XVIII

On seeing Augustine, the Duchess rose and made her sit down by her.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, madame?" she said

with a most gracious smile.

"Why all the falseness?" thought Augustine, replying only with a bow.

Her silence was compulsory. The young woman saw before her a

superfluous witness of the scene. This personage was, of all the

Colonels in the army, the youngest, the most fashionable, and the

finest man. His face, full of life and youth, but already expressive,

was further enhanced by a small moustache twirled up into points, and

as black as jet, by a full imperial, by whiskers carefully combed, and

a forest of black hair in some disorder. He was whisking a riding whip

with an air of ease and freedom which suited his self-satisfied

expression and the elegance of his dress; the ribbons attached to his

button-hole were carelessly tied, and he seemed to pride himself much

more on his smart appearance than on his courage. Augustine looked at

the Duchesse de Carigliano, and indicated the Colonel by a sidelong

glance. All its mute appeal was understood.

"Good-bye, then, Monsieur d'Aiglemont, we shall meet in the Bois de

Boulogne."

These words were spoken by the siren as though they were the result of

an agreement made before Augustine's arrival, and she winged them with

a threatening look that the officer deserved perhaps for the

admiration he showed in gazing at the modest flower, which contrasted

so well with the haughty Duchess. The young fop bowed in silence,

turned on the heels of his boots, and gracefully quitted the boudoir.

At this instant, Augustine, watching her rival, whose eyes seemed to

follow the brilliant officer, detected in that glance a sentiment of

which the transient expression is known to every woman. She perceived

with the deepest anguish that her visit would be useless; this lady,

full of artifice, was too greedy of homage not to have a ruthless

heart.

"Madame," said Augustine in a broken voice, "the step I am about to

take will seem to you very strange; but there is a madness of despair

which ought to excuse anything. I understand only too well why

Theodore prefers your house to any other, and why your mind has so

much power over his. Alas! I have only to look into myself to find

more than ample reasons. But I am devoted to my husband, madame. Two

years of tears have not effaced his image from my heart, though I have

lost his. In my folly I dared to dream of a contest with you; and I

have come to you to ask you by what means I may triumph over yourself.

Oh, madame," cried the young wife, ardently seizing the hand which her

rival allowed her to hold, "I will never pray to God for my own

happiness with so much fervor as I will beseech Him for yours, if you

will help me to win back Sommervieux's regard--I will not say his

love. I have no hope but in you. Ah! tell me how you could please him,

and make him forget the first days----" At these words Augustine broke

down, suffocated with sobs she could not suppress. Ashamed of her

weakness, she hid her face in her handkerchief, which she bathed with

tears.

"What a child you are, my dear little beauty!" said the Duchess,

carried away by the novelty of such a scene, and touched, in spite of

herself, at receiving such homage from the most perfect virtue perhaps

in Paris. She took the young wife's handkerchief, and herself wiped

the tears from her eyes, soothing her by a few monosyllables murmured

with gracious compassion. After a moment's silence the Duchess,

grasping poor Augustine's hands in both her own--hands that had a rare

character of dignity and powerful beauty--said in a gentle and

friendly voice: "My first warning is to advise you not to weep so

bitterly; tears are disfiguring. We must learn to deal firmly with the

sorrows that make us ill, for love does not linger long by a sick-bed.

Melancholy, at first, no doubt, lends a certain attractive grace, but

it ends by dragging the features and blighting the loveliest face. And

besides, our tyrants are so vain as to insist that their slaves should

be always cheerful."

"But, madame, it is not in my power not to feel. How is it possible,

without suffering a thousand deaths, to see the face which once beamed

with love and gladness turn chill, colorless, and indifferent? I

cannot control my heart!"

"So much the worse, sweet child. But I fancy I know all your story. In

the first place, if your husband is unfaithful to you, understand

clearly that I am not his accomplice. If I was anxious to have him in

my drawing-room, it was, I own, out of vanity; he was famous, and he

went nowhere. I like you too much already to tell you all the mad

things he has done for my sake. I will only reveal one, because it may

perhaps help us to bring him back to you, and to punish him for the

audacity of his behavior to me. He will end by compromising me. I know

the world too well, my dear, to abandon myself to the discretion of a

too superior man. You should know that one may allow them to court

one, but marry them--that is a mistake! We women ought to admire men

of genius, and delight in them as a spectacle, but as to living with

them? Never.--No, no. It is like wanting to find pleasure in

inspecting the machinery of the opera instead of sitting in a box to

enjoy its brilliant illusions. But this misfortune has fallen on you,

my poor child, has it not? Well, then, you must try to arm yourself

against tyranny."