The Cross of Berny | Page 9

Paris of the great
century; that her influence is gone, she is in the condition of the Lower
Empire.
"She builds eighty leagues of fortifications to sustain the siege of
Mahomet II. She weeps over her downfall and accuses Heaven of
denying to her children of '44 the genius and talents that characterized
the statesmen and poets of her past.

"But happily the universe does not coincide with Paris; go ask it;
having just come from there, I know it."
Indulging my traveller's extravagancies laughingly, to the amusement
of my fair companion, she said:
"Truly your philosophy is of the happy school, and the burden of life
must be very light when it is so lightly borne."
"You must know, my dear Roger," said the Duchess, feigning
commiseration, "that my young cousin, Mlle. de Chateaudun, is
pitiably unhappy, and you and I can weep over her lot in chorus with
orchestral accompaniment; poor child! she is the richest heiress in
Paris."
"How wide you are from the mark!" said Irene, with a charming look of
annoyance in the brightest eye that ever dazzled the sober senses of
man; "it is not an axiom that wealth is happiness. The poor spread such
a report, but the rich know it to be false."
Here the curtain arose, and my return to my box explained my character
as the casual visitor and not the lover. And what intentions could I have
had at that moment? I cannot say.
I was attracted by the loveliness of Mlle. Chateaudun; chance gave the
opportunity for studying her charms, the fair unknown improved on
acquaintance. Hers was the exquisite grace of face and feature and
winningness of manner which attracts, retains and is never to be
forgotten.
From the superb tranquillity of her attitude, the intelligence of her eyes,
it was easy to infer that a wider field would bring into action the hidden
treasures of a gifted nature. Over the dazzling halo that surrounded the
fair one, which left me the alternative of admiring silence or heedless
vagrancy of speech, one cloud lowered, eclipsing all her charms and
bringing down my divinity from her pedestal--Irene was an heiress!
The Duchess had clipped the wings of the angel with the phrase of a

marriage-broker. An heiress! the idea of a beautiful woman, full of
poetry and love, inseparately linked to pounds, shillings and pence!
It was a day of amnesty to men, a fête day in Paradise, when God gave
to this young girl that crown of golden hair, that seraphic brow, those
eyes that purified the moral miasma of earth. The ideal of poetry, the
reality of my love!
Think of this living master-piece of the divine studio as the theme of
money-changers, the prize of the highest bidder!
Of course, my dear Edgar, I saw Mlle. de Chateaudun again and again
after this memorable evening; thanks to the facilities afforded me by
my manoeuvring kinswoman, the Duchess, who worshipped the heiress
as I worshipped the woman, I could Add a useless volume of romantic
details leading you to the denouement, which you have already guessed,
for you must see in me the lover of Mlle. de Chateaudun.
I wished to give you the beginning and end of my story; what do you
care for the rest, since it is but the wearisome calendar of all
lovers?--The journal of a thousand incidents as interesting and
important to two people as they are stupid and ridiculous to every one
else. Each day was one of progress; finally, we loved each other.
Excuse the homely platitude in this avowal.
Irene seemed perfect; her only fault, being an heiress, was lost in the
intoxication of my love; everything was arranged, and in spite of her
money I was to marry her.
I was delirious with joy, my feet spurned the earth. My bliss was the
ecstasy of the blest. My delight seemed to color the contentment of
other men with gloom, and I felt like begging pardon for being so
happy. It seemed that this valley of tears, astonished that any one
should from a terrestrial paradise gaze upon its afflictions and still be
happy, would revolt against me!
My dear Edgar, the smoke of hell has darkened my vision--I grope in
the gloom of a terrible mystery--Vainly do I strive to solve it, and I turn

to you for aid.
Irene has left Paris! Home, street, city, all deserted! A damp, dark
nothingness surrounds me!
Not an adieu! a line! a message! to console me--
Women do such things--
I have done all in my power, and attempted the impossible to find Irene,
but without success. If she only had some ground of complaint against
me, how happy I would be.
A terrible thought possesses my fevered brain--she has fallen into