Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I. Lever Charles James
went on, not sorry to have an opportunity of severity on one for whom I had conceived an especial hatred – indeed, not altogether without cause, since he had, on more than one occasion, marked the difference of our official rank in a manner sufficiently pointed to be offensive;
and yet, the rigid etiquette observable to another embassy forbade all notice of whatever could be passed over.
Like a very young man, I did not bound my criticism on the Count by what I saw and observed in his manner, but extended it to every possible deduction I could draw from his air and bearing; winding up all by a very broadly-hinted doubt that those ferocious whiskers and that deep baritone were any thing but a lion’s skin over a very craven heart.
The last words were scarcely uttered, when a servant announced the Count de Favancourt. There is something, to a young person at least – I fancy I should not mind it now – so overwhelming on the sudden appearance of any one on whom the conversation has taken a turn of severity, that I arose confused and uneasy – I believe I blushed; at all events, I perceived that Lady Blanche remarked my discomfiture, and her eyes glanced on me with an expression I never observed before. As for the Count, he advanced and made his deep reverence without ever noticing me, nor, even while taking his seat, once shewed any consciousness of my presence.
Burning with indignation that I could scarce repress, I turned towards a table, and affected to occupy myself tossing over the prints and drawings that lay about – my maddened thoughts rendered still more insufferable from fancying that Lady Blanche and the Count seemed on far better and more intimate footing than I had ever known them before.
Some other visitors being announced, I took the occasion to retire unobserved, and had just reached the landing of the stairs when I heard a foot behind me. I turned – it was Favancourt. For the first time in my life, I perceived a smile upon his countenance – an expression, I own, that became it even less than his habitual stern scowl.
“You have done me the honour, sir,” said he, “to make some observations on my manner, which, I regret to learn, has not acquired your favourable opinion. Now, I have a strong sense of the inconvenance of any thing like a rupture of amicable relations between the embassy I have the honour to serve and that to which you belong. It is, then, exceedingly unpleasant for me to notice your remarks – it is impossible for me to let them pass unnoticed.”
He made a pause at these words, and so long that I felt bound to speak, and, in a voice that passion had rendered slightly tremulous, said,
“Am I to receive this, sir, in the light of a rebuke? because, as yet, I only perceive it conveys the expression of your own regret that you cannot demand an explanation I am most ready to afford you.
“My demand is somewhat different, sir, but, I trust, will be as readily accorded. It is this: that you resign your position as attaché to this embassy, and leave Vienna at once. There is no necessity that any unfavourable notice of this affair should follow you to another mission, or to England.”
“Stop, sir, I beg of you: I cannot be answerable for my temper, if you persist to outrage it. While you may press me to acknowledge that, while half an hour ago I only deemed you a ‘Fat,’ I now account you an imbecile.’”
“Enough!” said the Count, passing down the stairs before me.
When I reached my lodgings, I found a “friend” from him, who arranged a speedy meeting. We fought that same evening, behind the Prater, and I received his ball in my shoulder – mine, pierced his hat. I was recalled before my wound permitted me to leave my bed. The day I left Vienna, Lady Blanche was married to Count Favancourt!
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