy. Monsieur de Sainville stood leaning against the back of
his aunt's arm-chair ; he smiled as he looked on, with a purer
ioy and gentler emotion than any he had experienced for many
a day. To receive happiness is delightful ; to bestow it is
blessed.
Five minutes had not elapsed before they all three looked
very comfortable indeed. Nathalie sat on a low stool at the
feet of the Canoness. and Monsieur de Sainville on a low couch
by his aunt's side. The Canoness, like a practical little woman
as she was, had, her first emotion over, exacted from Nathalie
a solemn promise never to leave her again, which promise the
young girl had yielded with a smile and a kiss. But though
Aunt lladegonde ought now to have been quite happy, sho did
NATHALIE. 507
not seem so. She looked at Monsieur de Sainville ; he had
relapsed into his usaal gravity ; she glanced at NatJaalie, the
young girl seemed rather pensive. The Canoness smiled to
herself with an air of much finesse, and felt that until slie in-
terfered, certain matters would never go right. She hesitating-
ly took her nephew's hand and held it fast between her slender
little fingers, whose grasp he could with one effort have eluded ;
then she took Nathalie's hand and softly glided it into his ;
and holding those two hands firmly clasped within her own,
she gave the owners a wistful and appealing look.
' Children," she began, but her voice faltered and died in
articulately away, whilst her eyes overflowed with tears
"Come, aunt," quietly said Monsieur de Sainville, "be
quite easy ; Petite and I are friends."
' Thank heaven !" devoutly said the Canoness, much re-
lieved. But in a few moments her fears and doubts returned.
She looked inquiringly at her nephew and Nathalie. They
looked calm and happy enough, but, with her usual penetra-
tion. Aunt Radegonde saw plainly all was not yet quite right.
" Arraand," she said, very seriously, ' do you think me a
woman of experience, and will you take my advice ?"
' That depends on the advice, aunt," he replied with a
,mile.
" Armand," decisively said the Canoness, her heart beating,
however, at the daring experiment she made, " Armand, mar-
ry Petite."
Her heart failed her ; he did not answer ; he looked grave,
and she construed his gravity into displeasure.
" Armand," she said, with much emotion, " marry her ;
Bhe loves you in her heart, she does. I never told you before,
but I will tell you now, that when you were ill she stood at the
door of your room pale and trembling, poor child, and when I
went to whii^per that you would not see her, she just bowed
her head, ani turning away, gave a look at that threshold
which she might not cross a look that almost broke my heart.
' I will not hush," said she, pushing away the hand which Na-
thalie quickly laid on her lips, " 1 will not hush ! do you think
I have nothing to say about him? do you think he has nt
longed to have his own Petite back again ; ay, many a time ?
Do you think he wuuld not now give any thing to have her sit
ting by his side, as she has sat so often ? He would, child, he
would, let him deny it if he can !"
He denied nothing. The Canoness, who watched him eager-
508 NATHALIE.
ly, felt that the decisive moment was come. She rose from her
seat, pale and trembling ; she took Nathalie's hand and made
her rise too ; she led her to her nephew, and the young girl
yielded to her, blushing and docile.
" Why do you bring me this perverse little thing?" asked
Monsieur de Sainville, trying to frown as his aunt and the
young girl stood before him ; but even as he spoke he fondly
drew Nathalie towards him, and making her sit on the couch
by his side, encircled her with one arm, and held her faat.
She slightly drew away from him, and looked up into his face
with a smile, half-arch, half-triumphant.
" You need not have this perverse little thing if you do not
choose, sir," she said, in a light mocking tone. She made a
motion to leave his side, but who shall say that in her heart
she either cared to go, or thought he would let her depart ? He
did not, but complacently lifted up and smoothed back a dis-
ordered tress of her dark hair, whilst she, thus sitting by him,
one hand lightly laid on his shoulder, looked at her old friend
with happy and blushing pride.
The little Canoness stood before them, her eyes blinded by
joyful tears. To her dying day this good creature will believe
that she, and she alone, reconciled them ; and to her dying
day Monsieur de Sainville, and she who is now his wife, will
tenderly indulge her in the dear illusion.
" Ah ! wise as he thinks himself, see how fondly he loves
her !" thought Aunt Radegonde, as she resumed her seat, and
thence watched them, smiling and elated at the submission of
man's wisdom to woman's power. " Well, Monsieur Armand
and Mademoiselle Petite," she observed aloud, " you may
thank me for this."
