WANDA
BY
OUIDA
'Doch!—alles was dazu mich trieb;
Gott!—war so gut, ach, war so lieb!'
Goethe
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICADILLY
1883
WANDA.
CHAPTER XXIX.
When they came home from their tour amidst the mines of Galicia andthe plains of Hungary, and from their reception amongst the adoringtownsfolk of restored Idrac, the autumn was far advanced, and the longrains and the wild winds of October had risen, making of every brook atorrent.
On their return she found intelligence from Paris that a friend ofher father's, and her own godfather, the Duc de Noira, had died,bequeathing her his gallery of pictures, and his art collection ofthe eighteenth century, which were both famous. The Duc had been aLegitimist and a hermit. He had been unmarried, and had spent all thelatter years of his life in amassing treasures of art, for which he hadno heir of his own blood to care a jot. The bequest was a very preciousone, and her presence in Paris was requested. Regretful for herselfto leave Hohenszalras, she perceived that to Sabran the tidings werewelcome. Moved by an unselfish impulse she said at once:
'Go alone; go instead of me; your presence will be the same as mine.Paris will amuse you more if you are by yourself, and you will be sohappy amongst all those Lancrets and Fragonards, those Reiseinersand Gauthières. The collection is a marvel, but entirely of the BeauSiècle. You never saw it? No! I think the Duc never opened his doorsto anyone save to half a dozen old tried friends, and he had a horrorof turning his salons into showrooms. If you think well, we willleave it all as it is, buying the house if we can. All that eighteenthcentury bibeloterie would not suit this place, and I should like tokeep it all as he kept it; that is the only true respect to show to alegacy.'
Sabran hesitated; he was tempted, yet he was half reluctant to yield tothe temptation. He felt that he would willingly be by himself awhile,yet he loved his wife too passionately to quit her without pain. Hisown conscience made her presence at times oppress and trouble him, yethe had never lost the half-religious adoration with which she had firstinspired him. He suggested a compromise—why should they not winter inParis?
She was about to dissent, for of all seasons in the Tauern she lovedthe winter best; but when she looked at him she saw such eageranticipation on his face that she suppressed her own wishes unuttered.
'We will go, if you like,' she said, without any hesitation orreluctance visible. 'I dare say we can find some pretty house. AuntOttilie will be pleased; there is nothing here which cannot do withoutus for a time, we have such trusty stewards; only I think it would bemore change for you if you went alone.'
'No!' he said; 'separation is a sort of death; do not let us tempt fateby it. Life is so short at its longest; it is ingratitude to lose anhour that we can spend together.'
'There was never such a lover since Petrarca,' she said, with a smile.'Nay, you eclipse him: he was never tried by marriage.'
But though he jested at it, his great love for her seemed like abeautiful light about her life. What did his state-secret matter? Whatdid it matter what cause had led him to avoid political life?—he lovedher so well.
The following month they were in Paris, having found an hotel in theBoulevard