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After the talk I have just jotted down she changed her place, and the conversation for half an hour was general. Stanmer indeed said very little; partly, I suppose, because he is shy of talking a foreign tongue. Was I like that was I so constantly silent? I suspect I was when I was perplexed, and Heaven knows that very often my perplexity was extreme.
At this, of course, I laughed out I laugh still as I write it. "Well, then, that was my situation I was a sad puzzle to a very clever woman." "And you mean, therefore, that I am a puzzle to poor Mr. Stanmer?" "He is racking his brains to make you out. Remember it was you who said he was intelligent."
"No, no, there is more." And we sat a long time in silence. At last he proposed that we should go out; and we passed in the street, where the shadows had begun to stretch themselves. "I don't know what you mean by her being an actress," he said, as we turned homeward. "I suppose not. Neither should I have known, if any one had said that to me." "You are thinking about the mother," said Stanmer.
Here and there shovels were in requisition to open a pathway; it was clearly thought that the gale was over; the Beresfords and their guest began to speak of an excursion next day to Stanmer Park, lest peradventure it might be possible to have a lane or two swept on the ice for a little skating.
She's an enchantress. You shall hear the rest when we have left the church." "An enchantress?" repeated Stanmer, looking at me askance. He is a very simple youth, but who am I to blame him? "A charmer," I said "a fascinatress!" He turned away, staring at the altar candles. "An artist an actress," I went on, rather brutally. He gave me another glance. "I think you are telling me all," he said.
I wonder if the late Count Scarabelli was also killed in a duel, and if his adversary . . . Is it on the books that his adversary, as well, shall perish by the pistol? Which of those gentlemen is he, I wonder? Is it reserved for poor little Stanmer to put a bullet into him? No; poor little Stanmer, I trust, will do as I did. And yet, unfortunately for him, that woman is consummately plausible.
PARIS, December 17th. A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw in Florence a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing. "My dear General I have it at heart to tell you that I was married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli. You talked me into a great muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear.
"And she too was an enchantress, an actress, an artist, and all the rest of it?" "She was the most perfect coquette I ever knew, and the most dangerous, because the most finished." "What you mean, then, is that her daughter is a finished coquette?" "I rather think so." Stanmer walked along for some moments in silence.
She greeted me divinely, as her mother used to do; and young Stanmer sat in the corner of the sofa as I used to do and watched her while she talked. She is thin and very fair, and was dressed in light, vaporous black that completes the resemblance. The house, the rooms, are almost absolutely the same; there may be changes of detail, but they don't modify the general effect.
Instead of going to bed, I stood a long time at the window, looking out at the river. It was a warm, still night, and the first faint streaks of sunrise were in the sky. Presently I heard a slow footstep beneath my window, and looking down, made out by the aid of a street lamp that Stanmer was but just coming home.
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