The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [31]
While Mr Łęcki thus shouldered the burden of his position, Izabela passed her time in the solitude and silence of her fine apartment. Sometimes Mikołaj would be dozing in an armchair, Flora fast asleep with her ears plugged with cotton-wool, yet sleep would not come to Izabela’s boudoir, it was driven away by memories. And she would rise from her bed to pace for hours, wearing only a light robe, through the drawing-room where the carpet deadened her steps and the only light was that of two dim street-lamps.
As she paced about the great room, her mournful thoughts gathered about her, and she saw a procession of all the people who had ever been there. Here the old Countess was nodding her head; two duchesses were inquiring from a prelate whether or not a child might be christened with rose water? A swarm of young men cast longing glances upon her or attempted to arouse her interest by feigned coldness; a garland of young ladies caressed her with their gaze, admiring or envying. The room seemed full of lights, rustling silks, conversations, and the greater part, like butterflies around a flower, framed Izabela’s beauty. Wherever she was, everything else paled; other women were her background, and men her slaves.
Yet all this had passed … and today it was cold, dark, empty in the drawing-room … There was only herself and that invisible spider of sorrow, which always spins its grey web in those places where we have been happy and from which happiness has fled. Has fled! … Izabela pressed her hands together to stifle the tears of which she was ashamed even in solitude and at night.
They had all deserted her, except Countess Karolowa who, whenever she was in a bad temper, would come and spread her skirts over the sofa to sigh and preach: ‘Yes, Bela dear — you must admit you have made some quite unforgivable blunders. I’m not referring to Victor Emmanuel, for that was but the fleeting caprice of a king — a rather liberal king, too, and anyhow he was terribly in debt. For relationships such as that one needs — I won’t say “tact”, but experience,’ the Countess went on, modestly casting down her eyes. ‘But to let slip — or, if you prefer it, reject — the Duke of St Auguste — my dear! A young man, wealthy, very well thought of, and with such a promising career before him … Only now he’s leading a deputation to the Holy Father and will certainly obtain a special benediction for the whole family … and Prince Chambord calls him cher cousin … Oh, my dear!’
‘I think it is too late to regret anything now, aunt,’ Izabela put in.
‘Do you suppose I want to upset you, poor child? As it is, misfortunes lie in store for you which only profound faith can alleviate. You probably know that your father has lost everything, even what was left of your dowry?’
‘What can I do?’
‘But only you can help him, and so you should,’ said the Countess emphatically. ‘Admittedly the marshal is not an Adonis, but … if one’s duties were easy to carry out, there would be no need for self-sacrifice. Anyhow, my dear, who can stop us from having some ideal in the depths of our hearts, the thought of which can sweeten the most difficult times? Finally, I can assure you that the position of a pretty woman with an old husband is by no means the worst imaginable. Everyone takes an interest in her, they all talk about her, pay tribute to her devotion and yet again an old husband is less demanding than one of middle age.’
‘But, aunt…’
‘No