Amaury thought himself under the influence of a charm; he felt ashamed of his sensations, ashamed at finding himself so pleasantly impressed on re-visiting this garden, the paradise of his childhood, linked to the childhood of Madeleine. He looked at the group of linden trees where they first told each other of their love, and the remembrance of his first love was full of sweetness, and free from all bitterness. He then sat himself down under the bank of lilacs, on the very seat where he had given Madeleine that fatal kiss. There, he tried to revive in his memory the most harrowing details of her illness; he would have given worlds to feel the hot tears coursing down his cheeks as they had done six months ago. But all that he felt now was a tender melancholy; he leaned his head against the trellis work, closed his eyes, wrapped himself in his own thoughts, and tried to rouse within his heart a sense of sadness, but nothing was of any avail.

  He felt as if Madeleine was there beside him; the air which kissed his cheek, was the young girl’s breath; the bunches of laburnum which caressed his brow were her flowing tresses; the illusion was strange, unheard of, living; it seemed as if the bench on which he sat bent beneath a light weight which nestled to his side; he panted for breath as on that fatal night; his bosom rose and fell under the stress of emotion; the illusion was complete.

  A few low-spoken words broke from him, and he stretched out his hand; it was clasped by another.

  Amaury opened his eyes and gave a cry of alarm; a woman was there beside him.

  “Madeleine!” he cried.

  “Alas! no,” a voice replied; “it is only Antoinette.”

  “Oh! Antoinette, Antoinette!” cried the young man, pressing her to his heart, and finding, in the fullness of perhaps too great a joy, the tears which he had vainly sought in his grief.

  “You see, Antoinette, I was thinking of her.”

  It was the cry of gratified vanity; Amaury wept, for there was someone to see him weep, someone to hear him say he was suffering, and there was such an accent of truth in his voice, that he almost began to believe it himself.

  “I know,” said Antoinette, “I suspected you were here, giving way to feelings of despair, so pretended that I wanted a reel of silk; then I slipped through the small drawing-room, out into the garden, and ran here. You will come in now, will you not?”

  “Yes! of course I will,” — Amaury answered — ” just allow me time for the traces of tears to disappear. Thanks for your friendly solicitude, thanks for your sisterly friendship, my sister.”

  And the girl, feeling that her absence must not be noticed, bounded away light as a gazelle.

  Amaury followed with his eyes her white dress, as it now appeared, now disappeared, among the bushes; he watched her run up the steps rapidly and furtively as a shadow, then the drawing-room door closed upon her.

  Ten minutes later, Amaury came into the room, and the Comte de Mengis remarked to his wife, with a sigh, how red the young man’s eyes were.

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  IT will be remembered that in the previous chapter we spoke in praise of Antoinette’s usual evenness of temper.

  Either we were premature in our praises, or the arrival of the new-comers dealt a serious blow to the calm serenity of mind of which we spoke, and which soon gave place — or at least appeared to do so — to coquettish, capricious ways and variable moods.

  Be that as it may, seeing we are here as a historian, a plain recorder of facts, we must chronicle this certain fact, that Antoinette’s favours, her airs and graces, were bestowed, three times in the course of a month, on a different object.

  Amaury, Raoul and Philip were in favour each in turn, and reminded one somewhat of the Emperors of the Lower Empire, whose history is systematically divided into the periods of success, of decadence, and of downfall.

  Amaury, the first favourite, reigned from the 1st to the 10th, Raoul from the nth to the 20th, Philip from the 21st to the 30th.

  Let us go a little into the details of these strange reversals, and astonishing revolutions; so that some one more clear-sighted than ourselves, the learned reader for example, may perhaps explain their cause; we shall confine ourselves to a plain and accurate account, in all innocence of mind, of the events which actually took place.

  During the four first evenings which followed that of which we have just given an account, Amaury met with all the success. Raoul, who was a very distinguished man, showed himself equally agreeable and amusing. As to Philip, he remained hopelessly dull, in the midst of the brilliant sallies of wit maintained by the other two young men.

