No living being ever humbly laid his advantage at M. Emanuel's feet, or confidingly put it into his hands, that he spurned the trust or repulsed the repository. What might be his private pain or inward reluctance to leave Europe--what his calculations for his own future-- none asked, or knew, or reported. All this was a blank to me. His conferences with his confessor I might guess; the part duty and religion were made to play in the persuasions used, I might conjecture. He was gone, and had made no sign. There my knowledge closed.
* * * * * With my head bent, and my forehead resting on my hands, I sat amidst grouped tree-stems and branching brushwood. Whatever talk passed amongst my neighbours, I might hear, if I would; I was near enough; but for some time, there was scarce motive to attend. They gossiped about the dresses, the music, the illuminations, the fine night. I listened to hear them say, "It is calm weather for his voyage; the Antigua" (his ship) "will sail prosperously." No such remark fell; neither the Antigua, nor her course, nor her passenger were named.
Perhaps the light chat scarcely interested old Madame Walravens more than it did me; she appeared restless, turning her head now to this side, now that, looking through the trees, and among the crowd, as if expectant of an arrival and impatient of delay. "Où sont-ils? Pourquoi ne viennent-ils?" I heard her mutter more than once; and at last, as if determined to have an answer to her question--which hitherto none seemed to mind, she spoke aloud this phrase--a phrase brief enough, simple enough, but it sent a shock through me--"Messieurs et mesdames," said she, "où donc est Justine Marie?"
"Justine Marie!" What was this? Justine Marie--the dead nun--where was she? Why, in her grave, Madame Walravens--what can you want with her? You shall go to her, but she shall not come to you.
Thus I should have answered, had the response lain with me, but nobody seemed to be of my mind; nobody seemed surprised, startled, or at a loss. The quietest commonplace answer met the strange, the dead- disturbing, the Witch-of-Endor query of the hunchback.
"Justine Marie," said one, "is coming; she is in the kiosk; she will be here presently."
Out of this question and reply sprang a change in the chat--chat it still remained, easy, desultory, familiar gossip. Hint, allusion, comment, went round the circle, but all so broken, so dependent on references to persons not named, or circumstances not defined, that listen as intently as I would--and I did listen now with a fated interest--I could make out no more than that some scheme was on foot, in which this ghostly Justine Marie--dead or alive--was concerned. This family-junta seemed grasping at her somehow, for some reason; there seemed question of a marriage, of a fortune--for whom I could not quite make out-perhaps for Victor Kint, perhaps for Josef Emanuel--both were bachelors. Once I thought the hints and jests rained upon a young fair-haired foreigner of the party, whom they called Heinrich Mühler. Amidst all the badinage, Madame Walravens still obtruded from time to time, hoarse, cross-grained speeches; her impatience being diverted only by an implacable surveillance of Désirée, who could not stir but the old woman menaced her with her staff.