"Yes; but I wanted to be sure, quite sure; for, believe me, monsieur, in putting me so high he was not mistaken."Women know how to give a peculiar sacredness to their words; they communicate something vibrant to them, which extends the meaning of their ideas, and gives them depth; though later their fascinated listener may not remember precisely what they said, their end has been completely attained,--which is the object of all eloquence.The princess might at that moment have been wearing the diadem of France, and her brow could not have seemed more imposing than it was beneath that crown of golden hair, braided like a coronet, and adorned with heather.She was simple and calm; nothing betrayed a sense of any necessity to appear so, nor any desire to seem grand or loving.
D'Arthez, the solitary toiler, to whom the ways of the world were unknown, whom study had wrapped in its protecting veils, was the dupe of her tones and words.He was under the spell of those exquisite manners; he admired that perfect beauty, ripened by misfortune, placid in retirement; he adored the union of so rare a mind and so noble a soul; and he longed to become, himself, the heir of Michel Chrestien.
The beginning of this passion was, as in the case of almost all deep thinkers, an idea.Looking at the princess, studying the shape of her head, the arrangement of those sweet features, her figure, her hand, so finely modelled, closer than when he accompanied his friend in their wild rush through the streets, he was struck by the surprising phenomenon of the moral second-sight which a man exalted by love invariably finds within him.With what lucidity had Michel Chrestien read into that soul, that heart, illumined by the fires of love! Thus the princess acquired, in d'Arthez's eyes, another charm; a halo of poesy surrounded her.
As the dinner proceeded, Daniel called to mind the various confidences of his friend, his despair, his hopes, the noble poems of a true sentiment sung to his ear alone, in honor of this woman.It is rare that a man passes without remorse from the position of confidant to that of rival, and d'Arthez was free to do so without dishonor.He had suddenly, in a moment, perceived the enormous differences existing between a well-bred woman, that flower of the great world, and common women, though of the latter he did not know beyond one specimen.He was thus captured on the most accessible and sensitive sides of his soul and of his genius.Impelled by his simplicity, and by the impetuosity of his ideas, to lay immediate claim to this woman, he found himself restrained by society, also by the barrier which the manners and, let us say the word, the majesty of the princess placed between them.The conversation, which remained upon the topic of Michel Chrestien until the dessert, was an excellent pretext for both to speak in a low voice: love, sympathy, comprehension! she could pose as a maligned and misunderstood woman; he could slip his feet into the shoes of the dead republican.Perhaps his candid mind detected itself in regretting his dead friend less.The princess, at the moment when the dessert appeared upon the table, and the guests were separated by a brilliant hedge of fruits and sweetmeats, thought best to put an end to this flow of confidences by a charming little speech, in which she delicately expressed the idea that Daniel and Michel were twin souls.
After this d'Arthez threw himself into the general conversation with the gayety of a child, and a self-conceited air that was worthy of a schoolboy.When they left the dining-room, the princess took d'Arthez's arm, in the simplest manner, to return to Madame d'Espard's little salon.As they crossed the grand salon she walked slowly, and when sufficiently separated from the marquise, who was on Blondet's arm, she stopped.
"I do not wish to be inaccessible to the friend of that poor man," she said to d'Arthez; "and though I have made it a rule to receive no visitors, you will always be welcome in my house.Do not think this a favor.A favor is only for strangers, and to my mind you and I seem old friends; I see in you the brother of Michel."D'Arthez could only press her arm, unable to make other reply.