  Antoinette was charming to the first, gracious to the second, and polite, but frigid, to the third.

  When the card parties were made up, when those who wished to chat were comfortably ensconced in their chairs, it invariably happened that Amaury occupied the seat nearest to Antoinette, and that frequently, under cover of general conversation, the two carried on a confidential chat between themselves in an undertone.

  Nor was this all; as Antoinette had happened to mention an Italian book, which she was wishing to read, the “Ultime Letere di Jacopo Ortis,” Amaury, who had the book, made it an excuse to call the next day, on pretence of leaving the work with Miss Brown; but, as luck would have it, just as he was ushered into the drawing room, Antoinette came in too.

  Of course they had to exchange a few words. Then the question arose of an album, the blank pages of which she wished to have filled in, with autographs of famous men, then of a bracelet which Froment Meurice, the noted silversmith, the Benvenuto of the nineteenth century, would not get finished till Amaury had extorted it from him, and presented it in triumph to the delighted girl. Finally, one evening, Amaury, when twisting a small steel key about in his fingers, absently put it into his pocket, and of course it was imperative that he should return it, as soon as possible on the following day; Antoinette might be wanting it.

  Nor was this all.

  During the whole time Amaury was travelling in Germany, he had not made a single new acquaintance, nor had he once gone out riding, at least not well mounted. Amaury was one of the best horsemen in Paris, and he loved riding, as a man always loves any sport in which he excels.

  So Amaury rode out every morning, mounted on his faithful Sturm, and as formerly he had been accustomed to go in one direction, Amaury, — or rather Sturm, oh, you understand! he had but to give Sturm his head, and Sturm would gallop off in the old direction; The only difference was that Antoinette was an earlier riser than poor Madeleine had ever been.

  The natural result was, that every morning Amaury would see Antoinette at her window, the same window from which she had watched the departure of Monsieur d’Avrigny and himself.

  So she and Amaury would exchange a nod and a smile; then Sturm, who had long since learnt his lesson by heart, would go on at a walking pace, till he reached the end of the Rue d’Angoulême. Arrived there, he needed neither whip nor spur; Sturm set off at full gallop, of his own free will. The same little pantomime was gone through on the way home; Amaury allowed his horse to do as he liked, and Sturm was a particularly intelligent animal!

  The truth was that Amaury was experiencing the reaction consequent on his long, lonely winter in Germany; he felt as if he had taken a new lease of life, which still held glorious possibilities for him.

  It is true he himself could have given no reason for his gladness, he only knew that he felt happy; that once again he, who had been so long weighed down by sorrow, could look the world bravely in the face. He was now strangely indulgent to the failing of others, kindly disposed towards all mankind.

  But he was soon to be rudely awakened.

  That very evening, Amaury had been more than ever polite and attentive to Antoinette; their whispered asides had been more frequent, more prolonged than usual.

  Although Monsieur de Mengis had appeared to be entirely absorbed in his game, nothing had escaped his notice, and on leaving, he gently drew Antoinette into a corner of the room, and kissing her on the forehead, whispered:

  “Why have you kept us so entirely in the dark, you little hypocrite? I see now that Amaury, the inconsolable, whilst claiming to be his ward’s guardian, was in reality her admirer, and that with him, the brother was but a cloak for the lover.

  “Well, well! he is not old enough to fear being taken for a Bartolo, nor am I fool enough to play the part of a Géronte. — Come, come, you must not be offended at what I say! Why! he is quite right, quite right, since he loves you.”

  “He would be very much in the wrong, if what you say were true, my dear Count,” Antoinette replied in decided tones, although a tell-tale pallor suddenly overspread her face; “he would be quite wrong, for I do not love him.”

  Monsieur de Mengis made a gesture of surprise and perplexity; but just then some one else drew near, and he was perforce obliged to retire without hearing, or saying anything more on the subject.