Both looked up, and smiled at one another first, then at
her.
" I wish," said her nephew, '' you would tell Mademoiselle
Petite to take off her scarf"
" Mademoiselle Dantin will scold if she remains too late,"
hesitatingly observed the Canoness, who held her sour-temper-
ed neighbor in secret awe.
" Who cares about Mademoiselle Dantin ?" was the irreve-
rent reply. " Are you afraid of her, aunt ?"
" No, indeed, Armand, but Petite "
" Petite is greatly changed if she is afraid of any thing or
any one," interrupted Monsieur de Sainville.
Willing to convince him that no important change had
NATHALIE. 509
taken place in her temper, Nathalie unfastened her scarf with
silent deliberation, thus expressing her determination to remain,
even at the imminent risk of rousing Mademoiselle Dantin'a
wrath. The Canoness shook her head, and said that, " if Ma-
demoiselle Dantin was cross "
" She will be delighted,'" interrupted her nephew.
Aunt Radegonde looked skeptical. " Mademoiselle Dan-
tin detested to hear of those things."
' What things, aunt?" he gravely asked.
Aunt Radegonde bridled up. ' People might make myste-
ries if they liked, but other people were neither deaf nor blind
yet." He smiled.
" "Well, aunt," said he, " to please you "
" To please me, Armand !"
" I mean to please you and Petite."
" To please us ! Armand, what do you mean ?"
" Nothing, aunt, since it pleases no one."
The Canoness looked baffled. She liked explanations and
little scenes of the pathetic kind : her nephew shunned and de-
tested them. Nathalie, resuming her old place, whispered that
he was only jesting.
" "Very unbecoming jesting," stiffly said aunt Radegonde.
But Monsieur de Sainville seriously declared this was no
jest, but the conclusion of a very unbusiness-like interview
which had formerly taken place between himself and Mademoi-
selle Montolieu concerning Mademoiselle Dantin's aft'airs. Na-
thalie, in a nettled tone, begged his pardon, and said that in-
terview had struck her as very business-like indeed. He re-
minded her, with a smile, that she had never mentioned the
intended purchase of Madame Ledru, and the damages that
disappcinted ladj claimed, and hoped she would not now for-
get to inform the schoolmistress that he had altered his mind,
and, owing to her great talents for business, had resolved to
pay the required sum for the rickety house and strip of garden.
" I shall say nothing of the kind," replied Nathalie, looking
exactly as she formerly looked when he had said something to
provoke her.
All that the Canoness understood was that Mademoisello
Dantin was fast leading to a quarrel it was high time for her
to check.
" Armand," she said, with much stateliness, ' I am the Iiead
of the famil}', am I not? Well, then, tell me your intentions
with regard to Petite ?"
610 NATHALIE.
" Aunt, what a needless question !"
" Indeed, no. In explanations one is supposed to knc^
nothing, and I am not aware that I do know any thing Do
you intend asking her to become your wife?"
^- Yes, aunt, I do.''
" Well, Petite," said the Canoness, looking down at Natha-
lie, " what will you answer ?"
" I shall answer when I have been asked," was the demure
reply.
'' But, Petite, he means to ask you."
" So do I mean to reply."
The Canoness looked greatly provoked. " This came,' she
hotly said, "of having any thing to do with lovers and their
quarrels. They would still be at drawn daggers but for her,
and instead of feeling grateful, they were in a plot to vex her."
Her nephew suggested that she should begin over again ; but
she indignantly refused. " They might manage their own
affairs now." But when, in spite of her faint resistance. Mon-
sieur de Sainville kissed her hand, and when Nathalie pressed
her lips to the averted cheek, the placable Canoness, who longed
to yield, allowed herself to be persuaded. She said " she was
much too easy, but it was time all this should end ;" therefore,
beseeching her nephew not to smile and Petite not to look
foolish," she made a second trial, which met with exactly the
same result as the first. Monsieur de Sainville would ask;
Nathalie would reply when she had been asked.
" Again !" indignantly exclaimed the Canoness, and it took
five minutes of coaxing on either side of her chair to soothe
her offended dignity. At length she hit on an expedient.
