The Red Lily, vol 3 | Page 6

Oh, no, it is not caresses
that have preserved the few charms which I am happy to have in order

to offer them to you. I love you! I love you!"
But he still remembered the letter dropped in the post-box, and the
unknown person met at the station.
"If you loved me truly, you would love only me."
She rose, indignant:
"Then you believe I love another? What you are saying is monstrous. Is
that what you think of me? And you say you love me! I pity you,
because you are insane."
"True, I am insane."
She, kneeling, with the supple palms of her hands enveloped his
temples and his cheeks. He said again that he was mad to be anxious
about a chance and commonplace meeting. She forced him to believe
her, or, rather, to forget. He no longer saw or knew anything. His
vanished bitterness and anger left him nothing but the harsh desire to
forget everything, to make her forget everything.
She asked him why he was sad.
"You were happy a moment ago. Why are you not happy now?"
And as he shook his head and said nothing:
"Speak! I like your complaints better than your silence."
Then he said:
"You wish to know? Do not be angry. I suffer now more than ever,
because I know now what you are capable of giving."
She withdrew brusquely from his arms and, with eyes full of pain and
reproach, said:
"You can believe that I ever was to another what I am to you! You

wound me in my most susceptible sentiment, in my love for you. I do
not forgive you for this. I love you! I never have loved any one except
you. I never have suffered except through you. Be content. You do me
a great deal of harm. How can you be so unkind?"
"Therese, one is never kind when one is in love."
She remained for a long time immovable and dreamy. Her face flushed,
and a tear rose to her eyes.
"Therese, you are weeping!"
"Forgive me, my heart, it is the first time that I have loved and that I
have been really loved. I am afraid."
CHAPTER XXIV
CHOULETTE'S AMBITION
While the rolling of arriving boxes filled the Bell villa; while Pauline,
loaded with parcels, lightly came down the steps; while good Madame
Marmet, with tranquil vigilance, supervised everything; and while Miss
Bell finished dressing in her room, Therese, dressed in gray, resting on
the terrace, looked once again at the Flower City.
She had decided to return home. Her husband recalled her in every one
of his letters. If, as he asked her to do, she returned to Paris in the first
days of May, they might give two or three dinners, followed by
receptions. His political group was supported by public opinion. The
tide was pushing him along, and Garain thought the Countess Martin's
drawing-room might exercise an excellent influence on the future of the
country. These reasons moved her not; but she felt a desire to be
agreeable to her husband. She had received the day before a letter from
her father, Monsieur Montessuy, who, without sharing the political
views of his son-in-law and without giving any advice to his daughter,
insinuated that society was beginning to gossip of the Countess
Martin's mysterious sojourn at Florence among poets and artists. The
Bell villa took, from a distance, an air of sentimental fantasy. She felt

herself that she was too closely observed at Resole. Madame Marmet
annoyed her. Prince Albertinelli disquieted her. The meetings in the
pavilion of the Via Alfieri had become difficult and dangerous.
Professor Arrighi, whom the Prince often met, had seen her one night
as she was walking through the deserted streets leaning on Dechartre.
Professor Arrighi, author of a treatise on agriculture, was the most
amiable of wise men. He had turned his beautiful, heroic face, and said,
only the next day, to the young woman "Formerly, I could discern from
a long distance the coming of a beautiful woman. Now that I have gone
beyond the age to be viewed favorably by women, heaven has pity on
me. Heaven prevents my seeing them. My eyes are very bad. The most
charming face I can no longer recognize." She had understood, and
heeded the warning. She wished now to conceal her joy in the vastness
of Paris.
Vivian, to whom she had announced her departure, had asked her to
remain a few days longer. But Therese suspected that her friend was
still shocked by the advice she had received one night in the
lemon-decorated room; that, at least, she did not enjoy herself entirely
in the familiarity of a confidante who disapproved of her choice, and
whom the Prince had represented to her