  Amaury’s downfall dated from that evening, and Raoul’s triumph began.

  In point of fact as, after Amaury, the Viscount de Mengis was Antoinette’s most ardent and closest admirer, all her smiles and glances were now reserved for him.

  Amaury was puzzled how to account for it. The following day he called with a novel which Antoinette had particularly asked him for the previous week; he was received by Miss Brown. He came again each day, under various pretexts, and at different hours, but instead of the attractive charming girl he hoped to see, only the withered face of the governess greeted him.

  Then there was another curious thing; it was in vain that he passed the house every morning at the usual hour, the window from which a face had been wont to smile upon him, was now rigidly shut, and the blinds being closely drawn, shewed plainly that this was done of set purpose, that no glance might penetrate into the room.

  Amaury was in despair.

  Philip remained always the same, silent, passive and taciturn.

  Amaury made some advances to him, and treated the poor fellow less coolly, which seemed to give him pleasure. In fact, when in the presence of his old comrade, he behaved like a culprit pleading for forgiveness; he listened, with exaggerated attention, to whatever he said, and invariably approved of whatever he did; in truth, the confession of some wrong, and the burden of some remorse, seemed always hovering on his lips.

  But all this was lost upon Amaury; all he had eyes for were the attentions of Raoul de Mengis, which each day became more marked, — the progress of his suit, which each day became more evident. For now Antoinette devoted herself entirely to him; she took greater pains to give him pleasure than anyone else, and, although somewhat kinder than usual to Philip, relegated him to the second place in her good graces. As to Amaury, on facing his position, the utmost he could boast of, was the third place.

  As a grave and responsible guardian, he considered the whole affair most unbecoming, and determined to put a stop to it.

  At the end of the fifth evening of his martyrdom, taking advantage of a moment, when, in the confusion of her guests’ departure, Antoinette came back into the room after giving some order, he drew her aside, and said, in a low voice, but in a very hurt tone, “Do you know that you appear to have but little confidence in me, your friend, your brother. You are perfectly aware that the Comte de Mengis is trying to arrange a marriage between you and his nephew; his proposal has your full consent — ?”

  Antoinette shook her head.

  “Good heavens! do not think I disapprove of your choice; the Viscount is a most charming and attractive man, of princely appearance, and suited to you in every way, unless it be in age — as he is twelve years your senior.

  “But because you have met the man whom you deem worthy of your love, is this any reason why you should treat me in such a distant manner, and even refuse to see me, as if I were a mere stranger? I am quite of your opinion, my dear Antoinette, as regards the Viscount de Mengis, and am sure that you can never meet a better, richer, or a more intelligent husband.”

  Antoinette listened to what Amaury had to say in evident amazement, but did not interrupt him by a word. When he ceased speaking, she felt constrained to make some reply, but could only say confusedly:

  “M. Raoul, my husband — !” she stammered.

  “Why! of course,” Amaury replied.

  “Surely, Antoinette, you need not feign surprise, is there anything astonishing in the fact that the Comte de Mengis should hint to you an idea of which he has not allowed me to remain in ignorance? And the moment that his views coincide with your own inclinations — ”

  “But Amaury, I do assure you — ”

  “Why should you protest and make excuses, when I tell you that you are quite right and could not make a better choice?”

  Antoinette was now anxious to speak and explain, but someone claimed her attention, then she had to wish her guests good-bye, and was obliged to watch Amaury leave, without having found an opportunity of saying anything further.

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  DURING the whole of the next day, Amaury half expected a note; she would wish to see him, and give some explanation.

  Amaury however was doomed to disappointment, nothing came.

  But the evening of the next day, which was a Thursday, ushered in the third period; Antoinette’s manner towards Raoul was very reserved.

  It is true that Amaury did not come in for a greater share of her attention than in the past.

  But Philip suddenly found himself transported to the first place in Antoinette’s favour, all her fascinations which had hitherto been lavished upon Amaury and Raoul each in turn, were now bestowed upon him, and the poor fellow was quite dazzled at the unexpected honour done him.

