A Woman of Thirty [14]
wretched, and old. Need I tell you how proud I was and how vain and glad to be married to Colonel Victor d'Aiglemont? And besides, how could I tell you now? for I cannot remember that old self. A few moments turned my girlhood to a dream. All through the memorable day which consecrated a chain, the extent of which was hidden from me, my behavior was not free from reproach. Once and again my father tried to repress my spirits; the joy which I showed so plainly was thought unbefitting the occasion, my talk scarcely innocent, simply because I was so innocent. I played endless child's tricks with my bridal veil, my wreath, my gown. Left alone that night in the room whither I had been conducted in state, I planned a piece of mischief to tease Victor. While I awaited his coming, my heart beat wildly, as it used to do when I was a child stealing into the drawing-room on the last day of the old year to catch a glimpse of the New Year's gifts piled up there in heaps. When my husband came in and looked for me, my smothered laughter ringing out from beneath the lace in which I had shrouded myself, was the last outburst of the delicious merriment which brightened our games in childhood . . ."
When the dowager had finished reading the letter, and after such a beginning the rest must have been sad indeed, she slowly laid her spectacles on the table, put the letter down beside them, and looked fixedly at her niece. Age had not dimmed the fire in those green eyes as yet.
"My little girl," she said, "a married woman cannot write such a letter as this to a young unmarried woman; it is scarcely proper--"
"So I was thinking," Julie broke in upon her aunt. "I felt ashamed of myself while you were reading it."
"If a dish at table is not to our taste, there is no occasion to disgust others with it, child," the old lady continued benignly, "especially when marriage has seemed to us all, from Eve downwards, so excellent an institution. . . You have no mother?"
The Countess trembled, then she raised her face meekly, and said:
"I have missed my mother many times already during the past year; but I have myself to blame, I would not listen to my father. He was opposed to my marriage; he disapproved of Victor as a son-in-law."
She looked at her aunt. The old face was lighted up with a kindly look, and a thrill of joy dried Julie's tears. She held out her young, soft hand to the old Marquise, who seemed to ask for it, and the understanding between the two women was completed by the close grasp of their fingers.
"Poor orphan child!"
The words came like a final flash of enlightenment to Julie. It seemed to her that she heard her father's prophetic voice again.
"Your hands are burning! Are they always like this?" asked the Marquise.
"The fever only left me seven or eight days ago."
"You had a fever upon you, and said nothing about it to me!"
"I have had it for a year," said Julie, with a kind of timid anxiety.
"My good little angel, then your married life hitherto has been one long time of suffering?"
Julie did not venture to reply, but an affirmative sign revealed the whole truth.
"Then you are unhappy?"
"On! no, no, aunt. Victor loves me, he almost idolizes me, and I adore him, he is so kind."
"Yes, you love him; but you avoid him, do you not?"
"Yes . . . sometimes . . . He seeks me too often."
"And often when you are alone you are troubled with the fear that he may suddenly break in on your solitude?"
"Alas! yes, aunt. But, indeed, I love him, I do assure you."
"Do you not, in your own thoughts, blame yourself because you find it impossible to share his pleasures? Do you never think at times that marriage is a heavier yoke than an illicit passion could be?"
"Oh, that is just it," she wept. "It is all a riddle to me, and can you guess it all? My faculties are benumbed, I have no ideas, I can scarcely see at all. I am weighed down by vague dread, which freezes me till I cannot feel, and keeps me in continual torpor. I have no voice with which to pity
When the dowager had finished reading the letter, and after such a beginning the rest must have been sad indeed, she slowly laid her spectacles on the table, put the letter down beside them, and looked fixedly at her niece. Age had not dimmed the fire in those green eyes as yet.
"My little girl," she said, "a married woman cannot write such a letter as this to a young unmarried woman; it is scarcely proper--"
"So I was thinking," Julie broke in upon her aunt. "I felt ashamed of myself while you were reading it."
"If a dish at table is not to our taste, there is no occasion to disgust others with it, child," the old lady continued benignly, "especially when marriage has seemed to us all, from Eve downwards, so excellent an institution. . . You have no mother?"
The Countess trembled, then she raised her face meekly, and said:
"I have missed my mother many times already during the past year; but I have myself to blame, I would not listen to my father. He was opposed to my marriage; he disapproved of Victor as a son-in-law."
She looked at her aunt. The old face was lighted up with a kindly look, and a thrill of joy dried Julie's tears. She held out her young, soft hand to the old Marquise, who seemed to ask for it, and the understanding between the two women was completed by the close grasp of their fingers.
"Poor orphan child!"
The words came like a final flash of enlightenment to Julie. It seemed to her that she heard her father's prophetic voice again.
"Your hands are burning! Are they always like this?" asked the Marquise.
"The fever only left me seven or eight days ago."
"You had a fever upon you, and said nothing about it to me!"
"I have had it for a year," said Julie, with a kind of timid anxiety.
"My good little angel, then your married life hitherto has been one long time of suffering?"
Julie did not venture to reply, but an affirmative sign revealed the whole truth.
"Then you are unhappy?"
"On! no, no, aunt. Victor loves me, he almost idolizes me, and I adore him, he is so kind."
"Yes, you love him; but you avoid him, do you not?"
"Yes . . . sometimes . . . He seeks me too often."
"And often when you are alone you are troubled with the fear that he may suddenly break in on your solitude?"
"Alas! yes, aunt. But, indeed, I love him, I do assure you."
"Do you not, in your own thoughts, blame yourself because you find it impossible to share his pleasures? Do you never think at times that marriage is a heavier yoke than an illicit passion could be?"
"Oh, that is just it," she wept. "It is all a riddle to me, and can you guess it all? My faculties are benumbed, I have no ideas, I can scarcely see at all. I am weighed down by vague dread, which freezes me till I cannot feel, and keeps me in continual torpor. I have no voice with which to pity