In solemn and deliberate tone, and in the distinctly uttered
name of Armand de Sainville, she asked Nathalie Montolieu
in marriage ; to which, in the name of the said Nathalie, she
after a pause given to that modest reflection suggested by pro-
priety uttered the most distinct and unequivocal " yes "
maiden thus questioned ever spoke. She listened for a while
to hear if any dissentient voice would be raised, but there was
a profound silence.
' There !" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief and a tri-
umphant look, as she felt that the arduous matter was fairly
settled. " There, it is all right, now ; but I should like to know
how you would have managed without me. Ah ! you may
well smile and look glad, foolish children. But you need not
think it is all over, you have to hear me yet."
NATHALIE. 511
Both smiled at the expected homily. But of this ths
Canoness remained unconscious ; she glanced with a compla-
cent smile from her nephew to the young girl, and nodding at
them with that mingled honliomie and innocent vanity which
formed the basis of her character, she thus addressed them :
' Children, it is well to marry and be fond of one another,
but that is not enough "
" How can you tell, aunt ?" asked her nephew, " you were
never married."
" But I have observed, Armand, obsei-ved a great deal.
Pray do not interrupt me again. You see," she resumed,
" little quarrels are dangerous ; affection dies of those pricks of
a pin. I do not tell you, Petite, to obey Armand ; I think it
very ridiculous that men should command and women obey :
but you see, my dear, he is older than you are ; he has more
experience and judgment; it will be well to yield sometimes,
for when a man takes a young wife, and is subject to her ca-
prices, he loses the respect of the world. Now, Petite, you
must be jealous of your husband's reputation and honor both
are your own ; do not forget it. As for you, Armand, I only
say this : a woman is not a stone, but something with a heart.
Be kind, and she will do as you wish; command, and she will
either brave or deceive you. In short," added Aunt Rade-
gonde, warming with her subject, " behave to her like a Chris-
tian and a gentleman ; not like a Turk."
Thus pithily closed Aunt Badegonde's homily.
CONCLUSION.
Six weeks had elapsed ; to the profound amazement of the
town of Sainville, and of the whole vicinity, Nathalie Mon-
tolieu had left the school of Mademoiselle Dantin for the
chateau, and relinquished her maiden name for that of De
Sainville.
This mesalliance was variously commented on. The gene-
ral and most popular explanation was, that notwithstanding
his years and experience, Monsieur de Sainville had allowed
himself to be caught by a pretty face ; ergo, that he was only
a fool ; and that though so young and seemingly heedless.
512 NATHALIE.
Mademoiselle Montolieu was wonderfully expert in the difficult
art of catching a rich husband. The tact with which she had
transferred her designs from the nephew to his wealthy uncle
was especially admired. A few foolish and romantic people
did indeed venture to hint that Monsieur de Sainville was
perhaps as wise as Monsieur de Chateaufort, who had married a
plebeian dot of five hundred thousand francs, a plain person,
and a sour temper ; they even presumed to add that it was no
actual crime to be young and pretty ; and that a woman might
love a man who happened to be rich and somewhat older than
herself; but those persons were treated as such persons will bo
treated to the end of time : with the most entire contempt.
Every one, however, agreed in admiring the perfect uncon-
cern with which Monsieur de Sainville and his wife endured
the ironical surprise the announcement of their marriage had
created, and it was d'ecided on all hands that they had mani-
fested a very fine sang-froid. But to this praise we regret to
state that they were not entitled, having remained, not only
unaware, but unsuspicious of the comments to which an event
that appeared to them very simple and natural had given
rise.
Monsieur de Sainville entertained for his own judgment,
prudence, and forethought, that degree of respect with which
most men are amply provided ; it did not occur to him that he
could do a foolish thing ; he did not think that he had done a
foolish thing in marrying Nathalie, and consiequently did not
imagine that the world might probably be of another opinion.
Nathalie came to the same conclusion from different grounds.
She had f=^ sincere a respect for her husband apart from the
love she felt she held him so superior in every thing to the
younger men she had known, and they, to say the truth, were
neither remarkable nor numerous, that she would have listened
with incredulous surprise to the accusation of interested
motives preferred against her. It would have seemed to her
that there could exist but one motive for marrying Monsieur
de Sainville, and that this motive must be as apparent to every
mind as it was to her own.
