two or three times a week. Though he was overwhelmed with business, he found time to attend the trials, call on the litigious merchants, and conduct the Review; keeping up his personal mystery, from the conviction that the more covert and hidden was his influence, the more real it would be. But he neglected no means of success, reading up the list of electors of Besancon, and finding out their interests, their characters, their various friendships and antipathies. Did ever a Cardinal hoping to be made Pope give himself more trouble?
One evening Mariette, on coming to dress Rosalie for an evening party, handed to her, not without many groans over this treachery, a letter of which the address made Mademoiselle de Watteville shiver and redden and turn pale again as she read the address:
To Madame la Duchesse d’Argaiolo
(nee Princesse Soderini)
At Belgirate,
Lago Maggiore, Italy.
In her eyes this direction blazed as the words Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, did in the eyes of Belshazzar. After concealing the letter, Rosalie went downstairs to accompany her mother to Madame de Chavoncourt’s; and as long as the endless evening lasted, she was tormented by remorse and scruples. She had already felt shame at having violated the secrecy of Albert’s letter to Leopold; she had several times asked herself whether, if he knew of her crime, infamous inasmuch as it necessarily goes unpunished, the high-minded Albert could esteem her. Her conscience answered an uncompromising “No.”
She had expiated her sin by self-imposed penances; she fasted, she mortified herself by remaining on her knees, her arms outstretched for hours, and repeating prayers all the time. She had compelled Mariette to similar sets of repentance; her passion was mingled with genuine asceticism, and was all the more dangerous.
“Shall I read that letter, shall I not?” she asked herself, while listening to the Chavoncourt girls. One was sixteen, the other seventeen and a half. Rosalie looked upon her two friends as mere children because they were not secretly in love. — ”If I read it,” she finally decided, after hesitating for an hour between Yes and No, “it shall, at any rate, be the last. Since I have gone so far as to see what he wrote to his friend, why should I not know what he says to her? If it is a horrible crime, is it not a proof of love? Oh, Albert! am I not your wife?”
When Rosalie was in bed she opened the letter, dated from day to day, so as to give the Duchess a faithful picture of Albert’s life and feelings.
“25th.
“My dear Soul, all is well. To my other conquests I have just
added an invaluable one: I have done a service to one of the most
influential men who work the elections. Like the critics, who make
other men’s reputations but can never make their own, he makes
deputies though he never can become one. The worthy man wanted to
show his gratitude without loosening his purse-strings by saying
to me, ‘Would you care to sit in the Chamber? I can get you
returned as deputy.’
“‘If I ever make up my mind to enter on a political career,’
replied I hypocritically, ‘it would be to devote myself to the
Comte, which I love, and where I am appreciated.’
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘we will persuade you, and through you we shall
have weight in the Chamber, for you will distinguish yourself
there.’
“And so, my beloved angel, say what you will, my perseverance will
be rewarded. Ere long I shall, from the high place of the French
Tribune, come before my country, before Europe. My name will be
flung to you by the hundred voices of the French press.
“Yes, as you tell me, I was old when I came to Besancon, and
Besancon has aged me more; but, like Sixtus V., I shall be young
again the day after my election. I shall enter on my true life, my
own sphere. Shall we not then stand in the same line? Count
Savaron de Savarus, Ambassador I know not where, may surely marry
a Princess Soderini, the widow of the Duc d’Argaiolo! Triumph
restores the youth of men who have been preserved by incessant
struggles. Oh, my Life! with what gladness did I fly from my
library to my private room, to tell your portrait of this progress
before writing to you! Yes, the votes I can command, those of the
Vicar-General, of the persons I can oblige, and of this client,
make my election already sure.
“26th.
“We have entered on the twelfth year since that blest evening
when, by a look, the beautiful Duchess sealed the promises made by
the exile Francesca. You, dear, are thirty-two, I am thirty-five;
the dear Duke is seventy-seven — that is to say, ten years more
than yours and mine put together, and he still keeps well! My
patience is almost as great as my love, and indeed I need a few
years yet to rise to the level of your name. As you see, I am in
good spirits to-day, I can laugh; that is the effect of hope.
Sadness or gladness, it all comes to me through you. The hope of
success always carries me back to the day following that one on
which I saw you for the first time, when my life became one with
yours as the earth turns to the light. Qual pianto are these
eleven years, for this is the 26th of December, the anniversary of
my arrival at your villa on the Lake of Geneva. For eleven years
have I been crying to you, while you shine like a star set too
high for man to reach it.
“27th.
“No, dearest, do not go to Milan; stay at Belgirate. Milan
terrifies me. I do not like that odious Milanese fashion of
chatting at the Scala every evening with a dozen persons, among
whom it is hard if no one says something sweet. To me solitude is
like the lump of amber in whose heart an insect lives for ever in
unchanging beauty. Thus the heart and soul of a woman remains pure
and unaltered in the form of their first youth. Is it the
Tedeschi that you regret?
“28th.
“Is your statue never to be finished? I should wish to have you in
marble, in painting, in miniature, in every possible form, to
beguile my impatience. I still am waiting for the view of
Belgirate from the south, and that of the balcony; these are all
that I now lack. I am so extremely busy that to-day I can only
write you nothing — but that nothing is everything. Was it not of
nothing that God made the world? That nothing is a word, God’s
word: