Lucile [50]
Lord Alfred; and, scared, she discern'd On his feature the shade of a gloom so profound That she shudder'd instinctively. Deaf to the sound Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers He replied not, but murmur'd, "Lucile de Nevers Once again then? so be it!" In the mind of that man, At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the plan Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone (To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of thought By which all his nature to tumult was wrought.
XIX.
"So!" he thought, "they meet thus: and reweave the old charm! And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm, And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me! Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be Loved by one--her own rival--more fair and more young?" The serpent rose in him; a serpent which, stung, Sought to sting. Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by, In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts touch'd. Meanwhile The muse of this story, convinced that they need her, To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader.
XX.
The Duke with that sort of aggressive false praise Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly With the man he is minded to hang by and by), Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect In the face of Matilda the growing effect Of the words he had dropp'd. There's no weapon that slays Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise. Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen: and now Each was silent, preoccupied; thoughtful. You know There are moments when silence, prolong'd and unbroken, More expressive may be than all words ever spoken. It is when the heart has an instinct of what In the heart of another is passing. And that In the heart of Matilda, what was it? Whence came To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame? What weighed down her head? All your eye could discover Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew. She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose blossom Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her bosom. "This poor flower," she said, "seems it not out of place In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile grace?" She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the while, And continued on his side the silence. He knew This would force his companion their talk to renew At the point that he wish'd; and Matilda divined The significant pause with new trouble of mind. She lifted one moment her head; but her look Encounter'd the ardent regard of the Duke, And dropp'd back on her flowret abash'd. Then, still seeking The assurance she fancied she show'd him by speaking, She conceived herself safe in adopting again The theme she should most have avoided just then.
XXI.
"Duke," she said, . . . and she felt, as she spoke, her cheek burn'd, "You know, then, this . . . lady?" "Too well!" he return'd.
MATILDA.
True; you drew with emotion her portrait just now.
LUVOIS.
With emotion?
MATILDA.
Yes, yes! you described her, I know, As possess'd of a charm all unrivall'd.
LUVOIS.
Alas! You mistook me completely! You, madam, surpass This lady as moonlight does lamplight; as youth Surpasses its best imitations; as truth The fairest of falsehood surpasses; as nature Surpasses art's masterpiece; ay, as the creature Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpasses All the charms got by heart at the world's looking-glasses!
XIX.
"So!" he thought, "they meet thus: and reweave the old charm! And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm, And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me! Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be Loved by one--her own rival--more fair and more young?" The serpent rose in him; a serpent which, stung, Sought to sting. Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by, In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts touch'd. Meanwhile The muse of this story, convinced that they need her, To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader.
XX.
The Duke with that sort of aggressive false praise Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly With the man he is minded to hang by and by), Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect In the face of Matilda the growing effect Of the words he had dropp'd. There's no weapon that slays Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise. Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen: and now Each was silent, preoccupied; thoughtful. You know There are moments when silence, prolong'd and unbroken, More expressive may be than all words ever spoken. It is when the heart has an instinct of what In the heart of another is passing. And that In the heart of Matilda, what was it? Whence came To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame? What weighed down her head? All your eye could discover Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew. She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose blossom Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her bosom. "This poor flower," she said, "seems it not out of place In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile grace?" She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the while, And continued on his side the silence. He knew This would force his companion their talk to renew At the point that he wish'd; and Matilda divined The significant pause with new trouble of mind. She lifted one moment her head; but her look Encounter'd the ardent regard of the Duke, And dropp'd back on her flowret abash'd. Then, still seeking The assurance she fancied she show'd him by speaking, She conceived herself safe in adopting again The theme she should most have avoided just then.
XXI.
"Duke," she said, . . . and she felt, as she spoke, her cheek burn'd, "You know, then, this . . . lady?" "Too well!" he return'd.
MATILDA.
True; you drew with emotion her portrait just now.
LUVOIS.
With emotion?
MATILDA.
Yes, yes! you described her, I know, As possess'd of a charm all unrivall'd.
LUVOIS.
Alas! You mistook me completely! You, madam, surpass This lady as moonlight does lamplight; as youth Surpasses its best imitations; as truth The fairest of falsehood surpasses; as nature Surpasses art's masterpiece; ay, as the creature Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpasses All the charms got by heart at the world's looking-glasses!