The six weeks which elapsed had been marked by no
important occurrence. There had, indeed, been some talk of
one of those matrimonial tours of which the fashion, imported
from England, has of late years become so prevalent in France ;
but Aunt Radegonde looked so perfectly miserable at the idea oif
remaining alone, Monsieur de Sainville evidently cai-ed td
NATlIALre. 513
lutle for tliis escursivc sort of happiness awarded to the
honeymoon, and Nathalie confessed so frankly that there was no
place she liked so well as Sainville, that the plan was relin-
quished.
We know that a tale has, properly speaking, no right to
extend beyond that fiat of a heroine's destiny, called marriage ;
and yet we must ask the reader to linger with us on the
threshold of that old saloon into which he has so often been
ushered, and to behold one last farewell picture.
Evening is drawing in. The chilly Canoness sits in her
deep arm-chair by the fireside ; Nathalie has been wrapping
her up in a vast shawl, and placing a warm cushion under her
little feet ; they are alone.
"There," said Nathalie, in her cheerful voice, '-you are
quite right now, and can doze quietly."
"Doze, Petite ; I wonder you can talk so childishly," was
the somewhat pettish reply; "how often must I tell you that
I do not doze after dinner, that I am only in a reflective
mood?"
" But, aunt, why do you shut your eyes ?"
" Because the light annoys me, you simple little thing."
Nathalie turned her head away to hide a furtive smile as
her aunt closed her eyes to prepai-e for her after-dinner reflec-
tions ; her regular breathing soon announced that those reflec-
tions were at least of a placid nature. Nathalie stood awhile
on the hearth and then glided softly to one of the windows.
It was a calm and chill evening. The moon was rising, but
as yet her light was gray and indistinct, and the trees of the
avenue cast faint and undefined shadows on the ground.
Beyond rose the massive iron gate ; and farther still extended
the white and lonely road, winding away amongst green fields
and solitary homesteads. It was that road which Nathalie
followed in its farthest windings, as she stood in the embrasure
of the window, her brow resting against the clear window-panes,
the heavy curtain shrouding her in.
She was dreaming; not the feverish dreams which had
once flushed the cheek and haunted the heart of the ardent
girl ; not these. Womanhood's calmer and holier visions were
now hovering around her, for she was happy. Happiness is
not, after all, so rare as it has often been represented ; it exists
and is met with, but accompanied with doubts and fears, that
trouble its purest joys, and with sweet intoxicating hopes,
that agitate still more deeply. It is the serene placid happi.
22*
514 NATHALIE.
ness that is a rare and brief sojourner on earth ; the guest ol
a day, not so often banished by actual sorrow as the weariness
of human hearts, too soon satiated with its pure and delightful
presence. It was that still joy which now dwelt in the heart
of Nathalie, and shed its divine peace over all her dreams.
She did not feel hope, for hope implies desire, and every desire
of her heart was fulfilled ; she had not, as of yore, the
longing wish to read and open the sealed book of the future ;
she had fixed her destiny on earth by solemn and irrevocable
vows ; and though she could not tell whether sorrow or happi-
ness awaited her, she knew that there could be for her ouly
one deep sorrow, even as there was only one deep happiness.
Of what, then, did she dream ?
Of the quiet domestic joys of woman's household life ; of
her husband away, as he was this evening, and returning, as
she expected he would return, on the morrow ; of kind words
and gentle caresses, of winter evenings by the fireside, of long
summer mornings in the garden, and of a whole existence
flowing on thus through years with the same calm and even
tide. The change, the adventure, the romance she had once
longed for no longer troubled her ; the fever of her soul had
won its long sought rest.
It was some time before she left the window and returned
to the hearth. The Canoness was in a deep sleep ; the fire
shone with a warm and vivid glow. Nathalie sat down on a
low stool ; she smiled even to herself as she remembered the
winter evenings thus spent, with a book on her lap that still
remained unread ; and then came back the memory of doubt,
sorrow, and separation, of griefs poured forth on a sister's
bosom, of the voice which had ever cheered her with pure and
holy counsels, of the calm death-bed, and of the lonely grave
in the narrow church yard of Sainville. So absorbed was she
in those recollections that she never heard the sound of a
horse's hoofs in the avenue, nor, after a while, the drawing-
room door opening. It was Monsieur de Sainville who entered
He paused for a moment on the threshold and looked at his
wife. The fire-light fell on her features, youthful in spite of
their present seriousness, and on her slender figure ; her present
attitude displaying more than usual its light girlish grace.
