Duke, you were called to a meeting (no doubt You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night When you went; and before you return'd it was light.
We met: you accosted me then with a brow Bright with triumph: your words (you remember them now!)
Were "Let us be friends!"
LUVOIS.
Well?
ALFRED.
How then, after that Can you and she meet as acquaintances?
LUVOIS.
What!
Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips of hers?
ALFRED.
In our converse to-night we avoided the past.
But the question I ask should be answer'd at last:
By you, if you will; if you will not, by her.
LUVOIS.
Indeed? but that question, milord, can it stir Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er?
ALFRED.
Yes. Esteem may remain, although love be no more.
Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (understand, To MY WIFE!) to present her. I did so. Her hand Has clasp'd that of Matilda. We gentlemen owe Respect to the name that is ours: and, if so, To the woman that bears it a twofold respect.
Answer, Duc de Luvois! Did Lucile then reject The proffer you made of your hand and your name?
Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim Urged before? I ask bluntly this question, because My title to do so is clear by the laws That all gentlemen honor. Make only one sign That you know of Lucile de Nevers aught, in fine, For which, if your own virgin sister were by, From Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, and I And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow.
XXXI.
The Duke Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look Of the man at his side, that he meant what he said, And there flash'd in a moment these thoughts through his head:
"Leave Ems! would that suit me? no! that were again To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain, She herself will . . . et puis, il a raison: on est Gentilhomme avant tout!" He replied therefore, "Nay!
Madame de Nevers had rejected me. I, In those days, I was mad; and in some mad reply I threatened the life of the rival to whom That rejection was due, I was led to presume.
She fear'd for his life; and the letter which then She wrote me, I show'd you; we met: and again My hand was refused, and my love was denied, And the glance you mistook was the vizard which Pride Lends to Humiliation.
"And so," half in jest, He went on, "in this best world, 'tis all for the best;
You are wedded (bless'd Englishman!) wedded to one Whose past can be called into question by none:
And I (fickle Frenchman!) can still laugh to feel I am lord of myself; and the Mode: and Lucile Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there!
A Dian in marble that scorns any troth With the little love gods, whom I thank for us both, While she smiles from her lonely Olympus apart, That her arrows are marble as well as her heart.
Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave!"
XXXII.
The Duke, with a smile, Turn'd and enter'd the Rooms which, thus talking, meanwhile, They had reach'd.
XXXIII.
Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown Heart and mind!) in the darkness bewilder'd, alone:
"And so," to himself did he mutter, "and so 'Twas to rescue my life, gentle spirit! and, oh, For this did I doubt her? . . . a light word--a look--
The mistake of a moment! . . . for this I forsook--
For this? Pardon, pardon, Lucile! O Lucile!"
Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal, Weary changes on one dirge-like note through his brain, As he stray'd down the darkness.
XXXIV.
Re-entering again The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turned to roulette, And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, and yet He still smiled: night deepen'd: he play'd his last number:
Went home: and soon slept: and still smil'd in his slumber.
XXXV.
In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefoucauld wrote, "In the grief or mischance of a friend you may note, There is something which always gives pleasure."
Alas!
That reflection fell short of the truth as it was.
La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down--
"No misfortune, but what some one turns to his own Advantage its mischief: no sorrow, but of it There ever is somebody ready to profit:
No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it."
Burn thy book, O La Rochefoucauld!
Fool! one man's wit All men's selfishness how should it fathom?
O sage, Dost thou satirize Nature?
She laughs at thy page.
