"Yes, yes," said Louise; "we dismissed you, handsome, well-formed cavaliers, and you return to us clumsy, growling bears; good-humored but savage pets, rather too willing to learn again to dance and sing. The only question is, will the women consent to become bear-leaders, and teach the uncultivated pets their steps?"
"Well, they will be obliged to do this," said the major, laughing. "It is their duty."
"Dear friend, if you begin already to remind us of our duty, I fear your cause is wholly lost. Come, let us sit here awhile upon this grass plot and talk together."
"Yes, you will be seated, but I do not see exactly why we should talk together. I would much rather close your laughing, rosy lips with kisses." He drew her to his side, and was about to carry out this purpose, but Louise waved him off.
"If you do not sit perfectly quiet by my side," said she, "I will unfold the gay wings, of which you have just spoken, and fly far away!"
"Well, then, I will sit quietly; but may I not be permitted to ask my shy prudish mistress why I must do so?"
"Why? Well, because I wish to give my savage pet his first lecture after his return. The lecture begins thus: When a man remains absent from his wife seven years, he has no right to return as a calm, confident, self-assured husband, with his portion of home-baked tenderness; he should come timidly, as a tender, attentive, enamoured cavalier, who woos his mistress and draws near to her humbly, tremblingly, and submissively--not looking upon her as his wife, but as the fair lady whose love he may hope to win."
"But why, Louise, should we take refuge in such dissimulation, when we are assured of your love?"
"You are assured of nothing! How can you be so artless as to believe that these seven years have passed by and left no trace, and that we feel exactly to-day as we did before this fearful war? When you have opened the door and given liberty to the bird whose wings you have cut, and whose wild heart you have tamed in a cage; when the captive flies out into the fresh, free air of God, floats merrily along in the midst of rejoicing, laughing Nature--will he, after years have passed, will lie, if you shall please to wish once more to imprison him, return willingly to his cage? I believe you would have to entice him a long time--to whisper soft, loving, flattering words, and place in the cage the rarest dainties before you could induce him to yield up his golden freedom, and to receive you once more as his lord and master. But if you seek to arrest him with railing and threats--with wise and grave essays on duty and constancy--he will swing himself on the lofty branch of a tree, so high that you cannot follow, and whistle at you!"
"You are right, I believe," said Du Trouffle, thoughtfully. "I see to-day a new talent in you, Louise; you have become a philosopher."
"Yes, and I thirst to bring my wisdom to bear against a man," said Louise, laughingly. "I hope you will profit by it! Perhaps it may promote your happiness, and enable you to recapture your bird. You will not at least make shipwreck on the breakers against which the good prince dashed his head to-day: he was wounded and bleeding, and will carry the mark upon his brow as long as he lives."
"What has he done which justifies so melancholy a prognostication?"
"What has he done? He returned to his wife, not as a lover but as a husband; he did not kiss her hand tremblingly and humbly and timidly--seek to read in her glance if she were inclined to favor him; he advanced with the assurance of a conquering hero, and before the whole world he gave her a loud, ringing kiss, which resounded like the trump of victory. The good prince thought that because the outside war was at an end and you had made peace with your enemies, all other strifes and difficulties had ceased, and you had all entered upon an epoch of everlasting happiness; that, by the sides of your fond and faithful wives, you had nothing to do but smoke the calumet of peace.
But he made a great and dangerous mistake, and he will suffer for it. I tell you, friend, the war which you have just closed was less difficult, less alarming than the strife which will now be carried on in your families. The wicked foe has abandoned the battle-field to you, but he is crouched down upon your hearths and awaits you at the sides of your wives and daughters."
"Truly, Louise, your words, make me shudder! and my heart, which was beating so joyfully, seems now to stand still."