Nathalie looked very pretty thus, and yet a strange pang shot
across the bosom of Monsieur de Sainville as he gazed on her.
He was still in the prime and vigor of life, but she was in all
Ihe early freshness of her years. It was not that he wished to
NATHALIE. 515
idd one day more to that existence as yet so bi'icf, nor would
he have seen without regret a severer line on that youthful
brow; she c-harraed him thus, and. as he felt, charmed him only
too well ; but in spite of himself, the lingering doubt would
intrude that a day might come when Nathalie would repent
her present choice, and wish she had chosen herself some
younger mate.
He closed the door ; Nathalie looked up, quickly rose to
nseet him, and there was something in the flush of glad sur-
prise which lit up her face, in the irrepressible joy betrayed by
every one of her expressive and animated features, that would
have soothed a more irritable spirit, and charmed more pain-
ful doubts away. In youth, when the heart is naturally more
generous, because it is more wealthy, the affection given is
often the source of greater, and certainly purer happiness,
than the love received ; but as years steal on, as the heart, like
a prodigal spendthrift, grows poor, selfish, and wearied, no-
thing can exceed the eager delight with which it receives the
slightest tokens of a pure and sincere affection. This is a
weakness against which judgment avails little, and bygone ex-
perience still less. Few had become more skeptical of human
affections than Monsieur de Sainville ; few had been more jus-
tified in their skepticism, and yet none, perhaps, ever yielded
with more facility than he did to the pleasure of watching
every emotion of the love he had at first unconsciously inspired,
and then sedulously fostered in the heart of the young girl now
his wife.
As he took a seat quietly, in order not to awaken his aunt,
and Nathalie placed herself on the low stool at his feet, she
did not say his unexpected return pleased her, but her flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes, the volubility of her piquant speech,
the very restlessness of her movements, betrayed her joy ; un-
expressed, indeed, but to him how legible in the radiant fiico
now raised towards his ! And it was not merely the gladness
his return inspired that pleased him, but still more the facility
with whicli this Provencal nature yielded to pleasurable emo-
tions, ever displaying that singular aptitude for happiness, if
we may for once borrow a French idiom, which had struck and
charmed him from the first.
To those who have lived much, whether prematurely or in
the natural course of years, there is a deep attraction in the
vivacity and buoyancy of 3'ounger minds and hearts. A placid,
serene woman, far more perfect than Nathalie, would have
516 NATHALIE.
failed iu awakening the same feeling in Monsieur de Sainvillc,
who was himself calm enough not to need that soothing but
somewhat chill influence. Nathalie was to him as is to a tra-
veller the summer breeze, keen, fresh, and vivifying, but
never cold, which tempers the fervid heat of noonday, and ban-
ishes the evening weariness of limbs and spirit.
She had ceased speaking, perhaps because she feared to
awaken the sleeping Canoness ; perhaps because other thoughts
had come to her. Monsieur de Sainville bent down and look-
ed into her face; the fire-light shone brightly on it; it was
somewhat serious, yet no sad thoughts seemed tc trouble her
as she sat there on -the hearth, her look on the glowing embers,
her hands clasped around her knees.
" What are you thinking of?" asked her husband, placing
his hand lightly on her shoulder.
She looked up slowly, and as slowly smiled.
" I was thinking," she replied, ' that it is Eow two years
since I entered this house this room and sat down where I
am sitting now ; strange that it should have tken two entire
years to make me so happy."
" You are happy, then ?"
" Very happy."
" And you have no doubt no fear V
" None why should I ?"
He looked at her almost sadly, but her smile remained
bright, trusting, and undismayed.
" You are the same as ever," said he, " too hopeful. Come,
confess that you look upon life, married life in particular, as a
sort of perpetual sunshine."
" I think no such thing," was the dry and decisive reply ;
" I think, on the contrary, that it is extremely stormy."
" Indeed !"
" Yes, indeed ; but I have resolved one thing."
" And pray what is that thing ?"
" That you shall have all the storms to yourself You need
not smile ironically : calm as you are, you know that I have
found the way of putting you out of temper."
