Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I

Some fourteen years had elapsed since that event and the time in which I now lay sleeping on the sofa; and yet, after all that long interval – with all its scenes of varied interests, its stormy passions, its hopes, its failures, its successes – the image of Blanche was before my mind’s eye, as brightly, joyously fair, as on the evening I first beheld her. I had forgotten all, that time and worldly knowledge had taught me, that, of all her attractions, her beauty only was real – that the graceful elegance of her bearing was only manner – that her gentleness was manner – her winning softness and delicacy mere manner – that all the fair endowments that seemed the rich promise of a gifted mind, united to a nature so bounteously endowed, were mere manner. She was spirituelle, lively, animated, and brilliant – all, from nothing but manner. To this knowledge I did not come without many a severe lesson. The teaching has been perfect, however, and made me what I am! Alas! how is it that mere gilding can look so like solid gold – nay, be made to cover more graceful tracery, and forms more purely elegant, than the real metal?

I have said that I slept; and, as I lay, dreams came over me – dreams of that long-past time, when the few shadows that fell over my path in life were rather spots where, like the traveller on a sunny road, one halts to breathe awhile, and taste in the cool shade the balmy influence of repose. I thought of Blanche, too, as first I had seen her, and when first she taught my heart to feel the ecstasy of loving, breathing into my nature high hopes and longings, and making of life itself an ideal of delight and happiness. And, as I dreamed, there stole over my senses a faint, thrilling memory of that young joy my heart had known, and a feeling like that of health and ardent buoyancy, which for years long I had not experienced. Her voice, tremulous with feeling, vibrating in all the passionate expression of an Italian song, was in my ears – I could hear the words – my very heart throbbed to their soft syllables as she sung the lines of Metastasio, —

“E tu, qui sa si te
Ti sovrerai di me.”

I started – there she was before me, bending over the harp, whose cords still trembled with the dying sounds; the same Blanche I had known and loved, but slightly changed indeed: more beautiful perhaps in womanhood than as a girl. Her long and silky hair fell over her white wrist and taper hand in loose and careless tresses, for she had taken off her bonnet, which lay on the floor beside her; her attitude was that of weariness – nay, there was a sigh! Good Heavens! is she weeping? My book fell to the ground; she started up, and, in a voice not louder than a whisper, exclaimed, “Mr. Templeton!”

“Blanche! – Lady Blanche!” cried I, as my head swam round in a strange confusion, and a dim and misty vapour danced before my eyes.

“Is this a visit, Mr. Templeton?” said she, with that soft smile I had loved so well; “am I to take this surprise for a visit?”

“I really – I cannot understand – I thought – I was certain that I was in my own apartment. I believed I was in Paris, in the Hôtel des Princes.”

“Yes, and most correct were all your imaginings; only that at this moment you are chez moi– this is our apartment, No. 12.”

“Oh, forgive me, I beg, Lady Blanche! – the similarity of the rooms, the inattentive habit of an invalid, has led to this mistake.”

“I heard you had been ill,” said she, in an accent full of melting tenderness; while taking a seat on a sofa, by a look rather than an actual gesture she motioned me to sit beside her: “you are much paler than you used to be.”

“I have been ill,” said I, struggling to repress emotion and a fit of coughing together.

“It is that dreadful life of England, depend upon it,” said she eagerly; “that fearful career of high excitement and dissipation combined – the fatigues of parliament – the cares and anxieties of party – the tremendous exertions for success – the torturing dread of failure. Why didn’t you remain in diplomacy?”

“It looked so very like idling,” said I, laughingly, and endeavouring to assume something of her own easy tone.

“So it is. But what better can one have, after all?” said she, with a faint sigh.

“When they are happy,” added I, stealing a glance at her beneath my eyelids. She turned away, however, before I had succeeded, and I could merely mark that her breathing was quick and hurried.

“I hope you have no grudge towards Favancourt?” said she hastily, and with a manner that shewed how difficult it was to disguise agitation. “He would be delighted to see you again! He is always talking of your success in the House, and often prophesies the most brilliant advancement for you.”

“I have outlived resentment,” said I, in a low whisper: “would that I could add, other feelings were as easily forgotten.”

Not at once catching my meaning, she turned her full and lustrous eyes upon me, and then suddenly aware of my words, or reading the explanation in my own looks, she blushed deeply, and after a pause said,

“And what are your plans now? do you remain here some time?”

“No, I am trying to reach Italy. It has become as classic to die there nowadays, as once it was to live in that fair land.”

“Italy!” interrupted she, blushing still deeper. “Favancourt is now asking for a mission there – Naples is vacant.”

This time I succeeded in catching her eyes, but she hastily withdrew them, and we were both silent.

“Have you been to the Opera yet?” said she, with a voice full of all its habitual softness.

“You forget,” said I, smiling, “that I am an invalid: besides, I only arrived here last night.”

“Oh, I am sure that much will not fatigue you. The Duc de Blancard has given us his box while we stay here, and we shall always have a place for you; and I pray you to come; if not for the music, for my sake,” she added hastily: “for I own nothing can be possibly more stupid than our nightly visitors. I hear of nothing but ministerial intrigue, the tactics of the centre droit and the opposition, with a little very tiresome gossip of the Tuileries; and Favancourt thinks himself political, when he is only prosy. Now, I long for a little real chit-chat about London and our own people. Apropos, what became of Lady Frances Gunnington? did she really marry the young cornet of dragoons and sail for India?”

“The saddest is to be told: he was killed in the Punjaub, and she is now coming home a widow.”

“How very sad! – was she as pretty as they said? – handsomer than Lucy Fox I have heard!”

“I almost think so.”

“That is great praise from you, if there be any truth in on dits. Had not you a kind of tenderness in that quarter?”

“Me!”

“Nay, don’t affect surprise: we heard the story at Florence, and a very funny story it was: that Lucy insisted upon it, if you didn’t propose for her, that she would for you, since she was determined to be mistress of a certain black Arabian that you had; and that you, fearing consequences, sent her the horse, and so compromised the affair.”

“How very absurd!”

“But is it not true? Can you deny having made a present of the steed?”

“She did me the honour to accept of a pony, but the attenuating circumstances are all purely imaginary.”

“Si non vero e ben trovato. – It was exactly what she would do!”

“An unfair inference, which I feel bound to enter a protest against. If we were only to charge our acquaintances with what we deem them capable of – ”

“Well, finish, I pray you.”

“I was only about to add, what would become of ourselves?”

“Meaning you and me, for instance?”

I bowed an assent.

“‘Qui s’excuse, s’accuse,’ says the adage,” rejoined she gaily: “I neither do one nor the other. At the same time, let me confess to one thing of which I am capable, which is, of detesting any one who in this age of the world affects to give a tone of moralizing to a conversation. Now I presume you don’t wish this. I will even take it for granted, that you would rather we were good friends, as we used to be long ago. – Oh dear, don’t sigh that way!”

“It was you that sighed!”

“Well, I am very sorry for it. It was wrong of me, and very wrong of you to tell me of it. But dear me! is it so late? can it really be three o’clock?”

“I am a quarter past; but I think we must both be fast. You are going out?”

“A mere drive in the Champs Elysées, where I shall pay a few visits and be back to dinner. Will you dine with us?”

“I pray you to excuse me – don’t forget I am a sick man.”

“Well, then, we shall see you at the Opera?”

“I fear not. If I might ask a favour, it would be to take the volume of Balzac away with me.”

“Oh, to be sure! But we have some others, much newer. You know ‘Le Recherche de l’Absolu’, already?”