Louise paid no attention to his words, but went on:
"You say the war is at an end. I believe it has just begun. It will be carried on fiercely in every house, in every family; many hearts will break, many wounds be given, and many tears be shed before we snail have household peace. All those fond ties which united men and women, parents and children, have been shaken, or torn apart; all contracts are destroyed or undermined. In order to endure, to live through these fearful seven years, every one gave himself up to frivolity--the terrible consequence is, that the whole world has become light-minded and frivolous. We do not look upon life with the same eyes as formerly.
To enjoy the present moment--to snatch that chance of happiness from the fleeting hour, which the next hour is chasing and may utterly destroy--seems the only aim. Love is an amusement, constancy a phantom, in which no one believes--which is only spoken of in nursery fairy tales. The women have learned, by experience, that their husbands and lovers did not die of longing to see them; that they themselves, after the tears of separation, which perhaps flowed freely a long time, were once quenched, could live on alone; that independence had its bright side and was both agreeable and comfortable. The history of the widow of Ephesus is repeated every day, my friend. The women wept and were melancholy a long time after the separation from their husbands, but at last they could not close their ears to the sweet, soft words of consolation which were whispered to them; at last they realized that incessant weeping and mourning had its wearisome and monotonous side, that the dreary time flew more swiftly if they sought to amuse themselves and be happy. They allowed themselves to be comforted, in the absence of their husbands, by their lovers, and they felt no reproach of conscience; for they were convinced that their truant husbands were doing the same thing in their long separation--were making love to 'the lips that were near.'"
"Did you think and act thus, Louisa?" said Major du Trouffle, in a sad and anxious tone, looking his wife firmly in the eye.
Louisa laughed with calm and unconcern.
"My friend," said she, "would I have told all this to you, if I had committed the faults I charge upon others? I have been inactive but observant; that has been my amusement, my only distraction, and my observations have filled me with amazement and abhorrence. I have drawn from these sources profound and philosophic lessons. I have studied mankind, and with full conviction I can assure you the war is not at an end, and, instead of the palm of peace, the apple of discord will flourish. Men no longer believe in constancy or honesty, every man suspects his neighbor and holds him guilty, even as he knows himself to be guilty. Every woman watches the conduct of other women with malicious curiosity; she seems to herself less guilty when she finds that others are no better than herself; and when, unhappily, she does not find that her friend is false or faithless, she will try to make her appear so; if the truth will not serve her purpose, she will, by slander and scandal, draw a veil over her own sins. Never was there as much treachery and crime as now. Calumny stands before every door, and will whisper such evil and fearful things in the ears of every returned soldier, that he will become wild with rage, and distrust his wife, no matter how innocent she may be."
"I shall not be guilty of this fault," said Major du Trouffle. "If I find slander lying in wait at my door, I will kick it from me and enter my home calmly and smilingly, without having listened to her whispers, or, if I have heard them involuntarily, without believing them."
"Then there will be at least one house in Berlin where peace will reign," said Louise, sweetly, "and that house will be ours. I welcome you in the name of our lares, who have been long joyfully awaiting you.
I have also an agreeable surprise for you."
"What surprise, Louise?"
"You often told me that my daughter Camilla disturbed your happiness, that she stood like a dark cloud over my past, which had not belonged to you."
"It is true! I could not force my heart to love her; her presence reminded me always that you had been loved by another, had belonged to another, and had been made thoroughly wretched."
"Well then, friend, this cloud has been lifted up, and this is the surprise which awaited your return home. Camilla has been married more than a year."
"Married'" cried the major, joyfully; "who is the happy man that has undertaken to tame this wilful child, and warm her cold heart?"
"Ask rather, who is the unhappy man who was enamoured with this lovely face, and has taken a demon for an angel?" sighed Louise. "He is a young, distinguished, and wealthy Englishman, Lord Elliot, an attache of the English embassy, who fulfilled the duties of minister during the absence of the ambassador, Lord Mitchel, who was generally at the headquarters of the king."
"And Camilla, did she love him?"
Louise shrugged her shoulders.