" Yes, Petite ; but you were first very much out of temper
yourself; if, therefore, the storms you predict take place, you
will be -"
" A Griselidis all patience, meek submission, and dutiful
obedience."
A. skeptical smile betrayed the doubt with which Monsieur
NATHALIE.- 5 1 7
flc Sainville was disposed to treat this assertion ; but Nathalie
persisted.
' Indeed it n'ill be as I say ; and that because I know it
will vex you thoroughly."
" This sounds frank ; but pray how do you know it will
vex me V
" Because you like resistance, provided you can conquer it
in the end ; because you would wish me to storm, fret, and
quarrel, whilst you remained cool as an icicle, and consequent-
ly alwa3's master. But as I am resolved not to give you this
gratification, I have taken a dose of patience sufficient to last
me through life."
" Well, since you confess to the amiable motive of wishing
to vex me, I begin to believe this may be true."
" And you will give me credit for no other motive," asked
Nathalie, a little seriously. " You do not think I could be
patient from reason and principle if you happened to be stern
and exacting ; you do not think I could separate love from
temper, and whilst I trusted in one, find it easy to endure the
other V
" Would you do that, Petite ?"
" Yes, Armand, I would ; for indeed you may believe me,
mine is no weak and passing affection. I know that you are
human, and that you have humanity's weaknesses ; but I know
also that you are upright and true ; and if I love you much, I
revere you not less. You need not look at me so wistfully : I
cannot, I will not doubt. I said it already, this is no passing
affection : it will not end with a few years ; it will not be eon-
quered by sorrow or death ; it is as much a part of my being
as is the immortal spirit within me, and like it, will it survive
the storms and trials of existence, and pass beneath the dark
portal of death to rejoice in the life and light of a purer day."
Shf" ceased tears had gathered in her dark eyes, and her
smiling and parted lips quivered slightly. He made her no
reply, but bending over her he laid his hand caressingly on
the glos.sy and wavy tresses, and drew nearer to him that bowed
and submissive head.
We will leave them thus. The Canoness is plunged in her
deepest and most reflective mood ; a mood which, alas ! grows
deeper and longer every evening ; the wood-fire is burning
brightly on the hearth ; it lights the room with a warm genial
glow ; twilight has deepened into dusk ; the red curtain is still
undrawn ; through the clear window-panes are seen the dark
518 NATHALIE.
trees of the avenue ; they rise against a gky of night's decpcEt
azure: over all shines the moon large, full, and radiant her
soft, clear light glides in through the casement, and falls upon
the floor ; it contrasts, but does not blend, with the red fire-
light.
And no other light seems to be needed for the sleep of age,
or the dreams of love and youth. But, alas ! there is only one
there who is dreaming now : Monsieur de Sainville is indeed
looking at his wife with true and serious tenderness ; he loves
her and has faith in her love ; but he has not lived in vain ; he
knows the fallacy of hope, the weakness of humanity; the
perishable nature of its deepest feelings ; the freshness of Na-
thalie's hopes, the fervor of her faith cannot exist for him; and
yet he is happy, for he can say '' sufficient to each day is the
evil thereof," and whilst the glad present shines over him, he
will not sadden it with thoughts of the morrow's gloom.
But she who now sits at his feet with brow so serene,
smile so hopeful, and look that seems to welcome such glorious
visions, has she those doubts, those fears 1 She has not.
" Hope Avitli eyes so fair"
never wore a brighter aspect, when the poor poet, who died of
grief, first beheld hei*. And hope is with her now; her glance
undimmed by weeping, her beacon-light unquenched by the
heavy night shadows. Nathalie is young ; barely has she seen
twenty years ; she has suflFered, but she forgets her past sorrow,
to gaze on the future ; it is beautiful and bright ; she sees it as
clearly as the light reflected in the mirror before her. She has
heard that happiness is transient, that love is as delusive as the
dream of a night ; but the voice in her heart tells her another
tale. Where others have found sorrow, she shall have deep joy,
for Nathalie believes ; her look, her attitude, are the very sub-
lime of faith ; there is not the shadow of a doubt on that clear
brow, not the most remote mistrust in that upturned gaze.
She is happy, and happy indeed does she look, sitting there at
his feet, secure in the might and faith of her undying love.
Long may those bright hopes and warm feelings remain
with her ; long may they linger near her household hearth^ and
hallow it with their pure presence !