  It was most amusing to watch Philip’s expression, when he thus found himself, almost against his will, promoted to the first place in a plot in which were engaged two such men as Amaury de Léoville and Raoul de Mengis.

  Poor Philip had not been a moment at the height of his good fortune ere he seemed anxious to resign it, as if afraid of his happiness; he appeared to be actuated by some feeling of modesty, some sort of shame or remorse which compelled him, in spite of himself, to avoid Antoinette’s gracious advances; he seemed as if anxious to apologise to the two other young men for his happiness, whilst they, coldly apathetic, affected an indifference they were far from feeling.

  Each was questioning himself as to the reason for Antoinette’s strange caprice.

  How could Antoinette single out a man so unsuited to her in every way — she so proud, so accomplished, and, at heart, so critical? It was incomprehensible, unheard of, most strange, of course there was some mistake, and this one evening’s whim would not be repeated; they both looked forward anxiously to the Saturday.

  But Saturday only confirmed the programme of Thursday; the same attentions on Antoinette’s part, the same embarrassment on Philip’s, the same evident marks of favour; there could be no mistake, Auvray was now the chosen one.

  The poor fellow did not know what to do; he certainly had not suffered as much during the whole seven months of Antoinette’s scorn, as he had during these two evenings of her favour.

  Needless to say, that although Philip became more apologetic than ever, Amaury had relapsed, and more markedly so in proportion as over-scrupulous Philip grew more deferential, into his first haughty, displeased manner.

  Besides, the reader will understand that Amaury had good cause to be displeased, when he hears that on three different occasions, as he rode past his ward’s house, this vigilant guardian saw an individual prowling about the vicinity, who slunk off as soon as he perceived him! but neither so quickly, nor, above all, so cleverly, but that Amaury had time to observe that this impertinent prowler bore a marked resemblance to his old friend Philip.

  This encounter, which took place almost every time Amaury passed along that particular street, brought his indignation to a climax; would this miserable Philip, whose natural timidity he well knew, have behaved thus, if he had received no encouragement?

  Truly Antoinette was no longer the same girl, to be openly flirting with such a fool; she would certainly end by compromising herself, and this, Amaury, her guardian, her friend, her brother, would not permit.

  Therefore, he reserved to himself the right to speak to her frankly and seriously on the subject, as, in his place, Monsieur d’Avrigny would have done.

  In the meantime, he felt it his duty to pass down the street in question ten times rather than once, so as to make quite sure whether the importunate stranger were other than Philip.

  All this time, Raoul de Mengis was also greatly exercised in mind, and very ill at ease.

  He had begun by being very much astonished at the sudden changes of temperature in the feminine barometer; then with the shrewdness and penetration of a diplomatist, he had carefully observed what went on around him; finally, when, at the end of May, his uncle, who had watched him gradually work his way into favour, and who thought he was still at the zenith in Antoinette’s good graces, — when his uncle questioned him as to how he stood with the young girl, he replied:

  “Upon my word, my dear uncle, I think you have induced me to travel two thousand miles on a wild goose chase, if the real object of my journey was to find a wife in the Rue d’Augoulême; in any case, I willingly resign all pretentions to the hand of an Isabelle, beneath whose balcony may be seen every morning such a Léandre as Philip, and such a Lindor as Amaury.”

  “Raoul,” Monsieur de Mengis replied gravely, “you should not believe all that you hear.”

  “Egad, uncle,” said Raoul, “this time I am not trusting to the Embassy police; I only believe what my own eyes see.”

  But the Count, instead of asking his nephew to explain himself, scolded him roundly; he could not bear that the least shadow of a doubt should be cast on his beloved “protégée.”

  Raoul did not press the point; he, on his part, was very discreet, and held his tongue with the respect which any well brought-up nephew would shew to an uncle possessed of fifty thousand francs a year, and whose sole heir he was.