CHAPTER XXIII
THE GROVE
This healing crisis saved Irene.
During the month of convalescence I left her neither by day nor by night.
In the early days of spring, Doctor Ralph urged Madame de Fersen to go to the country with her daughter, and recommended the vicinity of Fontainebleau.
Madame de Fersen having seen a very pretty cottage, called the Grove, had secured it, and the necessary repairs having been made, it was decided we should take up our residence there the first days of May.
If my continuous abode at Madame de Fersen's house had been known, it would have provoked the most odious comments. Consequently, the morning after the crisis, which had proved so favourable to Irene, I told her mother that she must forbid access to her apartment to every one, with the exception of the doctor, the nurse, and one of her maids, on whose discretion she could rely.
I had occupied during Irene's illness a vacant entresol, of which the windows opened on an uninhabited piece of ground, thus my return to Paris and my presence at Catherine's house was unknown to every one.
Madame de Fersen took to Fontainebleau only the same people who had been in attendance on her during her little girl's illness, the nurse and two maids. The rest of the household remained in Paris.
She asked me to follow her to the Grove in two days.
She took her departure.
The next morning I received from her most detailed instructions about finding my way to the small park gate at the Grove.
At the appointed hour I was at that gate; I knocked, and it was opened.
The sun was about setting, but it still threw some warm rays across the green lacework and violet clusters of an arbour of glycynia, under which Catherine was waiting for me with Irene, whose hand she was holding.
Was it intentional, or was it mere chance? I know not, but like the day when for the first time I saw her on board the Russian frigate, Catherine wore a gauzy white gown and a lace head-dress ornamented with a spray of red geranium.
The trials through which she had passed had made her fall away, but she was still beautiful, and even more lovely than beautiful. Her figure, as heretofore, was elegant and stately; her countenance noble, gracious, and pensive; her large, soft eyes of a perfect blue were fringed with long, dark lashes; the heavy tresses of her jet black hair framed her brow, lofty and sad, and her face paled by sorrow.
Irene, like her mother, was dressed in white; her long dark hair was tied with ribbons and fell to her waist, and her lovely face, though still pensive and sad, showed scarcely any traces of her recent sufferings.
Catherine's first impulse was to take her child in her arms, and, placing her in mine, she said, with great emotion, "Is she not now your Irene also?"
And amid her tears her eyes shone with joy and gratitude.
There are emotions which one cannot attempt to describe, for they are as vast as the infinite.
This first outburst of happiness passed, Madame de Fersen said to me, "Now I must show you to your apartment."
I offered Catherine my arm, Irene took my hand, and allowed them to lead me.
For some time we kept silent.
After following a long avenue, rapidly becoming dark as the sun sank below the horizon, we came to a clearing on the outskirts of the wood.
"Here is your cottage," said Madame de Fersen.
My cottage was a sort of Swiss chalet, half hidden in a mass of pink acacias, of linden-trees and lilacs. It was built on the edge of a small lake, on a foundation of great boulders of that flinty rock found in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. This structure having been erected as a point of observation, every advantage had been taken to make the most of its charming position.
A thick carpet of periwinkles, of ivy, of moss, and wild strawberry covered almost entirely the whitish rocks, and from each cranny sprouted a tuft of iris, of rhododendron, or heather.
On the other side of the lake a beautiful lawn, surrounded by the woods, rose in a gentle incline up to the front of the house occupied by Madame de Fersen, and which might be seen from a distance.
The sight was limited on all sides by a ring of verdure, formed by the thick woods surrounding the high walls of the park, and hiding them completely.
One might have wished more variety in the prospect; but as our life at the Grove was to be surrounded by the most profound mystery, this extensive and impenetrable barrier of leafage was very precious.
After a few minutes we reached the foot of the steps leading to the cottage. Madame de Fersen drew a small key from her belt and opened the front door.
At a glance I saw that she had been the presiding genius in the arrangement of the two rooms. Everything was of excessive but elegant simplicity. I found flowers on every side; also a piano, a painter's easel, and some books which she had heard me mention as my favourites.
Pointing out to me an ebony cabinet frame with doors richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Madame de Fersen asked me to open it. On one side I found the exquisite sketch which Frank had made of the dying Irene, and on the other side a recent portrait of Irene also painted by Frank.
I took Catherine's hand and carried it to my lips, with a feeling of inexpressible gratitude.
She herself pressed her hand to my lip with an impulse full of tenderness. She then turned and passionately embraced her child.
I closed the panel, still more touched by this mark of Catherine's remembrance, for I had expressed to her my views regarding portraits exposed to the gaze of all.
When we left the cottage, the purple and gold of the dying sun was mirrored in the bosom of the lake. The acacias were dropping their roseate and fragrant petals. No sound was heard; on all sides the horizon was bounded by dark masses of verdure; we found ourselves in the midst of the most profound solitude, the most peaceful, the most mysterious.
Impressed by the sight of this sad and touching picture, Catherine leaned on the balcony of the chalet, and remained a few minutes plunged in reverie.
Irene sat at her feet, and began to gather roses and honeysuckle to make a bouquet.
I leaned against the door, and could not help feeling a pang of anguish as I looked upon Madame de Fersen.
I was going to pass long days near this woman, so passionately loved, and delicacy forbade my speaking one word of this deep and ardent love, which circumstances recently had combined to increase.
I knew not if I was beloved, or, rather, I despaired of being loved; it seemed to me that fate, which had brought Madame de Fersen and me together, by the death-bed of her child, during a month of terrible anguish, had been too tragic to end in so tender a sentiment.
I was absorbed in these sad thoughts, when Madame de Fersen made a quick movement, as if she were aroused from a dream, and said to me, "Pardon me, but it is so long since I breathed air so fragrant and invigorating that I selfishly enjoy this lovely nature."
Irene divided her bouquet in two, gave one half to her mother, the other to me, and we then started towards the house.
We reached it after a long walk, for the park was very extensive.