It
was a deep delight to her to look for the arrival of her bashful and
unconfessed adorer. Though they had not uttered a word of passion, she
knew that she was loved, and with what art did she not lead the
stranger to unlock the stores of his information, which proved to be
varied! She perceived that she, too, was being studied, and that made
her endeavor to remedy the defects her education had encouraged. Was
not this her first homage to love, and a bitter reproach to herself?
She desired to please, and she was enchanting; she loved, and she was
idolized. Her family, knowing that her pride would sufficiently
protect her, gave her enough freedom to enjoy the little childish
delights which give to first love its charm and its violence. More
than once the young man and Mademoiselle de Fontaine walked,
tete-a-tete, in the avenues of the garden, where nature was dressed like
a woman going to a ball. More than once they had those conversations,
aimless and meaningless, in which the emptiest phrases are those which
cover the deepest feelings. They often admired together the setting
sun and its gorgeous coloring. They gathered daisies to pull the
petals off, and sang the most impassioned duets, using the notes set
down by Pergolesi or Rossini as faithful interpreters to express their
secrets.
The day of the dance came. Clara Longueville and her brother, whom the
servants persisted in honoring with the noble DE, were the principle
guests.
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