Lucile | Page 6

Regret!
JOHN.
Bref! you mean, then, to go?
ALFRED.

Bref! I do.
JOHN.
One word . . . stay! Are you really in love with Matilda?
ALFRED.
Love, eh? What a question! Of course.
JOHN.
WERE you really in love With Madame de Nevers?
ALFRED.
What; Lucile? No, by Jove, Never REALLY.
JOHN.
She's pretty?
ALFRED.
Decidedly so. At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. As soft, and
as sallow as Autumn--with hair Neither black, nor yet brown, but that
tinge which the air Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone
Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting sun. Eyes--the
wistful gazelle's; the fine foot of a fairy; And a hand fit a fay's wand to
wave,--white and airy; A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows.
Something in her there was, set you thinking of those Strange
backgrounds of Raphael . . . that hectic and deep Brief twilight in
which southern suns fall asleep.
JOHN.
Coquette?
ALFRED.

Not at all. 'Twas her one fault. Not she! I had loved her the better, had
she less loved me. The heart of a man's like that delicate weed Which
requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed, Ere it give forth the
fragrance you wish to extract. 'Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact.
JOHN.
Women change so.
ALFRED.
Of course.
JOHN.
And, unless rumor errs, I believe, that last year, the Comtesse de
Nevers* Was at Baden the rage--held an absolute court Of devoted
adorers, and really made sport Of her subjects.
* O Shakespeare! how couldst thou ask "What's in a name?" 'Tis the
devil's in it, when a bard has to frame English rhymes for alliance with
names that are French: And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I
trench All too far on that license which critics refuse, With just right, to
accord to a well-brought-up Muse. Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a
line, 'Twixt my British-born verse and my French heroine, Since,
however auspiciously wedded they be, There is many a pair that yet
cannot agree, Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, Whom
necessity, not inclination, unites.
ALFRED.
Indeed!
JOHN.
When she broke off with you Her engagement, her heart did not break
with it?
ALFRED.

Pooh! Pray would you have had her dress always in black, And shut
herself up in a convent, dear Jack? Besides, 'twas my fault the
engagement was broken.
JOHN.
Most likely. How was it?
ALFRED.
The tale is soon spoken. She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What
next? She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd. I was vex'd
that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd
ready to cry. I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd. At
noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd. She said I had no heart. I
said she had no reason. I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd
treason. In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see, Things should
come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she By whom to that crisis the matter
was brought. She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, With
too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, The occasion to fly in a
rage, mount my horse, And declare myself uncomprehended. And so
We parted. The rest of the story you know.
JOHN.
No, indeed.
ALFRED.
Well, we parted. Of course we could not Continue to meet, as before, in
one spot. You conceive it was awkward? Even Don Ferdinando Can do,
you remember, no more than he can do. I think that I acted exceedingly
well, Considering the time when this rupture befell, For Paris was
charming just then. It deranged All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to
be changed-- Wrote for Naples, then vacant--obtain'd it--and so Join'd
my new post at once; but scarce reach'd it, when lo! My first news from
Paris informs me Lucile Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. I fly
back. I find her recover'd, but yet Looking pale. I am seized with a

contrite regret; I ask to renew the engagement.
JOHN.
And she?
ALFRED.
Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be Friends ever, friends
only. All that sort of thing! We each keep our letters . . . a portrait . . . a
ring . . . With a pledge to return them whenever the one Or the other
shall call for them back.
JOHN.
Pray go on.
ALFRED.
My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin On Lucile all those thousand
good maxims we coin To supply the grim deficit found in our days,
When love leaves