But every one knows the Petit Trianon, and can surmise how its beauties
appealed to Theodora.
"Oh, the poor, poor queen!" she said, with a sad ring in her expressive
voice, when they came to the large salon; "and she sat here and played
on her harpsichord--and I wonder if she and Fersen were ever alone--and
I wonder if she really loved him--"
Then she stopped suddenly; she had told herself she must never talk
about love to any one. It was a subject that she must have nothing to do
with. It could never come her way, now she was married to Josiah Brown,
and it would be unwise to discuss it, even in the abstract.
The same beautiful, wild-rose tint tinged the white velvet as once
before when she had spoken of Jean d'Agrève, and again Lord Bracondale
experienced a sensation of satisfaction.
But this time he would not let her talk about the weather. The subject
of love interested him, too.
"Yes, I am sure she did," he said, "and I always shall believe Fersen
was her lover; no life, even a queen's, can escape one love."
"I suppose not," said Theodora, very low, and she looked out of the
window.
"Love is not a passion which asks our leave if he may come or no, you
see," Hector continued, trying to control his voice to sound
dispassionate and discursive--he knew he must not frighten her. "Love
comes in a thousand unknown, undreamed-of ways. And then he gilds the
world and makes it into heaven."
"Does he?" almost whispered Theodora.
"And think what it must have been to a queen, married to a tiresome,
unattractive Bourbon--and Fersen was young and gallant and thoughtful
for her slightest good, and, from what one hears and has read, he must
have understood her, and been her friend as well--and sometimes she must
have forgotten about being a queen for a few moments--in his arms--"
Theodora drew a long, long breath, but she did not speak.
"And perhaps, if we knew, the remembrance of those moments may have
been her glory and consolation in the last dark hours."
"Oh! I hope so!" said Theodora.
Then she walked on quickly into the quaint, little, low-ceilinged
bedroom. Oh, she must get out into the air--or she must talk of
furniture, or curtain stuffs, or where the bath had been!
Love, love, love! And did it mean life after all?--since even this
far-off love of this poor dead queen had such power to move her. And
perhaps Fersen was like--but this last thought caused her heart to beat
too wildly.