"When he made his proposals, she declared herself ready to marry him; but, I believe, his presence was less agreeable and interesting to her than the splendid gifts he daily brought her."
"But, Louise, it was her free choice to marry him? You did not persuade her? you did not, I hope, in order to humor my weakness, induce her by entreaties and representations to marry against her will?"
"My friend," said Louise, with the proud air of an injured mother, "however fondly I may have loved you, I would not have sacrificed for you the happiness of an only child. Camilla asked my consent to her marriage after she had obtained her father's permission, and I gave it.
The marriage took place three days after the engagement, and the young pair made a bridal-trip to England, from which they returned a few months since."
"And where are they now?"
"They live in Berlin in an enchanting villa, which Lord Elliot has converted into a palace for his young wife. You will see them this evening, for they are both here, and--"
Louise ceased to speak; a well-known voice interrupted the silence, and drew nearer and nearer. "Ah," whispered she, lightly, "the proverb is fulfilled, 'Speak of the wolf, and he appears.' That is Lord Elliot and Camilla speaking with such animation. Let us listen awhile."
The youthful pair had now drawn near, and stood just before the grotto.
"I find it cruel, very cruel, to deny me every innocent pleasure," said Camilla, with a harsh, displeased voice. "I must live like a nun who has taken an eternal vow; I am weary of it."
"Oh, my Camilla, you slander yourself when you say this; you are not well, and you must be prudent. I know you better than you know yourself, my Camilla. Your heart, which is clear and transparent as crystal, lies ever unveiled before me, and I listen with devout love to its every pulse. I am sure that you do not wish to dance to-day, my love."
"I wish to dance, and I will dance, because it gives me pleasure."
"Because you are like a sweet child and like the angels," said Lord Elliot, eagerly; "your heart is gay and innocent. You are like a fluttering Cupid, sleeping in flower-cups and dreaming of stars and golden sunshine; you know nothing of earthly and prosaic thoughts. I must bind your wings, my beauteous butterfly, and hold you down in the dust of this poor, pitiful world. Wait, only wait till you are well; when your health is restored, you shall be richly repaid for all your present self-denial. Every day I will procure you new pleasures, prepare you new _fetes_; you shall dance upon carpets of roses like an elfin queen."
"You promise me that?" said Camilla; "you promise me that you will not prevent my dancing as much and as gayly as I like?"
"I promise you all this, Camilla, if you will only not dance now."
"Well," sighed she, "I agree to this; but I fear that my cousin, Count Kindar, will be seriously displeased if I suddenly refuse him the dance I promised him."
"He will excuse you, sweetheart, when I beg him to do so," said Lord Elliot, with a soft smile. "I will seek him at once, and make your excuses. Be kind enough to wait for me here, I will return immediately."
He kissed her fondly upon the brow, and hastened off.
Camilla looked after him and sighed deeply; then, drawing back the long leaves of the palm, she entered the grotto; she stepped hastily back when she saw that the green divan was occupied, and tried to withdraw, but her mother held her and greeted her kindly. Camilla laughed aloud.
"Ah, mother, it appears as if I am to be ever in your way; although I no longer dwell in your house, I still disturb your pleasures. But I am discreet; let your friend withdraw; I will not see him, I will not know his name, and when my most virtuous husband returns, he will find only two modest gentlewomen. Go, sir; I will turn away, that I may not see you."
"I rather entreat you, my dear Camilla, to turn your lovely face toward me, and to greet me kindly," said Major du Trouffle, stepping from behind the shadow of the palm, and giving his hand to Camilla.
She gazed at him questioningly, and when at last she recognized him, she burst out into a merry peal of laughter. "Truly," said she, "my mother had a rendezvous with her husband, and I have disturbed an enchanting marriage chirping. You have also listened to my married chirp, and know all my secrets. Well, what do you say, dear stepfather, to my mother having brought me so soon under the coif, and made her wild, foolish little Camilla the wife of a lord?"