No sooner did the young girl come down to the
drawing-room, than Madame Marceau declared she looked
pale and unwell. <...> Why not
go and spend the day, the whole day, with her sister? <...> Nathalie declined; but the lady was importunate: she
yielded. <...> In another half-hour she was standing in the quiet
court at the door of Madame Lavigne’s dwelling. <...> She greeted her sister quietly,
but with a long earnest look she had often fastened on her of
late. <...> Nathalie shunned her glance, and took up the other end
of the sheet Rose was hemming. <...> But her portion of the task
soon lay neglected on her lap; she reclined back in her chair,
one hand supporting her cheek, her head slightly averted, her
look fixed on the old tower opposite; she looked pale and
thoughtful.
“What is the matter with you?” suddenly asked Rose.
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Julia Kavanagh. <...> Nathalie
“It is the weather,” slowly replied Nathalie, bending
once more over her work. “I feel dreamy. <...> I feel subdued, passive, and like one in a dream, but without the wish
to waken; everything looks vague and scarcely real;
thoughts come and lead me on I know not whither, nor
how. <...> If I were walking in the garden now, I should go on
without caring to stop; but sitting as I am here, looking at
that old tower, and watching those cawing rooks, I feel as if
I could remain thus all day long.”
“You were not thus when you first went to Sainville!” ejaculated Rose.
“Perhaps not. <...> I lived with children at Mademoiselle
Dantin’s; but it now seems as if I had passed the boundary
of real life. <...> I am getting a nun, like you,
Rose; and I like the silence, I had well-nigh said, the solitude, of my convent.”
“You must leave the château,” urged Rose; “the
object you had in remaining there is accomplished; you
must leave it and seek some more active life.”
“Leave, and fight alone this world <...>
Nathalie__In_2_vol._Vol._2.pdf
CONTENTS
Volume II
Chapter I ............................................................................. 5
Chapter II .......................................................................... 23
Chapter III......................................................................... 49
Chapter IV......................................................................... 65
Chapter V.......................................................................... 89
Chapter VI....................................................................... 109
Chapter VII ..................................................................... 129
Chapter VIII .................................................................... 145
Chapter IX....................................................................... 165
Chapter X........................................................................ 181
Chapter XI....................................................................... 205
Chapter XII ..................................................................... 223
Chapter XIII .................................................................... 237
Chapter XIV.................................................................... 257
Chapter XV..................................................................... 273
Chapter XVI.................................................................... 295
Conclusion ...................................................................... 305
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CHAPTER I
Artists have the privilege of forgetfulness, and
Mademoiselle Amanda was, to use her own expression,
“oblivious.”
Thus, though she saw Nathalie on the following
morning, and spoke for a full half-hour on various subjects
connected with her art and the dulness of the château, she
wholly forgot to deliver the message of the Canoness;
through which piece of obliviousness the blossoms of the
Azelia bloomed, withered, and fell unseen by Nathalie.
No sooner did the young girl come down to the
drawing-room, than Madame Marceau declared she looked
pale and unwell. It was the dulness and seclusion of her existence
was the cause of this. She wanted change. Why not
go and spend the day, the whole day, with her sister?
Nathalie declined; but the lady was importunate: she
yielded. In another half-hour she was standing in the quiet
court at the door of Madame Lavigne’s dwelling. The place
looked even more silent and lonely than usual in this soft
April morning, — grey, humid, free from sunshine, but calm
and mild, with the last lingering dullness of winter melting
away before the genial breath of spring.
Rose was sitting alone. She greeted her sister quietly,
but with a long earnest look she had often fastened on her of
late. Nathalie shunned her glance, and took up the other end
of the sheet Rose was hemming. But her portion of the task
soon lay neglected on her lap; she reclined back in her chair,
one hand supporting her cheek, her head slightly averted, her
look fixed on the old tower opposite; she looked pale and
thoughtful.
“What is the matter with you?” suddenly asked Rose.
5
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Julia Kavanagh. Nathalie
“It is the weather,” slowly replied Nathalie, bending
once more over her work. “I feel dreamy. There is in this
cloudy sky, in this humid atmosphere, in this fine rain that
scarcely moistens the earth on which it softly falls, in the
mildness of the air, telling us spring has returned, something
which quite unnerves my southern nature. I feel subdued,
passive, and like one in a dream, but without the wish
to waken; everything looks vague and scarcely real;
thoughts come and lead me on I know not whither, nor
how. If I were walking in the garden now, I should go on
without caring to stop; but sitting as I am here, looking at
that old tower, and watching those cawing rooks, I feel as if
I could remain thus all day long.”
“You were not thus when you first went to Sainville!”
ejaculated Rose.
“Perhaps not. I lived with children at Mademoiselle
Dantin’s; but it now seems as if I had passed the boundary
of real life. I remember that time as something years ago,
— far away in the past.”
“Your life is too dull,” returned Rose, anxiously.
“I do not find it so. I am getting a nun, like you,
Rose; and I like the silence, I had well-nigh said, the solitude,
of my convent.”
“You must leave the château,” urged Rose; “the
object you had in remaining there is accomplished; you
must leave it and seek some more active life.”
“Leave, and fight alone this world’s hard battles,
Rose!” said Nathalie, with a mournful smile; “strange
counsel, — and not counsel for me. I am daring, but not
courageous. I can be bold when the peril is far away; but
place me on the shore of life’s stormy sea, show me the
trail barque that is to carry me off, — and my heart sinks
with fear within me. The time when I longed for independence
is gone. What is it but another name for selfishness? I
know nothing more miserable. Why should people be for
ever anxious to have their own way, when it would be so
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Vol. II. Chapter I
much more easy to yield to some safer hand, close one’s
eyes, and thus go down the stream?”
Rose looked up as her sister spoke thus; she seemed
inclined to reply, but checked the temptation; they both
worked on in a silence which was not broken until the entrance
of Madame Lavigne. The blind woman was even
more than usually cross; nothing could please her: Nathalie
failed in restoring her to good humour, although she several
times endeavoured to do so in the course of the day. She
once rose to arrange her pillow, but scarcely had her hand
touched it when Madame Lavigne turned round on her, exclaiming
with a sort of snarl:
“Do not; you know I hate fondling.”
She looked anything but an object to fondle; but
Nathalie was in a pacific mood, and only gave her a look of
gentle pity.
“Well, what are you standing there for?” snappishly
asked Madame Lavigne, turning towards her with a frown;
“have you got nothing to say?”
“Nothing, I am afraid, that would amuse you.”
“Oh! what a gentle creature we are to-day! how
softly we speak with that little low voice. ‘Nothing, I am
afraid, that would amuse you,’ ” she added, mimicking her;
“what if we talk about the best friend, will that rouse and
vex you?”
“Why should it vex me, Madame?”
“Oh! you know.”
“Indeed, I do not.”
“It will not vex you, if I say he is harsh and bad.”
“I shall conclude that you are mistaken: he is kind
and good.”
“He is a despot.”
“Not in the least; he is just and good to all.”
“And to you!” said Madame Lavigne, sneering.
“He is very good to me,” seriously replied Nathalie.
“Do not tell me that: I know those Sainvilles; they
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